What is peace? When life is over,
And love ceases to rebel,
Let the last faint sigh discover,
Which precedes the passing knell.
WORDSWORTH.
Lodore was henceforth animated by a new spirit of hope. His projects and
resolves gave him something to live for. He looked forward with
pleasure; feeling, on his expected return to his native country, as the
fabled voyager, who knew that he ought to be contented in the fair
island where chance had thrown him, and yet who hailed with rapture the
approach of the sail that was to bear him back to the miseries of social
life. He reflected that he had in all probability many years before him,
and he was earnest that the decline of his life should, by a display of
prudence and virtuous exertion, cause the errors of his earlier manhood
to be forgotten.
This inspiriting tone of mind was very congenial to Ethel. The prospects
that occupied her father had a definite horizon: all was vague and misty
to her eyes, yet beautiful and alluring. Lodore gave no outline of his
plans: he never named her mother. Uncertain himself, he was unwilling to
excite feelings in Ethel's mind, to be afterwards checked and disappointed.
He painted the future in gay colours, but left it in all the dimness most
favourable for an ardent imagination to exercise itself upon.
In a very few days they were to sail for England. Their passage was
engaged. Lodore had written to his sister to announce his return. He spoke
of Longfield, and of her kind and gentle aunt to Ethel, and she, who, like
Miranda, had known no relative or intimate except her father, warmed
with pleasure to find new ties bind her to her fellow-creatures. She
questioned her father, and he, excited by his own newly-awakened
emotions, dilated eloquently on the joys of his young days, and pleased
Fanny, as well as his own daughter, by a detail of boyish pranks and
adventures which his favourite school-fellow shared. The freedom he
enjoyed in his paternal home, the worship that waited on him there, the
large space which in early youth he appeared to fill in all men's eyes,
the buoyancy and innocence associated with those unshadowed days,
painted them to his memory cloudless and bright. It would be to renew
them to see Longfield again,--to clasp once more the hand of Francis
Derham.
A kind of holiday and festal feeling was diffused through Ethel's mind
by the vivid descriptions and frank communications of her father. She
felt as if about to enter Paradise. America grew dim and sombre in her
eyes; its forests, lakes, and wilds, were empty and silent, while
England swarmed with a thousand lovely forms of pleasure. Her father
strewed a downy velvet path for her, which she trod with light, girlish
steps, happy in the present hour, happier in the anticipated future.
A few days before the party were to sail, Lodore and his daughter dined
with Mrs. Greville. As if they held the reins, and could curb the course
of, fate, each and all were filled with hilarity. Lodore had forgotten
Theodora and her son--had cast from his recollection the long train of
misery, injury, and final ruin, which for so long had occupied his whole
thoughts. He was in his own eyes no longer the branded exile. A strange
distortion of vision blinded this unfortunate man to the truth, which
experience so perpetually teaches us, that the consequences of our
actions _never die_: that repentance and time may paint them to us in
different shapes; but though we shut our eyes, they are still beside us,
helping the inexorable destinies to spin the fatal thread, and
sharpening the implement which is to cut it asunder.
Lodore lived the morning of that day, (it was the first of May, realizing
by its brilliancy and sweets, the favourite months of the poets,) as if
many a morning throughout the changeful seasons was to be his. Some time
he spent on board the vessel in which he was to sail; seeing that all
the arrangements which he had ordered for Ethel and Fanny's comfort were
perfected; then father and daughter rode out together. Often did Ethel
try to remember every word of the conversation held during that ride. It
concerned the fair fields of England, the splendours of Italy, the
refinements and pleasures of Europe. "When we are in London,"--"When we
shall visit Naples,"--such phrases perpetually occurred. It was Lodore's
plan to induce Cornelia to travel with him, and to invite Mr. Derham and
Fanny to be their companions; a warmer climate would benefit his
friend's health. "And for worlds," he said, "I would not lose Derham. It
is the joy of my life to think that by my return to my native country I
secure to myself the society of this excellent and oppressed man."
At six o'clock Lodore and Ethel repaired to Mrs. Greville's house. It had
been intended that no other persons should be invited, but the unexpected
arrival of some friends from Washington, about to sail to England, had
obliged the lady to alter this arrangement. The new guests consisted of
an English gentleman and his wife, and one other, an American, who had
filled a diplomatic situation in London. Annoyed by the sight of
strangers, Lodore kept apart, conversing with Ethel and Fanny.
