# Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 4

Lara and Jaqueline (or Jacqueline), two contrasting tales in verse published together in 1814, the first by Lord Byron, the other by Samuel Rogers.
CHAPTER IV.
"Past twelve o'clock, and a cloudy morning."
The Watchman.
"Her elegant and accomplished ladyship."
Morning Post.
Emily just rose an hour too soon the next morning—morning, that breaker of spells and sleep. There was the garden dingy and dusty, the green trees with a yellow fever, and the flowering shrubs drooping as if they had been crossed in love of the fresh air. The milkman was, jailor-like, going his clanking rounds; and, instead of gay equipages waiting for the graceful figures that passed over the steps lightly as their blonde,—now stood a pail, a mop, and a slipshod domestic, whose arms, at least, said much for the carnations of London. Around, like the rival houses of York and Lancaster, some white, some red, stood mansions whose nobility was certainly not of outward show, and setting forth every variety of architecture save ​its own peculiar beauty, uniformity; and windows which "the dust of ages" had gathered, and even that only dimly if seen through smoke and fog—those advantages of early rising in London. The sun, the nurserymaids, and children, had all come out before Emily was summoned to the breakfast-table, where a French soubrette—who made, as her nation can do, a pretty face out of nothing, with an apron whose pockets were placed à l'envie, and a cap put on à faire mourir—was pouring out coffee for the very fair, very languid, and very lady-like Lady Alicia, who, enveloped in a large shawl, was almost lost in that and the pillowed arm-chair.
Few women, indeed, think, but most feel; now Lady Alicia did neither: nature had made her weak and indolent, and she had never been placed in circumstances either to create or call forth character. As an infant she had the richest of worked robes, and the finest of lace caps; the nurse was in due time succeeded by the nursery governess, whose situation was soon filled by the most accomplished person the united efforts of fourteen countesses could discover. Pianos, harps, colour-boxes, collars, French, Italian, &c. &c. duly filled the school-​room: but for music Lady Alicia had no ear, for dancing no liking, for drawing no taste; and French and Italian were, it must be owned, somewhat unnecessary to one who considered her own language an unnecessary fatigue. At eighteen she came out, beautiful she certainly was; highly accomplished—for Lady F., her mother's intimate friend, had several times confidentially mentioned the names of her masters; while Lady C. had expressed her approbation of the reserved dignity which led the daughter of one of our oldest families to shun that display which might gratify her vanity, but wounded her pride.
All was prepared for a ducal coronet at least; when the very day after her presentation, her father went out of town, and the ministry together; and three long useless years were wasted in the stately seclusion of Etheringhame Castle; where the mornings in summer were spent at a small table by the window, and in winter by the fire, putting in practice the only accomplishment that remained—like a ghost of the past—cutting out figures and landscapes in white paper, whose cold, colourless regularity were too much in sympathy with herself for her not to excel in the art. The middle of the day ​was devoted to a drive, if fair,—if wet, to wondering whether it would clear. Dressing came next,—a mere mechanical adjustment of certain rich silks and handsome jewels, where vanity was as much out of the question, as if its own peculiar domain had not been a looking-glass: with no one to attract, and, still dearer hope, no one to surpass, cui bono? for, after all, vanity is like those chemical essences whose only existence is when called into being by the action of some opposite influence.
During dinner the Earl lamented the inevitable ruin to which the country was hastening; and, after grace had been said, the Countess agreed with him, moreover observing, that dress alone was destroying the distinction of ranks, and that at church silks were commoner than stuffs. Here the conversation ceased, and they returned to the drawing-room; the Countess to sleep—Lady Alicia to cut out more paper landscapes.
Twice a-year there was a great dinner, to which she was regularly handed down by the old Marquess of Snowdon, who duly impressed upon her mind how very cold it was; and, in truth, he looked like an embodied shiver.
​ At one and twenty an important change took place. Lady Alicia was summoned from a little paper poodle, on whose white curls she had been bestowing peculiar pains, by the drawing-room doors being thrown open with even more than their usual solemnity, and she was informed, by his own man, that his lordship requested her presence in the library: the surprise was sufficiently great to make her cut off her little dog's tail.
The ex-minister was too important a person to be kept waiting, at least in his own family; what he now wanted in quantity of authority, he made up in quality. She descended into the large Gothic room dedicated to the learning of past ages, and the dignity of the present; a large round table stood in the middle, covered with political pamphlets, cut open, at least, most carefully, and a newspaper lying on a folio volume of Bolingbroke's. In a large arm-chair, with the Peerage in one hand, and an open letter in the other, whose seal, though broken, still showed the crimson glory of the coat of arms, sat Lord Etheringhame; and on the other side, in a chair equally erect, and in her person still more so, was the lady mother. What circumstance could have occasioned such ​a change in the castle's domestic economy–a matrimonial tête-à-tête at such unusual hours, and in such an unusual place? What but a circumstance that has authorised many extraordinary proceedings—an offer of marriage. Lady Alicia took the seat assigned her by a wave of his lordship's hand.
