And as good lost is seld or never found.
SHAKSPEARE.
Lady Lodore and Villiers met for the first time since Horatio Saville's
marriage. Neither were exactly aware of what the other knew or thought.
Cornelia was ignorant how far her attachment to his cousin was known to
him; whether he shared the general belief in her worldly coquetry, or
what part he might have had in occasioning their unhappy separation. She
could not indeed see him without emotion. He had been Lodore's second,
and received the last dying breath of him who had, in her brightest
youth, selected her from the world, to share his fortunes. Those days
were long past; yet as she grew older, disappointed, and devoid of
pleasurable interest in the present, she often turned her thoughts
backward, and wondered at the part she had acted.
Similar feelings were in Edward's mind. He was prejudiced against her in
every way. He despised her worldly calculations, as reported to him, and
rejoiced in their failure. He believed these reports, and despised her;
yet he could not see her without being moved at once with admiration and
pity. The moon-lit hill, and tragic scene, in which he had played his
part, came vividly before his eyes. He had been struck by the nobleness
of Lodore's appearance--the sensibility that sat on his countenance--his
gentle, yet dignified manners. Ethel's idolatry of her father had
confirmed the favourable prepossession. He could not help
compassionating Cornelia for the loss of her husband, forgetting, for
the moment, their separation. Then again recurred to him the eloquent
appeals of Saville; his eulogiums; his fervent, reverential affection.
She had lost him also. Could she hold up her head after such miserable
events? The evidence of the senses, and the ideas of our own minds, are
more forcibly present, than any notion we can form of the feelings of
others. In spite, therefore, of his belief in her heartlessness,
Villiers had pictured Cornelia attired in dismal weeds, the victim of
grief. He saw her, beaming in beauty, at the opera;--he now beheld her,
radiant in sweet smiles, in her own home. Nothing touched--nothing
harmed her; and the glossy surface, he doubted not, imaged well the
insensible, unimpressive soul within.
Lady Lodore would have despised herself for ever had she betrayed the
tremor that shook her frame when Villiers entered. Her pride of sex was in
arms to enable her to convince him, that no regret, no pining, shadowed her
days. The reality was abhorrent, and should never be confessed. Thus
then they met--each with a whole epic of woe and death alive in their
memory; but both wearing the outward appearance of frivolity and
thoughtlessness. He saw her as lovely as ever, and as kind. Her softest
and sweetest welcome was extended to him. It was this frequent show of
frank cordiality which gained her "golden opinions" from the many. Her
haughtiness was all of the mind;--a desire to please, and constant
association with others, had smoothed the surface, and painted it in the
colours most agreeable to every eye.
They addressed each other as if they had met but the day before. At
first, a few questions and answers passed,--as to where she had been on
the continent, how she liked Baden, &c.;--and then Lady Lodore
said--"Although I have not seen her for several years, I instantly
recognized a relative of mine with you yesterday evening. Does Miss
Fitzhenry make any stay in town?"
The idea of Ethel was uppermost in Villiers's mind, and struck by the
manner in which the woman of fashion spoke of her daughter, he replied,
"During the season, I believe; I scarcely know. Miss Fitzhenry came up
for her health; that consideration, I suppose, will regulate her
movements."
"She looked very well last night--perhaps she intends to remain till she
gets ill, and country air is ordered?" observed Lady Lodore.
"That were nothing new at least," replied Villiers, trying to hide the
disgust he felt at her mode of speaking; "the young and blooming too
often protract their first season, till the roses are exchanged for
lilies."
"If Miss Fitzhenry's roses still bloom," said the lady, "they must be
perennial ones; they have surely grown more fit for a herbal than a
vase."
Villiers now perceived his mistake, and replied, "You are speaking of
Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry, as the good lady styles herself--I spoke
of--her niece--"
"Has Ethel been ill?" Lady Lodore's hurried question, and the
use of the christian name, as most familiar to her thoughts, brought
home to Villiers's heart the feeling of their near relationship. There
was something more than grating; it was deeply painful to speak to a
mother of a child who had been torn from her--who did not know--who had
even been taught to hate her. He wished himself a hundred miles off, but
there was no help, he must reply. "You might have seen last night that
she is perfectly recovered."
Lady Lodore's imagination refused to image her child in the tall, elegant,
full-formed girl she had seen, and she said, "Was Ethel with you? I did
not see her--probably she went home before the opera was over, and I
only perceived your party in the crush-room--you appear already
intimate."
