How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,
What old December's bareness every where!
SHAKSPEARE.
Ethel cheered herself to amuse her aunt; and, as in her days of hopeless
love, she tried to shorten the hours by occupation. It was difficult;
for all her thoughts were employed in conjectures as to where Edward
was, what doing--in looking at her watch, and following in her mind all
his actions--or in meditating how hereafter she might remedy any
remissness on her part, (so tender was her conscience,) and best
contribute to his happiness. Such reveries beguiled many hours, and
enabled her to endure with some show of courage the pains of absence.
Each day she heard from him--each day she wrote, and this entire pouring
out of herself on paper formed the charm of her existence. She
endeavoured to persuade him how fortunate their lot might hereafter
be--how many of his fears were unfounded or misplaced.
"Remember, dearest love," she said, "that I have nothing of the fine
lady about me. I do not even feel the want of those luxuries so
necessary to most women. This I owe to my father. It was his first care,
while he brought me up in the most jealous retirement, to render me
independent of the services of others. Solitude is to me no evil, and
the delight of my life would be to wait upon you. I am not therefore an
object of pity, when fortunes deprives me of the appurtenances of
wealth, which rather annoy than serve me. My devotion and sacrifice, as
you are pleased to call the intense wish of my heart to contribute to
your happiness, are nothing. I sacrifice all, when I give up one hour of
your society--there is the sting--there the merit of my permitting you
to go without me. I can ill bear it. I am impatient and weak; do not
then, Edward dearest, task me too far--recall me to your side, if your
return is delayed--recall your fond girl to the place near your heart,
where she desires to remain for ever."
Villiers answered with few but expressive words of gratitude and
fidelity. His letters breathed disappointment and anxiety. "It is too
true," he said, "as I found it announced when I first came to town, my
father is married. He got the banns published in an obscure church in
London; he persuaded Miss Gregory to elope with him, and they are
married. Her father is furious, he returns every letter unopened; his
house and heart, he says, are still open to his daughter--but the--, I
will not repeat his words, who stole her from him, shall never benefit
by a shilling of his money--let her return, and all shall be
pardoned--let her remain with her husband, and starve, he cares not. My
father has spent much time and more money on this pursuit: in the hope
of securing many thousands, he raised hundreds at a prodigal and ruinous
interest, which must now be paid. He has not ten pounds in the world--so
he says. My belief is, that he is going abroad to secure to himself the
payment of the scanty remnant of his income. I have no hopes. I would
beg at the corner of a street, rather than apply to a man who never has
been a parent to me, and whose last act is that of a villain. Excuse me;
you will be angry that I speak thus of my father, but I know that he
speaks of the poor girl he has deluded, with a bitterness and insult,
which prove what his views were in marrying her. In this moment of
absolute beggary, my only resource is to raise money. I believe I shall
succeed; and the moment I have put things in train, with what heartfelt,
what unspeakable joy, shall I leave this miserable place for my own
Ethel's side, long to remain!"
Villiers's letters varied little, but yet they got more desponding; and
Ethel grew very impatient to see him again. She had counted the days of
her week--they were fulfilled, and her husband did not return. Every
thing depended, he said, on his presence; and he must remain yet for
another day or two. At first he implored her to be patient. He besought
her, as she loved him, to endure their separation yet for a few more
days. His letters were very short, but all in this style. They were
imperative with his wife--she obeyed; yet she did so, she told him,
against her will and against her sense of right. She ought to be at his
side to cheer him under his difficulties. She had married him because
she loved him, and because the first and only wish of her heart was to
conduce to his happiness. To travel together, to enjoy society and the
beauties of nature in each other's society, were indeed blessings, and
she valued them; but there was another dearer still, of which she felt
herself defrauded, and for which she yearned. "The aim of my life, and
its only real joy," she said, "is to make your existence happier than it
would have been without me. When I know and feel that such a moment or
hour has been passed by you with sensations of pleasure, and that
through me, I have fulfilled the purpose of my destiny. Deprived of the
opportunity to accomplish this, I am bereft of that for which I breathe.
You speak as if I were better off here than if I shared the
inconveniences of your lot--is not this strange language, my own Edward?
You talk of security and comfort; where can I be so secure as near you?
