by Mary Shelley
The following day was one of pouring, unintermitting rain. Villiers and Ethel drew their chairs near their cheerful fire, and were happy. Edward could not quite conquer his repugnance to seeing his wife in lodgings, and in those also of so mean and narrow a description. But the spirit of Ethel was more disencumbered of earthly particles: that had found its rest in the very home of Love. The rosy light of the divinity invested all things for her. Cleopatra on the Cydnus, in the bark which—”Like a burnished throne Burnt on the water,” borne along “By purple sails ... ... So perfumed, that The winds were love-sick with them;” was not more gorgeously attended than Ethel was to her own fancy, lapped and cradled in all that love has of tender, voluptuous, and confiding.
Several days past before Villiers could withdraw her from this blissful dream, to gaze upon the world as it was. He could not make her disgusted with her fortunes nor her abode, but he awakened anxiety on his own account. His father, as he had conjectured, was gone to Paris, leaving merely a message for his son, that he would willingly join him in any act for raising money, by mortgage or the absolute disposal of a part of the estate. Edward had consulted with his solicitor, who was to look over a vast variety of papers, to discover the most eligible mode of making some kind of sale. Delay, in all its various shapes, waited on these arrangements; and Villiers was very averse to leaving town till he held some clue to the labyrinth of obstacles which presented themselves at every turn. He talked of their taking a house in town; but Ethel would not hear of such extravagance. In the first place, their actual means were at a very low ebb, with little hope of a speedy supply. There was another circumstance, the annoyance of which he understood far better than Ethel could. He had raised money on annuities, the interest of which he was totally unable to pay; this exposed him to a personal risk of the most disagreeable kind, and he knew that his chief creditor was on the point of resorting to harsh measures against him. These things, dingy-visaged, dirty-handed realities as they were, made a strange contrast with Ethel’s feeling of serene and elevated bliss; but she, with unshrinking heart, brought the same fortitude and love into the crooked and sordid ways of modern London, which had adorned heroines of old, as they wandered amids trackless forests, and over barren mountains.
Several days passed, and the weather became clear, though cold. The young pair walked together in the parks at such morning hours as would prevent their meeting any acquaintances, for Edward was desiours that it should not be known that they were in town. Villiers also traced his daily, weary, disappointing way to his solicitor, where he found things look more blank and dismal each day. Then when evening came, and the curtains were drawn, they might have been at the top of Mount Caucasus, instead of in the centre of London, so completely were they cut off from every thing except each other. They then felt absolutely happy: the lingering disgusts of Edward were washed clean away by the bounteous, everspringing love, that flowed, as waters from a fountain, from the heart of Ethel, in one perpetual tide.
In those hours of unchecked talk, she learned many things she had not known before — the love of Horatio Saville for Lady was revealed to her; but the story was not truly told, for the prejudices as well as the ignorance of Villiers rendered him blind to the sincerity of Cornelia’s affection and regret. Ethel wondered, and in spite of the charm with which she delighted to invest the image of her mother, she could not help agreeing with her husband that she must be irrevocably wedded to the most despicable worldly feelings, so to have played with the heart of a man such as Horatio: a man, whose simplest word bore the stamp of truth and genius; one of those elected few whom nature elevats to her own high list of nobility and greatness. How could she, a simple girl, interest feelings which were not alive to Saville’s merits? She could only hope that in some dazzling marriage Lady Lodore would find a compensation for the higher destiny which might have been hers, but that, like the “base Indian,” she had thrown “A pearl away, Richer than all his tribe.”
There was a peaceful quiet in their secluded and obscure life, which somewhat resembled the hours spent on board ship, when you long for, yet fear, the conclusion of the voyage, and shrink involuntarily from exchanging a state, whose chief blessing is an absence of every care, for the variety of pains and pleasures which chequer life. Ethel possessed her all — so near, so undivided, so entirely her own, that she could not enter into Villiers’s impatience, nor quite sympathize with the disquietude he could not repress. After considerable delays, his solicitor informed him that his father had so entirely disposed of all his interest in the property, that his readiness to join in any act of sale would be useless. The next thing to be done was for Edward to sell a part of his expectations, and the lawyer promised to find a purchaser, and begged to see him three days hence, when no doubt he should have some proposal to communicate.