"It is impossible to see Miss Fitzhenry and not to wish to be intimate,"
replied Villiers with his usual frankness. "I, at least, cannot help
being deeply interested in every thing that relates to her."
"You are very good to take concern in my little girl. I should have
imagined that you were too young yourself to like children."
"Children!" repeated Villiers, much amazed; "Miss Fitzhenry!--she is not
a child."
Lady Lodore scarcely heard him; a sudden pang had shot across her heart, to
think how strangers--how every one might draw near her daughter, and be
interested for her, while she could not, without making herself the tale
of the town, the subject, through the medium of news-papers, for every
gossip's tea-table in England--where her sentiments would be scanned,
and her conduct criticized--and this through the revengeful feelings of
her husband, prolonged beyond the grave. Tears had been gathering in her
eyes during the last moments; she turned her head to hide them, and a
quick shower fell on her silken dress. Quite ashamed of this
self-betrayal, she exerted herself to overcome her emotion. Villiers
felt awkwardly situated; his first impulse had been to rise to take her
hand, to soothe her; but before he could do more than the first of these
acts, as Lady Lodore fancied for the purpose of taking his leave, she
said, "It is foolish to feel as I do; yet perhaps more foolish to
attempt to conceal from one, as well acquainted as you are with every
thing, that I do feel pained at the unnatural separation between me and
Ethel, especially when I think of the publicity I must incur by
asserting a mother's claims. I am ashamed of intruding this subject on
you; but she is no longer the baby cherub I could cradle in my arms, and
you have seen her lately, and can tell me whether she has been well
brought up--whether she seems tractable--if she promises to be pretty?"
"Did you not think her lovely?" cried Villiers with animation; "you saw
her last night, taking my arm."
"Ethel!" cried the lady. "Could that be Ethel? True, she is now
sixteen--I had indeed forgot"--her cheeks became suffused with a deep
blush as she remembered all the solicisms she had been committing. "She
is sixteen," she continued, "and a woman--while I fancied a little girl
in a white frock and blue sash: this alters every thing. We have been
indeed divided, and must now remain so for evermore. I will not injure
her, at her age, by making her the public talk--besides, many, many
other considerations would render me fearful of making myself
responsible for her future destiny."
"At least," said Villiers, "she ought to wait on you."
"That were beyond Lord Lodore's bond," said the lady; "and why should she
wait on me? Were she impelled by affection, it were well. But this is
talking very simply--we could only be acquaintance, and I would rather be
nothing. I confess, that I repined bitterly, that I was not permitted to
have my little girl, as I termed her, for my plaything and
companion--but my ideas are now changed: a dear little tractable child
would have been delightful--but she is a woman, with a will of her
own--prejudiced against me--brought up in that vulgar America, with all
kinds of strange notions and ways. Lord Lodore was quite right, I
believe--he fashioned her for himself and--Bessy. The worst thing that
can happen to a girl, is to have her prejudices and principles unhinged;
no new ones can flourish like those that have grown with her growth; and
mine, I fear, would differ greatly from those in which she has been
educated. A few years hence, she may feel the want of a friend, who
understands the world, and who could guide her prudently through its
intricacies; then she shall find that friend in me. Now, I feel
convinced that I should do more harm than good."
A loud knock at the street door interrupted the conversation. "One thing
only I cannot endure," said the lady hastily, "to present a domestic
tragedy or farce to the Opera House--we must not meet in public. I shall
shut up my house and return to Paris."
Mere written words express little. Lady Lodore's expressions were nothing;
but her countenance denoted a change of feeling, a violence of emotion, of
which Villiers hardly believed her capable; but before he could reply,
the servant threw open the door, and her brow immediately clearing,
serenity descended on her face. With her blandest smile she extended her
hand to her new visitor. Villiers was too much discomposed to imitate
her, so with a silent salutation he departed, and cantered round the
park to collect his thoughts before he called in Seymour-street.
The ladies there were not less agitated than Lady Lodore, and displayed
their feelings with the artlessness of recluses. The first words that Mrs.
Elizabeth had addressed to her niece, at the breakfast table, were an
awkwardly expressed intimation, that she meant instantly to return to
Longfield. Ethel looked up with a face of alarm: her aunt continued; "I
do not want to speak ill of Lady Lodore, my dear--God forgive her--that
is all I can say. What your dear father thought of her, his last will
testifies. I suppose you do not mean to disobey him."
