"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."
"I cannot leave Gloucestershire without coming to see you, dear Annie, and your sweet children, and therefore, if you say nothing to the contrary, I will drive over some how on Monday, and remain till Tuesday. If not asking too much of my dear sister, I shall leave Lucy with you; she is not quite well, and a run in the country will do her good, after the heat of Bath. My little girl finds pleasure in anything, and I promise you she shall be very good if you will let her come to you."
"Oh, how nice, mamma," cried Amy.
"Very nice that your aunt is coming, I allow," said Mrs. Lesly, "but I do not know what to say to Lucy, all little girls are not so good as my Amy."
"It would be unkind to refuse her," said Mabel.
"And if she is not well, poor child," added her mother. "I quite forget how old Lucy is, she cannot be so very little after all."
"But," said Amy, "aunt calls her, her little girl, and says she will be very good; if she were grown up like Mabel, of course she would not be naughty."
"I do not know that," said Mrs. Lesly, with a smile, "grown up people are often as naughty as little ones; so either way she was right to promise. Well, we must have the spare room opened, it must be quite damp, I fear, after being shut up so long."
"Oh, no, mamma," said Mabel, "I openthe windows every morning, myself, so that I am sure the room is well aired."
"There must be a fire there, however, I suppose," replied her mother, trying to exert herself to think.
"Yes, Betsy shall light a fire there to-day, and I will see that the room is comfortable."
"But stay," said Mrs. Lesly, who was always troubled by anything like arrangements, "who is to sleep in Lucy's room when Caroline is gone. I am afraid we cannot manage it."
"We will see how old she is when she comes," suggested Mabel, "and if she is afraid to sleep by herself Betsy must sleep with her; but from what I remember she cannot be very young."
"Well then, my dear," said her mother, "and so you will promise to contrive to make everything comfortable; now nothing makes me so ill as arranging, and your poor papa never left me anything of that kind to think of. Iremember once going down to Weymouth, when you were a baby. I could not tell what I should do there, being obliged to sleep at an hotel, for the first night, for we could not find a lodging, the town was so very full. So when we came there, we could get nothing but a small, uncomfortable room; and some how or other, we could not find any of the baby's things without pulling our boxes all about so, and I was so tired and teased, that I sat down, and—and—
"'Annie,' said he, 'now don't cry—I can bear anything better than your tears—leave everything to me—it will be much the easiest plan.'
"And so I did—and he put my nurse to work so busily, that my baby was asleep before I could think about it; and the next morning he was up early, managed to secure us a lodging, and made us all comfortable. Ah, I am afraid he spoilt me, I do not know how to do anything now, I fear."
"Well, dear mamma," said Mabel, twining her arm round her neck, and kissing her affectionately, "I would not have you miss my dear papa less than you do; but you must not tease yourself about anything. Did I not promise to try and supply his place? I do not mean to let you have any trouble at all. Here is your desk and a new pen—the ink is a little too light, but it writes freely—and now, while you answer my aunt's letter, you will be glad to get rid of us."
"I do not want to drive you away, love," replied her mother; "but you know I can never write if there is the least noise—so, perhaps, you had better go, and take Amy with you. I have not written for such an age, it makes me quite nervous."
"Oh, yes, I know, mamma dear; come, Amy, we will go and look to the spare room. I will seal your letter, mamma, when it is finished."
Mabel was soon busy in thinking over theaccommodations necessary for visitors, with Betsy's aid, amidst Amy's incessant questions.
"Do you think, Mabel," she began, "that Lucy is very little?"
"I do not much think she is little at all," replied Mabel.
"But aunt Villars called her, my little girl," persisted Amy.
"Yes, but many mammas talk of grown up children in the same way."
"Do you think," said Amy, after watching her sister for a few minutes in silence, "I had better put some of my books on the shelf for her to read, if she happens to like them?"
"If you have any that will look pretty, you may put them there certainly."
"Do you think she will like the swing at Mr. Ware's?"
"If she is like you, perhaps she may; but whether she be little or not, we must both try and make her pass her time pleasantly, youknow," said Mabel, as she glanced round the room with approval.
The chintz curtains had been re-hung—the snow-white coverlet had been placed upon the bed—and the dressing-table arranged with the most careful attention to comfort and convenience. Everything, in the careful arrangement which Mabel had bestowed upon the room, seemed to speak a welcome; and through the open window the fresh breezes of the Cotswold hills passed freely.
"Does it not look comfortable?" said Mabel, appealing to her talkative companion.
"Yes, Mabel, dear, everything looks nice that you manage; but," added she, returning to the former subject, "if she is a great girl, what can I do to amuse her?"
"Oh, many things," returned Mabel; "even you can do, I think, if you try; you must not talk to her very much, and ask her too many questions."
"Do I tease you, Mabel, dear, when I ask you questions?"
"Not often; but then you know I love you," said her sister, "and therefore do not get teased."
"But why do you think she will not love me?"
"I think it very likely she will love you," said Mabel, looking down upon her affectionately, "if you are good; but not till she knows you, not very much, at least. You know, we must buy people's love."
"Do you mean by making them presents?" said Amy, looking a little shocked at the idea.
