CHAPTER IIL

“ But come, thou Goddess, fair and free, In heaven yclept Euphrosyne !
To hear the lark begin his flight, And, singing, startle the dul hy night. ”_[) Allegro,
6*But come, thou Goddess, sage and holy, Come, divinest Melancholy ! * * * alas * There held in holy passion still, Forget thyself to marble.” —// Penseroso,.
THE early morn of early spring-—what associations of eshness and hope in that single sentence! And there—a e after sunrise—there was Evelyn, fresh and hopeful as the orning itself, bounding with the light step of a light heart over ie lawn. Alone—alone! no governess, with a pinched nose a sharp voice, to curb her graceful movements, and tell her young ladies ought to walk. How silentiy morning stole r the earth! It was as if youth had the day and the world itself. The shutters of the cottage were still closed, and velyn cast a glance upward, to assure herself that her mother, also rose betimes, was not yet stirring. So she tripped ng, singing ‘from very glee, to secure a companion, and let it Sultan; and, a few moments afterwards, they were scouring + the grass, and descending the rude steps that wound down cliff to the smooth sea-sands. Evelyn was still a child at att: yet somewhat more than a child in mind. In the ajesty of
> “‘ That hollow, sounding, and mysterious main —”
felt those deep and tranquillising influences which belong to the Religion of Nature. Unconsciously to herself, her sweet face | grew more thoughtful, and her step more slow. What a com- plex thing is education! How many circumstances, that have no connection with books and tutors, contribute to the rearing of the human mind!—the earth, and the sky, and the ocean, were among the teachers of Evelyn Cameron; and beneaiiall her simplicity of thought was daily filled, fom the urns of invisible spirits, the fountain of the poetry of feeling. "4 This was the hour when Evelyn most sensibly felt how little — 4 our real life is chronicled by external events—how much we live a second and a higher life in our meditations and dreams. Brought up, not more by precept than example, in the faith which unites creature and Creator, this was the hour in which — thought itself had something of the holiness of prayer; and if (turning from dreams divine to earthlier visions) this also was — the hour in which the heart painted and peopled its own fairy-— land below—of the two ideal worlds that stretch beyond the — inch of time on which we stand, Imagination is perhaps holier — than memory. : So now, as the day crept on, Evelyn returned in a more sober ft mood, and then she joined her mother and Mrs. Leslie at break- — fast ; and then the household cares—such as they were—devolved _ upon her, heiress though she was; and, that duty done, once — more the straw hat and Sultan were in requisition ; and, opening — a little gate at the back of the cottage, she took the path along — : the village churchyard that led to the house of the old curate. — The burial-ground itself was surrounded and shut in with a belts of trees. Save the small time-discoloured church, and the roofs — of the cottage and the minister’s house, no building—not even — a cotter’s hut—was visible there. Beneath a dark and single yew-tree in the centre of the ground, was placed a rude seat; opposite to this seat was a grave, distinguished from the rest by a slight palisade. As the young Evelyn passed slowly by this spot, a glove on the long damp grass beside the yew-tree caught her eye. She took it up and sighed—it was her mother’s. ©
‘perienced should be sad. And now Evelyn had passed the churchyard, and was on the sreen turf before the minister’s quaint, old-fashioned house.
_ The old man himself was at work in his garden; but: he threw down his hoe as he saw Evelyn, and came cheerfully “up to greet her.
It was easy to see how dear she was to him.
_ “So you are come for your daily lesson, my young pupil ?”
- “Yes; but Tasso can wait if the——”
_ “Tf the tutor wants to play truant; no, my child ;—and, indeed, the lesson must be longer than usual to-day, for I fear I shall have to leave you to-morrow for some days.”
4 4 “Leave us! why ?—leave Brook-Green—impossible !”
_ “Not at all impossible ; for we have now a new vicar, and I ust turn courtier in my old age, and ask him to leave me with my flock. He is at Weymouth, and has written to me to visit him there. So, Miss ee I must give you a holiday task to learn while I am away.”
