He only can the cause reveal,Why, at the same fond bosom fed;Taught in the self-same lap to kneel,Till the same prayer were duly said.Brothers in blood, and nurture too,Aliens in heart so oft should prove,One lose, the other keep, Heaven's clue;One dwell in wrath, and one in love.Christian Year.
He only can the cause reveal,Why, at the same fond bosom fed;Taught in the self-same lap to kneel,Till the same prayer were duly said.
Brothers in blood, and nurture too,Aliens in heart so oft should prove,One lose, the other keep, Heaven's clue;One dwell in wrath, and one in love.
Christian Year.
Mrs. Lesly found Mabel waiting for her in her room. A book was lying open by her side, but she appeared to have been rather thinking, than reading.
"Mabel, my love," she said, "it is past twelve o'clock. I am so sorry you sat up for me."
"I am only waiting to undress you, mamma," said Mabel, "you are so much later to-night, that I thought you would be tired. I have been lying on your sofa, half asleep, for more than an hour. Have you been talking of me?" she added, lowering her voice.
"Yes, a little," replied Mrs. Lesly; "but why do you ask, what can any one say ill of you."
Mabel sighed.
"I talked of you, dear, not merely to satisfy my sister's curiosity; but, because there is in the world a very strong prejudice against single ladies, old maids, as they are termed, in contempt, when there is no good reason given for their not marrying. It is a foolish prejudice, but still a strong one; and, therefore, I would rather that people knew why you are not married; at least, that all those who have any right to criticise your conduct, should know that it has been by your own choice."
"Ah, mamma," said Mabel, "you are thinkingof my feelings as they would once have been."
"And as they may be again," said the mother; "but not as they ought to be, I allow. But you bear your trial so well, love, that I would not have it increased by one unkind, or worldly remark. You have done right, and can, therefore, afford to suffer; yet there is no harm in sparing yourself any needless pain. Go to sleep, now, my child, I do not wish to see you tired, to-morrow."
Mabel retired to her own room, with feelings stirred up, she scarce knew why, by the arrival of their new guests, and she would willingly have thought awhile in silence, but Amy was awake, and restless.
"What time is it, Mabel, dear," for by that affectionate title, she usually addressed her.
"Past one o'clock, dear," said Mabel; "are you awake, still."
"I have been to sleep, once," said Amy; "but I was dreaming all the time, first of Lucy, and then about Captain Clair, andthe blackberries. You said she would not like me quite at first, but she seems to love you in one evening—how is that?"
"I really do not know; Lucy puzzles me, rather, but she says she likes, or dislikes, quickly."
"But that is what you tell me not to do," said Amy, sitting up in her bed, as if prepared for a regular discussion of the subject.
"Yes," said Mabel, "because I am afraid you will not choose your friends well, and may be mistaken if you judge too quickly."
"Well," said Amy, gravely; "I suppose Lucy is clever to find you out so soon, but it puzzles me to think how she could tell you were good, in one evening."
"I do not think she does know much about me, yet," said Mabel; "but do not let us think of her just now, for if we never think of ourselves at any other time, I think we should before we go to sleep. So, now you must not talk any more."
Mabel then turned her pillow, smoothed thehair back from her heated cheeks, and made her comfortable, so that Amy, having no further excuse for keeping awake, soon fell asleep.
The next morning Mrs. Lesly was up earlier than usual, that she might enjoy as much of her sister's society as her short visit permitted.
After breakfast, Mrs. Villars said, that if they could have a chat by themselves, she should be glad.
To this Mrs. Lesly willingly agreed, and after some little conversation on the arrangements of the day, led her to her sunny dressing-room, where her own mornings were most frequently spent.
"I hope," said Mrs. Lesly, taking up her work, "that nothing unpleasant has occurred, to make you wish to speak to me; but, perhaps you have been thinking over our last night's conversation."
Mrs. Villars coloured slightly with the consciousness that the feelings awakened by hersister's conversation, had been of very short duration.
"No, dear," said she; "last night I listened to your trials and troubles, this morning you must hear mine."
"Oh," said Mrs. Lesly, "I would never have taken up your time last night, had I known that you were thinking of any thing that pained you."
"You are always too kind to me," said Mrs. Villars, "and I am sure I would much rather hear you talk than talk myself, for it does me good to be with you, but really, now we are sitting down, I have hardly the courage to speak of what I wanted to say."
"No one is ever afraid of me," said Mrs. Lesly, "and you know, if you are in any trouble, I never can find fault."
"Well then," said Mrs. Villars, "I will tell you exactly how I am situated. You must know that Mr. Villars has had, or pretends to have,had a great many losses this year, which have really quite soured his temper. He does nothing now but grumble, saying, I am not half so economical as I ought to be, and I do not know what peevish stuff. He says I dress the children too expensively, and then he tells me they would look better in white muslin than in all the laces I put on them."
"Well, there I think he is right," interposed Mrs. Lesly, "nothing makes a girl look so nice as a simple white dress."
"I cannot agree with that," said Mrs. Villars. "Caroline has just the figure—just the majestic style of beauty that does not do for white muslin and simplicity, and in her black velvet and pearls, I do assure you, she looks fit to be a duchess. Selina, too, has just that fairy beauty which requires the lightest and most delicate of colors, and how very soon they soil, particularly with polking—and, besides, they cannot always be wearing the same dresses in a place like Bath. I cannot helpwishing to see them respectably dressed, when I hear every one speak so highly of their beauty. You must forgive a mother's pride, but I cannot help it."
"But, my dear," said Mrs. Lesly, "if your object is to marry them well, you ought not to dress them so expensively. Few men intending to marry, like the prospect of furnishing an extravagant wardrobe. The idea of having to pay for their dress should gently insinuate itself, not glare upon their attention in velvet and satin."
"Now, Annie," said Mrs. Villars, "how unkind it is of you to talk in this way. You see, I had reason to be afraid of speaking to you."
"I meant it most kindly, I do assure you," said Mrs. Lesly.
"That may be," said Mrs. Villars, poutingly; "but that cutting way of speaking hurts the feelings, and you are very fond of it, sometimes."
"Well, dear," said Mrs. Lesly, "I only meant a little good advice, but as you do not like it, I will say no more."
