But a trouble weigh'd upon her,And perplex'd her night and morn.Tennyson.
But a trouble weigh'd upon her,And perplex'd her night and morn.
Tennyson.
Mr. Ware and his nephew did not neglect to take advantage of Mabel's proposal, that they would mutually help to pass the few weeks that remained of the warm weather, more pleasantly than usual. Each bright day of autumn we value the more highly, as we fear it may be the last; and the little party of friends took every opportunity of visiting the prettiest sights of the neighbourhood, either on foot, or in Mr. Ware's carriage. Much as she enjoyed these excursions, Mabel, at length, found that shewas frequently obliged to excuse herself. The slightest additional pallor on her mother's countenance, had always been sufficient to make her give up the merriest party, or the most engrossing study; and she now tried in vain to hide from herself the growing weakness, and the fading and changing color she often wore—though, with her accustomed buoyancy of disposition, she believed that, the few autumn months once passed, her mother would again be strong.
Mrs Lesly, sometimes tried to bring the subject of her precarious state of health before her, yet could scarcely find courage to damp her hopes. Since her sister's visit, she had felt an uneasiness which she found it difficult to suppress, and, instead of being relieved on her children's account, by the promise that they should share the comforts of a home with her sister's own family, she experienced a sensation of vague terror, which she found it impossible to define. Even the loss of six hundredpounds, supposing them lost, could not be equivalent to the pain she suffered.
The magnitude of our misfortunes depends, not so much on themselves, for the pain they give us, as upon the state in which they find us. In good spirits, and vigorous health, we may, perhaps, smile at trials which would make another's cup of sorrows run over.
Poor Mrs. Lesly, weakened in health, and with feeble nerves, began to entertain suspicions that she had acted imprudently. A fear, of she knew not what, entered her mind, and she began to feel a restless impatience to find the written promise given by her sister, which remained as the only security for the money with which she had so weakly parted. This anxiety seemed, for a time, to conquer her constitutional indolence, and much of her time was spent in looking over old drawers, desks, and boxes, and the search always ended with the secretary, where she turned over every paper in a vain investigation. Every excuse she could make for being alone, she eagerly seizedupon 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 rathersurprised to find she had come back so soon; regarding her presence almost with feverish impatience. In vain, Mabel entreated to be allowed to know the cause of this change. Mrs. Lesly only answered her questions by excuses; or, if much pressed, by tears, causing poor Mabel the utmost uneasiness. The restless agitation she continually felt, rapidly wore upon both health and spirits, and their failure only increased the nervous desire to find what now seemed of tenfold importance to her disordered fancy.
It is melancholy to trace the effects of bodily illness, when it finds, as it were, an echo in the mind of the sufferer.
It was in vain that Mrs. Lesly reasoned with herself, trying to believe that she could perfectly rely on her sister's promise. She could not but remember her wanton extravagance, and the little guard she had ever learned to place on herself, even in the indulgence of the slightest whim; and her affection for her could not blind her to the fact that she hadchosen for her children a guardian too weak to protect herself from the slightest temptation. Again and again, the same thoughts pressed upon her, and the same course of reasoning occurred, giving her less satisfaction on every recurrence to it.
Then followed the burning desire to recover the lost papers; with renewed impatience she would return to the secretary—till wearied and worn out she would sink into her chair disappointed and spiritless.
"Ah, dearest Mamma," said Mabel, when having determined to remain at home, though the day was lovely, and favored a walk to the woods which had been agreed on, she entered the room, and found her seated, unoccupied, except by her own harassing thoughts. "You are unhappy, and will not tell me why. Is not this unkind?"
"Unkind," echoed Mrs. Lesly, vacantly, "yes, I have been very unkind to you both."
"No, no, dear Mamma, I do not mean that—notreally unkind—only it vexes me to see you so sad."
"I am sad indeed, my dear," returned Mrs. Lesly, in the same absent tone, "but I cannot find them, though they are all here." She stopped and glanced at the secretary wistfully, as if its old-fashioned drawers could speak if they liked.
"What is lost?" said Mabel, "let me try and find it—I will look over all the papers if you will let me."
"No, no, what I have lost I ought to find, it is my own indolence which has done it."
"Yes, but do not think of that now, mamma, love, remember Doctor Parkinson said you were to be kept quite quiet, and now you are wandering about all day—only think how precious your health is to us, and how happy we all are when you are well."
