The Complete Works of Mary Shelley - Part 9

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The Complete Works of Mary Shelley - Part 9

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LODORE. 



BY THE 



AUTHOR OF " FRANKENSTEIN." 



t 



In the turmoil of our lives, 
Men are like politic states, or troubled seas, 
Tossed 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. 

FORD. 



flaris: 



A. akd W. GALIGNANI awd O., 

rue yiyncNNB, n« 18. 

1885. 



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( 7r £jj 



• 96/ 



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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 five miles from the sea, is situated a village or small town, 
which may be known in these pages by the name of Longfield. 
Longfield is distant eight miles from any market town, but, the 
simple inhabitants, limiting their desires to their medhs of satisfying 
them, are scarcely 1 aware of the kind of desert in which they are 
placed. Although only fifty raileS from London, few among them 
have ever seen the metropolis. Some claim that distinction from 
haying visited cousins in Lothbury and viewed the lions in the 
tower. There is a mansion belonging to a wealthy nobleman 
within four miles, never inhabitfd, except when a parliamentary 
election is going facwanJ. No~one of any pretension to conse- 
quence resided in this secluded nook, ^xcept the honourable Mrs. 
Elizabeth Fitzhenry ; she ought to have been the shining star of the 
place, and she was only its better angel. Benevolent, gentle, and 
unassuming, this fair sprig of nobility had lived from youth to age 



• LODORE. 

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 
Tillage green, was wholly incommensurate to our humblest ideas of 
what belongs to nobility; yet it stood in solitary splendour, the 
Great House of Longfield. From time immemorial, its possessors 
had been the magnates of the Tillage ; half of it belonged to them, 
and the whole voted according to their wishes. Gut off from 
the rest of the world, they claimed here a consideration and a defe- 
rence, 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 parlia- 
ment; but the time arrived, when they were to rise to greater dis- 
tinction. 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. Ho 
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 tM means of insuring 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 ; and when that war termi- 
nated, and the admiral, now advanced considerably beyond middle 
life, returned to the Sabine farm, of which he had, by course of 
descent, become proprietor, he returned adorned with the rank of a 
peer of the realm, and with sufficient wealth to s.upport respectabk 
the dignity of the baronial title. -. 

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 paternal 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 dieut 1 have frequently 
the image before me, of having been kissed and caressed by a beau- 
tiful lady, very richly dressed. " 

Fitzbenry actually started at this reply* " I have often conjec- 
tured, " continued Ethel, "that that lovely vision was my dear 
'mother; and that when— when you lost her, you despised all the 
rtst of the world, and exiled yourself to America/' 

Ethel looked inquiringly at her father as she made this leading 
remark; but he in a sharp and tremulous accent repeated the words, 
"Lost her!" 

" Yes, " said Ethel, " I mean, is she not lost— did she not die?" 

Fitzbenry sighed heavily, and turning his head towards the win- 
dow on his side, became absorbed in thought, and Ethel feared to 
disturb him by continuing the conversation. 

It has not been difficult all along for the reader to imagine, that 
the lamented brother of the honourable Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzbenry 
and the exile of the Illinois are one ; and while father and daughter 
are proceeding on their way towards 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 Henry Fitzbenry was the only son of 
Admiral 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 be- 
came aware of their extravagant fondness, and could not do less in 
consequence than fancy himself 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 villa- 
gers. 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, though 
any circumstances that had lessened his consequence in his own eyes 
would have been matter of astonishment and indignation. His per- 



3d LODOKE. 

sonal beauty was the delight of the women, his agility and hardihood 
the topic of the men of the Tillage. For although essentially spoil- 
ed, he was not pampered in luxury. His father, with all his fond- 
ness, 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 physical education, while his moral nur- 
ture was the most perniciously indulgent. Thus, at the 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 virtues, and to seek their approbation by imitating them. 
He would not wantonly have inflicted a pang upon a human being; 
yet he exerted aoy power he might possess to quell the smallest 
resistance to his desires ; and unless when they were manifested in 
the most intelligible manner, he scarcely knew that his fellow-crea- 
tures had any feelings at all, except pride and gladness in serving 
him, and gratitude when he showed them kindness. Any poor 
family visited by rough adversity, any unfortunate child enduring 
unjust oppression, he assisted earnestly and with all his heart. He 
was courageous as a lion, and, upon occasion, soft-hearted and 
pitiful, but once roused to anger by opposition, his eyes darted fire, 
his little form swelled, 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, submission usually followed 
any stand made against his authority, for it was always a contest 
with an inferior, and he was never brought into wholesome strug- 
gle 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 me- 
nials 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 per- 
petually invaded. His schoolfellows soon discovered his weakness 
— it became a bye-word among them, and was the object of such 
practical jokes, as seemed to the self-idolizing boy, at once fright- 
ful and disgusting. He had no resource. Did he lay his length 



LODORE. 37 

under some favourite 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 pas- 
sion of his soul. He poured forth vehement invective, andhootings 
were the answer. He had one other resource, and that in the end 
proved successful : — 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. 

Tet this was not all. He put himself foremost among a troop of 
wild and uncivilized schoolboys ; but he was not of them. His 
tastes, fostered in solitude, were at once more manly and dange- 
rous 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 schoolfellows, his next were with his masters. 
He would not stoop to shows of humility, nor tame a nature accus- 
tomed to take pride in daring and independence. He resented in- 
justice wherever he encountered or fancied it ; he equally spurned 
it when practised on himself, or defended others when they were 
its object— freedom was the watchword of his heart. Freedom 
from all trammels, except those of which he was wholly uncon- 
scious, imposed on him by his passions and pride. His good-na- 
ture led him to side with the weak ; and he was*indignant that his 
mere fiat did not suffice to raise them to his own level, or 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 perpetual disgrace with his masters. The boy 
was unlike the rest ; he had 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 grammar inspired him with 
horror, and a kind of delirious stupidity seized him in the classes ; 



38 LODORE. 

and yet he could discourse with eloquence, and pored with un- 
ceasing delight oyer books of the abstrusest philosophy. He seemed 
incapable of feeling the motives and impulses of other boys : 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 night, or sat wailing by the banks of 
streams : was he struck, he smiled and turned away ; he would 
not fag; he never refused to learn, but could not; he was the 
scoff, and butt, and victim, of the whole school. 

Fitzhenry 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 himself, and the boys left off tormenting him. 
When they ceased to injure, they began to like him, and he had 
soon a set of friends whom he solaced with his wild stories and 
mysterious notions. But his powerful advocate was unable to 
advance his cause with his masters, and the cruelty exercised on 
him revolted Fitzhenry's generous soul. One day, he stood forth 
to expostulate, and to show wherefore Derham should not be pu- 
nished 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, bending form of his friend seized to be led to punish- 
ment, he sprang forward to rescue him. This open rebellion as- 
tounded every one ; a kind of consternation, which feared to show 
the gladness it felt, possessed the boyish subjects of the tyro king- 
dom. 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 Windsor Forest, and at night 
he entered Eton, and scaling a wall, tapped at the bedroom window 
of his friend. " Come," said he, " come with me. Leave these 
tyrants to eat their own hearts with rage— my home shall be your 
home." 

Derham embraced him, but would not consent. " My mother/ ' 
he said, "I have promised my mother to bear all;" "and tears 
gushed from his large light blue eyes ; " but for her, the green 
grass of this spring were growing on my grave. I dare not pain 
her." 

" Be it so," said Fitzhenry ; " nevertheless, before the end of a 
month, you shall be free. I am leaving this wretched place, where 



LODORS. 90 

men rule because they are strong, for my father's house. 1 never 
yet asked for a thing that I ought to have, that it was not granted 
me. I am a boy here., there I am a man— and can do as men do. 
Representations shall be made to your parents ; you shall be taken 
from school ; we shall be free and happy together this summer at 
Longfield. Good night; I have for to walk, for the stage coachmen 
would be shy of me near Eton ; but I shall get to London on foot, 
and sleep to-morrow in my father's house. Keep up your heart, 
Derham, be a man— this shall not last long; we shall triumph yet." 



40 LODORE. 



CHAPTER VI. 



What is youth ? a dancing billow, 
Winds behind, and rocks before ! 

Wordsworth. 



This exploit terminated Fitzhenry's career at Eton. A private tutor 
was engaged, who resided with the family, for the purpose of pre- 
paring him for college, and at the age of seventeen he was entered 
at Oxford. He still continued to cultivate the friendship of Derham. 
This youth was the younger son of a rich and aristocratic family, 
whose hopes and cares centred in their heir, and who cared little 
for the comfort of the younger. Derham had been destined for the 
sea, and scarcely did his delicate health, and timid, nervous dispo- 
sition exempt him from the common fate of a boy, whose parents 
did not know what to do with him. The next idea was to place 
him in the church ; and at last, at his earnest entreaty, he was per- 
mitted to go abroad, to study at one of the German universities, so 
to prepare himself, by a familiarity with modern languages, for 
diplomacy. 

It was singular how well Fitzhenry and his sensitive friend 
agreed ;— the one looked up with unfeigned admiration— the other 
felt attracted by a mingled compassion and respect, that flattered 
his vanity, and yet served as excitement and amusement. From 
Derham, Fitzhenry imbibed in theory much of that contempt of the 
world's opinion, and carelessness of consequences, which was in- 
herent in the one, but was an extraneous graft on the proud and 
imperious spirit of the other. Derham looked with calm yet shy 
superiority on his fellow-creatures. Yet superiority is not the 
word, since he did not feel himself superior to, but different from— 
incapable of sympathizing or extracting sympathy, he turned away 



LODORX. 41 

with a smile, and pursued his lonely path, thronged with visions and 
fancies — while his friend, when he met check or rebuff, would fire 
up, his eyes sparkling, his bosom hearing with intolerable indig- 
nation. 

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 then at Jena. It was but anticipating the 
period for his travels, and upon his promise to pursue his studies 
abroad, he won a somewhat reluctant consent from his father. 
Once on the continent, the mania of travelling seized him. He visit- 
ed Italy, Poland, and Russia : he bent his wayward steps from 
north to south, as the whim seized him. He became of age, and 
his father earnestly desired his return : but again and again he soli- 
cited permission to remain, from autumn till spring, and from 
spring till autumn, until the very flower of his youth seemed des- 
tined to be wasted in aimless rambles, and an intercourse with 
foreigners, that must tend to unnationalize him, and to render him 
unfit for a career in his own country. Growing accustomed to re- 
gulate his own actions, he changed the tone of request into that of 
announcing his intentions. At length, he was summoned home to 
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 mansion at Longfield, and then informed her of his deter- 
mination 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 affectionate attentions to his sister; but this formed, as it 
were, the surface of things; a mightier impulse ruled his inner 
mind. His life seemed to depend upon certain letters which he 
received ; and when the day had been occupied by business, he pass- 
ed 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 passionate and un- 
disciplined soul was far away, evidently in the keeping of another. 