"Besides," continued Mrs. Villars, "I expect girls with such pretensions and advantages as mine have, to marry men of wealth and station, who will only be too proud to see them dress well. You ought to see them enter a ball-room, and how immediately they are surrounded."
"Ah, yes, I dare say," said Mrs. Lesly, who was always too indolent for any long argument, and generally gave up a point, even with Amy, when persisted in beyond her patience.
"But now then, to return to my little difficulty," said Mrs. Villars, recovering her good-temper. "You know Mr. Villars is so horribly cross now, I do not dare to bring anything before him."
"I am sorry to hear that," said Mrs. Lesly; "my William never said a cross word to me, that I remember."
"Ah," sighed Mrs. Villars, "it is very different with me, I assure you—Villars is always finding fault now, since the girls are come out."
"Well," repeated Mrs. Lesly, "I certainly never remember being afraid of my poor husband."
"No; but then he was a soldier, that makes a man very different," said Mrs. Villars, "so kind and open-hearted. Now Villars, though he has left his business in the city, and is only a sleeping partner, yet he seems to take as much interest in it as ever; and if anything goes wrong, then he is off to London to give his advice, he says, and comes home so cross, there is no speaking a word to him, and if he finds us going out, as we do, of course, nearly every night, then he goes off sulky to his study. Married life with such a man, is no joke, I can tell you. When we first married, he had such an easy temper; he says I spoilt it, but the fault lies at his own door, of that I amcertain. But I would not say this to every one."
"I hope not, indeed," said Mrs. Lesly, much pained; "it is better to keep these things from everybody; and you cannot blame him without finding fault with yourself at the same time."
"And that I am not disposed to do," interrupted Mrs. Villars; "no, I assure you, before company, I make him appear the very pattern of perfection. I would not lower myself by showing the world how very little influence I have over him. But now to the point—I must tell you, that last winter, I was foolish enough to run up some bills with my jeweller, milliner, and others, a little higher than ordinary, and now every day they become more importunate, and I have made excuses till they will listen no longer. I do not know where to turn for money, till this business pressure is over and Villars has recovered his temper. Now could you, I know you could if you would, just lend me a hundred pounds for a few months?"
"Ah, Caroline, but ought I?" said Mrs. Lesly; "think of my poor children, and my health such as it is."
"But what possible harm could that do them?" said Mrs. Villars, as if surprised; "do you think I could be so barbarous as to think of hurting them. It is perfectly safe with me; and I will pay you in six months."
"But, my dear Caroline," said Mrs. Lesly, "why not tell Mr. Villars? it will be but the anger of an hour—contrast that with the pain of deceiving him."
"I do not mind telling him everything, when his present difficulties are over—now it would be unkind to ask me."
"But," answered her sister, timidly, "do you think I am right in suffering more of my money to be in private hands, even in yours?"
"Oh," said Mrs. Villars, coloring slightly, "you are speaking of the five hundred I owe you already; but you know I promised to pay that back with five per cent interest when myaunt Clara dies, and leaves me the legacy she promised, and which Villars always said I should do just as I liked with. I gave you a memorandum of the promise, in case of any mistake."
"Yes, I know," said Mrs. Lesly; "but I really do not know what I have done with it—I am afraid it is mislaid."
"I dare say," said Mrs. Villars, again coloring, and looking down upon the spill she was twisting from the pieces of an old letter; "but surely, if it be lost, you could not think your own sister would—"
"Oh, no, no," said Mrs. Lesly; "I think nothing but that you are imprudent; and oh, Caroline, however I may disguise the truth from Mabel—I am not ignorant that a few weeks may, and a few years certainly will, bring me to my grave. Now am I right to trust so much even to you?"
A mother's courage was strong, even in hertimid and indolent mind, and she spoke with tears in her eyes.
"Now then," said Mrs. Villars, "I promise, if you will be generous this once, that your children shall never want a home while I have one, and every comfort which my own possess shall be theirs; only rescue me this once from my husband's anger."
"I have done it so often," said Mrs. Lesly, "I am afraid it is unkind to both of you to do it again."
"Oh, do not say so," cried Mrs. Villars, "oh, think again, do not say that, and you so kind and good. You know I have given you a written promise, to pay it out of the legacy aunt Clara is to leave me, and that is as binding to my mind, beloved sister, as a legally executed deed; as Villars promises positively, I shall do what I like with the money, when I get it. Have I not promised to continue to pay five per cent interest to your children as well as yourself, should you not live, as I hopeand trust you may, many, many years. I can do that easily, as I have done before; at least I could have done so had we not agreed to let the interest accumulate, that I might pay you in the lump. Where is my promise? you have lost it you say, but I remember it all well enough. Oh, good, kind Annie, think again."
"But that paper is lost," said Mrs. Lesly, with a vacant look, and she passed her hand over her forehead, as if trying to remember something of it.
"I would offer to write another promise," said Mrs. Villars, "only I do not like to bind myself to two sums; for every one may not be so honourable as yourself, and you must have it somewhere, but you need not doubt me if it is lost, need you?"
"I wish you would not talk of doubting," said Mrs. Lesly, "it makes me feel so uncomfortable; but once again, my dear sister, let me entreat you to have no concealments from your husband, they never lead to good. If you willtell him everything, I promise to lend you the money."
"That is as good as refusing altogether," replied Mrs. Villars, sulkily, "why not say you will not at once, that would be plain and open, but as it is," she added, bursting into tears, "I see you do not care for me."
"Well, dear," said Mrs. Lesly, much pained, "you know I can never bear to see you cry—dry your tears and listen to me. How are we to get the money?"
Mrs. Villars brightened up in an instant.
"Why," said she, "you bank at Coutts's—write me a draft, and I will get it changed in Bath, some how; I can manage it as I did before."
"My money," said Mrs. Lesly, with unusual gravity, "has been reduced for your sake, to a very few hundreds, a mere trifle, but my children!" exclaimed she, suddenly dropping her pen, and clasping her hands convulsively.
"I have promised to be their mother," saidMrs. Villars, "but nonsense, you will live many years yet."
"Do not think of it, do not think of it, my doctor knows my constitution too well to flatter me with such vain hopes. I have been better since you have been here, but that is excitement, and now my head aches so."
She placed her hand upon her forehead, and sank into deep thought.
