Mabel: A Novel. Vol. 1 (of 3)
by Mrs. C. J. Newby · English · Gutenberg #41564 · 337,324 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Mabel: A Novel. Vol. 1 (of 3)
Author: Mrs. C. J. Newby
Release date: December 5, 2012 [eBook #41564]
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Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MABEL: A NOVEL. VOL. 1 (OF 3) ***
MABEL.
A NOVEL,
BY EMMA WARBURTON.
_IN THREE VOLUMES._
VOL. I.
LONDON:
THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER,
30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE.
1854.
TO
MISS EMMA TYLNEY LONG,
THIS WORK
IS INSCRIBED
AS A SLIGHT BUT SINCERE EXPRESSION
OF GRATEFUL ESTEEM.
MABEL.
CHAPTER I.
Oh, timely, happy, timely wise,
Hearts that with rising morn arise,
Eyes that the beam celestial view,
Which evermore makes all things new.
New every morning is the love,
Our waking and uprising prove,
Through sleep and darkness safely brought,
Restored to life, and power, and thought.
KEEBLE.
One morning, early in the month of August, a few years since, the sun
rose lazily and luxuriously over the hills that bounded the little
village of Aston, which lay in one of the prettiest valleys of
Gloucestershire. The golden beams of that glorious luminary falling
first upon the ivy-covered tower of the little church, seemed, to the
eye of fancy, to linger with pleasure round the sacred edifice, as if
glad to recognize the altar of Him, who, from the beginning, had fixed
his daily course through the bright circle of the heavens, then pouring
a flood of brilliancy on the simple rectory, danced over the hills, and
played with the many windows of the old Manor House, which, situated at
a short distance from the church, formed one of the most striking
objects of the village.
Only here and there a thick volume of smoke rose from the cottages
scattered over the valley, while the only living object visible was a
young man, who thus early walked down the steep and winding path, which
led from the rectory, and strolled leisurely forward, as if attracted by
the beauties of the early morning. The slow pace with which he moved
seemed to betoken either indolence or fatigue, while his dress, which
was of the latest fashion, slightly contrasted with the ancient-looking
simplicity of the place.
Captain Clair, for such was his name, had quitted his regiment, then in
India, and returned to England, with the hope of recruiting his health,
which had been considerably impaired by his residence abroad.
On the preceding evening, he had arrived at the rectory, upon a visit to
his uncle, who wished him to try the bracing air of Gloucestershire as a
change from town, where he had been lingering for some little time since
his return to England.
In person, the young officer was slight and well made, with a becoming
military air; his countenance light and fresh colored, spite of Indian
suns, and, on the whole, prepossessing, though not untinged by certain
worldly characters, as if he had entered perhaps too thoughtlessly on a
world of sin and temptation.
There is, however, something still and holy in the early morning, when
the sin and folly of nature has slept, or seemed to sleep, and life
again awakes with fresh energy to labor. The dew from heaven has not
fallen upon the herb alone, it seems to rest upon the spirit of man
which rises full of renewed strength to that toil before which it sank
heavily at eve; and as Captain Clair felt the breeze rising with its
dewy incense to heaven, his mind seemed to receive fresh impetus, and
his thoughts a higher tone. Languidly as he pursued his way, his eye
drank in the beauties of a new country, with all the fervour of a
poetical imagination.
On the right and left of the village, as he entered it, were high hills,
covered with brushwood, a few cottages, with their simple gardens, lay
in the hollow, and the church, standing nearly alone, was built a
little above these, having the hill on the left immediately behind it.
There was great beauty in that simple church, with that thickly covered
hill above, and nothing near to disturb its solemnity.
Further on, the hills opened, and gave a view of the whole country
beyond, presenting a scene of loveliness very common in our fertile
island. A small but beautiful river wound through the valley, carrying
life and fertility along its banks. Wide spreading oaks and tall
beeches, with the graceful birch and chestnut trees bending their lower
branches nearly to the green turf beneath, enclosed the grounds of the
Manor House, which, built on a gentle ascent, looked down on the
peaceful valley below.
The house, itself, was a fine old building, well suited to the habits of
a country gentleman, though not so large as the gardens and plantation
surrounding it, might have admitted. These had been gradually acquired
by each successive owner of the mansion, who took pleasure in adding to
the family estate by purchasing all property immediately adjoining, but
had wisely refrained from patching and spoiling the house itself.
Captain Clair was determined to admire every thing; he had got up
unusually early, and that in itself was a meritorious action, which put
him in perfect good humour with himself. It was a very pleasant morning,
too, numbers of insects, he had scarcely ever seen or thought of since
he was a boy, attracted his attention, and flew out from the dewy
hedges, over which the white lily, or bindweed, hung in careless grace.
The butterfly awoke, and sported in the sunshine--and the bee went forth
to the busy labors of the day, humming the song of cheerful industry.
All combined to bring back long forgotten days of innocent childhood and
boyish mirth; the pulse which an Indian clime had weakened, beat
quicker, and his spirits revived before the influence of happy memories
and the healthy breezes of the Cotswold. Then, as the morning advanced,
he lingered to watch the movements of the villagers, and to muse upon
the characters of the inmates of the different cottages as he passed
them, and to observe that those who dwelt in the neatest were those who
stirred the first. The labourers had gone to their work, and now the
windows and doors were opened, and children came forth to play.
As he returned again to reach the rectory in time for its early
breakfast, he perceived one dwelling much superior in character to those
around it, with its antique gable front ornamented with carefully
arranged trelliswork, over which creepers twined in flowery luxuriance,
and the simple lawn sloping down towards the road, from which a low,
sunk fence divided it. Here, careless of observation, a young child had
seated herself--her straw hat upon the turf beside her, while she was
busily engaged in twining for it a wreath of the wild lily, forgetful
that in a few minutes its beauty would perish; she was a lovely child,
the outline of her infantine features was almost faultless, and her
little face dimpled with smiles as she looked up from her occupation to
nod some brief salutation to the poor men as they passed her on their
way home.
Arthur Clair could scarcely tell, why, of all the objects he had
observed that morning, none should make so deep an impression as the
sight of that young child, or why he felt almost sad, as he thought of
her twining those fading flowers, and as he strolled on, why, he looked
at nothing further, but still found himself musing on the delicate
features of that young face.
When he reached the garden gate, he found his uncle strolling about,
waiting for him.
Mr. Ware was a fine looking old gentleman, with silver hair curling over
a wide and expansive forehead. Though a little under the middle height,
there was a gentle dignity in his manner that could scarcely fail to be
noticed, or if not noticed, it was sure to be felt. He was neither very
witty, nor very learned--yet none knew him very long without liking him.
His face, not originally striking, had become more handsome as he had
grown older--for the struggle between good and evil, which must be in
every well principled mind, a perpetual struggle, had been carried on by
him for many years, and so successfully, that each year brought heaven
nearer to the good man's thoughts; and now, as the race was so nearly
finished, his zeal became more earnest, and his conscience more tender;
fearing, lest, after a life spent in his Master's service, he might be
found lingering at the last, and lose the prize for which he had been so
long striving. In his eye was that look of serenity and peace which
seemed to say, "he feared no evil tidings;" for he walked continually
under the protection, which only can give that feeling of security which
those who have it not would bestow great riches to possess. We have
lingered longer than we at first intended in description, but, perhaps
not too long.
When we look back to the innocence of childhood, we sigh to think that
we can never be children again; we recall that happy time when the world
had not written its own characters of sin and falsehood in our hearts;
we sigh to think that childhood is gone--but no sigh will recall it. But
when we see an old man who has passed the waves of this troublesome
world, true to the faith with which he entered life, we feel that here
is an example which we may follow. Childhood we have left behind, but
old age is before us, and if we live on, must come; and, as the body
decays, do we not feel that the spirit should increase in holiness and
strength, preparing itself for that beautiful world of light which it
must enter or die.
Mr. Ware had resided for many years at Aston; when a younger man, he had
been tutor, for a few months, to Colonel Hargrave, the present
possessor of the Aston property--and though with his pupil, only during
a tour through Italy, the attachment between them was such, that the
young man solicited his father to prefer his tutor to Aston, when that
living became vacant, partly, he told him, from his wish to secure
himself a friend and companion, whenever he visited home. Mr. Ware
gratefully accepted an offer which at once placed him in independence;
and, as soon as he had settled himself in his new house, he carried one
of his favourite projects into execution, by sending for his only
sister, who had been obliged to procure her livelihood as a governess;
his own small means being, since their father's death, insufficient for
both.
It was not then for his own sake entirely that he rejoiced in his
improved circumstances. When he drove his neat little carriage to meet
his sister, and when he brought her home, and shewed her his
house--their house as he called it--with its pretty comfortable
sitting-room, looking out upon the garden, and the neat little chamber,
where all her old favourite books--recovered from the friend who had
taken charge of them during her wanderings--rested upon the neatly
arranged shelves, he felt as happy as man can wish to be. And when, with
eyes glistening with pleasure, he assured her that it was her home as
long as she lived--he said what he never found reason to repent, for the
cheerful face of his companion bore perpetual remembrance of his
brotherly kindness.
He had once thought of marriage; but the idea had now passed away
entirely. In early years, he had been sincerely attached to a school
friend of his sister's, whom he had met during one of his Oxford
vacations; but she died early, leaving her memory too deeply impressed,
to make him wish to replace it by giving his affection to another. His
sister, now almost his only near relative, had sympathised, most
sincerely, in his loss, and had endeavoured to aid his own manly
judgment in regaining that cheerfulness of tone so necessary for the
right discharge of the every-day duties of life. She had been rewarded
by the more than usual continuation of a brother's early love and
esteem, and she had, therefore, no scruple of accepting his offer of
protection, and a home.
From that time, she had continued to keep his house with the most
cheerful attention to his wishes and whims, and with an evenness of
temper which had always been peculiar to her.
There was an air of gaiety about the whole house; the two maid-servants
and the old gardener seemed to possess peculiarly good tempers--they
were, indeed, scarcely ever disturbed, and we may venture to add, that
they were not very much overworked.
There were hives of bees in the garden, chickens in the court-yard, and
the gaily-feathered cock strutting about, giving a lazy crow now and
then--all seeming to take their ease, and enjoy themselves. In fact,
there was a blessing on the good man's home, that was always smiling
round it.
It was to this pleasant abode that the young soldier had come down
wearied with London amusements, like some strange being who had yet to
find a place in its social order.
"You are fortunate, sir," he said, as he strolled down the garden by his
uncle's side, "in your neighbourhood. I have seldom seen anything before
more comfortably beautiful, if I may use the expression."
"I am glad you like it," replied Mr. Ware, "and I assure you I shall be
quite contented if it has the power to make you spend a month or two
here agreeably. If you are fond of scenery, there are many places worth
seeing, even within a walking distance."
"I suppose the Manor House is amongst the number?" observed his nephew,
"I have been admiring it extremely. I cannot think why Hargrave does
not come down here. Has he been since he came into the property?"
"Yes--but only once, and then only for a short while; but you speak as
if you knew him?"
"A little," replied Clair, "he came home with us from Malta; but
friendship, sometimes, ripen fast. He found out my relationship to you,
which commenced our acquaintance; I was charmed with him--indeed, I
scarcely ever met more variety in any character. Sometimes I could
scarcely keep pace with his flow of spirits, and then he would fall into
a fit of musing, piquing my curiosity to discover why so great a change
should take place, as it were, in an instant--in short, I'd defy any one
to get into his confidence. But you know him, sir?"
"Yes," said Mr. Ware, "I knew him very well at one time; his father sent
me with him to Italy, and in return, the generous boy obtained me this
preferment. But I have not seen him now, I think, for six or seven
years--though we write to each other occasionally. You must tell me more
about him at your leisure, however, for he is a great favourite with
Mary as well as myself; but now, I think, you must be ready for
breakfast--Mary is waiting for us, I see. Afterwards, if you are not
tired, we will pay a visit to the church--there are two or three
monuments of the Hargrave family worth looking at."
"You are very kind," replied Clair, "I am sure I feel better already
with the fresh country air--and health after sickness is happiness
itself, sometimes."
At this moment, Miss Ware opened the glass door which led into the
garden. She was dressed, with studied simplicity, in a black silk gown,
with white muslin apron, and her cap, looking as white as snow, fastened
round the head by a broad lilac ribbon; but the smile upon her face was
the best of all, and was never wanting at the breakfast-table, for she
always maintained that no one had a right to be dull after a good
night's rest, or to anticipate the troubles of the day before they came.
"Good morning, Edmund," said she to her brother, "and good morning,
Arthur," giving her hand to her nephew. "I was just preparing to send
your breakfast up-stairs, when I heard you had been out for more than
two hours."
"I am not sorry to save you the trouble of nursing me, aunt--I have had
enough of that in London," said Clair, gaily, as he followed her to the
morning-room, where breakfast waited them. The meal was dispatched with
cheerfulness, and he amused his aunt by an account of his walk, and the
guesses which it had allowed him to make of the character of their
poorer neighbours, with whom she was herself well acquainted.
After breakfast, Mr. Ware invited him to join his morning ramble.
"I shall have an opportunity," he said, as they descended the hill
leading to the lower part of the village, "of pointing out to you some
of the evils of absenteeism--of which you have, doubtless, heard much. I
have always noticed, that what we gain from our own observation is worth
much more than the information of others. In this little spot,
unhappily, you will see very much to condemn. I have already told you
that our landlord, Colonel Hargrave, has not been here for more than six
years, and before that visit, which was chiefly occupied in field
sports, his sojourn here had been very rare, for his talented mind led
him to seek the more extensive knowledge to be gained from foreign
travel, even before he entered the army. His father, who has now been
dead some years, constantly resided here, till the death of his wife,
which made Aston a very different place from what it is at present. Poor
Mrs. Hargrave was universally beneficent, and was so much loved and
respected by the people in this neighbourhood, rich as well as poor,
that her name is scarcely ever mentioned without the title of 'good'
being added to it. The time when good Mrs. Hargrave lived is always
looked back upon with affectionate regret. When she died, however, her
husband, who was passionately fond of her, took a distaste to a place
which constantly reminded him of his loss, and he only paid very casual
visits to it during the remainder of his life, which did not last long
after the domestic blow he had sustained. At present, the estate is in
the hands of a rapacious bailiff, who amply fulfils that proverb, which
says, 'A poor man that oppresseth the poor is like a sweeping rain which
leaveth no food.' Unfortunately, I have no influence with him, and as he
has to pay me tithe, he regards me in the light of others who are
dependent upon him. It is an unhappy state of things, certainly, for the
wages of the poor laborers employed on the estate, are, in some cases,
kept back for months together. You may easily fancy how difficult it is
for men to live under these circumstances, having no other resource
beyond the fruit of their labors."
They had, by this time, reached the hollow between the two hills, where
a great many cottages were situated. About them was an appearance of
neglect, that is, at all times, disagreeable to contemplate. In most
parts, the thatch had become blackened by the weather, and here and
there pieces of it had been blown off by the high winds, or were kept in
place only by heavy stones laid upon the roof. In some places the walls,
which bounded the little gardens, had been suffered to crumble
down--loose stones lying in the gaps, but no effort seemed to have been
made to replace them. A ditch ran along the road, partially covered with
long grass and weeds; but the glimpses here and there afforded of it,
told that it was used as a receptacle for the drains of that part of the
parish--and a noxious stench arose from it exercising a baneful
influence, as might be seen by the pale faces of the children who played
about it.
Added to this, there was a desponding tone over the general features of
the place, which might have accounted for the wastes of ground which
might be seen, here and there, covered with weeds, rather than converted
to any useful purpose.
"Surely," said Clair, attracting his uncle's attention, "this
self-neglect cannot be attributed to Hargrave?"
"Not altogether," replied Mr. Ware, "this is an evil which I hope time
will remedy; there is, indeed, no excuse for it; yet the reason I
believe simply to be, that the people, losing their accustomed
stimulant, arising from a resident family, and depressed by the low and
uncertain wages they receive from an oppressive bailiff, have not yet
learned to take care of themselves; but yet I hope, from day to day,"
said the good man, looking round, "it would not do for me to despond as
well as the rest."
Stepping over a small plank that crossed the ditch, they entered one of
the cottages. The interior presented a kind of untidy comfort; a large
heap of fuel lay in one corner, and a bed was at one side, and seemed
used as a substitute for a seat during the day. The windows, where panes
had been broken, were filled up with dirty rags; two or three children
were playing about with naked feet, and their mother, a remarkably
pretty young woman, was working at the darkened window. By the fire was
seated a strong hale young man, with his hands upon his knees,
contemplating it with gloomy fixedness. A red cap ornamented his head,
and partly shaded a pair of dark eyes, and a scowling countenance.
Mr. Ware could not but enter the cottage with the consciousness that he
was not particularly welcome; yet this did not render his visits less
frequent.
"Well, Martin," said he, "I am sorry to see you at home, for I fear you
are out of work."
The man answered, without rising from his seat--
"I am out of work, and so I am likely to remain, I suppose. It is
up-hill work to have nothing better to look to than this comes to--and
it is very hard to be owed ever so much money, which I have earned by as
honest labor as was ever given in exchange for money. I have heard you
read--'_cursed is he that keepeth a man's wages all night by him until
the morning_,'--but I don't know what would be said to him that can keep
them for months, letting a poor man starve, without thinking of him for
a moment. When rent day comes round, then it must be rent, or turn out;
we hav'nt got no power in our hands; but I say 'tis a very hard case."
"It is very hard, I allow, Martin," said Mr. Ware, "but the wrong done
you does not excuse your sitting here idle; have you been trying for
work?"
"Yes, I've been to all the farmers round; but there's none to be got."
"How do you manage to get on then?"
"We live as we can," answered the man, sullenly.
"Well, my good fellow," said Mr. Ware, kindly, "make another effort, and
do not sit down here idle all day. I hear that Colonel Hargrave is
coming to England shortly, if, indeed, he is not already here."
"We have heard that so often," growled Martin, "that we cannot put any
faith in it. He'll never come to do us any good, I reckon."
Mr. Ware offered him a little more advice as to exerting himself, and
then, with a small gratuity to his wife, left the cottage with his
nephew.
"He is a notorious poacher," said he, as they walked on, "and his excuse
is, if they do not give us our own money, we must take an equivalent.
It is difficult to preach while poverty and starvation are opposed to
the maxims we would wish to inculcate. I wish something could make the
Colonel believe the actual state of things; but I do sometimes fear he
entirely forgets us. In that neat-looking dwelling," he continued, after
a pause, "lives a woman, who has hitherto obtained her livelihood by
supplying the poor inhabitants with bread and other necessaries; for
some months past, however, Rogers, the bailiff, has found excuses to
withhold the wages from most of the workmen engaged in repairing the
premises at Aston, and they have been obliged to live upon credit, which
this poor woman has been persuaded to give them--in consequence, she
tells me, she is nearly ruined; and from the confusion in which her
money matters stand, she has fallen quite into a state of melancholy. I
went to her yesterday, so that I will not ask you to see her to-day; but
we will come in here," he said, at the same time lifting the latch of a
door, which opened into a small room, more like some hovel, attached to
a tenement which contained several families.
It was a wretched-looking place, and Clair could scarcely suppress a
shudder as he entered it. It was but badly lighted from a broken window;
an old piece of furniture served, at once, for a table and a sort of
cupboard; two chairs, and a stool, completed the furniture, with the
exception of a shelf, on which the poverty of the house was displayed,
in half a loaf of bread which rested on it. Here an old man sat by the
smouldering embers of a wood fire, holding his hands as close to it as
possible, as if he hoped to find comfort in the miserable heat it
afforded, for his thin hands looked cold, though it was still early in
autumn. He welcomed them with pleasure, and offered his two chairs to
the gentlemen with ready alacrity, taking possession of the stool for
himself.
While Mr. Ware continued talking to the old man, Clair gave a searching
glance round the poor dwelling, and trembled to think how the cold
December wind would whistle through the old window; but when he thought
of asking some questions concerning it, he was checked, by hearing the
two old men discourse with such apparent ease and cordiality, as if they
had entirely forgotten where they were.
"Is it really possible, sir," said he, when they had left, "that nothing
can be done for that poor old man?"
"I fear nothing can be done," returned Mr. Ware, "unless we can persuade
Hargrave to return to us."
"But how," enquired Clair, "would his coming remedy the evil."
