Please handle this volume with care. The University of Connecticut Libraries, Storrs as$* pBgS 1 O 7 1 7J r" i «-< . * Pi /• m ? f L O D O R E. ; BY THE AUTHOR OF "FRANKENSTEIN.** In the turmoil of out lives, Men are like politic states, or troubled seas, Tosse I up and down with several storms and tempests, Change and variety of wrecks and fortunes; Till, labouring to the havens of our homes, We struggle for the calm that crowns our ends. Fobs. fFRANKLIN LIBRARY EDITION.} HERTFORD: PUBLISHED BY SILAS ANDRUS & SON. 1846. ■*- LODORE. CHAPTER I. Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear, A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear. Pope. In the flattest and least agreeable part of the county of Essex, about fn?# miles from the sea, is situated a village or small town, which may be kno>»»* in these pages by the name of Longtield. Longfield is distant eight mi!«g from any market town, but the simple inhabitants, limiting their desires to their means of satisfying them, are scarcely aware of the kind of desert in which they are placed. Although only fifty miljp from London, few among them have ever seen the metropolis. Some claim that distinction from having visited cousins m Lothbury and viewed the lions in the tower. There is a mansion belonging to a wealthy nobleman within four miles, never inhabited, except when a parliamentary election is going forward. No one of any pretension to consequence resided in this secluded nook, except the honourable Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry ; she ought to have been the shining star of the place, and she was only its better angel. Benevo- lent, gentle, and unassuming, this fair sprig of nobility had lived from youth to age in the abode of her forefathers, making a part of this busy world, only through the kindliness of her disposition, and her constant affection for one who was far away. The mansion of the Fitzhenry family, which looked upon the village green, was wholly incommensurate to our humblest ideas of what belongs to nobility ; yet it stood in solitary splendour, the Great House of Long- field. From time immemorial, its possessors had been the magnates of the village ; half of it belonged to them, and the whole voted according to their wishes.' Cut off from the rest of the world, they claimed "here a considera- tion and a deference, which, with the moderate income of fifteen hundred a year, they would have vainly sought elsewhere. There was a family tradition, that a Fitzhenry had sat in parliament ; but the time arrived when th y were to rise to greater distinction. The father of the lady, whose name has been already introduced, enjoyed all the privileges attendant on being an only child. Extraordinary efforts were made for his education. He was placed with a clergyman near Harwich, and imbibed in that neighbourhood so passionate a love for the sea, that, though tardily and with regret, his parents at last permitted him to pursue a naval career. He became a brave, a clever, and a lucky officer. In a contested election, his father was the means of ensuring the success of the government candidate, and the promotion of his son followed. Those were the glorious days of the English navy, towards the close of the American war : a^d when -that war terminated, and the admiral, now advarued con- siderably ueyood middle life, returned to the Sabine farm, of wnicb he had, 'by course of djpoent, become proprietor, he returned adorned with the rank of a peer of the realm, and with sufficient wealth to support respectably the dignity of the baronial title. 4 LODORE. Yet an obscure fate pursued the house of Fitzhenry, even in its ennobled condition. The new lord was proud of his elevation, as a merited reward ; but. next to the deck of his ship, he loved the tranquil precincts of his pater- nal mansion, and here he spent his latter days in peace. Midway in life, he had married the daughter of the rector of Longfield. Various fates had attended the offspring of this union ; several died, and at the time of his being created a peer, Lord Lodore found himself a widower, with two children — Elizabeth, who had been born twelve years before, and Henry, whose recent birth had cost the life of his hapless and lamented mother. But those days were long since passed away ; and the first Lord Lodore, with most of his generation, was gathered to his ancestors. To the new- sprung race that filled up the vacant ranks, his daughter Elizabeth appeared a somewhat ancient but most amiable maiden, whose gentle melancholy was not (according to innumerable precedents in the traditions regarding unmarried ladies) attributed to an ill-fated attachment, but to the disasters that had visited her house, and still clouded the fortunes of her family. What these misfortunes originated from, or even in what they consisted, was n^t exactly known ; especially at Longfield, whose inhabitants were no adepts in the gossip of the metropolis. It was believed that Mrs. Eliza- bet M s brother still hv^d : that some very strange circumstances had attend- ee his career in life, was Known ; but conjecture fell lame when it tried to proceed beyond these simple facts. It was whispered, as a wonder and a secret, that though Lord ^Lodore was far away, no one knew where, his lady (as the Morning Post testified in its lists of fashionable arrivals and fashionable parties) was a frequent visiter to London. Once or twice the bolder gossips, male or female, had resolved to sound (as fney called it) Mrs. Elizabe%i on the subject. But the fair spinster, though inoffensive to a proverb, and gentle beyond the wont of her gentle sex,, was yet gifted with a certain dignity of manner, and a quiet reserve, that checked these good people at their very outset. Henry Fitzhenry was spoken of by a few of the last generation, as hav- ing been a fine, bold, handsome boy — generous, proud, and daring; he was remembered, when as a youth he departed for the continent, as riding fearlessly the best hunter in the field, and attracting the admiration of the village maidens at church by his tall elegant figure and dark eyes ; or, when he chanced to accost them, by a nameless fascination of manner, joined to a voice whose thrilling silver tones stirred the listener's heait un- aware. He left them like a dream, nor appeared again till after his father's death, when he paid his sister a brief visit. There was then something sin- gularly grave and abstracted about him. When he rode, it was not among the hunters, though it was soft February weather, but in the solitary lanes, or with lightning speed over the moors, when the sun was setting and shadows gathered round the landscape. Again, some years after, he had appeared among them. He was then married, and Lady Lodore accompanied him. They stayed but three days. There was something of fiction in the way in which the appearance of the lady was recorded. An angel bright with celestial hues, breathing heaven, and spreading a halo of calm and light around, as it winged swift way amidst the dusky children of earth : such ideas seemed to appertain to the beautiful apparition, remembered as Lord Lodore's wife. She was so young, that time played with her as a favourite child ; so ethereal in look, that the language of flowers could alone express the delicate fairness of her skin, or the tints that sat upon her cheek : so light in motion, and so grace- ful. To talk of eye or lip, of height or form, or even of the colour of her hair, the villagers could not, for they had been dazzled by an assemblage of charms before undreamt of by them. Her voice won adoration, and" her smile was as the sudden withdrawing of a curtain displaying paradise upon L0D9RE. 5 earth. Her lord's tall, manly figure, was recollected but as a back-ground — a fitting one — and that was all they would allow to him — for this re- splendent imase. Nor was it remembered that any excessive attachment was exhibited between them. She had appeared indeed but as a vision — a creature from another sphere, hastily gazing on an unknown wo .Id, and lost before they could mark more than that void came again, and she was gone. Since that time, Lord Lodore had been lost to Longfield. Some few months after Mrs. Elizabeth visited London on occasion of a christening, and then, after a long interval, it was observed, that she never mentioned her brother, and that the name of his wife acted as a spell, to bring an ex- pression of pain over her sedate features. IViuch talk circulated, and many blundering rumours went their course through the village, and then faded like smoke in the clear air. Some mystery there was — Lodore was gone — his place vacant : he lived ; yet his name, like those of the dead, haunted only the memories of men, and was allied to no act or circumstance of pres- ent exiscence. He was forgotten, and the inhabitants of Longfield, re- turning to their obscurity, proceeded in their daily course, almost as happy as if they had had their lord among them, to vary the incidents of their quiet existence with the proceedings of the " Great. House.'' Yet his sister remembered him. In her heart his image was traced indel- ibly — limned in the colours of life. His form visited her dreams, and was the unseen, yet not mute, companion of her solitary musings. Years stole on, casting their clouding shadows on her cheek, and stealing the colour from her hair, but Henry, but Lodore, was before her in bright youth — her brother — her pride — her hope. To muse on the possibility of his return, to read the few letters that reached her from him, till their brief sen- tences seemed to imply volumes of meaning, was the employment that made winter nights short, summer days swift in their progress. This dreamy kind of existence, added to the old-fashioned habits which a recluse who lives in a state of singleness is sure to acquire, made her singularly unlike the rest of the world — causing her to be a child in its ways, and inexpert to detect the craftiness of others. Lodore, in exile and obscurity, was in her eyes, the first of human beings ; she looked forward to the hour, when he would blaze upon the world with renewed effulgence as to a religious promise. How well did she remem- ber, how in grace of person, how in expression of countenance, and dignity of manner, he transcended all those whom she saw du-ing her visit to Lon- don, on occasion of the memorable christening: that from year to year this return was deferred, did not tire her patience, nor diminish her regrets. He never grew old to her — never lost the lustr^ of early manhood ; and when the bovish caprice which kept him afar was sobered, so she framed her thouihts, by the wisdom of time, he Would return again to bless her and to adorn the world. The lapse of twelve years did not change this notion, nor the fact that, if she had cast up an easy sum in arithmetic, the parish register would have testified, her brother had now reached the mature ago of fifty. 1* LODORE, CHAPTER II. Settled in some secret nest, In calm leisure let me. rest* And far off the pui'lie stage, Pass away my silent as?e. Seneca. — Marzelts TVans. Twelve years previous to the opening of this tale, an English gentle- man, advanced to middle age, accompanied by an infant daughter, and her attendant, arrived at a settlement in the district of the Illinois in North America. It was at the time when this part of the country first began to be cleared, and a new comer, with some show of property, was considered a welcome acquisition. Still the settlement was too young, and the people were too busy in securing for themselves the necessaries of life, for much attention to be paid to any thing but the " overt acts "of the stranger — the number of acres which he bought, which were few, the extent of his clear- ings, and the number of workmen that he employed, both of which were, proportionately to his possession in land, on a far larger scale than that of anv of his fellow colonists. Like magic, a commodious house was raised on'a small height that embanked the "swift river — every vestige of forest disappeared from its immediate vicinity, replaced by agricultural cultivation; and a sarden bloomed in the wilderness. His labourers were many, and golden harvests shone in his fields, while the dark forest, or unfilled plain, seemed yet to set at defiance the efforts of his fellow settlers; and at the same time comforts of so civilized a description, that the Americans termed them luxuries, appeared in the abode and reigned in the domestic arrange- ments of the Englishman, although to his eye every thing was regulated by the strictest regard to republican plainness and simplicity. He did not minde much in the affairs of the colony, yet his advice was always to be commanded, and his assistance was readily afforded. He superintended the operations carried on on his own land ; and it was ob- served that they differed often both from American and English modes of agriculture. When questioned, he detailed practices in Poland and Hun- gary, and gave his reasons why he thought them applicable to the soil in question. Many of these experiments of course failed ; others were emi- nently successful. He did not shun labour of any sort. He joined the hunting; parties, and made one on expeditions that went out to explore the neighbouring wilds, and the haunts of the native Indians. He gavt-, money for the carrving on any necessary public work, and came forward willingly when called upon for any useful purpose. In any time of difficulty or sor- row — n the overflowing of the stream, or the failure of a crop, he was earnest in his endeavours to aid and to console. But with all this, there •v/as an insurmountable barrier between him and the other inhabitants of the colony. He never made one at their feasts, nor mingled in the familiar communications of daily life ; his dwelling, situated at the distance of a full mile from. the village, removed him from out of the very hearing of their festivities and assemblies. He might labour in common with others, but his pleasures were all solitary, and he preserved the utmost independence as far as regarded the sacred privacy of his abode, and the silence he kept in all concerns regarding himself alone. At first the settlement had to struggle with all the difficulties att?ndant on colonization. It grew rapidly, however, and bid fair to become a busy v LODORE. 7 *nd targe town, when it met with a sudden check. A new spot was dis- covered, a few miles distant, possessing peculiar advantages for commer- cial purposes. An active, enterprising man engaged himself in the task of establishing a town there on a larger scale and with greater pretensions. He succeeded, and its predecessor sunk at once into insignificance. It was matter of- conjecture among them whether Mr. Fitzhenry (so was named th? English stranger) would remove to the vicinity of the more considerable town, but no such idea seemed to have occurred to him. Probably he re- joiced in an accident that tended to render his abode so entirely secluded. At first the former town rapidly declined, and many a log hut fell to ruin ; but at last, having sunk into the appearance and name of a village, it con- tinued to exist, bearing few marks of that busy enterprising stir which usu- ally characterizes a new settlement in America. The ambitious and scheming had deserted it — it was left to those who courted tranquillity, and desired the necessaries of life without the hope of great future gam. It acquired an almost old-fashioned appsaranee. The houses began to took weatherworn, and none with fresh faces sprung up to shame them. Extensive clearings, suddenly ehecked, gave entrance to the forests, with- out the appendages of a manufacture or a farm. The sound of the axe was seldom heard, and primeval quiet again took possession of the wild. Meanwhile Mr. Fitzhenry continued to adorn his dwelling with imported conveniences, the result of European art, and to spend much time and labour in making his surrounding land assume somewhat of the appear ance of pleasure-ground. He lived in peace and solitude, and seemed to enjoy the unchanging tenor of his life. It had not always been so. During the first three or four years of his arrival in America, he had evidently been unquiet in his mind, and dissatisfied with the scene around him. He gave directions to his workmen, but did not overlook their execution. He took great pains to secure a horse whose fiery spirit and beautiful form might satisfy a fastidious connoisseur. Having with much trouble and expense got several animals of English breed together, he was perpetually seen mounted and forcing his way amid the forest land, or gallopping over the unencumbered country. Sadness sat on his brow, and dwelt in eyes, whose dark large orbs were peculiarly expressive of tenderness and melancholy, *' Pietosi a riguardare, a mover parchi." Often, when in conversation on uninteresting topics, some keen sensation would pierce his heart, his voice faltered, and an expression of unspeak- able wretchedness was imprinted on his countenance, mastered after a momentary struggle, yet astounding to the person he might be addressing. Generally on such occasions he would seize an immediate opportunity to break away and to remain alone. He had been seen, believing himself unseen, making passionate gestures, and heard uttering some wild ex- clamations. Once or twice he had wandered away into the woods, and not returned for several days, to the exceeding terror of his little household. He evidently sought loneliness, there to combat unobserved with the fierce enemy that dwelt within his breast On such occasions, when intruded upon and disturbed, he was irritated to fury. His resentment was ex- pressed in terms ill adapted to republican equality — and no one could doubt that in his own country he had filled a hish station in societv, and been educated in habits of command, so that he involuntarily looked upon himself as of a distinct and superior race to the human beings that each day crossed his path. In general, however, this was only shown by a certain loftiness of demeanour and cold abstraction, which might annoy, but could not be resented. Any ebullition of temper he was not backward to atone for by apology, and to compensate by gifts. 9 LODORE. There was no tinge of misanthropy in Fitzhenry's disposition. Erea while he shrunk from familiar communication with the rude and unlettered, he took an interest in their welfare. His benevolence was active, his com passion readily afforded. It was quickness of feeling, and not apathy, that made him shy and retired. Sensibility checked and crushed, an ardent thirst for sympathy, which could not be allayed in the wildernesses oi America, begot a certain appearance of coldness, altogether deceptive. He concealed his sufferings — he abhorred that they' should be pried into ; but this reserve was not natural to him, and it added to the misery which his state of banishment occasioned* n Quiet to quick bosoms is a hell." And so was it with him. His passions were powerful and had been ungov- erned. He writhed beneath the dominion of sameness ; and tranquillity, allied to loneliness, possessed no charms. He groaned beneath the chains that fettered him to the spot, where he was withering in inaction. They eaused unutterable throes and paroxysms of despair. Ennui, the demon, waited at the threshold of his noiseless refuge, and drove away the stirring hopes and enlivening expectations,, which form the better part of life. Sen- sibility in such a situation is a curse : men become " cannibals of their own hearts ;" remorse, regret, and restless impatience usurp the place of more wholesome feeling : every thing seems better than that which is ; and soli- tude becomes a sort of tangible enemy, the more dangerous, because it dwells within the citadel itself. Borne down by such emotions. Fitzhenry was often about to yield to the yearnings of his soul, and to fly from repose into action, however accompanied by strife and wretchedness ; to leave America, to return to Europe, and to face at once all the evils whieh he had journeyed so far to escape. He did not — he remained. His motives for flight returned on him with full power after any such paroxysm, and held him back. He despised himself for his hesitation. He had made his choice, and would abide by it. He was not so devoid of manliness as to be desti- tute of fortitude, or so dependent a wretch as not to have resources in him- self He would cultivate these, and obtain that peace which it had been his boast that he should experience. It came at last. Time and custom accomplished their task, and he be- came reeoneSed to his present mode of existence. He grew to love his home in the wilderness. It was all his own creation, and the pains and thought he continued to bestow upon it, rendered it doubly his. The mur- mur of the neighbouring river became the voice of a friend; it welcomed him on his return from any expedition ; and he hailed the first echo of it that struck upon his ear from afar, with a thrill of joy. Peace descended upon his soul. He became enamoured of the inde- pendence of solitude, and the sublime operations of surrounding nature. All farther attempts at cultivation having ceased in his neighbourhood, from year to year nothing changed, except at the bidding of the months, in obe- dience to the varying seasons ; — nothing changed, except that the moss grew thicker and greener upon the logs that supported his roof, that the plants he cultivated increased in strength and beauty, and that the fruit- trees yielded their sweet produce in greater abundance. The improvements he had set on foot displayed in their progress the taste and ingenuity of their projector : and as the landscape became more familiar, so did a thou- sand associations twine themselves with its varied appearances, till the forests and glades became as friends and companions. As he learned to be contented with his lot, the inequalities of humour, and singularities of conduct, which had at first attended him, died away* He had grown familiar with the persons of his fellow -colonists, and their LODORE. 9 various fortunes interested him. Though he could find no friend, tempered like him, like him nursed in the delicacies and fastidiousness of the socie- ties of the old world ; — though he, a china vase, dreaded too near a colli- sion with the brazen ones around ; yet, though he could not give his confi- dence, or unburden the treasure of his soul, he could approve of, and even feel affiction for several among them. Personal courage, honesty, and frankness, were to be found among the men ; simplicity and kindness among the women. He saw instances of love and devotion in membe s of families, that made him sigh to be one of them ; and the strong senbe and shrewd observations of many of the elder settlers exercised his under- Itanding. They opened, by their reasonings and conversation, a new »ource of amusement, and presented him with another opiate for his too nusy memory. Fitzhenry had been a patron of the fine arts ; and thus he had loved iooks, poetry, and the elegant philosophy of the ancients. But he had not been a student. His mind was now in a fit state to find solace in reading, and excitement in the pursuit of knowledge. At first he sent for a few books, such as he wished immediately to consult, from New-York, and made slight additions to the small library of classical literature he had ori jinally brought with him on his emigration. But when once the desire to instruct himself was fully aroused in his mind, he became aware how slight and inadequate his present library was, even for the use of one mam Now each quarter brought chests of a commodity he began to deem the most precious upon earth. Beings with human forms and human feelings he had around him; but, as if made of coarser, half-kneaded clay, they wanted the divine spark of mind and the polish of taste. He had pined for these, and now they were presented to him. Books became his friends-: they, when rightly questioned, could answer to his thoughts. Plato could elevate, Epictetus calm his soul. He could revel with Ovid in the imagery presented by a graceful, though voluptuous imagination ; and *hang en- chanted over the majesty and elegance of Virgil. Homer was as a dear and revered friend — Horace a pleasant companion. English, Italian, German, and French, all yielded their stores in turn ; and the abstruse sciences were jften a relaxation to a mind, whose chief bane was its dwelling too entirely upon. one idea. He made a study, also, of the things peculiarly befitting his present situation ; and he rose in the estimation of those around, as they became aware of his talents and his knowledge. Study and occupation restored to his heart self-complacency, which is an ingredient so necessary to the composition of human happiness. He felt himself to be useful, and knew himself to be honoured. He no longer asked himself, " Why do I live ?"• or looked on the dark, rapid waves, and longed for the repose that was in their gift. The blood flowed equably in his veins ; a healthy temperance regulated his hopes and wishes. He could ai;ain bless God for the boon of existence, and look forward to future years, if not with eager anticipation, yet with a calm reliance upon the power of good, wholly remote from despair. 10 LODORE. CHAPTER III. Miranda. — Alack ? what trouble Was I then to you ! Prospuro. — Oh, a cherubim , Thou wast, that did preserve me ! ~ / L ^ml.*^J #h+kfi9k<^ The Tempest. }h*fl**P* m '' Such was the Englishman who had taken refuge in the fartr. est wilds of an almost untenanted portion of the globe. Like a Corinthian column, left single amidst the ruder forms of the forest oaks, standing in alien beauty, a type of civilization and the arts, among the rougher, though perhaps not less valuable, growth of Nature's own. Refined to fastidiousness, sensitive to morbidity, the stranger was respected without being undei stood, and loved though the intimate of none. Many circumstances have been mentioned as tending to reconcile Fitz- henry to his lot ; and yet one has been omitted, chiefest of all ; — the growth and development of his child was an inexhaustible source of delight and occupation. She was scarcely three years old when her parent first came to the Illinois. She was then a plaything and an object of solicitude to him, and nomine" more. Much as her father, loved her, he had not then learned to discover the germ of the soul just nascent in her infant form ; or to watch the formation, gradual to imperceptibility, of her childish ideas. He would watch over her as she slept, and gaze on her as she sported in the garden, with ardent and unquiet fondness ; and, from time to time, instil some portion of knowledge into her opening mind : but this was all done by snathed heav\y, and turning his head towards the window bv his side, became absorbed m thought, and Ethel feared to disturb him by con- tinuing the conversat' jn. It has not been d'.ricult all along for the reader to imagine, that the la- mented brother of .he honourable Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry and the exile of the Illinois ar one ; and while father and daughter are proceeding on their way towarJs New- York, it will be necessary, for the interpretation of the ensuing pages, to dilate somewhat on the previous history of the father of our lovely heroine. It may be remembered, that Henrv Fitzhenry was the only son of Admi- LODORE. 21 ra\ Lord Lodore. He was, from infancy, the pride of his father and the idol of his sister ; and the lives of both were devoted to exertions for his happiness and well-being. The boy soon became aware of their extrava- gant fondness, and could not do less in consequence than fancy him- self a person of considerable importance. The distinction that Lord Lodore s title and residence bestowed upon Longfield made his son and heir a demigod among the villagers. As he rode through it on his pony, every one smiled on him and bowed to him ; and the habit of regarding himself superior to all the world, became too much a habit to afford triumph, thou ih any circumstances that had lessened his consequence in his own eyes would have been matter of astonishment and indignation. His per- sonal beauty was the delight of the women, his agility and hardihood the topic of the men of the village. For although essentially spoiled, he wag not pampered in luxury. His father, with all his fondness, would have despised him heartily had he not been inured to hardship, and rendered careless of it. Rousseau might have passed his approbation upon his physi- cal education, while his moral nurture was the most perniciously indulgent, Thus, atth? same time, his passions were fostered, and he possessed none of those habits of effeminacy, which sometimes stand in the gap, preventing our young self-indulged aristocracy from rebelling against the restraints of society. Still generous and brave as was his father, benevolent and pious as was his sister, Henry Fitzhenry was naturally led to love their virtue?, and to seek their approbation by imitating them. He would not Manto ny nave inflicted a pang upon a human being ; yet he exerted any power he might possess to quell the smallest resistance to his desires ; and unless when thev were manifested in the most intelligible manner, he scarcely knew that his fellow-creatures had any feelings at all except pride and glad- ness in serving him, and gratitude when he showed them kindness. Any poor family visned by rough adversity, any unfortunate child enduring un- just oppression, he assisted earnestly and with all his heart. He was I'our- azeous as a lion, and, upon occasion, soft-hearted and pitiful ; but once roused to anger by opposition, his eyes darted fire, his little form sweWed, his boyish voice grew big, nor could he be pacified except by the most entire submission on the part of his antagonist. Unfortunately for him, submis- sion usually followed any stand made against his authority, for it was always a contest with an inferior, and he was never brought into wholesome struggle with an equal. At the age of thirteen he went to Eton, and here every thing wore an altered and unpleasing aspect. Here were no servile menials nor humble friends. He stood one among many — equals, superiors, inferiors, all full of a sense of their own rights, their own powers ; he desired to lead, and he had no followers ; he wished to stand aloof, and his dignity, even his privacy, was perpetually invaded. His school-fellows soon discovered his weakness — it became a by-word among them, and was the object- of such practical joke^, as seemed to the self-idolizing boy at once frightful and disgusting. He had no resource. Did he lay his length under some favour- ite tree to dream of home and independence his tormentors were at hand with some new invention to rouse and molest him. He fixed his large dark eyes on them, and he curled his lips in scorn, trying to awe them by haughtiness and frowns, and shouts of laughter replied to the concentrated passion of his «oul. He poured forth vehement invective, and hoofings were the answer. He had one other ^source, and that in the end proved success- ful : — a pitched battle or two elevated him in the eyes of his fellows, and as they began to respect him, so he grew in better humour with them and with himself. His good nature procured him friends, and the sun once more shone unclouded upon him. Yet this was not all. He put himself foremost among a troop of wild 22 LODORE. and uncivilized scnool-boys ; but he was not of them. His tastes, fostered in solitude, were at once more manly and dangerous than theirs. He could not distinguish the nice line drawn by the customs of the place between a pardonable resistance, or rather evasion of authority, and rebellion against it ; and above all, he could not submit to practise equivocation and deceit. His first contests were with his school-fellows, his next were with his masters. He woula not stoop to shows of humility, nor tame a nature ac- customed to take pride in daring and independence. He resented injustice wherever he encountered or fancied it ; he equally spumed it when prac- tised on himself or defended others when thev were its object — freedom was the watchword of his heart. Freedom from all trammels, except those of which he was wholly unconscious, imposed on him by his passions and pride. His good nature led him to side with the weak ; and he was indig- nant that his mere fiat did not suffice to raise them to his own level, o? that his representations did not serve to open the eyes of all around him to the true merits of any disputed question. He had a friend at school — a youth whose slender frame, fair, effeminate countenance, and gentle habits, rendered him ridiculous to his fellows, while an unhappy incapacity to learn his allotted tasks made him in per- petual disgrace with his masters. The bov was unlike the rest : he bad wild fancies and strange inexplicable ideas. He said he was a mystery to himself — he was at once so wise and foolish. The mere aspect of a grt mmar inspired him with horror, and a kind of delirious stupidity seized him in the classes : and yet he could discourse with eloquence, and pored with unceasing delight over books of the abstrusest philosophy. He seemed incapable of feeling the motives and impulses of other bovs : when they jeered him. he would answer gravely with some story of a ghastly spectre, and tell wild legends of weird beings, who roamed through the dark fields by nigM, or sat wailing by the banks of streams : was he struck, he smiled and turntd away ; he would not fag ; he never refu-ed to leam, but could not : he was the scoff, and butt, and victim, of the wi.ole school. Fitzbenry stood forward in his behalf, and the face of things was changed. He insisted that his friend should have the same respect paid him as him- self, and the boys left off tormenting him. When they ceased to injure, thev began to like him, and he had soon a set of friends whom he solaced with his wild stories and mysterious notions. But his poweiful advocate was unable to advance his cause with his masters, and the cruelty exercised on him revolted Fitzbenrys generous souL One day he stood forth to expostulate, and to show wherefore Derham should not be punished for a defect that was not his fault. He was ordered to be silent, and he retorted the command with fierceness. As he saw the slender, bendingform of his friend seized to be led to punishment, he sprang forward to rescue him. This open rebellion astounded every one ; a kind of consternation, which feared to show the gladness it felt, possessed the boyish subjects of the tyro kingdom. Force conquered ; Fitzhenry was led away ; and the masters deliberated what sentence to pass on him. ' He saved them from coming to a conclusion by flight. He hid himself during the day in "\Vindsor Forest, and at night he entered Eton, and scaling a wall, tapped at the bed-room window of bis friend. ■ Come," said he, " come with me. Leave these tyrants to eat their own heart? with rage — my home shall be your home." Derham embraced him, but would not Ibnsent. " My mother," he said, " I have promised my mother to bear all ;" and tears pushed from bis large light blue eves ; "but for her the green grass of this spring were growing on mv grave. I dare not pain her." " Be it so," said Fitzhenry ; " nevertheless, before the end of a month, yon shall be free, I am leaving this wretched place, where men rule because LOTJOfiE. 23 they are strong, for my father's house. I never yet asked for a thing that I ought to have, that it was not granted me. lam a boy here, there am a man — ancTcan do as men da Representations shall be made to your pa- rents ; y> 1 shall be taken from school ; we shall be free and happy "together this summer at Longfield. Good night ; I have far to walk, for the stage coachmen would be shy of me near Eton ; but I shall set to London on foot, and s'eep to-morrow in my fathers house. Keep up vour heart, Der- ham. be a man — this shall not last long ; we shall triumph yet." CHAPTER VI. Whnt is youth ? a dancing billnw, Wiods behind, and rocks before ! W0.R.DSWORTH. This exploit terminated Fitzhenry's career at Eton. A private tutor was engaged, who resided with the family, for the purpose of preparing him for college, and at the age of seventeen he was entered at Oxford. "He still continued to cultivate the friendship of Derham. This voutft was the voun^er son of a rich and aristocratic family, whose hopes and" cares centred in their heir, and who cared little for the comfort of the vounger. Derham had been destined for the sea, and scarcely did his delicate health, and timid, nervous disposition exempt him from the common fate of a bov, whose pa- rents did not know what to do with him. The next idea vas to place him in the church ; and at last, at his earnest entreaty, he was permitted to o-o abroad, to stidy at one of tha German uui versifies, so to prepare himself, by a fa ndtarity with modem languages, for diplomacy. It was singular how well Fitzhenry and his sensitive friend agreed ; — the one looked up with unfeigned admiration — the other fek attracted by a mingled comoa-sion and respect, that flattered his vanitv, -»-id vet served as excitement and amusement. From Derham, Fitzhenry imbibed in the- ory much of that contempt of the world's opinion, and carelessness of con- sequences, which was inherent in the one, but was an extraneous graft on the p-oud and imperious spirit of the other. Derham looked with calm yet shy superiority on his fellow-creatures. Yet superioritv is not the word, since he did not feel himself superior to, but different from — incapa- ble of sympathizing or extracting sympathy, he turned away with a smile, ani pursued his lonely path, thronzed with visions and fancies' — while his friend, when he met check or rebuff, would fire up, his eyes sparkling, his bosom heaving with intolerable indignation. After two years spent at Oxford, instead of remaining to take his degree, Fitzhenry made an earnest request to be permitted to visit his friend, who was ifcen a: Jena. It was but anticipating the period f;r bis travels, a-.d upon nis p-o uise to pursue his studies abroad, he won a somewhat reluctant consent from his fath-r. Once on the continent, the mania of travellmcr seize! him. He visited Italy, Poland, and Russia: he bent his wavward steps from north to south, as the whim seized him. He became of age, an! his father earnestly desired his return : but again and a^ain he solicited permission to remain, from autumn till spring, and from spring till autumn, unt i the verv flower of his youth seemed destined to be wasted in aimless rambles, anl an intercourse with foreigners, that must tend to unnationalize him, and to render him unfit for a career in his own countrv. Growing ac- custom *d to regulate his own actions, he changed the tone of request into that of announcing his intentions. At length, he was summoned home to t4 LobfcRE. attend the death-bed of his father. He paid the last duties to his remains* provided for the comfortable -establishment of his sister in the family man* sion at Longfield, and then informed her of his determination of returning immediately to Vienna. During this visit he had appeared to live rather in a dream than in the actual world. He had mourned for his father ; he paid the most affection- ate attentions to his sister ; but this formed, as it were, the suifare of things ; a mightier impulse ruled his inner mind. His life seemed to de- pend upon certain letters which he received : and when the day had been occupied by business, he passed the night in writing answers. He was often agitated in the highest degree, almost always abstracted in reverie. The outward man — the case — of Lodore was in England — his passion- ate and undisciplined soul was far away, evidently in the keeping of another. Elizabeth, sorrowing for the loss of her father, was doubly afflicted when she heard that it was her brother's intention to quit England immediately. She had fondly hoped that he would, adorned by his newly-inherited title, and endowed with the gifts of fortune, step upon the stage of the world, and shine forth the hero of his age and country. B er affections, her future prospects, her ambition, were all centred in him ; and it was a bitter pang to feel that the glory of these was to be eclipsed by the obscurity and dis- tant residence which he preferred. Accustomed to obedience, and to re- gard the resolutions of the men about her, as laws with which she had no right to interfere, she did not remonstrate, she only wept. Moved by her tears, Lord Lodore made the immense sacrifice of one month to gratify her, which he spent in reading and writing letters at Longfield, in pacing the • rooms or avenues absorbed in reverie, or in riding over the most solitary districts, with no object apparently in view, except that of avoiding his fel- low-creatures. Elizabeth had the happiness of seeing the top of his head as he leaned over his desk in the library, from a little hillock in the garden, which she sought for the purpose of beholding that blessed vision. She enjoyed also the pleasure of hearing him pace his room during the greater part of the nieht. Sometimes he conversed with her, and then how like a god he seemed ! His extensive acquaintance with men and things, the novel but choice language in which he clothed his ideas ; his vivid descrip- tions, his melodious voice, and the exquisite grace of his manner, made him rise like the planet of day upon her. Too soon her sun set. If ever she hinted at the prolongation of his stay, he grew moody, and she discovered with tearful anguish that his favourite ride was towards the sea, often to the very shore : " 1 seem half free when I only look upon the waves," he said ; "they remind me that the period of liberty is at hand, when I shall leave this dull land for " A sob from his sister checked his speech, and he repented his ingrati- tude. Yet when the promised month had elapsed, he did not defer hia journey a single day : already had he engaged his passage at Harwich. A fair wind favoured his immediate departure. Elizabeth accompanied him on board, almost she wished to be asked to sail with him. No wqrd but that of a kind adieu was uttered by him. She returned to shor^ and watched his lessening sail. Wherefore did he leave his native country ? Wherefore return to reside in lands, whose language, manners, and reli gion, were all at variance with his own ? These questions occupied the gentle spinster's thoughts ; she had little except such meditations! to vary the hours, as years stole on unobserved, and she continued to spend her blame- less tranquil days in her native village. The new Lord Lodore was one of those men, not unfrequently met with in the world, whose early youth is replete with mighty promise ; who, as they advance in life, continue to excite the expectation, the curiosity, and even the enthusiasm of all around them ; but as the sun on a stormy day now and then glimmers forth, giving us hopes of conquering brightness, and yet sl^>s down to its evening echj.se without redeeming the pledge; so do these m m present every app arance of one day making a conspicuous fi {\\re, and y n l to the end, as it were, the}' only gild the edges of the clouds in which they hide themselves, and arrive at the term of life, the promise of it* dawn anful illed. Passion, and the consequent engrossing occupa- tions, usurped the place of laudable ambition and useful exertion. He wist^d his nobler energies upon pursuits which were mysteries to the 'world, yet which fo med the sum of his existence. It was not that he was desti- tute of loftier aspirations. Ambition was the darling growth of his scul — but weeds an! parasites, an unregulated and unpruned overgrowth, twist >,d its df around the healthier plant, and threatened its destruction. Sometimes he appeared amon^the English in the capital towns of the continent, anl was always welcomed with delight. His manners were hi ;hly engaging, a little reserved with men, unless they were intimates, attentive to wonrm. and to them a subject of interest, they scarcely knew whv. A mysterious fair one was spoken of as the cynosure of his destiny, and some desired to discover his secret, while others would have been glad to break the spell that bound him to this hidden star. Often for months he disappeared altogether, and was spoken of as having secluded himself in sons unattainable district of northern Germany, Poland, or Courland. Yet all these erratic movements were certainly governed by one law, and th it was love ; — iove unchangeable and intense, else wherefore was he cold to the attractions of his fair countrywomen ? And why, though he gazed with admiration and interest on Jhe families of lovely girls, whose successive visitations on the continent strike the natives with such wonder, why did he not select some distinguished beauty, with blue eyes, and auburn locks, as the object of his exclusive admiration? He had often conversed with such with seeming delight ; but ne could withdraw from the fascination unharmed and free. Sometimes a very kind and agreeable mamma contrived half to domesticate him ; but after lounging, and turn- ing over music-books, and teaching steps for a week, he was gone — a farewell card probably the only token of regret. Yet he was universally liked, and the ladies were never weary of auguring the tim ^ to be not far off, when he would desire to break the chains that bound him ; — and then — he must marry. He was so quiet, so domestic, so gen- tle, that he would make, doubtless, a kind and affectionate husband. Among Englishmen, he had a friend or two, by courtesy so called, who were eager for him to return to his native country, and to enter upon public life. He lent a willing ear to these persuasions, and appeared annoyed at some secret necessity that prevented his yielding to them. Once or twice he had sa d, that his present mode of life should not last for ever, and th&t he would come among them at no distant day, And yet years stole on, and mvste'-y ani obscurity clouded him. He grew grave, almost sombre, auJ then almost d scontented. Any one habituated to him might have discov- ered struggles beneath the additional seriousness of his demeanour — strug- gles that promised final emancipation from his long-drawn thraldom. LODOSE, CHAPTER Vlf. Men oftentimes prepare a lot. Which ere h finds ihem; is not what Suits with their genuine station. fcHELLET. 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 fubdw d ?rd £i?( eful manners, and 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 o f 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 hh \ become the most grievous slavery, f-om the moment it had ceased to be a voluntary servitude. He had broken the ties that had so U*rig held him; but this had not been done without such di°iculties and truggles, as made freedom less delightful, from the languor and regret that accompanied vic- tory. Lodore had *ormed but one resolve, which was not to entangle him- self again ir 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 vale, the turf, loss of fortune, were the ideas naturally con- veyed intoJi 's mind by this reply. " Is all — every thing gone — lost ?" she asked. < " My nj (Pae answered, with an effort, " and the rest is of little worth." He paused, and then continued in a low but distinct voice, as if every word cost him a struggle, yet as if he wished each one to be fraught with its en- tire meaning to his hearer ; " I cannot well explain to you the motives of 40 LODORE. my sudden determination, nor will I complain of the part you have had in bringing on this catastrophe. It is over now. No power on earth — no heavenly power — can erase the past, nor change one iota of what, but an hour ago, did not exist ; but which now exists, altering all things to both of us for over ; I am a dishonoured man.' "Speak without more comment," cried LadyLodore; " for Heaven's sake explain — I must know what you mean." " I have insulted a gentleman," replied her husband, " and I will yield no reparation. I have disgraced a nobleman by a blow, and I will offer no apology, could one be accepted — and it could not; nor will I give satisfaction." Lady Lodore remained silent. Her thoughts speedily ran over the dire objects which her husband's speech presented. A quarrel — - she too readily guessed with whom — a blow, a duel ; her cheek blanched — yet not so ; for Lodore refused to fight. In spite of the terror with which an antici- pated rencounter had filled her, the idea of cowardice in her husband, or the mere accusation of it, brought the colour back to her face. She felt that her heedlessness had given use to all this harm ; but again she felt insulted that doubts of her sentiments or conduct should be the occasion of a scene of violence. Both remained silent. Lodore stood leaning on the mantel- piece, his cheek flushed, agitation betraying itself in each gesture, mixed with a resolve to command himself. Cornelia had advanced from the door to the middle of the room ; she stood irresolute, too indignant and too fear- ful to ask farther explanation, yet anxious to receive it. Still he hesitated. He was desirous of finding some form of words, which might convey all the information that it was necessary she should receive, and yet conceal all that he desired should remain untold. . At last he spoke. " It is unnecessary to allude to the irretrievable past. The future is not less unalterable for me. I will not fight with, nor apolo- gize to, the boy I have insulted ; I must therefore fly — rly my country and the face of man ; go- where the name of Lodore will not be synonymous with infamy — to an island in the east — to the desert wilds of America — it matters not whither. The simple question is, whether you are prepared on a sudden to accompany me ? I would not ask this of your generosity, but that, married as we are, our destinies ar.e linked, far beyond any power we possess to sunder them. Miserable as my future fortunes will be, far other than those which I invited you but four years ago to share, you are better off.incurring the worst with me, than you could be, struggling alone for a separate existence." " Pardon me, Lodore," said Cornelia, somewhat subdued by the magni- tude of the crisis brought about, she believed, however involuntarily, by her- self, and by the sadness that, as he spoke, filled the dark eyes of her com- panion with an expression more melancholy than tears ; " pardon me, if I seek for further explanation. Your antagonist " (they neither of them ven- tured to speak a name, which hung on the lips of both) " is a mere boy. Your refusal to fight with him results of course from this consideration ; while angry, and if I must allude to so distasteful a falsehood, while unjust suspicions prevent your making him fitting and most due concessions. Were the occasion less terrible, I might disdain to assert my own innocence ; but as it is, I do most solemnly declare, that Count Casimir " " I ask no question on that point, but simply wish t< v whether you will accompany me," interrupted Lodore, hastily ; " the a,m sorry for — but it is over. You, my poor girl, though in somemeas J the occasion, and altogether the victim, of this disaster, can exercise noccmtrol over it. No foreign noble would accept the most humiliating submissions as com- pensation for a blow, and this urchin shall never receive from me the shadow of any." LODORE. 42 " Is there no other way ?" asked Cornelia. "Not any,' replied Lodore, while his agitation increased, and his voice grow tremulous ; " No consideration on earth could arm me against his life. One other mode there is. I might present myself as a mark for his vengeance, with a design of not returning his fire, hut I am shut out even from this resource. And this," continued Lodore, losing, as he spoke, all self-command, carried away by the ungovernable passions he had hitherto suppressed, and regardless, as he strode up and down the room, of Cornelia, who half terrified had sunk into a chair ; "this — these are the result of my crimes — such, fromthrir consequences, I tow term, what by courtesy, I have hitherto named my follies — this is the end ! Bringing into frightful collision those who are bound by sacred ties — changing natural love into unnatural, deep-rooted, unspeakable hate — arming blood against kindred blood — and making the innocent a parricide. O Theodora, what have you not to an- swer for !" --.-' Lady Lodore started. The image he presented was too detestable. She repressed her-emotions, and assuming that air of disdain, which we are so apt -to adopt to colour more painful feelings, she said, "This sounds very like a German tragedy, being at once disagreeable and inexplicable." " It is a tragedy," he replied ; " a tragedy brought now to its last dark catastrophe. Casimir is my son. "We may neither of us murder the other ; nor will I, if again brought into contact with him do other than chastise the insolent boy. The tiger is roused within me. You have a part in this." A flash of anger glanced from Cornelia's eyes. She did not reply — she rose — she quitted the room — she passed on with apparent composure, till, reaching the door of her mother's chamber, she rushed impetuously in. Overcome with indignation, panting;, choked, she threw herself into her arms, saying, "Save me!" A violent fit of hysterics followed. At fi-st Lady L,odore could only speak of the injury and insult she had hsrs 'If- suffered ; and Lady Santerre, who by no means wished to encour- age feelings which might lead to violence in action, tried to soothe her irri- tation. But when allusions to Lbdore's intention of quitting England and the civilized world for ever, mingled with Cornelia's exclamations, the affair assumed a new aspect in the wary lady's eyes. The barbarity of such an ilea excited her utmost resentment. At once she saw the full extent of the intended mischief, and the risk she incurred of losing the reward of years of suffering and labour. When an instantaneous departure was mentioned, an endless, desolate journey, which it was doubtful whether she should be admitted to share, to be commenced that very night, she perceived that her m msures to prevent it must be promptly adopted. The chariot was still waiting which was to have conveyed Lord and Lady Lodore to their assem- bly ; dressed as she was for tnis, without preparation, she hurried her daughter into the carriage, and bade the coachman drive to a villa they rented at Twickenham; leaving, in explanation, these fewlines addressed to her son-in-law. "The scene of this evening has had an alarming effect upcn Cornelia. Time will soften the violence of her feelings, but some immediate step was necessary to save, I verily believe, her life. I take her to Twickenham, and will endeavoi calm her : until 1 shall have in some measure suc- ceeded, Ijj had better not follow us : but let us hear from you ; for althoM r attention is so painfull v engrossed by my daughter's suffer- ings, I arrflB W on your account also, and shall continue very uneasy until I hean^^wyou. " Friday Evening." Lad)' Santerre and her daughter reached Twickenham. Lady Lodore 4 * 42 LODORE. went to bed, and, assisted by a strong composing draught, administered by ner mother, her wrongs and her anger were soon hushed in profound sleep. Night, or rather morning, was far spent before this occurred, so that it was late in the afternoon of the ensuing day before she awoke, and recalled to her memory the various conflicting sentiments which had occupied her pre- vious to her repose. During the morning, Lady Sahterre had despatched a servant to Berke- ley-square, to summon her daughter's peculiar attendants. He now brought back the intelligence that Lord Lodore had departed for the conti- nent^ about three hours after his wife had quitted his house. But to this he added tidings of another circumstance, for which both ladies were totally unpret. ared. Cornelia had entered the carriage the preceding night, with- out spending one thought on the sleeping cherub in the nursery. "What was her surprise and indignation, when she heard that her child and its at- tendant formed a part of his lordship's travelling suite. The mother's first impulse was to follow her offspring ; but this was speedily exchanged for a bitter sense of wrong, aversion to her husband, and a resolve not to yield one point, in the open warfare thus declared by him. CHAPTER XI. Amid two seas, on one small point of land, "Wearied, uncertain, and amazed, we stand ; On either side our thoughts incessant turn, Forward we dread, and looking back we mourn. Prior. Accustomed to obey the more obvious laws of necessity, those whose situation in life obliges them to earn their daily bread, are already broken in to the yoke of fate. But the rich and great are vanquished more slowly. Their time is their own ; as fancy bids them, they can go east, west, north, or south ; they wish, and accomplish their wishes ; and cloyed by the too easy attainment of the necessaries, and even of the pleasures of life, they fly to the tortures of passion, and to the labour of overcoming the obstacles that stand in the way of their forbidden desires, as resources against ennui and satiety. Reason is lost in the appetite for excitement, and a kind of unnatural pleasure springs from their severest pains, because thus alone are they roused to a full sense of their faculties ; thus alone is existence and its purposes brought home to them. , In the midst of this their thoughtless career, the eternal law which links ill to ill is at hand to rebuke and tame the rebel spirit ; and such a tissue of pain and evil is woven from their holyday pastime as checks then mid- course, and makes them feel that they are slaves. The young are scarcely aware of this ; they delight to contend with Fate, and laugh as she clanks their chains. But there is a period — sooner or later comes to all — when the links envelop them, the bolts are shot, the rivets fixed, the iron enters the flesh, the soul is subdued, and they fly to religion or proud philosophy, to seek for an alleviation, which the crushed spirit can i >nger draw from its own resources. This hour ! this fatal hour ! How many can point to the iadow on the dial, and say, " Then it was that I felt the whole weight of my humanity, and knew myself to be the subject of an unvanquishable power !" This dark moment had arrived for Lodore. He had spent his youth in passion, and exhausted his better nature in a struggle for, and in the enjoyment of, pleasure. He found disappointment, and desired change. It came at his I.ODORE. 43 beck. He married. He was not satisfied ; but still he felt that it wag because he did not rouse himself that the bonds sat so heavily upon him. He was enervated. He sickened at the idea of the struggle it would require to cast off his fettPrs and he preferred adapting his nature to endure their weight. But he believed that it was only because he did not raise his hand, nor determine on one true effort, that he was thus enslaved. And now his hand was raised — the effort made; but no change ensued; and he felt that there was no escape from the inextricable bonds that fastened him to misery. He had believed that he did right in introducing his wife to the Countess Lvzinski. He felt that he could not neglect this lady ; and such was her rank, that any affectation of a separate acquaintance would invite those observations which he deprecated. It was, after all, matter of trivial import that he should be the person to bring them acquainted. Moving in the same circles, they must meet — they might clash: it was better that they should be on friendly terms. He did not foresee the intimacy that ensued ; and, still less, that his own violent passions would be called into action. That they were so, was, to the end, a mystery even to himself. He no longer loved the countess ; and, in the solitude of his chamber, he often felt his heart yearn towards the noble youth, her son ; but when they met — when Cornelia spent her blandest smiles upon him, and when the ex-? quisitely beautiful countenance of Casimir became lighted up with gladness an'! gratitude, a fire of rage was kindled in his heart, and he could no more command himself than can the soaring flames of a conflagration bend earthward. He felt ashamed ; but new fury sprung from this very sensa- tion. For worlds he would not have his phrensy Dried into by another ; and yet he had no power to control its manifestation. His wife expostu- lated with him concerning Casimir, and laughed his rebuke to scorn. But she did not read the tumult of unutterable jealousy and hate that slept wtYm his breast, like an earthquake beneath the soil, the day before a city falls. All tended to add fuel to this unnatural flame. His own exertions to sub hie its fierceness but kindled it anew. Often he entered the same room with the young count, believing that he had given his suspicions to the winds — that he could love him as a son, and rejoice with a father's pride in the graces of his figure and the noble qualities of his mind. For a few seconds the fiction endured: he felt a pang — it was nothing — gone; it woula not return a<2;ain : — another! was he for ever to be thus tortured ? Ana then a wo-d, a look, an appearance of slighting him on the part of Casinir, an indiscreet smile on Cornelia's lips, would at once set a-light the whole devastating; blaze. The countess alone had any power over him • but ,hou^h he yielded to her influence, he was the more enraged that she should behold his weakness ; and that while he succeeded in maintaining an elevated impassibility with regard to herself, his heart, with all its fiavrw ana poverty of purpose, should, through the ill-timed interference ui Jus bov, be placed once more naked in her hand. Sueh a state of feeling, where passion combated passion, while reason was forgotten in the strife, was necessarily pregnant with ruin. The only safVv was in flight ; — ana" Loaore would have flown — he would have ab- sented himself until the cause of his sufferings had departed — but that, more ana mare, jfliousv entered into his feelings — a jealousy, wound up by the peculiarity^ situation, into a sensitiveness that bordered on insanity, which saweting to our judgments the occurrences of life, are like mirrors of va- rious shapes and hues, so that we none of us perceive passing objects with exactly similar optics ; and while all pretend to regulate themselves by the quadrant of justice, the deceptive medium through which the reality is viewed, causes our ideas of it to be at once various and false. This is the case in immaterial points ; how much more so, when self-love magnifies, and passion obscures, the glass through which we look upon others and ours^lv^s. The chief task of the philosopher is to purify and correct the intellectual prism ; — but Lodore was the reverse of a philosopher ; and the more he gazed and considered, the more imperfect and distorted became his perception. To act justly by ourselves and others, is the aim of every well-con- ditioned mind : for the sght of pain in our fellow-creatures, and the sense of self-coni^mnation within ou '"Selves, is fraught with a pang from which we would wdlin ;ly escape ; and every heart not formed of the coarsest materials is keenlv alive to such emotions. Lodore resolved to judge calmlv, and he reviewed coolly, and weighed (he believed) impartially, the various merits of the question. He thought of Lady Santerre's world- lings, hef vulvar ambition, her low-born contempt for all that is noble and el^vatini in human native. He thought of Co "nelia's docility to her mother's lessons her careless disregard of the nobler duties of life, of her frivolity and unfeeling nature : — then, almost against his w'.h, nis own manv excellencies rose before him ; — his lofty aspirations, his self-sacrifice fo r the good of others, the affection ateness of his disposition, his mildness, his de=ire to be just and kind to all, his willingness to devote every hour of the day, and every thought of his mind, to the well bringing up of his daughter : aMJierson must be strangely blind who did not perceive that, as far as the child was concerned she would be far better ofF with him. And then, in another point of view : Lady Lodo-e had her mother — and'she had the world. She had not only beauty, rank, and wealth; but she had a tist° for enjoying the advantages yielded by these on the com- mon soil of daily life. He cared for nothing in the wide world — he loved nothing but this little child. He would willingly exchange for her the far 46 LODORE. greater portion of his fortune, which Lady Lodore should enjoy ; reserving or himself such a pittance merely as would suffice for his own and his daughter s support. He had neither home, nor friends, nor youth, nor taint- less reputation; nor any of all the blessings of life, of which Cornelia pos- sessed a superabundance. Her child was as nothing in the midst of these. Sue had left her without a sigh, even without a thought ; while but to ima gine the moment of parting was a dagger to her father's heart. "What a fool he had been to hesitate so long — to hesitate at all ! There she was, this angel of comfort ; her little form was cradled in his arms, he felt her soft breath upon his hand, and the regular heaving of her bosom responded to the beatings of his own heart ; her golden, glossy hair, her crimsoned cheek, her soft round limbs ; — all this matchless " bower of flesh," that held in the budding soul and already expanding affections of this earthly cherub, was with him. And had he imagined that he could part with her? Rather would he return to Lady Lodore, to dishonour, to scenes of hate and of the world's contempt, so that thus he preserved her : it could not be required of her: but if Cornelia's heart was animated by a tithe of the fondness that warmed his, she would not hesitate in her choice ; but, dis- carding every unworthy feeling, follow her child into the distant and soli- tary abode he was about to select. Thus pacifying his conscience, Lodore came to the conclusion of making his daughter the partner of his exile. Soon after mid-day, they arrived at Southampton ; a small vessel was on the point of sailing for Havre, and on board this he hurried. Before he went he gave one hasty retro- spective view to those he was leaving behind — his wife, his sister, the filial antagonist from he was flying ; he could readily address himself to the first of these, when landed on the opposite coast ; but as he wished to keep his destination a secret from the latter, and to prevent, if possible, his being followed and defied by him, an event still to be feared, he em- ployed the few remaining minutes, before quitting his country for ever, in writing a brief letter to the Countess Lyzinski, which he gave in charge to a servant whom he dismissed, and sent back to town. And thus he now addressed her, who, in his early life, had been as the moon to raise the tide of passion, incapable, alas ! of controlling its waves when at the full. "It is all over: I have fulfilled my part — the rest remains with you. To prevent the ruin which my folly has brought down, from crushing any but myself, I quit country, home, good name — all that is dear to man. I do not complain, nor will I repine. But let the evil, I entreat you, stop here. Casimir must not follow me ; he must not know whither I am gone; and while he brands his antagonist with the name of coward, he must not guess that for his sake I endure this stain. I leave it to your prudence and sacra- city to calm or to mislead him, to prevent his suspecting the truth,* or rashly seeking my life. 1 sacrifice more, far more, than my heart's blood on his account — let that satisfy even your vengeance. " I would not write harshly. The dream of life has long been over for me ; it matters not how or where the last sands flow out. I ^o not blame you even for this ill-omened journey to England, which could avail you nothing. Once before we parted for ever, Theodora ; but that separation was as the pastime of children in comparison with the tragic scene we now enact. A thousand dangers yawn between us, and we shall neither dare to repass the gulf that divides us. Forget me; — be happy, and forget me ! May Casimir be a blessing to you, and while you glory in his per- fections and prosperity, cast into oblivion every thought of him who now bids you an eternal adieu." IrODORS. 