My friend, your house is made of glass,As any one may see,I pray you, therefore, have a care,How you throw stones at me.Culver Allen.
My friend, your house is made of glass,As any one may see,I pray you, therefore, have a care,How you throw stones at me.
Culver Allen.
"If you please miss," said Betsy, entering Amy's room, where Mabel was sitting, "will you go to Miss Lucy's room for she is crying and sobbing like any thing, and she has got the door locked and will not open it—something must be the matter."
"I will go to her directly, and will soon be back, love," said Mabel, kissing her sister, who never saw her leave without regret.
She then went to Lucy's room, and tapping gently, demanded admittance.
After a short pause the door was opened by Lucy, whose eyes were swollen with weeping, and her cheeks wet with the tears which were flowing quickly. She had been lying on the bed, and, content with letting Mabel in, she threw herself again upon it hastily, rubbing her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief, though the tears burst forth afresh on every attempt to clear them away.
Mabel's woman's heart quickly thought of Clair, and, seating herself by her side, she waited patiently till she became a little composed, and then begged her to say if she could do any thing for her.
"Nobody can do anything for me," said Lucy, and the effort to speak called forth a fresh burst of sobs and tears.
"What has happened, do tell me?" saidMabel, "has any one been unkind to you, dear Lucy."
"The wretch," sobbed Lucy, "the mean-spirited wretch."
"I hope you do not speak of Clair," said Mabel, "what can he have been doing?"
"Oh, go away," cried Lucy, "go away, I am so unhappy, so wretched, I wish I had never seen him—never come here. Oh! leave me, go away, where shall I hide my face."
"I cannot leave you thus—do tell me what he has been doing?"
"They will laugh at me at home. What will Miss Lovelace say—oh dear!"
"Come, do tell me," said Mabel, anxiously, "I may be able to give you comfort."
"Oh, I cannot tell you."
"Why not?"
"Ah, Mabel, if I were as good as you I should not cry."
A faint blush passed over her countenance, and she was silent, till, presently, after manytears and sobs she told Mabel the cause of her distress.
She had been walking in the nut avenue by the side of the lane, and had thus overheard the greater part of the conversation between Mr. Ware and his nephew, narrated in the last chapter. The sound of her own name had attracted her attention, and, having once yielded to the temptation of listening, she found, as she imagined, sufficient excuse for wishing to hear all—and enough had, in this manner, reached her ears to send her home full of mortified feeling.
Mabel listened, with unfeigned surprise, to the story of this adventure—and to those sentences, which, applying directly to herself, Lucy had most accurately remembered—but, when she heard from her of the admiration which she had so unconsciously inspired, she looked entirely amazed, and at a loss. This Lucy dwelt upon with a candour which surprised her.
"The wretch," said the latter, when shehad concluded her story—"the worst of it is, that I cannot hate him as he deserves."
"Do not say so," replied Mabel, "if you are able to forgive him so easily, you will have much less to suffer; there is nothing so painful as the indulgence of sinful or angry passions."
"Mabel," said Lucy, gravely, "you will marry him, of course, and I will try to wish you both happy."
"Dear Lucy," replied Mabel, taking her hand kindly, "I am very, very sorry for you, but rely on my friendship if you can, and I, who have suffered as much as you are suffering now, may be some support to you. Do not, for one moment, imagine, that, should Captain Clair ever place it in my power to marry him, I should for an instant think of it. I have told you already, that unhappy circumstances have rendered all thoughts of love repulsive to me, and, even if it were not so, I could not give my affections to one whom I have so long regarded as your lover."
"Do you really mean that?" cried Lucy, with the desperation of a drowning man catching at a straw.
"I do indeed. Do you think I would trifle with you, when you are in distress. You must not let his unhappy preference prevent your trusting me as much as before, and you must let me guide you till you are strong enough to guide yourself."
Lucy flung her arms round her neck, saying heartily—
"You shall do anything you like with me, my own sweet friend; but, oh, there is something wanting in my heart which you have not the power to heal; but let me talk to you for a few minutes—if you understand me, you can better advise me."
Mabel was silent, and Lucy, leaning back upon her pillow, and looking fixedly at her, said, after a moment's pause—
"I have been brought up in a very different home from yours—and when you think of me, you must give me all the excuses my circumstancesclaim. I feel I might have been happier in a different life, yet, as it is, I have been happy enough. When I first came here, I thought I never could live in so dull a place, though I appeared delighted with it, because I feared to offend you; but now I dread nothing so much as leaving, and going back to Bath. Mamma talks a great deal of being very fond of us—but she despairs of getting so many girls married, and would give her right hand to get rid of us in a respectable manner. Very little is talked of when we are alone, but the chances of this or that young man's coming forward. I confess, with shame, that no one has talked on this subject, with more zeal than I have done—and I boldly determined to do my very best to get married. You will call this all very unwomanly, and so I acknowledge now, but anything seemed preferable to being an old maid. So far, you see, Arthur Clair was right; when I first saw him—marriage being at all times uppermost in my thoughts—I wished tomake a conquest of him, if possible. You see how far I succeeded—even you were deceived, and thought him sincere, while, it appears, he was only trifling with me, as I deserved. I wrote home glowing accounts to Bath—and by this time, it is whispered half over the town, in all the coteries where mamma visits—and I shall now have to go back to disappoint them, and be laughed at myself; but this would be nothing, if I could go back, as light-hearted as I came here. Arthur Clair is wrong in supposing I have no heart—but I do not love him less for despising the character he supposes me to be. It was very cruel of him to act as he did—but yet I must have appeared to him a sad trifler, and worse than that, for, while I really loved you more than I do any other girl I know, I was, when with him, perpetually turning you into ridicule to prevent his admiring you. You, too, must hate and despise me; but I am tired of deceit, and will have nothing more to do with it."