"Mabel, you kill me by these words—I feel that I am dying, but do not kill me before the time appointed."
Mabel was silent, and stood looking at her mother with painful earnestness.
"Do not look at me so, sweet child. Well may you be surprised when I have ruined you both."
"Ruin! my own mother, what do you mean?"
"Ah, you may well wonder at me," replied Mrs. Lesly, much excited, "how could I be so silly as to injure my own children."
"Ah, now you are unkind," said Mabel, "why not tell me—is there a sorrow I have refused to bear—is it not my privilege to be sorrowful."
Tears rolled down her heated cheeks, and Mrs. Lesly continued to regard her in silence.
"Is it not unjust to me, your own child," continued Mabel, (for she had often before failed in obtaining her confidence,) "day after day you are wearying yourself with something you will not let me know, and injuring your health, which is more precious to us than anything else—mamma—I did not know you could be so unkind."
"Dear child, do not talk in this way, my only thought is of my children, and oh!" said she, turning her head towards the secretary, "if I could but find them."
"What?"
"The papers."
"What papers? Do tell me, can any thing be worse than this concealment—you have always told me everything."
"Ah, if I had," said Mrs. Lesly, with a sigh.
"But do tell me now, I would rather hear any thing than see you suffer."
"Can you really bear it?" enquired her mother, seeming to shake off the oppressive calmness with which she had been speaking before, and looking attentively at her daughter, whose warm feelings were almost ready to burst control.
"I will bear any thing," answered Mabel,walking to her, and kneeling by her side, "any thing you can tell me."
"Then you shall hear me now, lest you have cause to curse your mother's memory, if you heard it when I was gone from you. Your poor father put by a thousand pounds, which I never told you of before. It would have been but a poor pittance—yet it would have saved you from want; but this is nearly all gone now, for my sister has been borrowing of me from time to time, promising to be a mother to my children—I have lent her six hundred of the thousand, and I have lost her promises to repay them back. Should any thing happen to either of us, what will you do?"
"Trust to me, mother, dear. He who has supported me through far worse trials will support me still."
"Reproach me now, Mabel," said Mrs. Lesly, sorrowfully, "but do not live to curse me in the bitterness of your heart."
"No, my loved mother," said her daughter, looking up in her face with unmistakeablecheerfulness, "think no more of this now. Amy shall not suffer while health is left me, and power to use the education my dear father gave me; and I am so happy to think nothing worse is to be feared, even should any thing so strange occur as that aunt Villars could not pay us. And do you think I could once forget that it was because you were kind, unselfish and generous, that you lent the money."
Mrs. Lesly lent down and folded her child in her arms, saying, in a low repentant voice—
"Not generous but weak, we should but injure ourselves, not those dependent on us in order to serve others."
Yet she felt as if a weight had passed from her heart, and though she was still apprehensive, she was no longer despairing.
How brief is the time since her voice was the clearest,Her laughter the loudest, amid the gay throng.Hemans.
How brief is the time since her voice was the clearest,Her laughter the loudest, amid the gay throng.
Hemans.
Could the selfish but remember how much less they would feel their own sorrows by sharing those of others, they would learn an easy way to alleviate the unhappiness they are continually guarding against, by so occupying themselves in thoughts of pity and kindness as to leave little room in their own minds for fear or regret.
The kindhearted very soon begin to feel aninterest in those who are thrown much with them, and, though Lucy presented many faults to her notice, Mabel learnt to watch her with great interest. It soon became evident to her that she was perfectly in earnest in her attempts to engage the affections of Captain Clair, and, though at first she had been disgusted and pained at the idea—more ready to pity than condemn—she felt for Lucy when she perceived, by her variable spirits, that her heart was engaged in the flirtation she had so thoughtlessly commenced. The conduct of Clair puzzled her, she wished to believe that his attentions were serious, and yet she could not help thinking they meant nothing beyond the fashionable love he might often have professed for the most pleasing young lady of any society in which he happened to find himself. Still, she hoped she was mistaken; and thought, over again and again the little anecdotes which Lucy daily brought to her confidence, assuming them as unmistakeable signs of an affection which would soon declare itself.
Mabel knew that a look, a single word, even an emphasis on an ordinary word are sometimes the evidences of affection. Yet, all that Lucy told her, seemed to fall short, certainly of her ideas of love, formed, as they had been, from her own unhappy history. Yet she hesitated to speak her opinion freely; for, after all, it might be only a very unkind suspicion of one who had not given any very good cause for believing him to be a trifler. He had, besides, been so kind to herself, that she could not help feeling prepossessed in his favor.