At dinner he sat opposite to the American. There was something in this
man's physiognomy peculiarly disagreeable to him. He was not a
pleasing-looking man, but that was not all. Lodore fancied that he must
have seen him before under very painful circumstances. He felt inclined to
quarrel with him--he knew not why; and was disturbed and dissatisfied
with himself and every body. The first words which the man spoke were as
an electric shock to him. Twelve long years rolled back--the past became
the present once again. This very American had sat opposite to him at
the memorable dinner at the Russian Ambassador's. At the moment when he
had been hurried away by the fury of his passion against Casimir, he
remembered to have seen a sarcastic sneer on his face, as the republican
marked the arrogance of the English noble. Lodore had been ready then to
turn the fire of his resentment on the insolent observer; but when the
occasion passed away he had entirely forgotten him, till now he rose
like a ghost to remind him of former pains and crimes.
The lapse of years had scarcely altered this person. His hair was
grizzled, but it crowned his head in the same rough abundance as
formerly. His face, which looked as if carved out of wood, strongly and
deeply lined, showed no tokens of a more advanced age. He was then
elderly-looking for a middle-aged man; he was now young-looking for an
elderly man. Nature had disdained to change an aspect which showed so
little of her divinity, and which no wrinkles nor withering could mar.
Lodore, turning from this apparition, caught the reflection of himself in
an opposite mirror. Association of ideas had made him unconsciously expect
to behold the jealous husband of Cornelia. How changed, how passion-worn
and tarnished was the countenance that met his eyes. He recovered his
self-possession as he became persuaded that this chance visitant, who
had seen him but once, would be totally unable to recognize him.
This unwelcome guest had been attached to the American embassy in
England, and had but lately returned to New York. He was full of dislike
of the English. Contempt for them, and pride in his countrymen, being
the cherished feelings of his mind; the latter he held up to admiration
from prejudiced views; a natural propensity to envy and depreciation led
him to detract from the former. He was, in short, a most disagreeable
person; and his insulting observations on his country moved Lodore's
spleen, while his mind was shaken from its balance by the sight of one who
reminded him of his past errors and ruin. He was fast advancing to a
state of irritability, when he should lose all command over himself. He
felt this, and tried to subdue the impetuous rush of bitterness which
agitated him; he remembered that he must expect many trials like this,
and that, rightly considered, this was a good school wherein he might
tutor himself to self-possession and firmness. He went to another
extreme, and addressing himself to, and arguing with, the object of his
dislike, endeavoured to gloss over to himself the rising violence of his
impassioned temper.
The ladies retired, and the gentlemen entered upon a political
discussion on some event passing in Europe. The English guest took his
departure early, and Lodore and the other continued to converse. Some
mention was made of newspapers newly arrived, and the American proposed
that they should repair to the coffee-house to see them. Lodore agreed: he
thought that this would be a good opportunity to shake off his
distasteful companion.
The coffee-room contained nearly twenty persons. They were in loud
discussion upon a question of European politics, and reviling England and
her manners in the most contemptuous terms. This was not balm for Lodore's
sore feelings. His heart swelled indignantly at the sarcasms which these
strangers levelled against his native country; he felt as if he was
acting a coward's part while he listened tamely. His companion soon
entered with vehemence into the conversation; and the noble, who was
longing to quarrel with him, now drew himself up with forced composure,
fixing his full meaning eyes upon the speaker, hoping by his quiescence
to entice him into expressions which he would insist on being retracted.
His temper by this time entirely mastered him. In a calmer moment he
would have despised himself for being influenced by such a man, to any
sentiment except contempt; but the tempest was abroad, and all sobriety
of feeling was swept away like chaff before the wind.
Mr. Hatfield,--such was the American's name,--perceiving that he was
listened to, entered with great delight on his favourite topic, a
furious and insolent philippic against England, in mass and in detail.
Lodore still listened; there was a dry sneer in the tones of the speaker's
voice, that thrilled him with hate and rage. At length, by some chance
reverting to the successful struggle America had made for her
independence, and ridiculing the resistance of the English on the
occasion, Hatfield named Lodore.
"Lodore!" cried one of the by-standers; "Fitzhenry was the name of the man
who took the Oronooko."
"Aye, Fitzhenry it was," said Hatfield, "Lodore is his nickname. King
George's bit of gilt gingerbread, which mightily pleased the sapient
mariner. An Englishman thinks himself honoured when he changes one name for
another. Admiral Fitzhenry was the scum of the earth--Lord Lodore a pillar
of state. Pity that infamy should so soon have blackened the glorious
title!"
Lodore's pale cheek suddenly flushed at these words, and then blanched
again, as with compressed lips he resolved to hear yet more, till the
insult should no longer be equivocal. The word "infamy" was echoed from
various lips. Hatfield found that he had insured a hearing, and, glad of an
audience, he went on to relate his story--it was of the dinner at the
Russian Ambassador's--of the intemperate violence of Lodore--and the
youthful Lyzinski's wrongs. "I saw the blow given," continued the
narrator, "and I would have caned the fellow on the spot, had I not
thought that a bullet would do his business better. But when it came to
that, London was regaled by an event which could not have happened here,
for we have no such cowards among us. My lord was not to be found--he
had absconded--sneaked off like a mean-spirited, pitiful scoundrel!"
