BOOK X. 

 "A dream!"--HOMER, I, 3. 

CHAPTER I. 

 QUALIS ubi in lucem coluber . . . Mala gramina pastus. *--VIRGIL. 

 Pars minima est ipsa puella sui. **--OVID. 

 * "As when a snake glides into light, having fed on pernicious pastures. "

 ** "The girl is the least part of himself. "

IT would be superfluous, and, perhaps, a sickening task, to detail atlength the mode and manner in which Vargrave coiled his snares round theunfortunate girl whom his destiny had marked out for his prey. He wasright in foreseeing that, after the first amazement caused by the letterof Maltravers, Evelyn would feel resentment crushed beneath her certaintyof his affection her incredulity at his self-accusations, and her secretconviction that some reverse, some misfortune he was unwilling she shouldshare, was the occasion of his farewell and flight. Vargrave thereforevery soon communicated to Evelyn the tale he had suggested to Maltravers. He reminded her of the habitual sorrow, the evidence of which was sovisible in Lady Vargrave; of her indifference to the pleasures of theworld; of her sensitive shrinking from all recurrence to her early fate. "The secret of this, " said he, "is in a youthful and most ferventattachment; your mother loved a young stranger above her in rank, who(his head being full of German romance) was then roaming about thecountry on pedestrian and adventurous excursions, under the assumed nameof Butler. By him she was most ardently beloved in return. Her father, perhaps, suspected the rank of her lover, and was fearful of her honourbeing compromised. He was a strange man, that father! and I know not hisreal character and motives; but he suddenly withdrew his daughter fromthe suit and search of her lover, --they saw each other no more; her lovermourned her as one dead. In process of time your mother was constrainedby her father to marry Mr. Cameron, and was left a widow with an onlychild, --yourself: she was poor;--very poor! and her love and anxiety foryou at last induced her to listen to the addresses of my late uncle; foryour sake she married again; again death dissolved the tie! But still, unceasingly and faithfully, she recalled that first love, the memory ofwhich darkened and embittered all her life, and still she lived upon thehope to meet with the lost again. At last, and most recently, it was myfate to discover that the object of this unconquerable affectionlived, --was still free in hand if not in heart: you behold the lover ofyour mother in Ernest Maltravers! It devolved on me (an invidious--areluctant duty) to inform Maltravers of the identity of Lady Vargravewith the Alice of his boyish passion; to prove to him her suffering, patient, unsubdued affection; to convince him that the sole hope left toher in life was that of one day or other beholding him once again. Youknow Maltravers, --his high-wrought, sensitive, noble character; herecoiled in terror from the thought of making his love to the daughterthe last and bitterest affliction to the mother he had so loved; knowingtoo how completely that mother had entwined herself round youraffections, he shuddered at the pain and self-reproach that would beyours when you should discover to whom you had been the rival, and whosethe fond hopes and dreams that your fatal beauty had destroyed. Tortured, despairing, and half beside himself, he has fled from thisill-omened passion, and in solitude he now seeks to subdue that passion. Touched by the woe, the grief, of the Alice of his youth, it is hisintention, as soon as he can know you restored to happiness and content, to hasten to your mother, and offer his future devotion as the fulfilmentof former vows. On you, and you alone, it depends to restore Maltraversto the world, --on you alone it depends to bless the remaining years ofthe mother who so dearly loves you!"

It may be easily conceived with what sensations of wonder, compassion, and dismay, Evelyn listened to this tale, the progress of which herexclamations, her sobs, often interrupted. She would write instantly toher mother, to Maltravers. Oh, how gladly she would relinquish his suit:How cheerfully promise to rejoice in that desertion which broughthappiness to the mother she had so loved!

"Nay, " said Vargrave, "your mother must not know, till the intelligencecan be breathed by his lips, and softened by his protestations ofreturning affection, that the mysterious object of her early romance isthat Maltravers whose vows have been so lately offered to her own child. Would not such intelligence shock all pride, and destroy all hope? Howcould she then consent to the sacrifice which Maltravers is prepared tomake? No! not till you are another's--not (to use the words ofMaltravers) till you are a happy and beloved wife--must your motherreceive the returning homage of Maltravers; not till then can she knowwhere that homage has been recently rendered; not till then canMaltravers feel justified in the atonement he meditates. He is willingto sacrifice himself; he trembles at the thought of sacrificing you! Saynothing to your mother, till from her own lips she tells you that she haslearned all. "

Could Evelyn hesitate; could Evelyn doubt? To allay the fears, to fulfilthe prayers of the man whose conduct appeared so generous, to restore himto peace and the world; above all, to pluck from the heart of thatbeloved and gentle mother the rankling dart, to shed happiness over herfate, to reunite her with the loved and lost, --what sacrifice too greatfor this?

Ah, why was Legard absent? Why did she believe him capricious, light, and false? Why had she shut her softest thoughts from her soul? Buthe--the true lover--was afar, and his true love unknown! and Vargrave, the watchful serpent, was at hand. 

In a fatal hour, and in the transport of that enthusiasm which inspiresalike our more rash and our more sublime deeds, which makes us alikedupes and martyrs, --the enthusiasm that tramples upon self, that forfeitsall things to a high-wrought zeal for others, Evelyn consented to becomethe wife of Vargrave! Nor was she at first sensible of thesacrifice, --sensible of anything but the glow of a noble spirit and anapproving conscience. Yes, thus, and thus alone, did she obey bothduties, --that, which she had well-nigh abandoned, to her dead benefactor, and that to the living mother. Afterwards came a dread reaction; andthen, at last, that passive and sleep-like resignation, which is Despairunder a milder name. Yes, --such a lot had been predestined from thefirst; in vain had she sought to fly it: Fate had overtaken her, and shemust submit to the decree!

She was most anxious that the intelligence of the new bond might betransmitted instantly to Maltravers. Vargrave promised, but took carenot to perform. He was too acute not to know that in so sudden a stepEvelyn's motives would be apparent, and his own suit indelicate andungenerous. He was desirous that Maltravers should learn nothing tillthe vows had been spoken, and the indissoluble chain forged. Afraid toleave Evelyn, even for a day, afraid to trust her in England to aninterview with her mother, --he remained at Paris, and hurried on all therequisite preparations. He sent to Douce, who came in person, with thedeeds necessary for the transfer of the money for the purchase of LisleCourt, which was now to be immediately completed. The money was to belodged in Mr. Douce's bank till the lawyers had completed theiroperations; and in a few weeks, when Evelyn had attained the allottedage, Vargrave trusted to see himself lord alike of the betrothed bride, and the hereditary lands of the crushed Maltravers. He refrained fromstating to Evelyn who was the present proprietor of the estate to becomehers; he foresaw all the objections she would form;--and, indeed, she wasunable to think, to talk, of such matters. One favour she had asked, andit had been granted, --that she was to be left unmolested to her solitudetill the fatal day. Shut up in her lonely room, condemned not to confideher thoughts, to seek for sympathy even in her mother, --the poor girl invain endeavoured to keep up to the tenor of her first enthusiasm, andreconcile herself to a step, which, however, she was heroine enough notto retract or to repent, even while she recoiled from its contemplation. 

Lady Doltimore, amazed at what had passed, --at the flight of Maltravers, the success of Lumley, --unable to account for it, to extort explanationfrom Vargrave or from Evelyn, was distracted by the fear of somevillanous deceit which she could not fathom. To escape herself sheplunged yet more eagerly into the gay vortex. Vargrave, suspicious, andfearful of trusting to what she might say in her nervous and excitedtemper if removed from his watchful eye, deemed himself compelled tohover round her. His manner, his conduct, were most guarded; butCaroline herself, jealous, irritated, unsettled, evinced at times a rightboth to familiarity and anger, which drew upon her and himself the slyvigilance of slander. Meanwhile Lord Doltimore, though too cold andproud openly to notice what passed around him, seemed disturbed andanxious. His manner to Vargrave was distant; he shunned all_tete-a-tetes_ with his wife. Little, however, of this did Lumley heed. A few weeks more, and all would be well and safe. Vargrave did notpublish his engagement with Evelyn: he sought carefully to conceal ittill the very day was near at hand; but it was whispered abroad; somelaughed, some believed. Evelyn herself was seen nowhere. De Montaignehad, at first, been indignantly incredulous at the report that Maltravershad broken off a connection he had so desired from a motive so weak andunworthy as that of mere family pride. A letter from Maltravers, whoconfided to him and Vargrave alone the secret of his retreat, reluctantlyconvinced him that the wise are but pompous fools; he was angry anddisgusted; and still more so when Valerie and Teresa (for female friendsstand by us right or wrong) hinted at excuses, or surmised that othercauses lurked behind the one alleged. But his thoughts were much drawnfrom this subject by increasing anxiety for Cesarini, whose abode andfate still remained an alarming mystery. 

