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Alice, or The Mysteries, Book VIII

Edward Bulwer Lytton

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Title: Alice, or The Mysteries, Book VIII

Author: Edward Bulwer Lytton

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BOOK VIII.

O Fate! O Heaven!--what have ye then decreed?

SOPHOCLES: _OEd. Tyr._ 738.

"Insolent pride . . .

. . . . . .

The topmost crag of the great precipice

Surmounts--to rush to ruin."

_Ibid._ 874.

CHAPTER I.

. . . SHE is young, wise, fair,

In these to Nature she's immediate heir.

. . . . . .

. . . Honours best thrive

When rather from our acts we them derive

Than our foregoers!--_All's Well that Ends Well_.

LETTER FROM ERNEST MALTRAVERS TO THE HON. FREDERICK CLEVELAND.

EVELYN is free; she is in Paris; I have seen her,--I see her daily!

How true it is that we cannot make a philosophy of indifference! The

affections are stronger than all our reasonings. We must take them into

our alliance, or they will destroy all our theories of self-government.

Such fools of fate are we, passing from system to system, from scheme to

scheme, vainly seeking to shut out passion and sorrow-forgetting that

they are born within us--and return to the soul as the seasons to the

earth! Yet,--years, many years ago, when I first looked gravely into my

own nature and being here, when I first awakened to the dignity and

solemn responsibilities of human life, I had resolved to tame and curb

myself into a thing of rule and measure. Bearing within me the wound

scarred over but never healed, the consciousness of wrong to the heart

that had leaned upon me, haunted by the memory of my lost Alice, I

shuddered at new affections bequeathing new griefs. Wrapped in a haughty

egotism, I wished not to extend my empire over a wider circuit than my

own intellect and passions. I turned from the trader-covetousness of

bliss, that would freight the wealth of life upon barks exposed to every

wind upon the seas of Fate; I was contented with the hope to pass life

alone, honoured, though unloved. Slowly and reluctantly I yielded to the

fascinations of Florence Lascelles. The hour that sealed the compact

between us was one of regret and alarm. In vain I sought to deceive

myself,--I felt that I did not love. And then I imagined that Love was

no longer in my nature,--that I had exhausted its treasures before my

time, and left my heart a bankrupt. Not till the last--not till that

glorious soul broke out in all its brightness the nearer it approached

the source to which it has returned--did I feel of what tenderness she

was worthy and I was capable. She died, and the world was darkened!

Energy, ambition, my former aims and objects, were all sacrificed at her

tomb. But amidst ruins and through the darkness, my soul yet supported

me; I could no longer hope, but I could endure. I was resolved that I

ads:

would not be subdued, and that the world should not hear me groan.

Amidst strange and far-distant scenes, amidst hordes to whom my very

language was unknown, in wastes and forests, which the step of civilized

man, with his sorrows and his dreams, had never trodden, I wrestled with

my soul, as the patriarch of old wrestled with the angel,--and the angel

was at last the victor! You do not mistake me: you know that it was not

the death of Florence alone that worked in me that awful revolution; but

with that death the last glory fled from the face of things that had

seemed to me beautiful of old. Hers was a love that accompanied and

dignified the schemes and aspirations of manhood,--a love that was an

incarnation of ambition itself; and all the evils and disappointments

that belong to ambition seemed to crowd around my heart like vultures to

a feast allured and invited by the dead. But this at length was over;

the barbarous state restored me to the civilized. I returned to my

equals, prepared no more to be an actor in the strife, but a calm

spectator of the turbulent arena. I once more laid my head beneath the

roof of my fathers; and if without any clear and definite object, I at

least hoped to find amidst "my old hereditary trees" the charm of

contemplation and repose. And scarce--in the first hours of my

arrival--had I indulged that dream, when a fair face, a sweet voice, that

had once before left deep and unobliterated impressions on my heart,

scattered all my philosophy to the winds. I saw Evelyn! and if ever

there was love at first sight, it was that which I felt for her: I lived

in her presence, and forgot the Future! Or, rather, I was with the

Past,--in the bowers of my springtide of life and hope! It was an

after-birth of youth--my love for that young heart!

It is, indeed, only in maturity that we know how lovely were our earliest

years! What depth of wisdom in the old Greek myth, that allotted Hebe as

the prize to the god who had been the arch-labourer of life! and whom the

satiety of all that results from experience had made enamoured of all

that belongs to the Hopeful and the New!

This enchanting child, this delightful Evelyn, this ray of undreamed of

sunshine, smiled away all my palaces of ice. I loved, Cleveland,--I

loved more ardently, more passionately, more wildly than ever I did of

old! But suddenly I learned that she was affianced to another, and felt

that it was not for me to question, to seek the annulment of the bond. I

had been unworthy to love Evelyn if I had not loved honour more! I fled

from her presence, honestly and resolutely; I sought to conquer a

forbidden passion; I believed that I had not won affection in return; I

believed, from certain expressions that I overheard Evelyn utter to

another, that her heart as well as her hand was given to Vargrave. I

came hither; you know how sternly and resolutely I strove to eradicate a

weakness that seemed without even the justification of hope! If I

suffered, I betrayed it not. Suddenly Evelyn appeared again before

me!--and suddenly I learned that she was free! Oh, the rapture of that

moment! Could you have seen her bright face, her enchanting smile, when

we met again! Her ingenuous innocence did not conceal her gladness at

seeing me! What hopes broke upon me! Despite the difference of our

years, I think she loves me! that in that love I am about at last to

learn what blessings there are in life.

Evelyn has the simplicity, the tenderness, of Alice, with the refinement

and culture of Florence herself; not the genius, not the daring spirit,

not the almost fearful brilliancy of that ill-fated being,--but with a

taste as true to the Beautiful, with a soul as sensitive to the Sublime!

In Evelyn's presence I feel a sense of peace, of security, of home!

Happy! thrice happy! he who will take her to his breast! Of late she has

assumed a new charm in my eyes,--a certain pensiveness and abstraction

have succeeded to her wonted gayety. Ah, Love is pensive,--is it not,

Cleveland? How often I ask myself that question! And yet, amidst all my

hopes, there are hours when I tremble and despond! How can that innocent

and joyous spirit sympathize with all that mine has endured and known?

How, even though her imagination be dazzled by some prestige around my

name, how can I believe that I have awakened her heart to that deep and

real love of which it is capable, and which youth excites in youth? When

we meet at her home, or amidst the quiet yet brilliant society which is

gathered round Madame de Ventadour or the Montaignes, with whom she is an

especial favourite; when we converse; when I sit by her, and her soft

eyes meet mine,--I feel not the disparity of years; my heart speaks to

her, and _that_ is youthful still! But in the more gay and crowded

haunts to which her presence allures me, when I see that fairy form

surrounded by those who have not outlived the pleasures that so naturally

dazzle and captivate her, then, indeed, I feel that my tastes, my habits,

my pursuits, belong to another season of life, and ask myself anxiously

if my nature and my years are those that can make _her_ happy? Then,

indeed, I recognize the wide interval that time and trial place between

one whom the world has wearied, and one for whom the world is new. If

she should discover hereafter that youth should love only youth, my

bitterest anguish would be that of remorse! I know how deeply I love by

knowing how immeasurably dearer her happiness is than my own! I will

wait, then, yet a while, I will examine, I will watch well that I do not

deceive myself. As yet I think that I have no rivals whom I need fear:

