The world had just begun to steal
Each hope that led me lightly on,
I felt not as I used to feel,
And life grew dark and love was gone.
THOMAS MOORE.
While the young pair were thus struggling with the severe visitation of
adversity, Lady Lodore was earnestly engaged in her endeavours to extricate
them from their difficulties. The ardour of her zeal had made her take
the first steps in this undertaking, with a resolution that would not
look behind, and a courage not to be dismayed by the dreary prospect
which the future afforded. The scheme which she had planned, and was now
proceeding to execute, was unbounded in generosity and self-sacrifice.
It was not in her nature to stop short at half-measures, nor to pause
when once she had fixed her purpose. If she ever trembled on looking
forward to the utter ruin she was about to encounter, her second emotion
was to despise herself for such pusillanimity, and to be roused to
renewed energy. She intended to devote as much as was necessary of the
money arising from the sale of her jointure, as fixed by her marriage
settlement, for the liquidation of her son-in-law's debts. The remaining
six hundred a-year, bequeathed to her in Lord Lodore's will, under
circumstances of cruel insult, she resolved to give up to her daughter's
use, for her future subsistence. She hoped to save enough from the sum
produced by the disposal of her jointure, to procure the necessaries of
life for a few years, and she did not look beyond. She would quit London
for ever. She must leave her house, which she had bought during her days
of prosperity, and which she had felt so much pride and delight in
adorning with every luxury and comfort: to crown her good work, she
intended to give it up to Ethel. And then with her scant means she would
take refuge in the solitude where Lodore found her, and spend the
residue of her days among the uncouth and lonely mountains of Wales, in
poverty and seclusion. It was from no agreeable association with her
early youth, that she selected the neighbourhood of Rhaider Gowy for her
future residence; nor from a desire of renewing the recollections of the
period spent there, nor of revisiting the scenes, where she had stepped
beyond infancy into the paths of life. Her choice simply arose from
being obliged to think of economy in its strictest sense, and she
remembered this place as the cheapest in the world, and the most
retired. Besides, that in fixing on a part of the country which she had
before inhabited, and yet where she would be utterly unknown, the idea
of her future home assumed distinctness, and a greater sense of
practicability was imparted to her schemes, than could have been the
case, had she been unable to form any image in her mind of the exact
spot whither she was about to betake herself.
The first conception of this plan had dawned on her soul, as the design
of some sublime poem or magnificent work of art may present itself to
the contemplation of the poet and man of genius. She dwelt on it in its
entire result, with a glow of joy; she entered into its details with
childish eagerness. She pictured to herself the satisfaction of Villiers
and Ethel at finding themselves suddenly, as by magic, restored to
freedom and the pleasures of life. She figured their gladness in
exchanging their miserable lodging for the luxury of her elegant
dwelling; their pleasure in forgetting the long train of previous
misfortunes, or remembering them only to enhance their prosperity, when
pain and fear, disgrace and shame, should be exchanged for security and
comfort. She repeated to herself, "I do all this--I, the despised
Cornelia! I who was deemed unworthy to have the guardianship of my own
child. I, who was sentenced to desertion and misery, because I was too
worldly and selfish to be worthy of Horace Saville! How little through
life has my genuine character been known, or its qualities appreciated!
Nor will it be better understood now. My sacrifices will continue a
mystery, and even the benefits I am forced to acknowledge to flow from
me, I shall diminish in their eyes, by bestowing them with apparent
indifference. Will they ever deign to discover the reality under the
deceitful appearances which it will be my pride to exhibit? I care not;
conscience will approve me--and when I am alone and unthought of, the
knowledge that Ethel is happy through my means will make poverty a
blessing."
It was not pride alone that induced Lady Lodore to resolve on concealing
the extent of her benefits. All that she could give was not much if
compared with the fortunes of the wealthy--but it was a competence, which
would enable her daughter and her husband to expect better days with
patience; but if they knew how greatly she was a sufferer for their good,
they would insist at least upon her sharing their income--and what was
scanty in its entireness, would be wholly insufficient when divided.
