by Mary Shelley
Her simplicity of feeling was at this moment infectious. It appeared the excess of selfishness to think of any thing but love in a desart — while she had no desire beyond. Indeed, in England or America, she lived in a desart, as far as society was concerned, and felt not one of those tenacious though cobweb-seeming ties, that held sway over Villiers. All his explanations therefore went for nothing. They only felt that this discourse concerning him had drawn them nearer to each other, and had laid the first stone of an edifice of friendship, henceforth to be raised beside the already established one of love. A sudden shower forced them also to return home with speed, and so interrupted any further discussion.
In the evening Villiers left them; and Ethel sought, as speedily as she might, the solitude of her own chamber. She had no idea of hiding any circumstance from Mrs. Fitzhenry; but confidence is, more than any other thing, a matter of interchange, and cannot be bestowed unless the giver is certain of its being received. They had too little sympathy of taste or idea, and were too little in the habit of communicating their inmost thoughts, to make Ethel recur to her aunt. Besides, young love is ever cradled in mystery; — to reveal it to the vulgar eye, appears at once to deprive it of its celestial loveliness, and to marry it to the clodlike earth. But alone — alone — she could think over the past day — recall its minutest incident; and as she imaged to herself the speaking fondness of her lover’s eyes, her own closed, and a thrilling sense of delight swept through her frame. What a different world was this to what it had been the day before! The whole creation was invested by a purer atmosphere, balmy as paradise, which no disquieting thought could penetrate. She called upon her father’s spirit to approve her attachment; and when she reflected that Edward’s hand had supported his dying head — that to Edward Villiers’s care his latest words had intrusted her, — she felt as if she were a legacy bequeathed to him, and that she fulfilled ‘s last behests in giving herself to him. So sweetly and fondly did her gentle heart strive to make a duty of her wishes; and the idea of her father’s approbation set the seal of perfect satisfaction on her dream of bliss.
It was somewhat otherwise with Villiers. Things went on as before, and he came nearly every day to Richmond; but while Ethel rested satisfied with seeing him, and receiving slight, cherished tokens of his unabated regard, — as his voice assumed a more familiar tone, and his attentions became more affectionate; — while these were enough for Ethel, he thought of the future, and saw it each day dressed in gloomier colours. In Ethel’s presence, indeed, he forgot all but her. He loved her fervently, and beheld in her all that he most admired in woman: her clearness of spirit, her singleness of heart, her unsuspicious and ingenuous disposition, were irresistibly fascinating; — and why not spend their lives thus in solitude? — his — their mutual fortune might afford this: — why not for ever thus — the happy — the beloved? — his life might pass like a dream of joy; and that paradise might be realized on earth, the impossibility of which philosophers have demonstrated, and worldlings scoffed at.
Thus he thought while in the same room with Ethel; — while on his evening ride back to town, her form glided before him, and her voice sounded in his ears, it seemed that where Ethel was, no one earthly bliss could be wanting; where she was not, a void must exist, dark and dreary as a starless night. But his progress onward took him out of the magic circle her presence drew; a portion of his elevated feeling deserted him at each step; it fell off, like the bark pealing from a tree, in successive coats, till he was left with scarce a vestige of its brightness; — as the hue and the scent deserts the flower, when deprived of light, — so, when away from Ethel, her lover lost half the excellence which her presence bestowed.
Edward Villiers was eminently sociable in his disposition. He had been brought up in the thick of life, and knew not how to live apart from it. His frank and cordial heart danced within his bosom, when he was among those who sympathized with, and liked him. He was much courted in society, and had many favourites: and how Ethel would like these, and be liked by them, was a question he perpetually asked himself. He knew the worldliness of many, — their defective moral feeling, and their narrow views; but he believed that they were attached to him, and no man was ever less a misanthrope than he. He wished, if married to Ethel, to see her a favourite in his own circle; but he revolted from the idea of presenting her, except under favourable auspices, surrounded by the decorations of rank and wealth. To give up the world, the English world, formed no portion of his picture of bliss; and to occupy a subordinate, degraded, permitted place in it, was, to one initiated in its supercilious and insolent assumptions, not to be endured.
