What sadder sight can angels view,Than self deceiving tears,Pour'd idly over some dark page,Of earlier life, though pride or rage,The record of to-day engage,A woe for future years.Christian Year.
What sadder sight can angels view,Than self deceiving tears,Pour'd idly over some dark page,Of earlier life, though pride or rage,The record of to-day engage,A woe for future years.
Christian Year.
Colonel Hargrave rapidly domesticated himself in Sydney Place, and very soon placed himself on terms of intimacy with the Villars family. Still nothing occurred which seemed to bring Caroline nearer her object, and though for some weeks her temper remained unruffled in his presence, nothing betrayed any thing like admiration on his part; nothing could warm into affection the every-day friendship which had been established between them, or induce him to take advantage of his popularity, by choosing a mistress for Aston Manor.
Mrs. Villars was too ready to interpose her powers of contrivance, and took every opportunity of throwing them together; in public, she often succeeded, but in their private circle he was more than a match for all her address, for when the manners of the perfect gentleman failed to secure him from any well-laid scheme to entrap his admiration, he was ready to assume those of the bear.
One great difficulty consisted in dragging him to the balls and evening parties, which began to succeed each other in rapid succession; and sometimes when they had wholly reckoned on his company, he would be found in his morning coat, busily employed in writing letters, which no coaxing could induce him to leave. At these times Caroline would often plead a head-ache, and remain at home, but to very little purpose, as he seemed to believe the excuse, and, probably supposing quiet the best restorative, he would gather up his books, and retire to his own room.
A woman's heart, when regulated by no higher principle than that of its own native impulses, is often piqued into love by the very means which should have restrained it, and Caroline's had been left to the government of vanity and coquetry, habits which insensibly corrode the innate modesty of the female mind. Hargrave's failings, therefore, excited more affection than his virtues—for the necessity of watching his humours, and of courting rather than receiving his attentions, insensibly interested her, and though her feeling was composed of component parts of vanity, self-love, avarice, and, ambition, it could scarcely be affirmed that it did not contain a few grains of genuine affection. She had indeed merely expected some broken down nabob, who would have formed an easy conquest, and she was therefore agreeably surprised by Hargrave's manner and appearance, for his manly bearing and easy air, compensated for any injury an Indian sun might have given his complexion, and called forth the praise of all Caroline's fair friends. Thus, stimulated by opposition, she left no art untried to win him, and watched his movements with secret and constant jealousy; while her mother, with the foolish fondness, which had grown almost to fear of her beautiful daughter, encouraged her to hope, by repeating and magnifying, sometimes even inventing, speeches, which seemed to betray more than Hargrave openly professed.
Meanwhile, he evaded these manœuvres, and placed himself on terms of equal civility with all the sisters, by whom he found even his weakest foibles caressed. Lucy, alone, resisted his fascinations, and long after every shadow of her grief had disappeared, continued to avoid him, and never mentioned, before him, the name of her new admirer, whom she now frequently met, either at the public balls, or the morning concerts in the Pump room, the fashionable resort of the sick, who drank its waters, the musical, or the idle.
Mr. Beauclerc considered himself a judge of music, and might frequently be seen listening to the performance with a scientific air. He seldom failed to join the Villars party, and engage Lucy in conversation, to her unfeigned satisfaction. She could not fail to perceive that there was one subject which dwelt in his thoughts, though seldom more than dimly hinted at, which gave an air of sadness to his mind.
What this might be, Lucy knew not, though vanity echoed a ready answer, and, whenever he spoke of his own loneliness or unhappiness, she evaded the subject with a coquetry sufficiently skilful to check his confidence, and, though it sometimes sent him away in an ill humour, he invariably returned, in a short while, and she flattered herself that each little exertion of her power only riveted his chains more surely.
Several weeks had thus passed when, one morning, Mrs. Villars received a letter from Mr. Ware, begging her immediate presence at Aston, as the symptoms of her sister's illness had assumed a more dangerous character, and he feared that the utmost haste would be required to enable her to reach Aston in time to see her alive. Estranged as Mrs. Villars had been from her sister, she yet loved her, as warmly as her selfish nature would allow—and she hastened to her husband's study, to make preparations for her immediate journey; she would not, however, hear of his offer to accompany her, lest Colonel Hargrave might take the alarm, and leave them—she, therefore, only begged him to keep less to his study, at least, in the evenings. Mr. Villars replied, that his own sense of delicacy might be relied on; which made her fear that he would give them too much of his company; but she had little time to argue, for, before her hasty preparations were completed, the post-chaise, which had been ordered, was at the door.
As she was stepping in, Colonel Hargrave offered to accompany her for a few stages, saying that he had a friend in the direction she was going, whom he was anxious to visit.
"I am going to a sad scene," said Mrs. Villars, when they had travelled for a few miles, "and, besides the loss of my sister, my feelings will be agonised, I know, for she leaves a daughter to mourn her loss, homeless and unprotected."
