It hath done its sacred missionSorrow's hand was sent to cure,Bless it for the bitter anguishThou wert called on to endure.
It hath done its sacred missionSorrow's hand was sent to cure,Bless it for the bitter anguishThou wert called on to endure.
Culver Allen.
"Only one week," thought Maria, "and the house will be cleared of a nuisance; but I must play my cards well for this one week, short as it is, or my game will be lost."
She was standing in the drawing-room as she said this, dangling her bonnet by onestring, for she had just come in from their afternoon's walk in the park, and from busy, shopping, fascinating Milsom Street.
"Let me only keep things right for one week," she continued, to herself, "and I have him; but I fear it is but a desperate chance."
She was interrupted in these meditations by a brisk rapping at the street-door, and, very soon afterwards, Mr. Stokes made his appearance, and Maria's quick eye immediately saw signs of a proposal in the carefully arranged morning costume, and the very precise tie of his cravat, though, that the same proposal would not be meant for her, she saw with equal readiness.
His first enquiry was—"Whether it was quite true that Miss Lesly was about to leave them?"
"How tiresome," said Maria, "then I suppose every one knows it; and yet we have been so anxious to keep it private."
Here she looked much vexed.
"What has gone wrong, then?" enquired the Squire.
"Oh, nothing," said Maria, in a tone which implied everything had. "It is true, we are obliged to send her away; but there is no use making a talk about it. It is no business of anybody's, is it?"
"Oh, dear no," said the Squire, nervously.
"I should think one's poor relations might be sent to their native obscurity, without everybody's taking it up," added Maria.
"Yes—but she seems so sweet-tempered. I should have thought her a great acquisition to your family party."
"You do not really mean to say you think so?" said she, looking as if she would say—"I know you are a better judge than that"—"She is sweet in company, I know—but in private she is as haughty as a young duchess—She even finds fault with mamma. She comes of a good family, certainly; but, I fear, she is something like the dregs of the cask, only a little bit turned sour."
Mr. Stokes began whipping his boots, as if greatly annoyed at the dust upon them.
"Oh, dear," said Maria; "let me get you a duster."
She instantly sprang to an old arm-chair, and bringing one from its secret recesses, began dusting his boots, upon her knees, before he had time to prevent her.
"Well," she said, rising, and resuming her seat, and glancing at his large, but well-turned foot, "there is nothing to be ashamed about."
"Really," he said, jocosely, "I ought to feel flattered."
"Well," said Maria, resuming theconversationshe had interrupted, "I am thankful Ihave not a pretty face—it is the fruit of more mischief than enough."
Mr. Stokes gave another stroke to his boots—(there was not a particle of dust remaining on them.)
"Oh, I forgot," said Maria, unlocking her work-box; "I have not given you your last pocket-handkerchief—Is not this beautiful work?"
Mabel had finished it for her.
As she said this, she held it so close to his eyes, that, for gallantry's sake, he was forced to kiss the hand that offered it.
He did so; and Maria gave him a very gentle slap on the cheek, at the same time, bringing her half laughing, half pouting face so near his, that, forgetful of better manners, he gave it a kiss.
Maria only laughed still more, saying—
"Oh, you naughty man—fie, for shame."
The Squire laughed, too, though not sogaily, for he had been turned in a purpose which he hoped would have secured his domestic happiness, so that he soon shook hands with her, and hurried away.
Maria was delighted with the success of her interview, and went about the house in the most evident spirits.
But in the evening came a P. P. C. card from Mr. Stokes; and she learnt that he had started for Gloucestershire.
Maria was so put out with this information, that she could have killed flies, rather than have revenged her injured feelings on nothing; and she eagerly seized the better opportunity of gratifying herself by spiting Mabel.
Every discomfort that she could throw in her way—every allusion before strangers to her destination, as a governess, were eagerly used for her annoyance. If she were out of spirits, she asked some question, which forcibly dragged into sight the worst points of herposition—or pitied her in that tone and manner, which has placed pity as akin to contempt.
But, with all this, Mabel contended only with patience and good temper, though she, sometimes thought, that hours of heavy trial were scarcely so difficult to bear, as the perpetual annoyances by which she was surrounded.
Had one discontented word, one passionate or impatient look escaped her, Mrs. Villars would have had a lighter conscience; but, as it was, she would willingly have entreated her to remain, had it not been for Caroline, whose fiery temper so greatly awed her. Alas! unhappy woman, few would envy you. The thought of the orphan's money, procured for past wanton and thoughtless expenditure; dresses, flowers, and finery, which were now only encumbrances; shows and visits, which had answered no purpose—these were butslight compensations for a wounded conscience.
"Only one week," also soliloquised Lucy, as she sat near the old-fashioned window, of the study, and looked out, sadly—"only one week, and Mabel will be gone; and yet nothing I can say can stop this cruel act."
She leant her elbow on the window sill, and supported her head with her hand.
That face, once so light, and fickle, and coquettish, had acquired, now, that modesty and sobriety of expression, which, some think, once lost, is never again recovered.
