Men oftentimes prepare a lot,
Which ere it finds them, is not what
Suits with their genuine station.
SHELLEY.
At the age of thirty-two, Lord Lodore returned to England. It was subject
of discussion among his friends, whether this was to be a merely temporary
visit, or whether he was about to establish himself finally in his own
country. Meanwhile, he became the lion of the day. As the reputed slave
of the fair sex, he found favour in their gentle eyes. Even blooming
fifteen saw all that was romantic and winning in his subdued and
graceful manners, and in the melancholy which dwelt in his dark eyes.
The chief fault found with him was, that he was rather taciturn, and
that, from whatever cause, woman had apparently ceased to influence his
soul to love. He avoided intimacies among them, and seemed to regard
them from afar, with observant but passionless eyes. Some spoke of a
spent volcano--others of a fertile valley ravaged by storms, and turned
into a desert; while many cherished the hope of renewing the flame, or
of replanting flowers on the arid soil.
Lord Lodore had just emancipated himself from an influence, which had
become the most grievous slavery, from the moment it had ceased to be a
voluntary servitude. He had broken the ties that had so long held him;
but this had not been done without such difficulties and struggles, as
made freedom less delightful, from the languor and regret that
accompanied victory. Lodore had formed but one resolve, which was not to
entangle himself again in unlawful pursuits, where the better energies
of his mind were to be spent in forging deceptions, and tranquillizing
the mind of a jealous and unhappy woman. He entertained a vague wish to
marry, and to marry one whom his judgment, rather than his love, should
select;--an unwise purpose, good in theory, but very defective in
practice. Besides this new idea of marrying, which he buried as a
profound secret in his own bosom, he wished to accustom himself to the
manners and customs of his own country, so as to enable him to enter
upon public life. He was fond of the country in England, and entered
with zeal upon the pleasures of the chace. He liked the life led at the
seats of the great, and endeavoured to do his part in amusing those
around him.
Yet he did not feel one of them. Above all, he did not feel within him
the charm of life, the glad spirit that looks on each returning day as a
blessing; and which, gilding every common object with its own
brightness, requires no lustre unborrowed from itself. All things palled
upon Lodore. The light laughter and gentle voices of women were vacant of
attraction; his sympathy was not excited by the discussions or pursuits
of men. After striving for a whole year to awaken in himself an interest
for some one person or thing, and finding all to be "vanity,"--towards
the close of a season in town, of extreme brilliancy and variety to
common eyes--of dulness and sameness to his morbid sense, he suddenly
withdrew himself from the haunts of men, and plunging into solitude,
tried to renovate his soul by self-communings, and an intercourse with
silent, but most eloquent, Nature.
Youth wasted; affections sown on sand, barren of return; wealth and
station flung as weeds upon the rocks; a name, whose "gold" was
"o'erdusted" by the inertness of its wearer;--such were the
retrospections that haunted his troubled mind. He envied the ploughboy,
who whistled as he went; and the laborious cottager, who each Saturday
bestowed upon his family the hard-won and scanty earnings of the week.
He pined for an aim in life--a bourne--a necessity, to give zest to his
palled appetite, and excitement to his satiated soul. It seemed to him
that he could hail poverty and care as blessings; and that the dearest
gifts of fortune--youth, health, rank, and riches--were disguised
curses. All these he possessed, and despised. Gnawing discontent;
energy, rebuked and tamed into mere disquietude, for want of a proper
object, preyed upon his soul. Where could a remedy be found? No "green
spot" of delight soothed his memory; no cheering prospect appeared in
view; all was arid, gloomy, unsunned upon.
He had wandered into Wales. He was charmed with the scenery and solitude
about Rhyaider Gowy, in Radnorshire, which lies amidst romantic
mountains, and in immediate vicinity to a cataract of the Wye. He fixed
himself for some months in a convenient mansion, which he found to let,
at a few miles from that place. Here he was secure from unwelcome
visitors, or any communication with the throng he had left. He
corresponded with no one, read no newspapers. He passed his day,
loitering beside waterfalls, clambering the steep mountains, or making
longer excursions on horseback, always directing his course away from
high roads or towns. His past life had been sufficiently interesting to
afford scope for reverie; and as he watched the sunbeams as they climbed
the hills at evening, or the shadows of the clouds as they careered
across the valleys, his heart by turns mourned or rejoiced over its
freedom, and the change that had come over it and stilled its warring
passions.