"Yes," said Hargrave; "but your presence will be some comfort to her."
"I quite dread the meeting," continued Mrs. Villars. "Did you read Mr. Ware's letter? I fear there is no hope."
"None, indeed, I fear," replied Hargrave, looking out to urge the post-boy to greater speed. "What is to become of Miss Lesly?" he presently asked, "she has, I suppose, something to depend upon."
Mrs. Villars slightly coloured, and couched hastily, when she perceived her change of countenance observed.
"I do not think they were very good managers, to tell you the truth," she said; "and they had not much to save from."
"What will become of her then?" he repeated, with sudden animation.
"I can scarcely tell what may happen eventually," replied Mrs. Villars; "but should my poor sister die, I mean to bring my niece back with me, for the present, at least. She is a good-looking girl, and I may be able to get her settled."
"Settled!" repeated Hargrave, mechanically, and relapsed into silence.
Soon afterwards, a turn in the road brought in sight some tall, old-fashioned gates, opening on an avenue of dark trees, through which nothing could be discerned, but the gable ends of a more distant mansion. Here Hargrave alighted, and bidding her good-bye, in a tone of sadness, which seemed the highest compliment to her present affliction, entered the old gateway, and stood there, till Mrs. Villars was beyond his sight.
Musingly she continued her journey, and gladly would she have had his further companionship, to screen her from the thoughts which were now rapidly gaining entrance into her mind.
It was one of those dark days, when the shadows seem to fall long before the unseen sun has set; and, as the horses speeded along, she gathered the folds of her cloak closer around her, and endeavoured to suppress the shudder, which something beyond the cold biting air of a dull easterly wind made to pass over her frame. Night had already closed, dark, dismal, and cold, before she reached Aston. As they entered the village, she leaned from the window, and expressed her desire to stop at the inn, she remembered; but a further glance at the ruined village, faintly shewn by the light of the carriage-lamps, as she rattled through it, told her of nothing but scattered timbers and blackened walls, and thus obliged her to change her order, and drive, at once, to Aston Manor.
As the chaise rolled lightly up the smooth gravelled avenue to the Manor, Mrs. Villars endeavoured to calm her trembling agitation, with the hope that all would yet be well; but the low, hurried whispers, in the dimly lighted hall, that greeted her arrival, unnerved her, and, dispensing with the assistance, she usually so rigorously exacted from her inferiors, she hurried from the chaise, and entered the hall, exclaiming—
"Can it be possible? am I too late?"
"Yes, indeed, ma'am," replied the housekeeper, now advancing; "it is too true. We closed her eyes but late last night."
Mrs. Villars hid her face in the sables which enveloped her, and sobbed convulsively; then, flinging down her purse, she begged her to dismiss the chaise, saying, she was Mrs. Lesly's sister, and must see her immediately.
"Let me beg you, ma'am," said Mrs. Hawkins, respectfully, "to compose yourself—it will be too much for you to-night."
"No, no, no," cried Mrs. Villars, as warm, repentant tears streamed rapidly down her face; "let me see her now—my poor, poor sister."
Mrs. Hawkins sadly led the way up the marble staircase, and across the gallery, to a door which she noiselessly opened, as if she feared to disturb the slumbers of the dead. The room was fully lighted by wax tapers—but the bed was partially concealed by the many folds of its crimson curtains.
An old woman was sitting by the fire, who rose on Mrs. Villars's entrance—and, at the same moment, glanced to the window, where Mabel was seated, gazing out upon the star-light stillness of the night, as if communing with her own spirit. She rose on perceiving them, and gliding from the recess, advanced rapidly and noiselessly to meet her aunt; placing both her hands on hers, she attempted to speak, but the words died between her half parted lips, and a quiet burst of tears succeeded the effort.
Mrs. Villars caught her in her arms, sobbing violently, with the excess of her emotion. She had seldom been with the dying, and did not remember having ever been in actual contact with death itself, and it was with an internal shrinking, that, at length, releasing the poor girl from her arms, she advanced to gaze on the face of her sister. How calm and placid seemed the sleep of the dead, in that still chamber—but, though sweetly tranquil was the countenance once so dear, it bore the unmistakable, terrible touch of death; and Mrs. Villars wrung her hands, and turned away; an icy coldness seemed taking possession of her senses, and terror prevented her stooping to touch the cold lips which never more would reproach her with their confiding words.
Mrs. Hawkins soon kindly put an end to this trying scene, by leading her from the room; there was enough in the bereavement itself to touch her sympathy, without her being aware of the pangs of awakening conscience, which added bitterness to a grief seemingly so natural.
How miserable those days of mourning seemed to the heartless woman—as hour slowly dragged after hour in that silent house. There were no exciting trifles to wear away the time—nothing but the endless black crape with which she tried to feel interested, though her senses sickened at the mournful tales it told. There, no company came to banish thought—thought of solemn things that she was little prepared to contemplate—she was alone with Mabel, and the dead.