"It would do so in a great measure," replied Mr. Ware, as they turned
homewards. "A man with his wealth could afford to keep all that are now
out of labour, well employed. A farmer cannot well afford to pay an old
man for the little labour he can give, but a rich landlord can easily
find him employment; at a lower rate of wages, of course. Formerly,
those who were too old for hard work, were allowed to sweep away the
leaves, or clean the weeds from the walks on the estate, which were a
few years since beautifully kept. The absence of a rich family in a
place where the people have learnt to depend upon them, is a serious
loss. You will wonder, perhaps, that I do not instantly, and fully
relieve the situation of the old man we visited just now, but the
poverty which has prevailed in almost every house during the past year,
has been very great; and I have been obliged to divide my charity so as
to make it more extensive. Besides, I do not much approve of giving
where it can be avoided; and, therefore, husband my means for the
scarcity of the coming winter."
"I should have guessed," said his nephew, "that some such motive
influenced you, or I know such cases would meet with instant
relief--but of one thing, I am certain, Hargrave cannot be aware of
this."
"We will hope not," said Mr. Ware, somewhat sadly; "but I have written
to him frequently, and if Rogers gave me the proper directions, it is
hardly likely my letters have not reached him. It is too probable, that,
like many more, he relies too much upon his bailiff."
They had, by this time, reached the rectory, and Clair, exhausted from
unusual exercise, threw himself into an arm-chair, and took up a book.
CHAPTER II.
From dream to dream, with her to rove,
Like faery nurse, with hermit child,
Teach her to think, to pray, to love,
Make grief less bitter, joy less wild.
These were thy tasks,--.
CHURCH POETRY.
About a quarter of a mile from the rectory, and close to the Church, was
the pretty little residence which had attracted Clair's attention in his
morning walk. It was an old fashioned little house, with gable front,
and latticed windows, with ivy climbing over the walls, and jasmine and
honeysuckle creeping in rich luxuriance over the old porch. In front,
the grass-plot sloped down, with a wide gravel walk running round it,
to the gate, which shut it in from the high road. At the back lay a
spacious vegetable garden, irregularly laid out, and interrupted here
and there by a rose-bush, or bed of beautiful carnations, as it suited
the old gardener's taste--for he had lived in the family so many years,
that no one dared dispute his will in the garden--it was conducted on
his most approved style of good gardening; and old John would have
defended that style against all the world. To have discharged him from
her service would have been one of the last things his mistress would
have thought of; therefore, the only alternative was to let him have his
own way in every thing. One part of his system was to put every thing in
the place best suited to its growth, without much regard to order, and
the garden often presented a strange medley in consequence; the hottest
corners were shared by early lettuces, and rich double stocks, and
radish beds, and so on, throughout the garden; but there was something
not unpleasing in the mixture, though it looked a little singular, and
the general neatness was not to be found fault with--and the turf walks
cutting the garden in many directions, were always smoothly cut and
rolled.
The spot where old John was most certain to be found, was just in the
middle of the garden, where he had enclosed a small piece of ground by a
high and closely clipped yew hedge, to keep out the wind. In this small
enclosure, were two or three hot-beds, with cucumbers, melons, or some
very early radishes, or cress under glass frames. He had always
something to do round these beds, the matting covers were to be put on
or taken off, and the glasses opened a little more, and more, as the day
advanced, and then, of course, to be closed again, by degrees, towards
evening. If any one touched them but himself, he looked as if his whole
crop must inevitably be spoilt; but the secret might have been, that, he
had always some little surprise to bring out of them, such as a
cucumber ten days earlier than could have been expected; or some mustard
and cress, before any one else thought of planting any, which, of
course, was not to be seen till quite ready for the table.
There was an appearance about the inside of the house, as well as of the
garden, as if a great deal of money had been spent upon it formerly, for
there were many solid and ornamental comforts in both, which might have
been dispensed with if required.
The drawing-room, though small, was substantially and elegantly
furnished, though old fashioned; every thing in the room too bore the
evidence of refined habits, but nothing told of any present expenditure.
Such as it had been ten years before, it very much remained now. The
dining-room and usual sitting-room, had much of the same appearance
though it did not give quite the same reflective, feeling--ladies' work,
and a child's playthings, gave life and animation to it.
Colonel Lesly had lived here for many years since his retirement from
the army, having lost a leg during the Peninsular war, where he had
served as a brave officer, and only retired from the service when unable
to be of further use to it. On his return to England, he, with his wife
and child, settled in his native county--and fixed on this cottage for
his residence. His wife was most sincerely attached to him, and her
society with that of their daughter Mabel, made him scarcely regret,
being obliged so soon to retire from a profession so well adapted to his
tastes. He had been fond of reading, when a boy, and had not neglected
the opportunities presented by his wandering abroad, to cultivate his
taste for general information. One of his chief pleasures soon became
that of teaching his little Mabel all he knew, and her intelligent
questions often led him to take an interest in subjects he might
otherwise have neglected.
Since their settling at Aston, Colonel and Mrs. Lesly had had several
children, who had all died in infancy, still leaving Mabel as the only
object of parental love; fondly did her father guard the young girl's
mind, growing in intelligence, and beauty, whilst her speaking features
lighted up with smiles whenever he came near. Proudly did he watch her
as each year gave her something more soft, more touching, more womanly;
and earnestly did he hope that life would be spared him to guide aright
a mind of such firmness and power, joined to feelings so warm and eager,
that it seemed to him a question which would have the ascendancy, heart
or mind. But that wish was not to be granted, and Mabel's first real
sorrow, was her father's death. He had gone on a short visit to London,
upon some urgent business, and had there taken the typhus fever, which
made its appearance soon after his return home, and, acting on an
enfeebled constitution, carried him to his grave, after a short illness.
A few days after his death, Mabel's youngest sister was born. It was,
indeed, to a house of sorrow and mourning, that the little child came,
for her mother's constitution never recovered the shock she had
sustained in the loss of one, not only most dear, but on whom she had
become almost wholly dependent.
It was then that Mabel felt the benefit of her father's lessons so
firmly impressed on her mind, and resolved to act as she believed he
would have led her to do, could he have been allowed the power of
guiding her still. So severely did her mother feel the loss she had
sustained, both in health and spirits, that she rather required support
herself than felt able to afford it to those dependent on her; Mabel,
therefore, soon felt the necessity of exerting herself, as all the
family responsibilities seemed left entirely to her care.
As soon then as she could at all recover from the blow occasioned by her
father's death, she applied herself to the management of their now
reduced income, and busied herself in cutting off all the expenses
which the Colonel's liberal habits had rendered almost necessary to his
happiness, but which were now quite beyond their means.
In the course of her enquiries, she had no greater opponent than old
John; he first insisted that he himself was quite indispensable to the
arrangements of the family; and when he had gained that point, he was
equally obstinate about the carriage and ponies. But Mabel had the
advantage in that particular, at least; the old gardener was left in
quiet possession--but the coach-house and stable were shut up--and after
many a battle with their old friend, everything else that could be
dispensed with, was cut off, till the expenditure was reduced to
something within their income. John pined and fretted, but his young
mistress had such a winning way, he could not keep his ill-humour long.
He had declared, during one of his contests, that she never could be
happy without the pretty pony which had carried her up and down the
hills so often; but he was obliged to give up the point, when he saw the
delight with which she carried her infant sister in her arms and danced
her in the sunshine, with half a mother's hope and pride, as if she
wanted nothing more to make her perfectly happy.
Sometimes, when the child grew older, she would take her to gather the
yellow cress, or the cowslip, and watch her trembling steps with the
most careful attention, or lead her to the church-yard, and there,
seated on their father's tomb, give her her first lesson in eternal
things. And then they would return together to cheer their mother's
solitude, and try to divert her from her never ceasing regrets; and thus
years passed by, and if sorrow laid again its heavy hand on Mabel's
brow, resignation had followed to smooth away its lines, and leave it
soft and gentle as before.
On that bright August morning, which we have before described, she was
sitting with her little sister, now a beautiful but weak and unhealthy
child, of seven or eight, at her lessons in the cheerful little
sitting-room. Mabel--with her bright, quick eye, changing color, and
speaking countenance over which a thought, perhaps a single shade of
mournfulness had been cast, and the little girl by her side looked well
together, and they were almost always in company. Amy was at her French
lesson, which that morning seemed peculiarly hard to learn, and much as
she always tried to please her sister, she could not help turning her
wandering eyes rather often to the open window to watch the butterflies
flit past in the merry sunshine.
"It is so difficult, Mabel dear," said she, at length, "I learnt it
perfectly this morning, but I cannot remember the words now."
"Well, try once more," replied Mabel; "but you must not look out of the
window."
"But my head aches so," said Amy, coaxingly, knowing that Mabel could
hardly ever resist her plea of illness.
"Well, there is mamma's bell, and while I go to dress her, you can take
a run round the garden--but do not be long, or I shall have to call
you."
Mabel went up-stairs, and Amy ran off to the garden--her first object
was the fruit trees, to see if any were on the ground--she found
none--but many beautiful ripe peaches were on one tree, which was
carefully trained against the wall, and one finer than the rest,
perfectly ready, and peeping out from the leaves, looked peculiarly
tempting. She stopped to look, then felt it gently, then tried to see if
it were loose, till one unfortunate push, and the peach tumbled to the
ground. Amy looked frightened, and gazed round to see if any one was in
sight, but seeing no one, she picked it up, and began to eat it.
Suddenly the awful step of old John was heard coming from the
cucumber-bed.
"How did you get that peach, miss?" he said, roughly.
The child turned red, but answered quickly,
"I picked it up."
"Well, I would not have lost that peach," said he, "for half-a-dozen
others. Miss Mabel told me to save half-a-dozen for Mr. Ware, and this
was the best of the lot--I shan't have such another beauty this year.
Oh, miss."
"But you said I might have all I picked up," answered Amy, clinging to
her subterfuge.
"Yes; but I thought this was too firm to fall, watching it as I did
too," said he, as he looked in consternation from the tree to the half
eaten peach in Amy's hand.
The child was not long in taking advantage of his silence, and ran into
the house just in time to take up the French lesson before Mabel
returned.
There was a look of indignation not easily mistaken by Amy on her
sister's face, when she entered the room.
"Oh, Amy," she said, in tones of anger and surprise.
Amy looked up, but said nothing--she was frightened, for she knew that
she had been doing wrong.
"I did not think," said Mabel, while an expression of contempt curled
her beautiful lip, "I did not think you could be so mean as to screen
yourself from blame by a falsehood."
Amy was going to speak, but her sister interrupted her.
"I know every word you would say; but it is all, all wrong. I heard
every word, and I dare say, guessed every thought. You did not really
mean to pick the peach, but you could not resist the temptation to
loosen its hold. When it fell, you were surprised and sorry; but you
could not resist the temptation to eat, because you were alone, and
thought that no one saw you; then, when John came, you turned coward,
because you were wrong, and told him you had picked it up--and this was
true, though it was also true that you were the means of knocking it
down first--so you had neither the courage to speak the truth, nor tell
a falsehood."
Mabel spoke quickly and impetuously, and as the whole truth glared on
the child's mind, the hot tears fell quickly on her burning cheek.
"You do not love me, Mabel," she said.
"Because I will not let you be mean, deceitful, and wicked. What would
papa have said had he seen his child act so?"
"Oh, forgive me, dear Mabel, and do not talk like that," said Amy.
There was a tear in Mabel's eye that softened the severity of her tone,
and sitting down by her, she said, more quietly--
"Amy, love, in that little action, I saw enough to make me indignant,
and more to make me sorry; for if you do not get rid of that deceit,
which has led you wrong now, it will go on, leading you into worse
errors, and how can I take care of you if I am not certain you are
speaking the truth. Falsehood is the beginning of all sin; and you will
learn to deceive me; and when I think my darling is all I wish her, I
shall discover something hidden and sinful, that will tell me I am
wrong. Oh, I am so vexed."
"Forgive me--oh, do say you forgive me?" cried the punished child.
"Have I the power to forgive what is sinful?" said Mabel, kissing her
affectionately.
Amy understood, and running to the chamber where they both slept, she
fell upon her knees, and clasped her little hands in prayer.
A child's repentance is not very long, and Amy soon returned, her
countenance meek and subdued, and looked timidly at her sister.
"Now then, Amy," said Mabel, "prepare yourself for a difficult
duty--come and tell John all you have done."
Amy hesitated and trembled.
"He will be so cross," said she, entreatingly.
"Very likely; but you are not a coward now--you are not afraid to do
right. It is difficult, I know, for John will not understand what you
feel, and may remember it for a long time; but still you will come."
Amy gave her trembling hand to her sister, and, with a very blank
countenance, accompanied her in search of John.
They had to go all over the garden; but found him, at length, standing
disconsolate by the peach-tree.
"John," said Amy.
"Yes, miss," replied the old man, gloomily, and half angrily.
"John," she continued, "I touched the peach, and that was why it fell
down."
He looked too amazed to answer.
"I am very, very sorry--will you forgive me for telling a falsehood?"
murmured Amy, beseechingly.
John looked still very surprised and angry.
"Miss Amy," he began, "I could not have thought you--"
"But forgive her this time," interposed Mabel, "she is very sorry, and
it has been a hard struggle to come and tell you how very wrong she has
been."
"Bless you, miss," answered the old gardener, quickly, "you are your own
father's child, and I know how much you must have suffered when you
found any kindred of your'n a telling lies. But I forgive you, Miss Amy,
and never you do wrong like that again. Bless you, Miss Mabel, for you
be leading the dear young lady in the right path, as well as walking in
it yourself."
CHAPTER III.
Love not, love not, the thing you love may change.
What general interest is excited by the arrival of the post. Who ever
settled himself in a new place, for the shortest time, without making
himself acquainted with its details, the time when it arrives and
leaves? And who ever entirely loses this interest, spite of its often
more than daily occurrence? There is no sameness in it, because there is
no certainty.
Letters only came to Aston twice in a week, and then they were brought
by a man--who could hardly be dignified by the title of postman--at
some uncertain time in the middle of the day.
On these days the road by which he came was an object of interest to
Mabel and her sister, and they often walked in that direction to secure
any letters there might be for them, without waiting for their tardy
delivery. They were often joined by Mr. Ware on the same errand, and
that afternoon they overtook him as he was leisurely mounting the first
hill on the road.
"Well, young ladies," said he, greeting them with a smile, "we are all
going to meet the postman as usual I suppose?"
"Yes, sir," replied Mabel, "the post always seems to have sufficient
interest to make even you choose this road on Tuesdays and Fridays."
"Well, I confess," he replied, "I always have great pleasure in seeing
the man turn the corner, besides, as he is so uncertain, one is tempted
to take a longer walk, expecting to see him every moment."
"Yes," said Mabel, "we almost always meet him, and yet there is seldom
more than the possibility of a letter after all."
"My hopes are not quite so indefinite," said Mr. Ware, "I am always
certain of a paper, which is often worth more to me than a letter. I
used to think when a person took great interest in the post it was a
sign that they were not quite happy at home or in themselves."
"And do you not think so still?" said Mabel.
"Not so much, certainly," he replied, "I think it often arises from the
feeling that we are not quite independent of the outer world till the
letters of the day have been read. Good and bad news must frequently
come by letter, and, therefore, as long as we have any friends separated
from us, we must feel a little anxious to know if there be any news at
all."
"Do you not think," said Mabel, "that this is sometimes carried too far,
and may degenerate into almost a sickly feeling?"
"Yes, certainly; I would not have any one indifferent on common
subjects, but too great attention to things of this kind must be wrong."
"I have often thought so," said Mabel, thoughtfully, "when I have felt
quite anxious on seeing the man coming, and then when I open my letters,
full of the most ordinary business, I feel quite ashamed of myself."
"And what were you really hoping for, dear child?" said Mr. Ware.
The color rose fast over her truthful countenance, but at this moment
the postman himself was seen, and saved her the pain of answering.
Mr. Ware soon secured his papers, and one or two letters, and being
anxious to convey one home to his nephew, he took leave of them where
the road separated.
"Now then," said Mabel, when they had parted from him, "let us see which
will get home first, for mamma will be glad to get this letter from aunt
Villars."
Amy reached home first, but Mabel quickly followed her to the
drawing-room.
"Here, mamma, is a letter from aunt Villars," said Mabel, echoed by Amy.
"From Caroline," said Mrs. Lesly, "I do not think it can be from
Caroline, for there is no Bath post-mark, it comes from Cheltenham."
"Do open it mamma, and see if they are at Cheltenham," said Mabel.
"Fetch me my glasses then," returned her mother, "stay--here they are,
but you must not hurry me, or my head will begin to ache again, it has
been very bad all the morning."
"Oh, yes, mamma, there is plenty of time; come, Amy dear, and take your
bonnet off."
Mabel had taken up her work before she again ventured to ask any
questions. At length she said--
"Is aunt Villars at Cheltenham, mamma?"
"Yes, my dear, but only for a week or ten days."
"Will she come and see us now she is so near?" she enquired.
"I will read what she says about that, my dear," said Mrs. Lesly, taking
up the letter, (some part of the aunt's communications being always
mysteriously reserved).
Here it is:--
"I cannot leave Gloucestershire without coming to see you, dear
Annie, and your sweet children, and therefore, if you say nothing
to the contrary, I will drive over some how on Monday, and remain
till Tuesday. If not asking too much of my dear sister, I shall
leave Lucy with you; she is not quite well, and a run in the
country will do her good, after the heat of Bath. My little girl
finds pleasure in anything, and I promise you she shall be very
good if you will let her come to you."
"Oh, how nice, mamma," cried Amy.
"Very nice that your aunt is coming, I allow," said Mrs. Lesly, "but I
do not know what to say to Lucy, all little girls are not so good as my
Amy."
"It would be unkind to refuse her," said Mabel.
"And if she is not well, poor child," added her mother. "I quite forget
how old Lucy is, she cannot be so very little after all."
"But," said Amy, "aunt calls her, her little girl, and says she will be
very good; if she were grown up like Mabel, of course she would not be
naughty."
"I do not know that," said Mrs. Lesly, with a smile, "grown up people
are often as naughty as little ones; so either way she was right to
promise. Well, we must have the spare room opened, it must be quite
damp, I fear, after being shut up so long."
"Oh, no, mamma," said Mabel, "I open the windows every morning, myself,
so that I am sure the room is well aired."
"There must be a fire there, however, I suppose," replied her mother,
trying to exert herself to think.
"Yes, Betsy shall light a fire there to-day, and I will see that the
room is comfortable."
"But stay," said Mrs. Lesly, who was always troubled by anything like
arrangements, "who is to sleep in Lucy's room when Caroline is gone. I
am afraid we cannot manage it."
"We will see how old she is when she comes," suggested Mabel, "and if
she is afraid to sleep by herself Betsy must sleep with her; but from
what I remember she cannot be very young."
"Well then, my dear," said her mother, "and so you will promise to
contrive to make everything comfortable; now nothing makes me so ill as
arranging, and your poor papa never left me anything of that kind to
think of. I remember once going down to Weymouth, when you were a baby.
I could not tell what I should do there, being obliged to sleep at an
hotel, for the first night, for we could not find a lodging, the town
was so very full. So when we came there, we could get nothing but a
small, uncomfortable room; and some how or other, we could not find any
of the baby's things without pulling our boxes all about so, and I was
so tired and teased, that I sat down, and--and--
"'Annie,' said he, 'now don't cry--I can bear anything better than your
tears--leave everything to me--it will be much the easiest plan.'
"And so I did--and he put my nurse to work so busily, that my baby was
asleep before I could think about it; and the next morning he was up
early, managed to secure us a lodging, and made us all comfortable. Ah,
I am afraid he spoilt me, I do not know how to do anything now, I
fear."
"Well, dear mamma," said Mabel, twining her arm round her neck, and
kissing her affectionately, "I would not have you miss my dear papa less
than you do; but you must not tease yourself about anything. Did I not
promise to try and supply his place? I do not mean to let you have any
trouble at all. Here is your desk and a new pen--the ink is a little too
light, but it writes freely--and now, while you answer my aunt's letter,
you will be glad to get rid of us."
"I do not want to drive you away, love," replied her mother; "but you
know I can never write if there is the least noise--so, perhaps, you had
better go, and take Amy with you. I have not written for such an age, it
makes me quite nervous."
"Oh, yes, I know, mamma dear; come, Amy, we will go and look to the
spare room. I will seal your letter, mamma, when it is finished."
Mabel was soon busy in thinking over the accommodations necessary for
visitors, with Betsy's aid, amidst Amy's incessant questions.
"Do you think, Mabel," she began, "that Lucy is very little?"
"I do not much think she is little at all," replied Mabel.
"But aunt Villars called her, my little girl," persisted Amy.
"Yes, but many mammas talk of grown up children in the same way."
