Oft in life's stillest shade reclining,In desolation, unrepining,Without a hope on earth to find,A mirror in an answering mind.Meek souls there are who little dream,Their daily task an Angel's theme;Or that the rod they take so calm,Shall prove in Heaven a martyr's palm.Christian Year.
Oft in life's stillest shade reclining,In desolation, unrepining,Without a hope on earth to find,A mirror in an answering mind.Meek souls there are who little dream,Their daily task an Angel's theme;Or that the rod they take so calm,Shall prove in Heaven a martyr's palm.
Christian Year.
The night was piercingly cold.
Mabel sat down upon her travelling trunk, which had preceded her to her room, and which, carelessly, had been left corded. There was no bell by which she could summon assistance, and therefore, with trembling fingers, she undid the tightly-knotted cord, and with some difficulty, for the box was heavy, she managed to open it; but, having done so, it seemed as if she almost forgot the purpose for which she wished it—for clasping her hands together she wept long and convulsively. How many bitter thoughts crowded upon her in that hour of weakness. Her mind seemed to lose all its strength, as she hurried from the past to the future. Where was the elastic promise of bold reliance on that future, made by her mother's side? Where was that mother? Sleeping in the cold grave, and as Mabel wept on, there might have come the thought that in that grave there was peace and refuge, though the night winds even now howled above it. How had she flattered herself that she had gained the control of her own fervent imagination, and yet how it trembled at the thought of the morrow.
Hargrave, her infidel lover, so warmly loved and yet so steadily rejected, how should she meet him on that morrow—did he still love her, and if so, would he press his suit, and force her to fly from temptation, or would he prove the truth of his threat, that with him there was no medium between truthful love and contemptuous forgetfulness. If so, how could she bear it, how would they meet day after day, keeping up the formal semblance of politeness, and if it were true, that he was making his suit to Caroline, how could she find strength for the daily trials which would necessarily be hers.
The quick, fiery blood of jealousy kindled in her cheek, as this last thought arose, and she mechanically raised her hand and loosened the twisted tresses of her hair, as if her heated brain needed relief.
If there be, as some affirm, a good and evil angel to guard our way, and track our steps through life, it was the evil angel that had power then.
She felt it—she rose, and almost instantly sunk upon her knees. Her clasped hands were now raised above her head—now clasped convulsively over her face—as hour followed hour through that dark and cheerless night, till her head gradually sank upon the bed by which she kneeled, and she remained for a long time in perfect stillness. Her long, disordered hair hiding every feature from sight.
The Abbey clock announced the approach of the chill winter morning, before Mabel again raised her head, but then her countenance was firm, and there was a soft radiance about her eyes that told that those dark and weary hours had not been spent in vain.
Wearied with the long conflict, she laid herself down to rest, and was soon asleep.
Strong minds, when they are sick, require strong remedies; had any one watched her calm repose, and quiet breathing, they might have told, that with her the crisis was past.
As she slept—flitting dreams crossed her fancy—once she thought she stood upon a high hill, where a noble castle of fairy and transparent beauty, was built immediately above a rocky precipice. Suddenly, as she lost her footing, and fell, she tried to prepare for death, when invisible hands supported her, and softly placed her on the bank above.
Then her dream became more distinct—she was again at Aston, and the setting sun was going down behind the hills—while its golden rays gave beauty to earth and sky. She was seated on her father's tomb, in the well-known church-yard, and close beside her was the delicate form of the little Amy, which her arm encircled with the covetous clasp of affection. They both gazed upon the setting sun, and the child listened, as she spoke of the ages it had shone in beauty, and the ages it might still shine; of the time it marked, and the eternity it presaged, till her eyes grew brighter, and her color deepened. Then it seemed as if a strain of holy music softly stole upon the evening air, and Amy raised her hand to attract her attention to it—her face grew of more than earthly loveliness, and, as the music died away, Mabel woke and found herself alone. The moonlight streamed into her little room, rendering every object distinctly visible. It is beautiful to see the mingling light of the waning moon and rising sun changing the scenes of the early morning with the rapidity of a diorama; Mabel watched the light for some time with unthinking pleasure, till gradually upon her waking senses arose the remembrance of the night, but with the early morning came the strength for which she had so earnestly pleaded through those hours of darkness.
She had bent before the repeated strokes of Providence with something of the feeling that her earthly duties were finished. But now came purer and holier thoughts. "What right," she asked herself, "had she to say that she had suffered enough?" Had she not already some call to exertion, some friends whom she might perhaps love and serve, and more, the fresh suffering that seemed in preparation, told her that it was right to suffer. "Thy will be done," she repeated, in trembling accents, as she knelt in meek and quiet devotion, and the words came from a heart not untried by many sorrows.
Mabel's mind was anything but morbid, for the dangerous tendency so strongly developed in her mother, had been checked and controlled by that very mother herself, who gladly saw in her more active child, the same delicate perception of the beautiful, the good and the painful, sobered by her care for others, and her love of exertion.
It was then with a feeling of gratitude that she looked round the little room, which, to many would have excited the most painful feelings of neglect and desolation. The small bed had been evidently used, formerly, in the nursery, and was diminutive in size; yet, as Kirk White, humorously observes of his study fireplace:—
"So big, it covered o'er,Full half the spacious room, and more."
"So big, it covered o'er,Full half the spacious room, and more."
One side, from the ceiling, shelved down to the floor, leaving dark corners, where the light from the small window never penetrated, giving an uncomfortable suspicion of dust and cobwebs. The wide window ledge, which served for the purpose of dressing table, with one shabby chair, completed the fittings of the room—for, as Mrs. Villars had observed in her casual glance—a chest of drawers had been omitted.
