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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Mabel, Vol. I, by Emma Warburton.
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 41564 ***</div>
<div class="hide-link">
<div class="bbox">
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class="bigger"><b>MABEL.</b></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 122px;">
<img src="images/002.png" width="122" height="40" alt="A Novel," title="A Novel," />
</div>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center">
<span class="gesperrt">
<span class="big">BY EMMA WARBURTON.</span>
</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><i><span class="medium">IN THREE VOLUMES.</span></i></p>
<p class="center"><span class="medium">VOL. I.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class="gesperrt"><span class="medium">LONDON:</span></span></p>
<p class="center"><span class="big">THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER,</span></p>
<p class="center">30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE.</p>
<p class="center">1854.</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center"><span class="small">[<a href="images/cover.jpg">Link to Original Title Page Image</a>]</span></p>
</div>
</div>
<div class="figcenter-reader" style="width: 330px;">
<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="330" height="600" alt="Front Matter" title="Front Matter" />
</div>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<h2>TABLE OF CONTENTS.</h2>
<table width="60%" border="0" cellpadding="2" summary="Table of Contents">
<tr>
<td><a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</a></td>
<td class="tdr">1</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</a></td>
<td class="tdr">30</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</a></td>
<td class="tdr">47</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></td>
<td class="tdr">64</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</a></td>
<td class="tdr">91</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></td>
<td class="tdr">109</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></td>
<td class="tdr">135</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a></td>
<td class="tdr">151</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a></td>
<td class="tdr">176</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.</a></td>
<td class="tdr">187</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.</a></td>
<td class="tdr">205</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.</a></td>
<td class="tdr">219</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.</a></td>
<td class="tdr">241</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.</a></td>
<td class="tdr">276</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV.</a></td>
<td class="tdr">296</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI.</a></td>
<td class="tdr">307</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII.</a></td>
<td class="tdr">325</td>
</tr>
</table>
<hr class="chap" />
<p class="chapter-beginning"> </p>
<p class="center">
TO<br /><br />
<span class="gesperrt"><span class="big">MISS EMMA TYLNEY LONG,</span></span><br /><br />
<span style="margin-left: -6em;">THIS WORK</span><br /><br />
IS INSCRIBED<br /><br />
AS A SLIGHT BUT SINCERE EXPRESSION<br /><br />
<span style="margin-left: 5em;">OF GRATEFUL ESTEEM.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p>
<div class="chapter-beginning">
<h1><span class="big">MABEL.</span></h1>
</div>
<hr class="short" />
<h2 class="no-break"><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.</a></h2>
<div class="center3">
<p>
Oh, timely, happy, timely wise,<br />
Hearts that with rising morn arise,<br />
Eyes that the beam celestial view,<br />
Which evermore makes all things new.
</p>
<p>
New every morning is the love,<br />
Our waking and uprising prove,<br />
Through sleep and darkness safely brought,<br />
Restored to life, and power, and thought.
</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Keeble.</span>
</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span>
as if he had entered perhaps too thoughtlessly
on a world of sin and temptation.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>When he reached the garden gate, he found
his uncle strolling about, waiting for him.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>
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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>
longer than we at first intended in description,
but, perhaps not too long.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Mr. Ware had resided for many years at
Aston; when a younger man, he had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>There were hives of bees in the garden,
chickens in the court-yard, and the gaily-feathered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"I suppose the Manor House is amongst the
number?" observed his nephew, "I have been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>
admiring it extremely. I cannot think why
Hargrave does not come down here. Has he
been since he came into the property?"</p>
<p>"Yes—but only once, and then only for a
short while; but you speak as if you knew
him?"</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>After breakfast, Mr. Ware invited him to
join his morning ramble.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span></p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>
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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span>
exercising a baneful influence, as might be
seen by the pale faces of the children who
played about it.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Surely," said Clair, attracting his uncle's
attention, "this self-neglect cannot be attributed
to Hargrave?"</p>
<p>"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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span>
"it would not do for me to despond as well as
the rest."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span></p>
<p>"Well, Martin," said he, "I am sorry to
see you at home, for I fear you are out of
work."</p>
<p>The man answered, without rising from his
seat—</p>
<p>"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—'<i>cursed is he that keepeth
a man's wages all night by him until the morning</i>,'—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."</p>
<p>"It is very hard, I allow, Martin," said Mr.
Ware, "but the wrong done you does not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span>
excuse your sitting here idle; have you been
trying for work?"</p>
<p>"Yes, I've been to all the farmers round;
but there's none to be got."</p>
<p>"How do you manage to get on then?"</p>
<p>"We live as we can," answered the man,
sullenly.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>
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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span>
latch of a door, which opened into a small
room, more like some hovel, attached to a
tenement which contained several families.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>While Mr. Ware continued talking to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>"Is it really possible, sir," said he, when
they had left, "that nothing can be done for
that poor old man?"</p>
<p>"I fear nothing can be done," returned Mr.
Ware, "unless we can persuade Hargrave to
return to us."</p>
<p>"But how," enquired Clair, "would his
coming remedy the evil."</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"I should have guessed," said his nephew,
"that some such motive influenced you, or I
know such cases would meet with instant relief—but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span>
of one thing, I am certain, Hargrave
cannot be aware of this."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.</a></h2>
<div class="center2">
<p>
From dream to dream, with her to rove,<br />
Like faery nurse, with hermit child,<br />
Teach her to think, to pray, to love,<br />
Make grief less bitter, joy less wild.<br />
These were thy tasks,—.
</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Church Poetry.</span>
</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>
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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span></p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Since their settling at Aston, Colonel and Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span>
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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>On that bright August morning, which we
have before described, she was sitting with her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>"It is so difficult, Mabel dear," said she, at
length, "I learnt it perfectly this morning,
but I cannot remember the words now."</p>
<p>"Well, try once more," replied Mabel;
"but you must not look out of the window."</p>
<p>"But my head aches so," said Amy, coaxingly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>
knowing that Mabel could hardly ever
resist her plea of illness.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Suddenly the awful step of old John was
heard coming from the cucumber-bed.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span></p>
<p>"How did you get that peach, miss?" he
said, roughly.</p>
<p>The child turned red, but answered quickly,</p>
<p>"I picked it up."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"But you said I might have all I picked
up," answered Amy, clinging to her subterfuge.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>There was a look of indignation not easily<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>
mistaken by Amy on her sister's face, when
she entered the room.</p>
<p>"Oh, Amy," she said, in tones of anger and
surprise.</p>
<p>Amy looked up, but said nothing—she was
frightened, for she knew that she had been
doing wrong.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>Amy was going to speak, but her sister interrupted
her.</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"You do not love me, Mabel," she said.</p>
<p>"Because I will not let you be mean,
deceitful, and wicked. What would papa have
said had he seen his child act so?"</p>
<p>"Oh, forgive me, dear Mabel, and do not
talk like that," said Amy.</p>
<p>There was a tear in Mabel's eye that softened
the severity of her tone, and sitting down by
her, she said, more quietly—</p>
<p>"Amy, love, in that little action, I saw<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"Forgive me—oh, do say you forgive me?"
cried the punished child.</p>
<p>"Have I the power to forgive what is
sinful?" said Mabel, kissing her affectionately.</p>
<p>Amy understood, and running to the chamber
where they both slept, she fell upon her
knees, and clasped her little hands in prayer.</p>
<p>A child's repentance is not very long, and
Amy soon returned, her countenance meek and
subdued, and looked timidly at her sister.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span></p>
<p>"Now then, Amy," said Mabel, "prepare
yourself for a difficult duty—come and tell
John all you have done."</p>
<p>Amy hesitated and trembled.</p>
<p>"He will be so cross," said she, entreatingly.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>Amy gave her trembling hand to her sister,
and, with a very blank countenance, accompanied
her in search of John.</p>
<p>They had to go all over the garden; but
found him, at length, standing disconsolate by
the peach-tree.</p>
<p>"John," said Amy.</p>
<p>"Yes, miss," replied the old man, gloomily,
and half angrily.</p>
<p>"John," she continued, "I touched the
peach, and that was why it fell down."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span></p>
<p>He looked too amazed to answer.</p>
<p>"I am very, very sorry—will you forgive
me for telling a falsehood?" murmured Amy,
beseechingly.</p>
<p>John looked still very surprised and angry.</p>
<p>"Miss Amy," he began, "I could not have
thought you—"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.</a></h2>
<p class="center">
Love not, love not, the thing you love may change.<br />
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Letters only came to Aston twice in a week,
and then they were brought by a man—who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>
could hardly be dignified by the title of postman—at
some uncertain time in the middle of
the day.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Well, young ladies," said he, greeting them
with a smile, "we are all going to meet the
postman as usual I suppose?"</p>
<p>"Yes, sir," replied Mabel, "the post always
seems to have sufficient interest to make even
you choose this road on Tuesdays and Fridays."</p>
<p>"Well, I confess," he replied, "I always
have great pleasure in seeing the man turn the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span>
corner, besides, as he is so uncertain, one is
tempted to take a longer walk, expecting to see
him every moment."</p>
<p>"Yes," said Mabel, "we almost always meet
him, and yet there is seldom more than the
possibility of a letter after all."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"And do you not think so still?" said
Mabel.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span></p>
<p>"Do you not think," said Mabel, "that this
is sometimes carried too far, and may degenerate
into almost a sickly feeling?"</p>
<p>"Yes, certainly; I would not have any one
indifferent on common subjects, but too great
attention to things of this kind must be
wrong."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"And what were you really hoping for, dear
child?" said Mr. Ware.</p>
<p>The color rose fast over her truthful countenance,
but at this moment the postman himself
was seen, and saved her the pain of answering.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span></p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>Amy reached home first, but Mabel quickly
followed her to the drawing-room.</p>
<p>"Here, mamma, is a letter from aunt Villars,"
said Mabel, echoed by Amy.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Do open it mamma, and see if they are at
Cheltenham," said Mabel.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Oh, yes, mamma, there is plenty of time;
come, Amy dear, and take your bonnet off."</p>
<p>Mabel had taken up her work before she
again ventured to ask any questions. At length
she said—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span></p>
<p>"Is aunt Villars at Cheltenham, mamma?"</p>
<p>"Yes, my dear, but only for a week or ten
days."</p>
<p>"Will she come and see us now she is so
near?" she enquired.</p>
<p>"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).</p>
<p>Here it is:—</p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>"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."</p></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span></p>
<p>"Oh, how nice, mamma," cried Amy.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"It would be unkind to refuse her," said
Mabel.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Oh, no, mamma," said Mabel, "I open<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span>
the windows every morning, myself, so that I
am sure the room is well aired."</p>
<p>"There must be a fire there, however, I
suppose," replied her mother, trying to exert
herself to think.</p>
<p>"Yes, Betsy shall light a fire there to-day,
and I will see that the room is comfortable."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span>
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—</p>
<p>"'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.'</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span></p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>Mabel was soon busy in thinking over the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span>
accommodations necessary for visitors, with
Betsy's aid, amidst Amy's incessant questions.</p>
<p>"Do you think, Mabel," she began, "that
Lucy is very little?"</p>
<p>"I do not much think she is little at all,"
replied Mabel.</p>
<p>"But aunt Villars called her, my little girl,"
persisted Amy.</p>
<p>"Yes, but many mammas talk of grown up
children in the same way."</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"If you have any that will look pretty, you
may put them there certainly."</p>
<p>"Do you think she will like the swing at Mr.
Ware's?"</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>
know," said Mabel, as she glanced round the
room with approval.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Does it not look comfortable?" said Mabel,
appealing to her talkative companion.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span></p>
<p>"Do I tease you, Mabel, dear, when I ask
you questions?"</p>
<p>"Not often; but then you know I love
you," said her sister, "and therefore do not
get teased."</p>
<p>"But why do you think she will not love
me?"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Do you mean by making them presents?"
said Amy, looking a little shocked at the idea.</p>
<p>"Not what you mean by presents certainly,"
said Mabel, smiling.</p>
<p>"What then?"</p>
<p>"Well then, first, you must give them your
love, before you consider what they think of
you."</p>
<p>"Is that a certain way of buying love?"</p>
<p>"It will be nearly certain," said Mabel, "to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"Would it do anything else?" said Amy,
who always liked to hear her sister talk.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Not exactly that; I told you not to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"Then why may I not know her now—could
I not speak the truth?"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"You always think of me, Mabel," said
Amy; "when do you find time to think of
yourself?"</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span></p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"No; but it is not often so."</p>
<p>"Not often; but I am so vexed when it is.
Why is it, Mabel dear?"</p>
<p>"Because," she said, her eyes filling with
tears as she spoke, "somebody loved me once,
who does not love me now."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span></p>
<p>"Oh, nothing without me, you could not
get on at all without me."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Oh, never, you know I can keep a secret."</p>
<p>"You promise," said Mabel.</p>
<p>"Yes, I promise faithfully."</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></h2>
<div class="center3">
<p>
This is a likeness may they all declare,<br />
And I have seen him, but I know not where.
</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Crabbe.</span>
</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span>
every exertion too great for her weakened
nerves and failing health.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span>
of refined suffering, which duller
eyes would never have discovered.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Mabel's patience was often called in requisition<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"I am sure you are spoiling your sister, Miss<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>"That is a very grave accusation, but I do
not think you quite believe it," said Mabel;
"indulge, but not spoil."</p>
<p>"Well, indeed," said he, "it would be
difficult to find fault with such persevering
self-denial, so we will say, indulgence."</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"Not on any account, thank you," he replied,
smiling; "I intend to vanish when the
carriage comes up, and present only the very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>
interesting appearance of a departing friend, in
order to give a little life to such a landscape."</p>
<p>Mabel laughed.</p>
<p>"Here they are, then, now you may look
picturesque."</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span></p>
<p>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:—</p>
<p>"We shall be dear friends, I know."</p>
<p>"I hope so," said Mabel, startled alike at
her relation's warmth, and her own composure,
which appeared something like coldness.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Dear mamma, do not cry," said she, then
turning to Mrs. Villars who was overwhelming
her with caresses, she added, hastily; "mamma<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span></p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Oh, yes, we will contrive—but what is to
be done with our maid."</p>
<p>"I must manage for her presently," said<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span>
Mabel; "Betsy has been told to make her
comfortable for the present."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>Dinner being soon after announced, Mrs.
Villars gave her arm to her sister, in the tenderest
manner possible, saying.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Indeed—indeed, Caroline, you mistake my
feelings."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span></p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Love for her children—one of the greatest
virtues of a woman's heart—had become one
of her greatest failings. Her natural disposition<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>Glad of an opportunity of touching on her
favorite topic, she said to her sister—</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Oh, you are quite mistaken, my dear," said<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span>
Mrs. Villars, quickly. "Caroline and Selina
are very fond of the country, and so are you,
Lucy."</p>
<p>"Yes, I like it very well in the summer,"
said Lucy, languidly.</p>
<p>"Do you like the snow?" asked Amy, speaking
for the first time.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"You forget the balls, my dear," said her
mama, soothingly, and watchful of her
children's tempers as a lover of his mistress.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"I have never been to a public ball," replied
Mabel, "but I have often enjoyed a
dance at a friend's house."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span></p>
<p>"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—"</p>
<p>"Lucy, love, you will tire your aunt with
your prattle," said her mama, "now confess,
Annie, does she not make your head ache?"</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>There was a momentary pause, when Mrs.
Lesly, anxious to conciliate by returning to
the subject she perceived gave most interest,
enquired—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span></p>
<p>"Is Lucy your eldest?"</p>
<p>"Oh, dear no! Caroline is the eldest,
Selina second, and Lucy the youngest."</p>
<p>"But I think you have one more, have you
not?" said Mrs. Lesly.</p>
<p>"How can you forget how many children
your own sister has?" said Mrs. Villars.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Not ill, I hope?" enquired Mrs. Lesly.</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Lucy put her arm in Mabel's, whilst Amy
watched the movement jealously.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>
would have been disappointed, for Lucy's next
enquiry was whether there were many nice
people in the neighbourhood.</p>
<p>"Yes," said Mabel. "Mr. and Miss Ware
are very nice people."</p>
<p>"Who are they?" asked Lucy.</p>
<p>"Our rector and his sister."</p>
<p>"Is he unmarried?" enquired Lucy, with
increasing interest.</p>
<p>"Yes," replied Mabel, smiling, "but not
very young."</p>
<p>"But still marriageable, I suppose?"</p>
<p>"Barely," said Mabel, "at least, I do not
think he would consider himself so now. Why,
he must be nearly seventy."</p>
<p>"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, <i>distingué</i> looking
young man down in the country here."</p>
<p>"That is Mr. Ware's nephew," said Mabel.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span></p>
<p>"Oh! then he does live here—what is his
name?"</p>
<p>"Captain Clair; he is only here for a short
time, for his health," replied Mabel; "but
how could you tell he had light whiskers?"</p>
<p>"Because he passed while we were at dinner,
so that I had a good look at him," said Lucy,
half blushing.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"No, oh, no," said Mabel; "a sort of friend<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span>
he has made himself—but certainly not a
beau."</p>
<p>"Ah, you say so."</p>
<p>"And I mean so," said Mabel.</p>
<p>"You mean then, that he is free for conquest,"
laughed Lucy, coquettishly.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Exactly so," replied Lucy; "but oh,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span>
whose pretty house is that amongst the
trees?"</p>
<p>"Colonel Hargrave's," said Mabel.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"Yes, I think so," said Mabel.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span></p>
<p>"You will find it cold without your bonnet,"
said Mabel, evasively, "shall we go in
and fetch it."</p>
<p>"No, thank you," said Lucy; "but I see
you are not fond of match-making."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Oh! an immense deal—it is quite amusing
to hear of so many projected marriages, and
of their coming to nothing after all."</p>
<p>"But that is why I think match-making
anything but amusing," said Mabel.</p>
<p>"But then all the <i>éclat</i> 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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"Give me a description of Caroline," said
Mabel, suddenly. "Is she not very beautiful
and accomplished?"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span></p>
<p>"Is she clever as well as beautiful?" said
Mabel.</p>
<p>"She sings and plays beautifully. Yes, I
believe she is clever—knows French well."</p>
<p>Mabel sighed.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"I shall be very glad to have you love me,"
said Mabel, gently; "but wait till you know
me better."</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"It is not quite safe, perhaps," replied Mabel;
"but yet rather easy to forgive, in the present—instance—at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"Not like Caroline," said Lucy, with a look
of pretended terror.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"My love is of slower growth," replied
Mabel, smiling; "but I promise to deal with
you as if I loved you. Will that do?"</p>
<p>"I suppose it must," said Lucy.</p>
<p>"You are right," said Mabel, kissing her
pouting lips, "that must do till we know each
other better."</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.</a></h2>
<div class="center4">
<p>
Whence then that peace<br />
So dovelike? settling o'er a soul that loved<br />
Earth and its treasures? Whence that angel smile<br />
With which the allurements of a world so dear<br />
Were counted and resigned?