Her step was more thoughtful, and the light, ringing laugh, once so fickle, and so joyous, but so often heedless and unfeeling, was now seldom or never heard—and in its place, there was a bright look—it could scarcely be called a smile—that seemed to say, she tried to be happy, rather from the fear of giving pain, than, as before, in the buoyancyof an untamed spirit, seeking indulgence for the selfishness of a spoilt, and unchecked fancy. Could it really be Lucy, upon whose lip the unkind word died before the angry flush that preceded its thought had passed from her cheek. Could it be Lucy, who listened with unaffected interest and humility, to the high-toned conversation of her father; or, with girlish playfulness, enticed him to take the walk his health required; and, as he did so, led him where the birds carolled, and the sun shone on green meadows, beside the beautiful Avon—sometimes alone, but often with Mabel—and, when with her, listening, rather than attempting to join in conversation, drawn from the well-stored mind of each. Could this, indeed, be the wild girl whom Mabel had watched with such untiring care, fearing lest the follies of the gay world might again ensnare her, and lead her from peace and hope, back to vanity and heartlessness again. It was, indeed, thesame Lucy, though very, very changed, as she sat now by the study window, listening more to the echo of her own thoughts, than to any real sound.
The essence of spring will find an inlet to the heart, if possible—and though the view of the shady little court, on which the window opened, was bounded indeed, the air from the pure sky blew fresh upon her forehead, and seemed to speak of the green fields and budding flowers it had left behind.
Who has not felt, when the opening year is returning to its activity, and when sober autumn, and hoary winter, have given place to their young sister spring, who hastens to sow her seeds, and send forth the buds which are to furnish summer blossoms and fruits, and the harvest time of plenty and rejoicing—a sensation he scarce can comprehend—urging him to activity.
Who is so sluggish as never to have heardan echo in his own bosom, warning him to be up and doing a something, it signifies not what, if good or prudent, in preparation for coming years—to cast off the sloth which has fallen upon him, and, like the budding year, to begin life afresh.
Spring and autumn, summer and winter, flit over our heads, and as they pass to their grave, in the bosom of eternity, leave us their warning; and, though the lesson is too often unheeded, we cannot think but that it will come to all.
As Lucy sat there, the bells from a distant church began to ring, and, sometimes, bursting on her ear, at others, retiring, as if they would lead her fancy with them far, far away, added still deeper emphasis to her thoughts; but she was presently disturbed from them, by the sudden entrance of Captain Clair, who apologised for breaking in upon her solitude, by saying, that Mr. Villars had requested him to find a book there for him.
"And where is papa, then?" said Lucy; "I have been waiting here so long for him."
"He has been walking up and down Pulteney Street with me," said Clair; "and we were talking of something which he wishes to find in this book."
Though he laid his hand upon the volume, with little difficulty, he still lingered. But Lucy said nothing to tempt him to remain.
"Why do you always so carefully avoid me?" he said, at length.
"Because you are like an evil conscience, always bringing up hard things."
"Is there not a way of soothing the remembrance of the past, without banishing it, by repenting, rather than forgetting? and that remedy, I think, you have already tried. We have both erred—let us forgive."
"I have repented," said Lucy; "and I doforgive you; do not think there are any petty jealousies between us. Yet, I must confess, I am not quite pleased with you."
"Why?"
"Because you courted Mabel in prosperity, and forsake her now, when she needs friends, if ever she did. I am so unhappy when I think of losing her."
"I see you have altogether mistaken me," said he, quickly; "your cousin would not accept me, were I again to offer myself. I have such good reasons, indeed, for believing so, that I have felt it my duty to banish every feeling approaching to love, when I think of her. Do me the justice to believe, that, foreseeing such a time as this, as I did when I first proposed to her, it is very unlikely I should draw back now?"
"Yes, it is, indeed," said Lucy; "but I wish it had not been so—I should be so happy if she were not obliged to go awayso far, and to spend all her life in teaching."
"I wish, indeed," he replied, "it could be avoided; but you can do nothing, and, therefore, cannot reproach yourself. Only be as kind to her as you can, though, I know, you need no injunction about that."
"No, indeed, not now," said Lucy, with a sigh; "but do not keep that dear papa of mine waiting. He will be ruining himself at the first bookseller's, if you do not go, and take care of him."
Clair smiled, and taking up the book, hurried away; and Lucy went up-stairs, to make another useless effort to persuade Caroline to get their mother to make Mabel stay.
Shortly after she had left the room, Mabel herself entered, and, seeing it unoccupied, took up a book, to wait for her uncle's return.
She had not waited very long, before he returned alone.
Mabel advanced timidly to meet him.
"Dear uncle," she said, "I want you to tell me that you were not offended with me yesterday."
"Offended with you, my poor child," said he, kindly; "far from it. Sad I am, indeed, about many things. I cannot bear the thought that my daughters' unkindness forces you to fly from us."
"Do not blame them, do not think of that, dear uncle, and believe only, how thankful I am that you have already shewn me so much kindness. I do not need consideration as much as I did, for I am quite resigned to all my losses now, and can go into the world and meet it with courage."
"I wish you were not going on Wednesday, either, for I have business which I must attend to that evening, and I should like to have spent it with you."
"Better as it is," said Mabel, smilingfaintly, "I could not bear the thought of its being a last evening."
"No, no,—not the last by many times, I hope," said her uncle, "but I shall be up to see you into the coach in the morning, and, perhaps, may go a stage with you. But now I want to ask you how much money you will require for the present?"
"None, I thank you," said Mabel, smiling at the coolness with which he, evidently, hoped to surprise her into taking some.
"You pain me," he said, taking out a well-filled purse. "See, I have been to the bank to replenish my store for you, you will not grieve me, I am sure."
"No, no, dear uncle," said she, putting aside his hand. "I accept your kind offer, but will not take it now. Should I lose my health, or ever be really destitute—should all my bright visions fail, and leave me one amongthe many who know not where to find their daily bread while every friend shrinks from them—then I will come to you for my purse, but not till then. Nay, you know not how I prize my independence, do not take from me the only bright speck I see at this moment in my future course."