Mabel's quick judgment foresaw that hercousin's repentance was probably as light, as her confession of deceit was easy—but she knew, at the same time, that she had no right to take this for granted, and that her only duty was to catch at even the lightest spark of virtue, and use her utmost power to kindle it into a bright and lasting flame. Sorrow was around her in every shape, destitution and dependence were before her, yet, no grief of her own, could prevent her turning a willing ear to the complaints, which, her truly womanly nature told her, arose from that suffering which is perhaps the hardest a woman can feel.
With extreme gentleness she offered comfort, mingled with the censure, she could not in sincerity withhold, and Lucy listened with surprise to advice unmingled with any taunt or reproach.
"Do you not think," she said, "that I had better tell him I heard what he said, and that I know that I do not deserve that he should think well of me."
"By no means," replied Mabel; "I would strongly advise you to give up all thoughts of him at once, for you are convinced that he does not care for you, and you acknowledge that you have, in a great measure, brought this unhappy affair upon yourself. You must forgive him fully, for, from what you tell me, he certainly does not seem so much to blame as I supposed; and, if you took any unworthy means to obtain his good opinion, you certainly fully deserve to have lost it. I do not admire a prude, but I do think that no woman has a right to make the first advances, and, if she does so, she certainly must be prepared to take the consequences. But let me earnestly beg you, to spend this season of affliction in schooling your own heart against this and future temptations, and hasten to vindicate your character to yourself, and to him. Shew him, that if you have been wrong, you are changed. It will be very difficult, I own, to teach him thoroughly to respect you; nay, do not curl your lip at the mention of respect; there maybe a time when you will learn, how valuable, how necessary, respect is to a woman's peace; and the calm dignity with which you can bear this disappointment may purchase it, even from the doubting Clair. A calm and composed behaviour you must aim at—do not assume total indifference, for that will soon be perceived—but submit, if possible, without complaint, and without resentment—you will find this the easiest way of bearing trials."
Mabel secretly hoped, that, by following her advice, Lucy might not only reform her character, but also display it to advantage in the eyes of the man she loved—nor did she think it improbable, that, disappointed in his suit to herself, he might find in Lucy's altered behavior, a charm sufficiently strong to lure him to a real, instead of a feigned affection, and thus preserve her from the snares which surrounded her in her own home.
With these thoughts she returned to the sick chamber, leaving Lucy to think over what she had said.
During the last few weeks, she had allowed herself but little repose. Her time was spent alternately with her sister and mother, who in their separate rooms, each needed the refreshment of her presence. Her step was quick—her ready hand untiring—and her watchful eye always observant—yet, though no complaint had passed her lips since the sad night of Amy's accident, few could fail to observe how heavily she felt the sorrow by which she was subdued.
The nights passed wearily, marked only by the hollow cough, which told her of her mother's failing health, and the loud wintry wind which whistled in the crevices of the house, or swept by it in loud blasts from the hills.
All who have felt sorrow, or who have been called to watch by the bed of the sick, must remember how much more sad these times appear in winter, than in any other time of the year.
We need our best spirits to laugh away thefrost, and snow, and foggy days, and all the associations called up by the withering earth and closing year.
Yet all these, with present trouble, past regret, and future fears, marked this sad time to Mabel. Her greatest satisfaction now, was the paying the most lavish attention to the two invalids.
Though their means were at all times limited, she spared no expense, where it could be likely to be of any service to the sufferers; she prevailed upon her mother to allow her to draw, as she pleased upon, the few hundreds still remaining of her savings, and this enabled her to procure, for both, the best medical advice which England afforded, though at a cost which the warmest of her friends could scarcely advocate.
All her efforts, however, were unavailing, her mother's strength rapidly failed, and the utmost care could scarcely keep her sister from sinking under the pain she suffered.
Day after day, the opinion of the medicalman fluctuated, until he scarcely gave any hope—for he well knew that Amy's constitution, from infancy, little fitted her to struggle with disease of any kind. Still Mabel clung fondly to the possibility of her recovery, with a pertinacity which made her enter eagerly into any new course of treatment, which she hoped might prove more successful.
It was with difficulty that she found time to think of Lucy—yet a willing heart can do much. She endeavoured to keep as much with her as possible to support her, in her new formed resolutions—and she was gratified to find, that Lucy had been able to meet Clair several times, with the composure she had recommended.
