# Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 38

CHAPTER XIV.
"Happiness
Is the gay to-morrow of the mind
That never comes."
"I give my most cordial approbation," said Lord Mandeville: "I think Emily Arundel is a very sweet creature—a little too visionary."
"Nay, it is that," replied his wife, "which makes her so interesting: she is just a heroine for a romance in five volumes; and I shall never forgive her, if something a little out of the common run of, brought out one season and married the next, without an interesting embarrassment, does not happen to her."
"My dear Ellen, beware how you encourage this tendency in your pretty protégée—to invent a life rather than live: with all your penetration, I think you are hardly aware of the strength and intensity of Miss Arundel's character. At fifteen, her poetry of feeling (you ​see I do my best to please you with a phrase) would just give piquancy and freshness to her entry into life; but at twenty, it is grown into a decided mental feature—and nothing would surprise me less than to see her throw herself away on a worthless fortune-hunter, under some mistaken fancy of affection and disinterestedness."
"No fear of that; I have a match for her in perspective—one that I am much mistaken if both she and you would not highly approve."
"And I am much mistaken if she has not some floating fancy of her own."
"But suppose we both agree in our choice?"
"Well, suppose what you please, only be cautious how you act upon your suppositions."
"In the meantime, I have your consent to ask her to accompany us to Italy?"
"A very cordial yes to that."
Emily gladly accepted the offer. But for Lady Mandeville's friendship, her position was at this moment very awkward: to live alone at the Hall would have been too independent—a residence with her aunt was put out of the question by her marriage—and Lady Alicia's death prevented her deriving that advantage from Mr. Delawarr being appointed her guardian, ​which, perhaps, her uncle had anticipated. To be sure, an heiress is never at a loss for friends; but the very thought of strangers made Emily cling more closely to Lady Mandeville's protection. Her ladyship was very tired of Norville Abbey, and a little female diplomacy had been exerted for some time, to convince her husband that—whether put on those unfailing arguments, health or spirits—a little change was indispensable, as Hortense says of her drawing-room's Sevres china, and or-molu, "C'est plus qu'utile, c'est nécessaire."
After many demurs—turnip-fields and covies, the ash coppice and pheasants, put into the balance against "Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff"—it was finally agreed they should travel for the next season, on condition that the following one was to see them quietly settled in the Abbey again, taking care of the county interest during that seventh year of such importance to our constitution, where the phœnix parliament dissolves into its original elements, again to be collected and revivified by the process called purity of election.
Like most fair tactitians, Lady Mandeville, contented with present advantages, left the future to take care of itself: besides, after a year ​on the continent, Norville Abbey would offer contrast enough to be quite delightful.
Arrangements were soon commenced and soon ended. Emily took leave of Mrs. Clarke, who gave her divers small commissions, and many ingenious hints how the custom-house officers might be evaded. The Doctor recommended her to learn to make milk coffee, a thing never met with good in England—and, as he justly observed, she might marry a man who was fond of it.
"And I can say, from experience," added his wife, "there is nothing like seeing to things yourself."
Her last visit was to Mr. Morton: the old had died around him, the young were departing, and regret deepened into anxiety as he bade her farewell.
"Come back, my child, as kind, as affectionate, and with hopes only less visionary because realised in their happiness: be humble, be thankful, and, my child, may God bless and keep you!"
It was the last evening of all, and that Emily gave to her saddest farewell—to her home. She retraced the walks of her childhood; the shrubbery, with its luxuriant growth of roses, now in ​the full beauty of summer; the fruit-garden, where every tree and walk had a remembrance—those iron links of affection. The wind was high, and at every step a shower of fragrant and coloured leaves fell over her like rain: her fancy asked of her feelings, Do they weep to bid me farewell?
Nothing exaggerates self-importance like solitude; and, perhaps because we have it not, then more than ever do we feel the want of sympathy: hopes, thoughts, these link themselves with external objects; and it is the expression of that haunting desire of association, those vine-like emotions of the human heart which fasten on whatever is near, that give an interest like truth to the poet's fiction, who says that the mournful waters and the drooping trees murmur with his murmurs, and sorrow with his sorrows.