Elizabeth, sorrowing for the loss of her father, was doubly afflict* 
ed when she heard that it was her brother's intention to quit 
England immediately. She had fondly hoped that he would, adoi n- 
ed by his newly-inherited title, and endowed with the gifts of for- 
tune, step upon the stage of the world, and shine forth the hero of 



43 LODORE. 

his age and country. Her affections, her future prospects, her 
ambition, were all centred in him; and it was a bitter pang to feel 
that the glory of the&e was to be eclipsed by the obscurity and dis- 
tant residence which he preferred. Accustomed to obedience, and 
to regard the resolutions of the men about her, as laws with which 
she bad no right to interfere, she did not remonstrate, she only 
wept. Moved by her tears, Lord Lodore made the immense sacri- 
fice of one month to gratify her, which he spent in reading and 
writing letters atLongfield, in pacing the rooms or avenues absorb- 
ed in reverie, or in riding over the most solitary districts, with no 
object apparently in view, except that of avoiding his fellow-crea- 
tures. Elizabeth bad the happiness of seeing the top of his head as he 
leant 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 night. Sometimes he conversed with her, 
and then how like a god be seemed ! His extensive acquaintance 
with men -and things, the novel but choice language in which he 
clothed his ideas ; his vivid descriptions, 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 pro- 
longation 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: " I 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 
ingratitude. Yet when the promised month had elapsed, he did 
not defer his journey a single day : already had he engaged his pas- 
sage 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 word but that of a kind adieu was uttered by 
him. She returned to shore, and watched his lessening sail. 
Wherefore did be leave his native country? Wherefore return to 
reside in lands, whose language, manners, and religion, were all at 
variance with his own? These questions occupied the gentle 
spinster's thoughts; she bad little except such meditations to vary 
the hours, as years stole on unobserved, and she continued to spend 
her blameless tranquil days in her native village. 



LODORE. 43 

The new Lord Lodore was one of those men, not infrequently 
met with in the world, whose early youth is replete with mighty 
promise ; who, as they advance in life, continue to excite the expec- 
tation, 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 slips down to its evening 
eclipse without redeeming the pledge ; so do these men present 
every appearance of one day making a conspicuous figure, and yet 
to the end, as it were, they only gild the edges of the clouds in 
which they hide themselves, and arrive at the term of life, the pro- 
mise of its dawn unfulfilled. Passion, and the consequent engross- 
ing occupations, usurped the place of laudable ambition and useful 
exertion. He wasted bis nobler energies upon pursuits which were 
mysteries to the world, yet which formed the sum of his existence. 
It was not that he was destitute of loftier aspirations. Ambition 
was the darling growth of his soul— but weeds and parasites, an 
unregulated and unpruned overgrowth, twisted itself around the 
healthier plant, and threatened its destruction. 

Sometimes he appeared among the English in the capital towns of 
the continent, and was always welcomed with delight. His manners 
were highly engaging, a little reserved with men, unless they were 
intimates, attentive to women, and to them a subject of interest, 
they scarcely knew why. 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 alto- 
gether, and was spoken of as having secluded himself in some un- 
attainable district of northern Germany, Poland, or Gourland. Yet 
all these erratic movements were certainly governed by one law, 
and that was love ;— love 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 the families 
of lovely girls, whose successive visitations on the continent strike 
the natives with such wooder, why did he not select some distin- 
guished beauty, with blue eyes, and auburn locks, as the object of 
his exclusive admiration? He had often conversed with such with 
seeming delight; buthe could withdraw from the fascination un- 
harmed and free. Sometimes a very kind and agreeable mamma 
contrived half to domesticate him ; but after lounging, and turning 



44 LODORE. 

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 time 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 gentle, 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 said, that his present mode of life should not last for 
ever, and that he would come among them at no distant day. And 
yet years stole on, and mystery and obscurity clouded him. He 
grew grave, almost sombre, and then almost discontented. Any 
one habituated to him might have discovered struggles beneath the 
additional seriousness of his demeanour—struggles that promised 
final emancipation from his longdrawn thraldom. 



LODORE. 45 



CHAPTER VII. 



Men oftentimes prepare a lot, 
Which ere it finds them, is not what 
Suits with their genuine station. 

Shelley. 



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 subdued and graceful manners, and in 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 of 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 bad just emancipated himself from an influence, 
which had become the most grievous slavery, from the moment it 
had ceased to be a voluntary servitude. He had broken the ties 
that had so long held him ; but this had not been done without such 
difficulties and struggles, as made freedom less delightful, from the 
languor and regret that accompanied victory. Lodore had formed 
but one resolve, which was not to entangle himself again in unlaw* 
ful 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 vague wish to marry, and to 



46 LODORE. 

marry one whom his judgment, rather than his love, should select ; 
—an unwise purpose, good in theory, but very defective in practice. 
Besides this new idea of marrying, which he buried as a profound 
secret in his own bosom, he wished to accustom himself to the 
manners and customs of his own country, so as to enable him to 
enter upon public life. He was fond of the country in England, 
and entered with zeal upon the pleasures of the chace. He liked 
the life led at the seats of the great, and endeavoured to do his part 
in amusing those around him. 

Tet be did not feel one of them. Above all, he did not feel withia 
him the charm of life, the glad spirit that looks on each returning 
day as a blessing; and which, gilding every common object with its 
own brightness, requires no lustre unborrowed from itself. All 
things palled upon Lodore. The light laughter and gentle voices of 
women were vacant of attraction ; bis sympathy was not excited by 
the discussions or pursuits of men. After striving for a whole year 
to awaken in himself an interest for some one person or thing, and 
finding all to be " vanity, "—towards the close of a season in town, 
of extreme brilliancy and variety to common eyes— of dulness and 
sameness to his morbid sense, he suddenly withdrew himself from 

* the haunts of men, and plunging into solitude, tried to renovate his 
soul by self-communings, and an intercourse with silent, but most 
eloquent, Nature. 

Youth wasted; affections sown on sand, barren of return ; wealth 
and station flung as weeds upon the rocks ; a name, whose " gold" 
was "o'erdusted" by the inertness of its wearer ;— such were the 
retrospections that haunted his troubled mind. He envied the 

vploughboy, who whistled as he went; and the laborious cottager, 
who each Saturday bestowed upon his family the hard-won and 
scanty earnings of the week. He pined for an aim in life— a bourne 
— a necessity, to give zest to his palled appetite, and excitement to 
his satiated soul. It seemed to him that he could hail poverty and 
care as blessings; and that the dearest gifts of fortune— youth, 
health, rank, and riches— were disguised curses. All these be 
possessed, and despised. Gnawing discontent; energy, rebuked 
and tamed into mere disquietude, for want of a proper object, 
preyed upon his soul. Where could a remedy be found? No 
" green spot" of delight soothed his memory ; no cheering prospect 
appeared in view; all was arid, gloomy, unsunned upon. 



LODORE. 47 

He had wandered into Wales. He was charmed with the scenery 
and solitude about Rhyaider Gowy, in Radnorshire, which lies 
amidst romantic mountains, and in immediate vicinity to a cataract 
of the Wye. He fixed himself for some months in a convenient 
mansion, which he found to let, at a few miles from that place. 
Here he was secure from unwelcome visiters, or any communica- 
tion with tbe throng be bad left. He corresponded with no one, 
read no newspapers. He passed his day, loitering beside waterfalls, 
clambering tbe steep mountains, or making longer excursions on 
horseback, always directing his course away from high roads or 
towns. His past life had been sufficiently interesting to afford 
scope for reverie ; and as he watched tbe sunbeams as they climbed 
tbe hills at evening, or tbe shadows of the clouds as they careered 
across the valleys, h»s heart by turns mourned or rejoiced over its 
freedom, and the change that had come over it and stilled its war- 
ring passions. 

Tbe only circumstance tbat in the least intrenched upon bis feel- 
ing of entire seclusion, was tbe mention, not unfrequently made to 
him, by his servants, of the " ladies at tbe farm." Tbe idea of 
these "ladies" at first annoyed him; but the humble habitation 
which tbey had chosen— humble to poverty—impressed him with 
tbe belief that, however the "ladies" might awe-strike the Welsh 
peasantry, he should find in tbem nothing that would impress him 
with the idea of station. Two or three times, at the distant sight 
of a bonnet, instead of the Welsh hat, he had altered his course to 
avoid the wearer. Once he had suddenly come on one of these 
wonders of tbe mountains : she might have passed for a very 
civilized kind of abigail; but, of course, she was one of the 
"ladies." 

As Lodore was neither a poet nor a student, he began at last to 
tire of loneliness. He was a little ashamed when he remembered 
that he had taken bis present abode for a year : however, be satis- 
fied his conscience by a resolre to return to it ; and began seriously 
to plan crossing the country, to visit his sister in Essex. He was, 
during one of his rides, deliberating on putting this resolve into exe- 
cution on the very next morning, when suddenly he was overtaken 
by a storm. The valley, through which his path wound, was nar- 
row, and the gathering clouds over head made it dark as night; the 
lightning flashed with peculiar brightness ; and the thunder, loud 



46 LODORE. 

and bellowing, was re-echoed by the hills, and reverberated along 
the sky in terrific pealings. It was more like a continental storm 
than any which Lodore had ever witnessed in England, and imparted 
to him a sensation of thrilling pleasure; till, as the rain came down 
in torrents, he began to think of seeking some shelter, at least for 
his horse. Looking round for this, he all at once perceived a vision 
of white muslin beneath a ledge of rock, which could but half pro- 
tect the gentle wearer : frightened she was, too, as a slight shriek 
testified, when a bright flash, succeeded instantaneously by a loud 
peal of thunder, bespoke the presence of something like danger. 
Lodore's habitual tenderness of nature rendered it no second thought 
with him to alight and offer his services ; and he was fully repaid 
when he saw her, who hailed with gladness a protector, though too 
frightened to smile, or scarcely to speak. She was very young, and 
more beautiful, Lodore was at once assured, than anything he had 
ever before beheld. Her fairness, increased by the paleness of 
terror, was even snowy ; her hair, scarcely dark enough for chesnut, 
too dark for auburn, clustered in rich curls on her brow ; her eyes 
were dark grey, long, and full of expression, as they beamed from 
beneath their deeply-fringed lids. But such description says little ; 
it was not the form of eye or the brow's arch, correct and beautiful 
as these were, in this lovely girl, that imparted her peculiar attrac- 
tion ; beyond these, there was a radiance, a softness, an angel look, 
that rendered her countenance singular in its fascination ; an ex- 
pression of innocence and sweetness; a pleading gentleness thai 
desired protection ; a glance that subdued, because it renounced 
all victory ; and this, now animated by fear, quickly excited, in 
Lodore, the most ardent desire to re-assure and serve her. She 
leant, as she stood, against the rock— now hiding her face with her 
hands— now turning her eyes to her stranger companion, as if in 
appeal or disbelief; while he again and again protested that there 
was no danger, and strove to guard her from the rain, which still 
descended with violence. The thunder died away, and the light- 
ning soon ceased to flash, but this continued; and while the colour 
revisited the young girl's cheek, and her smiles, displaying a thou- 
sand dimples, lighted up new charms, a fresh uneasiness sprung up 
in her of how she could get home. Her chaussure; ill-fitted even 
for the mountains, could not protect her for a moment from the 
wet. Lodore offered his horse, and pledged himself for its quietness, 



LODORE. 40 

and his care, if she could contrive to sit in the saddle. He lifted her 
light form on to it ; but the high-bred animal, beginning a little to 
prance, she threw herself off into the arms of her new friend, in a 
transport of terror, which Lodore could by no means assuage. 
What was to be done? He felt, light as she was, that he could carry 
her the short half-mile to her home ; but this could not be offered. 
The rain was now over ; and her only resource was to brave the 
humid soil in kid slippers. With considerable difficulty, half the 
journey was accomplished, when they met the " lady " whom Lo- 
dore had before seen ;— really the maid in attendance, who had 
come out to seek her young mistress, and to declare that " my 
lady " was beside herself with anxiety on her account. 