Poor Lucy's dignified calmness, however, very much resembled pouting, and, instead of inspiring Clair with any great respect, a little amused him; for he looked upon this change in her manner as a new mode of attack, against which he resolved to be armour proof. Her stability of character being not very great—shecould scarcely preserve her manner, when she saw it produced no immediate effect as she had anticipated. It was vain to hope that he would notice her composed forgiveness; and her well-meant resolution faded away before the disappointment of failure.
She was one afternoon engaged busily in blaming him, and excusing herself, when he entered the morning-room, where she was seated at work, and, saying he had been to meet the postman, presented her with a letter from Bath. It contained the news, that Mrs. Clifford, one of the richest ladies in the town, intended giving a fancy ball at the Rooms which was to eclipse everything that had been seen for many seasons, and Mrs. Clifford was very anxious she should return for it. Besides, Colonel Hargrave had accepted the invitation to visit them, and was expected in Bath the following week. The letter was of great length, but contained little more than those two pieces of news greatly enlarged upon.
It seemed as if all Lucy's grief and gravityhad disappeared, like the mist before the sunshine; for, starting up, she gave three bounds towards the ceiling, clapping her hands in utter thoughtlessness.
"Miss Villars," cried Clair, indignantly, "can you forget where you are? How can you give vent to such expressions of joy, in a house you have helped me to make desolate?"
"I wish," exclaimed Lucy, turning round pettishly, "that you would not preach to me all day the same disagreeable truths, with a face as long as that of a methodist parson—and such a face too, 'tis indeed a pity it covers such a wicked dissembling heart; but there is no trusting appearances in these days."
"What do you mean, Miss Villars?" he enquired, coloring violently.
"Ask your own conscience, and then, if it has not forgotten how to speak the truth, you will find which is the greatest sinner, you or I," said she, trying to speak playfully, to hide the real passion which burnt in her eyes, and tingled in her cheeks.
"Surely," said Clair, a little haughtily, "you do not allude to the silly flirtation, which I have quite sufficiently repented, as my manners may have already expressed."
"You double dealing wretch," exclaimed Lucy, in a perfect rage at the superiority he assumed, "you oily-tongued hypocrite, how dare you talk to me in this way? Why, I heard you talking to Mr. Ware, when you little thought I was walking in the nut-avenue. You despised me, did you, in your vaunted goodness—and, because you are fickle enough to turn from one girl to another, you try to justify your behaviour, by abusing me to one too good to listen to such stuff about either of us. What do you say to me now?" she said, her eyes dancing with delighted passion at seeing him utterly confounded. "Now carry your sanctimonious looks elsewhere, for they will not take with me, I can tell you. I could have forgiven your flirting, because they say—'a fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind;' but, bad as I am, I never abused a man thathad been silly enough to admire me—nor did I ever set myself up as anything better than I am. I am glad you feel what I say, and now go to the noble-hearted Mabel, and say, 'Here I am—I have been flirting, before your very eyes, with a girl I despised; but she served to make a few weeks pass more pleasantly than they might otherwise have done. I have been sporting with her feelings instead of making honest court to you.' And then, flushed with the success, purchased by such hypocrisy, tell her, that you have come to lay your laurels and a deceitful heart at her feet, and that you think them just offerings to her purity, and an ample return for the cruelty you were led to commit, by my persuasion. It will be safest to lay all the blame on me, to her, as well as to Mr. Ware. It told with him, and it may with her—go and try."
She here stopped for want of breath, but, as Clair made no reply, she quickly resumed.
"You have not a word to answer me, have you now? How very pretty you look,standing abashed before the girl you despised. If I were a man you might run your sword through me, for want of a better argument in your favor, but, as it is, I am afraid there is nothing to be done," she continued, (as her companion threw himself into an arm chair and seemed determined to let her say her worst, without the slightest attempt at interruption,) then walking to the window she began singing part of the Spanish girl's song to her Irish lover.
"'They say that the spirit most gallant in warIs always the truest in love.'"
"For Mrs. Lesly's sake do not make so much noise," said Clair.
"Unfortunately," replied Lucy, "I am not so unfeeling, for Mrs. Lesly's room is at the other end of the house. You said, if I remember rightly, that my character was too feathery to suit you—nevertheless, I think for a feather my strokes are rather hard. Have you nothing to say for yourself?"
"Yes, when you have blamed me as muchas you may think I deserve, I will venture to reply."
"Oh, say on, I have done."
"Then, if you have leisure to hear me, I will now say, that, before this conversation, I thought I might have been wrong; but I am now fully convinced by the indignation you so openly express, that I have been mistaken in you. I confess that I have injured you in the most ungenerous manner—for which I dare not offer any excuse, since every one would be too light to have any weight. I will then only ask you to be generous enough to forgive me?"
Lucy, whose feelings were ever subject to the most sudden variations, burst into tears and ran out of the room, but, as Clair continued regarding the door through which she had made her sudden exit, it opened as quickly as it had closed, and she again entered; holding out her hand, as she walked up to him.
"I am glad you are not gone," said she,panting for breath, "because I can tell you I forgive you on condition that you forgive and forget all I said in my passion just now."
"It was richly deserved," said Clair, grasping her hand warmly.
"But that does not make it the more easy to bear, you know. If it is quite unjust we let it pass as 'the idle wind which we regard not,' but, if it be just, we take it more to heart, and, seriously, I am very sorry for what I said just now."
