Ethel Churchill/Chapter 64
CHAPTER XXIX.
CHANGES IN LONDON.
The presence of perpetual change
Is ever on the earth;
To-day is only as the soil
That gives to-morrow birth.
Where stood the tower, there grows the weed;
Where stood the weed, the tower:
No present hour its likeness leaves
To any future hour.
Of each imperial city built
Far on the Eastern plains,
A desert waste of tomb and sand
Is all that now remains.
Our own fair city filled with life,
Has yet a future day,
When power, and might, and majesty,
Will yet have passed away.
Nothing could be more bright than the following morning, it was the first day of sunshine that Ethel had seen since her arrival in London, and she was surprised to observe the change that it wrought. The river below her windows shone with that deep, dead clearness, which somewhat resembles molten lead; the little boats glided rapidly past; and more than one song, set to some popular old tune, came from the watermen as they rowed past. The sails of many a small vessel seemed like snow, and nothing could be more graceful than the way in which they glided through the arches of the distant bridge—disappeared—and then might again be recognised in the bend of the stream above. The noble dome of St. Paul's seemed bathed in the golden atmosphere, and the spires of the inferior churches glittered below.
Ethel wondered what had become of the gloom which struck her so forcibly on her first arrival. In the direction to which her own hopes pointed, the aspect was even more cheerful. The banks of the Thames had gardens intermixed with the buildings, and the architecture was of a lighter character, while the beautiful old Abbey rose like a queen amid her court. Unless we except the Tiber, there is no river which has so much history about it as the Thames, and which is so strongly impressed with the characteristics of its nation. There are the signs of that commercial activity which has carried the flag of England round the world; there is that cleaving to the past, which has preserved those stately churches inviolate—the glorious receptacles of the dead—and there, too, is evidence of that domestic spirit which goes back upon itself for enjoyment, and garners up its best hopes in a little space. England may be deficient in public gardens, but where are there so many private ones, each the delight of their master, and the household that have planted their shrubs, and watered their flowers? What little worlds of affection and comfort are bounded by the neat quickset-hedge, quiet and still as the nest of some singing-bird!
Ethel was in that sensitive state of mind and body, which is especially subject to external influences, and she began her toilet with a cheerfulness that had its origin in the sun shining in at the window. What children we are in trifles! what slight things exercise an influence over us! to how much that our reason would be ashamed to acknowledge! nevertheless does it submit. Our whole nature must change; we must be less susceptible, less dependent on "blind accident," before we can shake off hopes and fears, which are almost superstitions.
For a wonder, two ladies were actually punctual to an appointment: Lady Marchmont was to her time, and Ethel did not keep her waiting a moment. A woman's first look is at the dress of her friend, and her second word is of it. Each was exceedingly satisfied with the other; which is also saying, that they were exceedingly satisfied with themselves. Lady Marchmont had on a rich flowered damask, and a white chip hat tied down with a pink kerchief: and never had she looked handsomer, for she was one whose variable complexion and mobile features were made to express interest and excitement. Ethel was in mourning: they had judged it the most fitting habit for a petitioner; it was certainly one most becoming to the wearer. The black set off the pure white skin and the gloss of the golden hair, and it suited the pensive and subdued expression that had become habitual to Ethel's sweet countenance.
A drive to Chelsea was a very different thing in those days to what it is in ours; it was then literally going out of town, and the huge coach-and-six made its stately way beneath old trees, and through green and shady lanes. I cannot say much for the cheerfulness of Chelsea now-a-days: it would seem as if past gaiety always flung a deeper shadow over the places where it once held sway. The large old houses, darkened with many years, have a gloomy appearance; and the chances of the present day are, that they have transmigrated into boarding-schools and mad-houses. No vestige remains of that luxuriant growth of almond-trees, for which it was formerly celebrated. There is something peculiarly lovely in the almond-blossom; it brings the warmth of the rose on the last cold airs of winter, a rich and glowing wreath, when all beside is desolate: so frail, too, and so delicate, like a fairy emblem of those sweet and gentle virtues whose existence is first known in an hour of adversity. High brick walls stand where once stood that rosy and graceful tree; and if there be one object more dreary than another, it is a high, blank brick wall: as little vestige is there left of the wide-spread common. Small houses have sprung up as rapidly as the summer grasses used to spring in the Five Fields, so notorious for robbery and murder, that even Madame de Genlis, not usually very accurate in her English locale, is perfectly right in making them the scene of a robber's attack.