It was impossible that any one so careful of the comforts of others—so used to luxury as she had lately been, at Aston, should not read, at a glance, the nature of the apartment which one of her mother's servants would, perhaps, have hesitated to occupy—yet she busied herself in arranging it to advantage. She could scarcely satisfy herself when she had finished, for the room was not quite clean, and nothing she could do could remedy that deficiency—so she turned to the window, and looked out upon the back view it displayed of chimney-pots—dark back windows, as cheerless as her own, and walls blackened by falling smoke. Still, above the low dark, damp, courts, there was a glimpse of the pure blue sky; and as Mabel's eye rested upon it, even the passing shade of discontent vanished from her mind, as she remembered by whom her comforts and trials were meted; and then she turned her eyes again upon the room, and all that was uncomfortable before, seemed to have a light about it that made it look different now. It was all better than she might have had—more than she had any right to claim. Was she not under her aunt's protection, when she might have been left with strangers; left for the first time, in that kind of independence, most trying to a delicate woman? "Was not every thing," she again repeated, "better than she deserved? What could have made her think the room dark, and uncomfortable? What could have changed it so? Nothing but the reflected light of a humble and thankful heart. After remaining some little time longer in consideration, she went down stairs. She soon found the room where she remembered having been introduced the evening before; but, on opening the door, she perceived that it was still darkened, the window-curtains drawn, and the chairs arranged as they had been left on the preceding night. Looking again at her watch to persuade herself that it was really nine o'clock, she found her way to the drawing-room, which was in such dusty confusion, that she was going to return to her own room again, when a side door opened, and Mr. Villars appeared.
"Come in, come in," he said, stopping her; "you will not find a good fire any where else, for at least half an hour. My family are not fond of early rising, as you see; so I generally take my breakfast alone."
"Then, perhaps, I shall intrude upon you, sir;" said she, seeing the preparations for his simple meal already made.
"Not if you will have some breakfast with me; you look tired already, and will be better for it. Only say so, and I will ring for a cup and saucer."
He laid his hand on the bell as he spoke, but hesitatingly, as if accustomed to have his attempts at sociability negatived; but, when Mabel readily assented, he cheerfully busied himself in preparing for her. While he was doing so, she had an opportunity of scanning the apartment, which her host designated his den. It was lined on two sides, from the floor to the ceiling, with bookshelves, containing books of all languages, arranged according to their different subjects. Part of another side contained a selection from the best light literature of the day—and, beneath, were drawers, that seemed to have a habit of being always open, in which was a large store of written papers. The fourth side of the room was ornamented by a collection of stuffed birds, reptiles, and insects; curious specimens of botany, conchology, and mineralogy—shewing the various studies in which Mr. Villars had, from time to time, taken an interest.
Upon a table, near the window, were placed some open books, marked at different passages—together with scraps of paper, old envelopes, and backs of notes, all neatly written upon.
But the breakfast table was prepared with great neatness, and nothing but an unopened paper of the day before gave any temptation to reading.
Mr. Villars, having made the tea, and toasted his muffin, drew a chair to the table, and begged her to partake of both.
There is a kind of freemasonry by which some have the power of unlocking the hearts of others, and making them unreserved; perhaps it is the power of being genuinely natural oneself, which sets others so much at ease.
Mabel soon found herself conversing quietly, and without the least effort; and Mr. Villars, without anything of his nervous hesitation, had offered to assist her reading, by his advice, and instruction, as often as she pleased to spend an hour or two with him.
"May I then, feel free to come and go when I like;" enquired Mabel, rising when they had finished breakfast.
"Yes, at any time; at least, excepting when I have any particular desire to be alone."
"And then you must lock the door," she said, smiling; "because you might not like to turn me out—so that shall be a sign that you wish to be alone."
"A very effectual sign indeed," said Mr. Villars, returning her smile, though he suspected that he should not be often obliged to resort to this defence, as it did not seem likely that she would be more attached to his study than his daughters were.
Mabel felt reluctant to leave the quiet repose of his society, but unwilling longer to absent herself, she went to the breakfast room, where, by this time, the whole party, excepting Hargrave, had assembled. She stopped to give her aunt a kiss, with a warmth, which might have told an intelligent observer, that the gratitude she felt for her protection had closed her eyes to distrust.
Caroline, who had been left mistress of the house in her mother's absence, had intended the situation and furniture of her bed-room, at once, to announce the fact, that if admitted to their circle, it must be in the rank of a dependent. But this attempt to humiliate her, had seemingly failed. Mabel appeared pale, subdued, and sorrow-stricken, but evidently possessing a mind superior to trifles; and though, when she took her seat apart from the table, her lip slightly trembled, and her color came and went, not a sigh escaped from the sad heart within.
Caroline, as she rose from breakfast, said that Hargrave had promised to practise some duets with her, and she must go and find him—Maria and Selina followed her—and Mrs. Villars went to her house-keeping, leaving Lucy behind.
There was a momentary and awkward silence—and then Lucy walked up to her, and sunk down upon the floor at her feet, crying—
"How can you ever look upon me again? Think of my laughing and amusing myself, when—"
A shudder finished the sentence.
And Mabel stooped to raise her head, whispering—
"It is too easy to forgive you—you were more unkind to yourself than to me."
"How?" said Lucy.
"Because such things make the heart grow hard."
Lucy was silent, for a moment, and then exclaimed—
"How I wish I were married, and had a home to offer you of my own. Then you should not have such an old, poky bed-room as Caroline has looked out for you—I had such a quarrel with her about it. She is jealous, because I said you were beautiful, I know she is."
