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acquired in poverty, habits dyed in the dusky hues of penury; and if
we do not despise him, yet we do not admit him to our tables or
society. Refinement may only be the varnish of the picture, yet it is
necessary to make apparent to the vulgar eye even the beauties of
Raphael."
"To the vulgar eye!" repeated Ethel, emphatically.
"And I seem one of those, by the way I speak," said Edward,
smiling. "Yet, indeed, I do not despise any man for being poor,
except myself. I can feel pride in showing honour where honour is
due, even though clad in the uncouth and forbidding garb of
plebeianism; but I cannot claim this for myself—I cannot demand
the justice of men, which they would nickname pity. The Illinois
would be preferable far."
"And the Illinois might be a paradise," said Ethel.
"We hope for a better—we hope for Italy. Do you remember Rome
and the Coliseum, my love?—Naples, the Chiaja, and San Carlo?—
these were better than the savannas of the west. Our hopes are
good; it is the present only which is so thorny, so worse than barren:
like the souls of Dante, we have a fiery pass to get through before
we reach our place of bliss; that we have it in prospect will gift us
with fortitude. Meanwhile I must string myself to my task. Ethel,
dearest, I shall go to town to-morrow."
"And I with you, surely?"
"Do not ask it; this is your first lesson in the lore you were so ready
to learn, of bearing all for me—"
"With you," interrupted his wife.
"With me—it shall soon be," replied Edward; "but to speak according
to the ways of this world, my presence in London is necessary for a
few days—for a very few days; a journey there and back for me is
nothing, but it would be a real and useless expense if you went.
Indeed, Ethel, you must submit to my going without you—I ask it of
you, and you will not refuse."
"A few days, you say," answered Ethel—"a very few days? It is hard.
But you will not be angry, if I should join you if your return is
delayed?"
"You will not be so mad," said Villiers. "I go with a light heart,
because I leave you in security and comfort. I will return—I need not
protest—you know that I shall return the moment I can. I speak of a
few days; it cannot be a week: let me go then, with what
satisfaction I may, to the den of darkness and toil, and not be
farther annoyed by the fear that you will not support my absence
with cheerfulness. As you love me, wait for me with patience—
remain with your aunt till I return."
"I will stay for a week, if it must be so," replied Ethel.
"Indeed, my love, it must—nor will I task you beyond—before a
week is gone by, you shall see me."
Ethel looked wistfully at him, but said no more. She thought it hard
—she did not think it right that he should go—that he should toil and
suffer without her; but she had no words for argument or
contention, so she yielded. The next morning—a cold but cheerful
morning—at seven o'clock, she drove over with him in Mrs.
Fitzhenry's little pony chaise to the town, four miles off, through
which the stages passed. A first parting is a kind of landmark in life
—a starting post whence we begin our career out of illusion and the
land of dreams, into reality and endurance. They arrived not a
moment too soon: she had yet a thousand things to say—one or two
very particular things, which she had reserved for the last moment;
there was no time, and she was forced to concentrate all her
injunctions into one word, "Write!"
"Every day—and do you."
"It will be my only pleasure," replied his wife. "Take care of yourself."
He was on the top of the stage and gone; and Ethel felt that a blank
loneliness had swallowed up the dearest joy of her life.
She drew her cloak round her—she gazed along the road—there
were no traces of him—she gave herself up to thought, and as he
was the object of all her thoughts, this was her best consolation.
She reviewed the happy days they had spent together—she dwelt on
the memory of his unalterable affection and endearing kindness, and
then tears rushed into her eyes. "Will any ill ever befall him?" she
thought. "O no, none ever can! he must be rewarded for his
goodness and his love. How dear he ought to be to me! Did he not
take the poor friendless girl from solitude and grief; and disdaining
neither her poverty nor her orphan state, give her himself, his care,
his affection? O, my Edward! what would Ethel have been without
you? Her father was gone—her mother repulsed her—she was alone
in the wide world, till you generously made her your own!"
With the true enthusiasm of passion, Ethel delighted to magnify the
benefits she had received, and to make those which she herself
conferred nothing, that gratitude and love might become yet
stronger duties. In her heart, though she reproached herself for
what she termed selfishness, she could not regret his poverty and
difficulties, if thus she should acquire an opportunity of being useful
to him; but she felt herself defrauded of her best privileges, of
serving and consoling, by their separation.
Thus,—now congratulating herself on her husband's attachment,
now repining at the fate that divided them,—agitated by various
emotions too sweet and bitter for words, she returned to Longfield.
Aunt Bessy was in her arm-chair, waiting for her to begin breakfast.
Edward's seat was empty—his cup was not placed—he was omitted
in the domestic arrangements;—tears rushed into her eyes; and in
vain trying to calm herself, she sobbed aloud. Aunt Bessy was
astonished; and when all the explanation she got was, "He is gone!"
she congratulated herself, that her single state had spared her the
endurance of these conjugal distresses.
 CHAPTER XV