49 CHAPTER XII. Her virtue, like our own, was built Too mui'h on that indignant fuss, Hyp 'crite pride stirs up in us, To bully out another's guilt. Shelley. The fifth day after Lord Lodore's departure brought Cornelia a lette? Rom hiii. Sue had spent the interval at Twickenham, surrendering her sorrows ana cheir consolation to her mothers care ; and inspired by her with aeep resentment and angry disdain. The letter she received was dated Havre : the substance of it was as follows. " Believe me, I am actuated by no selfish considerations, when T ask you once a^ain to reflect before the Atlantic divides us — probably for evd. It is for your own sake, your own happiness only, that I ask you to hesitate, I will not urge your duty to me ; the dishonour that has fallen on me I am most ready to bear alone ; mine towards you, as far as present circum- stances permit, I am desirous to fulfil, and this feeling dictates my present address. *' Consider the solitary years you will pass alone, even though in a crowd, divided from your husuand and your child — your home desolate — calumny and ill nature at watch around you — not one protecting crm stretched over you. Your mother's presence, it is true, will sufnr.e to pre- vent your position from being in the least equivocal ; but the time will soon cone whsn you will discover your mistake in her, and find how unworthy she is of your exclusive affection. I will not urge the temptations and dangers that will beset you ; your pride will, I doubt not, preserve you from these, yet they will be near you in their worst shape : you will feel their approaches; you will shudder at their menaces, you will desire my death, an! the faith pledged to me at the altar will become a chain and a torture to you. " I can only offer such affection as your sacrifice will deserve to adorn a lonely and obscure home ; rank, society, flatterers, the luxuries of civiliza- tion — all th j se blessings you must forego. Your lot will be cast in soli- tude. The wide forest, the uninhabited plain, will shelter us. Your hus- band, your child ; in us alone you must view the sum and aim of your life. I will not Use the language of persuasion, but in inviting you to share my p-ivations I renew T , yet more solemnly, the vows we once interchanged ; ani it shall be mv care to endeavour to fulfil mine with more satisfaction to both of us than has until now been the case. " It is useless to attempt to veil the truth, that hitherto our learts have been alienated from each other. The cause is not in ourselves, and must never a grain be permitted to influence either of us. If amidst the avocations of society, the presence of a thi-d person has been sufficient to place divi- sion between us — if on the flowery path of our prosperous life, one fatal interference has strewn thirns and burning ashes beneath our feet — how much more n^ply would this intervention be felt in the retirement in which we are hereafter to spend o:ir days. — In the lonely spot to which it will be necessary to contract all our thoughts and hopes, love must alone rei^n ; or hell itself would be hut pastime in comparison to our ever-renewing and sleepless torments. The spirit of worldliness, of discord, of paltry pride, must not enter the paling which is to surround our simple dwelling. Come, 48 LODORE. attended by affection, by open-hearted confidence ; — come to me — to your child ! — you will find with us peace and mutual love, the true secret of life, All that can make your mother happy in England shall be provided with no niggard hand : — but come alone, Cornelia, my wife ! — come, to take possession of the hearts that are truly yours, and to learn a new les- son, in a new world, from him who will dedicate himself entirely to you. " Alas ! I fear that I speak an unknown language, and one that you will never deign to understand. Still 1 again implore you to reflect before you decide. On one point 1 am firm — I feel that I am in the right — that every thing depends upon it. Our daughter's guileless heart shall never be tainted by all that I«abhor and despise. For her sake, for yours, more than for my ov, ii I am as rock upon one question. Do not strive to move me — it will be useless ! Come alone ! and ten thousand welcomes and blessings shall hail your arrival ! " A vessel, in which I have engaged a passage, sails for New- York, from this place, in five days' time. You must not delay your decision ; but hasten, if such be your gracious resolve, to join me here. •'If you decide to sacrifice yourself to one who will never repay that sacri- fice, and to the world, — that dreary, pain-haunted jungle, — at least you shall receive from me all that can render your situation there prosperous. You shall not complain for want of generosity on my part. I shall, in my new course of life, require little myself; the remainder of my fortune shall be at your disposal. " I need not recommend secrecy to you as to the real motive of my exile — your own sense of delicacy will dictate reserve and silence. This letter will be delivered to you by Fenton : he will attend you back here, or bring me your negative — the seal, I feel assured, of your future misery. God grant that you choose wisely and well ! Adieu." The heart of Lady Lodore burnt within her bosom as she read these lines. Haughty and proud, was she to be dictated to thus ? and to follow, an obedient, slave, the master that deigned to recall her to his presence, after he had (so she termed his abrupt departure) deserted her ? Her mo- ther sat by, looking at her with an anxious and inquiring glance, as she read the letter. She saw the changes of her countenance, as it expressed anger, scorn, and bitter indignation. She finished — she was still silent, — how cou'.d she show this insulting address to her parent ? Again she seemed to study its contents — to ponder. Lady Santeire rose — gently she was taking the paper from Cornelia's hand. " You must not read it," she cried ; — " and yet you must ; — and thus one other wrong is heaped upon the many." Lady Santerre read the letter; silently she perused it — folded it — rlaoed it on the table. Cornelia looked up at her. " I do not fear your deov.ion," she said ; " you will not abandon a parent, who has devoted her- self to you from your cradle — who lives but for } T ou." The unhappy girl, unable to resist her mother's appeal, threw herself into her arms. Even the cold Lady Santerre was moved — tears flowed Fiom her eyes : — " My dear child !" she exclaimed. " My dear child !" — the words found an echo in Lady Lodore's bosom ; — "I am never to see my child more !" " Such is his threat," said her mother, " knowing thus the power he has over you ; but do not fear that it will be accomplished. Lord Lodore's conduct is guided by no principle — by no deference to the opinion of the world — by no just or sober motives. He is as full of passion as a mad- man, and more vacillating. This is his fancy now — to quit England for the wilderness, and to torture you into following him, You are as lost *a he, if you yield. A little patience, and all will be right again. He will satm LODORE, 49 grow tired of playing the tragic hero on a Stage surrounded by no specta- tors ; he will discover the folly of his conduct; he will return, and plead for forgiveness, and feel that he is too fortuna'tein a wife, who has preserved her own conduct free from censure and remark, while he has made himself a laughing-stock to all. Do net permit yourself, dear Cornelia, to be baffled in this war of passion with reason ; of jealousy, selfishness, and tyranny, with natural affection, a child's duty, and the respect you owe To yourself. Even if he remain away, he will quickly become weary of being accom- panied by an infant and its nurse, and too glad to find that you w:ll still be willing to act the mother towards his child. Firmness and discretion are the arms you must use against folly and violence. Yield, and you are the victim of a despotism without parallel, the slave of a task-master, whose first commands are gentle, soft, and easy injunctions to desert your mother : to exile yourself from your country, and to bury yourself alive in some unheard-of desert, whose name even he does not deign to communi- cate. All this would be only too silly and too wild, "Were it not too wicked and too cruel. Believe me, my love, trust yourself to my guidance, and all will be well ; Lodore himself will thank, if such thanks be of value, the prudence and generosity you will display." Cornelia listened, and was persuaded. Above all, Lady Santerre tried to impress upon her mind, that Lodore, finding her firm, would give up his rash schemes, and remain in Europe ; that even he had, probably, never really contemplated crossing the Atlantic. At al! events, that she must not be guided by the resolves, changeable as the moon, of a man governed by no sane perpose ; but that, by showing herself determined, he would be brought to bend to her will. In this spirit Lady Lodore replied to her hus- band's letter. Penton, Lord Lodore's valet, who had been the bearer, had left it, and proceeded to London. He returned the day following, to re- ceive his lady's orders. Cornelia saw him and questioned him. She heard that Lord Lodore was to dismiss him and all his English servants before embarking for America, with the exception of the child's nurse, whom he had promised to send back on his arrival at New- York. He had engaged his passage, and fitted up cabins for his convenience, so that there could be no doubt of his having finally resolved to emigrate. This was all he knew; Cornelia gave him her letter, and he departed on*the instant for Southampton. In giving his wife so short an interval in which to form her determination, Lodore conceived that her first impulse would be to join her child, that she would act upon it, and at least come as far as Havre, though perhaps her mother would accompany her, to claim her daughter, even if she did not besides foster a hope of changing his resolves. Lodore had an unac- knowledged reserve in his own mind, that if she would give up her mother, and for a time the world, he would leave the choice of their exile to her, and relinquish the dreary scheme of emigrating to America. With these thoughts in his mind, he anxiously awaited each day the arrival of the packets from England, Each day he hoped to see Cornelia disembark from one of them ; and even though accompanied by Lady Santerre, he felt that his heart would welcome her. During this interval, his thoughts had recurred to his home ; and imagination had already begun to paint the memory of that home in brighter colours than the reality. Lady Lodore had not been all coldness and alienation; in spite of dissension, she had been his ; her form, graceful as a nymph's, had met his eyes each morning ; her smile, her voice, her light cheering laugh, had animated and embellished how many hours during the long days grown vacant without her. Cherish- ing a hope of seeing her again, he forgot her petulance — her self-will — her love of pleasure ; and remembering only her beauty and her grace, he began, in a lover-like fashion, to impart to this charming image a soul in 32—5 50 • LODOSE. accordance to his wishes, rather than to the reality. Each day he attended less carefully to the preparations for his long voyage. Each day he expected her ; a chill came over his heart at each evening's still recurring disappoint- ment, till hope awoke on the ensuing morning. More than once he had been on the eve of sailing to England to meet and escort her; a thousand times he reproached himself for not having made Southampton the place of meeting, and he was withheld from proceeding thither only by the fear of missing her. Giving way to these sentiments, the tide of affection, swelling into passion, rose in his breast. He doubted not that, ere Ions, she would arrive, and taxed himself for modes to show his gratitude and love. The American vessel was on the point of sailing — it might have gore without him, he cared not ; when on the sixth day Fenton arrived, and put into his hand Cornelia's letter. This then was the end of his expectation, this little paper coldly closed in the destruction of his hopes ; yet might it not merely contain a request for delay? There was something in the servant's manner that. looked not like that; but still, as soon as the idea crossed him, he tore open the seal. The words were few, they were con- ceived in all the spirit of resentment. " You add insult to cruelty," it said • " but I scorn to complain. The very condition you make displays the hollowness and deceit of your proceeding, You well know that 1 cannot, that I will not, desert my mother; but by calling on me for this dereliction of all duty and virtuous affection, you contrive to throw on me the odium of refusing to accompany you ; this is a worthy design, and it is successful. " I demand my child — restore her to me. It is cruelty beyond compare to separate one so young from maternal tenderness and fosterage. By what right — through what plea, do you rob me of her ? The tyranny and dark jealousy of your vindictive nature display themselves in this act of unprincipled violence, as well as in your insulting treatment of my mother. You alone must reign, be feared, be thought of; all others are to be sacri- ficed, living victims, at the shrine of your self-love. "What have you done to merit so much devotion ? Ask your heart — if it be not turned to stone — ask it what you have done to compare with the long years of affection, kindness, and never-ceasing care that my beloved parent has bestowed ». me. I am your wife, Lodore ; I bear your name ; I will be true to the vows I have made you, nor will I number the tears you force me to shed j but my mother's are sacred, and not one falls in vain for me. " Give me my child — let the rest be yours — depart in peace ! If Heaven have blessings for the coldly egotistical, the unfeeling despot, may these blessings be youre ; but do not dare to interfere with emotions too pure, too disinterested for you ever to understand. Give me my child, and fear neither my interference nor resentment. I am content to be as dead ts> you — quite content never to see you more." LODORE. 51 CHAPTER XIII. And so farewell ; for we will henceforth be As we had never seen, ne'er more shall ?ee Heywood. Lodore had passed many days upon the sea, on his voyage to America, before he could in the least calm the bitter emotions to which Cornelia's violent letter had given birth. He was on the wide Atlantic ; the turbid ocean swelled and roared around him, and heaven, the mansion of the winds, showed on its horizon an extent of water only. He was cut off from England, from Europe, for ever ; and the vast continents he quitted dwin- dled into a span ; but still the images of those he left behind dwelt in his soul, engrossing and filling it. They could no longer personally taunt nor injure him ; but the thought of them, of all that they might say or do, haunted his mind ; it was like an unreal strife of gigantic shadows beneath dark night, which, when you approach, dwindles into thin air, but which, contemplated at a distance, fills the hemisphere with star-reaching heads, and steps that scale mountains. There was a sleepless tumult in Lodore's heart ; it was a waking dream of the most painful description. Again and again Cornelia assailed him with repi.-aches, and Lady Santerre poured out curses upon him ; his fancy lent them words and looks full of menace, hate, and violence. Sometimes the sighing of the breeze in the shrouds assumed a tone that mocked their voices ; his sleep was disturbed by dreams more painful than his daylight fancies ; and the sense which they imparted of suffering and oppression was prolonged throughout the day. He occasionally felt that he might become mad, and at such moments the presence of his child brought consolation and calm ; her caresses, her lisped expressions of affection, her playfulness, her smiles, were spells to d-ive away the fantastic reveries that tortured him. He looked upon her cherub face, and the world, late so full of wretchedness and ill, assumed brighter hues ; the storm was allayed, the dark clouds fled, sunshine poured forth its beams ; by degrees, tender and gentle sensations crept over his heart ; he forgot the angry contentions in which, in imagination, he had been engaged, and he felt, that alone on the sea, with this earthly angel of peace near him, he was divided from every evil, to dwell with tranquillity and love. To part with her had become impossible. She was all that rendered him human — that plucked the thorn from his pillow, and poured one mitigating drop into the bitter draught administered to him. % Cornelia, Casimir, Theodora, his mother-in-law, these were all various names and shapes of the spirit of evil, sent upon earth to torture him : but this heavenly sprite could set at naught their machinations, and restore him to the calm and hopes of childhood. Extreme in all things, Lodore began more than ever to dote upon her, and to bind up his life in her. Yet some- times his heart softened at the recollection of his wife, of her extreme youth, and of the natural pang she must feel at being deprived of her daughter. He figured her pining, and in tears — he remembered that he had vowed to protect and love her for ever ; and that, deprived of him, never more could the soft attentions and sweet language of love soothe her heart or meet her ear, unattended with a sense of guilt and degradation. He knew that hereafter she might feel this — hereafter, when passion might be rouspd, and he could afford no remedy. Influenced by such ideas, he wrote to her ; many letters he wrote during his voyage, destroying them one after another, 52 LODORE. dictated by the varying feelings that alternately ruled him. Reason and persuasion, authority and tenderness, reigned by turns in these epistles ; they were written with all the fervour of his ardent soul and breathed ".rresistible power. Had some of these papers met Cornelia's eye, she had assuredly been vanquished ; but fate ordained it otherwise : fate that blindly weaves our web of life, culling her materials at will, and often wholly re- fusing to make use of our own desires and intentions, as forming a part of our destiny. Lodore arrived at New- York, and four\d by some chance letters already wai',;ng for him there. He had concluded one to his wife full of affection and kindness, when a letter with the superscription written by Lady San- lerre was delivered to him. It spoke of law proceedings, of eternal separa- tion, and announced her daughter's resolve to receive no communication, to read no address, that was not prefaced by the restoration of her child ; it referred him to a solicitor as the medium of future intercourse. With a bitter laush Lodore tore to pieces the eloquent and heartfelt appeal he had been on the point of sending ; he gave up his thoughts to business only ; he wrote to his agent, he arranged for his intended journey ; in less than a month he was on his road to the Illinois. Thus ended all hope of reconciliation, and Lady Santerre won the day. She had worked on the least amiable of her daughter's feelings, and exalted anger into hatred, disapprobation into contempt and aversion. Soon after Cornelia had dismissed the servant, she felt that she had acted with too little reflection. Her heart died within her at the idea that too truly Lodore might sail away with her child, and l^ave her widowed and solitary for ever. Her proud heart knew, on this account, no relenting towards her husband, the author of these painful feelings, but she formed the resolve not to lose all without a struggle. She announced her intention of proceeding to Havre to obtain her daughter. Lady Santerre could not oppose so natural a pro- ceeding, especially as her companionship was solicited as in the highest degree necessary. They arrived at Southampton ; the day was tempestuovs, the wind contrary. Lady Santerre was afraid of the water, and their voyage was deferred. On the evening of the following day Fen ton arrived from Havre. Lord Lodore had sailed ; the stormy waves of the Atlantic were between him and the shores of England ; pursuit were vain ; it would be an acknowledgment of defeat to follow him to America. Cornelia retu- ned to Twickenham, maternal sorrow contending in her heart with mortified pride, and a keen resentful sense of injury. Lady Lodore was nineteen ; an age when youth is most arrogant, and most heedless of the feelings of others. Her beauty, and the admiration it acquired, sat heron the throne of the world, and, to her own imagination, she looked down, like an eastern princess, upon slaves only : her sway she had believed to be absolute ; it was happiness for others to obey. Exalted by adulation, it was natural that all that lowered her elevation in her own eyes should appear impertinent and hateful. She had not learned to feel with or for others. To act in contradiction to her wishes was a crime beyond compare, and her soul was in arms to resent the insolence which thus assailed her majesty of will. The act of Lodore, stepping beyond common-place opposition into injury and wrong, found no mitigating excuses in her heart. No gentle return of love, no compassion for the unhappy exile — no generous desire to diminish the sufferings of one who was the victim of the wildest and most tormenting passions, softened her bosom. She was injured, insulted, despised ; and her swelling soul was incapable of any second emotion to the scorn and hate with which she visited the author of her degradation. She was to become the theme of the world's discourse, of its ill-natured censure or mortifying pity. In whatever lisht she viewed her present position, it was full of annoyance and humiliation ; her path LODORE. 53 was traced through a maze of pointed angles, that pained her at every turn, and her reflections ma niifying the imprudence of which she accused herself, suggested no excuse for her husband, but caused her wounds to fester and burn. Cornelia was not of a lachrymose disposition ; she was a woman who in Sparta had formed a heroine ; who in periods of war and revolution would unflinchingly have met calamity, sustaining and leading her own sex. But through the bad education she had received, and her extreme youth elevation of feeling degenerated into mere personal pride, and heroism wa ! turned into obstinacy: she had been capable of the most admirable self- sacrifice, had she been taught the right sbnne at which to devote herself; but i:ei mind was narrowed by the mo le of her bringing up, and her loftiest ideas vreie centred in worldly advantages the m^st worthless and pitiable. To defraud her of these, was to deprive her of all that rendered life worth preserving. Ladv Santerre soothed, flattered, and directed her. She poured the balm of gratified vanity upon injured pride, ^he bade her expect speedy repent- ance fron her husband, and impressed her with the idea, that if she were firm, he must yield. His present blustering prognosticated a speedy calm, when he would regret all that he had done, and seek, by entire submission, to win back his wife. Any appearance of concession on her part would spoil ail. Cornelia's eyes flashed fire at the word. Concession ! and to whom? To him who had wronged and insulted her? She readny gave into her mother's hands the. management of all future intercourse with him, reserving alone, for her own satisfaction, an absolute resolve never to forgive. The correspondence that ensued, carried on across the Atlantic, and soon with many miles of continent added to the space, only produced an interchange of letters written with cool insolence on one side, with heart- burning and impatience on the other. Each served to widen the breach. When Cornelia was not awakened to resent for herself, she took up arms on her. mother's account. When Lodore blamed her for being the puppet of one incapable of any generous feeling, one dedicated to the vulgar wor- ship of Mammon, she repelled the taurff. and denied the servitude of soul of which she was accused ; she declared that every virtue was enlisted on her mother's s ; de, and that she would abide by her for ever. In truth, she loved her the mo>e for Lodore's hatred, and Ladv Santerre spared no pains to impress her with the belief, that she was wholly devoted to her. Thus years passed away. At first Lady Lodore had lived in some de- gree of retirement, but persuaded again to emerge, she soon entered into the very thickest maze of society. Her fortune was sufficient to command a respectable station, her beauty gained her partizans, her untainted repu- tation secured her position in the world. Attractive as she was, she was so entirely and proudly correct, that even the women were not afraid of her. All her intimate associates were people whose rank save weight and bril- liancy to her situation, but who were conspicuous for their domestic virtues. She was looked upon as an injured and deserted wife, whose propriety of conduct was the more admirable from the difficulties with which she was surrounded ; she became more than ever the fashion, and years glided on, as from season to s°ason she shone a brisht star among many luminaries, imp'-ovinT in charms and grace, as knowledge of the world and the desire of i>lea=in2; were added to her natural attractions. Th° stoies at first in circulation on Lodore's departure, all sufficiently wile from the t-uth, were half forgotten, and served merely as an obscure substratum for Cornelia's bright reputation. He was gone: he could no longer injure nor benefit anv, and was therefore no longer an object of fear or love. The most charitable construction put upon his conduct was, that he was mad, and it was piously observed, that his removal from this world 5* 54 lodore. would be a blessing. Lady Santerre triumpbed. Withering away in un- honoured a°;e, still she appeared in the halls of the great, and played the part of Cerberus in her daughter's drawing-room. Lady Lodore, beauti- ful and admired, intoxicated with this sort of prosperity, untouched by pas- sion, unharmed* by the temptations that surrounded her, believed that life was spent most worthily in following the routine observed by those about her, and securing the privilege of being exclusive. She was the glass of fashion — the imitated by a vast set of imitators. The deprivation of her child was the sole cloud that came between her and the sun. In despite of herself, she never saw a little cherub with rosy cheeks and golden hair, but her heart was visited by a pang ; and in her dreams she often beheld, instead of the image of the gay saloons in which she spent her evenings, a desert wild — a solitary home — and tiny footsteps on the dewy grass, guiding her to her baby daughter, whose soft cooings, remembered during absence, were agonizing to her. She awoke, and vowed her soul to hatred of the author of her sufferings — the cruel-hearted, insolent Lodore; and then fled to pleasure as the means of banishing these sad and disturbing emo- tions. She never again saw Casimir. Long before she reappeared in the world, he and his mother had quitted England. Taught by the slight tinge of weakness that had mingled with her intercourse with him, she sedulously avoided like trials in future; and placing her happiness in uni- versal applause, love saw her set his power at naught, and pride become a more impenetrable shield than wisdom. CHAPTER XIV. Time and Change together take their flight. L. E. L. Fitzhenry and his daughter travelled for many days in rain and sun- shine, across the vast plains of America. Conversation beguiled the way, and Ethel, delighted by the novelty and variety of all she saw, often felt as if springing from her seat with a new sense of excitement and gladness. So much do the young love change, that we have oft n thought it the dis- pensation of the Creator, to show that we are formed, at a certain age, to quit the parental roof, like the patriarch, to seek some new abode where to pitch our tents, and pasture our flocks. The clear soft eyes of the fair girl glistened with pleasure at each picturesque view, each change of earth and sky, each new aspect of civilization and its results, as they were presented to her. Fitzhenry — or as he approaches the old world, so long deserted by him, he may resume his title — Lord Lodore had quitted his abode in the Illinois upon the spur of the moment ; he had left his peaceful dwelling impatiently, and in haste, giving himself no time for second thoughts — scarcely for recollection. As the fever of his mind subsided, he saw no cause to repent his proceeding, and yet he began to look forward with an anxious and fore- boding mind. He had become aware that the village of the Illinois was not the scene fitted for the development of his daughter's first social feel- ings, and that he ought to take her among the educated and refined, to give her a chance for happiness. A Gertrude or an Haidee, brought up in the wilds, innocent and free, and bestowing the treasure of their hearts on some accomplished stranger, brought on purpose to realize the ideal of their dreamy existences, is a picture of beauty, that requires a miracle to change into an actual event in life ; and that one ?o pure, so girileless, and so LODORE. 55 inexperienced as Ethel, should, in sheer ignorance, give her affections away unworthily, \yas a danger to be avoided beyond all others. White- lock had performed the part of the wandering stranger, but he was ill-fitted for it; and Lodore's first idea was to hurry his daughter away before she should invest him, or any otli3r, with attributes of glory, drawn from her own imagination and sensibility, wholly beyond his merits. This was done. Father and daughter were on their way to New- York, having bid an eternal adieu to the savannas and forests of the west. For a time, Lodore's thoughts were haunted by the image of the home they had left.. The murmuring of its stream was in his ears, the shape of each dis- tant hill, the grouping of the trees, surrounding the wide-spread prairie, the winding pathway and trellised arbour were before his eyes, and he thought of the changes that the seasons would operate around, and of his future plans unfulfilled, as any home-bred farmer might, when his lease was out, and he was forced to remove to another country. As their steps drew near the city which was their destination, these recollections became fainter, and, except in discourse with Ethel, when their talk usually recurred to the prairie, and their late home, he began to antici- pate the future, and to reflect upon the results of his present journey. Whither was he about to go ? To England ? What reception should he there meet ? and under what auspices introduce his child to her native country ? There was a stain upon his reputation that no future conduct could efface. The name of Lodore was a by- word and a mark for scorn ; ct was introduced with a sneer, followed by calumny and rebuke. It could not even be forgotten. His wife had remained to keep alive the censure or derision attached to it He, it is true, might have ceased to live in the memories of any. He did not imagine that his idea ever recurred to the thoughtless throng, whose very name and identity were changed by the lapse of twelve years. But when it was mentioned, when he should awa- ken the forgotten sound by his presence, the echo of shame linked to it would awaken also; the love of a sensation so rife among the wealthy and idle, must swell the sound, and Ethel would be led on the world's stage by one who was the object of its opprobrium. What then should he do ? Solicit Lady Lodore to reeeive and bring out her daughter? Deprive himself of her society; and after having guarded her unassailed infancy, desert her side at the moment when dan- gers grew thick, and her mother's example would operate most detrimen- tally on her ? He thought of his sister, with whom he kept ud a regular though infrequent correspondence. She was ill fitted to guide a young beauty on a path which she had never trod. He thought of France, Italy, and Germany, and how he might travel about with her during the two or three succeeding years, enlarging and storing her mind, and protracting the hippy light-hearted years of youth. His own experience on the con- tinent would facilitate this plan ; and though it presented, even on this very account, a variety of objections, it was that to which he felt .most attracted. There was yet another — another image and another prospect to which he turned with a kind of gasping sensation, which was now a shrinking aversion to — now an ardent, desire for, its fulfilment. This was the pro- ject of a reconciliation with Cornelia, and that they should henceforth unite in their labours to render each other and their child happy. Twelve years had passed since their separation : twelve years, which hid led him from the prime of life to its decline — which forced Cornelia to number, instead of nineteen, more than thirty years — bringing her from crude youth to fullest maturity. What changes might not time have operated in her mind! Latterly no intercourse had passvd between them, they were as dead to each other ; and yet the fact, of the existence of either 56 LODORE. was a paramount law with both, ruling their actions and preventing them from forming any new tie. Cornelia might be tired of independence, have discovered the hollowness of her mother's system, and desire, but that pride prevented her, a reunion with her long-exiled husband. Her under- standing was good ; intercourse with the world had probably operated to cultivate and enlarge it — maternal love might reign in full force, causing her heart to yearn towards the blooming Ethel, and a thousand untold sor- rows might make her regard the affection of he- child's father, as the prop, The shelter, the haven, where to find peace, if not happiness. A fid yet Cornelia was still young, still beautiful, still admired : he was on the wane — a healthy life had preserved the uprightness of his form 3 d the spring of Ms limbs; hut his countenance, how changed from the Loci jre who pledged his faitb tc her in the rustic church at Rhyaider Gowy ! The meltins; softness of his dark eyes was altered to mere sadness — his brow, from which the hair had retreated, was delved by a thousand lines ; gray sprinkled his black hair, — a wintry morning stealing drearily upon night each year had left its trace, and with no PraxiteWan hand, engraven lines upon the rounded cheek, and sunk and diminished the full eye. Twelve years had scarcely operated so great a change as here described ; but thus he painted it to himself, exaggerating and deforming the image his minor presented — and where others had only marked the indications of a thought- ful mind, and the traces of over-wrought sensibility, he beheld careful fur- rows and age-worn wrinkles. And v/as he thus to claim the beautiful, the courted — she who still seigned supreme on Love's own throne? and to whom, so had he been told, time had brought increased eharms as its gift, strewing roses and fragrance on her lovely head, so proving that neither grief nor passion had disturbed the proud serenity of her heart. Lodore had lived many years the life of a recluse, having given up ambi- tion, hope, almost life itself, inasmuch as that existence is scarcelv to be termed life, which does not bring us into intimate connexion with our fellow- creatures, nor develop in its progress some plan of present aetion or antici- pation for the future. He was roused from his lethargy as he approached peopled cities; a desire to mingle again in human affairs was awakened, together with an impatience under the obscurity to which he had condemned Mmseif. He grew at last to despise his supineness, which had prevented him from struggling with and vanquishing his adverse fortunes. r He re- solved no longer to be weighed down by the fear of obloquy, while he was conscious of the bravery and determination of his soul, and with what lofty indignation he was prepared to sweep away the stigma attached to him ? and to assert the brightness of his honour. This, for his daughter's sake, as well as for his own, he determined to do. He had no wish, however, to enter upon the task in America. His na- tive country must be the scene of his exertions, as to reassert himself among his countrymen was their object. He felt, also, that, from the beginning, he must take no false step ; and it behoove J him fully to understand the state of things in England as regarded him, before he presented himself He delayed his voyage, therefore, till he had exchanged letters v/ith Europe. He wrote to his sister, immediately on arriving at Ne.^-York, asking foi* intelligence concerning Lady Lodore ; and communicating his intention to return immediately, and, if possible, to effect a reconcifiai^n with his estranged wife. He besought an immediate reply, as he did not wish to defer his voyage beyond the spring months. Having sent this letter, he gave himself up to the society of his daughter,, He occupied himself by endeavouring to form her for the new scenes ors which she was about, to enter, and to divest her of the first raw astonish- ment excited by the contrast formed by the busy, commercial eastern, "with LODORE. 57 the majestic tranquillity of the western portion of the new world. He wished to accu ,tom her to mingle with her fellow-c.eatures with ease and dignity ; and he sou iht to enlarge her mind, and to excite her curiosity, by introduc- ing her to\he effects of civilization. He would willingly have formed acquaintances for ner sake, but that such a circumstance might interfere with the incognito he meant to preserve while away from his native coun- try. We can never divest ourselves of our identity and consciousness, and are apt to fancy that others are equally alive to our peculiar individuality. It was not probable that the name of Lodore, or Fitzhenry, should bo known in New- York ; but as the title had been bestowed as a reward for victories obtained over the Americans he who bore it was less to be blamed for fan- cying that they had heard with pleasure the story of his disgrace, and would be ready to visit his fault with malignant severity. An accident, however, brought him into contact with an English lady, and he gladly availed himself of this opportunity to bring Ethel into the so- ciety oflier county-people. One day he received an elegant little note, such as are written in London by the fashionable and the fair, which, with miny apologies, contained a request. The writer had heard that he was about to return to England with his daughter. .Vould he refuse to take under his charge a young lady, who was desirous ( f returning thither ? The distance from their native land drew English people together, and usually made them kindly disposed towards each other. The circumstances under which this request was made were peculiar; and if he would call to hear them explained, his interest would be excited, and he would not refuse a fa- vour which would lay the writer under the deepest obligation. Lodore answered this application in person. He found an English family residing in one of the best streets of New- York, and was introduced to the lady who had addressed him. Her story, the occasion of her request, was told without reserve. Her husband's family had formerly been American royal- ists, refu ^es in ^n^land, where they had lived poor and forgotten. A brother of his father had remained behind in the new country, and acquired a large fortune. He had lived to extreme old age ; and dying childless, left his wealth to his English nephew, upon* condition that he settled in America. This caused their emigration. While in England, they had lived at Bath, and been intimate with a clergyman, who resided near. This clergyman was a singular man — a recluse, and a student — a man of ardent soul, held down by a timid, nervous disposition. He was an outcast from his family, w'lich was wealthy and of good station, on account of having formed a mes- alliance How indeed he' could have married his unequal partner was matter of excessive wonder. She was illiterate and vulgar — coarse-mind- ed though crood-natured. This ill-matched pair had two daughters; — one, the younger, now about fourteen years old, was the person whom it was i desired to commit to Lodore's protection. Th^ lady continued : — She had a large family of boys, and but one girl, of the acre of Fanny Derham ; — they had been for some years companions and friends. When about to emigrate, she believed that she should benefit equally her daughter and her friend, if she made the latter a companion in th-nr emigration;' With great reluctance, Mr. Derham had consented to part with his child : he had thought it for her good, and he had let her go. Fanny obeyed her father. She manifested no disinclination to the plan ■ and it se?m-d as if the benevolent wishes of Mrs. Greville were iulfilled for the benefit of all. They had been in America nearly a year, and now Fanny was to return. She herself had borne her absence from her father with for- titude • yet it required an exertion of fortitude to bear it, which was destroy- ing the natural vivacity of her disposition. Gloom gathered oyer her mind ; Bhe fled society; she sought solitude, and spent day after day in reverie. Mrs. Greville strove to rouse her, and Fanny lent herself with good grace to 68 LODORE. any exertion demanded of her ; yet it was plain, that even when she gave herself most up to her desire to please her hostess, her thoughts were far away, her eye was tracing the invisible outline of objects divided from her by the ocean ; and her inmost sense was absorbed by the recollection of one far distant ; while her ear and voice were abstractedly lent to those imme- diately around her. Mrs. Greville endeavoured vainly to amuse and dis- tract hoc thoughts. The only pleasure which attracted her young mind was st;'?y — a deep and unremitted application to those profound acquirements, t3 ffjo knowledge of which her father had introduced her. "When you know my young friend," continued Mrs. Greville, "you will understand the force of character which renders her unlike every other child. Fanny never was a child. Mrs. Derham and her daughter Sarah bustled through the business of life — of the farm and the house ; while it devolved on Fanny to attend to, to wait upon, her father. She was his pupil — he her care. The relation of parent and child subsisted between them, on a different footing than in ordinary cases. Fanny nursed her father, watched over his health and humours, with the tenderness and indulgence of a mother ; while he instructed her in the dead languages, and other sorts of abst -use learning, which seldom make a part of a girl's education. Fanny, to use her own singular language, loves philosophy, and pants after knowledge, and indulges in a thousand Platonic dreams, which I know noJring about; and this mysterious and fanciful learning she has dwelt upon with tenfold fervour since her arrival in America. "The contrast," continued Mrs. Greville, "between this wonderful, but strange girl, and her parent, is apparent in nothing more than the incident that made me have recourse to your kindness. Fanny pined for home, and her father. The very air of America was distasteful to her — we were not congenial companions. But she never expressed discontent. As much as she could, she shut herself up in the world of her own mind ; but outwardly, she was cheerful and uncomplaining. A week ago we had letters from her parents, requesting her immediate return. Mr. Derham wasted away without her , his health was seriously injured by what, in feminine dialect, is called fretting ; and both he and her mother have implored me to send her back to them without delay." Lord Lodore listened with breatmess interest asking now and then such questions as drew on Mrs. Greville to farther explanation. He soon be- came convinced that he was called upon to do this act of kindness for the daughter of his former schoolfellow — for Francis Derham, whom he had not known nor seen sine '^ they had exchanged the visions of boyhood for the d : sappointing realitie; of maturer age. And this was Derham's fate ! — poor, mis-matched, destroyed by a morbid sensibility, an object of pity to his own young child, yet adored by her as the gentlest and wisest of men. How different — and yet how similar — the destinies of both! It warmed the heart of Lodore to think that he should renew his boyish intimacy. Derham would not reject him — would not participate in the world's blind scorn : in his bosom no harsh nor unjust feeling could have place ; his sim- f»le, warm heart would yearn towards him as of yore ; and the schoolfel- ows became again all the world to each other. After this explanation, Mrs. Greville introduced her young friend. Her resemblance to her father was at first sight remarkable, and awoke with greater keenness the roused sensibility of Lodore. She was pale and fair ; her light, golden hair clustered in short ringlets over her small, well-formed head, leaving unshaded a high forehead, clear as opening day. Her blue eyes were remarkably light and penetrating, with defined and straight brows. Intelligence, or rather understanding, reigned in every feature; independence of thought, and firmness, spoke in every gesture. She was a mere child in form and mien — even in her expressions ; but within heir LODORE, 59 was discernible an embryo of power, and a grandeur of soul, not to be mis- taken. Simplicity and equability of temper were her characteristics : these smoothed the ru redness which the singularity of her character mi-^ht other- wish have engendered. Lodore rejoiced in the strange accident that gave such a companion to his daughter. Nothing could be in stronger contrast than these two o-Jrls • the fairy form, the romantic and yielding sweetness of Ethel, whose cling- ing affections formed her whole world, — with the studious and abstracted disciple of ancient learning. Notwithstanding this want of similarity, they soon became mutually attached. Lodore was a link between them. He excited Ethel to admire the concentrated and independent spirit of her new friend; and entered into conversation with Fanny on ancient philos- ophy, which was unintelligible and mysterious to Ethel. The three be- came inseparable: they prolonged their excursions in the neio-hbourino- country ; while each enjoyed peculiar pleasures in the friendship and sympathy of their companions. This addition to their society, and an intimacy cultivated with Mrs. Greville, whose husband was absent at Washington, formed, as it »vere, a weaning time for Lodore, from the seclusion of the Illinois. There he had lived, cut off from the past and the future, existing in the present only. He had been happy there; cured of the wounds which hao penetrated his heart so deeply, through the ministration of all-healing Nature. He felt the gliding of the hours as a blessing ; and the occupations of each day were replete with calm enjoyment. He thought of England, as a seaman newly saved from a wreck would of the tempestuous ocean, with fear and loathing, «and with heart-felt gladness that Le was no longer the sport of its waves. He cultivated such a philosophic turn of mind as often brought a smile of self-pity on his lips, at the recollection of scenes which, during their passage, had prov.oked bitter and burning sensations. What was all this strife °of passion, this eager struggle for something, he knew not what, to him now ? The healthy labours of his farm, the tranquillity of his library, the endear- ing caresses of his child, were worth all the vanities of life. Thus he had felt in the Illinois ; and now again he looked back to his undisturbed life there, wondering how he had endured its monotonous lone- liness. A desire for action, for mingling with hisrfellow-men, had arisen in his heart. He felt like a strong swimmer, who longs to battle with the waves. He desh-ed to feel and to exert his powers, to fill a space in the I ■-• eves of others, to reassert himself in their esteem, or to resent their scorn. He could no longer regard the past with imperturbability. Again his passions were roused, as bethought of his mother-in-law, of his wife, and of the strange scenes which had preceded and caused his flight from England. These ideas had long occupied his mind, without occasion- ing any emotion. But now again they were full of interest; and pain and struggle again resulted from the recollection. At such times he was glad that Ethel had a companion, that he might leave her and wander alone. He became a prey to the same violence of passion, the same sense of injury, and stinging hurry of thought, which for twelve years had ceased to torture him. But no tincture of cowardice entered into his sensations. His soul was set upon victory over the evil fortune to which he had so long submitted. When he thought of returning to England, from which he had fled with dishonour, his cheek tingled as a thousand images of insult and contumely passed rapidly through his mind, as likely to visit him. His heart swelled within him — his very soul grew faint; but instead of desiring to fly the anticipated opprobrium, he longed to meet it, and to wash out shame, if need were, with his life's blood ; and, by resolution and daring, to silence his enemies, and redeem his name from obloquy. One day, occupied by such thoughts, he stood watching that vast and 00 LODORE, celebrated cataract, whose everlasting and impetuous flow mirrored the dauntless but rash energy of his own soul. A vague desire of plunging into the whirl of waters agitated him. His existence appeared to be a blot in the creation : his hopes, and fears, and resolves, a worthless web of ill- assorted ideas, best swept away at once from the creation. Suddenly his eye caught the little figure of Fanny Dei-ham, standing on a rock not far distant, her meaning eyes fixed on him. The thunder of the waters pe- vented speech; but as he drew near her, he saw that she had a paper in her hand. She held it out to him ; a blush mantled over her usually pale countenance a 5 he took it ; and he sprung away up the rocky pathway. Lodore cast his eyes on the open letter, and hig own name, half forgotten" by him, presented itself on the written page. The letter was from Fanny's father — from Derham, his friend and schoolfellow. His heart beat fast as he read the words traced by one formerly so dear. " The beloved name of Fitzhenry " — thus Derham had written — " awakens a strange conjec- ture. Is not your kind protector the friend and companion of rny boyish days ? Is it not the long-absent Lodore, who has stretched out a paternal hand to my darling child, and who is about to add to his former generous acts the dearer one of restoring my Fanny to me ? Ask him this question ; — extract this secret from him. Tell him how my chilled heart warms with pleasure at the prospect of a renewal of our friendship. He was a god-like boy ; daring, generous, and brave. The remembrance of him has been the bright spot which, except yourself, is all of cheering that has chequered my gloomy existence. Ask him whether he remembers him whose life he saved — whom he rescued from oppression and misery. 1 am an old man now, weighed down by sorrow and infirmity. Adversity has also visited him ; but he will have withstood the shocks of fate, as gallantly as a mighty ship stems the waves of ocean : while I, a weather-worn skiff, am battered and wrecked by the tempest. From all you say, he must be Lodore. Mark him, Fanny : if you see one lofty in his mien, yet gracious in all his acts ; his person adorned by the noblest attributes of rank ; full of dignity, yet devoid of pride; impatient of all that is base and insolent, but with a heart open as a woman's to compassion ; — one whose slightest word possesses a charm to attract and enchain the affections : — if such be your new friend, put this letter into his hand ; he will remember Francis Derham, and love you for my sake, as well as for your own." CHAPTER XV. 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 asso- ciating once more with men who could appreciate his worth, and sympa- thize 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 dipappointment, and feel an impatient longing to return to the cherishing warmth of our early attachments ; happy if we do not find emptiness ancf desolation where we left life and hope. LODORE. 6i 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 discourses 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 per- fect, and yet so impassioned, as the affection of a child for its parent, durino- 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 th°m happiness. Reverence, and a desire to serve, are mingled with gratitude ; and duty, without a flaw or question,~so seconds the in- stinct 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 learned to tolerate, but also, we have not learned to detect faults. All that a parent does, appears an emanation from a divi- ner 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 per- mitted 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 com- pletely 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 Lodore 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 be- lieved 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 influ- ence 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 lig^ht, 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, mag- nanimous, 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, "Oh for the wings of a dove, that I might flee away and be at rest I" If ever such an aspiration was breathed by Cornelia, 32—6 62 LODORE. how gladly, how fondly would her husband welcome the weary llutterer, open his bosom for her refuge, and study to make her forget all the disqui- etudes 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 forbade his endeavouring to persuade his wife to quit a course of life the 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 — Cor- nelia 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 imagina- tion, 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, lie 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 con- clusion 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 oi 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 reunion. 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 1 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." LODORE. 63 From this violent declaration of an unforgiving heart, Lodore turned to EliMtbeth'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 bein'j; reminded of her exiled husband and her forgotten child. Her letter showed how ill" she deserved the ten- derness 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 blessed 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 1 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 burden 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 acrain. He resolved on going to England immediately. Either Cornelia was en tirely cal'ous 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 in- fluenced 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 im- perious 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 CHAPTER XVI. •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 pleas- ure; feeling, on his expected return to his native country, as the tabled vovager, 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 ot 64 LODORE. 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 pros- pects 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 pirns : 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 o 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 fellov -creatures. She ques- tioned 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 schoolfellow shared. The Ireedom 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 inno- cence 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 holyday 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 ot 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 month 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 LODORE. 65 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 th jnex- pected arrival of some friends from Washington, about to sail to England, had obliged the ladv to alter this arrangement. The new guests consisted of an En dish 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 Fannv. 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 nave seen hi n before under very painful circumstances. He felt inclined to quarrel wth him — he knew not why ; and was disturbed ai I dissatisfied with himself and every body. The first words which the raun 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 hi n 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, ne re nembered to have seen a sarcastic sneer on bis face, as the republican marked the arrogance of fie 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 scarce.ly 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. NntU'-e had disdained to change an aspect which showed so little of her divinitv, 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 tar- nished 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, wou'd be totally unable to recognise 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 det-act 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 irrita- bilitv, when he should lose all command over himself. He felt this, and tried to subdue the impetuous rush of bitterness whic',1 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 t^ sslf- Eossession and firmness. He went to another extreme, and addrssing inns elf 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 in some event passing in Europe. The English guest took his departure earlv, and Lodore and the other continued to converse. Some mention wa3 made of newspapers newly arrived, and the American proposed that thej 6* 66 LODORE. should repair to the coffee-house to see them. Lodore agreed : he thought thai, this would be a good opportunity to shake off his distasteful companion. The coffee-room contained nearly twent}^ 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 heait 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. Bis 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, — peceiving that he was listened to, entered with great delight on his favourite topic, a furious and insolent phillippic 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 bystanders; " 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 glori- ous 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 ensured a hearing, and glad of an audience, he went on to relate his story — it was of the dinner at the Rus- sian ambassador's — of the intemperate violence of Lodore — and the youthful Lyzinski's wrongs. " I saw the blow given," continued the nar- rator "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, Lon- don 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 offlike a mean-spirited pitiful scoundrel !" The words were still on the man's lips, when a blow, sudden and unex- pected, extended him on the floor. After this swiftly-executed act of retali- ation, 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 satis- faction for your injuries at my hands. 1 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 in- stance admitted of no dtday ; and it wa 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 covJd ask to be LODORE. 67 his second. This was matter of slight import ; the idea of vindicating hi9 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 tho blow was given, drew nearer the group ; though he still stood aloof, while, With raised and aoiry voices, they assailed Lodore, and he, replying in his deep, subdued voice, agreed to the meeting which they tumultuously de- manded. 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 verv sdad 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 youn » man — certainly not more than three-and-t.wenty. An air of London fashion, to which Lodore had been so lon^ unused, was combined with a most prepossessing countenance. He was light-haired and blue-eyed ; ingenuousness and since if.y marked his physiognomy. The few words he had sooken were enfoced 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. " Other- wise," 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 control." "Then my services must be limited to securing fair play for you," said Mr. Villiers. Daring 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 burden w r as lifted from his heart. How much must a brave man suffer under the accusation of cowardice, an-1 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 a^ain 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. " Rave you weapons ?" asked his companion. " Thev will procure pistols, I suppose," replied Lodore: "w'e 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 ?" Th°y entered the house, and the apartments of Mr. Villiers. At such moments slight causes ooerate 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 stirs: 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 68 LODORE. that gentleman up stairs. For a moment, as he went into an inner apart- ment 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 w ritten 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. " It any thing happens to me,' 1 said he to Mr. Villiers, " you will add to your kindness immeasurably by going 'Sere," — 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 receiye 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 : " paidon 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 J Is there no way of preventing this encounter?" " None! — fail me not, I entreat you, in this one thing ; — interpose no obstacle — be as eager and as firm as I myself am. Our friends have chosen LODORE. 