You are now
In London, that great sea, whose ebb and flow,
At once is deaf and loud.
SHELLEY.
There is no uninhabited desart so dreary as the peopled streets of
London, to those who have no ties with its inhabitants, nor any pursuits
in common with its busy crowds. A drop of water in the ocean is no
symbol of the situation of an isolated individual thrown upon the stream
of metropolitan life; that amalgamates with its kindred element; but the
solitary being finds no pole of attraction to cause a union with its
fellows, and bastilled by the laws of society, it is condemned to
incommunicative solitude.
Ethel was thrown completely upon her aunt, and her aunt was a cypher in
the world. She had not a single acquaintance in London, and was wholly
inexperienced in its ways. She dragged Ethel about to see sights, and
Ethel was amused for a time. The playhouses were a great source of
entertainment to her, and all kinds of exhibitions, panoramas, and
shows, served to fill up her day. Still the great want of all shed an
air of dulness over every thing--the absence of human intercourse, and
of the conversation and sympathy of her species. Ethel, as she drove
through the mazy streets, and mingled with the equipages in the park,
could not help thinking what pleasant people might be found among the
many she saw, and how strange it was that her aunt did not speak even to
one among them. This solitude, joined to a sense of exclusion, became
very painful. Again and again she sighed for the Illinois; that was
inhabited by human beings, humble and uncultivated as they might be. She
knew their wants, and could interest herself in their goings on. All the
moving crowd of men and women now around her seemed so many automata:
she started when she heard them address each other, and express any
feeling or intention that distinguished them from the shadows of a
phantasmagoria.
Where were the boasted delights of European intercourse which Lodore had
vaunted?--the elegancies, and the wit, or the improvement to be derived
from its society?--the men and women of talent, of refinement, and
taste, who by their conversation awaken the soul to new powers, and
exhilarate the spirits with a purer madness than wine--who with
alternate gaiety and wisdom, humour and sagacity, amuse while they
teach; accompanying their lessons with that spirit of sympathy, that
speaking to the eye and ear, as well as to the mind, which books can so
poorly imitate? "Here, doubtless, I should find all these," thought
Ethel, as she surveyed the audience at the theatres, or the daily
congregations she met in her drives; "yet I live here as if not only I
inhabited a land whose language was unknown to me, for then I might
converse by signs,--but as if I had fallen among beings of another
species, with whom I have no affinity: I should almost say that I walked
among them invisible, did they not condescend sometimes to gaze at me,
proving that at least I am seen."
Time sped on very quickly, meanwhile, in spite of these repinings; for
her days were past in the utmost monotony,--so that though the hours a
little lagged, yet she wondered where they were when they were gone: and
they had spent more than a month in town, though it seemed but a few
days. Ethel had entirely recovered her health, and more than her former
beauty. She was nearly seventeen: she was rather tall and slim; but
there was a bending elegance in her form, joined to an elastic step,
which was singularly graceful. No man could see her without a wish to
draw near to afford protection and support; and the soft expression of
her full eyes added to the charm. Her deep mourning dress, the
simplicity of her appearance, her face so prettily shaded by her bright
ringlets, often caused her to be remarked, and people asked one another
who she was. None knew; and the old-fashioned appearance of Mrs.
Elizabeth Fitzhenry, and the want of style which characterized all her
arrangements, prevented our very aristocratic gentry from paying as much
attention to her as they otherwise would.
One day, this gentle, solitary pair attended a morning concert. Ethel
had not been to the Opera, and now heard Pasta for the first time. Her
father had cultivated her taste for Italian music; for without
cultivation--without in some degree understanding and being familiar
with an art, it is rare that we admire even the most perfect specimens
of it. Ethel listened with wrapt attention; her heart beat quick, and
her eyes became suffused with tears which she could not suppress;--so
she leant forward, shading her face as much as she could with her veil,
and trying to forget the throng of strangers about her. They were in the
pit; and having come in late, sat at the end of one of the forms.
Pasta's air was concluded; and she still turned aside, being too much
agitated to wish to speak, when she heard her aunt addressing some one
as an old acquaintance. She called her friend "Captain Markham,"
expressed infinite pleasure at seeing him, and whispered her niece that
here was an old friend of her father's. Ethel turned and beheld Mr.