It so happened that Lord Doltimore, who had always had a taste for theantique, and who was greatly displeased with his own family-seat becauseit was comfortable and modern, fell, from _ennui_, into a habit, fashionable enough in Paris, of buying curiosities and cabinets, --high-back chairs and oak-carvings; and with this habit returned thedesire and the affection for Burleigh. Understanding from Lumley thatMaltravers had probably left his native land forever, he imagined itextremely probable that the latter would now consent to the sale, and he begged Vargrave to forward a letter from him to that effect. 

Vargrave made some excuse, for he felt that nothing could be moreindelicate than such an application forwarded through his hands at such atime; and Doltimore, who had accidentally heard De Montaigne confess thathe knew the address of Maltravers, quietly sent his letter to theFrenchman, and, without mentioning its contents, begged him to forwardit. De Montaigne did so. Now it is very strange how slight men andslight incidents bear on the great events of life; but that simple letterwas instrumental to a new revolution in the strange history ofMaltravers. 

CHAPTER II. 

 QUID frustra simulacra fugacia captas?-- Quod petis est nusquam. *--OVID: _Met. _ iii. 432. 

 * "Why, in vain, do you catch at fleeting shadows? That which you seek is nowhere. "

TO no clime dedicated to the indulgence of majestic griefs or to the softmelancholy of regret--not to thy glaciers, or thy dark-blue lakes, beautiful Switzerland, mother of many exiles; nor to thy fairer earth andgentler heaven, sweet Italy, --fled the agonized Maltravers. Once, in hiswanderings, he had chanced to pass by a landscape so steeped in sullenand desolate gloom, that it had made a powerful and uneffaced impressionupon his mind: it was amidst those swamps and morasses that formerlysurrounded the castle of Gil de Retz, the ambitious Lord, the dreadedNecromancer, who perished at the stake, after a career of such power andsplendour as seemed almost to justify the dark belief in hispreternatural agencies. *

 * See, for description of this scenery, and the fate of De Retz, the high-wrought and glowing romance by Mr. Ritchie called "The Magician. "

Here, in a lonely and wretched inn, remote from other habitations, Maltravers fixed himself. In gentler griefs there is a sort of luxury inbodily discomfort; in his inexorable and unmitigated anguish, bodilydiscomfort was not felt. There is a kind of magnetism in extreme woe, bywhich the body itself seems laid asleep, and knows no distinction betweenthe bed of Damiens and the rose-couch of the Sybarite. He left hiscarriage and servants at a post-house some miles distant. He came tothis dreary abode alone; and in that wintry season, and that mostdisconsolate scene, his gloomy soul found something congenial, somethingthat did not mock him, in the frowns of the haggard and dismal Nature. Vain would it be to describe what he then felt, what he then endured. Suffice it that, through all, the diviner strength of man was not whollycrushed, and that daily, nightly, hourly, he prayed to the GreatComforter to assist him in wrestling against a guilty love. No manstruggles so honestly, so ardently as he did, utterly in vain; for in usall, if we would but cherish it, there is a spirit that must rise atlast--a crowned, if bleeding conqueror--over Fate and all the Demons!

One day after a prolonged silence from Vargrave, whose letters allbreathed comfort and assurance in Evelyn's progressive recovery of spiritand hope, his messenger returned from the post-town with a letter in thehand of De Montaigne. It contained, in a blank envelope (De Montaigne'ssilence told him how much he had lost in the esteem of his friend), thecommunication of Lord Doltimore. It ran thus:--

MY DEAR SIR, --As I hear that your plans are likely to make you a longresident on the Continent, may I again inquire if you would be induced todispose of Burleigh? I am willing to give more than its real value, andwould raise a mortgage on my own property sufficient to pay off, at once, the whole purchase-money. Perhaps you may be the more induced to thesale from the circumstance of having an example in the head of yourfamily, Colonel Maltravers, as I learn through Lord Vargrave, havingresolved to dispose of Lisle Court. Waiting your answer, I am, dear Sir, truly yours, DOLTIMORE. 

"Ay, " said Maltravers, bitterly, crushing the letter in his hand, "letour name be blotted out from the land, and our hearths pass to thestranger. How could I ever visit the place where I first saw _her_?"

He resolved at once, --he would write to England, and place the matter inthe hands of agents. This was but a short-lived diversion to histhoughts, and their cloudy darkness soon gathered round him again. 

What I am now about to relate may appear, to a hasty criticism, to savourof the Supernatural; but it is easily accounted for by ordinary agencies, and it is strictly to the letter of the truth. 

In his sleep that night a dream appeared to Maltravers. He thought hewas alone in the old library at Burleigh, and gazing on the portrait ofhis mother; as he so gazed, he fancied that a cold and awful tremorseized upon him, that he in vain endeavoured to withdraw his eyes fromthe canvas--his sight was chained there by an irresistible spell. Thenit seemed to him that the portrait gradually changed, --the features thesame, but the bloom vanished into a white and ghastly hue; the colours ofthe dress faded, their fashion grew more large and flowing, but heavy andrigid as if cut in stone, --the robes of the grave. But on the face therewas a soft and melancholy smile, that took from its livid aspect thenatural horror; the lips moved, and, it seemed as if without a sound, thereleased soul spoke to that which the earth yet owned. 

"Return, " it said, "to thy native land, and thine own home. Leave notthe last relic of her who bore and yet watches over thee to strangerhands. Thy good Angel shall meet thee at thy hearth!"

The voice ceased. With a violent effort Maltravers broke the spell thathad forbidden his utterance. He called aloud, and the dream vanished: hewas broad awake, his hair erect, the cold dews on his brow. The pallet, rather than bed on which he lay, was opposite to the window, and thewintry moonlight streamed wan and spectral into the cheerless room. Butbetween himself and the light there seemed to stand a shape, a shadow, that into which the portrait had changed in his dream, --that which hadaccosted and chilled his soul. He sprang forward, "My mother! even inthe grave canst thou bless thy wretched son! Oh, leave me not--say thatthou--" The delusion vanished, and Maltravers fell back insensible. 

It was long in vain, when, in the healthful light of day, he revolvedthis memorable dream, that Maltravers sought to convince himself thatdreams need no ministers from heaven or hell to bring the glidingfalsehoods along the paths of sleep; that the effect of that dreamitself, on his shattered nerves, his excited fancy, was the real and soleraiser of the spectre he had thought to behold on waking. Long was itbefore his judgment could gain the victory, and reason disown the empireof a turbulent imagination; and even when at length reluctantlyconvinced, the dream still haunted him, and he could not shake it fromhis breast. He longed anxiously for the next night; it came, but itbrought neither dreams nor sleep, and the rain beat, and the windshowled, against the casement. Another night, and the moon was againbright; and he fell into a deep sleep; no vision disturbed or hallowedit. He woke ashamed of his own expectation. But the event, such as itwas, by giving a new turn to his thoughts, had roused and relieved hisspirit, and misery sat upon him with a lighter load. Perhaps, too, tothat still haunting recollection was mainly owing a change in his formerpurpose. He would still sell the old Hall; but he would first return, and remove that holy portrait, with pious hands; he would garner up andsave all that had belonged to her whose death had been his birth. Ah, never had she known for what trials the infant had been reserved!

CHAPTER III. 

 THE weary hours steal on And flaky darkness breaks. --_Richard III. _

ONCE more, suddenly and unlooked for, the lord of Burleigh appeared atthe gates of his deserted hall! and again the old housekeeper and hersatellites were thrown into dismay and consternation. Amidst blank andwelcomeless faces, Maltravers passed into his study: and as soon as thelogs burned and the bustle was over, and he was left alone, he took upthe light and passed into the adjoining library. It was then about nineo'clock in the evening; the air of the room felt damp and chill, and thelight but faintly struggled against the mournful gloom of the darkbook-lined walls and sombre tapestry. He placed the candle on the table, and drawing aside the curtain that veiled the portrait, gazed with deepemotion, not unmixed with awe, upon the beautiful face whose eyes seemedfixed upon him with mournful sweetness. There is something mysticalabout those painted ghosts of ourselves, that survive our very dust!Who, gazing upon them long and wistfully, does not half fancy that theyseem not insensible to his gaze, as if we looked our own life into them, and the eyes that followed us where we moved were animated by a strangerart than the mere trick of the limner's colours?

With folded arms, rapt and motionless, Maltravers contemplated the formthat, by the upward rays of the flickering light, seemed to bend downtowards the desolate son. How had he ever loved the memory of hismother! how often in his childish years had he stolen away, and shed wildtears for the loss of that dearest of earthly ties, never to becompensated, never to be replaced! How had he respected, how sympathizedwith the very repugnance which his father had at first testified towardshim, as the innocent cause of her untimely death! He had never seenher, --never felt her passionate kiss; and yet it seemed to him, as hegazed, as if he had known her for years. That strange kind of inner andspiritual memory which often recalls to us places and persons we havenever seen before, and which Platonists would resolve to the unquenchedand struggling consciousness of a former life, stirred within him, andseemed to whisper, "You were united in the old time. " "Yes!" he said, half aloud, "we will never part again. Blessed be the delusion of thedream that recalled to my heart the remembrance of thee, which, at least, I can cherish without a sin. 'My good angel shall meet me at my hearth!'so didst thou say in the solemn vision. Ah, does thy soul watch over mestill? How long shall it be before the barrier is broken! how longbefore we meet, but not in dreams!"

