University of Virginia Library

41. CHAPTER XLI.
THE THUNDERBOLT.

Evelyn had risen early, and walked out in the dewy grounds,
inhaling with delight the fresh odors of the dawn. All nature
seemed to smile upon her. The sun had just appeared, and touched
with his mild splendor the great trees upon which still lingered
the last leaves of autumn—golden and orange fading into russet
brown. The grass sparkled with myraids of diamond-drops; the
birds sang, almost ready to believe that spring was coming; the
cattle lowed; and over the far river, flowing with majestic quiet to
the sea, drooped a silvery haze, making it resemble some fine
picture seen in dreams.

And Evelyn was as fresh and beautiful as the morning. There
was no pallor on her cheeks, no langour in her eyes. A delicate
rose-tint just relieved her fair complexion; the young mouth, with
its red lips half-parted, had a delicious expression of sweetness and
happiness, and her blue eyes seemed to reflect the splendor of the
dawn. Happiness had surrounded her with an atmosphere of
innocent joy; her step was elastic; her slender figure moved with
charming ease and grace. She smiled on the world around her,
giving it a part of her joy, and inhaling its freshness at every pore.

The world is so old and blasè now, that it laughs at these pictures;
but nature laughs at the laughers. Still, to-day, in spite of science,
evolution-theories, and the terrible doubt of all things, hearts will
beat and cheeks will flush; and they throbbed still more warmly,
and grew rosier in the old days, when the world was younger and
less skeptical.

Evelyn did not ask her heart why she felt so happy—girls are
not introspective. She went along, simply absorbed in thoughts of
the night before—of the tall figure and calm face of the man who
had won her heart—of his smile, the tones of his voice, and the
eyes which had looked into her own in the magical moonlight of
the autumn night. The innocent child had given away her heart,
and felt, with a delicious thrill, that his heart, too, was her own.
This was all she cared to know. She did not look forward—gave
no thought to the future—lived only in the present, clasping to her
fond heart, as it were, that sweet, exquisite conviction that he loved
her—loved her!—as she loved him.

When the smiling old Judge came out, she ran to him, holding
out some wild flowers she had gathered; and, clinging around his
neck with the fondness of a child, exclaimed,

“Oh! papa! did you ever see such a beautiful morning!”

And the day passed like a dream—Evelyn going to and fro, with
light, elastic steps, singing, laughing, with a kind word and smile
for all.

Miss Clementina followed her with her eyes, and her face wore
an expression of the deepest trouble. This lady had determined to
act—and the innocent happiness of Evelyn made it almost impossible
for her to do so.

But Miss Clementina never shrunk from her duty. In the evening
the thunderbolt fell. Evelyn had tripped up, singing lightly, to her
chamber, and was beautifying herself with all the innocent pleasure
of a child, before the mirror, when the door opened, Miss Clementina
came in, and taking her seat on the lounge near the window,
said,

“Evelyn, I have something to say to you.”

There are certain tones of the human voice which give premonition
of coming trouble. Such were the tones of Miss Clementina.
She had steeled herself to her disagreeable duty. She had never
been less pleased with any undertaking, and had been so nervous
as even to forget her fan.

“Something to say to me, aunty!” said Evelyn, half-turning, with
a sweet smile upon her lips, and patting her glossy hair which she
had just braided.

“Something of a very serious nature, Evelyn—of a very serious
nature indeed.”

Evelyn looked quickly at the speaker, her cheek flushing a little.

“Well, aunt.”

“Come and sit down, Evelyn. I hope you will listen to me
attentively,”

“Yes, aunt.”

Evelyn was not at all afraid of Miss Clementina, but she had a
guilty conscience. She therefore came, meekly, and took her seat
beside the elder lady on the lounge.

Miss Clementina cleared her throat, and seemed just the least bit
embarrassed. She waved her handkerchief in front of her face.
She missed her fan.

“I hope you do me the justice to believe, Evelyn, that I take an
interest in you,” she said, solemnly.

“Of course, aunt!”

“And that I have at heart nothing but your real happiness?”

“I am quite certain of that.”

“Also,” continued Miss Clementina, laying a broad foundation for
her coming discourse, “that nothing would induce me to say anything
to pain you, unless I considered it my solemn duty?”

“Yes—aunt. Anything to pain me?”

“I fear that you will be pained. But I must not shrink. Evelyn—!”

The young lady raised her eyes with a little tremor.

