# Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 65

CHAPTER XIX.
"And impulses of deeper thought
Have come to me in solitude."
Wordsworth.
"This cell hath taught me many a hidden thing:
I have become acquainted with my soul
Through midnight silence, and through lonely days
Silent as midnight. I have found therein
A well of waters, undisturbed and deep,
Of sustenance, refreshment, and repose."
"Supported by the very power of sorrow,
And Faith that comes a solemn comforter,
Even hand in hand with death."
Wilson.
"Dearest Lady Mandeville,
"If you have not already forgotten my wilful, wayward, and ungrateful conduct, I am persuaded it will be forgiven when I tell you, that I have suffered much both in mind and in body, and am now at home—but ill, very ill, and pining to see you, my kind, my almost only friend. The fatigue of writing is great, and I will enter into ​no details; but only tell you, that I have escaped from my convent, in company with, and by the assistance of, Beatrice de los Zoridos. She is with me now in England. Every event that has taken place you can learn from others—my feelings only from myself; and if I speak boldly on a subject which even now brings the blood to my cheek, it is because you, and you only, know my secret, and because I would implore you to keep silence as sacredly as you would a trust from the dead—it will soon be one. The melancholy wind is sweeping through the old trees of our garden—I could fancy it filled with spirit tones, which call me away. This is very fanciful; but what has my whole life been but a vain false fancy? I tremble to recall the past—the gifts I have misused—the good things that have found me thankless—the obstinate will that has rejected content, unless that content were after its own fashion.
"Death sends Truth before as its messenger. In the loneliness of my sleepless midnight—in the feverish restlessness of days which lacked strength for pleasant and useful employment—how have I been forced on self-examination! and how have my own thoughts witnessed against me! Life—the sacred and the beautiful—how ​utterly have I wasted! for how much discontent and ingratitude am I responsible! I have been self-indulged from my childhood upwards—I have fretted with imaginary sorrows, and desired imaginary happiness: and when my heart beat with the feelings of womanhood, it set up a divinity, and its worship was idolatrous!
"Sinful it was to love as I loved Edward Lorraine; and truly it has had its reward. I loved him selfishly, engrossingly, to the exclusion of the hopes of Heaven, and the affections of earth. I knelt with the semblance of prayer, but an earthly image was the idol: I prayed but for him. I cared for no amusement—I grew disgusted with all occupation—I loved none else around me. I slept, and he was in my dreams—I awoke, and he was my very first thought. Too soon, and yet too late, I learnt to what a frail and foolish vision I had yielded. A storm of terrible passions swept over me. I loathed, I hated my nearest friends. My shame amounted to madness: fear alone kept me from suicide. I repulsed the love that was yet mine—I disdained the many blessings that my lot still possessed—I forgot my religion, and outraged my God, by kneeling at a shrine which was not ​sacred to me, and taking vows in a faith I held to be false.
"A brain fever kept me to my bed for some weeks: I hope and pray that its influence was upon me before. My hand trembles so that I can scarcely write.
"Beatrice came to the convent; our intercourse was permitted; and she was kind, gentle, affectionate, to me, as if she had been my sister. I cannot tell you how loving her softened my heart. At length I heard her history. She told me of trials and hardships that put my complainings to shame; and then I learnt that she was the beloved and betrothed of Edward Lorraine. I looked in her beautiful face, and then, strange as it may seem to say, hope, for the first time, wholly abandoned me. My love had been so dreaming, that my imagination, even in the convent, was always shaping out some improbable reunion.
"I was ill again. Beatrice watched me, soothed me, read to me from the little English Bible which she said had ever been, in her trying and lonely life, a friend and a support. Alas! my heart died within me to think what account I should render of the talent committed to my charge. I felt utterly lost and cast ​away. I prayed as one without hope—one who feels her sin is too great to be forgiven. But God tempers justice with mercy—a new life rose up within me. I said, even at the eleventh hour there is hope: I said, surely the Saviour of the world is mine also. I thought upon the grave to which I was hastening, and it seemed to me peaceful as the bed of a child—'There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary are at rest.' I repented me of my worldly delusions, and strove to fix my thoughts above. Had I earlier made religion the guide of my way, I might even now be fulfilling the duties I have neglected, and looking forward in patience and faith. But it is too late; the last of my house, I am perishing as a leaf to which spring has denied her life. I have longed to die at home—to hear once more the words of prayer in my native tongue—and wonderfully has my wish been granted, when expectation there was none! I shall sleep in the green churchyard where I first learnt that death was in this world;—the soil will be familiar, and the air that of my home.
"I am one-and-twenty to-morrow. Would, O God! that my years had been so spent as to ​have been a worthier offering! But thy fear is the beginning of wisdom; and in that fear is my trust, that a broken and a contrite spirit thou wilt not despise.
"Will you not, my dear and kind friend, come and see me? I shall be so happy, if I can once tell you, that, though the orphan for a moment forgot your kindness, its memory was not effaced. I have thought of you, and prayed for you. You will come, dear Lady Mandeville. I want you to know Beatrice. You will love her, and your kindness may benefit her. She will be more grateful than I have been. Will you not come to-morrow? "Your affectionate "Emily Arundel."
