by Mary Shelley
“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 ?”
“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 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 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 ‘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 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 , “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 , “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 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 , 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 ‘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 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; an
d 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 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 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 , 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 ; “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 , 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 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 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 , “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 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 ; “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 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 m
ind. 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.