I am not One who much or oft delights
To season my Friends with personal talk,--
Of Friends who live within an easy walk,
Or Neighbours, daily, weekly in my sight.
And, for my chance acquaintance, Ladies bright.
Sons, Mothers, Maidens withering on the stalk,
These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk
Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night.
WORDSWORTH.
Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry returned to Longfield from Maristow Castle at
the end of the month of November. She gladly came back, in all the
dinginess and bleakness of that dismal season, to her beloved seclusion
at Longfield. The weather was dreary, a black frost invested every thing
with its icy chains, the landscape looked disconsolate, and now and then
wintry blasts brought on snow-storms, and howled loudly through the long
dark nights. The amiable spinster drew her chair close to the fire; with
half-shut eyes she contemplated the glowing embers, and recalled many past
winters just like this, when Lodore was alive and in America; or, diving
yet deeper into memory, when the honoured chair she now occupied, had
been dignified by her father, and she had tried to sooth his querulous
complaints on the continued absence of her brother Henry. When, instead
of these familiar thoughts, the novel ones of Ethel and Villiers
intruded themselves, she rubbed her eyes to be quite sure that she did
not dream. It was a lamentable change; and who the cause? Even she whose
absence had been, she felt, wickedly lamented at Maristow Castle,
Cornelia Santerre--she, who in an evil hour, had become Lady Lodore, and
who would before God, answer for the disasters and untimely death of her
ill-fated husband.
With any but Mrs. Fitzhenry, such accusations had, after the softening
process of time, been changed to an admission, that, despite her errors,
Lady Lodore had rather been misled and mistaken, than heinously faulty; and
her last act, in sacrificing so much to her daughter, although the extent
of her sacrifice was unknown to her sister-in-law, had cancelled her former
delinquencies. But the prejudiced old lady was not so easily mollified;
she was harsh alone towards her, but all the gall of her nature was
collected and expended on the head of her brother's widow. Probably an
instinctive feeling of her unreasonableness made her more violent. Her
language was bitter whenever she alluded to her--she rejoiced at her
absence, and instead of entering into Ethel's gratitude and impatience,
she fervently prayed that she might never appear on the scene again.
Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry was less of a gossip than any maiden lady who
had ever lived singly in the centre of a little village. Her heart was
full of the dead and the absent--of past events, and their long train of
consequences, so that the history of the inhabitants of her village,
possessed no charm for her. If any one among them suffered from
misfortune she endeavoured to relieve them, and if any died, she lamented,
moralized on the passage of time, and talked of Lodore's death; but
the scandal, the marriages, the feuds, and wonderful things that came to
pass at Longfield, appeared childish and contemptible, the flickering of
earth-born tapers compared to the splendour, the obscuration, and final
setting of the celestial luminary which had been the pole-star of her
life.
It was from this reason that Mrs. Fitzhenry had not heard of the Lady
who lodged at Dame Nixon's cottage, in the Vale of Bewling, till the
time, when, after having exhausted the curiosity of Longfield, she was
almost forgotten. The Lady, she was known by no other name, had arrived
in the town during Mrs. Fitzhenry's visit to Maristow castle. She had
arrived in her own chariot, unattended by any servant; the following day
she had taken up her abode at Dame Nixon's cottage, saying, that she was
only going to stay a week: she had continued there for more than three
months.
Dame Nixon's cottage was situated about a mile and a half from
Longfield. It stood alone in a little hollow embowered by trees; the
ground behind rose to a slight upland, and a rill trickled through the
garden. You got to it by a bye path, which no wheeled vehicle could
traverse, though a horse might, and it was indeed the very dingle and
cottage which Ethel had praised during her visit into Essex in the
preceding year. The silence and seclusion were in summer tranquillizing
and beautiful; in winter sad and drear; the fields were swampy in wet
weather, and in snow and frost it seemed cut off from the rest of the
world. Dame Nixon and her granddaughter lived there alone. The girl had
been engaged to be married. Her lover jilted her, and wedded a richer
bride. The story is so old, that it is to be wondered that women have
not ceased to lament so common an occurrence. Poor Margaret was, on the
contrary, struck to the heart--she despised herself for being unable to
preserve her lover's affections, rather than the deceiver for his
infidelity. She neglected her personal appearance, nor ever showed
herself among her former companions, except to support her grandmother
to church. Her false lover sat in the adjoining pew. She fixed her eyes
on her Prayer-book during the service, and on the ground as she went
away. She did not wish him to see the change which his faithlessness had
wrought, for surely it would afflict him. Once there had not bloomed a
fresher or gayer rose in the fields of Essex--now she had grown thin and
pale--her young light step had become slow and heavy--sickness and
sorrow made her eyes hollow, and her cheeks sunken. She avoided every
one, devoting herself to attendance on her grandmother. Dame Nixon was
nearly doting. Life was ebbing fast from her old frame; her best
pleasure was to sun herself in the garden in summer, or to bask before
the winter's fire. While enjoying these delights, her dimmed eyes
brightened, and a smile wreathed her withered lips; she said, "Ah! this
is comfortable;" while her broken-hearted grandchild envied a state of
being which could content itself with mere animal enjoyment. They were
very poor. Margaret had to work hard; but the thoughts of the head, or,
at least, the feelings of the heart, need not wait on the labour of the
hands. The Sunday visit to church kept alive her pain; her very prayers
were bitter, breathed close to the deceiver and her who had usurped her
happiness: the memory and anticipation haunted her through the week; she
was often blinded by tears as she patiently pursued her household
duties, or her toil in their little garden. Her hands were hardened with
work, her throat, her face sunburnt; but exercise and occupation did not
prevent her from wasting away, or her cheek from becoming sunk and wan.
