It is our will
That thus enchains us to permitted ill.
SHELLEY.
This was a new inducement to bring back Lodore from the wilds of America,
to the remembrance of former days. The flattering expressions in Derham's
letter soothed his wounded pride, and inspired a desire of associating
once more with men who could appreciate his worth, and sympathize with
his feelings. His spirits became exhilarated; he talked of Europe and
his return thither, with all the animation of sanguine youth. It is one
of the necessary attributes of our nature, always to love what we have
once loved; and though new objects and change in former ones may chill
our affections for a time, we are filled with renewed fervour after
every fresh disappointment, and feel an impatient longing to return to
the cherishing warmth of our early attachments; happy if we do not find
emptiness and desolation, where we left life and hope.
Ethel had never been as happy as at the present time, and her affection
for her father gathered strength from the confidence which existed
between them. He was the passion of her soul, the engrossing attachment
of her loving heart. When she saw a cloud on his brow, she would stand
by him with silent but pleading tenderness, as if to ask whether any
exertion of hers could dissipate his inquietude. She hung upon his
discourse as a heavenly oracle, and welcomed him with gladdened looks of
love, when he returned after any short absence. Her heart was bent upon
pleasing him, she had no thought or pursuit which was not linked with
his participation.
There is perhaps in the list of human sensations, no one so pure, so
perfect, and yet so impassioned, as the affection of a child for its
parent, during that brief interval when they are leaving childhood, and
have not yet felt love. There is something so awful in a father. His
words are laws, and to obey them happiness. Reverence and a desire to
serve, are mingled with gratitude; and duty, without a flaw or question,
so second the instinct of the heart, as to render it imperative.
Afterwards we may love, in spite of the faults of the object of our
attachment; but during the interval alluded to, we have not yet learnt
to tolerate, but also, we have not learned to detect faults. All that a
parent does, appears an emanation from a diviner world; while we fear to
offend, we believe we have no right to be offended; eager to please, we
seek in return approval only, and are too humble to demand a reciprocity
of attention; it is enough that we are permitted to demonstrate our
devotion. Ethel's heart overflowed with love, reverence, worship of her
father. He had stood in the wilds of America a solitary specimen of all
that is graceful, cultivated, and wise among men; she knew of nothing
that might compare to him; and the world without him, was what the earth
might be uninformed by light: he was its sun, its ruling luminary. All
this intensity of feeling existed in her, without her being aware
scarcely of its existence, without her questioning the cause, or
reasoning on the effect. To love her father was the first law of nature,
the chief duty of a child, and she fulfilled it unconsciously, but more
completely than she could have done had she been associated with others,
who might have shared and weakened the concentrated sensibility of her
nature.
At length the packet arrived which brought letters from England. Before
his eyes lay the closed letter pregnant with fate. He was not of a
disposition to recoil from certainty; and yet for a few moments he
hesitated to break the seals--appalled by the magnitude of the crisis
which he believed to be at hand.
Latterly the idea of a reconciliation with Cornelia had been a favourite
in his thoughts. The world was a painful and hard-tasking school. She
must have suffered various disappointments, and endured much disgust,
and so be prepared to lend a willing ear to his overture. She was so
very young when they parted, and since then, had lived entirely under
the influence of Lady Santerre. But what had at one time proved
injurious, might, in course of years, have opened her eyes to the vanity of
the course which she was pursuing. Lodore felt persuaded, that there were
better things to be expected from his wife, than a love of fashion and
an adherence to the prejudices of society. He had failed to bring her
good qualities to light, but time and events might have played the tutor
better, and it merely required perhaps a seasonable interference, a
fortunate circumstance, to prove the truth of his opinion, and to show
Lady Lodore as generous, magnanimous, and devoted, as before she had
appeared proud, selfish, and cold.
How few there are possessed of any sensibility, who mingle with, and are
crushed by the jostling interests of the world, who do not ever and anon
exclaim with the Psalmist, "O for the wings of a dove, that I might flee
away and be at rest!" If such an aspiration was ever breathed by
Cornelia, how gladly, how fondly would her husband welcome the weary
flutterer, open his bosom for her refuge, and study to make her forget
all the disquietudes and follies of headstrong youth!
This was a mere dream. Lodore sighed to think that his position would not
permit him to afford her a shelter from the poisoned arrows of the
world. She must come to him prepared to suffer much. It required not
only the absence of the vulgar worldliness of Lady Santerre, but great
strength of mind to forgive the past, and strong affection to endure the
present. He could only invite her to share the lot of a dishonoured man,
to become a partner in the struggle which he was prepared to enter upon,
to regain his lost reputation. This was no cheering prospect. Pride and
generosity equally forbad his endeavouring to persuade his wife to quit
a course of life she liked, to enter upon a scene of trials and sorrows
with one for whom she did not care.
