# Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 25

ROMANCE AND REALITY.
CHAPTER I.
"Those first affections,
Which, be they what they may,
Are yet the fountain light of all our day."
"Though nothing can bring back the hour,
We will grieve not—rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy,
Which, having been, must ever be— In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering— In the faith that looks through death."
Wordsworth.
Of all passions, love is the most engrossing and the most superstitious. How often has a leaf, a star, a breath of wind, been held as an omen! It draws all things into somewhat of relation to itself: it is despotic, and jealous of all authority but its own: it bars the heart ​against the entrance of other feelings, and deems wandering thoughts its traitors. This empire, and even more than this, did it hold over Emily; yet for a moment its authority was lost, while old feelings and former affections came thronging in its place, as she caught the last red sunshine on the church windows, and saw the old avenue of lime trees, and the shady road, which wound through meadows where the hay was doubly sweet in the cool evening air. Familiar faces looked eagerly at the carriage as it drove rapidly by—it was soon in the avenue. Emily saw her uncle hurry down the steps—in another moment she was in his arms—a sense of security and sympathy came over her—tears, long restrained, burst forth; but the luxury of the moment's passionate weeping was interrupted by her aunt's eager and talkative welcome.
"We are so glad to see you—thought you were never coming home—tea is ready—thought you would like tea after your journey—but have something for supper, too—you must want something more substantial than tea."
It is curious how inseparable eating and kindness are with some people. Mr. Arundel ​stopped a moment in the hall to look after the carriage, and Emily followed her aunt into the room.
"Don't you think him altered, my dear?"—Emily looked quite unconscious of her meaning—"your poor, dear uncle—sadly broken; but he would not let you be sent for. I have had all the nursing; but he was resolved you should enjoy yourself. You will find us very dull after London."
Emily sprang out of the room—her uncle stood in the hall—the light of the open door fell full upon him. Pale, emaciated, speaking with evident difficulty, he looked, to use that common but expressive phrase, the picture of death. Her very first thought was, "I must not let him see how shocked I am."
With one strong effort, she rejoined her aunt—even Mrs. Arundel was startled by her paleness. "Come, come, child," said she, forcing her to drink a glass of wine, "I can't have you to nurse too. I dare say your uncle will soon be better: he has missed you so—I couldn't go walking and reading about with him as you used to do. He will get into good humour now. I think he fancies a great deal of his illness; but you see he has been moped. ​Notwithstanding all I could say, he would not hear hurrying you home."
He now came into the room, and drew his seat by Emily. He talked so rejoicingly of her return, so gaily of her London campaign: but the cheerfulness was an effort, and the silence into which they gradually sank was a relief to the party, except Mrs. Arundel.
Affection exaggerates its own offences; and in her perpetual self-reproaches for her absence, Emily never remembered that she could not really consider herself to blame for what she could neither foresee nor prevent; all that she dwelt upon was, that she had been, as her aunt expressed it, away and enjoying herself, while her dear, her kind uncle, had been ill and solitary. How vividly did she picture to herself his lonely walks, the unbroken solitude of his study!—no one to read aloud his favourite passages, or replace his scattered books! She gave a furtive glance at the chess-table—the little ivory men seemed not to have been moved since their last game. She was in a fair way of persuading herself that all his altered looks were to be ascribed to her absence.
What eager resolutions did she make of leaving him no more! How attentive she ​would be—how watch his every glance! She would prevail on him to walk—he must get better with all her care. How youth makes its wishes hopes, and its hopes certainties! She only looked on his pale face to read recovery. She now broke silence as suddenly as she had sank into it. Convinced that he required amusement, she exerted herself to the utmost to afford it; but her spirits fell to see how completely the exertion of listening seemed to exhaust him; and when he urged her to go to bed early, on the plea that she must be tired with her journey, she perceived too plainly it was to prevent her observation of his extreme weakness.
Emily went to bed, and cried herself to sleep; but she woke early. It is like waking in a new world, the waking in the morning—any morning, after an entire change of place: it seems almost impossible we can be quite awake. Slowly she looked at the large old-fashioned bed, with its flowered curtains—she recognised the huge mantel-piece, where the four seasons were carved in wood—she knew her own dressing-table, with its mirror set in silver; a weight hung on her mind—she felt a reluctance to waken thoroughly. Suddenly she recalled ​last night—her uncle's evident illness flashed upon her memory—and she sprang as hastily from her pillow as if his recovery depended on her rising.