Meanwhile, Clair appeared as attentive as ever, but his attentions were never varied by ill humour or depression. Still Lucy rested confident in the power of her own attractions—and, persisting in believing he was only diffident—she became more and more lavish of encouragement, without, however, finding her admirer become either warmer or bolder.
What was to be done? Her letters to Bathhad 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. IndeedI have always flattered myself, that my Lucy would be the first to secure herself an establishment."
The seeds of vanity, thus sown by a mother's hand, grew quickly in the daughter's heart. To be the first to be married was an idea that filled her with pleasure; she did not stop to analyze, or she might have discovered that the hope of mortifying her sisters by her marriage, was inconsistent with the love she believed she felt for them.
But now, what could she do! how could she bring her backward lover to a proposal! She eagerly seized any opportunity of meeting him, and never neglected pursuing any conversation which seemed likely to lead to love. Still she was as far from her object as ever, and at length she felt the feverish eagerness of a gambler to bring the game to a successful close.
Mabel, who saw she suffered, sincerely, pitied her, though unable to divine her thoughts. Disappointed affection the poor girl might have successfully struggled against; but she couldnot banish the idea of the sneers and jests, which, in contrast to her present popularity, would meet her at home. Home, which in its sacred circle ought to have afforded a refuge from every evil passion, as from every outward danger. She knew it would not be so, and willingly would she almost have thrown herself at the Captain's feet, and begged him to protect her from it, rather than oblige her to return to such a sanctuary.
Oh, fashionable and speculating mothers, why do you crush in your children some of the sweetest and loveliest of their feelings. Why are you so utterly foolish, as, first to make them unworthy of a husband's trust and confidence, and then wonder that they do not obtain them. A man seeks, in his wife, for a companion to his best feelings, fit your daughters to fill such situations, and, should they then fail to obtain them, they will still hold an honored place in society.
Lucy felt that her success, in a matrimonial point of view, was all that her mother regarded,that she seemed to view her daughters with the eyes of the public, and valued them in proportion to the admiration they excited, and she now strained every nerve to gratify both her and herself.
There was one little plan to which she looked with great interest. Mr. Ware's proposal of their taking tea in Mrs. Lesly's garden, was to be carried into effect. They were all to dine early, and drink tea soon enough to prevent any danger of taking cold, and Mabel was to prepare them tea and fruit in the garden, while Miss Ware would take hers quietly in doors with Mrs. Lesly. Amy talked herself tired with planning it, for a week before, asking Mabel for an exact list of all the fruit she meant to get for their entertainment. Lucy looked forward to it more seriously; she fancied Clair entered so eagerly into the plan that she hoped he had some particular reason for wishing it, more than the mere pleasure of taking tea in the open air. Was it not verylikely, that lounging down one of the shady walks which skirted the garden, he might find courage to tell all she so much wished to hear.
The expected evening at length arrived.
Mrs. Lesly was unusually well, for the renewed confidence between herself and her daughter had produced the most happy effects. Lucy was all sparkling animation, and Clair forgot to be rational in the effervescence of his good spirits. Lucy, whose fear of caterpillars was quite touching, had persuaded Mabel to place the tea-table on the open grass-plot—and there the sisters had delighted themselves in arranging the simple repast. Amy was so accustomed to bustle along by Mabel's side, that she had come to the belief that she could do nothing well without her; and she now hurried about, laughing merrily, as she conveyed to the table, plates of early fruit, which old John had always carefully matted through the summer. Mr. Ware was particularly fond of fruit, and it was a great pleasure to the sisters, to store up every little luxury for him.
The table looked very pretty with its fruit, and cream, and flowers, and the little party was a merry one, ready to take pleasure and amusement in anything. Mr. Ware told stories of other days, and Clair brought anecdotes of the fashionable world of his day, while the girls were well-pleased listeners.
When tea had been fully discussed, they strolled round the garden, watching for the sunset, which was to be the signal for taking shelter in the house. Lucy, the captain, and Amy, went off laughing together, while Mabel, choosing the driest path in the garden, paced up and down by the side of Mr. Ware.
"It is very kind of you," he said, "to prefer my company to those who are gayer and younger; but I am sorry to perceive that you are not quite in your usual spirits—I hope you have no reason to be depressed."
