Romance and Reality

Title Pages

BY

L. E. L.

AUTHOR OF "THE IMPROVISATRICE," "THE VENETIAN BRACELET," &c. &c. &c.

Thus have I begun; And 'tis my hope to end successfully. Shakespeare.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:

HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

1831.

LONDON:

J. MOYES, CASTLE STREET, LEICESTER SQUARE.

PREFACE.

Rousseau says, nobody reads prefaces. I suspect there is more truth in the assertion than one is quite willing to admit; for a preface is a species of literary luxury, where an author, like a lover, is privileged to be egotistical; and really it is very pleasant to dwell upon our own thoughts, hopes, fears, and feelings. But all this is laying a very "flattering unction to our souls;" for who really enters into our thoughts, cares for our hopes, allows for our fears, or sympathises with our feelings? The gratitude and the modesty of an author are equally thrown away. Our readers only open our pages for amusement: if they find it, well and good—if not, our most eloquent pleading will not make them read on. The term "courteous reader" is as much a misnomer as any of the grandiloquent titles of the Great Mogul, Emperor of the World—which means a league round Delhi.

Prefaces want reform quite as much as Parliament: so I beg to retrench the gratitude, modesty, &c. usual on such occasions. Piron used to observe, that the introductory speeches made when a member was elected to the French Institute, were quite superfluous, and that the new Academician needed only to say, "Messieurs, grand merci;" while the Directeur should answer, "Il n'y a pas de quoi." I am sure that when the author begins his "grand merci" to the public, that public may very well reply, "Il n'y a pas de quoi."

NOTE.

Misfortunes will happen in the best-regulated families; and, in despite of the world of pains bestowed on the correction of the following pages, one mistake occurs, and for which I cannot have the consolation of blaming any one but myself. It would be a great comfort if I could conscientiously put it as an erratum; but it is, as the young lady once thought her lover, "mine and mine only." Lord Etheringhame is called at first Reginald, and afterwards Algernon. The truth is, I could not decide what to call him, and altered his appellation some dozen times. This mistake, however, occurs no where but in the early scenes of the first volume, and will, I trust, be pardoned. Only a modern author can know the plague of names. I have read the Peerage through twice, and actually became interested in the divisions of the House, to see if there was "a pretty name" in either majority or minority. But for the great care of "the readers" connected with the press through which these pages have passed, both heroine and hero would have undergone that peculiarly English reproach of "being called out of their name" in almost every chapter. I do not go quite so far as the lively American writer, who, in the amusing tale of the "Cacoëthes Scribendi," encourages her whole family to write, by the assurance that "the printers would find them grammar and spelling;" but I do gratefully confess my obligations have been many to mine. The long sentences made short, the obscure made plain, the favourite words that would, like "Monsieur Tonson, come again," the duplicate quotations,—for the amendment of all these, I beg to make at once my acknowledgments and my thanks.

Chapter 1

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 re 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.

Title Pages

BY

L. E. L.

AUTHOR OF "THE IMPROVISATRICE," "THE VENETIAN BRACELET," &c. &c. &c.

Thus have I begun; And 'tis my hope to end successfully. Shakespeare.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

1831.

LONDON:

J. MOYES, CASTLE STREET, LEICESTER SQUARE.

Title Pages

BY

L. E. L.

AUTHOR OF "THE IMPROVISATRICE," "THE VENETIAN BRACELET," &c. &c. &c.

Thus have I begun; And 'tis my hope to end successfully. Shakespeare.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON:

HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

1831.

LONDON:

J. MOYES, CASTLE STREET, LEICESTER SQUARE.

Chapter 2

CHAPTER II.

And haunted to our very age With the vain shadow of the past."—Mazeppa.

Who knocks so late. And knocks so loud at our convent gate?"—Scott.

But one rosebud and half a leaf of the flounce were finished, when it was hastily restored to the work-box, the ringlets involuntarily smoothed back, both uncle and aunt awakened, for a carriage had driven rapidly into the court; a loud ring at the gates, and a loud barking of the dogs, had announced an arrival. In less than two minutes Mr. Delawarr had entered the room, and been installed in a seat near the fire; Mrs. Arundel had vanished; and her husband had called up his best manner, his kindest, to welcome one who, though an old friend, had been mostly recalled to his memory by the newspaper. The visitor was as gracefully as briefly rather accounting than apologising for his sudden intrusion, by saying that an acci to his carriage had made him late, and turned him from the direct road; and that, though a sportsman no longer, he could not be so near without coming to see if his old instructor in the game laws had quite forgotten the feats of other days. Now this was both vrai and vraisemblable enough; for, to do Mr. Delawarr justice, if there had been mention made of the declining health of the member for Avonsford, and of his friend's influence in that town, at whose entrance stood the ancient family house, it only gave inclination a motive, or rather an excuse for indulgence.