Lodore still insisted on conducting his young charge to her home; 
and the next day it was but matter of politeness to call to express 
his hope that she had not suffered from her exposure to the weather. 
He found the lovely girl, fresh as the morning, with looks all light 
and sweetness, seated beside her mother, a lady whose appearance 
was not so prepossessing, though adorned with more than the re- 
mains of beauty. She at once struck Lodore as disagreeable and 
forbidding. Still she was cordial in her welcome, grateful for his 
kindness, and so perfectly engrossed by the thought of, and love for, 
her child, that Lodore felt his respect and interest awakened. 

An acquaintance, thus begun between the noble recluse and the 
" ladies of the farm," proceeded prosperously. A month ago, 
Lodore would not have believed that he should feel glad at finding 
two fair off-shoots of London fashion dwelling so near his retreat; 
but even if solitude had not rendered him tolerant, the loveliness of 
the daughter might well perform a greater miracle. In the mother, 
he found good breeding, good nature, and good sense. He soon 
became almost domesticated in their rustic habitation* 

Lady Santerre was of humble birth, the daughter of a solicitor of 
a country town. She was handsome, and won the heart of Mr. 
Santerre, then a minor, who was assisted by her father in the lau- 
dable endeavour to obtain more money than his father allowed him. 
The young gentleman saw, loved, and married. His parents were 
furiously angry, and tried to illegalize the match; but he confirmed 
it when he came of age, and a reconciliation with his family never 
took place. Mr. Santerre sold reversions, turned expectations into 
money, and lived in the world. For six years, his wife bloomed in 

3. 






60 LODORE. 

the gay parterre of fashionable society, when her husband's father 
died. Prosperity was to dawn on this event : the new Sir John 
went down to attend his father's funeral ; thence to return to town, 
to be immersed in recoveries, settlements, and law. He never re- 
turned. Riding across the country to a neighbour, his horse shyed, 
reared, and threw him. His head struck against a fragment of 
stone : a concussion of the brain ensued ; and a fortnight afterwards, 
he was enclosed beside his father, in the ancestral vault. 

His widow was the mother of a daughter only ; and her hopes 
and prospects died with her husband. His brother, and heir, 
might have treated her better in the sequel ; but he Was excessively 
irritated by the variety of debts, and incumbrances, and lawsuits, 
he had to deal with. He chose to consider the wife most to blame, 
and she and her child were treated as aliens. He allowed them 
two hundred a year, and called himself generous. This was all 
(for her father was not rich, and had a large family) that poor 
Lady Santerre had to depend upon. She struggled on for some 
little time, trying to keep up her connexions in the gay world ; but 
poverty is a tyrant, whose laws are more terrible than those of 
Draco. Lady Santerre yielded, retired to Bath, and fixed her hopes 
on her daughter, whom she resolved should hereafter make a splen- 
did match. Her excessive beauty promised to render this scheme 
feasible; and now that she was nearly sixteen, her mother began to 
look forward anxiously. She had retired to Wales this summer, 
that, by living with yet stricter economy, she might be enabled, du- 
ring the winter; to put her plans into execution with greater ease. 

Lord Lodore became intimate with the mother and daughter, 
and his imagination speedily painted both in the most attractive 
colours. Here was the very being his heart had pined for — a girl 
radiant in innocence and youth, the nursling, so he fancied, 'of 
mountains, waterfalls, and solitude ; yet endowed with all the soft- 
ness and refinement of civilized society. Long forgotten emotions 
awoke in his heart, and he gave himself up to the bewildering feel- 
ings that beset him. Every thing was calculated to excite his inte- 
rest. The desolate situation of the mother, devoted to her daugh- 
ter only, and that daughter fairer than imagination could paint, 
young, gentle, blameless, knowing nothing beyond obedience to 
her parent, and untaught in the guile of mankind. It was impos- 
sible to see that intelligent and fweet face, and not feel that to be 



LODORE. 61 

the first to impress love in the heart which it mirrored, was a des- 
tiny which angels might envy. How proud a part was his, to gift 
her with rank, fortune, and all earthly blessings, and to receive in 
return, gratitude, tenderness, and unquestioning submission ! If 
love did not, as thus he reasoned, show itself in the tyrant guise it 
had formerly assumed in the heart of Lodore, it was the more wel- 
come a guest. It spoke not of the miseries of passion, but offered 
a bright view of lengthened days of peace and contentedness. He 
was not a slave at the feet of his mistress, but he could watch each 
gesture and catch each sound of her voice, and say, goodness and 
beauty are there, and I shall be happy. 

He found the lovely girl somewhat ignorant; but white paper to 
be written upon at will, is a favourite metaphor among those men 
who have described the ideal of a wife. That she had talent beyond 
what he had usually found in women, he was delighted to remark. 
At first she was reserved and shy. Little accustomed to society, 
she sat beside her mother in something of a company attitude ; her 
eyes cast down, her lips closed. She was never to be found alone, 
and ajeunepersanne in France could scarcely be more retired and 
tranquil. This accorded better with Lodore's continental experi- 
ence, than the ease of English fashionable girls, and he was pleased. 
He conversed little with Cornelia until he had formed his determi- 
nation, and solicited her mother's consent to their union. Then 
they were allowed to walk together, and she gained on him, as their 
intimacy increased. She was very lively, witty, and full of playful 
fancy. Aware of her own deficiencies in education, she was the 
first to laugh at herself, and to make such remarks as showed an 
understanding worth all the accomplishments in the world. Lodore 
now really found himself in love, and blessed the day that led him 
from among the fair daughters of fashion to this child of nature. 
His wayward feelings were to change no more — his destiny was 
fixed. At thirty-four to marry, to settle into the father of a family, 
his hopes and wishes concentrated in a home, adorned by one whose 
beauty was that of angels, was a prospect that he dwelt upon each 
day with renewed satisfaction. Nothing in after years could distifrb 
his felicity, and the very security with which he contemplated the 
future , imparted a calm delight, at once new and grateful to a 
heart, weary of storms and struggles, and which, in finding peace, 
believed that it possessed the consummation of human happiness. 



88 LODORE. 



CHAPTER- VIII. 



Hopes, what are they ? beads of morning 
Strung on slender blades of grass, 

Or a spider's web adorning, 
In a strait and treacherous pass. 

Word6woith. 



The months of July, August, and September had passed away. 
Lord Lodore enjoyed, during the two last, a singularly complacent 
state of mind. He had come to Wales with worn-out spirits, a 
victim to that darker species of ennui, which colours with gloomy 
tints the future as well as the present, and is the ministering angel 
of evil to the rich and prosperous. He despised himself, contemn- 
ed his pursuits, and called all vanity beneath the vivifying sun of 
heaven. Real misfortunes have worn the guise of blessings to 
men so afflicted, but he was withdrawn from this position, by a 
being who wore the outward semblance of an angel, and from whom 
he felt assured nothing but good could flow. 

Cornelia Santerre was lovely, vivacious, witty, and good-humour- 
ed ; yet, strange to say, her new lover was not rendered happy so 
much by the presence of these qualities, as by the promise which 
they gave for the future. He loved her; he believed that she would 
be to the end of his life a blessing and a delight ; yet passion was 
scarcely roused in his heart ; it was ** a sober certainty of waking 
bliss," and a reasonable belief in the continuance of this state, that 
made him, while he loved her, regard her rather as a benefactress 
than a mistress. 

Benefactress is a strange word to use, especially as her extreme 
youth was probably the cause that more intimate sympathies did 
not unite them, and why passion entered so slightly into their in- 
tercourse. It is possible, so great was the discrepancy of their age, 



LODORE. 63 

and consequently of their feelings and views of life, that Lodore 
would never have thought of marrying Cornelia, but that Lady 
Santerre was at hand to direct the machinery of the drama. She 
inspired him with the wish to gift her angelic child with the worldly 
advantages which his wife must possess ; to play a god-like part, 
and to lift into prosperity and happiness, one who seemed destined 
by fortune to struggle with adversity. Lady Santerre was a world- 
ly woman and an oily flatterer ; Lodore had been accustomed 
to feminine control, and he yielded with docility to her silken 
fetters. 

The ninth of October was Cornelia's sixteenth birthday, and on 
it she became the wife of Lord Lodore. This event took place in 
the parish church of Rhyaider Gowy r and it was communicated to 
" the world " in the newspapers. Many discussions then arose as 
to who Miss Santerre could be. " The only daughter of the late 
Sir John." The only late §ir John Santerre remembered, was, in 
fact, the grandfather of the bride, and the hiatus in her genealogy, 
caused by her father's death before he had been known as a baro- 
net, puzzled every fashionable gossip. The whole affair, however, 
had been forgotten, when curiosity was again awakened in the 
ensuing month of March, by an announcement in the Morning Post, 
of the arrival of the noble pair at Mivarfs. Lord Lodore had always 
rented a box at the King's Theatre. It had been newly decorated 
at the beginning of the season, and on the first Saturday in April 
all eyes turned towards it as he entered, having the loveliest, fair- 
est, and most sylph-like girl, that ever trod dark earth, leaning on 
his arm. There was a child-like innocence, a fascinating simplicity, 
joined to an expression of vivacity and happiness, in Lady Lodore's 
countenance, which impressed at first sight, as being the comple- 
tion of feminine beauty. She looked as if no time could touch, no 
ill stain her ; artless affection and amiable dependence spoke in 
each graceful gesture. Others might be beautiful, but there was 
that in her, which seemed allied to celestial loveliness. 
. Such was the prize Lord Lodore had won. The new-married 
pair took up their residence in Berkeley-square, and here Lady 
Santerre joined them, and took possession of the apartments appro- 
priated to her use, under her daughter's roof. All appeared bright 
on the outside, and each seemed happy in each other. Yet had any 
one cared to remark, they had perceived that Lodore looked even 



64 LODORE. 

more abstracted than before his marriage. They had seen, that, in 
the domestic coterie, mother and daughter were familiar friends, 
sharing each thought and wish, but that Lodore was one apart, 
banished, or exiling himself from the dearest blessings of friendship 
and love. There might be no concealment, but also there was no 
frankness between the pair. Neither practised disguise, but there 
was no outpouring of the heart— no " touch of nature, " which, 
passing like an electric shock, made their souls one. An insur- 
mountable barrier stood between Lodore and his happiness— 
between his love and his wife's confidence ; that this obstacle was a 
shadow— undefined— formless— nothing— yet every thing, made it 
trebly hateful, and rendered it utterly impossible that it should be 
removed. 

