LODORE. Mary Shelley
shall neither dare to repass the gulf that divides us. Forget me; — be happy, and forget me! May Casimir be a blessing to you, and while you glory in his perfections and prosperity, cast into oblivion every thought of him, who now bids you an eternal adieu.”
Chapter 12
Her virtue, like our own, was built
Too much on that indignant fuss.
Hypocrite pride stirs up in us.
To bully out another’s guilt.
Shelley.
The fifth day after Lord Lodore’s departure brought Cornelia a letter from him. She had spent the interval at Twickenham, surrendering her sorrows and their consolation to her mother’s care; and inspired by her with deep resentment and angry disdain. The letter she received was dated Havre: the substance of it was as follows.
“Believe me I am actuated by no selfish considerations, when I ask you once again to reflect before the Atlantic divides us — probably for ever. It is for your own sake, your own happiness only, that I ask you to hesitate. I will not urge your duty to me; the dishonour that has fallen on me I am most ready to bear alone; mine towards you, as far as present circumstances permit, I am desirous to fulfil, and this feeling dictates my present address.
“Consider the solitary years you will pass alone, even though in a crowd, divided from your husband and your child — your home desolate — calumny and ill-nature at watch around you — not one protecting arm stretched over you. Your mother’s presence, it is true, will suffice to prevent your position from being in the least equivocal; but the time will soon come when you will discover your mistake in her, and find how unworthy she is of your exclusive affection. I will not urge the temptations and dangers that will beset you; your pride will, I doubt not, preserve you from these, yet they will be near you in their worst shape: you will feel their approaches; you will shudder at their menaces, you will desire my death, and the faith pledged to me at the altar will become a chain and a torture to you.
“I can only offer such affection as your sacrifice will deserve to adorn a lonely and obscure home; rank, society, flatterers, the luxuries of civilization — all these blessings you must forego. Your lot will be cast in solitude. The wide forest, the uninhabited plain, will shelter us. Your husband, your child; in us alone you must view the sum and aim of your life. I will not use the language of persuasion, but in inviting you to share my privations, I renew, yet more solemnly, the vows we once interchanged; and it shall be my care to endeavour to fulfil mine with more satisfaction to both of us than has until now been the case.
“It is useless to attempt to veil the truth, that hitherto our hearts have been alienated from each other. The cause is not in ourselves, and must never again be permitted to influence either of us. If amidst the avocations of society, the presence of a third person has been sufficient to place division between us; — if, on the flowery path of our prosperous life, one fatal interference has strewn thorns and burning ashes beneath our feet, how much more keenly would this intervention be felt in the retirement in which we are hereafter to spend our days. — In the lonely spot to which it will be necessary to contract all our thoughts and hopes, love must alone reign; or hell itself would be but pastime in comparison to our ever-renewing and sleepless torments. The spirit of worldliness, of discord, of paltry pride, must not enter the paling which is to surround our simple dwelling. Come, attended by affection, by open-hearted confidence; — come to me — to your child! — you will find with us peace and mutual love, the true secret of life. All that can make your mother happy in England, shall be provided with no niggard hand:— but come alone, Cornelia, my wife! — come, to take possession of the hearts that are truly yours, and to learn a new lesson, in a new world, from him who will dedicate himself entirely to you.
“Alas! I fear that I speak an unknown language, and one that you will never deign to understand. Still I again implore you to reflect before you decide. On one point I am firm — I feel that I am in the right — that every thing depends upon it. Our daughter’s guileless heart shall never be tainted by all that I abhor and despise. For her sake, for yours, more than for my own, I am as rock upon one question. Do not strive to move me — it will be useless! Come alone! and ten thousand welcomes and blessings shall hail your arrival!
“A vessel, in which I have engaged a passage, sails for New York, from this place, in five days time. You must not delay your decision; but hasten, if such be your gracious resolve, to join me here.
“If you decide to sacrifice yourself to one who will never repay that sacrifice, and to the world, — that dreary, pain-haunted jungle, — at least you shall receive from me all that can render your situation there prosperous. You shall not complain of want of generosity on my part. I shall, in my new course of life, require little myself; the remainder of my fortune shall be at your disposal.
“I need not recommend secrecy to you as to the real motive of my exile — your own sense of delicacy will dictate reserve and silence. This letter will be delivered to you by Fenton: he will attend you back here, or bring me your negative — the seal, I feel assured, of your future misery. God grant that you choose wisely and well! Adieu.”
The heart of Lady Lodore burnt within her bosom as she read these lines. Haughty and proud, was she to be dictated to thus? and to follow, an obedient slave, the master that deigned to recall her to his presence, after he had (so she termed his abrupt departure) deserted her? Her mother sate by, looking at her with an anxious and inquiring glance, as she read the letter. She saw the changes of her countenance, as it expressed anger, scorn, and bitter indignation. She finished — she was still silent; — how could she show this insulting address to her parent? Again she seemed to study its contents — to ponder.
Lady Santerre rose — gently she was taking the paper from Cornelia’s hand. “You must not read it,” she cried; — “and yet you must; — and thus one other wrong is heaped upon the many.”
Lady Santerre read the letter; silently she perused it — folded it — placed it on the table. Cornelia looked up at her. “I do not fear your decision,” she said; “you will not abandon a parent, who has devoted herself to you from your cradle — who lives but for you.”
The unhappy girl, unable to resist her mother’s appeal, threw herself into her arms. Even the cold Lady Santerre was moved — tears flowed from her eyes:— “My dear child!” she exclaimed.
“My dear child!” — the words found an echo in Lady Lodore’s bosom; — “I am never to see my child more!”
“Such is his threat,” said her mother, “knowing thus the power he has over you; but do not fear that it will be accomplished. Lord Lodore’s conduct is guided by no principle — by no deference to the opinion of the world — by no just or sober motives. He is as full of passion as a madman, and more vacillating. This is his fancy now — to quit England for the wilderness, and to torture you into following him. You are as lost as he, if you yield. A little patience, and all will be right again. He will soon grow tired of playing the tragic hero on a stage surrounded by no spectators; he will discover the folly of his conduct; he will return, and plead for forgiveness, and feel that he is too fortunate in a wife, who has preserved her own conduct free from censure and remark, while he has made himself a laughing stock to all. Do not permit yourself, dear Cornelia, 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 task-master, whose first commands are gentle, soft, and easy injunctions to desert 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