"Not what you mean by presents certainly," said Mabel, smiling.
"What then?"
"Well then, first, you must give them your love, before you consider what they think of you."
"Is that a certain way of buying love?"
"It will be nearly certain," said Mabel, "toget you good will, at least, from every one, whose esteem is really valuable, for when we love, we try to do everything that is kind; we are not easily offended by little things that might annoy us, if we did not love; and then the wish to avoid giving offence, will lead us to govern our feelings, so that we may not be sullen, or out of temper, which would make us disoblige them by saying anything to wound their feelings."
"Would it do anything else?" said Amy, who always liked to hear her sister talk.
"Yes, I think it would lead us to speak the truth, for fear of encouraging them in any bad thing; for if we must not do wrong, we must not let it be done by others, if we can help it, particularly by those we love."
"But then," said Amy, "if a person is bad, do not you think it would be better to wait and see? We ought not to like a bad person, you said, one day."
"Not exactly that; I told you not to beintimate with Mary Watson, because she did many things I did not like, and knew a good many little girls, who could not teach her any good; but still, I think, if, for some reason, we were obliged to have Mary Watson here, you might love her just as much as I told you to love Lucy, for if you spoke the truth, she could not think you liked any of her naughty ways."
"Then why may I not know her now—could I not speak the truth?"
"Perhaps you might," said Mabel; "but I think, sometimes, that not to avoid temptation, is taking one step to evil; so I thought it best to avoid Mary Watson, as I could scarcely hope you would do her very much good, and she might do you harm."
"You always think of me, Mabel," said Amy; "when do you find time to think of yourself?"
"When I go to bed," she replied, "and then I ask myself if I have been as kind to my little orphan sister as I ought to be?"
"But, Mabel, dear, when you sit alone, sometimes, and look so very sad, and I come in, and see tears on your face, is that about me?"
"No; but it is not often so."
"Not often; but I am so vexed when it is. Why is it, Mabel dear?"
"Because," she said, her eyes filling with tears as she spoke, "somebody loved me once, who does not love me now."
"No, I am sure that is not true—every one loves you; mamma, Mr. Ware, Miss Ware, Betsy, John, every one." "I am sure that can't be true, and it is naughty to fancy unkind things; Mabel, dear, dear, Mabel," said the child, jumping on a stool and throwing her arms lightly round her neck, "and you are never naughty."
"Oh, yes I am, many many times a-day," said Mabel, hiding her face on Amy's shoulder, "my good, good, child, what should I do without you."
"Oh, nothing without me, you could not get on at all without me."
"Not very well, I think, certainly," said Mabel, smiling through her tears at Amy's satisfaction, "but we have been a long time away, and mamma must have finished her letter—come and let us seal it before the man calls again, for if it is not ready, what will become of our visitors."
"But, Amy," said she, sinking her voice almost to a whisper, "never tell mamma or any one that I ever cry, or why I cry."
"Oh, never, you know I can keep a secret."
"You promise," said Mabel.
"Yes, I promise faithfully."
This is a likeness may they all declare,And I have seen him, but I know not where.Crabbe.
This is a likeness may they all declare,And I have seen him, but I know not where.
Crabbe.
Mrs. Lesly had been, as a girl, both beautiful and accomplished, gifted with good natural talents, though possessing little perseverance and much indolence of character. Upon her marriage every faculty of her mind became absorbed in devotion to her husband, and an almost indolent dependence on his will. Since his death she had continued so very depressed that, at the time when both Mabel and Amy might have much needed a mother's care, she feltevery exertion too great for her weakened nerves and failing health.
She had, by her marriage, entered a family a little above her own, and now suffered the too general consequence, in the neglect of her husband's relations. She felt all things deeply, and this, if possible, aggravated her loss. The Lesly and Hargrave families were closely connected, but the absence of the Colonel, whose family mansion lay so near them, prevented her receiving that attention which the neighbourhood of a rich relation might have procured her. The secluded life to which she now clung so earnestly, only increased the extreme sensitiveness of her feelings. Her mind therefore, suffered to prey upon itself, became a curse instead of a blessing, as it might have been, had it been employed in any useful purpose; and the delicacy and refinement of her nature, now only quickened her perception of the slightest coldness, or unkindness in those around her; spreading about her a kind of atmosphereof refined suffering, which duller eyes would never have discovered.
Yet the indulgence which she claimed from others always rendered her an object of affection, and her devotion to the memory of her husband veiled many failings, and excused her indolence sometimes even in the eyes of the most ascetic. Joined to this weakness of character, however, she possessed many fine qualities. She was generous in the extreme, and liberal to a total forgetfulness of self, and would forgive, where no injury was intended, with a magnanimity, which, applied to a real offence, would have been noble. She was also very patient under the oppression of continual ill health, and though too indolent to exert herself, she was capable of suffering without complaint.