"None at all," replied Mabel, "and yet I am foolish enough to feel low-spirited. Buthave you never felt a vague apprehension that something dreadful was going to happen—I cannot overcome it to-night."
"I have often felt the same from no reason, as you say, and have as often found my fears groundless. Do you not remember those beautiful words—'He feareth no evil tidings?'"
"Oh yes—I must not think of it again."
Mr. Ware thought this might be no bad opportunity of speaking of Mrs. Lesly's delicate health, and leading her to prepare herself for a trial which he foresaw was not far distant; but at the very moment that he was thinking how to introduce the subject, the sound of merry laughter came from the other side of the garden, and Mabel exclaimed—
"Oh, I fear they are at the swing, and John says it's unsafe. I must go and stop them."
And so saying, she ran quickly across the garden, till she reached the spot where the swing was suspended from the branch of two tall fir trees.
Amy was in the swing, which Captain Clairwas pushing, while Lucy was clapping her hands as each time the child rose higher in the air.
"Oh, do stop," said Mabel, running up to them quite out of breath, and scarcely able to say any more.
"No, no," said Lucy, "we want to see if Amy can touch that bough. What a beautiful swinger she is—she nearly did it then, I declare—try again, Amy."
"John says it is unsafe," cried Mabel, trying to be heard, "do, do stop—for mercy's sake, Captain Clair, do stop her."
Both were, however, deaf to her entreaty. Lucy rejoiced in what she thought superior nerve, and called to her not to be an old maid, frightened at everything; while Clair thought her very feminine and pretty, but apprehended no real danger.
Mabel continued to exclaim, till unable to get a hearing, she burst into tears of vexation and alarm, fearing to touch the rope, lest she might cause the accident she feared.
At the same moment, while she watched Amy ascend quickly through the air, till her feet scattered a few leaves from the bough she had been trying to touch, there came a heaving sound, then a loud crash—the swing gave way, and Amy fell violently to the ground. With a scream of piercing anguish, she sprang to her side, where she lay close by a knotted root of the tree, which she had struck in falling.
Lucy stood blushing and terrified, uttering some confused excuses for not listening to one who justice whispered was never fanciful.
Captain Clair looked bewildered and thoroughly ashamed, for often the only excuse for daring is its success.
Mr. Ware fortunately soon reached the spot, and though extremely vexed at such a termination to the day's enjoyment, merely roused his nephew, by telling him to carry the poor child into the house, and then to fetch a doctor, that they might be certain she had sustained no serious injury.
His nephew, too happy to have some dutyassigned, raised Amy in his arms, for she was perfectly insensible, and, as Mabel supported her drooping head, carried her into the house. Mabel's conduct during that short walk cut him to the heart; she seemed entirely to have forgotten that his obstinacy had injured her sister; and in her anxiety for her safety, she did not suffer a complaining word to escape her. Those who possess little control over their own feelings, often reverence those who have great self-command—and to Clair, who a few minutes before, had been laughing with almost childish excitement, and was now utterly depressed, Mabel seemed like a superior being in the calm dignity of her silent distress.
At length, Amy was safely placed upon her bed, and leaving Mabel and their servant-maid to try every means to restore her to consciousness, he hastened in search of a surgeon. He met Lucy in the lane, who told him that she had anticipated his errand, but that the doctor had gone to see a patient many miles away.
"Then I shall go for a horse, and follow him," said he, "anything will be better than this suspense."
"And what shall I do?" cried Lucy, wringing her hands; but Clair had no comfort to offer, and hurried on to the village to find a horse.
Lucy returned to the house, frightened, and ashamed. She did not like to remain alone, yet there was no one in the sitting-room; and not daring to seek any one, she retired to her own chamber, which looked so still and lonely, that she put the door half open, and seated herself in a chair close by, to listen for any news from Amy's room. She could not help recalling to herself the wild laugh of the poor child only half an hour before, and she could not bear to think of how still she was lying there.
At length she heard Betsy, the privileged maid, say:—
"It is all Miss Lucy's fault, I know, for thehouse has not been the same since she came into it."
"Hush, Betsy," was the murmured reply, in her cousin's well known voice; "those thoughts will only make it harder to bear."
Betsy was not so easily stopped, but Mabel seemed to reply no more.