Again, and again, she condemned herself for the deceptions she had practised, and endeavoured to appease her self-accusations with ideas of the most lavish generosity to Mabel—but justice—alas, that she felt she had placed it almost beyond her power to render her. She now owed her six hundred pounds, and well she knew, that, however frivolously she had spent, however small a part of her extravagances it had proved—this sum was almost the entire support her sister had saved for her orphan daughter; which, though little calculated to afford her maintenance as a gentle-woman, might, in talented hands, be the commencement of a respectable independence; or, at all events, save her, if dependent, from many minor, but bitter personal necessities which wound the delicate mind so sorely. Well she knew this—but she knew, also, that she never would have the courage, either to limit her own personal expenses, or to ask her husband for the money. Mabel must be repaid by the most lavish kindness, and by all the comforts of a home. She could not know of the debt, therefore would not feel her loss, and if, by a timely display of her beauty, and her painful bereavements, she could marry her well—she might then deem the debt repaid. All this she endeavoured to persuade herself; but, as she wandered from room to room in the twilight, which their closed windows afforded, something uneasy oppressed her, which forced her to repeat, again and again, the same line of consolation. It was then, with a sense of relief, that she saw the day for her sister's funeral draw near, and she watched the dark procession from the house, winding its way to the little church, with grief, indeed, but with grief lightened of its heaviest sense of oppression. With the greatest attention she watched over Mabel, whose strength had entirely given way, when the last sad scene, the last parting was over—and, for hours, seemed to have forgotten all that was selfish in her nature to minister to her comfort.
On the following morning, perceiving that she was sufficiently calm to listen to her, she begged her to enter on an explanation of her affairs; expressing herself anxious to know if she had thought of any plans for the future.
"No, dear aunt," was Mabel's reply; "but I must soon think of them."
"What money have you left?" enquired Mrs. Villars.
"In the funds only one hundred pounds, I believe," replied Mabel, "for the physicians I procured from London were so expensive in their fees—but the rest you know—"
"Yes, yes," interrupted Mrs. Villars, too troubled, and too uncertain as to her future conduct to commit herself, by answering what she apprehended to be an allusion to her debt, "but I was going to ask, did you save anything from the fire?"
"Yes, some plate, a little more than a hundred pounds worth, I think—Captain Clair kindly secured it."
"Ah," said Mrs. Villars, self awaking, "I remember it is just the same pattern as mine; if you like I will have it properly valued, and pay you for it—people may think if they like, that your poor mother left it to me."
"Thank you," returned Mabel, who had perceived her aunt's hesitation with regard to the money, and therefore was little willing to increase the debt; "but I do not think I shall dispose of it yet, if at all."
"But then I cannot make people believe it was left me?"
"There will be no necessity; for what I am not ashamed of doing I can bear to have known; and it is only for my sake that you can have any scruple."
"Oh, dear, no, of course not," returned her aunt, not the better pleased to find Mabel so unlike her mother in worldly matters. "Well, then, if you do not like the plate turned into money, the hundred pounds will keep you in dress for two years, and by that time I trust you will be, better provided for, by a respectable marriage."
Mrs. Villars had been too accustomed to speak of marriage, in this kind of jobbing style, to her daughters, to be fully alive to the blush of exquisite pain, which, for an instant, brightened the pale cheek of her companion. Something, however, in that blush, recalled a resemblance she only rarely shewed to her mother, and Mrs. Villars felt again all the pangs of concealed shame. Hastening then to relieve herself, she entered more eagerly on the real subject of her conversation, and at once pressed her, with affectionate warmth, to accept the protection of her home, to find in her a second mother, to be one with her daughters, sharer in all their privileges, and pleasures, and sisterly love.
Mabel started, and, as she listened to the generous proposal her aunt so warmly advocated, she could not help reproaching herself, for ever having regarded her as worldly minded. In vain she gently urged the inconvenience this arrangement might possibly bring; Mrs. Villars would hear nothing of it, and when Mabel still hesitated, she folded her in her arms and asked her piteously and entreatingly, while tears choked her utterance, if she would deny her the privilege of atoning to her lost sister for all the neglect, for which she now so bitterly reproached herself.
Mabel could say nothing, nor did she wish to urge anything more, for sweetly did those words sound to her ears, "home and sisters," kind sisters who would wile away her sorrow, and re-awaken her interest in life—home where her tried spirit might find refreshment and repose. She suffered her head to sink upon the bosom to which she was so warmly prest, and murmured forth an answer of affection and gratitude.
Shortly afterwards Mr. Ware was announced, and to him her new plans were immediately confided by Mabel. He had believed Mrs. Villars a worldly-minded woman, and was, therefore, much pleased when he perceived, by the tone of both, that the arrangement had been so cordially proposed.
