[Illustration:
Eng^d. by W. G. Jackman, N.Y. from a Miniature by Thorburn.
NEW YORK, CARLETON, PUBLISHER, 1863.
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
WANDERINGS OF A BEAUTY.
A Tale
OF
THE REAL AND THE IDEAL.
BY
+MRS+. +EDWIN JAMES+.
“O tu, eui feo la sorte
Dono infelice di belezza, ond’hai
Funesta dote, d’infiniti guai.”
FILICAJA.
[Illustration]
New York:
_Carleton, Publisher, 413 Broadway_.
(LATE RUDD & CARLETON.)
MDCCCLXIII.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863,
+BY+ +GEO. W. CARLETON+,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Southern District of
New York.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO
SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER LYTTON, BART.,
IN TOKEN OF
PROFOUND ADMIRATION FOR HIS GENIUS,
AND
SYMPATHY WITH HIS OPINIONS,
THIS WORK
+Is Inscribed+,
BY
THE AUTHOR.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
----------
CHAPTER PAGE
I.—Introductory 9
II.—Courtship 18
III.—The Stepfather 28
IV.—The Bridal 36
V.—A Railway Journey 43
VI.—Home Scenes 50
VII.—Presentation to the Queen 59
VIII.—Foreign Travel 68
IX.—Florence 76
X.—Coquetry 85
XI.—First Love 95
XII.—Death 105
XIII.—Naples and the Neapolitans 112
XIV.—I Promessi Sposi 120
XV.—The Grotto of Egeria 127
XVI.—Rossini 136
XVII.—The Star of Destiny 145
XVIII.—A Serious Chapter 153
XIX.—Leaves from a Lady’s Diary 161
XX.—The Sister of Mercy 170
XXI.—Ella 177
XXII.—The Proposal 184
XXIII.—Loved in Vain 193
XXIV.—Correspondence 200
XXV.—The Baronet 207
XXVI.—Three Months of Married Life 215
XXVII.—Fifth Avenue Hotel 225
XXVIII.—Shadows 230
XXIX.—Foregleams 236
XXX.—Conclusion 242
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
EVELYN TRAVERS;
OR,
+WANDERINGS OF A BEAUTY+.
----------
CHAPTER I.
+INTRODUCTORY+
ALTHOUGH linked by no ties of kindred to the fair subject of this
biographical sketch, the author may at least claim to have loved her
with a love passing that of a sister—to have fully appreciated her rare
endowments of mind and person, and, alas! to have had too frequent
occasion to chide her girlish follies, and, in after life, to weep over
her more womanly failings. Beauty has ever, and justly, been styled “a
fatal gift.” From the classic Helen to the lovely and unhappy Mary
Stuart, and in more modern times the matchless and queenly Antoinette of
France all these, and others of lesser note, have furnished us with
abundant examples of the cruel destiny of those who possess this much
coveted distinction. For my part, I can only be too thankful for having
been endowed by nature with a face which the most indulgent of my
friends could but term pleasing, and which a casual acquaintance might
call plain. Enemies I never had; I was not sufficiently handsome.
When I first met Evelyn Travers we were both inmates of a Parisian
“Pension de demoiselles.” Although four years my junior, her precocious
intellect and superior talents led her to prefer the society of the
elder girls to that of those of her own age. Our mutual passion for
music threw us constantly together, and another circumstance contributed
still further to cement a friendship which has never since diminished.
We were both alone in the world. My own beloved parents I had lost. My
father fell in India, in the field, and my broken-hearted mother only
survived her voyage homeward to expire in the arms of her only child. It
was at that time of bitter trial, that the loving devotion of Evelyn to
her friend earned for her a debt of gratitude which can never be repaid.
For days and nights did my sweet young nurse watch by my bedside. I
would take neither medicine nor sustenance, except from her hands. It is
enough to say that I recovered, and have since centered all the
affection of my heart on the gentle and tender being to whom I owe my
life. She, poor child, was equally alone with myself. A father’s love
she had never known, for Mr. Travers died when his only child was an
infant; and his young widow, in a too hasty second union forgot her duty
towards her first-born, and placed her exclusive affection on the young
progeny with which she was annually blessing her second husband. The
mother of Evelyn, being a woman of a very inferior order of mind to her
daughter, with the best intentions in the world could never have duly
appreciated her. One very sore subject with the Dale family was the
knowledge that Evelyn must eventually inherit the whole of her mother’s
jointure, in addition to her own fortune, while the sole heritage of her
half-brothers and sisters would be the paternal debts, which were
considerable. All these circumstances combined to induce the unloved
girl to centre her heart anywhere rather than on her nearest kindred;
she felt that even school was more to her like home than the house of
her stepfather, and dreaded the hour when she would be forced to leave
the shelter of its walls for so uncongenial a spot as Warenne Vicarage.
