by Mary Shelley
They addressed each other as if they had met but the day before. At first, a few questions and answers passed, — as to where she had been on the continent, how she liked Baden, & co.; — and then Lady said—”Although I have not seen her for several years, I instantly recognized a relative of mine with you yesterday evening. Does Miss Fitzhenry make any stay in town?”
The idea of Ethel was uppermost in Villiers’s mind, and struck by the manner in which the woman of fashion spoke of her daughter, he replied, “During the season, I believe; I scarcely know. Miss Fitzhenry came up for her health; that consideration, I suppose, will regulate her movements.”
“She looked very well last night — perhaps she intends to remain till she gets ill, and country air is ordered?” observed Lady .
“That were nothing new at least,” replied Villiers, trying to hide the disgust he felt at her mode of speaking; “the young and blooming too often protract their first season, till the roses are exchanged for lilies.”
“If Miss Fitzhenry’s roses still bloom,” said the lady, “they must be perennial ones; they have surely grown more fit for a herbal than a vase.”
Villiers now perceived his mistake, and replied, “You are speaking of Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry, as the good lady styles herself — I spoke of — her niece—” “Has Ethel been ill?” Lady ‘s hurried question, and the use of the christian name, as most familiar to her thoughts, brought home to Villiers’s heart the feeling of their near relationship. There was something more than grating; it was deeply painful to speak to a mother of a child who had been torn from her — who did not know — who had even been taught to hate her. He wished himself a hundred miles off, but there was no help, he must reply. “You might have seen last night that she is perfectly recovered.”
Lady ‘s imagination refused to image her child in the tall, elegant, full-formed girl she had seen, and she said, “Was Ethel with you? I did not see her — probably she went home before the opera was over, and I only perceived your party in the crush-room — you appear already intimate.”
“It is impossible to see Miss Fitzhenry and not to wish to be intimate,” replied Villiers with his usual frankness. “I, at least, cannot help being deeply interested in every thing that relates to her.”
“You are very good to take concern in my little girl. I should have imagined that you were too young yourself to like children.”
“Children!” repeated Villiers, much amazed; “Miss Fitzhenry! — she is not a child.”
Lady scarcely heard him; a sudden pang had shot across her heart, to think how strangers — how every one might draw near her daughter, and be interested for her, while she could not, without making herself the tale of the town, the subject, through the medium of news-papers, for every gossip’s tea-table in England — where her sentiments would be scanned, and her conduct criticized — and this through the revengeful feelings of her husband, prolonged beyond the grave. Tears had been gathering in her eyes during the last moments; she turned her head to hide them, and a quick shower fell on her silken dress. Quite ashamed of this self-betrayal, she exerted herself to overcome her emotion. Villiers felt awkwardly situated; his first impulse had been to rise to take her hand, to soothe her; but before he could do more than the first of these acts, as Lady Lodore fancied for the purpose of taking his leave, she said, “It is foolish to feel as I do; yet perhaps more foolish to attempt to conceal from one, as well acquainted as you are with every thing, that I do feel pained at the unnatural separation between me and Ethel, especially when I think of the publicity I must incur by asserting a mother’s claims. I am ashamed of intruding this subject on you; but she is no longer the baby cherub I could cradle in my arms, and you have seen her lately, and can tell me whether she has been well brought up — whether she seems tractable — if she promises to be pretty?”
“Did you not think her lovely?” cried Villiers with animation; “you saw her last night, taking my arm.”
“Ethel!” cried the lady. “Could that be Ethel? True, she is now sixteen — I had indeed forgot” — her cheeks became suffused with a deep blush as she remembered all the solicisms she had been committing. “She is sixteen,” she continued, “and a woman — while I fancied a little girl in a white frock and blue sash: this alters every thing. We have been indeed divided, and must now remain so for evermore. I will not injure her, at her age, by making her the public talk — besides, many, many other considerations would render me fearful of making myself responsible for her future destiny.”
“At least,” said Villiers, “she ought to wait on you.”
“That were beyond Lord ‘s bond,” said the lady; “and why should she wait on me? Were she impelled by affection, it were well. But this is talking very simply — we could only be acquaintance, and I would rather be nothing. I confess, that I repined bitterly, that I was not permitted to have my little girl, as I termed her, for my plaything and companion — but my ideas are now changed: a dear little tractable child would have been delightful — but she is a woman, with a will of her own — prejudiced against me — brought up in that vulgar America, with all kinds of strange notions and ways. Lord Lodore was quite right, I believe — he fashioned her for himself and — Bessy. The worst thing that can happen to a girl, is to have her prejudices and principles unhinged; no new ones can flourish like those that have grown with her growth; and mine, I fear, would differ greatly from those in which she has been educated. A few years hence, she may feel the want of a friend, who understands the world, and who could guide her prudently through its intricacies; then she shall find that friend in me. Now, I feel convinced that I should do more harm than good.”
A loud knock at the street door interrupted the conversation. “One thing only I cannot endure,” said the lady hastily, “to present a domestic tragedy or farce to the Opera House — we must not meet in public. I shall shut up my house and return to Paris.”
