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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Alice, or The Mysteries, Complete, by 
Edward Bulwer-Lytton

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Title: Alice, or The Mysteries, Complete

Author: Edward Bulwer-Lytton

Release Date: March 17, 2009 [EBook #9774]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALICE, OR THE MYSTERIES, COMPLETE ***




Produced by David Widger and Dagny








ALICE;

OR,

THE MYSTERIES


By Edward Bulwer Lytton





BOOK I.

  "Thee, hid the bowering vales amidst, I call."
  --EURIPIDES: _Hel._ I. 1116.



CHAPTER I.

  Who art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place
  Of Blanch, the lady of the matchless grace?--LAMB.

IT was towards the evening of a day in early April that two ladies were
seated by the open windows of a cottage in Devonshire. The lawn before
them was gay with evergreens, relieved by the first few flowers and
fresh turf of the reviving spring; and at a distance, through an opening
amongst the trees, the sea, blue and tranquil, bounded the view, and
contrasted the more confined and home-like features of the scene. It was
a spot remote, sequestered, shut out from the business and pleasures of
the world; as such it suited the tastes and character of the owner.

That owner was the younger of the ladies seated by the window. You would
scarcely have guessed, from her appearance, that she was more than seven
or eight and twenty, though she exceeded by four or five years that
critical boundary in the life of beauty. Her form was slight and
delicate in its proportions, nor was her countenance the less lovely
because, from its gentleness and repose (not unmixed with a certain
sadness) the coarse and the gay might have thought it wanting in
expression. For there is a stillness in the aspect of those who have
felt deeply, which deceives the common eye,--as rivers are often alike
tranquil and profound, in proportion as they are remote from the springs
which agitated and swelled the commencement of their course, and by
which their waters are still, though invisibly, supplied.

The elder lady, the guest of her companion, was past seventy; her gray
hair was drawn back from the forehead, and gathered under a stiff cap of
quaker-like simplicity; while her dress, rich but plain, and of no very
modern fashion, served to increase the venerable appearance of one who
seemed not ashamed of years.

"My dear Mrs. Leslie," said the lady of the house, after a thoughtful
pause in the conversation that had been carried on for the last hour,
"it is very true; perhaps I was to blame in coming to this place; I
ought not to have been so selfish."

"No, my dear friend," returned Mrs. Leslie, gently; "selfish is a word
that can never be applied to you; you acted as became you,--agreeably
to your own instinctive sense of what is best when at your
age,--independent in fortune and rank, and still so lovely,--you
resigned all that would have attracted others, and devoted yourself, in
retirement, to a life of quiet and unknown benevolence. You are in your
sphere in this village,--humble though it be,--consoling, relieving,
healing the wretched, the destitute, the infirm; and teaching your
Evelyn insensibly to imitate your modest and Christian virtues." The
good old lady spoke warmly, and with tears in her eyes; her companion
placed her hand in Mrs. Leslie's.

"You cannot make me vain," said she, with a sweet and melancholy smile.
"I remember what I was when you first gave shelter to the poor, desolate
wanderer and her fatherless child; and I, who was then so poor and
destitute, what should I be, if I was deaf to the poverty and sorrows of
others,--others, too, who are better than I am. But now Evelyn, as
you say, is growing up; the time approaches when she must decide on
accepting or rejecting Lord Vargrave. And yet in this village how can
she compare him with others; how can she form a choice? What you say is
very true; and yet I did not think of it sufficiently. What shall I
do? I am only anxious, dear girl, to act so as may be best for her own
happiness."

"Of that I am sure," returned Mrs. Leslie; "and yet I know not how to
advise. On one hand, so much is due to the wishes of your late husband,
in every point of view, that if Lord Vargrave be worthy of Evelyn's
esteem and affection, it would be most desirable that she should prefer
him to all others. But if he be what I hear he is considered in the
world,--an artful, scheming, almost heartless man, of ambitious and hard
pursuits,--I tremble to think how completely the happiness of Evelyn's
whole life may be thrown away. She certainly is not in love with
him, and yet I fear she is one whose nature is but too susceptible of
affection. She ought now to see others,--to know her own mind, and not
to be hurried, blindfold and inexperienced, into a step that decides
existence. This is a duty we owe to her,--nay, even to the late Lord
Vargrave, anxious as he was for the marriage. His aim was surely her
happiness, and he would not have insisted upon means that time and
circumstances might show to be contrary to the end he had in view."

"You are right," replied Lady Vargrave. "When my poor husband lay on
his bed of death, just before he summoned his nephew to receive his last
blessing, he said to me, 'Providence can counteract all our schemes.
If ever it should be for Evelyn's real happiness that my wish for her
marriage with Lumley Ferrers should not be fulfilled, to you I must
leave the right to decide on what I cannot foresee. All I ask is that no
obstacle shall be thrown in the way of my wish; and that the child
shall be trained up to consider Lumley as her future husband.' Among his
papers was a letter addressed to me to the same effect; and, indeed, in
other respects that letter left more to my judgment than I had any right
to expect. Oh, I am often unhappy to think that he did not marry one who
would have deserved his affection! and--but regret is useless now."

"I wish you could really feel so," said Mrs. Leslie; "for regret of
another kind still seems to haunt you; and I do not think you have yet
forgotten your early sorrows."

"Ah, how can I?" said Lady Vargrave, with a quivering lip.

At that instant, a light shadow darkened the sunny lawn in front of the
casements, and a sweet, gay young voice was heard singing at a little
distance; a moment more, and a beautiful girl, in the first bloom of
youth, bounded lightly along the grass, and halted opposite the friends.

It was a remarkable contrast,--the repose and quiet of the two persons
we have described, the age and gray hairs of one, the resigned and
melancholy gentleness written on the features of the other--with the
springing step and laughing eyes and radiant bloom of the new comer! As
she stood with the setting sun glowing full upon her rich fair hair, her
happy countenance and elastic form, it was a vision almost too bright
for this weary earth,--a thing of light and bliss, that the joyous Greek
might have placed among the forms of Heaven, and worshipped as an Aurora
or a Hebe.

"Oh, how can you stay indoors this beautiful evening? Come, dearest Mrs.
Leslie; come, Mother, dear Mother, you know you promised you would,--you
said I was to call you; see, it will rain no more, and the shower has
left the myrtles and the violet-bank so fresh."

"My dear Evelyn," said Mrs. Leslie, with a smile, "I am not so young as
you."

"No; but you are just as gay when you are in good spirits--and who can
be out of spirits in such weather? Let me call for your chair; let me
wheel you--I am sure I can. Down, Sultan; so you have found me out, have
you, sir? Be quiet, sir, down!"

This last exhortation was addressed to a splendid dog of the
Newfoundland breed, who now contrived wholly to occupy Evelyn's
attention.

The two friends looked at this beautiful girl, as with all the grace of
youth she shared while she rebuked the exuberant hilarity of her huge
playmate; and the elder of the two seemed the most to sympathize with
her mirth. Both gazed with fond affection upon an object dear to both.
But some memory or association touched Lady Vargrave, and she sighed as
she gazed.



CHAPTER II.

  Is stormy life preferred to this serene?---YOUNG: _Satires_.

AND the windows were closed in, and night had succeeded to evening, and
the little party at the cottage were grouped together. Mrs. Leslie was
quietly seated at her tambour-frame; Lady Vargrave, leaning her cheek on
her hand, seemed absorbed in a volume before her, but her eyes were not
on the page; Evelyn was busily employed in turning over the contents of
a parcel of books and music which had just been brought from the lodge
where the London coach had deposited it.

"Oh, dear Mamma!" cried Evelyn, "I am so glad; there is something you
will like,--some of the poetry that touched you so much set to music."

Evelyn brought the songs to her mother, who roused herself from her
revery, and looked at them with interest.

"It is very strange," said she, "that I should be so affected by all
that is written by this person: I, too" (she added, tenderly stroking
down Evelyn's luxuriant tresses), "who am not so fond of reading as you
are!"

"You are reading one of his books now," said Evelyn, glancing over the
open page on the table. "Ah, that beautiful passage upon 'Our First
Impressions.' Yet I do not like you, dear Mother, to read his books;
they always seem to make you sad."

"There is a charm to me in their thoughts, their manner of expression,"
said Lady Vargrave, "which sets me thinking, which reminds me of--of an
early friend, whom I could fancy I hear talking while I read. It was so
from the first time I opened by accident a book of his years ago."

"Who is this author that pleases you so much?" asked Mrs. Leslie, with
some surprise; for Lady Vargrave had usually little pleasure in reading
even the greatest and most popular masterpieces of modern genius.

"Maltravers," answered Evelyn; "and I think I almost share my mother's
enthusiasm."

"Maltravers!" repeated Mrs. Leslie. "He is, perhaps, a dangerous writer
for one so young. At your age, dear girl, you have naturally romance and
feeling enough of your own without seeking them in books."

"But, dear madam," said Evelyn, standing up for her favourite, "his
writings do not consist of romance and feeling only; they are not
exaggerated, they are so simple, so truthful."

"Did you ever meet him?" asked Lady Vargrave.

"Yes," returned Mrs. Leslie, "once, when he was a gay, fair-haired boy.
His father resided in the next county, and we met at a country-house.
Mr. Maltravers himself has an estate near my daughter in B-----shire,
but he does not live on it; he has been some years abroad,--a strange
character!"

"Why does he write no more?" said Evelyn; "I have read his works so
often, and know his poetry so well by heart, that I should look forward
to something new from him as an event."

"I have heard, my dear, that he has withdrawn much from the world and
its objects,--that he has lived greatly in the East. The death of a
lady to whom he was to have been married is said to have unsettled and
changed his character. Since that event he has not returned to England.
Lord Vargrave can tell you more of him than I."

"Lord Vargrave thinks of nothing that is not always before the world,"
said Evelyn.

"I am sure you wrong him," said Mrs. Leslie, looking up and fixing her
eyes on Evelyn's countenance; "for _you_ are not before the world."

Evelyn slightly--very slightly--pouted her pretty lip, but made no
answer. She took up the music, and seating herself at the piano,
practised the airs. Lady Vargrave listened with emotion; and as Evelyn
in a voice exquisitely sweet, though not powerful, sang the words, her
mother turned away her face, and half unconsciously, a few tears stole
silently down her cheek.

When Evelyn ceased, herself affected,--for the lines were impressed with
a wild and melancholy depth of feeling,--she came again to her mother's
side, and seeing her emotion, kissed away the tears from the pensive
eyes. Her own gayety left her; she drew a stool to her mother's feet,
and nestling to her, and clasping her hand, did not leave that place
till they retired to rest.

And the lady blessed Evelyn, and felt that, if bereaved, she was not
alone.



CHAPTER III.

  BUT come, thou Goddess, fair and free,
  In heaven yclept Euphrosyne!

 ......

  To hear the lark begin his flight,
  And, singing, startle the dull night.--_L'Allegro_.

  But come, thou Goddess, sage and holy,
  Come, divinest Melancholy!

 ......

  There held in holy passion still,
  Forget thyself to marble.--_Il Penseroso_.

THE early morn of early spring--what associations of freshness and hope
in that single sentence! And there a little after sunrise--there was
Evelyn, fresh and hopeful as the morning itself, bounding with the light
step of a light heart over the lawn. Alone, alone! no governess, with a
pinched nose and a sharp voice, to curb her graceful movements, and tell
her how young ladies ought to walk. How silently morning stole over
the earth! It was as if youth had the day and the world to itself. The
shutters of the cottage were still closed, and Evelyn cast a glance
upward, to assure herself that her mother, who also rose betimes, was
not yet stirring. So she tripped along, singing from very glee, to
secure a companion, and let out Sultan; and a few moments afterwards,
they were scouring over the grass, and descending the rude steps that
wound down the cliff to the smooth sea sands. Evelyn was still a child
at heart, yet somewhat more than a child in mind. In the majesty of--

  "That hollow, sounding, and mysterious main,"--

in the silence broken but by the murmur of the billows, in the solitude
relieved but by the boats of the early fishermen, she felt those deep
and tranquillizing influences which belong to the Religion of Nature.
Unconsciously to herself, her sweet face grew more thoughtful, and
her step more slow. What a complex thing is education! How many
circumstances, that have no connection with books and tutors, contribute
to the rearing of the human mind! The earth and the sky and the ocean
were among the teachers of Evelyn Cameron; and beneath her simplicity
of thought was daily filled, from the turns of invisible spirits, the
fountain of the poetry of feeling.

This was the hour when Evelyn most sensibly felt how little our real
life is chronicled by external events,--how much we live a second and
a higher life in our meditations and dreams. Brought up, not more by
precept than example, in the faith which unites creature and Creator,
this was the hour in which thought itself had something of the holiness
of prayer; and if (turning from dreams divine to earlier visions)
this also was the hour in which the heart painted and peopled its own
fairyland below, of the two ideal worlds that stretch beyond the inch of
time on which we stand, Imagination is perhaps holier than Memory.

So now, as the day crept on, Evelyn returned in a more sober mood, and
then she joined her mother and Mrs. Leslie at breakfast; and then the
household cares--such as they were--devolved upon her, heiress though
she was; and, that duty done, once more the straw hat and Sultan were in
requisition; and opening a little gate at the back of the cottage, she
took the path along the village churchyard that led to the house of the
old curate. The burial-ground itself was surrounded and shut in with a
belt of trees. Save the small time-discoloured church and the roofs of
the cottage and the minister's house, no building--not even a cotter's
hut--was visible there. Beneath a dark and single yew-tree in the centre
of the ground was placed a rude seat; opposite to this seat was a grave,
distinguished from the rest by a slight palisade. As the young Evelyn
passed slowly by this spot, a glove on the long damp grass beside
the yew-tree caught her eye. She took it up and sighed,--it was her
mother's. She sighed, for she thought of the soft melancholy on that
mother's face which her caresses and her mirth never could wholly chase
away. She wondered why that melancholy was so fixed a habit, for the
young ever wonder why the experienced should be sad.

And now Evelyn had passed the churchyard, and was on the green turf
before the minister's quaint, old-fashioned house. The old man himself
was at work in his garden; but he threw down his hoe as he saw Evelyn,
and came cheerfully up to greet her.

It was easy to see how dear she was to him.

"So you are come for your daily lesson, my young pupil?"

"Yes; but Tasso can wait if the--"

"If the tutor wants to play truant; no, my child; and, indeed, the
lesson must be longer than usual to-day, for I fear I shall have to
leave you to-morrow for some days."

"Leave us! why?--leave Brook-Green--impossible!"

"Not at all impossible; for we have now a new vicar, and I must turn
courtier in my old age, and ask him to leave me with my flock. He is at
Weymouth, and has written to me to visit him there. So, Miss Evelyn, I
must give you a holiday task to learn while I am away."

Evelyn brushed the tears from her eyes--for when the heart is full of
affection the eyes easily run over--and clung mournfully to the old man,
as she gave utterance to all her half-childish, half-womanly grief at
the thought of parting so soon with him. And what, too, could her mother
do without him; and why could he not write to the vicar instead of going
to him?

The curate, who was childless and a bachelor, was not insensible to the
fondness of his beautiful pupil, and perhaps he himself was a little
more _distrait_ than usual that morning, or else Evelyn was peculiarly
inattentive; for certain it is that she reaped very little benefit from
the lesson.

Yet he was an admirable teacher, that old man! Aware of Evelyn's quick,
susceptible, and rather fanciful character of mind, he had sought
less to curb than to refine and elevate her imagination. Himself of
no ordinary abilities, which leisure had allowed him to cultivate, his
piety was too large and cheerful to exclude literature--Heaven's best
gift--from the pale of religion. And under his care Evelyn's mind had
been duly stored with the treasures of modern genius, and her judgment
strengthened by the criticisms of a graceful and generous taste.

In that sequestered hamlet, the young heiress had been trained to
adorn her future station; to appreciate the arts and elegances that
distinguish (no matter what the rank) the refined from the low, better
than if she had been brought up under the hundred-handed Briareus of
fashionable education. Lady Vargrave, indeed, like most persons of
modest pretensions and imperfect cultivation, was rather inclined to
overrate the advantages to be derived from book-knowledge; and she was
never better pleased than when she saw Evelyn opening the monthly parcel
from London, and delightedly poring over volumes which Lady Vargrave
innocently believed to be reservoirs of inexhaustible wisdom.

But this day Evelyn would not read, and the golden verses of Tasso lost
their music to her ear. So the curate gave up the lecture, and placed
a little programme of studies to be conned during his absence in her
reluctant hand; and Sultan, who had been wistfully licking his paws for
the last half-hour, sprang up and caracoled once more into the garden;
and the old priest and the young woman left the works of man for those
of Nature.

"Do not fear, I will take such care of your garden while you are away,"
said Evelyn; "and you must write and let us know what day you are to
come back."

"My dear Evelyn, you are born to spoil every one--from Sultan to
Aubrey."

"And to be spoilt too, don't forget that," cried Evelyn, laughingly
shaking back her ringlets. "And now, before you go, will you tell me, as
you are so wise, what I can do to make--to make--my mother love me?"

Evelyn's voice faltered as she spoke the last words, and Aubrey looked
surprised and moved.

"Your mother love you, my dear Evelyn! What do you mean,--does she not
love you?"

"Ah, not as I love her. She is kind and gentle, I know, for she is so to
all; but she does not confide in me, she does not trust me; she has some
sorrow at heart which I am never allowed to learn and soothe. Why does
she avoid all mention of her early days? She never talks to me as
if she, too, had once a mother! Why am I never to speak of her first
marriage, of my father? Why does she look reproachfully at me, and shun
me--yes, shun me, for days together--if--if I attempt to draw her to the
past? Is there a secret? If so, am I not old enough to know it?"

Evelyn spoke quickly and nervously, and with quivering lips. Aubrey took
her hand, and pressing it, said, after a little pause,--

"Evelyn, this is the first time you have ever thus spoken to me. Has
anything chanced to arouse your--shall I call it curiosity, or shall I
call it the mortified pride of affection?"

"And you, too, aye harsh; you blame me! No, it is true that I have not
thus spoken to you before; but I have long, long thought with grief that
I was insufficient to my mother's happiness,--I who love her so dearly.
And now, since Mrs. Leslie has been here, I find her conversing with
this comparative stranger so much more confidentially than with me. When
I come in unexpectedly, they cease their conference, as if I were not
worthy to share it; and--and oh, if I could but make you understand
that all I desire is that my mother should love me and know me and trust
me--"

"Evelyn," said the curate, coldly, "you love your mother, and justly;
a kinder and a gentler heart than hers does not beat in a human breast.
Her first wish in life is for your happiness and welfare. You ask for
confidence, but why not confide in her; why not believe her actuated by
the best and the tenderest motives; why not leave it to her discretion
to reveal to you any secret grief, if such there be, that preys
upon her; why add to that grief by any selfish indulgence of
over-susceptibility in yourself? My dear pupil, you are yet almost a
child; and they who have sorrowed may well be reluctant to sadden with a
melancholy confidence those to whom sorrow is yet unknown. This much,
at least, I may tell you,--for this much she does not seek to
conceal,--that Lady Vargrave was early inured to trials from which you,
more happy, have been saved. She speaks not to you of her relations, for
she has none left on earth. And after her marriage with your benefactor,
Evelyn, perhaps it seemed to her a matter of principle to banish all
vain regret, all remembrance if possible, of an earlier tie."

"My poor, poor mother! Oh, yes, you are right; forgive me. She yet
mourns, perhaps, my father, whom I never saw, whom I feel, as it were,
tacitly forbid to name,--you did not know him?"

"Him!--whom?"

"My father, my mother's first husband."

"No."

"But I am sure I could not have loved him so well as my benefactor,
my real and second father, who is now dead and gone. Oh, how well I
remember him,--how fondly!" Here Evelyn stopped and burst into tears.

"You do right to remember him thus; to love and revere his memory,--a
father indeed he was to you. But now, Evelyn, my own dear child, hear
me. Respect the silent heart of your mother; let her not think that her
misfortunes, whatever they may be, can cast a shadow over you,--you, her
last hope and blessing. Rather than seek to open the old wounds, suffer
them to heal, as they must, beneath the influences of religion and time;
and wait the hour when without, perhaps, too keen a grief, your mother
can go back with you into the past."

"I will, I will! Oh, how wicked, how ungracious I have been! It was but
an excess of love, believe it, dear Mr. Aubrey, believe it."

"I do believe it, my poor Evelyn; and now I know that I may trust in
you. Come, dry those bright eyes, or they will think I have been a hard
taskmaster, and let us go to the cottage."

They walked slowly and silently across the humble garden into the
churchyard, and there, by the old yew-tree, they saw Lady Vargrave.
Evelyn, fearful that the traces of her tears were yet visible, drew
back; and Aubrey, aware of what passed within her, said,--

"Shall I join your mother, and tell her of my approaching departure? And
perhaps in the meanwhile you will call at our poor pensioner's in the
village,--Dame Newman is so anxious to see you; we will join you there
soon."

Evelyn smiled her thanks, and kissing her hand to her mother with
seeming gayety, turned back and passed through the glebe into the little
village. Aubrey joined Lady Vargrave, and drew her arm in his.

Meanwhile Evelyn thoughtfully pursued her way. Her heart was full, and
of self-reproach. Her mother had, then, known cause for sorrow; and
perhaps her reserve was but occasioned by her reluctance to pain her
child. Oh, how doubly anxious would Evelyn be hereafter to soothe, to
comfort, to wean that dear mother from the past! Though in this girl's
character there was something of the impetuosity and thoughtlessness
of her years, it was noble as well as soft; and now the woman's
trustfulness conquered all the woman's curiosity.

She entered the cottage of the old bedridden crone whom Aubrey had
referred to. It was as a gleam of sunshine,--that sweet comforting face;
and here, seated by the old woman's side, with the Book of the Poor upon
her lap, Evelyn was found by Lady Vargrave. It was curious to observe
the different impressions upon the cottagers made by the mother and
daughter. Both were beloved with almost equal enthusiasm; but with the
first the poor felt more at home. They could talk to her more at ease:
she understood them so much more quickly; they had no need to beat
about the bush to tell the little peevish complaints that they were
half-ashamed to utter to Evelyn. What seemed so light to the young,
cheerful beauty, the mother listened to with so grave and sweet a
patience. When all went right, they rejoiced to see Evelyn; but in their
little difficulties and sorrows nobody was like "my good Lady!"

So Dame Newman, the moment she saw the pale countenance and graceful
shape of Lady Vargrave at the threshold, uttered an exclamation of
delight. Now she could let out all that she did not like to trouble the
young lady with; now she could complain of east winds, and rheumatiz,
and the parish officers, and the bad tea they sold poor people at Mr.
Hart's shop, and the ungrateful grandson who was so well to do and who
forgot he had a grandmother alive!



CHAPTER IV.

  TOWARDS the end of the week we received a card from the town
  ladies.  _Vicar of Wakefield_.

THE curate was gone, and the lessons suspended; otherwise--as like each
to each as sunshine or cloud permitted--day followed day in the calm
retreat of Brook-Green,--when, one morning, Mrs. Leslie, with a letter
in her hand, sought Lady Vargrave, who was busied in tending the flowers
of a small conservatory which she had added to the cottage, when,
from various motives, and one in especial powerful and mysterious, she
exchanged for so sequestered a home the luxurious villa bequeathed to
her by her husband.

To flowers--those charming children of Nature, in which our age can take
the same tranquil pleasure as our youth--Lady Vargrave devoted much of
her monotonous and unchequered time. She seemed to love them almost as
living things; and her memory associated them with hours as bright and
as fleeting as themselves.

"My dear friend," said Mrs. Leslie, "I have news for you. My daughter,
Mrs. Merton, who has been in Cornwall on a visit to her husband's
mother, writes me word that she will visit us on her road home to the
Rectory in B-----shire. She will not put you much out of the way," added
Mrs. Leslie, smiling, "for Mr. Merton will not accompany her; she only
brings her daughter Caroline, a lively, handsome, intelligent girl, who
will be enchanted with Evelyn. All you will regret is, that she comes to
terminate my visit, and take me away with her. If you can forgive that
offence, you will have nothing else to pardon."

Lady Vargrave replied with her usual simple kindness; but she was
evidently nervous at the visit of a stranger (for she had never yet seen
Mrs. Merton), and still more distressed at the thought of losing Mrs.
Leslie a week or two sooner than had been anticipated. However,
Mrs. Leslie hastened to reassure her. Mrs. Merton was so quiet and
good-natured, the wife of a country clergyman with simple tastes; and
after all, Mrs. Leslie's visit might last as long, if Lady Vargrave
would be contented to extend her hospitality to Mrs. Merton and
Caroline.

When the visit was announced to Evelyn, her young heart was susceptible
only of pleasure and curiosity. She had no friend of her own age; she
was sure she should like the grandchild of her dear Mrs. Leslie.

Evelyn, who had learned betimes, from the affectionate solicitude of her
nature, to relieve her mother of such few domestic cares as a home so
quiet, with an establishment so regular, could afford, gayly busied
herself in a thousand little preparations. She filled the rooms of
the visitors with flowers (not dreaming that any one could fancy them
unwholesome), and spread the tables with her own favourite books, and
had the little cottage piano in her own dressing-room removed into
Caroline's--Caroline must be fond of music. She had some doubts of
transferring a cage with two canaries into Caroline's room also; but
when she approached the cage with that intention, the birds chirped so
merrily, and seemed so glad to see her, and so expectant of sugar, that
her heart smote her for her meditated desertion and ingratitude. No,
she could not give up the canaries; but the glass bowl with the
goldfish--oh, that would look so pretty on its stand just by the
casement; and the fish--dull things!--would not miss her.

The morning, the noon, the probable hour of the important arrival came
at last; and after having three times within the last half-hour visited
the rooms, and settled and unsettled and settled again everything before
arranged, Evelyn retired to her own room to consult her wardrobe, and
Margaret,--once her nurse, now her abigail. Alas! the wardrobe of the
destined Lady Vargrave--the betrothed of a rising statesman, a new and
now an ostentatious peer; the heiress of the wealthy Templeton--was one
that many a tradesman's daughter would have disdained. Evelyn visited
so little; the clergyman of the place, and two old maids who lived most
respectably on a hundred and eighty pounds a year, in a cottage, with
one maidservant, two cats, and a footboy, bounded the circle of her
acquaintance. Her mother was so indifferent to dress; she herself had
found so many other ways of spending money!--but Evelyn was not now
more philosophical than others of her age. She turned from muslin
to muslin--from the coloured to the white, from the white to the
coloured--with pretty anxiety and sorrowful suspense. At last she
decided on the newest, and when it was on, and the single rose set in
the lustrous and beautiful hair, Carson herself could not have added a
charm. Happy age! Who wants the arts of the milliner at seventeen?

"And here, miss; here's the fine necklace Lord Vargrave brought down
when my lord came last; it will look so grand!"

The emeralds glittered in their case; Evelyn looked at them
irresolutely; then, as she looked, a shade came over her forehead, and
she sighed, and closed the lid.

"No, Margaret, I do not want it; take it away."

"Oh, dear, miss! what would my lord say if he were down! And they are so
beautiful! they will look so fine! Deary me, how they sparkle! But you
will wear much finer when you are my lady."

"I hear Mamma's bell; go, Margaret, she wants you."

Left alone, the young beauty sank down abstractedly, and though the
looking-glass was opposite, it did not arrest her eye; she forgot her
wardrobe, her muslin dress, her fears, and her guests.

"Ah," she thought, "what a weight of dread I feel here when I think of
Lord Vargrave and this fatal engagement; and every day I feel it more
and more. To leave my dear, dear mother, the dear cottage--oh! I never
can. I used to like him when I was a child; now I shudder at his name.
Why is this? He is kind; he condescends to seek to please. It was the
wish of my poor father,--for father he really was to me; and yet--oh
that he had left me poor and free!"

At this part of Evelyn's meditation the unusual sound of wheels was
heard on the gravel; she started up, wiped the tears from her eyes, and
hurried down to welcome the expected guests.



CHAPTER V.

  TELL me, Sophy, my dear, what do you think of our new visitors?
  _Vicar of Wakefield_.

MRS. MERTON and her daughter were already in the middle drawing-room,
seated on either side of Mrs. Leslie,--the former a woman of quiet and
pleasing exterior, her face still handsome, and if not intelligent, at
least expressive of sober good-nature and habitual content; the latter a
fine dark-eyed girl, of decided countenance, and what is termed a showy
style of beauty,--tall, self-possessed, and dressed plainly indeed,
but after the approved fashion. The rich bonnet of the large shape then
worn; the Chantilly veil; the gay French _Cachemire_; the full sleeves,
at that time the unnatural rage; the expensive yet unassuming _robe de
soie_; the perfect _chaussure_; the air of society, the easy manner,
the tranquil but scrutinizing gaze,--all startled, discomposed, and
half-frightened Evelyn.

Miss Merton herself, if more at her ease, was equally surprised by the
beauty and unconscious grace of the young fairy before her, and rose to
greet her with a well-bred cordiality, which at once made a conquest of
Evelyn's heart.

Mrs. Merton kissed her cheek, and smiled kindly on her, but said little.
It was easy to see that she was a less conversable and more homely
person than Caroline.

When Evelyn conducted them to their rooms, the mother and daughter
detected at a glance the care that had provided for their comforts; and
something eager and expectant in Evelyn's eyes taught the good-nature of
the one and the good breeding of the other to reward their young hostess
by various little exclamations of pleasure and satisfaction.

"Dear, how nice! What a pretty writing-desk!" said one--"And the pretty
goldfish!" said the other--"And the piano, too, so well placed;" and
Caroline's fair fingers ran rapidly over the keys. Evelyn retired,
covered with smiles and blushes. And then Mrs. Merton permitted herself
to say to the well-dressed abigail,--

"Do take away those flowers, they make me quite faint."

"And how low the room is,--so confined!" said Caroline, when the lady's
lady withdrew with the condemned flowers. "And I see no Pysche. However,
the poor people have done their best."

"Sweet person, Lady Vargrave!" said Mrs. Merton,--"so interesting, so
beautiful; and how youthful in appearance!"

"No _tournure_--not much the manner of the world," said Caroline.

"No; but something better."

"Hem!" said Caroline. "The girl is very pretty, though too small."

"Such a smile, such eyes,--she is irresistible! and what a fortune! She
will be a charming friend for you, Caroline."

"Yes, she may be useful, if she marry Lord Vargrave; or, indeed, if she
make any brilliant match. What sort of a man is Lord Vargrave?"

"I never saw him; they say, most fascinating."

"Well, she is very happy," said Caroline, with a sigh.



CHAPTER VI.

  TWO lovely damsels cheer my lonely walk.--LAMB: _Album Verses_.

AFTER dinner there was still light enough for the young people to stroll
through the garden. Mrs. Merton, who was afraid of the damp, preferred
staying within; and she was so quiet, and made herself so much at home,
that Lady Vargrave, to use Mrs. Leslie's phrase, was not the least "put
out" by her. Besides, she talked of Evelyn, and that was a theme very
dear to Lady Vargrave, who was both fond and proud of Evelyn.

"This is very pretty indeed,--the view of the sea quite lovely!" said
Caroline. "You draw?"

"Yes, a little."

"From Nature?"

"Oh, yes."

"What, in Indian ink?"

"Yes; and water-colours."

"Oh! Why, who could have taught you in this little village; or, indeed,
in this most primitive county?"

"We did not come to Brook-Green till I was nearly fifteen. My dear
mother, though very anxious to leave our villa at Fulham, would not do
so on my account, while masters could be of service to me; and as I knew
she had set her heart on this place, I worked doubly hard."

"Then she knew this place before?"

"Yes; she had been here many years ago, and took the place after my poor
father's death,--I always call the late Lord Vargrave my father.
She used to come here regularly once a year without me; and when she
returned, I thought her even more melancholy than before."

"What makes the charm of the place to Lady Vargrave?" asked Caroline,
with some interest.

"I don't know; unless it be its extreme quiet, or some early
association."

"And who is your nearest neighbour?"

"Mr. Aubrey, the curate. It is so unlucky, he is gone from home for
a short time. You can't think how kind and pleasant he is,--the most
amiable old man in the world; just such a man as Bernardin St. Pierre
would have loved to describe."

"Agreeable, no doubt, but dull--good curates generally are."

"Dull? not the least; cheerful even to playfulness, and full of
information. He has been so good to me about books; indeed, I have
learned a great deal from him."

"I dare say he is an admirable judge of sermons."

"But Mr. Aubrey is not severe," persisted Evelyn, earnestly; "he is
very fond of Italian literature, for instance; we are reading Tasso
together."

"Oh! pity he is old--I think you said he was old. Perhaps there is a
son, the image of the sire?"

"Oh, no," said Evelyn, laughing innocently; "Mr. Aubrey never married."

"And where does the old gentleman live?"

"Come a little this way; there, you can just see the roof of his house,
close by the church."

"I see; it is _tant soit peu triste_ to have the church so near you."

"_Do_ you think so? Ah, but you have not seen it; it is the prettiest
church in the county; and the little burial-ground--so quiet, so
shut in; I feel better every time I pass it. Some places breathe of
religion."

"You are poetical, my dear little friend."

Evelyn, who _had_ poetry in her nature, and therefore sometimes it broke
out in her simple language, coloured and felt half-ashamed.

"It is a favourite walk with my mother," said she, apologetically; "she
often spends hours there alone: and so, perhaps, I think it a prettier
spot than others may. It does not seem to me to have anything of gloom
in it; when I die, I should like to be buried there."

Caroline laughed slightly. "That is a strange wish; but perhaps you have
been crossed in love?"

"I!--oh, you are laughing at me!"

"You do not remember Mr. Cameron, your real father, I suppose?"

"No; I believe he died before I was born."

"Cameron is a Scotch name: to what tribe of Camerons do you belong?"

"I don't know," said Evelyn, rather embarrassed; "indeed I know nothing
of my father's or mother's family. It is very odd, but I don't think we
have any relations. You know when I am of age that I am to take the name
of Templeton."

"Ah, the name goes with the fortune; I understand. Dear Evelyn, how rich
you will be! I do so wish I were rich!"

"And I that I were poor," said Evelyn, with an altered tone and
expression of countenance.

"Strange girl! what can you mean?"

Evelyn said nothing, and Caroline examined her curiously.

"These notions come from living so much out of the world, my dear
Evelyn. How you must long to see more of life!"

"I! not in the least. I should never like to leave this place,--I could
live and die here."

"You will think otherwise when you are Lady Vargrave. Why do you look so
grave? Do you not love Lord Vargrave?"

"What a question!" said Evelyn, turning away her head, and forcing a
laugh.

"It is no matter whether you do or not: it is a brilliant position. He
has rank, reputation, high office; all he wants is money, and that you
will give him. Alas! I have no prospect so bright. I have no fortune,
and I fear my face will never buy a title, an opera-box, and a house in
Grosvenor Square. I wish I were the future Lady Vargrave."

"I am sure I wish you were," said Evelyn, with great _naivete_; "you
would suit Lord Vargrave better than I should."

Caroline laughed.

"Why do you think so?"

"Oh, his way of thinking is like yours; he never says anything I can
sympathize with."

"A pretty compliment to me! Depend upon it, my dear, you will sympathize
with me when you have seen as much of the world. But Lord Vargrave--is
he too old?"

"No, I don't think of his age; and indeed he looks younger than he is."

"Is he handsome?"

"He is what may be called handsome,--you would think so."

"Well, if he comes here, I will do my best to win him from you; so look
to yourself."

"Oh, I should be so grateful; I should like him so much, if he would
fall in love with you!"

"I fear there is no chance of that."

"But how," said Evelyn, hesitatingly, after a pause,--"how is it that
you have seen so much more of the world than I have? I thought Mr.
Merton lived a great deal in the country."

"Yes, but my uncle, Sir John Merton, is member for the county; my
grandmother on my father's side--Lady Elizabeth, who has Tregony Castle
(which we have just left) for her jointure-house--goes to town almost
every season, and I have spent three seasons with her. She is a charming
old woman,--quite the _grand dame_. I am sorry to say she remains in
Cornwall this year. She has not been very well; the physicians forbid
late hours and London; but even in the country we are very gay. My uncle
lives near us, and though a widower, has his house full when down at
Merton Park; and Papa, too, is rich, very hospitable and popular, and
will, I hope, be a bishop one of these days--not at all like a
mere country parson; and so, somehow or other, I have learned to be
ambitious,--we are an ambitious family on Papa's side. But, alas! I
have not your cards to play. Young, beautiful, and an heiress! Ah, what
prospects! You should make your mamma take you to town."

"To town! she would be wretched at the very idea. Oh, you don't know
us."

"I can't help fancying, Miss Evelyn," said Caroline, archly, "that you
are not so blind to Lord Vargrave's perfections and so indifferent to
London, only from the pretty innocent way of thinking, that so prettily
and innocently you express. I dare say, if the truth were known, there
is some handsome young rector, besides the old curate, who plays the
flute, and preaches sentimental sermons in white kid gloves."

Evelyn laughed merrily,--so merrily that Caroline's suspicions vanished.
They continued to walk and talk thus till the night came on, and then
they went in; and Evelyn showed Caroline her drawings, which astonished
that young lady, who was a good judge of accomplishments. Evelyn's
performance on the piano astonished her yet more; but Caroline consoled
herself on this point, for her voice was more powerful, and she sang
French songs with much more spirit. Caroline showed talent in all she
undertook; but Evelyn, despite her simplicity, had genius, though as
yet scarcely developed, for she had quickness, emotion, susceptibility,
imagination. And the difference between talent and genius lies rather in
the heart than the head.



CHAPTER VII.

       DOST thou feel
  The solemn whispering influence of the scene
  Oppressing thy young heart, that thou dost draw
  More closely to my side?--F. HEMANS: _Wood Walk and Hymn_.

CAROLINE and Evelyn, as was natural, became great friends. They were not
kindred to each other in disposition; but they were thrown together,
and friendship thus forced upon both. Unsuspecting and sanguine, it was
natural to Evelyn to admire; and Caroline was, to her inexperience, a
brilliant and imposing novelty. Sometimes Miss Merton's worldliness of
thought shocked Evelyn; but then Caroline had a way with her as if she
were not in earnest,--as if she were merely indulging an inclination
towards irony; nor was she without a certain vein of sentiment that
persons a little hackneyed in the world and young ladies a little
disappointed that they are not wives instead of maids, easily acquire.
Trite as this vein of sentiment was, poor Evelyn thought it beautiful
and most feeling. Then, Caroline was clever, entertaining, cordial, with
all that superficial superiority that a girl of twenty-three who knows
London readily exercises over a country girl of seventeen. On the other
hand, Caroline was kind and affectionate towards her. The clergyman's
daughter felt that she could not be always superior, even in fashion, to
the wealthy heiress.

One evening, as Mrs. Leslie and Mrs. Merton sat under the veranda of the
cottage, without their hostess, who had gone alone into the village, and
the young ladies were confidentially conversing on the lawn, Mrs.
Leslie said rather abruptly, "Is not Evelyn a delightful creature? How
unconscious of her beauty; how simple, and yet so naturally gifted!"

"I have never seen one who interested me more," said Mrs. Merton,
settling her _pelerine_; "she is extremely pretty."

"I am so anxious about her," resumed Mrs. Leslie, thoughtfully. "You
know the wish of the late Lord Vargrave that she should marry his
nephew, the present lord, when she reaches the age of eighteen. She
only wants nine or ten months of that time; she has seen nothing of the
world: she is not fit to decide for herself; and Lady Vargrave, the best
of human creatures, is still herself almost too inexperienced in
the world to be a guide for one so young placed in such peculiar
circumstances, and of prospects so brilliant. Lady Vargrave at heart is
a child still, and will be so even when as old as I am."

"It is very true," said Mrs. Merton. "Don't you fear that the girls will
catch cold? The dew is falling, and the grass must be wet."

"I have thought," continued Mrs. Leslie, without heeding the latter part
of Mrs. Merton's speech, "that it would be a kind thing to invite Evelyn
to stay with you a few months at the Rectory. To be sure, it is not like
London; but you see a great deal of the world. The society at your
house is well selected, and at times even brilliant; she will meet young
people of her own age, and young people fashion and form each other."

"I was thinking myself that I should like to invite her," said Mrs.
Merton; "I will consult Caroline."

"Caroline, I am sure, would be delighted; the difficulty lies rather in
Evelyn herself."

"You surprise me! she must be moped to death here."

"But will she leave her mother?"

"Why, Caroline often leaves me," said Mrs. Merton.

Mrs. Leslie was silent, and Evelyn and her new friend now joined the
mother and daughter.

"I have been trying to persuade Evelyn to pay us a little visit," said
Caroline; "she could accompany us so nicely; and if she is still strange
with us, dear grandmamma goes too,--I am sure we can make her at home."

"How odd!" said Mrs. Merton; "we were just saying the same thing. My
dear Miss Cameron, we should be so happy to have you."

"And I should be so happy to go, if Mamma would but go too."

As she spoke, the moon, just risen, showed the form of Lady Vargrave
slowly approaching the house. By the light, her features seemed more
pale than usual; and her slight and delicate form, with its gliding
motion and noiseless step, had in it something almost ethereal and
unearthly.

Evelyn turned and saw her, and her heart smote her. Her mother, so
wedded to the dear cottage--and had this gay stranger rendered that dear
cottage less attractive,--she who had said she could live and die in
its humble precincts? Abruptly she left her new friend, hastened to her
mother, and threw her arms fondly round her.

"You are pale; you have over-fatigued yourself. Where have you been? Why
did you not take me with you?"

Lady Vargrave pressed Evelyn's hand affectionately.

"You care for me too much," said she. "I am but a dull companion for
you; I was so glad to see you happy with one better suited to your gay
spirits. What can we do when she leaves us?"

"Ah, I want no companion but my own, own mother. And have I not Sultan,
too?" added Evelyn, smiling away the tear that had started to her eyes.



CHAPTER VIII.

  FRIEND after friend departs;
    Who hath not lost a friend?
  There is no union here of hearts
    That finds not here an end.--J. MONTGOMERY.

THAT night Mrs. Leslie sought Lady Vargrave in her own room. As she
entered gently she observed that, late as the hour was, Lady Vargrave
was stationed by the open window, and seemed intently gazing on the
scene below. Mrs. Leslie reached her side unperceived. The moonlight
was exceedingly bright; and just beyond the garden, from which it was
separated but by a slight fence, lay the solitary churchyard of the
hamlet, with the slender spire of the holy edifice rising high and
tapering into the shining air. It was a calm and tranquillizing scene;
and so intent was Lady Vargrave's abstracted gaze, that Mrs. Leslie was
unwilling to disturb her revery.

At length Lady Vargrave turned; and there was that patient and pathetic
resignation written in her countenance which belongs to those whom the
world can deceive no more, and who have fixed their hearts in the life
beyond.

Mrs. Leslie, whatever she thought or felt, said nothing, except in
kindly remonstrance on the indiscretion of braving the night air. The
window was closed; they sat down to confer.

Mrs. Leslie repeated the invitation given to Evelyn, and urged the
advisability of accepting it. "It is cruel to separate you," said she;
"I feel it acutely. Why not, then, come with Evelyn? You shake your
head: why always avoid society? So young, yet you give yourself too much
to the past!"

Lady Vargrave rose, and walked to a cabinet at the end of the room; she
unlocked it, and beckoned to Mrs. Leslie to approach. In a drawer lay
carefully folded articles of female dress,--rude, homely, ragged,--the
dress of a peasant girl.

"Do these remind you of your first charity to me?" she said touchingly:
"they tell me that I have nothing to do with the world in which you and
yours, and Evelyn herself, should move."

"Too tender conscience!--your errors were but those of circumstances, of
youth;--how have they been redeemed! none even suspect them. Your past
history is known but to the good old Aubrey and myself. No breath, even
of rumour, tarnishes the name of Lady Vargrave."

"Mrs. Leslie," said Lady Vargrave, reclosing the cabinet, and again
seating herself, "my world lies around me; I cannot quit it. If I were
of use to Evelyn, then indeed I would sacrifice, brave all; but I only
cloud her spirits. I have no advice to give her, no instruction to
bestow. When she was a child I could watch over her; when she was sick,
I could nurse her; but now she requires an adviser, a guide; and I feel
too sensibly that this task is beyond my powers. I, a guide to youth
and innocence,--_I_! No, I have nothing to offer her, dear child! but my
love and my prayers. Let your daughter take her, then,--watch over her,
guide, advise her. For me--unkind, ungrateful as it may seem--were she
but happy, I could well bear to be alone!"

"But she--how will she, who loves you so, submit to this separation?"

"It will not be long; and," added Lady Vargrave, with a serious, yet
sweet smile, "she had better be prepared for that separation which must
come at last. As year by year I outlive my last hope,--that of once more
beholding _him_,--I feel that life becomes feebler and feebler, and
I look more on that quiet churchyard as a home to which I am soon
returning. At all events, Evelyn will be called upon to form new ties
that must estrange her from me; let her wean herself from one so useless
to her, to all the world,--now, and by degrees."

"Speak not thus," said Mrs. Leslie, strongly affected; "you have many
years of happiness yet in store for you. The more you recede from youth,
the fairer life will become to you."

"God is good to me," said the lady, raising her meek eyes; "and I have
already found it so. I am contented."



CHAPTER IX.

  THE greater part of them seemed to be charmed with his presence.
  MACKENZIE: _The Man of the World_.

IT was with the greatest difficulty that Evelyn could at last be
persuaded to consent to the separation from her mother; she wept
bitterly at the thought. But Lady Vargrave, though touched, was firm,
and her firmness was of that soft, imploring character which Evelyn
never could resist. The visit was to last some months, it is true,
but she would return to the cottage; she would escape, too--and
this, perhaps, unconsciously reconciled her more than aught else--the
periodical visit of Lord Vargrave. At the end of July, when the
parliamentary session at that unreformed era usually expired, he always
came to Brook-Green for a month. His last visits had been most unwelcome
to Evelyn, and this next visit she dreaded more than she had any of the
former ones. It is strange,--the repugnance with which she regarded the
suit of her affianced!--she, whose heart was yet virgin; who had never
seen any one who, in form, manner, and powers to please, could be
compared to the gay Lord Vargrave. And yet a sense of honour, of what
was due to her dead benefactor, her more than father,--all combated that
repugnance, and left her uncertain what course to pursue, uncalculating
as to the future. In the happy elasticity of her spirits, and with a
carelessness almost approaching to levity, which, to say truth, was
natural to her, she did not often recall the solemn engagement that
must soon be ratified or annulled; but when that thought did occur, it
saddened her for hours, and left her listless and despondent. The visit
to Mrs. Merton was, then, finally arranged, the day of departure
fixed, when, one morning, came the following letter from Lord Vargrave
himself:--


To the LADY VARGRAVE, etc.

MY DEAR FRIEND,--I find that we have a week's holiday in our do-nothing
Chamber, and the weather is so delightful, that I long to share its
enjoyment with those I love best. You will, therefore, see me almost as
soon as you receive this; that is, I shall be with you at dinner on the
same day. What can I say to Evelyn? Will you, dearest Lady Vargrave,
make her accept all the homage which, when uttered by me, she seems half
inclined to reject?

          In haste, most affectionately yours,

                                   VARGRAVE.

     HAMILTON PLACE, April 30, 18--.


This letter was by no means welcome, either to Mrs. Leslie or to Evelyn.
The former feared that Lord Vargrave would disapprove of a visit, the
real objects of which could scarcely be owned to him; the latter was
reminded of all she desired to forget. But Lady Vargrave herself rather
rejoiced at the thought of Lumley's arrival. Hitherto, in the spirit of
her passive and gentle character, she had taken the engagement between
Evelyn and Lord Vargrave almost as a matter of course. The will and
wish of her late husband operated most powerfully on her mind; and while
Evelyn was yet in childhood, Lumley's visits had ever been acceptable,
and the playful girl liked the gay and good-humoured lord, who brought
her all sorts of presents, and appeared as fond of dogs as herself. But
Evelyn's recent change of manner, her frequent fits of dejection and
thought, once pointed out to Lady Vargrave by Mrs. Leslie, aroused all
the affectionate and maternal anxiety of the former. She was resolved
to watch, to examine, to scrutinize, not only Evelyn's reception of
Vargrave, but, as far as she could, the manner and disposition of
Vargrave himself. She felt how solemn a trust was the happiness of a
whole life; and she had that romance of heart, learned from Nature, not
in books, which made her believe that there could be no happiness in a
marriage without love.

The whole family party were on the lawn, when, an hour earlier than he
was expected, the travelling carriage of Lord Vargrave was whirled along
the narrow sweep that conducted from the lodge to the house. Vargrave,
as he saw the party, kissed his hand from the window; and leaping
from the carriage, when it stopped at the porch, hastened to meet his
hostess.

"My dear Lady Vargrave, I am so glad to see you! You are looking
charmingly; and Evelyn?--oh, there she is; the dear coquette, how lovely
she is! how she has improved! But who [sinking his voice], who are those
ladies?"

"Guests of ours,--Mrs. Leslie, whom you have often heard us speak of,
but never met--"

"Yes; and the others?"

"Her daughter and grandchild."

"I shall be delighted to know them."

A more popular manner than Lord Vargrave's it is impossible to conceive.
Frank and prepossessing, even when the poor and reckless Mr. Ferrers,
without rank or reputation, his smile, the tone of his voice, his
familiar courtesy,--apparently so inartificial and approaching almost
to a boyish bluntness of good-humour,--were irresistible in the rising
statesman and favoured courtier.

Mrs. Merton was enchanted with him; Caroline thought him, at the first
glance, the most fascinating person she had ever seen; even Mrs. Leslie,
more grave, cautious, and penetrating, was almost equally pleased with
the first impression; and it was not till, in his occasional silence,
his features settled into their natural expression that she fancied she
detected in the quick suspicious eye and the close compression of the
lips the tokens of that wily, astute, and worldly character, which, in
proportion as he had risen in his career, even his own party reluctantly
and mysteriously assigned to one of their most prominent leaders.

When Vargrave took Evelyn's hand, and raised it with meaning gallantry
to his lips, the girl first blushed deeply, and then turned pale
as death; nor did the colour thus chased away soon return to the
transparent cheek. Not noticing signs which might bear a twofold
interpretation, Lumley, who seemed in high spirits, rattled away on a
thousand matters,--praising the view, the weather, the journey, throwing
out a joke here and a compliment there, and completing his conquest over
Mrs. Merton and Caroline.

"You have left London in the very height of its gayety, Lord Vargrave,"
said Caroline, as they sat conversing after dinner.

"True, Miss Merton; but the country is in the height of its gayety too."

"Are you so fond of the country, then?"

"By fits and starts; my passion for it comes in with the early
strawberries, and goes out with the hautboys. I lead so artificial a
life; but then I hope it is a useful one. I want nothing but a home to
make it a happy one."

"What is the latest news?--dear London! I am so sorry Grandmamma, Lady
Elizabeth, is not going there this year, so I am compelled to rusticate.
Is Lady Jane D----- to be married at last?"

"Commend me to a young lady's idea of news,--always marriage! Lady Jane
D-----! yes, she is to be married, as you say--_at last_! While she
was a beauty, our cold sex was shy of her; but she has now faded into
plainness,--the proper colour for a wife."

"Complimentary!"

"Indeed it is--for you beautiful women we love too much for our own
happiness--heigho!--and a prudent marriage means friendly indifference,
not rapture and despair. But give me beauty and love; I never was
prudent: it is not my weakness."

Though Caroline was his sole supporter in this dialogue, Lord Vargrave's
eyes attempted to converse with Evelyn, who was unusually silent and
abstracted. Suddenly Lord Vargrave seemed aware that he was scarcely
general enough in his talk for his hearers. He addressed himself to Mrs.
Leslie, and glided back, as it were, into a former generation. He spoke
of persons gone and things forgotten; he made the subject interesting
even to the young, by a succession of various and sparkling anecdotes.
No one could be more agreeable; even Evelyn now listened to him with
pleasure, for to all women wit and intellect have their charm. But still
there was a cold and sharp levity in the tone of the man of the world
that prevented the charm sinking below the surface. To Mrs. Leslie he
seemed unconsciously to betray a laxity of principle; to Evelyn, a
want of sentiment and heart. Lady Vargrave, who did not understand
a character of this description, listened attentively, and said to
herself, "Evelyn may admire, but I fear she cannot love him." Still,
time passed quickly in Lumley's presence, and Caroline thought she had
never spent so pleasant an evening.

When Lord Vargrave retired to his room, he threw himself in his
chair, and yawned with exceeding fervour. His servant arranged his
dressing-robe, and placed his portfolios and letter-boxes on the table.

"What o'clock is it?" said Lumley.

"Very early, my lord; only eleven."

"The devil! The country air is wonderfully exhausting. I am very sleepy;
you may go."

"This little girl," said Lumley, stretching himself, "is preternaturally
shy. I must neglect her no longer--yet it is surely all safe? She has
grown monstrous pretty; but the other girl is more amusing, more to my
taste, and a much easier conquest, I fancy. Her great dark eyes seem
full of admiration for my lordship. Sensible young woman! she may be
useful in piquing Evelyn."



CHAPTER X.

  _Julio_.  Wilt thou have him?--_The Maid in the Mill_.

LORD VARGRAVE heard the next morning, with secret distaste and
displeasure, of Evelyn's intended visit to the Mertons. He could
scarcely make any open objection to it; but he did not refrain from many
insinuations as to its impropriety.

"My dear friend," said he to Lady Vargrave, "it is scarcely right in you
(pardon me for saying it) to commit Evelyn to the care of comparative
strangers. Mrs. Leslie, indeed, you know; but Mrs. Merton, you allow,
you have now seen for the first time. A most respectable person
doubtless; but still, recollect how young Evelyn is, how rich; what a
prize to any younger sons in the Merton family (if such there be). Miss
Merton herself is a shrewd, worldly girl; and if she were of our sex
would make a capital fortune-hunter. Don't think my fear is selfish;
I do not speak for myself. If I were Evelyn's brother, I should be yet
more earnest in my remonstrance."

"But, Lord Vargrave, poor Evelyn is dull here; my spirits infect hers.
She ought to mix more with those of her own age, to see more of the
world before--before--"

"Before her marriage with me? Forgive me, but is not that my affair? If
I am contented, nay, charmed with her innocence, if I prefer it to all
the arts which society could teach her, surely you would be acquitted
for leaving her in the beautiful simplicity that makes her chief
fascination? She will see enough of the world as Lady Vargrave."

"But if she should resolve never to be Lady Vargrave--?"

Lumley started, bit his lip, and frowned. Lady Vargrave had never before
seen on his countenance the dark expression it now wore. He recollected
and recovered himself, as he observed her eye fixed upon him, and said,
with a constrained smile,--

"Can you anticipate an event so fatal to my happiness, so unforeseen, so
opposed to all my poor uncle's wishes, as Evelyn's rejection of a suit
pursued for years, and so solemnly sanctioned in her very childhood?"

"She must decide for herself," said Lady Vargrave. "Your uncle carefully
distinguished between a wish and a command. Her heart is as yet
untouched. If she can love you, may you deserve her affection."

"It shall be my study to do so. But why this departure from your roof
just when we ought to see most of each other? It cannot be that you
would separate us?"

"I fear, Lord Vargrave, that if Evelyn were to remain here, she would
decide against you. I fear if you press her now, such now may be her
premature decision. Perhaps this arises from too fond an attachment for
her home; perhaps even a short absence from her home--from me--may more
reconcile her to a permanent separation."

Vargrave could say no more, for here they were joined by Caroline and
Mrs. Merton; but his manner was changed, nor could he recover the gayety
of the previous night.

When, however, he found time for meditation, he contrived to reconcile
himself to the intended visit. He felt that it was easy to secure the
friendship of the whole of the Merton family; and that friendship might
be more useful to him than the neutral part adopted by Lady Vargrave. He
should, of course, be invited to the rectory; it was much nearer London
than Lady Vargrave's cottage, he could more often escape from public
cares to superintend his private interest. A country neighbourhood,
particularly at that season of the year, was not likely to abound
in very dangerous rivals. Evelyn would, he saw, be surrounded by a
_worldly_ family, and he thought that an advantage; it might serve to
dissipate Evelyn's romantic tendencies, and make her sensible of the
pleasures of the London life, the official rank, the gay society that
her union with him would offer as an equivalent for her fortune. In
short, as was his wont, he strove to make the best of the new turn
affairs had taken. Though guardian to Miss Cameron, and one of the
trustees for the fortune she was to receive on attaining her majority,
he had not the right to dictate as to her residence. The late lord's
will had expressly and pointedly corroborated the natural and lawful
authority of Lady Vargrave in all matters connected with Evelyn's
education and home. It may be as well, in this place, to add, that to
Vargrave and the co-trustee, Mr. Gustavus Douce, a banker of repute
and eminence, the testator left large discretionary powers as to the
investment of the fortune. He had stated it as his wish that from one
hundred and twenty to one hundred and thirty thousand pounds should be
invested in the purchase of a landed estate; but he had left it to the
discretion of the trustees to increase that sum, even to the amount of
the whole capital, should an estate of adequate importance be in the
market, while the selection of time and purchase was unreservedly
confided to the trustees. Vargrave had hitherto objected to every
purchase in the market,--not that he was insensible to the importance
and consideration of landed property, but because, till he himself
became the legal receiver of the income, he thought it less trouble to
suffer the money to lie in the Funds, than to be pestered with all the
onerous details in the management of an estate that might never be his.
He, however, with no less ardour than his deceased relative, looked
forward to the time when the title of Vargrave should be based upon the
venerable foundation of feudal manors and seignorial acres.

"Why did you not tell me Lord Vargrave was so charming?" said Caroline
to Evelyn, as the two girls were sauntering, in familiar _tete-a-tete_,
along the gardens. "You will be very happy with such a companion."

Evelyn made no answer for a few moments, and then, turning abruptly
round to Caroline, and stopping short, she said, with a kind of tearful
eagerness, "Dear Caroline, you are so wise, so kind too; advise me, tell
me what is best. I am very unhappy."

Miss Merton was moved and surprised by Evelyn's earnestness.

"But what is it, my poor Evelyn," said she; "why are you unhappy?--you
whose fate seems to me so enviable."

"I cannot love Lord Vargrave; I recoil from the idea of marrying him.
Ought I not fairly to tell him so? Ought I not to say that I cannot
fulfil the wish that--oh, there's the thought which leaves me so
irresolute!--His uncle bequeathed to me--me who have no claim of
relationship--the fortune that should have been Lord Vargrave's, in the
belief that my hand would restore it to him. It is almost a fraud to
refuse him. Am I not to be pitied?"

"But why can you not love Lord Vargrave? If past the _premiere
jeunesse_, he is still handsome. He is more than handsome,--he has the
air of rank, an eye that fascinates, a smile that wins, the manners
that please, the abilities that command, the world! Handsome, clever,
admired, distinguished--what can woman desire more in her lover, her
husband? Have you ever formed some fancy, some ideal of the one you
could love, and how does Lord Vargrave fall short of the vision?"

"Have I ever formed an ideal?--oh, yes!" said Evelyn, with a beautiful
enthusiasm that lighted up her eyes, blushed in her cheek, and heaved
her bosom beneath its robe; "something that in loving I could also
revere,--a mind that would elevate my own; a heart that could sympathize
with my weakness, my follies, my romance, if you will; and in which I
could treasure my whole soul."

"You paint a schoolmaster, not a lover!" said Caroline. "You do not
care, then, whether this hero be handsome or young?"

"Oh, yes, he should be both," said Evelyn, innocently; "and yet," she
added, after a pause, and with an infantine playfulness of manner and
countenance, "I know you will laugh at me, but I think I could be in
love with more than one at the same time!"

"A common case, but a rare confession!"

"Yes; for if I might ask for the youth and outward advantages that
please the eye, I could also love with a yet deeper love that which
would speak to my imagination,--Intellect, Genius, Fame! Ah, these have
an immortal youth and imperishable beauty of their own!"

"You are a very strange girl."

"But we are on a very strange subject--it is all an enigma!" said
Evelyn, shaking her wise little head with a pretty gravity, half mock,
half real. "Ah, if Lord Vargrave should love you--and you--oh, you
_would_ love him, and then I should be free, and so happy!"

They were then on the lawn in sight of the cottage windows, and Lumley,
lifting his eyes from the newspaper, which had just arrived and been
seized with all a politician's avidity, saw them in the distance. He
threw down the paper, mused a moment or two, then took up his hat and
joined them; but before he did so, he surveyed himself in the glass. "I
think I look young enough still," thought he.

"Two cherries on one stalk," said Lumley, gayly: "by the by, it is not
a complimentary simile. What young lady would be like a cherry?--such an
uninteresting, common, charity-boy sort of fruit. For my part, I always
associate cherries with the image of a young gentleman in corduroys and
a skeleton jacket, with one pocket full of marbles, and the other full
of worms for fishing, with three-halfpence in the left paw, and two
cherries on one stalk (Helena and Hermia) in the right."

"How droll you are!" said Caroline, laughing.

"Much obliged to you, and don't envy your discrimination, 'Melancholy
marks me for its own.' You ladies,--ah, yours is the life for gay
spirits and light hearts; to us are left business and politics, law,
physic, and murder, by way of professions; abuse, nicknamed fame; and
the privilege of seeing how universal a thing, among the great and the
wealthy, is that pleasant vice, beggary,--which privilege is proudly
entitled 'patronage and power.' Are we the things to be gay,--'droll,'
as you say? Oh, no, all our spirits are forced, believe me. Miss
Cameron, did you ever know that wretched species of hysterical affection
called 'forced spirits'? Never, I am sure; your ingenuous smile, your
laughing eyes, are the index to a happy and a sanguine heart."

"And what of me?" asked Caroline, quickly, and with a slight blush.

"You, Miss Merton? Ah, I have not yet read your character,--a fair page,
but an unknown letter. You, however, have seen the world, and know that
we must occasionally wear a mask." Lord Vargrave sighed as he spoke,
and relapsed into sudden silence; then looking up, his eyes encountered
Caroline's, which were fixed upon him. Their gaze flattered him;
Caroline turned away, and busied herself with a rose-bush. Lumley
gathered one of the flowers, and presented it to her. Evelyn was a few
steps in advance.

"There is no thorn in this rose," said he; "may the offering be an omen.
You are now Evelyn's friend, oh, be mine; she is to be your guest. Do
not scorn to plead for me."

"Can _you_ want a pleader?" said Caroline, with a slight tremor in her
voice.

"Charming Miss Merton, love is diffident and fearful; but it must
now find a voice, to which may Evelyn benignly listen. What I leave
unsaid--would that my new friend's eloquence could supply."

He bowed slightly, and joined Evelyn. Caroline understood the hint, and
returned alone and thoughtfully to the house.

"Miss Cameron--Evelyn--ah, still let me call you so, as in the happy and
more familiar days of your childhood, I wish you could read my heart at
this moment. You are about to leave your home; new scenes will surround,
new faces smile on you; dare I hope that I may still be remembered?"

He attempted to take her hand as he spoke; Evelyn withdrew it gently.

"Ah, my lord," said she, in a very low voice, "if remembrance were all
that you asked of me--"

"It is all,--favourable remembrance, remembrance of the love of the
past, remembrance of the bond to come."

Evelyn shivered. "It is better to speak openly," said she.

"Let me throw myself on your generosity. I am not insensible to your
brilliant qualities, to the honour of your attachment; but--but--as the
time approaches in which you will call for my decision, let me now say,
that I cannot feel for you--those--those sentiments, without which you
could not desire our union,--without which it were but a wrong to both
of us to form it. Nay, listen to me. I grieve bitterly at the tenor of
your too generous uncle's will; can I not atone to you? Willingly would
I sacrifice the fortune that, indeed, ought to be yours; accept it, and
remain my friend."

"Cruel Evelyn! and can you suppose that it is your fortune I seek? It is
yourself. Heaven is my witness, that, had you no dowry but your hand
and heart, it were treasure enough to me. You think you cannot love
me. Evelyn, you do not yet know yourself. Alas! your retirement in this
distant village, my own unceasing avocations, which chain me, like a
slave, to the galley-oar of politics and power, have kept us separate.
You do not know me. I am willing to hazard the experiment of that
knowledge. To devote my life to you, to make you partaker of my
ambition, my career, to raise you to the highest eminence in the
matronage of England, to transfer pride from myself to you, to love and
to honour and to prize you,--all this will be my boast; and all this
will win love for me at last. Fear not, Evelyn,--fear not for your
happiness; with me you shall know no sorrow. Affection at home,
splendour abroad, await you. I have passed the rough and arduous part of
my career; sunshine lies on the summit to which I climb. No station in
England is too high for me to aspire to,--prospects, how bright with
you, how dark without you! Ah, Evelyn! be this hand mine--the heart
shall follow!"

Vargrave's words were artful and eloquent; the words were calculated to
win their way, but the manner, the tone of voice, wanted earnestness
and truth. This was his defect; this characterized all his attempts to
seduce or to lead others, in public or in private life. He had no heart,
no deep passion, in what he undertook. He could impress you with the
conviction of his ability, and leave the conviction imperfect, because
he could not convince you that he was sincere. That best gift of mental
power--_earnestness_--was wanting to him; and Lord Vargrave's deficiency
of heart was the true cause why he was not a great man. Still, Evelyn
was affected by his words; she suffered the hand he now once more took
to remain passively in his, and said timidly, "Why, with sentiments
so generous and confiding, why do you love me, who cannot return your
affection worthily? No, Lord Vargrave; there are many who must see you
with juster eyes than mine,--many fairer, and even wealthier. Indeed,
indeed, it cannot be. Do not be offended, but think that the fortune
left to me was on one condition I cannot, ought not to fulfil. Failing
that condition, in equity and honour it reverts to you."

"Talk not thus, I implore you, Evelyn; do not imagine me the worldly
calculator that my enemies deem me. But, to remove at once from your
mind the possibility of such a compromise between your honour and
repugnance--repugnance! have I lived to say that word?--know that your
fortune is not at your own disposal. Save the small forfeit that awaits
your non-compliance with my uncle's dying prayer, the whole is settled
peremptorily on yourself and your children; it is entailed,--you cannot
alienate it. Thus, then, your generosity can never be evinced but to him
on whom you bestow your hand. Ah, let me recall that melancholy scene.
Your benefactor on his death-bed, your mother kneeling by his side, your
hand clasped in mine, and those lips, with their latest breath, uttering
at once a blessing and a command."

"Ah, cease, cease, my lord!" said Evelyn, sobbing.

"No; bid me not cease before you tell me you will be mine. Beloved
Evelyn, I may hope,--you will not resolve against me?"

"No," said Evelyn, raising her eyes and struggling for composure; "I
feel too well what should be my duty; I will endeavor to perform it. Ask
me no more now. I will struggle to answer you as you wish hereafter."

Lord Vargrave, resolved to push to the utmost the advantage he had
gained, was about to reply when he heard a step behind him; and turning
round, quickly and discomposed, beheld a venerable form approaching
them. The occasion was lost: Evelyn also turned; and seeing who was the
intruder, sprang towards him almost with a cry of joy.

The new comer was a man who had passed his seventieth year; but his
old age was green, his step light, and on his healthful and benignant
countenance time had left but few furrows. He was clothed in black; and
his locks, which were white as snow, escaped from the broad hat, and
almost touched his shoulders.

The old man smiled upon Evelyn, and kissed her forehead fondly. He then
turned to Lord Vargrave, who, recovering his customary self-possession,
advanced to meet him with extended hand.

"My dear Mr. Aubrey, this is a welcome surprise. I heard you were not at
the vicarage, or I would have called on you."

"Your lordship honours me," replied the curate. "For the first time for
thirty years I have been thus long absent from my cure; but I am now
returned, I hope, to end my days among my flock."

"And what," asked Vargrave,--"what--if the question be not
presumptuous--occasioned your unwilling absence?"

"My lord," replied the old man, with a gentle smile, "a new vicar has
been appointed. I went to him, to proffer an humble prayer that I might
remain amongst those whom I regarded as my children. I have buried one
generation, I have married another, I have baptized a third."

"You should have had the vicarage itself; you should be better provided
for, my dear Mr. Aubrey; I will speak to the Lord Chancellor."

Five times before had Lord Vargrave uttered the same promise, and the
curate smiled to hear the familiar words.

"The vicarage, my lord, is a family living, and is now vested in a young
man who requires wealth more than I do. He has been kind to me,
and re-established me among my flock; I would not leave them for a
bishopric. My child," continued the curate, addressing Evelyn with great
affection, "you are surely unwell,--you are paler than when I left you."

Evelyn clung fondly to his arm, and smiled--her old gay smile--as she
replied to him. They took the way towards the house.

The curate remained with them for an hour. There was a mingled sweetness
and dignity in his manner which had in it something of the primitive
character we poetically ascribe to the pastors of the Church. Lady
Vargrave seemed to vie with Evelyn which should love him the most.
When he retired to his home, which was not many yards distant from the
cottage, Evelyn, pleading a headache, sought her chamber, and Lumley, to
soothe his mortification, turned to Caroline, who had seated herself
by his side. Her conversation amused him, and her evident admiration
flattered. While Lady Vargrave absented herself, in motherly anxiety, to
attend on Evelyn, while Mrs. Leslie was occupied at her frame, and Mrs.
Merton looked on, and talked indolently to the old lady of rheumatism
and sermons, of children's complaints and servants' misdemeanours,--the
conversation between Lord Vargrave and Caroline, at first gay and
animated, grew gradually more sentimental and subdued; their voices took
a lower tone, and Caroline sometimes turned away her head and blushed.



CHAPTER XI.

  THERE stands the Messenger of Truth--there stands
  The Legate of the skies.--COWPER.

FROM that night Lumley found no opportunity for private conversation
with Evelyn; she evidently shunned to meet with him alone. She was ever
with her mother or Mrs. Leslie or the good curate, who spent much of his
time at the cottage; for the old man had neither wife nor children, he
was alone at home, he had learned to make his home with the widow and
her daughter. With them he was an object of the tenderest affection,
of the deepest veneration. Their love delighted him, and he returned it
with the fondness of a parent and the benevolence of a pastor. He was a
rare character, that village priest!

Born of humble parentage, Edward Aubrey had early displayed abilities
which attracted the notice of a wealthy proprietor, who was not
displeased to affect the patron. Young Aubrey was sent to school, and
thence to college as a sizar: he obtained several prizes, and took a
high degree. Aubrey was not without the ambition and the passions of
youth: he went into the world, ardent, inexperienced, and without a
guide. He drew back before errors grew into crimes, or folly became a
habit. It was nature and affection that reclaimed and saved him from
either alternative,--fame or ruin. His widowed mother was suddenly
stricken with disease. Blind and bedridden, her whole dependence was
on her only son. This affliction called forth a new character in Edward
Aubrey. This mother had stripped herself of so many comforts to provide
for him,--he devoted his youth to her in return. She was now old and
imbecile. With the mingled selfishness and sentiment of age, she would
not come to London,--she would not move from the village where her
husband lay buried, where her youth had been spent. In this village
the able and ambitious young man buried his hopes and his talents; by
degrees the quiet and tranquillity of the country life became dear to
him. As steps in a ladder, so piety leads to piety, and religion grew to
him a habit. He took orders and entered the Church. A disappointment
in love ensued; it left on his mind and heart a sober and resigned
melancholy, which at length mellowed into content. His profession and
its sweet duties became more and more dear to him; in the hopes of the
next world he forgot the ambition of the present. He did not seek to
shine,--

  "More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise."

His own birth made the poor his brothers, and their dispositions and
wants familiar to him. His own early errors made him tolerant to the
faults of others,--few men are charitable who remember not that they
have sinned. In our faults lie the germs of virtues. Thus gradually and
serenely had worn away his life--obscure but useful, calm but active,--a
man whom "the great prizes" of the Church might have rendered an
ambitious schemer, to whom a modest confidence gave the true pastoral
power,--to conquer the world within himself, and to sympathize with the
wants of others. Yes, he was a rare character, that village priest!



CHAPTER XII.

  TOUT notre raisonnement se reduit a ceder au sentiment.*--PASCAL.

  *  "All our reasoning reduces itself to yielding to sentiment."

LORD VARGRAVE, who had no desire to remain alone with the widow when the
guests were gone, arranged his departure for the same day as that fixed
for Mrs. Merton's; and as their road lay together for several miles,
it was settled that they should all dine at-----, whence Lord Vargrave
would proceed to London. Failing to procure a second chance-interview
with Evelyn, and afraid to demand a formal one--for he felt the
insecurity of the ground he stood on--Lord Vargrave, irritated and
somewhat mortified, sought, as was his habit, whatever amusement was in
his reach. In the conversation of Caroline Merton--shrewd, worldly, and
ambitious--he found the sort of plaything that he desired. They were
thrown much together; but to Vargrave, at least, there appeared no
danger in the intercourse; and perhaps his chief object was to pique
Evelyn, as well as to gratify his own spleen.

It was the evening before Evelyn's departure; the little party had been
for the last hour dispersed; Mrs. Merton was in her own room, making to
herself gratuitous and unnecessary occupation in seeing her woman _pack
up_. It was just the kind of task that delighted her. To sit in a large
chair and see somebody else at work--to say languidly, "Don't
crumple that scarf, Jane; and where shall we put Miss Caroline's blue
bonnet?"--gave her a very comfortable notion of her own importance
and habits of business,--a sort of title to be the superintendent of a
family and the wife of a rector. Caroline had disappeared, so had Lord
Vargrave; but the first was supposed to be with Evelyn, the second,
employed in writing letters,--at least, it was so when they had been
last observed. Mrs. Leslie was alone in the drawing-room, and absorbed
in anxious and benevolent thoughts on the critical situation of her
young favourite, about to enter an age and a world the perils of which
Mrs. Leslie had not forgotten.

It was at this time that Evelyn, forgetful of Lord Vargrave and his
suit, of every one, of everything but the grief of the approaching
departure, found herself alone in a little arbour that had been built
upon the cliff to command the view of the sea below. That day she had
been restless, perturbed; she had visited every spot consecrated by
youthful recollections; she had clung with fond regret to every place
in which she had held sweet converse with her mother. Of a disposition
singularly warm and affectionate, she had often, in her secret heart,
pined for a more yearning and enthusiastic love than it seemed in the
subdued nature of Lady Vargrave to bestow. In the affection of the
latter, gentle and never fluctuating as it was, there seemed to her
a something wanting, which she could not define. She had watched that
beloved face all the morning. She had hoped to see the tender eyes
fixed upon her, and hear the meek voice exclaim, "I cannot part with my
child!" All the gay pictures which the light-hearted Caroline drew
of the scenes she was to enter had vanished away--now that the hour
approached when her mother was to be left alone. Why was she to go? It
seemed to her an unnecessary cruelty.

As she thus sat, she did not observe that Mr. Aubrey, who had seen
her at a distance, was now bending his way to her; and not till he
had entered the arbour, and taken her hand, did she waken from those
reveries in which youth, the Dreamer and the Desirer, so morbidly
indulges.

"Tears, my child?" said the curate. "Nay, be not ashamed of them; they
become you in this hour. How we shall miss you! and you, too, will not
forget us?"

"Forget you! Ah, no, indeed! But why should I leave you? Why will you
not speak to my mother, implore her to let me remain? We were so
happy till these strangers came. We did not think there was any other
world,--_here_ there is world enough for me!"

"My poor Evelyn," said Mr. Aubrey, gently, "I have spoken to your mother
and to Mrs. Leslie; they have confided to me all the reasons for your
departure, and I cannot but subscribe to their justice. You do not want
many months of the age when you will be called upon to decide whether
Lord Vargrave shall be your husband. Your mother shrinks from the
responsibility of influencing your decision; and here, my child,
inexperienced, and having seen so little of others, how can you know
your own heart?"

"But, oh, Mr. Aubrey," said Evelyn, with an earnestness that overcame
embarrassment, "have I a choice left to me? Can I be ungrateful,
disobedient to him who was a father to me? Ought I not to sacrifice my
own happiness? And how willingly would I do so, if my mother would smile
on me approvingly!"

"My child," said the curate, gravely, "an old man is a bad judge of the
affairs of youth; yet in this matter, I think your duty plain. Do not
resolutely set yourself against Lord Vargrave's claim; do not persuade
yourself that you must be unhappy in a union with him. Compose your
mind, think seriously upon the choice before you, refuse all decision at
the present moment; wait until the appointed time arrives, or, at least,
more nearly approaches. Meanwhile, I understand that Lord Vargrave is
to be a frequent visitor at Mrs. Merton's; there you will see him
with others, his character will show itself. Study his principles, his
disposition; examine whether he is one whom you can esteem and render
happy: there may be a love without enthusiasm, and yet sufficient for
domestic felicity, and for the employment of the affections. You will
insensibly, too, learn from other parts of his character which he does
not exhibit to us. If the result of time and examination be that you can
cheerfully obey the late lord's dying wish, unquestionably it will be
the happier decision. If not, if you still shrink from vows at which
your heart now rebels, as unquestionably you may, with an acquitted
conscience, become free. The best of us are imperfect judges of the
happiness of others. In the woe or weal of a whole life, we must decide
for ourselves. Your benefactor could not mean you to be wretched; and if
he now, with eyes purified from all worldly mists, look down upon you,
his spirit will approve your choice; for when we quit the world, all
worldly ambition dies with us. What now to the immortal soul can be
the title and the rank which on earth, with the desires of earth, your
benefactor hoped to secure to his adopted child? This is my advice. Look
on the bright side of things, and wait calmly for the hour when Lord
Vargrave can demand your decision."

The words of the priest, which well defined her duty, inexpressibly
soothed and comforted Evelyn; and the advice upon other and higher
matters, which the good man pressed upon a mind so softened at that
hour to receive religious impressions, was received with gratitude and
respect. Subsequently their conversation fell upon Lady Vargrave,--a
theme dear to both of them. The old man was greatly touched by the poor
girl's unselfish anxiety for her mother's comfort, by her fears that she
might be missed, in those little attentions which filial love alone can
render; he was almost yet more touched when, with a less disinterested
feeling, Evelyn added mournfully,--

"Yet why, after all, should I fancy she will so miss me? Ah, though I
will not _dare_ complain of it, I feel still that she does not love me
as I love her."

"Evelyn," said the curate, with mild reproach, "have I not said that
your mother has known sorrow? And though sorrow does not annihilate
affection, it subdues its expression, and moderates its outward signs."

Evelyn sighed, and said no more.

As the good old man and his young friend returned to the cottage, Lord
Vargrave and Caroline approached them, emerging from an opposite part
of the grounds. The former hastened to Evelyn with his usual gayety and
frank address; and there was so much charm in the manner of a man, whom
_apparently_ the world and its cares had never rendered artificial or
reserved, that the curate himself was impressed by it. He thought that
Evelyn might be happy with one amiable enough for a companion and wise
enough for a guide. But old as he was, he had loved, and he knew that
there are instincts in the heart which defy all our calculations.

While Lumley was conversing, the little gate that made the communication
between the gardens and the neighbouring churchyard, through which was
the nearest access to the village, creaked on its hinges, and the quiet
and solitary figure of Lady Vargrave threw its shadow over the grass.



CHAPTER XIII.

  AND I can listen to thee yet,
    Can lie upon the plain;
  And listen till I do beget
    That golden time again.--WORDSWORTH.

IT was past midnight--hostess and guests had retired to repose--when
Lady Vargrave's door opened gently. The lady herself was kneeling at the
foot of the bed; the moonlight came through the half-drawn curtains of
the casement, and by its ray her pale, calm features looked paler, and
yet more hushed.

Evelyn, for she was the intruder, paused at the threshold till her
mother rose from her devotions, and then she threw herself on Lady
Vargrave's breast, sobbing as if her heart would break. Hers were the
wild, generous, irresistible emotions of youth. Lady Vargrave, perhaps,
had known them once; at least, she could sympathize with them now.

She strained her child to her bosom; she stroked back her hair, and
kissed her fondly, and spoke to her soothingly.

"Mother," sobbed Evelyn, "I could not sleep, I could not rest. Bless me
again, kiss me again; tell me that you love me--you cannot love me as I
do you; but tell me that I am dear to you; tell me you will regret me,
but not too much; tell me--" Here Evelyn paused, and could say no more.

"My best, my kindest Evelyn," said Lady Vargrave, "there is nothing on
earth I love like you. Do not fancy I am ungrateful."

"Why do you say ungrateful?--your own child,--your only child!" And
Evelyn covered her mother's face and hands with passionate tears and
kisses.

At that moment, certain it is that Lady Vargrave's heart reproached her
with not having, indeed, loved this sweet girl as she deserved. True, no
mother was more mild, more attentive, more fostering, more anxious for
a daughter's welfare; but Evelyn was right. The gushing fondness, the
mysterious entering into every subtle thought and feeling, which should
have characterized the love of such a mother to such a child, had been
to outward appearance wanting. Even in this present parting there had
been a prudence, an exercise of reasoning, that savoured more of duty
than love. Lady Vargrave felt all this with remorse; she gave way to
emotions new to her,--at least to exhibit; she wept with Evelyn, and
returned her caresses with almost equal fervour. Perhaps, too, she
thought at that moment of what love that warm nature was
susceptible; and she trembled for her future fate. It was as a full
reconciliation--that mournful hour--between feelings on either side,
which something mysterious seemed to have checked before; and that
last night the mother and the child did not separate,--the same couch
contained them: and when, worn out with some emotions which she could
not reveal, Lady Vargrave fell into the sleep of exhaustion, Evelyn's
arm was round her, and Evelyn's eyes watched her with pious and anxious
love as the gray morning dawned.

She left her mother still sleeping, when the sun rose, and went silently
down into the dear room below, and again busied herself in a thousand
little provident cares, which she wondered she had forgot before.

The carriages were at the door before the party had assembled at the
melancholy breakfast-table. Lord Vargrave was the last to appear.

"I have been like all cowards," said he, seating himself,--"anxious to
defer an evil as long as possible; a bad policy, for it increases the
worst of all pains,--that of suspense."

Mrs. Merton had undertaken the duties that appertain to the "hissing
urn." "You prefer coffee, Lord Vargrave? Caroline, my dear--"

Caroline passed the cup to Lord Vargrave, who looked at her hand as he
took it--there was a ring on one of those slender fingers never observed
there before. Their eyes met, and Caroline coloured. Lord Vargrave
turned to Evelyn, who, pale as death, but tearless and speechless, sat
beside her mother; he attempted in vain to draw her into conversation.
Evelyn, who desired to restrain her feelings, would not trust herself to
speak.

Mrs. Merton, ever undisturbed and placid, continued to talk on: to offer
congratulations on the weather,--it was such a lovely day; and they
should be off so early; it would be so well arranged,--they should be in
such good time to dine at-----, and then go three stages after dinner;
the moon would be up.

"But," said Lord Vargrave, "as I am to go with you as far as-----, where
our roads separate, I hope I am not condemned to go alone, with my red
box, two old newspapers, and the blue devils. Have pity on me."

"Perhaps you will take Grandmamma, then?" whispered Caroline, archly.

Lumley shrugged his shoulders, and replied in the same tone,--

"Yes,--provided you keep to the proverb, 'Les extremes se touchent,' and
the lovely grandchild accompany the venerable grandmamma."

"What would Evelyn say?" retorted Caroline.

Lumley sighed, and made no answer.

Mrs. Merton, who had hung fire while her daughter was carrying on this
"aside," now put in,--

"Suppose I and Caroline take your _britzka_, and you go in our old coach
with Evelyn and Mrs. Leslie?"

Lumley looked delightedly at the speaker, and then glanced at Evelyn;
but Mrs. Leslie said very gravely, "No, _we_ shall feel too much in
leaving this dear place to be gay companions for Lord Vargrave. We
shall all meet at dinner; or," she added, after a pause, "if this
be uncourteous to Lord Vargrave, suppose Evelyn and myself take his
carriage and, he accompanies you?"

"Agreed," said Mrs. Merton, quietly; "and now I will just go and see
about the strawberry-plants and slips--it was so kind in you, dear Lady
Vargrave, to think of them."

An hour had elapsed, and Evelyn was gone! She had left her maiden home,
she had wept her last farewell on her mother's bosom, the sound of the
carriage-wheels had died away; but still Lady Vargrave lingered on the
threshold, still she gazed on the spot where the last glimpse of Evelyn
had been caught. A sense of dreariness and solitude passed into her
soul: the very sunlight, the spring, the songs of the birds, made
loneliness more desolate.

Mechanically, at last, she moved away, and with slow steps and
downcast eyes passed through the favourite walk that led into the quiet
burial-ground. The gate closed upon her, and now the lawn, the gardens,
the haunts of Evelyn, were solitary as the desert itself; but the daisy
opened to the sun, and the bee murmured along the blossoms, not the less
blithely for the absence of all human life. In the bosom of Nature there
beats no heart for man!




BOOK II.

  "The hour arrived--years having rolled away
  When his return the Gods no more delay.
  Lo! Ithaca the Fates award; and there
  New trials meet the Wanderer."
  HOMER: _Od._ lib. i, 16.



CHAPTER I.

  THERE is continual spring and harvest here--
    Continual, both meeting at one time;
  For both the boughs do laughing blossoms bear,
    And with fresh colours deck the wanton prime;
  And eke at once the heavy trees they climb,
    Which seem to labour under their fruit's load.

  SPENSER: _The Garden of Adonis_.

                    Vis boni
  In ipsa inesset forma.*--TERENCE.

  * "Even in beauty there exists the power of virtue."

BEAUTY, thou art twice blessed; thou blessest the gazer and the
possessor; often at once the effect and the cause of goodness! A sweet
disposition, a lovely soul, an affectionate nature, will speak in the
eyes, the lips, the brow, and become the cause of beauty. On the other
hand, they who have a gift that commands love, a key that opens all
hearts, are ordinarily inclined to look with happy eyes upon the
world,--to be cheerful and serene, to hope and to confide. There is more
wisdom than the vulgar dream of in our admiration of a fair face.

Evelyn Cameron was beautiful,--a beauty that came from the heart, and
went to the heart; a beauty, the very spirit of which was love! Love
smiled on her dimpled lips, it reposed on her open brow, it played in
the profuse and careless ringlets of darkest yet sunniest auburn, which
a breeze could lift from her delicate and virgin cheek; Love, in all its
tenderness, in all its kindness, its unsuspecting truth,--Love coloured
every thought, murmured in her low melodious voice, in all its symmetry
and glorious womanhood. Love swelled the swan-like neck, and moulded the
rounded limb.

She was just the kind of person that takes the judgment by storm:
whether gay or grave, there was so charming and irresistible a grace
about her. She seemed born, not only to captivate the giddy, but to turn
the heads of the sage. Roxalana was nothing to her. How, in the obscure
hamlet of Brook-Green, she had learned all the arts of pleasing it is
impossible to say. In her arch smile, the pretty toss of her head, the
half shyness, half freedom, of her winning ways, it was as if Nature had
made her to delight one heart, and torment all others.

Without being learned, the mind of Evelyn was cultivated and well
informed. Her heart, perhaps, helped to instruct her understanding; for
by a kind of intuition she could appreciate all that was beautiful and
elevated. Her unvitiated and guileless taste had a logic of its own: no
schoolman had ever a quicker penetration into truth, no critic ever more
readily detected the meretricious and the false. The book that Evelyn
could admire was sure to be stamped with the impress of the noble, the
lovely, or the true!

But Evelyn had faults,--the faults of her age; or, rather, she had
tendencies that might conduce to error. She was of so generous a nature
that the very thought of sacrificing her self for another had a charm.
She ever acted from impulse,--impulses pure and good, but often rash
and imprudent. She was yielding to weakness, persuaded into anything,
so sensitive, that even a cold look from one moderately liked cut her to
the heart; and by the sympathy that accompanies sensitiveness, no pain
to her was so great as the thought of giving pain to another. Hence it
was that Vargrave might form reasonable hopes of his ultimate success.
It was a dangerous constitution for happiness! How many chances must
combine to preserve to the mid-day of characters like this the sunshine
of their dawn! The butterfly that seems the child of the summer and the
flowers--what wind will not chill its mirth, what touch will not brush
away its hues?



CHAPTER II.

  THESE, on a general survey, are the modes
  Of pulpit oratory which agree
  With no unlettered audience.--POLWHELE.

MRS. LESLIE had returned from her visit to the rectory to her own home,
and Evelyn had now been some weeks at Mrs. Merton's. As was natural,
she had grown in some measure reconciled and resigned to her change of
abode. In fact, no sooner did she pass Mrs. Merton's threshold, than,
for the first time, she was made aware of her consequence in life.

The Rev. Mr. Merton was a man of the nicest perception in all things
appertaining to worldly consideration. The second son of a very wealthy
baronet (who was the first commoner of his county) and of the daughter
of a rich and highly-descended peer, Mr. Merton had been brought near
enough to rank and power to appreciate all their advantages. In early
life he had been something of a "tuft-hunter;" but as his understanding
was good and his passions not very strong, he had soon perceived that
that vessel of clay, a young man with a moderate fortune, cannot long
sail down the same stream with the metal vessels of rich earls and
extravagant dandies. Besides, he was destined for the Church--because
there was one of the finest livings in England in the family. He
therefore took orders at six and twenty; married Mrs. Leslie's daughter,
who had thirty thousand pounds: and settled at the rectory of Merton,
within a mile of the family seat. He became a very respectable and
extremely popular man. He was singularly hospitable, and built a new
wing--containing a large dining-room and six capital bed-rooms--to the
rectory, which had now much more the appearance of a country villa
than a country parsonage. His brother, succeeding to the estates, and
residing chiefly in the neighbourhood, became, like his father before
him, member for the county, and was one of the country gentlemen most
looked up to in the House of Commons. A sensible and frequent, though
uncommonly prosy speaker, singularly independent (for he had a clear
fourteen thousand pounds a year, and did not desire office), and valuing
himself on not being a party man, so that his vote on critical questions
was often a matter of great doubt, and, therefore, of great moment, Sir
John Merton gave considerable importance to the Rev. Charles Merton. The
latter kept up all the more select of his old London acquaintances; and
few country houses, at certain seasons of the year, were filled more
aristocratically than the pleasant rectory-house. Mr. Merton,
indeed, contrived to make the Hall a reservoir for the parsonage, and
periodically drafted off the _elite_ of the visitors at the former to
spend a few days at the latter. This was the more easily done, as his
brother was a widower, and his conversation was all of one sort,--the
state of the nation and the agricultural interest. Mr. Merton was upon
very friendly terms with his brother, looked after the property in
the absence of Sir John, kept up the family interest, was an excellent
electioneerer, a good speaker at a pinch, an able magistrate,--a man, in
short, most useful in the county; on the whole, he was more popular than
his brother, and almost as much looked up to--perhaps, because he was
much less ostentatious. He had very good taste, had the Rev. Charles
Merton!--his table plentiful, but plain--his manners affable to the low,
though agreeably sycophantic to the high; and there was nothing about
him that ever wounded self-love. To add to the attractions of his house,
his wife, simple and good-tempered, could talk with anybody, take off
the bores, and leave people to be comfortable in their own way: while
he had a large family of fine children of all ages, that had long given
easy and constant excuse under the name of "little children's parties,"
for getting up an impromptu dance or a gypsy dinner,--enlivening the
neighbourhood, in short. Caroline was the eldest; then came a son,
attached to a foreign ministry, and another, who, though only nineteen,
was a private secretary to one of our Indian satraps. The acquaintance
of these young gentlemen, thus engaged, it was therefore Evelyn's
misfortune to lose the advantage of cultivating,--a loss which both Mr.
and Mrs. Merton assured her was very much to be regretted. But to make
up to her for such a privation there were two lovely little girls, one
ten, and the other seven years old, who fell in love with Evelyn at
first sight. Caroline was one of the beauties of the county, clever
and conversable, "drew young men," and set the fashion to young
ladies, especially when she returned from spending the season with Lady
Elizabeth.

It was a delightful family!

In person, Mr. Merton was of the middle height; fair, and inclined to
stoutness, with small features, beautiful teeth, and great suavity of
address. Mindful still of the time when he had been "about town," he
was very particular in his dress: his black coat, neatly relieved in the
evening by a white underwaistcoat, and a shirt-front admirably plaited,
with plain studs of dark enamel, his well-cut trousers, and elaborately
polished shoes--he was good-humouredly vain of his feet and hands--won
for him the common praise of the dandies (who occasionally honoured him
with a visit to shoot his game, and flirt with his daughter), "That old
Merton was a most gentlemanlike fellow--so d-----d neat for a parson!"