How often in the quiet noon, or in the fragrant August evenings of our
brief autumn vacation, have we together paced the gravelled path of the
school garden, as I with friendly counsels enforced by my four years’
seniority, endeavored to reconcile the weeping child to her lot, to
impress upon her mind the duty of seeking the flowers that grow by the
pathway of life rather than the thorns, with which they are ever
intermingled. I must not, however, omit to describe my heroine, whom I
confess to have regarded with eyes somewhat partial—for to me she was
the type of all that is most lovely in woman. Imagine, then, features of
such faultless regularity that except in a statue, rarely, if ever, have
I looked upon their like—a complexion slightly tinged with brown, but so
transparent that the color deepened at every movement, and varied with
each passing word. Pencilled brows, overarching long almond-shaped eyes,
whose predominant expression in repose was one of pensive
thoughtfulness, but which in moments of mirth, actually sparkled and
danced with fun, as the dimples of laughter broke over her cheek, and
the lips parted to show the pearls within. Imagine, too, hair of the
softest texture, and of that peculiar shade of brown which looks bright
in the sunbeam, but dark in the shade, and a fairy figure which if as
yet somewhat too thin, gave full promise in after life, of ripening into
the rounded perfection of maturity. Such is the portrait of Evelyn
Travers, when in her sixteenth year she left school, and, accompanied by
her faithful mentor, (as she would playfully term me) returned to the
residence of her mother.
Warenne Vicarage was a fine old house, full of queer old gables, built
in what is termed the Elizabethian style. It stood far back in its own
grounds, which were parcelled out into flower garden, orchard, and
vegetable garden—also there was a charming walk called “the glebe,” a
series of meadows sloping upward, bounded by a pleasant green path and a
hedge fragrant with the sweetbrier-rose and eglantine. In this lover’s
walk, did we two friends pass many a long hour, weaving sweet fancies,
as hope, that lovely but deceitful syren, lifted for us, with fairy
wand, the curtain of futurity. Happy is it for us, that in youth, the
far-off horizon ever appears to be bathed in sunshine! In the dawn of
life we are like a rose, our illusions the leaves; these drop, one by
one, as we bear the burden and heat of the day—and in the evening who
would recognize that flower which looked so lovely, and yielded so sweet
a perfume, when sprinkled with the dew of earliest morning? In truth, a
little poesy was needed, to enable us to support our surroundings with
becoming philosophy. The Rev. Mr. Dale, the Vicar, had in his younger
days been a military man, and even in the army had the reputation of
being _fast_. Indeed, so fast had he been, that it was as a ruined
spendthrift that he addressed the handsome, but imprudent young widow,
who later became his wife. We fear that in the eyes of the admiring
lover the lady’s jointure was by no means the least of her attractions.
“_Veni, Vidi, Vici_,” was his watchword, and in less than six weeks from
the commencement of their acquaintance the happy pair entered into the
bliss of the honey-moon. Matrimony somewhat sobers a man. The reckless
spendthrift remembering the old adage, “The greater the sinner the
greater the saint,” commenced studying divinity, with a view to entering
the church; for, as his newly-made wife very justly observed to her
lord, “A nice parsonage would save house-rent.” In less than two years,
therefore, Mr. and Mrs. Dale were installed in a small house attached to
a curacy.
As time passed onward the reverend gentleman began to evince decided Low
Church tendencies; the reason of this became shortly apparent on his
receiving from an evangelical elderly maiden lady in the parish, the
presentation to a very fat living, which was intended as a provision for
her Puseyite nephew, who was by reason of his disappointment driven into
the arms of the Church of Rome. From this moment the Vicar became quite
a saint—in his own estimation at least—and to prove his “title to the
skies” he condemned every one who did not share his theological opinions
to the infernal regions.—Here let me make one observation, which is that
although I have met many of all creeds, who devoutly believe in eternal
punishment—_for their neighbors_—and who are quite annoyed if any
presume to throw a doubt on this dogma of their several churches, I have
never as yet met _one_ who expected _himself_ to be eternally lost, or
who did not profess the hope of salvation he denied to others.
Accordingly the Vicar asserted about seven times a day on an average,
that _he_ was _sure_ of Heaven whatever he had done, or might yet do,
because _Christ died for him_. This pernicious doctrine is, sad to say,
frequently held by what in England is termed the Low Church or
evangelical party, in contradistinction to the High Church and
Puseyites, who are considered, especially the latter, to favor too much
the Romish doctrine of the necessity of good works. All our neighbors,
no matter how amiable or charitable, were pitilessly black-balled by Mr.
Dale as children of the Evil One. Alas, that a minister of our Divine
Master should so far forget that great precept, “Judge not that ye be
not judged.” Alas! that he should thus ignore the apostolic teachings
and forget that “charity _thinketh no evil_.” Our society was naturally
much restricted; two or three half-starved curates and a few
long-visaged ladies of “undoubted piety” were alone permitted
occasionally to taste of the hospitality of the Vicar. Hence too we were
condemned to be present at long family prayers, with scripture
expoundings, and nasal hymn-singing twice a day. A lecture in church, a
couple of prayer-meetings, and another to consider prophecy, we were
also expected to attend every week in the cottage of some elect brother
or sister.
Evelyn, ever impetuous, almost took a disgust to Religion held up to her
example in so distasteful a form. She was young and ardent, and her
judgment was that of a child. “Oh, Mary!” she would exclaim, “CAN Heaven
be made up of such people?—if so, surely, surely it will not be a very
pleasant place.” In after years my readers will perceive that the
sentiments of my by no means faultless heroine were greatly modified on
many subjects.
Thus passed the summer and autumn. I had arranged (by the payment of a
small annual sum) to make my friend’s home my own. I confess to
entertaining the hope, that Evelyn, surrounded by such uncongenial
spirits, would remain unmarried at least four or five years, when, in my
girlish ideas, I considered we should, or certainly I should, be very
old, and sufficiently steady, having joined our incomes, to fly away
together to sunny Italy. It was, however, otherwise ordained.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------