Complete Works of Mary Shelley

by Mary Shelley

  On Monday, at eleven in the forenoon, on the 28th of November, Ethel, having put together but a few things, — for she expected a speedy return, — stept into her travelling chariot, and began her journey to town. She was all delight at the idea of seeing Edward. She reproached herself for having so long delayed giving this proof of her earnest affection. She listened with beaming smiles to all her aunt’s injunctions and cautions: and, the carriage once in motion, drawing her shawl round her, as she sat in the corner, looking on the despoiled yet clear prospect, her mind was filled with the most agreeable reveries — her heart soothed by the dearest anticipations.

  To pay the post-horses — to gift the postillion herself, were all events for her: she felt proud. “Edward said, I must begin to learn the ways of the world; and this is my first lesson in economy and care,” she thought, as she put into the post-boy’s hand just double the sum he had ever received before. “And how good, and attentive, and willing every body is! I am sure women can very well travel alone. Every one is respectful, and desirous to serve,” was her next internal remark, as she undrew her little silken purse, to give a waiter half-a-crown, who had brought her a glass of water, and whose extreme alacrity struck her as so very kind-hearted.

  Her spirits flagged as the day advanced. In spite of herself, an uneasy feeling diffused itself through her mind, when, the sun going down, a misty, chilly twilight crept over the landscape. Had she done right? she asked herself; would Edward indeed be glad to see her? She felt half frightened at her temerity — alarmed at the length of her journey — timid when she thought of the vast London she was about to enter, without any certain bourn. She supposed that Villiers went each day to his club, and she knew that he lodged in Duke street, St. James’s; but she was ignorant of the number of the house, and the street itself was unknown to her; she did not remember ever to have been in it in her life.

  Her carriage entered labyrinthine London by Blackwall, and threaded the wilds of Lothbury. A dense and ever-thickening mist, palpable, yellow, and impervious to the eye, enveloped the whole town. Ethel had heard of a November fog; but she had never witnessed one, and the idea of it did not occur to her memory: she was half-frightened, thinking that some strange phænomena were going on, and fancying that her postillion was hurrying forward in terror. At last, in Cheapside, they stopped jammed up by carts and coaches; and then she contrived to make herself heard, asking what was the matter? The word “eclipse” hung upon her lips.

  “Only, ma’am, the street has got blocked up like in the fog: we shall get on presently.”

  The word “fog” solved the mystery; and again her thoughts were with Villiers. What a horrible place for him to live in! And he had been enduring all this wretchedness, while she was breathing the pure atmosphere of the country. Again they proceeded through the “murky air,” and through an infinitude of mischances; — the noise — the hubbub — the crowd, as she could distinguish it, as if veiled by dirty gauze, by the lights in the shops — all agitated and vexed her. Through Fleet Street and the Strand they went; and it seemed as if their progress would never come to an end. The whole previous journey from Longfield was short in comparison to this tedious procession: twenty times she longed to get out and walk. At last they got free, and with a quicker pace drove up to the door of the Union Club, in Charing Cross.

  The post-boy called one of the waiters to the carriage door; and Ethel asked—”Is Mr. Villiers here?”

  “Mr. Villiers, ma’am, has left town.”

  Ethel was aghast. She had watched assiduously along the road; yet she had felt certain that if he had meant to come, she would have seen him on Sunday; and till this moment, she had not entertained a real doubt but that she should find him. She asked, falteringly, “When did he go?”

  “Last week, ma’am: last Thursday, I think it was.”

  Ethel breathed again: the man’s information must be false. She was too inexperienced to be aware that servants and common people have a singular tact in selecting the most unpleasant intelligence, and being very alert in communicating it. “Do you know,” she inquired, “where Mr. Villiers lodges?”

  “Can’t say, indeed, ma’am; but the porter knows; — here, Saunders!”

  No Saunders answered. “The porter is not in the way; but if you can wait, ma’am, he’ll be back presently.”

  The waiter disappeared: the post-boy came up — he touched his hat. “Wait,” said Ethel;—”we must wait a little;” and he removed himself to the horses’ heads. Ethel sat in her lonely corner, shrouded by fog and darkness, watching every face as it passed under the lamp near, fancying that Edward might appear among them. The ugly faces that haunt, in quick succession, the imagination of one oppressed by night-mare, might vie with those that passed successively in review before Ethel. Most of them hurried on, looking neither to the right nor left. Some entered the house; some glanced at her carriage: one or two, perceiving a bonnet, evidently questioned the waiter. He stood there for her own service, Ethel thought; and she watched his every movement — his successive disappearances and returns — the people he talked to. Once she signed to him to come; but—”No, ma’am, the porter is not come back yet,” — was all his answer. At last, after having stood, half whistling, for some five minutes, (it appeared to Ethel half-an-hour,) without having received any visible communication, he suddenly came up to the carriage door, saying, “The porter could not stay to speak to you, ma’am, he was in such a hurry. He says, Mr. Villiers lodges in Duke Street, St. James’s: he should know the house, but has forgotten the number.”