"Troy now stands where grass once grew," to take the liberty of reversing a quotation, and Belgrave Square has effaced the terrors of "The Five Fields;" but the road to Sir Robert Walpole's lay more to the right; yet so much are places brought together, and distances shortened now-a-days, that a visit to Chelsea was about what a visit to Richmond would be now. It was a very pleasant morning, the clear blue sky was only broken by large white clouds, whose contrast deepened the azure into purple. The trees lay on one side the road in a rich depth of shadow; on the other the golden light seemed to rain through the chequered boughs: a subtle fragrance floated on the air, and the carols of a thousand birds rose distinct above the deep murmur of the city that they had left behind.
"I cannot help," said Ethel, "feeling in better spirits: it seems absolute ingratitude not to enjoy so lovely a morning!"
"I shall consider them as an omen," replied Lady Marchmont: "it is very becoming to be in good spirits, and I want you to look your best. Really you ought to keep a relay of tenth cousins to die off, for black suits you remarkably well. We shall be such good contrasts; I am so glad that I have left off my mourning!"
"Your mourning!" exclaimed Ethel; "I was not aware that you had been wearing it. Who was it for?"
Lady Marchmont coloured, both with embarrassment and self-reproach. Embarrassment; for, with an intuitive delicacy, she had shrank from ever naming Mrs. Courtenaye to Ethel; and, with self-reproach, that, in a moment's carelessness, she could have so lightly alluded to such a painful subject. Perhaps it was best to tell Ethel at once: if ever she went into society at all, she would inevitably hear of it, and her own concealment would have the appearance of a dissimulation,—the furthest from her thoughts. Yes, it was best to tell Ethel at once.
"I have not," said Lady Marchmont, "told you of the friendship that existed between Mrs. Courtenaye and myself, for I felt that the subject must be a painful one to you."
How painful, the deadly paleness that over spread Ethel's face, sufficiently told. Henrietta would not observe it, but went on with her story, thus giving her friend time to recover; and, before it was done, both were mingling their tears together.
"I have avoided the subject myself," said Ethel at last, in a faltering tone; "even now it is most painful to say what I think of Mr. Norbourne's conduct: it was too cruel!"
"Do not," interrupted Henrietta, "expect the shadow of an excuse from me. It was the resentment that I felt towards himself that, singularly enough, led to my acquaintance with his wife: and I say it, even to yourself, that if ever there was an angel upon earth, it was Constance Courtenaye."
"What a strange thing it is for affection to change!" said Ethel: "even now I cannot comprehend inconstancy in love."
"I do not think," returned Henrietta, "that there was any inconstancy in the case: we must look to more worldly motives. Constance was a creature that grew upon your love, but no rival to yourself. I take it for granted that the Courtenaye property was involved, and that its heir had no means of freeing himself but by a marriage with his cousin."
"He must have known that before he knew me," said Ethel, coldly.
"I am not," exclaimed Lady Marchmont, "seeking to defend conduct as heartless as it was cruel. Your youth, your ignorance of the world, your touching confidence in himself, should have made your happiness too sacred for a moment's trifling. But we live in a hard and unkind world, and every hour I see some new proof of how little we regard the feelings of each other; and, strange it is, that the deepest injuries are those that are the most lightly judged. The strong hand of the law is around your life and your wealth, but he who takes from you all that renders them valuable, the chances are, that his offence will find palliation and excuse; nay, that the laughers will be on his side. The heart is left alone in its desolation!"