Such, mentally, morally, and physically, was the Rev. Charles Merton,
rector of Merton, brother of Sir John, and possessor of an income that,
what with his rich living, his wife's fortune, and his own, which was
not inconsiderable, amounted to between four and five thousand pounds a
year, which income, managed with judgment as well as liberality, could
not fail to secure to him all the good things of this world,--the
respect of his friends amongst the rest. Caroline was right when she
told Evelyn that her papa was very different from a mere country parson.

Now this gentleman could not fail to see all the claims that Evelyn
might fairly advance upon the esteem, nay, the veneration of himself and
family: a young beauty, with a fortune of about a quarter of a million,
was a phenomenon that might fairly be called celestial. Her pretensions
were enhanced by her engagement to Lord Vargrave,--an engagement which
might be broken; so that, as he interpreted it, the _worst_ that could
happen to the young lady was to marry an able and rising Minister of
State,--a peer of the realm; but she was perfectly free to marry a still
greater man, if she could find him; and who knows but what perhaps the
_attache_, if he could get leave of absence? Mr. Merton was too sensible
to pursue that thought further for the present.

The good man was greatly shocked at the too familiar manner in which
Mrs. Merton spoke to this high-fated heiress, at Evelyn's travelling so
far without her own maid, at her very primitive wardrobe--poor, ill-used
child! Mr. Merton was a connoisseur in ladies' dress. It was quite
painful to see that the unfortunate girl had been so neglected. Lady
Vargrave must be a very strange person. He inquired compassionately
whether she was allowed any pocket money; and finding, to his relief,
that in that respect Miss Cameron was munificently supplied, he
suggested that a proper abigail should be immediately engaged; that
proper orders to Madame Devy should be immediately transmitted to
London, with one of Evelyn's dresses, as a pattern for nothing but
length and breadth. He almost stamped with vexation when he heard
that Evelyn had been placed in one of the neat little rooms generally
appropriated to young lady visitors.

"She is quite contented, my dear Mr. Merton; she is so simple; she has
not been brought up in the style you think for."

"Mrs. Merton," said the rector, with great solemnity, "Miss Cameron may
know no better now; but what will she think of us hereafter? It is my
maxim to recollect what people will be, and show them that respect which
may leave pleasing impressions when they have it in their power to show
us civility in return."

With many apologies, which quite overwhelmed poor Evelyn, she
was transferred from the little chamber, with its French bed and
bamboo-coloured washhand-stand, to an apartment with a buhl wardrobe and
a four-post bed with green silk curtains, usually appropriated to the
regular Christmas visitant, the Dowager Countess of Chipperton. A pretty
morning room communicated with the sleeping apartment, and thence a
private staircase conducted into the gardens. The whole family were duly
impressed and re-impressed with her importance. No queen could be made
more of. Evelyn mistook it all for pure kindness, and returned the
hospitality with an affection that extended to the whole family, but
particularly to the two little girls, and a beautiful black spaniel. Her
dresses came down from London; her abigail arrived; the buhl wardrobe
was duly filled,--and Evelyn at last learned that it is a fine thing
to be rich. An account of all these proceedings was forwarded to Lady
Vargrave, in a long and most complacent letter, by the rector himself.
The answer was short, but it contented the excellent clergyman; for it
approved of all he had done, and begged that Miss Cameron might have
everything that seemed proper to her station.

By the same post came two letters to Evelyn herself,--one from Lady
Vargrave, one from the curate. They transported her from the fine room
and the buhl wardrobe to the cottage and the lawn; and the fine abigail,
when she came to dress her young lady's hair, found her weeping.

It was a matter of great regret to the rector that it was that time of
year when--precisely because the country is most beautiful--every one
worth knowing is in town. Still, however, some stray guests found
their way to the rectory for a day or two, and still there were some
aristocratic old families in the neighbourhood, who never went up to
London: so that two days in the week the rector's wine flowed, the
whist-tables were set out, and the piano called into requisition.

Evelyn--the object of universal attention and admiration--was put at her
ease by her station itself; for good manners come like an instinct to
those on whom the world smiles. Insensibly she acquired self-possession
and the smoothness of society; and if her child-like playfulness broke
out from all conventional restraint, it only made more charming and
brilliant the great heiress, whose delicate and fairy cast of beauty
so well became her graceful _abandon_ of manner, and who looked so
unequivocally ladylike to the eyes that rested on Madame Devy's blondes
and satins.

Caroline was not so gay as she had been at the cottage. Something seemed
to weigh upon her spirits: she was often moody and thoughtful. She was
the only one in the family not good-tempered; and her peevish replies
to her parents, when no visitor imposed a check on the family circle,
inconceivably pained Evelyn, and greatly contrasted the flow of spirits
which distinguished her when she found somebody worth listening to.
Still Evelyn--who, where she once liked, found it difficult to withdraw
regard--sought to overlook Caroline's blemishes, and to persuade herself
of a thousand good qualities below the surface; and her generous nature
found constant opportunity of venting itself in costly gifts, selected
from the London parcels, with which the officious Mr. Merton relieved
the monotony of the rectory. These gifts Caroline could not refuse
without paining her young friend. She took them reluctantly, for, to do
her justice, Caroline, though ambitious, was not mean.

Thus time passed in the rectory, in gay variety and constant
entertainment; and all things combined to spoil the heiress, if, indeed,
goodness ever is spoiled by kindness and prosperity. Is it to the frost
or to the sunshine that the flower opens its petals, or the fruit ripens
from the blossom?



CHAPTER III.

  _Rod_.    How sweet these solitary places are!

 ......

  _Ped_.    What strange musick
            Was that we heard afar off?

  _Curio_.  We've told you what he is, what time we've sought him,
            His nature and his name.

  BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.  _The Pilgrim_.

ONE day, as the ladies were seated in Mrs. Merton's morning-room,
Evelyn, who had been stationed by the window hearing the little Cecilia
go through the French verbs, and had just finished that agreeable task,
exclaimed,--

"Do tell me to whom that old house belongs, with the picturesque
gable-end and Gothic turrets, there, just peeping through the trees,--I
have always forgot to ask you."

"Oh, my dear Miss Cameron," said Mrs. Merton, "that is Burleigh; have
you not been there? How stupid in Caroline not to show it to you! It is
one of the lions of the place. It belongs to a man you have often heard
of,--Mr. Maltravers."

"Indeed!" cried Evelyn; and she gazed with new interest on the gray
melancholy pile, as the sunshine brought it into strong contrast with
the dark pines around it. "And Mr. Maltravers himself--?"

"Is still abroad, I believe; though I did hear the other day that he
was shortly expected at Burleigh. It is a curious old place, though much
neglected. I believe, indeed, it has not been furnished since the time
of Charles the First. (Cissy, my love, don't stoop so.) Very gloomy,
in my opinion; and not any fine room in the house, except the library,
which was once a chapel. However, people come miles to see it."

"Will you go there to-day?" said Caroline, languidly; "it is a very
pleasant walk through the glebe-land and the wood,--not above half a
mile by the foot-path."

"I should like it so much."

"Yes," said Mrs. Merton, "and you had better go before he returns,--he
is so strange. He does not allow it to be seen when he is down. But,
indeed, he has only been once at the old place since he was of age.
(Sophy, you will tear Miss Cameron's scarf to pieces; do be quiet,
child.) That was before he was a great man; he was then very odd, saw
no society, only dined once with us, though Mr. Merton paid him every
attention. They show the room in which he wrote his books."

"I remember him very well, though I was then but a child," said
Caroline,--"a handsome, thoughtful face."

"Did you think so, my dear? Fine eyes and teeth, certainly, and a
commanding figure, but nothing more."

"Well," said Caroline, "if you like to go, Evelyn, I am at your
service."

"And--I--Evy, dear--I--may go," said Cecilia, clinging to Evelyn.

"And me, too," lisped Sophia, the youngest hope,--"there's such a pretty
peacock."

"Oh, yes, they may go, Mrs. Merton, we'll take such care of them."

"Very well, my dear; Miss Cameron quite spoils you."

Evelyn tripped away to put on her bonnet, and the children ran after
her, clapping their hands,--they could not bear to lose sight of her for
a moment.

"Caroline," said Mrs. Merton, affectionately, "are you not well? You
have seemed pale lately, and not in your usual spirits."

"Oh, yes, I'm well enough," answered Caroline, rather peevishly; "but
this place is so dull now; very provoking that Lady Elizabeth does not
go to London this year."

"My dear, it will be gayer, I hope, in July, when the races at
Knaresdean begin; and Lord Vargrave has promised to come."

"Has Lord Vargrave written to you lately?"

"No, my dear."

"Very odd."

"Does Evelyn ever talk of him?"

"Not much," said Caroline, rising and quitting the room.

It was a most cheerful exhilarating day,--the close of sweet May;
the hedges were white with blossoms; a light breeze rustled the young
leaves; the butterflies had ventured forth, and the children chased them
over the grass, as Evelyn and Caroline, who walked much too slow for
her companion (Evelyn longed to run), followed them soberly towards
Burleigh.

They passed the glebe-fields; and a little bridge, thrown over a
brawling rivulet, conducted them into a wood.

"This stream," said Caroline, "forms the boundary between my uncle's
estates and those of Mr. Maltravers. It must be very unpleasant to so
proud a man as Mr. Maltravers is said to be, to have the land of another
proprietor so near his house. He could hear my uncle's gun from his very
drawing-room. However, Sir John takes care not to molest him. On the
other side, the Burleigh estates extend for some miles; indeed, Mr.
Maltravers is the next great proprietor to my uncle in this part of the
county. Very strange that he does not marry! There, now you can see the
house."

The mansion lay somewhat low, with hanging woods in the rear: and the
old-fashioned fish-ponds gleaming in the sunshine and overshadowed by
gigantic trees increased the venerable stillness of its aspect. Ivy
and innumerable creepers covered one side of the house; and long weeds
cumbered the deserted road.

"It is sadly neglected," said Caroline; "and was so, even in the last
owner's life. Mr. Maltravers inherits the place from his mother's uncle.
We may as well enter the house by the private way. The front entrance is
kept locked up."

Winding by a path that conducted into a flower-garden, divided from the
park by a ha-ha, over which a plank and a small gate, rusting off its
hinges, were placed, Caroline led the way towards the building. At this
point of view it presented a large bay window that by a flight of four
steps led into the garden. On one side rose a square, narrow turret,
surmounted by a gilt dome and quaint weathercock, below the architrave
of which was a sun-dial, set in the stonework; and another dial stood in
the garden, with the common and beautiful motto,--

  "Non numero horas, nisi serenas!"*

  * "I number not the hours, unless sunny."

On the other side of the bay window a huge buttress cast its mass of
shadow. There was something in the appearance of the whole place that
invited to contemplation and repose,--something almost monastic. The
gayety of the teeming spring-time could not divest the spot of a certain
sadness, not displeasing, however, whether to the young, to whom there
is a luxury in the vague sentiment of melancholy, or to those who,
having known real griefs, seek for an anodyne in meditation and memory.
The low lead-coloured door, set deep in the turret, was locked, and the
bell beside it broken. Caroline turned impatiently away. "We must go
round to the other side," said she, "and try to make the deaf old man
hear us."

"Oh, Carry!" cried Cecilia, "the great window is open;" and she ran up
the steps.

"That is lucky," said Caroline; and the rest followed Cecilia.

Evelyn now stood within the library of which Mrs. Merton had spoken. It
was a large room, about fifty feet in length, and proportionably wide;
somewhat dark, for the light came only from the one large window through
which they entered; and though the window rose to the cornice of the
ceiling, and took up one side of the apartment, the daylight was subdued
by the heaviness of the stonework in which the narrow panes were set,
and by the glass stained with armorial bearings in the upper part of the
casement. The bookcases, too, were of the dark oak which so much
absorbs the light; and the gilding, formerly meant to relieve them, was
discoloured by time.

The room was almost disproportionably lofty; the ceiling, elaborately
coved, and richly carved with grotesque masks, preserved the Gothic
character of the age in which it had been devoted to a religious
purpose. Two fireplaces, with high chimney-pieces of oak, in which were
inserted two portraits, broke the symmetry of the tall bookcases. In one
of these fireplaces were half-burnt logs; and a huge armchair, with a
small reading-desk beside it, seemed to bespeak the recent occupation of
the room. On the fourth side, opposite the window, the wall was covered
with faded tapestry, representing the meeting of Solomon and the Queen
of Sheba; the arras was nailed over doors on either hand,--the chinks
between the door and the wall serving, in one instance, to cut off in
the middle his wise majesty, who was making a low bow; while in the
other it took the ground from under the wanton queen, just as she was
descending from her chariot.

Near the window stood a grand piano, the only modern article in the
room, save one of the portraits, presently to be described. On all this
Evelyn gazed silently and devoutly: she had naturally that reverence for
genius which is common to the enthusiastic and young; and there is,
even to the dullest, a certain interest in the homes of those who have
implanted within us a new thought. But here there was, she imagined,
a rare and singular harmony between the place and the mental
characteristics of the owner. She fancied she now better understood the
shadowy and metaphysical repose of thought that had distinguished the
earlier writings of Maltravers,--the writings composed or planned in
this still retreat.

But what particularly caught her attention was one of the two portraits
that adorned the mantelpieces. The further one was attired in the rich
and fanciful armour of the time of Elizabeth; the head bare, the helmet
on a table on which the hand rested. It was a handsome and striking
countenance; and an inscription announced it to be a Digby, an ancestor
of Maltravers.

But the other was a beautiful girl of about eighteen, in the now almost
antiquated dress of forty years ago. The features were delicate, but
the colours somewhat faded, and there was something mournful in the
expression. A silk curtain, drawn on one side, seemed to denote how
carefully it was prized by the possessor.

Evelyn turned for explanation to her cicerone.

"This is the second time I have seen that picture," said Caroline; "for
it is only by great entreaty and as a mysterious favour that the old
housekeeper draws aside the veil. Some touch of sentiment in Maltravers
makes him regard it as sacred. It is the picture of his mother before
she married; she died in giving him birth."

Evelyn sighed; how well she understood the sentiment which seemed to
Caroline so eccentric! The countenance fascinated her; the eye seemed to
follow her as she turned.

"As a proper pendant to this picture," said Caroline, "he ought to have
dismissed the effigies of yon warlike gentleman, and replaced it by
one of poor Lady Florence Lascelles, for whose loss he is said to have
quitted his country: but, perhaps, it was the loss of her fortune."

"How can you say so?--fie!" cried Evelyn, with a burst of generous
indignation.

"Ah, my dear, you heiresses have a fellow-feeling with each other!
Nevertheless, clever men are less sentimental than we deem them. Heigho!
this quiet room gives me the spleen, I fancy."

"Dearest Evy," whispered Cecilia, "I think you have a look of that
pretty picture, only you are much prettier. Do take off your bonnet;
your hair just falls down like hers."

Evelyn shook her head gravely; but the spoiled child hastily untied the
ribbons and snatched away the hat, and Evelyn's sunny ringlets fell down
in beautiful disorder. There was no resemblance between Evelyn and the
portrait, except in the colour of the hair, and the careless fashion it
now by chance assumed. Yet Evelyn was pleased to think that a likeness
did exist, though Caroline declared it was a most unflattering
compliment.

"I don't wonder," said the latter, changing the theme,--"I don't wonder
Mr. Maltravers lives so little in this 'Castle Dull;' yet it might be
much improved. French windows and plate-glass, for instance; and if
those lumbering bookshelves and horrid old chimney-pieces were removed
and the ceiling painted white and gold like that in my uncle's saloon,
and a rich, lively paper, instead of the tapestry, it would really make
a very fine ballroom."

"Let us have a dance here now," cried Cecilia. "Come, stand up, Sophy;"
and the children began to practise a waltz step, tumbling over each
other, and laughing in full glee.

"Hush, hush!" said Evelyn, softly. She had never before checked the
children's mirth, and she could not tell why she did so now.

"I suppose the old butler has been entertaining the bailiff here," said
Caroline, pointing to the remains of the fire.

"And is this the room he chiefly inhabited,--the room that you say they
show as his?"

"No; that tapestry door to the right leads into a little study where he
wrote." So saying, Caroline tried to open the door, but it was locked
from within. She then opened the other door, which showed a long
wainscoted passage, hung with rusty pikes, and a few breastplates of
the time of the Parliamentary Wars. "This leads to the main body of the
House," said Caroline, "from which the room we are now in and the little
study are completely detached, having, as you know, been the chapel
in popish times. I have heard that Sir Kenelm Digby, an ancestral
connection of the present owner, first converted them into their present
use, and, in return, built the village church on the other side of the
park."

Sir Kenelm Digby, the old cavalier philosopher!---a new name of interest
to consecrate the place! Evelyn could have lingered all day in the room;
and perhaps as an excuse for a longer sojourn, hastened to the piano--it
was open--she ran her fairy fingers over the keys, and the sound from
the untuned and neglected instrument thrilled wild and spiritlike
through the melancholy chamber.

"Oh, do sing us something, Evy," cried Cecilia, running up to, and
drawing a chair to, the instrument.

"Do, Evelyn," said Caroline, languidly; "it will serve to bring one of
the servants to us, and save us a journey to the offices."

It was just what Evelyn wished. Some verses, which her mother especially
loved, verses written by Maltravers upon returning after absence to his
own home, had rushed into her mind as she had touched the keys. They
were appropriate to the place, and had been beautifully set to music.
So the children hushed themselves, and nestled at her feet; and after
a little prelude, keeping the accompaniment under, that the spoiled
instrument might not mar the sweet words and sweeter voice, she began
the song.

Meanwhile in the adjoining room, the little study which Caroline had
spoken of, sat the owner of the house! He had returned suddenly and
unexpectedly the previous night. The old steward was in attendance
at the moment, full of apologies, congratulations, and gossip; and
Maltravers, grown a stern and haughty man, was already impatiently
turning away, when he heard the sudden sound of the children's laughter
and loud voices in the room beyond. Maltravers frowned.

"What impertinence is this?" said he in a tone that, though very calm,
made the steward quake in his shoes.

"I don't know, really, your honour; there be so many grand folks come to
see the house in the fine weather, that--"

"And you permit your master's house to be a raree-show? You do well,
sir."

"If your honour were more amongst us, there might be more discipline
like," said the steward, stoutly; "but no one in my time has cared so
little for the old place as those it belongs to."

"Fewer words with me, sir," said Maltravers, haughtily; "and now go and
inform those people that I am returned, and wish for no guests but those
I invite myself."

"Sir!"

"Do you not hear me? Say that if it so please them, these old ruins are
my property, and are not to be jobbed out to the insolence of public
curiosity. Go, sir."

"But--I beg pardon, your honour--if they be great folks?"

"Great folks!--great! Ay, there it is. Why, if they be great folks, they
have great houses of their own, Mr. Justis."

The steward stared. "Perhaps, your honour," he put in, deprecatingly,
"they be Mr. Merton's family: they come very often when the London
gentlemen are with them."

"Merton!--oh, the cringing parson. Harkye! one word more with me, sir,
and you quit my service to-morrow."

Mr. Justis lifted his eyes and hands to heaven; but there was something
in his master's voice and look which checked reply, and he turned slowly
to the door--when a voice of such heavenly sweetness was heard without
that it arrested his own step and made the stern Maltravers start in
his seat. He held up his hand to the steward to delay his errand, and
listened, charmed and spell-bound. His own words came on his ear,--words
long unfamiliar to him, and at first but imperfectly remembered; words
connected with the early and virgin years of poetry and aspiration;
words that were as the ghosts of thoughts now far too gentle for his
altered soul. He bowed down his head, and the dark shade left his brow.

The song ceased. Maltravers moved with a sigh, and his eyes rested on
the form of the steward with his hand on the door.

"Shall I give your honour's message?" said Mr. Justis, gravely.

"No; take care for the future; leave me now."

Mr. Justis made one leg, and then, well pleased, took to both.

"Well," thought he, as he departed, "how foreign parts do spoil a
gentleman! so mild as he was once! I must botch up the accounts, I
see,--the squire has grown sharp."

As Evelyn concluded her song, she--whose charm in singing was that she
sang from the heart--was so touched by the melancholy music of the air
and words, that her voice faltered, and the last line died inaudibly on
her lips.

The children sprang up and kissed her.

"Oh," cried Cecilia, "there is the beautiful peacock!" And there,
indeed, on the steps without--perhaps attracted by the music--stood the
picturesque bird. The children ran out to greet their old favourite, who
was extremely tame; and presently Cecilia returned.

"Oh, Carry! do see what beautiful horses are coming up the park!"

Caroline, who was a good rider, and fond of horses, and whose curiosity
was always aroused by things connected with show and station, suffered
the little girl to draw her into the garden. Two grooms, each mounted on
a horse of the pure Arabian breed, and each leading another, swathed and
bandaged, were riding slowly up the road; and Caroline was so attracted
by the novel appearance of the animals in a place so deserted that she
followed the children towards them, to learn who could possibly be their
enviable owner. Evelyn, forgotten for the moment, remained alone. She
was pleased at being so, and once more turned to the picture which had
so attracted her before. The mild eyes fixed on her, with an expression
that recalled to her mind her own mother.

"And," thought she, as she gazed, "this fair creature did not live to
know the fame of her son, to rejoice in his success, or to soothe his
grief. And he, that son, a disappointed and solitary exile in distant
lands, while strangers stand within his deserted hall!"

The images she had conjured up moved and absorbed her; and she continued
to stand before the picture, gazing upward with moistened eyes. It was
a beautiful vision as she thus stood, with her delicate bloom, her
luxuriant hair (for the hat was not yet replaced), her elastic form,
so full of youth and health and hope,--the living form beside the faded
canvas of the dead, once youthful, tender, lovely as herself! Evelyn
turned away with a sigh; the sigh was re-echoed yet more deeply. She
started: the door that led to the study was opened, and in the aperture
was the figure of a man in the prime of life. His hair, still luxuriant
as in his earliest youth, though darkened by the suns of the East,
curled over a forehead of majestic expanse. The high and proud features,
that well became a stature above the ordinary standard; the pale but
bronzed complexion; the large eyes of deepest blue, shaded by dark brows
and lashes; and more than all, that expression at once of passion and
repose which characterizes the old Italian portraits, and seems to
denote the inscrutable power that experience imparts to intellect,
constituted an _ensemble_ which, if not faultlessly handsome, was
eminently striking, and formed at once to interest and command. It was
a face, once seen, never to be forgotten; it was a face that had long,
half unconsciously, haunted Evelyn's young dreams; it was a face she
had seen before, though, then younger and milder and fairer, it wore a
different aspect.

Evelyn stood rooted to the spot, feeling herself blush to her very
temples,--an enchanting picture of bashful confusion and innocent alarm.

"Do not let me regret my return," said the stranger, approaching after a
short pause, and with much gentleness in his voice and smile; "and think
that the owner is doomed to scare away the fair spirits that haunted the
spot in his absence."

"The owner!" repeated Evelyn, almost inaudibly, and in increased
embarrassment; "are you then the--the--"

"Yes," courteously interrupted the stranger, seeing her confusion, "my
name is Maltravers; and I am to blame for not having informed you of my
sudden return, or for now trespassing on your presence. But you see
my excuse;" and he pointed to the instrument. "You have the magic that
draws even the serpent from his hole. But you are not alone?"

"Oh, no! no, indeed! Miss Merton is with me. I know not where she is
gone. I will seek her."

"Miss Merton! You are not then one of that family?"

"No, only a guest. I will find her; she must apologize for us. We were
not aware that you were here,--indeed we were not."

"That is a cruel excuse," said Maltravers, smiling at her eagerness: and
the smile and the look reminded her yet more forcibly of the time when
he had carried her in his arms and soothed her suffering and praised
her courage and pressed the kiss almost of a lover on her hand. At that
thought she blushed yet more deeply, and yet more eagerly turned to
escape.

Maltravers did not seek to detain her, but silently followed her steps.
She had scarcely gained the window, before little Cecilia scampered in,
crying,--

"Only think! Mr. Maltravers has come back, and brought such beautiful
horses!"

Cecilia stopped abruptly, as she caught sight of the stranger; and the
next moment Caroline herself appeared. Her worldly experience and quick
sense saw immediately what had chanced; and she hastened to apologize
to Maltravers, and congratulate him on his return, with an ease that
astonished poor Evelyn, and by no means seemed appreciated by Maltravers
himself. He replied with brief and haughty courtesy.

"My father," continued Caroline, "will be so glad to hear you are come
back. He will hasten to pay you his respects, and apologize for his
truants. But I have not formally introduced you to my fellow-offender.
My dear, let me present to you one whom Fame has already made known to
you; Mr. Maltravers, Miss Cameron, step-daughter," she added in a lower
voice, "to the late Lord Vargrave."

At the first part of this introduction Maltravers frowned; at the last
he forgot all displeasure.

"Is it possible? I _thought_ I had seen you before, but in a dream. Ah,
then we are not quite strangers!"

Evelyn's eye met his, and though she coloured and strove to look grave,
a half smile brought out the dimples that played round her arch lips.

"But you do not remember me?" added Maltravers.

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Evelyn, with a sudden impulse; and then checked
herself.

Caroline came to her friend's relief.

"What is this? You surprise me; where did you ever see Mr. Maltravers
before?"

"I can answer that question, Miss Merton. When Miss Cameron was but
a child, as high as my little friend here, an accident on the road
procured me her acquaintance; and the sweetness and fortitude she then
displayed left an impression on me not worn out even to this day.
And thus we meet again," added Maltravers, in a muttered voice, as to
himself. "How strange a thing life is!"

"Well," said Miss Merton, "we must intrude on you no more,--you have
so much to do. I am so sorry Sir John is not down to welcome you; but I
hope we shall be good neighbours. _Au revoir_!"

And, fancying herself most charming, Caroline bowed, smiled, and walked
off with her train. Maltravers paused irresolute. If Evelyn had looked
back, he would have accompanied them home; but Evelyn did not look
back,--and he stayed.

Miss Merton rallied her young friend unmercifully, as they walked
homeward, and she extracted a very brief and imperfect history of the
adventure that had formed the first acquaintance, and of the interview
by which it had been renewed. But Evelyn did not heed her; and the
moment they arrived at the rectory, she hastened to shut herself in her
room, and write the account of her adventure to her mother. How
often, in her girlish reveries, had she thought of that incident, that
stranger! And now, by such a chance, and after so many years, to meet
the Unknown by his own hearth! and that Unknown to be Maltravers! It was
as if a dream had come true. While she was yet musing--and the letter
not yet begun--she heard the sound of joy-bells in the distance. At
once she divined the cause; it was the welcome of the wanderer to his
solitary home!



CHAPTER IV.

  MAIS en connaissant votre condition naturelle, usez des moyens
  qui lui sont propres, et ne pretendez pas regner par une autre
  voie que par celle qui vous fait roi.*--PASCAL.

  * "But in understanding your natural condition, use the means
    which are proper to it; and pretend not to govern by any other
    way than by that which constitutes you governor."

IN the heart as in the ocean, the great tides ebb and flow. The waves
which had once urged on the spirit of Ernest Maltravers to the rocks and
shoals of active life had long since receded back upon the calm depths,
and left the strand bare. With a melancholy and disappointed mind, he
had quitted the land of his birth; and new scenes, strange and wild, had
risen before his wandering gaze. Wearied with civilization, and sated
with many of the triumphs for which civilized men drudge and toil,
and disquiet themselves in vain, he had plunged amongst hordes, scarce
redeemed from primeval barbarism. The adventures through which he
had passed, and in which life itself could only be preserved by wary
vigilance and ready energies, had forced him, for a while, from the
indulgence of morbid contemplations. His heart, indeed, had been left
inactive; but his intellect and his physical powers had been kept in
hourly exercise. He returned to the world of his equals with a mind
laden with the treasures of a various and vast experience, and with much
of the same gloomy moral as that which, on emerging from the Catacombs,
assured the restless speculations of Rasselas of the vanity of human
life and the folly of moral aspirations.

Ernest Maltravers, never a faultless or completed character, falling
short in practice of his own capacities, moral and intellectual, from
his very desire to overpass the limits of the Great and Good, was
seemingly as far as heretofore from the grand secret of life. It was not
so in reality; his mind had acquired what before it wanted,--_hardness_;
and we are nearer to true virtue and true happiness when we demand too
little from men than when we exact too much.

Nevertheless, partly from the strange life that had thrown him amongst
men whom safety itself made it necessary to command despotically,
partly from the habit of power and disdain of the world, his nature was
incrusted with a stern imperiousness of manner, often approaching to the
harsh and morose, though beneath it lurked generosity and benevolence.

Many of his younger feelings, more amiable and complex, had settled into
one predominant quality, which more or less had always characterized
him,--Pride! Self-esteem made inactive, and Ambition made discontented,
usually engender haughtiness. In Maltravers this quality, which,
properly controlled and duly softened, is the essence and life of
honour, was carried to a vice. He was perfectly conscious of its excess,
but he cherished it as a virtue. Pride had served to console him
in sorrow, and therefore it was a friend; it had supported him when
disgusted with fraud, or in resistance to violence, and therefore it
was a champion and a fortress. It was a pride of a peculiar sort: it
attached itself to no one point in especial,--not to talent, knowledge,
mental gifts, still less to the vulgar commonplaces of birth and
fortune; it rather resulted from a supreme and wholesale contempt of all
other men, and all their objects,--of ambition, of glory, of the hard
business of life. His favourite virtue was fortitude; it was on this
that he now mainly valued himself. He was proud of his struggles against
others, prouder still of conquests over his own passions. He looked upon
FATE as the arch enemy against whose attacks we should ever prepare.
He fancied that against fate he had thoroughly schooled himself. In the
arrogance of his heart he said, "I can defy the future." He believed in
the boast of the vain old sage,--"I am a world to myself!" In the wild
career through which his later manhood had passed, it is true that he
had not carried his philosophy into a rejection of the ordinary world.
The shock occasioned by the death of Florence yielded gradually to time
and change; and he had passed from the deserts of Africa and the East to
the brilliant cities of Europe. But neither his heart nor his reason had
ever again been enslaved by his passions. Never again had he known the
softness of affection. Had he done so, the ice had been thawed, and the
fountain had flowed once more into the great deeps. He had returned to
England,--he scarce knew wherefore, or with what intent, certainly not
with any idea of entering again upon the occupations of active life;
it was, perhaps, only the weariness of foreign scenes and unfamiliar
tongues, and the vague, unsettled desire of change, that brought him
back to the fatherland. But he did not allow so unphilosophical a cause
to himself: and, what was strange, he would not allow one much more
amiable, and which was, perhaps, the truer cause,--the increasing
age and infirmities of his old guardian, Cleveland, who prayed him
affectionately to return. Maltravers did not like to believe that his
heart was still so kind. Singular form of pride! No, he rather sought
to persuade himself that he intended to sell Burleigh, to arrange his
affairs finally, and then quit forever his native land. To prove to
himself that this was the case, he had intended at Dover to hurry at
once to Burleigh, and merely write to Cleveland that he was returned to
England. But his heart would not suffer him to enjoy this cruel luxury
of self-mortification, and his horses' heads were turned to Richmond
when within a stage of London. He had spent two days with the good old
man, and those two days had so warmed and softened his feelings that
he was quite appalled at his own dereliction from fixed principles!
However, he went before Cleveland had time to discover that he was
changed; and the old man had promised to visit him shortly.

This, then, was the state of Ernest Maltravers at the age of
thirty-six,--an age in which frame and mind are in their fullest
perfection; an age in which men begin most keenly to feel that they are
citizens. With all his energies braced and strengthened; with his mind
stored with profusest gifts; in the vigour of a constitution to which a
hardy life had imparted a second and fresher youth; so trained by stern
experience as to redeem with an easy effort all the deficiencies and
faults which had once resulted from too sensitive an imagination and too
high a standard for human actions; formed to render to his race the most
brilliant and durable service, and to secure to himself the happiness
which results from sobered fancy, a generous heart, and an approving
conscience,--here was Ernest Maltravers, backed, too, by the appliances
and gifts of birth and fortune, perversely shutting up genius, life,
and soul in their own thorny leaves, and refusing to serve the fools and
rascals who were formed from the same clay, and gifted by the same God.
Morbid and morose philosophy, begot by a proud spirit on a lonely heart!



CHAPTER V.

  LET such amongst us as are willing to be children again, if it be
  only for an hour, resign ourselves to the sweet enchantment that
  steals upon the spirit when it indulges in the memory of early
  and innocent enjoyment.
  D. L. RICHARDSON.

AT dinner, Caroline's lively recital of their adventures was received
with much interest, not only by the Merton family, but by some of the
neighbouring gentry who shared the rector's hospitality. The sudden
return of any proprietor to his old hereditary seat after a prolonged
absence makes some sensation in a provincial neighbourhood. In this
case, where the proprietor was still young, unmarried, celebrated, and
handsome, the sensation was of course proportionably increased. Caroline
and Evelyn were beset by questions, to which the former alone gave
any distinct reply. Caroline's account was, on the whole, gracious and
favourable, and seemed complimentary to all but Evelyn, who thought that
Caroline was a very indifferent portrait-painter.

It seldom happens that a man is a prophet in his own neighbourhood; but
Maltravers had been so little in the county, and in his former visit his
life had been so secluded, that he was regarded as a stranger. He had
neither outshone the establishments nor interfered with the sporting of
his fellow-squires; and on the whole, they made just allowance for his
habits of distant reserve. Time, and his retirement from the busy
scene, long enough to cause him to be missed, not long enough for
new favourites to supply his place, had greatly served to mellow and
consolidate his reputation, and his country was proud to claim him. Thus
(though Maltravers would not have believed it had an angel told him) he
was not spoken ill of behind his back: a thousand little anecdotes of
his personal habits, of his generosity, independence of spirit, and
eccentricity were told. Evelyn listened in rapt delight to all; she had
never passed so pleasant an evening; and she smiled almost gratefully on
the rector, who was a man that always followed the stream, when he said
with benign affability, "We must really show our distinguished neighbour
every attention,--we must be indulgent to his little oddities. His
politics are not mine, to be sure; but a man who has a stake in the
country has a right to his own opinion, that was always my maxim,--thank
Heaven, I am a very moderate man. We must draw him amongst us; it will
be our own fault, I am sure, if he is not quite domesticated at the
rectory."

"With such attraction,--yes," said the thin curate, timidly bowing to
the ladies.

"It would be a nice match for Miss Caroline," whispered an old lady;
Caroline overheard, and pouted her pretty lip. The whist-tables were now
set out, the music began, and Maltravers was left in peace.

The next day Mr. Merton rode his pony over to Burleigh. Maltravers was
not at home. He left his card, and a note of friendly respect, begging
Mr. Maltravers to waive ceremony, and dine with them the next day.
Somewhat to the surprise of the rector, he found that the active spirit
of Maltravers was already at work. The long-deserted grounds were filled
with labourers; the carpenters were busy at the fences; the house
looked alive and stirring; the grooms were exercising the horses in the
park,--all betokened the return of the absentee. This seemed to denote
that Maltravers had come to reside; and the rector thought of Caroline,
and was pleased at the notion.

The next day was Cecilia's birthday,--and birthdays were kept at Merton
Rectory; the neighbouring children were invited. They were to dine on
the lawn, in a large marquee, and to dance in the evening. The hothouses
yielded their early strawberries, and the cows, decorated with blue
ribbons, were to give syllabubs. The polite Caroline was not greatly
fascinated by pleasure of this kind; she graciously appeared at dinner,
kissed the prettiest of the children, helped them to soup, and then,
having done her duty, retired to her room to write letters. The children
were not sorry, for they were a little afraid of the grand Caroline; and
they laughed much more loudly, and made much more noise, when she was
gone--and the cake and strawberries appeared.

Evelyn was in her element; she had, as a child, mixed so little with
children, she had so often yearned for playmates, she was still so
childlike. Besides, she was so fond of Cecilia, she had looked forward
with innocent delight to the day; and a week before had taken the
carriage to the neighbouring town to return with a carefully concealed
basket of toys,--dolls, sashes, and picture-books. But somehow or other,
she did not feel so childlike as usual that morning; her heart was away
from the pleasure before her, and her smile was at first languid. But
in children's mirth there is something so contagious to those who love
children; and now, as the party scattered themselves on the grass, and
Evelyn opened the basket, and bade them with much gravity keep quiet,
and be good children, she was the happiest of the whole group. But she
knew how to give pleasure: and the basket was presented to Cecilia, that
the little queen of the day might enjoy the luxury of being generous;
and to prevent jealousy, the notable expedient of a lottery was
suggested.

"Then Evy shall be Fortune!" cried Cecilia; "nobody will be sorry to
get anything from Evy,--and if any one is discontented Evy sha'n't kiss
her."

Mrs. Merton, whose motherly heart was completely won by Evelyn's
kindness to the children, forgot all her husband's lectures, and
willingly ticketed the prizes, and wrote the numbers of the lots on
slips of paper carefully folded. A large old Indian jar was dragged
from the drawing-room and constituted the fated urn; the tickets were
deposited therein, and Cecilia was tying the handkerchief round Evelyn's
eyes,--while Fortune struggled archly not to be as blind as she ought
to be,--and the children, seated in a circle, were in full joy and
expectation when there was a sudden pause. The laughter stopped; so did
Cissy's little hands. What could it be? Evelyn slipped the bandage, and
her eyes rested on Maltravers!

"Well, really, my dear Miss Cameron," said the rector, who was by the
side of the intruder, and who, indeed, had just brought him to the spot,
"I don't know what these little folks will do to you next."

"I ought rather to be their victim," said Maltravers, good-humouredly;
"the fairies always punish us grown-up mortals for trespassing on their
revels."

While he spoke, his eyes--those eyes, the most eloquent in the
world--dwelt on Evelyn (as, to cover her blushes, she took Cecilia in
her arms, and appeared to attend to nothing else) with a look of such
admiration and delight as a mortal might well be supposed to cast on
some beautiful fairy.

Sophy, a very bold child, ran up to him. "How do, sir?" she lisped,
putting up her face to be kissed; "how's the pretty peacock?"

This opportune audacity served at once to renew the charm that had been
broken,--to unite the stranger with the children. Here was acquaintance
claimed and allowed in an instant. The next moment Maltravers was one
of the circle, on the turf with the rest, as gay, and almost as
noisy,--that hard, proud man, so disdainful of the trifles of the world!

"But the gentleman must have a prize, too," said Sophy, proud of her
tall new friend. "What's your other name; why do you have such a long,
hard name?"

"Call me Ernest," said Maltravers.

"Why don't we begin?" cried the children.

"Evy, come, be a good child, miss," said Sophy, as Evelyn, vexed and
ashamed, and half ready to cry, resisted the bandage.

Mr. Merton interposed his authority; but the children clamoured, and
Evelyn hastily yielded. It was Fortune's duty to draw the tickets from
the urn, and give them to each claimant whose name was called; when it
came to the turn of Maltravers, the bandage did not conceal the blush
and smile of the enchanting goddess, and the hand of the aspirant
thrilled as it touched hers.

The children burst into screams of laughter when Cecilia gravely awarded
to Maltravers the worst prize in the lot,--a blue ribbon,--which Sophy,
however, greedily insisted on having; but Maltravers would not yield it.

Maltravers remained all day at the rectory, and shared in the
ball,--yes, he danced with Evelyn--he, Maltravers, who had never
been known to dance since he was twenty-two! The ice was fairly
broken,--Maltravers was at home with the Mertons. And when he took his
solitary walk to his solitary house--over the little bridge, and through
the shadowy wood--astonished, perhaps, with himself, every one of the
guests, from the oldest to the youngest, pronounced him delightful.
Caroline, perhaps, might have been piqued some months ago that he
did not dance with _her_; but now, her heart--such as it was--felt
preoccupied.



CHAPTER VI.

  L'ESPRIT de l'homme est plus penetrant que consequent, et embrasse
  plus qu'il ne peat lier.*--VAUVENARGUES.

  * "The spirit of man is more penetrating than logical, and
    gathers more than it can garner."

AND now Maltravers was constantly with the Merton family; there was no
need of excuse for familiarity on his part. Mr. Merton, charmed to find
his advances not rejected, thrust intimacy upon him.

One day they spent the afternoon at Burleigh, and Evelyn and Caroline
finished their survey of the house,--tapestry, and armour, pictures and
all. This led to a visit to the Arabian horses. Caroline observed that
she was very fond of riding, and went into ecstasies with one of the
animals,--the one, of course, with the longest tail. The next day
the horse was in the stables at the rectory, and a gallant epistle
apologized for the costly gift.

Mr. Merton demurred, but Caroline always had her own way; and so the
horse remained (no doubt, in much amazement and disdain) with the
parson's pony, and the brown carriage horses. The gift naturally
conduced to parties on horseback--it was cruel entirely to separate the
Arab from his friends--and how was Evelyn to be left behind?--Evelyn,
who had never yet ridden anything more spirited than an old pony! A
beautiful little horse belonging to an elderly lady, now growing
too stout to ride, was to be sold hard by. Maltravers discovered the
treasure, and apprised Mr. Merton of it--he was too delicate to affect
liberality to the rich heiress. The horse was bought; nothing could go
quieter; Evelyn was not at all afraid. They made two or three little
excursions. Sometimes only Mr. Merton and Maltravers accompanied the
young ladies, sometimes the party was more numerous. Maltravers appeared
to pay equal attention to Caroline and her friend; still Evelyn's
inexperience in equestrian matters was an excuse for his being ever by
her side. They had a thousand opportunities to converse; and Evelyn
now felt more at home with him; her gentle gayety, her fanciful yet
chastened intellect, found a voice. Maltravers was not slow to
discover that beneath her simplicity there lurked sense, judgment, and
imagination. Insensibly his own conversation took a higher flight. With
the freedom which his mature years and reputation gave him, he mingled
eloquent instruction with lighter and more trifling subjects; he
directed her earnest and docile mind, not only to new fields of written
knowledge, but to many of the secrets of Nature, subtle or sublime. He
had a wide range of scientific as well as literary lore; the stars, the
flowers, the phenomena of the physical world, afforded themes on which
he descanted with the fervent love of a poet and the easy knowledge of a
sage.

Mr. Merton, observing that little or nothing of sentiment mingled with
their familiar intercourse, felt perfectly at ease; and knowing that
Maltravers had been intimate with Lumley, he naturally concluded that
he was aware of the engagement between Evelyn and his friend. Meanwhile
Maltravers appeared unconscious that such a being as Lord Vargrave
existed.

It is not to be wondered at that the daily presence, the delicate
flattery of attention from a man like Maltravers, should strongly
impress the imagination, if not the heart, of a susceptible girl.
Already prepossessed in his favour, and wholly unaccustomed to a society
which combined so many attractions, Evelyn regarded him with unspeakable
veneration; to the darker shades in his character she was blind,--to
her, indeed, they did not appear. True that once or twice in mixed
society his disdainful and imperious temper broke hastily and harshly
forth. To folly, to pretension, to presumption, he showed but slight
forbearance. The impatient smile, the biting sarcasm, the cold repulse,
that might gall, yet could scarce be openly resented, betrayed that he
was one who affected to free himself from the polished restraints of
social intercourse. He had once been too scrupulous in not wounding
vanity; he was now too indifferent to it. But if sometimes this
unamiable trait of character, as displayed to others, chilled or
startled Evelyn, the contrast of his manner towards herself was a
flattery too delicious not to efface all other recollections. To her ear
his voice always softened its tone; to her capacity of mind ever bent
as by sympathy, not condescension; to her--the young, the timid, the
half-informed--to her alone he did not disdain to exhibit all the stores
of his knowledge, all the best and brightest colours of his mind. She
modestly wondered at so strange a preference. Perhaps a sudden and blunt
compliment which Maltravers once addressed to her may explain it. One
day, when she had conversed more freely and more fully than usual, he
broke in upon her with this abrupt exclamation,--

"Miss Cameron, you must have associated from your childhood with
beautiful minds. I see already that from the world, vile as it is, you
have nothing of contagion to fear. I have heard you talk on the most
various matters, on many of which your knowledge is imperfect; but you
have never uttered one mean idea, or one false sentiment. Truth seems
intuitive to you."

It was indeed this singular purity of heart which made to the
world-wearied man the chief charm in Evelyn Cameron. From this purity
came, as from the heart of a poet, a thousand new and heaven-taught
thoughts which had in them a wisdom of their own,--thoughts that often
brought the stern listener back to youth, and reconciled him with
life. The wise Maltravers learned more from Evelyn than Evelyn did from
Maltravers.

There was, however, another trait--deeper than that of temper--in
Maltravers, and which was, unlike the latter, more manifest to her
than to others,--his contempt for all the things her young and fresh
enthusiasm had been taught to prize, the fame that endeared and hallowed
him to her eyes, the excitement of ambition, and its rewards. He spoke
with such bitter disdain of great names and great deeds. "Children of a
larger growth they were," said he, one day, in answer to her defence of
the luminaries of their kind, "allured by baubles as poor as the rattle
and the doll's house. How many have been made great, as the word is,
by their vices! Paltry craft won command to Themistocles; to escape his
duns, the profligate Caesar heads an army, and achieves his laurels;
Brutus, the aristocrat, stabs his patron, that patricians might again
trample on plebeians, and that posterity might talk of _him_. The love
of posthumous fame--what is it but as puerile a passion for notoriety as
that which made a Frenchman I once knew lay out two thousand pounds in
sugar-plums? To be talked of--how poor a desire! Does it matter whether
it be by the gossips of this age or the next? Some men are urged on to
fame by poverty--that is an excuse for their trouble; but there is no
more nobleness in the motive than in that which makes yon poor ploughman
sweat in the eye of Phoebus. In fact, the larger part of eminent men,
instead of being inspired by any lofty desire to benefit their species
or enrich the human mind, have acted or composed, without any definite
object beyond the satisfying a restless appetite for excitement, or
indulging the dreams of a selfish glory. And when nobler aspirations
have fired them, it has too often been but to wild fanaticism and
sanguinary crime. What dupes of glory ever were animated by a deeper
faith, a higher ambition, than the frantic followers of Mahomet,--taught
to believe that it was virtue to ravage the earth, and that they sprang
from the battle-field into paradise? Religion and liberty, love of
country, what splendid motives to action! Lo, the results, when the
motives are keen, the action once commenced! Behold the Inquisition, the
Days of Terror, the Council of Ten, and the Dungeons of Venice!"

Evelyn was scarcely fit to wrestle with these melancholy fallacies; but
her instinct of truth suggested an answer.

"What would society be if all men thought as you do, and acted up to the
theory? No literature, no art, no glory, no patriotism, no virtue, no
civilization! You analyze men's motives--how can you be sure you judge
rightly? Look to the results,--our benefit, our enlightenment! If the
results be great, Ambition is a virtue, no matter what motive awakened
it. Is it not so?"

Evelyn spoke blushingly and timidly. Maltravers, despite his own tenets,
was delighted with her reply.

"You reason well," said he, with a smile. "But how are we sure that the
results are such as you depict them? Civilization, enlightenment,--they
are vague terms, hollow sounds. Never fear that the world will reason as
I do. Action will never be stagnant while there are such things as gold
and power. The vessel will move on--let the galley-slaves have it to
themselves. What I have seen of life convinces me that progress is not
always improvement. Civilization has evils unknown to the savage
state; and _vice versa_. Men in all states seem to have much the same
proportion of happiness. We judge others with eyes accustomed to dwell
on our own circumstances. I have seen the slave, whom we commiserate,
enjoy his holiday with a rapture unknown to the grave freeman. I have
seen that slave made free, and enriched by the benevolence of his
master; and he has been gay no more. The masses of men in all countries
are much the same. If there are greater comforts in the hardy North,
Providence bestows a fertile earth and a glorious heaven, and a
mind susceptible to enjoyment as flowers to light, on the voluptuous
indulgence of the Italian, or the contented apathy of the Hindoo. In
the mighty organization of good and evil, what can we vain individuals
effect? They who labour most, how doubtful is their reputation! Who
shall say whether Voltaire or Napoleon, Cromwell or Caesar, Walpole or
Pitt, has done most good or most evil? It is a question casuists may
dispute on. Some of us think that poets have been the delight and the
lights of men; another school of philosophy has treated them as the
corrupters of the species,--panderers to the false glory of war, to
the effeminacies of taste, to the pampering of the passions above the
reason. Nay, even those who have effected inventions that change the
face of the earth--the printing-press, gunpowder, the steam-engine,--men
hailed as benefactors by the unthinking herd, or the would-be
sages,--have introduced ills unknown before, adulterating and often
counterbalancing the good. Each new improvement in machinery deprives
hundreds of food. Civilization is the eternal sacrifice of one
generation to the next. An awful sense of the impotence of human
agencies has crushed down the sublime aspirations for mankind which I
once indulged. For myself, I float on the great waters, without pilot or
rudder, and trust passively to the winds, that are the breath of God."

This conversation left a deep impression upon Evelyn; it inspired her
with a new interest in one in whom so many noble qualities lay dulled
and torpid, by the indulgence of a self-sophistry, which, girl as she
was, she felt wholly unworthy of his powers. And it was this error in
Maltravers that, levelling his superiority, brought him nearer to her
heart. Ah, if she could restore him to his race! It was a dangerous
desire, but it intoxicated and absorbed her.

Oh, how sweetly were those fair evenings spent,--the evenings of happy
June! And then, as Maltravers suffered the children to tease him into
talk about the wonders he had seen in the regions far away, how did the
soft and social hues of his character unfold themselves! There is in all
real genius so much latent playfulness of nature it almost seems as if
genius never could grow old. The inscriptions that youth writes upon
the tablets of an imaginative mind are, indeed, never wholly
obliterated,--they are as an invisible writing, which gradually becomes
clear in the light and warmth. Bring genius familiarly with the young,
and it is as young as they are. Evelyn did not yet, therefore, observe
the disparity of _years_ between herself and Maltravers. But the
disparity of knowledge and power served for the present to interdict
to her that sweet feeling of equality in commune, without which love is
rarely a very intense affection in women. It is not so with men. But by
degrees she grew more and more familiar with her stern friend; and in
that familiarity there was perilous fascination to Maltravers. She could
laugh him at any moment out of his most moody reveries; contradict with
a pretty wilfulness his most favourite dogmas; nay, even scold him,
with bewitching gravity, if he was not always at the command of her
wishes--or caprice. At this time it seemed certain that Maltravers would
fall in love with Evelyn; but it rested on more doubtful probabilities
whether Evelyn would fall in love with him.



CHAPTER VII.

                    CONTRAHE vela,
  Et te littoribus cymba propinqua vehat.*--SENECA.

  * "Furl your sails, and let the next boat carry you to the shore."

"HAS not Miss Cameron a beautiful countenance?" said Mr. Merton to
Maltravers, as Evelyn, unconscious of the compliment, sat at a little
distance, bending down her eyes to Sophy, who was weaving daisy-chains
on a stool at her knee, and whom she was telling not to talk loud,--for
Merton had been giving Maltravers some useful information respecting the
management of his estate; and Evelyn was already interested in all that
could interest her friend. She had one excellent thing in woman,
had Evelyn Cameron: despite her sunny cheerfulness of temper she was
_quiet_; and she had insensibly acquired, under the roof of her musing
and silent mother, the habit of never disturbing others. What a blessed
secret is that in the intercourse of domestic life!

"Has not Miss Cameron a beautiful countenance?"

Maltravers started at the question,--it was a literal translation of his
own thought at that moment. He checked the enthusiasm that rose to his
lip, and calmly re-echoed the word,--

"Beautiful indeed!"

"And so sweet-tempered and unaffected; she has been admirably brought
up. I believe Lady Vargrave is a most exemplary woman. Miss Cameron
will, indeed, be a treasure to her betrothed husband. He is to be
envied."

"Her betrothed husband!" said Maltravers, turning very pale.

"Yes; Lord Vargrave. Did you not know that she was engaged to him from
her childhood? It was the wish, nay, command, of the late lord, who
bequeathed her his vast fortune, if not on that condition, at least on
that understanding. Did you never hear of this before?"

While Mr. Merton spoke, a sudden recollection returned to Maltravers. He
_had_ heard Lumley himself refer to the engagement, but it had been in
the sick chamber of Florence,--little heeded at the time, and swept
from his mind by a thousand after-thoughts and scenes. Mr. Merton
continued,--

"We expect Lord Vargrave down soon. He is an ardent lover, I conclude;
but public life chains him so much to London. He made an admirable
speech in the Lords last night; at least, our party appear to think so.
They are to be married when Miss Cameron attains the age of eighteen."

Accustomed to endurance, and skilled in the proud art of concealing
emotion, Maltravers betrayed to the eye of Mr. Merton no symptom of
surprise or dismay at this intelligence. If the rector had conceived any
previous suspicion that Maltravers was touched beyond mere admiration
for beauty, the suspicion would have vanished as he heard his guest
coldly reply,--

"I trust Lord Vargrave may deserve his happiness. But, to return to Mr.
Justis; you corroborate my own opinion of that smooth-spoken gentleman."

The conversation flowed back to business. At last, Maltravers rose to
depart.

"Will you not dine with us to-day?" said the hospitable rector.

"Many thanks,--no; I have much business to attend to at home for some
days to come."

"Kiss Sophy, Mr. Ernest,--Sophy very good girl to-day. Let the pretty
butterfly go, because Evy said it was cruel to put it in a card-box;
kiss Sophy."

Maltravers took the child (whose heart he had completely won) in his
arms, and kissed her tenderly; then advancing to Evelyn, he held out his
hand, while his eyes were fixed upon her with an expression of deep and
mournful interest, which she could not understand.

"God bless you, Miss Cameron," he said, and his lip quivered.

Days passed, and they saw no more of Maltravers. He excused himself
on pretence, now of business, now of other engagements, from all the
invitations of the rector. Mr. Merton unsuspectingly accepted the
excuse; for he knew that Maltravers was necessarily much occupied.

His arrival had now spread throughout the country; and such of his
equals as were still in B-----shire hastened to offer congratulations,
and press hospitality. Perhaps it was the desire to make his excuses to
Merton valid which prompted the master of Burleigh to yield to the
other invitations that crowded on him. But this was not all,--Maltravers
acquired in the neighbourhood the reputation of a man of business. Mr.
Justis was abruptly dismissed; with the help of the bailiff Maltravers
became his own steward. His parting address to this personage was
characteristic of the mingled harshness and justice of Maltravers.

"Sir," said he, as they closed their accounts, "I discharge you
because you are a rascal,--there can be no dispute about that; you have
plundered your owner, yet you have ground his tenants, and neglected
the poor. My villages are filled with paupers, my rent-roll is reduced
a fourth; and yet, while some of my tenants appear to pay nominal rents
(why, you best know),--others are screwed up higher than any man's in
the country. You are a rogue, Mr. Justis,--your own account-books show
it; and if I send them to a lawyer, you would have to refund a sum
that I could apply very advantageously to the rectification of your
blunders."

"I hope, sir," said the steward, conscience-stricken and appalled,--"I
hope you will not ruin me; indeed, indeed, if I was called upon to
refund, I should go to jail."

"Make yourself easy, sir. It is just that I should suffer as well as
you. My neglect of my own duties tempted you to roguery. You were honest
under the vigilant eye of Mr. Cleveland. Retire with your gains: if you
are quite hardened, no punishment can touch you; if you are not, it
is punishment enough to stand there gray-headed, with one foot in the
grave, and hear yourself called a rogue, and know that you cannot defend
yourself,--go!"

Maltravers next occupied himself in all the affairs that a mismanaged
estate brought upon him. He got rid of some tenants, he made new
arrangements with others; he called labour into requisition by a variety
of improvements; he paid minute attention to the poor, not in the
weakness of careless and indiscriminate charity, by which popularity is
so cheaply purchased, and independence so easily degraded,--no, his
main care was to stimulate industry and raise hope. The ambition and
emulation that he so vainly denied in himself, he found his most useful
levers in the humble labourers whose characters he had studied, whose
condition he sought to make themselves desire to elevate. Unconsciously
his whole practice began to refute his theories. The abuses of the old
Poor Laws were rife in his neighbourhood; his quick penetration, and
perhaps his imperious habits of decision, suggested to him many of the
best provisions of the law now called into operation; but he was too
wise to be the Philosopher Square of a system. He did not attempt too
much; and he recognized one principle, which, as yet, the administrators
of the new Poor-Laws have not sufficiently discovered. One main object
of the new code was, by curbing public charity, to task the activity of
individual benevolence. If the proprietor or the clergyman find under
his own eye isolated instances of severity, oppression, or hardship in
a general and salutary law, instead of railing against the law, he ought
to attend to the individual instances; and private benevolence ought
to keep the balance of the scales even, and be the makeweight wherever
there is a just deficiency of national charity.* It was this which, in
the modified and discreet regulations that he sought to establish on
his estates, Maltravers especially and pointedly attended to. Age,
infirmity, temporary distress, unmerited destitution, found him a
steady, watchful, indefatigable friend. In these labours, commenced with
extraordinary promptitude, and the energy of a single purpose and
stern mind, Maltravers was necessarily brought into contact with
the neighbouring magistrates and gentry. He was combating evils and
advancing objects in which all were interested; and his vigorous sense,
and his past parliamentary reputation, joined with the respect which in
provinces always attaches to ancient birth, won unexpected and general
favour to his views. At the rectory they heard of him constantly, not
only through occasional visitors, but through Mr. Merton, who was ever
thrown in his way; but he continued to keep himself aloof from the
house. Every one (Mr. Merton excepted) missed him,--even Caroline, whose
able though worldly mind could appreciate his conversation; the children
mourned for their playmate, who was so much more affable than their own
stiff-neckclothed brothers; and Evelyn was at least more serious and
thoughtful than she had ever been before, and the talk of others seemed
to her wearisome, trite, and dull.

  * The object of parochial reform is not that of economy alone;
  not merely to reduce poor-rates.  The ratepayer ought to remember
  that the more he wrests from the grip of the sturdy mendicant,
  the more he ought to bestow on undeserved distress.  Without the
  mitigations of private virtue, every law that benevolists could
  make would be harsh.

Was Maltravers happy in his new pursuits? His state of mind at that time
it is not easy to read. His masculine spirit and haughty temper were
wrestling hard against a feeling that had been fast ripening into
passion; but at night, in his solitary and cheerless home, a vision, too
exquisite to indulge, would force itself upon him, till he started from
the revery, and said to his rebellious heart: "A few more years, and
thou wilt be still. What in this brief life is a pang more or less?
Better to have nothing to care for, so wilt thou defraud Fate, thy
deceitful foe! Be contented that thou art alone!" Fortunate was it,
then, for Maltravers, that he was in his native land, not in climes
where excitement is in the pursuit of pleasure rather than in the
exercise of duties. In the hardy air of the liberal England, he
was already, though unknown to himself, bracing and ennobling his
dispositions and desires. It is the boast of this island that the slave
whose foot touches the soil is free. The boast may be enlarged. Where so
much is left to the people, where the life of civilization, not locked
up in the tyranny of Central Despotism, spreads, vivifying, restless,
ardent, through every vein of the healthful body, the most distant
province, the obscurest village, has claims on our exertions, our
duties, and forces us into energy and citizenship. The spirit of
liberty, that strikes the chain from the slave, binds the freeman to
his brother. This is the Religion of Freedom. And hence it is that
the stormy struggles of free States have been blessed with results
of Virtue, of Wisdom, and of Genius by Him who bade us love one
another,--not only that love in itself is excellent, but that from
love, which in its widest sense is but the spiritual term for liberty,
whatever is worthiest of our solemn nature has its birth.




BOOK III.

  Harsh things he mitigates, and pride subdues.
  _Ex._ SOLON: _Eleg._



CHAPTER I.

  YOU still are what you were, sir!
  ......
  ... With most quick agility could turn
    And return; make knots and undo them,
    Give forked counsel.--_Volpone, or the Fox_.

BEFORE a large table, covered with parliamentary papers, sat Lumley
Lord Vargrave. His complexion, though still healthy, had faded from the
freshness of hue which distinguished him in youth. His features, always
sharp, had grown yet more angular: his brows seemed to project more
broodingly over his eyes, which, though of undiminished brightness,
were sunk deep in their sockets, and had lost much of their quick
restlessness. The character of his mind had begun to stamp itself on
the physiognomy, especially on the mouth when in repose. It was, a face
striking for acute intelligence, for concentrated energy; but there was
a something written in it which said, "BEWARE!" It would have inspired
any one who had mixed much amongst men with a vague suspicion and
distrust.

Lumley had been always careful, though plain, in dress; but there was
now a more evident attention bestowed on his person than he had
ever manifested in youth,--while there was something of the Roman's
celebrated foppery in the skill with which his hair was arranged on his
high forehead, so as either to conceal or relieve a partial baldness at
the temples. Perhaps, too, from the possession of high station, or the
habit of living only amongst the great, there was a certain dignity
insensibly diffused over his whole person that was not noticeable in
his earlier years, when a certain _ton de garnison_ was blended with
his ease of manners. Yet, even now, dignity was not his prevalent
characteristic; and in ordinary occasions, or mixed society, he still
found a familiar frankness a more useful species of simulation. At the
time we now treat of, Lord Vargrave was leaning his cheek on one hand,
while the other rested idly on the papers methodically arranged before
him. He appeared to have suspended his labours, and to be occupied
in thought. It was, in truth, a critical period in the career of Lord
Vargrave.

From the date of his accession to the peerage, the rise of Lumley
Ferrers had been less rapid and progressive than he himself could have
foreseen. At first, all was sunshine before him; he had contrived to
make himself useful to his party; he had also made himself personally
popular. To the ease and cordiality of his happy address, he added the
seemingly careless candour so often mistaken for honesty; while,
as there was nothing showy or brilliant in his abilities or
oratory--nothing that aspired far above the pretensions of others, and
aroused envy by mortifying self-love--he created but little jealousy
even amongst the rivals before whom he obtained precedence. For
some time, therefore, he went smoothly on, continuing to rise in the
estimation of his party, and commanding a certain respect from the
neutral public, by acknowledged and eminent talents in the details of
business; for his quickness of penetration, and a logical habit of mind,
enabled him to grapple with and generalize the minutiae of official
labour or of legislative enactments with a masterly success. But as the
road became clearer to his steps, his ambition became more evident and
daring. Naturally dictatorial and presumptuous, his early suppleness to
superiors was now exchanged for a self-willed pertinacity, which often
displeased the more haughty leaders of his party, and often wounded the
more vain. His pretensions were scanned with eyes more jealous and less
tolerant than at first. Proud aristocrats began to recollect that a
mushroom peerage was supported but by a scanty fortune; the men of
more dazzling genius began to sneer at the red-tape minister as a mere
official manager of details; he lost much of the personal popularity
which had been one secret of his power. But what principally injured
him in the eyes of his party and the public were certain ambiguous and
obscure circumstances connected with a short period when himself and his
associates were thrown out of office. At this time, it was noticeable
that the journals of the Government that succeeded were peculiarly
polite to Lord Vargrave, while they covered all his coadjutors with
obloquy: and it was more than suspected that secret negotiations between
himself and the new ministry were going on, when suddenly the latter
broke up, and Lord Vargrave's proper party were reinstated. The vague
suspicions that attached to Vargrave were somewhat strengthened in the
opinion of the public by the fact that he was at first left out of the
restored administration; and when subsequently, after a speech
which showed that he could be mischievous if not propitiated, he was
readmitted, it was precisely to the same office he had held before,--an
office which did not admit him into the Cabinet. Lumley, burning with
resentment, longed to decline the offer; but, alas! he was poor, and,
what was worse, in debt; "his poverty, but not his will, consented." He
was reinstated; but though prodigiously improved as a debater, he felt
that he had not advanced as a public man. His ambition inflamed by his
discontent, he had, since his return to office, strained every nerve to
strengthen his position. He met the sarcasms on his poverty by greatly
increasing his expenditure, and by advertising everywhere his engagement
to an heiress whose fortune, great as it was, he easily contrived to
magnify. As his old house in Great George Street--well fitted for the
bustling commoner--was no longer suited to the official and fashionable
peer, he had, on his accession to the title, exchanged that respectable
residence for a large mansion in Hamilton Place; and his sober dinners
were succeeded by splendid banquets. Naturally, he had no taste for
such things; his mind was too nervous, and his temper too hard, to take
pleasure in luxury or ostentation. But now, as ever he _acted upon a
system_. Living in a country governed by the mightiest and wealthiest
aristocracy in the world, which, from the first class almost to
the lowest, ostentation pervades,--the very backbone and marrow of
society,--he felt that to fall far short of his rivals in display was to
give them an advantage which he could not compensate either by the power
of his connections or the surpassing loftiness of his character and
genius. Playing for a great game, and with his eyes open to all the
consequences, he cared not for involving his private fortunes in a
lottery in which a great prize might be drawn. To do Vargrave justice,
money with him had never been an object, but a means; he was grasping,
but not avaricious. If men much richer than Lord Vargrave find State
distinctions very expensive, and often ruinous, it is not to be supposed
that his salary, joined to so moderate a private fortune, could support
the style in which he lived. His income was already deeply mortgaged,
and debt accumulated upon debt. Nor had this man, so eminent for the
management of public business, any of that talent which springs from
_justice_, and makes its possessor a skilful manager of his own affairs.
Perpetually absorbed in intrigues and schemes, he was too much engaged
in cheating others on a large scale to have time to prevent being
himself cheated on a small one. He never looked into bills till he was
compelled to pay them; and he never calculated the amount of an expense
that seemed the least necessary to his purposes. But still Lord Vargrave
relied upon his marriage with the wealthy Evelyn to relieve him from
all his embarrassments; and if a doubt of the realization of that vision
ever occurred to him, still public life had splendid prizes. Nay, should
he fail with Miss Cameron, he even thought that, by good management, he
might ultimately make it worth while to his colleagues to purchase his
absence with the gorgeous bribe of the Governor-Generalship of India.

As oratory is an art in which practice and the dignity of station
produce marvellous improvement, so Lumley had of late made effects in
the House of Lords of which he had once been judged incapable. It is
true that no practice and no station can give men qualities in which
they are wholly deficient; but these advantages can bring out in the
best light all the qualities they _do_ possess. The glow of a generous
imagination, the grasp of a profound statesmanship, the enthusiasm of
a noble nature,--these no practice could educe from the eloquence of
Lumley Lord Vargrave, for he had them not; but bold wit, fluent and
vigorous sentences, effective arrangement of parliamentary logic,
readiness of retort, plausibility of manner, aided by a delivery
peculiar for self-possession and ease, a clear and ringing voice (to the
only fault of which, shrillness without passion, the ear of the audience
had grown accustomed), and a countenance impressive from its courageous
intelligence,--all these had raised the promising speaker into the
matured excellence of a nervous and formidable debater. But precisely as
he rose in the display of his talents, did he awaken envies and enmities
hitherto dormant. And it must be added that, with all his craft and
coldness, Lord Vargrave was often a very dangerous and mischievous
speaker for the interests of his party. His colleagues had often cause
to tremble when he rose: nay, even when the cheers of his own faction
shook the old tapestried walls. A man who has no sympathy with the
public must commit many and fatal indiscretions when the public, as well
as his audience, is to be his judge. Lord Vargrave's utter incapacity
to comprehend political morality, his contempt for all the objects of
social benevolence, frequently led him into the avowal of doctrines,
which, if they did not startle the men of the world whom he addressed
(smoothed away, as such doctrines were, by speciousness of manner and
delivery), created deep disgust in those even of his own politics who
read their naked exposition in the daily papers. Never did Lord
Vargrave utter one of those generous sentiments which, no matter whether
propounded by Radical or Tory, sink deep into the heart of the people,
and do lasting service to the cause they adorn. But no man defended an
abuse, however glaring, with a more vigorous championship, or hurled
defiance upon a popular demand with a more courageous scorn. In some
times, when the anti-popular principle is strong; such a leader may
be useful; but at the moment of which we treat he was a most equivocal
auxiliary. A considerable proportion of the ministers, headed by the
premier himself, a man of wise views and unimpeachable honour, had
learned to view Lord Vargrave with dislike and distrust. They might have
sought to get rid of him; but he was not one whom slight mortifications
could induce to retire of his own accord, nor was the sarcastic and bold
debater a person whose resentment and opposition could be despised.
Lord Vargrave, moreover, had secured a party of his own,--a party
more formidable than himself. He went largely into society; he was the
special favourite of the female diplomats, whose voices at that time
were powerful suffrages, and with whom, by a thousand links of gallantry
and intrigue, the agreeable and courteous minister formed a close
alliance. All that _salons_ could do for him was done. Added to this, he
was personally liked by his royal master; and the Court gave him their
golden opinions; while the poorer, the corrupter, and the more bigoted
portion of the ministry regarded him with avowed admiration.

In the House of Commons, too, and in the bureaucracy, he had no
inconsiderable strength; for Lumley never contracted the habits of
personal abruptness and discourtesy common to men in power who wish
to keep applicants aloof. He was bland and conciliating to all men of
ranks; his intellect and self-complacency raised him far above the petty
jealousies that great men feel for rising men. Did any tyro earn the
smallest distinction in parliament, no man sought his acquaintance so
eagerly as Lord Vargrave; no man complimented, encouraged, "brought on"
the new aspirants of his party with so hearty a good will.

Such a minister could not fail of having devoted followers among the
able, the ambitious, and the vain. It must also be confessed that Lord
Vargrave neglected no baser and less justifiable means to cement his
power by placing it on the sure rock of self-interest. No jobbing was
too gross for him. He was shamefully corrupt in the disposition of his
patronage; and no rebuffs, no taunts from his official brethren, could
restrain him from urging the claims of any of his creatures upon the
public purse. His followers regarded this charitable selfishness as
the stanchness and zeal of friendship; and the ambition of hundreds was
wound up in the ambition of the unprincipled minister.

But besides the notoriety of his public corruption, Lord Vargrave was
secretly suspected by some of personal dishonesty,--suspected of selling
his State information to stock-jobbers, of having pecuniary interests in
some of the claims he urged with so obstinate a pertinacity. And though
there was not the smallest evidence of such utter abandonment of honour,
though it was probably but a calumnious whisper, yet the mere suspicion
of such practices served to sharpen the aversion of his enemies, and
justify the disgust of his rivals.

In this position now stood Lord Vargrave: supported by interested, but
able and powerful partisans; hated in the country, feared by some of
those with whom he served, despised by others, looked up to by the rest.
It was a situation that less daunted than delighted him; for it seemed
to render necessary and excuse the habits of scheming and manoeuvre
which were so genial to his crafty and plotting temper. Like an ancient
Greek, his spirit loved intrigue for intrigue's sake. Had it led to no
end, it would still have been sweet to him as a means. He rejoiced to
surround himself with the most complicated webs and meshes; to sit in
the centre of a million plots. He cared not how rash and wild some of
them were. He relied on his own ingenuity, promptitude, and habitual
good fortune to make every spring he handled conducive to the purpose of
the machine--SELF.

His last visit to Lady Vargrave, and his conversation with Evelyn, had
left on his mind much dissatisfaction and fear. In the earlier years of
his intercourse with Evelyn, his good humour, gallantry, and presents
had not failed to attach the child to the agreeable and liberal visitor
she had been taught to regard as a relation. It was only as she grew up
to womanhood, and learned to comprehend the nature of the tie between
them, that she shrank from his familiarity; and then only had he learned
to doubt of the fulfilment of his uncle's wish. The last visit had
increased this doubt to a painful apprehension. He saw that he was not
loved; he saw that it required great address, and the absence of happier
rivals, to secure to him the hand of Evelyn; and he cursed the duties
and the schemes which necessarily kept him from her side. He had thought
of persuading Lady Vargrave to let her come to London, where he could be
ever at hand; and as the season was now set in, his representations on
this head would appear sensible and just. But then again this was to
incur greater dangers than those he would avoid. London!--a beauty and
an heiress, in her first _debut_ in London! What formidable admirers
would flock around her! Vargrave shuddered to think of the gay,
handsome, well-dressed, seductive young _elegans_, who might seem, to
a girl of seventeen, suitors far more fascinating than the middle-aged
politician. This was perilous; nor was this all: Lord Vargrave knew that
in London--gaudy, babbling, and remorseless London--all that he could
most wish to conceal from the young lady would be dragged to day. He had
been the lover, not of one, but of a dozen women, for whom he did not
care three straws, but whose favour had served to strengthen him in
society, or whose influence made up for his own want of hereditary
political connections. The manner in which he contrived to shake off
these various Ariadnes, whenever it was advisable, was not the least
striking proof of his diplomatic abilities. He never left them enemies.
According to his own solution of the mystery, he took care never to play
the gallant with Dulcineas under a certain age. "Middle-aged women," he
was wont to say, "are very little different from middle-aged men; they
see things sensibly, and take things coolly." Now Evelyn could not be
three weeks, perhaps three days, in London, without learning of one or
the other of these _liaisons_. What an excuse, if she sought one, to
break with him! Altogether, Lord Vargrave was sorely perplexed, but not
despondent. Evelyn's fortune was more than ever necessary to him,
and Evelyn he was resolved to obtain since to that fortune she was an
indispensable appendage.



CHAPTER II.

  YOU shall be Horace, and Tibullus I.--POPE.

LORD VARGRAVE was disturbed from his revery by the entrance of the Earl
of Saxingham.

"You are welcome!" said Lumley, "welcome!--the very man I wished to
see."

Lord Saxingham, who was scarcely altered since we met with him in the
last series of this work, except that he had grown somewhat paler and
thinner, and that his hair had changed from iron-gray to snow-white,
threw himself in the armchair beside Lumley, and replied,--

"Vargrave, it is really unpleasant, our finding ourselves always thus
controlled by our own partisans. I do not understand this new-fangled
policy, this squaring of measures to please the Opposition, and throwing
sops to that many-headed monster called Public Opinion. I am sure it
will end most mischievously."

"I am satisfied of it," returned Lord Vargrave. "All vigour and union
seem to have left us; and if they carry the ----- question against us, I
know not what is to be done."

"For my part, I shall resign," said Lord Saxingham, doggedly; "it is the
only alternative left to men of honour."

"You are wrong; I know another alternative."

"What is that?"

"Make a Cabinet of our own. Look ye, my dear lord; you been ill-used;
your high character, your long experience, are treated with contempt.
It is an affront to you--the situation you hold. You, Privy Seal!--you
ought to be Premier; ay, and, if you are ruled by me, Premier you shall
be yet."

Lord Saxingham coloured, and breathed hard.

"You have often hinted at this before, Lumley; but you are so partial,
so friendly."

"Not at all. You saw the leading article in the ----- to-day? That will
be followed up by two evening papers within five hours of this time. We
have strength with the Press, with the Commons, with the Court,--only
let us hold fast together. This ----- question, by which they hope to
get rid of us, shall destroy them. You shall be Prime Minister before
the year is over--by Heaven, you shall!--and then, I suppose, I too may
be admitted to the Cabinet!"

"But how?--how, Lumley? You are too rash, too daring."

"It has not been my fault hitherto,--but boldness is caution in our
circumstances. If they throw us out now, I see the inevitable march of
events,--we shall be out for years, perhaps for life. The Cabinet will
recede more and more from our principles, our party. Now is the time for
a determined stand; now can we make or mar ourselves. I will not
resign; the king is with us; our strength shall be known. These haughty
imbeciles shall fall into the trap they have dug for us."

Lumley spoke warmly, and with the confidence of a mind firmly assured
of success. Lord Saxingham was moved; bright visions flashed across
him,--the premiership, a dukedom. Yet he was old and childless, and his
honours would die with the last lord of Saxingham!

"See," continued Lumley, "I have calculated our resources as accurately
as an electioneering agent would cast up the list of voters. In the
Press, I have secured ----- and -----, and in the Commons we have the
subtle -----, and the vigour of -----, and the popular name of -----,
and all the boroughs of -----; in the Cabinet we have -----, and at
Court you know our strength. Let us choose our moment; a sudden _coup_,
an interview with the king, statement of our conscientious scruples to
this atrocious measure. I know the vain, stiff mind of the premier; _he_
will lose temper, he will tender his resignation; to his astonishment,
it will be accepted. You will be sent for; we will dissolve parliament;
we will strain every nerve in the elections; we shall succeed, I know
we shall. But be silent in the meanwhile, be cautious: let not a word
escape you, let them think us beaten; lull suspicion asleep; let us
lament our weakness, and hint, only hint at our resignation, but with
assurances of continued support. I know how to blind them, if you leave
it to me."

The weak mind of the old earl was as a puppet in the hands of his bold
kinsman. He feared one moment, hoped another; now his ambition was
flattered, now his sense of honour was alarmed. There was something in
Lumley's intrigue to oust the government with which he served that had
an appearance of cunning and baseness, of which Lord Saxingham, whose
personal character was high, by no means approved. But Vargrave talked
him over with consummate address, and when they parted, the earl carried
his head two inches higher,--he was preparing himself for his rise in
life.

"That is well! that is well!" said Lumley, rubbing his hands when he was
left alone: "the old driveller will be my _locum tenens_, till years and
renown enable me to become his successor. Meanwhile, I shall be really
what he will be in name."

Here Lord Vargrave's well-fed servant, now advanced to the dignity of
own gentleman and house-steward, entered the room with a letter; it
had a portentous look; it was wafered, the paper was blue, the hand
clerklike, there was no envelope; it bore its infernal origin on the
face of it,--IT WAS A DUN'S.

Lumley opened the epistle with an impatient pshaw! The man, a
silversmith (Lumley's plate was much admired!) had applied for years
in vain; the amount was large, and execution was threatened! An
execution!--it is a trifle to a rich man; but no trifle to one suspected
of being poor, one straining at that very moment at so high an object,
one to whom public opinion was so necessary, one who knew that nothing
but his title, and scarcely that, saved him from the reputation of an
adventurer! He must again have recourse to the money-lenders,--his
small estate was long since too deeply mortgaged to afford new security.
Usury, usury, again!--he knew its price, and he sighed--but what was to
be done?

"It is but for a few months, a few months, and Evelyn must be mine.
Saxingham has already lent me what he can; but he is embarrassed. This
d-----d office, what a tax it is! and the rascals say we are too well
paid! I, too, who could live happy in a garret, if this purse-proud
England would but allow one to exist within one's income. My
fellow-trustee, the banker, my uncle's old correspondent--all, well
thought of! He knows the conditions of the will; he knows that, at
the worst, I must have thirty thousand pounds, if I live a few months
longer. I will go to him."



CHAPTER III.

  ANIMUM nunc hoc celerem, nunc dividit illuc.*--VIRGIL.

  * "Now this, now that, distracts the active mind."

THE late Mr. Templeton had been a banker in a provincial town, which was
the centre of great commercial and agricultural activity and enterprise.
He had made the bulk of his fortune in the happy days of paper currency
and war. Besides his country bank he had a considerable share in a
metropolitan one of some eminence. At the time of his marriage with the
present Lady Vargrave he retired altogether from business, and never
returned to the place in which his wealth had been amassed. He had still
kept up a familiar acquaintance with the principal and senior partner
of the metropolitan bank I have referred to; for he was a man who always
loved to talk about money matters with those who understood them.
This gentleman, Mr. Gustavus Douce, had been named, with Lumley, joint
trustee to Evelyn's fortune. They had full powers to invest it in
whatever stock seemed most safe or advantageous. The trustees appeared
well chosen, as one, being destined to share the fortune, would have
the deepest interest in its security; and the other, from his habits and
profession, would be a most excellent adviser.

Of Mr. Douce, Lord Vargrave had seen but little; they were not thrown
together. But Lord Vargrave, who thought every rich man might, some
time or other, become a desirable acquaintance, regularly asked him once
every year to dinner; and twice in return he had dined with Mr. Douce,
in one of the most splendid villas, and off some of the most splendid
plate it had ever been his fortune to witness and to envy!--so that
the little favour he was about to ask was but a slight return for Lord
Vargrave's condescension.

He found the banker in his private sanctum, his carriage at the door;
for it was just four o'clock, an hour in which Mr. Douce regularly
departed to Caserta, as his aforesaid villa was somewhat affectedly
styled.

Mr. Douce was a small man, a nervous man; he did not seem quite master
of his own limbs: when he bowed he seemed to be making you a present of
his legs; when he sat down, he twitched first on one side, then on the
other, thrust his hands into his pockets, then took them out, and looked
at them, as if in astonishment, then seized upon a pen, by which they
were luckily provided with incessant occupation. Meanwhile, there was
what might fairly be called a constant play of countenance: first he
smiled, then looked grave; now raised his eyebrows, till they rose like
rainbows, to the horizon of his pale, straw-coloured hair; and next
darted them down, like an avalanche, over the twinkling, restless,
fluttering, little blue eyes, which then became almost invisible. Mr.
Douce had, in fact, all the appearance of a painfully shy man, which
was the more strange, as he had the reputation of enterprise, and even
audacity, in the business of his profession, and was fond of the society
of the great.

"I have called on you, my dear sir," said Lord Vargrave, after the
preliminary salutations, "to ask a little favour, which, if the least
inconvenient, have no hesitation in refusing. You know how I am situated
with regard to my ward, Miss Cameron; in a few months I hope she will be
Lady Vargrave."

Mr. Douce showed three small teeth, which were all that, in the front of
his mouth, fate had left him; and then, as if alarmed at the indelicacy
of a smile upon such a subject, pushed back his chair, and twitched up
his blotting-paper-coloured trousers.

"Yes, in a few months I hope she will be Lady Vargrave; and you know
then, Mr. Douce, that I shall be in no want of money."

"I hope--that is to say, I am sure,--that--I trust that never will
be the ca-ca-case with your lordship," put in Mr. Douce, with timid
hesitation. Mr. Douce, in addition to his other good qualities,
stammered much in the delivery of his sentences.

"You are very kind, but it is the case just at present; I have great
need of a few thousand pounds upon my personal security. My estate
is already a little mortgaged, and I don't wish to encumber it more;
besides, the loan would be merely temporary. You know that if at the age
of eighteen Miss Cameron refuses me (a supposition out of the question,
but in business we must calculate on improbabilities), I claim the
forfeit she incurs,--thirty thousand pounds; you remember."

"Oh, yes--that--is--upon my word--I--I don't exactly--but--your
lord--l-l-l-lord-lordship knows best--I have been so--so busy--I forget
the exact--hem--hem!"

"If you just turn to the will you will see it is as I say. Now, could
you conveniently place a few thousands to my account, just for a short
time? But I see you don't like it. Never mind, I can get it elsewhere;
only, as you were my poor uncle's friend--"

"Your lord--l-l-l-lordship is quite mistaken," said Mr. Douce, with
trembling agitation; "upon my word, yes, a few thou-thou-thousands--to
be sure--to be sure. Your lordship's banker is--is--"

"Drummond--disagreeable people--by no means obliging. I shall certainly
change to your house when my accounts are better worth keeping."

"You do me great--great honour; I will just--step--step--step out for
a moment--and--and speak to Mr. Dobs;--not but what you may depend
on.--Excuse me! 'Morning Chron-chron-Chronicle,' my lord!"

Mr. Douce rose, as if by galvanism, and ran out of the room, spinning
round as he ran, to declare, again and again, that he would not be gone
a moment.

"Good little fellow, that--very like an electrified frog!" murmured
Vargrave, as he took up the "Morning Chronicle," so especially pointed
out to his notice; and turning to the leading article, read a very
eloquent attack on himself. Lumley was thick-skinned on such matters; he
liked to be attacked,--it showed that he was up in the world.

Presently Mr. Douce returned. To Lord Vargrave's amazement and delight,
he was informed that 10,000 pounds would be immediately lodged with
Messrs. Drummond. His bill of promise to pay in three months--five per
cent interest--was quite sufficient. Three months was a short date; but
the bill could be renewed on the same terms, from quarter to quarter,
till quite convenient to his lordship to pay. "Would Lord Vargrave do
him the honour to dine with him at Caserta next Monday?"

Lord Vargrave tried to affect apathy at his sudden accession of ready
money, but really it almost turned his head; he griped both Mr. Douce's
thin, little shivering hands, and was speechless with gratitude and
ecstasy. The sum, which doubled the utmost he expected, would relieve
him from all his immediate embarrassments. When he recovered his voice,
he thanked his dear Mr. Douce with a warmth that seemed to make the
little man shrink into a nutshell; and assured him that he would dine
with him every Monday in the year--if he was asked! He then longed to
depart; but he thought, justly, that to go as soon as he had got what he
wanted would look selfish. Accordingly, he reseated himself, and so did
Mr. Douce, and the conversation turned upon politics and news; but Mr.
Douce, who seemed to regard all things with a commercial eye, contrived,
Vargrave hardly knew how, to veer round from the change in the French
ministry to the state of the English money-market.

"It really is, indeed, my lord--I say it, I am sure, with concern, a
very bad ti-ti-ti-ti-time for men in business,--indeed, for all men;
such poor interest in the English fu-fun-funds, and yet speculations are
so unsound. I recommended my friend Sir Giles Grimsby to--to invest some
money in the American canals; a most rare res-res-respons-reponsibility,
I may say, for me; I am cautious in--in recommending--but Sir Giles was
an old friend,--con-con-connection, I may say; but most providentially,
all turned out--that is--fell out--as I was sure it would,--thirty per
cent,--and the value of the sh-sh-sh-shares doubled. But such things are
very rare,--quite godsends, I may say!"

"Well, Mr. Douce, whenever I have money to lay out, I must come and
consult you."

"I shall be most happy at all times to--to advise your lordship; but it
is not a thing I'm very fond of. There's Miss Cameron's fortune quite
l-l-locked up,--three per cents and exchequer bills; why, it might have
been a mil-mil-million by this ti-ti-time, if the good old gentleman--I
beg pardon--old--old nobleman, my poor dear friend, had been now alive!"

"Indeed!" said Lumley, greedily, and pricking up his ears; "he was a
good manager, my uncle!"

"None better, none better. I may say a genius for busi--hem-hem! Miss
Cameron a young woman of bus-bus-business, my lord?"

"Not much of that, I fear. A million, did you say?"

"At least!--indeed, at least--money so scarce, speculation so sure
in America; great people the Americans, rising people,
gi-gi-giants--giants!"

"I am wasting your whole morning,--too bad in me," said Vargrave, as the
clock struck five; "the Lords meet this evening,--important business;
once more a thousand thanks to you; good day."

"A very good day to you, my lord; don't mention it; glad at any time to
ser-ser-serve you," said Mr. Douce, fidgeting, curveting, and prancing
round Lord Vargrave, as the latter walked through the outer office to
the carriage.

"Not a step more; you will catch cold. Good-by--on Monday, then, seven
o'clock. The House of Lords."

And Lumley threw himself back in his carriage in high spirits.



CHAPTER IV.

  OUBLIE de Tullie, et brave du Senat.*
  VOLTAIRE: _Brutus_, Act ii. sc. 1.

  * "Forgotten by Tully and bullied by the Senate."

IN the Lords that evening the discussion was animated and prolonged,--it
was the last party debate of the session. The astute Opposition did not
neglect to bring prominently, though incidentally, forward the question
on which it was whispered that there existed some growing difference in
the Cabinet. Lord Vargrave rose late. His temper was excited by the good
fortune of his day's negotiation; he felt himself of more importance
than usual, as a needy man is apt to do when he has got a large sum at
his banker's; moreover, he was exasperated by some personal allusions to
himself, which had been delivered by a dignified old lord who dated his
family from the ark, and was as rich as Croesus. Accordingly, Vargrave
spoke with more than his usual vigour. His first sentences were welcomed
with loud cheers; he warmed, he grew vehement, he uttered the most
positive and unalterable sentiments upon the question alluded to, he
greatly transgressed the discretion which the heads of his party were
desirous to maintain,--instead of conciliating without compromising, he
irritated, galled, _and_ compromised. The angry cheers of the opposite
party were loudly re-echoed by the cheers of the more hot-headed on his
own side. The premier and some of his colleagues observed, however, a
moody silence. The premier once took a note, and then reseated himself,
and drew his hat more closely over his brows. It was an ominous sign
for Lumley; but he was looking the Opposition in the face, and did not
observe it. He sat down in triumph; he had made a most effective and a
most mischievous speech,--a combination extremely common. The leader of
the Opposition replied to him with bitter calmness; and when citing some
of his sharp sentences, he turned to the premier, and asked, "Are these
opinions those also of the noble lord? I call for a reply,--I have a
right to demand a reply," Lumley was startled to hear the tone in which
his chief uttered the comprehensive and significant "_Hear, hear_!"

At midnight the premier wound up the debate; his speech was short, and
characterized by moderation. He came to the question put to him. The
House was hushed,--you might have heard a pin drop; the Commoners
behind the throne pressed forward with anxiety and eagerness on their
countenances.

"I am called upon," said the minister, "to declare if those sentiments,
uttered by my noble friend, are mine also, as the chief adviser of
the Crown. My lords, in the heat of debate every word is not to
be scrupulously weighed, and rigidly interpreted." ("Hear, hear,"
ironically from the Opposition, approvingly from the Treasury benches.)
"My noble friend will doubtless be anxious to explain what he intended
to say. I hope, nay, I doubt not, that his explanation will be
satisfactory to the noble lord, to the House, and to the country; but
since I am called upon for a distinct reply to a distinct interrogatory,
I will say at once, that if those sentiments be rightly interpreted by
the noble lord who spoke last, those sentiments are not mine, and
will never animate the conduct of any cabinet of which I am a member."
(Long-continued cheering from the Opposition.) "At the same time, I am
convinced that my noble friend's meaning has not been rightly construed;
and till I hear from himself to the contrary, I will venture to state
what I think he designed to convey to your lordships." Here the premier,
with a tact that nobody could be duped by, but every one could admire,
stripped Lord Vargrave's unlucky sentences of every syllable that could
give offence to any one; and left the pointed epigrams and vehement
denunciations a most harmless arrangement of commonplace.

The House was much excited; there was a call for Lord Vargrave, and Lord
Vargrave promptly rose. It was one of those dilemmas out of which Lumley
was just the man to extricate himself with address. There was so much
manly frankness in his manner, there was so much crafty subtlety in
his mind! He complained, with proud and honest bitterness, of the
construction that had been forced upon his words by the Opposition.
"If," he added (and no man knew better the rhetorical effect of the _tu
quoque_ form of argument),--"if every sentence uttered by the noble
lord opposite in his zeal for liberty had, in days now gone by, been
construed with equal rigour, or perverted with equal ingenuity, that
noble lord had long since been prosecuted as an incendiary, perhaps
executed as a traitor!" Vehement cheers from the ministerial benches;
cries of "Order!" from the Opposition. A military lord rose to order,
and appealed to the Woolsack.

Lumley sat down as if chafed at the interruption; he had produced the
effect he had desired,--he had changed the public question at issue into
a private quarrel; a new excitement was created; dust was thrown into
the eyes of the House. Several speakers rose to accommodate matters; and
after half-an-hour of public time had been properly wasted, the noble
lord on the one side and the noble lord on the other duly explained,
paid each other the highest possible compliments, and Lumley was left to
conclude his vindication, which now seemed a comparatively flat matter
after the late explosion. He completed his task so as to satisfy,
apparently, all parties--for all parties were now tired of the thing,
and wanted to go to bed. But the next morning there were whispers about
the town, articles in the different papers, evidently by authority,
rejoicings among the Opposition, and a general feeling that though the
Government might keep together that session, its dissensions would break
out before the next meeting of parliament.

As Lumley was wrapping himself in his cloak after this stormy debate,
the Marquess of Raby--a peer of large possessions, and one who entirely
agreed with Lumley's views--came up to him, and proposed that they
should go home together in Lord Raby's carriage. Vargrave willingly
consented, and dismissed his own servants.

"You did that admirably, my dear Vargrave!" said Lord Raby, when they
were seated in the carriage. "I quite coincide in all your sentiments;
I declare my blood boiled when I heard ----- [the premier] appear half
inclined to throw you over. Your hit upon ----- was first-rate,--he will
not get over it for a month; and you extricated yourself well."

"I am glad you approve my conduct,--it comforts me," said Vargrave,
feelingly; "at the same time I see all the consequences; but I can brave
all for the sake of character and conscience."

"I feel just as you do!" replied Lord Raby, with some warmth; "and if I
thought that ----- meant to yield to this question, I should certainly
oppose his administration."

Vargrave shook his head, and held his tongue, which gave Lord Raby a
high idea of his discretion.

After a few more observations on political matters, Lord Raby invited
Lumley to pay him a visit at his country-seat.

"I am going to Knaresdean next Monday; you know we have races in the
park, and really they are sometimes good sport; at all events, it is a
very pretty sight. There will be nothing in the Lords now,--the recess
is just at hand; and if you can spare the time, Lady Raby and myself
will be delighted to see you."

"You may be sure, my dear lord, I cannot refuse your invitation; indeed,
I intended to visit your county next week. You know, perhaps, a Mr.
Merton."

"Charles Merton?--to be sure; most respectable man, capital fellow,
the best parson in the county,--no cant, but thoroughly orthodox; he
certainly keeps in his brother, who, though a very active member, is
what I call a waverer on certain questions. Have you known Merton long?"