Mere written words express little. Lady ‘s expressions were nothing; but her countenance denoted a change of feeling, a violence of emotion, of which Villiers hardly believed her capable; but before he could reply, the servant threw open the door, and her brow immediately clearing, serenity descended on her face. With her blandest smile she extended her hand to her new visitor. Villiers was too much discomposed to imitate her, so with a silent salutation he departed, and cantered round the park to collect his thoughts before he called in Seymour-street.
The ladies there were not less agitated than Lady , and displayed their feelings with the artlessness of recluses. The first words that Mrs. Elizabeth had addressed to her niece, at the breakfast table, were an awkwardly expressed intimation, that she meant instantly to return to Longfield. Ethel looked up with a face of alarm: her aunt continued; “I do not want to speak ill of Lady Lodore, my dear — God forgive her — that is all I can say. What your dear father thought of her, his last will testifies. I suppose you do not mean to disobey him.”
“His slightest word was ever a law with me,” said Ethel; “and now that he is gone, I would observe his injunctions more religiously than ever. But—”
“Then, my dear, there is but one thing to be done: Lady will assuredly force herself upon us, meet us at every turn, oblige you to pay her your duty; nor could you avoid it. No, my dear Ethel, there is but one escape — your health, thank God, is restored, and Longfield is now in all its beauty; we will return to-morrow.”
Ethel did not reply; she looked very disconsolate — she did not know what to say; at last, “Mr. Villiers will think it so odd,” dropped from her lips.
“Mr. Villiers is nothing to us, my dear,” said aunt Bessy—”not the most distant relation; he is an agreeable, good-hearted young gentleman — but there are so many in the world.”
Ethel left her breakfast untasted and went out of the room: she felt that she could no longer restrain her tears. “My father!” she exclaimed, while a passionate burst of weeping choked her utterance, “my only friend! why, why did you leave me? Why,
most cruel, desert your poor orphan child? Gracious God! to what am I reserved! I must not see my mother — a name so dear, so sweet, is for me a curse and a misery! O my father, why did you desert me!”
Her calm reflections were not less bitter; she did not suffer her thoughts to wander to Villiers, or rather the loss of her father was still so much the first grief of her heart, that on any new sorrow, it was to this she recurred with agony. The form of her youthful mother also flitted before her; and she asked herself, “Can she be so wicked?” Lord had never uttered her name; it was not until his death had put the fatal seal on all things, that she heard a garbled exaggerated statement from her aunt, over whose benevolent features a kind of sacred horror mantled, whenever she was mentioned. The will of Lord Lodore, and the stern injunction it contained, that the mother and daughter should never meet, satisfied Ethel of the truth of all that her aunt said; so that educated to obedience and deep reverence for the only parent she had ever known, she recoiled with terror from transgressing his commands, and holding communication with the cause of all his ills. Still it was hard, and very, very sad; nor did she cease from lamenting her fate, till Villiers’s horse was heard in the street, and his knock at the door; then she tried to compose herself. “He will surely come to us at Longfield,” she thought; “Longfield will be so very stupid after London.”
After London! Poor Ethel! she had lived in London as in a desert; but lately it had appeared to her a city of bliss, and all places else the abode of gloom and melancholy. Villiers was shocked at the appearance of sorrow which shadowed her face; and, for a moment, thought that the rencounter with her mother was the sole occasion of the tears, whose traces he plainly discerned. His address was full of sympathetic kindness; — but when she said, “We return to-morrow to Essex — will you come to see us at Longfield?” — his soothing tones were exchanged for those of surprise and vexation.
“Longfield! — impossible! Why?”
“My aunt has determined on it. She thinks me recovered; and so, indeed, I am.”
“But are you to be entombed at Longfield, except when dying? If so, do, pray, be ill again directly! But this must not be. Dear Mrs. Fitzhenry,” he continued, as she came in, “I will not hear of your going to Longfield. Look; the very idea has already thrown Miss Fitzhenry into a consumption; — you will kill her. Indeed you must not think of it.”
“We shall all die, if we stay in town,” said Mrs. Elizabeth, with perplexity at her niece’s evident suffering.
“Then why stay in town?” asked Villiers.
“You just now said, that we ought not to return to Longfield,” answered the lady; “and I am sure if Ethel is to look so ill and wretched, I don’t know what I am to do.”
“But there are many places in the world besides either London or Longfield. You were charmed with Richmond the other day: there are plenty of houses to be had there; nothing can be prettier or more quiet.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Aunt Bessy, “I never thought of that, to be sure; and I have business which makes our going to Longfield very inconvenient. I expect Mr. Humphries, our solicitor, next week; and I have not seen him yet. You really think, Mr. Villiers, that we could get a house to suit us at Richmond?”
“Let us drive there to-day,” said Villiers; “we can dine at the Star and Garter. You can go in the britzska — I on horseback. The days are long: we can see every thing; and take your house at once.”