“People are talking about you, and laughing at you!”

Evelyn gave a slight start, and blushed crimson.

“Talking about me!”

“Yes.”

“Laughing at me!”

“Yes!”

“Aunt Clementina!”

Indignation began to mingle with the confusion.

“This is a bitter hour for me, I assure you, Evelyn. I never
thought I would live to see it. Yes, I wish to be plain. People are
talking of you—and gossiping, and whispering, and giggling, and
laughing at—at—it is best to tell you plainly, my poor child—at
your fondness for Mr. Justin Harley!”

Evelyn's face had been crimson. It suddenly became white.

“That—is not true, aunt!”

“It is too true.”

“At my—my—Oh! I cannot use the word—”

“At your fondness. It is better to drop ceremony. And they add
that this fondness is not reciprocated.”

Evelyn uttered a low sound, which indicated with sufficient distinctness
the feeling of utter mortification and indignation which
she experienced. Words seemed to fail her, and tears had not
come yet.

“I will tell you plainly what I mean, and then advise you, to the
best of my poor ability,” said Miss Clementina. “It will not take
me very long, and heaven knows I do not enjoy this conversation.”

Evelyn was looking at the floor.

“Mr. Harley saved you from drowning, and you were naturally
grateful to him, and received him cordially when he came. That
was all right and proper. But even then I warned you against any
intimacy with him. There were unfortunate rumors about Mr.
Harley. It is said that he had contracted, when he was a young
man, an unfortunate marriage, and you are aware of the reports
now prevalent that his wife has been seen in this very neighborhood
recently. I do not wish to do Mr. Harley any injustice. I
concede that he is apparently a gentleman of the highest character,
and quite incapable of paying his addresses to a young lady with

one wife living; but I say to you, as I have said to my brother, that
Mr. Harley may have been married, and divorced, or he intends
becoming divorced. And as there is a diversity of opinion upon
this subject, he may regard himself at liberty, then or now, to
marry again.”

Evelyn listened without a word. The hot blood had came back
now to her cheeks. Her eyes were still fixed upon the floor.

“I know,” continued the elder lady, “nothing whatever of Mr.
Harley or his affairs, and do not charge him with any intent to
commit a dishonorable action; but he is now under this cloud.
Why he has not spoken of these things I do not know, but presume
that the subject is painful to him, and revolts his pride, perhaps,
too greatly to be alluded to. This is his affair—not ours. I say
ours—for we have formed an unfortunate intimacy, I fear, with this
gentleman. He visits you, rides out with you, enjoys your society,
no doubt, as a friend, and feels himself at liberty to enjoy it, I
suppose, having no ulterior views.”

Evelyn moaned a little. She was becoming lost in the maze of
Miss Clementina's arguments.

“That does not involve the least imputation of impropriety on
Mr. Harley's part,” continued the elder lady. “He may say, `I am
married, do not mean to become a bigamist, but may enjoy the
society of the young ladies around me;' or he may consider himself
divorced—may be mistaken in his view of the law; he may hold
opinions of which I know nothing. That is not the point.”

Evelyn's head had sunk gradually. Her cheeks burned.

“The point is, that he regards you only as an agreeable friend,
while you—”

A stifled sound came from the girl's lips.

“Do people say that?”

Her color faded, and, the hot blood receding, left the girl like a
statue of white marble again.

“Who has said that?”

The voice no longer trembled. The pride of the Blands was
coming to her succor and steeling her.

“I am not at liberty to tell you, but it has been said, and when
such things are said by one person, they are said by others.”

“Yes,” said the girl, in a low tone, looking fixedly at the floor.

“It is not proper that such gossip should be whispered about
your father's daughter.”

“No.”

“And it was my duty to tell you and warn you.”

“Yes.”

The eyes were still fixed upon the floor.

“Men are peculiar in their views. Mr. Harley is in many points
of view a person of high character. But he is lonely—an affair, as
men call it, may have its attractions for him. He has to my certain
knowledge declared repeatedly that nothing could induce him to
marry. And now he is paying you a certain amount of court—is
amusing himself, people say, without any serious intentions, which
may or may not be a necessity with him, while you—you Evelyn, our
dear, inexperienced child, have become—people are saying it
everywhere—have become—shall I finish, Evelyn?”

The young lady rose slowly to her feet. In a quarter of an hour
she seemed to have grown ten years older.

