CHAPTER XII.
"I am the most unlucky person in the world."
Common Exclamation.
"People always marry their opposites."
General Remark.
"Coaches all full," said a little bustling waiter, who popped about like a needle through a seam. "No horses to be had,—all at the races,—very bad day, sir,—very bad indeed!".
"Confound the wet!" somewhat hastily ejaculated Mr. Lorraine, resuming his station at the window, which looked into a narrow little street, now almost Venetian with a canal in the middle. The rain came down in torrents,—not a creature was passing; he had not even the comfort of seeing a few people drenched through: somebody was dead in the shop opposite, so that was shut up: he turned to the room,—there was not a glass to enliven its dark dingy lilac walls; the chairs were with those black shining sliding seats, in contempt of all comfort; the fire-place was filled with shavings; and a china shepherd and shepherdess, clothed in "a green and yellow melancholy," were the penates of the mantel-piece. How stimulating to be thrown on one's own resources!—unfortunately, they are like
"Spirits from the vasty deep.
But will they come when you do call to them?"
No resource but that of swearing came to Edward's help; and he paced the little room, most unpatriotically consigning the climate of his native land, the races, the horses, the inn, and himself, to the devil. At last he went in search of the landlord, whom he found standing dismally at the door, apparently engaged in counting the rain drops.
"Are you sure no horses are to be procured?—how unlucky!"
"All my luck, sir," said the disconsolate looking master of the Spread Eagle; "it is just like me,—my best horses knocked up at the races,—they might have been as lame as they pleased next week; but I am so unlucky—I hav'n't fifty pounds in the world; but if I had ten in the Bank of England, there would be a national bankruptcy, on purpose that I might lose it; and if I were to turn undertaker, nobody would die, that I mightn't have the burying of them: it's just my luck always."
Edward's sympathy was interrupted by the roll of wheels. A phaeton drove up to the door, and in its owner he recognised his young friend Lord Morton; and a few minutes sufficed to persuade him to take his seat, and accept an invitation to Lauriston Park. It never rains but it pours, and a pouring shower is always a clearing one; so it proved, and a beautiful evening was darkening into still more beautiful night, as they entered Lauriston Park.
Certainly our English parks are noble places; and a most disrespectful feeling do we entertain towards the nobleman who sells his deer and ploughs up his land. Why should he be so much richer or wiser than his grandfathers? Before them swept acres upon acres of green grass —a deep sea of verdure; here some stately oak, whose size vouched for its age—an oak, the most glorious of trees,—glorious in its own summer strength of huge branches and luxuriant foliage,—glorious in all its old associations, in its connexion with that wild, fierce religion, when the Druids made it a temple,—and thrice glorious in its association with the waves and winds it is its future destiny to master, and in the knowledge that the noble race have borne, and will bear, the glory of England round the world. It may sound like the after-dinner patriotism of the Freemasons' Tavern; but surely the heart does beat somewhat high beneath the shadow of an old oak.
Beside these were numerous ashes; the light and the graceful, the weeping cypress of England, through whose slight boughs the sunshine falls like rain, beloved of the bee, and beneath which the violet grows best. I scarcely ever saw an ash whose roots were not covered with these treasurers of the Spring's perfume. Far as the eye could reach stretched away young plantations; and if Art had refined upon Nature, clothed the hill side with young plants, shut out a level flat, or opened a luxuriant vista, she had done it with veiled face, and unsandalled foot.
Lord Morton's news and Lorraine's novelties were interrupted by the dashing forward of a carriage, over whose horses the coachman had evidently lost all control. Fortunately, the road was narrow; and with too little risk to enable them to display much heroism, our gentlemen secured the reins, and aided the ladies to alight. From its depths emerged the black velvet hat and white feathers, and finally the whole of the Countess of Lauriston, followed by her daughter. After a due portion of time employed in exclamations, sympathies, and inquiries, how they came to meet was explained as satisfactorily as the end of an old novel, when every thing is cleared up, and every body killed, after having first repented, or married.