The door opened, the housekeeper looked in. "I beg pardon, sir, but Ithought your honour would excuse the liberty, though I know it is verybold to--"

"What is the matter? What do you want?"

"Why, sir, poor Mrs. Elton is dying, --they say she cannot get over thenight; and as the carriage drove by the cottage window, the nurse toldher that the squire was returned; and she has sent up the nurse toentreat to see your honour before she dies. I am sure I was most loth todisturb you, sir, with such a message; and says I, the squire has onlyjust come off a journey--"

"Who is Mrs. Elton?"

"Don't your honour remember the poor woman that was run over, and youwere so good to, and brought into the house the day Miss Cameron--"

"I remember, --say I will be with her in a few minutes. About to die!"muttered Maltravers; "she is to be envied, --the prisoner is let loose, the bark leaves the desert isle!"

He took his hat and walked across the park, dimly lighted by the stars, to the cottage of the sufferer. He reached her bedside, and took herhand kindly. She seemed to rally at the sight of him; the nurse wasdismissed, they were left alone. Before morning, the spirit had leftthat humble clay; and the mists of dawn were heavy on the grass asMaltravers returned home. There were then on his countenance the tracesof recent and strong emotion, and his step was elastic, and his cheekflushed. Hope once more broke within him, but mingled with doubt, andfaintly combated by reason. In another hour Maltravers was on his way toBrook-Green. Impatient, restless, fevered, he urged on the horses, hesowed the road with gold; and at length the wheels stopped before thedoor of the village inn. He descended, asked the way to the curate'shouse; and crossing the burial-ground, and passing under the shadow ofthe old yew-tree, entered Aubrey's garden. The curate was at home, andthe conference that ensued was of deep and breathless interest to thevisitor. 

It is now time to place before the reader, in due order and connection, the incidents of that story, the knowledge of which, at that period, broke in detached and fragmentary portions on Maltravers. 

CHAPTER IV. 

 I CANNA chuse, but ever will Be luving to thy father still, Whaireir he gae, whaireir he ryde, My luve with him maun still abyde; In weil or wae, whaireir he gae, Mine heart can neir depart him frae. Lady Anne Bothwell's Lament. 

IT may be remembered that in the earlier part of this continuation of thehistory of Maltravers it was stated that Aubrey had in early life metwith the common lot of a disappointed affection. Eleanor Westbrook, ayoung woman of his own humble rank, had won, and seemed to return, hislove; but of that love she was not worthy. Vain, volatile, andambitious, she forsook the poor student for a more brilliant marriage. She accepted the hand of a merchant, who was caught by her beauty, andwho had the reputation of great wealth. They settled in London, andAubrey lost all traces of her. She gave birth to an only daughter: andwhen that child had attained her fourteenth year, her husband suddenly, and seemingly without cause, put an end to his existence. The cause, however, was apparent before he was laid in his grave. He was involvedfar beyond his fortune, --he had died to escape beggary and a jail. Asmall annuity, not exceeding one hundred pounds, had been secured on thewidow. On this income she retired with her child into the country; andchance, the vicinity of some distant connections, and the cheapness ofthe place, concurred to fix her residence in the outskirts of the town ofC-----. Characters that in youth have been most volatile and mostworldly, often when bowed down and dejected by the adversity which theyare not fitted to encounter, become the most morbidly devout; they everrequire an excitement, and when earth denies, they seek it impatientlyfrom heaven. 

This was the case with Mrs. Westbrook; and this new turn of mind broughther naturally into contact with the principal saint of the neighbourhood, Mr. Richard Templeton. We have seen that that gentleman was not happy inhis first marriage; death had not then annulled the bond. He was of anardent and sensual temperament, and quietly, under the broad cloak of hisdoctrines, he indulged his constitutional tendencies. Perhaps in thisrespect he was not worse than nine men out of ten. But then he professedto be better than nine hundred thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine menout of a million! To a fault of temperament was added the craft ofhypocrisy, and the vulgar error became a dangerous vice. Upon MaryWestbrook, the widow's daughter, he gazed with eyes that were far frombeing the eyes of the spirit. Even at the age of fourteen she charmedhim; but when, after watching her ripening beauty expand, three yearswere added to that age, Mr. Templeton was most deeply in love. Mary wasindeed lovely, --her disposition naturally good and gentle, but hereducation worse than neglected. To the frivolities and meannesses of asecond-rate fashion, inculcated into her till her father's death, had nowsucceeded the quackeries, the slavish subservience, the intolerantbigotries, of a transcendental superstition. In a change so abrupt andviolent, the whole character of the poor girl was shaken; her principlesunsettled, vague, and unformed, and naturally of mediocre and even feebleintellect, she clung to the first plank held out to her in "that wide seaof wax" in which "she halted. " Early taught to place the most implicitfaith in the dictates of Mr. Templeton, fastening her belief round him asthe vine winds its tendrils round the oak, yielding to his ascendency, and pleased with his fostering and almost caressing manner, no confessorin Papal Italy ever was more dangerous to village virtue than RichardTempleton (who deemed himself the archetype of the only pureProtestantism) to the morals and heart of Mary Westbrook. 

Mrs. Westbrook, whose constitution had been prematurely broken by longparticipation in the excesses of London dissipation and by the reverse offortune which still preyed upon a spirit it had rather soured thanhumbled, died when Mary was eighteen. Templeton became the sole friend, comforter, and supporter of the daughter. 

In an evil hour (let us trust not from premeditated villany), --an hourwhen the heart of one was softened by grief and gratitude, and theconscience of the other laid asleep by passion, the virtue of MaryWestbrook was betrayed. Her sorrow and remorse, his own fears ofdetection and awakened self-reproach, occasioned Templeton the mostanxious and poignant regret. There had been a young woman in Mrs. Westbrook's service, who had left it a short time before the widow died, in consequence of her marriage. Her husband ill-used her; and glad toescape from him and prove her gratitude to her employer's daughter, ofwhom she had been extremely fond, she had returned to Miss Westbrookafter the funeral of her mother. The name of this woman was Sarah Miles. Templeton saw that Sarah more than suspected his connection with Mary; itwas necessary to make a confidant, --he selected her. Miss Westbrook wasremoved to a distant part of the country, and Templeton visited hercautiously and rarely. Four months afterwards, Mrs. Templeton died, andthe husband was free to repair his wrong. Oh, how he then repented ofwhat had passed! but four months' delay, and all this sin and sorrowmight have been saved! He was now racked with perplexity and doubt: hisunfortunate victim was advanced in her pregnancy. It was necessary, ifhe wished his child to be legitimate--still more if he wished to preservethe honour of its mother--that he should not hesitate long in thereparation to which duty and conscience urged him. But on the otherhand, he, the saint, the oracle, the immaculate example for all forms, proprieties, and decorums, to scandalize the world by so rapid andpremature a hymen--

 "Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in his galled eyes, To marry. "

No! he could not brave the sneer of the gossips, the triumph of his foes, the dejection of his disciples, by so rank and rash a folly. But stillMary pined so, he feared for her health--for his own unborn offspring. There was a middle path, --a compromise between duty and the world; hegrasped at it as most men similarly situated would have done, --they weremarried, but privately, and under feigned names: the secret was keptclose. Sarah Miles was the only witness acquainted with the realcondition and names of the parties. 

Reconciled to herself, the bride recovered health and spirits, Templetonformed the most sanguine hopes. He resolved, as soon as the confinementwas over, to go abroad; Mary should follow; in a foreign land they shouldbe publicly married; they would remain some years on the Continent; whenhe returned, his child's age could be put back a year. Oh, nothing couldbe more clear and easy!

Death shivered into atoms all the plans of Mr. Templeton. Mary sufferedmost severely in childbirth, and died a few weeks afterwards. Templetonat first was inconsolable, but worldly thoughts were great comforters. He had done all that conscience could do to atone a sin, and he was freedfrom a most embarrassing dilemma, and from a temporary banishment utterlyuncongenial and unpalatable to his habits and ideas. But now he had achild, --a legitimate child, successor to his name, his wealth; afirst-born child, --the only one ever sprung from him, the prop and hopeof advancing years! On this child he doted with all that paternalpassion which the hardest and coldest men often feel the most for theirown flesh and blood--for fatherly love is sometimes but a transfer ofself-love from one fund to another. 

