"But I need not dwell longer on this part of my life. Day after day, evening after evening, Lord Montford was by my side; and yet so quietly were these meetings conducted, that it always seemed that chance directed them. As Bella ceased jesting, my mother did not notice his attentions. I soon began to look upon seeing him as the only thing worth living for. I had no thought save for him. As yet no word of love passed his lips, though I could not but perceive that he regarded me with no common interest.
"One day, as we were all in the drawing-room, my mother suddenly announced her intention of returning home—almost directly. I looked at Lord Montford, and saw an expression of pain upon his face. I rose and went to the window to hide the tears that were starting to my eyes. In an hour after this, a servant brought me a note from Lord Montford, filled with expressions of love, and asking for an interview, and praying that I would not mention it to any one, even to my mother. I knew this was wrong, and this was the first false step in my career. I knew concealment from my mother was, in such a case, wrong; but stronger than the voice of conscience, stronger than the whispers of my angel guardian, stronger than the promptings of faith and obedience was the passion that reigned in my heart. I wrote a few words. My mother, Mr. Clinton, and Bella were going out to dine. I pleaded indisposition, and remained at home. I promised in the afternoon to grant Lord Montford the interview he desired. I went, when three o'clock came, to the library, and I left it in an hour the affianced bride of Lord Montford. One thing surprised me, and that was, that he used the most urgent entreaties that I would not mention our interview, or its result, to any one. Imprudently I promised.
"The day came when we left London, and yet no word would Lord Montford suffer to be spoken of our engagement. He stood in the hall as we passed from the house, and he hastily whispered to me:
"'You shall hear from me soon, Eva, and my letter shall explain all.'
"I could scarcely bear the quiet, tranquil beauty of home; my whole time was spent in wishing for and thinking of the promised letter.
"At length it came, and I went with it tightly held in my hand, to my own room. I cannot now remember all it said, but the concluding words I remember, and they were these: 'And now, Eva, I have told you how dear you are to me, how you have come across my dark dreary life like a bright sunbeam; without you I shall again become a dull, melancholy misanthrope; with you I may become a good and useful man. Will you refuse, Eva, to help me: One thing more. A reason of the utmost importance prevents me from at present making public our engagement and marriage—a reason so potent that, if you refuse secrecy, we must part. Say, Eva, shall this be? Will you sacrifice my love, my hope, my happiness, for a scruple?'
"And so with a prayer for my consent, the letter ended; and then I laid it down and wept—ay, wept—for there was a calmer, holier feeling in my heart than I had known for a long time; and the struggle was hard. My mother, could I leave her thus? How had she nursed me, loved me! and with what pleasure and pride had she looked forward to my settling in life! Her sweet face came before me with all its goodness and purity. No; I could not leave her, I could not thus deceive and disappoint her. There was the church, too, with its altars and flowers; who would tend them? I could not go, and so I resolved—a resolution, alas! too soon to be broken.
"At this moment a hand was gently laid upon my shoulder, and looking up hastily, I saw my mother.
"'Eva, are you ill, my darling, or unhappy? Why are you here alone, and miserable?'
"I made no reply, but laid my head upon my mother's breast and cried aloud. Those were the last tears I ever shed there. I even feel now her soft hand caressing me, and drawing back the hair from my brow, while she soothed me as though I had been a little child.