"And I," said Clair, "am very sorry for a great many foolish things I have said and done in the last few weeks."
"Well then," cried Lucy, "we are both sorry, so let us be friends, and talk no more about love and all that kind of nonsense. I shall go home in a day or two, and then," said she, with a half sigh, "all I ask is, that you will not think me quite so thoughtless and foolish as you did; or, if you do," she added, smiling quickly, "remember you were as weak and thoughtless as myself."
"I will not fail to do so," he answered, returning her smile, "if the remembrance of your present generosity, does not make me forget everything which caused it to be called into exercise."
"I have had quite enough of your flattery," said Lucy, holding up her finger, "do not give me another dose, or I shall be obliged to repeat the antidote, and give you another scolding. Come now, I am thinking of the fancy ball, and, as I am determined to be in time for it—for I am of no use to Mabel by staying here—I shall choose my character at once. Here," handing him a book of Byron's beauties, "choose me the one you think would suit me best."
"Let me venture to suggest," replied Clair, as he took the book and turned over the leaves thoughtfully, "that leaving such a house as this, it would scarcely be right for you, to appear at a fancy ball at all."
"Oh, you methodist! give me the book."
"You will not then be persuaded," he said, laying his hand gently on the sketches of thefrail beauties she had asked him to choose among. "Think, that for the sake of a few hours of doubtful enjoyment you lay yourself open to severe self-reproach, and may wound the feelings of your friends here. It may sound odd that I should venture to speak so seriously, but—"
"Yes, it does seem very odd, certainly, and I thought I had given you a surfeit of preaching just now."
"Yet before you decide, I would ask you to consider whether you are not wronging yourself, by acting so thoughtlessly."
"Now let me ask you in return," she replied, pettishly, "if I am at Bath what harm my going would do or what good I could get by staying away?"
"Very little, perhaps, actually, but no one could think any unkindness intended by your remaining at home. I can hardly expect you, however, to listen to me, but, should your own better judgment lead you to come to the same determination I shall be rejoiced."
Lucy sat down, half sullenly turning over thebook of beauties, and seeming to be examining their dresses with the greatest attention, as if she were trying to discover how they might be imitated by tinsel and gauze.
The Captain stood looking at her earnestly. Mr. Ware's advice recurred to his mind, and, though he had found it difficult to follow it, he had tried his best.
Lucy, with her face glowing with excitement, her eyes moist with recent tears, looked exceedingly pretty, and he could not help longing for the power to plant a different spirit within her, at length he exclaimed, with sudden energy—
"Lucy Villars, will you not listen to me. Do not trifle, after the fearful judgment that has fallen upon this house, through our means. Is it possible you can forget what a withering blow it has been. Surely, surely you will not go to a fancy ball, while Mabel is watching over her suffering mother and sister. You do not mean it, you surely cannot; only think for one moment," said he, laying his hand uponhers, and staying the quick motion with which she turned over the leaves of the book. It is doubtful how Clair might have felt (for he had certainly deceived himself when he imagined she had never made any serious impression upon him) had his advice, his first effort at serious advice, been well received, for there was an earnestness in his manner, which he had never before displayed. But Lucy rose hastily, and brushing his hand aside with an indignant motion, prepared to leave the room; turning at the door, she said coldly—
"There might have been a time when Captain Clair could have asked a favor, without risk of being charged with interference or impertinence, but I can now see no excuse which would lead me to make his wishes the rule of my actions—I would advise you in future to obtain influence, before you seek to use it."
So saying, and bowing coldly, she left the room.
Her return home, and her plan of travelling,were soon settled by her hearing of a friend who was at this time returning to Bath from Cheltenham, and whose escort was offered her.
Perhaps the pleasure of piquing Clair, added a little zest to the preparations which were carried on with a cheerfulness that surprised him. Deeply touched himself by recent events, and quite unable to recover his spirits, he regarded her with a wonder not a little mingled with contempt.
Mabel herself, as keenly susceptible to pain as she was open to pleasure, could scarcely understand the variable nature of her cousin's disposition, which, at times attracted her by itsnaivetéand candour, at others, alarmed her by its indifference and frivolity. Though really a little hurt at the coolness with which she prepared to leave her, directly it suited her own convenience, after her many professions, she suffered her to take her course without remark; particularly when she found, from the account she received of her conversation with Clair, thatshe could not preserve towards him, the composure necessary to ensure her own dignity.
All was, therefore, soon arranged, and Lucy, as the parting drew near, became so affectionately distressed, that Mabel quickly forgave her previous indifference, and parted from her with a regret, she had scarcely supposed she could have felt a few weeks before.
As she stood for several moments in the garden, watching the vehicle which bore her from the village, her thoughts naturally recurred to the hour when, with far different feelings, she had stood in the same place to wait her coming. The scene was the same, and yet how changed. There was not a leaf upon the many bold trees which skirted the landscape. Here and there round the garden a single monthly rose bloomed in place of the many gay, autumnal flowers, which had then been so brilliant. Heavy clouds hung overhead, and silently andgloomily feathery pieces of snow fell through the cold air.
