A SMOKE raised with the fume of sighs.
_Romeo and Juliet_.
IT is certain that Evelyn experienced for Maltravers sentiments which, if
not love, might easily be mistaken for it. But whether it were that
master-passion, or merely its fanciful resemblance,--love in early youth
and innocent natures, if of sudden growth, is long before it makes itself
apparent. Evelyn had been prepared to feel an interest in her solitary
neighbour. His mind, as developed in his works, had half-formed her own.
Her childish adventure with the stranger had never been forgotten. Her
present knowledge of Maltravers was an union of dangerous and often
opposite associations,--the Ideal and the Real.
Love, in its first dim and imperfect shape, is but imagination
concentrated on one object. It is a genius of the heart, resembling that
of the intellect; it appeals to, it stirs up, it evokes, the sentiments
and sympathies that lie most latent in our nature. Its sigh is the
spirit that moves over the ocean, and arouses the Anadyomene into life.
Therefore is it that MIND produces affections deeper than those of
external form; therefore it is that women are worshippers of glory, which
is the palpable and visible representative of a genius whose operations
they cannot always comprehend. Genius has so much in common with love,
the imagination that animates one is so much the property of the other,
that there is not a surer sign of the existence of genius than the love
that it creates and bequeaths. It penetrates deeper than the reason, it
binds a nobler captive than the fancy. As the sun upon the dial, it
gives to the human heart both its shadow and its light. Nations are its
worshippers and wooers; and Posterity learns from its oracles to dream,
to aspire, to adore!
Had Maltravers declared the passion that consumed him, it is probable
that it would soon have kindled a return. But his frequent absence, his
sustained distance of manner, had served to repress the feelings that in
a young and virgin heart rarely flow with much force until they are
invited and aroused. _Le besoin d'aimer_ in girls, is, perhaps, in
itself powerful; but is fed by another want, _le besoin d'etre aime_!
_If_, therefore, Evelyn at present felt love for Maltravers, the love had
certainly not passed into the core of life: the tree had not so far
struck its roots but what it might have borne transplanting. There was
in her enough of the pride of sex to have recoiled from the thought of
giving love to one who had not asked the treasure. Capable of
attachment, more trustful and therefore, if less vehement, more beautiful
and durable than that which had animated the brief tragedy of Florence
Lascelles, she could not have been the unknown correspondent, or revealed
the soul, because the features wore a mask.
It must also be allowed that, in some respects, Evelyn was too young and
inexperienced thoroughly to appreciate all that was most truly lovable
and attractive in Maltravers. At four and twenty she would, perhaps,
have felt no fear mingled with her respect for him; but seventeen and six
and thirty is a wide interval! She never felt that there was that
difference in years until she had met Legard, and then at once she
comprehended it. With Legard she had moved on equal terms; he was not
too wise, too high for her every-day thoughts. He less excited her
imagination, less attracted her reverence. But, somehow or other, that
voice which proclaimed her power, those eyes which never turned from
hers, went nearer to her heart. As Evelyn had once said to Caroline, "It
was a great enigma!"--her own feelings were a mystery to her, and she
reclined by the "Golden Waterfalls" without tracing her likeness in the
glass of the pool below.
Maltravers appeared again at the rectory. He joined their parties by
day, and his evenings were spent with them as of old. In this I know not
precisely what were his motives--perhaps he did not know them himself.
It might be that his pride was roused; it might be that he could not
endure the notion that Lord Vargrave should guess his secret by an
absence almost otherwise unaccountable,--he could not patiently bear to
give Vargrave that triumph; it might be that, in the sternness of his
self-esteem, he imagined he had already conquered all save affectionate
interest in Evelyn's fate, and trusted too vainly to his own strength;
and it might be, also, that he could not resist the temptation of seeing
if Evelyn were contented with her lot, and if Vargrave were worthy of the
blessing that awaited him. Whether one of these or all united made him
resolve to brave his danger, or whether, after all, he yielded to a
weakness, or consented to what--invited by Evelyn herself--was almost a
social necessity, the reader and not the narrator shall decide.
Legard was gone; but Doltimore remained in the neighbourhood, having
hired a hunting-box not far from Sir John Merton's manors, over which he
easily obtained permission to sport. When he did not dine elsewhere,
there was always a place for him at the parson's hospitable board,--and
that place was generally next to Caroline. Mr. and Mrs. Merton had given
up all hope of Mr. Maltravers for their eldest daughter; and, very
strangely, this conviction came upon their minds on the first day they
made the acquaintance of the young lord.
"My dear," said the rector, as he was winding up his watch, preparatory
to entering the connubial couch,--"my dear, I don't think Mr. Maltravers
is a marrying man."
"I was just going to make the same remark," said Mrs. Merton, drawing the
clothes over her. "Lord Doltimore is a very fine young man, his estates
unencumbered. I like him vastly, my love. He is evidently smitten with
Caroline: so Lord Vargrave and Mrs. Hare said."
"Sensible, shrewd woman, Mrs. Hare. By the by, we'll send her a
pineapple. Caroline was made to be a woman of rank!"
"Quite; so much self-possession!"
"And if Mr. Maltravers would sell or let Burleigh--"
"It would be so pleasant!"
"Had you not better give Caroline a hint?"
"My love, she is so sensible, let her go her own way."
"You are right, my dear Betsy; I shall always say that no one has more
common-sense than you; you have brought up your children admirably!"
"Dear Charles!"
"It is coldish to-night, love," said the rector; and he put out the
candle.
From that time, it was not the fault of Mr. and Mrs. Merton if Lord
Doltimore did not find their house the pleasantest in the county.
