As flowers beneath May's footsteps waken
As stars from night's loose hair are shaken;
As waves arise when loud winds call,
Thoughts sprung where'er that step did fall.
SHELLEY.
Never before had the elegant and fastidious Lady Lodore entered such an
abode, or ascended such stairs. The servant had told her to enter the room
at the head of the first flight, so she made her way by herself, and
knocked at the door. The voice that told her to come in, thrilled
through her, she knew not why, and she became disturbed at finding that
her self-possession was failing her. Slight things act powerfully on the
subtle mechanism of the human mind. She had dressed with scrupulous
plainness, yet her silks and furs were strangely contrasted with the
room she entered, and she felt ashamed of all the adjuncts of wealth and
luxury that attended her. She opened the door with an effort: Ethel was
seated near the fire at work--no place or circumstance could deteriorate
from her appearance--in her simple, unadorned morning-dress, she looked
as elegant and as distinguished as she had done when her mother had last
seen her in diamonds and plumes in the presence of royalty. There was
a charm about both, strikingly in contrast, and yet equal in
fascination--the polish of Lady Lodore, and the simplicity of Ethel were
both manifestations of inward grace and dignity; and as they now met, it
would have been difficult to say which had the advantage of the other.
Ethel's extreme youth, by adding to the interest with which she must be
regarded, was in her favour. Yet full of sensibility and loveliness as
was her face, she had never been, nor was she even now, as strikingly
beautiful as her mother.
Lady Lodore could not restrain the tear that started into her eye on
beholding her daughter situated as she was. Ethel's feelings, on the
contrary, were all gladness. She had no pride to allay her gratitude for
her mother's kindness. "How very good of you to come!" she said, "how could
you find out where we were?"
"How long have you been here?" asked Lady Lodore, looking round the
wretched little room.
"Only a few weeks--I assure you it is not so bad as it seems. I should
not much mind it, but that Edward feels it so deeply on my account."
"I do not wonder," said her mother, "he must be cut to the soul--but
thank God it is over now. You shall come to me immediately, my house is
quite large enough to accommodate you--I am come to fetch you."
"My own dearest mother!"--the words scarcely formed themselves on
Ethel's lips; she half feared to offend the lovely woman before her by
showing her a daughter's affection.
"Yes, call me mother," said Lady Lodore; "I may, at last, I hope, be
allowed to prove myself one. Come then, dear Ethel, you will not refuse my
request--you will come with me?"
"How gladly--but--will they let Edward go? I thought there was no hope
of so much good fortune."
"I fear indeed," replied her mother, "that Mr. Villiers must endure the
annoyance of remaining here a little longer; but I hope his affairs will
soon be arranged."
Ethel bent her large eyes inquiringly on her mother, as if not
understanding; and then, as her meaning opened on her, a smile diffused
itself over her countenance as she said, "Your intentions are the
kindest in the world--I am grateful, how far more grateful than I can at
all express, for your goodness. That you have had the kindness to come
to this odious place is more than I could ever dare expect."
"It is not worth your thanks, although I think I deserve your
acquiescence to my proposal. You will come home with me?"
Ethel shook her head, smilingly. "All my wishes are accomplished," she
said, "through this kind visit. I would not have you for the world come
here again; but the wall between us is broken down, and we shall not
become strangers again."
"My dearest Ethel," said Lady Lodore, seriously, "I see what you mean. I
wish Mr. Villiers were here to advocate my cause. You must come with me--he
will be much more at ease when you are no longer forced to share his
annoyances. This is in every way an unfit place for you, especially at
this time."
"I shall appear ungrateful, I fear," replied Ethel, "if I assure you how
much better off I am here than I could be any where else in the world.
This place appears miserable to you--so I dare say it is; to me it seems
to possess every requisite for happiness, and were it not so, I would
rather live in an actual dungeon with Edward, than in the most splendid
mansion in England, away from him."
Her face was lighted up with such radiance as she spoke--there was so
much fervour in her voice--such deep affection in her speaking
eyes--such an earnest demonstration of heartfelt sincerity, that Lady
Lodore was confounded and overcome. Swift, as if a map had been unrolled
before her, the picture of her own passed life was retraced in her
mind--its loneless and unmeaning pursuits--and the bitter disappointments
that had blasted every hope of seeing better days. She burst into tears.
Ethel was shocked and tried to soothe her by caresses and assurances of
gratitude and affection. "And yet you will not come with me?" said Lady
Lodore, making an effort to resume her self-command.
"I cannot. It is impossible for me voluntarily to separate myself from
Edward--I am too weak, too great a coward."
"And is there no hope of liberation for him?" This question of Lady
Lodore forced them back to matter-of-fact topics, and she became composed.
Ethel related how ineffectual every endeavour had yet been to arrange
his affairs, how large his debts, how inexorable his creditors, how
neglectful his attorney.
"And his father?" inquired her mother.
"He seems to me to be kind-hearted," replied Ethel, "and to feel deeply
his son's situation; but he has no means--he himself is in want."