It was scarcely six o'clock, but she dressed; and, stepping softly by her uncle's door—for all in his room was profoundly quiet—she bent her steps towards the garden; and, with that natural feeling of interest towards what is our own, she turned towards the part which, marked by a hedge of the wild rose, had always been called hers. It was at some little distance: in younger days, it had been given as a reward and inducement for exercise—for Emily in winter preferred her own little niche by the fireside, or in summer a seat by her favourite window, where she had only to put out her hand and bring back a rose, to all the running and walking that ever improved constitution or complexion; and though Mr. Arundel was never able to imbue her with a very decided taste for weeding, watering, &c., still, the garden, connected as it was with his kindness and approval, became a sufficient motive for exertion; and our fair gardener bestowed a degree of pains and industry on the culture of her flowers, for the sake of shewing her uncle ​the care she took of what he gave her, that not even an aloe on the verge of flowering—those rare blossoms it takes a century to produce, hut only a summer to destroy—would have obtained for its own sake.
Nothing is so ingenious in its thousand ways and means as affection. As she passed along the various paths, something of neglect struck her forcibly—not but that all was in such order as did full credit to the gardener—but her accustomed eye missed much of former taste and selection. The profusion of luxuriant creepers were twisted and clipped, with a regularity that would have done honour to any nursery ground. There were more rare, and fewer beautiful flowers than formerly; and, thanks to the sunflowers and marigolds, yellow was the predominant colour. It was a relief to turn into the shadowy walk of the thick yews' unbroken green, which led to her own portion of the shrubbery.
In a former age, this walk had been the pride of the domain—each side being a row of heathen gods and goddesses. Jupiter with his eagle, Juno with her peacock, Time with his sithe, had much outgrown their original proportions; still the outline remained, and to ​Emily these relics of sylvan statuary seemed like old friends: but the air grew very fragrant, and another turn brought her to her own garden. There, at least, she traced her uncle—not one of her favourites had been forgotten; and never had the purple and perfumed growth of the heliotrope—that sanctuary of odour—been so luxuriant, while the bed of the rich crimson clove pink was like one of the spice islands, the very Manilla of the garden.
"You see, Miss Emily," said the gardener, "we did not forget you. Master always would come here; but he has not been round our garden these three weeks. Indeed, miss, he took no pleasure in nothing after you went. Why, Miss Emily, you look almost as bad as he does. Well, they say London is a sad place: nothing will thrive there."
For the first time in his life, the old gardener turned away without waiting for his accustomed gossip with the young mistress, with whom he was very indignant for her sojourn in town,—winter he could have forgiven, but a summer in London!—every successive growth of flowers that passed by with out Emily's seeing and praising them added to the deepness of her offence. A few words of compliment to his ​dahlias would have melted away his anger; but her silence and non-observance of a plat where the campanella had been so carefully trained in capital letters forming her name,—this was too much, and he stalked off in one of those fits of dudgeon, the dearest privilege of an old and indulged servant. However, before he reached the next walk, his anger softened into pity, and he went on muttering,—
"Poor thing—poor thing; she's thinking of her uncle. Well, well,—she won't have him long to think of, poor child. He took no pleasure in nothing after she went."
These words rang in her ears. She sat down on a little garden-seat, and wept long and bitterly. The self-reproach of a sensitive and affectionate temper is of the most refined and exaggerating nature. Unmixed grief requires and seeks solitude—its unbroken indulgence is its enjoyment; but that which is mingled with remorse, involuntarily shrinks from itself,—it wants consolation—it desires to hear some other voice extenuate its faults,—and even while disowning and denying the offered excuse, it is comforted.
It was this feeling that, as Mr. Morton's house in the distance caught Emily's eye, made ​her turn her steps towards it. Early as it was, she knew that its being the Sabbath would ensure his having risen; he was an old kind friend,—she would hear what he thought of her uncle's state, and return before she could be wanted for breakfast.