How like a winter hath my absence been

From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,
What old December's bareness every where!

SHAKSPEARE.

Ethel cheered herself to amuse her aunt; and, as in her days of

hopeless love, she tried to shorten the hours by occupation. It was
difficult; for all her thoughts were employed in conjectures as to
where Edward was, what doing—in looking at her watch, and
following in her mind all his actions—or in meditating how hereafter
she might remedy any remissness on her part, (so tender was her
conscience,) and best contribute to his happiness. Such reveries
beguiled many hours, and enabled her to endure with some show of
courage the pains of absence. Each day she heard from him—each
day she wrote, and this entire pouring out of herself on paper
formed the charm of her existence. She endeavoured to persuade
him how fortunate their lot might hereafter be—how many of his
fears were unfounded or misplaced.
"Remember, dearest love," she said, "that I have nothing of the fine
lady about me. I do not even feel the want of those luxuries so
necessary to most women. This I owe to my father. It was his first
care, while he brought me up in the most jealous retirement, to
render me independent of the services of others. Solitude is to me
no evil, and the delight of my life would be to wait upon you. I am
not therefore an object of pity, when fortunes deprives me of the
appurtenances of wealth, which rather annoy than serve me. My
devotion and sacrifice, as you are pleased to call the intense wish of
my heart to contribute to your happiness, are nothing. I sacrifice all,
when I give up one hour of your society—there is the sting—there
the merit of my permitting you to go without me. I can ill bear it. I
am impatient and weak; do not then, Edward dearest, task me too
far—recall me to your side, if your return is delayed—recall your fond
girl to the place near your heart, where she desires to remain for
ever."
Villiers answered with few but expressive words of gratitude and
fidelity. His letters breathed disappointment and anxiety. "It is too
true," he said, "as I found it announced when I first came to town,
my father is married. He got the banns published in an obscure
church in London; he persuaded Miss Gregory to elope with him,
and they are married. Her father is furious, he returns every letter
unopened; his house and heart, he says, are still open to his
daughter—but the—, I will not repeat his words, who stole her from
him, shall never benefit by a shilling of his money—let her return,
and all shall be pardoned—let her remain with her husband, and
starve, he cares not. My father has spent much time and more
money on this pursuit: in the hope of securing many thousands, he
raised hundreds at a prodigal and ruinous interest, which must now
be paid. He has not ten pounds in the world—so he says. My belief
is, that he is going abroad to secure to himself the payment of the
scanty remnant of his income. I have no hopes. I would beg at the
corner of a street, rather than apply to a man who never has been a
parent to me, and whose last act is that of a villain. Excuse me; you
will be angry that I speak thus of my father, but I know that he
speaks of the poor girl he has deluded, with a bitterness and insult,
which prove what his views were in marrying her. In this moment of
absolute beggary, my only resource is to raise money. I believe I
shall succeed; and the moment I have put things in train, with what
heartfelt, what unspeakable joy, shall I leave this miserable place for
my own Ethel's side, long to remain!"
Villiers's letters varied little, but yet they got more desponding; and
Ethel grew very impatient to see him again. She had counted the
days of her week—they were fulfilled, and her husband did not
return. Every thing depended, he said, on his presence; and he must
remain yet for another day or two. At first he implored her to be
patient. He besought her, as she loved him, to endure their
separation yet for a few more days. His letters were very short, but
all in this style. They were imperative with his wife—she obeyed; yet
she did so, she told him, against her will and against her sense of
right. She ought to be at his side to cheer him under his difficulties.
She had married him because she loved him, and because the first
and only wish of her heart was to conduce to his happiness. To
travel together, to enjoy society and the beauties of nature in each
other's society, were indeed blessings, and she valued them; but
there was another dearer still, of which she felt herself defrauded,
and for which she yearned. "The aim of my life, and its only real
joy," she said, "is to make your existence happier than it would have
been without me. When I know and feel that such a moment or
hour has been passed by you with sensations of pleasure, and that
through me, I have fulfilled the purpose of my destiny. Deprived of
the opportunity to accomplish this, I am bereft of that for which I
breathe. You speak as if I were better off here than if I shared the
inconveniences of your lot—is not this strange language, my own
Edward? You talk of security and comfort; where can I be so secure
