Like gentle rains on the dry plains,
Making that green which late was grey;
Or like the sudden moon, that stains
Some gloomy chamber's window panes,
With a broad light like day.
SHELLEY.
How mysterious a thing is the action of repentance in the human mind! We
will not dive into the debasing secrets of remorse for guilt. Lady Lodore
could accuse herself of none. Yet when she looked back, a new light shone
on the tedious maze in which she had been lost; a light--and she blessed
it--that showed her a pathway out of tempest and confusion into serenity
and peace. She wondered at her previous blindness; it was as if she had
closed her eyelids, and then fancied it was night. No fear that she
should return to darkness; her heart felt so light, her spirit so clear
and animated, that she could only wonder how it was she had missed
happiness so long, when it needed only that she should stretch out her
hand to take it.
Her first act on the morrow was to have an interview with her
son-in-law's solicitor. Nothing could be more hopeless than Mr.
Gayland's representation of his client's affairs. The various deeds of
settlement and entail, through which he inherited his estate, were
clogged in such a manner as to render an absolute sale of his
reversionary prospects impossible, so that the raising of money on them
could only be effected at an immense future sacrifice. Under these
circumstances Gayland had been unwilling to proceed, and appeared
lukewarm and dilatory, while he was impelled by that love for the
preservation of property, which often finds place in the mind of a legal
adviser.
Lady Lodore listened attentively to his statements. She asked the extent of
Edward's debts, and somewhat started at the sum named as necessary to
clear him. She then told Mr. Gayland that their ensuing conversation
must continue under a pledge of secrecy on his part. He assented, and
she proceeded to represent her intention of disposing of her jointure
for the purpose of extricating Villiers from his embarrassments. She
gave directions for its sale, and instructions for obtaining the
necessary papers to effect it. Mr. Gayland's countenance brightened; yet
he offered a few words of remonstrance against such unexampled
generosity.
"The sacrifice," said Lady Lodore, "is not so great as you imagine. A
variety of circumstances tend to compensate me for it. I do not depend upon
this source of income alone; and be assured, that what I do, I consider, on
the whole, as benefiting me even more than Mr. Villiers."
Mr. Gayland bowed; and Cornelia returned home with a light heart. For
months she had not felt such an exhilaration of spirits. A warm joy
thrilled through her frame, and involuntary smiles dimpled her cheeks.
Dusky and dingy as was the day, the sunshine of her soul dissipated its
shadows, and spread brightness over her path. She could scarcely
controul the expression of her delight; and when she sat down to write
to Ethel, it was several minutes before she was able to collect her
thoughts, so as to remember what she had intended to say. Two notes were
destroyed before she had succeeded in imparting that sobriety to her
expressions, which was needful to veil her purpose, which she had
resolved to lock within her own breast for ever. At length she was
obliged to satisfy herself with a few vague expressions. This was her
letter:--
"I cannot help believing, my dearest girl, that your trials are coming
to a conclusion. I have seen Mr. Gayland; and it appears to me that
energy and activity are chiefly wanting for the arrangement of your
husband's affairs: I think I have in some degree inspired these. He has
promised to write to Mr. Villiers, who, I trust, will find satisfaction
in his views. Do you, my dearest Ethel, keep up your spirits, and take
care of your precious health. We shall meet again in better days, when
you will be rewarded for your sufferings and goodness. Believe me, I
love as much as I admire you; so, in spite of the past, think of me with
indulgence and affection."
Lady Lodore dressed to dine out, and for an evening assembly. She looked so
radiant and so beautiful, that admiration and compliments were showered
upon her. How vain and paltry they all seemed; and yet her feelings were
wholly changed from that period, when she desired to reject and scoff at
the courtesy of her fellow-creatures. The bitterness of spirit was gone,
which had prompted her to pour out gall and sarcasm, and had made it her
greatest pleasure to revel in the contempt and hate that filled her
bosom towards herself and others. She was now at peace with the world,
and disposed to view its follies charitably. Yet how immeasurably
superior she felt herself to all those around her! not through vanity or
supercilious egotism, but from the natural spring of inward joy and
self-approbation, which a consciousness of doing well opened in her
before dried-up heart. She somewhat contemned her friends, and wholly
pitied them. But she could not dwell on any disagreeable sentiment. Her
thoughts, while she reverted to the circumstances that so changed their
tenor, were stained with the fairest hues, harmonized by the most
delicious music. She had risen to a sphere above, beyond the ordinary
soarings of mortals--a world without a cloud, without one ungenial
breath. She wondered at herself. She looked back with mingled horror and
surprise on the miserable state of despondence to which she had been
reduced. Where were now her regrets?--where her ennui, her repinings,
her despair? "In the deep bosom of the ocean buried!"--and she arose, as
from a second birth, to new hopes, new prospects, new feelings; or
rather to another state of being, which had no affinity to the former.
