CHAPTER IV.

6¢T canna chuse, but ever will Be luving to thy father still, Whaireir he gae, whaireir he ryda, My luve with him imaun still abyde 3 In weil or wae, whaireir he gae, Mine heart can neir depart him frae.” Lavy ANNE BoTHWELL’s Lament.
= It may be remembered, that in the earlier part of this - continuation of the history of Maltravers it was stated that | Aubrey had in early life met with the common lot of a disap- _ pointed affection. Eleanor Westbrook, a young woman of his ‘own humble rank, had won, and seemed to return, his love; but of that love she was not worthy. Vain, volatile, and ambitious, she forsook the poor student for a more brilliant marriage. She accepted the hand of a merchant, who was caught by her beauty, nd who had the reputation of great wealth. They settled in ondon, and Aubrey lost all traces of her. She gave birth to an only daughter: and when that child had attained her
urteenth year, her husband suddenly, and seemingly without cause, put an end to his existence. The cause, however, was
al AA2
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apparent before he was laid in his grave. He was involved
far beyond his fortune—he had died to escape beggary and a gaol. A small annuity, not exceeding one hundred pounds, had been secured on the widow. On this income she retired with her child into the country ; and chance, the vicinity of sone distant connections and the cheapness of the place, concurred to fix her residence in the outskirts of the town of C——, Characters that in youth had been most volatile and most worldly, often when bowed down and dejected by the adversity which they are not fitted to encounter, become the most morbidly devout; they ever require an excitement, and when earth denies, they seek it impatiently from Heaven.
This was the case with Mrs. Westbrook; and this new turn of mind brought her naturally into contact with the principal saint of the neighbourhood, Mr. Richard Temple- ton. We have seen that that gentleman was not happy in his first marriage; death had not then annulled the bond.
Peete
He was of an ardent and sensual temperament, and quietly, —
under the broad cloak of his doctrines, he indulged his consti- tutional tendencies. Perhaps in this respect he was not worse than nine men out of ten. But then he professed to be better than nine hindred thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a million! To a fault of temperament was added the craft of hypocrisy, and the vulgar error became a dangerous vice. Upon Mary Westbrook, the widow’s daughter, he gazed
with eyes that were far from being the eyes of the spirit. Even 2 at the age of fourteen she charmed him—but when, after —
watching her ripening beauty expand, three years were added —
to that age, Mr. Templeton was most deeply in love. Mary was indeed lovely—her disposition naturally good and gentle, but
her education worse than neglected. To the frivolities and —
meannesses of a second-rate fashion, inculcated into her till her
father’s death, had now succeeded the quackeries, the slavish :
subservience, the intolerant bigotries, of a transcendental super-
stition. In a change so abrupt and violent, the whole character —
of the poor girl was shaken; her principles unsettled, vague and unformed, and naturally of mediocre and even feeble intellect,
_she clung to the first plank held out to her in “that wide sea of
wax” in which “she halted.” Early taught to place the most
implicit faith in the dictates of Mr. Templeton—fastening her _ belief round him as the vine winds its tendrils round the oak— yielding to his ascendency, and pleased with his fostering and _ almost caressing manner—no confessor in Papal Italy ever was _ more dangerous to village virtue than Richard Templeton (who _ deemed himself the archetype of the only pure Protestantism) to the morals and heart of Mary Westbrook. Mrs. Westbrook, whose constitution had been prematurely broken by long participation in the excesses of London dissi- pation, and by the reverse of fortune which still preyed upon a spirit it had rather soured than humbled, died when Mary was eighteen. Templeton became the sole friend, comforter, and ‘supporter of the daughter.
In an evil hour (let us trust not from premeditated villany) —an hour when the heart of one was softened by grief and gratitude, and the conscience of the other laid asleep by passion, the virtue of Mary Westbrook was betrayed. Her sorrow and - remorse—his own fears of detection and awakened self-reproach, occasioned Templeton the most anxious and poignant regret. There had been a young woman in Mrs. Westbrook’s service, who had left it a short time before the widow died, in consequence of her marriage. Her husband ill-used her; and glad to escape from him and prove her gratitude to her employer’s daughter, of whom she had been extremely fond, she had returned to _ Miss Westbrook after the funeral of her mother. The name of this woman was Sarah Miles. Templeton saw that Sarah more than suspected his connection with Mary—it was necessary to ‘make a confidant—he selected her. Miss Westbrook was re- “moved to a distant part of the country, and Templeton visited her cautiously and rarely. Four months afterwards, Mrs. Temple- ton died, and the husband was free to repair his wrong. Oh! how he then repented of what had passed—but four months’ delay, and all this sin and sorrow might have been saved! He was now racked with perplexity and doubt: his unfortunate victim was advanced in her pregnancy. It was necessary, if he wished his child to be legitimate—still more if he wished to preserve the honour of its mother—that he should not hesitate
— ——_.
