WANDERINGS OF A BEAUTY. A Tale OF THE REAL AND THE IDEAL.

CONTENTS.

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 10note, 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, 11except 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, 12or 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 13in 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 14with 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, 15who 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 16that 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 17at 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.

CHAPTER II. COURTSHIP

One morning at breakfast, on opening the letter-bag, Mrs. Dale announced to her husband that her nephew, Captain Travers, of the *** Lancers, had just returned from India, and proposed paying them a visit at Christmas. Had the Vicar been a devout Catholic, he would doubtless have crossed himself, as it was he gave a kind of holy groan, and rolled up his forehead, as he was wont to do when any very obstinate sinner was mentioned. The lady, however, pressed her point, and at length a reluctant consent was given, together with the expression of a despairing hope that the visit of this probable child of Satan might eventually “be blessed” to the saving of his soul. Mrs. Dale, whose piety was by no means so lively as that of her husband, was only too happy to have an occasion for arraying herself in some of the elegant new dresses she had surreptitiously procured at the nearest town. She therefore 19lost no time in answering the gallant captain by letter that they would be delighted to welcome him to Warenne Vicarage. I perceived that Evelyn was

much preoccupied by her cousin’s projected visit; our life was so monotonous that any change was welcome, and a young and dashing officer of cavalry could not fail to be an acquisition to our very limited and somewhat dull clerical circle. Frequently I interrupted her day dreams, begging her not to imagine she was about to meet her “beau ideal”—the hero of her young imaginings—or she would surely be disappointed. With a bright blush she would reply, “You know, dear Mary, how high is my standard of perfection, and that I hope never to marry unless I meet one I can not only love, but respect and revere above all created beings. Yet,” she added with a sigh, “how in this isolated spot may I ever hope to meet with such a man? unless indeed,” smiling archly, “my gallant cousin prove to be my own true knight,” and springing lightly across the room to her harp, she would commence singing, in a rich contralto voice, Mrs. Norton’s exquisite ballad, “Love not, ye hapless sons of clay,” or perhaps one of Moores’ delicious national airs.—She

was one of the few gifted individuals who have “tears in the voice,” so deep was the pathos, so intense the feeling, she threw into both words and 20melody; like Orpheus, she might have charmed even the rocks. Thus passed the days till Christmas time drew nigh, with its promise of turkeys, roast beef, mince pies and plum puddings. Mrs. Dale “on household thoughts intent,” spent many an hour in superintending the preparation of mince meat, sausages, and other delicacies, for country folks make all these luxuries at home. Of course your humble servant was pressed into the service, but our heroine, who detested the details of the “ménage,” (for which she was always and with reason scolded by her mother), continued to practice her harp and her singing, and to write her foolish, romantic thoughts in her journal, utterly heedless of all sublunary matters, and alike inattentive to the maternal rëproofs and to the more gentle remonstrances of her Mentor. At length the long-expected and anxiously desired day dawned bleak and cheerless in appearance,

but fraught with sunshine to the now cheerful party at the Vicarage. Our usual two o’clock dinner was postponed to the hour of half-past five to suit the more aristocratic habits of the young officer. Even Mr. Dale fetched from the cellar a bottle of his oldest port, and the whole house wore an air of unaccustomed festivity. Precisely at half-past four, the roll of a carriage and a loud ring at the door-bell, announced the much desired arrival. The usual 21kindly greetings over, the visitor was ushered to the guest-chamber. I had just completed my toilet, and wishing to ascertain if Evelyn had done the same, entered her apartment. I was quite struck by her extreme beauty. She was robed in an exquisitely-fitting dinner costume of blue silk, which suited well with her delicate features and bright but soft complexion. A scarf of white tulle was gracefully flung around her shoulders, I may add, in the words of Byron,