Dame Nixon's cottage was poor but roomy; some years before, a gentleman
from London had, in a freak, hired two rooms in it, and furnished them.
Since then, she had sometimes let them, and now they were occupied by
the stranger lady. At first all three of the inhabitants appeared each
Sunday at church. The Lady was dressed in spotless and simple white, and
so closely veiled, that no one could see her face; of course she was
beautiful. Soon after Mrs. Elizabeth's return from Maristow Castle, it
was discovered that first the lady stayed away, and soon, that the whole
party absented themselves on Sunday; and as this defalcation demanded
inquiry, it was discovered that a pony chaise took them three miles off
to the church of the nearest village. This was a singular and yet a
beneficial change. The false swain must rejoice at losing sight of the
memento of his sin, and Margaret would certainly pray with a freer
heart, when she no longer shrunk from his gaze and that of his wife.
It was not until the end of January that Mrs. Elizabeth heard of the
Lady; it was not till the beginning of February that she asked a single
question about her.
In January, passing the inn-yard, the curate's wife, who was walking
with her, said, "There is the chariot belonging to the Lady who lodges
at dame Nixon's cottage. I wonder who she is. The arms are painted out."
"Ah, dame Nixon has a lodger then; that is a good thing, it will help
her through the winter. I have not seen her or her daughter at church
lately."
"No," replied the other, "they go now to Bewling church."
"I am glad to hear it," said Mrs. Fitzhenry; "it is much better for poor
Margaret not to come here."
The conversation went on, and the Lady was alluded to, but no questions
were asked or curiosity excited. In February she heard from the doctor's
wife, that the doctor had been to the cottage, and that the Lady was
indisposed. She heard at the same time that this Lady had refused to
receive the visits of the curate's lady and the doctor's lady--excusing
herself, that she was going to leave Essex immediately. This had
happened two months before. On hearing of her illness, Mrs. Elizabeth
thought of calling on her, but this stopped her. "It is very odd," said
the doctor's wife, "she came in her own carriage, and yet has no
servants. She lives in as poor a way as can be, down in that cottage,
yet my husband says she is more like the Queen of England in her looks
and ways than any one he ever saw."
"Like the Queen of England?" said Mrs. Fitzhenry, "What queen?--Queen
Charlotte?" who had been the queen of the greater part of the good
lady's life.
"She is as young and beautiful as an angel," said the other, half angry;
"it is very mysterious. She did not look downcast like, as if any thing
was wrong, but was as cheerful and condescending as could be.
'Condescending, Doctor,' said I, for my husband used the word; 'you
don't want condescension from a poor body lodging at dame Nixon's.'--'A
poor body!' said he, in a huff, 'she is more of a lady, indeed more like
the Queen of England than any rich body you ever saw.' And what is odd,
no one knows her name--Dame Nixon and Margaret always call her Lady--the
very marks are picked out from her pocket handkerchiefs. Yet I did hear
that there was a coronet plain to be seen on one--a thing impossible
unless she was a poor cast-away; and the doctor says he'd lay his life
that she was nothing of that. He must know her name when he makes out
her bill, and I told him to ask it plump, but he puts off, and puts off,
till I am out of all patience."
A misty confused sense of discomfort stole over Mrs. Elizabeth when she
heard of the coronet in the corner of the pocket handkerchief, but it
passed away without suggesting any distinct idea to her mind. Nor did
she feel curiosity about the stranger--she was too much accustomed to
the astonishment, the conjectures, the gossip of Longfield, to suppose
that there was any real foundation for surprise, because its
wonder-loving inhabitants choose to build up a mystery out of every
common occurrence of life.
This absence of inquisitiveness must long have kept Mrs. Fitzhenry in
ignorance of who her neighbour was, and the inhabitants of Longfield
would probably have discovered it before her, had not the truth been
revealed even before she entertained a suspicion that there was any
secret to be found out.
"I beg your pardon, ma'am," said her maid to her one evening, as she was
superintending the couchée of the worthy spinster, "I think you ought
to know, though I am afraid you may be angry."
The woman hesitated; her mistress encouraged her. "If it is any thing I
ought to know, Wilmot, tell it at once, and don't be afraid. What has
happened to you?"
"To me, ma'am,--la! nothing," replied the maid; "it's something about
the Lady at dame Nixon's, only you commanded me never to speak the name
of----"
And again the good woman stopped short. Mrs. Fitzhenry, a little
surprised, and somewhat angry, bade her go on. At length, in plain words
she was told:
"Why, ma'am, the Lady down in the Vale is no other than my lady--than
Lady Lodore."