long in the reparation to which duty and conscience urged him, But on the other hand—he, the saint—the oracle—the immacu- ~ late example for all forms, proprieties, and decorums, to scandalize — the world by so rapid and premature a hymen—
** Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing i in his galled eyes, To marry
No! he could not brave the sneer of the gossips—the triumph of his foes—the dejection of his disciples, by so rank and rash 4 a folly. But still Mary pined so, he feared for her health—for ‘. his own unborn offspring. There was a middle path—a com- promise between duty and the world: he grasped at it as, most men similarly situated would have done—they were married, but privately, and under feigned names: the secret was kept close. Sarah Miles was the only witness acquainted with the real condition and names of the parties. ‘=
Reconciled to herself, the bride recovered health and spirits— q Templeton formed the most sanguine hopes. He resolved, as q i
soon as the confinement was over, to go abroad—Mary should — follow—in a foreign land they should be publicly married—they would remain some years on the Continent—when he returned, © his child’s age could be put back a year. Oh, nothing could be more clear and easy ! 2
Death shivered into atoms all the plans of Mr. Tenpiete : Mary suffered most severely in childbirth, and died a few weeks _ afterwards. Templeton, at first, was inconsolable, but worldly — thoughts were great comforters. He had done all that con- — science could do to atone a sin, and he was freed from a most _ embarrassing dilemma, and from a temporary banishment — utterly uncongenial and unpalatable to his habits and ideas. — But now he had a child—a legitimate child—successor to his name, his wealth—a first-born child—the only one ever sprung _ from him-—the prop and hope of advancing years! On this = child he doted with all that paternal passion which the hardest — and coldest men often feel the most for their own flesh and blood _ ~—for fatherly love is sometimes but a transfer of sel-love from ene fund to another,
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Yet this child—this darling that he longed to show to the whole world—it was absolutely necessary, for the present, that — he should conceal and disown. It had happened that Sarah’s husband died of his own excesses a few weeks before the birth — of Templeton’s child, she having herself just recovered from her confinement; Sarah was therefore free for ever from her _ husband's vigilance and control. To her care the destined heiress was committed, and her own child put out to nurse. _ And this was the woman and this the child who had excited so 2 much benevolent curiosity in the breasts of the worthy clergy- man and the three old maids of C——.! Alarmed at Sarah’s account of the scrutiny of the parson, and at his own rencontre with that hawk-eyed pastor, Templeton lost no time in changing the abode of the nurse—and to her new residence had the banker bent his way, with rod and angle, on that evening» which witnessed his adventure with Luke Darvil.2 When Mr. Templeton first met Alice, his own child was only about _ thirteen or fourteen months old—but little older than Alice’s. - If the beauty of Mrs. Leslie’s protégde first excited his coarser nature, her maternal tenderness, her anxious care for her little one, struck a congenial chord in the father’s heart. It connected him with her by a mute and unceasing sympathy. Templeton had felt so deeply the alarm and pain of illicit love—he had been (as he profanely believed) saved from the brink of public shame by so signal an interference of grace, that he resolved no more to hazard his good name and his peace of mind upon such “perilous rocks. The dearest desire at his heart was to have his daughter under his roof—to fondle, to play with her—to watch her growth—to win her affection. This, at present, seemed impossible. But if he were to marry—marry a widow, to whom he might confide all, or a portion, of the truth—if that child ~ could be passed off as hers—ah, that was the best plan! And Templeton wanted a wife! Years were creeping on him and the day would come when a wife would be useful as a nurse. But Alice was supposed to be a widow; and Alice was so meek, so docile, so motherly. If she could be induced to remove from
2 sy 4
1 See Ernest Maltravers, Book iv., p. 170. 8 Jbid., Book iv., p. 186.
C , either part with her own child or call it her niece,—and — adopt his. Such, from time to time, were Templeton’s thoughts, as he visited Alice, and found, with every visit, fresh evidence of her tender and beautiful disposition—such the objects which, in the First Part of this work, we intimated were different from
those of mere admiration for her beauty! But again, worldly
doubts and fears—the dislike of so unsuitable an alliance—the
worse than lowness of Alice’s origin—the dread of discovery for her early error—held him back, wavering and irresolute. To say truth, too, her innocence and purity of thought kept him at a certain distance. He was acute enough to see that he—even he, the great Richard Templeton, might be refused by the faithful Alice.
