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Alice - Or, the Mysteries
ALICE;
OR,
THE MYSTERIES
BY
EDWARD BULWER LYTTON (LORD LYTTON)
COMPLETE
BOOK I.
"Thee, hid the bowering vales amidst, I call." --EURIPIDES: _Hel._ I.
1116.
CHAPTER I.
Who art thou, fair one, who usurp'st the place Of Blanch, the lady of
the matchless grace?--LAMB.
IT was towards the evening of a day in early April that two ladies
were seated by the open windows of a cottage in Devonshire. The lawn
before them was gay with evergreens, relieved by the first few flowers
and fresh turf of the reviving spring; and at a distance, through an
opening amongst the trees, the sea, blue and tranquil, bounded the
view, and contrasted the more confined and home-like features of the
scene. It was a spot remote, sequestered, shut out from the business
and pleasures of the world; as such it suited the tastes and character
of the owner.
That owner was the younger of the ladies seated by the window. You
would scarcely have guessed, from her appearance, that she was more
than seven or eight and twenty, though she exceeded by four or five
years that critical boundary in the life of beauty. Her form was
slight and delicate in its proportions, nor was her countenance the
less lovely because, from its gentleness and repose (not unmixed with
a certain sadness) the coarse and the gay might have thought it
wanting in expression. For there is a stillness in the aspect of
those who have felt deeply, which deceives the common eye,--as rivers
are often alike tranquil and profound, in proportion as they are
remote from the springs which agitated and swelled the commencement of
their course, and by which their waters are still, though invisibly,
supplied.
The elder lady, the guest of her companion, was past seventy; her gray
hair was drawn back from the forehead, and gathered under a stiff cap
of quaker-like simplicity; while her dress, rich but plain, and of no
very modern fashion, served to increase the venerable appearance of
one who seemed not ashamed of years.
"My dear Mrs. Leslie," said the lady of the house, after a thoughtful
pause in the conversation that had been carried on for the last hour,
"it is very true; perhaps I was to blame in coming to this place; I
ought not to have been so selfish."
"No, my dear friend," returned Mrs. Leslie, gently; "selfish is a word
that can never be applied to you; you acted as became you,--agreeably
to your own instinctive sense of what is best when at your
age,--independent in fortune and rank, and still so lovely,--you
resigned all that would have attracted others, and devoted yourself,
in retirement, to a life of quiet and unknown benevolence. You are in
your sphere in this village,--humble though it be,--consoling,
relieving, healing the wretched, the destitute, the infirm; and
teaching your Evelyn insensibly to imitate your modest and Christian
virtues." The good old lady spoke warmly, and with tears in her eyes;
her companion placed her hand in Mrs. Leslie's.
"You cannot make me vain," said she, with a sweet and melancholy
smile. "I remember what I was when you first gave shelter to the poor,
desolate wanderer and her fatherless child; and I, who was then so
poor and destitute, what should I be, if I was deaf to the poverty and
sorrows of others,--others, too, who are better than I am. But now
Evelyn, as you say, is growing up; the time approaches when she must
decide on accepting or rejecting Lord Vargrave. And yet in this
village how can she compare him with others; how can she form a
choice? What you say is very true; and yet I did not think of it
sufficiently. What shall I do? I am only anxious, dear girl, to act
so as may be best for her own happiness."
"Of that I am sure," returned Mrs. Leslie; "and yet I know not how to
advise. On one hand, so much is due to the wishes of your late
husband, in every point of view, that if Lord Vargrave be worthy of
Evelyn's esteem and affection, it would be most desirable that she
should prefer him to all others. But if he be what I hear he is
considered in the world,--an artful, scheming, almost heartless man,
of ambitious and hard pursuits,--I tremble to think how completely the
happiness of Evelyn's whole life may be thrown away. She certainly is
not in love with him, and yet I fear she is one whose nature is but
too susceptible of affection. She ought now to see others,--to know
her own mind, and not to be hurried, blindfold and inexperienced, into
a step that decides existence. This is a duty we owe to her,--nay,
even to the late Lord Vargrave, anxious as he was for the marriage.
His aim was surely her happiness, and he would not have insisted upon
means that time and circumstances might show to be contrary to the end
he had in view."
"You are right," replied Lady Vargrave. "When my poor husband lay on
his bed of death, just before he summoned his nephew to receive his
last blessing, he said to me, 'Providence can counteract all our
schemes. If ever it should be for Evelyn's real happiness that my
wish for her marriage with Lumley Ferrers should not be fulfilled, to
you I must leave the right to decide on what I cannot foresee. All I
ask is that no obstacle shall be thrown in the way of my wish; and
that the child shall be trained up to consider Lumley as her future
husband.' Among his papers was a letter addressed to me to the same
effect; and, indeed, in other respects that letter left more to my
judgment than I had any right to expect. Oh, I am often unhappy to
think that he did not marry one who would have deserved his affection!
and--but regret is useless now."
"I wish you could really feel so," said Mrs. Leslie; "for regret of
another kind still seems to haunt you; and I do not think you have yet
forgotten your early sorrows."
"Ah, how can I?" said Lady Vargrave, with a quivering lip.
At that instant, a light shadow darkened the sunny lawn in front of
the casements, and a sweet, gay young voice was heard singing at a
little distance; a moment more, and a beautiful girl, in the first
bloom of youth, bounded lightly along the grass, and halted opposite
the friends.
It was a remarkable contrast,--the repose and quiet of the two persons
we have described, the age and gray hairs of one, the resigned and
melancholy gentleness written on the features of the other--with the
springing step and laughing eyes and radiant bloom of the new comer!
As she stood with the setting sun glowing full upon her rich fair
hair, her happy countenance and elastic form, it was a vision almost
too bright for this weary earth,--a thing of light and bliss, that the
joyous Greek might have placed among the forms of Heaven, and
worshipped as an Aurora or a Hebe.
"Oh, how can you stay indoors this beautiful evening? Come, dearest
Mrs. Leslie; come, Mother, dear Mother, you know you promised you
would,--you said I was to call you; see, it will rain no more, and the
shower has left the myrtles and the violet-bank so fresh."
"My dear Evelyn," said Mrs. Leslie, with a smile, "I am not so young
as you."
"No; but you are just as gay when you are in good spirits--and who can
be out of spirits in such weather? Let me call for your chair; let me
wheel you--I am sure I can. Down, Sultan; so you have found me out,
have you, sir? Be quiet, sir, down!"
This last exhortation was addressed to a splendid dog of the
Newfoundland breed, who now contrived wholly to occupy Evelyn's
attention.
The two friends looked at this beautiful girl, as with all the grace
of youth she shared while she rebuked the exuberant hilarity of her
huge playmate; and the elder of the two seemed the most to sympathize
with her mirth. Both gazed with fond affection upon an object dear to
both. But some memory or association touched Lady Vargrave, and she
sighed as she gazed.