A winding walk through the shrubbery brought her to the little wicket which opened on the fields through which she had to pass. The first field was one of those spots which seem dedicated to peace and beauty: it had lately been mown, and the thick young grass was only broken by an occasional patch of the lilac-coloured clover. Perhaps, in times long passed, it had been part of a park, for it was as beautifully wooded as the choicest plantation, and with a regularity which was like the re mains of an avenue—and older and finer beeches were not in the country; while the field itself was surrounded by a hazel hedge, the slight boughs now weighed down by light green tufts of the nuts. A narrow path skirted the side next the road, but it was little worn,—the nuts even on the lowest branches were ungathered; for, calm and beautiful as was the place, it was haunted with one of those evil memories which cling like a curse. ​ Two young men were travelling this road, bound by that early friendship which is one of the strongest of human ties; the one going down to marry the sister of his friend,—the other to witness his happiness. They stopped for a night at the little inn in the town; they supped in the most exuberant spirits—that contagious mirth which to see is to share; they had their jest on the waiter and for the landlady; they pledged the landlord in the best china bowl, which they said had never held such punch before—the green parlour rang with their laughter: suddenly their voices were heard in loud debate,—then the tones were lower, but harsher; this was succeeded by entire silence. They separated for the night, each to their several rooms; but the bowl of punch was left almost untouched. Next morning their rooms were both empty, though in each was their travelling bag and portmanteau, and the purse of the darker one, containing some guineas, was left on the dressing-table. Their places had been taken in the mail which passed that morning; but they were no where to be found. At length, half scared out of his very small senses, a boy came running to the inn, with intelligence that a gentleman was lying ​murdered in the beech-tree field: all hurried to the spot, where they found the younger of the two stretched on the ground—a pistol, which had been discharged, in his hand. The cause of his death was soon ascertained—he had been shot directly through the heart: at a little distance they found another pistol, discharged also, and the track of steps through the long grass to the high road, where all trace was lost. In the trunk of a beech, opposite to the deceased, a bullet was found, evidently the one from his pistol. No doubt remained that a duel had been fought; and letters were found on the body, which shewed that the young men were the only sons of two distinguished families in the adjacent county. The one who was to have been married had fallen; of the survivor no tidings were ever heard, and the cause of their quarrel remained, like his fate, in impenetrable obscurity.
Enough of murder, and mystery, which always seems to double the crime it hides, was in this brief and tragic story to lay upon the beautiful but fatal field the memory of blood. The country people always avoided the place; and some chance having deposited the seeds of a crimson polyanthus, which had taken to the ​soil and flourished, universal was the belief that the blood had coloured the primroses; and the rich growth of the flowers served to add to the legendary horrors of one of the most lovely spots in the world.
The history attached to it could not but recur to Emily as she passed, and her heart sank within her—not with fear, but at the thought, how much of misery there was in the world; and why should she be spared amid such general allotment? Often had she imagined the wretchedness which so suddenly overwhelmed two families—the despair of that young bride; but never came they so vividly before her as now. Fear and sorrow are the sources of sympathy; the misfortunes of others come home to those who are anticipating their own. She quickened her steps to gain the next field—a green sunny slope leading directly to the vicarage, which was also covered with sunshine: a blessing rested upon it; it was close by the church—one of Norman architecture—whose square tower was entirely hidden by the luxuriant growth of ivy. The church was visible, but not the churchyard, so that the eye rested on the sign of faith and hope, without the melancholy shew of human suffering and death ​which surrounded it. The scene looked so cheerful!—the small white house overgrown with jessamine, more rich, however, in green than in bloom, the leaves overshadowing the flowers, the more delicate for their rarity; the garden, whose gay-coloured beds were now distinct; the quiet of the Sunday morning, only broken by the musical murmuring of the trees,—all was cheerfulness; and with one of those sudden changes outward impulses so mysteriously produce, Emily stepped lightly into the little garden. The old man was seated by the window, which opened to the ground, reading, and she was at his side before he raised his eyes.
"My dear Emily, this is kind."
"Say selfish, rather," almost sobbed his visitor, for the tone of his voice recalled her uncle, and with that came the full tide of recollection and remorse. Mr. Morton also remembered—what had been forgotten in the first pleasure of seeing his young favourite—all he had purposed of comfort. He took her hand, and kindly led her into the breakfast-room; he opened the Bible, and pointed to one passage—"The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord!" Emily read ​the passage like a death-warrant, and burst into passionate reproaches for having left her uncle.