"I don't know him at all as yet; my acquaintance is with his wife
and daughter,--a very fine girl, by the by. My ward, Miss Cameron, is
staying with them."

"Miss Cameron! Cameron--ah, I understand. I think I have heard that--But
gossip does not always tell the truth!"

Lumley smiled significantly, and the carriage now stopped at his door.

"Perhaps you will take a seat in our carriage on Monday?" said Lord
Raby.

"Monday? Unhappily I am engaged; but on Tuesday your lordship may expect
me."

"Very well; the races begin on Wednesday: we shall have a full house.
Good-night."



CHAPTER V.

  HOMUNCULI quanti sunt, cum recogito.*--PLAUTUS.

  * "When I reflect, how great your little men are in their own
    consideration!"

IT is obvious that for many reasons we must be brief upon the political
intrigue in which the scheming spirit of Lord Vargrave was employed.
It would, indeed, be scarcely possible to preserve the necessary medium
between too plain a revelation and too complex a disguise. It suffices,
therefore, very shortly to repeat what the reader has already gathered
from what has gone before; namely, that the question at issue was one
which has happened often enough in all governments,--one on which the
Cabinet was divided, and in which the weaker party was endeavouring to
out-trick the stronger.

The malcontents, foreseeing that sooner or later the head of the
gathering must break, were again divided among themselves whether
to resign, or to stay in and strive to force a resignation on their
dissentient colleagues. The richer and the more honest were for the
former course; the poorer and the more dependent for the latter. We
have seen that the latter policy was that espoused and recommended by
Vargrave, who, though not in the Cabinet, always contrived somehow or
other to worm out its secrets. At the same time he by no means rejected
the other string to his bow. If it were possible so to arrange and
to strengthen his faction, that, by the _coup d'etat_ of a sudden
resignation in a formidable body, the whole Government might be broken
up, and a new one formed from among the resignees, it would obviously be
the best plan. But then Lord Vargrave was doubtful of his own strength,
and fearful to play into the hands of his colleagues, who might be able
to stand even better without himself and his allies, and by conciliating
the Opposition take a step onward in political movement,--which might
leave Vargrave placeless and powerless for years to come.

He repented his own rashness in the recent debate, which was, indeed, a
premature boldness that had sprung out of momentary excitement--for the
craftiest orator must be indiscreet sometimes. He spent the next few
days in alternately seeking to explain away to one party, and to sound,
unite, and consolidate the other. His attempts in the one quarter were
received by the premier with the cold politeness of an offended but
careful statesman, who believed just as much as he chose, and preferred
taking his own opportunity for a breach with a subordinate to risking
any imprudence by the gratification of resentment. In the last quarter,
the penetrating adventurer saw that his ground was more insecure than
he had anticipated. He perceived in dismay and secret rage that many
of those most loud in his favour while he was with the Government would
desert him the soonest if thrown out. Liked as a subordinate minister,
he was viewed with very different eyes the moment it was a question
whether, instead of cheering his sentiments, men should trust themselves
to his guidance. Some did not wish to displease the Government; others
did not seek to weaken but to correct them. One of his stanchest
allies in the Commons was a candidate for a peerage; another suddenly
remembered that he was second cousin to the premier. Some laughed at
the idea of a puppet premier in Lord Saxingham; others insinuated to
Vargrave that he himself was not precisely of that standing in the
country which would command respect to a new party, of which, if not the
head, he would be the mouthpiece. For themselves they knew, admired, and
trusted him; but those d-----d country gentlemen--and the dull public!

Alarmed, wearied, and disgusted, the schemer saw himself reduced to
submission, for the present at least; and more than ever he felt the
necessity of Evelyn's fortune to fall back upon, if the chance of
the cards should rob him of his salary. He was glad to escape for a
breathing-while from the vexations and harassments that beset him,
and looked forward with the eager interest of a sanguine and elastic
mind--always escaping from one scheme to another--to his excursion into
B-----shire.

At the villa of Mr. Douce, Lord Vargrave met a young nobleman who had
just succeeded to a property not only large and unencumbered, but of a
nature to give him importance in the eyes of politicians. Situated in
a very small county, the estates of Lord Doltimore secured to his
nomination at least one of the representatives, while a little village
at the back of his pleasure-grounds constituted a borough, and returned
two members to parliament. Lord Doltimore, just returned from the
Continent, had not even taken his seat in the Lords; and though his
family connections, such as they were--and they were not very high, and
by no means in the fashion--were ministerial, his own opinions were as
yet unrevealed.

To this young nobleman Lord Vargrave was singularly attentive. He
was well formed to attract men younger than himself, and he eminently
succeeded in his designs upon Lord Doltimore's affection.

His lordship was a small, pale man, with a very limited share of
understanding, supercilious in manner, elaborate in dress, not
ill-natured _au fond_, and with much of the English gentleman in his
disposition,--that is, he was honourable in his ideas and actions,
whenever his natural dulness and neglected education enabled him clearly
to perceive (through the midst of prejudices, the delusions of others,
and the false lights of the dissipated society in which he had lived)
what was right and what wrong. But his leading characteristics were
vanity and conceit. He had lived much with younger sons, cleverer than
himself, who borrowed his money, sold him their horses, and won from
him at cards. In return they gave him all that species of flattery which
young men _can_ give with so hearty an appearance of cordial admiration.
"You certainly have the best horses in Paris. You are really a devilish
good fellow, Doltimore. Oh, do you know, Doltimore, what little Desire
says of you? You have certainly turned the girl's head."

This sort of adulation from one sex was not corrected by any great
acerbity from the other. Lord Doltimore at the age of twenty-two was a
very good _parti_; and, whatever his other deficiencies, he had sense
enough to perceive that he received much greater attention--whether from
opera-dancers in search of a friend, or virtuous young ladies in search
of a husband--than any of the companions, good-looking though many of
them were, with whom he had habitually lived.

"You will not long remain in town now the season is over?" said
Vargrave, as after dinner he found himself, by the departure of the
ladies, next to Lord Doltimore.

"No, indeed; even in the season I don't much like London. Paris has
rather spoiled me for any other place."

"Paris is certainly very charming; the ease of French life has a
fascination that our formal ostentation wants. Nevertheless, to a man
like you, London must have many attractions."

"Why, I have a good many friends here; but still, after Ascot, it rather
bores me."

"Have you any horses on the turf?"

"Not yet; but Legard (you know Legard, perhaps,--a very good fellow) is
anxious that I should try my luck. I was very fortunate in the races at
Paris--you know we have established racing there. The French take to it
quite naturally."

"Ah, indeed! It is so long since I have been in Paris--most exciting
amusement! _A propos_ of races, I am going down to Lord Raby's
to-morrow; I think I saw in one of the morning papers that you had very
largely backed a horse entered at Knaresdean."

"Yes, Thunderer--I think of buying Thunderer. Legard--Colonel Legard (he
was in the Guards, but he sold out)--is a good judge, and recommends the
purchase. How very odd that you too should be going to Knaresdean!"

"Odd, indeed, but most lucky! We can go together, if you are not better
engaged."

Lord Doltimore coloured and hesitated. On the one hand he was a little
afraid of being alone with so clever a man; on the other hand, it was
an honour,--it was something for him to talk of to Legard. Nevertheless,
the shyness got the better of the vanity. He excused himself; he feared
he was engaged to take down Legard.

Lumley smiled, and changed the conversation; and so agreeable did he
make himself, that when the party broke up, and Lumley had just shaken
hands with his host, Doltimore came to him, and said in a little
confusion,--

"I think I can put off Legard--if--if you--"

"That's delightful! What time shall we start?--need not get down much
before dinner--one o'clock?"

"Oh, yes! not too long before dinner; one o'clock will be a little too
early."

"Two then. Where are you staying?"

"At Fenton's."

"I will call for you. Good-night! I long to see Thunderer!"



CHAPTER VI.

  LA sante de l'ame n'est pas plus assuree que celle du corps;
  et quoique l'on paraisse eloigne des passions, on n'est pas
  moins en danger de s'y laisser emporter que de tomber malade
  quand on se porte bien.*--LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.

  * "The health of the soul is not more sure than that of the
    body; and although we may appear free from passions, there
    is not the less danger of their attack than of falling sick
    at the moment we are well."

IN spite of the efforts of Maltravers to shun all occasions of meeting
Evelyn, they were necessarily sometimes thrown together in the round
of provincial hospitalities; and certainly, if either Mr. Merton
or Caroline (the shrewder observer of the two) had ever formed any
suspicion that Evelyn had made a conquest of Maltravers, his manner at
such times effectually removed it.

Maltravers was a man to feel deeply, but no longer a boy to yield to
every tempting impulse. I have said that FORTITUDE was his favourite
virtue, but fortitude is the virtue of great and rare occasions; there
was another, equally hard-favoured and unshowy, which he took as the
staple of active and every-day duties, and that virtue was JUSTICE. Now,
in earlier life, he had been enamoured of the conventional Florimel that
we call HONOUR,--a shifting and shadowy phantom, that is but the reflex
of the opinion of the time and clime. But justice has in it something
permanent and solid; and out of justice arises the real not the false
honour.

"Honour!" said Maltravers,--"honour is to justice as the flower to the
plant,--its efflorescence, its bloom, its consummation! But honour
that does not spring from justice is but a piece of painted rag, an
artificial rose, which the men-milliners of society would palm upon us
as more natural than the true."

This principle of justice Maltravers sought to carry out in all
things--not, perhaps, with constant success; for what practice can
always embody theory?--but still, at least his endeavour at success
was constant. This, perhaps, it was which had ever kept him from the
excesses to which exuberant and liberal natures are prone, from the
extravagances of pseudo-genius.

"No man, for instance," he was wont to say, "can be embarrassed in
his own circumstances, and not cause embarrassment to others. Without
economy, who can be just? And what are charity, generosity, but the
poetry and the beauty of justice?"

No man ever asked Maltravers twice for a just debt; and no man ever once
asked him to fulfil a promise. You felt that, come what would, you might
rely upon his word. To him might have been applied the witty eulogium
passed by Johnson upon a certain nobleman: "If he had promised you an
acorn, and the acorn season failed in England, he would have sent to
Norway for one!"

It was not, therefore, the mere Norman and chivalrous spirit of honour,
which he had worshipped in youth as a part of the Beautiful and the
Becoming, but which in youth had yielded to temptation, as a _sentiment_
ever must yield to a passion, but it was the more hard, stubborn, and
reflective _principle_, which was the later growth of deeper and nobler
wisdom, that regulated the conduct of Maltravers in this crisis of
his life. Certain it is, that he had never but once loved as he loved
Evelyn; and yet that he never yielded so little to the passion.

"If engaged to another," thought he, "that engagement it is not for
a third person to attempt to dissolve. I am the last to form a right
judgment of the strength or weakness of the bonds which unite her to
Vargrave, for my emotions would prejudice me despite myself. I may fancy
that her betrothed is not worthy of her,--but that is for her to decide.
While the bond lasts, who can be justified in tempting her to break it?"

Agreeably to these notions, which the world may, perhaps, consider
overstrained, whenever Maltravers met Evelyn, he intrenched himself in
a rigid and almost a chilling formality. How difficult this was with one
so simple and ingenuous! Poor Evelyn! she thought she had offended him;
she longed to ask him her offence,--perhaps, in her desire to rouse
his genius into exertion, she had touched some secret sore, some latent
wound of the memory? She recalled all their conversations again and
again. Ah, why could they not be renewed? Upon her fancy and her
thoughts Maltravers had made an impression not to be obliterated.
She wrote more frequently than ever to Lady Vargrave, and the name of
Maltravers was found in every page of her correspondence.

One evening, at the house of a neighbour, Miss Cameron (with the
Mertons) entered the room almost in the same instant as Maltravers. The
party was small, and so few had yet arrived that it was impossible
for Maltravers, without marked rudeness, to avoid his friends from the
rectory; and Mrs. Merton, placing herself next to Evelyn, graciously
motioned to Maltravers to occupy the third vacant seat on the sofa, of
which she filled the centre.

"We grudge all your improvements, Mr. Maltravers, since they cost us
your society. But we know that our dull circle must seem tame to one who
has seen so much. However, we expect to offer you an inducement soon in
Lord Vargrave. What a lively, agreeable person he is!"

Maltravers raised his eyes to Evelyn, calmly and penetratingly, at the
latter part of this speech. He observed that she turned pale, and sighed
involuntarily.

"He had great spirits when I knew him," said he; "and he had then less
cause to make him happy."

Mrs. Merton smiled, and turned rather pointedly towards Evelyn.

Maltravers continued, "I never met the late lord. He had none of the
vivacity of his nephew, I believe."

"I have heard that he was very severe," said Mrs. Merton, lifting her
glass towards a party that had just entered.

"Severe!" exclaimed Evelyn. "Ah, if you could have known him! the
kindest, the most indulgent--no one ever loved me as he did." She
paused, for she felt her lip quiver.

"I beg your pardon, my dear," said Mrs. Merton, coolly. Mrs. Merton had
no idea of the pain inflicted by _treading upon a feeling_. Maltravers
was touched, and Mrs. Merton went on. "No wonder he was kind to you,
Evelyn,--a brute would be that; but he was generally considered a stern
man."

"I never saw a stern look, I never heard a harsh word; nay, I do not
remember that he ever even used the word 'command,'" said Evelyn, almost
angrily.

Mrs. Merton was about to reply, when suddenly seeing a lady whose little
girl had been ill of the measles, her motherly thoughts flowed into a
new channel, and she fluttered away in that sympathy which unites all
the heads of a growing family. Evelyn and Maltravers were left alone.

"You do not remember your father, I believe?" said Maltravers.

"No father but Lord Vargrave; while he lived, I never knew the loss of
one."

"Does your mother resemble you?"

"Ah, I wish I could think so; it is the sweetest countenance!"

"Have you no picture of her?"

"None; she would never consent to sit."

"Your father was a Cameron; I have known some of that name."

"No relation of ours: my mother says we have none living."

"And have we no chance of seeing Lady Vargrave in B-----shire?"

"She never leaves home; but I hope to return soon to Brook-Green."

Maltravers sighed, and the conversation took a new turn.

"I have to thank you for the books you so kindly sent; I ought to have
returned them ere this," said Evelyn.

"I have no use for them. Poetry has lost its charm for me,--especially
that species of poetry which unites with the method and symmetry
something of the coldness of Art. How did you like Alfieri?"

"His language is a kind of Spartan French," answered Evelyn, in one of
those happy expressions which every now and then showed the quickness of
her natural talent.

"Yes," said Maltravers, smiling, "the criticism is acute. Poor Alfieri!
in his wild life and his stormy passions he threw out all the redundance
of his genius; and his poetry is but the representative of his thoughts,
not his emotions. Happier the man of genius who lives upon his reason,
and wastes feeling only on his verse!"

"You do not think that we _waste_ feeling upon human beings?" said
Evelyn, with a pretty laugh.

"Ask me that question when you have reached my years, and can look
upon fields on which you have lavished your warmest hopes, your noblest
aspirations, your tenderest affections, and see the soil all profitless
and barren. 'Set not your heart on the things of earth,' saith the
Preacher."

Evelyn was affected by the tone, the words, and the melancholy
countenance of the speaker. "You, of all men, ought not to think thus,"
said she, with a sweet eagerness; "you who have done so much to awaken
and to soften the heart in others; you--who--" she stopped short, and
added, more gravely. "Ah, Mr. Maltravers, I cannot reason with you, but
I can hope you will refute your own philosophy."

"Were your wish fulfilled," answered Maltravers, almost with sternness,
and with an expression of great pain in his compressed lips, "I should
have to thank you for much misery." He rose abruptly, and turned away.

"How have I offended him?" thought Evelyn, sorrowfully; "I never speak
but to wound him. What _have_ I done?"

She could have wished, in her simple kindness, to follow him, and make
peace; but he was now in a coterie of strangers; and shortly afterwards
he left the room, and she did not see him again for weeks.



CHAPTER VII.

  NIHIL est aliud magnum quam multa minuta.*--VETUS. AUCTOR.

  * "There is nothing so great as the collection of the minute."

AN anxious event disturbed the smooth current of cheerful life at Merton
Rectory. One morning when Evelyn came down, she missed little Sophy,
who had contrived to establish for herself the undisputed privilege of
a stool beside Miss Cameron at breakfast. Mrs. Merton appeared with
a graver face than usual. Sophy was unwell, was feverish; the scarlet
fever had been in the neighbourhood. Mrs. Merton was very uneasy.

"It is the more unlucky, Caroline," added the mother, turning to Miss
Merton, "because to-morrow, you know, we were to have spent a few days
at Knaresdean to see the races. If poor Sophy does not get better, I
fear you and Miss Cameron must go without me. I can send to Mrs. Hare to
be your chaperon; she would be delighted."

"Poor Sophy!" said Caroline; "I am very sorry to hear she is unwell; but
I think Taylor would take great care of her; you surely need not stay,
unless she is much worse."

Mrs. Merton, who, tame as she seemed, was a fond and attentive mother,
shook her head and said nothing; but Sophy was much worse before noon.
The doctor was sent for, and pronounced it to be the scarlet fever.

It was now necessary to guard against the infection. Caroline had had
the complaint, and she willingly shared in her mother's watch of love
for two or three hours. Mrs. Merton gave up the party. Mrs. Hare (the
wife of a rich squire in the neighbourhood) was written to, and that
lady willingly agreed to take charge of Caroline and her friend.

Sophy had been left asleep. When Mrs. Merton returned to her bed, she
found Evelyn quietly stationed there. This alarmed her, for Evelyn had
never had the scarlet fever, and had been forbidden the sick-room. But
poor little Sophy had waked and querulously asked for her dear Evy; and
Evy, who had been hovering round the room, heard the inquiry from the
garrulous nurse, and come in she would; and the child gazed at her so
beseechingly, when Mrs. Merton entered, and said so piteously, "Don't
take Evy away," that Evelyn stoutly declared that she was not the least
afraid of infection, and stay she must. Nay, her share in the nursing
would be the more necessary since Caroline was to go to Knaresdean the
next day.

"But you go too, my dear Miss Cameron?"

"Indeed I could not. I don't care for races, I never wished to go, I
would much sooner have stayed; and I am sure Sophy will not get well
without me,--will you, dear?"

"Oh, yes, yes; if I'm to keep you from the nice races, I should be worse
if I thought that."

"But I don't like the nice races, Sophy, as your sister Carry does; she
must go,--they can't do without her; but nobody knows me, so I shall not
be missed."

"I can't hear of such a thing," said Mrs. Merton, with tears in her
eyes; and Evelyn said no more then. But the next morning Sophy was
still worse, and the mother was too anxious and too sad to think more of
ceremony and politeness, so Evelyn stayed.

A momentary pang shot across Evelyn's breast when all was settled; but
she suppressed the sigh which accompanied the thought that she had lost
the only opportunity she might have for weeks of seeing Maltravers.
To that chance she had indeed looked forward with interest and timid
pleasure. The chance was lost; but why should it vex her,--what was he
to her?

Caroline's heart smote her, as she came into the room in her lilac
bonnet and new dress; and little Sophy, turning on her eyes which,
though languid, still expressed a child's pleasure at the sight of
finery, exclaimed, "How nice and pretty you look, Carry! Do take Evy
with you,--Evy looks pretty too!"

Caroline kissed the child in silence, and paused irresolute; glanced at
her dress, and then at Evelyn, who smiled on her without a thought of
envy; and she had half a mind to stay too, when her mother entered
with a letter from Lord Vargrave. It was short: he should be at the
Knaresdean races, hoped to meet them there, and accompany them home.
This information re-decided Caroline, while it rewarded Evelyn. In a few
minutes more, Mrs. Hare arrived; and Caroline, glad to escape, perhaps,
her own compunction, hurried into the carriage, with a hasty "God bless
you all! Don't fret--I'm sure she will be well to-morrow; and mind,
Evelyn, you don't catch the fever!" Mr. Merton looked grave and sighed,
as he handed her into the carriage; but when, seated there, she
turned round and kissed her hand at him, she looked so handsome and
distinguished, that a sentiment of paternal pride smoothed down his
vexation at her want of feeling. He himself gave up the visit; but a
little time after, when Sophy fell into a tranquil sleep, he thought
he might venture to canter across the country to the race-ground, and
return to dinner.



Days--nay, a whole week passed, the races were over, but Caroline had
not returned. Meanwhile, Sophy's fever left her; she could quit her bed,
her room; she could come downstairs now, and the family was happy. It
is astonishing how the least ailment in those little things stops the
wheels of domestic life! Evelyn fortunately had not caught the fever:
she was pale, and somewhat reduced by fatigue and confinement; but she
was amply repaid by the mother's swimming look of quiet gratitude, the
father's pressure of the hand, Sophy's recovery, and her own good heart.
They had heard twice from Caroline, putting off her return: Lady Raby
was so kind, she could not get away till the party broke up; she was so
glad to hear such an account of Sophy.

Lord Vargrave had not yet arrived at the rectory to stay; but he had
twice ridden over, and remained there some hours. He exerted himself to
the utmost to please Evelyn; and she--who, deceived by his manners, and
influenced by the recollections of long and familiar acquaintance, was
blinded to his real character--reproached herself more bitterly than
ever for her repugnance to his suit and her ungrateful hesitation to
obey the wishes of her stepfather.

To the Mertons, Lumley spoke with good-natured praise of Caroline; she
was so much admired; she was the beauty at Knaresdean. A certain young
friend of his, Lord Doltimore, was evidently smitten. The parents
thought much over the ideas conjured up by that last sentence.

One morning, the garrulous Mrs. Hare, the gossip of the neighbourhood,
called at the rectory; she had returned, two days before, from
Knaresdean; and she, too, had her tale to tell of Caroline's conquests.

"I assure you, my dear Mrs. Merton, if we had not all known that his
heart was pre-occupied, we should have thought that Lord Vargrave was
her warmest admirer. Most charming man, Lord Vargrave! but as for Lord
Doltimore, it was quite a flirtation. Excuse _me_: no scandal, you know,
ha, ha! a fine young man, but stiff and reserved,--not the fascination
of Lord Vargrave."

"Does Lord Raby return to town, or is he now at Knaresdean for the
autumn?"

"He goes on Friday, I believe: very few of the guests are left now. Lady
A. and Lord B., and Lord Vargrave and your daughter, and Mr. Legard and
Lord Doltimore, and Mrs. and the Misses Cipher; all the rest went the
same day I did."

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Merton, in some surprise.

"Ah, I read your thoughts: you wonder that Miss Caroline has not come
back,--is not that it? But perhaps Lord Doltimore--ha, ha!--no scandal
now--do excuse _me_!"

"Was Mr. Maltravers at Knaresdean?" asked Mrs. Merton, anxious to change
the subject, and unprepared with any other question. Evelyn was cutting
out a paper horse for Sophy, who--all her high spirits flown--was lying
on the sofa, and wistfully following her fairy fingers. "Naughty Evy,
you have cut off the horse's head!"

"Mr. Maltravers? No, I think not; no, he was not there. Lord Raby asked
him pointedly to come, and was, I know, much disappointed that he did
not. But _a propos_ of Mr. Maltravers: I met him not a quarter of an
hour ago, this morning, as I was coming to you. You know we have leave
to come through his park, and as I was in the park at the time, I
stopped the carriage to speak to him. I told him that I was coming
here, and that you had had the scarlet fever in the house, which was
the reason you had not gone to the races; and he turned quite pale, and
seemed so alarmed. I said we were all afraid that Miss Cameron should
catch it; and, excuse me--ah, ah!--no scandal, I hope--but--"

"Mr. Maltravers," said the butler, throwing open the door. Maltravers
entered with a quick and even a hurried step. He stopped short when he
saw Evelyn; and his whole countenance was instantly lightened up by a
joyous expression, which as suddenly died away.

"This is kind, indeed," said Mrs. Merton; "it is so long since we have
seen you."

"I have been very much occupied," muttered Maltravers, almost inaudibly,
and seated himself next Evelyn. "I only just heard--that--that you had
sickness in the house. Miss Cameron, you look pale--you--you have not
suffered, I hope?"

"No, I am quite well," said Evelyn, with a smile; and she felt happy
that her friend was kind to her once more.

"It's only me, Mr. Ernest," said Sophy; "you have forgot me."

Maltravers hastened to vindicate himself from the charge, and Sophy and
he were soon made excellent friends again. Mrs. Hare, whom surprise at
this sudden meeting had hitherto silenced, and who longed to shape into
elegant periphrasis the common adage, "Talk of," etc., now once more
opened her budget. She tattled on, first to one, then to the other,
then to all, till she had tattled herself out of breath; and then the
orthodox half-hour was expired, and the bell was rung, and the carriage
ordered, and Mrs. Hare rose to depart.

"Do just come to the door, Mrs. Merton," said she, "and look at my
pony-phaeton, it is so pretty; Lady Raby admires it so much; you ought
to have just such another." As she spoke, she favoured Mrs. Merton with
a significant glance, that said, as plainly as glance could say, "I have
something to communicate." Mrs. Merton took the hint, and followed the
good lady out of the room.

"Do you know, my dear Mrs. Merton," said Mrs. Hare, in a whisper,
when they were safe in the billiard-room, that interposed between the
apartment they had left and the hall; "do you know whether Lord Vargrave
and Mr. Maltravers are very good friends?"

"No, indeed; why do you ask?"

"Oh, because when I was speaking to Lord Vargrave about him, he shook
his head; and really I don't remember what his lordship said, but he
seemed to speak as if there was a little soreness. And then he inquired
very anxiously if Mr. Maltravers was much at the rectory; and looked
discomposed when he found you were such near neighbours. You'll excuse
me, you know--ha, ha! but we're such old friends!--and if Lord Vargrave
is coming to stay here, it might be unpleasant to meet--you'll excuse
_me_. I took the liberty to tell him he need not be jealous of Mr.
Maltravers--ha, ha!--not a marrying man at all. But I did think Miss
Caroline was the attraction--you'll excuse me--no scandal--ha, ha! But,
after all, Lord Doltimore must be the man. Well, good morning, I thought
I'd just give you this hint. Is not the phaeton pretty? Kind compliments
to Mr. Merton."

And the lady drove off.

During this confabulation, Maltravers and Evelyn were left alone with
Sophy. Maltravers had continued to lean over the child, and appeared
listening to her prattle; while Evelyn, having risen to shake hands with
Mrs. Hare, did not reseat herself, but went to the window, and busied
herself with a flower-stand in the recess.

"Oh, very fine, Mr. Ernest," said Sophy--(always pronouncing that proper
name as if it ended in _th_), "you care very much for us to stay away so
long,--don't he, Evy? I've a great mind not to speak to you, sir, that I
have!"

"That would be too heavy a punishment, Miss Sophy, only,
luckily, it would punish yourself; you could not live without
talking--talk--talk--talk!"

"But I might never have talked more, Mr. Ernest, if Mamma and pretty Evy
had not been so kind to me;" and the child shook her head mournfully, as
if she had _pitie de soi-meme_. "But you won't stay away so long again,
will you? Sophy play to-morrow; come to-morrow, and swing Sophy; no nice
swinging since you've been gone."

While Sophy spoke Evelyn turned half round, as if to hear Maltravers
answer; he hesitated, and Evelyn spoke.

"You must not tease Mr. Maltravers so; Mr. Maltravers has too much to do
to come to us."

Now this was a very pettish speech in Evelyn, and her cheek glowed while
she spoke; but an arch, provoking smile was on her lips.

"It can be a privation only to me, Miss Cameron," said Maltravers,
rising, and attempting in vain to resist the impulse that drew him
towards the window. The reproach in her tone and words at once pained
and delighted him; and then this scene, the suffering child, brought
back to him his first interview with Evelyn herself. He forgot, for
the moment, the lapse of time, the new ties she had formed, his own
resolutions.

"That is a bad compliment to us," answered Evelyn, ingenuously; "do
you think we are so little worthy your society as not to value it?
But, perhaps" (she added, sinking her voice) "perhaps you have been
offended--perhaps I--I--said--something that--that hurt you!"

"You!" repeated Maltravers, with emotion.

Sophy, who had been attentively listening, here put in, "Shake hands and
make it up with Evy--you've been quarrelling, naughty Ernest!"

Evelyn laughed, and tossed back her sunny ringlets. "I think Sophy is
right," said she, with enchanting simplicity; "let us make it up," and
she held out her hand to Maltravers.

Maltravers pressed the fair hand to his lips. "Alas!" said he, affected
with various feelings which gave a tremor to his deep voice, "your only
fault is that your society makes me discontented with my solitary home;
and as solitude must be my fate in life, I seek to inure myself to it
betimes."

Here--whether opportunely or not, it is for the reader to decide--Mrs.
Merton returned to the room.

She apologized for her absence, talked of Mrs. Hare and the little
Master Hares,--fine boys, but noisy; and then she asked Maltravers if
he had seen Lord Vargrave since his lordship had been in the county.
Maltravers replied, with coldness, that he had not had that honour: that
Vargrave had called on him in his way from the rectory the other day,
but that he was from home, and that he had not seen him for some years.

"He is a person of most prepossessing manners," said Mrs. Merton.

"Certainly,--most prepossessing."

"And very clever."

"He has great talents."

"He seems most amiable."

Maltravers bowed, and glanced towards Evelyn, whose face, however, was
turned from him.

The turn the conversation had taken was painful to the visitor, and he
rose to depart.

"Perhaps," said Mrs. Merton, "you will meet Lord Vargrave at dinner
to-morrow; he will stay with us a few days,--as long as he can be
spared."

Maltravers meet Lord Vargrave! the happy Vargrave, the betrothed
to Evelyn! Maltravers witness the familiar rights, the enchanting
privileges, accorded to another! and that other one whom he could not
believe worthy of Evelyn! He writhed at the picture the invitation
conjured up.

"You are very kind, my dear Mrs. Merton, but I expect a visitor at
Burleigh,--an old and dear friend, Mr. Cleveland."

"Mr. Cleveland!--we shall be delighted to see him too. We knew him many
years ago, during your minority, when he used to visit Burleigh two or
three times a year."

"He is changed since then; he is often an invalid. I fear I cannot
answer for him; but he will call as soon as he arrives, and apologize
for himself."

Maltravers then hastily took his departure. He would not trust
himself to do more than bow distantly to Evelyn; she looked at him
reproachfully. So, then, it was really premeditated and resolved
upon--his absence from the rectory; and why? She was grieved, she was
offended--but more grieved than offended,--perhaps because esteem,
interest, admiration, are more tolerant and charitable than love.



CHAPTER VIII.

  _Arethusa_.  'Tis well, my lord, your courting of ladies.

 ......

  _Claremont_.  Sure this lady has a good turn done her against
   her will.

  PHILASTER.

In the breakfast-room at Knaresdean, the same day, and almost at the
same hour, in which occurred the scene and conversation at the rectory
recorded in our last chapter, sat Lord Vargrave and Caroline alone. The
party had dispersed, as was usual, at noon. They heard at a distance the
sounds of the billiard-balls. Lord Doltimore was playing with Colonel
Legard, one of the best players in Europe, but who, fortunately for
Doltimore, had of late made it a rule never to play for money. Mrs. and
the Misses Cipher, and most of the guests, were in the billiard-room
looking on. Lady Raby was writing letters, and Lord Raby riding over
his home farm. Caroline and Lumley had been for some time in close and
earnest conversation. Miss Merton was seated in a large armchair, much
moved, with her handkerchief to her eyes. Lord Vargrave, with his back
to the chimney-piece, was bending down and speaking in a very low voice,
while his quick eye glanced, ever and anon, from the lady's countenance
to the windows, to the doors, to be prepared against any interruption.

"No, my dear friend," said he, "believe me that I am sincere. My
feelings for you are, indeed, such as no words can paint."

"Then why--"

"Why wish you wedded to another; why wed another myself? Caroline, I
have often before explained to you that we are in this the victims of
an inevitable fate. It is absolutely necessary that I should wed Miss
Cameron. I never deceived you from the first. I should have loved
her,--my heart would have accompanied my hand, but for your too
seductive beauty, your superior mind!--yes, Caroline, your mind
attracted me more than your beauty. Your mind seemed kindred to my
own,--inspired with the proper and wise ambition which regards the fools
of the world as puppets, as counters, as chessmen. For myself, a very
angel from heaven could not make me give up the great game of life,
yield to my enemies, slip from the ladder, unravel the web I have
woven! Share my heart, my friendship, my schemes! this is the true and
dignified affection that should exist between minds like ours; all the
rest is the prejudice of children."

"Vargrave, I am ambitious, worldly: I own it; but I could give up all
for you!"

"You think so, for you do not know the sacrifice. You see me now
apparently rich, in power, courted; and this fate you are willing to
share; and this fate you _should_ share, were it the real one I could
bestow on you. But reverse the medal. Deprived of office, fortune gone,
debts pressing, destitution notorious, the ridicule of embarrassments,
the disrepute attached to poverty and defeated ambition, an exile
in some foreign town on the poor pension to which alone I should be
entitled, a mendicant on the public purse; and that, too, so eaten into
by demands and debts, that there is not a grocer in the next market-town
who would envy the income of the retired minister! Retire, fallen,
despised, in the prime of life, in the zenith of my hopes! Suppose that
I could bear this for myself, could I bear it for you? _You_, born to be
the ornament of courts! And you could you see me thus--life embittered,
career lost--and feel, generous as you are, that your love had entailed
on me, on us both, on our children, this miserable lot! Impossible,
Caroline! we are too wise for such romance. It is not because we love
too little, but because our love is worthy of each other, that we
disdain to make love a curse! We cannot wrestle against the world, but
we may shake hands with it, and worm the miser out of its treasures. My
heart must be ever yours; my hand must be Miss Cameron's. Money I
must have,--my whole career depends on it. It is literally with me
the highwayman's choice,--money or life." Vargrave paused, and took
Caroline's hand.

"I cannot reason with you," said she; "you know the strange empire you
have obtained over me, and, certainly, in spite of all that has passed
(and Caroline turned pale) I could bear anything rather than that
you should hereafter reproach me for selfish disregard of your
interests,--your just ambition."

"My noble friend! I do not say that I shall not feel a deep and sharp
pang at seeing you wed another; but I shall be consoled by the thought
that I have assisted to procure for you a station worthier of your
merits than that which I can offer. Lord Doltimore is rich,--you will
teach him to employ his riches well; he is weak,--your intellect will
govern him; he is in love,--your beauty will suffice to preserve his
regard. Ah, we shall be dear friends to the last!"

More--but to the same effect--did this able and crafty villain continue
to address to Caroline, whom he alternately soothed, irritated,
flattered, and revolted. Love him she certainly did, as far as love in
her could extend; but perhaps his rank, his reputation, had served
to win her affection; and; not knowing his embarrassments, she had
encouraged a worldly hope that if Evelyn should reject his hand it
might be offered to her. Under this impression she had trifled, she had
coquetted, she had played with the serpent till it had coiled around
her; and she could not escape its fascination and its folds. She was
sincere,--she could have resigned much for Lord Vargrave; but his
picture startled and appalled her. For difficulties in a palace she
might be prepared; perhaps even for some privations in a _cottage
ornee_,--but certainly not for penury in a lodging-house! She listened
by degrees with more attention to Vargrave's description of the power
and homage that would be hers if she could secure Lord Doltimore; she
listened, and was in part consoled. But the thought of Evelyn again
crossed her; and perhaps with natural jealousy was mingled some
compunction at the fate to which Lord Vargrave thus coldly appeared to
condemn one so lovely and so innocent.

"But do not, Vargrave," she said, "do not be too sanguine; Evelyn may
reject you. She does not see you with my eyes; it is only a sense of
honour that, as yet, forbids her openly to refuse the fulfilment of an
engagement from which I know that she shrinks; and if she does refuse,
and you be free,--and I another's--"

"Even in that case," interrupted Vargrave, "I must turn to the Golden
Idol; my rank and name must buy me an heiress, if not so endowed as
Evelyn, wealthy enough, at least, to take from my wheels the drag-chain
of disreputable debt. But Evelyn--I will not doubt of her! her heart is
still unoccupied!"

"True; as yet her affections are not engaged."

"And this Maltravers--she is romantic, I fancy--did he seem captivated
by her beauty or her fortune?"

"No, indeed, I think not; he has been very little with us of late. He
talked to her more as to a child,--there is a disparity of years."

"I am many years older than Maltravers," muttered Vargrave, moodily.

"You--but your _manner_ is livelier, and, therefore, younger!"

"Fair flatterer! Maltravers does not love me: I fear his report of my
character--"

"I never heard him speak of you, Vargrave; and I will do Evelyn the
justice to say, that precisely as she does not love she esteems and
respects you."

"Esteems! respects! these are the feelings for a prudent Hymen," said
Vargrave, with a smile. "But, hark! I don't hear the billiard-balls;
they may find us here,--we had better separate."



Lord Vargrave lounged into the billiard-room. The young men had just
finished playing, and were about to visit Thunderer, who had won the
race, and was now the property of Lord Doltimore.

Vargrave accompanied them to the stables; and after concealing his
ignorance of horseflesh as well as he could, beneath a profusion of
compliments on fore-hand, hind-quarters, breeding, bone, substance, and
famous points, he contrived to draw Doltimore into the courtyard, while
Colonel Legard remained in converse high with the head groom.

"Doltimore, I leave Knaresdean to-morrow; you go to London, I suppose?
Will you take a little packet for me to the Home Office?"

"Certainly, when I go; but I think of staying a few days with Legard's
uncle--the old admiral; he has a hunting-box in the neighbourhood, and
has asked us both over."

"Oh, I can detect the attraction; but certainly it is a fair one, the
handsomest girl in the county; pity she has no money."

"I don't care for money," said Lord Doltimore, colouring, and settling
his chin in his neckcloth; "but you are mistaken; I have no thoughts
that way. Miss Merton is a very fine girl, but I doubt much if she cares
for me. I would never marry any woman who was not very much in love with
me." And Lord Doltimore laughed rather foolishly.

"You are more modest than clear-sighted," said Vargrave, smiling; "but
mark my words,--I predict that the beauty of next season will be a
certain Caroline Lady Doltimore."

The conversation dropped.



"I think that will be settled well," said Vargrave to himself, as he was
dressing for dinner. "Caroline will manage Doltimore, and I shall manage
one vote in the Lords and three in the Commons. I have already talked
him into proper politics; a trifle all this, to be sure: but I had
nothing else to amuse me, and one must never lose an occasion. Besides,
Doltimore is rich, and rich friends are always useful. I have Caroline,
too, in my power, and she may be of service with respect to this Evelyn,
who, instead of loving, I half hate: she has crossed my path, robbed me
of wealth; and now, if she does refuse me--but no, I will not think of
_that_!"



CHAPTER IX.

  OUT of our reach the gods have laid
    Of time to come the event;
  And laugh to see the fools afraid
    Of what the knaves invent.--SEDLEY, _from Lycophron_.

THE next day Caroline returned to the rectory in Lady Raby's carriage;
and two hours after her arrival came Lord Vargrave. Mr. Merton had
secured the principal persons in the neighbourhood to meet a guest so
distinguished, and Lord Vargrave, bent on shining in the eyes of Evelyn,
charmed all with his affability and wit. Evelyn, he thought, seemed
pale and dispirited. He pertinaciously devoted himself to her all the
evening. Her ripening understanding was better able than heretofore to
appreciate his abilities; yet, inwardly, she drew comparisons between
his conversation and that of Maltravers, not to the advantage of the
former. There was much that amused but nothing that interested in Lord
Vargrave's fluent ease. When he attempted sentiment, the vein was hard
and hollow; he was only at home on worldly topics. Caroline's spirits
were, as usual in society, high, but her laugh seemed forced, and her
eye absent.

The next day, after breakfast, Lord Vargrave walked alone to Burleigh.
As he crossed the copse that bordered the park, a large Persian
greyhound sprang towards him, barking loudly; and, lifting his eyes, he
perceived the form of a man walking slowly along one of the paths that
intersected the wood. He recognized Maltravers. They had not till then
encountered since their meeting a few weeks before Florence's death; and
a pang of conscience came across the schemer's cold heart. Years rolled
away from the past; he recalled the young, generous, ardent man, whom,
ere the character or career of either had been developed, he had called
his friend. He remembered their wild adventures and gay follies, in
climes where they had been all in all to each other; and the beardless
boy, whose heart and purse were ever open to him, and to whose very
errors of youth and inexperienced passion he, the elder and the wiser,
had led and tempted, rose before him in contrast to the grave and
melancholy air of the battled and solitary man, who now slowly
approached him,--the man whose proud career he had served to thwart,
whose heart his schemes had prematurely soured, whose best years had
been consumed in exile,--a sacrifice to the grave which a selfish and
dishonourable villany had prepared! Cesarini, the inmate of a mad-house,
Florence in her shroud,--such were the visions the sight of Maltravers
conjured up. And to the soul which the unwonted and momentary remorse
awakened, a boding voice whispered, "And thinkest thou that thy schemes
shall prosper, and thy aspirations succeed?" For the first time in
his life, perhaps, the unimaginative Vargrave felt the mystery of a
presentiment of warning and of evil.

The two men met, and with an emotion which seemed that of honest and
real feeling, Lumley silently held out his hand, and half turned away
his head.

"Lord Vargrave!" said Maltravers, with an equal agitation, "it is long
since we have encountered."

"Long,--very long," answered Lumley, striving hard to regain his
self-possession; "years have changed us both; but I trust it has still
left in you, as it has in me, the remembrance of our old friendship."

Maltravers was silent, and Lord Vargrave continued,--

"You do not answer me, Maltravers. Can political differences, opposite
pursuits, or the mere lapse of time, have sufficed to create an
irrevocable gulf between us? Why may we not be friends again?"

"Friends!" echoed Maltravers; "at our age that word is not so lightly
spoken, that tie is not so unthinkingly formed, as when we were younger
men."

"But may not the old tie be renewed?"

"Our ways in life are different; and were I to scan your motives and
career with the scrutinizing eyes of friendship, it might only serve to
separate us yet more. I am sick of the great juggle of ambition, and
I have no sympathy left for those who creep into the pint-bottle, or
swallow the naked sword."

"If you despise the exhibition, why, then, let us laugh at it together,
for I am as cynical as yourself."

"Ah," said Maltravers with a smile, half mournful, half bitter, "but are
you not one of the Impostors?"

"Who ought better to judge of the Eleusiniana than one of the Initiated?
But seriously, why on earth should political differences part private
friendship? Thank Heaven! such has never been my maxim."

"If the differences be the result of honest convictions on either
side,--no; but are you honest, Lumley?"

"Faith, I have got into the habit of thinking so; and habit's a second
nature. However, I dare say we shall yet meet in the arena, so I must
not betray my weak points. How is it, Maltravers, that they see so
little of you at the rectory? You are a great favourite there. Have you
any living that Charley Merton could hold with his own? You shake your
head. And what think you of Miss Cameron, my intended?"

"You speak lightly. Perhaps you--"

"Feel deeply,--you were going to say. I do. In the hand of my ward,
Evelyn Cameron, I trust to obtain at once the domestic happiness to
which I have as yet been a stranger, and the wealth necessary to my
career."

Lord Vargrave continued, after a short pause, "Though my avocations have
separated us so much, I have no doubt of her steady affection,--and, I
may add, of her sense of honour. She alone can repair to me what else
had been injustice in my uncle." He then proceeded to repeat the moral
obligations which the late lord had imposed on Evelyn,--obligations that
he greatly magnified. Maltravers listened attentively, and said little.

"And these obligations being fairly considered," added Vargrave, with a
smile, "I think, even had I rivals, that they could scarcely in honour
attempt to break an existing engagement."

"Not while the engagement lasted," answered Maltravers; "not till one or
the other had declined to fulfil it, and therefore left both free: but
I trust it will be an alliance in which all but affection will be
forgotten; that of honour alone would be but a harsh tie."

"Assuredly," said Vargrave; and, as if satisfied with what had passed,
he turned the conversation,--praised Burleigh, spoke of county matters,
resumed his habitual gayety, though it was somewhat subdued, and
promising to call again soon, he at last took his leave.

Maltravers pursued his solitary rambles, and his commune with himself
was stern and searching.

"And so," thought he, "this prize is reserved for Vargrave! Why should
I deem him unworthy of the treasure? May he not be worthier, at all
events, than this soured temper and erring heart? And he is assured too
of her affection! Why this jealous pang? Why can the fountain within
never be exhausted? Why, through so many scenes and sufferings, have
I still retained the vain madness of my youth,--the haunting
susceptibility to love? This is my latest folly."




BOOK IV.

"A virtuous woman is man's greatest pride."--SIMONIDES.



CHAPTER I.

  ABROAD uneasy, nor content at home.
 ......
  And Wisdom shows the ill without the cure.

  HAMMOND: _Elegies_.

TWO or three days after the interview between Lord Vargrave and
Maltravers, the solitude of Burleigh was relieved by the arrival of Mr.
Cleveland. The good old gentleman, when free from attacks of the gout,
which were now somewhat more frequent than formerly, was the same
cheerful and intelligent person as ever. Amiable, urbane, accomplished,
and benevolent, there was just enough worldliness in Cleveland's nature
to make his views sensible as far as they went, but to bound their
scope. Everything he said was so rational; and yet, to an imaginative
person, his conversation was unsatisfactory, and his philosophy somewhat
chilling.

"I cannot say how pleased and surprised I am at your care of the fine
old place," said he to Maltravers, as, leaning on his cane and his
_ci-devant_ pupil's arm, he loitered observantly through the grounds; "I
see everywhere the presence of the Master."

And certainly the praise was deserved. The gardens were now in order,
the dilapidated fences were repaired, the weeds no longer encumbered
the walks. Nature was just assisted and relieved by Art, without being
oppressed by too officious a service from her handmaid. In the house
itself some suitable and appropriate repairs and decorations--with such
articles of furniture as combined modern comfort with the ancient and
picturesque shapes of a former fashion--had redeemed the mansion from
all appearance of dreariness and neglect; while still was left to
its quaint halls and chambers the character which belonged to their
architecture and associations. It was surprising how much a little
exercise of simple taste had effected.

"I am glad you approve what I have done," said Maltravers. "I know
not how it was, but the desolation of the place when I returned to it
reproached me. We contract friendship with places as with human beings,
and fancy they have claims upon us; at least, that is my weakness."

"And an amiable one it is, too,--I share it. As for me, I look upon
Temple Grove as a fond husband upon a fair wife. I am always anxious to
adorn it, and as proud of its beauty as if it could understand and thank
me for my partial admiration. When I leave you I intend going to Paris,
for the purpose of attending a sale of the pictures and effects of M.
de-----. These auctions are to me what a jeweller's shop is to a lover;
but then, Ernest, I am an old bachelor."

"And I, too, am an Arcadian," said Maltravers, with a smile.

"Ah, but you are not too old for repentance. Burleigh now requires
nothing but a mistress."

"Perhaps it may soon receive that addition. I am yet undecided whether I
shall sell it."

"Sell it! sell Burleigh!--the last memorial of your mother's ancestry!
the classic retreat of the graceful Digbys! Sell Burleigh!"

"I had almost resolved to do so when I came hither; then I forswore the
intention: now again I sometimes sorrowfully return to the idea."

"And in Heaven's name, why?"

"My old restlessness returns. Busy myself as I will here, I find the
range of action monotonous and confined. I began too soon to draw around
me the large circumference of literature and action; and the small
provincial sphere seems to me a sad going back in life. Perhaps I
should not feel this, were my home less lonely; but as it is--no,
the wanderer's ban is on me, and I again turn towards the lands of
excitement and adventure."

"I understand this, Ernest; but why is your home so solitary? You
are still at the age in which wise and congenial unions are the most
frequently formed; your temper is domestic; your easy fortune and
sobered ambition allow you to choose without reference to worldly
considerations. Look round the world, and mix with the world again, and
give Burleigh the mistress it requires."

Maltravers shook his head, and sighed.

"I do not say," continued Cleveland, wrapped in the glowing interest
of the theme, "that you should marry a mere girl, but an amiable woman,
who, like yourself, has seen something of life, and knows how to reckon
on its cares, and to be contented with its enjoyments."

"You have said enough," said Maltravers, impatiently; "an experienced
woman of the world, whose freshness of hope and heart is gone! What
a picture! No, to me there is something inexpressibly beautiful in
innocence and youth. But you say justly,--my years are not those that
would make a union with youth desirable or well suited."

"I do _not_ say that," said Cleveland, taking a pinch of snuff; "but you
should avoid great disparity of age,--not for the sake of that disparity
itself, but because with it is involved discord of temper, pursuits. A
_very_ young woman, new to the world, will not be contented with home
alone; you are at once too gentle to curb her wishes, and a little too
stern and reserved--pardon me for saying so--to be quite congenial to
very early and sanguine youth."

"It is true," said Maltravers, with a tone of voice that showed he was
struck with the remark; "but how have we fallen on this subject? let
us change it. I have no idea of marriage,--the gloomy reminiscence of
Florence Lascelles chains me to the past."

"Poor Florence, she might once have suited you; but now you are older,
and would require a calmer and more malleable temper."

"Peace, I implore you!"

The conversation was changed; and at noon Mr. Merton, who had heard of
Cleveland's arrival, called at Burleigh to renew an old acquaintance. He
invited them to pass the evening at the rectory; and Cleveland, hearing
that whist was a regular amusement, accepted the invitation for his
host and himself. But when the evening came, Maltravers pleaded
indisposition, and Cleveland was obliged to go alone.

When the old gentleman returned about midnight, he found Maltravers
awaiting him in the library; and Cleveland, having won fourteen points,
was in a very gay, conversable humour.

"You perverse hermit!" said he, "talk of solitude, indeed, with
so pleasant a family a hundred yards distant! You deserve to be
solitary,--I have no patience with you. They complain bitterly of your
desertion, and say you were, at first, the _enfant de la maison_."

"So you like the Mertons? The clergyman is sensible, but commonplace."

"A very agreeable man, despite your cynical definition, and plays a very
fair rubber. But Vargrave is a first-rate player."

"Vargrave is there still?"

"Yes, he breakfasts with us to-morrow,--he invited himself."

"Humph!"

"He played one rubber; the rest of the evening he devoted himself to the
prettiest girl I ever saw,--Miss Cameron. What a sweet face! so modest,
yet so intelligent! I talked with her a good deal during the deals in
which I cut out. I almost lost my heart to her."

"So Lord Vargrave devoted himself to Miss Cameron?"

"To be sure,--you know they are to be married soon. Merton told me so.
She is very rich. He is the luckiest fellow imaginable, that Vargrave!
But he is much too old for her: she seems to think so too. I can't
explain why I think it; but by her pretty reserved manner I saw that she
tried to keep the gay minister at a distance: but it would not do. Now,
if you were ten years younger, or Miss Cameron ten years older, you
might have had some chance of cutting out your old friend."

"So you think I also am too old for a lover?"

"For a lover of a girl of seventeen, certainly. You seem touchy on the
score of age, Ernest."

"Not I;" and Maltravers laughed.

"No? There was a young gentleman present, who, I think, Vargrave might
really find a dangerous rival,--a Colonel Legard,--one of the handsomest
men I ever saw in my life; just the style to turn a romantic young
lady's head; a mixture of the wild and the thoroughbred; black curls,
superb eyes, and the softest manners in the world. But, to be sure,
he has lived all his life in the best society. Not so his friend, Lord
Doltimore, who has a little too much of the green-room lounge and French
_cafe_ manner for my taste."

"Doltimore, Legard, names new to me; I never met them at the rectory."

"Possibly they are staying at Admiral Legard's, in the neighbourhood.
Miss Merton made their acquaintance at Knaresdean. A good old lady--the
most perfect Mrs. Grundy one would wish to meet with--who owns the
monosyllabic appellation of Hare (and who, being my partner, trumped
my king!) assured me that Lord Doltimore was desperately in love with
Caroline Merton. By the way, now, there is a young lady of a proper age
for you,--handsome and clever, too."

"You talk of antidotes to matrimony; and so Miss Cameron--"

"Oh, no more of Miss Cameron now, or I shall sit up all night; she
has half turned my head. I can't help pitying her,--married to one so
careless and worldly as Lord Vargrave, thrown so young into the whirl
of London. Poor thing! she had better have fallen in love with
Legard,--which I dare say she will do, after all. Well, good-night!"



CHAPTER II.

  PASSION, as frequently is seen,
  Subsiding, settles into spleen;
  Hence, as the plague of happy life,
  I ran away from party strife.--MATTHEW GREEN.

  Here nymphs from hollow oaks relate
  The dark decrees and will of fate.--_Ibid._

ACCORDING to his engagement, Vargrave breakfasted the next morning
at Burleigh. Maltravers at first struggled to return his familiar
cordiality with equal graciousness. Condemning himself for former and
unfounded suspicions, he wrestled against feelings which he could not
or would not analyze, but which made Lumley an unwelcome visitor, and
connected him with painful associations, whether of the present or
the past. But there were points on which the penetration of Maltravers
served to justify his prepossessions.

The conversation, chiefly sustained by Cleveland and Vargrave, fell
on public questions; and as one was opposed to the other, Vargrave's
exposition of views and motives had in them so much of the self-seeking
of the professional placeman, that they might well have offended any man
tinged by the lofty mania of political Quixotism. It was with a strange
mixture of feelings that Maltravers listened: at one moment he proudly
congratulated himself on having quitted a career where such opinions
seemed so well to prosper: at another, his better and juster sentiments
awoke the long-dormant combative faculty, and he almost longed for the
turbulent but sublime arena, in which truths are vindicated and mankind
advanced.

The interview did not serve for that renewal of intimacy which Vargrave
appeared to seek, and Maltravers rejoiced when the placeman took his
departure.

Lumley, who was about to pay a morning visit to Lord Doltimore, had
borrowed Mr. Merton's stanhope, as being better adapted than any
statelier vehicle to get rapidly through the cross-roads which led to
Admiral Legard's house; and as he settled himself in the seat, with his
servant by his side, he said laughingly, "I almost fancy myself naughty
master Lumley again in this young-man-kind of two-wheeled cockle-boat:
not dignified, but rapid, eh?"

And Lumley's face, as he spoke, had in it so much of frank gayety, and
his manner was so simple, that Maltravers could with difficulty fancy
him the same man who, five minutes before, had been uttering sentiments
that might have become the oldest-hearted intriguer whom the hot-bed of
ambition ever reared.

As soon as Lumley was gone, Maltravers left Cleveland alone to write
letters (Cleveland was an exemplary and voluminous correspondent) and
strolled with his dogs into the village. The effect which the presence
of Maltravers produced among his peasantry was one that seldom failed
to refresh and soothe his more bitter and disturbed thoughts. They
had gradually (for the poor are quick-sighted) become sensible of his
_justice_,--a finer quality than many that seem more amiable. They felt
that his real object was to make them better and happier; and they had
learned to see that the means he adopted generally advanced the end.
Besides, if sometimes stern, he was never capricious or unreasonable;
and then, too, he would listen patiently and advise kindly. They were
a little in awe of him, but the awe only served to make them more
industrious and orderly,--to stimulate the idle man, to reclaim
the drunkard. He was one of the favourers of the small-allotment
system,--not, indeed, as panacea, but as one excellent stimulant to
exertion and independence; and his chosen rewards for good conduct were
in such comforts as served to awaken amongst those hitherto passive,
dogged, and hopeless a desire to better and improve their condition.
Somehow or other, without direct alms, the goodwife found that the
little savings in the cracked teapot or the old stocking had greatly
increased since the squire's return, while her husband came home from
his moderate cups at the alehouse more sober and in better temper.
Having already saved something was a great reason why he should save
more. The new school, too, was so much better conducted than the old
one; the children actually liked going there; and now and then there
were little village feasts connected with the schoolroom; play and work
were joint associations.

And Maltravers looked into his cottages, and looked at the
allotment-ground; and it was pleasant to him to say to himself, "I am
not altogether without use in life." But as he pursued his lonely walk,
and the glow of self-approval died away with the scenes that called it
forth, the cloud again settled on his brow; and again he felt that in
solitude the passions feed upon the heart. As he thus walked along the
green lane, and the insect life of summer rustled audibly among the
shadowy hedges and along the thick grass that sprang up on either side,
he came suddenly upon a little group that arrested all his attention.

It was a woman, clad in rags, bleeding, and seemingly insensible,
supported by the overseer of the parish and a labourer.

"What is the matter?" asked Maltravers.

"A poor woman has been knocked down and run over by a gentleman in a
gig, your honour," replied the overseer. "He stopped, half an hour ago,
at my house to tell me that she was lying on the road; and he has given
me two sovereigns for her, your honour. But, poor cretur! she was too
heavy for me to carry her, and I was forced to leave her and call Tom to
help me."

"The gentleman might have stayed to see what were the consequences
of his own act," muttered Maltravers, as he examined the wound in the
temple, whence the blood flowed copiously.

"He said he was in a great hurry, your honour," said the village
official, overhearing Maltravers. "I think it was one of the grand folks
up at the parsonage; for I know it was Mr. Merton's bay horse,--he is a
hot 'un!"

"Does the poor woman live in the neighbourhood? Do you know her?" asked
Maltravers, turning from the contemplation of this new instance of
Vargrave's selfishness of character.

"No; the old body seems quite a stranger here,--a tramper, or beggar, I
think, sir. But it won't be a settlement if we take her in; and we can
carry her to the Chequers, up the village, your honour."

"What is the nearest house,--your own?"

"Yes; but we be so busy now!"

"She shall not go to your house, and be neglected; and as for the
public-house, it is too noisy: we must move her to the Hall."

"Your honour!" ejaculated the overseer, opening his eyes.

"It is not very far; she is severely hurt. Get a hurdle, lay a mattress
on it. Make haste, both of you; I will wait here till you return."

The poor woman was carefully placed on the grass by the road-side,
and Maltravers supported her head, while the men hastened to obey his
orders.



CHAPTER III.

  ALSE from that forked hill, the boasted seat
  Of studious Peace and mild Philosophy,
  Indignant murmurs mote be heard to threat.--WEST.

MR. CLEVELAND wanted to enrich one of his letters with a quotation from
Ariosto, which he but imperfectly remembered. He had seen the book he
wished to refer to in the little study the day before; and he quitted
the library to search for it.

As he was tumbling over some volumes that lay piled on the
writing-table, he felt a student's curiosity to discover what now
constituted his host's favourite reading. He was surprised to observe
that the greater portion of the works that, by the doubled leaf and the
pencilled reference, seemed most frequently consulted, were not of a
literary nature,--they were chiefly scientific; and astronomy seemed the
chosen science. He then remembered that he had heard Maltravers speaking
to a builder, employed on the recent repairs, on the subject of an
observatory. "This is very strange," thought Cleveland; "he gives up
literature, the rewards of which are in his reach, and turns to science,
at an age too late to discipline his mind to its austere training."

Alas! Cleveland did not understand that there are times in life when
imaginative minds seek to numb and to blunt imagination. Still less did
he feel that, when we perversely refuse to apply our active faculties to
the catholic interests of the world, they turn morbidly into channels of
research the least akin to their real genius. By the collision of
minds alone does each mind discover what is its proper product: left to
ourselves, our talents become but intellectual eccentricities.

Some scattered papers, in the handwriting of Maltravers, fell from one
of the volumes. Of these, a few were but algebraical calculations, or
short scientific suggestions, the value of which Mr. Cleveland's studies
did not enable him to ascertain; but in others they were wild snatches
of mournful and impassioned verse, which showed that the old vein of
poetry still flowed, though no longer to the daylight. These verses
Cleveland thought himself justified in glancing over; they seemed to
portray a state of mind which deeply interested, and greatly saddened
him. They expressed, indeed, a firm determination to bear up against
both the memory and the fear of ill; but mysterious and hinted allusions
here and there served to denote some recent and yet existent struggle,
revealed by the heart only to the genius. In these partial and imperfect
self-communings and confessions, there was the evidence of the pining
affections, the wasted life, the desolate hearth of the lonely man. Yet
so calm was Maltravers himself, even to his early friend, that Cleveland
knew not what to think of the reality of the feelings painted. Had that
fervid and romantic spirit been again awakened by a living object? If
so, where was the object found? The dates affixed to the verses were
most recent. But whom had Maltravers seen? Cleveland's thoughts turned
to Caroline Merton, to Evelyn; but when he had spoken of both, nothing
in the countenance, the manner, of Maltravers had betrayed emotion. And
once the heart of Maltravers had so readily betrayed itself! Cleveland
knew not how pride, years, and suffering school the features, and
repress the outward signs of what pass within. While thus engaged, the
door of the study opened abruptly, and the servant announced Mr. Merton.

"A thousand pardons," said the courteous rector. "I fear we disturb you;
but Admiral Legard and Lord Doltimore, who called on us this morning,
were so anxious to see Burleigh, I thought I might take the liberty. We
have come over quite in a large party,--taken the place by storm. Mr.
Maltravers is out, I hear; but you will let us see the house. My allies
are already in the hall, examining the armour."

Cleveland, ever sociable and urbane, answered suitably, and went with
Mr. Merton into the hall, where Caroline, her little sisters, Evelyn,
Lord Doltimore, Admiral Legard, and his nephew were assembled.

"Very proud to be my host's representative and your guide," said
Cleveland. "Your visit, Lord Doltimore, is indeed an agreeable surprise.
Lord Vargrave left us an hour or so since to call on you at Admiral
Legard's: we buy our pleasure with his disappointment."

"It is very unfortunate," said the admiral, a bluff, harsh-looking old
gentleman; "but we were not aware, till we saw Mr. Merton, of the honour
Lord Vargrave has done us. I can't think how we missed him on the road."

"My dear uncle," said Colonel Legard, in a peculiarly sweet and
agreeable tone of voice, "you forget we came three miles round by the
high road; and Mr. Merton says that Lord Vargrave took the short cut by
Langley End. My uncle, Mr. Cleveland, never feels in safety upon land,
unless the road is as wide as the British Channel, and the horses go
before the wind at the rapid pace of two knots and a half an hour!"

"I just wish I had you at sea, Mr. Jackanapes," said the admiral,
looking grimly at his handsome nephew, while he shook his cane at him.

The nephew smiled; and, falling back, conversed with Evelyn.

The party were now shown over the house; and Lord Doltimore was loud in
its praises. It was like a chateau he had once hired in Normandy,--it
had a French character; those old chairs were in excellent taste,--quite
the style of Francis the First.

"I know no man I respect more than Mr. Maltravers," quoth the admiral.
"Since he has been amongst us this time, he has been a pattern to us
country gentlemen. He would make an excellent colleague for Sir John. We
really must get him to stand against that young puppy who is member of
the House of Commons only because his father is a peer, and never votes
more than twice a session."

Mr. Merton looked grave.

"I wish to Heaven you could persuade him to stay amongst you," said
Cleveland. "He has half taken it into his head to part with Burleigh!"

"Part with Burleigh!" exclaimed Evelyn, turning abruptly from the
handsome colonel, in whose conversation she had hitherto seemed
absorbed.

"My very ejaculation when I heard him say so, my dear young lady."

"I wish he would," said Lord Doltimore hastily, and glancing towards
Caroline. "I should much like to buy it. What do you think would be the
purchase-money?"

"Don't talk so cold-bloodedly," said the admiral, letting the point of
his cane fall with great emphasis on the floor. "I can't bear to see old
families deserting their old places,--quite wicked. You buy Burleigh!
have not you got a country seat of your own, my lord? Go and live there,
and take Mr. Maltravers for your model,--you could not have a better."

Lord Doltimore sneered, coloured, settled his neckcloth, and turning
round to Colonel Legard, whispered, "Legard, your good uncle is a bore."

Legard looked a little offended, and made no reply.

"But," said Caroline, coming to the relief of her admirer, "if Mr.
Maltravers will sell the place, surely he could not have a better
successor."

"He sha'n't sell the place, ma'am, and that's poz!" cried the admiral.
"The whole county shall sign a round-robin to tell him it's a shame; and
if any one dares to buy it we'll send him to Coventry."

Miss Merton laughed, but looked round the old wainscot walls with
unusual interest; she thought it would be a fine thing to be Lady of
Burleigh!

"And what is that picture so carefully covered up?" said the admiral, as
they now stood in the library.

"The late Mrs. Maltravers, Ernest's mother," replied Cleveland, slowly.
"He dislikes it to be shown--to strangers: the other is a Digby."

Evelyn looked towards the veiled portrait, and thought of her first
interview with Maltravers; but the soft voice of Colonel Legard murmured
in her ear; and her revery was broken.

Cleveland eyed the colonel, and muttered to himself, "Vargrave should
keep a sharp look-out."

They had now finished their round of the show-apartments--which indeed
had little but their antiquity and old portraits to recommend them--and
were in a lobby at the back of the house, communicating with a
courtyard, two sides of which were occupied with the stables. The sight
of the stables reminded Caroline of the Arab horses; and at the word
"horses" Lord Doltimore seized Legard's arm and carried him off to
inspect the animals. Caroline, her father, and the admiral followed. Mr.
Cleveland happened not to have on his walking-shoes; and the flagstones
in the courtyard looked damp; and Mr. Cleveland, like most old
bachelors, was prudently afraid of cold; so he excused himself, and
stayed behind. He was talking to Evelyn about the Digbys, and full of
anecdotes about Sir Kenelm at the moment the rest departed so abruptly;
and Evelyn was interested, so she insisted on keeping him company.

The old gentleman was flattered; he thought it excellent breeding
in Miss Cameron. The children ran out to renew acquaintance with the
peacock, who, perched on an old stirrup-stone, was sunning his gay
plumage in the noon-day.

"It is astonishing," said Cleveland, "how certain family features are
transmitted from generation to generation! Maltravers has still
the forehead and eyebrows of the Digbys,--that peculiar, brooding,
thoughtful forehead, which you observed in the picture of Sir Kenelm.
Once, too, he had much the same dreaming character of mind, but he
has lost that, in some measure at least. He has fine qualities, Miss
Cameron,--I have known him since he was born. I trust his career is not
yet closed; could he but form ties that would bind him to England, I
should indulge in higher expectations than I did even when the wild boy
turned half the heads in Gottingen.

"But we were talking of family portraits: there is one in the
entrance-hall, which perhaps you have not observed; it is half
obliterated by damp and time, yet it is of a remarkable personage,
connected with Maltravers by ancestral intermarriages,--Lord Falkland,
the Falkland of Clarendon; a man weak in character, but made most
interesting by history,--utterly unfitted for the severe ordeal of those
stormy times; sighing for peace when his whole soul should have been in
war; and repentant alike whether with the Parliament or the king,
but still a personage of elegant and endearing associations; a
student-soldier, with a high heart and a gallant spirit. Come and look
at his features,--homely and worn, but with a characteristic air of
refinement and melancholy thought."

Thus running on, the agreeable old gentleman drew Evelyn into the outer
hall. Upon arriving there, through a small passage, which opened upon
the hall, they were surprised to find the old housekeeper and another
female servant standing by a rude kind of couch on which lay the form of
the poor woman described in the last chapter. Maltravers and two other
men were also there; and Maltravers himself was giving orders to his
servants, while he leaned over the sufferer, who was now conscious both
of pain and the service rendered to her. As Evelyn stopped abruptly, and
in surprise, opposite and almost at the foot of the homely litter, the
woman raised herself up on one arm, and gazed at her with a wild stare;
then muttering some incoherent words which appeared to betoken delirium,
she sank back, and was again insensible.



CHAPTER IV.

  HENCE oft to win some stubborn maid,
    Still does the wanton god assume
  The martial air, the gay cockade,
    The sword, the shoulder-knot, and plume.

  MARRIOTT.

THE hall was cleared, the sufferer had been removed, and Maltravers was
left alone with Cleveland and Evelyn.

He simply and shortly narrated the adventure of the morning; but he did
not mention that Vargrave had been the cause of the injury his new guest
had sustained. Now this event had served to make a mutual and kindred
impression on Evelyn and Maltravers. The humanity of the latter, natural
and commonplace as it was, was an endearing recollection to Evelyn,
precisely as it showed that his cold theory of disdain towards the mass
did not affect his actual conduct towards individuals. On the other
hand, Maltravers had perhaps been yet more impressed with the prompt and
ingenuous sympathy which Evelyn had testified towards the sufferer: it
had so evidently been her first gracious and womanly impulse to hasten
to the side of this humble stranger. In that impulse, Maltravers himself
had been almost forgotten; and as the poor woman lay pale and lifeless,
and the young Evelyn bent over her in beautiful compassion, Maltravers
thought she had never seemed so lovely, so irresistible,--in fact, pity
in woman is a great beautifier.

As Maltravers finished his short tale, Evelyn's eyes were fixed upon him
with such frank and yet such soft approval, that the look went
straight to his heart. He quickly turned away, and abruptly changed the
conversation.

"But how long have you been here, Miss Cameron,--and your companions?"

"We are again intruders; but this time it was not my fault."

"No," said Cleveland, "for a wonder it was male, and not lady-like
curiosity that trespassed on Bluebeard's chamber. But, however, to
soften your resentment, know that Miss Cameron has brought you a
purchaser for Burleigh. Now, then, we can test the sincerity of your
wish to part with it. I assure you, meanwhile, that Miss Cameron was as
much shocked at the idea as I was. Were you not?"

"But you surely have no intention of selling Burleigh?" said Evelyn,
anxiously.

"I fear I do not know my own mind."

"Well," said Cleveland, "here comes your tempter. Lord Doltimore, let me
introduce Mr. Maltravers."

Lord Doltimore bowed.

"Been admiring your horses, Mr. Maltravers. I never saw anything so
perfect as the black one; may I ask where you bought him?"

"It was a present to me," answered Maltravers.

"A present?"

"Yes, from one who would not have sold that horse for a king's
ransom,--an old Arab chief, with whom I formed a kind of friendship in
the desert. A wound disabled him from riding, and he bestowed the horse
on me, with as much solemn tenderness for the gift as if he had given me
his daughter in marriage."

"I think of travelling in the East," said Lord Doltimore, with much
gravity: "I suppose nothing will induce you to sell the black horse?"

"Lord Doltimore!" said Maltravers, in a tone of lofty surprise.

"I do not care for the price," continued the young nobleman, a little
disconcerted.

"No; I never sell any horse that has once learned to know me. I would
as soon think of selling a friend. In the desert, one's horse is one's
friend. I am almost an Arab myself in these matters."

"But talking of sale and barter reminds me of Burleigh," said Cleveland,
maliciously. "Lord Doltimore is a universal buyer. He covets all your
goods: he will take the house, if he can't have the stables."

"I only mean," said Lord Doltimore, rather peevishly, "that if you wish
to part with Burleigh, I should like to have the option of purchase."

"I will remember it, if I determine to sell the place," answered
Maltravers, smiling gravely; "at present I am undecided."

He turned away towards Evelyn as he spoke, and almost started to observe
that she was joined by a stranger, whose approach he had not before
noticed,--and that stranger a man of such remarkable personal
advantages, that, had Maltravers been in Vargrave's position, he might
reasonably have experienced a pang of jealous apprehension. Slightly
above the common height; slender, yet strongly formed; set off by
every advantage of dress, of air, of the nameless tone and pervading
refinement that sometimes, though not always, springs from early and
habitual intercourse with the most polished female society,--Colonel
Legard, at the age of eight and twenty, had acquired a reputation for
beauty almost as popular and as well known as that which men usually
acquire by mental qualifications. Yet there was nothing effeminate in
his countenance, the symmetrical features of which were made masculine
and expressive by the rich olive of the complexion, and the close jetty
curls of the Antinous-like hair.

They seemed, as they there stood--Evelyn and Legard--so well suited to
each other in personal advantages, their different styles so happily
contrasted; and Legard, at the moment, was regarding her with such
respectful admiration, and whispering compliment to her in so subdued
a tone, that the dullest observer might have ventured a prophecy by no
means agreeable to the hopes of Lumley Lord Vargrave.

But a feeling or fear of this nature was not that which occurred to
Maltravers, or dictated his startled exclamation of surprise.

Legard looked up as he heard the exclamation, and saw Maltravers,
whose back had hitherto been turned towards him. He, too, was evidently
surprised, and seemingly confused; the colour mounted to his cheek, and
then left it pale.

"Colonel Legard," said Cleveland, "a thousand apologies for my neglect:
I really did not observe you enter,--you came round by the front door, I
suppose. Let me make you acquainted with Mr. Maltravers."

Legard bowed low.

"We have met before," said he, in embarrassed accents: "at Venice, I
think!"

Maltravers inclined his head rather stiffly at first, but then, as if
moved by a second impulse, held out his hand cordially.

"Oh, Mr. Ernest, here you are!" cried Sophy, bounding into the hall,
followed by Mr. Merton, the old admiral, Caroline, and Cecilia.

The interruption seemed welcome and opportune. The admiral, with
blunt cordiality, expressed his pleasure at being made known to Mr.
Maltravers.

The conversation grew general; refreshments were proffered and declined;
the visit drew to its close.

It so happened that as the guests departed, Evelyn, from whose side
the constant colonel had insensibly melted away, lingered last,--save,
indeed, the admiral, who was discussing with Cleveland a new specific
for the gout. And as Maltravers stood on the steps, Evelyn turned to him
with all her beautiful _naivete_ of mingled timidity and kindness, and
said,--

"And are we really never to see you again; never to hear again your
tales of Egypt and Arabia; never to talk over Tasso and Dante? No books,
no talk, no disputes, no quarrels? What have we done? I thought we had
made it up,--and yet you are still unforgiving. Give me a good scold,
and be friends!"

"Friends! you have no friend more anxious, more devoted than I am.
Young, rich, fascinating as you are, you will carve no impression on
human hearts deeper than that you have graven here!"

Carried away by the charm of her childlike familiarity and enchanting
sweetness, Maltravers had said more than he intended; yet his eyes, his
emotion, said more than his words.

Evelyn coloured deeply, and her whole manner changed. However, she
turned away, and saying, with a forced gayety, "Well, then, you will not
desert us; we shall see you once more?" hurried down the steps to join
her companions.



CHAPTER V.

  SEE how the skilful lover spreads his toils.--STILLINGFLEET.

THE party had not long returned to the rectory, and the admiral's
carriage was ordered, when Lord Vargrave made his appearance. He
descanted with gay good-humour on his long drive, the bad roads, and
his disappointment at the _contretemps_ that awaited him; then, drawing
aside Colonel Legard, who seemed unusually silent and abstracted, he
said to him,--

"My dear colonel, my visit this morning was rather to you than to
Doltimore. I confess that I should like to see your abilities enlisted
on the side of the Government; and knowing that the post of Storekeeper
to the Ordnance will be vacant in a day or two by the promotion of
Mr.-----, I wrote to secure the refusal. To-day's post brings me the
answer. I offer the place to you; and I trust, before long, to
procure you also a seat in parliament. But you must start for London
immediately."

A week ago, and Legard's utmost ambition would have been amply gratified
by this post; he now hesitated.

"My dear lord," said he, "I cannot say how grateful I feel for your
kindness; but--but--"

"Enough; no thanks, my dear Legard. Can you go to town to-morrow?"

"Indeed," said Legard, "I fear not; I must consult my uncle."

"I can answer for him; I sounded him before I wrote. Reflect! You
are not rich, my dear Legard; it is an excellent opening: a seat in
parliament, too! Why, what can be your reason for hesitation?"

There was something meaning and inquisitive in the tone of voice in
which this question was put that brought the colour to the colonel's
cheek. He knew not well what to reply; and he began, too, to think that
he ought not to refuse the appointment. Nay, would his uncle, on whom
he was dependent, consent to such a refusal? Lord Vargrave saw the
irresolution, and proceeded. He spent ten minutes in combating every
scruple, every objection: he placed all the advantages of the post, real
or imaginary, in every conceivable point of view before the colonel's
eyes; he sought to flatter, to wheedle, to coax, to weary him into
accepting it; and he at length partially succeeded. The colonel
petitioned for three days' consideration, which Vargrave reluctantly
acceded to; and Legard then stepped into his uncle's carriage, with the
air rather of a martyr than a maiden placeman.

"Aha!" said Vargrave, chuckling to himself as he took a turn in the
grounds, "I have got rid of that handsome knave; and now I shall have
Evelyn all to myself!"



CHAPTER VI.

  I AM forfeited to eternal disgrace if you do not commiserate.
 ......
  Go to, then, raise, recover.--BEN JONSON: _Poetaster_.

THE next morning Admiral Legard and his nephew were conversing in the
little cabin consecrated by the name of the admiral's "own room."

"Yes," said the veteran, "it would be moonshine and madness not to
accept Vargrave's offer; though one can see through such a millstone as
that with half an eye. His lordship is jealous of such a fine, handsome
young fellow as you are,--and very justly. But as long as he is under
the same roof with Miss Cameron, you will have no opportunity to
pay your court; when he goes, you can always manage to be in her
neighbourhood; and then, you know--puppy that you are--her business will
be very soon settled." And the admiral eyed the handsome colonel with
grim fondness.

Legard sighed.

"Have you any commands at -----?" said he; "I am just going to canter
over there before Doltimore is up."

"Sad lazy dog, your friend."

"I shall be back by twelve."

"What are you going to ----- for?"

"Brookes, the farrier, has a little spaniel,--King Charles's breed. Miss
Cameron is fond of dogs. I can send it to her, with my compliments,--it
will be a sort of leave-taking."

"Sly rogue; ha, ha, ha! d-----d sly; ha, ha!" and the admiral punched
the slender waist of his nephew, and laughed till the tears ran down his
cheeks.

"Good-by, sir."

"Stop, George; I forgot to ask you a question; you never told me you
knew Mr. Maltravers. Why don't you cultivate his acquaintance?"

"We met at Venice accidentally. I did not know his name then; he left
just as I arrived. As you say, I ought to cultivate his acquaintance."

"Fine character!"

"Very!" said Legard, with energy, as he abruptly quitted the room.

George Legard was an orphan. His father--the admiral's elder
brother--had been a spendthrift man of fashion, with a tolerably large
unentailed estate. He married a duke's daughter without a sixpence.
Estates are troublesome,--Mr. Legard's was sold. On the purchase-money
the happy pair lived for some years in great comfort, when Mr. Legard
died of a brain fever; and his disconsolate widow found herself alone
in the world with a beautiful little curly-headed boy, and an annuity
of one thousand a year, for which her settlement had been exchanged.
All the rest of the fortune was gone,--a discovery not made till Mr.
Legard's death. Lady Louisa did not long survive the loss of her husband
and her station in society; her income of course died with herself. Her
only child was brought up in the house of his grandfather, the duke,
till he was of age to hold the office of king's page; thence, as
is customary, he was promoted to a commission in the Guards. To the
munificent emoluments of his pay, the ducal family liberally added
an allowance of two hundred a year; upon which income Cornet Legard
contrived to get very handsomely in debt. The extraordinary beauty
of his person, his connections, and his manners obtained him all the
celebrity that fashion can bestow; but poverty is a bad thing. Luckily,
at this time, his uncle the admiral returned from sea, to settle for the
rest of his life in England.

Hitherto, the admiral had taken no notice of George. He himself had
married a merchant's daughter with a fair portion; and had been blessed
with two children, who monopolized all his affection. But there seemed
some mortality in the Legard family; in one year after returning to
England and settling in B-----shire, the admiral found himself wifeless
and childless. He then turned to his orphan nephew; and soon became
fonder of him than he had ever been of his own children. The admiral,
though in easy circumstances, was not wealthy; nevertheless, he advanced
the money requisite for George's rise in the army, and doubled the
allowance bestowed by the duke. His grace heard of this generosity, and
discovered that he himself had a very large family growing up; that the
marquess was going to be married, and required an increase of income;
that he had already behaved most handsomely to his nephew; and the
result of this discovery was that the duke withdrew the two hundred a
year. Legard, however, who looked on his uncle as an exhaustless mine,
went on breaking hearts and making debts--till one morning he woke in
the Bench. The admiral was hastily summoned to London. He arrived;
paid off the duns--a kindness which seriously embarrassed him--swore,
scolded, and cried; and finally insisted that Legard should give up
that d-----d coxcomb regiment, in which he was now captain, retire on
half-pay, and learn economy and a change of habits on the Continent.

The admiral, a rough but good-natured man on the whole, had two or three
little peculiarities. In the first place, he piqued himself on a sort of
John Bull independence; was a bit of a Radical (a strange anomaly in an
admiral)--which was owing, perhaps, to two or three young lords having
been put over his head in the earlier part of his career; and he made
it a point with his nephew (of whose affection he was jealous) to
break with those fine grand connections, who plunged him into a sea of
extravagance, and then never threw him a rope to save him from drowning.

In the second place, without being stingy, the admiral had a good deal
of economy in his disposition. He was not a man to allow his nephew to
ruin him. He had an extraordinarily old-fashioned horror of gambling,--a
polite habit of George's; and he declared positively that his nephew
must, while a bachelor, learn to live upon seven hundred a year.
Thirdly, the admiral could be a very stern, stubborn, passionate old
brute; and when he coolly told George, "Harkye, you young puppy, if you
get into debt again--if you exceed the very handsome allowance I make
you--I shall just cut you off with a shilling," George was fully aware
that his uncle was one who would rigidly keep his word.

However, it was something to be out of debt, and one of the handsomest
men of his age; and George Legard, whose rank in the Guards made him a
colonel in the line, left England tolerably contented with the state of
affairs.

Despite the foibles of his youth, George Legard had many high and
generous qualities. Society had done its best to spoil a fine and candid
disposition, with abilities far above mediocrity; but society had only
partially succeeded. Still, unhappily, dissipation had grown a habit
with him; all his talents were of a nature that brought a ready return.
At his age, it was but natural that the praise of _salons_ should retain
all its sweetness.

In addition to those qualities which please the softer sex, Legard was a
good whist player, superb at billiards, famous as a shot, unrivalled
as a horseman,--in fact, an accomplished man, "who did everything so
devilish well!" These accomplishments did not stand him in much stead
in Italy; and, though with reluctance and remorse, he took again to
gambling,--he really _had_ nothing else to do.

In Venice there was, one year, established a society somewhat on the
principle of the _salon_ at Paris. Some rich Venetians belonged to it;
but it was chiefly for the convenience of foreigners,--French, English,
and Austrians. Here there was select gaming in one room, while another
apartment served the purposes of a club. Many who never played belonged
to this society; but still they were not the _habitues_.

Legard played: he won at first, then he lost, then he won again; it was
a pleasant excitement. One night, after winning largely at _roulette_,
he sat down to play _ecarte_ with a Frenchman of high rank. Legard
played well at this, as at all scientific games; he thought he should
make a fortune out of the Frenchman. The game excited much interest; the
crowd gathered round the table; bets ran high; the vanity of Legard,
as well as his interest, was implicated in the conflict. It was soon
evident that the Frenchman played as well as the Englishman. The stakes,
at first tolerably high, were doubled. Legard betted freely. Cards went
against him; he lost much, lost all that he had, lost more than he had,
lost several hundreds, which he promised to pay the next morning. The
table was broken up, the spectators separated. Amongst the latter had
been one Englishman, introduced into the club for the first time that
night. He had neither played nor betted, but had observed the game with
a quiet and watchful interest. This Englishman lodged at the same hotel
as Legard. He was at Venice only for a day; the promised sight of a file
of English newspapers had drawn him to the club; the general excitement
around had attracted him to the table; and once there, the spectacle of
human emotions exercised its customary charm.

On ascending the stairs that conducted to his apartment, the Englishman
heard a deep groan in a room the door of which was ajar. He paused, the
sound was repeated; he gently pushed open the door and saw Legard seated
by a table, while a glass on the opposite wall reflected his working and
convulsed countenance, with his hands trembling visibly, as they took a
brace of pistols from the case.

The Englishman recognized the loser at the club; and at once divined the
act that his madness or his despair dictated. Legard twice took up one
of the pistols, and twice laid it down irresolute; the third time he
rose with a start, raised the weapon to his head, and the next moment it
was wrenched from his grasp.

"Sit down, sir!" said the stranger, in a loud and commanding voice.

Legard, astonished and abashed, sank once more into his seat, and stared
sullenly and half-unconsciously at his countryman.

"You have lost your money," said the Englishman, after calmly replacing
the pistols in their case, which he locked, putting the key into his
pocket; "and that is misfortune enough for one night. If you had won,
and ruined your opponent, you would be excessively happy, and go to bed,
thinking Good Luck (which is the representative of Providence) watched
over you. For my part, I think you ought to be very thankful that you
are not the winner."

"Sir," said Legard, recovering from his surprise, and beginning to feel
resentment, "I do not understand this intrusion in my apartments. You
have saved me, it is true, from death,--but life is a worse curse."

"Young man, no! moments in life are agony, but life itself is a
blessing. Life is a mystery that defies all calculation. You can never
say, 'To-day is wretched, therefore to-morrow must be the same!' And for
the loss of a little gold you, in the full vigour of youth, with all the
future before you, will dare to rush into the chances of eternity!
You, who have never, perhaps, thought what eternity is! Yet," added
the stranger, in a soft and melancholy voice, "you are young and
beautiful,--perhaps the pride and hope of others! Have you no tie, no
affection, no kindred; are you lord of yourself?"

Legard was moved by the tone of the stranger, as well as by the words.

"It is not the loss of money," said he, gloomily,--"it is the loss of
honour. To-morrow I must go forth a shunned and despised man,--I, a
gentleman and a soldier! They may insult me--and I have no reply!"

The Englishman seemed to muse, for his brow lowered, and he made no
answer. Legard threw himself back, overcome with his own excitement,
and wept like a child. The stranger, who imagined himself above the
indulgence of emotion (vain man!), woke from his revery at this burst
of passion. He gazed at first (I grieve to write) with a curl of the
haughty lip that had in it contempt; but it passed quickly away; and
the hard man remembered that he too had been young and weak, and his own
errors greater perhaps than those of the one he had ventured to despise.
He walked to and fro the room, still without speaking. At last he
approached the gamester, and took his hand.

"What is your debt?" he asked gently.

"What matters it?--more than I can pay."

"If life is a trust, so is wealth: _you_ have the first in charge for
others, _I_ may have the last. What is the debt?"

Legard started; it was a strong struggle between shame and hope. "If I
could borrow it, I could repay it hereafter,--I know I could; I would
not think of it otherwise."

"Very well, so be it,--I will lend you the money on one condition.
Solemnly promise me, on your faith as a soldier and a gentleman, that
you will not, for ten years to come--even if you grow rich, and can ruin
others--touch card or dice-box. Promise me that you will shun all gaming
for gain, under whatever disguise, whatever appellation. I will take
your word as my bond."

Legard, overjoyed, and scarcely trusting his senses, gave the promise.

"Sleep then, to-night, in hope and assurance of the morrow," said the
Englishman: "let this event be an omen to you, that while there is a
future there is no despair. One word more,--I do not want your thanks!
it is easy to be generous at the expense of justice. Perhaps I have
been so now. This sum, which is to save your life--a life you so little
value--might have blessed fifty human beings,--better men than either
the giver or receiver. What is given to error may perhaps be a wrong
to virtue. When you would ask others to support a career of blind and
selfish extravagance, pause and think over the breadless lips this
wasted gold would have fed! the joyless hearts it would have comforted!
You talk of repaying me: if the occasion offer, do so; if not--if we
never meet again, and you have it in your power, pay it for me to the
Poor! And now, farewell."

"Stay,--give me the name of my preserver! Mine is--"

"Hush! what matter names? This is a sacrifice we have both made
to honour. You will sooner recover your self-esteem (and without
self-esteem there is neither faith nor honour), when you think that
your family, your connections, are spared all association with your own
error; that I may hear them spoken of, that I may mix with them without
fancying that they owe me gratitude."

"Your own name then?" said Legard, deeply penetrated with the delicate
generosity of his benefactor.

"Tush!" muttered the stranger impatiently as he closed the door.

The next morning when he awoke Legard saw upon the table a small packet;
it contained a sum that exceeded the debt named.

On the envelope was written, "Remember the bond."

The stranger had already quitted Venice. He had not travelled through
the Italian cities under his own name, for he had just returned from the
solitudes of the East, and was not yet hardened to the publicity of the
gossip which in towns haunted by his countrymen attended a well-known
name; that given to Legard by the innkeeper, mutilated by Italian
pronunciation, the young man had never heard before, and soon forgot. He
paid his debts, and he scrupulously kept his word. The adventure of that
night went far, indeed, to reform and ennoble the mind and habits of
George Legard. Time passed, and he never met his benefactor, till in the
halls of Burleigh he recognized the stranger in Maltravers.



CHAPTER VII.

  WHY value, then, that strength of mind they boast,
  As often varying, and as often lost?

  HAWKINS BROWNE (translated by SOAME JENYNS).

MALTRAVERS was lying at length, with his dogs around him, under a
beech-tree that threw its arms over one of the calm still pieces of
water that relieved the groves of Burleigh, when Colonel Legard spied
him from the bridle-road which led through the park to the house. The
colonel dismounted, threw the rein over his arm; and at the sound of the
hoofs Maltravers turned, saw the visitor, and rose. He held out his hand
to Legard, and immediately began talking of indifferent matters.

Legard was embarrassed; but his nature was not one to profit by the
silence of a benefactor. "Mr. Maltravers," said he, with graceful
emotion, "though you have not yet allowed me an opportunity to allude to
it, do not think I am ungrateful for the service you rendered me."

Maltravers looked grave, but made no reply. Legard resumed, with a
heightened colour,--

"I cannot say how I regret that it is not yet in my power to discharge
my debt; but--"

"When it is, you will do so. Pray think no more of it. Are you going to
the rectory?"

"No, not this morning; in fact, I leave B-----shire tomorrow. Pleasant
family, the Mertons."

"And Miss Cameron--"

"Is certainly beautiful,--and very rich. How could she ever think of
marrying Lord Vargrave, so much older,--she who could have so many
admirers?"

"Not, surely, while betrothed to another?"

This was a refinement which Legard, though an honourable man as men go,
did not quite understand. "Oh," said he, "that was by some eccentric old
relation,--her father-in-law, I think. Do you think she is bound by such
an engagement?"

Maltravers made no reply, but amused himself by throwing a stick into
the water, and sending one of his dogs after it. Legard looked on, and
his affectionate disposition yearned to make advances which something
distant in the manner of Maltravers chilled and repelled.

When Legard was gone, Maltravers followed him with his eyes. "And this
is the man whom Cleveland thinks Evelyn could love! I could forgive her
marrying Vargrave. Independently of the conscientious feeling that may
belong to the engagement, Vargrave has wit, talent, intellect; and this
man has nothing but the skin of the panther. Was I wrong to save him?
No. Every human life, I suppose, has its uses. But Evelyn--I could
despise her if her heart was the fool of the eye!"

These comments were most unjust to Legard; but they were just of that
kind of injustice which the man of talent often commits against the man
of external advantages, and which the latter still more often retaliates
on the man of talent. As Maltravers thus soliloquized, he was accosted
by Mr. Cleveland.

"Come, Ernest, you must not cut these unfortunate Mertons any longer.
If you continue to do so, do you know what Mrs. Hare and the world will
say?"

"No--what?"

"That you have been refused by Miss Merton."

"That _would_ be a calumny!" said Ernest, smiling.

"Or that you are hopelessly in love with Miss Cameron."

Maltravers started; his proud heart swelled; he pulled his hat over his
brows, and said, after a short pause,--

"Well, Mrs. Hare and the world must not have it all their own way; and
so, whenever you go to the rectory, take me with you."



CHAPTER VIII.

                 THE more he strove
  To advance his suit, the farther from her love.

                      DRYDEN: _Theodore and Honoria_.

THE line of conduct which Vargrave now adopted with regard to Evelyn
was craftily conceived and carefully pursued. He did not hazard a single
syllable which might draw on him a rejection of his claims; but at the
same time no lover could be more constant, more devoted, in attentions.
In the presence of others, there was an air of familiar intimacy that
seemed to arrogate a right, which to her he scrupulously shunned to
assert. Nothing could be more respectful, nay, more timid, than his
language, or more calmly confident than his manner. Not having much
vanity, nor any very acute self-conceit, he did not delude himself into
the idea of winning Evelyn's affections; he rather sought to entangle
her judgment, to weave around her web upon web,--not the less dangerous
for being invisible. He took the compact as a matter of course, as
something not to be broken by any possible chance; her hand was to be
his as a right: it was her heart that he so anxiously sought to gain.
But this distinction was so delicately drawn, and insisted upon so
little in any tangible form, that, whatever Evelyn's wishes for an
understanding, a much more experienced woman would have been at a loss
to ripen one.

Evelyn longed to confide in Caroline, to consult her; but Caroline,
though still kind, had grown distant. "I wish," said Evelyn, one night
as she sat in Caroline's dressing-room,--"I wish that I knew what tone
to take with Lord Vargrave. I feel more and more convinced that a union
between us is impossible; and yet, precisely because he does not press
it, am I unable to tell him so. I wish you could undertake that task;
you seem such friends with him."