Every word went to Lucy's heart. The frequent question of despairing feeling. "What shall I do?" received no answer, and she sat on in her desolate seat, or varied her watch by stealing on tiptoe to the end of the passage. Thus the weary time slipt away, and she had listened to the church clock, as it struck the hours till midnight—she then heard the sound of horses' feet, and anxious for any change, she ran down stairs—but she found that Clair and the surgeon had already been admitted by Mr. Ware, who was watching for them, and, feeling herself of no use, she again crept to her room to listen, trembling for the doctor's opinion. The examination lasted a long time, and she became nearly worn outwith waiting, and trying every minute to divine something from the hurried voices, or hurried steps of the attendants in the sick room. But she could learn nothing, till she heard the doctor leave the room, and lead Mabel to that next her own, and then she heard her say in a tremulous voice.
"What do you think of her, Mr. Williams?"
"The accident has been a severe one," he returned.
"Can she recover?" was asked, in a tone which Lucy trembled to hear, and she leant forward to catch the answer.
"A complete cure is beyond hope, my dear Miss Lesly; I entreat you to bear up against this blow," were the words she caught; "my heart bleeds for you, but I see the back is broken, and you know—" a groan of anguish, which she would have fled miles to have escaped hearing, was the only answer sentence thus given.
Then followed confused words, as if he were trying to comfort, broken by suppressed sobs.
An agony of terror, alike for Amy and her sister, then seized her—she trembled in every limb; and when she attempted to cry out, her tongue seemed to refuse to utter a sound. She sank upon the floor, too overpowered to move, and yet without the relief of fainting. Her thoughts became more and more distinct—of Amy, growing, perhaps, in beauty and womanhood, stretched on the bed of helpless sickness, unable to find advantages in either. What a blight had she cast upon a home she had found so happy. And Mabel, too, the beautiful unselfish Mabel, no longer the playfellow of innocent childhood, but the hopeless nurse of youthful decrepitude.
Too carelessly instructed as she had been, in the forms, and almost wholly deficient in the spirit, of the religion she professed, she knew of no balm that could heal a wound of such bitterness—she saw no light that could have guided her to comfort. Highly as she prized youth and its enjoyments, its hopes, and its ties, much as she sparkled in company, andrevelled 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.
Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,By that sweet ornament which truth doth give.The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem,For that sweet odour which doth in it live.Shakspeare's Sonnet.
Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,By that sweet ornament which truth doth give.The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem,For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
Shakspeare's Sonnet.
How awful is the feeling with which morning breaks in a house where sudden grief and desolation has been wrought. Like Adam and Eve in the garden, we shrink from each other, as if we feared to read our own feelings in the faces of others, whose sufferings only embitter our own.
The stillness of the past night broken by household sounds usually so familiar as to attract noattention, recall the mind to the fact that another day has opened on our life, showing more clearly the sorrow of the night before.
Poor Amy! Mabel's love had thrown a kind of halo round the orphan child, and those who did not love her for her own, loved her for Mabel's sake.
Old John went heavily to his work, to move the benches and other signs of the last evening's simple pleasure.
"Miss Mabel shall not see them again," he said to himself; "I cannot give her much comfort—but I may spare her a little pain."
Mr. Ware and his sister had gone home, after affording all the comfort and assistance in their power.
Mrs. Lesly had been persuaded to lie down, for, terrified and ill, she needed repose, and Mabel, in grief, as in gladness, always took the lead.
Lucy, exhausted and spiritless, too weary to get up, and too irresolute to undress, hadthrown herself upon her bed, and fallen asleep.
When she again opened her eyes, the noon-day light was streaming in upon her bed, and, to her great surprise, Mabel was standing by her; she was pale as the dead, and her countenance gave evidence of the agony of the last few hours—but there was a pale light in her eyes, and a still repose about her, that seemed to hallow the grief they concealed.
"I am glad you are awake," she said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper—"I feared you might be ill—you slept so long."
Lucy's eyes were swollen with weeping and watching, and she looked at her for a moment in despairing silence; at last she raised herself, and seizing Mabel's hand, grasped it eagerly.
"Oh, Mabel, Mabel," said she, "what have I done—where can I hide my face?"
And she sank again upon the bed, and buried her face in the pillow.
"You meant me no harm," replied her cousin—"at least, not much—and I forgiveyou from my heart. My grief is too heavy for resentment. But get up, Lucy, and do not distress me still more by giving way in this manner."
"Oh, how I despise myself! to think that I am lying here while you are waiting on me."
"Well, dear Lucy, get up now, for you will be better doing something, and I cannot help pitying you here alone."