"It is the sunshine of the heart that is gone," thought Mabel, unconsciously clasping her hands, and glancing at the scene around her; while she remembered how comparatively free from care she had been that day, and how gladly had the little Amy waited to catch the first sight of the expected carriage, how eagerly she had watched the first peep of the high road. Where was she now, poor child? when would her light feet carry her so merrily to that gate again.
"I know it must be right," thought Mabel, as if unwilling to dwell longer on feelings and afflictions which unnerved her; but sick at heart, and with tears swimming in her eyes, she turned towards the house. She stopped on hearing Clair's voice, who approached to meet her, having waited till the parting was over, hoping to remove any feeling of loneliness she might experience on Lucy'sdeparture. His steps were sedate, and his countenance serious and reflective, as it had of late become.
"Ah," said he, as he joined her. "Happy would it have been for you had neither of us crossed your path, to throw the shadow upon it we have done."
"We will not blame poor Lucy now she is gone," said Mabel, "and do not blame yourself again. I did not think I should miss her as much as I do; but there is such a pleasure in meeting a friend of about my own age."
"If there are three dark sides to a subject, and one bright one, you are sure to turn to the bright," said Clair.
"Should we not do so?" said Mabel, smiling faintly—"particularly when we must feel that even the one bright side is undeserved."
"I should very much have liked to have known your poor father," said Clair, rather abruptly.
"You would, indeed," said Mabel, "but what made you think of him?"
"Because I have heard that the lessons he gave you were so admirable; and practically illustrated—they are beautiful!"
"Nay, if you wish to flatter me, speak of him—not myself; truly, he was a gentleman, a scholar, and a soldier," said Mabel, as her eyes brightened, "and I cannot tell how much I owe to him. Now, if I am tempted to do anything wrong, his spirit seems to stand between me and the temptation. See what an advantage it is to be good," said she smiling, as if fearful of speaking too much of herself, "what an influence you possess."
"You do, indeed, possess an influence," said Clair, emphatically, as he turned his eyes to hers, with an expression of mingled admiration and respect.
"I must go in," replied Mabel, hurriedly, "talking of my dear father has cheated me into staying longer than I meant to have done. I must go to my dear child—good bye," said she, extending her hand frankly. "Go, and do anything but be sad about me."
Without waiting for a reply, she ran into the house, and Clair leant upon the gate and watched her departing figure, like one entranced, till, fearful of attracting observation, he briskly roused himself, as if from some pleasant dream, and pursued his walk through the village.
Meanwhile, Lucy continued her journey. At first the natural pain of parting from Aston led her to a train of sorrowful reflection. Perhaps she too remembered how different the home she had left had been when she entered it; but she had also to remember many mortifying things besides. Her easy conquest, as she imagined, had ended in total failure. If she had unintentionally brought evil on Mabel, she had also brought good, in the admiration of the fascinating Clair. Her recollections soon became too painful to be encouraged, and she took the ready source of comfort open to those who do not care to probe the conscience, and tried not to think atall. It was easiest and most agreeable, but she had to arm herself for the reception she would probably meet at home. How could she say she had entirely failed; and what reason could she give for believing that Clair was in earnest; she had not the heart to blame him. "If Mabel had not been there," she thought, "he never would have changed, but I will not think any harm of her, Isupposeshe could not help it."
"Once in Bath, this country dream will be over, and I shall have the pleasure of preparing for the fancy ball—and then, the arrival of Colonel Hargrave, and possibly—if he is not attracted by Caroline's majestic style of beauty, who knows but he may find other objects of admiration—" and she glanced down upon her pretty little foot, with an air of condescending affection, as it rested on the shawl which lay beneath it. Then came the remembrance that Mabel had lent her that shawl, and had herself wrapped it round her with that attention tothe comfort of others, which was so peculiar to her, and she lent back and wept bitterly for some miles.
At Cheltenham, however, she was joined by her promised fellow traveller, also returning to Bath for the season. Mrs. Richardson, for this was her name, was a good-tempered, stout little lady, who possessed a great fondness for young people, particularly for those who, either pretty, witty, or engaging, were sure to be popular in society. She formed a very useful chaperone, in case of necessity, never being unwilling to join any party of pleasure, from the most crowded rout, to the dullest and quietest card party.
Lucy had not been slow in finding out this useful virtue, and, Mrs. Richardson being a great admirer of hers, they usually got on very well together. But now, the badinage she had to endure, on the many conquests she must have made, during her country visit, amongst rich squires, grated sadly on her ears;while her attempts to divert the conversation, only renewed her companion's desire to obtain an account of all she had been doing and seeing.
The tedious journey, however, drew at length to a conclusion, and she found herself once more in Bath. Again settled at home, she was not a little surprised, and not quite pleased to find that her Aston adventure had occupied far less of the family attention than she had imagined. Indeed, so thoroughly were they occupied in preparing for Colonel Hargrave's visit, that they scarcely listened to her accounts. The whole house, and household furniture, seemed stirring up to look their best welcome to the rich Indian wanderer. The best stair carpets were laid down, and the best drawing-room was uncovered and made habitable, and a thousand little expenses were excused, under the pretence of necessity, on such an occasion. The name of Hargrave was passed perpetually from one to another, andCaroline already fancied herself mistress of Aston Manor.
