Free Ebooks - ALICE;

ALICE;

OR,

THE MYSTERIES

BY

EDWARD BULWER LYTTON
(LORD LYTTON)

COMPLETE

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 maybe 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; be 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 be 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, be 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 dee