"One alteration I must," said he, "beg in my favour: Mabel is so justly dear to us all, that to part with her before even attempting to console her grief, is more than I could well bear. You must indeed, madam, spare her to us at the rectory for a little while."
"Willingly, my dear sir," replied Mrs. Villars, with that tone of manner which often rendered her popular, "and we can manage it in this way—I have a friend at Cheltenham, who has been long pressing me to visit her, I will go and see her now, it will do me good after this sad trial—and, provided Mabel promises to obey my summons, I will leave her to join me on the road. She is now my ward, by her own consent," she added, smiling kindly at her.
This proposal was eagerly accepted by Mr. Ware, who dreaded losing Mabel, and clung to any pretext for keeping her.
"I must go and tell my sister that this dear child will soon be with us," said he, rising to take his leave, "and you, madam, suffer me to offer an old man's blessing for your kindness to this poor orphan," he said, laying his hand on Mabel's head, "I would have gladly taken her to my heart and home, to be the blessing there she has long been, but this selfish wish would deprive her of the healthy companionship of those who will be her sisters, and kindly cheer her young life, which has been bowed with many sorrows. I need not ask you to deal kindly with her for you have done that already. I only say, may an old man's blessing be upon you and yours, as you have dealt kindly by this poor lamb."
Mrs. Villars turned aside her head to conceal her rising emotion, and Mabel's face was bathed in tears, as Mr. Ware, with glistening eyes and trembling steps, hurried from the room to repress the feelings which had become too strong for utterance.
All have their tasks and trials; thine are hard,But short the time, and glorious the reward,Thy patient spirit to thy duties give,Regard the dead, but to the living live.Crabbe.
All have their tasks and trials; thine are hard,But short the time, and glorious the reward,Thy patient spirit to thy duties give,Regard the dead, but to the living live.
Crabbe.
It was with pleasure—melancholy, indeed, but still most sincere—that Mabel was welcomed at the rectory. Mr. Ware and his sister emulated each other, in endeavours to cheer her, before her introduction to a gayer scene, which they knew awaited her in Bath. Their party had been increased by the arrival of Mr. Clifford, the young architect, mentioned by Colonel Hargrave, who had easily been induced to accept a room in the pleasant rectory; so that, together with Rogers, the bailiff, whose sick room required every attention, Mr. Ware was busy enough. Mr. Clifford brought with him different plans for the improvement of the estate, and the re-building of the village, on a different scale; and the greater part of the evening was generally occupied in talking these over, or drawing fresh ones. In this occupation Mr. Ware would gladly have interested Mabel; but she was scarcely equal to the exertion, and he well knew he could expect nothing, reasonably, beyond the unmurmuring resignation, which characterised her grief, and the transient, tearful interest she sometimes displayed in what they were doing. The comfort and happiness of her favorite village never could be unheeded by her; but it required some relaxation of her over taxed nervous system before she could again become the self-forgetful, cheerful companion she had been. This indulgence was freely granted her—and her affectionate heart soon warmed to the watchful love which surrounded her, as the drooping flowers turn to the warm beams of the returning sun.
"How often have I had reason to be grateful to you, dear sir?" she said, one morning, as she passed her hand through Mr. Ware's arm, to accompany him in his walk round the garden. It was one of those days, which, in England, so often surprise us in the midst of winter, with their balmy air and spring-like feeling. "And now more than ever," she continued, "for supporting me at this sad season. You can little know how very, very grateful I am for this thoughtful kindness."
"My dear child," returned Mr. Ware, soothingly, "it must be very easy to accept the kindness which you have never forgotten to afford to others."
"Always kind," said Mabel, with a sigh, "how shall I bear to part from you?"
"Or I from you, dear Mabel; often have you secured me from the regrets, which, in a life of such seclusion as we have past here, might have invaded my quiet. You have afforded me that society which I could not otherwise have secured, and willingly would I have kept you still; but I feel that Aston would, at least for the present, be full of too many regrets for you to make me urge it. Besides, our natural relations have a claim upon us, and, with yours, you will probably find a safe and happy home. My Mabel will not forget that these have a claim upon her, and that she may be called to new duties amongst them."
"And new trials," said Mabel, sadly, "I shall meethim."
"Yes, for a while—only a little while; I need not say anything on that subject, your heart will best dictate your conduct—only be firm, and remember always, if annoyances prevail elsewhere, here is your home."
"Not so—I trust he will soon be here—he ought to be here—and, oh, how gladly would I see that. Do you not think his strange appearance on that awful night—the delicacy he has since shewn—Mr. Clifford's coming—do you not think all this looks well?"
Mr. Ware looked earnestly and painfully at her; she seemed immediately to understand that look, for turning from him, she wrung her hands together bitterly.
"Oh, why," she exclaimed, "can I never indulge my best hopes, without the appearance of selfishness—must they always be so inseparable; but you, at least, understand me," she added, turning her beautiful face full upon him with a look of supplication.
