Alice, or the Mysteries — Complete
at the soldier with eyes that caught and rivalled the blaze of the fire.
"And who are you?--what devil from the deep hell, that art leagued with
my persecutors against me?"
With the instinct of his old calling and valour, the soldier also rose
when he saw the movement of his companion; and his fierce features
worked with rage and fear.
"Avaunt!" said he, waving his arm; "we banish thee from our presence!
This is our palace!--and our guards are at hand!" pointing to the still
and skeleton trees that grouped round in ghastly bareness. "Begone!"
At that moment they heard at a distance the deep barking of a dog, and
each cried simultaneously, "They are after me!--betrayed!" The soldier
sprang at the throat of Cesarini; but the Italian, at the same instant,
caught a half-burned brand from the fire, and dashed the blazing end
in the face of his assailant. The soldier uttered a cry of pain, and
recoiled back, blinded and dismayed. Cesarini, whose madness, when
fairly roused, was of the most deadly nature, again raised his weapon,
and probably nothing but death could have separated the foes; but again
the bay of the dog was heard, and Cesarini, answering the sound by a
wild yell, threw down the brand, and fled away through the forest with
inconceivable swiftness. He hurried on through bush and dell,--and the
boughs tore his garments and mangled his flesh,--but stopped not his
progress till he fell at last on the ground, breathless and exhausted,
and heard from some far-off clock the second hour of morning. He had
left the forest; a farmhouse stood before him, and the whitened roofs of
scattered cottages sloped to the tranquil sky. The witness of man--the
social tranquil sky and the reasoning man--operated like a charm upon
the senses which recent excitement had more than usually disturbed. The
unhappy wretch gazed at the peaceful abodes, and sighed heavily; then,
rising from the earth, he crept into one of the sheds that adjoined the
farmhouse, and throwing himself on some straw, slept sound and quietly
till daylight, and the voices of peasants in the shed awakened him.
He rose refreshed, calm, and, for ordinary purposes, sufficiently
sane to prevent suspicion of his disease. He approached the startled
peasants, and representing himself as a traveller who had lost his way
in the night and amidst the forest, begged for food and water. Though
his garments were torn, they were new and of good fashion; his voice was
mild; his whole appearance and address those of one of some station--and
the French peasant is a hospitable fellow. Cesarini refreshed and rested
himself an hour or two at the farm, and then resumed his wanderings;
he offered no money, for the rules of the asylum forbade money to its
inmates,--he had none with him; but none was expected from him, and they
bade him farewell as kindly as if he had bought their blessings. He
then began to consider where he was to take refuge, and how provide for
himself; the feeling of liberty braced, and for a time restored, his
intellect.
Fortunately, he had on his person, besides some rings of trifling cost,
a watch of no inconsiderable value, the sale of which might support him,
in such obscure and humble quarter as he could alone venture to inhabit,
for several weeks, perhaps months. This thought made him cheerful and
elated; he walked lustily on, shunning the high road. The day was clear,
the sun bright, the air full of racy health. Oh, what soft raptures
swelled the heart of the wanderer, as he gazed around him! The Poet
and the Freeman alike stirred within his shattered heart! He paused to
contemplate the berries of the icy trees, to listen to the sharp glee of
the blackbird; and once--when he found beneath a hedge a cold, scentless
group of hardy violets--he laughed aloud in his joy. In that laughter
there was no madness, no danger; but when as he journeyed on, he passed
through a little hamlet, and saw the children at play upon the ground,
and heard from the open door of a cabin the sound of rustic music, then
indeed he paused abruptly; the past gathered over him: _he knew that
which he had been, that which he was now_!--an awful memory! a dread
revelation! And, covering his face with his hands, he wept aloud. In
those tears were the peril and method of madness. He woke from them
to think of his youth, his hopes, of Florence, of revenge! Lumley Lord
Vargrave! better, from that hour, to encounter the tiger in his lair
than find thyself alone with that miserable man!
CHAPTER VI.
IT seemed the laurel chaste and stubborn oak,
And all the gentle trees on earth that grew,
It seemed the land, the sea, and heaven above,
All breathed out fancy sweet, and sighed out love.
FAIRFAX'S _Tasso_.
AT De Montaigne's villa, Evelyn, for the first time, gathered from the
looks, the manners, of Maltravers that she was beloved. It was no longer
possible to mistake the evidences of affection. Formerly, Maltravers
had availed himself of his advantage of years and experience, and would
warn, admonish, dispute, even reprove; formerly, there had been so much
of seeming caprice, of cold distance, of sudden and wayward haughtiness,
in his bearing; but now the whole man was changed,--the Mentor had
vanished in the Lover; he held his being on her breath. Her lightest
pleasure seemed to have grown his law, no coldness ever alternated the
deep devotion of his manner; an anxious, a timid, a watchful softness
replaced all his stately self-possession. Evelyn saw that she was loved;
and she then looked into her own heart.
I have said before that Evelyn was gentle, even to _yieldingness_; that
her susceptibility made her shrink from the thought of pain to another:
and so thoroughly did she revere Maltravers, so grateful did she feel
for a love that could not but flatter pride, and raise her in her
self-esteem, that she felt it impossible that she could reject his suit.