"Ah, Lucy," said Mabel, "how unkind to try and expose the weaknesses of a sister—remember the fable of the bundle of sticks. For myself, knowing that I do not deserve her unkindness, I shall not feel it. I own it is a trial—but as I am dependent on your mamma's kindness, by my own choice, and by my wish to please her, and not of necessity, and I can and will assert my independence when I please—it is quite a different thing."
"Are you going to be married then?"
"No, no," said Mabel, smiling; "I will tell you what I mean another day—perhaps I do not quite know how myself—I only know I will if I see it best—but do not let us talk of that now."
So saying, she took up a skein of silk which Caroline had been attempting to wind.
"Never mind that," said Lucy, "that is Caroline's, and she will never thank you for the trouble you take."
"Lucy!" said Mabel.
"Ah, I know you are the best of human beings; but I do not know what you would have been, had you been brought up in such a school as I have."
"Scarcely four months have passed," returned Mabel, "since you spoke that thought before. You have not used events rightly, if you can say it sincerely now. Oh, why have you been so sorely tried," said she, placing her hand fondly on her head—"Why have you been wounded so severely, if not to purify you from the errors of the past? Might not those sad events be made fit answers to the excuse you then made for yourself?"
Lucy was going to reply, when a double knock at the hall door made her start and blush, and then she jumped up, her face all radiance, and hastily kissing Mabel's cheek, ran off to the drawing-room.
Once more alone, Mabel tried to occupy herself with the silk she held in her hand, but her heart was full, and tears silently stole down her cheeks, and fell upon her busy fingers.
Just then, Caroline returned, something had gone wrong in the singing lesson, and her face wore its natural frown, and her cheek its angry flush—she glanced impatiently at Mabel, and then stopping to warm herself by the fire, looked angrily from it to her.
"What! are you crying again?" she said, peevishly, for her temper had become almost insane from indulgence.
Mabel made no reply.
"I hope," continued her cousin, "you are not going to be always miserable; for poor mamma's sake, you should command your feelings."
Mabel raised her eyes and looked firmly at her, as she said, slowly—
"I was alone."
"And is that what you call resignation?" said Caroline, in a tone of reproof. "I hope you will not give way to your poor mother's disposition."
"We mistake each other," said Mabel, rising, while her pale cheek kindled, her head was proudly and firmly erect, and her eyes almost flashed fire.
Caroline quailed; an uneasy sensation of something like fear stole upon her.
"Perhaps," said she, her voice trembling with suppressed passion, "we mistake our respective positions."
"We do," said Mabel.
Caroline would have been glad to relieve herself by some bitter speech, but she felt powerless, and, endeavouring to hide her own discomfiture, she swept indignantly from the room, saying that she had never believed in perfect tempers, and she would have nothing to do with people who tried to appear better than they were.
Mabel continued standing, her bosom heaving with emotion.
"I could have borne any thing but that—any reflection on myself," she exclaimed, half aloud, "but to speak so of my poor mother, I cannot bear. Ha—" she added, slightly startling on perceiving Hargrave, who had entered by another door, and who was standing by her.
Their eyes met for an instant and then hers sought the ground.
"Miss Lesly," said he, coldly and peculiarly, "we have never met before."
She looked up to read his meaning. His countenance was impenetrable, except that he seemed impatient for reply. There had been a time when her lightest word could move him, and when, to her, his smile was happiness, and his frown brought misery. Yet neither testified now the least emotion. After a pause she replied.
"You need not fear me, but I cannot, if I would, utter a falsehood. What does it signify that we have met."
"The past is forgotten, then?" he enquired.
"It shall be as if it had never been," replied Mabel; "but as you were candid then, be candid now."
"Why?"
"Because you cannot be happy without perfect confidence."
A fleeting smile passed over his lips, but she saw it not.
"You need not fear—no one shall take me under false pretences—I am fallen indeed in your estimation, since you believe that possible."
"No," replied Mabel, "I reverence and admire the beauty of the structure, but I do distrust the foundation on which it is built."
"Ah, some people do not think so deeply," he returned, gaily.
"I fear not," said she, sadly.
"Well, you have had trials sufficient," he added, "without adding mine to them—do not fear for me, I hope some day to hear you congratulate me on my happiness."
Without waiting for a reply he took up a book, which he had made the nominal reason for his visit to the morning room, and disappeared.
She hurried quickly to her own little chamber, to think over this strange conversation, which she believed conclusive of his attachment to Caroline. But was she worthy of him, would she influence him rightly—she tried to believe that the character drawn by her own quick judgment was only wrought by jealousy. Not a little did she feel pained at their quarrel, for she thought how easily might she prejudice her in his opinion.
"I can bear to lose his love," she thought, "but not his esteem—and yet I must, if necessary, do both, perhaps, if she speaks ill of me, and he will surely believe her."
Those who have experienced many trials will remember, that sometimes, by their quick succession, the mind becomes braced to endurance. It was so with Mabel; besides, she had certain fixed principles, and though she often erred from them, her mind almost invariably recovered its strength; and she now endeavoured to school it to the endurance of those small trials, which in her happy home at Aston, she had almost entirely escaped.
The hope of fame may in his heart have place,But he has dread and horror of disgrace,Nor has he that confiding easy way,That might his learning and himself display;But to his work, he from the world retreats,And frets and glories o'er the favorite sheets.Crabbe.
The hope of fame may in his heart have place,But he has dread and horror of disgrace,Nor has he that confiding easy way,That might his learning and himself display;But to his work, he from the world retreats,And frets and glories o'er the favorite sheets.
Crabbe.