Whoever has known what such things are — whoever has waited on the demurs and objections, and suffered the alternations of total failure and suddenly renewed hopes, which are the Tantalus-food held to the lips of those under the circumstances of Villiers, can follow in imagination his various conferences with his solicitor, as day after day something new was discovered, still to drag on, or to impede, the tortoise pace of his negociations. It will be no matter of wonder to such, that a month instead of three days wasted away, and found him precisely in the same position, with hopes a little raised, though so frequently blasted, and nothing done.
In recording the annoyances, or rather the adversity which the young pair endured at this period, a risk is run, on the one hand, of being censured for bringing the reader into contact with degrading and sordid miseries; and on the other, of laying too much stress on circumstances which will appear to those in a lower sphere of life, as scarcely deserving the name of misfortune. It is very easy to embark on the wild ocean of romance, and to steer a danger-fraught passage, amidst giant perils, — the very words employed, excite the imagination, and give grace to the narrative. But all beautiful and fairylike as was Ethel Villiers, in tracing her fortunes, it is necessary to descend from such altitudes, to employ terms of vulgar use, and to describe scenes of common-place and debasing interest; so that, if she herself, in her youth and feminine tenderness, does not shed light and holiness around her, we shall grope darkling, and fail utterly in the scope which we proposed to ourselves in selecting her history for the entertainment of the reader.
CHAPTER XVIII.
I saw her upon nearer view.
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature’s daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles.
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
— Wordsworth.
The end of December had come. New year’s day found and left them still in Duke Street. On the 4th of January Villiers received a letter from his uncle, Lord Maristow, entrusting a commission to him, which obliged him to go to the neighbourhood of Egham. Not having a horse, he went by the stage. He set out so late in the day that there was no chance of his returning the same night; and he promised to be back early on the morrow. Ethel had letters to write to Italy and to her aunt; and with these she tried to beguile the time. She felt lonely; the absence of Villiers for so many hours engendered an anxiety, which she found some difficulty in repressing. Accustomed to have him perpetually at her side, and without any other companion or resource, she repined at her solitude. There was his empty chair, and no hope that he would occupy it; and she sat in her little room so near to thousands, and yet so cut off from every one, with such a sense of desolation as Mungo Park might have felt in central Africa, or a shipwrecked mariner on an uninhabited island.
Her pen was taken up, but she did not write. She could not command her thoughts to express any thing but the overflowing, devoted, allengrossing affection of her heart, her adoration for her husband; that would not amuse Lucy, — she thought: and she had commenced another sheet with “My dearest Aunt,” when the maid-servant
ushered a man into her presence — a stranger, a working man. What could he want with her? He seemed confused, and stammered out, “Mr. Villiers is not in?”
“He will be at home to-morrow, if you want him; or have you any message that I can give?”
“You are Mrs. Villiers, ma’am?”
“Yes, my good man, I am Mrs. Villiers.”
“If you please, ma’am, I am Saunders, one of the porters at the Union Club.”
“I remember: has any message come there? or does Mr. Villiers owe you any money?” and her purse was in her hand.
“O no, ma’am. Mr. Villiers is a good gentleman; and he has been petiklar generous to me — and that is why I come, because I am afraid,” continued the man, lowering his tone, “that he is in danger.”
“Good heavens! Where? how?” cried Ethel, starting from her chair. “tell me at once.”
“Yes, ma’am, I will; so you must know that this evening—” “Yes, this evening. What has happened? he left me at six o’clock — what is it?”
“Nothing, I hope, this evening, ma’am. I am only afraid for to-morrow morning. And I will tell you all I know, as quick as ever I can.”
The man then proceeded to relate, that some one had been inquiring about Mr. Villiers at the Club House. One of the servants had told him that he lived in Duke Street, St. James’s, and that was all he knew; but Saunders came up, and the man questioned him. He instantly recognized the fellow, and knew what his business must be. And he tried to deceive him, and declared that Mr. Villiers was gone out of town; but the fellow said that he knew better than that; and that he had been seen that very day in the Strand. He should look for him, no thanks to Saunders, in Duke Street. “And so, ma’am, you see they’ll be sure to be here early to-morrow morning. So don’t let Mr. Villiers stay here, on no account whatsomever.”