And one camelia from the green-house, of the softest pink, reposed on her rich and wavy tresses. I do not think that Evelyn was then aware how very lovely she was, and this unconsciousness of effect greatly enhanced her charms. “How nice you look, dear Mary,” were her words, as she placed her arm within mine and we descended to the drawing-room. Mrs. Dale was already there, looking very handsome in a dress of black satin, her dark hair in short curls under a pretty cap of blond and flowers. She was still a remarkably fine woman, and had she been less stout, would by no means have looked her age. A few moments and our newly arrived guest entered, ushered in by the Vicar. Captain 22Edward Travers was a young man of gentleman-like manners and prepossessing appearance. He was dressed in the height of fashion, which in England means a well-cut coat, white waistcoat, an irreproachable neck-tie, and well-fitting polished boots. As the captain shook hands with us, his smile displayed a fine set of teeth—his eyes likewise were good, and altogether, my first impressions

respecting him were agreeable. An evangelical curate completed the party, and to Evelyn’s horror took her in to dinner—the principal guest, of course, being seated at the right hand of the lady of the house. Dinner passed off; and shortly after the removal of the cloth the ladies retired, and the gentlemen remained to finish their wine—a remnant to my mind of the barbarous ages.

In the evening, Evelyn and myself played duetts on the harp and piano. She also sang to my accompaniment various pretty ballads, both English and German. Meanwhile Captain Travers talked much—too much, I thought, during the music—to Mrs. Dale; and at ten precisely the entrance of the servants for family prayers put an end for that day to our occupations.

On retiring, Evelyn sought my room. “Well, Mary,” said she, “what think you of my cousin?”

23“He appears pleasant and good natured,” said I. “And you?”

“Oh! all I know is, that you need not imagine I have found my ideal knight.”

“He is, however, good-looking?”

“Yes—has fine eyes.”

“Yes—and above all,” I added, laughing, “a most becoming moustache.”

“Oh! decidedly—I confess to a weakness for moustache; one may then be quite sure the man is no curate—eh! Mary?—But he talks too much, and evidently cares not for music.”

Like a couple of school-girls, we continued to chatter till near midnight, when, declaring I was half asleep, I playfully ejected the young lady by main force from my room, and was soon in the land of dreams.

A week passed, and our guest was to leave on the morrow. I had ceased to think about him, except as one of those common-place individuals, of whom the best description is, that “there is nothing in him.” He appeared much pleased with the society of his aunt, seeming greatly to prefer it to that of his cousin. I was therefore surprised, the last evening, to see him bending over Evelyn’s harp, and addressing her for some time in a low voice. I soon concluded he was explaining to her 24some of the delights of the hunting-field, or, perhaps, expatiating on the scarcity of game this season, and paid no further attention to them. Judge, then, how utterly amazed I was, to learn from Evelyn, that her cousin had proposed, and that she had not positively rejected him.

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, “you have not been half so foolish! No—I will not believe it; there must be some mistake. Repeat me the conversation, dear Evelyn.”

“Perhaps, Mary, you will smile at the originality of the affair. After many words about nothing, and ‘apropos’ to less, he suddenly said, ‘I think I shall sell out, and go abroad. Will you consent to come with me, and make me happy?’ Imagine my surprise.—What could I say, except that I did not know him sufficiently well, and that I would speak to my mother—always having understood that is the manner in which young ladies reply to proposals, unless they are really in love—which, of course, Mary, I am not. Now you know all that has passed. I shall, after consulting mama, make my definite decision; to-morrow, probably, will decide my fate.”

She left me, and I passed a sleepless night; for I perceived no promise of happiness for her, in so hasty an engagement. I sincerely trusted her mother 25would dissuade her from committing so sad a folly, and anxiously awaited the events of the coming day.

After breakfast, I saw poor Evelyn led into the drawing-room, like a lamb to the slaughter, by her mother, and left alone with the young man. Suspense was becoming unbearable, when, after about an hour had elapsed, Evelyn flew to my room, and flung herself into my arms:

“Oh, dearest,” she said, sobbing, “my only true friend, let me confide in you. Last night I went, as you know, to mama’s room, and told her all, adding that I did not love him, and felt no inclination to marry. She chid me, saying I ought to consider myself fortunate—that she could not imagine why I did not love so charming a young fellow, and adding, that ‘love before marriage was quite unnecessary, as every well brought up girl was sure to love her husband when once she had become a wife.’ My mother concluded by saying that if I were so silly as not to accept my cousin, she would take no further trouble to introduce me into society, and that I must make up my mind to live here all my life. So you see, Mary, I was in a measure forced to say, that if on further acquaintance, I could like him, I would be his wife.”