Villiers also might dispute or reject her kindness, and deeply injured as
she believed herself to have been by him--injured by his disesteem, and the
influence he had used over Saville, in a manner so baneful to her
happiness, she felt irrepressible exultation at the idea of heaping
obligation on him,--and knowing herself to be deserving of his deepest
gratitude. All these sentiments might be deemed fantastic, or at least
extravagant. Yet her conclusions were reasonable, for it was perfectly
true that Villiers would rather have returned to his prison, than have
purchased freedom at the vast price she was about to pay for it. No, her
design was faultless in its completeness, meagre and profitless if she
stopt short of its full execution. Nor would she see Ethel again in the
interim--partly fearful of not preserving her secret inviolate--partly
because she felt so strongly drawn towards her, that she dreaded finding
herself the slave of an affection--a passion, which, under her
circumstances, she could not indulge. Without counsellor, without one
friendly voice to encourage, she advanced in the path she had marked
out, and drew from her own heart only the courage to proceed.
It required, however, all her force of character to carry her forward. A
thousand difficulties were born at every minute, and the demands made
were increased to such an extent as to make it possible that they would
go beyond her means of satisfying them. She had not the assistance of
one friend acquainted with the real state of things to direct her--her
only adviser was a man of law, who did what he was directed--not indeed
with passive obedience, but whose deviations from mere acquiescence,
arose from technical objections and legal difficulties, at once
unintelligible and tormenting.
Besides these more palpable annoyances, other clouds arose, natural to
wavering humanity, which would sometimes shadow Cornelia's soul, so that
she drooped from the height she had reached, with a timid and dejected
spirit. At first she looked forward to ruin, exile, and privation, as to
possessions which she coveted--but the further she proceeded, the more
she lost view of the light and gladness which had attended on the dawn
of her new visions. Futurity became enveloped in an appalling obscurity,
while the present was sad and cheerless. The ties which she had formed
in the world, which she had fancied it would be so easy to cut asunder,
assumed strength; and she felt that she must endure many pangs in the
act of renouncing them for ever. The scenes and persons which, a little
while ago, she had regarded as uninteresting and frivolous--she was now
forced to acknowledge to be too inextricably interwoven with her habits
and pursuits, to be all at once quitted without severe pain. When the
future was spoken of by others with joyous anticipation, her heart sunk
within her, to think how her hereafter was to become disjointed and cast
away from all that had preceded it. The mere pleasures of society grew
into delights, when thought of as about to become unattainable; and
slight partialities were regarded as if founded upon strong friendship
and tender affection. She was not aware till now how habit and
association will endear the otherwise indifferent, and how the human
heart, prone to love, will entwine its ever-sprouting tendrils around
any object, not absolutely repulsive, which is brought into near contact
with it. When any of her favourites addressed her in cordial tones, when
she met the glance of one she esteemed, directed towards her with an
expression of kindliness and sympathy, her eyes grew dim, and a thrill
of anguish passed through her frame. All that she had a little while ago
scorned as false and empty, she now looked upon as the pleasant reality
of life, which she was to exchange for she scarcely knew what--a living
grave, a friendless desart--for silence and despair.
It is a hard trial at all times to begin the world anew, even when we
exchange a mediocre station for one which our imagination paints as full
of enjoyment and distinction. How much more difficult it was for Lady to
despoil herself of every good, and voluntarily to encounter poverty in
its most unadorned guise. As time advanced, she became fully aware of
what she would have to go through, and her heroism was the greater,
because, though the charm had vanished, and no hope of compensation or
reward was held out, she did not shrink from accomplishing her task. She
could not exactly say, like old Adam in the play,
At seventeen years many their fortunes seek,
But at fourscore it is too late a week.