"Do you think," said Amy, after watching her sister for a few minutes in
silence, "I had better put some of my books on the shelf for her to
read, if she happens to like them?"
"If you have any that will look pretty, you may put them there
certainly."
"Do you think she will like the swing at Mr. Ware's?"
"If she is like you, perhaps she may; but whether she be little or not,
we must both try and make her pass her time pleasantly, you know," said
Mabel, as she glanced round the room with approval.
The chintz curtains had been re-hung--the snow-white coverlet had been
placed upon the bed--and the dressing-table arranged with the most
careful attention to comfort and convenience. Everything, in the careful
arrangement which Mabel had bestowed upon the room, seemed to speak a
welcome; and through the open window the fresh breezes of the Cotswold
hills passed freely.
"Does it not look comfortable?" said Mabel, appealing to her talkative
companion.
"Yes, Mabel, dear, everything looks nice that you manage; but," added
she, returning to the former subject, "if she is a great girl, what can
I do to amuse her?"
"Oh, many things," returned Mabel; "even you can do, I think, if you
try; you must not talk to her very much, and ask her too many
questions."
"Do I tease you, Mabel, dear, when I ask you questions?"
"Not often; but then you know I love you," said her sister, "and
therefore do not get teased."
"But why do you think she will not love me?"
"I think it very likely she will love you," said Mabel, looking down
upon her affectionately, "if you are good; but not till she knows you,
not very much, at least. You know, we must buy people's love."
"Do you mean by making them presents?" said Amy, looking a little
shocked at the idea.
"Not what you mean by presents certainly," said Mabel, smiling.
"What then?"
"Well then, first, you must give them your love, before you consider
what they think of you."
"Is that a certain way of buying love?"
"It will be nearly certain," said Mabel, "to get you good will, at
least, from every one, whose esteem is really valuable, for when we
love, we try to do everything that is kind; we are not easily offended
by little things that might annoy us, if we did not love; and then the
wish to avoid giving offence, will lead us to govern our feelings, so
that we may not be sullen, or out of temper, which would make us
disoblige them by saying anything to wound their feelings."
"Would it do anything else?" said Amy, who always liked to hear her
sister talk.
"Yes, I think it would lead us to speak the truth, for fear of
encouraging them in any bad thing; for if we must not do wrong, we must
not let it be done by others, if we can help it, particularly by those
we love."
"But then," said Amy, "if a person is bad, do not you think it would be
better to wait and see? We ought not to like a bad person, you said, one
day."
"Not exactly that; I told you not to be intimate with Mary Watson,
because she did many things I did not like, and knew a good many little
girls, who could not teach her any good; but still, I think, if, for
some reason, we were obliged to have Mary Watson here, you might love
her just as much as I told you to love Lucy, for if you spoke the truth,
she could not think you liked any of her naughty ways."
"Then why may I not know her now--could I not speak the truth?"
"Perhaps you might," said Mabel; "but I think, sometimes, that not to
avoid temptation, is taking one step to evil; so I thought it best to
avoid Mary Watson, as I could scarcely hope you would do her very much
good, and she might do you harm."
"You always think of me, Mabel," said Amy; "when do you find time to
think of yourself?"
"When I go to bed," she replied, "and then I ask myself if I have been
as kind to my little orphan sister as I ought to be?"
"But, Mabel, dear, when you sit alone, sometimes, and look so very sad,
and I come in, and see tears on your face, is that about me?"
"No; but it is not often so."
"Not often; but I am so vexed when it is. Why is it, Mabel dear?"
"Because," she said, her eyes filling with tears as she spoke, "somebody
loved me once, who does not love me now."
"No, I am sure that is not true--every one loves you; mamma, Mr. Ware,
Miss Ware, Betsy, John, every one." "I am sure that can't be true, and
it is naughty to fancy unkind things; Mabel, dear, dear, Mabel," said
the child, jumping on a stool and throwing her arms lightly round her
neck, "and you are never naughty."
"Oh, yes I am, many many times a-day," said Mabel, hiding her face on
Amy's shoulder, "my good, good, child, what should I do without you."
"Oh, nothing without me, you could not get on at all without me."
"Not very well, I think, certainly," said Mabel, smiling through her
tears at Amy's satisfaction, "but we have been a long time away, and
mamma must have finished her letter--come and let us seal it before the
man calls again, for if it is not ready, what will become of our
visitors."
"But, Amy," said she, sinking her voice almost to a whisper, "never tell
mamma or any one that I ever cry, or why I cry."
"Oh, never, you know I can keep a secret."
"You promise," said Mabel.
"Yes, I promise faithfully."
CHAPTER IV.
This is a likeness may they all declare,
And I have seen him, but I know not where.
CRABBE.
Mrs. Lesly had been, as a girl, both beautiful and accomplished, gifted
with good natural talents, though possessing little perseverance and
much indolence of character. Upon her marriage every faculty of her mind
became absorbed in devotion to her husband, and an almost indolent
dependence on his will. Since his death she had continued so very
depressed that, at the time when both Mabel and Amy might have much
needed a mother's care, she felt every exertion too great for her
weakened nerves and failing health.
She had, by her marriage, entered a family a little above her own, and
now suffered the too general consequence, in the neglect of her
husband's relations. She felt all things deeply, and this, if possible,
aggravated her loss. The Lesly and Hargrave families were closely
connected, but the absence of the Colonel, whose family mansion lay so
near them, prevented her receiving that attention which the
neighbourhood of a rich relation might have procured her. The secluded
life to which she now clung so earnestly, only increased the extreme
sensitiveness of her feelings. Her mind therefore, suffered to prey upon
itself, became a curse instead of a blessing, as it might have been, had
it been employed in any useful purpose; and the delicacy and refinement
of her nature, now only quickened her perception of the slightest
coldness, or unkindness in those around her; spreading about her a kind
of atmosphere of refined suffering, which duller eyes would never have
discovered.
Yet the indulgence which she claimed from others always rendered her an
object of affection, and her devotion to the memory of her husband
veiled many failings, and excused her indolence sometimes even in the
eyes of the most ascetic. Joined to this weakness of character, however,
she possessed many fine qualities. She was generous in the extreme, and
liberal to a total forgetfulness of self, and would forgive, where no
injury was intended, with a magnanimity, which, applied to a real
offence, would have been noble. She was also very patient under the
oppression of continual ill health, and though too indolent to exert
herself, she was capable of suffering without complaint.
Mabel inherited her mother's intellect and delicacy of feeling, but
seconded by a strong will and great common sense. She possessed also
beauty equal, if not superior, to hers, though in her face it always
seemed secondary to the feelings which were spoken by it. But there was
one peculiar charm in her character, which secured the love of those
around her as powerfully as an Eastern talisman. It was a reliance on
the good will of others, drawn perhaps from the reflection of her own
heart--a kind of security in the feeling that there is always good to
those who rightly seek it; a trust in the virtue of others which often
proves a touchstone to wake its hidden springs, whilst all feel ashamed
of disappointing a hope, founded more on the truest feelings of charity,
than on weakness or pusillanimity.
Unlike her mother, she scarcely ever suffered from illness, and
gratefully used the blessing of strong nerves and untiring strength in
aiding the weakness or bearing with the irritability of others.
Happy the child who possessed such a guide and playfellow, to listen to
all the questions and trifles so wearisome to the sick or weak.
Mabel's patience was often called in requisition during the few days
which passed before the arrival of the aunt and niece from Cheltenham.
At least half a dozen questions would be asked almost in the same form,
to which she had to give answers.
At length however, the long expected hour arrived, and Amy had seated
herself on the lawn to catch the first sight of that corner of the road
which was the furthest point visible, and Mabel was frequently sent to
the gate to watch for the carriage, by Mrs. Lesly, who was enduring all
the discomfort and nervousness of being quite ready to receive them a
long while before it was at all probable they would arrive.
Captain Clair, too, who had, as Mr. Ware's nephew, established a kind of
intimacy at the cottage, was leaning over the gate, refusing to come in,
lest he should disturb the family meeting, yet seeming well inclined to
chat away the time with either of the sisters.
"I am sure you are spoiling your sister, Miss Lesly," said he, after
hearing the patient answer to the sixth repetition of 'do you think they
are coming;' and Amy had ran in to her mamma to report.
"That is a very grave accusation, but I do not think you quite believe
it," said Mabel; "indulge, but not spoil."
"Well, indeed," said he, "it would be difficult to find fault with such
persevering self-denial, so we will say, indulgence."
"It requires little self-denial," said Mabel; "to be kind to a very
young, and very dear sister. No, self-denial will not do, I will not
take the praise of a martyr for doing what I love best. Are you
certain," she added, "you do not feel the sun too much, where you are
standing, had you not better come in and speak to mamma?"
"Not on any account, thank you," he replied, smiling; "I intend to
vanish when the carriage comes up, and present only the very
interesting appearance of a departing friend, in order to give a little
life to such a landscape."
Mabel laughed.
"Here they are, then, now you may look picturesque."
"Not quite yet, wait a bit, I must be a little more prominent first, or
they would never see me. Now is the very moment," raising his hat to
Mabel, and with these concluding words, he walked slowly away.
Mabel was seized with momentary shyness, and retreated unobserved, to
seek Mrs. Lesly, whose head began to ache, from waiting so long--but, as
the party took a long time in alighting, and collecting from the vehicle
a multiplicity of boxes, she felt ashamed of being afraid of strangers,
and ran down again to meet them.
"Oh, my charming niece," exclaimed her aunt, with apparent cordiality,
and kissing her warmly; "how do you do, my sweet girl, let me make you
acquainted with my Lucy."
Lucy, who, to Amy's disappointed eye, did not look at all little, took
Mabel's hand with earnestness, and putting one arm round her neck,
kissed her with extreme warmth, exclaiming:--
"We shall be dear friends, I know."
"I hope so," said Mabel, startled alike at her relation's warmth, and
her own composure, which appeared something like coldness.
Mrs. Lesly was met by her sister with the same enthusiasm which quite
overcame her weak nerves, and she burst into tears; she could not tell
why, she thought it might be joy, or that her head was overpowered by
the sweet scent on their pocket-handkerchiefs, or the rapidity of her
sister's conversation, and expressions of endearment. Mabel looked on in
dismay, a scene had been produced which she was puzzled to remove.
"Dear mamma, do not cry," said she, then turning to Mrs. Villars who was
overwhelming her with caresses, she added, hastily; "mamma is not quite
well to-day, but she will be better presently, if she is quiet a little
while. Will you come and take your bonnet off, aunt, for you must be
tired after your drive."
"No, my dear, but I think I will venture to leave her a moment while I
run down and see if our boxes are all right; an immense deal of luggage,
but then, I am going home, you know. I brought my maid too, though I
forgot to mention her in my note." Mrs. Lesly looked alarmed. "I really
do not know if she has looked to every thing, but I will go and see, I
always like to see things right myself," and with an important air, she
hurried down stairs.
Mrs. Villars was of imposing appearance, though too bustling in her
manners to be altogether dignified, with colour a little too brilliant,
and hair a little too stiffly curled, to be quite natural. Yet, whatever
was artificial, was very well added to a good figure, and fine face.
Poor Amy was quite awed into a bewildered silence. Mrs. Villars
presently bustled back again, telling Mabel she was now quite ready to
go to her room.
"This way, then," said Mabel, shewing them to the chamber she had so
carefully prepared; "this is your room, and I hope you will find every
thing comfortable."
"Oh, I dare say," she said, looking round, as if approving a child's
doll's-house; "everything so very neat and nice, and where is Lucy to
sleep."
"This is the only spare room we have furnished and fit for sleeping in
now; the rest are shut up," said Mabel, a little timidly, "and we
thought you would not mind sleeping together for one night, as you say
you cannot stay longer, aunt."
"Oh, yes, we will contrive--but what is to be done with our maid."
"I must manage for her presently," said Mabel; "Betsy has been told to
make her comfortable for the present."
"What time do you dine, dear," said Mrs. Villars; "the air of these
hills makes one hungry. I really could dine unfashionably early to-day."
"I fancied so, and therefore ordered dinner to be ready half an hour
after your expected arrival," said Mabel; who tried to keep them in
conversation till Mrs. Lesly should have time to recover herself; and
this delay so far succeeded, that on their return to the drawing-room,
they found her quite composed.
Dinner being soon after announced, Mrs. Villars gave her arm to her
sister, in the tenderest manner possible, saying.
"Well, dear, I hoped to find you quite strong, I must not have any more
of these naughty hysterics, or I shall think you are not glad to see
me."
"Indeed--indeed, Caroline, you mistake my feelings."
"Well, then, smile away, and I shall read them right. What do you think
of my Lucy?" she added, in a whisper; "I wish I could shew you all my
girls--for admiring beauty, and accomplishments, as you always did--I do
not know what you would say, if you saw them all together. Now, in my
opinion, Mabel is perfect."
The last speech reached Mabel's ear, and, perhaps, was intended to do
so--but quick as she was in the ready perception of virtue, she had
never feebly blinded herself to the faults of others. These few words
made her feel uncomfortable--for she was immediately aware that there
was a want of sincerity in her aunt's manner, which, betraying some
latent reason for dissimulation, always produces a feeling of dislike,
or fear.
To Mrs. Villars Mabel soon became an object of fear--she could not tell
why, but she had scarcely been a few minutes in her company without
perceiving that superiority which the weak-minded find it difficult
cheerfully to recognise. Superiority in what, she did not stop to
analyse--but even while most lavish of her endearments, she was secretly
almost uncomfortable in her presence.
Mrs. Villars had given herself a worldly education, which, though it had
moulded even her virtues and foibles according to its own fashion, had
never yet been able, entirely, to eradicate the sense of right which had
been inculcated in earlier years; yet she only preserved it as a
continual punishment for every act of dissimulation and wrong, without
ever allowing it to regain entire ascendency over her; though it was a
conscience to which she felt bound perpetually to excuse herself. So
false, indeed, had she turned to herself, that Mabel's open, honest,
truth-telling eyes seemed something like a reproach.
Love for her children--one of the greatest virtues of a woman's
heart--had become one of her greatest failings. Her natural disposition
rendered her love strong and untiring; but worldliness had warped its
usefulness, rendering that love, in its foolish extreme, only a means of
making herself miserable, without really serving them. She learned to
spoil, but had no resolution to reprove; and they had grown up in
accordance with such training.
As children they had been coaxed and bribed to appear sweet-tempered and
obliging in company--the plan succeeded; but only left them more
ill-tempered and unmanageable when the restraint was removed. This
system was, however, too readily followed; and as they grew older, their
foolish parent saw no other efficient plan for securing their position
in society, than that of continuing the same course of indulgence. She
now tried, by the most unbounded gratification of their wishes, to
secure to herself that love which timely discipline might easily have
preserved in tempers not naturally degenerate. But veiling this
weakness, she prided herself on the greatness of her parental love, and
threatened to weary every one else by the excess to which she carried
it.
Glad of an opportunity of touching on her favorite topic, she said to
her sister--
"You must come and see us all some day. Mr. Villars would be so glad to
see you, and I should have an opportunity of shewing you my pet girls."
"I never stir out now," returned Mrs. Lesly, shaking her head
mournfully, "scarcely even beyond my own door. But Lucy will, I dare
say, give us a specimen of all your sayings and doings in time. I should
much like to see the children; but fear there is but little inducement
to ask any of them to a place where there is so very little going on. My
Mabel is very fond of the country, or I should often have been vexed at
our seeing so little company."
"Oh, you are quite mistaken, my dear," said Mrs. Villars, quickly.
"Caroline and Selina are very fond of the country, and so are you,
Lucy."
"Yes, I like it very well in the summer," said Lucy, languidly.
"Do you like the snow?" asked Amy, speaking for the first time.
"No, not much; but we had better not talk of snow in August--it is too
near to be pleasant," said Lucy, a little impatiently.
"You forget the balls, my dear," said her mama, soothingly, and watchful
of her children's tempers as a lover of his mistress.
"No, mama, I was speaking of snow in the country, and there, I suppose,
there is not much dancing. Are you fond of balls, Mabel? but I forgot, I
need not ask, for, of course, you are."
"I have never been to a public ball," replied Mabel, "but I have often
enjoyed a dance at a friend's house."
"Have you really never been to a ball," exclaimed Lucy, opening her
pretty blue eyes wide, with half real and half affected astonishment.
"You would be enchanted with Bath. We have such delightful balls once a
week. The Thursday balls they are called, and then every season--"
"Lucy, love, you will tire your aunt with your prattle," said her mama,
"now confess, Annie, does she not make your head ache?"
"A little," replied her sister, "but do not let my weakness interfere
with her enjoyment. She will have little else to listen to besides her
own voice," Mrs. Lesly added, trying to smile away her sister's chagrin
at finding it really possible that she could be tired at hearing Lucy
talk.
There was a momentary pause, when Mrs. Lesly, anxious to conciliate by
returning to the subject she perceived gave most interest, enquired--
"Is Lucy your eldest?"
"Oh, dear no! Caroline is the eldest, Selina second, and Lucy the
youngest."
"But I think you have one more, have you not?" said Mrs. Lesly.
"How can you forget how many children your own sister has?" said Mrs.
Villars.
"My memory is getting feeble, and you must excuse me," replied Mrs.
Lesly anxiously, "my forgetfulness arises from no want of affection; but
I have not seen you for a year or two now."
"I had forgotten," returned Mrs. Villars, "how time flies. I really must
write oftener to you, and keep up your knowledge of us. Well, there is
my Maria--but, poor child, I am in despair with her--so unfortunate."
"Not ill, I hope?" enquired Mrs. Lesly.
"No, no--that could be cured--a doctor might cure that; but this,
nothing can cure. She is ugly--positively ugly--by the side of her
sisters at least; and more than that, she is ungraceful. I have tried
the best academy in the town, but nothing will do her any good--such a
contrast to the rest, she never will settle I fear."
Mabel glanced at Amy, who was drinking in her aunt's words with the
eager curiosity natural to a child, and fearing the effects of this
worldly conversation upon her young sister, she persuaded Lucy to come
with them into the garden.
Lucy put her arm in Mabel's, whilst Amy watched the movement jealously.
"Here is a lovely peep at the hills," said Mabel, leading their guest to
one of the prettiest parts of the garden, where a stone seat was placed
near a break in the trees, commanding a view of the country beyond.
Here they seated themselves, looking for a short while, in silence, on
the landscape, which the setting sun rendered still more lovely. Had
Mabel expected any fine remark to follow this momentary pause in the
conversation, she would have been disappointed, for Lucy's next enquiry
was whether there were many nice people in the neighbourhood.
"Yes," said Mabel. "Mr. and Miss Ware are very nice people."
"Who are they?" asked Lucy.
"Our rector and his sister."
"Is he unmarried?" enquired Lucy, with increasing interest.
"Yes," replied Mabel, smiling, "but not very young."
"But still marriageable, I suppose?"
"Barely," said Mabel, "at least, I do not think he would consider
himself so now. Why, he must be nearly seventy."
"Then who was that fine young man that was walking down the road just
now, with light whiskers, and a military air. I did not expect to see
such a handsome, _distingué_ looking young man down in the country
here."
"That is Mr. Ware's nephew," said Mabel.
"Oh! then he does live here--what is his name?"
"Captain Clair; he is only here for a short time, for his health,"
replied Mabel; "but how could you tell he had light whiskers?"
"Because he passed while we were at dinner, so that I had a good look at
him," said Lucy, half blushing.
"Amy," said Mabel, "there is Captain Clair beckoning for you to run to
him, and I dare say he will get you the blackberries he promised you."
Amy ran away to the garden-gate, where Captain Clair was waiting for
her, and hand in hand they were soon down the blackberry lane that led
to the fields.
"What a very fine young man," exclaimed Lucy, as she watched them out of
sight; "do you see him often--I suppose he is a beau of yours?"
"No, oh, no," said Mabel; "a sort of friend he has made himself--but
certainly not a beau."
"Ah, you say so."
"And I mean so," said Mabel.
"You mean then, that he is free for conquest," laughed Lucy,
coquettishly.
"As far as I am concerned, he is as free as air," said Mabel; "but I
would not have you attempt such a conquest, I should think he was too
easily won to be kept long in subjection."
"Ah, I know what you mean," said Lucy; "a sort of man that falls in love
with every tolerable girl he meets--the very thing for a country visit."
"Well, I suppose neither party would be in much danger if those are your
real sentiments," said Mabel. "Captain Clair is too discerning to be
entangled by a mock feeling, and you are wise enough to think of nothing
more."
"Exactly so," replied Lucy; "but oh, whose pretty house is that amongst
the trees?"
"Colonel Hargrave's," said Mabel.