Yet this child--this darling that he longed to show to the wholeworld--it was absolutely necessary, for the present, that he shouldconceal and disown. It had happened that Sarah's husband died of his ownexcesses a few weeks before the birth of Templeton's child, she havingherself just recovered from her confinement; Sarah was therefore freeforever from her husband's vigilance and control. To her care thedestined heiress was committed, and her own child put out to nurse. Andthis was the woman and this the child who had excited so much benevolentcuriosity in the breasts of the worthy clergyman and the three old maidsof C-----. * Alarmed at Sarah's account of the scrutiny of the parson, andat his own rencontre with that hawk-eyed pastor, Templeton lost no timein changing the abode of the nurse; and to her new residence had thebanker bent his way, with rod and angle, on that evening which witnessedhis adventure with Luke Darvil. ** When Mr. Templeton first met Alice, hisown child was only about thirteen or fourteen months old, --but littleolder than Alice's. If the beauty of Mrs. Leslie's _protege_ firstexcited his coarser nature, her maternal tenderness, her anxious care forher little one, struck a congenial chord in the father's heart. Itconnected him with her by a mute and unceasing sympathy. Templeton hadfelt so deeply the alarm and pain of illicit love, he had been (as heprofanely believed) saved from the brink of public shame by so signal aninterference of grace, that he resolved no more to hazard his good nameand his peace of mind upon such perilous rocks. The dearest desire athis heart was to have his daughter under his roof, --to fondle, to playwith her, to watch her growth, to win her affection. This, at present, seemed impossible. But if he were to marry, --marry a widow, to whom hemight confide all, or a portion, of the truth; if that child could bepassed off as hers--ah, that was the best plan! And Templeton wanted awife! Years were creeping on him, and the day would come when a wifewould be useful as a nurse. But Alice was supposed to be a widow; andAlice was so meek, so docile, so motherly. If she could be induced toremove from C-----, either part with her own child or call it herniece, --and adopt his. Such, from time to time, were Templeton'sthoughts, as he visited Alice, and found, with every visit, freshevidence of her tender and beautiful disposition; such the objects which, in the First Part of this work, we intimated were different from those ofmere admiration for her beauty. *** But again, worldly doubts andfears--the dislike of so unsuitable an alliance, the worse than lownessof Alice's origin, the dread of discovery for her early error--held himback, wavering and irresolute. To say truth, too, her innocence andpurity of thought kept him at a certain distance. He was acute enough tosee that he--even he, the great Richard Templeton--might be refused bythe faithful Alice. 

 * See "Ernest Maltravers, " book iv. , p. 164. 

 ** "Ernest Maltravers, " book iv. , p. 181. 

 *** "Our banker always seemed more struck by Alice's moral feelings than even by her physical beauty. Her love for her child, for instance, impressed him powerfully, " etc. "His feelings altogether for Alice, the designs he entertained towards her, were of a very complicated nature, and it will be long, perhaps, before the reader can thoroughly comprehend them. "--See "Ernest Maltravers, " book iv. , p. 178. 

At last Darvil was dead; he breathed more freely, he revolved moreseriously his projects; and at this time, Sarah, wooed by her firstlover, wished to marry again; his secret would pass from her breast toher second husband's, and thence how far would it travel? Added to this, Sarah's conscience grew uneasy; the brand ought to be effaced from thememory of the dead mother, the legitimacy of the child proclaimed; shebecame importunate, she wearied and she alarmed the pious man. Hetherefore resolved to rid himself of the only witness to his marriagewhose testimony he had cause to fear, --of the presence of the only oneacquainted with his sin and the real name of the husband of MaryWestbrook. He consented to Sarah's marriage with William Elton, andoffered a liberal dowry on the condition that she should yield to thewish of Elton himself, an adventurous young man, who desired to try hisfortunes in the New World. His daughter he must remove elsewhere. 

While this was going on, Alice's child, long delicate and drooping, became seriously ill. Symptoms of decline appeared; the physicianrecommended a milder air, and Devonshire was suggested. Nothing couldequal the generous, the fatherly kindness which Templeton evinced on thismost painful occasion. He insisted on providing Alice with the means toundertake the journey with ease and comfort; and poor Alice, with a heartheavy with gratitude and sorrow, consented for her child's sake to all heoffered. 

Now the banker began to perceive that all his hopes and wishes were ingood train. He foresaw that the child of Alice was doomed!--that was oneobstacle out of the way. Alice herself was to be removed from the sphereof her humble calling. In a distant county she might appear of betterstation, and under another name. Conformably to these views, hesuggested to her that, in proportion to the seeming wealth andrespectability of patients, did doctors attend to their complaints. Heproposed that Alice should depart privately to a town many miles off;that there he would provide for her a carriage, and engage a servant;that he would do this for her as for a relation, and that she should takethat relation's name. To this, Alice rapt in her child, and submissiveto all that might be for the child's benefit, passively consented. Itwas arranged then as proposed, and under the name of Cameron, which, asat once a common yet a well-sounding name, occurred to his invention, Alice departed with her sick charge and a female attendant (who knewnothing of her previous calling or story), on the road to Devonshire. Templeton himself resolved to follow her thither in a few days; and itwas fixed that they should meet at Exeter. 

It was on this melancholy journey that occurred that memorable day whenAlice once more beheld Maltravers; and, as she believed, uttering thevows of love to another. * The indisposition of her child had delayed hersome hours at the inn: the poor sufferer had fallen asleep; and Alice hadstolen from its couch for a little while, when her eyes rested on thefather. Oh, how then she longed, she burned to tell him of the newsanctity, that, by a human life, had been added to their early love! Andwhen, crushed and sick at heart, she turned away, and believed herselfforgotten and replaced, it was the pride of the mother rather than of themistress that supported her. She, meek creature, felt not the injury toherself; but _his_ child, --the sufferer, perhaps the dying one, --_there_, _there_ was the wrong! No! she would not hazard the chance of acold--great Heaven! perchance an _incredulous_--look upon the hushed, pale face above. But little time was left for thought, for explanation, for discovery. She saw him--unconscious of the ties so near, and thuslost--depart as a stranger from the spot; and henceforth was gone thesweet hope of living for the future. Nothing was left her but the pledgeof that which had been. Mournful, despondent, half broken-hearted, sheresumed her journey. At Exeter she was joined, as agreed, by Mr. Templeton; and with him came a fair, a blooming, and healthful girl tocontrast her own drooping charge. Though but a few weeks older, youwould have supposed the little stranger by a year the senior of Alice'schild: the one was so well grown, so advanced; the other so backward, sonipped in the sickly bud. 

 * See "Ernest Maltravers, " book v. , p. 221. 

"You can repay me for all, for more than I have done; more than I evercan do for you and yours, " said Templeton, "by taking this young strangeralso under your care. It is the child of one dear, most dear to me; anorphan; I know not with whom else to place it. Let it for the present besupposed your own, --the elder child. "

Alice could refuse nothing to her benefactor; but her heart did not openat first to the beautiful girl, whose sparkling eyes and rosy cheeksmocked the languid looks and faded hues of her own darling. But thesufferer seemed to hail a playmate; it smiled, it put forth its poor, thin hands; it uttered its inarticulate cry of pleasure, and Alice burstinto tears, and clasped them _both_ to her heart. 

Mr. Templeton took care not to rest under the same roof with her he nowseriously intended to make his wife; but he followed Alice to theseaside, and visited her daily. Her infant rallied; it was tenacious ofthe upper air; it clung to life so fondly; poor child, it could notforesee what a bitter thing to some of us life is! And now it was thatTempleton, learning from Alice her adventure with her absent lover, learning that all hope in that quarter was gone, seized the occasion, andpressed his suit. Alice at the hour was overflowing with gratitude; inher child's reviving looks she read all her obligations to herbenefactor. But still, at the word _love_, at the name of _marriage_, her heart recoiled; and the lost, the faithless, came back to his fatalthrone. In choked and broken accents, she startled the banker with therefusal--the faltering, tearful, but resolute refusal--of his suit. 

But Templeton brought new engines to work: he wooed her through herchild; he painted all the brilliant prospects that would open to theinfant by her marriage with him. He would cherish, rear, provide for itas his own. This shook her resolves; but this did not prevail. He hadrecourse to a more generous appeal: he told her so much of his historywith Mary Westbrook as commenced with his hasty and indecorousmarriage, --attributing the haste to love! made her comprehend hisscruples in owning the child of a union the world would be certain toridicule or condemn; he expatiated on the inestimable blessings she couldafford him, by delivering him from all embarrassment, and restoring hisdaughter, though under a borrowed name, to her father's roof. At thisAlice mused; at this she seemed irresolute. She had long seen howinexpressibly dear to Templeton was the child confided to her care; howhe grew pale if the slightest ailment reached her; how he chafed at thevery wind if it visited her cheek too roughly; and she now said to himsimply, --

"Is your child, in truth, your dearest object in life? Is it with her, and her alone, that your dearest hopes are connected?"

"It is, --it is indeed!" said the banker, honestly surprised out of hisgallantry; "at least, " he added, recovering his self-possession, "as muchso as is compatible with my affection for you. "

"And only if I marry you, and adopt her as my own, do you think that yoursecret may be safely kept, and all your wishes with respect to her befulfilled?"

