Alice, or the Mysteries — Complete

								

staying within; and she was so quiet, and made herself so much at home,
that Lady Vargrave, to use Mrs. Leslie's phrase, was not the least "put
out" by her. Besides, she talked of Evelyn, and that was a theme very
dear to Lady Vargrave, who was both fond and proud of Evelyn.
"This is very pretty indeed,--the view of the sea quite lovely!" said
Caroline. "You draw?"
"Yes, a little."
"From Nature?"
"Oh, yes."
"What, in Indian ink?"
"Yes; and water-colours."
"Oh! Why, who could have taught you in this little village; or, indeed,
in this most primitive county?"
"We did not come to Brook-Green till I was nearly fifteen. My dear
mother, though very anxious to leave our villa at Fulham, would not do
so on my account, while masters could be of service to me; and as I knew
she had set her heart on this place, I worked doubly hard."
"Then she knew this place before?"
"Yes; she had been here many years ago, and took the place after my poor
father's death,--I always call the late Lord Vargrave my father.
She used to come here regularly once a year without me; and when she
returned, I thought her even more melancholy than before."
"What makes the charm of the place to Lady Vargrave?" asked Caroline,
with some interest.
"I don't know; unless it be its extreme quiet, or some early
association."
"And who is your nearest neighbour?"
"Mr. Aubrey, the curate. It is so unlucky, he is gone from home for
a short time. You can't think how kind and pleasant he is,--the most
amiable old man in the world; just such a man as Bernardin St. Pierre
would have loved to describe."
"Agreeable, no doubt, but dull--good curates generally are."
"Dull? not the least; cheerful even to playfulness, and full of
information. He has been so good to me about books; indeed, I have
learned a great deal from him."
"I dare say he is an admirable judge of sermons."
"But Mr. Aubrey is not severe," persisted Evelyn, earnestly; "he is
very fond of Italian literature, for instance; we are reading Tasso
together."
"Oh! pity he is old--I think you said he was old. Perhaps there is a
son, the image of the sire?"
"Oh, no," said Evelyn, laughing innocently; "Mr. Aubrey never married."
"And where does the old gentleman live?"
"Come a little this way; there, you can just see the roof of his house,
close by the church."
"I see; it is tant soit peu triste to have the church so near you."
"Do you think so? Ah, but you have not seen it; it is the prettiest
church in the county; and the little burial-ground--so quiet, so
shut in; I feel better every time I pass it. Some places breathe of
religion."
"You are poetical, my dear little friend."
Evelyn, who had poetry in her nature, and therefore sometimes it broke
out in her simple language, coloured and felt half-ashamed.
"It is a favourite walk with my mother," said she, apologetically; "she
often spends hours there alone: and so, perhaps, I think it a prettier