"His slightest word was ever a law with me," said Ethel; "and now that
he is gone, I would observe his injunctions more religiously than ever.
But--"
"Then, my dear, there is but one thing to be done: Lady Lodore will
assuredly force herself upon us, meet us at every turn, oblige you to pay
her your duty; nor could you avoid it. No, my dear Ethel, there is but one
escape--your health, thank God, is restored, and Longfield is now in all
its beauty; we will return to-morrow."
Ethel did not reply; she looked very disconsolate--she did not know what
to say; at last, "Mr. Villiers will think it so odd," dropped from her
lips.
"Mr. Villiers is nothing to us, my dear," said aunt Bessy--"not the most
distant relation; he is an agreeable, good-hearted young gentleman--but
there are so many in the world."
Ethel left her breakfast untasted and went out of the room: she felt
that she could no longer restrain her tears. "My father!" she exclaimed,
while a passionate burst of weeping choked her utterance, "my only
friend! why, why did you leave me? Why, most cruel, desert your poor
orphan child? Gracious God! to what am I reserved! I must not see my
mother--a name so dear, so sweet, is for me a curse and a misery! O my
father, why did you desert me!"
Her calm reflections were not less bitter; she did not suffer her
thoughts to wander to Villiers, or rather the loss of her father was
still so much the first grief of her heart, that on any new sorrow, it
was to this she recurred with agony. The form of her youthful mother
also flitted before her; and she asked herself, "Can she be so wicked?"
Lord Lodore had never uttered her name; it was not until his death had put
the fatal seal on all things, that she heard a garbled exaggerated
statement from her aunt, over whose benevolent features a kind of sacred
horror mantled, whenever she was mentioned. The will of Lord Lodore, and
the stern injunction it contained, that the mother and daughter should
never meet, satisfied Ethel of the truth of all that her aunt said; so that
educated to obedience and deep reverence for the only parent she had
ever known, she recoiled with terror from transgressing his commands,
and holding communication with the cause of all his ills. Still it was
hard, and very, very sad; nor did she cease from lamenting her fate,
till Villiers's horse was heard in the street, and his knock at the
door; then she tried to compose herself. "He will surely come to us at
Longfield," she thought; "Longfield will be so very stupid after
London."
After London! Poor Ethel! she had lived in London as in a desert; but
lately it had appeared to her a city of bliss, and all places else the
abode of gloom and melancholy. Villiers was shocked at the appearance of
sorrow which shadowed her face; and, for a moment, thought that the
rencounter with her mother was the sole occasion of the tears, whose
traces he plainly discerned. His address was full of sympathetic
kindness;--but when she said, "We return to-morrow to Essex--will you
come to see us at Longfield?"--his soothing tones were exchanged for
those of surprise and vexation.
"Longfield!--impossible! Why?"
"My aunt has determined on it. She thinks me recovered; and so, indeed,
I am."
"But are you to be entombed at Longfield, except when dying? If so, do,
pray, be ill again directly! But this must not be. Dear Mrs. Fitzhenry,"
he continued, as she came in, "I will not hear of your going to
Longfield. Look; the very idea has already thrown Miss Fitzhenry into a
consumption;--you will kill her. Indeed you must not think of it."
"We shall all die, if we stay in town," said Mrs. Elizabeth, with
perplexity at her niece's evident suffering.
"Then why stay in town?" asked Villiers.
"You just now said, that we ought not to return to Longfield," answered
the lady; "and I am sure if Ethel is to look so ill and wretched, I
don't know what I am to do."
"But there are many places in the world besides either London or
Longfield. You were charmed with Richmond the other day: there are
plenty of houses to be had there; nothing can be prettier or more
quiet."
"Well, I don't know," said Aunt Bessy, "I never thought of that, to be
sure; and I have business which makes our going to Longfield very
inconvenient. I expect Mr. Humphries, our solicitor, next week; and I
have not seen him yet. You really think, Mr. Villiers, that we could get
a house to suit us at Richmond?"
"Let us drive there to-day," said Villiers; "we can dine at the Star and
Garter. You can go in the britzska--I on horseback. The days are long:
we can see every thing; and take your house at once."
This plan sounded very romantic and wild to the sober spinster; but
Ethel's face, lighted up with vivid pleasure, said more in its favour,
than what the good lady called prudence could allege against it. "Silly
people you women are," said Villiers: "you can do nothing by yourselves:
and are always running against posts, unless guided by others. This will
make every thing easy--dispel every difficulty." His thoughts recurred
to Lady Lodore, and her intended journey to Paris, as he said this: and
again they flew to a charming little villa on the river's side, whither he
could ride every day, and find Ethel among her flowers, alone and happy.