"The consequence of our family," said her father.
"The advantages of such a union," observed the mother.
"The solitude to which my philosophical and literary pursuits–" here the retired statesman paused.
"Well aware of the excellent principles instilled into your mind," exclaimed mamma.
"Connected with some of the first people in the kingdom," ejaculated papa.
"Fastidious as my daughter must he," and Lady Etheringhame drew up à la giraffe.
"So desirable a political connection," and his lordship looked at his daughter and his pamphlets.
"I shall he freed from the weight of so much maternal anxiety;" but her ladyship was stopped in her parental display by the positive declaration of—
​ "And now, Alicia, shall I write an answer as affirmative as suits the dignity of our house?"
Alicia said nothing, and looked less.
"We will spare her confusion," said the Countess.
"You may retire," said the Earl.
Lady Alicia was as much bewildered as it was in her nature to be; but she made up her mind to ask her mother what they wanted with her in the library, and seated herself to cut out another little poodle.
The dinner-bell rang, and Lady Etheringhame entered.
"Alicia, my love, wear your turquoise set to-day: of course, I should wish you to appear to advantage on Mr. Delawarr's first visit."
It was as if all the astonishment of her life was to be crowded into one day; for on retiring to her toilette, her handmaiden, the very reverse of her mistress, extremes meet (vide Lara and Jaqueline), by dint of compliments and insinuations, succeeded at length in drawing from her something like a question; and with all her father's eloquence and mother's anxiety, Alicia only now began to suspect a husband in the case, and that the library ​audience and the turquoises referred to Mr. Delawarr.
Delawarr Hall was the nearest seat to Etheringhame Castle, and the families had for years run through every possible variety of opposition and alliance. Between the present proprietors there had existed rather civility than cordiality. Lord Etheringhame's opinions were as hereditary as his halls; innovation was moral rebellion; the change of a fashion, a symptom of degeneracy; he would as soon have destroyed his pedigree as his pigtail; and looked on every new patent, whether for a peerage or a pie-dish, as another step to ruin; in short, he held just the reverse of the poet's opinion—with him, not whatever is, but whatever had been, was right.
Sir Walter, on the contrary, was a man of plans and projects: he refurnished his house, and talked of the march of intellect; cut down a plantation of old oaks in search of a lead mine; put in French windows instead of Gothic, on which his mother died of cold, or grief; married his first wife for fancy, and talked of sentiment; his second for money, and talked of liberality, and deprecated vain pride of birth; he lost money by taking shares in a canal, ​which to have made profitable must have cut just across his own park; subscribed to a book society, and was eloquent about encouraging genius; had a newly invented stove in his hall; and novelty to him was what antiquity was to the other—each, like charity, covered a multitude of sins. But, above all, Sir Walter's great pride was his son, who, already far beyond his competitors, gave assurance of the distinguished career he ran in after-life. Two things were at this period necessary for Montague Delawarr,—to get married, and returned for the county.
The Baronet's dressing-room had a view of the castle. No wonder that Lady Alicia suggested herself to his mind. Montague was now in the country; and if St. Valentine could aid St. Stephen, why married he intended to be, some time or other; so the letter of proposal was written, and the result had been as favourable as they could wish.
Seven o'clock came, and with it Sir Walter and his son. The dinner-bell to-day was indeed to be "the tocsin of the heart." With something more like emotion than she had ever felt in her life before, Lady Alicia Lorraine made her appearance, and a very fair appearance it was; ​both figure and face were fine, her dress elegant, and the turquoises so becoming, that when Montague took his seat by her at table, he began to think the wife herself was something in the matrimonial contract about to be made. The delusion, by a little maternal arrangement, hints of timidity, &c., lasted very respectably till after the wedding, when with as little blushing and as much blonde as possible, the name of Lorraine was changed for that of Delawarr. They were the happiest couple spoken of. Sir Walter had presented his late wife's emeralds, and his son had them reset; the bride's beauty quite inspired Sir Thomas Lawrence; and Mr. Delawarr was returned for the county.
In the midst of a brilliant public career, he had little time to discover whether his household divinity was very like those of old—a statue. Lady Alicia was good-natured—that good nature which is composed of a soft smile, a low voice, indulgence of every kind—self among the number: for the rest, if her mind had a feature, it was indolence; and her cashmere, character, and carriage, were alike irreproachable.
Such was the lady with whom Emily had to encounter the dangers of a tête-à-tête. It ​passed off better than she hoped. Lady Alicia liked to be amused, and her young companion was soon encouraged to be amusing. Their arrangements were speedily made; they were to dine with Lady Etheringhame; his lordship's magnificent funeral had filled a column in the paper three years before; the dowager took to study her health, and lived in town to be near her physicians—and with a little illness and a great deal of complaint, managed to live on. The morning was to be devoted to milliners, shopping, &c.; both went to prepare for the drive; Lady Alicia convinced that Miss Arundel was a very charming girl, and Miss Arundel wondering if fairy tales were true, and whether her hostess was a snow woman animated by a spell.