</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Mrs. Sigourney.</span>
</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>A very sensible feeling of pain passed for an
instant over Mrs. Lesly's countenance before
she replied—</p>
<p>"Yes, but that was a long time ago, and I
cannot bear to think of it now."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span></p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"You never even told me the gentleman's
name," said Mrs. Villars.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"A man of property, was he not?" said
Mrs. Villars, "and quite young I think you
said?"</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"Was it not a long attachment?" said Mrs.
Villars as her sister paused.</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>Mrs. Lesly continued silent for a few
minutes, then again rousing herself she continued—</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span></p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>"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?'</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"But you studied these points well I know,"
said Mrs. Villars, "and I dare say fully explained
them."</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>"'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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span></p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"'Madam,' said he, turning to me as I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span>
looked for an explanation, 'it is well, perhaps,
that you are here, to witness your daughter's
coquetry, or her madness.'</p>
<p>"'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.'</p>
<p>"'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.'</p>
<p>"'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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span>
remain as she is, sacrificing, as she does, every
worldly interest to a noble principle.'</p>
<p>"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.'</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"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?</p>
<p>"'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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span></p>
<p>"I was silent.</p>
<p>"'What right,' thought I, 'have I to retaliate
upon him reproach for reproach?' but I
thought my heart would break.</p>
<p>"'Why did she not try to win me to her
truth,' he exclaimed, 'if she thinks it of so
much consequence?'</p>
<p>"'Has she not done so for the last four
months?' I said.</p>
<p>"'Yes; but as a wife,' he replied, 'she
would have had treble power.'</p>
<p>"'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?'</p>
<p>"'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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>
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.'</p>
<p>"Without another word to Mabel, he
left us, and I have never seen him since.</p>
<p>"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?</p>
<p>"Amy sat upon her pillow nearly all day,
and would whisper, 'don't cry, dear Mabel.'<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span>
There was not much comfort in her baby words;
but I think Mabel liked to hear her.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Well, you have, indeed, had a great deal
to vex you," said Mrs. Villars, much touched.</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span>
care of them—particularly as with my life, my
pension, which is the only source of our income,
will cease."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"I think you would have acted as I did,"
said Mrs. Lesly, "would you not?"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Not with much worldly wisdom, dear
Annie," said her sister, smiling.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span></p>
<p>"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Lesly, "those
who believe in an overruling Providence, act
most wisely, even for this world, when they
obey its laws."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>After a pause, she said:—</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span>
and this freedom from anxiety might prolong
my life. But, Caroline, you have a large
family, and can ill spare your means."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></h2>
<div class="center3">
<p>
He only can the cause reveal,<br />
Why, at the same fond bosom fed;<br />
Taught in the self-same lap to kneel,<br />
Till the same prayer were duly said.
</p>
<p>
Brothers in blood, and nurture too,<br />
Aliens in heart so oft should prove,<br />
One lose, the other keep, Heaven's clue;<br />
One dwell in wrath, and one in love.
</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Christian Year.</span>
</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Mabel, my love," she said, "it is past
twelve o'clock. I am so sorry you sat up for
me."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span></p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"Yes, a little," replied Mrs. Lesly; "but
why do you ask, what can any one say ill of
you."</p>
<p>Mabel sighed.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Ah, mamma," said Mabel, "you are thinking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span>
of my feelings as they would once have
been."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"What time is it, Mabel, dear," for by that
affectionate title, she usually addressed her.</p>
<p>"Past one o'clock, dear," said Mabel; "are
you awake, still."</p>
<p>"I have been to sleep, once," said Amy;
"but I was dreaming all the time, first
of Lucy, and then about Captain Clair, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span>
the blackberries. You said she would not
like me quite at first, but she seems to love you
in one evening—how is that?"</p>
<p>"I really do not know; Lucy puzzles me,
rather, but she says she likes, or dislikes,
quickly."</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"Yes," said Mabel, "because I am afraid
you will not choose your friends well, and may
be mistaken if you judge too quickly."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>Mabel then turned her pillow, smoothed the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span>
hair back from her heated cheeks, and made
her comfortable, so that Amy, having no further
excuse for keeping awake, soon fell asleep.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>After breakfast, Mrs. Villars said, that if
they could have a chat by themselves, she
should be glad.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>Mrs. Villars coloured slightly with the consciousness
that the feelings awakened by her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span>
sister's conversation, had been of very short
duration.</p>
<p>"No, dear," said she; "last night I listened
to your trials and troubles, this morning you
must hear mine."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"No one is ever afraid of me," said Mrs.
Lesly, "and you know, if you are in any
trouble, I never can find fault."</p>
<p>"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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"Well, there I think he is right," interposed
Mrs. Lesly, "nothing makes a girl look so nice
as a simple white dress."</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"I meant it most kindly, I do assure you,"
said Mrs. Lesly.</p>
<p>"That may be," said Mrs. Villars, poutingly;
"but that cutting way of speaking
hurts the feelings, and you are very fond of it,
sometimes."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span></p>
<p>"Well, dear," said Mrs. Lesly, "I only
meant a little good advice, but as you do not
like it, I will say no more."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"I am sorry to hear that," said Mrs. Lesly;
"my William never said a cross word to me,
that I remember."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span></p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Well," repeated Mrs. Lesly, "I certainly
never remember being afraid of my poor
husband."</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span>
certain. But I would not say this to every
one."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span></p>
<p>"Ah, Caroline, but ought I?" said Mrs.
Lesly; "think of my poor children, and my
health such as it is."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"I do not mind telling him everything,
when his present difficulties are over—now it
would be unkind to ask me."</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"Yes, I know," said Mrs. Lesly; "but I
really do not know what I have done with it—I
am afraid it is mislaid."</p>
<p>"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—"</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>A mother's courage was strong, even in her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span>
timid and indolent mind, and she spoke with
tears in her eyes.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"I have done it so often," said Mrs. Lesly,
"I am afraid it is unkind to both of you to do
it again."</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span>
tell him everything, I promise to lend you the
money."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>Mrs. Villars brightened up in an instant.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"I have promised to be their mother," said<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span>
Mrs. Villars, "but nonsense, you will live
many years yet."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>She placed her hand upon her forehead, and
sank into deep thought.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span>
whose temper was becoming soured, by the
failure of repeated matrimonial speculations.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>In this case as in many others, Mrs. Villars's
second thoughts triumphed. Why should she
submit to her husband's pitiful economy—was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"This will never do," thought the worldly
woman; yet she was afraid to hurry her.</p>
<p>"I was thinking," said Mrs. Lesly, at
length, after continuing in the same attitude of
observation, "I was thinking how very strange<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span>
it was that I never remember our talking
about money, but you were making spills all
the time."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Yes; but when you stayed with me for a
month, it happened then as well," said Mrs.
Lesly, in a musing kind of tone.</p>
<p>"It was rather strange, certainly—but more
strange that you should remember such trifles,"
said Mrs. Villars, her face turning rather disagreeably
pale.</p>
<p>Poor Mrs. Lesly, fearing she had offended
her, took up her pen, and wrote like a
frightened child, then quickly handed her the
draft.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span></p>
<p>At that moment, Amy ran into the room,
crying out—</p>
<p>"Mamma, mamma, I have cut my finger—do
please give me a piece of rag, or I shall spoil
my dress."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Mrs. Villars glanced at the paper she had
just written.</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span>
what does it signify between sisters. I only do
not wish to be hurried."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"What did I do with that paper?" said she,
after looking on all sides for it, "how careless
I am."</p>
<p>"I think," said Mrs. Villars, "you put it
in your secretary—you had it open while you
were writing."</p>
<p>"Ah, so I must, I suppose," said Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Mrs. Villars started up, full of business and
bustle, which she felt to be a welcome relief after
the morning's <i>tête-à-tête</i>, 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.</p>
<p>Amy stood looking aghast at a very bright
carpet-bag, with a kind of travelling scent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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—</p>
<p>"Who do you think passed while I was
holding the gate?"</p>
<p>"Who?" said Mabel, a little surprised at
anything like an apparition in their quiet<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span>
village, and not yet quite aware of their Bath
cousin's usual train of thought. "I cannot
guess."</p>
<p>Lucy's cheeks were of a deeper tint, as she
whispered—</p>
<p>"Captain Clair."</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></h2>
<div class="center2">
<p>
But when the weight of sorrow found<br />
My spirit prostrate and resigned,<br />
The anguish of the bleeding wound<br />
Taught me to feel for all mankind.
</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Eliza Cook.</span>
</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Do you often call at the rectory?" she
asked, as they strolled up the hill leading
through the village.</p>
<p>"We will call as we return from our walk,"
replied Mabel, "if you fancy going there with
me."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"She is such a pleasant old lady, that you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"Yes," was the laconic reply.</p>
<p>"Why do you look so grave?"</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>
better view of the house here, than you will
find any where else."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>
are very beautiful, and every thing else in
keeping. Indeed, I think it is quite a bijou of
a place."</p>
<p>"Is there any room that would do nicely for
a dance?" enquired Lucy.</p>
<p>"They used to have many pleasant dances
there, in good Mrs. Hargrave's lifetime, which
mamma remembers well."</p>
<p>"Oh, that will be so nice," said Lucy.</p>
<p>"What will?" said Mabel, in surprise.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span>
nice parties there would be; and who knows
what nice beau might come down and take you
away with him."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span></p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span>
ranked her second to herself, that did not imply
any very low degree of merit.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"I shall not believe you till you give me
some good reason," said Lucy.</p>
<p>"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.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span></p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"No, not even then," replied Mabel, "I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"I will tell you no such thing," said Mabel,
laughing; "remember, I only met you yesterday
morning."</p>
<p>"Well then, come and call at the rectory,
and that will shew me you love me."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"I thought you said you liked society," said
Lucy.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span></p>
<p>"And so I do—so let us walk on, for this
green lane will lead us round to the rectory."</p>
<p>One of the rectory pets was an immense
Newfoundland dog, who began to bark loudly
as they approached the house.</p>
<p>"Oh!" said Lucy, with a half scream, "I
cannot go on—I am sure he is untied—nasty
thing."</p>
<p>"No, he never barks when he is loose—come
on, dear, I am sure he will not hurt
you."</p>
<p>Lucy clung to her arm in real or affected
terror till they reached the house door.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Mabel was a great favorite at the rectory,
and Miss Ware, certain of finding her interested
in her news, had many little things to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span></p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Why do you not ask Colonel Hargrave,
ma'am?" enquired Lucy, turning round from
the parrot.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Oh, I will tell him he must," said Lucy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span>
"with his fortune it is really quite shabby of
him."</p>
<p>"Do you know him then?" enquired Miss
Ware.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Oh," said Lucy, laughing, "I never condescend
to argue with a man—I will tell him
he <i>must</i>—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."</p>
<p>"Well," said Miss Ware, recovering from
her slight pique, at thinking any one could
succeed where Edwin failed, "if you never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>
use your ridicule for a worse purpose, you will
do well."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a></h2>
<div class="center2">
<p>
A parent's heart may prove a snare;<br />
The child she loves so well,<br />
Her hand may lead, with gentlest care,<br />
Down the smooth road to hell.<br />
Nourish its flame, destroy its mind,<br />
Thus do the blind mislead the blind,<br />
Even with a mother's love.
</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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!</p>
<p>It could scarcely be wondered at, that Lucy
Villars had thus learnt to place too high a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>She now entered on her country visit with
the same feelings; and, bent on displaying herself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"Do you find any fault with my dress to-night?"
enquired Lucy.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>They found Mr. Ware looking for them at
his garden gate. Mabel hurried forward to
meet him, and then turned to introduce her
cousin.</p>
<p>"Most welcome, my dear young ladies,"
said he, extending a hand to each, "my sister<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span>
has no mean opinion of her own hospitality to
venture on inviting you to join our party."</p>
<p>Lucy blushed with conscious beauty, while
Mabel said, with a smile—</p>
<p>"You throw all the blame on Miss Ware. I
fear then, you would not have asked us to come
yourself."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span>
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 <i>tête-à-tête</i>.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>
him an opportunity of conversing on his favorite
topics.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"If you are in earnest I feel inclined to
gratify you, if not, to punish you, by accepting
your invitation."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Very well then, I will tell her when I see
her next," said Mr. Ware, with a smile.</p>
<p>They had now reached the open window of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span>
the sitting-room, where Mabel was welcomed
by Miss Ware.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Had I known that, my dear Miss Ware,
I should not have been tempted to remain out
so long."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Oh, yes, she is with us," said Mabel,
turning round, but no Lucy was to be seen.</p>
<p>"Oh, Arthur is taking care of her, I believe,"
said Mr. Ware, "and they will be
here soon, I dare say."</p>
<p>It was some little time, however, before they
did appear, and then they were seen advancing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>
down the gravel walk, both laughing, and Lucy
with a very high colour.</p>
<p>"Why," said Mr. Ware, "you stole a
march upon us, Arthur, where have you been
keeping this young lady in the damp?"</p>
<p>"Are we at the chair of confession?" asked
the young officer, still laughing.</p>
<p>"Yes, yes, every one confesses everything
here; but sit down to tea first, and take off
your bonnet, Miss Villars."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Come, come, Arthur," said his uncle, "be
laconic."</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span></p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span>
the same difficulty in coming down,
that we did in going up, but at length we are
here, and at your service."</p>
<p>"What a long story about nothing," said
his aunt.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span></p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Do you know, Mabel," said Lucy, "that
Captain Clair came home from Malta with
Colonel Hargrave."</p>
<p>"Yes, Mr. Ware told me so."</p>
<p>"Do then join with me in begging a description
of him."</p>
<p>"Surely," she replied, "Captain Clair does
not need two requests."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span></p>
<p>"Do then," said Lucy, turning to him,
"give us a nice long description of him."</p>
<p>"I really do not know where to begin,"
said he, "particularly as you say you will see
him so soon."</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"Well then, though it is hard to have
to describe a character that throws one's own
into shade."</p>
<p>"No, my dear boy," said Mr. Ware, his
eyes glistening at this modest avowal; "true
praise of another's worth only enhances your
own."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span></p>
<p>"How you wander," said Lucy; "do begin—."</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>Lucy visibly colored, and Clair looked at her
scrutinisingly, till she laughingly told him to
go on.</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"No, not yet, by any means," said Lucy,
"tell us a little more."</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span>
of another, yet, almost slothful in the
attempt to do so."</p>
<p>"What a horrid man!" exclaimed Lucy.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Poor fellow," sighed Mr. Ware.</p>
<p>"Perhaps he is in love," suggested Lucy.</p>
<p>"Hardly unsuccessfully, I should think;
indeed, were I he, I should never despair—but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span>
I own," said he, laughing; "I have sometimes
caught him looking at the moon."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"If you must, you will allow me to see you
home," said Clair.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span></p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Oh! Lucy," cried Mabel, "how could you
be so imprudent as to go up there alone—how<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>
impertinent of him—why did you let him take
such a liberty."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Yes, but if you would only understand
me," said Mabel, "you would know, I would
not have you quarrel, either. But if you will<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span>
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.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a></h2>
<div class="center1">
<p>
But a trouble weigh'd upon her,<br />
And perplex'd her night and morn.
</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Tennyson.</span>
</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>
pounds, supposing them lost, could not be
equivalent to the pain she suffered.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>
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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>It is melancholy to trace the effects of bodily
illness, when it finds, as it were, an echo in
the mind of the sufferer.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"Unkind," echoed Mrs. Lesly, vacantly,
"yes, I have been very unkind to you both."</p>
<p>"No, no, dear Mamma, I do not mean that—not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span>
really unkind—only it vexes me to see
you so sad."</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"What is lost?" said Mabel, "let me try
and find it—I will look over all the papers if
you will let me."</p>
<p>"No, no, what I have lost I ought to find,
it is my own indolence which has done it."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Mabel, you kill me by these words—I feel
that I am dying, but do not kill me before the
time appointed."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span></p>
<p>Mabel was silent, and stood looking at her
mother with painful earnestness.</p>
<p>"Do not look at me so, sweet child. Well
may you be surprised when I have ruined you
both."</p>
<p>"Ruin! my own mother, what do you
mean?"</p>
<p>"Ah, you may well wonder at me," replied
Mrs. Lesly, much excited, "how could I be
so silly as to injure my own children."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>Tears rolled down her heated cheeks, and
Mrs. Lesly continued to regard her in silence.</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span>
thing else—mamma—I did not know you could
be so unkind."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"What?"</p>
<p>"The papers."</p>
<p>"What papers? Do tell me, can any thing
be worse than this concealment—you have
always told me everything."</p>
<p>"Ah, if I had," said Mrs. Lesly, with a
sigh.</p>
<p>"But do tell me now, I would rather hear
any thing than see you suffer."</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>"I will bear any thing," answered Mabel,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span>
walking to her, and kneeling by her side, "any
thing you can tell me."</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"Trust to me, mother, dear. He who has
supported me through far worse trials will support
me still."</p>
<p>"Reproach me now, Mabel," said Mrs.
Lesly, sorrowfully, "but do not live to curse
me in the bitterness of your heart."</p>
<p>"No, my loved mother," said her daughter,
looking up in her face with unmistakeable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>Mrs. Lesly lent down and folded her child
in her arms, saying, in a low repentant voice—</p>
<p>"Not generous but weak, we should but
injure ourselves, not those dependent on us
in order to serve others."</p>
<p>Yet she felt as if a weight had passed from
her heart, and though she was still apprehensive,
she was no longer despairing.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.</a></h2>
<div class="center5">
<p>
How brief is the time since her voice was the clearest,<br />
Her laughter the loudest, amid the gay throng.
