There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,
When two that are linked in one heavenly tie,
With heart never changing, and brow never cold,
Love on through all ills, and love on till they die.
LALLA ROOKH.
Villiers had not been returned long, when the waiter came in, and
informed them, that his mistress declined serving their dinner, till her
bill of the morning was paid; and then he left the room. The gentle pair
looked at each other, and laughed. "We must wait till Fanny comes, I
fear," said Ethel; "for my purse is literally empty."
"And if Miss Derham should not come?" remarked Villiers.
"But she will!--she has delayed, but I am perfectly certain that she
will come in the course of the day: I do not feel the least doubt about
it."
To quicken the passage of time, Ethel employed herself in netting a
purse, (the inutility of which Villiers smilingly remarked,) while her
husband read to her some of the scenes from Shakspeare's play of
"Troilus and Cressida." The profound philosophy, and intense passion, of
this drama, adorned by the most magnificent poetry that can even be
found in the pages of this prince of poets, caused each to hang
attentive and delighted upon their occupation. As it grew dark, Villiers
stirred up the fire, and still went on; till having with difficulty
decyphered the lines--
"She was beloved--she loved;--she is, and doth;
But still sweet love is food for fortune's tooth,"--
he closed the books. "It is in vain," he said; "our liberator does
not come; and these churls will not give us lights."
"It is early yet, dearest," replied Ethel;--"not yet four o'clock. Would
Troilus and Cressida have repined at having been left darkling a few
minutes? How much happier we are than all the heroes and heroines that
ever lived or were imagined! they grasped at the mere shadow of the
thing, whose substance we absolutely possess. Let us know and
acknowledge our good fortune. God knows, I do, and am beyond words
grateful!"
"It is much to be grateful for--sharing the fortunes of a ruined man!"
"You do not speak as Troilus does," replied Ethel smiling: "he knew
better the worth of love compared with worldly trifles."
"You would have me protest, then," said Villiers;--
"But, alas!
I am as true as truth's simplicity,
And simpler than the infancy of truth;"
"so that all I can say is, that you are a very ill-used little girl, to be
mated as you are--so buried, with all your loveliness, in this
obscurity--so bound, though akin to heaven, to the basest dross of
earth."
"You are poetical, dearest, and I thank you. For my own part, I am in
love with ill luck. I do not think we should have discovered how very
dear we are to each other, had we sailed for ever on a summer sea."
Such talk, a little prolonged, at length dwindled to silence. Edward
drew her nearer to him; and as his arm encircled her waist, she placed
her sweet head on his bosom, and they remained in silent reverie. He, as
with his other hand he played with her shining ringlets, and parted them
on her fair brow, was disturbed in thought, and saddened by a sense of
degradation. Not to be able to defend the angelic creature, who depended
on him, from the world's insults, galled his soul, and embittered even
the heart's union that existed between them. She did not think--she did
know of these things. After many minutes of silence, she said,--"I have
been trying to discover why it is absolute pleasure to suffer pain for
those we love."
"Pleasure in pain!--you speak riddles."
"I do," she replied, raising her head; "but I have divined this. The
great pleasure of love is derived from sympathy--the feeling of
union--of unity. Any thing that makes us alive to the sense of
love--that imprints deeper on our plastic consciousness the knowledge of
the existence of our affection, causes an increase of happiness. There
are two things to which we are most sensitive--pleasure and pain. But
habit can somewhat dull the first; and that which was in its newness,
ecstasy--our being joined for ever--becomes, like the air we breathe, a
thing we could not live without, but yet in which we are rather
passively than actively happy. But when pain comes to awaken us to a
true sense of how much we love--when we suffer for one another's dear
sake--the consciousness of attachment swells our hearts: we are recalled
from the forgetfulness engendered by custom; and the awakening and
renewal of the sense of affection brings with it a joy, that sweetens to
its dregs the bitterest cup."