69 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 recognised 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 dis- turb 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 fire-arms. None can tell what thoughts then passed through his mind. Did he re- joice 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 1 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 S CHAPTER XVII. En cor gentil, amor per mort no passa. Ausias March, Troubadour. We return to Longfield and to Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry. The glory of summer invested the world with light, cheerfulness, and beauty, when the sorrowing sister of Lodore visited London, to receive her orphan niece from the hands of the friend of Mrs. Greville, under whose protection she had made the voyage. The good lady folded poor Ethel in her arms, overcome by the likeness she saw to her beloved brother Henry, in his youthful days, before passion had worn and misfortune saddened him. Her soft, brown, lamp-like eyes, beamed with the same sensibility. Yet when she examined her more closely, Mrs. Elizabeth lost somewhat of the likeness ; for the 70 LODORE. lower part of her face resembled her mother : her hair Was lighter and he? complexion much fairer than Lodore ; besides that the expression of her countenance was peculiar to herself, and possessed that individuality which is so sweet to behold, but impossible to describe. They lingered but a few days in London. Fanny Derham, who accom- panied her on her voyage, had already returned to her father, and there was nothing to detain them from Longfield. Ethel had no adieus to make that touched her heart. Her aunt was more to her than any other living being, and her strongest desire now was, to visit the scenes once hallowed by her father's presence. The future was a chaos of dark regret and loneliness ; her whole life, she thought, would be composed of one long memory. — one memory, and one fatal image. Ethel had not only consecrated her heart to her father, but his society was a habit with her, and, until now, she had never even thought how she could effilure existence without the supporting influence of his affection. His convei-sation, so full of a kind penetration into her thoughts, was calculated to develop and adorn them ; his manly sense and paternal solicitude, had all fostered a filial love, the most tender and strong. Add to this, his sudden and awful death. Al- ready had they schemed their future life in a world new to Ethel : he had excited her enthusiasm by descriptions of the wonders of art in the old countries, and raised her curiosity while promising to satisfy it ; and she had eagerly looked forward to the time when she should see the magical works of man, and mingle with a system of society, of which, except by books, he alone presented any ensample to her. Their voyage was fixed, and on the other side of their watery way she had figured a very elysiurn of wonders and pleasures. The late change in their mode of life had served to endear him doubly to her. It had been the occupation of her life to think of her father, to communicate all her thoughts to him and in the unreflecting confidence of youth, she had looked forward to no ter- mination of a state of existence that had begun from her cradle. He prop- ped her entire world ; the foundations must moulder and crumble away without him — and he was gone — where then was she ? Mr. Villiers had, as soon as he was able, hurried to Mrs. Greville's house. By some strange chance, the fatal tidings had preceded him, and he found the daughter of the unfortunate Lodore bewildered and maddened by her frightful calamity. Her first desire was to see all that was left of her parent — she could not believe that he was indeed dead — she was certain that care and skill might revive him — she insisted on being led to his side ; her friends strove to restrain her, but she rushed into the street, she knew not whither, to ask for, to find, her father. The timidity of her temper was overborne by the wild expectation of yet being to able recall him from among the dead. Villiers followed her, and, yielding to her wishes, guided her towards the hotel whither the remains of Lodore had been carried. He judged that the exertion of walking thither, and the time that must elapse before she arrived, would calm and subdue her. He talked to her of her father as they went along — he endeavoured to awaken the source of tears — but she was silent — absorbed — brooding darkly on her hopes. Pity for herself had not yet arisen, nor the frightful certainty of bereave- ment. To see those dear lineaments — to touch his hand — the very hand that had so often caressed her, clay-cold and incapable of motion ! Could it be! She did not answer Villiers, she only hurried forward ; she feared ob- struction to her wishes ; her soul was set on one thought only. Had Vil- liers endeavoured to deceive her, it would have been in vain. Arrived at the hotel, as by instinct, she sprung up the stairs, and reached the door of the room. It was' darkened, in useless but decent respect for the death within ; there lay a figure covered by a sheet, and already chilling the LODORE. fi atmosphere around it. The imagination is slow to act upon the feelings in comparison with the quick operation of the senses. Ethel now knew ih&t her father was dead. Mortal strength could support no more — the energy of hope deserting her, she sunk lifeless on the ground. For a long time she was passive in the hands of others. A violent ill- ness confined her to her bed, and physical suffering subdued the excess of mental agony. Villiers left her among kind friends. It was resolved that she and Fanny Derham should proceed to England, under the protection of the friends of Mrs. Greville about to return thither ; he was himself obliged to return toEngland without delay. Ethel's destiny was as yet quite uncertain. It was decided by the opening of her father's will. This had been made twelve years before, on hig first a rival at New- York, and breathed the spirit of resentment, and even revenue, against his wife. LoJore had indeed not much wealth to Lave. His income chiefly consisted in a grant from the crown, entailed on heirs male, which in default of these, reverted back, and in a sinecure which ex- pired with him. His paternal estate at Longfield, and a sum under twenty thousand pounds, the savings of twelve years, formed all his possessions. The income arising from the former was absorbed by Lady Lodore's joint- ure of a thousand a year, and five hundred a year settled on his sister, together with permission to occupy the family mansion during her life The remaining sum was disposed of in a way most singular. Without referring to the amount of what he could leave, he bequeathed the additional sum of s ! x hundred a ypar to Lady Lodore, on the express condition, that she should not interfere with, nor even see, her child ; upon her failing in this condition, this sum was to be left to accumulate till Ethel was o r age. Ethel was ultimately to inherit every thing ; but while her mother and aunt lived, her fortune consisted of little more than five thousand pounds ; and even in this, she was limited to the use of the interest only until she was of age • a previous ma-ria^e would have no influence on the disposition of her pro- pertv. Mrs. Elizabeth was left her guardian. This will was in absolute contradiction to the wishes and feelings in which Lord Lodore died ; so true had his prognostic been, that he had no power beyond the grave. He had probably forgotten the existence of this will, or imagined that it had been destroyed : he had determined to make a new one on his arrival in England. Meanwhile it was safrly deposited w'th his solicitor in London, and Mrs. Elizabeth, with mistaken z^al, hastened to put it into force, and showed herself eager to obey her b- other's wisnes with scrupulous exactitude. The contents of it were communicated to Lid v Lodore. " She made no comm°nt — returned no answer. She wag suddenly reduced forn comoa-ative affluence (for her husband's allowance had consisted of several thousands) to a bare sixteen hundred a year. Whether she would be willing to diminish this her scanty income one-third t and take on herself, besides, the care of her daughter, was not known. She remained inactive and silent, and Ethel was placed at once under the guadianship of her aunt. Th?se two ladies left London in the old lumbering chariot which had belonged to the ad ni - al. Now, indeed, Ethel found herself in a new coun- try, with new friends around her, speaking a new language, and each change of scene made more manifest the complete revolution of her for- tune. She looked on all with languid eyes, and a heart dead to every pleasure. Her aunt, who bore a slight resemblance to her father, won some decree of interest; and the sole consolation offered her, was to trace a similarity of voice and feature, and thus to bring the lost Lodore more vivHlv before her. The journey to Lono-field was therefore not wholly without a melancholy charm. Mrs. Elizabeth longed to obtain more mi- nute information concerning her brother, her pride and her delight, than ^2 LODORE. had been contained in his short and infrequent letters. She hazarded a Few questions. Grief loves to feed upon itself, and to surround itself with multiplications of its own image ; like a bee, it will find sweets in the poison flower, and nestle within its own creations, although they pierce the heart that cherishes them. Ethel felt a fascination in dwelling for ever on the past. She asked for nothing better than to live her life over again, while narrating its simple details, and to bring her father back from his grave to dwell with her, by discoursing perpetually concerning him. She was unwearied in her descriptions, her anecdotes, her praises. The Illinois rose before the eyes of her aunt, like a taintless paradise, inhabited by an an ^el. Love and good dwelt together there in blameless union ; the sky was brighter, the earth fairer, fresher, younger, more magnificent and more wonderful, than in the old world. The good lady called to mind, with sur- prise, the melancholy and despairing letters she had received from her bro- ther, while inhabiting this Eden. It was matter of mortification to his mou-ming daughter to hear, as from himself, as it were, that any sorrows had visited his heart while with her. v\ hen we love one to whom we have devoted our lives with undivided affection, the idea that the beloved object suffered any grief while with us, jars with our sacred sorrow. "W e delight to make the difference between the possession of their society, and our sub- sequent bereavement entire in its contrasted happiness and misery ; we wish to have engrossed their whole souls, as they do ours, at the period of regret, and it is like the most cruel theft, to know that we have been de- prived of any of the power we believed that we possessed, to influence their entire being. But. then again, forgetting her aunt's interruptions, Ethei returned to the story of their occupations, their amusements, their fond and unsullied intercourse : her eyes streamed with tears as she spoke, while yet her heart felt relief in the indulgence of her wo. When the ladies returned to Longfield, it became Mrs. Elizabeth's turn to narrate. She had lived many years feeding silently on the memory of by-gone time. During her brother's exile, she had seldom spoken his name, for she felt little inclined to satisfy the mquisitiveness of the good people of Lonsrfield. But now her long-stored anecdotes, her sacred relics, the spots made dear by his presence, all were a treasure poured out boun- teously before Ethel. Nothing appeared so natural to the unfortunate girl as that another should, like herself, worship the recollection of her adored father. To love him while he lived, to see nothing in the world that had lost him, except his shadow cast upon its benighted state, appeared the only existence that could follow his extinction. Some people, when they die, leave but a foot of ground vacant, which the eager pressing ranks of theii fellow-creatures fill up immediately, walking on their grave, as on common earth ; others leave a gap, a chasm, a fathomless gulf, beside which the survivor sits for ever hopeless. Both Ethel and her aunt, in their several ways, in youth and age, were similarly situated. Both were cut off* from the crreat "family of their species ; wedded to one single being, and he was gone. Both made the dead Lodore the focus to concentrale, and the mirror to reflect, all their sensations and experience. He visited their dreams by night ; his name was their study, their pastime, their sole untiring society. Mrs. Elizabeth, the gentlest visionary that had ever outlived hope, with- out arriving at its fruition, having reached those years when memory is the natural food of the human mind, found this fare exceedingly well adapted to her constitution. She had pined a little while, cut off* from all heartfelt communication with her fellow-creatures, but the presence of Ethel fulfilled her soul's desire ; she found sympathy, and an auditress, into whose ever attentive ear she could pour those reveries which she had so long nourished in secret. Whoso had heard the good lady talk of endless tears and mourning for the loss of Lodore, of Ufe not worth having when he was t-ODORE* 73 gone, of the sad desolation of their position, and looked at her face, beam- ing with satisfaction, with only so much sensibility painted there as to render it expressive of all that is kind and compassionate, good humour in her frequent smile, and sleek content in her plump person, might have laughed at th? contrast; and yet have pondered on the strange riddle we human beings present, and how contradictions accord in q^r singular ma- chinery. This good aunt was incapable of affectation, and all was true and real that she said. She lived upon the idea of her brother ; he was all in all to her, but they had been divided so long, that his death scarcely in- creased the separation ; and she could talk of meeting him in heaven, with as firm and cheerful a faith, as a few months before she had anticipated his return to England. Though sincere in her regret for his death, habit had turned lamentation into a healthy nutriment, so that she throve upon the tears she shed, and grew fat and cheerful upon her sighs. She would lead the agonized girl to the vault which contained the remains of her brother, and hover near it, as a Catholic beside the shrine of a favourite saint — the visible image giving substance and form to her reverie ; for hitherto, her dreamy life had wanted the touch of reality, which the presence of her niece and the sad memorial of her lost brother afforded. The horns-felt sensations of the mourning orphan were in entire contrast to this holyday wo. While her aunt brooded over her sorrow, " to keep it warm," it wrapped Ethel's soul as with a fiery torture. Every cheerful thought lay buried with her father, and the tears she shed near his grave Were accompanied by a wrenching of her being, and a consequent exhaus- tion, that destroyed the elasticity of the spirit of youth. The memory of Lodore, which soothed his sister, haunted his child like a sad beckoning, yet fatal vision ; she yearned to reach the shore where his pale ghost per- petually wandered — the earth seemed a dark prison, and liberty and light dwelt with the dead beyond the grave. Eternally conversant with the image of death, she was brought into too near communion with the grim enemy of life. She wasted and grew pale : nor did any voice speak to her of the unreasonableness of her grief; her father was not near to teach her fortitude, and there appeared a virtue and a filial piety in the excess ot her regret, which blinded her aunt to the fatal consequences of its indul- gence. While summer lasted, and the late autumn protracted its serenity almost into winter, Ethel wandered in the lanes and fields ; ' and in spite of wast- ing a;rief, the free air of heaven, which swept her cheek, preserved its healthy hue and braced her limbs. But when dreary inclement winter arrived, and the dull fireside of Aunt Bessy became the order of the day, without occupation to amuse, or society to distract her thoughts, given up to grief, and growing into a monument of wo, it became evident that the springs of life were becoming poisoned, and that health and existence itself were giving way before the destructive influences at work within. Appetite first, then sleep, deserted her. A slight cold became a cough, and then changed into a preying fever. She grew so thin, that her large eyes, shining with unnatural lustre, appeared to occupy too much of her face, and her brow was streaked with ghastly hues. Poor Mrs. Elizabeth, when she found that neither arrowroot nor chicken-broth restored her, f*ew frightened — the village practitioner exhausted his skill without avail, thel herself firmly believed that she was going to die, and fondly cherished the hope of rejoining her father. She was in love with death, which alone could reunite her to the being, apart from whom she believed it im- possible to exist But limits were now placed to Mrs. Elizabeth's romance. The danger of Ethel was a frightful reality that awoke every natural feeling. Ethel, the representative o/ her brother, the last of their nearly extinct race, the 32—7 74 LOrJORE. sole relation she possessed, the only creature whom she cotrM entirety Tore> was dear to her beyond expression ; and the dread of losing her gave ac- tivity to her slothful resolves. Having seldom, during the whole course of her life, been called upon to put any plan or wish of hers into actual execu- tion, what another would have immediately and easily done, was an event to call forth all her energies, and to require all her courage; luckily she. possessed sufficient to meet the present exigency. She wrote up to Lori- dony to her single correspondent there, her brother's solicitor. A house waa taken, and the first warm days of spring found the ladies established in the metropolis. A physician had been called in, and he pronounced the mind only to Be sick, " Amuse her," he said ; " occupy her from dwelling on those thoughts which have preyed upon her health ; let her see new faces, new places, every thing new — and youth, and a good constitution, will do the rest,'* There seemed so much truth in this advice, that all dangerous symptoms disappeared from the moment of Ethers leaving Essex. Her strength returned — her face resumed its former loveliness ; and Aunt Bessy, over- joyed at the change, occupied herself earnestly in discovering amusements for her niece in the numerous, wide-spread, and very busy congregation of human beings, which forms the western portion of London, CHAPTER XVIH. You are now In London, tbat great sea, whose ebb and flow, At once is deaf and loud, Shelley* There is no uninhabited desert so dreary as the peopled streets of Lon<» don, 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 symbo} of the situation of an isolated individual thrown upon the stream of metro- politan life : that amalgamates with its kindred element ; but the solitary being finds no pole of attraction to cause a union with its fellows, and bas- tilled by the laws of society, it is condemned to incommunicative solitude. Ethel was thrown completely upon her aunt, and her aunt was a cipher m 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 conversa- tion and sympathy of her species. Ethel, as she drove through the mazy streets, and mingled with the equipages in the park, could not help think- ing 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 j 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 de- LODORE. 75 rived 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 gayety and wisdom, humour and sagacity, amuse while they teach ; ac- companying 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 con- descend 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 passed 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 dfcys. 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 other- wise 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, ano> her eyes become suffused with tears which she could not suppress ; — so she leaned forward, shading her face as much as she could with her veil, and trying to forget the throng of stran- gers 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 a«ide, being too much agitated to wish to speak, when she heard her aunt addressing someone as an old acquaintance. She called her friend "Cap- tain Markham," expressed infinite pleasure at seeing him, and whispered her niece that here was an old friend of her father's. Ethel turned and be- held 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 Avhere last she saw the lifeless remains of her father rose before her ; and the appear- ance of Mr. Villiers was as a vision from ar other 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 expla nation. 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 at- tention, she hastily quitted the room, and found herself alone, outside the door, before her aunt was well aware that she was gone. She claimed 76 LODORE. Captain Markham's assistance to follow the fugitive ; and, attended by him, at len°th discovered her chariot, to which Ethel had beeji 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 ac- quaintance with him, during her expedition to London on the occasion of Ethel's christening. He was taller, too, and not quite so stout ; ye t he was so like — the same frank, open countenance, the same ingenuous manner, and the same clear blue eyes. Certainly Captain IVarkham was not so handsome ; — and what a fool Mr. Villiers must think her, for hav- ing mistaken him for a person who resembled him sixteen years ago ; quite forgetting t.tiat 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 fool- ishly 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 sorrow ; 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 pre- sented 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 Eleasure of listening, to interrupt their visiter. He felt himself peculiarly appy 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 visit 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 I.ODORE. 77 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 s litary daugh f er, appeared to him like the enchant- ment of fairy land, trom 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 in- volved him in deeper thought than before. CHAPTER XIX. Excellent creature ! whose perfections make Even sorrow lovely ! Beaumont and Fletcher. Mr. Villiers now became a constant visiter of Mrs. Elizabeth and her niece ; and all discontent, all sadness, all listlessness, vanished in his pres- ence. There was in his mind a constant spring of vivacity, which did not display itself in mere gayety, but in being perfectly alive at every moment, and continually ready to lend himself to the comfort and solace of his com- panions. Sitting in their dingy London house, the spirit of dulness had drawn a curtain between them and the sun ; and neither thought nor event had penetrated the fortification of silence and neglect which environed them. Edward Villiers came ; and as mist flies before the wind, so did all Ethel's depression disappear when his voice only met her ear : his step on the stairs announced happiness ; and when he was indeed before her, light and day displaced every remnant of cheerless obscurity. The abstracted, wounded, yet lofty spirit of Lodore was totally dissimi- lar to the airy brightness of Villiers' disposition. Lodore had outlived a storm, and shown himself majestic in ruin. No ill had tarnished the nature of Villiers : he enjoyed life, he was in good humour with the world, and thou.ht well of mankind. Lodore had endangered his peace from the vio- lence of passion, and reaped misery from the pride of his soul. Villiers was imprudent from his belief in the goodness of his fellow-creatures, and imparted happiness from the store that his warm heart ensured to himself. The one had never been a boy — the other had not yet learned to be a man. Ethel's heart had been filled by her father ; and all affection, all interest, borrowed their force from his memory. She did not think of love ; and while Villiers was growing into a part of her life, becoming knit to her ex- istence by daily habit, and a thousand thoughts expended on him, she enter- tained his idea chiefly as having been the friend of Lodore. "He is cer- taily the kindest-hearted creature in the world." This was the third time that, when laying her gentle head upon the pillow, this feeling came like a blessing to her closing eyes. She heard his voice in the silence of night, even more distinctly than when it was addressed to her outward sense during the day. For the first time after the lapse of months, she found one to whom she could spontaneously utter every thought, as it rose in her mind. A fond, elder brother, if such ever existed, cherishing the confidence and tenderness of a beloved sister, might fill the place which her new friend assumed for Ethel. She thought of him with overflowing affection ; and the name of " Mr. Villiers" sometimes fell from her lips in solitude, and hung upon her ear like sweetest music. In early life there is a moment — perhaps of all the enchantments of love it is the one which is never re- newed — when passion, unacknowledged to ourselves, imparts greater de- light than any after-stage of that ever progressive sentiment. "VVe neither 7* 78 LODORE. wish nor expect. A new joy has risen, like the sun, upon our lives ; and we rejoice in the radiance of morning, without adverting to the noon and twilight that is to follow. Ethel stood on the threshold of womanhood : the door of life had been closed before her; — a s;ain it was thrown open, — and the sudden splendour that manifested itself blinded her to the forms of the objects of menace or injury, which a more experienced eye would have discerned within the brightness of her new-found day. Ethel expressed a wish to visit Etcn. In talking of the past, Lord Lodore had never adverted to any events except those which had occurred during his boyish days. His youthful pleasures and exploits had often made a part of their conversation. He had traced for her a plan of Eton college, and the surrounding scenery ; spoken of the trembling delight he had felt in escaping from bounds ; and told how he and Derham had passed happy hours beside the clear streams, and beneath the copses, of that rural country. There was one fountain which he delighted to celebrate ; and the ivied ruins of an old monastery, now become a part of a farm-yard, which had been to these friends the bodily image of many imaginary scenes. Among the sketches of Whitelock were several taken in the vicinity of Windsor ; and there were in his portfolio studies of trees, cottages, and also of this same abbey, which Lodore instantly recognised. To many he had some appending anecdote, some school-boy association. He had purchased the whole collection from Whitelock. Ethel had copied a few ; and these, together with various sketches made in the Illinois, formed her dearest treasure, more precious in her eyes than diamonds and rubies. We are most jealous of what sits nearest to our hearts ; and we must love fondly before we can let another into the secret of those trivial, but cherished emotions, which form the dearest portion of our solitary medita- tions. Ethel had several times been on the point of proposing a visit to Eton, to her aunt ; but there was an awful sacredness in the very name, which acted like a spell upon her imagination. When first it fell from her lips, the word seemed echoed by unearthly whisperings, and she fled from the idea of goin^ thither, — as it is the feminine disposition often to do, from the full accomplishment of its wishes, as if disaster must necessarily be linked to the consummation of their desires. But a word was enough for Villiers : he eagerly solicited permission to escort them thither, as, being an Etonian himself, his guidance would be of great advantage. Ethel faltered her consent ; and 'the struggle of delight and sensibility made that project appear painful, which was indeed the darling of her thoughts. On a bright day in the first week of May, they made this excursion. Thev repaired to one of the inns at Salt Hill, and prolonged their walks and drives about the country. In some of the former, where old walls were to be scrambled up, and rivulets overleaped, Mrs. Elizabeth remained at the hotel, and Ethel and Villiers pursued their rambles together. Ethel's whole soul was given up to the deep filial love that had induced the journey. Every green field was a stage on which her father had played a part ; each majestic tree, or humble streamlet, was hallowed by being associated with his image. The pleasant, verdant beauty of the landscape, clad in all the brightness of early summer; the sunny, balmy day — the clouds which pranked the heavens with bright and floating shapes — each hedge- row, and each cottage, with its trim garden — each imbowered nook — had a voice which was »r;usic to her soul. From the college of Eton they sought the dame's house where Lodore and Derham had lived ; then crossing the brid ze, they entered Windsor, and prolonged their walk into the forest. Ethel knew even the rustic names of the spots she most desired to visit, and to these Villiers led her in succession. Day declined before they got home, and found Mrs. Elizabeth, and their repast, waiting them ; and the evening was enlivened by many a tale of boyish pranks, achieved by Villiers, fcODORE. 79 in these scenes. The following morning they set forth again ; and three days were spent in these delightful wanderings. Ethel would willino-lv never have quitted this spot : it appeared to her as if, seeing all. still much remained to be seen — as if she could never exhaust the variety of sentiments and deep interest which endeared every foot of this to her so holy °round. Nor were her emotions silent, and the softness of her voice, and the flowing eloquence with which she expressed herself, formed a new charm for her companion. Sometimes her heart was too full to admit of expression, and grief for her father's loss was renewed in all its pristine bitterness. One day, on feeling herself thus overcome, she quitted h-;r companions, and sought the shady walks of the garden of the hotel, to indulge in a gush of sorrow which she could not repress. There was something in her gesture and manner as she left them, that reminded Villiers of Lady Lodore. It was one of those mysterious family resemblances, which are so striking and powerful, and yet which it is impossible to point out to a stranger. A bligh (as this inde- scribable resemblance is called in some parts of England) of her mother struck Villiers forcibly, and he suddenly asked Mrs. Elizabeth, " If Miss Fitzh mry had never expressed a desire to see Lady Lodore." "God forbid!" exclaimed the old lady; "it was my brother's dying wish, that she should never hear Lady Lodore's name, and I have "reli- giously observed it. Ethel only knows that she was the cause of her father's misfortunes, that she deserted every duty, and is unworthy of the name she bears." Villiers was astonished at this tirade falling from (he lips of the unusu- ally placid maiden, whose heightened colour bespoke implacable resent- ment. " Do not mention that woman's name, Mr. Villiers," she continued ; " I am convinced that I should die on the spot if I saw her ; she is as much a murderess, as if she had stabbed her husband to the heart with a dagger. Her letter to me that I sent to my poor brother in America, was more the cause of his death, I am sure, than all the duels in the world. Lady Lo- dore ! I often wonder a thunderbolt from heaven does not tall on and kill her!" Mrs. Elizabeth's violence was checked by seeing Ethel cross the road to return. Promise not to mention her name to my niece," she cried. " For the present be assured that I will not," Villiers answered. He had been struck most painfully by some of Mrs. Elizabeth s expressions ; they implied so much more of misconduct on Lady Lodore's part, than he had ever suspected — but he must know best ; and it seemed to him, in- deed, the probable interpretation of the mystery that enveloped her separa- tion from her husband. The account spread by Lady Santerre, and cur- rent in the world, appeared inadequate and improbable ; Lodore would not have dared to take her child from, her, but on heavier grounds ; it was then true, that a dark and disgraceful secret was hidden in her heart, and that her proprietv, her good reputation, her seeming pride of innocence, were but the mask to cover the reality that divided her from her daughter for ever. Villiers was well acquainted with Lady Lodore ; circumstances had caused him to take a deep interest in her — these were now at an end : but the singular coincidences that had brought him in contact with her daugh- ter, renewed many forgotten images, and caused him to dwell on the past with mixed curiositv and uneasiness. Airs. Elizabeth's expressions added to the perplexity of his ideas ; their chief effect was to tarnish to his mind eh^ name of Ladv Lodore, and to make him rejoice at the termination that fead been put to their more intimate connexion, 6$ LOD0RB> CHAPTER XX. One, within whose subtle being-, As liarht and wind within some d>'*c followed exercise and amusement. Villiers loved and revered him ; and he teit drawn closer to him than towards any of his brothers, and strove to refine his taste and regulate his conduct through his admoni- tions and example, while he abstained from following him in the steep and thorny path he had selected. Horatio quitted college , he was no longer a youth, and his manhood be- came as studious as hid younger days. He had no desire but for know- ledge, no thought but for the nobler creations of the soul, and the discern- ment of the sublime laws of God and nature. He nourished the ambition of showing to these latter days what scholars of old had been, though this feeling was subservient to his instinctive love of learning, and his wish to adorn his mind with the indefeasible attributes of truth. He was univer- sally respected and loved, though little understood. His young cousin Ed- ward only was aware of the earnestness of his affections, and the sensibility that nestled itself in his warm heart. He was outwardly mild, placid, and forbearing, and thus obtained the reputation of being cold — though those who study human nature ought to make it their first maxim, that those who are tolerant of the follies of their fellows — who sympathize with, and as- sist their wishes, and who apparently forget their own desires, as they devote themselves to the accomplishment of those of their friends, must have the quickest feelings, to make them enter into and understand those of others, and the warmest affections, to be able to conquer their wayward humours, LODORE. 53 so that they can divest themselves of selfishness, and incorporate in their own being thepleasures and pains of those around them. The sparkflfljg eve » ^ e languid step, and flushed cheek of Horatio Sa- ville, were all tokens that there burned within him a spirit too strong for his frame ; but he never complained ; or if he ever poured out his pent-up emotions, it was in the ear of Edward only ; who but partly understood him, but who loved him entirely. What that thirst for knowledge was that preyed on him, and for ever urged him to drink of the purest streams of wisdom, and yet which ever left him unsatisfied, fevered, and mournful, the gay spirit of Edward Villiers could not guess : often he besought his cousin to close his musty books, to mount a rapid horse, to give his studies to the winds, and deliver his soul to nature. But Horace pointed to some uncx- Elained passage in Plato the divine, or some undiscovered problem in the igher sciences, and turned his eyes from the sun ; or if indeed he yielded, and accompanied his youthful friend, some appearance of earth or air would awaken his curiosity, rouse his slumbering mind again to inquire, and making his study of the wide cope of heaven, he gave himself up to abstruse meditation, while nominally seeking for relaxation from his heavier toils. Horatio Saville was nine-and-twenty when he first met Lady Lodoro, who was nearly of the same age. He had begun to feel mat his heal. i was shaken, and he tried to forget for a time his devouring avocations. He changed the scene, and went on a visit to a friend, who had a country house not far from Hastings. Lady Lodore was expected as a guest, together with her mother. She was much talked of, having become an object of interest or curiosity to the many. A mystery hung over her fate ; but her reputation was cloudless, and she was warmly supp . ted by the leaders of fashion. Saville heard of her beauty and her sufferings ; the injustice with which she had been treated — of her magnanimity and desolate condition ; he heard of her talents, her powers of conversation, her fashion. He figured to himself (as we are apt to incarnate to our imagination the various qualities of a human being, of whom we hear much) a woman, brilliant, but. rather masculine, majestic in figure, with wild dark eyes, and a very determined manner. Lady Lodore came : she entered the room where he was sitting, and the fabric of his fancy was at once destroyed. He saw a sweet-looking woman ; serene, fair, and with a countenance expressive of contented happiness. He found that her manners were winning, from their softness ; her conversation was delightful, from its total want of pretension or impertinence. What the power was, that, from the first moment they met, drew Horatio Saville and Lady Lodore together, is one of those natural secrets which it is impossible to explain. Though a student, Saville was a gentleman, with the manners and appearance of the better specimens of our aristocracy. There might be something in his look of ill health, which demanded sym- pathy ; something in his superiority to the rest of the persons about her, in the genius that sat on his brow, and the eloquence that flowed from his lips ; something in the contrast he presented to every one else she had ever seen — neither entering into their gossiping slanders, nor understanding their empty self-sufficiency, that possessed a charm for one satiated with the world's common scenes. It was less of wonder that Cornelia pleased the student. There were no rough corners, no harshness about her ; she won her way into any heart by her cheerful smiles and kind tones ; and she listened to Saville when he talked of what other women would have lent a languid ear to, with such an air of interest, that he found no pleasure so great as that of talking on. Saville was accustomed to find the men of his acquaintance ignorant. All the knowledge of worldlings was as a point in comparison with his vast LODORE. acquirements. He did next seek Lady Lodore's society either to learn or to teach, but to forget thought, and to feel himself occupied anjj^iiverted from the sense of listlessness that haunted him in society, withoutWving recourse to the, to him dangerous, attraction of his books. Lady Lodore had, in the very brightness of her earliest youth, selected a proud and independent position. She had refused to bend to her husband's will, or to submit to the tyranny, as she named it, which he had attempted to exercise. Youth is bold and fearless. The forked tongue of scandal, the thousand ills with which woman is threatened in society, without a fjuide or a protector — all the worldly considerations which might lead her to unite herself again to her husband, she had rejected with unbounded dis- dain. Her mother was there to stand between her and the shafts of envy and calumny, and she conceived no mistrust of herself; she believed that she could hold her course with taintless feelings and security of soul, through a thousand dangers. At first she had been somewhat annoyed by ill-natured, observations, but Lady Santerre poured the balm of flattery on her wounds, and a few tears shed in her presence dissipated the gathering cloud. Cornelia had every motive a woman could have for guarding her conduct from reproach. She lived in the midst of polished society, and was tho- roughly imbued with its maxims and laws. She witnessed the downfall of several, as young and lovely as herself, and heard the sarcasms and beheld the sneers which were heaped as a tomb above their buried fame. She had vowed to herself never to become one of these. She was applauded for her pride, and held up as a pattern. No one feared her. She was no coquette, though she strove universally to please. She formed no intimate friend- ships, though every man felt honoured by her notice. She had no prudery on her lips, but her conduct was as open, as fair, as day. Here lay her de- fence against her husband ; and she preserved even the outposts of such bulwarks with scrupulous yet unobtrusive exactitude. Her spirits, as well as her spirit, held her up through many a year. More than ten years had passed since her separation from Lodore — a long time to tell of ; but it had glided away, she scarcely knew how — taking little from her loveliness, adding to the elegance of her appearance, and the grace of her manners. Season after season came, and went, and she had no motive for counting them anxiously. She was sought after and admir- ed ; it was a holyday life for her, and she wondered what people meant when they spoke of the delusions of this world, and the dangers of our own hearts. She saw a gay reality about her, and felt the existence of no inter- nal enemy. Nothing ever moved her to sorrow, except the reflection that now and then came across, that she had a child — divorced for ever from her maternal bosom. The sight of a baby cradled in its mother's arms, or stretching out its little hands to her, had not unoften caused her to turn abruptly away, to hide her tears ; and once or twice she had been obliged to quit a theatre to conceal her emotion, when such sentiments were brought too vividly before her. But when her eyes were drowned in tears, and her bosom heaved with sad emotion, pride came to check the torrent, and hatred of her oppressor gave a new impulse to her swelling heart. She had rather avoided female friendships, and had been warned from them by the treachery of one, and the misconduct of another, of her more intimate acquaintances. Lady Lodore renounced friendship, but the world began to grow a little dull. The frivolity of one, the hard-heartedness of another, disgusted. She saw each occupied by themselves and their fami- lies, and she was alone. Balls and assemblies palled upon her — country pleasures were stupid — she had begun to think all things " stale and un- profitable," when she became acquainted with Horatio Saville. She was glad again to feel animated with a sense of living enjoyment; she congrat- ulated herself on the idea that she could take interest in some one thing LODORE. 85 or person among the empty shapes that surrounded her ; and without a thought beyond. the amusement of the present moment, most of her hours were spent in his company. CHAPTER XXI. Ah, now, ye gentle pair, — now think a while, •. Wow, while ye still can think and still can smile. * * * So did they think Only with graver thoughts, and smiles reduced. Leigh Hunt, A month stole away as if it had been a day, and Lady Lodore was en- gaged to pass some weeks with another friend in a distant county. It was easily contrived, without contrivance, by Saville, that he should visit a relation who lived within a morning's ride of her new abode. The restric- tion placed upon their intercourse while residing under different loofs con- trasted painfully with the perfect freedom they had enjoyed while inhabit- ing the same. Their attachment was too young and too unacknowledged to need the zest of difficulty. It required indeed the facility of an unob- structed path for it to proceed to the accustomed bourne ; and a straw thrown across was sufficient to check its course for ever. The impatience and restlessness which Cornelia experienced during her journey ; the rush of transport that thrilled through her when she heard of Saville's arrival at a neighboring mansion, awoke her in an instant to a knowledge of the true state of her heart. Her pride was, happily for her- self, united to presence of mind and fortitude. She felt the invasion of the enemy, and she lost not a moment in repelling the dangers that menaced her. She resolved to be true to the line of conduct she had marked out for herself — she determined not to love. She did not alter her manner nor her actions. She met Horatio with the same sweet smile — she conversed with the same kind interest ; but she did not indulge in one dream, one thought — one reverie (sweet food of love) during his absence, and guarded over herself that no indication of any sentiment less general than the friendship of society might appear. Though she was invariably kind, yet his feel- ings told him that she was changed, without his being^able to discover where the alteration lay ; the line of demarcation, which she took care never to pass, was too finely traced, for any but feminine tact to discern, though it obstructed him as if it had been as h gh and massive as a city wall. Now and then his speaking eye rested on her with a pleading glance, while she answered his look with a frank smile, that spoke a heart at ease, and perfect self-possession. Indeed, while they remained near each other, in despite of all her self-denying resolves, Cornelia was happy. She felt that there was one being in the world who took a deep and present interest in her, whose thoughts hovered round her, and whose mind she could influence „to the conception of any act or feeling she might desire. That tranquillity yet animation of spirit — that gratitude on closing her eyes at night — that glad anticipation of the morrow's sun — that absence of every harsh and jarring emotion, which is the disposition of the human soul the nearest that we can conceive to perfect happiness, and which now and then visits sad humanity, to teach us of what unmeasured and pure joy our fragile nature is capable, attended her existence, and made each hour of the day a new-born blessing. This state of things could not last. An accident revealed to Saville thi \ 32—8 00 LODORE. true state of his heart ; he became aware that he loved Cornelia, deeply and fervently, and from that moment he resolved to exile himself for ever from her dear presence. Misery is the child of love when happiness is not ; this Horatio felt, but he did not shrink from the endurance. All ab- stracted and lofty as his speculations were, still his place had been in the hot-bed of patrician society, and he was familiar with the repetition of do- mestic revolutions, too frequent there. For worlds he would not have Cor- nelia's name become a by- word and mark for scandal — that name which she had so long kept bright and unreachable. His natural modesty pre- vented him from entertaining the idea that he could indeed destroy her peace ; but he knew how many and easy are the paths which lead to the loss of honour in the world s eyes. That it could be observed and surmised that one man had approached Lady Lodore with any but sentiments of reverence, was an evil to be avoided at any cost. Saville was firm as rock in his resolves — he neither doubted nor procrastinated. He left the neigh bourhood where she resided, and, returning to his father's house, tried to acquire strength to bear the severe pain which he could not master. His gentle and generous nature, ever thoughtful for others, and prodigal of self, was not however satisfied with this mere negative act of justice towards one who honoured him he felt conscious, with her friendship and kindest thoughts. He was miserable in the idea thr t he could not farther serve her. He revolved a thousand plans in his mind, tending to her ad- vantage. In fancy he entered the solitude of her meditations, and tried to divine what her sorrows or desires were, that he might minister to their solace or accomplishment. Their previous intercourse had been very un- reserved, and though Cornelia spoke but distantly and coldly of Lodore, she frequently mentioned her child, and lamented, with much emotion, the deprivation of all those joys which maternal love bestows. Often had Sa- ville said, " Why not appeal more strongly to Lord Lodore ? or, if he be inflexible, why calmly endure an outrage shocking to humanity ? The laws of your country may assist you." "They would not," said Cornelia; "for his reply would be so fraught with seeming justice, that the blame would fall back on me. He asks but the trivial sacrifice of my duty to my mother — my poor mother ! who, since 1 was born, has lived with me and for me, and who has no existence except through me. I am to tear away, and to trample upon the first of human ties, to render myself worthy of the guardianship of my child i I cannot do it — I should hold myself a parricide. Do not let us talk more of these things ; endurance is the fate of woman, and if I have more than my share, let us hope that some other poor creature, less able tc bear, has her portion lightened in consequence. I should be glad if once indeed I were permitted to see my cherub girl, though it were only while she slept ; but an ocean rolls between us, and patience must be my comforter." The soft sweetness of hei look and voice, the angelic grace that animated every tone and glance, rendered these maternal complaints mournful, yet enchanting music to the ear of Saville. He could have listened for ever. But when exiled from her, they assumed another form. He began to think whether it were not possible to convince Lord Lodore of the inexcusable cruelty of his conduct ; and again and again, he imaged the exultation of heart he should feel, if he could succeed in placing her lost babe in the mother's arms. Saville was the frankest of human beings. Finding his cousin Edward on a visit at Maristow castle, he imparted his project to him of making j. voyage to America, seeking out Lord Lodore, and using every argument and persuasion to induce him to restore her daughter to his wife. Villiers was startled at the mention of this chivalrous intent. What could have roused the studious Horace to such sudden energy ? By one of thoso LODORE. 87 strange caprices of the human mind, which bring forth discord instead of harmony, Edward had never liked Lady Lodore — he held her to be false and dangerous. Circumstances had. brought him more in contact with her mother than herself, and the two were associated and confounded in his mind, till he heard Lady Santerre's falsetto voice in the sweet one of Cornelia, and saw her deceitful vulgar devices in the engaging manners of her daughter. He was struck with horror when he discovered that Saville loved, nay, idolized this beauteous piece of mischief, as he would have named her. He saw madness and folly in his duixotic expedition, and argued against it with all his might. It would not do ; Horatio was resolved to dedicate himself to the happiness of her he loved ; and since this must be done in absence and distance, what better plan than to restore to her the precious treasure of which she had been robbed ? Saville resolved to cross the Atlantic, and, though opposed to his scheme, Villiers offered to accompany him. A voyage to America was but a trip to an active and unoccupied young man ; the society of his cousin would render the journey delightful ; he preferred it at all times to the commoner pleasures of life, and besides, on this occasion, he was animated with the hope of being useful to him. There was nothing effeminate in Saville. His energy of purpose and depth of thought forbade the idea. Still there was something that appeared to require kindness and support. His delicate health, of which he took no care, demanded feminine attentions ; his careless reliance upon the uprightness of others, and total self-oblivion, often hurried him to the brink of dangers ; and though fearlessness and integrity were at hand to extricate him, Edward, who knew his keen sensibility and repressed quickness of temper, was not without fear that on so delicate a mission his ardent feelings might carry him beyond the mark, and that, in endeavouring to serve a woman whom he loved with enthusiastic adoration, he might rouse the angry passions of her husband. With such feelings the cousins crossed the Atlantic and arrived at New- York. Thence they proceeded to the west of America, and passing Lodore and his daughter on the road without knowing it, arrived at the Illinois after their departure. They were astonished to find that Mr. Fitzhenry, as he was named to them, had broken up his establishment, sold his farm, and departed with the intention of returning to Europe. What this change might portend they could not guess. Whether it were the result of any communication with Lady Lodore — whether a reconciliation was under discussion, or whether it were occasioned by caprice merely, they could not tell ; at any rate, it seemed to put an end to Savilie's mediation. If Lodore returned to England, it was probable that Cornelia would herself make an exertion to have her child restored to her. Whether he could be of any use was problematical, but untimely interference \yas to be deprecated ; events must be left to take their own course. Savil^vvas scarcely himself aware how glad he was to escape any kind of intercourse with the husband of Cornelia. This feeling, however unacknowledged, became paramount with him. Now that Lodore was about to leave America, he wished to linger in it ; he planned a long tour through the various states, he studied their laws an I customs, he endeavoured to form a just estimate of the institutions of the New World, and their influence on those governed by them. Edward had little sympathy in these pursuits ; he was ea^er to return to London, and felt more inclined to take his gun and shoot in the forests, than to mingle in the society of the various towns. This difference of taste caused the cousins at various times to separate. Saville was at Washington when Villiers made a journey to the borders of Canada, to the falls of the Niagara, and returned by New- York ; a portion of the United States which his cousin avoided visiting until Lodore should have quitted it. 88 LODORE, Thus it was that a strange combination of circumstances brought Villiers into contact with this unfortunate nobleman, and made him a witness of and a participator in the closing scene of his disastrous and wasted life. Villiers did not sympathize in his cousin's admiration of Cornelia, and was easily won to take a deep interest in the foitunes of her husband. The very aspect of Lodore commanded attention ; his voice entered the soul : ill-starred, and struck by calamity he rose majestically from the ruin around him, and seemed to defy fate. The first thought that struck Villiers was, how could Lady Lodore desert such a man ; how pitifully degraded must she be, who preferred the throng of fools to the society of so matchless a being ! The gallantry with which he rushed to his fate, his exultation in the prospect of redeeming his honour, his melting tenderness towards his daughter, filled Villiers with respect and compassion. It was all over now. Lodore was dead : his passions, his wrongs, his errors, slept with him in the grave. He had departed from the busy stage, never to be forgotten — yet to be seen no more. Lodore was dead, and Cornelia was free. Her husband had alluded to the gladness with which she would welcome liberty ; and Villiers knew that there was another, also, whose heart would rejoice, and open itself ai once to the charming visitation of permitted love. V lihers sighed to think that Saville would marry the beautiful widow ; but he did not doubt that this event would take place. Having seen that Ethel was in kind hands, and learned the satisfactory arrangements made for her return to England, be hastened to join his cousin, and to convey the astounding intelligence. Saville's generous dis- position prevented exultation, and subdued joy. Still the prospect of future happiness became familiar to him, shadowed only by the fear of not obtain- ing the affections of her he so fervently love 3 .. For, strange to say, Saville was diffident to a fault : he could not imagine any qualities in himself to attract, a beautiful and fashionable woman. His hopes were slight ; his thoughts timid : the pain of eternal division was replaced by the gentler anxieties of love ; and he returned to England, scarcely daring to expect that crown to his desires, which seemed too high an honour, too dear a blessing, for earthly love to merit. CHAPTER X3SI. Ma la fede degli Amanti Ejpome l'Araba fenice; Che vi sia, ciaschun' 1c dice, Ma dove sia, nessun to sa. Metastasio. Meanwhile Lady Lodore had been enduring the worst miseries of ill- fated love. The illness of Lady Santerre, preceding her death, had de- manded all her, time ; and she nursed her with exemplary patience and kindness. During her midnight watchings and solitary days, she had full time to feel how deep a wound her heart had received. The figure and countenance of her absent friend haunted her in spite of every effort ; and when death hovered over the pillow of her mother, she clung, with mad desperation, to the thought, that there was still one, when this parent should be gone, to love her, even though she never saw him more. Lady Santerre died. After the first burst of natural grief, Cornelia began to reflect that Lord Lodore might now imagine that every obstacle to their reconciliation was removed. She had looked upon her husband as hei LODORE. 89 enemy and injurer ; sne had regarded him with indignation and fear ; but now she hated him. Strong aversion had sprung up, during the struggles of passion, in her bosom. She hated him as the eternal barrier between her and one who loved her with rare disinterestedness. The human heart must desire happiness ; — in spite of every effort at resigna- tion, it must aspire to the fulfilment of its wish. Lord Lodore was the cause why she was cut off from it for ever. He had foreseen that this feeh.i?, 'his combat, this misery, would be her doom, in tne deserted situa- tion she chose for herself: she had laughed his fears to scorn, Now she abhorred mm the more for having divined her destiny. While she banished the pleasant thoughts of love, she indulged in the poisoned ones of hate ; and wh'.le she resisted each softer emotion as a crime, she opened her heart to the bitterest resentment, as a permitted solace ; nor was she aware that thus forget. Indifference was her only refuge, and to attain this she must wholly banish his image from her mind. Cornelia was possessed of wonderful firmness of purpose. It had carried her on so long unharmed, and now that danger was at hand it served effectually to defend her. She rose calm and free, above unmer- ited disaster. She grew proud of the power she found that she possessed of conquering the most tyrannical of passions. Peace entered her soul, and she hailed it as a blessing. The clause in her husband's will which deprived her of the guardian- ship of her daughter bad been forgotten during this crisis. Before, under the supposition that she should marry, she had deterred taking any step to claim her. The idea of a struggle to be made, unassisted, unadvised, and unshielded, was terrible. She had not courage to encounter all the annoy- ances that might ensue. To get rid for a time of the necessity of action and reflection, she went abroad. She changed the scene — she travelled from place to place. She gave herself up in the solitude of continental journics to the whole force of contending passions ; now overcome by des- pair, and again repressing regret, asserting to herself the lofty pride of her nature. By degrees she recovered a healthier tone of mind — a distant and faint, yet genuine sense of duty dawned upon her ; and she began to think on what her future existence was to depend, and how she could best secure some portion of happiness. Her heart once again warmed towards the image of her daughter — and she felt that in watching the development of her mind, and leading her to love and depend on her, a new interest and real pleasure might spring up in life. She reproached herself for having so long, by silence and passive submission, given scope to the belief that she was willing to be a party against herself, in the injustice of Lodore ; and she returned to England with the intention of instantly enforcing her rights over her child, and taking to her bosom and to her fondest care the little being, whose affection and gratitude was to paint her future life with smiles. She called to mind Lady Santerre's worldly maxims, and her own expe- rience. She knew that the first step to success is the appearance of pros- perity and power. To command the good wishes and aid of her friends she must appear independent of them. She was earnest therefore to hide the wounds her heart had received, and the real loathing with which she regarded all things. She arrayed herself in smiles, and banished far below, into the invisible recesses of her bosom, the contempt and disgust with which she viewed the scene around her. She returned to England. She appeared at the height of the season, in the midst of society, as beautiful, as charming, as happy in look and man- ner, as in her days of light-hearted enjoyment. She paused yet a moment longer, to reflect on what step she had better take on first enforcing her claim ; but her mind was full of its intention, and set upon the fulfill- ment. At thi^^me, but a few days after her arrival in London, she went to LODORE. 93 the opera. She heard the name of Fitzhenry called in the lobby — she saw and recognised Mrs. Elizabeth — the venerable sister Bessy, so little altered that time might be said to have touched, but not strenched her homely kindly face. With her, in attendance on her, she beheld Horatio Sav die's favourite cousin — tne gay and fashionable Edward Villiers. It was strange ; her curiosity was strongly excited. I had not long to languish : the next morning Villiers called, and was readily admitted. CHAPTER XXIII. And as good lost is seldor never found. Shakspeare. Lady Lodore and Villiers met for the first time since Horatio Saville's marriage. Neither were exactly aware of what the other knew or thought. Cornelia was ignorant how far her attachment to his cousin was known to him ; whether he shared the general belief in her worldly coquetry, or what part he might have had in occasioning their unhappy separation. She could not indeed see him without emotion. He had been Lodore's second, and received the last dying breath of him who had, in her brightest youth, selected her from the world, to share his fortunes. Those days were lone past ; yet as she grew older, disappointed, and devoid of pleasurable inter- est in the present, she often turned her thoughts backward, and wondered at the part she had acted. Similar feelings were in Edward's mind. He was prejudiced againsther in every way. He despised her worldly calculations, as reported to 'urn, and rejoiced in,their failure. He believed these reports, and despised her ; yet he could not see her without being moved at once with admiration and pity. The moon-lit hill, and tragic scene, in which he had played his part, came vividly before his eyes. He had been struck by the nobleness of Lo- dore's appearance — the sensibility that sat on his countenance — his gentle, yet dignified manners. Ethel's idolatry of her father had confirmed the fa- vourable prepossession. He could not help compassionating Cornelia for the loss of her husband, forgetting, for the moment, their separation. Then again recurred to him the eloquent appeals of Saville ; his eulogiums ; hia fervent, reverential affection. She had lost him also. Could she hold up her head after such miserable events ? The evidence of the senses, and the ideas of our own minds, are more forcibly present, than any notion we can form of the feelings of others. In spite, therefore, of his belief in her hcartlessness, Villiers had pictured Cornelia attired in dismal weeds, the victim of grief. He saw her, beaming in beauty, at the opera ; — he now beheld her, radiant in ewee< smilee, in her own home. Nothing touched — nothing harmed her; and the glossy surface, he doubted not, imaged well the insensible, unimpressive soul within. Lady Lodore would have despised herself for ever had she betrayed the tremor that shook her frame when Villiers entered. Her pride of sex was in arms to enable her to convince him, that no regret, no pining, shadowed her days. The reality was abhorrent, and should never be con essed. Thus they met — each with a whole epic of wo and death alive in their memory ; hut both wearing the outward appearance of frivolity and thoughtlessness. He saw her as lovely as ever, and as kind. Her softest and sweetest wel- come was extended to him. It was this frequent show of frank cordiality which gained her " golden opinions " from the many. Her haughtiness was all of the mind ; — a desire to please, and constant association with others, 94 LODOfiE. had smoothed the surface, and painted it in the colours most agreeable to every eye. They addressed each other as if they had met but the day before. At first, a few questions and answers passed, — as to where she had been on the continent, how she liked Baden, &c. ; — and then Lady Lodore said — " Al- though 1 have not seen her for several years, I instantly recognised a rela- tive of mine with you yesterday evening. Does Miss Fitzhenry make any stay in town ?" The idea of Ethel was uppermost in Villiers's mind, and struck by the manner in which the woman of fashion spoke of her daughter, he replied, " During the season, I believe ; 1 scarcely know. Miss Fitzhenry came up for her health ; that consideration, 1 suppose, will regulate her move- ments." " She looked very well last night — perhaps she intends to remain till she gets ill, and country air is ordered ?" observed Lady Lodore. " That were nothing new at least," replied Villiers, trying to hide the disgust he felt at her mode of speaking ; " the young and blooming too often protract their first season, till the roses are exchanged for lilies. "If Miss Fitzhenry's roses still bloom," said the lady, "they must be perennial ones ; they have surely grown more fit for a herbal than a vase." Villiers now perceived his mistake, and replied, " You are speaking of Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry, as the good lady stiles herself —I spoke of— her niece — j» " Has Ethel been ill ?" Lady Lodore's hurried question, and the use of the christian name, as most familiar to her thoughts, brought home to Villiers's heart the feeling of their near relationship. There was something more than grating ; it was deeply painful to speak to a mother of a child who had been torn from her — who did not know — who had even been taut ht to hate her. He wished himself a hundred miles off, but there was no help, he must reply. " You might have seen last night that she is per- fect y recovered." Lady Lodore's imagination refused to image her child in the tall, elegant, full-formed girl she had seen, and she said, " Was Ethel with you ? I did not sec her — probably she went home before the opera was over, and I only perceived your party in the crush-room — you appear already inti- mate." " It is impossible to see Miss Fitzhenry and not to wish to be intimate," replied Villiers with his usual frankness. " I, at least, cannot help being deeply interested in every thing that relates to her." " You are very good to take concern in my little girl. I should have imagined that you were too young yourself to like children." "Children !" repeated Villiers, much amazed ; " Miss Fitzhenry ! — she s not a child." Lady Lodore scarcely heard him ; a sudden pang had shot across her heart, to think how strangers — how every one might draw near her daughter, and be interested for her, while she could not, without making herself the tale of the town, the subject, through the medium of newspapers, for every gossip's tea-table in England — where her sentiments would bo scanned, and her conduct criticised — and this through the revengeful feel inys of her husband, prolonged beyond the grave. Tears had been gather- ing in her eyes during the last moments ; she turned her head to hide them, and a quick shower fell on her silken dress. €luite ashamed of this self-betrayal, she exerted herself to overcome her emotion. Villiers felt awkwardly situated ; his first impulse had been to rise to take her hand, to soothe her ; but before he could do more than the first of these acts, as Lady Lodore fancied for the purpose of taking his leave, she said, " It is foolish to feel as I do ; yet perkap* more foolish to attempt to conceal from LODORE. 