</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Hemans.</span>
</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>The kindhearted very soon begin to feel an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span></p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>What was to be done? Her letters to Bath<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span>
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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>
I have always flattered myself, that my Lucy
would be the first to secure herself an establishment."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Lucy felt that her success, in a matrimonial
point of view, was all that her mother regarded,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>The expected evening at length arrived.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span></p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"None at all," replied Mabel, "and yet I
am foolish enough to feel low-spirited. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span>
have you never felt a vague apprehension that
something dreadful was going to happen—I
cannot overcome it to-night."</p>
<p>"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—'<i>He feareth no evil tidings</i>?'"</p>
<p>"Oh yes—I must not think of it again."</p>
<p>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—</p>
<p>"Oh, I fear they are at the swing, and John
says it's unsafe. I must go and stop them."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Amy was in the swing, which Captain Clair<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span>
was pushing, while Lucy was clapping her
hands as each time the child rose higher in the
air.</p>
<p>"Oh, do stop," said Mabel, running up to
them quite out of breath, and scarcely able to
say any more.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"John says it is unsafe," cried Mabel, trying
to be heard, "do, do stop—for mercy's
sake, Captain Clair, do stop her."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span></p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Lucy stood blushing and terrified, uttering
some confused excuses for not listening to one
who justice whispered was never fanciful.</p>
<p>Captain Clair looked bewildered and
thoroughly ashamed, for often the only excuse
for daring is its success.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>His nephew, too happy to have some duty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span></p>
<p>"Then I shall go for a horse, and follow
him," said he, "anything will be better than
this suspense."</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>At length she heard Betsy, the privileged
maid, say:—</p>
<p>"It is all Miss Lucy's fault, I know, for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span>
house has not been the same since she came
into it."</p>
<p>"Hush, Betsy," was the murmured reply,
in her cousin's well known voice; "those
thoughts will only make it harder to bear."</p>
<p>Betsy was not so easily stopped, but Mabel
seemed to reply no more.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>"What do you think of her, Mr. Williams?"</p>
<p>"The accident has been a severe one," he
returned.</p>
<p>"Can she recover?" was asked, in a tone
which Lucy trembled to hear, and she leant
forward to catch the answer.</p>
<p>"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.</p>
<p>Then followed confused words, as if he were
trying to comfort, broken by suppressed sobs.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span></p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span>
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.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.</a></h2>
<div class="center4">
<p>
Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,<br />
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give.<br />
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem,<br />
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Shakspeare's Sonnet.</span>
</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>The stillness of the past night broken by household
sounds usually so familiar as to attract no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span>
attention, recall the mind to the fact that
another day has opened on our life, showing
more clearly the sorrow of the night before.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Old John went heavily to his work, to move
the benches and other signs of the last evening's
simple pleasure.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>Mr. Ware and his sister had gone home,
after affording all the comfort and assistance in
their power.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Lucy, exhausted and spiritless, too weary to
get up, and too irresolute to undress, had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>
thrown herself upon her bed, and fallen
asleep.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"Oh, Mabel, Mabel," said she, "what have
I done—where can I hide my face?"</p>
<p>And she sank again upon the bed, and
buried her face in the pillow.</p>
<p>"You meant me no harm," replied her
cousin—"at least, not much—and I forgive<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>"Oh, how I despise myself! to think that I
am lying here while you are waiting on me."</p>
<p>"Well, dear Lucy, get up now, for you will
be better doing something, and I cannot help
pitying you here alone."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>Mabel kissed her silently, and gliding from
the room, was soon again by her sister's bed.</p>
<p>Amy was feverish, and perpetually wanted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"You are in pain, love," said Mabel,
tremulously; "and I cannot call you naughty
now."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"My own darling, I forgive you a thousand
times—would that I could suffer instead of
you."</p>
<p>"If I had not done wrong, I should not so
much mind," said Amy, thoughtfully; "but
give me a little water, dear."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span></p>
<p>Mabel held the water to her lips, and Amy
looked at her earnestly as her hand trembled.</p>
<p>"Do not cry, Mabel dear," said she, in a
feeble voice, "I shall very soon be well again."</p>
<p>And weary with the pain she was bearing,
without a murmur, she closed her eyes.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span>
before her, saying that Miss Lesly had said she
would be kind enough to sort them.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span></p>
<p>"Oh, you have suffered," exclaimed Lucy,
"and what a night I have passed!"</p>
<p>"If you can see Miss Lesly," returned
Clair, scarcely heeding her observation, "ask
her, in mercy, to see me for a few minutes."</p>
<p>His first thoughts are of Mabel, thought
Lucy, with ready jealousy, not one kind word
for me.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"What question shall I answer first?" said
Lucy, with a little of her returning levity.</p>
<p>Clair bit his lip, and looked at her with surprise,
but Lucy quickly recovering herself,
said quietly,</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Then there is some hope for me," he exclaimed,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span>
"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."</p>
<p>Lucy burst into tears.</p>
<p>"What!" thought she, "was I earning
for Mabel, when I was trying to shew how
much more nerve and spirit I possessed?"</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span></p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"They tell me," said he, shuddering, "that
she never can be quite well again. Oh!" cried<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span>
he, throwing himself on his chair and groaning
heavily, "that I should have lived to be
such a curse."</p>
<p>"You are but the instrument in a Hand
mightier than your own," replied Mabel.</p>
<p>"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?"</p>
<p>"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 <i>think</i>. Do not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span>
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."</p>
<p>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,</p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span>
have more than forgiven, and I bless you from
my very soul."</p>
<p>Mabel gently withdrew her hand, and, excusing
herself from staying longer, left him to
indulge the new reflections which her words
had awakened.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.</a></h2>
<div class="center3">
<p>
In the service of mankind to be<br />
A guardian god below; still to employ<br />
The mind's brave ardour in heroic arms,<br />
Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd<br />
And make us shine for ever—that is life.
</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Thompson.</span>
</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>But Lucy had not perhaps fully understood
her motives, when she ascribed her wish to
stay to the desire to be of service.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>She was, then, entirely at a loss when she
found her former companion, rather annoyed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span>
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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span>
in his hand, when Mr. Ware, turning kindly,
yet with a slight tone of embarrassment, said to
him—</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>His nephew looked slightly surprised at this
address, but replied in a depressed tone.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span></p>
<p>"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<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span>
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 of my own heart, now utterly repulsive
to me? When I see Mabel Lesly
forgiving without reserve, and enduring without
complaint, sorrow which would have found
me in a very different temper, can you doubt,
dear uncle, that, contemplating such rare and
beautiful virtues, I have been led to seek the
cause, and to find out on what basis they are
founded; and, while raising my thoughts to the
source and spring of every true virtue, and
pouring its healing waters on my soul, must I
not shudder to discover there, nothing but
pollution, and feel depressed and sad, with the
sense of what I am, and what I have been.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span></p>
<p>"Yet do not think this dejection is attended
with anything like despair; no one, who had
conversed with your sweet friend, would long
retain such a feeling. A few words, indeed,
from her, while they convinced me of the
aimless existence I have been rather enduring,
than living, gave me an inspiring principle
which spoke of better things. You may think
I am suddenly turned into an imaginary, but
you can scarcely tell how deep an impression
this late accident has left upon me."</p>
<p>"Not so," replied Mr. Ware, "the heart
that awoke to chivalry in other days, is not
dead because chivalry has assumed another
form—and, indeed, we too often try to be lukewarm
in our feelings. But, to be candid, my
dear Arthur, I do think, as you say, that too
much of your time has been trifled away in the
pursuits of garrison glory, and watering-place
amusements. I have been, for some weeks,
patiently waiting for some season or time, when
I could enforce the necessity of sowing a richer
harvest for the decline of life, than you have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span>
hitherto been doing. Could I have chosen
some other less touching call to wakefulness, I
would have done so; but these things are not
in our own disposing—it only belongs to us,
to use well the circumstances and opportunities
which are given us; and I was even now
going to say what you have anticipated.
Grateful, indeed, am I to think, that, even
so trying a time, can yield its sweetness, for I
hope you speak of your feelings without any
exaggeration."</p>
<p>Mr. Ware paused, but, as Clair did not seem
disposed to reply, he continued—</p>
<p>"There is one subject in which I feel particularly
concerned—may I—I ask it as a
favor—may I speak candidly upon it?"</p>
<p>"You may speak with candour on any
subject, sir, without fearing that I shall be
weak enough to take anything but in good
part."</p>
<p>"Thank you for this confidence. May I
then ask if you are quite sincere in your
attentions to Miss Villars? and, if so, why<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span>
your behaviour has so decidedly changed with
regard to her? Forgive me for asking so
delicate a question, which nothing but the interest
I take in your happiness could excuse."</p>
<p>"Oh, do not be so alarmed on my account,"
said Clair, half smiling, "it is only my
tenth garrison flirtation, and you cannot think
me seriously entangled."</p>
<p>"Then," said Mr. Ware, with a tone of
severity, which he very seldom used, "what
do you mean by becoming her constant companion—paying
her every attention, short of
actually making love. Shame on your new-found
repentance—if this be the fruit of it."</p>
<p>"Do not be too hasty in forming your judgment,"
replied Clair. "I have only done
what most other young men would, under the
same circumstances—though, I own, my changed
opinions have led me to withdraw the attentions
you condemn."</p>
<p>"I own that I would much rather have had
your thoughts fix upon a girl more like her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span>
cousin; but, when I believed you sincerely
attached—since you persisted in your attentions
spite of my hints—I thought it could not be
helped; and, perceiving she returned your
attachment, I ceased to object, feeling that love
corrects many faults. Little knowing that all
this time, you were acting a part which should
have made me blush for shame."</p>
<p>"Uncle, you are passing a stern judgment—sterner
far than I deserve; give me your
patience for a few minutes, and I will convince
you that I am not so much to blame. Lucy
Villars is one of that class of girls called flirts,
and, for a flirt, she possesses all the necessary
qualifications. She is chatty, thoughtless, and
good-humoured—and, better than all, has no
heart. She is, however, something more than
a flirt—she is a husband hunter, and set her
would-be affections on me, before she knew a
single feature of my face, much less a quality
of my mind—so that I do not flatter myself
with possessing anything in her eyes beyond
an average fortune and family. Had I been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span>
a man of no discrimination, I might have
fallen a victim to a very bold game; but, as I
happen to have seen a little of the world, I
have spent a few weeks more pleasantly than
ordinarily. And now may I ask you, uncle,
would you, even with your high sentiments of
right, expect me to marry a girl whom I could
never trust—who would jilt me for a richer
man to-morrow, and if not so, granting even
that she loved me, would form but an insipid
companion at the best."</p>
<p>"You are wrong," said Mr. Ware, who had
been listening with great impatience, "and
you know that you are wrong, or you would
not use so much sophistry to convince me you
are right. Let me ask you, if she be the girl
you describe her to be, was she a fit companion
even for your idlest moments? If she be the
designer you would prove her to be, was it
right to place yourself in daily temptation, by
communion with one whose sentiments must
be corrupt, if they rise from such a polluted
spring? Were you right in choosing for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span>
object of your admiration, one whom you
despised in your heart? Sorry am I that you
had not courage to withhold your countenance
from one whom you did not approve, but could
rather act so deceitful, so mean a part. But,
think again, your judgment may have deceived
you, and, if she be not what you say, may she
not have given you a heart, which (if it be so)
you have obtained in so unworthy a manner."</p>
<p>"Could I think so," replied Clair, "I
should be more vexed than you will give me
credit for; but I am too well acquainted with
the world, to believe anything like real affection
can be hidden under such open and daring
encouragement as I have received from her;
and, really, my dear sir, you must not be
grieved on her account, or my own. I feel too
much the frivolity of my past character, to try
such amusements again; but, at the same time,
no chivalrous principle tells me that I should
do right to bring into my confidence, or to unite
myself in, the holiest of self-formed ties that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span>
can exist on earth, with a girl whose character is so
feathery. Far different would my choice be
when thinking seriously of marriage. The woman
I should choose for a wife would be one who
would inspire me with higher thoughts and
lead me to better things. One, who pure as
sensible, would make my home a paradise, and
while, by her zeal, she led me to heaven, would,
by her womanly attentions to my wishes, make
a happy road to it. Such a woman would as
much excel a flirt as a small piece of gold
would one double its size in tinsel."</p>
<p>"Arthur, your eloquence and sophistry are
carrying you away altogether. Had you acted
thoughtlessly only it would have been easier
to excuse; but, now, I see, that with proper
ideas and the most worthy sentiments, you
have yet been capable of acting a part as unlike
to them as your own comparison of gold
to tinsel. Your excuses are common ones, and
I fear will not privilege you to minister to the
follies of others by indulging your own. How<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span>
much kinder would it be to withhold undeserved
admiration, and to shew that yours is only
to be earned by what really deserves it. Would
you not in this way, perhaps, find an opportunity
of reading a lesson without words, to
many, who are still young enough to improve
by it. By refraining altogether from such
deceitful flirtations, you might tend to discourage
those mothers who educate their
daughters for display, and force them to try
for an advantageous settlement."</p>
<p>"And how many do you think would follow
my example?" enquired the young man with
a smile.</p>
<p>"It is a consideration of no weight when
making up your mind to do right—though it
sweetens a good conscience and embitters an
evil one—to remember that no one is so mean
as to give no impulse to virtue or vice by his
example. One great mistake is, that men unfortunately
forget that they are christians,
when in the fashionable world, as if our duties<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span>
were altogether banished by an evening dress,
or the light of conscience entirely eclipsed by
the brilliant and fantastic tapers of a ball-room.
It is for this reason that so many turn
anchorites: forgetful that the world may be
enjoyed with a christian's dress, and a
christian's thoughts, they only remember, that
when they visited the gay scenes they have
resigned, they did so with a conscience peculiar
to the occasion, and entirely different
from the one they were familiar with in retirement."</p>
<p>"You speak severely," said Clair.</p>
<p>"I speak with the courage which arises
from my knowing, that, though you are thoughtless
enough to err, you possess sufficient candour
to bear reproof without reproach to him
who offers it, and, however scrupulous I may
in general be about offering advice, or venturing
to find fault, I cannot allow such sentiments
as you have just expressed to be uttered
in my presence without testifying my sense of
that error, if heard in any company and from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span>
any person, much less from one so dear to me
as yourself, and I have spoken boldly, hoping
to lead you to refine your sense of honor, till
it reaches a standard which a christian soldier
may not justly be ashamed to acknowledge."</p>
<p>A few weeks since Clair might have smiled
at the simplicity and unworldliness of his
uncle's remarks, but there was something
within him then that told him they were
stamped with the irresistible force of truth.</p>
<p>He walked on in silence, pushing aside with
his feet, the few withered leaves which were
straggling in his path. It was one of those
dark, mysterious days, when the wind blows
sullenly amongst the trees, speaking strange
words, in its own wild tones, of the year that
is past; and the withered leaves as they spin
round in the eddying wind, seem to call attention
to themselves, and to ask what men
have been doing since they budded forth in the
gay spring, full of hope and promise to the
sons of earth. They had played their part
well and merrily, they had gladdened the heart<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span>
and delighted the eye, they had made fair and
beautiful the spots where their short day of
life had been spent, and now, as they fell with
their fantastic motion to the ground, their
rustling music seemed to speak in forcible language
to the heart of him, who had idled
away part of the glowing summer of his life
with few thoughts but of selfish amusement.</p>
<p>With some such thoughts as these the two
continued their short walk, which had been
confined to the dry bit of road under the trees,
which in damp or dirty weather was often
chosen as a sort of promenade.</p>
<p>Mr. Ware was not sorry to see his nephew's
unusual silence, for he was naturally too ready
to act without thinking, and often, by the
readiness of his professions in favor of any
new idea of improvement, cheated his conscience
of its performance, and he now
watched him, with the grave interest which
a good man feels, when he looks on the struggles
of conscience, and does not know on which
side the victory will lie.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span></p>
<p>"Even you, sir," exclaimed Clair, rather
suddenly, "would not wish me to marry Lucy
Villars! fool as I have been, you do not think
I deserve so great a punishment, as the possession
of such a wife."</p>
<p>"I wish you," replied Mr. Ware, "to do
neither more nor less then your own sense of
honor and good feeling may dictate, under the
difficult circumstances in which you have placed
yourself."</p>
<p>"I cannot—I never can do that!" exclaimed
Clair, vehemently.</p>
<p>"Neither will I ever ask you to approach
so sacred a rite with lightness, much less with
repugnance; but, at the same time, you ought to
understand, that your attentions have been
sufficiently pointed, to make people suppose that
you only wanted a convenient opportunity of
declaring yourself."</p>
<p>"Impossible! Who ever heard of a man's
making serious love in such a manner. You
at least do not believe it."</p>
<p>"Now, certainly I do not, for your words<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span>
bear a different interpretation, and, if I mistake
not, the opinion you now entertain of her, arises
from comparison with another character of a
higher standard."</p>
<p>Clair colored, but he answered quickly.</p>
<p>"If you have so far read my thoughts, do
you find it possible to blame me. Could I be
insensible to the attractions of a girl of such
uncommon excellence?"</p>
<p>"Alas, I do blame you," replied Mr. Ware,
sadly, "for you have been acting a doubly deceitful
part, but I cannot withhold my pity, for
you must meet the difficulties with which you
have entangled yourself."</p>
<p>"I must think uncle, I must think," said
Clair, stopping, "you put my mind into complete
confusion—I believed I was going to act
for the best; now, I do not know what to be at,
though my chief consolation is that Lucy
Villars never cared a straw for me. I know
you lay bare the wounds of conscience only to
heal them, and though you have spoken severely
I know you feel for me. What am I to do<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span>
under these circumstances? I feel I have been
wrong, and would willingly make any atonement,
but remember, how many struggles
there are in the world to make us wretched,
without our adding a desolate hearth, and a
miserable home to make everything else doubly
hard. I must go and think alone."</p>
<p>"And remember," said Mr. Ware, "that Miss
Lucy may deserve some allowance for her
feelings. I am not quite certain that she is so
much a trifler as you would make yourself believe."</p>
<p>"Why you will drive me out of my senses,
uncle, I cannot increase my difficulties by
thinking that to be possible. I know women
too well—but, for the present, good bye," he
said, laying his hand on the stile which divided
the path to the Aston woods from the road,
"but do not, at least till we meet again, think
even so hardly of me as I deserve," he added,
in a tone of gentle persuasion, which often
screened him from blame, or, if not altogether<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span>
so, had obtained the love of those with whose
esteem he often trifled.</p>
<p>Then, with a light bound, he cleared the stile,
and, walking quickly onwards, he was soon lost
in the windings of the path he had chosen for
the scene of his meditations.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.</a></h2>
<div class="center2">
<p>
My friend, your house is made of glass,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">As any one may see,</span><br />
I pray you, therefore, have a care,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How you throw stones at me.</span>
</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Culver Allen.</span>
</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p>"If you please miss," said Betsy, entering
Amy's room, where Mabel was sitting, "will
you go to Miss Lucy's room for she is crying
and sobbing like any thing, and she has got
the door locked and will not open it—something
must be the matter."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span></p>
<p>"I will go to her directly, and will soon be
back, love," said Mabel, kissing her sister, who
never saw her leave without regret.</p>
<p>She then went to Lucy's room, and tapping
gently, demanded admittance.</p>
<p>After a short pause the door was opened by
Lucy, whose eyes were swollen with weeping, and
her cheeks wet with the tears which were
flowing quickly. She had been lying on the
bed, and, content with letting Mabel in, she
threw herself again upon it hastily, rubbing
her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief, though
the tears burst forth afresh on every attempt
to clear them away.</p>
<p>Mabel's woman's heart quickly thought of
Clair, and, seating herself by her side, she
waited patiently till she became a little composed,
and then begged her to say if she could
do any thing for her.</p>
<p>"Nobody can do anything for me," said
Lucy, and the effort to speak called forth a
fresh burst of sobs and tears.</p>
<p>"What has happened, do tell me?" said<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span>
Mabel, "has any one been unkind to you, dear
Lucy."</p>
<p>"The wretch," sobbed Lucy, "the mean-spirited
wretch."</p>
<p>"I hope you do not speak of Clair," said
Mabel, "what can he have been doing?"</p>
<p>"Oh, go away," cried Lucy, "go away, I am
so unhappy, so wretched, I wish I had never
seen him—never come here. Oh! leave me,
go away, where shall I hide my face."</p>
<p>"I cannot leave you thus—do tell me what
he has been doing?"</p>
<p>"They will laugh at me at home. What
will Miss Lovelace say—oh dear!"</p>
<p>"Come, do tell me," said Mabel, anxiously,
"I may be able to give you comfort."</p>
<p>"Oh, I cannot tell you."</p>
<p>"Why not?"</p>
<p>"Ah, Mabel, if I were as good as you I
should not cry."</p>
<p>A faint blush passed over her countenance,
and she was silent, till, presently, after many<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span>
tears and sobs she told Mabel the cause of her
distress.</p>
<p>She had been walking in the nut avenue by
the side of the lane, and had thus overheard
the greater part of the conversation between
Mr. Ware and his nephew, narrated in the last
chapter. The sound of her own name had attracted
her attention, and, having once yielded
to the temptation of listening, she found, as
she imagined, sufficient excuse for wishing to
hear all—and enough had, in this manner,
reached her ears to send her home full of mortified
feeling.</p>
<p>Mabel listened, with unfeigned surprise, to
the story of this adventure—and to those sentences,
which, applying directly to herself, Lucy
had most accurately remembered—but, when
she heard from her of the admiration which
she had so unconsciously inspired, she looked
entirely amazed, and at a loss. This Lucy
dwelt upon with a candour which surprised
her.</p>
<p>"The wretch," said the latter, when she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span>
had concluded her story—"the worst of it is,
that I cannot hate him as he deserves."</p>
<p>"Do not say so," replied Mabel, "if you
are able to forgive him so easily, you will have
much less to suffer; there is nothing so painful
as the indulgence of sinful or angry
passions."</p>
<p>"Mabel," said Lucy, gravely, "you will
marry him, of course, and I will try to wish
you both happy."</p>
<p>"Dear Lucy," replied Mabel, taking her
hand kindly, "I am very, very sorry for you,
but rely on my friendship if you can, and I,
who have suffered as much as you are suffering
now, may be some support to you. Do
not, for one moment, imagine, that, should
Captain Clair ever place it in my power to
marry him, I should for an instant think
of it. I have told you already, that unhappy
circumstances have rendered all thoughts of
love repulsive to me, and, even if it were not
so, I could not give my affections to one whom
I have so long regarded as your lover."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span></p>
<p>"Do you really mean that?" cried Lucy,
with the desperation of a drowning man catching
at a straw.</p>
<p>"I do indeed. Do you think I would trifle
with you, when you are in distress. You
must not let his unhappy preference prevent
your trusting me as much as before, and you
must let me guide you till you are strong
enough to guide yourself."</p>
<p>Lucy flung her arms round her neck, saying
heartily—</p>
<p>"You shall do anything you like with me,
my own sweet friend; but, oh, there is something
wanting in my heart which you have not
the power to heal; but let me talk to you for a
few minutes—if you understand me, you can
better advise me."</p>
<p>Mabel was silent, and Lucy, leaning back
upon her pillow, and looking fixedly at her,
said, after a moment's pause—</p>
<p>"I have been brought up in a very different
home from yours—and when you think of me,
you must give me all the excuses my circumstances<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span>
claim. I feel I might have been happier
in a different life, yet, as it is, I have been
happy enough. When I first came here, I thought I
never could live in so dull a place, though I
appeared delighted with it, because I feared to
offend you; but now I dread nothing so much
as leaving, and going back to Bath. Mamma
talks a great deal of being very fond of us—but
she despairs of getting so many girls married,
and would give her right hand to get rid
of us in a respectable manner. Very little is
talked of when we are alone, but the chances
of this or that young man's coming forward.
