Alice, or the Mysteries — Complete
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