"Oh!" thought Lucy, "could I have thought they cared so little about me, I would have been more independent of their opinion."
She, however, soon endeavoured to dispel the listlessness which followed her return to old pursuits, by entering into the subject of general interest, with as much seeming zest as her sisters; but, sometimes, when she seemed the merriest of them all, her thoughts would revert to Aston, and her gay laugh would find a check. Gaiety may sear, but it never yet has healed a wounded heart.
He shall again be seen when evening comes,And social parties crowd their favorite rooms,Where on the table pipes and papers lie,The steaming bowl and foaming tankard by.Crabbe.
He shall again be seen when evening comes,And social parties crowd their favorite rooms,Where on the table pipes and papers lie,The steaming bowl and foaming tankard by.
Crabbe.
Almost every village possesses a house of public entertainment, however humble in appearance. Unfortunately, this is generally the most comfortable place accessible to the lower orders, who are often unwittingly tempted to increase the one pint of beer, which secures a seat by the large inn fire, drop by drop, till habits of drunkenness are too readily acquired.Some have recommended the establishment of something similar to a coffee-room in every village, where laboring men might enjoy the pleasures of society and conversation, without the temptations to a vice which adds many a tragedy to "the short and simple annals of the poor."
It could indeed scarcely be wondered at, that at Aston, many of the laborers left their weather-beaten cottages, which, in some cases, formed scarcely a shelter from the wind and rain—and, without stopping to calculate the mischief which might ensue to their neglected families, should frequently resort to the "Hargrave Arms," where a blazing fire and a comfortable seat by a chatty neighbour were generally to be found. Here, at least, poverty and discomfort might be forgotten for a while, even by those who did not seek to drown remembrance in the fatal draught.
One Friday evening, many of the regular customers of the house assembled themselvesas usual, more, perhaps, to chat than to drink, for they seldom carried their conviviality to any great height, except on the Saturday, when the young men of the village brought, too often, the first fruits of their week's earnings. On the occasion we now mention, a more sober conclave was assembled. The white haired Giles, whom Clair had visited with his uncle, on the first morning of his visit, was one of the guests. Not, now, with his head bent, and his hands extended over the dying embers of his wood fire, but with head erect in a comfortable corner, with the air of a man whose opinions are respected, and whose words claim immediate attention. Martin, the poacher, was also there, smoking a pipe, whose dusty colour bespoke long service. Besides these, were several of the most respectable labourers of the village, young and old.
The landlord, himself, was a middle aged, sleepy looking man, with eyes that seemed to say that they had no particular time for takingrest, but seized every opportunity that occurred for shutting up at a moment's notice.
The night was cold and gusty, and the large fire burnt with peculiar brightness—conversation went on briskly; when a new object of attention presented itself in the sound of horses' feet, which at this hour were very unusual.
This caused the landlord's eyes to open to the things about him, and he walked to the door to offer whatever hospitality might be required by the new comer.
By the time he had reached the open air, which he did with some reluctance, he found that the rider had dismounted. His horse appeared to have been well ridden, for, though a fine strong built animal, fitted for the hilly country he had been through, he seemed exhausted, and covered with dust and foam. The gentleman, on the contrary, seemed perfectly cool and free from fatigue, and equally indifferent to the weather, though the wind was high, and easterly, and his short cloak was whitened by the snow, which had been falling,at intervals, during the afternoon, giving signs of an early coming winter. There was sufficient of that nameless something in his appearance, even by the light of our host's lantern, to speak him a gentleman, and to procure for him a series of nods, intended for graceful acknowledgments of welcome.
"My horse wants rest, and a good stable," said the new comer; "light me, and I will see him housed, myself. I will follow you."
This was spoken in a tone of accustomed and easy authority, and taking the bridle over his arm, he followed his landlord to the stable; where, with indifferent extravagance which baffled any interference, he seized an immense armful of straw from a heap which lay in one corner, and threw it on the bed, which already seemed tolerably supplied. So rapid and easy were his movements, that, before his astonished landlord had framed the remonstrance he meditated offering, he announced himself ready to accompany him to the house.
"Would you like dinner in the parlor, sir," enquired his sleepy host, leading him back through the court-yard.
"No, I will take a glass of grog, in the bar."
"The bar is full, sir; and maybe you will not like—."
"What," enquired the stranger, "to sit side by side, with a poor man—you are mistaken, but heark-ye," said he, stopping, "the less civility you show me the better, I will pay you."
"I twig," he replied, shutting one sleepy eye with an attempt to look cunning, while, at the same time, he was a little startled at the deep and peculiar tone of the voice which addressed itself so particularly to his ear, and he was not sorry to catch a full view of his own huge blazing fire, and the familiar faces around it.
"A stranger wants a seat by the fire," muttered he, as he entered the bar.
"A stranger should have the best seat,"said old Giles, moving quietly to offer him his arm-chair.
"I have been accustomed, sir, to take place according to my years," said the stranger, in a voice of peculiar melody, as he declined the offer, and, at the same time, chose a seat further from the fire, where the fitful light only sometimes partially illumed his countenance.