"Noble-hearted girl," he said, looking almost proudly on the bright and beaming face which was turned to him. "Mind, I take that promise, and I shall return this purse to a place of safety, where it shall remain untouched for you. Ah, but I wish you could be with us still, I grieve, beyond expression, over the cause of your departure."
"Oh, no, indeed, it is much better for me, very much better, if you knew all—do not think of it again; when I have got over the pain of parting from you, my kind, good uncle, I shall be very happy I have no doubt."
But her lips trembled as she made this assertion, and, feeling her courage fail, she hastily left the study to spare him the sight of her agitation.
Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands;Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might,Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.
Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands;Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might,Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.
Locksley Hall.
On the day before that fixed for Mabel's going, a grand ball was to be given at the Assembly Rooms, to which Mrs. Villars and her daughters readily engaged themselves. For this party Caroline and Maria made the most elaborate preparations, for the sake of triumphing overMabel. They perpetually interrupted her small but neat preparations for her new situation, by begging her just to do this or that little thing for them, though they would not ask her for the world if it made her melancholy.
Mabel did everything she was asked to do, struggling all the while to suppress the contempt with which these petty annoyances inspired her. Still the week dragged heavily on, and she could not help rejoicing to think it was so near its close.
On the morning of the ball, Caroline requested her, half condescendingly, to dress her hair in the evening, for Mabel's taste in dress was very superior. She consented at once—and, in order that she might give her undivided attention to her, for this last time, she spent the afternoon in finishing her simple packing.
When she had nearly completed it, Lucyknocked at the door, and, when she entered, Mabel saw that she had been crying.
"Would you believe it possible?" said she,scarcelyable to speak for indignation, "but mamma insists that I should go to the ball to-night, spite of everything I say—I did so hope to spend this last night with you. What shall I do?"
"You had better go," replied Mabel, "if my aunt wishes it. You have promised to practise self-denial, and we must not choose amongst our trials which we will bear and which refuse."
"But how cruel it is to you!"
Mabel's lip quivered, for she perceived the hidden purpose of this command.
"I should like you to stay very, very much," said she, "but yet I must persuade you to go, yes, even for my sake, do not let it be said that I encourage you in disobedience."
"No, no, nothing shall be said against youwhich I can help," cried Lucy, "and I will go to the ball, if you wish it—but I should be so happy to stay with you, I shall try and get some friend to bring me home early; but let me help you, dear Mabel."
"I have done, thank you, only, like all travelling trunks, this lid will not close—jump upon the top of it and press it down for me."
Lucy did so, but her light weight had very little effect on the obstinate trunk, so that they were obliged to stand hand-in-hand upon it, and stamp it down with all their might. They could not do this without laughing, and then Mabelleantdown and turned the key in the lock, and kissed her fair-haired companion, when she raised herself again, and they jumped off the defeated trunk.
But now that all was packed but the bonnet and travelling cloak, and the neatly folded umbrella, the room looked again as desolate as it did when she had first entered it; and yet somany hallowed recollections of resignation learnt, and evil thoughts subdued, were connected with that poor room, that Mabel felt that she could readily have wept at parting from it, for the last time, but checking herself, she went with Lucy down stairs, and busied herself in choosing her a dress for the ball.
After dinner, she retired immediately with Caroline, and, glad of employment, was soon, almost gaily, twining the silken tresses of her raven hair, with more than her ordinary skill, and talking, all the while, of flowers, and braids, and ornaments, as if she had no other thought that night. And how could Caroline fail to be satisfied, when she cast her proud glance upon the mirror, where dark eyes spoke back the same proud smile of conscious beauty—yet, as they turned in their fever of admiration, from their own reflection, to that of Mabel, an uneasy sensation of envy again fired her jealous fancy.
In the simple dress of the orphan girl—simpler even than usual, for it was the travelling dress of the following day; in the delicate color, scarcely heightened by the interest she had been taking in her toilet, there was surely nothing which could account for Caroline's uneasy look, and yet she felt herself inferior.
"Come girls, come Carry," cried Mrs. Villars as she passed the dressing-room door. "Why, Carry, love, you do look brilliant to-night; just one more peep at the glass, and then come down."
Caroline drew over her shoulders an ermine tippet, with considerable attention to the becoming, and, having adjusted it in graceful carelessness—followed, with her sisters and Mabel, to the drawing-room. Colonel Hargrave was standing by the fire, fitting on a pair of white gloves, looking remarkably handsome anddistingué, and certainly well deserving the approbation of the proud beauty.
"You look positively killing," said Caroline, who had no eyes for any but him, "you must dance first, as usual, with me, remember."
"With much pleasure," said he, bowing, and at the same time offering his arm.
Mabel looked at them, for a moment; truly they were a handsome couple as they stood side by side, prepared to leave the room.
Hargrave's eyes met hers with that look of almost infantine joyousness, which Clair had described as peculiar to him. From that time Mabel felt as under the influence of a shadowy dream. She turned aside to put on Selina's shawl.
Selina needed every body's assistance, she never did any thing by herself.
It was time to go.
"Well, my dears," said Mrs. Villars, "we had better wish Mabel good-bye, to-night, as I fear we shall not be up in the morning. I have given orders that your breakfast shall be all comfortable," she added, half turning toher niece, but avoiding her eye, "good night, my dear, a pleasant journey."
"Good bye, aunt," said Mabel, seriously. How she pitied her shuffling confusion!
"Good-bye, dear," said Caroline, with an assumption of kindness which she could well afford, as she leant on the arm of the handsome Hargrave, "you will write and tell us how you are going on."
She did not answer; she felt her heart swelling, and she wished them gone.
