LODORE.
BY THE
AUTHOR OF "FRANKENSTEIN."
In the turmoil of our lives,
Men are like politic states, or troubled seas,
Tossed up and down with several storms and tempests,
Change and variety of wrecks and fortunes;
Till, labouring to the havens of our homes,
We struggle for the calm that crowns our ends.
FORD.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET
(SUCCESSOR TO HENRY COLBURN.)
1835.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CONCLUSION
LODORE
CHAPTER I
If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
Injurious distance should not stop my way;
For then, despite of space, I would be brought,
From limits far remote, where thou dost stay.
SHAKSPEARE.
The still hours of darkness passed silently away, and morning dawned,
when
All rose to do the task, he set to each
Who shaped us to his ends, and not our own.
Ethel had slept peacefully through the livelong night;
nor woke till a knock at her door roused her. A rush of fear--a sense of
ill, made her heart palpitate as she opened her eyes to the light of
day. While she was striving to recall her thoughts, and to remember what
the evil was with which she was threatened, again the servant tapped at
her door, to say that Saunders had returned, and to deliver the letter
he had brought. She looked at her watch: it was past ten o'clock. She
felt glad that it had grown so late, and she not disturbed: yet as she
took the letter brought to her from her husband, all her tremor
returned; and she read it with agitation, as if it contained the
announcement of her final doom.
"You send me disagreeable tidings, my sweet Ethel," wrote Villiers,--"I
hope unfounded; but caution is necessary: I shall not, therefore, come
to Duke Street. Send me a few lines, by Saunders, to tell me if any
thing has happened. If what he apprehended has really taken place, you
must bear, my love, the separation of a day. You do not understand these
things, and will wonder when I tell you, that when the clock strikes
twelve on Saturday night, the magic spells and potent charms of
Saunders's friends cease to have power: at that hour I shall be restored
to you. Wait till then--and _then_ we will consult for the future. Have
patience, dearest love: you have wedded poverty, hardship, and
annoyance; but, joined to these, is the fondest, the most faithful heart
in the world;--a heart you deign to prize, so I will not repine at ill
fortune. Adieu, till this evening;--and then, as Belvidera says,
'Remember twelve!'
"_Saturday Morning._"
After reading these lines, Ethel dressed herself hastily. Fanny Derham
had already asked permission to see her; and she found her waiting in
her sitting-room. It was an unspeakable comfort to have one as
intelligent and kind as Fanny, to communicate with, during Edward's
absence. The soft, pleading eyes of Ethel asked her for comfort and
counsel; and, in spite of her extreme youth, the benignant and
intelligent expression of Fanny's countenance promised both.
"I am sorry to say," she said, "that Saunders's prognostics are too
true. Such men as he describes have been here this morning. They were
tolerably civil, and I convinced them, with greater ease than I had
hoped, that Mr. Villiers was absent from the house; and I assured them,
that after this visit of theirs, he was not likely to return."
"And do you really believe that they were"--Ethel faltered.
"Bailiffs? Assuredly," replied Fanny: "they told me that they had the
power to search the house; but if they were 'strong,' they were also
'merciful.' And now, what do you do? Saunders tells me he is waiting to
take back a letter to Mr. Villiers, at the London Coffee House. Write
quickly, while I make your breakfast."
Ethel gladly obeyed. She wrote a few words to her husband. That it was
already Saturday, cheered her: twelve at night would soon come.
After her note was dispatched, she addressed Fanny. "What trouble I
give," she said: "what will your mother think of such degrading
proceedings?"
"My mother," said Fanny, "is the kindest-hearted woman in the world. We
have never exactly suffered this disaster; but we are in a rank of life
which causes us to be brought into contact with such among our friends
and relations; and she is familiar with trouble in almost all shapes.
You are a great favourite of hers; and now that she can claim a sort of
acquaintance, she will be heart and soul your friend."
"It is odd," observed Ethel, "that she never mentioned you to me. Had
the name of Fanny been mentioned, I should have recollected who Mrs.
Derham was."
"Perhaps not," said Fanny; "it would have required a great effort of the
imagination to have fancied Mrs. Derham the wife of my father. You never
knew him; but Lord Lodore made you familiar with his qualities: the most
shrinking susceptibility to the world's scorn, joined to the most entire
abstraction from all that is vulgar; a morbid sensibility and delicate
health placed him in glaring contrast with my mother. They never in the
least assimilated; and her character has gained in excellence since his
loss. Before she was fretted and galled by his finer feelings--now she
can be good in her own way. Nothing reminds her of his exalted
sentiments, except myself; and she is willing enough to forget me."