The picture had also a darker side, which was too often turned towards him. If he felt hesitation when he regarded its brighter aspect, as soon as this was dimmed, the whole current of his feelings turned the other way; and he called himself villain, for dreaming of allying Ethel, not to poverty alone, but to its worst consequences and disgrace, in the shape of debt. “I am a beggar,” he thought; “one of many wants, and unable to provide for any; — the most poverty-stricken of beggars, who has pledged away even his liberty, were it claimed of him. I look forward to the course of years with disgust. I cannot calculate the ills that may occur, or with how tremendous a weight the impending ruin may fall. I can bear it alone; but did I see her humiliated, whom I would gladly place on a throne, — by heavens! I could not endure life on such terms! and a pistol, or some other dreadful means, would put an end to an existence become intolerable.”
As these thoughts fermented within him, he longed to pour them out before Ethel; to unload his mind of its care, to express the sincere affection that led him to her side, and yet urged him to exile himself for ever. He rode over each day to Richmond, intent on such a design; but as he proceeded, the fogs and clouds that thickened round his soul grew lighter. At first his pace was regulated; as he drew nearer, he pressed his horse’s flank with impatient heel, and bounded forward. Each turn in the road was a step nearer the sunshine. Now the bridge, the open field, the winding lane, were passed; the walls of her abode, and its embowered windows, presented themselves; — they met; and the glad look that welcomed him drove far away every thought of banishment, and dispelled at once every remnant of doubt and despondency.
This state of things might have gone on much longer, — already had it been protracted for two months, — but for an accidental conversation between Lady and Villiers. Since the morning after the opera, they had scarcely seen each other. Edward’s heart was too much occupied to permit him to join in the throng of a ball-room; and they had no chance of meeting, except in general society. One evening, at the opera, the lady who accompanied Lady Lodore, asked a gentleman, who had just come into their box, “What had become of Edward Villiers? — he was never to be seen?”
“He is going to be married,” was the reply: “he is in constant attendance on the fair lady at Richmond.”
“I had not heard of this,” observed Lady , who, for Horatio’s sake, felt an interest for his favourite cousin.
“It is very little known. The fiancée lives out of the world, and no one can tell any thing about her. I did hear her name. Young Craycroft has seen them riding together perpetually in Richmond Park and on Wimbledon Common, he told me. Miss Fitzroy — no; — Miss Fitz-something it is; — Fitzgeorge? — no; — Fitzhenry? — yes; Miss Fitzhenry is the name.”
Cornelia reddened, and asked no more questions. She controlled her agitation; and at first, indeed, she was scarcely aware how much she felt: but while the whole house was listening to a favourite air, and her thoughts had leisure to rally, they came on her painfully, and involuntary tears filled her eyes. It was sad, indeed, to hear of her child as of a stranger; and to be made to feel sensibly how wide the gulf was that separated them. “My sweet girl — my own Ethel! — are you, indeed, so lost to me?” As her heart breathed this ejaculation, she felt the downy cheek of her babe close to her’s, and its little fingers press her bosom. A moment’s recollect
ion brought another image: — Ethel, grown up to womanhood, educated in hatred of her, negligent and unfilial; — this was not the little cherub whose loss she lamented. Let her look round the crowd then about her; and among the fair girls she saw, any one was as near her in affection and duty, as the child so early torn from her, to be for ever estranged and lost.
The baleful part of Cornelia’s character was roused by these reflections; her pride, her selfwill, her spirit of resistance. “And for this she has been taken from me,” she thought, “to marry, while yet a child, a ruined man — to be wedded to care and indigence. Thus would it not have been had she been entrusted to me. O, how hereafter she may regret the injuries of her mother, when she feels the effects of them in her own adversity! It is not for me to prevent this ill-judged union. The aunt and niece would see in my opposition a motive to hasten it: wise as they fancy themselves — wise and good — what I, the reviled, reprobated, they would therefore pursue with more eagerness. Be it so — my day will yet come!”
