_Julio_. Wilt thou have him?--_The Maid in the Mill_.
LORD VARGRAVE heard the next morning, with secret distaste and
displeasure, of Evelyn's intended visit to the Mertons. He could
scarcely make any open objection to it; but he did not refrain from many
insinuations as to its impropriety.
"My dear friend," said he to Lady Vargrave, "it is scarcely right in you
(pardon me for saying it) to commit Evelyn to the care of comparative
strangers. Mrs. Leslie, indeed, you know; but Mrs. Merton, you allow,
you have now seen for the first time. A most respectable person
doubtless; but still, recollect how young Evelyn is, how rich; what a
prize to any younger sons in the Merton family (if such there be). Miss
Merton herself is a shrewd, worldly girl; and if she were of our sex
would make a capital fortune-hunter. Don't think my fear is selfish; I
do not speak for myself. If I were Evelyn's brother, I should be yet
more earnest in my remonstrance."
"But, Lord Vargrave, poor Evelyn is dull here; my spirits infect hers.
She ought to mix more with those of her own age, to see more of the world
before--before--"
"Before her marriage with me? Forgive me, but is not that my affair? If
I am contented, nay, charmed with her innocence, if I prefer it to all
the arts which society could teach her, surely you would be acquitted for
leaving her in the beautiful simplicity that makes her chief fascination?
She will see enough of the world as Lady Vargrave."
"But if she should resolve never to be Lady Vargrave--?"
Lumley started, bit his lip, and frowned. Lady Vargrave had never before
seen on his countenance the dark expression it now wore. He recollected
and recovered himself, as he observed her eye fixed upon him, and said,
with a constrained smile,--
"Can you anticipate an event so fatal to my happiness, so unforeseen, so
opposed to all my poor uncle's wishes, as Evelyn's rejection of a suit
pursued for years, and so solemnly sanctioned in her very childhood?"
"She must decide for herself," said Lady Vargrave. "Your uncle carefully
distinguished between a wish and a command. Her heart is as yet
untouched. If she can love you, may you deserve her affection."
"It shall be my study to do so. But why this departure from your roof
just when we ought to see most of each other? It cannot be that you
would separate us?"
"I fear, Lord Vargrave, that if Evelyn were to remain here, she would
decide against you. I fear if you press her now, such now may be her
premature decision. Perhaps this arises from too fond an attachment for
her home; perhaps even a short absence from her home--from me--may more
reconcile her to a permanent separation."
Vargrave could say no more, for here they were joined by Caroline and
Mrs. Merton; but his manner was changed, nor could he recover the gayety
of the previous night.
When, however, he found time for meditation, he contrived to reconcile
himself to the intended visit. He felt that it was easy to secure the
friendship of the whole of the Merton family; and that friendship might
be more useful to him than the neutral part adopted by Lady Vargrave. He
should, of course, be invited to the rectory; it was much nearer London
than Lady Vargrave's cottage, he could more often escape from public
cares to superintend his private interest. A country neighbourhood,
particularly at that season of the year, was not likely to abound in very
dangerous rivals. Evelyn would, he saw, be surrounded by a _worldly_
family, and he thought that an advantage; it might serve to dissipate
Evelyn's romantic tendencies, and make her sensible of the pleasures of
the London life, the official rank, the gay society that her union with
him would offer as an equivalent for her fortune. In short, as was his
wont, he strove to make the best of the new turn affairs had taken.
Though guardian to Miss Cameron, and one of the trustees for the fortune
she was to receive on attaining her majority, he had not the right to
dictate as to her residence. The late lord's will had expressly and
pointedly corroborated the natural and lawful authority of Lady Vargrave
in all matters connected with Evelyn's education and home. It may be as
well, in this place, to add, that to Vargrave and the co-trustee, Mr.
Gustavus Douce, a banker of repute and eminence, the testator left large
discretionary powers as to the investment of the fortune. He had stated
it as his wish that from one hundred and twenty to one hundred and thirty
thousand pounds should be invested in the purchase of a landed estate;
but he had left it to the discretion of the trustees to increase that
sum, even to the amount of the whole capital, should an estate of
adequate importance be in the market, while the selection of time and
purchase was unreservedly confided to the trustees. Vargrave had
hitherto objected to every purchase in the market,--not that he was
insensible to the importance and consideration of landed property, but
because, till he himself became the legal receiver of the income, he
thought it less trouble to suffer the money to lie in the Funds, than to
be pestered with all the onerous details in the management of an estate
that might never be his. He, however, with no less ardour than his
deceased relative, looked forward to the time when the title of Vargrave
should be based upon the venerable foundation of feudal manors and
seignorial acres.