"And you do not repine?" asked her friend.
"I do not: she is happy in and with Sarah. I should spoil their notions
of comfort, did I mingle with them;--they would torture and destroy me,
did they interfere with me. I lost my guide, preserver, my guardian
angel, when my father died. Nothing remains but the philosophy which he
taught me--the disdain of low-thoughted care which he sedulously
cultivated: this, joined to my cherished independence, which my
disposition renders necessary to me."
"And thus you foster sorrow, and waste your life in vain regrets?"
"Pardon me! I do not waste my life," replied Fanny, with her sunny
smile;--"nor am I unhappy--far otherwise. An ardent thirst for
knowledge, is as the air I breathe; and the acquisition of it, is pure
and unalloyed happiness. I aspire to be useful to my fellow-creatures:
but that is a consideration for the future, when fortune shall smile on
me; now I have but one passion; it swallows up every other; it dwells
with my darling books, and is fed by the treasures of beauty and wisdom
which they contain."
Ethel could not understand. Fanny continued:--"I aspire to be
useful;--sometimes I think I am--once I know I was. I was my father's
almoner.
"We lived in a district where there was a great deal of distress, and a
great deal of oppression. We had no money to give, but I soon found that
determination and earnestness will do much. It was my father's lesson,
that I should never fear any thing but myself. He taught me to
penetrate, to anatomize, to purify my motives; but once assured of my
own integrity, to be afraid of nothing. Words have more power than any
one can guess; it is by words that the world's great fight, now in these
civilized times, is carried on; I never hesitated to use them, when I
fought any battle for the miserable and oppressed. People are so afraid
to speak, it would seem as if half our fellow-creatures were born with
deficient organs; like parrots they can repeat a lesson, but their voice
fails them, when that alone is wanting to make the tyrant quail."
As Fanny spoke, her blue eyes brightened, and a smile irradiated her
face; these were all the tokens of enthusiasm she displayed, yet her
words moved Ethel strangely, and she looked on her with wonder as a
superior being. Her youth gave grace to her sentiments, and were an
assurance of their sincerity. She continued:--
"I am becoming flightly, as my mother calls it; but, as I spoke, many
scenes of cottage distress passed through my memory, when, holding my
father's hand, I witnessed his endeavours to relieve the poor. That is
all over now--he is gone, and I have but one consolation--that of
endeavouring to render myself worthy to rejoin him in a better world. It
is this hope that impels me continually and without any flagging of
spirit, to cultivate my understanding and to refine it. O what has this
life to give, as worldlings describe it, worth one of those glorious
emotions, which raise me from this petty sphere, into the sun-bright
regions of mind, which my father inhabits! I am rewarded even here by
the elevated feelings which the authors, whom I love so passionately,
inspire; while I converse each day with Plato, and Cicero, and
Epictetus, the world, as it is, passes from before me like a vain
shadow."
These enthusiastic words were spoken with so calm a manner, and in so
equable a voice, that there seemed nothing strange nor exaggerated in
them. It is vanity and affectation that shock, or any manifestation of
feeling not in accordance with the real character. But while we follow
our natural bent, and only speak that which our minds spontaneously
inspire, there is a harmony, which, however novel, is never grating.
Fanny Derham spoke of things, which, to use her own expression, were to
her as the air she breathed, and the simplicity of her manner entirely
obviated the wonder which the energy of her expressions might occasion.
Such a woman as Fanny was more made to be loved by her own sex than by
the opposite one. Superiority of intellect, joined to acquisitions
beyond those usual even to men; and both announced with frankness,
though without pretension, forms a kind of anomaly little in accord with
masculine taste. Fanny could not be the rival of women, and, therefore,
all her merits were appreciated by them. They love to look up to a
superior being, to rest on a firmer support than their own minds can
afford; and they are glad to find such in one of their own sex, and thus
destitute of those dangers which usually attend any services conferred
by men.
From talk like this, they diverged to subjects nearer to the heart of
Ethel. They spoke of Lord Lodore, and her father's name soothed her
agitation even more than the consolatory arguments of her friend. She
remembered how often he had talked of the trials to which the constancy of
her temper and the truth of her affection might be put, and she felt her
courage rise to encounter those now before her, without discontent, or
rather with that cheerful fortitude, which sheds grace over the rugged
form of adversity.