"Then tell me something I can do for you. Oh, I will do anything, but I cannot get up to sit as I did last night."
"This is Saturday," replied Mabel, "and there are many things you can do for me, which will enable me to be entirely with my poor Amy. Shall I leave them to you?"
"Oh, yes," cried Lucy, jumping up, and throwing her arms round her; "you are an angel—I cannot forgive myself—yet you forgive me before I ask you."
Mabel kissed her silently, and gliding from the room, was soon again by her sister's bed.
Amy was feverish, and perpetually wantedsomething to drink, but it was touching to see how gently she asked for it, and how earnestly she seemed to try to repress her own fretfulness, with her large blue eyes fixed on her sister's face, as if trying to read her approval of every checked complaint.
"It was very naughty of me," she whispered, "to get into the swing, Mabel dear, when you told me not in the morning. Will you forgive me?"
"You are in pain, love," said Mabel, tremulously; "and I cannot call you naughty now."
"Then I am glad you have taught me not to want to be told—but I shall not be happy till you just say you forgive me."
"My own darling, I forgive you a thousand times—would that I could suffer instead of you."
"If I had not done wrong, I should not so much mind," said Amy, thoughtfully; "but give me a little water, dear."
Mabel held the water to her lips, and Amy looked at her earnestly as her hand trembled.
"Do not cry, Mabel dear," said she, in a feeble voice, "I shall very soon be well again."
And weary with the pain she was bearing, without a murmur, she closed her eyes.
Mabel's restrained tears fell fast, for well she knew that years to come might find her the same helpless invalid as she now lay before her.
The surgeon had given little hope, even in the first moment, when it is seldom withheld; and she threw herself upon her knees, and covered her face with her hands. Amy's fortitude and patience, while it deeply moved her, made her thankful to find that her early lessons had not been bestowed in vain.
Meanwhile Lucy roused herself with a stronger desire to be really useful than she had felt for years. Mrs. Lesly had gone to sit with her two children, so that she required nothing from her. She felt Mabel could not more effectually have forgiven her than by allowingher to assist in her duties, for it prevented her feeling the remorse of the evening before. She ran down stairs with cups and waiters from the sick room, which, if allowed to accumulate, give such real discomfort to the sufferer, and even busied herself in helping Betsy in the kitchen, spite of the sulkiness with which her services were accepted.
But idle habits are not easily thrown aside with the distaste for them; and, as the day wore on, she began to feel so fatigued that she could not think how Mabel managed to do everything she did on ordinary days—when, spite of her desire to please her, she felt her strength fail in a few hours.
"But I have not been brought up like Mabel," she thought, too willing to throw the blame on others, if by so doing she at all removed it from herself. "How can she ever get through it," she said to herself, eying disconsolately the large basket of clean linen, caps, and frills, which Betsy had just laid downbefore her, saying that Miss Lesly had said she would be kind enough to sort them.
She forced herself, however, to attempt it with many a sigh over its difficulties. She had scarcely finished her task, when she saw Clair coming up to the house, and, feeling a better conscience from her exertions, for her spirits were easily elated, she went down stairs to meet him.
When she entered the sitting-room, where, not venturing to knock or ring, he had already seated himself, she found him with his head buried in his hands, which rested on the table before him. He looked up as she entered, and a momentary shudder passed over him, which she could not help perceiving. His face was deadly pale, and his features drawn together, and bearing the traces of deeper thought than that in which he usually indulged. He had indeed done many things more careless, and ten times as wrong, but the consequences had never followed so rapidly nor been so heart-rending.
"Oh, you have suffered," exclaimed Lucy, "and what a night I have passed!"
"If you can see Miss Lesly," returned Clair, scarcely heeding her observation, "ask her, in mercy, to see me for a few minutes."
His first thoughts are of Mabel, thought Lucy, with ready jealousy, not one kind word for me.
"Will you?" said he, seeing her hesitate, "will you ask her to see me? What does she say? How does she bear it? Does she reproach me?"
"What question shall I answer first?" said Lucy, with a little of her returning levity.
Clair bit his lip, and looked at her with surprise, but Lucy quickly recovering herself, said quietly,
"She bears it as we might have expected from her, she never spoke of you—and forgave me before I dared ask for forgiveness, and she would not suffer her servant to reproach me to her."