"Why did you not tell me Lord Vargrave was so charming?" said Caroline to
Evelyn, as the two girls were sauntering, in familiar _tete-a-tete_,
along the gardens. "You will be very happy with such a companion."
Evelyn made no answer for a few moments, and then, turning abruptly round
to Caroline, and stopping short, she said, with a kind of tearful
eagerness, "Dear Caroline, you are so wise, so kind too; advise me, tell
me what is best. I am very unhappy."
Miss Merton was moved and surprised by Evelyn's earnestness.
"But what is it, my poor Evelyn," said she; "why are you unhappy?--you
whose fate seems to me so enviable."
"I cannot love Lord Vargrave; I recoil from the idea of marrying him.
Ought I not fairly to tell him so? Ought I not to say that I cannot
fulfil the wish that--oh, there's the thought which leaves me so
irresolute!--His uncle bequeathed to me--me who have no claim of
relationship--the fortune that should have been Lord Vargrave's, in the
belief that my hand would restore it to him. It is almost a fraud to
refuse him. Am I not to be pitied?"
"But why can you not love Lord Vargrave? If past the _premiere
jeunesse_, he is still handsome. He is more than handsome,--he has the
air of rank, an eye that fascinates, a smile that wins, the manners that
please, the abilities that command, the world! Handsome, clever,
admired, distinguished--what can woman desire more in her lover, her
husband? Have you ever formed some fancy, some ideal of the one you
could love, and how does Lord Vargrave fall short of the vision?"
"Have I ever formed an ideal?--oh, yes!" said Evelyn, with a beautiful
enthusiasm that lighted up her eyes, blushed in her cheek, and heaved her
bosom beneath its robe; "something that in loving I could also revere,--a
mind that would elevate my own; a heart that could sympathize with my
weakness, my follies, my romance, if you will; and in which I could
treasure my whole soul."
"You paint a schoolmaster, not a lover!" said Caroline. "You do not
care, then, whether this hero be handsome or young?"
"Oh, yes, he should be both," said Evelyn, innocently; "and yet," she
added, after a pause, and with an infantine playfulness of manner and
countenance, "I know you will laugh at me, but I think I could be in love
with more than one at the same time!"
"A common case, but a rare confession!"
"Yes; for if I might ask for the youth and outward advantages that please
the eye, I could also love with a yet deeper love that which would speak
to my imagination,--Intellect, Genius, Fame! Ah, these have an immortal
youth and imperishable beauty of their own!"
"You are a very strange girl."
"But we are on a very strange subject--it is all an enigma!" said
Evelyn, shaking her wise little head with a pretty gravity, half mock,
half real. "Ah, if Lord Vargrave should love you--and you--oh, you
_would_ love him, and then I should be free, and so happy!"
They were then on the lawn in sight of the cottage windows, and Lumley,
lifting his eyes from the newspaper, which had just arrived and been
seized with all a politician's avidity, saw them in the distance. He
threw down the paper, mused a moment or two, then took up his hat and
joined them; but before he did so, he surveyed himself in the glass. "I
think I look young enough still," thought he.
"Two cherries on one stalk," said Lumley, gayly: "by the by, it is not a
complimentary simile. What young lady would be like a cherry?--such an
uninteresting, common, charity-boy sort of fruit. For my part, I always
associate cherries with the image of a young gentleman in corduroys and a
skeleton jacket, with one pocket full of marbles, and the other full of
worms for fishing, with three-halfpence in the left paw, and two cherries
on one stalk (Helena and Hermia) in the right."
"How droll you are!" said Caroline, laughing.
"Much obliged to you, and don't envy your discrimination, 'Melancholy
marks me for its own.' You ladies,--ah, yours is the life for gay spirits
and light hearts; to us are left business and politics, law, physic, and
murder, by way of professions; abuse, nicknamed fame; and the privilege
of seeing how universal a thing, among the great and the wealthy, is that
pleasant vice, beggary,--which privilege is proudly entitled 'patronage
and power.' Are we the things to be gay,--'droll,' as you say? Oh, no,
all our spirits are forced, believe me. Miss Cameron, did you ever know
that wretched species of hysterical affection called 'forced spirits'?