It was now the shadowy softness of twilight—that one English hour whose indistinct beauty has a vague charm which may compensate for all the sunshine that ever made glorious the vale of Damascus; and as she emerged from the yew-tree walk, the waving wind and the dim light gave the figures cut in their branches almost the appearance of reality, and their ​shadows flung huge semblances of humanity far before them: a less excited frame of mind than Emily's might well have invested them with the idea of something actual and ominous. It was a relief to reach the broad open turf before the house. The room into which she meant to go fronted full west. The sun had set sometime, and his purple pageantry, like that of a forgotten monarch, had departed; but one or two rich clouds, like faithful hearts, retaining the memory of his gifts to the last, floated still on the air. The middle window of the oriel before her, just caught and reflected back the crimson light and colour. The ground below looked bright and warm compared with the shade around.
One of those fancies which will, despite of reason, link some peculiar object and feeling together, now crossed Emily's mind: she took a little branch of geranium—it was all leaves, for whose lingering fragrance she had gathered it—and planted it in the most sheltered spot, by the steps: "If it flourish, I shall flourish; if it perish, so shall I."
The window was open, and she entered the room. How dreary it looked! The carpet was taken up, the chairs ranged in formal order ​round the wall, the fire-irons removed, and the grate so bright and so cold; the curtains were down, all the little ornaments put away, no flowers in the stands, and the pictures covered up: from want of sufficient material, the face of her uncle's portrait was still visible: she thought it looked upon her sadly and kindly, forgetting that such was his habitual expression. A movement in the passage roused her; hastily she sprang down the steps, and in an instant was hidden in the thick foliage of the path which led to the village, where she was to meet Lady Mandeville and the children.
Little did she know the terrors she had left behind her. The foot in the passage was that of the old gardener, who, now residing in the house with his wife and daughter, had been sent by the said female authorities to close the shutters against damp, thieves, and other evening annoyances. He just caught sight of Emily—the white dress was enough; and, without pausing on the incongruity of a ghost in a large straw bonnet, he rushed back to the kitchen: those spiritual securities, candles and company, enabled him to return; there was no trace of any earthly thing; the supernatural conclusion was soon drawn, the room ​pronounced to be haunted, and henceforth only to be entered in couples.
A ghost-story is an avalanche, increasing in horror as it goes; and, like an avalanche, one often brings on another. It was remembered, that Emily was the last of a house which had for years and years been connected with every tradition in the county: the grandfathers of the parish could recollect when the old hall had rung with the cheerful song and shout of a gallant band of relatives, all bearing the name of Arundel, and when the echoes of the morning were awakened by baying hounds and the ringing horns of the young hunters: but one grave had been filled after another—one name after another crowded the funeral tablets of the church: and the once flourishing race had dwindled down to one slight girl.
Omens, predictions, and legends now multiplied around every fireside; one, in particular, was revived. The lands of the Arundel estate had belonged to a monastery; but when the crosier bowed down before King Henry's anger, these domains were assigned to one of his favourite followers, Sir John Arundel. But the abbess, descended from an old Norman family, and inheriting all the spirit of her ​race, resigned not so easily the sway for which youth, beauty, and the world had been sacrificed. She refused admittance to the messengers; defied the authority which attempted to dispossess her; and pursued her usual course of rule and faith, as if neither had been gainsayed.
"As bold a Neville as ever buckled on spur or sword! She denies my right, and appeals to the pope," said the haughty monarch, throwing down her scroll. "Read ye ever such a bead-roll of curses? Come, Sir John Arundel, they say you fear neither man nor devil; let's see if you fear woman? Clear me out this convent, and keep its candlesticks for your pains."
The knight needed no second command: he ordered a band of his stanchest followers to horse—men who had fought by his side in Flanders, and there learnt more reverence for Sir Captain than Sir Priest. They staid a short while in the hostel of the village; for mine host's Canary smacked, as the jesting soldiers said, of a monkish neighbourhood. When Sir John mounted again, he somewhat regretted the delay; for the night was falling—and, besides, it gave time for the daring prioress to ​hear of his coming, and perhaps prepare, however fruitlessly to oppose it.
As he rode up the hill, he saw lights gleaming from the convent, and a sound of music floated upon the air. To his great surprise, the gates were all unbarred. Not a creature was visible: all were evidently assembled in the chapel, whence issued both the light and music.
