Alas! he knows
The laws of Spain appoint me for his heir;
That all must come to me, if I outlive him,
Which sure I must do, by the course of nature.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
Edward Villiers was the only child of a man of considerable fortune, who
had early in life become a widower. From the period of this event,
Colonel Villiers (for his youth had been passed in the army, where he
obtained promotion) had led the careless life of a single man. His son's
home was at Maristow Castle, when not at school; and the father seldom
remembered him except as an incumbrance; for his estate was strictly
entailed, so that he could only consider himself possessed of a life
interest in a property, which would devolve, without restriction, on his
more fortunate son.
Edward was brought up in all the magnificence of his uncle's lordly
abode. Luxury and profusion were the elements of the air he breathed. To
be without any desired object that could be purchased, appeared baseness
and lowest penury. He, also, was considered the favoured one of fortune
in the family circle. The elder brother among the Savilles rose above,
but the younger fell infinitely below, the undoubted heir of eight
thousand a year, and one of the most delightful seats in England. He was
brought up to look upon himself as a rich man, and to act as such; and
meanwhile, until his father's death, he had nothing to depend on, except
any allowance he might make him.
Colonel Villiers was a man of fashion, addicted to all the extravagances
and even vices of the times. He set no bounds to his expenses. Gambling
consumed his nights, and his days were spent at horse-races, or any
other occupation that at once excited and impoverished him. His income
was as a drop of water in the mighty stream of his expenditure.
Involvement followed involvement, until he had not a shilling that he
could properly call his own.
Poor Edward heard of these things, but did not mark them. He indulged in
no blameworthy pursuits, nor spent more than beseemed a man in his rank
of life. The idea of debt was familiar to him: every one--even Lord
Maristow--was in debt, far beyond his power of immediate payment. He
followed the universal example, and suffered no inconvenience, while his
wants were obligingly supplied by the fashionable tradesmen. He regarded
the period of his coming of age as a time when he should become
disembarrassed, and enter upon life with ample means, and still more
brilliant prospects.
The day arrived. It was celebrated with splendour at Maristow Castle.
Colonel Villiers was abroad; but Lord Maristow wrote to him to remind
him of this event, which otherwise he might have forgotten. A kind
letter of congratulation was, in consequence, received from him by
Edward; to which was appended a postscript, saying, that on his return,
at the end of a few weeks, he would consult concerning some arrangements
he wished to make with regard to his future income.
His return was deferred; and Edward began to experience some of the
annoyances of debt. Still no real pain was associated with his feelings;
though he looked forward with eagerness to the hour of liberation.
Colonel Villiers came at last. He spoke largely of his intended
generosity, which was shown, meanwhile, by his persuading Edward to join
in a mortgage for the sake of raising an immediate sum. Edward scarcely
knew what he was about. He was delighted to be of service to his father;
and without thought or idea of having made a sacrifice, agreed to all
that was asked of him. He was promised an allowance of six hundred a
year.
The few years that had passed since then were full of painful experience
and bitter initiation. His light and airy spirit was slow to conceive
ill, or to resent wrong. When his annuity remained unpaid, he listened
to his father's excuses with implicit credence, and deplored his
poverty. One day, he received a note from him, written, as usual, in
haste and confusion, but breathing anxiety and regret on his account,
and promising to pay over to him the first money he could obtain. On the
evening of that day, Edward was led by a friend into the gambling room
of a celebrated club. The first man on whom his eyes fell, was his
father, who was risking and losing rouleaus and notes in abundance. At
one moment, while making over a large sum, he suddenly perceived his
son. He grew pale, and then a deep blush spread itself over his
countenance. Edward withdrew. His young heart was pierced to the core.
The consciousness of a father's falsehood and guilt acted on him as the
sudden intelligence of some fatal disaster would have done. He breathed
thick--the objects swam round him--he hurried into the streets--he
traversed them one after the other. It was not this scene alone--this
single act; the veil was withdrawn from a whole series of others
similar; and he became aware that his parent had stepped beyond the line
of mere extravagance; that he had lost honourable feeling; that lies
were common in his mouth; and every other--even his only child--was
sacrificed to his own selfish and bad passions.
Edward never again asked his father for money. The immediate result of
the meeting in the gambling-room, had been his receiving a portion of
what was due to him; but his annuity was always in arrear, and paid so
irregularly, that it became worse than nothing in his eyes; especially,
as the little that he received was immediately paid over to creditors,
and to defray the interest of borrowed money.
He never applied again to Colonel Villiers. He would have considered
himself guilty of a crime, had he forced his father to forge fresh
subterfuges, and to lie to his own son. Brought up in the midst of the
wealthy, he had early imbibed a horror of pecuniary obligation; and this
fastidiousness grew more sensitive and peremptory with each added day of
his life. Yet with all this, he had not learnt to set a right value upon
money; and he squandered whatever he obtained with thoughtless
profusion. He had no friend to whose counsel he could recur. Lord
Maristow railed against Colonel Villiers; and when he heard of Edward's
difficulties, offered to remonstrate and force his brother-in-law to
extricate him: but here ended his assistance, which was earnestly
rejected. Horatio's means were exceedingly limited; but on a word from
his cousin, he eagerly besought him to have recourse to his purse. To
avoid his kindness, and his uncle's interference, Edward became
reserved: he had recourse to Jews and money-lenders; and appeared at
ease, while he was involving himself in countless and still increasing
embarrassments.