"I!" said Caroline, changing countenance.

"Yes, you! Nay, do not blush, or I shall think you envy me. Could
you not save us both from the pain that otherwise must come sooner or
later?"

"Lord Vargrave would not thank me for such an act of friendship.
Besides, Evelyn, consider,--it is scarcely possible to break off this
engagement _now_."

"_Now_! and why now?" said Evelyn, astonished.

"The world believes it so implicitly. Observe, whoever sits next you
rises if Lord Vargrave approaches; the neighbourhood talk of nothing
else but your marriage; and your fate, Evelyn, is not pitied."

"I will leave this place! I will go back to the cottage! I cannot bear
this!" said Evelyn, passionately wringing her hands.

"You do not love another, I am sure: not young Mr. Hare, with his
green coat and straw-coloured whiskers; or Sir Henry Foxglove, with his
how-d'ye-do like a view-halloo; perhaps, indeed, Colonel Legard,--he is
handsome. What! do you blush at his name? No; you say 'not Legard:' who
else is there?"

"You are cruel; you trifle with me!" said Evelyn, in tearful reproach;
and she rose to go to her own room.

"My dear girl!" said Caroline, touched by her evident pain; "learn from
me--if I may say so--that marriages are _not_ made in heaven! Yours will
be as fortunate as earth can bestow. A love-match is usually the least
happy of all. Our foolish sex demand so much in love; and love, after
all, is but one blessing among many. Wealth and rank remain when love
is but a heap of ashes. For my part, I have chosen my destiny and my
husband."

"Your husband!"

"Yes, you see him in Lord Doltimore. I dare say we shall be as happy
as any amorous Corydon and Phyllis." But there was irony in Caroline's
voice as she spoke; and she sighed heavily. Evelyn did not believe her
serious; and the friends parted for the night.

"Mine is a strange fate!" said Caroline to herself; "I am asked by
the man whom I love, and who professes to love me, to bestow myself on
another, and to plead for him to a younger and fairer bride. Well, I
will obey him in the first; the last is a bitterer task, and I cannot
perform it earnestly. Yet Vargrave has a strange power over me; and
when I look round the world, I see that he is right. In these most
commonplace artifices, there is yet a wild majesty that charms and
fascinates me. It is something to rule the world: and his and mine are
natures formed to do so."



CHAPTER IX.

  A SMOKE raised with the fume of sighs.

                      _Romeo and Juliet_.

IT is certain that Evelyn experienced for Maltravers sentiments which,
if not love, might easily be mistaken for it. But whether it were that
master-passion, or merely its fanciful resemblance,--love in early
youth and innocent natures, if of sudden growth, is long before it makes
itself apparent. Evelyn had been prepared to feel an interest in her
solitary neighbour. His mind, as developed in his works, had half-formed
her own. Her childish adventure with the stranger had never been
forgotten. Her present knowledge of Maltravers was an union of dangerous
and often opposite associations,--the Ideal and the Real.

Love, in its first dim and imperfect shape, is but imagination
concentrated on one object. It is a genius of the heart, resembling that
of the intellect; it appeals to, it stirs up, it evokes, the sentiments
and sympathies that lie most latent in our nature. Its sigh is the
spirit that moves over the ocean, and arouses the Anadyomene into life.
Therefore is it that MIND produces affections deeper than those of
external form; therefore it is that women are worshippers of glory,
which is the palpable and visible representative of a genius whose
operations they cannot always comprehend. Genius has so much in common
with love, the imagination that animates one is so much the property
of the other, that there is not a surer sign of the existence of genius
than the love that it creates and bequeaths. It penetrates deeper than
the reason, it binds a nobler captive than the fancy. As the sun upon
the dial, it gives to the human heart both its shadow and its light.
Nations are its worshippers and wooers; and Posterity learns from its
oracles to dream, to aspire, to adore!

Had Maltravers declared the passion that consumed him, it is probable
that it would soon have kindled a return. But his frequent absence, his
sustained distance of manner, had served to repress the feelings that
in a young and virgin heart rarely flow with much force until they
are invited and aroused. _Le besoin d'aimer_ in girls, is, perhaps, in
itself powerful; but is fed by another want, _le besoin d'etre aime_!
_If_, therefore, Evelyn at present felt love for Maltravers, the love
had certainly not passed into the core of life: the tree had not so far
struck its roots but what it might have borne transplanting. There was
in her enough of the pride of sex to have recoiled from the thought
of giving love to one who had not asked the treasure. Capable of
attachment, more trustful and therefore, if less vehement, more
beautiful and durable than that which had animated the brief tragedy of
Florence Lascelles, she could not have been the unknown correspondent,
or revealed the soul, because the features wore a mask.

It must also be allowed that, in some respects, Evelyn was too young and
inexperienced thoroughly to appreciate all that was most truly lovable
and attractive in Maltravers. At four and twenty she would, perhaps,
have felt no fear mingled with her respect for him; but seventeen and
six and thirty is a wide interval! She never felt that there was that
difference in years until she had met Legard, and then at once she
comprehended it. With Legard she had moved on equal terms; he was not
too wise, too high for her every-day thoughts. He less excited her
imagination, less attracted her reverence. But, somehow or other, that
voice which proclaimed her power, those eyes which never turned from
hers, went nearer to her heart. As Evelyn had once said to Caroline, "It
was a great enigma!"--her own feelings were a mystery to her, and she
reclined by the "Golden Waterfalls" without tracing her likeness in the
glass of the pool below.

Maltravers appeared again at the rectory. He joined their parties by
day, and his evenings were spent with them as of old. In this I know not
precisely what were his motives--perhaps he did not know them himself.
It might be that his pride was roused; it might be that he could not
endure the notion that Lord Vargrave should guess his secret by an
absence almost otherwise unaccountable,--he could not patiently bear to
give Vargrave that triumph; it might be that, in the sternness of his
self-esteem, he imagined he had already conquered all save affectionate
interest in Evelyn's fate, and trusted too vainly to his own strength;
and it might be, also, that he could not resist the temptation of seeing
if Evelyn were contented with her lot, and if Vargrave were worthy of
the blessing that awaited him. Whether one of these or all united made
him resolve to brave his danger, or whether, after all, he yielded to a
weakness, or consented to what--invited by Evelyn herself--was almost a
social necessity, the reader and not the narrator shall decide.

Legard was gone; but Doltimore remained in the neighbourhood, having
hired a hunting-box not far from Sir John Merton's manors, over which
he easily obtained permission to sport. When he did not dine elsewhere,
there was always a place for him at the parson's hospitable board,--and
that place was generally next to Caroline. Mr. and Mrs. Merton had
given up all hope of Mr. Maltravers for their eldest daughter; and, very
strangely, this conviction came upon their minds on the first day they
made the acquaintance of the young lord.

"My dear," said the rector, as he was winding up his watch, preparatory
to entering the connubial couch,--"my dear, I don't think Mr. Maltravers
is a marrying man."

"I was just going to make the same remark," said Mrs. Merton, drawing
the clothes over her. "Lord Doltimore is a very fine young man, his
estates unencumbered. I like him vastly, my love. He is evidently
smitten with Caroline: so Lord Vargrave and Mrs. Hare said."

"Sensible, shrewd woman, Mrs. Hare. By the by, we'll send her a
pineapple. Caroline was made to be a woman of rank!"

"Quite; so much self-possession!"

"And if Mr. Maltravers would sell or let Burleigh--"

"It would be so pleasant!"

"Had you not better give Caroline a hint?"

"My love, she is so sensible, let her go her own way."

"You are right, my dear Betsy; I shall always say that no one has more
common-sense than you; you have brought up your children admirably!"

"Dear Charles!"

"It is coldish to-night, love," said the rector; and he put out the
candle.

From that time, it was not the fault of Mr. and Mrs. Merton if Lord
Doltimore did not find their house the pleasantest in the county.

One evening the rectory party were assembled together in the cheerful
drawing-room. Cleveland, Mr. Merton, Sir John, and Lord Vargrave,
reluctantly compelled to make up the fourth, were at the whist-table;
Evelyn, Caroline, and Lord Doltimore were seated round the fire, and
Mrs. Merton was working a footstool. The fire burned clear, the curtains
were down, the children in bed: it was a family picture of elegant
comfort.

Mr. Maltravers was announced.

"I am glad you are come at last," said Caroline, holding out her fair
hand. "Mr. Cleveland could not answer for you. We are all disputing as
to which mode of life is the happiest."

"And your opinion?" asked Maltravers, seating himself in the vacant
chair,--it chanced to be next to Evelyn's.

"My opinion is decidedly in favour of London. A metropolitan life,
with its perpetual and graceful excitements,--the best music, the best
companions, the best things in short. Provincial life is so dull, its
pleasures so tiresome; to talk over the last year's news, and wear out
one's last year's dresses, cultivate a conservatory, and play Pope Joan
with a young party,--dreadful!"

"I agree with Miss Merton," said Lord Doltimore, solemnly; "not but
what I like the country for three or four months in the year, with good
shooting and hunting, and a large house properly filled, independent of
one's own neighbourhood: but if I am condemned to choose one place to
live in, give me Paris."

"Ah, Paris; I never was in Paris. I should so like to travel!" said
Caroline.

"But the inns abroad are so very bad," said Lord Doltimore; "how people
can rave about Italy, I can't think. I never suffered so much in my life
as I did in Calabria; and at Venice I was bit to death by mosquitoes.
Nothing like Paris, I assure you: don't you think so, Mr. Maltravers?"

"Perhaps I shall be able to answer you better in a short time. I think
of accompanying Mr. Cleveland to Paris!"

"Indeed!" said Caroline. "Well, I envy you; but is it a sudden
resolution?"

"Not very."

"Do you stay long?" asked Lord Doltimore.

"My stay is uncertain."

"And you won't let Burleigh in the meanwhile?"

"_Let_ Burleigh? No; if it once pass from my hands it will be forever!"

Maltravers spoke gravely, and the subject was changed. Lord Doltimore
challenged Caroline to chess.

They sat down, and Lord Doltimore arranged the pieces.

"Sensible man, Mr. Maltravers," said the young lord; "but I don't hit it
off with him: Vargrave is more agreeable. Don't you think so?"

"Y-e-s."

"Lord Vargrave is very kind to me,--I never remember any one being more
so; got Legard that appointment solely because it would please me,--very
friendly fellow! I mean to put myself under his wing next session!"

"You could not do better, I'm sure," said Caroline; "he is so much
looked up to; I dare say he will be prime minister one of these days."

"I take the bishop:--do you think so really?--you are rather a
politician?"

"Oh, no; not much of that. But my father and my uncle are stanch
politicians; gentlemen know so much more than ladies. We should always
go by their opinions. I think I will take the queen's pawn--your
politics are the same as Lord Vargrave's?"

"Yes, I fancy so: at least I shall leave my proxy with him. Glad you
don't like politics,--great bore."

"Why, so young, so connected as you are--" Caroline stopped short, and
made a wrong move.

"I wish we were going to Paris together, we should enjoy it so;" and
Lord Doltimore's knight checked the tower and queen.

Caroline coughed, and stretched her hand quickly to move.

"Pardon me, you will lose the game if you do so!" and Doltimore placed
his hand on hers, their eyes met, Caroline turned away, and Lord
Doltimore settled his right collar.



"And is it true? are you really going to leave us?" said Evelyn, and she
felt very sad. But still the sadness might not be that of love,--she had
felt sad after Legard had gone.

"I do not think I shall long stay away," said Maltravers, trying to
speak indifferently. "Burleigh has become more dear to me than it was in
earlier youth; perhaps because I have made myself duties there: and in
other places I am but an isolated and useless unit in the great mass."

"You! everywhere, you must have occupations and resources,--everywhere,
you must find yourself not alone. But you will not go yet?"

"Not yet--no. [Evelyn's spirits rose.] Have you read the book I sent
you?" (It was one of De Stael's.)

"Yes; but it disappoints me."

"And why? It is eloquent."

"But is it true? Is there so much melancholy in life? Are the affections
so full of bitterness? For me, I am so happy when with those I love!
When I am with my mother, the air seems more fragrant, the skies more
blue: it is surely not affection, but the absence of it, that makes us
melancholy."

"Perhaps so; but if we had never known affection, we might not miss it:
and the brilliant Frenchwoman speaks from memory, while you speak
from hope,--memory, which is the ghost of joy: yet surely, even in
the indulgence of affection, there is at times a certain melancholy, a
certain fear. Have you never felt it, even with--with your mother?"

"Ah, yes! when she suffered, or when I have thought she loved me less
than I desired."

"That must have been an idle and vain thought. Your mother! does she
resemble you?"

"I wish I could think so. Oh, if you knew her! I have longed so often
that you were acquainted with each other! It was she who taught me to
sing your songs."

"My dear Mrs. Hare, we may as well throw up our cards," said the keen
clear voice of Lord Vargrave: "you have played most admirably, and I
know that your last card will be the ace of trumps; still the luck is
against us."

"No, no; pray play it out, my lord."

"Quite useless, ma'am," said Sir John, showing two honours. "We have
only the trick to make."

"Quite useless," echoed Lumley, tossing down his sovereigns, and rising
with a careless yawn.

"How d'ye do, Maltravers?"

Maltravers rose; and Vargrave turned to Evelyn, and addressed her in
a whisper. The proud Maltravers walked away, and suppressed a sigh; a
moment more, and he saw Lord Vargrave occupying the chair he had left
vacant. He laid his hand on Cleveland's shoulder.

"The carriage is waiting,--are you ready?"



CHAPTER X.

  OBSCURIS vera involvens.*--VIRGIL.

  * "Wrapping truth in obscurity."

A DAY or two after the date of the last chapter, Evelyn and Caroline
were riding out with Lord Vargrave and Mr. Merton, and on returning home
they passed through the village of Burleigh.

"Maltravers, I suppose, has an eye to the county one of these days,"
said Lord Vargrave, who honestly fancied that a man's eyes were
always directed towards something for his own interest or advancement;
"otherwise he could not surely take all this trouble about workhouses
and paupers. Who could ever have imagined my romantic friend would sink
into a country squire?"

"It is astonishing what talent and energy he throws into everything he
attempts," said the parson. "One could not, indeed, have supposed that a
man of genius could make a man of business."

"Flattering to your humble servant--whom all the world allow to be
the last, and deny to be the first. But your remark shows what a sad
possession genius is: like the rest of the world, you fancy that it
cannot be of the least possible use. If a man is called a genius, it
means that he is to be thrust out of all the good things in this life.
He is not fit for anything but a garret! Put a _genius_ into office!
make a _genius_ a bishop! or a lord chancellor!--the world would be
turned topsy-turvy! You see that you are quite astonished that a genius
can be even a county magistrate, and know the difference between a spade
and a poker! In fact, a genius is supposed to be the most ignorant,
impracticable, good-for-nothing, do-nothing sort of thing that ever
walked upon two legs. Well, when I began life I took excellent care that
nobody should take _me_ for a genius; and it is only within the last
year or two that I ventured to emerge a little out of my shell. I have
not been the better for it; I was getting on faster while I was merely
a plodder. The world is so fond of that droll fable, the hare and the
tortoise,--it really believes because (I suppose the fable to be true!)
a tortoise _once_ beat a hare that all tortoises are much better runners
than hares possibly can be. Mediocre men have the monopoly of the loaves
and fishes; and even when talent does rise in life, it is a talent which
only differs from mediocrity by being more energetic and bustling."

"You are bitter, Lord Vargrave," said Caroline, laughing; "yet surely
you have had no reason to complain of the non-appreciation of talent?"

"Humph! if I had had a grain more talent I should have been crushed by
it. There is a subtle allegory in the story of the lean poet, who
put _lead_ in his pocket to prevent being blown away! 'Mais a nos
moutons,'--to return to Maltravers. Let us suppose that he was merely
clever, had not had a particle of what is called genius, been merely a
hardworking able gentleman, of good character and fortune, he might be
half-way up the hill by this time; whereas now, what is he? Less before
the public than he was at twenty-eight,--a discontented anchorite, a
meditative idler."

"No, not that," said Evelyn, warmly, and then checked herself.

Lord Vargrave looked at her sharply; but his knowledge of life told him
that Legard was a much more dangerous rival than Maltravers. Now and
then, it is true, a suspicion to the contrary crossed him; but it did
not take root and become a serious apprehension. Still, he did not quite
like the tone of voice in which Evelyn had put her abrupt negative, and
said, with a slight sneer,--

"If not that, what is he?"

"One who purchased by the noblest exertions the right to be idle," said
Evelyn with spirit; "and whom genius itself will not suffer to be idle
long."

"Besides," said Mr. Merton, "he has won a high reputation, which he
cannot lose merely by not seeking to increase it."

"Reputation! Oh, yes! we give men like that--men of genius--a large
property in the clouds, in order to justify ourselves in pushing them
out of our way below. But if they are contented with fame, why, they
deserve their fate. Hang fame,--give me power."

"And is there no power in genius?" said Evelyn, with deepening fervour;
"no power over the mind, and the heart, and the thought; no power over
its own time, over posterity, over nations yet uncivilized, races yet
unborn?"

This burst from one so simple and young as Evelyn seemed to Vargrave so
surprising that he stared on her without saying a word.

"You will laugh at my championship," she added, with a blush and a
smile; "but you provoked the encounter."

"And you have won the battle," said Vargrave, with prompt gallantry. "My
charming ward, every day develops in you some new gift of nature!"

Caroline, with a movement of impatience, put her horse into a canter.

Just at this time, from a cross-road, emerged a horseman,--it was
Maltravers. The party halted, salutations were exchanged.

"I suppose you have been enjoying the sweet business of squiredom,"
said Vargrave, gayly: "Atticus and his farm,--classical associations!
Charming weather for the agriculturists, eh! What news about corn and
barley? I suppose our English habit of talking on the weather arose when
we were all a squirearchal farming, George-the-Third kind of people!
Weather is really a serious matter to gentlemen who are interested
in beans and vetches, wheat and hay. You hang your happiness upon the
changes of the moon!"

"As you upon the smiles of a minister. The weather of a court is more
capricious than that of the skies,--at least we are better husbandmen
than you who sow the wind and reap the whirlwind."

"Well retorted: and really, when I look round, I am half inclined to
envy you. Were I not Vargrave, I would be Maltravers."

It was, indeed, a scene that seemed quiet and serene, with the English
union of the feudal and the pastoral life,--the village-green, with its
trim scattered cottages; the fields and pastures that spread beyond; the
turf of the park behind, broken by the shadows of the unequal grounds,
with its mounds and hollows and venerable groves, from which rose the
turrets of the old Hall, its mullion windows gleaming in the western
sun; a scene that preached tranquillity and content, and might have been
equally grateful to humble philosophy and hereditary pride.

"I never saw any place so peculiar in its character as Burleigh," said
the rector; "the old seats left to us in England are chiefly those of
our great nobles. It is so rare to see one that does not aspire beyond
the residence of a private gentleman preserve all the relics of the
Tudor age."

"I think," said Vargrave, turning to Evelyn, "that as by my uncle's will
your fortune is to be laid out in the purchase of land, we could not
find a better investment than Burleigh. So, whenever you are inclined
to sell, Maltravers, I think we must outbid Doltimore. What say you, my
fair ward?"

"Leave Burleigh in peace, I beseech you!" said Maltravers, angrily.

"That is said like a Digby," returned Vargrave. "_Allons_!--will you not
come home with us?"

"I thank you,--not to-day."

"We meet at Lord Raby's next Thursday. It is a ball given almost wholly
in honour of your return to Burleigh; we are all going,--it is my
young cousin's _debut_ at Knaresdean. We have all an interest in her
conquests."

Now, as Maltravers looked up to answer, he caught Evelyn's glance, and
his voice faltered.

"Yes," he said, "we shall meet--once again. Adieu!" He wheeled round his
horse, and they separated.

"I can bear this no more," said Maltravers to himself; "I overrated my
strength. To see her thus, day after day, and to know her another's,
to writhe beneath his calm, unconscious assertion of his rights! Happy
Vargrave!--and yet, ah! will _she_ be happy? Oh, could I think so!"

Thus soliloquizing, he suffered the rein to fall on the neck of his
horse, which paced slowly home through the village, till it stopped--as
if in the mechanism of custom--at the door of a cottage a stone's throw
from the lodge. At this door, indeed, for several successive days, had
Maltravers stopped regularly; it was now tenanted by the poor woman his
introduction to whom has been before narrated. She had recovered
from the immediate effects of the injury she had sustained; but her
constitution, greatly broken by previous suffering and exhaustion, had
received a mortal shock. She was hurt inwardly; and the surgeon informed
Maltravers that she had not many months to live. He had placed her under
the roof of one of his favourite cottagers, where she received all the
assistance and alleviation that careful nursing and medical advice could
give her.

This poor woman, whose name was Sarah Elton, interested Maltravers
much. She had known better days: there was a certain propriety in her
expressions which denoted an education superior to her circumstances;
and what touched Maltravers most, she seemed far more to feel her
husband's death than her own sufferings,--which, somehow or other, is
not common with widows the other side of forty! We say that youth easily
consoles itself for the robberies of the grave,--middle age is a still
better self-comforter. When Mrs. Elton found herself installed in the
cottage, she looked round, and burst into tears.

"And William is not here!" she said. "Friends--friends! if we had had
but one such friend before he died!"

Maltravers was pleased that her first thought was rather that of sorrow
for the dead than of gratitude for the living. Yet Mrs. Elton was
grateful,--simply, honestly, deeply grateful; her manner, her voice,
betokened it. And she seemed so glad when her benefactor called to speak
kindly and inquire cordially, that Maltravers did so constantly; at
first from a compassionate and at last from a selfish motive--for who is
not pleased to give pleasure? And Maltravers had so few in the world to
care for him, that perhaps he was flattered by the grateful respect of
this humble stranger.

When his horse stopped, the cottager's daughter opened the door and
courtesied,--it was an invitation to enter; and he threw his rein over
the paling and walked into the cottage.

Mrs. Elton, who had been seated by the open casement, rose to receive
him. But Maltravers made her sit down, and soon put her at her ease. The
woman and her daughter who occupied the cottage retired into the garden,
and Mrs. Elton, watching them withdraw, then exclaimed abruptly,--

"Oh, sir, I have so longed to see you this morning! I so long to make
bold to ask you whether, indeed, I dreamed it--or did I, when you first
took me to your house--did I see--" She stopped abruptly; and though she
strove to suppress her emotion, it was too strong for her efforts,--she
sank back on her chair, pale as death, and almost gasped for breath.

Maltravers waited in surprise for her recovery.

"I beg pardon, sir,--I was thinking of days long past; and--but I wished
to ask whether, when I lay in your hall, almost insensible, any one
besides yourself and your servants were present?---or was it"--added the
woman, with a shudder--"was it the dead?"

"I remember," said Maltravers, much struck and interested in her
question and manner, "that a lady was present."

"It is so! it is so!" cried the woman, half rising and clasping her
hands. "And she passed by this cottage a little time ago; her veil was
thrown aside as she turned that fair young face towards the cottage. Her
name, sir,--oh, what is her name? It was the same--the same face that
shone across me in that hour of pain! I did not dream! I was not mad!"

"Compose yourself; you could never, I think, have seen that lady before.
Her name is Cameron."

"Cameron--Cameron!" The woman shook her head mournfully. "No; that name
is strange to me. And her mother, sir,--she is dead?"

"No; her mother lives."

A shade came over the face of the sufferer; and she said, after a
pause,--

"My eyes deceive me then, sir; and, indeed, I feel that my head is
touched, and I wander sometimes. But the likeness was so great; yet that
young lady is even lovelier!"

"Likenesses are very deceitful and very capricious, and depend more on
fancy than reality. One person discovers a likeness between faces most
dissimilar,--a likeness invisible to others. But who does Miss Cameron
resemble?"

"One now dead, sir; dead many years ago. But it is a long story, and one
that lies heavy on my conscience. Some day or other, if you will give me
leave, sir, I will unburden myself to you."

"If I can assist you in anyway, command me. Meanwhile, have you no
friends, no relations, no children, whom you would wish to see?"

"Children!--no, sir; I never had but one child of _my own_ (she laid an
emphasis on the last words), and that died in a foreign land."

"And no other relatives?"

"None, sir. My history is very short and simple. I was well brought
up,--an only child. My father was a small farmer; he died when I was
sixteen, and I went into service with a kind old lady and her daughter,
who treated me more as a companion than a servant. I was a vain, giddy
girl, then, sir. A young man, the son of a neighbouring farmer, courted
me, and I was much attached to him; but neither of us had money, and his
parents would not give their consent to our marrying. I was silly enough
to think that, if William loved me, he should have braved all; and his
prudence mortified me, so I married another whom I did not love. I was
rightly punished, for he ill-used me and took to drinking; I returned to
my old service to escape from him--for I was with child, and my life was
in danger from his violence. He died suddenly, and in debt. And then,
afterwards, a gentleman--a rich gentleman--to whom I rendered a service
(do not misunderstand me, sir, if I say the service was one of which I
repent), gave me money, and made me rich enough to marry my first lover;
and William and I went to America. We lived many years in New York upon
our little fortune comfortably; and I was a long while happy, for I had
always loved William dearly. My first affliction was the death of my
child by my first husband; but I was soon roused from my grief. William
schemed and speculated, as everybody does in America, and so we lost
all; and William was weakly and could not work. At length he got the
place of steward on board a vessel from New York to Liverpool, and I was
taken to assist in the cabin. We wanted to come to London; I thought my
old benefactor might do something for us, though he had never answered
the letters I sent to him. But poor William fell ill on board, and died
in sight of land."

Mrs. Elton wept bitterly, but with the subdued grief of one to whom
tears have been familiar; and when she recovered, she soon brought
her humble tale to an end. She herself, incapacitated from all work by
sorrow and a breaking constitution, was left in the streets of Liverpool
without other means of subsistence than the charitable contributions of
the passengers and sailors on board the vessel. With this sum she had
gone to London, where she found her old patron had been long since dead,
and she had no claims on his family. She had, on quitting England, left
one relation settled in a town in the North; thither she now repaired,
to find her last hope wrecked; the relation also was dead and gone.
Her money was now spent, and she had begged her way along the road, or
through the lanes, she scarce knew whither, till the accident which, in
shortening her life, had raised up a friend for its close.

"And such, sir," said she in conclusion, "such has been the story of
my life, except one part of it, which, if I get stronger, I can tell
better; but you will excuse that now."

"And are you comfortable and contented, my poor friend? These people are
kind to you?"

"Oh, so kind! And every night we all pray for you, sir; you ought to be
happy, if the blessings of the poor can avail the rich."

Maltravers remounted his horse, and sought his home; and his heart was
lighter than before he entered that cottage. But at evening Cleveland
talked of Vargrave and Evelyn, and the good fortune of the one, and the
charms of the other; and the wound, so well concealed, bled afresh.

"I heard from De Montaigne the other day," said Ernest, just as they
were retiring for the night, "and his letter decides my movements. If
you will accept me, then, as a travelling companion, I will go with you
to Paris. Have you made up your mind to leave Burleigh on Saturday?"

"Yes; that gives us a day to recover from Lord Raby's ball. I am so
delighted at your offer! We need only stay a day or so in town. The
excursion will do you good,---your spirits, my dear Ernest, seem more
dejected than when you first returned to England: you live too much
alone here; you will enjoy Burleigh more on your return. And perhaps
then you will open the old house a little more to the neighbourhood, and
to your friends. They expect it: you are looked to for the county."

"I have done with politics, and sicken but for peace."

"Pick up a wife in Paris, and you will then know that peace is an
impossible possession," said the old bachelor, laughing.




BOOK V.

  "FOOLS blind to truth; nor know their erring soul
   How much the half is better than the whole."
        --HESIOD: _Op. et Dies_, 40.



CHAPTER I.

  Do as the Heavens have done; forget your evil;
  With them, forgive yourself.--_The Winter's Tale_.

... The sweet'st companion that e'er man  Bred his hopes out of.--_Ibid._

THE curate of Brook-Green was sitting outside his door. The vicarage
which he inhabited was a straggling, irregular, but picturesque
building,--humble enough to suit the means of the curate, yet large
enough to accommodate the vicar. It had been built in an age when the
_indigentes et pauperes_ for whom universities were founded supplied,
more than they do now, the fountains of the Christian ministry, when
pastor and flock were more on an equality.

From under a rude and arched porch, with an oaken settle on either side
for the poor visitor, the door opened at once upon the old-fashioned
parlour,--a homely but pleasant room, with one wide but low cottage
casement, beneath which stood the dark shining table that supported
the large Bible in its green baize cover; the Concordance, and the last
Sunday's sermon, in its jetty case. There by the fireplace stood the
bachelor's round elbow-chair, with a needlework cushion at the back;
a walnut-tree bureau, another table or two, half a dozen plain chairs,
constituted the rest of the furniture, saving some two or three hundred
volumes, ranged in neat shelves on the clean wainscoted walls. There
was another room, to which you ascended by two steps, communicating with
this parlour, smaller but finer, and inhabited only on festive days,
when Lady Vargrave, or some other quiet neighbour, came to drink tea
with the good curate.

An old housekeeper and her grandson--a young fellow of about two and
twenty, who tended the garden, milked the cow, and did in fact what he
was wanted to do--composed the establishment of the humble minister.

We have digressed from Mr. Aubrey himself.

The curate was seated, then, one fine summer morning, on a bench at
the left of his porch, screened from the sun by the cool boughs of a
chestnut-tree, the shadow of which half covered the little lawn that
separated the precincts of the house from those of silent Death and
everlasting Hope; above the irregular and moss-grown paling rose
the village church; and, through openings in the trees, beyond the
burial-ground, partially gleamed the white walls of Lady Vargrave's
cottage, and were seen at a distance the sails on the--

          "Mighty waters, rolling evermore."

The old man was calmly enjoying the beauty of the morning, the freshness
of the air, the warmth of the dancing beam, and not least, perhaps,
his own peaceful thoughts,--the spontaneous children of a contemplative
spirit and a quiet conscience. His was the age when we most sensitively
enjoy the mere sense of existence,--when the face of Nature and a
passive conviction of the benevolence of our Great Father suffice to
create a serene and ineffable happiness, which rarely visits us till
we have done with the passions; till memories, if more alive than
heretofore, are yet mellowed in the hues of time, and Faith softens
into harmony all their asperities and harshness; till nothing within us
remains to cast a shadow over the things without; and on the verge of
life, the Angels are nearer to us than of yore. There is an old age
which has more youth of heart than youth itself!

As the old man thus sat, the little gate through which, on Sabbath
days, he was wont to pass from the humble mansion to the house of God
noiselessly opened, and Lady Vargrave appeared.

The curate rose when he perceived her; and the lady's fair features were
lighted up with a gentle pleasure, as she pressed his hand and returned
his salutation.

There was a peculiarity in Lady Vargrave's countenance which I have
rarely seen in others. Her smile, which was singularly expressive,
came less from the lip than from the eyes; it was almost as if the brow
smiled; it was as the sudden and momentary vanishing of a light but
melancholy cloud that usually rested upon the features, placid as they
were.

They sat down on the rustic bench, and the sea-breeze wantoned amongst
the quivering leaves of the chestnut-tree that overhung their seat.

"I have come, as usual, to consult my kind friend," said Lady Vargrave;
"and, as usual also, it is about our absent Evelyn."

"Have you heard again from her, this morning?"

"Yes; and her letter increases the anxiety which your observation, so
much deeper than mine, first awakened."

"Does she then write much of Lord Vargrave?"

"Not a great deal; but the little she does say, betrays how much she
shrinks from the union my poor husband desired: more, indeed, than ever!
But this is not all, nor the worst; for you know that the late lord
had provided against that probability--he loved her so tenderly, his
ambition for her only came from his affection; and the letter he left
behind him pardons and releases her, if she revolts from the choice he
himself preferred."

"Lord Vargrave is, perhaps, a generous, he certainly seems a candid,
man, and he must be sensible that his uncle has already done all that
justice required."

"I think so. But this, as I said, is not all; I have brought the letter
to show you. It seems to me as you apprehended. This Mr. Maltravers has
wound himself about her thoughts more than she herself imagines; you
see how she dwells on all that concerns him, and how, after checking
herself, she returns again and again to the same subject."

The curate put on his spectacles, and took the letter. It was a strange
thing, that old gray-haired minister evincing such grave interest in the
secrets of that young heart! But they who would take charge of the soul
must never be too wise to regard the heart!

Lady Vargrave looked over his shoulder as he bent down to read, and at
times placed her finger on such passages as she wished him to note. The
old curate nodded as she did so; but neither spoke till the letter was
concluded.

The curate then folded up the epistle, took off his spectacles, hemmed,
and looked grave.

"Well," said Lady Vargrave, anxiously, "well?"

"My dear friend, the letter requires consideration. In the first place,
it is clear to me that, in spite of Lord Vargrave's presence at the
rectory, his lordship so manages matters that the poor child is unable
of herself to bring that matter to a conclusion. And, indeed, to a mind
so sensitively delicate and honourable, it is no easy task."

"Shall I write to Lord Vargrave?"

"Let us think of it. In the meanwhile, this Mr. Maltravers--"

"Ah, this Mr. Maltravers!"

"The child shows us more of her heart than she thinks of; and yet I
myself am puzzled. If you observe, she has only once or twice spoken of
the Colonel Legard whom she has made acquaintance with; while she treats
at length of Mr. Maltravers, and confesses the effect he has produced
on her mind. Yet, do you know, I more dread the caution respecting the
first than all the candour that betrays the influence of the last? There
is a great difference between first fancy and first love."

"Is there?" said the lady, abstractedly.

"Again, neither of us is acquainted with this singular man,--I mean
Maltravers; his character, temper, and principles, of all of which
Evelyn is too young, too guileless, to judge for herself. One thing,
however, in her letter speaks in his favour."

"What is that?"

"He absents himself from her. This, if he has discovered her secret, or
if he himself is sensible of too great a charm in her presence, would be
the natural course that an honourable and a strong mind would pursue."

"What!--if he love her?"

"Yes; while he believes her hand is engaged to another."

"True! What shall be done--if Evelyn should love, and love in vain? Ah,
it is the misery of a whole existence!"

"Perhaps she had better return to us," said Mr. Aubrey; "and yet, if
already it be too late, and her affections are engaged, we should still
remain in ignorance respecting the motives and mind of the object of her
attachment; and he, too, might not know the true nature of the obstacle
connected with Lord Vargrave's claims."

"Shall I, then, go to her? You know how I shrink from strangers; how I
fear curiosity, doubts, and questions; how [and Lady Vargrave's voice
faltered]--how unfitted I am for--for--" she stopped short, and a faint
blush overspread her cheeks.

The curate understood her, and was moved.

"Dear friend," said he, "will you intrust this charge to myself? You
know how Evelyn is endeared to me by certain recollections! Perhaps,
better than you, I may be enabled silently to examine if this man be
worthy of her, and one who could secure her happiness; perhaps, better
than you I may ascertain the exact nature of her own feelings towards
him; perhaps, too, better than you I may effect an understanding with
Lord Vargrave."

"You are always my kindest friend," said the lady, with emotion; "how
much I already owe you! what hopes beyond the grave! what--"

"Hush!" interrupted the curate, gently; "your own good heart and pure
intentions have worked out your own atonement--may I hope also your
own content? Let us return to our Evelyn. Poor child! how unlike this
despondent letter to her gay light spirits when with us! We acted for
the best; yet perhaps we did wrong to yield her up to strangers. And
this Maltravers--with her enthusiasm and quick susceptibilities to
genius, she was half prepared to imagine him all she depicts him to be.
He must have a spell in his works that I have not discovered, for at
times it seems to operate even on you."

"Because," said Lady Vargrave, "they remind me of _his_ conversation,
_his_ habits of thought. If like _him_ in other things, Evelyn may
indeed be happy!"

"And if," said the curate, curiously,--"if now that you are free, you
were ever to meet with him again, and his memory had been as faithful as
yours; and if he offered the sole atonement in his power, for all
that his early error cost you; if such a chance should happen in the
vicissitudes of life, you would--"

The curate stopped short; for he was struck by the exceeding paleness of
his friend's cheek, and the tremor of her delicate frame.

"If that were to happen," said she, in a very low voice; "if we were to
meet again, and if he were--as you and Mrs. Leslie seem to think--poor,
and, like myself, humbly born, if my fortune could assist him, if my
love could still--changed, altered as I am--ah! do not talk of it--I
cannot bear the thought of happiness! And yet, if before I die I _could_
but see him again!" She clasped her hands fervently as she spoke, and
the blush that overspread her face threw over it so much of bloom and
freshness, that even Evelyn, at that moment, would scarcely have seemed
more young. "Enough!" she added, after a little while, as the glow died
away. "It is but a foolish hope; all earthly love is buried; and my
heart is there!"--she pointed to the heavens, and both were silent.



CHAPTER II.

  QUIBUS otio vel magnifice, vel molliter, vivere copia era
  incerta pro certis malebant.*--SALLUST.

  * "They who had the means to live at ease, either in splendour or
    in luxury, preferred the uncertainty of change to their natural
    security."

LORD RABY--one of the wealthiest and most splendid noblemen in
England--was prouder, perhaps, of his provincial distinctions than
the eminence of his rank or the fashion of his wife. The magnificent
chateaux, the immense estates, of our English peers tend to preserve
to us in spite of the freedom, bustle, and commercial grandeur of our
people more of the Norman attributes of aristocracy than can be found in
other countries. In his county, the great noble is a petty prince; his
house is a court; his possessions and munificence are a boast to every
proprietor in his district. They are as fond of talking of _the_ earl's
or _the_ duke's movements and entertainments, as Dangeau was of the
gossip of the Tuileries and Versailles.

Lord Raby, while affecting, as lieutenant of the county, to make no
political distinctions between squire and squire--hospitable and affable
to all--still, by that very absence of exclusiveness, gave a tone to the
politics of the whole county; and converted many who had once thought
differently on the respective virtues of Whigs and Tories. A great man
never loses so much as when he exhibits intolerance, or parades the
right of persecution.

"My tenants shall vote exactly as they please," said Lord Raby; and
he was never known to have a tenant vote against his wishes! Keeping a
vigilant eye on all the interests, and conciliating all the proprietors,
in the county, he not only never lost a friend, but he kept together a
body of partisans that constantly added to its numbers.

Sir John Merton's colleague, a young Lord Nelthorpe, who could not speak
three sentences if you took away his hat, and who, constant at Almack's,
was not only inaudible but invisible in parliament, had no chance of
being re-elected. Lord Nelthorpe's father, the Earl of Mainwaring, was
a new peer; and, next to Lord Raby, the richest nobleman in the county.
Now, though they were much of the same politics, Lord Raby hated Lord
Mainwaring. They were too near each other,--they clashed; they had the
jealousy of rival princes!

Lord Raby was delighted at the notion of getting rid of Lord
Nelthorpe,--it would be so sensible a blow to the Mainwaring interest.
The party had been looking out for a new candidate, and Maltravers had
been much talked of. It is true that, when in parliament some years
before, the politics of Maltravers had differed from those of Lord Raby
and his set. But Maltravers had of late taken no share in politics,
had uttered no political opinions, was intimate with the electioneering
Mertons, was supposed to be a discontented man,--and politicians believe
in no discontent that is not political. Whispers were afloat that
Maltravers had grown wise, and changed his views: some remarks of his,
more theoretical than practical, were quoted in favour of this notion.
Parties, too, had much changed since Maltravers had appeared on the busy
scene,--new questions had arisen, and the old ones had died off.

Lord Raby and his party thought that, if Maltravers could be secured to
them, no one would better suit their purpose. Political faction loves
converts better even than consistent adherents. A man's rise in life
generally dates from a well-timed _rat_. His high reputation, his
provincial rank as the representative of the oldest commoner's family
in the county, his age, which combined the energy of one period with
the experience of another,--all united to accord Maltravers a preference
over richer men. Lord Raby had been pointedly courteous and flattering
to the master of Burleigh; and he now contrived it so, that the
brilliant entertainment he was about to give might appear in compliment
to a distinguished neighbour, returned to fix his residence on his
patrimonial property, while in reality it might serve an electioneering
purpose,--serve to introduce Maltravers to the county, as if under his
lordship's own wing, and minister to political uses that went beyond the
mere representation of the county.

Lord Vargrave had, during his stay at Merton Rectory, paid several
visits to Knaresdean, and held many private conversations with the
marquess: the result of these conversations was a close union of schemes
and interests between the two noblemen. Dissatisfied with the political
conduct of government, Lord Raby was also dissatisfied that, from
various party reasons, a nobleman beneath himself in rank, and as he
thought in influence, had obtained a preference in a recent vacancy
among the Knights of the Garter. And if Vargrave had a talent in the
world it was in discovering the weak points of men whom he sought to
gain, and making the vanities of others conduce to his own ambition.

The festivities of Knaresdean gave occasion to Lord Raby to unite at his
house the more prominent of those who thought and acted in concert
with Lord Vargrave; and in this secret senate the operations for the
following session were to be seriously discussed and gravely determined.

On the day which was to be concluded with the ball at Knaresdean, Lord
Vargrave went before the rest of the Merton party, for he was engaged to
dine with the marquess.

On arriving at Knaresdean, Lumley found Lord Saxingham and some other
politicians, who had arrived the preceding day, closeted with Lord Raby;
and Vargrave, who shone to yet greater advantage in the diplomacy of
party management than in the arena of parliament, brought penetration,
energy, and decision to timid and fluctuating counsels. Lord Vargrave
lingered in the room after the first bell had summoned the other guests
to depart.

"My dear lord," said he then, "though no one would be more glad than
myself to secure Maltravers to our side, I very much doubt whether
you will succeed in doing so. On the one hand, he appears altogether
disgusted with politics and parliament; and on the other hand, I fancy
that reports of his change of opinions are, if not wholly unfounded,
very unduly coloured. Moreover, to do him justice, I think that he is
not one to be blinded and flattered into the pale of a party; and your
bird will fly away after you have wasted a bucketful of salt on his
tail."

"Very possibly," said Lord Raby, laughing,--"you know him better than I
do. But there are many purposes to serve in this matter,--purposes too
provincial to interest you. In the first place, we shall humble the
Nelthorpe interest, merely by showing that we _do_ think of a new
member; secondly, we shall get up a manifestation of feeling that would
be impossible, unless we were provided with a centre of attraction;
thirdly, we shall rouse a certain emulation among other county
gentlemen, and if Maltravers decline, we shall have many applicants; and
fourthly, suppose Maltravers has not changed his opinions, we shall make
him suspected by the party he really does belong to, and which would
be somewhat formidable if he were to head them. In fact, these are mere
county tactics that you can't be expected to understand."

"I see you are quite right: meanwhile you will at least have an
opportunity (though I say it, who should not say it) to present to the
county one of the prettiest young ladies that ever graced the halls of
Knaresdean."

"Ah, Miss Cameron! I have heard much of her beauty: you are a lucky
fellow, Vargrave! By the by, are we to say anything of the engagement?"

"Why, indeed, my dear lord, it is now so publicly known, that it would
be false delicacy to affect concealment."

"Very well; I understand."

"How long I have detained you--a thousand pardons!--I have but just time
to dress. In four or five months I must remember to leave you a longer
time for your toilet."

"Me--how?"

"Oh, the Duke of ----- can't live long; and I always observe that when
a handsome man has the Garter, he takes a long time pulling up his
stockings."

"Ha, ha! you are so droll, Vargrave."

"Ha, ha! I must be off."

"The more publicity is given to this arrangement, the more difficult for
Evelyn to shy at the leap," muttered Vargrave to himself as he closed
the door. "Thus do I make all things useful to myself!"

The dinner party were assembled in the great drawing-room, when
Maltravers and Cleveland, also invited guests to the banquet, were
announced. Lord Raby received the former with marked _empressement_;
and the stately marchioness honoured him with her most gracious smile.
Formal presentations to the rest of the guests were interchanged; and
it was not till the circle was fully gone through that Maltravers
perceived, seated by himself in a corner, to which he had shrunk on
the entrance of Maltravers, a gray-haired solitary man,--it was Lord
Saxingham! The last time they had met was in the death-chamber of
Florence; and the old man forgot for the moment the anticipated dukedom,
and the dreamed-of premiership, and his heart flew back to the grave of
his only child! They saluted each other, and shook hands in silence. And
Vargrave--whose eye was on them--Vargrave, whose arts had made that old
man childless, felt not a pang of remorse! Living ever in the future,
Vargrave almost seemed to have lost his memory. He knew not what regret
was. It is a condition of life with men thoroughly worldly that they
never look behind!

The signal was given: in due order the party were marshalled into the
great hall,--a spacious and lofty chamber, which had received its last
alteration from the hand of Inigo Jones; though the massive ceiling,
with its antique and grotesque masques, betrayed a much earlier date,
and contrasted with the Corinthian pilasters that adorned the walls,
and supported the music-gallery, from which waved the flags of modern
warfare and its mimicries,--the eagle of Napoleon, a token of the
services of Lord Raby's brother (a distinguished cavalry officer in
command at Waterloo), in juxtaposition with a much gayer and more
glittering banner, emblematic of the martial fame of Lord Raby himself,
as Colonel of the B-----shire volunteers!

The music pealed from the gallery, the plate glittered on the board; the
ladies wore diamonds, and the gentlemen who had them wore stars. It was
a very fine sight, that banquet!--such as became the festive day of a
lord-lieutenant whose ancestors had now defied, and now intermarried,
with royalty. But there was very little talk, and no merriment. People
at the top of the table drank wine with those at the bottom; and
gentlemen and ladies seated next to each other whispered languidly in
monosyllabic commune. On one side, Maltravers was flanked by a Lady
Somebody Something, who was rather deaf, and very much frightened for
fear he should talk Greek; on the other side he was relieved by Sir John
Merton,--very civil, very pompous, and talking, at strictured intervals,
about county matters, in a measured intonation, savouring of the
House-of-Commons jerk at the end of the sentence.

As the dinner advanced to its close, Sir John became a little more
diffuse, though his voice sank into a whisper.

"I fear there will be a split in the Cabinet before parliament meets."

"Indeed!"

"Yes; Vargrave and the premier cannot pull together very long. Clever
man, Vargrave! but he has not enough stake in the country for a leader!"

"All men have public character to stake; and if that be good, I suppose
no stake can be better?"

"Humph!--yes--very true; but still, when a man has land and money, his
opinions, in a country like this, very properly carry more weight with
them. If Vargrave, for instance, had Lord Raby's property, no man could
be more fit for a leader,--a prime minister. We might then be sure that
he would have no selfish interest to further: he would not play tricks
with his party--you understand?"

"Perfectly."

"I am not a party man, as you may remember; indeed, you and I have voted
alike on the same questions. Measures, not men,--that is my maxim; but
still I don't like to see men placed above their proper stations."

"Maltravers, a glass of wine," said Lord Vargrave across the table.
"Will you join us, Sir John?"

Sir John bowed.

"Certainly," he resumed, "Vargrave is a pleasant man and a good speaker;
but still they say he is far from rich,--embarrassed, indeed. However,
when he marries Miss Cameron it may make a great difference,--give
him more respectability; do you know what her fortune is--something
immense?"

"Yes, I believe so; I don't know."

"My brother says that Vargrave is most amiable. The young lady is very
handsome, almost too handsome for a wife--don't you think so? Beauties
are all very well in a ballroom; but they are not calculated for
domestic life. I am sure you agree with me. I have heard, indeed,
that Miss Cameron is rather learned; but there is so much scandal in a
country neighbourhood,--people are so ill-natured. I dare say she is not
more learned than other young ladies, poor girl! What do you think?"

"Miss Cameron is--is very accomplished, I believe. And so you think the
Government cannot stand?"

"I don't say that,--very far from it; but I fear there must be a change.
However, if the country gentlemen hold together, I do not doubt but what
we shall weather the storm. The landed interest, Mr. Maltravers, is the
great stay of this country,--the sheet-anchor, I may say. I suppose Lord
Vargrave, who seems, I must say, to have right notions on this head,
will invest Miss Cameron's fortune in land. But though one may buy an
estate, one can't buy an old family, Mr. Maltravers!--you and I may
be thankful for that. By the way, who was Miss Cameron's mother, Lady
Vargrave?--something low, I fear; nobody knows."

"I am not acquainted with Lady Vargrave; your sister-in-law speaks of
her most highly. And the daughter in herself is a sufficient guarantee
for the virtues of the mother."

"Yes; and Vargrave on one side, at least, has himself nothing in the way
of family to boast of."

The ladies left the hall, the gentlemen re-seated themselves. Lord Raby
made some remark on politics to Sir John Merton, and the whole round of
talkers immediately followed their leader.

"It is a thousand pities, Sir John," said Lord Raby, "that you have not
a colleague more worthy of you; Nelthorpe never attends a committee,
does he?"

"I cannot say that he is a very active member; but he is young, and we
must make allowances for him," said Sir John, discreetly; for he had
no desire to oust his colleague,--it was agreeable enough to be _the_
efficient member.

"In these times," said Lord Raby, loftily, "allowances are not to be
made for systematic neglect of duty; we shall have a stormy session;
the Opposition is no longer to be despised; perhaps a dissolution may
be nearer at hand than we think for. As for Nelthorpe, he cannot come in
again."

"That I am quite sure of," said a fat country gentleman of great weight
in the county; "he not only was absent on the great Malt question, but
he never answered my letter respecting the Canal Company."

"Not answered your letter!" said Lord Raby, lifting up his hands and
eyes in amaze and horror. "What conduct! Ah, Mr. Maltravers, you are the
man for us!"

"Hear! hear!" cried the fat squire.

"Hear!" echoed Vargrave; and the approving sound went round the table.

Lord Raby rose. "Gentlemen, fill your glasses; a health to our
distinguished neighbour!"

The company applauded; each in his turn smiled, nodded, and drank to
Maltravers, who, though taken by surprise, saw at once the course to
pursue. He returned thanks simply and shortly; and without pointedly
noticing the allusion in which Lord Raby had indulged, remarked,
incidentally, that he had retired, certainly for some years--perhaps
forever--from political life.

Vargrave smiled significantly at Lord Raby, and hastened to lead the
conversation into party discussion. Wrapped in his proud disdain of what
he considered the contests of factions for toys and shadows, Maltravers
remained silent; and the party soon broke up, and adjourned to the
ballroom.



CHAPTER III.

  LE plus grand defaut de la penetration n'est pas de n'aller
  point jusqu'au but,--c'est de la passer.*--LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.

  * "The greatest defect of penetration is not that of not going
    just up to the point,--'tis the passing it."

EVELYN had looked forward to the ball at Knaresdean with feelings deeper
than those which usually inflame the fancy of a girl proud of her dress
and confident of her beauty. Whether or not she _loved_ Maltravers,
in the true acceptation of the word "love," it is certain that he had
acquired a most powerful command over her mind and imagination. She felt
the warmest interest in his welfare, the most anxious desire for his
esteem, the deepest regret at the thought of their estrangement. At
Knaresdean she should meet Maltravers,--in crowds, it is true; but still
she should meet him; she should see him towering superior above the
herd; she should hear him praised; she should mark him, the observed
of all. But there was another and a deeper source of joy within her.
A letter had been that morning received from Aubrey, in which he had
announced his arrival for the next day. The letter, though affectionate,
was short. Evelyn had been some months absent,--Lady Vargrave was
anxious to make arrangements for her return; but it was to be at her
option whether she would accompany the curate home. Now, besides her
delight at seeing once more the dear old man, and hearing from his lips
that her mother was well and happy, Evelyn hailed in his arrival the
means of extricating herself from her position with Lord Vargrave. She
would confide in him her increased repugnance to that union, he would
confer with Lord Vargrave; and then--and then--did there come once more
the thought of Maltravers? No! I fear it was not Maltravers who called
forth that smile and that sigh! Strange girl, you know not your own
mind!--but few of us, at your age, do.

In all the gayety of hope, in the pride of dress and half-conscious
loveliness, Evelyn went with a light step into Caroline's room.
Miss Merton had already dismissed her woman, and was seated by her
writing-table, leaning her cheek thoughtfully on her hand.

"Is it time to go?" said she, looking up. "Well, we shall put Papa, and
the coachman, and the horses, too, in excellent humour. How well you
look! Really, Evelyn, you are indeed beautiful!" and Caroline gazed with
honest but not unenvious admiration at the fairy form so rounded and yet
so delicate, and the face that seemed to blush at its own charms.

"I am sure I can return the flattery," said Evelyn, laughing bashfully.

"Oh, as for me, I am well enough in my way: and hereafter, I dare say,
we may be rival beauties. I hope we shall remain good friends, and
rule the world with divided empire. Do you not long for the stir, and
excitement, and ambition of London?---for ambition is open to us as to
men!"

"No, indeed," replied Evelyn, smiling; "I could be ambitious, indeed;
but it would not be for myself, but for--"

"A husband, perhaps; well, you will have ample scope for such sympathy.
Lord Vargrave--"

"Lord Vargrave again?" and Evelyn's smile vanished, and she turned away.

"Ah," said Caroline, "I should have made Vargrave an excellent
wife--pity he does not think so! As it is, I must set up for myself and
become a _maitresse femme_. So you think I look well to-night? I am glad
of it--Lord Doltimore is one who will be guided by what other people
say."

"You are not serious about Lord Doltimore?"

"Most sadly serious."

"Impossible! you could not speak so if you loved him."

"Loved him! no! but I intend to marry him."

Evelyn was revolted, but still incredulous.

"And you, too, will marry one whom you do not love--'tis our fate--"

"Never!"

"We shall see."

Evelyn's heart was damped, and her spirits fell.

"Tell me now," said Caroline, pressing on the wrung withers, "do you not
think this excitement, partial and provincial though it be--the sense
of beauty, the hope of conquest, the consciousness of power--better than
the dull monotony of the Devonshire cottage? Be honest--"

"No, no, indeed!" answered Evelyn, tearfully and passionately; "one hour
with my mother, one smile from her lips, were worth it all."

"And in your visions of marriage, you think then of nothing but roses
and doves,--love in a cottage!"

"Love _in a home_, no matter whether a palace or a cottage," returned
Evelyn.

"Home!" repeated Caroline, bitterly; "home,--home is the English synonym
for the French _ennui_. But I hear Papa on the stairs."

A ballroom--what a scene of commonplace! how hackneyed in novels!
how trite in ordinary life! and yet ballrooms have a character and a
sentiment of their own, for all tempers and all ages. Something in the
lights, the crowd, the music, conduces to stir up many of the thoughts
that belong to fancy and romance. It is a melancholy scene to men after
a certain age. It revives many of those lighter and more graceful images
connected with the wandering desires of youth,--shadows that crossed us,
and seemed love, but were not; having much of the grace and charm, but
none of the passion and the tragedy, of love. So many of our earliest
and gentlest recollections are connected with those chalked floors, and
that music painfully gay, and those quiet nooks and corners, where the
talk that hovers about the heart and does not touch it has been held.
Apart and unsympathizing in that austerer wisdom which comes to us after
deep passions have been excited, we see form after form chasing the
butterflies that dazzle us no longer among the flowers that have
evermore lost their fragrance.

Somehow or other, it is one of the scenes that remind us most forcibly
of the loss of youth! We are brought so closely in contact with the
young and with the short-lived pleasures that once pleased us, and have
forfeited all bloom. Happy the man who turns from "the tinkling cymbal"
and "the gallery of pictures," and can think of some watchful eye and
some kind heart _at home_; but those who have no home--and they are a
numerous tribe--never feel lonelier hermits or sadder moralists than in
such a crowd.

Maltravers leaned abstractedly against the wall, and some such
reflections, perhaps, passed within, as the plumes waved and the
diamonds glittered around him. Ever too proud to be vain, the _monstrari
digito_ had not flattered even in the commencement of his career. And
now he heeded not the eyes that sought his look, nor the admiring murmur
of lips anxious to be overheard. Affluent, well-born, unmarried, and
still in the prime of life,--in the small circles of a province, Ernest
Maltravers would in himself have been an object of interest to the
diplomacy of mothers and daughters; and the false glare of reputation
necessarily deepened curiosity, and widened the range of speculators and
observers.

Suddenly, however, a new object of attention excited new interest; new
whispers ran through the crowd, and these awakened Maltravers from his
revery. He looked up, and beheld all eyes fixed upon one form! His own
eyes encountered those of Evelyn Cameron!

It was the first time he had seen this beautiful young person in all the
_eclat_, pomp, and circumstance of her station, as the heiress of the
opulent Templeton,--the first time he had seen her the cynosure of
crowds, who, had her features been homely, would have admired the charms
of her fortune in her face. And now, as radiant with youth, and the
flush of excitement on her soft cheek, she met his eye, he said to
himself: "And could I have wished one so new to the world to have
united her lot with a man for whom all that to her is delight has grown
wearisome and stale? Could I have been justified in stealing her from
the admiration that, at her age and to her sex, has so sweet a flattery?
Or, on the other hand, could I have gone back to her years, and
sympathized with feelings that time has taught me to despise? Better as
it is."

Influenced by these thoughts, the greeting of Maltravers disappointed
and saddened Evelyn, she knew not why; it was constrained and grave.

"Does not Miss Cameron look well?" whispered Mrs. Merton, on whose arm
the heiress leaned. "You observe what a sensation she creates?"

Evelyn overheard, and blushed as she stole a glance at Maltravers. There
was something mournful in the admiration which spoke in his deep earnest
eyes.

"Everywhere," said he, calmly, and in the same tone, "everywhere Miss
Cameron appears, she must outshine all others." He turned to Evelyn, and
said with a smile, "You must learn to inure yourself to admiration; a
year or two hence, and you will not blush at your own gifts!"

"And you, too, contribute to spoil me!--fie!"

"Are you so easily spoiled? If I meet you hereafter, you will think my
compliments cold to the common language of others."

"You do not know me,--perhaps you never will."

"I am contented with the fair pages I have already read."

"Where is Lady Raby?" asked Mrs. Merton. "Oh, I see; Evelyn, my love, we
must present ourselves to our hostess."

The ladies moved on; and when Maltravers next caught a glance of Evelyn,
she was with Lady Raby, and Lord Vargrave also was by her side.

The whispers round him had grown louder.

"Very lovely indeed! so young, too! and she is really going to
be married to Lord Vargrave: so much older than she is,--quite a
sacrifice!"

"Scarcely so. He is so agreeable, and still handsome. But are you sure
that the thing is settled?"

"Oh, yes. Lord Raby himself told me so. It will take place very soon."

"But do you know who her mother was? I cannot make out."

"Nothing particular. You know the late Lord Vargrave was a man of low
birth. I believe she was a widow of his own rank; she lives quite in
seclusion."

"How d'ye do, Mr. Maltravers? So glad to see you," said the quick,
shrill voice of Mrs. Hare. "Beautiful ball! Nobody does things like Lord
Raby; don't you dance?"

"No, madam."

"Oh, you young gentlemen are so _fine_ nowadays!" (Mrs. Hare, laying
stress on the word _young_, thought she had paid a very elegant
compliment, and ran on with increased complacency.)

"You are going to let Burleigh, I hear, to Lord Doltimore,--is it
true? No! really now, what stories people do tell. Elegant man,
Lord Doltimore! Is it true, that Miss Caroline is going to marry his
lordship? Great match! No scandal, I hope; you'll excuse _me_! Two
weddings on the _tapis_,--quite stirring for our stupid county. Lady
Vargrave and Lady Doltimore, two new peeresses. Which do you think is
the handsomer? Miss Merton is the taller, but there is something fierce
in her eyes. Don't you think so? By the by, I wish you joy,--you'll
excuse _me_."

"Wish me joy, madam?"

"Oh, you are so close. Mr. Hare says he shall support you. You will
have all the ladies with you. Well, I declare, Lord Vargrave is going to
dance. How old is he, do you think?"

Maltravers uttered an audible _pshaw_, and moved away; but his penance
was not over. Lord Vargrave, much as he disliked dancing, still thought
it wise to ask the fair hand of Evelyn; and Evelyn, also, could not
refuse.

And now, as the crowd gathered round the red ropes, Maltravers had
to undergo new exclamations at Evelyn's beauty and Vargrave's luck.
Impatiently he turned from the spot, with that gnawing sickness of the
heart which none but the jealous know. He longed to depart, yet dreaded
to do so. It was the last time he should see Evelyn, perhaps for years;
the last time he should see her as Miss Cameron!

He passed into another room, deserted by all save four old
gentlemen--Cleveland one of them--immersed in whist; and threw himself
upon an ottoman, placed in a recess by the oriel window. There, half
concealed by the draperies, he communed and reasoned with himself. His
heart was sad within him; he never felt before _how_ deeply and _how_
passionately he loved Evelyn; how firmly that love had fastened upon the
very core of his heart! Strange, indeed, it was in a girl so young, of
whom he had seen but little,--and that little in positions of such quiet
and ordinary interest,--to excite a passion so intense in a man who
had gone through strong emotions and stern trials! But all love is
unaccountable. The solitude in which Maltravers had lived, the absence
of all other excitement, perhaps had contributed largely to fan the
flame. And his affections had so long slept, and after long sleep the
passions wake with such giant strength! He felt now too well that the
last rose of life had bloomed for him; it was blighted in its birth, but
it could never be replaced. Henceforth, indeed, he should be alone, the
hopes of home were gone forever; and the other occupations of mind and
soul--literature, pleasure, ambition--were already forsworn at the very
age in which by most men they are most indulged!

O Youth! begin not thy career too soon, and let one passion succeed
in its due order to another; so that every season of life may have its
appropriate pursuit and charm!

The hours waned; still Maltravers stirred not; nor were his meditations
disturbed, except by occasional ejaculations from the four old
gentlemen, as between each deal they moralized over the caprices of the
cards.

At length, close beside him he heard that voice, the lightest sound
of which could send the blood rushing through his veins; and from his
retreat he saw Caroline and Evelyn, seated close by.

"I beg pardon," said the former, in a low voice,--"I beg pardon, Evelyn,
for calling you away; but I longed to tell you. The die is cast. Lord
Doltimore has proposed, and I have accepted him! Alas, alas! I half wish
I could retract!"

"Dearest Caroline!" said the silver voice of Evelyn, "for Heaven's
sake, do not thus wantonly resolve on your own unhappiness! You wrong
yourself, Caroline! you do, indeed! You are not the vain ambitious
character you affect to be! Ah, what is it you require? Wealth? Are you
not my friend; am I not rich enough for both? Rank? What can it give you
to compensate for the misery of a union without love? Pray, forgive
me for speaking thus. Do not think me presumptuous, or romantic; but,
indeed, indeed, I know from my own heart what yours must undergo!"

Caroline pressed her friend's hand with emotion.

"You are a bad comforter, Evelyn. My mother, my father, will preach a
very different doctrine. I am foolish, indeed, to be so sad in obtaining
the very object I have sought! Poor Doltimore! he little knows the
nature, the feelings of her whom he thinks he has made the happiest of
her sex; he little knows--" Caroline paused, turned pale as death, and
then went rapidly on, "but you, Evelyn, _you_ will meet the same fate;
we shall bear it together."

"No! no! do not think so! Where I give my hand, there shall I give my
heart."

At this time Maltravers half rose, and sighed audibly.

"Hush!" said Caroline, in alarm. At the same moment, the whist-table
broke up, and Cleveland approached Maltravers.

"I am at your service," said he; "I know you will not stay the supper.
You will find me in the next room; I am just going to speak to Lord
Saxingham." The gallant old gentleman then paid a compliment to the
young ladies, and walked away.

"So you too are a deserter from the ballroom!" said Miss Merton to
Maltravers as she rose.

"I am not very well; but do not let me frighten you away."

"Oh, no! I hear the music; it is the last quadrille before supper: and
here is my fortunate partner looking for me."

"I have been everywhere in search of you," said Lord Doltimore, in an
accent of tender reproach: "come, we are almost too late now."

Caroline put her arm into Lord Doltimore's, who hurried her into the
ballroom.

Miss Cameron looked irresolute whether or not to follow, when Maltravers
seated himself beside her; and the paleness of his brow, and something
that bespoke pain in the compressed lip, went at once to her heart. In
her childlike tenderness, she would have given worlds for the sister's
privilege of sympathy and soothing. The room was now deserted; they were
alone.

The words that he had overheard from Evelyn's lips, "Where I shall give
my hand, there shall I give my heart," Maltravers interpreted but in one
sense,--"she loved her betrothed;" and strange as it may seem, at that
thought, which put the last seal upon his fate, selfish anguish was less
felt than deep compassion. So young, so courted, so tempted as she
must be--and with such a protector!--the cold, the unsympathizing, the
heartless Vargrave! She, too, whose feelings, so warm, ever trembled on
her lip and eye. Oh! when she awoke from her dream, and knew whom she
had loved, what might be her destiny, what her danger!

"Miss Cameron," said Maltravers, "let me for one moment detain you; I
will not trespass long. May I once, and for the last time, assume the
austere rights of friendship? I have seen much of life, Miss Cameron,
and my experience has been purchased dearly; and harsh and hermit-like
as I may have grown, I have not outlived such feelings as you are well
formed to excite. Nay,"--and Maltravers smiled sadly--"I am not about to
compliment or flatter, I speak not to you as the young to the young; the
difference of our years, that takes away sweetness from flattery,
leaves still sincerity to friendship. You have inspired me with a deep
interest,--deeper than I thought that living beauty could ever rouse
in me again! It may be that something in the tone of your voice, your
manner, a nameless grace that I cannot define, reminds me of one whom
I knew in youth,--one who had not your advantages of education, wealth,
birth; but to whom Nature was more kind than Fortune."

He paused a moment; and without looking towards Evelyn, thus renewed,--

"You are entering life under brilliant auspices. Ah, let me hope that
the noonday will keep the promise of the dawn! You are susceptible,
imaginative; do not demand too much, or dream too fondly. When you are
wedded, do not imagine that wedded life is exempt from its trials and
its cares; if you know yourself beloved--and beloved you must be--do not
ask from the busy and anxious spirit of man all which Romance promises
and Life but rarely yields. And oh!" continued Maltravers, with an
absorbing and earnest passion, that poured forth its language with
almost breathless rapidity,--"if ever your heart rebels, if ever it be
dissatisfied, fly the false sentiment as a sin! Thrown, as from your
rank you must be, on a world of a thousand perils, with no guide so
constant and so safe as your own innocence, make not that world too dear
a friend. Were it possible that your own home ever could be lonely or
unhappy, reflect that to woman the unhappiest home is happier than all
excitement abroad. You will have a thousand suitors hereafter: believe
that the asp lurks under the flatterer's tongue, and resolve, come what
may, to be contented with your lot. How many have I known, lovely and
pure as you, who have suffered the very affections--the very beauty of
their nature--to destroy them! Listen to me as a warner, as a brother,
as a pilot who has passed the seas on which your vessel is about to
launch. And ever, ever let me know, in whatever lands your name may
reach me, that one who has brought back to me all my faith in human
excellence, while the idol of our sex, is the glory of her own. Forgive
me this strange impertinence; my heart is full, and has overflowed. And
now, Miss Cameron--Evelyn Cameron--this is my last offence, and my last
farewell!"

He held out his hand, and involuntarily, unknowingly, she clasped it, as
if to detain him till she could summon words to reply. Suddenly he heard
Lord Vargrave's voice behind. The spell was broken; the next moment
Evelyn was alone, and the throng swept into the room towards the
banquet, and laughter and gay voices were heard, and Lord Vargrave was
again by Evelyn's side!



CHAPTER IV.

            To you
  This journey is devoted.
       _Lover's Progress_, Act iv. sc. 1.

AS Cleveland and Maltravers returned homeward, the latter abruptly
checked the cheerful garrulity of his friend. "I have a favour, a great
favour to ask of you."

"And what is that?"

"Let us leave Burleigh tomorrow; I care not at what hour; we need go but
two or three stages if you are fatigued."

"Most hospitable host! and why?"

"It is torture, it is agony to me, to breathe the air of Burleigh,"
cried Maltravers, wildly. "Can you not guess my secret? Have I then
concealed it so well? I love, I adore Evelyn Cameron, and she is
betrothed to--she loves--another!"

Mr. Cleveland was breathless with amaze; Maltravers had indeed so well
concealed his secret, and now his emotion was so impetuous, that it
startled and alarmed the old man, who had never himself experienced a
passion, though he had indulged a sentiment. He sought to console
and soothe; but after the first burst of agony, Maltravers recovered
himself, and said gently,--

"Let us never return to this subject again: it is right that I should
conquer this madness, and conquer it I will! Now you know my weakness,
you will indulge it. My cure, cannot commence until I can no longer see
from my casements the very roof that shelters the affianced bride of
another."

"Certainly, then, we will set off to-morrow: my friend! is it indeed--"

"Ah, cease," interrupted the proud man; "no compassion, I implore: give
me but time and silence,--they are the only remedies."

Before noon the next day, Burleigh was once more deserted by its lord.
As the carriage drove through the village, Mrs. Elton saw it from
her open window; but her patron, too absorbed at that hour even for
benevolence, forgot her existence and yet so complicated are the webs of
fate, that in the breast of that lowly stranger was locked a secret of
the most vital moment to Maltravers.

"Where is he going; where is the squire going?" asked Mrs. Elton,
anxiously.

"Dear heart!" said the cottager, "they do say he be going for a short
time to foren parts. But he will be back at Christmas."

"And at Christmas I may be gone hence forever," muttered the invalid;
"but what will that matter to him--to any one?"

At the first stage Maltravers and his friend were detained a short time
for the want of horses. Lord Raby's house had been filled with guests on
the preceding night, and the stables of this little inn, dignified with
the sign of the Raby Arms, and about two miles distant from the great
man's place, had been exhausted by numerous claimants returning homeward
from Knaresdean. It was a quiet, solitary post-house, and patience, till
some jaded horses should return, was the only remedy; the host, assuring
the travellers that he expected four horses every moment, invited them
within. The morning was cold, and the fire not unacceptable to Mr.
Cleveland; so they went into the little parlour. Here they found an
elderly gentleman of very prepossessing appearance, who was waiting
for the same object. He moved courteously from the fireplace as the
travellers entered, and pushed the "B-----shire Chronicle" towards
Cleveland: Cleveland bowed urbanely. "A cold day, sir; the autumn begins
to show itself."

"It is true, sir," answered the old gentleman; "and I feel the cold the
more, having just quitted the genial atmosphere of the South."

"Of Italy?"

"No, of England only. I see by this paper (I am not much of a
politician) that there is a chance of a dissolution of parliament, and
that Mr. Maltravers is likely to come forward for this county; are you
acquainted with him, sir?"

"A little," said Cleveland, smiling.

"He is a man I am much interested in," said the old gentleman; "and I
hope soon to be honoured with his acquaintance."

"Indeed! and you are going into his neighbourhood?" asked Cleveland,
looking more attentively at the stranger, and much pleased with a
certain simple candour in his countenance and manner.

"Yes, to Merton Rectory."

Maltravers, who had been hitherto stationed by the window, turned round.

"To Merton Rectory?" repeated Cleveland. "You are acquainted with Mr.
Merton, then?"

"Not yet; but I know some of his family. However, my visit is rather to
a young lady who is staying at the rectory,--Miss Cameron."

Maltravers sighed heavily; and the old gentleman looked at him
curiously. "Perhaps, sir, if you know that neighbourhood, you may have
seen--"

"Miss Cameron! Certainly; it is an honour not easily forgotten."

The old gentleman looked pleased.

"The dear child!" said he, with a burst of honest affection, and he
passed his hand over his eyes. Maltravers drew near to him.

"You know Miss Cameron; you are to be envied, sir," said he.

"I have known her since she was a child; Lady Vargrave is my dearest
friend."

"Lady Vargrave must be worthy of such a daughter. Only under the light
of a sweet disposition and pure heart could that beautiful nature have
been trained and reared."

Maltravers spoke with enthusiasm; and, as if fearful to trust himself
more, left the room.

"That gentleman speaks not more warmly than justly," said the old man,
with some surprise. "He has a countenance which, if physiognomy be a
true science, declares his praise to be no common compliment; may I
inquire his name?"

"Maltravers," replied Cleveland, a little vain of the effect his
ex-pupil's name was to produce.

The curate--for it was he--started and changed countenance.

"Maltravers! but he is not about to leave the county?"

"Yes, for a few months."

Here the host entered. Four horses, that had been only fourteen miles,
had just re-entered the yard. If Mr. Maltravers could spare two to that
gentleman, who had, indeed, pre-engaged them?

"Certainly," said Cleveland; "but be quick."

"And is Lord Vargrave still at Mr. Merton's?" asked the curate,
musingly.

"Oh, yes, I believe so. Miss Cameron is to be married to him very
shortly,--is it not so?"

"I cannot say," returned Aubrey, rather bewildered. "You know Lord
Vargrave, sir?"

"Extremely well!"

"And you think him worthy of Miss Cameron?"

"That is a question for her to answer. But I see the horses are put to.
Good-day, sir! Will you tell your fair young friend that you have met an
old gentleman who wishes her all happiness; and if she ask you his name,
say Cleveland?"

So saying, Mr. Cleveland bowed, and re-entered the carriage. But
Maltravers was yet missing. In fact, he returned to the house by the
back way, and went once more into the little parlour. It was something
to see again one who would so soon see Evelyn!

"If I mistake not," said Maltravers, "you are that Mr. Aubrey on whose
virtues I have often heard Miss Cameron delight to linger? Will you
believe my regret that our acquaintance is now so brief?"

As Maltravers spoke thus simply, there was in his countenance, his
voice, a melancholy sweetness, which greatly conciliated the good
curate; and as Aubrey gazed upon his noble features and lofty mien, he
no longer wondered at the fascination he had appeared to exercise over
the young Evelyn.

"And may I not hope, Mr. Maltravers," said he, "that before long our
acquaintance may be renewed? Could not Miss Cameron," he added, with a
smile and a penetrating look, "tempt you into Devonshire?"

Maltravers shook his head, and, muttering something not very audible,
quitted the room. The curate heard the whirl of the wheels, and the host
entered to inform him that his own carriage was now ready.

"There is something in this," thought Aubrey, "which I do not
comprehend. His manner, his trembling voice, bespoke emotions he
struggled to conceal. Can Lord Vargrave have gained his point? Is
Evelyn, indeed, no longer free?"



CHAPTER V.

  CERTES, c'est un grand cas, Icas,
  Que toujours tracas ou fracas
  Vous faites d'une ou d'autre sort;
  C'est le diable qui vous emporte!*--VOITURE.

  * "Certes, it is the fact, Icas, that you are always engaged in
    tricks or scrapes of some sort or other; it must be the devil
    that bewitches you."

LORD VARGRAVE had passed the night of the ball and the following morning
at Knaresdean. It was necessary to bring the counsels of the scheming
conclave to a full and definite conclusion; and this was at last
effected. Their strength numbered, friends and foes alike canvassed and
considered, and due account taken of the waverers to be won over, it
really did seem, even to the least sanguine, that the Saxingham or
Vargrave party was one that might well aspire either to dictate to,
or to break up, a government. Nothing now was left to consider but the
favourable hour for action. In high spirits, Lord Vargrave returned
about the middle of the day to the rectory.

"So," thought he, as he reclined in his carriage,--"so, in politics, the
prospect clears as the sun breaks out. The party I have espoused is one
that must be the most durable, for it possesses the greatest property
and the most stubborn prejudice--what elements for Party! All that I now
require is a sufficient fortune to back my ambition. Nothing can clog
my way but these cursed debts, this disreputable want of gold. And yet
Evelyn alarms me! Were I younger, or had I not made my position too
soon, I would marry her by fraud or by force,--run off with her to
Gretna, and make Vulcan minister to Plutus. But this would never do at
my years, and with my reputation. A pretty story for the newspapers,
d-----n them! Well, nothing venture, nothing have; I will brave the
hazard! Meanwhile, Doltimore is mine; Caroline will rule him, and I rule
her. His vote and his boroughs are something,--his money will be
more immediately useful: I must do him the honour to borrow a few
thousands,--Caroline must manage that for me. The fool is miserly,
though a spendthrift; and looked black when I delicately hinted the
other day that I wanted a friend--_id est_, a loan! money and friendship
same thing,--distinction without a difference!" Thus cogitating,
Vargrave whiled away the minutes till his carriage stopped at Mr.
Merton's door.

As he entered the hall he met Caroline, who had just quitted her own
room.

"How lucky I am that you have on your bonnet! I long for a walk with you
round the lawn."

"And I, too, am glad to see you, Lord Vargrave," said Caroline, putting
her arm in his.

"Accept my best congratulations, my own sweet friend," said Vargrave,
when they were in the grounds. "You have no idea how happy Doltimore
is. He came to Knaresdean yesterday to communicate the news, and his
neckcloth was primmer than ever. C'est un bon enfant."

"Ah, how can you talk thus? Do you feel no pain at the thought
that--that I am another's?"

"Your heart will be ever mine,--and that is the true fidelity. What
else, too, could be done? As for Lord Doltimore, we will go shares
in him. Come, cheer thee, _m'amie_; I rattle on thus to keep up your
spirits. Do not fancy I am happy!"

Caroline let fall a few tears; but beneath the influence of Vargrave's
sophistries and flatteries, she gradually recovered her usual hard and
worldly tone of mind.

"And where is Evelyn?" asked Vargrave. "Do you know, the little witch
seemed to be half mad the night of the ball. Her head was turned; and
when she sat next me at supper, she not only answered every question
I put to her _a tort et a travers_, but I fancied every moment she was
going to burst out crying. Can you tell what was the matter with her?"

"She was grieved to hear that I was to be married to the man I do not
love. Ah, Vargrave, she has more heart than you have!"

"But she never fancies that you love me?" asked Lumley, in alarm. "You
women are so confoundedly confidential!"

"No, she does not suspect our secret."

"Then I scarcely think your approaching marriage was a sufficient cause
for so much distraction."

"Perhaps she may have overheard some of the impertinent whispers
about her mother,--'Who was Lady Vargrave?' and 'What Cameron was
Lady Vargrave's first husband?' _I_ overheard a hundred such vulgar
questions; and provincial people whisper so loud."

"Ah, that is a very probable solution of the mystery; and for my part,
I am almost as much puzzled as any one else can be to know who Lady
Vargrave was!"

"Did not your uncle tell you?"

"He told me that she was of no very elevated birth and station,--nothing
more; and she herself, with her quiet, say-nothing manner, slips through
all my careless questionings like an eel. She is still a beautiful
creature, more regularly handsome than even Evelyn; and old Templeton
had a very sweet tooth at the back of his head, though he never opened
his mouth wide enough to show it."

"She must ever at least have been blameless, to judge by an air which,
even now, is more like that of a child than a matron."

"Yes; she has not much of the widow about her, poor soul! But her
education, except in music, has not been very carefully attended to;
and she knows about as much of the world as the Bishop of Autun (better
known as Prince Talleyrand) knows of the Bible. If she were not so
simple, she would be silly; but silliness is never simple,--always
cunning; however, there is some cunning in her keeping her past
Cameronian Chronicles so close. Perhaps I may know more about her in a
short time, for I intend going to C-----, where my uncle once lived,
in order to see if I can revive under the rose--since peers are only
contraband electioneerers--his old parliamentary influence in that city:
and they may tell me more there than I now know."

"Did the late lord marry at C-----?"

"No; in Devonshire. I do not even know if Mrs. Cameron ever was at
C-----."

"You must be curious to know who the father of your intended wife was?"

"Her father! No; I have no curiosity in that quarter. And, to tell you
the truth, I am much too busy about the Present to be raking into
that heap of rubbish we call the Past. I fancy that both your good
grandmother and that comely old curate of Brook-Green know everything
about Lady Vargrave; and, as they esteem her so much, I take it for
granted she is _sans tache_."

"How could I be so stupid! _A propos_ of the curate, I forgot to tell
you that he is here. He arrived about two hours ago, and has been
closeted with Evelyn ever since!"

"The deuce! What brought the old man hither?"

"That I know not. Papa received a letter from him yesterday morning, to
say that he would be here to-day. Perhaps Lady Vargrave thinks it time
for Evelyn to return home."

"What am I to do?" said Vargrave, anxiously. "Dare I yet venture to
propose?"

"I am sure it will be in vain, Vargrave. You must prepare for
disappointment."

"And ruin," muttered Vargrave, gloomily. "Hark you, Caroline, she may
refuse me if she pleases. But I am not a man to be baffled. Have her I
will, by one means or another; revenge urges me to it almost as much as
ambition. That girl's thread of life has been the dark line in my woof;
she has robbed me of fortune, she now thwarts me in my career, she
humbles me in my vanity. But, like a hound that has tasted blood, I will
run her down, whatever winding she takes."

"Vargrave, you terrify me! Reflect; we do not live in an age when
violence--"

"Tush!" interrupted Lumley, with one of those dark looks which at times,
though very rarely, swept away all its customary character from that
smooth, shrewd countenance. "Tush! We live in an age as favourable to
intellect and to energy as ever was painted in romance. I have that
faith in fortune and myself that I tell you, with a prophet's voice,
that Evelyn shall fulfil the wish of my dying uncle. But the bell
summons us back."

On returning to the house, Lord Vargrave's valet gave him a letter
which had arrived that morning. It was from Mr. Gustavus Douce, and ran
thus:--


                         FLEET STREET, ----- 20, 18--.

MY LORD,--It is with the greatest regret that I apprise you, for Self &
Co., that we shall not be able in the present state of the Money Market
to renew your Lordship's bill for 10,000 pounds, due the 28th instant.
Respectfully calling your Lordship's attention to the same, I have the
honour to be, for Self & Co., my Lord,

     Your Lordship's most obedient and most obliged humble servant,
                              GUSTAVUS DOUCE.

To the Right Hon. LORD VARGRAVE, etc.


This letter sharpened Lord Vargrave's anxiety and resolve; nay, it
seemed almost to sharpen his sharp features as he muttered sundry
denunciations on Messrs. Douce and Co., while arranging his neckcloth at
the glass.



CHAPTER VI.

  _Sol._ Why, please your honourable lordship, we were talking
  here and there,--this and that.--_The Stranger_.

AUBREY had been closeted with Evelyn the whole morning; and,
simultaneous with his arrival, came to her the news of the departure of
Maltravers. It was an intelligence that greatly agitated and unnerved
her; and, coupling that event with his solemn words on the previous
night, Evelyn asked herself, in wonder, what sentiments she could have
inspired in Maltravers. Could he love her,--her, so young, so inferior,
so uninformed? Impossible! Alas! alas! for Maltravers! His genius, his
gifts, his towering qualities,--all that won the admiration, almost the
awe, of Evelyn,--placed him at a distance from her heart! When she asked
herself if he loved her, she did not ask, even in that hour, if she
loved him. But even the question she did ask, her judgment answered
erringly in the negative. Why should he love, and yet fly her? She
understood not his high-wrought scruples, his self-deluding belief.
Aubrey was more puzzled than enlightened by his conversation with his
pupil; only one thing seemed certain,--her delight to return to the
cottage and her mother.

Evelyn could not sufficiently recover her composure to mix with the
party below; and Aubrey, at the sound of the second dinner-bell, left
her to her solitude, and bore her excuses to Mrs. Merton.

"Dear me!" said that worthy lady; "I am so sorry. I thought Miss Cameron
looked fatigued at breakfast, and there was something hysterical in
her spirits; and I suppose the surprise of your arrival has upset her.
Caroline, my dear, you had better go and see what she would like to have
taken up to her room,--a little soup and the wing of a chicken."

"My dear," said Mr. Merton, rather pompously, "I think it would be but a
proper respect to Miss Cameron, if you yourself accompanied Caroline."

"I assure you," said the curate, alarmed at the avalanche of politeness
that threatened poor Evelyn,--"I assure you that Miss Cameron would
prefer being left alone at present; as you say, Mrs. Merton, her spirits
are rather agitated."

But Mrs. Merton, with a sliding bow, had already quitted the room, and
Caroline with her.

"Come back, Sophy! Cecilia, come back!" said Mr. Merton, settling his
_jabot_.

"Oh, dear Evy! poor dear Evy!--Evy is ill!" said Sophy; "I may go to
Evy? I must go, Papa!"

"No, my dear, you are too noisy; these children are quite spoiled, Mr.
Aubrey."

The old man looked at them benevolently, and drew them to his knee; and,
while Cissy stroked his long white hair, and Sophy ran on about dear
Evy's prettiness and goodness, Lord Vargrave sauntered into the room.

On seeing the curate, his frank face lighted up with surprise and
pleasure; he hastened to him, seized him by both hands, expressed the
most heartfelt delight at seeing him, inquired tenderly after Lady
Vargrave, and, not till he was out of breath, and Mrs. Merton and
Caroline returning apprised him of Miss Cameron's indisposition, did his
rapture vanish; and, as a moment before he was all joy, so now he was
all sorrow.

The dinner passed off dully enough; the children, re-admitted to
dessert, made a little relief to all parties; and when they and the two
ladies went, Aubrey himself quickly rose to join Evelyn.

"Are you going to Miss Cameron?" said Lord Vargrave; "pray say how
unhappy I feel at her illness. I think these grapes--they are very
fine--could not hurt her. May I ask you to present them with my
best--best and most anxious regards? I shall be so uneasy till you
return. Now, Merton (as the door closed on the curate), let's have
another bottle of this famous claret! Droll old fellow that,--quite a
character!"

"He is a great favourite with Lady Vargrave and Miss Cameron, I
believe," said Mr. Merton. "A mere village priest, I suppose; no talent,
no energy--or he could not be a curate at that age."

"Very true,--a shrewd remark. The Church is as good a profession as any
other for getting on, if a man has anything in him. I shall live to see
_you_ a bishop!"

Mr. Merton shook his head.

"Yes, I shall; though you have hitherto disdained to exhibit any one of
the three orthodox qualifications for a mitre."

"And what are they, my lord?"

"Editing a Greek play, writing a political pamphlet, and apostatizing at
the proper moment."

"Ha, ha! your lordship is severe on us."

"Not I; I often wish I had been brought up to the Church,--famous
profession, properly understood. By Jupiter, I should have been a
capital bishop!"

In his capacity of parson, Mr. Merton tried to look grave; in his
capacity of a gentlemanlike, liberal fellow, he gave up the attempt, and
laughed pleasantly at the joke of the rising man.



CHAPTER VII.

  WILL nothing please you?
  What do you think of the Court?--_The Plain Dealer_.

ON one subject Aubrey found no difficulty in ascertaining Evelyn's
wishes and condition of mind. The experiment of her visit, so far as
Vargrave's hopes were concerned, had utterly failed; she could not
contemplate the prospect of his alliance, and she poured out to the
curate, frankly and fully, all her desire to effect a release from her
engagement. As it was now settled that she should return with Aubrey
to Brook-Green, it was indeed necessary to come to the long-delayed
understanding with her betrothed. Yet this was difficult, for he had so
little pressed, so distantly alluded to, their engagement, that it was
like a forwardness, an indelicacy in Evelyn to forestall the longed-for
yet dreaded explanation. This, however, Aubrey took upon himself; and
at this promise Evelyn felt as the slave may feel when the chain is
stricken off.

At breakfast, Mr. Aubrey communicated to the Mertons Evelyn's intention
to return with him to Brook-Green on the following day. Lord Vargrave
started, bit his lip, but said nothing.

Not so silent was Mr. Merton.

"Return with you! my dear Mr. Aubrey, just consider; it is impossible!
You see Miss Cameron's rank of life, her position,--so very strange; no
servants of her own here but her woman,--no carriage even! You would not
have her travel in a post-chaise such a long journey! Lord Vargrave, you
can never consent to that, I am sure?"

"Were it only as Miss Cameron's _guardian_," said Lord Vargrave,
pointedly, "I should certainly object to such a mode of performing such
a journey. Perhaps Mr. Aubrey means to perfect the project by taking two
outside places on the top of the coach?"

"Pardon me," said the curate, mildly, "but I am not so ignorant of what
is due to Miss Cameron as you suppose. Lady Vargrave's carriage, which
brought me hither, will be no unsuitable vehicle for Lady Vargrave's
daughter; and Miss Cameron is not, I trust, quite so spoiled by all your
friendly attentions as to be unable to perform a journey of two days
with no other protector than myself."

"I forgot Lady Vargrave's carriage,--or rather I was not aware that you
had used it, my dear sir," said Mr. Merton. "But you must not blame us,
if we are sorry to lose Miss Cameron so suddenly; I was in hopes that
_you_ too would stay at least a week with us."

The curate bowed at the rector's condescending politeness; and just as
he was about to answer, Mrs. Merton put in,--

"And you see I had set my heart on her being Caroline's bridesmaid."

Caroline turned pale, and glanced at Vargrave, who appeared solely
absorbed in breaking toast into his tea,--a delicacy he had never before
been known to favour.

There was an awkward pause. The servant opportunely entered with a small
parcel of books, a note to Mr. Merton, and that most blessed of all
blessed things in the country,--the letter-bag.

"What is this?" said the rector, opening his note, while Mrs. Merton
unlocked the bag and dispensed the contents: "Left Burleigh for
some months, a day or two sooner than he had expected; excuse French
leave-taking; return Miss Merton's books, much obliged; gamekeeper has
orders to place the Burleigh preserves at my disposal. So we have lost
our neighbour!"

"Did you not know Mr. Maltravers was gone?" said Caroline. "I heard so
from Jenkins last night; he accompanies Mr. Cleveland to Paris."

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Merton, opening her eyes. "What could take him to
Paris?"

"Pleasure, I suppose," answered Caroline. "I'm sure I should rather have
wondered what could detain him at Burleigh."

Vargrave was all this while breaking open seals and running his eyes
over sundry scrawls with the practised rapidity of the man of business;
he came to the last letter. His countenance brightened.

"Royal invitation, or rather command, to Windsor," he cried. "I am
afraid I, too, must leave you, this very day."

"Bless me!" exclaimed Mrs. Merton; "is that from the king? Do let me
see!"

"Not exactly from the king; the same thing though:" and Lord Vargrave,
carelessly pushing the gracious communication towards the impatient hand
and loyal gaze of Mrs. Merton, carefully put the other letters in his
pocket, and walked musingly to the window.

Aubrey seized the opportunity to approach him. "My lord, can I speak
with you a few moments?"

"Me! certainly; will you come to my dressing-room?"



CHAPTER VIII.

 ...  THERE was never
  Poor gentleman had such a sudden fortune.

       BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER: _The Captain_, Act v. sc. 5.

"MY LORD," said the curate, as Vargrave, leaning back in his chair,
appeared to examine the shape of his boots, while in reality "his
sidelong looks;" not "of love," were fixed upon his companion,--"I need
scarcely refer to the wish of the late lord, your uncle, relative to
Miss Cameron and yourself; nor need I, to one of a generous spirit,
add that an engagement could be only so far binding as both the parties
whose happiness is concerned should be willing in proper time and season
to fulfil it."

"Sir!" said Vargrave, impatiently waving his hand; and, in his irritable
surmise of what was to come, losing his habitual self-control, "I know
not what all this has to do with you; surely you trespass upon ground
sacred to Miss Cameron and myself? Whatever you have to say, let me beg
you to come at once to the point."

"My lord, I will obey you. Miss Cameron--and, I may add, with Lady
Vargrave's consent--deputes me to say that, although she feels compelled
to decline the honour of your lordship's alliance, yet if in any
arrangement of the fortune bequeathed to her she could testify to
you, my lord, her respect and friendship, it would afford her the most
sincere gratification."

Lord Vargrave started.

"Sir," said he, "I know not if I am to thank you for this information,
the announcement of which so strangely coincides with your arrival. But
allow me to say that there needs no ambassador between Miss Cameron
and myself. It is due, sir, to my station, to my relationship, to
my character of guardian, to my long and faithful affection, to all
considerations which men of the world understand, which men of feeling
sympathize with, to receive from Miss Cameron alone the rejection of my
suit."

"Unquestionably Miss Cameron will grant your lordship the interview you
have a right to seek; but pardon me, I thought it might save you both
much pain, if the meeting were prepared by a third person; and on any
matter of business, any atonement to your lordship--"

"Atonement! what can atone to me?" exclaimed Vargrave, as he walked to
and fro the room in great disorder and excitement. "Can you give me back
years of hope and expectancy,--the manhood wasted in a vain dream? Had
I not been taught to look to this reward, should I have rejected all
occasion--while my youth was not yet all gone, while my heart was
not yet all occupied--to form a suitable alliance? Nay, should I have
indulged in a high and stirring career, for which my own fortune is by
no means qualified? Atonement! atonement! Talk of atonement to boys!
Sir, I stand before you a man whose private happiness is blighted, whose
public prospects are darkened, life wasted, fortunes ruined, the schemes
of an existence built upon one hope, which was lawfully indulged,
overthrown; and you talk to me of _atonement_!"