as near you? And for comfort! what heart-elevating joy it would be
to exchange this barren, meagre scene of absence, for the delight,
the comfort of seeing you, of waiting on you! I do not ask you to
hasten your return, so as to injure your prospects, but permit me to
join you. Would not London itself, dismal as you describe it, become
sunny and glad, if Ethel were with you?"
To these adjurations Villiers scarcely replied. Time crept on; three
weeks had already elapsed. Now and then a day intervened, and he
did not write, and his wife's anxiety grew to an intolerable pitch. She
did not for an instant suspect his faith, but she feared that he must
be utterly miserable, since he shrunk from communicating his
feelings to her. His last letter was brief; "I have just come from my
solicitor," he said, "and have but time to say, that I must go there
again to-morrow, so I shall not be with you. O the heavy hours in
this dark prison! You will reward me and make me forget them when
I see you—but how shall I pass the time till then!"
These words made Ethel conceive the idea of joining him in town.
He would not, he could not be angry? He could not bring his mind to
ask her to share his discomforts—but ought she not to volunteer—to
insist upon his permitting her to come? Permit! the same pride that
prevented his asking, would induce him to refuse her request; but
should she do wrong, if, without his express permission, she were to
join him? A thrill, half fear, half transport, made her heart's blood
stand still at the thought. The day after this last, she got no letter;
the following day was Monday, and there would be no post from
town. Her resolution was taken, and she told her aunt, that she
should go up to London the following day. Mrs. Elizabeth knew little
of the actual circumstances of the young pair. Villiers had made it an
express condition, that she should not be informed of their
difficulties, for he was resolute not to take from her little store,
which, in the way she lived, was sufficient, yet barely so, for her
wants. She did not question her niece as to her journey; she
imagined that it was a thing arranged. But Ethel herself was full of
perplexity; she remembered what Villiers had said of expense; she
knew that he would be deeply hurt if she used a public conveyance,
and yet to go post would consume the little money she had left, and
she did not like to reach London pennyless. She began to talk to her
aunt, and faltered out something about want of money for posting—
the good lady's purse was instantly in her hand. Ethel had not the
same horror as her husband of pecuniary obligation—she was too
inexperienced to know its annoyances; and in the present instance,
to receive a small sum from her aunt, appeared to her an affair that
did not merit hesitation. She took twenty pounds for her journey,
and felt her heart lighter. There yet remained another question.
Hitherto they had travelled in their own carriage, with a valet and
lady's maid. Villiers had taken his servant to town with him. In a
postscript to one of his letters, he said, "I was able to recommend
Laurie to a good place, so I have parted with him, and I shall not
take another servant at this moment." Laurie had been long and
faithfully attached to her husband, who had never lived without an
attendant, and who, from his careless habits, was peculiarly
helpless. Ethel felt that this dismissal was a measure of economy,
and that she ought to imitate it. Still as any measure to be taken
always frightened her, she had not courage to discharge her maid,
but resolved to go up to town without her. Aunt Bessy was shocked
at her going alone, but Ethel was firm; nothing could happen to her,
and she should prove to Edward her readiness to endure privation.
On Monday, at eleven in the forenoon, on the 28th of November,
Ethel, having put together but a few things,—for she expected a
speedy return,—stept into her travelling chariot, and began her
journey to town. She was all delight at the idea of seeing Edward.
She reproached herself for having so long delayed giving this proof
of her earnest affection. She listened with beaming smiles to all her
aunt's injunctions and cautions: and, the carriage once in motion,
drawing her shawl round her, as she sat in the corner, looking on the
despoiled yet clear prospect, her mind was filled with the most
agreeable reveries—her heart soothed by the dearest anticipations.
To pay the post-horses—to gift the postillion herself, were all events
for her: she felt proud. "Edward said, I must begin to learn the ways
of the world; and this is my first lesson in economy and care," she
thought, as she put into the post-boy's hand just double the sum he
had ever received before. "And how good, and attentive, and willing
every body is! I am sure women can very well travel alone. Every
one is respectful, and desirous to serve," was her next internal
remark, as she undrew her little silken purse, to give a waiter half-a-
crown, who had brought her a glass of water, and whose extreme
alacrity struck her as so very kind-hearted.
Her spirits flagged as the day advanced. In spite of herself, an