When Caroline quitted Mabel she hurried to her mother, with all the petulance of a wayward child, and, with her, vented on Mabel the spleen which she had not had the courage fully to express. Great was her surprise when she found, that, instead of joining in her opinion, Mrs. Villars only endeavoured to extenuate and defend Mabel's conduct, though with that weakness which Caroline always had the hope of overcoming; but, for once she was mistaken, and, more than ever chagrined, the bitterness with which she regarded her cousin, only increased. This Mabel had soon an opportunity of learning, and her situation in the house became more and more uncomfortable, influenced as it was, by those secret prejudices and envious feelings, which there is no possibility of openly opposing.
Lucy, too, though still an object of solicitude to her, seemed shy of her company, and, indeed, held herself much aloof from every one but Beauclerc, whose attentions were now very generally remarked.
Still there was one room in the house where her presence was welcomed as a real blessing, and this consciousness atoned to her for much that was elsewhere almost unbearable.
At first, with the shyness which often attends the student, Mr. Villars frequently locked his door, but gradually the habit ceased altogether.
One afternoon, he was sitting alone, his manner was restless, and his eye absent in its expression.
The atmosphere without was unusually humid; small rain, which, in the distance, looked almost like fog, hid the prospect, and made the room dark, giving nothing of the inspiriting feeling produced by a hearty shower. Within, the room seemed heavy and sombre. But within Mr. Villars' own thoughts there was something darker still, something cold and numbing—something that said the world was a dark and gloomy world—something that said he lived alone and uncared-for in it. He rose and walked up and down the room—that dark feeling haunted him still. He turned to the window—on its ledge lay his pen-knife—he looked at it uneasily—then walked away—then returned—and again regarded it as if it had the power to injure him. He returned to the table, on it lay a bundle of closely written papers—he turned from them, and again found himself at the window.
That knife again.
His thoughts grew darker—that something again stole over him, till the sweat stood in drops upon his brow, and his eyes glared feverishly.
Hark! He listens. The sound of a light footfall is in the passage—a quick hand is on the lock, the door is opened, and Mabel is by his side, looking uneasily and affectionately at him, with that expression of light and beauty so peculiar to her.
"You are ill—I am sure you are," she said; "let me call my aunt."
"No, no," he replied, hurriedly, "I am better—if you will stay with me. You must not go—you will not let them drive you from me."
Mabel looked puzzled—but eagerly promised anything he desired.
"Ah," said she, rallying her spirits, "I see it now. You have those papers out again. Why are you always unhappy when you take them out?"
"Because they remind me of disappointment," he replied, bitterly.
"I have a great curiosity about them," said Mabel, "and have some fancy that it is the manuscript of a book you have written."
"You do not deny it—then do read it to me."
"It would not give you any amusement."
"Now, uncle, how can you tell that? I am sure it will not make you so miserable, if you do."
"Well, my little sage—but I must first tell you the circumstances under which I wrote it, and the reasons I have for being disappointed."
"Stay one moment then," said she, drawing his arm-chair to the fire, which she stirred, till it sent a good flame up the chimney, then seating herself opposite, she begged him to go on. Beginning to feel happier, he scarce knew why he sat down, and, after a moment's hesitation, he said—
"I was always very fond of writing, when a young man—I dare say, thought myself something of a genius—but though I wished to devote myself entirely to study, this was so much opposed by my more prudent father, that I gave up my own inclinations, and entered into a lucrative mercantile establishment in London. Not long after this, I married, and then it appeared to me, to be my duty to devote myself entirely to business, in order that I might acquire wealth for my wife, and increasing family—but I gave myself too rigidly to the task—I gave myself no ease—always fearing that I longed for it, only from the desire for selfish indulgence. The consequence has been that my family has been educated in a manner of which I strongly disapprove—and, alas! I feel the evil is so great as to require something stronger even than a father's displeasure to remedy it."
Mr. Villars sighed, and then continued—
"In the short intervals of business, I noted down, from time to time, scenes which were drawn either from real life, or my own fancy—together with numerous remarks on the manners of my own times, which I thought might be amusing—pining always to indulge what I falsely believed to be a talent.
"How often desired blessings bring a curse. A few years since my speculations were successful beyond my expectations, and I found myself enabled to retire from business with a good conscience. This place was the scene of my happy boyhood, and of my school days, and here I resolved to settle, since it offered pleasures suited to us all.
"With the eagerness of a schoolboy I fitted up this study; it was the very perfection of my taste, it contains every book I take any pleasure in, and yet," he said, looking gloomily round him, "it has been to me the scene of greater misery than even you, seemingly deprived of almost every blessing, can calculate upon.
"Secure as I believed of the interest of my family, for year after year of, to me, heavy toil had, I believe, purchased it beyond a doubt. I thought I would prepare them a treat, and so set about collecting my scattered writings, and forming them into a whole, promising them a reading every Saturday of what I had done in the week.
"I never shall forget the first Saturday evening. You have, I dare say, often heard that an author's vanity is capable of blinding him to the opinions of others. I cannot understand the feeling myself, and I was not slow in perceiving that my book soon failed to interest—but I tire you."
"You pain, but interest me," replied Mabel.
"Well, it is hard to believe that one's composition is too bad to interest those whose affection ought to make them indulgent to the dullest of our pursuits; but so it was; they eagerly courted any other Saturday engagement, and when they did come, they yawned or whispered over their work, and seemed so completely wearied with my reading that one day I threw down the book, and refused to continue. I forget what followed, but I know I was never asked to resume my readings. From that time I have been more and more alone, and I am sorry to confess that, after years of well rewarded toil, I find life losing interest with me."
Mabel started at the last words; there was an ominous meaning in them, that terrified her—while she watched him now pacing the room again, with a disturbed air, muttering exclamations of despair. She hastened to interrupt him.
"How very much I should like to hear your manuscript. Would you have patience to read it to me?"