  “Then I must wait till he comes back again. I knew all that before. Will he be long?”

  “A long time, ma’am; two hours at least. He said that the woman of the house is a widow woman — Mrs. Derham.”

  Thus, as if by torture, (but, as with the whipping boys of old, her’s was the torture, not the delinquent’s,) Ethel extracted some information from the stupid, conceited fellow. On she went to Duke Street, to discover Mrs. Derham’s residence. A few wrong doors were knocked at; and a beer-boy, at last, was the Mercury that brought the impatient, longing wife, to the threshold of her husband’s residence. Happy beer-boy! She gave him a sovereign: he had never been so rich in his life before; — such chance-medleys do occur in this strange world!

  CHAPTER XV.

  O my reviving joy! thy quickening presence

  Makes the sad night

  Sit like a youthful spring upon my blood.

  I cannot make thy welcome rich enough

  With all the wealth of words.

  — Middleton.

  The boy knocked at the door. A servant-girl opened it. “Does Mr. Villiers lodge here?” asked the postillion, from his horse.

  “Yes,” said the girl.

  “Open the door quickly, and let me out!” cried Ethel, as her heart beat fast and loud.

  The door was opened — the steps let down — operations tedious beyond measures, as she thought. She got out, and was in the hall, going up stairs.

  “Mr. Villiers is not at home,” said the maid.

  Through the low blinds of the parlour window, Mrs. Derham had been watching what was going on. She heard what her servant said, and now came out. “Mr. Villiers is not at home,” she reiterated; “will you leave any message?”

  “No; I will wait for him. Show me into his room.”

  “I am afraid that it is locked,” answered Mrs. Derham repulsively: “perhaps you can call again. Who shall I say asked for him?”

  “O no!” cried Ethel, “I must wait for him. Will you permit me to wait in your parlour? I am Mrs. Villiers.”

  “I beg pardon,” said the good woman; “Mrs. Villiers is in the country.”

  “And so I am,” replied Ethel—”at least, so I was this morning. Don’t you see my travelling carriage? — look; you may be sure that I am Mrs. Villiers.”

  She took out of her little bag one of Edward’s letters, with the perusal of which she had beguiled much of her way to town. Mrs. Der
ham looked at the direction—”The Honourable Mrs. Villiers;” — her countenance brightened. Mrs. Derham was a little, plump, well-preserved woman of fifty-four or five. She was kind-hearted, and of course shared the worship for rank which possesses every heart born within the four seas. She was now all attention. Villiers’s room was open; he was expected very soon:—”He is so seldom out in an evening: it is very unlucky; but he must be back directly,” said Mrs. Derham, as she showed the way up the narrow staircase. Ethel reached the landing, and entered a room of tolerable dimensions, considerably encumbered with litter, which opened into a smaller room, with a tent bed. A little bit of fire glimmered in the grate. The whole place looked excessively forlorn and comfortless.

  Mrs. Derham bustled about to bestow a little neatness on the room, saying something of the “untidiness of gentlemen,” and “so many lodgers in the house.” Ethel sat down she longed to be alone. There was the post-boy to be paid, and to be ordered to take the carriage to a coach-house; and then — Mrs. Derham asked her if she would not have something to eat: she herself was at tea, and offered a cup, which Ethel thankfully accepted, acknowledging that she had not eaten since the morning. Mrs. Derham was shocked. The rank, beauty, and sweet manners of Ethel had made a conquest, which her extreme youth redoubled. “So young a lady,” she said, “to go about alone: she did not know how to take care of herself, she was sure. She must have some supper: a roast chicken should be ready in an hour — by the time Mr. Villiers came in.”

  “But the tea,” said Ethel, smiling; “you will let me have that now?”

  Mrs. Derham hurried away on this hint, and the young wife was left alone. She had been married a year; but there was still a freshness about her feelings, which gave zest to every change in her wedded life. “This is where he has been living without me,” she thought; “Poor Edward! it does not look as if he were very comfortable.”

  She rose from her seat, and began to arrange the books and papers. A glove of her husband’s lay on the table: she kissed it with a glad feeling of welcome. When the servant came in, she had the fire replenished — the hearth swept; and in a minute or two, the room had lost much of its disconsolate appearance. Then, with a continuation of her feminine love of order she arranged her own dress and hair; giving to her attire, as much as possible, an at-home appearance. She had just finished — just sat down, and begun to find the time long — when a quick, imperative knock at the door, which she recognized at once, made her heart beat, and her cheek grow pale. She heard a step — a voice — and Mrs. Derham answer—”Yes, sir; the fire is in — every thing comfortable;” — and Ethel opened the door, as she spoke, and in an instant was clasped in her husband’s arms.