uneasy feeling diffused itself through her mind, when, the sun going
down, a misty, chilly twilight crept over the landscape. Had she done
right? she asked herself; would Edward indeed be glad to see her?
She felt half frightened at her temerity—alarmed at the length of her
journey—timid when she thought of the vast London she was about
to enter, without any certain bourn. She supposed that Villiers went
each day to his club, and she knew that he lodged in Duke street,
St. James's; but she was ignorant of the number of the house, and
the street itself was unknown to her; she did not remember ever to
have been in it in her life.
Her carriage entered labyrinthine London by Blackwall, and threaded
the wilds of Lothbury. A dense and ever-thickening mist, palpable,
yellow, and impervious to the eye, enveloped the whole town. Ethel
had heard of a November fog; but she had never witnessed one,
and the idea of it did not occur to her memory: she was half-
frightened, thinking that some strange phænomena were going on,
and fancying that her postillion was hurrying forward in terror. At
last, in Cheapside, they stopped jammed up by carts and coaches;
and then she contrived to make herself heard, asking what was the
matter? The word "eclipse" hung upon her lips.
"Only, ma'am, the street has got blocked up like in the fog: we shall
get on presently."
The word "fog" solved the mystery; and again her thoughts were
with Villiers. What a horrible place for him to live in! And he had
been enduring all this wretchedness, while she was breathing the
pure atmosphere of the country. Again they proceeded through the
"murky air," and through an infinitude of mischances;—the noise—
the hubbub—the crowd, as she could distinguish it, as if veiled by
dirty gauze, by the lights in the shops—all agitated and vexed her.
Through Fleet Street and the Strand they went; and it seemed as if
their progress would never come to an end. The whole previous
journey from Longfield was short in comparison to this tedious
procession: twenty times she longed to get out and walk. At last
they got free, and with a quicker pace drove up to the door of the
Union Club, in Charing Cross.
The post-boy called one of the waiters to the carriage door; and
Ethel asked—"Is Mr. Villiers here?"
"Mr. Villiers, ma'am, has left town."
Ethel was aghast. She had watched assiduously along the road; yet
she had felt certain that if he had meant to come, she would have
seen him on Sunday; and till this moment, she had not entertained a
real doubt but that she should find him. She asked, falteringly,
"When did he go?"
"Last week, ma'am: last Thursday, I think it was."
Ethel breathed again: the man's information must be false. She was
too inexperienced to be aware that servants and common people
have a singular tact in selecting the most unpleasant intelligence,
and being very alert in communicating it. "Do you know," she
inquired, "where Mr. Villiers lodges?"
"Can't say, indeed, ma'am; but the porter knows;—here, Saunders!"
No Saunders answered. "The porter is not in the way; but if you can
wait, ma'am, he'll be back presently."
The waiter disappeared: the post-boy came up—he touched his hat.
"Wait," said Ethel;—"we must wait a little;" and he removed himself
to the horses' heads. Ethel sat in her lonely corner, shrouded by fog
and darkness, watching every face as it passed under the lamp near,
fancying that Edward might appear among them. The ugly faces that
haunt, in quick succession, the imagination of one oppressed by
night-mare, might vie with those that passed successively in review
before Ethel. Most of them hurried on, looking neither to the right
nor left. Some entered the house; some glanced at her carriage: one
or two, perceiving a bonnet, evidently questioned the waiter. He
stood there for her own service, Ethel thought; and she watched his
every movement—his successive disappearances and returns—the
people he talked to. Once she signed to him to come; but—"No,
ma'am, the porter is not come back yet,"—was all his answer. At
last, after having stood, half whistling, for some five minutes, (it
appeared to Ethel half-an-hour,) without having received any visible
communication, he suddenly came up to the carriage door, saying,
"The porter could not stay to speak to you, ma'am, he was in such a
hurry. He says, Mr. Villiers lodges in Duke Street, St. James's: he
should know the house, but has forgotten the number."
"Then I must wait till he comes back again. I knew all that before.
Will he be long?"
"A long time, ma'am; two hours at least. He said that the woman of
the house is a widow woman—Mrs. Derham."
Thus, as if by torture, (but, as with the whipping boys of old, her's
was the torture, not the delinquent's,) Ethel extracted some
information from the stupid, conceited fellow. On she went to Duke
Street, to discover Mrs. Derham's residence. A few wrong doors
were knocked at; and a beer-boy, at last, was the Mercury that
brought the impatient, longing wife, to the threshold of her
husband's residence. Happy beer-boy! She gave him a sovereign: he
had never been so rich in his life before;—such chance-medleys do
occur in this strange world!