Selfish as the nature of this complaint might be, Aubrey was struck with
its justice.

"My lord," said he, a little embarrassed, "I cannot deny that there is
truth in much of what you say. Alas! it proves how vain it is for man
to calculate on the future; how unhappily your uncle erred in imposing
conditions, which the chances of life and the caprices of affection
could at any time dissolve! But this is blame that attaches only to the
dead: can you blame the living?"

"Sir, I considered myself bound by my uncle's prayer to keep my hand
and heart disengaged, that this title--miserable and barren distinction
though it be!--might, as he so ardently desired, descend to Evelyn. I
had a right to expect similar honour upon her side!"

"Surely, my lord, you, to whom the late lord on his death-bed confided
all the motives of his conduct and the secret of his life, cannot but
be aware that, while desirous of promoting your worldly welfare, and
uniting in one line his rank and his fortune, your uncle still had
Evelyn's happiness at heart as his warmest wish; you must know that,
if that happiness were forfeited by a marriage with you, the marriage
became but a secondary consideration. Lord Vargrave's will in itself was
a proof of this. He did not impose as an absolute condition upon Evelyn
her union with yourself; he did not make the forfeiture of her whole
wealth the penalty of her rejection of that alliance. By the definite
limit of the forfeit, he intimated a distinction between a command and
a desire. And surely, when you consider all circumstances, your lordship
must think that, what with that forfeit and the estate settled upon the
title, your uncle did all that in a worldly point of view equity and
even affection could exact from him."

Vargrave smiled bitterly, but said nothing.

"And if this be doubted, I have clearer proof of his intentions. Such
was his confidence in Lady Vargrave, that in the letter he addressed to
her before his death, and which I now submit to your lordship, you
will observe that he not only expressly leaves it to Lady Vargrave's
discretion to communicate to Evelyn that history of which she is at
present ignorant, but that he also clearly defines the line of conduct
he wished to be adopted with respect to Evelyn and yourself. Permit me
to point out the passage."

Impatiently Lord Vargrave ran his eye over the letter placed in his
hand, till he came to these lines:--


"And if, when she has arrived at the proper age to form a judgment,
Evelyn should decide against Lumley's claims, you know that on no
account would I sacrifice her happiness; that all I require is, that
fair play be given to his pretensions, due indulgence to the scheme I
have long had at heart. Let her be brought up to consider him her future
husband; let her not be prejudiced against him; let her fairly judge for
herself, when the time arrives."


"You see, my lord," said Mr. Aubrey, as he took back the letter, "that
this letter bears the same date as your uncle's will. What he desired
has been done. Be just, my lord, be just, and exonerate us all from
blame: who can dictate to the affections?"

"And I am to understand that I have no chance, now or hereafter, of
obtaining the affections of Evelyn? Surely, at your age, Mr. Aubrey, you
cannot encourage the heated romance common to all girls of Evelyn's
age. Persons of our rank do not marry like the Corydon and Phyllis of a
pastoral. At my years, I never was fool enough to expect that I should
inspire a girl of seventeen with what is called a passionate attachment.
But happy marriages are based upon suitable circumstances, mutual
knowledge and indulgence, respect, esteem. Come, sir, let me hope
yet,--let me hope that, on the same day, I may congratulate you on your
preferment and you may congratulate me upon my marriage."

Vargrave said this with a cheerful and easy smile; and the tone of
his voice was that of a man who wished to convey serious meaning in a
jesting accent.

Mr. Aubrey, meek as he was, felt the insult of the hinted bribe, and
coloured with a resentment no sooner excited than checked. "Excuse me,
my lord, I have now said all; the rest had better be left to your ward
herself."

"Be it so, sir. I will ask you, then, to convey my request to Evelyn to
honour me with a last and parting interview."

Vargrave flung himself on his chair, and Aubrey left him.



CHAPTER IX.

  THUS airy Strephon tuned his lyre.--SHENSTONE.

IN his meeting with Evelyn, Vargrave certainly exerted to the utmost all
his ability and all his art. He felt that violence, that sarcasm, that
selfish complaint would not avail in a man who was not loved,--though
they are often admirable cards in the hands of a man who is. As his
own heart was perfectly untouched in the matter, except by rage and
disappointment,--feelings which with him never lasted very long,--he
could play coolly his losing game. His keen and ready intellect taught
him that all he could now expect was to bequeath sentiments of generous
compassion and friendly interest; to create a favourable impression,
which he might hereafter improve; to reserve, in short, some spot of
vantage-ground in the country from which he was to affect to withdraw
all his forces. He had known, in his experience of women, which, whether
as an actor or a spectator, was large and various--though not among
very delicate and refined natures--that a lady often takes a fancy to
a suitor _after_ she has rejected him; that precisely _because_ she has
once rejected she ultimately accepts him. And even this chance was, in
circumstances so desperate, not to be neglected. He assumed, therefore,
the countenance, the postures, and the voice of heart-broken but
submissive despair; he affected a nobleness and magnanimity in his
grief, which touched Evelyn to the quick, and took her by surprise.

"It is enough," said he, in sad and faltering accents; "quite enough for
me to know that you cannot love me,--that I should fail in rendering you
happy. Say no more, Evelyn, say no more! Let me spare you, at least,
the pain your generous nature must feel in my anguish. I resign all
pretensions to your hand; you are free!--may you be happy!"

"Oh, Lord Vargrave! oh, Lumley!" said Evelyn, weeping, and moved by
a thousand recollections of early years. "If I could but prove in
any other way my grateful sense of your merits, your too partial
appreciation of me, my regard for my lost benefactor, then, indeed, nor
till then, could I be happy. Oh that this wealth, so little desired by
me, had been more at my disposal! but as it is, the day that sees me
in possession of it, shall see it placed under your disposition, your
control. This is but justice,--common justice to you; you were the
nearest relation of the departed. I had no claim on him,--none but
affection. Affection! and yet I disobey him!"

There was much in all this that secretly pleased Vargrave; but it only
seemed to redouble his grief.

"Talk not thus, my ward, my friend--ah, still my friend," said he,
putting his handkerchief to his eyes. "I repine not; I am more
than satisfied. Still let me preserve my privilege of guardian, of
adviser,--a privilege dearer to me than all the wealth of the Indies!"

Lord Vargrave had some faint suspicion that Legard had created an
undue interest in Evelyn's heart; and on this point he delicately and
indirectly sought to sound her. Her replies convinced him that if Evelyn
had conceived any prepossession for Legard, there had not been time or
opportunity to ripen it into deep attachment. Of Maltravers he had no
fear. The habitual self-control of that reserved personage deceived him
partly; and his low opinion of mankind deceived him still more. For if
there had been any love between Maltravers and Evelyn, why should the
former not have stood his ground, and declared his suit? Lumley would
have "bah'd" and "pish'd" at the thought of any punctilious regard for
engagements so easily broken having power either to check passion for
beauty, or to restrain self-interest in the chase of an heiress. He had
known Maltravers ambitious; and with him, ambition and self-interest
meant the same. Thus, by the very _finesse_ of his character--while
Vargrave ever with the worldly was a keen and almost infallible
observer--with natures of a more refined, or a higher order, he always
missed the mark by overshooting. Besides, had a suspicion of Maltravers
ever crossed him, Caroline's communications would have dispelled it.
It was more strange that Caroline should have been blind; nor would
she have been so had she been less absorbed in her own schemes and
destinies. All her usual penetration had of late settled in self; and
an uneasy feeling--half arising from conscientious reluctance to aid
Vargrave's objects, half from jealous irritation at the thought of
Vargrave's marrying another--had prevented her from seeking any very
intimate or confidential communication with Evelyn herself.

The dreaded conference was over; Evelyn parted from Vargrave with the
very feelings he had calculated on exciting,--the moment he ceased to be
her lover, her old childish regard for him recommenced. She pitied his
dejection, she respected his generosity, she was deeply grateful for his
forbearance. But still--still she was free; and her heart bounded within
her at the thought.

Meanwhile, Vargrave, after his solemn farewell to Evelyn, retreated
again to his own room, where he remained till his post-horses arrived.
Then, descending into the drawing-room, he was pleased to find neither
Aubrey nor Evelyn there. He knew that much affectation would be thrown
away upon Mr. and Mrs. Merton; he thanked them for their hospitality,
with grave and brief cordiality, and then turned to Caroline, who stood
apart by the window.

"All is up with me at present," he whispered. "I leave you, Caroline, in
anticipation of fortune, rank, and prosperity; that is some comfort.
For myself, I see only difficulties, embarrassment, and poverty in the
future; but I despond of nothing. Hereafter you may serve me, as I
have served you. Adieu!--I have been advising Caroline not to spoil
Doltimore, Mrs. Merton; he is conceited enough already. Good-by! God
bless you all! love to your little girls. Let me know if I can serve
you in any way, Merton,--good-by again!" And thus, sentence by
sentence, Vargrave talked himself into his carriage. As it drove by the
drawing-room windows, he saw Caroline standing motionless where he had
left her; he kissed his hand,--her eyes were fixed mournfully on his.
Hard, wayward, and worldly as Caroline Merton was, Vargrave was yet not
worthy of the affection he had inspired; for she could _feel_, and he
could not,--the distinction, perhaps, between the sexes. And there still
stood Caroline Merton, recalling the last tones of that indifferent
voice, till she felt her hand seized, and turned round to see Lord
Doltimore, and smile upon the happy lover, persuaded that he was adored!




BOOK VI.

  "I will bring fire to thee--I reek not of the place."
       --EURIPIDES: _Andromache_, 214.



CHAPTER I.

... THIS ancient city,  How wanton sits she amidst Nature's smiles!

... Various nations meet,  As in the sea, yet not confined in space,
  But streaming freely through the spacious streets.--YOUNG.

... His teeth he still did grind,
  And grimly gnash, threatening revenge in vain.--SPENSER.


"PARIS is a delightful place,--that is allowed by all. It is delightful
to the young, to the gay, to the idle; to the literary lion, who likes
to be petted; to the wiser epicure, who indulges a more justifiable
appetite. It is delightful to ladies, who wish to live at their ease,
and buy beautiful caps; delightful to philanthropists, who wish for
listeners to schemes of colonizing the moon; delightful to the haunters
of balls and ballets, and little theatres and superb _cafes_, where men
with beards of all sizes and shapes scowl at the English, and involve
their intellects in the fascinating game of dominos. For these, and for
many others, Paris is delightful. I say nothing against it. But, for my
own part, I would rather live in a garret in London than in a palace in
the Chaussee d'Antin.--'Chacun a son mauvais gout.'

"I don't like the streets, in which I cannot walk but in the kennel; I
don't like the shops, that contain nothing except what's at the window;
I don't like the houses, like prisons which look upon a courtyard; I
don't like the _beaux jardins_, which grow no plants save a Cupid in
plaster; I don't like the wood fires, which demand as many _petits
soins_ as the women, and which warm no part of one but one's eyelids,
I don't like the language, with its strong phrases about nothing, and
vibrating like a pendulum between 'rapture' and 'desolation;' I don't
like the accent, which one cannot get, without speaking through one's
nose; I don't like the eternal fuss and jabber about books without
nature, and revolutions without fruit; I have no sympathy with tales
that turn on a dead jackass, nor with constitutions that give the ballot
to the representatives, and withhold the suffrage from the people;
neither have I much faith in that enthusiasm for the _beaux arts_, which
shows its produce in execrable music, detestable pictures, abominable
sculpture, and a droll something that I believe the _French_ call
POETRY. Dancing and cookery,--these are the arts the French excel in, I
grant it; and excellent things they are; but oh, England! oh, Germany!
you need not be jealous of your rival!"

These are not the author's remarks,--he disowns them; they were Mr.
Cleveland's. He was a prejudiced man; Maltravers was more liberal, but
then Maltravers did not pretend to be a wit.

Maltravers had been several weeks in the city of cities, and now he had
his apartments in the gloomy but interesting Faubourg St. Germain, all
to himself. For Cleveland, having attended eight days at a sale, and
having moreover ransacked all the curiosity shops, and shipped off
bronzes and cabinets, and Genoese silks and _objets de vertu_, enough to
have half furnished Fonthill, had fulfilled his mission, and returned
to his villa. Before the old gentleman went, he flattered himself that
change of air and scene had already been serviceable to his friend;
and that time would work a complete cure upon that commonest of all
maladies,--an unrequited passion, or an ill-placed caprice.

Maltravers, indeed, in the habit of conquering, as well as of concealing
emotion, vigorously and earnestly strove to dethrone the image that had
usurped his heart. Still vain of his self-command, and still worshipping
his favourite virtue of Fortitude and his delusive philosophy of the
calm Golden Mean, he would not weakly indulge the passion, while he so
sternly fled from its object.

But yet the image of Evelyn pursued,--it haunted him; it came on him
unawares, in solitude, in crowds. That smile so cheering, yet so
soft, that ever had power to chase away the shadow from his soul; that
youthful and luxurious bloom of pure and eloquent thoughts, which was
as the blossom of genius before its fruit, bitter as well as sweet, is
born; that rare union of quick feeling and serene temper, which forms
the very ideal of what we dream of in the mistress, and exact from
the wife,--all, even more, far more, than the exquisite form and the
delicate graces of the less durable beauty, returned to him, after every
struggle with himself; and time only seemed to grave, in deeper if more
latent folds of his heart, the ineradicable impression.

Maltravers renewed his acquaintance with some persons not unfamiliar to
the reader.

Valerie de Ventadour--how many recollections of the fairer days of life
were connected with that name! Precisely as she had never reached to
his love, but only excited his fancy (the fancy of twenty-two), had her
image always retained a pleasant and grateful hue; it was blended with
no deep sorrow, no stern regret, no dark remorse, no haunting shame.

They met again. Madame de Ventadour was still beautiful, and still
admired,--perhaps more admired than ever; for to the great, fashion and
celebrity bring a second and yet more popular youth. But Maltravers, if
rejoiced to see how gently Time had dealt with the fair Frenchwoman,
was yet more pleased to read in her fine features a more serene and
contented expression than they had formerly worn. Valerie de Ventadour
had preceded her younger admirer through the "MYSTERIES of LIFE;" she
had learned the real objects of being; she distinguished between the
Actual and the Visionary, the Shadow and the Substance; she had acquired
content for the present, and looked with quiet hope towards the future.
Her character was still spotless; or rather, every year of temptation
and trial had given it a fairer lustre. Love, that might have ruined,
being once subdued, preserved her from all after danger. The first
meeting between Maltravers and Valerie was, it is true, one of some
embarrassment and reserve: not so the second. They did but once, and
that slightly, recur to the past, and from that moment, as by a
tacit understanding, true friendship between them dated. Neither felt
mortified to see that an illusion had passed away,--they were no longer
the same in each other's eyes. Both might be improved, and were so;
but the Valerie and the Ernest of Naples were as things dead and gone!
Perhaps Valerie's heart was even more reconciled to the cure of its soft
and luxurious malady by the renewal of their acquaintance. The mature
and experienced reasoner, in whom enthusiasm had undergone its usual
change, with the calm brow and commanding aspect of sober manhood, was
a being so different from the romantic boy, new to the actual world
of civilized toils and pleasures, fresh from the adventures of Eastern
wanderings, and full of golden dreams of poetry before it settles
into authorship or action! She missed the brilliant errors, the daring
aspirations,--even the animated gestures and eager eloquence,--that had
interested and enamoured her in the loiterer by the shores of Baiae, or
amidst the tomb-like chambers of Pompeii. For the Maltravers now before
her--wiser, better, nobler, even handsomer than of yore (for he was one
whom manhood became better than youth)--the Frenchwoman could at any
period have felt friendship without danger. It seemed to her, not as it
really was, the natural _development_, but the very _contrast_, of the
ardent, variable, imaginative boy, by whose side she had gazed at night
on the moonlit waters and rosy skies of the soft Parthenope! How does
time, after long absence, bring to us such contrasts between the one we
remember and the one we see! And what a melancholy mockery does it seem
of our own vain hearts, dreaming of impressions never to be changed, and
affections that never can grow cool!

And now, as they conversed with all the ease of cordial and guileless
friendship, how did Valerie rejoice in secret that upon that friendship
there rested no blot of shame! and that she had not forfeited those
consolations for a home without love, which had at last settled into
cheerful nor unhallowed resignation,--consolations only to be found in
the conscience and the pride!

M. de Ventadour had not altered, except that his nose was longer, and
that he now wore a peruque in full curl instead of his own straight
hair. But somehow or other--perhaps by the mere charm of custom--he had
grown more pleasing in Valerie's eyes; habit had reconciled her to his
foibles, deficiencies, and faults; and, by comparison with others,
she could better appreciate his good qualities, such as they
were,--generosity, good-temper, good-nature, and unbounded indulgence
to herself. Husband and wife have so many interests in common, that when
they have jogged on through the ups and downs of life a sufficient
time, the leash which at first galled often grows easy and familiar; and
unless the _temper_, or rather the disposition and the heart, of
either be insufferable, what was once a grievous yoke becomes but a
companionable tie. And for the rest, Valerie, now that sentiment and
fancy were sobered down, could take pleasure in a thousand things which
her pining affections once, as it were, overlooked and overshot. She
could feel grateful for all the advantages her station and wealth
procured her; she could cull the roses in her reach, without sighing for
the amaranths of Elysium.

If the great have more temptations than those of middle life, and if
their senses of enjoyment become more easily pampered into a sickly
apathy, so at least (if they can once outlive satiety) they have many
more resources at their command. There is a great deal of justice in
the old line, displeasing though it be to those who think of love in
a cottage, "'Tis best repenting in a coach and six!" If among the
Eupatrids, the Well Born, there is less love in wedlock, less quiet
happiness at home, still they are less chained each to each,--they have
more independence, both the woman and the man, and occupations and
the solace without can be so easily obtained! Madame de Ventadour, in
retiring from the mere frivolities of society--from crowded rooms, and
the inane talk and hollow smiles of mere acquaintanceship--became more
sensible of the pleasures that her refined and elegant intellect could
derive from art and talent, and the communion of friendship. She drew
around her the most cultivated minds of her time and country. Her
abilities, her wit, and her conversational graces enabled her not only
to mix on equal terms with the most eminent, but to amalgamate and
blend the varieties of talent into harmony. The same persons, when met
elsewhere, seemed to have lost their charm; under Valerie's roof every
one breathed a congenial atmosphere. And music and letters, and all that
can refine and embellish civilized life, contributed their resources to
this gifted and beautiful woman. And thus she found that the _mind_ has
excitement and occupation, as well as the heart; and, unlike the latter,
the culture we bestow upon the first ever yields us its return. We talk
of education for the poor, but we forget how much it is needed by
the rich. Valerie was a living instance of the advantages to women
of knowledge and intellectual resources. By them she had purified her
fancy, by them she had conquered discontent, by them she had grown
reconciled to life and to her lot! When the heavy heart weighed down the
one scale, it was the mind that restored the balance.

The spells of Madame de Ventadour drew Maltravers into this charmed
circle of all that was highest, purest, and most gifted in the society
of Paris. There he did not meet, as were met in the times of the
old _regime_, sparkling abbes intent upon intrigues; or amorous old
dowagers, eloquent on Rousseau; or powdered courtiers, uttering epigrams
against kings and religions,--straws that foretold the whirlwind. Paul
Courier was right! Frenchmen are Frenchmen still; they are full of fine
phrases, and their thoughts smell of the theatre; they mistake foil
for diamonds, the Grotesque for the Natural, the Exaggerated for the
Sublime: but still I say, Paul Courier was right,--there is more honesty
now in a single _salon_ in Paris than there was in all France in the
days of Voltaire. Vast interests and solemn causes are no longer tossed
about like shuttlecocks on the battledores of empty tongues. In the
_bouleversement_ of Revolutions the French have fallen on their feet!

Meeting men of all parties and all classes, Maltravers was struck with
the heightened tone of public morals, the earnest sincerity of feeling
which generally pervaded all, as compared with his first recollections
of the Parisians. He saw that true elements for national wisdom were
at work, though he saw also that there was no country in which their
operations would be more liable to disorder, more slow and irregular
in their results. The French are like the Israelites in the Wilderness,
when, according to a Hebrew tradition, every morning they seemed on the
verge of Pisgah, and every evening they were as far from it as ever. But
still time rolls on, the pilgrimage draws to its close, and the Canaan
must come at last!

At Valerie's house, Maltravers once more met the De Montaignes. It was a
painful meeting, for they thought of Cesarini when they met.

It is now time to return to that unhappy man. Cesarini had been removed
from England when Maltravers quitted it after Lady Florence's death;
and Maltravers had thought it best to acquaint De Montaigne with all the
circumstances that had led to his affliction. The pride and the honour
of the high-spirited Frenchman were deeply shocked by the tale of fraud
and guilt, softened as it was; but the sight of the criminal, his awful
punishment, merged every other feeling in compassion. Placed under
the care of the most skilful practitioners in Paris, great hopes of
Cesarini's recovery had been at first entertained. Nor was it long,
indeed, before he appeared entirely restored, so far as the external
and superficial tokens of sanity could indicate a cure. He testified
complete consciousness of the kindness of his relations, and clear
remembrance of the past: but to the incoherent ravings of delirium, an
intense melancholy, still more deplorable, succeeded. In this state,
however, he became once more the inmate of his brother-in-law's
house; and though avoiding all society, except that of Teresa, whose
affectionate nature never wearied of its cares, he resumed many of his
old occupations. Again he appeared to take delight in desultory and
unprofitable studies, and in the cultivation of that luxury of solitary
men, "the thankless muse." By shunning all topics connected with
the gloomy cause of his affliction, and talking rather of the sweet
recollections of Italy and childhood than of more recent events, his
sister was enabled to soothe the dark hour, and preserve some kind of
influence over the ill-fated man. One day, however, there fell into
his hands an English newspaper, which was full of the praises of Lord
Vargrave; and the article in lauding the peer referred to his services
as the commoner Lumley Ferrers.

This incident, slight as it appeared, and perfectly untraceable by
his relations, produced a visible effect on Cesarini; and three days
afterwards he attempted his own life. The failure of the attempt was
followed by the fiercest paroxysms. His disease returned in all its
dread force: and it became necessary to place him under yet stricter
confinement than he had endured before. Again, about a year from the
date now entered upon, he had appeared to recover; and again he was
removed to De Montaigne's house. His relations were not aware of the
influence which Lord Vargrave's name exercised over Cesarini; in the
melancholy tale communicated to them by Maltravers, that name had not
been mentioned. If Maltravers had at one time entertained some vague
suspicions that Lumley had acted a treacherous part with regard
to Florence, those suspicions had long since died away for want of
confirmation; nor did he (nor did therefore the De Montaignes) connect
Lord Vargrave with the affliction of Cesarini. De Montaigne himself,
therefore, one day at dinner, alluding to a question of foreign politics
which had been debated that morning in the Chamber, and in which he
himself had taken an active part, happened to refer to a speech of
Vargrave upon the subject, which had made some sensation abroad, as
well as at home. Teresa asked innocently who Lord Vargrave was; and De
Montaigne, well acquainted with the biography of the principal English
statesmen, replied that he had commenced his career as Mr. Ferrers,
and reminded Teresa that they had once been introduced to him in Paris.
Cesarini suddenly rose and left the room; his absence was not noted,
for his comings and goings were ever strange and fitful. Teresa soon
afterwards quitted the apartment with her children, and De Montaigne,
who was rather fatigued by the exertions and excitement of the morning,
stretched himself in his chair to enjoy a short _siesta_. He was
suddenly awakened by a feeling of pain and suffocation,--awakened in
time to struggle against a strong grip that had fastened itself at his
throat. The room was darkened in the growing shades of the evening; and,
but for the glittering and savage eyes that were fixed on him, he could
scarcely discern his assailant. He at length succeeded, however, in
freeing himself, and casting the intended assassin on the ground. He
shouted for assistance; and the lights borne by the servants who rushed
into the room revealed to him the face of his brother-in-law. Cesarini,
though in strong convulsions, still uttered cries and imprecations of
revenge; he denounced De Montaigne as a traitor and a murderer! In the
dark confusion of his mind, he had mistaken the guardian for the distant
foe, whose name sufficed to conjure up the phantoms of the dead, and
plunge reason into fury.

It was now clear that there was danger and death in Cesarini's disease.
His madness was pronounced to be capable of no certain and permanent
cure; he was placed at a new asylum (the superintendents of which
were celebrated for humanity as well as skill), a little distance from
Versailles, and there he still remained. Recently his lucid intervals
had become more frequent and prolonged; but trifles that sprang from his
own mind, and which no care could prevent or detect, sufficed to renew
his calamity in all its fierceness. At such times he required the
most unrelaxing vigilance, for his madness ever took an alarming and
ferocious character; and had he been left unshackled, the boldest and
stoutest of the keepers would have dreaded to enter his cell unarmed, or
alone.

What made the disease of the mind appear more melancholy and confirmed
was, that all this time the frame seemed to increase in health and
strength. This is not an uncommon case in instances of mania--and it
is generally the worst symptom. In earlier youth, Cesarini had been
delicate even to effeminacy; but now his proportions were enlarged, his
form, though still lean and spare, muscular and vigorous,--as if in
the torpor which usually succeeded to his bursts of frenzy, the animal
portion gained by the repose or disorganization of the intellectual.
When in his better and calmer mood--in which indeed none but the
experienced could have detected his malady--books made his chief
delight. But then he complained bitterly, if briefly, of the confinement
he endured, of the injustice be suffered; and as, shunning all
companions, he walked gloomily amidst the grounds that surrounded that
House of Woe, his unseen guardians beheld him clenching his hands, as at
some visionary enemy, or overheard him accuse some phantom of his brain
of the torments he endured.

Though the reader can detect in Lumley Ferrers the cause of the frenzy,
and the object of the imprecation, it was not so with the De Montaignes,
nor with the patient's keepers and physicians; for in his delirium he
seldom or never gave name to the shadows that he invoked,--not even to
that of Florence. It is, indeed, no unusual characteristic of madness to
shun, as by a kind of cunning, all mention of the names of those by whom
the madness has been caused. It is as if the unfortunates imagined that
the madness might be undiscovered if the images connected with it were
unbetrayed.

Such, at this time, was the wretched state of the man, whose talents
had promised a fair and honourable career, had it not been the wretched
tendency of his mind, from boyhood upward, to pamper every unwholesome
and unhallowed feeling as a token of the exuberance of genius. De
Montaigne, though he touched as lightly as possible upon this dark
domestic calamity in his first communications with Maltravers, whose
conduct in that melancholy tale of crime and woe had, he conceived, been
stamped with generosity and feeling, still betrayed emotions that told
how much his peace had been embittered.

"I seek to console Teresa," said he, turning away his manly head, "and
to point out all the blessings yet left to her; but that brother so
beloved, from whom so much was so vainly expected,--still ever and ever,
though she strives to conceal it from me, this affliction comes back to
her, and poisons every thought! Oh, better a thousand times that he
had died! When reason, sense, almost the soul, are dead, how dark and
fiend-like is the life that remains behind! And if it should be in the
blood--if Teresa's children--dreadful thought!"

De Montaigne ceased, thoroughly overcome.

"Do not, my dear friend, so fearfully exaggerate your misfortune,
great as it is; Cesarini's disease evidently arose from no physical
conformation,--it was but the crisis, the development, of a
long-contracted malady of mind, passions morbidly indulged, the
reasoning faculty obstinately neglected; and yet too he may recover. The
further memory recedes from the shock he has sustained, the better the
chance that his mind will regain its tone."

De Montaigne wrung his friend's hand.

"It is strange that from you should come sympathy and comfort!--you whom
he so injured; you whom his folly or his crime drove from your proud
career, and your native soil! But Providence will yet, I trust, redeem
the evil of its erring creature, and I shall yet live to see you
restored to hope and home, a happy husband, an honoured citizen. Till
then, I feel as if the curse lingered upon my race."

"Speak not thus. Whatever my destiny, I have recovered from that wound;
and still, De Montaigne, I find in life that suffering succeeds to
suffering, and disappointment to disappointment, as wave to wave. To
endure is the only philosophy; to believe that we shall live again in a
brighter planet, is the only hope that our reason should accept from our
desires."



CHAPTER II.

  MONSTRA evenerunt mihi:
  Introit in aedes ater alienus canis,
  Anguis per impluvium decidit de tegulis,
  Gallina cecinit!*--TERENCE.

  * "Prodigies have occurred: a strange black dog came into the house;
    a snake glided from the tiles, through the court; the hen crowed."

WITH his constitutional strength of mind, and conformably with his
acquired theories, Maltravers continued to struggle against the latest
and strongest passion of his life. It might be seen in the paleness of
his brow, and that nameless expression of suffering which betrays
itself in the lines about the mouth, that his health was affected by the
conflict within him; and many a sudden fit of absence and abstraction,
many an impatient sigh, followed by a forced and unnatural gayety, told
the observant Valerie that he was the prey of a sorrow he was too proud
to disclose. He compelled himself, however, to take, or to affect,
an interest in the singular phenomena of the social state around
him,--phenomena that, in a happier or serener mood, would indeed have
suggested no ordinary food for conjecture and meditation.

The state of _visible transition_ is the state of nearly all the
enlightened communities in Europe. But nowhere is it so pronounced as
in that country which may be called the Heart of European Civilization.
There, all to which the spirit of society attaches itself appears
broken, vague, and half developed,--the Antique in ruins, and the New
not formed. It is, perhaps, the only country in which the Constructive
principle has not kept pace with the Destructive. The Has Been is
blotted out; the To Be is as the shadow of a far land in a mighty and
perturbed sea.*

  * The reader will remember that these remarks were written long
    before the last French Revolution, and when the dynasty of Louis
    Philippe was generally considered most secure.

Maltravers, who for several years had not examined the progress of
modern literature, looked with mingled feelings of surprise, distaste,
and occasional and most reluctant admiration, on the various works which
the successors of Voltaire and Rousseau have produced, and are pleased
to call the offspring of Truth united to Romance.

Profoundly versed in the mechanism and elements of those masterpieces
of Germany and England, from which the French have borrowed so largely
while pretending to be original, Maltravers was shocked to see the
monsters which these Frankensteins had created from the relics and the
offal of the holiest sepulchres. The head of a giant on the limbs of
a dwarf, incongruous members jumbled together, parts fair and
beautiful,--the whole a hideous distortion!

"It may be possible," said he to De Montaigne, "that these works are
admired and extolled; but how they can be vindicated by the examples
of Shakspeare and Goethe, or even of Byron, who redeemed poor and
melodramatic conceptions with a manly vigour of execution, an energy and
completeness of purpose, that Dryden himself never surpassed, is to me
utterly inconceivable."

"I allow that there is a strange mixture of fustian and maudlin in all
these things," answered De Montaigne; "but they are but the windfalls of
trees that may bear rich fruit in due season; meanwhile, any new
school is better than eternal imitations of the old. As for critical
vindications of the works themselves, the age that produces the
phenomena is never the age to classify and analyze them. We have had a
deluge, and now new creatures spring from the new soil."

"An excellent simile: they come forth from slime and mud,--fetid and
crawling, unformed and monstrous. I grant exceptions; and even in the
New School, as it is called, I can admire the real genius, the vital and
creative power of Victor Hugo. But oh, that a nation which has known a
Corneille should ever spawn forth a -----! And with these rickety and
drivelling abortions--all having followers and adulators--your Public
can still bear to be told that they have improved wonderfully on the
day when they gave laws and models to the literature of Europe; they can
bear to hear ----- proclaimed a sublime genius in the same circles which
sneer down Voltaire!"

Voltaire is out of fashion in France, but Rousseau still maintains his
influence, and boasts his imitators. Rousseau was the worse man of the
two; perhaps he was also the more dangerous writer. But his reputation
is more durable, and sinks deeper into the heart of his nation; and
the danger of his unstable and capricious doctrines has passed away.
In Voltaire we behold the fate of all writers purely destructive;
their uses cease with the evils they denounce. But Rousseau sought to
construct as well as to destroy; and though nothing could well be more
absurd than his constructions, still man loves to look back and see even
delusive images--castles in the air--reared above the waste where
cities have been. Rather than leave even a burial-ground to solitude, we
populate it with ghosts.

By degrees, however, as he mastered all the features of the French
literature, Maltravers become more tolerant of the present defects,
and more hopeful of the future results. He saw in one respect that that
literature carried with it its own ultimate redemption.

Its general characteristic--contradistinguished from the literature of
the old French classic school--is to take the _heart_ for its study; to
bring the passions and feelings into action, and let the Within have its
record and history as well as the Without. In all this our contemplative
analyst began to allow that the French were not far wrong when they
contended that Shakspeare made the fountain of their inspiration,--a
fountain which the majority of our later English Fictionists have
neglected. It is not by a story woven of interesting incidents, relieved
by delineations of the externals and surface of character, humorous
phraseology, and every-day ethics, that Fiction achieves its grandest
ends.

In the French literature, thus characterized, there is much false
morality, much depraved sentiment, and much hollow rant; but still it
carries within it the germ of an excellence, which, sooner or later,
must in the progress of national genius arrive at its full development.
Meanwhile, it is a consolation to know that nothing really immoral is
ever permanently popular, or ever, therefore, long deleterious; what is
dangerous in a work of genius cures itself in a few years. We can now
read "Werther," and instruct our hearts by its exposition of weakness
and passion, our taste by its exquisite and unrivalled simplicity of
construction and detail, without any fear that we shall shoot ourselves
in top-boots! We can feel ourselves elevated by the noble sentiments
of "The Robbers," and our penetration sharpened as to the wholesale
immorality of conventional cant and hypocrisy, without any danger
of turning banditti and becoming cutthroats from the love of virtue.
Providence, that has made the genius of the few in all times and
countries the guide and prophet of the many, and appointed Literature as
the sublime agent of Civilization, of Opinion, and of Law, has endowed
the elements it employs with a divine power of self-purification. The
stream settles of itself by rest and time; the impure particles fly
off, or are neutralized by the healthful. It is only fools that call the
works of a master-spirit immoral. There does not exist in the literature
of the world one _popular_ book that is immoral two centuries after it
is produced. For, in the heart of nations, the False does not live so
long; and the True is the Ethical to the end of time.

From the literary Maltravers turned to the political state of France his
curious and thoughtful eye. He was struck by the resemblance which this
nation--so civilized, so thoroughly European--bears in one respect to
the despotisms of the East: the convulsions of the capital decide the
fate of the country; Paris is the tyrant of France. He saw in this
inflammable concentration of power, which must ever be pregnant with
great evils, one of the causes why the revolutions of that powerful and
polished people are so incomplete and unsatisfactory, why, like Cardinal
Fleury, system after system, and Government after Government--

    ...  "floruit sine fructu,
       Defloruit sine luctu."*

  * "Flourished without fruit, and was destroyed without regret."

Maltravers regarded it as a singular instance of perverse ratiocination,
that, unwarned by experience, the French should still persist in
perpetuating this political vice; that all their policy should still be
the policy of Centralization,--a principle which secures the momentary
strength, but ever ends in the abrupt destruction of States. It is, in
fact, the perilous tonic, which seems to brace the system, but
drives the blood to the head,--thus come apoplexy and madness. By
centralization the provinces are weakened, it is true,--but weak to
assist as well as to oppose a government, weak to withstand a mob.
Nowhere, nowadays, is a mob so powerful as in Paris: the political
history of Paris is the history of snobs. Centralization is an excellent
quackery for a despot who desires power to last only his own life,
and who has but a life-interest in the State; but to true liberty
and permanent order centralization is a deadly poison. The more the
provinces govern their own affairs, the more we find everything, even
to roads and post-horses, are left to the people; the more the Municipal
Spirit pervades every vein of the vast body, the more certain may we be
that reform and change must come from universal opinion, which is slow,
and constructs ere it destroys,--not from public clamour, which is
sudden, and not only pulls down the edifice but sells the bricks!

Another peculiarity in the French Constitution struck and perplexed
Maltravers. This people so pervaded by the republican sentiment; this
people, who had sacrificed so much for Freedom; this people, who, in
the name of Freedom, had perpetrated so much crime with Robespierre, and
achieved so much glory with Napoleon,--this people were, as a people,
contented to be utterly excluded from all power and voice in the State!
Out of thirty-three millions of subjects, less than two hundred thousand
electors! Where was there ever an oligarchy equal to this? What a
strange infatuation, to demolish an aristocracy and yet to exclude a
people! What an anomaly in political architecture, to build an inverted
pyramid! Where was the safety-valve of governments, where the natural
vents of excitement in a population so inflammable? The people itself
were left a mob,--no stake in the State, no action in its affairs, no
legislative interest in its security.*

  * Has not all this proved prophetic?

On the other hand, it was singular to see how--the aristocracy of birth
broken down--the aristocracy of letters had arisen. A Peerage, half
composed of journalists, philosophers, and authors! This was the
beau-ideal of Algernon Sidney's Aristocratic Republic, of the Helvetian
vision of what ought to be the dispensation of public distinctions;
yet was it, after all, a desirable aristocracy? Did society gain; did
literature lose? Was the priesthood of Genius made more sacred and more
pure by these worldly decorations and hollow titles; or was aristocracy
itself thus rendered a more disinterested, a more powerful, or a more
sagacious element in the administration of law, or the elevation of
opinion? These questions, not lightly to be answered, could not fail to
arouse the speculation and curiosity of a man who had been familiar with
the closet and the forum; and in proportion as he found his interest
excited in these problems to be solved by a foreign nation, did the
thoughtful Englishman feel the old instinct--which binds the citizen
to the fatherland--begin to stir once more earnestly and vividly within
him.

"You, yourself individually, are passing like us," said De Montaigne one
day to Maltravers, "through a state of transition. You have forever left
the Ideal, and you are carrying your cargo of experience over to the
Practical. When you reach that haven, you will have completed the
development of your forces."

"You mistake me,--I am but a spectator."

"Yes; but you desire to go behind the scenes; and he who once grows
familiar with the green-room, longs to be an actor."

With Madame de Ventadour and the De Montaignes Maltravers passed the
chief part of his time. They knew how to appreciate his nobler and
to love his gentler attributes and qualities; they united in a warm
interest for his future fate; they combated his Philosophy of Inaction;
and they felt that it was because he was not happy that he was not wise.
Experience was to him what ignorance had been to Alice. His faculties
were chilled and dormant. As affection to those who are unskilled in all
things, so is affection to those who despair of all things. The mind of
Maltravers was a world without a sun!



CHAPTER III.

  COELEBS, quid agam?*--HORACE.

  * "What shall I do, a bachelor?"

IN a room at Fenton's Hotel sat Lord Vargrave and Caroline Lady
Doltimore,--two months after the marriage of the latter.

"Doltimore has positively fixed, then, to go abroad on your return from
Cornwall?"

"Positively,--to Paris. You can join us at Christmas, I trust?"

"I have no doubt of it; and before then I hope that I shall have
arranged certain public matters, which at present harass and absorb me
even more than my private affairs."

"You have managed to obtain terms with Mr. Douce, and to delay the
repayment of your debt to him?"

"Yes, I hope so, till I touch Miss Cameron's income; which will be mine,
I trust, by the time she is eighteen."

"You mean the forfeit money of thirty thousand pounds?"

"Not I; I mean what I said!"

"Can you really imagine she will still accept your hand?"

"With your aid, I do imagine it! Hear me. You must take Evelyn with you
to Paris. I have no doubt but that she will be delighted to accompany
you; nay, I have paved the way so far. For, of course, as a friend of
the family, and guardian to Evelyn, I have maintained a correspondence
with Lady Vargrave. She informs me that Evelyn has been unwell and
low-spirited; that she fears Brook-Green is dull for her, etc. I wrote,
in reply, to say that the more my ward saw of the world, prior to her
accession, when of age, to the position she would occupy in it, the more
she would fulfil my late uncle's wishes with respect to her education
and so forth. I added that as you were going to Paris, and as you loved
her so much, there could not be a better opportunity for her entrance
into life under the most favourable auspices. Lady Vargrave's answer
to this letter arrived this morning: she will consent to such an
arrangement should you propose it."

"But what good will result to yourself in this project? At Paris you
will be sure of rivals, and--"

"Caroline," interrupted Lord Vargrave, "I know very well what you would
say: I also know all the danger I must incur. But it is a choice of
evils, and I choose the least. You see that while she is at Brook-Green,
and under the eye of that sly old curate, I can effect nothing with her.
There, she is entirely removed from my influence: not so abroad; not
so under your roof. Listen to me still further. In this country, and
especially in the seclusion and shelter of Brook-Green, I have no scope
for any of those means which I shall be compelled to resort to, in
failure of all else."

"What can you intend?" said Caroline, with a slight shudder.

"I don't know what I intend yet. But this, at least, I can tell
you,--that Miss Cameron's fortune I must and will have. I am a desperate
man; and I can play a desperate game, if need be."

"And do you think that _I_ will aid, will abet?"

"Hush, not so loud! Yes, Caroline, you will, and you must aid and abet
me in any project I may form."

"Must! Lord Vargrave?"

"Ay," said Lumley, with a smile, and sinking his voice into a
whisper,--"ay! _you are in my power_!"

"Traitor!--you cannot dare! you cannot mean--"

"I mean nothing more than to remind you of the ties that exist between
us,--ties which ought to render us the firmest and most confidential of
friends. Come, Caroline, recollect all the benefit must not lie on one
side. I have obtained for you rank and wealth; I have procured you a
husband,--you must help me to a wife!"

Caroline sank back, and covered her face with her hands.

"I allow," continued Vargrave, coldly,--"I allow that your beauty
and talent were sufficient of themselves to charm a wiser man than
Doltimore; but had I not suppressed jealousy, sacrificed love, had
I dropped a hint to your liege lord,--nay, had I not fed his lap-dog
vanity by all the cream and sugar of flattering falsehoods,--you would
be Caroline Merton still!"

"Oh, would that I were! Oh that I were anything but your tool, your
victim! Fool that I was! wretch that I am! I am rightly punished!"

"Forgive me, forgive me, dearest," said Vargrave, soothingly; "I was to
blame, forgive me: but you irritated, you maddened me, by your seeming
indifference to my prosperity, my fate. I tell you again and again,
pride of my soul, I tell you, that you are the only being I love! and if
you will allow me, if you will rise superior, as I once fondly hoped, to
all the cant and prejudice of convention and education, the only woman
I could ever respect, as well as love. Oh, hereafter, when you see me at
that height to which I feel that I am born to climb, let me think that
to your generosity, your affection, your zeal, I owed the ascent. At
present I am on the precipice; without your hand I fall forever. My own
fortune is gone; the miserable forfeit due to me, if Evelyn continues to
reject my suit, when she has arrived at the age of eighteen, is deeply
mortgaged. I am engaged in vast and daring schemes, in which I may
either rise to the highest station or lose that which I now hold. In
either case, how necessary to me is wealth: in the one instance, to
maintain my advancement; in the other, to redeem my fall."

"But did you not tell me," said Caroline, "that Evelyn proposed and
promised to place her fortune at your disposal, even while rejecting
your hand?"

"Absurd mockery!" exclaimed Vargrave; "the foolish boast of a girl,--an
impulse liable to every caprice. Can you suppose that when she launches
into the extravagance natural to her age and necessary to her position,
she will not find a thousand demands upon her rent-roll not dreamed of
now; a thousand vanities and baubles that will soon erase my poor and
hollow claim from her recollection? Can you suppose that, if she marry
another, her husband will ever consent to a child's romance? And
even were all this possible, were it possible that girls were not
extravagant, and that husbands had no common-sense, is it for me, Lord
Vargrave, to be a mendicant upon reluctant bounty,--a poor cousin, a
pensioned led-captain? Heaven knows I have as little false pride as
any man, but still this is a degradation I cannot stoop to. Besides,
Caroline, I am no miser, no Harpagon: I do not want wealth for wealth's
sake, but for the advantages it bestows,--respect, honour, position; and
these I get as the husband of the great heiress. Should I get them as
her dependant? No: for more than six years I have built my schemes and
shaped my conduct according to one assured and definite object; and that
object I shall not now, at the eleventh hour, let slip from my hands.
Enough of this: you will pass Brook-Green in returning from Cornwall;
you will take Evelyn with you to Paris,--leave the rest to me. Fear no
folly, no violence, from my plans, whatever they may be: I work in
the dark. Nor do I despair that Evelyn will love, that Evelyn will
voluntarily accept me yet: my disposition is sanguine; I look to the
bright side of things; do the same!"

Here their conference was interrupted by Lord Doltimore, who lounged
carelessly into the room, with his hat on one side. "Ah, Vargrave, how
are you? You will not forget the letters of introduction? Where are you
going, Caroline?"

"Only to my own room, to put on my bonnet; the carriage will be here in
a few minutes." And Caroline escaped.

"So you go to Cornwall to-morrow, Doltimore?"

"Yes; cursed bore! but Lady Elizabeth insists on seeing us, and I don't
object to a week's good shooting. The old lady, too, has something to
leave, and Caroline had no dowry,--not that I care for it; but still
marriage is expensive."

"By the by, you will want the five thousand pounds you lent me?"

"Why, whenever it is convenient."

"Say no more,--it shall be seen to. Doltimore, I am very anxious that
Lady Doltimore's _debut_ at Paris should be brilliant: everything
depends on falling into the right set. For myself, I don't care about
fashion, and never did; but if I were married, and an idle man like you,
it might be different."

"Oh, you will be very useful to us when we return to London. Meanwhile,
you know, you have my proxy in the Lords. I dare say there will be some
sharp work the first week or two after the recess."

"Very likely; and depend on one thing, my dear Doltimore, that when I am
in the Cabinet, a certain friend of mine shall be an earl. Adieu."

"Good-by, my dear Vargrave, good-by; and, I say,--I say, don't distress
yourself about that trifle; a few months hence it will suit me just as
well."

"Thanks. I will just look into my accounts, and use you without
ceremony. Well, I dare say we shall meet at Paris. Oh, I forgot,--I
observe that you have renewed your intimacy with Legard. Now, he is a
very good fellow, and I gave him that place to oblige you; still, as you
are no longer a _garcon_--but perhaps I shall offend you?"

"Not at all. What is there against Legard?"

"Nothing in the world,--but he is a bit of a boaster. I dare say his
ancestor was a Gascon, poor fellow!--and he affects to say that
you can't choose a coat, or buy a horse, without his approval and
advice,--that he can turn you round his finger. Now this hurts your
consequence in the world,--you don't get credit for your own excellent
sense and taste. Take my advice, avoid these young hangers-on of
fashion, these club-room lions. Having no importance of their own, they
steal the importance of their friends. _Verbum sap_."

"You are very right,--Legard _is_ a coxcomb; and now I see why he talked
of joining us at Paris."

"Don't let him do any such thing! He will be telling the Frenchmen that
her ladyship is in love with him, ha, ha!"

"Ha, ha!--a very good joke--poor Caroline!--very good joke!"

"Well, good-by, once more." And Vargrave closed the door.

"Legard go to Paris--not if Evelyn goes there!" muttered Lumley.
"Besides, I want no partner in the little that one can screw out of this
blockhead."



CHAPTER IV.

       MR. BUMBLECASE, a word with you--I have a little business.
       Farewell, the goodly Manor of Blackacre, with all its woods,
  underwoods, and appurtenances whatever.--WYCHERLEY: _Plain Dealer_.

IN quitting Fenton's Hotel, Lord Vargrave entered into one of the clubs
in St. James's Street: this was rather unusual with him, for he was not
a club man. It was not his system to spend his time for nothing. But it
was a wet December day; the House was not yet assembled, and he had done
his official business. Here, as he was munching a biscuit and reading an
article in one of the ministerial papers--the heads of which he himself
had supplied--Lord Saxingham joined and drew him to the window.

"I have reason to think," said the earl, "that your visit to Windsor did
good."

"Ah, indeed; so I fancied."

"I do not think that a certain personage will ever consent to the
-----question; and the premier, whom I saw to-day, seems chafed and
irritated."

"Nothing can be better; I know that we are in the right boat."

"I hope it is not true, Lumley, that your marriage with Miss Cameron is
broken off; such was the _on dit_ in the club, just before you entered."

"Contradict it, my dear lord,--contradict it. I hope by the spring to
introduce Lady Vargrave to you. But who broached the absurd report?"

"Why, your _protege_, Legard, says he heard so from his uncle, who heard
it from Sir John Merton."

"Legard is a puppy, and Sir John Merton a jackass. Legard had better
attend to his office, if he wants to get on; and I wish you'd tell him
so. I have heard somewhere that he talks of going to Paris,--you
can just hint to him that he must give up such idle habits. Public
functionaries are not now what they were,--people are expected to work
for the money they pocket; otherwise Legard is a cleverish fellow, and
deserves promotion. A word or two of caution from you will do him a vast
deal of good."

"Be sure I will lecture him. Will you dine with me to-day, Lumley?"

"No. I expect my co-trustee, Mr. Douce, on matters of business,--a
_tete-a-tete_ dinner."

Lord Vargrave had, as he conceived, very cleverly talked over Mr. Douce
into letting his debt to that gentleman run on for the present; and in
the meanwhile, he had overwhelmed Mr. Douce with his condescensions.
That gentleman had twice dined with Lord Vargrave, and Lord Vargrave
had twice dined with him. The occasion of the present more familiar
entertainment was in a letter from Mr. Douce, begging to see Lord
Vargrave on particular business; and Vargrave, who by no means liked the
word _business_ from a gentleman to whom he owed money, thought that it
would go off more smoothly if sprinkled with champagne.

Accordingly, he begged "My dear Mr. Douce" to excuse ceremony, and dine
with him on Thursday at seven o'clock,--he was really so busy all the
mornings.

At seven o'clock, Mr. Douce came. The moment he entered Vargrave called
out, at the top of his voice, "Dinner immediately!" And as the little
man bowed and shuffled, and fidgeted and wriggled (while Vargrave shook
him by the hand), as if he thought he was going himself to be spitted,
his host said, "With your leave, we'll postpone the budget till after
dinner. It is the fashion nowadays to postpone budgets as long as we
can,--eh? Well, and how are all at home? Devilish cold; is it not? So
you go to your villa every day? That's what keeps you in such capital
health. You know I had a villa too,--though I never had time to go
there."

"Ah, yes; I think, I remember, at Ful-Ful-Fulham!" gasped out Mr. Douce.
"Your poor uncle's--now Lady Var-Vargrave's jointure-house. So--so--"

"She don't live there!" burst in Vargrave (far too impatient to be
polite). "Too cockneyfied for her,--gave it up to me; very pretty place,
but d-----d expensive. I could not afford it, never went there, and so
I have let it to my wine-merchant; the rent just pays his bill. You will
taste some of the sofas and tables to-day in his champagne. I don't
know how it is, I always fancy my sherry smells like my poor uncle's old
leather chair: very odd smell it had,--a kind of respectable smell! I
hope you're hungry,--dinner's ready."

Vargrave thus rattled away in order to give the good banker to
understand that his affairs were in the most flourishing condition: and
he continued to keep up the ball all dinnertime, stopping Mr. Douce's
little, miserable, gasping, dacelike mouth, with "a glass of wine,
Douce?" or "by the by, Douce," whenever he saw that worthy gentleman
about to make the Aeschylean improvement of a second person in the
dialogue.

At length, dinner being fairly over, and the servants withdrawn, Lord
Vargrave, knowing that sooner or later Douce would have his say, drew
his chair to the fire, put his feet on the fender, and cried, as he
tossed off his claret, "NOW, DOUCE, WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU?"

Mr. Douce opened his eyes to their full extent, and then as rapidly
closed them; and this operation he continued till, having snuffed them
so much that they could by no possibility burn any brighter, he was
convinced that he had not misunderstood his lordship.

"Indeed, then," he began, in his most frightened manner,
"indeed--I--really, your lordship is very good--I--I wanted to speak to
you on business."

"Well, what can I do for you,--some little favour, eh? Snug sinecure
for a favourite clerk, or a place in the Stamp-Office for your fat
footman--John, I think you call him? You know, my dear Douce, you may
command me."

"Oh, indeed, you are all good-good-goodness--but--but--"

Vargrave threw himself back, and shutting his eyes and pursing up
his mouth, resolutely suffered Mr. Douce to unbosom himself without
interruption. He was considerably relieved to find that the business
referred to related only to Miss Cameron.

Mr. Douce having reminded Lord Vargrave, as he had often done before,
of the wishes of his uncle, that the greater portion of the money
bequeathed to Evelyn should be invested in land, proceeded to say that a
most excellent opportunity presented itself for just such a purchase as
would have rejoiced the heart of the late lord,--a superb place, in the
style of Blickling,--deer-park six miles round, ten thousand acres of
land, bringing in a clear eight thousand pounds a year, purchase money
only two hundred and forty thousand pounds. The whole estate was,
indeed, much larger,--eighteen thousand acres; but then the more distant
farms could be sold in different lots, in order to meet the exact sum
Miss Cameron's trustees were enabled to invest.

"Well," said Vargrave, "and where is it? My poor uncle was after De
Clifford's estate, but the title was not good."

"Oh! this--is much--much--much fi-fi-finer; famous investment--but
rather far off--in--in the north, Li-Li-Lisle Court."

"Lisle Court! Why, does not that belong to Colonel Maltravers?"

"Yes. It is, indeed, quite, I may say, a secret-yes--really--a
se-se-secret--not in the market yet--not at all--soon snapped up."

"Humph! Has Colonel Maltravers been extravagant?"

"No; but he does not--I hear--or rather Lady--Julia--so I'm told, yes,
indeed--does not li-like--going so far, and so they spend the winter in
Italy instead. Yes--very odd--very fine place."

Lumley was slightly acquainted with the elder brother of his old
friend,--a man who possessed some of Ernest's faults,--very proud, and
very exacting, and very fastidious; but all these faults were developed
in the ordinary commonplace world, and were not the refined abstractions
of his younger brother.

Colonel Maltravers had continued, since he entered the Guards, to be
thoroughly the man of fashion, and nothing more. But rich and well-born,
and highly connected, and thoroughly _a la mode_ as he was, his pride
made him uncomfortable in London, while his fastidiousness made him
uncomfortable in the country. He was _rather_ a great person, but he
wanted to be a _very_ great person. This he was at Lisle Court; but that
did not satisfy him. He wanted not only to be a very great person, but
a very great person among very great persons--and squires and parsons
bored him. Lady Julia, his wife, was a fine lady, inane and pretty, who
saw everything through her husband's eyes. He was quite master _chez
lui_, was Colonel Maltravers! He lived a great deal abroad; for on the
Continent his large income seemed princely, while his high character,
thorough breeding, and personal advantages, which were remarkable,
secured him a greater position in foreign courts than at his own. Two
things had greatly disgusted him with Lisle Court,--trifles they might
be with others, but they were not trifles to Cuthbert Maltravers; in the
first place, a man who had been his father's attorney, and who was
the very incarnation of coarse unrepellable familiarity, had bought an
estate close by the said Lisle Court, and had, _horresco referens_,
been made a baronet! Sir Gregory Gubbins took precedence of Colonel
Maltravers! He could not ride out but he met Sir Gregory; he could not
dine out but he had the pleasure of walking behind Sir Gregory's bright
blue coat with its bright brass buttons. In his last visit to Lisle
Court, which he had then crowded with all manner of fine people, he
had seen--the very first morning after his arrival--seen from the large
window of his state saloon, a great staring white, red, blue, and gilt
thing, at the end of the stately avenue planted by Sir Guy Maltravers
in honour of the victory over the Spanish armada. He looked in mute
surprise, and everybody else looked; and a polite German count, gazing
through his eye-glass, said, "Ah! dat is vat you call a vim in your
_pays_,--the vim of Colonel Maltravers!"

This "vim" was the pagoda summer-house of Sir Gregory Gubbins, erected
in imitation of the Pavilion at Brighton. Colonel Maltravers was
miserable: the _vim_ haunted him; it seemed ubiquitous; he could not
escape it,--it was built on the highest spot in the county. Ride, walk,
sit where he would, the _vim_ stared at him; and he thought he saw
little mandarins shake their round little heads at him. This was one
of the great curses of Lisle Court; the other was yet more galling. The
owners of Lisle Court had for several generations possessed the dominant
interest in the county town. The colonel himself meddled little in
politics, and was too fine a gentleman for the drudgery of parliament.
He had offered the seat to Ernest, when the latter had commenced his
public career; but the result of a communication proved that their
political views were dissimilar, and the negotiation dropped without
ill-feeling on either side. Subsequently a vacancy occurred; and Lady
Julia's brother (just made a Lord of the Treasury) wished to come
into parliament, so the county town was offered to him. Now, the proud
commoner had married into the family of a peer as proud as himself,
and Colonel Maltravers was always glad whenever he could impress his
consequence on his connections by doing them a favour. He wrote to his
steward to see that the thing was properly settled, and came down on the
nomination-day "to share the triumph and partake the gale." Guess his
indignation, when he found the nephew of Sir Gregory Gubbins was already
in the field! The result of the election was that Mr. Augustus Gubbins
came in, and that Colonel Maltravers was pelted with cabbage-stalks, and
accused of attempting to sell the worthy and independent electors to a
government nominee! In shame and disgust, Colonel Maltravers broke
up his establishment at Lisle Court, and once more retired to the
Continent.

About a week from the date now touched upon, Lady Julia and himself
had arrived in London from Vienna; and a new mortification awaited
the unfortunate owner of Lisle Court. A railroad company had been
established, of which Sir Gregory Gubbins was a principal shareholder;
and the speculator, Mr. Augustus Gubbins, one of the "most useful men in
the House," had undertaken to carry the bill through parliament. Colonel
Maltravers received a letter of portentous size, inclosing the map of
the places which this blessed railway was to bisect; and lo! just at
the bottom of his park ran a portentous line, which informed him of the
sacrifice he was expected to make for the public good,--especially for
the good of that very county town, the inhabitants of which had pelted
him with cabbage-stalks!

Colonel Maltravers lost all patience. Unacquainted with our wise
legislative proceedings, he was not aware that a railway planned is
a very different thing from a railway made; and that parliamentary
committees are not by any means favourable to schemes for carrying the
public through a gentleman's park.

"This country is not to be lived in," said he to Lady Julia; "it gets
worse and worse every year. I am sure I never had any comfort in Lisle
Court. I've a great mind to sell it."

"Why, indeed, as we have no sons, only daughters, and Ernest is so well
provided for," said Lady Julia, "and the place is so far from London,
and the neighbourhood is so disagreeable, I think we could do very well
without it."

Colonel Maltravers made no answer, but he revolved the pros and cons;
and then he began to think how much it cost him in gamekeepers and
carpenters and bailiffs and gardeners and Heaven knows whom besides; and
then the pagoda flashed across him; and then the cabbage-stalks, and at
last he went to his solicitor.

"You may sell Lisle Court," said he, quietly.

The solicitor dipped his pen in the ink. "The particulars, Colonel?"

"Particulars of Lisle Court! everybody, that is, every gentleman, knows
Lisle Court!"

"Price, sir?"

"You know the rents; calculate accordingly. It will be too large
a purchase for one individual; sell the outlying woods and farms
separately from the rest."

"We must draw up an advertisement, Colonel."

"Advertise Lisle Court! out of the question, sir. I can have no
publicity given to my intention: mention it quietly to any capitalist;
but keep it out of the papers till it is all settled. In a week or two
you will find a purchaser,--the sooner the better."

Besides his horror of newspaper comments and newspaper puffs, Colonel
Maltravers dreaded that his brother--then in Paris--should learn his
intention, and attempt to thwart it; and, somehow or other, the colonel
was a little in awe of Ernest, and a little ashamed of his resolution.
He did not know that, by a singular coincidence, Ernest himself had
thought of selling Burleigh.

The solicitor was by no means pleased with this way of settling the
matter. However, he whispered it about that Lisle Court was in the
market; and as it really was one of the most celebrated places of
its kind in England, the whisper spread among bankers and brewers and
soap-boilers and other rich people--the Medici of the New Noblesse
rising up amongst us--till at last it reached the ears of Mr. Douce.

Lord Vargrave, however bad a man he might be, had not many of those
vices of character which belong to what I may call the _personal class
of vices_,--that is, he had no ill-will to individuals. He was not,
ordinarily, a jealous man, nor a spiteful, nor a malignant, nor a
vindictive man: his vices arose from utter indifference to all men,
and all things--except as conducive to his own ends. He would not have
injured a worm if it did him no good; but he would have set any house
on fire if he had no other means of roasting his own eggs. Yet still,
if any feeling of personal rancour could harbour in his breast, it was,
first, towards Evelyn Cameron, and, secondly, towards Ernest Maltravers.
For the first time in his life, he did long for revenge,--revenge
against the one for stealing his patrimony, and refusing his hand; and
that revenge he hoped to gratify.

As to the other, it was not so much dislike he felt, as an uneasy
sentiment of inferiority. However well he himself had got on in the
world, he yet grudged the reputation of a man whom he had remembered
a wayward, inexperienced boy: he did not love to hear any one praise
Maltravers. He fancied, too, that this feeling was reciprocal, and that
Maltravers was pained at hearing of any new step in his own career.
In fact, it was that sort of jealousy which men often feel for the
companions of their youth, whose characters are higher than their own,
and whose talents are of an order they do not quite comprehend. Now, it
certainly did seem at that moment to Lord Vargrave that it would be
a most splendid triumph over Mr. Maltravers of Burleigh to be lord of
Lisle Court, the hereditary seat of the elder branch of the family
to be, as it were, in the very shoes of Mr. Ernest Maltravers's elder
brother. He knew, too, that it was a property of great consequence. Lord
Vargrave of Lisle Court would hold a very different post in the peerage
from Lord Vargrave of -----, Fulham! Nobody would call the owner of
Lisle Court an adventurer; nobody would suspect such a man of caring
three straws about place and salary. And if he married Evelyn, and if
Evelyn bought Lisle Court, would not Lisle Court be his? He vaulted over
the _ifs_, stiff monosyllables though they were, with a single jump.
Besides, even should the thing come to nothing, there was the very
excuse he sought for joining Evelyn at Paris, for conversing with her,
consulting her. It was true that the will of the late lord left
it solely at the discretion of the trustees to select such landed
investment as seemed best to them; but still it was, if not legally
necessary, at least but a proper courtesy to consult Evelyn. And plans,
and drawings, and explanations, and rent-rolls, would justify him in
spending morning after morning alone with her.

Thus cogitating, Lord Vargrave suffered Mr. Douce to stammer out
sentence upon sentence, till at length, as he rang for coffee, his
lordship stretched himself with the air of a man stretching himself into
self-complacency or a good thing, and said,--

"Mr. Douce, I will go down to Lisle Court as soon as I can; I will see
it; I will ascertain all about it; I will consider favourably of it. I
agree with you, I think it will do famously."

"But," said Mr. Douce, who seemed singularly anxious about the matter,
"we must make haste, my lord; for really--yes, indeed--if--if--if Baron
Roths--Rothschild should--that is to say--"

"Oh, yes, I understand; keep the thing close, my dear Douce; make
friends with the colonel's lawyer; play with him a little, till I can
run down."

"Besides, you see, you are such a good man of business, my lord--that
you see, that--yes, really--there must be time to draw out the
purchase-money--sell out at a prop--prop--"

"To be sure, to be sure! Bless me, how late it is! I am afraid my
carriage is ready. I must go to Madame de L-----'s."

Mr. Douce, who seemed to have much more to say, was forced to keep it
for another time, and to take his leave. Lord Vargrave went to Madame
de L-----'s. His position in what is called Exclusive Society was rather
peculiar. By those who affected to be the best judges, the frankness of
his manner and the easy oddity of his conversation were pronounced at
variance with the tranquil serenity of thorough breeding. But still he
was a great favourite both with fine ladies and dandies. His handsome
keen countenance, his talents, his politics, his intrigues, and an
animated boldness in his bearing, compensated for his constant violation
of all the minutiae of orthodox conventionalism.

At this house he met Colonel Maltravers, and took an opportunity to
renew his acquaintance with that gentleman. He then referred, in a
confidential whisper, to the communication he had received touching
Lisle Court.

"Yes," said the colonel, "I suppose I must sell the place, if I can
do so quietly. To be sure, when I first spoke to my lawyer it was in a
moment of vexation, on hearing that the ----- railroad was to go through
the park, but I find that I overrated that danger. Still, if you will
do me the honour to go and look over the place, you will find very good
shooting; and when you come back, you can see if it will suit you. Don't
say anything about it when you are there; it is better not to publish my
intention all over the county. I shall have Sir Gregory Gubbins offering
to buy it if you do!"

"You may depend on my discretion. Have you heard anything of your
brother lately?"

"Yes; I fancy he is going to Switzerland. He would soon be in England,
if he heard I was going to part with Lisle Court!"

"What, it would vex him so?"

"I fear it would; but he has a nice old place of his own, not half so
large, and therefore not half so troublesome as Lisle Court."

"Ay! and he _did_ talk of selling that nice old place."

"Selling Burleigh! you surprise me. But really country places in England
_are_ a bore. I suppose he has his Gubbins as well as myself!"

Here the chief minister of the government adorned by Lord Vargrave's
virtues passed by, and Lumley turned to greet him.

The two ministers talked together most affectionately in a close
whisper,--so affectionately, that one might have seen, with half an eye,
that they hated each other like poison!



CHAPTER V.

  INSPICERE tanquam in speculum, in vitas omnium
  Jubeo.*--TERENCE.

  * "I bid you look into the lives of all men, as
    it were into a mirror."

ERNEST MALTRAVERS still lingered at Paris: he gave up all notion of
proceeding farther. He was, in fact, tired of travel. But there was
another reason that chained him to that "Navel of the Earth,"--there is
not anywhere a better sounding-board to London rumours than the English
_quartier_ between the Boulevard des Italiennes and the Tuileries; here,
at all events, he should soonest learn the worst: and every day, as he
took up the English newspapers, a sick feeling of apprehension and fear
came over him. No! till the seal was set upon the bond, till the Rubicon
was passed, till Miss Cameron was the wife of Lord Vargrave, he could
neither return to the home that was so eloquent with the recollections
of Evelyn, nor, by removing farther from England, delay the receipt of
an intelligence which he vainly told himself he was prepared to meet.

He continued to seek such distractions from thought as were within
his reach; and as his heart was too occupied for pleasures which had,
indeed, long since palled, those distractions were of the grave and
noble character which it is a prerogative of the intellect to afford to
the passions.

De Montaigne was neither a Doctrinaire nor a Republican,--and yet,
perhaps, he was a little of both. He was one who thought that the
tendency of all European States is towards Democracy; but he by no means
looked upon Democracy as a panacea for all legislative evils. He thought
that, while a writer should be in advance of his time, a statesman
should content himself with marching by its side; that a nation could
not be ripened, like an exotic, by artificial means; that it must
be developed only by natural influences. He believed that forms of
government are never universal in their effects. Thus, De Montaigne
conceived that we were wrong in attaching more importance to legislative
than to social reforms. He considered, for instance, that the surest
sign of our progressive civilization is in our growing distaste to
capital punishments. He believed, not in the ultimate _perfection_ of
mankind, but in their progressive _perfectibility_. He thought that
improvement was indefinite; but he did not place its advance more under
Republican than under Monarchical forms. "Provided," he was wont to say,
"all our checks to power are of the right kind, it matters little to
what hands the power itself is confided."

"AEgina and Athens," said he, "were republics--commercial and
maritime--placed under the same sky, surrounded by the same neighbours,
and rent by the same struggles between Oligarchy and Democracy. Yet,
while one left the world an immortal heirloom of genius, where are the
poets, the philosophers, the statesmen of the other? Arrian tells us of
republics in India, still supposed to exist by modern investigators;
but they are not more productive of liberty of thought, or ferment of
intellect, than the principalities. In Italy there were commonwealths
as liberal as the Republic of Florence; but they did not produce a
Machiavelli or a Dante. What daring thought, what gigantic speculation,
what democracy of wisdom and genius, have sprung up amongst the
despotisms of Germany! You cannot educate two individuals so as to
produce the same results from both; you cannot, by similar constitutions
(which are the education of nations) produce the same results from
different communities. The proper object of statesmen should be to give
every facility to the people to develop themselves, and every facility
to philosophy to dispute and discuss as to the ultimate objects to be
obtained. But you cannot, as a practical legislator, place your country
under a melon-frame: it must grow of its own accord."

I do not say whether or not De Montaigne was wrong! but Maltravers saw
at least that he was faithful to his theories; that all his motives were
sincere, all his practice pure. He could not but allow, too, that in
his occupations and labours, De Montaigne appeared to feel a sublime
enjoyment; that, in linking all the powers of his mind to active and
useful objects, De Montaigne was infinitely happier than the Philosophy
of Indifference, the scorn of ambition, had made Maltravers. The
influence exercised by the large-souled and practical Frenchman over the
fate and the history of Maltravers was very peculiar.

De Montaigne had not, apparently and directly, operated upon his
friend's outward destinies; but he had done so indirectly, by operating
on his mind. Perhaps it was he who had consolidated the first wavering
and uncertain impulses of Maltravers towards literary exertion; it was
he who had consoled him for the mortifications at the earlier part of
his career; and now, perhaps he might serve, in the full vigour of his
intellect, permanently to reconcile the Englishman to the claims of
life.

There were, indeed, certain conversations which Maltravers held with
De Montaigne, the germ and pith of which it is necessary that I should
place before the reader,--for I write the inner as well as the outer
history of a man; and the great incidents of life are not brought about
only by the dramatic agencies of others, but also by our own reasonings
and habits of thought. What I am now about to set down may be wearisome,
but it is not episodical; and I promise that it shall be the last
didactic conversation in the work.

One day Maltravers was relating to De Montaigne all that he had been
planning at Burleigh for the improvement of his peasantry, and all his
theories respecting Labour-Schools and Poor-rates, when De Montaigne
abruptly turned round, and said,--

"You have, then, really found that in your own little village your
exertions--exertions not very arduous, not demanding a tenth part of
your time--have done practical good?"

"Certainly I think so," replied Maltravers, in some surprise.

"And yet it was but yesterday that you declared that all the labours of
Philosophy and Legislation were labours vain; their benefits equivocal
and uncertain; that as the sea, where it loses in one place, gains in
another, so civilization only partially profits us, stealing away one
virtue while it yields another, and leaving the large proportions of
good and evil eternally the same."

"True; but I never said that man might not relieve individuals by
individual exertion: though he cannot by abstract theories--nay, even by
practical action in the wide circle--benefit the mass."

"Do you not employ on behalf of individuals the same moral agencies that
wise legislation or sound philosophy would adopt towards the multitude?
For example, you find that the children of your village are happier,
more orderly, more obedient, promise to be wiser and better men in their
own station of life, from the new, and, I grant, excellent system of
school discipline and teaching that you have established. What you have
done in one village, why should not legislation do throughout a kingdom?
Again, you find that, by simply holding out hope and emulation to
industry, by making stern distinctions between the energetic and the
idle, the independent exertion and the pauper-mendicancy, you have found
a lever by which you have literally moved and shifted the little world
around you. But what is the difference here between the rules of a
village lord and the laws of a wise legislature? The moral feelings
you have appealed to exist universally, the moral remedies you have
practised are as open to legislation as to the individual proprietor."

"Yes; but when you apply to a nation the same principles which
regenerate a village, new counterbalancing principles arise. If I give
education to my peasants, I send them into the world with advantages
_superior_ to their fellows,--advantages which, not being common to
their class, enable them to _outstrip_ their fellows. But if this
education were universal to the whole tribe, no man would have an
advantage superior to the others; the knowledge they would have acquired
being shared by all, would leave all as they now are, hewers of wood and
drawers of water: the principle of individual hope, which springs
from knowledge, would soon be baffled by the vast competition that
_universal_ knowledge would produce. Thus by the universal improvement
would be engendered a universal discontent.

"Take a broader view of the subject. Advantages given to the _few_
around me--superior wages, lighter toils, a greater sense of the
dignity of man--are not productive of any change in society. Give these
advantages to the _whole mass_ of the labouring classes, and what in
the small orbit is the desire of the _individual_ to rise becomes in
the large circumference the desire of the _class_ to rise; hence
social restlessness, social change, revolution, and its hazards. For
revolutions are produced but by the aspirations of one order, and the
resistance of the other. Consequently, legislative improvement differs
widely from individual amelioration; the same principle, the same
agency, that purifies the small body, becomes destructive when applied
to the large one. Apply the flame to the log on the hearth, or apply it
to the forest, is there no distinction in the result? The breeze that
freshens the fountain passes to the ocean, current impels current, wave
urges wave, and the breeze becomes the storm."

"Were there truth in this train of argument," replied De Montaigne, "had
we ever abstained from communicating to the Multitude the enjoyments and
advantages of the Few, had we shrunk from the good, because the good is
a parent of the change and its partial ills, what now would be society?
Is there no difference in collective happiness and virtue between the
painted Picts and the Druid worship, and the glorious harmony, light,
and order of the great English nation?"

"The question is popular," said Maltravers, with a smile; "and were
you my opponent in an election, would be cheered on any hustings in the
kingdom. But I have lived among savage tribes,--savage, perhaps, as the
race that resisted Caesar; and their happiness seems to me, not perhaps
the same as that of the few whose sources of enjoyment are numerous,
refined, and, save by their own passions, unalloyed; but equal to
that of the mass of men in States the most civilized and advanced. The
artisans, crowded together in the fetid air of factories, with physical
ills gnawing at the core of the constitution, from the cradle to the
grave; drudging on from dawn to sunset and flying for recreation to
the dread excitement of the dram-shop, or the wild and vain hopes of
political fanaticism,--are not in my eyes happier than the wild Indians
with hardy frames and calm tempers, seasoned to the privations for which
you pity them, and uncursed with desires of that better state never to
be theirs. The Arab in his desert has seen all the luxuries of the pasha
in his harem; but he envies them not. He is contented with his barb, his
tent, his desolate sands, and his spring of refreshing water.

"Are we not daily told, do not our priests preach it from their pulpits,
that the cottage shelters happiness equal to that within the palace? Yet
what the distinction between the peasant and the prince, differing from
that between the peasant and the savage? There are more enjoyments and
more privations in the one than in the other; but if, in the latter
case, the enjoyments, though fewer, be more keenly felt,--if the
privations, though apparently sharper, fall upon duller sensibilities
and hardier frames,--your gauge of proportion loses all its value. Nay,
in civilization there is for the multitude an evil that exists not
in the savage state. The poor man sees daily and hourly all the vast
disparities produced by civilized society; and reversing the divine
parable, it is Lazarus who from afar, and from the despondent pit,
looks upon Dives in the lap of Paradise: therefore, his privations,
his sufferings, are made more keen by comparison with the luxuries
of others. Not so in the desert and the forest. There but small
distinctions, and those softened by immemorial and hereditary
usage--that has in it the sanctity of religion--separate the savage
from his chief. The fact is, that in civilization we behold a splendid
aggregate,--literature and science, wealth and luxury, commerce and
glory; but we see not the million victims crushed beneath the wheels
of the machine,--the health sacrificed, the board breadless, the jails
filled, the hospitals reeking, the human life poisoned in every spring,
and poured forth like water! Neither do we remember all the steps,
marked by desolation, crime, and bloodshed, by which this barren summit
has been reached. Take the history of any civilized state,--England,
France, Spain before she rotted back into second childhood, the Italian
Republics, the Greek Commonwealths, the Empress of the Seven Hills--what
struggles, what persecutions, what crimes, what massacres! Where, in
the page of history, shall we look back and say, 'Here improvement has
diminished the sum of evil'? Extend, too, your scope beyond the State
itself: each State has won its acquisitions by the woes of others. Spain
springs above the Old World on the blood-stained ruins of the New; and
the groans and the gold of Mexico produce the splendours of the Fifth
Charles!

"Behold England, the wise, the liberal, the free England--through what
struggles she has passed; and is she yet contented? The sullen oligarchy
of the Normans; our own criminal invasions of Scotland and France; the
plundered people, the butchered kings; the persecutions of the Lollards;
the wars of Lancaster and York; the new dynasty of the Tudors, that at
once put back Liberty, and put forward Civilization! the Reformation,
cradled in the lap of a hideous despot, and nursed by violence and
rapine; the stakes and fires of Mary, and the craftier cruelties of
Elizabeth,--England, strengthened by the desolation of Ireland, the
Civil Wars, the reign of hypocrisy, followed by the reign of naked
vice; the nation that beheaded the graceful Charles gaping idly on the
scaffold of the lofty Sidney; the vain Revolution of 1688, which, if a
jubilee in England, was a massacre in Ireland; the bootless glories of
Marlborough; the organized corruption of Walpole, the frantic war with
our own American sons, the exhausting struggles with Napoleon!

"Well, we close the page; we say, Lo! a thousand years of incessant
struggles and afflictions! millions have perished, but Art has
survived; our boors wear stockings, our women drink tea, our poets read
Shakspeare, and our astronomers improve on Newton! Are we now contented?
No! more restless than ever. New classes are called into power; new
forms of government insisted on. Still the same catchwords,--Liberty
here, Religion there; Order with one faction, Amelioration with the
other. Where is the goal, and what have we gained? Books are written,
silks are woven, palaces are built,--mighty acquisitions for the
few--but the peasant is a peasant still! The crowd are yet at the bottom
of the wheel; better off, you say. No, for they are not more contented!
The artisan is as anxious for change as ever the serf was; and the
steam-engine has its victims as well as the sword.

"Talk of legislation: all isolated laws pave the way to wholesale
changes in the form of government! Emancipate Catholics, and you open
the door to democratic principle, that Opinion should be free. If free
with the sectarian, it should be free with the elector. The Ballot is a
corollary from the Catholic Relief-bill. Grant the Ballot, and the new
corollary of enlarged suffrage. Suffrage enlarged is divided but by
a yielding surface (a circle widening in the waters) from universal
suffrage. Universal suffrage is Democracy. Is Democracy better than the
aristocratic commonwealth? Look at the Greeks, who knew both forms;
are they agreed which is the best? Plato, Thucydides, Xenophon,
Aristophanes--the Dreamer, the Historian, the Philosophic Man of Action,
the penetrating Wit--have no ideals in Democracy. Algernon Sidney, the
martyr of liberty, allows no government to the multitude. Brutus died
for a republic, but a republic of Patricians! What form of government is
then the best? All dispute, the wisest cannot agree. The many still say
'a Republic;' yet, as you yourself will allow, Prussia, the Despotism,
does all that Republics do. Yes, but a good despot is a lucky accident;
true, but a just and benevolent Republic is as yet a monster equally
short-lived. When the People have no other tyrant, their own public
opinion becomes one. No secret espionage is more intolerable to a free
spirit than the broad glare of the American eye.

"A rural republic is but a patriarchal tribe--no emulation, no glory;
peace and stagnation. What Englishman, what Frenchman, would wish to be
a Swiss? A commercial republic is but an admirable machine for making
money. Is man created for nothing nobler than freighting ships and
speculating on silk and sugar? In fact, there is no certain goal in
legislation; we go on colonizing Utopia, and fighting phantoms in the
clouds. Let us content ourselves with injuring no man, and doing good
only in our own little sphere. Let us leave States and senates to fill
the sieve of the Danaides, and roll up the stone of Sisyphus."

"My dear friend," said De Montaigne, "you have certainly made the most
of an argument, which, if granted, would consign government to fools
and knaves, and plunge the communities of mankind into the Slough of
Despond. But a very commonplace view of the question might suffice to
shake your system. Is life, mere animal life, on the whole, a curse or a
blessing?"

"The generality of men in all countries," answered Maltravers, "enjoy
existence, and apprehend death; were it otherwise, the world had been
made by a Fiend, and not a God!"

"Well, then, observe how the progress of society cheats the grave! In
great cities, where the effect of civilization must be the most visible,
the diminution of mortality in a corresponding ratio with the increase
of civilization is most remarkable. In Berlin, from the year 1747 to
1755, the annual mortality was as one to twenty-eight; but from 1816 to
1822, it was as one to thirty-four! You ask what England has gained by
her progress in the arts? I will answer you by her bills of mortality.
In London, Birmingham, and Liverpool, deaths have decreased in less than
a century from one to twenty, to one to forty (precisely one-half!).
Again, whenever a community--nay, a single city, decreases in
civilization, and in its concomitants, activity and commerce, its
mortality instantly increases. But if civilization be favourable to
the prolongation of life, must it not be favourable to all that blesses
life,--to bodily health, to mental cheerfulness, to the capacities for
enjoyment? And how much more grand, how much more sublime, becomes the
prospect of gain, if we reflect that, to each life thus called forth,
there is a soul, a destiny beyond the grave, multiplied immortalities!
What an apology for the continued progress of States! But you say that,
however we advance, we continue impatient and dissatisfied: can you
really suppose that, because man in every state is discontented with
his lot, there is no difference in the _degree_ and _quality_ of his
discontent, no distinction between pining for bread and longing for the
moon? Desire is implanted within us, as the very principle of existence;
the physical desire fills the world, and the moral desire improves it.
Where there is desire, there must be discontent: if we are satisfied
with all things, desire is extinct. But a certain degree of discontent
is not incompatible with happiness, nay, it has happiness of its own;
what happiness like hope,--what is hope but desire? The European serf,
whose seigneur could command his life, or insist as a right on the
chastity of his daughter, desires to better his condition. God has
compassion on his state; Providence calls into action the ambition
of leaders, the contests of faction, the movement of men's aims and
passions: a change passes through society and legislation, and the serf
becomes free! He desires still, but what? No longer personal security,
no longer the privileges of life and health; but higher wages, greater
comforts, easier justice for diminished wrongs. Is there no difference
in the quality of that desire? Was one a greater torment than the other
is? Rise a scale higher: a new class is created--the Middle Class,--the
express creature of Civilization. Behold the burgher and the citizen,
and still struggling, still contending, still desiring, and therefore
still discontented. But the discontent does not prey upon the springs
of life: it is the discontent of _hope_, not _despair_; it calls forth
faculties, energies, and passions, in which there is more joy than
sorrow. It is this desire which makes the citizen in private life an
anxious father, a careful master, an _active_, and therefore not an
unhappy, man. You allow that individuals can effect individual good:
this very restlessness, this very discontent with the exact place
that he occupies, makes the citizen a benefactor in his narrow circle.
Commerce, better than Charity, feeds the hungry and clothes the naked.
Ambition, better than brute affection, gives education to our children,
and teaches them the love of industry, the pride of independence, the
respect for others and themselves!

"In other words, a deference to such qualities as can best fit them to
get on in the world, and make the most money!"

"Take that view if you will; but the wiser, the more civilized the
State, the worse chances for the rogue to get on! There may be some art,
some hypocrisy, some avarice,--nay, some hardness of heart,--in paternal
example and professional tuition. But what are such sober infirmities
to the vices that arise from defiance and despair? Your savage has his
virtues, but they are mostly physical,--fortitude, abstinence, patience:
mental and moral virtues must be numerous or few, in proportion to
the range of ideas and the exigencies of social life. With the savage,
therefore, they must be fewer than with civilized men; and they are
consequently limited to those simple and rude elements which the
safety of his state renders necessary to him. He is usually hospitable;
sometimes honest. But vices are necessary to his existence as well
as virtues: he is at war with a tribe that may destroy his own; and
treachery without scruple, cruelty without remorse, are essential
to him; he feels their necessity, and calls them _virtues_! Even
the half-civilized man, the Arab whom you praise, imagines he has a
necessity for your money; and his robberies become virtues to him. But
in civilized States, vices are at least not necessary to the existence
of the majority; they are not, therefore, worshipped as virtues. Society
unites against them; treachery, robbery, massacre, are not essential
to the strength or safety of the community: they exist, it is true, but
they are not cultivated, but punished. The thief in St. Giles's has the
virtues of your savage: he is true to his companions, he is brave in
danger, he is patient in privation; he practises the virtues necessary
to the bonds of his calling and the tacit laws of his vocation. He might
have made an admirable savage: but surely the mass of civilized men are
better than the thief?"

Maltravers was struck, and paused a little before he replied; and then
he shifted his ground. "But at least all our laws, all our efforts, must
leave the multitude in every State condemned to a labour that deadens
intellect, and a poverty that embitters life."

"Supposing this were true, still there are multitudes besides _the_
multitude. In each State Civilization produces a middle class, more
numerous to-day than the whole peasantry of a thousand years ago. Would
Movement and Progress be without their divine uses, even if they limited
their effect to the production of such a class? Look also to the effect
of art, and refinement, and just laws, in the wealthier and higher
classes. See how their very habits of life tend to increase the sum
of enjoyment; see the mighty activity that their very luxury, the very
frivolity of their pursuits, create! Without an aristocracy, would there
have been a middle class? Without a middle class, would there ever have
been an interposition between lord and slave? Before commerce produces a
middle class, Religion creates one. The Priesthood, whatever its errors,
was the curb to Power. But, to return to the multitude,--you say that in
all times they are left the same. Is it so? I come to statistics again:
I find that not only civilization, but liberty, has a prodigious effect
upon human life. It is, as it were, by the instinct of self-preservation
that liberty is so passionately desired by the multitude. A negro slave,
for instance, dies annually as one to five or six, but a free African
in the English service only as one to thirty-five! Freedom is not,
therefore, a mere abstract dream, a beautiful name, a Platonic
aspiration: it is interwoven with the most practical of all
blessings,--life itself! And can you say fairly that by laws labour
cannot be lightened and poverty diminished? We have granted already that
since there are degrees in discontent, there is a difference between
the peasant and the serf: how know you what the peasant a thousand years
hence may be? Discontented, you will say,--still discontented. Yes; but
if he had not been discontented, he would have been a serf still! Far
from quelling this desire to better himself, we ought to hail it as
the source of his perpetual progress. That desire to him is often like
imagination to the poet, it transports him into the Future--

  'Crura sonant ferro, sed canit inter opus.'

It is, indeed, the gradual transformation from the desire of Despair
to the desire of Hope, that makes the difference between man and man,
between misery and bliss."

"And then comes the crisis. Hope ripens into deeds; the stormy
revolution, perhaps the armed despotism; the relapse into the second
infancy of States!"

"Can we, with new agencies at our command, new morality, new wisdom,
predicate of the Future by the Past? In ancient States, the mass were
slaves; civilization and freedom rested with oligarchies; in Athens
twenty thousand citizens, four hundred thousand slaves! How easy
decline, degeneracy, overthrow in such States,--a handful of soldiers
and philosophers without a People! Now we have no longer barriers to
the circulation of the blood of States. The absence of slavery, the
existence of the Press; the healthful proportions of kingdoms, neither
too confined nor too vast, have created new hopes, which history cannot
destroy. As a proof, look to all late revolutions: in England the Civil
Wars, the Reformation,--in France her awful Saturnalia, her military
despotism! Has either nation fallen back? The deluge passes, and,
behold, the face of things more glorious than before! Compare the French
of to-day with the French of the old _regime_. You are silent; well, and
if in all States there is ever some danger of evil in their activity, is
that a reason why you are to lie down inactive; why you are to leave the
crew to battle for the helm? How much may individuals by the diffusion
of their own thoughts in letters or in action regulate the order of vast
events,--now prevent, now soften, now animate, now guide! And is a man
to whom Providence and Fortune have imparted such prerogatives to stand
aloof, because he can neither foresee the Future nor create Perfection?
And you talk of no certain and definite goal! How know we that there is
a certain and definite goal, even in heaven? How know we that excellence
may not be illimitable? Enough that we improve, that we proceed. Seeing
in the great design of earth that benevolence is an attribute of the
Designer, let us leave the rest to Posterity and to God."

"You have disturbed many of my theories," said Maltravers, candidly;
"and I will reflect on our conversation; but, after all, is every man to
aspire to influence others; to throw his opinion into the great scales
in which human destinies are weighed? Private life is not criminal. It
is no virtue to write a book, or to make a speech. Perhaps, I should
be as well engaged in returning to my country village, looking at my
schools, and wrangling with the parish overseers--"

"Ah," interrupted the Frenchman, laughing; "if I have driven you to this
point, I will go no further. Every state of life has its duties; every
man must be himself the judge of what he is most fit for. It is quite
enough that he desires to be active, and labours to be useful; that he
acknowledges the precept, 'Never to be weary in well-doing.' The divine
appetite once fostered, let it select its own food. But the man who,
after fair trial of his capacities, and with all opportunity for their
full development before him, is convinced that he has faculties which
private life cannot wholly absorb, must not repine that Human Nature
is not perfect, when he refuses even to exercise the gifts he himself
possesses."

Now these arguments have been very tedious; in some places they have
been old and trite; in others they may appear too much to appertain to
the abstract theory of first principles. Yet from such arguments, _pro_
and _con_, unless I greatly mistake, are to be derived corollaries
equally practical and sublime,--the virtue of Action, the obligations of
Genius, and the philosophy that teaches us to confide in the destinies,
and labour in the service, of mankind.



CHAPTER VI.

  I'LL tell you presently her very picture;
  Stay--yes, it is so--Lelia.
            _The Captain_, Act V. sc. I.

MALTRAVERS had not shrunk into a system of false philosophy from wayward
and sickly dreams, from resolute self-delusion; on the contrary, his
errors rested on his convictions: the convictions disturbed, the errors
were rudely shaken.

But when his mind began restlessly to turn once more towards the duties
of active life; when he recalled all the former drudgeries and toils
of political conflict, or the wearing fatigues of literature, with its
small enmities, its false friendships, and its meagre and capricious
rewards,--ah, then, indeed, he shrank in dismay from the thoughts of
the solitude at home! No lips to console in dejection, no heart to
sympathize in triumph, no love within to counterbalance the hate
without,--and the best of man, his household affections, left to wither
away, or to waste themselves on ideal images, or melancholy remembrance.

It may, indeed, be generally remarked (contrary to a common notion),
that the men who are most happy at home are the most active abroad. The
animal spirits are necessary to healthful action; and dejection and the
sense of solitude will turn the stoutest into dreamers. The hermit is
the antipodes of the citizen; and no gods animate and inspire us like
the Lares.

One evening, after an absence from Paris of nearly a fortnight, at De
Montaigne's villa, in the neighbourhood of St. Cloud, Maltravers, who,
though he no longer practised the art, was not less fond than heretofore
of music, was seated in Madame de Ventadour's box at the Italian Opera;
and Valerie, who was above all the woman's jealousy of beauty, was
expatiating with great warmth of eulogium upon the charms of a young
English lady whom she had met at Lady G-----'s the preceding evening.

"She is just my beau-ideal of the true English beauty," said Valerie:
"it is not only the exquisite fairness of the complexion, nor the eyes
so purely blue,--which the dark lashes relieve from the coldness common
to the light eyes of the Scotch and German,--that are so beautifully
national, but the simplicity of manner, the unconsciousness of
admiration, the mingled modesty and sense of the expression. No, I have
seen women more beautiful, but I never saw one more lovely: you are
silent; I expected some burst of patriotism in return for my compliment
to your countrywoman!"

"But I am so absorbed in that wonderful Pasta--"

"You are no such thing; your thoughts are far away. But can you tell
me anything about my fair stranger and her friends? In the first place,
there is a Lord Doltimore, whom I knew before--you need say nothing
about him; in the next there is his new married bride, handsome,
dark--but you are not well!"

"It was the draught from the door; go on, I beseech you, the young lady,
the friend, her name?"

"Her name I do not remember; but she was engaged to be married to one of
your statesmen, Lord Vargrave; the marriage is broken off--I know not
if that be the cause of a certain melancholy in her countenance,--a
melancholy I am sure not natural to its Hebe-like expression. But who
have just entered the opposite box? Ah, Mr. Maltravers, do look, there
is the beautiful English girl!"

And Maltravers raised his eyes, and once more beheld the countenance of
Evelyn Cameron!




BOOK VII.

  Words of dark import gave suspicion birth.--POTTER.



CHAPTER I.

  _Luce_.  Is the wind there?
           That makes for me.
  _Isab_.  Come, I forget a business.
                 _Wit without Money_.

LORD VARGRAVE'S travelling-carriage was at his door, and he himself was
putting on his greatcoat in his library, when Lord Saxingham entered.

"What! you are going into the country?"

"Yes; I wrote you word,--to see Lisle Court."

"Ay, true; I had forgot. Somehow or other my memory is not so good as it
was. But, let me see, Lisle Court is in -----shire. Why, you will pass
within ten miles of C-----."

"C-----! Shall I? I am not much versed in the geography of
England,--never learned it at school. As for Poland, Kamschatka, Mexico,
Madagascar, or any other place as to which knowledge would be _useful_,
I have every inch of the way at my finger's end. But _a propos_ of
C-----, it is the town in which my late uncle made his fortune."

