XI.

THERE stands the Messenger of Truth--there stands
The Legate of the skies.--COWPER.

FROM that night Lumley found no opportunity for private conversation
with Evelyn; she evidently shunned to meet with him alone. She was ever
with her mother or Mrs. Leslie or the good curate, who spent much of his
time at the cottage; for the old man had neither wife nor children, he
was alone at home, he had learned to make his home with the widow and
her daughter. With them he was an object of the tenderest affection,
of the deepest veneration. Their love delighted him, and he returned it
with the fondness of a parent and the benevolence of a pastor. He was a
rare character, that village priest!

Born of humble parentage, Edward Aubrey had early displayed abilities
which attracted the notice of a wealthy proprietor, who was not
displeased to affect the patron. Young Aubrey was sent to school, and
thence to college as a sizar: he obtained several prizes, and took a
high degree. Aubrey was not without the ambition and the passions of
youth: he went into the world, ardent, inexperienced, and without a
guide. He drew back before errors grew into crimes, or folly became a
habit. It was nature and affection that reclaimed and saved him from
either alternative,--fame or ruin. His widowed mother was suddenly
stricken with disease. Blind and bedridden, her whole dependence was
on her only son. This affliction called forth a new character in Edward
Aubrey. This mother had stripped herself of so many comforts to provide
for him,--he devoted his youth to her in return. She was now old and
imbecile. With the mingled selfishness and sentiment of age, she would
not come to London,--she would not move from the village where her
husband lay buried, where her youth had been spent. In this village
the able and ambitious young man buried his hopes and his talents; by
degrees the quiet and tranquillity of the country life became dear to
him. As steps in a ladder, so piety leads to piety, and religion grew to
him a habit. He took orders and entered the Church. A disappointment
in love ensued; it left on his mind and heart a sober and resigned
melancholy, which at length mellowed into content. His profession and
its sweet duties became more and more dear to him; in the hopes of the
next world he forgot the ambition of the present. He did not seek to
shine,--

"More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise."

His own birth made the poor hi