Alice | Page 3

cried Evelyn, "I am so glad; there is something
you will like,--some of the poetry that touched you so much set to
music."
Evelyn brought the songs to her mother, who roused herself from her
revery, and looked at them with interest.
"It is very strange," said she, "that I should be so affected by all that is
written by this person: I, too" (she added, tenderly stroking down
Evelyn's luxuriant tresses), "who am not so fond of reading as you are!"
"You are reading one of his books now," said Evelyn, glancing over the
open page on the table. "Ah, that beautiful passage upon 'Our First
Impressions.' Yet I do not like you, dear Mother, to read his books; they
always seem to make you sad."
"There is a charm to me in their thoughts, their manner of expression,"
said Lady Vargrave, "which sets me thinking, which reminds me of--of
an early friend, whom I could fancy I hear talking while I read. It was
so from the first time I opened by accident a book of his years ago."

"Who is this author that pleases you so much?" asked Mrs. Leslie, with
some surprise; for Lady Vargrave had usually little pleasure in reading
even the greatest and most popular masterpieces of modern genius.
"Maltravers," answered Evelyn; "and I think I almost share my
mother's enthusiasm."
"Maltravers!" repeated Mrs. Leslie. "He is, perhaps, a dangerous writer
for one so young. At your age, dear girl, you have naturally romance
and feeling enough of your own without seeking them in books."
"But, dear madam," said Evelyn, standing up for her favourite, "his
writings do not consist of romance and feeling only; they are not
exaggerated, they are so simple, so truthful."
"Did you ever meet him?" asked Lady Vargrave.
"Yes," returned Mrs. Leslie, "once, when he was a gay, fair-haired boy.
His father resided in the next county, and we met at a country-house.
Mr. Maltravers himself has an estate near my daughter in B-----shire,
but he does not live on it; he has been some years abroad,--a strange
character!"
"Why does he write no more?" said Evelyn; "I have read his works so
often, and know his poetry so well by heart, that I should look forward
to something new from him as an event."
"I have heard, my dear, that he has withdrawn much from the world
and its objects,--that he has lived greatly in the East. The death of a
lady to whom he was to have been married is said to have unsettled and
changed his character. Since that event he has not returned to England.
Lord Vargrave can tell you more of him than I."
"Lord Vargrave thinks of nothing that is not always before the world,"
said Evelyn.
"I am sure you wrong him," said Mrs. Leslie, looking up and fixing her
eyes on Evelyn's countenance; "for you are not before the world."

Evelyn slightly--very slightly--pouted her pretty lip, but made no
answer. She took up the music, and seating herself at the piano,
practised the airs. Lady Vargrave listened with emotion; and as Evelyn
in a voice exquisitely sweet, though not powerful, sang the words, her
mother turned away her face, and half unconsciously, a few tears stole
silently down her cheek.
When Evelyn ceased, herself affected,--for the lines were impressed
with a wild and melancholy depth of feeling,--she came again to her
mother's side, and seeing her emotion, kissed away the tears from the
pensive eyes. Her own gayety left her; she drew a stool to her mother's
feet, and nestling to her, and clasping her hand, did not leave that place
till they retired to rest.
And the lady blessed Evelyn, and felt that, if bereaved, she was not
alone.
CHAPTER III.
BUT come, thou Goddess, fair and free, In heaven yclept Euphrosyne!
. . . . . .
To hear the lark begin his flight, And, singing, startle the dull
night.--L'Allegro.
But come, thou Goddess, sage and holy, Come, divinest Melancholy!
. . . . . .
There held in holy passion still, Forget thyself to marble.--Il Penseroso.
THE early morn of early spring--what associations of freshness and
hope in that single sentence! And there a little after sunrise--there was
Evelyn, fresh and hopeful as the morning itself, bounding with the light
step of a light heart over the lawn. Alone, alone! no governess, with a
pinched nose and a sharp voice, to curb her graceful movements, and
tell her how young ladies ought to walk. How silently morning stole

over the earth! It was as if youth had the day and the world to itself.
The shutters of the cottage were still closed, and Evelyn cast a glance
upward, to assure herself that her mother, who also rose betimes, was
not yet