__ Evelyn brushed the tears from her eyes—for when the heart s full of affection the eyes easily run over—and clung mourn- ly to the old man, as she gave utterance to all her half- hildish, half-womanly grief at the thought of parting so soon th him. And what, too, could her mother do without him? nd why could he not write to the vicar instead of going o him?
- Thecurate, who was childless and a bachelor, was not insensible- to the fondness of his beautiful pupil, and perhaps he himself as a little more distrait than usual that morning, or else Evelyn was peculiarly inattentive; for certain it is that she eaped very little benefit from the lesson.
Yet he was an admirable teacher, that old man! Aware of velyn’s quick, susceptible, and rather fanciful character of nind, he had sought less to curb, than to refine and elevate e rimagination. Himself of no ordinary abilities, which leisure
os
\ a
heh ae
ful to exclude iterate leavers Dest He Hone the i of
of Nature.
religion. And under his care Evelyn’s mind had been dul stored with the treasures of modern genius, and her judgme strengthened by the criticisms of a graceful and generous taste.
In that sequestered hamlet, the young heiress had bee trained to adorn her future station; to appreciate the arts and elegances that distinguish (no matter what the rank) the refined from the low, better than if she had been brought up under the hundred-handed Briareus of fashionable education, Lady Vargrave, indeed, like most persons of modest pretensions and —
imperfect cultivation, was rather inclined to overrate the 2
advantages to be derived from book-knowledge, and she was never better pleased than when she saw Evelyn opening ihe monthly parcel from London, and delightedly poring over — volumes which Lady Vargrave innocently believed to be reservoirs of inexhaustible wisdom. sr But this day Evelyn would not read, and the golden verses 4 of Tasso lost their music to her ear. So the curate gave up the — lecture, and placed a little programme of studies, to be conned during his absence in her reluctant hand; and Sultan, who had — been wistfully licking his paws for the last half-hour, sprang — up and caracoled once more into the garden—and the old — priest and the young woman left the works of man for those
oe ony
“Do not fear, I will take such care of your garden while you are away,” said Evelyn; “and you must write and let us know - what day you are to come back.” . 4
“My dear Evelyn, you are born to spoil every one — from : Sultan to Aubrey.”
“And to be spoilt too, don’t forget that,” cried Evelyn
laughingly shaking back her ringlets. “And now, before you |
go, will you tell me, as you are so wise, what I can do to make — —to make—my mother love me?” “a
Evelyn’s voice faltered as she spoke the last words, and Aubrey looked surprised and moved. 4
“Your mother love you, my dear Evelyas What do you mean—does she not love you?”
e her eshet is kind and gentle, I know, fo she is so » to all; but she does not confide in me—she does not ist me; she es some sorrow at heart which I am never allowed to learn and soothe. Why does she avoid all mention _of her early days? she never talks to me as if she, too, had once mother! Why am I never to speak of her first marriage— f my father? Why does she look reproachfully at me, and — un me—yes, shun me, for days together—if—if I attempt to — raw her to the Beet ? Is there a secret ?—if so, am I not old — nough to know it?” — : Evelyn spoke quickly and nervously, and with quivering = ips. Aubrey took her hand, and pressing it, said, after a little ause, ; “Evelyn, this is the first time you have ever thus spoken to - e. Has anything chanced to arouse your—shall I call it — uriosity, or shall I call it the mortified pride of affection?” = “And you, too, are harsh; you blame me! No, it is true hat I have not thus spoken to you before; but I have long, ng thought with grief that I was insufficient to my mother’s — happiness—I who love her so dearly. And now, since Mrs, eslie has been here, I find her conversing with this comparative tranger so much more confidentially than with me ;—when I ome in unexpectedly, they cease their conference, as if I were ot worthy to share it; and—and oh, if I could but make you nderstand that all I desire is that my mother should love e, and know me, and trust me—”
“ Evelyn,” said the curate, coldly, “ you love your mother, and ustly ; a kinder and a gentler heart than hers does not beat ina uman breast. Her first wish in life is for your happiness and - welfare. You ask for confidence, but why not confide in her? hy not believe her actuated by the best and the tenderest notives? why not leave it to her discretion to reveal to you ‘any secret grief, if such there be, that preys upon her? why add to that grief by any selfish indulgence of over-susceptibility in ourself? My dear pupil, you are yet almost a child ; and they ho have sorrowed may well be reluctant to sadden with a 1elancholy confidence those to whom sorrow is yet unknown, This much, at least, I may tell you—for this much she does not
from which you, more happy, have been saved. She speaks not — to you of her relations, for she has none left on earth, And ~ after her marriage with your benefactor, Evelyn, perhaps it — seemed to her a matter of principle to banish all vain regret, all — _ remembrance if possible, of an earlier tie.”