Mabel inherited her mother's intellect and delicacy of feeling, but seconded by a strong will and great common sense. She possessed also beauty equal, if not superior, to hers, though in her face it always seemed secondary to thefeelings which were spoken by it. But there was one peculiar charm in her character, which secured the love of those around her as powerfully as an Eastern talisman. It was a reliance on the good will of others, drawn perhaps from the reflection of her own heart—a kind of security in the feeling that there is always good to those who rightly seek it; a trust in the virtue of others which often proves a touchstone to wake its hidden springs, whilst all feel ashamed of disappointing a hope, founded more on the truest feelings of charity, than on weakness or pusillanimity.
Unlike her mother, she scarcely ever suffered from illness, and gratefully used the blessing of strong nerves and untiring strength in aiding the weakness or bearing with the irritability of others.
Happy the child who possessed such a guide and playfellow, to listen to all the questions and trifles so wearisome to the sick or weak.
Mabel's patience was often called in requisitionduring the few days which passed before the arrival of the aunt and niece from Cheltenham. At least half a dozen questions would be asked almost in the same form, to which she had to give answers.
At length however, the long expected hour arrived, and Amy had seated herself on the lawn to catch the first sight of that corner of the road which was the furthest point visible, and Mabel was frequently sent to the gate to watch for the carriage, by Mrs. Lesly, who was enduring all the discomfort and nervousness of being quite ready to receive them a long while before it was at all probable they would arrive.
Captain Clair, too, who had, as Mr. Ware's nephew, established a kind of intimacy at the cottage, was leaning over the gate, refusing to come in, lest he should disturb the family meeting, yet seeming well inclined to chat away the time with either of the sisters.
"I am sure you are spoiling your sister, MissLesly," said he, after hearing the patient answer to the sixth repetition of 'do you think they are coming;' and Amy had ran in to her mamma to report.
"That is a very grave accusation, but I do not think you quite believe it," said Mabel; "indulge, but not spoil."
"Well, indeed," said he, "it would be difficult to find fault with such persevering self-denial, so we will say, indulgence."
"It requires little self-denial," said Mabel; "to be kind to a very young, and very dear sister. No, self-denial will not do, I will not take the praise of a martyr for doing what I love best. Are you certain," she added, "you do not feel the sun too much, where you are standing, had you not better come in and speak to mamma?"
"Not on any account, thank you," he replied, smiling; "I intend to vanish when the carriage comes up, and present only the veryinteresting appearance of a departing friend, in order to give a little life to such a landscape."
Mabel laughed.
"Here they are, then, now you may look picturesque."
"Not quite yet, wait a bit, I must be a little more prominent first, or they would never see me. Now is the very moment," raising his hat to Mabel, and with these concluding words, he walked slowly away.
Mabel was seized with momentary shyness, and retreated unobserved, to seek Mrs. Lesly, whose head began to ache, from waiting so long—but, as the party took a long time in alighting, and collecting from the vehicle a multiplicity of boxes, she felt ashamed of being afraid of strangers, and ran down again to meet them.
"Oh, my charming niece," exclaimed her aunt, with apparent cordiality, and kissing her warmly; "how do you do, my sweet girl, let me make you acquainted with my Lucy."
Lucy, who, to Amy's disappointed eye, did not look at all little, took Mabel's hand with earnestness, and putting one arm round her neck, kissed her with extreme warmth, exclaiming:—
"We shall be dear friends, I know."
"I hope so," said Mabel, startled alike at her relation's warmth, and her own composure, which appeared something like coldness.
Mrs. Lesly was met by her sister with the same enthusiasm which quite overcame her weak nerves, and she burst into tears; she could not tell why, she thought it might be joy, or that her head was overpowered by the sweet scent on their pocket-handkerchiefs, or the rapidity of her sister's conversation, and expressions of endearment. Mabel looked on in dismay, a scene had been produced which she was puzzled to remove.
"Dear mamma, do not cry," said she, then turning to Mrs. Villars who was overwhelming her with caresses, she added, hastily; "mammais not quite well to-day, but she will be better presently, if she is quiet a little while. Will you come and take your bonnet off, aunt, for you must be tired after your drive."
"No, my dear, but I think I will venture to leave her a moment while I run down and see if our boxes are all right; an immense deal of luggage, but then, I am going home, you know. I brought my maid too, though I forgot to mention her in my note." Mrs. Lesly looked alarmed. "I really do not know if she has looked to every thing, but I will go and see, I always like to see things right myself," and with an important air, she hurried down stairs.
Mrs. Villars was of imposing appearance, though too bustling in her manners to be altogether dignified, with colour a little too brilliant, and hair a little too stiffly curled, to be quite natural. Yet, whatever was artificial, was very well added to a good figure, and fine face.
Poor Amy was quite awed into a bewildered silence. Mrs. Villars presently bustled back again, telling Mabel she was now quite ready to go to her room.
"This way, then," said Mabel, shewing them to the chamber she had so carefully prepared; "this is your room, and I hope you will find every thing comfortable."
"Oh, I dare say," she said, looking round, as if approving a child's doll's-house; "everything so very neat and nice, and where is Lucy to sleep."
"This is the only spare room we have furnished and fit for sleeping in now; the rest are shut up," said Mabel, a little timidly, "and we thought you would not mind sleeping together for one night, as you say you cannot stay longer, aunt."
"Oh, yes, we will contrive—but what is to be done with our maid."
