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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8bb9f49 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #64557 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/64557) diff --git a/old/64557-0.txt b/old/64557-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 629227e..0000000 --- a/old/64557-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5432 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Lodore, Vol. 3 (of 3), by Mary -Wollstonecraft Shelley - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Lodore, Vol. 3 (of 3) - -Author: Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley - -Release Date: February 14, 2021 [eBook #64557] -[Most recently updated: October 27, 2021] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images generously - made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LODORE, VOL. 3 (OF 3) *** - -LODORE. - - - -BY THE - -AUTHOR OF "FRANKENSTEIN." - -In the turmoil of our lives, -Men are like politic states, or troubled seas, -Tossed up and down with several storms and tempests, -Change and variety of wrecks and fortunes; -Till, labouring to the havens of our homes, -We struggle for the calm that crowns our ends. - -FORD. - - - -IN THREE VOLUMES. - - -VOL. III. - - - -LONDON: - -RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET - -(SUCCESSOR TO HENRY COLBURN.) - -1835. - - - - -CONTENTS -CHAPTER I -CHAPTER II -CHAPTER III -CHAPTER IV -CHAPTER V -CHAPTER VI -CHAPTER VII -CHAPTER VIII -CHAPTER IX -CHAPTER X -CHAPTER XI -CHAPTER XII -CHAPTER XIII -CHAPTER XIV -CHAPTER XV -CHAPTER XVI -CHAPTER XVII -CHAPTER XVIII -CONCLUSION - - - - -LODORE - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -If the dull substance of my flesh were thought, -Injurious distance should not stop my way; -For then, despite of space, I would be brought, -From limits far remote, where thou dost stay. - -SHAKSPEARE. - - -The still hours of darkness passed silently away, and morning dawned, -when - - -All rose to do the task, he set to each -Who shaped us to his ends, and not our own. - - -Ethel had slept peacefully through the livelong night; -nor woke till a knock at her door roused her. A rush of fear--a sense of -ill, made her heart palpitate as she opened her eyes to the light of -day. While she was striving to recall her thoughts, and to remember what -the evil was with which she was threatened, again the servant tapped at -her door, to say that Saunders had returned, and to deliver the letter -he had brought. She looked at her watch: it was past ten o'clock. She -felt glad that it had grown so late, and she not disturbed: yet as she -took the letter brought to her from her husband, all her tremor -returned; and she read it with agitation, as if it contained the -announcement of her final doom. - - -"You send me disagreeable tidings, my sweet Ethel," wrote Villiers,--"I -hope unfounded; but caution is necessary: I shall not, therefore, come -to Duke Street. Send me a few lines, by Saunders, to tell me if any -thing has happened. If what he apprehended has really taken place, you -must bear, my love, the separation of a day. You do not understand these -things, and will wonder when I tell you, that when the clock strikes -twelve on Saturday night, the magic spells and potent charms of -Saunders's friends cease to have power: at that hour I shall be restored -to you. Wait till then--and _then_ we will consult for the future. Have -patience, dearest love: you have wedded poverty, hardship, and -annoyance; but, joined to these, is the fondest, the most faithful heart -in the world;--a heart you deign to prize, so I will not repine at ill -fortune. Adieu, till this evening;--and then, as Belvidera says, -'Remember twelve!' - -"_Saturday Morning._" - - -After reading these lines, Ethel dressed herself hastily. Fanny Derham -had already asked permission to see her; and she found her waiting in -her sitting-room. It was an unspeakable comfort to have one as -intelligent and kind as Fanny, to communicate with, during Edward's -absence. The soft, pleading eyes of Ethel asked her for comfort and -counsel; and, in spite of her extreme youth, the benignant and -intelligent expression of Fanny's countenance promised both. - -"I am sorry to say," she said, "that Saunders's prognostics are too -true. Such men as he describes have been here this morning. They were -tolerably civil, and I convinced them, with greater ease than I had -hoped, that Mr. Villiers was absent from the house; and I assured them, -that after this visit of theirs, he was not likely to return." - -"And do you really believe that they were"--Ethel faltered. - -"Bailiffs? Assuredly," replied Fanny: "they told me that they had the -power to search the house; but if they were 'strong,' they were also -'merciful.' And now, what do you do? Saunders tells me he is waiting to -take back a letter to Mr. Villiers, at the London Coffee House. Write -quickly, while I make your breakfast." - -Ethel gladly obeyed. She wrote a few words to her husband. That it was -already Saturday, cheered her: twelve at night would soon come. - -After her note was dispatched, she addressed Fanny. "What trouble I -give," she said: "what will your mother think of such degrading -proceedings?" - -"My mother," said Fanny, "is the kindest-hearted woman in the world. We -have never exactly suffered this disaster; but we are in a rank of life -which causes us to be brought into contact with such among our friends -and relations; and she is familiar with trouble in almost all shapes. -You are a great favourite of hers; and now that she can claim a sort of -acquaintance, she will be heart and soul your friend." - -"It is odd," observed Ethel, "that she never mentioned you to me. Had -the name of Fanny been mentioned, I should have recollected who Mrs. -Derham was." - -"Perhaps not," said Fanny; "it would have required a great effort of the -imagination to have fancied Mrs. Derham the wife of my father. You never -knew him; but Lord Lodore made you familiar with his qualities: the most -shrinking susceptibility to the world's scorn, joined to the most entire -abstraction from all that is vulgar; a morbid sensibility and delicate -health placed him in glaring contrast with my mother. They never in the -least assimilated; and her character has gained in excellence since his -loss. Before she was fretted and galled by his finer feelings--now she -can be good in her own way. Nothing reminds her of his exalted -sentiments, except myself; and she is willing enough to forget me." - -"And you do not repine?" asked her friend. - -"I do not: she is happy in and with Sarah. I should spoil their notions -of comfort, did I mingle with them;--they would torture and destroy me, -did they interfere with me. I lost my guide, preserver, my guardian -angel, when my father died. Nothing remains but the philosophy which he -taught me--the disdain of low-thoughted care which he sedulously -cultivated: this, joined to my cherished independence, which my -disposition renders necessary to me." - -"And thus you foster sorrow, and waste your life in vain regrets?" - -"Pardon me! I do not waste my life," replied Fanny, with her sunny -smile;--"nor am I unhappy--far otherwise. An ardent thirst for -knowledge, is as the air I breathe; and the acquisition of it, is pure -and unalloyed happiness. I aspire to be useful to my fellow-creatures: -but that is a consideration for the future, when fortune shall smile on -me; now I have but one passion; it swallows up every other; it dwells -with my darling books, and is fed by the treasures of beauty and wisdom -which they contain." - -Ethel could not understand. Fanny continued:--"I aspire to be -useful;--sometimes I think I am--once I know I was. I was my father's -almoner. - -"We lived in a district where there was a great deal of distress, and a -great deal of oppression. We had no money to give, but I soon found that -determination and earnestness will do much. It was my father's lesson, -that I should never fear any thing but myself. He taught me to -penetrate, to anatomize, to purify my motives; but once assured of my -own integrity, to be afraid of nothing. Words have more power than any -one can guess; it is by words that the world's great fight, now in these -civilized times, is carried on; I never hesitated to use them, when I -fought any battle for the miserable and oppressed. People are so afraid -to speak, it would seem as if half our fellow-creatures were born with -deficient organs; like parrots they can repeat a lesson, but their voice -fails them, when that alone is wanting to make the tyrant quail." - -As Fanny spoke, her blue eyes brightened, and a smile irradiated her -face; these were all the tokens of enthusiasm she displayed, yet her -words moved Ethel strangely, and she looked on her with wonder as a -superior being. Her youth gave grace to her sentiments, and were an -assurance of their sincerity. She continued:-- - -"I am becoming flightly, as my mother calls it; but, as I spoke, many -scenes of cottage distress passed through my memory, when, holding my -father's hand, I witnessed his endeavours to relieve the poor. That is -all over now--he is gone, and I have but one consolation--that of -endeavouring to render myself worthy to rejoin him in a better world. It -is this hope that impels me continually and without any flagging of -spirit, to cultivate my understanding and to refine it. O what has this -life to give, as worldlings describe it, worth one of those glorious -emotions, which raise me from this petty sphere, into the sun-bright -regions of mind, which my father inhabits! I am rewarded even here by -the elevated feelings which the authors, whom I love so passionately, -inspire; while I converse each day with Plato, and Cicero, and -Epictetus, the world, as it is, passes from before me like a vain -shadow." - -These enthusiastic words were spoken with so calm a manner, and in so -equable a voice, that there seemed nothing strange nor exaggerated in -them. It is vanity and affectation that shock, or any manifestation of -feeling not in accordance with the real character. But while we follow -our natural bent, and only speak that which our minds spontaneously -inspire, there is a harmony, which, however novel, is never grating. -Fanny Derham spoke of things, which, to use her own expression, were to -her as the air she breathed, and the simplicity of her manner entirely -obviated the wonder which the energy of her expressions might occasion. - -Such a woman as Fanny was more made to be loved by her own sex than by -the opposite one. Superiority of intellect, joined to acquisitions -beyond those usual even to men; and both announced with frankness, -though without pretension, forms a kind of anomaly little in accord with -masculine taste. Fanny could not be the rival of women, and, therefore, -all her merits were appreciated by them. They love to look up to a -superior being, to rest on a firmer support than their own minds can -afford; and they are glad to find such in one of their own sex, and thus -destitute of those dangers which usually attend any services conferred -by men. - -From talk like this, they diverged to subjects nearer to the heart of -Ethel. They spoke of Lord Lodore, and her father's name soothed her -agitation even more than the consolatory arguments of her friend. She -remembered how often he had talked of the trials to which the constancy of -her temper and the truth of her affection might be put, and she felt her -courage rise to encounter those now before her, without discontent, or -rather with that cheerful fortitude, which sheds grace over the rugged -form of adversity. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -_Marian._ Could you so long be absent? -_Robin._ What a week? -Was that so long? -_Marian._ How long are lovers' weeks, -Do you think, Robin, when they are asunder? -Are they not pris'ners' years? - -BEN JONSON. - - -The day passed on more lightly than Ethel could have hoped; much of it -indeed was gone before she opened her eyes to greet it. Night soon -closed in, and she busied herself with arrangements for the welcome of -her husband. Fanny loved solitude too well herself not to believe that -others shared her taste. She retired therefore when evening commenced. -No sooner was Ethel alone, than every image except Edward's passed out -of her mind. Her heart was bursting with affection. Every other idea and -thought, to use a chemical expression, was held in solution by that -powerful feeling, which mingled and united with every particle of her -soul. She could not write nor read; if she attempted, before she had -finished the shortest sentence, she found that her understanding was -wandering, and she re-read it with no better success. It was as if a -spring, a gush from the fountain of love poured itself in, bearing away -every object which she strove to throw upon the stream of thought, till -its own sweet waters alone filled the channel through which it flowed. -She gave herself up to the bewildering influence, and almost forgot to -count the hours till Edward's expected arrival. At last it was ten -o'clock, and then the sting of impatience and uncertainty was felt. It -appeared to her as if a whole age had passed since she had seen or heard -of him--as if countless events and incalculable changes might have taken -place. She read again and again his note, to assure herself that she -might really expect him: the minutes meanwhile stood still, or were told -heavily by the distinct beating of her heart. The east wind bore to her -ear the sound of the quarters of hours, as they chimed from various -churches. At length eleven, half-past eleven was passed, and the hand of -her watch began to climb slowly upwards toward the zenith, which she -desired so ardently that it should reach. She gazed on the dial-plate, -till she fancied that the pointers did not move; she placed her hands -before her eyes resolutely, and would not look for a long long time; -three minutes had not been travelled over when again she viewed it; she -tried to count her pulse, as a measurement of time; her trembling -fingers refused to press the fluttering artery. At length another -quarter of an hour elapsed, and then the succeeding one hurried on more -speedily. Clock after clock struck; they mingled their various tones, as -the hour of twelve was tolled throughout London. It seemed as if they -would never end. Silence came at last--a brief silence succeeded by a -firm quick step in the street below, and a knock at the door. "Is he not -too soon?" poor fearful Ethel asked herself. But no; and in a moment -after, he was with her, safe in her glad embrace. - -Perhaps of the two, Villiers showed himself the most enraptured at this -meeting. He gazed on his sweet wife, followed every motion, and hung -upon her voice, with all the delight of an exile, restored to his -long-lost home. "What a transporting change," he said, "to find myself -with you--to see you in the same room with me--to know again that, -lovely and dear as you are, that you are mine--that I am again -myself--not the miserable dog that has been wandering about all day--a -body without a soul! For a few short hours, at least, Ethel will call me -hers." - -"Indeed, indeed, love," she replied, "we will not be separated again." - -"We will not even think about that tonight," said Villiers. "The future -is dark and blank, the present as radiant as your own sweet self can -make it." - -On the following day--and the following day did come, in spite of -Ethel's wishes, which would have held back the progress of time: it came -and passed away; hour after hour stealing along, till it dwindled to a -mere point. On the following day, they consulted earnestly on what was -to be done. Villiers was greatly averse to Ethel's leaving her present -abode, where every one was so very kind and attentive to her, and he was -sanguine in his hopes of obtaining in the course of the week, just -commenced, a sum, sufficient to carry them to Paris or Brussels, were -they could remain till his affairs were finally arranged, and the -payment of his debts regulated in a way to satisfy his creditors. One -week of absence; Villiers used all his persuasion to induce Ethel to -submit to it. "Where you can be, I can be also," was her answer; and she -listened unconvinced to the detail of the inconveniences which Villiers -pointed out: at last he almost got angry. "I could call you unkind, -Ethel," he said, "not to yield to me." - -"I will yield to you," said Ethel, "but you are wrong to ask me." - -"Never mind that," replied her husband, "do concede this point, dearest; -if not because it is best that you should, then because I wish it, and -ask it of you. You say that your first desire is to make me happy, and -you pain me exceedingly by your--I had almost said perverseness." - -Thus, not convinced, but obedient, Ethel agreed to allow him to depart -alone. She bargained that she should be permitted to come each day in a -hackney coach to a place where he might meet her, and they could spend -an hour or two together. Edward did not like this plan at all, but there -was no remedy. "You are at least resolved," he said, "to spur my -endeavours; I will not rest day or night, till I am enabled to get away -from this vast dungeon." - -The hours stole on. Even Edward's buoyant spirits could not bear up -against the sadness of watching the fleeting moments till the one should -come, which must separate him from his wife. "This nice, dear room," he -said, "I am sure I beg its pardon for having despised it so much -formerly--it is not as lofty as a church, nor as grand as a palace, but -it is very snug; and now you are in it, I discern even elegance in its -exceedingly queer tables and chairs. When our carriage broke down on the -Apennines, how glad we should have been if a room like this had risen, -'like an exhalation' for our shelter! Do you remember the barn of a -place we got into there, and our droll bed of the leaves of Indian corn, -which crackled all night long, and awoke us twenty times with the fear -of robbers? Then, indeed, twelve o'clock was not to separate us!" - -As he said this he sighed; the hour of eleven was indicated by Ethel's -watch, and still he lingered; but she grew frightened for him, and -forced him to go away, while he besought the delay of but a few minutes. - -Ethel exerted herself to endure as well as she could the separation of -the ensuing week. She was not of a repining disposition, yet she found -it very hard to bear. The discomfort to which Villiers was exposed -annoyed her, and the idea that she was not permitted to alleviate it -added to her painful feelings. In her prospect of life every evil was -neutralized when shared--now they were doubled, because the pain of -absence from each other was superadded. She did not yield to her -husband, in her opinion that this was wrong. She was willing to go -anywhere with him, and where he was, she also could be. There could be -no degradation in a wife waiting on the fallen fortunes of her husband. -No debasement can arise from any services dictated by love. It is -despicable to submit to hardship for unworthy and worldly objects, but -every thing that is suffered for the sake of affection, is hallowed by -the disinterested sentiment, and affords triumph and delight to the -willing victim. Sometimes she tried in speech or on paper to express -these feelings, and so by the force of irresistible reasoning to -persuade Edward to permit her to join him; but all argument was weak; -there was something beyond, that no words could express, which was -stronger than any reason in her heart. Who can express the power of -faithful and single-hearted love? As well attempt to define the laws of -life, which occasions a continuity of feeling from the brain to the -extremity of the frame, as try to explain how love can so unite two -souls, as to make each feel maimed and half alive, while divided. A -powerful impulse was perpetually urging Ethel to go--to place herself -near Villiers--to refuse to depart. It was with the most violent -struggles that she overcame the instigation. - -She never could forget herself while away from him, or find the -slightest alleviation to her disquietude, except while conversing with -Fanny Derham, or rather while drawing her out, and listening to her, and -wondering at a mechanism of mind so different from her own. Each had -been the favourite daughter of men of superior qualities of mind. They -had been educated by their several fathers with the most sedulous care, -and nothing could be more opposite than the result, except that, indeed, -both made duty the master motive of their actions. Ethel had received, -so to speak, a sexual education. Lord Lodore had formed his ideal of what a -woman ought to be, of what he had wished to find his wife, and sought to -mould his daughter accordingly. Mr. Derham contemplated the duties and -objects befitting an immortal soul, and had educated his child for the -performance of them. The one fashioned his offspring to be the wife of a -frail human being, and instructed her to be yielding, and to make it her -duty to devote herself to his happiness, and to obey his will. The other -sought to guard his from all weakness, to make her complete in herself, -and to render her independent and self-sufficing. Born to poverty as -Fanny was, it was thus only that she could find happiness in rising -above her sphere; and, besides, a sense of pride, surviving his sense of -injury, caused him to wish that his child should set her heart on higher -things, than the distinctions and advantages of riches or rank; so that -if ever brought into collision with his own family, she could look down -with calm superiority on the "low ambition" of the wealthy. While Ethel -made it her happiness and duty to give herself away with unreserved -prodigality to him, whom she thought had every claim to her entire -devotion; Fanny zealously guarded her individuality, and would have -scorned herself could she have been brought to place the treasures of -her soul at the disposal of any power, except those moral laws which it -was her earnest endeavour never to transgress. Religion, reason, and -justice--these were the landmarks of her life. She was kind-hearted, -generous, and true--so also was Ethel; but the one was guided by the -tenderness of her heart, while the other consulted her understanding, -and would have died rather than have acted contrary to its dictates. - -To guard Ethel from every contamination, Lord Lodore had secluded her from -all society, and forestalled every circumstance that might bring her into -conjunction with her fellow-creatures. He was equally careful to prevent -her fostering any pride, except that of sex; and never spoke to her as -if she were of an elevated rank: and the communication, however small, -which she necessarily had with the Americans, made such ideas foreign to -her mind. But she was excedingly shy; tremblingly alive to the slightest -repulse; and never perfectly fearless, (morally so, that is), except -when under the shelter of another's care. Fanny's first principle was, -that what she ought to do, that she could do, without hesitation or -regard for obstacles. She had something Quixotic in her nature; or -rather she would have had, if a clear head and some experience, even -young as she was, had not stood in the way of her making any glaring -mistakes; so that her enterprises were never ridiculous; and being -usually successful, could not be called extravagant. For herself, she -needed but her liberty and her books;--for others, she had her time, her -thoughts, her decided and resolute modes of action, all at their -command, whenever she was convinced that they had a just claim upon -them. - -It was singular that the resolute and unshrinking Fanny should be the -daughter of Francis Derham; and the timid, retiring Ethel, of his bold -and daring protector. But this is no uncommon case. We feel the evil -results of our own faults, and endeavour to guard our children from -them; forgetful that the opposite extreme has also its peculiar dangers. -Lord Lodore attributed his early misfortunes to the too great freedom he -had enjoyed, or rather to the unlimited scope given to his will, from his -birth. Mr. Derham saw the unhappiness that had sprung from his own -yielding and undecided disposition. The one brought up his child to -dependence; the other taught his to disdain every support, except the -applause of her own conscience. Lodore fostered all the sensibility, all -the softness, of Ethel's feminine and delicat nature; while Fanny's -father strove to harden and confirm a character, in itself singularly -stedfast and upright. - -In spite of the great contrast thus exhibited between Ethel and Fanny, -one quality created a good deal of similarity between them. There was in -both a total absence of every factitious sentiment. They acted from -their own hearts--from their own sense of right, without the -intervention of worldly considerations. A feeling of duty ruled all -their actions; and, however excellent a person's dispositions may be, it -yet requires considerable elevation of character never to deviate from -the strict line of honour and integrity. - -Fanny's society a little relieved Ethel's solitude: yet that did not -weigh on her; and had she not been the child of her father's earliest -friend, and the companion of past days, she would have been disinclined, -at this period, to cultivate an intimacy with her. She needed no -companion except the thought of Edward, which was never absent from her -mind. But amidst all her affection for her husband, which gained -strength, and, as it were, covered each day a larger portion of her -being, any one associated with the name of Lodore--of her beloved father, -had a magic power to call forth her warmest feelings of interest. Both -ladies repeated to each other what they had heard from their several -parents. Mr. Derham had, among his many lessons of usefulness, descanted -on the generosity and boldness of Fitzhenry, as offering an example to -be followed. And during the last months of Lodore's life, he had -recurred, with passionate fondness, to the memory of his early years, -and painted in glowing colours the delicacy of feeling, the deep sense -of gratitude, and the latent but fervid enthusiasm, which adorned the -character of Francis Derham. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -It does much trouble me to live without you: -Our loves and loving souls have been so used -To one household in us. - -BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. - - -The week passed on. It was the month of January, and very cold. A black -frost bound up every thing with ice, and the piercing air congealed the -very blood. Each day Ethel went to see her husband;--each day she had to -encounter Mrs. Derham's intreaties not to go, and the reproaches of -Villiers for coming. Both were unavailing to prevent the daily -pilgrimage. Mrs. Derham sighed heavily when she saw her enter the -ricketty hackney-coach, whose damp lining, gaping windows, and miserable -straw, made it a _cold-bed_ for catarrh--a very temple for the spirit of -winter. Villiers each day besought her to have horses put to their -chariot, if she must come; but Ethel remembered all he had ever said of -expense, and his prognostications of how ill she would be able to endure -the petty, yet galling annoyances of poverty; and she resolved to prove, -that she could cheerfully bear every thing except separation from him. -With this laudable motive to incite her, she tasked her strength too -far. She kept up her spirits to meet him with a cheerful countenance; -and she contrived to conceal the sufferings she endured while they were -together. They got out and walked now and then; and this tended to keep -up the vital warmth. Their course was generally taken over Blackfriars -Bridge; and it was on their return across the river, on whose surface -large masses of ice floated, while a bitter north-east wind swept up, -bearing on its blasts the unthawed breath of the German Ocean, that she -felt the cold enter her heart, and make her head feel dizzy. Still she -could smile, and ask Villiers why he objected to her taking an exercise -even necessary for her health; and repeat again and again, that, bred in -America, an English winter was but a faint reflex of what she had -encountered there, and insist upon being permitted to come on the -following day. These were precious moments in her eyes, worth all the -pain they occasioned,--well worth the struggle she made for the -repetition. Edward's endearing attentions--the knowledge she had that -she was loved--the swelling and earnest affection that warmed her own -heart,--hallowed these hard-earned minutes, and gave her the sweet -pleasure of knowing that she demonstrated, in some slight degree, the -profound and all engrossing attachment which pervaded her entire being. -They parted; and often she arrived nearly senseless at Duke Street, and -once or twice fainted on entering the warm room: but it was not pain she -felt then--the emotions of the soul conquered the sensation of her body, -and pleasure, the intense pleasure of affection, was predominant through -all. - -Sunday came again, and brought Villiers to her home. Mrs. Derham took -the opportunity to represent to him the injury that Ethel was doing -herself; and begged him, as he cared for her health, to forbid her -exposing herself to the inclement weather. - -"You hear this, Ethel," said Villiers; "and yet you are obstinate. It -this right? What can I urge, what can I do, to prevent this wrong-headed -pertinacity?" - -"You use such very hard words," replied Ethel, smiling, "that you -frighten me into believing myself criminal. But so far am I from -conceding, that you only give me courage to say, that I cannot any -longer endure the sad and separate life we lead. It must be changed, -dearest; we must be together." - -Villiers was pacing the room impatiently: with an exclamation almost -approaching to anger, he stopped before his wife, to remonstrate and to -reproach. But as he gazed upon her upturned face, fixed so beseechingly -and fondly on him, he fancied that he saw the hues of ill-health -stealing across her cheeks, and thinness displacing the roundness of her -form. A strange emotion flashed across him; a new fear, too terrible -even to be acknowledged to himself, which passed, like the shadow of a -storm, across his anticipations, and filled him with inquietude. His -reprehension was changed to a caress, as he said, "You are right, my -love, quite right; we must not live thus. You are unable to take care of -yourself; and I am very wrong to give up my dearest privilege, of -watching day and night over the welfare of my only treasure. We will be -together, Ethel; if the worst come, it cannot be very bad, while we are -true to each other." - -Tears filled the poor girl's eyes--tears of joy and tenderness--at -hearing Edward echo the sentiments she cherished as the most sacred in -the world. For a few minutes, they forgot every thing in the -affectionate kiss, which ratified, as it were, this new law; and then -Edward considered how best he could carry it into effect. - -"Gayland," he said, (he was his solicitor,) "has appointed to see me on -Thursday morning, and has good hopes of definitively arranging the -conditions for the loan of the five hundred pounds, which is to enable -us to wait for better things. On Thursday evening, we will leave town. -We will go to some pretty country inn, to wait till I have signed these -papers; and trust to Providence that no ill will arise. We must not be -more than fifteen or twenty miles from London; so that when I am obliged -to go up, I can return again in a few hours. Tell me, sweet, does this -scheme please you?" - -Ethel expressed her warmest gratitude; and then Villiers insinuated his -condition, that she should not come to see him in the interval, but -remain, taking care of herself, till, on Thursday afternoon, at six -o'clock, she came, with their chariot, to the northern side of St. -Paul's Churchyard, where he would immediately join her. They might -write, meanwhile: he promised letters as long as if they were to go to -India; and soothed her annoyance with every expression of thankfulness -at her giving up this point. She did give it up, with all the readiness -she could muster; and this increased, as he dwelt upon the enjoyment -they would share, in exchanging foggy, smoky London, for the -ever-pleasing aspect of nature, which, even during frost and snow, -possesses her own charms--her own wonders; and can gratify our senses by -a thousand forms of beauty, which have no existence in a dingy -metropolis. - -When the evening hour came for the young pair to separate, their hearts -were cheered by the near prospect of re-union; and a belief that the, to -them, trivial privations of poverty were the only ones they would have -to endure. The thrill of fear which had crossed the mind of Villiers, as -to the health and preservation of his wife, had served to dissipate the -lingering sense of shame and degradation inspired by the penury of their -situation. He felt that there was something better than wealth, and the -attendance of his fellow-creatures; something worse than poverty, and -the world's scorn. Within the fragile form of Ethel, there beat a heart -of more worth than a king's ransom; and its pulsations were ruled by -him. To lose her! What would all that earth can afford, of power or -splendour, appear without her? He pressed her to his bosom, and knew -that his arms encircled all life's worth for him. Never again could he -forget the deep-felt appreciation of her value, which then took root in -his mind; while she, become conscious, by force of sympathy, of the kind -of revolution that was made in his sentiments, felt that the foundations -of her life grew strong, and that her hopes in this world became -stedfast and enduring. Before, a wall of separation, however slight, had -divided them; they had followed a system of conduct independent of each -other, and passed their censure upon the ideas of either. This was over -now--they were one--one sense of right--one feeling of happiness; and -when they parted that night, each felt that they truly possessed the -other; and that by mingling every hope and wish, they had confirmed the -marriage of their hearts. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -. . . . . . Think but whither -Now you can go; what you can do to live; -How near you have barred all ports to your own -succour. -Except this one that here I open, love. - -BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. - - -The most pleasing thoughts shed their balmy influence on Ethel's repose -that night. Edward's scheme of a country inn, where the very freedom -would make them more entirely dependent upon each other, was absolutely -enchanting. Where we establish ourselves, and look forward to the -passage of a long interval of time, we form ties with, and assume duties -towards, many of our fellow-creatures, each of which must diminish the -singleness of the soul's devotion towards the selected one. No doubt -this is the fitting position for human beings to place themselves in, as -affording a greater scope for utility: but for a brief space, to have no -occupation but that of contributing to the happiness of him to whom her -life was consecrated, appeared to Ethel a very heaven upon earth. It was -not that she was narrow-hearted: so much affection demands a spacious -mansion for its abode; but in their present position of struggle and -difficulty, there was no possibility of extending her sphere of -benevolence, and she gladly concentrated her endeavours in the one -object whose happiness was in her hands. - -All night, even in sleep, a peculiar sense of calm enjoyment soothed the -mind of Ethel, and she awoke in the morning with buoyant spirits, and a -soul all alive to its own pleasurable existence. She sat at her little -solitary breakfast table, musing with still renewed delight upon the -prospect opened before her, when suddenly she was startled by the vision -of an empty purse. What could Villiers intend? She felt assured that his -stock was very nearly exhausted, and for herself two sovereigns, which -were not sufficient to meet the demands of the last week, was all that -she possessed. She tried to recollect if Edward had said any thing that -denoted any expectation of receiving money; on the contrary--diving into -the recesses of her memory, she called to mind that he had said, "We -shall receive your poor little dividend of a hundred pounds, in less -than a fortnight, so we shall be able to live, even if Gayland should -delay getting the other money--I suppose we have enough to get on till -then." - -He had said this inquiringly, and she knew that she had made a sign of -assent, though at the time, she had no thought of the real purport of -his question or of her answer. What was to be done? The obvious -consequence of her reflections was at once to destroy the cherished -scheme of going out of town with Villiers. This was a misfortune too -great to bear, and she at last decided upon having again recourse to her -aunt. Unused to every money transaction, she had not that terror of -obligation, nor dislike of asking, which is so necessary to preserve our -independence, and even our sense of justice, through life. Money had -always been placed like counters in her hand; she had never known whence -it came, and until her marriage, she had never disposed of more than -very small sums. Subsequently Villiers had been the director of their -expenses. This was the faulty part of her father's system of education. -But Lodore's domestic habits were for a great part founded on experience in -foreign countries, and he forgot that an English wife is usually the -cashier--the sole controller of the disbursements of her family. It -seemed as easy a thing for Ethel to ask for money from Mrs. Fitzhenry, -as she knew it would be easy for her to give. In compliance, however, -with Villiers's notions, she limited her request to ten pounds, and tried -to word her letter so as to create no suspicion in her aunt's mind with -regard to their resources. This task achieved, she dismissed every -annoying thought, and when Fanny came to express her hope, that, bleak -and snowy as was the day, she did not intend to make her accustomed -pilgrimage, with a countenance beaming with delight, she dilated on -their plan, and spoke as if on the much-desired Thursday, the gates of -Elysium were to be thrown open for her. - -There would have appeared something childish in her gladness to the -abstracted and philosophic mind of Fanny, but that the real evils of her -situation, and the fortitude, touching in its unconscious simplicity, -with which she encountered them, commanded respect. Ethel, as well as -her friend, was elevated above the common place of life; she also -fostered a state of mind, "lofty and magnificent, fitted rather to -command than to obey, not only suffering patiently, but even making -light of all human cares; a grand and dignified self-possession, which -fears nothing, yields to no one, and remains for ever unvanquished." -When Fanny, in one of their conversations, while describing the uses of -philosophy, had translated this eulogium of its effects from Cicero, -Ethel had exclaimed, "This is love--it is love alone that divides us -from sordid earthborn thoughts, and causes us to walk alone, girt by its -own beauty and power." - -Fanny smiled; yet while she saw slavery rather than a proud independence -in the creed of Ethel, she admired the warmth of heart which could endow -with so much brilliancy a state of privation and solitude. At the -present moment, when Mrs. Villiers was rapturously announcing their -scheme for leaving London, an expression of pain mantled over Fanny's -features; her clear blue eyes became suffused, a large tear gathered on -her lashes. "What is the matter?" asked Ethel anxiously. - -"That I am a fool--but pardon me, for the folly is already passed away. -For the first time you have made it hard for me to keep my soul firm in -its own single existence. I have been debarred from all intercourse with -those whose ideas rise above the soil on which they tread, except in my -dear books, and I thought I should never be attached to any thing but -them. Yet do not think me selfish, Mr. Villiers is quite right--it is -much better that you should not be apart--I am delighted with his plan." - -"Away or near, dear Fanny," said Ethel, in a caressing tone, "I never -can forget your kindness--never cease to feel the warmest friendship for -you. Remember, our fathers were friends, and their children ought to -inherit the same faithful attachment." - -Fanny smiled faintly. "You must not seduce me from my resolves," she -said. "I know my fate in this world, and I am determined to be true to -myself to the end. Yet I am not ungrateful to you, even while I declare, -that I shall do my best to forget this brief interval, during which, I -have no longer, like Demogorgon, lived alone in my own world, but become -aware that there are ties of sympathy between me and my -fellow-creatures, in whose existence I did not believe before." - -Fanny's language, drawn from her books, not because she tried to -imitate, but because conversing perpetually with them, it was natural -that she should adopt their style, was always energetic and imaginative; -but her quiet manner destroyed every idea of exaggeration of sentiment: -it was necessary to hear her soft and low, but very distinct voice utter -her lofty sentiments, to be conscious that the calm of deep waters was -the element in which she dwelt--not the fretful breakers that spend -themselves in sound. - -The day seemed rather long to Ethel, who counted the hours until -Thursday. Gladly she laid her head on the pillow at night, and bade -adieu to the foregone hours. The first thing that awoke her in the -morning, was the postman's knock; it brought, as she had been promised, -a long, long letter from Edward. He had never before written with so -much affection or with such an overflowing of tenderness, that made her -the centre of his world--the calm fair lake to receive into its bosom -the streams of thought and feeling which flowed from him, and yet which, -after all, had their primal source in her. "I am a very happy girl," -thought Ethel, as she kissed the beloved papers, and gazed on them in -ecstasy; "more happy than I thought it was ever given us to be in this -world." - -She rose and began to dress; she delayed reading more than a line or -two, that she might enjoy her dearest pleasure for a longer time--then -again, unable to controul her impatience, she sat half dressed, and -finished all--and was begining anew, when there was a tap at her door. -It was Fanny. She looked disturbed and anxious, and Ethel's fears were -in a moment awake. - -"Something annoying has occurred," she said; "yet I do not think that -there is any thing to dread, though there is a danger to prevent." - -"Speak quickly," cried Ethel, "do not keep me in suspense." - -"Be calm--it is nothing sudden, it is only a repetition of the old -story. A boy has just been here--a boy you gave a sovereign to--do you -remember?--the night of your arrival. It seems that he has vowed himself -to your service ever since. Those two odious men, who were here once, -are often at his master's place-an alehouse, you know. Well, yesterday -night, he overheard them saying, that Mr. Villiers's resort at the London -coffee-house, was discovered, or at least suspected, and that a writ was -to be taken out against him in the city." - -"What does that mean?" cried Ethel. - -"That Mr. Villiers will probably be arrested to-day, or to-morrow, if he -remains where he is." - -"I will go directly to him," cried Ethel; "we must leave town at once. -God grant that I am not too late!" - -Seeing her extreme agitation, Fanny remained with her--forced her to -take some breakfast, and then, fearing that if any thing had really -taken place, she would be quite bewildered, asked her permission to -accompany her. "Will you indeed come with me?" Ethel exclaimed, "How -dear, how good you are! O yes, do come--I can never go through it all -alone; I shall die, if I do not find him." - -A hackney coach had been called, and they hastened with what speed they -might, to their destination. A kind of panic seized upon Ethel, a tremor -shook her limbs, so that when they at last stopped, she was unable to -speak. Fanny was about to ask for Mr. Villiers, when an exclamation of -joy from Ethel stopped her; Edward had seen them, and was at the coach -door. The snow lay thick around on the roofs of the houses, and on every -atom of vantage ground it could obtain; it was then snowing, and as the -chilly fleece dropped through or was driven about in the dark -atmosphere, it spread a most disconsolate appearance over every thing; -and nothing could look more dreary than poor Ethel's jumbling vehicle, -with its drooping animals, and the half-frozen driver. Villiers had made -up his mind that he should never be mortified by seeing her again in -this sort of equipage, and he hurried down, the words of reproach -already on his lips, "Is this your promise?" he asked. - -"Yes, dearest, it is. Come in, there is danger here.--Come in--we must -go directly." - -Seeing Fanny, Villiers became aware that there was some absolute cause -for their journey, so he obeyed and quickly heard the danger that -threatened him. "It would have been better," he said, "that you had come -in the carriage, and that we had instantly left town." - -"Impossible!" cried Ethel; "till to-morrow--that is quite impossible. We -have no money until to-morrow." - -"Well, my love, since it is so, we must arrange as well as we can. Do -you return home immediately--this cold will kill you. I will take care -of myself, and you can come for me on Thursday evening, as we proposed." - -"Do not ask it of me, Edward," said Ethel; "I cannot leave you. I could -never live through these two days away from you--you must not desire -it--you will kill me." - -Edward kissed her pale cheek. "You tremble," he said; "how violently you -tremble! Good God! what can we do? What would you have me do?" - -"Any thing, so that we remain together. It is of so little consequence -where we pass the next twenty-four hours, so that we are together. There -are many hotels in town." - -"I must not venture to any of these; and then to take you in this -miserable manner, without servants, or any thing to command attendance. -But you shall have your own way; having deprived you of every other -luxury, at least, you shall have your will; which, you know, compensates -for every thing with your obstinate sex." - -Ethel smiled, rejoicing to find him in so good and accommodating a -humour. "Yes, pretty one," he continued, marking her feelings, "you -shall be as wretched and uncomfortable as your heart can desire. We will -play the incognito in such a style, that if our adventures were printed, -they would compete with those of Don Quixote and the fair Dulcinea. But -Miss Derham must not be admitted into our vagabondizing--we will not -detain her." - -"Yet she must know whither we are going, to bring us the letters that -will confer freedom on us." - -Villiers wrote hastily an address on a card. "You will find us there," -he said. "Do not mention names when you come. We shall remain, I -suppose, till Thursday." - -"But we shall see you some time to-morrow, dear Fanny?" asked Ethel. -Already she looked bright and happy; she esteemed herself fortunate to -have gained so easily a point she had feared she must struggle for--or -perhaps give up altogether. Fanny left them, and the coachman having -received his directions, drove slowly on through the deep snow, which -fell thickly on the road; while they, nestling close to each other, were -so engrossed by the gladness of re-union, that had Cinderella's -godmother transmuted their crazy vehicle for a golden coach, redolent of -the perfumes of fairy land, they had scarcely been aware of the change. -Their own hearts formed a more real fairy land, which accompanied them -whithersoever they went, and could as easily spread its enchantments -over the shattered machine in which they now jumbled along, as amidst -the cloth of gold and marbles of an eastern palace. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -Few people know how little is necessary to live. -What is called or thought _hardship_ is nothing; _one_ -unhappy feeling is worse than a thousand years of it. - -LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD. - - -Uncertain what to do, Villiers had hastily determined that they should -take up their abode at a little inn near Brixton, to wait till Thursday. -He did not know the place except by having passed it, and observed a -smart landlady at the door; so he trusted that it would be neat and -clean. There was nothing imposing in the apperance of the young pair and -their hackney coach, accordingly there was no bustling civility -displayed to receive them. However, when the fire was once lighted, the -old-fashioned sofa drawn near, and dinner ordered, they sat together and -felt very happy; outcasts though they were, wanderers from civilized -existence, shut out, through poverty, from the refinements and gilt -elegancies of life. - -One only cloud there was, when Villiers asked his wife an explanation -about their resources, and inquired whence she expected to receive money -on the following day. Ethel explained. Villiers looked disturbed. There -was something almost of anger in his voice, when he said, "And so, -Ethel, you feel no compunction in acting in exact opposition to my -wishes, my principles, my resolves?" - -"But, dear Edward, what can principles have to do with borrowing a few -pounds from dear good Aunt Bessy? Besides, we can repay her." - -"Be assured that we shall," replied Villiers; "and you will never again, -I trust, behave so unjustly by me. There are certain things in which we -must judge and act for ourselves, and the question of money -transactions is one. I may suffer--and you, alas! may also, through -poverty; though you have taken pains to persuade me, that you do not -feel that struggles, which, for your sake chiefly, embitter my -existence. Yet they are nothing in comparison with the loss of my -independence--the sense of obligation--the knowledge that my kind -friends can talk over my affairs, take me to task, and call me a burthen -to them. Why am I as I am? I have friends and connexions who would -readily assist me at this extremity, if I asked it, and I might turn -their kind feelings into sterling gold if I would; but I have no desire -to work this transmutation--I prefer their friendship." - -"Do you mean," inquired his wife, "that your friends would not love you -the better for having been of service to you?" - -"If they could serve me without annoyance to themselves they might; but -high in rank and wealthy as many of my relations are, there is not one -among them, at least of those to whom I could have recourse, who do not -dispose of their resources to the uttermost shilling, in their own way. -I then come to interfere with and to disarrange their plans; at first, -this might not be much--but presently they would weigh me against the -gold I needed, and it might happen, that my scale would kick the beam. - -"I speak for myself not for others; I may be too proud, too -sensitive--but so I am. Ever since I knew what pecuniary obligations -were, I resolved to lay under such to no man, and this resolve was -stronger than my love for you; judge therefore of its force, and the -violence you do me, when you would oblige me to act against it. Did I -begin to borrow, a train of thoughts would enter the lender's mind; the -consciousness of which, would haunt me like a crime. My actions would be -scanned--I should be blamed for this, rebuked for that--even your name, -my Ethel, which I would place, like a star in the sky, far above their -mathematical measurements, would become stale in their mouths, and the -propriety of our marriage canvassed: could you bear that?" - -"I yield to all you say," she answered; "yet this is strange morality. -Are generosity, benevolence, and gratitude, to be exploded among us? Is -justice, which orders that the rich give of his superfluity to the poor, -to be banished from the world?" - -"You are eloquent," said Villiers; "but, my little wild American, this -is philosophy for the back-woods only. We have got beyond the primeval -simplicity of barter and exchange among gentlemen; and it is such if I -give gratitude in return for fifty pounds: by-and-by my fellow-trader -may grumble at the bargain. All this will become very clear to you -hereafter, I fear--when knowledge of the world teaches you what sordid -knaves we all are; it is to prevent your learning this lesson in a -painful way, that I guard you so jealously from making a wrong step at -this crisis." - -"You speak of dreams," said Ethel, "as if dear aunt Bessy would feel any -thing but pleasure in sending her mite to her own dear niece." - -"I have told you what I wish," replied her husband, "my honour is in -your hands; and I implore you, on this point, to preserve it in the way -I desire. There is but one relationship that authorizes any thing like -community of goods, it is that of parent and child; but we are orphans, -dearest--step-children, who are not permitted to foster our filial -sentiments. My father is unworthy of his name--the animal who destroys -its offspring at its birth is merciful in comparison with him: had he -cast me off at once, I should have hardened my hands with labour, and -earned my daily bread; but I was trained to "high-born necessities," and -have all the "wide wants and narrow powers"[1] of the heir of wealth. But -let us dismiss this ungrateful subject. I never willingly advert, even -in my own mind, to my father's unpaternal conduct. Let us instead fancy, -sweet love, that we were born to what we have--that we are cottagers, -the children of mechanics, or wanderers in a barbarous country, where -money is not; and imagine that this repose, this cheerful fire, this -shelter from the pelting snow without, is an unexpected blessing. Strip -a man bare to what nature made him, and place him here, and what a hoard -of luxury and wealth would not this room contain! In the Illinois, love, -few mansions could compete with this." - -This was speaking in a language which Ethel could easily comprehend; she -had several times wished to express this very idea, but she feared to -hurt the refined and exclusive feelings of her husband. A splendid -dwelling, costly living, and many attendants, were with her the -adjuncts, not the material, of life. If the stage on which she played -her part was to be so decorated, it was well; if otherwise, the change -did not merit her attention. Love scoffed at such idle trappings, and -could build his tent of canvas, and sleep close nestled in her heart as -softly, being only the more lovely and the more true, from the absence -of every meretricious ornament. - -This was another of Ethel's happy evenings, when she felt drawn close to -him she loved, and found elysium in the intimate union of their -thoughts. The dusky room showed them but half to each other; and the -looks of each, beaming with tenderness, drank life from one another's -gaze. The soft shadows thrown on their countenances, gave a lamp-like -lustre to their eyes, in which the purest spirit of affection sat, -weaving such unity of sentiment, such strong bonds of attachment, as -made all life dwindle to a point, and freighted the passing minute with -the hopes and fears of their entire existence. Not much was said, and -their words were childish--words - - -Intellette dar loro soli ambedui, - - -which a listener would have judged to be meaningless. But the mystery of -love gave a deep sense to each syllable. The hours flew lightly away. There -was nothing to interrupt, nothing to disturb. Night came and the day was -at an end; but Ethel looked forward to the next, with faith in its equal -felicity, and did not regret the fleet passage of time. - -They had been asked during the evening if they were going by any early -coach on the following morning, and a simple negative was given. On that -morning they sat at their breakfast, with some diminution of the -sanguine hopes of the previous evening. For morning is the time for -action, of looking forward, of expectation,--and they must spend this in -waiting, cooped up in a little room, overlooking no cheering scene. A -high road, thickly covered with snow, on which various vehicles were -perpetually passing, was immediately before them. Opposite was a row of -mean-looking houses, between which might be distinguished low fields -buried in snow; and the dreary dark-looking sky bending over all, added -to the forlorn aspect of nature. Villiers was very impatient to get -away, yet another day must be passed here, and there was no help. - -On the breakfast-table the waiter had placed the bill of the previous -day; it remained unnoticed, and he left it on the table when the things -were taken away. "I wonder when Fanny will come," said Ethel. - -"Perhaps not at all to-day," observed Villiers, "she knows that we -intend to remain till tomorrow here; and if your aunt's letter is -delayed till then, I see no chance of her coming, nor any use in it." - -"But Aunt Bessy will not delay; her answer is certain of arriving this -morning." - -"So you imagine, love. You know little of the various chances that wait -upon borrowing." - -Soon after, unable to bear confinement to the house, uneasy in his -thoughts, and desirous a little to dissipate them by exercise, Villiers -went out. Ethel, taking a small Shakspeare, which her husband had had -with him at the coffee-house, occupied herself by reading, or turning -from the written page to her own thoughts, gave herself up to reverie, -dwelling on many an evanescent idea, and reverting delightedly to many -scenes, which her memory recalled. She was one of those who "know the -pleasures of solitude, when we hold commune alone with the tranquil -solemnity of nature." The thought of her father, of the Illinois, and -the measureless forest rose before her, and in her ear was the dashing -of the stream which flowed near their abode. Her light feet again -crossed the prairie, and a thousand appearances of sky and earth -departed for ever, were retraced in her brain. "Would not Edward be -happy there?" she thought: "why should we not go? We should miss dear -Horatio; but what else could we regret that we leave behind? and perhaps -he would join us, and then we should be quite happy." And then her fancy -pictured her new home and all its delights, till her eyes were suffused -with tender feeling, as her imagination sketched a variety of -scenes--the pleasant labours of cultivation, the rides, the hunting, the -boating, all common-place occurrences, which, attended on by love, were -exalted into a perpetual gorgeous procession of beatified hours. And -then again she allowed to herself that Europe or America could contain -the same delights. She recollected Italy, and her feelings grew more -solemn and blissful as she meditated on the wondrous beauty and -changeful but deep interest of that land of memory. - -Villiers did not return for some hours;--he also had indulged in -reverie--long-drawn, but not quite so pleasant as that of his -inexperienced wife. The realities of life were kneaded up too entirely -with his prospects and schemes, for them to assume the fairy hues that -adorned Ethel's. He could not see the end to his present struggle for -the narrowest independence. Very slender hopes had been held out to him; -and thus he was to drag out an embittered existence, spent upon sordid -cares, till his father died--an ungrateful idea, from which he turned -with a sigh. He walked speedily, on account of the cold; and as his -blood began to circulate more cheerily in his frame, a change came over -the tenor of his thoughts. From the midst of the desolation in which he -was lost, a vision of happiness arose, that forced itself on his -speculations, in spite, as he imagined, of his better reason. The image -of an elegant home, here or in Italy, adorned by Ethel--cheered by the -presence of friends, unshadowed by any cares, presented itself to his -mind with strange distinctness and pertinacity. At no time had Villiers -loved so passionately as now. The difficulties of their situation had -exalted her, who shared them with such cheerful fortitude, into an angel -of consolation. The pride of man in possessing the affections of this -lovely and noble-minded creature, was blended with the tenderest desire -of protecting and serving her. His heart glowed with honest joy at the -reflection that her happiness depended upon him solely, and that he was -ready to devote his life to secure it. Was there any action too arduous, -any care too minute, to display his gratitude and his perfect affection? -As his recollection came back, he found that he was at a considerable -distance from her, so he swiftly turned his steps homeward, (that was -his home where she was,) and scarcely felt that he trod earth as he -recollected that each moment carried him nearer, and that he should soon -meet the fond gaze of the kindest, sweetest eyes in the world. - -Thus they met, with a renewed joy, after a short absence, each reaping, -from their separate meditations, a fresh harvest of loving thoughts and -interchange of grateful emotion. Great was the pity that such was their -situation--that circumstances, all mean and trivial, drew them from -their heaven-high elevation, to the more sordid cares of this dirty -planet. Yet why name it pity? their pure natures could turn the -grovelling substance presented to them, to ambrosial food for the -sustenance of love. - - -[Footnote 1: The Cenci.] - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told, -When two that are linked in one heavenly tie, -With heart never changing, and brow never cold, -Love on through all ills, and love on till they die. - -LALLA ROOKH. - - -Villiers had not been returned long, when the waiter came in, and -informed them, that his mistress declined serving their dinner, till her -bill of the morning was paid; and then he left the room. The gentle pair -looked at each other, and laughed. "We must wait till Fanny comes, I -fear," said Ethel; "for my purse is literally empty." - -"And if Miss Derham should not come?" remarked Villiers. - -"But she will!--she has delayed, but I am perfectly certain that she -will come in the course of the day: I do not feel the least doubt about -it." - -To quicken the passage of time, Ethel employed herself in netting a -purse, (the inutility of which Villiers smilingly remarked,) while her -husband read to her some of the scenes from Shakspeare's play of -"Troilus and Cressida." The profound philosophy, and intense passion, of -this drama, adorned by the most magnificent poetry that can even be -found in the pages of this prince of poets, caused each to hang -attentive and delighted upon their occupation. As it grew dark, Villiers -stirred up the fire, and still went on; till having with difficulty -decyphered the lines-- - - -"She was beloved--she loved;--she is, and doth; -But still sweet love is food for fortune's tooth,"-- - - -he closed the books. "It is in vain," he said; "our liberator does -not come; and these churls will not give us lights." - -"It is early yet, dearest," replied Ethel;--"not yet four o'clock. Would -Troilus and Cressida have repined at having been left darkling a few -minutes? How much happier we are than all the heroes and heroines that -ever lived or were imagined! they grasped at the mere shadow of the -thing, whose substance we absolutely possess. Let us know and -acknowledge our good fortune. God knows, I do, and am beyond words -grateful!" - -"It is much to be grateful for--sharing the fortunes of a ruined man!" - -"You do not speak as Troilus does," replied Ethel smiling: "he knew -better the worth of love compared with worldly trifles." - -"You would have me protest, then," said Villiers;-- - - -"But, alas! -I am as true as truth's simplicity, -And simpler than the infancy of truth;" - - -"so that all I can say is, that you are a very ill-used little girl, to be -mated as you are--so buried, with all your loveliness, in this -obscurity--so bound, though akin to heaven, to the basest dross of -earth." - -"You are poetical, dearest, and I thank you. For my own part, I am in -love with ill luck. I do not think we should have discovered how very -dear we are to each other, had we sailed for ever on a summer sea." - -Such talk, a little prolonged, at length dwindled to silence. Edward -drew her nearer to him; and as his arm encircled her waist, she placed -her sweet head on his bosom, and they remained in silent reverie. He, as -with his other hand he played with her shining ringlets, and parted them -on her fair brow, was disturbed in thought, and saddened by a sense of -degradation. Not to be able to defend the angelic creature, who depended -on him, from the world's insults, galled his soul, and embittered even -the heart's union that existed between them. She did not think--she did -know of these things. After many minutes of silence, she said,--"I have -been trying to discover why it is absolute pleasure to suffer pain for -those we love." - -"Pleasure in pain!--you speak riddles." - -"I do," she replied, raising her head; "but I have divined this. The -great pleasure of love is derived from sympathy--the feeling of -union--of unity. Any thing that makes us alive to the sense of -love--that imprints deeper on our plastic consciousness the knowledge of -the existence of our affection, causes an increase of happiness. There -are two things to which we are most sensitive--pleasure and pain. But -habit can somewhat dull the first; and that which was in its newness, -ecstasy--our being joined for ever--becomes, like the air we breathe, a -thing we could not live without, but yet in which we are rather -passively than actively happy. But when pain comes to awaken us to a -true sense of how much we love--when we suffer for one another's dear -sake--the consciousness of attachment swells our hearts: we are recalled -from the forgetfulness engendered by custom; and the awakening and -renewal of the sense of affection brings with it a joy, that sweetens to -its dregs the bitterest cup." - -"Encourage this philosophy, dear Ethel," replied Villiers; "you will -need it: but it shames me to think that I am your teacher in this -mournful truth." As he spoke, his whole frame was agitated by tenderness -and grief. Ethel could see, by the dull fire-light, a tear gather on his -eye-lashes: it fell upon her hand. She threw her arms round him, and -pressed him to her heart with a passionate gush of weeping, occasioned -partly by remorse at having so moved him, and partly by her heart's -overflowing with the dear security of being loved. - -They had but a little recovered from this scene, when the waiter, -bringing in lights, announced Miss Derham. Her coming had been full of -disasters. After many threatenings, and much time consumed in clumsy -repairs, her hackney-coach had fairly broken down: she had walked the -rest of the way; but they were much further from town than she expected; -and thus she accounted for her delay. She brought no news; but held in -her hand the letter that contained the means of freeing them from their -awkward predicament. - -"We will not stay another minute in this cursed place," said Villiers: -"we will go immediately to Salt Hill, where I intended to take you -to-morrow. I can return by one of the many stages which pass -continually, to keep my appointment with Gayland; and be back with you -again by night. So if these stupid people possess a post-chaise, we will -be gone directly." - -Ethel was well pleased with this arrangement; and it was put it -execution immediately. The chaise and horses were easily procured. They -set Fanny down in their way through town. Ethel tried to repay her -kindness by heartfelt thanks; and she, in her placid way, showed clearly -how pleased she was to serve them. - -Leaving her in Piccadilly, not far from her own door, they pursued their -way to Salt Hill; and it seemed as if, in this more change of place, -they had escaped from a kind of prison, to partake again in the -immunities and comforts of civilized life. Ethel was considerably -fatigued when she arrived; and her husband feared that he had tasked her -strength too far. The falling and fallen snow clogged up the roads, and -their journey had been long. She slept, indeed, the greater part of the -way, her head resting on him; and her languor and physical suffering -were soothed by emotions the most balmy and by the gladdening sense of -confidence and security. - -They arrived at Salt Hill late in the evening. The hours were precious; -for early on the following day, Villiers was obliged to return to town. -On inquiry, he found that his best mode was to go by a night-coach from -Bath, which would pass at seven in the morning. They were awake half the -night, talking of their hopes, their plans, their probable deliverance -from their besetting annoyances. By this time Ethel had taught her own -phraseology, and Villiers had learned to believe that whatever must -happen would fall upon both, and that no separation could take place -fraught with any good to either. - -When Ethel awoke, late in the morning, Villiers was gone. Her watch told -her, indeed, that it was near ten o'clock, and that he must have -departed long before. She felt inclined to reproach him for leaving her, -though only for a few hours, without an interchange of adieu. In truth, -she was vexed that he was not there: the world appeared to her so blank, -without his voice to welcome her back to it from out of the regions of -sleep. While this slight cloud of ill-humour (may it be called?) was -passing over her mind, she perceived a little note, left by her husband, -lying on her pillow. Kissing it a thousand times, she read its contents, -as if they possessed talismanic power. They breathed the most passionate -tenderness: they besought her, as she loved him, to take care of -herself, and to keep up her spirits until his return, which would be as -speedy as the dove flies back to its nest, where its sweet mate fondly -expects him. With these assurances and blessings to cheer her, Ethel -arose. The sun poured its wintry yet cheering beams into the parlour, -and the sparkling, snow-clad earth glittered beneath. She wrapped -herself in her cloak, and walked into the garden of the hotel. Long -immured in London, living as if its fogs were the universal vesture of -all things, her spirits rose to exultation and delight, as she looked on -the blue sky spread cloudlessly around. As the pure breeze freshened her -cheek, a kind of transport seized her; her spirit took wings; she felt -as if she could float on the bosom of the air--as if there was a -sympathy in nature, whose child and nursling she was, to welcome her -back to her haunts, and to reward her bounteously for coming. The trees, -all leafless and snow-bedecked, were friends and intimates: she kissed -their rough barks, and then laughed at her own folly at being so rapt. -The snow-drop, as it peeped from the ground, was a thing of wonder and -mystery; and the shapes of frost, beautiful forms to be worshipped. All -sorrow--all care passed away, and left her mind as clear and bright as -the unclouded heavens that bent over her. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -Herein -Shall my captivity be made my happiness; -Since what I lose in freedom, I regain -With interest. - -BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. - - -The glow of enthusiasm and gladness, thus kindled in her soul, faded -slowly as the sun descended; and human tenderness returned in full tide -upon her. She longed for Edward to speak to; when would he come back? -She walked a little way on the London road; she returned: still her -patience was not exhausted. The sun's orb grew red and dusky as it -approached the horizon: she returned to the house. It was yet early: -Edward could not be expected yet: he had promised to come as soon as -possible; but he had prepared her for the likelihood of his arrival only -by the mail at night. It was long since she had written to Saville. -Cooped up in town, saddened by her separation from her husband, or -enjoying the brief hours of reunion, she had felt disinclined to write. -Her enlivened spirits now prompted her to pour out some of their -overflowings to him. She did not allude to any of the circumstances of -their situation, for Edward had forbidden that topic: still she had much -to say; for her heart was full of benevolence to all mankind; besides -her attachment to her husband, the prospect of becoming a mother within -a few months, opened another source of tenderness; there seemed to be a -superabundance of happiness within her, a portion of which she desired -to impart to those she loved. - -Daylight had long vanished, and Villiers did not return. She felt -uneasy:--of course he would come by the mail; yet if he should not--what -could prevent him? Conjectures would force themselves on her, -unreasonable, she told herself; yet her doubts were painful, and she -listened attentively each time that the sound of wheels grew, and again -faded, upon her ear. If the vehicle stopped, she was in a state of -excitation that approached alarm. She knew not what she feared; yet her -disquiet increased into anxiety. "Shall I ever see him again?" were -words that her lips did not utter, and yet which lingered in her heart, -although unaccompanied by any precise idea to her understanding. - -She had given a thousand messages to the servants;--and at last the mail -arrived. She heard a step--it was the waiter:--"The gentleman is not -come, ma'am," he said. "I knew it," she thought;--"yet why? why?" At one -time she resolved to set off for town; yet whither to go--where to find -him? An idea struck her, that he had missed the mail; but as he would -not leave her a prey to uncertainty, he would come by some other -conveyance. She got a little comfort from this notion, and resumed her -occupation of waiting; though the vagueness of her expectations rendered -her a thousand times more restless than before. And all was vain. The -mail had arrived at eleven o'clock--at twelve she retired to her room. -She read again and again his note: his injunction, that she should take -care of herself, induced her to go to bed at a little after one; but -sleep was still far from her. Till she could no longer expect--till it -became certain that it must be morning before he could come, she did not -close her eyes. As her last hope quitted her, she wept bitterly. Where -was the joyousness of the morning?