95 Gfle, as Well acquainted as you are with every thing, that I do feel pained at the unnatural separation between me and Ethel, especially when 1 think of the publicity I must incur by asserting a mother's claims. I am ashamed of intruding this subject on you ; but she is no longer the baby cherub I Could "radle in my arms ; and you have seen her lately, and can tell me whether she has been Well brought up — whether she seems tractable — if she promises to be pretty ?" " Did you not think her lovely ?" cried Villiers, with animation ; " you Saw her last night, taking my arm." " Ethel t" cried the^ lady. " Could that be Ethel ? True, she is now sixteen — I had indeed forgot" — her cheeks became suffused with a deep blush as she remembered all the solecisms she had been committing " She is sixteen," she continued, " and a woman — while 1 fancied a little girl in a white frock and blue sash : this alters every thing. W e have been indeed divided, and must now remain so for evermore. I will not injure her, at her age, by making her the public talk — besides, many, many other considerations would render me fearful of making myself responsible for her future destiny." " At least," said Villiers, " she ought to wait on you." " That were beyond Lord Lodore s bond," said the lady ; " and why should she wait on me ? Were she impelled by affection, it were well, But ttys is talking very simply — we could only be acquaintance, and I would rather be nothing. I confess, that I repined bitterly, that I was not per- mitted to have my little girl, as I termed her, for my plaything and com- panion — but my ideas are now changed : a dear little tractable child would have been delightful — hut she is a woman, with a will of her own — pre- judiced against me — brought up in America, with all kinds of strange notions and ways. Lord Lodore was quite right, 1 believe — he fashioned her for himself and — Bessy. The worst thing that can happen to a girl, is to have her prejudices and principles unhinged ; no new ones can flourish like those that have grown with her growth ; and mine, I fear, would differ greatly from those in which she has been educated. A few years hence, she may feel the want of a friend, who understands the world, and who could guide her prudently through its intricacies ; then she shall find that friend in me. Now, 1 feel convinced that I should do more harm than good." A loud knock at the street door interrupted the conversation. " One thing only I cannot endure," said the lady hastily, "to present a domestic tragedy or farce to the Opera House — we must not meet in public. I shall shut up my house and return to Paris." ; Mere writtan words express little. Lady Lodore's expressions were nothing ; but her countenance denoted a change of feeling, a violence of emotio-i, of which Villiers hardly believed her capable ; but before he could reply the servant threw open the door, and her brow immediately clearing, serenity descended on her face. With her blandest smile she extended her hand to her new visiter. Villiers was too much discomposed to imitate her, so with a silent salutation he departed, and cantered round the park to collect his thoughts before he called in Seymour-street. The ladies there were not less agitated than Lady Lodore, and displayed their feelings with the artlessness of recluses. The first words that Mis. Elizabeth had addressed to her niece, at the breakfast table, were an awk- wardly expressed intimation, that she meant instantly to return to Long- field. Ethel looked up with a face of alarm : her aunt continued ; " I do not want to speak ill of Lady Lodore, my dear — God forgive her — that is all I can say. What your dear father thought of her, his last will testi- fies. I suppose you do not mean to disobey him." "His slightest word was ever a law with me," said Ethel ; "and now S6 LODORE, that he is gone, I would observe his injunctions more religiously than eves* But — " " Then, my dear, there is but one thing to be done : Lady Lodore will assuredly force herself upon us, meet us at every turn, oblige you to pay her your duty ; nor could you avoid it. No, my dear Ethel, there is but one escape — your health, thank God. is restored, and Longfield is now in all its beauty ; we will return to-morrow." Ethel did not reply ; she looked very disconsolate — she did not know what to say ; at last, " Mr. Villiers will think it so odd," dropped from her lips. " Mr. Villiers is nothing to us, my dear," said Aunt Bessy — " not the most distant relation ; he is an agreeable, good-hearted young gentleman — but there are so many in the world." Ethel left her breakfast untasted, and went out of the room : she felt that she could no longer restrain her tears. "My father!" she exclaimed, while a passionate burst of weeping choked her utterance, " my only friend ! why, why did you leave me? Why, most cruel, desert your poor orphan child ? Gracious God ! to what am I reserved ! I must not see my mother — a name so dear, so sweet, is for me a curse and a misery ' O my father, why did you desert me !" Her calm reflections were not less bitter; she did not suffer her thoughts to wander to Villiers, or rather the loss of her father was still so much the first grief of her heart, that on any new sorrow, it was to this she recurred with agony. The form of her youthful mother also flitted before her ; and she asked herself, " Can she be so wicked ?" Lord Lodore had never uttered her name ; it was not until his death had put the fatal seal on all things, that she heard a garbled exaggerated statement from her aunt, over whose benevolent features a kind of sacred horror mantled, whenever she was mentioned. The will of Lord Lodore, and the stern injunction it contained, that the mother and daughter should never meet, satisfied Ethel of the truth of all that her aunt said ; so that educated to obedience and deep reverence for the only parent she had ever known, she recoiled with terror from transgressing his commands, and holding communication with the cause of all his ills. Still it was hard, and very, very sad ; nor did she cease from lamenting her fate, till Vilhers's horse was heard in the street, and his knock at the door ; then she tried to compose herself. " He will surely come to us at Longfield," she thought ; " Longfield will be so very stupid after London." After London ! Poor Ethel ! she had lived in London as in a desert ; but lately it had appeared to her a city of bliss, and all places else the abode of gloom and melancholy. Villiers was shocked at the appearance of sorrow which shadowed her face ; and, for a moment, thought that the rencounter with her mother was the sole occasion of the tears, whose traces he plainly discerned. His address was full of sympathetic kindness; — but when she said, "We return to-morrow to Essex — will you come to see us at Longfield?" — his soothing tones were exchanged for those of surprise and vexation. " Longfield ! — impossible ! Why ?" " My aunt has determined on it. She thinks me recovered ; and so, indeed, I am." " But are you to be entombed at Longfield, except when dying ? If so, do, pray, be ill again directly ! But this must not be. Dear Mrs. Fitz- henry," he continued, as she came in, " I will not hear of your going to Longfield. Look ; the very idea has already thrown Miss Fitzhenry into a consumption ; — you will kill her. Indeed you must not think of it." " We shall all die, if we stay in town," said Mrs. Elizabeth, with per- plexity at her niece's evident suffering, I/O DO RE. 97 ** Then why stay in town ?" asked Villiers. " You just now said, that we ought not to return to Longfield," answered the lady ; * and I am sure it* Ethel is to look so ill and wretched, 1 don't know what I am to do." " But there are many places in the world besides either London or Long- field. You were charmed with Richmond the other day: there are plenty i»f housfis to be had there ; norhing can be prettier or more quiet." ""Well, I don't know," said Aunt Bessy, " I never thought of that, to oe sure ; and I have business which makes our going to Longfield very inconvenient. I expect Mr. Humphries, our solicitor, next week ; and I have not seen him yet. You really think, Mr. Villiers, that we could got a house to suit us at Richmond ?" " Let us drive there to-day," said Villiers ; " we can dine at the Star and Garter. You can go in the britzska — I on horseback. The days are long : we can see every thing ; and take your house at once." This plan sounded very romantic and wild to the sober spinster; but Ethel's face, lighted up with vivid pleasure, said more in its favour, than what the good lady called Prudence could allege against it. " Silly people you women are," said Villiers : " yeu can do nothing by yourselves : and are always running against posts, unless guided by others. This will riake every thing easy — dispel every difficulty." His thoughts recurred to Lady Lodore, and her intended journey to Paris, as he said this : and again they flew to a charming little villa on the river's side, whither h6 could ride every day, and find Ethel among her flowers, alone and happy. The excursion of this morning was prosperous. The day was warm, yet f;esh; and as they quitted town, and got surrounded by fields, and hedges, tnd trees, nature reassumed her rights, and awakened transport in Ethel's heart. The boyish spirits of Villiers communicated themselves to her ; and Mrs. Elizabeth smiled, also, with the most exquisite complacency. A few inquiries conducted them to a pretty rural box, surrounded by a small but well laid-out shrubbery ; and this they engaged. The dinner at the inn, the twilight walk in its garden ; — the fair prospect of the rich and culti- v ated country, with its silvery, meandering river at their feet ; and the as- pect of the cloudless heavens, where one or two stars silently struggled ioto sight amidst the pathless waste of sky, were objects most beautiful to look on, and prodigal of the sweetest emotions. The wide, dark lake, tie endless forests, and distant mountains, of the Illinois, were not here ; fcnt night bestowed that appearance of solitude, which habit rendered dear to Ethel: and imagination could transform wooded parks and well-trimmed meadows into bowery seclusions, sacred from the foot of man, and fresh fields, untouched by his hand. A few days found Ethel and her aunt installed at their little villa, and delighted to be away from London. Education made loneliness congenial to both : they might seek transient amusements in towns, or visit them for business ; but happiness, the agreeable tenor of unvaried daily life, was to be found in the quiet of the country only ; — and Richmond was the country to them ; for, cut off from all habits of intercourse with their species, they hid but to find trees and meadows near them, at once to feel transported, from the thick of human life, into the most noiseless solitude. Ethel was very happy. She rose in the morning with a glad and grate ful heart, and gazed from her chamber window, watching the early sunbeams as they crept over the various parts of the landscape, visiting with light and warmth each open field or embowered nook. Her bosom overflowed with the kindest feelings, and her charmed senses answered the tremulous beat- ing of her pure heart, bidding it enjoy. How beautiful did earth appear to her ! There was a delight and a sympathy in the very action of the shad- ows, as they pranked the sunshinv ground with their dark and fluctuating 33—1 98 LO:;0RE. forms. The leafy boughs' of the tall trees waved gracefully, am? each minS ©f heaven wafted a thousand sweets. A magic spell of beauty and bhsa held in one bright chain the whole harmonious" universe ; and the soul of the enchantment was love — simple, girlish, unacknowledged love ; — the love of the young, feminine heart, which feels itself placed, all bleakly and dangerously, in a world, scarce formed to be its home, and which plumes itself with Love to fly to the covert and natural shelter of another's pro* tectirrg care* Ethel did not know — did not fancy — that she was in love ; nor did any of the throes of passion disturb the serenity of her mind. She only felt thai ghe was very, very happy ; and that Villiers was the kindest of human beings. She did not give herself up to idleness and reverie. The first law of her education had been to be constantly emp'oyed. Her studies were various : they, perhaps-, d;d not sufficiently tend to invigorate her under- standing, but they sufficed to prevent every incursion of ftstlessness, Mean- while, during each 1 , the thought of V'tfhers strayed through her mind, like at heavenly visitant, to gild all things'- with sunny delight. Sometime, during the day, he was nearly sure to come ; or, at least, she was certain of seeing him on the morrow ; and when he came their boatings and their rides w^re Erolonged; while each moment added to the strength of the ties thai bound* er to him. She relied on his friendship ; and his society was as necessary to- her life as- the air she breathed. She so implicitly trusted to his truth, that she was unaware that she trusted at afl — never making a doubt abou£ it. That chance, or time, should injure or oreak off the tie, was a possibil- ity that never suggested itself to her mind. As the silver Thames traversed in silence and beautv the landscape at her feet, so did love flow through her soul in one even and unruffled stream — the great law and emperor of hes thoughts ; yet more felt from its influence, than from any direct exertion oJ its power. It was the result and the type of her sensibility, of her constancy, of- the gentle, yet lively sympathy, it was her nature to bestow, with guile- less confidence. Those around her mi°;ht be ignorant that her soul was imbued with it, because, being a part of her soul, there was small outward demonstration. None, indeed, near her thought any thing about it: Aunt Bessy was a tyro in such matters , and Villiers — he had resolved, when he perceived love on her side, to retreat for ever; till' then he might enjoy th« cear delight that her society afforded him; CHAPTER XXIV. Alas f he knows The laws of Spain appoint me foi his heir ; That all must come to me iff outlive him, Which sure I must do, by the course of nature. Beaumont and Fletcher Edward Villiers was the only child of a man of considerable fortune, who had early in life become a widower. From the period of this event. Colonel Villiers (for his youth had been passed in the army, where he ob- tained promotion) had led the careless life of a single man. His son's home was at Maristow Castle, when sot at school ; and the father seldom re- membered him except as an encumbrance ; for his estate was strictly en tailed, so that he could only consider himself possessed of a life interest in a property, which would devolve, without restriction, on his more fortunate son. Edward was brought up in all the magnificence of his uaele's lordly LODORE. 99 abode. Luxury and profusion were the elements of th§ air he breathed. To be without any desired object that could be purchased, appeared baseness and lowest penury. He, also, was considered the favoured one of fortune in the family circle. The elder brother among the Savilles rose above, but the younger fell infinitely below, the undoubted heir of eight thousand a year and one of the most delightful seats in England. He was brought up to look upon himself as a rich man, and to act as such ; and meanwhile until his father's death, he had nothing to depend on, except any allowance he might make him. Colonel Viliiers was a man of fashion, addicted to all the extravagances and even vices of the times. He set no bounds to his expenses. Gambling consumed his nights, and his days were spent at horse-races, or any other occupation that at once excited and impoverished him. His income was as a drop of water in the mighty stream of his expenditure. Involvement followed involvement, until he had not a shilling that he could properly call his own. Poor Edward heard of these things, but did not mark them. He in- dulged in no blameworthy pursuits, nor spent more than beseemed a man in his rank of life. The idea of debt was familiar to him : every one — even Lord Maristow — was in debt, far beyond his power of immediate payment. He followed the universal example, and suffered no inconvenience, while his wants were obligingly supplied by the fashionable tradesmen. He regard- ed the period of his coming of age as a time when he should become disem- barrassed, and enter upon life with ample means, and still more brilliant prospects. The day arrived. It was celebrated with splendour at Maristow Castle. Colonel Viliiers was abroad; but Lord Maristow wrote to him to remind him of this event, which otherwise he might have forgotten. A kind letter of congratulation was, in consequence, received from him by Edward ; to which was appended a postscript, saying, that on his return, at the end of a few weeks, lie would consult concerning some arrangements he wished to make with regard to his future income. His return was deferred ; and Edward began to experience some of the annoyances of debt. Still no real pain was associated with his feelings , though he looked forward with eagerness to the hour of liberation. Colonel Viliiers came at last. He spoke largely of his intended generosity, which was shown, meanwhile, by his persuading Edward to join in a mortgage for the sake of raising an immediate sum. Edward scarcely knew what he was about. He was delighted to be of service to his father ; and with- out thought or idea of having made a sacrifice, agreed to all that was asked of him. He was promised an allowance of six hundred a year. The few years that had passed since then were full of painful experience and bitter initiation. His light and airy spirit was slow to conceive ill, or to resent wrong. When his annuity remained unpaid, he listened to his fa- ther's excuses with implicit credence, and deplored his poverty. One day, he received a note from him, written, as usual, in haste and confusion, but breathinT anxiety and regret on his account, and promising to pay over to him the first money he could obtain. On the evening of that day, Edward was led bv a friend into the gambling-room of a celebrated club. The first man on whom his eyes fell, was his father, who was risking and losing rouleaus and notes in abundance. At one moment, while making over a lar2;e sum, he suddenly perceived his son. He grew pale, and then a deep blush spread itself over his countenance. Edward withdrew. His young* heart was pierced to the core. The consciousness of a father's falsehood and iuilt acted on him as the sudden intelligence of some fatal disaster would have done. He breathed thick — the objects swam round him — he hurried into the streets — he traversed them one after the other. It was not this scene alone — this single act 5 the veil was withdrawn from a whoft.e 3eries of others similar ; and he became aware that his parent had 100 LODORE. stepped beyond the line of mere extravagance ; that he had lost honoura- ble feeling ; that lies were common in his mouth ; and every other — even his only child — was sacrificed to his own selfish and bad passions. Edward never again asked his father for money. The immediate result of the meeting in the gambling-room, had been his receiving ul 1 with iraw for ever. * Co'.oriJ • o's " Six Months in the West Indies." 1* 102 LODORE. CHAPTER XXV. The world is too much with us. WCI.DS WORTH. Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry's morning task was to read the newspapers — the only intercourse she held with the world, and all her knowledge of it was derived from these daily sheets. Ethel never looked at *hem — her thoughts held no communion with the vulgar routine of life, and she was too much occupied by her studies and reveries to spend any time upon topics so uninteresting as the state of the nation, or the scandal of the day. One morning, while she was painting, her aunt observed, in her usual tone of voice, scarce lifting her eyes from the paper, " Mr. \ illiers did not tell us this — he is going to be married ; I wonder who to !" "Married!" repeated Ethel. " Yes, my deat Bessy, on the river's bank imploring their return, recalled them from the fairy region to which their spirits had wandered. For one moment they had been united in sentiment ; one kindred emotion of perfect affection had, as it were, married their souls one to the other ; at the alien sound ot poor Bessy's voice the spell fled away on airy wings, leaving them disen- chanted. The rudder was turned, the boat reached the shore, and unable to endure frivolous talk about any subject except the one so near his heart, Villiers departed and rode back to town, miserable yet most happy — de- spairing yet full of joy ; to such a riddle, love, which finds its completion in svmpathy, and knows no desire beyond, is the only solution. The feelings of Ethel were even more unalloyed. She had no doubts about the future, the present embraced the world. She did not attempt to unravel the dreamy confusion of her thoughts, or to clear up the golden mist that hung before, curtaining most gloriously the reality beyond. Her step was buoyant, her eyes sparkling and joyous. Love and gladness sat lightly on her bosom, and gratitude to Heaven for bestowing so deep a sense of happiness was the only sentiment that mingled with these. Villiers, on leaving them, had promised to return the next day ; and on the morrow she rose, animated with such a spirit, as may be kindled within the bosem of an enchantress, when she pronounces the spell which is to control the movements of the planetary orbs. She was more than queen of the world, for she was empress of Edward's heart, and ruling there, she reigned over the course of destiny, and bent to her will the conflicting elements of life. He did not come. It was strange. Now hope, now fear, were inter- changed one for the other, till night and certain disappointment arrived. Yet it was not much — the morrow's sun would light him on his way to LODORE. HI hor. To cheat the lagging hours of the morrow, she occupied herself with her painting and music, tasking herself to give so many hours to her em- ployments, thus to add speed to the dilatory walk of time. The long day was passed in fruitless expectation — another and another succeeded. "Was he ill ? What strange mutation in the course of nature had occurred to occasion so inexplicable an absence ? A week went by, and even a second was nearly spent. She had not anticipated this estrangement. Day by day she went over hi her lmnd their last conversation, and Edward's expressions gathered decision and a gloomy reality as she pondered on them. The idea of an heroic sacrifice on his part, and submission to his will on hers, at first soothed her — but never to see him more was an alternative that tasked her fortitude too high ; and while her heart felt all the tumults of despair, she found herself asking what his love could be, that could submit to lose her? Love in a cottage is the dream of many a high-born girl, who is not allowed to dance with a younger brother at Almack's ; but a secluded, an obscure, an almost cot- tage life, was all that Ethel had ever known, and all that she coveted. Villiers rejected this — not for her sake, that could not be, but for the sake of a world, which he called frivolous and vain, and yet to whose tyranny he bowed. To disentwine the tangled skein of thought which was thus presented, was her task by day and night. She awoke in the morning, and her first thought was, " Will he come f" She retired at night, and sleep visited her eyes, while she was asking herself, " Why has he not been?" During the day, these questions, in every variety, forced her at- tention. To escape from her aunt, to seek solitude, to listen to each sound that might be his horse, and to feel her heart sicken at the still renewed disappointment, became, in spite of herself, all her occupation : she might bend over her drawing, or escape from her aunt's conversation to the piano ; but these were no longer employments, but rather means adopted to deliver herself up more entirely to her reveries. The third, the fourth week came, and the silence of death was between Ethel and her friend. Oh, but for one word, one look to break the spell 1 Was she indeed never to see him more? Was all, all over? — was the harmony their two hearts made, jarred into discord ? — was she again the orphan, alone in the world ? — and was the fearless reliance she had placed upon fate and Edward's fidelity, mere folly or insanity ? — and was dese- cration and forgetfu'iiess to come over and to destroy the worship she had so fondly cherished ? Nothing had she to .turn to — nothing to console her. Her life became one thought, it twined round her soul like a serpent, and compressed and crushed every other emotion with its folds. " I could bear all," she thought, " were I permitted to see him only once again." She and Mrs. Fitzhenry were invited by Mrs. Humphries to dine with her. They were asked to the awful ceremony of spending a long day, which, in the innocence of her heart, Mrs. Fitzhenry fancied the most de- lightful thing in the world. She thought that kindness and friendship demanded of her that she she should be in Montague-square by ten in the morning. Notwithstanding every exertion, she could not get there till two, and then, when luncheon was over, she wondered why the gap of time till seven appeared so formidable. This was to be got over by a drive in Hyde- park. Ethel had shown peculiar pleasure in the idea of visiting London ; she had looked bright, and happy during their journey to town, but anxiety and agitation clouded her face, at the thought of the park, of the crisis about to arrive, at the doubt and hope she entertained of finding Villiers there. The park became crowded, but he was not in the drive ; at length he entered in the midst of a bevy of fair cousins, whom Ethel did not know as such. He entered on horseback, flanked on either side by pretty eques- trians, looking as gay and light-hearted, as she would have done, had she 112 LODORE. been one, ths chosen one among his companions. Twice he passed. The first time his head was averted — he saw nothing, she even did not see his face: the next time, his eye caught the aspect of the well-known chariot — he glanced eagerly at those it contained, kissed his hand, and went on. Ethel's heart died within her. It was all over. She was the neglected, the forgotten ; but while she turned her face to the other window of the carriage, so to hide its saddened expression from her companion, a voice, the dearest, sweetest voice she had ever heard, the soft harmonious voice, whose accents were more melodious than music, asked, " Are you in town ? have you left Richmond?" In spite of herself, a smile mantled over her countenav^e, dimpling it into gladness, and she turned to see the beloved speaker who had not deserted her — who was there ; she turned, but there was no answer- ing glance of pleasure in the face of Villiers — he looked grave, and bowed, as if in this act of courtesy he fulfilled all of friendly interchange that was expected of him, and rode off! He was gone — and seen no more. CHAPTER XXVII. Sure, when the separation has been tried, That we, who part in love, shall meet again. Wordsworth. This little event roused Ethel to the necessity of struggling with the sen- timent to which hitherto she had permitted unquestioned power. There had been a kind of pleasure mingled with her pain, when she believed that she suf- fered for her lover's sake, and in obedience to his will. To love in solitude and absence, was, she well knew, the lot of many of her sex, and all that is imaginative and tender lends poetry to the emotion. But to love without return, her father had taught her was shame and folly — a dangerous and undigniil°d sentiment, that leads many women into acts of humiliation and misery. He spoke the more warmly on this subject, because he desired to guard his daughter by every possible means from a fate too common. He knew the sens.bility and constancy of her nature. He dreaded to think that these should be played upon, and that her angelic sweetness should be sacrificed at the altar of hopeless passion. That all the powers he might gift her with, all the fortitude and all the pride that he strove to instil, might be insufficient to prevent this* one grand evil, he too well knew ; but all that could should be done, and his own high-souled Ethel should rise uninjured from the toils of the snarer, the heartless game of the unfaithful lover. She steeled her heart against every softer thought, she tasked herself each day to devote her entire attention to some absorbing; employment ; to languages and the composition of music, as occupations that would not per- mit her thoughts to stray. She felt a pain deep-seated in her inmost heart ; but she refused to acknowledge it. When a thought, too sweet and bitter, took perforce possession of the chambers of her brain, she drove it out with stern and unshaken resolve. She pondered on the best means to subdue every rebel idea. She rose with the sun, and passed much time in the open air, that when night came, bodily fatigue might overpower mental regrets. She conversed with her aunt again about her dear lost father ; that, by r<> newing images, so long the only ones dear to her, every subsequent idea might be driven from the place it had usurped. Always she was rewarded by the sense of doing right, often by really mitigating the anguish which rose and went to rest with her, and awakening her in the morning, stung her to renew her endeavours, while it whispered too audibly, " I am here." She grew pale and thin, and her eyes again resumed that lustre which spoke a quick and agitated life within. Her endeavours, by being unremitting, LODORE. IIS gave too much intensity to every feeling, and made her live each moment of her existence a sensitive, conscious life, wearing out her frame, and threat- ening, while it accelerated the pulses, to exhaust betimes the animal func- tions. She felt this ; and she roused herself to contend afresh with her own heart. As a last resource she determined to quit Richmond. Her strug- gles, and the energy called into action by her fortitude, gave a tone of supe- riority to her mind, which her aunt felt and submitted to. Now when a change of residence was determined upon, she at once negatived the idea of returning to Longneld — yet whither else betake themselves? Ethel no longer concealed from herself that she and the worthy spinster were solitary wanderers on earth, cut off from human intercourse. A bitter sense of desolation had crept over her from the moment that she knew herself to be deserted bv Villiers. All that was bright in her position darkened info shadow. She shrunk into herself when she reflect-' ', that should the ground at her feet open and swallow her, not one among her fellow-creatures would be sensible that the whole universe of thought and feeling, which emanated from her breathing spirit, as water from a living spring, was shrunk up and strangled in a narrow voiceless grave. A short time before she had regarded death without, terror, for her father had been its prey, and his image was often shadowed forth in her fancy, beckoning her to join him. Now it had become more difficult to die. "Mature and love were wedded in her mind, and it was a bitter pang for j so young to bid adieu » both for ever. Turning her thoughts from Vil' <$, she would have been ^iad to discover any link that might enchain hei to the mass. She reverted to her mother. Her inexperience, her youth, and the timidity of her disposition, prevented flfer from making any endeavour to break through the wall of unnatural sepa- ration raised between them. She could only lament. One sign, one word from Lady Lodore, would have been halm to her poor heart, and she would have met it with feWent gratitude., but she feared to offend. She had no hope that any advance would have been met by other than a disdainful re- pulse , and she shrunk from intruding herself on her unwilling parent. She often wept to think that there was none near to support and comfort her, and yet that at the distance of but a few miles her mother lived — whose very name was the source of the dearest, sweetest, and most cruel emotions. She thought, therefore, of her surviving parent on'v to despair, and to shrink with terror from the mere possibility of an accidental meeting. She earnestly desired to leave England, which had treated her with but a step-mother's welcome, and to travel away, she knew not whither. Yet most she wished to go to Italy. Her father had often talked of taking her to that country, and it was painted in her eyes with the hues of paradise. She spoke of her desire to her aunt, who thought her mad, and believed that it was as easy to adventure to the moon, as for two solitary women to brave Alps and earthquakes, banditti and volcanoes, a savage people and an unknown land. Still, even while she trembled at the mere notion, she felt that Eth.pl might lead her thither if she pleased. It is one of the most beneficent dispensations of the Creator, that there is nothing so attractive and attaching as affection. The smile of an infant may command absolutely, because its source is in dependent love, and the human heart for ever yearns for such demonstration from another. What would this strange world be without that " touch of nature ?" It is to the immaterial universe what light is to the visible creation, scent to the flower, hue to the rainbow ; hope, j.oy, succour, and self-forgetfulness, where otherwise all would be swallowed up in vacant and obscure egotism. No one could approach Ethel without feeling that she possessed an irresistible charm. The overflowing and trusting affectionateness of her nature was a loadstone to draw alt hearts. Each one felt, even without 2* 114 LODORE. knowing wherefore, that it was happiness to obey, to gratify her. Thus while a journey to Italy filled Airs. Elizabeth with alarm, a consent hovered on her lips, because she felt that any risk was preferable to disappointing a wish of her gentle niece. And yet even then Ethel paused. She began to repent her desire of leaving the country-inhabited by her dearest friend. She felt lhat she should have an uncongenial companion in her aunt — the child of the wilderness and the good lady of Longfield, were like a living and dead body in con- junction — the one inquiring, eager, enthusiastic even in her contemplative- ness, sensitively awake to every passing object ; while the otner dozed her hours awajr, and fancied that pitfalls and wild beasts menaced her, if she dared step one inch from the beaten way. At this moment, while embarrassed by the very yielding to her desires, and experiencing a lingering sad regret for all that she was about to leave behind, Ethel received a letter from Villiers. Her heait beat, and her fingers trembled, when first she saw, as now she held a paper, which might be every thing, yet might be nothing to her; she opened it at last, and forced herself to consider and understand its contents. It was as follows : — " Dear Miss Fitzhenry, " "Will your aunt receive me with her wonted kindness when I call to- morrow ? I fear to have offended by an appearance of neglect, while my heart has never been absent from Richmond. Plead my cause, I entreat you. 1 leave it in your hands. " Ever and ever yours, " Grosvenor Square, Saturday. " Edward Villiers. " Dearest Ethel, have you guessed at my sufferings ? Shall you hail with half the joy that I do, a change which enables vou to revoke the de- cree of absence so galling at least to one of us ? "if indeed you have not forgotten me, I shall be rewarded for the wretchedness of these last weeks. ' Ethel kissed the letter, and placed it near her heart. A calm joy diffused itself over her mind ; and that she could indeed trust and believe in him she loved, was the source of a grateful delight more medicinal than all the balmy winds of Italy, and its promised pleasures. "When Villiers had last quitted Richmond, he had resolved not to expose himself again to the influence of Ethel. It was necessary that they should be divided — how far better that they should never meet again ! He was not worthy of her. Another, more fortunate, would replace him, if he sacri- ficed his own selfish feelings, and determinatelv absented himself from her. As if to confirm his view of their mutual interest, his elder cousin, Mr. Saville, had just offered his hand to the daughter of a wealthy earl, and had been accepted. Villiers took refuge from his anxious thoughts among his pretty cousins, sisters of the bridegroom, and with them the discussion of estates, settlements, princely mansions, and equipages, was the order of the day. Edward sickened to reflect how opposite would be the prospect if his marriage with Ethel were in contemplation. It was not that a noble establishment would be exchanged for a modest, humble dwelling — he loved with sufficient truth to feel that happiness witn Ethel transcended the wealth of the woild. It was the absolute penury, the debt, the care, that haunted him, and made such miserable contrast with the tens and hundreds of thousands that were the subject of discussion on the present occasion. His resolution not to entangle Ethel in this wilderness of ills gained strength by every chance word that fell from the lips of those around him ; and the image, before so vivid, of her home at Richmond, which he might at each LODORE. 115 hour enter, of her dear face, which at any minute might again bless his sight, faded into a far-off vision of paradise, from which he was banished for ever. For a time he persevered in his purpose, if not with ease, yet with less of struggle than he himsetf anticipated. That he could at any hour break the self-eaacted law, and Behold Ethel, enabled him day after day to continue to obey it. and to submit to the decree of banishment he had passed upon biinSelf. He loved his pretty cousin-, and their kindness and friendship soothed him : he spent his days with them ; and the familiar, sisterly inter- course, hallowed by Ions; association, and made tender by the grace and sweetness of these good girls, compensated somewhat for the absence of deeper interest. They talked of Horatio also, and that was a more touch- in r string than all. The almost worship, joined to pity and fear for him, with which Edward regarded his cousin, made him cling fondly to those so closely related to hirn, and who sympathized with, and shared, his enthusi- astic affection. This stat 5 of half indifference did not last long. His meeting with Ethel in Hyde Park operated an entire change. He had seen her face but a moment — her dear face, animated with pleasure at beholding him, and adorned with more than her usual loveliness. He hurried away, but the ima^e still pursued him. All at once the world around grew dark and blink.; at every instant his hea t asked for Ethel. He thirsted for the sweet delight of sazing on her soft lustrous eyes, touching her hand, listen- ing to her voice, whose tones were so familiar and beloved. He avoided his cousins to hide his regrets ; he sought solitude, to commune with memory ; and the intense desire kindled within him to return to her, was all but irresistible. He had received a letter from Horace Saville, entreating him to join him at Naples ; he had contemplated complying, as a means of obtaining forgetfulness. Should he not, on the contrary, make this visit with Ethel for his companion ? It was a picture of happiness most enticing ; and then he recollected with a pang that it was impossible for him to quit England ; that it was only by being on the spot, that he obtained the supplies necessary for his existence. With bitterness of spirit he recognised once a^ain his state of beggary, and the hopelessness that attended on all his wishes. All at once he was su-prised by a message from his father, through Lord Mnristow. He was told of Colonel Villiers's intended marriage with the only daughter of a wealthy commoner, which yet could not be arranged without the concurrence of Edward, or rather without sacrifices on his part for the making of settlements. The entire payment of his debts, and the promise of fifteen hundred a year for the future, were the bribes offered to in luce him to consent. Edward at once notified his compliance. He saw the hour of freedom at hand, and the present was too full of interest, too pregnant with misery or happiness, to allow the injury done to his future prospects to weigh with him for a moment. Thus he might purchase his union with Ethel — claim her for his own. With the thought, a whole tide of t°nderness and joy poured quick and warm into his heart, and it seemed as if he hid never loved so devotedly as now. How false an illusion had blinled him ! he fancied that he had banished hope, while indeed his soul was wedded to her ima^e, and the very struggle to free himself, had served to m tke the thought of her more peremptory and indelible. With these thoughts, he again presented himself at Richmond. He asked Mrs. Fitzhenry's consent to address her niece, and became the ac- cepted lover of Ethel. The meeting of their two young hearts in the secu- rity of an avowed attachment, after so many hours wasted in despondency and painful stru^odes, did not visit the fair girl with emotions of burning transport: she felt it rather Idee a return to a natural state of things, after 116 LODORE. unnatural deprivation, — as if, a young nestling, she had been driven from her mother's side, and was now restored to the dear fosterage of her care. She delivered herself up to a calm reliance upon the future, and saw in the interweaving of duty and affection, the fulfilment- of her destiny, and the confirmation of her earthly happiness. The^were to be joined never to part more ! While each breathed the breath of life, no power could sever them; health or sickness, prosperity or adversity — these b^amc mf, and his match is not to be bund upon earth. Horatio never loved but once, and his attachment was unfortu i.ate. He loved Eady " Here recollection dyed Miss Saville's cheeks with crimson: she had forgotten that Lady Lodore was the mother of Ethel. After a mo nent's hesitation she rontinued : -- f have no rgnt to betray the secrets of others, Horace was a discarded lover ; and he was forced to des ise the lady wrto n he had imagined possessed of every excellence. For the first time he was absorbed in what may be termed a selfish sentiment. He could not bear to see any of us : he fled even from Edward, and wandering away, we heard at last that he was at Naples, whither he had gone quite uncon scious of the spot of earth to which he was bending his steps. The first letter we got fro n him was dated from that place. His letter was to me ; for I a n his favourite sister ; and God knows my devoted affection, my Wors lip of him, deserves this preference. You shall read it ; it is the most perfect specimen of enthusiastic and heart-moving eloquence ever penned. He had been as in a trance, and awoke again to life as he looked down fro n Pausilippo on the bay of Naples. The attachment to one earthly ob- ject, which preyed on his being, was suddenly merged in one universal love and adoration. He saw that the ' creation was good ;" he purged his heart at once of the black spot which had blotted and marred its beauty ; and opened his whole soul to pure, elevated, heavenly love. I tamely quote his burning and transparent expressions, through which you may discern, as in a glass, the glorious excellence of his soul. "Bat, alis ! this state of holv excitement could not endure ; something hu nan will still creep in to mingle with and sully our noblest aspirations. Horatio was taken by an acquaii tance to see a beautiful girl at a convent ; in a fatal mommt an English lady said to him, 'Come, and I will show you what perfect beauty is :' and those words decided my poor brother's destiny. Of course I only know our new sister through his letters. He told us that Cloinda was shut up in this convent through the heartless vanity of her mother, who dreaded her as a rival, to wait there till her parents should find so ne suitible match, which she must instantly accept, or be doomed to seclusion for ever. In his younger days Horace had paid, ' I am in love with an idea, and therefore women have no power over in".' But the time came when his heart was to be the dupe of his imagination — so was it 120 LODORE. with his first love — so now, I fear, did he deceive himself with regard to Clorinda. He declared indeed that his love for her was not an absorbing passion like his first, but a mingling of pity, admiration, and that tenderness which his warm heart was ever ready to bestow. He described her as full of genius and sensibility, a creature of fire and power, but dimmed by sorrow, and struggling with her chains. He visited her again ; he tried to comfort, he offered to serve her. It was the first time that a manly, gener- ous spirit had ever presented itself to the desponding girl. The high- souled Englishman appeared as a god beside ner sordid countrymen ; in- deed, Horatio would have seemed such compared with any of his sex ; his fascination is irresistible — Clorinda felt it ; she loved him with Italian fer- vour, and the first word of kindness from him elicited a whole torrent of gratitude and passion. Horace had no wish to marry ; his old wound was by no means healed, but rather open, and bled afresh, when he was called upon to answer the enthusiastic ardour of the Italian girl. He felt at once the difference of his feeling for her, and the engrossing sentiment of which he had been nearly the victim. But he could rescue her from an unworthy fate, and make her happy. He acted with his usual determination and precipitancy, and within a month she became his wife. Here ends my story ; his letters were more concise after his marriage. At first I attributed this to his having a new and dearer friend, but latterly when he has written he has spoken with such yearn- ing fondness for home, that I fear — And then when I offered to visit him, he negatived my proposition. How unlike JHoratio ! it can only mean that his wife was averse to my coming. I have questioned slightly any travellers from Italy. Mrs. Saville seldom appears in English society, except at balls, and then she is always surrounded by Italians. She is decidedly correct in her conduct, but more I cannot tell. Her letters to us are beautifully written, and of her talents, even her genius, I do not entertain a doubt. Perhaps I am prejudiced, but I fear a Neapolitan, or rather, 1 should say, I fear a convent education ; and that taste which leads her to associate with her own demonstrative, unrefined countrymen, instead of trying To link her- self to her husband's friends. I may be wrong — I shall be glad to be found so. Will you tell me whether I am ? I rather ask you than Edward, because your feminine eyes will discern the truth of these things quicker than he. Happy girl! you are going to see Horatio — to find a new, gifted, fond friend ; one as superior to his fellow-creatures, as perfection is superior to frailty." , This account, remembered with more interest now that she approached the subject of it, excited Ethel's curiosity, and she began, as they went on their way from Rome to Naples, in a great degree to participate in Edward's eagerness to see his cousin. LODORE. 121 CHAPTER XXIX. Sad and troubled* How brave her an=rer shows ! How it sets off Her natural beauty 1 Under what happy star Wa-< Virolet born, to be beloved and sought By two incomparable womeaf Fletcher. It was the month of December when the travellers arrived at this " piece (^heaven dropt upon earth," as the natives themselves name it. The moon foung a glowing orb in the heavens, and lighted up the sea to -beauty. A blood-red flash shot up now and then from Vesuvius ; a summer softness was in the atmosphere, while a thousand tokens presented themselves of a climate more friendly, more joyous, and more redundant than that of the northern isle from which they came. It was verV late at night when they reached their hotel and they were heartily fatigued, so that it was not till the next morning, that, immediately after breakfast, Villiers left Ethel, and went out to seek the abode of his cousin. He had been gone some little time, when a waiter of the hotel, throwing open Ethel's drawing-room door, announced " Signor Orazio." Gluite new to Italy, Ethel was ignorant of the custom in that country of designating people by their Christian names ; and that Horatio Saville, being a resident in Naples, and married to a Neapolitan, was known everywhere by the appellation which the servant now used. Ethel was not in the least aware that it was Lucy's brother who presented himself to her. She saw a gen- tleman, tall, very slight in person, with a face denoting habitual thought- fulness, and stamped by an individuality which she could not tell whether to think plain, an I yet it Was certainly open and kind. An appearance of extreme shyness, almost amounting to awkwardness, was diffused over him, and his words came hesitatingly ; he spoke English, and was ar Englishman — so much Ethel discovered by his first words, which were, " Villiers is not at home ?" and then he began to ask her about her journey, and how she liked the view of the bay of Naples, which she beheld from her windows. They were in this kind of trivial conversation when Ed- ward came bounding up-stairs, and with exclamations of delight greeted his cousin. Ethel, infinitely surprised, examined her guest with more care. In a few minutes she began to wonder how she came to think him plain. His deep-set, dark- gray eyes struck her as expressive, if not handsome. His features were delicately moulded, and his fine forehead betokened depth of intellect ; but the charm of his face was a kind of fitful, beamy, incon- stant smile, which diffused incomparable sweetness over his physiognomy. His U3uxl look was cold and abstracted — his eye speculated with an inward thoughtfulness — a chilling seriousness sat on his features, but this glancing and varying half-smile came to dispel gloom, and to invite and please those with whom he conversed. His voice was modulated by feel- ing, t*s language was fluent, graceful in its turns of expression, and origi- nal in the thoughts which it expressed. His manners were marked by high breeding, yet they were peculiar. They were formed by his individual disposition, and under the dominion of sensibility. Hence they were often abrupt and reserved. He forgot the world around him, and gave token, by absence of mind, of the absorbing nature of his contemplations. But at a touch this vanished, and a sweet earnestness, and a beaming kindliness of spirit, at once displaced his abstraction, rendering him attentive, cordial, and gay. 33—3 122 LODORE. Never had Horatio Sayvfle appeared to so little advantage as dining his short Ute-a-lite with his new relative. At all times, when quiescent, he had a retiring manner, ana an appeaiance, whose want of pretension did) not at first allure, and yet which afterwards formed his greatest attraction. He was always unembarrassed, and Ethel could not guess that towards her alone he felt as tim-id and shy as a girl. It was with considerable effect that Horatio had commanded himself to appear before the daughter of Lady Lodore. There was something incongruous and inconceivable in the idea of the child of Cornelia, a woman, married to his cousin. He feared to see in her an image of the being who had subdued his heart of hearts, and laid prostrate his whole soul ; he trembled to catch the sound of her voice, lest it might echo tones which could disturb to their depjlis his inmost thoughts. Ethel was so unlike her mother, that by degrees he became reassured ; her eyes-, her hair, her stature, and tall slender shape, were the reverse of Lady Lodore ; so that in a little while he ventured to raise his eyes to her face, and to listen to her, without being preoccupied by a painful sensation, which, in its violence, resembled terror. ]t is true that by degrees this dissimilarity to her mother became less; she had ges- tures, smiles, and tones, that were all Lady Lodore, and which, when dis- cerned, struck his heart with a pang, stealing away his voice, and causing him to stand suspended in the act he was about, like one acted upon by magic. "While this mute and curious examination was going on in the minds of Ethel and her visitant, the conversation had not tarried. Edward had never been so far south, and the wonders of Naples were as new to him as to Ethel. Saville was eager to show them, and proposed goin°- that very day to Pompeii. For, as he said, all their winter was not like the present day, so that it was best to seize the genial weather while it lasted. Was Mrs. Villiers too much fatigued ? On the contrary, Ethel was quite on the alert ; but first she asked whether Mrs. Saville would not accom- pany them, " Clorinda," - said Horatio, "promises herse^ much pleasure from your acquaintance, and intends calling on you to-day at twenty-four o'clock^ that is, at the Ave Maria: how stupid I am," he continued, laughing, " I quite forget that you are not Italianized, as I am, and do not know the way in which the people here count their time. Clorinda will call late in the afternoon, the usual visiting hour at Naples, but she would find no pleasure in visiting a ruined city and fallen fragments. One house in the Chiaja is worth fifty Pompeiis in the eyes of a Neapolitan, and Clorinda is one, heart and soul. I hope you will be pleased with her, for she is an admirable specimen of her countrywomen, and they are wonderful and often sublime creatures in their way ; but do not mistake her for an Eng- lish woman, or you will be disappointed — shp has not one atom of body, one particle of mind, that bears the least affinity to England. And now' -s your carriage ordered ? —there it is at the door ; so, as I should say to ore of my own dear sisters, put on your bonnet, Ethel, quickly and do not keep us waiting ; for, though at Naples, days are short in December, and we have none of their light to lose." When after tnis explanation, Ethel first saw Clorinda, she was inclined to think that Saville had scarcely done his wife justiee. Certainly she was entirely Itahan, but she was very beautiful ; her complexion was delicate, though dark and without much colour. Her hair silken and dossy as the raven a wing; her large bright black eyes resplendent ; the perfect arch of her brows, and the marmoreal and harmonious grace of her forehead such as is never seen in northern lands, except in sculpture imitated fioi'n the Greeks The lower part of her face was not so good ; her smile was deficient in sweetness, her voice wanted melody, and sounded loud to as I.ODORE. 123 English ear. Her gestures were expressive, but quick and wanting in grace. She was more agreeable when silent and could be regarded as a picture, than when called into action. She was complimentary in her con- versation, and her manners were winning by their frankness and ease. She gesticulated too much, and her features were too much in motion, too panto mimely expressive, so to speak, not to impress disagreeably one accustomed to the composure of the English. Still she was = a beautiful creature; young, artless, desirous to please, and endowed, moreover, with th'j vivacious genius, the imaginative talent of her country. She spoke as if she were passionately attached to her husband ; but when Ethel men- tioned his En j.lish home and his relations, a cloud came over the lovely Neapolitan's countenance, and a tremor shook her frame. " Do not think haidly of me," she said ; " 1 do not hate England, but I fear it. I am sure I should be disliked there — I should be censured, perhaps taunted, for a thousand habits and feelings as natural to me as the air 1 breathe. I am proud, and I should retort impertinence, and, displeasing my husband, become miserable beyond words. Stay with us ; you I love, and should be wretched to part from. Stay and enjoy this paradise with us. Intreat his sisters, if they wish to see Horatio, to come over. I will be more than a sister to them ; but let us all forget that such a place as that cold, distant .England exists." This was OloriniVs usual mode of speaking of her husband's native country: but once, when Ethel had ur ed her goirfg there with more ear- nestness than usual, suddenly her countenance became disturbed; and frith a lowering and stormy expression of face, that her English friend rmild never afterwards forget, she said, " Say not another word, I pray. I loratio loved — he loves an Englishwoman — it is torture enough for me L> know this. I would rather be torn in quarters by wild horses, broken i'A pieces on the rack, than set foot in England. My cousin, as you have pity for me, and value the life of Horace, use your influence to prevent his only dreamin j of a return to England. Methinks I could strike him dead, if 1 only knew that such a thought lived for a second in his heart." These words said Clorinda resumed her smiles, and was, more than nsual, desirous of flattering and pleasing Ethel ; so that she softened, though she could not erase, the impression her vehemence had made. However, there appeared no necessity for Ethel to exert her influence. ) lorace was equally averse to going to England. He loved to talk of it ; be remembered, with yearning fondness, its verdant beauty, its pretty vil- lages, its meandering streams, its embowered groves ■ the spots he had inhabited, the trivial incidents of his daily life, were recalled with affection: but he did not wish to return. Villiers attributed this somewhat to his imfbrgoiten attachment to Lady Lodore ; but it was more strange that he regarived the idea of oive of his siste:s visiting him : — " She would not I/lie it," was all the explanation he gave. Several months passed lightly over the heads of the new-married pair; while they, bee-like, sipped the honey of life, and, never cloyed, fed per- petual! v on sweet. Naples, its galleries, its classic and beautiful environs, o^ered an endless succession of occupation and amusement. The presence of Saville elevated their pleasures ; ibr.'he added the living spirit of poetry V> their sensations, and associated the treasures of human genius with the sublime beautv of nature. He had a tact, a delicacy, a kind of electric s^mpathv in his disposition, that endeared him to every one that approached b ; ra. His very singularities by keeping alive an interest in him, added to ti-« charm. Sometimes he was so abstracted as to do the most absent tVngs in the wodd ; an-1 the quick alternations of Ins gayety and serious- ness were often ludicrous from their exeess. There was one thing, indeed, te which Ethel found it difficult to accustom herself, which was his want 124 LODORE. of punctuality, which often caused hours to be lost, and their excursions spoiled. Nor did he ever furnish good excuses, but seemed annoyed at bein^ questioned on the subject. Clorinda never joined them in their drives and rides out of the city. She feared to trust herself to winds and waves ; the heat, the breeze, the dust, annoyed her ; and she found no pleasure in looking at mountains, whicn, after all, were only mountains ; or ruins, which were only ruins — stones, tit for nothing but to be removed and thrown away. But Clorinda had an empire of her own, to which she gladly admitted her English relatives, and the delights of which they fully appreciated. Music, heard in such perfec- tion at the glory of Naples, the theatre of San Carlo, and the heavenly strains which filled the churches with an atmosphere of sound more entran- cing than incense — all these were hers ; and her own voice, rich, full, and well cultivated, made a temple of melody of her own home. There was— it could not be called a wall — but there was certainly a paling, of separation between Ethel and Clorinda. The young English girl could not discover in what it consisted, or why she could not pass be- yond. The more she saw of the Neapolitan, the more she believed that •he liked her — certainly her admiration increased ; — still she felt, that on the first day that Clorinda had visited her, with her caressing manners and well-turned flatteries, she was quite as intimate with her as now, after sevfrom viewing the grouping of trees, whose various autumnal tints were painted in Ethel's speech with hues too bright for earth, or to discover what there could be so extraordinarily picturesque in a moss-grown cottage, near a brook, with a high bank clothed with wood behind, which she be- lieved must be one Dame Nixon's cottage, in the Vale of Bewling, and which she knew she must have passed a thousand times, and yet she had never noticed its Deauty. Very often Ethel could give no information of whither they had been, only they had lost themselves in majestic woods, lingered in winding lanes, which led to resplendent views, or even reached the margin of the barren sea, to behold the enveloping atmosphere reflected in its fitful mirror — to watch the progress of evanescent storms, or to see the moon light up her silvery pathway on the dusky waste. Villiers took his gun with him in his walks ; but, though American bred, Ethel was so unfeignedly distressed by the sight of death, that he never brought down a bird : he shot in its direction now and then, to keep his pointer in practice, and to laugh at his wife's glad triumph when he missed his feathery mark. Ethel was especially -delighted to renew her acquaintance with Long- field, her father's boyhood home, under such sunny circumstances. She had loved it before : with anguish in her heart, and heavy sadness weigh- ing on her steps, she had loved it for his sake. But now that it became the home, the dedicated garden of love, it received additional beauty in her eyes from its association with the memory of Lord Lodore. All things conjoined ; the season, calmed and brightened, as if for her especial enjoy- ment ; remembrance of the past, and the undivided possession of her Ed- ward's society, combined to steep her soul in happiness. Even he, whose more active and masculine spirit might have fretted in solitude and sloth, was subdued by care and uncertainty to look on the peace of the present moment as the dearest gift of the gods. Both so young, and the minds ol both open as day to each other's eyes, no singie blot obscured their inter- course. They never tired of each other, and the teeming spirit of youth filled the empty space of each hour as it came, with a new growth of senti- ments and ideas. The long evening had its pleasures, with its close-drawn curtains and cheerful fire. Even whist with the white-haired parson, and Mrs. Fitzhenry in her spectacles, imparted pleasure. Could any thing duller have been devised, which would have been difficult, it had not been so to them ; and a stranger coming in and seeing their animated looks, and hearing their cheerful tones and light-hearted laugb, must have envied the very Elysium of delight, which Aunt Bessy's usually so sober drawing- room contained. Merely to see Ethel leaning on her husband's arm, and ooking up in his face as he drew her yet closer, and, while his fingers were LODORE. 