"Ah, so it is. I recollect you were to have stood for C-----, but gave
it up to Staunch; very handsome in you. Have you any interest there
still?"

"I think my ward has some tenants,--a street or two,--one called Richard
Street, and the other Templeton Place. I had intended some weeks ago
to have gone down there, and seen what interest was still left to our
family; but Staunch himself told me that C----- was a sure card."

"So he thought; but he has been with me this morning in great alarm: he
now thinks he shall be thrown out. A Mr. Winsley, who has a great deal
of interest there, and was a supporter of his, hangs back on account of
the ----- question. This is unlucky, as Staunch is quite with _us_; and
if he were to rat now it would be most unfortunate."

"Winsley! Winsley!--my poor uncle's right-hand man. A great
brewer,--always chairman of the Templeton Committee. I know the name,
though I never saw the man."

"If you could take C----- in your way?"

"To be sure. Staunch must not be lost. We cannot throw away a single
vote, much more one of such weight,--eighteen stone at the least! I'll
stop at C----- on pretence of seeing after my ward's houses, and have
a quiet conference with Mr. Winsley. Hem! Peers must not interfere in
elections, eh? Well, good-by: take care of yourself. I shall be back in
a week, I hope,--perhaps less."

In a minute more Lord Vargrave and Mr. George Frederick Augustus Howard,
a slim young gentleman of high birth and connections, but who, having,
as a portionless cadet, his own way to make in the world, condescended
to be his lordship's private secretary, were rattling over the streets
the first stage to C-----.

It was late at night when Lord Vargrave arrived at the head inn of that
grave and respectable cathedral city, in which once Richard Templeton,
Esq.,--saint, banker, and politician,--had exercised his dictatorial
sway. "Sic transit gloria mundi!" As he warmed his hands by the fire in
the large wainscoted apartment into which he was shown, his eye met
a full length engraving of his uncle, with a roll of papers in his
hand,--meant for a parliamentary bill for the turnpike trusts in the
neighbourhood of C-----. The sight brought back his recollections
of that pious and saturnine relation, and insensibly the minister's
thoughts flew to his death-bed, and to the strange secret which in that
last hour he had revealed to Lumley,--a secret which had done much in
deepening Lord Vargrave's contempt for the forms and conventionalities
of decorous life. And here it may be mentioned--though in the course
of this volume a penetrating reader may have guessed as much--that,
whatever that secret, it did not refer expressly or exclusively to the
late lord's singular and ill-assorted marriage. Upon that point much was
still left obscure to arouse Lumley's curiosity, had he been a man whose
curiosity was very vivacious. But on this he felt but little interest.
He knew enough to believe that no further information could benefit
himself personally; why should he trouble his head with what never would
fill his pockets?

An audible yawn from the slim secretary roused Lord Vargrave from his
revery.

"I envy you, my young friend," said he, good-humouredly. "It is a
pleasure we lose as we grow older,--that of being sleepy. However, 'to
bed,' as Lady Macbeth says. Faith, I don't wonder the poor devil of a
thane was slow in going to bed with such a tigress. Good-night to you."



CHAPTER II.

  MA fortune va prendre une face nouvelle.*
            RACINE. _Androm_., Act i. sc. 1.

  * "My fortune is about to take a turn."

THE next morning Vargrave inquired the way to Mr. Winsley's, and walked
alone to the house of the brewer. The slim secretary went to inspect the
cathedral.

Mr. Winsley was a little, thickset man, with a civil but blunt
electioneering manner. He started when he heard Lord Vargrave's name,
and bowed with great stiffness. Vargrave saw at a glance that there was
some cause of grudge in the mind of the worthy man; nor did Mr. Winsley
long hesitate before he cleansed his bosom of its perilous stuff.

"This is an unexpected honour, my lord: I don't know how to account for
it."

"Why, Mr. Winsley, your friendship with my late uncle can, perhaps,
sufficiently explain and apologize for a visit from a nephew sincerely
attached to his memory."

"Humph! I certainly did do all in my power to promote Mr. Templeton's
interests. No man, I may say, did more; and yet I don't think it was
much thought of the moment he turned his back upon the electors of
C-----. Not that I bear any malice; I am well to do, and value no man's
favour,--no man's, my lord!"

"You amaze me! I always heard my poor uncle speak of you in the highest
terms."

"Oh, well, it don't signify; pray say no more of it. Can I offer your
lordship a glass of wine?"

"No, I am much obliged to you; but we really must set this little matter
right. You know that after his marriage my uncle never revisited C-----;
and that shortly before his death he sold the greater part of
his interest in this city. His young wife, I suppose, liked the
neighbourhood of London; and when elderly gentlemen _do_ marry, you
know they are no longer their own masters; but if you had ever come to
Fulham--ah! then, indeed, my uncle would have rejoiced to see his old
friend."

"Your lordship thinks so," said Mr. Winsley with a sardonic smile. "You
are mistaken; I did call at Fulham; and though I sent in my card, Lord
Vargrave's servant (he was then My Lord) brought back word that his
lordship was not at home."

"But that must have been true; he was out, you may depend on it."

"I saw him at the window, my lord," said Mr. Winsley, taking a pinch of
snuff.

"Oh, the deuce! I'm in for it," thought Lumley.--"Very strange,
indeed! but how can you account for it? Ah, perhaps the health of Lady
Vargrave--she was so very delicate then, and my poor uncle lived for
her--you know that he left all his fortune to Miss Cameron?"

"Miss Cameron! Who is she, my lord?"

"Why, his daughter-in-law; Lady Vargrave was a widow,--a Mrs. Cameron."

"Mrs. Cam--I remember now,--they put Cameron in the newspapers; but I
thought it was a mistake. But, perhaps" (added Winsley, with a sneer of
peculiar malignity),--"perhaps, when your worthy uncle thought of being
a peer, he did not like to have it known that he married so much beneath
him."

"You quite mistake, my dear sir; my uncle never denied that Mrs. Cameron
was a lady of no fortune or connections,--widow to some poor Scotch
gentleman, who died I think in India."

"He left her very ill off, poor thing; but she had a great deal of
merit, and worked hard; she taught my girls to play--"

"Your girls! did Mrs. Cameron ever reside in C-----?"

"To be sure; but she was then called Mrs. Butler--just as pretty a name
to my fancy."

"You must make a mistake: my uncle married this lady in Devonshire."

"Very possibly," quoth the brewer, doggedly. "Mrs. Butler left the town
with her little girl some time before Mr. Templeton married."

"Well, you are wiser than I am," said Lumley, forcing a smile. "But how
can you be sure that Mrs. Butler and Mrs. Cameron are one and the same
person? You did not go into the house, you could not have seen Lady
Vargrave" (and here Lumley shrewdly guessed--if the tale were true--at
the cause of his uncle's exclusion of his old acquaintance).

"No! but I saw her ladyship on the lawn," said Mr. Winsley, with another
sardonic smile; "and I asked the porter at the lodge as I went out if
that was Lady Vargrave, and he said, 'yes.' However, my lord, bygones
are bygones,--I bear no malice; your uncle was a good man: and if he had
but said to me, 'Winsley, don't say a word about Mrs. Butler,' he might
have reckoned on me just as much as when in his elections he used to put
five thousand pounds in my hands, and say, 'Winsley, no bribery,--it is
wicked; let this be given in charity.' Did any one ever know how that
money went? Was your uncle ever accused of corruption? But, my lord,
surely you will take some refreshment?"

"No, indeed; but if you will let me dine with you tomorrow, you'll
oblige me much; and, whatever my uncle's faults (and latterly, poor man,
he was hardly in his senses; what a will he made!) let not the nephew
suffer for them. Come, Mr. Winsley," and Lumley held out his hand with
enchanting frankness, "you know my motives are disinterested; I have
no parliamentary interest to serve, we have no constituents for our
Hospital of Incurables; and--oh! that's right,--we're friends, I see!
Now I must go and look after my ward's houses. Let me see, the agent's
name is--is--"

"Perkins, I think, my lord," said Mr. Winsley, thoroughly softened by
the charm of Vargrave's words and manner. "Let me put on my hat, and
show you his house."

"Will you? That's very kind; give me all the election news by the
way--you know I was once within an ace of being your member."

Vargrave learned from his new friend some further particulars relative
to Mrs. Butler's humble habits and homely mode of life at C-----, which
served completely to explain to him why his proud and worldly uncle
had so carefully abstained from all intercourse with that city, and had
prevented the nephew from standing for its vacant representation. It
seemed, however, that Winsley--whose resentment was not of a very active
or violent kind--had not communicated the discovery he had made to his
fellow townspeople; but had contented himself with hints and aphorisms,
whenever he had heard the subject of Mr. Templeton's marriage discussed,
which had led the gossips of the place to imagine that he had made a
much worse selection than he really had. As to the accuracy of Winsley's
assertion, Vargrave, though surprised at first, had but little doubt
on consideration, especially when he heard that Mrs. Butler's principal
patroness had been the Mrs. Leslie, now the intimate friend of Lady
Vargrave. But what had been the career, what the earlier condition and
struggles of this simple and interesting creature? With her appearance
at C-----, commenced all that surmise could invent. Not greater was the
mystery that wrapped the apparition of Manco Capac by the lake Titiaca,
than that which shrouded the places and the trials whence the lowly
teacher of music had emerged amidst the streets of C------.

Weary, and somewhat careless, of conjecture, Lord Vargrave, in dining
with Mr. Winsley, turned the conversation upon the business on which he
had principally undertaken his journey,--namely, the meditated purchase
of Lisle Court.

"I myself am not a very good judge of landed property," said Vargrave;
"I wish I knew of an experienced surveyor to look over the farms and
timber: can you help me to such a one?"

Mr. Winsley smiled, and glanced at a rosy-cheeked young lady, who
simpered and turned away. "I think my daughter could recommend one to
your lordship, if she dared."

"Oh, Pa!"

"I see. Well, Miss Winsley, I will take no recommendation but yours."

Miss Winsley made an effort.

"Indeed, my lord, I have always heard Mr. Robert Hobbs considered very
clever in his profession."

"Mr. Robert Hobbs is my man! His good health--and a fair wife to him."

Miss Winsley glanced at Mamma, and then at a younger sister; and then
there was a titter, and then a fluttering, and then a rising, and Mr.
Winsley, Lord Vargrave, and the slim secretary were left alone.

"Really, my lord," said the host, resettling himself, and pushing the
wine, "though you have guessed our little family arrangement, and I have
some interest in the recommendation, since Margaret will be Mrs. Robert
Hobbs in a few weeks, yet I do not know a more acute, intelligent young
man anywhere. Highly respectable, with an independent fortune; his
father is lately dead, and made at least thirty thousand pounds in
trade. His brother Edward is also dead; so he has the bulk of the
property, and he follows his profession merely for amusement. He would
consider it a great honour."

"And where does he live?"

"Oh, not in this county,--a long way off; close to -----; but it is all
in your lordship's road. A very nice house he has, too. I have known his
family since I was a boy; it is astonishing how his father improved the
place,--it was a poor little lath-and-plaster cottage when the late Mr.
Hobbs bought it, and it is now a very excellent family house."

"Well, you shall give me the address and a letter of introduction,
and so much for that matter. But to return to politics;" and here Lord
Vargrave ran eloquently on, till Mr. Winsley thought him the only man in
the world who could save the country from that utter annihilation, the
possibility of which he had never even suspected before.

It may be as well to add, that, on wishing Lord Vargrave good-night,
Mr. Winsley whispered in his ear, "Your lordship's friend, Lord Staunch,
need be under no apprehension,--we are all right!"



CHAPTER III.

  THIS is the house, sir.--_Love's Pilgrimage_, Act iv, sc. 2.

            Redeunt Saturnia regna.*--VIRGIL.

  * "A former state of things returns."

THE next morning, Lumley and his slender companion were rolling rapidly
over the same road on which, sixteen years ago, way-worn and weary,
Alice Darvil had first met with Mrs. Leslie; they were talking about a
new opera-dancer as they whirled by the very spot.

It was about five o'clock in the afternoon, the next day, when the
carriage stopped at a cast-iron gate, on which was inscribed this
epigraph, "Hobbs' lodge--Ring the Bell."

"A snug place enough," said Lord Vargrave, as they were waiting the
arrival of the footman to unbar the gate.

"Yes," said Mr. Howard. "If a retired Cit could be transformed into a
house, such is the house he would be."

Poor Dale Cottage,--the home of Poetry and Passion! But change visits
the Commonplace as well as the Romantic. Since Alice had pressed to
that cold grating her wistful eyes, time had wrought his allotted
revolutions; the old had died, the young grown up. Of the children
playing on the lawn, death had claimed some, and marriage others,--and
the holiday of youth was gone for all.

The servant opened the gate. Mr. Robert Hobbs was at home; he had
friends with him,--he was engaged; Lord Vargrave sent in his card, and
the introductory letter from Mr. Winsley. In two seconds, these missives
brought to the gate Mr. Robert Hobbs himself, a smart young man, with
a black stock, red whiskers, and an eye-glass pendant to a hair-chain
which was possibly _a gage d'amour_ from Miss Margaret Winsley.

A profusion of bows, compliments, apologies, etc., the carriage drove up
the sweep, and Lord Vargrave descended, and was immediately ushered into
Mr. Hobbs's private room. The slim secretary followed, and sat silent,
melancholy, and upright, while the peer affably explained his wants and
wishes to the surveyor.

Mr. Hobbs was well acquainted with the locality of Lisle Court, which
was little more than thirty miles distant, he should be proud to
accompany Lord Vargrave thither the next morning. But, might he venture,
might he dare, might he presume--a gentleman who lived at the town of
----- was to dine with him that day; a gentleman of the most profound
knowledge of agricultural affairs; a gentleman who knew every farm,
almost every acre, belonging to Colonel Maltravers; if his lordship
could be induced to waive ceremony, and dine with Mr. Hobbs; it might be
really useful to meet this gentleman. The slim secretary, who was very
hungry, and who thought he sniffed an uncommonly savoury smell, looked
up from his boots. Lord Vargrave smiled.

"My young friend here is too great an admirer of Mrs. Hobbs--who is to
be--not to feel anxious to make the acquaintance of any member of the
family she is to enter."

Mr. George Frederick Augustus Howard blushed indignant refutation of the
calumnious charge. Vargrave continued,--"As for me, I shall be
delighted to meet any friends of yours, and am greatly obliged for your
consideration. We may dismiss the postboys, Howard; and what time shall
we summon them,--ten o'clock?"

"If your lordship would condescend to accept a bed, we can accommodate
your lordship and this gentleman, and start at any hour in the morning
that--"

"So be it," interrupted Vargrave. "You speak like a man of business.
Howard, be so kind as to order the horses for six o'clock to-morrow.
We'll breakfast at Lisle Court."

This matter settled, Lord Vargrave and Mr. Howard were shown into their
respective apartments. Travelling dresses were changed, the dinner put
back, and the fish over-boiled; but what mattered common fish, when Mr.
Hobbs had just caught such a big one? Of what consequence he should be
henceforth and ever! A peer, a minister, a stranger to the county,--to
come all this way to consult _him_! to be _his_ guest! to be shown off,
and patted, and trotted out before all the rest of the company! Mr.
Hobbs was a made man! Careless of all this, ever at home with any one,
and delighted, perhaps, to escape a _tete-a-tete_ with Mr. Howard in a
strange inn, Vargrave lounged into the drawing-room, and was formally
presented to the expectant family and the famishing guests.

During the expiring bachelorship of Mr. Robert Hobbs, his sister, Mrs.
Tiddy (to whom the reader was first introduced as a bride gathering the
wisdom of economy and large joints from the frugal lips of her
mamma), officiated as lady of the house,--a comely matron, and
well-preserved,--except that she had lost a front tooth,--in a jaundiced
satinet gown, with a fall of British blonde, and a tucker of the same,
Mr. Tiddy being a starch man, and not willing that the luxuriant charms
of Mrs. T. should be too temptingly exposed! There was also Mr. Tiddy,
whom his wife had married for love, and who was now well to do,--a
fine-looking man, with large whiskers, and a Roman nose, a little awry.
Moreover, there was a Miss Biddy or Bridget Hobbs, a young lady of
four or five and twenty, who was considering whether she might ask Lord
Vargrave to write something in her album, and who cast a bashful look of
admiration at the slim secretary, as he now sauntered into the room, in
a black coat, black waistcoat, black trousers, and a black neckcloth,
with a black pin,--looking much like an ebony cane split half-way up.
Miss Biddy was a fair young lady, a _leetle_ faded, with uncommonly thin
arms and white satin shoes, on which the slim secretary cast his eyes
and--shuddered!

In addition to the family group were the Rector of -----, an agreeable
man, who published sermons and poetry; also Sir William Jekyll, who was
employing Mr. Hobbs to make a map of an estate he had just purchased;
also two country squires and their two wives; moreover, the physician of
the neighbouring town,--a remarkably tall man, who wore spectacles and
told anecdotes; and, lastly, Mr. Onslow, the gentleman to whom Mr. Hobbs
had referred,--an elderly man of prepossessing exterior, of high repute
as the most efficient magistrate, the best farmer, and the most sensible
person in the neighbourhood. This made the party, to each individual
of which the great man bowed and smiled; and the great man's secretary
bent, condescendingly, three joints of his backbone.

The bell was now rung, dinner announced. Sir William Jekyll led the way
with one of the she-squires, and Lord Vargrave offered his arm to the
portly Mrs. Tiddy.

Vargrave, as usual, was the life of the feast. Mr. Howard, who sat next
to Miss Bridget, conversed with her between the courses, "in dumb show."
Mr. Onslow and the physician played second and third to Lord Vargrave.
When the dinner was over, and the ladies had retired, Vargrave found
himself seated next to Mr. Onslow, and discovered in his neighbour a
most agreeable companion. They talked principally about Lisle Court, and
from Colonel Maltravers the conversation turned naturally upon Ernest.
Vargrave proclaimed his early intimacy with the latter gentleman,
complained, feelingly, that politics had divided them of late, and told
two or three anecdotes of their youthful adventures in the East. Mr.
Onslow listened to him with much attention.

"I made the acquaintance of Mr. Maltravers many years ago," said he,
"and upon a very delicate occasion. I was greatly interested in him; I
never saw one so young (for he was then but a boy) manifest feelings so
deep. By the dates you have referred to, your acquaintance with him must
have commenced very shortly after mine. Was he at that time cheerful, in
good spirits?"

"No, indeed; hypochondriacal to the greatest degree."

"Your lordship's intimacy with him, and the confidence that generally
exists between young men, induce me to suppose that he may have told you
a little romance connected with his early years."

Lumley paused to consider; and this conversation, which had been carried
on apart, was suddenly broken into by the tall doctor, who wanted to
know whether his lordship had ever heard the anecdote about Lord Thurlow
and the late king. The anecdote was as long as the doctor himself; and
when it was over, the gentlemen adjourned to the drawing-room, and all
conversation was immediately drowned by "Row, brothers, row," which had
only been suspended till the arrival of Mr. Tiddy, who had a fine bass
voice.

Alas! eighteen years ago, in that spot of earth, Alice Darvil had first
caught the soul of music from the lips of Genius and of Love! But better
as it is,--less romantic, but more proper,--as Hobbs' Lodge was less
pretty, but more safe from the winds and rains, than Dale Cottage.

Miss Bridget ventured to ask the good-humoured Lord Vargrave if he sang.
"Not I, Miss Hobbs; but Howard, there!--ah, if you heard _him_!" The
consequence of this hint was, that the unhappy secretary, who, alone, in
a distant corner, was unconsciously refreshing his fancy with some cool
weak coffee, was instantly beset with applications from Miss Bridget,
Mrs. Tiddy, Mr. Tiddy, and the tall doctor, to favour the company with a
specimen of his talents. Mr. Howard could sing,--he could even play the
guitar. But to sing at Hobbs' Lodge, to sing to the accompaniment of
Mrs. Tiddy, to have his gentle tenor crushed to death in a glee by the
heavy splayfoot of Mr. Tiddy's manly bass--the thought was insufferable!
He faltered forth assurances of his ignorance, and hastened to bury
his resentment in the retirement of a remote sofa. Vargrave, who had
forgotten the significant question of Mr. Onslow, renewed in a
whisper his conversation with that gentleman relative to the meditated
investment, while Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy sang "Come dwell with me;" and
Onslow was so pleased with his new acquaintance, that he volunteered to
make a fourth in Lumley's carriage the next morning, and accompany him
to Lisle Court. This settled, the party soon afterwards broke up.
At midnight Lord Vargrave was fast asleep; and Mr. Howard, tossing
restlessly to and fro on his melancholy couch, was revolving all the
hardships that await a native of St. James's, who ventures forth among--

            "The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads
             Do grow beneath their shoulders!"



CHAPTER IV.

  BUT how were these doubts to be changed into absolute certainty?
                      EDGAR HUNTLEY.

THE next morning, while it was yet dark, Lord Vargrave's carriage
picked up Mr. Onslow at the door of a large old-fashioned house, at the
entrance of the manufacturing town of -----. The party were silent and
sleepy till they arrived at Lisle Court. The sun had then appeared, the
morning was clear, the air frosty and bracing; and as, after traversing
a noble park, a superb quadrangular pile of brick flanked by huge square
turrets coped with stone broke upon the gaze of Lord Vargrave, his
worldly heart swelled within him, and the image of Evelyn became
inexpressibly lovely and seductive.

Though the housekeeper was not prepared for Vargrave's arrival at so
early an hour, yet he had been daily expected: the logs soon burned
bright in the ample hearth of the breakfast-room; the urn hissed, the
cutlets smoked; and while the rest of the party gathered round the fire,
and unmuffled themselves of cloaks and shawl-handkerchiefs, Vargrave
seized upon the housekeeper, traversed with delighted steps the
magnificent suite of rooms, gazed on the pictures, admired the state
bed-chambers, peeped into the offices, and recognized in all a mansion
worthy of a Peer of England,--but which a more prudent man would have
thought, with a sigh, required careful management of the rent-roll
raised from the property adequately to equip and maintain. Such an idea
did not cross the mind of Vargrave; he only thought how much he should
be honoured and envied, when, as Secretary of State, he should yearly
fill those feudal chambers with the pride and rank of England! It was
characteristic of the extraordinary sanguineness and self-confidence
of Vargrave, that he entirely overlooked one slight obstacle to this
prospect, in the determined refusal of Evelyn to accept that passionate
homage which he offered to--her fortune!

When breakfast was over the steward was called in, and the party,
mounted upon ponies, set out to reconnoitre. After spending the short
day most agreeably in looking over the gardens, pleasure-grounds, park,
and home-farm, and settling to visit the more distant parts of the
property the next day, the party were returning home to dine, when
Vargrave's eye caught the glittering _whim_ of Sir Gregory Gubbins.

He pointed it out to Mr. Onslow, and laughed much at hearing of the
annoyance it occasioned to Colonel Maltravers. "Thus," said Lumley, "do
we all crumple the rose-leaf under us, and quarrel with couches the most
luxuriant! As for me, I will wager, that were this property mine, or my
ward's, in three weeks we should have won the heart of Sir Gregory, made
him pull down his _whim_, and coaxed him out of his interest in the city
of -----. A good seat for you, Howard, some day or other."

"Sir Gregory has prodigiously bad taste," said Mr. Hobbs. "For my
part, I think that there ought to be a certain modest simplicity in the
display of wealth got in business,--that was my poor father's maxim."

"Ah!" said Vargrave, "Hobbs' Lodge is a specimen. Who was your
predecessor in that charming retreat?"

"Why, the place--then called Dale Cottage--belonged to a Mr. Berners, a
rich bachelor in business, who was rich enough not to mind what people
said of him, and kept a lady there. She ran off from him, and he then
let it to some young man--a stranger, very eccentric, I hear--a Mr.--Mr.
Butler--and he, too, gave the cottage an unlawful attraction,--a most
beautiful girl, I have heard."

"Butler!" echoed Vargrave,--"Butler! Butler!" Lumley recollected that
such had been the real name of Mrs. Cameron.

Onslow looked hard at Vargrave.

"You recognize the name, my lord," said he in a whisper, as Hobbs had
turned to address himself to Mr. Howard. "I thought you very discreet
when I asked you, last night, if you remembered the early follies
of your friend." A suspicion at once flashed upon the quick mind of
Vargrave: Butler was a name on the mother's side in the family of
Maltravers; the gloom of Ernest when he first knew him, the boy's hints
that the gloom was connected with the affections, the extraordinary and
single accomplishment of Lady Vargrave in that art of which Maltravers
was so consummate a master, the similarity of name,--all taken in
conjunction with the meaning question of Mr. Onslow, were enough to
suggest to Vargrave that he might be on the verge of a family secret,
the knowledge of which could be turned to advantage. He took care not to
confess his ignorance, but artfully proceeded to draw out Mr. Onslow's
communications.

"Why, it is true," said he, "that Maltravers and I had no secrets. Ah,
we were wild fellows then! The name of Butler is in his family, eh?"

"It is. I see you know all."

"Yes; he told me the story, but it is eighteen years ago. Do refresh my
memory. Howard, my good fellow, just ride on and expedite dinner: Mr.
Hobbs, will you go with Mr. What's-his-name, the steward, and look over
the maps, out-goings, etc.? Now, Mr. Onslow--so Maltravers took the
cottage, and a lady with it?--ay, I remember."

Mr. Onslow (who was in fact that magistrate to whom Ernest had confided
his name and committed the search after Alice, and who was really
anxious to know if any tidings of the poor girl had ever been
ascertained) here related that history with which the reader is
acquainted,--the robbery of the cottage, the disappearance of Alice, the
suspicions that connected that disappearance with her ruffian father,
the despair and search of Maltravers. He added that Ernest, both before
his departure from England, and on his return, had written to him to
learn if Alice had ever been heard of; the replies of the magistrate
were unsatisfactory. "And do you think, my lord, that Mr. Maltravers has
never to this day ascertained what became of the poor young woman?"

"Why, let me see,--what was her name?"

The magistrate thought a moment, and replied, "Alice Darvil."

"Alice!" exclaimed Vargrave. "Alice!"--aware that such was the Christian
name of his uncle's wife, and now almost convinced of the truth of his
first vague suspicion.

"You seem to know the name?"

"Of Alice; yes--but not Darvil. No, no; I believe he has never heard of
the girl to this hour. Nor you either?"

"I have not. One little circumstance related to me by Mr. Hobbs, your
surveyor's father, gave me some uneasiness. About two years after the
young woman disappeared, a girl, of very humble dress and appearance,
stopped at the gate of Hobbs' Lodge, and asked earnestly for Mr. Butler.
On hearing he was gone, she turned away, and was seen no more. It seems
that this girl had an infant in her arms--which rather shocked
the propriety of Mr. and Mrs. Hobbs. The old gentleman told me the
circumstance a few days after it happened, and I caused inquiry to be
made for the stranger; but she could not be discovered. I thought at
first this possibly might be the lost Alice; but I learned that, during
his stay at the cottage, your friend--despite his error, which we will
not stop to excuse--had exercised so generous and wide a charity amongst
the poor in the town and neighbourhood, that it was a more probable
supposition of the two that the girl belonged to some family he
had formerly relieved, and her visit was that of a mendicant, not a
mistress. Accordingly, after much consideration, I resolved not to
mention the circumstances to Mr. Maltravers, when he wrote to me on his
return from the Continent. A considerable time had then elapsed since
the girl had applied to Mr. Hobbs; all trace of her was lost; the
incident might open wounds that time must have nearly healed, might give
false hopes--or, what was worse, occasion a fresh and unfounded remorse
at the idea of Alice's destitution; it would, in fact, do no good, and
might occasion unnecessary pain. I therefore suppressed all mention of
it."

"You did right: and so the poor girl had an infant in her arms?--humph!
What sort of looking person was this Alice Darvil,--pretty, of course?"

"I never saw her; and none but the persons employed in the premises knew
her by sight; they described her as remarkably lovely."

"Fair and slight, with blue eyes, I suppose?--those are the orthodox
requisites of a heroine."

"Upon my word I forget; indeed I should never have remembered as much
as I do, if the celebrity of Mr. Maltravers, and the consequence of his
family in these parts, together with the sight of his own agony--the
most painful I ever witnessed--had not served to impress the whole
affair very deeply on my mind."

"Was the girl who appeared at the gate of Hobbs' Lodge described to
you?"

"No; they scarcely observed her countenance, except that her complexion
was too fair for a gypsy's; yet, now I think of it, Mrs. Tiddy, who was
with her father when he told me the adventure, dwelt particularly on her
having (as you so pleasantly conjecture) fair hair and blue eyes. Mrs.
Tiddy, being just married, was romantic at that day."

"Well, it is an odd tale; but life is full of odd tales. Here we are at
the house; it really is a splendid old place!"



CHAPTER V.

  PENDENT opera interrupta.*--VIRGIL.

  * "The things begun are interrupted and suspended."

THE history Vargrave had heard he revolved much when he retired to rest.
He could not but allow that there was still little ground for more than
conjecture that Alice Darvil and Alice Lady Vargrave were one and the
same person. It might, however, be of great importance to him to trace
this conjecture to certainty. The knowledge of a secret of early sin and
degradation in one so pure, so spotless, as Lady Vargrave, might be of
immense service in giving him a power over her, which he could turn to
account with Evelyn. How could he best prosecute further inquiry,--by
repairing at once to Brook-Green, or--the thought struck him--by
visiting and "pumping" Mrs. Leslie, the patroness of Mrs. Butler, of
C-----, the friend of Lady Vargrave? It was worth trying the latter,--it
was little out of his way back to London. His success in picking the
brains of Mr. Onslow of a secret encouraged him in the hope of equal
success with Mrs. Leslie. He decided accordingly, and fell asleep
to dream of Christmas _battues_, royal visitors, the Cabinet, the
premiership! Well, no possession equals the dream of it! Sleep on, my
lord! you would be restless enough if you were to get all you want.

For the next three days, Lord Vargrave was employed in examining the
general outlines of the estate; and the result of this survey satisfied
him as to the expediency of the purchase. On the third day, he was
several miles from the house when a heavy rain came on. Lord Vargrave
was constitutionally hardy, and not having been much exposed to
visitations of the weather of late years, was not practically aware that
when a man is past forty, he cannot endure with impunity all that falls
innocuously on the elasticity of twenty-six. He did not, therefore,
heed the rain that drenched him to the skin, and neglected to change
his dress till he had finished reading some letters and newspapers which
awaited his return at Lisle Court. The consequence of this imprudence
was, that the next morning when he woke, Lord Vargrave found himself,
for almost the first time in his life, seriously ill. His head ached
violently, cold shiverings shook his frame like an ague; the very
strength of the constitution on which the fever had begun to fasten
itself augmented its danger. Lumley--the last man in the world to think
of the possibility of dying--fought up against his own sensations,
ordered his post-horses, as his visit of survey was now over, and
scarcely even alluded to his indisposition. About an hour before he
set off, his letters arrived; one of these informed him that Caroline,
accompanied by Evelyn, had already arrived in Paris; the other was from
Colonel Legard, respectfully resigning his office, on the ground of
an accession of fortune by the sudden death of the admiral, and his
intention to spend the ensuing year in a Continental excursion. This
last letter occasioned Vargrave considerable alarm; he had always felt
a deep jealousy of the handsome ex-guardsman, and he at once suspected
that Legard was about to repair to Paris as his rival. He sighed, and
looked round the spacious apartment, and gazed on the wide prospects of
grove and turf that extended from the window, and said to himself, "Is
another to snatch these from my grasp?" His impatience to visit Mrs.
Leslie, to gain ascendency over Lady Vargrave, to repair to Paris,
to scheme, to manoeuvre, to triumph, accelerated the progress of the
disease that was now burning in his veins; and the hand that he held out
to Mr. Hobbs, as he stepped into his carriage, almost scorched the cold,
plump, moist fingers of the surveyor. Before six o'clock in the evening
Lord Vargrave confessed reluctantly to himself that he was too ill to
proceed much farther. "Howard," said he then, breaking a silence that
had lasted some hours, "don't be alarmed; I feel that I am about to have
a severe attack; I shall stop at M-----(naming a large town they were
approaching); I shall send for the best physician the place affords;
if I am delirious to-morrow, or unable to give my own orders, have the
kindness to send express for Dr. Holland,--but don't leave me yourself,
my good fellow. At my age, it is a hard thing to have no one in the
world to care for me in illness; d-----n affection when I am well!"

After this strange burst, which very much frightened Mr. Howard, Lumley
relapsed into silence, not broken till he reached M-----. The best
physician was sent for; and the next morning, as he had half foreseen
and foretold, Lord Vargrave _was_ delirious!



CHAPTER VI.

  NOUGHT under Heaven so strongly doth allure
  The sense of man, and all his mind possess,
  As Beauty's love-bait.--SPENSER.

LEGARD was, as I have before intimated, a young man of generous and
excellent dispositions, though somewhat spoiled by the tenor of his
education, and the gay and reckless society which had administered
tonics to his vanity and opiates to his intellect. The effect which the
beauty, the grace, the innocence of Evelyn had produced upon him had
been most deep and most salutary. It had rendered dissipation tasteless
and insipid; it had made him look more deeply into his own heart, and
into the rules of life. Though, partly from irksomeness of dependence
upon an uncle at once generous and ungracious, partly from a diffident
and feeling sense of his own inadequate pretensions to the hand of
Miss Cameron, and partly from the prior and acknowledged claims of Lord
Vargrave, he had accepted, half in despair, the appointment offered to
him, he still found it impossible to banish that image which had been
the first to engrave upon ardent and fresh affections an indelible
impression. He secretly chafed at the thought that it was to a fortunate
rival that he owed the independence and the station he had acquired, and
resolved to seize an early opportunity to free himself from obligations
that he deeply regretted he had incurred. At length he learned that Lord
Vargrave had been refused,--that Evelyn was free; and within a few days
from that intelligence, the admiral was seized with apoplexy; and
Legard suddenly found himself possessed, if not of wealth, at least of
a competence sufficient to redeem his character as a suitor from the
suspicion attached to a fortune-hunter and adventurer. Despite the new
prospects opened to him by the death of his uncle, and despite the surly
caprice which had mingled with and alloyed the old admiral's kindness,
Legard was greatly shocked by his death; and his grateful and gentle
nature was at first only sensible to grief for the loss he had
sustained. But when, at last, recovering from his sorrow, he saw Evelyn
disengaged and free, and himself in a position honourably to contest her
hand, he could not resist the sweet and passionate hopes that broke upon
him. He resigned, as we have seen, his official appointment, and set out
for Paris. He reached that city a day or two after the arrival of Lord
and Lady Doltimore. He found the former, who had not forgotten the
cautions of Vargrave, at first cold and distant; but partly from the
indolent habit of submitting to Legard's dictates on matters of taste,
partly from a liking to his society, and principally from the popular
suffrages of fashion, which had always been accorded to Legard, and
which were nowadays diminished by the news of his accession of fortune,
Lord Doltimore, weak and vain, speedily yielded to the influences of his
old associate, and Legard became quietly installed as the _enfant de
la maison_. Caroline was not in this instance a very faithful ally
to Vargrave's views and policy. In his singular _liaison_ with Lady
Doltimore, the crafty manoeuvrer had committed the vulgar fault of
intriguers: he had over-refined and had overreached himself. At the
commencement of their strange and unprincipled intimacy, Vargrave had
had, perhaps, no other thought than that of piquing Evelyn, consoling
his vanity, amusing his _ennui_, and indulging rather his propensities
as a gallant than promoting his more serious objects as a man of the
world. By degrees, and especially at Knaresdean, Vargrave himself became
deeply entangled by an affair that he had never before contemplated as
more important than a passing diversion; instead of securing a friend
to assist him in his designs on Evelyn, he suddenly found that he had
obtained a mistress anxious for his love and jealous of his homage. With
his usual promptitude and self-confidence, he was led at once to deliver
himself of all the ill-consequences of his rashness,--to get rid of
Caroline as a mistress, and to retain her as a tool, by marrying her
to Lord Doltimore. By the great ascendancy which his character acquired
over her, and by her own worldly ambition, he succeeded in inducing her
to sacrifice all romance to a union that gave her rank and fortune;
and Vargrave then rested satisfied that the clever wife would not only
secure him a permanent power over the political influence and private
fortune of the weak husband, but also abet his designs in securing an
alliance equally desirable for himself. Here it was that Vargrave's
incapacity to understand the refinements and scruples of a woman's
affection and nature, however guilty the one, and however worldly the
other, foiled and deceived him. Caroline, though the wife of another,
could not contemplate without anguish a similar bondage for her lover;
and having something of the better qualities of her sex still left to
her, she recoiled from being an accomplice in arts that were to drive
the young, inexperienced, and guileless creature who called her "friend"
into the arms of a man who openly avowed the most mercenary motives, and
who took gods and men to witness that his heart was sacred to another.
Only in Vargrave's presence were these scruples overmastered; but the
moment he was gone they returned in full force. She had yielded, from
positive fear, to his commands that she should convey Evelyn to Paris;
but she trembled to think of the vague hints and dark menaces that
Vargrave had let fall as to ulterior proceedings, and was distracted at
the thought of being implicated in some villanous or rash design.
When, therefore, the man whose rivalry Vargrave most feared was almost
established at her house, she made but a feeble resistance; she thought
that, if Legard should become a welcome and accepted suitor before
Lumley arrived, the latter would be forced to forego whatever hopes
he yet cherished, and that she should be delivered from a dilemma, the
prospect of which daunted and appalled her. Added to this, Caroline
was now, alas! sensible that a fool is not so easily governed; her
resistance to an intimacy with Legard would have been of little avail:
Doltimore, in these matters, had an obstinate will of his own; and,
whatever might once have been Caroline's influence over her liege,
certain it is that such influence had been greatly impaired of late by
the indulgence of a temper, always irritable, and now daily more soured
by regret, remorse, contempt for her husband,--and the melancholy
discovery that fortune, youth, beauty, and station are no talismans
against misery.

It was the gayest season of Paris; and to escape from herself, Caroline
plunged eagerly into the vortex of its dissipations. If Doltimore's
heart was disappointed, his vanity was pleased at the admiration
Caroline excited; and he himself was of an age and temper to share in
the pursuits and amusements of his wife. Into these gayeties, new to
their fascination, dazzled by their splendour, the young Evelyn entered
with her hostess; and ever by her side was the unequalled form of
Legard. Each of them in the bloom of youth, each of them at once formed
to please, and to be pleased by that fair Armida which we call the
World, there was, necessarily, a certain congeniality in their views and
sentiments, their occupations and their objects; nor was there, in all
that brilliant city, one more calculated to captivate the eye and
fancy than George Legard. But still, to a certain degree diffident and
fearful, Legard never yet spoke of love; nor did their intimacy at this
time ripen to that point in which Evelyn could have asked herself if
there were danger in the society of Legard, or serious meaning in his
obvious admiration. Whether that melancholy, to which Lady Vargrave had
alluded in her correspondence with Lumley, were occasioned by thoughts
connected with Maltravers, or unacknowledged recollections of Legard, it
remains for the acute reader himself to ascertain.

The Doltimores had been about three weeks in Paris; and for a fortnight
of that time Legard had been their constant guest, and half the inmate
of their hotel, when, on that night which has been commemorated in our
last book, Maltravers suddenly once more beheld the face of Evelyn, and
in the same hour learned that she was free. He quitted Valerie's box;
with a burning pulse and a beating heart, joy and surprise and hope
sparkling in his eyes and brightening his whole aspect, he hastened to
Evelyn's side.

It was at this time Legard, who sat behind Miss Cameron, unconscious of
the approach of a rival, happened by one of those chances which occur in
conversation to mention the name of Maltravers. He asked Evelyn if she
had yet met him.

"What! is he, then, in Paris?" asked Evelyn, quickly. "I heard, indeed,"
she continued, "that he left Burleigh for Paris, but imagined he had
gone on to Italy."

"No, he is still here; but he goes, I believe, little into the society
Lady Doltimore chiefly visits. Is he one of your favourites, Miss
Cameron?"

There was a slight increase of colour in Evelyn's beautiful cheek, as
she answered,--

"Is it possible not to admire and be interested in one so gifted?"

"He has certainly noble and fine qualities," returned Legard; "but
I cannot feel at ease with him: a coldness, a _hauteur_, a measured
distance of manner, seem to forbid even esteem. Yet _I_ ought not to say
so," he added, with a pang of self-reproach.

"No, indeed, you ought not to say so," said Evelyn, shaking her head
with a pretty affectation of anger; "for I know that you pretend to like
what I like, and admire what I admire; and I am an enthusiast in all
that relates to Mr. Maltravers!"

"I know that I would wish to see all things in life through Miss
Cameron's eyes," whispered Legard, softly; and this was the most meaning
speech he had ever yet made.

Evelyn turned away, and seemed absorbed in the opera; and at that
instant the door of the box opened, and Maltravers entered.

In her open, undisguised, youthful delight at seeing him again,
Maltravers felt, indeed, "as if Paradise were opened in her face." In
his own agitated emotions, he scarcely noticed that Legard had risen and
resigned his seat to him; he availed himself of the civility, greeted
his old acquaintance with a smile and a bow, and in a few minutes he was
in deep converse with Evelyn.

Never had he so successfully exerted the singular, the
master-fascination that he could command at will,--the more powerful
from its contrast to his ordinary coldness. In the very expression of
his eyes, the very tone of his voice, there was that in Maltravers, seen
at his happier moments, which irresistibly interested and absorbed your
attention: he could make you forget everything but himself, and the
rich, easy, yet earnest eloquence, which gave colour to his language and
melody to his voice. In that hour of renewed intercourse with one who
had at first awakened, if not her heart, at least her imagination and
her deeper thoughts, certain it is that even Legard was not missed.
As she smiled and listened, Evelyn dreamed not of the anguish she
inflicted. Leaning against the box, Legard surveyed the absorbed
attention of Evelyn, the adoring eyes of Maltravers, with that utter and
crushing wretchedness which no passion but jealousy, and that only while
it is yet a virgin agony, can bestow! He had never before even dreamed
of rivalry in such a quarter; but there was that ineffable instinct,
which lovers have, and which so seldom errs, that told him at once that
in Maltravers was the greatest obstacle his passion could encounter. He
waited in hopes that Evelyn would take the occasion to turn to him at
least--when the fourth act closed. She did not; and, unable to constrain
his emotions, and reply to the small-talk of Lord Doltimore, he abruptly
quitted the box.

When the opera was over, Maltravers offered his arm to Evelyn; she
accepted it, and then she looked round for Legard. He was gone.




BOOK VIII.

  O Fate!  O Heaven!--what have ye then decreed?
                 SOPHOCLES: _Oed. Tyr._ 738.

  "Insolent pride...
......  The topmost crag of the great precipice
  Surmounts--to rush to ruin."
                 _Ibid._ 874.



CHAPTER I.

... SHE is young, wise, fair,  In these to Nature she's immediate heir.
...... ... Honours best thrive  When rather from our acts we them derive
  Than our foregoers!--_All's Well that Ends Well_.


LETTER FROM ERNEST MALTRAVERS TO THE HON. FREDERICK CLEVELAND.


EVELYN is free; she is in Paris; I have seen her,--I see her daily!

How true it is that we cannot make a philosophy of indifference! The
affections are stronger than all our reasonings. We must take them into
our alliance, or they will destroy all our theories of self-government.
Such fools of fate are we, passing from system to system, from scheme
to scheme, vainly seeking to shut out passion and sorrow-forgetting that
they are born within us--and return to the soul as the seasons to the
earth! Yet,--years, many years ago, when I first looked gravely into
my own nature and being here, when I first awakened to the dignity and
solemn responsibilities of human life, I had resolved to tame and curb
myself into a thing of rule and measure. Bearing within me the wound
scarred over but never healed, the consciousness of wrong to the heart
that had leaned upon me, haunted by the memory of my lost Alice, I
shuddered at new affections bequeathing new griefs. Wrapped in a haughty
egotism, I wished not to extend my empire over a wider circuit than my
own intellect and passions. I turned from the trader-covetousness of
bliss, that would freight the wealth of life upon barks exposed to every
wind upon the seas of Fate; I was contented with the hope to pass life
alone, honoured, though unloved. Slowly and reluctantly I yielded to
the fascinations of Florence Lascelles. The hour that sealed the compact
between us was one of regret and alarm. In vain I sought to deceive
myself,--I felt that I did not love. And then I imagined that Love was
no longer in my nature,--that I had exhausted its treasures before my
time, and left my heart a bankrupt. Not till the last--not till that
glorious soul broke out in all its brightness the nearer it approached
the source to which it has returned--did I feel of what tenderness she
was worthy and I was capable. She died, and the world was darkened!
Energy, ambition, my former aims and objects, were all sacrificed at her
tomb. But amidst ruins and through the darkness, my soul yet supported
me; I could no longer hope, but I could endure. I was resolved that
I would not be subdued, and that the world should not hear me groan.
Amidst strange and far-distant scenes, amidst hordes to whom my very
language was unknown, in wastes and forests, which the step of civilized
man, with his sorrows and his dreams, had never trodden, I wrestled with
my soul, as the patriarch of old wrestled with the angel,--and the angel
was at last the victor! You do not mistake me: you know that it was not
the death of Florence alone that worked in me that awful revolution;
but with that death the last glory fled from the face of things that
had seemed to me beautiful of old. Hers was a love that accompanied and
dignified the schemes and aspirations of manhood,--a love that was an
incarnation of ambition itself; and all the evils and disappointments
that belong to ambition seemed to crowd around my heart like vultures
to a feast allured and invited by the dead. But this at length was
over; the barbarous state restored me to the civilized. I returned to
my equals, prepared no more to be an actor in the strife, but a calm
spectator of the turbulent arena. I once more laid my head beneath the
roof of my fathers; and if without any clear and definite object, I
at least hoped to find amidst "my old hereditary trees" the charm
of contemplation and repose. And scarce--in the first hours of my
arrival--had I indulged that dream, when a fair face, a sweet voice,
that had once before left deep and unobliterated impressions on my
heart, scattered all my philosophy to the winds. I saw Evelyn! and if
ever there was love at first sight, it was that which I felt for her: I
lived in her presence, and forgot the Future! Or, rather, I was with
the Past,--in the bowers of my springtide of life and hope! It was an
after-birth of youth--my love for that young heart!

It is, indeed, only in maturity that we know how lovely were our
earliest years! What depth of wisdom in the old Greek myth, that
allotted Hebe as the prize to the god who had been the arch-labourer of
life! and whom the satiety of all that results from experience had made
enamoured of all that belongs to the Hopeful and the New!

This enchanting child, this delightful Evelyn, this ray of undreamed
of sunshine, smiled away all my palaces of ice. I loved, Cleveland,--I
loved more ardently, more passionately, more wildly than ever I did of
old! But suddenly I learned that she was affianced to another, and felt
that it was not for me to question, to seek the annulment of the bond. I
had been unworthy to love Evelyn if I had not loved honour more! I
fled from her presence, honestly and resolutely; I sought to conquer a
forbidden passion; I believed that I had not won affection in return;
I believed, from certain expressions that I overheard Evelyn utter to
another, that her heart as well as her hand was given to Vargrave. I
came hither; you know how sternly and resolutely I strove to eradicate
a weakness that seemed without even the justification of hope! If I
suffered, I betrayed it not. Suddenly Evelyn appeared again before
me!--and suddenly I learned that she was free! Oh, the rapture of that
moment! Could you have seen her bright face, her enchanting smile, when
we met again! Her ingenuous innocence did not conceal her gladness
at seeing me! What hopes broke upon me! Despite the difference of our
years, I think she loves me! that in that love I am about at last to
learn what blessings there are in life.

Evelyn has the simplicity, the tenderness, of Alice, with the refinement
and culture of Florence herself; not the genius, not the daring spirit,
not the almost fearful brilliancy of that ill-fated being,--but with a
taste as true to the Beautiful, with a soul as sensitive to the Sublime!
In Evelyn's presence I feel a sense of peace, of security, of home!
Happy! thrice happy! he who will take her to his breast! Of late she has
assumed a new charm in my eyes,--a certain pensiveness and abstraction
have succeeded to her wonted gayety. Ah, Love is pensive,--is it not,
Cleveland? How often I ask myself that question! And yet, amidst all my
hopes, there are hours when I tremble and despond! How can that innocent
and joyous spirit sympathize with all that mine has endured and known?
How, even though her imagination be dazzled by some prestige around my
name, how can I believe that I have awakened her heart to that deep and
real love of which it is capable, and which youth excites in youth? When
we meet at her home, or amidst the quiet yet brilliant society which is
gathered round Madame de Ventadour or the Montaignes, with whom she is
an especial favourite; when we converse; when I sit by her, and her soft
eyes meet mine,--I feel not the disparity of years; my heart speaks
to her, and _that_ is youthful still! But in the more gay and crowded
haunts to which her presence allures me, when I see that fairy form
surrounded by those who have not outlived the pleasures that so
naturally dazzle and captivate her, then, indeed, I feel that my tastes,
my habits, my pursuits, belong to another season of life, and ask myself
anxiously if my nature and my years are those that can make _her_ happy?
Then, indeed, I recognize the wide interval that time and trial place
between one whom the world has wearied, and one for whom the world is
new. If she should discover hereafter that youth should love only youth,
my bitterest anguish would be that of remorse! I know how deeply I love
by knowing how immeasurably dearer her happiness is than my own! I will
wait, then, yet a while, I will examine, I will watch well that I do not
deceive myself. As yet I think that I have no rivals whom I need fear:
surrounded as she is by the youngest and the gayest, she still turns
with evident pleasure to me, whom she calls her friend. She will forego
the amusements she most loves for society in which we can converse more
at ease. You remember, for instance, young Legard? He is here; and,
before I met Evelyn, was much at Lady Doltimore's house. I cannot be
blind to his superior advantages of youth and person; and there is
something striking and prepossessing in the gentle yet manly frankness
of his manner,--and yet no fear of his rivalship ever haunts me. True,
that of late he has been little in Evelyn's society; nor do I think,
in the frivolity of his pursuits, he can have educated his mind to
appreciate Evelyn, or be possessed of those qualities which would render
him worthy of her. But there is something good in the young man, despite
his foibles,--something that wins upon me; and you will smile to learn,
that he has even surprised from _me_--usually so reserved on such
matters--the confession of my attachment and hopes! Evelyn often talks
to me of her mother, and describes her in colours so glowing that I feel
the greatest interest in one who has helped to form so beautiful and
pure a mind. Can you learn who Lady Vargrave was? There is evidently
some mystery thrown over her birth and connections; and, from what I
can hear, this arises from their lowliness. You know that, though I have
been accused of family pride, it is a pride of a peculiar sort. I
am proud, not of the length of a mouldering pedigree, but of some
historical quarterings in my escutcheon,--of some blood of scholars and
of heroes that rolls in my veins; it is the same kind of pride that
an Englishman may feel in belonging to a country that has produced
Shakspeare and Bacon. I have never, I hope, felt the vulgar pride that
disdains want of birth in others; and I care not three straws whether my
friend or my wife be descended from a king or a peasant. It is myself,
and not my connections, who alone can disgrace my lineage; therefore,
however humble Lady Vargrave's parentage, do not scruple to inform me,
should you learn any intelligence that bears upon it.

I had a conversation last night with Evelyn that delighted me. By some
accident we spoke of Lord Vargrave; and she told me, with an enchanting
candour, of the position in which she stood with him, and the
conscientious and noble scruples she felt as to the enjoyment of a
fortune, which her benefactor and stepfather had evidently intended
to be shared with his nearest relative. In these scruples I cordially
concurred; and if I marry Evelyn, my first care will be to carry them
into effect,--by securing to Vargrave, as far as the law may permit,
the larger part of the income; I should like to say all,--at least till
Evelyn's children would have the right to claim it: a right not to be
enforced during her own, and, therefore, probably not during Vargrave's
life. I own that this would be no sacrifice, for I am proud enough to
recoil from the thought of being indebted for fortune to the woman I
love. It was that kind of pride which gave coldness and constraint to my
regard for Florence; and for the rest, my own property (much increased
by the simplicity of my habits of life for the last few years) will
suffice for all Evelyn or myself could require. Ah, madman that I am!
I calculate already on marriage, even while I have so much cause for
anxiety as to love. But my heart beats,--my heart has grown a dial that
keeps the account of time; by its movements I calculate the moments--in
an hour I shall see her!

Oh, never, never, in my wildest and earliest visions, could I have
fancied that I should love as I love now! Adieu, my oldest and kindest
friend! If I am happy at last, it will be something to feel that at last
I shall have satisfied your expectations of my youth.

          Affectionately yours,

               E. MALTRAVERS.

     RUE DE -----, PARIS,
          January --, 18--.



CHAPTER II.

            IN her youth
  There is a prone and speechless dialect--
    Such as moves men.--_Measure for Measure_.

  _Abbess_.  Haply in private-) _Adriana_.
   And in assemblies too.--_Comedy of  Errors_.

IT was true, as Maltravers had stated, that Legard had of late been
little at Lady Doltimore's, or in the same society as Evelyn. With the
vehemence of an ardent and passionate nature, he yielded to the jealous
rage and grief that devoured him. He saw too clearly, and from the
first, that Maltravers adored Evelyn; and in her familiar kindness of
manner towards him, in the unlimited veneration in which she appeared
to hold his gifts and qualities, he thought that that love might become
reciprocal. He became gloomy and almost morose; he shunned Evelyn,
he forbore to enter into the lists against his rival. Perhaps the
intellectual superiority of Maltravers, the extraordinary conversational
brilliancy that he could display when he pleased, the commanding dignity
of his manners, even the matured authority of his reputation and years,
might have served to awe the hopes, as well as to wound the vanity, of
a man accustomed himself to be the oracle of a circle. These might have
strongly influenced Legard in withdrawing himself from Evelyn's society;
but there was one circumstance, connected with motives much more
generous, that mainly determined his conduct. It happened that
Maltravers, shortly after his first interview with Evelyn, was riding
alone one day in the more sequestered part of the Bois de Boulogne,
when he encountered Legard, also alone, and on horseback. The latter, on
succeeding to his uncle's fortune, had taken care to repay his debt to
Maltravers; he had done so in a short but feeling and grateful letter,
which had been forwarded to Maltravers at Paris, and which pleased and
touched him. Since that time he had taken a liking to the young man, and
now, meeting him at Paris, he sought, to a certain extent, Legard's more
intimate acquaintance. Maltravers was in that happy mood when we are
inclined to be friends with all men. It is true, however, that, though
unknown to himself, that pride of bearing, which often gave to the very
virtues of Maltravers an unamiable aspect, occasionally irritated one
who felt he had incurred to him an obligation of honour and of
life never to be effaced; it made the sense of this obligation more
intolerable to Legard; it made him more desirous to acquit himself of
the charge. But on this day there was so much cordiality in the greeting
of Maltravers, and he pressed Legard in so friendly a manner to join
him in his ride, that the young man's heart was softened, and they rode
together, conversing familiarly on such topics as were in common between
them. At last the conversation fell on Lord and Lady Doltimore; and
thence Maltravers, whose soul was full of one thought, turned it
indirectly towards Evelyn.

"Did you ever see Lady Vargrave?"

"Never," replied Legard, looking another way; "but Lady Doltimore says
she is as beautiful as Evelyn herself, if that be possible; and still
so young in form and countenance, that she looks rather like her sister
than her mother!"

"How I should like to know her!" said Maltravers, with a sudden energy.

Legard changed the subject. He spoke of the Carnival, of balls, of
masquerades, of operas, of reigning beauties!

"Ah," said Maltravers, with a half sigh, "yours is the age for those
dazzling pleasures; to me they are 'the twice-told tale.'"

Maltravers meant it not, but this remark chafed Legard. He thought it
conveyed a sarcasm on the childishness of his own mind or the levity of
his pursuits; his colour mounted, as he replied,--

"It is not, I fear, the slight difference of years between us,--it is
the difference of intellect you would insinuate; but you should remember
all men have not your resources; all men cannot pretend to genius!"

"My dear Legard," said Maltravers, kindly, "do not fancy that I could
have designed any insinuation half so presumptuous and impertinent.
Believe me, I envy you, sincerely and sadly, all those faculties of
enjoyment which I have worn away. Oh, how I envy you! for, were they
still mine, then--then, indeed, I might hope to mould myself into
greater congeniality with the beautiful and the young!"

Maltravers paused a moment, and resumed, with a grave smile: "I trust,
Legard, that you will be wiser than I have been; that you will
gather your roses while it is yet May: and that you will not live to
thirty-six, pining for happiness and home, a disappointed and desolate
man; till, when your ideal is at last found, you shrink back appalled,
to discover that you have lost none of the tendencies to love, but many
of the graces by which love is to be allured!"

There was so much serious and earnest feeling in these words that they
went home at once to Legard's sympathies. He felt irresistibly impelled
to learn the worst.

"Maltravers," said he, in a hurried tone, "it would be an idle
compliment to say that you are not likely to love in vain; perhaps it
is indelicate in me to apply a general remark; and yet--yet I cannot
but fancy that I have discovered your secret, and that you are not
insensible to the charms of Miss Cameron!"

"Legard!" said Maltravers,--and so strong was his fervent attachment
to Evelyn, that it swept away all his natural coldness and reserve,--"I
tell you plainly and frankly that in my love for Evelyn Cameron lie the
last hopes I have in life. I have no thought, no ambition, no sentiment
that is not vowed to her. If my love should be unreturned, I may strive
to endure the blow, I may mix with the world, I may seem to occupy
myself in the aims of others; but my heart will be broken! Let us talk
of this no more; you have surprised my secret, though it must have
betrayed itself. Learn from me how preternaturally strong, how generally
fatal is love deferred to that day when--in the stern growth of all the
feelings--love writes itself on granite!"

Maltravers, as if impatient of his own weakness, put spurs to his horse,
and they rode on rapidly for some time without speaking.

That silence was employed by Legard in meditating over all he had heard
and witnessed, in recalling all that he owed to Maltravers; and before
that silence was broken the young man nobly resolved not even to
attempt, not even to hope, a rivalry with Maltravers; to forego all the
expectations he had so fondly nursed, to absent himself from the company
of Evelyn, to requite faithfully and firmly that act of generosity
to which he owed the preservation of his life,--the redemption of his
honour.

Agreeably to this determination, he abstained from visiting those haunts
in which Evelyn shone; and if accident brought them together, his
manner was embarrassed and abrupt. She wondered,--at last, perhaps she
resented,--it may be that she grieved; for certain it is that Maltravers
was right in thinking that her manner had lost the gayety that
distinguished it at Merton Rectory. But still it may be doubted whether
Evelyn had seen enough of Legard, and whether her fancy and romance were
still sufficiently free from the magical influences of the genius
that called them forth in the eloquent homage of Maltravers, to trace,
herself, to any causes connected with her younger lover the listless
melancholy that crept over her. In very young women--new alike to the
world and the knowledge of themselves--many vague and undefined feelings
herald the dawn of Love; shade after shade and light upon light succeeds
before the sun breaks forth, and the earth awakens to his presence.

It was one evening that Legard had suffered himself to be led into a
party at the ----- ambassador's; and there, as he stood by the door,
he saw at a little distance Maltravers conversing with Evelyn. Again he
writhed beneath the tortures of his jealous anguish; and there, as he
gazed and suffered, he resolved (as Maltravers had done before him) to
fly from the place that had a little while ago seemed to him Elysium!
He would quit Paris, he would travel, he would not see Evelyn again till
the irrevocable barrier was passed, and she was the wife of Maltravers!
In the first heat of this determination, he turned towards some young
men standing near him, one of whom was about to visit Vienna. He gayly
proposed to join him,--a proposal readily accepted, and began conversing
on the journey, the city, its splendid and proud society, with all that
cruel exhilaration which the forced spirits of a stricken heart can
alone display, when Evelyn (whose conference with Maltravers was ended)
passed close by him. She was leaning on Lady Doltimore's arm, and the
admiring murmur of his companions caused Legard to turn suddenly round.

"You are not dancing to-night, Colonel Legard," said Caroline, glancing
towards Evelyn. "The more the season for balls advances, the more
indolent you become."

Legard muttered a confused reply, one half of which seemed petulant,
while the other half was inaudible.

"Not so indolent as you suppose," said his friend. "Legard meditates an
excursion sufficient, I hope, to redeem his character in your eyes. It
is a long journey, and, what is worse, a very cold journey, to Vienna."

"Vienna! do you think of going to Vienna?" cried Caroline.

"Yes," said Legard. "I hate Paris; any place better than this odious
city!" and he moved away.

Evelyn's eyes followed him sadly and gravely. She remained by Lady
Doltimore's side, abstracted and silent for several minutes.

Meanwhile Caroline, turning to Lord Devonport (the friend who had
proposed the Viennese excursion), said, "It is cruel in you to go to
Vienna,--it is doubly cruel to rob Lord Doltimore of his best friend and
Paris of its best waltzer."

"Oh, it is a voluntary offer of Legard's, Lady Doltimore,--believe me, I
have used no persuasive arts. But the fact is, that we have been talking
of a fair widow, the beauty of Austria, and as proud and as unassailable
as Ehrenbreitstein itself. Legard's vanity is piqued; and so--as a
professed lady-killer--he intends to see what can be effected by the
handsomest Englishman of his time."

Caroline laughed, and new claimants on her notice succeeded to Lord
Devonport. It was not till the ladies were waiting their carriage in the
shawl-room that Lady Doltimore noticed the paleness and thoughtful brow
of Evelyn.

"Are you fatigued or unwell, dear?" she said.

"No," answered Evelyn, forcing a smile; and at that moment they were
joined by Maltravers, with the intelligence that it would be some
minutes before the carriage could draw up. Caroline amused herself in
the interval by shrewd criticisms on the dresses and characters of her
various friends. Caroline had grown an amazing prude in her judgment of
others!

"What a turban!--prudent for Mrs. A----- to wear,--bright red; it puts
out her face, as the sun puts out the fire. Mr. Maltravers, do observe
Lady B----- with that _very_ young gentleman. After all her experience
in angling, it is odd that she should still only throw in for small
fish. Pray, why is the marriage between Lady C----- D----- and Mr.
F----- broken off? Is it true that he is so much in debt, and is so
very--very profligate? They say she is heartbroken."

"Really, Lady Doltimore," said Maltravers, smiling, "I am but a bad
scandal-monger. But poor F----- is not, I believe, much worse than
others. How do we know whose fault it is when a marriage is broken off?
Lady C----- D----- heartbroken! what an idea! Nowadays there is never
any affection in compacts of that sort; and the chain that binds the
frivolous nature is but a gossamer thread! Fine gentlemen and fine
ladies, their loves and their marriages--

                 "'May flourish and may fade;
       A breath can make them, as a breath has made.'

"Never believe that a heart long accustomed to beat only in good society
can be broken,--it is rarely ever touched!"

Evelyn listened attentively, and seemed struck. She sighed, and said
in a very low voice, as to herself, "It is true--how could I think
otherwise?"

For the next few days Evelyn was unwell, and did not quit her room.
Maltravers was in despair. The flowers, the books, the music he sent;
his anxious inquiries, his earnest and respectful notes, touched with
that ineffable charm which Heart and Intellect breathe into the most
trifling coinage from their mint,--all affected Evelyn sensibly. Perhaps
she contrasted them with Legard's indifference and apparent caprice;
perhaps in that contrast Maltravers gained more than by all his
brilliant qualities. Meanwhile, without visit, without message, without
farewell,--unconscious, it is true, of Evelyn's illness,--Legard
departed for Vienna.



CHAPTER III.

  A PLEASING land...
  Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye,
    And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
  Forever flashing round a summer sky.--THOMSON.

DAILY, hourly, increased the influence of Evelyn over Maltravers. Oh,
what a dupe is a man's pride! what a fool his wisdom! That a girl,
a mere child, one who scarce knew her own heart, beautiful as it
was,--whose deeper feelings still lay coiled up in their sweet
buds,--that she should thus master this proud, wise man! But as
thou--our universal teacher--as thou, O Shakspeare! haply speaking from
the hints of thine own experience, hast declared--

  "None are so truly caught, when they are catched,
   As wit turned fool; folly in wisdom hatched,
   Hath wisdom's warrant."

Still, methinks that, in that surpassing and dangerously indulged
affection which levelled thee, Maltravers, with the weakest, which
overturned all thy fine philosophy of Stoicism, and made thee the
veriest slave of the "Rose Garden,"--still, Maltravers, thou mightest
at least have seen that thou hast lost forever all right to pride,
all privilege to disdain the herd! But thou wert proud of thine own
infirmity! And far sharper must be that lesson which can teach thee that
Pride--thine angel--is ever pre-doomed to fall.

What a mistake to suppose that the passions are strongest in youth! The
passions are not stronger, but the control over them is weaker. They are
more easily excited, they are more violent and more apparent; but they
have less energy, less durability, less intense and concentrated power,
than in maturer life. In youth, passion succeeds to passion, and one
breaks upon the other, as waves upon a rock, till the heart frets itself
to repose. In manhood, the great deep flows on, more calm, but more
profound; its serenity is the proof of the might and terror of its
course, were the wind to blow and the storm to rise.

A young man's ambition is but vanity,--it has no definite aim, it plays
with a thousand toys. As with one passion, so with the rest. In youth,
Love is ever on the wing, but, like the birds in April, it hath not yet
built its nest. With so long a career of summer and hope before it, the
disappointment of to-day is succeeded by the novelty of to-morrow, and
the sun that advances to the noon but dries up its fervent tears. But
when we have arrived at that epoch of life,--when, if the light fail us,
if the last rose wither, we feel that the loss cannot be retrieved,
and that the frost and the darkness are at hand, Love becomes to us
a treasure that we watch over and hoard with a miser's care. Our
youngest-born affection is our darling and our idol, the fondest pledge
of the Past, the most cherished of our hopes for the Future. A certain
melancholy that mingles with our joy at the possession only enhances its
charm. We feel ourselves so dependent on it for all that is yet to come.
Our other barks--our gay galleys of pleasure, our stately argosies of
pride--have been swallowed up by the remorseless wave. On this last
vessel we freight our all, to its frail tenement we commit ourselves.
The star that guides it is our guide, and in the tempest that menaces we
behold our own doom!

Still Maltravers shrank from the confession that trembled on his lips;
still he adhered to the course he had prescribed to himself. If ever
(as he had implied in his letter to Cleveland)--if ever Evelyn should
discover they were not suited to each other! The possibility of such an
affliction impressed his judgment, the dread of it chilled his heart.
With all his pride, there was a certain humility in Maltravers that was
perhaps one cause of his reserve. He knew what a beautiful possession
is youth,--its sanguine hopes, its elastic spirit, its inexhaustible
resources! What to the eyes of woman were the acquisitions which manhood
had brought him,--the vast but the sad experience, the arid wisdom, the
philosophy based on disappointment? He might be loved but for the vain
glitter of name and reputation,--and love might vanish as custom dimmed
the illusion. Men of strong affections are jealous of their own genius.
They know how separate a thing from the household character genius
often is,--they fear lest they should be loved for a quality, not for
themselves.

Thus communed he with himself; thus, as the path had become clear to his
hopes, did new fears arise; and thus did love bring, as it ever does, in
its burning wake,--

                 "The pang, the agony, the doubt!"

Maltravers then confirmed himself in the resolution he had formed:
he would cautiously examine Evelyn and himself; he would weigh in the
balance every straw that the wind should turn up; he would not aspire to
the treasure, unless he could feel secure that the coffer could preserve
the gem. This was not only a prudent, it was a just and a generous
determination. It was one which we all ought to form if the fervour
of our passions will permit us. We have no right to sacrifice years to
moments, and to melt the pearl that has no price in a single draught!
But can Maltravers adhere to his wise precautions? The truth must be
spoken,--it was, perhaps, the first time in his life that Maltravers
had been really in love. As the reader will remember, he had not been in
love with the haughty Florence; admiration, gratitude,--the affection of
the head, not that of the feelings,--had been the links that bound him
to the enthusiastic correspondent revealed in the gifted beauty; and the
gloomy circumstances connected with her early fate had left deep furrows
in his memory. Time and vicissitude had effaced the wounds, and the
Light of the Beautiful dawned once more in the face of Evelyn. Valerie
de Ventadour had been but the fancy of a roving breast. Alice, the sweet
Alice!--her, indeed, in the first flower of youth, he had loved with
a boy's romance. He had loved her deeply, fondly,--but perhaps he
had never been in love with her; he had mourned her loss for
years,--insensibly to himself her loss had altered his character and
cast a melancholy gloom over all the colours of his life. But she whose
range of ideas was so confined, she who had but broke into knowledge, as
the chrysalis into the butterfly--how much in that prodigal and gifted
nature, bounding onwards into the broad plains of life, must the peasant
girl have failed to fill! They had had nothing in common but their youth
and their love. It was a dream that had hovered over the poet-boy in the
morning twilight,--a dream he had often wished to recall, a dream that
had haunted him in the noon-day,--but had, as all boyish visions ever
have done, left the heart unexhausted, and the passions unconsumed!
Years, long years, since then had rolled away, and yet, perhaps, one
unconscious attraction that drew Maltravers so suddenly towards Evelyn
was a something indistinct and undefinable that reminded him of Alice.
There was no similarity in their features; but at times a tone in
Evelyn's voice, a "trick of the manner," an air, a gesture, recalled
him, over the gulfs of Time, to Poetry, and Hope, and Alice.

In the youth of each--the absent and the present one--there was
resemblance,--resemblance in their simplicity, their grace. Perhaps
Alice, of the two, had in her nature more real depth, more ardour of
feeling, more sublimity of sentiment, than Evelyn. But in her primitive
ignorance half her noblest qualities were embedded and unknown. And
Evelyn--his equal in rank; Evelyn, well cultivated; Evelyn, so long
courted, so deeply studied--had such advantages over the poor peasant
girl! Still the poor peasant girl often seemed to smile on him from that
fair face; and in Evelyn he half loved Alice again!

So these two persons now met daily; their intercourse was even more
familiar than before, their several minds grew hourly more developed
and transparent to each other. But of love Maltravers still forbore to
speak; they were friends,--no more; such friends as the disparity of
their years and their experience might warrant them to be. And in that
young and innocent nature--with its rectitude, its enthusiasm, and its
pious and cheerful tendencies--Maltravers found freshness in the desert,
as the camel-driver lingering at the well. Insensibly his heart warmed
again to his kind; and as the harp of David to the ear of Saul, was the
soft voice that lulled remembrance and awakened hope in the lonely man.

Meanwhile, what was the effect that the presence, the attentions, of
Maltravers produced on Evelyn? Perhaps it was of that kind which most
flatters us and most deceives. She never dreamed of comparing him with
others. To her thoughts he stood aloof and alone from all his kind. It
may seem a paradox, but it might be that she admired and venerated
him almost too much for love. Still her pleasure in his society was so
evident and unequivocal, her deference to his opinion so marked, she
sympathized in so many of his objects, she had so much blindness or
forbearance for his faults (and he never sought to mask them), that the
most diffident of men might have drawn from so many symptoms hopes the
most auspicious. Since the departure of Legard, the gayeties of Paris
lost their charm for Evelyn, and more than ever she could appreciate the
society of her friend. He thus gradually lost his earlier fears of her
forming too keen an attachment to the great world; and as nothing could
be more apparent than Evelyn's indifference to the crowd of flatterers
and suitors that hovered round her, Maltravers no longer dreaded a
rival. He began to feel assured that they had both gone through
the ordeal; and that he might ask for love without a doubt of its
immutability and faith. At this period they were both invited, with the
Doltimores, to spend a few days at the villa of De Montaigne, near St.
Cloud. And there it was that Maltravers determined to know his fate!



CHAPTER IV.

  CHAOS of Thought and Passion all confused.--POPE.

IT is to the contemplation of a very different scene that the course of
our story now conducts us.

Between St. Cloud and Versailles there was at that time--perhaps
there still is--a lone and melancholy house, appropriated to the
insane,--melancholy, not from its site, but the purpose to which it
is devoted. Placed on an eminence, the windows of the mansion
command--beyond the gloomy walls that gird the garden ground--one of
those enchanting prospects which win for France her title to _La Belle_.
There the glorious Seine is seen in the distance, broad and winding
through the varied plains, and beside the gleaming villages and villas.
There, too, beneath the clear blue sky of France, the forest-lands of
Versailles and St. Germains stretch in dark luxuriance around and afar.
There you may see sleeping on the verge of the landscape the mighty
city,--crowned with the thousand spires from which, proud above the
rest, rises the eyry of Napoleon's eagle, the pinnacle of Notre Dame.

Remote, sequestered, the place still commands the survey of the
turbulent world below; and Madness gazes upon prospects that might well
charm the thoughtful eyes of Imagination or of Wisdom! In one of the
rooms of this house sat Castruccio Cesarini. The apartment was furnished
even with elegance; a variety of books strewed the table; nothing for
comfort or for solace that the care and providence of affection could
dictate was omitted. Cesarini was alone: leaning his cheek upon his
hand, he gazed on the beautiful and tranquil view we have described.
"And am I never to set a free foot on that soil again?" he muttered
indignantly, as he broke from his revery.

The door opened, and the keeper of the sad abode (a surgeon of humanity
and eminence) entered, followed by De Montaigne. Cesarini turned
round and scowled upon the latter; the surgeon, after a few words of
salutation, withdrew to a corner of the room, and appeared absorbed in
a book. De Montaigne approached his brother-in-law,--"I have brought
you some poems just published at Milan, my dear Castruccio,--they will
please you."

"Give me my liberty!" cried Cesarini, clenching his hands. "Why am I
to be detained here? Why are my nights to be broken by the groans of
maniacs, and my days devoured in a solitude that loathes the aspect of
things around me? Am I mad? You know I am not! It is an old trick to
say that poets are mad,--you mistake our agonies for insanity. See, I
am calm; I can reason: give me any test of sound mind--no matter how
rigid--I will pass it; I am not mad,--I swear I am not!"

"No, my dear Castruccio," said De Montaigne, soothingly; "but you are
still unwell,--you still have fever; when next I see you perhaps you
may be recovered sufficiently to dismiss the doctor and change the air.
Meanwhile is there anything you would have added or altered?"

Cesarini had listened to this speech with a mocking sarcasm on his lip,
but an expression of such hopeless wretchedness in his eyes, as they
alone can comprehend who have witnessed madness in its lucid intervals.
He sank down, and his head drooped gloomily on his breast. "No," said
he; "I want nothing but free air or death,--no matter which."

De Montaigne stayed some time with the unhappy man, and sought to soothe
him; but it was in vain. Yet when he rose to depart, Cesarini started
up, and fixing on him his large wistful eyes, exclaimed, "Ah! do not
leave me yet. It is so dreadful to be alone with the dead and the worse
than dead!"

The Frenchman turned aside to wipe his eyes, and stifle the rising at
his heart; and again he sat, and again he sought to soothe. At length
Cesarini, seemingly more calm, gave him leave to depart. "Go," said he,
"go; tell Teresa I am better, that I love her tenderly, that I shall
live to tell her children not to be poets. Stay, you asked if there was
aught I wished changed: yes, this room; it is too still: I hear my own
pulse beat so loudly in the silence, it is horrible! There is a room
below, by the window of which there is a tree, and the winds rock its
boughs to and fro, and it sighs and groans like a living thing; it
will be pleasant to look at that tree, and see the birds come home to
it,--yet that tree is wintry and blasted too! It will be pleasant to
hear it fret and chafe in the stormy nights; it will be a friend to me,
that old tree! let me have that room. Nay, look not at each other,--it
is not so high as this; but the window is barred,--I cannot escape!" And
Cesarini smiled.

"Certainly," said the surgeon, "if you prefer that room; but it has not
so fine a view."

"I hate the view of the world that has cast me off. When may I change?"

"This very evening."

"Thank you; it will be a great revolution in my life."

And Cesarini's eyes brightened, and he looked happy. De Montaigne,
thoroughly unmanned, tore himself away.

The promise was kept, and Cesarini was transferred that night to the
chamber he had selected.

As soon as it was deep night, the last visit of the keeper paid, and,
save now and then, by some sharp cry in the more distant quarter of the
house, all was still, Cesarini rose from his bed; a partial light came
from the stars that streamed through the frosty and keen air, and cast
a sickly gleam through the heavy bars of the casement. It was then
that Cesarini drew from under his pillow a long-cherished and
carefully-concealed treasure. Oh, with what rapture had he first
possessed himself of it! with what anxiety had it been watched and
guarded! how many cunning stratagems and profound inventions had
gone towards the baffling, the jealous search of the keeper and his
myrmidons! The abandoned and wandering mother never clasped her
child more fondly to her bosom, nor gazed upon his features with more
passionate visions for the future. And what had so enchanted the poor
prisoner, so deluded the poor maniac? A large nail! He had found
it accidentally in the garden; he had hoarded it for weeks,--it had
inspired him with the hope of liberty. Often, in the days far gone, he
had read of the wonders that had been effected, of the stones removed,
and the bars filed, by the self-same kind of implement. He remembered
that the most celebrated of those bold unfortunates who live a life
against the law, had said, "Choose my prison, and give me but a rusty
nail, and I laugh at your jailers and your walls!" He crept to the
window; he examined his relic by the dim starlight; he kissed it
passionately, and the tears stood in his eyes.

Ah, who shall determine the worth of things? No king that night so
prized his crown as the madman prized that rusty inch of wire,--the
proper prey of the rubbish-cart and dunghill. Little didst thou think,
old blacksmith, when thou drewest the dull metal from the fire, of what
precious price it was to become!

Cesarini, with the astuteness of his malady, had long marked out this
chamber for the scene of his operations; he had observed that the
framework in which the bars were set seemed old and worm-eaten; that the
window was but a few feet from the ground; that the noise made in the
winter nights by the sighing branches of the old tree without would
deaden the sound of the lone workman. Now, then, his hopes were to be
crowned. Poor fool! and even _thou_ hast hope still! All that night he
toiled and toiled, and sought to work his iron into a file; now he tried
the bars, and now the framework. Alas! he had not learned the skill in
such tools, possessed by his renowned model and inspirer; the flesh was
worn from his fingers, the cold drops stood on his brow; and morning
surprised him, advanced not a hair-breadth in his labour.

He crept back to bed, and again hid the useless implement, and at last
he slept.

And, night after night, the same task, the same results! But at length,
one day, when Cesarini returned from his moody walk in the gardens
(_pleasure_-grounds they were called by the owner), he found better
workmen than he at the window; they were repairing the framework, they
were strengthening the bars,--all hope was now gone! The unfortunate
said nothing; too cunning to show his despair he eyed them silently,
and cursed them; but the old tree was left still, and that was
something,--company and music.

A day or two after this barbarous counterplot, Cesarini was walking in
the gardens towards the latter part of the afternoon (just when in the
short days the darkness begins to steal apace over the chill and western
sun), when he was accosted by a fellow-captive, who had often before
sought his acquaintance; for they try to have friends,--those poor
people! Even _we_ do the same; though _we_ say we are _not_ mad! This
man had been a warrior, had served with Napoleon, had received honours
and ribbons,--might, for aught we know, have dreamed of being a marshal!
But the demon smote him in the hour of his pride. It was his disease to
fancy himself a monarch. He believed, for he forgot chronology, that he
was at once the Iron Mask, and the true sovereign of France and Navarre,
confined in state by the usurpers of his crown. On other points he was
generally sane; a tall, strong man, with fierce features, and stern
lines, wherein could be read many a bloody tale of violence and wrong,
of lawless passions, of terrible excesses, to which madness might be
at once the consummation and the curse. This man had taken a fancy
to Cesarini; and, in some hours Cesarini had shunned him less than
others,--for they could alike rail against all living things. The
lunatic approached Cesarini with an air of dignity and condescension.

"It is a cold night, sir,--and there will be no moon. Has it never
occurred to you that the winter is the season for escape?"

Cesarini started; the ex-officer continued,--

"Ay, I see by your manner that you, too, chafe at our ignominious
confinement. I think that together we might brave the worst. You
probably are confined on some state offence. I give you full pardon, if
you assist me. For myself I have but to appear in my capital; old Louis
le Grand must be near his last hour."

"This madman my best companion!" thought Cesarini, revolting at his own
infirmity, as Gulliver started from the Yahoo. "No matter, he talks of
escape.

"And how think you," said the Italian, aloud,--"how think you, that we
have any chance of deliverance?"

"Hush, speak lower," said the soldier. "In the inner garden, I have
observed for the last two days that a gardener is employed in nailing
some fig-trees and vines to the wall. Between that garden and these
grounds there is but a paling, which we can easily scale. He works
till dusk; at the latest hour we can, let us climb noiselessly over the
paling, and creep along the vegetable beds till we reach the man. He
uses a ladder for his purpose; the rest is clear,--we must fell and gag
him,--twist his neck if necessary,--I have twisted a neck before," quoth
the maniac, with a horrid smile. "The ladder will help us over the wall,
and the night soon grows dark at this season."

Cesarini listened, and his heart beat quick. "Will it be too late to try
to-night?" said he in a whisper.

"Perhaps not," said the soldier, who retained all his military
acuteness. "But are you prepared,--don't you require time to man
yourself?"

"No--no,--I have had time enough!--I am ready."

"Well, then,--hist!---we are watched--one of the jailers! Talk easily,
smile, laugh. This way."

They passed by one of the watch of the place, and just as they were in
his hearing, the soldier turned to Cesarini, "Sir, will you favour me
with your snuff-box?"

"I have none."

"None? what a pity! My good friend," and he turned to the scout, "may
I request you to look in my room for my snuff-box? It is on the
chimney-piece,--it will not take you a minute."

The soldier was one of those whose insanity was deemed most harmless,
and his relations, who were rich and wellborn, had requested every
indulgence to be shown to him. The watch suspected nothing, and repaired
to the house. As soon as the trees hid him,--"Now," said the soldier,
"stoop almost on all fours, and run quick."

So saying the maniac crouched low, and glided along with a rapidity
which did not distance Cesarini. They reached the paling that separated
the vegetable garden from the pleasure-ground; the soldier vaulted over
it with ease, Cesarini with more difficulty followed. They crept along;
the herbs and vegetable beds, with their long bare stalks, concealed
their movements; the man was still on the ladder. "_La bonne
Esperance,_" said the soldier through his ground teeth, muttering some
old watchword of the wars, and (while Cesarini, below, held the ladder
steadfast) he rushed up the steps, and with a sudden effort of his
muscular arm, hurled the gardener to the ground. The man, surprised,
half stunned, and wholly terrified, did not attempt to wrestle with
the two madmen, he uttered loud cries for help! But help came too late;
these strange and fearful comrades had already scaled the wall, had
dropped on the other side, and were fast making across the dusky fields
to the neighbouring forest.



CHAPTER V.

                      HOPES and Fears
  Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge
  Look down: on what?--a fathomless abyss!--YOUNG.

MIDNIGHT--and intense frost! There they were--houseless and
breadless--the two fugitives, in the heart of that beautiful forest
which has rung to the horns of many a royal chase. The soldier, whose
youth had been inured to hardships, and to the conquests which our
mother-wit wrings from the stepdame Nature, had made a fire by the
friction of two pieces of dry wood; such wood was hard to be found, for
the snow whitened the level ground, and lay deep in the hollows; and
when it was discovered, the fuel was slow to burn; however, the fire
blazed red at last. On a little mound, shaded by a semicircle of huge
trees, sat the Outlaws of Human Reason. They cowered over the blaze
opposite to each other, and the glare crimsoned their features. And each
in his heart longed to rid himself of his mad neighbour; and each felt
the awe of solitude,--the dread of sleep beside a comrade whose soul had
lost God's light!

"Ho!" said the warrior, breaking a silence that had been long kept,
"this is cold work at the best, and hunger pinches me; I almost regret
the prison."

"I do not feel the cold," said Cesarini, "and I do not care for hunger:
I am revelling only in the sense of liberty!"

"Try and sleep," quoth the soldier, with a coaxing and, sinister
softness of voice; "we will take it by turns to watch."

"I cannot sleep,--take you the first turn."

"Hark ye, sir!" said the soldier sullenly; "I must not have my commands
disputed; now we are free, we are no longer equal: I am heir to the
crowns of France and Navarre. Sleep, I say!"

"And what Prince or Potentate, King or Kaiser," cried Cesarini, catching
the quick contagion of the fit that had seized his comrade, "can dictate
to the monarch of Earth and Air, the Elements and the music-breathing
Stars? I am Cesarini the Bard! and the huntsman Orion halts in his chase
above to listen to my lyre! Be stilled, rude man!--thou scarest away the
angels, whose breath even now was rushing through my hair!"

"It is too horrible!" cried the grim man of blood, shivering; "my
enemies are relentless, and give me a madman for a jailer!"

"Ha! a madman!" exclaimed Cesarini, springing to his feet, and glaring
at the soldier with eyes that caught and rivalled the blaze of the fire.
"And who are you?--what devil from the deep hell, that art leagued with
my persecutors against me?"

With the instinct of his old calling and valour, the soldier also rose
when he saw the movement of his companion; and his fierce features
worked with rage and fear.

"Avaunt!" said he, waving his arm; "we banish thee from our presence!
This is our palace!--and our guards are at hand!" pointing to the still
and skeleton trees that grouped round in ghastly bareness. "Begone!"

At that moment they heard at a distance the deep barking of a dog, and
each cried simultaneously, "They are after me!--betrayed!" The soldier
sprang at the throat of Cesarini; but the Italian, at the same instant,
caught a half-burned brand from the fire, and dashed the blazing end
in the face of his assailant. The soldier uttered a cry of pain, and
recoiled back, blinded and dismayed. Cesarini, whose madness, when
fairly roused, was of the most deadly nature, again raised his weapon,
and probably nothing but death could have separated the foes; but again
the bay of the dog was heard, and Cesarini, answering the sound by a
wild yell, threw down the brand, and fled away through the forest with
inconceivable swiftness. He hurried on through bush and dell,--and the
boughs tore his garments and mangled his flesh,--but stopped not his
progress till he fell at last on the ground, breathless and exhausted,
and heard from some far-off clock the second hour of morning. He had
left the forest; a farmhouse stood before him, and the whitened roofs of
scattered cottages sloped to the tranquil sky. The witness of man--the
social tranquil sky and the reasoning man--operated like a charm upon
the senses which recent excitement had more than usually disturbed. The
unhappy wretch gazed at the peaceful abodes, and sighed heavily; then,
rising from the earth, he crept into one of the sheds that adjoined the
farmhouse, and throwing himself on some straw, slept sound and quietly
till daylight, and the voices of peasants in the shed awakened him.

He rose refreshed, calm, and, for ordinary purposes, sufficiently
sane to prevent suspicion of his disease. He approached the startled
peasants, and representing himself as a traveller who had lost his way
in the night and amidst the forest, begged for food and water. Though
his garments were torn, they were new and of good fashion; his voice was
mild; his whole appearance and address those of one of some station--and
the French peasant is a hospitable fellow. Cesarini refreshed and rested
himself an hour or two at the farm, and then resumed his wanderings;
he offered no money, for the rules of the asylum forbade money to its
inmates,--he had none with him; but none was expected from him, and they
bade him farewell as kindly as if he had bought their blessings. He
then began to consider where he was to take refuge, and how provide for
himself; the feeling of liberty braced, and for a time restored, his
intellect.

Fortunately, he had on his person, besides some rings of trifling cost,
a watch of no inconsiderable value, the sale of which might support him,
in such obscure and humble quarter as he could alone venture to inhabit,
for several weeks, perhaps months. This thought made him cheerful and
elated; he walked lustily on, shunning the high road. The day was clear,
the sun bright, the air full of racy health. Oh, what soft raptures
swelled the heart of the wanderer, as he gazed around him! The Poet
and the Freeman alike stirred within his shattered heart! He paused to
contemplate the berries of the icy trees, to listen to the sharp glee of
the blackbird; and once--when he found beneath a hedge a cold, scentless
group of hardy violets--he laughed aloud in his joy. In that laughter
there was no madness, no danger; but when as he journeyed on, he passed
through a little hamlet, and saw the children at play upon the ground,
and heard from the open door of a cabin the sound of rustic music, then
indeed he paused abruptly; the past gathered over him: _he knew that
which he had been, that which he was now_!--an awful memory! a dread
revelation! And, covering his face with his hands, he wept aloud. In
those tears were the peril and method of madness. He woke from them
to think of his youth, his hopes, of Florence, of revenge! Lumley Lord
Vargrave! better, from that hour, to encounter the tiger in his lair
than find thyself alone with that miserable man!



CHAPTER VI.

  IT seemed the laurel chaste and stubborn oak,
  And all the gentle trees on earth that grew,
  It seemed the land, the sea, and heaven above,
  All breathed out fancy sweet, and sighed out love.
                          FAIRFAX'S _Tasso_.

AT De Montaigne's villa, Evelyn, for the first time, gathered from the
looks, the manners, of Maltravers that she was beloved. It was no longer
possible to mistake the evidences of affection. Formerly, Maltravers
had availed himself of his advantage of years and experience, and would
warn, admonish, dispute, even reprove; formerly, there had been so much
of seeming caprice, of cold distance, of sudden and wayward haughtiness,
in his bearing; but now the whole man was changed,--the Mentor had
vanished in the Lover; he held his being on her breath. Her lightest
pleasure seemed to have grown his law, no coldness ever alternated the
deep devotion of his manner; an anxious, a timid, a watchful softness
replaced all his stately self-possession. Evelyn saw that she was loved;
and she then looked into her own heart.

I have said before that Evelyn was gentle, even to _yieldingness_; that
her susceptibility made her shrink from the thought of pain to another:
and so thoroughly did she revere Maltravers, so grateful did she feel
for a love that could not but flatter pride, and raise her in her
self-esteem, that she felt it impossible that she could reject his suit.
"Then, do I love him as I dreamed I could love?" she asked herself;
and her heart gave no intelligible reply. "Yes, it must be so; in his
presence I feel a tranquil and eloquent charm; his praise delights me;
his esteem is my most high ambition;--and yet--and yet--" she sighed and
thought of Legard; "but _he_ loved me not!" and she turned restlessly
from that image. "He thinks but of the world, of pleasure; Maltravers is
right,--the spoiled children of society cannot love: why should I think
of him?"

There were no guests at the villa, except Maltravers, Evelyn, and Lord
and Lady Doltimore. Evelyn was much captivated by the graceful vivacity
of Teresa, though that vivacity was not what it had been before her
brother's affliction; their children, some of whom had grown up,
constituted an amiable and intelligent family; and De Montaigne himself
was agreeable and winning, despite his sober manners and his love of
philosophical dispute. Evelyn often listened thoughtfully to Teresa's
praises of her husband,--to her account of the happiness she had known
in a marriage where there had been so great a disparity of years; Evelyn
began to question the truth of her early visions of romance.

Caroline saw the unequivocal attachment of Maltravers with the same
indifference with which she had anticipated the suit of Legard. It was
the same to her what hand delivered Evelyn and herself from the
designs of Vargrave; but Vargrave occupied nearly all her thoughts.
The newspapers had reported him as seriously ill,--at one time in great
danger. He was now recovering, but still unable to quit his room. He had
written to her once, lamenting his ill-fortune, trusting soon to be at
Paris; and touching, with evident pleasure, upon Legard's departure for
Vienna, which he had seen in the "Morning Post." But he was afar--alone,
ill, untended; and though Caroline's guilty love had been much abated
by Vargrave's icy selfishness, by absence and remorse, still she had the
heart of a woman,--and Vargrave was the only one that had ever touched
it. She felt for him, and grieved in silence; she did not dare to utter
sympathy aloud, for Doltimore had already given evidence of a suspicious
and jealous temper.

Evelyn was also deeply affected by the account of her guardian's
illness. As I before said, the moment he ceased to be her lover, her
childish affection for him returned. She even permitted herself to write
to him; and a tone of melancholy depression which artfully pervaded his
reply struck her with something like remorse. He told her in the letter
that he had much to say to her relative to an investment, in conformity
with her stepfather's wishes, and he should hasten to Paris, even before
the doctor would sanction his removal. Vargrave forbore to mention what
the meditated investment was. The last public accounts of the minister
had, however, been so favourable, that his arrival might be almost daily
expected; and both Caroline and Evelyn felt relieved.

To De Montaigne, Maltravers confided his attachment, and both the
Frenchman and Teresa sanctioned and encouraged it. Evelyn enchanted
them; and they had passed that age when they could have imagined it
possible that the man they had known almost as a boy was separated by
years from the lively feelings and extreme youth of Evelyn. They could
not believe that the sentiments he had inspired were colder than those
that animated himself.