This plan sounded very romantic and wild to the sober spinster; but Ethel’s face, lighted up with vivid pleasure, said more in its favour, than what the good lady called prudence could allege against it. “Silly people you women are,” said Villiers: “you can do nothing by yourselves: and are always running against posts, unless guided by others. This will make every thing easy — dispel every difficulty.” His thoughts recurred to Lady , and her intended journey to Paris, as he said this: and again they flew to a charming little villa on the river’s side, whither he could ride every day, and find Ethel among her flowers, alone and happy.
The excursion of this morning was prosperous. The day was warm yet fresh; and as they quitted town, and got surrounded by fields, and hedges, and trees, nature reassumed her rights, and awakened transport in Ethel’s heart. The boyish spirits of Villiers communicated themselves to her; and Mrs. Elizabeth smiled, also, with the most exquisite complacency. A few inquiries conducted them to a pretty rural box, surrounded by a small, but well laid-out shrubbery; and this they engaged. The dinner at the inn, the twilight walk in its garden; — the fair prospect of the rich and cultivated country, with its silvery, meandering river at their feet; and the aspect of the cloudless heavens, where one or two stars silently struggled into sight amidst the pathless wastes of sky, were objects most beautiful to look on, and prodigal of the sweetest emotions. The wide, dark lake, the endless forests, and distant mountains, of the Illinois, were not here; but night bestowed that appearance of solitude, which habit rendered dear to Ethel; and imagination could transform wooded parks and well-trimmed meadows into bowery seclusions, sacred from the foot of man, and fresh fields, untouched by his hand.
A few days found Ethel and her aunt installed at their little villa, and delighted to be away from London. Education made loneliness congenial to both: they might seek transient amusements in towns, or visit them for business; but happiness, the agreeable tenor of unvaried daily life, was to be found in the quiet of the country only; — and Richmond was the country to them; for, cut off from all habits of intercourse with their species, they had but to find trees and meadows near them, at once to feel transported, from the thick of human life, into the most noiseless solitude.
Ethel was very happy. She rose in the morning with a glad and grateful heart, and gazed from her chamber window, watching the early sunbeams as they crept over the various parts of the landscape, visiting with light and warmth each open field or embowered nook. Her bosom overflowed with the kindest feelings, and her charmed senses answered the tremulous beating of her pure heart, bidding it enjoy. How beautiful did earth appear to her! There was a delight and a sympathy in the very action of the shadows, as they pranked the sunshiny ground with their dark and fluctuating forms. The leafy boughs of the tall trees waved gracefully, and each wind of heaven wafted a thousand sweets. A magic spell of beauty and bliss held in one bright chain the whole harmonious universe; and the soul of the enchantment was love — simple, girlish, unacknowledged love; — the love of the young, feminine heart, which feels itself placed, all bleakly and dangerously, in a world, scarce formed to be its home, and which plumes itself with Love to fly to the covert and natural shelter of another’s protecting care.
Ethel did not know — did not fancy — that she was in love; nor did any of the throes of passion disturb the serenity of her mind. She only felt that she was very, very happy; and that Villiers was the kindest of human beings. She did not give herself up to idleness and reverie. The first law of her education had been to be constantly employed. Her studies were various: they, perhaps, did not sufficiently tend to invigorate her understanding, but they sufficed to prevent every incursion of listlessness. Meanwhile, during each, the thought of Villiers strayed through her mind, like a heavenly visitant, to gild all things with sunny delight. Some time, during the day, he was nearly sure to come; or, at least, she was certain of seeing him on the morrow; and when he came, their boatings and their rides were prolonged; while each moment added to the strength of the ties that bound her to him. She relied on his friendship; and his society was as necessary to her life, as the air she breathed. She so implicitly trusted to his truth, that she was unaware that she trusted at all — never making a doubt about it. That chance, or time, should injure or break off the tie, was a possibility that never suggested itself to her mind. As the silver Thames traversed in silence and beauty the landscape at her feet, so did love flow through her soul in one even and unruffled stream — the great law and emperor of her thoughts; yet more felt from its influence, than from any direct
exertion of its power. It was the result and the type of her sensibility, of her constancy, of the gentle, yet lively sympathy, it was her nature to bestow, with guileless confidence. Those around her might be ignorant that her soul was imbued with it, because, being a part of her soul, there was small outward demonstration. None, indeed, near her thought any thing about it: Aunt Bessy was a tyro in such matters; and Villiers — he had resolved, when he perceived love on her side, to retreat for ever: till then he might enjoy the dear delight that her society afforded him.
CHAPTER VI.
Alas! he knows
The laws of Spain appoint me for his heir;
That all must come to me, if I outlive him.
Which sure I must do, by the course of nature.
— Beaumont and Fletcher.
Edward Villiers was the only child of a man of considerable fortune, who had early in life become a widower. From the period of this event, Colonel Villiers (for his youth had been passed in the army, where he obtained promotion) had led the careless life of a single man. His son’s home was at Maristow Castle, when not at school; and the father seldom remembered him except as an incumbrance; for his estate was strictly entailed, so that he could only consider himself possessed of a life interest in a property, which would devolve, without restriction, on his more fortunate son.