135 twined araon* her silken ringlets, kissed so fondly her fair brow, must have demonstrated to a worldling the irrefragable truth that happiness is born a twin, love being the parent. The beauty of a pastoral picture has but short duration in this cloudy land — and happiness, the sun of our moral existence, is yet more fitful in its visitations. Villiers and his young wife took their accustomed ride throuih shady lanes and copses, and through parks, where, though the magnificent features of nature were wanting, the eye was delighted by a varied prospect of wood and lawny upland. The soft though wild west wind drove along vast masses of snowy clouds, which displayed in their intervals the deep stainless azure of the boundless sky. The shadows of the clouds now darkened the pathway of our riders, and now they saw the sunlight advance from a distance, coming on with steps of light and air, till it reached them, and they felt the warmth and gladness of sunshine de- scend on them. The various coloured woods were now painted brightly in the beams, and now half lost in shadow. There was life and action everywhere — yet not the awakening activity of spring, but rather a vague, uneasy restlessness, allied to languor, and pregnant with melancholy. Villiers was silent and sad. Ethel too well knew the cause wherefore he was dispirited. He had received letters that morning which stung him into a perception of the bitter realities which were gathering about tham. One was to say that no communication had been received from his father, but that it was believed that he was somewhere in London — the other was from his banker, to remind him that he had overdrawn his credit — nearly the most disagreeable intelligence a man can hear when he possesses no immediate means of replenishing his drained purse. Ethel was grieved to see him pained, but she could not acutely feel these pecuniary distresses. She tried to divert his thoughts by conversation, and pointing out the changes which the advancing season made in the aspect of the country. " Yes," said Villiers, " it is a beautiful world ; poets tell us this, and religious men have drawn an argument for their creed from the wisdom and loveliness displayed in the external universe, which speaks to ever)' heart and every understanding. The azure canopy fretted wilh golden lights, or, as now, curtained by wondrous shapes, which, though they are akin to earth, yet partake the glory of the sky — the green expanse, varie- gated by streams, teeming with life, and prolific of food to sustain that life, and that very food the chief cause of the beauty we enjoy — with such magnificence has the Creator set forth our table — all this, and the winds that fan us so balmily, and the flowers that enchant our sight — do not all these make earth a type of heaven V Ethel turned her eyes on him to read in his face the expression of the enthusiasm and enjoyment that seemed to dictate his words. But his countenance was gloomy, and as he continued to speak, his expressions took more the colour of his uneasy feelings. "How false and senseless all this really is !'' he pursued. " Find a people who truly make earth, its woods and fells, and inclement sky, their unadorned dwelling-place, who pluck the spontaneous fruits of the soil, or sla} 7 the animals as they find them, attending neither to culture nor property, and we give them the name of barbarians and savages — untaught, uncivilized, miserable beings — and we, the wiser and more refined, hunt and exterminate them : — we, who sp there was besides, " A sacred and home-felt delight, A sober certainty of waking bliss," which is the crown and fulfilment of perfect human happiness. " Impara- dised " by each other's presence — no doubt — no fear of division on the morrow — no dread of untoward event, suspicion, or blame, clouded the balmy atmosphere which their hearts created around them. No Eden was required to enhance their happiness ; there needed no " Crisped brooks, Rolling on orient pearl and sands of gold ;" — no " Happy, rural seat, with various view" decked with " Flowers of all hue," " All trees of noblest kind for sight, smell, taste ;"— nor " cool recess, " no* " Vernal airs, Breathing the smell of field and grove." In their narrow abode — their nook of a room, cut off from the world, redo- lent only of smoke and fog — their two fond hearts could build up bowers of delight, and store them with all of ecstasy which the soul of man can know, without any assistance of eye, or ear, or scent. So rich, and prodi- gal, and glorious, in its gifts, is faithful and true-hearted love, —when it knows the sacrifices which it must make to merit them, and consents wil- lingly to forego vanity, selfishness, and the exactions of self-will, in unlim- ited and unregretted exchange. Mutual esteem and gratitude sanctified the unreserved sympathy which made each so happv in the other. Did they love the less for not lov- in; «m sin and fear?' Far from it. The certainty of being the cause of good to each other tended to foster the most delicate of all passions, more than the rougher administrations of terror, and a knowledge that each was the occasion "of irfjury to the other. A woman's heart is peculiarly unfitted to sustain this conflict. Her sensibility gives keenness to her imagination, and she magnifies every peril, and writhes beneath every sacrifice which B0DOR53. 145 lends to fcumiiiatefeer in her own eyes. The natural pride of her sex strug- gles with her desire to confer happiness, and her peace is wrecked. Far different was the happy Ethel's situation — far otherwise were her thoughts employed than in concealing the pangs of care and sham^. The sense of right adorned the devotion of love. She read approbation in Edward's eyes, and drew near him in rull consciousness of deserving it. They sat at their supper, and long after, by the cheerful fere, talking of a thousand things connected with the present and the future — the long, long future which they were "to spend together ; and every now and then their eyea sparkled with the gladness of renewed delight in seeing each other. " Mine, my own, for everl" — And was this exultation in possession to be termed selfish ? by no other reasoning surely, than that used by a cold and mean- ingless philosophy, which gives this name to generosity and truth, and all the nobler passions of the soul. They congratulated themselves on this mutual property, partly because it had been a free gift one to the other ; partly because they looked forward to the right it ensured to each, of con- ferring mutual benefits ; and partly through the instinctive love Grod has implanted for that which, being ours, is become the better part of ourselves. They were united for " better and. worse," and there was a sacredness in the thought of the " wors^ " they might share, which gave a mysterious and ©elestial charm to the present " hotter." CHAPTER XXXV, Do you not think yourself truly happy ? Y >u havf t 'e abstract of aP s.veetness oy you, The pecious w->alti youth labour- to arrive at, Nor is she Jess in honour than in beautv. Beaumont and Fletcher. The following day was one of pouring, unintermitting rain. Villiers and Ethel drew their chairs near their cheerful fire, and were happy, Edward could not quite conquer his repugnance to seeing his wife in lodgings, and m those also of so mean and narrow a description. But the spirit of Ethel was more disencumbered of earthly particles ; that had found its rest in the very home of Love. The rosy light of the divinity invested all things for her. Cleopatra on the Cydnus, in the bark which — " Like a burnished throne Burnt on the water;" borne along " By purple sails .... .... So perfumed, that The winds were love-sick with them ; w was not more gorgeously attended than Ethel was to her own fancy, lapped and cradled in all that love has of tender, voluptuous, and confiding. Several days passed before Villiers could withdraw her from this blissful dream, to gaze upon the world as it was. He could not make her disgusted with her fortunes nor her abode, but he awakened anxiety on his own ac- count. His father, as he had conjectured^ was gone to Paris, leaving merely a message for his son, that he would willingly join him in any act for 33—5 Hfj LODCKET. raising money, by mortgage err the absolute disposal of a part of the estate; Edward had consulted with his solicitor, who was to iook over a vast vari- ety of papers, to discover the most eligible mode of making some kind of sale. Delay, in all its various shapes, Waited on these arrangements ; and Villiers was" very averse to leaving town till he held some clue to the laby- rinth of obstacles which presented themselves at every turn. He talked of their taking a house in town ; but Ethel would' not hear of such extrava- gance. In the first place, their actual means were at a very low ebb, with little hope of at speedy supply. There was another circumstance, the annoyance of which he understood far better than Ethel Could. He had raised money on annuities, the interest of which he was totally unable to pay ; this exposed him to a personal risk of the most disagreeable kind, and he knew that his chief creditor was on the point of resorting to harsh meas- ures against him. These things, din?y-visa°;ed, dirty-handed realities as they were, made a strange contrast with Ethel's feeling of serene and ele- vated bliss ; but she, with" unshrinking heart, brought the same fortitude and love into the crooked and sordid ways of modern London, which had adorned heroines of old, as they wandered amidst trackless forests, and over barren mountains. Several days" passed, and the weather became clear, though cold. The young pair walked together in the parks at such morning hours as would prevent their meetino; any acquaintances, for Edward was desirous that it should not be known that they were in town. Villiers also traced his daily, weary, disappointing way to his solicitor, where he found things look more blank and dismal each day. Then when evening came, and the curtains; were drawn, they might hare been at the top of Mount Caucasus, instead of in the centre of London, so completely were they cut off from every thing: except each other. They then felt absolutely happy : the lingering disgusts of Edward were washed clean away by the bounteous, evei -springing love, that flowed, as waters from a fountain, from the heart of Ethel, in one perpetual tide. In those hours of unchecked talk, she learned many things she had not known before — the love of Horatio SaviTle for Lady Lodore was revealed to her; but the sfory was not truly told, for the prejudices as well as the ignorance of Villiers rendered him blind to the sincerity of Cornelia's affec- tion and regret. Ethel wondered, and in spite of the charm with which she- delighted to invest the image of her mother, she could not help agreeing with her husband that she must be irrevocably wedded to the most des- picable worldly feelings, so to have played with the heart of a man such as Horatio : a man whose simplest word bore the stamp of truth and genius j one of those elected few whom nature elevates to her own hisdi list of nobility and greatness. How could she, a simple girl, interest feelings which were not alive to Saville's merits? She could only hope that in some dazzling, marriage Lady Lodore would find a compensation for the higher destiny which might have been hers, but that, like the H base Indian," she had thrown u A pearl away. Richer than all his tribe. n There was a peaceful quiet in their secluded and obscure fife, which somewhat resembled the hours spent on board ship, when you long for, yet fear, the conclusion of the voyage, and shrink involuntarily from exchanging a state whose chief blessing is an absence of every care, for the variety of pains and pleasures which chequer life. Ethel possessed her all — so near, so undivided, so entirely her own, that she could not enter into Villiers's impatience, nor quite sympathize with the disquietude he could not repress* After considerable delays, his solicitor informed him- that his father had s^ LODORE. J 47 entirely disposed of all his interest in the property, that his readiness to join in any art of sale would be useless. The next thing to be done was for E IwiH to sell a part of his expectations, and the lawyer promised to find a purchaser, and beg ^ed to see him three days hence, when no doubt he should have some proposal to communicate. Whoever has known what such things are — whoever has waited on the demurs and objections, and suffered the alternations of total failure and suddenly renewed hopes, which are the Tantalus-food held Jo the lips of tnose under the circumstances of Villiers, can follow in imagination his various conferences with his solicitor, as day after day something new was discovered, still to drag on, or to impede, the tortoise pace of his negotiations. It will be no matter of wonder to such, that a month instead of three days wasted away, and found him precisely in the same position, with hopes a little raised, though so frequently blasted, and nothing done. In recording the annoyances, or rather the adversity which the young pair endured at this period, a risk is run, on the one hand, of being censured for bringing the reader into contact with degrading and sordid miseries; and on the other, of laying too much stress on circumstances which will appear to those in a lower sphere of life as scarcely deserving the name of misfor- tune. It. is very easy to embark on the wild ocean of romance, and to steer a danger -fraught passage amidst giant perils, — the very words employed excite the imagination, and give grace to the narrative. But all beautiful and fairy-like as was Ethel Villiers, in tracing her fortunes it is necessary to descend from such altitudes, to employ terms of vulgar use, and to describe scenes of common-place and debasing interest ; so that, if she herself, in her youth and feminine tenderness, does not shed light and holiness around her, we shall grope darkling, and fail utterly in the scope which we proposed to ourselves in selecting her history for the entertain ment of the reader. CHAPTER XXXVI. I saw her upon nearer view, A Spi> it, yet a Woman ton ! A creature not too bright or good F>r human nature's clai'V 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 ancle, Led Mari|toW, intrusting a commission to him, 'which obliged him to go to the neighbourhood of Egham. Not having a horse, he went by the sta^e. He set out so late in the day thst there was no chance of his returning the same ni^ht ; 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 y-^t so cut off from every one, with such a sense of desolation as Vtun^o Park mi^ht have felt in central Africa, or a ship- wrecked mariner On an uninhabited island. Her pen was taken up, but she did not write. She could not command 148 LOPORE. her thoughts to express any thing but the overflowing, devoted, all-engroBsing affection of her heart, her adoration for her husband. That would not amuse Lucy, she thought : and she had commencec another she; t with " My dsarest 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 goad man, I am Mrs. Villiers." " If you please, ma'am, 1 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. " Oh 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 recognised 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 trans- ported into a strange sea, hemmed in by danger, without a pilot or know- ledge of a passage. Again she looked at the man's face : " What is best to be done !" she exclaimed. LODOEE. 149 "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. Vil- liers. 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 we -e 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 ques- tion of " orders for dinner ;" and then she bestowed the benefit of some tiv^ or ten minutes' garrulity on her fair lodger. Ethel learned that she had seen better days, and that, were justice done her, she ought to be riding in her coach, instead oHetring lodgings. She learned that she had a mar- ried daughter living at Kennington : poor enough, but struggling on cheer- fully 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 behdd. 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 applvi ng 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 vo'ce. 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 pa^t, by her anxieties ; and on Fanny's by a feeling that she had been ne^l°cted by her friend. A few letters had passed between them, when first. Ethel had visited Lonsjfield : since then their correspondence had been discontinued till after her return to England from Italy, when Mrs. Villiers had written; 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 5* 150 LODORE. time had operated in their youthful appearance, whicn 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 sell-possession. Fanny was still a mere girl ; tall, be3'ond the middle height, yet her youi.g, ingenuous countenance was unaltered, as well as that singular mixture of mildness and independence, in her manners, which had always characterised 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 paint- ings of the calm-visaged, blue-eyed deities of the frescoes of Pompeii, may form an idea of the serene beauty of Fanny Dei-ham. When Mrs. Villiers entered, she was reading earnestly — a large dic- tionary 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 1 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 hers 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 than explained the source of her disquietude. Fanny lis- tened 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 com- posed : no ill will happen, I trust, to Mr. Villiers ; — at least you need not be afraid of his being pursued. If the man you have sent be active and faithful, all will be well. I will see these troublesome people lo-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. " Oh that I had gone with him ! — never will I again let him go anywhere 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 his- tory: — 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 imper- tinence ; 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 though* — ' Can I not bear those cares with equanimity for Edward's sake, which Fanny re ^ards as so trivial, merely because Plato and Epictetus b'd herdo 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 niiiht. 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. CHAPTER XXXVIL If the dull substance of ray flesh were thought, 5 ijurious distance should not stop my way ; F<>r then, despite of spacv, I would be brought, From limits far renaote, where thou dost stay. Shakspeare. The still hours of darkness passed silently away, and morning dawneQj when All rose to do the tusk, he set lo each Who shaped us to his ends, and not our own, Ethel had slept peacefully through the livelong night ; nor woke till a knock at her door roused her. A rush of fear — a sense of ill, made her heart palpitate as she opened her eyes to the light of day. While she was .striving to recall her thoughts, and to remember what the evil was with which she was threatened, again the servant tapped at her door, to say that Saunders had returned, and to deliver the letter he had brought. She looked at her watch : it was past ten o'clock. She felt glad that it had grown so late, and she not disturbed : yet as she took the letter brought to- ner from her husband, all her tremor returned ; and she read it with agita- tion, as if it contained the announcement of her final doom. "You send me disagreeable tidings, my sweet Ethel," wrote V : lhers, — £i 1 hope unfounded ; but caution is necessary : I shall not, therefore, come to Duke-street. Send me a few lines by Saunders, to tell toe if any thing has happened. If what he apprehended has really taken place, vou must bear, my love, the separation of a day. You do not understand tuese things, and wiil wonder when I tell you, that when the clock strikes twelve on •Saturday night, the magic spells and potent charms of Saunder's friends cease to have power : at that hour I shall be restored to you. Wait till then — and then we will consult for the future. Have patienee, dearest love : you have wedded poverty, hardship, and annoyance ; but, joined to these, is the fondest, the most faithful heart in the world ; — a heart you dleign to prize, so 1 will not repine at ill fortune. Adieu, till this evening; — and then, as Belvidera says, * Remember twelve !' " Saturday MornmgJ* After reading these lines, Ethel dressed herself hastily. Fanny Derham had already asked permission to see her ; and she found her waiting in faei sitting-room. It was an unspeakable comfort to have one as intelligent s.nd kind as Fanny, to communicate with, during Edward's absence. The 152 LODORE, soft, pleading eyes of Ethel, asked her for comfort and counsel; and, in spite of her extreme youth, the benignant and intelligent expression oi Fanny's countenance promised both. "I am sorry to say," she said, "that Saunders's prognostics are too true. Such men as he describes have been here this morning. They were tolera- bly civil, and I convinced them, with greater ease than i had hoped, that Mr. Villiers was absent from the house : and I assured them, that after this visit ©f theirs, he was not likely to return." " And cS you really believe that they were — "Ethel faltered. " Bailiffs r" Assuredly, " replied Fanny : " they told me that they had the power to search the house ; but if they were ' strong, they were also ' mer- ciful.' And now, what do you do? Saunders tells me he is waiting to take back a fetter to Mr. Villiers, at the London Coffee House. Yv rite quickly, while I make your breakfast." Ethel gladly obeyed. She wrote a few words to her husband. That is was already Saturday, cheered her : twelve at night would scon come. After her note was despatched, she addressed Fanny. " What trouble I gbe," she said : " what will your mother think of such degrading pro- eeedincg V 7 " My mother," said Fanny, " is the kindest-hearted woman in the world. We have never exactly suffered this disaster; but we are in a rank of life which causes us to be brought into contact with such among our friends and relations ; and she is familiar with trouble in almost all' shapes. You are a great favourite of hers ; and now that she can claim a sort of acquaint- ance, she will be heart and soul your friend," "It is odd," observed Ethel, " that she never mentioned you to me. Had! the name of Fanny been mentioned, I should have recollected who Mrs. Derham was." "Perhaps not," said Fanny ; "it would have required a great effort of the imagination to have fancied Mrs. Derham the wife of my father. You never knew him ; but Lord Lodore made you familiar with his qualities : the most shrinking susceptibility to the world's scorn, joined to the most entire abstraction from all that is vulgar ; a morbid sensibility and delicate health placed him in glaring contrast with my mother. They never in the teast assimilated ; and her character has gained in excellence since his loss. Before she was fretted and galled by his finer feelings — now she can be good in her own way. Nothing reminds her of his exalted sentiments, ex- cept mvself ; and she is willing enough to forget me." u Arid you do not repine?" asked her friend. " I do not : she ishappy in and with Sarah. I should spoil their notions of comfort, d»d I mingle with them ; — they would torture and destroy me, did they interfere with me. I lost my guide, preserver,, my guardian angel> when my fattier died. Nothing remains but the philosophy which he taugh* me — the disdain of low- chough ted care which he sedulously cultivated j this, joined to my cherished independence, whieh my disposition renders ne~ cessary to me." " And thus you foster sorrow, and waste your life in vain regrets ?" " Pardon me ! I do not waste my life," replied Fanny, with her sunny smile ; — " nor am I unhappy — far otherwise. An ardent thirst for know- ledge is as the air I breathe ; and the acquisition of it is pure and unal- loyed happiness. I aspire to be useful to my fetrow-ereatures : but that is a consideration for the future, when fortune shall smile on me; now I have but one passion ; it swallows tip every other ; it dwells with my darling books, and is fed by the treasures of beauty and wisdom which they contain." Ethel could not "understand. Fanny continued : — "I aspire to be useful ; — sometimes I think I ana — once I know I was. I was my father's &knoner> LODORE. 153 <: "VVe lived in a district where there was a great deal of distress, and a great deal of oppression. We had no money to give, but I soon found that* determination and earnestness will do much. It was my father s lesson, that I should never fear any thin^ but myself. He taught me to penetrate, to anatonvze, to purify my motives ; but once assured of my own integrity, to be afraid of nothing. Words have more power than ary one can guess; it is by words that the world's great fight, now in these ch ilized times, is car- ried o*J ; I never hesitated to use them, when I fought any battle for the mis- erable and oppressed. People are so afraid to speak, it would seem as if half our fellow-creatures were born with deficient organs ; like parrots they can repeat a lesson, but their voice fails them, when that alone is wanting to make the tyrant quail." As Fanny spoke, her blue eyes brightened, and a smile irradiated her face ; these were all the tokens of enthusiasm she displayed, yet her words moved Ethel strangely, and she looked on her with wonder as a superior being. Her youth gave grace to her sentiments, and were an assurance ol their sincerity. She continued : — " [ am becoming flighty, as my mother calls it ; but, as I spoke, many scenes of cottage distress passed through my memory, when, holding my father's hand, I witnessed his endeavours to relieve the poor. That is all over now — he is gone, and I have but one consolation — that of endeavour- ing to render myself worthy to rejoin him in a better world. It is this hope that, impols me continually and without any flagging of spirit to culti- vate ray understanding and to refine it. Oh, what has this life to give, as worldlin *s describe it, worth one of those glorious emotions, which raise me from this petty sphere, into the sun-bright regions of mind, which my father inhabits ! I am rewarded even here by the elevated feelings which the authors, whom I love so passionately, inspire ; while I converse each day with Plato, and Cicero, and Epictetus, the world, as it is, passes from before me like a vain shadow." These enthusiastic words were spoken with so calm a manner, and m so equable a voice, that there seem?d nothing strange nor exaggerated in them. It is vanitv and affectation that shock, or any manifestation of feel- ing not in accordance with f he real character. But while we follow our natural bent, and only speak that which our minds spontaneously inspire, there is a harmony, which, however novel, is never grating. Fanny Der- ham spoke of things, which, to use her own expression, were to her as the air she breathed, and the simplicity of her manner entirely obviated the wonder which the energy of her expressions might occasion. Such a woman as Fanny was more made to be loved by her own sex than bv the opposite one-,' Superiority of intellect, joined to acquisitions beyond those usual even to men, and both announced with frankness, though without pretension, form* a kind of anomaly little in accord with masculine taste. Fanny could not be the rival of women, and, therefore, all her merits were appreciated by them. They love to look up to a superior being, to rest on a firmer support than their own minds can afford ; and they are glad to find such in one of their own sex, and thus destitute of those dangers which usually a + tend any services conferred by men. From talk like this, they diverged to subjects nearer to the heart of Ethel The^spoke of Lord Lodore, and her father's name soothed her agitation even more than the consolatory arguments of her friend. She remembered how often he had talked of the trials to which the constancy of her temper and the truth of her affection might be put, and she felt her courage rise to encounter those now before her, without discontent, or rather with that cheerful fortitude, which sheds gmce over the rugged form of adversity. 154 LODORE. CHAPTER XXXVIII. Marian. Could you so long be absent ? Robin. What, a week ? Was that so long ? Marian. How long are lovers' weeks, Do you think, Robin, when they are asunder? Are they not pris'ners' years ? Bew Jonsow. The day passed on more lightly than Ethel could have hoped ; much ot it indeed was gone before she opened her eyes to greet it. Night soon closed in, and she busied herself with arrangements for the welcome ot her husband. Fanny loved solitude too well herself not to believe that others shared her taste. She retired therefore when evening commenced. No sooner was Ethel alone, than every image except Edward's passed out of her mind. Her heart was bursting with affection. Every other idea and thought, to use a chymical expression, was held in solution by that powerful feeling, which mingled and united with every particle of her soul. She could not write nor read ; if she attempted, before she had finished the shortest sentence, she found that her understanding was wandering, and she re-read it with no better success. It was as if a spring, a gush from the fountain of love, poured itself in, bearing away every object which she strove to throw upon the stream of thought, till its own sweet waters alone filled the channel through which it flowed. She gave herself up to the bewildering influence, and almost forgot to count the hours till Edward's expected arrival. At last it was ten o'clock, and then the sting of impa- tience and uncertainty was felt. It appeared to her as if a whole age had passed since she had seen or heard of him — as if countless events and incalculable changes might have taken place. She read again and again his note, to assure herself that she might really expect him : the minutes meanwhile stood still, or were told heavily by the distinct beating of her heart. The east wind bore to her ear the sound of the quarters of hours, as they chimed from various churches. At length eleven, half-past eleven w is passed, and the hand of her watch began to climb slowly upwards toward the zenith, which she desired so ardently that it should reach. She gazed en oiie dial-plate, till she fancied that the pointers did not move ; she placed her hands before her eyes resolutely, and would not look for a long long time ; three minutes had not been travelled over when again she viewed it ; she tried to count her pulse as a measurement of time ; her trembling fingers refused to press the fluttering artery. At length another quarter of an hour elapsed, and then the succeeding one hurried on more speedily. Clock after clock struck ; they mingled their various tones, as the hour of twelve was tolled throughout London. It seemed as if they would never end. Silence came at last — a brief silence, succeeded by a firm quick step in the street below, and a knock at the door. " Is he not too soon ?" poor fearful Ethel a^ked herself. But no ; and in a moment after he was with her, safe in her glad embrace. Perhaps of the two, Villiers showed himself the most enrapturedat this meeting. He gazed on his sweet wife, followed every motion, and hung upon her voice, with all the delight of an exile restored to his long-lost home. " What a transporting change," he said, " to find myself with you — to see you in the same room with me — to know again that lovely and dear as you are, that you are minn — that I am again myself — not the LOD0R.E. 155 miserable dog that has been wandering about all day — a body without a soul ! For a few short hours, ?t least, Ethel will call me hers." ""Indeed, indeed, love," she replied, " we will not be separated a^ain." " We will not even think about that to-night," said Villiers. " The future is dark and blank, the present as radiant as your own sweet self can make it." On the following day — and the following day did come, in spite of Ethel's wishes, which would have held back the progress of time: it came and passed away; hour after hour stealing along, till it dwindled to a mere point. On the following day, they consulted earnestly on what was to be done. Villiers was greatly averse to Erhel s leaving her present abode, where every one was so very kind and attentive to her, and he was sanguine in his hopes of obtaining in the course of the week, just commenced, a sum sufficient to carry them to Paris or Brussels, where they could remain till his affairs were finally arranged, and the payment of his debts regulated in a way to satisfy his creditors. One week of absence ; Vdliers used all his persuasion to induce Ethel to submit to it. " Where you can be, I can be also," was her answer ; and she listened unconvinced to the detail of the inconveniences which Villiers pointed out. : at last he almost got angry. " I could call you unkind, Ethel," he said, " not to yield to me." " I will yield to you," said Ethel ; " but you are wrong to ask me." " Never mind that," replied her husband, " do concedeThis point, dearest; if not because it is best that you should, then because I wish it, and ask it of you. You say that your first desire is to make me happy, and you pain me exceedingly by your — I had almost said perverseness." Thus, not convinced, but obedient, Ethel agreed to allow him to depart alone. She bargained that she should be permitted to come each day in a hackney coach to a place where he might meet her, and they could spend an hour or two together. Edward did not like this plan at all, but there was no remedy. " You are at least resolved," he said, " to spur my endeavours , I will not rest day or night, till I am enabled to get away from this vast dungeon." The hours stole on. Even Edward's buoyant spirits 'could not bear up against the sadness of watching the fleeting moments till the one should come which must separate him from his wife. " This nice, dear room," he said ; " I am sure I beg its pardon for having despised it so much formerly — it is not as lofty as a church, nor as grand as a palace, but it is very snug ; and now vou are in it, I discern even elegance in its exceedingly queer tables and chairs. When our carriage broke down on the Apennines, how glad we should have been if a room like this had risen, ' like an exhalation,' for our shelter ! Do you remember the barn of a place we got into there, and our droll bed of the leaves of Indian corn, which crackled all ni^ht long, and awoke us twenty times with the fear of robbers ? Then, indeed, twelve o'clock was' not to separate us !" As he said this he sighed ; the hour of eleven was indicated by Ethel's watch, and still he lingered ; but she grew frightened for him, and forced him to go away, while he besought the delay of but a few minutes. Ethel exerted herself to endure as well as she could the separation of the ensuing week. She was not of a repining disposition, yet she found it very hard to~bear. The discomfort to which Villiers was exposed annoyed her, and the idea that she was not permitted to alleviate it added to her painful feelings. In her prospect of life every evil was neutralized when shared — now therwere doubled, because the pain of absence from each other was superadded. She did not yield to her husband, in her opinion that this was wrong. She was willing to go anywhere with him, and where he was, she al«o could be. There could be no degradation in a wife waiting on the fallen fortunes of her husband. No debasement can arise from any ser- 1*>0 LODOHE-, vices dictated by lo^. It is despicable to submit to hardship for unworthy and worldly objects, but every tbing that is suffered for the sake of affec- tion, is hallowed by the disinterested sentiment, and affords triumph 'and delMit to the willing victim. Sometimes she tried in speech ^r on paper to express these feelings, and so by the force of irresistible reasoning to per- suade Edward to permit her to join him; but all argument was weak; there was something beyond, that no words could express, which was stronger than any reason in her heart. Who can express the power of faithful and single-hearted love? As well attempt to define the laws of life, which occasions a continuity of feeling from the brain to the extremity of the frame, as try to explain how love can so unite two souls, as to make each feel maimed and half alive, while divided. A powerful impulse was perpetually urging Ethel to go — to place herself near Villiers — to refuse to depart. It was with the most violent struggles that she overcame the instigation. She never could forget herself while away from him, or find the slightest alleviation to her disquietude, except while conversing with Fanny Derham, or rather while drawing her out, and listening to her, and wondering at a mechanism of mind so different from her own. Each had been the favour- ite daughter of men of superior qualities of mind. They had been edu- cated by their several fathers with the most sedulous care, and nothing could be more opposite than the result, except that, indeed, both made duty the master motive of their actions. Ethel had received, so to speak, a sex- ual education. Lord Lodore had formed his ideal of what a woman ought to be,, of what he had wished to find his wife, and sought to mould his daughter accordingly. Mr. Derham contemplated the duties and objects befitting an immortal soul, and had educated his child for the performance of them. The one fashioned his offspring to be the wife of a frail human being, and instructed her to be yielding, and to make it her duty to devote herself to his happiness, and to obey his will. The other sought to guard his from all weakness, to make her complete in herself, and to render her independent and self-sufficing. Born to poverty as Fanny was, it was thus only that she could find happiness in rising above her sphere ; and, besides, a sense of pride, surviving his sense of injury, caused him to wish that his child should set her heart on higher things than the distinctions and advan- tages of riches or rank ; so that if ever brought into collision with his own family, she could look down with calm superiority on the " low ambition " of the wealthy. While Ethel made it her happiness and duty to give her- self away with unreserved prodigality to him, whom she thought had every claim to her entire devotion, Fanny zealously guarded her individuality, and would have scorned herself could she have been brought to place the treasures of her soul at the disposal of any power, except those moral laws which it was her earnest endeavour never to transgress. Religion, reason, and justice — these were the landmarks of her life. She was kind-hearted, generous, and true — so also was Ethel; but the one was guided by the tenderness of her heart, while the other consulted her understanding, and would have died rather than have acted contrary to its dictates. To guard Ethel from every contamination, Lord Lodore had secluded her from all society, and forestalled every circumstance that might bring her into conjunction with her fellow-creatures. He was equally careful to prevent her fostering any pride, except that of sex ; and never spoke to her as if she were of an elevated rank : and the communication, however small, which she necessarily had with the Americans, made such ideas foreign to her mind. But she was exceedingly shy ; tremblingly alive to the slightest repulse ; and never perfectly fearless, (morally so, that is,) except when under the shelter of another's care. Fanny's first principle was, that what she ought to do, that she could do, without hesitation or LODORE. }{/7 regard for obstacles. She had something Gluixotic * her nature ; or rather she would have had, if a clear head and some experience, even you no- ag she was, had not stood in the way of her making any glaring mistakes ; so that her enterprises were never ridiculous ; and being usually success- ful, could not be called extravagant. For herself, she needed but her liberty and her books ; — for others, she had her time, her thoughts, her decided and resolute modes of action, all at their command, whenever she was convinced that they had a just claim upon them. It was singular that the resolute and unshrinking Fanny should be the daughter of Francis Derham ; and the timid, retiring Ethel, of his bold and daring protector. But this is no uncommon case. We feel the evil results of our own faults, and endeavour to guard our children from them ; forgetful that the opposite extreme has also its peculiar dangers. Lord Lodore attributed his early misfortunes to the too great freedom he had enjoyed, or rather to the unlimited scope given to his will from his birth. Mr. Derham saw the unhappiness that had sprung from his own yielding and undecided disposition. The one brought up his child to dependence ; the other taught his to disdain every support, except the applause of her own conscience. Lodore fostered all the sensibility, all the softness, of Ethel's feminine and delicate nature ; while Fanny s father strove to harden and confirm a character, in itself singularly steadfast and upright. In spite of the great contrast thus exhibited between Ethel and Fanny, one quality created a good deal of similarity between them. There was in both a total absence of every factitious sentiment They acted from their own hearts — from their own sense of right, without the intervention of worldly considerations. A feeling of duty ruled all their actions; and, however excellent a person's dispositions may be, it yet requires consider- able elevation of character never to deviate from the strict line of honour and integrity. Fanny's society a little relieved Ethel's solitude ; yet that did not weigh on her ; and had she not been the child of her father's earliest friend, and the companion of past days, she would have been disinclined, at this period, to cultivate an intimacy with her. She needed no companion except the thought of Edward, which was never absent from her mind. But amidst all her affection for her husband, which gained strength, and, as it were, covered each day a larger portion of her being, any one associated with the name of Lodore — of her beloved father — had a magic power to call fo^h her warmest feelings of interest. Both ladies repeated to each other what they had heard from their several parents. Mr. Derham had, among his many lessons of usefulness, descanted on the generosity and boldness of Fitzhenry, as offering an example to be followed. And during the last months of Lodore's life, he had recurred, with passionate fondness, to the memory of his early years, and painted in glowing colours the delicacy of feeling, the deep sense of gratitude, and the latent but fervid enthusiasm, which adorned the character of Francis Derham. 83 ■ '6 15§ LODORE. CHAPTER XXXIX. It Joes much trouble me to live without you . Our )o\es and loving souls have been so used To one household in us. Beaumont and Fletche*. The week passed on. It was the month of January, and very cold. A black frost bound up every thing with ice, and the piercing air congealed the very blood. Each day Ethel went to see her husband ; — each day she had to encounter Mrs. Derham's entreaties not to go, and the reproaches of Villiers for coming. Both were unavailing to prevent the daily pilgrim- age. Mrs. Derham sighed heavily when she saw her enter the ricketty hackney-coach, whose damp lining, gaping windows, and miserable straw, made it a cold bed for catarrh — a very temple for the spirit of winter Villiers each day besought her to have horses put to their chariot, if she must come ; but Ethel remembered all he had ever said of expense, and his prognostications of how ill she would be able to endure the petty, yet. galling annoyances of poverty ; and she resolved to prove, that she could cheerfully bear every thing except separation from him. With this laudable motive to incite her, she tasked her strength too far. She kept up her spirits to meet him with a cheeiful countenance ; and she contrived to conceal the sufferings she endured while they were together. They got out and walked now and then ; and this tended to keep up the vital warmth. Their course was generally taken over Blackfnars Bridge ; and it was on their return across the river, on whose surface large masses of ice floated, while a bitter north-east wind swept up, bearing on its blasts the unthawed breath of the German Ocean, that she felt the cold enter her heart, and make her head feel dizzy. Still she could smile, and ask Villiers why he objected to her taking an exercise even necessary for her health ; and re- peat again and again, that, bred in America, an English winter was but a faint reflex of what she had encountered there, and insist upon being per mitf^d to come on the following day. Ivese were precious moments in her eyes, worth all the pain they occa- sioned, — well worth the struggle she made for the repetition. Edward's endearing attentions — the knowledge she had that she was loved — the swelling and earnest affection that warmed her own heart, — hallowed these hard-earnea minutes, and gave her the sweet pleasure of knowing that she demonstrated, in some slight degree, the profound and all-engrossing attach- ment which pervaded her entire being. They parted ; and often she ariived nearly sanseless at Duke-street, and once or twice fainted on entering the warm room ; but it was not pain she felt then — the emotions of the sou! conquered the sensation of her body, and pleasure, the intense pleasure of affection, was predominant through all. Sunday came again, and brought Villiers to her home. Mrs. Derham took the opportunity to represent to him the injury that Ethel was doing herself ; and begged him, as he cared for her health, to forbid her exposing herself to the inclement weather. " You hear this, Ethel," said Villiers ; " and yet you are obstinate. Is this right? What can I urge, what can I do, to prevent this wrong-headed pertinacity ?" " You use such very hard words," replied Ethel, smiling, " that you frighten me into believing myself criminal. But so far am I from conceding^that you only give me courage to say that I cannot endure any longer the sad and separate life we lead. It must be changed, dearest ; we mui£ be together." LODORE. J59 Villiers was pacing the room impatiently : with an exclamation almost approaching to anger, he stopped before his wife, to remonstrate and to re- proach. But as he gazed upon her upturned face, fixed so beseechingly and fondly on him, he fancied that he saw the hues of ill health stealing across her cheeks, and thinnesss displacing the roundness of her form. A strange emotion flashed across him.; a new fear, too terrible even to be acknow- ledged to himself, which passed, like the shadow of a storm, across his anti- cipations, and filled him with inquietude. His reprehension was changed to a caress, as he said, " You are right, my love, quite right; we must not live thus. You are unable to take care of yourself • and t am very wron? to give up my dearest privilege, of watching day and night over the welfare of my only treasure. We will be together, Ethel ; if the worst come, it cannot be very bad, while we are true to each other." Tears filled the poor girl s eyes — tears of joy and tenderness — at hearing Edward echo the sentiments she cherished as the most sacred in the world. For a few minutes, they forgot every thing in the affectionate kiss, which ratified, as it were, this new law ; and then Edward considered how best he could carry it into effect. " Gayland," he said, (he was his solicitor,) " has appointed to see me on Thursday morning, and has good hopes of definitively arranging the condi- tions for the loan of the five hundred pounds, which is to enable us to wait for better things. On Thursday evening we will leave town. We will o- to some pretty country inn, to wait till I have signed these papers ; and I trust to Providence that no ill will arise. We must not be more than fifteen or twenty miles from London ; so that when I am obliged to go up, I can re- turn again in a few hours. Tell me, sweet, does this scheme please you ?" Ethel expressed her warmest gratitude ; and then Villiers insinuated his condition, that she should not come to see him in the interval, but remain, taking care of herself, till, on Thursday afternoon, at six o'clock, she came, with their chariot, to the northern side of St. Paul's Churchyard, where he would immediately join her. They might write, meanwhile : he promised letters as long as if they were to go to India ; and soothed her annoyance with every expression of thankfulness at her giving up this point. She did five it up with all the readiness she could muster ; and this increased, as he welt upon the enjoyment they would share, in exchanging foggy, smoky London, for the ever-pleasing aspect of nature, which, even during frost and snow, possesses her own charms — her own wonders, and can gratify our senses by a thousand forms of beauty, which have no existence in a dinsy met-opoiis. When the evening hour came for the young pair to separate, their hearts were cheered by the near prospect of reunion ; and a belief that the, to them, trivial privations of poverty were the only ones they would have to endure. The thrill of fear which had crossed the mind of Villiers, as to the health and preservation of his wife, had served to dissipate the lingering sense of shame and degradation inspired by the penury of their situation. He felt that there was something better than wealth, and the attendance of his fellow-creatures ; something worse than poverty, and the world's scorn. Within the fragile form of Ethel, there beat a heart of more worth than a king's ransom ; and its pulsations were ruled by him. To lose her ! What would all that earth can afford, of power or splendour, appear without her? He pressed her to his bosom, and knew that his arms encircled all life's worth for him. Never again could he forget the deep-felt appreciation of her value, which then took root in his mind ; while she, become conscious, by force of sympathy, of the kind of revolution that was made in his senti- ments, felt that the foundations of her life grew strong, and that her hopes in this world became steadfast and enduring. Before, a wall of separation, however slight, had divided them ; they had followed a system of conduct 160 LODORE. independent of each other, and passed their censure upon the ideas of either. This was over now — they were one -- one sense of right — one feeling of happiness ; and when they parted that night, each felt that they truly pos- sessed the other ; and that by mingling every hope and wish, they had confirmed the marriage of their hearts. CHAPTER XL. • Think but whither iNnw you can go ; what you can do to live ; How near you have barred all ports to your own succour Except this one that here I open, love. Beaumont and Fletcher. The most pleasing thoughts shed their balmy influence on Ethel's repose that nio-ht. Edward's scheme of a country inn, where the very freedom would make them more entirely dependent upon each other, was absolutely enchanting. Where we establish ourselves, and look forward to the pas- sage of a long interval of time, we form ties with, and assume duties towards, many of our fellow-creatures, each of which must diminish the singleness of the soul's devotion towards the selected one. No doubt this is the fitting position tor human beings to place themselves in, as affording a greater scope for utility : but for a brief space, to have nc occupation but that of contributing to the happiness of him to whom her life was consecrated, ap- peared to Ethel a very heaven upon earth. It was not that she was narrow- hearted : so much affection demands a spacious mansion for its abode ; but in their present position of struggle and difficulty, there was no possibility of extending her sphere of benevolence, and she gladly concentrated her endeavours in the one object whose happiness was in her hands. All nio-ht, even in sleep, a peculiar sense of calm enjoyment soothed the mind of ^Ethel, and she awoke in the morning with buoyant spirits, and a soul all alive to its own pleasurable existence. She sat at her little solitary breakfast table, musing with still renewed delight upon the prospect opened before her, when suddenly she was startled by the vision of an empty purse. What could Villiers intend ? She felt assured that his stock was very nearly exhausted, and for herself two sovereigns, which were not sufficient to meet the demands of the last week, was all that she possessed. She tried to recollect if Edward had said any thing that denoted any expecta- tion of receiving; money ; on the contrary — diving into the recesses of her memory, she called to mind that he had said, "We shall receive your poor little dividend of a hundred pounds, in less than a fortnight, so we shall be able to live, even if Gayland should delay getting the other money — I sup- pose we have enough to get on till then." He had said this inquiringly, and she knew that she had made a sign of assent, though at the time, she had no thought of the real purport of his question or of her answer. What was to be done ? The obvious conse- quence of her reflections was at once to destroy the cherished scheme of going out of town with Villiers. This was a misfortune too great to bear, and she at last decided upon having again recourse to her aunt. Unused to every money transaction, she had not that terror of obligation, nor dis- like of asking, which is so necessary to preserve our independence, and even our sense of justice, through life. Money had always been placed like counters in her hand ; she had never known whence it came, and until her marriage, she had never disposed of more than very small sums. Sub- sequently Villiers had been the director of their expenses. This wa3 the LODORE. 361 faulty part of her father's system of education. But Lodore's domestic h<*nits were for a great part founded on experience in foreign countries, and hn forgot that an English wife is u&ually the cashier — the sole controller o T the disbursemants of her family. It seemed as easy a thing for Ethel to a=K. for money from Mrs. Fitzhenry, as she Knew it would he easy for her to give. In compliance, however, with Villiers's notions, she limited her request to ten pounds, and tried to word her letters so as to create no suspicion in her aunt's mind with regard to their resources. This task a^aieved, she dismissed every annoying thought, and when Fanny came to express her hope, that, bleak and snowy as was the day, she did not in- tend to make her accustomed pilgrimage, with a countenance beaming with delight, she dilated on their plan, and spoke as if on the much-desired Thursday the gates of Elysium were to be thrown open for her. There would have appeared something childish in her gladness to the abstracted and philosophic mind of Fanny, but that the real evils of her situation, and the fortitude, touching in its unconscious simplicity, with wiiich she encountered them, commanded respect. Ethel, as well as her friend, was elevated above the common place of life ; she also fostered a state of mind, " lofty and magnificent, fitted rather to command than to obsy, not only suffering patiently, but even making light of all human cares ; a grand and dignified self-possession, which fears nothing, yields to no one, and remains for ever unvanquished." When Fanny, in one of their conversations, white describing the uses of philosophy, had translated this eulogium of its effects from Cicero, Ethel had exclaimed, " This is love— -it is love atone that divides us from sordid earth-born thoughts, and causes us to walk alone, girt by its own beauty and power." Fanny smiled ; yet while she saw slavery rather than a proud inde- pendence in the creed of Ethel, she admired the warmth of heart which could endow with so much brilliancy a state of privation and solitude. At the present moment, when Mrs. Villiers was rapturously announcing their scheme for leaving London, an expression of pain mantled over Fann) 3 features ; her clear blue eyes became suffused — a large tear gathered on her lashes. " What is the matter?" asked Ethel anxiously. " That I am a fool —but pardon me, for the fally is already passed away. For the first time you have made it hard for me to keep my soul firm in its own single existence. I have been debarred from all intercourse with those whose ideas rise above the soil on which they tread, except in my dear books, and I thought I should never be attached to any thing but them. Yet do not think me selfish ; Mr. Villiers is quite right — it is much better that you should not be apart — I am delighted with his plan." " Away or near, dear Fanny," said Ethel, in a caressing tone, " I never can forget your kindness — never cease to feel the warmest friendship for you. Remember, our fathers were friends, and their children ought to inherit the same faithful attachment." Fanny smiled faintly. " You must not seduce me from my resolves," she said. " I know my fate in this world, and I am determined to be true to myself to the end. Yet I am not ungrateful to you, even while 1 declare that I shall do my best to forget this brief interval, during which, I have no longer, like Demogorgon, lived atone in my own world, but become aware that there are ties of sympathy between me and* my fellow creatures, in whose existence I did not believe before." Fanny's language, drawn from her books, not because she tried to imitate, but because conversing perpetually with them, it was natural that she should adopt their style, was always energetic and imaginative ; but her quiet manner destroyed every idea of exaggeration of sentiment : it was neces- sary to hear her soft and low, but very distinct voice, utter her lofty senti- 6* i62 LODORE, merits, to be conscious that the calm of deep waters was the element in which she dwelt — not the fretful breakers that spend themselves in souna. The day seemed rather long to Ethel, who counted the houis until 1 hurs- day. Gladly she laid her head on the pillow at night, and bade adieu to the foregone hours. The first thing that awoke her in the morning waa the postman's knock ; it brought, as she had been promised, a long, Ions letter from Edward. He had newer before written with so much affection or with such an overflowing of tenderness, that made her the centre of »iis world — the calm fair lake, to receive into its bosom the streams of thought and feeling which flowed from him, and yet which, after all, had their primal source in her. " I am a very happy girL," thought Ethel, as she kissed the beloved papers, and gazed on them in ecstasy ; " more happy than I thought it was ever given us to be in this world." She rose and began to dress ; she delayed reading more than a line or two, that she might enJGy her dearest pleasure for a longer time — then again, unable to control her impatience, she sat half-dressed, and finished all — and was beginning anew, when there was a tap at her door. It was Fanny. She looked disturbed and anxious, and Ethel's fears were in a momont awake. " Something annoying has occurred," she said ; " yet I do not think that there is any thing to dread, though there is a danger to prevent." " Speak quickly," cried Ethel ; " do not keep me in suspense." " Be calm — it is nothing sudden, it is only a repetition of the old story. A boy has just been here — a boy you gave a sovereign to — do you remem- ber? — the night of your arrival! It seems that he has vowed himself to your service ever since. Those two odious men, who were here once, are often at his master's place — an alehouse, you know. Well, yesterday night he overheard them saying that Mr. Villiers's resort at the London coffee-house was discovered, or at least suspected, and that a writ was to be taken out against him in the city." " What does that mean ?" cried Ethel. " That Mr. Villiers will probably be arrested to-day, or to-morrow, if he remains where he is." " I will go directly to him," cried Ethel ; " we must leave town at once. God grant that I am not too late !" Seeing her extreme agitation, Fanny remained with her ■ — forced her to take some breakfast, and then, fearing that if any thing had really taken place she would be quite bewildered, asked her permission to accompany her. is Will you indeed come with me ?" Ethel exclaimed. " How dear, how good you are ! Oh yes, do come — I can never go through it all alone ; I shall die if I do not find him." A hackney coach had been called, and they hastened with what speed they might, to their destination. A kind of panic seized upon Ethel, a tremor shook her limbs, so that when they at last stopped, she was unable to speak. Fanny was about to ask for Mr. Villiers, when an exclamation of joy from Ethel stopped her. Edward had seen them, and was at the coach door. The snow lay thick around on the roofs of the houses, and on every atom of vantage ground it could obtain ; it was then snowing, and as the chilly fleece dropped through or was driven about in the dark atmosphere, it spread a most disconsolate appearance over every thing ; and nothing could look more dreary than poor Ethel's jumbling vehicle, with its drooping animals, and the half-frozen driver. Villiers had made up his mind that he should never be mortified by seeing her again in this sort of equipage, and he hurried down, the words of reproach already on his lips. " Is this your promise ?" he asked. " Yes, dearest, it is. Come in, there is danger here. —Come in — we must go directly." LODORE. 163 Seeing Fanny, Villiers became aware that there was some absolute cause for their journey, so he obeyed, and quickly heard the danger that threatened him. "It would have been better," he said, "that you had corns in the carriage, and that we had instantly left town." " Impossible ! ' cried Ethel ; •' till to morrow — that is quite impossible. We have no money until to-morrow." " Well, my love, since it is so, we must arrange as well as we can. Do you return home immediately — this cold will kill you. I will take care of riyself. and you can come for me on Thursday evening, as we proposed." " Do not ask it of me, Edward," said Ethel ; " I cannot leave you. I could never live through these two days a\$ay from you — you must not desire it — you will kill me." Edward kissed her pale cheek. " You tremble," he said; "how vio- lently you tremble! Good God! what can we do? What would you have me do ?" " Any thing, so that we remain together. It is of so little consequence where we pass the next twenty -four hours, so that we are together. There are many hotels in town." " I must not ventu e to any of these ; and then to take you in this mis- erable manner, without, servants, or any thing to command attendance. But you shall have your own way; having deprived you of every other lux- ury, at least, you shall have your will ; which, you know, compensates for every thin 5 with your obstinate sex." Ethel smiled, rejoicing to find him in so good and accommodating a humour. " Yes pretty one," he continued, marking her feelings, " you shall be as wretched and uncomfortable as your heart can desire. We will play the incognito in such a style, that if our adventures were printed, they would compete with those of Don Q,uixote and the fair Dulcinea. But Miss Dsrham must not be admitted into our vagabondizing — we will not detain her." " Yet she must know whither we are going, to bring us the letters that will confer freedom on us." Villiers wrote hastily an address on a card. "You will find us there," he said. " Do not mention names when you come. We shall remain, I suppose, till Thursday." ''But we shall see you some time to-morrow, dear Fanny?" asked Ethel. Already she looked bright and happy; she esteemed herself for- tunate to have gained so easily a point she had feared she must struggle for — or perhaps give up altogether. Fanny left them, and the coachman having received his directions, drove slowly on through the deep snow, which fell thickly on the road ; while they, nestling close to each other, weia so engrossed by the gladness of -reunion, that had Cinderella's god- mother transmuted their crazy vehicle for a golden coach, redolent of the perfumes of fairy land, they had scarcely been aware of the change. Their own hearts formed a more real fairy land, which accompanied them whith- ersoever they went, and could as easily spread its enchantments over the shattered machine in which they now jumbled along, as amidst the cloth of gold and marbles o' in eastern palace. 