Lord Lauriston was laid up with the gout: prevented from attending the county ball, he still remembered his popularity, and "duly sent his daughter and his wife;" all thought of going was now at an end: however, the purpose was more completely answered,—an overturn in the service of their country was equivalent to half-a-dozen evenings of hard popular work; and, too much alarmed to re-enter the carriage, or even try the phaeton, they agreed to walk home, and this, too, in the best of humours.
Lady Lauriston delighted to see her son, whose absence at this period was to be feared; for electioneering dinings and visitings are tiresome—and the young man objected to trouble; while his non-appearance would have wasted a world of "nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles:" as it was, his mother took his arm with delighted complacency.
Nor was Lady Adelaide less amiable. She was glad, on any terms, to escape from a ball which she called the purgatory of provincials; and besides, the handsome and graceful Lorraine was no bad addition to a family party; while Edward thought to himself, he had never seen any thing so lovely. The cloak, lined with ermine, was drawn in most exquisite drapery round her beautiful figure; the night air had already begun to relax the long ringlets which suited so well with the high white forehead, and a face whose loveliness was of that haughty style to which homage was familiar, and conquest as much a necessity as a desire.
There was something, too, picturesque in the scene: they had now entered the shrubberies, whose luxury of blossom was indeed a contrast to the dark forests where he had lately sojourned,—as much a contrast as the stately beauty at his side was to the pretty laughing peasants of Norway. His imagination was excited; and as yet, with Edward, imagination was more than one half love.
They reached the house; and what with Morton's return, Lorraine's wit, and Adelaide's gratified vanity, the supper passed with a degree of gaiety very rare in a house whose atmosphere might have vied with Leila's snow court in Thalaba for coldness and quiet.
Lord Lauriston was one of those mistakes which sometimes fall out between nature and fortune,—nature meant him for a farmer, fortune made him a peer. In society he was a nonentity; he neither talked nor listened—and it is a positive duty to do one or the other; in his own house he resembled one of the old family pictures, hung up for show, and not for use; but in his farm no Cæsar rebuked his genius. Heavens! what attention he bestowed on the growth of his grey pease! how eloquent he could be on the merits of Swedish turnips! and a new drill, or a patent thrashing machine, deprived him of sleep for a week.
In marriage, as in chemistry, opposites have often an attraction. His lady was as different as your matrimonial affinities usually are; society was her element, and London her "city of the soul." Her house and her parties occupied the first years of her marriage, in endeavours to embellish the one, and refine the other; but of late the business of life had grown serious; she had been employed in marrying off her daughters. Her systems of sentiment might have vied with her lord's systems of husbandry; hitherto they had been eminently successful. Her first daughter had come out during the reign of useful employments; and Lady Susan plaited straw, and constructed silk shoes, till Mr. Amundeville, possessor of some thirty thousand a-year, thought he could not form a more prudent choice, and made her mistress of his saving-bank and himself,—and mistress indeed was she of both. A day of dash and daring came next; and Anastasia rode the most spirited hunter, drove her curricle, told amusing stories, drew caricatures, and laughed even louder than she talked. Lord Shafton married her: he was so delicate, he said, or it was said for him, that he needed protection. Sentiment succeeded; and Laura leant over the harp, and sat by moonlight in a window-seat, sighed when her flowers faded, and talked of Byron and Italy. Sir Eustace St. Clair made her an offer, while her dark blue eyes were filled with tears at some exquisite lines he had written in her album.
Lady Adelaide only remained, and an undeniable beauty; her mother did indeed expect this match to crown all the others. Her style was, however, to be wholly different, like that of a French tragedy, classical, cold, and correct,—in difference, languor, and quietude now united to form a beau idéal of elegance.
Of Lord Morton little can be said; he was rather good-looking, and as good-natured as a very selfish person can be; and not more in the way than those always are who depend entirely upon others for their amusement.
Such was the family where Edward Lorraine promised to stay for a fortnight—a very dangerous period; long enough to fall in love, scarcely long enough to get tired. Lady Lauriston was perfectly satisfied with the proceedings; she was aware of the advantage of the suffrage of one whose authority in taste was held to be despotic; she calculated on his good report preceding Adelaide in town; and she felt too much confidence in her daughter's principles to be at all alarmed about her heart.