surrounded as she is by the youngest and the gayest, she still turns with

evident pleasure to me, whom she calls her friend. She will forego the

amusements she most loves for society in which we can converse more at

ease. You remember, for instance, young Legard? He is here; and, before

I met Evelyn, was much at Lady Doltimore's house. I cannot be blind to

his superior advantages of youth and person; and there is something

striking and prepossessing in the gentle yet manly frankness of his

manner,--and yet no fear of his rivalship ever haunts me. True, that of

late he has been little in Evelyn's society; nor do I think, in the

frivolity of his pursuits, he can have educated his mind to appreciate

Evelyn, or be possessed of those qualities which would render him worthy

of her. But there is something good in the young man, despite his

foibles,--something that wins upon me; and you will smile to learn, that

he has even surprised from _me_--usually so reserved on such matters--the

confession of my attachment and hopes! Evelyn often talks to me of her

mother, and describes her in colours so glowing that I feel the greatest

interest in one who has helped to form so beautiful and pure a mind. Can

you learn who Lady Vargrave was? There is evidently some mystery thrown

over her birth and connections; and, from what I can hear, this arises

from their lowliness. You know that, though I have been accused of

family pride, it is a pride of a peculiar sort. I am proud, not of the

length of a mouldering pedigree, but of some historical quarterings in my

escutcheon,--of some blood of scholars and of heroes that rolls in my

veins; it is the same kind of pride that an Englishman may feel in

belonging to a country that has produced Shakspeare and Bacon. I have

never, I hope, felt the vulgar pride that disdains want of birth in

others; and I care not three straws whether my friend or my wife be

descended from a king or a peasant. It is myself, and not my

connections, who alone can disgrace my lineage; therefore, however humble

Lady Vargrave's parentage, do not scruple to inform me, should you learn

any intelligence that bears upon it.

I had a conversation last night with Evelyn that delighted me. By some

accident we spoke of Lord Vargrave; and she told me, with an enchanting

candour, of the position in which she stood with him, and the

conscientious and noble scruples she felt as to the enjoyment of a

fortune, which her benefactor and stepfather had evidently intended to be

shared with his nearest relative. In these scruples I cordially

concurred; and if I marry Evelyn, my first care will be to carry them

into effect,--by securing to Vargrave, as far as the law may permit, the

larger part of the income; I should like to say all,--at least till

Evelyn's children would have the right to claim it: a right not to be

enforced during her own, and, therefore, probably not during Vargrave's

life. I own that this would be no sacrifice, for I am proud enough to

recoil from the thought of being indebted for fortune to the woman I

love. It was that kind of pride which gave coldness and constraint to my

regard for Florence; and for the rest, my own property (much increased by

the simplicity of my habits of life for the last few years) will suffice

for all Evelyn or myself could require. Ah, madman that I am! I

calculate already on marriage, even while I have so much cause for

anxiety as to love. But my heart beats,--my heart has grown a dial that

keeps the account of time; by its movements I calculate the moments--in

an hour I shall see her!

Oh, never, never, in my wildest and earliest visions, could I have

fancied that I should love as I love now! Adieu, my oldest and kindest

friend! If I am happy at last, it will be something to feel that at last

I shall have satisfied your expectations of my youth.

Affectionately yours,

E. MALTRAVERS.

RUE DE -----, PARIS,

January --, 18--.

CHAPTER II.

IN her youth

There is a prone and speechless dialect--

Such as moves men.--_Measure for Measure_.

_Abbess_. Haply in private--

_Adriana_. And in assemblies too.--_Comedy of Errors_.

IT was true, as Maltravers had stated, that Legard had of late been

little at Lady Doltimore's, or in the same society as Evelyn. With the

vehemence of an ardent and passionate nature, he yielded to the jealous

rage and grief that devoured him. He saw too clearly, and from the

first, that Maltravers adored Evelyn; and in her familiar kindness of

manner towards him, in the unlimited veneration in which she appeared to

hold his gifts and qualities, he thought that that love might become

reciprocal. He became gloomy and almost morose; he shunned Evelyn, he

forbore to enter into the lists against his rival. Perhaps the

intellectual superiority of Maltravers, the extraordinary conversational

brilliancy that he could display when he pleased, the commanding dignity

of his manners, even the matured authority of his reputation and years,

might have served to awe the hopes, as well as to wound the vanity, of a

man accustomed himself to be the oracle of a circle. These might have

strongly influenced Legard in withdrawing himself from Evelyn's society;

but there was one circumstance, connected with motives much more

generous, that mainly determined his conduct. It happened that

Maltravers, shortly after his first interview with Evelyn, was riding

alone one day in the more sequestered part of the Bois de Boulogne, when

he encountered Legard, also alone, and on horseback. The latter, on

succeeding to his uncle's fortune, had taken care to repay his debt to

Maltravers; he had done so in a short but feeling and grateful letter,

which had been forwarded to Maltravers at Paris, and which pleased and

touched him. Since that time he had taken a liking to the young man, and

now, meeting him at Paris, he sought, to a certain extent, Legard's more

intimate acquaintance. Maltravers was in that happy mood when we are

inclined to be friends with all men. It is true, however, that, though

unknown to himself, that pride of bearing, which often gave to the very

virtues of Maltravers an unamiable aspect, occasionally irritated one who

felt he had incurred to him an obligation of honour and of life never to

be effaced; it made the sense of this obligation more intolerable to

Legard; it made him more desirous to acquit himself of the charge. But

on this day there was so much cordiality in the greeting of Maltravers,

and he pressed Legard in so friendly a manner to join him in his ride,

that the young man's heart was softened, and they rode together,

conversing familiarly on such topics as were in common between them. At

last the conversation fell on Lord and Lady Doltimore; and thence

Maltravers, whose soul was full of one thought, turned it indirectly

towards Evelyn.

"Did you ever see Lady Vargrave?"

"Never," replied Legard, looking another way; "but Lady Doltimore says

she is as beautiful as Evelyn herself, if that be possible; and still so

young in form and countenance, that she looks rather like her sister than

her mother!"

"How I should like to know her!" said Maltravers, with a sudden energy.

Legard changed the subject. He spoke of the Carnival, of balls, of

masquerades, of operas, of reigning beauties!

"Ah," said Maltravers, with a half sigh, "yours is the age for those

dazzling pleasures; to me they are 'the twice-told tale.'"

Maltravers meant it not, but this remark chafed Legard. He thought it

conveyed a sarcasm on the childishness of his own mind or the levity of

his pursuits; his colour mounted, as he replied,--

"It is not, I fear, the slight difference of years between us,--it is the

difference of intellect you would insinuate; but you should remember all

men have not your resources; all men cannot pretend to genius!"

"My dear Legard," said Maltravers, kindly, "do not fancy that I could

have designed any insinuation half so presumptuous and impertinent.

Believe me, I envy you, sincerely and sadly, all those faculties of

enjoyment which I have worn away. Oh, how I envy you! for, were they

still mine, then--then, indeed, I might hope to mould myself into greater

congeniality with the beautiful and the young!"

Maltravers paused a moment, and resumed, with a grave smile: "I trust,

Legard, that you will be wiser than I have been; that you will gather

your roses while it is yet May: and that you will not live to thirty-six,

pining for happiness and home, a disappointed and desolate man; till,

when your ideal is at last found, you shrink back appalled, to discover

that you have lost none of the tendencies to love, but many of the graces

by which love is to be allured!"

There was so much serious and earnest feeling in these words that they

went home at once to Legard's sympathies. He felt irresistibly impelled

to learn the worst.

"Maltravers," said he, in a hurried tone, "it would be an idle compliment

to say that you are not likely to love in vain; perhaps it is indelicate

in me to apply a general remark; and yet--yet I cannot but fancy that I

have discovered your secret, and that you are not insensible to the

charms of Miss Cameron!"