The doors of the chapel were unfastened, though closed. In they went; but even Sir John and his reckless soldiers paused a moment on the threshold, and two or three even doffed their steel caps. Chanting—though, it must be owned, some of them rather tremulously—their choral hymn, the nuns, closely veiled, knelt on each side,—but for their sweet voices, like figures carved, rather than life. The prioress alone was unveiled, and standing on the steps of the altar, which, added to her long flowing garments, gave her the appearance of almost preternatural height. In one hand, even as her forefathers had grasped the sword, not less boldly did she hold a torch; in the other, even as they had held their shield, she held the cross. For a moment even Sir John Arundel quailed before the dark eye that ​met his own so fearlessly. She saw her advantage and seized it. At a glance, her nuns ceased their hymn, and a deep silence succeeded the voice of singing, and the clanging steps of armed men.
"Not for pity, nor even for time, cruel and grasping man! do I now speak;" and her clear distinct voice sounded unnaturally loud, from the echoes of the arched roof and hollow tombs. "Turn the golden vessels sacred to thy God to purposes of vain riot and thankless feasting, even as did the Babylonian monarch;—take the fair lands, from whose growth the pilgrim has been fed and the poor relieved—take them, as the unrighteous king of Israel took the vineyard of his neighbour, by force;—but take also the curse that clings to the ungodly. I curse the father who shall possess—the race who are to inherit. Thy young men shall be cut off by the sword; and sickness, worse than an armed man, shall take thy maidens in the bower. In the name of the faith thou hast deserted—the God thou hast outraged—the curse shall be on thy race, till it be extinguished, even as this light."
She dashed down the torch she held, descended from the altar-steps, and left the chapel ​before any of her opponents were sufficiently recovered from their dismay to stop or molest her passage. All the nuns were either not so fortunate or so resolute. Certain it is, that one of them, and a namesake too, Bertha de Neville, a few weeks after, married this very Sir John Arundel. The legend went on to state, that the nuptial merriment was disturbed by the sudden appearance of a pale spectral figure, who entered, as it contrived to depart from the banquet-hall, unobserved, and denounced the most awful curses on bridegroom and bride. A similar appearance was said to have attended the christening of their first child.
Years passed away; and the story of the White Prioress was one of those which belong of right to all ancient families. A ghost only pays an old house a proper attention by an occasional visit. And now that Arundel Hall was, for the time at least, deserted—and Emily was the last of her race, just, too, on the eve of her departure for foreign parts, together with the apparition seen by the gardener—such an opportunity for aught of superstitious record might never occur again. Traditions, omens, appearances, prophecies, came thick and threefold; till, what with inventions and ​remembrances, not a grandfather or grandmother, not an uncle or aunt of her race, had ever, by common report, remained quiet in their graves.
Early as it was next morning, not a cottage-door but sent forth its inhabitants to take a farewell look at Miss Emily. Many a little sun-burnt face ran beside the carriage, and many a little hand, which had since sun-rise been busily employed in selecting her favourite flowers, threw nosegays in at the window. Emily eagerly caught them, and her eyes filled with tears, as, at a turning in the road which hid the village, she threw herself back on the seat. How many years of youth and of happiness—how many ties of those small kindnesses, stronger than steel to bind—how many memories of early affection, was she leaving behind!
At that moment the beautiful answer of the Shunamite woman seemed to her the very morality of happiness and certainty of content—"I dwell among mine own people." How many familiar faces, rejoicing in our joy, sorrowing with our sorrow—how many cares, pleasant from habit—sickness, whose suffering gave a tenderer character to love—mirth, the mirth of the cheerful hearth or the daily meal—mirth, like home-made bread, sweeter from its very ​homeliness—the sleep, sound from exercise—the waking buoyant with health and the consciousness of necessary toil—the friends to whom our childhood was a delight, because it recalled their own! "I dwell among mine own people:" a whole life of domestic duty, and the happiness which springs from that fulfilment which is of affection, are in those words.
Emily might have revolved all this in her own exaggerated feelings, till she had convinced herself that it was her duty to have stayed in her native village and solitary home, but for Lady Mandeville, who, though very willing to make all due allowance for her young companion's depressed spirits during the first ten miles, was not prepared to extend the said allowance to twenty.
Our sympathy is never very deep unless founded on our own feelings; we pity, but do not enter into the grief we have never known: and if her Ladyship had expressed her thoughts aloud, they would have taken pretty much this form: "I really cannot see so much to regret in an empty house, a village where there is not a creature to speak to, some old trees and dirty children."