One day, Maltravers had been absent for some hours on his solitary
rambles, and De Montaigne had not yet returned from Paris, which he
visited almost daily. It was so late in the noon as almost to border on
evening, when Maltravers; on his return, entered the grounds by a gate
that separated them from an extensive wood. He saw Evelyn, Teresa, and
two of her children walking on a terrace immediately before him. He
joined them; and, somehow or other, it soon chanced that Teresa and
himself loitered behind the rest, a little out of hearing. "Ah, Mr.
Maltravers," said the former, "we miss the soft skies of Italy and the
beautiful hues of Como."

"And, for my part, I miss the youth that gave 'glory to the grass and
splendour to the flower.'"

"Nay; we are happier now, believe me,--or at least I should be, if--But
I must not think of my poor brother. Ah, if his guilt deprived you of
one who was worthy of you, it would be some comfort to his sister to
think at last that the loss was repaired. And you still have scruples?"

"Who that loves truly has not? How young, how lovely, how worthy of
lighter hearts and fairer forms than mine! Give me back the years that
have passed since we last met at Como, and I might hope!"

"And this to me who have enjoyed such happiness with one older, when we
married, by ten years than you are now!"

"But you, Teresa, were born to see life through the Claude glass."

"Ah, you provoke me with these refinements; you turn from a happiness
you have but to demand."

"Do not--do not raise my hopes too high," cried Maltravers, with great
emotion; "I have been schooling myself all day. But if I _am_ deceived!"

"Trust me, you are not. See, even now she turns round to look for you;
she loves you,--loves you as you deserve. This difference of years that
you so lament does but deepen and elevate her attachment!"

Teresa turned to Maltravers, surprised at his silence. How joyous
sat his heart upon his looks,--no gloom on his brow, no doubt in
his sparkling eyes! He was mortal, and he yielded to the delight of
believing himself beloved. He pressed Teresa's hand in silence, and,
quitting her abruptly, gained the side of Evelyn. Madame de Montaigne
comprehended all that passed within him; and as she followed, she soon
contrived to detach her children, and returned with them to the house on
a whispered pretence of seeing if their father had yet arrived. Evelyn
and Maltravers continued to walk on,--not aware, at first, that the rest
of the party were not close behind.

The sun had set; and they were in a part of the grounds which, by way
of contrast to the rest, was laid out in the English fashion; the
walk wound, serpent-like, among a profusion of evergreens irregularly
planted; the scene was shut in and bounded, except where at a distance,
through an opening of the trees, you caught the spire of a distant
church, over which glimmered, faint and fair, the smile of the evening
star.

"This reminds me of home," said Evelyn, gently.

"And hereafter it will remind me of you," said Maltravers, in whispered
accents. He fixed his eyes on her as he spoke. Never had his look been
so true to his heart; never had his voice so undisguisedly expressed the
profound and passionate sentiment which had sprung up within him,--to
constitute, as he then believed, the latest bliss, or the crowning
misery, of his life! At that moment, it was a sort of instinct that told
him they were _alone_; for who has not felt--in those few and memorable
hours of life when love long suppressed overflows the fountain, and
seems to pervade the whole frame and the whole spirit--that there is
a magic around and within us that hath a keener intelligence than
intellect itself? Alone at such an hour with the one we love, the whole
world besides seems to vanish, and our feet to have entered the soil,
and our lips to have caught the air, of Fairyland.

They were alone. And why did Evelyn tremble? Why did she feel that a
crisis of existence was at hand?

"Miss Cameron--Evelyn," said Maltravers, after they had walked some
moments in silence, "hear me--and let your reason as well as your heart
reply. From the first moment we met, you became dear to me. Yes, even
when a child, your sweetness and your fortitude foretold so well
what you would be in womanhood; even then you left upon my memory a
delightful and mysterious shadow,--too prophetic of the light that now
hallows and wraps your image! We met again,--and the attraction that
had drawn me towards you years before was suddenly renewed. I love you,
Evelyn! I love you better than all words can tell! Your future fate,
your welfare, your happiness, contain and embody all the hopes left
to me in life! But our years are different, Evelyn; I have known
sorrows,--and the disappointments and the experience that have severed
me from the common world have robbed me of more than time itself hath
done. They have robbed me of that zest for the ordinary pleasures of our
race,--which may it be yours, sweet Evelyn, ever to retain! To me, the
time foretold by the Preacher as the lot of age has already arrived,
when the sun and the moon are darkened, and when, save in you and
through you, I have no pleasure in anything. Judge, if such a being you
can love! Judge, if my very confession does not revolt and chill, if it
does not present to you a gloomy and cheerless future, were it possible
that you could unite your lot to mine! Answer not from friendship or
from pity; the love I feel for you can have a reply from love alone, and
from that reasoning which love, in its enduring power, in its healthful
confidence, in its prophetic foresight, alone supplies! I can resign you
without a murmur; but I could not live with you and even fancy that you
had one care I could not soothe, though you might have happiness I
could not share. And fate does not present to me any vision so dark and
terrible--no, not your loss itself; no, not your indifference; no, not
your aversion--as your discovery, after time should make regret in vain,
that you had mistaken fancy or friendship for affection, a sentiment for
love. Evelyn, I have confided to you all,--all this wild heart, now and
evermore your own. My destiny is with you."

Evelyn was silent; he took her hand, and her tears fell warm and fast
upon it. Alarmed and anxious, he drew her towards him and gazed upon her
face.

"You fear to wound me," he said, with pale lips and trembling voice.
"Speak on,--I can bear all."

"No, no," said Evelyn, falteringly; "I have no fear but not to deserve
you."

"You love me, then,--you love me!" cried Maltravers wildly, and clasping
her to his heart.

The moon rose at that instant, and the wintry sward and the dark trees
were bathed in the sudden light. The time--the light--so exquisite to
all, even in loneliness and in sorrow--how divine in such companionship!
in such overflowing and ineffable sense of bliss! There and then for the
first time did Maltravers press upon that modest and blushing cheek the
kiss of Love, of Hope,--the seal of a union he fondly hoped the grave
itself could not dissolve!



CHAPTER VII.

  _Queen_.  Whereon do you look?
  _Hamlet_. On him, on him,--look you how pale he glares!--_Hamlet_.

PERHAPS to Maltravers those few minutes which ensued, as they walked
slowly on, compensated for all the troubles and cares of years; for
natures like his feel joy even yet more intensely than sorrow. It might
be that the transport, the delirium of passionate and grateful thoughts
that he poured forth, when at last he could summon words, expressed
feelings the young Evelyn could not comprehend, and which less delighted
than terrified her with the new responsibility she had incurred. But
love so honest, so generous, so intense, dazzled and bewildered
and carried her whole soul away. Certainly at that hour she felt no
regret--no thought but that one in whom she had so long recognized
something nobler than is found in the common world was thus happy and
thus made happy by a word, a look from her! Such a thought is woman's
dearest triumph; and one so thoroughly unselfish, so yielding, and so
soft, could not be insensible to the rapture she had caused.

"And oh!" said Maltravers, as he clasped again and again the hand that
he believed he had won forever, "now, at length, have I learned how
beautiful is life! For this--for this I have been reserved! Heaven is
merciful to me, and the waking world is brighter than all my dreams!"

He ceased abruptly. At that instant they were once more on the terrace
where he had first joined Teresa, facing the wood, which was divided
by a slight and low palisade from the spot where they stood. He ceased
abruptly, for his eyes encountered a terrible and ominous apparition,--a
form connected with dreary associations of fate and woe. The figure had
raised itself upon a pile of firewood on the other side of the fence,
and hence it seemed almost gigantic in its stature. It gazed upon the
pair with eyes that burned with a preternatural blaze, and a voice which
Maltravers too well remembered shrieked out "Love! love! What! _thou_
love again? Where is the Dead! Ha, ha! Where is the Dead?"

Evelyn, startled by the words, looked up, and clung in speechless terror
to Maltravers. He remained rooted to the spot.

"Unhappy man," said he, at length, and soothingly, "how came you hither?
Fly not, you are with friends."

"Friends!" said the maniac, with a scornful laugh. "I know thee, Ernest
Maltravers,--I know thee: but it is not thou who hast locked me up in
darkness and in hell, side by side with the mocking fiend! Friends! ah,
but no Friends shall catch me now! I am free! I am free! Air and wave
are not more free!" And the madman laughed with horrible glee. "She
is fair--fair," he said, abruptly checking himself, and with a changed
voice, "but not so fair as the Dead. Faithless that thou art--and yet
she loved _thee_! Woe to thee! woe! Maltravers, the perfidious! Woe to
thee--and remorse--and shame!"

"Fear not, Evelyn,--fear not," whispered Maltravers, gently, and placing
her behind him; "support your courage,--nothing shall harm you."

Evelyn, though very pale, and trembling from head to foot, retained her
senses. Maltravers advanced towards the mad man. But no sooner did the
quick eye of the last perceive the movement, than, with the fear which
belongs to that dread disease,--the fear of losing liberty,--he turned,
and with a loud cry fled into the wood. Maltravers leaped over the
fence, and pursued him some way in vain. The thick copses of the wood
snatched every trace of the fugitive from his eye.

Breathless and exhausted, Maltravers returned to the spot where he had
left Evelyn. As he reached it, he saw Teresa and her husband approaching
towards him, and Teresa's merry laugh sounded clear and musical in the
racy air. The sound appalled him; he hastened his steps to Evelyn.

"Say nothing of what we have seen to Madame de Montaigne, I beseech
you," said he; "I will explain why hereafter."

Evelyn, too overcome to speak, nodded her acquiescence. They joined the
De Montaignes, and Maltravers took the Frenchman aside.

But before he could address him, De Montaigne said,--

"Hush! do not alarm my wife--she knows nothing; but I have just heard at
Paris, that--that he has escaped--you know whom I mean?"

"I do; he is at hand; send in search of him! I have seen him. Once more
I have seen Castruccio Cesarini!"




BOOK IX.

  "Woe, woe: all things are clear."--SOPHOCLES: Oed. Tyr. 754.



CHAPTER I.

  THE privilege that statesmen ever claim,
  Who private interest never yet pursued,
  But still pretended 'twas for others' good.
......  From hence on every humorous wind that veered
  With shifted sails a several course you steered.
                 _Absalom and Achitophel_, Part ii.

LORD VARGRAVE had for more than a fortnight remained at the inn at
M-----, too ill to be removed with safety in a season so severe. Even
when at last, by easy stages, he reached London, he was subjected to
a relapse; and his recovery was slow and gradual. Hitherto unused to
sickness, he bore his confinement with extreme impatience; and against
the commands of his physician insisted on continuing to transact
his official business, and consult with his political friends in his
sick-room; for Lumley knew well, that it is most pernicious to public
men to be considered failing in health,--turkeys are not more unfeeling
to a sick brother than politicians to an ailing statesman; they give out
that his head is touched, and see paralysis and epilepsy in every speech
and every despatch. The time, too, nearly ripe for his great schemes,
made it doubly necessary that he should exert himself, and prevent
being shelved with a plausible excuse of tender compassion for his
infirmities. As soon therefore as he learned that Legard had left Paris,
he thought himself safe for a while in that quarter, and surrendered
his thoughts wholly to his ambitious projects. Perhaps, too, with
the susceptible vanity of a middle-aged man, who has had his _bonnes
fortunes_, Lumley deemed, with Rousseau, that a lover, pale and
haggard--just raised from the bed of suffering--is more interesting to
friendship than attractive to love. He and Rousseau were, I believe,
both mistaken; but that is a matter of opinion: they both thought very
coarsely of women,--one from having no sentiment, and the other from
having a sentiment that was but a disease. At length, just as Lumley was
sufficiently recovered to quit his house, to appear at his office, and
declare that his illness had wonderfully improved his constitution,
intelligence from Paris, the more startling from being wholly
unexpected, reached him. From Caroline he learned that Maltravers had
proposed to Evelyn, and been accepted. From Maltravers himself he heard
the confirmation of the news. The last letter was short, but kind and
manly. He addressed Lord Vargrave as Evelyn's guardian; slightly alluded
to the scruples he had entertained till Lord Vargrave's suit was broken
off; and feeling the subject too delicate for a letter, expressed a
desire to confer with Lumley respecting Evelyn's wishes as to certain
arrangements in her property.

And for this was it that Lumley had toiled! for this had he visited
Lisle Court! and for this had he been stricken down to the bed of pain!
Was it only to make his old rival the purchaser, if he so pleased it, of
the possessions of his own family? Lumley thought at that moment less of
Evelyn than of Lisle Court. As he woke from the stupor and the first
fit of rage into which these epistles cast him, the recollection of
the story he had heard from Mr. Onslow flashed across him. Were his
suspicions true, what a secret he would possess! How fate might yet
befriend him! Not a moment was to be lost. Weak, suffering as he still
was, he ordered his carriage, and hastened down to Mrs. Leslie.

In the interview that took place, he was careful not to alarm her
into discretion. He managed the conference with his usual consummate
dexterity. He did not appear to believe that there had been any actual
connection between Alice and the supposed Butler. He began by simply
asking whether Alice had ever, in early life, been acquainted with a
person of that name, and when residing in the neighbourhood of -----.
The change of countenance, the surprised start of Mrs. Leslie, convinced
him that his suspicions were true.

"And why do you ask, my lord?" said the old lady. "Is it to ascertain
this point that you have done me the honour to visit me?"

"Not exactly, my dear madam," said Lumley, smiling. "But I am going to
C----- on business; and besides that I wished to give an account of your
health to Evelyn, whom I shall shortly see at Paris, I certainly did
desire to know whether it would be any gratification to Lady Vargrave,
for whom I have the deepest regard, to renew her acquaintance with the
said Mr. Butler."

"What does your lordship know of him? What is he; who is he?"

"Ah, my dear lady, you turn the tables on me, I see,--for my one
question you would give me fifty. But, seriously, before I answer you,
you must tell me whether Lady Vargrave does know a gentleman of that
name; yet, indeed, to save trouble, I may as well inform you, that I
know it was under that name that she resided at C-----, when my
poor uncle first made her acquaintance. What I ought to ask is
this,--supposing Mr. Butler be still alive, and a gentleman of character
and fortune, would it please Lady Vargrave to meet with him once more?"

"I cannot tell you," said Mrs. Leslie, sinking back in her chair, much
embarrassed.

"Enough, I shall not stir further in the matter. Glad to see you looking
so well. Fine place, beautiful trees. Any commands at C-----, or any
message for Evelyn?"

Lumley rose to depart.

"Stay," said Mrs. Leslie, recalling all the pining, restless, untiring
love that Lady Vargrave had manifested towards the lost, and feeling
that she ought not to sacrifice to slight scruples the chance of
happiness for her friend's future years,--"stay; I think this question
you should address to Lady Vargrave,--or shall I?"

"As you will,--perhaps I had better write. Good-day," and Vargrave
hurried away.

He had satisfied himself, but he had another yet to satisfy,--and that,
from certain reasons known but to himself, without bringing the third
person in contact with Lady Vargrave. On arriving at C----- he wrote,
therefore, to Lady Vargrave as follows:--


MY DEAR FRIEND,--Do not think me impertinent or intrusive--but you know
me too well for that. A gentleman of the name of Butler is exceedingly
anxious to ascertain if you once lived near -----, in a pretty little
cottage,--Dove, or Dale, or Dell cottage (some such appellation),--and
if you remember a person of his name. Should you care to give a reply to
these queries, send me a line addressed to London, which I shall get on
my way to Paris.

     Yours most truly,

          VARGRAVE.


As soon as he had concluded, and despatched this letter, Vargrave wrote
to Mr. Winsley as follows:--


MY DEAR SIR,--I am so unwell as to be unable to call on you, or even
to see any one, however agreeable (nay, the more agreeable the more
exciting!). I hope, however, to renew our personal acquaintance before
quitting C-----. Meanwhile, oblige me with a line to say if I did not
understand you to signify that you could, if necessary, prove that Lady
Vargrave once resided in this town as Mrs. Butler, a very short time
before she married my uncle, under the name of Cameron, in Devonshire;
and had she not also at that time a little girl,--an infant, or nearly
so,--who must necessarily be the young lady who is my uncle's heiress,
Miss Evelyn Cameron. My reason for thus troubling you is obvious. As
Miss Cameron's guardian, I have very shortly to wind up certain affairs
connected with my uncle's will; and, what is more, there is some
property bequeathed by the late Mr. Butler, which may make it necessary
to prove identity.

     Truly yours,

          VARGRAVE.


The answer to the latter communication ran thus:--


"MY LORD,--I am very sorry to hear your lordship is so unwell, and will
pay my respects to-morrow. I certainly can swear that the present Lady
Vargrave was the Mrs. Butler who resided at C-----, and taught music.
And as the child with her was of the same sex, and about the same age
as Miss Cameron, there can, I should think, be no difficulty in
establishing the identity between that young lady and the child Lady
Vargrave had by her first husband, Mr. Butler; but of this, of course, I
cannot speak.

     "I have the honour, etc."


The next morning Vargrave despatched a note to Mr. Winsley, saying that
his health required him to return to town immediately,--and to town, in
fact, he hastened. The day after his arrival, he received, in a hurried
hand--strangely blurred and blotted, perhaps by tears--this short
letter:--


For Heaven's sake, tell me what you mean! Yes, yes, I did once reside at
Dale Cottage, I did know one of the name of Butler! Has _he_ discovered
the name _I_ bear? Where is he? I implore you to write, or let me see
you before you leave England!

          ALICE VARGRAVE.


Lumley smiled triumphantly when he read and carefully put up this
letter.

"I must now amuse and put her off--at all events for the present."

In answer to Lady Vargrave's letter, he wrote a few lines to say that
he had only heard through a third person (a lawyer) of a Mr. Butler
residing somewhere abroad, who had wished these inquiries to be made;
that he believed it only related to some disposition of property; that,
_perhaps_, the Mr. Butler who made the inquiry was heir to the Mr.
Butler she had known; that he could learn nothing else at present, as
the purport of her reply must be sent abroad,--the lawyer would or could
say nothing more; that directly he received a further communication it
should be despatched to her, that he was most affectionately and most
truly hers.

The rest of that morning Vargrave devoted to Lord Saxingham and his
allies; and declaring, and believing, that he should not be long absent
at Paris, he took an early dinner, and was about once more to commit
himself to the risks of travel, when, as he crossed the hall, Mr. Douce
came hastily upon him.

"My lord--my lord--I must have a word with your l-l-lordship;--you are
going to--that is--" (and the little man looked frightened) "you intend
to--to go to--that is--ab-ab-ab--"

"Not abscond, Mr. Douce; come into the library: I am in a great hurry,
but I have always time for _you_. What's the matter?"

"Why, then, my lord,--I--I have heard nothing m-m-more from your
lordship about the pur-pur--"

"Purchase?--I am going to Paris, to settle all particulars with Miss
Cameron; tell the lawyers so."

"May--may--we draw out the money to--to--show--that--that we are in
earnest? Otherwise I fear--that is, I suspect--I mean I know, that
Colonel Maltravers will be off the bargain."

"Why, Mr. Douce, really I must just see my ward first; but you shall
hear from me in a day or two;--and the ten thousand pounds I owe you!"

"Yes, indeed, the ten--ten--ten!--my partner is very--"

"Anxious for it, no doubt! My compliments to him. God bless you!--take
care of yourself,--must be off to save the packet;" and Vargrave hurried
away, muttering, "Heaven sends money, and the devil sends duns!"

Douce gasped like a fish for breath, as his eyes followed the rapid
steps of Vargrave; and there was an angry scowl of disappointment on
his small features. Lumley, by this time, seated in his carriage, and
wrapped up in his cloak, had forgotten the creditor's existence, and
whispered to his aristocratic secretary, as he bent his head out of the
carriage window, "I have told Lord Saxingham to despatch you to me, if
there is any--the least--necessity for me in London. I leave you behind,
Howard, because your sister being at court, and your cousin with
our notable premier, you will find out every change in the wind--you
understand. And, I say, Howard, don't think I forget your kindness!--you
know that no man ever served me in vain! Oh, there's that horrid little
Douce behind you,--tell them to drive on!"



CHAPTER II.

            HEARD you that?
  What prodigy of horror is disclosing?--LILLO: _Fatal Curiosity_.

THE unhappy companion of Cesarini's flight was soon discovered and
recaptured; but all search for Cesarini himself proved ineffectual, not
only in the neighbourhood of St. Cloud, but in the surrounding country
and in Paris. The only comfort was in thinking that his watch would at
least preserve him for some time from the horrors of want; and that by
the sale of the trinket, he might be traced. The police, too, were set
at work,--the vigilant police of Paris! Still day rolled on day, and no
tidings. The secret of the escape was carefully concealed from
Teresa; and public cares were a sufficient excuse for the gloom on De
Montaigne's brow.

Evelyn heard from Maltravers with mingled emotions of compassion, grief,
and awe the gloomy tale connected with the history of the maniac. She
wept for the fate of Florence; she shuddered at the curse that had
fallen on Cesarini; and perhaps Maltravers grew dearer to her from the
thought that there was so much in the memories of the past that needed a
comforter and a soother.

They returned to Paris, affianced and plighted lovers; and then it was
that Evelyn sought carefully and resolutely to banish from her mind all
recollection, all regret, of the absent Legard: she felt the solemnity
of the trust confided in her, and she resolved that no thought of hers
should ever be of a nature to gall the generous and tender spirit that
had confided its life of life to her care. The influence of Maltravers
over her increased in their new and more familiar position, and yet
still it partook too much of veneration, too little of passion; but
that might be her innocence and youth. He, at least, was sensible of no
want,--she had chosen him from the world; and fastidious as he deemed
himself, he reposed, without a doubt, on the security of her faith. None
of those presentiments which had haunted him when first betrothed
to Florence disturbed him now. The affection of one so young and so
guileless seemed to bring back to him all his own youth--we are ever
young while the young can love us! Suddenly, too, the world took to his
eyes a brighter and fairer aspect. Hope, born again, reconciled him to
his career and to his race! The more he listened to Evelyn, the more he
watched every evidence of her docile but generous nature, the more he
felt assured that he had found at last a heart suited to his own. Her
beautiful serenity of temper, cheerful, yet never fitful or unquiet,
gladdened him with its insensible contagion. To be with Evelyn was like
basking in the sunshine of some happy sky! It was an inexpressible
charm to one wearied with "the hack sights and sounds" of this jaded
world,--to watch the ever-fresh and sparkling the thoughts and fancies
which came from a soul so new to life! It enchanted one, painfully
fastidious in what relates to the true nobility of character, that,
however various the themes discussed, no low or mean thought ever
sullied those beautiful lips. It was not the mere innocence of
inexperience, but the moral incapability of guile, that charmed him
in the companion he had chosen on his path to Eternity! He was also
delighted to notice Evelyn's readiness of resources: she had that
faculty, without which woman has no independence from the world, no
pledge that domestic retirement will not soon languish into wearisome
monotony,--the faculty of making trifles contribute to occupation
or amusement; she was easily pleased, and yet she so soon reconciled
herself to disappointment. He felt, and chid his own dulness for not
feeling it before, that, young and surpassingly lovely as she was, she
required no stimulant from the heated pursuits and the hollow admiration
of the crowd.

"Such," thought he, "are the natures that alone can preserve through
years the poetry of the first passionate illusion, that can alone render
wedlock the seal that confirms affection, and not the mocking ceremonial
that vainly consecrates its grave!"

Maltravers, as we have seen, formally wrote to Lumley some days after
their return to Paris. He would have written also to Lady Vargrave, but
Evelyn thought it best to prepare her mother by a letter from herself.

Miss Cameron now wanted but a few weeks to the age of eighteen, at which
she was to be the sole mistress of her own destiny. On arriving at that
age the marriage was to take place. Valerie heard with sincere delight
of the new engagement her friend had formed. She eagerly sought every
opportunity to increase her intimacy with Evelyn, who was completely won
by her graceful kindness; the result of Valerie's examination was, that
she did not wonder at the passionate love of Maltravers, but that her
deep knowledge of the human heart (that knowledge so remarkable in
the women of her country!) made her doubt how far it was adequately
returned, how far Evelyn deceived herself. Her first satisfaction became
mingled with anxiety, and she relied more for the future felicity of
her friend on Evelyn's purity of thought and general tenderness of heart
than on the exclusiveness and ardour of her love. Alas! few at eighteen
are not too young for the irrevocable step,--and Evelyn was younger than
her years! One evening at Madame de Ventadour's Maltravers asked Evelyn
if she had yet heard from Lady Vargrave. Evelyn expressed her surprise
that she had not, and the conversation fell, as was natural, upon
Lady Vargrave herself. "Is she as fond of music as you are?" asked
Maltravers.

"Yes, indeed, I think so--and of the songs of a certain person in
particular; they always had for her an indescribable charm. Often have
I heard her say that to read your writings was like talking to an early
friend. Your name and genius seemed to make her solitary connection with
the great world. Nay--but you will not be angry--I half think it was
her enthusiasm, so strange and rare, that first taught me interest in
yourself."

"I have a double reason, then, for loving your mother," said Maltravers,
much pleased and flattered. "And does she not like Italian music?"

"Not much; she prefers some rather old-fashioned German airs, very
simple, but very touching."

"My own early passion," said Maltravers, more and more interested.

"But there are also one or two English songs which I have occasionally,
but very seldom, heard her sing. One in especial affects her so deeply,
even when she plays the air, that I have always attached to it a certain
mysterious sanctity. I should not like to sing it before a crowd, but
to-morrow, when you call on me, and we are alone--"

"Ah, to-morrow I will not fail to remind you."

Their conversation ceased; yet, somehow or other, that night when he
retired to rest the recollection of it haunted Maltravers. He felt a
vague, unaccountable curiosity respecting this secluded and solitary
mother; all concerning her early fate seemed so wrapped in mystery.
Cleveland, in reply to his letter, had informed him that all inquiries
respecting the birth and first marriage of Lady Vargrave had failed.
Evelyn evidently knew but little of either, and he felt a certain
delicacy in pressing questions which might be ascribed to the
inquisitiveness of a vulgar family pride. Moreover, lovers have so much
to say to each other, that he had not time to talk at length to Evelyn
about third persons. He slept ill that night,--dark and boding dreams
disturbed his slumber. He rose late and dejected by presentiments he
could not master: his morning meal was scarcely over, and he had already
taken his hat to go to Evelyn's for comfort and sunshine, when the door
opened, and he was surprised by the entrance of Lord Vargrave.

Lumley seated himself with a formal gravity very unusual to him, and as
if anxious to waive unnecessary explanations, began as follows, with a
serious and impressive voice and aspect:--

"Maltravers, of late years we have been estranged from each other. I
do not presume to dictate to you your friendships or your dislikes. Why
this estrangement has happened you alone can determine. For my part I am
conscious of no offence; that which I was I am still. It is you who have
changed. Whether it be the difference of our political opinions, or any
other and more secret cause, I know not. I lament, but it is now too
late to attempt to remove it. If you suspect me of ever seeking, or even
wishing, to sow dissension between yourself and my ill-fated cousin, now
no more, you are mistaken. I ever sought the happiness and union of you
both. And yet, Maltravers, you then came between me and an early and
cherished dream. But I suffered in silence; my course was at least
disinterested, perhaps generous: let it pass. A second time you cross my
path,--you win from me a heart I had long learned to consider mine. You
have no scruple of early friendship, you have no forbearance towards
acknowledged and affianced ties. You are my rival with Evelyn Cameron,
and your suit has prospered."

"Vargrave," said Maltravers, "you have spoken frankly; and I will reply
with an equal candour. A difference of tastes, tempers, and opinions led
us long since into opposite paths. I am one who cannot disunite public
morality from private virtue. From motives best known to you, but which
I say openly I hold to have been those of interest or ambition, you did
not change your opinions (there is no sin in that), but retaining them
in private, professed others in public, and played with the destinies of
mankind as if they were but counters to mark a mercenary game. This led
me to examine your character with more searching eyes; and I found it
one I could no longer trust. With respect to the Dead, let the pall drop
over that early grave,--I acquit you of all blame. He who sinned has
suffered more than would atone the crime! You charge me with my love to
Evelyn. Pardon me, but I seduced no affection, I have broken no tie. Not
till she was free in heart and in hand to choose between us, did I hint
at love. Let me think that a way may be found to soften one portion at
least of the disappointment you cannot but feel acutely."

"Stay!" said Lord Vargrave (who, plunged in a gloomy revery, had
scarcely seemed to hear the last few sentences of his rival): "stay,
Maltravers. Speak not of love to Evelyn! A horrible foreboding tells me
that, a few hours hence, you would rather pluck out your tongue by the
roots than couple the words of love with the thought of that unfortunate
girl! Oh, if I were vindictive, what awful triumph would await me
now! What retaliation on your harsh judgment, your cold contempt, your
momentary and wretched victory over me! Heaven is my witness, that my
only sentiment is that of terror and woe! Maltravers, in your earliest
youth, did you form connection with one whom they called Alice Darvil?"

"Alice! merciful Heaven! what of her?"

"Did you never know that the Christian name of Evelyn's mother is
Alice?"

"I never asked, I never knew; but it is a common name," faltered
Maltravers.

"Listen to me," resumed Vargrave: "with Alice Darvil you lived in the
neighbourhood of -----, did you not?"

"Go on, go on!"

"You took the name of Butler; by that name Alice Darvil was afterwards
known in the town in which my uncle resided--there are gaps in the
history that I cannot of my own knowledge fill up,--she taught music; my
uncle became enamoured of her, but he was vain and worldly. She removed
into Devonshire, and he married her there, under the name of Cameron, by
which name he hoped to conceal from the world the lowness of her origin,
and the humble calling she had followed. Hold! do not interrupt me.
Alice had one daughter, as was supposed, by a former marriage; that
daughter was the offspring of him whose name she bore--yes, of the false
Butler!--that daughter is Evelyn Cameron!"

"Liar! devil!" cried Maltravers, springing to his feet, as if a shot had
pierced his heart. "Proofs! proofs!"

"Will these suffice?" said Vargrave, as he drew forth the letters of
Winsley and Lady Vargrave. Maltravers took them, but it was some moments
before he could dare to read. He supported himself with difficulty from
falling to the ground; there was a gurgle in his throat like the sound
of the death-rattle; at last he read, and dropped the letters from his
hand.

"Wait me here," he said very faintly, and moved mechanically to the
door.

"Hold!" said Lord Vargrave, laying his hand upon Ernest's arm. "Listen
to me for Evelyn's sake, for her mother's. You are about to seek
Evelyn,--be it so! I know that you possess the god-like gift of
self-control. You will not suffer her to learn that her mother has done
that which dishonours alike mother and child? You will not consummate
your wrong to Alice Darvil by robbing her of the fruit of a life
of penitence and remorse? You will not unveil her shame to her own
daughter? Convince yourself, and master yourself while you do so!"

"Fear me not," said Maltravers, with a terrible smile; "I will not
afflict my conscience with a double curse. As I have sowed, so must I
reap. Wait me here!"



CHAPTER III.

... MISERY  That gathers force each moment as it rolls,
  And must, at last, o'erwhelm me.--LILLO: _Fatal Curiosity_.

MALTRAVERS found Evelyn alone; she turned towards him with her usual
sweet smile of welcome; but the smile vanished at once, as her eyes met
his changed and working countenance; cold drops stood upon the rigid and
marble brow, the lips writhed as if in bodily torture, the muscles of
the face had fallen, and there was a wildness which appalled her in the
fixed and feverish brightness of the eyes.

"You are ill, Ernest,--dear Ernest, you are ill,--your look freezes me!"

"Nay, Evelyn," said Maltravers, recovering himself by one of those
efforts of which men who have _suffered without sympathy_ are alone
capable,--"nay, I am better now; I have been ill--very ill--but I am
better!"

"Ill! and I not know of it?" She attempted to take his hand as she
spoke. Maltravers recoiled.

"It is fire! it burns! Avaunt!" he cried, frantically. "O Heaven! spare
me, spare me!"

Evelyn was not seriously alarmed; she gazed on him with the tenderest
compassion. Was this one of those moody and overwhelming paroxysms to
which it had been whispered abroad that he was subject? Strange as it
may seem, despite her terror, he was dearer to her in that hour--as she
believed, of gloom and darkness--than in all the glory of his majestic
intellect, or all the blandishments of his soft address.

"What has happened to you?" she said, approaching him again; "have you
seen Lord Vargrave? I know that he has arrived, for his servant has been
here to say so; has he uttered anything to distress you? or has--" (she
added falteringly and timidly)--"has poor Evelyn offended you? Speak to
me,--only speak!"

Maltravers turned, and his face was now calm and serene save by its
extreme and almost ghastly paleness, no trace of the hell within him
could be discovered.

"Pardon me," said he, gently, "I know not this morning what I say or do;
think not of it, think not of me,--it will pass away when I hear your
voice."

"Shall I sing to you the words I spoke of last night? See, I have them
ready; I know them by heart, but I thought you might like to read them,
they are so full of simple but deep feeling."

Maltravers took the song from her hands, and bent over the paper; at
first, the letters seemed dim and indistinct, for there was a mist
before his eyes; but at last a chord of memory was struck,--he recalled
the words: they were some of those he had composed for Alice in the
first days of their delicious intercourse,--links of the golden chain,
in which he had sought to bind the spirit of knowledge to that of love.

"And from whom," said he, in a faint voice, as he calmly put down the
verses,--"from whom did your mother learn these words?"

"I know not; some dear friend, years ago, composed and gave them to
her. It must have been one very dear to her, to judge by the effect they
still produce."

"Think you," said Maltravers, in a hollow voice, "think you IT WAS YOUR
FATHER?"

"My father! She never speaks of him! I have been early taught to shun
all allusion to his memory. My father!--it is probable; yes, it may have
been my father; whom else could she have loved so fondly?"

There was a long silence; Evelyn was the first to break it.

"I have heard from my mother to-day, Ernest; her letter alarms me,--I
scarce know why!"

"Ah! and how--"

"It is hurried and incoherent,--almost wild: she says she has learned
some intelligence that has unsettled and unstrung her mind; she has
requested me to inquire if any one I am acquainted with has heard of,
or met abroad, some person of the name of Butler. You start!--have you
known one of that name?"

"I!--did your mother never allude to that name before?"

"Never!--and yet, once I remember--"

"What?"

"That I was reading an account in the papers of the sudden death of some
Mr. Butler; and her agitation made a powerful and strange impression
upon me,--in fact, she fainted, and seemed almost delirious when she
recovered; she would not rest till I had completed the account, and when
I came to the particulars of his age, etc. (he was old, I think) she
clasped her hands, and wept; but they seemed tears of joy. The name is
so common--whom of that name have you known?"

"It is no matter. Is that your mother's letter; is that her
handwriting?"

"Yes;" and Evelyn gave the letter to Maltravers. He glanced over the
characters; he had once or twice seen Lady Vargrave's handwriting
before, and had recognized no likeness between that handwriting and such
early specimens of Alice's art as he had witnessed so many years ago;
but now, "trifles light as air" had grown "confirmation strong as
proof of Holy Writ,"--he thought he detected Alice in every line of the
hurried and blotted scroll; and when his eye rested on the words, "Your
affectionate MOTHER, _Alice_!" his blood curdled in his veins.

"It is strange!" said he, still struggling for self-composure; "strange
that I never thought of asking her name before! Alice! her name is
Alice?"

"A sweet name, is it not? It accords so well with her simple
character--how you would love her!"

As she said this, Evelyn turned to Maltravers with enthusiasm, and again
she was startled by his aspect; for again it was haggard, distorted, and
convulsed.

"Oh, if you love me," she cried, "do send immediately for advice! And
yet; is it illness, Ernest, or is it some grief that you hide from me?"

"It is illness, Evelyn," said Maltravers, rising: and his knees knocked
together. "I am not fit even for your companionship,--I will go home."

"And send instantly for advice?"

"Ay; it waits me there already."

"Thank Heaven! and you will write to me one little word--to relieve me?
I am so uneasy!"

"I will write to you."

"This evening?"

"Ay!"

"Now go,--I will not detain you."

He walked slowly to the door, but when he reached it he turned, and
catching her anxious gaze, he opened his arms; overpowered with strange
fear and affectionate sympathy, she burst into passionate tears;
and surprised out of the timidity and reserve which had hitherto
characterized her pure and meek attachment to him, she fell on his
breast, and sobbed aloud. Maltravers raised his hands, and, placing
them solemnly on her young head, his lips muttered as if in prayer. He
paused, and strained her to his heart; but he shunned that parting kiss,
which, hitherto, he had so fondly sought. That embrace was one of agony,
and not of rapture; and yet Evelyn dreamed not that he designed it for
the last!



Maltravers re-entered the room in which he had left Lord Vargrave, who
still awaited his return.

He walked up to Lumley, and held out his hand. "You have saved me from a
dreadful crime,--from an everlasting remorse. I thank you!"

Hardened and frigid as his nature was, Lumley was touched; the movement
of Maltravers took him by surprise. "It has been a dreadful duty,
Ernest," said he, pressing the hand he held; "but to come, too, from
_me_,--your rival!"

"Proceed, proceed, I pray you; explain all this--yet explanation! what
do I want to know? Evelyn is my daughter,--Alice's child! For Heaven's
sake, give me hope; say it is not so; say that she is Alice's child,
but not _mine_! Father! father!--and they call it a holy name--it is a
horrible one!"

"Compose yourself, my dear friend: recollect what you have escaped! You
will recover this shock. Time, travel--"

"Peace, man,--peace! Now then I am calm! When Alice left me she had no
child. I knew not that she bore within her the pledge of our ill-omened
and erring love. Verily, the sins of my youth have arisen against me;
and the curse has come home to roost!"

"I cannot explain to you all details."

"But why not have told me of this? Why not have warned me; why not have
said to me, when my heart could have been satisfied by so sweet a tie,
'Thou hast a daughter: thou art not desolate'? Why reserve the knowledge
of the blessing until it has turned to poison? Fiend that you are! you
have waited this hour to gloat over the agony from which a word from you
a year, nay, a month ago--a little month ago--might have saved me and
her!"

Maltravers, as he spoke, approached Vargrave, with eyes sparkling with
fierce passion, his hand clenched, his form dilated, the veins on his
forehead swelled like cords. Lumley, brave as he was, recoiled.

"I knew not of this secret," said he, deprecatingly, "till a few days
before I came hither; and I came hither at once to disclose it to you.
Will you listen to me? I knew that my uncle had married a person much
beneath him in rank; but he was guarded and cautious, and I knew
no more, except that by a first husband that lady had one
daughter,--Evelyn. A chain of accidents suddenly acquainted me with the
rest."

Here Vargrave pretty faithfully repeated what he had learned from the
brewer at C-----, and from Mr. Onslow; but when he came to the tacit
confirmation of all his suspicions received from Mrs. Leslie, he greatly
exaggerated and greatly distorted the account. "Judge, then," concluded
Lumley, "of the horror with which I heard that you had declared an
attachment to Evelyn, and that it was returned. Ill as I was, I hastened
hither: you know the rest. Are you satisfied?"

"I will go to Alice! I will learn from her own lips--yet, how can I meet
her again? How say to her, 'I have taken from thee thy last hope,--I
have broken thy child's heart'?"

"Forgive me, but I should confess to you, that, from all I can learn
from Mrs. Leslie, Lady Vargrave has but one prayer, one hope in
life,--that she may never again meet with her betrayer. You may, indeed,
in her own letter perceive how much she is terrified by the thought of
your discovering her. She has, at length, recovered peace of mind and
tranquillity of conscience. She shrinks with dread from the prospect
of ever again encountering one once so dear, now associated in her
mind with recollections of guilt and sorrow. More than this, she is
sensitively alive to the fear of shame, to the dread of detection.
If ever her daughter were to know her sin, it would be to her as a
death-blow. Yet in her nervous state of health, her ever-quick and
uncontrollable feelings, if you were to meet her, she would disguise
nothing, conceal nothing. The veil would be torn aside: the menials in
her own house would tell the tale, and curiosity circulate, and scandal
blacken the story of her early errors. No, Maltravers, at least wait
awhile before you see her; wait till her mind can be prepared for such
an interview, till precautions can be taken, till you yourself are in a
calmer state of mind."

Maltravers fixed his piercing eyes on Lumley while he thus spoke, and
listened in deep attention.

"It matters not," said he, after a long pause, "whether these be your
real reasons for wishing to defer or prevent a meeting between Alice and
myself. The affliction that has come upon me bursts with too clear
and scorching a blaze of light for me to see any chance of escape or
mitigation. Even if Evelyn were the daughter of Alice by another, she
would be forever separated from me. The mother and the child! there is
a kind of incest even in that thought! But such an alleviation of my
anguish is forbidden to my reason. No, poor Alice, I will not disturb
the repose thou hast won at last! Thou shalt never have the grief to
know that our error has brought upon thy lover so black a doom! All is
over! the world never shall find me again. Nothing is left for me but
the desert and the grave!"

"Speak not so, Ernest," said Lord Vargrave, soothingly; "a little while,
and you will recover this blow: your control over passion has, even
in youth, inspired me with admiration and surprise; and now, in calmer
years, and with such incentives to self-mastery, your triumph will come
sooner than you think. Evelyn, too, is so young; she has not known you
long; perhaps her love, after all, is that caused by some mystic, but
innocent working of nature, and she would rejoice to call you 'father.'
Happy years are yet in store for you."

Maltravers did not listen to these vain and hollow consolations. With
his head drooping on his bosom, his whole form unnerved, the large
tears rolling unheeded down his cheeks, he seemed the very picture of a
broken-hearted man, whom fate never again could raise from despair. He,
who had, for years, so cased himself in pride, on whose very front was
engraved the victory over passion and misfortune, whose step had trod
the earth in the royalty of the conqueror; the veriest slave that crawls
bore not a spirit more humbled, fallen, or subdued! He who had looked
with haughty eyes on the infirmities of others, who had disdained
to serve his race because of their human follies and partial
frailties,--_he_, even _he_, the Pharisee of Genius,--had but escaped by
a chance, and by the hand of the man he suspected and despised, from
a crime at which nature herself recoils,--which all law, social and
divine, stigmatizes as inexpiable, which the sternest imagination of the
very heathen had invented as the gloomiest catastrophe that can befall
the wisdom and the pride of mortals! But one step farther, and the
fabulous Oedipus had not been more accursed!

Such thoughts as these, unformed, confused, but strong enough to bow him
to the dust, passed through the mind of this wretched man. He had been
familiar with grief, he had been dull to enjoyment; sad and bitter
memories had consumed his manhood: but pride had been left him still;
and he had dared in his secret heart to say, "I can defy Fate!" Now the
bolt had fallen; Pride was shattered into fragments, Self-abasement was
his companion, Shame sat upon his prostrate soul. The Future had no hope
left in store. Nothing was left for him but to die!

Lord Vargrave gazed at him in real pain, in sincere compassion; for his
nature, wily, deceitful, perfidious though it was, had cruelty only so
far as was necessary to the unrelenting execution of his schemes. No
pity could swerve him from a purpose; but he had enough of the man
within him to feel pity not the less, even for his own victim! At length
Maltravers lifted his head, and waved his hand gently to Lord Vargrave.

"All is now explained," said he, in a feeble voice; "our interview
is over. I must be alone; I have yet to collect my reason, to commune
calmly and deliberately with myself; I have to write to her--to invent,
to lie,--I, who believed I could never, never utter, even to an enemy,
what was false! And I must not soften the blow to her. I must not utter
a word of love,--love, it is incest! I must endeavour brutally to crush
out the very affection I created! She must hate me!--oh, _teach_ her
to hate me! Blacken my name, traduce my motives,--let her believe them
levity or perfidy, what you will. So will she forget me the sooner; so
will she the easier bear the sorrow which the father brings upon the
child. And _she_ has not sinned! O Heaven, the sin was mine! Let my
punishment be a sacrifice that Thou wilt accept for her!"

Lord Vargrave attempted again to console; but this time the words died
upon his lips. His arts failed him. Maltravers turned impatiently away
and pointed to the door.

"I will see you again," said he, "before I quit Paris; leave your
address below."

Vargrave was not, perhaps, unwilling to terminate a scene so painful:
he muttered a few incoherent words, and abruptly withdrew. He heard
the door locked behind him as he departed. Ernest Maltravers was
alone!--what a solitude!



CHAPTER IV.

  PITY me not, but lend thy serious hearing
  To what I shall unfold.--_Hamlet_.


LETTER FROM ERNEST MALTRAVERS TO EVELYN CAMERON.


EVELYN!

All that you have read of faithlessness and perfidy will seem tame to
you when compared with that conduct which you are doomed to meet from
me. We must part, and for ever. We have seen each other for the last
time. It is bootless even to ask the cause. Believe that I am fickle,
false, heartless,--that a whim has changed me, if you will. My resolve
is unalterable. We meet no more even as friends. I do not ask you either
to forgive or to remember me. Look on me as one wholly unworthy even
of resentment! Do not think that I write this in madness or in fever or
excitement. Judge me not by my seeming illness this morning. I invent no
excuse, no extenuation, for my broken faith and perjured vows. Calmly,
coldly, and deliberately I write; and thus writing, I renounce your
love.

This language is wanton cruelty,--it is fiendish insult,--is it not,
Evelyn? Am I not a villain? Are you not grateful for your escape? Do you
not look on the past with a shudder at the precipice on which you stood?

I have done with this subject,--I turn to another. We are parted,
Evelyn, and forever. Do not fancy,--I repeat, do not fancy that there
is any error, any strange infatuation on my mind, that there is any
possibility that the sentence can be annulled. It were almost easier to
call the dead from the grave than bring us again together, as we were
and as we hoped to be. Now that you are convinced of that truth, learn,
as soon as you have recovered the first shock of knowing how much
wickedness there is on earth,--learn to turn to the future for happier
and more suitable ties than those you could have formed with me. You
are very young; in youth our first impressions are lively but
evanescent,--you will wonder hereafter at having fancied you loved me.
Another and a fairer image will replace mine. This is what I desire and
pray for. _As soon as I learn that you love another, that you are wedded
to another, I will re-appear in the world; till then, I am a wanderer
and an exile. Your hand alone can efface from my brow the brand of
Cain!_ When I am gone, Lord Vargrave will probably renew his suit. I
would rather you married one of your own years,--one whom you could love
fondly, one who would chase away every remembrance of the wretch who
now forsakes you. But perhaps I have mistaken Lord Vargrave's character;
perhaps he may be worthier of you than I deemed (_I_ who set up for
the censor of other men!); perhaps he may both win and deserve your
affection.

Evelyn, farewell! God, who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, will
watch over you!

          ERNEST MALTRAVERS.



CHAPTER V.

  OUR acts our angels are, or good or ill,
  The fatal shadows that walk by us still.--JOHN FLETCHER.

THE next morning came; the carriage was at the door of Maltravers, to
bear him away he cared not whither. Where could he fly from memory? He
had just despatched the letter to Evelyn,--a letter studiously written
for the object of destroying all the affection to which he had so fondly
looked as the last charm of life. He was now only waiting for Vargrave,
to whom he had sent, and who hastened to obey the summons.

When Lumley arrived, he was shocked at the alteration which a single
night had effected in the appearance of Maltravers; but he was surprised
and relieved to find him calm and self-possessed.

"Vargrave," said Maltravers, "whatever our past coldness, henceforth I
owe to you an eternal gratitude; and henceforth this awful secret makes
between us an indissoluble bond. If I have understood you rightly,
neither Alice nor other living being than yourself know that in me,
Ernest Maltravers, stands the guilty object of Alice's first love. Let
that secret still be kept; relieve Alice's mind from the apprehension of
learning that the man who betrayed her yet lives: he will not live
long! I leave time and method of explanation to your own judgment and
acuteness. Now for Evelyn." Here Maltravers stated generally the tone of
the letter he had written. Vargrave listened thoughtfully.

"Maltravers," said he, "it is right to try first the effect of your
letter. But if it fail, if it only serve to inflame the imagination and
excite the interest, if Evelyn still continue to love you, if that love
preys upon her, if it should undermine health and spirit, if it should
destroy her?"

Maltravers groaned. Lumley proceeded: "I say this not to wound you,
but to provide against all circumstances. I too have spent the night in
revolving what is best to be done in such a case; and this is the plan
I have formed. Let us, if need be, tell the truth to Evelyn, robbing
the truth only of its shame. Nay, nay, listen. Why not say that under a
borrowed name and in the romance of early youth you knew and loved Alice
(though in innocence and honour)? Your tender age, the difference of
rank, forbade your union. Her father, discovering your clandestine
correspondence, suddenly removed her from the country, and destroyed all
clew for your inquiries. You lost sight of each other,--each was taught
to believe the other dead. Alice was compelled by her father to marry
Mr. Cameron; and after his death, her poverty and her love for her only
child induced her to accept my uncle. You have now learned all,--have
learned that Evelyn is the daughter of your first love, the daughter
of one who adores you still, and whose life your remembrance has for so
many years embittered. Evelyn herself will at once comprehend all the
scruples of a delicate mind; Evelyn herself will recoil from the thought
of making the child the rival to the mother. She will understand why you
have flown from her; she will sympathize with your struggles; she will
recall the constant melancholy of Alice; she will hope that the ancient
love may be renewed, and efface all grief; Generosity and Duty alike
will urge her to conquer her own affection! And hereafter, when time
has restored you both, father and child may meet with such sentiments as
father and child may own!"

Maltravers was silent for some minutes; at length he said abruptly, "And
you really loved her, Vargrave,--you love her still? Your dearest care
must be her welfare."

"It is! indeed, it is!"

"Then I must trust to your discretion; I can have no other confidant;
I myself am not fit to judge. My mind is darkened--you may be right--I
think so."

"One word more,--she may discredit my tale, if unsupported. Will you
write one line to me to say that I am authorized to reveal the secret,
and that it is known only to me? I will not use it unless I should think
it absolutely required."

Hastily and mechanically Maltravers wrote a few words to the effect of
what Lumley had suggested. "I will inform you," he said to Vargrave as
he gave him the paper, "of whatever spot may become my asylum; and you
can communicate to me all that I dread and long to hear; but let no man
know the refuge of despair!"

There was positively a tear in Vargrave's cold eye,--the only tear that
had glistened there for many years; he paused irresolute, then advanced,
again halted, muttered to himself, and turned aside.

"As for the world," Lumley resumed, after a pause, "your engagement has
been public,--some public account of its breach must be invented. You
have always been considered a proud man; we will say that it was
low birth on the side of both mother and father (the last only just
discovered) that broke off the alliance!"

Vargrave was talking to the deaf; what cared Maltravers for the world?
He hastened from the room, threw himself into his carriage, and Vargrave
was left to plot, to hope, and to aspire.




BOOK X.

  "A dream!"--HOMER, I, 3.



CHAPTER I.

  QUALIS ubi in lucem coluber
... Mala gramina pastus.*--VIRGIL.

  Pars minima est ipsa puella sui.**--OVID.

  * "As when a snake glides into light, having fed on pernicious
    pastures."

  ** "The girl is the least part of himself."

IT would be superfluous, and, perhaps, a sickening task, to detail at
length the mode and manner in which Vargrave coiled his snares round the
unfortunate girl whom his destiny had marked out for his prey. He was
right in foreseeing that, after the first amazement caused by the
letter of Maltravers, Evelyn would feel resentment crushed beneath her
certainty of his affection her incredulity at his self-accusations,
and her secret conviction that some reverse, some misfortune he was
unwilling she should share, was the occasion of his farewell and flight.
Vargrave therefore very soon communicated to Evelyn the tale he had
suggested to Maltravers. He reminded her of the habitual sorrow, the
evidence of which was so visible in Lady Vargrave; of her indifference
to the pleasures of the world; of her sensitive shrinking from all
recurrence to her early fate. "The secret of this," said he, "is in a
youthful and most fervent attachment; your mother loved a young stranger
above her in rank, who (his head being full of German romance) was then
roaming about the country on pedestrian and adventurous excursions,
under the assumed name of Butler. By him she was most ardently beloved
in return. Her father, perhaps, suspected the rank of her lover, and
was fearful of her honour being compromised. He was a strange man, that
father! and I know not his real character and motives; but he suddenly
withdrew his daughter from the suit and search of her lover,--they saw
each other no more; her lover mourned her as one dead. In process of
time your mother was constrained by her father to marry Mr. Cameron,
and was left a widow with an only child,--yourself: she was poor;--very
poor! and her love and anxiety for you at last induced her to listen to
the addresses of my late uncle; for your sake she married again; again
death dissolved the tie! But still, unceasingly and faithfully, she
recalled that first love, the memory of which darkened and embittered
all her life, and still she lived upon the hope to meet with the lost
again. At last, and most recently, it was my fate to discover that the
object of this unconquerable affection lived,--was still free in hand if
not in heart: you behold the lover of your mother in Ernest Maltravers!
It devolved on me (an invidious--a reluctant duty) to inform Maltravers
of the identity of Lady Vargrave with the Alice of his boyish passion;
to prove to him her suffering, patient, unsubdued affection; to convince
him that the sole hope left to her in life was that of one day or
other beholding him once again. You know Maltravers,--his high-wrought,
sensitive, noble character; he recoiled in terror from the thought of
making his love to the daughter the last and bitterest affliction to
the mother he had so loved; knowing too how completely that mother had
entwined herself round your affections, he shuddered at the pain and
self-reproach that would be yours when you should discover to whom you
had been the rival, and whose the fond hopes and dreams that your fatal
beauty had destroyed. Tortured, despairing, and half beside himself, he
has fled from this ill-omened passion, and in solitude he now seeks to
subdue that passion. Touched by the woe, the grief, of the Alice of
his youth, it is his intention, as soon as he can know you restored to
happiness and content, to hasten to your mother, and offer his future
devotion as the fulfilment of former vows. On you, and you alone, it
depends to restore Maltravers to the world,--on you alone it depends to
bless the remaining years of the mother who so dearly loves you!"

It may be easily conceived with what sensations of wonder, compassion,
and dismay, Evelyn listened to this tale, the progress of which her
exclamations, her sobs, often interrupted. She would write instantly to
her mother, to Maltravers. Oh, how gladly she would relinquish his
suit: How cheerfully promise to rejoice in that desertion which brought
happiness to the mother she had so loved!

"Nay," said Vargrave, "your mother must not know, till the intelligence
can be breathed by his lips, and softened by his protestations of
returning affection, that the mysterious object of her early romance is
that Maltravers whose vows have been so lately offered to her own child.
Would not such intelligence shock all pride, and destroy all hope? How
could she then consent to the sacrifice which Maltravers is prepared
to make? No! not till you are another's--not (to use the words of
Maltravers) till you are a happy and beloved wife--must your mother
receive the returning homage of Maltravers; not till then can she
know where that homage has been recently rendered; not till then can
Maltravers feel justified in the atonement he meditates. He is willing
to sacrifice himself; he trembles at the thought of sacrificing you! Say
nothing to your mother, till from her own lips she tells you that she
has learned all."

Could Evelyn hesitate; could Evelyn doubt? To allay the fears, to fulfil
the prayers of the man whose conduct appeared so generous, to restore
him to peace and the world; above all, to pluck from the heart of that
beloved and gentle mother the rankling dart, to shed happiness over her
fate, to reunite her with the loved and lost,--what sacrifice too great
for this?

Ah, why was Legard absent? Why did she believe him capricious, light,
and false? Why had she shut her softest thoughts from her soul? But
he--the true lover--was afar, and his true love unknown! and Vargrave,
the watchful serpent, was at hand.

In a fatal hour, and in the transport of that enthusiasm which inspires
alike our more rash and our more sublime deeds, which makes us alike
dupes and martyrs,--the enthusiasm that tramples upon self, that
forfeits all things to a high-wrought zeal for others, Evelyn consented
to become the wife of Vargrave! Nor was she at first sensible of the
sacrifice,--sensible of anything but the glow of a noble spirit and
an approving conscience. Yes, thus, and thus alone, did she obey
both duties,--that, which she had well-nigh abandoned, to her dead
benefactor, and that to the living mother. Afterwards came a dread
reaction; and then, at last, that passive and sleep-like resignation,
which is Despair under a milder name. Yes,--such a lot had been
predestined from the first; in vain had she sought to fly it: Fate had
overtaken her, and she must submit to the decree!

She was most anxious that the intelligence of the new bond might be
transmitted instantly to Maltravers. Vargrave promised, but took care
not to perform. He was too acute not to know that in so sudden a step
Evelyn's motives would be apparent, and his own suit indelicate and
ungenerous. He was desirous that Maltravers should learn nothing till
the vows had been spoken, and the indissoluble chain forged. Afraid
to leave Evelyn, even for a day, afraid to trust her in England to an
interview with her mother,--he remained at Paris, and hurried on all the
requisite preparations. He sent to Douce, who came in person, with the
deeds necessary for the transfer of the money for the purchase of Lisle
Court, which was now to be immediately completed. The money was to
be lodged in Mr. Douce's bank till the lawyers had completed their
operations; and in a few weeks, when Evelyn had attained the allotted
age, Vargrave trusted to see himself lord alike of the betrothed bride,
and the hereditary lands of the crushed Maltravers. He refrained from
stating to Evelyn who was the present proprietor of the estate to become
hers; he foresaw all the objections she would form;--and, indeed, she
was unable to think, to talk, of such matters. One favour she had asked,
and it had been granted,--that she was to be left unmolested to her
solitude till the fatal day. Shut up in her lonely room, condemned not
to confide her thoughts, to seek for sympathy even in her mother,--the
poor girl in vain endeavoured to keep up to the tenor of her first
enthusiasm, and reconcile herself to a step, which, however, she was
heroine enough not to retract or to repent, even while she recoiled from
its contemplation.

Lady Doltimore, amazed at what had passed,--at the flight of Maltravers,
the success of Lumley,--unable to account for it, to extort explanation
from Vargrave or from Evelyn, was distracted by the fear of some
villanous deceit which she could not fathom. To escape herself she
plunged yet more eagerly into the gay vortex. Vargrave, suspicious, and
fearful of trusting to what she might say in her nervous and excited
temper if removed from his watchful eye, deemed himself compelled
to hover round her. His manner, his conduct, were most guarded; but
Caroline herself, jealous, irritated, unsettled, evinced at times a
right both to familiarity and anger, which drew upon her and himself the
sly vigilance of slander. Meanwhile Lord Doltimore, though too cold
and proud openly to notice what passed around him, seemed disturbed
and anxious. His manner to Vargrave was distant; he shunned all
_tete-a-tetes_ with his wife. Little, however, of this did Lumley heed.
A few weeks more, and all would be well and safe. Vargrave did not
publish his engagement with Evelyn: he sought carefully to conceal it
till the very day was near at hand; but it was whispered abroad; some
laughed, some believed. Evelyn herself was seen nowhere. De Montaigne
had, at first, been indignantly incredulous at the report that
Maltravers had broken off a connection he had so desired from a motive
so weak and unworthy as that of mere family pride. A letter from
Maltravers, who confided to him and Vargrave alone the secret of his
retreat, reluctantly convinced him that the wise are but pompous fools;
he was angry and disgusted; and still more so when Valerie and Teresa
(for female friends stand by us right or wrong) hinted at excuses,
or surmised that other causes lurked behind the one alleged. But his
thoughts were much drawn from this subject by increasing anxiety for
Cesarini, whose abode and fate still remained an alarming mystery.

It so happened that Lord Doltimore, who had always had a taste for the
antique, and who was greatly displeased with his own family-seat
because it was comfortable and modern, fell, from _ennui_, into a
habit, fashionable enough in Paris, of buying curiosities and
cabinets,--high-back chairs and oak-carvings; and with this habit
returned the desire and the affection for Burleigh. Understanding from
Lumley that Maltravers had probably left his native land forever, he
imagined it extremely probable that the latter would now consent to
the sale, and he begged Vargrave to forward a letter from him to that
effect.

Vargrave made some excuse, for he felt that nothing could be more
indelicate than such an application forwarded through his hands at such
a time; and Doltimore, who had accidentally heard De Montaigne confess
that he knew the address of Maltravers, quietly sent his letter to the
Frenchman, and, without mentioning its contents, begged him to forward
it. De Montaigne did so. Now it is very strange how slight men and
slight incidents bear on the great events of life; but that simple
letter was instrumental to a new revolution in the strange history of
Maltravers.



CHAPTER II.

  QUID frustra simulacra fugacia captas?--
  Quod petis est nusquam.*--OVID: _Met._ iii. 432.

  * "Why, in vain, do you catch at fleeting shadows?
     That which you seek is nowhere."

TO no clime dedicated to the indulgence of majestic griefs or to the
soft melancholy of regret--not to thy glaciers, or thy dark-blue lakes,
beautiful Switzerland, mother of many exiles; nor to thy fairer earth
and gentler heaven, sweet Italy,--fled the agonized Maltravers. Once,
in his wanderings, he had chanced to pass by a landscape so steeped in
sullen and desolate gloom, that it had made a powerful and uneffaced
impression upon his mind: it was amidst those swamps and morasses that
formerly surrounded the castle of Gil de Retz, the ambitious Lord, the
dreaded Necromancer, who perished at the stake, after a career of such
power and splendour as seemed almost to justify the dark belief in his
preternatural agencies.*

  * See, for description of this scenery, and the fate of De Retz,
    the high-wrought and glowing romance by Mr. Ritchie called
    "The Magician."

Here, in a lonely and wretched inn, remote from other habitations,
Maltravers fixed himself. In gentler griefs there is a sort of luxury
in bodily discomfort; in his inexorable and unmitigated anguish, bodily
discomfort was not felt. There is a kind of magnetism in extreme woe,
by which the body itself seems laid asleep, and knows no distinction
between the bed of Damiens and the rose-couch of the Sybarite. He left
his carriage and servants at a post-house some miles distant. He came
to this dreary abode alone; and in that wintry season, and that most
disconsolate scene, his gloomy soul found something congenial, something
that did not mock him, in the frowns of the haggard and dismal Nature.
Vain would it be to describe what he then felt, what he then endured.
Suffice it that, through all, the diviner strength of man was not
wholly crushed, and that daily, nightly, hourly, he prayed to the Great
Comforter to assist him in wrestling against a guilty love. No man
struggles so honestly, so ardently as he did, utterly in vain; for in
us all, if we would but cherish it, there is a spirit that must rise at
last--a crowned, if bleeding conqueror--over Fate and all the Demons!

One day after a prolonged silence from Vargrave, whose letters all
breathed comfort and assurance in Evelyn's progressive recovery of
spirit and hope, his messenger returned from the post-town with a letter
in the hand of De Montaigne. It contained, in a blank envelope (De
Montaigne's silence told him how much he had lost in the esteem of his
friend), the communication of Lord Doltimore. It ran thus:--


MY DEAR SIR,--As I hear that your plans are likely to make you a long
resident on the Continent, may I again inquire if you would be induced
to dispose of Burleigh? I am willing to give more than its real value,
and would raise a mortgage on my own property sufficient to pay off, at
once, the whole purchase-money. Perhaps you may be the more induced to
the sale from the circumstance of having an example in the head of your
family, Colonel Maltravers, as I learn through Lord Vargrave, having
resolved to dispose of Lisle Court. Waiting your answer,

     I am, dear Sir, truly yours,

          DOLTIMORE.


"Ay," said Maltravers, bitterly, crushing the letter in his hand, "let
our name be blotted out from the land, and our hearths pass to the
stranger. How could I ever visit the place where I first saw _her_?"

He resolved at once,--he would write to England, and place the matter
in the hands of agents. This was but a short-lived diversion to his
thoughts, and their cloudy darkness soon gathered round him again.

What I am now about to relate may appear, to a hasty criticism, to
savour of the Supernatural; but it is easily accounted for by ordinary
agencies, and it is strictly to the letter of the truth.

In his sleep that night a dream appeared to Maltravers. He thought he
was alone in the old library at Burleigh, and gazing on the portrait
of his mother; as he so gazed, he fancied that a cold and awful tremor
seized upon him, that he in vain endeavoured to withdraw his eyes from
the canvas--his sight was chained there by an irresistible spell. Then
it seemed to him that the portrait gradually changed,--the features the
same, but the bloom vanished into a white and ghastly hue; the colours
of the dress faded, their fashion grew more large and flowing, but heavy
and rigid as if cut in stone,--the robes of the grave. But on the face
there was a soft and melancholy smile, that took from its livid aspect
the natural horror; the lips moved, and, it seemed as if without a
sound, the released soul spoke to that which the earth yet owned.

"Return," it said, "to thy native land, and thine own home. Leave not
the last relic of her who bore and yet watches over thee to stranger
hands. Thy good Angel shall meet thee at thy hearth!"

The voice ceased. With a violent effort Maltravers broke the spell that
had forbidden his utterance. He called aloud, and the dream vanished: he
was broad awake, his hair erect, the cold dews on his brow. The pallet,
rather than bed on which he lay, was opposite to the window, and the
wintry moonlight streamed wan and spectral into the cheerless room. But
between himself and the light there seemed to stand a shape, a shadow,
that into which the portrait had changed in his dream,--that which had
accosted and chilled his soul. He sprang forward, "My mother! even in
the grave canst thou bless thy wretched son! Oh, leave me not--say that
thou--" The delusion vanished, and Maltravers fell back insensible.

It was long in vain, when, in the healthful light of day, he revolved
this memorable dream, that Maltravers sought to convince himself that
dreams need no ministers from heaven or hell to bring the gliding
falsehoods along the paths of sleep; that the effect of that dream
itself, on his shattered nerves, his excited fancy, was the real and
sole raiser of the spectre he had thought to behold on waking. Long was
it before his judgment could gain the victory, and reason disown the
empire of a turbulent imagination; and even when at length reluctantly
convinced, the dream still haunted him, and he could not shake it from
his breast. He longed anxiously for the next night; it came, but it
brought neither dreams nor sleep, and the rain beat, and the winds
howled, against the casement. Another night, and the moon was again
bright; and he fell into a deep sleep; no vision disturbed or hallowed
it. He woke ashamed of his own expectation. But the event, such as it
was, by giving a new turn to his thoughts, had roused and relieved his
spirit, and misery sat upon him with a lighter load. Perhaps, too, to
that still haunting recollection was mainly owing a change in his former
purpose. He would still sell the old Hall; but he would first return,
and remove that holy portrait, with pious hands; he would garner up and
save all that had belonged to her whose death had been his birth. Ah,
never had she known for what trials the infant had been reserved!



CHAPTER III.

            THE weary hours steal on
  And flaky darkness breaks.--_Richard III._

ONCE more, suddenly and unlooked for, the lord of Burleigh appeared at
the gates of his deserted hall! and again the old housekeeper and her
satellites were thrown into dismay and consternation. Amidst blank and
welcomeless faces, Maltravers passed into his study: and as soon as the
logs burned and the bustle was over, and he was left alone, he took up
the light and passed into the adjoining library. It was then about nine
o'clock in the evening; the air of the room felt damp and chill, and
the light but faintly struggled against the mournful gloom of the dark
book-lined walls and sombre tapestry. He placed the candle on the table,
and drawing aside the curtain that veiled the portrait, gazed with deep
emotion, not unmixed with awe, upon the beautiful face whose eyes seemed
fixed upon him with mournful sweetness. There is something mystical
about those painted ghosts of ourselves, that survive our very dust!
Who, gazing upon them long and wistfully, does not half fancy that they
seem not insensible to his gaze, as if we looked our own life into them,
and the eyes that followed us where we moved were animated by a stranger
art than the mere trick of the limner's colours?

With folded arms, rapt and motionless, Maltravers contemplated the form
that, by the upward rays of the flickering light, seemed to bend down
towards the desolate son. How had he ever loved the memory of his
mother! how often in his childish years had he stolen away, and shed
wild tears for the loss of that dearest of earthly ties, never to be
compensated, never to be replaced! How had he respected, how sympathized
with the very repugnance which his father had at first testified towards
him, as the innocent cause of her untimely death! He had never seen
her,--never felt her passionate kiss; and yet it seemed to him, as he
gazed, as if he had known her for years. That strange kind of inner and
spiritual memory which often recalls to us places and persons we have
never seen before, and which Platonists would resolve to the unquenched
and struggling consciousness of a former life, stirred within him, and
seemed to whisper, "You were united in the old time." "Yes!" he said,
half aloud, "we will never part again. Blessed be the delusion of the
dream that recalled to my heart the remembrance of thee, which, at
least, I can cherish without a sin. 'My good angel shall meet me at my
hearth!' so didst thou say in the solemn vision. Ah, does thy soul watch
over me still? How long shall it be before the barrier is broken! how
long before we meet, but not in dreams!"

The door opened, the housekeeper looked in. "I beg pardon, sir, but I
thought your honour would excuse the liberty, though I know it is very
bold to--"

"What is the matter? What do you want?"

"Why, sir, poor Mrs. Elton is dying,--they say she cannot get over the
night; and as the carriage drove by the cottage window, the nurse told
her that the squire was returned; and she has sent up the nurse to
entreat to see your honour before she dies. I am sure I was most loth to
disturb you, sir, with such a message; and says I, the squire has only
just come off a journey--"

"Who is Mrs. Elton?"

"Don't your honour remember the poor woman that was run over, and you
were so good to, and brought into the house the day Miss Cameron--"

"I remember,--say I will be with her in a few minutes. About to die!"
muttered Maltravers; "she is to be envied,--the prisoner is let loose,
the bark leaves the desert isle!"

He took his hat and walked across the park, dimly lighted by the stars,
to the cottage of the sufferer. He reached her bedside, and took her
hand kindly. She seemed to rally at the sight of him; the nurse was
dismissed, they were left alone. Before morning, the spirit had left
that humble clay; and the mists of dawn were heavy on the grass as
Maltravers returned home. There were then on his countenance the traces
of recent and strong emotion, and his step was elastic, and his cheek
flushed. Hope once more broke within him, but mingled with doubt, and
faintly combated by reason. In another hour Maltravers was on his way
to Brook-Green. Impatient, restless, fevered, he urged on the horses,
he sowed the road with gold; and at length the wheels stopped before
the door of the village inn. He descended, asked the way to the curate's
house; and crossing the burial-ground, and passing under the shadow of
the old yew-tree, entered Aubrey's garden. The curate was at home, and
the conference that ensued was of deep and breathless interest to the
visitor.

It is now time to place before the reader, in due order and connection,
the incidents of that story, the knowledge of which, at that period,
broke in detached and fragmentary portions on Maltravers.



CHAPTER IV.

  I CANNA chuse, but ever will
  Be luving to thy father still,
  Whaireir he gae, whaireir he ryde,
  My luve with him maun still abyde;
  In weil or wae, whaireir he gae,
  Mine heart can neir depart him frae.
                 Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament.

IT may be remembered that in the earlier part of this continuation of
the history of Maltravers it was stated that Aubrey had in early life
met with the common lot of a disappointed affection. Eleanor Westbrook,
a young woman of his own humble rank, had won, and seemed to return,
his love; but of that love she was not worthy. Vain, volatile, and
ambitious, she forsook the poor student for a more brilliant marriage.
She accepted the hand of a merchant, who was caught by her beauty, and
who had the reputation of great wealth. They settled in London, and
Aubrey lost all traces of her. She gave birth to an only daughter: and
when that child had attained her fourteenth year, her husband suddenly,
and seemingly without cause, put an end to his existence. The cause,
however, was apparent before he was laid in his grave. He was involved
far beyond his fortune,--he had died to escape beggary and a jail. A
small annuity, not exceeding one hundred pounds, had been secured on the
widow. On this income she retired with her child into the country; and
chance, the vicinity of some distant connections, and the cheapness of
the place, concurred to fix her residence in the outskirts of the town
of C-----. Characters that in youth have been most volatile and most
worldly, often when bowed down and dejected by the adversity which they
are not fitted to encounter, become the most morbidly devout; they ever
require an excitement, and when earth denies, they seek it impatiently
from heaven.

This was the case with Mrs. Westbrook; and this new turn of mind
brought her naturally into contact with the principal saint of the
neighbourhood, Mr. Richard Templeton. We have seen that that gentleman
was not happy in his first marriage; death had not then annulled the
bond. He was of an ardent and sensual temperament, and quietly, under
the broad cloak of his doctrines, he indulged his constitutional
tendencies. Perhaps in this respect he was not worse than nine men out
of ten. But then he professed to be better than nine hundred thousand
nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a million! To a fault of
temperament was added the craft of hypocrisy, and the vulgar error
became a dangerous vice. Upon Mary Westbrook, the widow's daughter, he
gazed with eyes that were far from being the eyes of the spirit. Even
at the age of fourteen she charmed him; but when, after watching
her ripening beauty expand, three years were added to that age,
Mr. Templeton was most deeply in love. Mary was indeed lovely,--her
disposition naturally good and gentle, but her education worse than
neglected. To the frivolities and meannesses of a second-rate fashion,
inculcated into her till her father's death, had now succeeded the
quackeries, the slavish subservience, the intolerant bigotries, of a
transcendental superstition. In a change so abrupt and violent, the
whole character of the poor girl was shaken; her principles unsettled,
vague, and unformed, and naturally of mediocre and even feeble
intellect, she clung to the first plank held out to her in "that wide
sea of wax" in which "she halted." Early taught to place the most
implicit faith in the dictates of Mr. Templeton, fastening her belief
round him as the vine winds its tendrils round the oak, yielding to his
ascendency, and pleased with his fostering and almost caressing manner,
no confessor in Papal Italy ever was more dangerous to village virtue
than Richard Templeton (who deemed himself the archetype of the only
pure Protestantism) to the morals and heart of Mary Westbrook.

Mrs. Westbrook, whose constitution had been prematurely broken by long
participation in the excesses of London dissipation and by the reverse
of fortune which still preyed upon a spirit it had rather soured than
humbled, died when Mary was eighteen. Templeton became the sole friend,
comforter, and supporter of the daughter.

In an evil hour (let us trust not from premeditated villany),--an hour
when the heart of one was softened by grief and gratitude, and the
conscience of the other laid asleep by passion, the virtue of Mary
Westbrook was betrayed. Her sorrow and remorse, his own fears of
detection and awakened self-reproach, occasioned Templeton the most
anxious and poignant regret. There had been a young woman in Mrs.
Westbrook's service, who had left it a short time before the widow died,
in consequence of her marriage. Her husband ill-used her; and glad to
escape from him and prove her gratitude to her employer's daughter, of
whom she had been extremely fond, she had returned to Miss Westbrook
after the funeral of her mother. The name of this woman was Sarah Miles.
Templeton saw that Sarah more than suspected his connection with Mary;
it was necessary to make a confidant,--he selected her. Miss Westbrook
was removed to a distant part of the country, and Templeton visited her
cautiously and rarely. Four months afterwards, Mrs. Templeton died, and
the husband was free to repair his wrong. Oh, how he then repented of
what had passed! but four months' delay, and all this sin and sorrow
might have been saved! He was now racked with perplexity and doubt: his
unfortunate victim was advanced in her pregnancy. It was necessary,
if he wished his child to be legitimate--still more if he wished to
preserve the honour of its mother--that he should not hesitate long in
the reparation to which duty and conscience urged him. But on the other
hand, he, the saint, the oracle, the immaculate example for all forms,
proprieties, and decorums, to scandalize the world by so rapid and
premature a hymen--

  "Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears
   Had left the flushing in his galled eyes,
   To marry."

No! he could not brave the sneer of the gossips, the triumph of his
foes, the dejection of his disciples, by so rank and rash a folly.
But still Mary pined so, he feared for her health--for his own unborn
offspring. There was a middle path,--a compromise between duty and
the world; he grasped at it as most men similarly situated would have
done,--they were married, but privately, and under feigned names: the
secret was kept close. Sarah Miles was the only witness acquainted with
the real condition and names of the parties.

Reconciled to herself, the bride recovered health and spirits, Templeton
formed the most sanguine hopes. He resolved, as soon as the confinement
was over, to go abroad; Mary should follow; in a foreign land they
should be publicly married; they would remain some years on the
Continent; when he returned, his child's age could be put back a year.
Oh, nothing could be more clear and easy!

Death shivered into atoms all the plans of Mr. Templeton. Mary suffered
most severely in childbirth, and died a few weeks afterwards. Templeton
at first was inconsolable, but worldly thoughts were great comforters.
He had done all that conscience could do to atone a sin, and he was
freed from a most embarrassing dilemma, and from a temporary banishment
utterly uncongenial and unpalatable to his habits and ideas. But now he
had a child,--a legitimate child, successor to his name, his wealth; a
first-born child,--the only one ever sprung from him, the prop and
hope of advancing years! On this child he doted with all that paternal
passion which the hardest and coldest men often feel the most for their
own flesh and blood--for fatherly love is sometimes but a transfer of
self-love from one fund to another.

Yet this child--this darling that he longed to show to the whole
world--it was absolutely necessary, for the present, that he should
conceal and disown. It had happened that Sarah's husband died of his own
excesses a few weeks before the birth of Templeton's child, she having
herself just recovered from her confinement; Sarah was therefore free
forever from her husband's vigilance and control. To her care the
destined heiress was committed, and her own child put out to nurse. And
this was the woman and this the child who had excited so much benevolent
curiosity in the breasts of the worthy clergyman and the three old maids
of C-----.* Alarmed at Sarah's account of the scrutiny of the parson,
and at his own rencontre with that hawk-eyed pastor, Templeton lost no
time in changing the abode of the nurse; and to her new residence had
the banker bent his way, with rod and angle, on that evening which
witnessed his adventure with Luke Darvil.** When Mr. Templeton first
met Alice, his own child was only about thirteen or fourteen months
old,--but little older than Alice's. If the beauty of Mrs. Leslie's
_protege_ first excited his coarser nature, her maternal tenderness,
her anxious care for her little one, struck a congenial chord in the
father's heart. It connected him with her by a mute and unceasing
sympathy. Templeton had felt so deeply the alarm and pain of illicit
love, he had been (as he profanely believed) saved from the brink of
public shame by so signal an interference of grace, that he resolved no
more to hazard his good name and his peace of mind upon such perilous
rocks. The dearest desire at his heart was to have his daughter under
his roof,--to fondle, to play with her, to watch her growth, to win
her affection. This, at present, seemed impossible. But if he were to
marry,--marry a widow, to whom he might confide all, or a portion, of
the truth; if that child could be passed off as hers--ah, that was the
best plan! And Templeton wanted a wife! Years were creeping on him, and
the day would come when a wife would be useful as a nurse. But Alice was
supposed to be a widow; and Alice was so meek, so docile, so motherly.
If she could be induced to remove from C-----, either part with her own
child or call it her niece,--and adopt his. Such, from time to time,
were Templeton's thoughts, as he visited Alice, and found, with every
visit, fresh evidence of her tender and beautiful disposition; such
the objects which, in the First Part of this work, we intimated were
different from those of mere admiration for her beauty.*** But again,
worldly doubts and fears--the dislike of so unsuitable an alliance, the
worse than lowness of Alice's origin, the dread of discovery for her
early error--held him back, wavering and irresolute. To say truth, too,
her innocence and purity of thought kept him at a certain distance.
He was acute enough to see that he--even he, the great Richard
Templeton--might be refused by the faithful Alice.

  * See "Ernest Maltravers," book iv., p. 164.

  ** "Ernest Maltravers," book iv., p. 181.

  *** "Our banker always seemed more struck by Alice's moral
  feelings than even by her physical beauty.  Her love for her
  child, for instance, impressed him powerfully," etc.  "His
  feelings altogether for Alice, the designs he entertained
  towards her, were of a very complicated nature, and it will
  be long, perhaps, before the reader can thoroughly comprehend
  them."--See "Ernest Maltravers," book iv., p. 178.

At last Darvil was dead; he breathed more freely, he revolved more
seriously his projects; and at this time, Sarah, wooed by her first
lover, wished to marry again; his secret would pass from her breast to
her second husband's, and thence how far would it travel? Added to this,
Sarah's conscience grew uneasy; the brand ought to be effaced from the
memory of the dead mother, the legitimacy of the child proclaimed;
she became importunate, she wearied and she alarmed the pious man. He
therefore resolved to rid himself of the only witness to his marriage
whose testimony he had cause to fear,--of the presence of the only
one acquainted with his sin and the real name of the husband of Mary
Westbrook. He consented to Sarah's marriage with William Elton, and
offered a liberal dowry on the condition that she should yield to the
wish of Elton himself, an adventurous young man, who desired to try his
fortunes in the New World. His daughter he must remove elsewhere.

While this was going on, Alice's child, long delicate and drooping,
became seriously ill. Symptoms of decline appeared; the physician
recommended a milder air, and Devonshire was suggested. Nothing could
equal the generous, the fatherly kindness which Templeton evinced on
this most painful occasion. He insisted on providing Alice with the
means to undertake the journey with ease and comfort; and poor Alice,
with a heart heavy with gratitude and sorrow, consented for her child's
sake to all he offered.

Now the banker began to perceive that all his hopes and wishes were in
good train. He foresaw that the child of Alice was doomed!--that was one
obstacle out of the way. Alice herself was to be removed from the sphere
of her humble calling. In a distant county she might appear of better
station, and under another name. Conformably to these views, he
suggested to her that, in proportion to the seeming wealth and
respectability of patients, did doctors attend to their complaints. He
proposed that Alice should depart privately to a town many miles off;
that there he would provide for her a carriage, and engage a servant;
that he would do this for her as for a relation, and that she should
take that relation's name. To this, Alice rapt in her child, and
submissive to all that might be for the child's benefit, passively
consented. It was arranged then as proposed, and under the name of
Cameron, which, as at once a common yet a well-sounding name, occurred
to his invention, Alice departed with her sick charge and a female
attendant (who knew nothing of her previous calling or story), on the
road to Devonshire. Templeton himself resolved to follow her thither in
a few days; and it was fixed that they should meet at Exeter.

It was on this melancholy journey that occurred that memorable day when
Alice once more beheld Maltravers; and, as she believed, uttering the
vows of love to another.* The indisposition of her child had delayed her
some hours at the inn: the poor sufferer had fallen asleep; and Alice
had stolen from its couch for a little while, when her eyes rested on
the father. Oh, how then she longed, she burned to tell him of the new
sanctity, that, by a human life, had been added to their early love! And
when, crushed and sick at heart, she turned away, and believed herself
forgotten and replaced, it was the pride of the mother rather than of
the mistress that supported her. She, meek creature, felt not the
injury to herself; but _his_ child,--the sufferer, perhaps the dying
one,--_there_, _there_ was the wrong! No! she would not hazard the
chance of a cold--great Heaven! perchance an _incredulous_--look upon
the hushed, pale face above. But little time was left for thought, for
explanation, for discovery. She saw him--unconscious of the ties so
near, and thus lost--depart as a stranger from the spot; and henceforth
was gone the sweet hope of living for the future. Nothing was left
her but the pledge of that which had been. Mournful, despondent, half
broken-hearted, she resumed her journey. At Exeter she was joined, as
agreed, by Mr. Templeton; and with him came a fair, a blooming, and
healthful girl to contrast her own drooping charge. Though but a few
weeks older, you would have supposed the little stranger by a year the
senior of Alice's child: the one was so well grown, so advanced; the
other so backward, so nipped in the sickly bud.

  * See "Ernest Maltravers," book v., p. 221.

"You can repay me for all, for more than I have done; more than I
ever can do for you and yours," said Templeton, "by taking this young
stranger also under your care. It is the child of one dear, most dear
to me; an orphan; I know not with whom else to place it. Let it for the
present be supposed your own,--the elder child."

Alice could refuse nothing to her benefactor; but her heart did not open
at first to the beautiful girl, whose sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks
mocked the languid looks and faded hues of her own darling. But the
sufferer seemed to hail a playmate; it smiled, it put forth its poor,
thin hands; it uttered its inarticulate cry of pleasure, and Alice burst
into tears, and clasped them _both_ to her heart.

Mr. Templeton took care not to rest under the same roof with her he
now seriously intended to make his wife; but he followed Alice to the
seaside, and visited her daily. Her infant rallied; it was tenacious
of the upper air; it clung to life so fondly; poor child, it could not
foresee what a bitter thing to some of us life is! And now it was that
Templeton, learning from Alice her adventure with her absent lover,
learning that all hope in that quarter was gone, seized the occasion,
and pressed his suit. Alice at the hour was overflowing with gratitude;
in her child's reviving looks she read all her obligations to her
benefactor. But still, at the word _love_, at the name of _marriage_,
her heart recoiled; and the lost, the faithless, came back to his fatal
throne. In choked and broken accents, she startled the banker with the
refusal--the faltering, tearful, but resolute refusal--of his suit.

But Templeton brought new engines to work: he wooed her through her
child; he painted all the brilliant prospects that would open to the
infant by her marriage with him. He would cherish, rear, provide for it
as his own. This shook her resolves; but this did not prevail. He had
recourse to a more generous appeal: he told her so much of his
history with Mary Westbrook as commenced with his hasty and indecorous
marriage,--attributing the haste to love! made her comprehend his
scruples in owning the child of a union the world would be certain to
ridicule or condemn; he expatiated on the inestimable blessings
she could afford him, by delivering him from all embarrassment, and
restoring his daughter, though under a borrowed name, to her father's
roof. At this Alice mused; at this she seemed irresolute. She had long
seen how inexpressibly dear to Templeton was the child confided to her
care; how he grew pale if the slightest ailment reached her; how he
chafed at the very wind if it visited her cheek too roughly; and she now
said to him simply,--

"Is your child, in truth, your dearest object in life? Is it with her,
and her alone, that your dearest hopes are connected?"

"It is,--it is indeed!" said the banker, honestly surprised out of his
gallantry; "at least," he added, recovering his self-possession, "as
much so as is compatible with my affection for you."

"And only if I marry you, and adopt her as my own, do you think that
your secret may be safely kept, and all your wishes with respect to her
be fulfilled?"

"Only so."

"And for that reason, chiefly, nay entirely, you condescend to forget
what I have been, and seek my hand? Well, if that were all, I owe you
too much; my poor babe tells me too loudly what I owe you to draw back
from anything that can give you so blessed an enjoyment. Ah, one's
child! one's own child, under one's own roof, it _is_ such a blessing!
But then, if I marry you, it can be only to secure to you that object;
to be as a mother to your child; but wife only in name to you! I am not
so lost as to despise myself. I know now, though I knew it not at first,
that I have been guilty; nothing can excuse that guilt but fidelity to
_him_! Oh, yes! I never, never can be unfaithful to my babe's father!
As for all else, dispose of me as you will." And Alice, who from very
innocence had uttered all this without a blush, now clasped her hands
passionately, and left Templeton speechless with mortification and
surprise.

When he recovered himself, he affected not to understand her; but Alice
was not satisfied, and all further conversation ceased. He began slowly,
and at last, and after repeated conferences and urgings, to comprehend
how strange and stubborn in some points was the humble creature whom his
proposals so highly honoured. Though his daughter was indeed his first
object in life; though for her he was willing to make a _mesalliance_,
the extent of which it would be incumbent on him studiously to
conceal,--yet still, the beauty of Alice awoke an earthlier sentiment
that he was not disposed to conquer. He was quite willing to make
promises, and talk generously; but when it came to an oath,--a solemn, a
binding oath--and this Alice rigidly exacted,--he was startled, and
drew back. Though hypocritical, he was, as we have before said, a
most sincere believer. He might creep through a promise with unbruised
conscience; but he was not one who could have dared to violate an oath,
and lay the load of perjury on his soul. Perhaps, after all, the union
never would have taken place, but Templeton fell ill; that soft and
relaxing air did not agree with him; a low but dangerous fever seized
him, and the worldly man trembled at the aspect of Death. It was in this
illness that Alice nursed him with a daughter's vigilance and care;
and when at length he recovered, impressed with her zeal and kindness,
softened by illness, afraid of the approach of solitary age,--and
feeling more than ever his duties to his motherless child, he threw
himself at Alice's feet, and solemnly vowed all that she required.

It was during this residence in Devonshire, and especially during his
illness, that Templeton made and cultivated the acquaintance of Mr.
Aubrey. The good clergyman prayed with him by his sick-bed; and
when Templeton's danger was at its height, he sought to relieve his
conscience by a confession of his wrongs to Mary Westbrook. The name
startled Aubrey; and when he learned that the lovely child who had so
often sat on his knee, and smiled in his face, was the granddaughter
of his first and only love, he had a new interest in her welfare, a
new reason to urge Templeton to reparation, a new motive to desire to
procure for the infant years of Eleanor's grandchild the gentle care of
the young mother, whose own bereavement he sorrowfully foretold. Perhaps
the advice and exhortations of Aubrey went far towards assisting the
conscience of Mr. Templeton, and reconciling him to the sacrifice he
made to his affection for his daughter. Be that as it may, he married
Alice, and Aubrey solemnized and blessed the chill and barren union.

But now came a new and inexpressible affliction; the child of Alice had
rallied but for a time. The dread disease had but dallied with its prey;
it came on with rapid and sudden force; and within a month from the day
that saw Alice the bride of Templeton, the last hope was gone, and the
mother was bereft and childless!

The blow that stunned Alice was not, after the first natural shock of
sympathy, an unwelcome event to the banker. Now _his_ child would be
Alice's sole care; now there could be no gossip, no suspicion why, in
life and after death, he should prefer one child, supposed not his own,
to the other.

He hastened to remove Alice from the scene of her affliction. He
dismissed the solitary attendant who had accompanied her on her journey;
he bore his wife to London, and finally settled, as we have seen, at a
villa in its vicinity. And there, more and more, day by day, centred his
love upon the supposed daughter of Mrs. Templeton, his darling and his
heiress, the beautiful Evelyn Cameron.

For the first year or two, Templeton evinced some alarming disposition
to escape from the oath he had imposed upon himself; but on the
slightest hint there was a sternness in the wife, in all else so
respectful, so submissive, that repressed and awed him. She even
threatened--and at one time was with difficulty prevented carrying
the threat into effect--to leave his roof forever, if there were the
slightest question of the sanctity of his vow. Templeton trembled; such
a separation would excite gossip, curiosity, scandal, a noise in the
world, public talk, possible discovery. Besides, Alice was necessary
to Evelyn, necessary to his own comfort; something to scold in health,
something to rely upon in illness. Gradually then, but sullenly, he
reconciled himself to his lot; and as years and infirmities grew upon
him, he was contented at least to have secured a faithful friend and
an anxious nurse. Still a marriage of this sort was not blessed:
Templeton's vanity was wounded; his temper, always harsh, was soured;
he avenged his affront by a thousand petty tyrannies; and, without a
murmur, Alice perhaps in those years of rank and opulence suffered more
than in all her wanderings, with love at her heart and her infant in her
arms.

Evelyn was to be the heiress to the wealth of the banker. But the
_title_ of the new peer!--if he could unite wealth and title, and set
the coronet on that young brow! This had led him to seek the alliance
with Lumley. And on his death-bed, it was not the secret of Alice, but
that of Mary Westbrook and his daughter, which he had revealed to his
dismayed and astonished nephew, in excuse for the apparently unjust
alienation of his property, and as the cause of the alliance he had
sought.

While her husband, if husband he might be called, lived, Alice had
seemed to bury in her bosom her regret--deep, mighty, passionate, as it
was--for her lost child, the child of the unforgotten lover, to whom,
through such trials, and amid such new ties, she had been faithful from
first to last. But when once more free, her heart flew back to the
far and lowly grave. Hence her yearly visits to Brook-Green; hence her
purchase of the cottage, hallowed by memories of the dead. There, on
that lawn, had she borne forth the fragile form, to breathe the soft
noontide air; there, in that chamber, had she watched and hoped, and
prayed and despaired; there, in that quiet burial-ground, rested the
beloved dust! But Alice, even in her holiest feelings, was not selfish:
she forbore to gratify the first wish of her heart till Evelyn's
education was sufficiently advanced to enable her to quit the
neighbourhood; and then, to the delight of Aubrey (who saw in Evelyn a
fairer, and nobler, and purer Eleanor), she came to the solitary spot,
which, in all the earth, was the _least_ solitary to her!

And now the image of the lover of her youth--which during her marriage
she had _sought_, at least, to banish--returned to her, and at times
inspired her with the only hopes that the grave had not yet transferred
to heaven! In relating her tale to Aubrey or in conversing with Mrs.
Leslie, whose friendship she still maintained, she found that both
concurred in thinking that this obscure and wandering Butler, so skilled
in an art in which eminence in man is generally professional, must be of
mediocre or perhaps humble station. Ah! now that she was free and rich,
if she were to meet him again, and his love was not all gone, and he
would believe in _her_ strange and constant truth; now, _his_ infidelity
could be forgiven,--forgotten in the benefits it might be hers to
bestow! And how, poor Alice, in that remote village, was chance to throw
him in your way? She knew not: but something often whispered to her,
"Again you shall meet those eyes; again you shall hear that voice; and
you shall tell him, weeping on his breast, how you loved his child!"
And would he not have forgotten her; would he not have formed new
ties?--could he read the loveliness of unchangeable affection in that
pale and pensive face! Alas, when we love intensely, it is difficult to
make us fancy that there is no love in return!