Mr. Morton had been overruled, not convinced, by the tenderness which had kept her in ignorance, to be expiated by such bitter after-suffering. He knew Emily, and he felt it would have been more real kindness to have recalled her—it mattered not from what: any thing of pleasure sacrificed would have been a consolation. He did not attempt to give her false hopes—he said little of the ignorance which had kept her away—but he dwelt on what she had still to do—the affectionate care which her uncle was yet able to enjoy and appreciate. "You must not suffer Mr. Arundel to be much by himself: that sunny terrace was just made for an invalid, and your arm will often tempt him to a walk. My sweet Emily, restraint on your own feelings is the best proof of love to your uncle."
Few more words passed, and Emily turned homewards. Hope is the prophet of youth—young eyes will always look forwards. Mr. Morton had spoken of exercise and attention—they might work miracles: the bright, beautiful summer—surely its influence must be genial! She looked with so much reliance on the ​thousand indications of existence around her—the murmur of the distant village—all its varying sounds, its voices, its steps—all blent into that one low musical echo which is, nevertheless, such certain sign of human neighbourhood. Every bough had its bird—every blossom its bee—the long grass was filled with myriads of insects. Amid so much of life, how difficult to believe in death! One loss teaches us to expect another, but Emily was unfamiliar with the realities of death: there was no vacant place in the small circle of her affections—she had never yet lost a friend.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Arundel were in the breakfast-room, and her aunt's shrill, dry voice was very audible. "Well, there is no advising some people to their good: Mrs. Clarke told me, she knew three persons cured of exactly your complaint, by taking a raw egg before breakfast."
"The remedy, my dear, was worse than the disease," said Mr. Arundel, turning away with an inward loathing from the yellow liquid, which, ever since Mrs. Clarke's call, had been duly presented every morning.
"Men are so obstinate; but I shall beat it up in your tea—I can't have the egg wasted: ​or, there's Emily—I dare say it's very good for her."
Emily's preference of coffee, however, rendered this little plan for her good of no avail; so Mrs. Arundel, after a running fire of muttered remarks on some people's obstinacy, and other people's not knowing what was good for them, ended by eating the egg herself. Indeed, as she afterwards observed to her friend Mrs. Clarke, "she wanted strengthening quite as much as any of them." In truth, poor Mr. Arundel had suffered a complete martyrdom of remedies: ground-ivy tea, hartshorn jelly, rhubarb biscuits, &c. were only a few of the many infallibles that had nearly driven the complaisant apothecary out of his smiles, and Mr. Arundel out of his senses.
Though it was Sunday, Mrs. Arundel had always some household arrangements to make; and for the next half hour—excepting that twice every thing in the room had to be moved to look for her keys, which all the while were in her own pocket—Emily and her uncle were left to the uninterrupted enjoyment of conversation, whose expression was affection, and whose material was confidence. Ah! how pleasant it is to talk when it would be ​impossible to say whether speaking or listening is the greatest pleasure. Still, Mr. Arundel saw, and saw with regret, that Emily returned not home the same as she went. The narrative of the young carries its hearer along by its own buoyancy—by the gladness which is contagious; but Emily's recital was in the spirit of another age—there lay a fund of bitterness at her heart, which vented itself in sarcasm; she spoke more truly, more coldly of pleasures than suited her few years—surely, it was too soon for her to speak of their vexation and vanity.
But the bustle and hurry which always preceded Mrs. Arundel's going to church—for which she was always too late—put an end to their conversation, and they hurried across the fields—her aunt only interrupting her account of how tiresome it was that Mr. Arundel would take nothing that did him any good, and of what a deal of trouble she had had with him, by incessant inquiries if Emily could hear the bell, which, near as they were to the church, no one could avoid hearing, if it were going. Most of the congregation were seated before they arrived, and Emily had no time to look round for familiar faces, ere Mr. Morton's ​deep sweet voice impressed even the most thoughtless of his listeners with somewhat of his own earnest attention.
"It is good for me that I have been afflicted," may be said in many senses, but in none so truly as in a religious one. It is our own weakness that makes us seek for support—it is the sadness of earth that makes us look up to heaven. Fervently and confidingly did Emily pray that day; and who shall say that such prayers are vain? They may not be granted; but their faith has strengthened the soul, and their hope is left behind: and if the feelings of this world did intrude on her devotion, they were purified and exalted by thoughts of the world to come.