Very different was the impression produced on all the party. Mr. Arundel could not conceal his surprise, or rather emotion, to see in the pale, mind-worn brow—the elegant but indolent movements of the man of forty, so little trace remaining of the bright-eyed and bright-haired, the lively and impetuous favourite of nineteen; still less in the worldly, half-studied, half-sarcastic tone of his conversation, did any thing recall the romance, the early enthusiasm, which once rendered the interest he inspired one of anxiety. But Mr. Arundel forgot that the most sparkling wines soonest lose that sparkle. The impetuosity of youth becomes energy in manhood, and Mr Delawarr's stormy political career was one to call forth every talent; circumstances form the character, but, like petrifying waters, they harden while they form.

To Mrs. Arundel he was the same as any other guest—one who was to eat, drink, and sleep in her house; all her hopes, fears, "an undistinguishable throng," rested with her cook and housemaid.

Emily had at first shrunk back, in that intuitive awe which all little people at least must have experienced—the feeling which fixes the eye and chains the lip, on finding ourselves for the first time in the presence of some great man, hitherto to us an historical portrait, one whose thoughts are of the destinies of nations, whose part seems in the annals of England, and not in its society. If such there be, who can come in contact with a being like this without drawing the breath more quickly and quietly, they have only less excitability than we have; and for them tant pis or tant mieux according to that golden rule of judgment, as it turns out. This, however, wore off; the attention of a superior is too flattering to our vanity not to call it forth, and Emily soon found herself talking, smiling, and singing her very best: not that Mr. Delawarr was, generally speaking, at all like the knights of old, voués aux dames. Married metaphorically to his place in the ministry, and actually to the daughter of Lord Etheringhame; too worldly to be interested, too busy to be amused; young ladies were very much to him what inhabitants in a borough without votes are—non-entities in creation. But sentiment, like salt, is so universal an ingredient in our composition, that even Mr. Delawarr, years and years ago, had looked at a rainbow to dream of a cheek, had gathered violets with the dew on them, and thought them less bright than the eyes to which they were offerings, had rhymed to one beloved name, and had felt one fair cousin to be the fairest of created things. That cousin was Emily's mother, and her great likeness to her called up a host of early fancies and feelings, over which he scarcely knew whether to sigh or smile. He might smile to think how the lover had wasted his time, and yet sigh to think how pleasantly it had been wasted. But Mr. Delawarr knew well

'Tis folly to dream of a bower of green, When there is not a leaf on the tree;"

and, turning from the past to the present, a little judicious appreciation of his host's claret and conversation obtained, before they parted for the night, more than a hint that Mr. Arundel's influence in the borough was at the disposal of the man who so well understood his country's true interests. Still Emily was not forgotten; and the next morning she looked so like her mother while pouring the cream into his coffee, that the invitation he gave her to visit Lady Alicia in London was as sincere as it was cordially expressed. And when they gathered, with old-fashioned courtesy, on the stone steps of the ancient hall, to give their parting greeting, as the carriage drove off with true English haste, never did man leave his character more safely behind him. Mr. Arundel went to read a pamphlet on the corn laws with double-distilled admiration, after his own conviction had been strengthened by that of one of his majesty's ministers; Emily went to her favourite lime-walk, to wonder what Lady Alicia was like, to dream of the delights of a "London season," to admire Mr. Delawarr's manner,—in short, he need only not have been a politician (the very name was a stumbling-block to a young lady's romance), and he would have been erect into a hero fit for a modern novel, a destiny not exactly what he anticipated. Mrs. Arundel was as thoroughly satisfied as either, perhaps more so, for she was satisfied with herself—a supper, sleeping, and breakfast, got through without a blunder; so to her housekeeper she went "in her glory."

Chapter 3

CHAPTER III.

"Two springs I saw."—Moore.

"Good night—how can such night be good?"—Shelley.

"Night, oh, not night: where are its comrades twain—silence and sleep?"—L. E. L.

Snow-dropped, crocused, and violeted Spring, in the country, was beginning to consider about making her will, and leaving her legacies of full-blown flowers and green fruit to Summer, when a letter from town arrived, franked by Montague Delawarr, M.P., saying, that as the spring was now commencing in town, perhaps Miss Arundel would remember a hope she once gave, and comply with the request contained in the note which the said Mr. Delawarr had the honour of enclosing.

The note expressed the usual number of fears, honours, and pleasures, which usually accompany invitations; was written in a hand of even more than usually elegant unintelligible expansiveness; was on pale sea-green paper, sealed with lilac wax; and came from Lady Alicia. Now this was a most disinterested act; for the member had recovered, and taken that step of all others which insures existence, purchased a life annuity; and it is a well-known fact in physiology, that annuitants and old women never die. But Mr. Delawarr had taken an interest in his young relative; he knew his house was one of the most elegant, his wife one of the best-dressed women in London, and that she never spent an evening at home,—could he do more for Emily than open such a vista of fêtes and fashions to her futurity?

If any of the party at Arundel House hesitated about the invitation's affirmative, it was herself. Her aunt had a great notion of giving young people as much pleasure as possible, for they would have no time for it after they were married; and her uncle, kind and affectionate, only thought of his favourite's enjoyment, perhaps her advantage. Like many men of quiet manners, and still quieter habits, his imagination was active in the extreme, and had been but little put out of its way by either worldly exertions or disappointments. Thus, before his first egg was finished, Emily had refused three baronets, looked coldly on a viscount, had two earls at her feet; and, if the object of this reverie had not destroyed her own good fortune by speaking, she was in a fair way of becoming a duchess.