"Then, do I love him as I dreamed I could love?" she asked herself;
and her heart gave no intelligible reply. "Yes, it must be so; in his
presence I feel a tranquil and eloquent charm; his praise delights me;
his esteem is my most high ambition;--and yet--and yet--" she sighed and
thought of Legard; "but _he_ loved me not!" and she turned restlessly
from that image. "He thinks but of the world, of pleasure; Maltravers is
right,--the spoiled children of society cannot love: why should I think
of him?"
There were no guests at the villa, except Maltravers, Evelyn, and Lord
and Lady Doltimore. Evelyn was much captivated by the graceful vivacity
of Teresa, though that vivacity was not what it had been before her
brother's affliction; their children, some of whom had grown up,
constituted an amiable and intelligent family; and De Montaigne himself
was agreeable and winning, despite his sober manners and his love of
philosophical dispute. Evelyn often listened thoughtfully to Teresa's
praises of her husband,--to her account of the happiness she had known
in a marriage where there had been so great a disparity of years; Evelyn
began to question the truth of her early visions of romance.
Caroline saw the unequivocal attachment of Maltravers with the same
indifference with which she had anticipated the suit of Legard. It was
the same to her what hand delivered Evelyn and herself from the
designs of Vargrave; but Vargrave occupied nearly all her thoughts.
The newspapers had reported him as seriously ill,--at one time in great
danger. He was now recovering, but still unable to quit his room. He had
written to her once, lamenting his ill-fortune, trusting soon to be at
Paris; and touching, with evident pleasure, upon Legard's departure for
Vienna, which he had seen in the "Morning Post." But he was afar--alone,
ill, untended; and though Caroline's guilty love had been much abated
by Vargrave's icy selfishness, by absence and remorse, still she had the
heart of a woman,--and Vargrave was the only one that had ever touched
it. She felt for him, and grieved in silence; she did not dare to utter
sympathy aloud, for Doltimore had already given evidence of a suspicious
and jealous temper.
Evelyn was also deeply affected by the account of her guardian's
illness. As I before said, the moment he ceased to be her lover, her
childish affection for him returned. She even permitted herself to write
to him; and a tone of melancholy depression which artfully pervaded his
reply struck her with something like remorse. He told her in the letter
that he had much to say to her relative to an investment, in conformity
with her stepfather's wishes, and he should hasten to Paris, even before
the doctor would sanction his removal. Vargrave forbore to mention what
the meditated investment was. The last public accounts of the minister
had, however, been so favourable, that his arrival might be almost daily
expected; and both Caroline and Evelyn felt relieved.
To De Montaigne, Maltravers confided his attachment, and both the
Frenchman and Teresa sanctioned and encouraged it. Evelyn enchanted
them; and they had passed that age when they could have imagined it
possible that the man they had known almost as a boy was separated by
years from the lively feelings and extreme youth of Evelyn. They could
not believe that the sentiments he had inspired were colder than those
that animated himself.
One day, Maltravers had been absent for some hours on his solitary
rambles, and De Montaigne had not yet returned from Paris, which he
visited almost daily. It was so late in the noon as almost to border on
evening, when Maltravers; on his return, entered the grounds by a gate
that separated them from an extensive wood. He saw Evelyn, Teresa, and
two of her children walking on a terrace immediately before him. He
joined them; and, somehow or other, it soon chanced that Teresa and
himself loitered behind the rest, a little out of hearing. "Ah, Mr.
Maltravers," said the former, "we miss the soft skies of Italy and the
beautiful hues of Como."
"And, for my part, I miss the youth that gave 'glory to the grass and
splendour to the flower.'"
"Nay; we are happier now, believe me,--or at least I should be, if--But
I must not think of my poor brother. Ah, if his guilt deprived you of
one who was worthy of you, it would be some comfort to his sister to
think at last that the loss was repaired. And you still have scruples?"
"Who that loves truly has not? How young, how lovely, how worthy of
lighter hearts and fairer forms than mine! Give me back the years that
have passed since we last met at Como, and I might hope!"
"And this to me who have enjoyed such happiness with one older, when we
married, by ten years than you are now!"
"But you, Teresa, were born to see life through the Claude glass."
"Ah, you provoke me with these refinements; you turn from a happiness
you have but to demand."
"Do not--do not raise my hopes too high," cried Maltravers, with great
emotion; "I have been schooling myself all day. But if I _am_ deceived!"
"Trust me, you are not. See, even now she turns round to look for you;
she loves you,--loves you as you deserve. This difference of years that
you so lament does but deepen and elevate her attachment!"
Teresa turned to Maltravers, surprised at his silence. How joyous
sat his heart upon his looks,--no gloom on his brow, no doubt in
his sparkling eyes! He was mortal, and he yielded to the delight of
believing himself beloved. He pressed Teresa's hand in silence, and,
quitting her abruptly, gained the side of Evelyn. Madame de Montaigne
comprehended all that passed within him; and as she followed, she soon
contrived to detach her children, and returned with them to the house on
a whispered pretence of seeing if their father had yet arrived. Evelyn