“No, aunt, it is unnecessary to finish your sentence!”

Slowly the cheeks flushed; a hot color replaced the marble.

“So people are talking of me?”

“Yes.”

“You know that?”

“Yes, my poor child.”

“And laughing at me?”

“I fear there is no doubt at all of it, Evelyn.”

“Laughing at my—my—Oh! I cannot utter the word! Yes, I
will, at my—my fondness?”

Miss Clementina sighed assent.

“So, I am a love-sick girl!—I, Evelyn Bland.”

Miss Clementina sighed again.

“I am pining for a gentleman who is amusing himself with me!
He regards me as a friend only, while I—I—”

She stopped. Her face had crimsoned with indignation; hot
tears came, and, throwing herself upon the lounge, with her face in
her hands, she exclaimed, with sobs,

“Oh! it is hateful!—hateful! So I am despised!—talked of!—
laughed at!—the subject of gossip, of giggling. I am pining for one
who cares nothing for me—a love-sick fool!—I, with all my pride—
I. Oh! it is too much! I will never see him again!”

Miss Clementina was almost frightened. But she did not regret
her course, for she really believed every word that she had said,
and had acted purely from a sense of duty. She therefore soothed
the young lady, kissed her with the greatest affection, and succeeded
finally in reducing her to a state of half-tranquillity.

“What I have said to you, Evelyn, was very far from agreeable,”
she added, “but believe me, it was best to say it. Your welfare is
as dear to me as it was to your dear mother, and young girls should
be warned. Do nothing rash. Do not make a scandal by breaking
off with Mr. Harley suddenly; that will make the scandal-mongers
talk anew. Receive him politely—not otherwise. Avoid private

interviews. In our circle of society, my dear, we do not have scenes;
things are done quietly.”

Evelyn had risen to a sitting position, and was looking at the
floor with her wet eyes. There was no despair in them; pride had
conquered.

“It is quite useless to warn me against anything like a scene,
aunt,” she said, in a dull, calm voice. “I shall not have an explanation
of any sort with Mr. Harley. His coming or going is quite
indifferent to me.”

Her lips quivered a little, but grew firm again quickly. She
then rose.

“I will finish dressing, and come down now, aunt. I am very
much obliged to you for your plain speaking. I like plain speaking.
I hope I shall profit by it.”

Evelyn then proceeded to make her toilet, and Miss Clementina
went to her own room.

Two days afterwards Harley rode into the grounds in the afternoon,
and seeing Evelyn seated in conversation with his brother
Sainty on one of the old rustic seats, dismounted, walked across the
sward, and approached them, smiling.

“You are a sly young fellow,” he said to the youth, after bowing
to the young lady. “You disappear from Huntsdon, apparently
seized with the desire to go and look at the state of the wheat, and
lo! I find you here beside my friend, Miss Evelyn.”

Sainty Harley's face expanded into a smile, and the smile ended
in hearty laughter.

“There is but one portion of your excellency's observation that I
shall reply to!” he said.

“What is that?”

“The slight and apparently unimportant phrase that your excellency
`finds me here!”'

“A hit!—a very palpable hit!” laughed Harley.

“You disappear too, my dear big old brother! And one finds you
here too!”

Harley smiled again, with the least perceptible air of confusion.

“Well,” he said, “I see I ought not to spoil sport; and as you call
me your big old brother, which I am, Sainty,—for I am big and old
too—I shall go and pay my respects to Judge Bland, for the present,
at least.”

Evelyn did not make the least movement to detain him, or invite
him to a seat beside her, where there was ample room. Her manner
was inimitable—not cold, not marked in any manner, simply
tranquil and commonplace.

Harley looked at her in utter astonishment. She sustained his

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 513EAF. Image of Harley walking up to his brother, Sainty, and Evelyn, as they sit under a tree on a bench. Evelyn is looking dejectedly at the ground in front of her, while Sainty leans back casually against the bench laughing. Harley is looking towards Evelyn with a confused look on his face.]

look with perfect coolness; the proud blood of the Blands gave her
strength for that.

“You will find papa in his study. Shall I go and tell him you are
here, sir?”

“I beg you will not give yourself that trouble,” he said.

And, bowing, he went off and entered the house.

Two hours afterwards he and his brother were riding back toward
Huntsdon. He was in a maze. Had he mistaken the mere coyness
of a young lady for coolness?

“I will think it is due to that. What else could it be?” he
murmured.