Ethel Churchill

Title Pages

BY THE AUTHOR OF

"THE IMPROVVISATRICE," "FRANCESCA CARRARA," "TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE," ETC. ETC.

Yet knowing something—dimly though it be; And, therefore, still more awful—of that strange And most tumultuous thing, the heart of man. It chanceth oft that, mix'd with nature's smiles, My soul beholds a solemn quietness That almost looks like grief, as if on earth There were no perfect joy, and happiness— Still trembled on the brink of misery."—Wilson.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:

HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

M.DCCC.XXXVII.

TO

THE LADY EMMELINE STUART WORTLEY.

DEAR MADAM,

I VENTURE TO INSCRIBE THESE VOLUMES WITH YOUR NAME. IT IS, I OWN, A SELFISH PLEASURE, FOR IT ALLOWS ME TO EXPRESS THE ADMIRATION AND GRATITUDE OF

DEAR MADAM,

YOUR LADYSHIP'S OFTEN OBLIGED

L. E. L.

PREFACE.

There is one portion of a Work which, more than all others, marks the difference between the reader and the writer. It is the first read, and the last written; the one which the reader dismisses the most hastily, and the writer lingers upon longest. The Preface is the seal of separation between yourself and a Work that must have been the chief object of many days. The excitement of composition is over, and you begin to doubt and to despond. I cannot understand a writer growing indifferent from custom or success. Every new Work must be the record of much change in the mind which produces it, and there is always the anxiety to know how such change will be received. It is impossible, also, for the feeling of your own moral responsibility not to increase. At first you write eagerly, composition is rather a passion than a power; but, as you go on, you cannot but find that, to write a book, is a far more serious charge than it at first appeared. Faults have been pointed out, and you are desirous of avoiding their recurrence ; praise has been be , and you cannot but wish to shew that it has not been given in vain.

Encouragement is the deepest and dearest debt that a writer can incur. Moreover, you have learnt that opinions are not to be lightly put forth, when there is even a chance of such opinions being material wherewith others will form their own. I never saw any one reading a volume of mine without almost a sensation of fear. I write every day more earnestly, and more seriously. To shew the necessity of a strong and guiding principle; to put in the strongest light, that no vanity, no pleasure, can ever supply the place of affection; to soften and to elevate,—has been the object of the following pages. I know too well that I cannot work out my own ideal, but I deeply feel that it is the beautiful and the true.

The greater part of these volumes has been written when in very wretched health;—may I urge it as a plea for the continuance of that kindly indulgence which has so often excited both my hope and my gratitude?

Chapter 1

ETHEL CHURCHILL.

CHAPTER I.

AGE AND YOUTH.

"I tell thee," said the old man, "what is life. A gulf of troubled waters—where the soul, Like a vexed bark, is tossed upon the waves, Of pain and pleasure, by the wavering breath Of passions. They are winds that drive it on, But only to destruction and despair. Methinks that we have known some former state More glorious than our present; and the heart Is haunted by dim memories—shadows left By past felicity. Hence do we pine For vain aspirings—hopes that fill the eyes With bitter tears for their own vanity. Are we then fallen from some lovely star, Whose consciousness is as an unknown curse?"

"And yet, you chose to marry him!"

"I did, and should marry him again; but bear with me for this night, dearest uncle, as you have often borne."

The old man's answer was to pass his hand caressingly over the beautiful head that rested on the arm of his chair; and his niece continued.

"My spirits are overcast with a sadness which I have not hitherto known, and inexplicable too. Did I believe in omens, I should say that my depression was ominous."

"It is the idea of departure—but you always wished to visit London."

"And wish it still: but I knew not, up to the hour of parting, how much it would cost me to sever myself from my kind, my only friend."

"You have your husband, Henrietta;" but the expression which accompanied the sentence was half sarcastic, half distrustful.

A still deeper shade of doubt passed across the high and finely cast features of the youthful female.