Mr. Villars turned and looked full upon her; but she repeated her request eagerly. She saw the coming of that mental cloud, which has obscured many a noble intellect, and her eyes sparkled as she saw him yielding to her request, and that the dawn of hope was again upon the face of the disappointed student.
"Evening is the time for a work of fiction," she observed, "but let us have the first chapter now. If it will not tire you to read."
"If you really wish it," he said, handling the papers with trembling fingers.
"Oh, yes, I do wish it, but let me first get my work, for that is to us what chipping is to the Americans, it only assists our attention. While you find the first part I will go and fetch it."
Her errand took her longer than she had anticipated, for in the morning room she found her aunt, with Hargrave, Caroline, and Selina discussing a print with some eagerness.
"I would give anything to have such a head-dress," exclaimed Caroline.
"Well, my dear," said her mother, "I should be glad for you to have it too, but I fear you must give it up. I am sure, Henry, you ought to be complimented, for Caroline has been trying this hour to please you."
"Well, it is a pity," said Hargrave; "she would look well in it, but I am sorry I spoke of it, if it has given her so much trouble."
Mabel stopped at the table, and taking up the print, exclaimed—
"I remember seeing something like this at Gibraltar. Perhaps I could make it—may I try," she said, glancing at the crape which Caroline had been cutting and wasting.
"If you think you can do it," returned Caroline, "do take it and try—but I want to wear it to-night, at the ball."
"Then give me everything," said she, her manner excited from the scene in the library; and gathering up the crape, ribbon, and wire into her apron, she took the print and hurried to the library. When she entered, Mr. Villars was seated by the fire, with some papers on his knees, but the look of gloom had again settled on his usually patient face. "Oh, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting," she said, anxiously, "but look how much work I had to bring—now I am quite ready."
Mr. Villars said nothing, but appeased by the affectionate warmth of her manner began reading.
She listened attentively, and gladly found herself interested, without an effort, as she heard with surprise sentences, in a style of boldness, and purity of devotion, which she had scarcely expected.
Mutually pleased, the hours slipped away, Mr. Villars charmed by the attention of his listener, while she busily continued her work.
The small greasy rain dimmed the window, and darkened the room, till the shades of evening closed upon them, but its influence had ceased. A cheerful smile shewed the pleasure of the author, and the renewed hope with which he began to feel inspired.
"I scarcely know if I like the name—'The Merchant's Recollections;' it is scarcely striking enough," said Mabel, when he stopped to rest.
"I do not think I could call it anything else, after knowing it so long by that name."
"Well then, I suppose you must keep its name, but do make an effort to have it published, or do so yourself. I am certain it would be popular. Pray let me have what is in your hand, and I will give you the novelty of listening to your own composition; but first, let me light your little candle."
With thrilling voice, and the purest accent, she read, and Mr. Villars felt that he had never appreciated his own composition before. As he listened, old recollections revived—an elasticity seemed given to his thoughts. So carefully had the influence been obtained, which was now so so cleverly exercised, that the sensitive author, with his keen perception and acute sense of the finest tone of feeling, was impressed with respect for his younger companion, who united sympathy in these to a healthy strength of mind.
Now as he looked, and listened to her, who had so timely rendered succour to intellect sinking, from discouragement, into despair, he gladly welcomed the new current of ideas which were crowding upon his attention. The thought of giving to the world the work which had so long occupied him, the chance of popularity, even the bitterness of failure, would be far preferable to the state of apathy into which he had been gradually falling. There was something stirring and exciting in the idea; there was life and employment in it, and he embraced it with rapidity.
The dressing bell put an end to their reading, and Mabel then called upon him to admire her workmanship, displayed in the pretty ornament she had prepared, in imitation of that worn by the Spanish girl, in the print, whose face was not unlike Caroline's.
"Are you going to the ball, to-night?" she enquired.
"I seldom go to those places."
"But I think you would enjoy it to-night, for they are all going, and I am sure would be glad of your company."
"Well, I may perhaps; I might enjoy it."
"I think you will, and then you will enter better into this to-morrow, for you have a great deal to do, and I am bent on seeing it completed."
"My good girl," said Mr. Villars, taking her hand with considerable emotion; "you little know the obligations you have conferred upon me to-day. I would give you all I possess for the power of conferring happiness as skilfully as you can. Heaven bless you for it."
"Providence often chooses the weakest instruments," said Mabel, "to fulfil its missions; and I endeavour to keep myself ready for service, lest I may lose the chance of being employed;" then blushing at her own speech, she withdrew her hand, and hurried from the room.
When they met at dinner, she begged Caroline to allow her to dress her hair for the evening, to suit the head-dress she had been preparing. The offer was readily accepted, and they retired together to the dressing-room already mentioned. The comfort, and almost finical luxury with which it was furnished, occurred to Caroline, as no very agreeable contrast to that which she had prepared for the houseless orphan, so lately deprived of all the comforts of home—but her attention was soon occupied by her toilette, in which she took so great an interest. Perhaps she would have been glad if their maid could have performed the same services for her, with as much taste as Mabel; but as she could not, she forced herself to accept her kindness with the best grace she could command. The beautiful head-dress, contrasted well with her raven hair; and when Mabel held the mirror before her, she scarcely believed her eyes as she gazed upon her reflected self.
"Come, I do believe you are a good girl," exclaimed Maria; "one of the right sort, after all. I wish you would concoct something for me—singularity is what I affect—but, I fear me, nothing will do," she added, going off singing.
There's nobody coming to marry me,Nobody coming to woo;O dear what can the matter be,Oh dear what shall I do.
There's nobody coming to marry me,Nobody coming to woo;O dear what can the matter be,Oh dear what shall I do.
The gay party were soon assembled in the drawing-room. Hargrave looked pleased when he saw the head-dress, and made many observations on its beauty, which delighted Mrs. Villars, and made Caroline's cheek flush with pleasure.
