OUT of our reach the gods have laid
Of time to come the event;
And laugh to see the fools afraid
Of what the knaves invent.--SEDLEY, _from Lycophron_.
THE next day Caroline returned to the rectory in Lady Raby's carriage;
and two hours after her arrival came Lord Vargrave. Mr. Merton had
secured the principal persons in the neighbourhood to meet a guest so
distinguished, and Lord Vargrave, bent on shining in the eyes of Evelyn,
charmed all with his affability and wit. Evelyn, he thought, seemed pale
and dispirited. He pertinaciously devoted himself to her all the
evening. Her ripening understanding was better able than heretofore to
appreciate his abilities; yet, inwardly, she drew comparisons between his
conversation and that of Maltravers, not to the advantage of the former.
There was much that amused but nothing that interested in Lord Vargrave's
fluent ease. When he attempted sentiment, the vein was hard and hollow;
he was only at home on worldly topics. Caroline's spirits were, as usual
in society, high, but her laugh seemed forced, and her eye absent.
The next day, after breakfast, Lord Vargrave walked alone to Burleigh.
As he crossed the copse that bordered the park, a large Persian greyhound
sprang towards him, barking loudly; and, lifting his eyes, he perceived
the form of a man walking slowly along one of the paths that intersected
the wood. He recognized Maltravers. They had not till then encountered
since their meeting a few weeks before Florence's death; and a pang of
conscience came across the schemer's cold heart. Years rolled away from
the past; he recalled the young, generous, ardent man, whom, ere the
character or career of either had been developed, he had called his
friend. He remembered their wild adventures and gay follies, in climes
where they had been all in all to each other; and the beardless boy,
whose heart and purse were ever open to him, and to whose very errors of
youth and inexperienced passion he, the elder and the wiser, had led and
tempted, rose before him in contrast to the grave and melancholy air of
the battled and solitary man, who now slowly approached him,--the man
whose proud career he had served to thwart, whose heart his schemes had
prematurely soured, whose best years had been consumed in exile,--a
sacrifice to the grave which a selfish and dishonourable villany had
prepared! Cesarini, the inmate of a mad-house, Florence in her
shroud,--such were the visions the sight of Maltravers conjured up. And
to the soul which the unwonted and momentary remorse awakened, a boding
voice whispered, "And thinkest thou that thy schemes shall prosper, and
thy aspirations succeed?" For the first time in his life, perhaps, the
unimaginative Vargrave felt the mystery of a presentiment of warning and
of evil.
The two men met, and with an emotion which seemed that of honest and real
feeling, Lumley silently held out his hand, and half turned away his
head.
"Lord Vargrave!" said Maltravers, with an equal agitation, "it is long
since we have encountered."
"Long,--very long," answered Lumley, striving hard to regain his
self-possession; "years have changed us both; but I trust it has still
left in you, as it has in me, the remembrance of our old friendship."
Maltravers was silent, and Lord Vargrave continued,--
"You do not answer me, Maltravers. Can political differences, opposite
pursuits, or the mere lapse of time, have sufficed to create an
irrevocable gulf between us? Why may we not be friends again?"
"Friends!" echoed Maltravers; "at our age that word is not so lightly
spoken, that tie is not so unthinkingly formed, as when we were younger
men."
"But may not the old tie be renewed?"
"Our ways in life are different; and were I to scan your motives and
career with the scrutinizing eyes of friendship, it might only serve to
separate us yet more. I am sick of the great juggle of ambition, and I
have no sympathy left for those who creep into the pint-bottle, or
swallow the naked sword."
"If you despise the exhibition, why, then, let us laugh at it together,
for I am as cynical as yourself."
"Ah," said Maltravers with a smile, half mournful, half bitter, "but are
you not one of the Impostors?"
"Who ought better to judge of the Eleusiniana than one of the Initiated?
But seriously, why on earth should political differences part private
friendship? Thank Heaven! such has never been my maxim."
"If the differences be the result of honest convictions on either
side,--no; but are you honest, Lumley?"
"Faith, I have got into the habit of thinking so; and habit's a second
nature. However, I dare say we shall yet meet in the arena, so I must
not betray my weak points. How is it, Maltravers, that they see so
little of you at the rectory? You are a great favourite there. Have you
any living that Charley Merton could hold with his own? You shake your
head. And what think you of Miss Cameron, my intended?"
"You speak lightly. Perhaps you--"
"Feel deeply,--you were going to say. I do. In the hand of my ward,
Evelyn Cameron, I trust to obtain at once the domestic happiness to which
I have as yet been a stranger, and the wealth necessary to my career."
Lord Vargrave continued, after a short pause, "Though my avocations have
separated us so much, I have no doubt of her steady affection,--and, I
may add, of her sense of honour. She alone can repair to me what else
had been injustice in my uncle." He then proceeded to repeat the moral
obligations which the late lord had imposed on Evelyn,--obligations that
he greatly magnified. Maltravers listened attentively, and said little.
"And these obligations being fairly considered," added Vargrave, with a
smile, "I think, even had I rivals, that they could scarcely in honour
attempt to break an existing engagement."
"Not while the engagement lasted," answered Maltravers; "not till one or
the other had declined to fulfil it, and therefore left both free: but I
trust it will be an alliance in which all but affection will be
forgotten; that of honour alone would be but a harsh tie."
"Assuredly," said Vargrave; and, as if satisfied with what had passed, he
turned the conversation,--praised Burleigh, spoke of county matters,
resumed his habitual gayety, though it was somewhat subdued, and
promising to call again soon, he at last took his leave.
Maltravers pursued his solitary rambles, and his commune with himself was
stern and searching.
"And so," thought he, "this prize is reserved for Vargrave! Why should I
deem him unworthy of the treasure? May he not be worthier, at all
events, than this soured temper and erring heart? And he is assured too
of her affection! Why this jealous pang? Why can the fountain within
never be exhausted? Why, through so many scenes and sufferings, have I
still retained the vain madness of my youth,--the haunting susceptibility
to love? This is my latest folly."