The words were still on the man's lips when a blow, sudden and
unexpected, extended him on the floor. After this swiftly-executed act
of retaliation, Lodore folded his arms, and as his antagonist rose, foaming
with rage, said, "You, at least, shall have no cause to complain of not
receiving satisfaction for your injuries at my hands. I am ready to give
it, even in this room. I am Lord Lodore!"
Duels, that sad relic of feudal barbarism, were more frequent then than
now in America; at all times they are more fatal and more openly carried
on there than in this country. The nature of the quarrel in the present
instance admitted of no delay; and it was resolved, that the antagonists
should immediately repair to an open place near the city, to terminate,
by the death of one, the insults they had mutually inflicted.
Lodore saw himself surrounded by Americans, all strangers to him; nor was
he acquainted with one person in New York whom he could ask to be his
second. This was matter of slight import: the idea of vindicating his
reputation, and of avenging the bitter mortifications received from
society, filled him with unnatural gladness; and he was hastening to the
meeting, totally regardless of any arrangement for his security.
There was a gentleman, seated at a distant part of the coffee-room, who
had been occupied by reading; nor seemed at all to give ear to what was
going on, till the name of Lodore occurred: he then rose, and when the blow
was given, drew nearer the group; though he still stood aloof, while, with
raised and angry voices, they assailed Lodore, and he, replying in his
deep, subdued voice, agreed to the meeting which they tumultuously
demanded. Now, as they were hastening away, and Lodore was following
them, confessedly unbefriended, this gentleman approached, and putting
his card into the nobleman's hand, said, "I am an Englishman, and should
be very glad if you would accept my services on this painful occasion."
Lodore looked at the card, on which was simply engraved the name of "Mr.
Edward Villiers," and then at him who addressed him. He was a young
man--certainly not more than three-and-twenty. An air of London fashion,
to which Lodore had been so long unused, was combined with a most
prepossessing countenance. He was light-haired and blue-eyed;
ingenuousness and sincerity marked his physiognomy. The few words he had
spoken were enforced by a graceful cordiality of manner, and a
silver-toned voice, that won the heart. Lodore was struck by his
prepossessing exterior, and replied with warm thanks; adding, that his
services would be most acceptable on certain conditions,--which were
merely that he should put no obstacle to the immediate termination of
the quarrel, in any mode, however desperate, which his adversary might
propose. "Otherwise," Lodore added, "I must entirely decline your
interference. All this is to me matter of far higher import than mere
life and death, and I can submit to no controul."
"Then my services must be limited to securing fair play for you," said
Mr. Villiers.
During this brief parley, they were in the street, proceeding towards
the place of meeting. Day had declined, and the crescent moon was high
in the heavens: each instant its beams grew more refulgent, as twilight
yielded to night.
"We shall have no difficulty in seeing each other," said Lodore, in a
cheerful voice. He felt cheerful: a burthen was lifted from his heart. How
much must a brave man suffer under the accusation of cowardice, and how
joyous when an opportunity is granted of proving his courage! Lodore was
brave to rashness: at this crisis he felt as if about to be born again
to all the earthly blessings of which he had been deprived so long. He
did not think of the dread baptism of blood which was to occasion his
regeneration--still less of personal danger; he thought only of good
name restored--of his reputation for courage vindicated--of the
insolence of this ill-spoken fellow signally chastised.
"Have you weapons?" asked his companion.
"They will procure pistols, I suppose," replied Lodore: "we should lose
much time by going to the hotel for mine."
"We are passing that where I am," said Mr. Villiers. "If you will wait
one moment I will fetch mine;--or will you go up with me?"
They entered the house, and the apartments of Mr. Villiers. At such
moments slight causes operate changes on the human heart; and as various
impulses sweep like winds over its chords, that subtle instrument gives
forth various tones. A moment ago, Lodore seemed to raise his proud head to
the stars: he felt as if escaping from a dim, intricate cavern, into the
blessed light of day. The strong excitement permitted no second
thought--no second image. With a lighter step than Mr. Villiers, he
followed that gentleman up-stairs. For a moment, as he went into an
inner apartment for the pistols, Lodore was alone: a desk was open on
the table; and paper, unwritten on, upon the desk. Scarcely knowing what
he did, Lodore took the pen, and wrote--"Ethel, my child! my life's
dearest blessing! be virtuous, be useful, be happy!--farewell, for
ever!"--and under this he wrote Mrs. Greville's address. The first words
were written with a firm hand; but the recollection of all that might
occur, made his fingers tremble as he continued, and the direction was
nearly illegible. "If any thing happens to me," said he to Mr. Villiers,
"you will add to your kindness immeasurably by going there,"--pointing
to the address,--"and taking precaution that my daughter may hear of her
disaster in as tender a manner as possible."