"Legard!" said Maltravers,--and so strong was his fervent attachment to

Evelyn, that it swept away all his natural coldness and reserve,--"I tell

you plainly and frankly that in my love for Evelyn Cameron lie the last

hopes I have in life. I have no thought, no ambition, no sentiment that

is not vowed to her. If my love should be unreturned, I may strive to

endure the blow, I may mix with the world, I may seem to occupy myself in

the aims of others; but my heart will be broken! Let us talk of this no

more; you have surprised my secret, though it must have betrayed itself.

Learn from me how preternaturally strong, how generally fatal is love

deferred to that day when--in the stern growth of all the feelings--love

writes itself on granite!"

Maltravers, as if impatient of his own weakness, put spurs to his horse,

and they rode on rapidly for some time without speaking.

That silence was employed by Legard in meditating over all he had heard

and witnessed, in recalling all that he owed to Maltravers; and before

that silence was broken the young man nobly resolved not even to attempt,

not even to hope, a rivalry with Maltravers; to forego all the

expectations he had so fondly nursed, to absent himself from the company

of Evelyn, to requite faithfully and firmly that act of generosity to

which he owed the preservation of his life,--the redemption of his

honour.

Agreeably to this determination, he abstained from visiting those haunts

in which Evelyn shone; and if accident brought them together, his manner

was embarrassed and abrupt. She wondered,--at last, perhaps she

resented,--it may be that she grieved; for certain it is that Maltravers

was right in thinking that her manner had lost the gayety that

distinguished it at Merton Rectory. But still it may be doubted whether

Evelyn had seen enough of Legard, and whether her fancy and romance were

still sufficiently free from the magical influences of the genius that

called them forth in the eloquent homage of Maltravers, to trace,

herself, to any causes connected with her younger lover the listless

melancholy that crept over her. In very young women--new alike to the

world and the knowledge of themselves--many vague and undefined feelings

herald the dawn of Love; shade after shade and light upon light succeeds

before the sun breaks forth, and the earth awakens to his presence.

It was one evening that Legard had suffered himself to be led into a

party at the ----- ambassador's; and there, as he stood by the door, he

saw at a little distance Maltravers conversing with Evelyn. Again he

writhed beneath the tortures of his jealous anguish; and there, as he

gazed and suffered, he resolved (as Maltravers had done before him) to

fly from the place that had a little while ago seemed to him Elysium! He

would quit Paris, he would travel, he would not see Evelyn again till the

irrevocable barrier was passed, and she was the wife of Maltravers! In

the first heat of this determination, he turned towards some young men

standing near him, one of whom was about to visit Vienna. He gayly

proposed to join him,--a proposal readily accepted, and began conversing

on the journey, the city, its splendid and proud society, with all that

cruel exhilaration which the forced spirits of a stricken heart can alone

display, when Evelyn (whose conference with Maltravers was ended) passed

close by him. She was leaning on Lady Doltimore's arm, and the admiring

murmur of his companions caused Legard to turn suddenly round.

"You are not dancing to-night, Colonel Legard," said Caroline, glancing

towards Evelyn. "The more the season for balls advances, the more

indolent you become."

Legard muttered a confused reply, one half of which seemed petulant,

while the other half was inaudible.

"Not so indolent as you suppose," said his friend. "Legard meditates an

excursion sufficient, I hope, to redeem his character in your eyes. It

is a long journey, and, what is worse, a very cold journey, to Vienna."

"Vienna! do you think of going to Vienna?" cried Caroline.

"Yes," said Legard. "I hate Paris; any place better than this odious

city!" and he moved away.

Evelyn's eyes followed him sadly and gravely. She remained by Lady

Doltimore's side, abstracted and silent for several minutes.

Meanwhile Caroline, turning to Lord Devonport (the friend who had

proposed the Viennese excursion), said, "It is cruel in you to go to

Vienna,--it is doubly cruel to rob Lord Doltimore of his best friend and

Paris of its best waltzer."

"Oh, it is a voluntary offer of Legard's, Lady Doltimore,--believe me, I

have used no persuasive arts. But the fact is, that we have been talking

of a fair widow, the beauty of Austria, and as proud and as unassailable

as Ehrenbreitstein itself. Legard's vanity is piqued; and so--as a

professed lady-killer--he intends to see what can be effected by the

handsomest Englishman of his time."

Caroline laughed, and new claimants on her notice succeeded to Lord

Devonport. It was not till the ladies were waiting their carriage in the

shawl-room that Lady Doltimore noticed the paleness and thoughtful brow

of Evelyn.

"Are you fatigued or unwell, dear?" she said.

"No," answered Evelyn, forcing a smile; and at that moment they were

joined by Maltravers, with the intelligence that it would be some minutes

before the carriage could draw up. Caroline amused herself in the

interval by shrewd criticisms on the dresses and characters of her

various friends. Caroline had grown an amazing prude in her judgment of

others!

"What a turban!--prudent for Mrs. A----- to wear,--bright red; it puts

out her face, as the sun puts out the fire. Mr. Maltravers, do observe

Lady B----- with that _very_ young gentleman. After all her experience

in angling, it is odd that she should still only throw in for small fish.

Pray, why is the marriage between Lady C----- D----- and Mr. F-----

broken off? Is it true that he is so much in debt, and is so very--very

profligate? They say she is heartbroken."

"Really, Lady Doltimore," said Maltravers, smiling, "I am but a bad

scandal-monger. But poor F----- is not, I believe, much worse than

others. How do we know whose fault it is when a marriage is broken off?

Lady C----- D----- heartbroken! what an idea! Nowadays there is never

any affection in compacts of that sort; and the chain that binds the

frivolous nature is but a gossamer thread! Fine gentlemen and fine

ladies, their loves and their marriages--

"'May flourish and may fade;

A breath can make them, as a breath has made.'

"Never believe that a heart long accustomed to beat only in good society

can be broken,--it is rarely ever touched!"

Evelyn listened attentively, and seemed struck. She sighed, and said in

a very low voice, as to herself, "It is true--how could I think

otherwise?"

For the next few days Evelyn was unwell, and did not quit her room.

Maltravers was in despair. The flowers, the books, the music he sent;

his anxious inquiries, his earnest and respectful notes, touched with

that ineffable charm which Heart and Intellect breathe into the most

trifling coinage from their mint,--all affected Evelyn sensibly. Perhaps

she contrasted them with Legard's indifference and apparent caprice;

perhaps in that contrast Maltravers gained more than by all his brilliant

qualities. Meanwhile, without visit, without message, without

farewell,--unconscious, it is true, of Evelyn's illness,--Legard departed

for Vienna.

CHAPTER III.

A PLEASING land . . .

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye,

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,

Forever flashing round a summer sky.--THOMSON.

DAILY, hourly, increased the influence of Evelyn over Maltravers. Oh,

what a dupe is a man's pride! what a fool his wisdom! That a girl, a

mere child, one who scarce knew her own heart, beautiful as it

was,--whose deeper feelings still lay coiled up in their sweet

buds,--that she should thus master this proud, wise man! But as

thou--our universal teacher--as thou, O Shakspeare! haply speaking from

the hints of thine own experience, hast declared--

"None are so truly caught, when they are catched,

As wit turned fool; folly in wisdom hatched,

Hath wisdom's warrant."

Still, methinks that, in that surpassing and dangerously indulged

affection which levelled thee, Maltravers, with the weakest, which

overturned all thy fine philosophy of Stoicism, and made thee the veriest

slave of the "Rose Garden,"--still, Maltravers, thou mightest at least

have seen that thou hast lost forever all right to pride, all privilege

to disdain the herd! But thou wert proud of thine own infirmity! And

far sharper must be that lesson which can teach thee that Pride--thine

angel--is ever pre-doomed to fall.