Politeness, however, acts the lady's-maid to ​our thoughts; and they are washed, dressed, curled, rouged, and perfumed, before they are presented to the public; so that an unexpressed idea might often say to the spoken one, what the African woman said to the European lady, after surveying the sweep of her huge bonnet and the extent of her skirt, "Oh, tell me, white woman, if this is all you!" It is amazing how much a thought expands and refines by being put into speech: I should think it could hardly know itself.
We have already recorded Lady Mandeville's thoughts; but she spoke as follows:—"When at Rome, Emily, you must get a set of cameos. You are among the few persons I could permit to wear them. It quite affects my feelings to see them strung round some short, thick throat of an heiress to some alderman who died of apoplexy; clasped round an arm as red as if the frost of a whole winter had settled in the elbow; or stuck among bristling curls, as if to caricature, by contrast, the short, silly, simpering face below. 'The intelligible forms of ancient poets'—'the fair humanities of old religion'—the power, the beauty, and the majesty,
'That had their haunts in dale or piny mountain,
Or forest by slow stream or pebbly spring:'
"I am," replied Emily—personal adornment is the true spell that would almost wake the dead—"so very fond of emeralds: there is something so spiritual in their pure green light, and one associates with them the romantic fiction of mysterious virtue being in their 'mystic stone.'"
"My sweetest Emily," returned Lady Mandeville, a little alarmed, "never be picturesque or poetical at your toilette;—in matters of grave import, never allow vain and foolish fancies to interfere; never sit at your looking-glass as if you were sitting for a picture;—indulge in no vagrant creations of your own. What Pope said of fate is still truer of fashion—
'Whatever is, is right.'"
"But suppose any prevailing fashion is to me peculiarly unbecoming?"
"It will be less unbecoming than singularity. A peculiar style, especially if that style suit you, will make a whole room your enemies: independence is an affront to your ​acquaintance. Of all deferences, be most implicit in that you pay to opinion."
"How little liberty, even in the affair of a ringlet, does a woman possess!"
"Liberty and power," said Lord Mandeville, who, after riding the first stage on horseback, now entered the carriage, "are, in the hands of women, what they are in the hands of a mob—always misused. Ah! the Salic law is the true code, whether in morals or monarchies."
"He cannot forgive," said his wife, "the turnip-fields and the three covies which he has left behind. But I will not have your murderous propensities interfere with Emily's well-doing. While we are travelling, the mirror of the Graces may remain partially covered; but on our return, it must be unveiled in its own peculiar temple, Paris. Be assiduous in your studies for a few weeks, and you may lay in a stock of good principles for life."
"Nothing," said Lord Mandeville, "can be more perfect than a Frenchwoman when she is finished. From the Cinderella-like slipper to the glove delicate as the hand it covers—the shawl, whose drapery a sculptor might envy—the perfumes—the fan, so gracefully carried—the bijouterie, which none employ with such ​effect—all is in such exquisite keeping. I always admire their management of their bonnet. A young Frenchwoman will come in, the said bonnet put on as if a morning had been devoted to its becoming position: she will take it off, and not a curl will be displaced—put it on again with all apparent carelessness, but as gracefully as ever."
"Remember," said Lady Mandeville, "the previous study. I recollect, when we were last in Paris, I expressed to that pretty Mde. de St. Elve the very same admiration. Truly it was 'the carelessness, yet the most studied to kill.' We were at that time quite confidential. 'You see,' said she, 'the result of my morning.'"
"It is a pity," replied her husband, "but a fair exchange could be effected—that the Englishwoman could give her general neatness, and the Frenchwoman her particular taste."
"Ah," observed Lady Mandeville, "but the strength of a feeling lies in its concentration. The Englishwoman diffuses over a whole day what the French reserves for a few hours. Effect there is the summing up. In great, as in little things, the French are a nation of actors—life is to them a great melodrame. ​ I remember some verses written by one of their gens d'esprit et de société, an hour before his death, in which he calls on the Loves and Graces to surround his couch, that he may die with the murmur of their kisses in his ears! This is something more than 'adjusting the mantle before they fall.' It is also taking care that the trimmings are not tumbled."