"Then there is some hope for me," he exclaimed,"but oh! how ten times more killing is it to have injured one who will not return an injury by an unkind word. Last night she looked at me with such pity in her beautiful eyes, that I could have worshipped her. But do go."
Lucy burst into tears.
"What!" thought she, "was I earning for Mabel, when I was trying to shew how much more nerve and spirit I possessed?"
Clair sat in silence, he did not spring to her side and take her hand, soothing her, as only a lover knows how; and she left the room to seek Mabel with feelings of indescribable remorse. Having delivered her message to Betsy, she locked herself in her room, and once more gave way to the most passionate grief.
Clair was left only a short while alone, before Mabel entered the room. One glance at her pale cheek and sorrowful countenance, was sufficient to tell, at once, how great the suffering had been, and how it had been borne.
"Ah, Miss Lesly," he began, hurriedly, "can you ever look upon me again without shuddering? I, who have been the cause of this dreadful, desolating blow. Is it possible you can ever forgive me? but I know you can; were I the vilest person on this earth you would forgive me, if I asked it, but never will you look on me without lamenting the horrid scene I shall always recall. Yet, I must hear your forgiveness, and oh! if you could know what I have suffered, in these few last wretched hours, you would pity me."
"I should not do you justice, Captain Clair," replied Mabel, trying to speak steadily, "if I did not pity the pain you must feel in having been the most unwilling cause of such an accident; but you must not forget that it was unintentional: and I forgive you, from my heart, for any share you may have had in this unhappy accident."
"They tell me," said he, shuddering, "that she never can be quite well again. Oh!" criedhe, throwing himself on his chair and groaning heavily, "that I should have lived to be such a curse."
"You are but the instrument in a Hand mightier than your own," replied Mabel.
"Few punishments can be so great," replied Clair, bitterly, "as to be chosen for the instrument of justice. It is only the worst soldier in the army that is forced to inflict death on his condemned brother. You will hate the instrument that has been raised to afflict you?"
"Should I not then be rebellious against the Hand that raised it?" replied Mabel. "But, for my sake and your own, command your feelings. I dare not think, yet, and you would force me to do so. Why this has been suffered I must not ask now, for my faith may be too small for argument, while grief has almost robbed me of my senses. But I can see that you may have been made the unwilling cause, possibly that you maythink. Do notforget the merit of suffering, for, if it chastens, it often purifies the heart; and do not let poor Amy's health and hopes in life be offered up for nothing, for there is a nobler self within you, which sorrow for our loss may call forth—shake off all that sullies your character—all its littleness or frivolity—and be yourself. Devote your life to some higher purpose, and to nobler aims—go forth to the world again, a blessing to those around you—and then," said she, sinking her voice as her eye lost its brilliant fire, "and then Amy, on her sick bed, will feel that her loss has been your advantage."
Clair almost held his breath while she spoke, and then exclaimed, with a soldier's energy, as his eye seemed to have caught the fire which had died in hers,
"I will, I will! You have doubly forgiven, for you have bestowed thoughts which inspire me with hope. You," said he, as he respectfully raised her hand to his lips, "youhave more than forgiven, and I bless you from my very soul."
Mabel gently withdrew her hand, and, excusing herself from staying longer, left him to indulge the new reflections which her words had awakened.
In the service of mankind to beA guardian god below; still to employThe mind's brave ardour in heroic arms,Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herdAnd make us shine for ever—that is life.Thompson.
In the service of mankind to beA guardian god below; still to employThe mind's brave ardour in heroic arms,Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herdAnd make us shine for ever—that is life.
Thompson.
It was with increasing uneasiness, that Mabel perceived the effects of their common grief on the weakened constitution of her mother. Mrs. Lesly, at first, insisted on being constantly with her sick child, but day by day her cheek became more pale, and her low hollow cough morefrequent, until she could scarcely reach Amy's room without fatigue, and, instead of being able to nurse her, required, herself, a further exertion of Mabel's ever watchful care. Grateful indeed did the latter feel for the strong health, and stronger nerves, which enabled her to maintain the watching and waiting required of her—while the consciousness of being loved taught her that each personal service rose in value because she rendered it. Lucy still remained with them; she had insisted on her services being received; and, though the idle girl was rather giving trouble than making herself useful, Mabel did not refuse her offer to continue with her, hoping that the wish to serve might be the seed of better feelings and stronger self-denial.
But Lucy had not perhaps fully understood her motives, when she ascribed her wish to stay to the desire to be of service.
