I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
WORDSWORTH.
The end of December had come. New year's day found and left them still
in Duke Street. On the 4th of January Villiers received a letter from
his uncle, Lord Maristow, entrusting a commission to him, which obliged
him to go to the neighbourhood of Egham. Not having a horse, he went by
the stage. He set out so late in the day that there was no chance of his
returning the same night; and he promised to be back early on the
morrow. Ethel had letters to write to Italy and to her aunt; and with
these she tried to beguile the time. She felt lonely; the absence of
Villiers for so many hours engendered an anxiety, which she found some
difficulty in repressing. Accustomed to have him perpetually at her
side, and without any other companion or resource, she repined at her
solitude. There was his empty chair, and no hope that he would occupy
it; and she sat in her little room so near to thousands, and yet so cut
off from every one, with such a sense of desolation as Mungo Park might
have felt in central Africa, or a shipwrecked mariner on an uninhabited
island.
Her pen was taken up, but she did not write. She could not command her
thoughts to express any thing but the overflowing, devoted,
all-engrossing affection of her heart, her adoration for her husband;
that would not amuse Lucy,--she thought: and she had commenced another
sheet with "My dearest Aunt," when the maid-servant ushered a man into
her presence--a stranger, a working man. What could he want with her? He
seemed confused, and stammered out, "Mr. Villiers is not in?"
"He will be at home to-morrow, if you want him; or have you any message
that I can give?"
"You are Mrs. Villiers, ma'am?"
"Yes, my good man, I am Mrs. Villiers."
"If you please, ma'am, I am Saunders, one of the porters at the Union
Club."
"I remember: has any message come there? or does Mr. Villiers owe you
any money?" and her purse was in her hand.
"O no, ma'am. Mr. Villiers is a good gentleman; and he has been petiklar
generous to me--and that is why I come, because I am afraid," continued
the man, lowering his tone, "that he is in danger."
"Good heavens! Where? how?" cried Ethel, starting from her chair. "Tell
me at once."
"Yes, ma'am, I will; so you must know that this evening--"
"Yes, this evening. What has happened? he left me at six o'clock--what
is it?"
"Nothing, I hope, this evening, ma'am. I am only afraid for to-morrow
morning. And I will tell you all I know, as quick as ever I can."
The man then proceeded to relate, that some one had been inquiring about
Mr. Villiers at the Club House. One of the servants had told him that he
lived in Duke Street, St. James's, and that was all he knew; but
Saunders came up, and the man questioned him. He instantly recognized
the fellow, and knew what his business must be. And he tried to deceive
him, and declared that Mr. Villiers was gone out of town; but the fellow
said that he knew better than that; and that he had been seen that very
day in the Strand. He should look for him, no thanks to Saunders, in
Duke Street. "And so, ma'am, you see they'll be sure to be here early
to-morrow morning. So don't let Mr. Villiers stay here, on no account
whatsomever."
"Why?" asked Ethel, simply; "they can't hurt him."
"I am sure, ma'am," said Saunders, his face brightening, "I am very glad
to hear that--you know best. They will arrest him for sure, but--"
"Arrest him!"
"Yes, ma'am, for I've seen the tall one before. There were two of
them--bailiffs."
Ethel now began to tremble violently; these were strange, cabalistic
words to her, the more awful from their mystery. "What am I to do?" she
exclaimed; "Mr. Villiers will be here in the morning, he sleeps at
Egham, and will be here early; I must go to him directly."
"I am glad to hear he is so far," said Saunders; "and if I can be of any
use you have but to say it; shall I go to Egham? there are night coaches
that go through, and I might warn him."
Ethel thought--she feared to do any thing--she imagined that she should
be watched, that all her endeavours would be of no avail. She looked at
the man, honesty was written on his face; but there was no intelligence,
nothing to tell her that his advice was good. The possibility of such an
event as the present had never occurred to her. Villiers had been silent
with regard to his fears on this head. She was suddenly transported into
a strange sea, hemmed in by danger, without a pilot or knowledge of a
passage. Again she looked at the man's face: "What is best to be done!"
she exclaimed.
"I am sure, ma'am" he replied, as if she had asked him the question, "I
think what I said is best, if you will tell me where I can find Mr.
Villiers. I should think nothing of going, and he could send word by me
what he wished you to do."
"Yes, that would indeed be a comfort. I will write three lines, and you
shall take them." In a moment she had written. "Give this note into his
own hand, he will sleep there--I have written the direction of the
house--or at some inn, at Egham. Do not rest till you have given the
letter, and here is for your trouble." She held out two sovereigns.
"Depend on me, ma'am; and I will bring an answer to you by nine in the
morning. Mr. Villiers will pay me what he thinks fit--you may want your
money. Only, ma'am, don't be frightened when them men come to-morrow--if
the people here are good sort of folks, you had better give them a
hint--it may save you trouble."
"Thank you: you are a good man, and I will remember you, and reward you.
By nine to-morrow--you will be punctual?"
The man again assured her that he would use all diligence, and took his
leave.
Ethel felt totally overwhelmed by these tidings. The unknown is always
terrible, and the ideas of arrest, and prison, and bolts, and bars, and
straw, floated before her imagination. Was Villiers safe even where he
was? Would not the men make inquiries, learn where he had gone, and
follow him, even if it were to the end of the world? She had heard of
the activity employed to arrest criminals, and mingled every kind of
story in her head, till she grew desperate from terror. Not knowing what
else to do, she became eager for Mrs. Derham's advice, and hurried down
stairs to ask it.
