. . . . . . Think but whither
Now you can go; what you can do to live;
How near you have barred all ports to your own
succour.
Except this one that here I open, love.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
The most pleasing thoughts shed their balmy influence on Ethel's repose
that night. Edward's scheme of a country inn, where the very freedom
would make them more entirely dependent upon each other, was absolutely
enchanting. Where we establish ourselves, and look forward to the
passage of a long interval of time, we form ties with, and assume duties
towards, many of our fellow-creatures, each of which must diminish the
singleness of the soul's devotion towards the selected one. No doubt
this is the fitting position for human beings to place themselves in, as
affording a greater scope for utility: but for a brief space, to have no
occupation but that of contributing to the happiness of him to whom her
life was consecrated, appeared to Ethel a very heaven upon earth. It was
not that she was narrow-hearted: so much affection demands a spacious
mansion for its abode; but in their present position of struggle and
difficulty, there was no possibility of extending her sphere of
benevolence, and she gladly concentrated her endeavours in the one
object whose happiness was in her hands.
All night, even in sleep, a peculiar sense of calm enjoyment soothed the
mind of Ethel, and she awoke in the morning with buoyant spirits, and a
soul all alive to its own pleasurable existence. She sat at her little
solitary breakfast table, musing with still renewed delight upon the
prospect opened before her, when suddenly she was startled by the vision
of an empty purse. What could Villiers intend? She felt assured that his
stock was very nearly exhausted, and for herself two sovereigns, which
were not sufficient to meet the demands of the last week, was all that
she possessed. She tried to recollect if Edward had said any thing that
denoted any expectation of receiving money; on the contrary--diving into
the recesses of her memory, she called to mind that he had said, "We
shall receive your poor little dividend of a hundred pounds, in less
than a fortnight, so we shall be able to live, even if Gayland should
delay getting the other money--I suppose we have enough to get on till
then."
He had said this inquiringly, and she knew that she had made a sign of
assent, though at the time, she had no thought of the real purport of
his question or of her answer. What was to be done? The obvious
consequence of her reflections was at once to destroy the cherished
scheme of going out of town with Villiers. This was a misfortune too
great to bear, and she at last decided upon having again recourse to her
aunt. Unused to every money transaction, she had not that terror of
obligation, nor dislike of asking, which is so necessary to preserve our
independence, and even our sense of justice, through life. Money had
always been placed like counters in her hand; she had never known whence
it came, and until her marriage, she had never disposed of more than
very small sums. Subsequently Villiers had been the director of their
expenses. This was the faulty part of her father's system of education.
But Lodore's domestic habits were for a great part founded on experience in
foreign countries, and he forgot that an English wife is usually the
cashier--the sole controller of the disbursements of her family. It
seemed as easy a thing for Ethel to ask for money from Mrs. Fitzhenry,
as she knew it would be easy for her to give. In compliance, however,
with Villiers's notions, she limited her request to ten pounds, and tried
to word her letter so as to create no suspicion in her aunt's mind with
regard to their resources. This task achieved, she dismissed every
annoying thought, and when Fanny came to express her hope, that, bleak
and snowy as was the day, she did not intend to make her accustomed
pilgrimage, with a countenance beaming with delight, she dilated on
their plan, and spoke as if on the much-desired Thursday, the gates of
Elysium were to be thrown open for her.
There would have appeared something childish in her gladness to the
abstracted and philosophic mind of Fanny, but that the real evils of her
situation, and the fortitude, touching in its unconscious simplicity,
with which she encountered them, commanded respect. Ethel, as well as
her friend, was elevated above the common place of life; she also
fostered a state of mind, "lofty and magnificent, fitted rather to
command than to obey, not only suffering patiently, but even making
light of all human cares; a grand and dignified self-possession, which
fears nothing, yields to no one, and remains for ever unvanquished."