"I must manage for her presently," saidMabel; "Betsy has been told to make her comfortable for the present."
"What time do you dine, dear," said Mrs. Villars; "the air of these hills makes one hungry. I really could dine unfashionably early to-day."
"I fancied so, and therefore ordered dinner to be ready half an hour after your expected arrival," said Mabel; who tried to keep them in conversation till Mrs. Lesly should have time to recover herself; and this delay so far succeeded, that on their return to the drawing-room, they found her quite composed.
Dinner being soon after announced, Mrs. Villars gave her arm to her sister, in the tenderest manner possible, saying.
"Well, dear, I hoped to find you quite strong, I must not have any more of these naughty hysterics, or I shall think you are not glad to see me."
"Indeed—indeed, Caroline, you mistake my feelings."
"Well, then, smile away, and I shall read them right. What do you think of my Lucy?" she added, in a whisper; "I wish I could shew you all my girls—for admiring beauty, and accomplishments, as you always did—I do not know what you would say, if you saw them all together. Now, in my opinion, Mabel is perfect."
The last speech reached Mabel's ear, and, perhaps, was intended to do so—but quick as she was in the ready perception of virtue, she had never feebly blinded herself to the faults of others. These few words made her feel uncomfortable—for she was immediately aware that there was a want of sincerity in her aunt's manner, which, betraying some latent reason for dissimulation, always produces a feeling of dislike, or fear.
To Mrs. Villars Mabel soon became an object of fear—she could not tell why, but she had scarcely been a few minutes in her company without perceiving that superiority which theweak-minded find it difficult cheerfully to recognise. Superiority in what, she did not stop to analyse—but even while most lavish of her endearments, she was secretly almost uncomfortable in her presence.
Mrs. Villars had given herself a worldly education, which, though it had moulded even her virtues and foibles according to its own fashion, had never yet been able, entirely, to eradicate the sense of right which had been inculcated in earlier years; yet she only preserved it as a continual punishment for every act of dissimulation and wrong, without ever allowing it to regain entire ascendency over her; though it was a conscience to which she felt bound perpetually to excuse herself. So false, indeed, had she turned to herself, that Mabel's open, honest, truth-telling eyes seemed something like a reproach.
Love for her children—one of the greatest virtues of a woman's heart—had become one of her greatest failings. Her natural dispositionrendered her love strong and untiring; but worldliness had warped its usefulness, rendering that love, in its foolish extreme, only a means of making herself miserable, without really serving them. She learned to spoil, but had no resolution to reprove; and they had grown up in accordance with such training.
As children they had been coaxed and bribed to appear sweet-tempered and obliging in company—the plan succeeded; but only left them more ill-tempered and unmanageable when the restraint was removed. This system was, however, too readily followed; and as they grew older, their foolish parent saw no other efficient plan for securing their position in society, than that of continuing the same course of indulgence. She now tried, by the most unbounded gratification of their wishes, to secure to herself that love which timely discipline might easily have preserved in tempers not naturally degenerate. But veiling this weakness,she prided herself on the greatness of her parental love, and threatened to weary every one else by the excess to which she carried it.
Glad of an opportunity of touching on her favorite topic, she said to her sister—
"You must come and see us all some day. Mr. Villars would be so glad to see you, and I should have an opportunity of shewing you my pet girls."
"I never stir out now," returned Mrs. Lesly, shaking her head mournfully, "scarcely even beyond my own door. But Lucy will, I dare say, give us a specimen of all your sayings and doings in time. I should much like to see the children; but fear there is but little inducement to ask any of them to a place where there is so very little going on. My Mabel is very fond of the country, or I should often have been vexed at our seeing so little company."
"Oh, you are quite mistaken, my dear," saidMrs. Villars, quickly. "Caroline and Selina are very fond of the country, and so are you, Lucy."
"Yes, I like it very well in the summer," said Lucy, languidly.
"Do you like the snow?" asked Amy, speaking for the first time.
"No, not much; but we had better not talk of snow in August—it is too near to be pleasant," said Lucy, a little impatiently.
"You forget the balls, my dear," said her mama, soothingly, and watchful of her children's tempers as a lover of his mistress.
"No, mama, I was speaking of snow in the country, and there, I suppose, there is not much dancing. Are you fond of balls, Mabel? but I forgot, I need not ask, for, of course, you are."
"I have never been to a public ball," replied Mabel, "but I have often enjoyed a dance at a friend's house."
"Have you really never been to a ball," exclaimed Lucy, opening her pretty blue eyes wide, with half real and half affected astonishment. "You would be enchanted with Bath. We have such delightful balls once a week. The Thursday balls they are called, and then every season—"
"Lucy, love, you will tire your aunt with your prattle," said her mama, "now confess, Annie, does she not make your head ache?"
"A little," replied her sister, "but do not let my weakness interfere with her enjoyment. She will have little else to listen to besides her own voice," Mrs. Lesly added, trying to smile away her sister's chagrin at finding it really possible that she could be tired at hearing Lucy talk.
There was a momentary pause, when Mrs. Lesly, anxious to conciliate by returning to the subject she perceived gave most interest, enquired—
"Is Lucy your eldest?"