The magician who had raised this ominous phantom, was Lady 
Santerre. She was a clever though uneducated woman : perfectly 
selfish, soured with the world, yet clinging to it. To make good 
her second entrance on its stage, she believed it necessary to preserve 
unlimited sway over the plastic mind of her daughter. If she had 
acted with integrity, her end had been equally well secured ; but 
unfortunately, she was by nature framed to prefer the zig-zag to 
the straight line; added to which, she was imperious, and could 
not bear a rival near her throne. From the first, therefore, she 
exerted herself to secure her empire over Cornelia; she spared 
neither flattery nor artifice ; and, well acquainted as she was with 
every habit and turn of her daughter's mind, her task was compara- 
tively easy. 

The fair girl had been brought up (ah ! how different from the 
sentiments which Lodore had thought to find the natural inherit- 
ance of the mountain child ! ) to view society as the glass by which 
she was to set her feelings, and to which to adapt her conduct. She 
was ignorant, accustomed to the most frivolous employments, 
shrinking from any mental exercise, so that although her natural 
abilities were great, they lay dormant, producing neither bud nor 
blossom, unless such might be called the elegance of her appear- 
ance, and Oie charm of the softest and most ingenuous manners in 
the world. When her husband would have educated her mind, and 
withdrawn her from the dangers of dissipation, she looked on his 
conduct as tyrannical and cruel. She retreated from his manly 
guidance, to the pernicious guardianship of Lady Santerre, and she 



LODORE. 65 

sheltered herself at her side, from any effort Lodore might make 
for her improvement. 

Those who have never experienced a situation of this kind, cannot 
understand it ; the details appear trivial : there seems wanting but 
one effort to push away the flimsy web, which, after all, is rather 
an imaginary than real bondage. But the slightest description will 
bring it home to those who have known it, and groaned beneath a 
despotism the more intolerable, as it could be less defined. Lord 
Lodore found that he had no home, no dear single-hearted bosom 
where he could find sympathy and to which to impart pleasure. 
When he entered his drawing-room with gaiety of spirit to impart 
some agreeable tidings, to ask his wife's advice, or to propose some 
plan, Lady Santerre was ever by her side, with her hard features 
and canting falsetto voice, checking at once the kindling kindness 
of his soul, and he felt that all that he should say would be turned 
from its right road, by some insidious remark, and the, words he 
was about to speak died upon his lips. When he looked forward 
through the day, and would have given the world to have had his 
wife to himself, and to have sought, in some drive or excursion, for 
the pleasant unreserved converse he sighed for, Lady Santerre must 
be consulted ; and though she never opposed him, she always carried 
her point in opposition to his. His wishes were made light of, and 
he was left to amuse himself, and to know that his wife was imbi- 
bing the lessons of one, whom he had learnt to despise and 
hate. 

Lord Lodore cherished an ideal of what he thought a woman 
ought to be; but he had no lofty opinion of women as he had usual- 
ly found her. He had believed that the germ of all the excellen- 
cies which he esteemed was to be found in Cornelia, and he found 
himself mistaken. He had expected to find truth, clearness of spirit, 
and complying gentleness, the adorning qualities of the unsophisti- 
cated girl, and he found her the willing disciple of one whose selfish 
and artful character was in direct contradiction to his own. Once 
or twice at the beginning, he had attempted to withdraw his wife 
from this sinister influence, but Lady Lodore highly resented any 
effort of this kind, and saw in it an endeavour to make her neglect 
her first and dearest duties. Lodore, angry that the wishes of an* 
other should be preferred to his, drew back with disappointed 
pride ; he disdained to enforce by authority, that which he thought 



56 LODORE. 

ought to be yielded to love. The bitter sense of wounded affections 
was not to be appeased by knowing that, if he chose, he could 
command that, which was worthless in his eyes, except as a vo- 
luntary gift. 

And here his error began ; he had married one so young, that 
her education, even if its foundation had been good, required finish- 
ing, and who as it was, had every thing to learn. During the days 
of courtship he had looked forward with pleasure to playing the 
tutor to his fair mistress : but a tutor can do nothing without au- 
thority, either open or concealed— a tutor must sacrifice his own 
pursuits and immediate pleasures, to study and adapt himself to 
the disposition of his pupil. As has been said of those who would 
acquire power in the state — they must in some degree follow, if 
they would lead, and it is by adapting themselves to the humour of 
those they would command, that they establish the law of their own 
will, or of an apparent necessity. But Lodore understood nothing 
of all this. He had been accustomed to be managed by his mistress; 
he had been yielding, but it was because she contrived to. make his 
will her own ; otherwise he was imperious : opposition startled and 
disconcerted him, and he saw heartlessness in the want of accom- 
modation and compliance he met at home. He had expected from 
Cornelia a girl's clinging fondness, but that was given to her mother ; 
nor did she feel the womanly tenderness, which sees in her husband 
the safeguard from the ills of life, the shield to stand between her 
and the world, to ward off its cruelties ; a shelter from adversity , 
a refuge when tempests were abroad. How could she feel this, 
who, proud in youth and triumphant beauty, knew nothing of, and 
disbelieved the tales which sages and old women tell of the perils 
of life? The world looked to her a velvet strewn walk, canopied 
from every storm — her husband alone, who endeavoured to reveal 
the reality of things to her, and to disturb her visions, was the 
source of any sorrow or discomfort. She was buoyed up by the 
supercilious arrogance of youth ; and while inexperience rendered 
her incapable of entering into the feelings of her husband, she dis- 
played towards him none of that deference, and yielding submission, 
which might reasonably have been expected from her youth, but 
that her mother was there to claim them for herself, and to incul- 
cate, as far as she could, that while she was her natural friend, 
Lodore was her natural enemy. 



LODORE. 67 

He, with strong pride and crushed affections, gave himself up 
for a disappointed man. He disdained to struggle with the sinister 
influence of his mother-in-law ; he did not endeavour to discipline 
and invigorate the facile disposition of his bride. He had expected 
devotion, attention, love; and he scorned to complain or to war 
against the estrangement that grew up between them. If at any 
time he was impelled by an overflowing heart to seek his fair wife's 
side, the eternal presence of Lady Santerre chilled him at once ; and 
to withdraw her from this was a task difficult indeed to one who 
could not forgive the competition admitted between them. At first 
he made one or two endeavours to separate them ; but the reception 
his efforts met with galled his haughty soul ; and while he cherished 
a deep and passionate hatred for the cause, he grew to despise the 
victim of her arts. He thought that he perceived duplicity, low- 
thoughted pride, and coldness of heart, the native growth of the 
daughter of such a mother. He yielded her up at once to the world 
and her parent, and resolved to seek, not happiness, but occupation 
elsewhere. He felt the wound deeply, but he sought no cure; and 
pride taught him to mask his soreness of spirit by a studied mild- 
ness of manner, which, being joined to cold indifference, and fre- 
quent contradiction, soon begot a considerable degree of resentment, 
and even dislike on her part. Her mother's well-applied flatteries 
and the adulation of her friends were contrasted with his half-dis- 
guised contempt. The system of society tended to increase their 
mutual estrangement. She embarked at once on the stream of 
fashion ; and her whole time was given up to this engagements and 
amusements that flowed in on her on all sides ; while he—one other 
regret added to many previous ones— one other disappointment in 
addition to those which already corroded his heart— bade adieu 
to every hope of domestic felicity, and tried to create new interests 
for himself, seeking, in public affairs, for food for a mind eager for 
excitement. 



3.. 



68 LODORE. 



CHAPTER IX. 



What are fears, but voices airy 

Whispering harm, where harm is not ? 

And deluding the unwary, 
Till the fatal bolt is shot? 

Wordsworth. 



Lord Lodord was disgusted at the very threshold of his new pur- 
pose. His long residence abroad prevented his ever acquiring the 
habit of public speaking ; nor had he the respect for human nature, 
nor the enthusiasm for a party or a cause, which is necessary for 
one who would make a figure as a statesman. His sensitive dis- 
position, his pride, which, when excited, verged into arrogance; 
his uncompromising integrity, his disdain of most of his associates, 
his incapacity of yielding obedience, rendered his short political 
career one of struggle and mortification. "And this is life!" he 
said; "abroad, to mingle with the senseless and the vulgar ; and at 
home, to find a— wife, who prefers the admiration of fools, to the 
love of an honest heart! " 

Within a year after her marriage, Lady Lodore gave birth to a 
daughter. This circumstance, which naturally tends to draw the 
parents nearer, unfortunately in this instance set them further apart. 
Lady Santerre had been near, with so many restrictions and so 
much interference, which though probably necessary, considering 
Cornelia's extreme youth, yet seemed vexatious and impertinent to 
Lodore. All things appeared to be permitted, except those which 
he proposed. A drive, a ride, even a walk with him, was to be 
considered fatal; while, at the same time, Lady Lodore was spend- 
ing whole nights in heated rooms, and even dancing. Her 
confinement was followed by a long illness; the child was nursed 
J>y a stranger, secluded in a distant part of the house ; and during 



LODORE. 59 

her slow recovery, the young mother seemed scarcely to remember 
that it existed. The love for children is a passion often developed 
most fully in the second stage of life. Lodore idolized his little 
offspring, and felt hurt and angry when his wife, after it had been 
in her room a minute or two, on the first approach it made to a 
squall, ordered it to be taken away. At the time, in truth, she 
was reduced to the lowest ebb of weakness ; but Lodore, as men 
are apt to do, was slow to discern her physical suffering, while his 
cheeks burnt with indignation, as she peevishly repeated the com- 
mand that his child should go. 

When she grew better this was not mended. She was ordered 
into the country for air, at a time when the little girl was suffering 
from some infantine disorder, and could not be moved. It was 
left with its nurses, but Lodore remained also, and rather suffered 
his wife to travel without him, so to demonstrate openly, that he 
thought her treatment of her baby unmotherly; not that he express- 
ed this sentiment, nor did Lady Lodore guess at it; she saw only 
his usual spirit of contradiction and neglect, in his desertion of her 
at this period. 

The mother pressed with careless lips the downy cheek of the 
little cherub, and departed; while Lodore passed most of his time 
in the child's apartment, or, turning his libraryjnto a nursery, it 
was continually with him there. "Here," he thought, "I have 
something to live for, something to love. And even though I am 
not loved in return, my heart's sacrifice will not be repaid with in- 
solence and contempt. ' ' But when the infant began to show tokens 
of recognition and affection, when it smiled and stretched out its 
little hands on seeing him, and crowed with innocent pleasure; and 
still more, when the lisped paternal name fell from its roseate lips 
— the father repeated more emphatically, " Here is something that 
makes it worth while to have been born— to live!" An illness of 
the child overwhelmed him with anxiety and despair. She recover- 
ed; and he thanked God, with a lively emotion of joy, to which 
he had long been a stranger. 

His affection for his child augmented the annoyance which he 
derived from his domestic circle. He had been hitherto sullenly 
yielding on any contest; but whatever whim, or whatever plan, he 
formed with regard to his daughter, he abided by unmoved, and 
look pleasure in manifesting his partiality for her. Lodore was by 



00 LODORE. 

nature a man of violent and dangerous passions , added to which, 
his temper was susceptible to irritability. He disdained to cope 
with the undue influence exercised by Lady Santerre oyer his wife. 
He beheld in the latter, a frivolous, childish puppet, endowed with 
the usual feminine infirmities— 

" The love of pleasure, and the love of sway," 

and destitute of that tact and tenderness of nature which should 
teach her where to yield and how to reign. He left her therefore 
to her own devices, resolved only that he would not give up a 
single point relative to his child, and consequently, according to 
the weakness of human nature, ever ready to find fault with and 
prohibit all her wishes on the subject. 