"Yes, indeed, I do," he replied, "only I began to fear—I do understand you, my noble-hearted girl—trust me, I do."
But Mabel only turned aside her head to weep, and though he tried to renew the subject, she skilfully evaded it, and when that pained him, she turned and soothed him with the eager caress of childlike affection.
At this moment, Clair was seen walking pensively up and down the walk, at some little distance, and, as Mr. Ware was called away, Mabel suffered him to go in alone, and advanced timidly towards his nephew; she gained upon him before he was fully aware of her presence, and joining him, she walked by his side, for a few minutes, in silence. He was moodily musing, and she seemed, for a time, watchful how best to interrupt him. She had never yet alluded to his letter, and spite of the afflicting scenes which had so lately engaged her attention, he felt slightly annoyed as well as disappointed—so little, however, did he acknowledge such a feeling, even to himself, that he was a little startled when she said, softly and timidly—
"You are offended with me."
"Offended, Miss Lesly?"
"Yes, and justly so—but if you could but know how many times I have tried to speak to you without having the courage to do so, you would forgive me."
Clair's eye kindled with sudden pleasure, but she saw the look, and hastened to temper it.
"You told me that you knew something of my early history."
"Yes, Miss Lesly," he said, puzzled at her manner, and one moment appearing ready to sink back into his dejection, the next, to seize her hand—and give way to something more than joy.
"You must know, then," she continued, fixing her eyes on the ground; "that the heart which has been once given away, is no longer capable of appreciating you."
"Unless," said Clair, eagerly.
"Ah, but with me, there is no unless," said Mabel; "do not ask me to unveil the painful recesses of a mind inured, but not insensible to sorrow; and do not, oh, do not, like me, prepare for yourself that loneliness of heart which I must carry with me always. I dare not trifle with a feeling whose intensity I know too well; but, yet, I hope, so earnestly do I hope, that you have mistaken yourself, and, that pity for my sorrows, and the unhappy share you had in them, have led you to think of me as you have done, and that these feelings may be easily overcome. I feel privileged to speak to you," she said, raising her eyes timidly, "because we are both unhappy."
"Ah, Miss Lesly, you little know me; I would give all my affection, even, for the pleasure of your society—even if you would but tolerate me for a while—my devotion might—."
"Oh, no," said Mabel, earnestly, and unhesitatingly; "do not speak like that again. I would not enter on such holy duties with such feelings only; and, even if I did, cruelly should I be taking advantage of your confidence. I came only to ask you to think of me no more—to forgive me, if possible, and—."
"And," returned Clair; "can you forgive me for my former trifling."
"Not quite, for had you not trifled, I might have spared you some pain now. But you do forgive me," she said, extending her hand, and their eyes met for the first time.
"I do, I do; if I have anything to forgive," said Clair, turning his pale face aside, as he pressed her hand.
Mabel bowed gently over it, then withdrawing it from his grasp, glided from him, and re-entered the house.
There was one other duty to be performed before she left Aston, which tried her courage as much as any other; this was taking leave of her mother's two old and faithful servants—but she knew that such a parting, though so trying was one expected of her, and she would not deny them the pleasure of seeing her, perhaps, for the last time. When, however, the hour which she had appointed for their coming arrived, her heart sank within her, and her spirits entirely failed, when she met their familiar faces almost as sad as her own.
"It is like losing the very light of my eyes to see you go away, Miss Mabel," said old John.
"You have served us long and well—and that thought will be very cheering when I am gone," said Mabel, "but I want to know what you mean to do—I want to think you are comfortable when I am away. Will you go to service again?"
"I do not think I could serve another master or mistress," said old John, decidedly. "If so be you wanted a servant—"
"Then," said Mabel, "you would be mine, of course; but that cannot be; and I have been thinking, that if you had a garden of your own—a nursery garden, I mean, you would be independent."
"I was thinking of that myself, ma'am," said old John, with a pleased expression at finding his wants divined—"and if—but I don't like to say it—there, I can't," he said, walking to the window.
"John was going to say, ma'am," interrupted Betsy, seeing that Mabel looked puzzled, "that if it would not hurt your feelings, he should like to keep on the old garden still—if he could have a cottage built where our house stood—if, that is, you do not object."
Mabel checked her rising emotion, and said, cheerfully.
"How could I object to your keeping the dear old garden—how glad should I be to think that it was an old friend, not a stranger, who lived there."
"Would you now, ma'am," said John, his face brightening; "I could keep the old walks and the hot beds as they used to be—and 'twouldn't be quite such a breaking up of old times—for I have lived there so long, it seems like a home to me."
"I should be very glad," said Mabel, "to think you were happy there, and that something of what I loved so well remained still. I will speak to Mr. Clifford, perhaps he may do what we ask—for he seems willing to please everybody."
"Thank ye, ma'am," said John, rubbing his head with an air of consideration, as if he had something more to say.
"And you, Betsy, what will you do?"
