CHAPTER 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 his brothers, and their dispositions and
wants familiar to him. His own early errors made him tolerant to the
faults of others,--few men are charitable who remember not that they have
sinned. In our faults lie the germs of virtues. Thus gradually and
serenely had worn away his life--obscure but useful, calm but active,--a
man whom "the great prizes" of the Church might have rendered an
ambitious schemer, to whom a modest confidence gave the true pastoral
power,--to conquer the world within himself, and to sympathize with the
wants of others. Yes, he was a rare character, that village priest!