Mrs. Villars grew impatient; for there was a struggle going on within her, in which her better self was busily engaged; and the worldly woman almost feared the world would lose the victory, while she trembled at the feelings she was exciting.
The whole truth indeed being, that the money she so earnestly solicited, was intended, not to discharge debts already incurred, but to furnish additional display both in dress and housekeeping, during the approaching visit of Colonel Hargrave to Bath, which the worldly mother hoped, till she believed, would end in a marriage between him and her eldest daughter,whose temper was becoming soured, by the failure of repeated matrimonial speculations.
Mr. Villars had found it necessary to lay down a plan of economy for the following year; limiting its proposed expenditure in a manner which little suited the taste or the tactics of his family, and it, therefore, occurred to his imprudent wife, that there would be no harm in forestalling the legacy of a thousand pounds, promised by an invalid aunt, by adding another hundred to the five she had already borrowed upon it, under the impression that any present expenditure would be amply compensated if she succeeded in placing her daughter in possession of Aston, with whose broad lands she was well acquainted, though of the character, disposition, or principles of its owner, she was quite ignorant.
She well knew how to work upon her sister's feelings, already enervated by grief and ill-health, and the narrow views of a selfish woman had often led her to do so; but now, as she regarded the weakness that seemed to imploreprotection, she felt her powers of dissimulation fast failing before these new thoughts of compunction. After all, she thought she might do without the money, the girls' old dresses were new to Hargrave, and he might be a man of simple habits, and, perhaps, would really be more attracted by white muslin, than crimson velvet—if so, she was perhaps sinning for no purpose—might she not do without the money—she might, but she had never learnt the principle of self-denial, where right and wrong is concerned; and then come second thoughts—why did she wait for them? When temptation is present, the first quick generous impulse is the safest. There is a voice in our hearts which never directs us wrong, let us listen to its least whisper. Why, like the avaricious prophet of old, are we dissatisfied with its first answer—why will we ask, and ask again, till the reply suits, not our conscience, but our desires.
In this case as in many others, Mrs. Villars's second thoughts triumphed. Why should she submit to her husband's pitiful economy—wasit not his fault if she were forced to borrow; and she paid, or meant to pay, her sister good interest, which would atone for every thing; and, at the end of the season, no doubt the longed-for marriage would take place; and, even supposing her grateful daughter forgot to share her pin money with her, Mr. Villars could not but applaud her conduct and settle her debt; and, even if not—but she was in no humour for ifs—and a glance from the window at the rich woods which skirted the Aston estate, and a glimpse through the trees at the mansion itself, quite settled the question, and she continued twisting her spills with perfect satisfaction.
Not so Mrs. Lesly, she had seated herself at her desk, indeed, and taken up her pen with a trembling hand; but her eyes were vacantly following her sister's occupation.
"This will never do," thought the worldly woman; yet she was afraid to hurry her.
"I was thinking," said Mrs. Lesly, at length, after continuing in the same attitude of observation, "I was thinking how very strangeit was that I never remember our talking about money, but you were making spills all the time."
"Why, you see," said Mrs. Villars, carelessly, "I never thought it worth while to bring my work for the short time I generally stay, and I never like to sit quite idle."
"Yes; but when you stayed with me for a month, it happened then as well," said Mrs. Lesly, in a musing kind of tone.
"It was rather strange, certainly—but more strange that you should remember such trifles," said Mrs. Villars, her face turning rather disagreeably pale.
Poor Mrs. Lesly, fearing she had offended her, took up her pen, and wrote like a frightened child, then quickly handed her the draft.
Mrs. Villars hastily rose and kissed her, and then, taking her pen from her hand, wrote a memorandum of the loan, which Mrs. Lesly placed in her work-basket.
At that moment, Amy ran into the room, crying out—
"Mamma, mamma, I have cut my finger—do please give me a piece of rag, or I shall spoil my dress."
Mrs. Lesly, easily frightened, hurried to her assistance, and, though Amy kept exclaiming that she was only anxious about her dress, hurried her off to a receptacle of old linen, which she kept in preparation for every accident.
Mrs. Villars glanced at the paper she had just written.
"How careless Annie is," thought she. "Yet she seemed suspicious just now about the spills—could she have guessed I tore up the other papers I wrote? No—impossible! It is so awkward to be pressed for money, at all sorts of times, and poor Annie is not long for this world, I see. That Mabel has a sharp eye, and would not be easily deceived. Well, it does not alter the obligation one bit, andwhat does it signify between sisters. I only do not wish to be hurried."
A clue to these thoughts might be given by her putting out her hand, and drawing the paper to her, amongst the pieces she was tearing up. Where was the voice of conscience then? Alas! for a time, it slept, for she had slighted its first warning.
She tore the paper in two, and then said to herself, "Well, it is done now," rather as if somebody else had done it, and it was no act of her own. Then she slowly twisted bit after bit into spills, laying each with those she had already done, and the last piece had just assumed its taper appearance, when Mrs. Lesly entered the room.
"What did I do with that paper?" said she, after looking on all sides for it, "how careless I am."
"I think," said Mrs. Villars, "you put it in your secretary—you had it open while you were writing."
"Ah, so I must, I suppose," said Mrs.Lesly; but she looked suspiciously at the secretary, she had no remembrance of going there; yet, she had had it open that morning, she knew. Her sister must remember better than she did. She would look presently, she had not quite the resolution to look now; and suffering her characteristic indolence to overcome her prudence, she sank into an arm-chair, and took up her knitting.
At this moment, the chaise, which had been ordered, slowly drove up to the door, and Mabel entered to tell them that luncheon waited them in the sitting-room.
Mrs. Villars started up, full of business and bustle, which she felt to be a welcome relief after the morning'stête-à-tête, and hurried down stairs. Mabel regarded her mother's pale looks with affectionate anxiety; but there was little time for thought, as Mrs. Villars and her maid kept the house in a perfect ferment for the next five minutes.
Amy stood looking aghast at a very bright carpet-bag, with a kind of travelling scentabout it, which she thought grander and newer than anything of the kind she had before seen; and she quite shrank within herself when her aunt kissed her, and blessed her in a tone which made her feel cold; nor was she sorry when she saw her get into the carriage, attended by the bright carpet-bag—and when box after box was moved to the top of the creaking vehicle—and when the vehicle itself moved down the walk, she drew a long breath, as if relieved from some heavy pressure, feeling the place once more quite their own.