"Encourage this philosophy, dear Ethel," replied Villiers; "you will
need it: but it shames me to think that I am your teacher in this
mournful truth." As he spoke, his whole frame was agitated by tenderness
and grief. Ethel could see, by the dull fire-light, a tear gather on his
eye-lashes: it fell upon her hand. She threw her arms round him, and
pressed him to her heart with a passionate gush of weeping, occasioned
partly by remorse at having so moved him, and partly by her heart's
overflowing with the dear security of being loved.
They had but a little recovered from this scene, when the waiter,
bringing in lights, announced Miss Derham. Her coming had been full of
disasters. After many threatenings, and much time consumed in clumsy
repairs, her hackney-coach had fairly broken down: she had walked the
rest of the way; but they were much further from town than she expected;
and thus she accounted for her delay. She brought no news; but held in
her hand the letter that contained the means of freeing them from their
awkward predicament.
"We will not stay another minute in this cursed place," said Villiers:
"we will go immediately to Salt Hill, where I intended to take you
to-morrow. I can return by one of the many stages which pass
continually, to keep my appointment with Gayland; and be back with you
again by night. So if these stupid people possess a post-chaise, we will
be gone directly."
Ethel was well pleased with this arrangement; and it was put it
execution immediately. The chaise and horses were easily procured. They
set Fanny down in their way through town. Ethel tried to repay her
kindness by heartfelt thanks; and she, in her placid way, showed clearly
how pleased she was to serve them.
Leaving her in Piccadilly, not far from her own door, they pursued their
way to Salt Hill; and it seemed as if, in this more change of place,
they had escaped from a kind of prison, to partake again in the
immunities and comforts of civilized life. Ethel was considerably
fatigued when she arrived; and her husband feared that he had tasked her
strength too far. The falling and fallen snow clogged up the roads, and
their journey had been long. She slept, indeed, the greater part of the
way, her head resting on him; and her languor and physical suffering
were soothed by emotions the most balmy and by the gladdening sense of
confidence and security.
They arrived at Salt Hill late in the evening. The hours were precious;
for early on the following day, Villiers was obliged to return to town.
On inquiry, he found that his best mode was to go by a night-coach from
Bath, which would pass at seven in the morning. They were awake half the
night, talking of their hopes, their plans, their probable deliverance
from their besetting annoyances. By this time Ethel had taught her own
phraseology, and Villiers had learned to believe that whatever must
happen would fall upon both, and that no separation could take place
fraught with any good to either.
When Ethel awoke, late in the morning, Villiers was gone. Her watch told
her, indeed, that it was near ten o'clock, and that he must have
departed long before. She felt inclined to reproach him for leaving her,
though only for a few hours, without an interchange of adieu. In truth,
she was vexed that he was not there: the world appeared to her so blank,
without his voice to welcome her back to it from out of the regions of
sleep. While this slight cloud of ill-humour (may it be called?) was
passing over her mind, she perceived a little note, left by her husband,
lying on her pillow. Kissing it a thousand times, she read its contents,
as if they possessed talismanic power. They breathed the most passionate
tenderness: they besought her, as she loved him, to take care of
herself, and to keep up her spirits until his return, which would be as
speedy as the dove flies back to its nest, where its sweet mate fondly
expects him. With these assurances and blessings to cheer her, Ethel
arose. The sun poured its wintry yet cheering beams into the parlour,
and the sparkling, snow-clad earth glittered beneath. She wrapped
herself in her cloak, and walked into the garden of the hotel. Long
immured in London, living as if its fogs were the universal vesture of
all things, her spirits rose to exultation and delight, as she looked on
the blue sky spread cloudlessly around. As the pure breeze freshened her
cheek, a kind of transport seized her; her spirit took wings; she felt
as if she could float on the bosom of the air--as if there was a
sympathy in nature, whose child and nursling she was, to welcome her
back to her haunts, and to reward her bounteously for coming. The trees,
all leafless and snow-bedecked, were friends and intimates: she kissed
their rough barks, and then laughed at her own folly at being so rapt.
The snow-drop, as it peeped from the ground, was a thing of wonder and
mystery; and the shapes of frost, beautiful forms to be worshipped. All
sorrow--all care passed away, and left her mind as clear and bright as
the unclouded heavens that bent over her.