Amid the many signs of that immortality of which our nature is so conscious, none has the certainty, the conviction, of affection: we feel that love, which is stronger and better than life, was made to outlast it. In the memory that survives the lost and the dear, we have mute evidence of a power over the grave: and religion, while it holds forth the assurance of a blessed re-union, is acknowledged and answered from our own heart. We stand beside the tomb, but we look beyond it— ​and sorrow is as the angel that sits at the gates of heaven.
Many kindly greetings awaited Emily in the churchyard—the more cordial, perhaps, that the givers were inferiors; for, with the exception of the apothecary's lady, who was thinking that Miss Arundel, just from London, ought not to have come to church in a large straw-bonnet; Mrs. Smith was one of those quick-eyed persons who take a pattern, or something like it, at a glance;—and the lawyer's feminine representative, an expansive and comely dame—one who looked little accustomed to act, still less to think, but with the scarlet-shawled (it was July), silk-bonneted air of one well to do in the world—and truly, as the husbands of these ladies could have witnessed, those have a thriving harvest who reap from human sickness and sin;—with these exceptions, the whole congregation belonged to the order of the respectable rather than the genteel—though that word now is so ramified in its branches as to include far more than our most speculative ancestors ever dreamed of in their philosophy. But those now assembled decidedly belonged to what a patriot from the hustings would call "that inestimable class of ​individuals"—or, as Goldsmith entitles them, "their country's pride"—from which we beg leave to differ—"the peasantry."
Not that we are in the least detracting from a body of people whose honesty and industry we are most ready to acknowledge when we find them; but thinking as we do, that the watchword of the day, "amelioration," could never be better put into action than for the benefit of this very class—when we consider the want—and want is the parent of more crime than even idleness, that root of all evil, as our copy books assure us—the ignorance, often almost brutality—the discontent, so sadly justified by toil, so unredeemed by ought of higher hope—the mornings of hard work—the weekly evenings of dispute—and the Sabbath evening of drunkenness;—truly, a country which considers such a race as "her pride," is deplorably in want of something to be proud of. Let any one who indulges in such mischievous (we say mischievous, where these reveries take the place of remedies) visions of rural felicity, spend a week in the house of any country justice. The innocence of the country is very much like its health—a sort of refuge for the destitute: the poet talks of its innocence, from not ​knowing where else to place it—and the physician of its health, sending thither his incurable patients, that they may at least not die under his hands.
Few now assembled but had a remembrance of some of those thousand little kindlinesses which daily occur in the common intercourse of life. How often had her intercession been asked and obtained! Not a cottage but she had been in the habit of visiting. And who does not know that notice is often more gratefully remembered than service?—the one flatters, the other only obliges us. All the children crowded round with mingled impressions of joy and fear, according as memories of gingerbread or the Catechism prevailed; for Emily had taken much delight—perhaps a little pride—in her school. Sancho Panza says, it is pleasant to govern, though only a flock of sheep. Mrs. Arundel, however, hurried home—the popularity of another requires strong nerves!—not but that she herself was kind in her own way, and charitable too; but the difference was this—the aunt gave and scolded, the niece gave and smiled.
Mr. Arundel had lain down some time. Mrs. Arundel remained in the parlour with the ​medical and legal ladies—she for news, they for luncheon—while Emily stole softly to her uncle's room. Though the light fell full on his face, he was asleep—a calm, beautiful, renovating sleep—and Emily sat down by the bedside. The love which bends over the sleeping is, save in its sorrow, like the love which bends over the dead—so deep, so solemn! Suddenly he opened his eyes, but without any thing of the starting return to consciousness with which people generally awake—perhaps her appearance harmonised with his dream. Without speaking, but with a look of extreme fondness, he took her hand, and still holding it, slept again.
Emily felt the clasp tighten and tighten, till the rigidity was almost painful: she had drawn the curtains, lest the sun, now come round to that side of the house, should shine too powerfully; a strange awe stole over her in the gloom; she could scarcely, in its present position, discern her uncle's face, and she feared to move. The grasp grew tighter, but the hand that held hers colder; his breathing had all along been low, but now it was inaudible. Gently she bent her face over his; unintentionally—for she dreaded to awaken him—her lips touched ​his; there was no breath to be either heard or felt, and the mouth was like ice. With a sudden, a desperate effort, she freed her hand, from which her uncle's instantly dropped on the bedside, with a noise, slight indeed, but, to her ears, like thunder; she flung open the curtains—again the light came full into the room—and looked on a face which both those who have not, and those who have before seen, alike know to be the face of death.