# Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 1

The Princess Nonchalante is from L'Adroite princesse, ou, Les aventures de Finette by Marie-Jeanne L'Héritier.
ROMANCE AND REALITY.
CHAPTER I.
"It was an ancient venerable hall."—Crabbe.
"This is she,
Our consecrated Emily."—Wordsworth.
Such a room as must be at least a century's remove from London, large, white, and wainscoted; six narrow windows, red curtains most ample in their dimensions, an Indian screen, a present in which expectation had found "ample space and verge enough" to erect theories of their cousin the nabob's rich legacies, ending, however, as many such expectations do, in a foolish marriage and a large family; a dry-rubbed floor, only to have been stepped in the days of hoops and handings; and some dozen of large chairs covered with elaborate tracery, each chair cover the business of a life spent ​in satin-stitch. On the walls were divers whole-length portraits, most pastoral-looking grandmammas, when a broad green sash, a small straw hat, whose size the very babies of our time would disdain, a nosegay somewhat larger than life, a lamb tied with pink riband, concocted a shepherdess just stepped out of an eclogue into a picture. Grandpapas by their side, one hand, or rather three fingers, in the bosom of each flowered waistcoat, the small three-cornered hat under each arm; two sedate-looking personages in gowns and wigs, and one—the fine gentleman of the family—in a cream-coloured coat, extending a rose for the benefit of the company in general. Over the chimney-piece was a glass, in a most intricate frame of cut crystal within the gilt one, which gave you the advantage of seeing your face in square, round, oblong, triangular or all shapes but its natural one. On each side the fire-place was an arm-chair; and in them sat, first, Mr. Arundel, reading the county newspaper as if he had been solving a problem; and, secondly, his lady dozing very comfortably over her knitting; while the centre of the rug was occupied by two white cats—one worked in worsted, and surrounded by a wreath of roses ​—the other asleep, with a blue riband round her neck; and all as still and quiet as the Princess Nonchalante—who, during her lover's most earnest supplication, only begged he would not hurry himself—could have wished.
The quiet was not very lasting, for the fire was stirred somewhat suddenly, the chairs pushed aside somewhat hastily, the cat disturbed, but without any visible notice from either reader or sleeper. "My aunt asleep—my uncle as bad!" exclaimed Emily Arundel, emerging from the corner where she had been indulging in one of those moods which may be called melancholy or sullen, out of temper or out of spirits, accordingly as they are spoken of in the first or second person; and Emily was young, pretty, and spoilt enough to consider herself privileged to indulge in any or all of them.
The course of life is like the child's game—"here we go round by the rule of contrary"—and youth, above all others, is the season of united opposites, with all its freshness and buoyancy. At no period of our existence is depression of the spirit more common or more painful. As we advance in life our duties become defined; we act more from necessity and ​less from impulse; custom takes the place of energy, and feelings, no longer powerfully excited, are proportionably quiet in reaction. But youth, balancing itself upon hope, is for ever in extremes; its expectations are continually aroused only to be baffled; and disappointment, like a summer shower, is violent in proportion to its brevity.
Young she was—but nineteen, that pleasantest of ages, just past the blushing, bridling, bewildering coming out, when a courtesy and a compliment are equally embarrassing; when one half the evening is spent in thinking what to do and say, and the other half in repenting what has been said and done. Pretty she was—very pretty: a profusion of dark, dancing ringlets, that caught the sunbeams and then kept them prisoners; beautiful dark-grey eyes with large black pupils, very mirrors of her meaning; that long curled eye-lash, which gives a softness nothing else can give; features small, but Grecian in their regularity; a slight delicate figure, an ankle fit for a fairy, a hand fit for a duchess,—no marvel Emily was the reigning beauty of the county. Sprung from one of its oldest families, its heiress too, the idol of her uncle and aunt, who had brought ​her up from infancy; accustomed to be made much of, that most captivating kind of flattery,—it may be pardoned if her own estimate was a very pleasant one. Indeed, with the exception of young gentlemen she had refused, and young ladies she had rivalled, Emily was universally liked: kind, enthusiastic, warm, and affectionate, her good qualities were of a popular kind; and her faults—a temper too hasty, a vanity too cultivated—were kept pretty well in the background by the interest or affection, by the politeness or kindness, of her usual circle. To conclude, she was very much like other young ladies, excepting that she had neither lover nor confidante: a little romance, a little pride, and not a little good taste, had prevented the first, so that the last was not altogether indispensable.
Her father had been the youngest brother, and, like many other younger brothers, both unnecessary and imprudent; a captain in a dragoon regiment, who spent his allowance on his person, and his pay on his horse. He was the last man in the world who ought to have fallen in love, excepting with an heiress, yet he married suddenly and secretly the pretty and portionless Emily Delawarr, and wrote home ​to ask pardon and cash. The former was withheld on account of the latter, till his elder brother's unexceptionable marriage with Miss Belgrave, and her estate, gave him an interest in the family which he forthwith exerted in favour of Captain Arundel. But a few short years, and the young officer died in battle, and his widow only survived to place their orphan girl in Mr. and Mrs. Arundel's care, to whom Emily had ever been even as their own.
Mr. Arundel was a favourable specimen of the old school, when courtesy, though stately, was kind, and, though elaborate, yet of costly matériel; a well-read, though not a literary man—everybody did not write in his day—generous to excess; and if proud, his consciousness of gentlemanlike descent was but shewn in his strictness of gentlemanlike feelings. The last of a very old family, an indolent, perhaps an over-sensitive temper—often closely allied—had kept him a quiet dweller on his own lands; and though, from increasing expenses without increasing funds, many an old manor and ancient wood had developed those aërial propensities which modern times have shewn to he inherent in their nature, and had made themselves wings and flown away, yet enough ​remained for dignity, and more than enough for comfort: and in a county where people had large families, Emily was an heiress of considerable pretension.
His lady was one of those thousand-and-one women who wore dark silk dresses and lace caps—who, after a fashion of their own, have made most exemplary wives; that is to say, they took to duties instead of accomplishments, and gave up music when they married—who spent the mornings in the housekeepers room, and the evenings at the tea-table, waiting for the guests who came not—who rose after the first glass of wine—whose bills and calls were paid punctually, and whose dinners were a credit to them. In addition to this, she always knitted Mr. A.'s worsted stockings with her own hands, was good-natured, had a whole book of receipts, and loved her husband and niece as parts of herself.
Few families practised more punctuality and propriety, and perhaps in few could more happiness, or rather content, be found. Occasionally, Mr. Arundel's temper might be ruffled by pheasants and poachers, and his wife's by some ill-dressed dish; but then there were the quarter sessions to talk of, and other and faultless ​dinners to redeem aught of failure in the last. Sometimes Emily might think it was rather dull, and lay down the Morning Post with a sigh, or closed her novel with a hope; but in general her spirits were buoyant as her steps, and the darling of the household was also its life and delight. But to-night, the third rainy evening of three rainy days, every flower in the divers china bowls, cups, vases, was withered; the harp was out of tune with the damp; and Emily betook herself to the leafy labyrinth of a muslin flounce, la belle alliance of uselessness and industry.