--the exuberant delight with which her -veins had tingled, which had painted life as a blessing? She hid her -face in her pillow, and gave herself up to tears, till sleep at last -stole over her senses. - -Early in the morning her door opened and her curtain was drawn aside. -She awoke immediately, and saw Fanny Derham standing at her bed-side. - -"Edward! where is he?" she exclaimed, starting up. - -"Well, quite well," replied Fanny: "do not alarm yourself, dear Mrs. -Villiers,--he has been arrested." - -"I must go to him immediately. Leave me for a little while, dear -Fanny,--I will dress and come to you; do you order the chaise meanwhile. -I can hear every thing as we are going to town." - -Ethel trembled violently--her speech was rapid but inarticulate; the -paleness that overspread her face, blanching even her marble brow, and -the sudden contraction of her features, alarmed Fanny. The words she had -used in communicating her intelligence were cabalistic to Ethel, and her -fears were the more intolerable because mysterious and undefined; the -blood trickled cold in her veins, and a chilly moisture stood on her -forehead. She exerted herself violently to conquer this weakness, but it -shackled her powers, as bands of rope would her limbs, and after a few -moments she sank back on her pillow almost bereft of life. Fanny sprang -to the bell, then sprinkled her with water; some salts were procured -from the landlady, and gradually the colour revisited her cheeks, and -her frame resumed its functions--an hysteric fit, the first she had ever -had, left her at last exhausted but more composed. She herself became -frightened lest illness should keep her from Villiers; she exerted -herself to become tranquil, and lay for some time without speaking or -moving. A little refreshment contributed to restore her, and she turned -to Fanny with a faint sweet smile, "You see," said she, "what a weak, -foolish thing I am; but I am well now, quite rallied--there must be no -more delay." - -Her cheerful voice and lively manner gave her friend confidence. Fanny -was one who believed much in the mastery of mind, and felt sure that -nothing would be so prejudicial to Mrs. Villiers as contradiction, and -obstacles put in the way of her attaining the object of her wishes. In -spite therefore of the good people about, who insisted that the most -disastrous consequences would ensue, she ordered the horses, and -prepared for their immediate journey to town. Ethel repaid her cares -with smiles, while she restrained her curiosity, laid as it were a check -on her too impatient movements, and forced a calm of manner which gave -her friend courage to proceed. - -It was not until they were on their way that the object of their journey -was mentioned. Fanny then spoke of the arrest as a trifling -circumstance--mentioned bail, and twenty things, which Ethel only -comprehended to be mysterious methods of setting him free; and then also -she asked the history of what had happened. The tale was soon told. The -moment Mr. Villiers had entered Piccadilly he had caused a coach to be -called, but on passing to it from the stage, two men entered it with -him, whose errand was too easily explained. He had driven first to his -solicitor's, hoping to put every thing in train for his instant -liberation. The day was consumed in these fruitless endeavours--he did -not give up hope till past ten at night, when he sent to Fanny, asking -her to go down to Mrs. Villiers as early as possible in the morning, and -to bring her up to town. His wish was, he said, that Ethel should take -up her abode at Mrs. Derham's till this affair could be arranged, and -they were enabled to leave London. His note was hurried; he promised -that another, more explicit, should await his wife on her arrival. - -"You will tell the driver," said Ethel, when this story was finished, -"to drive to Edward's prison. I would not stay away five minutes from -him in his present situation to purchase the universe." - -Any one but Miss Derham might have resisted Ethel's wish--have argued -with her, and irritated her by the display of obstacles and -inconveniences. It was not Fanny's method ever to oppose the desires of -others. They knew best, she affirmed, their own sensations, and what was -most fitting for them. What is best for me, habit, education, and a -different texture of character, may render the worst for them. In the -present instance, also, she saw that Ethel's feelings were almost too -high wrought for her strength--that opposition, by making a further call -on her powers, might upset them wholly. She had besides, the deepest -respect for her attachment to her husband, and was willing to reward it -by bringing her to him without delay. Having thus fortunately fallen -into reasonable hands, guided by one who could understand her character, -and not torture her by forcing notions the opposite of those on which -she felt herself compelled to act, Ethel became tranquil, and saw the -mere panic of inexperience in her previous excessive alarm. - -They now approached London. Fanny called the post-boy to the window of -the chaise, and gave him directions, at which he a little stared, but -said nothing. She gave things their own names, and never dreamt of -saving appearances, as it is called. What ought to be done, that she -dared do in the face of the whole world, and therefore to make a mystery -of their destination never once occurred to her. They drove through the -long interminable suburbs--through Piccadilly and the Strand. Ethel's -cheeks flushed with the excitement, and something like apprehension made -her heart flutter. She had endeavoured to form an image in her own mind -of whither they were going--it was vague and therefore frightful--but -Edward was there, and she also would share the horrors of his -prison-house. - -They passed through Temple Bar, and going down an obscure street or two, -stopped at a dingy door-way. "This is not right," said Ethel, almost -gasping for breath, "this is not a prison." - -"Something very like it, as you will find too soon," said her friend. - -Still Ethel's imagination was relieved by the absence of the massy -walls, the portentous gates, the gloomy immensity of an absolute prison. -The door of the house being opened, Ethel stepped out from the chaise -and asked for Mr. Villiers. The man whom she addressed hesitated, but -Ethel had learnt one only worldly lesson, which was, whenever she needed -the services of people of the lower orders, to disseminate money -plentifully. Her purse was in her hand, and she gave a sovereign to the -man, who then at once showed them upstairs; which she ascended, though -every limb nearly refused to perform its office as she approached the -spot where again she was to find--to see him, whose image lived -eternally in her heart, and whom it was the sole joy of her life to wait -on, to be sheltered by, to live near. - -The door was opened. In the dingy, dusty room, beside the fire, which -looked as if it could not burn, and was never meant to warm even the -black neglected grate, Villiers sat, reading. His first emotion was -shame when he saw Ethel enter. There was no accord between her spotless -loveliness and his squalid prison-room. Any one who has seen a sunbeam -suddenly enter and light up a scene of housewifely neglect, and vulgar -discomfort, and felt how obtrusive it rendered all that might be -half-forgotten in the shade, can picture how the simple elegance of -Ethel displayed yet more distinctly to her husband the worse than -beggarly scene in which she found him. His cheeks flushed, and almost he -would have turned away. He would have reproached, but a tenderness and -an elevation of feeling animated her expressive countenance, which -turned the current of his thoughts. Whether it were their fate to suffer -the extremes of fortune in the savage wilderness, or in the more -appalling privations of civilized life--love, and the poetry of love -accompanied her, and gilded, and irradiated the commonest forms of -penury. She looked at him, and her eyes then glanced to the barred -windows. As Fanny and their conductor left them, she heard the key turn -in the lock with an impertinent intrusive loudness. She felt pained for -him, but for herself it was as if the world and all its cares were -locked out, and as if in this near association with him, she reaped the -reward of all her previous anxiety. There was no repining in her -thoughts, no dejection in her manner; Villiers could read in her open -countenance, as plainly as through the clearest crystal, the sentiments -that were passing in her mind--it was something more satisfied than -resignation, more contented than fortitude. It was a knowledge that -whatever evil might attend her lot, the good so far outweighed it, that, -for his sake only, could she advert to any feeling of distress. It was a -consciousness of being in her place, and of fulfilling her duty, -accompanied by a sort of rapture in remembering how thrice dear and -hallowed that duty was. Angels could not feel as she did, for they -cannot sacrifice to those they love; yet there was in her that absence -of all self-emanating pain, which is the characteristic of what we are -told of the angelic essences. - -As when at night autumnal winds are howling, and vast masses of winged -clouds are driven with indescribable speed across the sky--we note the -islands of dark ether, built round by the white fleecy shapes; and as we -mark the stars which gem their unfathomable depth, silence and sublime -tranquillity appear to have found a home in that deep vault, and we love -to dwell on the peace and beauty that live there, while the clouds still -rush on, and the face of the lower heaven is more mutable than water. -Thus the mind of Ethel, surrounded by the world's worst forms of -adversity, showed clear and serene, entirely possessed by the repose of -love. It was impossible but that, in spite of shame and regret, Villiers -should not participate in these feelings. He gave himself up to the -softening influence: he knew not how to repine on his own account; -Ethel's affection demanded to stand in place of prosperity, and he could -not refuse to admit so dear a claim. - -The door had closed on them, and every outlet to liberty, or the -enjoyment of life, was barred up. Edward drew Ethel towards him and -kissed her fondly. Their eyes met, and the speechless tenderness that -beamed from hers reached his heart and soothed every ruffled feeling. -Sitting together, and interchanging a few words of comfort and hope, -mingled with kind looks and affectionate caresses, they neither of them -remembered indignity nor privation. The tedious mechanism of civilized -life, and the odious interference of their fellow-creatures were -forgotten, and they were happy. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -Veggo purtroppo -Che favola è la vita, -E la favola mia non è compita. - -PETRARCA. - - -The darker months of winter had passed away, and the chilly, blighting -English spring begun. Towards the end of March Lady Lodore came to town. -She had long ago, in her days of wealth, fitted up a house in Park Lane, so -she returned to it, as to a home--if home it might be called--where no -one welcomed her--where none sat beside her at the domestic hearth. - -For the first time she felt keenly this circumstance. During her -mother's lifetime she had had her constantly for a companion, and -afterwards as events pressed upon her, and while the anguish she felt -upon Horatio Saville's marriage was still fresh, she had not reverted to -her lonely position as the source of pain. - -The haughty, the firm, the self-exalting soul of Cornelia had borne up -long. She had often felt that she walked on the borders of a precipice, -and that if once she admitted sentiments of regret, she should plunge -without retrieve into a gulph, dark, portentous, inextricable. She had -often repeated to herself that fate should not vanquish her, and that in -spite of despair she would be happy: it is true that the misery -occasioned by Saville's marriage was a canker at her heart, for which -there was no cure, but she had recourse to dissipation that she might -endeavour to forget it. A sad and ineffectual remedy. She was surrounded -by admirers, whom she disdained, and by friends to whom she would have -died rather than betray the naked misery of her soul. She had never -planned nor thought of marriage. The report concerning the Earl of -D----was one of those which the world always makes current, when two -persons of opposite sexes are, by any chance, thrown much together. His -sister was Lady Lodore's friend, and she had chaperoned her, and been of -assistance to her, during the courtship of the gentleman who was at -present her husband. It was their house that Lady Lodore had just -quitted on arriving in town. The new-born happiness of early wedded life -had been a scene to call her back to thoughts which were the sources of -the bitterest anguish. She abhorred herself that she could envy, that -she could desire to exchange places with, any created being. She -abridged her visit, and fancied that she should regain peace in the -independence of her own home. But the enjoyment of liberty was cold in -her heart, and loneliness added a freezing chilliness to her feeling. - -The mind of Cornelia was much above the world she lived in, though she -had sacrificed all to it; and, so to speak, much above herself. Take -pride from her, and there was understanding, magnanimity, and great -kindliness of disposition: but pride had been the wall of China to shut -up all her better qualities, and to keep them from communicating with -the world beyond;--pride, which grew strong by resistance, and towered -above every aggressor;--pride, which crumbled away, when time and change -were its sole assailants, till her inner being was left unprotected and -bare. - -She found herself alone in the world. She felt that her life was -aimless, unprofitable, blank. She was humiliated and saddened by her -relative position in the world. She did not think of her daughter as a -resource; she was in the hands of her enemies, and no hope lay there. -She entertained the belief that Mrs. Villiers was weak both in character -and understanding; and that to make any attempt to interest herself in -her, would end in disappointment, if not disgust. Imagining, as we are -all apt to do, how we should act in another person's place, she had -formed a notion of what she would have done, had she been Ethel; and as -nothing was done, she almost despised, and quite pitied her. No! there -was no help. She was alone;--none loved, none cared for her; and the -flower of the field, which a child plucks and wears for an hour, and -then casts aside, was of more worth than she. - -Every amusement grew tedious--all society vacant and dull. When she came -back from dinners or assemblies, to her luxurious but empty abode, the -darkest thoughts, engendered by spleen, hung over its threshold, and -welcomed her return. At such times, she would dismiss her attendant, and -remain half the night by her fireside, encouraging sickly reveries, -struggling with the fate that bound her, yet unable in any way to make -an effort for freedom. - -"Time"--thus would her thoughts fashion themselves--"yes, time rolls on, -and what does it bring? I live in a desert; its barren sands feed my -hour-glass, and they come out fruitless as they went in. Months change -their names--years their cyphers: my brow is sadly trenched; the bloom -of youth is faded: my mind gathers wrinkles. What will become of me? - -"Hopes of my youth, where are ye?--my aspirations, my pride, my belief -that I could grasp and possess all things? Alas! there is nothing of all -this! My soul lies in the dust; and I look up to know that I have been -playing with shadows, and that I am fallen for ever! What do I see -around me? The tide of life is ebbing fast! I had fancied that pearls -and gold would have been left by the retiring waves; and I find only -barren, lonely sands! No voice reaches me from across the waters--no one -stands beside me on the shore! Would--O would I could lay my head on the -spray-sprinkled beach, and sleep for ever! - -"This is madness!--these incoherent images that throng my brain are the -ravings of insanity!--yet what greater madness, than to know that love, -affection, the charities of life, the hopes of existence, are empty -words for me. Am I indeed to have done with these? What is it that still -moves up and down in my soul, making me feel as if something might yet -be accomplished? Is it that the ardour of youth is not yet tamed? Alas! -my youth has departed for ever. Yet wherefore these sighs, which wrap an -eternity of wretchedness in their evanescent breath?--why these tears, -that, flowing from the inmost fountains of the soul, endeavour to give -passage to the flood of sorrow that deluges and overwhelms it? The -husband of my youth!--the thought of him passes like a shadow across me! -Had he borne with me a little longer--had I submitted to his -controul--how different my destiny had been! But I will not think of -that--I do not! A mightier storm than any he could raise has swept -across me since, and laid all waste. My soul has been set upon a hope, -which has vanished, and desolation has come in its room. Could God, in -his anger, bestow a bitterer curse on a condemned spirit, than that -which weighs on me, when I reflect, that through my own fault I lost -him, whom but to see was paradise? The thought haunts me like a crime; -yet when is it absent from me?--it sleeps with me, rises with me--it is -by me now, and I would willingly die only to dismiss it for ever. - -"Miserable Cornelia! Thou hast been courted, lauded, waited on, -loved!--it is all over! I am alone! My poor, poor mother!--my much -reviled, my dearest mother!--by you, at least, I was valued! Ah! why are -you gone, leaving your wretched child alone? - -"O that I could take wings and rise from out of the abyss into which I -am fallen! Can I not, myself being miserable, take pleasure in the -pleasure of others; and by force of strong sympathy, forget my selfish -woes? With whom can I sympathize? None desire my care, and all would -repay my officiousness with ingratitude, perhaps with scorn. Once I -could assist the poor; now I am poor myself: my limited means scarce -suffice to keep me in that station in society, from which, did I once -descend, I were indeed trampled upon and destroyed for ever. Tears rush -from my eyes--my heart sinks within me, as I look forward. Again the -same cares, the same coil, the same bitter result. Hopes held out, only -to be crushed; affections excited, only to be scattered to the winds. I -blamed myself for struggling too much with fate, for rowing against wind -and tide, for resolving to controul the events that form existence: now -I yield--I have long yielded--I have let myself drift, as I hoped, into -a quiet creek, where indifference and peace ruled the hour; and lo! it -is a whirlpool, to swallow all I had left of enjoyment upon earth!" - -It was not until she had exhausted herself by these gloomy and restless -reflections, that she laid her head upon her pillow, and tried to sleep. -Morning usually dawned before she closed her eyes; and it was nearly -noon before she rose, weary and unrefreshed. It was with a struggle that -she commenced a new day--a day that was to be cheered by no event nor -feeling capable of animating her to any sense of joy. She had never -occupied herself by intellectual exertion: her employments had been the -cultivation of what are called accomplishments merely; and when now she -reverted to these, it was with bitterness. She remembered the interval -when she had been inspirited by the delightful wish to please Horatio. -Now none cared how the forlorn Cornelia passed her time;--no one would -hang enraptured on her voice, or hail with gladness the developement of -some new talent. "It is the same," she thought, "how I get rid of the -heavy hours, so that they go. I have but to give myself up to the -sluggish stream that bears me on to old age, not more bereft or -unregarded than these wretched years." - -Thus she lingered idly through the morning; her only enjoyment being, -when she secured to herself a solitary drive, and reclining back in her -carriage, felt herself safe from every intrusion, and yet enjoying a -succession of objects, that a little varied the tenor of her thoughts. -She had deserted the park, and sought unfrequented drives in the -environs of London. Evening at last came, and with it her uninteresting -engagements, which yet she found better than entire seclusion. Forced to -rouse herself to adopt, as a mask, the smiling appearance which had been -natural to her for many years, she often abhorred every one around her; -and yet, hating herself more, took refuge among them, from her own -society. Her chief care was to repress any manifestation of her despair, -which too readily rose to her lips or in her eyes. The glorious hues of -sunset--the subduing sounds of music--even the sight of a beautiful -girl, resplendent with happiness and youth, moving gracefully in -dance--had power to move her to tears: her blood seemed to curdle and -grow thick, while gloomy shadows mantled over her features. Often, she -could scarcely forbear expressing the bitterness of her feelings, and -indulging in acrimonious remarks on the deceits of life, and the inanity -of all things. It seemed to her, sometimes, that she must die if she did -not give vent to the still increasing horror with which she regarded the -whole system of the world. - -Nor were her sufferings always thus negative. One evening, especially, a -young travelled gentleman approached her, with all the satisfaction -painted on his countenance, which he felt at having secured a topic for -the entertainment of the fashionable Lady Lodore. - -"You are intimate with the Misses Saville," he said; "what charming -girls they are! I have just left them at Naples, where they have been -spending the carnival. I saw them almost every day, and capitally we -enjoyed ourselves. Their Italian sister-in-law spirited them up to mask, -and to make a real carnival of it. A most lovely woman that. Did you -ever see Mrs. Saville, Lady Lodore?" - -"Never," replied his auditress. - -"Such eyes! Gazelles, and stars, and suns, and the whole range of poetic -imagery, might be sought in vain, to do justice to her large dark eyes. -She is very young--scarcely twenty: and to see her with her child, is -positively a finer tableau than any Raphael or Correggio in the world. -She has a little girl, not a year old, with golden hair, and eyes as -black as the mother's--the most beautiful little thing, and so -intelligent. Saville doats on it: no wonder--he is not himself handsome, -you know; though the lovely Clorinda would stab me if she heard me say -so. She positively adores him. You should have seen them together." - -Lady Lodore turned on him one of her sweetest smiles, and in her blandest -tone, said, "If you could only get me an ice from that servant, who I see -immovable behind those dear, wonderful dowagers, you would so oblige -me." - -He was gone in a minute; and on his return, Lady Lodore was so deeply -engrossed in being persuaded to go to the next drawing room, by the young -and new-married Countess of G--, that she could only reward him with -another heavenly smile. He was obliged to take his carnival at Naples to -some other listener. - -Cornelia scarcely closed her eyes that night. The thought of the happy -wife and lovely child of Saville, pierced her as with remorse. She had -entirely broken off her acquaintance with his family, so that she was -ignorant of Clorinda's disposition, and readily fancied that she was as -happy as she believed that the wife of Horatio Saville must be. She -would not acknowledge that she was wicked enough to repine at her -felicity; but that he should be rendered happy by any other woman than -herself--that any other woman should have become the sharer of his -dearest affections, stung her to the core. Yet why should she regret? -She were well exchanged for one so lovely and so young. At the age of -thirty-four, which she had now reached, Cornelia persuaded herself, that -the name of beauty was a mockery as applied to her--though her own glass -might have told her otherwise; for time had dealt lightly with her, so -that the extreme fascination of her manner, and the animation and -intelligence of her countenance, made her compete with many younger -beauties. She felt that she was deteriorated from the angelic being she -had seemed when she first appeared as Lodore's bride; and this made all -compliments show false and vain. Now she figured to herself the dark -eyes of the Neapolitan; and easily believed that the memory of her would -contrast, like a faded picture, with the rich hues of Clorinda's face; -while her sad and withered feelings were in yet greater opposition to -the vivacity she had heard described and praised--to the triumphant and -glad feelings of a beloved wife. It seemed to her as if she must weep -for ever, and yet that tears were unavailing to diminish in any degree -the sorrow that weighed so heavily at her heart. These reflections sat -like a night-mare on her pillow, troubling the repose she in vain -courted. She arose in the morning, scarcely conscious that she had slept -at all--languid from exhaustion--her sufferings blunted by their very -excess. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -O, where have I been all this time? How 'friended -That I should lose myself thus desp'rately. -And none for pity show me how I wandered! - -BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. - - -While it was yet too early for visitors, and before she had ordered -herself to be denied to every one, as she intended to do, she was -surprised by a double knock at the door, and she rang hastily to prevent -any one being admitted. The servants, with contradictory orders, found -it difficult to evade the earnest desire of the visitor to see their -lady; and at last they brought up a card, on which was written, "Miss -Derham wishes to be permitted to see Lady Lodore for Mrs. Villiers." -_From_ had first been written, erased, and _for_ substituted. Lady Lodore -was alarmed; and the ideas of danger and death instantly presenting -themselves, she desired Miss Derham to be shown up. She met her with a -face of anxiety, and with that frankness and kindness of manner which -was the irresistible sceptre she wielded to subdue all hearts. Fanny had -hitherto disliked Lady Lodore. She believed her to be cold, worldly, and -selfish--now, in a moment, she was convinced, by the powerful influence -of manner, that she was the contrary of all this; so that instead of the -chilling address she meditated, she was impelled to throw off her -reserve, and to tell her story with animation and detail. She spoke of -what Mrs. Villiers had gone through previous to the arrest of her -husband--and how constantly she had kept her resolve of remaining with -him--though her situation day by day becoming more critical, demanded -attentions and luxuries which she had no means of attaining. "Yet," said -Fanny, "I should not have intruded on you even now, but that they cannot -go on as they are; their resources are utterly exhausted,--and until -next June I see no prospect for them." - -"Why does not Mr. Villiers apply to his father? even if letters were of -no avail, a personal appeal--" - -"I am afraid that Colonel Villiers has -nothing to give," replied Fanny, "and at all events, Mr. Villiers's -imprisonment--" - -"Prison!" cried Lady Lodore, "you do not mean--Ethel cannot be -living in prison!" - -"They live within the rules, if you understand that term. They rent a -lodging close to the prison on the other side of the river." - -"This must indeed be altered," said Lady Lodore, "this is far too -shocking--poor Ethel, she must come here! Dear Miss Derham, will you -tell her how much I desire to see her, and entreat her to make my house -her home." - -Fanny shook head. "She will not leave her husband--I should make your -proposal in vain." - -Lady Lodore looked incredulous. After a moment's thought she persuaded -herself that Ethel's having refused to return to the house of Mrs. Derham, -or having negatived some other proposed kindness originated this notion, -and she believed that she had only to make her invitation in the most -gracious possible way, not to have it refused. "I will go to Ethel -myself," she said; "I will myself bring her here, and so smooth all -difficulties." - -Fanny did not object. Under her new favourable opinion of Lady Lodore, she -felt that all would be well if the mother and daughter were brought -together, though only for a few minutes. She wrote down Ethel's address, -and took her leave, while at the same moment Lady Lodore ordered her -carriage, and assured her that no time should be lost in removing Mrs. -Villiers to a more suitable abode. - -Lady Lodore's feelings on this occasion were not so smiling as her looks. -She was grieved for her daughter, but she was exceedingly vexed for -herself. She had desired some interest, some employment in life, but she -recoiled from any that should link her with Ethel. She desired occupation, -and not slavery; but to bring the young wife to her own house, and make it -a home for her, was at once destructive of her own independence. She -looked forward with repugnance to the familiarity that must thence ensue -between her and Villiers. Even the first step was full of annoyance, and -she was displeased that Fanny had given her the task of going to her -daughter's habitation, and forced her to appear personally on so -degrading a scene; there was however no help--she had undertaken it, and -it must be done. - -Every advance she made towards the wretched part of the town where Ethel -lived, added to her ill-humour. She felt almost personally affronted by -the necessity she was under of first coming in contact with her daughter -under such disastrous circumstances. Her spleen against Lord Lodore -revived: she viewed every evil that had ever befallen her, as arising from -his machinations. If Ethel had been entrusted to her guardianship, she -certainly had never become the wife of Edward Villiers--nor ever have -tasted the dregs of opprobrious poverty. - -At length, her carriage drew near a row of low, shabby houses; and as -the name caught her eye she found that she had reached her destination. -She resolved not to see Villiers, if it could possibly be avoided; and -then making up her mind to perform her part with grace, and every show -of kindness, she made an effort to smooth her brow and recall her -smiles. The carriage stopped at a door--a servant-maid answered to the -knock. She ordered Mr. Villiers to be asked for; he was not at home. One -objection to her proceeding was removed by this answer. Mrs. Villiers -was in the house, and she alighted and desired to be shown to her. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -As flowers beneath May's footsteps waken -As stars from night's loose hair are shaken; -As waves arise when loud winds call, -Thoughts sprung where'er that step did fall. - -SHELLEY. - - -Never before had the elegant and fastidious Lady Lodore entered such an -abode, or ascended such stairs. The servant had told her to enter the room -at the head of the first flight, so she made her way by herself, and -knocked at the door. The voice that told her to come in, thrilled -through her, she knew not why, and she became disturbed at finding that -her self-possession was failing her. Slight things act powerfully on the -subtle mechanism of the human mind. She had dressed with scrupulous -plainness, yet her silks and furs were strangely contrasted with the -room she entered, and she felt ashamed of all the adjuncts of wealth and -luxury that attended her. She opened the door with an effort: Ethel was -seated near the fire at work--no place or circumstance could deteriorate -from her appearance--in her simple, unadorned morning-dress, she looked -as elegant and as distinguished as she had done when her mother had last -seen her in diamonds and plumes in the presence of royalty. There was -a charm about both, strikingly in contrast, and yet equal in -fascination--the polish of Lady Lodore, and the simplicity of Ethel were -both manifestations of inward grace and dignity; and as they now met, it -would have been difficult to say which had the advantage of the other. -Ethel's extreme youth, by adding to the interest with which she must be -regarded, was in her favour. Yet full of sensibility and loveliness as -was her face, she had never been, nor was she even now, as strikingly -beautiful as her mother. - -Lady Lodore could not restrain the tear that started into her eye on -beholding her daughter situated as she was. Ethel's feelings, on the -contrary, were all gladness. She had no pride to allay her gratitude for -her mother's kindness. "How very good of you to come!" she said, "how could -you find out where we were?" - -"How long have you been here?" asked Lady Lodore, looking round the -wretched little room. - -"Only a few weeks--I assure you it is not so bad as it seems. I should -not much mind it, but that Edward feels it so deeply on my account." - -"I do not wonder," said her mother, "he must be cut to the soul--but -thank God it is over now. You shall come to me immediately, my house is -quite large enough to accommodate you--I am come to fetch you." - -"My own dearest mother!"--the words scarcely formed themselves on -Ethel's lips; she half feared to offend the lovely woman before her by -showing her a daughter's affection. - -"Yes, call me mother," said Lady Lodore; "I may, at last, I hope, be -allowed to prove myself one. Come then, dear Ethel, you will not refuse my -request--you will come with me?" - -"How gladly--but--will they let Edward go? I thought there was no hope -of so much good fortune." - -"I fear indeed," replied her mother, "that Mr. Villiers must endure the -annoyance of remaining here a little longer; but I hope his affairs will -soon be arranged." - -Ethel bent her large eyes inquiringly on her mother, as if not -understanding; and then, as her meaning opened on her, a smile diffused -itself over her countenance as she said, "Your intentions are the -kindest in the world--I am grateful, how far more grateful than I can at -all express, for your goodness. That you have had the kindness to come -to this odious place is more than I could ever dare expect." - -"It is not worth your thanks, although I think I deserve your -acquiescence to my proposal. You will come home with me?" - -Ethel shook her head, smilingly. "All my wishes are accomplished," she -said, "through this kind visit. I would not have you for the world come -here again; but the wall between us is broken down, and we shall not -become strangers again." - -"My dearest Ethel," said Lady Lodore, seriously, "I see what you mean. I -wish Mr. Villiers were here to advocate my cause. You must come with me--he -will be much more at ease when you are no longer forced to share his -annoyances. This is in every way an unfit place for you, especially at -this time." - -"I shall appear ungrateful, I fear," replied Ethel, "if I assure you how -much better off I am here than I could be any where else in the world. -This place appears miserable to you--so I dare say it is; to me it seems -to possess every requisite for happiness, and were it not so, I would -rather live in an actual dungeon with Edward, than in the most splendid -mansion in England, away from him." - -Her face was lighted up with such radiance as she spoke--there was so -much fervour in her voice--such deep affection in her speaking -eyes--such an earnest demonstration of heartfelt sincerity, that Lady -Lodore was confounded and overcome. Swift, as if a map had been unrolled -before her, the picture of her own passed life was retraced in her -mind--its loneless and unmeaning pursuits--and the bitter disappointments -that had blasted every hope of seeing better days. She burst into tears. -Ethel was shocked and tried to soothe her by caresses and assurances of -gratitude and affection. "And yet you will not come with me?" said Lady -Lodore, making an effort to resume her self-command. - -"I cannot. It is impossible for me voluntarily to separate myself from -Edward--I am too weak, too great a coward." - -"And is there no hope of liberation for him?" This question of Lady -Lodore forced them back to matter-of-fact topics, and she became composed. -Ethel related how ineffectual every endeavour had yet been to arrange -his affairs, how large his debts, how inexorable his creditors, how -neglectful his attorney. - -"And his father?" inquired her mother. - -"He seems to me to be kind-hearted," replied Ethel, "and to feel deeply -his son's situation; but he has no means--he himself is in want." - -"He is keeping a carriage at this moment in Paris," said Lady Lodore, "and -giving parties--however, I allow that that is no proof of his having -money. Still you must not stay here." - -"Nor shall we always," replied Ethel; "something of course will happen -to take us away, though as yet it is all hopeless enough." - -"Aunt Bessy, Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry, might give you assistance. Have -you asked her?--has she refused?" - -"Edward has exacted a promise from me not to reveal our perplexities to -her--he is punctilious about money obligations, and I have given my word -not to hurt his delicacy on that point." - -"Then that, perhaps, is the reason why you refused my request to go home -with me?" said Lady Lodore reproachfully. - -"No," replied Ethel, "I do not think that he is so scrupulous as to -prevent a mother from serving her child, but he shall answer for -himself; I expect him back from his walk every minute." - -"Then forgive me if I run away," said Lady Lodore; "I am not fit to see him -now. Better times will come, dearest Ethel, and we shall meet again. God -bless you, my child, as so much virtue and patience deserve to be blest. -Remember me with kindness." - -"Do not you forget me," replied Ethel, "or rather, do not think of me -and my fortunes with too much disgust. We shall meet again, I hope?" - -Lady Lodore kissed her, and hurried away. Scarcely was she in her carriage -than she saw Villiers advancing: his prepossessing appearance, ingenuous -countenance, and patrician figure, made more intelligible to her -world-practised eyes the fond fidelity of his wife. She drew up the -window that he might not see her, as she gave her directions for "home," -and then retreating to the corner of her carriage, she tried to compose -her thoughts, and to reflect calmly on what was to be done. - -But the effort was vain. The further she was removed from the strange -scene of the morning, the more powerfully did it act on, and agitate her -mind. Her soul was in tumults. This was the being she had pitied, almost -despised! Her eager imagination now exalted her into an angel. There was -something heart-moving in the gentle patience, and unrepining -contentment with which she bore her hard lot. She appeared in her eyes -to be one of those rare examples sent upon earth to purify human nature, -and to demonstrate how near akin to perfection we can become. Latent -maternal pride might increase her admiration, and maternal tenderness -add to its warmth. Her nature had acknowledged its affinity to her -child, and she felt drawn towards her with inexpressible yearnings. A -vehement desire to serve her sprung up--but all was confused and -tumultuous. She pressed her hand on her forehead, as if so to restrain -the strong current of thought. She compressed her lips, so to repress -her tears. - -Arrived at home, she found herself in prison within the walls of her -chamber. She abhorred its gilding and luxury--she longed for Ethel's -scant abode and glorious privations. To alleviate her restlessness, she -again drove out, and directed her course through the Regent's Park, and -along the new road to Hampstead, where she was least liable to meet any -one she knew. It was one of the first fine days of spring. The green -meadows, the dark boughs swelling and bursting into bud, the fresh -enlivening air, the holiday of nature's birth--all this was lost on her, -or but added to her agitation. Still her thoughts were with her child in -her narrow abode; every lovely object served but to recall her image, -and the wafting of the soft breeze seemed an emanation from her. It was -dark before she came back, and sent a hurried note of excuse to the -house where she was to have dined. "No more, O never more," she cried, -"will I so waste my being, but learn from Ethel to be happy, and to -love." - -Many thoughts and many schemes thronged her brain. Something must be -done, or her heart would burst. Pride, affection, repentance, all -occupied the same channel, and increased the flood that swept away every -idea but one. Her very love for Horatio, true and engrossing as it had -been, the source of many tears and endless regrets, appeared as slight -as the web of gossamer, compared to the chain that bound her to her -daughter. She could not herself understand, nor did she wish to know, -whence and why this enthusiasm had risen like an exhalation in her soul, -covering and occupying its entire space. She only knew it was there, -interpenetrating, paramount. Ethel's dark eyes and silken curls, her -sweet voice and heavenly smile, formed a moving, speaking picture, which -she felt that it were bliss to contemplate for ever. She retired at last -to bed, but not to rest; and as she lay with open eyes, thinking not of -sleep--alive in every pore--her brain working with ten thousand -thoughts, one at last grew more importunate than the rest, and demanded -all her attention. Her ideas became more consecutive, though not less -rapid and imperious. She drew forth in prospect, as it were, a map of -what was to be done, and the results. Her mind became fixed, and -sensations of ineffable pleasure accompanied her reveries. She was -resolved to sacrifice every thing to her daughter--to liberate Villiers, -and to establish her in ease and comfort. The image of self-sacrifice, -and of the ruin of her own fortunes, was attended with a kind of -rapture. She felt as if, in securing Ethel's happiness, she could never -feel sorrow more. This was something worth living for: the burden of -life was gone--its darkness dissipated--a soft light invested all -things, and angels' voices invited her to proceed. While indulging in -these reveries, she sunk into a balmy sleep--such a one she had not -enjoyed for many months--nay, her whole past life had never afforded her -so sweet a joy. The thoughts of love, when she believed that she should -be united to Saville, were not so blissful; for self-approbation, -derived from a consciousness of virtue and well-doing, hallowed every -thought. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -Like gentle rains on the dry plains, -Making that green which late was grey; -Or like the sudden moon, that stains -Some gloomy chamber's window panes, -With a broad light like day. - -SHELLEY. - - -How mysterious a thing is the action of repentance in the human mind! We -will not dive into the debasing secrets of remorse for guilt. Lady Lodore -could accuse herself of none. Yet when she looked back, a new light shone -on the tedious maze in which she had been lost; a light--and she blessed -it--that showed her a pathway out of tempest and confusion into serenity -and peace. She wondered at her previous blindness; it was as if she had -closed her eyelids, and then fancied it was night. No fear that she -should return to darkness; her heart felt so light, her spirit so clear -and animated, that she could only wonder how it was she had missed -happiness so long, when it needed only that she should stretch out her -hand to take it. - -Her first act on the morrow was to have an interview with her -son-in-law's solicitor. Nothing could be more hopeless than Mr. -Gayland's representation of his client's affairs. The various deeds of -settlement and entail, through which he inherited his estate, were -clogged in such a manner as to render an absolute sale of his -reversionary prospects impossible, so that the raising of money on them -could only be effected at an immense future sacrifice. Under these -circumstances Gayland had been unwilling to proceed, and appeared -lukewarm and dilatory, while he was impelled by that love for the -preservation of property, which often finds place in the mind of a legal -adviser. - -Lady Lodore listened attentively to his statements. She asked the extent of -Edward's debts, and somewhat started at the sum named as necessary to -clear him. She then told Mr. Gayland that their ensuing conversation -must continue under a pledge of secrecy on his part. He assented, and -she proceeded to represent her intention of disposing of her jointure -for the purpose of extricating Villiers from his embarrassments. She -gave directions for its sale, and instructions for obtaining the -necessary papers to effect it. Mr. Gayland's countenance brightened; yet -he offered a few words of remonstrance against such unexampled -generosity. - -"The sacrifice," said Lady Lodore, "is not so great as you imagine. A -variety of circumstances tend to compensate me for it. I do not depend upon -this source of income alone; and be assured, that what I do, I consider, on -the whole, as benefiting me even more than Mr. Villiers." - -Mr. Gayland bowed; and Cornelia returned home with a light heart. For -months she had not felt such an exhilaration of spirits. A warm joy -thrilled through her frame, and involuntary smiles dimpled her cheeks. -Dusky and dingy as was the day, the sunshine of her soul dissipated its -shadows, and spread brightness over her path. She could scarcely -controul the expression of her delight; and when she sat down to write -to Ethel, it was several minutes before she was able to collect her -thoughts, so as to remember what she had intended to say. Two notes were -destroyed before she had succeeded in imparting that sobriety to her -expressions, which was needful to veil her purpose, which she had -resolved to lock within her own breast for ever. At length she was -obliged to satisfy herself with a few vague expressions. This was her -letter:-- - - -"I cannot help believing, my dearest girl, that your trials are coming -to a conclusion. I have seen Mr. Gayland; and it appears to me that -energy and activity are chiefly wanting for the arrangement of your -husband's affairs: I think I have in some degree inspired these. He has -promised to write to Mr. Villiers, who, I trust, will find satisfaction -in his views. Do you, my dearest Ethel, keep up your spirits, and take -care of your precious health. We shall meet again in better days, when -you will be rewarded for your sufferings and goodness. Believe me, I -love as much as I admire you; so, in spite of the past, think of me with -indulgence and affection." - - -Lady Lodore dressed to dine out, and for an evening assembly. She looked so -radiant and so beautiful, that admiration and compliments were showered -upon her. How vain and paltry they all seemed; and yet her feelings were -wholly changed from that period, when she desired to reject and scoff at -the courtesy of her fellow-creatures. The bitterness of spirit was gone, -which had prompted her to pour out gall and sarcasm, and had made it her -greatest pleasure to revel in the contempt and hate that filled her -bosom towards herself and others. She was now at peace with the world, -and disposed to view its follies charitably. Yet how immeasurably -superior she felt herself to all those around her! not through vanity or -supercilious egotism, but from the natural spring of inward joy and -self-approbation, which a consciousness of doing well opened in her -before dried-up heart. She somewhat contemned her friends, and wholly -pitied them. But she could not dwell on any disagreeable sentiment. Her -thoughts, while she reverted to the circumstances that so changed their -tenor, were stained with the fairest hues, harmonized by the most -delicious music. She had risen to a sphere above, beyond the ordinary -soarings of mortals--a world without a cloud, without one ungenial -breath. She wondered at herself. She looked back with mingled horror and -surprise on the miserable state of despondence to which she had been -reduced. Where were now her regrets?--where her ennui, her repinings, -her despair? "In the deep bosom of the ocean buried!"--and she arose, as -from a second birth, to new hopes, new prospects, new feelings; or -rather to another state of being, which had no affinity to the former. -For poverty was now her pursuit, obscurity her desire, ruin her hope; -and she smiled on, and beckoned to these, as if life possessed no -greater blessings. - -Her impetuosity and pride served to sustain the high tone of her soul. -She had none of that sloth of purpose, or weakness of feeling, that -leads to hesitation and regret. To resolve with her had been, during the -whole course of her life, to do; and what her mind was set upon she -accomplished--it might be rashly, but still with that independence and -energy, that gave dignity even to her more ambiguous actions. As before, -when she cast off Lodore, she had never admitted a doubt that she was -justified before God and her conscience for refusing to submit to the -most insulting tyranny; so now, believing that she had acted ill in not -demanding the guardianship of her daughter, and resolving to atone for -the evils which were the consequence of this neglect of duty on her -part, she had no misgivings as to the future, but rushed precipitately -onwards. As a racer at the Olympic games, she panted to arrive at the -goal, though it were only to expire at the moment of its attainment. - -Meanwhile, Ethel had been enchanted by her mother's visit, and spoke of -it to Villiers as a proof of the real goodness of her heart, insisting -that she was judged harshly and falsely. Villiers smiled incredulously. -"She gains your esteem at an easy rate," he observed; "cultivate it, if -it makes you happier. It will need more than a mere act of ordinary -courtesy--more than a slight invitation to her house, to persuade me -that Lady Lodore is not--what she is--a worshipper of the world, a -frivolous, unfeeling woman. Mark me whether she comes again." - -Her letter, on the following day, strengthened his opinion. "This is -even insulting," he said: "she takes care to inform you that she will -not look again on your poverty, but will wait for _better days_ to bring -you together. The kindness of such an intimation is quite admirable. She -has inspired Gayland with energy and activity!--O, then, she must be a -Medea, in more senses than the more obvious one." - -Ethel looked reproachfully. She saw that Villiers was deeply hurt that -Lady Lodore had become acquainted with their distresses, and been a witness -of the nakedness of the land. She could not inspire him with the tenderness -that warmed her heart towards her mother, and the conviction she -entertained, in spite of appearances, (for she was forced to confess to -herself that Lady Lodore's letter was not exactly the one she expected,) -that her heart was generous and affectionate. It was a comfort to her -that Fanny Derham participated in her opinions. Fanny was quite sure -that Lady Lodore would prove herself worthy of the esteem she had so -suddenly conceived for her; and Ethel listened delightedly to her -assertions--it was so soothing to think well of, to love, and praise her -mother. - -The solicitor's letter, which came, as Lady Lodore announced, somewhat -surprised Villiers; yet, after a little reflection, he gave no heed to -its contents. It said, that upon further consideration of particular -points, Gayland perceived certain facilities; by improving upon which, -he hoped soon to make a favourable arrangement, and to extricate Mr. -Villiers from his involvements. Any thing so vague demanded explanation. -Edward wrote earnestly, requesting one; but his letter remained -unanswered. Perplexed and annoyed, he obtained permission to quit his -bounds for a few hours, and called upon the man of law. Gayland was so -busy, that he could not afford him more than five minutes' conversation. -He said that he had hopes--even expectations; that a little time would -show more; and he begged his client to be patient. Villiers returned in -despair. The only circumstance that at all served to inspire him with -any hope, was, that on the day succeeding to his visit, he received a -remittance of an hundred pounds from Gayland, who begged to be -considered as his banker till the present negociations should be -concluded. - -There was some humiliation in the knowledge of how welcome this supply -had become, and Ethel used her gentle influence to mitigate the pain of -such reflections. If she ever drooped, it was not for herself, but for -Villiers; and she carefully hid even these disinterested repinings. Her -own condition did not inspire her with any fears, and the anxiety that -she experienced for her unborn child was untinctured by bitterness or -despair. She felt assured that their present misfortunes would be of -short duration; and instead of letting her thoughts dwell on the -mortifications or shame that marked the passing hour, she loved to fill -her mind with pleasing sensations, inspired by the tenderness of her -husband, the kindness of poor Fanny, and the reliance she had in the -reality of her mother's affection. In vain, she said, did the harsher -elements of life try to disturb the serenity which the love of those -around her produced in her soul. Her happiness was treasured in their -hearts, and did not emanate from the furniture of a room, nor the -comfort of an equipage. Her babe, if destined to open its eyes first on -such a scene, would be still less acted upon by its apparent -cheerlessness. Cradled in her arms, and nourished at her bosom, what -more benign fate could await the little stranger? What was there in -their destiny worthy of grief, while they remained true to each other? - -With such arguments she tried to inspire Villiers with a portion of that -fortitude and patience which was a natural growth in herself. They had -but slender effect upon him. Their different educations had made her -greatly his superior in these virtues; besides that she, with her -simpler habits and unprejudiced mind, was less shocked by the -concomitants of penury, than he, bred in high notions of aristocratic -exclusiveness. She had spent her youth among settlers in a new country, -and did not associate the idea of disgrace with want. Nakedness and -gaunt hunger had often been the invaders of her forest home, scarcely to -be repelled by her father's forethought and resources. How could she -deem these shameful, when they had often assailed the most worthy and -industrious, who were not the less regarded or esteemed on that account. -She had acquired a practical philosophy, while inhabiting the western -wilderness, and beholding the vast variety of life that it presents, -which stood her in good stead under her European vicissitudes. The white -inhabitants of America did not form her only school. The Red Indian and -his squaw were also human beings, subject to the same necessities, -moved, in the first instance, by the same impulses as herself. All that -bore the human form were sanctified to her by the spirit of sympathy; -and she could not, as Edward did, feel herself wholly outcast and under -ban, while kindness, however humble, and intelligence, however lowly, -attended upon her. - -Villiers could not yield to her arguments, nor partake her wisdom; yet -he was glad that she possessed any source of consolation, however -unimaginable by himself. He buried within his heart the haughty sense of -wrong. He uttered no complaint, though his whole being rebelled against -the state of inaction to which he was reduced. It maddened him to feel -that he could not stir a finger to help himself, even while he fancied -that he saw his young wife withering before his eyes; and looked forward -to the birth of his child, under circumstances, that rendered even the -necessary attendance difficult, if not impracticable. The heaviest -weight of slavery fell upon him, for it was he that was imprisoned, and -forbidden to go beyond certain limits; and though Ethel religiously -confined herself within yet narrower bounds than those allotted to him, -he only saw, in this delicacy, another source of evil. Nor were these -real tangible ills those which inflicted the greatest pain. Had these -misfortunes visited him in the American wilderness, or in any part of -the world where the majesty of nature had surrounded them, he fancied -that he should have been less alive to their sinister influence. But -here shame was conjoined with the perpetual spectacle of the least -reputable class of the civilized community. Their walks were haunted by -men who bore the stamp of profligacy and crime; and the very shelter of -their dwelling was shared by the mean and vulgar. His aristocratic pride -was sorely wounded at every turn;--not for himself so much, for he was -manly enough to feel "that a man's a man for all that,"--but for Ethel's -sake, whom he would have fondly placed apart from all that is deformed -and unseemly, guarded even from the rougher airs of heaven, and -surrounded by every thing most luxurious and beautiful in the world. - -There was no help. Now and then he got a letter from his father, full of -unmeaning apologies and unmanly complaints. The more irretrievable his -poverty became, the firmer grew his resolve not to burden with his wants -any more distant relation. He would readily give up every prospect of -future wealth to purchase ease and comfort for Ethel; but he could not -bend to any unworthy act; and the harder he felt pressed upon and -injured by fortune, the more jealously he maintained his independence of -feeling; on that he would lean to the last, though it proved a sword to -pierce him. - -He looked forward with despair, yet he tried to conceal his worst -thoughts, which would still be brooding upon absolute want and -starvation. He answered Ethel's cheering tones in accents of like cheer, -and met the melting tenderness of her gaze with eyes that spoke of love -only. He endeavoured to persuade her that he did not wholly shut his -heart from the hopes she was continually presenting to him. Hopes, the -very names of which were mockery. For they must necessarily be embodied -in words and ideas--and his father or uncle were mentioned--the one had -proved a curse, the other a temptation. He could trace his reverses as -to the habits of expence and the false views of his resources, acquired -under Lord Maristow's tutelage, as to the prodigality and neglect of his -parent. Even the name of Horatio Saville produced bitterness. Why was -he not here? He would not intrude his wants upon him in his Italian -home; but had he been in England, they had been saved from these worst -blows of fate. - -The only luxury of Villiers was to steal some few hours of solitude, -when he could indulge in his miserable reflections without restraint. -The loveliness and love of Ethel were then before his imagination to -drive him to despair. To suffer alone would have been nothing; but to -see this child of beauty and tenderness, this fairest nursling of nature -and liberty, droop and fade in their narrow, poverty-striken home, bred -thoughts akin to madness. During each live-long night he was kept awake -by the anguish of such reflections. Darker thoughts sometimes intruded -themselves. He fancied that if he were dead, Ethel would be happier. Her -mother, his relations, each and all would come forward to gift her with -opulence and ease. The idea of self-destruction thus became soothing; -and he pondered with a kind of savage pleasure on the means by which he -should end the coil of misery that had wound round him. - -At such times the knowledge of Ethel's devoted affection checked him. Or -sometimes, as he gazed on her as she lay sleeping at his side, he felt -that every sorrow was less than that which separation must produce; and -that to share adversity with her was greater happiness than the -enjoyment of prosperity apart from her. Once, when brought back from the -gloomiest desperation by such a return of softer emotions, the words of -Francesca da Rimini rushed upon his mind and completed the change. He -recollected how she and her lover were consoled by their eternal -companionship in the midst of the infernal whirlwind. "And do I love you -less, my angel?" he thought; "are you not more dear to me than woman -ever was to man, and would I divide myself from you because we suffer? -Perish the thought! Whether for good or ill, let our existences still -continue one, and from the sanctity and sympathy of our union, a sweet -will be extracted, sufficient to destroy the bitterness of this hour. We -prefer remaining together, mine own sweet love, for ever together, -though it were for an eternity of pain. And these woes are finite. Your -pure and exalted nature will be rewarded for its sufferings, and I, for -your sake, shall be saved. I could not live without you in this world; -and yet with insane purpose I would rush into the unknown, away from -you, leaving you to seek comfort and support from other hands than mine. -I was base and cowardly to entertain the thought, but for one moment--a -traitor to my own affection, and the stabber of your peace. Ah, dearest -Ethel, when in a few hours your eyes will open on the light, and seek me -as the object most beloved by them, were I away, unable to return their -fondness, incapable of the blessing of beholding them, what hell could -be contrived to punish more severely my dereliction of duty?" - -With this last thought another train of feeling was introduced, and he -strung himself to more manly endurance. He saw that his post was -assigned him in this world, and that he ought to fulfil its duties with -courage and patience. Hope came hand in hand with such ideas--and the -dawn of content on his soul was a proof that the exercise of virtue -brought with it its own reward. He could not always keep his feelings in -the same tone, but he no longer saw greatness of mind in the indulgence -of sorrow. - -He remembered that throughout the various stations into which society -has divided human beings, adversity and pain belong to each, and that -death and treachery are more frightful evils than all the hardships of -life. He thought of his unborn child, and of his duties towards it--not -only in a worldly point of view, but as its teacher and guide in morals -and religion. The beauty and use of the ties of blood, to which his -peculiar situation had hitherto blinded him, became intelligible at once -to his heart and his understanding; and while he felt how ill his father -had fulfilled the paternal duties, he resolved that his own offspring -should never have cause to reproach him for similar misconduct. Before -he had repined because the evils of his lot seemed gratuitous suffering; -but now he felt, as Ethel had often expressed it, that the sting of -humiliation is taken from misfortune, when we nerve ourselves to endure -it for another's sake. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -The world had just begun to steal -Each hope that led me lightly on, -I felt not as I used to feel, -And life grew dark and love was gone. - -THOMAS MOORE. - - -While the young pair were thus struggling with the severe visitation of -adversity, Lady Lodore was earnestly engaged in her endeavours to extricate -them from their difficulties. The ardour of her zeal had made her take -the first steps in this undertaking, with a resolution that would not -look behind, and a courage not to be dismayed by the dreary prospect -which the future afforded. The scheme which she had planned, and was now -proceeding to execute, was unbounded in generosity and self-sacrifice. -It was not in her nature to stop short at half-measures, nor to pause -when once she had fixed her purpose. If she ever trembled on looking -forward to the utter ruin she was about to encounter, her second emotion -was to despise herself for such pusillanimity, and to be roused to -renewed energy. She intended to devote as much as was necessary of the -money arising from the sale of her jointure, as fixed by her marriage -settlement, for the liquidation of her son-in-law's debts. The remaining -six hundred a-year, bequeathed to her in Lord Lodore's will, under -circumstances of cruel insult, she resolved to give up to her daughter's -use, for her future subsistence. She hoped to save enough from the sum -produced by the disposal of her jointure, to procure the necessaries of -life for a few years, and she did not look beyond. She would quit London -for ever. She must leave her house, which she had bought during her days -of prosperity, and which she had felt so much pride and delight in -adorning with every luxury and comfort: to crown her good work, she -intended to give it up to Ethel. And then with her scant means she would -take refuge in the solitude where Lodore found her, and spend the -residue of her days among the uncouth and lonely mountains of Wales, in -poverty and seclusion. It was from no agreeable association with her -early youth, that she selected the neighbourhood of Rhaider Gowy for her -future residence; nor from a desire of renewing the recollections of the -period spent there, nor of revisiting the scenes, where she had stepped -beyond infancy into the paths of life. Her choice simply arose from -being obliged to think of economy in its strictest sense, and she -remembered this place as the cheapest in the world, and the most -retired. Besides, that in fixing on a part of the country which she had -before inhabited, and yet where she would be utterly unknown, the idea -of her future home assumed distinctness, and a greater sense of -practicability was imparted to her schemes, than could have been the -case, had she been unable to form any image in her mind of the exact -spot whither she was about to betake herself. - -The first conception of this plan had dawned on her soul, as the design -of some sublime poem or magnificent work of art may present itself to -the contemplation of the poet and man of genius. She dwelt on it in its -entire result, with a glow of joy; she entered into its details with -childish eagerness. She pictured to herself the satisfaction of Villiers -and Ethel at finding themselves suddenly, as by magic, restored to -freedom and the pleasures of life. She figured their gladness in -exchanging their miserable lodging for the luxury of her elegant -dwelling; their pleasure in forgetting the long train of previous -misfortunes, or remembering them only to enhance their prosperity, when -pain and fear, disgrace and shame, should be exchanged for security and -comfort. She repeated to herself, "I do all this--I, the despised -Cornelia! I who was deemed unworthy to have the guardianship of my own -child. I, who was sentenced to desertion and misery, because I was too -worldly and selfish to be worthy of Horace Saville! How little through -life has my genuine character been known, or its qualities appreciated! -Nor will it be better understood now. My sacrifices will continue a -mystery, and even the benefits I am forced to acknowledge to flow from -me, I shall diminish in their eyes, by bestowing them with apparent -indifference. Will they ever deign to discover the reality under the -deceitful appearances which it will be my pride to exhibit? I care not; -conscience will approve me--and when I am alone and unthought of, the -knowledge that Ethel is happy through my means will make poverty a -blessing." - -It was not pride alone that induced Lady Lodore to resolve on concealing -the extent of her benefits. All that she could give was not much if -compared with the fortunes of the wealthy--but it was a competence, which -would enable her daughter and her husband to expect better days with -patience; but if they knew how greatly she was a sufferer for their good, -they would insist at least upon her sharing their income--and what was -scanty in its entireness, would be wholly insufficient when divided. -Villiers also might dispute or reject her kindness, and deeply injured as -she believed herself to have been by him--injured by his disesteem, and the -influence he had used over Saville, in a manner so baneful to her -happiness, she felt irrepressible exultation at the idea of heaping -obligation on him,--and knowing herself to be deserving of his deepest -gratitude. All these sentiments might be deemed fantastic, or at least -extravagant. Yet her conclusions were reasonable, for it was perfectly -true that Villiers would rather have returned to his prison, than have -purchased freedom at the vast price she was about to pay for it. No, her -design was faultless in its completeness, meagre and profitless if she -stopt short of its full execution. Nor would she see Ethel again in the -interim--partly fearful of not preserving her secret inviolate--partly -because she felt so strongly drawn towards her, that she dreaded finding -herself the slave of an affection--a passion, which, under her -circumstances, she could not indulge. Without counsellor, without one -friendly voice to encourage, she advanced in the path she had marked -out, and drew from her own heart only the courage to proceed. - -It required, however, all her force of character to carry her forward. A -thousand difficulties were born at every minute, and the demands made -were increased to such an extent as to make it possible that they would -go beyond her means of satisfying them. She had not the assistance of -one friend acquainted with the real state of things to direct her--her -only adviser was a man of law, who did what he was directed--not indeed -with passive obedience, but whose deviations from mere acquiescence, -arose from technical objections and legal difficulties, at once -unintelligible and tormenting. - -Besides these more palpable annoyances, other clouds arose, natural to -wavering humanity, which would sometimes shadow Cornelia's soul, so that -she drooped from the height she had reached, with a timid and dejected -spirit. At first she looked forward to ruin, exile, and privation, as to -possessions which she coveted--but the further she proceeded, the more -she lost view of the light and gladness which had attended on the dawn -of her new visions. Futurity became enveloped in an appalling obscurity, -while the present was sad and cheerless. The ties which she had formed -in the world, which she had fancied it would be so easy to cut asunder, -assumed strength; and she felt that she must endure many pangs in the -act of renouncing them for ever. The scenes and persons which, a little -while ago, she had regarded as uninteresting and frivolous--she was now -forced to acknowledge to be too inextricably interwoven with her habits -and pursuits, to be all at once quitted without severe pain. When the -future was spoken of by others with joyous anticipation, her heart sunk -within her, to think how her hereafter was to become disjointed and cast -away from all that had preceded it. The mere pleasures of society grew -into delights, when thought of as about to become unattainable; and -slight partialities were regarded as if founded upon strong friendship -and tender affection. She was not aware till now how habit and -association will endear the otherwise indifferent, and how the human -heart, prone to love, will entwine its ever-sprouting tendrils around -any object, not absolutely repulsive, which is brought into near contact -with it. When any of her favourites addressed her in cordial tones, when -she met the glance of one she esteemed, directed towards her with an -expression of kindliness and sympathy, her eyes grew dim, and a thrill -of anguish passed through her frame. All that she had a little while ago -scorned as false and empty, she now looked upon as the pleasant reality -of life, which she was to exchange for she scarcely knew what--a living -grave, a friendless desart--for silence and despair. - -It is a hard trial at all times to begin the world anew, even when we -exchange a mediocre station for one which our imagination paints as full -of enjoyment and distinction. How much more difficult it was for Lady to -despoil herself of every good, and voluntarily to encounter poverty in -its most unadorned guise. As time advanced, she became fully aware of -what she would have to go through, and her heroism was the greater, -because, though the charm had vanished, and no hope of compensation or -reward was held out, she did not shrink from accomplishing her task. She -could not exactly say, like old Adam in the play, - - -At seventeen years many their fortunes seek, -But at fourscore it is too late a week. - - -Yet at her age it was perhaps more difficult to cast off the goods of this -world, than at a more advanced one. Midway in life, we are not weaned -from affections and pleasures--we still hope. We even demand more of -solid advantages, because the romantic ideas of youth have disappeared, -and yet we are not content to give up the game. We no longer set our -hearts on ephemeral joys, but require to be enabled to put our trust in -the continuance of any good offered to our choice. This desire of -durability in our pleasures is equally felt by the young; but ardour of -feeling and ductility of imagination is then at hand to bestow a -quality, so dear and so unattainable to fragile humanity, on any object -we desire should be so gifted. But at a riper age we pause, and seek -that our reason may be convinced, and frequently prefer a state of -prosperity less extatic and elevated, because its very sobriety -satisfies us that it will not slip suddenly from our grasp. - -The comforts of life, the esteem of friends--these are things which we -then regard with the greatest satisfaction; and other feelings, less -reasonable, yet not less keenly felt, may enter into the circle of -sensations, which forms the existence of a beautiful woman. It is less -easy for one who has been all her life admired and waited upon, to give -up the few last years of such power, than it would have been to cast -away the gift in earlier life. She has learned to doubt her influence, -to know its value, and to prize it. In girlhood it may be matter of mere -triumph--in after years it will be looked on as an inestimable quality -by which she may more easily and firmly secure the benevolence of her -fellow-creatures. All this depends upon the polish of the skin and the -fire of the eye, which a few years will deface and quench--and while the -opprobrious epithet of old woman approaches within view, she is glad to -feel secure from its being applied to her, by perceiving the signs of -the influence of her surviving attractions marked in the countenances of -her admirers. Lady Lodore never felt so kindly inclined towards hers, as now -that she was about to withdraw from them. Their admiration, for its own -sake, she might contemn, but she