"Who knows," whispered Mrs. Villars, playfully pinching Mabel's arm, "but that your pretty cap may hasten the denouement; look how pleased he is."
Mabel felt sick, but no one saw the sudden pallor of her cheek, for the carriages which were ordered to take them to the rooms were announced.
Caroline, drawing her ermine tippet closer round her shoulders, took Hargrave's un-offered arm, saving:—
"You must be my first partner to-night, remember," and then walked down stairs with him, talking playfully, and gaily. Mabel thought she had never seen her look more beautiful. When they had all gone, she sunk upon a chair, suffering from the revulsion of over exerted feelings. She laid her hand upon her heart to still its beating; that heart, which spite of all its chastenings, beat true to nature still. Had she only decked Caroline to win a heart which was dearer to her than life—dearest when she had rejected it, in the name of heaven.
Oh, if Caroline were but one likely to lead back his truant heart to the duties he had more than neglected. Yet she felt little hope when she remembered her lifeless and listless Sundays—her wandering eyes in church, and the witty remarks which told how her thoughts had there been occupied.
But she also felt that she had done right, and with this consciousness, she could afford to abide by the consequences of her actions. Her delicacy, also, soon reminded her of the necessity of putting a strict guard over her imagination, lest even the pity and sorrow she felt for him, might shew themselves, and be misunderstood. Grieve over him she must, but she resolved that even he should not know it. It was a difficult part for one so candid to play, but her delicacy stood upon the defensive, and warned her to be firm.
Lady Clara Vere de Vere,Some meeker pupil you must find,For were you queen of all that is,I could not stoop to such a mind.Tennyson.
Lady Clara Vere de Vere,Some meeker pupil you must find,For were you queen of all that is,I could not stoop to such a mind.
Tennyson.
Mrs. Villars returned from the ball full of triumphant feelings. Never, since her first appearance at the rooms, had Caroline appeared to such advantage. Hargrave, who seldom did more than walk through a quadrille, had twice asked her to waltz. Mrs. Villars had received, with gracious smiles, many premature congratulations—and her husband, who had despaired of Caroline's marriage, looked on with satisfaction, and began to think everything was taking a brighter turn.
The next morning, Mrs. Villars overwhelmed Mabel with thanks for her ingenuity—and even, in the excess of her gratitude, confided to her a long and exaggerated account of the ball, mixed with many speculations on the probable causes which led Hargrave to delay his proposals. She ended by announcing her intention, (if she did not consider it hurtful to her feelings,) of giving a grand rout the following week.
Mabel begged her not to think of her, as she could easily, if she preferred doing so, spend the evening alone. Her aunt was, however, bent on displaying herself as her benefactress, though she thought it better to be contented, at first, with getting no opposition to her plan.
Invitations were soon issued. Colonel Hargrave was persuaded to give up a hunting party he had intended joining, and even to discuss the numerous arrangements, of which none but good entertainers can appreciate the difficulty. The music, the dances, the company, the decorations of the rooms, were all thoroughly talked over, and everything promised to make it the most popular party of the Bath season.
The girls were in high spirits, and congratulated themselves on Hargrave's continued good humour.
Selina declared he must have made up his mind, at last, and anticipated looking pretty on a Shetland pony, at Aston, while Maria declared that she had nearly "hooked" a Gloucestershire squire, and hoped Caroline would give her an opportunity of landing him.
On the morning of the party, Mabel was sitting in the library alone, finishing some ornaments for the wax tapers, which her aunt had requested her to make. Mr. Villars was gone to put a letter to a London publisher in the post—and finding herself alone, she had given herself up to thoughts of her mother and Amy—that dear sister, whose life she had hoped to see so much happier than her own—then came to her memory, which was well stored with every antidote to discontent, those beautiful lines of Milman—
"We thank thee for our lost, our beauteous child,The tears less bitter she has made us shed."
"We thank thee for our lost, our beauteous child,The tears less bitter she has made us shed."
And these told her how Amy's artless love had beguiled her first disappointment of its bitterness, and called her to exert her energies in a life of activity.
As she continued this more cheerful train of thought, she heard a step in the passage, whose echo thrilled to her very heart. How often had she sprung at that signal in all the buoyancy of unchecked love; cold and dark had been the change—the elastic step was now firm and majestic, and she listened to it with attempted indifference, for they had learnt to meet as strangers.
Colonel Hargrave entered, and instead of leaving the room, as he now always did, when he found her alone, he walked up to the fire, and stood looking at her, for a moment, as her varying color made her face look something more than beautiful.
"I have a request to make," he said, at length.
"One that I can grant, I hope," said Mabel; for the silence broken, her courage was at once restored.
"I would ask you to do violence to your own feelings, and appear at the dance to-night?"
"Why need I appear in a circle, where, being unknown, I cannot be missed, when I feel naturally disinclined for gaiety?"
"Because your influence is needed there. Do not think I am frivolous enough to believe, that the admiration you may possibly excite, would give you any compensation for the pain of appearing in that mourning dress, amongst the light and gay; but there is one over whom you seemed once to have some influence, who must be there, and you will have an opportunity of seeing her in society."
"Do you mean Lucy?"
"Yes—I have watched her narrowly, for some time, and think she may be made something better under proper guidance. Where is she to find that but in you? She is now attracted by a man, whose attentions are, I fear, too general to mean anything."
"Are you certain Mr. Beauclerc means nothing?" said Mabel, incredulously; "it is so difficult to decide—and almost impossible to interfere."
"Except by advice. Could you not persuade her to remain passive, and not to pay him so much open admiration?"
"Impossible;" said Mabel, "it must be that he is more reserved in the display of his attentions than she is. Are you not severe?"