"Colonel Hargrave!" cried Lucy, "cousin Henry, as we call him now. Do
you know, Mabel, he is just come back to England, and mamma wrote to ask
him to come and see us in Bath. I am so longing to meet him; and we have
made up in our minds, already, a match between him and Caroline--that
you know would do very well, for she is just thirty, and he must be a
few years older, must he not?"
"Yes, I think so," said Mabel.
"And that would be a very nice difference, you know. I am quite longing
for him to come. I have talked the match over with Selina so often, that
I cannot help looking upon it as quite certain; and then we should have
such a nice house to come and stay at; and you would be so delightfully
near--would it not be pleasant?"
"You will find it cold without your bonnet," said Mabel, evasively,
"shall we go in and fetch it."
"No, thank you," said Lucy; "but I see you are not fond of
match-making."
"No, I confess I am not," said Mabel; "but I suppose you hear a great
deal of it in Bath, where so many matches must be talked over."
"Oh! an immense deal--it is quite amusing to hear of so many projected
marriages, and of their coming to nothing after all."
"But that is why I think match-making anything but amusing," said Mabel.
"But then all the _éclat_ of a conquest would be gone," suggested Lucy,
"if there were no talking beforehand. I assure you, last year, there
were I do not know how many half offers in our family. Selina and I used
to walk round the Crescent and count them all up, and they helped us
through the dull weather amazingly; something like the nibbling of a
trout, which just serves to keep up the hope of ultimately catching one.
Mamma talks a great deal about Caroline's beauty, and her charming
spirits--but she does not know how to sleep for wishing her married. It
would be horrible to have her an old maid--so I hope and trust the good
Colonel, with, I dare say, Indian guineas, and an Indian face, will take
pity on her, and bring her here."
"Give me a description of Caroline," said Mabel, suddenly. "Is she not
very beautiful and accomplished?"
"How you startle me," said Lucy. "Why she is very tall--fine features,
people say--she has black hair and black eyes, and dances
splendidly--polks to admiration--so very good-natured--and witty before
company--and rather the reverse behind the scenes--in short, would do
much better for Mrs. Hargrave than for the eldest of four maiden
sisters--and so, in all due affection, I should be very glad to see her
married."
"Is she clever as well as beautiful?" said Mabel.
"She sings and plays beautifully. Yes, I believe she is clever--knows
French well."
Mabel sighed.
"I do not know how it is," said Lucy, when after a short silence, they
prepared to return to the house, "but I feel you to be quite a friend
already. I must love you, whether you will let me or not."
"I shall be very glad to have you love me," said Mabel, gently; "but
wait till you know me better."
"I can never wait and deliberate, when loving is the question," said
Lucy; "it is like me; I am always quick in my likes and dislikes--and I
feel now as if I could tell you every secret of my heart--I am only
nineteen, so such want of consideration is pardonable--is it not, dear
Mabel?"
"It is not quite safe, perhaps," replied Mabel; "but yet rather easy to
forgive, in the present--instance--at least, when I feel myself to be
concerned. But if you make me your friend, you must give me the power of
an elder sister."
"Not like Caroline," said Lucy, with a look of pretended terror.
"I shall not let you find fault with Caroline," said Mabel, "that is my
first effort of authority; but you have chosen to love me, and you must
take my friendship on my own terms."
"Well, I think I will take it on any terms. I dare say it will be worth
having," said Lucy; "but first, you must seal our friendship with a
kiss, and tell me that you love me as much as I do you."
"My love is of slower growth," replied Mabel, smiling; "but I promise to
deal with you as if I loved you. Will that do?"
"I suppose it must," said Lucy.
"You are right," said Mabel, kissing her pouting lips, "that must do
till we know each other better."
CHAPTER V.
Whence then that peace
So dovelike? settling o'er a soul that loved
Earth and its treasures? Whence that angel smile
With which the allurements of a world so dear
Were counted and resigned?
MRS. SIGOURNEY.
Mabel and Lucy retired that night early, in order that they might leave
the sisters time to talk quietly over the fire, which a chilly evening
rendered not unwelcome.
Mrs. Villars placed her feet on the fender, and turning up her dress to
prevent the fire injuring it, she made herself perfectly comfortable in
preparation for a long chat. Mrs. Lesly had seated herself opposite in
her arm-chair, with a glass of lemonade on a small table by her side,
which she sipped from time to time, as she listened to long accounts of
her sister's hopes and fears for her children's welfare, together with
various anecdotes, tending to show the admiration they excited wherever
they appeared. At length, these long and varied narrations came to an
end--and Mrs. Villars, turning to her sister, enquired, in a tone which
seemed to say, confidence claimed confidence, if there had not been some
story about Mabel's marrying.
A very sensible feeling of pain passed for an instant over Mrs. Lesly's
countenance before she replied--
"Yes, but that was a long time ago, and I cannot bear to think of it
now."
"But," said Mrs. Villars, who always peculiarily interested herself in
anything relative to marriage, "you never told me the particulars, and I
should so like to know them."
"No," said Mrs. Lesly, "I remember I only just mentioned it for I was so
much pained at the time, that I could not write on the subject."
"You never even told me the gentleman's name," said Mrs. Villars.
"No, Mabel made me promise to mention that to no one; I felt it was
delicate and right in her to wish it, and I have never spoken of him
openly since, indeed amongst ourselves he is as if forgotten."
"A man of property, was he not?" said Mrs. Villars, "and quite young I
think you said?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Lesly, with a half sigh, "the marriage seemed in every
way desirable, they were well suited in age, and I thought in character,
and rejoiced to think that she would have a companion in life so well
calculated to show her off to advantage. He was, besides, a man of
considerable fortune, and my Mabel is, I think, particularly fitted for
a station above that which she at present enjoys. Her taste in painting
and sculpture, has been acknowledged by masters--and tho' so kind and
useful and simple hearted now, I always thought she was fitted to
dispense even patronage. Ah, well, these were the dreams of days gone
by, and I do not know why I bring them up to-night, except to shew you
that the sacrifice she made was no ordinary one. Ah, poor girl, the
contrast is striking, now she is soon likely to want even a home."
"Was it not a long attachment?" said Mrs. Villars as her sister paused.
"Yes," returned, Mrs. Lesly, rousing herself, "they had been more or
less attached from childhood. There was always a kind of wayward
goodness in Mabel, that was very attractive. She had generally her own
way, but that way seemed so unselfish that I had neither the power nor
the wish to complain. He admired this spirit, mixed with so much
sweetness; nothing she did seemed wrong, and even when she was
indiscreet, which I dare say she might have been very often--he said, it
was because she was more pure-minded than other people."
"Well, I do not see anything very sad in all this. I should have been
highly flattered," said Mrs. Villars, "now my Selina is so like what you
describe, she does the most indiscreet and pretty things imaginable
sometimes."
Mrs. Lesly continued silent for a few minutes, then again rousing
herself she continued--
"He used to call Mabel his little wife, long before her papa died, and I
used to think over it all, as you remember we used to talk of things a
long time since."
"I see," thought Mrs. Villars, "a case of jilt, very distressing, but an
old story to those who know the world as well as I do." She felt a
slight sensation of comfort at arriving at this idea, when she
remembered her own unmarried daughters.
"Well," continued, Mrs. Lesly, "whenever he came to the neighbourhood,
which he often did, they were almost always together. Sometimes they
would walk in the fields at the back of our house, Mabel leaning on his
arm, whilst he carried Amy. But unfortunately when his father died he
went to Paris, and staid there about a twelve-month. When he returned he
was altered, how or why I could not tell, but it seemed as if the
simplicity of his character was gone, though I tried hard to think him
only more manly. Mabel was a beautiful girl when he returned, and it was
soon easy to perceive that however changed he might be in other
respects, his affection for her remained unaltered." Mrs. Lesly stopped
to sip her lemonade, and then with some little effort continued--"His
return," she said, "to which we looked forward so much, did not make us
happier. He would persuade her to go out sometimes, but she always came
back soon, and often looked as though she had been crying, though she
never said any thing--I then noticed and watched him more carefully,
and at length I found that he had not entered the church since his
return from France, a practice he never before neglected. I then paid
more attention to his conversation, and often brought up serious
questions on purpose. Here I discovered the sad truth; he talked very
seriously of virtue and moral responsibility, but if I spoke of religion
in connexion with it, he changed the subject or looked at Mabel, and was
silent.
"I was now quite puzzled, it seemed hard to find fault with one so good
in every other respect, but in religion, which he spoke of as a curious
and useful superstition, acting as a guide to vulgar minds. 'Mabel,'
said I, one day, 'what does all this mean? What has come over him to
make him think as he does?'
"You must know, Caroline, that indolent as my weak health has made me,
and careless of imparting things, I used so much to value, I had not
neglected my child in the most important of all points of knowledge;
sickness had made me prize that, in proportion as every thing else lost
interest; but I did fear for her when, with only my weak lessons she
had, perhaps, to answer the arguments of a man of peculiar talent, and
great though mistaken penetration, aided by the love, I was well aware,
she felt for him."
"But you studied these points well I know," said Mrs. Villars, "and I
dare say fully explained them."
"You are right," replied Mrs. Lesly, "at least I tried to do so, I
always have endeavoured to make the heart and head act together. You
will see that I succeeded, beyond my hopes. It seemed that he had been
in the constant habit, of confiding every thing to her, and had always
found an admiring listener to his thoughts on most subjects. On his
return from France, he was too candid to conceal from her, the change
his opinions had undergone. It appeared, from his own account, that
while abroad, his society had been mostly composed of those generally
distinguished by the name of free thinkers. Perhaps, feeling that he
could argue well, and with a too presumptuous trust in himself, he
courted every opportunity of disputing with them on the nature of their
opinions. With daring intellect, he trusted every thing to his
understanding, and nothing to his faith. He found superior intellect,
and the consequences were too natural--I do not think he had any settled
views afterwards, and I very much fear became little less than an
infidel. All this I gleaned by repeated questions from my poor,
broken-hearted child.
"'Now,' said I, 'my Mabel, this is too serious a point for husband and
wife to differ upon, this I once hoped you would be to each other, but
he is no longer worthy of you. Now you must prove what and how you
believe.' I spoke sternly, for I feared for her, she kissed me fervently
but she could not speak. 'Do you understand me, Mabel,' I said.
"She only replied, 'I do,' but that was sufficient, my heart ached for
her, but I was at peace. It was not long after this conversation, that
the last scene occurred; I remember I had been sitting in my room all
the morning, finishing some work that Mabel had begun for me. At length,
I grew tired of being alone, and, taking up my work, I went down stairs.
I heard a voice speaking loudly in the sitting-room, and I guessed whose
it was. I felt frightened--for since my William's death, everything
affects me--so I stopped; but I heard my child sobbing, and I opened the
door directly. She was seated at the table, leaning down, and covering
her face with her hands. She always feared to vex me by letting me see
her grieve; but I saw she was too agitated even to think of me at that
moment. He was standing opposite, glaring on her like a maniac.
"'Madam,' said he, turning to me as I looked for an explanation, 'it is
well, perhaps, that you are here, to witness your daughter's coquetry,
or her madness.'
"'Sir,' replied I, 'pray remember to whom you speak; there may be a
slight difference in our rank, or wealth rather, but none that I
recognise where my child is concerned.'
"'Do not attempt to reason with me,' he replied, 'I am mad. Your
daughter, in whose love I, at least, had faith, is fanatic enough to
refuse to marry me, because we differ on some absurd points of
superstitious doctrine.'
"'I cannot agree with you,' I said, trying to speak calmly, 'in calling
them absurd, and that is where we differ. What happiness can Mabel
expect with one who ridicules the motives which are, at once, the guide
and blessing of her existence?--or what reliance can she have on a man
who does not even recognise the principles on which she alone relies for
strength. I think Mabel is quite right to remain as she is,
sacrificing, as she does, every worldly interest to a noble principle.'
"The poor girl started up, and walking to him, laid her pretty hand upon
his arm, and looking at him beseechingly, she said--'Do not let us part
in anger--I can bear anything but that--let me remain your friend for
ever, even as you are; but do not think me wrong for refusing to be your
wife.'
"I never shall forget that moment; he shook her from him, as if
she had been a serpent. She reeled back for an instant, and then sank at
my feet.
"He looked down upon her, as she lay upon the floor, hiding her
face in my gown, as if he would have withered her with his contempt. Oh,
how could he think I could have trusted her to one like him?
"'Feeble as was my hold on religion before,' he burst out--"'It is
broken now, if this be the effects of it,' and he looked down upon my
poor stricken girl.
"I was silent.
"'What right,' thought I, 'have I to retaliate upon him reproach for
reproach?' but I thought my heart would break.
"'Why did she not try to win me to her truth,' he exclaimed, 'if she
thinks it of so much consequence?'
"'Has she not done so for the last four months?' I said.
"'Yes; but as a wife,' he replied, 'she would have had treble power.'
"'She is forbidden to be your wife,' I said, 'by the very religion she
professes--and would her acting in opposition to its laws have convinced
you of its truth?'
"'There was no love in the case,' said he, not heeding me, 'and now she
wishes to be my friend,' he continued, with a sneer, 'as if there were
any medium with me between love and hate, except utter forgetfulness.'
"'Madam,' he exclaimed, as if suddenly remembering himself, 'forgive me
what I have been saying; had she let me, I would have been to you more
than a son--as it is--fare well.'
"Without another word to Mabel, he left us, and I have never seen him
since.
"I dare say a great deal passed more than I have told you; but I am very
forgetful now--though I well remember how miserable I was that day, and
for a very long time afterwards, for poor Mabel was very ill, and never
left her bed for weeks. I sent to our good Mr. Ware, and told him
everything, and asked him to come and comfort Mabel; and so he did, most
effectually. Night after night did I sit by her, terrified by her fits
of delirium and the dreadful exhaustion which followed them. I took cold
then, and my nurse wanted me to go to bed, and leave her to watch by
her; but what was life and rest to me, without my child?
"Amy sat upon her pillow nearly all day, and would whisper, 'don't cry,
dear Mabel.' There was not much comfort in her baby words; but I think
Mabel liked to hear her.
"Mr. Ware was unwearied in his attentions to her; and, at length, she
began to rally. Then I became ill, with anxiety, perhaps, or the cold I
took from the night-watching, and it was quite touching to see how hard
she tried to get well, that she might nurse me in turn. Oh, what a
comfort it was when she began to smile again. You see how well she is
now--she is never ill, and how cheerful and happy she seems. I try to
think it all for the best, though it is difficult sometimes."
"Well, you have, indeed, had a great deal to vex you," said Mrs.
Villars, much touched.
"I have, however, much happiness to look back upon," said Mrs. Lesly,
sighing gently, "in my William's kindness for so many years; but my
health is failing sadly--and I have one care certainly, when I think of
leaving my children without a friend in the world to take care of
them--particularly as with my life, my pension, which is the only source
of our income, will cease."
"Yes," said Mrs. Villars, "it was almost a pity she did not marry the
young man--what a provision it would have been for both."
"I think you would have acted as I did," said Mrs. Lesly, "would you
not?"
"Why you know," she replied, "I never thought of those things as
seriously as you do, and my love for my orphan children would have been
a great temptation. Indeed, that love for my family guides me in almost
everything, and after all, why his staying away from church would not
have prevented her going."
"No, no, Caroline," said Mrs. Lesly, too indolent to contest this narrow
view of the subject. "I have been foolish in many things, over and over
again, but in this I feel that I acted wisely."
"Not with much worldly wisdom, dear Annie," said her sister, smiling.
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Lesly, "those who believe in an overruling
Providence, act most wisely, even for this world, when they obey its
laws."
Caroline sighed; her sister's single-minded language recalled days long
gone by; when their views had been more in accordance, and for the
moment, she would have given much to have retained the simple faith of
their childhood; for her life was made up of shallow, and quickly
forgotten repentances.
After a pause, she said:--
"Annie, I hope you will live many years; but if it should be otherwise,
do not have one care for your children, for while I live they shall find
a home, wherever I may be."
"My dear, dear sister," said Mrs. Lesly, while tears of gratitude and
affection dimmed her eyes; "that is so like your old kindhearted way of
speaking. Could I believe that you would, indeed, be a friend to my
children, I should be spared many a wakeful night, and this freedom
from anxiety might prolong my life. But, Caroline, you have a large
family, and can ill spare your means."
"It may be so," replied the other; "but you set me an example of doing
right without regard to consequences; why should I not follow it? And
you recall the days of our happy childhood, when these feelings, and
such as these, were common to us both--let them be common again, dear
Annie."
Mrs. Lesly, kissed her sister with grateful affection, and again, and
again, thanked her for her generous promises. Alas! judging of her by
herself, she little knew how evanescent were her resolutions, nor
guessed that the sentiments she sometimes professed, as little belonged
to her own heart, as the delusive images of the Fata Morgana to the
waters they enliven. They soon afterwards parted for the night, Mrs.
Lesly more cheerful, and her sister more serious than before their
evening conversation.
CHAPTER VI.
He only can the cause reveal,
Why, at the same fond bosom fed;
Taught in the self-same lap to kneel,
Till the same prayer were duly said.
Brothers in blood, and nurture too,
Aliens in heart so oft should prove,
One lose, the other keep, Heaven's clue;
One dwell in wrath, and one in love.
CHRISTIAN YEAR.
Mrs. Lesly found Mabel waiting for her in her room. A book was lying
open by her side, but she appeared to have been rather thinking, than
reading.
"Mabel, my love," she said, "it is past twelve o'clock. I am so sorry
you sat up for me."
"I am only waiting to undress you, mamma," said Mabel, "you are so much
later to-night, that I thought you would be tired. I have been lying on
your sofa, half asleep, for more than an hour. Have you been talking of
me?" she added, lowering her voice.
"Yes, a little," replied Mrs. Lesly; "but why do you ask, what can any
one say ill of you."
Mabel sighed.
"I talked of you, dear, not merely to satisfy my sister's curiosity;
but, because there is in the world a very strong prejudice against
single ladies, old maids, as they are termed, in contempt, when there is
no good reason given for their not marrying. It is a foolish prejudice,
but still a strong one; and, therefore, I would rather that people knew
why you are not married; at least, that all those who have any right to
criticise your conduct, should know that it has been by your own
choice."
"Ah, mamma," said Mabel, "you are thinking of my feelings as they would
once have been."
"And as they may be again," said the mother; "but not as they ought to
be, I allow. But you bear your trial so well, love, that I would not
have it increased by one unkind, or worldly remark. You have done right,
and can, therefore, afford to suffer; yet there is no harm in sparing
yourself any needless pain. Go to sleep, now, my child, I do not wish to
see you tired, to-morrow."
Mabel retired to her own room, with feelings stirred up, she scarce knew
why, by the arrival of their new guests, and she would willingly have
thought awhile in silence, but Amy was awake, and restless.
"What time is it, Mabel, dear," for by that affectionate title, she
usually addressed her.
"Past one o'clock, dear," said Mabel; "are you awake, still."
"I have been to sleep, once," said Amy; "but I was dreaming all the
time, first of Lucy, and then about Captain Clair, and the
blackberries. You said she would not like me quite at first, but she
seems to love you in one evening--how is that?"
"I really do not know; Lucy puzzles me, rather, but she says she likes,
or dislikes, quickly."
"But that is what you tell me not to do," said Amy, sitting up in her
bed, as if prepared for a regular discussion of the subject.
"Yes," said Mabel, "because I am afraid you will not choose your friends
well, and may be mistaken if you judge too quickly."
"Well," said Amy, gravely; "I suppose Lucy is clever to find you out so
soon, but it puzzles me to think how she could tell you were good, in
one evening."
"I do not think she does know much about me, yet," said Mabel; "but do
not let us think of her just now, for if we never think of ourselves at
any other time, I think we should before we go to sleep. So, now you
must not talk any more."
Mabel then turned her pillow, smoothed the hair back from her heated
cheeks, and made her comfortable, so that Amy, having no further excuse
for keeping awake, soon fell asleep.
The next morning Mrs. Lesly was up earlier than usual, that she might
enjoy as much of her sister's society as her short visit permitted.
After breakfast, Mrs. Villars said, that if they could have a chat by
themselves, she should be glad.
To this Mrs. Lesly willingly agreed, and after some little conversation
on the arrangements of the day, led her to her sunny dressing-room,
where her own mornings were most frequently spent.
"I hope," said Mrs. Lesly, taking up her work, "that nothing unpleasant
has occurred, to make you wish to speak to me; but, perhaps you have
been thinking over our last night's conversation."
Mrs. Villars coloured slightly with the consciousness that the feelings
awakened by her sister's conversation, had been of very short duration.