Cornelia, accustomed to be guided by her mother's watchful 
artifices, and to submit to a tyranny which assumed. the guise of 
servitude, felt only with the feelings implanted by her parent. She 
was not, like Lady Santerre, heartless ; but cherished pride , the 
effect of perpetual misrepresentation, painted her as such. She 
looked on her husband as a man essentially selfish-— one who, worn 
out by passion, had married her to beguile his hours during a visi- 
tation of ennui, and incapable of the softness of love or the kindness 
of friendship. On occasion of his new conduct with regard to her 
child, her haughty soul was in arms against him, and something 
almost akin to hatred sprung up within her. She resented his in- 
terference; she believed that his object was to deprive her of the 
consolation of her daughter's love, and that his chief aim was to 
annoy and insult her. She was jealous of her daughter with her 
husband, of her husband with her daughter. If by some chance a 
word or look passed that might have softened the mutual sentiment 
of distrust, the evil genius of the scene was there to freeze again the 
genial current; and any approach to kindness, by an inexplicable 
but certain result, only tended to place them further apart than 
before. 

Three winters had passed since their marriage, and the third 
spring was merging into summer, while they continued in this state 
of warlike neutrality. Any slight incident might have destroyed the 
fictitious barriers erected by ill-will and guile between them ; or, so 
precarious was their state, any new event might change petty disa- 



LODORE. - 61 

greements into violent resentment, and prevent their ever enter- 
taining towards each other those feelings which, but for one fatal 
influence, would naturally have had root between them. The third 
summer was come. They were spending the commencement of it 
in London, when circumstances occurred, unanticipated by either, 
which changed materially the course of their domestic arrangements. 

Lord Lodore returned home one evening at a little after eleven, 
from a dinner-party, and found, as usual, his drawing-room de- 
serted—Lady Lodore had gone to a ball. He had returned in that 
humour to moralize, which we so often bring from society into so- 
litude ; and he paced the empty apartments with impatient step. 
"Home! — yes, this is my home! I had hoped that gentle peace 
and smiling love would be its inmates, that returning as now, from 
those who excite my spleen and contempt, one eye would have 
lighted up to welcome me, a dear voice have thanked me for my 
return. Home! a Tartar beneath his tent— a wild Indian in his 
hut, may speak of home—I have none. Where shall I spend the 
rest of this dull, deserted evening? "—for it may be supposed that, 
sharing London habits, eleven o'clock was to him but an evening 
hour. 

He went into his dressing-room, and casting his eyes on the table, 
a revulsion came over him, a sudden shock— for there lay a vision, 
which made his breath come thick, and caused the blood to recede 
to his heart— a like vision has had the same effect on many, though 
it took but the unobtrusive form of a little note— a note, whose 
fold, whose seal, whose superscription, were all once so familiar, 
and now so strange. Time sensibly rolled back ; each event of the 
last few years was broken off, as it were, from his life, leaving it as 
it had been ten years ago. He seized the note, and then threw it 
from him. "It is a mere mistake, " he said aloud, while he felt, 
even to the marrow of his bones, the. thrill and shudder as of an 
occurrence beyond the bounds of nature. Yet still the note lay 
there, and half as if to undeceive himself, and to set witchcraft at 
nought, he again took it up— this time in a less agitated mood, so 
that when the well-known impression of a little foreign coronet on 
the seal met his eye, he became aware that however unexpected 
such a sight might be, it was in the moral course of things, and he 
hastily tote open the epistle : it was written in French, and was very 
concise. " I arrived in town last night, " the writer said; " I and 



62 - LODORE. 

my son are about to join my husband in Paris. I hear that you are 
married ; I hope to see you and your lady before I leave London. " 

After reading these few lines, Lord Lodore remained for a consi- 
derable time lost in thought. He tried to consider what he should 
do, but his ideas wandered, as they sadly traced the past, and pic- 
tured to him the present. Never did life appear so vain, so con- 
temptible, so odious a thing as how, that he was reminded of the 
passions and sufferings of former days, which, strewed at his feet 
like broken glass, might still wound him, though their oharm and 
their delight could never be renewed. He did not go out that 
night; indeed it seemed as if but a minute had passed, when, lo! 
morning was.pouring her golden summer beams into his room- 
when Lady Lodore's carriage drove up; and early sounds in the 
streets told him that night was gone and the morrow come. 

That same day Lord Lodore requested Cornelia to call with him 
on a Polish lady of rank, with whom he had formerly been acquaint- 
ed, to whom he was under obligations. They went. And what 
Lodore felt when he stood with his lovely wife before her, who for 
many by-gone years had commanded his fate, had wound him to her 
will, through the force of love and woman's wiles— who he knew 
could read every latent sentiment of his soul, and yet towards whom 
he was resolved now, and for ever in future, to adopt the reserved 
manners of a mere acquaintance — what of tremor or pain all this 
brought to Lodore's bosom was veiled, at least beyond Cornelia's 
penetration, who seldom truly observed him, and who was now 
occupied by her new acquaintance. 

The lady had passed the bloom of youth, and even mid life ; she 
was verging on fifty, but she had every appearance of having been 
transcendently beautiful. Her dark full oriental eyes still gleamed 
from beneath her finely-arched brows, and her black hair, untinged 
by any grizzly change, was gathered round her head in such tresses 
as bespoke an admirable profusion. Her person was tall and com- 
manding: her manners were singular, for she mingled so strangely, 
stateliness and affability, disdain and sweetness, that she seemed 
like a princess dispensing the favour of her smile, or the terror of 
her frown on her submissive subjects; her sweetest smiles were for 
Cornelia, who yet turned from her to another object, who attracted 
her more peculiar attention. It was her son ; a youth inheriting all 
his mother's beauty, added to the fascination of early manhood, and 



LODORE. 63 

a frank and ingenuous address, which his parent could never have 
possessed. 

The party separated, apparently well pleased with each other.. 
Lady Lodore offered her services, which were frankly accepted ; 
and after an hour spent together, they appointed to meet again the 
next day, when the ladies should drive out together to shop and see 
sights. 

They became not exactly intimate, yet upon familiar terms. 
There was a dignity and even a constraint in the Countess Lyzinskfy 
manner that was a bar to cordiality ; but they met daily, and Lady 
Lodore introduced her new friend everywhere. The Countess said 
that motives of curiosity had induced her to take this country in 
her way to Paris. Her wealth was immense, and her rank among 
the first in her own country. The Russian ambassador treated her 
with distinction, so that she gained facile and agreeable entrance 
into the highest society. The young Count Casimir was a uni- 
versal favourite, but his dearest pleasure was to attend upon Lady 
Lodore, who readily offered to school him on his entrance into the 
English world. They were pretty exactly the same age; Casimir 
was somewhat the junior, yet be looked the elder, while the lady, 
accustomed to greater independence, took the lead in their inter* 
course, and acted the monitress to her docile scholar. 

Lord Lodore looked on, or took a part, in what was passing 
around him, with a caprice perfectly unintelligible. With the 
Countess he was always gentle and obliging, but reserved. While 
she treated him with a coldness resembling disdain, yet whose 
chiefest demonstration was silence. Lodore never altered towards 
her ; it was with regard to her son that he displayed his susceptible 
temper. He took pains to procure for him every proper acquaint- 
ance ; he was forward in directing him ; he watched over his mode 
of passing his time, he appeared to be interested in every thing he 
did, and yet to hate him. His demeanour towards him was morose, 
almost insulting. Lodore, usually so forbearing and courteous, 
would contradict and silence him, as if he had been a child or a 
menial. It required all Casimir's deference for one considerably 
his senior, to prevent him from resenting openly this style of treat- 
ment; it required all the fascination of Lady Lodore to persuade 
him to encounter it a second time. Once he had complained to 
her, and she remonstrated with her husband. His answer was to 



64 LODORE. 

reprimand her for listening to the impertinence of the stripling. 
She coloured angrily, but did not reply. Gold and polite to each 
other, the noble pair were not in the habit of disputing. Lady 
Santerre guarded against that. Anything as familiar as a quarrel 
might have produced a reconciliation, and with that a better un- 
derstanding of each other's real disposition. The disdain that rose 
in Cornelia's bosom on this taunt, fostered by conscious innocence, 
and a sense of injustice, displayed itself in a scornful smile, and by 
^p augmentation of kindness towards Casimir. He was now almost 
domesticated at her house ; he attended her in the morning, hovered 
round her during the evening; and she, given up to the desire of 
pleasing, did not regard, did not even see, the painful earnestness 
with which Lord Lodore regarded them. His apparent jealousy, if 
she at all remarked it, was but a new form of selfishness, to which 
she was not disposed to give quarter. Yet any unconcerned spec- 
tator might have started to observe how, from an obscure corner of 
the room, Lodore watched every step they took, every change of 
expression of face during their conversation; and then approaching 
and interrupting them, endeavoured to carry Count Casimir away 
with him; and when thwarted in this, dart glances of such indigna- 
tion on the youth, and of scorn upon his wife, as might have awoke 
a sense of danger, had either chanced to see the fierce, lightning- 
like passions written in those moments on his countenance, as let- 
ters of fire and menace traced upon the prophetic wall. 

The Countess appeared to observe him indeed, and sometimes it 
seemed as if she regarded the angry workings of his heart with 
malicious pleasure. Once or twice she had drawn near, and said 
a few words in her native language, on which he endeavoured to 
stifle each appearance of passion, answering with a smile, in a low 
calm voice, and retiring, left, as it were, the field to her. Lady 
Santerre also had remarked his glances of suspicion or fury; they 
were interpreted into new sins against her daughter, and made 
with her the subject of ridicule or bitter reproach. 

Lord Lodore was entirely alone. To no one human being could 
he speak a word that in the least expressed the violence of his feel- 
ings. Perhaps tne only person with whom he felt the least inclined 
to overflow in confidence, was the Countess Lyzinski. But he fear- 
ed her : he feared the knowledge she possessed of his character, 
and the power she had once exercised to rule him absolutely ; the 



LODORE. 65 

barrier between them must be insuperable, or the worst results 
would follow : be redoubled his own cautious reserve, and bore 
patiently the- proud contempt which she exhibited, resolved not to 
yield one inch in the war he waged with his own heart, with regard 
to her. But he was alone, and the solitude of sympathy in which 
he lived, gave force and keenness to all his feelings. Had they 
evaporated in words, half their power to wound had been lost ; as 
it was, there was danger in his meditations, and each one in colli- 
sion with him had occasion to dread that any sudden overflow of 
stormy rage would be the more violent for having been repressed 
so long. 

