So loth we part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts, where'er we rove,
To those we've left behind us.
THOMAS MOORE.
On the following morning Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry drove to the Vale of
Bewling. It was the last day of February. The March winds were hushed as
yet; the breezes were balmy, the sunshine cheerful; a few soft clouds
flecked the heavens, and the blue sky appeared between them calm and
pure. Each passing air breathed life and happiness--it caressed the
cheek--and the swelling buds of the trees felt its quickening influence.
The almond-trees were in bloom--the pear blossoms began to whiten--the
tender green of the young leaves showed themselves here and there among
the hedges. The old lady felt the cheering influence, and would have
become even gay, had not the idea of the errand she was on checked her
spirits. Sometimes the remembrance that she was really going to see her
sister-in-law absolutely startled her; once or twice she thought of
turning back; she passed through the lanes, and then alighting from her
carriage, walked by a raised foot-way, across some arable fields--and
again through a little grove; the winding path made a turn, and dame
Nixon's white, low-roofed cottage was before her. Every thing about it
looked trim, but very humble: and it was unadorned during this early
season by the luxury of flowers and plants, which usually give even an
appearance of elegance to an English cottage. Mrs. Fitzhenry opened the
little gate--her knees trembled as she walked through the scanty garden,
which breathed of the new-sprung violets. The entrance to the cottage
was by the kitchen: she entered this, and found Margaret occupied by a
culinary preparation for her grandmother. Mrs. Fitzhenry asked after the
old woman's health, and thus gained a little time. Margaret answered in
her own former quiet yet cheerful voice; she was changed from what she
had been a few weeks before. The bloom had not returned to her cheeks,
but they no longer appeared streaked with deathly paleness; her motions
had lost the heaviness that showed a mind ill at ease. Mrs. Elizabeth
congratulated her on the restoration of her health.
"O yes," she replied, with a blush, "I am not the same creature I used
to be, thank God, and the angel he has sent us here;--if my poor
grandmother would but get well I should be quite happy; but that is
asking too much at her time of life."
The old lady made no further observations: she did not wish to hear the
praises of her sister-in-law. "Your lodger is still here?" at length she
said.
"Yes, God be praised!" replied Margaret.
"Will you give her my compliments, and say I am here, and that I wish to
see her."
"Yes, ma'am," said Margaret; "only the lady has refused to see any one,
and she does not like being asked."
"I do not wish to be impertinent or intrusive," answered Mrs. Elizabeth;
"only tell her my name, and if she makes any objection, of course she
will do as she likes. Where is she?"
"She is sitting with my poor grandmother; the nurse--Heaven bless her!
she would hire a nurse, to spare me, as she said--is lain down to sleep,
and she said she would watch by grandmother while I got the gruel; but
it's ready now, and I will go and tell her."
Away tripped Margaret, leaving her guest lost in wonder. Lady Lodore
watching the sick-bed of an old cottager--Lady Lodore immured in a
poverty-stricken abode, fit only for the poorer sort of country people.
It was more than strange, it was miraculous. "Yet she refused to
accompany poor Henry to America! there must be some strange mystery in
all this, that does not tell well for her."
So bitterly uncharitable was the unforgiving old lady towards her
brother's widow. She ruminated on these things for a minute or two, and
then Margaret came to usher her into the wicked one's presence. The
sitting-room destined for the lodger was neat, though very plain. The
walls were wainscotted and painted white,--the windows small and
latticed,--the furniture was old black, shining mahogany; the chairs
high-backed and clumsy; the table heavy and incommodious; the fire-place
large and airy; and the shelf of the mantel-piece almost as high as the
low ceiling: there were a few things of a more modern construction; a
comfortable sofa, a rose-wood bureau and large folding screen; near the
fire was a large easy chair of Gillows's manufacture, two light cane
ones, and two small tables; vases filled with hyacinths, jonquils, and
other spring flowers stood on one, and an embroidery frame occupied the
other. There was a perfume of fresh-gathered flowers in the room, which
the open window rendered very agreeable. Lady Lodore was standing near the
fire--(for Wilmot was not mistaken, and it was she indeed who now
presented herself to Mrs. Fitzhenry's eyes)--she might be agitated--she
did not show it--she came forward and held out her hand. "Dear Bessy,"
she said, "you are very kind to visit me; I thank you very much."