A glance of triumph shot across her face as she indulged in this emotion of revenge; the most deceitful and reprehensible of human feelings — revenge against a child — how sad at best — how sure to bring with it its recompense of bitterness of spirit and remorse! But Cornelia’s heart had been rudely crushed, and in the ruin of her best affections, her mother had substituted noxious passions of many kinds — pride chief of all.
While thus excited and indignant, she saw Edward Villiers. He came into her box; the lady with her was totally unaware of what had been passing in her thoughts, nor reverted to the name mentioned as having any connexion with her. She asked Villiers if it were true that he was going to be married? Lady heard the question; she turned on him her eyes full of significant meaning, and with a smile of scorn answered for him, “O yes, Mr. Villiers is going to be married. His bride is young, beautiful, and portionless; but he has the tastes of a hermit — he means to emigrate to America — his simple and inexpensive habits are admirably suited to the wilderness.”
This was said as if in jest, and answered in the same tone. The third in the trio joined in, quite unaware of the secret meaning of the conversation. Several bitter allusions were made by Lady , and the truth of all she said sent her words home to Edward’s heart. She drew, as if playfully, a representation of highbred indigence, that made his blood curdle. As if she could read his thoughts, she echoed their worst suggestions, and unrolled the page of futurity, such as he had often depicted it to himself, presenting in sketchy, yet forcible colours, a picture from which his soul recoiled. He would have escaped, but there was a fascination in the topic, and in the very bitterness of spirit which she awakened. He rather encouraged her to proceed, while he abhorred her for so doing, acknowledging the while the justice of all she said. Lady Lodore was angry, and she felt pleasure in the pain she inflicted; her wit became keener, her sarcasm more pointed, yet stopping short with care of any thing that should betray her to their companion, and avoiding, with inimitable tact, any expression that should convey to one not in the secret, that she meant any thing more than raillery or good-humoured quizzing, as it is called.
At length Villiers took his leave. “Were I,” he said, “the unfortunate man you represent me to be, you would have to answer for my life this night. But re-assure yourself — it is all a dream. I have no thoughts of marrying; and the fair girl, whose fate as my wife Lady so kindly compassionates, is safe from every danger of becoming the victim of my selfishness and poverty.”
This was said laughing, yet an expressive intonation of voice conveyed his full meaning to Cornelia. “I have done a good deed if I have prevented this marriage,” she thought; “yet a thankless one. After all, he is a gentleman, and under sister Bessy’s guardianship, poor Ethel might fall into worse hands.”
While Lady thus dismissed her anger and all thought of its cause, Villiers felt more resentment than had ever before entered his kind heart. The truths which the lady had spoken were unpalatable, and the mode in which they were uttered was still more disagreeable. He hated her for having discovered them, and for presenting them so vividly to his sight. At one moment he resolved never to see Ethel more; while he felt that he loved her with tenfold tenderness, and would have given worlds to become the source of all happiness to her — wishing this the more ardently, because her mother had pictured him as being the cause to her of every ill.
Edward’s nature was very impetuous, but perfectly generous. The tempest of anger allayed, he considered all that Lady had said impartially; and while he felt that she had only repeated what he had told himself a thousand times, he resolved not to permit resentment to controul him, and to turn him from the right path. He felt also, that he ought no longer to delay acting on his good resolutions. His intercourse with Miss Fitzhenry had begun to attract attention, and must therefore cease. Once again he would ride over to Richmond — once again see her — say farewell, and then stoically banish every pleasant dream — every heart-enthralling hope — willingly sacrificing his dearest wishes at the shrine of her welfare.
CHAPTER VIII.
She to a window came, that opened west.
Towards which coast her love his way addrest.