She had not seen much of the good lady since her first arrival. Every
day, when Villiers went out, she came up, indeed, on the momentous
question of "orders for dinner;" and then she bestowed the benefit of
some five or ten minutes garrulity on her fair lodger. Ethel learnt that
she had seen better days, and that were justice done her, she ought to
be riding in her coach, instead of letting lodgings. She learnt that she
had a married daughter living at Kennington: poor enough, but struggling
on cheerfully with her mother's help. The best girl in the world she
was, and a jewel of a wife, and had two of the most beautiful children
that ever were beheld.
This was all that Ethel knew, except that once Mrs. Derham had brought
her one of her grandchildren to be seen and admired. In all that the
good woman said, there was so much kindness, such a cheerful endurance
of the ills of life, and she had shown such a readiness to oblige, that
the idea of applying to her for advice, relieved Ethel's mind of much of
its load of anxiety.
She was too much agitated to think of ringing for the servant, to ask to
see her; but hurried down stairs, and knocked at the parlour-door almost
before she was aware of what she was doing. "Come in," said a feminine
voice. Ethel entered, and started to see one she knew;--and yet again
she doubted;--was it indeed Fanny Derham whom she beheld?
The recognition afforded mutual pleasure: checked a little on Ethel's
part, by her anxieties; and on Fanny's, by a feeling that she had been
neglected by her friend. A few letters had passed between them, when
first Ethel had visited Longfield: since then their correspondence had
been discontinued till after her return to England, from Italy, when
Mrs. Villiers had wrote; but her letter was returned by the post-office,
no such person being to be found according to the address.
The embarrassment of the moment passed away. Ethel forgot, or rather did
not advert to, her friend's lowly destiny, in the joy of meeting her
again. After a minute or two, also, they had become familiar with the
change that time had operated in their youthful appearance, which was
not much, and most in Ethel. Her marriage, and conversance with the
world, had changed her into a woman, and endowed her with easy manners
and self-possession. Fanny was still a mere girl; tall, beyond the
middle height, yet her young, ingenuous countenance was unaltered, as
well as that singular mixture of mildness and independence, in her
manners, which had always characterized her. Her light blue eyes beamed
with intelligence, and her smile expressed the complacency and
condescension of a superior being. Her beauty was all intellectual:
open, sincere, passionless, yet benignant, you approached her without
fear of encountering any of the baser qualities of human beings,--their
hypocrisy, or selfishness. Those who have seen the paintings of the
calm-visaged, blue-eyed deities of the frescos of Pompeii, may form an
idea of the serene beauty of Fanny Derham.
When Mrs. Villiers entered, she was reading earnestly--a large
dictionary open before her. The book on which she was intent was in
Greek characters. "You have not forgotten your old pursuits," said
Ethel, smiling.
"Say rather I am more wedded to them than ever," she replied; "since,
more than ever, I need them to give light and glory to a dingy world.
But you, dear Ethel, if so I may call you,--you looked anxious as you
entered: you wish to speak to my mother;--she is gone to Kennington, and
will not return to-night. Can I be of any use?"
Her mother! how strange! and Mrs. Derham, while she had dilated with
pride on her elder daughter, had never mentioned this pearl of price,
which was her's also.
"Alas! I fear not!" replied Ethel; "it is experience I need--experience
in things you can know nothing about, nor your mother either, probably;
yet she may have heard of such things, and know how to advise me."
Mrs. Villiers then explained the sources of her disquietude. Fanny
listened with looks of the kindest sympathy. "Even in such things," she
said, "I have had experience. Adversity and I are become very close
friends since I last saw you: we are intimate, and I know much good of
her; so she is grateful, and repays me by prolonging her stay. Be
composed: no ill will happen, I trust, to Mr. Villiers;--at least you
need not be afraid of his being pursued. It the man you have sent be
active and faithful, all will be well. I will see these troublesome
people to-morrow, when they come, and prevent your being annoyed. If
Saunders returns early, and brings tidings of Mr. Villiers, you will
know what his wishes are. You can do nothing more to-night; and there is
every probability that all will be well."
"Do you really think so?" cried Mrs. Villiers. "O that I had gone with
him!--never will I again let him go any where without me."
Fanny entered into more minute explanations, and succeeded, to a great
degree, in calming her friend. She accompanied her back to her own room,
and sat with her long. She entered into the details of her own
history:--the illness and death of her father; the insulting treatment
her mother had met from his family; the kindness of a relation of her
own, who had assisted them, and enabled them to pursue their present
mode of life, which procured them a livelihood. Fanny spoke generally of
these circumstances, and in a spirit that seemed to disdain that such
things were; not because they were degrading in the eyes of others, but
because they interfered with the philosophic leisure, and enjoyment of
nature, which she so dearly prized. She thought nothing of privation, or
the world's impertinence; but much of being immured in the midst of
London, and being forced to consider the inglorious necessities of life.
Her desire to be useful to her mother induced her often to spend
precious time in "making the best of things," which she would readily
have dispensed with altogether, as the easiest, as well as the wisest,
way of freeing herself from their trammels. Her narration interested
Ethel, and served to calm her mind. She thought--"Can I not bear those
cares with equanimity for Edward's sake, which Fanny regards as so
trivial, merely because Plato and Epictetus bid her do so? Will not the
good God, who has implanted in her heart so cheerless a consolation,
bring comfort to mine, which has no sorrow but for another's sake?"
These reflections tranquillized her, when she laid her head on her
pillow at night. She resigned her being and destiny to a Power superior
to any earthly authority, with a conviction, that its most benign
influence would be extended over her.
END OF VOL. II.