What a mistake to suppose that the passions are strongest in youth! The

passions are not stronger, but the control over them is weaker. They are

more easily excited, they are more violent and more apparent; but they

have less energy, less durability, less intense and concentrated power,

than in maturer life. In youth, passion succeeds to passion, and one

breaks upon the other, as waves upon a rock, till the heart frets itself

to repose. In manhood, the great deep flows on, more calm, but more

profound; its serenity is the proof of the might and terror of its

course, were the wind to blow and the storm to rise.

A young man's ambition is but vanity,--it has no definite aim, it plays

with a thousand toys. As with one passion, so with the rest. In youth,

Love is ever on the wing, but, like the birds in April, it hath not yet

built its nest. With so long a career of summer and hope before it, the

disappointment of to-day is succeeded by the novelty of to-morrow, and

the sun that advances to the noon but dries up its fervent tears. But

when we have arrived at that epoch of life,--when, if the light fail us,

if the last rose wither, we feel that the loss cannot be retrieved, and

that the frost and the darkness are at hand, Love becomes to us a

treasure that we watch over and hoard with a miser's care. Our

youngest-born affection is our darling and our idol, the fondest pledge

of the Past, the most cherished of our hopes for the Future. A certain

melancholy that mingles with our joy at the possession only enhances its

charm. We feel ourselves so dependent on it for all that is yet to come.

Our other barks--our gay galleys of pleasure, our stately argosies of

pride--have been swallowed up by the remorseless wave. On this last

vessel we freight our all, to its frail tenement we commit ourselves.

The star that guides it is our guide, and in the tempest that menaces we

behold our own doom!

Still Maltravers shrank from the confession that trembled on his lips;

still he adhered to the course he had prescribed to himself. If ever (as

he had implied in his letter to Cleveland)--if ever Evelyn should

discover they were not suited to each other! The possibility of such an

affliction impressed his judgment, the dread of it chilled his heart.

With all his pride, there was a certain humility in Maltravers that was

perhaps one cause of his reserve. He knew what a beautiful possession is

youth,--its sanguine hopes, its elastic spirit, its inexhaustible

resources! What to the eyes of woman were the acquisitions which manhood

had brought him,--the vast but the sad experience, the arid wisdom, the

philosophy based on disappointment? He might be loved but for the vain

glitter of name and reputation,--and love might vanish as custom dimmed

the illusion. Men of strong affections are jealous of their own genius.

They know how separate a thing from the household character genius often

is,--they fear lest they should be loved for a quality, not for

themselves.

Thus communed he with himself; thus, as the path had become clear to his

hopes, did new fears arise; and thus did love bring, as it ever does, in

its burning wake,--

"The pang, the agony, the doubt!"

Maltravers then confirmed himself in the resolution he had formed: he

would cautiously examine Evelyn and himself; he would weigh in the

balance every straw that the wind should turn up; he would not aspire to

the treasure, unless he could feel secure that the coffer could preserve

the gem. This was not only a prudent, it was a just and a generous

determination. It was one which we all ought to form if the fervour of

our passions will permit us. We have no right to sacrifice years to

moments, and to melt the pearl that has no price in a single draught!

But can Maltravers adhere to his wise precautions? The truth must be

spoken,--it was, perhaps, the first time in his life that Maltravers had

been really in love. As the reader will remember, he had not been in

love with the haughty Florence; admiration, gratitude,--the affection of

the head, not that of the feelings,--had been the links that bound him to

the enthusiastic correspondent revealed in the gifted beauty; and the

gloomy circumstances connected with her early fate had left deep furrows

in his memory. Time and vicissitude had effaced the wounds, and the

Light of the Beautiful dawned once more in the face of Evelyn. Valerie

de Ventadour had been but the fancy of a roving breast. Alice, the sweet

Alice!--her, indeed, in the first flower of youth, he had loved with a

boy's romance. He had loved her deeply, fondly,--but perhaps he had

never been in love with her; he had mourned her loss for

years,--insensibly to himself her loss had altered his character and cast

a melancholy gloom over all the colours of his life. But she whose range

of ideas was so confined, she who had but broke into knowledge, as the

chrysalis into the butterfly--how much in that prodigal and gifted

nature, bounding onwards into the broad plains of life, must the peasant

girl have failed to fill! They had had nothing in common but their youth

and their love. It was a dream that had hovered over the poet-boy in the

morning twilight,--a dream he had often wished to recall, a dream that

had haunted him in the noon-day,--but had, as all boyish visions ever

have done, left the heart unexhausted, and the passions unconsumed!

Years, long years, since then had rolled away, and yet, perhaps, one

unconscious attraction that drew Maltravers so suddenly towards Evelyn

was a something indistinct and undefinable that reminded him of Alice.

There was no similarity in their features; but at times a tone in

Evelyn's voice, a "trick of the manner," an air, a gesture, recalled him,

over the gulfs of Time, to Poetry, and Hope, and Alice.

In the youth of each--the absent and the present one--there was

resemblance,--resemblance in their simplicity, their grace. Perhaps

Alice, of the two, had in her nature more real depth, more ardour of

feeling, more sublimity of sentiment, than Evelyn. But in her primitive

ignorance half her noblest qualities were embedded and unknown. And

Evelyn--his equal in rank; Evelyn, well cultivated; Evelyn, so long

courted, so deeply studied--had such advantages over the poor peasant

girl! Still the poor peasant girl often seemed to smile on him from that

fair face; and in Evelyn he half loved Alice again!

So these two persons now met daily; their intercourse was even more

familiar than before, their several minds grew hourly more developed and

transparent to each other. But of love Maltravers still forbore to

speak; they were friends,--no more; such friends as the disparity of

their years and their experience might warrant them to be. And in that

young and innocent nature--with its rectitude, its enthusiasm, and its

pious and cheerful tendencies--Maltravers found freshness in the desert,

as the camel-driver lingering at the well. Insensibly his heart warmed

again to his kind; and as the harp of David to the ear of Saul, was the

soft voice that lulled remembrance and awakened hope in the lonely man.

Meanwhile, what was the effect that the presence, the attentions, of

Maltravers produced on Evelyn? Perhaps it was of that kind which most

flatters us and most deceives. She never dreamed of comparing him with

others. To her thoughts he stood aloof and alone from all his kind. It

may seem a paradox, but it might be that she admired and venerated him

almost too much for love. Still her pleasure in his society was so

evident and unequivocal, her deference to his opinion so marked, she

sympathized in so many of his objects, she had so much blindness or

forbearance for his faults (and he never sought to mask them), that the

most diffident of men might have drawn from so many symptoms hopes the

most auspicious. Since the departure of Legard, the gayeties of Paris

lost their charm for Evelyn, and more than ever she could appreciate the

society of her friend. He thus gradually lost his earlier fears of her

forming too keen an attachment to the great world; and as nothing could

be more apparent than Evelyn's indifference to the crowd of flatterers

and suitors that hovered round her, Maltravers no longer dreaded a rival.

He began to feel assured that they had both gone through the ordeal; and

that he might ask for love without a doubt of its immutability and faith.

At this period they were both invited, with the Doltimores, to spend a

few days at the villa of De Montaigne, near St. Cloud. And there it was

that Maltravers determined to know his fate!

CHAPTER IV.

CHAOS of Thought and Passion all confused.--POPE.

IT is to the contemplation of a very different scene that the course of

our story now conducts us.

Between St. Cloud and Versailles there was at that time--perhaps there

still is--a lone and melancholy house, appropriated to the

insane,--melancholy, not from its site, but the purpose to which it is

devoted. Placed on an eminence, the windows of the mansion

command--beyond the gloomy walls that gird the garden ground--one of

those enchanting prospects which win for France her title to _La Belle_.

There the glorious Seine is seen in the distance, broad and winding

through the varied plains, and beside the gleaming villages and villas.