I confess, with shame, that no one has talked
on this subject, with more zeal than I have done—and
I boldly determined to do my very best
to get married. You will call this all very
unwomanly, and so I acknowledge now, but
anything seemed preferable to being an old
maid. So far, you see, Arthur Clair was right;
when I first saw him—marriage being at all
times uppermost in my thoughts—I wished to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span>
make a conquest of him, if possible. You see
how far I succeeded—even you were deceived,
and thought him sincere, while, it appears, he
was only trifling with me, as I deserved. I
wrote home glowing accounts to Bath—and by
this time, it is whispered half over the town,
in all the coteries where mamma visits—and I
shall now have to go back to disappoint them,
and be laughed at myself; but this would be
nothing, if I could go back, as light-hearted as I
came here. Arthur Clair is wrong in supposing I
have no heart—but I do not love him less for
despising the character he supposes me to be.
It was very cruel of him to act as he did—but
yet I must have appeared to him a sad trifler,
and worse than that, for, while I really loved
you more than I do any other girl I know, I
was, when with him, perpetually turning you
into ridicule to prevent his admiring you. You,
too, must hate and despise me; but I am tired
of deceit, and will have nothing more to do
with it."</p>
<p>Mabel's quick judgment foresaw that her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span>
cousin's repentance was probably as light, as
her confession of deceit was easy—but she
knew, at the same time, that she had no right
to take this for granted, and that her only
duty was to catch at even the lightest spark of
virtue, and use her utmost power to kindle it
into a bright and lasting flame. Sorrow was
around her in every shape, destitution and dependence
were before her, yet, no grief of her
own, could prevent her turning a willing ear to
the complaints, which, her truly womanly
nature told her, arose from that suffering which
is perhaps the hardest a woman can feel.</p>
<p>With extreme gentleness she offered comfort,
mingled with the censure, she could not in
sincerity withhold, and Lucy listened with
surprise to advice unmingled with any taunt or
reproach.</p>
<p>"Do you not think," she said, "that I had
better tell him I heard what he said, and that
I know that I do not deserve that he should
think well of me."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span></p>
<p>"By no means," replied Mabel; "I would
strongly advise you to give up all thoughts of
him at once, for you are convinced that he
does not care for you, and you acknowledge
that you have, in a great measure, brought
this unhappy affair upon yourself. You must
forgive him fully, for, from what you tell me,
he certainly does not seem so much to blame
as I supposed; and, if you took any unworthy
means to obtain his good opinion, you certainly
fully deserve to have lost it. I do not admire
a prude, but I do think that no woman has a
right to make the first advances, and, if she
does so, she certainly must be prepared to take
the consequences. But let me earnestly beg
you, to spend this season of affliction in schooling
your own heart against this and future
temptations, and hasten to vindicate your
character to yourself, and to him. Shew him,
that if you have been wrong, you are changed.
It will be very difficult, I own, to teach him
thoroughly to respect you; nay, do not curl
your lip at the mention of respect; there may<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span>
be a time when you will learn, how valuable,
how necessary, respect is to a woman's peace;
and the calm dignity with which you can bear
this disappointment may purchase it, even from
the doubting Clair. A calm and composed
behaviour you must aim at—do not assume
total indifference, for that will soon be perceived—but
submit, if possible, without complaint,
and without resentment—you will find
this the easiest way of bearing trials."</p>
<p>Mabel secretly hoped, that, by following her
advice, Lucy might not only reform her character,
but also display it to advantage in the
eyes of the man she loved—nor did she think
it improbable, that, disappointed in his suit to
herself, he might find in Lucy's altered behavior,
a charm sufficiently strong to lure him to
a real, instead of a feigned affection, and thus
preserve her from the snares which surrounded
her in her own home.</p>
<p>With these thoughts she returned to the
sick chamber, leaving Lucy to think over what
she had said.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span></p>
<p>During the last few weeks, she had allowed
herself but little repose. Her time was spent
alternately with her sister and mother, who in
their separate rooms, each needed the refreshment
of her presence. Her step was quick—her
ready hand untiring—and her watchful
eye always observant—yet, though no complaint
had passed her lips since the sad night of
Amy's accident, few could fail to observe how
heavily she felt the sorrow by which she was
subdued.</p>
<p>The nights passed wearily, marked only by
the hollow cough, which told her of her
mother's failing health, and the loud wintry
wind which whistled in the crevices of the
house, or swept by it in loud blasts from the
hills.</p>
<p>All who have felt sorrow, or who have been
called to watch by the bed of the sick, must
remember how much more sad these times appear
in winter, than in any other time of the
year.</p>
<p>We need our best spirits to laugh away the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span>
frost, and snow, and foggy days, and all the associations
called up by the withering earth and
closing year.</p>
<p>Yet all these, with present trouble, past regret,
and future fears, marked this sad time to
Mabel. Her greatest satisfaction now, was the
paying the most lavish attention to the two invalids.</p>
<p>Though their means were at all times
limited, she spared no expense, where it could
be likely to be of any service to the sufferers; she
prevailed upon her mother to allow her to
draw, as she pleased upon, the few hundreds
still remaining of her savings, and this enabled
her to procure, for both, the best medical advice
which England afforded, though at a cost which
the warmest of her friends could scarcely
advocate.</p>
<p>All her efforts, however, were unavailing,
her mother's strength rapidly failed, and the
utmost care could scarcely keep her sister
from sinking under the pain she suffered.</p>
<p>Day after day, the opinion of the medical<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span>
man fluctuated, until he scarcely gave any hope—for
he well knew that Amy's constitution,
from infancy, little fitted her to struggle with
disease of any kind. Still Mabel clung fondly
to the possibility of her recovery, with a pertinacity
which made her enter eagerly into any
new course of treatment, which she hoped
might prove more successful.</p>
<p>It was with difficulty that she found time
to think of Lucy—yet a willing heart can do
much. She endeavoured to keep as
much with her as possible to support her, in
her new formed resolutions—and she was
gratified to find, that Lucy had been able to
meet Clair several times, with the composure
she had recommended.</p>
<p>Poor Lucy's dignified calmness, however,
very much resembled pouting, and, instead of
inspiring Clair with any great respect, a little
amused him; for he looked upon this change
in her manner as a new mode of attack, against
which he resolved to be armour proof. Her
stability of character being not very great—she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span>
could scarcely preserve her manner, when
she saw it produced no immediate effect as she
had anticipated. It was vain to hope that he
would notice her composed forgiveness; and her
well-meant resolution faded away before the
disappointment of failure.</p>
<p>She was one afternoon engaged busily in
blaming him, and excusing herself, when he
entered the morning-room, where she was
seated at work, and, saying he had been to meet
the postman, presented her with a letter from
Bath. It contained the news, that Mrs. Clifford,
one of the richest ladies in the town, intended
giving a fancy ball at the Rooms which was to
eclipse everything that had been seen for many
seasons, and Mrs. Clifford was very anxious
she should return for it. Besides, Colonel
Hargrave had accepted the invitation to visit
them, and was expected in Bath the following
week. The letter was of great length, but
contained little more than those two pieces of
news greatly enlarged upon.</p>
<p>It seemed as if all Lucy's grief and gravity<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span>
had disappeared, like the mist before the sunshine;
for, starting up, she gave three bounds
towards the ceiling, clapping her hands in utter
thoughtlessness.</p>
<p>"Miss Villars," cried Clair, indignantly,
"can you forget where you are? How can
you give vent to such expressions of joy, in a
house you have helped me to make desolate?"</p>
<p>"I wish," exclaimed Lucy, turning round
pettishly, "that you would not preach to me
all day the same disagreeable truths, with a
face as long as that of a methodist parson—and
such a face too, 'tis indeed a pity it covers
such a wicked dissembling heart; but there is
no trusting appearances in these days."</p>
<p>"What do you mean, Miss Villars?" he enquired,
coloring violently.</p>
<p>"Ask your own conscience, and then, if it
has not forgotten how to speak the truth, you
will find which is the greatest sinner, you or
I," said she, trying to speak playfully, to hide
the real passion which burnt in her eyes, and
tingled in her cheeks.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span></p>
<p>"Surely," said Clair, a little haughtily,
"you do not allude to the silly flirtation, which
I have quite sufficiently repented, as my
manners may have already expressed."</p>
<p>"You double dealing wretch," exclaimed
Lucy, in a perfect rage at the superiority he
assumed, "you oily-tongued hypocrite, how
dare you talk to me in this way? Why, I
heard you talking to Mr. Ware, when you
little thought I was walking in the nut-avenue.
You despised me, did you, in your vaunted
goodness—and, because you are fickle enough
to turn from one girl to another, you try to
justify your behaviour, by abusing me to one
too good to listen to such stuff about either of
us. What do you say to me now?" she said,
her eyes dancing with delighted passion at
seeing him utterly confounded. "Now carry
your sanctimonious looks elsewhere, for they
will not take with me, I can tell you. I could
have forgiven your flirting, because they say—'a
fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind;'
but, bad as I am, I never abused a man that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span>
had been silly enough to admire me—nor did
I ever set myself up as anything better than I
am. I am glad you feel what I say, and now
go to the noble-hearted Mabel, and say, 'Here
I am—I have been flirting, before your very
eyes, with a girl I despised; but she served to
make a few weeks pass more pleasantly than
they might otherwise have done. I have been
sporting with her feelings instead of making
honest court to you.' And then, flushed with
the success, purchased by such hypocrisy, tell
her, that you have come to lay your laurels and
a deceitful heart at her feet, and that you think
them just offerings to her purity, and an ample
return for the cruelty you were led to commit,
by my persuasion. It will be safest to lay all
the blame on me, to her, as well as to Mr.
Ware. It told with him, and it may with her—go
and try."</p>
<p>She here stopped for want of breath, but, as
Clair made no reply, she quickly resumed.</p>
<p>"You have not a word to answer me,
have you now? How very pretty you look,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span>
standing abashed before the girl you despised.
If I were a man you might run your sword
through me, for want of a better argument in
your favor, but, as it is, I am afraid there is
nothing to be done," she continued, (as her
companion threw himself into an arm chair
and seemed determined to let her say her
worst, without the slightest attempt at interruption,)
then walking to the window she
began singing part of the Spanish girl's song
to her Irish lover.</p>
<p class="blockquot">
"'They say that the spirit most gallant in war<br />
Is always the truest in love.'"
</p>
<p>"For Mrs. Lesly's sake do not make so
much noise," said Clair.</p>
<p>"Unfortunately," replied Lucy, "I am not
so unfeeling, for Mrs. Lesly's room is at the
other end of the house. You said, if I remember
rightly, that my character was too
feathery to suit you—nevertheless, I think for
a feather my strokes are rather hard. Have
you nothing to say for yourself?"</p>
<p>"Yes, when you have blamed me as much<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span>
as you may think I deserve, I will venture to
reply."</p>
<p>"Oh, say on, I have done."</p>
<p>"Then, if you have leisure to hear me, I
will now say, that, before this conversation, I
thought I might have been wrong; but I am
now fully convinced by the indignation you so
openly express, that I have been mistaken in
you. I confess that I have injured you in the
most ungenerous manner—for which I dare
not offer any excuse, since every one would be
too light to have any weight. I will then
only ask you to be generous enough to forgive
me?"</p>
<p>Lucy, whose feelings were ever subject to
the most sudden variations, burst into tears
and ran out of the room, but, as Clair continued
regarding the door through which she had
made her sudden exit, it opened as quickly
as it had closed, and she again entered;
holding out her hand, as she walked up to
him.</p>
<p>"I am glad you are not gone," said she,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span>
panting for breath, "because I can tell you I
forgive you on condition that you forgive and
forget all I said in my passion just now."</p>
<p>"It was richly deserved," said Clair, grasping
her hand warmly.</p>
<p>"But that does not make it the more easy to
bear, you know. If it is quite unjust we let it
pass as 'the idle wind which we regard not,'
but, if it be just, we take it more to heart, and,
seriously, I am very sorry for what I said just
now."</p>
<p>"And I," said Clair, "am very sorry for a
great many foolish things I have said and done
in the last few weeks."</p>
<p>"Well then," cried Lucy, "we are both
sorry, so let us be friends, and talk no more
about love and all that kind of nonsense. I
shall go home in a day or two, and then," said
she, with a half sigh, "all I ask is, that you
will not think me quite so thoughtless and
foolish as you did; or, if you do," she added,
smiling quickly, "remember you were as weak
and thoughtless as myself."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span></p>
<p>"I will not fail to do so," he answered, returning
her smile, "if the remembrance of your
present generosity, does not make me forget
everything which caused it to be called into
exercise."</p>
<p>"I have had quite enough of your
flattery," said Lucy, holding up her finger, "do
not give me another dose, or I shall be obliged
to repeat the antidote, and give you another
scolding. Come now, I am thinking of the
fancy ball, and, as I am determined to be in time
for it—for I am of no use to Mabel by staying
here—I shall choose my character at once.
Here," handing him a book of Byron's beauties,
"choose me the one you think would suit me best."</p>
<p>"Let me venture to suggest," replied Clair,
as he took the book and turned over the
leaves thoughtfully, "that leaving such a house
as this, it would scarcely be right for you, to
appear at a fancy ball at all."</p>
<p>"Oh, you methodist! give me the book."</p>
<p>"You will not then be persuaded," he said,
laying his hand gently on the sketches of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span>
frail beauties she had asked him to choose
among. "Think, that for the sake of a few hours
of doubtful enjoyment you lay yourself open to
severe self-reproach, and may wound the
feelings of your friends here. It may sound odd
that I should venture to speak so seriously, but—"</p>
<p>"Yes, it does seem very odd, certainly, and
I thought I had given you a surfeit of preaching
just now."</p>
<p>"Yet before you decide, I would ask
you to consider whether you are not wronging
yourself, by acting so thoughtlessly."</p>
<p>"Now let me ask you in return," she replied,
pettishly, "if I am at Bath what harm
my going would do or what good I could get
by staying away?"</p>
<p>"Very little, perhaps, actually, but no
one could think any unkindness intended by
your remaining at home. I can hardly expect
you, however, to listen to me, but, should your
own better judgment lead you to come to the
same determination I shall be rejoiced."</p>
<p>Lucy sat down, half sullenly turning over the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span>
book of beauties, and seeming to be examining
their dresses with the greatest attention, as if
she were trying to discover how they might be
imitated by tinsel and gauze.</p>
<p>The Captain stood looking at her earnestly.