164 LODORE. CHAPTER XLI. Few people know how little is necessary to live. What is called or thought hard- ship is nothing ; one unhappy feeling is worse than a thou- and years of it. Lord Edward Fitzgerald. Uncertain what to do, Vilhers had hastily determined that they should take up their abode at a little inn near Brixton, to wait till Thursday. He did not know the place except by having passed it, and observed a smart landlady at the door ; so he trusted that it would be neat and clean. There was nothing imposing in the appearance of the young pair and their hack- ney coach, accordingly there was no bustling civility displayed to receive them. However, when the fire was once lighted, the old-fashioned sofa drawn near, and dinner ordered, they sat together and felt very happy ; outcasts though they were, wanderers from civilized existence, shut out, through poverty, from the refinements and gilt, elegances of life. • One only cloud there was, when Villiers asked his wife an explanation about their resources, and inquired whence she expected to receive money on the following day. Ethel explained. Villiers looked disturbed. There was something almost of anger in his voice, when he said, " And so, Ethel, you feel no compunction in acting in exact opposition to my wishes, my principles, my resolves ?" "But, dear Edward, what can principles have to do with borrowing a few pounds from dear good Aunt Bessy ? Besides, we can repay her." " Be assured that we shall," replied Villiers ; " and you will never again, 1 trust, behave so unjustly by me. There are certain things in which we must jud^e and act for ourselves, and the question of money transactions is one. I may suffer — and you, alas ! may also, through poverty ; though you have taken pains to persuade me, that you do not feel the struggles, which, for your sake chiefly, imbitter my existence. Yet they are nothing in comparison with the loss of my independence — the sense of obligation — the knowledge that my kind friends can talk^over my affairs, take me to task, and call me a burden to them. Why am I as I am? I have friends and connexions who would readily assist me at this extremity, if I asked it, and I might turn their kind feelings into steiling gold if I would ; but I have no desire to work this transmutation — I prefer their friendship." "Do you mean," inquired his wife, " that your friends would not love you the better for having been of service to you ?" "If they could serve me without annoyance to themselves they might ; but high in rank and wealthy as many of my relations are, there is not one among them, at least of those to whom I could have recourse, who do not dispose of their resources to the uttermost shilling, in their own way. I then come to interfere with and to disarrange their plans ; at first, this misht not be much — but presently* they would weigh me against the gold I needed, and it might happen, that my scale would kick the beam. " I speak for myself, not for others ; I may be too proud, too sensitive — but so I am. Ever since I knew what pecuniary obligations were, I re- solved to lay under such to no man, and this resolve was stronger than my love for you ; judge therefore of its force, and the violence you do me, when you would oblige me to act against it. Did I begin to borrow, a train of thoughts would enter the lender's mind ; the consciousness of which would haunt me like a crime. My actions would be -scanned — 1 LODORE. ](35 should be blamed for this, rebuked for that — even your name, my Ethel, which I would place, like a star in the sky, far above their mathematical measurements, would become stale in their mouths, a.id the propriety of our marriage canvassed : could you bear that ?" '• I yield to all you say," she answered ; " yet this is strange morality. Are generosity, benevolence and gratitude to be exploded among us ? la justice, which orders that the rich give of his superfluity to the poor, to be banished from the world ?" " You are eloquent," said Villiers ; "but, my little wild American, this is philosophy for the back woods only. We have got beyond the primeval simplicity of baiter and exchange among gentlemen ; and it is such if I give gratitude in return for fifty pounds : by-and-by my fellow-trader may grumble at the bargain. All this will become very clear to you hereafter, I fear — when knowledge of the world teaches you what sordid knaves we all are ; it is to prevent your learning tms lesson in a painful way, that I guard you so jealously from making a wrong step at this crisis." * You speak of dreams,"' saiJ Ethel, "as if dear Aunt Bessy would feel any thing but pleasure in sending her mite to her own dear niece." "I have told you what I wish," replied her husband ; " my honour is in your hands ; and 1 implore you, on this point, to preserve it in the way I desire. There is but one relationship that authorizes any thing like com- munity of goods, it is that of parent and child ; but we are orphans, dear- est — step-children, who are not permitted to foster our filial sentiments. My father is unworthy of his name — the animal who destroys its off'sprintr at its birth is merciful in comparison with him: had he cast me off at once, I should have hardened my hands with labour, and earned my daily bread ; but I was trained to " hi^h-bom necessities," and have all the " wide wants and narrow powers" of the heir of wealth. But let us dismiss this un- grateful subject. I never willingly advert, even in my own mind, to my father's unpaternal conduct. Let us instead fancy, sweet love, that we were bo n to what we have — that we are cottagers, the children of me- chanics or wanderers in a barbarous country, where money is not; and imagine that this repose, this cheerful fire, this shelter from the pelting snow without, is an unexpected blessing. Strip a man bare to what nature made him, and place him here, and what a hoard of luxury and wealth would not this room contain ! In the Illinois, love, few mansions could compete with this." This was speaking in a language which Ethel could easily comprehend ; she had several times wished to express this very idea, but she feared to hurt the refined and exclusive feelings of her husband. A splendid dwell- ing, costly living, and many attendants, were with her the adjuncts, not the material, of lift. If the stage on which she played her part was to be so decorated, it was well ; if otherwise, the change did not merit her atten- • tion. Love scoffed at such idle trappings, and could build his tent of can- vass, and sleep close nestled in her heart as softly, being only the more iovelv and the more true, from the absence of every meretricious ornament. This was another of Ethd's happy evenings, when she felt drawn close to him she loved, and found Elysium in the intimate union of their thoughts. The dusky room showed them but half to each other ; and the looks of each, beaming with tenderness, drank life from one another's gaze. The soft shadows thrown on their countenances, gave a lamp like lustre to their eyes, in which the purest spirit of affection sat, weaving such unity of sen tnnent, such strong bonds of attachment, as made life dwindle to a point, and freighted the passing minute with the hopes and fears of their entire ex- istence. Not much was said, and their words were childish — words Tntellette dar loro soli ambedui, 166 LODORE. which a listener would have judged to be meaningless. But the mystery ol love gave a deep sense to each syllable. The hours flew lightly away, There was nothing to interrupt, nothing to disturb. Night came and the day was at an end ; but Ethel looked forward to the next, with faith in its equal felicity, and did not regret the fleet passage of time. T.hfty had been asked during the evening if they were going by any early coach on the following morning, and a simple negative was given. On that morning they sat at their breakfast, with some diminution of the sanguine hopes of the previous evening. For morning is the time for action, of look- ing forward, of expectation, — and they must spend this in waiting, cooped up in a little room, overlooking no cheering scene. A high road, thickly covered with snow, on which various vehicles were perpetually passing, was immediately before them. Opposite was a row of mean-looking houses, between which might, be distinguished low fields buried in snow ; and the dreary dark-looking sky bending over all, added to the forlorn aspect of nature. Villiers was very impatient to get away, yet another day must be passed here, and there was no help. On the breakfast-table the waiter had placed the bill of the previous day ; it remained unnoticed, and he left it on the table when the things were taken away. " I wonder when Fanny will come," said Ethel. ' Perhaps not at all to-day,'' observed Villiers. " She knows that we in- tend to remain till to-morrow here ; and if your aunt's letter is delayed till then, I see no chance of her coming, nor any use in it." " But Aunt Bessy will not delay ; her answer is certain of arriving this morning." " So you imagine, love. You know little of the various chances that wait upon borrowing." Soon after, unable to bear confinement to the house, uneasy in his thoughts, and desirous a little to dissipate them by exercise, Villiers went out. Ethel, taking a small Shakspeare, which her husband had had with him at the coffee-house, occupied herself by reading, or turning from the written page to her own thoughts, gave herself up to reverie, dwelling on many an evanescent idea, and reverting delightedly to many scenes, which her memory recalled. She was one of those who " know the pleasures of solitude, when we hold commune alone with the tranquil solemnity of nature." The thought of her father, of the Illinois, and the measureless forest, rose before her, and in her ear was the dashing of the stream which flowed near their abode. Her light feet again crossed the prairie, and a thousand appearances of sky and earth, departed for ever, were retraced in her brain. " Would not Edward be happy there?" she thought: "why should we not go? We should miss dear Horatio; but what else could we regret that we leave behind ? and perhaps he would join us, and 'hen we should be quite happy." And then her fancy pictured her new home and all its delights, till her eyes were suffused with tender feeling, as her imagination sketched a variety of scenes — the pleasant labours of cultiva- tion, the rides, the hunting, the boating, all common-place occurrences, which, attended on by love, were exalted into a perpetual gorgeous proces- sion of beatified hours. And then again she allowed to herself that 1 umpe or America could contain the same delights. She recollected Italy, and her feelings grew more solemn and blissful as she meditated on the wondrous beauty and changeful but deep interest of that land of memory. Villiers did not return for some hours ; — he also had indulged in revene — long-drawn, but not quite so pleasant as that of his inexperienced wife. The realities of life were kneaded up too entirely with his prospects ann schemes, for them to assume the fairy hues that adorned Ethel's. He could not see the end to his present struggle for the narrowest independence. Very slender hopes had been held out to him ; and thus he was to drag LODORE. 267 otft an imbiftered existence, spent upon sordid cares, till his father died — an ungrateful idea, from which he turned with a sigh. He walked speed- ily, on account of the cold ; and as his blood began to circulate more cheerily in his frame, a change came over the tenor of his thoughts. From the midst *>f th? desolation in which he was lost, a vision of happiness arose, that forced itself on his speculations, in spite as he imagined, of his better reason. The image of an elegant home, here or in Italy, adorned by Ethel — cheer- ed by the presence of friends, unshadowed by any cares, presented itself to his mind with strange distinctness and pertinacity. At no time had Villiers loved so passionately as now. The difficulties of their situation had exalted h r, who shared them with such cheerful fortitude, into an angel of conso- lation. The pride of man in possessing the affection of this lovely and noble-minded creature, was bl -nded with the tenderest desire of protecting and serving her. His heart glowed with honest joy at the reflection that her happiness depended upon him solely, and that he was ready to devote his life to secure it. Was there any action too arduous, any care too minute, to display his gratitude and his perfect affection ? As his recollection came back, he found that he was at a considerable distance from her ; so he swiftly turned his steps homeward, (that was his home where she was,) and scarcely felt that he trod earth as he recollected that, each moment carried him nearer, and that he should soon meet the fond gaze of the kindest, sweetest eyes in the world. Thus they met, with a renewed joy, after a short absence, each reaping, from their separate meditations, a fresh harvest of loving thoughts and in- terchange of grat<_ml emotion. Great was the pity that such was their situation — that, circumstances, all mean and trivial, drew them from their heaven-high elevation, to *he more sordid cares of this dirty planet. Yet why name it pity ? their pure natures could turn the grovelling su^ocai»oo presented to them, to ambrosial food for the sustenance of love. CHAPTER XLI1. There's a blis^ beyond all that the minstrel has told, When two ihar are linked in one heavenly le With heart never changing ami brow never cold, Love on through all ills, and love on till they die. Lalla Rooeh. Villiers had not been returned long, when the waiter came in, and in- formed them, that his mistress declined serving their dinner, till their bill of the morning was paid ; and then he left, the room. The gentle pair looked at each other, and laughed. " We must wait till Fanny comes, I fear," said Eth^l ; " for mv purse is literally empty." " And if Miss Derham should not come?" remarked Villiers. "But she will ! — she has delayed, but T am perfectly certain that she will com- in the course of the day : I do not feel the least doubt about it." To quicken the passage of time, Ethel employed herself in netting a purse, 'the inutility of which Villiers smilingly remarked,) while her husband read 1 o her sr»me of the scenes from Shakspeare's play of " Troilus and Cressida." The profound philosophy and intense passion of this drama, adorned by the most magnificent poetry that can even be found in the pages of this prince of poets, caused each to hang attentive and dplighted upon their oc- cupation. As it suew dark, Villiers stirred up the fire, and still went on j till having with difficulty deciphered the lines — 108 LODOftE. " She was beloved — she loved ; — she is, and doth ? But stili sweet love is food for fortune's tooth," — he closed the book. " It is in vain," he said ; ". our liberator does notcome 5 and these churls will not give us lights." " It is early yet, dearest," replied Ethel ; — not yet four o'clock. "Would Troilns and Cressida have repined at having-Jjeen left darkling a few minutes ? How much happier we are than all the heroes and heroines tha, ever lived or were imagined ! they grasped at the mere shadow of the thing, whose substance we absolutely possess. Let us know and acknowledge our good fortune. God knows, I do, and am beyond words grateful !" " tt is much to be grateful for — sharing the fortunes of a ruined man !" " You do not speak as Troilus does," replied Ethel smiling : " he knew better the worth of love compared with worldly trifles." " You would have me protest, then," said Villiers ; — " But alas ! I am as true as truth's simplicity, And simpler than the infancy of truth;'* so that all I can say is, that you are a very ill-used little girl, to be mated as you are — so buried, with all your loveliness, in this obscurity — so bound, though akin to heaven, to the basest d oss of earth." " You are poetical, dearest, and I thank you. For my own part, I am in love with ill luck. I do not think we should have discovered how very dear we are to each other, had we sailed for ever on a summer sea." Such talk, a little prolonged, at length dwindled to silence. Edward drew her nearer to him ; and as his arm encircled her waist, she placed her sweet head on his bosom, and they remained in silent reverie. He, as with his other hand he piaved with her shining ringlets, and parted them on her fair brow, was disturbed in thought, and saddened by a sense of degrada- tion. Not to be able to defend the angelic creature, who depended on him, from the world's insults, galled his soul, and imbittered even the heart's union that existed between them. She did not think — she did not know of these things. After many minutes of silence, she said, — "I have been trying to discover why it is absolute pleasure to suffer pain for those we 1 love." " Pleasure in pain ! — you speak riddles." " I do," she replied, raising her head ; " but I have divined this. The great pleasure of love is derived from sympathy — the feeling of union — of unity. Any thing that makes us alive to the sense of love — that imprints deeper on our plastic consciousness the knowledge of the existence of our affection, causes an increase of happiness. There are two things to which We are most sensitive — pleasure and pain. But habit can somewhat dull the first; and that which was in its newness ecstasy — our being joined for ever — becomes, like the air we breathe, a thing we could not live with- out, but yet in which, we are rather passively than actively happy. But when pain comes to awaken us to a true sense of how much we love — when we suffer for one another's dear sake — the consciousness of attach- ment swells our hearts : we are recalled from the forgetfulness engendered by custom ; and the awakening and renewal of the sense of affection brings with it a joy, that sweetens to its dregs the bitterest cup." "Encourage this philosophy, dear Ethel," replied Villiers; "you vill need it : but it shames me to think that I am your teacher in this mournful truth." As he spoke, his whole frame was agitated by tenderness and grief. Ethel could see, by the dull fire-light, a tear gather on his eye* lashes : it fell upon her hand. She threw her arms round him, and pressed iLOBORfc. 169 Hm to her heart with a passionate gash ot weeping, occasioned partly by remorse at having so moved him, and partly by her heart's overflowing with the dear security of being loved. They had but a little recovered from this scene, when the waiter, bring- ing in lights, announced Miss Derham. Her coming had been full of dis- asters. After many threatening, and much time consumed in clumsy re- pairs, her hackney-coach had fairly broken down : she had walked the rest of the way ; but they were much farther from town than she expected , and thus she accounted for her delay. She brought no news ; but held iii her hand the letter that contained the means of freeing them from their awkward predicament. " We Will not stay another minute in this cursed place,'' said Villiers : " we will go immediately to Salt Bill, where I intended to take you to- morrow. I can return by one of the many stages which pass continually, to keep my appointment with Gayland ; and be back with you again by eight. So if these stupid people possess a post-chaise, we will be gone directly." Ethel was well pleased with this arrangement; and it was put in execu- tion immediately. The chaise and horses were easily procured. They set Fanny down in their way through town. Ethel tried to repay her kindness by heartfelt thanks ; and she, in her placid way, showed clearly how pleased she was to serve them. Leaving her in Piccadilly, not far from her own door, they pursued their way to Salt Hill ; and it seemed as if, in this mere change of place, they had escaped from a kind of prison, to partake again in the immunities and comforts of civilized life. Ethel was considerably fatigued when she ar- rived ; and her husband feared that he had tasked her strength too far. The falling and fallen snow clogged up the roads, and their journey had been long. She slept, inieed, the greater part of the way, her head resting on him; and her languor and physical suffering were soothed by emotions the most balmy, and by the gladdening sense of confidence and security. They arrived at SalfHill late in the evening. The hours were precious ; for early on the following day, Viiliers was obliged to return to town.' On inquiry, he found that his best mode was to go by a night-coach from Bath, which would pass at seven in the morning. They were awake half the sight, talking of their hopes, their plans, their probable deliverance from their besetting annoyances. By this time Ethel had taught her own phrase- ology, and Villiers had learned to believe that whatever must happen would fall upon buth, and that no separation could take place fraught with any good to either. When Ethel awoke, late in the morning, Villiers was gone. Her watch told her, indeed, that it was near ten o'clock, and that he must have de- parted lon^ before. She felt inclined to reproach him for leaving her, thouih only for a few hours, without an interchange of adieu. In truth, she was vexed that he was not there : the world appeared to her so blank, without his voice to welcome her back to it from out of the regions of sleep. While this slight cloud of ill humour (may it be called ?) was passing over ner mind, she perceived a little note, left by her husband, lying on her pil- low. Kissing it a thousand times, she read its contents, as if they pos- sessed talismanic power. They breathed the most passionate tenderness : they besought her, as she loved him, to take care of herself, and to keep up her spirits until his return, which would be as speedy as the dove flies back to its nest, where its sweet mate fondly expects him. With these assur- ances and blessings to cheer her, Ethel arose. The sun poured its wintry yet cheering beams into the parlour, and the sparkling, snow-clad earth glittered beneath. She wrapped herself in her cloak, and walked into the garden of the hotel. Long immured in London, living as if its fogs were 33—7 170 • LODuRE, the universal vesture of all thing?, her spirits rose to exultation and delight,, as she looked on the blue sky spread cloudlessly around. As the pure breeze freshened her cheek, a kind of transport seized her ; her spirit took wines; she feft-as if she could float on the bosom of the air — as if there was a sympathy in nature, whose child and nursling she was, to welcome her back to her haunts, and to reward her bounteously for coming. The trees, all leafless and snow-bedecked, were friends and intimates: she kissed then* rough barks, and then laughed at her own folly at being so rapt. The snow-drop, as it peeped from the ground, was a thing of won* der and mystery ; and the shapes of frost, beautiful forms to be worshipped. All sorrow, all care, passed away, and left her reared as clear arid bright as the unclouded heavens that bent orer her, CHAPTER XLBL * : Herein Shall irfy capstvity fc« marfe- my happiness-: Since what I loae in freedom, 1 regain With interest-. HeAUMONT &y& Fletcher. The glow of enthusiasm and gladness, thus kindled in her sou?, faded s'owly as the sun descended ; and human tenderness returned in full tide upun her. She longed for Edward to speak to ; when would he come back? She walked a little way on the London road ; she returned : still her patience was not exhausted. The sun's orb grew red and dusky as i? approached the horizon : she returned to the house. It was yet early t Edward codd not be expected yet: he had promised to come as soon as possible ; but he had prepared her for the likelihood of his arrival only by the mail at night. It was long since she had written to Saville, Cooped 1 up in town, saddened by her separation from her husband, or enjoying the brief hours of reunion she had felt disinclined to write. Her enlivened spirits now prompted her to pouT out some of their overflowings to him. She did not allude to any of the circumstances of their situation, for Ed- ward had forbidden that topic : still she had much to say ; for her heart waff full of benevolence to all mankind ; besides her attachment to her husband,, the prospect of becoming a mother within a few months, opened another source of tenderness ; there seemed to be a superabundance of happiness 1 within her, a portion of which she desired to impart to those she loved. Daylight had long vanished, and Villiers did not return. She felt un- easy r — of course he would come fey the mail ; yet if he should no*S — what could prevent him ? Conjectures would force themselves on her, unreasonable, she told herself; yet her doubts were painful, and she lis- tened attentively each time that the sound of wheels grew, andasain faded, trpon ber ear. If the vehicle stopped, she was in a state of excitation thaf approached alarm. She knew not what she feared • yet her disquiet in- creased into anxiety. " Shall 1 ever see him again V were words that her lips did not utter, and yet which lingered in her heart, although unaccom- panied by any precise idea to her understanding. She had given a thousand! messages to the servants j — and at last the mail arrived. She heard a step — it was the waiter : — "The gentleman is not come, ma'am," he said. " I knew it," she thought ; — " yet why ? why V At one time she resolved to set off for town ; yet whither to go — where to find him ? An idea struck her, that he had missed the mail ; but as he would not leave her a prey to uncertainty, he would come by som* LODORE. 171 • • other conveyance. She got a little comfort from this notion, and resumed her occupation of wailing; through the vagueness of her expectations ren- dered her a thousand times mare restless than before. And all was vain. The mail had arrived at eleven o'clock — at twelve she retired to her room. She read again and again his note : his injunction, that she should take care of herself, induced her to go to bed at a little after one ; but sleep was stdl far from her. Till she could no longer expect — till it became certain that it must be morning before he could come, she did not close her eyes. As her last hope quitted her, she wept bitterly. Where was the joyousness of the morning ? — the exuberant delight with which her veins had tingled, wh ca had painted life as a blessing ? She hid her face in her pillow, and gave herself up to tears, till sleep at last stole over her senses. Early in the mo ning her door opened and her curtain was drawn aside. She awoke immediately, and saw Fanny Derham standing at her bed-side. "EJward ! where is he?" she exclaimed, starting up. " Well, quite well," replied Fanny: " do not alarm yourself, dear Mrs, Villiers, — he has been arrested." ' I must go to him immediately. Leave me for a little while, dear Fanny, — 'I will dress and come to you; do you order the chaise meanwhile. I can hear everything as we are going to town." Ethel trembled violently — her speech was rapid but inarticulate ; the pale- ness that overspread her face, blanching even her marble brow, and the sudden contraction of her features, alarmed Fanny. The words she had used in co n.municating her intelligence were cabalistic to Ethel, and her fears were the mare intolerable because mysterious and undefined ; the blood tackled cold in her veins, and a chilly moisture stood on her forehead. She exerted herselfviolent.lv to conquer this weakness, but it shackled her powers, as bands of rope would her limbs, and after a few moments she sank back on her p'dlow almost bereft of life. Fanny sprang to the bell, thm sprinkled her with water; some salts were procured from the land- lady, and gradually the colour revisited her cheeks, and her frame resumed it^ functions —an hysteric fit, the first she had ever had, left her at last ex- hausted but ma-e comoosed. She herself became frightened, lest illness shouli keep her fro n Villiers ; she exerted herself to become tranquil, and lav fo™ some time without speaking or moving. A little refreshment con- tributed to restore her, and she turned to Fanny with a faint sweet smile. " You see," said she, " what a weak, foolish thing I am ; but I am well now, quite rallied — there must be no more delay." Her cheerful voice and lively manner gave her friend confidence. Fanny was one who believed much in the mastery of mind, and felt sure that no- thing would be so prejudicial to Mrs. Villiers as contradiction, and obsta- cles put in the way of her attaining the object of her wishes. In spite therefore of the good people about, who insisted that the most disastrous consequences would ensue, she ordered the horses and prepared for their immediate journey to town. Ethel repaid her cares with smiles, while she restrained her curiosity, laid a3 it were a check on her too impatient move- ments, and forced a calm of manner which gave her friend courage to proceed. It was not until they were on their way that the object of their journey was mentioned Fannv then spoke of the arrest, as a trifling circumstance — mentioned bail, and twenty things, which Ethel only comprehended to be mvste -ions metho Is of setting him free ; and then also she asked the history of what had happened. The tale was soon told. The moment Mr. Vil- liers hal entered Piccadilly he had caused a coach to be called, but on pass- ing to it from the stage, two men entered it with him, whose errand was too easily explained. He had driven first to his solicitor's, hoping to put every thing in train for his instant liberation. The day was consumed in 172 LODORE. these fruitless endeavours — he did not give up hope till past ten at night, when he sent to Fanny, asking her to go down to Mrs. Villiers as early aa possible in the morning, and to bring her up to town. His wish was, he said, that Ethel should take up her abode at Mrs. Derham's till this affair could be arranged, and they were enabled to leave London. His note wag hurried ; he promised that another, more explicit, should await his wife on her arrival. " Y"ou will tell the driver," said Ethel, when this story was finished, "to drive to Edward's prison. I would not stay away five minutes from him in his present situation to purchase the universe." Any one but Miss Derham might have resisted Ethel's wish — have ar- gued with her, and irritated her by the display of obstacles and inconvenien- ces. It was not Fanny's method ever to oppose the desires of others. They knew best, she affirmed, their own sensations, and what was most fitting for them. What is best for me, habit, education, and a different texture of character, may render the worst for th m. In the present in- stance, also, she saw that Ethel's feelings were almost too high wrought for her strength — that opposition, by making a farther call on her powers, might upset them wholly. She had besides, the deepest respect for her attachment to her husband, and was willing to reward it by bringing her to him without delay. Having thus fortunately fallen into reasonable hands, guided by one who could understand her character, and not torture her by forcing notions the opposite of those on which she felt herself com- pelled to act, Ethel became tranquil, and saw the mere panic of inexperi- ence in her previous excessive alarm. They now approached London. Fanny called the post-boy to the win- dow of the chaise, and gave him directions, at which he a little stared, but said nothing. She gave things their own names, and never dreamed of saving appearances, as it is called. What ought to be done, that she dared do in the face of the whole world, and therefore to make a mystery of their destination never once occurred to her. They drove through the long inter- minable suburbs — through Piccadilly and the Strand. Ethel's cheeks flushed with the excitement, and something like apprehension made her heart flutter. She had endeavoured to form an ima^e in her own mind of whither they were going — it was vague ar»nd no hope lay there. She entertained the belief that Mrs. Villiers wa ' " ;.It ' >oth in character and u nderstanding ; LODORE. 175 *nd that to make any attempt to interest herself in her, would end in dis- appointment, if not disgust. Imagining, as we are all apt to do, how we should act in another person's place, she had formed a notion of wha/t she would have done, had she been Eth jl ; and as nothing was done, she almost despised, and quite pitied her. No? there was no help. She was alone; — none loved, none cared for her ; and the flower of the field, which a child plucks and wears for an hour, and then casts aside, was of more worth than she. Every amusement grew tedious — all society vacant and dull. When she came back from dinners or assemblies, to her luxurious but empty abode, the darkest thoughts, engendered by spleen, hung over its threshold^ and welcomed her return. At such times, she would dismiss her attend- ant, and remain half the night by her fireside, encouraging sickly reveries, struggling with the fate that bound her, yet unable in any way to make an effort for freedom. "Time" — thus would frer thoughts fashion themselves — "yes, time rolls on, and what does it bring ? I live in a desert ; its barren sands feed my hour-glass, and they come out fruitless as they went in. Months change their names - — years their ciphers ; my brow is sadly trenched ; the bloom of youth is faded ; my mind gathers wrinkles. What will become of me ? " Hopes of my youth, where are ye ? — my aspirations, my pride, my belief that I could grasp and possess all things? Alas! there is nothing of all this 1 . My soul lies in the dust; and I look up to know that I have been playing with shadows, and that 1 am fallen for evert What do I see around me? The tide of life is ebbing fasti I had fancied that pearls and gold would have been left by the retiring waves ; and I find only barren, ionelv sands! No voiee reaches me from across the waters — no one stands beside me on the shore! Would — oh would I could lay my head ©n the spray-sprinkled beaeh, and sleep for ever ! "This is madness! — these incoherent images that throng my brain are the ravings of insanitv ! — yet what greater madness, than to know that love, affection, the charities of life, the hopes of existence, are empty words for me. Am I indeed to have done with these? What is it that still moves up and down in my soul, making me feel as if something might yet fee accomplished ? Is it that the ardour of youth is not yet tamed ? Alas ! my youth has departed for ever. Yet wherefore these sighs, which wrap an eternity of wretchedness in their evanescent breath? — why these tears, that, flowing from the inmost fountains of the soul, endeavour to orive pas- sage to the flood of sorrow that deluges and overwhelms it? The husband of ray youth 1 — the thought of him passes like a shadow across me! Had he borne with me a little longer — had I submitted to his control — how different my destiny had been! But I will not think of that — I do not! A mightier storm than any he could raise has swept aeross me since, and iaid all waste. My soul has been set upon a hope, which has vanished, and desolation has come in its room. Could God, in his anger, bestow a bitterer cu-se on a condemned spirit, than that wh ; ch weighs on me, when I reflect, that through my own fault I lost him, whom but to see was para- dise ? The thought haunts me like a crime ; ,yet when is it absent from me ? — it s!eeps with me, rises with me — it is by me now, and I would willingly die only to dismiss it for ever. " Miserable Cornelia ! Thou hast been courted, lauded, waited on, loved ! — it is all over ! I am alone 1 My poor, poor mother ! — my much reviled, my dearest mother 1 — by you, at least, I was valued ! Ah ! why are you gone, leaving your wretched child alone ? " Oh that I could take wings and rise from out of the abyss into which I am fallen « Can I not, myself being miserable, take pleasure in the pleasure 176 LO0ORE. of others ; and by force of strong sympathy forget my selfish woes? With whom can I sympathize ? None desire my care, and all would repay my ©fficiousness with ingratitude, perhaps with scorn. Once I^could assist the poor ; now I am poor myself: my limited means scarce suffice to keep me in that station in society from which did I once descend I were indeed trampled upon and destroyed for ever. Tears rush from my eyes — my heart sinks within me, as I look forward. Again the same cares, the same coil, the same bitter result. Hopes held out only to be crushed ; affections excited only to be scattered to the winds. I Warned myself for struggling too much with fate, for rowing against wind and tide, for resolving to control the events that form existence : now I yield — I have long yielded — 1 have let myself drift, as I hoped, into a quiet creek, where indifference and peace ruled the hour ; and lo I it is a whirlpool,, to swallow all 1 had left of enjoy- ment upon earth P It was not until she had exhausted herself b^ these gloomy and restless reflections that she laid her head upon her pillow, and tried to sleep. Morning usually dawned before she closed her eyes ; and it was nearly noon before she rose, weary and unrefreshed. It was with a struggle that she commenced a new day — a day that was to be cheered by no event nor feeling capable of animating her to any sense of joy. She had never occupied herself by intellectual exertion : her employments had been the cultivation of what are called accomplishments merely ; and when now she reverted to these, it was with bitterness. She remembered the interval when she had been inspirited by the delightful wish to please Horatio. Now none cared how the forlorn Cornelia passed her time ; — no one would hang enraptured on her voice, or hail with gladness the development of some new talent. " It is the same,'" she thought, '• how I get rid of the heavy hours, so- that they go-. I have but to give myself up to the sluggish stream that bears me on to old age, not more bereft or unregarded than these wretched years." Thus she lingered idly through the morning ; her only enjoyment being when she secured to herself a solitary drive, and reclining back in her carriage, felt herself safe from every intrusion, and yet enjoying a succession of objects that but little varied the tenor of her thoughts. She had deserted the park, and sought unfrequented drives in the environs of London. Evening at last came, and with it her uninteresting engagements, which yet she found better than entire seclusion. Forced to rouse herself to adopt, as a mask, the smiling appearance which had been natural to her for many years, she often abhorred every one around her ■ and yet, hating herself more, took refuge among them, from her own society. Her chief care was to repress any manifestation of her despair, which too readily rose to her lips or in her eyes. The glorious hues of sunset — the subduing sounds of music — even the sight of a beautiful girl, resplendent with happiness and youth, moving gracefully in dance — had power to move her to tears : her blood seemed to curdle and grow thick, while gloomy shadows mantled ©ver her features. Often she could scarcely forbear expressing the bitter- ness of her feelings, and indulging in acrimonious remarks on the deceits of life, and the inanity of all things. It seemed to her, sometimes, that she must die if she did not give vent to the still increasing horror with which she regarded the whole system of the world. __ Nor were her sufferings always thus negative. One evening, especially, a young travelled gentleman approached her, with all the satisfaction painted* on his countenance, which he felt at having secured a topic for the enter- tainment of the fashionable Lady Lodore. "You are intimate with the Misses Saville," he said ; "what charming girls they are \ I have just left them at Naples, where they have been spending the carnivaL I saw them almost every day,1b>d capitally we ev^ LODORE. 177 joyed ourselves. Their Italian sister-in-law spirited them up to mask and to make a real carnival of it. A most lovely woman that. Did you ever see Mrs. Saville, Lady Lodore ?" " Never,' 1 replied his audiiress. " Such eyes ! Gazelles, and stars, and suns, and the whole rancre oi poetic imagery, might be sought in vain, to do justice to her large dark eyes. She is very young — scarcely twenty : and to see her With her child, is positively a finer tableau than any Raphael or Correggio in the world. She has a little girl, not a year old, with golden hair, and eyes as black as the mother's — the most beautiful little thing, and so intelligent. Saville dotes on it : no wonder — he is not himself handsome, you know; though the lovely Clorinda would stab me if she heard me say so. She positively adores him. You should have seen them together." Lady Lodore turned on him one of her sweetest smiles, and in her bland- est tone, said, " If you could only get me an ice from that servant, who I see immoveable behind those.dear, wonderful dowagers, you would so oblige me." He was crone in a minute ; and on his return, Lady Lodore was so deeply en >rosse 1 in being persuaded to go to the next drawing-room, by the youncr and new-marri"d Countess of G , that she could only reward him with another heavenly smile. He was obliged to take his carnival at Naples to some other listener. Cornelia scarcely closed her eyes that night. The thought of the happy wife and lovely child of Saville, pierced her as with remorse. She had en- tirely broken off her acquaintance with his family, so that she was ignorant of Cldrinda's disposition, and readily fancied that she was as happy as she believed that the wife of Horatio Saville must be. She would not acknow- ledge that she was wicked enough to repine at her felicity; but that he should be rendered happy by any other woman than herself — that any other woman should have become the sharer of his dearest affections, stung her to the core. Yet why should she regret ? She were well exchanged for one so lovely and so young. At the age of thirty-four, which she had now reached, Cornelia persuaded herself, that the name of beauty was a mockery as applied to her — though her osvn glass might have told hlt assured that their present misfortunes would be of short duration ; and instead of letting her thoughts dw°ll on the mortifications or shame that marked the passing hour, she loved to fill her mind with pleasing sen- sxtions, inspi-ed bv the tenderness of her husband, the kindness of poor Fannv, and the reliance she had in the reality of her mother's affection. In vain, she said, did the harsher elements of life try to disturb the serenity which the love of those around her produced in her soul. Her happiness was treasu-ed in their hearts, and did not emanate from the furniture of a roon nor the comfort of an equipage. Her babe, if destined to open its eyes first on such a scene, would be still less acted upon by its apparent cheerlessness. Cradled in her arms, and nourished at her bosom, what more beni m fate could await the little stranger ? • What was there in their destinv worthy of grief, while th°y remained true to each other? With such arguments she tried to inspire Villiers with a portion of that fortitude and patience which was a natural growth in herself. They had but slender effect upon him. Their different educations had made her 8* 186 L.ODORE. greatly his superior in these virtues ; besides that she, with her simpler hab- its and unprejudiced mind, was less shocked by the concomitants of penury, than he, bred m high notions of aristocratic exclusiveness. She had spent her youth among settlers in a new country, and did not associate the idea of disgrace with want. Nakedness and gaunt hunger had often been the invaders of her forest home, scarcely to be repelled by her father's fore- thought and resources, How could she deem these shameful, when they had often assailed the most worthy and industrious, who were not the less regarded or esteemed on that account She had acquired a practical philos- ophy, while inhabiting the western wilderness, and beholding the vast variety of life that it presents, which stood her in good stead under her Eu- ropean vicissitudes. The white inhabitants of America did not form her only school. The red Indian and his squaw were also human beings, sub- ject to the same necessities, moved, in the first instance, by the same im- pulses as herself. All that bore the human form were sanctified to her by the spirit of sympathy. ; and she could not, as Edward did, feel herself wholly outcast and under ban, while kindness, however humble, and intel- ligence, however lowly, attended upon her. Villiers could not yield to her arguments, nor partake her wisdom ; yet he was glad that she possessed any source of consolation, however un- imaginable, by himself. He buried within his heart the haughty sense of wrong. He uttered no complaint, though his whole being rebelled against the state of inaction to which he was reduced. It maddened him to feel that he could not stir a finger to help himself, even while he fancied that he saw his young wife withering before his eyes; and looked foiward to the birth of his child, under circumstances that rendered even the neces- sary attendance difficult, if not impracticable. The heaviest weight of slavery fell upon him, for it was he that was imprisoned, and forbidden to go beyond certain limits ; and though Ethel religiously confined herself within yet narrower bounds than those allotted to him, he only saw, in this delicacy, another source of evil. Nor were these real tangible ills those which inflicted the greatest pain. Had these misfortunes visited him in the American wilderness, or in any part of the world where the ma- jesty of nature had surrounded them, he fancied that he should have been less alive to their sinister influence. But here shame was conjoined with the perpetual spectacle of the least reputable class of the civilized com- munity. Their walks were haunted by men who bore the stamp of prof- ligacy and crime ; and the very shelter of their dwelling was shared by the mean and vulgar. His aristocratic pride was sorely wounded at every turn; — not for himself so much, for he was manly enough to feel " that a man's a man for all that," — but for Ethel's sake, whom he would have fondly placed apart from all that is deformed and unseemly, guarded even from the rougher airs of heaven, and surrounded by every thing most luxurious and beautiful in the world. There was no help. Now and then he got a letter from his father, full of unmeaning apologies and unmanly complaints. The more irretrieva- ble his poverty became, the firmer grew his resolve not to burden with his wants any more distant relation. He would readily give up every pros- pect of future wealth to purchase ease and comfort for Ethel ; but he could not bend to any unworthy act ; and the harder he felt pressed upon and injured by fortune, the more jealously he maintained his independence of feeling: on that he would lean to the last, though it proved a sword to pierce him. He looked forward with despair, yet he tried to conceal his worst thoughts, which would still be brooding upon absolute want and starvation. He answered Ethel's cheering tones in accents of like cheer, and met the melting tenderness of her gaze with eyes that spoke of love only. He JLODORE. 187 endeavoured to persuade her that he did not wholly shut his heart from the hopes she was continually presenting to hirn. Hopes, the very names of which were mockery. For they must necessarily be imbodied in words and ideas — and his father or uncle were mentioned — the one had proved a curse, the other a temptation. He could trace his reverses as much to the habits of expense, and the false views of his resources, acquired under Lord Maristow's tutelage, as to the prodigality and neglect of his parent. Even the name of Horatio Saville produced bitterness. Why was he not here ? He would not intrude his wants upon him in his Italian home ; but had he been in England, they had been saved from these worst blows of fate. The only luxury of Villiers was to steal some few hours of solitude, when he could indulge in his miserable reflections without restraint. The loveli- ness and love of Ethel were then before his imagination to drive him to despair. To suffer alone would have been nothing ; but to see this child of beauty and tenderness, this fairest nursling of nature and liberty, droop and fade in their narrow, poverty-stricken home, bred thoughts akin to mad less. During each livelong night he was kept waking by the anguish of inch reflections. Darker thoughts sometimes intruded themselves. He fancied that, if he were dead, Ethel would be happier. Her mother, his relations, each and all would come forward to gift -her with opulence and ease. The idea of self-destruction thus became soothing ; and he pondered with a kind of savage pleasure on the means by which he should end the coil of misery that had wound round him. At such times the knowledge of Ethel's devoted affection checked him. Or sometimes, as he gazed on her as she lay sleeping at his side, he felt that, every sorrow was less than that which separation must produce ; and that to share adversity with her was greater happiness than the enjoyment of prosperity apart from her. Once, when brought back from the gloomiest desperation by such a return of softer emotions, the words of Francesca da Rimini rushed upon his mind and completed the change. He recollected how she and her lover were consoled by their eternal companionship in the midst of the infernal whirlwind. " And do I love you less, my angel ?" he thought • " are you not more dear to me than woman ever was to man, and would [ divide myself from you because we suffer ? Perish the thought ! Whether for good or ill, let our existences still continue one, and from the sanctity and sympathy of our union a sweet will be extracted sufficient to destroy the bitterness of this hour. We prefer remaining together, mine own sweet love, for ever together, though it were for an eternity of pain. And these woes are finite. Your pure and exalted nature will be rewarded for its sufferings, and T, for your sake, shall be saved. I could not live without you in this world ; and yet with insane purpose 1 would rush into the unknown, away from you, leaving you to seek comfort and support from other hands than mine. I was base and cowardly to entertain the thought but for one moment — a traitor to my own affection, and the stabber of your peace. Ah, dearest Ethel, when in a few hours your eyes will open on the li^ht, and seek me as the object most beloved by them, were I away, unable To return their fondness, incapable of the blessing of beholding them, what h' 11 could be contrived to punish more severely my dereliction of duty ?" With this last thought another train of feeling was introduced, and he strung himself to more manly endurance. He saw that his post was as- signed him in this world, and that he ou^ht to fulfil its duties with courage and patience. Hope came hand in hand with such ideas — and the dawn of content on his soul was a proof that the exercise of virtue brought with it its own reward. He could not always keep his feelings in the same tone, but he no longer saw T greatness of mind in the indulgence of sorrow. He remembered that throughout the various stations into which society 183 LODORE. has divided human beings, adversity and pain belong to each, and that death and treachery are more frightful evils than all the hardships of life. He thought of his unborn child, and of his duties towards it — not only in a worldly point of view, but as its teacher and guide in morals and religion. The beauty and use of the ties of blood, to which his peculiar situation had hitherto blinded him, became intelligible at once to his heart and his understanding ; and while he felt how ill his father hnd fulfilled the paternal duties, Lc resolved that his < wn offspring should never have cause to re- proa- h him for similar misconduct. Before, he had rep'r.ed because the evils of ms lot seemed g.atuitous suffering ; but now he felt, as Ethel had often expressed it, that the sting of humiliation is taken from misfortune, when we nerve ourselves to endure it for another's sake. 4 CHAPTER XL VIII. The world had just begun to steal Each hope that led me lightly on; I felt not as I used to feel, And life grew dark, and love was gone. Thomas Moore. While the young pair were thus struggling with the severe visitation oi adversity, Lady Lodore was earnestly engaged in her endeavours to extri- cate them from their difficulties. The ardour of her zeal had made her take the first steps in this undertaking, with a resolution that would not look behind, and a courage not to be dismayed by the dreary prospect which the future afforded. The scheme which she had planned, and was now proceeding to execute, was unbounded in generosity and self-sacrifice. It was not in her nature to stop short at half-measures, nor to pause when once she had fixed her purpose. If she ever trembled on looking forward to the utter ruin she was about to encounter, her second emotion was to despise herself for such pusillanimity, and to be roused to renewed energy. She intended to devote as much as was necessary of the money arising from the sale of her jointure, as fixed by her marriage settlement, for the liquidation of her son-in-law's debts. The remaining six hundred a-year, bequeathed to her in Lord Lodore's will, under circumstances of cruel in- sult, she resolved to give up to her daughter's use, for her future subsist- ence. She hoped to save enough from the sum produced by the dispo- sal of her jointure, to procure the necessaries of life for a few years, and she did not look beyond. She would quit London for ever. She must leave her house, which she had bought during her days of prosperity, and which she had felt so much pride and delight in adorning with every luxury and comfort : to crown her good work, she intended to give it up to Ethel. And then with her scant means she would take refuge in the solitude where Lodore found her, and spend the residue of her days among tl e uncouth and lonely mountains of Wales, in poverty and seclusion. It was from no agreeable association with her early youth, that she selected the neighbour- hood of Rhyaider Gowy for her future residence ; nor from a desire of renew- ing the recollections of the period spent there, nor of revisiting the scenes, where she had stepped beyond infancy into the paths of life. Her choice simply arose from being obliged to think of economy in its strictest sense, and she remembered this place as the cheapest in the world, and the most retired. Besides, that in fixing on a part of the country which she had be- fore inhabited, and yet where she would be utterly unknown, the idea of her future home assumed distinctness, and a greater sense of practicability was I.ODORE. 1S9 imparted to her schemes, than could have heen the case, had she been un- able to form any image in her mind of the exact spot whither she was about to betake herself. The first conception of this plan had dawned on her soul, as the design of some sublime poem or magnificent work of art may present itself to tne contemplation of the poet and man of genius. She dwelt on it in its entire result, with a glow of joy ; she entered into its details with childish eager- ness. She pictured to herself the satisfaction of Villiers and Ethel at find ing themselves suddenly, as by magic, restored to freedom and the pleas- ures of life. She figured their gladness in exchanging their miserable lolnnz for the luxury of her elegant dwelling; ; their pleasure in forgetting the long train of previous' misfortunes, or remembering them only to en- hance their prosperity, when pain and fear, disgrace and shame, should be exeh inged for security and comfort. She repeated to herself, " I do all this — I, the despised Cornelia! I, who was deemed unworthy to have the guardianship of my own child. I, who was sentenced to desertion and misery, because I was too wo Idly and selfish to be worthy of Horace Sa- ville ! How little through life has my genuine character been known, or its qualities appreciated ! Nor will it be better understood now. My sacrifices will continue a mystery, and even the benefits 1 am forced to acknowledge to flow from me, 1 shall diminish in their eyes, by bestowing them with appxren* indifference. Will they ever deign to discover the reality under the deceitful appearances which it will be my pride to exhibit ? 