There, too, beneath the clear blue sky of France, the forest-lands of

Versailles and St. Germains stretch in dark luxuriance around and afar.

There you may see sleeping on the verge of the landscape the mighty

city,--crowned with the thousand spires from which, proud above the rest,

rises the eyry of Napoleon's eagle, the pinnacle of Notre Dame.

Remote, sequestered, the place still commands the survey of the turbulent

world below; and Madness gazes upon prospects that might well charm the

thoughtful eyes of Imagination or of Wisdom! In one of the rooms of this

house sat Castruccio Cesarini. The apartment was furnished even with

elegance; a variety of books strewed the table; nothing for comfort or

for solace that the care and providence of affection could dictate was

omitted. Cesarini was alone: leaning his cheek upon his hand, he gazed

on the beautiful and tranquil view we have described. "And am I never to

set a free foot on that soil again?" he muttered indignantly, as he broke

from his revery.

The door opened, and the keeper of the sad abode (a surgeon of humanity

and eminence) entered, followed by De Montaigne. Cesarini turned round

and scowled upon the latter; the surgeon, after a few words of

salutation, withdrew to a corner of the room, and appeared absorbed in a

book. De Montaigne approached his brother-in-law,--"I have brought you

some poems just published at Milan, my dear Castruccio,--they will please

you."

"Give me my liberty!" cried Cesarini, clenching his hands. "Why am I to

be detained here? Why are my nights to be broken by the groans of

maniacs, and my days devoured in a solitude that loathes the aspect of

things around me? Am I mad? You know I am not! It is an old trick to

say that poets are mad,--you mistake our agonies for insanity. See, I am

calm; I can reason: give me any test of sound mind--no matter how

rigid--I will pass it; I am not mad,--I swear I am not!"

"No, my dear Castruccio," said De Montaigne, soothingly; "but you are

still unwell,--you still have fever; when next I see you perhaps you may

be recovered sufficiently to dismiss the doctor and change the air.

Meanwhile is there anything you would have added or altered?"

Cesarini had listened to this speech with a mocking sarcasm on his lip,

but an expression of such hopeless wretchedness in his eyes, as they

alone can comprehend who have witnessed madness in its lucid intervals.

He sank down, and his head drooped gloomily on his breast. "No," said

he; "I want nothing but free air or death,--no matter which."

De Montaigne stayed some time with the unhappy man, and sought to soothe

him; but it was in vain. Yet when he rose to depart, Cesarini started

up, and fixing on him his large wistful eyes, exclaimed, "Ah! do not

leave me yet. It is so dreadful to be alone with the dead and the worse

than dead!"

The Frenchman turned aside to wipe his eyes, and stifle the rising at his

heart; and again he sat, and again he sought to soothe. At length

Cesarini, seemingly more calm, gave him leave to depart. "Go," said he,

"go; tell Teresa I am better, that I love her tenderly, that I shall live

to tell her children not to be poets. Stay, you asked if there was aught

I wished changed: yes, this room; it is too still: I hear my own pulse

beat so loudly in the silence, it is horrible! There is a room below, by

the window of which there is a tree, and the winds rock its boughs to and

fro, and it sighs and groans like a living thing; it will be pleasant to

look at that tree, and see the birds come home to it,--yet that tree is

wintry and blasted too! It will be pleasant to hear it fret and chafe in

the stormy nights; it will be a friend to me, that old tree! let me have

that room. Nay, look not at each other,--it is not so high as this; but

the window is barred,--I cannot escape!" And Cesarini smiled.

"Certainly," said the surgeon, "if you prefer that room; but it has not

so fine a view."

"I hate the view of the world that has cast me off. When may I change?"

"This very evening."

"Thank you; it will be a great revolution in my life."

And Cesarini's eyes brightened, and he looked happy. De Montaigne,

thoroughly unmanned, tore himself away.

The promise was kept, and Cesarini was transferred that night to the

chamber he had selected.

As soon as it was deep night, the last visit of the keeper paid, and,

save now and then, by some sharp cry in the more distant quarter of the

house, all was still, Cesarini rose from his bed; a partial light came

from the stars that streamed through the frosty and keen air, and cast a

sickly gleam through the heavy bars of the casement. It was then that

Cesarini drew from under his pillow a long-cherished and

carefully-concealed treasure. Oh, with what rapture had he first

possessed himself of it! with what anxiety had it been watched and

guarded! how many cunning stratagems and profound inventions had gone

towards the baffling, the jealous search of the keeper and his myrmidons!

The abandoned and wandering mother never clasped her child more fondly to

her bosom, nor gazed upon his features with more passionate visions for

the future. And what had so enchanted the poor prisoner, so deluded the

poor maniac? A large nail! He had found it accidentally in the garden;

he had hoarded it for weeks,--it had inspired him with the hope of

liberty. Often, in the days far gone, he had read of the wonders that

had been effected, of the stones removed, and the bars filed, by the

self-same kind of implement. He remembered that the most celebrated of

those bold unfortunates who live a life against the law, had said,

"Choose my prison, and give me but a rusty nail, and I laugh at your

jailers and your walls!" He crept to the window; he examined his relic

by the dim starlight; he kissed it passionately, and the tears stood in

his eyes.

Ah, who shall determine the worth of things? No king that night so

prized his crown as the madman prized that rusty inch of wire,--the

proper prey of the rubbish-cart and dunghill. Little didst thou think,

old blacksmith, when thou drewest the dull metal from the fire, of what

precious price it was to become!

Cesarini, with the astuteness of his malady, had long marked out this

chamber for the scene of his operations; he had observed that the

framework in which the bars were set seemed old and worm-eaten; that the

window was but a few feet from the ground; that the noise made in the

winter nights by the sighing branches of the old tree without would

deaden the sound of the lone workman. Now, then, his hopes were to be

crowned. Poor fool! and even _thou_ hast hope still! All that night he

toiled and toiled, and sought to work his iron into a file; now he tried

the bars, and now the framework. Alas! he had not learned the skill in

such tools, possessed by his renowned model and inspirer; the flesh was

worn from his fingers, the cold drops stood on his brow; and morning

surprised him, advanced not a hair-breadth in his labour.

He crept back to bed, and again hid the useless implement, and at last he

slept.

And, night after night, the same task, the same results! But at length,

one day, when Cesarini returned from his moody walk in the gardens

(_pleasure_-grounds they were called by the owner), he found better

workmen than he at the window; they were repairing the framework, they

were strengthening the bars,--all hope was now gone! The unfortunate

said nothing; too cunning to show his despair he eyed them silently, and

cursed them; but the old tree was left still, and that was

something,--company and music.

A day or two after this barbarous counterplot, Cesarini was walking in

the gardens towards the latter part of the afternoon (just when in the

short days the darkness begins to steal apace over the chill and western

sun), when he was accosted by a fellow-captive, who had often before

sought his acquaintance; for they try to have friends,--those poor

people! Even _we_ do the same; though _we_ say we are _not_ mad! This

man had been a warrior, had served with Napoleon, had received honours

and ribbons,--might, for aught we know, have dreamed of being a marshal!

But the demon smote him in the hour of his pride. It was his disease to

fancy himself a monarch. He believed, for he forgot chronology, that he

was at once the Iron Mask, and the true sovereign of France and Navarre,

confined in state by the usurpers of his crown. On other points he was

generally sane; a tall, strong man, with fierce features, and stern

lines, wherein could be read many a bloody tale of violence and wrong, of

lawless passions, of terrible excesses, to which madness might be at once

the consummation and the curse. This man had taken a fancy to Cesarini;

and, in some hours Cesarini had shunned him less than others,--for they

could alike rail against all living things. The lunatic approached

Cesarini with an air of dignity and condescension.

"It is a cold night, sir,--and there will be no moon. Has it never

occurred to you that the winter is the season for escape?"