Lucy ran to the gate, to open it to let her mamma pass, kissing her hand to her, and stopping to watch till the carriage turned the corner, and was only visible down Amy's point of observation on the wall. She then came back with her cheeks crimson, and putting her arm round Mabel's waist, she whispered—
"Who do you think passed while I was holding the gate?"
"Who?" said Mabel, a little surprised at anything like an apparition in their quietvillage, and not yet quite aware of their Bath cousin's usual train of thought. "I cannot guess."
Lucy's cheeks were of a deeper tint, as she whispered—
"Captain Clair."
But when the weight of sorrow foundMy spirit prostrate and resigned,The anguish of the bleeding woundTaught me to feel for all mankind.Eliza Cook.
But when the weight of sorrow foundMy spirit prostrate and resigned,The anguish of the bleeding woundTaught me to feel for all mankind.
Eliza Cook.
Mrs. Lesly's ill health had made her rather retire from society, than take any pains to seek it, during her widowhood, and she had gradually drawn her circle of friends so closely round her, that it now scarcely extended beyond her immediate neighbourhood. Mabel, whose affectionate attendance was necessary to her mother's happiness, never thought of leaving her, by accepting any invitation to stay from home; and years had almost insensibly passed awayin the cultivation of elegant tastes, and in constant, but local benevolence, without their being tempted to ask any distant relative or friend to visit them.
Mabel was, therefore, at first, a little puzzled to think how she might render their quiet home agreeable to the gay girl who had so unexpectedly entered it. Lucy, however, seemed determined to be pleased, if only allowed to be moving, and she ran away with great cheerfulness, to prepare for the walk which Mabel proposed soon after the departure of Mrs. Villars.
"Do you often call at the rectory?" she asked, as they strolled up the hill leading through the village.
"We will call as we return from our walk," replied Mabel, "if you fancy going there with me."
"Oh, yes," said Lucy, "I should like it so much, for you said Mr. Ware was such a nice man; his sister, I suppose, is quite an old maid."
"She is such a pleasant old lady, that youcannot help liking her," said Mabel; "but I ought not to say that, I suppose, as some people always dislike those they are told they shall like, and I should be very sorry if you were not pleased with them both."
"Oh, I shall be sure to like them if they are favorites of yours. But do look how lovely;" she exclaimed, as a sudden turn in the winding walk they had chosen, gave them a fine view of the distant country, with Aston manor in the fore-ground. "What a beautiful house. Is that the house we saw from the garden? Is that Harry Hargrave's?"
"Yes," was the laconic reply.
"Why do you look so grave?"
"I did not mean to look so," said Mabel; stopping by an old hawthorn tree, which was lying upon the ground, though the branches were still covered with foliage. "Let us sit down here, for the sun is quite oppressive. This," continued she, "is a favorite seat of mine; the tree fell a long time ago, and has been left as it is, ever since. You will get abetter view of the house here, than you will find any where else."
Lucy readily seated herself by Mabel's side, upon the old tree which had fallen in a pleasant spot. A high hedge shaded it from the sun on one side, and clusters of wild roses hung down it, and scented the air. A gentle breeze stole up from the valley, and a small stream rippled by in melodious monotony, falling in a tiny cascade over the bank into the river below. The songs of many birds came from all sides of the well wooded country—and here and there a gay butterfly crossed over the fields.
They continued for some little time in silence, which Lucy was the first to break, by enquiring if Aston Manor were as pleasant inside as it seemed to promise to be.
"Yes, even more pleasant," replied Mabel; "it is a very compact house, the rooms are of a very good size—and the whole place splendidly furnished, and generally admired in our county; the hall is surrounded by a gallery, hung with paintings of great value. The gardensare very beautiful, and every thing else in keeping. Indeed, I think it is quite a bijou of a place."
"Is there any room that would do nicely for a dance?" enquired Lucy.
"They used to have many pleasant dances there, in good Mrs. Hargrave's lifetime, which mamma remembers well."
"Oh, that will be so nice," said Lucy.
"What will?" said Mabel, in surprise.
"Why, when our castle in the air marriage takes place," said Lucy; "because Caroline is so very fond of dancing, and could lead off a ball with such spirit; and I shall contrive to be nearly always staying with them."
"Why do you suppose every thing so certain," said Mabel, startled, alike at the indelicacy of the scheme, and Lucy's cool thoughtlessness in speaking of it.
"Do not say it will not be," said Lucy, "or I shall punish you some how or other. Now, would you not be glad to have us down here, Colonel Hargrave and all; think whatnice parties there would be; and who knows what nice beau might come down and take you away with him."
Mabel's cheek blushed scarlet, and her lips curled in preparation for some angry retort—suddenly she checked herself as she remembered the conversation of the preceding night. Have I then failed so soon, thought she to herself.
"Ah, mamma, you know my vain wicked heart better than I do—for the first observation that seems to point me out as single, and needing a lover, makes me angry."
"Ah, you blush, Mabel," pursued her heedless tormentor, too unaccustomed to feel for others, to be able to read her countenance, or tell why her words had given pain; "perhaps, you are engaged to some one, under the rose, all the while."
Mabel was silent for a moment; it required that moment to seize the reins with which she usually held her temper in check, and then she replied, gently, but gravely.
"I am not engaged to any one; you mistake my face entirely, but I colored because I was silly enough to feel angry at your thinking I was wishing to be married—but it was wrong of me, because you could not understand my feelings without being told. So I must tell you," she continued smiling, "that I am a determined old maid; though, perhaps, you may think such a resolution needless in a place where gentlemen seldom come to disturb our equanimity."
"What, wedded to your duties, are you? Or what other queer reason may have led you to such a determination," enquired Lucy, who could not help feeling that her new friend's speech meant more than it usually does in the mouth of a beautiful girl; and she was surprised to think she should wish to retire from the field of conquest, before actually driven from it by dulness or age. Her own vanity could not conceal from her, a certain indescribable something which rendered her cousin particularly attractive, and, though she certainlyranked her second to herself, that did not imply any very low degree of merit.
Mabel's composure, which was seldom lost, was now entirely restored, and she answered Lucy's wondering eyes with one of her peculiarly sweet and gentle smiles.