It was a curious coincidence, that this letter was put into Lady Mandeville's hand while she was making some arrangements for their Italian journey, and was in momentary expectation of her husband's arrival. How often did the tears fill her eyes as she read its contents! "Poor dear Emily!—but she cannot, must not, be so ill as she fancies. 'Will you not come to-morrow?' Does she think I could hesitate?"
Hastily turning from the untasted breakfast, ​she rang for the carriage: "Let them be as quick as possible." Never had she been so impatient: three times was the bell rung to know if it were ready. Luckily, she recollected that she must leave some reason for her absence, as Lord Mandeville was expected every moment. She scarcely liked to trust a message with the servants—a note would be more satisfactory. So down she sat and wrote:—
"Dear Henry,
"I am sure you will rejoice to learn that Emily is even now at Arundel House. I know nothing of the whys and wherefores: but she is so anxious to see me, that I have gone thither at once. Do you follow me. "Yours, "Ellen."
Rejoicing at Emily's arrival—a very natural curiosity to hear how it had happened—an anxiety she was unwilling to allow even to herself about her health, occupied Lady Mandeville fully during her drive. The bright sun, the sweet free air, brought their own joyousness with them; all nature seemed too glad for sorrow. Lady Mandeville took the sunshine ​for an omen; and she sprang from the carriage with a step to which her hopes gave their own lightness, and in a moment more was in the room where Beatrice was watching her young companion.
The feverish flush with which the pleasure of seeing Lady Mandeville had crimsoned Emily's face soon passed, and she sank back exhausted; while the slight attention she could bestow was again rivetted on the little watch. Lady Mandeville's eyes kept filling with tears as she gazed upon her: she was altered beyond any thing she had even feared. Her position, too, gave the full effect of contrast. She was seated in a low old-fashioned arm-chair, directly below a portrait of herself, that had been taken just before her first visit to London. It had been painted after a fancy of her uncle's; and she was seated in the same old arm-chair, and nearly in the same attitude as now: but there the likeness ended. In the picture, health coloured the loveliness of youth:
The laughing mouth
Was like a red rose opening to the south.
A volume of fairy tales had fallen from her hand: but her head was evidently still filled ​with their fanciful creations, for the bright eyes were raised as if following in the air some rainbow-touched creation of their own. A profusion of glossy curls, auburn dashed with gold, seemed dancing over her face and neck; and whosoever had looked on that countenance, and sought to read in it an augury of its future, would have said, in the beautiful words of Scripture, "thy ways shall be ways of pleasantness, and all thy paths peace."
Beneath sat the original, her pale lips apart, as if to draw the heavy breath were a task of weariness. The outline of the features had utterly lost its roundness, and would have been harsh but for its exceeding delicacy. The dull white of the skin was only relieved by the blue veins, which, singularly azure and transparent, seemed unnaturally conspicuous. The eyes were strangely large and bright, and much lighter than those in the picture.
But what struck Lady Mandeville the most, was the extreme youthfulness of Emily's appearance: she looked only like a sick child. With the restlessness so common to invalids, which fancies that any change must be relief, she had pushed away her cap, till, in the many alterations of position, it had entirely fallen ​back, and showed her head, from which the ringlets had all been so lately shorn: the hair had, however, grown rapidly, and it lay in the short, thick, waving curls of early childhood.
With the hope of relieving her oppression, the windows had all been thrown up. As if a sudden thought struck her, Emily rose, and, with Beatrice's aid, walked to the one which opened by some garden steps. "So much for auguries," said Emily, pointing to a young geranium, which was growing in vigour below. "The day before I left home, I planted that slip, and, in idea, linked my futurity with the slight shrub, saying, If it flourishes, so shall I—if it dies, I shall die too. See how luxuriantly it blooms!"
Neither of her friends spoke: the words of encouragement, of its being a good omen, died on Lady Mandeville's lips; and Beatrice led her back to the chair, finding no voice to urge the quiet she recommended by signs.
"It is twelve o'clock!" exclaimed Emily; and at the same moment the church-clock struck. The wind, which was setting towards the house, brought the hours slowly and distinctly. She counted them as they struck; and then breathless with mingled weakness and ​eagerness, unfolded the scroll she had written the night before. "I see your father and Mr. Morton in the garden: just call them in, Beatrice. I am of age now—I want them to witness my signature."
They came in, and, almost without assistance, Emily wrote her name: the fine clear characters were singularly steady. "It is needless for you to read this paper. I believe all that is necessary is for you to witness my signature." The two gentlemen subscribed it, and Emily took and refolded the paper: but her hand now trembled violently. "I consign it to your care, Mr. Morton," said she, in a voice almost inaudible.
As she was giving the packet, suddenly her whole frame seemed convulsed with violent agitation. A bright crimson flooded her face and neck, nay even her hand, from which, as she eagerly extended it, the scroll fell on the table. "My God! it is his step!" The door opened, and in came Lord Mandeville and Edward Lorraine. The latter caught sight of Beatrice; and, with an exclamation of wonder, advanced towards her. Emily made an effort to rise, but reeled, and fell with her head on Beatrice's shoulder. The unconscious Edward hastily ​supported her. She raised herself for a moment—gave one eager look towards him—a frightful convulsion passed over her features; it was very transitory—for before Beatrice, who sprang from her side to reach some essence from the table, had returned with it, her face was set in the fixed calm and the pale hues of death.