"I need not trouble you with the history of my childhood; it was
spent alone with my dear mother, in a pleasant little village
near Bristol, and was a very happy and innocent one. My father
died before I was born, but he left an ample fortune to my
mother. I was her sole care and treasure; next to me she loved
and cared for our little church. The mission in our village was
but a poor one; my mother was its chief support. To our care was
given the sacristy, the chapel, the altar-linen and flowers. I
used to spend hours in dressing the altar and arranging the
flowers. The memory of those hours has never died; it has lived
with me ever; and even amid scenes of vanity and passion, it has
hung about me like the fragrance of a flower.
"My mother was the sweetest and most gentle of women; the early
loss of her husband gave her a shock from which she never
recovered; and she made a resolution at his death to devote her
whole life to my education and to works of charity. I cannot
think of her without tears; she was so patient and good, nor did
I ever hear one unkind or hasty word from her.
"I grew up well skilled in all the accomplishments my mother
loved and taught. One I was passionately fond of, and that was
painting. I had a talent for it, and a cultivated taste.
"Imagine, sister, the course of a streamlet, with scarcely a
ripple upon it, glittering in the bright sunlight, ever flowing
calmly and gently, and you have a perfect image of my childhood.
"This lasted until I was sixteen. A few days after my birthday, a
letter came from my mother's agent, a solicitor in London,
requesting her immediate presence. Not liking to leave me behind,
lest I should be dull, my mother offered to take me with her. I
was overjoyed at the proposal. London was a distant fairyland to
me, and I knew no rest or peace until we started. We were to stay
at Mr. Clinton's, a distant relative of my father's, who kindly
offered us the use of his house. He was married, but his wife was
dead, and he had one only daughter, with whom I soon became
intimately acquainted. Bella Clinton was an elegant girl, and
foremost among the leaders of fashion. I had not been there long
before I began to blush for my country dresses, and astonished my
gentle, yielding mother by the extravagant demands I made upon
her purse. Ah! there I learnt the fatal truth that I was gifted
with beauty. I had heard strangers say at home, "What a handsome
child! how like her father;" but I never realized the fact until
I stood ready dressed for my first ball, where Bella had
persuaded my mother to accompany us.
"Bella had chosen for me a robe of pale pink satin and a rich
lace skirt; she twined pale pink flowers in my long black hair,
and golden bracelets around my arms, and then led me to her
mirror, and said, 'I am almost jealous, Eva!'
{781}
Ah! the lace pictured there was very fair, the eyes were flashing
with light, the cheek was tinged like a rose, the white neck and
arms shamed even the pearls that gleamed upon them. Beautiful,
bright, and sparkling the picture was; but would to heaven I had
died as I stood there, for I was then innocent and good.
"You, perhaps, sister, never saw or cared to see a ball-room; on
me the effect was electrical. Just as we entered, the sweet,
fascinating melody of a popular waltz was floating round the
room; the room itself was radiant with light and beauty; jewels
were shining, feathers waving, rich satins were gleaming; and the
wearers, to my novice's gaze, were like beings from fairyland.
"Miss Clinton was soon surrounded with friends, and I listened
with astonishment to her witty repartees and animated
conversation. I was introduced to many of her friends; our group
or party was, I could not fail to perceive, the most select in
the room. I sat by my mother, endeavoring to give my attention to
some officer who was detailing a striking adventure, when a face
and form suddenly attracted my attention; it was that of a
noble-looking man, with a head remarkable for the extreme beauty
of its contour and the richness of its dark curls. The face, too,
though not exactly handsome, was irresistibly attractive, from
its aristocratic mould of feature and melancholy expression. His
eyes were a singularly dark gray, shaded with long eyelashes;
they had a tired, listless look. I watched this gentleman some
few minutes, and then turning to my companion, said: 'Can you
tell me who is that distinguished looking man standing just
beneath the chandelier?'
"'Lord Montford. He is a clever man; but a very reserved, haughty
character; he is known by the name of Le Grand Seigneur. I know
him well, intimately; but I never can penetrate the veil of
melancholy that hangs over him.'
"'Perhaps he is unhappy,' I said simply; 'is he married?'