CHAPTER XVI

O my reviving joy! thy quickening presence

Makes the sad night
Sit like a youthful spring upon my blood.
I cannot make thy welcome rich enough
With all the wealth of words.

MIDDLETON.

The boy knocked at the door. A servant-girl opened it. "Does Mr.
Villiers lodge here?" asked the postillion, from his horse.
"Yes," said the girl.
"Open the door quickly, and let me out!" cried Ethel, as her heart
beat fast and loud.
The door was opened—the steps let down—operations tedious
beyond measures, as she thought. She got out, and was in the hall,
going up stairs.
"Mr. Villiers is not at home," said the maid.
Through the low blinds of the parlour window, Mrs. Derham had
been watching what was going on. She heard what her servant said,
and now came out. "Mr. Villiers is not at home," she reiterated; "will
you leave any message?"
"No; I will wait for him. Show me into his room."
"I am afraid that it is locked," answered Mrs. Derham repulsively:
"perhaps you can call again. Who shall I say asked for him?"
"O no!" cried Ethel, "I must wait for him. Will you permit me to wait
in your parlour? I am Mrs. Villiers."
"I beg pardon," said the good woman; "Mrs. Villiers is in the
country."
"And so I am," replied Ethel—"at least, so I was this morning. Don't
you see my travelling carriage?—look; you may be sure that I am
Mrs. Villiers."
She took out of her little bag one of Edward's letters, with the
perusal of which she had beguiled much of her way to town. Mrs.
Derham looked at the direction—"The Honourable Mrs. Villiers;"—her
countenance brightened. Mrs. Derham was a little, plump, well-
preserved woman of fifty-four or five. She was kind-hearted, and of
course shared the worship for rank which possesses every heart
born within the four seas. She was now all attention. Villiers's room
was open; he was expected very soon:—"He is so seldom out in an
evening: it is very unlucky; but he must be back directly," said Mrs.
Derham, as she showed the way up the narrow staircase. Ethel
reached the landing, and entered a room of tolerable dimensions,
considerably encumbered with litter, which opened into a smaller
room, with a tent bed. A little bit of fire glimmered in the grate. The
whole place looked excessively forlorn and comfortless.
Mrs. Derham bustled about to bestow a little neatness on the room,
saying something of the "untidiness of gentlemen," and "so many
lodgers in the house." Ethel sat down she longed to be alone. There
was the post-boy to be paid, and to be ordered to take the carriage
to a coach-house; and then—Mrs. Derham asked her if she would
not have something to eat: she herself was at tea, and offered a
cup, which Ethel thankfully accepted, acknowledging that she had
not eaten since the morning. Mrs. Derham was shocked. The rank,
beauty, and sweet manners of Ethel had made a conquest, which
her extreme youth redoubled. "So young a lady," she said, "to go
about alone: she did not know how to take care of herself, she was
sure. She must have some supper: a roast chicken should be ready
in an hour—by the time Mr. Villiers came in."
"But the tea," said Ethel, smiling; "you will let me have that now?"
Mrs. Derham hurried away on this hint, and the young wife was left
alone. She had been married a year; but there was still a freshness
about her feelings, which gave zest to every change in her wedded
life. "This is where he has been living without me," she thought;
"Poor Edward! it does not look as if he were very comfortable."
She rose from her seat, and began to arrange the books and papers.
A glove of her husband's lay on the table: she kissed it with a glad
feeling of welcome. When the servant came in, she had the fire
replenished—the hearth swept; and in a minute or two, the room
had lost much of its disconsolate appearance. Then, with a
continuation of her feminine love of order she arranged her own
dress and hair; giving to her attire, as much as possible, an at-home
appearance. She had just finished—just sat down, and begun to find
the time long—when a quick, imperative knock at the door, which
she recognized at once, made her heart beat, and her cheek grow
pale. She heard a step—a voice—and Mrs. Derham answer—"Yes,
sir; the fire is in—every thing comfortable;"—and Ethel opened the
door, as she spoke, and in an instant was clasped in her husband's
arms.
It was not a moment whose joy could be expressed by words. He
had been miserable during her absence, and had thought of sending
for her; but he looked round his single room, remembered that he
was in lodgings, and gave up his purpose with a bitter murmur: and
here she was, uncalled for, but most welcome: she was here, in her
youth, her loveliness, her sweetness: these were charms; but others
more transcendent now attended on, and invested her;—the sacred
tenderness of a wife had led her to his side; and love, in its most
genuine and beautiful shape, shed an atmosphere of delight and
worship about her. Not one circumstance could alloy the
unspeakable bliss of their meeting. Poverty, and its humiliations,
vanished from before the eyes of Villiers; he was overflowingly rich
in the possession of her affections—her presence. Again and again
he thanked her, in broken accents of expressive transport.
"Nothing in the whole world could make me unhappy now!" he
cried; and Ethel, who had seen his face look elongated and gloomy
at the moment he had entered, felt indeed that Medea, with all her
potent herbs, was less of a magician than she, in the power of
infusing the sparkling spirit of life into one human frame. It was long
before either were coherent in their inquiries and replies. There was
nothing, indeed, that either wished to know. Life, and its purposes,
were fulfilled, rounded, complete, without a flaw. They loved, and
were together—together, not for a transitory moment, but for the
whole duration of the eternity of love, which never could be
exhausted in their hearts.
After more than an hour spent in gradually becoming acquainted
and familiar with the transporting change, from separate loneliness
to mutual society and sympathy, the good-natured face of Mrs.
Derham showed itself, to announce that Ethel's supper was ready.
These words brought back to Edward's recollection his wife's
journey, and consequent fatigues: he grew more desirous than Mrs.
Derham to feed his poor famished bird, whose eyes, in spite of the
joy that shone in them, began to look languid, and whose cheek was
pale. The little supper-table was laid, and they sat down together.
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu has recorded the pleasure to be reaped