valued it as the testimony that those -charms were still hers, which once had subdued the soul of him she -loved--and this was no disagreeable assurance to one who was on the eve -of becoming a grandmother. - -Her sensibility, awakened by the considerations forced on her by her new -circumstances, caused her to make more progress in the knowledge of -life, and in the philosophy of its laws, than love or ambition had ever -done before. The last had rendered her proud from success, the first had -caused her to feel dependent on one only; but now that she was about to -abandon all, she found herself bound to all by stronger ties than she -could have imagined. She became aware that any new connexion could never -be adorned by the endearing recollections attending those she had -already formed. The friends of her youth, her mere acquaintances, she -regarded with peculiar partiality, as being the witnesses or sharers of -her past joys and successes. Each familiar face was sanctified in her -eyes by association; and she walked among those whom she had so lately -scorned, as if they were saintly memorials to be approached with awe, -and quitted with eternal regret. Her hopes and prospects had hinged upon -them, but her life became out of joint when she quitted them. Her -sensitive nature melted in unwonted tenderness while occupied by such -contemplations, and they turned the path, she had so lately entered as -one of triumph and gladness, to gloom and despondence. - -Sometimes she pondered upon means for preserving her connexion with the -world. But any scheme of that kind was fraught, on the one hand, with -mortification to herself, on the other, with the overthrow of her -designs, through the repugnance which Ethel and her husband would feel -at occasioning such unmeasured sacrifices. She often regretted that -there were no convents, to which she might retire with safety and -dignity. Conduct, such as she contemplated pursuing, would, under the -old regime in France, have been recompensed by praise and gratitude; -while its irrevocability must prevent any resistance to her wishes. In -giving up fortune and station, she would have placed herself under the -guardianship of a community; and have found protection and security, to -compensate for poverty and slavery. The very reverse of all this must -now happen. Alone, friendless, unknown, and therefore despised, she must -shift for herself, and rely on her own resources for prudence to insure -safety, and courage to endure the evils of her lot. To one of another -sex, the name of loneliness can never convey the idea of desolation and -disregard, which gives it so painful a meaning in a woman's mind. They -have not been taught always to look up to others, and to do nothing for -themselves; so that business becomes a matter of heroism to a woman, -when conducted in the most common-place way; but when it is accompanied -by mystery, she feels herself transported from her fitting place, and as -if about to encounter shame and contumely. Lady Lodore had never been -conversant with any mode of life, except that of being waited on and -watched over. In the poverty of her early girlhood, her mother had been -constantly at her side. The necessity of so conducting herself as to -prevent the shadow of slander from visiting her, had continued this -state of dependence during all her married life. She had never stept -across a street without attendance; nor put on her gloves, but as -brought to her by a servant. Her look had commanded obedience, and her -will had been law with those about her. This was now to be altered. She -scarcely reverted in her mind to these minutiæ; and when she did, it -was to smile at herself for being able to give weight to such trifles. -She was not aware how, hereafter, these small things would become the -shapings and embodyings which desertion and penury would adopt, to sting -her most severely. The new course she was about to enter, was too -unknown to make her fears distinct. There was one vast blank before her, -one gigantic and mishapen image of desertion, which filled her mind to -the exclusion of every other, but whose parts were not made out, though -this very indistinctness was the thing that often chiefly appalled her. - -She said, with the noble exile,[2]-- - - -"I am too old to fawn upon a nurse, -Too far in years to be a pupil now." - - -It is true that she had not, like him, -to lament that-- - - -"My native English, now I must forego;" - - -but there is -another language, even more natural than the mere dialect in which we -have been educated. When our lips no longer utter the sentiments of our -heart--when we are forced to exchange the spontaneous effusions of the -soul for cramped and guarded phrases, which give no indication of the -thought within,--then, indeed, may we say, that our tongue becomes - - - -. . . "an unstringed viol, or a harp, -. . . . . . put into his hands, -That knows no touch to tune the harmony." - - -And this was to be Lady Lodore's position. Her only companions would be -villagers; or, at best, a few Welsh gentry, with whom she could have no -real communication. Sympathy, the charm of life, was dead for her, and -her state of banishment would be far more complete than if mountains and -seas only constituted its barriers. - -Lady Lodore was often disturbed by these reflections, but she did not on -that account waver in her purpose. The flesh might shrink, but the spirit -was firm. Sometimes, indeed, she wondered how it was that she had first -conceived the design, which had become the tyrant of her life. She had -long known that she had a daughter, young, lovely, and interesting, -without any great desire to become intimate with her. Sometimes pride, -sometimes indignation, had checked her maternal feelings. The only time -before, in which she had felt any emotion similar to that which now -governed her, was on the day when she had spoken to her in the House of -Lords. But instead of indulging it, she had fled from it as an enemy, -and despised herself as a dupe, for being for one instant its subject. -When her fingers then touched her daughter's cheek, she had not trembled -like Ethel; yet an awful sensation passed through her frame, which for a -moment stunned her, and she hastily retreated, to recover herself. Now, -on the contrary, she longed to strain her child to her heart; she -thought no sacrifice too great, which was to conduce to her advantage; -and that she condemned herself never to see her more, appeared the -hardest part of the lot she was to undergo. Why was this change? She -could not tell--memory could not inform her. She only knew that since -she had seen Ethel in her adversity, the stoniness of her heart had -dissolved within her, that her whole being was subdued to tenderness, -and that the world was changed from what it had been in her eyes. She -felt that she could not endure life, unless for the sake of benefiting -her child; and that this sentiment mastered her in spite of herself, so -that every struggle with it was utterly vain. - -Thus if she sometimes repined at the hard fate that drove her into -exile, yet she never wavered in her intentions; and in the midst of -regret, a kind of exultation was born, which calmed her pain. Smiles sat -upon her features, and her voice was attuned to cheerfulness. The -new-sprung tenderness of her soul imparted a fascination to her manner -far more irresistible than that to which tact and polish had given rise. -She was more kind and affectionate, and, above all, more sincere, and -therefore more winning. Every one felt, though none could divine the -cause of, this change. It was remarked that she was improved: some -shrewdly suspected that she was in love. And so she was--with an object -more enchanting than any earthly lover. For the first time she knew and -loved the Spirit of good and beauty, an affinity to which affords the -greatest bliss that our nature can receive. - - -[Footnote 2: Richard II.] - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -It is the same, for be it joy or sorrow. -The path of its departure still is free; -Man's yesterday can ne'er be like his morrow, -Nor aught endure save mutability. - -SHELLEY. - - -The month of June had commenced. In spite of lawyer's delays and the -difficulties attendant on all such negociations, they were at last -concluded, and nothing remained but for Lady to sign the paper which was -to consign her to comparative destitution. In all changes we feel most -keenly the operation of small circumstances, and are chiefly depressed -by the necessity of stooping to the direction of petty arrangements, and -having to deal with subordinate persons. To complete her design, Lady -Lodore had to make many arrangements, trivial yet imperative, which -called for her attention, when she was least fitted to give it. She had -met these demands on her patience without shrinking; and all was -prepared for the finishing stroke about to be put to her plans. She -dismissed those servants whom she did not intend to leave in the house -for Ethel's use. She contrived to hasten the intended marriage of her -own maid, so to disburthen herself wholly. The mode by which she was, -solitary and unknown, to reach the mountains of Wales, without creating -suspicion, or leaving room for conjecture, was no easy matter. In human -life, one act is born of another, so that any one that disjoins itself -from the rest, instantly gives rise to curiosity and inquiry. Lady -Lodore, though fertile in expedients, was almost foiled: the eligibility -of having one confidant pressed itself upon her. She thought of Fanny -Derham; but her extreme youth, and her intimacy with Mrs. Villiers, -which would have necessitated many falsehoods, so to preserve the -secret, deterred her: she determined at last to trust to herself alone. -She resolved to take with her one servant only, who had not been long in -her service, and to dismiss him immediately after leaving London. -Difficulties presented themselves on every side; but she believed that -they could be best surmounted by obviating them in succession as they -arose, and that any fixed artificial plan would only tend to embarrass, -while a simple mode of proceeding would continue unquestioned. - -Her chief art consisted in not appearing to be making any change at all. -She talked of a visit of two or three months to Emms, and mentioned her -intention of lending her house, during the interval, to her daughter. -She thus secured to herself a certain period during which no curiosity -would be exicited; and after a month or two had passed away, she would -be utterly forgotten:--thus she reasoned; and whether it were a real -tomb that she entered, or the living grave which she anticipated, her -name and memory would equally vanish from the earth, and she be thought -of no more. If Ethel ever entertained a wish to see her, Villiers would -be at hand to check and divert it. Who else was there to spend a thought -upon her? Alone upon earth, no friendly eye, solicitous for her welfare, -would seek to penetrate the mystery in which she was about to envelope -herself. - -The day came, it was the second of June, when every preliminary was -accomplished. She had signed away all that she possessed--she had done -it with a smile--and her voice was unfaltering. The sum which she had -saved for herself consisted of but a few hundred pounds, on which she -was to subsist for the future. Again she enforced his pledge of secrecy -on Mr. Gayland; and glad that all was over, yet heavy at heart in spite -of her gladness, she returned to her home, which in a few hours she was -to quit for ever. - -During all this time, her thoughts had seldom reverted to Saville. Hope -was dead, and the regrets of love had vanished with it. That he would -approve her conduct, was an idea that now and then flashed across her -mind; but he would remain in eternal ignorance, and therefore it could -not bring their thoughts into any communion. Whether he came to England, -or remained at Naples, availed her nothing. No circumstance could add -to, or diminish, the insuperable barrier which his marriage placed -between them. - -She returned home from her last interview with Mr. Gayland: it was four -o'clock in the day; at six she had appointed Fanny Derham to call on -her; and an hour afterwards, the horses were ordered to be at the door, -which were to convey her away. - -She became strangely agitated. She took herself to task for her -weakness; but every moment disturbed yet more the calm she was so -anxious to attain. She walked through the rooms of the house she had -dwelt in for so many years. She looked on the scene presented from her -windows. The drive in Hyde Park was beginning to fill with carriages and -equestrians, to be thronged with her friends whom she was never again to -see. Deep sadness crept over her mind. Her uncontrollable thoughts, by -some association of ideas, which she could not disentangle--brought -before her the image of Lodore, with more vividness than it had possessed -for years. A kind of wish to cross the Atlantic, and to visit the scenes -where he had dwelt so long, arose within her; and then again she felt a -desire to visit Longfield, and to view the spot in which his mortal -remains were laid. As her imagination pictured the grave of the husband -of her youth, whom she had abandoned and forgotten, tears streamed from -her eyes--the first she had shed, even in idea, beside it. "It is not to -atone--for surely I was not guilty towards him"--such were Lady Lodore's -reflections,--"yet, methinks, in this crisis of my fate, when about to -imitate his abrupt and miserable act of self-banishment, my heart yearns -for some communication with him; and it seems to me as if, approaching -his cold, silent dust, he would hear me if I said, 'Be at peace! your -child is happy through my means!"' - -Again her reveries were attended by a gush of tears. "How strange a fate -is mine, ever to be abandoned by, or to abandon, those towards whom I am -naturally drawn into near contact. Fifteen years are flown since I -parted from Lodore for ever! Then by inspiring one so high-minded, so richly -gifted, as Saville, with love for me, fortune appeared ready to -compensate for my previous sufferings; but the curse again operated, and -I shall never see him more. Yet do I not forget thee, Saville, nor thy -love!--nor can it be a crime to think of the past, which is as -irretrievable as if the grave had closed over it. Through Saville it has -been that I have not lived quite in vain--that I have known what love -is; and might have even tasted of happiness, but for the poison which -perpetually mingles with my cup. I never wish to see him more; but if I -earnestly desire to visit Lodore's grave, how gladly would I make a far -longer pilgrimage to see Saville's child, and to devote myself to one -who owes its existence to him. Wretched Cornelia! what thoughts are -these? Is it now, that you are a beggar and an outcast, that you first -encourage unattainable desires?" - -Still as she looked round, and remembered how often Saville had been -beside her in that room, thoughts and regrets thronged faster and more -thickly on her. She recollected the haughty self-will and capricious -coquetry which had caused the destruction of her dearest hopes. She took -down a miniature of herself, which her lover had so fruitlessly besought -her to give him. It was on the belief that she had bestowed this picture -on a rival that he had so suddenly come to the determination of quitting -England. It seemed now in its smiles and youth to reproach her for -having wasted both; and the sight of it agitated her bosom, and produced -a tumult of regret and despair at his loss--till she threw it from her, -as too dearly associated with one she must forget. And yet wherefore -forget?--he had forgotten; but as a dead wife might in her grave, love -her husband, though wedded to another, so might the lost, buried -Cornelia remember him, though the husband of Clorinda. Self-compassion -now moved her to tears, and she wept plentiful showers, which rather -exhausted than relieved her. - -With a strong effort she recalled her sense of what was actually going -on, and struggling resolutely to calm herself, she sat down and began a -letter to her daughter, which was necessary, as some sort of -explanation, at once to allay wonder and baffle curiosity. Thus she -wrote: - - -"DEAREST ETHEL, - -"My hopes have not been deceived. Mr. Gayland has at last contrived -means for the liberation of your husband; and to-morrow morning you will -leave that shocking place. Perhaps I receive more pleasure from this -piece of good fortune than you, for your sense of duty and sweet -disposition so gild the vilest objects, that you live in a world of your -own, as beautiful as yourself, and the accident of situation is -immaterial to you. - -"It is not enough, however, that you should be free. I hope that the -punctilious delicacy of Mr. Villiers will not cause you to reject the -benefits of a mother. In this instance there is more of justice than -generosity in my offer; and it may therefore be accepted without the -smallest hesitation. My jointure ought to satisfy me, and the additional -six hundred a year--which I may call the price of blood, since I bought -it at the sacrifice of the dearest ties and duties,--is most freely at -your service. It will delight me to get rid of it, as much as if thus I -threw off the consciousness of a crime. It is yours by every law of -equity, and will be hereafter paid into your banker's hands. Do not -thank me, my dear child--be happy, that will be my best reward. Be -happy, be prudent--this sum will not make you rich; and the only -acknowledgment I ask of you is, that you make it suffice, and avoid debt -and embarrassment. - -"By singular coincidence I am imperatively obliged to leave England at -this moment. The horses are ordered to be here in half an hour--I am -obliged therefore to forego the pleasure of seeing you until my return. -Will you forgive me this apparent neglect, which is the result of -necessity, and favour me by coming to my house to-morrow, on leaving -your present abode, and making it your home until my return? Miss Derham -has promised to call here this afternoon; I shall see her before I go, -and through her you will learn how much you will make me your debtor by -accepting my offers, and permitting me to be of some slight use to you. - -"Excuse the brevity and insufficiency of this letter, written at the -moment of departure.--You will hear from me again, when I am able to -send you my address, and I shall hope to have a letter from you. -Meanwhile Heaven bless you, my angelic Ethel! Love your mother, and -never, in spite of every thing, permit unkind thoughts of her to harbour -in your mind. Make Mr. Villiers think as well of me as he can, and -believe me that your welfare will always be the dearest wish of my -heart. Adieu. - -"Ever affectionately yours. - -"C. LODORE." - - -She folded and sealed this letter, and at the same moment there was a -knock at the door of her house, which she knew announced the arrival of -Fanny Derham. She was still much agitated, and trying to calm herself, -she took up a newspaper, and cast her eyes down the columns; so, by one -of the most common place of the actions of our life, to surmount the -painful intensity of her thoughts. She read mechanically one or two -paragraphs--she saw the announcements of births, marriages, and deaths. -"My moral death will not be recorded here," she thought, "and yet, I -shall be more dead than any of these." The thought in her mind remained -as it were truncated; her eye was arrested--a paleness came over -her--the pulses of her heart paused, and then beat tumultuously--how -strange--how fatal were the words she read!-- - -"Died suddenly at the inn at the Mola di Gaeta, on her way from Naples, -Clorinda, the wife of the honourable Horatio Saville, in the -twenty-second year of her age." - -Her drawing-room door was opened, the butler announced Miss Derham, -while her eyes still were fixed on the paragraph: her head swam -round--the world seemed to slide from under her. Fanny's calm clear -voice recalled her. She conquered her agitation--she spoke as if she had -not just crossed a gulf--not been transported to a new world; and, -again, swifter than light, brought back to the old one. She conversed -with Fanny for some time; giving some kind of explanation for not having -been to see Ethel, begging her young friend to press her invitation, and -speaking as if in autumn they should all meet again. Fanny, philosophic as -she was, regarded Lady Lodore with a kind of idolatry. The same charm that -had fascinated the unworldly and abstracted Saville, she exercised over -the thoughtful and ingenuous mind of the fair young student. It was the -attraction of engaging manners, added now to the sense of right, joined -to the timid softness of a woman, who trembled on acting unsupported, -even though her conscience approved her deeds. It was her loveliness -which had gained in expression what it had lost in youth, and kindness -of heart was the soul of the enchantment. Fanny ventured to remonstrate -against her sudden departure. "O we shall soon meet again," said -Cornelia; but her thoughts were more of heaven than earth, as the scene -of meeting; for her heart was chilled--her head throbbed--the words she -had read operated a revolution in her frame, more allied to sickness and -death, than hope or triumph. - -Fanny at length took her leave, and Lady Lodore was again alone. She took -up the newspaper--hastily she read again the tidings; she sunk on the sofa, -burying her face in the pillow, trying not to think, while she was -indeed the prey to the wildest thoughts. - -"Yes," thus ran her reflections, "he is free--he is no longer _married_! -Fool, fool! he is still lost to you!--an outcast and a beggar, shall I -solicit his love! which he believes that I rejected when prosperous. -Rather never, never, let me see him again. My beauty is tarnished, my -youth flown; he would only see me to wonder how he had ever loved me. -Better hide beneath the mountains among which I am soon to find a -home--better, far better, die, than see Saville and read no love in his -eyes. - -"Yet thus again I cast happiness from me. What then would I do? Unweave -the web--implore Mr. Villiers to endure my presence--reveal my state of -beggary--ask thanks for my generosity, and humbly wait for a kind glance -from Saville, to raise me to wealth as well as to happiness.--Cornelia, -awake!--be not subdued at the last--act not against your disposition, the -pride of your soul--the determinations you have formed--do not learn to -be humble in adversity--you, who were disdainful in happier days--no! if -they need me--if they love me--if Saville still remembers the -worship--the heart's entire sacrifice which once he made to me--will a -few miles--the obscurity of my abode--or the silence and mystery that -surrounds me, check his endeavours that we should once again meet? - -"No!" she said, rising, "my destiny is in other and higher hands than my -own. It were vain to endeavour to controul it. Whatever I do, works -against me; now let the thread be spun to the end, while I do nothing; I -can but endure the worst patiently; and how much better to bear in -silence, than to struggle vainly with the irrevocable decree! I submit. -Let Providence work out its own ends, and God dispose of the being he -has made--whether I reap the harvest in this world or in the next, my -part is played, I will strive no more!" - -She believed in her own singleness of purpose as she said this, and yet -she was never more deceived. While she boasted of her resignation, she -was yielding not to a high moral power, but to the pride of her soul. -Her resolutions were in accordance with the haughtiness of her -disposition, and she felt satisfied, not because she was making a noble -sacrifice, but because she thus adorned more magnificently the idol she -set up for worship, and believed herself to be more worthy of applause -and love. Yet who could condemn even errors that led to such unbending -and heroic forgetfulness of all the baser propensities of our nature. -Nor was this feeling of triumph long-lived; the wounding and humiliating -realities of life, soon degraded her from her pedestal, and made her -feel, as it were, the disgrace and indignities of abdication. - -Her travelling chariot drove up to the door, and, after a few moments' -preparation, she was summoned. Again she looked round the room; her -heart swelled high with impatience and repining, but again she conquered -herself. She took up her miniature--_that_ now she might possess--for she -could remember without sin--she took up the newspaper, which did or did -not contain the fiat of her fate; but this action appeared to militate -against the state of resignation she had resolved to attain, so she -threw it down: she walked down the stairs, and passed out from her house -for the last time--she got into the carriage--the door was closed--the -horses were in motion--all was over. - -Her head felt sick and heavy; she leaned back in her carriage half -stupified. When at last London and its suburbs were passed, the sight of -the open country a little revived her--but she soon drooped again. -Nothing presented itself to her thoughts with any clearness, and the -exultation which had supported her vanished totally. She only knew that -she was alone, poor, forgotten; these words hovered on her lips, mingled -with others, by which she endeavoured to charm away her despondency. -Fortitude and resignation for herself--freedom and happiness for Ethel. -"O yes, she is free and happy--it matters not then what I am!" No tears -flowed to soften this thought. The bright green country--the meadows -mingled with unripe corn-fields--the tufted woods--the hedgerows full of -flowers, could not attract her eye; pangs every now and then seized upon -her heart--she had talked of resignation, but she was delivered up to -despair. - -At length she sank into a kind of stupor. She was accompanied by one -servant only; she had told him where she intended to remain that night. -It was past eleven before they arrived at Reading; the night was chill, -and she shivered while she felt as if it were impossible to move, even -to draw up the glasses of her chariot. When she arrived at the inn where -she was to pass the night, she felt keenly the discomfort of having no -female attendant. It was new--she felt as if it were disgraceful, to -find herself alone among strangers, to be obliged to give orders -herself, and to prepare alone for her repose. - -All night she could not sleep, and she became aware at last that she was -ill. She burnt with fever--her whole frame was tormented by aches, by -alternate hot and shivering fits, and by a feeling of sickness. When -morning dawned, it was worse. She grew impatient--she rose. She had -arranged that her servant should quit her at this place. He had been but -a short time with her, and was easily dismissed under the idea, that she -was to be joined by a man recommended by a friend, who was accustomed to -the continent, whither it was supposed that she was going. She had -dismissed him the night before, he was already gone, when on the morrow -she ordered the horses.--She paid the bills herself--and had to answer -questions about luggage; all these things are customary to the poor, and -to the other sex. But take a high-born woman and place her in immediate -contact with the rough material of the world, and see how like a -sensitive plant she will shrink, close herself up and droop, and feel as -if she had fallen from her native sphere into a spot unknown, ungenial, -and full of storms. - -The illness that oppressed Lady Lodore, made these natural feelings even -more acute, till at last they were blunted by the same cause. She now -wondered what it was that ailed her, and became terrified at the -occasional wanderings that interrupted her torpor. Once or twice she -wished to speak to the post-boy, but her voice failed her. At length -they drove up to the inn at Newbury; fresh horses were called for, and -the landlady came up to the door of the carriage, to ask whether the -lady had breakfasted--whether she would take anything. There was -something ghastly in Lady Lodore's appearance, which at once frightened -the good woman, and excited her compassion. She renewed her questions, -which Lady Lodore had not at first heard, adding, "You seem ill, ma'am; -do take something--had you not better alight?" - -"O yes, far better," said Cornelia, "for I think I must be very ill." - -The change of posture and cessation of motion a little revived her, and -she began to think that she was mistaken, and that it was all nothing, -and that she was well. She was conducted into the parlour of the inn, -and the landlady left her to order refreshment. "How foolish I am," she -thought; "this is mere fancy; there is nothing the matter with me;" and -she rose to ring the bell, and to order horses. When suddenly, without -any previous warning, struck as by a bolt, she fainted, and fell on the -floor, without any power of saving herself. The sound of her fall -quickened the steps of the landlady, who was returning; all the -chamber-maids were summoned, a doctor sent for, and when Lady Lodore opened -her eyes she saw unknown faces about her, a strange place, and voices yet -stranger. She did not speak, but tried to collect her thoughts, and to -unravel the mystery, as it appeared, of her situation. But soon her -thoughts wandered, and fever and weakness made her yield to the -solicitations of those around. The doctor came, and could make out -nothing but that she was in a high fever: he ordered her to be put to -bed. And thus--Saville, and Ethel, and all hopes and fears, having -vanished from her thoughts,--given up to delirium and suffering, poor -Lady Lodore, alone, unknown, and unattended, remained for several weeks -at a country inn--under the hands of a village doctor--to recover, if -God pleased, if not, to sink, unmourned and unheard of, into an untimely -grave. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -But if for me thou dost forsake -Some other maid, and rudely break -Her worshipped image from its base, -To give to me the ruined place-- - -Then fare thee well--I'd rather make -My bower upon some icy lake, -When thawing suns begin to shine, -Than trust to love so false as thine! - -LALLA ROOKH. - - -On the same day Mr. and Mrs. Villiers left their sad dwelling to take -possession of lady Lodore's house. The generosity and kindness of her -mother, such as it appeared, though she knew but the smallest portion of -it, charmed Ethel. Her heart, which had so long struggled to love her, was -gladdened by the proofs given that she deserved her warmest affection. -The truest delight beamed from her lovely countenance. Even she had felt -the gloom and depression of adversity. The sight of misery or vice in -those around her tarnished the holy fervour with which she would -otherwise have made every sacrifice for Edward's sake. There is -something in this world, which even while it gives an unknown grace to -rough, and hard, and mean circumstances, contaminates the beauty and -harmony of the noble and exalted. Ethel had been aware of this; she -dreaded its sinister influence over Villiers, and in spite of herself -she pined; she had felt with a shudder that in spite of love and -fortitude, a sense, chilling and deponding, was creeping over her, -making her feel the earth alien to her, and calling her away from the -sadness of the scene around to a world bright and pure as herself. Her -very despair thus dressed itself in the garb of religion; and though -these visitations of melancholy only came during the absence of Villiers -and were never indulged in, yet they were too natural a growth of their -wretched abode to be easily or entirely dismissed. Even now that she was -restored to the fairer scenes of life, compassion for the unfortunate -beings she quitted haunted her, and her feelings were too keenly alive -to the miseries which her fellow-creatures suffered, to permit her to be -relieved from all pain by her own exemption. She turned from such -reflections to the image of her dear kind mother with delight. The roof -that sheltered her was hallowed as hers; all the blessings of life which -she enjoyed came to her from the same source as life itself. She -delighted to trace the current of feeling which had occasioned her to -give up so much, and to imagine the sweetness of disposition, the -vivacity of mind, the talents and accomplishments which her physiognomy -expressed, and the taste manifested in her house, and all the things -which she had collected around her, evinced. - -In less than a month after their liberation, she gave birth to son. The -mingled danger and rejoicing attendant on this event, imparted fresh -strength to the attachment that united Edward to her; and the little -stranger himself was a new object of tenderness and interest. Thus their -days of mourning were exchanged for a happiness most natural and welcome -to the human heart. At this time also Horatio Saville returned from -Italy with his little girl. She was scarcely more than a year old, but -displayed an intelligence to be equalled only by her extraordinary -beauty. Her golden silken ringlets were even then profuse, her eyes were -as dark and brilliant as her mother's, but her complexion was fair, and -the same sweet smile flitted round her infant mouth, as gave the charm -to her father's face. He idolized her, and tried by his tenderness and -attention to appease, as it were, the manes of the unfortunate Clorinda. - -She, poor girl, had been the victim of the violence of passion and -ill-regulated feelings native to her country, excited into unnatural -force by the singularity of her fate. When Saville saw her first in her -convent, she was pining for liberty; she did not think of any joy beyond -escaping the troublesome impertinence of the nuns and the monotonous -tenor of monastic life, of associating with people she loved, and -enjoying the common usages of life, unfettered by the restrictions that -rendered her present existence a burthen. But though she desired no -more, her disgust for the present, her longing for a change, was a -powerful passion. She was adorned by talents, by genius; she was -eloquent and beautiful, and full of enthusiasm and feeling. Saville -pitied her; he lamented her future fate among her unworthy countrymen; -he longed to cherish, to comfort, and to benefit her. His heart, so -easily won to tenderness, gave her readily a brother's regard. Others, -seeing the active benevolence and lively interest that this sentiment -elicited, might have fancied him inspired by a warmer feeling; but he -well knew the difference, he ardently desired her happiness, but did not -seek his own in her. - -He visited her frequently, he brought her books, he taught her English. -They were allowed to meet daily in the parlour of the convent, in the -presence of a female attendant; and his admiration of her talents, her -imagination, her ardent comprehensive mind, increased on every -interview. They talked of literature--the poets--the arts; Clorinda sang -to him, and her fine voice, cultivated by the nicest art, was a source -of deep pleasure and pain to her auditor. His sensibility was awakened -by the tones of love and rapture--sensibility, not alas! for her who -sang, but for the false and absent. While listening, his fancy recalled -Lady Lodore's image; the hopes she had inspired, the rapture he had felt in -her presence--the warm vivifying effect her voice and looks had on him -were remembered, and his heart sank within him to think that all this -sweetness was deceptive, fleeting, lost. Once, overcome by these -thoughts, he resolved to return suddenly to England, to make one effort -more to exchange unendurable wretchedness for the most transporting -happiness;--absence from Cornelia, to the joy of pouring out the -overflowing sentiments of his heart at her feet. While indulging in this -idea, a letter from his sister Lucy caused a painful revulsion; she -painted the woman of the world given up to ambition and fashion, -rejoicing in his departure, and waiting only the moment when she might -with decency become the wife of another. Saville was almost maddened--he -did not visit Clorinda for three days. She received him, when at last he -came, without reproach, but with transport; she saw that sadness, even -sickness, dimmed his eye; she soothed him, she hung over him with -fondness, she sung to him her sweetest, softest airs; his heart melted, -a tear stole from his eye. Clorinda saw his emotion; it excited hers; -her Neapolitan vivacity was not restrained by shame nor fear,--she spoke -of her love for him with the vehemence she felt, and youth and beauty -hallowed the frankness and energy of her expressions. Saville was -touched and pleased,--he left her to meditate on this new state of -things--for free from passion himself, he had never suspected the growth -of it in her heart. He reflected on all her admirable qualities, and the -pity it was that they should be cast at the feet of one of her own -unrefined, uneducated countrymen, who would be incapable of appreciating -her talents--even her love--so that at last she would herself become -degraded, and sink into that system of depravity which makes a prey of -all that is lovely or noble in our nature. He could save her--she loved -him, and he could save her; lost as he was to real happiness, it were to -approximate to it, if he consecrated his life to her welfare. - -Yet he would not deceive her. The excess of love which she bestowed -demanded a return which he could not give. She must choose whether, such -as he was, he were worth accepting. Actuated by a sense of justice, he -opened his heart to her without disguise: he told her of his ill-fated -attachment to another--of his self-banishment, and misery--he declared -his real and earnest affection for her--his desire to rescue her from -her present fate, and to devote his life to her. Clorinda scarcely heard -what he said,--she felt only that she might become his--that he would -marry her; her rapture was undisguised, and he enjoyed the felicity of -believing that one so lovely and excellent would at once owe every -blessing of life to him, and that the knowledge of this must ensure his -own content. The consent of her parents was easily yielded,--the Pope is -always ready to grant a dispensation to a Catholic wife marrying a -Protestant husband,--the wedding speedily took place--and Saville became -her husband. - -Their mutual torments now began. Horatio was a man of high and -unshrinking principle. He never permitted himself to think of Lady Lodore, -and the warmth and tenderness of his heart led him to attach himself truly -and affectionately to his wife. But this did not suffice for the -Neapolitan. Her marriage withdrew the veil of life--she imagined that -she distinguished the real from the fictitious, but her new sense of -discernment was the source of torture. She desired to be loved as she -loved; she insisted that her rival should be hated--she was shaken by -continual tempests of jealousy, and the violence of her temper, -restrained by no reserve of disposition, displayed itself frightfully. -Saville reasoned, reproached, reprehended, without any avail, except -that when her violence had passed its crisis, she repented, and wept, -and besought forgiveness. Ethel's visit had been a blow hard to bear. -She was the daughter of her whom Saville loved--whom he regretted--on -whom he expended that passion and idolatry, to attain which she would -have endured the most dreadful tortures. These were the reflections, or -rather, these were the ravings, of Clorinda. She had never been so -furious in her jealousy, or so frequent in her fits of passion, as -during the visit of the unconscious and gentle Ethel. - -The birth of her child operated a beneficial change for a time; and -except when Saville spoke of England, or she imagined that he was -thinking of it, she ceased to torment him. He was glad; but the moment -was passed when she could command his esteem, or excite his spontaneous -sympathy. He pitied and he loved her; but it was almost as we may become -attached to an unfortunate and lovely maniac; less than ever did he seek -his happiness in her. He loved his infant daughter now better than any -other earthly thing. Clorinda rejoiced in this tie, though she soon grew -jealous even of her own child. - -The arrival of Lord Maristow and his daughters was at first full of -benefit to the discordant pair. Clorinda was really desirous of -obtaining their esteem, and she exerted herself to please: when they -talked of her return to England with them, it only excited her to try to -render Italy so agreeable as to induce them to remain there. They were -not like Ethel. They were good girls, but fashionable and fond of -pleasure. Clorinda devised a thousand amusements--concerts, tableaux, -the masquerades of the carnival, were all put in requisition. They -carried their zeal for amusement so far as to take up their abode for a -day or two at Pompeii, feigning to be its ancient inhabitants, and, -bringing the _corps operatique_ to their aid, got up Rossini's opera of -the Ultimi Giorni di Pompeii among the ruins, ending their masquerade by -a mimic eruption. These gaieties did not accord with the classic and -refined tastes of Saville; but he was glad to find his wife and sisters -agree so well, and under the blue sky, and in the laughing land of -Naples, it was impossible not to find beauty and enjoyment even in -extravagance and folly. - -Still, like a funeral bell heard amidst a feast, the name of England, -and the necessity of her going thither, struck on the ear and chilled -the heart of the Neapolitan. She resolved never to go; but how could she -refuse to accompany her husband's sisters? how resist the admonitions -and commands of his father? She did not refuse therefore--she seemed to -consent--while she said to Saville, "Poison, stab me--cast me down the -crater of the mountain--exhaust your malice and hatred on me as you -please here--but you shall never take me to England but as a corpse." - -Saville replied, "As you will." He was tired of the struggle, and left -the management of his departure to others. - -One day his sisters described the delights of a London season, and -strove to win Clorinda by the mention of its balls, parties, and opera; -they spoke of Almack's, and the leaders of fashion; they mentioned Lady -Lodore. They were unaware that Clorinda knew any thing of their brother's -attachment, and speaking of her as one of the most distinguished of -their associates in the London world, made their sister-in-law aware, -that when she made a part of it, she would come into perpetual contact -with her rival. This allusion caused one of her most violent paroxysms -of rage as soon as she found herself alone with her husband. So frantic -did she seem, that Horatio spoke seriously to his father, and declared -he knew of no argument nor power which could induce Clorinda to -accompany them to England. "Then you must go without her," said Lord -Maristow; "your career, your family, your country, must not be -sacrificed to her unreasonable folly." And then, wholly unaware of the -character of the person with whom he had to deal, he repeated the same -thing to Clorinda. "You must choose," he said, "between Naples and your -husband--he must go; do you prefer being left behind?" - -Clorinda grew pale, even livid. She returned home. Horatio was not -there; she raved through her house like a maniac; her servants even hid -her child from her, and she rushed from room to room tearing her hair, -and calling for Saville. At length he entered; her eyes were starting -from her head, her frame working with convulsive violence; she strove to -speak--to give utterance to the vehemence pent up within her. She darted -towards him; when suddenly, as if shot to the heart, she fell on the -marble pavement of her chamber, and a red stream poured from her -lips--she had burst a blood-vessel. - -For many days she was not allowed to speak nor move. Saville nursed her -unremittingly--he watched by her at night--he tried to soothe her--he -brought her child to her side--his sweetness, and gentleness, and real -tenderness were all expended on her. Although violent, she was not -ungenerous. She was touched by his attentions, and the undisguised -solicitude of his manner. She resolved to conquer herself, and in a fit -of heroism formed the determination to yield, and to go to England. Her -first words, when permitted to speak, were to signify her assent. -Saville kissed and thanked her. She had half imagined that he would -imitate her generosity, and give up the journey. No such thought crossed -his mind; her distaste was too unreasonable to elicit the smallest -sympathy, and consequently any concession. He thanked her warmly, it is -true; and looked delighted at this change, but without giving her time -to retract, he hurried to communicate to his relations the agreeable -tidings. - -As she grew better she did not recede, but she felt miserable. The good -spirits and ready preparations of Horatio were all acts of treason -against her: sometimes she felt angry--but she checked herself. Like all -Italians, Clorinda feared death excessively; besides that, to die was to -yield the entire victory to her rival. She struggled therefore, and -conquered herself; and neither expressed her angry jealousy nor her -terrors. She had many causes of fear; she was again in a situation to -increase her family within a few months; and while her safety depended -on her being able to attain a state of calm, she feared a confinement in -England, and believed that it was impossible that she should survive. - -She was worn to a skeleton--her large eyes were sunk and ringed with -black, while they burnt with unnatural brilliancy, for her vivacity did -not desert her, and that deceived those around; they fancied that she -was convalescent, and would soon recover strength and good looks, while -she nourished a deep sense of wrong for the slight attention paid to her -sufferings. She wept over herself and her friendless state. Her husband -was not her friend, for he was not her countryman: and full as Saville -was of generous sympathy and kindliness for all, the idea of returning -to England, to his home and friends, to the stirring scenes of life, and -the society of those who loved literature, and were endowed with the -spirit of liberal inquiry and manly habits of thinking, so absorbed and -delighted him, that he could only thank Clorinda again and again--caress -her, and entreat her to get well, that she might share his pleasures. -His words chilled her, and she shrunk from his caresses. "He is thinking -of her, and of seeing her again," she thought. She did him the most -flagrant injustice. Saville was a man of high and firm principle, and -had he been aware of any latent weakness, of any emotion allied to the -master-passion of his soul, he would have conquered it, or have fled -from the temptation. He never thought less of Lady Lodore than now. The -unwonted gentleness and concessions of his wife--his love for his child, -and the presence of his father and dear sisters, dissipated his -regrets,--his conscience was wholly at ease, and he was happy. - -Clorinda dared not complain to her English relatives, but she listened -to the lamentations of her Neapolitan friends with a luxury of woe. They -mourned over her as if she were going to visit another sphere; they -pointed out the little island on a map, and seated far off as it was -amidst the northern sea, night and storms, they averred, perpetually -brooded over it, while from the shape of the earth they absolutely -proved that it was impossible to get there. It is true that Lord -Maristow and his daughters, and Saville himself, had come thence--that -was nothing--it was easy to come away. "You see," they said, "the earth -slopes down, and the sun is before them; but when they have to go back, -ah! it is quite another affair; the Alps rise, and the sea boils over, -and they have to toil up the wall of the world itself into winter and -darkness. It is tempting God to go there. O stay, Clorinda, stay in -sunny Italy. Orazio will return: do not go to die in that miserable -birth-place of night and frost." - -Clorinda wept yet more bitterly over her hard fate, and the -impossibility of yielding to their wishes. "Would to God," she thought, -"I could abandon the ingrate, and let him go far from Italy and -Clorinda, to die in his wretched country! Would I could forget, hate, -desert him! Ah, why do I idolize one born in that chilly land, where -love and passion are unknown or despised!" - -At length the day arrived when they left Naples. It was the month of -May, and very warm. No imagination could paint the glorious beauty of -this country of enchantment, on the completion of spring, before the -heats of summer had withered its freshness. The sparkling waves of the -blue Mediterranean encircled the land, and contrasted with its hues: the -rich foliage of the trees--the festooning of the luxuriant vines, and -the abundant vegetation which sprung fresh from the soil, decorating the -rocks, and mantling the earth with flowers and verdure, were all in the -very prime and blossoming of beauty. The sisters of Saville expressed -their admiration in warm and enthusiastic terms; the words trembled on -poor Clorinda's lips; she was about to say, "Why then desert this land -of bliss?" but Horatio spoke instead: "It is splendid, I own, and once I -felt all that you express. Now a path along a grassy field--a -hedge-row--a copse with a rill murmuring through it--a white cottage -with simple palings enclosing a flower-garden--the spire of a country -church rising from among a tuft of elms--the skies all shadowy with soft -clouds--and the homesteads of a happy thriving peasantry--these are the -things I sigh for. A true English home-scene seems to me a thousand -times more beautiful, as it must be a thousand times dearer than the -garish showy splendour of Naples." - -Clorinda's thoughts crept back into her chilled heart; large tear-drops -rose in her eyes, but she concealed them, and shrinking into a corner of -the carriage, she felt more lonely and deserted than she would have done -among strangers who had loved Italy, and participated in her feelings. - -They arrived at the inn called the Villa di Cicerone, at the Mola di -Gaeta. All the beauty of the most beautiful part of the Peninsula seems -concentered in that enchanting spot--the perfume of orange flowers -filled the air--the sea was at their feet--the vine-clad hills around. -All this excess of loveliness only added to the unutterable misery of -the Neapolitan girl. Her companions talked and laughed, while she felt -her frame convulsed by internal combats, and the unwonted command she -exercised over her habitual vehemence. Horatio conversed gaily with his -sisters, till catching a glimpse of the pale face of his wretched wife, -her mournful eyes and wasted cheeks, he drew near her. "You are -fatigued, dearest Clorinda," he said, "will you not go to rest?" - -He said this in a tender caressing tone, but she felt, "He wants to send -me away--to get rid even of the sight of me." But he sat down by her, -and perceiving her dejection, and guessing partly at its cause, he -soothed her, and talked of their return to her native land, and cheered -her by expressions of gratitude for the sacrifice she was making. Her -heart began to soften, and her tears to flow more freely, when a man -entered, such as haunt the inns in Italy, and watch for the arrival of -rich strangers to make profit in various ways out of them. This man had -a small picture for sale, which he declared to be an original Carlo -Dolce. It was the head of a seraph painted on copper--it was probably a -copy, but it was beautifully executed; besides the depth of colour and -grace of design, there was something singularly beautiful in the -expression of the countenance portrayed,--it symbolized happiness and -love; a beaming softness animated the whole face; a perfect joy, an -ineffable radiance shone out of it. Clorinda took it in her hand--the -representation of heart-felt gladness increased her self-pity; she was -turning towards her husband with a reproachful look, thinking, "Such -smiles you have banished from my face for ever,"--when Sophia Saville, -who was looking over her shoulder, exclaimed, "What an extraordinary -resemblance! there was never any thing so like." - -"Who? what?" asked her sister. - -"It is Lady Lodore herself," replied Sophia; "her eyes, her mouth, her very -smile." - -Lucy gave a quick glance towards her brother. Horatio involuntarily -stepped forward to look, and then as hastily drew back. Clorinda saw it -all--she put down the picture, and left the room--she could not -stay--she could not speak--she knew not what she felt, but that a fiery -torture was eating into her, and she must fly, she knew not whither. -Saville was pained; he hesitated what to do or say--so he remained; -supper was brought in, and Clorinda not appearing, it was supposed that -she had retired to rest. In about an hour and a half after, Horatio went -into her room, and to his horror beheld her stretched upon the cold -bricks of the chamber, senseless; the moon-beams rested on her pale -face, which bore the hues of death. In a moment the house was alarmed, -the village doctor summoned, a courier dispatched to Naples for an -English physician, and every possible aid afforded the wretched -sufferer. She was placed on the bed,--she still lived; her faint pulse -could not be felt, and no blood flowed when a vein was opened, but she -groaned, and now and then opened her eyes with a ghastly stare, and -closed them again as if mechanically. All was horror and despair--no -help--no resource presented itself; they hung round her, they listened -to her groans with terror, and yet they were the only signs of life that -disturbed her death-like state. At last, soon after the dawn of day, she -became convulsed, her pulse fluttered, and blood flowed from her wounded -arm; in about an hour from this time she gave birth to a dead child. -After this she grew calmer and fainter. The physician arrived, but she -was past mortal cure,--she never opened her eyes more, nor spoke, nor -gave any token of consciousness. By degrees her groans ceased, and she -faded into death: the slender manifestations of lingering vitality -gradually decreasing till all was still and cold. After an hour or two -her face resumed its loveliness, pale and wasted as it was: she seemed -to sleep, and none could regret that repose possessed that heart, which -had been alive only to the deadliest throes of unhappy passion. Yet -Saville did more than regret--he mourned her sincerely and deeply,--he -accused himself of hard-heartedness,--he remembered what she was when he -had first seen her;--how full of animation, beauty, and love. He did not -remember that she had perished the victim of uncontrolled passion; he -felt that she was his victim. He would have given worlds to restore her -to life and enjoyment. What was a residence in England--the promises of -ambition--the pleasures of his native land--all that he could feel or -know, compared to the existence of one so young, so blessed with -Heaven's choicest gifts of mind and person. She was his victim, and he -could never forgive himself. - -For his father's and sisters' sake he subdued the expression of his -grief, for they also loved Clorinda, and were struck with sorrow at the -sudden catastrophe. His strong mind, also, before long, mastered the -false view he had taken of the cause of her death. He lamented her -deeply, but he did not give way to unavailing remorse, which was founded -on his sensibility, and not on any just cause for repentance. He turned -all his thoughts to repairing her errors, rather than his own, by -cherishing her child with redoubled fondness. The little girl was too -young to feel her loss; she had always loved her father, and now she -clung to his bosom and pressed her infant lips to his cheek, and by her -playfulness and caresses repaid him for the tenderness that he lavished -on her. - -After some weeks spent in the north of Italy he returned to England with -her. Lord Maristow and his daughters were already there, and had gone to -Maristow Castle. Saville took up his abode with his cousin Villiers. His -situation was new and strange. He found himself in the very abode of the -dreaded Cornelia, yet she was away, unheard of, almost, it seemed, -forgotten. Did he think of her as he saw the traces of by-gone scenes -around? He played with his child--he secluded himself among his -books--he talked with Ethel of what had happened since their parting, -and reproached Villiers bitterly for not having applied to him in his -distress. But a kind of spell sealed the lips of each, and Lady Lodore, who -was the living spirit of the scene around--the creator of its peace and -happiness--seemed to have passed away from the memory of all. It was in -appearance only. Not an hour, not a minute of the day passed, that did -not bring her idea to their minds, and Saville and Ethel each longed for -the word to be uttered by either, which would permit them to give -expression to the thoughts that so entirely possessed them. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - -The music -Of man's fair composition best accords, -When 'tis in consort, not in single strains: -My heart has been untuned these many months, -Wanting her presence, in whose equal love -True harmony consisted. - -FORD. - - -At the beginning of September the whole party assembled at Maristow -Castle. Even Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry was among the guests. She had not -visited Ethel in London, because she would not enter Lady Lodore's house, -but she had the true spinster's desire of seeing the baby, and thus -overcame her reluctance to quitting Longfield for a few weeks. Fanny Derham -also accompanied them, unable to deny Ethel's affectionate entreaties. -Fanny's situation had been beneficially changed. Sir Gilbert Derham, -finding that his granddaughter associated with people _in the world_, and -being applied to by Lord Maristow, was induced to withdraw Mrs. Derham -from her mean situation, and to settle a small fortune on each of her -children. Fanny was too young, and too wedded to her platonic notions of -the supremacy of mind, to be fully aware of the invaluable advantages of -pecuniary independence for a woman. She fancied that she could enter on -the career--the only career permitted her sex--of servitude, and yet -possess her soul in freedom and power. She had never, indeed, thought -much of these things: life was, as it concerned herself, a system of -words only. As always happens to the young, she only knew suffering -through her affections, and the real chain of life--its necessities and -cares--and the sinister influences exercised by the bad passions of our -fellow-creatures--had not yet begun to fetter her aspiring thoughts. -Beautiful in her freedom, in her enthusiasm, and even in her learning, -but, above all, in the lively kindliness of her heart, she excited the -wonder and commanded the affections of all. Saville had never seen any -one like her--she brought to his recollection his own young feelings -before experience had lifted "the painted veil which those who live call -life," or passion and sorrow had tamed the ardour of his mind; he looked -on her with admiration, and yet with compassion, wondering where and how -the evil spirit of the world would show its power to torment, and -conquer the free soul of the disciple of wisdom. - -Yet Saville's own mind was rather rebuked than tamed: he knew what -suffering was, yet he knew also how to endure it, and to turn it to -advantage, deriving thence lessons of fortitude, of forbearance, and -even of hope. It was not, however, till the seal on his lips was taken -off, and the name of Cornelia mentioned, that he became aware that the -same heart warmed his bosom, as had been the cause at once of such -rapture and misery in former times. Yet even now he did not acknowledge -to himself that he still loved, passionately, devotedly loved, Lady Lodore. -The image of the pale Clorinda stretched on the pavement--his -victim--still dwelt in his memory, and he made a sacrifice at her tomb -of every living feeling of his own. He fancied, therefore, that he spoke -coldly of Cornelia, with speculation only, while in fact, at the very -mention of her name a revulsion took place in his being--his eyes -brightened, his face beamed with animation, his very figure enlarged, -his heart was on fire within him. Villiers saw and appreciated these -tokens of passion; but Ethel only perceived an interest in her mother, -shared with herself, and was half angry that he made no professions of -the constancy of his attachment. - -Still, day after day, and soon, all day long, they talked of Lady Lodore. -None but a lover and a daughter could have adhered so pertinaciously to one -subject; and thus Saville and Ethel were often left to themselves, or -joined only by Fanny. Fanny was very mysterious and alarming in what she -said of her beautiful and interesting favourite. While Ethel lamented -her mother's love of the continent, conjectured concerning her return, -and dwelt on the pleasures of their future intercourse, Fanny shook her -head, and said, "It was strange, very strange, that not one letter had -yet reached them from her." She was asked to explain, but she could only -say, that when she last saw Lady Lodore, she was impressed by the idea -that all was not as it seemed. She tried to appear as if acting -according to the ordinary routine of life, and yet was evidently -agitated by violent and irrepressible feeling. Her manner, she had -herself fancied, to be calm, and yet it betrayed a wandering of thought, -a fear of being scrutinized, manifested in her repetition of the same -phrases, and in the earnestness with which she made assurances -concerning matters of the most trivial import. This was all that Fanny -could say, but she was intimately persuaded of the correctness of her -observation, and lamented that she had not inquired further and -discovered more. "For," she said, "the mystery, whatever it is, springs -from the most honourable motives. There was nothing personal nor -frivolous in the feelings that mastered her;" and Fanny feared that at -that very moment she was sacrificing herself to some project--some -determination, which, while it benefited others, was injuring herself. -Ethel, with all her affection for her mother, was not persuaded of the -justice of these suspicions, nor could be brought to acknowledge that -the mystery of Lady Lodore's absence was induced by any motives as -strange and forcible as those suggested by Fanny; but believed that her -young friend was carried away by her own imagination and high-flown -ideas. Saville was operated differently upon. He became uneasy, -thoughtful, restless: a thousand times he was on the point of setting -out to find a clue to the mystery, and to discover the abode of the -runaway,--but he was restrained. It is usually supposed that women are -always under the influence of one sentiment, and if Lady Lodore acted -under the direction and for the sake of another, wherefore should -Saville interfere? what right had he to investigate her secrets, and -disturb her arrangements? - -Several months passed. Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry returned to Longfield, -and still the mystery concerning Ethel's mother continued, and the -wonder increased, Soon after Christmas Mr. Gayland, who was also Lord -Maristow's solicitor, came down to the Castle for a few days. He made -inquiries concerning Lady Lodore, and was somewhat surprised at her strange -disappearance and protracted absence. He asked several questions, and -seemed to form conclusions in his own mind; he excited the curiosity of -all, yet restrained himself from satisfying it; he was evidently -disquieted by her unbroken silence, yet feared to betray the origin of -his uneasiness. - -While he remained curiosity was dominant: when he went he requested -Villiers to be good enough to let him know if any thing should be heard -of Lady Lodore. He asked this more than once, and required an absolute -promise. After his departure, his questions, his manner, and his last -words recurred, exciting even more surprise than when he had been -present. Fanny brought forward all he said to support her own -conjectures; a shadow of disquiet crossed Ethel's mind; she asked -Villiers to take some steps to discover where her mother was, and on his -refusal argued earnestly, though vainly, to persuade him to comply. -Villiers was actuated by the common-place maxim of not interfering with -the actions and projects of others. "Lady Lodore is not a child," he -said, "she knows what she is about--has she not always avoided you, -Ethel? Why press yourself inopportunely upon her?" - -But Ethel was not now to be convinced by the repetition of these -arguments. She urged her mother's kindness and sacrifice; her having -given up her home to them; her house still unclaimed by her, still at -their disposal, and which contained so many things which must have been -endeared by long use and habit, and the relinquishing of which showed -something extraordinary in her motives. This was a woman's feeling, and -made little impression on Villiers--he was willing to praise and to -thank Lady Lodore for her generosity and kindness, but he suspected nothing -beyond her acknowledged acts. - -Saville heard this disquisition; he wished Villiers to be convinced--he -was persuaded that Ethel was right--he was angry at his cousin's -obstinacy--he was miserable at the idea that Cornelia should feel -herself treated with neglect--that she should need protection and not -have it--that she should be alone, and not find assistance proffered, -urged upon her. He mounted his horse and took a solitary ride, -meditating on these things--his imagination became heated, his soul on -fire. He pictured Lady Lodore in solitude and desertion, and his heart -boiled within him. Was she sick, and none near her?--was she dead, and her -grave unvisited and unknown? A lover's fancy is as creative as a poet's -and when once it takes hold of any idea, it clings to it tenaciously. If -it is thus even with ordinary minds, how much more with Saville, with -all energy which was his characteristic, and the latent fire of love -burning in his heart. His resolution was sudden, and acted on at once. -He turned his horse's head towards London. On reaching the nearest town, -he ordered a chaise and four post horses. He wrote a few hurried lines -announcing an absence of two or three days, and with the rapidity that -always attended the conception of his purposes and their execution, the -next morning, having travelled all night, he was in Mr. Gayland's -office, questioning that gentleman concerning Lady Lodore, and seeking -from him all the light he could throw upon her long-continued and -mysterious absence. - -Mr. Gayland had promised Lady Lodore not to reveal her secret to Mr. or -Mrs. Villiers; but he felt himself free to communicate it to any other -person. He was very glad to get rid of the burden and even the -responsibility of being her sole confidant. He related all he knew to -Saville, and the truth flashed on the lover's mind. His imagination -could not dupe him--he could conceive, and therefore believe in her -generosity, her magnanimity. He had before, in some degree, divined the -greatness of mind of which Lady Lodore was capable; though as far as -regarded himself, her pride, and his modesty, had deceived him. Now he -became at once aware that Cornelia had beggared herself for Ethel's -sake. She had disposed of her jointure, given up the residue of her -income, and wandered away, poor and alone, to avoid the discovery of the -extent and consequences of her sacrifices. Saville left Mr. Gayland's -office with a bursting and a burning heart. At once he paid a warm -tribute of admiration to her virtues, and acknowledged to himself his -own passionate love. It became a duty, in his eyes, to respect, revere, -adore one so generous and noble. He was proud of the selection his heart -had made, and of his constancy. "My own Cornelia," such was his reverie, -"how express your merit and the admiration it deserves!--other people -talk of generosity, and friendship, and parental affection--but you -manifest a visible image of these things; and while others theorize, you -embody in your actions all that can be imagined of glorious and -angelic." He congratulated himself on being able to return to the -genuine sentiments of his heart, and in finding reality give sanction to -the idolatry of his soul. - -He longed to pour out his feelings at her feet, and to plead the cause -of his fidelity and affection, to read in her eyes whether she would see -a reward for her sufferings in his attachment. Where was she, to receive -his protestations and vows? He half forgot, in the fervour of his -feelings, that he knew not whither she had retreated, nor possessed any -clue whereby to find her. He returned to Mr. Gayland to inquire from -him; but he could tell nothing; he went to her house and questioned the -servants, they remembered nothings; at last he found her maid, and -learnt from her, where she was accustomed to hire her post-horses; this -was all the information at which he could arrive. - -Going to Newman's, with some difficulty he found the post-boy, who -remembered driving her. By his means he traced her to Reading, but here -all clue was lost. The inn to which she had gone had passed into other -hands, and no one knew any thing about the arrivals and departures of -the preceding summer. He made various perquisitions, and lighted by -chance on the servant she had taken with her to Reading, and there -dismissed. From what he said, and a variety of other circumstances, he -became convinced that she had gone abroad. He searched the foreign -passport-office, and found that one had been taken out at the French -Ambassador's in the month of April, by a Mrs. Fitzhenry. He persuaded -himself that this was proof that she had gone to Paris. It was most -probable that, impoverished as she was, and desirous of concealing her -altered situation, that she should, as Lodore had formerly done, dismiss a -title which would at once encumber and betray her. He immediately -resolved to cross to France. And yet for a moment he hesitated, and -reflected on what it was best to do. - -He had given no intimation of his proceedings to his cousin, and they -were unaware that his journey was connected with Lady Lodore. He had a -lover's wish to find her himself--himself to be the only source of -consolation--the only mediator to restore her to her daughter and to -happiness. But his fruitless attempts at discovery made him see that his -wishes were not to be effected easily. He felt that he ought to -communicate all he knew to his cousins, and even to ensure their -assistance in his researches. Before going abroad, therefore, he -returned to Maristow Castle. - -He arrived late in the evening. Lord Maristow and his daughters were -gone out to dinner. The three persons whom Saville especially wished to -see, alone occupied the drawing-room. Edward was writing to his father, -who had advised him, now that he had a son, entirely to cut off the -entail and mortgage a great part of the property: it was a distasteful -task to answer the suggestions of unprincipled selfishness. While he was -thus occupied, Ethel had taken from her desk her mother's last letter, -and was reading it again and again, weighing every syllable, and -endeavouring to discover a hidden meaning. She went over to the sofa on -which Fanny was sitting, to communicate to her a new idea that had -struck her. The studious girl had got into a corner with her Cicero, and -was reading the Tusculan Questions, which she readily laid aside to -enter on a subject so deeply interesting. Saville opened the door, and -appeared most unexpectedly among them. His manner was eager and abrupt, -and the first words he uttered were, "I am come to disturb you all, and -to beg of you to return to London:--no time must be lost--can you go -to-morrow?" - -"Certainly," said Villiers, "if you wish it." - -"But why?" asked Ethel. - -"You have found Lady Lodore!" exclaimed Fanny. - -"You are dreaming, Fanny," said Ethel; "you see Horace shakes his head. -But if we go to-morrow, yet rest to-night. You are fatigued, pale, and -ill, Horace--you have been exerting yourself too much--explain your -wishes, but take repose and refreshment." - -Saville was in too excited a state to think of either. He repelled -Ethel's feminine offers, till he had related his story. His listeners -heard him with amazement. Villiers's cheeks glowed with shame, partly at -the injustice of his former conduct--partly at being the object of so -much sacrifice and beneficence on the part of his mother-in-law. Fanny's -colour also heightened; she clasped her hands in delight, mingling -various exclamations with Saville's story. "Did I not say so? I was sure -of it. If you had seen her when I did, on the day of her going away, you -would have been as certain as I." Ethel wept in silence, her heart was -touched to the core, "the remorse of love" awakened in it. How cold and -ungrateful had been all her actions: engrossed by her love for her -husband, she had bestowed no sympathy, made no demonstrations towards -her mother. The false shame and Edward's oft-repeated arguments which -had kept her back, vanished from her mind. She reproached herself -bitterly for lukewarmness and neglect; she yearned to show her -repentance--to seek forgiveness--to express, however feebly, her sense -of her mother's angelic goodness. Her tears flowed to think of these -things, and that her mother was away, poor and alone, believing herself -wronged in all their thoughts, resenting perhaps their unkindness, -mourning over the ingratitude of her child. - -When the first burst of feeling was over, they discussed their future -proceedings. Saville communicated his discoveries and his plan of -crossing to France. Villiers was as eager as his cousin to exert himself -actively in the pursuit. His ingenuous and feeling mind was struck by -his injustice, and he was earnest in his wish to atone for the past, and -to recompense her, if possible, for her sacrifices. As every one is apt -to do with regard to the ideas of others, he was not satisfied with his -cousin's efforts or conclusions; he thought more questions might be -asked--more learnt at the inns on the route which Lady Lodore had taken. -The passport Saville had imagined to be hers, was taken out for Dover. -Reading was far removed from any road to Kent. They argued this. Horatio -was not convinced; but while he was bent on proceeding to Paris, Edward -resolved to visit Reading--to examine the neighbourhood--to requestion -the servants--to put on foot a system of inquiry which must in the end -assure them whether she was still in the kingdom. It was at once -resolved, that on the morrow they should go to London. - -Thither they accordingly went. They repaired to Lady Lodore's house. -Saville on the next morning departed for France, and a letter soon reached -them from him, saying, that he felt persuaded that the Mrs. Fitzhenry was -Lady Lodore, and that he should pursue his way with all speed to Paris. -It appeared, that the lady in question had crossed to Calais on the -eleventh of June, and intimated her design of going to the Bagneres de -Bigorre among the Pyrennees, passing through Paris on her way. The -mention of the Bagneres de Bigorre clinched Saville's suspicions--it was -such a place as one in Lady Lodore's position might select for her -abode--distant, secluded, situated in sublime and beautiful scenery, -singularly cheap, and seldom visited by strangers; yet the annual resort -of the French from Bordeaux and Lyons, civilized what otherwise had been -too rude and wild for an English lady. It was a long journey -thither--the less wonder that nothing was heard, or seen, or surmised -concerning the absentee by her numerous acquaintances, many of whom were -scattered on the continent. Saville represented all these things, and -expressed his conviction that he should find her. His letter was brief, -for he was hurried, and he felt that it were better to say nothing than -to express imperfectly the conflicting emotions alive in his heart. "My -life seems a dream," he said at the conclusion of his letter; "a long -painful dream, since last I saw her. I awake, she is not here; I go to -seek her--my actions have that single scope--my thoughts tend to that -aim only; I go to find her--to restore her to Ethel. If I succeed in -bestowing this happiness on her, I shall have my reward, and, whatever -happens, no selfish regret shall tarnish my delight." - -He urged Villiers, meanwhile, not to rely too entirely on the conviction -so strong in himself, but to pursue his plan of discovery with vigour. -Villiers needed no spur. His eagerness was fully alive; he could not -rest till he had rescued his mother-in-law from solitude and obscurity. -He visited Reading; he extended his inquiries to Newbury: here more -light broke in on his researches. He heard of Lady Lodore's illness--of her -having resided for several months at a villa in the neighbourhood, while -slowly recovering from a fever by which for a long time her life had -been endangered. He heard also of her departure, her return to London. -Then again all was obscurity. The innkeepers and letters of post-horses -in London, were all visited in vain--the mystery became as impenetrable -as ever. It seemed most probable that she was living in some obscure -part of the metropolis--Ethel's heart sunk within her at the thought. - -Edward wrote to Saville to communicate this intelligence, which put an -end to the idea of her being in France--but he was already gone on to -Bagneres. He himself perambulated London and its outskirts, but all in -vain. The very thought that she should be residing in a place so sad, -nay, so humiliating, without one gilding circumstance to solace poverty -and obscurity, was unspeakably painful both to Villiers and his wife. -Ethel thought of her own abode in Duke street during her husband's -absence, and how miserable and forlorn it had been--she now wept -bitterly over her mother's fate; even Fanny's philosophy could not -afford consolation for these ideas. - -An accident, however, gave a new turn to their conjectures. In the draw -of a work-table, Ethel found an advertisement cut out of a newspaper, -setting forth the merits of a cottage to be let near Rhaiyder Gowy in -Radnorshire, and with this, a letter from the agent at Rhaiyder, dated -the 13th of May, in answer to inquiries concerning the rent and -particulars. The letter intimated, that if the account gave -satisfaction, the writer would get the cottage prepared for the tenant -immediately, and the lady might take possession at the time mentioned, -on the 1st of June. The day after finding this letter, Villiers set out -for Wales. - -But first he persuaded Ethel to spend the interval of his absence at -Longfield. She had lately fretted much concerning her mother, and as she -was still nursing her baby, Edward became uneasy at her pale cheeks and -thinness. Ethel was anxious to preserve her health for her child; she -felt that her uneasiness and pining would be lessened by a removal into -the country. She was useless in London, and there was something in her -residence in her mother's house--in the aspect of the streets--in the -memory of what she had suffered there, and the fear that Lady Lodore was -enduring a worse repetition of the same evils, that agitated and preyed -upon her. Her aunt had pressed her very much to come and see her, and -she wrote to say, that she might be expected on the following day. She -bade adieu to Villiers with more of hope with regard to his success than -she had formerly felt. She became half convinced that her mother was not -in London. Fanny supported her in these ideas; they talked continually -of all they knew--of the illness of Lady Lodore--of her firmness of -purpose in not sending for her daughter, or altering her plans in -consequence; they comforted themselves that the air of Wales would -restore her health, and the beauty of the scenery and the freedom of -nature sooth her mind. They were full of hope--of more--of expectation. -Ethel, indeed, had at one time proposed accompanying her husband, but -she yielded to his entreaties, and to the fear suggested, that she might -injure her child's health. Villiers's motions would be more prompt -without her. They separated. Ethel wrote to Saville a letter to find him -at Paris, containing an account of their new discoveries, and then -prepared for her journey to Essex with Fanny, her baby, and the -beautiful little Clorinda Saville, who had been left under her care, on -the following day. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - -I am not One who much or oft delights -To season my Friends with personal talk,-- -Of Friends who live within an easy walk, -Or Neighbours, daily, weekly in my sight. -And, for my chance acquaintance, Ladies bright. -Sons, Mothers, Maidens withering on the stalk, -These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk -Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night. - -WORDSWORTH. - - -Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry returned to Longfield from Maristow Castle at -the end of the month of November. She gladly came back, in all the -dinginess and bleakness of that dismal season, to her beloved seclusion -at Longfield. The weather was dreary, a black frost invested every thing -with its icy chains, the landscape looked disconsolate, and now and then -wintry blasts brought on snow-storms, and howled loudly through the long -dark nights. The amiable spinster drew her chair close to the fire; with -half-shut eyes she contemplated the glowing embers, and recalled many past -winters just like this, when Lodore was alive and in America; or, diving -yet deeper into memory, when the honoured chair she now occupied, had -been dignified by her father, and she had tried to sooth his querulous -complaints on the continued absence of her brother Henry. When, instead -of these familiar thoughts, the novel ones of Ethel and Villiers -intruded themselves, she rubbed her eyes to be quite sure that she did -not dream. It was a lamentable change; and who the cause? Even she whose -absence had been, she felt, wickedly lamented at Maristow Castle, -Cornelia Santerre--she, who in an evil hour, had become Lady Lodore, and -who would before God, answer for the disasters and untimely death of her -ill-fated husband. - -With any but Mrs. Fitzhenry, such accusations had, after the softening -process of time, been changed to an admission, that, despite her errors, -Lady Lodore had rather been misled and mistaken, than heinously faulty; and -her last act, in sacrificing so much to her daughter, although the extent -of her sacrifice was unknown to her sister-in-law, had cancelled her former -delinquencies. But the prejudiced old lady was not so easily mollified; -she was harsh alone towards her, but all the gall of her nature was -collected and expended on the head of her brother's widow. Probably an -instinctive feeling of her unreasonableness made her more violent. Her -language was bitter whenever she alluded to her--she rejoiced at her -absence, and instead of entering into Ethel's gratitude and impatience, -she fervently prayed that she might never appear on the scene again. - -Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry was less of a gossip than any maiden lady who -had ever lived singly in the centre of a little village. Her heart was -full of the dead and the absent--of past events, and their long train of -consequences, so that the history of the inhabitants of her village, -possessed no charm for her. If any one among them suffered from -misfortune she endeavoured to relieve them, and if any died, she lamented, -moralized on the passage of time, and talked of Lodore's death; but -the scandal, the marriages, the feuds, and wonderful things that came to -pass at Longfield, appeared childish and contemptible, the flickering of -earth-born tapers compared to the splendour, the obscuration, and final -setting of the celestial luminary which had been the pole-star of her -life. - -It was from this reason that Mrs. Fitzhenry had not heard of the Lady -who lodged at Dame Nixon's cottage, in the Vale of Bewling, till the -time, when, after having exhausted the curiosity of Longfield, she was -almost forgotten. The Lady, she was known by no other name, had arrived -in the town during Mrs. Fitzhenry's visit to Maristow castle. She had -arrived in her own chariot, unattended by any servant; the following day -she had taken up her abode at Dame Nixon's cottage, saying, that she was -only going to stay a week: she had continued there for more than three -months. - -Dame Nixon's cottage was situated about a mile and a half from -Longfield. It stood alone in a little hollow embowered by trees; the -ground behind rose to a slight upland, and a rill trickled through the -garden. You got to it by a bye path, which no wheeled vehicle could -traverse, though a horse might, and it was indeed the very dingle and -cottage which Ethel had praised during her visit into Essex in the -preceding year. The silence and seclusion were in summer tranquillizing -and beautiful; in winter sad and drear; the fields were swampy in wet -weather, and in snow and frost it seemed cut off from the rest of the -world. Dame Nixon and her granddaughter lived there alone. The girl had -been engaged to be married. Her lover jilted her, and wedded a richer -bride. The story is so old, that it is to be wondered that women have -not ceased to lament so common an occurrence. Poor Margaret was, on the -contrary, struck to the heart--she despised herself for being unable to -preserve her lover's affections, rather than the deceiver for his -infidelity. She neglected her personal appearance, nor ever showed -herself among her former companions, except to support her grandmother -to church. Her false lover sat in the adjoining pew. She fixed her eyes -on her Prayer-book during the service, and on the ground as she went -away. She did not wish him to see the change which his faithlessness had -wrought, for surely it would afflict him. Once there had not bloomed a -fresher or gayer rose in the fields of Essex--now she had grown thin and -pale--her young light step had become slow and heavy--sickness and -sorrow made her eyes hollow, and her cheeks sunken. She avoided every -one, devoting herself to attendance on her grandmother. Dame Nixon was -nearly doting. Life was ebbing fast from her old frame; her best -pleasure was to sun herself in the garden in summer, or to bask before -the winter's fire. While enjoying these delights, her dimmed eyes -brightened, and a smile wreathed her withered lips; she said, "Ah! this -is comfortable;" while her broken-hearted grandchild envied a state of -being which could content itself with mere animal enjoyment. They were -very poor. Margaret had to work hard; but the thoughts of the head, or, -at least, the feelings of the heart, need not wait on the labour of the -hands. The Sunday visit to church kept alive her pain; her very prayers -were bitter, breathed close to the deceiver and her who had usurped her -happiness: the memory and anticipation haunted her through the week; she -was often blinded by tears as she patiently pursued her household -duties, or her toil in their little garden. Her hands were hardened with -work, her throat, her face sunburnt; but exercise and occupation did not -prevent her from wasting away, or her cheek from becoming sunk and wan. - -Dame Nixon's cottage was poor but roomy; some years before, a gentleman -from London had, in a freak, hired two rooms in it, and furnished them. -Since then, she had sometimes let them, and now they were occupied by -the stranger lady. At first all three of the inhabitants appeared each -Sunday at church. The Lady was dressed in spotless and simple white, and -so closely veiled, that no one could see her face; of course she was -beautiful. Soon after Mrs. Elizabeth's return from Maristow Castle, it -was discovered that first the lady stayed away, and soon, that the whole -party absented themselves on Sunday; and as this defalcation demanded -inquiry, it was discovered that a pony chaise took them three miles off -to the church of the nearest village. This was a singular and yet a -beneficial change. The false swain must rejoice at losing sight of the -memento of his sin, and Margaret would certainly pray with a freer -heart, when she no longer shrunk from his gaze and that of his wife. - -It was not until the end of January that Mrs. Elizabeth heard of the -Lady; it was not till the beginning of February that she asked a single -question about her. - -In January, passing the inn-yard, the curate's wife, who was walking -with her, said, "There is the chariot belonging to the Lady who lodges -at dame Nixon's cottage. I wonder who she is. The arms are painted out." - -"Ah, dame Nixon has a lodger then; that is a good thing, it will help -her through the winter. I have not seen her or her daughter at church -lately." - -"No," replied the other, "they go now to Bewling church." - -"I am glad to hear it," said Mrs. Fitzhenry; "it is much better for poor -Margaret not to come here." - -The conversation went on, and the Lady was alluded to, but no questions -were asked or curiosity excited. In February she heard from the doctor's -wife, that the doctor had been to the cottage, and that the Lady was -indisposed. She heard at the same time that this Lady had refused to -receive the visits of the curate's lady and the doctor's lady--excusing -herself, that she was going to leave Essex immediately. This had -happened two months before. On hearing of her illness, Mrs. Elizabeth -thought of calling on her, but this stopped her. "It is very odd," said -the doctor's wife, "she came in her own carriage, and yet has no -servants. She lives in as poor a way as can be, down in that cottage, -yet my husband says she is more like the Queen of England in her looks -and ways than any one he ever saw." - -"Like the Queen of England?" said Mrs. Fitzhenry, "What queen?--Queen -Charlotte?" who had been the queen of the greater part of the good -lady's life. - -"She is as young and beautiful as an angel," said the other, half angry; -"it is very mysterious. She did not look downcast like, as if any thing -was wrong, but was as cheerful and condescending as could be. -'Condescending, Doctor,' said I, for my husband used the word; 'you -don't want condescension from a poor body lodging at dame Nixon's.'--'A -poor body!' said he, in a huff, 'she is more of a lady, indeed more like -the Queen of England than any rich body you ever saw.' And what is odd, -no one knows her name--Dame Nixon and Margaret always call her Lady--the -very marks are picked out from her pocket handkerchiefs. Yet I did hear -that there was a coronet plain to be seen on one--a thing impossible -unless she was a poor cast-away; and the doctor says he'd lay his life -that she was nothing of that. He must know her name when he makes out -her bill, and I told him to ask it plump, but he puts off, and puts off, -till I am out of all patience." - -A misty confused sense of discomfort stole over Mrs. Elizabeth when she -heard of the coronet in the corner of the pocket handkerchief, but it -passed away without suggesting any distinct idea to her mind. Nor did -she feel curiosity about the stranger--she was too much accustomed to -the astonishment, the conjectures, the gossip of Longfield, to suppose -that there was any real foundation for surprise, because its -wonder-loving inhabitants choose to build up a mystery out of every -common occurrence of life. - -This absence of inquisitiveness must long have kept Mrs. Fitzhenry in -ignorance of who her neighbour was, and the inhabitants of Longfield -would probably have discovered it before her, had not the truth been -revealed even before she entertained a suspicion that there was any -secret to be found out. - -"I beg your pardon, ma'am," said her maid to her one evening, as she was -superintending the couchée of the worthy spinster, "I think you ought -to know, though I am afraid you may be angry." - -The woman hesitated; her mistress encouraged her. "If it is any thing I -ought to know, Wilmot, tell it at once, and don't be afraid. What has -happened to you?" - -"To me, ma'am,--la! nothing," replied the maid; "it's something about -the Lady at dame Nixon's, only you commanded me never to speak the name -of----" - -And again the good woman stopped short. Mrs. Fitzhenry, a little -surprised, and somewhat angry, bade her go on. At length, in plain words -she was told: - -"Why, ma'am, the Lady down in the Vale is no other than my lady--than -Lady Lodore." - -"Ridiculous--who told you so?" - -"My own eyes, ma'am; I shouldn't have believed any thing else. I saw the -Lady, and it was my Lady, as sure as I stand here." - -"But how could you know her? it is years since you saw her." - -"Yes, ma'am," said the woman, with a smile of superiority; "but it is -not easy to forget Lady Lodore. See her yourself, ma'am,--you will know -then that I am right." - -Wilmot had lived twenty years with Mrs. Fitzhenry. She had visited town -with her at the time of Ethel's christening. She had been kept in -vexatious ignorance of subsequent events, till the period of the visit -of her mistress and niece to London two years before, when she -indemnified herself. Through the servants of Villiers, and of the Misses -Saville, she had learnt a vast deal; and not satisfied with mere -hearsay, she had seen Lady Lodore several times getting into her carriage -at her own door, and had even been into her house: such energy is there in -a liberal curiosity. The same disinterested feeling had caused her to go -down to dame Nixon's with an offer from her mistress of service to the -Lady, hearing she was ill. She went perfectly unsuspicious of the -wonderful discovery she was about to make, and was thus rewarded beyond -her most sanguine hopes, by being in possession of a secret, known to -herself alone. The keeping of a secret is, however, a post of no honour -if all knowledge be confined to the possessor alone. Mrs. Wilmot was -tolerably faithful, with all her love of knowledge; she was sure it -would vex her mistress if Lady Lodore's strange place of abode were -known at Longfield, and Mrs. Fitzhenry was consequently the first person -to whom she had hinted the fact. All this account she detailed with -great volubility. Her mistress recommended discretion most earnestly; -and at the same time expressed a doubt whether her information was -correct. - -"I wish you would go and judge for yourself, ma'am," said the maid. - -"God forbid!" exclaimed Mrs. Fitzhenry. "God grant I never see Lady -Lodore again! She will go soon. You tell me that dame Nixon says she is -only staying till she is well. She will go soon, and it need never be -known, except to ourselves, Wilmot, that she was ever here." - -There was a dignity in this eternal mystery that somewhat compensated -for the absence of wonder and fuss which the woman had anticipated with -intense pleasure. She assured her mistress, over and over again, of her -secrecy and discretion, and was dismissed with the exhortation to forget -all she had learnt as quickly as possible. - -"Wherefore did she come here? what can she be doing?" Mrs. Fitzhenry -asked herself over and over again. She could not guess. It was strange, -it was mysterious, and some mischief was at the bottom--but she would go -soon--"would that she were already gone!" - -It must be mentioned that Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry had left Maristow -Castle before the arrival of Mr. Gayland, and had therefore no knowledge -of the still more mysterious cloud that enveloped Lady Lodore's absence. -Ignorant of her self-destroying sacrifices and generosity, her pity was -not excited, her feelings were all against her. She counted the days as -they passed, and looked wistfully at Wilmot, hoping that she would -quickly bring tidings of the Lady's departure. In vain; the doctor -ceased to visit the cottage, but the Lady remained. All at once the -doctor visited it again with greater assiduity than ever--not on account -of his beautiful patient--but Dame Nixon had had a paralytic stroke, and -the kind Lady had sent for him, and promised to defray all the expenses -of the poor woman's illness. - -All this was truly vexatious. Mrs. Fitzhenry fretted, and even asked -Wilmot questions, but the unwelcome visitor was still there. Wherefore? -What could have put so disagreeable a whim into her head? The good lady -could think of no motive, while she considered her presence an insult. -She was still more annoyed when she received a letter from Ethel. It had -been proposed that Mr. and Mrs. Villiers should pay her a visit in the -spring; but now Ethel wrote to say that she might be immediately -expected. "I have strange things to tell you about my dear mother," -wrote Ethel; "it is very uncertain where she is. Horatio can hear -nothing of her at Paris, and will soon return. Edward is going to Wales, -as there seems a great likelihood that she has secluded herself there. -While he is away you may expect me. I shall not be able to stay long--he -will come at the end of a week to fetch me." - -Mrs. Fitzhenry shuddered. Her prejudices were stronger than ever. She -experienced the utmost wretchedness from the idea that the residence of -Lady Lodore would be discovered, and a family union effected. It seemed -desecration to the memory of her brother, ruin to Ethel--the greatest -misfortune that could befal any of them. Her feelings were exaggerated, -but they were on that account the more powerful. How could she avert the -evil?--a remedy must be sought, and she fixed on one--a desperate one, -in truth, which appeared to her the sole mode of saving them all from -the greatest disasters. - -She resolved to visit Lady Lodore; to represent to her the impropriety and -wickedness of her having any intercourse with her daughter, and to -entreat her to depart before Ethel's arrival. Her violence might almost -seem madness; but all people who live in solitude become to a certain -degree insane. Their views of things are not corrected by comparing them -with those of others; and the strangest want of proportion always reigns -in their ideas and sentiments. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - -So loth we part from all we love, -From all the links that bind us; -So turn our hearts, where'er we rove, -To those we've left behind us. - -THOMAS MOORE. - - -On the following morning Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry drove to the Vale of -Bewling. It was the last day of February. The March winds were hushed as -yet; the breezes were balmy, the sunshine cheerful; a few soft clouds -flecked the heavens, and the blue sky appeared between them calm and -pure. Each passing air breathed life and happiness--it caressed the -cheek--and the swelling buds of the trees felt its quickening influence. -The almond-trees were in bloom--the pear blossoms began to whiten--the -tender green of the young leaves showed themselves here and there among -the hedges. The old lady felt the cheering influence, and would have -become even gay, had not the idea of the errand she was on checked her -spirits. Sometimes the remembrance that she was really going to see her -sister-in-law absolutely startled her; once or twice she thought of -turning back; she passed through the lanes, and then alighting from her -carriage, walked by a raised foot-way, across some arable fields--and -again through a little grove; the winding path made a turn, and dame -Nixon's white, low-roofed cottage was before her. Every thing about it -looked trim, but very humble: and it was unadorned during this early -season by the luxury of flowers and plants, which usually give even an -appearance of elegance to an English cottage. Mrs. Fitzhenry opened the -little gate--her knees trembled as she walked through the scanty garden, -which breathed of the new-sprung violets. The entrance to the cottage -was by the kitchen: she entered this, and found Margaret occupied by a -culinary preparation for her grandmother. Mrs. Fitzhenry asked after the -old woman's health, and thus gained a little time. Margaret answered in -her own former quiet yet cheerful voice; she was changed from what she -had been a few weeks before. The bloom had not returned to her cheeks, -but they no longer appeared streaked with deathly paleness; her motions -had lost the heaviness that showed a mind ill at ease. Mrs. Elizabeth -congratulated her on the restoration of her health. - -"O yes," she replied, with a blush, "I am not the same creature I used -to be, thank God, and the angel he has sent us here;--if my poor -grandmother would but get well I should be quite happy; but that is -asking too much at her time of life." - -The old lady made no further observations: she did not wish to hear the -praises of her sister-in-law. "Your lodger is still here?" at length she -said. - -"Yes, God be praised!" replied Margaret. - -"Will you give her my compliments, and say I am here, and that I wish to -see her." - -"Yes, ma'am," said Margaret; "only the lady has refused to see any one, -and she does not like being asked." - -"I do not wish to be impertinent or intrusive," answered Mrs. Elizabeth; -"only tell her my name, and if she makes any objection, of course she -will do as she likes. Where is she?" - -"She is sitting with my poor grandmother; the nurse--Heaven bless her! -she would hire a nurse, to spare me, as she said--is lain down to sleep, -and she said she would watch by grandmother while I got the gruel; but -it's ready now, and I will go and tell her." - -Away tripped Margaret, leaving her guest lost in wonder. Lady Lodore -watching the sick-bed of an old cottager--Lady Lodore immured in a -poverty-stricken abode, fit only for the poorer sort of country people. -It was more than strange, it was miraculous. "Yet she refused to -accompany poor Henry to America! there must be some strange mystery in -all this, that does not tell well for her." - -So bitterly uncharitable was the unforgiving old lady towards her -brother's widow. She ruminated on these things for a minute or two, and -then Margaret came to usher her into the wicked one's presence. The -sitting-room destined for the lodger was neat, though very plain. The -walls were wainscotted and painted white,--the windows small and -latticed,--the furniture was old black, shining mahogany; the chairs -high-backed and clumsy; the table heavy and incommodious; the fire-place -large and airy; and the shelf of the mantel-piece almost as high as the -low ceiling: there were a few things of a more modern construction; a -comfortable sofa, a rose-wood bureau and large folding screen; near the -fire was a large easy chair of Gillows's manufacture, two light cane -ones, and two small tables; vases filled with hyacinths, jonquils, and -other spring flowers stood on one, and an embroidery frame occupied the -other. There was a perfume of fresh-gathered flowers in the room, which -the open window rendered very agreeable. Lady Lodore was standing near the -fire--(for Wilmot was not mistaken, and it was she indeed who now -presented herself to Mrs. Fitzhenry's eyes)--she might be agitated--she -did not show it--she came forward and held out her hand. "Dear Bessy," -she said, "you are very kind to visit me; I thank you very much." - -The poor recluse was overpowered. The cordiality of the greeting -frightened her: she who had come full of bitter reproach and hard -purposes, to be thanked with that sweet voice and smile. "I thought," at -length she stammered out, "that you did not wish to be known. I am glad -you are not offended, Cornelia." - -"Offended by kindness? O no! It is true I did not wish--I do not wish -that it should be known that I am here--but since, by some strange -accident, you have discovered me, how can I help being grateful for your -visit? I am indeed glad to see you; it is so long since I have heard any -thing. Ah! dear Bessy, tell me, how is Ethel?" - -Tears glistened in the mother's eyes: she asked many questions, and Mrs. -Fitzhenry a little recovered her self-possession, as she answered them. -She looked at Lady Lodore--she was changed--she could not fail of being -changed after so many years,--she was no longer a beautiful girl, but -she was a lovely woman. Despite the traces of years, which however -lightly they impressed, yet might be discerned; expression so -embellished her that it was impossible not to admire; brilliancy had -given place to softness, animation to serenity; still she was -fair--still her silken hair clustered on her brow, and her sweet eyes -were full of fire; her smile had more than its former charm--it came -from the heart. - -Mrs. Fitzhenry was not, however, to be subdued by a little outward show. -She was there, who had betrayed and deserted (such were the energetic -words she was accustomed to employ) the noble, broken-hearted Lodore. The -thought steeled her purpose, and she contrived at last to ask whether -Lady Lodore was going to remain much longer in Essex? - -"I have been going every day since I came here. In a few weeks I shall -certainly be gone. Why do you ask?" - -"Because I thought--that is--you have made a secret of your being here, -and I expect Ethel in a day or two, and she would certainly discover -you." - -"Why should she not?" asked Lady Lodore. "Why should you be averse to my -seeing Ethel?" - -It is very difficult to say a disagreeable thing, especially to one -unaccustomed to society, and who is quite ignorant of the art of -concealing the sting of her intentions by flowery words. Mrs. Fitzhenry -said something about her sister-in-law's own wishes, and the desire -expressed by Lodore that there should be no intercourse between the mother -and daughter. - -Cornelia's eyes flashed fire--"Am I," she exclaimed, "to be always the -sacrifice? Is my husband's vengeance to pursue me beyond his grave--even -till I reach mine? Unjust as he was, he would not have desired this." - -Mrs. Elizabeth coloured with anger. Lady Lodore continued--"Pardon me, -Bessy, I do not wish to say any thing annoying to you or in blame of -Lodore. God knows I did him great wrong--but--" - -"O Cornelia," cried the old lady, "do you indeed acknowledge that you -were to blame?" - -Lady Lodore smiled, and said, "I were strangely blind to the defects of my -own character, and to the consequences of my actions, were I not conscious -of my errors; but retrospection is useless, and the punishment has -been--is--sufficiently severe. Lodore himself would not have perpetuated -his resentment, had he lived only a very little while longer. But I will -speak frankly to you, Bessy, as frankly as I may, and you shall decide -on my further stay here. From circumstances which it is immaterial to -explain, I have resolved on retiring into absolute solitude. I shall -never live in London again--never again see any of my old friends and -acquaintances. The course of my life is entirely changed; and whether I -live here or elsewhere, I shall live in obscurity and poverty. I do not -wish Ethel to know this. She would wish to assist me, and she has -scarcely enough for herself. I do not like being a burthen--I do not -like being pitied--I do not like being argued with, or to have my -actions commented upon. You know that my disposition was always -independent." - -Mrs. Elizabeth assented with a sigh, casting up her eyes to heaven. - -Lady Lodore smiled, and went on. "You think this is a strange place for me -to live in: whether here or elsewhere, I shall never live in any better: I -shall be fortunate if I find myself as well off when I leave Essex, for -the people here are good and honest, and the poor girl loves me,--it is -always pleasant to be loved." - -A tear again filled Cornelia's eyes--she tried to animate herself to -smile. "I have nothing to love in all the wide world except Ethel; I do -love her; every one must love her--she is so gentle--so kind--so -warm-hearted and beautiful,--I love her more than my own heart's blood; -she is my child--part of that blood--part of myself--the better part; I -have seen little of her, but every look and word is engraved on my -heart. I love her voice--her smiles--the pressure of her soft white -hand. Pity me, dear Bessy, I am never to see any of these, which are all -that I love on earth, again. This idea fills me with regret--with -worse--with sorrow. There is a grave not far from here which contains -one you loved beyond all others,--what would you not give to see him -alive once again? To visit his tomb is a consolation to you. I must not -seen even the walls within which my blessed child lives. You alone can -help me--can be of comfort to me. Do not refuse--do not send me away. If -I leave this place, I shall go to some secluded nook in Wales, and be -quite--quite alone; the sun will shine, and the grass will grow at my -feet, but my heart will be dead within me, and I shall pine and die. I -have intended to do this; I have waited only till the sufferings of the -poor woman here should be at an end, that I may be of service to -Margaret, and then go. Your visit, which I fancied meant in kindness, -has put other thoughts into my head. - -"Do not object to my staying here; let me remain; and do yet more for -me--come to me sometimes, and bring me tidings of my daughter--tell me -what she says--how she looks,--tell me that she is at each moment well -and happy. Ah! do this, dear Bessy, and I will bless you. I shall never -see her--at least not for years; there are many things to prevent it: -yet how could I drag out those years quite estranged from her? My heart -has died within me each time I have thought of it. But I can live as I -say; I shall expect you every now and then to come and talk to me of -her; she need never know that I am so near--she comes so seldom to -Essex. I shall soon be forgotten at Longfield. Will you consent? you -will do a kind action, and God will bless you." - -Mrs. Fitzhenry was one of those persons who always find it difficult to -say, No; and Lady Lodore asked with so much earnestness that she commanded; -she felt that her request ought to be granted, and therefore it was -impossible to refuse it. Before she well knew what she had said, the -good lady had yielded her consent and received her sister-in-law's warm -and heart-felt thanks. - -Mrs. Fitzhenry looked round the room: "But how can you think of staying -here, Cornelia?" she said; "this place is not fit for you. I should have -thought that you could never have endured such homely rooms." - -"Do you think them so bad?" replied the lady; "I think them very -pleasant, for I have done with pride, and I find peace and comfort here. -Look," she continued, throwing open a door that led into the garden, "is -not that delightful? This garden is very pretty: that clear rivulet -murmurs by with so lulling a sound;--and look at these violets, are they -not beautiful? I have planted a great many flowers, and they will soon -come up. Do you not know how pleasant it is to watch the shrubs we -plant, and water, and rear ourselves?--to see the little green shoots -peep out, and the leaves unfold, and then the flower blossom and expand, -diffusing its delicious odour around,--all, as it were, created by -oneself, by one's own nursing, out of a bit of stick or an ugly bulb? -This place is very pretty, I assure you: when the leaves are on the -trees they make a bower, and the grove behind the house is shady, and -leads to lanes and fields more beautiful than any I ever saw. I have -loitered for hours in this garden, and been quite happy. Now I shall be -happier than ever, thanks to you. You will not forget me. Come as often -as you can. You say that you expect Ethel soon?" - -Lady Ladore walked with her sister-in-law to the garden-gate, and -beyond, through the little copse, still talking of her daughter. "I -cannot go further," she said, at last, "without a bonnet--so good-bye, -dear Bessy. Come soon. Thank you--thank you for this visit." - -She held out her hand: Mrs. Fitzhenry took it, pressed it, a half -feeling came over her as if she were about to kiss the check of her -offending relative, but her heart hardened, she blushed, and muttering -a hasty good-bye, she hurried away. She was bewildered, and after -walking a few steps, she turned round, and saw again the white dress of -Cornelia, as a turn in the path hid her. The grand, the exclusive Lady -Lodore--the haughty, fashionable, worldly-heartless wife thus metamorphosed -into a tender-hearted mother--suing to her for crumbs of charitable -love--and hiding all her boasted advantages in that low-roofed cottage! -What could it all mean? - -Mrs. Fitzhenry walked on. Again she thought, "How odd! I went there, -determining to persuade her to go away, and miserable at the thoughts of -seeing her only once; and now I have promised to visit her often, and -agreed that she shall live here. Have I not done wrong? What would my -poor brother say? Yet I could not refuse. Poor thing! how could I -refuse, when she said that she had nothing else to live for? Besides, to -go away and live alone in Wales--it would be too dreadful; and she -thanked me as if she were so grateful. I hope I have not done wrong. - -"But how strange it is that Henry's widow should have become so poor; -she has given up a part of her income to Ethel, but a great deal -remains. What can she have done with it? She is mysterious, and there is -never any good in mystery. Who knows what she may have to conceal?" Mrs. -Elizabeth got in her carriage, and each step of the horses took her -farther from the web of enchantment which Cornelia had thrown over her. -"She is always strange,"--thus ran her meditations; "and how am I to see -her, and no one find it out? and what a story for Longfield, that Lady -Lodore should be living in poverty in dame Nixon's cottage. I forgot to -tell her that--I forgot to say so many things I meant to say--I don't know -why, except that she talked so much, and I did not know how to bring in -my objections. But it cannot be right: and Ethel in her long rambles and -rides with Miss Derham or Mr. Villiers, will be sure to find her out. I -wish I had not seen her--I will write and tell her I have changed my -mind, and entreat her to go away." - -As it occurs to all really good-natured persons, it was very -disagreeable to Mrs. Fitzhenry to be angry, and she visited the -ill-temper so engendered on the head of poor Cornelia. She disturbed -herself by the idea of all the disagreeable things that might happen--of -her sister-in-law's positive refusal to go; the very wording which she -imagined for her intended letter puzzled and irritated her. She no -longer felt the breath of spring as pleasant, but sat back in the -chariot, "nursing her wrath to keep it warm." When she reached her home, -Ethel's carriage was at her door. - -The meeting, as ever, between aunt and niece was affectionate. Fanny was -welcomed, the baby was kissed, and little Clorinda admired, but the -theme nearest Ethel's heart was speedily introduced--her mother. The -disquietudes she felt on her account--Mr. Saville's journey to -Paris--the visit of Villiers to Wales to discover her place of -concealment--the inutility of all their endeavours. - -"But why are they so anxious?" asked her aunt; "I can understand you: -you have some fantastic notion about your mother, but how can Mr. -Villiers desire so very much to find her?" - -"I could almost say," said Ethel, "that Edward is more eager than -myself, though I should wrong my own affection and gratitude; but he was -more unjust towards her, and thus he feels the weight of obligation more -keenly; but, perhaps, dear aunt, you do not know all that my dearest -mother has done for us--the unparalleled sacrifices she has made." - -Then Ethel went on to tell her all that Mr. Gayland had -communicated--the sale of her jointure--the very small residue of money -she had kept for herself--the entire payment of Villiers's debts--and -afterwards the surrender of the remainder of her income and of her house -to them. Her eyes glistened as she spoke; her heart, overflowing with -admiration and affection, shone in her beautiful face, her voice was -pregnant with sensibility, and her expressions full of deep feeling. - -Mrs. Elizabeth's heart was not of stone--far from it; it was, except in -the one instance of her sister-in-law, made of pliable materials. She -heard Ethel's story--she caught by sympathy the tenderness and pity she -poured forth--she thought of Lady Lodore at the cottage, a dwelling so -unlike any she had ever inhabited before--poverty-stricken and mean; she -remembered her praises of it--her cheerfulness--the simplicity of taste -which she displayed--the light-hearted content with which she spoke of -every privation except the absence of Ethel. What before was mysterious -wrong, was now manifest heroism. The loftiness and generosity of her -mind rose upon the old lady unclouded; her own uncharitable deductions -stung her with remorse; she continued to listen, and Ethel to narrate, -and the big tears gathered in her eyes, and rolled down her venerable -cheeks,--tears at once of repentance and admiration. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - -Repentance is a tender sprite; -If aught on earth have heavenly might, -'Tis lodged within her silent tear. - -WORDSWORTH. - - -Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry was not herself aware of all that Lady Lodore had -suffered, or the extent of her sacrifices. She guessed darkly at them, -but it was the detail that rendered them so painful, and, but for their -motive, humiliating to one nursed in luxury, and accustomed to all those -intermediate servitors and circumstances, which stand between the rich -and the bare outside of the working-day world. Cornelia shrunk from the -address of those she did not know, and from the petty acts of daily -life, which had gone on before without her entering into their detail. - -Her illness at Newbury had been severe. She was attacked by the scarlet -fever; the doctor had ordered her to be removed from the bustle of the -inn, and a furnished villa had been taken for her, while she could only -give a languid assent to propositions which she understood confusedly. -She was a long time very ill--a long time weak and slowly convalescent. -At length health dawned on her, accompanied by a disposition attuned to -content and a wish for tranquillity. Her residence was retired, -commodious, and pretty; she was pleased with it, she did not wish to -remove, and was glad to procrastinate from day to day any consideration -of the future. Thus it was a long time before the strength of her -thoughts and purposes was renewed, or that she began to think seriously -of where she was, and what she was going to do. - -During the half delirium, the disturbed and uncontrollable, but not -unmeaning reveries, of her fever, the idea of visiting Lodore's grave had -haunted her pertinaciously. She had often dreamt of it: at one time the -tomb seemed to rise in a lonely desert; and the dead slept peacefully -beneath sunshine or starlight. At another, storms and howling winds were -around, groans and sighs, mingled with the sound of the tempest, and -menaces and reproaches against her were breathed from the cold marble. -Now her imagination pictured it within the aisles of a magnificent -cathedral; and now again the real scene--the rustic church of Longfield -was vividly present to her mind. She saw the pathway through the green -churchyard--the ruined ivy-mantled tower, which showed how much larger -the edifice had been in former days, near which might be still discerned -on high a niche containing the holy mother and divine child--the -half-defaced porch on which rude monkish imagery was carved--the -time-worn pews, and painted window. She had never entered this church -but once, many, many years ago; and it was strange how in sleep and -fever-troubled reverie, each portion of it presented itself distinctly -and vividly to her imagination. During these perturbed visions, one -other form and voice perpetually recurred. She heard Ethel continually -repeat, "Come! come!" and often her figure flitted round the tomb or sat -beside it. Once, on awakening from a dream, which impressed her deeply -by the importunity and earnestness of her daughter's appeal, she was -forcibly impelled to consider it her duty to obey, and she made a vow -that on recovering from her illness, she would visit her husband's -grave. - -Now while pondering on the humiliations and cheerless necessities which -darkened her future, and rousing herself to form some kind of resolution -concerning them, this dream was repeated, and on awakening, the memory -of her forgotten vow renewed itself in her. She dwelt on it with -pleasure. Here was something to be done that was not mere wretchedness -and lonely wandering--something that, connecting her with the past, took -away the sense of desertion and solitude, so hard to bear. In the -morning, at breakfast, it so chanced that she read in the Morning Herald -a little paragraph announcing that Viscount Maristow was entertaining a -party of friends at Maristow Castle, among whom were Mr. and Mrs. -Villiers, and the Hon. Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry. This was a fortunate -coincidence. The dragon ceased for a moment to watch the garden, and she -might avail herself of its absence to visit its treasure unnoticed and -unknown. She put her project into immediate execution. She crossed the -country, passing through London on her way to Longfield--she arrived. -Without delay she fulfilled her purpose. She entered the church and -viewed the tablet, inscribed simply with the name of Lodore, and the date -of his birth and death. The words were few and common-place, but they were -eloquent to her. They told her that the cold decaying shape lay beneath, -which in the pride of life and love had clasped her in its arms as its -own for evermore. Short-lived had been the possession. She had loosened -the tie even while thought and feeling ruled the now insentient -brain--he had been scarcely less dead to her while inhabiting the -distant Illinois, than now that a stone placed above him, gave visible -token of his material presence, and the eternal absence of his immortal -part. Cornelia had never before felt so sensibly that she had been a -wife neglecting her duties, despising a vow she had solemnly pledged, -estranging herself from him, who by religious ordinance, and the laws of -society, alone had privilege to protect and love her. Nor had she before -felt so intimately the change--that she was a widow; that her lover, her -husband, the father of her child, the forsaken, dead Lodore, was indeed -no part of the tissue of life, action, and feeling to which she -belonged. - -Solitude and sickness had before awakened many thoughts in her mind, and -she recalled them as she sat beside her dead husband's grave. She looked -into her motives, tried to understand the deceits she had practised on -herself, and to purify her conscience. She meditated on time, that law -of the world, which is so mysterious, and so potent; ruling us -despotically, and yet wholly unappreciated till we think upon it. -Petrarch says, that he was never so young, but that he knew that he was -growing old. Lady Lodore had never thought of this till a few months back; -it seemed to her, that she had never known it until now--that she felt that -she was older--older than the vain and lovely bride of Lodore--than the -haughty high-spirited friend of Casimir Lyzinski. And where was Casimir? -She had never heard of him again, she had scarcely ever thought of him; -he had grown older too--change, the effects of passion or of destiny, -must have visited him also;--they were all embarked on one mighty -stream--Lodore had gained a haven; but the living were still at the -mercy of the vast torrent--whither would it hurry them? - -There was a charm in these melancholy and speculative thoughts to the -beautiful exile--for we may be indeed as easily exiled by a few roods of -ground, as by mountains and seas. A strong decree of fate banished -Cornelia from the familiar past, into an unknown and strange present. -Still she clung to the recollection of bygone years, and for the first -time gave way to reflections full of scenes and persons to be seen no -more. The tomb beside which she lingered, was an outward sign of these -past events, and she did not like to lose sight of it so soon. She heard -that Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry was to remain away for a month--so much -time at least was hers. She inquired for lodgings, and was directed to -Dame Nixon's cottage. She was somewhat dismayed at first by its -penurious appearance, but "it would do for a few days;" and she found -that what would serve for a few days, might serve for months. - - -"Man wants but little here below, -Nor wants that little long." - - -Most true for -solitary man. It is society that increases his desires. If Lady Lodore had -been visited in her humble dwelling by the least regarded among her -acquaintances, she would have felt keenly its glaring deficiencies. But -although used to luxury, Margaret's cuisine sufficed for herself alone; -the low-roofed rooms were high enough, and the latticed windows which -let in the light of heaven, fulfilled their purpose as well as the -plate-glass and lofty embrasures of a palace. - -Lady Lodore was obliged also to consider one other thing, which forms so -large a portion of our meditations in real life--her purse. She found when -settled in the cottage, in the Vale of Bewling, that her stock of money -was reduced to one hundred pounds. She could not cross the country and -establish herself at a distance from London with this sum only. She had -before looked forward to selling her jewels and carriage as to a distant -event, but now she felt that it was the _next_ thing she must do. She -shrunk from it naturally: the very idea of revisiting London--of seeing -its busy shops and streets--once so full of life and its purposes to -her, and in which she would now wander an alien, was inconceivably -saddening; she was willing to put off the necessity as long as possible, -and thus continued to procrastinate her departure from Essex. - -Mrs. Fitzhenry returned; but she could neither know nor dream of the -vicinity of her sister-in-law. We are apt to think, when we know nothing -of any one, that no one knows any thing of us; experience can scarcely -teach us, that the reverse of this is often the truth. Seeing only an -old woman in her dotage--and a poor love-sick girl, who knew nothing -beyond the one event which had blasted all her happiness--she never -heard the inhabitants of Longfield mentioned, and believed that she was -equally unheard of by them. Then her indisposition protracted her stay, -and now the mortal illness of the poor woman. For she had become -interested for Margaret and promised to befriend her; and in case of her -grandmother's death, to take her from a spot where every association and -appearance kept open the wounds inflicted by her unfaithful lover. - -Time had thus passed on: now sad, now cheerful, she tried to banish -every thought of the future, and to make the occurrences of each day -fill and satisfy her mind. She lived obscurely and humbly, and perhaps -as wisely as mortal may in this mysterious world, where hope is -perpetually followed by disappointment, and action by repentance and -regret. The days succeeded to each other in one unvaried tenor. The -weather was cheerful, the breath of spring animating. She watched the -swelling of the buds--the peeping heads of the crocuses--the opening of -the anemones and wild wind-flowers, and at last, the sweet odour of the -new-born violets, with all the interest created by novelty; not that she -had not observed and watched these things before, with transitory -pleasure, but now the operations of nature filled all her world; the -earth was no longer merely the dwelling place of her acquaintance, the -stage on which the business of society was carried on, but the mother of -life--the temple of God--the beautiful and varied store-house of -bounteous nature. - -Dwelling on these ideas, Cornelia often thought of Horatio Saville, -whose conversations, now remembered, were the source whence she drew the -knowledge and poetry of her present reveries. As solitude and nature -grew lovely in her eyes, she yearned yet more fondly for the one who -could embellish all she saw. Yet while her mind needed a companion so -congenial to her present feelings, her heart was fuller of Ethel; her -affection for Saville was a calm though deep-rooted sentiment, resulting -from the conviction, that she should find entire happiness if united to -him, and in an esteem or rather an enthusiastic admiration of his -talents and virtues, that led her to dwell with complacency on the hope, -that he still remembered and loved her: but the human heart is jealous, -and with difficulty admits two emotions of equal force, and her love for -her daughter was the master passion. The instinct of nature spoke -audibly within her; the atoms of her frame seemed alive each one as she -thought of her; often her tears flowed, often her eyes brightened with -gladness when alone, and the beloved image of her beautiful daughter as -she saw her last, smiling amidst penury and indignity, was her dearest -companion by day and night. She alone made her present situation -endurable, and yet separation from her was irksome beyond expression. -Was she never to see or hear of her more? It was very hard: she implored -Providence to change the harsh decree--she longed inexpressibly for one -word that had reference to her--one event, however slight, which should -make her existence palpable. - -When Margaret announced Mrs. Fitzhenry, her heart bounded with joy. She -could ask concerning Ethel--hear; her countenance was radiant with -delight, and she really for a moment thought her sister-in-law's visit -was meant in kindness, since so much pleasure was the result. This -conviction had produced the very thing it anticipated. She had given -poor Bessy no time to announce the actual intention with which she came; -she had borne away her sullen mood by force of sweet smiles and sweeter -words; and saw her depart with gladdened spirits, whispering to herself -the fresh hopes and fond emotions which filled her bosom. She walked -back to her little garden and stooped to gather some fresh violets, and -to prop a drooping jonquil heavy with its burthen of sweet blooms. She -inhaled the vernal odours with rapture. "Yes," she thought, "nature is -the refuge and home for women: they have no public career--no aim nor -end beyond their domestic circle; but they can extend that, and make all -the creations of nature their own, to foster and do good to. We -complain, when shut up in cities of the niggard rules of society, which -gives us only the drawing-room or ball-room in which to display our -talents, and which, for ever turning the sympathy of those around us -into envy on the part of women, or what is called love on that of men, -besets our path with dangers or sorrows. But throw aside all vanity, no -longer seek to surpass your own sex, nor to inspire the other with -feelings which are pregnant with disquiet or misery, and which seldom -end in mutual benevolence, turn your steps to the habitation which God -has given as befitting his creatures, contemplate the lovely ornaments -with which he has blessed the earth;--here is no heart-burning nor -calumny; it is better to love, to be of use to one of these flowers, -than to be the admired of the many--the mere puppet of one's own -vanity." - -Lady Lodore entered the house; she asked concerning her poor hostess, and -learnt that she slept. For a short time she employed herself with her -embroidery; her thoughts were all awake; and as her fingers created -likenesses of the flowers she loved, several times her eyes filled with -tears as she thought of Ethel, and how happy she could be if her fate -permitted her to cultivate her affection and enjoy her society. - -"It is very sad," she thought; "only a few minutes ago my spirits were -buoyant, gladdened as they were by Bessy's visit; but they flag again, -when I think of my loneliness and the unreplying silence of this place. -What is to become of me? I shall remain here: yes; I shall not banish -myself to some inhospitable nook, where I should never hear her name. -But am I not to see her again? Am I to be nothing to her? Is she -satisfied with my absence--and are they all--to whom I am bound by ties -of consanguinity or affection, indifferent to the knowledge of whether I -exist or not? Nothing gives token to them of my life; it is as if the -grave had closed abruptly over me--and had it closed, thus I should have -been mourned, in coldness and neglect." - -Again her eyes were suffused; but as she wiped away the blinding tears, -she was recalled from her reflections by the bright rays of the sun -which entered her little room. She threw open the door, stepped out into -the garden--the sun was setting; the atmosphere was calm, and lighted up -by golden beams; the few clouds were dyed in the same splendid hues, the -birds sent forth a joyous song at intervals, and a band of rooks passed -above the little wood, cawing loudly. The air was balmy, the -indescribable freshness of spring was abroad, interpenetrating and -cheerful. Cornelia's melancholy fled as she felt and gave way to its -influence. "God blesses all things," she thought, "and he will also -bless me. Much wrong have I done, but love pure and disinterested is in -my heart, and I shall be repaid. My own sweet Ethel! I have sacrificed -every thing except my life for your sake, and I would add my life to the -gift, could it avail you. I ask but for you and your love. The world has -many blessings, and I have asked for them before, with tears and -anguish, but I give up all now, except you, my child. You are all the -world to me! Will you not come, even now, as I implore Heaven to give -you to me?" - -She raised her eyes in prayer, and it seemed as if her wishes were to be -accomplished--surely once in a life God will grant the earnest entreaty -of a loving heart. Cornelia believed that he would, that happiness was -near at hand, and life not all a blank. She heard a rustling among the -trees, a light step;--was it Margaret? She had scarcely asked herself -this question, when the dear object of her every thought and hope was -before her--in her arms;--Ethel had entered from the wood, had seen her -mother, had sprung forward and clasped her to her heart. - -"My dear, dear child!" - -"Dearest mother!" repeated Ethel, as her eyes were filled with tears of -delight, "why did you go--why conceal yourself? You do not know the -anxiety we have suffered, and how very unhappy your absence has made us. -But I have found you--of all that have gone to seek you, I have found -you; I deserve this reward, for I love you most of all." - -Lady Lodore returned her daughter's caresses--and her tears flowed fast for -very joy, and then she turned to Mrs. Fitzhenry, who followed Ethel, but -who had been outspeeded by her in her eagerness. The old lady's face was -beaming with happiness. "Ah, Bessy, you have betrayed me--traitress! I -did not expect this--I do not deserve such excessive happiness." - -"You deserve all, and much more than we can any of us bestow," cried -Ethel, "except that your dear generous heart will repay you beyond any -reward we can give, and you will be blest in the happiness we owe to you -alone. Edward is gone far away into Wales in quest of you." - -"An Angelica run after by the Paladins," said Lady Lodore, smiling through -her tears. - -"Paladins, worthy the name!" replied Ethel. "Horatio is even now on the -salt seas for your sake--he is returning discomfited and hopeless from -his journey of discovery to the Pyrenees--his zeal almost deserved the -reward which I have found, yet who but she, for whom you sacrificed so -much, ought to be the first to thank you? And while we all try to show -you an inexpressible gratitude, ought not I to be the first to see, -first to kiss, first--always the first--to love you?" - - - - -CONCLUSION - - -None, I trust, -Repines at these delights, they are free and harmless: -After distress at sea, the dangers o'er, -Safety and welcomes better taste ashore. - -FORD. - - -Thus the tale of "Lodore" is ended. The person who bore that title by right -of descent, has long slept in peace in the church of his native village. -Neither his own passions, nor those of others, can renew the pulsations -of his heart. "The silver cord is loosed, and the pitcher broken at the -fountain." His life had not been fruitless. The sedulous care and -admirable education he had bestowed on Ethel, would, had he lived, have -compensated to him for his many sufferings, and been a source of pure -and unfading joy to the end. He was not destined in this world to reap -the harvest of his virtues, though his errors had been punished -severely. Still his memory is the presiding genius of his daughter's -life, and the name of Lodore contains for her a spell that dignifies -existence in her own eyes, and incites her to render all her thoughts -and actions such as her beloved father would have approved. It was fated -that the evil which he did should die with him--but the good out-lived -him long, and was a blessing to those whom he loved far better than -himself. - -She who received the title on her marriage, henceforth continued her -existence under another; and the wife of Saville, who soon after became -Viscountess Maristow, loses her right to be chronicled in these pages. -So few years indeed are passed since the period to which the last -chapter brought us, that it may be safely announced that Cornelia -Santerre possesses that happiness, through her generosity and devoted -affection, which she had lost through pride and self-exaltation. She -wonders at her past self--and laments the many opportunities she lost -for benefiting others, and proving herself worthy of their attachment. -Her pride is gone, or rather, her pride is now placed in redeeming her -faults. She is humble, knowing how much she was deceived in herself--she -is forgiving, for she feels that she needs forgiveness. She looks on the -track of years she has passed over as wasted, and she wishes to retrieve -their loss. She respects, admires, in some sense it may be said, that -she adores her husband; but even while consenting to be his, and thus -securing her own happiness, she told him that her first duties were -towards Ethel--and that he took a divided heart, over the better part of -which reigned maternal love. Saville, the least egoistic of human -beings, smiled to hear her name that a defect, which was in his eyes her -crowning virtue. - -Edward Villiers learnt to prize worldly prosperity at its true value, -and each day blesses the train of circumstances that led him to wed -Ethel, even though poverty and suffering had followed close behind. -Ethel herself might be said to have been always happy. She was incapable -of being impressed by any sorrow, that did not touch her for another's -sake: and while she exerted herself to alleviate the pain endured by -those she loved, she passed on unhurt. Heaven spared her life's most -cruel evils. Death had done its worst when she lost her father. Now, -surrounded by dear friends, and the object of her husband's constant -tenderness, she pursues a tranquil course: which for any one to consider -the most blissful allotted to mortals, they must have a heart like her -own--faithful, affectionate, and generous. - -Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry, kind and gentle aunt Bessy, always felt her -heaven clouded while she indulged in her aversion to her sister-in-law. -She is happy now that she is reconciled to Cornelia; strange to say, she -loves her even more than she loves Ethel--she is more intimately -connected in her mind with the memory of Lodore. She often visits her at -Maristow Castle; in the neighbourhood of which Margaret is settled, -being happily married. Colonel Villiers still lives in Paris. He is in a -miserable state of poverty, difficulty, and ill-health. His wife has -deserted him: he neglected and outraged her, and she in a fit of remorse -left him, and returned to nurse her father during a lingering illness, -which is likely to continue to the end of his life, though he shows no -symptoms of immediate decay. He is eager to lavish all his wealth on his -child, if he can be sure that no portion of it is shared by her husband. -With infinite difficulty, and at the cost of many privations, she, with -a true woman's feeling, contrives to send him remittances now and then, -though she receives in return neither thanks nor kindness. He pursues a -course of dissipation in its most degraded form--a wretched hanger-on at -resorts, misnamed of pleasure--gambling while he has any money to -lose--trying to ruin others as he has been ruined. - -Thus we have done our duty, in bringing under view, in a brief summary, -the little that there is to tell of the personages who formed the drama -of this tale. One only remains to be mentioned: but it is not in a few -tame lines that we can revert to the varied fate of Fanny Derham. She -continued for some time among her beloved friends, innocent and calm as -she was beautiful and wise; circumstances at last led her away from -them, and she has entered upon life. One who feels so deeply for others, -and yet is so stern a censor over herself--at once so sensitive and so -rigidly conscientious--so single-minded and upright, and yet open as day -to charity and affection, cannot hope to pass from youth to age -unharmed. Deceit, and selfishness, and the whole web of human passion -must envelope her, and occasion her many sorrows; and the unworthiness -of her fellow-creatures inflict infinite pain on her noble heart: still -she cannot be contaminated--she will turn neither to the right nor left, -but pursue her way unflinching; and, in her lofty idea of the dignity of -her nature, in her love of truth and in her integrity, she will find -support and reward in her various fortunes. What the events are, that -have already diversified her existence, cannot now be recounted; and it -would require the gift of prophecy to foretell the conclusion. In after -times these may be told, and the life of Fanny Derham be presented as a -useful lesson, at once to teach what goodness and genius can achieve in -palliating the woes of life, and to encourage those, who would in any -way imitate her, by an example of calumny refuted by patience, errors -rectified by charity, and the passions of our nature purified and -ennobled by an underviating observance of those moral laws on which all -human excellence is founded--a love of truth in ourselves, and a sincere -sympathy with our fellow-creatures. - - - - -THE END - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LODORE, VOL. 3 (OF 3) *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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} -.poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} -.poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i6 {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i7 {display: block; margin-left: 5em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} -.poem span.i8 {display: block; margin-left: 7em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} - -/* Transcriber's notes */ -.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; - color: black; - font-size:smaller; - padding:0.5em; - margin-bottom:5em; - margin-top:2em; - font-family:sans-serif, serif; } - - </style> - </head> -<body> - -<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Lodore, Vol. 3 (of 3), by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Lodore, Vol. 3 (of 3)</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: February 14, 2021 [eBook #64557]<br /> -[Most recently updated: October 27, 2021]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images generously made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.)</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LODORE, VOL. 3 (OF 3) ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/lodore03_cover.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<h2>LODORE.</h2> - - - -<h4>BY THE</h4> - -<h3>AUTHOR OF "FRANKENSTEIN."</h3> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">In the turmoil of our lives,</span><br /> -<span class="i0">Men are like politic states, or troubled seas.</span><br /> -<span class="i0">Tossed up and down with several storms and tempests,</span><br /> -<span class="i0">Change and variety of wrecks and fortunes;</span><br /> -<span class="i0">Till, labouring to the havens of our homes,</span><br /> -<span class="i0">We struggle for the calm that crowns our ends.</span> -</div></div> - -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">FORD.</p> -</div> - - - -<h3>IN THREE VOLUMES.</h3> - - -<h3>VOL. III.</h3> - - - -<h4>LONDON:</h4> - -<h4>RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET</h4> - -<h5>(SUCCESSOR TO HENRY COLBURN.)</h5> - -<h5>1835.</h5> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CONTENTS</h4> -<p><a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII</a><br /> -<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII</a><br /> -<a href="#CONCLUSION">CONCLUSION</a></p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<p><br /></p> - -<h4>LODORE</h4> - - -<p><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I</a></h4> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Injurious distance should not stop my way;</span><br /> -<span class="i2">For then, despite of space, I would be brought,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">From limits far remote, where thou dost stay.</span> -</div></div> - -<p style="margin-left: 55%;">SHAKSPEARE.</p> -</div> - -<p> -The still hours of darkness passed silently away, and morning dawned, -when -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">All rose to do the task, he set to each</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Who shaped us to his ends, and not our own.</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -Ethel had slept peacefully through the livelong night; nor woke till a -knock at her door roused her. A rush of fear—a sense of ill, made -her heart palpitate as she opened her eyes to the light of day. While -she was striving to recall her thoughts, and to remember what the evil -was with which she was threatened, again the servant tapped at her door, -to say that Saunders had returned, and to deliver the letter he had -brought. She looked at her watch: it was past ten o'clock. She felt glad -that it had grown so late, and she not disturbed: yet as she took the -letter brought to her from her husband, all her tremor returned; and she -read it with agitation, as if it contained the announcement of her final -doom. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"You send me disagreeable tidings, my sweet Ethel," wrote -Villiers,—"I hope unfounded; but caution is necessary: I shall -not, therefore, come to Duke Street. Send me a few lines, by Saunders, -to tell me if any thing has happened. If what he apprehended has really -taken place, you must bear, my love, the separation of a day. You do not -understand these things, and will wonder when I tell you, that when the -clock strikes twelve on Saturday night, the magic spells and potent -charms of Saunders's friends cease to have power: at that hour I shall -be restored to you. Wait till then—and <i>then</i> we will consult -for the future. Have patience, dearest love: you have wedded poverty, -hardship, and annoyance; but, joined to these, is the fondest, the most -faithful heart in the world;—a heart you deign to prize, so I will -not repine at ill fortune. Adieu, till this evening;—and then, as -Belvidera says, 'Remember twelve!' -</p> - -<p> -"<i>Saturday Morning.