The excursion of this morning was prosperous. The day was warm yet
fresh; and as they quitted town, and got surrounded by fields, and
hedges, and trees, nature reassumed her rights, and awakened transport
in Ethel's heart. The boyish spirits of Villiers communicated themselves
to her; and Mrs. Elizabeth smiled, also, with the most exquisite
complacency. A few inquiries conducted them to a pretty rural box,
surrounded by a small, but well laid-out shrubbery; and this they
engaged. The dinner at the inn, the twilight walk in its garden;--the
fair prospect of the rich and cultivated country, with its silvery,
meandering river at their feet; and the aspect of the cloudless heavens,
where one or two stars silently struggled into sight amidst the pathless
wastes of sky, were objects most beautiful to look on, and prodigal of
the sweetest emotions. The wide, dark lake, the endless forests, and
distant mountains, of the Illinois, were not here; but night bestowed
that appearance of solitude, which habit rendered dear to Ethel; and
imagination could transform wooded parks and well-trimmed meadows into
bowery seclusions, sacred from the foot of man, and fresh fields,
untouched by his hand.
A few days found Ethel and her aunt installed at their little villa, and
delighted to be away from London. Education made loneliness congenial to
both: they might seek transient amusements in towns, or visit them for
business; but happiness, the agreeable tenor of unvaried daily life, was
to be found in the quiet of the country only;--and Richmond was the
country to them; for, cut off from all habits of intercourse with their
species, they had but to find trees and meadows near them, at once to
feel transported, from the thick of human life, into the most noiseless
solitude.
Ethel was very happy. She rose in the morning with a glad and grateful
heart, and gazed from her chamber window, watching the early sunbeams as
they crept over the various parts of the landscape, visiting with light
and warmth each open field or embowered nook. Her bosom overflowed with
the kindest feelings, and her charmed senses answered the tremulous
beating of her pure heart, bidding it enjoy. How beautiful did earth
appear to her! There was a delight and a sympathy in the very action of
the shadows, as they pranked the sunshiny ground with their dark and
fluctuating forms. The leafy boughs of the tall trees waved gracefully,
and each wind of heaven wafted a thousand sweets. A magic spell of
beauty and bliss held in one bright chain the whole harmonious universe;
and the soul of the enchantment was love--simple, girlish,
unacknowledged love;--the love of the young, feminine heart, which feels
itself placed, all bleakly and dangerously, in a world, scarce formed to
be its home, and which plumes itself with Love to fly to the covert and
natural shelter of another's protecting care.
Ethel did not know--did not fancy--that she was in love; nor did any of
the throes of passion disturb the serenity of her mind. She only felt
that she was very, very happy; and that Villiers was the kindest of
human beings. She did not give herself up to idleness and reverie. The
first law of her education had been to be constantly employed. Her
studies were various: they, perhaps, did not sufficiently tend to
invigorate her understanding, but they sufficed to prevent every
incursion of listlessness. Meanwhile, during each, the thought of
Villiers strayed through her mind, like a heavenly visitant, to gild all
things with sunny delight. Some time, during the day, he was nearly sure
to come; or, at least, she was certain of seeing him on the morrow; and
when he came, their boatings and their rides were prolonged; while each
moment added to the strength of the ties that bound her to him. She
relied on his friendship; and his society was as necessary to her life,
as the air she breathed. She so implicitly trusted to his truth, that
she was unaware that she trusted at all--never making a doubt about it.
That chance, or time, should injure or break off the tie, was a
possibility that never suggested itself to her mind. As the silver
Thames traversed in silence and beauty the landscape at her feet, so did
love flow through her soul in one even and unruffled stream--the great
law and emperor of her thoughts; yet more felt from its influence, than
from any direct exertion of its power. It was the result and the type of
her sensibility, of her constancy, of the gentle, yet lively sympathy,
it was her nature to bestow, with guileless confidence. Those around her
might be ignorant that her soul was imbued with it, because, being a
part of her soul, there was small outward demonstration. None, indeed,
near her thought any thing about it: Aunt Bessy was a tyro in such
matters; and Villiers--he had resolved, when he perceived love on her
side, to retreat for ever: till then he might enjoy the dear delight
that her society afforded him.