Yet at her age it was perhaps more difficult to cast off the goods of this
world, than at a more advanced one. Midway in life, we are not weaned
from affections and pleasures--we still hope. We even demand more of
solid advantages, because the romantic ideas of youth have disappeared,
and yet we are not content to give up the game. We no longer set our
hearts on ephemeral joys, but require to be enabled to put our trust in
the continuance of any good offered to our choice. This desire of
durability in our pleasures is equally felt by the young; but ardour of
feeling and ductility of imagination is then at hand to bestow a
quality, so dear and so unattainable to fragile humanity, on any object
we desire should be so gifted. But at a riper age we pause, and seek
that our reason may be convinced, and frequently prefer a state of
prosperity less extatic and elevated, because its very sobriety
satisfies us that it will not slip suddenly from our grasp.
The comforts of life, the esteem of friends--these are things which we
then regard with the greatest satisfaction; and other feelings, less
reasonable, yet not less keenly felt, may enter into the circle of
sensations, which forms the existence of a beautiful woman. It is less
easy for one who has been all her life admired and waited upon, to give
up the few last years of such power, than it would have been to cast
away the gift in earlier life. She has learned to doubt her influence,
to know its value, and to prize it. In girlhood it may be matter of mere
triumph--in after years it will be looked on as an inestimable quality
by which she may more easily and firmly secure the benevolence of her
fellow-creatures. All this depends upon the polish of the skin and the
fire of the eye, which a few years will deface and quench--and while the
opprobrious epithet of old woman approaches within view, she is glad to
feel secure from its being applied to her, by perceiving the signs of
the influence of her surviving attractions marked in the countenances of
her admirers. Lady Lodore never felt so kindly inclined towards hers, as now
that she was about to withdraw from them. Their admiration, for its own
sake, she might contemn, but she valued it as the testimony that those
charms were still hers, which once had subdued the soul of him she
loved--and this was no disagreeable assurance to one who was on the eve
of becoming a grandmother.
Her sensibility, awakened by the considerations forced on her by her new
circumstances, caused her to make more progress in the knowledge of
life, and in the philosophy of its laws, than love or ambition had ever
done before. The last had rendered her proud from success, the first had
caused her to feel dependent on one only; but now that she was about to
abandon all, she found herself bound to all by stronger ties than she
could have imagined. She became aware that any new connexion could never
be adorned by the endearing recollections attending those she had
already formed. The friends of her youth, her mere acquaintances, she
regarded with peculiar partiality, as being the witnesses or sharers of
her past joys and successes. Each familiar face was sanctified in her
eyes by association; and she walked among those whom she had so lately
scorned, as if they were saintly memorials to be approached with awe,
and quitted with eternal regret. Her hopes and prospects had hinged upon
them, but her life became out of joint when she quitted them. Her
sensitive nature melted in unwonted tenderness while occupied by such
contemplations, and they turned the path, she had so lately entered as
one of triumph and gladness, to gloom and despondence.
Sometimes she pondered upon means for preserving her connexion with the
world. But any scheme of that kind was fraught, on the one hand, with
mortification to herself, on the other, with the overthrow of her
designs, through the repugnance which Ethel and her husband would feel
at occasioning such unmeasured sacrifices. She often regretted that
there were no convents, to which she might retire with safety and
dignity. Conduct, such as she contemplated pursuing, would, under the
old regime in France, have been recompensed by praise and gratitude;
while its irrevocability must prevent any resistance to her wishes. In
giving up fortune and station, she would have placed herself under the
guardianship of a community; and have found protection and security, to
compensate for poverty and slavery. The very reverse of all this must
now happen. Alone, friendless, unknown, and therefore despised, she must
shift for herself, and rely on her own resources for prudence to insure
safety, and courage to endure the evils of her lot. To one of another
sex, the name of loneliness can never convey the idea of desolation and
disregard, which gives it so painful a meaning in a woman's mind. They
have not been taught always to look up to others, and to do nothing for
themselves; so that business becomes a matter of heroism to a woman,
when conducted in the most common-place way; but when it is accompanied
by mystery, she feels herself transported from her fitting place, and as
if about to encounter shame and contumely. Lady Lodore had never been
conversant with any mode of life, except that of being waited on and
watched over. In the poverty of her early girlhood, her mother had been
constantly at her side. The necessity of so conducting herself as to
prevent the shadow of slander from visiting her, had continued this
state of dependence during all her married life. She had never stept
across a street without attendance; nor put on her gloves, but as
brought to her by a servant. Her look had commanded obedience, and her
will had been law with those about her. This was now to be altered. She
scarcely reverted in her mind to these minutiæ; and when she did, it
was to smile at herself for being able to give weight to such trifles.