Edward was naturally extravagant; or, to speak more correctly, his
education and position implanted and fostered habits of expense and
prodigality, while his careless disposition was unapt to calculate
consequences: his very attempts at economy frequently cost him more than
his most expensive whims. He was not, like his father, a gambler; nor
did he enter into any very reprehensible pleasures: but he had little to
spend, and was thoughtless and confiding; and being always in arrear,
was forced, in a certain way, to continue a system which perpetually led
him further into the maze, and rendered his return impossible. He had no
hope of becoming independent, except through his father's death: Colonel
Villiers, meanwhile, had no idea of dying. He was not fifty years of
age; and considering his own a better life than his son's, involuntarily
speculated on what he should do if he should chance to survive him. He
was a handsome and a fashionable man: he often meditated a second
marriage, if he could render it advantageous; and repined at his
inability to make settlements, which was an insuperable impediment to
his project. Edward's death would overcome this difficulty. Such were
the speculations of father and son; and the portion of filial and
paternal affection which their relative position but too usually
inspires.
Until he was twenty-one, Edward had never spent a thought upon his
scanty resources. Three years had past since then--three brief years,
which had a little taught him of what homely stuff the world is made;
yet care and even reflection had not yet disturbed his repose. Days,
months sped on, and nothing reminded him of his relative wealth or
poverty in a way to annoy him, till he knew Ethel. He had been
interested for her in America--he had seen her, young and lovely,
drowned in grief--sorrowing with the heart's first prodigal sorrow for
her adored father. He had left her, and thought of her no more--except,
as a passing reflection, that in the natural course of things, she was
now to become the pupil of Lady Lodore, and consequently, that her
unsophisticated feelings and affectionate heart would speedily be
tarnished and hardened under her influence. He anticipated meeting her
hereafter in ball-rooms and assemblies, changed into a flirting, giddy,
yet worldly-minded girl, intent upon a good establishment, and a
fashionable partner.
He encountered her under the sober and primitive guardianship of Mrs.
Fitzhenry, unchanged and unharmed. The same radiant innocence beamed
from her face; her sweet voice was still true and heart-reaching in its
tones; her manner mirrored the purity and lustre of a mind incapable of
guile, and adorned with every generous and gentle sentiment. He drew near
her with respect and admiration, and soon no other object showed fair in
his eyes except Ethel. She was the star of the world, and he felt happy
only when the light of her presence shone upon him. Her voice and smile
visited his dreams, and spoke peace and delight to his heart. She was to
him as a jewel (yet sweeter and lovelier than any gem) shut up in a
casket, of which he alone possessed the key--as a pearl, of whose
existence an Indian diver is aware beneath the waves of ocean, deep
buried from every other eye.
There was all in Ethel that could excite and keep alive imaginative and
tender love. In characterizing a race of women, a delightful writer has
described her individually. "She was in her nature a superior being. Her
majestic forehead, her dark, thoughtful eye, assured you that she had
communed with herself. She could bear to be left in solitude--yet what a
look was her's if animated by mirth or love! She was poetical, if not a
poet; and her imagination was high and chivalrous."[1] The elevated tone of
feeling fostered by her father, her worship of his virtues, and the
loneliness of her life in the Illinois, combined to render her
dissimilar to any girl Villiers had ever before known or admired. When
unobserved, he watched her countenance, and marked the varying tracery
of high thoughts and deep emotions pass over it; her dark eye looked out
from itself on vacancy, but read there a meaning only to be discerned by
vivid imagination. And then when that eye, so full of soul, turned on
him, and affection and pleasure at once animated and softened its
glances--when her sweet lips, so delicate in their shape, so balmy and
soft in their repose, were wreathed into a smile--he felt that his whole
being was penetrated with enthusiastic admiration, and that his nature
had bent to a law, from which it could never again be liberated.
That she should mingle with the world--enter into its contaminating
pursuits--be talked of in it with that spirit of depreciation and
impertinence, which is its essence, was odious to him, and he was
overjoyed to have her safe at Richmond--secure from Lady Lodore--shut up
apart from all things, except nature--her unsophisticated aunt, and his own
admiration--a bird of beauty, brooding in its own fair nest,
unendangered by the fowler. These were his feelings; but by degrees
other reflections forced themselves on him; and love which, when it has
knocked and been admitted, _will_ be a tyrant, obliged him to entertain
regrets and fears which agonized him. His hourly aspiration was to make
her his own. Would that dear heart open to receive into its recesses his
image, and thenceforward dedicate itself to him only? Might he become
her lover, guardian, husband--and they tread together the jungle of
life, aiding each other to thread its mazes, and to ward off every
danger that might impend over them.
Bitter worldly considerations came to mar the dainty colours of this
fair picture. He could not conceal from himself the poverty that must
attend him during his father's life. Lord Lodore's singular will reduced
Ethel's property to almost nothing: should he then ally her to his
scanty means and broken fortune? His resolution was made. He would not
deny himself the present pleasure of seeing her, to spare any future
pain in which he should be the only sufferer; but on the first token of
exclusive regard on her side, he would withdraw for ever.
[Footnote 1: Coleridge's "Six Months in the West Indies."]