"Ridiculous--who told you so?"
"My own eyes, ma'am; I shouldn't have believed any thing else. I saw the
Lady, and it was my Lady, as sure as I stand here."
"But how could you know her? it is years since you saw her."
"Yes, ma'am," said the woman, with a smile of superiority; "but it is
not easy to forget Lady Lodore. See her yourself, ma'am,--you will know
then that I am right."
Wilmot had lived twenty years with Mrs. Fitzhenry. She had visited town
with her at the time of Ethel's christening. She had been kept in
vexatious ignorance of subsequent events, till the period of the visit
of her mistress and niece to London two years before, when she
indemnified herself. Through the servants of Villiers, and of the Misses
Saville, she had learnt a vast deal; and not satisfied with mere
hearsay, she had seen Lady Lodore several times getting into her carriage
at her own door, and had even been into her house: such energy is there in
a liberal curiosity. The same disinterested feeling had caused her to go
down to dame Nixon's with an offer from her mistress of service to the
Lady, hearing she was ill. She went perfectly unsuspicious of the
wonderful discovery she was about to make, and was thus rewarded beyond
her most sanguine hopes, by being in possession of a secret, known to
herself alone. The keeping of a secret is, however, a post of no honour
if all knowledge be confined to the possessor alone. Mrs. Wilmot was
tolerably faithful, with all her love of knowledge; she was sure it
would vex her mistress if Lady Lodore's strange place of abode were
known at Longfield, and Mrs. Fitzhenry was consequently the first person
to whom she had hinted the fact. All this account she detailed with
great volubility. Her mistress recommended discretion most earnestly;
and at the same time expressed a doubt whether her information was
correct.
"I wish you would go and judge for yourself, ma'am," said the maid.
"God forbid!" exclaimed Mrs. Fitzhenry. "God grant I never see Lady
Lodore again! She will go soon. You tell me that dame Nixon says she is
only staying till she is well. She will go soon, and it need never be
known, except to ourselves, Wilmot, that she was ever here."
There was a dignity in this eternal mystery that somewhat compensated
for the absence of wonder and fuss which the woman had anticipated with
intense pleasure. She assured her mistress, over and over again, of her
secrecy and discretion, and was dismissed with the exhortation to forget
all she had learnt as quickly as possible.
"Wherefore did she come here? what can she be doing?" Mrs. Fitzhenry
asked herself over and over again. She could not guess. It was strange,
it was mysterious, and some mischief was at the bottom--but she would go
soon--"would that she were already gone!"
It must be mentioned that Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry had left Maristow
Castle before the arrival of Mr. Gayland, and had therefore no knowledge
of the still more mysterious cloud that enveloped Lady Lodore's absence.
Ignorant of her self-destroying sacrifices and generosity, her pity was
not excited, her feelings were all against her. She counted the days as
they passed, and looked wistfully at Wilmot, hoping that she would
quickly bring tidings of the Lady's departure. In vain; the doctor
ceased to visit the cottage, but the Lady remained. All at once the
doctor visited it again with greater assiduity than ever--not on account
of his beautiful patient--but Dame Nixon had had a paralytic stroke, and
the kind Lady had sent for him, and promised to defray all the expenses
of the poor woman's illness.
All this was truly vexatious. Mrs. Fitzhenry fretted, and even asked
Wilmot questions, but the unwelcome visitor was still there. Wherefore?
What could have put so disagreeable a whim into her head? The good lady
could think of no motive, while she considered her presence an insult.
She was still more annoyed when she received a letter from Ethel. It had
been proposed that Mr. and Mrs. Villiers should pay her a visit in the
spring; but now Ethel wrote to say that she might be immediately
expected. "I have strange things to tell you about my dear mother,"
wrote Ethel; "it is very uncertain where she is. Horatio can hear
nothing of her at Paris, and will soon return. Edward is going to Wales,
as there seems a great likelihood that she has secluded herself there.
While he is away you may expect me. I shall not be able to stay long--he
will come at the end of a week to fetch me."
Mrs. Fitzhenry shuddered. Her prejudices were stronger than ever. She
experienced the utmost wretchedness from the idea that the residence of
Lady Lodore would be discovered, and a family union effected. It seemed
desecration to the memory of her brother, ruin to Ethel--the greatest
misfortune that could befal any of them. Her feelings were exaggerated,
but they were on that account the more powerful. How could she avert the
evil?--a remedy must be sought, and she fixed on one--a desperate one,
in truth, which appeared to her the sole mode of saving them all from
the greatest disasters.
She resolved to visit Lady Lodore; to represent to her the impropriety and
wickedness of her having any intercourse with her daughter, and to
entreat her to depart before Ethel's arrival. Her violence might almost
seem madness; but all people who live in solitude become to a certain
degree insane. Their views of things are not corrected by comparing them
with those of others; and the strangest want of proportion always reigns
in their ideas and sentiments.