“Why?” asked Ethel, simply; “they can’t hurt him.”
“I am sure, ma’am,” said Saunders, his face brightening, “I am very glad to hear that — you know best. They will arrest him for sure, but—” “Arrest him!”
“Yes, ma’am, for I’ve seen the tall one before. There were two of them — bailiffs.”
Ethel now began to tremble violently; these were strange, cabalistic words to her, the more awful from their mystery. “What am I to do?” she exclaimed; “Mr. Villiers will be here in the morning, he sleeps at Egham, and will be here early; I must go to him directly.”
“I am glad to hear he is so far,” said Saunders; “and if I can be of any use you have but to say it; shall I go to Egham? there are night coaches that go through, and I might warn him.”
Ethel thought — she feared to do any thing — she imagined that she should be watched, that all her endeavours would be of no avail. She looked at the man, honesty was written on his face; but there was no intelligence, nothing to tell her that his advice was good. The possibility of such an event as the present had never occurred to her. Villiers had been silent with regard to his fears on this head. She was suddenly transported into a strange sea, hemmed in by danger, without a pilot or knowledge of a passage. Again she looked at the man’s face: “What is best to be done!” she exclaimed.
“I am sure, ma’am” he replied, as if she had asked him the question, “I think what I said is best, if you will tell me where I can find Mr. Villiers. I should think nothing of going, and he could send word by me what he wished you to do.”
“Yes, that would indeed be a comfort. I will write three lines, and you shall take them.” In a moment she had written. “Give this note into his own hand, he will sleep there — I have written the direction of the house — or at some inn, at Egham. Do not rest till you have given the letter, and here is for your trouble.” She held out two sovereigns.
“Depend on me, ma’am; and I will bring an answer to you by nine in the morning. Mr. Villiers will pay me what he thinks fit — you may want your money. Only, ma’am, don’t be frightened when them men come to-morrow — if the people here are good sort of folks, you had better give them a hint — it may save you trouble.”
“Thank you: you are a good man, and I will remember you, and reward you. By nine to-morrow — you will be punctual?”
The man again assured her that he would use all diligence, and took his leave.
Ethel felt totally overwhelmed by these tidings. The unknown is always terrible, and the ideas of arrest, and prison, and bolts, and bars, and straw, floated before her imagination. Was Villiers safe even where he was? Would not the men make inquiries, learn where he had gone, and follow him, even if it were to the end of the world? She had heard of the activity empolyed to arrest criminals, and mingled every kind of story in her head, till she grew desperate from terror. Not knowing what else to do, she became eager for Mrs. Derham’s advice, and hurried down stairs to ask it.
She had not seen much of the good lady since her first arrival. Every day, when Villiers went out, she came up, indeed, on the momentous question of “orders for dinner;” and then she bestowed the benefit of some five or ten minutes garrulity on her fair lodger. Ethel learnt that she had seen better days, and that were justice done her, she ought to be riding in her coach, instead of letting lodgings. She learnt that she had a married daughter living at Kennington: poor enough, but struggling on cheerfully with her mother’s help. The best girl in the world she was, and a jewel of a wife, and had two of the most beautiful children that ever were beheld.
This was all that Ethel knew, except that once Mrs. Derham had brought her one of her grandchildren to be seen and admired. In all that the good woman said, there was so much kindness, such a cheerful endurance of the ills of life, and she had shown such a readiness to oblige, that the idea of applying to her for advice, relieved Ethel’s mind of much of its load of anxiety.
She was too much agitated to think of ringing for the servant, to ask to see her; but hurried down stairs, and knocked at the parlour-door almost before she was aware of what she was doing. “Come in,” said a feminine voice. Ethel entered, and started to see one she knew; — and yet again she doubted; — was it indeed Fanny Derham whom she beheld?