"When we meet with champagne and a chicken at

last;"

and perhaps social life contains no combination so full of enjoyment

as a tête-à-tête supper. Here it was, with its highest zest. They
feared no prying eyes—they knew no ill: it was not a scanty hour of
joy snatched from an age of pain—a single spark illuminating a long
blank night. It came after separation, and possessed, therefore, the
charm of novelty; but it was the prelude to a long reunion—the seal
set on their being once again joined, to go through together each
hour of the livelong day. Full of unutterable thankfulness and
gladness, as were the minds of each, 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.

"Imparadised" 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," nor

"Vernal airs,
Breathing the smell of field and grove."

In their narrow abode—their nook of a room, cut off from the world,
redolent 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 prodigal, 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 willingly to forego vanity, selfishness, and
the exactions of self-will, in unlimited and unregretted exchange.
Mutual esteem and gratitude sanctified the unreserved sympathy
which made each so happy in the other. Did they love the less for
not loving "in 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 ministrations of terror, and a
knowledge that each was the occasion of injury 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 tends to
humiliate her in her own eyes. The natural pride of her sex struggles
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 shame.
The sense of right adorned the devotion of love. She read
approbation in Edward's eyes, and drew near him in full
consciousness of deserving it. They sat at their supper, and long
after, by the cheerful fire, 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 eyes sparkled
with the gladness of renewed delight in seeing each other. "Mine, my
own, for ever!"—And was this exultation in possession to be termed
selfish? by no other reasoning surely, than that used by a cold and
meaningless 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 conferring mutual benefits; and partly
through the instinctive love God 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 "worse" they might share, which gave a mysterious and celestial
charm to the present "better."