"Oh, dear no! Caroline is the eldest, Selina second, and Lucy the youngest."
"But I think you have one more, have you not?" said Mrs. Lesly.
"How can you forget how many children your own sister has?" said Mrs. Villars.
"My memory is getting feeble, and you must excuse me," replied Mrs. Lesly anxiously, "my forgetfulness arises from no want of affection; but I have not seen you for a year or two now."
"I had forgotten," returned Mrs. Villars, "how time flies. I really must write oftener to you, and keep up your knowledge of us. Well, there is my Maria—but, poor child, I am in despair with her—so unfortunate."
"Not ill, I hope?" enquired Mrs. Lesly.
"No, no—that could be cured—a doctor might cure that; but this, nothing can cure. She is ugly—positively ugly—by the side of her sisters at least; and more than that, she isungraceful. I have tried the best academy in the town, but nothing will do her any good—such a contrast to the rest, she never will settle I fear."
Mabel glanced at Amy, who was drinking in her aunt's words with the eager curiosity natural to a child, and fearing the effects of this worldly conversation upon her young sister, she persuaded Lucy to come with them into the garden.
Lucy put her arm in Mabel's, whilst Amy watched the movement jealously.
"Here is a lovely peep at the hills," said Mabel, leading their guest to one of the prettiest parts of the garden, where a stone seat was placed near a break in the trees, commanding a view of the country beyond.
Here they seated themselves, looking for a short while, in silence, on the landscape, which the setting sun rendered still more lovely. Had Mabel expected any fine remark to follow this momentary pause in the conversation, shewould have been disappointed, for Lucy's next enquiry was whether there were many nice people in the neighbourhood.
"Yes," said Mabel. "Mr. and Miss Ware are very nice people."
"Who are they?" asked Lucy.
"Our rector and his sister."
"Is he unmarried?" enquired Lucy, with increasing interest.
"Yes," replied Mabel, smiling, "but not very young."
"But still marriageable, I suppose?"
"Barely," said Mabel, "at least, I do not think he would consider himself so now. Why, he must be nearly seventy."
"Then who was that fine young man that was walking down the road just now, with light whiskers, and a military air. I did not expect to see such a handsome,distinguélooking young man down in the country here."
"That is Mr. Ware's nephew," said Mabel.
"Oh! then he does live here—what is his name?"
"Captain Clair; he is only here for a short time, for his health," replied Mabel; "but how could you tell he had light whiskers?"
"Because he passed while we were at dinner, so that I had a good look at him," said Lucy, half blushing.
"Amy," said Mabel, "there is Captain Clair beckoning for you to run to him, and I dare say he will get you the blackberries he promised you."
Amy ran away to the garden-gate, where Captain Clair was waiting for her, and hand in hand they were soon down the blackberry lane that led to the fields.
"What a very fine young man," exclaimed Lucy, as she watched them out of sight; "do you see him often—I suppose he is a beau of yours?"
"No, oh, no," said Mabel; "a sort of friendhe has made himself—but certainly not a beau."
"Ah, you say so."
"And I mean so," said Mabel.
"You mean then, that he is free for conquest," laughed Lucy, coquettishly.
"As far as I am concerned, he is as free as air," said Mabel; "but I would not have you attempt such a conquest, I should think he was too easily won to be kept long in subjection."
"Ah, I know what you mean," said Lucy; "a sort of man that falls in love with every tolerable girl he meets—the very thing for a country visit."
"Well, I suppose neither party would be in much danger if those are your real sentiments," said Mabel. "Captain Clair is too discerning to be entangled by a mock feeling, and you are wise enough to think of nothing more."
"Exactly so," replied Lucy; "but oh,whose pretty house is that amongst the trees?"
"Colonel Hargrave's," said Mabel.
"Colonel Hargrave!" cried Lucy, "cousin Henry, as we call him now. Do you know, Mabel, he is just come back to England, and mamma wrote to ask him to come and see us in Bath. I am so longing to meet him; and we have made up in our minds, already, a match between him and Caroline—that you know would do very well, for she is just thirty, and he must be a few years older, must he not?"
"Yes, I think so," said Mabel.
"And that would be a very nice difference, you know. I am quite longing for him to come. I have talked the match over with Selina so often, that I cannot help looking upon it as quite certain; and then we should have such a nice house to come and stay at; and you would be so delightfully near—would it not be pleasant?"
"You will find it cold without your bonnet," said Mabel, evasively, "shall we go in and fetch it."
"No, thank you," said Lucy; "but I see you are not fond of match-making."
"No, I confess I am not," said Mabel; "but I suppose you hear a great deal of it in Bath, where so many matches must be talked over."
"Oh! an immense deal—it is quite amusing to hear of so many projected marriages, and of their coming to nothing after all."
"But that is why I think match-making anything but amusing," said Mabel.
"But then all theéclatof 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 nibblingof a trout, which just serves to keep up the hope of ultimately catching one. Mamma talks a great deal about Caroline's beauty, and her charming spirits—but she does not know how to sleep for wishing her married. It would be horrible to have her an old maid—so I hope and trust the good Colonel, with, I dare say, Indian guineas, and an Indian face, will take pity on her, and bring her here."