"He is keeping a carriage at this moment in Paris," said Lady Lodore, "and
giving parties--however, I allow that that is no proof of his having
money. Still you must not stay here."
"Nor shall we always," replied Ethel; "something of course will happen
to take us away, though as yet it is all hopeless enough."
"Aunt Bessy, Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry, might give you assistance. Have
you asked her?--has she refused?"
"Edward has exacted a promise from me not to reveal our perplexities to
her--he is punctilious about money obligations, and I have given my word
not to hurt his delicacy on that point."
"Then that, perhaps, is the reason why you refused my request to go home
with me?" said Lady Lodore reproachfully.
"No," replied Ethel, "I do not think that he is so scrupulous as to
prevent a mother from serving her child, but he shall answer for
himself; I expect him back from his walk every minute."
"Then forgive me if I run away," said Lady Lodore; "I am not fit to see him
now. Better times will come, dearest Ethel, and we shall meet again. God
bless you, my child, as so much virtue and patience deserve to be blest.
Remember me with kindness."
"Do not you forget me," replied Ethel, "or rather, do not think of me
and my fortunes with too much disgust. We shall meet again, I hope?"
Lady Lodore kissed her, and hurried away. Scarcely was she in her carriage
than she saw Villiers advancing: his prepossessing appearance, ingenuous
countenance, and patrician figure, made more intelligible to her
world-practised eyes the fond fidelity of his wife. She drew up the
window that he might not see her, as she gave her directions for "home,"
and then retreating to the corner of her carriage, she tried to compose
her thoughts, and to reflect calmly on what was to be done.
But the effort was vain. The further she was removed from the strange
scene of the morning, the more powerfully did it act on, and agitate her
mind. Her soul was in tumults. This was the being she had pitied, almost
despised! Her eager imagination now exalted her into an angel. There was
something heart-moving in the gentle patience, and unrepining
contentment with which she bore her hard lot. She appeared in her eyes
to be one of those rare examples sent upon earth to purify human nature,
and to demonstrate how near akin to perfection we can become. Latent
maternal pride might increase her admiration, and maternal tenderness
add to its warmth. Her nature had acknowledged its affinity to her
child, and she felt drawn towards her with inexpressible yearnings. A
vehement desire to serve her sprung up--but all was confused and
tumultuous. She pressed her hand on her forehead, as if so to restrain
the strong current of thought. She compressed her lips, so to repress
her tears.
Arrived at home, she found herself in prison within the walls of her
chamber. She abhorred its gilding and luxury--she longed for Ethel's
scant abode and glorious privations. To alleviate her restlessness, she
again drove out, and directed her course through the Regent's Park, and
along the new road to Hampstead, where she was least liable to meet any
one she knew. It was one of the first fine days of spring. The green
meadows, the dark boughs swelling and bursting into bud, the fresh
enlivening air, the holiday of nature's birth--all this was lost on her,
or but added to her agitation. Still her thoughts were with her child in
her narrow abode; every lovely object served but to recall her image,
and the wafting of the soft breeze seemed an emanation from her. It was
dark before she came back, and sent a hurried note of excuse to the
house where she was to have dined. "No more, O never more," she cried,
"will I so waste my being, but learn from Ethel to be happy, and to
love."
Many thoughts and many schemes thronged her brain. Something must be
done, or her heart would burst. Pride, affection, repentance, all
occupied the same channel, and increased the flood that swept away every
idea but one. Her very love for Horatio, true and engrossing as it had
been, the source of many tears and endless regrets, appeared as slight
as the web of gossamer, compared to the chain that bound her to her
daughter. She could not herself understand, nor did she wish to know,
whence and why this enthusiasm had risen like an exhalation in her soul,
covering and occupying its entire space. She only knew it was there,
interpenetrating, paramount. Ethel's dark eyes and silken curls, her
sweet voice and heavenly smile, formed a moving, speaking picture, which
she felt that it were bliss to contemplate for ever. She retired at last
to bed, but not to rest; and as she lay with open eyes, thinking not of
sleep--alive in every pore--her brain working with ten thousand
thoughts, one at last grew more importunate than the rest, and demanded
all her attention. Her ideas became more consecutive, though not less
rapid and imperious. She drew forth in prospect, as it were, a map of
what was to be done, and the results. Her mind became fixed, and
sensations of ineffable pleasure accompanied her reveries. She was
resolved to sacrifice every thing to her daughter--to liberate Villiers,
and to establish her in ease and comfort. The image of self-sacrifice,
and of the ruin of her own fortunes, was attended with a kind of
rapture. She felt as if, in securing Ethel's happiness, she could never
feel sorrow more. This was something worth living for: the burden of
life was gone--its darkness dissipated--a soft light invested all
things, and angels' voices invited her to proceed. While indulging in
these reveries, she sunk into a balmy sleep--such a one she had not
enjoyed for many months--nay, her whole past life had never afforded her
so sweet a joy. The thoughts of love, when she believed that she should
be united to Saville, were not so blissful; for self-approbation,
derived from a consciousness of virtue and well-doing, hallowed every
thought.