"Only so. "

"And for that reason, chiefly, nay entirely, you condescend to forgetwhat I have been, and seek my hand? Well, if that were all, I owe youtoo much; my poor babe tells me too loudly what I owe you to draw backfrom anything that can give you so blessed an enjoyment. Ah, one'schild! one's own child, under one's own roof, it _is_ such a blessing!But then, if I marry you, it can be only to secure to you that object; tobe as a mother to your child; but wife only in name to you! I am not solost as to despise myself. I know now, though I knew it not at first, that I have been guilty; nothing can excuse that guilt but fidelity to_him_! Oh, yes! I never, never can be unfaithful to my babe's father!As for all else, dispose of me as you will. " And Alice, who from veryinnocence had uttered all this without a blush, now clasped her handspassionately, and left Templeton speechless with mortification andsurprise. 

When he recovered himself, he affected not to understand her; but Alicewas not satisfied, and all further conversation ceased. He began slowly, and at last, and after repeated conferences and urgings, to comprehendhow strange and stubborn in some points was the humble creature whom hisproposals so highly honoured. Though his daughter was indeed his firstobject in life; though for her he was willing to make a _mesalliance_, the extent of which it would be incumbent on him studiously toconceal, --yet still, the beauty of Alice awoke an earthlier sentimentthat he was not disposed to conquer. He was quite willing to makepromises, and talk generously; but when it came to an oath, --a solemn, abinding oath--and this Alice rigidly exacted, --he was startled, and drewback. Though hypocritical, he was, as we have before said, a mostsincere believer. He might creep through a promise with unbruisedconscience; but he was not one who could have dared to violate an oath, and lay the load of perjury on his soul. Perhaps, after all, the unionnever would have taken place, but Templeton fell ill; that soft andrelaxing air did not agree with him; a low but dangerous fever seizedhim, and the worldly man trembled at the aspect of Death. It was in thisillness that Alice nursed him with a daughter's vigilance and care; andwhen at length he recovered, impressed with her zeal and kindness, softened by illness, afraid of the approach of solitary age, --and feelingmore than ever his duties to his motherless child, he threw himself atAlice's feet, and solemnly vowed all that she required. 

It was during this residence in Devonshire, and especially during hisillness, that Templeton made and cultivated the acquaintance of Mr. Aubrey. The good clergyman prayed with him by his sick-bed; and whenTempleton's danger was at its height, he sought to relieve his conscienceby a confession of his wrongs to Mary Westbrook. The name startledAubrey; and when he learned that the lovely child who had so often sat onhis knee, and smiled in his face, was the granddaughter of his first andonly love, he had a new interest in her welfare, a new reason to urgeTempleton to reparation, a new motive to desire to procure for the infantyears of Eleanor's grandchild the gentle care of the young mother, whoseown bereavement he sorrowfully foretold. Perhaps the advice andexhortations of Aubrey went far towards assisting the conscience of Mr. Templeton, and reconciling him to the sacrifice he made to his affectionfor his daughter. Be that as it may, he married Alice, and Aubreysolemnized and blessed the chill and barren union. 

But now came a new and inexpressible affliction; the child of Alice hadrallied but for a time. The dread disease had but dallied with its prey;it came on with rapid and sudden force; and within a month from the daythat saw Alice the bride of Templeton, the last hope was gone, and themother was bereft and childless!

The blow that stunned Alice was not, after the first natural shock ofsympathy, an unwelcome event to the banker. Now _his_ child would beAlice's sole care; now there could be no gossip, no suspicion why, inlife and after death, he should prefer one child, supposed not his own, to the other. 

He hastened to remove Alice from the scene of her affliction. Hedismissed the solitary attendant who had accompanied her on her journey;he bore his wife to London, and finally settled, as we have seen, at avilla in its vicinity. And there, more and more, day by day, centred hislove upon the supposed daughter of Mrs. Templeton, his darling and hisheiress, the beautiful Evelyn Cameron. 

For the first year or two, Templeton evinced some alarming disposition toescape from the oath he had imposed upon himself; but on the slightesthint there was a sternness in the wife, in all else so respectful, sosubmissive, that repressed and awed him. She even threatened--and at onetime was with difficulty prevented carrying the threat into effect--toleave his roof forever, if there were the slightest question of thesanctity of his vow. Templeton trembled; such a separation would excitegossip, curiosity, scandal, a noise in the world, public talk, possiblediscovery. Besides, Alice was necessary to Evelyn, necessary to his owncomfort; something to scold in health, something to rely upon in illness. Gradually then, but sullenly, he reconciled himself to his lot; and asyears and infirmities grew upon him, he was contented at least to havesecured a faithful friend and an anxious nurse. Still a marriage of thissort was not blessed: Templeton's vanity was wounded; his temper, alwaysharsh, was soured; he avenged his affront by a thousand petty tyrannies;and, without a murmur, Alice perhaps in those years of rank and opulencesuffered more than in all her wanderings, with love at her heart and herinfant in her arms. 

Evelyn was to be the heiress to the wealth of the banker. But the_title_ of the new peer!--if he could unite wealth and title, and set thecoronet on that young brow! This had led him to seek the alliance withLumley. And on his death-bed, it was not the secret of Alice, but thatof Mary Westbrook and his daughter, which he had revealed to his dismayedand astonished nephew, in excuse for the apparently unjust alienation ofhis property, and as the cause of the alliance he had sought. 

While her husband, if husband he might be called, lived, Alice had seemedto bury in her bosom her regret--deep, mighty, passionate, as it was--forher lost child, the child of the unforgotten lover, to whom, through suchtrials, and amid such new ties, she had been faithful from first to last. But when once more free, her heart flew back to the far and lowly grave. Hence her yearly visits to Brook-Green; hence her purchase of thecottage, hallowed by memories of the dead. There, on that lawn, had sheborne forth the fragile form, to breathe the soft noontide air; there, inthat chamber, had she watched and hoped, and prayed and despaired; there, in that quiet burial-ground, rested the beloved dust! But Alice, even inher holiest feelings, was not selfish: she forbore to gratify the firstwish of her heart till Evelyn's education was sufficiently advanced toenable her to quit the neighbourhood; and then, to the delight of Aubrey(who saw in Evelyn a fairer, and nobler, and purer Eleanor), she came tothe solitary spot, which, in all the earth, was the _least_ solitary toher!

And now the image of the lover of her youth--which during her marriageshe had _sought_, at least, to banish--returned to her, and at timesinspired her with the only hopes that the grave had not yet transferredto heaven! In relating her tale to Aubrey or in conversing with Mrs. Leslie, whose friendship she still maintained, she found that bothconcurred in thinking that this obscure and wandering Butler, so skilledin an art in which eminence in man is generally professional, must be ofmediocre or perhaps humble station. Ah! now that she was free and rich, if she were to meet him again, and his love was not all gone, and hewould believe in _her_ strange and constant truth; now, _his_ infidelitycould be forgiven, --forgotten in the benefits it might be hers to bestow!And how, poor Alice, in that remote village, was chance to throw him inyour way? She knew not: but something often whispered to her, "Again youshall meet those eyes; again you shall hear that voice; and you shalltell him, weeping on his breast, how you loved his child!" And would henot have forgotten her; would he not have formed new ties?--could he readthe loveliness of unchangeable affection in that pale and pensive face!Alas, when we love intensely, it is difficult to make us fancy that thereis no love in return!

The reader is acquainted with the adventures of Mrs. Elton, the soleconfidant of the secret union of Templeton and Evelyn's mother. By asingular fatality, it was the selfish and characteristic recklessness ofVargrave that had, in fixing her home at Burleigh, ministered to therevelation of his own villanous deceit. On returning to England she hadinquired for Mr. Templeton; she had learned that he had married again, had been raised to the peerage under the title of Lord Vargrave, and wasgathered to his fathers. She had no claim on his widow or his family. But the unfortunate child who should have inherited his property, shecould only suppose her dead. 

When she first saw Evelyn, she was startled by her likeness to herunfortunate mother. But the unfamiliar name of Cameron, the intelligencereceived from Maltravers that Evelyn's mother still lived, dispelled hersuspicions; and though at times the resemblance haunted her, she doubtedand inquired no more. In fact, her own infirmities grew upon her, andpain usurped her thoughts. 

Now it so happened that the news of the engagement of Maltravers to MissCameron became known to the county but a little time before hearrived, --for news travels slow from the Continent to ourprovinces, --and, of course, excited all the comment of the villagers. Her nurse repeated the tale to Mrs. Elton, who instantly remembered thename, and recalled the resemblance of Miss Cameron to the unfortunateMary Westbrook. 

"And, " said the gossiping nurse, "she was engaged, they say, to a greatlord, and gave him up for the squire, --a great lord in the court, who hadbeen staying at Parson Merton's, Lord Vargrave!"