"Give me a description of Caroline," said Mabel, suddenly. "Is she not very beautiful and accomplished?"
"How you startle me," said Lucy. "Why she is very tall—fine features, people say—she has black hair and black eyes, and dances splendidly—polks to admiration—so very good-natured—and witty before company—and rather the reverse behind the scenes—in short, would do much better for Mrs. Hargrave than for the eldest of four maiden sisters—and so, in all due affection, I should be very glad to see her married."
"Is she clever as well as beautiful?" said Mabel.
"She sings and plays beautifully. Yes, I believe she is clever—knows French well."
Mabel sighed.
"I do not know how it is," said Lucy, when after a short silence, they prepared to return to the house, "but I feel you to be quite a friend already. I must love you, whether you will let me or not."
"I shall be very glad to have you love me," said Mabel, gently; "but wait till you know me better."
"I can never wait and deliberate, when loving is the question," said Lucy; "it is like me; I am always quick in my likes and dislikes—and I feel now as if I could tell you every secret of my heart—I am only nineteen, so such want of consideration is pardonable—is it not, dear Mabel?"
"It is not quite safe, perhaps," replied Mabel; "but yet rather easy to forgive, in the present—instance—atleast, when I feel myself to be concerned. But if you make me your friend, you must give me the power of an elder sister."
"Not like Caroline," said Lucy, with a look of pretended terror.
"I shall not let you find fault with Caroline," said Mabel, "that is my first effort of authority; but you have chosen to love me, and you must take my friendship on my own terms."
"Well, I think I will take it on any terms. I dare say it will be worth having," said Lucy; "but first, you must seal our friendship with a kiss, and tell me that you love me as much as I do you."
"My love is of slower growth," replied Mabel, smiling; "but I promise to deal with you as if I loved you. Will that do?"
"I suppose it must," said Lucy.
"You are right," said Mabel, kissing her pouting lips, "that must do till we know each other better."
Whence then that peaceSo dovelike? settling o'er a soul that lovedEarth and its treasures? Whence that angel smileWith which the allurements of a world so dearWere counted and resigned?Mrs. Sigourney.
Whence then that peaceSo dovelike? settling o'er a soul that lovedEarth and its treasures? Whence that angel smileWith which the allurements of a world so dearWere counted and resigned?
Mrs. Sigourney.
Mabel and Lucy retired that night early, in order that they might leave the sisters time to talk quietly over the fire, which a chilly evening rendered not unwelcome.
Mrs. Villars placed her feet on the fender, and turning up her dress to prevent the fire injuring it, she made herself perfectly comfortable in preparation for a long chat. Mrs.Lesly had seated herself opposite in her arm-chair, with a glass of lemonade on a small table by her side, which she sipped from time to time, as she listened to long accounts of her sister's hopes and fears for her children's welfare, together with various anecdotes, tending to show the admiration they excited wherever they appeared. At length, these long and varied narrations came to an end—and Mrs. Villars, turning to her sister, enquired, in a tone which seemed to say, confidence claimed confidence, if there had not been some story about Mabel's marrying.
A very sensible feeling of pain passed for an instant over Mrs. Lesly's countenance before she replied—
"Yes, but that was a long time ago, and I cannot bear to think of it now."
"But," said Mrs. Villars, who always peculiarily interested herself in anything relative to marriage, "you never told me the particulars, and I should so like to know them."
"No," said Mrs. Lesly, "I remember I only just mentioned it for I was so much pained at the time, that I could not write on the subject."
"You never even told me the gentleman's name," said Mrs. Villars.
"No, Mabel made me promise to mention that to no one; I felt it was delicate and right in her to wish it, and I have never spoken of him openly since, indeed amongst ourselves he is as if forgotten."
"A man of property, was he not?" said Mrs. Villars, "and quite young I think you said?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Lesly, with a half sigh, "the marriage seemed in every way desirable, they were well suited in age, and I thought in character, and rejoiced to think that she would have a companion in life so well calculated to show her off to advantage. He was, besides, a man of considerable fortune, and my Mabel is, I think, particularly fitted for astation above that which she at present enjoys. Her taste in painting and sculpture, has been acknowledged by masters—and tho' so kind and useful and simple hearted now, I always thought she was fitted to dispense even patronage. Ah, well, these were the dreams of days gone by, and I do not know why I bring them up to-night, except to shew you that the sacrifice she made was no ordinary one. Ah, poor girl, the contrast is striking, now she is soon likely to want even a home."
"Was it not a long attachment?" said Mrs. Villars as her sister paused.
"Yes," returned, Mrs. Lesly, rousing herself, "they had been more or less attached from childhood. There was always a kind of wayward goodness in Mabel, that was very attractive. She had generally her own way, but that way seemed so unselfish that I had neither the power nor the wish to complain. He admired this spirit, mixed with so much sweetness; nothing she did seemed wrong, andeven when she was indiscreet, which I dare say she might have been very often—he said, it was because she was more pure-minded than other people."