One day the whole party, with the exception of Lady Santerre, 
dined at the house of the Russian ambassador. As Lord and Lady 
Lodore proceeded towards their destination, he, with pointed sar- 
casm of manner, requested her to be less marked in her attentions 
to Count Gasimir. The unfounded suspicions of a lover may please 
as a proof of love, but those of a husband, who thus claims affec- 
tions which he has ceased to endeavour to win, are never received 
except as an impertinence and an insult. Those of Lord Lodore 
appeared to his haughty wife but a new form of cold-hearted des- 
potism, checking her pleasures whencesoever they might arise. 
She replied by a bitter smile, and afterwards still more insultingly, 
by the display of kindness and partiality towards the object of her 
husband's dislike. Her complete sense of innocence, roused to 
indignation, by the injury she deemed offered to it, led her thus to 
sport with feelings, which, had she deigned to remark, she might 
have seen working with volcano-power in the breast of Lodore. 

The ladies retired after dinner. They gathered together in groups 
in the drawing-room, while Lady Lodore, strange to say, sat apart 
from all. She placed herself on a distant soph a, apparently occu- 
pied by examining various specimens of bijouterie, nic-nacs of all 
kinds, which she took up one after the other, from the table near 
her. One hand shaded her eyes as she continued thus to amuse 
herself. She was not apt to be so abstracted ; as now, that intent 
on self-examination, or self-reproach, or on thoughts that wan- 
dered to another, she forgot where she was, and by whom sur- 
rounded. She did not observe the early entrance of several gen- 
tlemen from the dining-room, nor remark a kind of embarrassment 
which sat upon their features, spreading a sort of uncomfortable 



66 LODORE. 

wonder among the guests. The first words that roused her, were 
addressed to her by her husband : " Tour carriage waits, Cornelia; 
will you come?" 

" So early ?" she asked. 

" I particularly wish it," he replied. 

" Tou can go, and send them back for me— and yet it is not 

worth while , we shall see most of the people here at Lady G 's 

to night." 

She glanced round the room, Casimir was not there ; as she pass- 
ed the Countess Lyzinski, she was about to ask her whether they 
should meet again that evening, when she caught the lady's eye 
fixed on her husband, meeting and returning a look of his. Alarm 
and disdain were painted on her face, and added to this, a trace of 
feeling so peculiar, so full of mutual understanding, that Lady 
Lodore was filled with no agreeable emotion of surprise. She 
entered the carriage, and the reiterated " Home !" of Lord Lodore, 
prevented her intended directions. Both were silent during their 
short drive. She sat absorbed in a variety of thoughts, not one of 
which led her to enter into conversation with her companion ; they 
were rather fixed on her mother, on the observations she should 
make to, and the conjectures she should share with, her. She 
became anxious to reach home, and resolved at once to seek Lady 
Santerre's advice and directions by which to regulate her conduct 
on this occasion. 



LODO&E. 67 



CHAPTER X. 



Who then to frail mortality shall trust, 
But limns the water, or but writes in dust. 

• Bacoh. 



Thet arrived in Berkeley-square. Lady Lodore alighted, and 
perceived with something of a beating heart, that her husband fol- 
lowed her, as she passed on to the inner drawing-room. Lady 
Santerre was not there. Taking a letter from the table, so to give 
herself the appearance of an excuse for having entered a room she 
was about immediately to quit, she was going, when Lodore, who 
stood hesitating, evidently desirous of addressing her, and yet un- 
certain bow to begin, stopped her by speaking her name, " Cor- 
nelia !" 

She turned— she was annoyed ; her conscience whispered what 
was in all probability the subject to which her attention was to be 
called. Her meditations in the drawing-room of the Russian Am- 
bassador, convinced her that she had, to use the phrase of the day, 
flirted too much with Count Casimir, and she had inwardly resol- 
ved to do so no more. It was particularly disagreeable therefore, 
that her husband should use authority, as she feared that he was 
about to do, and exact from his wife's obedience, what she was will- 
ing to concede to her own sense of propriety. She was resolved 
to hear as little as she could on the subject, and stood as if in haste 
to go. His faltering voice betrayed how much he felt, and once or 
twice it refused to frame the words he desired to utter : how dif- 
ferent was their import from that expected by his impatient au- 
ditress ! 

"Cornelia," said he, at length, "can you immediately, and at 
once— this very night— prepare to quit England?" 



68 LODORE. 

" Quit England! Why?— whither?" she exclaimed. 

" I scarcely know, " replied Lodore, " nor is it of the slightest 
import. The world is wide, a shelter, a refuge can be purchased 
anywhere — and that is all I seek. 9 ' 

The gaming table, the turf, loss of fortune, were the ideas natu- 
rally conveyed into the lady's mind by this reply. " Is all— every 
thing gone— lost? 79 she asked. 

" My honour is," he answered, wilh 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 entire meaning to his hearer ; " I cannot well 
explain to you the motives of 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 
ever; I am a dishonoured man." 

" Speak without more comment," cried Lady Lodore; " lor 
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 ; ber cheek 
blanched — yet not so; for Lodore refused to fight. In spite of the 
terror with which an anticipated rencontre 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 rise to all this harm; but again she felt insulted that doubts of 
her sentiments or conduct should be the occasion of a scene of vio- 
lence. Both remained silent. Lodore stood leaning on the man- 
telpiece, his cheek Hushed, 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 fearful to ask further explanation, yet anxious to 
receive it. Still he hesitated. He was desirous of finding some 



LODOHE. 69 

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 apologize to, the boy I have insulted; I must therefore fly 
— fly 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 are 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, strug- 
gling alone for a separate existence. 9 ' 

" Pardon me, Lodore/' said Cornelia, somewhat subdued by the 
magnitude of the crisis brought about, she believed, however invo- 
luntarily by herself, and by the sadness that, as he spoke, filled the 
dark eyes of her companion with an expression more melancholy 
than tears; " pardon me, if I seek for further explanation. Tour 
antagonist" (they neither of them ventured 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 sus- 
picion 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, Ido most solemnly declare, that Count 
Casimir " 

" I ask no question on that point, but simply wish to know whe- 
ther you will accompany me," interrupted Lodore, hastily; "the 
rest I am sorry for— but it is over. You, my poor girl, though in 
some measure the occasion, and altogether the victim, of this 
disaster, can exercise no control over it. No foreign noble would 
accept the most humiliating submissions as compensation for a 
blow, and this urchin shall never receive from me the shadow 
of any." 

" Is there no other way?" asked Cornelia. 

" Not any," replied Lodore, while his agitation increased, and his 



70 LODORE. 

voice grew 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, 
but 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, from their consequences, I now 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. 
Theodora, what have you not to answer for ! " 

Lady Lodore started. The image he presented was too detes- 
table. She repressed her emotions, and assuming that air of dis- 
dain, 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. Tou 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, cho- 
ked, she threw herself into her arms, saying, " Save me!" A 
violent fit of hysterics followed. 

At first Lady Lodore could only speak of the injury and insult she 
had herself suffered ; and Lady Santerre, who by no means wished 
to encourage feelings, which might lead to violence in action, tried 
to soothe her irritation. But when allusions to Lodore'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 idea excited her utmost re- 
sentment. At once she saw the full extent of the intended mischief, . 
and the risk she incurred of losing the reward of years of suffering 



LODORE. 71 

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 per- 
ceived that her measures to prevent it must be promptly adopted* 
The chariot was still waiting which was to have conveyed Lord and 
Lady Lodore to their assembly ; dr&sed as she was for this, 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 few lines addressed to her son-in-law. 

" The scene of this evening has had an alarming effect upon 
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 endeavour to calm her : until I 
shall have in some measure succeeded, I think you had better not 
follow us ; but let us hear from you ; for although my attention is so 
painfully engrossed by my daughter's sufferings, I am distressed on 
your account also, and shall continue very uneasy until I hear 
from you. 

" Friday Evening. " 

Lady Santerre and her daughter reached Twickenham. Lady 
Lodore went to bed, and assisted by a strong composing draught, 
administered by her 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 previous to 
her repose. 

During the morning, Lady Santerre had despatched a servant to 
Berkeley-square, to summon her daughter's peculiar attendants. 
He now brought back the intelligence that Lord Lodore had de- 
parted for the continent, about three hours after his wife had 
quitted his house. But to this he added tidings of another cir- 
cumstance, for which both ladies were totally unprepared. Cornelia 
had entered the carriage the preceding night, without spending one 
thought on the sleeping cherub in the nursery. What was her sur- 
prise and indignation, when she heard that her child and its aU 



73 LODORE. 

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 hus- 
band, and a resolve not to yield one point, in the open warfare 
thus declared by him. 



LODORE. 73 



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. 

Priob. 



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 bid* 
them, they can go east, west, north, or south ; they wish, and ac- 
complish 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 HI to ill, is at hand to rebuke and tame the rebel spirit; 
and such a tissue of pain and evil is woven from their holiday pas- 
time, as checks them midcourse, 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 no longer 
draw from its own resources. 

This hour! this fatal hour! How many laying the 
tragic hero on a stage surrounded by no spectators ; he will disco- 
ver the folly of his conduct ; he will return, and plead for forgive- 
ness, and feel that he i& too fortunate in a wife, who has preserved 
her own conduct free from censure and remark, while he h^s made 
himself a laughingstock to all. Do not permit yourself, dear Cor- 
nelia, 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 accompanied by an infant and its 
nurse, and too glad to find that you will 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 taskmaster, 
whose first commands are gentle, soft, and easy injunctions to de- 
sert 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 communicate. 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 all 
events, that she must not be guided by the resolves, changeable as 
the moon, of a man governed by no sane purpose; but that, by 
showing herself determined, he would be brought to bend to her 









LOIXJRE. 86 

will. In this spirit Lady Lodore replied to her husband's letter. 
Fenton, Lord Jjodore'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 ser- 
vants 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 de- 
termination, 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 unacknowledged 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 re- 
linquish the dreary scheme of emigrating to America. With these 
thoughts in bis 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. 
Cherishing 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 accordance to his wishes, rather than to 
the reality,. Each day he attended less carefully to the preparations 
of his long voyage. Each day he expected her; a chill came over 
his heart at each evening's still recurring disappointment, till hope 
awoke on the ensuing morning. More than once he bad been on 



* 



Sft LOBOaE. 

the eve of sailing to England to meet and escort her ; a thousand 
times he reproached himself for not haying 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 long, 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 
gone without him, he cared not; when on the sixth day Fenton ar- 
rived, and put into his hand Cornelia's letter. This then was the 
end of his expectation, this little paper coldly closed in the destruc- 
tion of his hopes; yet might it not merely contain a request for de- 
lay? 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 conceived in all the 
spirit of resentment. 






" You add insult to cruelty, " iVsaid, "but I scorn to complain. 
The very condition you make displays the hollowness and deceit of 
your proceeding. You well know that I 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 suc- 
cessful. 

"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 dis- 
play 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 sacrificed, living victims, 
at the shrine of your self-love. What have you done to merit so 
much devotion? Ask your hearf— 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 be- 
stowed on me. I am your wife, Lodore ; I bear your name ; I will 
be true to the vows 1 have made you, nor will I number the tears 
you force me to shed ; but my mother's are sacred, and not one falls 
in vain for me. 



^j£^. .. ^r-=\ ^rzzzr'A \r-T^_ *«\ 



LOBOU. 87 

" Gire me my child— let the rest he yours— depart in peace ! If 
Heaven have blessings for the coldly egotistical, the unfeeling 
despot, may these blessings be yours ; but do not dare to interfere 
with emotions too pure, too disinterested for you ever to under- 
stand. Give me my child, and fear neither my interference nor 
resentment. I am content to be as dead to you— quite content never 
to see you more. " 



83 LODOKE. 



CHAPTER XIII. 