"Why, that's the very thing," said John, as Betsy hesitated, in her turn; "'praps you don't know, ma'am, that Jonathan Williams has courted her for many years—but she didn't like to leave poor missis. Now, I was thinking, if you approve, that, as I am getting old, I shall want some one to help me, and as he's a clever man at a garden, I might as well take him into employ or partnership, and so we might live altogether—for," he added, with great emphasis; "I don't like to be put out by strangers—and Betsy knows my ways."
"That will be perfect," cried Mabel, with something of the gladness of her old tone of voice, rising as she spoke; "and you must write to me often, and tell me how this plan goes on;" she said, more hurriedly. "In the mean while, to secure its success, I shall place twenty pounds, a piece, for you, in Mr. Ware's hands; which you can draw upon, as you want money, for furnishing your new house—and I hope you have laid up something for yourselves, and so will be able to start with advantage. You must let me get you your wedding gown, Betsy."
So difficult is it for the uneducated to separate wealth from gentle manners, and ladylike qualities, that the two faithful domestics accepted her parting gift with gratitude and pleasure; but without the reluctance which they would have felt, had they guessed the real nature of her circumstances. They could not fancy that the mistress, whose noble qualities had ever received their genuine respect, was really almost moneyless, and dependent for the blessing of a home. Mabel was not sorry to keep up the illusion, and tore herself from them before they had time to enquire anything of her future plans.
When she placed the money in Mr. Ware's hands, he remonstrated with her on giving away a sum so large in proportion to with what she actually possessed; but she replied cheerfully—
"So much of our comfort is in the hands of our servants, that if they have served us well, we can scarcely reward them enough. The thought that I have shewn them something of my gratitude for the past, will be better to me than the money itself. The selfish reason that I have no one to care for but myself, should at least have its advantages."
Mr. Clifford was easily persuaded to grant Mabel's request, that, upon the site of her once happy home—one might be built for the old servants; and he readily took the opportunity of interesting her by making her choose and alter the plans for the new cottage, which they agreed should be in the same style as the other, though, of course, a real cottage.
Mabel might soon, perhaps, have recovered the harmony of her spirits, amongst those dear friends who were so studiously attentive in every imaginable kindness, but she was not suffered to enjoy their society very long—for her aunt was impatient to return to Bath, and wrote to tell her at what stage upon the road they were to meet.
She dared not delay—neither did she much wish to do so, when she perceived Clair's unhappiness rather increased by time; and she, therefore, felt it right to depart as soon as possible. But, in leaving Aston, she began more and more to realise the true nature of her recent loss; and when Mr. Ware drove her to the little town where she was to meet the coach, he tried in vain to rouse her from the despondency into which she had fallen.
"My child," he said, as he took leave of his weeping charge; "you will remember, though not yet, that your past life calls upon you for future exertion."
Mabel endeavoured to smile her thanks, and her promises, but the light appeared in her eyes only to vanish again, put out by tears—yet, as the coach rolled off, she leant forward, and kissed her hand with an air of cheerfulness. Mr. Ware turned musingly away. As he drove home by himself, the road seemed unusually long, and the large flakes of snow, as they lazily fell through the freezing air, seemed even more cold and comfortless than they usually do: he could not conceal from himself that a gap had been made in his little circle, which he had no opportunity of supplying; and that, with the loss of the Lesly family, he must part with much that had tended to render his life happy.
I grew up selfish, full of hopes and cares,For my own welfare, unconcerned for theirs—
I grew up selfish, full of hopes and cares,For my own welfare, unconcerned for theirs—
With many different feelings, Mrs. Villars' return, with her niece, was expected in Bath, by her family—jealousy is, indeed, "strong as death," and uncertain and wayward in its effects—Caroline had, with unfeminine obstinacy, determined on becoming mistress of Aston Manor and its owner; and every object that came in her way, was regarded with dislike. She had heard from Lucy, of Mabel's beauty and winning manners; and such beauty, in distress, she fancied more dangerous still. What her mother could be thinking of to bring her to Bath she could not imagine! but it was in vain for her to write an angry appeal: the answer was decisive. "Mabel must come," the letter said, "and," added Mrs. Villars, "my Cary must make preparation for her proper accommodation; but should you object to our giving up the spare room to her, which certainly would be a sacrifice, you must fit her up a room somewhere, as well as you can—she must not be particular; still, as she is dependent on us, I should not like to stint my favors exactly, though, perhaps, she ought to take rather a more humble footing than my own dear girls." Caroline well understood this letter, and acted accordingly. She knew that her mother's generous fit was passing, and that she was preparing to be more worldly wise.
On the evening of Mrs. Villars' expected return, Hargrave was sitting in his study, lost in something very like a reverie, when he was roused by a low tap at his door. Hastily taking up his pen, to assume the appearance of occupation, he gave the customary answer of "Come in," and Caroline entered.