Mile after mile flew rapidly; and soon came upon the traveller's ear that deep murmur, like the roar of the mighty ocean, which, even at such a distance, tells us that we approach London. Gradually the hedges and fields give way before long rows of houses; and a few single domiciles, with plats of turf cut into patterns, and bunches of daisies dusty and dry as if just dropped from the wreath of a figurante, are what the orientals call so pleasant and rural, so convenient for stages and Sunday. Soon one straight line succeeds another; and we know the wilderness of streets is begun, which, in another century, will end heaven knows where.
The entrance to London by the great north road, is the one by which I would bring a stranger. First, the road winding through the fertile country, rich in old trees and bright green fields, and here and there a substantial ​brick house, well closed in with wall and hedge;—a few miles farther, the dislocating town of Brentford, driven through at the risk of the joints of your frame and the springs of your carriage, which George II. pronounced so beautiful—it was "so like Yermany." So much for taste, and the doctrine of association. Those fit gates for a summer palace, the light and airy arches which lead to Sion House, passed also, the country begins to take an air of town—houses and gardens are smaller—single blessedness is rarer—turnpikes more frequent—and terraces, places, and crescents, are many in number;—then the town of Kensington, small and mean, looking a century behind its neighbourhood.
The road now becomes a noble and a wide one. On foot, and by daylight, the brick walls on either side are dreary enough; but at night they only give depth to the shadow, and the eye catches the lighted windows and the stately roofs of the houses they enclose. To my own individual taste, these are the most delightful of dwellings, close upon the park for drives, close upon the streets for dinners, enclosed, large, and to themselves, having as much of rural felicity within their walls as I at least desire; that is ​to say, there are some fine old trees, lilacs and laburnums in full blossom, sweeps of turf, like green carpet, and plenty of delicate roses, &c. A conservatory is the aristocracy of flowers.
Just where the road is the widest they met the mails, the gallant horses sweeping along
"As if the speed of thought were in their limbs,"
and every step accompanied by a shower of fiery sparkles. The lamps that glance and are lost—the cheerful ringing of the horn—the thought that must rise, of how much of human joy and sorrow every one of those swift coaches is bearing on to its destination:—newspapers that detail and decide on all the affairs of Europe—letters in all their infinite variety, love, confidence, business—the demand of the dun, the excuse of the debtor—delicate bath and coarse foolscap—the patrician coat-of-arms, and the particularly plebeian wafer—the sentimental motto and graceful symbol, side by side with the red patch stamped with a thimble: but any one of these thoughts will be more than enough to fill the brief moment which the all but animated machine takes in passing. How different from the days when "the coach," one, and one only, was eight days coming from ​York, and its passengers laid in a store of provisions which, in our rapid days, would supply them half way to America!
"London, my country, city of the soul!" exclaimed Lady Mandeville, as she caught sight of the brilliantly lighted arches of Hyde Park Corner, and the noble sweep of the illuminated Park in the distance, while Piccadilly spread before them in the darkness like an avenue of lamps. "I have heard that a thorough-bred cockney is one of the most contented animals in the world: I, for one, to use a favourite modern expression, can quite 'enter into his feelings.'"
"Do you remember," replied her husband, "Lorraine's quotation to St. James's Street?—
'For days, for months, devotedly
 I've lingered by thy side,
The only place I coveted
 In all the world so wide.' *
And though I like the country, as an Englishman and a patriot ought to do, I own I feel the fascination of the flagstones."
"Emily, I accuse you of want of sympathy with your friends—I declare you are asleep: ​you will make a bad traveller; however, I shall rely upon your amendment."
Emily was not asleep, but she was oppressed by that sense of nothingness with which the native of a great town is too familiar to be able to judge of its effect on a stranger. She had been accustomed to live where every face was a familiar one—where every one's affairs had, at least, the interest of neighbourhood—and where a stranger had all the excitement of novelty. Here all was new and cold: the immensity was too great to fix on a place of rest—the hurry, the confusion of the streets bewildered her. She felt, not only that she was nobody, but that nobody cared for her—a very disagreeable conviction at which to arrive, but one very natural in London.
That journey is dreary which does not end at home; and I do not know whether to despise for his selfishness, or to pity for his situation, the individual who said, that he had ever found
"Life's warmest welcome at an inn."
It was paying himself and his friends a compliment.