When Fanny, in one of their conversations, while describing the uses of
philosophy, had translated this eulogium of its effects from Cicero,
Ethel had exclaimed, "This is love--it is love alone that divides us
from sordid earthborn thoughts, and causes us to walk alone, girt by its
own beauty and power."
Fanny smiled; yet while she saw slavery rather than a proud independence
in the creed of Ethel, she admired the warmth of heart which could endow
with so much brilliancy a state of privation and solitude. At the
present moment, when Mrs. Villiers was rapturously announcing their
scheme for leaving London, an expression of pain mantled over Fanny's
features; her clear blue eyes became suffused, a large tear gathered on
her lashes. "What is the matter?" asked Ethel anxiously.
"That I am a fool--but pardon me, for the folly is already passed away.
For the first time you have made it hard for me to keep my soul firm in
its own single existence. I have been debarred from all intercourse with
those whose ideas rise above the soil on which they tread, except in my
dear books, and I thought I should never be attached to any thing but
them. Yet do not think me selfish, Mr. Villiers is quite right--it is
much better that you should not be apart--I am delighted with his plan."
"Away or near, dear Fanny," said Ethel, in a caressing tone, "I never
can forget your kindness--never cease to feel the warmest friendship for
you. Remember, our fathers were friends, and their children ought to
inherit the same faithful attachment."
Fanny smiled faintly. "You must not seduce me from my resolves," she
said. "I know my fate in this world, and I am determined to be true to
myself to the end. Yet I am not ungrateful to you, even while I declare,
that I shall do my best to forget this brief interval, during which, I
have no longer, like Demogorgon, lived alone in my own world, but become
aware that there are ties of sympathy between me and my
fellow-creatures, in whose existence I did not believe before."
Fanny's language, drawn from her books, not because she tried to
imitate, but because conversing perpetually with them, it was natural
that she should adopt their style, was always energetic and imaginative;
but her quiet manner destroyed every idea of exaggeration of sentiment:
it was necessary to hear her soft and low, but very distinct voice utter
her lofty sentiments, to be conscious that the calm of deep waters was
the element in which she dwelt--not the fretful breakers that spend
themselves in sound.
The day seemed rather long to Ethel, who counted the hours until
Thursday. Gladly she laid her head on the pillow at night, and bade
adieu to the foregone hours. The first thing that awoke her in the
morning, was the postman's knock; it brought, as she had been promised,
a long, long letter from Edward. He had never before written with so
much affection or with such an overflowing of tenderness, that made her
the centre of his world--the calm fair lake to receive into its bosom
the streams of thought and feeling which flowed from him, and yet which,
after all, had their primal source in her. "I am a very happy girl,"
thought Ethel, as she kissed the beloved papers, and gazed on them in
ecstasy; "more happy than I thought it was ever given us to be in this
world."
She rose and began to dress; she delayed reading more than a line or
two, that she might enjoy her dearest pleasure for a longer time--then
again, unable to controul her impatience, she sat half dressed, and
finished all--and was begining anew, when there was a tap at her door.
It was Fanny. She looked disturbed and anxious, and Ethel's fears were
in a moment awake.
"Something annoying has occurred," she said; "yet I do not think that
there is any thing to dread, though there is a danger to prevent."
"Speak quickly," cried Ethel, "do not keep me in suspense."
"Be calm--it is nothing sudden, it is only a repetition of the old
story. A boy has just been here--a boy you gave a sovereign to--do you
remember?--the night of your arrival. It seems that he has vowed himself
to your service ever since. Those two odious men, who were here once,
are often at his master's place-an alehouse, you know. Well, yesterday
night, he overheard them saying, that Mr. Villiers's resort at the London
coffee-house, was discovered, or at least suspected, and that a writ was
to be taken out against him in the city."
"What does that mean?" cried Ethel.
"That Mr. Villiers will probably be arrested to-day, or to-morrow, if he
remains where he is."