The only circumstance that in the least entrenched upon his feeling of
entire seclusion, was the mention, not unfrequently made to him, by his
servants, of the "ladies at the farm." The idea of these "ladies" at
first annoyed him; but the humble habitation which they had
chosen--humble to poverty--impressed him with the belief that, however
the "ladies" might awe-strike the Welsh peasantry, he should find in
them nothing that would impress him with the idea of station. Two or
three times, at the distant sight of a bonnet, instead of the Welsh hat,
he had altered his course to avoid the wearer. Once he had suddenly come
on one of these wonders of the mountains: she might have passed for a
very civilized kind of abigail; but, of course, she was one of the
"ladies."
As Lodore was neither a poet nor a student, he began at last to tire of
loneliness. He was a little ashamed when he remembered that he had taken
his present abode for a year: however, he satisfied his conscience by a
resolve to return to it; and began seriously to plan crossing the
country, to visit his sister in Essex. He was, during one of his rides,
deliberating on putting this resolve into execution on the very next
morning, when suddenly he was overtaken by a storm. The valley, through
which his path wound, was narrow, and the gathering clouds over head
made it dark as night; the lightning flashed with peculiar brightness;
and the thunder, loud and bellowing, was re-echoed by the hills, and
reverberated along the sky in terrific pealings. It was more like a
continental storm than any which Lodore had ever witnessed in England,
and imparted to him a sensation of thrilling pleasure; till, as the rain
came down in torrents, he began to think of seeking some shelter, at
least for his horse. Looking round for this, he all at once perceived a
vision of white muslin beneath a ledge of rock, which could but half
protect the gentle wearer: frightened she was, too, as a slight shriek
testified, when a bright flash, succeeded instantaneously by a loud peal
of thunder, bespoke the presence of something like danger. Lodore's
habitual tenderness of nature rendered it no second thought with him to
alight and offer his services; and he was fully repaid when he saw her,
who hailed with gladness a protector, though too frightened to smile, or
scarcely to speak. She was very young, and more beautiful, Lodore was at
once assured, than any thing he had ever before beheld. Her fairness,
increased by the paleness of terror, was even snowy; her hair, scarcely
dark enough for chesnut, too dark for auburn, clustered in rich curls on
her brow; her eyes were dark grey, long, and full of expression, as they
beamed from beneath their deeply-fringed lids. But such description says
little; it was not the form of eye or the brow's arch, correct and
beautiful as these were, in this lovely girl, that imparted her peculiar
attraction; beyond these, there was a radiance, a softness, an angel
look, that rendered her countenance singular in its fascination; an
expression of innocence and sweetness; a pleading gentleness that
desired protection; a glance that subdued, because it renounced all
victory; and this, now animated by fear, quickly excited, in Lodore, the
most ardent desire to re-assure and serve her. She leant, as she stood,
against the rock--now hiding her face with her hands--now turning her
eyes to her stranger companion, as if in appeal or disbelief; while he
again and again protested that there was no danger, and strove to guard
her from the rain, which still descended with violence. The thunder died
away, and the lightning soon ceased to flash, but this continued; and
while the colour revisited the young girl's cheek, and her smiles,
displaying a thousand dimples, lighted up new charms, a fresh uneasiness
sprung up in her of how she could get home. Her _chaussure_, ill-fitted
even for the mountains, could not protect her for a moment from the wet.
Lodore offered his horse, and pledged himself for its quietness, and his
care, if she could contrive to sit in the saddle. He lifted her light
form on to it; but the high-bred animal, beginning a little to prance,
she threw herself off into the arms of her new friend, in a transport of
terror, which Lodore could by no means assuage. What was to be done? He
felt, light as she was, that he could carry her the short half-mile to
her home; but this could not be offered. The rain was now over; and her
only resource was to brave the humid soil in kid slippers. With
considerable difficulty, half the journey was accomplished, when they
met the "lady" whom Lodore had before seen;--really the maid in
attendance, who had come out to seek her young mistress, and to declare
that "my lady" was beside herself with anxiety on her account.
Lodore still insisted on conducting his young charge to her home; and the
next day it was but matter of politeness to call to express his hope that
she had not suffered from her exposure to the weather. He found the lovely
girl, fresh as the morning, with looks all light and sweetness, seated
besides her mother, a lady whose appearance was not so prepossessing,
though adorned with more than the remains of beauty. She at once struck
Lodore as disagreeable and forbidding. Still she was cordial in her
welcome, grateful for his kindness, and so perfectly engrossed by the
thought of, and love for, her child, that Lodore felt his respect and
interest awakened.
An acquaintance, thus begun between the noble recluse and the "ladies of
the farm," proceeded prosperously. A month ago, would not have believed
that he should feel glad at finding two fair off-shoots of London
fashion dwelling so near his retreat; but even if solitude had not
rendered him tolerant, the loveliness of the daughter might well perform
a greater miracle. In the mother, he found good breeding, good nature,
and good sense. He soon became almost domesticated in their rustic
habitation.