And so farewell ; tor we will heneeforth be 
As we bad never seen, ne'er more shall see. 

Hbywooo. 



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 pn its horizon an extent 
of water only. He was cut off from England, from Europe, for 
ever ; and the vast continents he quitted dwindled into a span ; 
tout still the images of those he left behind dwelt in his soul, en- 
grossing and tilling 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 he- 
misphere 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 reproaches, 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, 



LODORE. 89 

her smiles, were spells to drive 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 oyer 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, Gasimir, 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 nought their 
machinations and restore him to the calm and hopes of childhood. 
Extreme in all things, Lodore began more than ever to doat upon 
her and to bind up his life in her. Yet sometimes his heait 
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 roused, 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, 
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 irresistible 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 refusing to make 
use of our own desires and intentieas, as forming a part of our 
destiny. 

Lodore arrived at New York, and found, by some chance, letters 



90 LODORI. 

already wailing for him there. He had concluded one to hi* wife 
full of affection and kindness, when a letter with the superscrip- 
tion written by Lady Santerre was delivered to him. It spoke of 
law proceedings, of eternal separation, and announced her daugh- 
ter'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 
laugh Lodore tore to pieces the eloquent and heart-felt appeal he 
had been on the point of sending ; he gave up his thoughts to bu- 
siness 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 con- 
tempt and aversion. Soon after Cornelia had dismissed the ser- 
vant, 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 leave 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 proceeding, especially 
as her companionship was solicited as in the highest degree 
necessary. They arrived at Southampton; the day was tem- 
pestuous, the wind contrary. Lady Santerre was afraid of the 
water, and their voyage was deferred. On the evening of the 
following day, Fenton 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 acknowledg- 
ment of defeat to follow him to America. Cornelia returned to 
Twickenham, maternal sorrow contending in her heart with mor- 
tified 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, sate her on 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 



IODORI. 01 

4 

that all that lowered her deration 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 com- 
passion for the unhappy exile—no generous desire to diminish the 
sufferings of one, .who was the victim of the wildest and most tor- 
menting passions, softened her bosom. She was injured, insulted, 
despised, and her swelling soul was incapable of any second emo- 
tion 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 light 
she viewed her present position, it was full of annoyance and hu- 
miliation ; her path was traced through a maze of pointed angles, 
that pained her at every turn, and her reflections magnifying 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 revolu- 
tion, 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 per- 
sonal pride, and heroism was turned into obstinacy ; she had been 
capable of the most admirable self-sacrifice, had she been taught 
the right shrine at which to devote herself; but her mind was nar- 
rowed by the mode of her bringing up, and her loftiest ideas were 
centered in worldly advantages the most worthless and pitiable. 
To defraud her of these , was to deprive her of all that rendered life 
worth preserving. 

Lady Santerre soothed, flattered, and directed her. She poured 
the balm of gratified vanity upon injured pride. She bade her 
expect speedy repentance from her husband, and impressed her 
with the idea, ttiat 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 all. 
Cornelia's eyes flashed fire at the word. Concession ! and to whom ? 



V 



03 LODORE. 

To him who had wronged and insulted her ? She readily 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 worship of 
Mammon, she repelled the taunt, and denied the servitude of soul 
of which she was accused ; she declared that every virtue was en- 
listed on her mother's side, and that she would abide by her for 
ever. In truth, she loved her the more for Lodore's hatred, and 
Lady 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 
degree of retirement, but persuaded again to emerge, she soon en- 
tered into the very thickest maze of society. Her fortune was suf- 
ficient to command a respectable station, her beauty gained her 
partizans, her untainted reputation 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 inti- 
mate associates were people whose rank gave weight and brilliancy 
to her situation, but who were conspicuous for their domestic vir- 
tues. 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 season she shone 
a bright star among many luminaries, improving in charms and 
grace, as knowledge of the world and the desire of pleasing were 
added to her natural attractions. 

The stories at first in circulation on Lodore's departure, all suf- 
ficiently wide from the truth, 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 any, and was 
therefore no longer an object of fear or love. The most charitable 



LODORI. 9S 

construction put upon his conduct was, that he was mad, and it 
was piously observed, that his removal from Ihis world would be 
a blessing. Lady Santerre triumphed. Withering away in unho- 
noured age, still she appeared in the halls of the great, and played 
the part of Cerberus in her daughter's drawing-room. Lady Lo- 
dore, beautiful and admired, intoxicated with this sort of prospe- 
rity, untouched by passion, unharmed by the temptations that sur- 
rounded 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 sect 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 suffer- 
ings — the cruel-hearted, insolent Lodore ; and then fled to pleasure 
as the means of banishing these sad and disturbing emotions. She 
never again saw Gasimir. Long before she re-appeared 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 universal applause, love saw her set his power ^t 
nought, and pride become a more impenetrable shield than wisdom. 



04 LODOU. 



CHAPTER XIV. 



Time and Change together take their flight. 

L. £• L. 



Fitzhehry and his daughter travelled for many days in rain and 
sunshine, 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 often thought it the dispensation 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 glisten- 
ed 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 peace- 
ful 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 foreboding 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 feelings, 
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 existence, is a picture of beauty, 



LODORI. 95 

/ a 

that requires a miracle Ur change into an actual event in life ; and 
that one so pure, so guileless, and so inexperienced as Ethel, 
should, in sheer ignorance, give her affections away unworthily, 
was a danger to be avoided beyond all others. Whitelock had per- 
formed the part of the wandering stranger, but he was ill-fitted for 
it; andXodore's first idea was to hurry his daughter away before 
she should invest him, or any other, 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 borne they had left. The murmuring of its stream was 
in his ears, the shape of each distant 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, a% any home-bred farmer might, when his lease was 
out, and he was forced to remove to another county. 

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 anticipate 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 eflace. The name -of Lodore was a by- 
word and a mark for scorn ; it was introduced with a sneer, fol- 
lowed 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 im the memories of 
any. He did not imagine that his idea ever reeurred to the thought- 
less throng, whose very name and identity were changed by the 
lapse of twelve years. But when it was mentioned, when he should 
awaken 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 op- 
probrium. 



06 LODORE 

What then should he do? Solicit Ladjr Lodore to receive and 
bring out her daughter? Deprive himself of her society ; and after 
having guarded her unassailed infancy, desert her side at the moment 
when dangers grew thick, and her mother's example would operate 
most detrimentally on her ? He thought of his sister, with whom 
he kept up 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 happy 
light-hearted years of youth. His own experience on the continent 
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 project 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 had 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 passed between them, -they were as dead to each other; and yet 
the fact of the existence of either was a paramount law with both, 
ruling their actions aad 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 un- 
derstanding 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 sorrows might make her regard the affection 
of her child's father, as the prop, the shelter, the haven, where to 
find peace, if not happiness. * 

And yet Cornelia was still young, still beautiful, still admired : 
he was en the wane— a healthy life had preserved the uprightness 



LODORE. 97 

of bis form and tbe spring of his limbs ; but bis countenance, how 
changed from tbe Lodore who pledged bis faith to her in the rustic 
church at Rhyaider Gowy f The melting softness of his dark eyes 
was altered to mere sadness— his brow, from which the hair had 
retreated, was delved by a thousand lines; grey sprinkled his black 
hair, — a wintry morning stealing drearily upon night— each year 
had left its trace, and with no Praxitelean 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 mirror presented—and where others had only marked the in* 
dications of a thoughtful mind, and the traces of over-wrought 
sensibility, he beheld careful furrows and age-worn wrinkles. 

And was he thus to claim the beautiful, the courted— she who 
still reigned supreme on Love's own throne? and to whom, so had 
he been told, time had brought increased charms as its gift, strew- 
ing 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 ambition, hope, almost life itself, inasmuch as that existence is 
scarcely to be termed life, which does not bring us into intimate 
connexion with our fellow-creatures, nor develope in its progress 
some plan of present action or anticipation 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 himself. 
He grew at last to despise his supineness, which had prevented him 
fcpm struggling with and vanquishing his adverse fortunes. 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 bis 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 native country must be the scene of his exertions, as to re-assert 
himself among his countrymen was their object. He felt, also, 
that, from the beginning, he must take no false step; and it behoved 
him frilly to understand the state of things in England as regarded 

6. 






08 LODORE. 

him, before he presented himself. Hie delayed his voyage, there- 
fore, till he had exchanged letters with Europe. He Wrote to his 
sister, immediately on arriving at New York, asking for intelligence 
concerning Lady Lodore ; and communicating his intention to return 
immediately, and, if possible , to effect a reconciliation 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 on which she was about to enter, and to divest her of 
the first raw astonishment excited by the contrast formed by the 
busy, commercial eastern, with the majestic tranquillity of the 
western portion of the new world. He wished to accustom her to 
mingle with her fellow-creatures with ease and dignity; and he 
sought to enlarge her mind, and to excite her curiosity, by intro- 
ducing her to the effects of civilization. He would willingly have 
formed acquaintances for her sake, but that such a circumstance 
might interfere with the incognito he meant to preserve while away 
from his native country. 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 of Fitzhenry, should be 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 fancying 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 society of her country people. One day he received 
an elegant little note, such as are writen in London by the fashion- 
able and the fair, which, with many apologies, contained a request. 
The writer had heard that he was about to return to England with 
his daughter. Would he refuse to take under his charge a young 
lady, who was desirous of 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 
«all to hear them explained, his interest would be excited, and he 



LODORE, 99 

would not refuse a favour 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 in- 
troduced to the lady who had addressed him. Her story, the occa- 
sion of .her request, was detailed without reserve. Her husband's 
family had formerly been American royalists, refugees in England, 
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 had 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, which 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-minded, 
though good-natured. This ill-matched pair had two daughters ; 
—one, the younger, now about fourteen years old, was the person 
whom it was desired to commit to Lodore's protection. 

The lady continued :— She had a large family of boys, and but 
one girU of the age 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 their 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 
seemed as if the benevolent wishes of Mrs. Greviile were fulfilled 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 fortitude : yet it required an exertion of for- 
titude to bear it, which was destroying the natural vivacity of her 
disposition. Gloom gathered over her mind ; she fled society ; she 
sought solitude; and spent day after day in reverie. Mrs. Greviile 
strove to rouse her, and Fanny lent herself with good grace to any 
exertion demanded of her; yet it was plain, that even when she 



100 LODORE. 

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 immediately around her. 
Mrs. Greville endeavoured vainly to amuse and distract her thoughts. 
The only pleasure which attracted her young mind was study— a 
deep and unremitted application to those profound acquirements, 
to the 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 un- 
like 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 rather. She was his pupil— he her care. The rela- 
tion 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 abstruse learning, which seldom make a part of a girl's 
education. Fanny, to use her own singular language, loves philo- 
sophy, and pants after knowledge, and indulges in a thousand Pla- 
tonic dreams, which I know nothing about ; and this mysterious 
and fanciful learning she has dwelt upon with tenfold fervour since 
her arrival in America. 

" The contrast," continued Mrs. Greville, u between this won- 
derful, 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 ber 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 breathless interest, asking now and 
then such questions as drew on Mrs. Greville to further explanation. 