"No, dear," said she; "last night I listened to your trials and
troubles, this morning you must hear mine."
"Oh," said Mrs. Lesly, "I would never have taken up your time last
night, had I known that you were thinking of any thing that pained you."
"You are always too kind to me," said Mrs. Villars, "and I am sure I
would much rather hear you talk than talk myself, for it does me good to
be with you, but really, now we are sitting down, I have hardly the
courage to speak of what I wanted to say."
"No one is ever afraid of me," said Mrs. Lesly, "and you know, if you
are in any trouble, I never can find fault."
"Well then," said Mrs. Villars, "I will tell you exactly how I am
situated. You must know that Mr. Villars has had, or pretends to have,
had a great many losses this year, which have really quite soured his
temper. He does nothing now but grumble, saying, I am not half so
economical as I ought to be, and I do not know what peevish stuff. He
says I dress the children too expensively, and then he tells me they
would look better in white muslin than in all the laces I put on them."
"Well, there I think he is right," interposed Mrs. Lesly, "nothing makes
a girl look so nice as a simple white dress."
"I cannot agree with that," said Mrs. Villars. "Caroline has just the
figure--just the majestic style of beauty that does not do for white
muslin and simplicity, and in her black velvet and pearls, I do assure
you, she looks fit to be a duchess. Selina, too, has just that fairy
beauty which requires the lightest and most delicate of colors, and how
very soon they soil, particularly with polking--and, besides, they
cannot always be wearing the same dresses in a place like Bath. I cannot
help wishing to see them respectably dressed, when I hear every one
speak so highly of their beauty. You must forgive a mother's pride, but
I cannot help it."
"But, my dear," said Mrs. Lesly, "if your object is to marry them well,
you ought not to dress them so expensively. Few men intending to marry,
like the prospect of furnishing an extravagant wardrobe. The idea of
having to pay for their dress should gently insinuate itself, not glare
upon their attention in velvet and satin."
"Now, Annie," said Mrs. Villars, "how unkind it is of you to talk in
this way. You see, I had reason to be afraid of speaking to you."
"I meant it most kindly, I do assure you," said Mrs. Lesly.
"That may be," said Mrs. Villars, poutingly; "but that cutting way of
speaking hurts the feelings, and you are very fond of it, sometimes."
"Well, dear," said Mrs. Lesly, "I only meant a little good advice, but
as you do not like it, I will say no more."
"Besides," continued Mrs. Villars, "I expect girls with such pretensions
and advantages as mine have, to marry men of wealth and station, who
will only be too proud to see them dress well. You ought to see them
enter a ball-room, and how immediately they are surrounded."
"Ah, yes, I dare say," said Mrs. Lesly, who was always too indolent for
any long argument, and generally gave up a point, even with Amy, when
persisted in beyond her patience.
"But now then, to return to my little difficulty," said Mrs. Villars,
recovering her good-temper. "You know Mr. Villars is so horribly cross
now, I do not dare to bring anything before him."
"I am sorry to hear that," said Mrs. Lesly; "my William never said a
cross word to me, that I remember."
"Ah," sighed Mrs. Villars, "it is very different with me, I assure
you--Villars is always finding fault now, since the girls are come out."
"Well," repeated Mrs. Lesly, "I certainly never remember being afraid of
my poor husband."
"No; but then he was a soldier, that makes a man very different," said
Mrs. Villars, "so kind and open-hearted. Now Villars, though he has left
his business in the city, and is only a sleeping partner, yet he seems
to take as much interest in it as ever; and if anything goes wrong, then
he is off to London to give his advice, he says, and comes home so
cross, there is no speaking a word to him, and if he finds us going out,
as we do, of course, nearly every night, then he goes off sulky to his
study. Married life with such a man, is no joke, I can tell you. When we
first married, he had such an easy temper; he says I spoilt it, but the
fault lies at his own door, of that I am certain. But I would not say
this to every one."
"I hope not, indeed," said Mrs. Lesly, much pained; "it is better to
keep these things from everybody; and you cannot blame him without
finding fault with yourself at the same time."
"And that I am not disposed to do," interrupted Mrs. Villars; "no, I
assure you, before company, I make him appear the very pattern of
perfection. I would not lower myself by showing the world how very
little influence I have over him. But now to the point--I must tell you,
that last winter, I was foolish enough to run up some bills with my
jeweller, milliner, and others, a little higher than ordinary, and now
every day they become more importunate, and I have made excuses till
they will listen no longer. I do not know where to turn for money, till
this business pressure is over and Villars has recovered his temper. Now
could you, I know you could if you would, just lend me a hundred pounds
for a few months?"
"Ah, Caroline, but ought I?" said Mrs. Lesly; "think of my poor
children, and my health such as it is."
"But what possible harm could that do them?" said Mrs. Villars, as if
surprised; "do you think I could be so barbarous as to think of hurting
them. It is perfectly safe with me; and I will pay you in six months."
"But, my dear Caroline," said Mrs. Lesly, "why not tell Mr. Villars? it
will be but the anger of an hour--contrast that with the pain of
deceiving him."
"I do not mind telling him everything, when his present difficulties
are over--now it would be unkind to ask me."
"But," answered her sister, timidly, "do you think I am right in
suffering more of my money to be in private hands, even in yours?"
"Oh," said Mrs. Villars, coloring slightly, "you are speaking of the
five hundred I owe you already; but you know I promised to pay that back
with five per cent interest when my aunt Clara dies, and leaves me the
legacy she promised, and which Villars always said I should do just as I
liked with. I gave you a memorandum of the promise, in case of any
mistake."
"Yes, I know," said Mrs. Lesly; "but I really do not know what I have
done with it--I am afraid it is mislaid."
"I dare say," said Mrs. Villars, again coloring, and looking down upon
the spill she was twisting from the pieces of an old letter; "but
surely, if it be lost, you could not think your own sister would--"
"Oh, no, no," said Mrs. Lesly; "I think nothing but that you are
imprudent; and oh, Caroline, however I may disguise the truth from
Mabel--I am not ignorant that a few weeks may, and a few years certainly
will, bring me to my grave. Now am I right to trust so much even to
you?"
A mother's courage was strong, even in her timid and indolent mind, and
she spoke with tears in her eyes.
"Now then," said Mrs. Villars, "I promise, if you will be generous this
once, that your children shall never want a home while I have one, and
every comfort which my own possess shall be theirs; only rescue me this
once from my husband's anger."
"I have done it so often," said Mrs. Lesly, "I am afraid it is unkind to
both of you to do it again."
"Oh, do not say so," cried Mrs. Villars, "oh, think again, do not say
that, and you so kind and good. You know I have given you a written
promise, to pay it out of the legacy aunt Clara is to leave me, and that
is as binding to my mind, beloved sister, as a legally executed deed; as
Villars promises positively, I shall do what I like with the money, when
I get it. Have I not promised to continue to pay five per cent interest
to your children as well as yourself, should you not live, as I hope
and trust you may, many, many years. I can do that easily, as I have
done before; at least I could have done so had we not agreed to let the
interest accumulate, that I might pay you in the lump. Where is my
promise? you have lost it you say, but I remember it all well enough.
Oh, good, kind Annie, think again."
"But that paper is lost," said Mrs. Lesly, with a vacant look, and she
passed her hand over her forehead, as if trying to remember something of
it.
"I would offer to write another promise," said Mrs. Villars, "only I do
not like to bind myself to two sums; for every one may not be so
honourable as yourself, and you must have it somewhere, but you need not
doubt me if it is lost, need you?"
"I wish you would not talk of doubting," said Mrs. Lesly, "it makes me
feel so uncomfortable; but once again, my dear sister, let me entreat
you to have no concealments from your husband, they never lead to good.
If you will tell him everything, I promise to lend you the money."
"That is as good as refusing altogether," replied Mrs. Villars, sulkily,
"why not say you will not at once, that would be plain and open, but as
it is," she added, bursting into tears, "I see you do not care for me."
"Well, dear," said Mrs. Lesly, much pained, "you know I can never bear
to see you cry--dry your tears and listen to me. How are we to get the
money?"
Mrs. Villars brightened up in an instant.
"Why," said she, "you bank at Coutts's--write me a draft, and I will get
it changed in Bath, some how; I can manage it as I did before."
"My money," said Mrs. Lesly, with unusual gravity, "has been reduced for
your sake, to a very few hundreds, a mere trifle, but my children!"
exclaimed she, suddenly dropping her pen, and clasping her hands
convulsively.
"I have promised to be their mother," said Mrs. Villars, "but nonsense,
you will live many years yet."
"Do not think of it, do not think of it, my doctor knows my constitution
too well to flatter me with such vain hopes. I have been better since
you have been here, but that is excitement, and now my head aches so."
She placed her hand upon her forehead, and sank into deep thought.
Mrs. Villars grew impatient; for there was a struggle going on within
her, in which her better self was busily engaged; and the worldly woman
almost feared the world would lose the victory, while she trembled at
the feelings she was exciting.
The whole truth indeed being, that the money she so earnestly solicited,
was intended, not to discharge debts already incurred, but to furnish
additional display both in dress and housekeeping, during the
approaching visit of Colonel Hargrave to Bath, which the worldly mother
hoped, till she believed, would end in a marriage between him and her
eldest daughter, whose temper was becoming soured, by the failure of
repeated matrimonial speculations.
Mr. Villars had found it necessary to lay down a plan of economy for the
following year; limiting its proposed expenditure in a manner which
little suited the taste or the tactics of his family, and it, therefore,
occurred to his imprudent wife, that there would be no harm in
forestalling the legacy of a thousand pounds, promised by an invalid
aunt, by adding another hundred to the five she had already borrowed
upon it, under the impression that any present expenditure would be
amply compensated if she succeeded in placing her daughter in possession
of Aston, with whose broad lands she was well acquainted, though of the
character, disposition, or principles of its owner, she was quite
ignorant.
She well knew how to work upon her sister's feelings, already enervated
by grief and ill-health, and the narrow views of a selfish woman had
often led her to do so; but now, as she regarded the weakness that
seemed to implore protection, she felt her powers of dissimulation fast
failing before these new thoughts of compunction. After all, she thought
she might do without the money, the girls' old dresses were new to
Hargrave, and he might be a man of simple habits, and, perhaps, would
really be more attracted by white muslin, than crimson velvet--if so,
she was perhaps sinning for no purpose--might she not do without the
money--she might, but she had never learnt the principle of self-denial,
where right and wrong is concerned; and then come second thoughts--why
did she wait for them? When temptation is present, the first quick
generous impulse is the safest. There is a voice in our hearts which
never directs us wrong, let us listen to its least whisper. Why, like
the avaricious prophet of old, are we dissatisfied with its first
answer--why will we ask, and ask again, till the reply suits, not our
conscience, but our desires.
In this case as in many others, Mrs. Villars's second thoughts
triumphed. Why should she submit to her husband's pitiful economy--was
it not his fault if she were forced to borrow; and she paid, or meant to
pay, her sister good interest, which would atone for every thing; and,
at the end of the season, no doubt the longed-for marriage would take
place; and, even supposing her grateful daughter forgot to share her pin
money with her, Mr. Villars could not but applaud her conduct and settle
her debt; and, even if not--but she was in no humour for ifs--and a
glance from the window at the rich woods which skirted the Aston estate,
and a glimpse through the trees at the mansion itself, quite settled the
question, and she continued twisting her spills with perfect
satisfaction.
Not so Mrs. Lesly, she had seated herself at her desk, indeed, and taken
up her pen with a trembling hand; but her eyes were vacantly following
her sister's occupation.
"This will never do," thought the worldly woman; yet she was afraid to
hurry her.
"I was thinking," said Mrs. Lesly, at length, after continuing in the
same attitude of observation, "I was thinking how very strange it was
that I never remember our talking about money, but you were making
spills all the time."
"Why, you see," said Mrs. Villars, carelessly, "I never thought it worth
while to bring my work for the short time I generally stay, and I never
like to sit quite idle."
"Yes; but when you stayed with me for a month, it happened then as
well," said Mrs. Lesly, in a musing kind of tone.
"It was rather strange, certainly--but more strange that you should
remember such trifles," said Mrs. Villars, her face turning rather
disagreeably pale.
Poor Mrs. Lesly, fearing she had offended her, took up her pen, and
wrote like a frightened child, then quickly handed her the draft.
Mrs. Villars hastily rose and kissed her, and then, taking her pen from
her hand, wrote a memorandum of the loan, which Mrs. Lesly placed in her
work-basket.
At that moment, Amy ran into the room, crying out--
"Mamma, mamma, I have cut my finger--do please give me a piece of rag,
or I shall spoil my dress."
Mrs. Lesly, easily frightened, hurried to her assistance, and, though
Amy kept exclaiming that she was only anxious about her dress, hurried
her off to a receptacle of old linen, which she kept in preparation for
every accident.
Mrs. Villars glanced at the paper she had just written.
"How careless Annie is," thought she. "Yet she seemed suspicious just
now about the spills--could she have guessed I tore up the other papers
I wrote? No--impossible! It is so awkward to be pressed for money, at
all sorts of times, and poor Annie is not long for this world, I see.
That Mabel has a sharp eye, and would not be easily deceived. Well, it
does not alter the obligation one bit, and what does it signify between
sisters. I only do not wish to be hurried."
A clue to these thoughts might be given by her putting out her hand, and
drawing the paper to her, amongst the pieces she was tearing up. Where
was the voice of conscience then? Alas! for a time, it slept, for she
had slighted its first warning.
She tore the paper in two, and then said to herself, "Well, it is done
now," rather as if somebody else had done it, and it was no act of her
own. Then she slowly twisted bit after bit into spills, laying each with
those she had already done, and the last piece had just assumed its
taper appearance, when Mrs. Lesly entered the room.
"What did I do with that paper?" said she, after looking on all sides
for it, "how careless I am."
"I think," said Mrs. Villars, "you put it in your secretary--you had it
open while you were writing."
"Ah, so I must, I suppose," said Mrs. Lesly; but she looked
suspiciously at the secretary, she had no remembrance of going there;
yet, she had had it open that morning, she knew. Her sister must
remember better than she did. She would look presently, she had not
quite the resolution to look now; and suffering her characteristic
indolence to overcome her prudence, she sank into an arm-chair, and took
up her knitting.
At this moment, the chaise, which had been ordered, slowly drove up to
the door, and Mabel entered to tell them that luncheon waited them in
the sitting-room.
Mrs. Villars started up, full of business and bustle, which she felt to
be a welcome relief after the morning's _tête-à-tête_, and hurried down
stairs. Mabel regarded her mother's pale looks with affectionate
anxiety; but there was little time for thought, as Mrs. Villars and her
maid kept the house in a perfect ferment for the next five minutes.
Amy stood looking aghast at a very bright carpet-bag, with a kind of
travelling scent about it, which she thought grander and newer than
anything of the kind she had before seen; and she quite shrank within
herself when her aunt kissed her, and blessed her in a tone which made
her feel cold; nor was she sorry when she saw her get into the carriage,
attended by the bright carpet-bag--and when box after box was moved to
the top of the creaking vehicle--and when the vehicle itself moved down
the walk, she drew a long breath, as if relieved from some heavy
pressure, feeling the place once more quite their own.
Lucy ran to the gate, to open it to let her mamma pass, kissing her hand
to her, and stopping to watch till the carriage turned the corner, and
was only visible down Amy's point of observation on the wall. She then
came back with her cheeks crimson, and putting her arm round Mabel's
waist, she whispered--
"Who do you think passed while I was holding the gate?"
"Who?" said Mabel, a little surprised at anything like an apparition in
their quiet village, and not yet quite aware of their Bath cousin's
usual train of thought. "I cannot guess."
Lucy's cheeks were of a deeper tint, as she whispered--
"Captain Clair."
CHAPTER VII.
But when the weight of sorrow found
My spirit prostrate and resigned,
The anguish of the bleeding wound
Taught me to feel for all mankind.
ELIZA COOK.
Mrs. Lesly's ill health had made her rather retire from society, than
take any pains to seek it, during her widowhood, and she had gradually
drawn her circle of friends so closely round her, that it now scarcely
extended beyond her immediate neighbourhood. Mabel, whose affectionate
attendance was necessary to her mother's happiness, never thought of
leaving her, by accepting any invitation to stay from home; and years
had almost insensibly passed away in the cultivation of elegant tastes,
and in constant, but local benevolence, without their being tempted to
ask any distant relative or friend to visit them.
Mabel was, therefore, at first, a little puzzled to think how she might
render their quiet home agreeable to the gay girl who had so
unexpectedly entered it. Lucy, however, seemed determined to be pleased,
if only allowed to be moving, and she ran away with great cheerfulness,
to prepare for the walk which Mabel proposed soon after the departure of
Mrs. Villars.
"Do you often call at the rectory?" she asked, as they strolled up the
hill leading through the village.
"We will call as we return from our walk," replied Mabel, "if you fancy
going there with me."
"Oh, yes," said Lucy, "I should like it so much, for you said Mr. Ware
was such a nice man; his sister, I suppose, is quite an old maid."
"She is such a pleasant old lady, that you cannot help liking her,"
said Mabel; "but I ought not to say that, I suppose, as some people
always dislike those they are told they shall like, and I should be very
sorry if you were not pleased with them both."
"Oh, I shall be sure to like them if they are favorites of yours. But do
look how lovely;" she exclaimed, as a sudden turn in the winding walk
they had chosen, gave them a fine view of the distant country, with
Aston manor in the fore-ground. "What a beautiful house. Is that the
house we saw from the garden? Is that Harry Hargrave's?"
"Yes," was the laconic reply.
"Why do you look so grave?"
"I did not mean to look so," said Mabel; stopping by an old hawthorn
tree, which was lying upon the ground, though the branches were still
covered with foliage. "Let us sit down here, for the sun is quite
oppressive. This," continued she, "is a favorite seat of mine; the tree
fell a long time ago, and has been left as it is, ever since. You will
get a better view of the house here, than you will find any where
else."
Lucy readily seated herself by Mabel's side, upon the old tree which had
fallen in a pleasant spot. A high hedge shaded it from the sun on one
side, and clusters of wild roses hung down it, and scented the air. A
gentle breeze stole up from the valley, and a small stream rippled by in
melodious monotony, falling in a tiny cascade over the bank into the
river below. The songs of many birds came from all sides of the well
wooded country--and here and there a gay butterfly crossed over the
fields.
They continued for some little time in silence, which Lucy was the first
to break, by enquiring if Aston Manor were as pleasant inside as it
seemed to promise to be.
"Yes, even more pleasant," replied Mabel; "it is a very compact house,
the rooms are of a very good size--and the whole place splendidly
furnished, and generally admired in our county; the hall is surrounded
by a gallery, hung with paintings of great value. The gardens are very
beautiful, and every thing else in keeping. Indeed, I think it is quite
a bijou of a place."
"Is there any room that would do nicely for a dance?" enquired Lucy.
"They used to have many pleasant dances there, in good Mrs. Hargrave's
lifetime, which mamma remembers well."
"Oh, that will be so nice," said Lucy.
"What will?" said Mabel, in surprise.
"Why, when our castle in the air marriage takes place," said Lucy;
"because Caroline is so very fond of dancing, and could lead off a ball
with such spirit; and I shall contrive to be nearly always staying with
them."
"Why do you suppose every thing so certain," said Mabel, startled, alike
at the indelicacy of the scheme, and Lucy's cool thoughtlessness in
speaking of it.
"Do not say it will not be," said Lucy, "or I shall punish you some how
or other. Now, would you not be glad to have us down here, Colonel
Hargrave and all; think what nice parties there would be; and who knows
what nice beau might come down and take you away with him."
Mabel's cheek blushed scarlet, and her lips curled in preparation for
some angry retort--suddenly she checked herself as she remembered the
conversation of the preceding night. Have I then failed so soon, thought
she to herself.
"Ah, mamma, you know my vain wicked heart better than I do--for the
first observation that seems to point me out as single, and needing a
lover, makes me angry."
"Ah, you blush, Mabel," pursued her heedless tormentor, too unaccustomed
to feel for others, to be able to read her countenance, or tell why her
words had given pain; "perhaps, you are engaged to some one, under the
rose, all the while."
Mabel was silent for a moment; it required that moment to seize the
reins with which she usually held her temper in check, and then she
replied, gently, but gravely.
"I am not engaged to any one; you mistake my face entirely, but I
colored because I was silly enough to feel angry at your thinking I was
wishing to be married--but it was wrong of me, because you could not
understand my feelings without being told. So I must tell you," she
continued smiling, "that I am a determined old maid; though, perhaps,
you may think such a resolution needless in a place where gentlemen
seldom come to disturb our equanimity."