Lady Santerre was of humble birth, the daughter of a solicitor of a
country town. She was handsome, and won the heart of Mr. Santerre, then
a minor, who was assisted by her father in the laudable endeavour to
obtain more money than his father allowed him. The young gentleman saw,
loved, and married. His parents were furiously angry, and tried to
illegalize the match; but he confirmed it when he came of age, and a
reconciliation with his family never took place. Mr. Santerre sold
reversions, turned expectations into money, and lived in the world. For
six years, his wife bloomed in the gay parterre of fashionable society,
when her husband's father died. Prosperity was to dawn on this event:
the new Sir John went down to attend his father's funeral; thence to
return to town, to be immersed in recoveries, settlements, and law. He
never returned. Riding across the country to a neighbour, his horse
shyed, reared, and threw him. His head struck against a fragment of
stone: a concussion of the brain ensued; and a fortnight afterwards, he
was enclosed beside his father, in the ancestral vault.
His widow was the mother of a daughter only; and her hopes and prospects
died with her husband. His brother, and heir, might have treated her
better in the sequel; but he was excessively irritated by the variety of
debts, and incumbrances, and lawsuits, he had to deal with. He chose to
consider the wife most to blame, and she and her child were treated as
aliens. He allowed them two hundred a year, and called himself generous.
This was all (for her father was not rich, and had a large family) that
poor Lady Santerre had to depend upon. She struggled on for some little
time, trying to keep up her connexions in the gay world; but poverty is
a tyrant, whose laws are more terrible than those of Draco. Lady
Santerre yielded, retired to Bath, and fixed her hopes on her daughter,
whom she resolved should hereafter make a splendid match. Her excessive
beauty promised to render this scheme feasible; and now that she was
nearly sixteen, her mother began to look forward anxiously. She had
retired to Wales this summer, that, by living with yet stricter economy,
she might be enabled, during the winter, to put her plans into execution
with greater ease.
Lord Lodore became intimate with the mother and daughter, and his
imagination speedily painted both in the most attractive colours. Here was
the very being his heart had pined for--a girl radiant in innocence and
youth, the nursling, so he fancied, of mountains, waterfalls, and solitude;
yet endowed with all the softness and refinement of civilized society. Long
forgotten emotions awoke in his heart, and he gave himself up to the
bewildering feelings that beset him. Every thing was calculated to
excite his interest. The desolate situation of the mother, devoted to
her daughter only, and that daughter fairer than imagination could
paint, young, gentle, blameless, knowing nothing beyond obedience to her
parent, and untaught in the guile of mankind. It was impossible to see
that intelligent and sweet face, and not feel that to be the first to
impress love in the heart which it mirrored, was a destiny which angles
might envy. How proud a part was his, to gift her with rank, fortune,
and all earthly blessings, and to receive in return, gratitude,
tenderness, and unquestioning submission! If love did not, as thus he
reasoned, show itself in the tyrant guise it had formerly assumed in the
heart of Lodore, it was the more welcome a guest. It spoke not of the
miseries of passion, but offered a bright view of lengthened days of
peace and contentedness. He was not a slave at the feet of his mistress,
but he could watch each gesture and catch each sound of her voice, and
say, goodness and beauty are there, and I shall be happy.
He found the lovely girl somewhat ignorant; but white paper to be
written upon at will, is a favourite metaphor among those men who have
described the ideal of a wife. That she had talent beyond what he had
usually found in women, he was delighted to remark. At first she was
reserved and shy. Little accustomed to society, she sat beside her
mother in something of a company attitude; her eyes cast down, her lips
closed. She was never to be found alone, and a _jeune personne_ in France
could scarcely be more retired and tranquil. This accorded better with
Lodore's continental experience, than the ease of English fashionable
girls, and he was pleased. He conversed little with Cornelia until he had
formed his determination, and solicited her mother's consent to their
union. Then they were allowed to walk together, and she gained on him,
as their intimacy increased. She was very lively, witty, and full of
playful fancy. Aware of her own deficiencies in education, she was the
first to laugh at herself, and to make such remarks as showed an
understanding worth all the accomplishments in the world. Lodore now
really found himself in love, and blessed the day that led him from
among the fair daughters of fashion to this child of nature. His wayward
feelings were to change no more--his destiny was fixed. At thirty-four
to marry, to settle into the father of a family, his hopes and wishes
concentrated in a home, adorned by one whose beauty was that of angels,
was a prospect that he dwelt upon each day with renewed satisfaction.
Nothing in after years could disturb his felicity, and the very security
with which he contemplated the future, imparted a calm delight, at once
new and grateful to a heart, weary of storms and struggles, and which,
in finding peace, believed that it possessed the consummation of human
happiness.