LODORE. BY THE AUTHOR OF "FRANKENSTEIN." 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. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III. LONDON: RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET (SUCCESSOR TO HENRY COLBURN.) 1835. CONTENTS CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER IX CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI CHAPTER XII CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER XIV CHAPTER XV CHAPTER XVI CHAPTER XVII CHAPTER XVIII CONCLUSION LODORE CHAPTER I If the dull substance of my flesh were thought, Injurious distance should not stop my way; For then, despite of space, I would be brought, From limits far remote, where thou dost stay. SHAKSPEARE. The still hours of darkness passed silently away, and morning dawned, when All rose to do the task, he set to each Who shaped us to his ends, and not our own. Ethel had slept peacefully through the livelong night; nor woke till a knock at her door roused her. A rush of fear--a sense of ill, made her heart palpitate as she opened her eyes to the light of day. While she was striving to recall her thoughts, and to remember what the evil was with which she was threatened, again the servant tapped at her door, to say that Saunders had returned, and to deliver the letter he had brought. She looked at her watch: it was past ten o'clock. She felt glad that it had grown so late, and she not disturbed: yet as she took the letter brought to her from her husband, all her tremor returned; and she read it with agitation, as if it contained the announcement of her final doom. "You send me disagreeable tidings, my sweet Ethel," wrote Villiers,--"I hope unfounded; but caution is necessary: I shall not, therefore, come to Duke Street. Send me a few lines, by Saunders, to tell me if any thing has happened. If what he apprehended has really taken place, you must bear, my love, the separation of a day. You do not understand these things, and will wonder when I tell you, that when the clock strikes twelve on Saturday night, the magic spells and potent charms of Saunders's friends cease to have power: at that hour I shall be restored to you. Wait till then--and _then_ we will consult for the future. Have patience, dearest love: you have wedded poverty, hardship, and annoyance; but, joined to these, is the fondest, the most faithful heart in the world;--a heart you deign to prize, so I will not repine at ill fortune. Adieu, till this evening;--and then, as Belvidera says, 'Remember twelve!' "_Saturday Morning._"