</i>" -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -After reading these lines, Ethel dressed herself hastily. Fanny Derham -had already asked permission to see her; and she found her waiting in -her sitting-room. It was an unspeakable comfort to have one as -intelligent and kind as Fanny, to communicate with, during Edward's -absence. The soft, pleading eyes of Ethel asked her for comfort and -counsel; and, in spite of her extreme youth, the benignant and -intelligent expression of Fanny's countenance promised both. -</p> - -<p> -"I am sorry to say," she said, "that Saunders's prognostics are too -true. Such men as he describes have been here this morning. They were -tolerably civil, and I convinced them, with greater ease than I had -hoped, that Mr. Villiers was absent from the house; and I assured them, -that after this visit of theirs, he was not likely to return." -</p> - -<p> -"And do you really believe that they were"—Ethel faltered. -</p> - -<p> -"Bailiffs? Assuredly," replied Fanny: "they told me that they had the -power to search the house; but if they were 'strong,' they were also -'merciful.' And now, what do you do? Saunders tells me he is waiting to -take back a letter to Mr. Villiers, at the London Coffee House. Write -quickly, while I make your breakfast." -</p> - -<p> -Ethel gladly obeyed. She wrote a few words to her husband. That it was -already Saturday, cheered her: twelve at night would soon come. -</p> - -<p> -After her note was dispatched, she addressed Fanny. "What trouble I -give," she said: "what will your mother think of such degrading -proceedings?" -</p> - -<p> -"My mother," said Fanny, "is the kindest-hearted woman in the world. We -have never exactly suffered this disaster; but we are in a rank of life -which causes us to be brought into contact with such among our friends -and relations; and she is familiar with trouble in almost all shapes. -You are a great favourite of hers; and now that she can claim a sort of -acquaintance, she will be heart and soul your friend." -</p> - -<p> -"It is odd," observed Ethel, "that she never mentioned you to me. Had -the name of Fanny been mentioned, I should have recollected who Mrs. -Derham was." -</p> - -<p> -"Perhaps not," said Fanny; "it would have required a great effort of the -imagination to have fancied Mrs. Derham the wife of my father. You never -knew him; but Lord Lodore made you familiar with his qualities: the most -shrinking susceptibility to the world's scorn, joined to the most entire -abstraction from all that is vulgar; a morbid sensibility and delicate -health placed him in glaring contrast with my mother. They never in the -least assimilated; and her character has gained in excellence since his -loss. Before she was fretted and galled by his finer feelings—now she -can be good in her own way. Nothing reminds her of his exalted -sentiments, except myself; and she is willing enough to forget me." -</p> - -<p> -"And you do not repine?" asked her friend. -</p> - -<p> -"I do not: she is happy in and with Sarah. I should spoil their notions -of comfort, did I mingle with them;—they would torture and destroy -me, did they interfere with me. I lost my guide, preserver, my guardian -angel, when my father died. Nothing remains but the philosophy which he -taught me—the disdain of low-thoughted care which he sedulously -cultivated: this, joined to my cherished independence, which my -disposition renders necessary to me." -</p> - -<p> -"And thus you foster sorrow, and waste your life in vain regrets?" -</p> - -<p> -"Pardon me! I do not waste my life," replied Fanny, with her sunny -smile;—"nor am I unhappy—far otherwise. An ardent thirst for -knowledge, is as the air I breathe; and the acquisition of it, is pure -and unalloyed happiness. I aspire to be useful to my fellow-creatures: -but that is a consideration for the future, when fortune shall smile on -me; now I have but one passion; it swallows up every other; it dwells -with my darling books, and is fed by the treasures of beauty and wisdom -which they contain." -</p> - -<p> -Ethel could not understand. Fanny continued:—"I aspire to be -useful;—sometimes I think I am—once I know I was. I was my -father's almoner. -</p> - -<p> -"We lived in a district where there was a great deal of distress, and a -great deal of oppression. We had no money to give, but I soon found that -determination and earnestness will do much. It was my father's lesson, -that I should never fear any thing but myself. He taught me to -penetrate, to anatomize, to purify my motives; but once assured of my -own integrity, to be afraid of nothing. Words have more power than any -one can guess; it is by words that the world's great fight, now in these -civilized times, is carried on; I never hesitated to use them, when I -fought any battle for the miserable and oppressed. People are so afraid -to speak, it would seem as if half our fellow-creatures were born with -deficient organs; like parrots they can repeat a lesson, but their voice -fails them, when that alone is wanting to make the tyrant quail." -</p> - -<p> -As Fanny spoke, her blue eyes brightened, and a smile irradiated her -face; these were all the tokens of enthusiasm she displayed, yet her -words moved Ethel strangely, and she looked on her with wonder as a -superior being. Her youth gave grace to her sentiments, and were an -assurance of their sincerity. She continued:— -</p> - -<p> -"I am becoming flightly, as my mother calls it; but, as I spoke, many -scenes of cottage distress passed through my memory, when, holding my -father's hand, I witnessed his endeavours to relieve the poor. That is -all over now—he is gone, and I have but one consolation—that of -endeavouring to render myself worthy to rejoin him in a better world. It -is this hope that impels me continually and without any flagging of -spirit, to cultivate my understanding and to refine it. O what has this -life to give, as worldlings describe it, worth one of those glorious -emotions, which raise me from this petty sphere, into the sun-bright -regions of mind, which my father inhabits! I am rewarded even here by -the elevated feelings which the authors, whom I love so passionately, -inspire; while I converse each day with Plato, and Cicero, and -Epictetus, the world, as it is, passes from before me like a vain -shadow." -</p> - -<p> -These enthusiastic words were spoken with so calm a manner, and in so -equable a voice, that there seemed nothing strange nor exaggerated in -them. It is vanity and affectation that shock, or any manifestation of -feeling not in accordance with the real character. But while we follow -our natural bent, and only speak that which our minds spontaneously -inspire, there is a harmony, which, however novel, is never grating. -Fanny Derham spoke of things, which, to use her own expression, were to -her as the air she breathed, and the simplicity of her manner entirely -obviated the wonder which the energy of her expressions might occasion. -</p> - -<p> -Such a woman as Fanny was more made to be loved by her own sex than by -the opposite one. Superiority of intellect, joined to acquisitions -beyond those usual even to men; and both announced with frankness, -though without pretension, forms a kind of anomaly little in accord with -masculine taste. Fanny could not be the rival of women, and, therefore, -all her merits were appreciated by them. They love to look up to a -superior being, to rest on a firmer support than their own minds can -afford; and they are glad to find such in one of their own sex, and thus -destitute of those dangers which usually attend any services conferred -by men. -</p> - -<p> -From talk like this, they diverged to subjects nearer to the heart of -Ethel. They spoke of Lord Lodore, and her father's name soothed her -agitation even more than the consolatory arguments of her friend. She -remembered how often he had talked of the trials to which the constancy of -her temper and the truth of her affection might be put, and she felt her -courage rise to encounter those now before her, without discontent, or -rather with that cheerful fortitude, which sheds grace over the rugged -form of adversity. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II</a></h4> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i3"><i>Marian.</i> Could you so long be absent?</span><br /> -<span class="i3"><i>Robin.</i> What a week?</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Was that so long?</span><br /> -<span class="i3"><i>Marian.</i> How long are lovers' weeks,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Do you think, Robin, when they are asunder?</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Are they not pris'ners' years?</span> -</div></div> - -<p style="margin-left: 55%;">BEN JONSON.</p> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The day passed on more lightly than Ethel could have hoped; much of it -indeed was gone before she opened her eyes to greet it. Night soon -closed in, and she busied herself with arrangements for the welcome of -her husband. Fanny loved solitude too well herself not to believe that -others shared her taste. She retired therefore when evening commenced. -No sooner was Ethel alone, than every image except Edward's passed out -of her mind. Her heart was bursting with affection. Every other idea and -thought, to use a chemical expression, was held in solution by that -powerful feeling, which mingled and united with every particle of her -soul. She could not write nor read; if she attempted, before she had -finished the shortest sentence, she found that her understanding was -wandering, and she re-read it with no better success. It was as if a -spring, a gush from the fountain of love poured itself in, bearing away -every object which she strove to throw upon the stream of thought, till -its own sweet waters alone filled the channel through which it flowed. -She gave herself up to the bewildering influence, and almost forgot to -count the hours till Edward's expected arrival. At last it was ten -o'clock, and then the sting of impatience and uncertainty was felt. It -appeared to her as if a whole age had passed since she had seen or heard -of him—as if countless events and incalculable changes might have -taken place. She read again and again his note, to assure herself that she -might really expect him: the minutes meanwhile stood still, or were told -heavily by the distinct beating of her heart. The east wind bore to her -ear the sound of the quarters of hours, as they chimed from various -churches. At length eleven, half-past eleven was passed, and the hand of -her watch began to climb slowly upwards toward the zenith, which she -desired so ardently that it should reach. She gazed on the dial-plate, -till she fancied that the pointers did not move; she placed her hands -before her eyes resolutely, and would not look for a long long time; -three minutes had not been travelled over when again she viewed it; she -tried to count her pulse, as a measurement of time; her trembling -fingers refused to press the fluttering artery. At length another -quarter of an hour elapsed, and then the succeeding one hurried on more -speedily. Clock after clock struck; they mingled their various tones, as -the hour of twelve was tolled throughout London. It seemed as if they -would never end. Silence came at last—a brief silence succeeded by a -firm quick step in the street below, and a knock at the door. "Is he not -too soon?" poor fearful Ethel asked herself. But no; and in a moment -after, he was with her, safe in her glad embrace. -</p> - -<p> -Perhaps of the two, Villiers showed himself the most enraptured at this -meeting. He gazed on his sweet wife, followed every motion, and hung -upon her voice, with all the delight of an exile, restored to his -long-lost home. "What a transporting change," he said, "to find myself -with you—to see you in the same room with me—to know again -that, lovely and dear as you are, that you are mine—that I am again -myself—not the miserable dog that has been wandering about all -day—a body without a soul! For a few short hours, at least, Ethel -will call me hers." -</p> - -<p> -"Indeed, indeed, love," she replied, "we will not be separated again." -</p> - -<p> -"We will not even think about that tonight," said Villiers. "The future -is dark and blank, the present as radiant as your own sweet self can -make it." -</p> - -<p> -On the following day—and the following day did come, in spite of -Ethel's wishes, which would have held back the progress of time: it came -and passed away; hour after hour stealing along, till it dwindled to a -mere point. On the following day, they consulted earnestly on what was -to be done. Villiers was greatly averse to Ethel's leaving her present -abode, where every one was so very kind and attentive to her, and he was -sanguine in his hopes of obtaining in the course of the week, just -commenced, a sum, sufficient to carry them to Paris or Brussels, were -they could remain till his affairs were finally arranged, and the -payment of his debts regulated in a way to satisfy his creditors. One -week of absence; Villiers used all his persuasion to induce Ethel to -submit to it. "Where you can be, I can be also," was her answer; and she -listened unconvinced to the detail of the inconveniences which Villiers -pointed out: at last he almost got angry. "I could call you unkind, -Ethel," he said, "not to yield to me." -</p> - -<p> -"I will yield to you," said Ethel, "but you are wrong to ask me." -</p> - -<p> -"Never mind that," replied her husband, "do concede this point, dearest; -if not because it is best that you should, then because I wish it, and -ask it of you. You say that your first desire is to make me happy, and -you pain me exceedingly by your—I had almost said perverseness." -</p> - -<p> -Thus, not convinced, but obedient, Ethel agreed to allow him to depart -alone. She bargained that she should be permitted to come each day in a -hackney coach to a place where he might meet her, and they could spend -an hour or two together. Edward did not like this plan at all, but there -was no remedy. "You are at least resolved," he said, "to spur my -endeavours; I will not rest day or night, till I am enabled to get away -from this vast dungeon." -</p> - -<p> -The hours stole on. Even Edward's buoyant spirits could not bear up -against the sadness of watching the fleeting moments till the one should -come, which must separate him from his wife. "This nice, dear room," he -said, "I am sure I beg its pardon for having despised it so much -formerly—it is not as lofty as a church, nor as grand as a palace, -but it is very snug; and now you are in it, I discern even elegance in its -exceedingly queer tables and chairs. When our carriage broke down on the -Apennines, how glad we should have been if a room like this had risen, -'like an exhalation' for our shelter! Do you remember the barn of a -place we got into there, and our droll bed of the leaves of Indian corn, -which crackled all night long, and awoke us twenty times with the fear -of robbers? Then, indeed, twelve o'clock was not to separate us!" -</p> - -<p> -As he said this he sighed; the hour of eleven was indicated by Ethel's -watch, and still he lingered; but she grew frightened for him, and -forced him to go away, while he besought the delay of but a few minutes. -</p> - -<p> -Ethel exerted herself to endure as well as she could the separation of -the ensuing week. She was not of a repining disposition, yet she found -it very hard to bear. The discomfort to which Villiers was exposed -annoyed her, and the idea that she was not permitted to alleviate it -added to her painful feelings. In her prospect of life every evil was -neutralized when shared—now they were doubled, because the pain of -absence from each other was superadded. She did not yield to her -husband, in her opinion that this was wrong. She was willing to go -anywhere with him, and where he was, she also could be. There could be -no degradation in a wife waiting on the fallen fortunes of her husband. -No debasement can arise from any services dictated by love. It is -despicable to submit to hardship for unworthy and worldly objects, but -every thing that is suffered for the sake of affection, is hallowed by -the disinterested sentiment, and affords triumph and delight to the -willing victim. Sometimes she tried in speech or on paper to express -these feelings, and so by the force of irresistible reasoning to -persuade Edward to permit her to join him; but all argument was weak; -there was something beyond, that no words could express, which was -stronger than any reason in her heart. Who can express the power of -faithful and single-hearted love? As well attempt to define the laws of -life, which occasions a continuity of feeling from the brain to the -extremity of the frame, as try to explain how love can so unite two -souls, as to make each feel maimed and half alive, while divided. A -powerful impulse was perpetually urging Ethel to go—to place herself -near Villiers—to refuse to depart. It was with the most violent -struggles that she overcame the instigation. -</p> - -<p> -She never could forget herself while away from him, or find the -slightest alleviation to her disquietude, except while conversing with -Fanny Derham, or rather while drawing her out, and listening to her, and -wondering at a mechanism of mind so different from her own. Each had -been the favourite daughter of men of superior qualities of mind. They -had been educated by their several fathers with the most sedulous care, -and nothing could be more opposite than the result, except that, indeed, -both made duty the master motive of their actions. Ethel had received, -so to speak, a sexual education. Lord Lodore had formed his ideal of what a -woman ought to be, of what he had wished to find his wife, and sought to -mould his daughter accordingly. Mr. Derham contemplated the duties and -objects befitting an immortal soul, and had educated his child for the -performance of them. The one fashioned his offspring to be the wife of a -frail human being, and instructed her to be yielding, and to make it her -duty to devote herself to his happiness, and to obey his will. The other -sought to guard his from all weakness, to make her complete in herself, -and to render her independent and self-sufficing. Born to poverty as -Fanny was, it was thus only that she could find happiness in rising -above her sphere; and, besides, a sense of pride, surviving his sense of -injury, caused him to wish that his child should set her heart on higher -things, than the distinctions and advantages of riches or rank; so that -if ever brought into collision with his own family, she could look down -with calm superiority on the "low ambition" of the wealthy. While Ethel -made it her happiness and duty to give herself away with unreserved -prodigality to him, whom she thought had every claim to her entire -devotion; Fanny zealously guarded her individuality, and would have -scorned herself could she have been brought to place the treasures of -her soul at the disposal of any power, except those moral laws which it -was her earnest endeavour never to transgress. Religion, reason, and -justice—these were the landmarks of her life. She was kind-hearted, -generous, and true—so also was Ethel; but the one was guided by the -tenderness of her heart, while the other consulted her understanding, -and would have died rather than have acted contrary to its dictates. -</p> - -<p> -To guard Ethel from every contamination, Lord Lodore had secluded her from -all society, and forestalled every circumstance that might bring her into -conjunction with her fellow-creatures. He was equally careful to prevent -her fostering any pride, except that of sex; and never spoke to her as -if she were of an elevated rank: and the communication, however small, -which she necessarily had with the Americans, made such ideas foreign to -her mind. But she was excedingly shy; tremblingly alive to the slightest -repulse; and never perfectly fearless, (morally so, that is), except -when under the shelter of another's care. Fanny's first principle was, -that what she ought to do, that she could do, without hesitation or -regard for obstacles. She had something Quixotic in her nature; or -rather she would have had, if a clear head and some experience, even -young as she was, had not stood in the way of her making any glaring -mistakes; so that her enterprises were never ridiculous; and being -usually successful, could not be called extravagant. For herself, she -needed but her liberty and her books;—for others, she had her time, -her thoughts, her decided and resolute modes of action, all at their -command, whenever she was convinced that they had a just claim upon -them. -</p> - -<p> -It was singular that the resolute and unshrinking Fanny should be the -daughter of Francis Derham; and the timid, retiring Ethel, of his bold -and daring protector. But this is no uncommon case. We feel the evil -results of our own faults, and endeavour to guard our children from -them; forgetful that the opposite extreme has also its peculiar dangers. -Lord Lodore attributed his early misfortunes to the too great freedom he -had enjoyed, or rather to the unlimited scope given to his will, from his -birth. Mr. Derham saw the unhappiness that had sprung from his own -yielding and undecided disposition. The one brought up his child to -dependence; the other taught his to disdain every support, except the -applause of her own conscience. Lodore fostered all the sensibility, all -the softness, of Ethel's feminine and delicat nature; while Fanny's -father strove to harden and confirm a character, in itself singularly -stedfast and upright. -</p> - -<p> -In spite of the great contrast thus exhibited between Ethel and Fanny, -one quality created a good deal of similarity between them. There was in -both a total absence of every factitious sentiment. They acted from -their own hearts—from their own sense of right, without the -intervention of worldly considerations. A feeling of duty ruled all -their actions; and, however excellent a person's dispositions may be, it -yet requires considerable elevation of character never to deviate from -the strict line of honour and integrity. -</p> - -<p> -Fanny's society a little relieved Ethel's solitude: yet that did not -weigh on her; and had she not been the child of her father's earliest -friend, and the companion of past days, she would have been disinclined, -at this period, to cultivate an intimacy with her. She needed no -companion except the thought of Edward, which was never absent from her -mind. But amidst all her affection for her husband, which gained -strength, and, as it were, covered each day a larger portion of her being, -any one associated with the name of Lodore—of her beloved father, -had a magic power to call forth her warmest feelings of interest. Both -ladies repeated to each other what they had heard from their several -parents. Mr. Derham had, among his many lessons of usefulness, descanted -on the generosity and boldness of Fitzhenry, as offering an example to -be followed. And during the last months of Lodore's life, he had -recurred, with passionate fondness, to the memory of his early years, -and painted in glowing colours the delicacy of feeling, the deep sense -of gratitude, and the latent but fervid enthusiasm, which adorned the -character of Francis Derham. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III</a></h4> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">It does much trouble me to live without you:</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Our loves and loving souls have been so used</span><br /> -<span class="i2">To one household in us.</span> -</div></div> - -<p style="margin-left: 45%;">BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.</p> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The week passed on. It was the month of January, and very cold. A black -frost bound up every thing with ice, and the piercing air congealed the -very blood. Each day Ethel went to see her husband;—each day she had -to encounter Mrs. Derham's intreaties not to go, and the reproaches of -Villiers for coming. Both were unavailing to prevent the daily -pilgrimage. Mrs. Derham sighed heavily when she saw her enter the -ricketty hackney-coach, whose damp lining, gaping windows, and miserable -straw, made it a <i>cold-bed</i> for catarrh—a very temple for the -spirit of winter. Villiers each day besought her to have horses put to -their chariot, if she must come; but Ethel remembered all he had ever said -of expense, and his prognostications of how ill she would be able to endure -the petty, yet galling annoyances of poverty; and she resolved to prove, -that she could cheerfully bear every thing except separation from him. -With this laudable motive to incite her, she tasked her strength too -far. She kept up her spirits to meet him with a cheerful countenance; -and she contrived to conceal the sufferings she endured while they were -together. They got out and walked now and then; and this tended to keep -up the vital warmth. Their course was generally taken over Blackfriars -Bridge; and it was on their return across the river, on whose surface -large masses of ice floated, while a bitter north-east wind swept up, -bearing on its blasts the unthawed breath of the German Ocean, that she -felt the cold enter her heart, and make her head feel dizzy. Still she -could smile, and ask Villiers why he objected to her taking an exercise -even necessary for her health; and repeat again and again, that, bred in -America, an English winter was but a faint reflex of what she had -encountered there, and insist upon being permitted to come on the -following day. These were precious moments in her eyes, worth all the -pain they occasioned,—well worth the struggle she made for the -repetition. Edward's endearing attentions—the knowledge she had that -she was loved—the swelling and earnest affection that warmed her own -heart,—hallowed these hard-earned minutes, and gave her the sweet -pleasure of knowing that she demonstrated, in some slight degree, the -profound and all engrossing attachment which pervaded her entire being. -They parted; and often she arrived nearly senseless at Duke Street, and -once or twice fainted on entering the warm room: but it was not pain she -felt then—the emotions of the soul conquered the sensation of her -body, and pleasure, the intense pleasure of affection, was predominant -through all. -</p> - -<p> -Sunday came again, and brought Villiers to her home. Mrs. Derham took -the opportunity to represent to him the injury that Ethel was doing -herself; and begged him, as he cared for her health, to forbid her -exposing herself to the inclement weather. -</p> - -<p> -"You hear this, Ethel," said Villiers; "and yet you are obstinate. It -this right? What can I urge, what can I do, to prevent this wrong-headed -pertinacity?" -</p> - -<p> -"You use such very hard words," replied Ethel, smiling, "that you -frighten me into believing myself criminal. But so far am I from -conceding, that you only give me courage to say, that I cannot any -longer endure the sad and separate life we lead. It must be changed, -dearest; we must be together." -</p> - -<p> -Villiers was pacing the room impatiently: with an exclamation almost -approaching to anger, he stopped before his wife, to remonstrate and to -reproach. But as he gazed upon her upturned face, fixed so beseechingly -and fondly on him, he fancied that he saw the hues of ill-health -stealing across her cheeks, and thinness displacing the roundness of her -form. A strange emotion flashed across him; a new fear, too terrible -even to be acknowledged to himself, which passed, like the shadow of a -storm, across his anticipations, and filled him with inquietude. His -reprehension was changed to a caress, as he said, "You are right, my -love, quite right; we must not live thus. You are unable to take care of -yourself; and I am very wrong to give up my dearest privilege, of -watching day and night over the welfare of my only treasure. We will be -together, Ethel; if the worst come, it cannot be very bad, while we are -true to each other." -</p> - -<p> -Tears filled the poor girl's eyes—tears of joy and -tenderness—at hearing Edward echo the sentiments she cherished as -the most sacred in the world. For a few minutes, they forgot every thing -in the affectionate kiss, which ratified, as it were, this new law; and -then Edward considered how best he could carry it into effect. -</p> - -<p> -"Gayland," he said, (he was his solicitor,) "has appointed to see me on -Thursday morning, and has good hopes of definitively arranging the -conditions for the loan of the five hundred pounds, which is to enable -us to wait for better things. On Thursday evening, we will leave town. -We will go to some pretty country inn, to wait till I have signed these -papers; and trust to Providence that no ill will arise. We must not be -more than fifteen or twenty miles from London; so that when I am obliged -to go up, I can return again in a few hours. Tell me, sweet, does this -scheme please you?" -</p> - -<p> -Ethel expressed her warmest gratitude; and then Villiers insinuated his -condition, that she should not come to see him in the interval, but -remain, taking care of herself, till, on Thursday afternoon, at six -o'clock, she came, with their chariot, to the northern side of St. -Paul's Churchyard, where he would immediately join her. They might -write, meanwhile: he promised letters as long as if they were to go to -India; and soothed her annoyance with every expression of thankfulness -at her giving up this point. She did give it up, with all the readiness -she could muster; and this increased, as he dwelt upon the enjoyment -they would share, in exchanging foggy, smoky London, for the -ever-pleasing aspect of nature, which, even during frost and snow, -possesses her own charms—her own wonders; and can gratify our senses -by a thousand forms of beauty, which have no existence in a dingy -metropolis. -</p> - -<p> -When the evening hour came for the young pair to separate, their hearts -were cheered by the near prospect of re-union; and a belief that the, to -them, trivial privations of poverty were the only ones they would have -to endure. The thrill of fear which had crossed the mind of Villiers, as -to the health and preservation of his wife, had served to dissipate the -lingering sense of shame and degradation inspired by the penury of their -situation. He felt that there was something better than wealth, and the -attendance of his fellow-creatures; something worse than poverty, and -the world's scorn. Within the fragile form of Ethel, there beat a heart -of more worth than a king's ransom; and its pulsations were ruled by -him. To lose her! What would all that earth can afford, of power or -splendour, appear without her? He pressed her to his bosom, and knew -that his arms encircled all life's worth for him. Never again could he -forget the deep-felt appreciation of her value, which then took root in -his mind; while she, become conscious, by force of sympathy, of the kind -of revolution that was made in his sentiments, felt that the foundations -of her life grew strong, and that her hopes in this world became -stedfast and enduring. Before, a wall of separation, however slight, had -divided them; they had followed a system of conduct independent of each -other, and passed their censure upon the ideas of either. This was over -now—they were one—one sense of right—one feeling of -happiness; and when they parted that night, each felt that they truly -possessed the other; and that by mingling every hope and wish, they had -confirmed the marriage of their hearts. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV</a></h4> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">. . . . . . Think but whither</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Now you can go; what you can do to live;</span><br /> -<span class="i2">How near you have barred all ports to your own</span><br /> -<span class="i6">succour.</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Except this one that here I open, love.</span> -</div></div> - -<p style="margin-left: 45%;">BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.</p> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The most pleasing thoughts shed their balmy influence on Ethel's repose -that night. Edward's scheme of a country inn, where the very freedom -would make them more entirely dependent upon each other, was absolutely -enchanting. Where we establish ourselves, and look forward to the -passage of a long interval of time, we form ties with, and assume duties -towards, many of our fellow-creatures, each of which must diminish the -singleness of the soul's devotion towards the selected one. No doubt -this is the fitting position for human beings to place themselves in, as -affording a greater scope for utility: but for a brief space, to have no -occupation but that of contributing to the happiness of him to whom her -life was consecrated, appeared to Ethel a very heaven upon earth. It was -not that she was narrow-hearted: so much affection demands a spacious -mansion for its abode; but in their present position of struggle and -difficulty, there was no possibility of extending her sphere of -benevolence, and she gladly concentrated her endeavours in the one -object whose happiness was in her hands. -</p> - -<p> -All night, even in sleep, a peculiar sense of calm enjoyment soothed the -mind of Ethel, and she awoke in the morning with buoyant spirits, and a -soul all alive to its own pleasurable existence. She sat at her little -solitary breakfast table, musing with still renewed delight upon the -prospect opened before her, when suddenly she was startled by the vision -of an empty purse. What could Villiers intend? She felt assured that his -stock was very nearly exhausted, and for herself two sovereigns, which -were not sufficient to meet the demands of the last week, was all that -she possessed. She tried to recollect if Edward had said any thing that -denoted any expectation of receiving money; on the contrary—diving -into the recesses of her memory, she called to mind that he had said, "We -shall receive your poor little dividend of a hundred pounds, in less -than a fortnight, so we shall be able to live, even if Gayland should -delay getting the other money—I suppose we have enough to get on till -then." -</p> - -<p> -He had said this inquiringly, and she knew that she had made a sign of -assent, though at the time, she had no thought of the real purport of -his question or of her answer. What was to be done? The obvious -consequence of her reflections was at once to destroy the cherished -scheme of going out of town with Villiers. This was a misfortune too -great to bear, and she at last decided upon having again recourse to her -aunt. Unused to every money transaction, she had not that terror of -obligation, nor dislike of asking, which is so necessary to preserve our -independence, and even our sense of justice, through life. Money had -always been placed like counters in her hand; she had never known whence -it came, and until her marriage, she had never disposed of more than -very small sums. Subsequently Villiers had been the director of their -expenses. This was the faulty part of her father's system of education. -But Lodore's domestic habits were for a great part founded on experience in -foreign countries, and he forgot that an English wife is usually the -cashier—the sole controller of the disbursements of her family. It -seemed as easy a thing for Ethel to ask for money from Mrs. Fitzhenry, -as she knew it would be easy for her to give. In compliance, however, -with Villiers's notions, she limited her request to ten pounds, and tried -to word her letter so as to create no suspicion in her aunt's mind with -regard to their resources. This task achieved, she dismissed every -annoying thought, and when Fanny came to express her hope, that, bleak -and snowy as was the day, she did not intend to make her accustomed -pilgrimage, with a countenance beaming with delight, she dilated on -their plan, and spoke as if on the much-desired Thursday, the gates of -Elysium were to be thrown open for her. -</p> - -<p> -There would have appeared something childish in her gladness to the -abstracted and philosophic mind of Fanny, but that the real evils of her -situation, and the fortitude, touching in its unconscious simplicity, -with which she encountered them, commanded respect. Ethel, as well as -her friend, was elevated above the common place of life; she also -fostered a state of mind, "lofty and magnificent, fitted rather to -command than to obey, not only suffering patiently, but even making -light of all human cares; a grand and dignified self-possession, which -fears nothing, yields to no one, and remains for ever unvanquished." -When Fanny, in one of their conversations, while describing the uses of -philosophy, had translated this eulogium of its effects from Cicero, -Ethel had exclaimed, "This is love—it is love alone that divides us -from sordid earthborn thoughts, and causes us to walk alone, girt by its -own beauty and power." -</p> - -<p> -Fanny smiled; yet while she saw slavery rather than a proud independence -in the creed of Ethel, she admired the warmth of heart which could endow -with so much brilliancy a state of privation and solitude. At the -present moment, when Mrs. Villiers was rapturously announcing their -scheme for leaving London, an expression of pain mantled over Fanny's -features; her clear blue eyes became suffused, a large tear gathered on -her lashes. "What is the matter?" asked Ethel anxiously. -</p> - -<p> -"That I am a fool—but pardon me, for the folly is already passed -away. For the first time you have made it hard for me to keep my soul -firm in its own single existence. I have been debarred from all -intercourse with those whose ideas rise above the soil on which they -tread, except in my dear books, and I thought I should never be attached -to any thing but them. Yet do not think me selfish, Mr. Villiers is -quite right—it is much better that you should not be apart—I -am delighted with his plan." -</p> - -<p> -"Away or near, dear Fanny," said Ethel, in a caressing tone, "I never -can forget your kindness—never cease to feel the warmest friendship -for you. Remember, our fathers were friends, and their children ought to -inherit the same faithful attachment." -</p> - -<p> -Fanny smiled faintly. "You must not seduce me from my resolves," she -said. "I know my fate in this world, and I am determined to be true to -myself to the end. Yet I am not ungrateful to you, even while I declare, -that I shall do my best to forget this brief interval, during which, I -have no longer, like Demogorgon, lived alone in my own world, but become -aware that there are ties of sympathy between me and my -fellow-creatures, in whose existence I did not believe before." -</p> - -<p> -Fanny's language, drawn from her books, not because she tried to -imitate, but because conversing perpetually with them, it was natural -that she should adopt their style, was always energetic and imaginative; -but her quiet manner destroyed every idea of exaggeration of sentiment: -it was necessary to hear her soft and low, but very distinct voice utter -her lofty sentiments, to be conscious that the calm of deep waters was -the element in which she dwelt—not the fretful breakers that spend -themselves in sound. -</p> - -<p> -The day seemed rather long to Ethel, who counted the hours until -Thursday. Gladly she laid her head on the pillow at night, and bade -adieu to the foregone hours. The first thing that awoke her in the -morning, was the postman's knock; it brought, as she had been promised, -a long, long letter from Edward. He had never before written with so -much affection or with such an overflowing of tenderness, that made her -the centre of his world—the calm fair lake to receive into its bosom -the streams of thought and feeling which flowed from him, and yet which, -after all, had their primal source in her. "I am a very happy girl," -thought Ethel, as she kissed the beloved papers, and gazed on them in -ecstasy; "more happy than I thought it was ever given us to be in this -world." -</p> - -<p> -She rose and began to dress; she delayed reading more than a line or -two, that she might enjoy her dearest pleasure for a longer time—then -again, unable to controul her impatience, she sat half dressed, and -finished all—and was begining anew, when there was a tap at her door. -It was Fanny. She looked disturbed and anxious, and Ethel's fears were -in a moment awake. -</p> - -<p> -"Something annoying has occurred," she said; "yet I do not think that -there is any thing to dread, though there is a danger to prevent." -</p> - -<p> -"Speak quickly," cried Ethel, "do not keep me in suspense." -</p> - -<p> -"Be calm—it is nothing sudden, it is only a repetition of the old -story. A boy has just been here—a boy you gave a sovereign -to—do you remember?—the night of your arrival. It seems that -he has vowed himself to your service ever since. Those two odious men, -who were here once, are often at his master's place-an alehouse, you -know. Well, yesterday night, he overheard them saying, that Mr. -Villiers's resort at the London coffee-house, was discovered, or at -least suspected, and that a writ was to be taken out against him in the -city." -</p> - -<p> -"What does that mean?" cried Ethel. -</p> - -<p> -"That Mr. Villiers will probably be arrested to-day, or to-morrow, if he -remains where he is." -</p> - -<p> -"I will go directly to him," cried Ethel; "we must leave town at once. -God grant that I am not too late!" -</p> - -<p> -Seeing her extreme agitation, Fanny remained with her—forced her to -take some breakfast, and then, fearing that if any thing had really -taken place, she would be quite bewildered, asked her permission to -accompany her. "Will you indeed come with me?" Ethel exclaimed, "How -dear, how good you are! O yes, do come—I can never go through it all -alone; I shall die, if I do not find him." -</p> - -<p> -A hackney coach had been called, and they hastened with what speed they -might, to their destination. A kind of panic seized upon Ethel, a tremor -shook her limbs, so that when they at last stopped, she was unable to -speak. Fanny was about to ask for Mr. Villiers, when an exclamation of -joy from Ethel stopped her; Edward had seen them, and was at the coach -door. The snow lay thick around on the roofs of the houses, and on every -atom of vantage ground it could obtain; it was then snowing, and as the -chilly fleece dropped through or was driven about in the dark -atmosphere, it spread a most disconsolate appearance over every thing; -and nothing could look more dreary than poor Ethel's jumbling vehicle, -with its drooping animals, and the half-frozen driver. Villiers had made -up his mind that he should never be mortified by seeing her again in -this sort of equipage, and he hurried down, the words of reproach -already on his lips, "Is this your promise?" he asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, dearest, it is. Come in, there is danger here.—Come in—we -must go directly." -</p> - -<p> -Seeing Fanny, Villiers became aware that there was some absolute cause -for their journey, so he obeyed and quickly heard the danger that -threatened him. "It would have been better," he said, "that you had come -in the carriage, and that we had instantly left town." -</p> - -<p> -"Impossible!" cried Ethel; "till to-morrow—that is quite impossible. -We have no money until to-morrow." -</p> - -<p> -"Well, my love, since it is so, we must arrange as well as we can. Do -you return home immediately—this cold will kill you. I will take care -of myself, and you can come for me on Thursday evening, as we proposed." -</p> - -<p> -"Do not ask it of me, Edward," said Ethel; "I cannot leave you. I could -never live through these two days away from you—you must not desire -it—you will kill me." -</p> - -<p> -Edward kissed her pale cheek. "You tremble," he said; "how violently you -tremble! Good God! what can we do? What would you have me do?" -</p> - -<p> -"Any thing, so that we remain together. It is of so little consequence -where we pass the next twenty-four hours, so that we are together. There -are many hotels in town." -</p> - -<p> -"I must not venture to any of these; and then to take you in this -miserable manner, without servants, or any thing to command attendance. -But you shall have your own way; having deprived you of every other -luxury, at least, you shall have your will; which, you know, compensates -for every thing with your obstinate sex." -</p> - -<p> -Ethel smiled, rejoicing to find him in so good and accommodating a -humour. "Yes, pretty one," he continued, marking her feelings, "you -shall be as wretched and uncomfortable as your heart can desire. We will -play the incognito in such a style, that if our adventures were printed, -they would compete with those of Don Quixote and the fair Dulcinea. But -Miss Derham must not be admitted into our vagabondizing—we will not -detain her." -</p> - -<p> -"Yet she must know whither we are going, to bring us the letters that -will confer freedom on us." -</p> - -<p> -Villiers wrote hastily an address on a card. "You will find us there," -he said. "Do not mention names when you come. We shall remain, I -suppose, till Thursday." -</p> - -<p> -"But we shall see you some time to-morrow, dear Fanny?" asked Ethel. -Already she looked bright and happy; she esteemed herself fortunate to -have gained so easily a point she had feared she must struggle for—or -perhaps give up altogether. Fanny left them, and the coachman having -received his directions, drove slowly on through the deep snow, which -fell thickly on the road; while they, nestling close to each other, were -so engrossed by the gladness of re-union, that had Cinderella's -godmother transmuted their crazy vehicle for a golden coach, redolent of -the perfumes of fairy land, they had scarcely been aware of the change. -Their own hearts formed a more real fairy land, which accompanied them -whithersoever they went, and could as easily spread its enchantments -over the shattered machine in which they now jumbled along, as amidst -the cloth of gold and marbles of an eastern palace. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V</a></h4> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Few people know how little is necessary to live.</span><br /> -<span class="i2">What is called or thought <i>hardship</i> is nothing; <i>one</i></span><br /> -<span class="i2">unhappy feeling is worse than a thousand years of it.</span> -</div></div> - -<p style="margin-left: 45%;">LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD.</p> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Uncertain what to do, Villiers had hastily determined that they should -take up their abode at a little inn near Brixton, to wait till Thursday. -He did not know the place except by having passed it, and observed a -smart landlady at the door; so he trusted that it would be neat and -clean. There was nothing imposing in the apperance of the young pair and -their hackney coach, accordingly there was no bustling civility -displayed to receive them. However, when the fire was once lighted, the -old-fashioned sofa drawn near, and dinner ordered, they sat together and -felt very happy; outcasts though they were, wanderers from civilized -existence, shut out, through poverty, from the refinements and gilt -elegancies of life. -</p> - -<p> -One only cloud there was, when Villiers asked his wife an explanation -about their resources, and inquired whence she expected to receive money -on the following day. Ethel explained. Villiers looked disturbed. There -was something almost of anger in his voice, when he said, "And so, -Ethel, you feel no compunction in acting in exact opposition to my -wishes, my principles, my resolves?" -</p> - -<p> -"But, dear Edward, what can principles have to do with borrowing a few -pounds from dear good Aunt Bessy? Besides, we can repay her." -</p> - -<p> -"Be assured that we shall," replied Villiers; "and you will never again, -I trust, behave so unjustly by me. There are certain things in which we -must judge and act for ourselves, and the question of money -transactions is one. I may suffer—and you, alas! may also, through -poverty; though you have taken pains to persuade me, that you do not -feel that struggles, which, for your sake chiefly, embitter my -existence. Yet they are nothing in comparison with the loss of my -independence—the sense of obligation—the knowledge that my kind -friends can talk over my affairs, take me to task, and call me a burthen -to them. Why am I as I am? I have friends and connexions who would -readily assist me at this extremity, if I asked it, and I might turn -their kind feelings into sterling gold if I would; but I have no desire -to work this transmutation—I prefer their friendship." -</p> - -<p> -"Do you mean," inquired his wife, "that your friends would not love you -the better for having been of service to you?" -</p> - -<p> -"If they could serve me without annoyance to themselves they might; but -high in rank and wealthy as many of my relations are, there is not one -among them, at least of those to whom I could have recourse, who do not -dispose of their resources to the uttermost shilling, in their own way. -I then come to interfere with and to disarrange their plans; at first, -this might not be much—but presently they would weigh me against the -gold I needed, and it might happen, that my scale would kick the beam. -</p> - -<p> -"I speak for myself not for others; I may be too proud, too -sensitive—but so I am. Ever since I knew what pecuniary obligations -were, I resolved to lay under such to no man, and this resolve was -stronger than my love for you; judge therefore of its force, and the -violence you do me, when you would oblige me to act against it. Did I -begin to borrow, a train of thoughts would enter the lender's mind; the -consciousness of which, would haunt me like a crime. My actions would be -scanned—I should be blamed for this, rebuked for that—even your -name, my Ethel, which I would place, like a star in the sky, far above -their mathematical measurements, would become stale in their mouths, and -the propriety of our marriage canvassed: could you bear that?" -</p> - -<p> -"I yield to all you say," she answered; "yet this is strange morality. -Are generosity, benevolence, and gratitude, to be exploded among us? Is -justice, which orders that the rich give of his superfluity to the poor, -to be banished from the world?" -</p> - -<p> -"You are eloquent," said Villiers; "but, my little wild American, this -is philosophy for the back-woods only. We have got beyond the primeval -simplicity of barter and exchange among gentlemen; and it is such if I -give gratitude in return for fifty pounds: by-and-by my fellow-trader -may grumble at the bargain. All this will become very clear to you -hereafter, I fear—when knowledge of the world teaches you what sordid -knaves we all are; it is to prevent your learning this lesson in a -painful way, that I guard you so jealously from making a wrong step at -this crisis." -</p> - -<p> -"You speak of dreams," said Ethel, "as if dear aunt Bessy would feel any -thing but pleasure in sending her mite to her own dear niece." -</p> - -<p> -"I have told you what I wish," replied her husband, "my honour is in -your hands; and I implore you, on this point, to preserve it in the way -I desire. There is but one relationship that authorizes any thing like -community of goods, it is that of parent and child; but we are orphans, -dearest—step-children, who are not permitted to foster our filial -sentiments. My father is unworthy of his name—the animal who destroys -its offspring at its birth is merciful in comparison with him: had he -cast me off at once, I should have hardened my hands with labour, and -earned my daily bread; but I was trained to "high-born necessities," and -have all the "wide wants and narrow powers"<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> of the heir of wealth. But -let us dismiss this ungrateful subject. I never willingly advert, even -in my own mind, to my father's unpaternal conduct. Let us instead fancy, -sweet love, that we were born to what we have—that we are cottagers, -the children of mechanics, or wanderers in a barbarous country, where -money is not; and imagine that this repose, this cheerful fire, this -shelter from the pelting snow without, is an unexpected blessing. Strip -a man bare to what nature made him, and place him here, and what a hoard -of luxury and wealth would not this room contain! In the Illinois, love, -few mansions could compete with this." -</p> - -<p> -This was speaking in a language which Ethel could easily comprehend; she -had several times wished to express this very idea, but she feared to -hurt the refined and exclusive feelings of her husband. A splendid -dwelling, costly living, and many attendants, were with her the -adjuncts, not the material, of life. If the stage on which she played -her part was to be so decorated, it was well; if otherwise, the change -did not merit her attention. Love scoffed at such idle trappings, and -could build his tent of canvas, and sleep close nestled in her heart as -softly, being only the more lovely and the more true, from the absence -of every meretricious ornament. -</p> - -<p> -This was another of Ethel's happy evenings, when she felt drawn close to -him she loved, and found elysium in the intimate union of their -thoughts. The dusky room showed them but half to each other; and the -looks of each, beaming with tenderness, drank life from one another's -gaze. The soft shadows thrown on their countenances, gave a lamp-like -lustre to their eyes, in which the purest spirit of affection sat, -weaving such unity of sentiment, such strong bonds of attachment, as -made all life dwindle to a point, and freighted the passing minute with -the hopes and fears of their entire existence. Not much was said, and -their words were childish—words -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Intellette dar loro soli ambedui,</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -which a listener would have judged to be meaningless. But the mystery of -love gave a deep sense to each syllable. The hours flew lightly away. There -was nothing to interrupt, nothing to disturb. Night came and the day was -at an end; but Ethel looked forward to the next, with faith in its equal -felicity, and did not regret the fleet passage of time. -</p> - -<p> -They had been asked during the evening if they were going by any early -coach on the following morning, and a simple negative was given. On that -morning they sat at their breakfast, with some diminution of the -sanguine hopes of the previous evening. For morning is the time for -action, of looking forward, of expectation,—and they must spend this -in waiting, cooped up in a little room, overlooking no cheering scene. A -high road, thickly covered with snow, on which various vehicles were -perpetually passing, was immediately before them. Opposite was a row of -mean-looking houses, between which might be distinguished low fields -buried in snow; and the dreary dark-looking sky bending over all, added -to the forlorn aspect of nature. Villiers was very impatient to get -away, yet another day must be passed here, and there was no help. -</p> - -<p> -On the breakfast-table the waiter had placed the bill of the previous -day; it remained unnoticed, and he left it on the table when the things -were taken away. "I wonder when Fanny will come," said Ethel. -</p> - -<p> -"Perhaps not at all to-day," observed Villiers, "she knows that we -intend to remain till tomorrow here; and if your aunt's letter is -delayed till then, I see no chance of her coming, nor any use in it." -</p> - -<p> -"But Aunt Bessy will not delay; her answer is certain of arriving this -morning." -</p> - -<p> -"So you imagine, love. You know little of the various chances that wait -upon borrowing." -</p> - -<p> -Soon after, unable to bear confinement to the house, uneasy in his -thoughts, and desirous a little to dissipate them by exercise, Villiers -went out. Ethel, taking a small Shakspeare, which her husband had had -with him at the coffee-house, occupied herself by reading, or turning -from the written page to her own thoughts, gave herself up to reverie, -dwelling on many an evanescent idea, and reverting delightedly to many -scenes, which her memory recalled. She was one of those who "know the -pleasures of solitude, when we hold commune alone with the tranquil -solemnity of nature." The thought of her father, of the Illinois, and -the measureless forest rose before her, and in her ear was the dashing -of the stream which flowed near their abode. Her light feet again -crossed the prairie, and a thousand appearances of sky and earth -departed for ever, were retraced in her brain. "Would not Edward be -happy there?" she thought: "why should we not go? We should miss dear -Horatio; but what else could we regret that we leave behind? and perhaps -he would join us, and then we should be quite happy." And then her fancy -pictured her new home and all its delights, till her eyes were suffused -with tender feeling, as her imagination sketched a variety of -scenes—the pleasant labours of cultivation, the rides, the hunting, -the boating, all common-place occurrences, which, attended on by love, were -exalted into a perpetual gorgeous procession of beatified hours. And -then again she allowed to herself that Europe or America could contain -the same delights. She recollected Italy, and her feelings grew more -solemn and blissful as she meditated on the wondrous beauty and -changeful but deep interest of that land of memory. -</p> - -<p> -Villiers did not return for some hours;—he also had indulged in -reverie—long-drawn, but not quite so pleasant as that of his -inexperienced wife. The realities of life were kneaded up too entirely -with his prospects and schemes, for them to assume the fairy hues that -adorned Ethel's. He could not see the end to his present struggle for -the narrowest independence. Very slender hopes had been held out to him; -and thus he was to drag out an embittered existence, spent upon sordid -cares, till his father died—an ungrateful idea, from which he turned -with a sigh. He walked speedily, on account of the cold; and as his -blood began to circulate more cheerily in his frame, a change came over -the tenor of his thoughts. From the midst of the desolation in which he -was lost, a vision of happiness arose, that forced itself on his -speculations, in spite, as he imagined, of his better reason. The image -of an elegant home, here or in Italy, adorned by Ethel—cheered by the -presence of friends, unshadowed by any cares, presented itself to his -mind with strange distinctness and pertinacity. At no time had Villiers -loved so passionately as now. The difficulties of their situation had -exalted her, who shared them with such cheerful fortitude, into an angel -of consolation. The pride of man in possessing the affections of this -lovely and noble-minded creature, was blended with the tenderest desire -of protecting and serving her. His heart glowed with honest joy at the -reflection that her happiness depended upon him solely, and that he was -ready to devote his life to secure it. Was there any action too arduous, -any care too minute, to display his gratitude and his perfect affection? -As his recollection came back, he found that he was at a considerable -distance from her, so he swiftly turned his steps homeward, (that was -his home where she was,) and scarcely felt that he trod earth as he -recollected that each moment carried him nearer, and that he should soon -meet the fond gaze of the kindest, sweetest eyes in the world. -</p> - -<p> -Thus they met, with a renewed joy, after a short absence, each reaping, -from their separate meditations, a fresh harvest of loving thoughts and -interchange of grateful emotion. Great was the pity that such was their -situation—that circumstances, all mean and trivial, drew them from -their heaven-high elevation, to the more sordid cares of this dirty -planet. Yet why name it pity? their pure natures could turn the -grovelling substance presented to them, to ambrosial food for the -sustenance of love. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a>The Cenci.</p></div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI</a></h4> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">When two that are linked in one heavenly tie,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">With heart never changing, and brow never cold,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Love on through all ills, and love on till they die.</span> -</div></div> - -<p style="margin-left: 55%;">LALLA ROOKH.</p> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Villiers had not been returned long, when the waiter came in, and -informed them, that his mistress declined serving their dinner, till her -bill of the morning was paid; and then he left the room. The gentle pair -looked at each other, and laughed. "We must wait till Fanny comes, I -fear," said Ethel; "for my purse is literally empty." -</p> - -<p> -"And if Miss Derham should not come?" remarked Villiers. -</p> - -<p> -"But she will!—she has delayed, but I am perfectly certain that she -will come in the course of the day: I do not feel the least doubt about -it." -</p> - -<p> -To quicken the passage of time, Ethel employed herself in netting a -purse, (the inutility of which Villiers smilingly remarked,) while her -husband read to her some of the scenes from Shakspeare's play of -"Troilus and Cressida." The profound philosophy, and intense passion, of -this drama, adorned by the most magnificent poetry that can even be -found in the pages of this prince of poets, caused each to hang -attentive and delighted upon their occupation. As it grew dark, Villiers -stirred up the fire, and still went on; till having with difficulty -decyphered the lines— -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">"She was beloved—she loved;—she is, and doth;</span><br /> -<span class="i2">But still sweet love is food for fortune's tooth,"—</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -he closed the books. "It is in vain," he said; "our liberator does -not come; and these churls will not give us lights." -</p> - -<p> -"It is early yet, dearest," replied Ethel;—"not yet four o'clock. -Would Troilus and Cressida have repined at having been left darkling a few -minutes? How much happier we are than all the heroes and heroines that -ever lived or were imagined! they grasped at the mere shadow of the -thing, whose substance we absolutely possess. Let us know and -acknowledge our good fortune. God knows, I do, and am beyond words -grateful!" -</p> - -<p> -"It is much to be grateful for—sharing the fortunes of a ruined man!" -</p> - -<p> -"You do not speak as Troilus does," replied Ethel smiling: "he knew -better the worth of love compared with worldly trifles." -</p> - -<p> -"You would have me protest, then," said Villiers;— -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i7">"But, alas!</span><br /> -<span class="i2">I am as true as truth's simplicity,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">And simpler than the infancy of truth;"</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -"so that all I can say is, that you are a very ill-used little girl, to be -mated as you are—so buried, with all your loveliness, in this -obscurity—so bound, though akin to heaven, to the basest dross of -earth." -</p> - -<p> -"You are poetical, dearest, and I thank you. For my own part, I am in -love with ill luck. I do not think we should have discovered how very -dear we are to each other, had we sailed for ever on a summer sea." -</p> - -<p> -Such talk, a little prolonged, at length dwindled to silence. Edward -drew her nearer to him; and as his arm encircled her waist, she placed -her sweet head on his bosom, and they remained in silent reverie. He, as -with his other hand he played with her shining ringlets, and parted them -on her fair brow, was disturbed in thought, and saddened by a sense of -degradation. Not to be able to defend the angelic creature, who depended -on him, from the world's insults, galled his soul, and embittered even -the heart's union that existed between them. She did not think—she -did know of these things. After many minutes of silence, she said,—"I -have been trying to discover why it is absolute pleasure to suffer pain for -those we love." -</p> - -<p> -"Pleasure in pain!—you speak riddles." -</p> - -<p> -"I do," she replied, raising her head; "but I have divined this. The -great pleasure of love is derived from sympathy—the feeling of -union—of unity. Any thing that makes us alive to the sense of -love—that imprints deeper on our plastic consciousness -the knowledge of the existence of our affection, causes an -increase of happiness. There are two things to which we are most -sensitive—pleasure and pain. But habit can somewhat dull the -first; and that which was in its newness, ecstasy—our being joined -for ever—becomes, like the air we breathe, a thing we could not -live without, but yet in which we are rather passively than actively -happy. But when pain comes to awaken us to a true sense of how much we -love—when we suffer for one another's dear sake—the -consciousness of attachment swells our hearts: we are recalled from the -forgetfulness engendered by custom; and the awakening and renewal of the -sense of affection brings with it a joy, that sweetens to its dregs the -bitterest cup." -</p> - -<p> -"Encourage this philosophy, dear Ethel," replied Villiers; "you will -need it: but it shames me to think that I am your teacher in this -mournful truth." As he spoke, his whole frame was agitated by tenderness -and grief. Ethel could see, by the dull fire-light, a tear gather on his -eye-lashes: it fell upon her hand. She threw her arms round him, and -pressed him to her heart with a passionate gush of weeping, occasioned -partly by remorse at having so moved him, and partly by her heart's -overflowing with the dear security of being loved. -</p> - -<p> -They had but a little recovered from this scene, when the waiter, -bringing in lights, announced Miss Derham. Her coming had been full of -disasters. After many threatenings, and much time consumed in clumsy -repairs, her hackney-coach had fairly broken down: she had walked the -rest of the way; but they were much further from town than she expected; -and thus she accounted for her delay. She brought no news; but held in -her hand the letter that contained the means of freeing them from their -awkward predicament. -</p> - -<p> -"We will not stay another minute in this cursed place," said Villiers: -"we will go immediately to Salt Hill, where I intended to take you -to-morrow. I can return by one of the many stages which pass -continually, to keep my appointment with Gayland; and be back with you -again by night. So if these stupid people possess a post-chaise, we will -be gone directly." -</p> - -<p> -Ethel was well pleased with this arrangement; and it was put it -execution immediately. The chaise and horses were easily procured. They -set Fanny down in their way through town. Ethel tried to repay her -kindness by heartfelt thanks; and she, in her placid way, showed clearly -how pleased she was to serve them. -</p> - -<p> -Leaving her in Piccadilly, not far from her own door, they pursued their -way to Salt Hill; and it seemed as if, in this more change of place, -they had escaped from a kind of prison, to partake again in the -immunities and comforts of civilized life. Ethel was considerably -fatigued when she arrived; and her husband feared that he had tasked her -strength too far. The falling and fallen snow clogged up the roads, and -their journey had been long. She slept, indeed, the greater part of the -way, her head resting on him; and her languor and physical suffering -were soothed by emotions the most balmy and by the gladdening sense of -confidence and security. -</p> - -<p> -They arrived at Salt Hill late in the evening. The hours were precious; -for early on the following day, Villiers was obliged to return to town. -On inquiry, he found that his best mode was to go by a night-coach from -Bath, which would pass at seven in the morning. They were awake half the -night, talking of their hopes, their plans, their probable deliverance -from their besetting annoyances. By this time Ethel had taught her own -phraseology, and Villiers had learned to believe that whatever must -happen would fall upon both, and that no separation could take place -fraught with any good to either. -</p> - -<p> -When Ethel awoke, late in the morning, Villiers was gone. Her watch told -her, indeed, that it was near ten o'clock, and that he must have -departed long before. She felt inclined to reproach him for leaving her, -though only for a few hours, without an interchange of adieu. In truth, -she was vexed that he was not there: the world appeared to her so blank, -without his voice to welcome her back to it from out of the regions of -sleep. While this slight cloud of ill-humour (may it be called?) was -passing over her mind, she perceived a little note, left by her husband, -lying on her pillow. Kissing it a thousand times, she read its contents, -as if they possessed talismanic power. They breathed the most passionate -tenderness: they besought her, as she loved him, to take care of -herself, and to keep up her spirits until his return, which would be as -speedy as the dove flies back to its nest, where its sweet mate fondly -expects him. With these assurances and blessings to cheer her, Ethel -arose. The sun poured its wintry yet cheering beams into the parlour, -and the sparkling, snow-clad earth glittered beneath. She wrapped -herself in her cloak, and walked into the garden of the hotel. Long -immured in London, living as if its fogs were the universal vesture of -all things, her spirits rose to exultation and delight, as she looked on -the blue sky spread cloudlessly around. As the pure breeze freshened her -cheek, a kind of transport seized her; her spirit took wings; she felt -as if she could float on the bosom of the air—as if there was a -sympathy in nature, whose child and nursling she was, to welcome her -back to her haunts, and to reward her bounteously for coming. The trees, -all leafless and snow-bedecked, were friends and intimates: she kissed -their rough barks, and then laughed at her own folly at being so rapt. -The snow-drop, as it peeped from the ground, was a thing of wonder and -mystery; and the shapes of frost, beautiful forms to be worshipped. All -sorrow—all care passed away, and left her mind as clear and bright as -the unclouded heavens that bent over her. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII</a></h4> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i8">Herein</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Shall my captivity be made my happiness;</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Since what I lose in freedom, I regain</span><br /> -<span class="i2">With interest.</span> -</div></div> - -<p style="margin-left: 45%;">BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.</p> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The glow of enthusiasm and gladness, thus kindled in her soul, faded -slowly as the sun descended; and human tenderness returned in full tide -upon her. She longed for Edward to speak to; when would he come back? -She walked a little way on the London road; she returned: still her -patience was not exhausted. The sun's orb grew red and dusky as it -approached the horizon: she returned to the house. It was yet early: -Edward could not be expected yet: he had promised to come as soon as -possible; but he had prepared her for the likelihood of his arrival only -by the mail at night. It was long since she had written to Saville. -Cooped up in town, saddened by her separation from her husband, or -enjoying the brief hours of reunion, she had felt disinclined to write. -Her enlivened spirits now prompted her to pour out some of their -overflowings to him. She did not allude to any of the circumstances of -their situation, for Edward had forbidden that topic: still she had much -to say; for her heart was full of benevolence to all mankind; besides -her attachment to her husband, the prospect of becoming a mother within -a few months, opened another source of tenderness; there seemed to be a -superabundance of happiness within her, a portion of which she desired -to impart to those she loved. -</p> - -<p> -Daylight had long vanished, and Villiers did not return. She felt -uneasy:—of course he would come by the mail; yet if he should -not—what could prevent him? Conjectures would force themselves on -her, unreasonable, she told herself; yet her doubts were painful, and -she listened attentively each time that the sound of wheels grew, and -again faded, upon her ear. If the vehicle stopped, she was in a state of -excitation that approached alarm. She knew not what she feared; yet her -disquiet increased into anxiety. "Shall I ever see him again?" were -words that her lips did not utter, and yet which lingered in her heart, -although unaccompanied by any precise idea to her understanding. -</p> - -<p> -She had given a thousand messages to the servants;—and at last the -mail arrived. She heard a step—it was the waiter:—"The -gentleman is not come, ma'am," he said. "I knew it," she -thought;—"yet why? why?" At one time she resolved to set off for -town; yet whither to go—where to find him? An idea struck her, -that he had missed the mail; but as he would not leave her a prey to -uncertainty, he would come by some other conveyance. She got a little -comfort from this notion, and resumed her occupation of waiting; though -the vagueness of her expectations rendered her a thousand times more -restless than before. And all was vain. The mail had arrived at eleven -o'clock—at twelve she retired to her room. She read again and -again his note: his injunction, that she should take care of herself, -induced her to go to bed at a little after one; but sleep was still far -from her. Till she could no longer expect—till it became certain -that it must be morning before he could come, she did not close her -eyes. As her last hope quitted her, she wept bitterly. Where was the -joyousness of the morning?