And for comfort! what heart-elevating joy it would be to exchange this
barren, meagre scene of absence, for the delight, the comfort of seeing
you, of waiting on you! I do not ask you to hasten your return, so as to
injure your prospects, but permit me to join you. Would not London
itself, dismal as you describe it, become sunny and glad, if Ethel were
with you?"
To these adjurations Villiers scarcely replied. Time crept on; three
weeks had already elapsed. Now and then a day intervened, and he did not
write, and his wife's anxiety grew to an intolerable pitch. She did not
for an instant suspect his faith, but she feared that he must be utterly
miserable, since he shrunk from communicating his feelings to her. His
last letter was brief; "I have just come from my solicitor," he said,
"and have but time to say, that I must go there again to-morrow, so I
shall not be with you. O the heavy hours in this dark prison! You will
reward me and make me forget them when I see you--but how shall I pass
the time till then!"
These words made Ethel conceive the idea of joining him in town. He
would not, he could not be angry? He could not bring his mind to ask her
to share his discomforts--but ought she not to volunteer--to insist upon
his permitting her to come? Permit! the same pride that prevented his
asking, would induce him to refuse her request; but should she do wrong,
if, without his express permission, she were to join him? A thrill, half
fear, half transport, made her heart's blood stand still at the thought.
The day after this last, she got no letter; the following day was
Monday, and there would be no post from town. Her resolution was taken,
and she told her aunt, that she should go up to London the following
day. Mrs. Elizabeth knew little of the actual circumstances of the young
pair. Villiers had made it an express condition, that she should not be
informed of their difficulties, for he was resolute not to take from her
little store, which, in the way she lived, was sufficient, yet barely
so, for her wants. She did not question her niece as to her journey; she
imagined that it was a thing arranged. But Ethel herself was full of
perplexity; she remembered what Villiers had said of expense; she knew
that he would be deeply hurt if she used a public conveyance, and yet to
go post would consume the little money she had left, and she did not
like to reach London pennyless. She began to talk to her aunt, and
faltered out something about want of money for posting--the good lady's
purse was instantly in her hand. Ethel had not the same horror as her
husband of pecuniary obligation--she was too inexperienced to know its
annoyances; and in the present instance, to receive a small sum from her
aunt, appeared to her an affair that did not merit hesitation. She took
twenty pounds for her journey, and felt her heart lighter. There yet
remained another question. Hitherto they had travelled in their own
carriage, with a valet and lady's maid. Villiers had taken his servant
to town with him. In a postscript to one of his letters, he said, "I was
able to recommend Laurie to a good place, so I have parted with him, and
I shall not take another servant at this moment." Laurie had been long
and faithfully attached to her husband, who had never lived without an
attendant, and who, from his careless habits, was peculiarly helpless.
Ethel felt that this dismissal was a measure of economy, and that she
ought to imitate it. Still as any measure to be taken always frightened
her, she had not courage to discharge her maid, but resolved to go up to
town without her. Aunt Bessy was shocked at her going alone, but Ethel
was firm; nothing could happen to her, and she should prove to Edward
her readiness to endure privation.
On Monday, at eleven in the forenoon, on the 28th of November, Ethel,
having put together but a few things,--for she expected a speedy
return,--stept into her travelling chariot, and began her journey to
town. She was all delight at the idea of seeing Edward. She reproached
herself for having so long delayed giving this proof of her earnest
affection. She listened with beaming smiles to all her aunt's
injunctions and cautions: and, the carriage once in motion, drawing her
shawl round her, as she sat in the corner, looking on the despoiled yet
clear prospect, her mind was filled with the most agreeable
reveries--her heart soothed by the dearest anticipations.
To pay the post-horses--to gift the postillion herself, were all events
for her: she felt proud. "Edward said, I must begin to learn the ways of
the world; and this is my first lesson in economy and care," she
thought, as she put into the post-boy's hand just double the sum he had
ever received before. "And how good, and attentive, and willing every
body is! I am sure women can very well travel alone. Every one is
respectful, and desirous to serve," was her next internal remark, as she
undrew her little silken purse, to give a waiter half-a-crown, who had
brought her a glass of water, and whose extreme alacrity struck her as
so very kind-hearted.
Her spirits flagged as the day advanced. In spite of herself, an uneasy
feeling diffused itself through her mind, when, the sun going down, a
misty, chilly twilight crept over the landscape. Had she done right? she
asked herself; would Edward indeed be glad to see her? She felt half
frightened at her temerity--alarmed at the length of her journey--timid
when she thought of the vast London she was about to enter, without any
certain bourn. She supposed that Villiers went each day to his club, and
she knew that he lodged in Duke street, St. James's; but she was
ignorant of the number of the house, and the street itself was unknown
to her; she did not remember ever to have been in it in her life.