"What, wedded to your duties, are you? Or what other queer reason may
have led you to such a determination," enquired Lucy, who could not help
feeling that her new friend's speech meant more than it usually does in
the mouth of a beautiful girl; and she was surprised to think she should
wish to retire from the field of conquest, before actually driven from
it by dulness or age. Her own vanity could not conceal from her, a
certain indescribable something which rendered her cousin particularly
attractive, and, though she certainly ranked her second to herself,
that did not imply any very low degree of merit.
Mabel's composure, which was seldom lost, was now entirely restored, and
she answered Lucy's wondering eyes with one of her peculiarly sweet and
gentle smiles.
"You may well wonder," said she, "that I, who seem so little your
senior, should already have made such a resolution. I too, who am fond
of society, fond of companionship, and all that is domestic, and choose
solitude only as wholesome medicine; but some destinies are fixed early,
others late; and I, who once thought, and still think, marriage, with
its social harmony and sweet feelings of dependence, most fitted for a
woman's nature, have yet quite made up my mind to remain single."
"I shall not believe you till you give me some good reason," said Lucy.
"You are too kind," replied Mabel, as her voice slightly trembled, "to
seek to probe a wound only from the curiosity of seeing how deep it
is--when you have no power to heal. I speak of myself now," she added,
hastily; "lest in our future conversations, you may pain me without
knowing it, and perhaps I might think you unkind when you were only
seeking to amuse me. Oh, Lucy," said she, turning round with sudden
energy, "I have suffered terribly, and still suffer, when I lose my
self-command for a moment--do not then talk of my loving or needing
love--do not tease me with the intention of pleasing--do not talk--"
Mabel suddenly stopped and burst into tears--for a very long time, she
had never spoken intimately with a young girl in her own station of
life, and the novelty had surprised her. A few large drops rolled
quickly down her crimson cheeks, but were soon brushed away, and half
smiling, she begged her cousin's forgiveness for speaking so hastily--in
a few more seconds, she was again gentle and submissive as a child.
"Then must I never speak of love at all?" said Lucy, fearing that all
the most interesting of her stories would find an unwilling listener.
"Oh, you mistake me," said Mabel; "do not think me so selfish--talk as
much as you like of yourself, and forget me; and you will, perhaps, find
me a better listener, perhaps a better adviser, because I have
altogether retired from the lists of conquest; and, be assured, the
necessity of placing a guard over myself, and the difficulty of doing it
effectually, only tells me how much I ought to feel for others. If you
will always let me speak the truth, without being offended with me, I
will take interest in your feelings at any time, only remember that mine
are like 'The Arab's sealed fountain,' whose waters will never see the
light again."
"You are a very strange girl, my sweet, new friend," said Lucy; "but I
love you better for having a history, although I see I must not read it
quite yet; at all events, not till I know you better, and you learn how
well I can keep a secret."
"No, not even then," replied Mabel, "I cannot speak of myself without
speaking of more than myself; so content yourself with what I have told
you, and do not think of me again, or I shall repent having said
anything."
"Well, it shall be quite as you like, I will do anything you wish, only
you must tell me, that you love me very, very much indeed."
"I will tell you no such thing," said Mabel, laughing; "remember, I only
met you yesterday morning."
"Well then, come and call at the rectory, and that will shew me you love
me."
"But I could do such a little thing, whether I loved you or not," said
Mabel; "so I will take you for charity's sake, for I see, like the cat
who was turned into a lady, and yet ran after mice--you cannot go
without your accustomed food."
"I thought you said you liked society," said Lucy.
"And so I do--so let us walk on, for this green lane will lead us round
to the rectory."
One of the rectory pets was an immense Newfoundland dog, who began to
bark loudly as they approached the house.
"Oh!" said Lucy, with a half scream, "I cannot go on--I am sure he is
untied--nasty thing."
"No, he never barks when he is loose--come on, dear, I am sure he will
not hurt you."
Lucy clung to her arm in real or affected terror till they reached the
house door.
Much to her disappointment, they found no one but Miss Ware at home, and
she sat up during the visit, as silent, and apparently as timid, as a
child, amusing herself by poking her parasol through the cage of the pet
parrot, who appeared highly offended at her familiarity.
Mabel was a great favorite at the rectory, and Miss Ware, certain of
finding her interested in her news, had many little things to tell her;
she had had a letter from one old friend, and had worked a birth-day
present for another, with many other little incidents to notice, which
Lucy amused herself by silently turning into ridicule, though they were
so kindly told that few would have found it difficult to enter into the
little cares and joys which, after all, were never selfish.
"My brother and nephew are gone to look over the church," said she,
"which I conclude Miss Villars has not yet seen. Edwin is always wishing
to improve the old tower, and to scrape away the mortar and white-wash
from the walls inside the church, for he says they are painted with
beautiful figures--but he will never have money enough for that I am
afraid--yet he puts by all he can spare--for he does not like running
into debt, and I agree with him, it is doing evil that good may come. So
he saves every year--but I fear he will not get enough in his lifetime,
to carry out this pet scheme."
"I wish we were all rich enough to raise a subscription," said Mabel, "I
should so much like to see him fully employed in finding out all the
beauties of our dear old church."
"Yes," said Miss Ware, "I like to hear him talk on the subject, because
he enters upon it in the true genuine spirit--he feels it to be almost
an insult to religion to allow its altars to be kept in the slovenly
state they too often are; grudged almost the necessary repairs by those
who are lavish where their own minutest comforts are concerned. The
Roman Catholics might cry shame at us."
"Why do you not ask Colonel Hargrave, ma'am?" enquired Lucy, turning
round from the parrot.
"My brother has mentioned the subject several times," said Miss Ware,
"without being able to interest him. Young men too seldom enter, with
warmth, on these subjects, and he has now left us so long."
"Oh, I will tell him he must," said Lucy, "with his fortune it is
really quite shabby of him."
"Do you know him then?" enquired Miss Ware.
"Yes--no--not exactly--but he is a relation of ours. He is coming to
stay with us in Bath, and I will take an early opportunity of mentioning
the church to him."
"Oh, I remember," said Miss Ware, "he is, I know, related to you through
Colonel Lesly, but I am afraid you will scarcely succeed, where my
brother has failed--if strength of argument be needed, few can put a
thing in a stronger light than Edwin can."
"Oh," said Lucy, laughing, "I never condescend to argue with a man--I
will tell him he _must_--suggest that not to do so is shabby, mean--with
a few more epithets to match, and then leave his own good taste to draw
the conclusion."
"Well," said Miss Ware, recovering from her slight pique, at thinking
any one could succeed where Edwin failed, "if you never use your
ridicule for a worse purpose, you will do well."
The subject here took another turn, and Lucy again applied herself to
tease the parrot with the same listlessness as before--thinking the
conversation very dull, yet too idle to throw in her share. She was
aroused from her apathy, by hearing Miss Ware ask Mabel if she would
bring her young friend to tea on the morrow, if Mrs. Lesly could content
herself with Amy's company; for to ask her, she knew to be useless. Lucy
feared Mabel was going to decline, and she cast such an imploring look
at her as to decide the question, and make her promise that, if Mrs.
Lesly continued as well as she had been, and would consent to part with
them, they would come with pleasure. Lucy thought this, a very
satisfactory conclusion, to so dull a visit, and once again all smiles,
shook Miss Ware warmly by the hand, as Mabel rose to leave, and returned
home in high spirits.
CHAPTER VIII.
A parent's heart may prove a snare;
The child she loves so well,
Her hand may lead, with gentlest care,
Down the smooth road to hell.
Nourish its flame, destroy its mind,
Thus do the blind mislead the blind,
Even with a mother's love.
Lucy Villars was a pretty girl, with fairy-like figure, small features,
laughing mouth, bright blue sparkling eyes, and a profusion of light
ringlets. Her step was buoyant, and her voice full of animation. It
might have been vanity that made the sparkle of those eyes so brilliant,
and her smiles so frequent, but as her merry laugh echoed back the
joyousness of her own heart, few were disposed to condemn the feeling,
whatever it might be, that rendered her so seemingly happy with herself,
and all around her.
What mental abilities she might possess, however, were completely
overshadowed by the mistakes of early education; at times they would
peep forth when her feelings were really stirred by any strong impulse
of good or evil; but so uncommon were these indications of mind, that no
one could regard them as any true sign even of an originally strong
intellect; and her ordinary flippancy was, perhaps, more certainly
chosen as an index to the spirit within.
She had been but an apt pupil in a bad school. When scarcely more than a
tottering child, she had taken her place at the dancing academy,
learning in her lisping language to compare waltzes and polkas, and
criticise dress, and to display her tiny figure for the admiration of
spectators; feeling her little heart bound when perhaps she attracted
notice from being the smallest and gayest of her companions. Then, in
the juvenile party, where the lesson of the morning could be so well
displayed, where she early learnt to hear her nonsense listened to with
pleasure, and, where, even the old and sensible regarded her little
affectations with a smile, she found another opportunity for display in
the world for which she was educated.
These were too tempting after the dry formula of French verbs and
geography lessons, not to engross the greater part of her thoughts; and,
as she grew older, the evening ball, with its glare of light, its
flirtations and too visible admiration, and the morning promenade,
concert, or town gossip, served to keep up the excited, thoughtless
feeling to which she had been so early trained. Oh, England, do you
educate all your daughters in this manner! Your matrons, reverenced by
all nations, answer no!
It could scarcely be wondered at, that Lucy Villars had thus learnt to
place too high a value on personal beauty. We would not for an instant
deny its merit. We reverence all that is beautiful in art or nature, we
glow with admiration of a fine picture, and the sight of a rich
landscape elevates the feelings of him who gazes upon it; we picture
angels beautiful, and we look forward to a heaven where all is perfect
beauty. It cannot then be valueless when exhibited in the human face or
figure. It has indeed been much over and underrated. May we not look
upon it as a talent bestowed for some high purpose, as a means of
influence which must be some day accounted for.
No such thoughts ever occupied Lucy's mind for a moment; she had learnt
her own estimate of its value from the frivolous admiration of a gay
city; she had heard it praised in others as if of the greatest
importance; and she had chosen her acquaintance amongst those who
studied every means of enhancing its charms.
She now entered on her country visit with the same feelings; and, bent
on displaying herself to the best advantage at the rectory, she spent
the greater part of the next morning, during the hours usually occupied
by Mabel in attending to Amy's lessons, in selecting from her wardrobe a
dress best suited for the occasion. Mabel was again and again consulted,
and Amy began to show great impatience at her sister's divided
attention, usually all her own, during her study hours.
But Mabel, much to her disappointment, not unwilling to teach her
self-denial, persisted in attending to Lucy's questions, and in the
evening the latter found herself attired to her perfect satisfaction,
and looking remarkably well.
"You seem to think dress of little importance," she said, lounging into
her cousin's room, and stopping to take another peep in the glass,
without seeing that Mabel had not finished dressing, and was a little
late.
"No indeed," replied Mabel, fastening a bouquet of geraniums in her
simple white dress, without the aid of the usurped mirror, "I think it
of so much consequence, that no woman should be indifferent to it, when
at her toilet, or with her milliner. They say a lady's taste is to be
read in her dress, and I should not like to give soiled lace or badly
blended colors, as an index to mine."
"Do you find any fault with my dress to-night?" enquired Lucy.
Mabel only suggested that a simple brooch might be preferred to the
bright bow which ornamented her bosom, but she had ample time to repent
the observation, for Lucy insisted on going over her whole box of
jewelry to find a substitute, and was scarcely ready by the time when
Mabel, having provided books, work, tea, and every thing she could think
of for Mrs. Lesly and Amy, waited for her in the garden.
They found Mr. Ware looking for them at his garden gate. Mabel hurried
forward to meet him, and then turned to introduce her cousin.
"Most welcome, my dear young ladies," said he, extending a hand to each,
"my sister has no mean opinion of her own hospitality to venture on
inviting you to join our party."
Lucy blushed with conscious beauty, while Mabel said, with a smile--
"You throw all the blame on Miss Ware. I fear then, you would not have
asked us to come yourself."
"Nay, nay, I cannot exactly say what I would have done; but here is
Arthur, no doubt he can play at words better than I can."
Captain Clair gracefully raised his hat as he came in sight, and then
shaking hands with Mabel, requested, in a low voice to be introduced to
her lovely cousin. The "lovely," was pronounced distinctly enough to
reach Lucy's ears, and the blush with which she received Mabel's
introduction shewed him that the compliment had been accepted.
As the party lounged round the garden, Mabel reminded Mr. Ware of his
promise to show her some improvements he had been making amongst the
evergreens in the shrubbery; and Lucy Villars gladly seized the
opportunity of commencing a flirting conversation with Captain Clair,
who, being well drilled in the accomplishment of small talk, by long
practice, easily fell into a _tête-à-tête_.
Mabel's hand was placed affectionately in the old man's arm, as they
walked on together, finding some kindred thought from every topic they
chose. He had been kind to her when a firm friend had been most needed,
and she now sought to shew, in every way, that he had not bestowed that
kindness on one incapable of appreciating it.
The ready sympathy she felt in all in which he took any interest, was,
perhaps, the best return she could have thought of. We value most that
for which we pay the highest, and friendship is purchased by no common
coin.
It was a great pleasure to Mr. Ware, to have her society and ready
sympathy. Few friends lay within reach of Aston, and her elegant mind
supplied what would otherwise have been wanting in his simple home, and
gave him an opportunity of conversing on his favorite topics.
"We shall not be seeing so much of you I fear," he said, as they walked
back towards the house, "but I must not be selfish."
"Indeed I hope that will not be the case," she replied, "do come and
walk with us whenever you have time. No one can shew the the beauties of
our county better than you can, and I never enjoy a party so much as
when you are with us."
"If you are in earnest I feel inclined to gratify you, if not, to punish
you, by accepting your invitation."
"Do not let us even pretend to be insincere," said Mabel, eagerly,
"hypocrisy is so hateful. Take me at my word, and trust me till I break
it."
"Well, then, so I will; I scarcely know which I like most, to trust or
be trusted, both are so pleasant; so, if you are going to do any thing
delightful out of doors, like a walk or a nutting expedition, ask us to
join you, and we will do the same, so we shall the better be able to
amuse our guests. People often require too good a reason for meeting--we
will have none."
"I will most willingly promise," returned Mabel, "only remember, that on
some days mamma feels so low that I never leave her--then you must
excuse me, for every thing at home depends on her."
"You are quite right to let it be so," said Mr. Ware, "and I will never
say a word against such an arrangement. Only tell her we mean to take
her by storm some night and come to tea. You shall give it us on the
green, and then she can look on without minding our noise."
"Mamma will be very glad to see you, I am sure," said Mabel, "if you
will only propose it. The effort would do her good."
"Very well then, I will tell her when I see her next," said Mr. Ware,
with a smile.
They had now reached the open window of the sitting-room, where Mabel
was welcomed by Miss Ware.
"The evening is really quite sultry," said she, "yet the air at this
time of day so often gives me cold, that I had not courage to venture
out, though I so much wished to join you."
"Had I known that, my dear Miss Ware, I should not have been tempted to
remain out so long."
"No, no, dear child, I am not so selfish, for I know when once you begin
to talk to Edwin there is no leaving off; but I hope you have not
forgotten your pretty cousin to-night. You promised to bring her with
you."
"Oh, yes, she is with us," said Mabel, turning round, but no Lucy was to
be seen.
"Oh, Arthur is taking care of her, I believe," said Mr. Ware, "and they
will be here soon, I dare say."
It was some little time, however, before they did appear, and then they
were seen advancing down the gravel walk, both laughing, and Lucy with
a very high colour.
"Why," said Mr. Ware, "you stole a march upon us, Arthur, where have you
been keeping this young lady in the damp?"
"Are we at the chair of confession?" asked the young officer, still
laughing.
"Yes, yes, every one confesses everything here; but sit down to tea
first, and take off your bonnet, Miss Villars."
"Well then," said Clair, when they were comfortably seated at the
tea-table, "I perceive I must apologise for a very grave offence in
keeping Miss Lucy Villars so long absent; the whole crime, I fear, lies
with me, I indeed, the scape-goat for every offender, must, I fear, take
the blame on myself."
"Come, come, Arthur," said his uncle, "be laconic."
"My dear uncle, you should allow a prisoner to state his own case
fairly--if he has not studied Burke on the 'Sublime and Beautiful,' the
'Patriot King,' and other models of pure English composition, you must
let a poor fellow express himself as he can, so that he speaks the
truth. So to proceed; we were talking of country pursuits, and Miss Lucy
could not understand how I could contrive to while away my time, after
being accustomed to town, Portsmouth, Southampton, Cheltenham,
Scarborough, Bombay, Calcutta and such places; how, in fact, I contrived
to vegetate here."
Lucy laughed merrily, and displayed in doing so a very pretty set of
white teeth. But Mr. Ware saw with regret that a new spirit had entered
their small circle of society, whose influence might do much to
counteract his own on the versatile disposition of his nephew, even
without being conscious of it.
"Well, aunt," Captain Clair continued gaily, "you look serious, as if I
meant any bad compliment to the sweetest village in England; though, my
dear aunt, vegetation is vegetation after all, whether displayed on the
Cotswold hills or in the back woods of America."
Mabel looked at him for an instant, and her deep blue eyes seemed to
deprecate a remark which her ever kind heart told her was giving pain.
Clair bowed, and then said almost in a whisper: "Thank you, I was
wrong," and continued his narrative, after a moment's pause.
"Well, as I before said, Miss Lucy wished to know how I amused myself in
the country, and, amongst other things, I mentioned my workshop,
situated, as you may remember, over the stable, and accessible only by a
ladder. However, this lady honored me by expressing a wish to see it,
and you know how difficult it is to refuse to gratify a lady's taste for
a hobby of our own, therefore, we proceeded to the stable, where, after
some time being spent in the ascent of the ladder, in looking at my
tools, and all my attempts at carpentering rickety garden chairs, and
tables that never will be persuaded to stand even, and after my giving
her a promise to turn her a jewel box, (which I hope she did not
believe) we experienced the same difficulty in coming down, that we did
in going up, but at length we are here, and at your service."
"What a long story about nothing," said his aunt.
"Then, if you think so, you do neither me nor my narrative justice; I
have given it for the amusement of the public, and feel myself ill-used
to find it not appreciated. Miss Lucy you play chess, you said. Honor me
by playing? We are ill-treated by the rest of the company, so may well
retire from notice."
Mabel was surprised to see the sudden intimacy which had sprung up in
less than an hour, and expected that Lucy would evade the familiarity
with which she was so soon treated, by some evidence of woman's tact;
but she very soon saw her seated by the little chess-table, in the
corner, apart from the rest, and listening to the low conversation
addressed to her, as if her host, and hostess, and friend, had not been
in the room.
She could not help feeling a little angry at her cousin's total neglect
of the friends whom she had ever been accustomed to treat with affection
and respect, but studiously endeavoured to engage their attention, and
to prevent their thinking of it. Still, it is never so difficult to talk
as when we most try to do so, and, almost for the first time, with them,
she felt it tedious to support the conversation.
At length, after giving Lucy two or three games, which her inferior play
would never have won, Captain Clair shut up the board, and the two
turned round for amusement to the rest of the company.
"Do you know, Mabel," said Lucy, "that Captain Clair came home from
Malta with Colonel Hargrave."
"Yes, Mr. Ware told me so."
"Do then join with me in begging a description of him."
"Surely," she replied, "Captain Clair does not need two requests."
"Do then," said Lucy, turning to him, "give us a nice long description
of him."
"I really do not know where to begin," said he, "particularly as you say
you will see him so soon."
"Oh, yes," said Lucy, with quiet pride, "he is coming to see us in Bath.
But now do describe him," she reiterated, with her prettiest look of
entreaty.
"Well then, though it is hard to have to describe a character that
throws one's own into shade."
"No, my dear boy," said Mr. Ware, his eyes glistening at this modest
avowal; "true praise of another's worth only enhances your own."
"Not in every one's opinion, I fear, uncle; virtue seems to stand so
much by comparison, at least, I have often found it so; but that shall
not prevent my giving as faithful a picture as I can remember of
Hargrave. I am rather fond of studying character."
"How you wander," said Lucy; "do begin--."
"No, miss Lucy, I was not wandering so much as you think, my observation
on character might after a bit have led to Hargrave--but, like a true
knight, once more I obey. What shall I begin with? A man's agreeable
qualities are generally judged by his acres; allow me," said he, waving
his hand towards the window, and pointing to the landscape of hill and
vale, and rich woods, and winding river, over which the moon was
shining, to shew you his most agreeable phase in the eyes of fair
ladies.
