A few days after the transactions recorded in the preceding chapter, the fever left Eveline, and consciousness was restored to its empire and reason to its throne.  But alas! what a wreck of her former self she was!  Mr. Mandeville could scarcely restrain his tears while gazing upon her pallid countenance and wasted form.  She was helpless as a child, and so weak it was feared the recuperative powers were exhausted, and she must die from prostration; but a day or two of careful nursing, aided by cordials and tonics, produced a change for the better, and in the course of ten days, she was able to walk in the open air and happy sunshine, supported by her father.  How lightly his heart beat in his bosom, as the child of his pride and affection leaned upon his arm, as he gently led her whither she desired to go.

She had a little arbor in the garden, the vines about which had been carefully trained by her own hands; it had always been a favorite resort, and of late had become a thousand times more dear, because it was there that she and Hadley had spent most of their happy hours.  So soon as she had sufficient strength to bear the fatigue, she requested to be taken there, and her wish was granted.  What a throng of memories came crowding through her mind as she once more sat in that verdant bower!  Every flower had a tongue and a reminiscence, and the entire place and scene spoke of the past in language mute but eloquent.  How her heart beat with excitement, as the many associations of other days rushed over her spirit with the lightening wings of thought, and awakened emotions of joy and grief.  While with the past she was happy; but when the cheerless present occupied her mind, sadness filled her heart, while shadows gathered upon her brow, and tears in her eyes.

The father saw all this, for he watched the changes of her countenance with the deepest solicitude.  When he noted the saddened expression that came over it, his heart was heavy, for he divined the cause.  How his feeling of bitterness toward Hadley increased, as he saw the wreck of happiness he had made; and how he longed to expose the blackness of his character to his infatuated daughter!  He felt certain that his child would cease to regard him as she had done, the moment she was put in possession of the facts which so clearly established his guilt.  But it would cost her a severe struggle, and he feared she was yet too weak to sustain the shock.

At length, however, as he perceived that internal grief was preying upon her spirits, it occurred to him that the evil resulting from this eating sorrow, which was brooded over in secret, would be greater in the end than the quick pang, though it should be sharp and powerful for an hour or a day.  Approaching her affectionately, and with great tenderness of manner, he said: 

“You are sad, Eveline; you are not happy, I know you are not; and yet you do not confide your sorrow to me.  Is this kind, my dear?”