Selina gave her a pretty, insipid kiss, and Maria bade her good-bye, hoping she would soon learn to keep the brats in order. But Lucy lingered, to fling her arms round her, and promised to be up so early in the morning; and when she tore herself away, and ran down stairs, they were all gone. Hargrave had gone without a word. The slight bustle of retreating steps followed the closing of the hall-door, and she was left to spend her last evening alone.
It is very sad to be alone—quite alone, in every earthly sense; yet, she tried hard to reconcile herself to the coldness and unkindness of those who, while they enjoyed their charming party, had left her without one soothing word, to encounter what, to the most resigned, must still be a trial—the entering, for the first time, upon a strange home. Mabel thought of Mr. Morley's rallying words; but the heart will not always be heroic, and she seated herself at the table, with little inclination for any employment; yet, trying hard not to think all the while.
At length, after she had sat there—she knew not how long, but it seemed an age—the door stealthily opened, and the cook, who seldom, on ordinary occasions, emerged from the kitchen, forced half her body into the room through the opening, which was as small as possible; sufficient to admit her head and shoulders, and no more.
"Please, Miss," said she, "you'll excusemy bringing in your tea, for the rest are gone to a dance, and there is nobody in the house but me. Miss Maria begged Missis to let them go to-night."
Mabel instantly assented, and she presently appeared, shyly, bringing in the tea-tray, on which she had placed a tiny tea-pot, which she said her master always used when he breakfasted alone, and she said that the great one looked unhandy for one.
"Thank you, cook," said Mabel, on whom an attention was never bestowed in vain; "that looks nice and comfortable."
"I am sorry you are going, Miss," said she, stopping to look at her, "for I like to see a kindly face about the house; but, I beg your pardon, Miss, here's the toast nice and hot, and the tea has been made some time."
Saying this, she retreated, leaving her to wonder how the influence of a kindly facecould penetrate to the kitchen. The few kind words of the servant, however, had not been offered without effect.
Presently, cook again appeared, and peering in as before, with a face full of mystery, said—
"If you please, Miss, Colonel Hargrave is come in, and wants to know if you will give him a cup of tea."
"Certainly," replied Mabel, in surprise.
"I told him you would," said the cook, handing in a cup and saucer, which she had providently provided, and then departing again.
In a few more seconds, Hargrave himself entered the room.
"What!" said Mabel, "are you so soon tired?"
"Yes," he replied, "and do you not think I have done my duty?—for I danced once with Caroline, and took the trouble of seeing them all provided with partners, two or three deep, before I stole away."
"Here is tea and toast then," said Mabel, trying hard to speak cheerfully; but, to be at ease, was out of the question, with Hargrave seated directly opposite to her, and looking at her, as she felt, only more steadily, because she had not courage to raise her eyes. She played with her spoon, as if it were a curious piece of mechanism, which possessed some secret spring, which careful handling might discover, and then, seeming to fail in this, she traced, in imagination, the flowers on the table-cloth, with so much attention to the subject, that she quite started when he spoke again, and the voice was so like that of years gone by, that it seemed to come from the grave of old recollections.
"Does not this remind you," he said, "of a time, long ago, when we used to have tea in your shady arbour, on the old table I made for you; when that dear child was on my knee, and there was the dish of strawberries, onwhich you so prided yourself, and the little tea-pot, which Betsy used to keep so bright?"
Mabel turned away her head.
"Yes—that was a sunny time—I see you have not forgotten it, nor our long walks, when I carried Amy over the wet fields, with you by my side, caring very little for all the stiles, and broken hedges, and deep ditches, which only made the walk more pleasant and exciting; and then, as we went, how we talked of noble deeds, and seemed, in our fancy, to emulate them—how many bright visions came with the merry carol of the birds, the glad sunshine above us, and the innocent flowers at our feet, and with the echo of our own wild gaiety, as the hills sent it back upon our ears. But do you remember that sparkling trout-stream, where, as I fished, we sat for hours, without speaking a word, thinking of—I know not what; but quite enough to make us still and happy. Oh, Mabel, Mabel, will you refuse to recall those happy scenes again. Will you not say the word which would send me back, almost a boy, to my native hills again?"
For an instant a bright, sunny light, illumined her countenance, but in that same instant it had passed, leaving nothing but darkness and sadness behind, and her lip quivered with agitation, when she rose and tried to answer him, but her voice failed her many times before she could say, in trembling accents—
"You have placed a gulf between us, and you know I dare not pass it."
Hargrave rose also, and staying her in her purpose of leaving him, he took both her hands, holding her from him, that she might see all the intense affection, which glowed in every line of his manly face.
"Only tell me you love me still," he said, in a low, thrilling voice.
"Oh! Henry, let me go," she cried, looking timidly at him; "this night of all others. Oh! let me go."
"What!" he said, loosening her hands; "am I not worthy to speak to you? But I have deserved all this—richly deserved it; the guard I have placed upon my feelings must have seemed an insult."
"No, no, Henry; oh! do not be angry," she said, entreatingly.
"At least hear me then," said Hargrave, advancing one step to meet her, while his face grew pale as he spoke. "I am no longer that daring infidel you believe me, but a sinner condemned by the very creed I profess; little as I deserve it, will you take me back—back to that very innermost heart, in which I was once enshrined?"
Was there any doubt to be implied in the cry of joy, with which Mabel sunk upon his breast. He looked down upon her with love and pride—such love, breathing in everychanging expression of his features; but they were silent, there were no words that could have spoken all the happiness of that one moment. Time seemed to have gone back, and placed them as they were six years before, in all the fond and trusting confidence, which, till then, had received no check.