"Well, I do not see anything very sad in all this. I should have been highly flattered," said Mrs. Villars, "now my Selina is so like what you describe, she does the most indiscreet and pretty things imaginable sometimes."
Mrs. Lesly continued silent for a few minutes, then again rousing herself she continued—
"He used to call Mabel his little wife, long before her papa died, and I used to think over it all, as you remember we used to talk of things a long time since."
"I see," thought Mrs. Villars, "a case of jilt, very distressing, but an old story to those who know the world as well as I do." She felt a slight sensation of comfort at arriving at this idea, when she remembered her own unmarried daughters.
"Well," continued, Mrs. Lesly, "whenever he came to the neighbourhood, which he often did, they were almost always together. Sometimes they would walk in the fields at the back of our house, Mabel leaning on his arm, whilst he carried Amy. But unfortunately when his father died he went to Paris, and staid there about a twelve-month. When he returned he was altered, how or why I could not tell, but it seemed as if the simplicity of his character was gone, though I tried hard to think him only more manly. Mabel was a beautiful girl when he returned, and it was soon easy to perceive that however changed he might be in other respects, his affection for her remained unaltered." Mrs. Lesly stopped to sip her lemonade, and then with some little effort continued—"His return," she said, "to which we looked forward so much, did not make us happier. He would persuade her to go out sometimes, but she always came back soon, and often looked as though she had been crying, though she never said any thing—Ithen noticed and watched him more carefully, and at length I found that he had not entered the church since his return from France, a practice he never before neglected. I then paid more attention to his conversation, and often brought up serious questions on purpose. Here I discovered the sad truth; he talked very seriously of virtue and moral responsibility, but if I spoke of religion in connexion with it, he changed the subject or looked at Mabel, and was silent.
"I was now quite puzzled, it seemed hard to find fault with one so good in every other respect, but in religion, which he spoke of as a curious and useful superstition, acting as a guide to vulgar minds. 'Mabel,' said I, one day, 'what does all this mean? What has come over him to make him think as he does?'
"You must know, Caroline, that indolent as my weak health has made me, and careless of imparting things, I used so much to value, I had not neglected my child in the most importantof all points of knowledge; sickness had made me prize that, in proportion as every thing else lost interest; but I did fear for her when, with only my weak lessons she had, perhaps, to answer the arguments of a man of peculiar talent, and great though mistaken penetration, aided by the love, I was well aware, she felt for him."
"But you studied these points well I know," said Mrs. Villars, "and I dare say fully explained them."
"You are right," replied Mrs. Lesly, "at least I tried to do so, I always have endeavoured to make the heart and head act together. You will see that I succeeded, beyond my hopes. It seemed that he had been in the constant habit, of confiding every thing to her, and had always found an admiring listener to his thoughts on most subjects. On his return from France, he was too candid to conceal from her, the change his opinions had undergone. It appeared, from his own account, that whileabroad, his society had been mostly composed of those generally distinguished by the name of free thinkers. Perhaps, feeling that he could argue well, and with a too presumptuous trust in himself, he courted every opportunity of disputing with them on the nature of their opinions. With daring intellect, he trusted every thing to his understanding, and nothing to his faith. He found superior intellect, and the consequences were too natural—I do not think he had any settled views afterwards, and I very much fear became little less than an infidel. All this I gleaned by repeated questions from my poor, broken-hearted child.
"'Now,' said I, 'my Mabel, this is too serious a point for husband and wife to differ upon, this I once hoped you would be to each other, but he is no longer worthy of you. Now you must prove what and how you believe.' I spoke sternly, for I feared for her, she kissed me fervently but she could not speak. 'Do you understand me, Mabel,' I said.
"She only replied, 'I do,' but that was sufficient, my heart ached for her, but I was at peace. It was not long after this conversation, that the last scene occurred; I remember I had been sitting in my room all the morning, finishing some work that Mabel had begun for me. At length, I grew tired of being alone, and, taking up my work, I went down stairs. I heard a voice speaking loudly in the sitting-room, and I guessed whose it was. I felt frightened—for since my William's death, everything affects me—so I stopped; but I heard my child sobbing, and I opened the door directly. She was seated at the table, leaning down, and covering her face with her hands. She always feared to vex me by letting me see her grieve; but I saw she was too agitated even to think of me at that moment. He was standing opposite, glaring on her like a maniac.
"'Madam,' said he, turning to me as Ilooked for an explanation, 'it is well, perhaps, that you are here, to witness your daughter's coquetry, or her madness.'
"'Sir,' replied I, 'pray remember to whom you speak; there may be a slight difference in our rank, or wealth rather, but none that I recognise where my child is concerned.'
"'Do not attempt to reason with me,' he replied, 'I am mad. Your daughter, in whose love I, at least, had faith, is fanatic enough to refuse to marry me, because we differ on some absurd points of superstitious doctrine.'
"'I cannot agree with you,' I said, trying to speak calmly, 'in calling them absurd, and that is where we differ. What happiness can Mabel expect with one who ridicules the motives which are, at once, the guide and blessing of her existence?—or what reliance can she have on a man who does not even recognise the principles on which she alone relies for strength. I think Mabel is quite right toremain as she is, sacrificing, as she does, every worldly interest to a noble principle.'