Never, I am sure; your ingenuous smile, your laughing eyes, are the index
to a happy and a sanguine heart."
"And what of me?" asked Caroline, quickly, and with a slight blush.
"You, Miss Merton? Ah, I have not yet read your character,--a fair page,
but an unknown letter. You, however, have seen the world, and know that
we must occasionally wear a mask." Lord Vargrave sighed as he spoke, and
relapsed into sudden silence; then looking up, his eyes encountered
Caroline's, which were fixed upon him. Their gaze flattered him;
Caroline turned away, and busied herself with a rose-bush. Lumley
gathered one of the flowers, and presented it to her. Evelyn was a few
steps in advance.
"There is no thorn in this rose," said he; "may the offering be an omen.
You are now Evelyn's friend, oh, be mine; she is to be your guest. Do
not scorn to plead for me."
"Can _you_ want a pleader?" said Caroline, with a slight tremor in her
voice.
"Charming Miss Merton, love is diffident and fearful; but it must now
find a voice, to which may Evelyn benignly listen. What I leave
unsaid--would that my new friend's eloquence could supply."
He bowed slightly, and joined Evelyn. Caroline understood the hint, and
returned alone and thoughtfully to the house.
"Miss Cameron--Evelyn--ah, still let me call you so, as in the happy and
more familiar days of your childhood, I wish you could read my heart at
this moment. You are about to leave your home; new scenes will surround,
new faces smile on you; dare I hope that I may still be remembered?"
He attempted to take her hand as he spoke; Evelyn withdrew it gently.
"Ah, my lord," said she, in a very low voice, "if remembrance were all
that you asked of me--"
"It is all,--favourable remembrance, remembrance of the love of the past,
remembrance of the bond to come."
Evelyn shivered. "It is better to speak openly," said she.
"Let me throw myself on your generosity. I am not insensible to your
brilliant qualities, to the honour of your attachment; but--but--as the
time approaches in which you will call for my decision, let me now say,
that I cannot feel for you--those--those sentiments, without which you
could not desire our union,--without which it were but a wrong to both of
us to form it. Nay, listen to me. I grieve bitterly at the tenor of
your too generous uncle's will; can I not atone to you? Willingly would
I sacrifice the fortune that, indeed, ought to be yours; accept it, and
remain my friend."
"Cruel Evelyn! and can you suppose that it is your fortune I seek? It is
yourself. Heaven is my witness, that, had you no dowry but your hand and
heart, it were treasure enough to me. You think you cannot love me.
Evelyn, you do not yet know yourself. Alas! your retirement in this
distant village, my own unceasing avocations, which chain me, like a
slave, to the galley-oar of politics and power, have kept us separate.
You do not know me. I am willing to hazard the experiment of that
knowledge. To devote my life to you, to make you partaker of my
ambition, my career, to raise you to the highest eminence in the
matronage of England, to transfer pride from myself to you, to love and
to honour and to prize you,--all this will be my boast; and all this will
win love for me at last. Fear not, Evelyn,--fear not for your happiness;
with me you shall know no sorrow. Affection at home, splendour abroad,
await you. I have passed the rough and arduous part of my career;
sunshine lies on the summit to which I climb. No station in England is
too high for me to aspire to,--prospects, how bright with you, how dark
without you! Ah, Evelyn! be this hand mine--the heart shall follow!"
Vargrave's words were artful and eloquent; the words were calculated to
win their way, but the manner, the tone of voice, wanted earnestness and
truth. This was his defect; this characterized all his attempts to
seduce or to lead others, in public or in private life. He had no heart,
no deep passion, in what he undertook. He could impress you with the
conviction of his ability, and leave the conviction imperfect, because he
could not convince you that he was sincere. That best gift of mental
power--_earnestness_--was wanting to him; and Lord Vargrave's deficiency
of heart was the true cause why he was not a great man. Still, Evelyn
was affected by his words; she suffered the hand he now once more took to
remain passively in his, and said timidly, "Why, with sentiments so
generous and confiding, why do you love me, who cannot return your
affection worthily? No, Lord Vargrave; there are many who must see you
with juster eyes than mine,--many fairer, and even wealthier. Indeed,
indeed, it cannot be. Do not be offended, but think that the fortune
left to me was on one condition I cannot, ought not to fulfil. Failing
that condition, in equity and honour it reverts to you."