"Depend upon it," returned Hargrave, "the truth is often more charitable than falsehood, and I am not speaking now in the common spirit of criticism. Lucy is rendering herself an object of general observation, and even ridicule, to the gentlemen of her acquaintance, and though I may be able to prevent such remarks being made in my presence, my influence cannot extend further. She offends all her former ball-room admirers by having eyes for no one but Beauclerc—she will dance with no one else, and pays him an open tribute of admiration, which cannot but be flattering from a pretty girl."
"But I do not see why you suppose he is indifferent to her?"
"If my observation has not deceived me, he shares, in common with many men of talent—a belief in a feeling warmer than friendship, but colder and more spiritual than love. I once knew a man, in fact, who carried on such a flirtation, for I can give it no other name, with a very superior, enthusiastic girl, but when every one expected him to propose to her in form, she heard of his marriage with a woman of the most ordinary understanding, but who, I dare say, made him a very good wife. As I was attached to him, I ventured to remonstrate with him on his conduct. In excuse, he brought so many really flimsy and poetical apologies, and proofs of the pure minded nature of his attachment, that though they appeared to me in their right light, they yet convinced me that he had not intended wrong, but that his vanity had led him astray, into the belief that he could be the object of an admiration superior to love; altogether foolish, but he was sincere, I believe. When I last heard of the poor girl she was sinking in a decline. Now I suspect Beauclerc to be such another as I have described, and I want you to see if you can make Lucy aware of it." "But you must first judge for yourself, and no such opportunity is likely to occur again, as you might not like to go out."
"You set me a difficult task; the more difficult, because Lucy has seemed so estranged from me lately."
"Ah, that reminds me of something else, I had to say. Do you happen to have met Miss Foster, a beautiful girl, one of the most striking women in Bath?"
"No, but I have heard Lucy speak of her."
"Yes, so she used to do, most enthusiastically; and her beauty, if nothing more, deserved admiration. I remember meeting her in the park—she was sitting down, and, as I afterwards learnt, had sprained her ankle. She looked so near fainting, that I did not hesitate to dismount—(for I was riding)—and offer her my assistance. After a little persuasion she gave me her direction and suffered me to place her on my horse, which I carefully led to her house, in the Circus. The grace with which she accepted my services, and the reserve with which she withdrew from my attentions, when they were no longer required, excited some curiosity in me; but, though I was repeatedly congratulated for such a singular opportunity of meeting the mysterious beauty, I am afraid I must confess that I was never able to improve the acquaintance. Now, lately, she has withdrawn entirely from society, and, indeed, up-stairs there is a polite note from her, declining Mrs. Villars' invitation for to-night. I have heard it frequently remarked that she is never seen out of doors, though some of her professed admirers have been anxiously watching for her. Lucy seems entirely to have forgotten her, and colored violently when I asked for her, the other day."
"A long string of evidence," said Mabel, with a half smile, "now tell me how you connect Miss Foster, with Lucy and Mr. Beauclerc."
"Why, she was at an evening party the day before he arrived in Bath, and has not been seen since; but this would be nothing perhaps had not my groom—who, one morning, took my horses to air, through the Circus—seen him call at her house, early, and thought, that when he was denied, he turned away with disappointment. I immediately ordered him to air the horses every morning in the Circus, though certainly not the best place for them, which I might have chosen. However, the result of his information is, that almost every day, before the fashionable world is stirring, Beauclerc calls on Miss Foster, and is as strictly denied. To me, this looks suspicious, and Beauclerc seems carrying on a double game."
"Perhaps she is only some relation, and he calls to leave the morning paper," said Mabel.
"Well, only judge for yourself, if he is sincere with Lucy; if you think he is, we will leave them to themselves, but if not, the poor girl should be warned before her affections are too deeply implicated."
"Yes, I will appear to-night," said Mabel.
What more she might have added was stopped by the entrance of Caroline, whose jealous surveillance had discovered thetête-à-tête. Casting a fiery glance of suspicion on both, which was received with admirable coolness, she turned to Hargrave, and rather peremptorily informed him, that the case of fruit and flowers which he had ordered from his gardens, at Aston, was arrived, and they waited his permission to open it.
"Oh, I will come," said he, looking rather amused, than either sorry or angry at her displeasure. "Miss Lesly, you will like to see some flowers from Aston."
Accepting the half implied invitation to accompany them, Mabel followed to the morning room, where an immense basket was surrounded by Mrs. Villars and her daughters, in anxious expectation, while china and glass dishes were waiting to receive the fruit.
The basket fully answered the demand upon it—and satisfied Hargrave as to the state of his green-houses and hot-house, by producing some excellent specimens of forced early fruit, which Mrs. Villars had been anticipating, not only as an additional charm to her supper-table, but as a public proof of his anxiety to please her.
Besides flowers for vases, Hargrave drew from the basket, bouquets, arranged with a gardener's nicety, which he presented to Mrs. Villars and her daughters. They were composed of the most beautiful hot-house flowers, and were all in exquisite taste—but by some chance, it happened that the one presented to Caroline, far excelled the others in beauty. The sisters exchanged glances, and Caroline's haughty eye beamed with triumph.
"Stay, what is this?" said the unconscious Hargrave, dipping his hand again into the basket, and drawing forth from the moss, with which it was carefully packed, a bouquet, much smaller in size, and singularly pretty, because composed entirely of white flowers of the rarest kind. "Is it not beautiful?" he exclaimed, holding it up to view; "it really does my gardener credit."
"Beautiful indeed!" exclaimed every one.
"What is that paper round it?" said Maria.
Hargrave turned to the small strip of rather untidy paper, which was fastened to it, and read—
"Miss Lesly will accept this, with my respects."