“My poor, poor mother! Oh, yes, you are right; forgive me. She yet mourns, perhaps, my father, whom I never saw, whom I s feel, as it were, tacitly forbid to name—you did not know ~ him?” =
“Him !—whom?’ — “My father, my mother’s first husband.” 2 “ No.”
“But I am sure I could not have loved him so well as my ~ benefactor, my real and second father, who is now dead and — gone. Oh, how well I remember /zm—how fondly!” Here] Evelyn stopped and burst into tears.
“You do right to remember him thus; to love and revere his — memory—a father indeed he was to you. But now, Evelyn, my own dear child, hear me. Respect the silent heart of your mother; let her not think that her misfortunes, whatever they may be, can cast a shadow over you—you, her last hope and blessing. Rather than seek to open the old wounds, suffer them to heal, as they must, beneath the influences of religion and time; and wait the hour when without, perhaps, too keen a grief, your mother can go back with you into the past.” =|
“T will,—I will. Oh, how wicked,—how ungracious I awe 3 been! it was but an excess of love, believe it, dear Mr. Ae believe it.”
3 : { a ag eg S = Oa 3 of 4 as 3 |
may trust in you. “Osea dry those: Hohl eyes, or they will think I have been a hard taskmaster, and let us go to the | cottage.” “~ They walked slowly: and silently across the humble pardeaa ‘ into the churchyard, and there, by the old yew-tree, they saw. Lady Vargrave. Evelyn fearful that the traces of her tears were yet visible, drew back; and Aubrey, aware of what passed 3 + within her, said,—
iidiiie :
poor meen ioners in the bs Boga ye Newent is so anxious to” you—we will join you there soon.’ Evelyn smiled her ‘thanks, and kissing her hand to her mothen th seeming gaiety, turned back and passed through the glebe — to the little village. Aubrey joined Lady Vargrave, and drew — A er arm in his. Meanwhile Evelyn thoughtfully pursued her way. Her heart was full, and of self-reproach. Her mother had, then, known use for sorrow; and, perhaps, her reserve was but occasioned her reluctance to pain her child. Oh, how doubly anxious — uld Evelyn be hereafter to soothe, to comfort, to wean that ar mother from the past! Though in this girl’s character here was something of the impetuosity and thoughtlessness of ,her years, it was noble as well as soft; and now the woman’s stfulness conquered all the woman’s curiosity. She entered the cottage of the old bedridden crone whom ubrey had referred to. It was as a gleam of sunshine that sweet comforting face; and here, seated by the old woman’s ide, with the Book of the Poor upon her lap, Evelyn was found Lady Vargrave. It was curious to observe the different impressions upon the cottagers made by the mother and daughter. Both were beloved with almost equal enthusiasm ; t with the first the poor felt more at home. They could alk to her more at ease: she understood them so much more uickly ; they had no need to beat about the bush to tell the ittle peevish complaints that they were half-ashamed to utter o Evelyn. What seemed so light to the young, cheerful eauty, the mother listened to with so grave and sweet a yatience. When all went right, they rejoiced to see Evelyn; t in their little difficulties and sorrows, nobody was like “my ‘ood Lady !” . So Dame Newman, the moment she saw the pale countenance d graceful shape of Lady Vargrave at the threshold, uttered exciamation of delight. Now she could let out all that she not like to trouble the young lady with; now she could : omplain of east winds, and rheumatiz, and the parish officers, a B
and ie bad tea they sold poor eee at Mr. Hart's shop, the ungrateful grandson who was so well to do and who for: he had a grandmother alive | .