For poverty was now her pursuit, obscurity her desire, ruin her hope;
and she smiled on, and beckoned to these, as if life possessed no
greater blessings.
Her impetuosity and pride served to sustain the high tone of her soul.
She had none of that sloth of purpose, or weakness of feeling, that
leads to hesitation and regret. To resolve with her had been, during the
whole course of her life, to do; and what her mind was set upon she
accomplished--it might be rashly, but still with that independence and
energy, that gave dignity even to her more ambiguous actions. As before,
when she cast off Lodore, she had never admitted a doubt that she was
justified before God and her conscience for refusing to submit to the
most insulting tyranny; so now, believing that she had acted ill in not
demanding the guardianship of her daughter, and resolving to atone for
the evils which were the consequence of this neglect of duty on her
part, she had no misgivings as to the future, but rushed precipitately
onwards. As a racer at the Olympic games, she panted to arrive at the
goal, though it were only to expire at the moment of its attainment.
Meanwhile, Ethel had been enchanted by her mother's visit, and spoke of
it to Villiers as a proof of the real goodness of her heart, insisting
that she was judged harshly and falsely. Villiers smiled incredulously.
"She gains your esteem at an easy rate," he observed; "cultivate it, if
it makes you happier. It will need more than a mere act of ordinary
courtesy--more than a slight invitation to her house, to persuade me
that Lady Lodore is not--what she is--a worshipper of the world, a
frivolous, unfeeling woman. Mark me whether she comes again."
Her letter, on the following day, strengthened his opinion. "This is
even insulting," he said: "she takes care to inform you that she will
not look again on your poverty, but will wait for _better days_ to bring
you together. The kindness of such an intimation is quite admirable. She
has inspired Gayland with energy and activity!--O, then, she must be a
Medea, in more senses than the more obvious one."
Ethel looked reproachfully. She saw that Villiers was deeply hurt that
Lady Lodore had become acquainted with their distresses, and been a witness
of the nakedness of the land. She could not inspire him with the tenderness
that warmed her heart towards her mother, and the conviction she
entertained, in spite of appearances, (for she was forced to confess to
herself that Lady Lodore's letter was not exactly the one she expected,)
that her heart was generous and affectionate. It was a comfort to her
that Fanny Derham participated in her opinions. Fanny was quite sure
that Lady Lodore would prove herself worthy of the esteem she had so
suddenly conceived for her; and Ethel listened delightedly to her
assertions--it was so soothing to think well of, to love, and praise her
mother.
The solicitor's letter, which came, as Lady Lodore announced, somewhat
surprised Villiers; yet, after a little reflection, he gave no heed to
its contents. It said, that upon further consideration of particular
points, Gayland perceived certain facilities; by improving upon which,
he hoped soon to make a favourable arrangement, and to extricate Mr.
Villiers from his involvements. Any thing so vague demanded explanation.
Edward wrote earnestly, requesting one; but his letter remained
unanswered. Perplexed and annoyed, he obtained permission to quit his
bounds for a few hours, and called upon the man of law. Gayland was so
busy, that he could not afford him more than five minutes' conversation.
He said that he had hopes--even expectations; that a little time would
show more; and he begged his client to be patient. Villiers returned in
despair. The only circumstance that at all served to inspire him with
any hope, was, that on the day succeeding to his visit, he received a
remittance of an hundred pounds from Gayland, who begged to be
considered as his banker till the present negociations should be
concluded.