"'No; he is one of the best _parties_ of the season. Some
say an early disappointment is the cause of his want of
sociability; others say he has a distaste for the society of your
charming sex.' And my informant made a low bow.
"A dozen more questions trembled on my lips; but not liking to
continue the conversation, I remained silent. Suddenly looking
up, I saw Lord Montford's eyes fixed upon me. I blushed, feeling
like a guilty culprit. In a few minutes Miss Clinton came to me,
and said:
"'Eva, you have made a splendid conquest. Here is Lord Montford
asking to be introduced to you. Come with me.'
"'Indeed I cannot,' I replied, shrinking, scarcely knowing why.
"'Mrs. Leason, make her come,' said Bella, smiling to my mother.
"'Go, Eva,' my mother said; and I went. My first impulse was to
run away when I saw that tall, stately form bending before me;
but he looked at me with so kindly an expression of interest and
admiration that I accepted the invitation for the next quadrille
with less of fear and restraint than I had hitherto felt. When
the quadrille was over, Lord Montford took me into the
refreshment-room.
"'It is no idle compliment to tell you, Miss Leason, that I
enjoyed that dance more than I have done anything for years.'
"'Why?' I answered innocently, looking up with astonishment. He
smiled and answered:
{782}
"'If I wished to flatter you, I should say because you are more
beautiful and graceful than any lady I have seen for some time;
but the real truth is, that I can perceive this is your first
ball, and the freshness of your ideas is something novel to me.'
"'Are not my ideas like other people's?'
"'Far from it.'
"'I am very sorry,' I began, half hesitatingly; 'indeed, I wish
to be like every one else.'
"'Never wish so again, Miss Leason; wish always to be just as you
are now.'
"Just at this moment my mother and Bella joined us, and he
relinquished my arm.
"'Why, Eva,' said Miss Clinton, 'Surely you have some charm. I
have known Lord Montford for years, and I never saw him so
animated or so happy before.'
"But I need not dwell longer on this part of my life. Day after
day, evening after evening, Lord Montford was by my side; and yet
so quietly were these meetings conducted, that it always seemed
that chance directed them. As Bella ceased jesting, my mother did
not notice his attentions. I soon began to look upon seeing him
as the only thing worth living for. I had no thought save for
him. As yet no _word_ of love passed his lips, though I
could not but perceive that he regarded me with no common
interest.
"One day, as we were all in the drawing-room, my mother suddenly
announced her intention of returning home--almost directly. I
looked at Lord Montford, and saw an expression of pain upon his
face. I rose and went to the window to hide the tears that were
starting to my eyes. In an hour after this, a servant brought me
a note from Lord Montford, filled with expressions of love, and
asking for an interview, and praying that I would not mention it
to any one, even to my mother. I knew this was wrong, and this
was the first false step in my career. I knew concealment from my
mother was, in such a case, wrong; but stronger than the voice of
conscience, stronger than the whispers of my angel guardian,
stronger than the promptings of faith and obedience was the
passion that reigned in my heart. I wrote a few words. My mother,
Mr. Clinton, and Bella were going out to dine. I pleaded
indisposition, and remained at home. I promised in the afternoon
to grant Lord Montford the interview he desired. I went, when
three o'clock came, to the library, and I left it in an hour the
affianced bride of Lord Montford. One thing surprised me, and
that was, that he used the most urgent entreaties that I would
not mention our interview, or its result, to any one. Imprudently
I promised.
"The day came when we left London, and yet no word would Lord
Montford suffer to be spoken of our engagement. He stood in the
hall as we passed from the house, and he hastily whispered to me:
"'You shall hear from me soon, Eva, and my letter shall explain
all.'
"I could scarcely bear the quiet, tranquil beauty of home; my
whole time was spent in wishing for and thinking of the promised
letter.
"At length it came, and I went with it tightly held in my hand,
to my own room. I cannot now remember all it said, but the
concluding words I remember, and they were these: 'And now, Eva,
I have told you how dear you are to me, how you have come across
my dark dreary life like a bright sunbeam; without you I shall
again become a dull, melancholy misanthrope; with you I may
become a good and useful man. Will you refuse, Eva, to help me:
One thing more.