—the exuberant delight with which her -veins had tingled, which had painted life as a blessing? She hid her -face in her pillow, and gave herself up to tears, till sleep at last -stole over her senses. -</p> - -<p> -Early in the morning her door opened and her curtain was drawn aside. -She awoke immediately, and saw Fanny Derham standing at her bed-side. -</p> - -<p> -"Edward! where is he?" she exclaimed, starting up. -</p> - -<p> -"Well, quite well," replied Fanny: "do not alarm yourself, dear Mrs. -Villiers,—he has been arrested." -</p> - -<p> -"I must go to him immediately. Leave me for a little while, dear -Fanny,—I will dress and come to you; do you order the chaise -meanwhile. I can hear every thing as we are going to town." -</p> - -<p> -Ethel trembled violently—her speech was rapid but inarticulate; the -paleness that overspread her face, blanching even her marble brow, and -the sudden contraction of her features, alarmed Fanny. The words she had -used in communicating her intelligence were cabalistic to Ethel, and her -fears were the more intolerable because mysterious and undefined; the -blood trickled cold in her veins, and a chilly moisture stood on her -forehead. She exerted herself violently to conquer this weakness, but it -shackled her powers, as bands of rope would her limbs, and after a few -moments she sank back on her pillow almost bereft of life. Fanny sprang -to the bell, then sprinkled her with water; some salts were procured -from the landlady, and gradually the colour revisited her cheeks, and -her frame resumed its functions—an hysteric fit, the first she had -ever had, left her at last exhausted but more composed. She herself became -frightened lest illness should keep her from Villiers; she exerted -herself to become tranquil, and lay for some time without speaking or -moving. A little refreshment contributed to restore her, and she turned -to Fanny with a faint sweet smile, "You see," said she, "what a weak, -foolish thing I am; but I am well now, quite rallied—there must be no -more delay." -</p> - -<p> -Her cheerful voice and lively manner gave her friend confidence. Fanny -was one who believed much in the mastery of mind, and felt sure that -nothing would be so prejudicial to Mrs. Villiers as contradiction, and -obstacles put in the way of her attaining the object of her wishes. In -spite therefore of the good people about, who insisted that the most -disastrous consequences would ensue, she ordered the horses, and -prepared for their immediate journey to town. Ethel repaid her cares -with smiles, while she restrained her curiosity, laid as it were a check -on her too impatient movements, and forced a calm of manner which gave -her friend courage to proceed. -</p> - -<p> -It was not until they were on their way that the object of their journey -was mentioned. Fanny then spoke of the arrest as a trifling -circumstance—mentioned bail, and twenty things, which Ethel only -comprehended to be mysterious methods of setting him free; and then also -she asked the history of what had happened. The tale was soon told. The -moment Mr. Villiers had entered Piccadilly he had caused a coach to be -called, but on passing to it from the stage, two men entered it with -him, whose errand was too easily explained. He had driven first to his -solicitor's, hoping to put every thing in train for his instant -liberation. The day was consumed in these fruitless endeavours—he did -not give up hope till past ten at night, when he sent to Fanny, asking -her to go down to Mrs. Villiers as early as possible in the morning, and -to bring her up to town. His wish was, he said, that Ethel should take -up her abode at Mrs. Derham's till this affair could be arranged, and -they were enabled to leave London. His note was hurried; he promised -that another, more explicit, should await his wife on her arrival. -</p> - -<p> -"You will tell the driver," said Ethel, when this story was finished, -"to drive to Edward's prison. I would not stay away five minutes from -him in his present situation to purchase the universe." -</p> - -<p> -Any one but Miss Derham might have resisted Ethel's wish—have argued -with her, and irritated her by the display of obstacles and -inconveniences. It was not Fanny's method ever to oppose the desires of -others. They knew best, she affirmed, their own sensations, and what was -most fitting for them. What is best for me, habit, education, and a -different texture of character, may render the worst for them. In the -present instance, also, she saw that Ethel's feelings were almost too -high wrought for her strength—that opposition, by making a further -call on her powers, might upset them wholly. She had besides, the deepest -respect for her attachment to her husband, and was willing to reward it -by bringing her to him without delay. Having thus fortunately fallen -into reasonable hands, guided by one who could understand her character, -and not torture her by forcing notions the opposite of those on which -she felt herself compelled to act, Ethel became tranquil, and saw the -mere panic of inexperience in her previous excessive alarm. -</p> - -<p> -They now approached London. Fanny called the post-boy to the window of -the chaise, and gave him directions, at which he a little stared, but -said nothing. She gave things their own names, and never dreamt of -saving appearances, as it is called. What ought to be done, that she -dared do in the face of the whole world, and therefore to make a mystery -of their destination never once occurred to her. They drove through the -long interminable suburbs—through Piccadilly and the Strand. Ethel's -cheeks flushed with the excitement, and something like apprehension made -her heart flutter. She had endeavoured to form an image in her own -mind of whither they were going—it was vague and therefore -frightful—but Edward was there, and she also would share the horrors -of his prison-house. -</p> - -<p> -They passed through Temple Bar, and going down an obscure street or two, -stopped at a dingy door-way. "This is not right," said Ethel, almost -gasping for breath, "this is not a prison." -</p> - -<p> -"Something very like it, as you will find too soon," said her friend. -</p> - -<p> -Still Ethel's imagination was relieved by the absence of the massy -walls, the portentous gates, the gloomy immensity of an absolute prison. -The door of the house being opened, Ethel stepped out from the chaise -and asked for Mr. Villiers. The man whom she addressed hesitated, but -Ethel had learnt one only worldly lesson, which was, whenever she needed -the services of people of the lower orders, to disseminate money -plentifully. Her purse was in her hand, and she gave a sovereign to the -man, who then at once showed them upstairs; which she ascended, though -every limb nearly refused to perform its office as she approached the -spot where again she was to find—to see him, whose image lived -eternally in her heart, and whom it was the sole joy of her life to wait -on, to be sheltered by, to live near. -</p> - -<p> -The door was opened. In the dingy, dusty room, beside the fire, which -looked as if it could not burn, and was never meant to warm even the -black neglected grate, Villiers sat, reading. His first emotion was -shame when he saw Ethel enter. There was no accord between her spotless -loveliness and his squalid prison-room. Any one who has seen a sunbeam -suddenly enter and light up a scene of housewifely neglect, and vulgar -discomfort, and felt how obtrusive it rendered all that might be -half-forgotten in the shade, can picture how the simple elegance of -Ethel displayed yet more distinctly to her husband the worse than -beggarly scene in which she found him. His cheeks flushed, and almost he -would have turned away. He would have reproached, but a tenderness and -an elevation of feeling animated her expressive countenance, which -turned the current of his thoughts. Whether it were their fate to suffer -the extremes of fortune in the savage wilderness, or in the more -appalling privations of civilized life—love, and the poetry of love -accompanied her, and gilded, and irradiated the commonest forms of -penury. She looked at him, and her eyes then glanced to the barred -windows. As Fanny and their conductor left them, she heard the key turn -in the lock with an impertinent intrusive loudness. She felt pained for -him, but for herself it was as if the world and all its cares were -locked out, and as if in this near association with him, she reaped the -reward of all her previous anxiety. There was no repining in her -thoughts, no dejection in her manner; Villiers could read in her open -countenance, as plainly as through the clearest crystal, the sentiments -that were passing in her mind—it was something more satisfied than -resignation, more contented than fortitude. It was a knowledge that -whatever evil might attend her lot, the good so far outweighed it, that, -for his sake only, could she advert to any feeling of distress. It was a -consciousness of being in her place, and of fulfilling her duty, -accompanied by a sort of rapture in remembering how thrice dear and -hallowed that duty was. Angels could not feel as she did, for they -cannot sacrifice to those they love; yet there was in her that absence -of all self-emanating pain, which is the characteristic of what we are -told of the angelic essences. -</p> - -<p> -As when at night autumnal winds are howling, and vast masses of winged -clouds are driven with indescribable speed across the sky—we note the -islands of dark ether, built round by the white fleecy shapes; and as we -mark the stars which gem their unfathomable depth, silence and sublime -tranquillity appear to have found a home in that deep vault, and we love -to dwell on the peace and beauty that live there, while the clouds still -rush on, and the face of the lower heaven is more mutable than water. -Thus the mind of Ethel, surrounded by the world's worst forms of -adversity, showed clear and serene, entirely possessed by the repose of -love. It was impossible but that, in spite of shame and regret, Villiers -should not participate in these feelings. He gave himself up to the -softening influence: he knew not how to repine on his own account; -Ethel's affection demanded to stand in place of prosperity, and he could -not refuse to admit so dear a claim. -</p> - -<p> -The door had closed on them, and every outlet to liberty, or the -enjoyment of life, was barred up. Edward drew Ethel towards him and -kissed her fondly. Their eyes met, and the speechless tenderness that -beamed from hers reached his heart and soothed every ruffled feeling. -Sitting together, and interchanging a few words of comfort and hope, -mingled with kind looks and affectionate caresses, they neither of them -remembered indignity nor privation. The tedious mechanism of civilized -life, and the odious interference of their fellow-creatures were -forgotten, and they were happy. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII</a></h4> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i6">Veggo purtroppo</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Che favola è la vita,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">E la favola mia non è compita.</span> -</div></div> - -<p style="margin-left: 55%;">PETRARCA.</p> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The darker months of winter had passed away, and the chilly, blighting -English spring begun. Towards the end of March Lady Lodore came to town. -She had long ago, in her days of wealth, fitted up a house in Park Lane, -so she returned to it, as to a home—if home it might be -called—where no one welcomed her—where none sat beside her -at the domestic hearth. -</p> - -<p> -For the first time she felt keenly this circumstance. During her -mother's lifetime she had had her constantly for a companion, and -afterwards as events pressed upon her, and while the anguish she felt -upon Horatio Saville's marriage was still fresh, she had not reverted to -her lonely position as the source of pain. -</p> - -<p> -The haughty, the firm, the self-exalting soul of Cornelia had borne up -long. She had often felt that she walked on the borders of a precipice, -and that if once she admitted sentiments of regret, she should plunge -without retrieve into a gulph, dark, portentous, inextricable. She had -often repeated to herself that fate should not vanquish her, and that in -spite of despair she would be happy: it is true that the misery -occasioned by Saville's marriage was a canker at her heart, for which -there was no cure, but she had recourse to dissipation that she might -endeavour to forget it. A sad and ineffectual remedy. She was surrounded -by admirers, whom she disdained, and by friends to whom she would have -died rather than betray the naked misery of her soul. She had never -planned nor thought of marriage. The report concerning the Earl of -D——was one of those which the world always makes current, when -two persons of opposite sexes are, by any chance, thrown much together. His -sister was Lady Lodore's friend, and she had chaperoned her, and been of -assistance to her, during the courtship of the gentleman who was at -present her husband. It was their house that Lady Lodore had just -quitted on arriving in town. The new-born happiness of early wedded life -had been a scene to call her back to thoughts which were the sources of -the bitterest anguish. She abhorred herself that she could envy, that -she could desire to exchange places with, any created being. She -abridged her visit, and fancied that she should regain peace in the -independence of her own home. But the enjoyment of liberty was cold in -her heart, and loneliness added a freezing chilliness to her feeling. -</p> - -<p> -The mind of Cornelia was much above the world she lived in, though she -had sacrificed all to it; and, so to speak, much above herself. Take -pride from her, and there was understanding, magnanimity, and great -kindliness of disposition: but pride had been the wall of China to shut -up all her better qualities, and to keep them from communicating with -the world beyond;—pride, which grew strong by resistance, and towered -above every aggressor;—pride, which crumbled away, when time and -change were its sole assailants, till her inner being was left -unprotected and bare. -</p> - -<p> -She found herself alone in the world. She felt that her life was -aimless, unprofitable, blank. She was humiliated and saddened by her -relative position in the world. She did not think of her daughter as a -resource; she was in the hands of her enemies, and no hope lay there. -She entertained the belief that Mrs. Villiers was weak both in character -and understanding; and that to make any attempt to interest herself in -her, would end in disappointment, if not disgust. Imagining, as we are -all apt to do, how we should act in another person's place, she had -formed a notion of what she would have done, had she been Ethel; and as -nothing was done, she almost despised, and quite pitied her. No! there -was no help. She was alone;—none loved, none cared for her; and the -flower of the field, which a child plucks and wears for an hour, and -then casts aside, was of more worth than she. -</p> - -<p> -Every amusement grew tedious—all society vacant and dull. When she -came back from dinners or assemblies, to her luxurious but empty abode, the -darkest thoughts, engendered by spleen, hung over its threshold, and -welcomed her return. At such times, she would dismiss her attendant, and -remain half the night by her fireside, encouraging sickly reveries, -struggling with the fate that bound her, yet unable in any way to make -an effort for freedom. -</p> - -<p> -"Time"—thus would her thoughts fashion themselves—"yes, time -rolls on, and what does it bring? I live in a desert; its barren sands feed -my hour-glass, and they come out fruitless as they went in. Months change -their names—years their cyphers: my brow is sadly trenched; the bloom -of youth is faded: my mind gathers wrinkles. What will become of me? -</p> - -<p> -"Hopes of my youth, where are ye?—my aspirations, my pride, my belief -that I could grasp and possess all things? Alas! there is nothing of all -this! My soul lies in the dust; and I look up to know that I have been -playing with shadows, and that I am fallen for ever! What do I see -around me? The tide of life is ebbing fast! I had fancied that pearls -and gold would have been left by the retiring waves; and I find only -barren, lonely sands! No voice reaches me from across the waters—no -one stands beside me on the shore! Would—O would I could lay my head -on the spray-sprinkled beach, and sleep for ever! -</p> - -<p> -"This is madness!—these incoherent images that throng my brain are -the ravings of insanity!—yet what greater madness, than to know that -love, affection, the charities of life, the hopes of existence, are empty -words for me. Am I indeed to have done with these? What is it that still -moves up and down in my soul, making me feel as if something might yet -be accomplished? Is it that the ardour of youth is not yet tamed? Alas! -my youth has departed for ever. Yet wherefore these sighs, which wrap an -eternity of wretchedness in their evanescent breath?—why these tears, -that, flowing from the inmost fountains of the soul, endeavour to give -passage to the flood of sorrow that deluges and overwhelms it? The -husband of my youth!—the thought of him passes like a shadow across -me! Had he borne with me a little longer—had I submitted to his -controul—how different my destiny had been! But I will not think of -that—I do not! A mightier storm than any he could raise has swept -across me since, and laid all waste. My soul has been set upon a hope, -which has vanished, and desolation has come in its room. Could God, in -his anger, bestow a bitterer curse on a condemned spirit, than that -which weighs on me, when I reflect, that through my own fault I lost -him, whom but to see was paradise? The thought haunts me like a crime; -yet when is it absent from me?—it sleeps with me, rises with -me—it is by me now, and I would willingly die only to dismiss it for -ever. -</p> - -<p> -"Miserable Cornelia! Thou hast been courted, lauded, waited on, -loved!—it is all over! I am alone! My poor, poor mother!—my -much reviled, my dearest mother!—by you, at least, I was valued! Ah! -why are you gone, leaving your wretched child alone? -</p> - -<p> -"O that I could take wings and rise from out of the abyss into which I -am fallen! Can I not, myself being miserable, take pleasure in the -pleasure of others; and by force of strong sympathy, forget my selfish -woes? With whom can I sympathize? None desire my care, and all would -repay my officiousness with ingratitude, perhaps with scorn. Once I -could assist the poor; now I am poor myself: my limited means scarce -suffice to keep me in that station in society, from which, did I once -descend, I were indeed trampled upon and destroyed for ever. Tears rush -from my eyes—my heart sinks within me, as I look forward. Again the -same cares, the same coil, the same bitter result. Hopes held out, only -to be crushed; affections excited, only to be scattered to the winds. I -blamed myself for struggling too much with fate, for rowing against wind -and tide, for resolving to controul the events that form existence: now -I yield—I have long yielded—I have let myself drift, as I -hoped, into a quiet creek, where indifference and peace ruled the hour; and -lo! it is a whirlpool, to swallow all I had left of enjoyment upon earth!" -</p> - -<p> -It was not until she had exhausted herself by these gloomy and restless -reflections, that she laid her head upon her pillow, and tried to sleep. -Morning usually dawned before she closed her eyes; and it was nearly -noon before she rose, weary and unrefreshed. It was with a struggle that -she commenced a new day—a day that was to be cheered by no event nor -feeling capable of animating her to any sense of joy. She had never -occupied herself by intellectual exertion: her employments had been the -cultivation of what are called accomplishments merely; and when now she -reverted to these, it was with bitterness. She remembered the interval -when she had been inspirited by the delightful wish to please Horatio. -Now none cared how the forlorn Cornelia passed her time;—no one would -hang enraptured on her voice, or hail with gladness the developement of -some new talent. "It is the same," she thought, "how I get rid of the -heavy hours, so that they go. I have but to give myself up to the -sluggish stream that bears me on to old age, not more bereft or -unregarded than these wretched years." -</p> - -<p> -Thus she lingered idly through the morning; her only enjoyment being, -when she secured to herself a solitary drive, and reclining back in her -carriage, felt herself safe from every intrusion, and yet enjoying a -succession of objects, that a little varied the tenor of her thoughts. -She had deserted the park, and sought unfrequented drives in the -environs of London. Evening at last came, and with it her uninteresting -engagements, which yet she found better than entire seclusion. Forced to -rouse herself to adopt, as a mask, the smiling appearance which had been -natural to her for many years, she often abhorred every one around her; -and yet, hating herself more, took refuge among them, from her own -society. Her chief care was to repress any manifestation of her despair, -which too readily rose to her lips or in her eyes. The glorious hues of -sunset—the subduing sounds of music—even the sight of a -beautiful girl, resplendent with happiness and youth, moving gracefully in -dance—had power to move her to tears: her blood seemed to curdle and -grow thick, while gloomy shadows mantled over her features. Often, she -could scarcely forbear expressing the bitterness of her feelings, and -indulging in acrimonious remarks on the deceits of life, and the inanity -of all things. It seemed to her, sometimes, that she must die if she did -not give vent to the still increasing horror with which she regarded the -whole system of the world. -</p> - -<p> -Nor were her sufferings always thus negative. One evening, especially, a -young travelled gentleman approached her, with all the satisfaction -painted on his countenance, which he felt at having secured a topic for -the entertainment of the fashionable Lady Lodore. -</p> - -<p> -"You are intimate with the Misses Saville," he said; "what charming -girls they are! I have just left them at Naples, where they have been -spending the carnival. I saw them almost every day, and capitally we -enjoyed ourselves. Their Italian sister-in-law spirited them up to mask, -and to make a real carnival of it. A most lovely woman that. Did you -ever see Mrs. Saville, Lady Lodore?" -</p> - -<p> -"Never," replied his auditress. -</p> - -<p> -"Such eyes! Gazelles, and stars, and suns, and the whole range of poetic -imagery, might be sought in vain, to do justice to her large dark eyes. -She is very young—scarcely twenty: and to see her with her child, is -positively a finer tableau than any Raphael or Correggio in the world. -She has a little girl, not a year old, with golden hair, and eyes as -black as the mother's—the most beautiful little thing, and so -intelligent. Saville doats on it: no wonder—he is not himself -handsome, you know; though the lovely Clorinda would stab me if she heard -me say so. She positively adores him. You should have seen them together." -</p> - -<p> -Lady Lodore turned on him one of her sweetest smiles, and in her blandest -tone, said, "If you could only get me an ice from that servant, who I see -immovable behind those dear, wonderful dowagers, you would so oblige -me." -</p> - -<p> -He was gone in a minute; and on his return, Lady Lodore was so deeply -engrossed in being persuaded to go to the next drawing room, by the young -and new-married Countess of G—, that she could only reward him with -another heavenly smile. He was obliged to take his carnival at Naples to -some other listener. -</p> - -<p> -Cornelia scarcely closed her eyes that night. The thought of the happy -wife and lovely child of Saville, pierced her as with remorse. She had -entirely broken off her acquaintance with his family, so that she was -ignorant of Clorinda's disposition, and readily fancied that she was as -happy as she believed that the wife of Horatio Saville must be. She -would not acknowledge that she was wicked enough to repine at her -felicity; but that he should be rendered happy by any other woman than -herself—that any other woman should have become the sharer of his -dearest affections, stung her to the core. Yet why should she regret? -She were well exchanged for one so lovely and so young. At the age of -thirty-four, which she had now reached, Cornelia persuaded herself, that -the name of beauty was a mockery as applied to her—though her own -glass might have told her otherwise; for time had dealt lightly with her, -so that the extreme fascination of her manner, and the animation and -intelligence of her countenance, made her compete with many younger -beauties. She felt that she was deteriorated from the angelic being she -had seemed when she first appeared as Lodore's bride; and this made all -compliments show false and vain. Now she figured to herself the dark -eyes of the Neapolitan; and easily believed that the memory of her would -contrast, like a faded picture, with the rich hues of Clorinda's face; -while her sad and withered feelings were in yet greater opposition to -the vivacity she had heard described and praised—to the triumphant -and glad feelings of a beloved wife. It seemed to her as if she must weep -for ever, and yet that tears were unavailing to diminish in any degree -the sorrow that weighed so heavily at her heart. These reflections sat -like a night-mare on her pillow, troubling the repose she in vain -courted. She arose in the morning, scarcely conscious that she had slept -at all—languid from exhaustion—her sufferings blunted by their -very excess. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX</a></h4> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">O, where have I been all this time? How 'friended</span><br /> -<span class="i2">That I should lose myself thus desp'rately.</span><br /> -<span class="i2">And none for pity show me how I wandered!</span> -</div></div> - -<p style="margin-left: 45%;">BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.</p> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -While it was yet too early for visitors, and before she had ordered -herself to be denied to every one, as she intended to do, she was -surprised by a double knock at the door, and she rang hastily to prevent -any one being admitted. The servants, with contradictory orders, found -it difficult to evade the earnest desire of the visitor to see their -lady; and at last they brought up a card, on which was written, "Miss -Derham wishes to be permitted to see Lady Lodore for Mrs. Villiers." -<i>From</i> had first been written, erased, and <i>for</i> substituted. -Lady Lodore was alarmed; and the ideas of danger and death instantly -presenting themselves, she desired Miss Derham to be shown up. She met her -with a face of anxiety, and with that frankness and kindness of manner -which was the irresistible sceptre she wielded to subdue all hearts. Fanny -had hitherto disliked Lady Lodore. She believed her to be cold, worldly, -and selfish—now, in a moment, she was convinced, by the powerful -influence of manner, that she was the contrary of all this; so that instead -of the chilling address she meditated, she was impelled to throw off her -reserve, and to tell her story with animation and detail. She spoke of -what Mrs. Villiers had gone through previous to the arrest of her -husband—and how constantly she had kept her resolve of remaining with -him—though her situation day by day becoming more critical, demanded -attentions and luxuries which she had no means of attaining. "Yet," said -Fanny, "I should not have intruded on you even now, but that they cannot -go on as they are; their resources are utterly exhausted,—and until -next June I see no prospect for them." -</p> - -<p> -"Why does not Mr. Villiers apply to his father? even if letters were of -no avail, a personal appeal—" -</p> - -<p> -"I am afraid that Colonel Villiers has -nothing to give," replied Fanny, "and at all events, Mr. Villiers's -imprisonment—" -</p> - -<p> -"Prison!" cried Lady Lodore, "you do not mean—Ethel cannot be -living in prison!" -</p> - -<p> -"They live within the rules, if you understand that term. They rent a -lodging close to the prison on the other side of the river." -</p> - -<p> -"This must indeed be altered," said Lady Lodore, "this is far too -shocking—poor Ethel, she must come here! Dear Miss Derham, will you -tell her how much I desire to see her, and entreat her to make my house -her home." -</p> - -<p> -Fanny shook head. "She will not leave her husband—I should make your -proposal in vain." -</p> - -<p> -Lady Lodore looked incredulous. After a moment's thought she persuaded -herself that Ethel's having refused to return to the house of Mrs. Derham, -or having negatived some other proposed kindness originated this notion, -and she believed that she had only to make her invitation in the most -gracious possible way, not to have it refused. "I will go to Ethel -myself," she said; "I will myself bring her here, and so smooth all -difficulties." -</p> - -<p> -Fanny did not object. Under her new favourable opinion of Lady Lodore, she -felt that all would be well if the mother and daughter were brought -together, though only for a few minutes. She wrote down Ethel's address, -and took her leave, while at the same moment Lady Lodore ordered her -carriage, and assured her that no time should be lost in removing Mrs. -Villiers to a more suitable abode. -</p> - -<p> -Lady Lodore's feelings on this occasion were not so smiling as her looks. -She was grieved for her daughter, but she was exceedingly vexed for -herself. She had desired some interest, some employment in life, but she -recoiled from any that should link her with Ethel. She desired occupation, -and not slavery; but to bring the young wife to her own house, and make it -a home for her, was at once destructive of her own independence. She -looked forward with repugnance to the familiarity that must thence ensue -between her and Villiers. Even the first step was full of annoyance, and -she was displeased that Fanny had given her the task of going to her -daughter's habitation, and forced her to appear personally on so -degrading a scene; there was however no help—she had undertaken it, -and it must be done. -</p> - -<p> -Every advance she made towards the wretched part of the town where Ethel -lived, added to her ill-humour. She felt almost personally affronted by -the necessity she was under of first coming in contact with her daughter -under such disastrous circumstances. Her spleen against Lord Lodore -revived: she viewed every evil that had ever befallen her, as arising from -his machinations. If Ethel had been entrusted to her guardianship, she -certainly had never become the wife of Edward Villiers—nor ever have -tasted the dregs of opprobrious poverty. -</p> - -<p> -At length, her carriage drew near a row of low, shabby houses; and as -the name caught her eye she found that she had reached her destination. -She resolved not to see Villiers, if it could possibly be avoided; and -then making up her mind to perform her part with grace, and every show -of kindness, she made an effort to smooth her brow and recall her -smiles. The carriage stopped at a door—a servant-maid answered to the -knock. She ordered Mr. Villiers to be asked for; he was not at home. One -objection to her proceeding was removed by this answer. Mrs. Villiers -was in the house, and she alighted and desired to be shown to her. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X</a></h4> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">As flowers beneath May's footsteps waken</span><br /> -<span class="i2">As stars from night's loose hair are shaken;</span><br /> -<span class="i2">As waves arise when loud winds call,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Thoughts sprung where'er that step did fall.</span> -</div></div> - -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">SHELLEY.</p> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Never before had the elegant and fastidious Lady Lodore entered such an -abode, or ascended such stairs. The servant had told her to enter the room -at the head of the first flight, so she made her way by herself, and -knocked at the door. The voice that told her to come in, thrilled -through her, she knew not why, and she became disturbed at finding that -her self-possession was failing her. Slight things act powerfully on the -subtle mechanism of the human mind. She had dressed with scrupulous -plainness, yet her silks and furs were strangely contrasted with the -room she entered, and she felt ashamed of all the adjuncts of wealth and -luxury that attended her. She opened the door with an effort: Ethel was -seated near the fire at work—no place or circumstance could -deteriorate from her appearance—in her simple, unadorned -morning-dress, she looked as elegant and as distinguished as she had done -when her mother had last seen her in diamonds and plumes in the presence of -royalty. There was a charm about both, strikingly in contrast, and yet -equal in fascination—the polish of Lady Lodore, and the simplicity -of Ethel were both manifestations of inward grace and dignity; and as they -now met, it would have been difficult to say which had the advantage of the -other. Ethel's extreme youth, by adding to the interest with which she must -be regarded, was in her favour. Yet full of sensibility and loveliness as -was her face, she had never been, nor was she even now, as strikingly -beautiful as her mother. -</p> - -<p> -Lady Lodore could not restrain the tear that started into her eye on -beholding her daughter situated as she was. Ethel's feelings, on the -contrary, were all gladness. She had no pride to allay her gratitude for -her mother's kindness. "How very good of you to come!" she said, "how could -you find out where we were?" -</p> - -<p> -"How long have you been here?" asked Lady Lodore, looking round the -wretched little room. -</p> - -<p> -"Only a few weeks—I assure you it is not so bad as it seems. I should -not much mind it, but that Edward feels it so deeply on my account." -</p> - -<p> -"I do not wonder," said her mother, "he must be cut to the soul—but -thank God it is over now. You shall come to me immediately, my house is -quite large enough to accommodate you—I am come to fetch you." -</p> - -<p> -"My own dearest mother!"—the words scarcely formed themselves on -Ethel's lips; she half feared to offend the lovely woman before her by -showing her a daughter's affection. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, call me mother," said Lady Lodore; "I may, at last, I hope, be -allowed to prove myself one. Come then, dear Ethel, you will not refuse my -request—you will come with me?" -</p> - -<p> -"How gladly—but—will they let Edward go? I thought there was no -hope of so much good fortune." -</p> - -<p> -"I fear indeed," replied her mother, "that Mr. Villiers must endure the -annoyance of remaining here a little longer; but I hope his affairs will -soon be arranged." -</p> - -<p> -Ethel bent her large eyes inquiringly on her mother, as if not -understanding; and then, as her meaning opened on her, a smile diffused -itself over her countenance as she said, "Your intentions are the -kindest in the world—I am grateful, how far more grateful than I can -at all express, for your goodness. That you have had the kindness to come -to this odious place is more than I could ever dare expect." -</p> - -<p> -"It is not worth your thanks, although I think I deserve your -acquiescence to my proposal. You will come home with me?" -</p> - -<p> -Ethel shook her head, smilingly. "All my wishes are accomplished," she -said, "through this kind visit. I would not have you for the world come -here again; but the wall between us is broken down, and we shall not -become strangers again." -</p> - -<p> -"My dearest Ethel," said Lady Lodore, seriously, "I see what you mean. I -wish Mr. Villiers were here to advocate my cause. You must come with -me—he will be much more at ease when you are no longer forced to -share his annoyances. This is in every way an unfit place for you, -especially at this time." -</p> - -<p> -"I shall appear ungrateful, I fear," replied Ethel, "if I assure you how -much better off I am here than I could be any where else in the world. -This place appears miserable to you—so I dare say it is; to me it -seems to possess every requisite for happiness, and were it not so, I would -rather live in an actual dungeon with Edward, than in the most splendid -mansion in England, away from him." -</p> - -<p> -Her face was lighted up with such radiance as she spoke—there was so -much fervour in her voice—such deep affection in her speaking -eyes—such an earnest demonstration of heartfelt sincerity, that Lady -Lodore was confounded and overcome. Swift, as if a map had been unrolled -before her, the picture of her own passed life was retraced in her -mind—its loneless and unmeaning pursuits—and the bitter -disappointments that had blasted every hope of seeing better days. She -burst into tears. Ethel was shocked and tried to soothe her by caresses and -assurances of gratitude and affection. "And yet you will not come with me?" -said Lady Lodore, making an effort to resume her self-command. -</p> - -<p> -"I cannot. It is impossible for me voluntarily to separate myself from -Edward—I am too weak, too great a coward." -</p> - -<p> -"And is there no hope of liberation for him?" This question of Lady -Lodore forced them back to matter-of-fact topics, and she became composed. -Ethel related how ineffectual every endeavour had yet been to arrange -his affairs, how large his debts, how inexorable his creditors, how -neglectful his attorney. -</p> - -<p> -"And his father?" inquired her mother. -</p> - -<p> -"He seems to me to be kind-hearted," replied Ethel, "and to feel deeply -his son's situation; but he has no means—he himself is in want." -</p> - -<p> -"He is keeping a carriage at this moment in Paris," said Lady Lodore, "and -giving parties—however, I allow that that is no proof of his having -money. Still you must not stay here." -</p> - -<p> -"Nor shall we always," replied Ethel; "something of course will happen -to take us away, though as yet it is all hopeless enough." -</p> - -<p> -"Aunt Bessy, Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry, might give you assistance. Have -you asked her?—has she refused?" -</p> - -<p> -"Edward has exacted a promise from me not to reveal our perplexities to -her—he is punctilious about money obligations, and I have given my -word not to hurt his delicacy on that point." -</p> - -<p> -"Then that, perhaps, is the reason why you refused my request to go home -with me?" said Lady Lodore reproachfully. -</p> - -<p> -"No," replied Ethel, "I do not think that he is so scrupulous as to -prevent a mother from serving her child, but he shall answer for -himself; I expect him back from his walk every minute." -</p> - -<p> -"Then forgive me if I run away," said Lady Lodore; "I am not fit to see him -now. Better times will come, dearest Ethel, and we shall meet again. God -bless you, my child, as so much virtue and patience deserve to be blest. -Remember me with kindness." -</p> - -<p> -"Do not you forget me," replied Ethel, "or rather, do not think of me -and my fortunes with too much disgust. We shall meet again, I hope?" -</p> - -<p> -Lady Lodore kissed her, and hurried away. Scarcely was she in her carriage -than she saw Villiers advancing: his prepossessing appearance, ingenuous -countenance, and patrician figure, made more intelligible to her -world-practised eyes the fond fidelity of his wife. She drew up the -window that he might not see her, as she gave her directions for "home," -and then retreating to the corner of her carriage, she tried to compose -her thoughts, and to reflect calmly on what was to be done. -</p> - -<p> -But the effort was vain. The further she was removed from the strange -scene of the morning, the more powerfully did it act on, and agitate her -mind. Her soul was in tumults. This was the being she had pitied, almost -despised! Her eager imagination now exalted her into an angel. There was -something heart-moving in the gentle patience, and unrepining -contentment with which she bore her hard lot. She appeared in her eyes -to be one of those rare examples sent upon earth to purify human nature, -and to demonstrate how near akin to perfection we can become. Latent -maternal pride might increase her admiration, and maternal tenderness -add to its warmth. Her nature had acknowledged its affinity to her -child, and she felt drawn towards her with inexpressible yearnings. A -vehement desire to serve her sprung up—but all was confused and -tumultuous. She pressed her hand on her forehead, as if so to restrain -the strong current of thought. She compressed her lips, so to repress -her tears. -</p> - -<p> -Arrived at home, she found herself in prison within the walls of her -chamber. She abhorred its gilding and luxury—she longed for Ethel's -scant abode and glorious privations. To alleviate her restlessness, she -again drove out, and directed her course through the Regent's Park, and -along the new road to Hampstead, where she was least liable to meet any -one she knew. It was one of the first fine days of spring. The green -meadows, the dark boughs swelling and bursting into bud, the fresh -enlivening air, the holiday of nature's birth—all this was lost on -her, or but added to her agitation. Still her thoughts were with her child -in her narrow abode; every lovely object served but to recall her image, -and the wafting of the soft breeze seemed an emanation from her. It was -dark before she came back, and sent a hurried note of excuse to the -house where she was to have dined. "No more, O never more," she cried, -"will I so waste my being, but learn from Ethel to be happy, and to -love." -</p> - -<p> -Many thoughts and many schemes thronged her brain. Something must be -done, or her heart would burst. Pride, affection, repentance, all -occupied the same channel, and increased the flood that swept away every -idea but one. Her very love for Horatio, true and engrossing as it had -been, the source of many tears and endless regrets, appeared as slight -as the web of gossamer, compared to the chain that bound her to her -daughter. She could not herself understand, nor did she wish to know, -whence and why this enthusiasm had risen like an exhalation in her soul, -covering and occupying its entire space. She only knew it was there, -interpenetrating, paramount. Ethel's dark eyes and silken curls, her -sweet voice and heavenly smile, formed a moving, speaking picture, which -she felt that it were bliss to contemplate for ever. She retired at last -to bed, but not to rest; and as she lay with open eyes, thinking not of -sleep—alive in every pore—her brain working with ten thousand -thoughts, one at last grew more importunate than the rest, and demanded -all her attention. Her ideas became more consecutive, though not less -rapid and imperious. She drew forth in prospect, as it were, a map of -what was to be done, and the results. Her mind became fixed, and -sensations of ineffable pleasure accompanied her reveries. She was -resolved to sacrifice every thing to her daughter—to liberate -Villiers, and to establish her in ease and comfort. The image of -self-sacrifice, and of the ruin of her own fortunes, was attended with a -kind of rapture. She felt as if, in securing Ethel's happiness, she could -never feel sorrow more. This was something worth living for: the burden of -life was gone—its darkness dissipated—a soft light invested all -things, and angels' voices invited her to proceed. While indulging in -these reveries, she sunk into a balmy sleep—such a one she had not -enjoyed for many months—nay, her whole past life had never afforded -her so sweet a joy. The thoughts of love, when she believed that she should -be united to Saville, were not so blissful; for self-approbation, -derived from a consciousness of virtue and well-doing, hallowed every -thought. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI</a></h4> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Like gentle rains on the dry plains,</span><br /> -<span class="i3">Making that green which late was grey;</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Or like the sudden moon, that stains</span><br /> -<span class="i3">Some gloomy chamber's window panes,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">With a broad light like day.</span> -</div></div> - -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">SHELLEY.</p> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -How mysterious a thing is the action of repentance in the human mind! We -will not dive into the debasing secrets of remorse for guilt. Lady Lodore -could accuse herself of none. Yet when she looked back, a new light shone -on the tedious maze in which she had been lost; a light—and she -blessed it—that showed her a pathway out of tempest and confusion -into serenity and peace. She wondered at her previous blindness; it was as -if she had closed her eyelids, and then fancied it was night. No fear that -she should return to darkness; her heart felt so light, her spirit so clear -and animated, that she could only wonder how it was she had missed -happiness so long, when it needed only that she should stretch out her -hand to take it. -</p> - -<p> -Her first act on the morrow was to have an interview with her -son-in-law's solicitor. Nothing could be more hopeless than Mr. -Gayland's representation of his client's affairs. The various deeds of -settlement and entail, through which he inherited his estate, were -clogged in such a manner as to render an absolute sale of his -reversionary prospects impossible, so that the raising of money on them -could only be effected at an immense future sacrifice. Under these -circumstances Gayland had been unwilling to proceed, and appeared -lukewarm and dilatory, while he was impelled by that love for the -preservation of property, which often finds place in the mind of a legal -adviser. -</p> - -<p> -Lady Lodore listened attentively to his statements. She asked the extent of -Edward's debts, and somewhat started at the sum named as necessary to -clear him. She then told Mr. Gayland that their ensuing conversation -must continue under a pledge of secrecy on his part. He assented, and -she proceeded to represent her intention of disposing of her jointure -for the purpose of extricating Villiers from his embarrassments. She -gave directions for its sale, and instructions for obtaining the -necessary papers to effect it. Mr. Gayland's countenance brightened; yet -he offered a few words of remonstrance against such unexampled -generosity. -</p> - -<p> -"The sacrifice," said Lady Lodore, "is not so great as you imagine. A -variety of circumstances tend to compensate me for it. I do not depend upon -this source of income alone; and be assured, that what I do, I consider, on -the whole, as benefiting me even more than Mr. Villiers." -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Gayland bowed; and Cornelia returned home with a light heart. For -months she had not felt such an exhilaration of spirits. A warm joy -thrilled through her frame, and involuntary smiles dimpled her cheeks. -Dusky and dingy as was the day, the sunshine of her soul dissipated its -shadows, and spread brightness over her path. She could scarcely -controul the expression of her delight; and when she sat down to write -to Ethel, it was several minutes before she was able to collect her -thoughts, so as to remember what she had intended to say. Two notes were -destroyed before she had succeeded in imparting that sobriety to her -expressions, which was needful to veil her purpose, which she had -resolved to lock within her own breast for ever. At length she was -obliged to satisfy herself with a few vague expressions. This was her -letter:— -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -"I cannot help believing, my dearest girl, that your trials are coming -to a conclusion. I have seen Mr. Gayland; and it appears to me that -energy and activity are chiefly wanting for the arrangement of your -husband's affairs: I think I have in some degree inspired these. He has -promised to write to Mr. Villiers, who, I trust, will find satisfaction -in his views. Do you, my dearest Ethel, keep up your spirits, and take -care of your precious health. We shall meet again in better days, when -you will be rewarded for your sufferings and goodness. Believe me, I -love as much as I admire you; so, in spite of the past, think of me with -indulgence and affection." -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Lady Lodore dressed to dine out, and for an evening assembly. She looked so -radiant and so beautiful, that admiration and compliments were showered -upon her. How vain and paltry they all seemed; and yet her feelings were -wholly changed from that period, when she desired to reject and scoff at -the courtesy of her fellow-creatures. The bitterness of spirit was gone, -which had prompted her to pour out gall and sarcasm, and had made it her -greatest pleasure to revel in the contempt and hate that filled her -bosom towards herself and others. She was now at peace with the world, -and disposed to view its follies charitably. Yet how immeasurably -superior she felt herself to all those around her! not through vanity or -supercilious egotism, but from the natural spring of inward joy and -self-approbation, which a consciousness of doing well opened in her -before dried-up heart. She somewhat contemned her friends, and wholly -pitied them. But she could not dwell on any disagreeable sentiment. Her -thoughts, while she reverted to the circumstances that so changed their -tenor, were stained with the fairest hues, harmonized by the most -delicious music. She had risen to a sphere above, beyond the ordinary -soarings of mortals—a world without a cloud, without one ungenial -breath. She wondered at herself. She looked back with mingled horror and -surprise on the miserable state of despondence to which she had been -reduced. Where were now her regrets?—where her ennui, her repinings, -her despair? "In the deep bosom of the ocean buried!"—and she arose, -as from a second birth, to new hopes, new prospects, new feelings; or -rather to another state of being, which had no affinity to the former. -For poverty was now her pursuit, obscurity her desire, ruin her hope; -and she smiled on, and beckoned to these, as if life possessed no -greater blessings. -</p> - -<p> -Her impetuosity and pride served to sustain the high tone of her soul. -She had none of that sloth of purpose, or weakness of feeling, that -leads to hesitation and regret. To resolve with her had been, during the -whole course of her life, to do; and what her mind was set upon she -accomplished—it might be rashly, but still with that independence and -energy, that gave dignity even to her more ambiguous actions. As before, -when she cast off Lodore, she had never admitted a doubt that she was -justified before God and her conscience for refusing to submit to the -most insulting tyranny; so now, believing that she had acted ill in not -demanding the guardianship of her daughter, and resolving to atone for -the evils which were the consequence of this neglect of duty on her -part, she had no misgivings as to the future, but rushed precipitately -onwards. As a racer at the Olympic games, she panted to arrive at the -goal, though it were only to expire at the moment of its attainment. -</p> - -<p> -Meanwhile, Ethel had been enchanted by her mother's visit, and spoke of -it to Villiers as a proof of the real goodness of her heart, insisting -that she was judged harshly and falsely. Villiers smiled incredulously. -"She gains your esteem at an easy rate," he observed; "cultivate it, if -it makes you happier. It will need more than a mere act of ordinary -courtesy—more than a slight invitation to her house, to persuade me -that Lady Lodore is not—what she is—a worshipper of the world, -a frivolous, unfeeling woman. Mark me whether she comes again." -</p> - -<p> -Her letter, on the following day, strengthened his opinion. "This is -even insulting," he said: "she takes care to inform you that she will not -look again on your poverty, but will wait for <i>better days</i> to bring -you together. The kindness of such an intimation is quite admirable. She -has inspired Gayland with energy and activity!—O, then, she must be a -Medea, in more senses than the more obvious one." -</p> - -<p> -Ethel looked reproachfully. She saw that Villiers was deeply hurt that -Lady Lodore had become acquainted with their distresses, and been a witness -of the nakedness of the land. She could not inspire him with the tenderness -that warmed her heart towards her mother, and the conviction she -entertained, in spite of appearances, (for she was forced to confess to -herself that Lady Lodore's letter was not exactly the one she expected,) -that her heart was generous and affectionate. It was a comfort to her -that Fanny Derham participated in her opinions. Fanny was quite sure -that Lady Lodore would prove herself worthy of the esteem she had so -suddenly conceived for her; and Ethel listened delightedly to her -assertions—it was so soothing to think well of, to love, and praise -her mother. -</p> - -<p> -The solicitor's letter, which came, as Lady Lodore announced, somewhat -surprised Villiers; yet, after a little reflection, he gave no heed to -its contents. It said, that upon further consideration of particular -points, Gayland perceived certain facilities; by improving upon which, -he hoped soon to make a favourable arrangement, and to extricate Mr. -Villiers from his involvements. Any thing so vague demanded explanation. -Edward wrote earnestly, requesting one; but his letter remained -unanswered. Perplexed and annoyed, he obtained permission to quit his -bounds for a few hours, and called upon the man of law. Gayland was so -busy, that he could not afford him more than five minutes' conversation. -He said that he had hopes—even expectations; that a little time would -show more; and he begged his client to be patient. Villiers returned in -despair. The only circumstance that at all served to inspire him with -any hope, was, that on the day succeeding to his visit, he received a -remittance of an hundred pounds from Gayland, who begged to be -considered as his banker till the present negociations should be -concluded. -</p> - -<p> -There was some humiliation in the knowledge of how welcome this supply -had become, and Ethel used her gentle influence to mitigate the pain of -such reflections. If she ever drooped, it was not for herself, but for -Villiers; and she carefully hid even these disinterested repinings. Her -own condition did not inspire her with any fears, and the anxiety that -she experienced for her unborn child was untinctured by bitterness or -despair. She felt assured that their present misfortunes would be of -short duration; and instead of letting her thoughts dwell on the -mortifications or shame that marked the passing hour, she loved to fill -her mind with pleasing sensations, inspired by the tenderness of her -husband, the kindness of poor Fanny, and the reliance she had in the -reality of her mother's affection. In vain, she said, did the harsher -elements of life try to disturb the serenity which the love of those -around her produced in her soul. Her happiness was treasured in their -hearts, and did not emanate from the furniture of a room, nor the -comfort of an equipage. Her babe, if destined to open its eyes first on -such a scene, would be still less acted upon by its apparent -cheerlessness. Cradled in her arms, and nourished at her bosom, what -more benign fate could await the little stranger? What was there in -their destiny worthy of grief, while they remained true to each other? -</p> - -<p> -With such arguments she tried to inspire Villiers with a portion of that -fortitude and patience which was a natural growth in herself. They had -but slender effect upon him. Their different educations had made her -greatly his superior in these virtues; besides that she, with her -simpler habits and unprejudiced mind, was less shocked by the -concomitants of penury, than he, bred in high notions of aristocratic -exclusiveness. She had spent her youth among settlers in a new country, -and did not associate the idea of disgrace with want. Nakedness and -gaunt hunger had often been the invaders of her forest home, scarcely to -be repelled by her father's forethought and resources. How could she -deem these shameful, when they had often assailed the most worthy and -industrious, who were not the less regarded or esteemed on that account. -She had acquired a practical philosophy, while inhabiting the western -wilderness, and beholding the vast variety of life that it presents, -which stood her in good stead under her European vicissitudes. The white -inhabitants of America did not form her only school. The Red Indian and -his squaw were also human beings, subject to the same necessities, -moved, in the first instance, by the same impulses as herself. All that -bore the human form were sanctified to her by the spirit of sympathy; -and she could not, as Edward did, feel herself wholly outcast and under -ban, while kindness, however humble, and intelligence, however lowly, -attended upon her. -</p> - -<p> -Villiers could not yield to her arguments, nor partake her wisdom; yet -he was glad that she possessed any source of consolation, however -unimaginable by himself. He buried within his heart the haughty sense of -wrong. He uttered no complaint, though his whole being rebelled against -the state of inaction to which he was reduced. It maddened him to feel -that he could not stir a finger to help himself, even while he fancied -that he saw his young wife withering before his eyes; and looked forward -to the birth of his child, under circumstances, that rendered even the -necessary attendance difficult, if not impracticable. The heaviest -weight of slavery fell upon him, for it was he that was imprisoned, and -forbidden to go beyond certain limits; and though Ethel religiously -confined herself within yet narrower bounds than those allotted to him, -he only saw, in this delicacy, another source of evil. Nor were these -real tangible ills those which inflicted the greatest pain. Had these -misfortunes visited him in the American wilderness, or in any part of -the world where the majesty of nature had surrounded them, he fancied -that he should have been less alive to their sinister influence. But -here shame was conjoined with the perpetual spectacle of the least -reputable class of the civilized community. Their walks were haunted by -men who bore the stamp of profligacy and crime; and the very shelter of -their dwelling was shared by the mean and vulgar. His aristocratic pride -was sorely wounded at every turn;—not for himself so much, for he was -manly enough to feel "that a man's a man for all that,"—but for -Ethel's sake, whom he would have fondly placed apart from all that is -deformed and unseemly, guarded even from the rougher airs of heaven, and -surrounded by every thing most luxurious and beautiful in the world. -</p> - -<p> -There was no help. Now and then he got a letter from his father, full of -unmeaning apologies and unmanly complaints. The more irretrievable his -poverty became, the firmer grew his resolve not to burden with his wants -any more distant relation. He would readily give up every prospect of -future wealth to purchase ease and comfort for Ethel; but he could not -bend to any unworthy act; and the harder he felt pressed upon and -injured by fortune, the more jealously he maintained his independence of -feeling; on that he would lean to the last, though it proved a sword to -pierce him. -</p> - -<p> -He looked forward with despair, yet he tried to conceal his worst -thoughts, which would still be brooding upon absolute want and -starvation. He answered Ethel's cheering tones in accents of like cheer, -and met the melting tenderness of her gaze with eyes that spoke of love -only. He endeavoured to persuade her that he did not wholly shut his -heart from the hopes she was continually presenting to him. Hopes, the -very names of which were mockery. For they must necessarily be embodied -in words and ideas—and his father or uncle were mentioned—the -one had proved a curse, the other a temptation. He could trace his reverses -as to the habits of expence and the false views of his resources, acquired -under Lord Maristow's tutelage, as to the prodigality and neglect of his -parent. Even the name of Horatio Saville produced bitterness. Why was -he not here? He would not intrude his wants upon him in his Italian -home; but had he been in England, they had been saved from these worst -blows of fate. -</p> - -<p> -The only luxury of Villiers was to steal some few hours of solitude, -when he could indulge in his miserable reflections without restraint. -The loveliness and love of Ethel were then before his imagination to -drive him to despair. To suffer alone would have been nothing; but to -see this child of beauty and tenderness, this fairest nursling of nature -and liberty, droop and fade in their narrow, poverty-striken home, bred -thoughts akin to madness. During each live-long night he was kept awake -by the anguish of such reflections. Darker thoughts sometimes intruded -themselves. He fancied that if he were dead, Ethel would be happier. Her -mother, his relations, each and all would come forward to gift her with -opulence and ease. The idea of self-destruction thus became soothing; -and he pondered with a kind of savage pleasure on the means by which he -should end the coil of misery that had wound round him. -</p> - -<p> -At such times the knowledge of Ethel's devoted affection checked him. Or -sometimes, as he gazed on her as she lay sleeping at his side, he felt -that every sorrow was less than that which separation must produce; and -that to share adversity with her was greater happiness than the -enjoyment of prosperity apart from her. Once, when brought back from the -gloomiest desperation by such a return of softer emotions, the words of -Francesca da Rimini rushed upon his mind and completed the change. He -recollected how she and her lover were consoled by their eternal -companionship in the midst of the infernal whirlwind. "And do I love you -less, my angel?" he thought; "are you not more dear to me than woman -ever was to man, and would I divide myself from you because we suffer? -Perish the thought! Whether for good or ill, let our existences still -continue one, and from the sanctity and sympathy of our union, a sweet -will be extracted, sufficient to destroy the bitterness of this hour. We -prefer remaining together, mine own sweet love, for ever together, -though it were for an eternity of pain. And these woes are finite. Your -pure and exalted nature will be rewarded for its sufferings, and I, for -your sake, shall be saved. I could not live without you in this world; -and yet with insane purpose I would rush into the unknown, away from -you, leaving you to seek comfort and support from other hands than mine. I -was base and cowardly to entertain the thought, but for one moment—a -traitor to my own affection, and the stabber of your peace. Ah, dearest -Ethel, when in a few hours your eyes will open on the light, and seek me -as the object most beloved by them, were I away, unable to return their -fondness, incapable of the blessing of beholding them, what hell could -be contrived to punish more severely my dereliction of duty?" -</p> - -<p> -With this last thought another train of feeling was introduced, and he -strung himself to more manly endurance. He saw that his post was -assigned him in this world, and that he ought to fulfil its duties with -courage and patience. Hope came hand in hand with such ideas—and the -dawn of content on his soul was a proof that the exercise of virtue -brought with it its own reward. He could not always keep his feelings in -the same tone, but he no longer saw greatness of mind in the indulgence -of sorrow. -</p> - -<p> -He remembered that throughout the various stations into which society -has divided human beings, adversity and pain belong to each, and that -death and treachery are more frightful evils than all the hardships of -life. He thought of his unborn child, and of his duties towards -it—not only in a worldly point of view, but as its teacher and guide -in morals and religion. The beauty and use of the ties of blood, to which -his peculiar situation had hitherto blinded him, became intelligible at -once to his heart and his understanding; and while he felt how ill his -father had fulfilled the paternal duties, he resolved that his own -offspring should never have cause to reproach him for similar misconduct. -Before he had repined because the evils of his lot seemed gratuitous -suffering; but now he felt, as Ethel had often expressed it, that the sting -of humiliation is taken from misfortune, when we nerve ourselves to endure -it for another's sake. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII</a></h4> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">The world had just begun to steal</span><br /> -<span class="i3">Each hope that led me lightly on,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">I felt not as I used to feel,</span><br /> -<span class="i3">And life grew dark and love was gone.</span> -</div></div> - -<p style="margin-left: 55%;">THOMAS MOORE.</p> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -While the young pair were thus struggling with the severe visitation of -adversity, Lady Lodore was earnestly engaged in her endeavours to extricate -them from their difficulties. The ardour of her zeal had made her take -the first steps in this undertaking, with a resolution that would not -look behind, and a courage not to be dismayed by the dreary prospect -which the future afforded. The scheme which she had planned, and was now -proceeding to execute, was unbounded in generosity and self-sacrifice. -It was not in her nature to stop short at half-measures, nor to pause -when once she had fixed her purpose. If she ever trembled on looking -forward to the utter ruin she was about to encounter, her second emotion -was to despise herself for such pusillanimity, and to be roused to -renewed energy. She intended to devote as much as was necessary of the -money arising from the sale of her jointure, as fixed by her marriage -settlement, for the liquidation of her son-in-law's debts. The remaining -six hundred a-year, bequeathed to her in Lord Lodore's will, under -circumstances of cruel insult, she resolved to give up to her daughter's -use, for her future subsistence. She hoped to save enough from the sum -produced by the disposal of her jointure, to procure the necessaries of -life for a few years, and she did not look beyond. She would quit London -for ever. She must leave her house, which she had bought during her days -of prosperity, and which she had felt so much pride and delight in -adorning with every luxury and comfort: to crown her good work, she -intended to give it up to Ethel. And then with her scant means she would -take refuge in the solitude where Lodore found her, and spend the -residue of her days among the uncouth and lonely mountains of Wales, in -poverty and seclusion. It was from no agreeable association with her -early youth, that she selected the neighbourhood of Rhaider Gowy for her -future residence; nor from a desire of renewing the recollections of the -period spent there, nor of revisiting the scenes, where she had stepped -beyond infancy into the paths of life. Her choice simply arose from -being obliged to think of economy in its strictest sense, and she -remembered this place as the cheapest in the world, and the most -retired. Besides, that in fixing on a part of the country which she had -before inhabited, and yet where she would be utterly unknown, the idea -of her future home assumed distinctness, and a greater sense of -practicability was imparted to her schemes, than could have been the -case, had she been unable to form any image in her mind of the exact -spot whither she was about to betake herself. -</p> - -<p> -The first conception of this plan had dawned on her soul, as the design -of some sublime poem or magnificent work of art may present itself to -the contemplation of the poet and man of genius. She dwelt on it in its -entire result, with a glow of joy; she entered into its details with -childish eagerness. She pictured to herself the satisfaction of Villiers -and Ethel at finding themselves suddenly, as by magic, restored to -freedom and the pleasures of life. She figured their gladness in -exchanging their miserable lodging for the luxury of her elegant -dwelling; their pleasure in forgetting the long train of previous -misfortunes, or remembering them only to enhance their prosperity, when -pain and fear, disgrace and shame, should be exchanged for security and -comfort. She repeated to herself, "I do all this—I, the despised -Cornelia! I who was deemed unworthy to have the guardianship of my own -child. I, who was sentenced to desertion and misery, because I was too -worldly and selfish to be worthy of Horace Saville! How little through -life has my genuine character been known, or its qualities appreciated! -Nor will it be better understood now. My sacrifices will continue a -mystery, and even the benefits I am forced to acknowledge to flow from -me, I shall diminish in their eyes, by bestowing them with apparent -indifference. Will they ever deign to discover the reality under the -deceitful appearances which it will be my pride to exhibit? I care not; -conscience will approve me—and when I am alone and unthought of, the -knowledge that Ethel is happy through my means will make poverty a -blessing." -</p> - -<p> -It was not pride alone that induced Lady Lodore to resolve on concealing -the extent of her benefits. All that she could give was not much if -compared with the fortunes of the wealthy—but it was a competence, -which would enable her daughter and her husband to expect better days with -patience; but if they knew how greatly she was a sufferer for their good, -they would insist at least upon her sharing their income—and what was -scanty in its entireness, would be wholly insufficient when divided. -Villiers also might dispute or reject her kindness, and deeply injured as -she believed herself to have been by him—injured by his disesteem, -and the influence he had used over Saville, in a manner so baneful to her -happiness, she felt irrepressible exultation at the idea of heaping -obligation on him,—and knowing herself to be deserving of his deepest -gratitude. All these sentiments might be deemed fantastic, or at least -extravagant. Yet her conclusions were reasonable, for it was perfectly -true that Villiers would rather have returned to his prison, than have -purchased freedom at the vast price she was about to pay for it. No, her -design was faultless in its completeness, meagre and profitless if she -stopt short of its full execution. Nor would she see Ethel again in the -interim—partly fearful of not preserving her secret -inviolate—partly because she felt so strongly drawn towards her, that -she dreaded finding herself the slave of an affection—a passion, -which, under her circumstances, she could not indulge. Without counsellor, -without one friendly voice to encourage, she advanced in the path she had -marked out, and drew from her own heart only the courage to proceed. -</p> - -<p> -It required, however, all her force of character to carry her forward. A -thousand difficulties were born at every minute, and the demands made -were increased to such an extent as to make it possible that they would -go beyond her means of satisfying them. She had not the assistance of -one friend acquainted with the real state of things to direct her—her -only adviser was a man of law, who did what he was directed—not -indeed with passive obedience, but whose deviations from mere acquiescence, -arose from technical objections and legal difficulties, at once -unintelligible and tormenting. -</p> - -<p> -Besides these more palpable annoyances, other clouds arose, natural to -wavering humanity, which would sometimes shadow Cornelia's soul, so that -she drooped from the height she had reached, with a timid and dejected -spirit. At first she looked forward to ruin, exile, and privation, as to -possessions which she coveted—but the further she proceeded, the more -she lost view of the light and gladness which had attended on the dawn -of her new visions. Futurity became enveloped in an appalling obscurity, -while the present was sad and cheerless. The ties which she had formed -in the world, which she had fancied it would be so easy to cut asunder, -assumed strength; and she felt that she must endure many pangs in the -act of renouncing them for ever. The scenes and persons which, a little -while ago, she had regarded as uninteresting and frivolous—she was -now forced to acknowledge to be too inextricably interwoven with her habits -and pursuits, to be all at once quitted without severe pain. When the -future was spoken of by others with joyous anticipation, her heart sunk -within her, to think how her hereafter was to become disjointed and cast -away from all that had preceded it. The mere pleasures of society grew -into delights, when thought of as about to become unattainable; and -slight partialities were regarded as if founded upon strong friendship -and tender affection. She was not aware till now how habit and -association will endear the otherwise indifferent, and how the human -heart, prone to love, will entwine its ever-sprouting tendrils around -any object, not absolutely repulsive, which is brought into near contact -with it. When any of her favourites addressed her in cordial tones, when -she met the glance of one she esteemed, directed towards her with an -expression of kindliness and sympathy, her eyes grew dim, and a thrill -of anguish passed through her frame. All that she had a little while ago -scorned as false and empty, she now looked upon as the pleasant reality -of life, which she was to exchange for she scarcely knew what—a -living grave, a friendless desart—for silence and despair. -</p> - -<p> -It is a hard trial at all times to begin the world anew, even when we -exchange a mediocre station for one which our imagination paints as full -of enjoyment and distinction. How much more difficult it was for Lady to -despoil herself of every good, and voluntarily to encounter poverty in -its most unadorned guise. As time advanced, she became fully aware of -what she would have to go through, and her heroism was the greater, -because, though the charm had vanished, and no hope of compensation or -reward was held out, she did not shrink from accomplishing her task. She -could not exactly say, like old Adam in the play, -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">At seventeen years many their fortunes seek,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">But at fourscore it is too late a week.