"I will go directly to him," cried Ethel; "we must leave town at once.
God grant that I am not too late!"
Seeing her extreme agitation, Fanny remained with her--forced her to
take some breakfast, and then, fearing that if any thing had really
taken place, she would be quite bewildered, asked her permission to
accompany her. "Will you indeed come with me?" Ethel exclaimed, "How
dear, how good you are! O yes, do come--I can never go through it all
alone; I shall die, if I do not find him."
A hackney coach had been called, and they hastened with what speed they
might, to their destination. A kind of panic seized upon Ethel, a tremor
shook her limbs, so that when they at last stopped, she was unable to
speak. Fanny was about to ask for Mr. Villiers, when an exclamation of
joy from Ethel stopped her; Edward had seen them, and was at the coach
door. The snow lay thick around on the roofs of the houses, and on every
atom of vantage ground it could obtain; it was then snowing, and as the
chilly fleece dropped through or was driven about in the dark
atmosphere, it spread a most disconsolate appearance over every thing;
and nothing could look more dreary than poor Ethel's jumbling vehicle,
with its drooping animals, and the half-frozen driver. Villiers had made
up his mind that he should never be mortified by seeing her again in
this sort of equipage, and he hurried down, the words of reproach
already on his lips, "Is this your promise?" he asked.
"Yes, dearest, it is. Come in, there is danger here.--Come in--we must
go directly."
Seeing Fanny, Villiers became aware that there was some absolute cause
for their journey, so he obeyed and quickly heard the danger that
threatened him. "It would have been better," he said, "that you had come
in the carriage, and that we had instantly left town."
"Impossible!" cried Ethel; "till to-morrow--that is quite impossible. We
have no money until to-morrow."
"Well, my love, since it is so, we must arrange as well as we can. Do
you return home immediately--this cold will kill you. I will take care
of myself, and you can come for me on Thursday evening, as we proposed."
"Do not ask it of me, Edward," said Ethel; "I cannot leave you. I could
never live through these two days away from you--you must not desire
it--you will kill me."
Edward kissed her pale cheek. "You tremble," he said; "how violently you
tremble! Good God! what can we do? What would you have me do?"
"Any thing, so that we remain together. It is of so little consequence
where we pass the next twenty-four hours, so that we are together. There
are many hotels in town."
"I must not venture to any of these; and then to take you in this
miserable manner, without servants, or any thing to command attendance.
But you shall have your own way; having deprived you of every other
luxury, at least, you shall have your will; which, you know, compensates
for every thing with your obstinate sex."
Ethel smiled, rejoicing to find him in so good and accommodating a
humour. "Yes, pretty one," he continued, marking her feelings, "you
shall be as wretched and uncomfortable as your heart can desire. We will
play the incognito in such a style, that if our adventures were printed,
they would compete with those of Don Quixote and the fair Dulcinea. But
Miss Derham must not be admitted into our vagabondizing--we will not
detain her."
"Yet she must know whither we are going, to bring us the letters that
will confer freedom on us."
Villiers wrote hastily an address on a card. "You will find us there,"
he said. "Do not mention names when you come. We shall remain, I
suppose, till Thursday."
"But we shall see you some time to-morrow, dear Fanny?" asked Ethel.
Already she looked bright and happy; she esteemed herself fortunate to
have gained so easily a point she had feared she must struggle for--or
perhaps give up altogether. Fanny left them, and the coachman having
received his directions, drove slowly on through the deep snow, which
fell thickly on the road; while they, nestling close to each other, were
so engrossed by the gladness of re-union, that had Cinderella's
godmother transmuted their crazy vehicle for a golden coach, redolent of
the perfumes of fairy land, they had scarcely been aware of the change.
Their own hearts formed a more real fairy land, which accompanied them
whithersoever they went, and could as easily spread its enchantments
over the shattered machine in which they now jumbled along, as amidst
the cloth of gold and marbles of an eastern palace.