The reader is acquainted with the adventures of Mrs. Elton, the sole
confidant of the secret union of Templeton and Evelyn's mother. By a
singular fatality, it was the selfish and characteristic recklessness
of Vargrave that had, in fixing her home at Burleigh, ministered to the
revelation of his own villanous deceit. On returning to England she had
inquired for Mr. Templeton; she had learned that he had married again,
had been raised to the peerage under the title of Lord Vargrave, and was
gathered to his fathers. She had no claim on his widow or his family.
But the unfortunate child who should have inherited his property, she
could only suppose her dead.

When she first saw Evelyn, she was startled by her likeness to her
unfortunate mother. But the unfamiliar name of Cameron, the intelligence
received from Maltravers that Evelyn's mother still lived, dispelled her
suspicions; and though at times the resemblance haunted her, she doubted
and inquired no more. In fact, her own infirmities grew upon her, and
pain usurped her thoughts.

Now it so happened that the news of the engagement of Maltravers to
Miss Cameron became known to the county but a little time before
he arrived,--for news travels slow from the Continent to our
provinces,--and, of course, excited all the comment of the villagers.
Her nurse repeated the tale to Mrs. Elton, who instantly remembered the
name, and recalled the resemblance of Miss Cameron to the unfortunate
Mary Westbrook.

"And," said the gossiping nurse, "she was engaged, they say, to a great
lord, and gave him up for the squire,--a great lord in the court, who
had been staying at Parson Merton's, Lord Vargrave!"

"Lord Vargrave!" exclaimed Mrs. Elton, remembering the title to which
Mr. Templeton had been raised.

"Yes; they do say as how the late lord left Miss Cameron all his
money--such a heap of it--though she was not his child, over the head of
his nevy, the present lord, on the understanding like that they were to
be married when she came of age. But she would not take to him after she
had seen the squire. And, to be sure, the squire is the finest-looking
gentleman in the county."

"Stop! stop!" said Mrs. Elton, feebly; "the late lord left all
his fortune to Miss Cameron,--not his child! I guess the riddle! I
understand it all! my foster-child!" she murmured, turning away; "how
could I have mistaken that likeness?"

The agitation of the discovery she supposed she had made, her joy at the
thought that the child she had loved as her own was alive and possessed
of its rights, expedited the progress of Mrs. Elton's disease; and
Maltravers arrived just in time to learn her confession (which she
naturally wished to make to one who was at once her benefactor, and
supposed to be the destined husband of her foster-child), and to be
agitated with hope, with joy, at her solemn conviction of the truth of
her surmises. If Evelyn were not his daughter--even if not to be his
bride--what a weight from his soul! He hastened to Brook-Green; and
dreading to rush at once to the presence of Alice, he recalled Aubrey to
his recollection. In the interview he sought, all, or at least much, was
cleared up. He saw at once the premeditated and well-planned villany
of Vargrave. And Alice, her tale--her sufferings--her indomitable
love!--how should he meet _her_?



CHAPTER V.

  YET once more, O ye laurels! and once more,
  Ye myrtles!--LYCIDAS.

WHILE Maltravers was yet agitated and excited by the disclosures of the
curate, to whom, as a matter of course, he had divulged his own identity
with the mysterious Butler, Aubrey, turning his eyes to the casement,
saw the form of Lady Vargrave slowly approaching towards the house.

"Will you withdraw to the inner room?" said he; "she is coming; you are
not yet prepared to meet her!--nay, would it be well?"

"Yes, yes; I am prepared. We must be alone. I will await her here."

"But--"

"Nay, I implore you!"

The curate, without another word, retired into the inner apartment, and
Maltravers sinking in a chair breathlessly awaited the entrance of Lady
Vargrave. He soon heard the light step without; the door, which opened
at once on the old-fashioned parlour, was gently unclosed, and Lady
Vargrave was in the room! In the position he had taken, only the outline
of Ernest's form was seen by Alice, and the daylight came dim through
the cottage casement; and seeing some one seated in the curate's
accustomed chair, she could but believe that it was Aubrey himself.

"Do not let me interrupt you," said that sweet, low voice, whose music
had been dumb for so many years to Maltravers, "but I have a letter from
France, from a stranger. It alarms me so; it is about Evelyn;" and,
as if to imply that she meditated a longer visit than ordinary, Lady
Vargrave removed her bonnet, and placed it on the table. Surprised that
the curate had not answered, had not come forward to welcome her, she
then approached; Maltravers rose, and they stood before each other face
to face. And how lovely still was Alice! lovelier he thought even than
of old! And those eyes, so divinely blue, so dovelike and soft, yet with
some spiritual and unfathomable mystery in their clear depth, were once
more fixed upon him. Alice seemed turned to stone; she moved not,
she spoke not, she scarcely breathed; she gazed spellbound, as if her
senses--as if life itself--had deserted her.

"Alice!" murmured Maltravers,--"Alice, we meet at last!"

His voice restored memory, consciousness, youth, at once to her!
She uttered a loud cry of unspeakable joy, of rapture! She sprang
forward--reserve, fear, time, change, all forgotten; she threw herself
into his arms, she clasped him to her heart again and again!--the
faithful dog that has found its master expresses not his transport more
uncontrollably, more wildly. It was something fearful--the excess of her
ecstasy! She kissed his hands, his clothes; she laughed, she wept;
and at last, as words came, she laid her head on his breast, and said
passionately, "I have been true to thee! I have been true to thee!--or
this hour would have killed me!" Then, as if alarmed by his silence, she
looked up into his face, and as his burning tears fell upon her
cheek, she said again and with more hurried vehemence, "I _have_ been
faithful,--do you not believe me?"

"I do, I do, noble, unequalled Alice! Why, why were you so long lost to
me? Why now does your love so shame my own?"

At these words, Alice appeared to awaken from her first oblivion of all
that had chanced since they met; she blushed deeply, and drew herself
gently and bashfully from his embrace. "Ah," she said, in altered and
humbled accents, "you have loved another! Perhaps you have no love left
for me! Is it so; is it? No, no; those eyes--you love me--you love me
still!"

And again she clung to him, as if it were heaven to believe all things,
and death to doubt. Then, after a pause, she drew him gently with both
her hands towards the light, and gazed upon him fondly, proudly, as if
to trace, line by line, and feature by feature, the countenance which
had been to her sweet thoughts as the sunlight to the flowers. "Changed,
changed," she muttered; "but still the same,--still beautiful, still
divine!" She stopped. A sudden thought struck her: his garments were
worn and soiled by travel, and that princely crest, fallen and dejected,
no longer towered in proud defiance above the sons of men. "You are not
rich," she exclaimed eagerly,--"say you are not rich! I am rich enough
for both; it is all yours,--all yours; I did not betray you for it;
there is no shame in it. Oh, we shall be so happy! Thou art come back to
thy poor Alice! thou knowest how she loved thee!"

There was in Alice's manner, her wild joy, something so different from
her ordinary self, that none who could have seen her--quiet, pensive,
subdued--would have fancied her the same being. All that Society and
its woes had taught were gone; and Nature once more claimed her fairest
child. The very years seemed to have fallen from her brow, and she
looked scarcely older than when she had stood with him beneath the
moonlight by the violet banks far away. Suddenly, her colour faded; the
smile passed from the dimpled lips; a sad and solemn aspect succeeded
to that expression of passionate joy. "Come," she said, in a whisper,
"come, follow;" and still clasping his hand, she drew him to the door.
Silent and wonderingly he followed her across the lawn, through the
moss-grown gate, and into the lonely burial-ground. She moved on with
a noiseless and gliding step,--so pale, so hushed, so breathless, that
even in the noonday you might have half fancied the fair shape was not
owned by earth. She paused where the yew-tree cast its gloomy shadow;
and the small and tombless mound, separated from the rest, was before
them. She pointed to it, and falling on her knees beside it, murmured,
"Hush, it sleeps below,--thy child!" She covered her face with both her
hands, and her form shook convulsively.

Beside that form and before that grave knelt Maltravers. There
vanished the last remnant of his stoic pride; and there--Evelyn herself
forgotten--there did he pray to Heaven for pardon to himself, and
blessings on the heart he had betrayed. There solemnly did he vow, the
remainder of his years, to guard from all future ill the faithful and
childless mother.



CHAPTER VI.

  WILL Fortune never come with both hands full,
  But write her fair words still in foulest letters?
                      _Henry IV._ Part ii.

I PASS over those explanations, that record of Alice's eventful history,
which Maltravers learned from her own lips, to confirm and add to the
narrative of the curate, the purport of which is already known to the
reader.

It was many hours before Alice was sufficiently composed to remember the
object for which she had sought the curate. But she had laid the letter
which she had brought, and which explained all, on the table at the
vicarage; and when Maltravers, having at last induced Alice, who seemed
afraid to lose sight of him for an instant, to retire to her room, and
seek some short repose, returned towards the vicarage, he met Aubrey in
the garden. The old man had taken the friend's acknowledged license to
read the letter evidently meant for his eye; and, alarmed and anxious,
he now eagerly sought a consultation with Maltravers. The letter,
written in English, as familiar to the writer as her own tongue, was
from Madame de Ventadour. It had been evidently dictated by the kindest
feelings. After apologizing briefly for her interference, she stated
that Lord Vargrave's marriage with Miss Cameron was now a matter of
public notoriety; that it would take place in a few days; that it was
observed with suspicion that Miss Cameron appeared nowhere; that she
seemed almost a prisoner in her room; that certain expressions which had
dropped from Lady Doltimore had alarmed her greatly. According to these
expressions, it would seem that Lady Vargrave was not apprised of the
approaching event; that, considering Miss Cameron's recent engagement to
Mr. Maltravers suddenly (and, as Valerie thought, unaccountably) broken
off on the arrival of Lord Vargrave; considering her extreme youth,
her brilliant fortune; and, Madame de Ventadour delicately hinted,
considering also Lord Vargrave's character for unscrupulous
determination in the furtherance of any object on which he was
bent,--considering all this, Madame de Ventadour had ventured to address
Miss Cameron's mother, and to guard her against the possibility of
design or deceit. Her best apology for her intrusion must be her deep
interest in Miss Cameron, and her long friendship for one to whom Miss
Cameron had been so lately betrothed. If Lady Vargrave were aware of
the new engagement, and had sanctioned it, of course her intrusion was
unseasonable and superfluous; but if ascribed to its real motive, would
not be the less forgiven.

It was easy for Maltravers to see in this letter how generous and
zealous had been that friendship for himself which could have induced
the woman of the world to undertake so officious a task. But of this
he thought not, as he hurried over the lines, and shuddered at Evelyn's
urgent danger.

"This intelligence," said Aubrey, "must be, indeed, a surprise to Lady
Vargrave. For we have not heard a word from Evelyn or Lord Vargrave to
announce such a marriage; and she (and myself till this day) believed
that the engagement between Evelyn and Mr. -----, I mean," said Aubrey
with confusion,--"I mean yourself, was still in force. Lord Vargrave's
villany is apparent; we must act immediately. What is to be done?"

"I will return to Paris to-morrow; I will defeat his machination, expose
his falsehood!"

"You may need a proxy for Lady Vargrave, an authority for Evelyn; one
whom Lord Vargrave knows to possess the secret of her birth, her rights:
I will go with you. We must speak to Lady Vargrave."

Maltravers turned sharply round. "And Alice knows not who I am; that
I--I am, or was, a few weeks ago, the suitor of another; and that other
the child she has reared as her own! Unhappy Alice! in the very hour of
her joy at my return, is she to writhe beneath this new affliction?"

"Shall I break it to her?" said Aubrey, pityingly.

"No, no; these lips must inflict the last wrong!" Maltravers walked
away, and the curate saw him no more till night.

In the interval, and late in the evening, Maltravers rejoined Alice.

The fire burned clear on the hearth, the curtains were drawn, the
pleasant but simple drawing-room of the cottage smiled its welcome as
Maltravers entered, and Alice sprang up to greet him! It was as if the
old days of the music-lesson and the meerschaum had come back.

"This is yours," said Alice, tenderly, as he looked round the apartment.
"Now--now I know what a blessed thing riches are! Ah, you are looking on
that picture; it is of her who supplied your daughter's place,--she
is so beautiful, so good, you will love her as a daughter. Oh,
that letter--that--that letter--I forgot it till now--it is at the
vicarage--I must go there immediately, and you will come too,--you will
advise us."

"Alice, I have read the letter,--I know all. Alice, sit down and hear
me,--it is you who have to learn from me. In our young days I was
accustomed to tell you stories in winter nights like these,--stories
of love like our own, of sorrows which, at that time, we only knew by
hearsay. I have one now for your ear, truer and sadder than they were.
Two children, for they were then little more--children in ignorance
of the world, children in freshness of heart, children almost in
years--were thrown together by strange vicissitudes, more than eighteen
years ago. They were of different sexes,--they loved and they erred. But
the error was solely with the boy; for what was innocence in her was but
passion in him. He loved her dearly; but at that age her qualities were
half developed. He knew her beautiful, simple, tender; but he knew not
all the virtue, the faith, and the nobleness that Heaven had planted in
her soul. They parted,--they knew not each other's fate. He sought her
anxiously, but in vain; and sorrow and remorse long consumed him, and
her memory threw a shadow over his existence. But again--for his love
had not the exalted holiness of hers (_she_ was true!)--he sought to
renew in others the charm he had lost with her. In vain,--long, long in
vain. Alice, you know to whom the tale refers. Nay, listen yet. I have
heard from the old man yonder that you were witness to a scene many
years ago which deceived you into the belief that you beheld a rival. It
was not so: that lady yet lives,--then, as now, a friend to me; nothing
more. I grant that, at one time, my fancy allured me to her, but my
heart was still true to thee."

"Bless you for those words!" murmured Alice; and she crept more closely
to him.

He went on. "Circumstances, which at some calmer occasion you shall
hear, again nearly connected my fate by marriage to another. I had then
seen you at a distance, unseen by you,--seen you apparently surrounded
by respectability and opulence; and I blessed Heaven that your lot, at
least, was not that of penury and want." (Here Maltravers related where
he had caught that brief glimpse of Alice,*--how he had sought for her
again and again in vain.) "From that hour," he continued, "seeing you
in circumstances of which I could not have dared to dream, I felt
more reconciled to the past; yet, when on the verge of marriage with
another--beautiful, gifted, generous as she was--a thought, a memory
half acknowledged, dimly traced, chained back my sentiments; and
admiration, esteem, and gratitude were not love! Death--a death
melancholy and tragic--forbade this union; and I went forth in the
world, a pilgrim and a wanderer. Years rolled away, and I thought I had
conquered the desire for love,--a desire that had haunted me since
I lost thee. But, suddenly and recently, a being, beautiful as
yourself--sweet, guileless, and young as you were when we met--woke in
me a new and a strange sentiment. I will not conceal it from you: Alice,
at last I loved another! Yet, singular as it may seem to you, it was a
certain resemblance to yourself, not in feature, but in the tones of the
voice, the nameless grace of gesture and manner, the very music of your
once happy laugh,--those traits of resemblance which I can now account
for, and which children catch not from their parents only, but from
those they most see, and, loving most, most imitate in their tender
years,--all these, I say, made perhaps a chief attraction, that drew
me towards--Alice, are you prepared for it?--drew me towards Evelyn
Cameron. Know me in my real character, by my true name: I am that
Maltravers to whom the hand of Evelyn was a few weeks ago betrothed!"

  * See "Ernest Maltravers," book v., p. 228.

He paused, and ventured to look up at Alice; she was exceedingly pale,
and her hands were tightly clasped together, but she neither wept nor
spoke. The worst was over; he continued more rapidly, and with less
constrained an effort: "By the art, the duplicity, the falsehood of Lord
Vargrave, I was taught in a sudden hour to believe that Evelyn was our
daughter, that you recoiled from the prospect of beholding once more the
author of so many miseries. I need not tell you, Alice, of the horror
that succeeded to love. I pass over the tortures I endured. By a train
of incidents to be related to you hereafter, I was led to suspect the
truth of Vargrave's tale. I came hither; I have learned all from Aubrey.
I regret no more the falsehood that so racked me for the time; I regret
no more the rupture of my bond with Evelyn; I regret nothing that brings
me at last free and unshackled to thy feet, and acquaints me with thy
sublime faith and ineffable love. Here then--here beneath your own
roof--here he, at once your earliest friend and foe, kneels to you
for pardon and for hope! He woos you as his wife, his companion to the
grave! Forget all his errors, and be to him, under a holier name, all
that you were to him of old!"

"And you are then Evelyn's suitor,--you are he whom she loves? I see it
all--all!" Alice rose, and, before he was even aware of her purpose, or
conscious of what she felt, she had vanished from the room.

Long, and with the bitterest feelings, he awaited her return; she came
not. At last he wrote a hurried note, imploring her to join him again,
to relieve his suspense; to believe his sincerity; to accept his vows.
He sent it to her own room, to which she had hastened to bury her
emotions. In a few minutes there came to him this answer, written in
pencil, blotted with tears.


"I thank you, I understand your heart; but forgive me--I cannot see you
yet. She is so beautiful and good, she is worthy of you. I shall soon be
reconciled. God bless you,--bless you both!"


The door of the vicarage was opened abruptly, and Maltravers entered
with a hasty but heavy tread.

"Go to her, go to that angel; go, I beseech you! Tell her that she
wrongs me, if she thinks I can ever wed another, ever have an object in
life, but to atone to, to merit her. Go, plead for me."

Aubrey, who soon gathered from Maltravers what had passed, departed to
the cottage. It was near midnight before he returned. Maltravers met him
in the churchyard, beside the yew-tree. "Well, well, what message do you
bring?"

"She wishes that we should both set off for Paris to-morrow. Not a day
is to be lost,--we must save Evelyn from this snare."

"Evelyn! Yes, Evelyn shall be saved; but the rest--the rest--why do you
turn away?"

"'You are not the poor artist, the wandering adventurer; you are the
high-born, the wealthy, the renowned Maltravers: Alice has nothing to
confer on you. You have won the love of Evelyn,--Alice cannot doom
the child confided to her care to hopeless affection; you love
Evelyn,--Alice cannot compare herself to the young and educated and
beautiful creature, whose love is a priceless treasure. Alice prays
you not to grieve for her; she will soon be content and happy in your
happiness.' This is the message."

"And what said you,--did you not tell her such words would break my
heart?"

"No matter what I said; I mistrust myself when I advise her. Her
feelings are truer than all our wisdom!"

Maltravers made no answer, and the curate saw him gliding rapidly away
by the starlit graves towards the village.



CHAPTER VII.

  THINK you I can a resolution fetch
  From flowery tenderness?--_Measure for Measure_.

THEY were on the road to Dover. Maltravers leaned back in the corner of
the carriage with his hat over his brows, though the morning was yet too
dark for the curate to perceive more than the outline of his features.
Milestone after milestone glided by the wheels, and neither of the
travellers broke the silence. It was a cold, raw morning, and the mists
rose sullenly from the dank hedges and comfortless fields.

Stern and self-accusing was the scrutiny of Maltravers into the recesses
of his conscience, and the blotted pages of the Past. That pale and
solitary mother, mourning over the grave of her--of his own--child, rose
again before his eyes, and seemed silently to ask him for an account
of the heart he had made barren, and of the youth to which his love had
brought the joylessness of age. With the image of Alice,--afar, alone,
whether in her wanderings, a beggar and an outcast, or in that hollow
prosperity, in which the very ease of the frame allowed more leisure
to the pinings of the heart,--with that image, pure, sorrowing, and
faithful from first to last, he compared his own wild and wasted youth,
his resort to fancy and to passion for excitement. He contrasted with
her patient resignation his own arrogant rebellion against the trials,
the bitterness of which his proud spirit had exaggerated; his contempt
for the pursuits and aims of others; the imperious indolence of his
later life, and his forgetfulness of the duties which Providence had
fitted him to discharge. His mind, once so rudely hurled from that
complacent pedestal, from which it had so long looked down on men,
and said, "I am wiser and better than you," became even too acutely
sensitive to its own infirmities; and that desire for Virtue, which
he had ever deeply entertained, made itself more distinctly and loudly
heard amidst the ruins and the silence of his pride.

From the contemplation of the Past, he roused himself to face the
Future. Alice had refused his hand, Alice herself had ratified and
blessed his union with another! Evelyn, so madly loved,--Evelyn might
still be his! No law--from the violation of which, even in thought,
Human Nature recoils appalled and horror-stricken--forbade him to
reclaim her hand, to snatch her from the grasp of Vargrave, to woo
again, and again to win her! But did Maltravers welcome, did he embrace
that thought? Let us do him justice: he did not. He felt that Alice's
resolution, in the first hour of mortified affection, was not to be
considered final; and even if it were so, he felt yet more deeply that
her love--the love that had withstood so many trials--never could be
subdued. Was he to make her nobleness a curse? Was he to say, "Thou hast
passed away in thy generation, and I leave thee again to thy solitude
for her whom thou hast cherished as a child?" He started in dismay from
the thought of this new and last blow upon the shattered spirit; and
then fresh and equally sacred obstacles between Evelyn and himself
broke slowly on his view. Could Templeton rise from his grave, with what
resentment, with what just repugnance, would he have regarded in the
betrayer of his wife (even though wife but in name) the suitor to his
child!

These thoughts came in fast and fearful force upon Maltravers, and
served to strengthen his honour and his conscience. He felt that though,
in law, there was no shadow of connection between Evelyn and himself,
yet his tie with Alice had been of a nature that ought to separate him
from one who had regarded Alice as a mother. The load of horror, the
agony of shame, were indeed gone; but still a voice whispered as before,
"Evelyn is lost to thee forever!" But so shaken had already been her
image in the late storms and convulsion of his soul, that this thought
was preferable to the thought of sacrificing Alice. If _that_ were
all--but Evelyn might still love him; and justice to Alice might be
misery to her! He started from his revery with a vehement gesture, and
groaned audibly.

The curate turned to address to him some words of inquiry and surprise;
but the words were unheard, and he perceived, by the advancing daylight,
that the countenance of Maltravers was that of a man utterly rapt and
absorbed by some mastering and irresistible thought. Wisely, therefore,
he left his companion in peace, and returned to his own anxious and
engrossing meditations.

The travellers did not rest till they arrived at Dover. The vessel
started early the following morning, and Aubrey, who was much fatigued,
retired to rest. Maltravers glanced at the clock upon the mantelpiece;
it was the hour of nine. For him there was no hope of sleep; and the
prospect of the slow night was that of dreary suspense and torturing
self-commune.

As he turned restlessly in his seat, the waiter entered to say that
there was a gentleman who had caught a glimpse of him below on his
arrival, and who was anxious to speak with him. Before Maltravers could
answer, the gentleman himself entered, and Maltravers recognized Legard.

"I beg your pardon," said the latter, in a tone of great agitation, "but
I was most anxious to see you for a few moments. I have just returned
to England--all places alike hateful to me! I read in the papers--an--an
announcement--which--which occasions me the greatest--I know not what I
would say,--but is it true? Read this paragraph;" and Legard placed "The
Courier" before Maltravers.

The passage was as follows:


"It is whispered that Lord Vargrave, who is now at Paris, is to be
married in a few days to the beautiful and wealthy Miss Cameron, to whom
he has been long engaged."


"Is it possible?" exclaimed Legard, following the eyes of Maltravers, as
he glanced over the paragraph. "Were not _you_ the lover,--the accepted,
the happy lover of Miss Cameron? Speak, tell me, I implore you!--that it
was for you, who saved my life and redeemed my honour, and not for that
cold schemer, that I renounced all my hopes of earthly happiness, and
surrendered the dream of winning the heart and hand of the only woman I
ever loved!"

A deep shade fell over the features of Maltravers. He gazed earnestly
and long upon the working countenance of Legard, and said, after a
pause,--

"You, too, loved her, then? I never knew it,--never guessed it; or, if
once I suspected, it was but for a moment; and--"

"Yes," interrupted Legard, passionately, "Heaven is my witness how
fervently and truly I did love--I do still love Evelyn Cameron! But when
you confessed to me your affection--your hopes--I felt all that I
owed you; I felt that I never ought to become your rival. I left Paris
abruptly. What I have suffered I will not say; but it was some comfort
to think that I had acted as became one who owed you a debt never to
be cancelled nor repaid. I travelled from place to place, each equally
hateful and wearisome; at last, I scarce know why, I returned to
England. I have arrived this day; and now--but tell me, is it true?"

"I believe it true," said Maltravers, in a hollow voice, "that Evelyn is
at this moment engaged to Lord Vargrave. I believe it equally true
that that engagement, founded upon false impressions, never will be
fulfilled. With that hope and that belief, I am on my road to Paris."

"And she will be yours, still?" said Legard, turning away his face:
"well, that I can bear. May you be happy, sir!"

"Stay, Legard," said Maltravers, in a voice of great feeling: "let us
understand each other better; you have renounced your passion to your
sense of honour." Maltravers paused thoughtfully. "It was noble in you,
it was more than just to me; I thank you and respect you. But, Legard,
was there aught in the manner, the bearing of Evelyn Cameron, that could
lead you to suppose that she would have returned your affection? True,
had we started on equal terms, I am not vain enough to be blind to your
advantages of youth and person; but I believed that the affections of
Evelyn were already mine, before we met at Paris."

"It might be so," said Legard, gloomily; "nor is it for me to say that a
heart so pure and generous as Evelyn's could deceive yourself or me.
Yet I _had_ fancied, I _had_ hoped, while you stood aloof, that the
partiality with which she regarded you was that of admiration more than
love; that you had dazzled her imagination rather than won her heart.
I had hoped that I should win, that I was winning, my way to her
affection! But let this pass; I drop the subject forever--only,
Maltravers, only do me justice. You are a proud man, and your pride has
often irritated and stung me, in spite of my gratitude. Be more lenient
to me than you have been; think that, though I have my errors and my
follies, I am still capable of some conquests over myself. And most
sincerely do I now wish that Evelyn's love may be to you that blessing
it would have been to me!"

This was, indeed, a new triumph over the pride of Maltravers,--a new
humiliation. He had looked with a cold contempt on this man, because he
affected not to be above the herd; and this man had preceded him in the
very sacrifice he himself meditated.

"Legard," said Maltravers, and a faint blush overspread his face, "you
rebuke me justly. I acknowledge my fault, and I ask you to forgive
it. From this night, whatever happens, I shall hold it an honour to be
admitted to your friendship; from this night, George Legard never shall
find in me the offences of arrogance and harshness."

Legard wrung the hand held out to him warmly, but made no answer; his
heart was full, and he would not trust himself to speak.

"You think, then," resumed Maltravers, in a more thoughtful tone,--"you
think that Evelyn could have loved you, had my pretensions not crossed
your own? And you think, also--pardon me, dear Legard--that you could
have acquired the steadiness of character, the firmness of purpose,
which one so fair, so young, so inexperienced and susceptible, so
surrounded by a thousand temptations, would need in a guardian and
protector?"

"Oh, do not judge of me by what I have been. I feel that Evelyn could
have reformed errors worse than mine; that her love would have elevated
dispositions yet more light and commonplace. You do not know what
miracles love works! But now, what is there left for me? What matters it
how frivolous and poor the occupations which can distract my thoughts,
and bring me forgetfulness? Forgive me; I have no right to obtrude all
this egotism on you."

"Do not despond, Legard," said Maltravers, kindly; "there may be better
fortunes in store for you than you yet anticipate. I cannot say more
now; but will you remain at Dover a few days longer? Within a week you
shall hear from me. I will not raise hopes that it may not be mine to
realize. But if it be as you think it was, why little, indeed, would
rest with me. Nay, look not on me so wistfully," added Maltravers, with
a mournful smile; "and let the subject close for the present. You will
stay at Dover?"

"I will; but--"

"No buts, Legard; it is so settled."




BOOK XI.

  "Man is born to be a doer of good."--MARCUS ANTONINUS, lib. iii.



CHAPTER I.

            His teeth he still did grind,
  And grimly gnash, threatening revenge in vain.--SPENSER.

IT is now time to return to Lord Vargrave. His most sanguine hopes were
realized; all things seemed to prosper. The hand of Evelyn Cameron was
pledged to him, the wedding-day was fixed. In less than a week she was
to confer upon the ruined peer a splendid dowry, that would smooth all
obstacles in the ascent of his ambition. From Mr. Douce he learned that
the deeds, which were to transfer to himself the baronial possessions of
the head of the house of Maltravers, were nearly completed; and on his
wedding-day he hoped to be able to announce that the happy pair had
set out for their princely mansion of Lisle Court. In politics; though
nothing could be finally settled till his return, letters from Lord
Saxingham assured him that all was auspicious: the court and the heads
of the aristocracy daily growing more alienated from the premier, and
more prepared for a Cabinet revolution. And Vargrave, perhaps, like
most needy men, overrated the advantages he should derive from, and the
servile opinions he should conciliate in, his new character of landed
proprietor and wealthy peer. He was not insensible to the silent anguish
that Evelyn seemed to endure, nor to the bitter gloom that hung on
the brow of Lady Doltimore. But these were clouds that foretold no
storm,--light shadows that obscured not the serenity of the favouring
sky. He continued to seem unconscious to either; to take the coming
event as a matter of course, and to Evelyn he evinced so gentle,
unfamiliar, respectful, and delicate an attachment, that he left no
opening, either for confidence or complaint. Poor Evelyn! her gayety,
her enchanting levity, her sweet and infantine playfulness of manner,
were indeed vanished. Pale, wan, passive, and smileless, she was the
ghost of her former self! But days rolled on, and the evil one drew
near; she recoiled, but she never dreamed of resisting. How many equal
victims of her age and sex does the altar witness!

One day, at early noon, Lord Vargrave took his way to Evelyn's. He had
been to pay a political visit in the Faubourg St. Germain, and he was
now slowly crossing the more quiet and solitary part of the gardens of
the Tuileries, his hands clasped behind him, after his old, unaltered
habit, and his eyes downcast,--when suddenly a man, who was seated alone
beneath one of the trees, and who had for some moments watched his steps
with an anxious and wild aspect, rose and approached him. Lord Vargrave
was not conscious of the intrusion, till the man laid his hand on
Vargrave's arm, and exclaimed,--

"It is he! it is! Lumley Ferrers, we meet again!"

Lord Vargrave started and changed colour, as he gazed on the intruder.

"Ferrers," continued Cesarini (for it was he), and he wound his arm
firmly into Lord Vargrave's as he spoke, "you have not changed; your
step is light, your cheek healthful; and yet I--you can scarcely
recognize me. Oh, I have suffered so horribly since we parted! Why is
this? Why have I been so heavily visited, and why have you gone free?
Heaven is not just!"

Castruccio was in one of his lucid intervals; but there was that in his
uncertain eye, and strange unnatural voice, which showed that a breath
might dissolve the avalanche. Lord Vargrave looked anxiously round; none
were near: but he knew that the more public parts of the garden
were thronged, and through the trees he saw many forms moving in the
distance. He felt that the sound of his voice could summon assistance in
an instant, and his assurance returned to him.

"My poor friend," said he soothingly, as he quickened his pace, "it
grieves me to the heart to see you look ill; do not think so much of
what is past."

"There is no past!" replied Cesarini, gloomily. "The Past is my Present!
And I have thought and thought, in darkness and in chains, over all that
I have endured, and a light has broken on me in the hours when they told
me I was mad! Lumley Ferrers, it was not for my sake that you led me,
devil as you are, into the lowest hell! You had some object of your
own to serve in separating _her_ from Maltravers. You made me your
instrument. What was I to you that you should have sinned for _my_ sake?
Answer me, and truly, if those lips can utter truth!"

"Cesarini," returned Vargrave, in his blandest accents, "another time
we will converse on what has been; believe me, my only object was your
happiness, combined, it may be, with my hatred of your rival."

"Liar!" shouted Cesarini, grasping Vargrave's arm with the strength of
growing madness, while his burning eyes were fixed upon his tempter's
changing countenance. "You, too, loved Florence; you, too, sought her
hand; _you_ were my real rival!"

"Hush! my friend, hush!" said Vargrave, seeking to shake off the grip
of the maniac, and becoming seriously alarmed; "we are approaching the
crowded part of the gardens, we shall be observed."

"And why are men made my foes? Why is my own sister become my
persecutor? Why should she give me up to the torturer and the dungeon?
Why are serpents and fiends my comrades? Why is there fire in my brain
and heart; and why do you go free and enjoy liberty and life? Observed!
What care _you_ for observation? All men search for _me_!"

"Then why so openly expose yourself to their notice; why--"

"Hear me!" interrupted Cesarini. "When I escaped from the horrible
prison into which I was plunged; when I scented the fresh air, and
bounded over the grass; when I was again free in limbs and spirit,--a
sudden strain of music from a village came on my ear, and I stopped
short, and crouched down, and held my breath to listen. It ceased; and I
thought I had been with Florence, and I wept bitterly! When I recovered,
memory came back to me distinct and clear; and I heard a voice say to
me, 'Avenge her and thyself!' From that hour the voice has been heard
again, morning and night! Lumley Ferrers, I hear it now! it speaks to
my heart, it warms my blood, it nerves my hand! On whom should vengeance
fall? Speak to me!"

Lumley strode rapidly on. They were now without the grove; a gay throng
was before them. "All is safe," thought the Englishman. He turned
abruptly and haughtily on Cesarini, and waved his hand; "Begone,
madman!" said he, in a loud and stern voice,--"begone! vex me no more,
or I give you into custody. Begone, I say!"

Cesarini halted, amazed and awed for the moment; and then, with a dark
scowl and a low cry, threw himself on Vargrave. The eye and hand of the
latter were vigilant and prepared; he grasped the uplifted arm of the
maniac, and shouted for help. But the madman was now in his full fury;
he hurled Vargrave to the ground with a force for which the peer was not
prepared, and Lumley might never have risen a living man from that spot,
if two soldiers, seated close by, had not hastened to his assistance.
Cesarini was already kneeling on his breast, and his long bony fingers
were fastening upon the throat of his intended victim. Torn from his
hold, he glared fiercely on his new assailants; and after a fierce but
momentary struggle, wrested himself from their grip. Then, turning round
to Vargrave, who had with some effort risen from the ground, he
shrieked out, "I shall have thee yet!" and fled through the trees and
disappeared.



CHAPTER II.

  AH, who is nigh?  Come to me, friend or foe!
  My parks, my walks, my manors that I had,
  Ev'n now forsake me.--_HENRY VI_. Part iii.

LORD VARGRAVE, bold as he was by nature, in vain endeavoured to banish
from his mind the gloomy impression which the startling interview with
Cesarini had bequeathed. The face, the voice of the maniac, haunted him,
as the shape of the warning wraith haunts the mountaineer. He returned
at once to his hotel, unable for some hours to collect himself
sufficiently to pay his customary visit to Miss Cameron. Inly resolving
not to hazard a second meeting with the Italian during the rest of his
sojourn at Paris by venturing in the streets on foot, he ordered
his carriage towards evening; dined at the Cafe de Paris; and then
re-entered his carriage to proceed to Lady Doltimore's house.

"I beg your pardon, my lord," said his servant, as he closed the
carriage-door, "but I forgot to say that, a short time after you
returned this morning, a strange gentleman asked at the porter's lodge
if Mr. Ferrers was not staying at the hotel. The porter said there was
no Mr. Ferrers, but the gentleman insisted upon it that he had seen
Mr. Ferrers enter. I was in the lodge at the moment, my lord, and I
explained--"

"That Mr. Ferrers and Lord Vargrave are one and the same? What sort of
looking person?"

"Thin and dark, my lord,--evidently a foreigner. When I said that you
were now Lord Vargrave, he stared a moment, and said very abruptly that
he recollected it perfectly, and then he laughed and walked away."

"Did he not ask to see me?"

"No, my lord; he said he should take another opportunity. He was a
strange-looking gentleman, and his clothes were threadbare."

"Ah, some troublesome petitioner. Perhaps a Pole in distress! Remember I
am never at home when he calls. Shut the door. To Lady Doltimore's."

Lumley's heart beat as he threw himself back,--he again felt the grip of
the madman at his throat. He saw, at once, that Cesarini had dogged him;
he resolved the next morning to change his hotel, and to apply to the
police. It was strange how sudden and keen a fear had entered the breast
of this callous and resolute man!

On arriving at Lady Doltimore's, he found Caroline alone in the
drawing-room. It was a _tete-a-tete_ that he by no means desired.

"Lord Vargrave," said Caroline, coldly, "I wished a short conversation
with you; and finding you did not come in the morning, I sent you a note
an hour ago. Did you receive it?"

"No; I have been from home since six o'clock,--it is now nine."

"Well, then, Vargrave," said Caroline, with a compressed and writhing
lip, and turning very pale, "I tremble to tell you that I fear Doltimore
suspects. He looked at me sternly this morning, and said, 'You seem
unhappy, madam; this marriage of Lord Vargrave's distresses you!'"

"I warned you how it would be,--your own selfishness will betray and
ruin you."

"Do not reproach me, man!" said Lady Doltimore, with great vehemence.
"From you at least I have a right to pity, to forbearance, to succour. I
will not bear reproach from _you_."

"I reproach you for your own sake, for the faults you commit against
yourself; and I must say, Caroline, that after I had generously
conquered all selfish feeling, and assisted you to so desirable and
even brilliant a position, it is neither just nor high-minded in you to
evince so ungracious a reluctance to my taking the only step which can
save me from actual ruin. But what does Doltimore suspect? What ground
has he for suspicion, beyond that want of command of countenance which
it is easy to explain,--and which it is yet easier for a woman and a
great lady [here Lumley sneered] to acquire?"

"I know not; it has been put into his head. Paris is so full of slander.
But, Vargrave--Lumley--I tremble, I shudder with terror, if ever
Doltimore should discover--"

"Pooh! pooh! Our conduct at Paris has been most guarded, most discreet.
Doltimore is Self-conceit personified,--and Self-conceit is horn-eyed.
I am about to leave Paris,--about to marry, from under your own roof; a
little prudence, a little self-control, a smiling face, when you wish
us happiness, and so forth, and all is safe. Tush! think of it no more!
Fate has cut and shuffled the cards for you; the game is yours, unless
you revoke. Pardon my metaphor; it is a favourite one,--I have worn
it threadbare; but human life _is_ so like a rubber at whist. Where is
Evelyn?"

"In her own room. Have you no pity for her?"

"She will be very happy when she is Lady Vargrave; and for the rest, I
shall neither be a stern nor a jealous husband. She might not have given
the same character to the magnificent Maltravers."

Here Evelyn entered; and Vargrave hastened to press her hand, to whisper
tender salutations and compliments, to draw the easy-chair to the
fire, to place the footstool,--to lavish the _petits soins_ that are so
agreeable, when they are the small moralities of love.

Evelyn was more than usually pale,--more than usually abstracted. There
was no lustre in her eye, no life in her step; she seemed unconscious
of the crisis to which she approached. As the myrrh and hyssop which
drugged the malefactors of old into forgetfulness of their doom,
so there are griefs which stupefy before their last and crowning
consummation!

Vargrave conversed lightly on the weather, the news, the last book.
Evelyn answered but in monosyllables; and Caroline, with a hand-screen
before her face, preserved an unbroken silence. Thus gloomy and joyless
were two of the party, thus gay and animated the third, when the clock
on the mantelpiece struck ten; and as the last stroke died, and Evelyn
sighed heavily,--for it was an hour nearer to the fatal day,--the door
was suddenly thrown open, and pushing aside the servant, two gentlemen
entered the room.

Caroline, the first to perceive them, started from her seat with a faint
exclamation of surprise. Vargrave turned abruptly, and saw before him
the stern countenance of Maltravers.

"My child! my Evelyn!" exclaimed a familiar voice; and Evelyn had
already flown into the arms of Aubrey.

The sight of the curate in company with Maltravers explained all at
once to Vargrave. He saw that the mask was torn from his face, the prize
snatched from his grasp, his falsehood known, his plot counterworked,
his villany baffled! He struggled in vain for self-composure; all his
resources of courage and craft seemed drained and exhausted. Livid,
speechless, almost trembling, he cowered beneath the eyes of Maltravers.

Evelyn, not as yet aware of the presence of her former lover, was the
first to break the silence. She lifted her face in alarm from the bosom
of the good curate. "My mother--she is well--she lives--what brings you
hither?"

"Your mother is well, my child. I have come hither at her earnest
request to save you from a marriage with that unworthy man!"

Lord Vargrave smiled a ghastly smile, but made no answer.

"Lord Vargrave," said Maltravers, "you will feel at once that you have
no further business under this roof. Let us withdraw,--I have much to
thank you for."

"I will not stir!" exclaimed Vargrave, passionately, and stamping on
the floor. "Miss Cameron, the guest of Lady Doltimore, whose house and
presence you thus rudely profane, is my affianced bride,--affianced with
her own consent. Evelyn, beloved Evelyn! mine you are yet; you alone can
cancel the bond. Sir, I know not what you have to say, what mystery in
your immaculate life to disclose; but unless Lady Doltimore, whom your
violence appalls and terrifies, orders me to quit her roof, it is not
I,--it is yourself, who are the intruder! Lady Doltimore, with your
permission, I will direct your servants to conduct this gentleman to his
carriage!"

"Lady Doltimore, pardon me," said Maltravers, coldly; "I will not be
urged to any failure of respect to you. My lord, if the most abject
cowardice be not added to your other vices, you will not make this room
the theatre for our altercation. I invite you, in those terms which no
gentleman ever yet refused, to withdraw with me."

The tone and manner of Maltravers exercised a strange control over
Vargrave; he endeavoured in vain to keep alive the passion into which he
had sought to work himself; his voice faltered, his head sank upon his
breast. Between these two personages, none interfered; around them, all
present grouped in breathless silence,--Caroline, turning her eyes from
one to the other in wonder and dismay; Evelyn, believing all a dream,
yet alive only to the thought that, by some merciful interposition of
Providence, she should escape the consequences of her own rashness,
clinging to Aubrey, with her gaze riveted on Maltravers; and Aubrey,
whose gentle character was borne down and silenced by the powerful and
tempestuous passions that now met in collision and conflict, withheld
by his abhorrence of Vargrave's treachery from his natural desire to
propitiate, and yet appalled by the apprehension of bloodshed, that for
the first time crossed him.

There was a moment of dead silence, in which Vargrave seemed to be
nerving and collecting himself for such course as might be best to
pursue, when again the door opened, and the name of Mr. Howard was
announced.

Hurried and agitated, the young secretary, scarcely noticing the rest of
the party, rushed to Lord Vargrave.

"My lord! a thousand pardons for interrupting you,--business of such
importance! I am so fortunate to find you!"

"What is the matter, sir?"

"These letters, my lord; I have so much to say!"

Any interruption, even an earthquake, at that moment must have been
welcome to Vargrave. He bent his head, with a polite smile, linked his
arm into his secretary's, and withdrew to the recess of the farthest
window. Not a minute elapsed before he turned away with a look of
scornful exultation. "Mr. Howard," said he, "go and refresh yourself,
and come to me at twelve o'clock to-night; I shall be at home then." The
secretary bowed, and withdrew.

"Now, sir," said Vargrave, to Maltravers, "I am willing to leave you in
possession of the field. Miss Cameron, it will be, I fear, impossible
for me to entertain any longer the bright hopes I had once formed; my
cruel fate compels me to seek wealth in any matrimonial engagement. I
regret to inform you that you are no longer the great heiress; the whole
of your capital was placed in the hands of Mr. Douce for the completion
of the purchase of Lisle Court. Mr. Douce is a bankrupt; he has fled to
America. This letter is an express from my lawyer; the house has closed
its payments! Perhaps we may hope to obtain sixpence in the pound. I
am a loser also; the forfeit money bequeathed to me is gone. I know
not whether, as your trustee, I am not accountable for the loss of your
fortune (drawn out on my responsibility); probably so. But as I have not
now a shilling in the world, I doubt whether Mr. Maltravers will advise
you to institute proceedings against me. Mr. Maltravers, to-morrow,
at nine o'clock, I will listen to what you have to say. I wish you all
good-night." He bowed, seized his hat, and vanished.

"Evelyn," said Aubrey, "can you require to learn more; do you not
already feel you are released from union with a man without heart and
honour?"

"Yes, yes! I am so happy!" cried Evelyn, bursting into tears. "This
hated wealth,--I feel not its loss; I am released from all duty to my
benefactor. I am free!"

The last tie that had yet united the guilty Caroline to Vargrave was
broken,--a woman forgives sin in her lover, but never meanness. The
degrading, the abject position in which she had seen one whom she had
served as a slave (though, as yet, all his worst villanies were unknown
to her), filled her with shame, horror, and disgust. She rose abruptly,
and quitted the room. They did not miss her.

Maltravers approached Evelyn; he took her hand, and pressed it to his
lips and heart.

"Evelyn," said he, mournfully, "you require an explanation,--to-morrow
I will give and seek it. To-night we are both too unnerved for such
communications. I can only now feel joy at your escape, and hope that I
may still minister to your future happiness."

"But," said Aubrey, "can we believe this new and astounding statement?
Can this loss be so irremediable; may we not yet take precaution, and
save, at least, some wrecks of this noble fortune?"

"I thank you for recalling me to the world," said Maltravers, eagerly.
"I will see to it this instant; and tomorrow, Evelyn, after my interview
with you, I will hasten to London, and act in that capacity still left
to me,--your guardian, your friend."

He turned away his face, and hurried to the door.

Evelyn clung more closely to Aubrey. "But you will not leave me
to-night? You can stay? We can find you accommodation; do not leave me."

"Leave you, my child! no; we have a thousand things to say to each
other. I will not," he added in a whisper, turning to Maltravers,
"forestall your communications."



CHAPTER III.

  ALACK, 'tis he.  Why, he was met even now
  As mad as the vexed sea.--_Lear_.

IN the Rue de la Paix there resided an English lawyer of eminence, with
whom Maltravers had had previous dealings; to this gentleman he now
drove. He acquainted him with the news he had just heard, respecting the
bankruptcy of Mr. Douce; and commissioned him to leave Paris, the first
moment he could obtain a passport, and to proceed to London.

At all events, he would arrive there some hours before Maltravers; and
those hours were something gained. This done, he drove to the nearest
hotel, which chanced to be the Hotel de M-----, where, though he knew it
not, it so happened that Lord Vargrave himself lodged. As his carriage
stopped without, while the porter unclosed the gates, a man, who had
been loitering under the lamps, darted forward, and prying into the
carriage-window, regarded Maltravers earnestly. The latter, pre-occupied
and absorbed, did not notice him; but when the carriage drove into the
courtyard it was followed by the stranger, who was muffled in a worn and
tattered cloak, and whose movements were unheeded amidst the bustle of
the arrival. The porter's wife led the way to a second-floor, just
left vacant, and the waiter began to arrange the fire. Maltravers threw
himself abstractedly upon the sofa, insensible to all around him, when,
lifting his eyes, he saw before him the countenance of Cesarini! The
Italian (supposed, perhaps, by the persons of the hotel to be one of
the newcomers) was leaning over the back of a chair, supporting his
face with his hand, and fixing his eyes with an earnest and sorrowful
expression upon the features of his ancient rival. When he perceived
that he was recognized, he approached Maltravers, and said in Italian,
and in a low voice, "You are the man of all others, whom, save one, I
most desired to see. I have much to say to you, and my time is short.
Spare me a few minutes."

The tone and manner of Cesarini were so calm and rational that they
changed the first impulse of Maltravers, which was that of securing a
maniac; while the Italian's emaciated countenance, his squalid
garments, the air of penury and want diffused over his whole appearance,
irresistibly invited compassion. With all the more anxious and pressing
thoughts that weighed upon him, Maltravers could not refuse the
conference thus demanded. He dismissed the attendants, and motioned
Cesarini to be seated.

The Italian drew near to the fire, which now blazed brightly and
cheerily, and, spreading his thin hands to the flame, seemed to enjoy
the physical luxury of the warmth. "Cold, cold," he said piteously, as
to himself; "Nature is a very bitter protector. But frost and famine
are, at least, more merciful than slavery and darkness."

At this moment Ernest's servant entered to know if his master would not
take refreshments, for he had scarcely touched food upon the road. And
as he spoke, Cesarini turned keenly and wistfully round. There was no
mistaking the appeal. Wine and cold meat were ordered: and when the
servant vanished, Cesarini turned to Maltravers with a strange smile,
and said, "You see what the love of liberty brings men to! They found
me plenty in the jail! But I have read of men who feasted merrily before
execution--have not you?--and my hour is at hand. All this day I have
felt chained by an irresistible destiny to this house. But it was not
you I sought; no matter, in the crisis of our doom all its agents meet
together. It is the last act of a dreary play!"

The Italian turned again to the fire, and bent over it, muttering to
himself.

Maltravers remained silent and thoughtful. Now was the moment once more
to place the maniac under the kindly vigilance of his family, to snatch
him from the horrors, perhaps, of starvation itself, to which his escape
condemned him: if he could detain Cesarini till De Montaigne could
arrive!

Agreeably to this thought, he quietly drew towards him the portfolio
which had been laid on the table, and, Cesarini's back still turned to
him, wrote a hasty line to De Montaigne. When his servant re-entered
with the wine and viands, Maltravers followed him out of the room, and
bade him see the note sent immediately. On returning, he found Cesarini
devouring the food before him with all the voracity of famine. It was
a dreadful sight!--the intellect ruined, the mind darkened, the wild,
fierce animal alone left!

When Cesarini had appeased his hunger, he drew near to Maltravers, and
thus accosted him,--

"I must lead you back to the past. I sinned against you and the dead;
but Heaven has avenged you, and me you can pity and forgive. Maltravers,
there is another more guilty than I,--but proud, prosperous, and great.
_His_ crime Heaven has left to the revenge of man! I bound myself by an
oath not to reveal his villany. I cancel the oath now, for the knowledge
of it should survive his life and mine. And, mad though they deem me,
the mad are prophets, and a solemn conviction, a voice not of earth,
tells me that he and I are already in the Shadow of Death."

Here Cesarini, with a calm and precise accuracy of self-possession,--a
minuteness of circumstance and detail, that, coming from one whose very
eyes betrayed his terrible disease, was infinitely thrilling in its
effect,--related the counsels, the persuasions, the stratagems of
Lumley. Slowly and distinctly he forced into the heart of Maltravers
that sickening record of cold fraud calculating on vehement passion as
its tool; and thus he concluded his narration,--

"Now wonder no longer why I have lived till this hour; why I have
clung to freedom, through want and hunger, amidst beggars, felons, and
outcasts! In that freedom was my last hope,--the hope of revenge!"

Maltravers returned no answer for some moments. At length he said
calmly, "Cesarini, there are injuries so great that they defy revenge.
Let us alike, since we are alike injured, trust our cause to Him who
reads all hearts, and, better than we can do, measures both crime and
its excuses. You think that our enemy has not suffered,--that he has
gone free. We know not his internal history; prosperity and power are no
signs of happiness, they bring no exemption from care. Be soothed and
be ruled, Cesarini. Let the stone once more close over the solemn grave.
Turn with me to the future; and let us rather seek to be the judges of
ourselves, than the executioners of another."

Cesarini listened gloomily, and was about to answer, when--

But here we must return to Lord Vargrave.



CHAPTER IV.

            MY noble lord,
  Your worthy friends do lack you.--_Macbeth_.

            He is about it;
  The doors are open.--_Ibid._

ON quitting Lady Doltimore's house, Lumley drove to his hotel. His
secretary had been the bearer of other communications, with the
nature of which he had not yet acquainted himself; but he saw by the
superscriptions that they were of great importance. Still, however,
even in the solitude and privacy of his own chamber, it was not on the
instant that he could divert his thoughts from the ruin of his fortunes:
the loss not only of Evelyn's property, but his own claims upon it (for
the whole capital had been placed in Douce's hands), the total wreck of
his grand scheme, the triumph he had afforded to Maltravers! He ground
his teeth in impotent rage, and groaned aloud, as he traversed his room
with hasty and uneven strides. At last he paused and muttered: "Well,
the spider toils on even when its very power of weaving fresh webs is
exhausted; it lies in wait,--it forces itself into the webs of others.
Brave insect, thou art my model! While I have breath in my body, the
world and all its crosses, Fortune and all her malignity, shall not
prevail against me! What man ever yet failed until he himself grew
craven, and sold his soul to the arch fiend, Despair! 'Tis but a girl
and a fortune lost,--they were gallantly fought for, that is some
comfort. Now to what is yet left to me!"

The first letter Lumley opened was from Lord Saxingham. It filled him
with dismay. The question at issue had been formally, but abruptly,
decided in the Cabinet against Vargrave and his manoeuvres. Some hasty
expressions of Lord Saxingham had been instantly caught at by the
premier, and a resignation, rather hinted at than declared, had been
peremptorily accepted. Lord Saxingham and Lumley's adherents in the
Government were to a man dismissed; and at the time Lord Saxingham wrote
the premier was with the king.

"Curse their folly!--the puppets! the dolts!" exclaimed Lumley, crushing
the letter in his hand. "The moment I leave them, they run their heads
against the wall. Curse them! curse myself! curse the man who weaves
ropes with sand! Nothing--nothing left for me but exile or suicide!
Stay, what is this?" His eye fell on the well-known hand writing of the
premier. He tore the envelope, impatient to know the worst. His
eyes sparkled as he proceeded. The letter was most courteous, most
complimentary, most wooing. The minister was a man consummately versed
in the arts that increase, as well as those which purge, a party.
Saxingham and his friends were imbeciles, incapables, mostly men who had
outlived their day. But Lord Vargrave, in the prime of life--versatile,
accomplished, vigorous, bitter, unscrupulous--Vargrave was of another
mould, Vargrave was to be dreaded; and therefore, if possible, to be
retained. His powers of mischief were unquestionably increased by the
universal talk of London that he was about soon to wed so wealthy a
lady. The minister knew his man. In terms of affected regret, he
alluded to the loss the Government would sustain in the services of Lord
Saxingham, etc.; he rejoiced that Lord Vargrave's absence from London
had prevented his being prematurely mixed up, by false scruples of
honour, in secessions which his judgment must condemn. He treated of
the question in dispute with the most delicate address,--confessed the
reasonableness of Lord Vargrave's former opposition to it; but contended
that it was now, if not wise, inevitable. He said nothing of the
_justice_ of the measure he proposed to adopt, but much on the
_expediency_. He concluded by offering to Vargrave, in the most cordial
and flattering terms, the very seat in the Cabinet which Lord Saxingham
had vacated, with an apology for its inadequacy to his lordship's
merits, and a distinct and definite promise of the refusal of the
gorgeous viceroyalty of India, which would be vacant next year by the
return of the present governor-general.

Unprincipled as Vargrave was, it is not, perhaps, judging him too mildly
to say that, had he succeeded in obtaining Evelyn's hand and fortune,
he would have shrunk from the baseness he now meditated. To step coldly
into the very post of which he, and he alone, had been the cause of
depriving his earliest patron and nearest relative; to profit by the
betrayal of his own party; to damn himself eternally in the eyes of
his ancient friends; to pass down the stream of history as a mercenary
apostate,--from all this Vargrave must have shrunk, had he seen one spot
of honest ground on which to maintain his footing. But now the waters of
the abyss were closing over his head; he would have caught at a straw;
how much more consent to be picked up by the vessel of an enemy! All
objection, all scruple, vanished at once. And the "barbaric gold" "of
Ormus and of Ind" glittered before the greedy eyes of the penniless
adventurer! Not a day was now to be lost. How fortunate that a written
proposition, from which it was impossible to recede, had been made to
him before the failure of his matrimonial projects had become known!
Too happy to quit Paris, he would set off on the morrow, and conclude
in person the negotiation. Vargrave glanced towards the clock; it was
scarcely past eleven. What revolutions are worked in moments! Within an
hour he had lost a wife, a noble fortune, changed the politics of his
whole life, stepped into a Cabinet office, and was already calculating
how much a governor-general of India could lay by in five years! But it
was only eleven o'clock. He had put off Mr. Howard's visit till twelve;
he wished so much to see him, and learn all the London gossip connected
with the recent events. Poor Mr. Douce! Vargrave had already forgotten
_his_ existence!--he rang his bell hastily. It was some time before his
servant answered.

Promptitude and readiness were virtues that Lord Vargrave peremptorily
demanded in a servant; and as he paid the best price for the
articles--less in wages than in plunder--he was generally sure to obtain
them.

"Where the deuce have you been? This is the third time I have rung! you
ought to be in the anteroom!"

"I beg your lordship's pardon; but I was helping Mr. Maltravers's valet
to find a key which he dropped in the courtyard."

"Mr. Maltravers! Is he at this hotel?"

"Yes, my lord; his rooms are just overhead."

"Humph! Has Mr. Howard engaged a lodging here?"

"No, my lord. He left word that he was gone to his aunt, Lady Jane."

"Ah, Lady Jane--lives at Paris--so she does; Rue Chaussee d'Antin--you
know the House? Go immediately--go yourself; don't trust to a
messenger--and beg Mr. Howard to return with you. I want to see him
instantly."

"Yes, my lord."

The servant went. Lumley was in a mood in which solitude was
intolerable. He was greatly excited; and some natural compunctions at
the course on which he had decided made him long to escape from thought.
So Maltravers was under the same roof! He had promised to give him an
interview next day; but next day he wished to be on the road to London.
Why not have it over to-night? But could Maltravers meditate any hostile
proceedings? Impossible! Whatever his causes of complaint, they were
of too delicate and secret a nature for seconds, bullets, and newspaper
paragraphs! Vargrave might feel secure that he should not be delayed by
any Bois de Boulogne assignation; but it was necessary to _his honour_
(!) that he should not seem to shun the man he had deceived and wronged.
He would go up to him at once,--a new excitement would distract his
thoughts. Agreeably to this resolution, Lord Vargrave quitted his room,
and was about to close the outer door, when he recollected that perhaps
his servant might not meet with Howard; that the secretary might
probably arrive before the time fixed,--it would be as well to leave his
door open. He accordingly stopped, and writing upon a piece of paper,
"Dear Howard, send up for me the moment you arrive: I shall be with Mr.
Maltravers _au second_"--Vargrave wafered the _affiche_ to the door,
which he then left ajar, and the lamp in the landing-place fell clear
and full on the paper.

It was the voice of Vargrave, in the little stone-paved antechamber
without, inquiring of the servant if Mr. Maltravers was at home, which
had startled and interrupted Cesarini as he was about to reply to
Ernest. Each recognized that sharp clear voice; each glanced at the
other.

"I will not see him," said Maltravers, hastily moving towards the door;
"you are not fit to--"

"Meet him? no!" said Cesarini, with a furtive and sinister glance, which
a man versed in his disease would have understood, but which Maltravers
did not even observe; "I will retire into your bedroom; my eyes are
heavy. I could sleep."

He opened the inner door as he spoke, and had scarcely reclosed it
before Vargrave entered.

"Your servant said you were engaged; but I thought you might see an old
friend:" and Vargrave coolly seated himself.

Maltravers drew the bolt across the door that separated them from
Cesarini; and the two men, whose characters and lives were so strongly
contrasted, were now alone.

"You wished an interview,--an explanation," said Lumley; "I shrink
from neither. Let me forestall inquiry and complaint. I deceived you
knowingly and deliberately, it is quite true,--all stratagems are fair
in love and war. The prize was vast! I believed my career depended on
it: I could not resist the temptation. I knew that before long you would
learn that Evelyn was not your daughter; that the first communication
between yourself and Lady Vargrave would betray me; but it was worth
trying a _coup de main_. You have foiled me, and conquered: be it so;
I congratulate you. You are tolerably rich, and the loss of Evelyn's
fortune will not vex you as it would have done me."

"Lord Vargrave, it is but poor affectation to treat thus lightly the
dark falsehood you conceived, the awful curse you inflicted upon me.
Your sight is now so painful to me, it so stirs the passions that I
would seek to suppress, that the sooner our interview is terminated the
better. I have to charge you, also, with a crime,--not, perhaps, baser
than the one you so calmly own, but the consequences of which were more
fatal: you understand me?"

"I do not."

"Do not tempt me! do not lie!" said Maltravers, still in a calm voice,
though his passions, naturally so strong, shook his whole frame. "To
your arts I owe the exile of years that should have been better spent;
to those arts Cesarini owes the wreck of his reason, and Florence
Lascelles her early grave! Ah, you are pale now; your tongue cleaves to
your mouth! And think you these crimes will go forever unrequited; think
you that there is no justice in the thunderbolts of God?"

"Sir," said Vargrave, starting to his feet, "I know not what you
suspect, I care not what you believe! But I am accountable to man, and
that account I am willing to render. You threatened me in the presence
of my ward; you spoke of cowardice, and hinted at danger. Whatever my
faults, want of courage is not one. Stand by your threats,--I am ready
to brave them!"

"A year, perhaps a short month, ago," replied Maltravers, "and I would
have arrogated justice to my own mortal hand; nay, this very night, had
the hazard of either of our lives been necessary to save Evelyn from
your persecution, I would have incurred all things for her sake! But
that is past; from me you have nothing to fear. The proofs of your
earlier guilt, with its dreadful results, would alone suffice to warn
me from the solemn responsibility of human vengeance. Great Heaven!
what hand could dare to send a criminal so long hardened, so black with
crime, unatoning, unrepentant, and unprepared, before the judgment-seat
of the ALL JUST? Go, unhappy man! may life long be spared to you! Awake!
awake from this world, before your feet pass the irrevocable boundary of
the next!"

"I came not here to listen to homilies, and the cant of the
conventicle," said Vargrave, vainly struggling for a haughtiness of mien
that his conscience-stricken aspect terribly belied; "not I; but this
wrong world is to be blamed, if deeds that strict morality may not
justify, but the effects of which I, no prophet, could not foresee, were
necessary for success in life. I have been but as all other men have
been who struggle against fortune to be rich and great: ambition must
make use of foul ladders."

"Oh," said Maltravers, earnestly, touched involuntarily, and in spite
of his abhorrence of the criminal, by the relenting that this miserable
attempt at self-justification seemed to denote,--"oh, be warned, while
it is yet time; wrap not yourself in these paltry sophistries; look back
to your past career; see to what heights you might have climbed, if with
those rare gifts and energies, with that subtle sagacity and indomitable
courage--your ambition had but chosen the straight, not the crooked,
path. Pause! many years may yet, in the course of nature, afford you
time to retrace your steps, to atone to thousands the injuries you have
inflicted on the few. I know not why I thus address you: but something
diviner than indignation urges me; something tells me that you are
already on the brink of the abyss!"

Lord Vargrave changed colour, nor did he speak for some moments; then
raising his head, with a faint smile, he said, "Maltravers, you are a
false soothsayer. At this moment my paths, crooked though they be, have
led me far towards the summit of my proudest hopes; the straight path
would have left me at the foot of the mountain. You yourself are a
beacon against the course you advise. Let us contrast each other. You
took the straight path, I the crooked. You, my superior in fortune; you,
infinitely above me in genius; you, born to command and never to crouch:
how do we stand now, each in the prime of life? You, with a barren and
profitless reputation; without rank, without power, almost without the
hope of power. I--but you know not my new dignity--I, in the Cabinet
of England's ministry, vast fortunes opening to my gaze, the proudest
station not too high for my reasonable ambition! You, wedding yourself
to some grand chimera of an object, aimless when it eludes your grasp.
I, swinging, squirrel-like, from scheme to scheme; no matter if one
breaks, another is at hand! Some men would have cut their throats
in despair, an hour ago, in losing the object of a seven years'
chase,--Beauty and Wealth, both! I open a letter, and find success in
one quarter to counterbalance failure in another. Bah! bah! each to his
_metier_, Maltravers! For you, honour, melancholy, and, if it please
you, repentance also! For me, the onward, rushing life, never looking
back to the Past, never balancing the stepping-stones to the Future.
Let us not envy each other; if you were not Diogenes, you would be
Alexander. Adieu! our interview is over. Will you forget and forgive,
and shake hands once more? You draw back, you frown! well, perhaps you
are right. If we meet again--"

"It will be as strangers."

"No rash vows! you may return to politics, you may want office. I am of
your way of thinking now: and--ha! ha!--poor Lumley Ferrers could make
you a Lord of the Treasury; smooth travelling and cheap turnpikes on
crooked paths, believe me. Farewell!"



On entering the room into which Cesarini had retired, Maltravers found
him flown. His servant said that the gentleman had gone away shortly
after Lord Vargrave's arrival. Ernest reproached himself bitterly for
neglecting to secure the door that conducted to the ante-chamber; but
still it was probable that Cesarini would return in the morning.

The messenger who had taken the letter to De Montaigne brought back word
that the latter was at his villa, but expected at Paris early the next
day. Maltravers hoped to see him before his departure; meanwhile
he threw himself on his bed, and despite all the anxieties that yet
oppressed him, the fatigues and excitements he had undergone exhausted
even the endurance of that iron frame, and he fell into a profound
slumber.



CHAPTER V.

            BY eight to-morrow
  Thou shalt be made immortal.
                 _Measure for Measure_.

LORD VARGRAVE returned to his apartment to find Mr. Howard, who had but
just that instant arrived, warming his white and well-ringed hands by
the fire. He conversed with him for half an hour on all the topics on
which the secretary could give him information, and then dismissed him
once more to the roof of Lady Jane.

As he slowly undressed himself, he saw on his writing-table the note
which Lady Doltimore had referred to, and which he had not yet opened.
He lazily broke the seal, ran his eye carelessly over its few blotted
words of remorse and alarm, and threw it down again with a contemptuous
"pshaw!" Thus unequally are the sorrows of a guilty tie felt by the man
of the world and the woman of society!

As his servant placed before him his wine and water, Vargrave told him
to see early to the preparations for departure, and to call him at nine
o'clock.

"Shall I shut that door, my lord?" said the valet, pointing to one that
communicated with one of those large closets, or _armoires_, that are
common appendages to French bedrooms, and in which wood and sundry other
matters are kept.

"No," said Lord Vargrave, petulantly; "you servants are so fond of
excluding every breath of air. I should never have a window open, if
I did not open it myself. Leave the door as it is, and do not be later
than nine to-morrow."

The servant, who slept in a kind of kennel that communicated with the
anteroom, did as he was bid; and Vargrave put out his candle, betook
himself to bed, and, after drowsily gazing some minutes on the dying
embers of the fire, which threw a dim ghastly light over the chamber,
fell fast asleep. The clock struck the first hour of morning, and in
that house all seemed still.

The next morning, Maltravers was disturbed from his slumber by De
Montaigne, who, arriving, as was often his wont, at an early hour from
his villa, had found Ernest's note of the previous evening.

Maltravers rose and dressed himself; and while De Montaigne was yet
listening to the account which his friend gave of his adventure with
Cesarini, and the unhappy man's accusation of his accomplice, Ernest's
servant entered the room very abruptly.

"Sir," said he, "I thought you might like to know. What is to be done?
The whole hotel is in confusion, Mr. Howard has been sent for, and Lord
Doltimore. So very strange, so sudden!"

"What is the matter? Speak plain."

"Lord Vargrave, sir,--poor Lord Vargrave--"

"Lord Vargrave!"

"Yes, sir; the master of the hotel, hearing you knew his lordship, would
be so glad if you would come down. Lord Vargrave, sir, is dead,--found
dead in his bed!"

Maltravers was rooted to the spot with amaze and horror. Dead! and but
last night so full of life and schemes and hope and ambition.

As soon as he recovered himself, he hurried to the spot, and De
Montaigne followed. The latter, as they descended the stairs, laid his
hand on Ernest's arm and detained him.

"Did you say that Castruccio left the apartment while Vargrave was
with you, and almost immediately after his narrative of Vargrave's
instigation to his crime?"

"Yes."

The eyes of the friends met; a terrible suspicion possessed both. "No;
it is impossible!" exclaimed Maltravers. "How could he obtain entrance,
how pass Lord Vargrave's servants? No, no; think of it not!"

They hurried down the stairs; they reached the other door of Vargrave's
apartment. The notice to Howard, with the name of Vargrave underscored,
was still on the panels. De Montaigne saw and shuddered.

They were in the room by the bedside. A group were collected round; they
gave way as the Englishman and his friend approached; and the eyes
of Maltravers suddenly rested on the face of Lord Vargrave, which was
locked, rigid, and convulsed.

There was a buzz of voices which had ceased at the entrance of
Maltravers; it was now renewed. A surgeon had been summoned--the nearest
surgeon,--a young Englishman of no great repute or name. He was making
inquiries as he bent over the corpse.

"Yes, sir," said Lord Vargrave's servant, "his lordship told me to call
him at nine o'clock. I came in at that hour, but his lordship did not
move nor answer me. I then looked to see if he were very sound asleep,
and I saw that the pillows had got somehow over his face, and his head
seemed to lie very low; so I moved the pillows, and I saw that his
lordship was dead."

"Sir," said the surgeon, turning to Maltravers, "you were a friend
of his lordship, I hear. I have already sent for Mr. Howard and Lord
Doltimore. Shall I speak with you a minute?"

Maltravers nodded assent. The surgeon cleared the room of all but
himself, De Montaigne, and Maltravers.

"Has that servant lived long with Lord Vargrave?" asked the surgeon.

"I believe so,--yes; I recollect his face. Why?"

"And you think him safe and honest?"

"I don't know; I know nothing of him."

"Look here, sir,"--and the surgeon pointed to a slight discoloration
on one side the throat of the dead man. "This may be accidental--purely
natural; his lordship may have died in a fit; there are no certain marks
of outward violence, but murder by suffocation might still--"

"But who besides the servant could gain admission? Was the outer door
closed?"

"The servant can take oath that he shut the door before going to bed,
and that no one was with his lordship, or in the rooms, when Lord
Vargrave retired to rest. Entrance from the windows is impossible. Mind,
sir, I do not think I have any right to suspect any one. His lordship
had been in very ill health a short time before; had had, I hear, a
rush of blood to the head. Certainly, if the servant be innocent, we
can suspect no one else. You had better send for more experienced
practitioners."

De Montaigne, who had hitherto said nothing, now looked with a hurried
glance around the room: he perceived the closet-door, which was ajar,
and rushed to it, as by an involuntary impulse. The closet was large,
but a considerable pile of wood, and some lumber of odd chairs and
tables, took up a great part of the space. De Montaigne searched behind
and amidst this litter with trembling haste,--no trace of secreted
murder was visible. He returned to the bedroom with a satisfied and
relieved expression of countenance. He then compelled himself to
approach the body, from which he had hitherto recoiled.

"Sir," said he, almost harshly, as he turned to the surgeon, "what idle
doubts are these? Cannot men die in their beds, of sudden death, no
blood to stain their pillows, no loop-hole for crime to pass through,
but we must have science itself startling us with silly terrors? As
for the servant, I will answer for his innocence; his manner, his voice
attest it." The surgeon drew back, abashed and humbled, and began to
apologize, to qualify, when Lord Doltimore abruptly entered.

"Good heavens!" said he, "what is this? What do I hear? Is it possible?
Dead! So suddenly!" He cast a hurried glance at the body, shivered, and
sickened, and threw himself into a chair, as if to recover the shock.
When again he removed his hand from his face, he saw lying before him on
the table an open note. The character was familiar; his own name struck
his eye,--it was the note which Caroline had sent the day before. As
no one heeded him, Lord Doltimore read on, and possessed himself of the
proof of his wife's guilt unseen.

The surgeon, now turning from De Montaigne, who had been rating him
soundly for the last few moments, addressed himself to Lord Doltimore.
"Your lordship," said he, "was, I hear, Lord Vargrave's most intimate
friend at Paris."

"I _his_ intimate friend?" said Doltimore, colouring highly, and in a
disdainful accent. "Sir, you are misinformed."

"Have you no orders to give, then, my lord?"

"None, sir. My presence here is quite useless. Good-day to you,
gentlemen."

"With whom, then, do the last duties rest?" said the surgeon, turning to
Maltravers and De Montaigne. "With the late lord's secretary?--I expect
him every moment; and here he is, I suppose,"--as Mr. Howard, pale, and
evidently overcome by his agitation, entered the apartment. Perhaps, of
all the human beings whom the ambitious spirit of that senseless clay
had drawn around it by the webs of interest, affection, or intrigue,
that young man, whom it had never been a temptation to Vargrave to
deceive or injure, and who missed only the gracious and familiar patron,
mourned most his memory, and defended most his character. The grief of
the poor secretary was now indeed overmastering. He sobbed and wept like
a child.

When Maltravers retired from the chamber of death, De Montaigne
accompanied him; but soon quitting him again, as Ernest bent his way
to Evelyn, he quietly rejoined Mr. Howard, who readily grasped at his
offers of aid in the last melancholy duties and directions.



CHAPTER VI.

  IF we do meet again, why, we shall smile.--_Julius Caesar_.

THE interview with Evelyn was long and painful. It was reserved
for Maltravers to break to her the news of the sudden death of Lord
Vargrave, which shocked her unspeakably; and this, which made their
first topic, removed much constraint and deadened much excitement in
those which followed.

Vargrave's death served also to relieve Maltravers from a most anxious
embarrassment. He need no longer fear that Alice would be degraded in
the eyes of Evelyn. Henceforth the secret that identified the erring
Alice Darvil with the spotless Lady Vargrave was safe, known only to
Mrs. Leslie and to Aubrey. In the course of nature, all chance of its
disclosure must soon die with them; and should Alice at last become
his wife, and should Cleveland suspect (which was not probable) that
Maltravers had returned to his first love, he knew that he might depend
on the inviolable secrecy of his earliest friend.

The tale that Vargrave had told to Evelyn of his early--but, according
to that tale, guiltless--passion for Alice, he tacitly confirmed; and
he allowed that the recollection of her virtues, and the intelligence of
her sorrows and unextinguishable affection, had made him recoil from
a marriage with her supposed daughter. He then proceeded to amaze his
young listener with the account of the mode in which he had discovered
her real parentage, of which the banker had left it to Alice's
discretion to inform her, after she had attained the age of eighteen.
And then, simply, but with manly and ill-controlled emotion, he touched
upon the joy of Alice at beholding him again, upon the endurance and
fervour of her love, upon her revulsion of feeling at learning that,
in her unforgotten lover, she beheld the recent suitor of her adopted
child.

"And now," said Maltravers, in conclusion, "the path to both of us
remains the same. To Alice is our first duty. The discovery I have made
of your real parentage does not diminish the claims which Alice has
on me, does not lessen the grateful affection that is due to her from
yourself. Yes, Evelyn, we are not the less separated forever. But when
I learned the wilful falsehood which the unhappy man, now hurried to
his last account, to whom your birth was known, had imposed upon
me,--namely, that you were the child of Alice,--and when I learned also
that you had been hurried into accepting his hand, I trembled at your
union with one so false and base. I came hither resolved to frustrate
his schemes and to save you from an alliance, the motives of which I
foresaw, and to which my own letter, my own desertion, had perhaps urged
you. New villanies on the part of this most perverted man came to my
ear: but he is dead; let us spare his memory. For you--oh, still let me
deem myself your friend,--your more than brother; let me hope now that
I have planted no thorn in that breast, and that your affection does not
shrink from the cold word of friendship."

"Of all the wonders that you have told me," answered Evelyn, as soon as
she could recover the power of words, "my most poignant sorrow is, that
I have no rightful claim to give a daughter's love to her whom I shall
ever idolize as my mother. Oh, now I see why I thought her affection
measured and lukewarm. And have I--I destroyed her joy at seeing you
again? But you--you will hasten to console, to reassure her! She loves
you still,--she will be happy at last; and that--that thought--oh, that
thought compensates for all!"

There was so much warmth and simplicity in Evelyn's artless manner, it
was so evident that her love for him had not been of that ardent nature
which would at first have superseded every other thought in the anguish
of losing him forever, that the scale fell from the eyes of Maltravers,
and he saw at once that his own love had blinded him to the true
character of hers. He was human; and a sharp pang shot across his
breast. He remained silent for some moments; and then resumed,
compelling himself as he spoke to fix his eyes steadfastly on hers.

"And now, Evelyn--still may I so call you?--I have a duty to discharge
to another. You are loved"--and he smiled, but the smile was sad--"by
a younger and more suitable lover than I am. From noble and generous
motives he suppressed that love,--he left you to a rival; the rival
removed, dare he venture to explain to you his own conduct, and plead
his own motives? George Legard--" Maltravers paused. The cheek on which
he gazed was tinged with a soft blush, Evelyn's eyes were downcast,
there was a slight heaving beneath the robe.

Maltravers suppressed a sigh and continued. He narrated his interview
with Legard at Dover; and, passing lightly over what had chanced at
Venice, dwelt with generous eloquence on the magnanimity with which his
rival's gratitude had been displayed. Evelyn's eyes sparkled, and the
smile just visited the rosy lips and vanished again. The worst because
it was the least selfish fear of Maltravers was gone, and no vain doubt
of Evelyn's too keen regret remained to chill his conscience in obeying
its earliest and strongest duties.

"Farewell!" he said, as he rose to depart; "I will at once return to
London, and assist in the effort to save your fortune from this general
wreck: LIFE calls us back to its cares and business--farewell, Evelyn!
Aubrey will, I trust, remain with you still."

"Remain! Can I not return then to my--to her--yes, let me call her
_mother_ still?"

"Evelyn," said Maltravers, in a very low voice, "spare me, spare her
that pain! Are we yet fit to--" He paused; Evelyn comprehended him, and
hiding her face with her hands, burst into tears.

When Maltravers left the room, he was met by Aubrey, who, drawing him
aside, told him that Lord Doltimore had just informed him that it was
not his intention to remain at Paris, and had more than delicately
hinted at a wish for the departure of Miss Cameron. In this emergency,
Maltravers bethought himself of Madame de Ventadour.

No house in Paris was a more eligible refuge, no friend more zealous;
no protector would be more kind, no adviser more sincere. To her then
he hastened. He briefly informed her of Vargrave's sudden death; and
suggested that for Evelyn to return at once to a sequestered village in
England might be a severe trial to spirits already broken; and declared
truly, that though his marriage with Evelyn was broken off, her welfare
was no less dear to him than heretofore. At his first hint, Valerie,
who took a cordial interest in Evelyn for her own sake, ordered her
carriage, and drove at once to Lady Doltimore's. His lordship was out,
her ladyship was ill, in her own room, could see no one, not even her
guest. Evelyn in vain sent up to request an interview; and at last,
contenting herself with an affectionate note of farewell, accompanied
Aubrey to the home of her new hostess.

Gratified at least to know her with one who would be sure to win her
affection and soothe her spirits, Maltravers set out on his solitary
return to England.

Whatever suspicious circumstances might or might not have attended the
death of Lord Vargrave, certain it is that no evidence confirmed and no
popular rumour circulated them. His late illness, added to the supposed
shock of the loss of the fortune he had anticipated with Miss Cameron,
aided by the simultaneous intelligence of the defeat of the party with
whom it was believed he had indissolubly entwined his ambition, sufficed
to account satisfactorily enough for the melancholy event. De Montaigne,
who had been long, though not intimately, acquainted with the deceased,
took upon himself all the necessary arrangements, and superintended the
funeral; after which ceremony, Howard returned to London; and in Paris,
as in the grave, all things are forgotten! But still in De Montaigne's
breast there dwelt a horrible fear. As soon as he had learned from
Maltravers the charge the maniac brought against Vargrave, there came
upon him the recollection of that day when Cesarini had attempted
De Montaigne's life, evidently mistaking him in his delirium for
another,--and the sullen, cunning, and ferocious character which the
insanity had ever afterwards assumed. He had learned from Howard
that the outer door had been left ajar when Lord Vargrave was with
Maltravers. The writing on the panel, the name of Vargrave, would have
struck Castruccio's eye as he descended the stairs; the servant was
from home, the apartments deserted; he might have won his way into the
bedchamber, concealed himself in the _armoire_, and in the dead of the
night, and in the deep and helpless sleep of his victim, have done the
deed. What need of weapons--the suffocating pillows would stop speech
and life. What so easy as escape,--to pass into the anteroom; to unbolt
the door; to descend into the courtyard; to give the signal to the
porter in his lodge, who, without seeing him, would pull the _cordon_,
and give him egress unobserved?

All this was so possible, so probable.

De Montaigne now withdrew all inquiry for the unfortunate; he trembled
at the thought of discovering him, of verifying his awful suspicions, of
beholding a murderer in the brother of his wife! But he was not doomed
long to entertain fear for Cesarini; he was not fated ever to change
suspicion into certainty. A few days after Lord Vargrave's burial, a
corpse was drawn from the Seine. Some tablets in the pockets, scrawled
over with wild, incoherent verses, gave a clew to the discovery of the
dead man's friends: and, exposed at the Morgue, in that bleached
and altered clay, De Montaigne recognized the remains of Castruccio
Cesarini. "He died and made no sign!"



CHAPTER VII.

  SINGULA quaeque locum teneant sortita.*--HORACE: _Ars Poetica_.

  * "To each lot its appropriate place."

MALTRAVERS and the lawyers were enabled to save from the insolvent bank
but a very scanty portion of that wealth in which Richard Templeton had
rested so much of pride. The title extinct, the fortune gone--so
does Fate laugh at our posthumous ambition! Meanwhile Mr. Douce, with
considerable plunder, had made his way to America: the bank owed nearly
half a million; the purchase money for Lisle Court, which Mr. Douce had
been so anxious to get into his clutches, had not sufficed to stave off
the ruin,--but a great part of it sufficed to procure competence for
himself. How inferior in wit, in acuteness, in stratagem, was Douce
to Vargrave; and yet Douce had gulled him like a child! Well said the
shrewd small philosopher of France--"On peut etre plus fin qu'un autre,
mais pas plus fin que tous les autres."*

  * One may be more sharp than one's neighbour, but one can't be
    sharper than all one's neighbours.--ROCHEFOUCAULD.

To Legard, whom Maltravers had again encountered at Dover, the latter
related the downfall of Evelyn's fortunes; and Maltravers loved him when
he saw that, far from changing his affection, the loss of wealth seemed
rather to raise his hopes. They parted; and Legard set out for Paris.

But was Maltravers all the while forgetful of Alice? He had not been
twelve hours in London before he committed to a long and truthful letter
all his thoughts, his hopes, his admiring and profound gratitude. Again,
and with solemn earnestness, he implored her to accept his hand, and to
confirm at the altar the tale which had been told to Evelyn. Truly he
said that the shock which his first belief in Vargrave's falsehood had
occasioned, his passionate determination to subdue all trace of a
love then associated with crime and horror, followed so close by his
discovery of Alice's enduring faith and affection, had removed the
image of Evelyn from the throne it had hitherto held in his desires and
thoughts; truly he said that he was now convinced that Evelyn would soon
be consoled for his loss by another, with whom she would be happier
than with him; truly and solemnly he declared that if Alice rejected
him still, if even Alice were no more, his suit to Evelyn never could be
renewed, and Alice's memory would usurp the place of all living love!

Her answer came: it pierced him to the heart. It was so humble, so
grateful, so tender still. Unknown to herself, love yet coloured every
word; but it was love pained, galled, crushed, and trampled on; it was
love, proud from its very depth and purity. His offer was refused.

Months passed away. Maltravers yet trusted to time. The curate had
returned to Brook-Green, and his letters fed Ernest's hopes and assured
his doubts. The more leisure there was left him for reflection, the
fainter became those dazzling and rainbow hues in which Evelyn had been
robed and surrounded, and the brighter the halo that surrounded his
earliest love. The more he pondered on Alice's past history, and the
singular beauty of her faithful attachment, the more he was impressed
with wonder and admiration, the more anxious to secure to his side one
to whom Nature had been so bountiful in all the gifts that make woman
the angel and star of life.

Months passed. From Paris the news that Maltravers received confirmed
all his expectations,--the suit of Legard had replaced his own. It was
then that Maltravers began to consider how far the fortune of Evelyn
and her destined husband was such as to preclude all anxiety for their
future lot. Fortune is so indeterminate in its gauge and measurement.
Money, the most elastic of materials, falls short or exceeds, according
to the extent of our wants and desires. With all Legard's good qualities
he was constitutionally careless and extravagant; and Evelyn was too
inexperienced, and too gentle, perhaps, to correct his tendencies.
Maltravers learned that Legard's income was one that required an economy
which he feared that, in spite of all his reformation, Legard might not
have the self-denial to enforce. After some consideration, he resolved
to add secretly to the remains of Evelyn's fortune such a sum as might,
being properly secured to herself and children, lessen whatever danger
could arise from the possible improvidence of her husband, and guard
against the chance of those embarrassments which are among the worst
disturbers of domestic peace. He was enabled to effect this generosity
unknown to both of them, as if the sum bestowed were collected from the
wrecks of Evelyn's own wealth and the profits of the sale of the houses
in C-----, which of course had not been involved in Douce's bankruptcy.
And then if Alice were ever his, her jointure, which had been secured
on the property appertaining to the villa at Fulham, would devolve upon
Evelyn. Maltravers could never accept what Alice owed to another. Poor
Alice! No! not that modest wealth which you had looked upon complacently
as one day or other to be his.

Lord Doltimore is travelling in the East,--Lady Doltimore, less
adventurous, has fixed her residence in Rome. She has grown thin, and
taken to antiquities and rouge. Her spirits are remarkably high--not an
uncommon effect of laudanum.



CHAPTER THE LAST.

            ARRIVED at last
  Unto the wished haven.--SHAKSPEARE.

IN the August of that eventful year a bridal party were assembled at
the cottage of Lady Vargrave. The ceremony had just been performed, and
Ernest Maltravers had bestowed upon George Legard the hand of Evelyn
Templeton.

If upon the countenance of him who thus officiated as a father to her he
had once wooed as a bride an observant eye might have noted the trace of
mental struggles, it was the trace of struggles past; and the calm had
once more settled over the silent deeps. He saw from the casement the
carriage that was to bear away the bride to the home of another,--the
gay faces of the village group, whose intrusion was not forbidden, and
to whom that solemn ceremonial was but a joyous pageant; and when he
turned once more to those within the chamber, he felt his hand clasped
in Legard's.

"You have been the preserver of my life, you have been the dispenser of
my earthly happiness; all now left to me to wish for is, that you may
receive from Heaven the blessings you have given to others!"

"Legard, never let her know a sorrow that you can guard her from; and
believe that the husband of Evelyn will be dear to me as a brother!"

And as a brother blesses some younger and orphan sister bequeathed and
intrusted to a care that should replace a father's, so Maltravers laid
his hand lightly on Evelyn's golden tresses, and his lips moved in
prayer. He ceased; he pressed his last kiss upon her forehead, and
placed her hand in that of her young husband. There was silence; and
when to the ear of Maltravers it was broken, it was by the wheels of the
carriage that bore away the wife of George Legard!

The spell was dissolved forever. And there stood before the lonely man
the idol of his early youth, Alice,--still, perhaps, as fair, and once
young and passionate, as Evelyn; pale, changed, but lovelier than of
old, if heavenly patience and holy thought, and the trials that purify
and exalt, can shed over human features something more beautiful than
bloom.

The good curate alone was present, besides these two survivors of the
error and the love that make the rapture and the misery of so many of
our kind; and the old man, after contemplating them a moment, stole
unperceived away.

"Alice," said Maltravers, and his voice trembled, "hitherto, from
motives too pure and too noble for the practical affections and ties of
life, you have rejected the hand of the lover of your youth. Here again
I implore you to be mine! Give to my conscience the balm of believing
that I can repair to you the evils and the sorrows I have brought upon
you. Nay, weep not; turn not away. Each of us stands alone; each of us
needs the other. In your heart is locked up all my fondest associations,
my brightest memories. In you I see the mirror of what I was when the
world was new, ere I had found how Pleasure palls upon us, and Ambition
deceives! And me, Alice--ah, you love me still! Time and absence have
but strengthened the chain that binds us. By the memory of our early
love, by the grave of our lost child that, had it lived, would have
united its parents, I implore you to be mine!"

"Too generous!" said Alice, almost sinking beneath the emotions that
shook that gentle spirit and fragile form, "how can I suffer your
_compassion_--for it is but compassion--to deceive yourself? You are
of another station than I believed you. How can you raise the child
of destitution and guilt to your own rank? And shall I--I--who, Heaven
knows! would save you from all regret--bring to you now, when years have
so changed and broken the little charm I could ever have possessed, this
blighted heart and weary spirit? Oh, no, no!" and Alice paused abruptly,
and the tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Be it as you will," said Maltravers, mournfully; "but, at least, ground
your refusal upon better motives. Say that now, independent in fortune,
and attached to the habits you have formed, you would not hazard your
happiness in my keeping,--perhaps you are right. To _my_ happiness you
would indeed contribute; your sweet voice might charm away many a memory
and many a thought of the baffled years that have intervened since we
parted; your image might dissipate the solitude which is closing round
the Future of a disappointed and anxious life. With you, and with you
alone, I might yet find a home, a comforter, a charitable and soothing
friend. This you could give to me; and with a heart and a form alike
faithful to a love that deserved not so enduring a devotion. But I--what
can I bestow on you? Your station is equal to my own; your fortune
satisfies your simple wants. 'Tis true the exchange is not equal, Alice.
Adieu!"

"Cruel!" said Alice, approaching him with timid steps. "If I could--I,
so untutored, so unworthy--if I could comfort you in a single care!"

She said no more, but she had said enough; and Maltravers, clasping her
to his bosom, felt once more that heart which never, even in thought,
had swerved from its early worship, beating against his own!

He drew her gently into the open air. The ripe and mellow noonday of the
last month of summer glowed upon the odorous flowers, and the broad sea,
that stretched beyond and afar, wore upon its solemn waves a golden and
happy smile.

"And ah," murmured Alice, softly, as she looked up from his breast,
"I ask not if you have loved others since we parted--man's faith is so
different from ours--I only ask if you love me now?"

"More! oh, immeasurably more, than in our youngest days!" cried
Maltravers, with fervent passion. "More fondly, more reverently, more
trustfully, than I ever loved living being!--even her, in whose youth
and innocence I adored the memory of thee! Here have I found that which
shames and bankrupts the Ideal! Here have I found a virtue, that, coming
at once from God and Nature, has been wiser than all my false philosophy
and firmer than all my pride! You, cradled by misfortune,--your
childhood reared amidst scenes of fear and vice, which, while they
seared back the intellect, had no pollution for the soul,--your very
parent your tempter and your foe; you, only not a miracle and an angel
by the stain of one soft and unconscious error,--you, alike through the
equal trials of poverty and wealth, have been destined to rise above all
triumphant; the example of the sublime moral that teaches us with what
mysterious beauty and immortal holiness the Creator has endowed our
human nature when hallowed by our human affections! You alone suffice
to shatter into dust the haughty creeds of the Misanthrope and Pharisee!
And your fidelity to my erring self has taught me ever to love, to
serve, to compassionate, to respect the community of God's creatures to
which--noble and elevated though you are--you yet belong!"

He ceased, overpowered with the rush of his own thoughts. And Alice was
too blessed for words. But in the murmur of the sunlit leaves, in the
breath of the summer air, in the song of the exulting birds, and the
deep and distant music of the heaven-surrounded seas, there went a
melodious voice that seemed as if Nature echoed to his words, and blest
the reunion of her children.

Maltravers once more entered upon the career so long suspended. He
entered with an energy more practical and steadfast than the fitful
enthusiasm of former years; and it was noticeable amongst those who
knew him well, that while the firmness of his mind was not impaired, the
haughtiness of his temper was subdued. No longer despising Man as he
is, and no longer exacting from all things the ideal of a visionary
standard, he was more fitted to mix in the living World, and to minister
usefully to the great objects that refine and elevate our race. His
sentiments were, perhaps, less lofty, but his actions were infinitely
more excellent, and his theories infinitely more wise.

Stage after stage we have proceeded with him through the MYSTERIES OF
LIFE. The Eleusinia are closed, and the crowning libation poured.

And Alice!--Will the world blame us if you are left happy at the
last? We are daily banishing from our law-books the statutes that
disproportion punishment to crime. Daily we preach the doctrine that we
demoralize wherever we strain justice into cruelty. It is time that we
should apply to the Social Code the Wisdom we recognize in Legislation!
It is time that we should do away with the punishment of death for
inadequate offences, even in books; it is time that we should allow the
morality of atonement, and permit to Error the right to hope, as the
reward of submission to its suffering. Nor let it be thought that the
close to Alice's career can offer temptation to the offence of its
commencement. Eighteen years of sadness, a youth consumed in silent
sorrow over the grave of Joy, have images that throw over these pages a
dark and warning shadow that will haunt the young long after they turn
from the tale that is about to close! If Alice had died of a broken
heart, if her punishment had been more than she could bear, _then_, as
in real life, you would have justly condemned my moral; and the human
heart, in its pity for the victim, would have lost all recollection of
the error.--My tale is done.


THE END.









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