Mr. Ware's advice recurred to his mind, and,
though he had found it difficult to follow it, he
had tried his best.</p>
<p>Lucy, with her face glowing with excitement,
her eyes moist with recent tears, looked
exceedingly pretty, and he could not help
longing for the power to plant a different
spirit within her, at length he exclaimed, with
sudden energy—</p>
<p>"Lucy Villars, will you not listen to me. Do
not trifle, after the fearful judgment that has
fallen upon this house, through our means.
Is it possible you can forget what a withering
blow it has been. Surely, surely you will
not go to a fancy ball, while Mabel is watching
over her suffering mother and sister. You
do not mean it, you surely cannot; only think
for one moment," said he, laying his hand upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span>
hers, and staying the quick motion with which
she turned over the leaves of the book. It is
doubtful how Clair might have felt (for he had
certainly deceived himself when he imagined
she had never made any serious impression
upon him) had his advice, his first effort at
serious advice, been well received, for there was
an earnestness in his manner, which he had
never before displayed. But Lucy rose hastily,
and brushing his hand aside with an indignant
motion, prepared to leave the room; turning
at the door, she said coldly—</p>
<p>"There might have been a time when
Captain Clair could have asked a favor, without
risk of being charged with interference or impertinence,
but I can now see no excuse which
would lead me to make his wishes the rule of
my actions—I would advise you in future to
obtain influence, before you seek to use it."</p>
<p>So saying, and bowing coldly, she left the
room.</p>
<p>Her return home, and her plan of travelling,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span>
were soon settled by her hearing of a friend who
was at this time returning to Bath from
Cheltenham, and whose escort was offered her.</p>
<p>Perhaps the pleasure of piquing Clair, added
a little zest to the preparations which were
carried on with a cheerfulness that surprised
him. Deeply touched himself by recent events,
and quite unable to recover his spirits, he regarded
her with a wonder not a little mingled
with contempt.</p>
<p>Mabel herself, as keenly susceptible to pain
as she was open to pleasure, could scarcely
understand the variable nature of her cousin's
disposition, which, at times attracted her by its
<i>naiveté</i> and candour, at others, alarmed her by
its indifference and frivolity. Though really
a little hurt at the coolness with which she
prepared to leave her, directly it suited her own
convenience, after her many professions, she
suffered her to take her course without remark;
particularly when she found, from the account
she received of her conversation with Clair, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span>
she could not preserve towards him, the composure
necessary to ensure her own dignity.</p>
<p>All was, therefore, soon arranged, and Lucy,
as the parting drew near, became so affectionately
distressed, that Mabel quickly forgave
her previous indifference, and parted from
her with a regret, she had scarcely supposed
she could have felt a few weeks before.</p>
<p>As she stood for several moments in the
garden, watching the vehicle which bore her
from the village, her thoughts naturally recurred
to the hour when, with far different
feelings, she had stood in the same place to
wait her coming. The scene was the
same, and yet how changed. There was
not a leaf upon the many bold trees which
skirted the landscape. Here and there round
the garden a single monthly rose bloomed
in place of the many gay, autumnal
flowers, which had then been so brilliant.
Heavy clouds hung overhead, and silently and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span>
gloomily feathery pieces of snow fell through
the cold air.</p>
<p>"It is the sunshine of the heart that is
gone," thought Mabel, unconsciously clasping
her hands, and glancing at the scene around
her; while she remembered how comparatively
free from care she had been that day, and
how gladly had the little Amy waited to catch
the first sight of the expected carriage, how
eagerly she had watched the first peep of the
high road. Where was she now, poor child?
when would her light feet carry her so merrily
to that gate again.</p>
<p>"I know it must be right," thought Mabel,
as if unwilling to dwell longer on feelings and
afflictions which unnerved her; but sick at
heart, and with tears swimming in her eyes,
she turned towards the house. She stopped
on hearing Clair's voice, who approached to
meet her, having waited till the parting
was over, hoping to remove any feeling
of loneliness she might experience on Lucy's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span>
departure. His steps were sedate, and his
countenance serious and reflective, as it had of
late become.</p>
<p>"Ah," said he, as he joined her. "Happy
would it have been for you had neither of
us crossed your path, to throw the shadow upon
it we have done."</p>
<p>"We will not blame poor Lucy now she is
gone," said Mabel, "and do not blame yourself
again. I did not think I should miss her
as much as I do; but there is such a pleasure
in meeting a friend of about my own age."</p>
<p>"If there are three dark sides to a subject,
and one bright one, you are sure to turn to
the bright," said Clair.</p>
<p>"Should we not do so?" said Mabel, smiling
faintly—"particularly when we must feel that
even the one bright side is undeserved."</p>
<p>"I should very much have liked to have
known your poor father," said Clair, rather
abruptly.</p>
<p>"You would, indeed," said Mabel, "but
what made you think of him?"</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span></p>
<p>"Because I have heard that the lessons he
gave you were so admirable; and practically illustrated—they
are beautiful!"</p>
<p>"Nay, if you wish to flatter me, speak of
him—not myself; truly, he was a gentleman, a
scholar, and a soldier," said Mabel, as her eyes
brightened, "and I cannot tell how much I
owe to him. Now, if I am tempted to do
anything wrong, his spirit seems to stand between
me and the temptation. See what an
advantage it is to be good," said she smiling,
as if fearful of speaking too much of herself,
"what an influence you possess."</p>
<p>"You do, indeed, possess an influence," said
Clair, emphatically, as he turned his eyes to
hers, with an expression of mingled admiration
and respect.</p>
<p>"I must go in," replied Mabel, hurriedly,
"talking of my dear father has cheated me
into staying longer than I meant to have done.
I must go to my dear child—good bye," said
she, extending her hand frankly. "Go, and
do anything but be sad about me."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span></p>
<p>Without waiting for a reply, she ran into the
house, and Clair leant upon the gate and
watched her departing figure, like one entranced,
till, fearful of attracting observation,
he briskly roused himself, as if from some
pleasant dream, and pursued his walk through
the village.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, Lucy continued her journey. At
first the natural pain of parting from Aston
led her to a train of sorrowful reflection. Perhaps
she too remembered how different the
home she had left had been when she entered it;
but she had also to remember many mortifying
things besides. Her easy conquest, as
she imagined, had ended in total failure.
If she had unintentionally brought evil
on Mabel, she had also brought good, in
the admiration of the fascinating Clair.
Her recollections soon became too painful to
be encouraged, and she took the ready source
of comfort open to those who do not care to
probe the conscience, and tried not to think at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span>
all. It was easiest and most agreeable, but
she had to arm herself for the reception she
would probably meet at home. How could she
say she had entirely failed; and what reason
could she give for believing that Clair was in
earnest; she had not the heart to blame him.
"If Mabel had not been there," she thought,
"he never would have changed, but I will not
think any harm of her, I <i>suppose</i> she could not
help it."</p>
<p>"Once in Bath, this country dream will be
over, and I shall have the pleasure of preparing
for the fancy ball—and then, the arrival of
Colonel Hargrave, and possibly—if he is not attracted
by Caroline's majestic style of beauty,
who knows but he may find other objects of
admiration—" and she glanced down upon her
pretty little foot, with an air of condescending
affection, as it rested on the shawl which lay
beneath it. Then came the remembrance that
Mabel had lent her that shawl, and had herself
wrapped it round her with that attention to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span>
the comfort of others, which was so peculiar to
her, and she lent back and wept bitterly for
some miles.</p>
<p>At Cheltenham, however, she was joined by
her promised fellow traveller, also returning to
Bath for the season. Mrs. Richardson, for this
was her name, was a good-tempered, stout
little lady, who possessed a great fondness for
young people, particularly for those who, either
pretty, witty, or engaging, were sure to be
popular in society. She formed a very useful
chaperone, in case of necessity, never being
unwilling to join any party of pleasure, from
the most crowded rout, to the dullest and
quietest card party.</p>
<p>Lucy had not been slow in finding out this
useful virtue, and, Mrs. Richardson being a
great admirer of hers, they usually got on
very well together. But now, the badinage
she had to endure, on the many conquests she
must have made, during her country visit,
amongst rich squires, grated sadly on her ears;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span>
while her attempts to divert the conversation,
only renewed her companion's desire to obtain
an account of all she had been doing and
seeing.</p>
<p>The tedious journey, however, drew at
length to a conclusion, and she found herself
once more in Bath. Again settled at home,
she was not a little surprised, and not quite
pleased to find that her Aston adventure had
occupied far less of the family attention than
she had imagined. Indeed, so thoroughly were
they occupied in preparing for Colonel Hargrave's
visit, that they scarcely listened to her
accounts. The whole house, and household
furniture, seemed stirring up to look their best
welcome to the rich Indian wanderer. The
best stair carpets were laid down, and the best
drawing-room was uncovered and made habitable,
and a thousand little expenses were excused,
under the pretence of necessity, on such
an occasion. The name of Hargrave was
passed perpetually from one to another, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span>
Caroline already fancied herself mistress of
Aston Manor.</p>
<p>"Oh!" thought Lucy, "could I have thought
they cared so little about me, I would have
been more independent of their opinion."</p>
<p>She, however, soon endeavoured to dispel
the listlessness which followed her return to old
pursuits, by entering into the subject of general
interest, with as much seeming zest as her
sisters; but, sometimes, when she seemed the
merriest of them all, her thoughts would revert
to Aston, and her gay laugh would find a
check. Gaiety may sear, but it never yet
has healed a wounded heart.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.</a></h2>
<div class="center4">
<p>
He shall again be seen when evening comes,<br />
And social parties crowd their favorite rooms,<br />
Where on the table pipes and papers lie,<br />
The steaming bowl and foaming tankard by.
</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Crabbe.</span>
</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p>Almost every village possesses a house of
public entertainment, however humble in appearance.
Unfortunately, this is generally the
most comfortable place accessible to the lower
orders, who are often unwittingly tempted to
increase the one pint of beer, which secures a
seat by the large inn fire, drop by drop, till
habits of drunkenness are too readily acquired.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span>
Some have recommended the establishment of
something similar to a coffee-room in every
village, where laboring men might enjoy the
pleasures of society and conversation, without
the temptations to a vice which adds many
a tragedy to "the short and simple annals of
the poor."</p>
<p>It could indeed scarcely be wondered at,
that at Aston, many of the laborers left their
weather-beaten cottages, which, in some cases,
formed scarcely a shelter from the wind and
rain—and, without stopping to calculate the
mischief which might ensue to their neglected
families, should frequently resort to the "Hargrave
Arms," where a blazing fire and a comfortable
seat by a chatty neighbour were
generally to be found. Here, at least, poverty
and discomfort might be forgotten for a while,
even by those who did not seek to drown remembrance
in the fatal draught.</p>
<p>One Friday evening, many of the regular
customers of the house assembled themselves<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span>
as usual, more, perhaps, to chat than to drink,
for they seldom carried their conviviality to
any great height, except on the Saturday,
when the young men of the village brought,
too often, the first fruits of their week's
earnings. On the occasion we now mention, a
more sober conclave was assembled. The
white haired Giles, whom Clair had visited
with his uncle, on the first morning of his
visit, was one of the guests. Not, now, with
his head bent, and his hands extended over the
dying embers of his wood fire, but with head
erect in a comfortable corner, with the air of
a man whose opinions are respected, and whose
words claim immediate attention. Martin, the
poacher, was also there, smoking a pipe, whose
dusty colour bespoke long service. Besides
these, were several of the most respectable
labourers of the village, young and old.</p>
<p>The landlord, himself, was a middle aged,
sleepy looking man, with eyes that seemed to
say that they had no particular time for taking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span>
rest, but seized every opportunity that occurred
for shutting up at a moment's notice.</p>
<p>The night was cold and gusty, and the large
fire burnt with peculiar brightness—conversation
went on briskly; when a new object of attention
presented itself in the sound of horses'
feet, which at this hour were very unusual.</p>
<p>This caused the landlord's eyes to open to
the things about him, and he walked to the
door to offer whatever hospitality might be required
by the new comer.</p>
<p>By the time he had reached the open air,
which he did with some reluctance, he found
that the rider had dismounted. His horse appeared
to have been well ridden, for, though a
fine strong built animal, fitted for the hilly
country he had been through, he seemed exhausted,
and covered with dust and foam.
The gentleman, on the contrary, seemed perfectly
cool and free from fatigue, and equally
indifferent to the weather, though the wind
was high, and easterly, and his short cloak was
whitened by the snow, which had been falling,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span>
at intervals, during the afternoon, giving signs
of an early coming winter. There was sufficient
of that nameless something in his appearance,
even by the light of our host's
lantern, to speak him a gentleman, and to
procure for him a series of nods, intended for
graceful acknowledgments of welcome.</p>
<p>"My horse wants rest, and a good stable,"
said the new comer; "light me, and I will see
him housed, myself. I will follow you."</p>
<p>This was spoken in a tone of accustomed
and easy authority, and taking the
bridle over his arm, he followed his landlord
to the stable; where, with indifferent extravagance
which baffled any interference, he
seized an immense armful of straw from a
heap which lay in one corner, and threw it on
the bed, which already seemed tolerably supplied.
So rapid and easy were his movements,
that, before his astonished landlord had framed
the remonstrance he meditated offering, he announced
himself ready to accompany him to
the house.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span></p>
<p>"Would you like dinner in the parlor, sir,"
enquired his sleepy host, leading him back
through the court-yard.</p>
<p>"No, I will take a glass of grog, in the
bar."</p>
<p>"The bar is full, sir; and maybe you will
not like—."</p>
<p>"What," enquired the stranger, "to sit
side by side, with a poor man—you are mistaken,
but heark-ye," said he, stopping, "the
less civility you show me the better, I will pay
you."</p>
<p>"I twig," he replied, shutting one sleepy
eye with an attempt to look cunning, while, at
the same time, he was a little startled at the
deep and peculiar tone of the voice which addressed
itself so particularly to his ear, and he
was not sorry to catch a full view of his own
huge blazing fire, and the familiar faces around
it.</p>
<p>"A stranger wants a seat by the fire,"
muttered he, as he entered the bar.</p>
<p>"A stranger should have the best seat,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span>
said old Giles, moving quietly to offer him his
arm-chair.</p>
<p>"I have been accustomed, sir, to take place
according to my years," said the stranger, in
a voice of peculiar melody, as he declined the
offer, and, at the same time, chose a seat further
from the fire, where the fitful light only sometimes
partially illumed his countenance.</p>
<p>"Landlord," said he, "your guests will, I
dare say, join me in my grog; bring enough,
not forgetting yourself."</p>
<p>A short silence followed this speech, partly
caused by the landlord's absence; during which
all eyes were turned to observe the appearance
of the last arrival. His figure was considerably
above the middle height, but his
limbs were in such exact proportion, that he
preserved the appearance of strength which
tall men often lose. His shoulders were broad,
and his chest wide and expansive. The only
sign of delicacy about him appeared in his
hand, which, for his height, was small, and
very white and smooth, ornamented by a plain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span>
signet ring. This, they had an opportunity of
observing, for his head was resting on his
hand, though, seemingly more in thought than
fatigue. His eyes were large, dark, and penetrating,
made to flash with anger, to command,
or reprove; yet, bearing in general a cold still
hue, as if more accustomed to command, or to
suffer, than to ask, or supplicate the world's
favour. The mouth was expressive of great
sweetness, as long as his features continued,
in repose, though the lips seemed especially
capable of curling into a sneer. His nose was
long and aquiline, and gave a character of
boldness to the countenance; and a finely
sloped head, well set upon his shoulders, added
to his lofty bearing.</p>
<p>All these features, fitted to form a face of
striking manly beauty, were quite spoilt by
the fact that, while the whiskers, moustache,
and finely arched eye-brows, were black; his
hair, of which he wore a great deal, and that,
too long for the English fashion, was of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span>
bright red, and gave a very peculiar shade to
his countenance.</p>
<p>His dress was half military, though remarkably
simple, and on the present occasion,
much soiled with long riding, and even shabby;
with the exception of his boots, which appeared
to have shared the care which had secured
to the hand the marks of gentle breeding.
It would have been very difficult to trace his
age, in any part of his outward bearing, beyond
the certainty that he was neither twenty nor
fifty—anything between these two periods might
have been attributed to him without much difficulty.
Since his entrance he had not changed the
position into which he had thrown himself;
perfectly at ease in every limb, and still as a
statue, he seemed scarcely aware of the observation
he excited from his companions.</p>
<p>Probably he was inured to the weather, and
indifferent to its effects, for he did not attempt
to dry his clothes by drawing nearer the fire.