</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -Yet at her age it was perhaps more difficult to cast off the goods of this -world, than at a more advanced one. Midway in life, we are not weaned -from affections and pleasures—we still hope. We even demand more of -solid advantages, because the romantic ideas of youth have disappeared, -and yet we are not content to give up the game. We no longer set our -hearts on ephemeral joys, but require to be enabled to put our trust in -the continuance of any good offered to our choice. This desire of -durability in our pleasures is equally felt by the young; but ardour of -feeling and ductility of imagination is then at hand to bestow a -quality, so dear and so unattainable to fragile humanity, on any object -we desire should be so gifted. But at a riper age we pause, and seek -that our reason may be convinced, and frequently prefer a state of -prosperity less extatic and elevated, because its very sobriety -satisfies us that it will not slip suddenly from our grasp. -</p> - -<p> -The comforts of life, the esteem of friends—these are things which we -then regard with the greatest satisfaction; and other feelings, less -reasonable, yet not less keenly felt, may enter into the circle of -sensations, which forms the existence of a beautiful woman. It is less -easy for one who has been all her life admired and waited upon, to give -up the few last years of such power, than it would have been to cast -away the gift in earlier life. She has learned to doubt her influence, -to know its value, and to prize it. In girlhood it may be matter of mere -triumph—in after years it will be looked on as an inestimable quality -by which she may more easily and firmly secure the benevolence of her -fellow-creatures. All this depends upon the polish of the skin and the -fire of the eye, which a few years will deface and quench—and while -the opprobrious epithet of old woman approaches within view, she is glad to -feel secure from its being applied to her, by perceiving the signs of -the influence of her surviving attractions marked in the countenances of -her admirers. Lady Lodore never felt so kindly inclined towards hers, as now -that she was about to withdraw from them. Their admiration, for its own -sake, she might contemn, but she valued it as the testimony that those -charms were still hers, which once had subdued the soul of him she -loved—and this was no disagreeable assurance to one who was on the -eve of becoming a grandmother. -</p> - -<p> -Her sensibility, awakened by the considerations forced on her by her new -circumstances, caused her to make more progress in the knowledge of -life, and in the philosophy of its laws, than love or ambition had ever -done before. The last had rendered her proud from success, the first had -caused her to feel dependent on one only; but now that she was about to -abandon all, she found herself bound to all by stronger ties than she -could have imagined. She became aware that any new connexion could never -be adorned by the endearing recollections attending those she had -already formed. The friends of her youth, her mere acquaintances, she -regarded with peculiar partiality, as being the witnesses or sharers of -her past joys and successes. Each familiar face was sanctified in her -eyes by association; and she walked among those whom she had so lately -scorned, as if they were saintly memorials to be approached with awe, -and quitted with eternal regret. Her hopes and prospects had hinged upon -them, but her life became out of joint when she quitted them. Her -sensitive nature melted in unwonted tenderness while occupied by such -contemplations, and they turned the path, she had so lately entered as -one of triumph and gladness, to gloom and despondence. -</p> - -<p> -Sometimes she pondered upon means for preserving her connexion with the -world. But any scheme of that kind was fraught, on the one hand, with -mortification to herself, on the other, with the overthrow of her -designs, through the repugnance which Ethel and her husband would feel -at occasioning such unmeasured sacrifices. She often regretted that -there were no convents, to which she might retire with safety and -dignity. Conduct, such as she contemplated pursuing, would, under the -old regime in France, have been recompensed by praise and gratitude; -while its irrevocability must prevent any resistance to her wishes. In -giving up fortune and station, she would have placed herself under the -guardianship of a community; and have found protection and security, to -compensate for poverty and slavery. The very reverse of all this must -now happen. Alone, friendless, unknown, and therefore despised, she must -shift for herself, and rely on her own resources for prudence to insure -safety, and courage to endure the evils of her lot. To one of another -sex, the name of loneliness can never convey the idea of desolation and -disregard, which gives it so painful a meaning in a woman's mind. They -have not been taught always to look up to others, and to do nothing for -themselves; so that business becomes a matter of heroism to a woman, -when conducted in the most common-place way; but when it is accompanied -by mystery, she feels herself transported from her fitting place, and as -if about to encounter shame and contumely. Lady Lodore had never been -conversant with any mode of life, except that of being waited on and -watched over. In the poverty of her early girlhood, her mother had been -constantly at her side. The necessity of so conducting herself as to -prevent the shadow of slander from visiting her, had continued this -state of dependence during all her married life. She had never stept -across a street without attendance; nor put on her gloves, but as -brought to her by a servant. Her look had commanded obedience, and her -will had been law with those about her. This was now to be altered. She -scarcely reverted in her mind to these minutiæ; and when she did, it -was to smile at herself for being able to give weight to such trifles. -She was not aware how, hereafter, these small things would become the -shapings and embodyings which desertion and penury would adopt, to sting -her most severely. The new course she was about to enter, was too -unknown to make her fears distinct. There was one vast blank before her, -one gigantic and mishapen image of desertion, which filled her mind to -the exclusion of every other, but whose parts were not made out, though -this very indistinctness was the thing that often chiefly appalled her. -</p> - -<p> -She said, with the noble exile,<a name="FNanchor_2_1" id="FNanchor_2_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_1" class="fnanchor">[2]</a>— -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">"I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Too far in years to be a pupil now."</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -It is true that she had not, like him, -to lament that— -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">"My native English, now I must forego;"</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -but there is -another language, even more natural than the mere dialect in which we -have been educated. When our lips no longer utter the sentiments of our -heart—when we are forced to exchange the spontaneous effusions of the -soul for cramped and guarded phrases, which give no indication of the -thought within,—then, indeed, may we say, that our tongue becomes -</p> - - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">. . . "an unstringed viol, or a harp,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">. . . . . . put into his hands,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">That knows no touch to tune the harmony."</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -And this was to be Lady Lodore's position. Her only companions would be -villagers; or, at best, a few Welsh gentry, with whom she could have no -real communication. Sympathy, the charm of life, was dead for her, and -her state of banishment would be far more complete than if mountains and -seas only constituted its barriers. -</p> - -<p> -Lady Lodore was often disturbed by these reflections, but she did not on -that account waver in her purpose. The flesh might shrink, but the spirit -was firm. Sometimes, indeed, she wondered how it was that she had first -conceived the design, which had become the tyrant of her life. She had -long known that she had a daughter, young, lovely, and interesting, -without any great desire to become intimate with her. Sometimes pride, -sometimes indignation, had checked her maternal feelings. The only time -before, in which she had felt any emotion similar to that which now -governed her, was on the day when she had spoken to her in the House of -Lords. But instead of indulging it, she had fled from it as an enemy, -and despised herself as a dupe, for being for one instant its subject. -When her fingers then touched her daughter's cheek, she had not trembled -like Ethel; yet an awful sensation passed through her frame, which for a -moment stunned her, and she hastily retreated, to recover herself. Now, -on the contrary, she longed to strain her child to her heart; she -thought no sacrifice too great, which was to conduce to her advantage; -and that she condemned herself never to see her more, appeared the -hardest part of the lot she was to undergo. Why was this change? She -could not tell—memory could not inform her. She only knew that since -she had seen Ethel in her adversity, the stoniness of her heart had -dissolved within her, that her whole being was subdued to tenderness, -and that the world was changed from what it had been in her eyes. She -felt that she could not endure life, unless for the sake of benefiting -her child; and that this sentiment mastered her in spite of herself, so -that every struggle with it was utterly vain. -</p> - -<p> -Thus if she sometimes repined at the hard fate that drove her into -exile, yet she never wavered in her intentions; and in the midst of -regret, a kind of exultation was born, which calmed her pain. Smiles sat -upon her features, and her voice was attuned to cheerfulness. The -new-sprung tenderness of her soul imparted a fascination to her manner -far more irresistible than that to which tact and polish had given rise. -She was more kind and affectionate, and, above all, more sincere, and -therefore more winning. Every one felt, though none could divine the -cause of, this change. It was remarked that she was improved: some shrewdly -suspected that she was in love. And so she was—with an object -more enchanting than any earthly lover. For the first time she knew and -loved the Spirit of good and beauty, an affinity to which affords the -greatest bliss that our nature can receive. -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_1" id="Footnote_2_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_1"><span class="label">[2]</span></a>Richard II.</p></div> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII</a></h4> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">It is the same, for be it joy or sorrow.</span><br /> -<span class="i2">The path of its departure still is free;</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Man's yesterday can ne'er be like his morrow,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Nor aught endure save mutability.</span> -</div></div> - -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">SHELLEY.</p> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The month of June had commenced. In spite of lawyer's delays and the -difficulties attendant on all such negociations, they were at last -concluded, and nothing remained but for Lady to sign the paper which was -to consign her to comparative destitution. In all changes we feel most -keenly the operation of small circumstances, and are chiefly depressed -by the necessity of stooping to the direction of petty arrangements, and -having to deal with subordinate persons. To complete her design, Lady -Lodore had to make many arrangements, trivial yet imperative, which -called for her attention, when she was least fitted to give it. She had -met these demands on her patience without shrinking; and all was -prepared for the finishing stroke about to be put to her plans. She -dismissed those servants whom she did not intend to leave in the house -for Ethel's use. She contrived to hasten the intended marriage of her -own maid, so to disburthen herself wholly. The mode by which she was, -solitary and unknown, to reach the mountains of Wales, without creating -suspicion, or leaving room for conjecture, was no easy matter. In human -life, one act is born of another, so that any one that disjoins itself -from the rest, instantly gives rise to curiosity and inquiry. Lady -Lodore, though fertile in expedients, was almost foiled: the eligibility -of having one confidant pressed itself upon her. She thought of Fanny -Derham; but her extreme youth, and her intimacy with Mrs. Villiers, -which would have necessitated many falsehoods, so to preserve the -secret, deterred her: she determined at last to trust to herself alone. -She resolved to take with her one servant only, who had not been long in -her service, and to dismiss him immediately after leaving London. -Difficulties presented themselves on every side; but she believed that -they could be best surmounted by obviating them in succession as they -arose, and that any fixed artificial plan would only tend to embarrass, -while a simple mode of proceeding would continue unquestioned. -</p> - -<p> -Her chief art consisted in not appearing to be making any change at all. -She talked of a visit of two or three months to Emms, and mentioned her -intention of lending her house, during the interval, to her daughter. -She thus secured to herself a certain period during which no curiosity -would be exicited; and after a month or two had passed away, she would -be utterly forgotten:—thus she reasoned; and whether it were a real -tomb that she entered, or the living grave which she anticipated, her -name and memory would equally vanish from the earth, and she be thought -of no more. If Ethel ever entertained a wish to see her, Villiers would -be at hand to check and divert it. Who else was there to spend a thought -upon her? Alone upon earth, no friendly eye, solicitous for her welfare, -would seek to penetrate the mystery in which she was about to envelope -herself. -</p> - -<p> -The day came, it was the second of June, when every preliminary was -accomplished. She had signed away all that she possessed—she had done -it with a smile—and her voice was unfaltering. The sum which she had -saved for herself consisted of but a few hundred pounds, on which she -was to subsist for the future. Again she enforced his pledge of secrecy -on Mr. Gayland; and glad that all was over, yet heavy at heart in spite -of her gladness, she returned to her home, which in a few hours she was -to quit for ever. -</p> - -<p> -During all this time, her thoughts had seldom reverted to Saville. Hope -was dead, and the regrets of love had vanished with it. That he would -approve her conduct, was an idea that now and then flashed across her -mind; but he would remain in eternal ignorance, and therefore it could -not bring their thoughts into any communion. Whether he came to England, -or remained at Naples, availed her nothing. No circumstance could add -to, or diminish, the insuperable barrier which his marriage placed -between them. -</p> - -<p> -She returned home from her last interview with Mr. Gayland: it was four -o'clock in the day; at six she had appointed Fanny Derham to call on -her; and an hour afterwards, the horses were ordered to be at the door, -which were to convey her away. -</p> - -<p> -She became strangely agitated. She took herself to task for her -weakness; but every moment disturbed yet more the calm she was so -anxious to attain. She walked through the rooms of the house she had -dwelt in for so many years. She looked on the scene presented from her -windows. The drive in Hyde Park was beginning to fill with carriages and -equestrians, to be thronged with her friends whom she was never again to -see. Deep sadness crept over her mind. Her uncontrollable thoughts, by -some association of ideas, which she could not disentangle—brought -before her the image of Lodore, with more vividness than it had possessed -for years. A kind of wish to cross the Atlantic, and to visit the scenes -where he had dwelt so long, arose within her; and then again she felt a -desire to visit Longfield, and to view the spot in which his mortal -remains were laid. As her imagination pictured the grave of the husband -of her youth, whom she had abandoned and forgotten, tears streamed from -her eyes—the first she had shed, even in idea, beside it. "It is not -to atone—for surely I was not guilty towards him"—such were -Lady Lodore's reflections,—"yet, methinks, in this crisis of my fate, -when about to imitate his abrupt and miserable act of self-banishment, my -heart yearns for some communication with him; and it seems to me as if, -approaching his cold, silent dust, he would hear me if I said, 'Be at -peace! your child is happy through my means!"' -</p> - -<p> -Again her reveries were attended by a gush of tears. "How strange a fate -is mine, ever to be abandoned by, or to abandon, those towards whom I am -naturally drawn into near contact. Fifteen years are flown since I -parted from Lodore for ever! Then by inspiring one so high-minded, so richly -gifted, as Saville, with love for me, fortune appeared ready to -compensate for my previous sufferings; but the curse again operated, and -I shall never see him more. Yet do I not forget thee, Saville, nor thy -love!—nor can it be a crime to think of the past, which is as -irretrievable as if the grave had closed over it. Through Saville it has -been that I have not lived quite in vain—that I have known what love -is; and might have even tasted of happiness, but for the poison which -perpetually mingles with my cup. I never wish to see him more; but if I -earnestly desire to visit Lodore's grave, how gladly would I make a far -longer pilgrimage to see Saville's child, and to devote myself to one -who owes its existence to him. Wretched Cornelia! what thoughts are -these? Is it now, that you are a beggar and an outcast, that you first -encourage unattainable desires?" -</p> - -<p> -Still as she looked round, and remembered how often Saville had been -beside her in that room, thoughts and regrets thronged faster and more -thickly on her. She recollected the haughty self-will and capricious -coquetry which had caused the destruction of her dearest hopes. She took -down a miniature of herself, which her lover had so fruitlessly besought -her to give him. It was on the belief that she had bestowed this picture -on a rival that he had so suddenly come to the determination of quitting -England. It seemed now in its smiles and youth to reproach her for -having wasted both; and the sight of it agitated her bosom, and produced -a tumult of regret and despair at his loss—till she threw it from -her, as too dearly associated with one she must forget. And yet wherefore -forget?—he had forgotten; but as a dead wife might in her grave, love -her husband, though wedded to another, so might the lost, buried -Cornelia remember him, though the husband of Clorinda. Self-compassion -now moved her to tears, and she wept plentiful showers, which rather -exhausted than relieved her. -</p> - -<p> -With a strong effort she recalled her sense of what was actually going -on, and struggling resolutely to calm herself, she sat down and began a -letter to her daughter, which was necessary, as some sort of -explanation, at once to allay wonder and baffle curiosity. Thus she -wrote: -</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p style="margin-left: 10%;">"DEAREST ETHEL,</p> - -<p> -"My hopes have not been deceived. Mr. Gayland has at last contrived -means for the liberation of your husband; and to-morrow morning you will -leave that shocking place. Perhaps I receive more pleasure from this -piece of good fortune than you, for your sense of duty and sweet -disposition so gild the vilest objects, that you live in a world of your -own, as beautiful as yourself, and the accident of situation is -immaterial to you. -</p> - -<p> -"It is not enough, however, that you should be free. I hope that the -punctilious delicacy of Mr. Villiers will not cause you to reject the -benefits of a mother. In this instance there is more of justice than -generosity in my offer; and it may therefore be accepted without the -smallest hesitation. My jointure ought to satisfy me, and the additional -six hundred a year—which I may call the price of blood, since I -bought it at the sacrifice of the dearest ties and duties,—is most -freely at your service. It will delight me to get rid of it, as much as if -thus I threw off the consciousness of a crime. It is yours by every law of -equity, and will be hereafter paid into your banker's hands. Do not -thank me, my dear child—be happy, that will be my best reward. Be -happy, be prudent—this sum will not make you rich; and the only -acknowledgment I ask of you is, that you make it suffice, and avoid debt -and embarrassment. -</p> - -<p> -"By singular coincidence I am imperatively obliged to leave England at -this moment. The horses are ordered to be here in half an hour—I am -obliged therefore to forego the pleasure of seeing you until my return. -Will you forgive me this apparent neglect, which is the result of -necessity, and favour me by coming to my house to-morrow, on leaving -your present abode, and making it your home until my return? Miss Derham -has promised to call here this afternoon; I shall see her before I go, -and through her you will learn how much you will make me your debtor by -accepting my offers, and permitting me to be of some slight use to you. -</p> - -<p> -"Excuse the brevity and insufficiency of this letter, written at the -moment of departure.—You will hear from me again, when I am able to -send you my address, and I shall hope to have a letter from you. -Meanwhile Heaven bless you, my angelic Ethel! Love your mother, and -never, in spite of every thing, permit unkind thoughts of her to harbour -in your mind. Make Mr. Villiers think as well of me as he can, and -believe me that your welfare will always be the dearest wish of my -heart. Adieu. -</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 30%;">"Ever affectionately yours.</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">"C. LODORE."</p> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -She folded and sealed this letter, and at the same moment there was a -knock at the door of her house, which she knew announced the arrival of -Fanny Derham. She was still much agitated, and trying to calm herself, -she took up a newspaper, and cast her eyes down the columns; so, by one -of the most common place of the actions of our life, to surmount the -painful intensity of her thoughts. She read mechanically one or two -paragraphs—she saw the announcements of births, marriages, and -deaths. "My moral death will not be recorded here," she thought, "and yet, -I shall be more dead than any of these." The thought in her mind remained -as it were truncated; her eye was arrested—a paleness came -over her—the pulses of her heart paused, and then beat -tumultuously—how strange—how fatal were the words she -read!— -</p> - -<p> -"Died suddenly at the inn at the Mola di Gaeta, on her way from Naples, -Clorinda, the wife of the honourable Horatio Saville, in the -twenty-second year of her age." -</p> - -<p> -Her drawing-room door was opened, the butler announced Miss Derham, -while her eyes still were fixed on the paragraph: her head swam -round—the world seemed to slide from under her. Fanny's calm clear -voice recalled her. She conquered her agitation—she spoke as if she -had not just crossed a gulf—not been transported to a new world; and, -again, swifter than light, brought back to the old one. She conversed -with Fanny for some time; giving some kind of explanation for not having -been to see Ethel, begging her young friend to press her invitation, and -speaking as if in autumn they should all meet again. Fanny, philosophic as -she was, regarded Lady Lodore with a kind of idolatry. The same charm that -had fascinated the unworldly and abstracted Saville, she exercised over -the thoughtful and ingenuous mind of the fair young student. It was the -attraction of engaging manners, added now to the sense of right, joined -to the timid softness of a woman, who trembled on acting unsupported, -even though her conscience approved her deeds. It was her loveliness -which had gained in expression what it had lost in youth, and kindness -of heart was the soul of the enchantment. Fanny ventured to remonstrate -against her sudden departure. "O we shall soon meet again," said -Cornelia; but her thoughts were more of heaven than earth, as the scene -of meeting; for her heart was chilled—her head throbbed—the -words she had read operated a revolution in her frame, more allied to -sickness and death, than hope or triumph. -</p> - -<p> -Fanny at length took her leave, and Lady Lodore was again alone. She took -up the newspaper—hastily she read again the tidings; she sunk on the -sofa, burying her face in the pillow, trying not to think, while she was -indeed the prey to the wildest thoughts. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," thus ran her reflections, "he is free—he is no longer -<i>married</i>! Fool, fool! he is still lost to you!—an outcast -and a beggar, shall I solicit his love! which he believes that I -rejected when prosperous. Rather never, never, let me see him again. My -beauty is tarnished, my youth flown; he would only see me to wonder how -he had ever loved me. Better hide beneath the mountains among which I am -soon to find a home—better, far better, die, than see Saville and -read no love in his eyes. -</p> - -<p> -"Yet thus again I cast happiness from me. What then would I do? Unweave -the web—implore Mr. Villiers to endure my presence—reveal my -state of beggary—ask thanks for my generosity, and humbly wait for -a kind glance from Saville, to raise me to wealth as well as to -happiness.—Cornelia, awake!—be not subdued at the last—act -not against your disposition, the pride of your soul—the -determinations you have formed—do not learn to be humble in -adversity—you, who were disdainful in happier days—no! if -they need me—if they love me—if Saville still remembers the -worship—the heart's entire sacrifice which once he made to -me—will a few miles—the obscurity of my abode—or the silence -and mystery that surrounds me, check his endeavours that we should once -again meet? -</p> - -<p> -"No!" she said, rising, "my destiny is in other and higher hands than my -own. It were vain to endeavour to controul it. Whatever I do, works -against me; now let the thread be spun to the end, while I do nothing; I -can but endure the worst patiently; and how much better to bear in -silence, than to struggle vainly with the irrevocable decree! I submit. -Let Providence work out its own ends, and God dispose of the being he -has made—whether I reap the harvest in this world or in the next, my -part is played, I will strive no more!" -</p> - -<p> -She believed in her own singleness of purpose as she said this, and yet -she was never more deceived. While she boasted of her resignation, she -was yielding not to a high moral power, but to the pride of her soul. -Her resolutions were in accordance with the haughtiness of her -disposition, and she felt satisfied, not because she was making a noble -sacrifice, but because she thus adorned more magnificently the idol she -set up for worship, and believed herself to be more worthy of applause -and love. Yet who could condemn even errors that led to such unbending -and heroic forgetfulness of all the baser propensities of our nature. -Nor was this feeling of triumph long-lived; the wounding and humiliating -realities of life, soon degraded her from her pedestal, and made her -feel, as it were, the disgrace and indignities of abdication. -</p> - -<p> -Her travelling chariot drove up to the door, and, after a few moments' -preparation, she was summoned. Again she looked round the room; her -heart swelled high with impatience and repining, but again she conquered -herself. She took up her miniature—<i>that</i> now she might -possess—for she could remember without sin—she took up the -newspaper, which did or did not contain the fiat of her fate; but this -action appeared to militate against the state of resignation she had -resolved to attain, so she threw it down: she walked down the stairs, -and passed out from her house for the last time—she got into the -carriage—the door was closed—the horses were in motion—all -was over. -</p> - -<p> -Her head felt sick and heavy; she leaned back in her carriage half -stupified. When at last London and its suburbs were passed, the sight of -the open country a little revived her—but she soon drooped again. -Nothing presented itself to her thoughts with any clearness, and the -exultation which had supported her vanished totally. She only knew that -she was alone, poor, forgotten; these words hovered on her lips, mingled -with others, by which she endeavoured to charm away her despondency. -Fortitude and resignation for herself—freedom and happiness for -Ethel. "O yes, she is free and happy—it matters not then what I -am!" No tears flowed to soften this thought. The bright green -country—the meadows mingled with unripe corn-fields—the -tufted woods—the hedgerows full of flowers, could not attract her -eye; pangs every now and then seized upon her heart—she had talked -of resignation, but she was delivered up to despair. -</p> - -<p> -At length she sank into a kind of stupor. She was accompanied by one -servant only; she had told him where she intended to remain that night. -It was past eleven before they arrived at Reading; the night was chill, -and she shivered while she felt as if it were impossible to move, even -to draw up the glasses of her chariot. When she arrived at the inn where -she was to pass the night, she felt keenly the discomfort of having no -female attendant. It was new—she felt as if it were disgraceful, to -find herself alone among strangers, to be obliged to give orders -herself, and to prepare alone for her repose. -</p> - -<p> -All night she could not sleep, and she became aware at last that she was -ill. She burnt with fever—her whole frame was tormented by aches, by -alternate hot and shivering fits, and by a feeling of sickness. When -morning dawned, it was worse. She grew impatient—she rose. She had -arranged that her servant should quit her at this place. He had been but -a short time with her, and was easily dismissed under the idea, that she -was to be joined by a man recommended by a friend, who was accustomed to -the continent, whither it was supposed that she was going. She had -dismissed him the night before, he was already gone, when on the morrow -she ordered the horses.—She paid the bills herself—and had to -answer questions about luggage; all these things are customary to the poor, -and to the other sex. But take a high-born woman and place her in immediate -contact with the rough material of the world, and see how like a -sensitive plant she will shrink, close herself up and droop, and feel as -if she had fallen from her native sphere into a spot unknown, ungenial, -and full of storms. -</p> - -<p> -The illness that oppressed Lady Lodore, made these natural feelings even -more acute, till at last they were blunted by the same cause. She now -wondered what it was that ailed her, and became terrified at the -occasional wanderings that interrupted her torpor. Once or twice she -wished to speak to the post-boy, but her voice failed her. At length -they drove up to the inn at Newbury; fresh horses were called for, and -the landlady came up to the door of the carriage, to ask whether the -lady had breakfasted—whether she would take anything. There was -something ghastly in Lady Lodore's appearance, which at once frightened -the good woman, and excited her compassion. She renewed her questions, -which Lady Lodore had not at first heard, adding, "You seem ill, ma'am; -do take something—had you not better alight?" -</p> - -<p> -"O yes, far better," said Cornelia, "for I think I must be very ill." -</p> - -<p> -The change of posture and cessation of motion a little revived her, and -she began to think that she was mistaken, and that it was all nothing, -and that she was well. She was conducted into the parlour of the inn, -and the landlady left her to order refreshment. "How foolish I am," she -thought; "this is mere fancy; there is nothing the matter with me;" and -she rose to ring the bell, and to order horses. When suddenly, without -any previous warning, struck as by a bolt, she fainted, and fell on the -floor, without any power of saving herself. The sound of her fall -quickened the steps of the landlady, who was returning; all the -chamber-maids were summoned, a doctor sent for, and when Lady Lodore opened -her eyes she saw unknown faces about her, a strange place, and voices yet -stranger. She did not speak, but tried to collect her thoughts, and to -unravel the mystery, as it appeared, of her situation. But soon her -thoughts wandered, and fever and weakness made her yield to the -solicitations of those around. The doctor came, and could make out -nothing but that she was in a high fever: he ordered her to be put to -bed. And thus—Saville, and Ethel, and all hopes and fears, having -vanished from her thoughts,—given up to delirium and suffering, poor -Lady Lodore, alone, unknown, and unattended, remained for several weeks -at a country inn—under the hands of a village doctor—to -recover, if God pleased, if not, to sink, unmourned and unheard of, -into an untimely grave. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV</a></h4> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">But if for me thou dost forsake</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Some other maid, and rudely break</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Her worshipped image from its base,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">To give to me the ruined place—</span><br /> -<span class="i2"> </span><br /> -<span class="i2">Then fare thee well—I'd rather make</span><br /> -<span class="i2">My bower upon some icy lake,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">When thawing suns begin to shine,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Than trust to love so false as thine!</span> -</div></div> - -<p style="margin-left: 55%;">LALLA ROOKH.</p> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -On the same day Mr. and Mrs. Villiers left their sad dwelling to take -possession of lady Lodore's house. The generosity and kindness of her -mother, such as it appeared, though she knew but the smallest portion of -it, charmed Ethel. Her heart, which had so long struggled to love her, was -gladdened by the proofs given that she deserved her warmest affection. -The truest delight beamed from her lovely countenance. Even she had felt -the gloom and depression of adversity. The sight of misery or vice in -those around her tarnished the holy fervour with which she would -otherwise have made every sacrifice for Edward's sake. There is -something in this world, which even while it gives an unknown grace to -rough, and hard, and mean circumstances, contaminates the beauty and -harmony of the noble and exalted. Ethel had been aware of this; she -dreaded its sinister influence over Villiers, and in spite of herself -she pined; she had felt with a shudder that in spite of love and -fortitude, a sense, chilling and deponding, was creeping over her, -making her feel the earth alien to her, and calling her away from the -sadness of the scene around to a world bright and pure as herself. Her -very despair thus dressed itself in the garb of religion; and though -these visitations of melancholy only came during the absence of Villiers -and were never indulged in, yet they were too natural a growth of their -wretched abode to be easily or entirely dismissed. Even now that she was -restored to the fairer scenes of life, compassion for the unfortunate -beings she quitted haunted her, and her feelings were too keenly alive -to the miseries which her fellow-creatures suffered, to permit her to be -relieved from all pain by her own exemption. She turned from such -reflections to the image of her dear kind mother with delight. The roof -that sheltered her was hallowed as hers; all the blessings of life which -she enjoyed came to her from the same source as life itself. She -delighted to trace the current of feeling which had occasioned her to -give up so much, and to imagine the sweetness of disposition, the -vivacity of mind, the talents and accomplishments which her physiognomy -expressed, and the taste manifested in her house, and all the things -which she had collected around her, evinced. -</p> - -<p> -In less than a month after their liberation, she gave birth to son. The -mingled danger and rejoicing attendant on this event, imparted fresh -strength to the attachment that united Edward to her; and the little -stranger himself was a new object of tenderness and interest. Thus their -days of mourning were exchanged for a happiness most natural and welcome -to the human heart. At this time also Horatio Saville returned from -Italy with his little girl. She was scarcely more than a year old, but -displayed an intelligence to be equalled only by her extraordinary -beauty. Her golden silken ringlets were even then profuse, her eyes were -as dark and brilliant as her mother's, but her complexion was fair, and -the same sweet smile flitted round her infant mouth, as gave the charm -to her father's face. He idolized her, and tried by his tenderness and -attention to appease, as it were, the manes of the unfortunate Clorinda. -</p> - -<p> -She, poor girl, had been the victim of the violence of passion and -ill-regulated feelings native to her country, excited into unnatural -force by the singularity of her fate. When Saville saw her first in her -convent, she was pining for liberty; she did not think of any joy beyond -escaping the troublesome impertinence of the nuns and the monotonous -tenor of monastic life, of associating with people she loved, and -enjoying the common usages of life, unfettered by the restrictions that -rendered her present existence a burthen. But though she desired no -more, her disgust for the present, her longing for a change, was a -powerful passion. She was adorned by talents, by genius; she was -eloquent and beautiful, and full of enthusiasm and feeling. Saville -pitied her; he lamented her future fate among her unworthy countrymen; -he longed to cherish, to comfort, and to benefit her. His heart, so -easily won to tenderness, gave her readily a brother's regard. Others, -seeing the active benevolence and lively interest that this sentiment -elicited, might have fancied him inspired by a warmer feeling; but he -well knew the difference, he ardently desired her happiness, but did not -seek his own in her. -</p> - -<p> -He visited her frequently, he brought her books, he taught her English. -They were allowed to meet daily in the parlour of the convent, in the -presence of a female attendant; and his admiration of her talents, her -imagination, her ardent comprehensive mind, increased on every interview. -They talked of literature—the poets—the arts; Clorinda sang -to him, and her fine voice, cultivated by the nicest art, was a source -of deep pleasure and pain to her auditor. His sensibility was awakened -by the tones of love and rapture—sensibility, not alas! for her who -sang, but for the false and absent. While listening, his fancy recalled -Lady Lodore's image; the hopes she had inspired, the rapture he had felt in -her presence—the warm vivifying effect her voice and looks had on him -were remembered, and his heart sank within him to think that all this -sweetness was deceptive, fleeting, lost. Once, overcome by these -thoughts, he resolved to return suddenly to England, to make one effort -more to exchange unendurable wretchedness for the most transporting -happiness;—absence from Cornelia, to the joy of pouring out the -overflowing sentiments of his heart at her feet. While indulging in this -idea, a letter from his sister Lucy caused a painful revulsion; she -painted the woman of the world given up to ambition and fashion, -rejoicing in his departure, and waiting only the moment when she might with -decency become the wife of another. Saville was almost maddened—he -did not visit Clorinda for three days. She received him, when at last he -came, without reproach, but with transport; she saw that sadness, even -sickness, dimmed his eye; she soothed him, she hung over him with -fondness, she sung to him her sweetest, softest airs; his heart melted, -a tear stole from his eye. Clorinda saw his emotion; it excited hers; her -Neapolitan vivacity was not restrained by shame nor fear,—she spoke -of her love for him with the vehemence she felt, and youth and beauty -hallowed the frankness and energy of her expressions. Saville was -touched and pleased,—he left her to meditate on this new state of -things—for free from passion himself, he had never suspected the -growth of it in her heart. He reflected on all her admirable qualities, and -the pity it was that they should be cast at the feet of one of her own -unrefined, uneducated countrymen, who would be incapable of appreciating -her talents—even her love—so that at last she would herself -become degraded, and sink into that system of depravity which makes a prey -of all that is lovely or noble in our nature. He could save her—she -loved him, and he could save her; lost as he was to real happiness, it were -to approximate to it, if he consecrated his life to her welfare. -</p> - -<p> -Yet he would not deceive her. The excess of love which she bestowed -demanded a return which he could not give. She must choose whether, such -as he was, he were worth accepting. Actuated by a sense of justice, he -opened his heart to her without disguise: he told her of his ill-fated -attachment to another—of his self-banishment, and misery—he -declared his real and earnest affection for her—his desire to -rescue her from her present fate, and to devote his life to her. -Clorinda scarcely heard what he said,—she felt only that she might -become his—that he would marry her; her rapture was undisguised, -and he enjoyed the felicity of believing that one so lovely and -excellent would at once owe every blessing of life to him, and that the -knowledge of this must ensure his own content. The consent of her -parents was easily yielded,—the Pope is always ready to grant a -dispensation to a Catholic wife marrying a Protestant husband,—the -wedding speedily took place—and Saville became her husband. -</p> - -<p> -Their mutual torments now began. Horatio was a man of high and -unshrinking principle. He never permitted himself to think of Lady Lodore, -and the warmth and tenderness of his heart led him to attach himself truly -and affectionately to his wife. But this did not suffice for the -Neapolitan. Her marriage withdrew the veil of life—she imagined that -she distinguished the real from the fictitious, but her new sense of -discernment was the source of torture. She desired to be loved as she -loved; she insisted that her rival should be hated—she was shaken by -continual tempests of jealousy, and the violence of her temper, -restrained by no reserve of disposition, displayed itself frightfully. -Saville reasoned, reproached, reprehended, without any avail, except -that when her violence had passed its crisis, she repented, and wept, -and besought forgiveness. Ethel's visit had been a blow hard to bear. She -was the daughter of her whom Saville loved—whom he regretted—on -whom he expended that passion and idolatry, to attain which she would -have endured the most dreadful tortures. These were the reflections, or -rather, these were the ravings, of Clorinda. She had never been so -furious in her jealousy, or so frequent in her fits of passion, as -during the visit of the unconscious and gentle Ethel. -</p> - -<p> -The birth of her child operated a beneficial change for a time; and -except when Saville spoke of England, or she imagined that he was -thinking of it, she ceased to torment him. He was glad; but the moment -was passed when she could command his esteem, or excite his spontaneous -sympathy. He pitied and he loved her; but it was almost as we may become -attached to an unfortunate and lovely maniac; less than ever did he seek -his happiness in her. He loved his infant daughter now better than any -other earthly thing. Clorinda rejoiced in this tie, though she soon grew -jealous even of her own child. -</p> - -<p> -The arrival of Lord Maristow and his daughters was at first full of -benefit to the discordant pair. Clorinda was really desirous of -obtaining their esteem, and she exerted herself to please: when they -talked of her return to England with them, it only excited her to try to -render Italy so agreeable as to induce them to remain there. They were -not like Ethel. They were good girls, but fashionable and fond of -pleasure. Clorinda devised a thousand amusements—concerts, tableaux, -the masquerades of the carnival, were all put in requisition. They -carried their zeal for amusement so far as to take up their abode for a -day or two at Pompeii, feigning to be its ancient inhabitants, and, -bringing the <i>corps operatique</i> to their aid, got up Rossini's opera -of the Ultimi Giorni di Pompeii among the ruins, ending their masquerade by -a mimic eruption. These gaieties did not accord with the classic and -refined tastes of Saville; but he was glad to find his wife and sisters -agree so well, and under the blue sky, and in the laughing land of -Naples, it was impossible not to find beauty and enjoyment even in -extravagance and folly. -</p> - -<p> -Still, like a funeral bell heard amidst a feast, the name of England, -and the necessity of her going thither, struck on the ear and chilled -the heart of the Neapolitan. She resolved never to go; but how could she -refuse to accompany her husband's sisters? how resist the admonitions and -commands of his father? She did not refuse therefore—she seemed to -consent—while she said to Saville, "Poison, stab me—cast me -down the crater of the mountain—exhaust your malice and hatred on me -as you please here—but you shall never take me to England but -as a corpse." -</p> - -<p> -Saville replied, "As you will." He was tired of the struggle, and left -the management of his departure to others. -</p> - -<p> -One day his sisters described the delights of a London season, and -strove to win Clorinda by the mention of its balls, parties, and opera; -they spoke of Almack's, and the leaders of fashion; they mentioned Lady -Lodore. They were unaware that Clorinda knew any thing of their brother's -attachment, and speaking of her as one of the most distinguished of -their associates in the London world, made their sister-in-law aware, -that when she made a part of it, she would come into perpetual contact -with her rival. This allusion caused one of her most violent paroxysms -of rage as soon as she found herself alone with her husband. So frantic -did she seem, that Horatio spoke seriously to his father, and declared -he knew of no argument nor power which could induce Clorinda to -accompany them to England. "Then you must go without her," said Lord -Maristow; "your career, your family, your country, must not be -sacrificed to her unreasonable folly." And then, wholly unaware of the -character of the person with whom he had to deal, he repeated the same -thing to Clorinda. "You must choose," he said, "between Naples and your -husband—he must go; do you prefer being left behind?" -</p> - -<p> -Clorinda grew pale, even livid. She returned home. Horatio was not -there; she raved through her house like a maniac; her servants even hid -her child from her, and she rushed from room to room tearing her hair, -and calling for Saville. At length he entered; her eyes were starting -from her head, her frame working with convulsive violence; she strove to -speak—to give utterance to the vehemence pent up within her. She -darted towards him; when suddenly, as if shot to the heart, she fell on the -marble pavement of her chamber, and a red stream poured from her -lips—she had burst a blood-vessel. -</p> - -<p> -For many days she was not allowed to speak nor move. Saville nursed her -unremittingly—he watched by her at night—he tried to soothe -her—he brought her child to her side—his sweetness, and -gentleness, and real tenderness were all expended on her. Although -violent, she was not ungenerous. She was touched by his attentions, and -the undisguised solicitude of his manner. She resolved to conquer -herself, and in a fit of heroism formed the determination to yield, and -to go to England. Her first words, when permitted to speak, were to -signify her assent. Saville kissed and thanked her. She had half -imagined that he would imitate her generosity, and give up the journey. -No such thought crossed his mind; her distaste was too unreasonable to -elicit the smallest sympathy, and consequently any concession. He -thanked her warmly, it is true; and looked delighted at this change, but -without giving her time to retract, he hurried to communicate to his -relations the agreeable tidings. -</p> - -<p> -As she grew better she did not recede, but she felt miserable. The good -spirits and ready preparations of Horatio were all acts of treason -against her: sometimes she felt angry—but she checked herself. Like -all Italians, Clorinda feared death excessively; besides that, to die was -to yield the entire victory to her rival. She struggled therefore, and -conquered herself; and neither expressed her angry jealousy nor her -terrors. She had many causes of fear; she was again in a situation to -increase her family within a few months; and while her safety depended -on her being able to attain a state of calm, she feared a confinement in -England, and believed that it was impossible that she should survive. -</p> - -<p> -She was worn to a skeleton—her large eyes were sunk and ringed -with black, while they burnt with unnatural brilliancy, for her vivacity -did not desert her, and that deceived those around; they fancied that -she was convalescent, and would soon recover strength and good looks, -while she nourished a deep sense of wrong for the slight attention paid -to her sufferings. She wept over herself and her friendless state. Her -husband was not her friend, for he was not her countryman: and full as -Saville was of generous sympathy and kindliness for all, the idea of -returning to England, to his home and friends, to the stirring scenes of -life, and the society of those who loved literature, and were endowed -with the spirit of liberal inquiry and manly habits of thinking, so -absorbed and delighted him, that he could only thank Clorinda again and -again—caress her, and entreat her to get well, that she might -share his pleasures. His words chilled her, and she shrunk from his -caresses. "He is thinking of her, and of seeing her again," she thought. -She did him the most flagrant injustice. Saville was a man of high and -firm principle, and had he been aware of any latent weakness, of any -emotion allied to the master-passion of his soul, he would have -conquered it, or have fled from the temptation. He never thought less of -Lady Lodore than now. The unwonted gentleness and concessions of his -wife—his love for his child, and the presence of his father and -dear sisters, dissipated his regrets,—his conscience was wholly at -ease, and he was happy. -</p> - -<p> -Clorinda dared not complain to her English relatives, but she listened -to the lamentations of her Neapolitan friends with a luxury of woe. They -mourned over her as if she were going to visit another sphere; they -pointed out the little island on a map, and seated far off as it was -amidst the northern sea, night and storms, they averred, perpetually -brooded over it, while from the shape of the earth they absolutely -proved that it was impossible to get there. It is true that Lord -Maristow and his daughters, and Saville himself, had come thence—that -was nothing—it was easy to come away. "You see," they said, "the -earth slopes down, and the sun is before them; but when they have to go -back, ah! it is quite another affair; the Alps rise, and the sea boils -over, and they have to toil up the wall of the world itself into winter and -darkness. It is tempting God to go there. O stay, Clorinda, stay in -sunny Italy. Orazio will return: do not go to die in that miserable -birth-place of night and frost." -</p> - -<p> -Clorinda wept yet more bitterly over her hard fate, and the -impossibility of yielding to their wishes. "Would to God," she thought, -"I could abandon the ingrate, and let him go far from Italy and -Clorinda, to die in his wretched country! Would I could forget, hate, -desert him! Ah, why do I idolize one born in that chilly land, where -love and passion are unknown or despised!" -</p> - -<p> -At length the day arrived when they left Naples. It was the month of -May, and very warm. No imagination could paint the glorious beauty of -this country of enchantment, on the completion of spring, before the -heats of summer had withered its freshness. The sparkling waves of the -blue Mediterranean encircled the land, and contrasted with its hues: the -rich foliage of the trees—the festooning of the luxuriant vines, -and the abundant vegetation which sprung fresh from the soil, decorating -the rocks, and mantling the earth with flowers and verdure, were all in -the very prime and blossoming of beauty. The sisters of Saville -expressed their admiration in warm and enthusiastic terms; the words -trembled on poor Clorinda's lips; she was about to say, "Why then desert -this land of bliss?" but Horatio spoke instead: "It is splendid, I own, -and once I felt all that you express. Now a path along a grassy -field—a hedge-row—a copse with a rill murmuring through -it—a white cottage with simple palings enclosing a -flower-garden—the spire of a country church rising from among a -tuft of elms—the skies all shadowy with soft clouds—and the -homesteads of a happy thriving peasantry—these are the things I -sigh for. A true English home-scene seems to me a thousand times more -beautiful, as it must be a thousand times dearer than the garish showy -splendour of Naples." -</p> - -<p> -Clorinda's thoughts crept back into her chilled heart; large tear-drops -rose in her eyes, but she concealed them, and shrinking into a corner of -the carriage, she felt more lonely and deserted than she would have done -among strangers who had loved Italy, and participated in her feelings. -</p> - -<p> -They arrived at the inn called the Villa di Cicerone, at the Mola di -Gaeta. All the beauty of the most beautiful part of the Peninsula seems -concentered in that enchanting spot—the perfume of orange flowers -filled the air—the sea was at their feet—the vine-clad hills -around. All this excess of loveliness only added to the unutterable misery -of the Neapolitan girl. Her companions talked and laughed, while she felt -her frame convulsed by internal combats, and the unwonted command she -exercised over her habitual vehemence. Horatio conversed gaily with his -sisters, till catching a glimpse of the pale face of his wretched wife, -her mournful eyes and wasted cheeks, he drew near her. "You are -fatigued, dearest Clorinda," he said, "will you not go to rest?" -</p> - -<p> -He said this in a tender caressing tone, but she felt, "He wants to send -me away—to get rid even of the sight of me." But he sat down by her, -and perceiving her dejection, and guessing partly at its cause, he -soothed her, and talked of their return to her native land, and cheered -her by expressions of gratitude for the sacrifice she was making. Her -heart began to soften, and her tears to flow more freely, when a man -entered, such as haunt the inns in Italy, and watch for the arrival of -rich strangers to make profit in various ways out of them. This man had -a small picture for sale, which he declared to be an original Carlo -Dolce. It was the head of a seraph painted on copper—it was probably -a copy, but it was beautifully executed; besides the depth of colour and -grace of design, there was something singularly beautiful in the -expression of the countenance portrayed,—it symbolized happiness and -love; a beaming softness animated the whole face; a perfect joy, an -ineffable radiance shone out of it. Clorinda took it in her hand—the -representation of heart-felt gladness increased her self-pity; she was -turning towards her husband with a reproachful look, thinking, "Such -smiles you have banished from my face for ever,"—when Sophia Saville, -who was looking over her shoulder, exclaimed, "What an extraordinary -resemblance! there was never any thing so like." -</p> - -<p> -"Who? what?" asked her sister. -</p> - -<p> -"It is Lady Lodore herself," replied Sophia; "her eyes, her mouth, her very -smile." -</p> - -<p> -Lucy gave a quick glance towards her brother. Horatio involuntarily -stepped forward to look, and then as hastily drew back. Clorinda saw it -all—she put down the picture, and left the room—she could not -stay—she could not speak—she knew not what she felt, but that a -fiery torture was eating into her, and she must fly, she knew not whither. -Saville was pained; he hesitated what to do or say—so he remained; -supper was brought in, and Clorinda not appearing, it was supposed that -she had retired to rest. In about an hour and a half after, Horatio went -into her room, and to his horror beheld her stretched upon the cold -bricks of the chamber, senseless; the moon-beams rested on her pale -face, which bore the hues of death. In a moment the house was alarmed, -the village doctor summoned, a courier dispatched to Naples for an -English physician, and every possible aid afforded the wretched -sufferer. She was placed on the bed,—she still lived; her faint pulse -could not be felt, and no blood flowed when a vein was opened, but she -groaned, and now and then opened her eyes with a ghastly stare, and -closed them again as if mechanically. All was horror and despair—no -help—no resource presented itself; they hung round her, they listened -to her groans with terror, and yet they were the only signs of life that -disturbed her death-like state. At last, soon after the dawn of day, she -became convulsed, her pulse fluttered, and blood flowed from her wounded -arm; in about an hour from this time she gave birth to a dead child. -After this she grew calmer and fainter. The physician arrived, but she -was past mortal cure,—she never opened her eyes more, nor spoke, nor -gave any token of consciousness. By degrees her groans ceased, and she -faded into death: the slender manifestations of lingering vitality -gradually decreasing till all was still and cold. After an hour or two -her face resumed its loveliness, pale and wasted as it was: she seemed -to sleep, and none could regret that repose possessed that heart, which -had been alive only to the deadliest throes of unhappy passion. Yet -Saville did more than regret—he mourned her sincerely and -deeply,—he accused himself of hard-heartedness,—he remembered -what she was when he had first seen her;—how full of animation, -beauty, and love. He did not remember that she had perished the victim of -uncontrolled passion; he felt that she was his victim. He would have given -worlds to restore her to life and enjoyment. What was a residence in -England—the promises of ambition—the pleasures of his native -land—all that he could feel or know, compared to the existence of one -so young, so blessed with Heaven's choicest gifts of mind and person. She -was his victim, and he could never forgive himself. -</p> - -<p> -For his father's and sisters' sake he subdued the expression of his -grief, for they also loved Clorinda, and were struck with sorrow at the -sudden catastrophe. His strong mind, also, before long, mastered the -false view he had taken of the cause of her death. He lamented her -deeply, but he did not give way to unavailing remorse, which was founded -on his sensibility, and not on any just cause for repentance. He turned -all his thoughts to repairing her errors, rather than his own, by -cherishing her child with redoubled fondness. The little girl was too -young to feel her loss; she had always loved her father, and now she -clung to his bosom and pressed her infant lips to his cheek, and by her -playfulness and caresses repaid him for the tenderness that he lavished -on her. -</p> - -<p> -After some weeks spent in the north of Italy he returned to England with -her. Lord Maristow and his daughters were already there, and had gone to -Maristow Castle. Saville took up his abode with his cousin Villiers. His -situation was new and strange. He found himself in the very abode of the -dreaded Cornelia, yet she was away, unheard of, almost, it seemed, -forgotten. Did he think of her as he saw the traces of by-gone scenes -around? He played with his child—he secluded himself among his -books—he talked with Ethel of what had happened since their parting, -and reproached Villiers bitterly for not having applied to him in his -distress. But a kind of spell sealed the lips of each, and Lady Lodore, who -was the living spirit of the scene around—the creator of its peace -and happiness—seemed to have passed away from the memory of all. It -was in appearance only. Not an hour, not a minute of the day passed, that -did not bring her idea to their minds, and Saville and Ethel each longed -for the word to be uttered by either, which would permit them to give -expression to the thoughts that so entirely possessed them. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV</a></h4> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i8">The music</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Of man's fair composition best accords,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">When 'tis in consort, not in single strains:</span><br /> -<span class="i2">My heart has been untuned these many months,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Wanting her presence, in whose equal love</span><br /> -<span class="i2">True harmony consisted.</span> -</div></div> - -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">FORD.</p> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -At the beginning of September the whole party assembled at Maristow -Castle. Even Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry was among the guests. She had not -visited Ethel in London, because she would not enter Lady Lodore's house, -but she had the true spinster's desire of seeing the baby, and thus -overcame her reluctance to quitting Longfield for a few weeks. Fanny Derham -also accompanied them, unable to deny Ethel's affectionate entreaties. -Fanny's situation had been beneficially changed. Sir Gilbert Derham, -finding that his granddaughter associated with people <i>in the world</i>, -and being applied to by Lord Maristow, was induced to withdraw Mrs. Derham -from her mean situation, and to settle a small fortune on each of her -children. Fanny was too young, and too wedded to her platonic notions of -the supremacy of mind, to be fully aware of the invaluable advantages of -pecuniary independence for a woman. She fancied that she could enter on -the career—the only career permitted her sex—of servitude, and -yet possess her soul in freedom and power. She had never, indeed, thought -much of these things: life was, as it concerned herself, a system of -words only. As always happens to the young, she only knew suffering -through her affections, and the real chain of life—its necessities -and cares—and the sinister influences exercised by the bad passions -of our fellow-creatures—had not yet begun to fetter her aspiring -thoughts. Beautiful in her freedom, in her enthusiasm, and even in her -learning, but, above all, in the lively kindliness of her heart, she -excited the wonder and commanded the affections of all. Saville had never -seen any one like her—she brought to his recollection his own young -feelings before experience had lifted "the painted veil which those who -live call life," or passion and sorrow had tamed the ardour of his mind; he -looked on her with admiration, and yet with compassion, wondering where and -how the evil spirit of the world would show its power to torment, and -conquer the free soul of the disciple of wisdom. -</p> - -<p> -Yet Saville's own mind was rather rebuked than tamed: he knew what -suffering was, yet he knew also how to endure it, and to turn it to -advantage, deriving thence lessons of fortitude, of forbearance, and -even of hope. It was not, however, till the seal on his lips was taken -off, and the name of Cornelia mentioned, that he became aware that the -same heart warmed his bosom, as had been the cause at once of such -rapture and misery in former times. Yet even now he did not acknowledge -to himself that he still loved, passionately, devotedly loved, Lady Lodore. -The image of the pale Clorinda stretched on the pavement—his -victim—still dwelt in his memory, and he made a sacrifice at her tomb -of every living feeling of his own. He fancied, therefore, that he spoke -coldly of Cornelia, with speculation only, while in fact, at the very -mention of her name a revulsion took place in his being—his eyes -brightened, his face beamed with animation, his very figure enlarged, -his heart was on fire within him. Villiers saw and appreciated these -tokens of passion; but Ethel only perceived an interest in her mother, -shared with herself, and was half angry that he made no professions of -the constancy of his attachment. -</p> - -<p> -Still, day after day, and soon, all day long, they talked of Lady Lodore. -None but a lover and a daughter could have adhered so pertinaciously to one -subject; and thus Saville and Ethel were often left to themselves, or -joined only by Fanny. Fanny was very mysterious and alarming in what she -said of her beautiful and interesting favourite. While Ethel lamented -her mother's love of the continent, conjectured concerning her return, -and dwelt on the pleasures of their future intercourse, Fanny shook her -head, and said, "It was strange, very strange, that not one letter had -yet reached them from her." She was asked to explain, but she could only -say, that when she last saw Lady Lodore, she was impressed by the idea -that all was not as it seemed. She tried to appear as if acting -according to the ordinary routine of life, and yet was evidently -agitated by violent and irrepressible feeling. Her manner, she had -herself fancied, to be calm, and yet it betrayed a wandering of thought, -a fear of being scrutinized, manifested in her repetition of the same -phrases, and in the earnestness with which she made assurances -concerning matters of the most trivial import. This was all that Fanny -could say, but she was intimately persuaded of the correctness of her -observation, and lamented that she had not inquired further and -discovered more. "For," she said, "the mystery, whatever it is, springs -from the most honourable motives. There was nothing personal nor -frivolous in the feelings that mastered her;" and Fanny feared that at -that very moment she was sacrificing herself to some project—some -determination, which, while it benefited others, was injuring herself. -Ethel, with all her affection for her mother, was not persuaded of the -justice of these suspicions, nor could be brought to acknowledge that -the mystery of Lady Lodore's absence was induced by any motives as -strange and forcible as those suggested by Fanny; but believed that her -young friend was carried away by her own imagination and high-flown -ideas. Saville was operated differently upon. He became uneasy, -thoughtful, restless: a thousand times he was on the point of setting -out to find a clue to the mystery, and to discover the abode of the -runaway,—but he was restrained. It is usually supposed that women are -always under the influence of one sentiment, and if Lady Lodore acted -under the direction and for the sake of another, wherefore should -Saville interfere? what right had he to investigate her secrets, and -disturb her arrangements? -</p> - -<p> -Several months passed. Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry returned to Longfield, -and still the mystery concerning Ethel's mother continued, and the -wonder increased, Soon after Christmas Mr. Gayland, who was also Lord -Maristow's solicitor, came down to the Castle for a few days. He made -inquiries concerning Lady Lodore, and was somewhat surprised at her strange -disappearance and protracted absence. He asked several questions, and -seemed to form conclusions in his own mind; he excited the curiosity of -all, yet restrained himself from satisfying it; he was evidently -disquieted by her unbroken silence, yet feared to betray the origin of -his uneasiness. -</p> - -<p> -While he remained curiosity was dominant: when he went he requested -Villiers to be good enough to let him know if any thing should be heard -of Lady Lodore. He asked this more than once, and required an absolute -promise. After his departure, his questions, his manner, and his last -words recurred, exciting even more surprise than when he had been -present. Fanny brought forward all he said to support her own -conjectures; a shadow of disquiet crossed Ethel's mind; she asked -Villiers to take some steps to discover where her mother was, and on his -refusal argued earnestly, though vainly, to persuade him to comply. -Villiers was actuated by the common-place maxim of not interfering with -the actions and projects of others. "Lady Lodore is not a child," he -said, "she knows what she is about—has she not always avoided you, -Ethel? Why press yourself inopportunely upon her?" -</p> - -<p> -But Ethel was not now to be convinced by the repetition of these -arguments. She urged her mother's kindness and sacrifice; her having -given up her home to them; her house still unclaimed by her, still at -their disposal, and which contained so many things which must have been -endeared by long use and habit, and the relinquishing of which showed -something extraordinary in her motives. This was a woman's feeling, and -made little impression on Villiers—he was willing to praise and to -thank Lady Lodore for her generosity and kindness, but he suspected nothing -beyond her acknowledged acts. -</p> - -<p> -Saville heard this disquisition; he wished Villiers to be -convinced—he was persuaded that Ethel was right—he was angry -at his cousin's obstinacy—he was miserable at the idea that -Cornelia should feel herself treated with neglect—that she should -need protection and not have it—that she should be alone, and not -find assistance proffered, urged upon her. He mounted his horse and took -a solitary ride, meditating on these things—his imagination became -heated, his soul on fire. He pictured Lady Lodore in solitude and -desertion, and his heart boiled within him. Was she sick, and none near -her?—was she dead, and her grave unvisited and unknown? A lover's -fancy is as creative as a poet's and when once it takes hold of any -idea, it clings to it tenaciously. If it is thus even with ordinary -minds, how much more with Saville, with all energy which was his -characteristic, and the latent fire of love burning in his heart. His -resolution was sudden, and acted on at once. He turned his horse's head -towards London. On reaching the nearest town, he ordered a chaise and -four post horses. He wrote a few hurried lines announcing an absence of -two or three days, and with the rapidity that always attended the -conception of his purposes and their execution, the next morning, having -travelled all night, he was in Mr. Gayland's office, questioning that -gentleman concerning Lady Lodore, and seeking from him all the light he -could throw upon her long-continued and mysterious absence. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Gayland had promised Lady Lodore not to reveal her secret to Mr. or -Mrs. Villiers; but he felt himself free to communicate it to any other -person. He was very glad to get rid of the burden and even the -responsibility of being her sole confidant. He related all he knew to -Saville, and the truth flashed on the lover's mind. His imagination -could not dupe him—he could conceive, and therefore believe in her -generosity, her magnanimity. He had before, in some degree, divined the -greatness of mind of which Lady Lodore was capable; though as far as -regarded himself, her pride, and his modesty, had deceived him. Now he -became at once aware that Cornelia had beggared herself for Ethel's -sake. She had disposed of her jointure, given up the residue of her -income, and wandered away, poor and alone, to avoid the discovery of the -extent and consequences of her sacrifices. Saville left Mr. Gayland's -office with a bursting and a burning heart. At once he paid a warm -tribute of admiration to her virtues, and acknowledged to himself his -own passionate love. It became a duty, in his eyes, to respect, revere, -adore one so generous and noble. He was proud of the selection his heart -had made, and of his constancy. "My own Cornelia," such was his reverie, -"how express your merit and the admiration it deserves!