{783}
A reason of the utmost importance prevents me from at present
making public our engagement and marriage--a reason so potent
that, if you refuse secrecy, we must part. Say, Eva, shall this
be? Will you sacrifice my love, my hope, my happiness, for a
scruple?'
"And so with a prayer for my consent, the letter ended; and then
I laid it down and wept--ay, wept--for there was a calmer,
holier feeling in my heart than I had known for a long time; and
the struggle was hard. My mother, could I leave her thus? How had
she nursed me, loved me! and with what pleasure and pride had she
looked forward to my settling in life! Her sweet face came before
me with all its goodness and purity. No; I could not leave her, I
could not thus deceive and disappoint her. There was the church,
too, with its altars and flowers; who would tend them? I could
not go, and so I resolved--a resolution, alas! too soon to be
broken.
"At this moment a hand was gently laid upon my shoulder, and
looking up hastily, I saw my mother.
"'Eva, are you ill, my darling, or unhappy? Why are you here
alone, and miserable?'
"I made no reply, but laid my head upon my mother's breast and
cried aloud. Those were the last tears I ever shed there. I even
feel now her soft hand caressing me, and drawing back the hair
from my brow, while she soothed me as though I had been a little
child.
"'I am ill and tired, mother,' I said, at length.
"'I see you are, Eva.' And she laid me down gently, and sat by me
until I slept. Two days afterward I was out, and turning round
the road that led to the wood, I met Lord Montford. I found he
had arrived that day, and had been waiting many hours for a
chance of seeing me; but he looked so pale and ill I scarcely
knew him. Let me tell the result in few words. I promised him to
leave home, mother, and all things, and to accompany him wherever
he would.
"'It is but for a short time, Eva,' said he, 'and then we will
return, and your mother will forgive us and bless us.'
"'Why not wait the short time?' I said, for my face burned where
my mother's tears had fallen.
"'I cannot; you do not know the reasons, Eva. But do not refuse
me. You are the last tie that binds me to life and hope.'
"And he arranged that early the next morning I should meet his
carriage in the park; that we should go straight to London, and
there be quietly married; and then go on the same day to Paris.
"That night, sister, I never slept. Many times I half knelt to
pray, and perhaps had I prayed, God would have heard me; but
there was that in my heart that would not let me: and so, in
wearily pacing my room, in bitter weeping and grief for my
mother, in passionate tears, when I remembered my promise, in
hard struggle and indecision, did I pass my last night under my
mother's roof. When morning dawned, I tried to go and look at my
mother; twice, thrice, I half opened the door, and, shuddering,
closed it; and with my heart half breaking at leaving her, and
yet drawn on irresistibly, I passed from my home a guilty
fugitive, a cruel, wilful child. I went out into the pure, sweet,
morning air, and it fanned so softly my burning face; the birds
were singing such glorious carols of praise; the flowers were
lifting their fair heads, drooping with dew; peace and beauty and
joy were all around me; but in my heart were darkness and sorrow,
grief and remorse. Suddenly a strong arm twined around me, and a
low voice, whose tones I knew and loved too well, poured into my
ears a rapture of love and thanks.
{784}
And in a whirl of time that seems to me now a dream, I was
married, and in Paris. Immediately on our arrival at Paris, my
husband wrote to my mother, telling her of our marriage,
conjuring her for a time not to reveal it, and begging her
forgiveness and blessing. An answer came, and my mother's gentle
love spoke in every line, yet her heart seemed broken as she
wrote. Trusting that time would reveal the mystery of my
husband's strange desire for concealment. I threw myself into the
vortex of pleasure and gayety. The hours passed like golden
moments. I knew no wish, no caprice, that my husband did not
immediately gratify. The most devoted love and ardent affection
were lavished upon me; he was ever with me: if for one hour we
were separated, he flew to me the next. Smiles chased the
melancholy and languor from his brow, and the light in his eyes
was to me brighter than the rarest jewel he loved to adorn me
with. It was short but brilliant, this dream of mine; its bliss
was dearly purchased. You will think the story that I am going to
tell you strange, but there are stranger in the world.