"You may well wonder," said she, "that I, who seem so little your senior, should already have made such a resolution. I too, who am fond of society, fond of companionship, and all that is domestic, and choose solitude only as wholesome medicine; but some destinies are fixed early, others late; and I, who once thought, and still think, marriage, with its social harmony and sweet feelings of dependence, most fitted for a woman's nature, have yet quite made up my mind to remain single."
"I shall not believe you till you give me some good reason," said Lucy.
"You are too kind," replied Mabel, as her voice slightly trembled, "to seek to probe a wound only from the curiosity of seeing how deep it is—when you have no power to heal.I speak of myself now," she added, hastily; "lest in our future conversations, you may pain me without knowing it, and perhaps I might think you unkind when you were only seeking to amuse me. Oh, Lucy," said she, turning round with sudden energy, "I have suffered terribly, and still suffer, when I lose my self-command for a moment—do not then talk of my loving or needing love—do not tease me with the intention of pleasing—do not talk—" Mabel suddenly stopped and burst into tears—for a very long time, she had never spoken intimately with a young girl in her own station of life, and the novelty had surprised her. A few large drops rolled quickly down her crimson cheeks, but were soon brushed away, and half smiling, she begged her cousin's forgiveness for speaking so hastily—in a few more seconds, she was again gentle and submissive as a child.
"Then must I never speak of love at all?" said Lucy, fearing that all the most interesting of her stories would find an unwilling listener.
"Oh, you mistake me," said Mabel; "do not think me so selfish—talk as much as you like of yourself, and forget me; and you will, perhaps, find me a better listener, perhaps a better adviser, because I have altogether retired from the lists of conquest; and, be assured, the necessity of placing a guard over myself, and the difficulty of doing it effectually, only tells me how much I ought to feel for others. If you will always let me speak the truth, without being offended with me, I will take interest in your feelings at any time, only remember that mine are like 'The Arab's sealed fountain,' whose waters will never see the light again."
"You are a very strange girl, my sweet, new friend," said Lucy; "but I love you better for having a history, although I see I must not read it quite yet; at all events, not till I know you better, and you learn how well I can keep a secret."
"No, not even then," replied Mabel, "Icannot speak of myself without speaking of more than myself; so content yourself with what I have told you, and do not think of me again, or I shall repent having said anything."
"Well, it shall be quite as you like, I will do anything you wish, only you must tell me, that you love me very, very much indeed."
"I will tell you no such thing," said Mabel, laughing; "remember, I only met you yesterday morning."
"Well then, come and call at the rectory, and that will shew me you love me."
"But I could do such a little thing, whether I loved you or not," said Mabel; "so I will take you for charity's sake, for I see, like the cat who was turned into a lady, and yet ran after mice—you cannot go without your accustomed food."
"I thought you said you liked society," said Lucy.
"And so I do—so let us walk on, for this green lane will lead us round to the rectory."
One of the rectory pets was an immense Newfoundland dog, who began to bark loudly as they approached the house.
"Oh!" said Lucy, with a half scream, "I cannot go on—I am sure he is untied—nasty thing."
"No, he never barks when he is loose—come on, dear, I am sure he will not hurt you."
Lucy clung to her arm in real or affected terror till they reached the house door.
Much to her disappointment, they found no one but Miss Ware at home, and she sat up during the visit, as silent, and apparently as timid, as a child, amusing herself by poking her parasol through the cage of the pet parrot, who appeared highly offended at her familiarity.
Mabel was a great favorite at the rectory, and Miss Ware, certain of finding her interested in her news, had many little things totell her; she had had a letter from one old friend, and had worked a birth-day present for another, with many other little incidents to notice, which Lucy amused herself by silently turning into ridicule, though they were so kindly told that few would have found it difficult to enter into the little cares and joys which, after all, were never selfish.
"My brother and nephew are gone to look over the church," said she, "which I conclude Miss Villars has not yet seen. Edwin is always wishing to improve the old tower, and to scrape away the mortar and white-wash from the walls inside the church, for he says they are painted with beautiful figures—but he will never have money enough for that I am afraid—yet he puts by all he can spare—for he does not like running into debt, and I agree with him, it is doing evil that good may come. So he saves every year—but I fear he will not get enough in his lifetime, to carry out this pet scheme."
"I wish we were all rich enough to raise a subscription," said Mabel, "I should so much like to see him fully employed in finding out all the beauties of our dear old church."
"Yes," said Miss Ware, "I like to hear him talk on the subject, because he enters upon it in the true genuine spirit—he feels it to be almost an insult to religion to allow its altars to be kept in the slovenly state they too often are; grudged almost the necessary repairs by those who are lavish where their own minutest comforts are concerned. The Roman Catholics might cry shame at us."
"Why do you not ask Colonel Hargrave, ma'am?" enquired Lucy, turning round from the parrot.
"My brother has mentioned the subject several times," said Miss Ware, "without being able to interest him. Young men too seldom enter, with warmth, on these subjects, and he has now left us so long."
"Oh, I will tell him he must," said Lucy,"with his fortune it is really quite shabby of him."
"Do you know him then?" enquired Miss Ware.
"Yes—no—not exactly—but he is a relation of ours. He is coming to stay with us in Bath, and I will take an early opportunity of mentioning the church to him."
"Oh, I remember," said Miss Ware, "he is, I know, related to you through Colonel Lesly, but I am afraid you will scarcely succeed, where my brother has failed—if strength of argument be needed, few can put a thing in a stronger light than Edwin can."
"Oh," said Lucy, laughing, "I never condescend to argue with a man—I will tell him hemust—suggest that not to do so is shabby, mean—with a few more epithets to match, and then leave his own good taste to draw the conclusion."
"Well," said Miss Ware, recovering from her slight pique, at thinking any one could succeed where Edwin failed, "if you neveruse your ridicule for a worse purpose, you will do well."
The subject here took another turn, and Lucy again applied herself to tease the parrot with the same listlessness as before—thinking the conversation very dull, yet too idle to throw in her share. She was aroused from her apathy, by hearing Miss Ware ask Mabel if she would bring her young friend to tea on the morrow, if Mrs. Lesly could content herself with Amy's company; for to ask her, she knew to be useless. Lucy feared Mabel was going to decline, and she cast such an imploring look at her as to decide the question, and make her promise that, if Mrs. Lesly continued as well as she had been, and would consent to part with them, they would come with pleasure. Lucy thought this, a very satisfactory conclusion, to so dull a visit, and once again all smiles, shook Miss Ware warmly by the hand, as Mabel rose to leave, and returned home in high spirits.