The poor recluse was overpowered. The cordiality of the greeting
frightened her: she who had come full of bitter reproach and hard
purposes, to be thanked with that sweet voice and smile. "I thought," at
length she stammered out, "that you did not wish to be known. I am glad
you are not offended, Cornelia."
"Offended by kindness? O no! It is true I did not wish--I do not wish
that it should be known that I am here--but since, by some strange
accident, you have discovered me, how can I help being grateful for your
visit? I am indeed glad to see you; it is so long since I have heard any
thing. Ah! dear Bessy, tell me, how is Ethel?"
Tears glistened in the mother's eyes: she asked many questions, and Mrs.
Fitzhenry a little recovered her self-possession, as she answered them.
She looked at Lady Lodore--she was changed--she could not fail of being
changed after so many years,--she was no longer a beautiful girl, but
she was a lovely woman. Despite the traces of years, which however
lightly they impressed, yet might be discerned; expression so
embellished her that it was impossible not to admire; brilliancy had
given place to softness, animation to serenity; still she was
fair--still her silken hair clustered on her brow, and her sweet eyes
were full of fire; her smile had more than its former charm--it came
from the heart.
Mrs. Fitzhenry was not, however, to be subdued by a little outward show.
She was there, who had betrayed and deserted (such were the energetic
words she was accustomed to employ) the noble, broken-hearted Lodore. The
thought steeled her purpose, and she contrived at last to ask whether
Lady Lodore was going to remain much longer in Essex?
"I have been going every day since I came here. In a few weeks I shall
certainly be gone. Why do you ask?"
"Because I thought--that is--you have made a secret of your being here,
and I expect Ethel in a day or two, and she would certainly discover
you."
"Why should she not?" asked Lady Lodore. "Why should you be averse to my
seeing Ethel?"
It is very difficult to say a disagreeable thing, especially to one
unaccustomed to society, and who is quite ignorant of the art of
concealing the sting of her intentions by flowery words. Mrs. Fitzhenry
said something about her sister-in-law's own wishes, and the desire
expressed by Lodore that there should be no intercourse between the mother
and daughter.
Cornelia's eyes flashed fire--"Am I," she exclaimed, "to be always the
sacrifice? Is my husband's vengeance to pursue me beyond his grave--even
till I reach mine? Unjust as he was, he would not have desired this."
Mrs. Elizabeth coloured with anger. Lady Lodore continued--"Pardon me,
Bessy, I do not wish to say any thing annoying to you or in blame of
Lodore. God knows I did him great wrong--but--"
"O Cornelia," cried the old lady, "do you indeed acknowledge that you
were to blame?"
Lady Lodore smiled, and said, "I were strangely blind to the defects of my
own character, and to the consequences of my actions, were I not conscious
of my errors; but retrospection is useless, and the punishment has
been--is--sufficiently severe. Lodore himself would not have perpetuated
his resentment, had he lived only a very little while longer. But I will
speak frankly to you, Bessy, as frankly as I may, and you shall decide
on my further stay here. From circumstances which it is immaterial to
explain, I have resolved on retiring into absolute solitude. I shall
never live in London again--never again see any of my old friends and
acquaintances. The course of my life is entirely changed; and whether I
live here or elsewhere, I shall live in obscurity and poverty. I do not
wish Ethel to know this. She would wish to assist me, and she has
scarcely enough for herself. I do not like being a burthen--I do not
like being pitied--I do not like being argued with, or to have my
actions commented upon. You know that my disposition was always
independent."
Mrs. Elizabeth assented with a sigh, casting up her eyes to heaven.
Lady Lodore smiled, and went on. "You think this is a strange place for me
to live in: whether here or elsewhere, I shall never live in any better: I
shall be fortunate if I find myself as well off when I leave Essex, for
the people here are good and honest, and the poor girl loves me,--it is
always pleasant to be loved."
