Herein
Shall my captivity be made my happiness;
Since what I lose in freedom, I regain
With interest.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
The glow of enthusiasm and gladness, thus kindled in her soul, faded
slowly as the sun descended; and human tenderness returned in full tide
upon her. She longed for Edward to speak to; when would he come back?
She walked a little way on the London road; she returned: still her
patience was not exhausted. The sun's orb grew red and dusky as it
approached the horizon: she returned to the house. It was yet early:
Edward could not be expected yet: he had promised to come as soon as
possible; but he had prepared her for the likelihood of his arrival only
by the mail at night. It was long since she had written to Saville.
Cooped up in town, saddened by her separation from her husband, or
enjoying the brief hours of reunion, she had felt disinclined to write.
Her enlivened spirits now prompted her to pour out some of their
overflowings to him. She did not allude to any of the circumstances of
their situation, for Edward had forbidden that topic: still she had much
to say; for her heart was full of benevolence to all mankind; besides
her attachment to her husband, the prospect of becoming a mother within
a few months, opened another source of tenderness; there seemed to be a
superabundance of happiness within her, a portion of which she desired
to impart to those she loved.
Daylight had long vanished, and Villiers did not return. She felt
uneasy:--of course he would come by the mail; yet if he should not--what
could prevent him? Conjectures would force themselves on her,
unreasonable, she told herself; yet her doubts were painful, and she
listened attentively each time that the sound of wheels grew, and again
faded, upon her ear. If the vehicle stopped, she was in a state of
excitation that approached alarm. She knew not what she feared; yet her
disquiet increased into anxiety. "Shall I ever see him again?" were
words that her lips did not utter, and yet which lingered in her heart,
although unaccompanied by any precise idea to her understanding.
She had given a thousand messages to the servants;--and at last the mail
arrived. She heard a step--it was the waiter:--"The gentleman is not
come, ma'am," he said. "I knew it," she thought;--"yet why? why?" At one
time she resolved to set off for town; yet whither to go--where to find
him? An idea struck her, that he had missed the mail; but as he would
not leave her a prey to uncertainty, he would come by some other
conveyance. She got a little comfort from this notion, and resumed her
occupation of waiting; though the vagueness of her expectations rendered
her a thousand times more restless than before. And all was vain. The
mail had arrived at eleven o'clock--at twelve she retired to her room.
She read again and again his note: his injunction, that she should take
care of herself, induced her to go to bed at a little after one; but
sleep was still far from her. Till she could no longer expect--till it
became certain that it must be morning before he could come, she did not
close her eyes. As her last hope quitted her, she wept bitterly. Where
was the joyousness of the morning?--the exuberant delight with which her
veins had tingled, which had painted life as a blessing? She hid her
face in her pillow, and gave herself up to tears, till sleep at last
stole over her senses.
Early in the morning her door opened and her curtain was drawn aside.
She awoke immediately, and saw Fanny Derham standing at her bed-side.
"Edward! where is he?" she exclaimed, starting up.
"Well, quite well," replied Fanny: "do not alarm yourself, dear Mrs.
Villiers,--he has been arrested."
"I must go to him immediately. Leave me for a little while, dear
Fanny,--I will dress and come to you; do you order the chaise meanwhile.
I can hear every thing as we are going to town."
Ethel trembled violently--her speech was rapid but inarticulate; the
paleness that overspread her face, blanching even her marble brow, and
the sudden contraction of her features, alarmed Fanny. The words she had
used in communicating her intelligence were cabalistic to Ethel, and her
fears were the more intolerable because mysterious and undefined; the
blood trickled cold in her veins, and a chilly moisture stood on her
forehead. She exerted herself violently to conquer this weakness, but it
shackled her powers, as bands of rope would her limbs, and after a few
moments she sank back on her pillow almost bereft of life. Fanny sprang
to the bell, then sprinkled her with water; some salts were procured
from the landlady, and gradually the colour revisited her cheeks, and
her frame resumed its functions--an hysteric fit, the first she had ever
had, left her at last exhausted but more composed. She herself became
frightened lest illness should keep her from Villiers; she exerted
herself to become tranquil, and lay for some time without speaking or
moving. A little refreshment contributed to restore her, and she turned
to Fanny with a faint sweet smile, "You see," said she, "what a weak,
foolish thing I am; but I am well now, quite rallied--there must be no
more delay."
Her cheerful voice and lively manner gave her friend confidence. Fanny
was one who believed much in the mastery of mind, and felt sure that
nothing would be so prejudicial to Mrs. Villiers as contradiction, and
obstacles put in the way of her attaining the object of her wishes. In
spite therefore of the good people about, who insisted that the most
disastrous consequences would ensue, she ordered the horses, and
prepared for their immediate journey to town. Ethel repaid her cares
with smiles, while she restrained her curiosity, laid as it were a check
on her too impatient movements, and forced a calm of manner which gave
her friend courage to proceed.
It was not until they were on their way that the object of their journey
was mentioned. Fanny then spoke of the arrest as a trifling
circumstance--mentioned bail, and twenty things, which Ethel only
comprehended to be mysterious methods of setting him free; and then also
she asked the history of what had happened. The tale was soon told. The
moment Mr. Villiers had entered Piccadilly he had caused a coach to be
called, but on passing to it from the stage, two men entered it with
him, whose errand was too easily explained. He had driven first to his
solicitor's, hoping to put every thing in train for his instant
liberation. The day was consumed in these fruitless endeavours--he did
not give up hope till past ten at night, when he sent to Fanny, asking
her to go down to Mrs. Villiers as early as possible in the morning, and
to bring her up to town. His wish was, he said, that Ethel should take
up her abode at Mrs. Derham's till this affair could be arranged, and
they were enabled to leave London. His note was hurried; he promised
that another, more explicit, should await his wife on her arrival.