"Lord Vargrave!" exclaimed Mrs. Elton, remembering the title to which Mr. Templeton had been raised. 

"Yes; they do say as how the late lord left Miss Cameron all hismoney--such a heap of it--though she was not his child, over the head ofhis nevy, the present lord, on the understanding like that they were tobe married when she came of age. But she would not take to him after shehad seen the squire. And, to be sure, the squire is the finest-lookinggentleman in the county. "

"Stop! stop!" said Mrs. Elton, feebly; "the late lord left all hisfortune to Miss Cameron, --not his child! I guess the riddle! Iunderstand it all! my foster-child!" she murmured, turning away; "howcould I have mistaken that likeness?"

The agitation of the discovery she supposed she had made, her joy at thethought that the child she had loved as her own was alive and possessedof its rights, expedited the progress of Mrs. Elton's disease; andMaltravers arrived just in time to learn her confession (which shenaturally wished to make to one who was at once her benefactor, andsupposed to be the destined husband of her foster-child), and to beagitated with hope, with joy, at her solemn conviction of the truth ofher surmises. If Evelyn were not his daughter--even if not to be hisbride--what a weight from his soul! He hastened to Brook-Green; anddreading to rush at once to the presence of Alice, he recalled Aubrey tohis recollection. In the interview he sought, all, or at least much, wascleared up. He saw at once the premeditated and well-planned villany ofVargrave. And Alice, her tale--her sufferings--her indomitablelove!--how should he meet _her_?

CHAPTER V. 

 YET once more, O ye laurels! and once more, Ye myrtles!--LYCIDAS. 

WHILE Maltravers was yet agitated and excited by the disclosures of thecurate, to whom, as a matter of course, he had divulged his own identitywith the mysterious Butler, Aubrey, turning his eyes to the casement, sawthe form of Lady Vargrave slowly approaching towards the house. 

"Will you withdraw to the inner room?" said he; "she is coming; you arenot yet prepared to meet her!--nay, would it be well?"

"Yes, yes; I am prepared. We must be alone. I will await her here. "

"But--"

"Nay, I implore you!"

The curate, without another word, retired into the inner apartment, andMaltravers sinking in a chair breathlessly awaited the entrance of LadyVargrave. He soon heard the light step without; the door, which openedat once on the old-fashioned parlour, was gently unclosed, and LadyVargrave was in the room! In the position he had taken, only the outlineof Ernest's form was seen by Alice, and the daylight came dim through thecottage casement; and seeing some one seated in the curate's accustomedchair, she could but believe that it was Aubrey himself. 

"Do not let me interrupt you, " said that sweet, low voice, whose musichad been dumb for so many years to Maltravers, "but I have a letter fromFrance, from a stranger. It alarms me so; it is about Evelyn;" and, asif to imply that she meditated a longer visit than ordinary, LadyVargrave removed her bonnet, and placed it on the table. Surprised thatthe curate had not answered, had not come forward to welcome her, shethen approached; Maltravers rose, and they stood before each other faceto face. And how lovely still was Alice! lovelier he thought even thanof old! And those eyes, so divinely blue, so dovelike and soft, yetwith some spiritual and unfathomable mystery in their clear depth, wereonce more fixed upon him. Alice seemed turned to stone; she moved not, she spoke not, she scarcely breathed; she gazed spellbound, as if hersenses--as if life itself--had deserted her. 

"Alice!" murmured Maltravers, --"Alice, we meet at last!"

His voice restored memory, consciousness, youth, at once to her! Sheuttered a loud cry of unspeakable joy, of rapture! She sprangforward--reserve, fear, time, change, all forgotten; she threw herselfinto his arms, she clasped him to her heart again and again!--thefaithful dog that has found its master expresses not his transport moreuncontrollably, more wildly. It was something fearful--the excess of herecstasy! She kissed his hands, his clothes; she laughed, she wept; andat last, as words came, she laid her head on his breast, and saidpassionately, "I have been true to thee! I have been true to thee!--orthis hour would have killed me!" Then, as if alarmed by his silence, shelooked up into his face, and as his burning tears fell upon her cheek, she said again and with more hurried vehemence, "I _have_ beenfaithful, --do you not believe me?"

"I do, I do, noble, unequalled Alice! Why, why were you so long lost tome? Why now does your love so shame my own?"

At these words, Alice appeared to awaken from her first oblivion of allthat had chanced since they met; she blushed deeply, and drew herselfgently and bashfully from his embrace. "Ah, " she said, in altered andhumbled accents, "you have loved another! Perhaps you have no love leftfor me! Is it so; is it? No, no; those eyes--you love me--you love mestill!"

And again she clung to him, as if it were heaven to believe all things, and death to doubt. Then, after a pause, she drew him gently with bothher hands towards the light, and gazed upon him fondly, proudly, as if totrace, line by line, and feature by feature, the countenance which hadbeen to her sweet thoughts as the sunlight to the flowers. "Changed, changed, " she muttered; "but still the same, --still beautiful, stilldivine!" She stopped. A sudden thought struck her: his garments wereworn and soiled by travel, and that princely crest, fallen and dejected, no longer towered in proud defiance above the sons of men. "You are notrich, " she exclaimed eagerly, --"say you are not rich! I am rich enoughfor both; it is all yours, --all yours; I did not betray you for it; thereis no shame in it. Oh, we shall be so happy! Thou art come back to thypoor Alice! thou knowest how she loved thee!"

There was in Alice's manner, her wild joy, something so different fromher ordinary self, that none who could have seen her--quiet, pensive, subdued--would have fancied her the same being. All that Society and itswoes had taught were gone; and Nature once more claimed her fairestchild. The very years seemed to have fallen from her brow, and shelooked scarcely older than when she had stood with him beneath themoonlight by the violet banks far away. Suddenly, her colour faded; thesmile passed from the dimpled lips; a sad and solemn aspect succeeded tothat expression of passionate joy. "Come, " she said, in a whisper, "come, follow;" and still clasping his hand, she drew him to the door. Silent and wonderingly he followed her across the lawn, through themoss-grown gate, and into the lonely burial-ground. She moved on with anoiseless and gliding step, --so pale, so hushed, so breathless, that evenin the noonday you might have half fancied the fair shape was not ownedby earth. She paused where the yew-tree cast its gloomy shadow; and thesmall and tombless mound, separated from the rest, was before them. Shepointed to it, and falling on her knees beside it, murmured, "Hush, itsleeps below, --thy child!" She covered her face with both her hands, andher form shook convulsively. 

Beside that form and before that grave knelt Maltravers. There vanishedthe last remnant of his stoic pride; and there--Evelyn herselfforgotten--there did he pray to Heaven for pardon to himself, andblessings on the heart he had betrayed. There solemnly did he vow, theremainder of his years, to guard from all future ill the faithful andchildless mother. 

CHAPTER VI. 

 WILL Fortune never come with both hands full, But write her fair words still in foulest letters? _Henry IV. _ Part ii. 

I PASS over those explanations, that record of Alice's eventful history, which Maltravers learned from her own lips, to confirm and add to thenarrative of the curate, the purport of which is already known to thereader. 

It was many hours before Alice was sufficiently composed to remember theobject for which she had sought the curate. But she had laid the letterwhich she had brought, and which explained all, on the table at thevicarage; and when Maltravers, having at last induced Alice, who seemedafraid to lose sight of him for an instant, to retire to her room, andseek some short repose, returned towards the vicarage, he met Aubrey inthe garden. The old man had taken the friend's acknowledged license toread the letter evidently meant for his eye; and, alarmed and anxious, henow eagerly sought a consultation with Maltravers. The letter, writtenin English, as familiar to the writer as her own tongue, was from Madamede Ventadour. It had been evidently dictated by the kindest feelings. After apologizing briefly for her interference, she stated that LordVargrave's marriage with Miss Cameron was now a matter of publicnotoriety; that it would take place in a few days; that it was observedwith suspicion that Miss Cameron appeared nowhere; that she seemed almosta prisoner in her room; that certain expressions which had dropped fromLady Doltimore had alarmed her greatly. According to these expressions, it would seem that Lady Vargrave was not apprised of the approachingevent; that, considering Miss Cameron's recent engagement to Mr. Maltravers suddenly (and, as Valerie thought, unaccountably) broken offon the arrival of Lord Vargrave; considering her extreme youth, herbrilliant fortune; and, Madame de Ventadour delicately hinted, considering also Lord Vargrave's character for unscrupulous determinationin the furtherance of any object on which he was bent, --considering allthis, Madame de Ventadour had ventured to address Miss Cameron's mother, and to guard her against the possibility of design or deceit. Her bestapology for her intrusion must be her deep interest in Miss Cameron, andher long friendship for one to whom Miss Cameron had been so latelybetrothed. If Lady Vargrave were aware of the new engagement, and hadsanctioned it, of course her intrusion was unseasonable and superfluous;but if ascribed to its real motive, would not be the less forgiven. 