Cesarini started; the ex-officer continued,--

"Ay, I see by your manner that you, too, chafe at our ignominious

confinement. I think that together we might brave the worst. You

probably are confined on some state offence. I give you full pardon, if

you assist me. For myself I have but to appear in my capital; old Louis

le Grand must be near his last hour."

"This madman my best companion!" thought Cesarini, revolting at his own

infirmity, as Gulliver started from the Yahoo. "No matter, he talks of

escape.

"And how think you," said the Italian, aloud,--"how think you, that we

have any chance of deliverance?"

"Hush, speak lower," said the soldier. "In the inner garden, I have

observed for the last two days that a gardener is employed in nailing

some fig-trees and vines to the wall. Between that garden and these

grounds there is but a paling, which we can easily scale. He works till

dusk; at the latest hour we can, let us climb noiselessly over the

paling, and creep along the vegetable beds till we reach the man. He

uses a ladder for his purpose; the rest is clear,--we must fell and gag

him,--twist his neck if necessary,--I have twisted a neck before," quoth

the maniac, with a horrid smile. "The ladder will help us over the wall,

and the night soon grows dark at this season."

Cesarini listened, and his heart beat quick. "Will it be too late to try

to-night?" said he in a whisper.

"Perhaps not," said the soldier, who retained all his military acuteness.

"But are you prepared,--don't you require time to man yourself?"

"No--no,--I have had time enough!--I am ready."

"Well, then,--hist!---we are watched--one of the jailers! Talk easily,

smile, laugh. This way."

They passed by one of the watch of the place, and just as they were in

his hearing, the soldier turned to Cesarini, "Sir, will you favour me

with your snuff-box?"

"I have none."

"None? what a pity! My good friend," and he turned to the scout, "may I

request you to look in my room for my snuff-box? It is on the

chimney-piece,--it will not take you a minute."

The soldier was one of those whose insanity was deemed most harmless, and

his relations, who were rich and wellborn, had requested every indulgence

to be shown to him. The watch suspected nothing, and repaired to the

house. As soon as the trees hid him,--"Now," said the soldier, "stoop

almost on all fours, and run quick."

So saying the maniac crouched low, and glided along with a rapidity which

did not distance Cesarini. They reached the paling that separated the

vegetable garden from the pleasure-ground; the soldier vaulted over it

with ease, Cesarini with more difficulty followed. They crept along; the

herbs and vegetable beds, with their long bare stalks, concealed their

movements; the man was still on the ladder. "_La bonne Esperance_" said

the soldier through his ground teeth, muttering some old watchword of the

wars, and (while Cesarini, below, held the ladder steadfast) he rushed up

the steps, and with a sudden effort of his muscular arm, hurled the

gardener to the ground. The man, surprised, half stunned, and wholly

terrified, did not attempt to wrestle with the two madmen, he uttered

loud cries for help! But help came too late; these strange and fearful

comrades had already scaled the wall, had dropped on the other side, and

were fast making across the dusky fields to the neighbouring forest.

CHAPTER V.

HOPES and Fears

Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge

Look down: on what?--a fathomless abyss!--YOUNG.

MIDNIGHT--and intense frost! There they were--houseless and

breadless--the two fugitives, in the heart of that beautiful forest which

has rung to the horns of many a royal chase. The soldier, whose youth

had been inured to hardships, and to the conquests which our mother-wit

wrings from the stepdame Nature, had made a fire by the friction of two

pieces of dry wood; such wood was hard to be found, for the snow whitened

the level ground, and lay deep in the hollows; and when it was

discovered, the fuel was slow to burn; however, the fire blazed red at

last. On a little mound, shaded by a semicircle of huge trees, sat the

Outlaws of Human Reason. They cowered over the blaze opposite to each

other, and the glare crimsoned their features. And each in his heart

longed to rid himself of his mad neighbour; and each felt the awe of

solitude,--the dread of sleep beside a comrade whose soul had lost God's

light!

"Ho!" said the warrior, breaking a silence that had been long kept, "this

is cold work at the best, and hunger pinches me; I almost regret the

prison."

"I do not feel the cold," said Cesarini, "and I do not care for hunger: I

am revelling only in the sense of liberty!"

"Try and sleep," quoth the soldier, with a coaxing and, sinister softness

of voice; "we will take it by turns to watch."

"I cannot sleep,--take you the first turn."

"Hark ye, sir!" said the soldier sullenly; "I must not have my commands

disputed; now we are free, we are no longer equal: I am heir to the

crowns of France and Navarre. Sleep, I say!"

"And what Prince or Potentate, King or Kaiser," cried Cesarini, catching

the quick contagion of the fit that had seized his comrade, "can dictate

to the monarch of Earth and Air, the Elements and the music-breathing

Stars? I am Cesarini the Bard! and the huntsman Orion halts in his chase

above to listen to my lyre! Be stilled, rude man!--thou scarest away the

angels, whose breath even now was rushing through my hair!"

"It is too horrible!" cried the grim man of blood, shivering; "my enemies

are relentless, and give me a madman for a jailer!"

"Ha! a madman!" exclaimed Cesarini, springing to his feet, and glaring at

the soldier with eyes that caught and rivalled the blaze of the fire.

"And who are you?--what devil from the deep hell, that art leagued with

my persecutors against me?"

With the instinct of his old calling and valour, the soldier also rose

when he saw the movement of his companion; and his fierce features worked

with rage and fear.

"Avaunt!" said he, waving his arm; "we banish thee from our presence!

This is our palace!--and our guards are at hand!" pointing to the still

and skeleton trees that grouped round in ghastly bareness. "Begone!"

At that moment they heard at a distance the deep barking of a dog, and

each cried simultaneously, "They are after me!--betrayed!" The soldier

sprang at the throat of Cesarini; but the Italian, at the same instant,

caught a half-burned brand from the fire, and dashed the blazing end in

the face of his assailant. The soldier uttered a cry of pain, and

recoiled back, blinded and dismayed. Cesarini, whose madness, when

fairly roused, was of the most deadly nature, again raised his weapon,

and probably nothing but death could have separated the foes; but again

the bay of the dog was heard, and Cesarini, answering the sound by a wild

yell, threw down the brand, and fled away through the forest with

inconceivable swiftness. He hurried on through bush and dell,--and the

boughs tore his garments and mangled his flesh,--but stopped not his

progress till he fell at last on the ground, breathless and exhausted,

and heard from some far-off clock the second hour of morning. He had

left the forest; a farmhouse stood before him, and the whitened roofs of

scattered cottages sloped to the tranquil sky. The witness of man--the

social tranquil sky and the reasoning man--operated like a charm upon the

senses which recent excitement had more than usually disturbed. The

unhappy wretch gazed at the peaceful abodes, and sighed heavily; then,

rising from the earth, he crept into one of the sheds that adjoined the

farmhouse, and throwing himself on some straw, slept sound and quietly

till daylight, and the voices of peasants in the shed awakened him.

He rose refreshed, calm, and, for ordinary purposes, sufficiently sane to

prevent suspicion of his disease. He approached the startled peasants,

and representing himself as a traveller who had lost his way in the night

and amidst the forest, begged for food and water. Though his garments

were torn, they were new and of good fashion; his voice was mild; his

whole appearance and address those of one of some station--and the French

peasant is a hospitable fellow. Cesarini refreshed and rested himself an

hour or two at the farm, and then resumed his wanderings; he offered no

money, for the rules of the asylum forbade money to its inmates,--he had

none with him; but none was expected from him, and they bade him farewell

as kindly as if he had bought their blessings. He then began to consider

where he was to take refuge, and how provide for himself; the feeling of

liberty braced, and for a time restored, his intellect.

