Alice, or the Mysteries — Complete
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