"The poor girl started up, and walking to him, laid her pretty hand upon his arm, and looking at him beseechingly, she said—'Do not let us part in anger—I can bear anything but that—let me remain your friend for ever, even as you are; but do not think me wrong for refusing to be your wife.'
"I never shall forget that moment; he shook her from him, as if she had been a serpent. She reeled back for an instant, and then sank at my feet.
"He looked down upon her, as she lay upon the floor, hiding her face in my gown, as if he would have withered her with his contempt. Oh, how could he think I could have trusted her to one like him?
"'Feeble as was my hold on religion before,' he burst out—"'It is broken now, if this be the effects of it,' and he looked down upon my poor stricken girl.
"I was silent.
"'What right,' thought I, 'have I to retaliate upon him reproach for reproach?' but I thought my heart would break.
"'Why did she not try to win me to her truth,' he exclaimed, 'if she thinks it of so much consequence?'
"'Has she not done so for the last four months?' I said.
"'Yes; but as a wife,' he replied, 'she would have had treble power.'
"'She is forbidden to be your wife,' I said, 'by the very religion she professes—and would her acting in opposition to its laws have convinced you of its truth?'
"'There was no love in the case,' said he, not heeding me, 'and now she wishes to be my friend,' he continued, with a sneer, 'as if there were any medium with me between love and hate, except utter forgetfulness.' "'Madam,' he exclaimed, as if suddenlyremembering himself, 'forgive me what I have been saying; had she let me, I would have been to you more than a son—as it is—fare well.'
"Without another word to Mabel, he left us, and I have never seen him since.
"I dare say a great deal passed more than I have told you; but I am very forgetful now—though I well remember how miserable I was that day, and for a very long time afterwards, for poor Mabel was very ill, and never left her bed for weeks. I sent to our good Mr. Ware, and told him everything, and asked him to come and comfort Mabel; and so he did, most effectually. Night after night did I sit by her, terrified by her fits of delirium and the dreadful exhaustion which followed them. I took cold then, and my nurse wanted me to go to bed, and leave her to watch by her; but what was life and rest to me, without my child?
"Amy sat upon her pillow nearly all day, and would whisper, 'don't cry, dear Mabel.'There was not much comfort in her baby words; but I think Mabel liked to hear her.
"Mr. Ware was unwearied in his attentions to her; and, at length, she began to rally. Then I became ill, with anxiety, perhaps, or the cold I took from the night-watching, and it was quite touching to see how hard she tried to get well, that she might nurse me in turn. Oh, what a comfort it was when she began to smile again. You see how well she is now—she is never ill, and how cheerful and happy she seems. I try to think it all for the best, though it is difficult sometimes."
"Well, you have, indeed, had a great deal to vex you," said Mrs. Villars, much touched.
"I have, however, much happiness to look back upon," said Mrs. Lesly, sighing gently, "in my William's kindness for so many years; but my health is failing sadly—and I have one care certainly, when I think of leaving my children without a friend in the world to takecare of them—particularly as with my life, my pension, which is the only source of our income, will cease."
"Yes," said Mrs. Villars, "it was almost a pity she did not marry the young man—what a provision it would have been for both."
"I think you would have acted as I did," said Mrs. Lesly, "would you not?"
"Why you know," she replied, "I never thought of those things as seriously as you do, and my love for my orphan children would have been a great temptation. Indeed, that love for my family guides me in almost everything, and after all, why his staying away from church would not have prevented her going."
"No, no, Caroline," said Mrs. Lesly, too indolent to contest this narrow view of the subject. "I have been foolish in many things, over and over again, but in this I feel that I acted wisely."
"Not with much worldly wisdom, dear Annie," said her sister, smiling.
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Lesly, "those who believe in an overruling Providence, act most wisely, even for this world, when they obey its laws."
Caroline sighed; her sister's single-minded language recalled days long gone by; when their views had been more in accordance, and for the moment, she would have given much to have retained the simple faith of their childhood; for her life was made up of shallow, and quickly forgotten repentances.
After a pause, she said:—
"Annie, I hope you will live many years; but if it should be otherwise, do not have one care for your children, for while I live they shall find a home, wherever I may be."
"My dear, dear sister," said Mrs. Lesly, while tears of gratitude and affection dimmed her eyes; "that is so like your old kindhearted way of speaking. Could I believe that you would, indeed, be a friend to my children, I should be spared many a wakeful night,and this freedom from anxiety might prolong my life. But, Caroline, you have a large family, and can ill spare your means."
"It may be so," replied the other; "but you set me an example of doing right without regard to consequences; why should I not follow it? And you recall the days of our happy childhood, when these feelings, and such as these, were common to us both—let them be common again, dear Annie."
Mrs. Lesly, kissed her sister with grateful affection, and again, and again, thanked her for her generous promises. Alas! judging of her by herself, she little knew how evanescent were her resolutions, nor guessed that the sentiments she sometimes professed, as little belonged to her own heart, as the delusive images of the Fata Morgana to the waters they enliven. They soon afterwards parted for the night, Mrs. Lesly more cheerful, and her sister more serious than before their evening conversation.