Clair seemed entirely to have forgotten her, or only to make use of her to deliver messages, or to convey grapes and other luxuries to thelittle invalid; but it seemed entirely to have escaped his memory, that any thing, even so interesting as a common flirtation, had ever taken place between them; and indeed he seemed in every way altered, as if he were trying to convince her that he was scarcely the same person. However, she did not altogether give up the hope of regaining the affections she had before so fully counted upon. Yet, having thrown aside the light and fashionable gallantry which he had delighted to display, he was now utterly impervious to all the common attacks of even the most accomplished flirt; and, however clever she might be in raillery, badinage, and spirited nonsense, Lucy had learned little of that language which springs from heart to heart, in trouble and suffering—or of those serious and elevating thoughts which alone bring with them consolation to the deep thinking.
She was, then, entirely at a loss when she found her former companion, rather annoyedthan otherwise, by conversation which would formerly have amused him for half a-day; but this change only increased her affection, while it effectually removed him from her power; she listened, waited, and watched for him, but, though she tried every capricious art to bring him again to her side, she found that nothing prevailed, and, at the close of the day, she had not even the lightest word to treasure up, as an evidence of the love she had already spoken of as certain, to her friends in Bath.
One evening, as events were progressing in a manner so unsatisfactory to Lucy, Mr. Ware and his nephew might have been seen pacing up and down the lane leading to Mrs. Lesly's house, which was rendered romantically pretty, by the trees which overhung it, from the garden which was considerably raised above it.
Clair had been for some time engaged in silently beating down the leaves and branches, which grew most prominently in the hedge above their walk, with a light cane he carriedin his hand, when Mr. Ware, turning kindly, yet with a slight tone of embarrassment, said to him—
"My dear boy, I would not wish to presume a moment either upon my age or my relationship to you, but would rather gain an interest by favor, and as a friend; may I then ask a question, which my anxiety for you alone dictates."
His nephew looked slightly surprised at this address, but replied in a depressed tone.
"You may say any thing you like uncle, without fearing that I shall mistake the kindness which leads you to speak at all. You have been too kind to me, ever since I have been with you, not to make me feel that affection must ever second the duty and respect you deserve from me."
"Thank you," replied his uncle, "I feel that the late unhappy accident has much changed you; and what you now say convinces me that the change is one which, however it may sadden you, cannot be regretted."
"I hope not," replied Clair, in the same tone of depression; "can you understand what I mean, when I say that I feel, that, though I had no intention the other evening beyond causing a momentary pain, which, in a beautiful girl I thought charming, I yet feel that I have been so thoughtless of the comfort of others, during my past life, that I have deserved to be the agent of such a misfortune, in retribution, as it were, for all that has before gone unpunished. Little Amy's sweet voice rings in my ear wherever I go—such as it was when I first saw her, when she looked up from the wild wreath she was twining, to give some kind word to the laborers as they passed her, the morning after my coming here. Her simple questions return to my memory, and her purity and innocence have made a deeper impression on my mind, by the sad reverse which has followed my acquaintance with her family—I cannot help thinking what an interesting young woman she might have been, through the careful training of such a sister, who hasplanted 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.
"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."
"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 havehitherto 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."
Mr. Ware paused, but, as Clair did not seem disposed to reply, he continued—
"There is one subject in which I feel particularly concerned—may I—I ask it as a favor—may I speak candidly upon it?"
"You may speak with candour on any subject, sir, without fearing that I shall be weak enough to take anything but in good part."
"Thank you for this confidence. May I then ask if you are quite sincere in your attentions to Miss Villars? and, if so, whyyour 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."
"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."
"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."
"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."
"I own that I would much rather have had your thoughts fix upon a girl more like hercousin; 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."
"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 beena 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."
"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 theobject 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."
"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 thatcan 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."
"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. Howmuch 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."
"And how many do you think would follow my example?" enquired the young man with a smile.
"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 dutieswere 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."
"You speak severely," said Clair.
"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 fromany 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."
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.
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 heartand 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.
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.
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.
"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."
"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."
"I cannot—I never can do that!" exclaimed Clair, vehemently.
"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."
"Impossible! Who ever heard of a man's making serious love in such a manner. You at least do not believe it."
"Now, certainly I do not, for your wordsbear 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."
Clair colored, but he answered quickly.
"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?"
"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."
"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 dounder 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."
"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."
"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 altogetherso, had obtained the love of those with whose esteem he often trifled.
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.