"You have, from my cradle, impressed upon me the folly of love: and so far as my knowledge goes, it goes with you. All the affairs of the heart that I have witnessed, have excited but my wonder or contempt; nor could I ever understand what people see so charming in each other. I could no more pass hours away, like dear Ethel, in imagining perfection in a nameless boy, than I could yield up all my faculties to the arrangement of colours in an endless Penelope-pleasing piece of embroidery; perhaps I am too quick-sighted for the delusions of love.

"Be your eyes never dimmed then," said the listener bitterly.

"Yet, if I put love out of the question, I could wish for something like affection; for, much as it accords with Hamlet, and with usage, to be 'a little more than kin, and less than kind,' still, Lord Marchmont's coldness oftentimes comes over me with the effect of suddenly rounding a headland in one of our valleys, and finding the north wind full in my face. He takes not the slightest interest in aught I say, and I have continually thoughts and feelings which I am restless to communicate. Here I do feel not this"—and she turned towards him her glistening eyes—"for my own dear uncle will always hearken to me, explain, encourage, and show me how to comprehend others and myself. But, far away from him, surrounded by new scenes, filled with fresh impressions, longing to clothe in utterance all the bursting thoughts they will excite, must I be lastingly condemned to a silent life, and a closed heart."

"Better keep them so forever. Wherefore unlock to others treasures priceless to yourself, and valueless to them, unless the disclosure serve to render you their dupe and victim."

"How differently, my uncle, do we view the world!"

"The difference lies but in knowledge. I know that world—you know it not."

"Nay, I have learned it from yourself, and experience teaches well."

"Ay; but before we profit, the experience must be our own. A few short years, Henrietta! for, to a temper such as yours, life gives its lessons quickly; and we shall think but too much alike. I may not live to see it, but the time must come—and, ah! how soon when you will commune with yourself in the solitude, perhaps, of this very chamber, and admit, 'gloomy as were my uncle's views of existence, the reality is yet more dark.'"

"O, no! Fate cannot but have made an exception in my favour. Is there a single advantage that fortune has not blest me with—young, high-born, married to one of England's richest and proudest peers, handsome, clever—is it not so? At morn I shall go hence, and, what sort of triumph and pleasure can I anticipate in the metropolis?"

"And you will find both: but, alas! human enjoyment is all too dearly atoned. The ancients gave the balance of life to a dark goddess, who, following in the track of fortune, as the shadow follows the sunshine, enforces bitter payment for our few and transitory delights. Nothing is good but evil comes thereof. I took you, Henrietta, when an infant, from your dying mother's arms. Your cradle was placed in my laboratory; and often have I closed the midnight volume, to watch the fitful slumbers of your childhood. I have since given you all I had to give, my time, my knowledge; and for your sake loved on—hoped on. And now, that you are my sweet and intelligent companion, and my whole heart is bound up in you—your smile my all of sunshine, your step my only music—you must leave me; and to a solitude saddened by the remembrance of a beloved one, who never more can be what she has been to its lonely and weary occupant."

The young countess sprang from her seat, and threw herself at the old man's knees which she fondly clasped.

"No, no, my more, my more dear than father, I will not leave you. How vain, how selfish have I been! Why did you suffer me to marry—nay, what is Lord Marchmont to me? I will stay here happy, ah, too happy, in devoting all life to the debt of gratitude—nay, not gratitude, of love—that I owe to you."

Sir Jasper struggled for a moment,—'twas only for a moment—and the strong emotion was subdued.

"Not thus, my sweet child: the laws of nature are immutable: and they have decreed that the young bird shall leave the nest. Do not weep, my beloved girl: of what avail were it to keep you here until your loveliness and youth had departed. Even with your gladdening presence, I cannot now number many years; and to feel that I was leaving you lonely and defenceless—unpractised, too, in that world which requires all youth's energies to encounter—would embitter even the pang of death! No—my best beloved Henrietta—I would have you form new ties, and other friends. The rare advantages of youth pass rapidly away, and my darling must enjoy them while she may. Her old uncle will not be forgotten. You will write to me often; and I shall still feel and think with you:" and, bending down, he kissed the sweet eyes that were looking up at him with such sad tenderness.

