Alice, or the Mysteries — Complete

								

frank address; and there was so much charm in the manner of a man, whom
apparently the world and its cares had never rendered artificial or
reserved, that the curate himself was impressed by it. He thought that
Evelyn might be happy with one amiable enough for a companion and wise
enough for a guide. But old as he was, he had loved, and he knew that
there are instincts in the heart which defy all our calculations.
While Lumley was conversing, the little gate that made the communication
between the gardens and the neighbouring churchyard, through which was
the nearest access to the village, creaked on its hinges, and the quiet
and solitary figure of Lady Vargrave threw its shadow over the grass.

CHAPTER XIII.


AND I can listen to thee yet,

    Can lie upon the plain;
And listen till I do beget

    That golden time again.--WORDSWORTH.
IT was past midnight--hostess and guests had retired to repose--when
Lady Vargrave's door opened gently. The lady herself was kneeling at the
foot of the bed; the moonlight came through the half-drawn curtains of
the casement, and by its ray her pale, calm features looked paler, and
yet more hushed.
Evelyn, for she was the intruder, paused at the threshold till her
mother rose from her devotions, and then she threw herself on Lady
Vargrave's breast, sobbing as if her heart would break. Hers were the
wild, generous, irresistible emotions of youth. Lady Vargrave, perhaps,
had known them once; at least, she could sympathize with them now.
She strained her child to her bosom; she stroked back her hair, and
kissed her fondly, and spoke to her soothingly.
"Mother," sobbed Evelyn, "I could not sleep, I could not rest. Bless me
again, kiss me again; tell me that you love me--you cannot love me as I
do you; but tell me that I am dear to you; tell me you will regret me,
but not too much; tell me--" Here Evelyn paused, and could say no more.
"My best, my kindest Evelyn," said Lady Vargrave, "there is nothing on
earth I love like you. Do not fancy I am ungrateful."
"Why do you say ungrateful?--your own child,--your only child!" And
Evelyn covered her mother's face and hands with passionate tears and
kisses.
At that moment, certain it is that Lady Vargrave's heart reproached her
with not having, indeed, loved this sweet girl as she deserved. True, no
mother was more mild, more attentive, more fostering, more anxious for
a daughter's welfare; but Evelyn was right. The gushing fondness, the
mysterious entering into every subtle thought and feeling, which should
have characterized the love of such a mother to such a child, had been
to outward appearance wanting. Even in this present parting there had
been a prudence, an exercise of reasoning, that savoured more of duty
than love. Lady Vargrave felt all this with remorse; she gave way to
emotions new to her,--at least to exhibit; she wept with Evelyn, and
returned her caresses with almost equal fervour. Perhaps, too, she