LODORE.
BY THE
AUTHOR OF "FRANKENSTEIN."
In the turmoil of our lives,
Men are like politic states, or troubled seas,
Tossed up and down with several storms and tempests,
Change and variety of wrecks and fortunes;
Till, labouring to the havens of our homes,
We struggle for the calm that crowns our ends.
FORD.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET
(SUCCESSOR TO HENRY COLBURN.)
1835.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
LODORE
CHAPTER I
Excellent creature! whose perfections make
Even sorrow lovely!
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
Mr. Villiers now became the constant visitor of Mrs. Elizabeth and her
niece; and all discontent, all sadness, all listlessness, vanished in
his presence. There was in his mind a constant spring of vivacity, which
did not display itself in mere gaiety, but in being perfectly alive at
every moment, and continually ready to lend himself to the comfort and
solace of his companions. Sitting in their dingy London house, the
spirit of dulness had drawn a curtain between them and the sun; and
neither thought nor event had penetrated the fortification of silence
and neglect which environed them. Edward Villiers came; and as mist
flies before the wind, so did all Ethel's depression disappear when his
voice only met her ear: his step on the stairs announced happiness; and
when he was indeed before her, light and day displaced every remnant of
cheerless obscurity.
The abstracted, wounded, yet lofty spirit of Lodore was totally dissimilar
to the airy brightness of Villiers' disposition. Lodore had outlived a
storm, and shown himself majestic in ruin. No ill had tarnished the
nature of Villiers: he enjoyed life, he was in good-humour with the
world, and thought well of mankind. Lodore had endangered his peace from
the violence of passion, and reaped misery from the pride of his soul.
Villiers was imprudent from his belief in the goodness of his
fellow-creatures, and imparted happiness from the store that his warm
heart insured to himself. The one had never been a boy--the other had
not yet learned to be a man.
Ethel's heart had been filled by her father; and all affection, all
interest, borrowed their force from his memory. She did not think of
love; and while Villiers was growing into a part of her life, becoming
knit to her existence by daily habit, and a thousand thoughts expended on
him, she entertained his idea chiefly as having been the friend of Lodore.
"He is certainly the kindest-hearted creature in the world." This was
the third time that, when laying her gentle head on the pillow, this
feeling came like a blessing to her closing eyes. She heard his voice in
the silence of night, even more distinctly than when it was addressed to
her outward sense during the day. For the first time after the lapse of
months, she found one to whom she could spontaneously utter every
thought, as it rose in her mind. A fond, elder brother, if such ever
existed, cherishing the confidence and tenderness of a beloved sister,
might fill the place which her new friend assumed for Ethel. She thought
of him with overflowing affection; and the name of "Mr. Villiers"
sometimes fell from her lips in solitude, and hung upon her ear like
sweetest music. In early life there is a moment--perhaps of all the
enchantments of love it is the one which is never renewed--when passion,
unacknowledged to ourselves, imparts greater delight than any
after-stage of that ever-progressive sentiment. We neither wish nor
expect. A new joy has risen, like the sun, upon our lives; and we rejoice
in the radiance of morning, without adverting to the noon and twilight
that is to follow. Ethel stood on the threshold of womanhood: the door
of life had been closed before her;--again it was thrown open--and the
sudden splendour that manifested itself blinded her to the forms of the
objects of menace or injury, which a more experienced eye would have
discerned within the brightness of her new-found day.
Ethel expressed a wish to visit Eton. In talking of the past, Lord Lodore
had never adverted to any events except those which had occurred during his
boyish days. His youthful pleasures and exploits had often made a part
of their conversation. He had traced for her a plan of Eton college, and
the surrounding scenery; spoken of the trembling delight he had felt in
escaping from bounds; and told how he and Derham had passed happy hours
beside the clear streams, and beneath the copses, of that rural country.
There was one fountain which he delighted to celebrate; and the ivied
ruins of an old monastery, now become a part of a farm-yard, which had
been to these friends the bodily image of many imaginary scenes. Among
the sketches of Whitelock, were several taken in the vicinity of
Windsor; and there were, in his portfolio, studies of trees, cottages,
and also of this same abbey, which Lodore instantly recognized. To many
he had some appending anecdote, some school-boy association. He had
purchased the whole collection from Whitelock. Ethel had copied a few;
and these, together with various sketches made in the Illinois, formed
her dearest treasure, more precious in her eyes than diamonds and
rubies.