For a long time they sat in unbroken silence, and neither looked upon the other. Each gazed at the surrounding objects, and alike beheld them not. They saw but with the heart's eyes, and these turn on an inward world.

There are in existence two periods when we shrink from any great vicissitude—early youth and old age. In the middle of life, we are indifferent to change; for we have discovered that nothing is, in the end, so good or so bad as it at first appeared. We know, moreover, how to accommodate ourselves to circumstances; and enough of exertion is still left in us to cope with the event.

But age is heart-wearied and tempest-torn: it is the crumbling cenotaph of fear and hope! Wherefore should there be turmoil for the few, and evening hours, when all they covet is repose? They see their shadow fall upon the grave: and need but to be at rest beneath!

Youth is not less averse from change; but that is from exaggeration of its consequences, for all seems to the young so important, and so fatal. They are timid, because they know not what they fear; hopeful, because they know not what they expect. Despite their gayety of confidence, they yet dread the first plunge into life's unfathomed deep.

Thus it was with Henrietta. She knew more of the world than most women of her years; for her converse had been chiefly with her uncle, a man of remarkable endowments: and she had read an infinite variety of book—read them, too, with that quick perception which seizes motive and meaning with intuitive accuracy.

Such, however, inevitably is half knowledge; and theory that lacks the correction of practice, is as the soul without the body.

In common with all of her impassioned temper, and sensitive feelings, she had much imagination. She had created a world which she was resolved to realise—a world where beauty was power, whose luxuries were poetry, and to whose triumphs she gave all the brilliant colouring of hope. Who, in after life, can help smiling at the fancies in which early anticipation revelled; how absurd, how impossible, do they not now appear! Yet, in such mockery lurks much of bitterness: the laugh rings hollow from many a disappointment, and many a mortification.

Henrietta had all this to acquire, and was taking on that very evening one of her first lessons in experience. Contrary to their wont, her wishes were at variance with themselves—the past and the future contended in her. Impatient to enter the "new more magnificent world," on whose threshold she now stood, she was yet withheld by all the tenderest recollections of her childhood. She could not brook the thought of abandoning her uncle, as his long and gloomy evenings arose sadly before her—she saw him wandering all solitary through their favourite walks—sitting down to his lonely meals—watching by himself the dim hearth, and thinking continually of her. She raised not her eyes, but every object was distinctly visible to them, and woke a train of association which gave her the keenest pain. Never had the place seemed to her so gloomy; and all therein was so characteristic of its master.

It was a large vaulted apartment, and had been once a chapel: but it was now half library, half laboratory. The arches were formed of black oak, hewn into all the fantastic shapes of Gothic imaginings; in which it was singular to note that all the natural imitations were graceful, while those of humanity were hideous. The oak-leaf and the garland mingled grotesquely with the distorted faces, that ever and anon peeped from among their wreaths.

The walls were entirely hidden by bookshelves, or by cases containing rare specimens of fossil bones and reptile skeletons. Here was a grizzly crocodile, its teeth white and sharp as when they glistened in the waters of the Nile; there, a massy serpent, knotted into huge and hideous contortions; while myriads of small snakes, lizards, and disgusting insects, were stored around, with a care which had obtained for Sir Jasper Meredith, among his neighbours, the reputation of a magician, though they were but the sickly fancies of a heart ill at ease, that mocked itself in its pursuits.

The ceiling had been painted with the martyrdom of some saint. Who shall place a bound to human folly, when both the inflicter and the endurer of torture have deemed that pain is acceptable in the sight of God? The tints had long since faded from the ceiling, and in the twilight nothing was discernible save two or three wild and ghastly faces, far less like "spirits of health," than "goblins damned!"

On the carpet, at the hearth, basked, in a wood-fire's heat, three enormous and black cats, the predilection for which, instead of for dogs, the usual chosen companions of country gentlemen, further increased the belief in Sir Jasper's unholy studies.

The reason given for this preference, was tinctured with the same morbid perversity that had its source in early disappointment.