Fortunately, he had on his person, besides some rings of trifling cost, a

watch of no inconsiderable value, the sale of which might support him, in

such obscure and humble quarter as he could alone venture to inhabit, for

several weeks, perhaps months. This thought made him cheerful and

elated; he walked lustily on, shunning the high road. The day was clear,

the sun bright, the air full of racy health. Oh, what soft raptures

swelled the heart of the wanderer, as he gazed around him! The Poet and

the Freeman alike stirred within his shattered heart! He paused to

contemplate the berries of the icy trees, to listen to the sharp glee of

the blackbird; and once--when he found beneath a hedge a cold, scentless

group of hardy violets--he laughed aloud in his joy. In that laughter

there was no madness, no danger; but when as he journeyed on, he passed

through a little hamlet, and saw the children at play upon the ground,

and heard from the open door of a cabin the sound of rustic music, then

indeed he paused abruptly; the past gathered over him: _he knew that

which he had been, that which he was now_!--an awful memory! a dread

revelation! And, covering his face with his hands, he wept aloud. In

those tears were the peril and method of madness. He woke from them to

think of his youth, his hopes, of Florence, of revenge! Lumley Lord

Vargrave! better, from that hour, to encounter the tiger in his lair than

find thyself alone with that miserable man!

CHAPTER VI.

IT seemed the laurel chaste and stubborn oak,

And all the gentle trees on earth that grew,

It seemed the land, the sea, and heaven above,

All breathed out fancy sweet, and sighed out love.

FAIRFAX'S _Tasso_.

AT De Montaigne's villa, Evelyn, for the first time, gathered from the

looks, the manners, of Maltravers that she was beloved. It was no longer

possible to mistake the evidences of affection. Formerly, Maltravers had

availed himself of his advantage of years and experience, and would warn,

admonish, dispute, even reprove; formerly, there had been so much of

seeming caprice, of cold distance, of sudden and wayward haughtiness, in

his bearing; but now the whole man was changed,--the Mentor had vanished

in the Lover; he held his being on her breath. Her lightest pleasure

seemed to have grown his law, no coldness ever alternated the deep

devotion of his manner; an anxious, a timid, a watchful softness replaced

all his stately self-possession. Evelyn saw that she was loved; and she

then looked into her own heart.

I have said before that Evelyn was gentle, even to _yieldingness_; that

her susceptibility made her shrink from the thought of pain to another:

and so thoroughly did she revere Maltravers, so grateful did she feel for

a love that could not but flatter pride, and raise her in her

self-esteem, that she felt it impossible that she could reject his suit.

"Then, do I love him as I dreamed I could love?" she asked herself; and

her heart gave no intelligible reply. "Yes, it must be so; in his

presence I feel a tranquil and eloquent charm; his praise delights me;

his esteem is my most high ambition;--and yet--and yet--" she sighed and

thought of Legard; "but _he_ loved me not!" and she turned restlessly

from that image. "He thinks but of the world, of pleasure; Maltravers is

right,--the spoiled children of society cannot love: why should I think

of him?"

There were no guests at the villa, except Maltravers, Evelyn, and Lord

and Lady Doltimore. Evelyn was much captivated by the graceful vivacity

of Teresa, though that vivacity was not what it had been before her

brother's affliction; their children, some of whom had grown up,

constituted an amiable and intelligent family; and De Montaigne himself

was agreeable and winning, despite his sober manners and his love of

philosophical dispute. Evelyn often listened thoughtfully to Teresa's

praises of her husband,--to her account of the happiness she had known in

a marriage where there had been so great a disparity of years; Evelyn

began to question the truth of her early visions of romance.

Caroline saw the unequivocal attachment of Maltravers with the same

indifference with which she had anticipated the suit of Legard. It was

the same to her what hand delivered Evelyn and herself from the designs

of Vargrave; but Vargrave occupied nearly all her thoughts. The

newspapers had reported him as seriously ill,--at one time in great

danger. He was now recovering, but still unable to quit his room. He

had written to her once, lamenting his ill-fortune, trusting soon to be

at Paris; and touching, with evident pleasure, upon Legard's departure

for Vienna, which he had seen in the "Morning Post." But he was

afar--alone, ill, untended; and though Caroline's guilty love had been

much abated by Vargrave's icy selfishness, by absence and remorse, still

she had the heart of a woman,--and Vargrave was the only one that had

ever touched it. She felt for him, and grieved in silence; she did not

dare to utter sympathy aloud, for Doltimore had already given evidence of

a suspicious and jealous temper.

Evelyn was also deeply affected by the account of her guardian's illness.

As I before said, the moment he ceased to be her lover, her childish

affection for him returned. She even permitted herself to write to him;

and a tone of melancholy depression which artfully pervaded his reply

struck her with something like remorse. He told her in the letter that

he had much to say to her relative to an investment, in conformity with

her stepfather's wishes, and he should hasten to Paris, even before the

doctor would sanction his removal. Vargrave forbore to mention what the

meditated investment was. The last public accounts of the minister had,

however, been so favourable, that his arrival might be almost daily

expected; and both Caroline and Evelyn felt relieved.

To De Montaigne, Maltravers confided his attachment, and both the

Frenchman and Teresa sanctioned and encouraged it. Evelyn enchanted

them; and they had passed that age when they could have imagined it

possible that the man they had known almost as a boy was separated by

years from the lively feelings and extreme youth of Evelyn. They could

not believe that the sentiments he had inspired were colder than those

that animated himself.

One day, Maltravers had been absent for some hours on his solitary

rambles, and De Montaigne had not yet returned from Paris, which he

visited almost daily. It was so late in the noon as almost to border on

evening, when Maltravers; on his return, entered the grounds by a gate

that separated them from an extensive wood. He saw Evelyn, Teresa, and

two of her children walking on a terrace immediately before him. He

joined them; and, somehow or other, it soon chanced that Teresa and

himself loitered behind the rest, a little out of hearing. "Ah, Mr.

Maltravers," said the former, "we miss the soft skies of Italy and the

beautiful hues of Como."

"And, for my part, I miss the youth that gave 'glory to the grass and

splendour to the flower.'"

"Nay; we are happier now, believe me,--or at least I should be, if--But I

must not think of my poor brother. Ah, if his guilt deprived you of one

who was worthy of you, it would be some comfort to his sister to think at

last that the loss was repaired. And you still have scruples?"

"Who that loves truly has not? How young, how lovely, how worthy of

lighter hearts and fairer forms than mine! Give me back the years that

have passed since we last met at Como, and I might hope!"

"And this to me who have enjoyed such happiness with one older, when we

married, by ten years than you are now!"

"But you, Teresa, were born to see life through the Claude glass."

"Ah, you provoke me with these refinements; you turn from a happiness you

have but to demand."

"Do not--do not raise my hopes too high," cried Maltravers, with great

emotion; "I have been schooling myself all day. But if I _am_ deceived!"

"Trust me, you are not. See, even now she turns round to look for you;

she loves you,--loves you as you deserve. This difference of years that

you so lament does but deepen and elevate her attachment!"

Teresa turned to Maltravers, surprised at his silence. How joyous sat

his heart upon his looks,--no gloom on his brow, no doubt in his

sparkling eyes! He was mortal, and he yielded to the delight of

believing himself beloved. He pressed Teresa's hand in silence, and,

quitting her abruptly, gained the side of Evelyn. Madame de Montaigne

comprehended all that passed within him; and as she followed, she soon

contrived to detach her children, and returned with them to the house on

a whispered pretence of seeing if their father had yet arrived. Evelyn

and Maltravers continued to walk on,--not aware, at first, that the rest

of the party were not close behind.