  It was not a moment whose joy could be expressed by words. He had been miserable during her absence, and had thought of sending for her; but he looked round his single room, remembered that he was in lodgings, and gave up his purpose with a bitter murmur: and here she was, uncalled for, but most welcome: she was here, in her youth, her loveliness, her sweetness: these were charms; but others more transcendent now attended on, and invested her; — the sacred tenderness of a wife had led her to his side; and love, in its most genuine and beautiful shape, shed an atmosphere of delight and worship about her. Not one circumstance could alloy the unspeakable bliss of their meeting. Poverty, and its humiliations, vanished from before the eyes of Villiers; he was overflowingly rich in the possession of her affections — her presence. Again and again he thanked her, in broken accents of expressive transport.

  “Nothing in the whole world could make me unhappy now!” he cried; and Ethel, who had seen his face look elongated and gloomy at the moment he had entered, felt indeed that Medea, with all her potent herbs, was less of a magician than she, in the power of infusing the sparkling spirit of life into one human frame. It was long before either were coherent in their inquiries and replies. There was nothing, indeed, that either wished to know. Life, and its purposes, were fulfilled, rounded, complete, without a flaw. They loved, and were together — together, not for a transitory moment, but for the whole duration of the eternity of love, which never could be exhausted in their hearts.

  After more than an hour spent in gradually becoming acquainted and familiar with the transporting change, from separate loneliness to mutual society and sympathy, the good-natured face of Mrs. Derham showed itself, to announce that Ethel’s supper was ready. These words brought back to Edward’s recollection his wife’s journey, and consequent fatigues: he grew more desirous than Mrs. Derham to feed his poor famished bird, whose eyes, in spite of the joy that shone in them, began to look languid, and whose cheek was pale. The little supper-table was laid, and they sat down together.

  Lady Mary Wortley Montagu has recorded the pleasure to be reaped “When we meet with champagne and a chicken at last;” and perhaps social life contains no combination so full of enjoyment as a tête-à-tête supper. Here it was, with its highest zest. They feared no prying eyes — they knew no ill: it was not a scanty hour of joy snatched from an age of pain — a single spark illuminating a long blank night. It came after separation, and possessed, therefore, the charm of novelty; but it was the prelude to a long reunion — the seal set on their being once again joined, to go through together each hour of the livelong day. Full of unutterable thankfulness and gladness, as were the minds of each, there was, besides, “A sacred and home-felt delight, A sober certainty of waking bliss,” which is the crown and fulfilment of perfect human happiness. “Imparadised” by each other’s presence — no doubt — no fear of division on the morrow-no dread of untoward event, suspicion, or blame, clouded the balmy atmosphere which their hearts created around them. No. Eden was required to enhance their happiness; there needed no “Crisped brooks, Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold;” — no “Happy, rural seat, with various view,” decked with “Flowers of all hue,” “All trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste;” — nor “cool recess,” nor “Vernal airs, Breathing the smell of field and grove.” In their narrow abode — their nook of a room, cut off from the world, redolent only of smoke and fog — their two fond hearts could build up bowers of delight, and store them with all of ecstasy which the soul of man can know, without any assistance of eye, or ear, or scent. So rich, and prodigal, and glorious, in its gifts, is faithful and true-hearted love, — when it knows the sacrifices which it must make to merit them, and consents willingly to forego vanity, selfishness, and the exactions of self-will, in unlimited and unregretted exchange.

  Mutual esteem and gratitude sanctified the unreserved sympathy which made each so happy in the other. Did they love the less for not loving “in sin and fear?” Far from it. The certainty of being the cause of good to each other tended to foster the most delicate of all passions, more than the rougher ministrations of terror, and a knowledge that each was the occasion of injury to the other. A woman’s heart is peculiarly unfitted to sustain this conflict. Her sensibility gives keenness to her imagination, and she magnifies every peril, and writhes beneath every sacrifice which tends to humiliate her in her own eyes. The natural pride of her sex struggles with her desire to confer happiness, and her peace is wrecked.

  Far different was the happy Ethel’s situation — far otherwise were her thoughts employed than in concealing the pangs of care and shame. The sense of right adorned the devotion of love. She read approbation in Edward’s eyes, and drew near him in full consciousness of deserving it. They sat at their supper, and long after, by the cheerful fire, talking of a thousand things connected with the present and the future — the long, long future which they were to spend together; and every now and then their eyes sparkled with the gladness of renewed delight in seeing each other. “Mine, my own, for ever!” — And was this exultation in possession to be termed selfish? by no other reasoning surely, than that used by a cold and meaningless philosophy, which gives this name to generosity and truth, and all the nobler passions of the soul. They congratulated themselves on this mutual property, partly because
it had been a free gift one to the other; partly because they looked forward to the right it ensured to each, of conferring mutual benefits; and partly through the instinctive love God has implanted for that which, being ours, is become the better part of ourselves. They were united for “better and worse,” and there was a sacredness in the thought of the “worse” they might share, which gave a mysterious and celestial charm to the present “better.”

  CHAPTER XVII.

  Do you not think yourself truly happy?

  You have the abstract of all sweetness by you.

  The precious wealth youth labours to arrive at.

  Nor is she less in honour than in beauty.

  — Beaumont and Fletcher.