All these conjectures had long occupied him, but here was certainty--the
letter in his hand. It was sealed with black, and a tremulous shudder
ran through his frame as he tore it open. He soon satisfied
himself--Cornelia lived: he breathed freely again, and proceeded more
calmly to make himself master of the intelligence which the paper he
held contained.
Cornelia lived; but his sister announced a death which he believed would
change the colour of his life. Lady Santerre was no more!
Yes, Cornelia was alive; the bride that had stood beside him at the
altar--whose hand he had held while he pronounced his vows--with whom he
had domesticated for years--the mother of his child still lived. The
cold consuming grave did not wrap her lovely form. The idea of her
death, which the appearance of the black seal conveyed suddenly to his
imagination, had been appalling beyond words. For the last few weeks his
mind had been filled with her image; his thoughts had fed upon the hope
that they should meet once more. Had she died while he was living in
inactive seclusion in the Illinois, he might have been less moved; his
vivid fancy, his passionate heart, could not spare her now, without a
pang of agony. It passed away, and his mind reverted to the actual
situation in which they were placed by the death of his mother-in-law.
Reconciliation had become easy by the removal of that fatal barrier. He
felt assured that he could acquire Cornelia's confidence, win her love,
and administer to her happiness; he determined to leave nothing untried
to bring about so desirable a conclusion to their long and dreary
alienation. The one insuperable obstacle was gone; their daughter, that
loveliest link, that soft silken tie remained: Cornelia must welcome
with maternal delight this better portion of herself.
He glanced over his sister Elizabeth's letter, announcing the death of
Lady Santerre, and then read the one enclosed from Lady Lodore to her
sister-in-law. It was cold, but very decisive. She thanked her first for
the inquiries she had made, and then proceeded to say, that she took
this opportunity, the only one likely to present itself, of expressing
what her own feelings were on this melancholy occasion. "I am afraid,"
she said, "that your brother will look on the death of my dearest mother
as opening the door to our re-union. Some words in your letter seem
indeed to intimate this, or I should have hoped that I was entirely
forgotten. I trust that I am mistaken. My earnest desire is, that my
natural grief, and the tranquillity which I try to secure for myself,
may not be disturbed by fruitless endeavours to bring about what can
never be. My determination may be supposed to arise from pride and
implacable resentment: perhaps it does, but I feel it impossible that we
should ever be any thing but strangers to each other. I will not
complain, and I wish to avoid harsh allusions, but respect for her I
have lost, and a sense of undeserved wrong, are paramount with me. I
shall never intrude upon him. Persuade him that it will be unmanly
cruelty to force himself, even by a letter, on me."
From this violent declaration of an unforgiving heart, Lodore turned to
Elizabeth's letter. This excellent lady, to whom the names of
dissipation and the metropolis were synonymous, and who knew as much of
the world as Parson Adams, assured her brother, that Cornelia, far from
feeling deeply the blow of her mother's death, was pursuing her giddy
course with greater pertinacity than ever. Surrounded by flatterers,
given up to pleasure, she naturally shrunk from being reminded of her
exiled husband and her forgotten child. Her letter showed how ill she
deserved the tenderness and interest which Lodore had expressed. She was
a second Lady Santerre, without being gifted with that maternal
affection, which had in some degree dignified that person's character.
Elizabeth lamented that his wife's hardness of heart might prevent his
proposed visit to England. She did not like to urge it--it might seem
selfish: hitherto she had let herself and her sorrows go for nothing;
could she think of her own gratification, while her brother was
suffering so much calamity? She was growing old--indeed she was old--she
had no kin around her--early friends were dead or lost to her--she had
nothing to live on but the recollection of her brother; she should think
herself blest could she see him once more before she died.
"O my dear brother Henry," continued the kind-hearted lady, "if you
would but say the word--the sea is nothing; people older than I--and I
am not at all infirm--make the voyage. Let me come to America--let me
embrace my niece, and see you once again--let me share your dear home in
the Illinois, which I see every night in my dreams. I should grieve to
be a burthen to you, but it would be my endeavour to prove a comfort and
a help."
Lodore read both of these letters, one after the other, again and again. He
resolved on going to England immediately. Either Cornelia was entirely
callous and worthless, and so to be discarded from his heart for ever,
or after her first bitter feelings on her mother's death were over, she
would soften towards her child, or there was some dread secret feeling
that influenced her, and he must save her from calamity and
wretchedness. One of those changes of feeling to which the character of
Lodore was peculiarly subject, came over him. Lady Santerre was
dead--Cornelia was alone. A thousand dangers surrounded her. It appeared
to him that his first imperious duty was to offer himself to guard and
watch over her. He resolved to leave nothing untried to make her happy.
He would give up Ethel to her--he would gratify every wish she could
frame--pour out benefits lavishly before her--force her to see in him a
benefactor and a friend; and at last, his heart whispered, induce her to
assume again the duties of a wife.