The sun had set; and they were in a part of the grounds which, by way of

contrast to the rest, was laid out in the English fashion; the walk

wound, serpent-like, among a profusion of evergreens irregularly planted;

the scene was shut in and bounded, except where at a distance, through an

opening of the trees, you caught the spire of a distant church, over

which glimmered, faint and fair, the smile of the evening star.

"This reminds me of home," said Evelyn, gently.

"And hereafter it will remind me of you," said Maltravers, in whispered

accents. He fixed his eyes on her as he spoke. Never had his look been

so true to his heart; never had his voice so undisguisedly expressed the

profound and passionate sentiment which had sprung up within him,--to

constitute, as he then believed, the latest bliss, or the crowning

misery, of his life! At that moment, it was a sort of instinct that told

him they were _alone_; for who has not felt--in those few and memorable

hours of life when love long suppressed overflows the fountain, and seems

to pervade the whole frame and the whole spirit--that there is a magic

around and within us that hath a keener intelligence than intellect

itself? Alone at such an hour with the one we love, the whole world

besides seems to vanish, and our feet to have entered the soil, and our

lips to have caught the air, of Fairyland.

They were alone. And why did Evelyn tremble? Why did she feel that a

crisis of existence was at hand?

"Miss Cameron--Evelyn," said Maltravers, after they had walked some

moments in silence, "hear me--and let your reason as well as your heart

reply. From the first moment we met, you became dear to me. Yes, even

when a child, your sweetness and your fortitude foretold so well what you

would be in womanhood; even then you left upon my memory a delightful and

mysterious shadow,--too prophetic of the light that now hallows and wraps

your image! We met again,--and the attraction that had drawn me towards

you years before was suddenly renewed. I love you, Evelyn! I love you

better than all words can tell! Your future fate, your welfare, your

happiness, contain and embody all the hopes left to me in life! But our

years are different, Evelyn; I have known sorrows,--and the

disappointments and the experience that have severed me from the common

world have robbed me of more than time itself hath done. They have

robbed me of that zest for the ordinary pleasures of our race,--which may

it be yours, sweet Evelyn, ever to retain! To me, the time foretold by

the Preacher as the lot of age has already arrived, when the sun and the

moon are darkened, and when, save in you and through you, I have no

pleasure in anything. Judge, if such a being you can love! Judge, if my

very confession does not revolt and chill, if it does not present to you

a gloomy and cheerless future, were it possible that you could unite your

lot to mine! Answer not from friendship or from pity; the love I feel

for you can have a reply from love alone, and from that reasoning which

love, in its enduring power, in its healthful confidence, in its

prophetic foresight, alone supplies! I can resign you without a murmur;

but I could not live with you and even fancy that you had one care I

could not soothe, though you might have happiness I could not share. And

fate does not present to me any vision so dark and terrible--no, not your

loss itself; no, not your indifference; no, not your aversion--as your

discovery, after time should make regret in vain, that you had mistaken

fancy or friendship for affection, a sentiment for love. Evelyn, I have

confided to you all,--all this wild heart, now and evermore your own. My

destiny is with you."

Evelyn was silent; he took her hand, and her tears fell warm and fast

upon it. Alarmed and anxious, he drew her towards him and gazed upon her

face.

"You fear to wound me," he said, with pale lips and trembling voice.

"Speak on,--I can bear all."

"No, no," said Evelyn, falteringly; "I have no fear but not to deserve

you."

"You love me, then,--you love me!" cried Maltravers wildly, and clasping

her to his heart.

The moon rose at that instant, and the wintry sward and the dark trees

were bathed in the sudden light. The time--the light--so exquisite to

all, even in loneliness and in sorrow--how divine in such companionship!

in such overflowing and ineffable sense of bliss! There and then for the

first time did Maltravers press upon that modest and blushing cheek the

kiss of Love, of Hope,--the seal of a union he fondly hoped the grave

itself could not dissolve!

CHAPTER VII.

_Queen_. Whereon do you look?

_Hamlet_. On him, on him,--look you how pale he glares!--_Hamlet_.

PERHAPS to Maltravers those few minutes which ensued, as they walked

slowly on, compensated for all the troubles and cares of years; for

natures like his feel joy even yet more intensely than sorrow. It might

be that the transport, the delirium of passionate and grateful thoughts

that he poured forth, when at last he could summon words, expressed

feelings the young Evelyn could not comprehend, and which less delighted

than terrified her with the new responsibility she had incurred. But

love so honest, so generous, so intense, dazzled and bewildered and

carried her whole soul away. Certainly at that hour she felt no

regret--no thought but that one in whom she had so long recognized

something nobler than is found in the common world was thus happy and

thus made happy by a word, a look from her! Such a thought is woman's

dearest triumph; and one so thoroughly unselfish, so yielding, and so

soft, could not be insensible to the rapture she had caused.

"And oh!" said Maltravers, as he clasped again and again the hand that he

believed he had won forever, "now, at length, have I learned how

beautiful is life! For this--for this I have been reserved! Heaven is

merciful to me, and the waking world is brighter than all my dreams!"

He ceased abruptly. At that instant they were once more on the terrace

where he had first joined Teresa, facing the wood, which was divided by a

slight and low palisade from the spot where they stood. He ceased

abruptly, for his eyes encountered a terrible and ominous apparition,--a

form connected with dreary associations of fate and woe. The figure had

raised itself upon a pile of firewood on the other side of the fence, and

hence it seemed almost gigantic in its stature. It gazed upon the pair

with eyes that burned with a preternatural blaze, and a voice which

Maltravers too well remembered shrieked out "Love! love! What! _thou_

love again? Where is the Dead! Ha, ha! Where is the Dead?"

Evelyn, startled by the words, looked up, and clung in speechless terror

to Maltravers. He remained rooted to the spot.

"Unhappy man," said he, at length, and soothingly, "how came you hither?

Fly not, you are with friends."

"Friends!" said the maniac, with a scornful laugh. "I know thee, Ernest

Maltravers,--I know thee: but it is not thou who hast locked me up in

darkness and in hell, side by side with the mocking fiend! Friends! ah,

but no Friends shall catch me now! I am free! I am free! Air and wave

are not more free!" And the madman laughed with horrible glee. "She is

fair--fair," he said, abruptly checking himself, and with a changed

voice, "but not so fair as the Dead. Faithless that thou art--and yet

she loved _thee_! Woe to thee! woe! Maltravers, the perfidious! Woe to

thee--and remorse--and shame!"

"Fear not, Evelyn,--fear not," whispered Maltravers, gently, and placing

her behind him; "support your courage,--nothing shall harm you."

Evelyn, though very pale, and trembling from head to foot, retained her

senses. Maltravers advanced towards the mad man. But no sooner did the

quick eye of the last perceive the movement, than, with the fear which

belongs to that dread disease,--the fear of losing liberty,--he turned,

and with a loud cry fled into the wood. Maltravers leaped over the

fence, and pursued him some way in vain. The thick copses of the wood

snatched every trace of the fugitive from his eye.

Breathless and exhausted, Maltravers returned to the spot where he had

left Evelyn. As he reached it, he saw Teresa and her husband approaching

towards him, and Teresa's merry laugh sounded clear and musical in the

racy air. The sound appalled him; he hastened his steps to Evelyn.

"Say nothing of what we have seen to Madame de Montaigne, I beseech you,"

said he; "I will explain why hereafter."

Evelyn, too overcome to speak, nodded her acquiescence. They joined the

De Montaignes, and Maltravers took the Frenchman aside.

But before he could address him, De Montaigne said,--

"Hush! do not alarm my wife--she knows nothing; but I have just heard at

Paris, that--that he has escaped--you know whom I mean?"

"I do; he is at hand; send in search of him! I have seen him. Once more

I have seen Castruccio Cesarini!"

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