It was easy for Maltravers to see in this letter how generous and zealoushad been that friendship for himself which could have induced the womanof the world to undertake so officious a task. But of this he thoughtnot, as he hurried over the lines, and shuddered at Evelyn's urgentdanger. 

"This intelligence, " said Aubrey, "must be, indeed, a surprise to LadyVargrave. For we have not heard a word from Evelyn or Lord Vargrave toannounce such a marriage; and she (and myself till this day) believedthat the engagement between Evelyn and Mr. -----, I mean, " said Aubreywith confusion, --"I mean yourself, was still in force. Lord Vargrave'svillany is apparent; we must act immediately. What is to be done?"

"I will return to Paris to-morrow; I will defeat his machination, exposehis falsehood!"

"You may need a proxy for Lady Vargrave, an authority for Evelyn; onewhom Lord Vargrave knows to possess the secret of her birth, her rights:I will go with you. We must speak to Lady Vargrave. "

Maltravers turned sharply round. "And Alice knows not who I am; thatI--I am, or was, a few weeks ago, the suitor of another; and that otherthe child she has reared as her own! Unhappy Alice! in the very hour ofher joy at my return, is she to writhe beneath this new affliction?"

"Shall I break it to her?" said Aubrey, pityingly. 

"No, no; these lips must inflict the last wrong!" Maltravers walked away, and the curate saw him no more till night. 

In the interval, and late in the evening, Maltravers rejoined Alice. 

The fire burned clear on the hearth, the curtains were drawn, thepleasant but simple drawing-room of the cottage smiled its welcome asMaltravers entered, and Alice sprang up to greet him! It was as if theold days of the music-lesson and the meerschaum had come back. 

"This is yours, " said Alice, tenderly, as he looked round the apartment. "Now--now I know what a blessed thing riches are! Ah, you are looking onthat picture; it is of her who supplied your daughter's place, --she is sobeautiful, so good, you will love her as a daughter. Oh, thatletter--that--that letter--I forgot it till now--it is at the vicarage--Imust go there immediately, and you will come too, --you will advise us. "

"Alice, I have read the letter, --I know all. Alice, sit down and hearme, --it is you who have to learn from me. In our young days I wasaccustomed to tell you stories in winter nights like these, --stories oflove like our own, of sorrows which, at that time, we only knew byhearsay. I have one now for your ear, truer and sadder than they were. Two children, for they were then little more--children in ignorance ofthe world, children in freshness of heart, children almost in years--werethrown together by strange vicissitudes, more than eighteen years ago. They were of different sexes, --they loved and they erred. But the errorwas solely with the boy; for what was innocence in her was but passion inhim. He loved her dearly; but at that age her qualities were halfdeveloped. He knew her beautiful, simple, tender; but he knew not allthe virtue, the faith, and the nobleness that Heaven had planted in hersoul. They parted, --they knew not each other's fate. He sought heranxiously, but in vain; and sorrow and remorse long consumed him, and hermemory threw a shadow over his existence. But again--for his love hadnot the exalted holiness of hers (_she_ was true!)--he sought to renew inothers the charm he had lost with her. In vain, --long, long in vain. Alice, you know to whom the tale refers. Nay, listen yet. I have heardfrom the old man yonder that you were witness to a scene many years agowhich deceived you into the belief that you beheld a rival. It was notso: that lady yet lives, --then, as now, a friend to me; nothing more. Igrant that, at one time, my fancy allured me to her, but my heart wasstill true to thee. "

"Bless you for those words!" murmured Alice; and she crept more closelyto him. 

He went on. "Circumstances, which at some calmer occasion you shallhear, again nearly connected my fate by marriage to another. I had thenseen you at a distance, unseen by you, --seen you apparently surrounded byrespectability and opulence; and I blessed Heaven that your lot, atleast, was not that of penury and want. " (Here Maltravers related wherehe had caught that brief glimpse of Alice, *--how he had sought for heragain and again in vain. ) "From that hour, " he continued, "seeing you incircumstances of which I could not have dared to dream, I felt morereconciled to the past; yet, when on the verge of marriage withanother--beautiful, gifted, generous as she was--a thought, a memory halfacknowledged, dimly traced, chained back my sentiments; and admiration, esteem, and gratitude were not love! Death--a death melancholy andtragic--forbade this union; and I went forth in the world, a pilgrim anda wanderer. Years rolled away, and I thought I had conquered the desirefor love, --a desire that had haunted me since I lost thee. But, suddenlyand recently, a being, beautiful as yourself--sweet, guileless, and youngas you were when we met--woke in me a new and a strange sentiment. Iwill not conceal it from you: Alice, at last I loved another! Yet, singular as it may seem to you, it was a certain resemblance to yourself, not in feature, but in the tones of the voice, the nameless grace ofgesture and manner, the very music of your once happy laugh, --thosetraits of resemblance which I can now account for, and which childrencatch not from their parents only, but from those they most see, and, loving most, most imitate in their tender years, --all these, I say, madeperhaps a chief attraction, that drew me towards--Alice, are you preparedfor it?--drew me towards Evelyn Cameron. Know me in my real character, by my true name: I am that Maltravers to whom the hand of Evelyn was afew weeks ago betrothed!"

 * See "Ernest Maltravers, " book v. , p. 228. 

He paused, and ventured to look up at Alice; she was exceedingly pale, and her hands were tightly clasped together, but she neither wept norspoke. The worst was over; he continued more rapidly, and with lessconstrained an effort: "By the art, the duplicity, the falsehood of LordVargrave, I was taught in a sudden hour to believe that Evelyn was ourdaughter, that you recoiled from the prospect of beholding once more theauthor of so many miseries. I need not tell you, Alice, of the horrorthat succeeded to love. I pass over the tortures I endured. By a trainof incidents to be related to you hereafter, I was led to suspect thetruth of Vargrave's tale. I came hither; I have learned all from Aubrey. I regret no more the falsehood that so racked me for the time; I regretno more the rupture of my bond with Evelyn; I regret nothing that bringsme at last free and unshackled to thy feet, and acquaints me with thysublime faith and ineffable love. Here then--here beneath your ownroof--here he, at once your earliest friend and foe, kneels to you forpardon and for hope! He woos you as his wife, his companion to thegrave! Forget all his errors, and be to him, under a holier name, allthat you were to him of old!"

"And you are then Evelyn's suitor, --you are he whom she loves? I see itall--all!" Alice rose, and, before he was even aware of her purpose, orconscious of what she felt, she had vanished from the room. 

Long, and with the bitterest feelings, he awaited her return; she camenot. At last he wrote a hurried note, imploring her to join him again, to relieve his suspense; to believe his sincerity; to accept his vows. He sent it to her own room, to which she had hastened to bury heremotions. In a few minutes there came to him this answer, written inpencil, blotted with tears. 

"I thank you, I understand your heart; but forgive me--I cannot see youyet. She is so beautiful and good, she is worthy of you. I shall soonbe reconciled. God bless you, --bless you both!"

The door of the vicarage was opened abruptly, and Maltravers entered witha hasty but heavy tread. 

"Go to her, go to that angel; go, I beseech you! Tell her that shewrongs me, if she thinks I can ever wed another, ever have an object inlife, but to atone to, to merit her. Go, plead for me. "

Aubrey, who soon gathered from Maltravers what had passed, departed tothe cottage. It was near midnight before he returned. Maltravers methim in the churchyard, beside the yew-tree. "Well, well, what message doyou bring?"

"She wishes that we should both set off for Paris to-morrow. Not a dayis to be lost, --we must save Evelyn from this snare. "

"Evelyn! Yes, Evelyn shall be saved; but the rest--the rest--why do youturn away?"

"'You are not the poor artist, the wandering adventurer; you are thehigh-born, the wealthy, the renowned Maltravers: Alice has nothing toconfer on you. You have won the love of Evelyn, --Alice cannot doom thechild confided to her care to hopeless affection; you love Evelyn, --Alicecannot compare herself to the young and educated and beautiful creature, whose love is a priceless treasure. Alice prays you not to grieve forher; she will soon be content and happy in your happiness. ' This is themessage. "

"And what said you, --did you not tell her such words would break myheart?"

"No matter what I said; I mistrust myself when I advise her. Herfeelings are truer than all our wisdom!"

Maltravers made no answer, and the curate saw him gliding rapidly away bythe starlit graves towards the village. 

CHAPTER VII. 

 THINK you I can a resolution fetch From flowery tenderness?--_Measure for Measure_. 

THEY were on the road to Dover. Maltravers leaned back in the corner ofthe carriage with his hat over his brows, though the morning was yet toodark for the curate to perceive more than the outline of his features. Milestone after milestone glided by the wheels, and neither of thetravellers broke the silence. It was a cold, raw morning, and the mistsrose sullenly from the dank hedges and comfortless fields. 