But, though to Emily London was as much an El Dorado as novels and novelty could make it; yet if her first exclamation was delight, her second was, "But, my dear uncle, you will miss me so;" and a long array of solitary walks and lonely rides rose almost reproachfully to her mind. This, however, the uncle would not admit; and youth, if not selfish, is at least thoughtless; so a few minutes saw Emily bounding up stairs, with spirits even lighter than her steps, to answer the important billet, which she had already conned over till she could have repeated it from the "Dear Miss Arundel" at the beginning to the "Alicia C. F. G. Delawarr" of the signature. Many a sheet of paper was thrown aside in various stages, from two to ten lines—twice was the ink changed, and twenty times the pen, before a note worthy of either writer or reader could be effected: but time and the post wait for no man, and necessity was in this case, as in most others, the mother of invention.

The next week passed, as such weeks always do, in doing nothing, because so much is to be done—in packing and unpacking, till the Labyrinth of Crete was nothing to that of trunks; in farewell calls, in lingering walks, in careful commendations to the gardener of divers pet roses, carnations, &c.; and more than three parts of the time at her uncle's side, who every now and then began giving good advice, which always ended in affectionate wishes.

The morning of her departure arrived—cold, rainy, miserable, but very much in unison with Emily's feelings. A great change in life is like a cold bath in winter—we all hesitate at the first plunge. Affection is more matter of habit than sentiment, more so than we like to admit; and she was leaving both habits and affections behind. There were the servants gathered in the hall, with proper farewell faces; her aunt, hitherto busy in seeing the carriage duly crammed with sandwiches and sweetmeats, having nothing more to do, began to weep. A white handkerchief is a signal of distress always answered: and when Mr. Arundel took his place beside his niece, he had nothing but the vague and usual consolation of "Love, pray don't cry so," to offer for the first stage.

But the day and Emily's face cleared up at last; her uncle was still with her, the post-boys drove with exhilarating rapidity, and night found them seated by a cheerful fire, with a good supper and better appetite. The morning came again, and Mr. Arundel was now to leave his niece.

and our heroine was setting off in pursuit of it, as miserable as any young lady need be. The last sight of the panels of the old yellow coach was the signal for another burst of tears, which extended to three stages to-day, and perhaps would have reached to a fourth, had she not been roused to anger by her maid's laughter, whose gravity, though most exemplary in the outset, now gave way to the mirth excited by the rapidity with which a ponderous-looking person, outside a stage-coach, had lost hat, umbrella, and bundle, while the vehicle rolled rapidly over them. There is something very amusing in the misfortunes of others. However,—to borrow an established phrase from those worthy little volumes, entitled the Clergyman's, Officer's and Merchant's Widows, when the disconsolate relict is recalled from weeping over the dear departed, by the paramount necessity of getting one of her fourteen children into the Blue-coat School,—"the exertion did her good;" and she was soon sufficiently amused to regret when the darkness shut out all view save the post-boy.

Adventures never happen now-a-days; there are neither knights nor highwaymen; no lonely heaths, with gibbets for finger-posts; no hope of even a dangerous rut, or a steep hill; romance and roads are alike macadamised; no young ladies are either run away with, or run over;—and Emily arrived in inglorious safety among the argand lamps and rosewood tables in Mr. Delawarr's drawing-room—was properly welcomed—introduced—took a hasty dinner, for her host was hurrying to the House, and her hostess to the Opera—was supposed to be very much fatigued—installed into a very pretty little boudoir—and found herself in a seat by the fire, tired enough for an arm-chair, but much too excited for her pillow; and she leaned back in that most soothing state of indolence, fireside's fantasies—while her uncle's wig, Lady Alicia's black velvet hat, Mr. Delawarr's kindness, &c. &c. floated down the "river of her thoughts." But the three hours before, of, and after midnight in a fashionable square, are not very favourable to a reverie, when the ear has only been accustomed to the quiet midnights of the country—where the quiet is rather echoed than broken by the wind wandering among boughs of the oak and beech, and whose every leaf is a note of viewless and mysterious music. But in London, where from door to door "leaps the live thunder;" the distant roll of wheels, the nearer dash of carriages, the human voices mingling, as if Babel were still building—these soon awakened Emily's attention—even the fire had less attraction than the window; and below was a scene, whose only fault is, we are so used to it.

In the middle of the square was the garden, whose sweep of turf was silvered with moonlight; around were the dark shining laurels, and all the pale varieties of colour that flower and shrub wear at such a time, and girdled in by the line of large clear lamps, the spirits of the place. At least every second house was lighted up, and that most visible, the corner one, was illuminated like a palace with the rich stream of radiance that flowed through the crimson blinds; ever and anon a burst of music rose upon the air, and was lost again in a fresh arrival of carriages; then the car themselves, with their small bright lights flitting over the shadowy foot passengers,—the whole square was left to the care of the gas and the watchman, before Emily remembered that she had next day to do justice to her country roses.

Chapter 4

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

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.