A parent's heart may prove a snare;The child she loves so well,Her hand may lead, with gentlest care,Down the smooth road to hell.Nourish its flame, destroy its mind,Thus do the blind mislead the blind,Even with a mother's love.
A parent's heart may prove a snare;The child she loves so well,Her hand may lead, with gentlest care,Down the smooth road to hell.Nourish its flame, destroy its mind,Thus do the blind mislead the blind,Even with a mother's love.
Lucy Villars was a pretty girl, with fairy-like figure, small features, laughing mouth, bright blue sparkling eyes, and a profusion of light ringlets. Her step was buoyant, and her voice full of animation. It might have been vanity that made the sparkle of those eyes so brilliant, and her smiles so frequent, but as her merrylaugh echoed back the joyousness of her own heart, few were disposed to condemn the feeling, whatever it might be, that rendered her so seemingly happy with herself, and all around her.
What mental abilities she might possess, however, were completely overshadowed by the mistakes of early education; at times they would peep forth when her feelings were really stirred by any strong impulse of good or evil; but so uncommon were these indications of mind, that no one could regard them as any true sign even of an originally strong intellect; and her ordinary flippancy was, perhaps, more certainly chosen as an index to the spirit within.
She had been but an apt pupil in a bad school. When scarcely more than a tottering child, she had taken her place at the dancing academy, learning in her lisping language to compare waltzes and polkas, and criticise dress, and to display her tiny figure for the admiration of spectators; feeling her little heart bound when perhaps she attracted notice from beingthe smallest and gayest of her companions. Then, in the juvenile party, where the lesson of the morning could be so well displayed, where she early learnt to hear her nonsense listened to with pleasure, and, where, even the old and sensible regarded her little affectations with a smile, she found another opportunity for display in the world for which she was educated.
These were too tempting after the dry formula of French verbs and geography lessons, not to engross the greater part of her thoughts; and, as she grew older, the evening ball, with its glare of light, its flirtations and too visible admiration, and the morning promenade, concert, or town gossip, served to keep up the excited, thoughtless feeling to which she had been so early trained. Oh, England, do you educate all your daughters in this manner! Your matrons, reverenced by all nations, answer no!
It could scarcely be wondered at, that Lucy Villars had thus learnt to place too high avalue on personal beauty. We would not for an instant deny its merit. We reverence all that is beautiful in art or nature, we glow with admiration of a fine picture, and the sight of a rich landscape elevates the feelings of him who gazes upon it; we picture angels beautiful, and we look forward to a heaven where all is perfect beauty. It cannot then be valueless when exhibited in the human face or figure. It has indeed been much over and underrated. May we not look upon it as a talent bestowed for some high purpose, as a means of influence which must be some day accounted for.
No such thoughts ever occupied Lucy's mind for a moment; she had learnt her own estimate of its value from the frivolous admiration of a gay city; she had heard it praised in others as if of the greatest importance; and she had chosen her acquaintance amongst those who studied every means of enhancing its charms.
She now entered on her country visit with the same feelings; and, bent on displaying herselfto the best advantage at the rectory, she spent the greater part of the next morning, during the hours usually occupied by Mabel in attending to Amy's lessons, in selecting from her wardrobe a dress best suited for the occasion. Mabel was again and again consulted, and Amy began to show great impatience at her sister's divided attention, usually all her own, during her study hours.
But Mabel, much to her disappointment, not unwilling to teach her self-denial, persisted in attending to Lucy's questions, and in the evening the latter found herself attired to her perfect satisfaction, and looking remarkably well.
"You seem to think dress of little importance," she said, lounging into her cousin's room, and stopping to take another peep in the glass, without seeing that Mabel had not finished dressing, and was a little late.
"No indeed," replied Mabel, fastening a bouquet of geraniums in her simple white dress, without the aid of the usurped mirror, "I think it of so much consequence, that no womanshould be indifferent to it, when at her toilet, or with her milliner. They say a lady's taste is to be read in her dress, and I should not like to give soiled lace or badly blended colors, as an index to mine."
"Do you find any fault with my dress to-night?" enquired Lucy.
Mabel only suggested that a simple brooch might be preferred to the bright bow which ornamented her bosom, but she had ample time to repent the observation, for Lucy insisted on going over her whole box of jewelry to find a substitute, and was scarcely ready by the time when Mabel, having provided books, work, tea, and every thing she could think of for Mrs. Lesly and Amy, waited for her in the garden.
They found Mr. Ware looking for them at his garden gate. Mabel hurried forward to meet him, and then turned to introduce her cousin.
"Most welcome, my dear young ladies," said he, extending a hand to each, "my sisterhas no mean opinion of her own hospitality to venture on inviting you to join our party."
Lucy blushed with conscious beauty, while Mabel said, with a smile—
"You throw all the blame on Miss Ware. I fear then, you would not have asked us to come yourself."
"Nay, nay, I cannot exactly say what I would have done; but here is Arthur, no doubt he can play at words better than I can."
Captain Clair gracefully raised his hat as he came in sight, and then shaking hands with Mabel, requested, in a low voice to be introduced to her lovely cousin. The "lovely," was pronounced distinctly enough to reach Lucy's ears, and the blush with which she received Mabel's introduction shewed him that the compliment had been accepted.
As the party lounged round the garden, Mabel reminded Mr. Ware of his promise to show her some improvements he had been making amongst the evergreens in the shrubbery;and Lucy Villars gladly seized the opportunity of commencing a flirting conversation with Captain Clair, who, being well drilled in the accomplishment of small talk, by long practice, easily fell into atête-à-tête.
Mabel's hand was placed affectionately in the old man's arm, as they walked on together, finding some kindred thought from every topic they chose. He had been kind to her when a firm friend had been most needed, and she now sought to shew, in every way, that he had not bestowed that kindness on one incapable of appreciating it.
The ready sympathy she felt in all in which he took any interest, was, perhaps, the best return she could have thought of. We value most that for which we pay the highest, and friendship is purchased by no common coin.