Perhaps, his studious silence was intended<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span>
to set his companions at ease, or, perhaps,
occupied with other thoughts, he really forgot
them after the first order he had given for
their entertainment. However it might be,
conversation gradually returned to its former
channel, and he remained almost unnoticed.</p>
<p>The snowy afternoon led them to speak of
the weather, when Martin enquired, with an
indifferent tone—</p>
<p>"Did it come in upon you last night,
Giles?"</p>
<p>"It did sadly," he replied; "I was obliged
to get up, and move my bed."</p>
<p>"Has the rain been so heavy here then?"
enquired the stranger with some interest.</p>
<p>"Not in particular, sir," said Martin, "if
our roofs were waterproof—but they ain't; I
don't care who knows it. Look at this old
man," he said, turning to Giles, "is he fit to
live in a hole with the roof half off, and the
sun and rain coming in every where. It
almost drives me wild to think of it—and if it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span>
goes on much longer, there'll be mischief come
on it, that I know."</p>
<p>"Do not talk in that way," said old Giles,
gently, "if I am content with my house, you
should not make it a cause for dispute."</p>
<p>"Yes; but if any one could claim a proper
shelter for his head, it is you, Giles. You
served the family for fifty years, and after
spending the best part of your life working
for them, the least they could do, would be to
keep the wind and rain off your old white
head."</p>
<p>"It is not right to talk like this, Martin,"
returned Giles, gravely, "for you might make
me discontented with my lot. You forget that
by allowing me to work for them, they gave me
food for all those years—and if I did my
work honestly, only for the reward they had to
give me, I deserved to lose it."</p>
<p>"Of what family are you speaking?" enquired
the stranger, slightly rousing himself,
and drawing a little more into the circle.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span></p>
<p>"Who is your landlord, and what prevents his
seeing to your comforts?"</p>
<p>Martin seemed anxious to reply; but he was
prevented by Giles.</p>
<p>"Our landlord is Colonel Hargrave, a very
brave officer, I have heard; but, in looking for
glory abroad, he has, unfortunately for himself
and us, forgotten his dependents at home. He
has scarcely seen anything of us since he came
into the property."</p>
<p>"But surely," said the stranger, warmly,
"if he did spend his time beyond the seas—I
dare say, for some private reason—he
must have left some trusty steward, who
could take charge of his property during his
absence, and protect the labourers on his
estate from the privations you speak of?"</p>
<p>"Trusty steward, indeed," Martin began, in
a growling voice, but Giles again interrupted
him.</p>
<p>"Sir, it is kind of you to take so much interest
in our concerns. It may be that you
have estates somewhere yourself—it may be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span>
that you have left them to the care of others,
believing that you are trusting honest servants;
but, if you could see how much we have suffered,
you would never do so again. Our
landlord has left with us an oppressive and
cruel man, who takes pleasure in shewing his
power in the smallest thing. In our good
lady's time, we were allowed to pick up any
wood that the wind blew down, so that our
firing cost us next to nothing; but now this is
entirely done away by the keepers. Many of
our little rights too he has taken away, according,
as he says, to his master's orders, though
'tis not very likely a gentleman abroad would
think of such things so many miles away. He
receives our rents without spending any part of
them in repairing our cottages, and the consequence
is, they are tumbling down for want
of repair, while the same rent is demanded for
them. This brings much illness and discomfort—but
what I lament over most," said the old
man, with a sigh, "is that the feelings of
every one are aggravated against Colonel<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span>
Hargrave, who, it may be, knows nothing about
it."</p>
<p>"Then he ought to know," said Martin.</p>
<p>"There is a sad spirit spreading, sir," said
Giles, casting, as he continued, a reproving
look on Martin, "amongst our young men, and
a hatred of the gentry, which cannot be right,
though it is hard to keep them from it when we
have so much privation."</p>
<p>"Aye, that is true enough," said Martin,
glancing at his younger companions.</p>
<p>"Why do you not write to Colonel Hargrave?"
said the stranger, bending forwards,
and suffering his large full eye to fall on
Martin for an instant, "surely you should not
judge him so hastily."</p>
<p>"Parson Ware has written, and the only
answer he gets is, that Mr. Rogers is an old and
tried servant, and he can depend on his doing
for the best."</p>
<p>A bitter laugh went round the circle in echo
to this unpopular opinion.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span></p>
<p>The stranger lent back in his chair, and
fixing his eyes on the fire, seemed inclined
to leave the conversation, which the wounded
feelings of those present appeared likely to
render too heated.</p>
<p>"Things never went right," said a little old
man in the chimney-corner, in a deep husky
voice, for he prided himself on being a sort of
prophet in the village, "since he went to
France, and I never had no very great opinion
of Frenchmen before—ha, ha, ha!" There did
not seem much to call for laughter; but he
generally accompanied his speeches with that
peculiar chuckle, which sounded anything but
pleasantly to those who were not accustomed to
him. "I saw him many times after that," continued
he, "and he warn't the same open-hearted
gentleman he was afore. He often
looked as if he'd got some one looking over
his shoulder as he didn't over relish—ha, ha!"</p>
<p>The sepulchral chuckle which followed this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span>
remark produced a short, uneasy silence, which
was broken by Martin, who enquired—</p>
<p>"Do you think his religion has anything to
do with our houses and wages?"</p>
<p>"Yes," replied Giles, "can we expect that
he who has proved disloyal to his Maker, would
be thoughtful for his fellow men."</p>
<p>He spoke in a tone of such gentle authority,
that even Martin was silent, and, for a few
seconds, the ticking of the old-fashioned clock,
and the crackling of the wood on the fire, were
the only sounds.</p>
<p>"I can call to mind," resumed the old man,
interrupting the silence, which had followed his
last remark, "a time of much sorrow to me,
and I never think of it without trembling.
It is some years since, now, when I worked
on the Manor, and I used to be something of
a favorite of my young master's; and I am
sure, at that time, I would have given my
life to serve him; he had such a way with
him; no one had anything to do with him without<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span>
loving him. Well I remember how glad
I was when he ordered me to go out with him
to beat up the bushes for game. But the time
I said I was sorry to remember, was when, one
Saturday night late, he came down here
in a great hurry, and he said he must go again
on the Monday, and so he would look about
him. I can't tell how it was we took so to each
other; but I was strong and hearty then,
though 'tis but a few years ago. Martin speaks
truth when he says I have served the family
fifty years, for I began by running errands for
the servants, when I was but a little boy, and I
am now nearly seventy; but I was quite a
strong man at that time I have been talking
about, and I used often to go out shooting with
Master Hargrave, to carry his game, and such
like. Well, on this Sunday morning, he told
me to take his gun, and wait for him at the
entrance of the wood. Nobody ever said no to
him then, and I had not the courage, and,
though I knew that I was doing wrong all the
while, I took the gun; and went as he bade<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span>
me. We had a regular good day's sport, and
we went to the woods furthest from the village,
for fear the guns or dogs might be heard.
'Twas a beautiful autumn afternoon, I know,
as we came home, and, when we came to the
wood overlooking the church, the bells rang
out such a merry peal. I had forgot 'twas
Sunday, for my blood was hot, and the sport
was good; but now, as we stopped on the top
of the hills, like thieves, I could not help wishing
we had never been out, and I said so with
a dogged, frightened air, for I was afraid of
him all the while. He laughed at my fright,
and began talking as if going to church were
all mummery. Well, I could not help listening—what
he said seemed so clever and funny, I
could not answer him. After that day, I began
to doubt and doubt, till I believed nothing the
minister said, and left off going to church."</p>
<p>"And what turned ye?" enquired the little
man in the chimney-corner.</p>
<p>"I was wretched," replied Giles; "I felt
that I had no comfort upon earth, and no hope<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span>
beyond it. Till, at last, I thought that this
unbelief was only a curse for having done
wrong. So I took to prayer, and never gave it
up till better thoughts came."</p>
<p>"But how," asked the stranger, bending
forward, and regarding the old man earnestly,
till it made him almost shrink from that dark
eye, which looked almost piteous in its intensity,
while the voice of the enquirer was
touching, deep, and melodious, "how could
you pray when you had no faith."</p>
<p>"Sir," said Giles, "whatever creed or
religion you may profess, you must still feel,
that to doubt as I did, is the greatest curse
that can fall upon the heart of man, and doubt
as we may, we know it to be a curse. If
you ever feel as I did, do not ask questions,
and put yourself wrong, and then try and set
yourself right by your own judgment, as I did;
but go down upon your bended knees, and
pray for light as a child might pray—I never
found peace till then."</p>
<p>The stranger folded his arms upon his breast,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span>
and, with his eyes fixed on the fire, as before,
gave no sign that he had even heard the reply
to his question.</p>
<p>Giles, perhaps, thought he had said too
much, and remained in confusion, glancing uneasily
at him. The wind, which had been
rising more and more during the evening, now
howled aloud increasing the comfort of the
inn fire, and the dislike of the party to separate;
yet no one seemed inclined to speak, and
the wind roared on, yelling as it swept in
heavy gusts through the building.</p>
<p>Suddenly, a loud and tremulous knocking
was heard at the door, together with voices
demanding admittance. After a little hesitation,
the door was opened by the landlord, and
several women rushed in, crying vehemently.</p>
<p>"For, heaven's sake, come and help us, for
the place is all on fire!"</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV.</a></h2>
<div class="center4">
<p>
She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;<br />
Apart she sighed; alone she shed the tear.<br />
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave<br />
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.
</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Crabbe.</span>
</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p>On the night which followed Lucy's departure
the cottage seemed singularly lonely. The
wayward girl could not but be missed in so
small a household. Her very waywardness,
indeed, had caused excitement, which slightly
roused Mabel's thoughts from present and
coming evils.</p>
<p>It was night—how strange is its power
over us? Can it be more than fancy that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span>
spirits of darkness have freer power to wander
unseen upon our earth? Why else should we
start with such vague terror, at the slightest
sound which breaks the stillness? Why should
we often feel almost a childish desire for companionship?</p>
<p>Mabel had stolen to her mother's room to
persuade herself that she slept, and stood for a
moment watching her. The feeble light of
the night lamp shone upon her features, and
she trembled when she marked the sunken
cheeks, and the countenance deeply traced and
drawn down by care and pain. It seemed as
if, in that moment, the conviction which she had
so long defied, forced itself upon her mind, and
she felt that that loved parent must die. Those
only who have experienced that sudden belief
can tell of the bitterness with which it comes.
And it is sudden, for we may speak of death
as possible, nay, even probable, with calmness;
but this is not belief, not the feeling which
comes when the varying color, the emaciated
hand, or the hollow eye attracts our attention,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span>
and we feel the truth striking
coldly on our hearts. Then, almost for
the first time, the full power of fear
and love is known. We long to arrest
the hand of death by the vehemence of our
passion; and, though we know such efforts are
vain, yet how difficult is it to be resigned.</p>
<p>Mabel turned from her mother's room with
the choking sensation, of tears, that will not be
suppressed. The cold, loud wind beat against
the cottage, tossing dry leaves and broken
sticks against the casement, then howling round,
as if in derision of her grief. Amy was sleeping,
the sweet, gentle, exhausted sleep, that
sometimes follows pain; but Mabel knew that
in a short while she would awake, and require
refreshment, and she did not care to lie down,
till she had made her comfortable.</p>
<p>There was a letter lying upon the dressing-table,
placed so as to catch her eye; the sight
of it was a relief to her, and she took it and
broke the seal, then shading the light from her
sister, she sat down and read as follows:—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span></p>
<div class="blockquot">
<p>
"<span class="smcap">Dear Miss Lesly</span>,
</p>
<p>"I will trust that
you will forgive me the liberty I take in addressing
you by letter; for your unwearied attention
to those who now claim your care, gives
me little hope of speaking to you without interruption.
I might not have time to tell you
that the remembrance of my share in the late
unhappy accident renders me miserable when I
am compelled to watch your patient suffering,
without the power to afford you the least redress
or comfort. It is impossible to remember
the last few happy weeks, without contrasting
them, but too painfully with the present.
I cannot forbear continually reproaching
myself with the change, nor shall I cease to be
unhappy till I may, in some way alleviate your
sufferings. Let me entreat you, then, to forgive
my presumption, in seeking a remedy in
the gratification of the fondest hopes of my
life. I needed some acquaintance with you, to
remove the prejudices which I have been led
to form, through the too thoughtless behaviour<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span>
of some ladies, it needed, I may say, even
the last bitter trial, to shew me the nature of
your character, and the refinement to which
sorrow could bring it. How else could I have
been aware of the existence of such uncommon
resignation, and such sweet forgiveness. They
have inspired me with a feeling, which, while
hope remains, softens the pain I feel; they lead
me to aspire with boldness, which may surprise
you, but I am a soldier, and though too
accustomed to feign sentiment which does not
exist, I am only capable of bluntness where
my heart is really touched; and, therefore, at
once, most boldly, but most respectfully do I
ask you to be my wife.</p>
<p>"The fortune with which I am blessed, renders
my profession more an amusement than a
necessity, and it would be amply sufficient to
secure your sweet sister all the comforts which
may alleviate pain, and all the medical advice
which may help to remove it. Only give me
the power to protect you from the cold blasts
of the world, and the right to aid you in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span>
taking charge of one, whose helplessness has
been caused by my fault, and I will shew you
that a husband's tenderest love and a brother's
most watchful care will ever be ready to protect
you both. One word more. Though
with the most jealous hand I would guard you
from all pain, I must, though but for a moment,
inflict it in alluding to past events.
I am aware of much, if not all, of your early
history, and know that I cannot be the first
object of your affections; yet would I rather
have your second love, or even your friendship,
than the warmest attachment of any
other woman living.</p>
<p>"Do not then turn away from me without
consideration, think of your sister—of me—and
of yourself, unprotected in a world of
strangers, and, if you can, accept the love of</p>
<p class="center">
"Your most devoted and respectful
</p>
<p class="right">
"<span class="smcap">Arthur Clair</span>."
</p>
<p>"The Rectory,</p>
<p><span style="margin-left:1em;">"Friday Evening."</span></p>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span></p>
<p>Mabel was troubled, not only by the
generous tone of the letter, but because it
brought to view, subjects which she had not
allowed herself to think upon; for her real
strength consisted in a knowledge of her weakness,
and she knew that she should be quite
incapable of acting, if, to present pain, she
added the contemplation of future trials. But
now, Clair, in offering her a provision for the
future had forced her to think of it. Perhaps
generously to save her from the imputation of
accepting him, only when pressed by circumstances,
as she might be, in but a few weeks.</p>
<p>Now the letter as it lay before her would
have her think. She had but a few minutes
before left her mother's room with the saddest
conviction; and now, crowding on her remembrance
came a thousand little speeches, that
told her, how earnestly, that dear mother had
tried to warn her of her approaching death.
Speeches which then appeared but the result
of nervous weakness, now occurred to her as
truths, which no reasoning could controvert.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span>
Some of their little property she knew rested
in the hands of an improvident and extravagant
aunt, and the remainder of their income
would fail altogether when her mother's pension
dropped.</p>
<p>And Amy, whose precarious health rendered
her now unable to be even moved from room
to room, she on whom she had lavished all the
comforts which affluence can invent, how could
she bear the trials of poverty? How could
she suffer the privations to which they would
inevitably be reduced; she who could scarcely
hear the sound of a heavy footfall without
pain, or be moved, without the greatest agony,
from the couch on which she constantly lay.
Not that she wavered with regard to Clair,
but his letter made her uneasy. Poverty,
death, and even that place where "all that's
wretched paves the way to death," she would
have preferred to marriage, if she could but
have endured them alone. But who would
be her companion? She turned her eyes to the
bed where, with cheeks flushed and eyes that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span>
scarcely closed, lay the little sufferer, her small,
wasted hand tightly compressed as if with
pain. At this moment she slightly moved,
and Mabel was instantly by her side. Her
eyes glistening bright with fever were
now opened wide, and gazing anxiously on
poor Mabel's tell-tale face.</p>
<p>"Mabel," said she in a low, sweet but
peculiar voice, "sit down by me, for I must
talk to you to-night, as my pain is all gone."</p>
<p>Mabel seated herself by her, and took the
little hand in hers.</p>
<p>"You will not be frightened, Mabel dear,"
said the child, "if I talk about strange things,
and about going away."</p>
<p>"No, sweet one, no," replied her sister,
"talk of anything you like; but where are you
going?"</p>
<p>"Mabel, dear," she returned softly, "I
suffer such pain that I do not think it will be
much longer—I must die soon, and then I
hope I am going to that beautiful country we
have talked of so often in the church-yard. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span>
wish you could come with me, Mabel dear, for
I dream so often that papa is waiting for me,
and it is all so beautiful."</p>
<p>A quiet pressure of her hand was the only
answer.</p>
<p>"But I cannot help thinking of you, love,"
continued Amy, "and what you will do without
me when I am gone; but yet, Mabel dear,
think how strange it would be to me to lie here
always; and, if I grew big like this, you would
only cry over me, as you do when you think
I am asleep; so, Mabel dear, let me go to
heaven."</p>
<p>The last words were spoken in the coaxing
tone with which she used so often to carry her
point in some little argument, and, finding no
answer, she pat her hand under Mabel's head,
which was bent down, and raised it gently,
her face was very pale, and tears were streaming
from her eyes.</p>
<p>"Mabel, dear, dear Mabel," cried Amy, "I,
who have been such a trouble to you all my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span>
life, are you so sorry to part from me, your
naughty child. But now, I know it was very
good in you to correct me sometimes, or I
never should have been as happy as I am,
and now, I feel it to be all right that I should
be in such pain. Will you not rejoice too,
darling? Look at me, there are no tears in my
eyes though I am talking of leaving you."</p>
<p>But the moment the sisters' eyes met, Amy's
were filled with tears, and her head sunk
back exhausted. Mabel could not trust herself
to say anything; but, gently smoothing her
pillow, she suffered her own head to sink upon
it, and, fatigued alike by grief and want of
rest, she closed her eyes, and fell asleep.</p>
<p class="blockquot">
"Tired nature's sweet restorer balmy sleep,"
</p>
<p>Of what untold comfort are you to the
mourner. Cares, that bow the head to the
earth at night, seem lighter to the waking
thoughts, refreshed, perhaps, by good angels
while we sleep. Were there no such sweet
forgetfulness of sorrow, could we bear to look
upon it long?</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI.</a></h2>
<div class="center3">
<p>
But oh! to him whose self-accusing thought<br />
Whispers: ''twas <i>he</i> that desolation wrought.'
</p>
<p class="right">
<span class="smcap">Hemans.</span>
</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p>"Fire! fire?" Who starts not at that terrible
cry?</p>
<p>The terrified women had scarcely told their
tale, before all the men in the "Hargrave
Arms" were on their feet, starting into the
open air. They soon perceived cause for alarm.