At last Darvil was dead—he breathed more freely—he revolved more seriously his projects; and, at this time, Sarah, wooed by her first lover, wished to marry again ;—his secret would pass from “her breast to her second husband’s, and thence how far would it travel? Added to this, Sarah’s conscience grew uneasy—the brand ought to be effaced from the memory of the dead mother—the legitimacy of the child proclaimed ; —she became importunate—she wearied and she alarmed the pious man. He therefore resolved to rid himself of the only witness to his marriage whose testimony he had cause to fear —of the presence of the only one acquainted with his sin and the real name of the husband of Mary Westbrook. He consented to Sarah’s marriage with William Elton, and offered — a liberal dowry on the condition that she should yield to the wish of Elton himself, an adventurous young man, who desired to try his fortunes in the New World. His daughter he must remove elsewhere.
While this was going on, Alice’s child, long delicate and — drooping, became seriously ill. Symptoms of decline appeared —the physician recommended a milder air, and Devonshire was _ suggested. Nothing could equal the generous, the fatherly
** Our banker always seemed more struck by Alice’s moral feelings than even by her physical beauty. Her love for her child, for instance, impressed him powerfully,” &c. “ His feelings altogether for Alice, the designs he entertained towards her, were of @ very complicated nature, and it will be long, perhaps, before the reader can thoroughly comprehend them,”—See Ernest Maltravers, Book iv., p, 183.
kindness which Templeton evinced on this most painful occasion. He insisted on providing Alice with the means to undertake the _ journey with ease and comfort; and poor Alice, with a heart _ heavy with gratitude and sorrow, consented for her child’s sake to all he offered.
Now the banker began to perceive that all his hopes and wishes were in good train. He foresaw that the child of Alice was doomed !—that was one obstacle out of the way. Alice herself was to be removed from the sphere of her humble
yy Sa ey
and under another name. Conformably to these views, he suggested to her that, in proportion to the seeming wealth
complaints. He proposed that Alice should depart privately to a town many miles off—that there he would provide for her a carriage, and engage a servant—that he would do this for her as for a.relation—and that she should take that relation’s name. To this, Alice, wrapt in her child, and submissive to all - that might be for the child’s benefit, passively consented. It was arranged then as proposed, and, under the name of Cameron, which, as at once a common yet a well-sounding name, occurred to his invention, Alice departed with her sick charge and a female attendant (who knew nothing of her previous calling or story), on the road to Devonshire. Templeton himself resolved ~ to follow her thither in a few days; and it was fixed that they _ should meet at Exeter.
It was on this melancholy journey that occurred that ‘memorable day when Alice once more beheld Maltravers ; and, as she believed, uttering the vows of love to another.' The indisposition of her child had delayed her some hours at the inn: the poor sufferer had fallen asleep; and Alice had stolen from its couch for a little while, when her eyes rested on the father. Oh, how then she longed,—she burned to tell him of the _ new sanctity, that, by a human life, had been added to their early love! And when, crushed and sick at heart, she turned away, and believed herself forgotten and replaced, it was the _ pride of the mother, rather than of the mistress, that supported
1 See Ernest Maltravers, Book v., p. 224.
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calling. Ina distant county she might appear of better station,
and respectability of patients, did doctors attend to their
ALICE; OR, T STERIES,
ed
her, She, meek creature, felt not the injury to herself; but his”
child: the sufferer—perhaps the dying one— ‘there, there was the wrong! No! she would not hazard the chance of a cold— great heaven! perchance an zucredulous—look upon the hushed, pale face above. But little time was left for thought — for
explanation—for discovery. She saw him,—unconscious of the _
ties so near, and thus lost—depart as a stranger from the spot; _and henceforth was gone the sweet hope of living for the future.
Nothing was left her but the pledge of that which had been.
Mournful, despondent, half broken-hearted, she resumed her
journey. At Exeter she was joined, as agreed, by Mr. Temple-
ton ; and with him came a fair, a blooming and healthful girl, to
contrast her own drooping charge. Though but a few weeks — older, you would have supposed the little stranger by a year the
senior of Alice’s child: the one was so well grown, so advanced ; the other so backward, so nipped in the sickly bud.