A tear again filled Cornelia's eyes--she tried to animate herself to
smile. "I have nothing to love in all the wide world except Ethel; I do
love her; every one must love her--she is so gentle--so kind--so
warm-hearted and beautiful,--I love her more than my own heart's blood;
she is my child--part of that blood--part of myself--the better part; I
have seen little of her, but every look and word is engraved on my
heart. I love her voice--her smiles--the pressure of her soft white
hand. Pity me, dear Bessy, I am never to see any of these, which are all
that I love on earth, again. This idea fills me with regret--with
worse--with sorrow. There is a grave not far from here which contains
one you loved beyond all others,--what would you not give to see him
alive once again? To visit his tomb is a consolation to you. I must not
seen even the walls within which my blessed child lives. You alone can
help me--can be of comfort to me. Do not refuse--do not send me away. If
I leave this place, I shall go to some secluded nook in Wales, and be
quite--quite alone; the sun will shine, and the grass will grow at my
feet, but my heart will be dead within me, and I shall pine and die. I
have intended to do this; I have waited only till the sufferings of the
poor woman here should be at an end, that I may be of service to
Margaret, and then go. Your visit, which I fancied meant in kindness,
has put other thoughts into my head.
"Do not object to my staying here; let me remain; and do yet more for
me--come to me sometimes, and bring me tidings of my daughter--tell me
what she says--how she looks,--tell me that she is at each moment well
and happy. Ah! do this, dear Bessy, and I will bless you. I shall never
see her--at least not for years; there are many things to prevent it:
yet how could I drag out those years quite estranged from her? My heart
has died within me each time I have thought of it. But I can live as I
say; I shall expect you every now and then to come and talk to me of
her; she need never know that I am so near--she comes so seldom to
Essex. I shall soon be forgotten at Longfield. Will you consent? you
will do a kind action, and God will bless you."
Mrs. Fitzhenry was one of those persons who always find it difficult to
say, No; and Lady Lodore asked with so much earnestness that she commanded;
she felt that her request ought to be granted, and therefore it was
impossible to refuse it. Before she well knew what she had said, the
good lady had yielded her consent and received her sister-in-law's warm
and heart-felt thanks.
Mrs. Fitzhenry looked round the room: "But how can you think of staying
here, Cornelia?" she said; "this place is not fit for you. I should have
thought that you could never have endured such homely rooms."
"Do you think them so bad?" replied the lady; "I think them very
pleasant, for I have done with pride, and I find peace and comfort here.
Look," she continued, throwing open a door that led into the garden, "is
not that delightful? This garden is very pretty: that clear rivulet
murmurs by with so lulling a sound;--and look at these violets, are they
not beautiful? I have planted a great many flowers, and they will soon
come up. Do you not know how pleasant it is to watch the shrubs we
plant, and water, and rear ourselves?--to see the little green shoots
peep out, and the leaves unfold, and then the flower blossom and expand,
diffusing its delicious odour around,--all, as it were, created by
oneself, by one's own nursing, out of a bit of stick or an ugly bulb?
This place is very pretty, I assure you: when the leaves are on the
trees they make a bower, and the grove behind the house is shady, and
leads to lanes and fields more beautiful than any I ever saw. I have
loitered for hours in this garden, and been quite happy. Now I shall be
happier than ever, thanks to you. You will not forget me. Come as often
as you can. You say that you expect Ethel soon?"
Lady Ladore walked with her sister-in-law to the garden-gate, and
beyond, through the little copse, still talking of her daughter. "I
cannot go further," she said, at last, "without a bonnet--so good-bye,
dear Bessy. Come soon. Thank you--thank you for this visit."
She held out her hand: Mrs. Fitzhenry took it, pressed it, a half
feeling came over her as if she were about to kiss the check of her
offending relative, but her heart hardened, she blushed, and muttering
a hasty good-bye, she hurried away. She was bewildered, and after
walking a few steps, she turned round, and saw again the white dress of
Cornelia, as a turn in the path hid her. The grand, the exclusive Lady
Lodore--the haughty, fashionable, worldly-heartless wife thus metamorphosed
into a tender-hearted mother--suing to her for crumbs of charitable
love--and hiding all her boasted advantages in that low-roofed cottage!