"I like a cat," he would say, "because it does not disguise its selfishness with any flattering hypocrisies. Its attachment is not to yourself, but to your house. Let it but have food, and a warm lair among the embers, and it heeds not at whose expense. Then it has the spirit to resent aggression. You shall beat your dog, and he will fawn upon you; but a cat never forgives: it has no tender mercies, and it torments before it destroys its prey."

The landscape from the oriel window, in which they were now seated, was quite in accordance with Sir Jasper's professed tastes.

It fronted the bleakest part of the coast, a desolate heath, which was relieved only by a few stunted trees, and became gradually merged in the sands. An undulating purple line, which was "earth's great antagonist," the sea, closed the distance.

On the horizon rested heavy masses of cloud, broken by red gleams of dying sunset, which, as its vivid colours parted the darkening vapours but to disappear, showed like some gallant spirit struggling vainly with the pressure of adversity, and yielding one energy after another, as it sank beneath some last misfortune, heavier than all before.

As yet, the crimson hues flitted around, rendering distinct first one object and then another. They settled now upon the two that watched them from that oriel window.

The aged man was leaning back in a quaintly embossed oaken chair, on whose carving the arms of his family were gorgeously painted and inlaid. In youth he must have been singularly handsome, but years and care had left their vestiges on his noble features, which were thin even to emaciation. You might almost see the veins flow under the sunken temples. Scarcely a hue of life hovered on that wan cheek and lip, and his extreme paleness was heightened by a profusion of black hair, from whence time had not taken a shade or curl. Contrary to the fashion of his time, it drooped upon his shoulders, like a pall falling round the white face of a corpse.

On a low cushion beside sat his niece, at once a likeness and a contrast. Their resemblance was striking,—there was the identical outline,—though age had lost the glowing tints of youth. Both had the same mass of black hair, the high intellectual forehead, the strongly marked brow, the slightly aquiline nose: but, above all, there was the same expression, an inward and melancholy look, whenever their features were in repose. It was a similitude that every year would increase, for it was the similitude of character.

Henrietta's was a style of beauty uncommon in England, a bright and sunny brunette, the soft brown of whose skin was warmed by the richest crimson that ever flushed a cheek with a whole summer of roses, while her lip was of scarlet—the dewy coral has its freshness, but conveys not its brightness. Her hair floated unbound in long soft tresses, and her tall figure was almost concealed by a white damask robe, fastened loosely at the waist, but leaving that graceful outline which reveals the most exquisite proportion!

No wonder that the old man's eye dwelt upon her with mingled pride and tenderness; yet was it a face that might cause affection many an anxious hour, for there was mind in the lofty and clear forehead, heart in the warm and flushed cheek,—and what are mind and heart to woman, but fairy gifts, for whose possession a grievous price will be exacted.

Suddenly her uncle rose from his seat, exclaiming, "We are over sad and silent. I will go seek the gift, reserved by me for our parting. No duchess in the court of St. James shall rival the Lady Marchmont in diamonds, at least,—and you, Henrietta, will have to make no sacrifice for their enjoyment."

The youthful countess was gratified by display, for, to the imaginative, it bears a charm, of which a more staid temperament dreams not. Yet, at that moment, she felt as if the acquisition of these gems were a calamity. Their possession involved separation from her uncle, from every relic of home affections, and from all that yet lingered with her of her childhood.

Title Pages

BY THE AUTHOR OF

"THE IMPROVVISATRICE," "FRANCESCA CARRARA," "TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE," ETC. ETC.

Yet knowing something—dimly though it be; And, therefore, still more awful—of that strange And most tumultuous thing, the heart of man. It chanceth oft that, mix'd with nature's smiles, My soul beholds a solemn quietness That almost looks like grief, as if on earth There were no perfect joy, and happiness— Still trembled on the brink of misery."—Wilson.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

M.DCCC.XXXVII.

LONDON: PRINTED BY JAMES MOYES, CASTLE STREET, LEICESTER SQUARE.