“You can repay me for all, for more than I have done; more than I ever can do for you and yours,” said Templeton, “by
taking this young stranger also under your care. It is the child —
of one dear, most dear to me; an orphan; I know not with whom else to place it. Let it for the present be supposed your own—the elder child.”
Alice could refuse nothing to her benefactor; but her heart did not open at first to the beautiful girl, whose sparkling eyes
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and rosy cheeks mocked the languid looks and faded hues of — |
her own darling. But the sufferer seemed to hail a playmate ;
it smiled, it put forth its poor, thin hands; it uttered its inarticue late cry of pleasure, and Alice burst into tears, and clasped them
both to her heart.
Mr. Templeton took care not to rest under the same roof with —
her he now seriously intended to make his wife; but he followed
Alice to the sea-side, and visited her daily. Her infant rallied : it was tenacious of the upper air; it clung to life~so fondly ; —
poor child, it could not foresee what a bitter thing to some of
us life is! And now it was that Templeton, learning from
Alice her adventure with her absent lover ; learning that all
; OES Pee PENT. A ee PO
hope in that quarter was gone—seized the occasion, and pressed his suit. Alice at the hour was overflowing with gratitude; in —
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-child’s re ng looks she read all her obligations to her — nefactor. But still, at the word Jove, at the name of marriage, her heart recoiled; and the lost, the faithless, came back to his: atal throne. In choked and broken accents, she startled the banker with the refusal; the faltering, tearful, but resolute -refusal—of his suit. a But Templeton brought new engines to work: he wooed her through her child; he painted all the brilliant prospects that ‘would open to the infant by her marriage with him. He would cherish, rear, provide for it as his own. This shook her resolves; — but this did not prevail. He had recourse to a more generous ppeal: he told her so much of his history with Mary Westbrook s commenced with his hasty and indecorous marriage; attri- uting the haste to love! made her comprehend his scréples in -ewning the child of a union the world would be certain to a idicule or condemn; he expatiated on the inestimable blessings she could afford him, by delivering him from all embarrassment, _and restoring his daughter, though under a borrowed name, to her father’s roof. At this Alice mused; at this she seemed irresolute, She had long seen how inexpressibly dear to Templeton was the child confided to her care: how he grew pale if the slightest ailment reached her; how he chafed at the
Li 7
fe
very wind if it visited her cheek too roughly; and she now "said to him simply :— |
“Ts your child, in truth, your dearest object in life? Is it 3 with her and her alone, that your dearest hopes are connected ?” “It is—it is indeed 1” said the banker, honestly surprised out of his gallantry: “at least,’ he added, recovering his self- possession, “as much so as is compatible with my affection for
you.”
Z “ And only if I marry you, and adopt her as my own, do you think that your secret may be safely kept, and all your wishes with respect to her be fulfilled ?”
i “Only so.”
_. “ And for that reason, chiefly, nay entirely, you condescend to forget what I have been, and seek my hand? Well, if that were all, I owe you too much; my poor babe tells me too loudly
_ what I owe you, to draw back from anything that can give yoy
i ae ALICE; OR, TH
| ae) blessed an enjoyment. Ah! one’s child! one’s own child,
under one’s own roof, it is such a blessing! But then, if I marry you, it can be only to secure to you that object; to be as a
mother to your child ; but wife only inname to you! Iam not — so lost as to despise myself. I know now, though I knew it not
at first, that I have been guilty; nothing can excuse that guilt
but fidelity to Zz#/ Oh, yes! I never, never can be unfaithful —
to my babe’s father! As for all else, dispose of me as you will.” And Alice, who from very innocence had uttered all this without a blush, now clasped her hands passionately, and left Templeton speechless with mortification and surprise.