What could it all mean?
Mrs. Fitzhenry walked on. Again she thought, "How odd! I went there,
determining to persuade her to go away, and miserable at the thoughts of
seeing her only once; and now I have promised to visit her often, and
agreed that she shall live here. Have I not done wrong? What would my
poor brother say? Yet I could not refuse. Poor thing! how could I
refuse, when she said that she had nothing else to live for? Besides, to
go away and live alone in Wales--it would be too dreadful; and she
thanked me as if she were so grateful. I hope I have not done wrong.
"But how strange it is that Henry's widow should have become so poor;
she has given up a part of her income to Ethel, but a great deal
remains. What can she have done with it? She is mysterious, and there is
never any good in mystery. Who knows what she may have to conceal?" Mrs.
Elizabeth got in her carriage, and each step of the horses took her
farther from the web of enchantment which Cornelia had thrown over her.
"She is always strange,"--thus ran her meditations; "and how am I to see
her, and no one find it out? and what a story for Longfield, that Lady
Lodore should be living in poverty in dame Nixon's cottage. I forgot to
tell her that--I forgot to say so many things I meant to say--I don't know
why, except that she talked so much, and I did not know how to bring in
my objections. But it cannot be right: and Ethel in her long rambles and
rides with Miss Derham or Mr. Villiers, will be sure to find her out. I
wish I had not seen her--I will write and tell her I have changed my
mind, and entreat her to go away."
As it occurs to all really good-natured persons, it was very
disagreeable to Mrs. Fitzhenry to be angry, and she visited the
ill-temper so engendered on the head of poor Cornelia. She disturbed
herself by the idea of all the disagreeable things that might happen--of
her sister-in-law's positive refusal to go; the very wording which she
imagined for her intended letter puzzled and irritated her. She no
longer felt the breath of spring as pleasant, but sat back in the
chariot, "nursing her wrath to keep it warm." When she reached her home,
Ethel's carriage was at her door.
The meeting, as ever, between aunt and niece was affectionate. Fanny was
welcomed, the baby was kissed, and little Clorinda admired, but the
theme nearest Ethel's heart was speedily introduced--her mother. The
disquietudes she felt on her account--Mr. Saville's journey to
Paris--the visit of Villiers to Wales to discover her place of
concealment--the inutility of all their endeavours.
"But why are they so anxious?" asked her aunt; "I can understand you:
you have some fantastic notion about your mother, but how can Mr.
Villiers desire so very much to find her?"
"I could almost say," said Ethel, "that Edward is more eager than
myself, though I should wrong my own affection and gratitude; but he was
more unjust towards her, and thus he feels the weight of obligation more
keenly; but, perhaps, dear aunt, you do not know all that my dearest
mother has done for us--the unparalleled sacrifices she has made."
Then Ethel went on to tell her all that Mr. Gayland had
communicated--the sale of her jointure--the very small residue of money
she had kept for herself--the entire payment of Villiers's debts--and
afterwards the surrender of the remainder of her income and of her house
to them. Her eyes glistened as she spoke; her heart, overflowing with
admiration and affection, shone in her beautiful face, her voice was
pregnant with sensibility, and her expressions full of deep feeling.
Mrs. Elizabeth's heart was not of stone--far from it; it was, except in
the one instance of her sister-in-law, made of pliable materials. She
heard Ethel's story--she caught by sympathy the tenderness and pity she
poured forth--she thought of Lady Lodore at the cottage, a dwelling so
unlike any she had ever inhabited before--poverty-stricken and mean; she
remembered her praises of it--her cheerfulness--the simplicity of taste
which she displayed--the light-hearted content with which she spoke of
every privation except the absence of Ethel. What before was mysterious
wrong, was now manifest heroism. The loftiness and generosity of her
mind rose upon the old lady unclouded; her own uncharitable deductions
stung her with remorse; she continued to listen, and Ethel to narrate,
and the big tears gathered in her eyes, and rolled down her venerable
cheeks,--tears at once of repentance and admiration.