It was a great pleasure to Mr. Ware, to have her society and ready sympathy. Few friends lay within reach of Aston, and her elegant mind supplied what would otherwise have been wanting in his simple home, and gavehim an opportunity of conversing on his favorite topics.
"We shall not be seeing so much of you I fear," he said, as they walked back towards the house, "but I must not be selfish."
"Indeed I hope that will not be the case," she replied, "do come and walk with us whenever you have time. No one can shew the the beauties of our county better than you can, and I never enjoy a party so much as when you are with us."
"If you are in earnest I feel inclined to gratify you, if not, to punish you, by accepting your invitation."
"Do not let us even pretend to be insincere," said Mabel, eagerly, "hypocrisy is so hateful. Take me at my word, and trust me till I break it."
"Well, then, so I will; I scarcely know which I like most, to trust or be trusted, both are so pleasant; so, if you are going to do any thing delightful out of doors, like a walk or a nutting expedition, ask us to join you, and wewill do the same, so we shall the better be able to amuse our guests. People often require too good a reason for meeting—we will have none."
"I will most willingly promise," returned Mabel, "only remember, that on some days mamma feels so low that I never leave her—then you must excuse me, for every thing at home depends on her."
"You are quite right to let it be so," said Mr. Ware, "and I will never say a word against such an arrangement. Only tell her we mean to take her by storm some night and come to tea. You shall give it us on the green, and then she can look on without minding our noise."
"Mamma will be very glad to see you, I am sure," said Mabel, "if you will only propose it. The effort would do her good."
"Very well then, I will tell her when I see her next," said Mr. Ware, with a smile.
They had now reached the open window ofthe sitting-room, where Mabel was welcomed by Miss Ware.
"The evening is really quite sultry," said she, "yet the air at this time of day so often gives me cold, that I had not courage to venture out, though I so much wished to join you."
"Had I known that, my dear Miss Ware, I should not have been tempted to remain out so long."
"No, no, dear child, I am not so selfish, for I know when once you begin to talk to Edwin there is no leaving off; but I hope you have not forgotten your pretty cousin to-night. You promised to bring her with you."
"Oh, yes, she is with us," said Mabel, turning round, but no Lucy was to be seen.
"Oh, Arthur is taking care of her, I believe," said Mr. Ware, "and they will be here soon, I dare say."
It was some little time, however, before they did appear, and then they were seen advancingdown the gravel walk, both laughing, and Lucy with a very high colour.
"Why," said Mr. Ware, "you stole a march upon us, Arthur, where have you been keeping this young lady in the damp?"
"Are we at the chair of confession?" asked the young officer, still laughing.
"Yes, yes, every one confesses everything here; but sit down to tea first, and take off your bonnet, Miss Villars."
"Well then," said Clair, when they were comfortably seated at the tea-table, "I perceive I must apologise for a very grave offence in keeping Miss Lucy Villars so long absent; the whole crime, I fear, lies with me, I indeed, the scape-goat for every offender, must, I fear, take the blame on myself."
"Come, come, Arthur," said his uncle, "be laconic."
"My dear uncle, you should allow a prisoner to state his own case fairly—if he has not studied Burke on the 'Sublime and Beautiful,' the 'Patriot King,' and other models ofpure English composition, you must let a poor fellow express himself as he can, so that he speaks the truth. So to proceed; we were talking of country pursuits, and Miss Lucy could not understand how I could contrive to while away my time, after being accustomed to town, Portsmouth, Southampton, Cheltenham, Scarborough, Bombay, Calcutta and such places; how, in fact, I contrived to vegetate here."
Lucy laughed merrily, and displayed in doing so a very pretty set of white teeth. But Mr. Ware saw with regret that a new spirit had entered their small circle of society, whose influence might do much to counteract his own on the versatile disposition of his nephew, even without being conscious of it.
"Well, aunt," Captain Clair continued gaily, "you look serious, as if I meant any bad compliment to the sweetest village in England; though, my dear aunt, vegetation is vegetation after all, whether displayed on the Cotswold hills or in the back woods of America."
Mabel looked at him for an instant, and her deep blue eyes seemed to deprecate a remark which her ever kind heart told her was giving pain. Clair bowed, and then said almost in a whisper: "Thank you, I was wrong," and continued his narrative, after a moment's pause.
"Well, as I before said, Miss Lucy wished to know how I amused myself in the country, and, amongst other things, I mentioned my workshop, situated, as you may remember, over the stable, and accessible only by a ladder. However, this lady honored me by expressing a wish to see it, and you know how difficult it is to refuse to gratify a lady's taste for a hobby of our own, therefore, we proceeded to the stable, where, after some time being spent in the ascent of the ladder, in looking at my tools, and all my attempts at carpentering rickety garden chairs, and tables that never will be persuaded to stand even, and after my giving her a promise to turn her a jewel box, (which I hope she did not believe) we experiencedthe same difficulty in coming down, that we did in going up, but at length we are here, and at your service."
"What a long story about nothing," said his aunt.
"Then, if you think so, you do neither me nor my narrative justice; I have given it for the amusement of the public, and feel myself ill-used to find it not appreciated. Miss Lucy you play chess, you said. Honor me by playing? We are ill-treated by the rest of the company, so may well retire from notice."
Mabel was surprised to see the sudden intimacy which had sprung up in less than an hour, and expected that Lucy would evade the familiarity with which she was so soon treated, by some evidence of woman's tact; but she very soon saw her seated by the little chess-table, in the corner, apart from the rest, and listening to the low conversation addressed to her, as if her host, and hostess, and friend, had not been in the room.
She could not help feeling a little angry at her cousin's total neglect of the friends whom she had ever been accustomed to treat with affection and respect, but studiously endeavoured to engage their attention, and to prevent their thinking of it. Still, it is never so difficult to talk as when we most try to do so, and, almost for the first time, with them, she felt it tedious to support the conversation.
At length, after giving Lucy two or three games, which her inferior play would never have won, Captain Clair shut up the board, and the two turned round for amusement to the rest of the company.
"Do you know, Mabel," said Lucy, "that Captain Clair came home from Malta with Colonel Hargrave."
"Yes, Mr. Ware told me so."