But now a loud knocking and ringing announced the return of the gay party, much sooner than had been expected, indeed, for they had missed Hargrave, and, without him, and the certainty of knowing where he was, the ball was nothing.
Their feet were on the stairs.
"Mabel," he said, almost breathlessly, as he released her waist, and drew her hand within his arm, "there is no mistake between us—you will be my wife—say you will?"
He bent his head to catch the murmured reply, and, at the same moment, the door was thrown open, and Mrs. Villars and herdaughters stood aghast at the spectacle that presented itself.
How beautiful Mabel looked, clinging to his arm, blushing, and trembling, and shrinking from the astonished gaze of her aunt and cousins. But for one moment only, and then, flitting past them, she was gone.
"Sir!" said Mrs. Villars, drawing herself up and advancing to the attack, "your conduct surprises me."
"Stay, madam," said Hargrave, with manly honesty, "I owe you an explanation for my strange inconsistency, and I am ready to give it at once. Mabel Lesly and I were lovers from children, till we parted six years ago; she then refused to be my wife, because she disapproved of my ideas on religion, and, with much violence on my side, we parted. The obstacle is now removed, and she will be mine. Why I delayed the explanation till this night, and why I waited to see her tried to the verylast, is a matter of which my feelings must alone judge."
"Whatever your feelings may be, you certainly have no right to trifle with those of my daughter."
"Itrifle with your daughter's feelings!" said Hargrave, as his dark eye flashed fire, and made her almost quail before it. "There is not one word, or look, or action of mine that will bear such an interpretation. I should despise myself had I been guilty of such meanness. I might as well be accused of paying attention to all four of your daughters; I am grieved that you should think me worthy of such an accusation. I hear Mr. Villars, let me ask him—let me clear myself at once."
"No, no," said Mrs. Villars, in alarm, throwing herself before him, "say nothing to him, and I will not say another word about it."
"But, if I have done so, it is fit that herfather should know it, and redress her injuries. Let me call him."
He attempted to pass her, but she held him back, and burst into tears.
"Not for worlds," she said; "he will never forget it."
"Then you retract what you said," he replied, sternly.
"Yes, yes, I do," she cried.
And Hargrave walked back to where he had before been standing, and instantly recovered his good humour. Mrs. Villars soon followed her daughters, who had retreated, from different reasons, before; while he, late as it was, went down to the study, where he found Mr. Villars, and fully acquainted him with the facts and feelings which had led to this unlooked-for change in Mabel's life—over which he most heartily rejoiced.
Meanwhile, burning with ungovernable passion, Caroline pursued Mabel to the garretchamber, and, after insisting on her opening the door, attacked her with such rapid accusations of cunning, meanness, and duplicity, and in language so loud and inflamed, that Mabel felt powerless to answer her. It seemed as if all the malice of the last few months had been concentrated in that moment, when she stood at her open door, loading her with invectives, almost as inappropriate as they were undeserved. Where she would have stopped the mad passion which overcame her, it is difficult to say, but the stealthy opening of the doors of the servants' rooms, which were close by, and the suppressed tittering and whispering which issued from them, recalled her to something like a sense of what she was doing, and, pulling the door to with violence, that sent an echo down all the long stair case, she descended, to revenge herself further on her mother. But Mrs. Villars had taken the precaution of entrenching herself behind a carefully fasteneddoor, and though she could not shut her ears to the distant rumbling of the storm, she escaped its first fury.
Poor Mabel, spite of all her happiness, cried herself to sleep, that night.
Yet must my soul unveiled to thee be shown,And all its dreams and all its passions known,Thou shalt not be deceived, for pure as Heaven,Is thy young love in faith and fervour given.
Yet must my soul unveiled to thee be shown,And all its dreams and all its passions known,Thou shalt not be deceived, for pure as Heaven,Is thy young love in faith and fervour given.
Hemans.
What a breakfast they had next morning! Mabel agitated; Lucy frightened and silent; and the rest tired and wofully cross.
If Caroline had looked most beautiful the night before, she was now quite the reverse.Some indeed say, that there were lines made by passion on her face, which never quite wore away again, but grew deeper as she grew older. However this may be, there she sat that morning, looking, every minute, ready to break out afresh with some bitter remark, should occasion offer; particularly, as, under the impression of happy circumstances, Mabel's countenance seemed to grow more and more beautiful.
Colonel Hargrave, the servant told them, had taken his breakfast with Mr. Villars, and had since gone out.
This was a momentary relief to Caroline, it seemed like coldness or inconstancy; and whenever she saw Mabel's eyes turn anxiously to the door, she caught the glance, and returned it with one of malicious exultation. At length, however, he came in, looking so happy, that all her short-lived triumph was over.
Gently, and unobtrusively pressingMabel's hand, and bidding the others good morning, with cheerfulness which was not responded to—he told her, that he had been to place a letter, written by her uncle, in the hands of the Weymouth coachman, for Mrs. Noble, and that he had received many promises of its safe delivery.
Mabel thanked him, and waited anxiously for even a ceremonious invitation from her aunt to remain with them, but none came, and no one spoke. Lucy, vexed and ashamed, stole away, and her sisters remained, in perfect silence, secretly determined to put the lovers out of countenance. Mabel could scarcely believe how very happy and how very uncomfortable she felt at that moment.
"I came in partly to ask you to take a short stroll with me, Mabel," said Hargrave, turning to his betrothed, and looking, in truth, rather impatient to be gone.
She got up instantly, and went to put on her bonnet, while the mother and sistersremained in the same dead silence, till her return, seeming determined to keep aloof from all their proceedings.