"Henry," said she, with a persuasive smile, "you must come and join our party in the drawing-room. We have a beautiful fire, and everything comfortable—so do come."
"Why to-night particularly?"
"Because we are all waiting to see mamma, and our wonderful cousin, and we want you to amuse the time away."
"Very well," said Hargrave, rising, and slowly closing his desk—putting aside a private paper or two from the table, which was covered with maps, architectural plans, ground measurements, and books.
"Really," pursued Caroline, glancing round the room, "you study too much. How very pale you look—lock up this dry room, and give me the key, you shall have it again in a day or two."
"Dry," repeated Hargrave, with a smile, taking up one paper after another, as if with peculiar affection, "dry—ah, that reminds me I have a question to ask your papa on this subject."
"Now, you tease, you shall not go to that tiresome study to-night; we want you, and you must come with me."
So saying, she passed her hand playfully through his arm, and compelled him to accompany her to the drawing-room.
The girls were all seated round a cheerful fire; but, there were two chairs left vacant, side by side. Hargrave, however, evaded this manœuvre by flinging himself, with all the coolness of accustomed indulgence, at full length upon the sofa, with his head supported by his two hands, and his eyes shut, as if in full preparation for a nap.
"Provoking creature," cried Caroline, "I did not bring you here to go to sleep."
"Pray do not let me disturb you," he replied, yawning; "I am listening."
"Now, Harry, you know that it is only because we all spoil you that you give yourself such airs; but do not think going to sleep a good way to preserve your popularity."
"I am not conscious of any diminution in it," returned the imperturbable Hargrave; "but here I am at your service," he added, slowly rising to a sitting posture.
One great source of amusement consisted in watching his caprices, and reporting his humour, as it varied.
"Are they not late?" he enquired, at length, when a carriage rolled down the street, causing a momentary expectation, but stopped not till its murmuring sound died in the distance, or was hushed by the wind, as it rushed round the corners of the streets.
"It is a long cross road, I think," said Caroline, "but I hope they will be here soon, for I am tired of waiting."
"How freezingly cold," said Hargrave.
"Yes, indeed;" said Maria, "the water is frozen in the rooms up-stairs, and there are long, horrid icicles hanging down the windows, and it is snowing out of doors. I really cannot bear to cross the passages, and I cannot think how people can be out to-night, when they may stay at home."
"I think," said Selina, "it is a great pity for any one to die in the winter—just in the midst of the gay season. Only think, but for this crape, we might be at Mrs. Trelawny's party this evening. It makes one's heart ache to hear the carriages go by—ah, there is another, I declare. Black is so unbecoming, too," said she, glancing at the tiny foot which peeped out from the black folds of her dress.
"Now I am sure," said Maria, "you are only asking for a compliment, when you know nothing suits a fair complexion so well as black. Now I, with my tawny skin, might complain, had I not long ago given up the attempt to look fascinating, and depended more on my tongue than my face; but still I do wish that this piece of perfection had retained possession of her Cotswold air, and left us to ourselves. Mamma is a clever woman—as if she had not girls enough to drag after her, and provide husbands for."
An angry cry of "shame" ran round the circle; but Maria, catching a half smile from Hargrave, laughed merrily in reply.
"Only think," she went on, "we must put on long faces for a fortnight, at least, in sympathy for the death of an old lady, we did not care a straw about; but, at least, I am no hypocrite, and that she will find—I shall not pretend to admire perfections who look down on every one else."
"That I am sure she does not," said Lucy. "Ah, that's the thing, she is better than ordinary perfections even—but here's papa."
Mr. Villars here entered the room.
"Oh, papa," cried Caroline, pettishly, "I wish you would not leave the door open."
Mr. Villars quietly shut it—but the request jarred upon his feelings—there was something, too, in the arrangement of the chairs, which did not offer any considerable inducement to him to remain. He was sure to put a check upon conversation, usually of the most frivolous kind, and, therefore, his presence was not often desired by his daughters, though his mild, indulgent eye seemed often almost to entreat the affection which was so coldly and grudgingly bestowed, while too sensitive to command the attention which was his due.
Solitude had become irksome to him, and he had now come to seek for some one to share in a new idea, which had for some hours occupied his pen.
He paused, for a moment, before the little circle—but no one rose to offer him a seat.
Hargrave's eyes were fixed upon the fire, seemingly forgetful of all around him. Caroline was regarding him. She was never susceptible to any interest in her father's proceedings, so that he did not attempt to gain her attention; but, addressing Selina, who seemed the least amused of the party—he said, smiling kindly, but timidly—
"I want a little advice—I have been trying all day to write a letter to theTimes, giving my views on the present system of education at the Universities, showing how much time is wasted on the dead languages, which might be given to philosophy and science."
"Oh, really, papa," said Selina, with a half yawn to the subject, "I am so ignorant—I am sure I cannot help you."