She was not aware how, hereafter, these small things would become the
shapings and embodyings which desertion and penury would adopt, to sting
her most severely. The new course she was about to enter, was too
unknown to make her fears distinct. There was one vast blank before her,
one gigantic and mishapen image of desertion, which filled her mind to
the exclusion of every other, but whose parts were not made out, though
this very indistinctness was the thing that often chiefly appalled her.
She said, with the noble exile,[2]--
"I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,
Too far in years to be a pupil now."
It is true that she had not, like him,
to lament that--
"My native English, now I must forego;"
but there is
another language, even more natural than the mere dialect in which we
have been educated. When our lips no longer utter the sentiments of our
heart--when we are forced to exchange the spontaneous effusions of the
soul for cramped and guarded phrases, which give no indication of the
thought within,--then, indeed, may we say, that our tongue becomes
. . . "an unstringed viol, or a harp,
. . . . . . put into his hands,
That knows no touch to tune the harmony."
And this was to be Lady Lodore's position. Her only companions would be
villagers; or, at best, a few Welsh gentry, with whom she could have no
real communication. Sympathy, the charm of life, was dead for her, and
her state of banishment would be far more complete than if mountains and
seas only constituted its barriers.
Lady Lodore was often disturbed by these reflections, but she did not on
that account waver in her purpose. The flesh might shrink, but the spirit
was firm. Sometimes, indeed, she wondered how it was that she had first
conceived the design, which had become the tyrant of her life. She had
long known that she had a daughter, young, lovely, and interesting,
without any great desire to become intimate with her. Sometimes pride,
sometimes indignation, had checked her maternal feelings. The only time
before, in which she had felt any emotion similar to that which now
governed her, was on the day when she had spoken to her in the House of
Lords. But instead of indulging it, she had fled from it as an enemy,
and despised herself as a dupe, for being for one instant its subject.
When her fingers then touched her daughter's cheek, she had not trembled
like Ethel; yet an awful sensation passed through her frame, which for a
moment stunned her, and she hastily retreated, to recover herself. Now,
on the contrary, she longed to strain her child to her heart; she
thought no sacrifice too great, which was to conduce to her advantage;
and that she condemned herself never to see her more, appeared the
hardest part of the lot she was to undergo. Why was this change? She
could not tell--memory could not inform her. She only knew that since
she had seen Ethel in her adversity, the stoniness of her heart had
dissolved within her, that her whole being was subdued to tenderness,
and that the world was changed from what it had been in her eyes. She
felt that she could not endure life, unless for the sake of benefiting
her child; and that this sentiment mastered her in spite of herself, so
that every struggle with it was utterly vain.
Thus if she sometimes repined at the hard fate that drove her into
exile, yet she never wavered in her intentions; and in the midst of
regret, a kind of exultation was born, which calmed her pain. Smiles sat
upon her features, and her voice was attuned to cheerfulness. The
new-sprung tenderness of her soul imparted a fascination to her manner
far more irresistible than that to which tact and polish had given rise.
She was more kind and affectionate, and, above all, more sincere, and
therefore more winning. Every one felt, though none could divine the
cause of, this change. It was remarked that she was improved: some
shrewdly suspected that she was in love. And so she was--with an object
more enchanting than any earthly lover. For the first time she knew and
loved the Spirit of good and beauty, an affinity to which affords the
greatest bliss that our nature can receive.
[Footnote 2: Richard II.]