"Landlord," said he, "your guests will, I dare say, join me in my grog; bring enough, not forgetting yourself."
A short silence followed this speech, partly caused by the landlord's absence; during which all eyes were turned to observe the appearance of the last arrival. His figure was considerably above the middle height, but his limbs were in such exact proportion, that he preserved the appearance of strength which tall men often lose. His shoulders were broad, and his chest wide and expansive. The only sign of delicacy about him appeared in his hand, which, for his height, was small, and very white and smooth, ornamented by a plainsignet ring. This, they had an opportunity of observing, for his head was resting on his hand, though, seemingly more in thought than fatigue. His eyes were large, dark, and penetrating, made to flash with anger, to command, or reprove; yet, bearing in general a cold still hue, as if more accustomed to command, or to suffer, than to ask, or supplicate the world's favour. The mouth was expressive of great sweetness, as long as his features continued, in repose, though the lips seemed especially capable of curling into a sneer. His nose was long and aquiline, and gave a character of boldness to the countenance; and a finely sloped head, well set upon his shoulders, added to his lofty bearing.
All these features, fitted to form a face of striking manly beauty, were quite spoilt by the fact that, while the whiskers, moustache, and finely arched eye-brows, were black; his hair, of which he wore a great deal, and that, too long for the English fashion, was of abright red, and gave a very peculiar shade to his countenance.
His dress was half military, though remarkably simple, and on the present occasion, much soiled with long riding, and even shabby; with the exception of his boots, which appeared to have shared the care which had secured to the hand the marks of gentle breeding. It would have been very difficult to trace his age, in any part of his outward bearing, beyond the certainty that he was neither twenty nor fifty—anything between these two periods might have been attributed to him without much difficulty. Since his entrance he had not changed the position into which he had thrown himself; perfectly at ease in every limb, and still as a statue, he seemed scarcely aware of the observation he excited from his companions.
Probably he was inured to the weather, and indifferent to its effects, for he did not attempt to dry his clothes by drawing nearer the fire. Perhaps, his studious silence was intendedto set his companions at ease, or, perhaps, occupied with other thoughts, he really forgot them after the first order he had given for their entertainment. However it might be, conversation gradually returned to its former channel, and he remained almost unnoticed.
The snowy afternoon led them to speak of the weather, when Martin enquired, with an indifferent tone—
"Did it come in upon you last night, Giles?"
"It did sadly," he replied; "I was obliged to get up, and move my bed."
"Has the rain been so heavy here then?" enquired the stranger with some interest.
"Not in particular, sir," said Martin, "if our roofs were waterproof—but they ain't; I don't care who knows it. Look at this old man," he said, turning to Giles, "is he fit to live in a hole with the roof half off, and the sun and rain coming in every where. It almost drives me wild to think of it—and if itgoes on much longer, there'll be mischief come on it, that I know."
"Do not talk in that way," said old Giles, gently, "if I am content with my house, you should not make it a cause for dispute."
"Yes; but if any one could claim a proper shelter for his head, it is you, Giles. You served the family for fifty years, and after spending the best part of your life working for them, the least they could do, would be to keep the wind and rain off your old white head."
"It is not right to talk like this, Martin," returned Giles, gravely, "for you might make me discontented with my lot. You forget that by allowing me to work for them, they gave me food for all those years—and if I did my work honestly, only for the reward they had to give me, I deserved to lose it."
"Of what family are you speaking?" enquired the stranger, slightly rousing himself, and drawing a little more into the circle.
"Who is your landlord, and what prevents his seeing to your comforts?"
Martin seemed anxious to reply; but he was prevented by Giles.
"Our landlord is Colonel Hargrave, a very brave officer, I have heard; but, in looking for glory abroad, he has, unfortunately for himself and us, forgotten his dependents at home. He has scarcely seen anything of us since he came into the property."
"But surely," said the stranger, warmly, "if he did spend his time beyond the seas—I dare say, for some private reason—he must have left some trusty steward, who could take charge of his property during his absence, and protect the labourers on his estate from the privations you speak of?"
"Trusty steward, indeed," Martin began, in a growling voice, but Giles again interrupted him.
"Sir, it is kind of you to take so much interest in our concerns. It may be that you have estates somewhere yourself—it may bethat you have left them to the care of others, believing that you are trusting honest servants; but, if you could see how much we have suffered, you would never do so again. Our landlord has left with us an oppressive and cruel man, who takes pleasure in shewing his power in the smallest thing. In our good lady's time, we were allowed to pick up any wood that the wind blew down, so that our firing cost us next to nothing; but now this is entirely done away by the keepers. Many of our little rights too he has taken away, according, as he says, to his master's orders, though 'tis not very likely a gentleman abroad would think of such things so many miles away. He receives our rents without spending any part of them in repairing our cottages, and the consequence is, they are tumbling down for want of repair, while the same rent is demanded for them. This brings much illness and discomfort—but what I lament over most," said the old man, with a sigh, "is that the feelings of every one are aggravated against ColonelHargrave, who, it may be, knows nothing about it."
"Then he ought to know," said Martin.
