Few people know how little is necessary to live.
What is called or thought _hardship_ is nothing; _one_
unhappy feeling is worse than a thousand years of it.
LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD.
Uncertain what to do, Villiers had hastily determined that they should
take up their abode at a little inn near Brixton, to wait till Thursday.
He did not know the place except by having passed it, and observed a
smart landlady at the door; so he trusted that it would be neat and
clean. There was nothing imposing in the apperance of the young pair and
their hackney coach, accordingly there was no bustling civility
displayed to receive them. However, when the fire was once lighted, the
old-fashioned sofa drawn near, and dinner ordered, they sat together and
felt very happy; outcasts though they were, wanderers from civilized
existence, shut out, through poverty, from the refinements and gilt
elegancies of life.
One only cloud there was, when Villiers asked his wife an explanation
about their resources, and inquired whence she expected to receive money
on the following day. Ethel explained. Villiers looked disturbed. There
was something almost of anger in his voice, when he said, "And so,
Ethel, you feel no compunction in acting in exact opposition to my
wishes, my principles, my resolves?"
"But, dear Edward, what can principles have to do with borrowing a few
pounds from dear good Aunt Bessy? Besides, we can repay her."
"Be assured that we shall," replied Villiers; "and you will never again,
I trust, behave so unjustly by me. There are certain things in which we
must judge and act for ourselves, and the question of money
transactions is one. I may suffer--and you, alas! may also, through
poverty; though you have taken pains to persuade me, that you do not
feel that struggles, which, for your sake chiefly, embitter my
existence. Yet they are nothing in comparison with the loss of my
independence--the sense of obligation--the knowledge that my kind
friends can talk over my affairs, take me to task, and call me a burthen
to them. Why am I as I am? I have friends and connexions who would
readily assist me at this extremity, if I asked it, and I might turn
their kind feelings into sterling gold if I would; but I have no desire
to work this transmutation--I prefer their friendship."
"Do you mean," inquired his wife, "that your friends would not love you
the better for having been of service to you?"
"If they could serve me without annoyance to themselves they might; but
high in rank and wealthy as many of my relations are, there is not one
among them, at least of those to whom I could have recourse, who do not
dispose of their resources to the uttermost shilling, in their own way.
I then come to interfere with and to disarrange their plans; at first,
this might not be much--but presently they would weigh me against the
gold I needed, and it might happen, that my scale would kick the beam.
"I speak for myself not for others; I may be too proud, too
sensitive--but so I am. Ever since I knew what pecuniary obligations
were, I resolved to lay under such to no man, and this resolve was
stronger than my love for you; judge therefore of its force, and the
violence you do me, when you would oblige me to act against it. Did I
begin to borrow, a train of thoughts would enter the lender's mind; the
consciousness of which, would haunt me like a crime. My actions would be
scanned--I should be blamed for this, rebuked for that--even your name,
my Ethel, which I would place, like a star in the sky, far above their
mathematical measurements, would become stale in their mouths, and the
propriety of our marriage canvassed: could you bear that?"
"I yield to all you say," she answered; "yet this is strange morality.
Are generosity, benevolence, and gratitude, to be exploded among us? Is
justice, which orders that the rich give of his superfluity to the poor,
to be banished from the world?"
"You are eloquent," said Villiers; "but, my little wild American, this
is philosophy for the back-woods only. We have got beyond the primeval
simplicity of barter and exchange among gentlemen; and it is such if I
give gratitude in return for fifty pounds: by-and-by my fellow-trader
may grumble at the bargain. All this will become very clear to you
hereafter, I fear--when knowledge of the world teaches you what sordid
knaves we all are; it is to prevent your learning this lesson in a
painful way, that I guard you so jealously from making a wrong step at
this crisis."
"You speak of dreams," said Ethel, "as if dear aunt Bessy would feel any
thing but pleasure in sending her mite to her own dear niece."
"I have told you what I wish," replied her husband, "my honour is in
your hands; and I implore you, on this point, to preserve it in the way
I desire. There is but one relationship that authorizes any thing like
community of goods, it is that of parent and child; but we are orphans,
dearest--step-children, who are not permitted to foster our filial
sentiments. My father is unworthy of his name--the animal who destroys
its offspring at its birth is merciful in comparison with him: had he
cast me off at once, I should have hardened my hands with labour, and
earned my daily bread; but I was trained to "high-born necessities," and
have all the "wide wants and narrow powers"[1] of the heir of wealth. But
let us dismiss this ungrateful subject. I never willingly advert, even
in my own mind, to my father's unpaternal conduct. Let us instead fancy,
sweet love, that we were born to what we have--that we are cottagers,
the children of mechanics, or wanderers in a barbarous country, where
money is not; and imagine that this repose, this cheerful fire, this
shelter from the pelting snow without, is an unexpected blessing. Strip
a man bare to what nature made him, and place him here, and what a hoard
of luxury and wealth would not this room contain! In the Illinois, love,
few mansions could compete with this."
This was speaking in a language which Ethel could easily comprehend; she
had several times wished to express this very idea, but she feared to
hurt the refined and exclusive feelings of her husband. A splendid
dwelling, costly living, and many attendants, were with her the
adjuncts, not the material, of life. If the stage on which she played
her part was to be so decorated, it was well; if otherwise, the change
did not merit her attention. Love scoffed at such idle trappings, and
could build his tent of canvas, and sleep close nestled in her heart as
softly, being only the more lovely and the more true, from the absence
of every meretricious ornament.