When he recovered himself, he affected not to understand her; but Alice was not satisfied, and all further conversation ceased. He began slowly, and at last, and after repeated conferences and urgings, to comprehend how strange and stubborn in some points was the humble creature whom his proposals so highly honoured, Though his daughter was indeed his first object in life: though for her he was willing to make a mésalliance, the extent of which it would be incumbent on him studiously to conceal; yet still, the beauty of Alice awoke an earthlier
sentiment that he was not disposed to conquer. He was quite willing to make promises, and talk generously ; but when it came _
to an oath,—a solemn, a binding oath—and this Alice rigidly
exacted—he was startled, and drew back. Though hypocritical, , he was, as we have before said, a most sincere believer. He. might creep through a promise with unbruised conscience >. bute he was not one who could have dared to violate an oath, and > lay the load of perjury on his soul, Perhaps, after all, the union — never would have taken place, but Templeton fell ill ; that soft
and relaxing air did not agree with him; a low but dangerous fever seized him, and the worldly man trembled at the aspect of Death. It was in this illness that Alice nursed him with a
daughter’s vigilance and care ; and when at length he recovered, a
impressed with her zeal and kindness ; softened by illness ; afraid of the approach of solitary age,—and feeling more than ever his duties to his motherless child, he threw himself at Alice’s feet, and solemnly vowed all that she required,
It was during this residence in Devonshire, and especially :
: acquaintance of Mr. Aubrey. The good clergyman prayed with _
him by his sick-bed; and when Templeton’s danger was at its
- wrongs to Mary Westbrook. The name startled Aubrey ; and _when he learned that the lovely child who had so often sat on his knee, and smiled in his face, was the granddaughter of his first
and only love, he had a new interest in her welfare, a new reason to urge Templeton to reparation, a new motive to desire to
procure for the infant years of Eleanor’s grandchild the gentle care of the young mother, whose own bereavement he sorrow- fully foretold. Perhaps the advice and exhortations of Aubrey went far towards assisting the conscience of Mr. Templeton, and ~ reconciling him to the sacrifice ‘he made to his affection for his
solemnised and blessed the chill and barren union.
_ But now came a new and inexpressible affliction ; the child of Alice had rallied but for a time. The dread disease had but _dallied with its prey ; it came on with rapid and sudden force ; and within a month from the day that saw Alice the bride of Templeton, the last hope was gone, and the mother was bereft and childless!
shock of sympathy, an unwelcome event to the banker. Now dus child would be Alice’s sole care; now there could be no gossip, no suspicion why, in life and after death, he should prefer one _ child, supposed not his own, to the other.
He hastened to remove Alice from the scene of her affliction, He dismissed the solitary attendant who had accompanied her ~ on her journey; he bore his wife to London, and finally settled, as we have seen, at a villa in its vicinity. And there, more and more, day by day, centred his love upon the supposed daughter ‘of Mrs. Templeton, his darling and his heiress, the beautiful Evelyn Cameron.
For the first year or two, Templeton evinced some alarming dispositién to escape from the oath he had imposed upon himself; but on the slightest hint there was a sternness in the wife, in all else so respectful, so submissive, that repressed and
\
height, he sought to relieve his conscience by a confession of his | :
The blow that stunned Alice was not, after the first natural —
daughter. Be that as it may, he married Alice, and Aubrey —
awed him. She even threatened—and at one time was with | difficulty prevented carrying the threat into effect-—to leave his roof for ever, if there were the slightest question of the sanctity of his vow. Templeton trembled ; such a separation would ex: cite gossip, curiosity, scandal, a noise in the world, public ‘alk, possible discovery. Besides, Alice was necessary to Evelyn, necessary to his own comfort; something to scold in heaith, something to rely upon in illness. Gradually then, but sullenly, he reconciled himself to his lot, and as years and infirmities grew upon him, he was contented, at least, to have secured a faithful friend and an anxious nurse. Still a marriage of this sort was not blessed: Templeton’s vanity was wounded; his temper, | always harsh, was soured ; he avenged his affront by a thousand petty tyrannies ; and, without a murmur, Alice perhaps, in those _ years of rank and opulence, suffered more than in all her wanderings, with love at her heart and her infant in her arms.
Evelyn was to be the heiress to the wealth of the banker, But the ¢z¢/e of the new peer !—if he could unite wealth and title, and set the coronet on that young brow! This had led him to seek the alliance with Lumley. And on his death-bed, it was not the secret of Alice, but that of Mary Westbrook and his daughter, which he had revealed to his dismayed and astonished nephew, in excuse for the apparently unjust alienation of his property, and as the cause of the alliance he had sought.