Title Pages

BY THE AUTHOR OF

"THE IMPROVVISATRICE," "FRANCESCA CARRARA," "TRAITS AND TRIALS OF EARLY LIFE," ETC. ETC.

Yet knowing something—dimly though it be; And, therefore, still more awful—of that strange And most tumultuous thing, the heart of man. It chanceth oft that, mix'd with nature's smiles, My soul beholds a solemn quietness That almost looks like grief, as if on earth There were no perfect joy, and happiness— Still trembled on the brink of misery."—Wilson.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON:

HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

M.DCCC.XXXVII.

LONDON: PRINTED BY JAMES MOYES, CASTLE STREET, LEICESTER SQUARE.

Chapter 2

CHAPTER II.

THE MORALITY OF DIAMONDS.

There was an evil in Pandora's box Beyond all other ones, yet it came forth In guise so lovely, that men crowded round And sought it as the dearest of all treasure. Then were they stung with madness and despair: High minds were bow'd in abject misery. The hero trampled on his laurell'd crown, While genius broke the lute it waked no more. Young maidens, with pale cheeks, and faded eyes, Wept till they died. Then there were broken hearts— Insanity and Jealousy, that feeds Unto satiety, yet loathes its food: Suicide digging its own grave; and Hate, Unquenchable and deadly; and Remorse— The vulture feeding on its own life-blood. The evil's name was Love—these curses seem His followers for ever.

Sir Jasper re-entered, bearing a crimson velvet casket, and broidered with armorial bearings.

"It is getting dark and cold," said he; "let us draw to the fire."

Henrietta rang for the attendants to draw in the ponderous curtains; and in the meanwhile, curious to behold the stores of the emblazoned depository, lighted the tapers for herself. The case was speedily unclasped, and the countess stood dazzled with the brilliancy of the precious contents. She hastily took thence the bracelets, and fastened them upon an arm round and polished as of marble, then gathered up her night-black hair into the lustrous coronet, and ran to a mirror, which, though dim with time and use, grew radiant with these shining gems.

"My dear, good uncle," she cried, "you are too kind, too generous."

"Giving you your own, is no generosity," returned Sir Jasper: "these are the jewels of your house—the portion of its heiress."

"I am glad," said Henrietta, a flush of pride deepening the bloom upon her cheek, "that they have been ours; I am glad to associate their brightness with the past. Fresh from the merchant, they convey no sentiment but that of wealth: while these hereditary diamonds recall whole generations of stately beauty. I rejoice that they have descended with our line."

"So do not I," said her uncle, in a low and altered tone. "I see in those glittering trinkets the departure of youth and of love, the wreck of the heart's best hopes and sweetest affections. To me they are mocking records of the past. As they fling back the taper's rays, they seem to boast,—'The heart was a game between us; you risked upon it passion, truth, belief, but we won the stake.'"

He sank back in his arm-chair, and riveted his gaze upon one of the portraits which hung on the gloomy walls. Almost unwittingly, Henrietta pursued the motion of his eyes, which rested intensely upon a picture that displayed herself, as a child of three years, her father, and her mother.

In Sir Henry Meredith's appearance there was nothing that won upon the sight, though the limner had done his best for him. The countenance had no character. But his consort was indeed lovely, like, and yet not like, the daughter who now watched her. There was the same rich complexion, although the features were of less perfect contour, the forehead more narrow, and the face devoid of the meaning which mind, and mind only, can impart. But this the passing observer might scarcely have detected, for few would seek beyond that exceeding loveliness.

"She is very beautiful," sighed Sir Jasper; "to me was that face once the fairest of the Almighty's works. I loved, as they love who love but once. At parting from her, I have flung me on the ground along which her light feet had skimmed, to gather the common wild flowers that they could not crush. The casual mention of her name was to my ear heaven's sweetest melody; and, if only for her sake, I believed in truth, and constancy, and goodness! I have felt sick with happiness when she has entered the room suddenly, and have trembled like an infant, when I but fancied I read anger in her averted eyes.