Proceeding from that quarter of the village
where the houses lay closest together, rose a
column of smoke and flame, blown hither and
thither by the boisterous wind, which was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span>
spreading the red sparks in every direction,
tossing them high in the air, and then suffering
them to fall on some distant cottage, whose
thatched roof rendered it a ready prey.</p>
<p>So rapidly had the fire spread, that several
cottages were already burning, and the men
ran hither and thither from one to the other in
consternation, and uncertain what course to
pursue to save their property. All seemed at
stake—wives, children, the sick, household
furniture, the cherished articles purchased,
perhaps, by long and mutual saving before
marriage, and therefore doubly dear—and these
thoughts occurring to each, confused the movements
of all.</p>
<p>But, in the midst of these sudden difficulties,
the coolness of the stranger did not desert
him. He had followed his companions from
the inn, to ascertain the cause of alarm, and
he was almost immediately after seen leading
his horse. Arresting the attention of old
Giles, he enquired—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span></p>
<p>"Where shall we send for fire engines?"</p>
<p>"There is not one to be had nearer than
Cheltenham," was the reply.</p>
<p>"Now then," cried he, seizing a young man,
who was hurrying about, scarcely knowing
what he did, "do you know the road to Cheltenham?"</p>
<p>Being answered in the affirmative, he bade
him mount his horse, and ride as fast as
possible in search of engines. Well he knew
his own good steed would die rather than give
up the journey, and, though he sighed as he
thought how long the way would be, he dared
not reckon his horse's life against those of his
fellow creatures.</p>
<p>His next effort was to bring the scattered
crowd a little into order, for the purpose of
checking the rapid spread of the fire. Nothing
secures obedience to a command so much
as the decision and coolness with which it is
given; and all were soon engaged in pulling
down, at his suggestion, the cottage which
lay nearest to those already burning.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span></p>
<p>But the futility of the attempt was soon
perceived by the sparks leaping over and catching
the roof of a more distant tenement. As
soon as the fire touched it, an up-stair lattice-window
was thrown open, and a woman leaning
out, and raising her hands wildly in the
air, cried aloud for help.</p>
<p>"Come down," said the stranger, in a voice
distinctly heard above the tempest, and the
confused noises around him, "come down, and
you are safe—nothing hinders you."</p>
<p>"My father!" screamed the woman, "I
cannot move him—come up, in mercy, come to
me. Help! help!—we are all on fire!"</p>
<p>The stranger, followed closely by Clair, who,
on hearing the tumult had hurried to the scene,
accompanied by his uncle, hastened into the
house, and soon reached the upper room, from
which the woman had called for assistance. The
strong fire-light gleaming on all around, disclosed
to their view a room, which made the
stranger shudder. A low bedstead, scarcely
raised from the ground, with a box in one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span>
corner, on which an old coat was lying, formed
the only furniture of the room; while thin
holes in the lath and plaister wall, let in the
cruel blast. On the floor was lying an old
man, with some bed-clothes huddled round
him. It seemed that his daughter had dragged
him from the bed; but had been unable to get
him farther than the door.</p>
<p>"Father's been bed-ridden these two years,"
said the woman, hastily, "he cannot crawl
down stairs, and I cannot carry him."</p>
<p>"You are safe now," said the stranger, in a
re-assuring voice. "Follow us;" and he took
the old man up in his powerful arms. "Why
do you stay?" he said, turning at the door.
"Could there be anything worth saving,"
thought he, "in this wretched hovel—anything
but life?"</p>
<p>The woman soon joined them, bearing in
her arms, a small geranium-pot, and an old
Bible.</p>
<p>The stranger turned aside his head, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span>
old man wondered to see a tear in his fearless
eye.</p>
<p>Gently placing his burden on the ground,
he returned to the house, and, leaning his
shoulder against the door, forced its rusty
hinges to give way, then, throwing the scanty
mattress upon it, he lifted up the old man, and
placed him securely on this hastily formed
litter, which had been constructed before the
woman had time to think of her deliverance.
He then called to two or three able-bodied
men,</p>
<p>"For the love of mercy," cried he, "carry
this poor man to Aston Manor, and tell the
house-keeper to see to his comfort."</p>
<p>"She'll never open the doors," growled the
men in surprise.</p>
<p>"I tell you she will," cried he, as quickly
roused by opposition as a spoilt child, "take
him along with you."</p>
<p>Thus urged, the men took up the rude litter,
and, attended by the woman bearing her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span>
cherished treasures in her arms, they made as
much haste as could be, to the Manor House,
leaving the burning village behind them. They
needed neither moon nor stars to help them on
their way, for the sky was red with light, and
the hills around reflected back the fire—many
times had they to rest, and often, as they did
so, they turned their eyes back—where sometimes
the attempts of the villagers would give
a temporary check, or, the falling in of some
roof, would damp the flame, and give a moment's
hope, till, presently, it would again burst forth
with wilder fury than before.</p>
<p>Then, urged with the desire to get back, or
the curiosity to know whether they would really
be admitted beyond the closely shut door of
the Manor House, they moved on more quickly
up the narrow pathway which lay most directly
in a line with it. Presently, they perceived a
man hurrying towards them, with a frightened
and bewildered air. On coming closer, they
recognised the hated bailiff Rogers—he was one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span>
whose manners, though smooth and oily to his
superiors, were, to his inferiors, blustering and
loud; not indeed the off-hand manner which
often accompanies and conceals a good and
kindly heart, but rather a studied recklessness
of wounding the feelings of others, a total forgetfulness
of the circumstances and tempers of
those dependent on him, to whom a kind word
would have cost him nothing. Alas, since our
feelings are so finely tuned, why are we not
more careful how we play on those of others.
But Rogers found that this deliberate carelessness
of offence, was, with the timid, a skilful
weapon, for it made them fear him, and he
rejoiced in the influence this fear gave to him.
He forgot in the day of power, how little substance
it possesses, or that the sway of
tyranny bears in itself the elements of decay,
and must crumble away before the force of circumstances.</p>
<p>He was evidently at that moment feeling at
a disadvantage. His thin, lanky figure hastily
attired, looked not half so important as usual,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span>
and he was trembling within with agitation or
cold.</p>
<p>The whole party stopped; and the eldest of
the young men, whose countenance was very
far from prepossessing, drawing the bailiff
aside, said, with a low, chuckling kind of
laugh—</p>
<p>"Are you going down to the village, sir?"</p>
<p>"Yes," replied Rogers, "I have not come
from it very long, and only just stepped back
to the Manor. But why do you ask?"</p>
<p>"Because, if you take my advice, you'll
keep as clear of it as you can, for the men are
hot, and you know, sir," he added, with a low
laugh, "they aint all on em very particlar
friends o'yourn. I heard words spoke to-night,
as may be you would not like."</p>
<p>"I must go, however," replied Rogers, with
a shaky attempt to look swaggering, "and I
should like to see what the cowards dare do."</p>
<p>"I tell you ye'd better not," said the young
man, decisively, "but I've given my warning,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span>
I heard some one say, it was very hard if one
life was not lost in the bustle to-night—though
I do not like peaching, but I owe you a good
turn for sending Sally Lyn and her old sick
father out of their cottage, that cold Christmas
night, at my asking," he added, with a bitter
laugh.</p>
<p>Rogers did not look particularly obliged by
this grateful reminder, that he had once lent
himself to his revenge at an easy bribe. As
the mingled smoke and flame rose in columns
of awful majesty, like the workings of a supernatural
power, till he felt sickened at the sight,
he would have given a great deal could the
young man have recalled one single act of disinterested
mercy.</p>
<p>"Yet I must go," he said, at length, "I
cannot help it."</p>
<p>"Well, then, be careful, that is all," replied
his companion.</p>
<p>Rogers smiled nervously, and passed slowly
on towards the village, leaving him to join the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</a></span>
others, who, anxious to complete their task,
were waiting impatiently for him.</p>
<p>They had not much further to go, and soon
entered a side gate from which a narrow pathway
led through a shrubbery of evergreens,
round to the back entrance. Here two or three
dogs began to greet them with a loud bark,
giving no very pleasing indications of welcome;
and, as they carried their living burden up the
court-yard, they felt half inclined to turn back
or to leave the sick man at the door to speak
for himself; but the woman hastily prevented
them by ringing loudly at the bell, which
sounded through the building, making her
heart sink. There was rather a lengthened
pause, and, tired with waiting for the unexpected
welcome, and anxious to shift the responsibility
from themselves, the men laid
down their burden, and, spite of the woman's
entreaties, left them to their fate. They had
scarcely passed the court-yard before they
heard the sound of doors unbolting, but they
did not stop to enquire further, and hurried<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[318]</a></span>
back to the village, glad to escape from an
office of which they were heartily tired.</p>
<p>On their return, they found the place full
of confusion; women and children, endangered
by the falling sparks, were running in all
directions; Mr. Ware, with a bottle of brandy
and a glass, was moving about, giving enough
to the fainting men to keep up their strength,
and to encourage them to continue the labour
of carrying water to throw upon the flames.</p>
<p>"We must save the Manor House and the
rectory, at least," said the stranger, to a group
of men who thronged around him in despair at
the failure of every effort; "but I see no hope
for the thatched cottages."</p>
<p>"And the church," said Mr. Ware; "but
that stands alone, and, I hope, is safe."</p>
<p>"I would not raise my hand," said a sullen
voice, which all recognized as that of Martin
the poacher—"I would not raise a hand to
save the Manor House, if I were to die for it."</p>
<p>"Shame on you," said the stranger; "if it
be necessary, I will make you."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[319]</a></span></p>
<p>"I should like to see how," said Martin,
scowling on him; "there is not many as can
make me do as I don't like. And I say, if the
master leaves us to starve, he may take care of
his house himself. Share and share alike. We
owe him little enough."</p>
<p>And he turned his eyes towards the fire, and
pointed to his own cottage which was smouldering
in ruins.</p>
<p>The stranger fixed his quick eye upon him
for a moment, and then turned to Rogers, who,
making his way through the crowd, came up,
and whispered for a few moments in his ear.
He bent his head to listen, and then looking
at those around him, he said, as he fixed his
keen eye on Martin.</p>
<p>"I have received a message, which tells me,
friends, that Aston Manor is now open, for the
women and children who may like to take refuge
in it; and you may put any of your furniture,
which you can save, in the stables; there
it will be in safety. I understand that there
are many fine pictures, statues, and ornaments<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[320]</a></span>
of every kind there, and I need not ask you to
take care of them."</p>
<p>Every one listened with surprise to this
unusual news; but he bade them hasten
to send their wives and children away.
"We shall be able to act better when they
are gone, sir," he said, bowing, for the first
time, to Mr. Ware, who failed not to applaud a
measure, at once humane and judicious, since it
gave an object, to the discontented, to protect
the mansion should it be necessary.</p>
<p>In a short time, all the children had left the
scene; but most of the women remained, employed
in dragging the furniture from the
fire, either laying it in heaps, or carrying it
towards the stables.</p>
<p>Suddenly a frightful yell burst upon every
ear.</p>
<p>"Some poor creature is in danger," said the
stranger, who was the first to speak—"I
thought you had searched the burning houses.
Come all of you."</p>
<p>So saying, he sprang to the nearest cottage,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[321]</a></span>
whose blazing roof threatened every moment
to fall in.</p>
<p>Clair followed him closely, crying aloud—</p>
<p>"Do not venture, the roof is coming down—I
have searched that place myself."</p>
<p>But, as he said so, another yell sounded upon
their ears.</p>
<p>"The door is tied here," said the stranger,
tearing at a well-knotted cord with impatient
violence—but it would not give way. "Help
me then," he said to Clair; and, leaning his
shoulder against the door, the hinge snapped,
though the cord remained firm.</p>
<p>The apartment, on which they thus entered,
was bare of anything, save one living object.
Both started, as they beheld the wretched
Rogers, tied round the waist, by a thick cord, to
a strong piece of wood which ran up the side
to the ceiling. His eyes were glaring and distended—his
face filled with death-like
anguish. Blood was gushing from his mouth
and nostrils, for he had ruptured a blood vessel<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[322]</a></span>
in his attempts to free his hands and mouth
from the bandages, which appeared to have
been tied over them.</p>
<p>"Wretched man, repent before it is too
late," said the stranger, as he hastened to
undo the cords which bound him.</p>
<p>It was not an easy matter, and every moment
seemed an age of peril to the three.</p>
<p>Rogers opened his eyes, wide with horror,
upon the stranger, for a moment, and then
turned aside his head and fainted. The room
was heated to suffocation, and fast filling with
smoke. Clair felt sick with horror; but the
stranger, whose thought seemed action, raised
Rogers in his arms. With his head laid carefully
on his shoulder, and his own hands and garments
dripping in his blood, he bore him out,
assisted by Clair. Scarcely had they cleared
the threshold, when the roof fell in, and the
cottage was in ruins.</p>
<p>A shout, from those who had feared to follow,
welcomed them as they appeared; and the
stranger staggered through the ruins spread<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[323]</a></span>
around him, to the group who anxiously waited
them. He singled out Mr. Ware, and laid
his fainting burden at his feet, then, bending
his knee in Eastern fashion before him, he
said—</p>
<p>"Father, judge who hath done this, for he
is a brother, though a sinful one."</p>
<p>A murmur of horror passed through the
crowd; and Mr. Ware, kneeling by the side of
the hated Rogers, tried to reanimate him.</p>
<p>"He is not dead, sir," said he, in a low
voice; "he will live, I trust, if we can once
revive him."</p>
<p>"He will have time to repent, I hope," said
old Giles; "bring some water to moisten his
lips, and let us clear the blood from his
mouth."</p>
<p>"Will you watch by him, sir?" said the
stranger, again addressing Mr. Ware, "he is
too sinful to die; and if he wakes, you can
give him comfort."</p>
<p>"I will," said he, "I will take care of
him."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[324]</a></span></p>
<p>The stranger covered his face with his hands,
as if anxious either to shut out the scenes
which had terrified him, or to collect his
thoughts.</p>
<p>Then rose a hasty cry, "Widow Dacre's—the
fire has taken it—there are sparks on the
roof."</p>
<p>He started, as if with sudden pain, and then
ran wildly towards the hill, at the bottom of
which lay the widow's cottage. On its height
the church looked down in its holy stillness,
and between both lay the picturesque thatched
cottage belonging to Mrs. Lesly.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[325]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII.</a></h2>
<div class="center3">
<p>
But when I see the fair wide brow<br />
Half shaded by the silken hair,<br />
That never looked so fair as now<br />
When life and health were laughing there,<br />
I wonder not that grief should swell<br />
So wildly upward in the breast,<br />
And that strong passion once rebel<br />
That need not, cannot be suppressed.
</p>
</div>
<p> </p>
<p>All hands were now directed to save the small
cottage belonging to the Widow Dacre, but
with very little effect, for the wind which came
down from the hills with furious blasts seemed
to mock at every effort to extinguish the fire,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[326]</a></span>
while it fanned the faintest spark into a flame,
and then spread it with wonderful rapidity.
But it was not for the sake of the tiny cottage,
which its owner had long since vacated, they
all labored so zealously, but because it now
seemed a link between the ruined village and
the dwelling which all looked upon with interest.
Romance seemed to have cast a kind
of charm round the little family, to which
Mabel belonged.</p>
<p>Upon whose threshold had Mabel's light step
been unwelcome? And who was not ready
to protect the roof that sheltered her from
danger?</p>
<p>Now, as all eyes watched the building, it
was, for the first time, perceived, that no one
stirred within; the shutters were fast closed,
and there was not the slightest sign that the
general alarm had reached it.</p>
<p>"Is it possible," said the stranger, turning
to Clair, "that amidst all this din and confusion
they should sleep on and hear nothing?"</p>
<p>"I will go and try to get in," said Clair.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[327]</a></span></p>
<p>"And I," said the stranger, as they walked
both together to the door and rung the bell, at
first gently, but more loudly as they heard no
one moving.</p>
<p>Presently a shuffling step was heard, and a
somewhat sulky "Who's there?" from
within.</p>
<p>"It is I," said Clair, "open the door, for
the village is on fire."</p>
<p>The door was immediately thrown open and
old John the gardener staggered back as he
perceived the red sky, which glared above him
on all sides.</p>
<p>"The ladies!—" he exclaimed.</p>
<p>"We will take care of them, only go and
dress, and then come and help us," said Clair.</p>
<p>John speedily availed himself of this permission,
and then, with considerable coolness,
he hurried to the stable after his mistress's
Bath chair, which had not seen the light for
many a month.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, the two gentleman hurried up
stairs; they had, however, scarcely reached the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[328]</a></span>
landing-place, when they heard a shout from
the outside, which made the stranger spring
back down the stairs to ascertain the cause,
begging Clair to remain. The latter, accordingly,
began to search for the bed-rooms inhabited
by Mrs. Lesly and her daughter.
Having hastily tapped at one, and receiving no
answer, he did not hesitate to open it. Here
a night lamp was dimly burning, and, when he
looked at the heavy oak shutters, and the
closely drawn curtains, and perceived the stillness
within, he no longer wondered that they
slept. This was Mrs. Lesly's room, and, on a
bed at her feet, reposed the faithful servant
Betsy, and so soundly that Clair had to shake her
with some little violence before he could
awaken her. Her expressions of terror soon
roused Mrs. Lesly, to whom Clair explained as
much as he thought proper, begging her to get
up and allow him to take her from the house,
should it be necessary, saying he would wait
for her on the outside.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[329]</a></span></p>
<p>She needed no second bidding, but suffered
the affrighted Betsy to assist her to rise.
Clair left the room with the intention of conveying
the same warning to Mabel, but, before
he could do so, the stranger hurried to him,
and, seizing him by the hand, he wrung it
wildly, saying,</p>
<p>"That shout told that the back part of the
house is already burning. Will you take care
of Mrs. Lesly and her maid? promise me not
to leave them till they are safe, and I hope I
can manage the rest."</p>
<p>There was one other duty which Clair would
willingly have chosen, but there was now no
time for parley, and the eager pressure of the
hand, which the stranger returned for his
promise, made him no longer regret it. But, as
he leant against the wall of the passage, waiting
for Mrs. Lesly, his countenance became
more and more haggard in appearance, and his
bloodless lips and heavy eyes rather spoke of
mental pain than the fatigue of bodily exertion.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[330]</a></span></p>
<p>But, there was not much time to think, the
passage in which he waited began to feel intolerably
warm, and the air gradually thickened
with smoke.</p>
<p>He then called eagerly to Mrs. Lesly, and
once again entering the room where poor Betsy
was sobbing with alarm, he hastily finished
her preparations, by taking up an immense
cloak which lay on the floor, and wrapping it
round the poor invalid, who was coughing
violently from the exertion of dressing, he
hurried her from the room, and down stairs to
the open air.</p>
<p>Here he was rejoiced to see the faithful
gardener.</p>
<p>"Put missis in here," he said, dragging the
chair forward, which he had provided for her—"for
I don't know which'll do her most harm,
the fire or the air."</p>
<p>"That's right," said Clair, placing her in it,
and as he did so, stooping down kindly, to sooth
her anxiety for her children, and covering her up<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[331]</a></span>
from the night air, which blew chilly upon her,
for she had not left her bed for several weeks.</p>
<p>Hiding her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief,
she turned away at once from the terrific
scene before her, and the many cherished objects
of her home, soon, perhaps, to be the
spoil of the raging fire. A thousand recollections
crowded upon her mind, which was too
sensitive, and too delicately framed for the
struggles of common life. The acuteness of
her feelings, added bitterness to every trial, by
representing them to her in the most touching,
and even poetical light, till her heart was entirely
overcome by the sufferings she was too
skilled in describing to herself. In vain
Clair endeavoured to comfort her, as he accompanied
her a little way on the road to the
Manor House, when, finding his presence of little
service, he left her in the hands of her careful
servant, and hastened back to afford any assistance
he could offer to the sisters.</p>
<p>During his absence, the stranger had not
been idle; assured of Mrs. Lesly's safety by the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[332]</a></span>
promise which Clair had given him; he
turned to another door, and, too impatient to
summon its owner, he opened it gently. Here,
too, a lamp was burning, and the light that it
spread around, was quite sufficient for his rapid
gaze. He turned to the bed where lay the
beautiful, delicately shaped child; her countenance
still wet with tears, yet serene and
happy as if her dreams were not of earth.