"Oh, yes," he replied, gently; "you think less of yourself than you need—I shall be glad of your opinion. Come—"
"Oh, no, papa, I would much rather not."
"My little Lucy will come then."
"I would," she replied, "very gladly, only I am so anxious to see mamma."
"Come, Maria, then, I really cannot get on without a little admiration—and I do not expect them for an hour or two."
"I would if I understood anything about it," said Maria, "I dare say the letter will do beautifully."
"I will come, sir, if I may," cried Hargrave, starting up, on seeing Mr. Villars leaving the room with a dejected air.
But the hall bell stopped both of them. Lucy sprang to the door, but suddenly stopped, and turned pale, and shrunk instinctively, remembering the impossibility of her being a welcome object to Mabel.
Mrs. Villars was now heard coming up-stairs, giving orders to the servants, as she did so. Her voice became more distinct, as she approached the room, and entered, followed by the dark, black figure of her orphan niece. She presented her to her daughters in turn, who each gave her a hand rather in curiosity than kindness. Lucy, unable to remain longer inactive, advanced with the impulse of throwing her arms round her neck, but feeling checked by the presence of her sisters, she only kissed her with a shy timidity, which very little expressed the real warmth of her welcome.
"Welcome, my poor child," said the kind and fatherly voice of Mr. Villars, to the silent girl, "you will find here, I hope, kind companions, and a comfortable home."
Mabel gently raised the heavy veil, which had completely shrouded her face, and seemed almost to bow down her head, and, as she did so, displayed a countenance, which the beautiful and haughty Caroline regarded with triumph and satisfaction. Tears stained her colorless cheeks, and grief and watching were deeply marked in her sunken eyes. There was no affectation of suffering there; but, as she looked up in reply to Mr. Villars, a light ray passed over her countenance, and at once spoke the loveliness which no sorrow could darken. She tried to speak, but her parted lips refused to utter expressions of feeling, which her eloquent eyes had already conveyed.
"You will now," said her aunt, pompously, "have an opportunity of thanking Colonel Hargrave for the hospitality he has afforded you."
But Colonel Hargrave was gone. No one had seen him leave the room; but when his absence was perceived, Caroline felt a sensation of pleasure she could not account for, and, in great, good humour, turned to assist Mabel in relieving herself of the heavy cloak which encumbered her; she then perceived that she was trembling with cold and agitation—and when she begged leave to retire for the night, every one saw that there was necessity for repose to soothe her spirits.
Maria, whose good nature was, at times, greater than she would acknowledge, almost forced her to swallow the wine she had declined.
Mrs. Villars, taking a light, requested Mabel to follow her, with stately kindness.
The drawing-room they left was on the second floor, and yet she led her up two flights of stairs, and then across a narrow passage, before she stopped at the door of the room destined for her.
"My house is so very crowded," Mrs. Villars said, apologetically, "that I am obliged to put you up here; but it will be a little home to you, and you must make yourself snug and comfortable. Oh, those naughty girls have forgotten to put you a chest of drawers; but you must contrive for a day or two, and I will see to it."
Possibly she forgot; for she did not see to it.
"It will do quite well for me, aunt, thank you," answered the low, sweet-toned voice, which so often touched her better self; but when we are deliberately acting with unkindness, it is not pleasant to have that better self awakened, after the pains we have taken to lull it to sleep.
Mrs. Villars hastily bade her good night, telling her to go to sleep, and be well on the morrow, and returned to the drawing-room. There she found her daughters busy in criticising the face and form of the new comer.
Caroline, vexed that Hargrave did not return, and seized with a sudden desire to follow him, quietly left the room, and glided down stairs.
With stealthy steps, she again sought the room, where she thought the truant had taken refuge. The light that streamed from it into the passage, shewed her that the door was open, and as she reached it, she paused, for a moment, to take a view of its occupant before invading his retirement.
A large fire blazed up the chimney, and cast a flickering light round the apartment, at times, bringing every object to view, and then leaving it in fanciful shadow. Piles of books, as before, lay upon the table, on which stood an unlighted lamp. Heedless of the many sources of employment which were scattered around him, Hargrave was sitting, leaning over the table. Caroline thought he slept, and meditated some fanciful mode of waking him; but the moment her dress moved, he raised his head, and the firelight which, while it left her own corner in darkness, fell full upon him, shewed upon his countenance, the unmistakable traces of grief and weakness. Her naturally quick perception at once told her, that no time could be less favorable for intrusion upon one so haughty, and, to all appearance, so impenetrable, and drawing herself back into the shade, she lingered, but a moment, to assure herself that he was again lost in his solitary musing, and then noiselessly gained her own room, and sat down to think over what she had witnessed.
Did he always indulge in such thoughts? and if so, over what past event was he grieving? what loss which could not be repaired?
The flattering answer, returned by her mirror, gave her hope that such grief, if more than transitory, would still be of no long duration.
What the heart wishes, it finds a thousand witnesses to substantiate.