Her carriage entered labyrinthine London by Blackwall, and threaded the
wilds of Lothbury. A dense and ever-thickening mist, palpable, yellow,
and impervious to the eye, enveloped the whole town. Ethel had heard of
a November fog; but she had never witnessed one, and the idea of it did
not occur to her memory: she was half-frightened, thinking that some
strange phænomena were going on, and fancying that her postillion was
hurrying forward in terror. At last, in Cheapside, they stopped jammed
up by carts and coaches; and then she contrived to make herself heard,
asking what was the matter? The word "eclipse" hung upon her lips.
"Only, ma'am, the street has got blocked up like in the fog: we shall
get on presently."
The word "fog" solved the mystery; and again her thoughts were with
Villiers. What a horrible place for him to live in! And he had been
enduring all this wretchedness, while she was breathing the pure
atmosphere of the country. Again they proceeded through the "murky air,"
and through an infinitude of mischances;--the noise--the hubbub--the
crowd, as she could distinguish it, as if veiled by dirty gauze, by the
lights in the shops--all agitated and vexed her. Through Fleet Street
and the Strand they went; and it seemed as if their progress would never
come to an end. The whole previous journey from Longfield was short in
comparison to this tedious procession: twenty times she longed to get
out and walk. At last they got free, and with a quicker pace drove up to
the door of the Union Club, in Charing Cross.
The post-boy called one of the waiters to the carriage door; and Ethel
asked--"Is Mr. Villiers here?"
"Mr. Villiers, ma'am, has left town."
Ethel was aghast. She had watched assiduously along the road; yet she
had felt certain that if he had meant to come, she would have seen him
on Sunday; and till this moment, she had not entertained a real doubt
but that she should find him. She asked, falteringly, "When did he go?"
"Last week, ma'am: last Thursday, I think it was."
Ethel breathed again: the man's information must be false. She was too
inexperienced to be aware that servants and common people have a
singular tact in selecting the most unpleasant intelligence, and being
very alert in communicating it. "Do you know," she inquired, "where Mr.
Villiers lodges?"
"Can't say, indeed, ma'am; but the porter knows;--here, Saunders!"
No Saunders answered. "The porter is not in the way; but if you can
wait, ma'am, he'll be back presently."
The waiter disappeared: the post-boy came up--he touched his hat.
"Wait," said Ethel;--"we must wait a little;" and he removed himself to
the horses' heads. Ethel sat in her lonely corner, shrouded by fog and
darkness, watching every face as it passed under the lamp near, fancying
that Edward might appear among them. The ugly faces that haunt, in quick
succession, the imagination of one oppressed by night-mare, might vie
with those that passed successively in review before Ethel. Most of them
hurried on, looking neither to the right nor left. Some entered the
house; some glanced at her carriage: one or two, perceiving a bonnet,
evidently questioned the waiter. He stood there for her own service,
Ethel thought; and she watched his every movement--his successive
disappearances and returns--the people he talked to. Once she signed to
him to come; but--"No, ma'am, the porter is not come back yet,"--was all
his answer. At last, after having stood, half whistling, for some five
minutes, (it appeared to Ethel half-an-hour,) without having received
any visible communication, he suddenly came up to the carriage door,
saying, "The porter could not stay to speak to you, ma'am, he was in
such a hurry. He says, Mr. Villiers lodges in Duke Street, St. James's:
he should know the house, but has forgotten the number."
"Then I must wait till he comes back again. I knew all that before. Will
he be long?"
"A long time, ma'am; two hours at least. He said that the woman of the
house is a widow woman--Mrs. Derham."
Thus, as if by torture, (but, as with the whipping boys of old, her's
was the torture, not the delinquent's,) Ethel extracted some information
from the stupid, conceited fellow. On she went to Duke Street, to
discover Mrs. Derham's residence. A few wrong doors were knocked at; and
a beer-boy, at last, was the Mercury that brought the impatient, longing
wife, to the threshold of her husband's residence. Happy beer-boy! She
gave him a sovereign: he had never been so rich in his life
before;--such chance-medleys do occur in this strange world!