He left the quiet town—crossed the bridge above the swift-flowing river, and wandered far away, slowly, as his partially-renewed strength alone would admit, and resting often, but still as if he breathed more freely the farther and farther he felt himself proceeding from the haunts of men; whilst at every step he took, beauty and magnificence, decking that bright spring morning in their best array, met his enchanted view; and the sense of enjoyment seemed to return, and that of loneliness to be—removed.
For the young man's mood was one of those most sensitively to realise the idea, that "high mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture."
Thus he wandered on, till a hamlet, crowned by the woods of one or two gentlemen's seats, came in view; and he was forced by his weakness to stop, and crave a cup of milk at a quiet farm in its outskirts, its simple inmates also inviting him to sit down and rest; and then he found that time had passed much swifter than he thought, for it was long past noon.
Whilst he was lingering still, the church bells here too began to ring; and Eustace Trevor (for he it was) felt that he could not escape from the voice which seemed to cry unto his soul: "Let us go up into the house of the Lord."
The little church appeared to be almost empty, when he first entered; but an old lady and gentleman came in at the same time, and seeing the stranger, immediately offered him a seat in their large square pew; and he, though far from willingly, could not but accept the civility.
Other members were added to the congregation, and then a clergyman of infirm appearance entered the reading-desk, awaiting but that the noise of the school-children's feet mounting to the little gallery should cease, to commence in a feeble voice the service.
Inattentive the ear—insensible the heart of that man who, having suffered deeply, finds himself unaffected, when first, after some period of cessation, prayer after prayer, clause after clause of our beautiful Liturgy breathes upon his ear.
Eustace Trevor was not that man; and fervent were the emotions inspired in a breast which long had yielded itself to a kind of morbid gloomy insensibility; and it was, perhaps, only the presence of strangers which rendered him able to restrain them from their more open demonstration. Not, however, was it until the wild voices of the mountain children, enriched by notes of less untamed beauty, were raised in songs of praise, that any outward object diverted the absorption of his rapt spirit.
Then Eustace Trevor lifted up his eyes, and could not fail to remark three young ladies also in the gallery, who stood side by side, mingling their voices with the humble choir; and their appearance at once fixed his attention, not so much for any personal beauty they might possess, as for the goodness, innocence, and unaffected devotion shining so clearly on each upturned face. In proof of which it might have been observed, that after the first general glance over the group, it was not so much on the elder of the sisters, lovely in a most striking degree, neither upon the blooming Hebe of fifteen, as upon that pale, and gentle-looking girl, who stood between the two, on whom the stranger's eye more especially lingered—and loved her, even as he gazed.
For there was something in the pensive sweetness of those eyes—the open purity of the brow—the meek and quiet, yet high-toned spirit, which shone from every feature of the young girl's face, that went directly to his heart. His excited fancy even travelled so far, as to behold in her a likeness to that being who had passed into the heavens; and once—only once, when her voice in sweet but timid accents swelled singly in the choir, he held his breath to catch each low, yet thrilling tone, "for it sounds to him like his mother's voice singing in Paradise."