Villiers. His face lighted up with pleasure, and he expressed his joy at
the chance which had produced the meeting; but the poor girl was unable
to reply. All colour deserted her cheeks; marble pale and cold, her
voice failed, and her heart seemed to die within her. The room where
last she saw the lifeless remains of her father rose before her; and the
appearance of Mr. Villiers was as a vision from another world, speaking
of the dead. Mrs. Elizabeth, considerably surprised, asked her how she
came to know Captain Markham. Ethel would have said, "Let us go!" but
her voice died away, and she felt that tears would follow any attempt at
explanation. Ashamed of the very possibility of occasioning a scene, and
yet too disturbed to know well what she was about, she suddenly rose,
and though the commencement of a new air was commanding silence and
attention; she hastily quitted the room, and found herself alone,
outside the door, before her aunt was well aware that she was gone. She
claimed Captain Markham's assistance to follow the fugitive; and,
attended by him, at length discovered her chariot, to which Ethel had
been led by the servant, and in which she was sitting, weeping bitterly.
Mrs. Elizabeth felt inclined to ask her whether she was mad; but she
also was struck dumb; for her Captain Markham had said--"I am very sorry
to have distressed Miss Fitzhenry. My name is Villiers. I cannot wonder
at her agitation; but it would give me much pleasure if she would permit
me to call on her, when she can see me with more composure."
With these words, he assisted the good lady into the carriage, bowed,
and disappeared. He was not Captain Markham! How could she have been so
stupid as to imagine that he was? He looked, upon the whole, rather
younger than Captain Markham had done, when she formed acquaintance with
him, during her expedition to London on the occasion of Ethel's
christening. He was taller, too, and not quite so stout; yet he was so
like--the same frank, open countenance, the same ingenuous manner, and
the same clear blue eyes. Certainly Captain Markham was not so
handsome;--and what a fool Mr. Villiers must think her, for having
mistaken him for a person who resembled him sixteen years ago; quite
forgetting that Mr. Villiers was ignorant who her former friend was, and
when she had seen him. All these perplexing thoughts passed through Mrs.
Fitzhenry's brain, tinging her aged cheek with a blush of shame; while
Ethel, having recovered herself, was shocked to remember how foolishly
and rudely she had behaved; and longed to apologize, yet knew not how;
and fancied that it was very unlikely that she should ever see Mr.
Villiers again. Her aunt, engaged by her own distress, quite forgot the
intention he had expressed of calling, and could only exclaim and lament
over her folly. The rest of the day was spent with great discomfort to
both; for the sight of Mr. Villiers renewed all Ethel's sorrows; and
again and again she bestowed the tribute of showers of tears to her dear
father's memory.
The following day, much to Ethel's delight, and the annoyance of Mrs.
Elizabeth, who could not get over her sense of shame, Mr. Villiers
presented himself in their drawing-room. Villiers, however, was a man
speedily to overcome even any prejudice formed against him; far more
easily, therefore, could he obviate the good aunt's confusion, and put
her at her ease. His was one of those sunny countenances that spoke a
heart ready to give itself away in kindness;--a cheering voice, whose
tones echoed the frankness and cordiality of his nature. Blest with a
buoyant, and even careless spirit, as far as regarded himself, he had a
softness, a delicacy, and a gentleness, with respect to others, which
animated his manners with irresistible fascination. His heart was open
to pity--his soul the noblest and clearest ever fashioned by nature in
her happiest mood. He had been educated in the world--he lived for the
world, for he had not genius to raise himself above the habits and
pursuits of his countrymen: yet he took only the better part of their
practices; and shed a grace over them, so alien to their essence, that
any one might have been deceived, and have fancied that he proceeded on
a system and principles of his own.
He had travelled a good deal, and was somewhat inclined, when pleased
with his company, to narrate his adventures and experiences. Ethel was
naturally rather taciturn; and Mrs. Elizabeth was too much absorbed in
the pleasure of listening, to interrupt their visitor. He felt himself
peculiarly happy and satisfied between the two, and his visit was
excessively long; nor did he go away before he had appointed to call the
next day, and opened a long vista of future visits for himself, assisted
by the catalogue of all that the ladies had not seen, and all that they
desired to see, in London.
Villiers had been animated while with them, but he left the house full
of thought. The name of Fitzhenry, or rather that of Lodore, was familiar
to him; and the strange chance that had caused him to act as second to the
lamented noble who bore this title, and which brought him in contact
with his orphan and solitary daughter, appeared to him like the
enchantment of fairy land. From the presence of Ethel, he proceeded to
Lady Lodore's house, which was still shut up; yet he knocked, and
inquired of the servant whether she had returned to England. She was
still at Baden, he was told, and not expected for a month or two; and
this answer involved him in deeper thought than before.
END OF VOL. I.