"Is there any thing else?" asked his companion. "Command me freely, I
beseech you; I will obey your injunctions to the letter."
"It is too late now," replied the noble; "and we must not keep these
gentlemen waiting. The little I have to say we will talk of as we walk."
"I feel," continued Lodore, after they were again in the street, "that if
this meeting end fatally, I have no power to enforce my wishes and designs
beyond the grave. The providence which has so strangely conducted the
drama of my life, will proceed in its own way after the final
catastrophe. I commit my daughter to a higher power than mine, secure
that so much innocence and goodness must receive blessings, even in this
ill-grained state of existence. You will see Mrs. Greville: she is a
kind-hearted, humane woman, and will exert herself to console my child.
Ethel--Miss Fitzhenry, I mean--must, as soon as is practicable, return
to England. She will be received there by my sister, and remain with her
till--till her fate be otherwise decided. We were on the point of
sailing;--I have fitted up a cabin for her;--she might make the voyage
in that very vessel. You, perhaps, will consult--though what claim have
I on you?"
"A claim most paramount," interrupted Villiers eagerly,--"that of a
countryman in a foreign land--of a gentleman vindicating his honour at
the probable expense of life."
"Thank you!" replied Lodore;--"my heart thanks you--for my own sake, and
for my daughter's--if indeed you will kindly render her such services as
her sudden loss may make sadly necessary."
"Depend upon me;--though God grant she need them not!"
"For her sake, I say Amen!" said Lodore; "for my own--life is a worn-out
garment--few tears will be shed upon my grave, except by Ethel."
"There is yet another," said Villiers with visible hesitation: "pardon
me, if I appear impertinent; but at such a moment, may I not name Lady
Lodore?"
"For her, indeed," answered the peer, "the event of this evening, if
fatal to me, will prove fortunate: she will be delivered from a heavy
chain. May she be happy in another choice! Are you acquainted with her?"
"I am, slightly--that is, not very intimately."
"If you meet her on your return to England," continued the noble;--"if
you ever see Lady Lodore, tell her that I invoked a blessing on her with my
latest breath--that I forgive her, and ask her forgiveness. But we are
arrived. Remember Ethel."
"Yet one moment," cried Villiers;--"one moment of reflection, of calm!
Is there no way of preventing this encounter?"
"None!--fail me not, I intreat you, in this one thing;--interpose no
obstacle--be as eager and as firm as I myself am. Our friends have
chosen a rising ground: we shall be excellent marks for one another.
Pray do not lose time."
The American and his second stood in dark relief against the moon-lit
sky. As the rays fell upon the English noble, Hatfield observed to his
companion, that he now perfectly recognized him, and wondered at his
previous blindness. Perhaps he felt some compunction for the insult he
had offered; but he said nothing, and no attempt was made on either side
at amicable explanation. They proceeded at once, with a kind of savage
indifference, to execute the murderous designs which caused them to
disturb the still and lovely night.
It was indeed a night, that love, and hope, and all the softer emotions
of the soul, would have felt congenial to them. A balmy, western breeze
lifted the hair lightly from Lodore's brow, and played upon his cheek; the
trees were bathed in yellow moonshine; a glowworm stealing along the
grass scarce showed its light; and sweet odours were wafted from grove
and field. Lodore stood, with folded arms, gazing upon the scene in
silence, while the seconds were arranging preliminaries, and loading the
firearms. None can tell what thoughts then passed through his mind. Did
he rejoice in his honour redeemed, or grieve for the human being at
whose breast he was about to aim?--or were his last thoughts spent upon
the account he might so speedily be called on to render before his
Creator's throne? When at last he took his weapon from the hand of
Villiers, his countenance was serene, though solemn; and his voice firm
and calm. "Remember me to Ethel," he said; "and tell her to thank
you;--I cannot sufficiently; yet I do so from my heart. If I live--then
more of this."
The antagonists were placed: they were both perfectly
self-possessed--bent, with hardness and cruelty of purpose, on
fulfilling the tragic act. As they stood face to face--a few brief paces
only intervening--on the moon-lit hill--neither had ever been more
alive, more full of conscious power, of moral and physical energy, than
at that moment. Villiers saw them standing beneath the silver moonbeams,
each in the pride of life, of strength, of resolution. A ray glanced from
the barrel of Lodore's pistol, as he raised and held it out with a steady
hand--a flash--the reports--and then he staggered two steps, fell, and
lay on the earth, making no sign of life. Villiers rushed to him: the
wound was unapparent--no blood flowed, but the bullet had entered his
heart. His friend raised his head in his arms; his eyes opened; his lips
moved, but no sound issued from them;--a shadow crossed his face--the
body slipped from Villiers's support to the ground--all was over--Lodore
was dead!