But they were quickly gone, and passing by the busy streets, were soon on their way to the country—where they seemed to breathe freely, and insensibly slackened their pace. How gloriously the sun shone that day, over the green hills and valleys—and what sweet odours did the earth yield back as willing incense. They felt, and enjoyed every thing, even while they seemed to have no thought for any thing but each other.
"I tremble to feel so happy," said Hargrave, at length, speaking almost for the first time, as they lingered by a low stile which interrupted their walk, and turned to gaze around them; "knowing myself to be so unworthy—but I am, really, very, very happy; and at this moment, when I have regained all that impenitence had lost, I feel, indeed, forgiven.I have a hundred things to say, and yet, while we are alone, it seems happiness enough to be silent."
"It has all come so rapidly," said Mabel, "that I feel in some fairy dream. Do tell me how, and why,"—she hesitated.
"How, and why, we are standing here as we are," he replied, with a smile; "but, tell me first, do you not feel as you used, when we wandered on the hills, at Aston. I scarcely think six years have passed as they have done."
"Come, talk seriously, dear Henry," said Mabel, "or my heart will break for very happiness; tell me what has worked this blessed change."
"It is a long and painful story, love," returned Hargrave, "but I will tell it now, and then we shall quite understand each other. Do you remember that dark day on which weparted; when, with all the pride which made my spirit so cruel, I cast you from me, and saw you fall against your mother's knee, as if a look of mine might crush, but could not turn you, because you would not follow my free spirit in the unfettered liberty it had made for itself?
"They tell me, that, after that day, sickness laid you low, but only strengthened the principles for which you had martyred your affections. They tell me, that, in watching her child, your mother grew ill, and that you rose from sickness to be her nurse, and that you managed her affairs, and once more became the light of that loved home; they tell me poverty came, year by year, and that the little which had been saved became the prey, of a rapacious woman. That then came sickness, and trial, and death, in all its gloom—your home destroyed, nothing left but blackened ruins to remind you of the past. I knowthat you have since been subject to a thousand little vexations, and annoyances; a cold welcome, and a zealous watch. Now, tell me, have you never repented the hour which parted us?"
Mabel looked up timidly.
"Nay, never fear me; I can bear the truth, now."
"No, Henry; you know I have never repented."
"Ah, well I do," he said; "there could not have been such an angel calm round your whole being, had there been an unsettled principle within.
"Now, listen; when I turned my back upon Aston, as I believed, for ever, in my mad fury, I might have kept my purpose, had you turned upon me, in your beauty, and spurned me as I had spurned you; but that deep, beseeching look, that prostrate form clinging to the earth in its wretchedness, but, without a frown orreproach for me—I carried it away—that last glance of yours; it haunted me, and would not let me go, though I turned upon it in fury, and would have beaten it madly back.
"I need not tell you with what haste I exchanged my place in the English army, to one in a regiment starting for India; or, how I fought upon its burning plains, amongst the brave and the victorious. Even then, that last look pursued me. I studied with the learned, in Eastern lore. I was praised for my knowledge. Learning and enterprise were my pursuits—my society, the bold, and free-thinking; and my mind and imagination unfettered. But, what the world calls vice, that I knew not—there was something in the long forgotten, but not unfelt, impressions of childhood, and a mother's purity and love, that kept me back from that—and, while my charity was profuse, and my hand dealt bountifully to mankind, Iproudly turned upon the professors of religion, and, as I held their weak points up to scandal, I bade them acknowledge the superiority of my moral code."
"Oh, Henry, say no more," cried Mabel.
"Do not shrink from me, because my confession is unreserved, but hear it to the very end. All this time, I forgot that pride and malice were in my heart, though I did sometimes feel what I have since seen expressed by Luther: 'An evil conscience is like a tormenting spirit, it is alarmed in the midst of outward prosperity.'
"So I continued till about a year since, when, one evening, I was at supper with a large party of friends, whose views corresponded with my own. With them there were some strangers, and amongst them, a strange old man, who regarded me attentively. I remember speaking more freely than I used, that night; and, conscious that I had done so, I left the party earlier than I had intended, partlybecause I was anxious to escape from the eyes of that strange man.
"The evening was delightful, and, instead of returning to my tent, I took a stroll in the moonlight. Much to my annoyance, I soon perceived that I was followed by the very man it had been my whim to avoid. Turning round, to confront him, our eyes met again, and I stood transfixed by the strange expression of his face.
"'I have heard,' he said, after looking at me for a while, 'hundreds of miles south, of your charity, and your munificence. I came to see their author, and am disappointed.'
"'Since you have done me so much honor, may I ask whom I address, sir?' I said, with overstrained politeness.
"'Your mother's brother, Mr. Morley,' he replied, 'who hoped never to have seen one, in whose veins ran kindred blood, defile his intellect, as you have done.'
"This strange introduction only led to a long and heated argument on religious subjects, in which my unexpected casuistry so far baffled him, as to leave him without an answer; and I parted from him in triumph.
"The next day, he found me again, and told me that he had sat up the whole night, till he had prepared himself with the answer he could not, at first, command. If he had thought to convince me in my perverseness, he was mistaken—for obstinacy has an answer for everything; but there is something in genuine enthusiasm, and self-denying energy, which always claims respect, and though I argued as obstinately, it was more respectfully than before. He came to me again and again, and the same topic began or ended every conversation, and left me as hardened as ever. Ah, Mabel, it is a sad confession for such ears as yours; but I never have deceived you yet, and I never will."