This was another of Ethel's happy evenings, when she felt drawn close to
him she loved, and found elysium in the intimate union of their
thoughts. The dusky room showed them but half to each other; and the
looks of each, beaming with tenderness, drank life from one another's
gaze. The soft shadows thrown on their countenances, gave a lamp-like
lustre to their eyes, in which the purest spirit of affection sat,
weaving such unity of sentiment, such strong bonds of attachment, as
made all life dwindle to a point, and freighted the passing minute with
the hopes and fears of their entire existence. Not much was said, and
their words were childish--words
Intellette dar loro soli ambedui,
which a listener would have judged to be meaningless. But the mystery of
love gave a deep sense to each syllable. The hours flew lightly away. There
was nothing to interrupt, nothing to disturb. Night came and the day was
at an end; but Ethel looked forward to the next, with faith in its equal
felicity, and did not regret the fleet passage of time.
They had been asked during the evening if they were going by any early
coach on the following morning, and a simple negative was given. On that
morning they sat at their breakfast, with some diminution of the
sanguine hopes of the previous evening. For morning is the time for
action, of looking forward, of expectation,--and they must spend this in
waiting, cooped up in a little room, overlooking no cheering scene. A
high road, thickly covered with snow, on which various vehicles were
perpetually passing, was immediately before them. Opposite was a row of
mean-looking houses, between which might be distinguished low fields
buried in snow; and the dreary dark-looking sky bending over all, added
to the forlorn aspect of nature. Villiers was very impatient to get
away, yet another day must be passed here, and there was no help.
On the breakfast-table the waiter had placed the bill of the previous
day; it remained unnoticed, and he left it on the table when the things
were taken away. "I wonder when Fanny will come," said Ethel.
"Perhaps not at all to-day," observed Villiers, "she knows that we
intend to remain till tomorrow here; and if your aunt's letter is
delayed till then, I see no chance of her coming, nor any use in it."
"But Aunt Bessy will not delay; her answer is certain of arriving this
morning."
"So you imagine, love. You know little of the various chances that wait
upon borrowing."
Soon after, unable to bear confinement to the house, uneasy in his
thoughts, and desirous a little to dissipate them by exercise, Villiers
went out. Ethel, taking a small Shakspeare, which her husband had had
with him at the coffee-house, occupied herself by reading, or turning
from the written page to her own thoughts, gave herself up to reverie,
dwelling on many an evanescent idea, and reverting delightedly to many
scenes, which her memory recalled. She was one of those who "know the
pleasures of solitude, when we hold commune alone with the tranquil
solemnity of nature." The thought of her father, of the Illinois, and
the measureless forest rose before her, and in her ear was the dashing
of the stream which flowed near their abode. Her light feet again
crossed the prairie, and a thousand appearances of sky and earth
departed for ever, were retraced in her brain. "Would not Edward be
happy there?" she thought: "why should we not go? We should miss dear
Horatio; but what else could we regret that we leave behind? and perhaps
he would join us, and then we should be quite happy." And then her fancy
pictured her new home and all its delights, till her eyes were suffused
with tender feeling, as her imagination sketched a variety of
scenes--the pleasant labours of cultivation, the rides, the hunting, the
boating, all common-place occurrences, which, attended on by love, were
exalted into a perpetual gorgeous procession of beatified hours. And
then again she allowed to herself that Europe or America could contain
the same delights. She recollected Italy, and her feelings grew more
solemn and blissful as she meditated on the wondrous beauty and
changeful but deep interest of that land of memory.
Villiers did not return for some hours;--he also had indulged in
reverie--long-drawn, but not quite so pleasant as that of his
inexperienced wife. The realities of life were kneaded up too entirely
with his prospects and schemes, for them to assume the fairy hues that
adorned Ethel's. He could not see the end to his present struggle for
the narrowest independence. Very slender hopes had been held out to him;
and thus he was to drag out an embittered existence, spent upon sordid
cares, till his father died--an ungrateful idea, from which he turned
with a sigh. He walked speedily, on account of the cold; and as his
blood began to circulate more cheerily in his frame, a change came over
the tenor of his thoughts. From the midst of the desolation in which he
was lost, a vision of happiness arose, that forced itself on his
speculations, in spite, as he imagined, of his better reason. The image
of an elegant home, here or in Italy, adorned by Ethel--cheered by the
presence of friends, unshadowed by any cares, presented itself to his
mind with strange distinctness and pertinacity. At no time had Villiers
loved so passionately as now. The difficulties of their situation had
exalted her, who shared them with such cheerful fortitude, into an angel
of consolation. The pride of man in possessing the affections of this
lovely and noble-minded creature, was blended with the tenderest desire
of protecting and serving her. His heart glowed with honest joy at the
reflection that her happiness depended upon him solely, and that he was
ready to devote his life to secure it. Was there any action too arduous,
any care too minute, to display his gratitude and his perfect affection?
As his recollection came back, he found that he was at a considerable
distance from her, so he swiftly turned his steps homeward, (that was
his home where she was,) and scarcely felt that he trod earth as he
recollected that each moment carried him nearer, and that he should soon
meet the fond gaze of the kindest, sweetest eyes in the world.
Thus they met, with a renewed joy, after a short absence, each reaping,
from their separate meditations, a fresh harvest of loving thoughts and
interchange of grateful emotion. Great was the pity that such was their
situation--that circumstances, all mean and trivial, drew them from
their heaven-high elevation, to the more sordid cares of this dirty
planet. Yet why name it pity? their pure natures could turn the
grovelling substance presented to them, to ambrosial food for the
sustenance of love.
[Footnote 1: The Cenci.]