There was some humiliation in the knowledge of how welcome this supply
had become, and Ethel used her gentle influence to mitigate the pain of
such reflections. If she ever drooped, it was not for herself, but for
Villiers; and she carefully hid even these disinterested repinings. Her
own condition did not inspire her with any fears, and the anxiety that
she experienced for her unborn child was untinctured by bitterness or
despair. She felt assured that their present misfortunes would be of
short duration; and instead of letting her thoughts dwell on the
mortifications or shame that marked the passing hour, she loved to fill
her mind with pleasing sensations, inspired by the tenderness of her
husband, the kindness of poor Fanny, and the reliance she had in the
reality of her mother's affection. In vain, she said, did the harsher
elements of life try to disturb the serenity which the love of those
around her produced in her soul. Her happiness was treasured in their
hearts, and did not emanate from the furniture of a room, nor the
comfort of an equipage. Her babe, if destined to open its eyes first on
such a scene, would be still less acted upon by its apparent
cheerlessness. Cradled in her arms, and nourished at her bosom, what
more benign fate could await the little stranger? What was there in
their destiny worthy of grief, while they remained true to each other?
With such arguments she tried to inspire Villiers with a portion of that
fortitude and patience which was a natural growth in herself. They had
but slender effect upon him. Their different educations had made her
greatly his superior in these virtues; besides that she, with her
simpler habits and unprejudiced mind, was less shocked by the
concomitants of penury, than he, bred in high notions of aristocratic
exclusiveness. She had spent her youth among settlers in a new country,
and did not associate the idea of disgrace with want. Nakedness and
gaunt hunger had often been the invaders of her forest home, scarcely to
be repelled by her father's forethought and resources. How could she
deem these shameful, when they had often assailed the most worthy and
industrious, who were not the less regarded or esteemed on that account.
She had acquired a practical philosophy, while inhabiting the western
wilderness, and beholding the vast variety of life that it presents,
which stood her in good stead under her European vicissitudes. The white
inhabitants of America did not form her only school. The Red Indian and
his squaw were also human beings, subject to the same necessities,
moved, in the first instance, by the same impulses as herself. All that
bore the human form were sanctified to her by the spirit of sympathy;
and she could not, as Edward did, feel herself wholly outcast and under
ban, while kindness, however humble, and intelligence, however lowly,
attended upon her.
Villiers could not yield to her arguments, nor partake her wisdom; yet
he was glad that she possessed any source of consolation, however
unimaginable by himself. He buried within his heart the haughty sense of
wrong. He uttered no complaint, though his whole being rebelled against
the state of inaction to which he was reduced. It maddened him to feel
that he could not stir a finger to help himself, even while he fancied
that he saw his young wife withering before his eyes; and looked forward
to the birth of his child, under circumstances, that rendered even the
necessary attendance difficult, if not impracticable. The heaviest
weight of slavery fell upon him, for it was he that was imprisoned, and
forbidden to go beyond certain limits; and though Ethel religiously
confined herself within yet narrower bounds than those allotted to him,
he only saw, in this delicacy, another source of evil. Nor were these
real tangible ills those which inflicted the greatest pain. Had these
misfortunes visited him in the American wilderness, or in any part of
the world where the majesty of nature had surrounded them, he fancied
that he should have been less alive to their sinister influence. But
here shame was conjoined with the perpetual spectacle of the least
reputable class of the civilized community. Their walks were haunted by
men who bore the stamp of profligacy and crime; and the very shelter of
their dwelling was shared by the mean and vulgar. His aristocratic pride
was sorely wounded at every turn;--not for himself so much, for he was
manly enough to feel "that a man's a man for all that,"--but for Ethel's
sake, whom he would have fondly placed apart from all that is deformed
and unseemly, guarded even from the rougher airs of heaven, and
surrounded by every thing most luxurious and beautiful in the world.
There was no help. Now and then he got a letter from his father, full of
unmeaning apologies and unmanly complaints. The more irretrievable his
poverty became, the firmer grew his resolve not to burden with his wants
any more distant relation. He would readily give up every prospect of
future wealth to purchase ease and comfort for Ethel; but he could not
bend to any unworthy act; and the harder he felt pressed upon and
injured by fortune, the more jealously he maintained his independence of
feeling; on that he would lean to the last, though it proved a sword to
pierce him.