There looking forth, she in her heart did find
Many vain fancies working her unrest,
And sent her winged thoughts more swift than wind
To bear unto her love the message of her mind.
— The Faerie Queen.
Ethel, happy in her seclusion, was wholly unaware of her mother’s interference and its effects. She had not the remotest suspicion that it would be considered as conducive to her welfare to banish the only friend that she had in the world. In her solitary position, life was a blank without Edward; and while she congratulated herself on her good fortune in the concurrence of circumstances that had brought them together, and, as she believed, established her happiness on the dearest and most secure foundations, she was far from imagining that he was perpetually revolving the necessity of bidding her adieu for ever. If she had been told two years before, that all intercourse between her and her father were to cease, it would scarcely have seemed more unnatural or impossible, than that such a decree should be issued to divide her from one to whom her young heart was entirely given. She relied on him as the support of her life — her guide and protector — she loved him as the giver of good to her — she almost worshipped him for the many virtues, which he either really possessed, or with which her fondness bounteously gifted him.
Meanwhile the unacute observations of Mrs. Fitzhenry began to be awakened. She gave herself great credit for discovering that there was something singular in the constant attendance of Edward, and yet, in fact, she owed her illumination on this point to her man of law. Mr. Humphries, whom she had seen on business the day before, finding how regular a visitor Villiers was, and their only one, first elevated his eyebrows and then relaxed into a smile, as he said, “I suppose I am soon to wish Miss Fitzhenry joy.” This same day Edward had ridden down to them; a violent storm prevented his return to town; he slept at the inn and breakfasted with the ladies in the morning. There was something familiar and home-felt in his appearance at the breakfast-table, that filled Ethel with delight. “Women,” says the accomplished author of Paul Clifford, “think that they must always love a man whom they have seen in his nightcap.” There is deep philosophy in this observation, and it was a portion of that feeling which made Ethel feel so sweetly complacent, when Villiers, unbidden, rang the bell, and gave his orders to the servant, as if he had been at home.
Aunt Bessy started a little; and while the young people were strolling in the shrubbery and renewing the flowers in the vases, she was pondering on the impropriety of their position, and wondering how she could break off an intimacy she had hitherto encouraged. But one way presented itself to her plain imagination, the old resource, a return to Longfield. With light heart and glad looks, Ethel bounded up stairs to dress for dinner, and she was twining her ringlets round her
taper fingers before the glass, when her aunt entered with a look of serious import. “My dear Ethel, I have something important to say to you.”
Ethel stopped in her occupation and turned inquiring eyes on her aunt; “My dear,” continued Mrs. Fitzhenry, “we have been a long time away; if you please, we will return to Longfield.”
This time Ethel did not grow pale; she turned again to the mirror, saying with a smile that lighted her whole countenance, “Dear aunt, that is impossible — I would rather not.”
No negative could have been more imposing on the good lady than this; she did not know how to reply, how to urge her wish. “Dearest aunt,” continued her niece, “you are losing time — dinner will be announced, and you are not dressed. We will talk of Longfield to-morrow — we must not keep Mr. Villiers waiting.”
It was often the custom of Aunt Bessy, like the father of Hamlet, to sleep after dinner, she did not betake herself to her orchard, but her arm-chair, for a few minutes’ gentle doze. Ethel and Villiers meanwhile walked out, and, descending to the river side, they were enticed by the beauty of the evening to go upon the water. Ethel was passionately fond of every natural amusement; boating was a pleasure that she enjoyed almost more than any other, and one with which she was seldom indulged; for her spinster aunt had so many fears and objections, and considered every event but sitting still in her drawing-room, or a quiet drive with her old horses, as so fraught with danger and difficulty, that it required an absolute battle ever to obtain her consent for her niece to go on the river — she would have died before she could have entered a boat herself, and, walking at the water’s edge, she always insisted that Ethel should keep close to the bank, while, by the repetition of expressions of alarm and entreaties to return, she destroyed every possibility of enjoyment.