The recognition afforded mutual pleasure: checked a little on Ethel’s part, by her anxieties; and on Fanny’s, by a feeling that she had been neglected by her friend. A few letters had passed between them, when first Ethel had visited Longfield: since then their correspondence had been discontinued till after her return to England, from Italy, when Mrs. Villiers had wrote; but her letter was returned by the postoffice, no such person being to be found according to the address.
The embarrassment of the moment passed away. Ethel forgot, or rather did not advert to, her friend’s lowly destiny, in the joy of meeting her again. After a minute or two, also, they had become familiar with the change that time had operated in their youthful appearance, which was not much, and most in Ethel. Her marriage, and conversance with the world, had changed her into a woman, and endowed her with easy manners and self-possession. Fanny was still a mere girl; tall, beyond the middle height, yet her young, ingenuous countenance was unaltered, as well as that singular mixture of mildness and independence, in her manners, which had always characterized her. Her light blue eyes beamed with intelligence, and her smile expressed the complacency and condescension of a superior being. Her beauty was all intellectual: open, sincere, passionless, yet benignant, you approached her without fear of encountering any of the baser qualities of human beings, — their hypocrisy, or selfishness. Those who have seen the paintings of the calm-visaged, blue-eyed deities of the frescos of Pompeii, may form an idea of the serene beauty of Fanny Derham.
When Mrs. villiers entered, she was reading earnestly — a large dictionary open before her. The book on which she was intent was in Greek characters. “You have not forgotten your old pursuits,” said Ethel, smiling.
“Say rather I am more wedded to them than ever,” she replied; “since, more than ever, I need them to give light and glory to a dingy world. But you, dear Ethel, if so I may call
you, — you looked anxious as you entered: you wish to speak to my mother; — she is gone to Kennington, and will not return to-night. Can I be of any use?”
Her mother! how strange! and Mrs. Derham, while she had dilated with pride on her elder daughter, had never mentioned this pearl of price, which was her’s also.
“Alas! I fear not!” replied Ethel; “it is experience I need — experience in things you can know nothing about, nor your mother either, probably; yet she may have heard of such things, and know how to advise me.”
Mrs. Villiers then explained the sources of her disquietude. Fanny listened with looks of the kindest sympathy. “Even in such things,” she said, “I have had experience. Adversity and I are become very close friends since I last saw you: we are intimate, and I know much good of her; so she is grateful, and repays me by prolonging her stay. Be composed: no ill will happen, I trust, to Mr. Villiers; — at least you need not be afraid of his being pursued. It the man you have sent be active and faithful, all will be well. I will see these troublesome people to-morrow, when they come, and prevent your being annoyed. If Saunders returns early, and brings tidings of Mr. Villiers, you will know what his wishes are. You can do nothing more to-night; and there is every probability that all will be well.”
“Do you really think so?” cried Mrs. Villiers. “O that I had gone with him! — never will I again let him go any where without me.”
Fanny entered into more minute explanations, and succeeded, to a great degree, in calming her friend. She accompanied her back to her own room, and sat with her long. She entered into the details of her own history: — the illness and death of her father; the insulting treatment her mother had met from his family; the kindness of a relation of her own, who had assisted them, and enabled them to pursue their present mode of life, which procured them a livelihood. Fanny spoke generally of these circumstances, and in a spirit that seemed to disdain that such things were; not because they were degrading in the eyes of others, but because they interfered with the philosophic leisure, and enjoyment of nature, which she so dearly prized. She thought nothing of privation, or the world’s impertinence; but much of being immured in the midst of London, and being forced to consider the inglorious necessities of life. Her desire to be useful to her mother induced her often to spend precious time in “making the best of things,” which she would readily have dispensed with altogether, as the easiest, as well as the wisest, way of freeing herself from their trammels. Her narration interested Ethel, and served to calm her mind. She thought—”Can I not bear those cares with equanimity for Edward’s sake, which Fanny regards as so trivial, merely because Plato and Epictetus bid her do so? Will not the good God, who has implanted in her heart so cheerless a consolation, bring comfort to mine, which has no sorrow but for another’s sake?”