"Do then join with me in begging a description of him."
"Surely," she replied, "Captain Clair does not need two requests."
"Do then," said Lucy, turning to him, "give us a nice long description of him."
"I really do not know where to begin," said he, "particularly as you say you will see him so soon."
"Oh, yes," said Lucy, with quiet pride, "he is coming to see us in Bath. But now do describe him," she reiterated, with her prettiest look of entreaty.
"Well then, though it is hard to have to describe a character that throws one's own into shade."
"No, my dear boy," said Mr. Ware, his eyes glistening at this modest avowal; "true praise of another's worth only enhances your own."
"Not in every one's opinion, I fear, uncle; virtue seems to stand so much by comparison, at least, I have often found it so; but that shall not prevent my giving as faithful a picture as I can remember of Hargrave. I am rather fond of studying character."
"How you wander," said Lucy; "do begin—."
"No, miss Lucy, I was not wandering so much as you think, my observation on character might after a bit have led to Hargrave—but, like a true knight, once more I obey. What shall I begin with? A man's agreeable qualities are generally judged by his acres; allow me," said he, waving his hand towards the window, and pointing to the landscape of hill and vale, and rich woods, and winding river, over which the moon was shining, to shew you his most agreeable phase in the eyes of fair ladies.
Lucy visibly colored, and Clair looked at her scrutinisingly, till she laughingly told him to go on.
"Well, if that description does not satisfy, I must be more minute, and bring up qualities, which, in these refined days, are not so much thought of, unfortunately. First, then, his personal appearance. He is very tall, andbroad shouldered, and athletic; yet, at the same time, though he is as strong as a giant, you might almost call him graceful. He seems to have acquired the difficult art of standing perfectly still; no shifting from one foot to another, a habit, Miss Lucy, I am prone to indulge in. Now then for his face, dark eyes, dark hair, dark complexion, white teeth, and a good nose, and I suppose my description is complete."
"No, not yet, by any means," said Lucy, "tell us a little more."
"Ah, I forgot his sneer, which is perfect, I never saw one so cutting before; but then his smile atones for it, though as rare as the sunshine in November. The sneer is that of a proud, contemptuous, arrogant man—the smile, that of an infant. Then, his eye—there is no describing his eye—you, may remember it, uncle; it seems as if continual fire were sleeping in it, like the fire of uncurbed intellect; an eye capable of reading the countenanceof another, yet, almost slothful in the attempt to do so."
"What a horrid man!" exclaimed Lucy.
"You will not think so when you see him, or if you do, you will be singular," said Clair. "Then I was going to tell you, that he is changeable as the moon. Perhaps, when you are alone with him, he will startle and entrance you, by his eloquent observations on men, and things; and you will invite your friends to meet him, expecting them to be equally fascinated; but, perhaps, during the whole evening, he will scarcely make even a common-place observation. He is, indeed, a curious, fascinating, wilful being; clever, and accomplished, beyond a doubt, and his character is unimpeachable; yet he always seems to want something to make him entirely happy."
"Poor fellow," sighed Mr. Ware.
"Perhaps he is in love," suggested Lucy.
"Hardly unsuccessfully, I should think; indeed, were I he, I should never despair—butI own," said he, laughing; "I have sometimes caught him looking at the moon."
"Well," said Mabel, rising; "I am sure we have to thank you for your description of our lord of the manor, though you have made him rather a terrible personage. Come, Lucy, I fear we must go."
"If you must, you will allow me to see you home," said Clair.
"I always take Mabel home," said his uncle; "but, if you will come with us, as there are two ladies to be taken care of, we shall walk home together."
Clair gladly assented to this arrangement; but, to Lucy's surprise, offered Mabel his arm, leaving her to walk with his uncle; a plan she so decidedly disliked, that she insisted on keeping her pocket-handkerchief to her mouth the whole way home, though the night was remarkably clear, and her stifled and negligent answers gave little encouragement to her companion's attempts at conversation.
When they reached home, they found only Betsy, waiting up for them, and Mabel begged Lucy to go as quietly as possible to her room, for fear of waking Amy—but she insisted on following her, without stopping to remark the expression of unusual paleness and fatigue, which was visible in her countenance, and compelled her to listen to the story of her evening's adventures.
"You know," said she, blushing, "when I was up in that high poky place, at the top of the long ladder, Captain Clair said he would not let me go down till I gave him some reward; of course I knew he wanted a kiss, but I was not going to give it him, and so I stood still, till I was so tired, that I compromised the matter by giving him my hand to kiss; so then he let me go, saying, he supposed he must be contented."
"Oh! Lucy," cried Mabel, "how could you be so imprudent as to go up there alone—howimpertinent of him—why did you let him take such a liberty."
"Come, nonsense, now sweetest, do not be a prude, it does not become you to look like an old maid. What is the harm of having a kiss on one's hand, one's cheek would be different, and, of course, I would not allow him to do that."
"But, Lucy, dear, is it not imprudent to place yourself in a position which would allow him to ask such a thing—will it not make you appear a flirt—does it not lower you to allow him to be so free, after seeing him only for a few hours. Do consider."
"Why, one would think I was a grandmother. I hate being cross at every little thing. I am sure it is more wicked to quarrel, after all."
"Yes, but if you would only understand me," said Mabel, "you would know, I would not have you quarrel, either. But if you willlet me, we will talk of it again to-morrow, for now poor Amy is waking. You know," said she, gently putting her arm round her pretty cousin, and kissing her forehead softly; "you know you promised to let me talk to you in this way, and you half promised to listen."
"Well, sweet cousin, I think you may be speaking the truth, after all. It was very naughty of me, perhaps," she added, with a smile, "to go up in the loft, and so I will try and be better in future. Oh dear! dear! Amy is awake; well, I am very sorry. Go to sleep, child, Mabel is tired," and off she ran to her own room, leaving her cousin to soothe the restless child as she could.
Perhaps it was as well that Mabel was thus prevented from following the train of depressing thought into which she seemed to have fallen on her return from the rectory, for, as she sunk to rest, with Amy's head upon her arm, she remembered, that if sorrow had ever laid its heavyhand upon her life, the treasure of a sister's love had yet been given her—a sister rendered more dear by sickness and weakness. And in these thoughts the unselfish girl soon forgot all other feelings.