We are most jealous of what sits nearest to our hearts; and we must love
fondly before we can let another into the secret of those trivial, but
cherished emotions, which form the dearest portion of our solitary
meditations. Ethel had several times been on the point of proposing a
visit to Eton, to her aunt; but there was an awful sacredness in the
very name, which acted like a spell upon her imagination. When first it
fell from her lips, the word seemed echoed by unearthly whisperings, and
she fled from the idea of going thither,--as it is the feminine
disposition often to do, from the full accomplishment of its wishes, as
if disaster must necessarily be linked to the consummation of their
desires. But a word was enough for Villiers: he eagerly solicited
permission to escort them thither, as, being an Etonian himself, his
guidance would be of great advantage. Ethel faltered her consent; and
the struggle of delight and sensibility made that project appear
painful, which was indeed the darling of her thoughts.
On a bright day in the first week of May, they made this excursion. They
repaired to one of the inns at Salt Hill, and prolonged their walks and
drives about the country. In some of the former, where old walls were to
be scrambled up, and rivulets overleaped, Mrs. Elizabeth remained at the
hotel, and Ethel and Villiers pursued their rambles together. Ethel's
whole soul was given up to the deep filial love that had induced the
journey. Every green field was a stage on which her father had played a
part; each majestic tree, or humble streamlet, was hallowed by being
associated with his image. The pleasant, verdant beauty of the
landscape, clad in all the brightness of early summer; the sunny, balmy
day--the clouds which pranked the heavens with bright and floating
shapes--each hedgerow and each cottage, with its trim garden--each
embowered nook--had a voice which was music to her soul. From the
college of Eton, they sought the dame's house where Lodore and Derham had
lived; then crossing the bridge, they entered Windsor, and prolonged
their walk into the forest. Ethel knew even the rustic names of the
spots she most desired to visit, and to these Villiers led her in
succession. Day declined before they got home, and found Mrs. Elizabeth,
and their repast, waiting them; and the evening was enlivened by many a
tale of boyish pranks, achieved by Villiers, in these scenes. The
following morning they set forth again; and three days were spent in
these delightful wanderings. Ethel would willingly never have quitted
this spot: it appeared to her as if, seeing all, still much remained to
be seen--as if she could never exhaust the variety of sentiments and
deep interest which endeared every foot of this to her so holy ground.
Nor were her emotions silent, and the softness of her voice, and the
flowing eloquence with which she expressed herself, formed a new charm
for her companion.
Sometimes her heart was too full to admit of expression, and grief for
her father's loss was renewed in all its pristine bitterness. One day,
on feeling herself thus overcome, she quitted her companions, and sought
the shady walks of the garden of the hotel, to indulge in a gush of
sorrow which she could not repress. There was something in her gesture
and manner as she left them, that reminded Villiers of Lady Lodore. It was
one of those mysterious family resemblances, which are so striking and
powerful, and yet which it is impossible to point out to a stranger. A
_bligh_ (as this indescribable resemblance is called in some parts of
England) of her mother-struck Villiers forcibly, and he suddenly asked
Mrs. Elizabeth, "If Miss Fitzhenry had never expressed a desire to see
Lady Lodore."
"God forbid!" exclaimed the old lady; "it was my brother's dying wish, that
she should never hear Lady Lodore's name, and I have religiously observed
it. Ethel only knows that she was the cause of her father's misfortunes,
that she deserted every duty, and is unworthy of the name she bears."
Villiers was astonished at this tirade falling from the lips of the
unusually placid maiden, whose heightened colour bespoke implacable
resentment. "Do not mention that woman's name, Mr. Villiers," she
continued, "I am convinced that I should die on the spot if I saw her;
she is as much a murderess, as if she had stabbed her husband to the
heart with a dagger. Her letter to me that I sent to my poor brother in
America, was more the cause of his death, I am sure, than all the duels
in the world. Lady Lodore! I often wonder a thunderbolt from heaven does
not fall on and kill her!"
Mrs. Elizabeth's violence was checked by seeing Ethel cross the road to
return. "Promise not to mention her name to my niece," she cried.
"For the present be assured that I will not," Villiers answered. He had
been struck most painfully by some of Mrs. Elizabeth's expressions, they
implied so much more of misconduct on Lady Lodore's part, than he had ever
suspected--but she must know best; and it seemed to him, indeed, the
probable interpretation of the mystery that enveloped her separation
from her husband. The account spread by Lady Santerre, and current in
the world, appeared inadequate and improbable; Lodore would not have
dared to take her child from her, but on heavier grounds; it was then
true, that a dark and disgraceful secret was hidden in her heart, and
that her propriety, her good reputation, her seeming pride of innocence,
were but the mask to cover the reality that divided her from her
daughter for ever.
Villiers was well acquainted with Lady Lodore; circumstances had caused him
to take a deep interest in her--these were now at an end: but the singular
coincidences that had brought him in contact with her daughter, renewed
many forgotten images, and caused him to dwell on the past with mixed
curiosity and uneasiness. Mrs. Elizabeth's expressions added to the
perplexity of his ideas; their chief effect was to tarnish to his mind
the name of Lady Lodore, and to make him rejoice at the termination that
had been put to their more intimate connexion.