Lucy visibly colored, and Clair looked at her scrutinisingly, till she
laughingly told him to go on.
"Well, if that description does not satisfy, I must be more minute, and
bring up qualities, which, in these refined days, are not so much
thought of, unfortunately. First, then, his personal appearance. He is
very tall, and broad shouldered, and athletic; yet, at the same time,
though he is as strong as a giant, you might almost call him graceful.
He seems to have acquired the difficult art of standing perfectly still;
no shifting from one foot to another, a habit, Miss Lucy, I am prone to
indulge in. Now then for his face, dark eyes, dark hair, dark
complexion, white teeth, and a good nose, and I suppose my description
is complete."
"No, not yet, by any means," said Lucy, "tell us a little more."
"Ah, I forgot his sneer, which is perfect, I never saw one so cutting
before; but then his smile atones for it, though as rare as the sunshine
in November. The sneer is that of a proud, contemptuous, arrogant
man--the smile, that of an infant. Then, his eye--there is no describing
his eye--you, may remember it, uncle; it seems as if continual fire were
sleeping in it, like the fire of uncurbed intellect; an eye capable of
reading the countenance of another, yet, almost slothful in the attempt
to do so."
"What a horrid man!" exclaimed Lucy.
"You will not think so when you see him, or if you do, you will be
singular," said Clair. "Then I was going to tell you, that he is
changeable as the moon. Perhaps, when you are alone with him, he will
startle and entrance you, by his eloquent observations on men, and
things; and you will invite your friends to meet him, expecting them to
be equally fascinated; but, perhaps, during the whole evening, he will
scarcely make even a common-place observation. He is, indeed, a curious,
fascinating, wilful being; clever, and accomplished, beyond a doubt, and
his character is unimpeachable; yet he always seems to want something to
make him entirely happy."
"Poor fellow," sighed Mr. Ware.
"Perhaps he is in love," suggested Lucy.
"Hardly unsuccessfully, I should think; indeed, were I he, I should
never despair--but I own," said he, laughing; "I have sometimes caught
him looking at the moon."
"Well," said Mabel, rising; "I am sure we have to thank you for your
description of our lord of the manor, though you have made him rather a
terrible personage. Come, Lucy, I fear we must go."
"If you must, you will allow me to see you home," said Clair.
"I always take Mabel home," said his uncle; "but, if you will come with
us, as there are two ladies to be taken care of, we shall walk home
together."
Clair gladly assented to this arrangement; but, to Lucy's surprise,
offered Mabel his arm, leaving her to walk with his uncle; a plan she so
decidedly disliked, that she insisted on keeping her pocket-handkerchief
to her mouth the whole way home, though the night was remarkably clear,
and her stifled and negligent answers gave little encouragement to her
companion's attempts at conversation.
When they reached home, they found only Betsy, waiting up for them, and
Mabel begged Lucy to go as quietly as possible to her room, for fear of
waking Amy--but she insisted on following her, without stopping to
remark the expression of unusual paleness and fatigue, which was visible
in her countenance, and compelled her to listen to the story of her
evening's adventures.
"You know," said she, blushing, "when I was up in that high poky place,
at the top of the long ladder, Captain Clair said he would not let me go
down till I gave him some reward; of course I knew he wanted a kiss, but
I was not going to give it him, and so I stood still, till I was so
tired, that I compromised the matter by giving him my hand to kiss; so
then he let me go, saying, he supposed he must be contented."
"Oh! Lucy," cried Mabel, "how could you be so imprudent as to go up
there alone--how impertinent of him--why did you let him take such a
liberty."
"Come, nonsense, now sweetest, do not be a prude, it does not become you
to look like an old maid. What is the harm of having a kiss on one's
hand, one's cheek would be different, and, of course, I would not allow
him to do that."
"But, Lucy, dear, is it not imprudent to place yourself in a position
which would allow him to ask such a thing--will it not make you appear a
flirt--does it not lower you to allow him to be so free, after seeing
him only for a few hours. Do consider."
"Why, one would think I was a grandmother. I hate being cross at every
little thing. I am sure it is more wicked to quarrel, after all."
"Yes, but if you would only understand me," said Mabel, "you would know,
I would not have you quarrel, either. But if you will let me, we will
talk of it again to-morrow, for now poor Amy is waking. You know," said
she, gently putting her arm round her pretty cousin, and kissing her
forehead softly; "you know you promised to let me talk to you in this
way, and you half promised to listen."
"Well, sweet cousin, I think you may be speaking the truth, after all.
It was very naughty of me, perhaps," she added, with a smile, "to go up
in the loft, and so I will try and be better in future. Oh dear! dear!
Amy is awake; well, I am very sorry. Go to sleep, child, Mabel is
tired," and off she ran to her own room, leaving her cousin to soothe
the restless child as she could.
Perhaps it was as well that Mabel was thus prevented from following the
train of depressing thought into which she seemed to have fallen on her
return from the rectory, for, as she sunk to rest, with Amy's head upon
her arm, she remembered, that if sorrow had ever laid its heavy hand
upon her life, the treasure of a sister's love had yet been given her--a
sister rendered more dear by sickness and weakness. And in these
thoughts the unselfish girl soon forgot all other feelings.
CHAPTER IX.
But a trouble weigh'd upon her,
And perplex'd her night and morn.
TENNYSON.
Mr. Ware and his nephew did not neglect to take advantage of Mabel's
proposal, that they would mutually help to pass the few weeks that
remained of the warm weather, more pleasantly than usual. Each bright
day of autumn we value the more highly, as we fear it may be the last;
and the little party of friends took every opportunity of visiting the
prettiest sights of the neighbourhood, either on foot, or in Mr. Ware's
carriage. Much as she enjoyed these excursions, Mabel, at length, found
that she was frequently obliged to excuse herself. The slightest
additional pallor on her mother's countenance, had always been
sufficient to make her give up the merriest party, or the most
engrossing study; and she now tried in vain to hide from herself the
growing weakness, and the fading and changing color she often
wore--though, with her accustomed buoyancy of disposition, she believed
that, the few autumn months once passed, her mother would again be
strong.
Mrs Lesly, sometimes tried to bring the subject of her precarious state
of health before her, yet could scarcely find courage to damp her hopes.
Since her sister's visit, she had felt an uneasiness which she found it
difficult to suppress, and, instead of being relieved on her children's
account, by the promise that they should share the comforts of a home
with her sister's own family, she experienced a sensation of vague
terror, which she found it impossible to define. Even the loss of six
hundred pounds, supposing them lost, could not be equivalent to the
pain she suffered.
The magnitude of our misfortunes depends, not so much on themselves, for
the pain they give us, as upon the state in which they find us. In good
spirits, and vigorous health, we may, perhaps, smile at trials which
would make another's cup of sorrows run over.
Poor Mrs. Lesly, weakened in health, and with feeble nerves, began to
entertain suspicions that she had acted imprudently. A fear, of she knew
not what, entered her mind, and she began to feel a restless impatience
to find the written promise given by her sister, which remained as the
only security for the money with which she had so weakly parted. This
anxiety seemed, for a time, to conquer her constitutional indolence, and
much of her time was spent in looking over old drawers, desks, and
boxes, and the search always ended with the secretary, where she turned
over every paper in a vain investigation. Every excuse she could make
for being alone, she eagerly seized upon to renew it; for, while she
had, at first, felt it difficult to explain to Mabel, that she had
risked the greater part of her small fortune, not from any strong
motive, but, simply because her sister had been extravagant enough to
embarrass herself by the purchase of luxuries, and she had been too weak
to refuse the loan which the superior claim of her children had rendered
rather unjust than generous, she now found this difficulty increased by
a constant fear that she should guess the truth. It was, therefore,
necessary to carry on the search unobserved, and the wish to do so,
fixed upon her like a spell, and harassed her continually. She would,
then, on the morning of any proposed expedition, endeavour to appear as
gay and well as possible, that she might induce Mabel to join the party;
but, on their return, hours of harassing disappointment generally shewed
themselves in her sickly appearance at night; and Mabel was grieved to
find that, instead of welcoming her return as usual, after even the
shortest absence, she seemed rather surprised to find she had come back
so soon; regarding her presence almost with feverish impatience. In
vain, Mabel entreated to be allowed to know the cause of this change.
Mrs. Lesly only answered her questions by excuses; or, if much pressed,
by tears, causing poor Mabel the utmost uneasiness. The restless
agitation she continually felt, rapidly wore upon both health and
spirits, and their failure only increased the nervous desire to find
what now seemed of tenfold importance to her disordered fancy.
It is melancholy to trace the effects of bodily illness, when it finds,
as it were, an echo in the mind of the sufferer.
It was in vain that Mrs. Lesly reasoned with herself, trying to believe
that she could perfectly rely on her sister's promise. She could not but
remember her wanton extravagance, and the little guard she had ever
learned to place on herself, even in the indulgence of the slightest
whim; and her affection for her could not blind her to the fact that she
had chosen for her children a guardian too weak to protect herself from
the slightest temptation. Again and again, the same thoughts pressed
upon her, and the same course of reasoning occurred, giving her less
satisfaction on every recurrence to it.
Then followed the burning desire to recover the lost papers; with
renewed impatience she would return to the secretary--till wearied and
worn out she would sink into her chair disappointed and spiritless.
"Ah, dearest Mamma," said Mabel, when having determined to remain at
home, though the day was lovely, and favored a walk to the woods which
had been agreed on, she entered the room, and found her seated,
unoccupied, except by her own harassing thoughts. "You are unhappy, and
will not tell me why. Is not this unkind?"
"Unkind," echoed Mrs. Lesly, vacantly, "yes, I have been very unkind to
you both."
"No, no, dear Mamma, I do not mean that--not really unkind--only it
vexes me to see you so sad."
"I am sad indeed, my dear," returned Mrs. Lesly, in the same absent
tone, "but I cannot find them, though they are all here." She stopped
and glanced at the secretary wistfully, as if its old-fashioned drawers
could speak if they liked.
"What is lost?" said Mabel, "let me try and find it--I will look over
all the papers if you will let me."
"No, no, what I have lost I ought to find, it is my own indolence which
has done it."
"Yes, but do not think of that now, mamma, love, remember Doctor
Parkinson said you were to be kept quite quiet, and now you are
wandering about all day--only think how precious your health is to us,
and how happy we all are when you are well."
"Mabel, you kill me by these words--I feel that I am dying, but do not
kill me before the time appointed."
Mabel was silent, and stood looking at her mother with painful
earnestness.
"Do not look at me so, sweet child. Well may you be surprised when I
have ruined you both."
"Ruin! my own mother, what do you mean?"
"Ah, you may well wonder at me," replied Mrs. Lesly, much excited, "how
could I be so silly as to injure my own children."
"Ah, now you are unkind," said Mabel, "why not tell me--is there a
sorrow I have refused to bear--is it not my privilege to be sorrowful."
Tears rolled down her heated cheeks, and Mrs. Lesly continued to regard
her in silence.
"Is it not unjust to me, your own child," continued Mabel, (for she had
often before failed in obtaining her confidence,) "day after day you are
wearying yourself with something you will not let me know, and injuring
your health, which is more precious to us than any thing else--mamma--I
did not know you could be so unkind."
"Dear child, do not talk in this way, my only thought is of my children,
and oh!" said she, turning her head towards the secretary, "if I could
but find them."
"What?"
"The papers."
"What papers? Do tell me, can any thing be worse than this
concealment--you have always told me everything."
"Ah, if I had," said Mrs. Lesly, with a sigh.
"But do tell me now, I would rather hear any thing than see you suffer."
"Can you really bear it?" enquired her mother, seeming to shake off the
oppressive calmness with which she had been speaking before, and looking
attentively at her daughter, whose warm feelings were almost ready to
burst control.
"I will bear any thing," answered Mabel, walking to her, and kneeling
by her side, "any thing you can tell me."
"Then you shall hear me now, lest you have cause to curse your mother's
memory, if you heard it when I was gone from you. Your poor father put
by a thousand pounds, which I never told you of before. It would have
been but a poor pittance--yet it would have saved you from want; but
this is nearly all gone now, for my sister has been borrowing of me from
time to time, promising to be a mother to my children--I have lent her
six hundred of the thousand, and I have lost her promises to repay them
back. Should any thing happen to either of us, what will you do?"
"Trust to me, mother, dear. He who has supported me through far worse
trials will support me still."
"Reproach me now, Mabel," said Mrs. Lesly, sorrowfully, "but do not live
to curse me in the bitterness of your heart."
"No, my loved mother," said her daughter, looking up in her face with
unmistakeable cheerfulness, "think no more of this now. Amy shall not
suffer while health is left me, and power to use the education my dear
father gave me; and I am so happy to think nothing worse is to be
feared, even should any thing so strange occur as that aunt Villars
could not pay us. And do you think I could once forget that it was
because you were kind, unselfish and generous, that you lent the money."
Mrs. Lesly lent down and folded her child in her arms, saying, in a low
repentant voice--
"Not generous but weak, we should but injure ourselves, not those
dependent on us in order to serve others."
Yet she felt as if a weight had passed from her heart, and though she
was still apprehensive, she was no longer despairing.
CHAPTER X.
How brief is the time since her voice was the clearest,
Her laughter the loudest, amid the gay throng.
HEMANS.
Could the selfish but remember how much less they would feel their own
sorrows by sharing those of others, they would learn an easy way to
alleviate the unhappiness they are continually guarding against, by so
occupying themselves in thoughts of pity and kindness as to leave little
room in their own minds for fear or regret.
The kindhearted very soon begin to feel an interest in those who are
thrown much with them, and, though Lucy presented many faults to her
notice, Mabel learnt to watch her with great interest. It soon became
evident to her that she was perfectly in earnest in her attempts to
engage the affections of Captain Clair, and, though at first she had
been disgusted and pained at the idea--more ready to pity than
condemn--she felt for Lucy when she perceived, by her variable spirits,
that her heart was engaged in the flirtation she had so thoughtlessly
commenced. The conduct of Clair puzzled her, she wished to believe that
his attentions were serious, and yet she could not help thinking they
meant nothing beyond the fashionable love he might often have professed
for the most pleasing young lady of any society in which he happened to
find himself. Still, she hoped she was mistaken; and thought, over again
and again the little anecdotes which Lucy daily brought to her
confidence, assuming them as unmistakeable signs of an affection which
would soon declare itself.
Mabel knew that a look, a single word, even an emphasis on an ordinary
word are sometimes the evidences of affection. Yet, all that Lucy told
her, seemed to fall short, certainly of her ideas of love, formed, as
they had been, from her own unhappy history. Yet she hesitated to speak
her opinion freely; for, after all, it might be only a very unkind
suspicion of one who had not given any very good cause for believing him
to be a trifler. He had, besides, been so kind to herself, that she
could not help feeling prepossessed in his favor.
Meanwhile, Clair appeared as attentive as ever, but his attentions were
never varied by ill humour or depression. Still Lucy rested confident in
the power of her own attractions--and, persisting in believing he was
only diffident--she became more and more lavish of encouragement,
without, however, finding her admirer become either warmer or bolder.
What was to be done? Her letters to Bath had been full of the
admiration she had inspired in the young officer, and of expectations
that, in a few more posts, she would have to announce his decided
proposals. The letters she received in return were full of delighted
badinage from her sisters, and good advice from her mother. How then
could she bear to return home with the tacit confession that her vanity
had deceived her; and thus subject herself to her sisters' cutting
jests, and the bitterness of her often disappointed mother. The poor
girl had been spoilt by education and companionship, and she was,
according to her own idea, forced to play desperately in order to
justify what she had written home. She did not stop to consider that all
delicacy, modesty, and all that is precious in a woman, would be risked
in such a game, when she read such words as these in her mother's
letters, "you might well pride yourself," she wrote, "on being the first
of my daughters whom I shall have the pleasure of seeing married.
Indeed I have always flattered myself, that my Lucy would be the first
to secure herself an establishment."
The seeds of vanity, thus sown by a mother's hand, grew quickly in the
daughter's heart. To be the first to be married was an idea that filled
her with pleasure; she did not stop to analyze, or she might have
discovered that the hope of mortifying her sisters by her marriage, was
inconsistent with the love she believed she felt for them.
But now, what could she do! how could she bring her backward lover to a
proposal! She eagerly seized any opportunity of meeting him, and never
neglected pursuing any conversation which seemed likely to lead to love.
Still she was as far from her object as ever, and at length she felt the
feverish eagerness of a gambler to bring the game to a successful close.
Mabel, who saw she suffered, sincerely, pitied her, though unable to
divine her thoughts. Disappointed affection the poor girl might have
successfully struggled against; but she could not banish the idea of
the sneers and jests, which, in contrast to her present popularity,
would meet her at home. Home, which in its sacred circle ought to have
afforded a refuge from every evil passion, as from every outward danger.
She knew it would not be so, and willingly would she almost have thrown
herself at the Captain's feet, and begged him to protect her from it,
rather than oblige her to return to such a sanctuary.
Oh, fashionable and speculating mothers, why do you crush in your
children some of the sweetest and loveliest of their feelings. Why are
you so utterly foolish, as, first to make them unworthy of a husband's
trust and confidence, and then wonder that they do not obtain them. A
man seeks, in his wife, for a companion to his best feelings, fit your
daughters to fill such situations, and, should they then fail to obtain
them, they will still hold an honored place in society.
Lucy felt that her success, in a matrimonial point of view, was all that
her mother regarded, that she seemed to view her daughters with the
eyes of the public, and valued them in proportion to the admiration they
excited, and she now strained every nerve to gratify both her and
herself.
There was one little plan to which she looked with great interest. Mr.
Ware's proposal of their taking tea in Mrs. Lesly's garden, was to be
carried into effect. They were all to dine early, and drink tea soon
enough to prevent any danger of taking cold, and Mabel was to prepare
them tea and fruit in the garden, while Miss Ware would take hers
quietly in doors with Mrs. Lesly. Amy talked herself tired with planning
it, for a week before, asking Mabel for an exact list of all the fruit
she meant to get for their entertainment. Lucy looked forward to it more
seriously; she fancied Clair entered so eagerly into the plan that she
hoped he had some particular reason for wishing it, more than the mere
pleasure of taking tea in the open air. Was it not very likely, that
lounging down one of the shady walks which skirted the garden, he might
find courage to tell all she so much wished to hear.
The expected evening at length arrived.
Mrs. Lesly was unusually well, for the renewed confidence between
herself and her daughter had produced the most happy effects. Lucy was
all sparkling animation, and Clair forgot to be rational in the
effervescence of his good spirits. Lucy, whose fear of caterpillars was
quite touching, had persuaded Mabel to place the tea-table on the open
grass-plot--and there the sisters had delighted themselves in arranging
the simple repast. Amy was so accustomed to bustle along by Mabel's
side, that she had come to the belief that she could do nothing well
without her; and she now hurried about, laughing merrily, as she
conveyed to the table, plates of early fruit, which old John had always
carefully matted through the summer. Mr. Ware was particularly fond of
fruit, and it was a great pleasure to the sisters, to store up every
little luxury for him.
The table looked very pretty with its fruit, and cream, and flowers, and
the little party was a merry one, ready to take pleasure and amusement
in anything. Mr. Ware told stories of other days, and Clair brought
anecdotes of the fashionable world of his day, while the girls were
well-pleased listeners.
When tea had been fully discussed, they strolled round the garden,
watching for the sunset, which was to be the signal for taking shelter
in the house. Lucy, the captain, and Amy, went off laughing together,
while Mabel, choosing the driest path in the garden, paced up and down
by the side of Mr. Ware.
"It is very kind of you," he said, "to prefer my company to those who
are gayer and younger; but I am sorry to perceive that you are not quite
in your usual spirits--I hope you have no reason to be depressed."
"None at all," replied Mabel, "and yet I am foolish enough to feel
low-spirited. But have you never felt a vague apprehension that
something dreadful was going to happen--I cannot overcome it to-night."
"I have often felt the same from no reason, as you say, and have as
often found my fears groundless. Do you not remember those beautiful
words--'_He feareth no evil tidings_?'"
"Oh yes--I must not think of it again."
Mr. Ware thought this might be no bad opportunity of speaking of Mrs.
Lesly's delicate health, and leading her to prepare herself for a trial
which he foresaw was not far distant; but at the very moment that he was
thinking how to introduce the subject, the sound of merry laughter came
from the other side of the garden, and Mabel exclaimed--
"Oh, I fear they are at the swing, and John says it's unsafe. I must go
and stop them."