—other people -talk of generosity, and friendship, and parental affection—but you -manifest a visible image of these things; and while others theorize, you -embody in your actions all that can be imagined of glorious and -angelic." He congratulated himself on being able to return to the -genuine sentiments of his heart, and in finding reality give sanction to -the idolatry of his soul. -</p> - -<p> -He longed to pour out his feelings at her feet, and to plead the cause -of his fidelity and affection, to read in her eyes whether she would see -a reward for her sufferings in his attachment. Where was she, to receive -his protestations and vows? He half forgot, in the fervour of his -feelings, that he knew not whither she had retreated, nor possessed any -clue whereby to find her. He returned to Mr. Gayland to inquire from -him; but he could tell nothing; he went to her house and questioned the -servants, they remembered nothings; at last he found her maid, and -learnt from her, where she was accustomed to hire her post-horses; this -was all the information at which he could arrive. -</p> - -<p> -Going to Newman's, with some difficulty he found the post-boy, who -remembered driving her. By his means he traced her to Reading, but here -all clue was lost. The inn to which she had gone had passed into other -hands, and no one knew any thing about the arrivals and departures of -the preceding summer. He made various perquisitions, and lighted by -chance on the servant she had taken with her to Reading, and there -dismissed. From what he said, and a variety of other circumstances, he -became convinced that she had gone abroad. He searched the foreign -passport-office, and found that one had been taken out at the French -Ambassador's in the month of April, by a Mrs. Fitzhenry. He persuaded -himself that this was proof that she had gone to Paris. It was most -probable that, impoverished as she was, and desirous of concealing her -altered situation, that she should, as Lodore had formerly done, dismiss a -title which would at once encumber and betray her. He immediately -resolved to cross to France. And yet for a moment he hesitated, and -reflected on what it was best to do. -</p> - -<p> -He had given no intimation of his proceedings to his cousin, and they -were unaware that his journey was connected with Lady Lodore. He had a -lover's wish to find her himself—himself to be the only source of -consolation—the only mediator to restore her to her daughter and to -happiness. But his fruitless attempts at discovery made him see that his -wishes were not to be effected easily. He felt that he ought to -communicate all he knew to his cousins, and even to ensure their -assistance in his researches. Before going abroad, therefore, he -returned to Maristow Castle. -</p> - -<p> -He arrived late in the evening. Lord Maristow and his daughters were -gone out to dinner. The three persons whom Saville especially wished to -see, alone occupied the drawing-room. Edward was writing to his father, -who had advised him, now that he had a son, entirely to cut off the -entail and mortgage a great part of the property: it was a distasteful -task to answer the suggestions of unprincipled selfishness. While he was -thus occupied, Ethel had taken from her desk her mother's last letter, -and was reading it again and again, weighing every syllable, and -endeavouring to discover a hidden meaning. She went over to the sofa on -which Fanny was sitting, to communicate to her a new idea that had -struck her. The studious girl had got into a corner with her Cicero, and -was reading the Tusculan Questions, which she readily laid aside to -enter on a subject so deeply interesting. Saville opened the door, and -appeared most unexpectedly among them. His manner was eager and abrupt, -and the first words he uttered were, "I am come to disturb you all, and -to beg of you to return to London:—no time must be lost—can you -go to-morrow?" -</p> - -<p> -"Certainly," said Villiers, "if you wish it." -</p> - -<p> -"But why?" asked Ethel. -</p> - -<p> -"You have found Lady Lodore!" exclaimed Fanny. -</p> - -<p> -"You are dreaming, Fanny," said Ethel; "you see Horace shakes his head. -But if we go to-morrow, yet rest to-night. You are fatigued, pale, and -ill, Horace—you have been exerting yourself too much—explain -your wishes, but take repose and refreshment." -</p> - -<p> -Saville was in too excited a state to think of either. He repelled -Ethel's feminine offers, till he had related his story. His listeners -heard him with amazement. Villiers's cheeks glowed with shame, partly at -the injustice of his former conduct—partly at being the object of so -much sacrifice and beneficence on the part of his mother-in-law. Fanny's -colour also heightened; she clasped her hands in delight, mingling -various exclamations with Saville's story. "Did I not say so? I was sure -of it. If you had seen her when I did, on the day of her going away, you -would have been as certain as I." Ethel wept in silence, her heart was -touched to the core, "the remorse of love" awakened in it. How cold and -ungrateful had been all her actions: engrossed by her love for her -husband, she had bestowed no sympathy, made no demonstrations towards -her mother. The false shame and Edward's oft-repeated arguments which -had kept her back, vanished from her mind. She reproached herself -bitterly for lukewarmness and neglect; she yearned to show her -repentance—to seek forgiveness—to express, however feebly, her -sense of her mother's angelic goodness. Her tears flowed to think of these -things, and that her mother was away, poor and alone, believing herself -wronged in all their thoughts, resenting perhaps their unkindness, -mourning over the ingratitude of her child. -</p> - -<p> -When the first burst of feeling was over, they discussed their future -proceedings. Saville communicated his discoveries and his plan of -crossing to France. Villiers was as eager as his cousin to exert himself -actively in the pursuit. His ingenuous and feeling mind was struck by -his injustice, and he was earnest in his wish to atone for the past, and -to recompense her, if possible, for her sacrifices. As every one is apt -to do with regard to the ideas of others, he was not satisfied with his -cousin's efforts or conclusions; he thought more questions might be -asked—more learnt at the inns on the route which Lady Lodore had -taken. The passport Saville had imagined to be hers, was taken out for -Dover. Reading was far removed from any road to Kent. They argued this. -Horatio was not convinced; but while he was bent on proceeding -to Paris, Edward resolved to visit Reading—to examine the -neighbourhood—to requestion the servants—to put on foot a -system of inquiry which must in the end assure them whether she was still -in the kingdom. It was at once resolved, that on the morrow they should go -to London. -</p> - -<p> -Thither they accordingly went. They repaired to Lady Lodore's house. -Saville on the next morning departed for France, and a letter soon reached -them from him, saying, that he felt persuaded that the Mrs. Fitzhenry was -Lady Lodore, and that he should pursue his way with all speed to Paris. -It appeared, that the lady in question had crossed to Calais on the -eleventh of June, and intimated her design of going to the Bagneres de -Bigorre among the Pyrennees, passing through Paris on her way. The -mention of the Bagneres de Bigorre clinched Saville's suspicions—it -was such a place as one in Lady Lodore's position might select for her -abode—distant, secluded, situated in sublime and beautiful scenery, -singularly cheap, and seldom visited by strangers; yet the annual resort -of the French from Bordeaux and Lyons, civilized what otherwise had been -too rude and wild for an English lady. It was a long journey -thither—the less wonder that nothing was heard, or seen, or surmised -concerning the absentee by her numerous acquaintances, many of whom were -scattered on the continent. Saville represented all these things, and -expressed his conviction that he should find her. His letter was brief, -for he was hurried, and he felt that it were better to say nothing than -to express imperfectly the conflicting emotions alive in his heart. "My -life seems a dream," he said at the conclusion of his letter; "a long -painful dream, since last I saw her. I awake, she is not here; I go to -seek her—my actions have that single scope—my thoughts tend to -that aim only; I go to find her—to restore her to Ethel. If I succeed -in bestowing this happiness on her, I shall have my reward, and, whatever -happens, no selfish regret shall tarnish my delight." -</p> - -<p> -He urged Villiers, meanwhile, not to rely too entirely on the conviction -so strong in himself, but to pursue his plan of discovery with vigour. -Villiers needed no spur. His eagerness was fully alive; he could not -rest till he had rescued his mother-in-law from solitude and obscurity. -He visited Reading; he extended his inquiries to Newbury: here more light -broke in on his researches. He heard of Lady Lodore's illness—of her -having resided for several months at a villa in the neighbourhood, while -slowly recovering from a fever by which for a long time her life had -been endangered. He heard also of her departure, her return to London. -Then again all was obscurity. The innkeepers and letters of post-horses -in London, were all visited in vain—the mystery became as -impenetrable as ever. It seemed most probable that she was living in some -obscure part of the metropolis—Ethel's heart sunk within her at the -thought. -</p> - -<p> -Edward wrote to Saville to communicate this intelligence, which put an -end to the idea of her being in France—but he was already gone on to -Bagneres. He himself perambulated London and its outskirts, but all in -vain. The very thought that she should be residing in a place so sad, -nay, so humiliating, without one gilding circumstance to solace poverty -and obscurity, was unspeakably painful both to Villiers and his wife. -Ethel thought of her own abode in Duke street during her husband's -absence, and how miserable and forlorn it had been—she now wept -bitterly over her mother's fate; even Fanny's philosophy could not -afford consolation for these ideas. -</p> - -<p> -An accident, however, gave a new turn to their conjectures. In the draw -of a work-table, Ethel found an advertisement cut out of a newspaper, -setting forth the merits of a cottage to be let near Rhaiyder Gowy in -Radnorshire, and with this, a letter from the agent at Rhaiyder, dated -the 13th of May, in answer to inquiries concerning the rent and -particulars. The letter intimated, that if the account gave -satisfaction, the writer would get the cottage prepared for the tenant -immediately, and the lady might take possession at the time mentioned, -on the 1st of June. The day after finding this letter, Villiers set out -for Wales. -</p> - -<p> -But first he persuaded Ethel to spend the interval of his absence at -Longfield. She had lately fretted much concerning her mother, and as she -was still nursing her baby, Edward became uneasy at her pale cheeks and -thinness. Ethel was anxious to preserve her health for her child; she -felt that her uneasiness and pining would be lessened by a removal into -the country. She was useless in London, and there was something in her -residence in her mother's house—in the aspect of the streets—in -the memory of what she had suffered there, and the fear that Lady Lodore -was enduring a worse repetition of the same evils, that agitated and preyed -upon her. Her aunt had pressed her very much to come and see her, and -she wrote to say, that she might be expected on the following day. She -bade adieu to Villiers with more of hope with regard to his success than -she had formerly felt. She became half convinced that her mother was not -in London. Fanny supported her in these ideas; they talked continually -of all they knew—of the illness of Lady Lodore—of her firmness -of purpose in not sending for her daughter, or altering her plans in -consequence; they comforted themselves that the air of Wales would -restore her health, and the beauty of the scenery and the freedom of -nature sooth her mind. They were full of hope—of more—of -expectation. Ethel, indeed, had at one time proposed accompanying her -husband, but she yielded to his entreaties, and to the fear suggested, that -she might injure her child's health. Villiers's motions would be more -prompt without her. They separated. Ethel wrote to Saville a letter to find -him at Paris, containing an account of their new discoveries, and then -prepared for her journey to Essex with Fanny, her baby, and the -beautiful little Clorinda Saville, who had been left under her care, on -the following day. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI</a></h4> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">I am not One who much or oft delights</span><br /> -<span class="i2">To season my Friends with personal talk,—</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Of Friends who live within an easy walk,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Or Neighbours, daily, weekly in my sight.</span><br /> -<span class="i2">And, for my chance acquaintance, Ladies bright.</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Sons, Mothers, Maidens withering on the stalk,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.</span> -</div></div> - -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">WORDSWORTH.</p> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry returned to Longfield from Maristow Castle at -the end of the month of November. She gladly came back, in all the -dinginess and bleakness of that dismal season, to her beloved seclusion -at Longfield. The weather was dreary, a black frost invested every thing -with its icy chains, the landscape looked disconsolate, and now and then -wintry blasts brought on snow-storms, and howled loudly through the long -dark nights. The amiable spinster drew her chair close to the fire; with -half-shut eyes she contemplated the glowing embers, and recalled many past -winters just like this, when Lodore was alive and in America; or, diving -yet deeper into memory, when the honoured chair she now occupied, had -been dignified by her father, and she had tried to sooth his querulous -complaints on the continued absence of her brother Henry. When, instead -of these familiar thoughts, the novel ones of Ethel and Villiers -intruded themselves, she rubbed her eyes to be quite sure that she did -not dream. It was a lamentable change; and who the cause? Even she whose -absence had been, she felt, wickedly lamented at Maristow Castle, -Cornelia Santerre—she, who in an evil hour, had become Lady Lodore, -and who would before God, answer for the disasters and untimely death of -her ill-fated husband. -</p> - -<p> -With any but Mrs. Fitzhenry, such accusations had, after the softening -process of time, been changed to an admission, that, despite her errors, -Lady Lodore had rather been misled and mistaken, than heinously faulty; and -her last act, in sacrificing so much to her daughter, although the extent -of her sacrifice was unknown to her sister-in-law, had cancelled her former -delinquencies. But the prejudiced old lady was not so easily mollified; -she was harsh alone towards her, but all the gall of her nature was -collected and expended on the head of her brother's widow. Probably an -instinctive feeling of her unreasonableness made her more violent. Her -language was bitter whenever she alluded to her—she rejoiced at her -absence, and instead of entering into Ethel's gratitude and impatience, -she fervently prayed that she might never appear on the scene again. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry was less of a gossip than any maiden lady who -had ever lived singly in the centre of a little village. Her heart was -full of the dead and the absent—of past events, and their long train -of consequences, so that the history of the inhabitants of her village, -possessed no charm for her. If any one among them suffered from -misfortune she endeavoured to relieve them, and if any died, she lamented, -moralized on the passage of time, and talked of Lodore's death; but -the scandal, the marriages, the feuds, and wonderful things that came to -pass at Longfield, appeared childish and contemptible, the flickering of -earth-born tapers compared to the splendour, the obscuration, and final -setting of the celestial luminary which had been the pole-star of her -life. -</p> - -<p> -It was from this reason that Mrs. Fitzhenry had not heard of the Lady -who lodged at Dame Nixon's cottage, in the Vale of Bewling, till the -time, when, after having exhausted the curiosity of Longfield, she was -almost forgotten. The Lady, she was known by no other name, had arrived -in the town during Mrs. Fitzhenry's visit to Maristow castle. She had -arrived in her own chariot, unattended by any servant; the following day -she had taken up her abode at Dame Nixon's cottage, saying, that she was -only going to stay a week: she had continued there for more than three -months. -</p> - -<p> -Dame Nixon's cottage was situated about a mile and a half from -Longfield. It stood alone in a little hollow embowered by trees; the -ground behind rose to a slight upland, and a rill trickled through the -garden. You got to it by a bye path, which no wheeled vehicle could -traverse, though a horse might, and it was indeed the very dingle and -cottage which Ethel had praised during her visit into Essex in the -preceding year. The silence and seclusion were in summer tranquillizing -and beautiful; in winter sad and drear; the fields were swampy in wet -weather, and in snow and frost it seemed cut off from the rest of the -world. Dame Nixon and her granddaughter lived there alone. The girl had -been engaged to be married. Her lover jilted her, and wedded a richer -bride. The story is so old, that it is to be wondered that women have -not ceased to lament so common an occurrence. Poor Margaret was, on the -contrary, struck to the heart—she despised herself for being unable -to preserve her lover's affections, rather than the deceiver for his -infidelity. She neglected her personal appearance, nor ever showed -herself among her former companions, except to support her grandmother -to church. Her false lover sat in the adjoining pew. She fixed her eyes -on her Prayer-book during the service, and on the ground as she went -away. She did not wish him to see the change which his faithlessness had -wrought, for surely it would afflict him. Once there had not bloomed a -fresher or gayer rose in the fields of Essex—now she had grown -thin and pale—her young light step had become slow and -heavy—sickness and sorrow made her eyes hollow, and her cheeks -sunken. She avoided every one, devoting herself to attendance on her -grandmother. Dame Nixon was nearly doting. Life was ebbing fast from her -old frame; her best pleasure was to sun herself in the garden in summer, or -to bask before the winter's fire. While enjoying these delights, her dimmed -eyes brightened, and a smile wreathed her withered lips; she said, "Ah! -this is comfortable;" while her broken-hearted grandchild envied a state of -being which could content itself with mere animal enjoyment. They were -very poor. Margaret had to work hard; but the thoughts of the head, or, -at least, the feelings of the heart, need not wait on the labour of the -hands. The Sunday visit to church kept alive her pain; her very prayers -were bitter, breathed close to the deceiver and her who had usurped her -happiness: the memory and anticipation haunted her through the week; she -was often blinded by tears as she patiently pursued her household -duties, or her toil in their little garden. Her hands were hardened with -work, her throat, her face sunburnt; but exercise and occupation did not -prevent her from wasting away, or her cheek from becoming sunk and wan. -</p> - -<p> -Dame Nixon's cottage was poor but roomy; some years before, a gentleman -from London had, in a freak, hired two rooms in it, and furnished them. -Since then, she had sometimes let them, and now they were occupied by -the stranger lady. At first all three of the inhabitants appeared each -Sunday at church. The Lady was dressed in spotless and simple white, and -so closely veiled, that no one could see her face; of course she was -beautiful. Soon after Mrs. Elizabeth's return from Maristow Castle, it -was discovered that first the lady stayed away, and soon, that the whole -party absented themselves on Sunday; and as this defalcation demanded -inquiry, it was discovered that a pony chaise took them three miles off -to the church of the nearest village. This was a singular and yet a -beneficial change. The false swain must rejoice at losing sight of the -memento of his sin, and Margaret would certainly pray with a freer -heart, when she no longer shrunk from his gaze and that of his wife. -</p> - -<p> -It was not until the end of January that Mrs. Elizabeth heard of the -Lady; it was not till the beginning of February that she asked a single -question about her. -</p> - -<p> -In January, passing the inn-yard, the curate's wife, who was walking -with her, said, "There is the chariot belonging to the Lady who lodges -at dame Nixon's cottage. I wonder who she is. The arms are painted out." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, dame Nixon has a lodger then; that is a good thing, it will help -her through the winter. I have not seen her or her daughter at church -lately." -</p> - -<p> -"No," replied the other, "they go now to Bewling church." -</p> - -<p> -"I am glad to hear it," said Mrs. Fitzhenry; "it is much better for poor -Margaret not to come here." -</p> - -<p> -The conversation went on, and the Lady was alluded to, but no questions -were asked or curiosity excited. In February she heard from the doctor's -wife, that the doctor had been to the cottage, and that the Lady was -indisposed. She heard at the same time that this Lady had refused -to receive the visits of the curate's lady and the doctor's -lady—excusing herself, that she was going to leave Essex immediately. -This had happened two months before. On hearing of her illness, Mrs. -Elizabeth thought of calling on her, but this stopped her. "It is very -odd," said the doctor's wife, "she came in her own carriage, and yet has no -servants. She lives in as poor a way as can be, down in that cottage, -yet my husband says she is more like the Queen of England in her looks -and ways than any one he ever saw." -</p> - -<p> -"Like the Queen of England?" said Mrs. Fitzhenry, "What queen?—Queen -Charlotte?" who had been the queen of the greater part of the good -lady's life. -</p> - -<p> -"She is as young and beautiful as an angel," said the other, half angry; -"it is very mysterious. She did not look downcast like, as if any thing -was wrong, but was as cheerful and condescending as could be. -'Condescending, Doctor,' said I, for my husband used the word; 'you -don't want condescension from a poor body lodging at dame -Nixon's.'—'A poor body!' said he, in a huff, 'she is more of a -lady, indeed more like the Queen of England than any rich body you ever -saw.' And what is odd, no one knows her name—Dame Nixon and -Margaret always call her Lady—the very marks are picked out from -her pocket handkerchiefs. Yet I did hear that there was a coronet plain -to be seen on one—a thing impossible unless she was a poor -cast-away; and the doctor says he'd lay his life that she was nothing of -that. He must know her name when he makes out her bill, and I told him -to ask it plump, but he puts off, and puts off, till I am out of all -patience." -</p> - -<p> -A misty confused sense of discomfort stole over Mrs. Elizabeth when she -heard of the coronet in the corner of the pocket handkerchief, but it -passed away without suggesting any distinct idea to her mind. Nor did -she feel curiosity about the stranger—she was too much accustomed to -the astonishment, the conjectures, the gossip of Longfield, to suppose -that there was any real foundation for surprise, because its -wonder-loving inhabitants choose to build up a mystery out of every -common occurrence of life. -</p> - -<p> -This absence of inquisitiveness must long have kept Mrs. Fitzhenry in -ignorance of who her neighbour was, and the inhabitants of Longfield -would probably have discovered it before her, had not the truth been -revealed even before she entertained a suspicion that there was any -secret to be found out. -</p> - -<p> -"I beg your pardon, ma'am," said her maid to her one evening, as she was -superintending the couchée of the worthy spinster, "I think you ought -to know, though I am afraid you may be angry." -</p> - -<p> -The woman hesitated; her mistress encouraged her. "If it is any thing I -ought to know, Wilmot, tell it at once, and don't be afraid. What has -happened to you?" -</p> - -<p> -"To me, ma'am,—la! nothing," replied the maid; "it's something about -the Lady at dame Nixon's, only you commanded me never to speak the name -of——" -</p> - -<p> -And again the good woman stopped short. Mrs. Fitzhenry, a little -surprised, and somewhat angry, bade her go on. At length, in plain words -she was told: -</p> - -<p> -"Why, ma'am, the Lady down in the Vale is no other than my lady—than -Lady Lodore." -</p> - -<p> -"Ridiculous—who told you so?" -</p> - -<p> -"My own eyes, ma'am; I shouldn't have believed any thing else. I saw the -Lady, and it was my Lady, as sure as I stand here." -</p> - -<p> -"But how could you know her? it is years since you saw her." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, ma'am," said the woman, with a smile of superiority; "but it is -not easy to forget Lady Lodore. See her yourself, ma'am,—you will -know then that I am right." -</p> - -<p> -Wilmot had lived twenty years with Mrs. Fitzhenry. She had visited town -with her at the time of Ethel's christening. She had been kept in -vexatious ignorance of subsequent events, till the period of the visit -of her mistress and niece to London two years before, when she -indemnified herself. Through the servants of Villiers, and of the Misses -Saville, she had learnt a vast deal; and not satisfied with mere -hearsay, she had seen Lady Lodore several times getting into her carriage -at her own door, and had even been into her house: such energy is there in -a liberal curiosity. The same disinterested feeling had caused her to go -down to dame Nixon's with an offer from her mistress of service to the -Lady, hearing she was ill. She went perfectly unsuspicious of the -wonderful discovery she was about to make, and was thus rewarded beyond -her most sanguine hopes, by being in possession of a secret, known to -herself alone. The keeping of a secret is, however, a post of no honour -if all knowledge be confined to the possessor alone. Mrs. Wilmot was -tolerably faithful, with all her love of knowledge; she was sure it -would vex her mistress if Lady Lodore's strange place of abode were -known at Longfield, and Mrs. Fitzhenry was consequently the first person -to whom she had hinted the fact. All this account she detailed with -great volubility. Her mistress recommended discretion most earnestly; -and at the same time expressed a doubt whether her information was -correct. -</p> - -<p> -"I wish you would go and judge for yourself, ma'am," said the maid. -</p> - -<p> -"God forbid!" exclaimed Mrs. Fitzhenry. "God grant I never see Lady -Lodore again! She will go soon. You tell me that dame Nixon says she is -only staying till she is well. She will go soon, and it need never be -known, except to ourselves, Wilmot, that she was ever here." -</p> - -<p> -There was a dignity in this eternal mystery that somewhat compensated -for the absence of wonder and fuss which the woman had anticipated with -intense pleasure. She assured her mistress, over and over again, of her -secrecy and discretion, and was dismissed with the exhortation to forget -all she had learnt as quickly as possible. -</p> - -<p> -"Wherefore did she come here? what can she be doing?" Mrs. Fitzhenry -asked herself over and over again. She could not guess. It was strange, -it was mysterious, and some mischief was at the bottom—but she would -go soon—"would that she were already gone!" -</p> - -<p> -It must be mentioned that Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry had left Maristow -Castle before the arrival of Mr. Gayland, and had therefore no knowledge -of the still more mysterious cloud that enveloped Lady Lodore's absence. -Ignorant of her self-destroying sacrifices and generosity, her pity was -not excited, her feelings were all against her. She counted the days as -they passed, and looked wistfully at Wilmot, hoping that she would -quickly bring tidings of the Lady's departure. In vain; the doctor -ceased to visit the cottage, but the Lady remained. All at once the doctor -visited it again with greater assiduity than ever—not on account -of his beautiful patient—but Dame Nixon had had a paralytic stroke, -and the kind Lady had sent for him, and promised to defray all the expenses -of the poor woman's illness. -</p> - -<p> -All this was truly vexatious. Mrs. Fitzhenry fretted, and even asked -Wilmot questions, but the unwelcome visitor was still there. Wherefore? -What could have put so disagreeable a whim into her head? The good lady -could think of no motive, while she considered her presence an insult. -She was still more annoyed when she received a letter from Ethel. It had -been proposed that Mr. and Mrs. Villiers should pay her a visit in the -spring; but now Ethel wrote to say that she might be immediately -expected. "I have strange things to tell you about my dear mother," -wrote Ethel; "it is very uncertain where she is. Horatio can hear -nothing of her at Paris, and will soon return. Edward is going to Wales, -as there seems a great likelihood that she has secluded herself there. -While he is away you may expect me. I shall not be able to stay -long—he will come at the end of a week to fetch me." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fitzhenry shuddered. Her prejudices were stronger than ever. She -experienced the utmost wretchedness from the idea that the residence of -Lady Lodore would be discovered, and a family union effected. It seemed -desecration to the memory of her brother, ruin to Ethel—the greatest -misfortune that could befal any of them. Her feelings were exaggerated, -but they were on that account the more powerful. How could she avert the -evil?—a remedy must be sought, and she fixed on one—a desperate -one, in truth, which appeared to her the sole mode of saving them all from -the greatest disasters. -</p> - -<p> -She resolved to visit Lady Lodore; to represent to her the impropriety and -wickedness of her having any intercourse with her daughter, and to -entreat her to depart before Ethel's arrival. Her violence might almost -seem madness; but all people who live in solitude become to a certain -degree insane. Their views of things are not corrected by comparing them -with those of others; and the strangest want of proportion always reigns -in their ideas and sentiments. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII</a></h4> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">So loth we part from all we love,</span><br /> -<span class="i3">From all the links that bind us;</span><br /> -<span class="i2">So turn our hearts, where'er we rove,</span><br /> -<span class="i3">To those we've left behind us.</span> -</div></div> - -<p style="margin-left: 55%;">THOMAS MOORE.</p> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -On the following morning Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry drove to the Vale of -Bewling. It was the last day of February. The March winds were hushed as -yet; the breezes were balmy, the sunshine cheerful; a few soft clouds -flecked the heavens, and the blue sky appeared between them calm and -pure. Each passing air breathed life and happiness—it caressed the -cheek—and the swelling buds of the trees felt its quickening -influence. The almond-trees were in bloom—the pear blossoms began -to whiten—the tender green of the young leaves showed themselves -here and there among the hedges. The old lady felt the cheering -influence, and would have become even gay, had not the idea of the -errand she was on checked her spirits. Sometimes the remembrance that -she was really going to see her sister-in-law absolutely startled her; -once or twice she thought of turning back; she passed through the lanes, -and then alighting from her carriage, walked by a raised foot-way, -across some arable fields—and again through a little grove; the -winding path made a turn, and dame Nixon's white, low-roofed cottage was -before her. Every thing about it looked trim, but very humble: and it -was unadorned during this early season by the luxury of flowers and -plants, which usually give even an appearance of elegance to an English -cottage. Mrs. Fitzhenry opened the little gate—her knees trembled -as she walked through the scanty garden, which breathed of the -new-sprung violets. The entrance to the cottage was by the kitchen: she -entered this, and found Margaret occupied by a culinary preparation for -her grandmother. Mrs. Fitzhenry asked after the old woman's health, and -thus gained a little time. Margaret answered in her own former quiet yet -cheerful voice; she was changed from what she had been a few weeks -before. The bloom had not returned to her cheeks, but they no longer -appeared streaked with deathly paleness; her motions had lost the -heaviness that showed a mind ill at ease. Mrs. Elizabeth congratulated -her on the restoration of her health. -</p> - -<p> -"O yes," she replied, with a blush, "I am not the same creature I used -to be, thank God, and the angel he has sent us here;—if my poor -grandmother would but get well I should be quite happy; but that is -asking too much at her time of life." -</p> - -<p> -The old lady made no further observations: she did not wish to hear the -praises of her sister-in-law. "Your lodger is still here?" at length she -said. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, God be praised!" replied Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -"Will you give her my compliments, and say I am here, and that I wish to -see her." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, ma'am," said Margaret; "only the lady has refused to see any one, -and she does not like being asked." -</p> - -<p> -"I do not wish to be impertinent or intrusive," answered Mrs. Elizabeth; -"only tell her my name, and if she makes any objection, of course she -will do as she likes. Where is she?" -</p> - -<p> -"She is sitting with my poor grandmother; the nurse—Heaven bless her! -she would hire a nurse, to spare me, as she said—is lain down to -sleep, and she said she would watch by grandmother while I got the gruel; -but it's ready now, and I will go and tell her." -</p> - -<p> -Away tripped Margaret, leaving her guest lost in wonder. Lady Lodore -watching the sick-bed of an old cottager—Lady Lodore immured in a -poverty-stricken abode, fit only for the poorer sort of country people. -It was more than strange, it was miraculous. "Yet she refused to -accompany poor Henry to America! there must be some strange mystery in -all this, that does not tell well for her." -</p> - -<p> -So bitterly uncharitable was the unforgiving old lady towards her -brother's widow. She ruminated on these things for a minute or two, and -then Margaret came to usher her into the wicked one's presence. The -sitting-room destined for the lodger was neat, though very plain. The -walls were wainscotted and painted white,—the windows small and -latticed,—the furniture was old black, shining mahogany; the chairs -high-backed and clumsy; the table heavy and incommodious; the fire-place -large and airy; and the shelf of the mantel-piece almost as high as the -low ceiling: there were a few things of a more modern construction; a -comfortable sofa, a rose-wood bureau and large folding screen; near the -fire was a large easy chair of Gillows's manufacture, two light cane -ones, and two small tables; vases filled with hyacinths, jonquils, and -other spring flowers stood on one, and an embroidery frame occupied the -other. There was a perfume of fresh-gathered flowers in the room, which -the open window rendered very agreeable. Lady Lodore was standing near the -fire—(for Wilmot was not mistaken, and it was she indeed who now -presented herself to Mrs. Fitzhenry's eyes)—she might be -agitated—she did not show it—she came forward and held out her -hand. "Dear Bessy," she said, "you are very kind to visit me; I thank you -very much." -</p> - -<p> -The poor recluse was overpowered. The cordiality of the greeting -frightened her: she who had come full of bitter reproach and hard -purposes, to be thanked with that sweet voice and smile. "I thought," at -length she stammered out, "that you did not wish to be known. I am glad -you are not offended, Cornelia." -</p> - -<p> -"Offended by kindness? O no! It is true I did not wish—I do not wish -that it should be known that I am here—but since, by some strange -accident, you have discovered me, how can I help being grateful for your -visit? I am indeed glad to see you; it is so long since I have heard any -thing. Ah! dear Bessy, tell me, how is Ethel?" -</p> - -<p> -Tears glistened in the mother's eyes: she asked many questions, and Mrs. -Fitzhenry a little recovered her self-possession, as she answered them. -She looked at Lady Lodore—she was changed—she could not fail of -being changed after so many years,—she was no longer a beautiful -girl, but she was a lovely woman. Despite the traces of years, which -however lightly they impressed, yet might be discerned; expression so -embellished her that it was impossible not to admire; brilliancy had -given place to softness, animation to serenity; still she was -fair—still her silken hair clustered on her brow, and her sweet eyes -were full of fire; her smile had more than its former charm—it came -from the heart. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fitzhenry was not, however, to be subdued by a little outward show. -She was there, who had betrayed and deserted (such were the energetic -words she was accustomed to employ) the noble, broken-hearted Lodore. The -thought steeled her purpose, and she contrived at last to ask whether -Lady Lodore was going to remain much longer in Essex? -</p> - -<p> -"I have been going every day since I came here. In a few weeks I shall -certainly be gone. Why do you ask?" -</p> - -<p> -"Because I thought—that is—you have made a secret of your being -here, and I expect Ethel in a day or two, and she would certainly discover -you." -</p> - -<p> -"Why should she not?" asked Lady Lodore. "Why should you be averse to my -seeing Ethel?" -</p> - -<p> -It is very difficult to say a disagreeable thing, especially to one -unaccustomed to society, and who is quite ignorant of the art of -concealing the sting of her intentions by flowery words. Mrs. Fitzhenry -said something about her sister-in-law's own wishes, and the desire -expressed by Lodore that there should be no intercourse between the mother -and daughter. -</p> - -<p> -Cornelia's eyes flashed fire—"Am I," she exclaimed, "to be always -the sacrifice? Is my husband's vengeance to pursue me beyond his -grave—even till I reach mine? Unjust as he was, he would not have -desired this." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Elizabeth coloured with anger. Lady Lodore continued—"Pardon me, -Bessy, I do not wish to say any thing annoying to you or in blame of -Lodore. God knows I did him great wrong—but—" -</p> - -<p> -"O Cornelia," cried the old lady, "do you indeed acknowledge that you -were to blame?" -</p> - -<p> -Lady Lodore smiled, and said, "I were strangely blind to the defects of my -own character, and to the consequences of my actions, were I not conscious -of my errors; but retrospection is useless, and the punishment has -been—is—sufficiently severe. Lodore himself would not have -perpetuated his resentment, had he lived only a very little while longer. -But I will speak frankly to you, Bessy, as frankly as I may, and you shall -decide on my further stay here. From circumstances which it is immaterial -to explain, I have resolved on retiring into absolute solitude. I shall -never live in London again—never again see any of my old friends and -acquaintances. The course of my life is entirely changed; and whether I -live here or elsewhere, I shall live in obscurity and poverty. I do not -wish Ethel to know this. She would wish to assist me, and she has -scarcely enough for herself. I do not like being a burthen—I do not -like being pitied—I do not like being argued with, or to have my -actions commented upon. You know that my disposition was always -independent." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Elizabeth assented with a sigh, casting up her eyes to heaven. -</p> - -<p> -Lady Lodore smiled, and went on. "You think this is a strange place for me -to live in: whether here or elsewhere, I shall never live in any better: I -shall be fortunate if I find myself as well off when I leave Essex, for -the people here are good and honest, and the poor girl loves me,—it -is always pleasant to be loved." -</p> - -<p> -A tear again filled Cornelia's eyes—she tried to animate herself -to smile. "I have nothing to love in all the wide world except Ethel; I -do love her; every one must love her—she is so gentle—so -kind—so warm-hearted and beautiful,—I love her more than my -own heart's blood; she is my child—part of that blood—part -of myself—the better part; I have seen little of her, but every -look and word is engraved on my heart. I love her voice—her -smiles—the pressure of her soft white hand. Pity me, dear Bessy, I -am never to see any of these, which are all that I love on earth, again. -This idea fills me with regret—with worse—with sorrow. There -is a grave not far from here which contains one you loved beyond all -others,—what would you not give to see him alive once again? To -visit his tomb is a consolation to you. I must not seen even the walls -within which my blessed child lives. You alone can help me—can be -of comfort to me. Do not refuse—do not send me away. If I leave -this place, I shall go to some secluded nook in Wales, and be -quite—quite alone; the sun will shine, and the grass will grow at -my feet, but my heart will be dead within me, and I shall pine and die. -I have intended to do this; I have waited only till the sufferings of -the poor woman here should be at an end, that I may be of service to -Margaret, and then go. Your visit, which I fancied meant in kindness, -has put other thoughts into my head. -</p> - -<p> -"Do not object to my staying here; let me remain; and do yet more for -me—come to me sometimes, and bring me tidings of my -daughter—tell me what she says—how she looks,—tell me -that she is at each moment well and happy. Ah! do this, dear Bessy, and -I will bless you. I shall never see her—at least not for years; -there are many things to prevent it: yet how could I drag out those -years quite estranged from her? My heart has died within me each time I -have thought of it. But I can live as I say; I shall expect you every -now and then to come and talk to me of her; she need never know that I -am so near—she comes so seldom to Essex. I shall soon be forgotten -at Longfield. Will you consent? you will do a kind action, and God will -bless you." -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fitzhenry was one of those persons who always find it difficult to -say, No; and Lady Lodore asked with so much earnestness that she commanded; -she felt that her request ought to be granted, and therefore it was -impossible to refuse it. Before she well knew what she had said, the -good lady had yielded her consent and received her sister-in-law's warm -and heart-felt thanks. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fitzhenry looked round the room: "But how can you think of staying -here, Cornelia?" she said; "this place is not fit for you. I should have -thought that you could never have endured such homely rooms." -</p> - -<p> -"Do you think them so bad?" replied the lady; "I think them very -pleasant, for I have done with pride, and I find peace and comfort here. -Look," she continued, throwing open a door that led into the garden, "is -not that delightful? This garden is very pretty: that clear rivulet -murmurs by with so lulling a sound;—and look at these violets, are -they not beautiful? I have planted a great many flowers, and they will soon -come up. Do you not know how pleasant it is to watch the shrubs we -plant, and water, and rear ourselves?—to see the little green shoots -peep out, and the leaves unfold, and then the flower blossom and expand, -diffusing its delicious odour around,—all, as it were, created by -oneself, by one's own nursing, out of a bit of stick or an ugly bulb? -This place is very pretty, I assure you: when the leaves are on the -trees they make a bower, and the grove behind the house is shady, and -leads to lanes and fields more beautiful than any I ever saw. I have -loitered for hours in this garden, and been quite happy. Now I shall be -happier than ever, thanks to you. You will not forget me. Come as often -as you can. You say that you expect Ethel soon?" -</p> - -<p> -Lady Ladore walked with her sister-in-law to the garden-gate, and -beyond, through the little copse, still talking of her daughter. "I -cannot go further," she said, at last, "without a bonnet—so good-bye, -dear Bessy. Come soon. Thank you—thank you for this visit." -</p> - -<p> -She held out her hand: Mrs. Fitzhenry took it, pressed it, a half -feeling came over her as if she were about to kiss the check of her -offending relative, but her heart hardened, she blushed, and muttering -a hasty good-bye, she hurried away. She was bewildered, and after -walking a few steps, she turned round, and saw again the white dress of -Cornelia, as a turn in the path hid her. The grand, the exclusive Lady -Lodore—the haughty, fashionable, worldly-heartless wife thus -metamorphosed into a tender-hearted mother—suing to her for crumbs -of charitable love—and hiding all her boasted advantages in that -low-roofed cottage! What could it all mean? -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fitzhenry walked on. Again she thought, "How odd! I went there, -determining to persuade her to go away, and miserable at the thoughts of -seeing her only once; and now I have promised to visit her often, and -agreed that she shall live here. Have I not done wrong? What would my -poor brother say? Yet I could not refuse. Poor thing! how could I -refuse, when she said that she had nothing else to live for? Besides, to -go away and live alone in Wales—it would be too dreadful; and she -thanked me as if she were so grateful. I hope I have not done wrong. -</p> - -<p> -"But how strange it is that Henry's widow should have become so poor; -she has given up a part of her income to Ethel, but a great deal -remains. What can she have done with it? She is mysterious, and there is -never any good in mystery. Who knows what she may have to conceal?" Mrs. -Elizabeth got in her carriage, and each step of the horses took her -farther from the web of enchantment which Cornelia had thrown over her. -"She is always strange,"—thus ran her meditations; "and how am I to -see her, and no one find it out? and what a story for Longfield, that Lady -Lodore should be living in poverty in dame Nixon's cottage. I forgot to -tell her that—I forgot to say so many things I meant to say—I -don't know why, except that she talked so much, and I did not know how to -bring in my objections. But it cannot be right: and Ethel in her long -rambles and rides with Miss Derham or Mr. Villiers, will be sure to find -her out. I wish I had not seen her—I will write and tell her I have -changed my mind, and entreat her to go away." -</p> - -<p> -As it occurs to all really good-natured persons, it was very -disagreeable to Mrs. Fitzhenry to be angry, and she visited the -ill-temper so engendered on the head of poor Cornelia. She disturbed -herself by the idea of all the disagreeable things that might -happen—of her sister-in-law's positive refusal to go; the very -wording which she imagined for her intended letter puzzled and irritated -her. She no longer felt the breath of spring as pleasant, but sat back -in the chariot, "nursing her wrath to keep it warm." When she reached -her home, Ethel's carriage was at her door. -</p> - -<p> -The meeting, as ever, between aunt and niece was affectionate. Fanny was -welcomed, the baby was kissed, and little Clorinda admired, but the -theme nearest Ethel's heart was speedily introduced—her mother. The -disquietudes she felt on her account—Mr. Saville's journey to -Paris—the visit of Villiers to Wales to discover her place of -concealment—the inutility of all their endeavours. -</p> - -<p> -"But why are they so anxious?" asked her aunt; "I can understand you: -you have some fantastic notion about your mother, but how can Mr. -Villiers desire so very much to find her?" -</p> - -<p> -"I could almost say," said Ethel, "that Edward is more eager than -myself, though I should wrong my own affection and gratitude; but he was -more unjust towards her, and thus he feels the weight of obligation more -keenly; but, perhaps, dear aunt, you do not know all that my dearest -mother has done for us—the unparalleled sacrifices she has made." -</p> - -<p> -Then Ethel went on to tell her all that Mr. Gayland had -communicated—the sale of her jointure—the very small residue -of money she had kept for herself—the entire payment of Villiers's -debts—and afterwards the surrender of the remainder of her income -and of her house to them. Her eyes glistened as she spoke; her heart, -overflowing with admiration and affection, shone in her beautiful face, -her voice was pregnant with sensibility, and her expressions full of -deep feeling. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Elizabeth's heart was not of stone—far from it; it was, -except in the one instance of her sister-in-law, made of pliable -materials. She heard Ethel's story—she caught by sympathy the -tenderness and pity she poured forth—she thought of Lady Lodore at -the cottage, a dwelling so unlike any she had ever inhabited -before—poverty-stricken and mean; she remembered her praises of -it—her cheerfulness—the simplicity of taste which she -displayed—the light-hearted content with which she spoke of every -privation except the absence of Ethel. What before was mysterious wrong, -was now manifest heroism. The loftiness and generosity of her mind rose -upon the old lady unclouded; her own uncharitable deductions stung her -with remorse; she continued to listen, and Ethel to narrate, and the big -tears gathered in her eyes, and rolled down her venerable -cheeks,—tears at once of repentance and admiration. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII</a></h4> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Repentance is a tender sprite;</span><br /> -<span class="i2">If aught on earth have heavenly might,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">'Tis lodged within her silent tear.</span> -</div></div> - -<p style="margin-left: 55%;">WORDSWORTH.</p> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry was not herself aware of all that Lady Lodore had -suffered, or the extent of her sacrifices. She guessed darkly at them, -but it was the detail that rendered them so painful, and, but for their -motive, humiliating to one nursed in luxury, and accustomed to all those -intermediate servitors and circumstances, which stand between the rich -and the bare outside of the working-day world. Cornelia shrunk from the -address of those she did not know, and from the petty acts of daily -life, which had gone on before without her entering into their detail. -</p> - -<p> -Her illness at Newbury had been severe. She was attacked by the scarlet -fever; the doctor had ordered her to be removed from the bustle of the -inn, and a furnished villa had been taken for her, while she could only -give a languid assent to propositions which she understood confusedly. -She was a long time very ill—a long time weak and slowly -convalescent. At length health dawned on her, accompanied by a disposition -attuned to content and a wish for tranquillity. Her residence was retired, -commodious, and pretty; she was pleased with it, she did not wish to -remove, and was glad to procrastinate from day to day any consideration -of the future. Thus it was a long time before the strength of her -thoughts and purposes was renewed, or that she began to think seriously -of where she was, and what she was going to do. -</p> - -<p> -During the half delirium, the disturbed and uncontrollable, but not -unmeaning reveries, of her fever, the idea of visiting Lodore's grave had -haunted her pertinaciously. She had often dreamt of it: at one time the -tomb seemed to rise in a lonely desert; and the dead slept peacefully -beneath sunshine or starlight. At another, storms and howling winds were -around, groans and sighs, mingled with the sound of the tempest, and -menaces and reproaches against her were breathed from the cold marble. -Now her imagination pictured it within the aisles of a magnificent -cathedral; and now again the real scene—the rustic church of -Longfield was vividly present to her mind. She saw the pathway through the -green churchyard—the ruined ivy-mantled tower, which showed how much -larger the edifice had been in former days, near which might be still -discerned on high a niche containing the holy mother and divine -child—the half-defaced porch on which rude monkish imagery was -carved—the time-worn pews, and painted window. She had never entered -this church but once, many, many years ago; and it was strange how in sleep -and fever-troubled reverie, each portion of it presented itself distinctly -and vividly to her imagination. During these perturbed visions, one -other form and voice perpetually recurred. She heard Ethel continually -repeat, "Come! come!" and often her figure flitted round the tomb or sat -beside it. Once, on awakening from a dream, which impressed her deeply -by the importunity and earnestness of her daughter's appeal, she was -forcibly impelled to consider it her duty to obey, and she made a vow -that on recovering from her illness, she would visit her husband's -grave. -</p> - -<p> -Now while pondering on the humiliations and cheerless necessities which -darkened her future, and rousing herself to form some kind of resolution -concerning them, this dream was repeated, and on awakening, the memory -of her forgotten vow renewed itself in her. She dwelt on it with -pleasure. Here was something to be done that was not mere wretchedness -and lonely wandering—something that, connecting her with the past, -took away the sense of desertion and solitude, so hard to bear. In the -morning, at breakfast, it so chanced that she read in the Morning Herald -a little paragraph announcing that Viscount Maristow was entertaining a -party of friends at Maristow Castle, among whom were Mr. and Mrs. -Villiers, and the Hon. Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry. This was a fortunate -coincidence. The dragon ceased for a moment to watch the garden, and she -might avail herself of its absence to visit its treasure unnoticed and -unknown. She put her project into immediate execution. She crossed the -country, passing through London on her way to Longfield—she arrived. -Without delay she fulfilled her purpose. She entered the church and -viewed the tablet, inscribed simply with the name of Lodore, and the date -of his birth and death. The words were few and common-place, but they were -eloquent to her. They told her that the cold decaying shape lay beneath, -which in the pride of life and love had clasped her in its arms as its -own for evermore. Short-lived had been the possession. She had loosened -the tie even while thought and feeling ruled the now insentient -brain—he had been scarcely less dead to her while inhabiting the -distant Illinois, than now that a stone placed above him, gave visible -token of his material presence, and the eternal absence of his immortal -part. Cornelia had never before felt so sensibly that she had been a -wife neglecting her duties, despising a vow she had solemnly pledged, -estranging herself from him, who by religious ordinance, and the laws of -society, alone had privilege to protect and love her. Nor had she before -felt so intimately the change—that she was a widow; that her lover, -her husband, the father of her child, the forsaken, dead Lodore, was indeed -no part of the tissue of life, action, and feeling to which she -belonged. -</p> - -<p> -Solitude and sickness had before awakened many thoughts in her mind, and -she recalled them as she sat beside her dead husband's grave. She looked -into her motives, tried to understand the deceits she had practised on -herself, and to purify her conscience. She meditated on time, that law -of the world, which is so mysterious, and so potent; ruling us -despotically, and yet wholly unappreciated till we think upon it. -Petrarch says, that he was never so young, but that he knew that he was -growing old. Lady Lodore had never thought of this till a few months back; -it seemed to her, that she had never known it until now—that she felt -that she was older—older than the vain and lovely bride of -Lodore—than the haughty high-spirited friend of Casimir Lyzinski. And -where was Casimir? She had never heard of him again, she had scarcely ever -thought of him; he had grown older too—change, the effects of passion -or of destiny, must have visited him also;—they were all embarked on -one mighty stream—Lodore had gained a haven; but the living were -still at the mercy of the vast torrent—whither would it hurry them? -</p> - -<p> -There was a charm in these melancholy and speculative thoughts to the -beautiful exile—for we may be indeed as easily exiled by a few roods -of ground, as by mountains and seas. A strong decree of fate banished -Cornelia from the familiar past, into an unknown and strange present. -Still she clung to the recollection of bygone years, and for the first -time gave way to reflections full of scenes and persons to be seen no -more. The tomb beside which she lingered, was an outward sign of these -past events, and she did not like to lose sight of it so soon. She heard -that Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry was to remain away for a month—so much -time at least was hers. She inquired for lodgings, and was directed to -Dame Nixon's cottage. She was somewhat dismayed at first by its -penurious appearance, but "it would do for a few days;" and she found -that what would serve for a few days, might serve for months. -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">"Man wants but little here below,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Nor wants that little long."</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -Most true for -solitary man. It is society that increases his desires. If Lady Lodore had -been visited in her humble dwelling by the least regarded among her -acquaintances, she would have felt keenly its glaring deficiencies. But -although used to luxury, Margaret's cuisine sufficed for herself alone; -the low-roofed rooms were high enough, and the latticed windows which -let in the light of heaven, fulfilled their purpose as well as the -plate-glass and lofty embrasures of a palace. -</p> - -<p> -Lady Lodore was obliged also to consider one other thing, which forms so -large a portion of our meditations in real life—her purse. She -found when settled in the cottage, in the Vale of Bewling, that her -stock of money was reduced to one hundred pounds. She could not cross -the country and establish herself at a distance from London with this -sum only. She had before looked forward to selling her jewels and -carriage as to a distant event, but now she felt that it was the -<i>next</i> thing she must do. She shrunk from it naturally: the very -idea of revisiting London—of seeing its busy shops and -streets—once so full of life and its purposes to her, and in which -she would now wander an alien, was inconceivably saddening; she was -willing to put off the necessity as long as possible, and thus continued -to procrastinate her departure from Essex. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Fitzhenry returned; but she could neither know nor dream of the -vicinity of her sister-in-law. We are apt to think, when we know nothing -of any one, that no one knows any thing of us; experience can scarcely -teach us, that the reverse of this is often the truth. Seeing only an -old woman in her dotage—and a poor love-sick girl, who knew nothing -beyond the one event which had blasted all her happiness—she never -heard the inhabitants of Longfield mentioned, and believed that she was -equally unheard of by them. Then her indisposition protracted her stay, -and now the mortal illness of the poor woman. For she had become -interested for Margaret and promised to befriend her; and in case of her -grandmother's death, to take her from a spot where every association and -appearance kept open the wounds inflicted by her unfaithful lover. -</p> - -<p> -Time had thus passed on: now sad, now cheerful, she tried to banish -every thought of the future, and to make the occurrences of each day -fill and satisfy her mind. She lived obscurely and humbly, and perhaps -as wisely as mortal may in this mysterious world, where hope is -perpetually followed by disappointment, and action by repentance and -regret. The days succeeded to each other in one unvaried tenor. The -weather was cheerful, the breath of spring animating. She watched the -swelling of the buds—the peeping heads of the crocuses—the -opening of the anemones and wild wind-flowers, and at last, the sweet odour -of the new-born violets, with all the interest created by novelty; not that -she had not observed and watched these things before, with transitory -pleasure, but now the operations of nature filled all her world; the -earth was no longer merely the dwelling place of her acquaintance, the -stage on which the business of society was carried on, but the mother of -life—the temple of God—the beautiful and varied store-house of -bounteous nature. -</p> - -<p> -Dwelling on these ideas, Cornelia often thought of Horatio Saville, -whose conversations, now remembered, were the source whence she drew the -knowledge and poetry of her present reveries. As solitude and nature -grew lovely in her eyes, she yearned yet more fondly for the one who -could embellish all she saw. Yet while her mind needed a companion so -congenial to her present feelings, her heart was fuller of Ethel; her -affection for Saville was a calm though deep-rooted sentiment, resulting -from the conviction, that she should find entire happiness if united to -him, and in an esteem or rather an enthusiastic admiration of his -talents and virtues, that led her to dwell with complacency on the hope, -that he still remembered and loved her: but the human heart is jealous, -and with difficulty admits two emotions of equal force, and her love for -her daughter was the master passion. The instinct of nature spoke -audibly within her; the atoms of her frame seemed alive each one as she -thought of her; often her tears flowed, often her eyes brightened with -gladness when alone, and the beloved image of her beautiful daughter as -she saw her last, smiling amidst penury and indignity, was her dearest -companion by day and night. She alone made her present situation -endurable, and yet separation from her was irksome beyond expression. -Was she never to see or hear of her more? It was very hard: she implored -Providence to change the harsh decree—she longed inexpressibly for -one word that had reference to her—one event, however slight, which -should make her existence palpable. -</p> - -<p> -When Margaret announced Mrs. Fitzhenry, her heart bounded with joy. She -could ask concerning Ethel—hear; her countenance was radiant with -delight, and she really for a moment thought her sister-in-law's visit -was meant in kindness, since so much pleasure was the result. This -conviction had produced the very thing it anticipated. She had given -poor Bessy no time to announce the actual intention with which she came; -she had borne away her sullen mood by force of sweet smiles and sweeter -words; and saw her depart with gladdened spirits, whispering to herself -the fresh hopes and fond emotions which filled her bosom. She walked -back to her little garden and stooped to gather some fresh violets, and -to prop a drooping jonquil heavy with its burthen of sweet blooms. She -inhaled the vernal odours with rapture. "Yes," she thought, "nature is -the refuge and home for women: they have no public career—no aim nor -end beyond their domestic circle; but they can extend that, and make all -the creations of nature their own, to foster and do good to. We -complain, when shut up in cities of the niggard rules of society, which -gives us only the drawing-room or ball-room in which to display our -talents, and which, for ever turning the sympathy of those around us -into envy on the part of women, or what is called love on that of men, -besets our path with dangers or sorrows. But throw aside all vanity, no -longer seek to surpass your own sex, nor to inspire the other with -feelings which are pregnant with disquiet or misery, and which seldom -end in mutual benevolence, turn your steps to the habitation which God -has given as befitting his creatures, contemplate the lovely ornaments -with which he has blessed the earth;—here is no heart-burning nor -calumny; it is better to love, to be of use to one of these flowers, -than to be the admired of the many—the mere puppet of one's own -vanity." -</p> - -<p> -Lady Lodore entered the house; she asked concerning her poor hostess, and -learnt that she slept. For a short time she employed herself with her -embroidery; her thoughts were all awake; and as her fingers created -likenesses of the flowers she loved, several times her eyes filled with -tears as she thought of Ethel, and how happy she could be if her fate -permitted her to cultivate her affection and enjoy her society. -</p> - -<p> -"It is very sad," she thought; "only a few minutes ago my spirits were -buoyant, gladdened as they were by Bessy's visit; but they flag again, -when I think of my loneliness and the unreplying silence of this place. -What is to become of me? I shall remain here: yes; I shall not banish -myself to some inhospitable nook, where I should never hear her name. -But am I not to see her again? Am I to be nothing to her? Is she -satisfied with my absence—and are they all—to whom I am bound -by ties of consanguinity or affection, indifferent to the knowledge of -whether I exist or not? Nothing gives token to them of my life; it is as if -the grave had closed abruptly over me—and had it closed, thus I -should have been mourned, in coldness and neglect." -</p> - -<p> -Again her eyes were suffused; but as she wiped away the blinding tears, -she was recalled from her reflections by the bright rays of the sun -which entered her little room. She threw open the door, stepped out into -the garden—the sun was setting; the atmosphere was calm, and lighted -up by golden beams; the few clouds were dyed in the same splendid hues, the -birds sent forth a joyous song at intervals, and a band of rooks passed -above the little wood, cawing loudly. The air was balmy, the -indescribable freshness of spring was abroad, interpenetrating and -cheerful. Cornelia's melancholy fled as she felt and gave way to its -influence. "God blesses all things," she thought, "and he will also -bless me. Much wrong have I done, but love pure and disinterested is in -my heart, and I shall be repaid. My own sweet Ethel! I have sacrificed -every thing except my life for your sake, and I would add my life to the -gift, could it avail you. I ask but for you and your love. The world has -many blessings, and I have asked for them before, with tears and -anguish, but I give up all now, except you, my child. You are all the -world to me! Will you not come, even now, as I implore Heaven to give -you to me?" -</p> - -<p> -She raised her eyes in prayer, and it seemed as if her wishes were to be -accomplished—surely once in a life God will grant the earnest -entreaty of a loving heart. Cornelia believed that he would, that happiness -was near at hand, and life not all a blank. She heard a rustling among the -trees, a light step;—was it Margaret? She had scarcely asked herself -this question, when the dear object of her every thought and hope was -before her—in her arms;—Ethel had entered from the wood, had -seen her mother, had sprung forward and clasped her to her heart. -</p> - -<p> -"My dear, dear child!" -</p> - -<p> -"Dearest mother!" repeated Ethel, as her eyes were filled with tears of -delight, "why did you go—why conceal yourself? You do not know the -anxiety we have suffered, and how very unhappy your absence has made us. -But I have found you—of all that have gone to seek you, I have found -you; I deserve this reward, for I love you most of all." -</p> - -<p> -Lady Lodore returned her daughter's caresses—and her tears flowed -fast for very joy, and then she turned to Mrs. Fitzhenry, who followed -Ethel, but who had been outspeeded by her in her eagerness. The old -lady's face was beaming with happiness. "Ah, Bessy, you have betrayed -me—traitress! I did not expect this—I do not deserve such -excessive happiness." -</p> - -<p> -"You deserve all, and much more than we can any of us bestow," cried -Ethel, "except that your dear generous heart will repay you beyond any -reward we can give, and you will be blest in the happiness we owe to you -alone. Edward is gone far away into Wales in quest of you." -</p> - -<p> -"An Angelica run after by the Paladins," said Lady Lodore, smiling through -her tears. -</p> - -<p> -"Paladins, worthy the name!" replied Ethel. "Horatio is even now on the -salt seas for your sake—he is returning discomfited and hopeless from -his journey of discovery to the Pyrenees—his zeal almost deserved the -reward which I have found, yet who but she, for whom you sacrificed so -much, ought to be the first to thank you? And while we all try to show -you an inexpressible gratitude, ought not I to be the first to see, -first to kiss, first—always the first—to love you?" -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="CONCLUSION">CONCLUSION</a></h4> - - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i8">None, I trust,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Repines at these delights, they are free and harmless:</span><br /> -<span class="i2">After distress at sea, the dangers o'er,</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Safety and welcomes better taste ashore.</span> -</div></div> - -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">FORD.</p> -</div> - -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Thus the tale of "Lodore" is ended. The person who bore that title by right -of descent, has long slept in peace in the church of his native village. -Neither his own passions, nor those of others, can renew the pulsations -of his heart. "The silver cord is loosed, and the pitcher broken at the -fountain." His life had not been fruitless. The sedulous care and -admirable education he had bestowed on Ethel, would, had he lived, have -compensated to him for his many sufferings, and been a source of pure -and unfading joy to the end. He was not destined in this world to reap -the harvest of his virtues, though his errors had been punished -severely. Still his memory is the presiding genius of his daughter's -life, and the name of Lodore contains for her a spell that dignifies -existence in her own eyes, and incites her to render all her thoughts -and actions such as her beloved father would have approved. It was fated -that the evil which he did should die with him—but the good out-lived -him long, and was a blessing to those whom he loved far better than -himself. -</p> - -<p> -She who received the title on her marriage, henceforth continued her -existence under another; and the wife of Saville, who soon after became -Viscountess Maristow, loses her right to be chronicled in these pages. -So few years indeed are passed since the period to which the last -chapter brought us, that it may be safely announced that Cornelia -Santerre possesses that happiness, through her generosity and devoted -affection, which she had lost through pride and self-exaltation. She -wonders at her past self—and laments the many opportunities she lost -for benefiting others, and proving herself worthy of their attachment. -Her pride is gone, or rather, her pride is now placed in redeeming -her faults. She is humble, knowing how much she was deceived in -herself—she is forgiving, for she feels that she needs forgiveness. -She looks on the track of years she has passed over as wasted, and she -wishes to retrieve their loss. She respects, admires, in some sense it may -be said, that she adores her husband; but even while consenting to be his, -and thus securing her own happiness, she told him that her first duties -were towards Ethel—and that he took a divided heart, over the better -part of which reigned maternal love. Saville, the least egoistic of human -beings, smiled to hear her name that a defect, which was in his eyes her -crowning virtue. -</p> - -<p> -Edward Villiers learnt to prize worldly prosperity at its true value, -and each day blesses the train of circumstances that led him to wed -Ethel, even though poverty and suffering had followed close behind. -Ethel herself might be said to have been always happy. She was incapable -of being impressed by any sorrow, that did not touch her for another's -sake: and while she exerted herself to alleviate the pain endured by -those she loved, she passed on unhurt. Heaven spared her life's most -cruel evils. Death had done its worst when she lost her father. Now, -surrounded by dear friends, and the object of her husband's constant -tenderness, she pursues a tranquil course: which for any one to consider -the most blissful allotted to mortals, they must have a heart like her -own—faithful, affectionate, and generous. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry, kind and gentle aunt Bessy, always felt her -heaven clouded while she indulged in her aversion to her sister-in-law. -She is happy now that she is reconciled to Cornelia; strange to say, she -loves her even more than she loves Ethel—she is more intimately -connected in her mind with the memory of Lodore. She often visits her at -Maristow Castle; in the neighbourhood of which Margaret is settled, -being happily married. Colonel Villiers still lives in Paris. He is in a -miserable state of poverty, difficulty, and ill-health. His wife has -deserted him: he neglected and outraged her, and she in a fit of remorse -left him, and returned to nurse her father during a lingering illness, -which is likely to continue to the end of his life, though he shows no -symptoms of immediate decay. He is eager to lavish all his wealth on his -child, if he can be sure that no portion of it is shared by her husband. -With infinite difficulty, and at the cost of many privations, she, with -a true woman's feeling, contrives to send him remittances now and then, -though she receives in return neither thanks nor kindness. He pursues a -course of dissipation in its most degraded form—a wretched hanger-on -at resorts, misnamed of pleasure—gambling while he has any money to -lose—trying to ruin others as he has been ruined. -</p> - -<p> -Thus we have done our duty, in bringing under view, in a brief summary, -the little that there is to tell of the personages who formed the drama -of this tale. One only remains to be mentioned: but it is not in a few -tame lines that we can revert to the varied fate of Fanny Derham. She -continued for some time among her beloved friends, innocent and calm as -she was beautiful and wise; circumstances at last led her away from -them, and she has entered upon life. One who feels so deeply for others, -and yet is so stern a censor over herself—at once so sensitive and so -rigidly conscientious—so single-minded and upright, and yet open as -day to charity and affection, cannot hope to pass from youth to age -unharmed. Deceit, and selfishness, and the whole web of human passion -must envelope her, and occasion her many sorrows; and the unworthiness -of her fellow-creatures inflict infinite pain on her noble heart: still -she cannot be contaminated—she will turn neither to the right nor -left, but pursue her way unflinching; and, in her lofty idea of the dignity -of her nature, in her love of truth and in her integrity, she will find -support and reward in her various fortunes. What the events are, that -have already diversified her existence, cannot now be recounted; and it -would require the gift of prophecy to foretell the conclusion. In after -times these may be told, and the life of Fanny Derham be presented as a -useful lesson, at once to teach what goodness and genius can achieve in -palliating the woes of life, and to encourage those, who would in any -way imitate her, by an example of calumny refuted by patience, errors -rectified by charity, and the passions of our nature purified and -ennobled by an underviating observance of those moral laws on which all -human excellence is founded—a love of truth in ourselves, and a -sincere sympathy with our fellow-creatures. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>THE END</h4> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LODORE, VOL. 3 (OF 3) ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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