"Talk not thus, I implore you, Evelyn; do not imagine me the worldly
calculator that my enemies deem me. But, to remove at once from your
mind the possibility of such a compromise between your honour and
repugnance--repugnance! have I lived to say that word?--know that your
fortune is not at your own disposal. Save the small forfeit that awaits
your non-compliance with my uncle's dying prayer, the whole is settled
peremptorily on yourself and your children; it is entailed,--you cannot
alienate it. Thus, then, your generosity can never be evinced but to him
on whom you bestow your hand. Ah, let me recall that melancholy scene.
Your benefactor on his death-bed, your mother kneeling by his side, your
hand clasped in mine, and those lips, with their latest breath, uttering
at once a blessing and a command."
"Ah, cease, cease, my lord!" said Evelyn, sobbing.
"No; bid me not cease before you tell me you will be mine. Beloved
Evelyn, I may hope,--you will not resolve against me?"
"No," said Evelyn, raising her eyes and struggling for composure; "I feel
too well what should be my duty; I will endeavor to perform it. Ask me
no more now. I will struggle to answer you as you wish hereafter."
Lord Vargrave, resolved to push to the utmost the advantage he had
gained, was about to reply when he heard a step behind him; and turning
round, quickly and discomposed, beheld a venerable form approaching them.
The occasion was lost: Evelyn also turned; and seeing who was the
intruder, sprang towards him almost with a cry of joy.
The new comer was a man who had passed his seventieth year; but his old
age was green, his step light, and on his healthful and benignant
countenance time had left but few furrows. He was clothed in black; and
his locks, which were white as snow, escaped from the broad hat, and
almost touched his shoulders.
The old man smiled upon Evelyn, and kissed her forehead fondly. He then
turned to Lord Vargrave, who, recovering his customary self-possession,
advanced to meet him with extended hand.
"My dear Mr. Aubrey, this is a welcome surprise. I heard you were not at
the vicarage, or I would have called on you."
"Your lordship honours me," replied the curate. "For the first time for
thirty years I have been thus long absent from my cure; but I am now
returned, I hope, to end my days among my flock."
"And what," asked Vargrave,--"what--if the question be not
presumptuous--occasioned your unwilling absence?"
"My lord," replied the old man, with a gentle smile, "a new vicar has
been appointed. I went to him, to proffer an humble prayer that I might
remain amongst those whom I regarded as my children. I have buried one
generation, I have married another, I have baptized a third."
"You should have had the vicarage itself; you should be better provided
for, my dear Mr. Aubrey; I will speak to the Lord Chancellor."
Five times before had Lord Vargrave uttered the same promise, and the
curate smiled to hear the familiar words.
"The vicarage, my lord, is a family living, and is now vested in a young
man who requires wealth more than I do. He has been kind to me, and
re-established me among my flock; I would not leave them for a bishopric.
My child," continued the curate, addressing Evelyn with great affection,
"you are surely unwell,--you are paler than when I left you."
Evelyn clung fondly to his arm, and smiled--her old gay smile--as she
replied to him. They took the way towards the house.
The curate remained with them for an hour. There was a mingled sweetness
and dignity in his manner which had in it something of the primitive
character we poetically ascribe to the pastors of the Church. Lady
Vargrave seemed to vie with Evelyn which should love him the most. When
he retired to his home, which was not many yards distant from the
cottage, Evelyn, pleading a headache, sought her chamber, and Lumley, to
soothe his mortification, turned to Caroline, who had seated herself by
his side. Her conversation amused him, and her evident admiration
flattered. While Lady Vargrave absented herself, in motherly anxiety, to
attend on Evelyn, while Mrs. Leslie was occupied at her frame, and Mrs.
Merton looked on, and talked indolently to the old lady of rheumatism and
sermons, of children's complaints and servants' misdemeanours,--the
conversation between Lord Vargrave and Caroline, at first gay and
animated, grew gradually more sentimental and subdued; their voices took
a lower tone, and Caroline sometimes turned away her head and blushed.