And so saying, she ran quickly across the garden, till she reached the
spot where the swing was suspended from the branch of two tall fir
trees.
Amy was in the swing, which Captain Clair was pushing, while Lucy was
clapping her hands as each time the child rose higher in the air.
"Oh, do stop," said Mabel, running up to them quite out of breath, and
scarcely able to say any more.
"No, no," said Lucy, "we want to see if Amy can touch that bough. What a
beautiful swinger she is--she nearly did it then, I declare--try again,
Amy."
"John says it is unsafe," cried Mabel, trying to be heard, "do, do
stop--for mercy's sake, Captain Clair, do stop her."
Both were, however, deaf to her entreaty. Lucy rejoiced in what she
thought superior nerve, and called to her not to be an old maid,
frightened at everything; while Clair thought her very feminine and
pretty, but apprehended no real danger.
Mabel continued to exclaim, till unable to get a hearing, she burst into
tears of vexation and alarm, fearing to touch the rope, lest she might
cause the accident she feared.
At the same moment, while she watched Amy ascend quickly through the
air, till her feet scattered a few leaves from the bough she had been
trying to touch, there came a heaving sound, then a loud crash--the
swing gave way, and Amy fell violently to the ground. With a scream of
piercing anguish, she sprang to her side, where she lay close by a
knotted root of the tree, which she had struck in falling.
Lucy stood blushing and terrified, uttering some confused excuses for
not listening to one who justice whispered was never fanciful.
Captain Clair looked bewildered and thoroughly ashamed, for often the
only excuse for daring is its success.
Mr. Ware fortunately soon reached the spot, and though extremely vexed
at such a termination to the day's enjoyment, merely roused his nephew,
by telling him to carry the poor child into the house, and then to fetch
a doctor, that they might be certain she had sustained no serious
injury.
His nephew, too happy to have some duty assigned, raised Amy in his
arms, for she was perfectly insensible, and, as Mabel supported her
drooping head, carried her into the house. Mabel's conduct during that
short walk cut him to the heart; she seemed entirely to have forgotten
that his obstinacy had injured her sister; and in her anxiety for her
safety, she did not suffer a complaining word to escape her. Those who
possess little control over their own feelings, often reverence those
who have great self-command--and to Clair, who a few minutes before, had
been laughing with almost childish excitement, and was now utterly
depressed, Mabel seemed like a superior being in the calm dignity of her
silent distress.
At length, Amy was safely placed upon her bed, and leaving Mabel and
their servant-maid to try every means to restore her to consciousness,
he hastened in search of a surgeon. He met Lucy in the lane, who told
him that she had anticipated his errand, but that the doctor had gone to
see a patient many miles away.
"Then I shall go for a horse, and follow him," said he, "anything will
be better than this suspense."
"And what shall I do?" cried Lucy, wringing her hands; but Clair had no
comfort to offer, and hurried on to the village to find a horse.
Lucy returned to the house, frightened, and ashamed. She did not like to
remain alone, yet there was no one in the sitting-room; and not daring
to seek any one, she retired to her own chamber, which looked so still
and lonely, that she put the door half open, and seated herself in a
chair close by, to listen for any news from Amy's room. She could not
help recalling to herself the wild laugh of the poor child only half an
hour before, and she could not bear to think of how still she was lying
there.
At length she heard Betsy, the privileged maid, say:--
"It is all Miss Lucy's fault, I know, for the house has not been the
same since she came into it."
"Hush, Betsy," was the murmured reply, in her cousin's well known voice;
"those thoughts will only make it harder to bear."
Betsy was not so easily stopped, but Mabel seemed to reply no more.
Every word went to Lucy's heart. The frequent question of despairing
feeling. "What shall I do?" received no answer, and she sat on in her
desolate seat, or varied her watch by stealing on tiptoe to the end of
the passage. Thus the weary time slipt away, and she had listened to the
church clock, as it struck the hours till midnight--she then heard the
sound of horses' feet, and anxious for any change, she ran down
stairs--but she found that Clair and the surgeon had already been
admitted by Mr. Ware, who was watching for them, and, feeling herself of
no use, she again crept to her room to listen, trembling for the
doctor's opinion. The examination lasted a long time, and she became
nearly worn out with waiting, and trying every minute to divine
something from the hurried voices, or hurried steps of the attendants in
the sick room. But she could learn nothing, till she heard the doctor
leave the room, and lead Mabel to that next her own, and then she heard
her say in a tremulous voice.
"What do you think of her, Mr. Williams?"
"The accident has been a severe one," he returned.
"Can she recover?" was asked, in a tone which Lucy trembled to hear, and
she leant forward to catch the answer.
"A complete cure is beyond hope, my dear Miss Lesly; I entreat you to
bear up against this blow," were the words she caught; "my heart bleeds
for you, but I see the back is broken, and you know--" a groan of
anguish, which she would have fled miles to have escaped hearing, was
the only answer sentence thus given.
Then followed confused words, as if he were trying to comfort, broken by
suppressed sobs.
An agony of terror, alike for Amy and her sister, then seized her--she
trembled in every limb; and when she attempted to cry out, her tongue
seemed to refuse to utter a sound. She sank upon the floor, too
overpowered to move, and yet without the relief of fainting. Her
thoughts became more and more distinct--of Amy, growing, perhaps, in
beauty and womanhood, stretched on the bed of helpless sickness, unable
to find advantages in either. What a blight had she cast upon a home she
had found so happy. And Mabel, too, the beautiful unselfish Mabel, no
longer the playfellow of innocent childhood, but the hopeless nurse of
youthful decrepitude.
Too carelessly instructed as she had been, in the forms, and almost
wholly deficient in the spirit, of the religion she professed, she knew
of no balm that could heal a wound of such bitterness--she saw no light
that could have guided her to comfort. Highly as she prized youth and
its enjoyments, its hopes, and its ties, much as she sparkled in
company, and revelled in the admiration she excited, so much did she
feel the reverse to be dark and hard to bear. She pictured Amy passing,
in one five minutes, from her joyous youthfulness, with its light laugh,
and bounding glee, to the trials of sickness which she might never more
escape; probably, too, the highly intellectual child becoming only the
feeble-minded woman, weakened by disease and suffering, and cut off from
all those endearing ties so prized by a woman's heart. As these thoughts
passed slowly, and impressively before her--she covered her face with
her hands, and wept long and bitterly.
CHAPTER XI.
Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give.
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem,
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
SHAKSPEARE'S SONNET.
How awful is the feeling with which morning breaks in a house where
sudden grief and desolation has been wrought. Like Adam and Eve in the
garden, we shrink from each other, as if we feared to read our own
feelings in the faces of others, whose sufferings only embitter our own.
The stillness of the past night broken by household sounds usually so
familiar as to attract no attention, recall the mind to the fact that
another day has opened on our life, showing more clearly the sorrow of
the night before.
Poor Amy! Mabel's love had thrown a kind of halo round the orphan child,
and those who did not love her for her own, loved her for Mabel's sake.
Old John went heavily to his work, to move the benches and other signs
of the last evening's simple pleasure.
"Miss Mabel shall not see them again," he said to himself; "I cannot
give her much comfort--but I may spare her a little pain."
Mr. Ware and his sister had gone home, after affording all the comfort
and assistance in their power.
Mrs. Lesly had been persuaded to lie down, for, terrified and ill, she
needed repose, and Mabel, in grief, as in gladness, always took the
lead.
Lucy, exhausted and spiritless, too weary to get up, and too irresolute
to undress, had thrown herself upon her bed, and fallen asleep.
When she again opened her eyes, the noon-day light was streaming in upon
her bed, and, to her great surprise, Mabel was standing by her; she was
pale as the dead, and her countenance gave evidence of the agony of the
last few hours--but there was a pale light in her eyes, and a still
repose about her, that seemed to hallow the grief they concealed.
"I am glad you are awake," she said, in a voice scarcely above a
whisper--"I feared you might be ill--you slept so long."
Lucy's eyes were swollen with weeping and watching, and she looked at
her for a moment in despairing silence; at last she raised herself, and
seizing Mabel's hand, grasped it eagerly.
"Oh, Mabel, Mabel," said she, "what have I done--where can I hide my
face?"
And she sank again upon the bed, and buried her face in the pillow.
"You meant me no harm," replied her cousin--"at least, not much--and I
forgive you from my heart. My grief is too heavy for resentment. But
get up, Lucy, and do not distress me still more by giving way in this
manner."
"Oh, how I despise myself! to think that I am lying here while you are
waiting on me."
"Well, dear Lucy, get up now, for you will be better doing something,
and I cannot help pitying you here alone."
"Then tell me something I can do for you. Oh, I will do anything, but I
cannot get up to sit as I did last night."
"This is Saturday," replied Mabel, "and there are many things you can do
for me, which will enable me to be entirely with my poor Amy. Shall I
leave them to you?"
"Oh, yes," cried Lucy, jumping up, and throwing her arms round her; "you
are an angel--I cannot forgive myself--yet you forgive me before I ask
you."
Mabel kissed her silently, and gliding from the room, was soon again by
her sister's bed.
Amy was feverish, and perpetually wanted something to drink, but it was
touching to see how gently she asked for it, and how earnestly she
seemed to try to repress her own fretfulness, with her large blue eyes
fixed on her sister's face, as if trying to read her approval of every
checked complaint.
"It was very naughty of me," she whispered, "to get into the swing,
Mabel dear, when you told me not in the morning. Will you forgive me?"
"You are in pain, love," said Mabel, tremulously; "and I cannot call you
naughty now."
"Then I am glad you have taught me not to want to be told--but I shall
not be happy till you just say you forgive me."
"My own darling, I forgive you a thousand times--would that I could
suffer instead of you."
"If I had not done wrong, I should not so much mind," said Amy,
thoughtfully; "but give me a little water, dear."
Mabel held the water to her lips, and Amy looked at her earnestly as her
hand trembled.
"Do not cry, Mabel dear," said she, in a feeble voice, "I shall very
soon be well again."
And weary with the pain she was bearing, without a murmur, she closed
her eyes.
Mabel's restrained tears fell fast, for well she knew that years to come
might find her the same helpless invalid as she now lay before her.
The surgeon had given little hope, even in the first moment, when it is
seldom withheld; and she threw herself upon her knees, and covered her
face with her hands. Amy's fortitude and patience, while it deeply moved
her, made her thankful to find that her early lessons had not been
bestowed in vain.
Meanwhile Lucy roused herself with a stronger desire to be really useful
than she had felt for years. Mrs. Lesly had gone to sit with her two
children, so that she required nothing from her. She felt Mabel could
not more effectually have forgiven her than by allowing her to assist
in her duties, for it prevented her feeling the remorse of the evening
before. She ran down stairs with cups and waiters from the sick room,
which, if allowed to accumulate, give such real discomfort to the
sufferer, and even busied herself in helping Betsy in the kitchen, spite
of the sulkiness with which her services were accepted.
But idle habits are not easily thrown aside with the distaste for them;
and, as the day wore on, she began to feel so fatigued that she could
not think how Mabel managed to do everything she did on ordinary
days--when, spite of her desire to please her, she felt her strength
fail in a few hours.
"But I have not been brought up like Mabel," she thought, too willing to
throw the blame on others, if by so doing she at all removed it from
herself. "How can she ever get through it," she said to herself, eying
disconsolately the large basket of clean linen, caps, and frills, which
Betsy had just laid down before her, saying that Miss Lesly had said
she would be kind enough to sort them.
She forced herself, however, to attempt it with many a sigh over its
difficulties. She had scarcely finished her task, when she saw Clair
coming up to the house, and, feeling a better conscience from her
exertions, for her spirits were easily elated, she went down stairs to
meet him.
When she entered the sitting-room, where, not venturing to knock or
ring, he had already seated himself, she found him with his head buried
in his hands, which rested on the table before him. He looked up as she
entered, and a momentary shudder passed over him, which she could not
help perceiving. His face was deadly pale, and his features drawn
together, and bearing the traces of deeper thought than that in which he
usually indulged. He had indeed done many things more careless, and ten
times as wrong, but the consequences had never followed so rapidly nor
been so heart-rending.
"Oh, you have suffered," exclaimed Lucy, "and what a night I have
passed!"
"If you can see Miss Lesly," returned Clair, scarcely heeding her
observation, "ask her, in mercy, to see me for a few minutes."
His first thoughts are of Mabel, thought Lucy, with ready jealousy, not
one kind word for me.
"Will you?" said he, seeing her hesitate, "will you ask her to see me?
What does she say? How does she bear it? Does she reproach me?"
"What question shall I answer first?" said Lucy, with a little of her
returning levity.
Clair bit his lip, and looked at her with surprise, but Lucy quickly
recovering herself, said quietly,
"She bears it as we might have expected from her, she never spoke of
you--and forgave me before I dared ask for forgiveness, and she would
not suffer her servant to reproach me to her."
"Then there is some hope for me," he exclaimed, "but oh! how ten times
more killing is it to have injured one who will not return an injury by
an unkind word. Last night she looked at me with such pity in her
beautiful eyes, that I could have worshipped her. But do go."
Lucy burst into tears.
"What!" thought she, "was I earning for Mabel, when I was trying to shew
how much more nerve and spirit I possessed?"
Clair sat in silence, he did not spring to her side and take her hand,
soothing her, as only a lover knows how; and she left the room to seek
Mabel with feelings of indescribable remorse. Having delivered her
message to Betsy, she locked herself in her room, and once more gave way
to the most passionate grief.
Clair was left only a short while alone, before Mabel entered the room.
One glance at her pale cheek and sorrowful countenance, was sufficient
to tell, at once, how great the suffering had been, and how it had been
borne.
"Ah, Miss Lesly," he began, hurriedly, "can you ever look upon me again
without shuddering? I, who have been the cause of this dreadful,
desolating blow. Is it possible you can ever forgive me? but I know you
can; were I the vilest person on this earth you would forgive me, if I
asked it, but never will you look on me without lamenting the horrid
scene I shall always recall. Yet, I must hear your forgiveness, and oh!
if you could know what I have suffered, in these few last wretched
hours, you would pity me."
"I should not do you justice, Captain Clair," replied Mabel, trying to
speak steadily, "if I did not pity the pain you must feel in having been
the most unwilling cause of such an accident; but you must not forget
that it was unintentional: and I forgive you, from my heart, for any
share you may have had in this unhappy accident."
"They tell me," said he, shuddering, "that she never can be quite well
again. Oh!" cried he, throwing himself on his chair and groaning
heavily, "that I should have lived to be such a curse."
"You are but the instrument in a Hand mightier than your own," replied
Mabel.
"Few punishments can be so great," replied Clair, bitterly, "as to be
chosen for the instrument of justice. It is only the worst soldier in
the army that is forced to inflict death on his condemned brother. You
will hate the instrument that has been raised to afflict you?"
"Should I not then be rebellious against the Hand that raised it?"
replied Mabel. "But, for my sake and your own, command your feelings. I
dare not think, yet, and you would force me to do so. Why this has been
suffered I must not ask now, for my faith may be too small for argument,
while grief has almost robbed me of my senses. But I can see that you
may have been made the unwilling cause, possibly that you may _think_.
Do not forget the merit of suffering, for, if it chastens, it often
purifies the heart; and do not let poor Amy's health and hopes in life
be offered up for nothing, for there is a nobler self within you, which
sorrow for our loss may call forth--shake off all that sullies your
character--all its littleness or frivolity--and be yourself. Devote your
life to some higher purpose, and to nobler aims--go forth to the world
again, a blessing to those around you--and then," said she, sinking her
voice as her eye lost its brilliant fire, "and then Amy, on her sick
bed, will feel that her loss has been your advantage."
Clair almost held his breath while she spoke, and then exclaimed, with a
soldier's energy, as his eye seemed to have caught the fire which had
died in hers,
"I will, I will! You have doubly forgiven, for you have bestowed
thoughts which inspire me with hope. You," said he, as he respectfully
raised her hand to his lips, "you have more than forgiven, and I bless
you from my very soul."
Mabel gently withdrew her hand, and, excusing herself from staying
longer, left him to indulge the new reflections which her words had
awakened.
CHAPTER XII.
In the service of mankind to be
A guardian god below; still to employ
The mind's brave ardour in heroic arms,
Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd
And make us shine for ever--that is life.
THOMPSON.
It was with increasing uneasiness, that Mabel perceived the effects of
their common grief on the weakened constitution of her mother. Mrs.
Lesly, at first, insisted on being constantly with her sick child, but
day by day her cheek became more pale, and her low hollow cough more
frequent, until she could scarcely reach Amy's room without fatigue,
and, instead of being able to nurse her, required, herself, a further
exertion of Mabel's ever watchful care. Grateful indeed did the latter
feel for the strong health, and stronger nerves, which enabled her to
maintain the watching and waiting required of her--while the
consciousness of being loved taught her that each personal service rose
in value because she rendered it. Lucy still remained with them; she had
insisted on her services being received; and, though the idle girl was
rather giving trouble than making herself useful, Mabel did not refuse
her offer to continue with her, hoping that the wish to serve might be
the seed of better feelings and stronger self-denial.
But Lucy had not perhaps fully understood her motives, when she ascribed
her wish to stay to the desire to be of service.
Clair seemed entirely to have forgotten her, or only to make use of her
to deliver messages, or to convey grapes and other luxuries to the
little invalid; but it seemed entirely to have escaped his memory, that
any thing, even so interesting as a common flirtation, had ever taken
place between them; and indeed he seemed in every way altered, as if he
were trying to convince her that he was scarcely the same person.
However, she did not altogether give up the hope of regaining the
affections she had before so fully counted upon. Yet, having thrown
aside the light and fashionable gallantry which he had delighted to
display, he was now utterly impervious to all the common attacks of even
the most accomplished flirt; and, however clever she might be in
raillery, badinage, and spirited nonsense, Lucy had learned little of
that language which springs from heart to heart, in trouble and
suffering--or of those serious and elevating thoughts which alone bring
with them consolation to the deep thinking.
She was, then, entirely at a loss when she found her former companion,
rather annoyed than otherwise, by conversation which would formerly
have amused him for half a-day; but this change only increased her
affection, while it effectually removed him from her power; she
listened, waited, and watched for him, but, though she tried every
capricious art to bring him again to her side, she found that nothing
prevailed, and, at the close of the day, she had not even the lightest
word to treasure up, as an evidence of the love she had already spoken
of as certain, to her friends in Bath.
One evening, as events were progressing in a manner so unsatisfactory to
Lucy, Mr. Ware and his nephew might have been seen pacing up and down
the lane leading to Mrs. Lesly's house, which was rendered romantically
pretty, by the trees which overhung it, from the garden which was
considerably raised above it.
Clair had been for some time engaged in silently beating down the leaves
and branches, which grew most prominently in the hedge above their walk,
with a light cane he carried in his hand, when Mr. Ware, turning
kindly, yet with a slight tone of embarrassment, said to him--
"My dear boy, I would not wish to presume a moment either upon my age or
my relationship to you, but would rather gain an interest by favor, and
as a friend; may I then ask a question, which my anxiety for you alone
dictates."
His nephew looked slightly surprised at this address, but replied in a
depressed tone.
"You may say any thing you like uncle, without fearing that I shall
mistake the kindness which leads you to speak at all. You have been too
kind to me, ever since I have been with you, not to make me feel that
affection must ever second the duty and respect you deserve from me."
"Thank you," replied his uncle, "I feel that the late unhappy accident
has much changed you; and what you now say convinces me that the change
is one which, however it may sadden you, cannot be regretted."
"I hope not," replied Clair, in the same tone of depression; "can you
understand what I mean, when I say that I feel, that, though I had no
intention the other evening beyond causing a momentary pain, which, in a
beautiful girl I thought charming, I yet feel that I have been so
thoughtless of the comfort of others, during my past life, that I have
deserved to be the agent of such a misfortune, in retribution, as it
were, for all that has before gone unpunished. Little Amy's sweet voice
rings in my ear wherever I go--such as it was when I first saw her, when
she looked up from the wild wreath she was twining, to give some kind
word to the laborers as they passed her, the morning after my coming
here. Her simple questions return to my memory, and her purity and
innocence have made a deeper impression on my mind, by the sad reverse
which has followed my acquaintance with her family--I cannot help
thinking what an interesting young woman she might have been, through
the careful training of such a sister, who has planted in her mind,
young as she is, her own childlike tenets of religion. When I reverse
the picture, I see her growing up a weak unhappy cripple, perhaps,
sinking under accumulated disease, the victim of an early grave. Can you
wonder that I am changed, uncle, and that I now find the follies and
amusements, in which I have too often sought forgetfulness of the
weakness
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