"There is a sad spirit spreading, sir," said Giles, casting, as he continued, a reproving look on Martin, "amongst our young men, and a hatred of the gentry, which cannot be right, though it is hard to keep them from it when we have so much privation."
"Aye, that is true enough," said Martin, glancing at his younger companions.
"Why do you not write to Colonel Hargrave?" said the stranger, bending forwards, and suffering his large full eye to fall on Martin for an instant, "surely you should not judge him so hastily."
"Parson Ware has written, and the only answer he gets is, that Mr. Rogers is an old and tried servant, and he can depend on his doing for the best."
A bitter laugh went round the circle in echo to this unpopular opinion.
The stranger lent back in his chair, and fixing his eyes on the fire, seemed inclined to leave the conversation, which the wounded feelings of those present appeared likely to render too heated.
"Things never went right," said a little old man in the chimney-corner, in a deep husky voice, for he prided himself on being a sort of prophet in the village, "since he went to France, and I never had no very great opinion of Frenchmen before—ha, ha, ha!" There did not seem much to call for laughter; but he generally accompanied his speeches with that peculiar chuckle, which sounded anything but pleasantly to those who were not accustomed to him. "I saw him many times after that," continued he, "and he warn't the same open-hearted gentleman he was afore. He often looked as if he'd got some one looking over his shoulder as he didn't over relish—ha, ha!"
The sepulchral chuckle which followed thisremark produced a short, uneasy silence, which was broken by Martin, who enquired—
"Do you think his religion has anything to do with our houses and wages?"
"Yes," replied Giles, "can we expect that he who has proved disloyal to his Maker, would be thoughtful for his fellow men."
He spoke in a tone of such gentle authority, that even Martin was silent, and, for a few seconds, the ticking of the old-fashioned clock, and the crackling of the wood on the fire, were the only sounds.
"I can call to mind," resumed the old man, interrupting the silence, which had followed his last remark, "a time of much sorrow to me, and I never think of it without trembling. It is some years since, now, when I worked on the Manor, and I used to be something of a favorite of my young master's; and I am sure, at that time, I would have given my life to serve him; he had such a way with him; no one had anything to do with him withoutloving him. Well I remember how glad I was when he ordered me to go out with him to beat up the bushes for game. But the time I said I was sorry to remember, was when, one Saturday night late, he came down here in a great hurry, and he said he must go again on the Monday, and so he would look about him. I can't tell how it was we took so to each other; but I was strong and hearty then, though 'tis but a few years ago. Martin speaks truth when he says I have served the family fifty years, for I began by running errands for the servants, when I was but a little boy, and I am now nearly seventy; but I was quite a strong man at that time I have been talking about, and I used often to go out shooting with Master Hargrave, to carry his game, and such like. Well, on this Sunday morning, he told me to take his gun, and wait for him at the entrance of the wood. Nobody ever said no to him then, and I had not the courage, and, though I knew that I was doing wrong all the while, I took the gun; and went as he bademe. We had a regular good day's sport, and we went to the woods furthest from the village, for fear the guns or dogs might be heard. 'Twas a beautiful autumn afternoon, I know, as we came home, and, when we came to the wood overlooking the church, the bells rang out such a merry peal. I had forgot 'twas Sunday, for my blood was hot, and the sport was good; but now, as we stopped on the top of the hills, like thieves, I could not help wishing we had never been out, and I said so with a dogged, frightened air, for I was afraid of him all the while. He laughed at my fright, and began talking as if going to church were all mummery. Well, I could not help listening—what he said seemed so clever and funny, I could not answer him. After that day, I began to doubt and doubt, till I believed nothing the minister said, and left off going to church."
"And what turned ye?" enquired the little man in the chimney-corner.
"I was wretched," replied Giles; "I felt that I had no comfort upon earth, and no hopebeyond it. Till, at last, I thought that this unbelief was only a curse for having done wrong. So I took to prayer, and never gave it up till better thoughts came."
"But how," asked the stranger, bending forward, and regarding the old man earnestly, till it made him almost shrink from that dark eye, which looked almost piteous in its intensity, while the voice of the enquirer was touching, deep, and melodious, "how could you pray when you had no faith."
"Sir," said Giles, "whatever creed or religion you may profess, you must still feel, that to doubt as I did, is the greatest curse that can fall upon the heart of man, and doubt as we may, we know it to be a curse. If you ever feel as I did, do not ask questions, and put yourself wrong, and then try and set yourself right by your own judgment, as I did; but go down upon your bended knees, and pray for light as a child might pray—I never found peace till then."
The stranger folded his arms upon his breast,and, with his eyes fixed on the fire, as before, gave no sign that he had even heard the reply to his question.
Giles, perhaps, thought he had said too much, and remained in confusion, glancing uneasily at him. The wind, which had been rising more and more during the evening, now howled aloud increasing the comfort of the inn fire, and the dislike of the party to separate; yet no one seemed inclined to speak, and the wind roared on, yelling as it swept in heavy gusts through the building.
Suddenly, a loud and tremulous knocking was heard at the door, together with voices demanding admittance. After a little hesitation, the door was opened by the landlord, and several women rushed in, crying vehemently.
"For, heaven's sake, come and help us, for the place is all on fire!"