"Lady Agnes was my cousin; and in birth, youth, and affection, we were a fitting match: but we were poor. The world was, however, before us, and of what was I not capable for her love! I was strengthened even to parting from her, and we parted!—parted, with the fixed stars above, whose light was less lovely than her tears. Of the two, she was apparently the more sorrowful; for I subdued my sadness, that it might not enhance her suffering. She called me back to her, to give me one of those long black locks which, if but blown against my cheek, as we rambled together, made my whole frame shiver with delicious transport! I have now a raven curl, severed from her graceful brow, but it is not the same.

"Well, I forthwith went abroad, and joined my brother, who had for some years past resided at Vienna. My heart was too full, too young for silence, and I told him all. He heard me calmly; and as calmly promised to further our attachment. The implicitness of my reliance stayed not to ask his sympathy. To talk of her was happiness, and my brother seemed a part of that home whither he was then returning.

"What desolation was in his departure! for the first time I had to struggle against the world alone. Fortunately, from the absence of some, and illness of others, who were attached with me to the embassy, there was much to distract me from my dejection, for my official duties had become of unusual severity. I was even happy then, for I was employed, and had motive for employment. I lived in the future,—that future which I fashioned to my will. I have since tried occupation as a resource, and how different was it when sweetened by the projects of hope! A year passed rapidly away, and I could look sanguinely forward to a successful career. Intrusted, at length, with a mission to England, whose completion would give me a few days at Meredith Place, I planned to come upon them by surprise.

"How well I remember the evening that saw my return on that old domain! The same soft twilight pervaded nature as when I left it—not a shadow of change had passed over the old house and its grounds. The oaks, though scarcely yet in leaf, flung down their giant shadows, and the dew rested beneath their shelter. The hawthorn's breath came upon the gale as sweetly as of yore: and the wind, as it scattered the green blossoms which our young peasantry call "locks and keys," made the same rustling in the ashen boughs.

"I walked on alone, for my grooms had gone round with the horses. After a moment's pause to breathe—for the sense of present happiness was too much—I stood beside the little stream whereon her shadow was imprinted when we bade farewell: and fancied that, like my heart, it too should have retained that dark outline as faithfully as it mirrored the stars, which were flickering in the flood even as I saw them then.

"When nearer the house, however, there came upon me signs of change:—I heard the roll of carriages and the sound of music. Suddenly a stream of light burst from the windows. I must have arrived at the moment of some festive celebration;—fortunate, for Agnes would assuredly be there.

"To place this beyond doubt, ere I withdrew to change my dress, I entered the vestibule unperceived, and made my way to the musician's gallery, from which I could look down upon the scene below. All was gaiety and animation; brilliant groups were flitting past in rapid succession; but my attention was at once attracted to the head of the room, where was stationed a lady in white satin, to whom my brother was presenting every guest successively.

"I could hear the musicians applaud among themselves the beauty of the bride, who at that moment turned her head towards the gallery; I felt upon whom I must look—it was the face of Agnes!

"Henrietta, I watched her more unmovedly than I now tell you of that watching! The beauteous head, from whose dark ringlets came the one yet next my heart, was bound with these very diamonds; and the eyes that I had last seen so sad and tearful, were now full of light.

"The sound of her silvery laughter came where I stood, as, resting on my brother's arm, she paced along the room. At once I darted from the gallery and forsook my father's house, and neither saw it nor England for many long years. It matters not how those years went by; suffice it, that my heart at length yearned within me to behold my native land again. Experience had taught me, that woman's falsehood was no unparalleled marvel; but it had coupled with this conviction, that nothing in after life can atone for the bitterness of our first rude awakening.

"I returned, hardly knowing wherefore, to Meredith Place—as if the scenes of youth could recall our youth again! they only make us feel the more acutely how far it is removed.

"On my arrival, I met, winding darkly along the great avenue, my brother's funeral train. I saw the soft blossoms of the hawthorn mingle with the black plumes of the hearse.

"Confusion was upon all things. Creditors were clamouring aloud in the house of the widow and the fatherless; and in the very hall through which a coffin had late passed, were heard the jingling of glasses and the rattle of the dice-box.