TOUT notre raisonnement se reduit a ceder au sentiment.*--PASCAL.
* "All our reasoning reduces itself to yielding to sentiment."
LORD VARGRAVE, who had no desire to remain alone with the widow when the
guests were gone, arranged his departure for the same day as that fixed
for Mrs. Merton's; and as their road lay together for several miles, it
was settled that they should all dine at-----, whence Lord Vargrave would
proceed to London. Failing to procure a second chance-interview with
Evelyn, and afraid to demand a formal one--for he felt the insecurity of
the ground he stood on--Lord Vargrave, irritated and somewhat mortified,
sought, as was his habit, whatever amusement was in his reach. In the
conversation of Caroline Merton--shrewd, worldly, and ambitious--he found
the sort of plaything that he desired. They were thrown much together;
but to Vargrave, at least, there appeared no danger in the intercourse;
and perhaps his chief object was to pique Evelyn, as well as to gratify
his own spleen.
It was the evening before Evelyn's departure; the little party had been
for the last hour dispersed; Mrs. Merton was in her own room, making to
herself gratuitous and unnecessary occupation in seeing her woman _pack
up_. It was just the kind of task that delighted her. To sit in a large
chair and see somebody else at work--to say languidly, "Don't crumple
that scarf, Jane; and where shall we put Miss Caroline's blue
bonnet?"--gave her a very comfortable notion of her own importance and
habits of business,--a sort of title to be the superintendent of a family
and the wife of a rector. Caroline had disappeared, so had Lord
Vargrave; but the first was supposed to be with Evelyn, the second,
employed in writing letters,--at least, it was so when they had been last
observed. Mrs. Leslie was alone in the drawing-room, and absorbed in
anxious and benevolent thoughts on the critical situation of her young
favourite, about to enter an age and a world the perils of which Mrs.
Leslie had not forgotten.
It was at this time that Evelyn, forgetful of Lord Vargrave and his suit,
of every one, of everything but the grief of the approaching departure,
found herself alone in a little arbour that had been built upon the cliff
to command the view of the sea below. That day she had been restless,
perturbed; she had visited every spot consecrated by youthful
recollections; she had clung with fond regret to every place in which she
had held sweet converse with her mother. Of a disposition singularly
warm and affectionate, she had often, in her secret heart, pined for a
more yearning and enthusiastic love than it seemed in the subdued nature
of Lady Vargrave to bestow. In the affection of the latter, gentle and
never fluctuating as it was, there seemed to her a something wanting,
which she could not define. She had watched that beloved face all the
morning. She had hoped to see the tender eyes fixed upon her, and hear
the meek voice exclaim, "I cannot part with my child!" All the gay
pictures which the light-hearted Caroline drew of the scenes she was to
enter had vanished away--now that the hour approached when her mother was
to be left alone. Why was she to go? It seemed to her an unnecessary
cruelty.
As she thus sat, she did not observe that Mr. Aubrey, who had seen her at
a distance, was now bending his way to her; and not till he had entered
the arbour, and taken her hand, did she waken from those reveries in
which youth, the Dreamer and the Desirer, so morbidly indulges.
"Tears, my child?" said the curate. "Nay, be not ashamed of them; they
become you in this hour. How we shall miss you! and you, too, will not
forget us?"
"Forget you! Ah, no, indeed! But why should I leave you? Why will you
not speak to my mother, implore her to let me remain? We were so happy
till these strangers came. We did not think there was any other
world,--_here_ there is world enough for me!"
"My poor Evelyn," said Mr. Aubrey, gently, "I have spoken to your mother
and to Mrs. Leslie; they have confided to me all the reasons for your
departure, and I cannot but subscribe to their justice. You do not want
many months of the age when you will be called upon to decide whether
Lord Vargrave shall be your husband. Your mother shrinks from the
responsibility of influencing your decision; and here, my child,
inexperienced, and having seen so little of others, how can you know your
own heart?"
"But, oh, Mr. Aubrey," said Evelyn, with an earnestness that overcame
embarrassment, "have I a choice left to me? Can I be ungrateful,
disobedient to him who was a father to me? Ought I not to sacrifice my
own happiness? And how willingly would I do so, if my mother would smile
on me approvingly!"
"My child," said the curate, gravely, "an old man is a bad judge of the
affairs of youth; yet in this matter, I think your duty plain. Do not
resolutely set yourself against Lord Vargrave's claim; do not persuade
yourself that you must be unhappy in a union with him. Compose your
mind, think seriously upon the choice before you, refuse all decision at
the present moment; wait until the appointed time arrives, or, at least,
more nearly approaches. Meanwhile, I understand that Lord Vargrave is to
be a frequent visitor at Mrs. Merton's; there you will see him with
others, his character will show itself. Study his principles, his
disposition; examine whether he is one whom you can esteem and render
happy: there may be a love without enthusiasm, and yet sufficient for
domestic felicity, and for the employment of the affections. You will
insensibly, too, learn from other parts of his character which he does
not exhibit to us. If the result of time and examination be that you can
cheerfully obey the late lord's dying wish, unquestionably it will be the
happier decision. If not, if you still shrink from vows at which your
heart now rebels, as unquestionably you may, with an acquitted
conscience, become free. The best of us are imperfect judges of the
happiness of others. In the woe or weal of a whole life, we must decide
for ourselves. Your benefactor could not mean you to be wretched; and if
he now, with eyes purified from all worldly mists, look down upon you,
his spirit will approve your choice; for when we quit the world, all
worldly ambition dies with us. What now to the immortal soul can be the
title and the rank which on earth, with the desires of earth, your
benefactor hoped to secure to his adopted child? This is my advice. Look
on the bright side of things, and wait calmly for the hour when Lord
Vargrave can demand your decision."
The words of the priest, which well defined her duty, inexpressibly
soothed and comforted Evelyn; and the advice upon other and higher
matters, which the good man pressed upon a mind so softened at that hour
to receive religious impressions, was received with gratitude and
respect. Subsequently their conversation fell upon Lady Vargrave,--a
theme dear to both of them. The old man was greatly touched by the poor
girl's unselfish anxiety for her mother's comfort, by her fears that she
might be missed, in those little attentions which filial love alone can
render; he was almost yet more touched when, with a less disinterested
feeling, Evelyn added mournfully,--
"Yet why, after all, should I fancy she will so miss me? Ah, though I
will not _dare_ complain of it, I feel still that she does not love me as
I love her."
"Evelyn," said the curate, with mild reproach, "have I not said that your
mother has known sorrow? And though sorrow does not annihilate
affection, it subdues its expression, and moderates its outward signs."
Evelyn sighed, and said no more.
As the good old man and his young friend returned to the cottage, Lord
Vargrave and Caroline approached them, emerging from an opposite part of
the grounds. The former hastened to Evelyn with his usual gayety and
frank address; and there was so much charm in the manner of a man, whom
_apparently_ the world and its cares had never rendered artificial or
reserved, that the curate himself was impressed by it. He thought that
Evelyn might be happy with one amiable enough for a companion and wise
enough for a guide. But old as he was, he had loved, and he knew that
there are instincts in the heart which defy all our calculations.
While Lumley was conversing, the little gate that made the communication
between the gardens and the neighbouring churchyard, through which was
the nearest access to the village, creaked on its hinges, and the quiet
and solitary figure of Lady Vargrave threw its shadow over the grass.