Mabel's head lay upon the same pillow; the
little hand in hers, and the rich curls of her
chestnut hair, half concealing her face; she
seemed, in her motionless slumber, like some
trusting child, who knows that watchful eyes
guard her from danger—yet sorrow in many
shapes, had been, and was still around her.</p>
<p>He paused—the hasty call which would have
wakened both, died upon his lips; and he
stood, as if entranced, and forgetful of the danger
which every moment's delay increased.
He bent forward, and earnestly contemplated
the sleepers, and, as he did so, a smile passed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[333]</a></span>
over Mabel's face, and she murmured something
which made him listen still more earnestly.</p>
<p>But, now she starts, her bosom heaves as if
something troubled her. Again, she sleeps—but
only to start again—her hand unclasps, she
turns as if in pain—then, leaping to her feet—she
suddenly stands before him—yet scarcely
roused from the dream which had awakened
her.</p>
<p>Light, brighter than the moon, and more
glowing than the sunshine, streamed in upon the
room, and rendered the stranger's face clearly
visible; Mabel's eyes fixed upon him with
something between terror and surprise; she
tried to speak, but her lips trembled so
convulsively, that she could not utter a sound—she
tried to advance, but she felt that his
eye quelled every movement; and what did
that dark look mean, with which he regarded
her; and why, as it grew more dark, did
Mabel's form become more erect, while her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[334]</a></span>
lips curled, her cheeks flushed crimson, and her
eye also fixed on his, flashed with a fiery pride,
which but seldom showed itself upon her face.
Yet, this was but for a moment, for the stranger
taking the cloak which he had brought for
the purpose, he threw it round her, and raising
her almost from the ground with the rapidity
of his movements, he hurried her from the
room, and down the stairs. When they reached
the garden, he loosened his hold, and
suffered the cloak, which had entirely covered
her face and head, to fall back. Mabel looked
wildly round; a busy crowd was about the
house; the sickly smell of fire was in the air,
and, as she gazed back, she saw flames bursting
from the lower windows of their cottage.
In an instant she had freed herself, and
springing past him with a wild cry of terror
and agony, she entered the house, and through
the smoke and sparks scattered about her, she
was once again by Amy's side, who was
awake, and greatly terrified; and, as Mabel<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[335]</a></span>
threw herself upon her knees beside her, she
cried:—</p>
<p>"Do not leave me, Mabel dear—I shall die
if you do."</p>
<p>"Leave you, my darling," cried Mabel,
"nothing but death shall part us."</p>
<p>"If you had waited but a moment, I would
have brought her to you," said the stranger.</p>
<p>"Oh, why did you think of me first," cried
Mabel.</p>
<p>"'Twas wrong, perhaps," said the stranger;
"but it made only the difference of a few moments.
Come, my child," said he, stooping to
lift her from her couch.</p>
<p>"No, no," said Mabel, "you must take
couch and all. Oh!" said she, wringing her
hands, "will no one come and help you?"</p>
<p>"I am not afraid of fire," said a gruff
voice, and Martin entered; "I'll help, but you
must make haste."</p>
<p>"But my Mamma, where is she?" exclaimed
Mabel.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[336]</a></span></p>
<p>"She is safe, and the two servants are with her."</p>
<p>"Oh then, dear Amy, let us go to them,"
she said; and, in a quick but concise manner,
she explained how the springs of the couch
might be altered, so as to render the carriage of
it more easy.</p>
<p>The counterpane was then laid closely over,
and a shawl placed over Amy's face, and the
stranger and Martin, carrying the couch, proceeded
carefully to leave the house—Mabel,
bending over her sister, and soothing her at
every step, while she placed herself in the way
of anything which was blowing towards them,
seemingly forgetful of her own safety; but,
though nothing shielded her, she passed through
the fire entirely uninjured.</p>
<p>Occupied as all were, each with his separate
interests, few could resist a feeling of admiration
for the beautiful girl, who, in her own
simple neighbourhood, had won so much of the
love of those around her.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[337]</a></span></p>
<p>Bending over the couch, which the stranger
and Martin bore between them, her hair blown
in wild disorder about her face, which shewed
a thousand mingled feelings, as she sometimes
turned, shrinking, from the terrible
scene around her, to which she had so suddenly
awakened—sometimes, looking up in
strange bewilderment, but always, with out-stretched
hands, placing her unprotected figure
between the loved child, and the sparks and
timbers, which were repeatedly blown across
the road; she looked like some wild and
beautiful spirit of the storm, which it had no
power to harm. The uneasy motion gave
the greatest anguish to poor Amy, who, though
usually so patient, uttered shriek after shriek
of agony, which pierced the hearts of those
who hurried round in the vain hope of affording
assistance. At every turn they took, fresh
torturing cries broke from the little sufferer,
who, agonised with pain, and terrified at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[338]</a></span>
scene around her, lost every power of self-control.</p>
<p>Entirely overcome by the cries, of the
poor little sufferer, Mabel entreated them to
stop, and rather to lay her on the road
side, than take her further; Martin, who,
though a bold, and not an over humane
man, looked pale and sick with the duty he
had undertaken, readily suggested that they
might place her in the lodge, which had
long been deserted by its owner—an old woman—who
had taken refuge with the children at
the Manor House.</p>
<p>To this the stranger consented; and, after
some little difficulty, they contrived to lay her
in the old woman's room.</p>
<p>"It is the hardest night's work I've ever
had," said Martin, as he turned away. "I'll
go and send some one to her, sir, as will do
more good than I can."</p>
<p>Poor Amy's shrieks had been heart-rending
when they laid her down; but shortly afterwards,
they subsided into a low moaning sound.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[339]</a></span></p>
<p>"Though there's plenty of fire," said Martin,
"I don't think there's a candle left in all the
place; but I'll find one if I can."</p>
<p>He then went away, and the stranger alone
remained, for no one else had followed so far
but Clair, who had now gone to call his aunt.</p>
<p>"Can I do anything more for you?" said
the stranger, in a voice trembling with
emotion.</p>
<p>Mabel raised her eyes, and as they met his
for an instant, a warm blush overspread her
pale countenance.</p>
<p>"Bless you for what you have done," she
murmured, despairingly.</p>
<p>"Water?" said Amy, opening her eyes.</p>
<p>Mabel turned entreatingly to the stranger,
who, without another word, left the room.</p>
<p>Martin soon afterwards returned with a light,
and placed it on the floor, and Mabel again
entreated for water to moisten Amy's parched
lips; but it was more difficult to obtain than
she imagined, for the whole furniture of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[340]</a></span>
house had been long since removed, and the
empty cupboard looked comfortless indeed.</p>
<p>But, in a short while, the stranger returned,
and presented her with a cup of pure water,
which she eagerly gave to Amy.</p>
<p>"Thank you, sir," said Amy, gently, "and
thank you for carrying me. Did you mind my
crying? I felt very ill, and could not help it,"
she looked at him timidly. "Sir," she continued,
rousing herself with an energy which
surprised him, "Mabel will soon be alone.
Do you think any one will comfort her, and
take care of her?"</p>
<p>"May I," said he, to Mabel, suddenly moving
towards them, "may I speak to her
alone?"</p>
<p>"Yes, yes," said Amy, eagerly, "let him
speak to me."</p>
<p>"Her time is precious;" said Mabel, rising
reluctantly, "do not keep me from her long."</p>
<p>"No, I will not, but a few minutes," said
the stranger, hurriedly, and Mabel leaving the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[341]</a></span>
room went into the open air, and, leaning
against the door way, she tried to tranquillize
her thoughts. The village was shut out by
the tall trees which surrounded the entrances
to the Manor House, and the low sighing of
the wind, which was now beginning to sink,
was the only sound which met her ear, while
the busy clouds, dimly lighted by the occasional
appearance of the moon, traced their way across
the heavens. There were wild thoughts in
her own mind, which made her heart beat
tumultuously. With a sudden burst of anguish,
she threw herself upon her knees, and
laid her forehead upon the cold earth in the
bitterness of her soul.</p>
<p>She only rose when she heard the stranger's
step, and then, passing him quickly, for she
dared not trust herself to speak, she re-entered
the room.</p>
<p>Amy's cheeks were flushed, and the look of
pain seemed entirely to have passed away.
Her eyes were bright, "as if gazing on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[342]</a></span>
visions of ecstasy," while over her white countenance
was spread a halo, at once so childlike
and so serene that Mabel stepped more
softly and knelt in silence by her side.</p>
<p>Amy put out her hand, and fondly stroked
her cheeks and smoothed her hair.</p>
<p>"You are very beautiful, Mabel dear," she
said, with gentle pride, as if she spoke to
her own thoughts, "and you look more and
more beautiful because you are so good, and
what pretty hair," she said, still speaking to
herself, while her sister blushed unconsciously
at her praises.</p>
<p>"Oh, it is a dear, good Mabel," said Amy,
fondly; then changing her tone, and dropping
her hands upon her bosom with simple devotion,
she said, softly—</p>
<p>"Sing me to sleep."</p>
<p>Mabel made a strong effort to overcome her
emotion.</p>
<p>"I hear old John outside," said Amy, suddenly,
though her sister could hear nothing,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[343]</a></span>
"but I cannot see him," and her eyes filled
with tears, "but will you tell him to let no one
else come, for I want to be alone a little while,
I feel better with you. Ah, poor mamma,"
she added, thoughtfully, "but I cannot see
her either, to-night."</p>
<p>Old John was at the door as Amy had said,
and Mabel telling him to keep any one from
coming in, as Amy was going to sleep, returned
to her and then began the evening hymn.
Sweetly did those beautiful lines sound,
breathed in low and trembling melody, but she
had scarcely finished the third verse when sobs
stopped her utterance, she was, however, trying
to go on, but Amy laid her hand upon her
lips.</p>
<p>"Don't go on, Mabel, dear, I shall soon hear
angels' music. They are waiting for me now,
but I must go alone," she said, "and your dear
voice is the last sound I wished to hear on
earth. Do not leave me," she added, seeing
her attempt to rise, "you have done all that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[344]</a></span>
can be done for me, and you must not go away
now."</p>
<p>Mabel saw indeed that it was too late to call
for assistance, and she scarcely breathed, lest a
word might escape her ear.</p>
<p>"You have been very kind to me," murmured
Amy, in faint accents, "and it is very
hard to part, but listen, listen," said she,
holding up her tiny hand; then, as if the sound
were dying away, her hand fell softly down,
and all was over. A holy stillness stole over
the chamber of death, unbroken by a sound,
for Mabel's anguish was too great for tears.</p>
<p>The old gardener had seated himself on the
door step, and tears chased each other down
his weather beaten cheeks, as he listened to
Mabel's low singing, and remembered how
often the voices of both had mingled in gay
and thrilling merriment, which had made his
old heart dance, when he had pretended not
even to hear them.</p>
<p>"Ah," thought he, "let the old house burn<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[345]</a></span>
since they that made it glad are going or gone."
But then came thoughts of the sunny garden,
made more pleasant by the cheerful faces and
glad voices now hushed by death or sorrow, his
grief burst out afresh, and, burying his head in,
his knees, he gave himself up to old recollections,
heedless of every thing about him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p class="center">END OF VOL. I.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<hr class="short" />
<p class="center">T. C. Newby, Printer, 30, Welbeck Street, Cavendish Square.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<div class="transnote">
<h2><a name="Transcribers_Note" id="Transcribers_Note">Transcriber's Note</a></h2>
<p>Obvious typographical errors were corrected, as listed below. Other
apparent inconsistencies and errors have been retained, including a
mixture of British and American word usages. Perceptible missing or
incorrect punctuation or capitalization has been silently restored and
hyphenation has been made consistent. Period spellings, punctuation and
grammatical uses have been kept.</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_5">5</a> and <a href="#Page_332">332</a>, "chesnut" changed to "chestnut". (Wide spreading oaks
and tall beeches, with the graceful birch and chestnut trees bending
their lower branches nearly to the green turf beneath,...)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, "of" changed to "or". (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.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_10">10</a> and <a href="#Page_206">206</a>, "recal" changed to "recall". (... we sigh to think that
childhood is gone—but no sigh will recall it.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_22">22</a>, "comtemplating" changed to "contemplating". (By the fire was
seated a strong hale young man, with his hands upon his knees,
contemplating it with gloomy fixedness.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_23">23</a>, "morniny" changed to "morning". ('<i>cursed is he that keepeth a
man's wages all night by him until the morning</i>,')</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_23">23</a>, "no" changed to "not". ("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?")</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_28">28</a>, "therfore" changed to "therefore". (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.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_50">50</a>, "eommon" changed to "common". (I would not have any one
indifferent on common subjects, but too great attention to things of
this kind must be wrong.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_61">61</a>, "thonght" changed to "thought". (... 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.)</p>
<p>The third paragraph on page <a href="#Page_62">62</a> appears to contain speech from both
Amy and Mabel, and inconsistent use of double quotation marks. This has been left as it appears
in the original.</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_72">72</a>, "stffliy" changed to "stiffly". (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.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_85">85</a>, "subjecttion" changed to "subjection". (I should think he was
too easily won to be kept long in subjection.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_98">98</a>, "seeemed" changed to "seemed". (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.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_99">99</a>, "opprtunity" changed to "opportunity". (... he
courted every opportunity of disputing with them on the nature of their
opinions.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_104">104</a>, "let" changed to "left". (Without another word to Mabel, he
left us, and I have never seen him since.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_104">104</a>, "wisper" changed to "whisper". (Amy sat upon her pillow nearly
all day, and would whisper, 'don't cry, dear Mabel.')</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_116">116</a>, extra "you," deleted. ("I meant it most kindly, I do assure
you," you," said Mrs. Lesly.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_124">124</a>, "Leslie" changed to "Lesly" for consistency. ("Well, dear,"
said Mrs. Lesly,...)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_124">124</a>, "droppiing" changed to "dropping". ("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.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_127">127</a>, "than" changed to "then". (... where right and wrong is
concerned; and then come second thoughts—why did she wait for them?)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_139">139</a>, "und" changed to "and". (The gardens are very beautiful, and
every thing else in keeping.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_150">150</a>, "any ony one" changed to "any one". ("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.")</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_158">158</a>, "siezed" changed to "seized". (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 <i>tête-à-tête</i>.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_163">163</a>, "compostion" changed to "composition". (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.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_164">164</a>, <a href="#Page_201">201</a> and <a href="#Page_213">213</a>, "Clare" changed to "Clair" for consistency.
(Clair bowed, and then said almost in a whisper: "Thank you, I was
wrong," and continued his narrative, after a moment's pause.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_169">169</a>, "n" changed to "in". (... yet, almost slothful in the attempt
to do so.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_173">173</a>, "hm" changed to "him". ("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.")</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_187">187</a>, "fee" changed to "feel". (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.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_188">188</a>, "Clari" changed to "Clair". (It soon became evident to her
that she was perfectly in earnest in her attempts to engage the
affections of Captain Clair ...)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_202">202</a>, "answe" changed to "answer". (... which she would have fled
miles to have escaped hearing, was the only answer sentence thus given.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_224">224</a>, "past" changed to "passed". (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.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_228">228</a>, "forning" changed to "forming". ("Be not be too hasty in
forming your judgment," replied Clair.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_235">235</a>, "edying" changed to "eddying". (... and the withered leaves as
they spin round in the eddying wind, seem to call attention to
themselves, and to ask what men have been doing since they budded forth
in the gay spring, full of hope and promise to the sons of earth.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_238">238</a>, "highter" changed to "higher". (... if I mistake not, the
opinion you now entertain of her, arises from comparison with another
character of a higher standard.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_274">274</a>, "attemps" changed to "attempts". (... while her
attempts to divert the conversation, only renewed her companion's desire
to obtain an account of all she had been doing and seeing.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_278">278</a>, "errect" changed to "erect". (Not, now, with his head bent,
and his hands extended over the dying embers of his wood fire, but with
head erect in a comfortable corner, with the air of a man whose opinions
are respected, and whose words claim immediate attention.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_286">286</a>, extra "you" deleted. ("Do not talk in that way," said old
Giles, gently, "if I am content with my house, you should not make it a
cause for dispute.")</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_290">290</a>, "did'nt" changed to "didn't". (He often looked as if he'd got
some one looking over his shoulder as he didn't over relish—ha, ha!)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_294">294</a>, "yonr" changed to "your". (If you ever feel as I did, do not
ask questions, and put yourself wrong, and then try and set yourself
right by your own judgment, as I did;)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_301">301</a>, "repectful" changed to "respectful". (Your most devoted and
respectful <span class="smcap">Arthur Clair</span>.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_302">302</a>, "altogther" changed to "altogether". (Some of their little
property she knew rested in the hands of an improvident and extravagant
aunt, and the remainder of their income would fail altogether when her
mother's pension dropped.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_303">303</a>, "footfal" changed to "footfall". (... she who could scarcely
hear the sound of a heavy footfall without pain, or be moved, without
the greatest agony, from the couch on which she constantly lay.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_326">326</a>, "wonnderful" changed to "wonderful". (... for the wind which
came down from the hills with furious blasts seemed to mock at every
effort to extinguish the fire, while it fanned the faintest spark into a
flame, and then spread it with wonderful rapidity.)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_331">331</a>, "touehing" changed to "touching". (The acuteness of her
feelings, added bitterness to every trial, by representing them to her
in the most touching, and even poetical light,...)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_332">332</a>, "haud" changed to "hand". (Mabel's head lay upon the same
pillow; the little hand in hers, and the rich curls of her chestnut
hair, half concealing her face;)</p>
<p>Page <a href="#Page_344">344</a>, "murmered" changed to "murmured". ("You have been very kind to
me," murmured Amy ...)</p>
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<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 41564 ***</div>
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