While her husband, if husband he might be called, lived, Alice had seemed to bury in her bosom her regret—deep, mighty, passionate, as it was—for her lost child, the child of the unfor- gotten lover, to whom, through such trials, and amid such newties, she had been faithful from first to last. But when once more free, — her heart flew back to the far and lowly grave. Hence her yearly
visits to Brook-Green ; hence her purchase of the cottage, hallowed
by memories of the dead. There, on that lawn, had she borne forth the fragile form, to breathe the soft noontide air; there, in that chamber, had she watched, and hoped, and prayed, and despaired ; there, in that quiet burial-ground, rested the beloved dust! But Alice, even in her holiest feelings, was not selfish; she forbore to gratify the first wish of her heart till Evelyn’s —
education was sufficiently advanced to enable her to quit the
ighbourhood ; and then, to the Deiene of fee ere saw in _ Evelyn a fairer, and nobler, and purer Eleanor), she came to the — - solitary spot, which, in all the earth, was the /east¢ solitary to her! And now the image of the lover of her youth—which during her marriage she had sought, at least, to banish—returned to — her, and, at times, inspired her with the only hopes that the _ grave had not yet transferred to heaven! In relating her tale _to Aubrey or in conversing with Mrs. Leslie, whose friendship _ she still maintained, she found that both concurred in thinking _ that this obscure and wandering Butler, so skilled in an art in _which eminence in man is generally professional, must be of € mediocre, or perhaps humble, station. Ah! now that she was free and rich, if she were to meet him again, and his love was _ not all gone, and he would believe in 4er strange and constant — _ truth; now, /is infidelity could be forgiven—forgotten in the benefits it might be hers to bestow! and how, poor Alice, in _ that remote village, was chance to throw him in your way? _ She knew not: but something often whispered to her,—“ Again you shall meet those eyes; again you shall hear that voice; and you shall tell him, weeping on his breast, how you loved his child!” And would he not have forgotten her? would he not have formed new ties ?—could he read the loveliness of unchange- able affection in that pale and pensive face! Alas, when we — love intensely, it is difficult to make us fancy that there is no love in return ! The reader is acquainted with the adventures of Mrs, Elton, - the sole confidant of the secret union of Templeton and Evelyn's ‘mother. By a singular fatality, it was the selfish and character- istic recklessness of Vargrave that had, in fixing her home at - Burleigh, ministered to the revelation of his own villanous deceit. On returning to England she had inquired for Mr. Templeton; she had learned that he had married again, had been raised to the peerage under the title of Lord Vargrave, and __was gathered to his fathers. She had no claim on his widow or his family. But the unfortunate child who should have inherited his property, she could only suppose her dead. When she first saw Evelyn, she was startled by her likeness
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ALICE; OR, THE MYSTER : to her unfortunate mother. But the unfamiliar name of Cameron — the intelligence received from Maltravers that Evelyn’s mother still lived—dispelled her suspicions: and
though at times the resemblance haunted her, she doubted and
inquired no more. In fact, her own infirmities grew upon her, and pain usurped her thoughts.
Now it so happened, that the news of the engagement of Maltravers to Miss Cameron became known to the county but a little time before he arrived—for news travels slow from the Continent to our provinces—and, of course, excited all the comment of the villagers. Her nurse repeated the tale to Mrs. Elton, who instantly remembered the name, and recalled the resemblance of Miss Cameron to the unfortunate Mary Westbrook.
“And,” said the gossiping nurse, “she was engaged, they say, to a great lord, and gave him up for the squire—a great lord in the court, who had been staying at Parson Merton’s !—Lord Vargrave !”
“Lord Vargrave!” exclaimed Mrs. Elton, remembering the title to which Mr. Templeton had been raised.
“Yes; they do say as how the late lord left Miss Cameron ali his money—such a heap of it—though she was not his child— over the head of his nevy, the present lord, on the understand- ing like that they were to be married when she came of age, But she would not take to him after she had seen the squire, And, to be sure, the squire is the finest-looking gentleman in the county.”
“ Stop—stop!” said Mrs. Elton, feebly ; “the late lord left all his fortune to Miss Cameron ?—not his child! I guess the riddle—I understand it all!—my foster-child!” she murmured, turning away ; “how could I have mistaken that likeness ?”
The agitation of the discovery she supposed she had made, her joy at the thought that the child she had loved as her own was alive and possessed of its rights, expedited the progress of Mrs. Elton’s disease; and Maltravers arrived just in time to learn her confession (which she naturally wished to make to one who was at once her benefactor, and supposed to be the destined husband of her foster-child), and to be agitated with hope—
vith joy—at her solemn conviction of the truth of her surmises. — If Evelyn were not his daughter—even if not to be his bride— what a weight from his soul! He hastened to Brook-Green ; — -and, dreading to rush at once to the presence of Alice, he recalled Aubrey to his recollection. In the interview he sought, all, or at least much, was ‘cleared up. He saw at once the pre- _ _ meditated and well-planned villany of Vargrave. And Alice, — her tale—her sufferings—her indomitable love !—how should he ~ | 4 meet her? | 7