LODORE. 101 

He soon became convinced that he was called upon to do this act of 
kindness for the daughter of his former school-fellow— for Francis 
Derham, whom he had not known nor seen since they had 
exchanged the visions of boyhood for the disappointing realities of 
maturer age. And this was Derham's fete!— 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 inti- 
macy. 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 simple, warm heart would yearn towards him 
as of yore ; and the school-fellows become 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 her was discernible 
an embryo of power, and a grandeur of soul, not to be mistaken. 
Simplicity and equability of temper were her characteristics : these 
smoothed the ruggedness which the singularity of her character 
might otherwise 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 girls;— the fairy form, the romantic and yielding sweetness of 
Ethel, whose clinging affections formed her whole world,— with 
the studious and abstracted disciple of ancient learning. Notwith- 
standing 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 philosophy, which was 
unintelligible and mysterious to Ethel. The three became insepar- 
able : they prolonged their excursions in the neighbouring country; 



102 LODORE. 

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 were, 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 had 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 loath- 
ing, and with heart-felt gladness that he 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 provoked bitter and burning sen- 
sations. 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 endearing 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 loneliness. A desire for action, for mingling with his 
fellow-men, had arisen in his heart. He felt like a strong swimmer, 
who longs to battle with the waves. He desired to feel and to exert 
his powers, to fill a space in the eyes of others, to re-assert himself 
in their esteem, or to resent their scorn. He could ho longer regard 
the past with imperturbability. Again his passions were roused, as 
he thought 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 occasioning 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 



j 



LODORE. 103 

returning to England, from which he had fled with dishonour, his 
cheek tingled as a thpusand 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 celebrated cataract, whose everlasting and impetuous flow mir- 
rored 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 Derham, standing on a rock not far distant, her 
meaning eyes fixed on him. The thunder of the waters prevented 
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 as he took it ; and she sprung away up the 
rocky pathway. 

Lodore cast his eyes on the open letter, and his own name, half 
forgotten by him, presented itself on the written page. The letter 
was from Fanny's father— from Derham, his friend and school-fel- 
low. His heart beat fast as he read the words traced by one 
formerly so dear. " The beloved name of Fitzhenry"— -thus Der- 
ham had written — "awakens a strange conjecture. Is not your 
kind protector, the friend and companion of my 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. I 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, 



104 LODORE. 

as gallantly as a mighty ship steins 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 enehain 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. " 



LODORE. 106 



CHAPTER XV. 



It it our will 
That thus enchains u* to permitted ill. 

SlKIXlY. 



This was a new inducement to bring back Lodore from the wilds 
of America, to the remembrance of former days. The flattering 
expressions in Derham's letter soothed his wounded pride, and 
inspired a desire of associating once more with men who could ap- 
preciate his worth, and sympathize with his feelings. His spirits 
became exhilarated ; he talked of Europe and his return thither, 
with all the animation of sanguine youth, it is one of the necessary 
attributes of our nature, always to lore what we have once loved ; 
and though new objects and change in former ones may chill our 
affections for a time, we are filled with renewed fervour after every 
fresh disappointment, and feel an impatient longing to return to the 
cherishing warmth of our early attachments; happy if we do not 
find emptiness and desolation, where we left life and hope. 

Ethel had never been as happy as at the present time, and her 
affection for her rather gathered strength from the confidence which 
existed between them. He was the passion of her soul, the engross- 
ing 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 inquie- 
tude. She hung upon his discourse as a heavenly oracle, and 
welcomed him with gladdened looks of love, when he returned 
after any short absence. Her heart was bent upon pleasing him, 
she had no thought or pursuit which was not linked with his parti- 
cipation. 

There is perhaps in the list of human sensations, po one so pure, 
so perfect, and yet so impassioned, as the affection of a child for its 

5.. 



100 LODORE. 

parent, during that brief interval when they are leaving childhood, 
and have not yet felt love. There is something so awful in a father. 
His words are laws, and to obey them happiness. Reverence and 
a desire to serve, are mingled with gratitude ; and duty, without a 
flaw or question, so seconds the instinct of the heart, as to render it 
imperative. Afterwards we may love, in spite of the faults of the 
object of our attachment; but during the interval alluded to, we have 
hot yet learned to tolerate, but also, we have not learned to detect 
faults. All that a parent does, appears an emanation from a diviner 
world ; while we fear to offend, we believe we have no right to be 
offended ; eager to please, we seek in return approval only, and are 
too humble to demand a reciprocity of attention; it is enough that 
we are permitted to demonstrate our devotion. Ethel's heart over- 
flowed 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 rea- 
soning on the effect. To love her father was. the first law of nature, 
the chief duty of a child, and she fulfilled it unconsciously, but 
more completely than she could have done had she been associated 
with others, who might have shared and weakened the concentrated 
sensibility of her nature. 

At length the packet arrived which brought 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 magni- 
tude of the crisis which he believed to be at hand. 

Latterly the idea of * reconciliation with Cornelia had been a 
favourite in his thoughts. The world was a painful and hard- 
tasking school. She must have suffered various disappointments^ 
and endured much disgust, and so be prepared to lend a willing ear 
to his overture. She was so very young when they parted, and 
since then, had lived entirely under the influence of Lady Santerre. 
But what had at one time proved injurious, might, in course of 
years, have opened her eyes to the vanity of the course which she 
was pursuing. Lodore felt persuaded, that there were better 



LODORE. 107 

things to be expected from his wife, than a love of fashion and an 
adherence to the prejudices of society. He had failed to bring her 
good qualities to light, but time and events might have played the 
tutor better, and it merely required perhaps a seasonable inter- 
ference, a fortunate circumstance, to prove the truth of his opinion, 
and to show Lady Lodore as generous, magnanimous, and devoted, 
as before she had appeared proud, selfish, and cold. 

How few there are possessed of any sensibility, who mingle with, 
and are crushed by the jostling interests of the world, who do not 
ever and anon exclaim with the Psalmist, " for the wings of a 
dove, that I might flee away and be at rest ! " If such an aspiration 
was ever breathed by Cornelia, how gladly, how fondly would her 
husband welcome the weary flutterer, open his bosom for her refuge, 
and study to make her forget all the disquietudes and follies of head- 
strong 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 she liked, to enter upon a scene of trials and sorrows 
with one for whom she did not care. 

All these conjectures had long occupied him, but here was cer- 
tainty—the letter in his hand. It was sealed with black, and a 
tremulous shudder ran through his frame as he tore it open. He 
soon satisfied himself— Cornelia lived : he breathed freely again, and 
proceeded more calmly to make himself master of the intelligence 
which the paper he held contained. 

Cornelia lived; but his sister announced a death which he 
believed would change the colour of his life. Lady Santerre was 
no more! 

Yes, Cornelia was alive ; the bride that had stood beside him at the 
altar— whose hand he has held while he pronounced his vows— with 
whom he had domesticated for years— the mother of his child still 



103 LODOR£. 

lived. The cold consuming grave did not wrap her lovely form* 
The idea of her death, which the appearance of the black seal con- 
veyed suddenly to his imagination, had been appalling beyond words. 
For the last few weeks his mind had been filled with her image ; his 
thoughts had fed upon the hope that they should meet once more. 
Had she died while he was living in inactive seclusion in the Illinois, 
he might have been less moved; his vivid fancy, his passionate 
heart, could not spare her now, without a pang of agony. It passed 
away, and his mind reverted to the actual situation in which they 
were placed by the death of his mother-in-law. Reconciliation had 
become easy by the removal of that fatal barrier. He felt assured 
that he could acquire Cornelia's confidence, win her love, and admi- 
nister to her happiness ; he determined to leave nothing untried to 
bring about so desirable a conclusion to their long and dreary aliena- 
tion. 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 de • th 
of Lady Santerre, and then read the one enclosed from Lady Lodore 
to her sister-in-law. It was cold, but very decisive. She thanked 
her first for the inquiries she had made, and then proceeded to say, 
that she took this opportunity, the only one likely to present itself, 
of expressing what her own feelings were on this melancholy occa- 
sion. " I am afraid," she said, " that your brother will look on 
the death of my dearest mother as opening the door to our re -union. 
Some words in your letter seem indeed to intimate this, or I should 
have hoped that I was entirely forgotten. I trust that I am mistaken. 
My earnest desire is, that my natural grief, and the tranquillity, which 
I try to secure for myself, may not be disturbed by fruitless endea- 
vours 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 anything but 
strangers to each other. I will not complain, and I wish to avoid 
harsh allusions ; but respect for her I have lost, and a sense of unde- 
served wrong, are paramount with me. I shall never intrude upon 
him.. Persuade him that it will be unmanly cruelty to farce him- 
self, even by a letter, on me." 

From this violent declaration of an unforgiving heart, Lodore 
turned to Elizabeth's letter. This excellent lady, to whom the 



LOBOUL 109 

names of dissipation and the metropolis were synonymous, and 
who knew as much of the world as Parson Adams, assured her 
brother, that Cornelia, for from feeling deeply the blow of her 
mother's death, was pursuing her giddy course with greater perti- 
nacity than ever. Surrounded by flatterers, given up to pleasure, 
she naturally shrunk from being reminded of her exiled husband 
and her forgotten child. Her letter showed how ill she deserved 
the tenderness and interest which Lodore had expressed. She was 
a second Lady Santerre, without being gifted with that maternal 
affection, which had in some degree dignified that person's cha- 
racter. 

Elizabeth lamented that his wife's hardness of heart might prevent 
bis 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 bro- 
ther was suffering so much calamity ? She was growing old-— in- 
deed 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 could think herself blest could she see him 
once more before she died. 

" 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 1 see 
every night in my dreams. 1 should grieve to be a burthen 
to you, but it would be my endeavour to prove a comfort and 
a help. " 

Lodore read both of these letters, one after the other, again and 
again. He resolved on going to England immediately. Either Cor- 
nelia was entirely callous and worthless, and so to be discarded 
from his heart for ever, or after her first bitter feelings on her mo- 
ther's death were over, she would soften towards her child, or 
there was some dread secret feeling that influenced her, and he must 
save her from calamity and wretchedness. One of those changes 
of feeling to which the character of Lodore was peculiarly subject, 
came over him. Lady Santerre was dead— Cornelia was alone. 
A thousand dangers surrounded her. It appeared to him that his 
first imperious duty was to offer himself to guard and watch over 



110 



LOftORE. 



her. He resolved to leave nothing untried to make her happy. H^ 
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. 




LODORE. 1 1 1 



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 pleasure ; feeling, on his expected return to his native 
country, as the fabled voyager, who knew that he ought to be 
contented in the fair island where chance had thrown him, and yet 
who hailed with rapture the approach of the sail that was to- bear 
him back to the miseries of social life. He reflected that he had in 
all probability many year* before him, and he was earnest that the 
decline of his life should, by a display of prudence and virtuous 
exertion, cause the errors of his earlier manhood to be forgotten. 

This inspiriting tone of mind was very congenial to Ethel. The 
prospects that occupied her father had a definite horizon : all was 
vague and misty to her eyes, yet beautiful and alluring. Lodore 
gave no outline of his plans : he never named her mother. Uncer- 
tain 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