One evening the rectory party were assembled together in the cheerful
drawing-room. Cleveland, Mr. Merton, Sir John, and Lord Vargrave,
reluctantly compelled to make up the fourth, were at the whist-table;
Evelyn, Caroline, and Lord Doltimore were seated round the fire, and Mrs.
Merton was working a footstool. The fire burned clear, the curtains were
down, the children in bed: it was a family picture of elegant comfort.
Mr. Maltravers was announced.
"I am glad you are come at last," said Caroline, holding out her fair
hand. "Mr. Cleveland could not answer for you. We are all disputing as
to which mode of life is the happiest."
"And your opinion?" asked Maltravers, seating himself in the vacant
chair,--it chanced to be next to Evelyn's.
"My opinion is decidedly in favour of London. A metropolitan life, with
its perpetual and graceful excitements,--the best music, the best
companions, the best things in short. Provincial life is so dull, its
pleasures so tiresome; to talk over the last year's news, and wear out
one's last year's dresses, cultivate a conservatory, and play Pope Joan
with a young party,--dreadful!"
"I agree with Miss Merton," said Lord Doltimore, solemnly; not but what I
like the country for three or four months in the year, with good shooting
and hunting, and a large house properly filled, independent of one's own
neighbourhood: but if I am condemned to choose one place to live in, give
me Paris."
"Ah, Paris; I never was in Paris. I should so like to travel!" said
Caroline.
"But the inns abroad are so very bad," said Lord Doltimore; "how people
can rave about Italy, I can't think. I never suffered so much in my life
as I did in Calabria; and at Venice I was bit to death by mosquitoes.
Nothing like Paris, I assure you: don't you think so, Mr. Maltravers?"
"Perhaps I shall be able to answer you better in a short time. I think
of accompanying Mr. Cleveland to Paris!"
"Indeed!" said Caroline. "Well, I envy you; but is it a sudden
resolution?"
"Not very."
"Do you stay long?" asked Lord Doltimore.
"My stay is uncertain."
"And you won't let Burleigh in the meanwhile?"
"_Let_ Burleigh? No; if it once pass from my hands it will be forever!"
Maltravers spoke gravely, and the subject was changed. Lord Doltimore
challenged Caroline to chess.
They sat down, and Lord Doltimore arranged the pieces.
"Sensible man, Mr. Maltravers," said the young lord; "but I don't hit it
off with him: Vargrave is more agreeable. Don't you think so?"
"Y-e-s."
"Lord Vargrave is very kind to me,--I never remember any one being more
so; got Legard that appointment solely because it would please me,--very
friendly fellow! I mean to put myself under his wing next session!"
"You could not do better, I'm sure," said Caroline; "he is so much looked
up to; I dare say he will be prime minister one of these days."
"I take the bishop:--do you think so really?--you are rather a
politician?"
"Oh, no; not much of that. But my father and my uncle are stanch
politicians; gentlemen know so much more than ladies. We should always
go by their opinions. I think I will take the queen's pawn--your
politics are the same as Lord Vargrave's?"
"Yes, I fancy so: at least I shall leave my proxy with him. Glad you
don't like politics,--great bore."
"Why, so young, so connected as you are--" Caroline stopped short, and
made a wrong move.
"I wish we were going to Paris together, we should enjoy it so;" and Lord
Doltimore's knight checked the tower and queen.
Caroline coughed, and stretched her hand quickly to move.
"Pardon me, you will lose the game if you do so!" and Doltimore placed
his hand on hers, their eyes met, Caroline turned away, and Lord
Doltimore settled his right collar.
"And is it true? are you really going to leave us?" said Evelyn, and she
felt very sad. But still the sadness might not be that of love,--she had
felt sad after Legard had gone.
"I do not think I shall long stay away," said Maltravers, trying to speak
indifferently. "Burleigh has become more dear to me than it was in
earlier youth; perhaps because I have made myself duties there: and in
other places I am but an isolated and useless unit in the great mass."
"You! everywhere, you must have occupations and resources,--everywhere,
you must find yourself not alone. But you will not go yet?"
"Not yet--no. [Evelyn's spirits rose.] Have you read the book I sent
you?" (It was one of De Stael's.)
"Yes; but it disappoints me."
"And why? It is eloquent."
"But is it true? Is there so much melancholy in life? Are the
affections so full of bitterness? For me, I am so happy when with those
I love! When I am with my mother, the air seems more fragrant, the skies
more blue: it is surely not affection, but the absence of it, that makes
us melancholy."
"Perhaps so; but if we had never known affection, we might not miss it:
and the brilliant Frenchwoman speaks from memory, while you speak from
hope,--memory, which is the ghost of joy: yet surely, even in the
indulgence of affection, there is at times a certain melancholy, a
certain fear. Have you never felt it, even with--with your mother?"
"Ah, yes! when she suffered, or when I have thought she loved me less
than I desired."
"That must have been an idle and vain thought. Your mother! does she
resemble you?"
"I wish I could think so. Oh, if you knew her! I have longed so often
that you were acquainted with each other! It was she who taught me to
sing your songs."
"My dear Mrs. Hare, we may as well throw up our cards," said the keen
clear voice of Lord Vargrave: "you have played most admirably, and I know
that your last card will be the ace of trumps; still the luck is against
us."
"No, no; pray play it out, my lord."
"Quite useless, ma'am," said Sir John, showing two honours. "We have
only the trick to make."
"Quite useless," echoed Lumley, tossing down his sovereigns, and rising
with a careless yawn.
"How d'ye do, Maltravers?"
Maltravers rose; and Vargrave turned to Evelyn, and addressed her in a
whisper. The proud Maltravers walked away, and suppressed a sigh; a
moment more, and he saw Lord Vargrave occupying the chair he had left
vacant. He laid his hand on Cleveland's shoulder.
"The carriage is waiting,--are you ready?"