Stern and self-accusing was the scrutiny of Maltravers into the recessesof his conscience, and the blotted pages of the Past. That pale andsolitary mother, mourning over the grave of her--of his own--child, roseagain before his eyes, and seemed silently to ask him for an account ofthe heart he had made barren, and of the youth to which his love hadbrought the joylessness of age. With the image of Alice, --afar, alone, whether in her wanderings, a beggar and an outcast, or in that hollowprosperity, in which the very ease of the frame allowed more leisure tothe pinings of the heart, --with that image, pure, sorrowing, and faithfulfrom first to last, he compared his own wild and wasted youth, his resortto fancy and to passion for excitement. He contrasted with her patientresignation his own arrogant rebellion against the trials, the bitternessof which his proud spirit had exaggerated; his contempt for the pursuitsand aims of others; the imperious indolence of his later life, and hisforgetfulness of the duties which Providence had fitted him to discharge. His mind, once so rudely hurled from that complacent pedestal, from whichit had so long looked down on men, and said, "I am wiser and better thanyou, " became even too acutely sensitive to its own infirmities; and thatdesire for Virtue, which he had ever deeply entertained, made itself moredistinctly and loudly heard amidst the ruins and the silence of hispride. 

From the contemplation of the Past, he roused himself to face the Future. Alice had refused his hand, Alice herself had ratified and blessed hisunion with another! Evelyn, so madly loved, --Evelyn might still be his!No law--from the violation of which, even in thought, Human Naturerecoils appalled and horror-stricken--forbade him to reclaim her hand, tosnatch her from the grasp of Vargrave, to woo again, and again to winher! But did Maltravers welcome, did he embrace that thought? Let us dohim justice: he did not. He felt that Alice's resolution, in the firsthour of mortified affection, was not to be considered final; and even ifit were so, he felt yet more deeply that her love--the love that hadwithstood so many trials--never could be subdued. Was he to make hernobleness a curse? Was he to say, "Thou hast passed away in thygeneration, and I leave thee again to thy solitude for her whom thou hastcherished as a child?" He started in dismay from the thought of this newand last blow upon the shattered spirit; and then fresh and equallysacred obstacles between Evelyn and himself broke slowly on his view. Could Templeton rise from his grave, with what resentment, with what justrepugnance, would he have regarded in the betrayer of his wife (eventhough wife but in name) the suitor to his child!

These thoughts came in fast and fearful force upon Maltravers, and servedto strengthen his honour and his conscience. He felt that though, inlaw, there was no shadow of connection between Evelyn and himself, yethis tie with Alice had been of a nature that ought to separate him fromone who had regarded Alice as a mother. The load of horror, the agony ofshame, were indeed gone; but still a voice whispered as before, "Evelynis lost to thee forever!" But so shaken had already been her image inthe late storms and convulsion of his soul, that this thought waspreferable to the thought of sacrificing Alice. If _that_ were all--butEvelyn might still love him; and justice to Alice might be misery to her!He started from his revery with a vehement gesture, and groaned audibly. 

The curate turned to address to him some words of inquiry and surprise;but the words were unheard, and he perceived, by the advancing daylight, that the countenance of Maltravers was that of a man utterly rapt andabsorbed by some mastering and irresistible thought. Wisely, therefore, he left his companion in peace, and returned to his own anxious andengrossing meditations. 

The travellers did not rest till they arrived at Dover. The vesselstarted early the following morning, and Aubrey, who was much fatigued, retired to rest. Maltravers glanced at the clock upon the mantelpiece; itwas the hour of nine. For him there was no hope of sleep; and theprospect of the slow night was that of dreary suspense and torturingself-commune. 

As he turned restlessly in his seat, the waiter entered to say that therewas a gentleman who had caught a glimpse of him below on his arrival, andwho was anxious to speak with him. Before Maltravers could answer, thegentleman himself entered, and Maltravers recognized Legard. 

"I beg your pardon, " said the latter, in a tone of great agitation, "butI was most anxious to see you for a few moments. I have just returned toEngland--all places alike hateful to me! I read in the papers--an--anannouncement--which--which occasions me the greatest--I know not what Iwould say, --but is it true? Read this paragraph;" and Legard placed "TheCourier" before Maltravers. 

The passage was as follows:

"It is whispered that Lord Vargrave, who is now at Paris, is to bemarried in a few days to the beautiful and wealthy Miss Cameron, to whomhe has been long engaged. "

"Is it possible?" exclaimed Legard, following the eyes of Maltravers, ashe glanced over the paragraph. "Were not _you_ the lover, --the accepted, the happy lover of Miss Cameron? Speak, tell me, I implore you!--that itwas for you, who saved my life and redeemed my honour, and not for thatcold schemer, that I renounced all my hopes of earthly happiness, andsurrendered the dream of winning the heart and hand of the only woman Iever loved!"

A deep shade fell over the features of Maltravers. He gazed earnestlyand long upon the working countenance of Legard, and said, after apause, --

"You, too, loved her, then? I never knew it, --never guessed it; or, ifonce I suspected, it was but for a moment; and--"

"Yes, " interrupted Legard, passionately, "Heaven is my witness howfervently and truly I did love--I do still love Evelyn Cameron! But whenyou confessed to me your affection--your hopes--I felt all that I owedyou; I felt that I never ought to become your rival. I left Parisabruptly. What I have suffered I will not say; but it was some comfortto think that I had acted as became one who owed you a debt never to becancelled nor repaid. I travelled from place to place, each equallyhateful and wearisome; at last, I scarce know why, I returned to England. I have arrived this day; and now--but tell me, is it true?"

"I believe it true, " said Maltravers, in a hollow voice, "that Evelyn isat this moment engaged to Lord Vargrave. I believe it equally true thatthat engagement, founded upon false impressions, never will be fulfilled. With that hope and that belief, I am on my road to Paris. "

"And she will be yours, still?" said Legard, turning away his face:"well, that I can bear. May you be happy, sir!"

"Stay, Legard, " said Maltravers, in a voice of great feeling: "let usunderstand each other better; you have renounced your passion to yoursense of honour. " Maltravers paused thoughtfully. "It was noble in you, it was more than just to me; I thank you and respect you. But, Legard, was there aught in the manner, the bearing of Evelyn Cameron, that couldlead you to suppose that she would have returned your affection? True, had we started on equal terms, I am not vain enough to be blind to youradvantages of youth and person; but I believed that the affections ofEvelyn were already mine, before we met at Paris. "

"It might be so, " said Legard, gloomily; "nor is it for me to say that aheart so pure and generous as Evelyn's could deceive yourself or me. YetI _had_ fancied, I _had_ hoped, while you stood aloof, that thepartiality with which she regarded you was that of admiration more thanlove; that you had dazzled her imagination rather than won her heart. Ihad hoped that I should win, that I was winning, my way to her affection!But let this pass; I drop the subject forever--only, Maltravers, only dome justice. You are a proud man, and your pride has often irritated andstung me, in spite of my gratitude. Be more lenient to me than you havebeen; think that, though I have my errors and my follies, I am stillcapable of some conquests over myself. And most sincerely do I now wishthat Evelyn's love may be to you that blessing it would have been to me!"

This was, indeed, a new triumph over the pride of Maltravers, --a newhumiliation. He had looked with a cold contempt on this man, because heaffected not to be above the herd; and this man had preceded him in thevery sacrifice he himself meditated. 

"Legard, " said Maltravers, and a faint blush overspread his face, "yourebuke me justly. I acknowledge my fault, and I ask you to forgive it. From this night, whatever happens, I shall hold it an honour to beadmitted to your friendship; from this night, George Legard never shallfind in me the offences of arrogance and harshness. "

Legard wrung the hand held out to him warmly, but made no answer; hisheart was full, and he would not trust himself to speak. 

"You think, then, " resumed Maltravers, in a more thoughtful tone, --"youthink that Evelyn could have loved you, had my pretensions not crossedyour own? And you think, also--pardon me, dear Legard--that you couldhave acquired the steadiness of character, the firmness of purpose, whichone so fair, so young, so inexperienced and susceptible, so surrounded bya thousand temptations, would need in a guardian and protector?"

"Oh, do not judge of me by what I have been. I feel that Evelyn couldhave reformed errors worse than mine; that her love would have elevateddispositions yet more light and commonplace. You do not know whatmiracles love works! But now, what is there left for me? What mattersit how frivolous and poor the occupations which can distract my thoughts, and bring me forgetfulness? Forgive me; I have no right to obtrude allthis egotism on you. "

"Do not despond, Legard, " said Maltravers, kindly; "there may be betterfortunes in store for you than you yet anticipate. I cannot say morenow; but will you remain at Dover a few days longer? Within a week youshall hear from me. I will not raise hopes that it may not be mine torealize. But if it be as you think it was, why little, indeed, wouldrest with me. Nay, look not on me so wistfully, " added Maltravers, witha mournful smile; "and let the subject close for the present. You willstay at Dover?"

"I will; but--"

"No buts, Legard; it is so settled. "