CHAPTER XVII

Do you not think yourself truly happy?

You have the abstract of all sweetness by you,
The precious wealth youth labours to arrive at,
Nor is she less in honour than in beauty.

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 in 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;"

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 past 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 account. 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 raising money, by mortgage or the absolute
disposal of a part of the estate. Edward had consulted with his
solicitor, who was to look over a vast variety 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 labyrinth of
obstacles which presented themselves at every turn. He talked of
their taking a house in town; but Ethel would not hear of such
extravagance. In the first place, their actual means were at a very
low ebb, with little hope of a 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 measures against him. These
things, dingy-visaged, dirty-handed realities as they were, made a
strange contrast with Ethel's feeling of serene and elevated 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 meeting 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 have 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, everspringing 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 Saville for Lady Lodore was
revealed to her; but the story was not truly told, for the prejudices
as well as the ignorance of Villiers rendered him blind to the sincerity
of Cornelia's affection 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 despicable 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; one of those
elected few whom nature elevats to her own high 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 "base
Indian," she had thrown

"A pearl away,

Richer than all his tribe."

There was a peaceful quiet in their secluded and obscure life, 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 so
entirely disposed of all his interest in the property, that his readiness
to join in any act of sale would be useless. The next thing to be
done was for Edward to sell a part of his expectations, and the
lawyer promised to find a purchaser, and begged 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 to the lips of those 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 negociations. 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 misfortune. 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
fairylike 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 entertainment of the reader.

CHAPTER XVIII

I saw her upon nearer view,

A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily 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 uncle, Lord Maristow, entrusting a commission to him,
which obliged him to go to the neighbourhood of Egham. Not having
a horse, he went by the stage. He set out so late in the day that
there was no chance of his returning the same night; 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
yet so cut off from every one, with such a sense of desolation as
Mungo Park might have felt in central Africa, or a shipwrecked
mariner on an uninhabited island.
Her pen was taken up, but she did not write. She could not
command her thoughts to express any thing but the overflowing,
devoted, all-engrossing affection of her heart, her adoration for her
husband; that would not amuse Lucy,—she thought: and she had
commenced another sheet with "My dearest 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 good man, I am Mrs. Villiers."
"If you please, ma'am, I 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.
"O 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 recognized 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 transported into a strange sea, hemmed in by danger,
without a pilot or knowledge of a passage. Again she looked at the
man's face: "What is best to be done!" she exclaimed.
"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.
Villiers. 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 were 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 question of "orders for dinner;" and then she bestowed
the benefit of some five or ten minutes garrulity on her fair lodger.
Ethel learnt that she had seen better days, and that were justice
done her, she ought to be riding in her coach, instead of letting
lodgings. She learnt that she had a married daughter living at
Kennington: poor enough, but struggling on cheerfully 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
beheld.
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 applying 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 voice. 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
part, by her anxieties; and on Fanny's, by a feeling that she had
been neglected by her friend. A few letters had passed between
them, when first Ethel had visited Longfield: since then their
correspondence had been discontinued till after her return to
England, from Italy, when Mrs. Villiers had wrote; 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 time had operated in their youthful
appearance, which 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 self-possession. Fanny was
still a mere girl; tall, beyond the middle height, yet her young,
ingenuous countenance was unaltered, as well as that singular
mixture of mildness and independence, in her manners, which had
always characterized 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
paintings of the calm-visaged, blue-eyed deities of the frescos of
Pompeii, may form an idea of the serene beauty of Fanny Derham.
When Mrs. Villiers entered, she was reading earnestly—a large
dictionary 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 I 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 her's 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 then explained the sources of her disquietude. Fanny
listened 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 composed: no ill will happen, I trust, to Mr. Villiers;—at least
you need not be afraid of his being pursued. It the man you have
sent be active and faithful, all will be well. I will see these
troublesome people to-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. "O that I had gone with
him!—never will I again let him go any where 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 history:—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
impertinence; 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 thought—"Can I
not bear those cares with equanimity for Edward's sake, which
Fanny regards as so trivial, merely because Plato and Epictetus bid
her do 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 night. 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.

END OF VOL. II.

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