Ethel Churchill/Chapter 60
CHAPTER XXV.
MEETING OF OLD FRIENDS.
How much of change lies in a little space!
How soon the spirits leave their youth behind!
The early green forsakes the bough; the flowers,
Nature's more fairy-like and fragile ones,
Droop on the way-side, and the later leaves
Have artifice and culture—so the heart:
How soon its soft spring hours take darker hues!
And hopes, that were like rainbows, melt in shade;
While the fair future, ah! how fair it seemed!
Grows dark and actual.
It was a cold and rainy afternoon as Ethel Churchill sat at the window of their new abode, a house in one of the streets leading from the Strand to the river. It was the day after their arrival, and nothing could well be more gloomy than the view: the pavement was wet, and a yellow mist obscured every object, the passers glided by like phantoms, and the Thames, at the end, seemed dusk and heavy, as if a ray of sunshine had never rested on its waters. The room itself was large and dark, and had that peculiar air of discomfort which belongs to "ready furnished apartments:" every thing looks as if it had been bought at a sale, and there is an equal want of harmony both in the proportions and colours. The idea involuntarily occurs of how the chairs had encircled other hearths; of how, around the tables, had gathered family groups, broken up by the pressure of distress and of want. All the associations are those of poverty; and of all human evils, poverty is the one whose suffering is the most easily understood: even those who have never known it, can comprehend its wretchedness. Hunger, cold, and mortification, the disunion of families; the separation of those the most fondly attached; youth bowed by premature toil; age wasting the little strength yet remaining:—these are the familiar objects which surround poverty.
Ethel did not thus closely examine the causes of the weight upon her spirits; she only knew that the weight was there: she was strange, lonely, unsettled, and she looked forward to nothing. Never had she before felt so forcibly the change that a few months had worked in her; and she was sad when she remembered how young she was, and how little in life remained for her. How delighted she would have been but a very little while before, at the idea of a visit to London! now lassitude and discouragement were her predominant sensations. Ethel found the time hang heavily on her hands, the more heavily for expectation. A note from Lady Marchmont had reached her early in the morning, saying, that she would be with her young friend the very moment Lord Marchmont went out.
"The fact is, my dearest Ethel," so ran the note, "his lordship is terribly afraid of you. He sees the cause of the Stuarts triumphant in your ringlets, and the downfal of the House of Hanover in your complexion. However, as I make a point of having my own way, I cannot let you be the first exception to the rule; therefore, expect me some time in the afternoon: I shall, if you please, pass the evening with you, delightful under any circumstances, doubly delightful as an act of disobedience. Ever your affectionate
"Henrietta."
Ethel's heart clung to the writer, she was the only creature she knew in this vast city; and, moreover, if ever there was a being formed to win and fascinate, it was Lady Marchmont: a fault in her, was more charming than a merit in another. The very difference in character drew the friends together; different, also, in their styles of beauty, there had never been the shadow of rivalry between them: besides, both were quite young enough to have warmth, confidence, and mirth, those three ingredients of friendship.
The evening closed in, and Ethel began to make preparations for her visitor. She ordered lights, had the curtains closed, and stirred the fire till the room looked quite cheerful in the blaze. Tea was then brought in; and Ethel had scarcely finished drawing two ponderous arm-chairs to each side of the fireplace, when the stopping of a chair in the hall announced Lady Marchmont. Ethel flew to the top of the stairs to meet her; and, in a few moments, each stood by the fire in all the eagerness of welcome.
Tea was poured out, and each began to tell the other the many events that had taken place since their parting. Much, indeed, had occurred: they parted, girls; they met, women. A deeper meaning was in the face of either than when they sat with the moonlight falling over them beside the little fountain. They looked eagerly on each other, and felt that they were changed: there was as much, perhaps more beauty, but there was less brightness. The mind, more than the heart, gave its impression to the features. The blush came not at every second word; the cheek of either was paler; and Ethel's had an appearance of delicate health, very different from the morning bloom that it formerly wore.
There was an habitual sarcasm on Lady Marchmont's finely cut lip, and Ethel's smile had grown into a sad sweetness. On the brow was a deeper shadow—serious and thoughtful. The glad bursts of laughter, the gay fantasies, the buoyant hopes, which they used to meet and share together, were all gone by for ever.
The servants removed the tea-things, and they drew nearer to the fire, and to each other. Both had a great deal to say, and yet the conversation languished; but we have all felt this after a long absence: confidence is a habit, and requires to be renewed. We have lost the custom of telling every thing; and we begin to fear that what we have to tell is scarcely worth being told. We have formed new acquaintances; we have entered into other amusements; we feel that our tastes are altered; and we require a little while to see if the change be mutual. Moreover, the affections are always timid; they require both encouragement and custom, before they can venture to communicate their regrets.
It is a curious, but an undeniable fact, that the meeting, after absence, of old friends, is almost always constrained and silent at first; they are surprised to find how little they have said of what they meant to say. It merely shews, after all, that affection is a habit.