He looked forward with despair, yet he tried to conceal his worst
thoughts, which would still be brooding upon absolute want and
starvation. He answered Ethel's cheering tones in accents of like cheer,
and met the melting tenderness of her gaze with eyes that spoke of love
only. He endeavoured to persuade her that he did not wholly shut his
heart from the hopes she was continually presenting to him. Hopes, the
very names of which were mockery. For they must necessarily be embodied
in words and ideas--and his father or uncle were mentioned--the one had
proved a curse, the other a temptation. He could trace his reverses as
to the habits of expence and the false views of his resources, acquired
under Lord Maristow's tutelage, as to the prodigality and neglect of his
parent. Even the name of Horatio Saville produced bitterness. Why was
he not here? He would not intrude his wants upon him in his Italian
home; but had he been in England, they had been saved from these worst
blows of fate.
The only luxury of Villiers was to steal some few hours of solitude,
when he could indulge in his miserable reflections without restraint.
The loveliness and love of Ethel were then before his imagination to
drive him to despair. To suffer alone would have been nothing; but to
see this child of beauty and tenderness, this fairest nursling of nature
and liberty, droop and fade in their narrow, poverty-striken home, bred
thoughts akin to madness. During each live-long night he was kept awake
by the anguish of such reflections. Darker thoughts sometimes intruded
themselves. He fancied that if he were dead, Ethel would be happier. Her
mother, his relations, each and all would come forward to gift her with
opulence and ease. The idea of self-destruction thus became soothing;
and he pondered with a kind of savage pleasure on the means by which he
should end the coil of misery that had wound round him.
At such times the knowledge of Ethel's devoted affection checked him. Or
sometimes, as he gazed on her as she lay sleeping at his side, he felt
that every sorrow was less than that which separation must produce; and
that to share adversity with her was greater happiness than the
enjoyment of prosperity apart from her. Once, when brought back from the
gloomiest desperation by such a return of softer emotions, the words of
Francesca da Rimini rushed upon his mind and completed the change. He
recollected how she and her lover were consoled by their eternal
companionship in the midst of the infernal whirlwind. "And do I love you
less, my angel?" he thought; "are you not more dear to me than woman
ever was to man, and would I divide myself from you because we suffer?
Perish the thought! Whether for good or ill, let our existences still
continue one, and from the sanctity and sympathy of our union, a sweet
will be extracted, sufficient to destroy the bitterness of this hour. We
prefer remaining together, mine own sweet love, for ever together,
though it were for an eternity of pain. And these woes are finite. Your
pure and exalted nature will be rewarded for its sufferings, and I, for
your sake, shall be saved. I could not live without you in this world;
and yet with insane purpose I would rush into the unknown, away from
you, leaving you to seek comfort and support from other hands than mine.
I was base and cowardly to entertain the thought, but for one moment--a
traitor to my own affection, and the stabber of your peace. Ah, dearest
Ethel, when in a few hours your eyes will open on the light, and seek me
as the object most beloved by them, were I away, unable to return their
fondness, incapable of the blessing of beholding them, what hell could
be contrived to punish more severely my dereliction of duty?"
With this last thought another train of feeling was introduced, and he
strung himself to more manly endurance. He saw that his post was
assigned him in this world, and that he ought to fulfil its duties with
courage and patience. Hope came hand in hand with such ideas--and the
dawn of content on his soul was a proof that the exercise of virtue
brought with it its own reward. He could not always keep his feelings in
the same tone, but he no longer saw greatness of mind in the indulgence
of sorrow.
He remembered that throughout the various stations into which society
has divided human beings, adversity and pain belong to each, and that
death and treachery are more frightful evils than all the hardships of
life. He thought of his unborn child, and of his duties towards it--not
only in a worldly point of view, but as its teacher and guide in morals
and religion. The beauty and use of the ties of blood, to which his
peculiar situation had hitherto blinded him, became intelligible at once
to his heart and his understanding; and while he felt how ill his father
had fulfilled the paternal duties, he resolved that his own offspring
should never have cause to reproach him for similar misconduct. Before
he had repined because the evils of his lot seemed gratuitous suffering;
but now he felt, as Ethel had often expressed it, that the sting of
humiliation is taken from misfortune, when we nerve ourselves to endure
it for another's sake.