Mabel's bright eyes were dimmed by tears; but her hand rested confidingly in his, as he continued—
"One evening I was sitting alone by the light of the moon; my thoughts had travelled, unchecked and unbidden, to England, and as I thought, I drew from my bosom, the first and only keepsake I had received from you, the small clasped Bible, in which you had written my name and your own. I had often tried to throw it away, but could not—wherever I went, it accompanied me, a silent reproach, but nothing more. That night, I opened it, and read; before I was aware, my uncle, who had entered unperceived, approached me. I would have hid the precious volume, had I had time; but he saw it, and I threw it carelessly aside. He took it up, and opened it. I never shall forget the look of benignity and pleasure which lighted up his features at that moment. Are they not wornout and haggard now? but they seemed beautiful then, as he said—
"'There is hope.'
"'No, uncle, that will not do,' I said, attempting to laugh, 'it is only a keepsake.'
"He looked at the first page, and repeated, softly—'Mabel, Mabel.' I do not think he ever forgot the name; and, from that time, it was associated with good and holy things.
"Anxious to change the subject, I prevailed on him to walk; and, as we went, I engaged him in talking over lighter topics, for I felt unable to renew our customary arguments that evening.
"As we strolled on, we came upon a group of many peasants, who were eagerly engaged in looking at something in their centre, and talking loudly all the while. Wishing to observe what had attracted them, we drew nearer, and soon perceived that they were standing round two wretched women, who,with their caps torn under their feet, and their hair streaming about their faces, were fighting, with the fury of demons, using, at the same time, the most fearful imprecations, while the mob cheered and irritated them by turns. I was leaving the spot in disgust, when my uncle, passing his arm through mine, prevented my doing so. Though I had passed through many horrible scenes, I felt sick when I looked on this.
"At length, one of the women, with a horrible shriek of triumph, held up, to the crowd, a handful of hair, which she had torn from her adversary's head; but, as she turned slightly to do so, the other took the opportunity of tripping her up, and they both rolled on the ground, struggling together, and the crowd closed round them. I turned a sick look on my uncle, who, far less moved than myself, exclaimed, in an emphatic voice—
"'Who would spend an eternity with such companions?'
"The boldest arguments he had used never made so strong an impression upon me as did these words. I broke from him, and pursued my walk alone. I, who had turned with disgust from every moral deformity—I, to whom refinement was as the breath of life, to be classed with such wretches as these.
"The words fastened upon me; they seemed burning their impression on my very brain. That night I spent upon the floor of my apartment; conscience was awakened, and it was beyond my power to lay it to sleep again. For the first time, I felt the full consciousness of sin, and how terrible was the load; my spirit was weighed down, and the arguments which had upset the weak or wavering, and scoffed at the strong, failed utterly before that power of conscience. In the morning, my uncle found me in strong delirium, for the strength of my body, robust as it was, had fallen before the terror of that one wretched night. I wildlyreproached him, and begged him to leave me to the curse which he had brought upon me; but what could turn such a man from his purpose? He who employed his time in persevering efforts for the happiness of thousands, now devoted himself entirely to me. After weeks of illness, I rose from my bed pale, emaciated, and wretched, but humbled to the dust. My first effort, however, was to seek my former friends, and to urge my own doubts upon them, but, those I had had the power to lead into error, laughed at my pain, and mocked at my scruples. I had lost caste with them, and retired from their society loaded with the most bitter ridicule.
"In this miserable time came a thirst for England, my health required it, I retired from the army, and returned home. Did it not seem like a judgment upon me, that I reached my own village, but to find it in flames? No one can tell what a store of repentance I laid upthat night: at the story of old Giles, which you may have heard from his own lips;—the rebuke which everywhere raised itself against me;—the wretchedness which on all sides appeared to upset my ostentatious moral well-doing; and the death of that poor child in her simple faith. Was not this a fit welcome for the returning infidel?"
Mabel placed her hand upon her forehead; for there was terror in the remembrance of that awful night. And, then when he spoke again, the thought seemed to have passed from him, and his voice was low, and thrillingly gentle.
"I dared not seek you then; I dared not bring to you uncertain repentance; and that it was not complete, I knew, because I could not even then humble myself to ask your forgiveness. But directly I came here, I found out one of my boyhood's friends, a good and simple-hearted clergyman, and with him I have spent every Sunday since I first arrived in Bath.The benefit I have received from him has been very great; and all that was left of pride or revenge in my heart, you have long since subdued by your gentleness and patience, and more than all, have I admired, the frankness which enabled you to avoid the error of foolishly seeming entirely to have forgotten me, while you preserved the most delicate reserve on all occasions. Mabel, dear, dear Mabel," he said, taking her trembling hand in both his, "you have entirely subdued me, and, cost what it may, I will not forfeit the smallest chance of regaining your confidence, for aught else the world has to offer."
"It is yours, dear Henry, without reserve," said Mabel, raising her trusting eyes to his, "I give it back with all the unchanging love I have ever felt for you, and for no other."
As Hargrave gazed down upon her, with pride and affection, there was a moment's happy silence, and then she looked up again, more timidly, while her lip slightly trembled.
"And can you say that you have loved no other?"
"I can indeed," he replied, while a half, well pleased smile, stole over his countenance. "In all my wanderings, no other image but yours has accompanied me, and much as I tried to banish it, it has been unrivalled."
"I do not speak of your wanderings," said Mabel, half catching the smile.