1 care not; conscience will approve me — and when I am alone and un- thought of, the knowledge that Ethel is happy through my means will make poverty a blessing." It was not pride alone that induced Lady Lodore to resolve on conceal- ing the extent of her benefits. All that she could give was not much, if co npared with the fortunes of the wealthy — but it was a competence, which would enable her daughter and her husband to expect better days with patience ; but if they knew how greatly she was a sufFerer Tor their good, they would insist at least upon her sharing their income — and what wis scanty in its entireness, would be wholly insufficient when divided. Villiers also might dispute or reject her kindness, and deeply injured as she believed herself to have been by him — injured by his disesteem, and the influence he h id used over Saville, in a manner so baneful to her happi- ness, she felt irrepressible exultation at the idea of heaping obligation on him, — and knowing herself to be deserving of his deepest gratitude. All these sentiments might be deemed fantastic, or at least extravagant. Yet her conclusions were reasonable, for it was perfectly true that Villiers wo lid rather have returned to his prison, than have purchased freedom at the vast pace she was about to pav for it. No, her design was faultless in its completeness, meager and profitless if she stopped short of its full exe- cution. Nor would she see Ethel again in the interim — partly fearful of not preserving her secret inviolate — partly because she felt so slrongly drawn towards her, that she dreaded finding herself the slave of an affec- tion — a passion, which, under hercircumstanc.es, she could not indulge. Without counsellor, without one friendly voice to encourage, she advanced in the path she had marked out, and drew from her own heart only the courage to proceed. It required, however, all her force of character to carry her forward. A thousand difficulties wore born at every minute, and the demands made were increased to such an extent as to make it possible that they would go beyond her m^ans of satisfying them. She had not the assistance of one friend acquainted with the real state of things to direct her — her only adviser was a xrwxi of law, who did what he was directed — not indeed with passive obedience, but whose deviations from mere acquiescence, arose from techni- 190 LODORE. cal objections and legal difficulties, at once unintelligible and tormenting, B331I33 t'iBss mora pdpiblo anoyancss, other clouds arose, natural t-o wavering humanity, which would sometimes shadow Cornelia's soul, so that she drooped from the height she had reached, with a timid and dejected spirit At first she looked forward to ruin, exile, and privation, as to possessions which she coveted — but the further she proceeded, the more she lost view of the light and gladness which had attended on the dawn of her new visions. Futurity became enveloped in an appalling obscurity, while the present waa sad and cheerless. The ties which she had formed in the world, which she had fancied it would be so easy to cut asunder, assumed strength ; and she felt that, she must endure many pangs in the act of renouncing them for ever. The scenes and persons which, a little while ago, she had regarded as uninteresting and frivolous — she was now forced to acknowledge to be too inextricably interwoven with her habits and pursuits, to be all at once quitted without severe pain. When the future was spoken of by others with joyous anticipation, her heart sunk within her, to think how her here- after was to become disjointed and castaway from all that preceded it. The mere pleasures of society grew into delights, when thought of as about to become unattainable; and slight partialities were regarded as if founded upon strong friendship and tender affection. She was not aware till now how habit and association will endear the otherwise indifferent, and how the human heart, prone to love, will intvvine its ever- sprouting tendrils around any object, not. absolutely repulsive, which is brought into near con- tact with it. When any of her favourites addressed her in cordial tones, when she met the glance of one she esteemed, directed towards her with an expression of kindliness and sympathy, her eyes grew dim, and a thrill of anguish passed through her frame. All that she had a little while ago scorned as false and empty, she now looked upon as the pleasant reality of life, which she was to exchange for she scarcely knew what — a living grave, a friend- less desert — fo r silence and despair. It is a hard trial at all times to be^in the world anew, even when we ex- change a m°diorre station for oie which our imagination paints as full of enjoyment and distinction. How much more difficult it was for Lady Lo- dore to despoil herself of every good, and voluntarily to encounter poverty in its most unadorned guise. As time advanced, she became fully aware of what she would have to go through, and her heroism was the greater, be- cause, though the charm had vanished, and no hope of compensation or re- ward was held out, she did not shrink from accomplishing her task. She could not exactly say, like old Adam in the play, At seventeen years many their fortunes seek, But at fourscore it is too late a week. i^et at her age it was perhaps more difficult to cast offthe goods of this world, than at a more advanced one. Midway in life, we are not weaned from affections and pleasures — we still hope. We even demand more of solid ad- vantages, because the romantic ideas of youth have disappeared, and yet we are not content to give up the game. We no longer set our hearts on ephemeral joys, but require to be enabled to put our trust, in the continuance of any good offered to our choice. This desire of durability in our pleasures is equally felt by the young ; .but ardour of feeling and ductility of imagi- nation is then at hand to bestow a quality, so dear and so unattainable to fragile humanity, on any object we desire should be so gifted. But at a riper a^e we pause, and seek that our reason may be convinced, and fre- quently prefer a state of prosperity less ecstatic and elevated, because its verv sobriety satisfies us that it will not slip suddenly from our grasp. The comforts of life, the esteem of friends — these are things which we LCtfTOKE. % 191 thetf regard with the greatest satisfaction ; and other feelings, less reason- able, yet not. less keenly felt, may enter into the circle of sensations, which •forms the existence of a beautiful woman. It is less easy for one who has been all her life admired and waited Upon, to give wp the few last years of such power, than it would have been to cast away the gift in earlier life. She has learned to doubt her influence, to know its value, and to prize it. In girlhood it may be matter of mere triumph — in after years it will be looked on as an inestimable quality by which she may more easily and firmly secure the benevolence of her fellow-creatures. All this depends upon the polish of the skin and the fire of the eye, which a few years wilJ deface and quench— and while the opprobrious epithet of old woman ap- proaches within view, she is glad to feel secure from its being applied to her, by perceiving the signs of the influence of her surviving attractions marked in the countenances of her admirers. Lady Lodore never felt so km ly inclined towards hers, as now that she was about to withdraw from them. Their admiration, for its own sake, she might contemn, but she valued it as the testimony that those charms were still hers, which once had subdued the soul of him she loved; and this was no disagreeable assur- ance to one who was on the eve of becoming a grandmother. Her sensibility, awakened by the considerations forced on her by her new circumstances, caused he to make more progress in the knowledge of life, and in the philosophy of its laws, than love or ambition had ever done before. The last nad rendered h^r proud from success, the first had caused her to feel dependent on nrne only ; but now that she was about to abandon all, she found herself bouncT to all by stronger ties than she could have imagined. She became aware that any new connexion could never be adorned by the en learin* recollections attending those she had already formed. The friends of her youth, her mere acquaintances, she regarded with peculiar partiality, as being the witnesses or sharers of her past joys and successes. Each familiar face was sanctified in her eyes by association ; and she walked among those whom she had so lately scorned, as if they were saintly memo- rials to be approached with awe, and quitted with eternal regret. Her hopes and prospects had hinged upon them, but her life became out of joint -when she quitted them. Her sensitive nature melted in unwonted tender- ness while occupied by such contemplations, and they turned the path, she had so lately entered as one of triumph and gladness, to gloom and despond- ence. Sometimes she pondered upon means for preserving her connexion with the wo Id. But any scheme of that kind was fraught, on the one hand, with mortification to herself, on the other, with the overthrow of her designs, through the repugnance which Ethel and her husband would feel at occa- sioning such unmeasured sacrifices. She often regretted that there were no convents, to which she might retire with safety and dignity. Conduct, such as she contemplated pursuing, would, under the old regime in France, have been recompensed by praise and gratitude; while its irrevocability must prevent any resistance to her wishes. In giving up fortune and sta tion she would have placed herself under the guardianship of a community , and have found protection and security, to compensate for poverty and sla- very. The very reverse of all this must now happen. Alone, friendless, unknown, and therefore despised, she must shift for herself, and rely on her own resources for prudence to ensure safety, and courage to endure the evils of her lot. To one of another sex, the name of loneliness can never con- vey the idea of desolation and disregard, which gives it so painful a mean- ing: in a woman's mind. They have not been taught always to look up to others, and to do nothing for themselves : so that business becomes a mat- ter of heroism to a woman, when conducted in the most common-place way ; but when it is accompanied by mystery, she feels herself transported from 192 LODORE. her fitting place, and as if about to encounter shame and contumely. La- dy Lodore had never been conversant with any mode of life, except, that oi being waited on and watched over. In the poverty of her eaily girlhood, her mother had been constantly at her side. The necessity of so conduct- ing herself as to prevent the shadow of slander from visiting her, had con- tinued this state of dependence during all her married life. She had never stepped across a street without attendance ; nor put on her gloves, but as brought to her by a servant. Her look had commanded obedience, and her will had been law with those about her. This was now to be altered, She scarcely reverted in her mind to t iese minutia? ; and when she did, it was to smile at herself for being able to give weight to such trifles. She was not aware how, hereafter, these small things would become the shapings and imbodyings which desertion and penury would adopt, to sting her most severely. The new course she was about to enter, was too unknow n to make her fears distinct. There was one vast blank before her, one gigantic and misshapen image of desertion, which filled her mind to the exclusion of every other, but whose parts were not made out, though this very indistinct- ness was the thing that often chiefly appalled her. She said, with the noble exile,* — *' I am too old to fawn upon a nurse, Too far in years to be a pupil now.' 1 It is true that she had not, like him, to lament that — " My native English now I must forego;" but there is another language, even more natural than the mere dialect in which we have been educated. When our lips no longer utter the senti- ments of our heart — when we are forced to exchange the spontaneous effu- sions of the soul for cramped and guarded phrases, which give no indica- tion of the thought within, — then, indeed, may we say, that our tongue becomes "an unstringed viol, or a harp, put into his hands, That knows no touch to tune the harmony." And this was to be Lady Lodore's position. Her only companions would be villa o-ers ; or, at best, a few Welsh gentry, with whom she could have no real communication. Sympathy, the charm of life, was dead for her, and her state of banishment would be far more complete than if mountains and seas only constituted its barriers. Lady Lodore was often disturbed by these reflections, but she did not on that account waver in her purpose. The flesh might shrink but the spirit was firm. Sometimes, indeed, she wondered how it was that she had first conceived the design, which had become the tyrant of her life. She had lono- known that she had a daughter, young, lovely,- and interesting, with- out any great desire to become intimate with her. Sometimes pride, some- times indignation, had checked her maternal feelings. The only time before, in which she had felt any emotion similar to that which now governed her, was on the day when she had spoken to her in the House of Lords. But instead of indulging it, she had fled from it as an enemy, and despised herself as a dupe, for being for one instant its subject. W hen her fingers then touched her daughter's cheek, she had not trembled like Ethel ; yet an awful sensation passed through her frame, which for a moment stunned her, and she hastily * Eichard II. retreated, to recover herself. Now, on the contrary, she longed to strain nor child to hsr heart ; she thought no sacrifice too great, which was to con- duct to her advantage ; and that she condemned herself never to see her more appeared the hardest part of the lot she was to undergo. Why was this change? She could not terl — memory could not inform her. She only knew that since she had seen Ethel in her adversity, the stoniness of her heart had dissolved within her, that her whole being was subdued to tender- ness, and that the world was changed from what it had been in her eyes. She felt that she could not endure life, unless for the sake of benefiting her child ; and that this sentiment mastered her in spite of herself, so that every struggle with it was utterly vain. Thus if she sometimes repined at the hard fate that drove her into exile, yet she never wavered in her intentions ; and in the midst of regret, a kind of exultation was born, which calmed her pain. Smiles sal upon her fea- tures, and her voice was attuned to cheerfulness. The new-sprung tender- ness of her soul imparted a fascination to her manner far more irresistible than that to which tact and polish had given rise. She was more kind and affectionate, and, above all, more sincere, and therefore more winning. Every one fait, though none could divine the cause of, this change. It was remarked that she was improved : some shrewdly suspected that she was in love. And so she was — with an object more enchanting than any earthly lover. For the first time she knew and loved the Spirit of good and beauty, an affinity to which affords the greatest bliss that our nature can receive. CHAPTER LIX. It i=> the same, for, be it joy or sorrow, The paih of its departure still is 1'ree; Man's yesterday can ne'er be like his morrow, Nor augbt eaJure save mutability. Shellei The month of June had commenced. In spite of lawyer's delays ana the dim>ulties attendant on all such ne Totiations, they were at last concluded, and nothing remained but for Lady Lodore to sign the paper which was to consign her to comparative destitution. In all changes we feel most keenly the operation of small circumstances, and are chiefly depressed by the necessity of stooping to the direction of petty arrangements, and having to deal with subordinate persons. To complete her design, Lady Lodore had to make many arrangements, trivial yet imperative, which called for her attention, when she was least fitted to give it, She had met these demands on her patience without shrinking; and all was prepared for the finishing stroke about to be put to her plans. She dismissed those servants whom she did not intend to leave in the house for Ethel's use. She contrived to hasten the intended marriage of her own maid, so to disburlhen herself wholly. The mode by which she was, solitary and unknown, to reach the mountains of Wales without creating suspicion, or leaving room for conjecture, was no easy matter. In human life, one act is born of another, so that any one that disjoins itself from the rest instantly gives rise to curiosity and inquiry. Lady Lodore, though fertile in expedients, was almost foiled : the eligibility of having one confidant pressed itself upon her. She thought of Fanny Derham ; but her extreme youth, and her intimacy with Mrs. Villiers, which would have necessitated many falsehoods, so to preserve the secret, deterred her : she determined at last to trust to herself alone. She resolved to take with 34—1 \ W4 LODOKE. her one servant only, who had not been Ion<* in her serf ice f and to dismiss hirrt immediately after leaving London, Difficulties presented themselves on every side \ but she believed that they could be best surmounted by obviating them in succession as they arose, and that any fixed artificial pTau wouM only tend to embarrass, while a simple mode of proceeding woula continue unquestioned. Her chief art consisted in not appearing to be making any change at all. She talked of a visit of two or three months to Emms, and mentioned her intention of lending her house, during the interval, to her daughter. She thus secured to herself a certain period during which no cariosity would be 'Kcited ; and after a month or two had passed away, she would be utterly forgotten : — thus she reasoned ; and whether it were a real tomb that she entered, or the living grave which she anticipated, her name and memory would equally vanish from the earth, and she be thought of no more. If Ethel ever entertained a wish to see her, Villiers would be at hand to check and divert it Who else was there to spend a thought upon her? Alone upon earth, no friendly eye, solicitous tor her welfare, would seek to pene- trate the mystery in which she was about to envelop herself. The day catne, it was the second of June, when every preliminary was accomplished. She had signed away all that she possessed — she had done it with a smile — and her voice was unfaltering. The sum which she had saved for herself consisted of but a few hundred pounds, on which she was to subsist for the future. Again she enforced his pledge of secrecy on Mr, Gayland ; and glad that all was over, yet heavy at heart in spite of her gladness, she returned to her heme, which in a few hours she was to quit for ever, Du ing all this time her thoughts had seldom reverted to Saville. Hope was dead, and the regrets of love had vanished with it. That he would approve her conduct, was an idea that now and then flashed across hei mind ; but he would remain in eternal ignorance, and therefore it could not bring their thoughts into any communion. Whether he came to England or remained at Naples, availed her nothing. No circumstance could add to, or diminish, the insuperable barrier which his marriage placed between them. She returned home from her last interview with Mr, Gayland : it was our o'clock in the day ; at six she had appointed Fanny Derham to call or? ler ; and an hour afterwards, the horses were ordered to be at the doos which were to convey her away. She became strangely agitated. She took herself to task for her weak* ness ; but every moment disturbed yet more the calm she was so anxious to attain. She walked through the rooms of the house she had dwelt in foi so many years. She looked on the scene presented from her windows. The drive in Hyde Park was beginning to fill with carriages and eques- trians, to be thronged with her friends whom she was never again to see. Deep sadness erept over her mind. Her uncontrollable thoughts, by some association of ideas, which she could not disentangle — brought before her the image of Lodore, with more vividness than it had possessed for years, A kind of wish to cross the Atlantic, and to visit the scenes where hjp had dwelt so long, arose within her ; and then again she felt a desire to visit Longfield, and to view the spot in which his mortal remains were laid. As her imagination pictured the grave of the husband of her youth, whom she had abandoned and forgotten, tears streamed from her eyes — the first she had shed, even in idea^ beside it. "It is not to atone — for surely I was not guilty towards him" — such were Lady Lodore's reflections, — "yet, metliinks, in this crisis of my fate, when about to imitate his abrupt and miserable act of self- banishment, my heart yearns for some communication with him;; and it seems to me as if, approaching his cold, silent dust, he LODORE. 195 Would hear me if I said, ' Be at peace ! your child is happy through my means !' " . A^ain her reveries were attended hy a gush of tears. "How strange a fate is mine, ever to be abandoned by, or to abandon, those towards whom I am naturally drawn into near contact. Fifteen years are flown since I pa.tid from Lodore for ever! Then by inspiring one so high-minded, so richly gifted, as Saville, with love for me, fortune appeared ready to com- pensate for my previous sufferings ; but the curse again operated, and I shall never see him more. Yet do I not forget thee, Saville, nor thy love! nor can it be a crime to think of the past, whudi is as irretrievable as if the grave had closed over it. Through Savilie it has been that 1 have not lived quite in vain — that I have known what love is ; and might have even tasted of happiness, but for the poison which perpetually mingles with my cup. I never wish to see him more ; but if I earnestly desire to visit Lodore's grave, how gladly would I make a far longer pilgrimage to see Saville'g child, and to devote myself to one who owes its existence to him. Wretched Corn ilia ! whit tbnu *hts are these ? Is it n iw, that you are a beggar and an outcast, that you fist encourage unattainable desires?" Still as she looked round, and remembered how often Saville had been beside her in that room, thoughts and regrets thronged faster and more thickly on her. She recollected the haughty self-will and capricious co- qu ^try which had caused the destruction of her dearest hopes. She took down a miniature of herself, which her lover had so fruitlessly besought her to give. him. It was on the belief that she had bestowea this picture on a rival that he had so suddenly come to the determination of quitting England. It seemed now in its smiles and youth to reproach her for hav- ing wasted both; and the sight of it a,itated her bosom, and produced a tumult of- regret and despair at his loss — till she threw it from her, as too dearly associated with one she must forget. And yet wherefore forget? — he had forgotten ; but as a dead wife might in her grave love her husband, though wedded to another, so might the lost, Luried Cornelia remember him, though the husband of Clorinda. Self-compassion now moved her to tears, and she wept plentiful showers, which rather exhausted than relieved her. With a strong effort she recalled her sense of what was actually going on, and struggling resolutely to calm herself, she sat down and began a letter to her daughter, which was necessary, as some sort of explanation, at once to allay wonder and baffle curiosity. Thus she wrote: "Dearest Ethel, " Mv hopes have not been deceived. Mr. Gayland has at last contrived m°ans for the liberation of your husband ; and to-morrow morning you will leave that shocking place. Perhaps I receive more pleasure from this piece of sjood fortune than you, for your sense of duty and sweet disposition so gild the vilest objects, that you live in a world of your own, as beautiful as yourself, and the accident of situation is immaterial to you. ^' It is not enough, however, that you should be free. I hope that the punctilious delicacy of Mr. Villiers will not cause you to reject the benefits of a mother. In this instance there is more of justice than generosity in my offer ; and it may therefore be accepted without the smallest hesitation. My jointure ought to satisfy me, and the additional six hundred a year — which I may call the price of blood, since I bought it at the sacrifice of the dearest ties and duties, — is most freely at your service. It will delight me to get rid of it, as much as if thus I threw off* the consciousness of a crime. It is yours by every law of equity, and will be hereafter paid into your banker's hands. Do not thank me, my dear child — be happy, that will be my best reward. Be happy, be prudent — this sum will not make 196 LODORE. you rich ; and the only acknowledgment T ask of you is, that you make it, suffice, and avoid debt, and embarrassment. "By singular coincidence I am imperatively obliged to leave England at this moment. The horses are ordered to be here in half an hour — I am obliged therefore to forego the pleasure of seeing you until my return. Will you forgive me this apparent neglect, which is the result of necessity, and favour me by coming to my house to-morrow, on leaving your present abode, and making it your home until my return ? Miss Derham has prom- ised to call here this afternoon ; I shall see her before I go, and through her you will learn how much vou will make me your debtor by accepting my offers, and permitting me to be of some slight use to you. " Excuse the brevity and insufficiency of this letter, written at the moment of departure, — You will hear from me again, when 1 am able to send you my address, and 1 shall hope to have a letter from you. Mean- while Heaven bless you, my angelic Ethel ! Love your mother, and never, in spite of every thing, permit unkind thoughts of her to harbour in your mind. Make Mr. Viiliers think as well of me as he can, and believe me that your welfare will always be the dearest wish of my heart. Adieu. " Ever affectionately yours, C. Lodore." She folded and sealed this letter, and at the same moment there was a knock at the door of her house, which she knew announced the arrival of Fanny Derham. She was still much agitated, and trying to calm herself, she took up a newspaper, and cast her eyes dowm the columns; so, by one of the most common-place of the actions of our life, to surmount the painful intensity of her thoughts. She read mechanically one or two para- graphs — she saw the announcements of births, marriages, and deaths. " My moral death will not be recorded here," she thought, " and yet, I shall be more dead .than any of these." The thought in her mind remained as it were truncated ; her eye was arrested — a paleness came over her — the pulses of her heart paused, and then beat tumultuously — how strange — how fatal were the words she read ! — ' Died suddenly at the inn at the Mola di Gaeta, on her way from Naples, Clorinda, the wife of the honourable Horatio Saville, in the twenty- second year of her age." Her drawing-room door was opened, the butler announced Miss Der- ham, while her eyes still were fixed on the paragraph : her head swam round — the world seemed to slide from under her. Fanny's calm clear voice recalled her. She conquered her agitation — she spoke as if she had not just crossed a gulf — not been transported to a new world ; and, again, swifter than light, brought back to the old one. She conversed with Fanny for some time ; giving some kind of explanation for not having been to see Ethel, begging her young friend to press her invitation, and speaking as if in autumn they should all meet again. Fanny, philosophic as she was, regarded Lady Lodore with a kind of idolatry. The same charm that had fascinated the unworldly and abstracted Saville, she exercised over the thoughtful and ingenuous mind of the fair young student. It was*the att action of engaging manners, added now to the sense of right, joined to the timid softness of a woman, who trembled on acting unsupported, even though her conscience approved her deeds. It was her loveliness which had gained in expression what it had lost in youth, and kindness of heart was the soul of the enchantment. Fanny ventured to remonstrate against her sudden departure. •' Oh, we shall soon meet again," said Cor- nelia ; but her thoughts v^ere more of heaven than earth, as the scene of meeting ; for her heart was chilled — her head throbbed — the words she LODORE. 197 had read operated a revolution in her frame, more allied to sickness and deatn, than hope or triumph. Fa-iny at length took, her leave, and Lady Lodore was again alone. She took up the newspaper — hastily she read again the tidings; she sunk on the sofa, burying her face in the pillow, trying not to think, while she was indeed the prey to the wildest thoughts* " Yes," thus ran her reflections, " he is free — he is no longer married ! Fool, fc.ol ! he is still lost to you ! — an outcast and a beggar, shall 1 solicit hi ' love! which he believes that I rejected when prosperous. Rather never, never, let me see him again. My beauty is tarnished, my youth fi nvn ; he would only see me to wonder how he had ever loved me. Bet- ter hide beneath the mountains among which I am soon to find a home — better, far better, die, than see Saville and read no love in his eyes. " Yet thus again I cast happiness from me. What, then would I do ? Unweave the web — implore Mr. Villiers to endure my presence — reveal my state of beggary — ask thanks for my generosity, and humbly wait for a kind glance from Saville, to raise me to wealth as well as to happiness. — Cornelia, awake ! — be not subdued at the last — act not against your disposition, the pride of your soul — the determinations you have formed — do not learn to be humble in adve.sity — you, who were disdainful in hap- pier days — no! if they need me — if they love me — if Saville still re- membes the worship — the heart's entire sacrifice which once he made to me. — will a few miles — tne obscurity of my abode — or the silence and mvstery that surrounds me, check his endeavours that we should once again meet ? " No I 1 ' she said, rising, "my destiny is in other and higher hands than my own. It w^ere vain to endeavour to control it. Whatever I do, works against me ; now let the thread be spun to the end, while I do nothing ; I can hut endure the worst patiently ; and how much better to bear hi silence, than to st-uggle vainly with the irrevocable decree! I submit. Let prov- idence wo -k out its own ends, and God dispose of the being he nas made — whether I reap the harvest in this world or in the next, my part is played, I W'U strive no more !" She believed in her own singleness of purpose as she said this, and yet she was never more deceived. While she boasted of her resignation, she was yielding not to a high moral power, but to the pride of her soul. Her resolutions were in accordance with the haughtiness of her disposition, and she felt satisfied, not because she was making a noble sacrifice, but because sh^> thus adorned more magnificently the idol she set up for worship, and believed herself to be more worthy of applause and love. Yet who could co'idemn even errors that led to such unbending and heroic forgetfulness ol all the baser propensities of our nature. Nor was this feeling of triumph Ioo°:-livM ; the wounding and humiliating realities of life soon degraded her f om her pedestal, and made her feel, as it were, the disgrace and indig- nities of abdication. FLr travelling chariot drove up to the door, and, after a few moments' preparation, she was summoned. Again she looked round the room; her he'-ut ^welled hirii with impatience and repining, but again she conquered herself. She took up her miniature — that now she might possess — for she could remember without sin — she took up the newspaper, which did or d ; d not contain the fiat of her fate ; but this action appeared to militate against the state of resi ^nation she had resolved to attain, so she threw it down : she walked down the stairs, and passed out from her house for the last time — she got into the carriage — the door was closed — the horses we-e in motion — ■ all was over. Her hea-1 f dt sick and heavy ; she leaned hack in her carriage half stu- pified. When at last London and its suburbs were passed, the sight of 1* 108 LODORE. the open eountrv a little revived her — but she soon drooped again. No- thins; presented itself to her thoughts with any clearness, and the exultation which had supported her vanished totally. She only knew that she was alone, poor, tor .often ; these words hovered on her lips, mingled with othe .s, by which she endeavoured to charm away her despondency. For- titude and resignation for herself — freedom and happiness for Ethel. " Ch ves, she is free and happy — it matters not then what I am !" No tears flowed to soften this thought. The bright green country — the meadows, mingled with unripe corn-fields — the tufted woods — the hedge-rows full of flowers, could not attract her eye ; pangs every now and then seized upon her heart -- she had talked of resignation, but she was delivered up to despair. At length she sunk into a kind of stupor. She was accompanied by one servant only ; she had told him where she intended to remain that niifht. it was past eleven before they arrived at Reading; the night was chill, and she shivered while she felt as if it were impossible to move, even to draw jp the glasses of her chariot. "When she arrived at the inn where she was to pass the night, she felt keenly the discomfort of having no female aitendant. It was new — she fell as if it were disgraceful, to find herself alone among strangers, to be obliged to give orders herself, and to prepare done for her repose. All nisht she could not sleep, and she became aware at last that she was ill. Sho burned with fever — her whole frame was tormented by aches, by alternate ho: and shivering fits, and by a feeling of sickness. When morn- ing dawned, it was worse. She grew impatient — she rose. She had ar- ranged that her servant should quit her at this place. He had been but a short time with her, and was easily dismissed, under the idea that she was to be joined by a man recommended bv a friend, who was accustomed to the continent, whither it was supposed that she was going. She had dis- missed him the night before, he was already gone, when on the morrow she ordered the horses. — She paid the bills herself — and had to answer ques- tions about luggage ; all these things are customary to the poor, and to the other sex. But take a high-born woman and place her in immediate contact with the rough material of the world, and see how like a sensitive plant she will shrink, close herself up and droop, and feel as if she had fallen from her native sphere into a spot unknown, ungenial, and full of storms. The illness that oppressed Lady Lodore, made these natural feelings even more acute, till at last they were blunted by the same cau=e. She now- wondered what it was that ailed her, and became terrified at the occasional wanderings ihat interrupted her torpor. Once or twice she wished to speak to the post-bov, but her voice failed her. At lenc th they drove up to the inn at Newbury ; fresh horses were called for, and the landlady eameiip to the door of the" carriage, to ask whether the lady had breakfasted — 'whether she would take anv thing. There was something ghastly in Lady Lodore's appearance, which at once frightened the good woman, and excited her compassion. She renewed her questions, which Lady Lodore had not at first heard, addin?, "You seem ill, ma'am; do take something — had you not better alight ? T ' " Oh yes, far better," said Cornelia ; " for I think T must be very ill." The change of posture and cessation of motion a little revived her, and she began to think that she was mistaken, and that it was all nothing, and that she was well. She was conducted into the parlour of the inn, and the landladv left her to order refreshment. "How foolish I am," she thought ; ** this is mere fancy ; there is mining the matter with me ;" and she rose to tins the bell, and to order horses. When suddenly, without any previ- ous warning, struck as by a bolt, she fainted, and fell on the floor, without any power of saving herself. The sound of her fall quickened the steps ol LODORE. 199 the landlady, who was returning ; all the chamber-maids were summoned, a doctor sent for, and when Lady Lodore opened her eyes she saw unknown faces about her, a strange place, and v; -tranter. She did not speak, but tried to collect her thoughts, and to unravel the mystery, as it appeared, of her situation. But soon her thoughts wandered, and fererand weakness made her yield to the solicitations of those around. The doctor came, ana could make out notiung but tn as in a hizh fever: he ordered ner to be put to bed. And thus — --aville, and Ethel, and all hopes an! fears, hiving vanished from her thoughts — given up to delirium and suffenn.:. poor Lady Lodore, alone, unknown, and unattended, remained for several weeks at a count y inn — under the hands of a village doctor — to recover, if God pleased, if not, to sink, unrnourned and unheard of, into an untimely gruve. I CHAPTER L. But if for me thou ds S "*.ie other maid, and rudely break Her worshipped image fhira his base, To give tu me the niiued place — Then fare thee well — I'd rather make My ovrer ap >n some icy iafce, When thaviE- was be* . 3 e Than trust tu love so fa!-e as c Li.LI.JL RoOKH- Ox the same day Mr. and Mrs. Yilliers left their sad dwelling to take possession of Lady Loose's house. The generosity and kindness of her mother, such as it appeared, though she knew but the smallest portion of it, charmed Ethel. Her heart, which had so long struggled to luve her, was gladdened by the proofs given that she deserved her warmest affection. The truest delight beamed from her lovely countenance. Even she had felt the gloom and depression of adversity. The sight of misery or vice in those around her tarnished the holy fervour with which she would otherwise have made every sacrifice for Edward's sake. There is something in this world, which even while it «*wes an unknown grace 1 ;• rough, and hard, and mean circumstances, contaminates the beairy and hannonv of the no- bUanl exalted. Ethel had been aware of t as s i ireaded l:s s influence over Villiers, and in spite of herself she pined ; she had felt with a shu Ider, that in spite of love and fortitude, a sense, chilling and despon wis creenuag over her, making her feel the earth ali her awaVTtom the sadness of the scene around to a world bright and pure as herself. Her very despair thus dressed itself in the garb of religion ; and though these visitations of melancholy only came during the ths* . _ * Vil- liers. and were never indulged in, yet they we e too natural a growth oi wretched ab->de to be easily or entirely dismissed. Eve . re=t:>rH to the fairer scenes of life, compassion tor the unfor: - «gs sh 1 quitted haunted her, and herfeetings were too keenly alive to the i - - ries which her fellow-creatures suffered, to permit her to i from all pain bv her own exemotion. She turned foil suehrefl of her dear ki^d mother with delight. The roof that sheltered her hallowsd a- h j rs; ail the blessings of life which sne enjoyed came to her from the «am j source as life itself. She delighted to trace the current of feeling which ha I occasioned her to give up so much, and to imagine the sweetness of disposition, the vivacity of mind, the talents and accomplish- SCO LODORE. merits, which her physiognomy expressed, and the taste manifested in he? house, and all the things which she had collected around her, evinced. In less than a month after their liberation, she gave birth to a son. The mingled danger and rejoicing attendant on this event, imparted fresh strength to the attachment that united Edward to her ; and the little stran- ger himself was a new object of tenderness ano interest. Thus their days of mourning were exchanged for a happir^ss most natural and welcome to the human heart. At this time also Horatio Saville returned from Italy with his little girl. She was scarcely more than a year old, but displayed an intelligence to be equalled only by her extraordinary beauty. Her golden silken ringlets were even then profuse, her eyes were as dark and brilliant as her mother's, but. her compi* x:on was fair, and the same sweet smile flitted round her infant mouth, as gave the charm to her father's face. He idolized her, and tried by his tenderness and attention to appease, as it were, the manes of the unfortunate Clorinda. She, poor girl, had been the victim of the violence of passion and ill- regulated feelings native to her country, excited into unnatural force by the singularity of her fate. When Saville saw her first in her convent, she was pining for liberty ; she did not think of any joy beyond escaping the troublesome impertinence of the nuns and the monotonous tenor of mo- nastic life of associating with people she loved, and enjoying the common usages of life, unfettered by the restrictions that rendered her present exist- ence a burden. But though she desired no more, her disgust for the present^ her longing for a change, was a powerful passion. She was adorned by talents, by genius ; she was eloquent and beautiful, and full of enthusiasm and feeling. Saville pitied her;, he lamented her future fate among her unworthy countrymen ; he longed to cherish, to comfort., and to benefit her. His heart, so easily won to tenderness, gave het readily a brother's regard. Others, seeing the active benevolence and lively interest that this sentiment elicited, might have fancied him inspired by a wamer feeling ; but he well knew the difference, he ardently desired her happiness, but did not seek his own in her. He visited her frequently, he brought her books, he taught her English. They were allowed to meet daily in the parlour of the convent, in the pres- ence of a female attendant ; and his admiration of her talents, her ima- gination, her ardent comprehensive mind, increased on every interview. They talked of literature — the poets — the arts ; Clorinda sang to him, and her fine voice, cultivated by the nicest art, was a source of deep pleas- ure and pain to her auditor. His sensibility was awakened by the tones of love and rapture — sensibility, not alas ! for her who sang, but for the false and absent. While listening, his fancy recalled Lady Lodore ? s image ; the hopes she had inspired, the rapture he had felt in her presence- — the warm vivifying effect her voice and looks had on him were remembered, and his heart sank within him to think that all this sweetness was deceptive, fleeting, tost. Once, overcome by these thoughts, he resolved to return suddenly to- England, to make one effort more to exchange unendurable wretchedness- for the most transporting happiness — absence from Cor- nelia, to the joy of pouring out the overflowing sentiments of his heart at her feet. White indulging in this idea, a letter from his sister Lucy caused a painful revulsion j she painted the woman of the world given ~ip to am- bition and fashion, rejoicing in his departure, and waiting only the mo- ment when she might with decency become the wife of another. Saville w.as almost maddened — he did not visit Clorinda for three days. She received him, when at last he came, without reproach, but with transport j she saw that sadness, even sickness, dimmed his eye ; she soothed him, she hung over him with fondness, she sung to him her sweetest, softest airs ; his heart melted, a tear .stole from his eye. Clorinda saw his ema- LODORE. 201 tion ; it excited hers ; her Neapolitan vivacity was not restrained by shame nor fear, — she spoke of her love for him with the vehemence she felt, and youth and beauty hallowed the frankness and energy of her expressions. Saville was touched and pleased, — he left her to meditate on this new state of things — for, free from passion himself, he had never suspected the growth of it in her heart. He reflected on all her admirable qualities, and the pity it was that they should be cast at the feet of one of her own unrefined, uneducated countrymen, who would be incapable of appre- ciating her talents — even her love — so that at last she would herself become degraded, and sink into that system of depravity which makes a prey of all that is lovely or noble in our nature. He could save her — she loved him, and he could save her ; lost as he was to real happiness, it were to approximate to it if he consecrated his life to her welfare. Yet he would not deceive her. The excess of love which she bestowed demanded a return which he could not give. She must choose whether, such as he was, he were worth accepting. Actuated by a sense of justice, he opened his 'heart to her without disguise: he told her of his ill-fated attachment to another — of his self-banishment, and misery — he declared his real and earnest affection for her — his desire to rescue her from hei present fate, and to devote his life to her. Clorinda scarcely heard what he said, — she felt only that she might become his — that he would marry her ; her rapture was undisguised, and he enjoyed the felicity of believing that one so lovely and excellent would at once owe every blessing of life to him, and that the knowledge of this must ensure his own content. The consent of her parents was easily yielded, — the Pope is always ready to grant a dispensation to a Catholic wife marrying a Protestant husband — the wedding speedily took place — and Saville became her husband. Their mutual torments now began. Horatio was a man of high and un- shrinking principle. He never permitted himself to think of Lady Lodore, and the warmth and tenderness of his heart led him to attach himself truly and affectionately to his wife. But this did not suffice for the Neapolitan. Her marriage withdrew the veil of life — she imagined that she distinguished the real fro n the fictitious, but her new sense of discernment was the source of torture. She desired to be loved as she loved ; she insisted that her rival should be hated — she was shaken by continual tempests o»" Jeal- ousy, and the violence of her temper, restrained by no reserve of disposition. displayed itself frightfully. Saville reasoned, reproached, reprehended, without any avail, except that when her violence had passed its crisis, she repented, and wept, and besought forgiveness. Ethel s visit had been a blow hard to bear. She was the daughter of her whom Saville loved — whom he regretted — on whom he expended that passion and idolatry, to attain which she would have endured the most dreadful tortures. These were the re- flections, or rathtr, these were the ravings, of Clorinda. She had never been so furious in her jealousy, or so frequent in her fits of passion, as during the visit of the unconscious and gentle Ethel. The birth of her chuJ operated a beneficial change for a time; and except, when Saville spoke of England, or she imagined that he was thinking of it, she ceased to to -ment him. He was glad ; but the moment was passed when she could command his esteem, or excite his spontaneous sympathy. He pitied and he loved her ; but it. was almost as we may become attached to an unfortunate and lovely maniac ; less than ever did he seek his happi- ness? in her. He loved his infant daughter now better than any other earthly thins;. Clorinda rejoiced in this tie, though she soon grew jealous even of her own child. The arrival of Lord Maristow and his daughters was at first full of bene- fit to the discordant pair. Clorinda was really desirous of obtaining theii 202 LODORE. esteem, and she exerted herself to please : when they talked of her return to England with them, it only excited her to try to render Italy so agreeable as to induce them to remain there. They were not like Ethel. They were good girls, but fashionable and fond of pleasure. Clorinda devised a thous and amusements — concerts, tableaux, the masquerades of the carnival, were all put in requisition. They carried their zeal for amusement, so far as to take up their abode for a day or two at Pompeii, feigning to be its an- cient inhabitants, and bringing the corps operatique to their aid, got up Ros- sini's opera of the Ultimi Giorni di Pompeii among the ruins, ending their masquerade by a mimic eruption. These gayetiesdid not accord with the classic and refined tastes of Saville ; but he was glad to find his wife and sisters agree so well, and under the blue sky, and in the laughing land of Naples, it was impossible not to find beauty and enjoyment even in extrav- agance and folly. Still, like a funeral bell heard amidst a feast, the name of England, and the necessity of her going thither, struck on the ear and chilled the heart of the Neapolitan. She resolved never to go ; but how could she refuse to accompany her husband's sisters ? how resist the admonitions and com- mands of his father ? She did not refuse therefore — she seemed to consent — while she said to Saville, " Poison, stab me — cast me down the crater of the mountain — exhaust your malice and hatred on me as you please here — but you shall never take me to England but as a corpse." Savilie replied, " As you will." He was tired of the struggle, and left the management of his departure to others. One day his sisters described the delights of a London season, and strove to win Clorinda by the mention of its balls, parties, and opera ; they spoke of Almack'Sj and the leaders of fashion ; they mentioned Lady Lodore. They were unaware that Clorinda knew any thing of their brother's attach- ment, and speaking of her as one of the most distinguished of their associates in the London world, made their sister-in-law aware that when she made a part of it she would come into perpetual contact with her rival. This allusion caused one of her most violent paroxysms of rage as soon as she found herself alone with her husband. So frantic did she seem, that Horatio spoke seriously to his father, and declared he knew of no argument nor pov jr which could induce Clorinda to accompany them to England. " Then I on must go without her," said Lord Manstow ; " your career, your family, your country, must not be sacrificed to her unreasonable folly." And then, wholly unaware of the character of the person with whom he had to deal, he repeated the same thing to Clorinda. " You must choose," he said, " between Naples and your husband — he must go ; do you prefer being left behind?" Clorinda grew pale, even livid. She returned home. Horatio was not there ; she raved through her house like a maniac ; her servants even hid her child from her, and she rushed from room to room tearing her hair, and calling for Saville. At length he entered ; her eyes were starting from her head, her frame working with convulsive violence ; she strove to speak — to give utterance to the vehemence pent up within her. She darted towards him ; when suddenly, as if s^ot to the heart, she fell on the marble pave- ment of her chamber, and a red stream poured from her lips — she had burst a blood vessel. - For many days she was not allowed to speak nor move. Saville nursed her unremittingly — he watched by her at night — he tried to soothe her — he brought her child to her side — his sweetness, and gentleness, and real tenderness, were all expended on her. Although violent, she was not. ungenerous. She was touched by his attentions, and the undisguised solicitude of his manner. She resolved to conquer herself, and in a fit of heroism formed the determination to yield, and to go tc England. Her first LODORE. 203 words, when permitted to speak, were to signify her assent. Saville kissed and thanked her. She had half imagined that he would imitate her gene- rosity, and give up the journey. No such thought crossed his mind ; her distaste was too unreasonable to elicit the smallest sympathy, and conse- quently any concession. He thanked her warmly, it is true, and looked delighted at this change ; but, without giving her time to retract, he hurried to communicate to his relations the agreeable tidings. As she grew better, she did not recede, but she felt miserable. The goo I spirits and ready preparations of Horatio were all acts of treason against her: sometimes she felt angry — but she checked herself. Like all Italians, Clorinda feared death excessively ; besides that, to die was to yield the entire victory to her rival. She struggled, therefore, and con- quered herself ; and neither expressed her angry jealousy nor her terrors. She had many causes of fear; she was again in a situation to increase her family within a few months ; and while her safety depended on her being able to attain a state of calm, she feared a confinement in England, and Delieved that it was impossible that she should survive. She was worn to a skeleton — her large eyes were sunk and ringed with black, while they burned with unnatural brilliancy, for her vivacity did not desert her, and that deceived those around ; they fancied that she was con- valescent, and would soon recover strength and good looks, while she nourished a deep sense of wrong for the slight attention paid to her suff'er- ngs. She wept over herself and her friendless state. Her husband was aot her friend, for he was not her countryman : and full as Saville was of generous sympathy and kindliness for all, the ideaof returnins to England, to his home and friends, to the stirring; scenes of life, and the society of those who loved literature, and were endowed with the spirit of liberal in- quiry and manly habits of thinking, so absorbed and delighted him, that he could only thank Clorinda again and again — caress her, and entreat her to get well, that she might share his pleasures. His wwds chilled her, and she shrunk from his caresses. " He is thinking of her, and of seeing her again," she thought. She did him the most flagrant injustice. Saville was a man of high and firm principle, and had he been aware of any latent weakness, of any emotion allied to the master-passion of his soul, he would have conquered it, or have fled from the temptation. He never thou ht less of Lady Lodore than now. The unwonted gentleness and concess ons of his wife, his love for his child, and the presence of his father and dear sisters, dissipated his regrets, — his conscience was wholly at ease, and he was happy. Clorinda dared not complain to her English relatives, but she listened to the lamentations of her Neapolitan friends with a luxury of wo. They mourned over her as if she were going to visit another sphere ; they pointed out the little island on a map, and seated far off* as it was amidst the north- ern sea, ni^ht and storms, they averred, perpetually brooded over it, while from the shape of the earth they absolutely proved that it was impossible to get there. It is true that Lord Maristow and his daughters, and Saville himself, had come thence — that was nothing — it was easy to come away. "You see," they said, " the earth slopes down, and the sun is before them ; but when they "have to go back, ah ! it is quite another affair ; the Alps rise, and the sea boils over, and they have to toil up the wall of the world itself into winter and darkness. It is tempting God to go there. Oh, stay, Clorinda, stay in sunny Italy. Orazio will return : do not go to die in that miserable birth-place of night and frost." Clorinda wept yet more bitterly over her hard fate, and the impossibility of yielding to their wishes. " Would to God," she thought, " I could abandon the ingrate, and let him go4ar from Italy and Clorinda, £o die in his wretched country ! Would I could forget, hate, desert him ! Ah, why 204 LODURJE, do I idol ze one born in that chilly land, where love and passion are un- known or despised !" At iength the day arrived when they left Naples. It was the month of May, and very warm. No imagination could paint the glorious beauty oi this country of enchantment, on the completion of spring, before the heats of summer had withered its freshness. The sparkling waves of the blue Mediterranean encircled the land, and contrasted with its hues : the rich foliage of the trees — the festooning of the luxuriant vines, and the abundant vegetation which sprung fresh from the soil, decorating the rocks, and mantling the earth with flowers and verdure, were all in the very prime and blossoming of beauty. The sisters of Saville expressed their admira- tion in warm and enthusiastic terms ; the words trembled on poor Clorinda's lips ; she was about to say, " Why then desert this land of bliss ?" but Horatio spoke instead: " It is splendid, I own, and once I felt all that you express. Now a path along a grassy held — a hedge-row — a copse with a rill murmuring through it — a white cottage with simple palings enclosing a flower-garden — the spire of a country church rising from among a tuft of elms — the skies all shadowy with soft clouds — and the homesteads of a happy thriving peasantry — these are the things I sigh for. A true English home-scene seems to me a thousand times more beautiful, as it must be a thousand times dearer, than the garish showy splendour of Na- ples." Clorinda's thoughts crept back into her chilled heart ; large tear-drops rose in her eyes, but she concealed them, and shrinking into a corner oi the carriage, she felt more lonely and deserted that she would have cone among strangers who had loved Italy, and participated in her feelings. They arrived at the inn called the Villa di Cicerone, at the Mola di Gaeta. All the beauty of the most beautiful part of the Peninsula seems concentred in that enchanting spot — the perfume of orange flowers filled the air — the sea was at their feet — the vine-clad hills around. All this excess of loveliness only added to the unutterable misery of the Neapolitan girl. Her companions talked and laughed, while she felt her frame con- vulsed by internal combats, and the unwonted command she exercised over her habitual vehemence. Horatio conversed gayly with his sisters, till catching a glimpse of the pale face of his wretched wife, her mournful eves, and wasted cheeks, he drew near her. " You are fatigued, dearest Clorinda," he said ; " will you not go to rest ?" He said this in a tender caressing tone, but she felt, " He wants to send me away — to get rid even of the sight of me." But he sat down by her, and perceiving her dejection, and guessing partly at its cause, he soothed her, and talked of their return to her native land, and cheered her by expres- sions of gratitude for the sacrifice she was making. Her heart began to soften, and her tears to flow more freely, when a man entered, such as haunt the inns in Italy, and watch for the arrival of rich strangers to make profit in various ways out of them. This man had a small picture for sale, which he declared to be an original Carlo Dolce. It was the head of a seraph painted on copper — it was probably a copy, but it was beautifully executed ,• besides the depth of colour and grace of design, there was some- thing singularly beautiful in the expression of the countenance portrayed, — it symbolized happiness and love ; a beaming softness animated the whole face , a perfect joy, an ineffable radiance shone out of it. Clorinda took it in her hand — the representation of Ifeart-felt gladness increased her self- pity ; she was turning towards her husband with a reproachful look, think- ing, ".Such smiles you have banished from my face for ever," — when Sophia Saville, who was looking over her shoulder, exclaimed, "What an extraordinary resemblance ! — there was never any thing so like." " Who ? what ?" asked her sister. LJDORE, 205 "It is Lady Lodoie herself," replied Sophia ; " her eyes, her mouth, her very smiles " Lucy gave a quick glance towards her brother. Horatio involuntarily stepped forward to look, and then as hastily drew back. Clorinda saw it all — she put down the picture, and left the room — she could not stay — . she could not speak — she knew not what she felt, but that a fiery torture was eating into her, and she must fly, she knew not whither. Saviile was pained; he hesitated what to doer say — so he remained; supper was brought in, and Clorinda not appearing, it was supposed that she had re- tired to rest. In about an hour and a half after, lloiatio went into her room, and to his horror beheld her stretched upon the cold bricks of the chamber, senseless ; the moonbeams rested on her pale face, which bore the hues of death. In a moment the house was alarmed, the village doctor summoned, a courier despatched to Naples for an English physician, and every possible aid afforded the wretched sufferer. She was placed on the bed, — she still lived; her faint pulse could not be felt, and no blood flowed when a vein was opened, but she groaned, and now and then opened her eyes with a ghastly stare, and closed them again as if mechanically. All was horror and despair — no help — no resource presented itself: they hung round her, they listened to her groans with terror, and yet they were the only signs of life that disturbed her death-like state. At last, soon after the dawn of day, she became convulsed, her pulse fluttered, and blood flowed from her wounded arm ; in about an hour from this time she gave birth, to a dead child. After this she grew calmer and fainter. The physician arrived, but she was past mortal cure, — she never opened her eyes more, nor spoke, nor gave any token of consciousness. By degrees her groans ceased, and she faded into death : the slender manifestations of lingering vitality gradu- ally decreasing till all was stdl and cold. After an hour or two her face resumed its loveliness, pale and wasted as it was : she seemed to sleep, and none could regret that repose possessed that heart, which had been alive only to the deadliest throes of unhappy passion. Yet Saviile did more than regret — he mourned her sincerely and deeply, — he accused himself of hard-heartedness, — he remembered what she was when he had first seen her ; — how full of animation, beauty, and love. He did not remember that she had perished the victim of uncontrolled passion ; he felt that she was his victim. He would have given worlds to restore her to life and en- joyment. What was a residence in England — the promises of ambition — the pleasures of his native land — all that he could feel or know, com- pared to the existence of one so young, so blessed with Heaven's choicest gifts of mind and person. She was his victim, and he could never forgive himself. For his father's and sisters' sake he subdued the expression of his grief, for they also loved Clorinda, and were struck with sorrow at the sudden catastrophe. His strong mind, also, before long, mastered the false view he had taken of the cause of her death. He lamented her deeply, but he did not give way to unavailing remorse, which was founded on his sensibility, and not on any just cause for repentance. He turned all his thoughts to repairing her errors, rather than his own, by cherishing her child with redoubled fondness. The little girl was too young to feel her loss ; she had always loved her father, and now she clung to his bosom and pressed her infant lips to his cheek, and by her playfulness and caresses repaid him for the tenderness that he lavished on her. After some weeks spent in the north of Italy he returned to England with her. Lord Maristow and his daughters were already there, and had gone to Maristow Castle. Saviile took upjiis abode with his cousin Vil- liers. His situation was new and strange. He found himself in the very abode of the dreaded Cornelia, yet she was awav, unheard of, almost, u 34—2 20b LODORE. seemed, forgotten. Did he think of her as he saw the traces of ly-gone scenes around ? He played with his child — he secluded himself among his books — he talked with Ethel of what had happened since their parting, and reproached Villiers bitterly for not having applied to him in his distress. But a kind of spell sealed the lips of each, and Lady Lodore, who was the living spirit of the scene around — the creator of its peace and happiness — seemed to have passed away from the memory of all. It was in appearance only. Not an hour, not a minute of the day passed, that did not bring her idea to their minds, and Saville and Ethel each longed for the word to be uttered by either, w r hich would permit them to give expression to the thoughts that so entirely possessed them. CHAPTER LI. The music Of man's fair composition best accords, When 'tis h consort, not in single strains: My heart has been untuned these many months, Wanting her presence, in whose equal love True harmony consisted. FORT). At the beginning of September the whole party assembled at Maristow Castle. Even Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry was among the guests. She hac not visited Ethel in London, because she would not enter Lady Lodore's house, but she had the true spinster's desire of seeing the baby, and thus overcame her reluctance to quitting Longfield for a few weeks. Fanny Derham also accompanied themj unable to deny Ethel's affectionate en- treaties. Fanny's situation had been beneficially changed. Sir Gilbert Derham, finding that his granddaughter associated with people in the world, and being applied to by Lord Maristow, was induced to withdraw Mrs, Derham from her mean Situation, and to settle a small fortune on each of her children. Fanny was too young, and too wedded to her platonic notions of the supremacy of mind, to be fully aware of the invaluable advantages of pecuniary independence for a woman. She fancied that she could enter on the career — the only career permitted her sex — of servitude, and yet possess her soul in freedom and power. She had never, indeed, thought much of these things : life was, as it concerned herself, a system of words only. As always happens to the young, she only knew suffering through her affections, and the real chain of life — its necessities and cares — and the sinister influences exercised by the bad passions of our fellow-creatures — had not yet begun to fetter her aspiring thoughts. Beautiful in her freedom, in her enthusiasm, and even in her learning, but, above all, in the lively kindliness of her heart, she excited the wonder and commanded the affections of all. Saville had never seen any one like her — she brought to his recollection his own young feelings before experience had lifted " the painted veil which those who live call life,"' or passion and sorrow had tamed the ardour of his mind ; he looked on her with admira- tion, and yet with compassion, wondering where and how the evil spirit of the world would show its power to torment and conquer the free soul of the disciple of wisdom. Yet Saville's own mind was rather rebuked than tamed : he knew what suffering was, yet he knew also how to endure it, and to turn it to advan- tage, deriving thence lessons of fortitude, of forbearance, and even of hope. It was not, however, till the seal on his lips was taken off, and the name of Cornelia mentioned, that he came aware that the same heart warmed his LODORE. 207 bosom, as had been the cause at once of such rapture and misery in former times. Yet even now he did not acknowledge to himself that he still loved, passionately, devotedly loved, Lady Lodore. The image of the pale ClorirHa stretched on the pavement — his victim — still dwelt in his memory, and he made a sacrifice at. her tomb of every living feeling of his own. He fancied, therefore, that he spoke coldly of Cornelia, with specula- tion only, while, in fact, at the very mention of her name a revulsion took place in his being —his eyes brightened, his face beamed with animation, his very figure enlarged, his heart was on fire within him. Villiers saw and appreciated these tokens of passion ; but Ethel only perceived an in- terest, in her mother, shared with herself, and was half angry that he made no professions of the constancy of his attachment. Still, day after day, and soon all day long, they talked of Lady Lodore. None but a lover and a daughter could have adhered so pertinaciously to one subject ; and thus Saville and Ethel were often left to themselves, or joined only by Fanny. Fanny was very mysterious and alarming in what she said of her beautiful and interesting favourite. While Ethel lamented her mother's love of the continent, conjectured concerning her return, and dwelt on the pleasures of their future intercourse, Fanny shook her head, and said, " It was strange, very strange, that not one letter had yet reached them from her." She was asked to explain, but she could only say, that when she last saw Lady Loaore, she was impressed by the idea that all was not as it seemed. She tried to appear as if acting according to the ordinary routine of life, and yet was evidently agitated by violent and irrepressible feeling. Her manner she had herself fancied to be calm, and yet it betrayed a wandering of thought, a fear of being scrutinized, manifested in her repetition of the same phrases, and in the earnestness with which she made assurances concerning matters of the most trivial import. This was all that Fanny could say, but she was intimately persuaded of the correctness of her observation and lamented that she had not inquired further and discov- ered more. " For," she said, " the mystery, whatever it is. springs from the most honourable motives. There was nothing personal nor frivolous in the feelings that mastered her ;" and Fanny feared that at that very mo- ment she was sacrificing herself to some project — some determination, which, while it benefited others, was injuring herself. Ethel, with all her affection for her mother, was not persuaded of the justice of these suspi- cions, nor could be brought to acknowledge that the mystery of Lady Lo- dore's absence was induced by any motives as strange and forcible as those suggested by Fanny ; but believed that her young friend was carried away by her own imagination and high-flown ideas. Saville was operated dif- ferently open. He became uneasy, thoughtful, restless : a thousand times he was on the point of setting out to find a clue to the mystery, and to dis cover the abode of the runaway, — but he was restrained. It it usually supposed that women are always under the influence of one sentiment, and if Lady Lodore acted under the direction and for the sake of another, wherefore should Saville interfere ? what right had he to investigate her secrets, and disturb her arrangements ? Several months passed. Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry returned to Longfield, and still the mystery concerning Ethel's mother continued, and the wonder increased. Soon after Christmas Mr. Gayland, who was also Lord Maris- tow's solicitor, came down to the castle for a few days. He made inqui- ries concerning Lady Lodore, and was somewhat surprised at her strange disappearance and protracted absence. He asked several questions, and seemed to form conclusions in his own mind ; he excited the curiositv ol all, yet restrained himself from satisfying it; he was evidently disquieted by her unbroken silence, yet feared to betray the origin of his uneasiness. While he remained curiosity was dominant : when he went he requested 20S LODORE. Villiers to be good enough, to let him know if any thing should be heaid of Lady Lodore. He asked this more than once, and required an absolute promise. After his departure, his questions, his manner, and his last words recurred, exciting even mere surprise than when he had been present, Fanny brought forward all he said to suppoit her own conjectures ; a shad- ow of disquiet crossed Ethel's mind ; she asked Villiers to take some steps to discover where .her mother was, and on his refusal, argued earnestly, though vainly, to persuade him to comply. Villiers was actuated by the common-place maxim of not interfering with the actions and projects of others. "Lady Lodore is not a child,'' he said ; " she knows what she is about — has she not always avoided you, Ethel ? Why press yourself inop- portunely upon her?" But Ethel was not now to be convinced by the repetition of these argu- ments. She urged her mother's kindness and sacrifice; her having given up her home to them ; her.house still unclaimed by hei - , still at their dispo- sal, and which contained so many things which must have been endeared by long use and habit, and the relinquishing of which showed something extraordinary in her motives. This was a woman s feeling, and made little impression on Villiers — he was willing to praise and to thank Lady Lo- dore for her generosity and kindness, but he suspected nothing beyond hei acknowledged acts. « Saville heard this disquisition ; he wished Villiers to be convinced — he was persuaded that Ethel was right — he was angry at his cousin's obsti- nacy — he was miserable at the idea that Cornelia should feel herself treated with neglect — that she should need protection and not have it — that^shs should be. alone, and not find assistance proffered, urged upon her. He mounted his horse and took a solitary ride, meditating on these things — his imagination became heated, his soul on fire. He pictured Lady Lodore in solitude and desertion, and his heart boiled within him. Was she sick, and none near her? — was she dead, and her grave unvisited and unknown ? A lover's fancy is as creative as a poet s, and when once it takes hold of any idea, it clings to it tenaciously. If it is thus even with ordinary minds, how much more with Saville, with all the energy which was his character- istic, and the latent fire of love burning in his heart. His resolution was sudden, and acted on at once. He turned his horse's head towards Lon- don. On reaching the nearest town, he ordered a chaise and four post horses. He wrote a few hurried lines announcing an absence of two or three days, and with the rapidity that always attended the conception of his purposes and their execution, the next morning, having travelled all night, he was in Mr. Gayland s office, questioning that gentleman concerning Lady Lodore, and seeking from him all the light he could throw upon her long-continued and mysterious absence. Mr. Gayland had promised Lady Lodore not to reveal her secret to Mr. or Mrs. Villiers ; but he felt himself free to communicate it to any other person. He was very glad to get rid of the burden and even the respon- sibility of being her sole confidant. He related all he knew to Saville, and the truth flashed on the lover's mind. His imagination could not dupe him — he could conceive, and therefore believe in her generosity, her magna- nimity. He had before, in some degree, divined the greatness of mind ol which Lady Lodore was capable ; though, as far as regarded himself, her pride, and his modesty, had deceived him. ]Now he became at once aware that Cornelia had beggared herself for Ethel's sake. She had disposed of her jointure, given up the residue of her income, and wandered away, poor and alone, to avoid the discovery of the extent and consequences of her sacrifices. Saville left Mr. Gaylands office with a bursting and a burning heart. At once he paid a warm tribute of admiration to her virtues, and acknowledged to himself his own passionate love. It became a duty, in his LODORE. 