"You will tell the driver," said Ethel, when this story was finished,
"to drive to Edward's prison. I would not stay away five minutes from
him in his present situation to purchase the universe."
Any one but Miss Derham might have resisted Ethel's wish--have argued
with her, and irritated her by the display of obstacles and
inconveniences. It was not Fanny's method ever to oppose the desires of
others. They knew best, she affirmed, their own sensations, and what was
most fitting for them. What is best for me, habit, education, and a
different texture of character, may render the worst for them. In the
present instance, also, she saw that Ethel's feelings were almost too
high wrought for her strength--that opposition, by making a further call
on her powers, might upset them wholly. She had besides, the deepest
respect for her attachment to her husband, and was willing to reward it
by bringing her to him without delay. Having thus fortunately fallen
into reasonable hands, guided by one who could understand her character,
and not torture her by forcing notions the opposite of those on which
she felt herself compelled to act, Ethel became tranquil, and saw the
mere panic of inexperience in her previous excessive alarm.
They now approached London. Fanny called the post-boy to the window of
the chaise, and gave him directions, at which he a little stared, but
said nothing. She gave things their own names, and never dreamt of
saving appearances, as it is called. What ought to be done, that she
dared do in the face of the whole world, and therefore to make a mystery
of their destination never once occurred to her. They drove through the
long interminable suburbs--through Piccadilly and the Strand. Ethel's
cheeks flushed with the excitement, and something like apprehension made
her heart flutter. She had endeavoured to form an image in her own mind
of whither they were going--it was vague and therefore frightful--but
Edward was there, and she also would share the horrors of his
prison-house.
They passed through Temple Bar, and going down an obscure street or two,
stopped at a dingy door-way. "This is not right," said Ethel, almost
gasping for breath, "this is not a prison."
"Something very like it, as you will find too soon," said her friend.
Still Ethel's imagination was relieved by the absence of the massy
walls, the portentous gates, the gloomy immensity of an absolute prison.
The door of the house being opened, Ethel stepped out from the chaise
and asked for Mr. Villiers. The man whom she addressed hesitated, but
Ethel had learnt one only worldly lesson, which was, whenever she needed
the services of people of the lower orders, to disseminate money
plentifully. Her purse was in her hand, and she gave a sovereign to the
man, who then at once showed them upstairs; which she ascended, though
every limb nearly refused to perform its office as she approached the
spot where again she was to find--to see him, whose image lived
eternally in her heart, and whom it was the sole joy of her life to wait
on, to be sheltered by, to live near.
The door was opened. In the dingy, dusty room, beside the fire, which
looked as if it could not burn, and was never meant to warm even the
black neglected grate, Villiers sat, reading. His first emotion was
shame when he saw Ethel enter. There was no accord between her spotless
loveliness and his squalid prison-room. Any one who has seen a sunbeam
suddenly enter and light up a scene of housewifely neglect, and vulgar
discomfort, and felt how obtrusive it rendered all that might be
half-forgotten in the shade, can picture how the simple elegance of
Ethel displayed yet more distinctly to her husband the worse than
beggarly scene in which she found him. His cheeks flushed, and almost he
would have turned away. He would have reproached, but a tenderness and
an elevation of feeling animated her expressive countenance, which
turned the current of his thoughts. Whether it were their fate to suffer
the extremes of fortune in the savage wilderness, or in the more
appalling privations of civilized life--love, and the poetry of love
accompanied her, and gilded, and irradiated the commonest forms of
penury. She looked at him, and her eyes then glanced to the barred
windows. As Fanny and their conductor left them, she heard the key turn
in the lock with an impertinent intrusive loudness. She felt pained for
him, but for herself it was as if the world and all its cares were
locked out, and as if in this near association with him, she reaped the
reward of all her previous anxiety. There was no repining in her
thoughts, no dejection in her manner; Villiers could read in her open
countenance, as plainly as through the clearest crystal, the sentiments
that were passing in her mind--it was something more satisfied than
resignation, more contented than fortitude. It was a knowledge that
whatever evil might attend her lot, the good so far outweighed it, that,
for his sake only, could she advert to any feeling of distress. It was a
consciousness of being in her place, and of fulfilling her duty,
accompanied by a sort of rapture in remembering how thrice dear and
hallowed that duty was. Angels could not feel as she did, for they
cannot sacrifice to those they love; yet there was in her that absence
of all self-emanating pain, which is the characteristic of what we are
told of the angelic essences.
As when at night autumnal winds are howling, and vast masses of winged
clouds are driven with indescribable speed across the sky--we note the
islands of dark ether, built round by the white fleecy shapes; and as we
mark the stars which gem their unfathomable depth, silence and sublime
tranquillity appear to have found a home in that deep vault, and we love
to dwell on the peace and beauty that live there, while the clouds still
rush on, and the face of the lower heaven is more mutable than water.
Thus the mind of Ethel, surrounded by the world's worst forms of
adversity, showed clear and serene, entirely possessed by the repose of
love. It was impossible but that, in spite of shame and regret, Villiers
should not participate in these feelings. He gave himself up to the
softening influence: he knew not how to repine on his own account;
Ethel's affection demanded to stand in place of prosperity, and he could
not refuse to admit so dear a claim.
The door had closed on them, and every outlet to liberty, or the
enjoyment of life, was barred up. Edward drew Ethel towards him and
kissed her fondly. Their eyes met, and the speechless tenderness that
beamed from hers reached his heart and soothed every ruffled feeling.
Sitting together, and interchanging a few words of comfort and hope,
mingled with kind looks and affectionate caresses, they neither of them
remembered indignity nor privation. The tedious mechanism of civilized
life, and the odious interference of their fellow-creatures were
forgotten, and they were happy.