"Oh! I see, you mean your cousin. No: I honestly tell you, that I have never been led, even by the many petty plots by which I have been surrounded, to do anything which could place my conduct, with regard to her, in a doubtful light. Had I done so, I should have grieved deeply; and such a heartless act would have been a canker in my present enjoyment. I do own, that when I saw you thought so, I did not undeceive you, because I was anxious to see how you would act under an impression, which so often brings out evil,if any exists; but if you knew how much of our future happiness was at stake, you would forgive me for placing it beyond a doubt, that you were the same self-devoted, noble girl, who could refuse all that I had to offer, when her conscience called on her to do so."
"But forgive me," persisted Mabel, "why did you stay here so long; did not that look suspicious?"
"Well," said Hargrave, as they now walked on side by side, "I think I can explain that too. You know that when you were at Aston Manor, I could not be there, and wanted some plausible excuse for remaining away; no better offered, and every thing was done to induce me to remain in Bath; but I suppose you will not be quite satisfied till I tell you, that when, after a visit of a few days, I was pressed to remain, I agreed, only on condition that I should be allowed to pay for the extra expense, which my prolonged stay might cause; you will believethat I have done this in no grudging manner. And besides, the game and venison from Aston, and other luxuries of the kind, have been always at your Aunt's command. As I knew that I had a secret motive to serve, by remaining here, I felt that I could do no less with any satisfaction to myself. I do not think your cousins or uncle knew of this agreement, but Mrs. Villars regarded it as a whim of mine, and said if I liked to increase her pin-money, I might. Are you satisfied love?"
"Quite," said Mabel, musingly.
"I do not think, however, that I shall remain here beyond to-day—with them, I mean—for my popularity is gone—and my temper would be sorely tried, for little purpose—so I have taken rooms at the Lion. Besides, I have another purpose to serve, by remaining there, as it is near the Abbey—and I should like to be married there."
"Yes—but—"
"Yes—but—" repeated Hargrave, smiling on his blushing companion; "tell me, is there any reason why you should not be mine at once?"
Mabel glanced at her mourning dress, and burst into tears.
"Do you remember," he said, gently, "my asking you to let me see your little sister, that night, alone? It will be a comfort to you, to know, that, young and childlike as she was, I entrusted my secret to her, and she died in the confidence of an hour like this, when her Mabel, her dear sister, would be the honoured mistress of a happy home. Consider, dearest, how you are placed; you are not even offered a formal welcome here—and I tremble to think how much unkindness you must yet experience. As to going to other friends, no one would advise it, when, in your husband, you can find one, who can so fully sympathise in your feelings—and, I promise you, that, forthe remainder of the year, we will continue quietly in the country, bent only on serving our poor tenants. The shorter time we linger here, the better—for I long to be away, and alone, sharing that confidence which I could not give even to you, so freely as I could to my wife. Do not trifle with me—say you will be mine, before this month has passed away."
"So soon?" said Mabel.
"Nay, if you love me—why should you hesitate? I am sure you will not."
Mabel looked down—she always had been afraid to contradict him, since, when a child, she had looked up with veneration to his superior strength and height.
"You doubt me still," said Hargrave, turning aside his head, with such a look of vexation, that she was quite conquered.
Taking his hand, as she had often done in those old, childish quarrels, she looked up inhis face, and whispered gentle words, which brought the smile back again.
"And now, my love," he said, as he drew her closer to him, taking from his pocket the chain and portrait, which Caroline had so eagerly desired to examine, and placing it again upon her neck; "let me give you back your own. Little can you imagine the exquisite pleasure I experienced, when I discovered that the portrait of your undeserving lover was still so faithfully preserved. Nay, blush not, my darling—when love has been once confessed, there can be no indelicacy in cherishing it to the very death. It will be very, very hard for me to retrace what has been lost—but with my sweet wife to help me, there is nothing I will not dare; and, knowing that you are so good and truthful, and untouched by the world, as I have found you, through all these trying months, I have learnt to trust all my aching conscience to your care."
He paused to look down upon the tearful face of his betrothed—but she was too much affected to reply.
How gloriously the sun shone on, and how blithely the birds carolled—and how pleasantly hummed the bees, in their busy search over the clover fields. That was a day to be well remembered.
"Well," said Hargrave, when they entered the town again, "we must temporise with our present difficulties. I suppose you would not like me to bribe my aunt into peace while you remain?"
"Oh, dear no—only tell her what I have not the courage to say—and leave the bribery, as you call it, to me. I have a little treasure, a great treasure it seemed once, in case of need, which I can now readily part with—I mean, the box of plate which was saved from that terrible fire. It is a coveted thing, and, therefore, will be a welcome present, that willpay for any fancied obligation; and I will send for it directly."
"A brilliant idea, truly; but only behold, here is Miss Lovelace—for the sake of gossip she shall be at our wedding."
"What do I see," said that young lady, coming up with her ringlets and flounces, quite in a ferment, with surprise—"Miss Lesly, why I thought you were at Weymouth, by this time; well, I am quite glad to see you."
"No doubt," said Hargrave, gaily; "the street is not exactly a place for explanations—but, depend upon it, you shall be one of the first to know the reason of this change in Miss Lesly's arrangements."
Raising his hat, as he passed her, he left her in a perfect ecstasy of curiosity; but whatever her after assertions, as to the depth of her penetration might be, it is pretty certain, that she did not arrive near the truth, after all her conjectures.
"Surely," thought she, "that ill-tempered Miss Villars has actually spoken the truth, and they are to be married—and Miss Lesly remains to be a useful bridesmaid."
That she was not over pleased, when she arrived at this conclusion, might be inferred from the toss which she gave her little head, ringlets and all, as she went on her way.
Meanwhile, Hargrave, having accompanied Mabel home, immediately resigned her to all the discomforts of her situation, while he went to seek an interview with Mrs. Villars.