Alice, or the Mysteries — Complete

								

Mrs. Leslie had not forgotten.
It was at this time that Evelyn, forgetful of Lord Vargrave and his
suit, of every one, of everything but the grief of the approaching
departure, found herself alone in a little arbour that had been built
upon the cliff to command the view of the sea below. That day she had
been restless, perturbed; she had visited every spot consecrated by
youthful recollections; she had clung with fond regret to every place
in which she had held sweet converse with her mother. Of a disposition
singularly warm and affectionate, she had often, in her secret heart,
pined for a more yearning and enthusiastic love than it seemed in the
subdued nature of Lady Vargrave to bestow. In the affection of the
latter, gentle and never fluctuating as it was, there seemed to her
a something wanting, which she could not define. She had watched that
beloved face all the morning. She had hoped to see the tender eyes
fixed upon her, and hear the meek voice exclaim, "I cannot part with my
child!" All the gay pictures which the light-hearted Caroline drew
of the scenes she was to enter had vanished away--now that the hour
approached when her mother was to be left alone. Why was she to go? It
seemed to her an unnecessary cruelty.
As she thus sat, she did not observe that Mr. Aubrey, who had seen
her at a distance, was now bending his way to her; and not till he
had entered the arbour, and taken her hand, did she waken from those
reveries in which youth, the Dreamer and the Desirer, so morbidly
indulges.
"Tears, my child?" said the curate. "Nay, be not ashamed of them; they
become you in this hour. How we shall miss you! and you, too, will not
forget us?"
"Forget you! Ah, no, indeed! But why should I leave you? Why will you
not speak to my mother, implore her to let me remain? We were so
happy till these strangers came. We did not think there was any other
world,--here there is world enough for me!"
"My poor Evelyn," said Mr. Aubrey, gently, "I have spoken to your mother
and to Mrs. Leslie; they have confided to me all the reasons for your
departure, and I cannot but subscribe to their justice. You do not want
many months of the age when you will be called upon to decide whether
Lord Vargrave shall be your husband. Your mother shrinks from the
responsibility of influencing your decision; and here, my child,
inexperienced, and having seen so little of others, how can you know
your own heart?"
"But, oh, Mr. Aubrey," said Evelyn, with an earnestness that overcame
embarrassment, "have I a choice left to me? Can I be ungrateful,
disobedient to him who was a father to me? Ought I not to sacrifice my
own happiness? And how willingly would I do so, if my mother would smile
on me approvingly!"
"My child," said the curate, gravely, "an old man is a bad judge of the
affairs of youth; yet in this matter, I think your duty plain. Do not
resolutely set yourself against Lord Vargrave's claim; do not persuade