CHAPTER XIIL

*¢ And I can listen to thee yet, Can lie upon the plain— And listen till I do beget That golden time again.” —-WorpsworTH.
_ 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 me 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 2r 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. ady Vargrave, perhaps, had known them once; at least, she uld sympathise with them now.
She strained her child to her bosom—she stroked back her ir, and kissed her fondly, and spoke to her soothingly.
“ Mother,” sobbed Evelyn, “I could not sleep—I could not ; st. Bless me again—kiss me again; tell me that you love me aa -you cannot love me as I do you; but tell me that I am dear ‘ou—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 nothing on earth I love like you. Do not fancy I am rateful.” ey. ds Bs say uneratetul ?—your own child—your only D2
52 “ALICE; OR, THE MYSTERIES.
child!” And Evelyn covered her mother’s face and hands with | 3
passionate tears and kisses.
At that moment, certain it is that Lady Vargrave’s heart re- proached 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 characterised 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 thought at that moment of what love that warm nature was susceptible; and she trembled for her future fate. It was as a full reconciliation—that mournful hour —between feelings on either side, which something mysterious
seemed to have checked before ;—and that last night the mother _
and the child did not separate—the same couch contained them : and, when worn out with some emotions which she could not reveal, Lady Vargrave fell into the sleep of exhaustion, Evelyn’s arm was round her, and Evelyn’s eyes watched her with pious and anxious love as the grey morning dawned.
She left her mother still sleeping, when the sun rose, and went silently down into the dear room below, and again busied herself in a thousand little provident cares, which she wondered she had forgot before.
The carriages were at the door before the party had assembled at the melancholy breakfast-table. Lord Vargrave was the last to appear.
“J have been like all cowards,” said he, seating himself ;
“ anxious to defer an evil as long as possible ; a bad policy, for it
increases the worst of all pains—that of suspense.”
Mrs. Merton had undertaken the duties that appertain to the
“hissing urn.” “You prefer coffee, Lord Vargrave ?—Caroline, my dear -——”
Caroline passed the cup to Lord Vargrave, who looked at her
d as he took it—there was a ring on one of those Blender fingers never observed there before. Their eyes met, and Caro- lire coloured, Lord Vargrave turned to Evelyn, who, pale as death, but tearless and speechless, sat beside her mother; he attempted in vain to draw her into conversation. Evelyn, whe e desired to restrain her feelings, would not trust herself to speak. — _. Mrs. Merton, ever undisturbed and placid, continued to talk _ @ on : to offer congratulations on the weather—it was such a lovely ‘ _ day—and they should be off so early—it would be so well _ arranged—they should be in such good time to dine at , and _ then go three stages after dinner—the moon would be up. if “But,” said Lord Vargrave, “as Iam to go with you as far 3 a as , where our roads separate, I hope I am not condemned 2 to go alone, with my-red ces two old newspapers, and the blue _ devils. Have pity on me.” “Perhaps you will take grandmamma, then ?” whispered Caroline, archly. Lumley shrugged his shoulders, and replied in the same tone. “Yes—provided you keep to the proverb, ‘ Les extrémes se p touchent; and the lovely grandchild accompany the venerable _ grandmamma.”
“What would Evelyn say ?” retorted Caroline.
Lumley sighed, and made no answer.
Mrs. Merton, who had hung fire while her daughter » was s carrying on this “ aside,” now put in— “Suppose I and Caroline take your britzka, and you go in our old coach with Evelyn and Mrs. Leslie?” Lumley looked delightedly at the speaker, and then glanced at velyn; but Mrs. Leslie said, very gravely, “ No, we shall feel _ too much in leaving this dear place to be gay Companions for _ Lord Vargrave. We shall all meet at dinner; or,” she added, after a pause, “if this be uncourteous to Lord Vargrave, suppose Evelyn and myself take his carriage, and he accompanies you?” _ “Agreed,” said Mrs. Merton, quietly; “and now I will just _ go and sce about the strawberry-plants and slips—it was so kind in you, dear Lady Vargrave, to think of them.”
An hour had elapsed, and Evelyn was gone! She had left her maiden home—she had wept her last farewell on her mother’s
_ more desolate. Ren ‘ nical, at last, she moved away, and with slow st
now the lawn—the gardens—the haunts of Evelyn—w solitary as the desert itself;—but the daisy opened to the _ sun, and the bee murmured along the blossoms—not the i blithely for the absence of all human life. In the bosom
_ Nature there beats no heart for man !