209 eyes, to respect, revere, adore one so generous and noble. He was proud of the selection his heart had made, and of his constancy. "My own Cornelia," such was his reverie, " how express your merit and the admira- tion it deserves! — other people talk of generosity, and friendship, and parental affection — but you manifest a visible image of these things ; and while others theorize, you imbody in your actions all that can be imagined of glorious and an relic." He congratulated himself on being able to return to the genuine sentiments of his heart, and in finding reality give sanction to the idolatry of his soul. He longed to pour out his feelings at her feet, and to plead the cause of his fidelity ani affection, to read in her eyes whether she would see a reward for his sufferings in his attachment. Where was she, to receive his protestations and vows ? He half forgot, in the fervour of his feelings, that he knew not whither she had retreated, nor possessed any clue where- by to find her. He returned to Mr. Grayland to inquire from him ; but he could tell nothing ; he went to her house and questioned the servants, they remembered nothing; at last he found her maid, and learned from her where she was accustomed to hire her post-horses-; this was all the infor- mation at which he could arrive. Going to Newman's, with some difficulty he found the post-boy, who remembered driving her. By his means he traced her to Reading, but here all clue was lost. The inn to which she had gone had passed into other hands, and no one knew any thing about the arrivals and departures of the preceding summer. He made various perquisitions, and lighted by chance on the servant she had taken with her to Reading, and there dis- missed. Prom what he said, and a variety of other circumstances, he became convinced that she had gone abroad, He searched the foreign pa^po-t office, and found that one had been taken out at the French Am- bassxdor's in the month of April, by a Mrs. Fitzhenry. He persuaded himelf that this was proof that she had goneto Paris. It was mostprob- bible that impoverished as she was, and desirous of concealing her altered situation, that she should, as Lodore had formerly done, dismiss a title which wouH at once encumber and betray her. He immediately resolved to cross to France. And yet for a moment he hesitated, and reflected on what it was best to do. He had given no intimation of his proceedings to his cousin, and they were unaware that his journey was connected with Lady Lodore. He had a lover's wish to find her himself— himself to be the only source of conso- lation — the only mediator to restore her to her daughter and to happiness. B it his fruitless attempts at discovery made him see that his wishes were not to be effected easily. He felt that he ought to communicate all he kn^w to his cousins, and even to ensure their assistance in his researches, Befo-e going abroad, therefore, he returned to Maristow Castle. He arrived late in the evening. Lord Maristow and his daughters were gone out to dinner. The three persons whom Saville especially wished to see alone occupied the drawing-room. Edward was writing to his father, who had advised him, now that he had a son, entirely to cut off the entail, and mortgage a great part of the property : it was a distasteful task to answer the suggestions of unprincipled selfishness. While he was thus occupied, Ethel had taken from her desk her mother's last letter, and was reading it again and again, weighing every syllable, and endeavouring to discover a hidden meaning. She went over to the sofa on which Fanny wis sitting, to communicate to her a new idea that»had struck her. The studious girl had got into a corner with her Cicero, and was reading the Tusculan Questions, which she readily laid aside to enter on a suhject so deeplv interesting. Saville opened the door, and appeared most unex pectedlv among them. His manner was eager and abrupt, and the first 2* 210 LODORE. words he uttered were, " I am come to disturb you all, and to beg of you to return to London : — no time must be lost — can you go to-morrow?" "Certainly," said Villiers, "if you wish it." «« But why ?" asked Ethel. " You have found Lady Lodore !" exclaimed Fanny. " You are dreaming, Fanny," said Ethel ; " you see Horace shakes his head. But if we go to-morrow, yet rest to-night. You are fatigued, pale, anl ill, Horace — you have been exerting yourself too much — explain your wishes, but take repose and refreshment." Saville was in too excited a state to think of either. He repelled Ethel's feminine offers, till he had related his story. His listeners heard him with amazement. Villiers's cheeks glowed with shame, partly at the injustice of his former conduct — partly at being the object of so much sacrifice and beneficence on the part of his mother-in-law. Fanny's colour also height- ened ; she clasped her nands in delight, mingling various exclamations with Savdle's story. "Did I not say so? I was sure of it. If you had seen her when 1 did, on the day of her going away, you would have been as certain as I." Ethel wept in silence, her heart was touched to the core, "the remorse of love" awakened in it. How cold and ungrateful had been all her actions : engrossed by her love for her husband she had bestowed nc sympathy, made no demonstrations towards her mother. Trie false shame and Edward's oft-repeated arguments which had kept her back, vanished from her mind. She reproached herself bitterly for lukewarmness and neglect; she yearrjed to show her repentance — to seek forgiveness — tc express, however feebly, her sense of her mother's angelic goodness. Her tears flowed to think of these things, and that her mother was away, poor and alone, believing herself wronged in all their thoughts, resenting perhaps their unkindness, mourning over the ingratitude of her child. When the first burst of feeling was over, they discussed their future proceedings. Saville communicated his discoveries and his plan of ciossing to France. Villiers was as#ager as his cousin to exert himself actively in the pursuit. His ingenuous and feeling mind was struck by his injustice, and he was earnest in his wish to atone for the past, and to recompense her, if possible, for her sacrifices. As everyone is apt to do with regard to the ideas of others, he was not satisfied with his cousin's effoits or conclu- sions ; he thought more questions might be asked — more learned at the inns on the route which Lady Lodore had taken. The passport Saville had imagined to be hers was taken out for Dover. Reading was far removed from any road to Kent. They argued this. Horatio was not convinced ; but while he was bent on proceeding to Paris, Edward resolved to visit Reading — to examine the neighbourhood — to requestion the servants — to put on foot a system of inquiry which must in the end assure them whether she was still in the kingdom. It was at once resolved that on the morrow they should go to London. Thither they accordingly went. They repaired to Lady Lodore's house. Saville on the next morning departed for Fi ance, and a letter soon reached them from him, saying, that he felt persuaded that the Mrs. Fitzhenry was Lady Lodore, and that he should pursue his way with all speed to Paris. It appeared, that the lady in question had crossed to Calais on the eleventh of June, and intimated her design of going to the Bagneres de Bigorre among the Pyrennees passing; through Paris on her way. The mention of the Bagneres de Bisorre clinched Saville's suspicions — it was such a place as one in Lady Lodore's gpsition mi°;ht select for her abode — distant, secluded, situated in sublime ani beautiful scenery, singularly cheap, and seldom visited by strangers ; yet the annual resort of the French from Bourdeaux and Lyons, civilized what otherwise had been too rude and wild for an English lady. It was a long journey thither — the less wonder that nothing LODORE. 211 was heard, or seen, or surmised concerning the absentee by her numerous acquaintances, many of whom were scattered on the continent. Saville represented all th>se thins;,?, and expressed his conviction that he should find her. His letter was brief, for he was hurried, and he felt that it were better to say nothing than to express imperfectly the conflicting emotions alive in his heart. " My life seems a dream," he said at the conclusion of his letter ; " a long painful dream, since last I saw her. I awake, she is not here ; I go to seek her — my actions have that single scope — my thoughts tend to that aim only; I go to find her — to restore her to Ethel. If I suc- ceed in bestowing this happiness on her, I shall have my reward, and, what- ever happens, no selfish regret shall tarnish my delight." He urged Villiers, meanwhile, not to rely too entirely on the conviction so strong in himself, but to pursue his plan of discovery with vigour. Vil- liers needed no spur. His eagerness was fully alive ; he could not rest till he had rescued his mother-in-law from solitude and obscurity. He visited Reading ; he extended his inquiries to Newbury: here more light broke in on his researches. He heard of Lady Lodore's illness — of her having resided for several months at a villa in the neighbourhood, while slowly re- covering from a fever by which for a longtime her life had been endangered. He heard also of her departure, her return to London. Then again all was obscurity. The innkeepers and letters of post-horses in London, were all visited in vain — the mystery became as impenetrable as ever. It seemed most probable that she was living in some obscure part of the metropolis — Ethd's heart sunk within her at the thought. Edward wrote to Saville to communicate this intelligence, which put an end to the idea of her being in France — but he was already gone on to Baimeres. He himself perambulated London and its outskirts, but all in vain. The very thought that she should be residing in a place so sad, nay, so humiliatinq;, without, one gilding circumstance to solace poverty and ob- scurity, was unspeakably painful both to Villiers and his wife. Ethel thought of her own abode in Duke-street during her husband's absence, and how miserable and forlorn it had been — she now wept bitterly, over her mother's fate ; even Fanny's philosophy could not afford consolation for these ideas. An accident, however, gave a new turn to their conjectures. In the drawer of a work-table, Ethel found an advertisement cut out of a newspaper, setting firth the rjerits of a cottage to be let near Rhyaider Gowy in Rad- norshire, and with this, a letter from the agent at Rhyaider, dated the 13th of VLav, in answer to inquiries concerning the rent and particulars. The letter intimated, that if the account gave satisfaction, the writer would get the cottage prepared for the tenant immediately, and the lady might take possession at the time mentioned, on the 1st of June. The day after find- in <* this l Q tter, Villiers set out for Wales. ^ But first he persuaded Ethel to spend the interval of his absence at Long fi dd. She had latelv fretted much concerning her mother, and .as she was stdl nurshiT her baby, Edward became uneasy at her pale cheeks and thinness. Ethel was anxious to preserve her health for her child ; she felt that her uneasiness and pining would be lessened by a removal into the country. She was useless in London, and there was something in her res- idence in her mother's house — in the aspect of the streets — in the mem- orv of what she had suffered there, and the fear that Lady Lodore was enduring a worse repetition of the same evils, that agitated and preyed upon her. Her aunt had pressed her very much to come and see her, and she wrote to sav that she might be expected on the following day. She bade adieu to Villiers with more of hope with regard to his success than she had formerly felt. She became half convinced that her mother was not in London. Fanny supported her in these ideas ; they talked continu- ally of all the v knew — of the illness of Lady Lodore — of her firmnesg 212 LODORE. of purpose in not sending for her daughter, or altering her plans in con- sequence ; they comforted themselves that the air of Wales would re- store her health, and the beauty of the scenery and the freedom of nature soothe her mind. They were full of hope — of more — of expectation. Ethel, indeed, had at one time proposed accompanying her husband, but she yielded to his entreaties, and to the fear suggested, that she might in- jure her child's health. Villiers s motions would be more prompt without her. They separated. Ethel wrote to Saville a letter to find him at Paris, containing an account of their new discoveries, and then prepared for her journey to Essex with Fanny, her baby, and the beautiful little Clorinda Sa- ville, who had been left under her care, on the following day. CHAPTER LII. I am not one who much or oft delights To season my Friends with personal talk, — Of Friends who live within an easy walk, Or Neighbours, daily, weekly in my sight ; And, for my chance acquaintance, Ladies bright. Sons, Mothers, Maidens, withering on the stalk, These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk Painted on rich men's floors, for one feastnicht. Wordsworth. Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry returned to Longfield from Maristow Cas- tle at the end of the month of November. She gladly came back, in all the dingriness and bleakness of that dismal season, to her beloved seclusion at Longfield. The weather was dreary, a black frost invested every thing with its icy chains, the landscape looked disconsolate, and now arid then wintry blasts brought on snow-storms, and howled loudly through the long dark nights. The amiable spinster drew her chair close to the fire ; with half-shut eyes she contemplated the glowing embers, and recalled many past winters just like this, when Lodore was alive and in America ; or, diving yet deeper into memory, when the honoured chair she now occu- pied had been dignified by her father, and she had tried to soothe his quer- ulous complaints on the continued absence of her brother Henry. When, instead of these familiar thoughts, the novel ones of EtViel and Villers intruded themselves, she rubbed her eyes to be quite sure that she di>' not dream. It was a lamentable change; and who the cause? Even s.ne whose absence had been, she felt, wickedly lamented at Maristow Casde, Cornelia Santarre — she^who in an evil hour had become Lady Lodore, and who would before God answer for the disasters and untimely death of her ill-fated husband. With any but Mrs, Fitzhenry, such accusations had, after the softening process of time, been changed to an admission, that, despite her errors, Lady Lodore had rather been misled and mistaken, than heinously faulty ; and her last act, in sacrificing so much to her daughter, although the extent of her sacrifice was unknown to her sister-in-law, had cancelled her former delinquencies. But the prejudiced old lady was not so easily mollified ; she was harsh alone towards her, but all the gall of her nature was collected and expended on the head of her brother's widow. Probably an instinctive feeling of her unreasonableness made her more violent. Her laneua^e was bitter whenever she alluded to her — she rejoiced at her absence, and in- stead of entering into Ethel's gratitude and impatience, she fervently prayed that she might, never appear on the scene again. Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry was less of a gossip than any maiden lady who LODORE. 218 had ever lived singly in the centre of a little village. Her heart was full of the dead and the absent — of past events, and their long train ©f con- sequonces ; so that the history of the inhabitants of her village possessed no char n for her. If any one among them suffered from misfor une, she en- deavoured to relieve them, and if any died, she lamented, moralized on the passage of time, and talked of Lo lore's death ; but the scandal, the mar- riages, the feuds, and wonderful things that came to pass at LongnYld, appeared childish and contemptible, the flickering of earth-born tapers, com- pared to the splendour, the obscuration, and final setting of the celestial luminary which had been the pole-star of her life. It was from this reason that Mrs. Fitzhenry had not heard of the Lady who lodged at Dame Nixon's cottage, in the Vale of Bewling, till the time, when, after having exhausted the curiosity of Longfield, she was almost forgotten. The Lady, she was known by no other name, had arrived in the town during Mrs. Fitzhenry's visit to Maristow Castle. She had ar- rived in her own chariot, unattended by any servant ; the following day she had taken up her abode at Dame Nixon's cottage, saying, that she was only going to stay a week : she had continued there for more than three months. Dame Nixon's cottage was situated about a mile and a half from Long- field. It stood alone in a little hollow embowered by trees ; the ground behind rose to a slight upland, and a nil trickled through the garden. You got to it by a by-path, which no wheeled vehicle could traverse, though a horse might, and it was indeed the very dingle and cottage which Ethel had praised during her visit into Essex in the preceding year. The silence and seclusion were in summer tranquillizing and beautiful ; in winter sad and drear; the fields were swampy in wet weather, and in snow and frost it seemed cut off from the rest of the world. Dame Nixon and her grand- daughter lived there alone. The girl had been engaged to be married. Her lover jilted her, and wedded a richer bride. The story is so old, that it is to be wondered that women have not ceased to lament so common an occurrence. Poor Margaret was, on the contrary, struck to the heart — she despised herself for being; unable to preserve her lover's affections, rather than the deceiver for his infidelity. She neglected her personal appearance, nor ever, showed herself among her former companions, except to support hpr grandmother to church. Her false lover sat in the adjoining pew. She fixed her eyes on her prayer-book during the service, and on the ground as she went away. She did not wish him to see the change which his faithlessness had wrought, for surely it would arflict him. Once there had not bloomed a fresher or gayer rose in the fields of Essex — now she had grown *thin and pale — her young light step had become slow and heavy — sickness and sorrow made her eyes hollow, and her cheeks sunken. She avoided every one, devoting he/self to attendance on her grandmother. Da ne "Nixon was nearly doting. Life was ebbing fast from her old frame ; her best pleasure was to sun herself in the garden in summer, or to bask before the winter's fire. While enjoying these delights, her dimmed eyes brightened, and a smile wreathed her withered lips ; she said, "Ah! this is comfortable ;" while her broken-hearted grandchild envied a state of b^ing which could content itself with mere animal enjoyment. They were very poor. Margaret had to work hard ; but the thoughts of the head, or, at least, the feelings of the heart, need not wait on the labour of the hands. The Sunday visit to church kept alive her pain ; her very pravers were bitter, breathed close to the deceiver and her who had usurped her happi- ness : the memory and anticipation haunted her through the week ; she v/as often blinded by tears as she patiently pursued her household duties, or her toil in their little garden. Her hands were hardened with work, her 214 LO$ORE. throat, her face sunburnt ; but exercise and occupation dio not prevent her from wasting away, or her cheek from becoming sunk and v an. • Dame Nixon s cottage was poor but roomy : some years before, a gen- tleman from London had, in a freak, hired two rooms in it, and furnished them. Since then, she had sometimes let them, and now they weie occu- pied by the stranger lady. At first all three of the inhabitants appeared each Sunday at church. The Lady was dressed in spotless and simple white, and so closely veiled, that no one could see her face ; of course she was beautiful. Soon after Mrs. Elizabeth's return from Maristow Castl , it was discovered that tirst the lady stayed away, and soon, that the whole party absented themselves on Sunday ; and as this defalcation demanded inquiry, it was discovered that a pony chaise took them three miles off' to the church of the nearest village. This was a singular and yet a beneficial change. The false swain must rejoice at losing sight of the memento ol his sin, and Margaret would certainly pray with a freer heart, when she no longer shrunk from his gaze and that of his wife. It was not until the end of January that Mrs. Elizabeth heard of the Lady ; it was not till the beginning of February that she" asked a single question about her. In January, passing the inn-yard, the curate's wife, who was walking with her, said, " There is the chariot belonging to the Lady who lodges at Dame Nixon's cottage. I wonder who she is. The arms are painted out." " Ah, Dame Nixon has a lodger then ; that is a good thing, it will help her through the winter. I have not seen her or her daughter at church lately." "No," replied the other, " they go now to Bewling church." "I am glad to hear it," said Mrs. Fitzhenry ; "'it is much better for poor Margaret not to come here." The conversation went on, and the Lady was alluded to, but no ques- tions were asked or curiosity excited. In February she heard from the doctor s wife, that the doctor had been to the cottage, and that the Lady was indisposed. She heard at the same time that this Lady had refused to receive the visits of the curate's lady and the doctor s lady — excusing her- self, that she was going to leave Essex immediately. This had happened two months before. On hearing of her illness, Mrs. Elizabeth thought of calling on her, but this stopped her. " It is very odd," said the doctor's wife ; " she came in her own carriage, and yet has no servants. She lives in as poor a way as can be, down in the cottage, yet my husband says she is more like the Glueen of England in her looks and ways than any one he ever saw." . " Like the Glueen of England ?" said Mrs. Fitzhenry ; " what queen ? — Glueen Charlotte?" who had been the queen of the greater pait of the good lady's life. '• She is as young and beautiful as an angel," said the other, half angry ; "it is very mysterious. She did not look downcast like, as if any thing was wrong, but was as cheerful and condescending as could be. 'Conde- scending, doctor,' said I, for my husband used the word ; ' you don t want condescension from a poor body lodging at Dame Nixon's.' — 'A poor body!' said he, in a huff, 'she is more of a lady, indeed more like the Glueen of England than any rich body you ever saw.' And what is odd, no one knOws her name — Dame Nixon and Margaret always call her Lady — the very marks are picked out from her pocket handkerchiefs. Yet I did hear that there was a coronet plain to be seen on one — a thing impossible unless she was a poor castaway ; and the doctor says he'd lay his life that she was nothing of that. He must know her name when he makes out her bill, and I told him to ask it plump, but he puts off, and puts off, till I am out of all patience." LODORE* 215 A misty confused sense of discomfort stole over Mrs. Elizabeth when she heard of the coronet in the corner of the pocket handkerchief but it passed away without suggesting any distinct idea to her mind. Nor did she feel curiosity about the stranger — she was too much accustomed to the aston- ish nent, the conjectures, the gossip of Lonj;field, to suppose that there was any ieal foundation for surprise, because its wonder loving inhabitants cn.jse to build up a mystery out of eve y common occurrence of life. This absence of inquisitiveness must long have kept Mrs. Fitzhenry in ignora ice of who her neighbour was, and the inhabitants of Longneid would probably have discovered it before her, had not the truth been revealed even before she entertained a suspicion that there was any secret to be found out. u I beg your pardon, ma'am," said her maid to her one evening, as she was superintending the couchee of the worthy spinster, "I think you ought to k low ; though I am afraid you may be angry — " The woman hesitated ; her mistres-s encouraged her. " If it is any thing I ought to know, Wilmot, tell it at once, and don't be afraid. What has happened to you?" "To me, ma'am, — la! nothing,'' replied the maid; "it's something about the lady at Dame Nixon's, only you commanded me never to speak the name of — " And again the £0<~ d woman stopped short. Mrs. Fitzhenry, a little sur- prised, and somewhat angry, bade her go on. At length, in plain words she was told : " Why, ma'am, the lady down in the Vale is no other than my lady — than Lady Lodore." " Ridiculous — who told you so V* "My own eyes, ma'am; i shouldn't have believed anything else. I saw the lady, and it was my lady, as sure as I stand here." *■ But how could you know her? it is years since you saw her." "Yes ma'am," said the woman, with a smile of superiority ; " but it is not easy to forget Lady Lodore. See her yourself, ma'am, — you will know then that I am right." Wilmot had lived twenty y a a*-s with Mrs. Fitzhenry. She had visited town w th her at the time of Ethel's christening She had been kept in Vexatious ignorance of subsequent events, till the period of the visit of her mistress and niece to London two years before, when she indemnified her- self. Through the servants of Vilfiers, and of the Misses Saville, she had learned a vast deal ; and not satisfied with mere hearsay, she had seen Lady Lodore several times getting into her carriage at her own door, and had even been into her house: such energy is there in a liberal curiosity. The same disinterested feeling had caused her to 2:0 down to Dame Nixon's with an offer from her mistress of service to the lady, hearing she was ill. She went perfectly unsuspicious of the wonderful discovery she was about to make, and was thus rewarded bevond her most san mine hopes by being in possession of a secret, known to hfifself alone. The keeping of a secret is, however, a post of no honour if all knowled Te be confined to the posses- sor alone. Mrs. Wilmot was tolerably faithful, w'th all h°r love of know- led *e ; she was sure it would v ^x her mistress if Ladv Lodore's strange place of abode wei*e known at Lon?field. and Mrs. Fitzhenry was conse- quently the first pe-son to whom sh^ had hinted the fact. All this account she detailed with great .volubility. Her mistress recommended discretion most earnestly ; and at the same time expressed a doubt whether her infor- mation was correct. "I wish you would ^0 and judore for yourself, ma'am," said the m*id. "God forbid!" exclaimed Mrs. Fitzhenry. "God grant I never see Lady Lodore again ! She will go soon. You tell me that Dame Nixon SI 6 LODORE* says she is only staying till she is well. She will go soon, and it need never be known, except to ourselves, Wilmot, that she was ever there." There was a dignity in this eternal mystery that somewhat compensated for the absence of wonder and fuss which the woman had anticipated with intense pleasure. She assured her mistress, over and over again, of hei secrecy and discretion, and was dismissed with the exhortation to forget all she had learned as quickly as possible. "Wherefore did she come here? what can she be doing?" Mrs. Fitz- henry asked herself over and over again. She could net guess. It Mas strange, it was mysterious, and some mischief was at. the bottom — but she would go soon — " would that she were already gone !" It must be mentioned that Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry had left Maristmv Castle before the arrival of Mr. G.ayland, and had therefore no knowledge of the still more mysterious cloud that enveloped Lady Lodore's absence. Ignorant of her self-destroying sacrifices and generosity, her pity was not excited, her feelings were all against her. She counted the days as thev passed, and looked wistfully at Wilmot, hoping that she would quickly bring tidings of the lady's departure. In vain; the doctor ceased lo visit the cottage, but the lady remained. All at once the doctor visited it again with greater assiduity than ever — not on account of his beautiful patient — but Dame Nixon had had a paralyt c stroke, and the kind lady had sent for him, and promised to defray all the expenses of the poor woman's ill- ness. All this was truly vexatious. Mrs. Fitzhenry fretted, and even asked Wilmot questions, but the unwelcome visiter was still there. Wherefore? What could have put so disagreeable a whim into her head ? The good lady could think of no motive, while she considered her presence an insult. She was still more annoyed when she received a letter from Ethel. It had been proposed that Mr. and Mrs. Villiers should pay her a visit in the spring ; but now Ethel wrote to say that she might be immediately expected. "I have strange things to tell you about my dear mother," wrote Ethel; " it is very uncertain where she is. Horatio can hear nothirg of her at Paris, and will soon return. Edward is going to Wales, as there seems a great likelihood that she has secluded herself there. W 7 hile he is away you may expect me. I shall not be able to stay long — he will come at the end of a week to fetch me." Mrs. Fitzhenry shuddered. Her prejudices were stronger than ever. She experienced the utmost wretchedness from the idea that the residence of Lady Lodore would be discovered, and a family union effected. It seemed desecration to the memory of her brother, ruin to Ethel — the greatest mis fortune that could befall any of them. Her feelings were exaggerated, but they were on that, account the more powerful. How could she avert the evil ? — a remedy must be sought, and she fixed on one — a desperate one, in truth, which appeared to her the sole mode of saving them all from the greatest disasters. She resolved to visit Lady Lodore; to represent to her the impropriety and wickedness of her having any intercourse with her daughter, and to entreat her to depart before Ethel's arrival. Her violence might almost seem madness; but all people who live in solitude become to a cei tain degree insane. Their views of things are not corrected^ by comparing them with those of others ; and the strangest want of proportion always reigns in theu ideas and sentiments. LODORE. f(7 CHAPTER LIIL So loth we part from all we love, Fiom all the links that bind us ; So t rn our hear s, where'er we rove, To thuae we've left, behind us. Thomas Moore. On the following morning Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry drove to the Vale of Bevvlmg. It was the lastday of February. The March winds were hushed as y-it ; the breezes were balmy, the sunshine cheerful ; a few soft clouds flecked the heavens, and the blue sky appeared between them calm and pure. Each passing air breathed life and happiness — it caressed the cheek — and the swelling buds of the trees felt its quickening influence. The almond-trees were in bloom — the pear blossoms began to whiten — the tender green of the young leaves showed themselves here and there among the hedges. The old lady felt the cheering influence, and would have be- come even gay, had not trie idea of the errand she was on checked her spirits. Sometimes the remembrance that she was really going to see her sister-in-law absolutely startled her; once or twice she thought of turning back ; she passed through the lanes, and then alighting from her carriage, walked by a raised foot way, across some arable fields — and again through a litile grove; the winding path made a turn, and Dame Nixon's white, low-roofed cottage was before her. Every thing about it looked trim, but very humble : and it was unadorned during this early season by the luxury of flowers and plants, which usually give even an appearance of elegance to an English cottage. Mrs. Fitzhenry opened the little gate — her knees trembled as she walked through the scanty garden, which breathed of the new-sprung violets. The entrance to the cottage was by the kitchen : she entered this, and found Margaret occupied by a culinary preparation for her grandmother. Mrs. Fitzhenry asked after the old woman's health, and thus gained a little time. Margaret answered in her own former quiet yet cheerful voice ; she was changed from what she had been a few weeks be- fore. The bloom had not returned to her cheeks, but they no longer ap- peared streaked with deathly paleness ; her motions had lost the heaviness that showed a mind ill at ease. Mrs. Elizabeth congratulated her on the restoration of her health. " Oh yes," she replied, with a blush, " I am not the same creature I used to be. thank God, and the angel he has sent us here ; — if my poor grand- mother would but get well, I should be quite happy ; but that is asking too much at her time of life." The old lady made no farther observations : she did not wish to hear the praises of her sister-in-law. " Your lodger is still here V at length she said. " Yes, God be praised !" replied Margaret " "Will you give her my compliments, and say I am here, and that 1 wish to see her." " Yes, ma'am," said Margaret ; " only the lady has refused to see any one, and she does not like being asked."' " 1 do not wish to be impertinent or intrusive," answered Mrs. Eliza- beth ; " only tell her my name, and if she makes any objection, of course she will do as she likes. Where is she ?" "She is sitting with my poor grandmother; the nurse — Heaven bless 34— 3* 218 lodore. her! she would hire a nurse, to spare me, as she said — is lam down to sleep, and she said she would watch by grandmother while J got the gruel ; but it's ready now, and I will go and tell her." Away tripped Margaret, leaving her guest lost in wonder. Lady Lodore watching the sick-bed of an old cottager — Lady Lodore immured in a poverty-stricken abode, fit only for the poorer sort of country people. Jt was more than strange, it was miraculous. W "Y et she refused to accom- pany poor Henry to America ! there must be some strange mystery in all *his, that does not tell well for her." So bitterly uncharitable was the unforgiving old lady towards her brother's widow. She ruminated on these things for a minute or two, and then Margaret came to usher her into th3 wicked one's presence. The sitting- room destined for the lodger was neat, though very plain. The walls were wainscoted and painted white, — the windows small and latticed, — the furniture was old black shining mahogany; the chaiis high-backed and clumsy ; the table heavy and incommodious : the fire-place large and airy ; and the shelf of the mantel-piece almost as high as the low ceiling : there were a few things of a more modern construction ; a comfortable sofa ; a rose-wood bureau and large folding screen ; near the fire was u large easy chair of Gillows's manufacture, two light cane ones, and two small tables ; vases filled with hyacinths, jonquils, and other spring flowers, stood on one, and an embroidery frame occupied the other. There was a perfume of fresh-gathered flowers in the room, which the open window rendered very agfeeable. Lady Lodore was standing near the fire — (for V iL.iut was not mistaken, and it was she indeed who now presented herself to Mrs. Fitzhenry's eyes) — she might be agitated — she did not show it — she came forward and held out her hand. " Dear Bessy," she said, " you are very kind to visit me ; I thank you very much." The poor recluse was overpowered. The cordiality of the greeting frightened her : she who had come full of bitter reproach and hard purposes, to be thanked with that sweet voice and smile. "I thought," at length she stammered out, " that you did not wish to be known. I am glad you are not offended, Cornelia." " Offended by kindness ? Oh no ! It is true I did not wish — I do not wish that it should be known that [ am here — but since, by some strange accident, you have discovered me, how can I help being grateful for your visit? I am indeed glad to see you; it is so long since I have heard any thing. Ah ! dear Bessy, tell me, how is Ethel ?" Tears glistened in the mother's eyes : she asked many questions, and Mrs. Fitzhenry a little recovered her self-possession, as she answered them. She looked at Lady Lodore — she was changed — she could not fad of being changed after so many years, — she was no longer a beautiful girl, but she was a lovely woman. Despite the traces of years, which how ever lightly they impressed, yet might be discerned, expression so embellished her, that it was impossible not to adfloire ; brilliancy had given place to softness, animation to serenity; still she was fair — still her silken hair clustered on her brow, and her sweet eyes were full of fire ; her smile had more than its former charm — it came from the heart. Mrs. Fitzhenry was not, however, to be subdued by a little outward show. She was there, who had betrayed and deserted (such were the energetic words she was accustomed to employ) the noble, broken-hearted Lodore. The thought steeled her purpose, and she contrived at. last to ask whether Lady Lodore was going to remain much longer in Ess< x ? "I have been going every day since I came here. In a few weeks I shall certainly be gone. Why do you ask ?" " Because I thought — that is — you have made a secret of your being lodoiie. 219 here, and I expect Ethel in a day or two, and she would certainly discover vou." "Why should she not?" asked Lady Lodore. "Why should you be averse to my seeing Ethel ? " It is very difficult to say a disagreeable thing, especially to one unaccus- tonud to society, and who is quite ignorant of the art of concealing the sting of her intentions by flowery words. Mrs. Fitzhenry said something about her sister-in-law's own wishes, and the desire expressed by Lodore that there should be no intercourse between the mother and daughter. Cornelia's eyes flashed fire — " Am I," she exclaimed, "to be always the sacrifice? Is my husband's vengeance to pursue me beyond his grave — even till I reach mine ? Unjust as he was, he would not have desired this." M s. Elizabeth coloured with anger. Lady Lodore continued — " Pardon me, Bassy, I do not wish to say any thing annoying to you or in blame of Lo lore. God knows did him great wrong — but — " " Oh Cornelia," cried the old lady, " do you indeed acknowledge that you were to blame?" Lady Lodore smiled, and said, M I were strangely blind to the defects of my own character, and to the consequences of my actions, were I not con- scious of mv errors ; but retrospection is useless, and the punishment has been — is — sufficiently severe. Lodore lumself would not have perpetuated his resentment, had he lived only a very little while longer. But I will speak frankly to you, Bessy, as frankly as I may, and you shall decide on mv farther stay here. From circumstances which it is immaterial to explain, I have resolved on retiring into absolute solitude. I shall never live in London again — never again see any of my old friends and acquaintances. The course of my life is entirely changed ; and whether I live here or else- where, I shall live in obscurity and poverty. I do not wish Ethel to know this. . She would wish to assist me, and she has scarcely enough for herself. I do not like being a burden — i do not like being pitied — I do not like bein * argued with, or to have my actions commented upon. You know that my disposition was always independent" Mrs. Elizabeth assented with a sigh, casting up her eyes to heaven. Lady Lodore smiled, and went on. " You think this is a strange place for me to live in : whether here or elsewhere, I shall never live in any better : I shall be fortunate if I find myself as well off when I leave Essex, for the people here are good and honest, and the poor girl loves me, — it is always pleasant to be loved." A tear again filled Cornelia's eyes — she tried to animate herself to smile. " I have nothing to love in all the wide world except Ethel ; I do love her ; every one must love her — she is so gentle — so kind — so warm- hearted ann beautiful, — I love her more than my own heart's blood ; she is my chiM — part of that blood — part of myself — the better part : I have seen little of her, but every look and word is engraved on my heart. 1 love her voice — her smiles — the pressure of her soft white hand. Pity me, dear B j s?y, I am never to see any of these, which are all that I love on earth, again. This idea fills me with regret — with worse — with sorrow. There is a grave not far from here, which contains one you loved bpyond all others, — what would you not give to see him alive once again? To visit his tomb is a consolation to you. I must not see even the walls within which my blessed child lives. You alone can help me — can be of comfort to me. Do not refus° — do not send me away. If I leave this place, I shall go to some secluded nook in Wales, and be quite — quite alone; the sun will shine, and the errass will qrow at mv feet, but my heart will be dead within m°, an-1 I shall nine and die. I have intended to do this ; I have waited only till the sufferings of the poor woman here should be at an end, t 1 it I 220 LODORE. may be of service to Margaret, and then go. Your visit, which I fancied meant in kindness, has put other thoughts into ray head. " Do not object to my staying here ; let me remain ; and do yet more for me — come to me sometimes, and bring me tidings of my daughter — tell me what she says — how she looks, — tell me that she is at each moment well and happy. Ah ! do this, dear Bessy, and I will bless you. 1 shall never see her — at least not for years ; there are many things to prevent H: yet how could I drag out those years quite estranged from her ? My heart has died within me each time I have thought of it. But I can live as 1 say ; I shall expect you every now and then to come and talk to me of her ; sh<> need never know that I am so near — she comes so seldom to Essex. ] shall soon be forgotten at Longfield. Will you consent ? you will do a kind action, and God will bless you." Mrs. Fitzhenry was one of those persons who always find it difficult to say No ; and Lady Lodore asked with so much earnestness ihat she com- manded ; she felt that her request ought to be granted, and therefore it. was impossible to refuse it. Before she well knew what she had said, the good lady had yielded her consent, and received her sister-in-law T s warm and heartfelt thanks. Mrs. Fitzhenry looked round the room. " But how can you think of staying here, Cornelia?" she said ; " this place is not fit for you. I should have thought that you could never have endured such homely rooms." ' " Do you think them so bad ?" replied the lady : " I think them very pleasant, for I have done with pride, and I find peace and comfort here. Look," she continued, throwing open a door that led into the garden, " is not that delightful ? This garden is very pretty : that clear rivulet murmurs by with so lulling a sound ; — and look at these violets, are they not beauti- ful ? I have planted a great many flowers, and they will soon come up. Do you not know how pleasant it is to watch the shrubs we plant, and water, and rear ourselves? — to see the little green shoots peep out, and the leaves unfold, and then the flower blossom and expand, diffusing its delicious odour around, — all, as it were, created by one's self, by one's own nursing, out of a bit of stick or an ugly bulb? This place is veiy pretty, I assure you : when the leaves are on the trees they make a bower, and the grove behind the house is shady, and leads to lanes and fields more beautiful than any I ever saw. I have loitered for hours in this garden, and been quite happy. Now I shall be happier than ever, thanks to you. You will not forget me. Come as often as you can. You say that you expect Ethel soon ?" Lady Lodore walked with her sister in-law to the garden- gate, and beyond, through the little copse, still talking of her daughter. " I cannot go farther," she said, at last, " without a bonnet — so good by, dear Bessy. Come soon. Thank you — thank you for this visit." She held out her hand : Mrs. Fitzhenry took it, pressed it, a half feeling came over her as if she were about to kiss the cheek of her offending relative, but her heart hardened, she blushed, and muttering a hasty good-by, she hurried away. She was bewildered, and after walking a few steps, she turned round, and saw again the white dress of Cornelia, as a turn in the path hid her. The grand, the exclusive Lady Lodore — the haughty, fashion- able, worldly, heartless wife, thus metamorphosed into a tender-hearted mother — suing to her for crumbs of charitable love — and hiding all her boasted advantages in that low-roofed cottage ! What could it all mean ? Mrs. Fitzhenry walked on. Again she thought. "How odd! I wont there, determining to persuade her to go away, and miserable at the thotisht of seeing her only once ; and now I have promised to visit her often, and agreed that she shall live here. Have I not done wrong? What would my poor brother say ? Yet I could not refuse. Poor thing ! how could I LODORE. 221 refuse, when she said that she had nothing else to live for? Besides, to go away and live alone in Wales — it would be too dreadful; and she thanked me as if she were so grateful. I hope I have not done wroncr. " But how strange it is that Henry's widow should have become so poor ; she has given up a part of her income to Ethel, but a great deal remains. What can she have done with it? She is mysterious, and there is never any good in mystery. Who knows what she may have to conceal ?" Mrs. Elizabeth got in her carriage, and each step of the horses took he; farther from the web of enchantment which Cornelia had thrown over her. " She is always strange,' 1 — thus ran her meditations ; " and how am I to see her, and no one find it out? and what a story for Longfield, nat Lady Lo-lore should be living in poverty in Dame Nixon's cottage. I forgot to tell her that — I forgot to say so many things I meant to say — 1 don't know why, except that she talked so much, and I did not know how to bring in mv objections. But it cannot be right: and Ethel in her long rambles and rides with Miss Derham or Mr. Villiers will be sure to find her out. I wish I had not seen her — I will write and tell her I have changed my mind, and entreat her to go away." As it occurs to all really good-natured persons, it was very disagreeable to Mrs. Fitzh a nry to be angry, and she visited the ill temper so engendered on the head of poor Cornelia. She disturbed herself by the idea of all the disagreeable things that might happen — of her sister-in-law's positive refusal to go ; the very wording which she imagined for her intended letter puzzled and irritated her. She no longer felt the breath of spring as pleasant, but sat back in the chariot, " nursing her wrath to keep it warm." When she reached her home, Ethel's carriage was at her door. The meeting, as ever between aunt and niece, was affectionate. Fanny was welcomed, the baby was kissed, and little Clorinda admired, but the theme nearest Ethel's heart was speedily introduced — her mother. The disquietudes she felt on her account — Mr. Saville's journey to Paris — the visit of Villiers to Wales, to discover her place of concealment — the inutility of all their endeavours. " But why are they so anxious ?" asked her aunt " I can understand you — you have some fantastic notion about your mother ; but how can Mr. Villiers desire so very much to find her?" " I could almost say," said Ethel, " that Edward is more eager than mvself, though I should wrong my own affection and gratitude ; but he was more unjust towards her, and thus he feels the weight of obligation more keenlv ; but, perhaps, dear aunt, you do not know all that my dearest mother has done for us — the unparalleled sacrifices she has made." Then Ethel went on to tell her all that Mr. Gayland had communicated — the sale of her jointure — the very small residue of money she had kept for herself — the entire paj^ment of Villiers's debts — and afterwards the sur- render of the remainder of her income and of her house to them. Her eves glistened as she spoke ; her heart, overflowing with admiration and •flec- tion, shone in her beautiful r ace, her voice was pregnant with sensibility, and her expressions lull of deep feeling. M>*s. Elizabeth's heart was not of stone — far from it ; it was, except in the one instance of her sister-in-law, made of pliable materials. She heard Ethel's story — she caught by sympathy the tenderness and pity she poured forth —she thought of Lady Lodore at the cottage, a dwelling so unlike anv she had ever inhabited before — poverty-stricken and m^an ; she re- membered her praises of it — her cheerfulness — the simplicity of taste which she displayed — the light-hearted content with which she spoke ot every privation except the absence of Ethel. What before was mysterious wrong, was now manifest heroism. The loftiness and generositv of her min 1 rose uoon the old lady unclouded : her own uncharitable deductions 3* 222 LODORE. stung her with remorse ; she continued to listen, and Ethel to narrate, and the big tears gathered in her eyes, and rolled down her venerable cheeks, — tears at once of repentance and admiration. CHAPTER LIV. Repentance is a tender sprite ; If aught on earth have heavenly might, "Tis lodged within her silent tear. Wordsworth. Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenby was not herself aware of all that Lady Lodore had suffered, or the extent of her sacrifices. She guessed darkly at them, but it was the detail that rendered them so painful, and, but for their motive, humiliating to one nursed in luxury and accustomed to all those intermediate servitors and circumstances, which stand between the rich and the bare outside of the working-day world. Cornelia shrunk from the address of those she did not know, and from the petty acts of daily life, which had gone on before without her entering into their detail. Her illness at Newbury had been severe. She was attacked by the scarlet fever ; the doctor had ordered her to be removed from the bustle of the inn, and a furnished villa had been taken for her, while she could only give a languid assent to propositions which she understood confusedly. She was a long time very ill — a long time weak and slowly convalescent. At length health dawned on her, accompanied by a disposition attuned to con- tent and a wish for tranquillity. Her residence was retired, commodious, and pretty ; she was pleased with it, she did not wish to remove, and was glad to procrastinate from day to day any consideration of the future. Thus it was a long time before the strength of her thoughts and purposes was re- newed, or that she began to think seriously of where she was, and what she was going to do. During the half delirium, the disturbed and uncontrollable, but not un- meaning reveries, oi her fever, the idea of visiting Lodore's grave had haunted her pertinaciously. She had often dreamt of it : at one time the tomb seemed to rise in a lonely desert ; and the dead slept peacefully be- neath the sunshine or starlight. At another, storms and howling winds were around, groans and sighs, mingled with the sound of the tempest, and menaces and reproaches against her were breathed from the cold marble. Now her imagination pictured it within the aisles of a magnificent cathe- dral ; and now again the real scene — the rustic church of Longfield was vividly present to her mind. She saw the pathwa)' through the green chu^hyard — the ruined ivy-mantled tower, which showed how much lar- ger the edifice had been informer days, near which might be still discerned on high a niche containing the holy mother and divine child — the half- defaced porch on which rude monkish imagery was carved — the time worn pews, and painted window. She had never entered this church but once, many, many years ago ; and it was strange how in sleep and fever-troubled reverie, each portion of it presented itself distinctly and vividly to her imagination. During these perturbed visions, one other form and voice perpetually recurred. She heard Ethel continually repeat, " Come ! Come !" and often her figure flitted round the tomb or sat beside it. Once, on awakening from a dream, which impressed her deeply by the importunity and earnestness of her daughter's appeal, she was forcibly impelled to con- LODORE. 2^3 sider it her duty to obey, and she made a vow that oa recovering from her illness, she would visit her husband's grave. Now while pondering on the humiliations and cheerless necessities which darkened her future, and rousing herself to form some kind of resolution concerning them, this dream was repeated, and on awakening, the memory of her forgotten vow renewed itself in her. She dwelt on it with pleasure. Here was something to be done that was not mere wretchedness and lonely wandering — something that, connecting her with the past, took away the sense of desertion and solitude, so hard to bear. In the morning, at break- fast, it so chanced that she read in the Morning Herald a little paragraph an louncin * that Viscount Maristow was entertaining a party of friends at Miristow Castle, among whom were Mr. and Mrs. Villiers, and the Hon. Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzhenry. This was a fortunate coincidence. The dragon ceased for a mom mt to watch the garden, and she might avail herself of its absence to visit its treasure unnoticed and unknown. She put her pro- ject into immediate execution. She crossed the country, passing through London on her way to Longfield — she arrived. Without delay she fulfilled her purpose. She entered the church, and viewed the tablet, inscribed sim- ply with the name of Lodore, and the date of his birth and death. The word?. we - e few and conmon-pla.ee, but they were eloquent to her. They told her that the cold decaying shape lay beneath, which in the pride of life an 1 love had clasped her in its arms as its own for evermore. Short-lived had been the possession. She had loosened ihe tie even while thought and feeling ruled the now insentient brain — he had been scarcely less dead to her while inhabiting the distant Illinois,, than now that a stone placed above hi n gave visible token of his material presence, and the eternal absence of his immortal part. Cornelia had never before felt so sensibly that she had been a wife neglecting her duties, despising avow she had solemnly pledged, estranging herself from him, who, by religious ordinance, and the laws of societv, alone had privilege to protect and love her. Nor had she before felt so intimately the change — that she was a widow ; that her lover, her hus- band, the father of her child, the forsaken, dead Lodore, was indeed no part of the tissue of life, action, and feeling to which she belonged. Solitude and sickness had before awakened many thoughts in her mind, and she recalled them as she sat beside her dead husband's grave. She looked into her motives, tried to understand the deceits she had practised on herself, and to purify her conscience. She meditated on time, that law of the world, which is so mysterious, and so potent ; ruling us despotically, and yet wholly unappreciated till we think upon it. Petrarch says, that he was never so young, but that he knew that he was growing old. Lady Lodore had never thought of this till a few months back ; it seemed to her, that sh^ had never known it until now — that she felt that she was older — older than the vain and lovely bride of Lodore — than the haughty high-spirited frieid of Casimir Lyzinski. And where was Casimir? She had never hea-d of him again, she mad scarcely ever thought of him ; he had grown older too — change, the effects of passion or of destiny, must have visited him also ; — they were all embarked on one mighty stream —Lodore had gained a haven ; but the living were still at the mercy of the vast torrent — whither would it hurry them ? There was a charm in these melancholy and speculative thoughts to the beautiful exile — for we may be indeed as easily exiled by a few roods of ground, as by mountains and seas. A strong decree of fate banished Cor- nelia from the familiar past, into an unknown and strange present. Still she clung to the recollection of by-gone years, and for the first time gave way to reflections fall of scenes and persons to be seen no more. The tomb beside which she lingered was an outward sign of these past events, and she did not, like to lose sight of it so soon. She heard that Mrs. Eliza- 224 LODORE. beth Fitzhenry was to remain away for a month — so much time at least was hers. She inquired for lodgings, and was directed to Dame Nixons cottage. She was somewhat dismayed at first by its penurious appearance, but " it would do for a few days j" and she found that what would serve for a few days, might serve for months. " Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long." Most true for solitary man. It is society that increases his desires. Ji Lady Lodore had been visited in her humble dwelling by the least regarded among her acquaintances, she would have felt keenly its glaring deficien- cies. But although used to luxury, Margaret's cuisine sufficed for herself alone ; the low-roofed rooms were high enough, and the latticed windows, which let in the light of heaven, fulfilled their purpose as well as the plate glass and lofty embrasures of a palace. Lady Lodore was obliged also to consider one other thing, which forms so large a portion of our meditations in real life — her purse. She found, when settled in the cottage, in the Vale of Bewling, that her stock of money was reduced to one hundred pounds. She could not cross the country and establish herself at a distance from London with this sum only. She had before looked forward to selling her jewels and carriage as to a distant event, but now she felt that it was the next thing she must do. She shrunk from it naturally : the very idea of revisiting London — of seeing its busy shops and streets — once so full of life and its purposes to her, and in which she would now wander an alien, was inconceivably saddening; she w>s Willing to put off the necessity as long as possible, and thus continued to procrastinate her departure from Essex. Mrs. Fitzhenry returned ; but she could neither know nor dream of the vicinity of her sister-in-law. We are apt to think, when we know nothing of any one, that no one knows any thing of us ; experience can scarcely •teach us, that the reverse of this is often the truth: Seeing only an oid woman in her dotage — and a poor love-sick girl, who knew nothing beyond the one event which had blasted all her happiness — she never heard the inhabitants of Longfield mentioned, and believed that she was equally unheard of by them. Then her indisposition protracted her stay, and now the mortal illness of the poor woman. For she had become interested for Margaret, and promised to befriend her ; and in case of her grandmother's death, to take her from a spot where every association and appearance kept .open the wounds inflicted by her unfaithful lover. Time had thus passed on : now sad, now cheerful, she tried to banish every thought of the future, and to make the occurrences of each day fill and satisfy her mind. She lived obscurely and humbly, and perhaps as wisely as mortal may in this mysterious world, where hope is perpetually followed by disappointment, and action by repentance and regret. The days succeeded to each other in one unvaried tenor. The weather was cheerful, the breath of spring animating. She watched the swelling of the buds — the peeping heads of the crocuses — the opening of the anemones and wild wind-flowers, and at last, the sweet odour of the new-born violets, with all the interest created by novelty ; not that she had not observed and watched these things before, with transitory pleasure, but now the opera- tions of nature filled all her world ; the earth was no longer merely the dwelling place of her acquaintance, the stage on which the business of society was carried on, but the mother of life — the temple of God — the beautiful and varied store-house of bounteous nature. Dwelling on these ideas, Cornelia often thought of Horatio Saville, whoee conversations, now remembered, were the source whence she drew the LODORE. 225 knowledge and poetry of her present reveries. As solitude and nature grew lovely in her eyes, she yearned yet more fondly for the one who could em- bellish all she saw. Yet while her mind needed a companion so congenial to her present fee' n^s, her heart was filler of Ethel ; her affection for Saville was a cal'ii though deep-rooted sentiment, resulting from the conviction, that, she s'loulu find entire happiness if united to him, and in an esteem, or rather an enthusiastic admiration of his talents and virtues, that led her to dwell with complacency 01 the hope, that, he still remembered and loved her : but the human heart rs jealous, and with difficulty admits two emo- tions of equal force, and her love for her daughter was the master passion. The instinct of nature spoke audibly within her; the atoms of her frame seemed alive each one as she thought of her ; often her tears flowed, often her eves brightened with gladness when alone, and the beloved image of her beautiful daughter as she saw her last, smiling amidst penury and indignity, was her dearest companion by day and ni ^ht. She alone made her present situation endurable, and yet separation from her was irksome beyond ex- pres=ioi. Was she never to see or hear of her more ? It was very hard : she i nolo-ed Providence to change the harsh decree — she longed inexpres- sibly for one wo-xl that had reference to her — one event, however slight, which should make her existence palpable. When Mar raret announced Mrs. Fitzhenry, her heart bounded with joy. She conld ask concerning Ethel — hear of her ; her countenance was radi- ant with delight. anH she really for a moment thought her sister-in-law's visit was meant in kindness, since so much pleasure was the result. This conviction had produced the very thin^ it anticipated. She had given poor B^ssv no tine to announce the actual- intention with which she came ; she had borne away her sullen mood by force of sweet smiles and sweeter wo -ds ; and saw her depart with gladdened spirits, whi^perins: to herself th ^ fresh hopes and fond emotions which filled her bosom. She walked back to her little garden, and stooped to gather some fresh violets and to prop a drooping jonquil heavy with its burden of sweet blooms. She inhaled the vernal odours with rapture. " Yes," she thought, " nature is the refuge and home for wom a n : they have no public career — no aim nor end beyond their domestic circle ; but they can extend that, and make all the creations of nature th Q ir own, to foster and do good to. We complain, when &hut up in cities, of the niggard rules of society, which gives us only the drawing-room or ball-room in which to display our talents, and which, for ever turning the svmoathy of those around us into envy on the part of women, or what is called love on that of men, besets our path with dangers or sorrows. But throw aside all vanity, no longer seek to surpass your own sex, nor to inspire the other with feelings which are pregnant with disquiet or misery, and which seldom end in mutual benevolence, turn your steps to the habitation which God has oriven as befitting his creatures, contemplate the lovelv o-naments with which he has blessed the earth : — here is no heart-burning nor calumnv ; it is better to love, to be of use to one of these flowers, than'to be the admired of the many — the mere puppet of one's own vanity." Lady Lodore entered the house ; she asked concerning her poor hostess, and learned that she slept. For a short time she emploved herself with her embroidery ; her thouihts were all awake ; and as her fingers created like- nesses of the flowers she loved, several times her eyes filled with tears as she thought of Ethel, and how happy she could be if her fate permitted her to cultivate her affection and enioy her society. " It is v n-v sad," she thought. : " only a few minutes a 20 my spirits were buovant.