"Miss Lesly will accept this, with my respects."
"From my gardener, Dibden, I declare," said he—a look of childlike pleasure taking possession of his features, as he regarded the flowers which smelt sweeter than all the rest—and then handing them to Mabel, he begged her to accept them.
Mabel held out her hand, and looked much gratified as she took them; but no sooner had she done so, than the color rushed to Caroline's cheek, and a scowl darkened her beautiful features, as she regarded her with ill-concealed malignity. Her own bouquet no longer appeared the finest, and flinging it on the table with such violence, that the head of a camelia was broken from it, she said, angrily—
"I will have no second bests."
"My dear," said her mother, trembling, "yours is, I am sure, the prettiest."
"Do you think I have no eyes," returned Caroline, "or that I am going to be eclipsed in my own house?"
Hargrave stood amazed, for hitherto her temper had been greatly concealed from him, and he was surprised to see features, lately beaming with smiles, now darkened and disfigured by rage, while he felt something very like disgust at the jealousy which so openly betokened a preference for himself. Mabel stood, with her eyes fixed on the flowers she held in her hand, too pained to look up; then suddenly remembering herself, she offered them to Caroline, saying—
"I am glad I have anything to offer you, that you really like—pray take it."
Caroline, however, was too provoked to be easily pacified by this display, as she believed it, of superior sweetness of temper, and roughly pushing aside Mabel's extended hand, the flowers fell to the ground.
Hargrave looked from one to the other in mute surprise; and Mrs. Villars, terrified at her daughter's ungovernable temper, and mistaking his look for vexation, hurriedly interposed.
"Oh, my dear, now do take what Mabel offers you—do, my dear, if you have a fancy for it—I am sure Henry intended to give you the best—who could think you would prefer a few white flowers to that lovely collection of geraniums. Come, my dear, now do have it."
"I am sure," said Hargrave, indifferently, "I knew no difference in the bouquets—I have nothing to do with poor Dibden's unfortunate present."
"There now," said Mrs. Villars, "now do take them, if it is a fancy of yours."
"Don't be angry, love," said Selina; "only think what is to become of the party if you and Henry quarrel. No one will have spirits for anything. Don't, dear, be angry."
"For my part," said Maria, "I see nothing to be angry about."
"Nor I," said Hargrave, as he left the room.
"Now see," said Mrs. Villars, "how you have vexed him."
"Something more than that, I fear," said Maria.
"Well, I really have no patience," observed her mother; "with lovers' quarrels—there, smile and make it all right again. We all know what your feelings are; but do, there is a dear girl, cheer up, for all our sakes. Is she not a silly girl, Mabel."
The latter was too candid to venture on a reply, as she stood busied in restoring the bouquet to order.
Caroline received these offerings to her wrath, with haughty indifference; but, at length, she suffered herself to be appeased by their repeated entreaties, and Mrs. Villars whispered to her niece, that if she now offered the flowers, she thought the dear girl would receive them.
Mabel could scarcely allow herself to minister to so much selfishness, and it was with some appearance of reserve, that she placed the bouquet on the table, by her side, not choosing to subject it to a second rebuff.
But Caroline's good humour was now happily restored, for she had gained all she could by her violence. Not only obtaining possession of the desired object, but being entreated to accept it. She, therefore, rewarded the patience of her mother and sisters, by entering into the arrangements of the evening with renewed animation.
"Mabel," said Lucy, as passing her arm through hers, they walked up stairs together; "where did you get such an angelic temper?"
"Whatever good I do possess," said Mabel, gravely; "is not mine; but is borrowed from a treasure house, which is as free to you as to me."
"But, tell me," urged Lucy, stopping on the landing place; "do you not despise the weakness to which you minister."
"What right have I to do so," answered Mabel; "who knows how proud and self-willed I might have become, if I had not early suffered deprivation, sorrow, and humiliation, as I have done. And who can say, I shall be as strong to-morrow as I am to-day; when a thousand temptations surround us on every side; and we cannot tell under which we may fall, if we once lose sight of the true humility which alone brings strength and power. How, then, can I dare to despise the frailty of others. But, dearest, what is the matter, how can I have pained you."
"You have not pained me," replied Lucy, a momentary color banishing the pallor of her cheek; "but sometimes I feel as if there were something wanting in me, which I find in you—yet, if it has been purchased by suffering, I must not wish for it, for I have not courage for such an ordeal."
"But, only consider," replied Mabel; "how much more noble, how much more worthy—if any could be worthy—would be the offering, to heaven, of a young heart, in the midst of joy and prosperity—than the tearful tribute of the worn spirit, which can find no other refuge. It is only our own rebellion which makes sorrow needed."
"Beautiful words," said Lucy, mournfully, "and something within tells me that they are true;" she stopped for a moment, and looked down upon her own share of the beautiful flowers, which she held in her hand, and a tear hung upon the lash, which shrouded her bright blue eye; then turning again to her cousin, she said:—
"To-morrow, dearest, I will think: to-night, must be all mirth and gladness."
Mabel would have remonstrated, but she saw that the serious fit had passed away, by the beaming smile that lighted her face, and dimpled round her mouth; and she knew her temper too well, to hope to recall it. So the two girls separated. Lucy to think over the pleasures of the evening; while Mabel, meditated how she might serve her, by screening her from the consequences of her indiscretion. She could not, however, refrain from reverting to the disagreeable scene in which she had taken a part. She could not help feeling almost humiliated for Caroline, while she regarded Hargrave's situation with commiseration; for she fancied that, however he might have implicated the honor on which he so strictly prided himself, with regard to Caroline, he displayed very little love; and she sincerely pitied him, as she knew that, if he had once committed himself, he would probably be too proud to retract.