CHAPTER X.

Unfaithful one! from seed of taresNo golden grain can spring:Unhappy one! the wind, once sown,Shall but the whirlwind bring.

Culver Allen.

Amongst all the curses pronounced against the rebellious Israelites, few, perhaps, in reality far exceeded that one—"Cursed shalt thou be when thou comest in." It struck to the very heart of domestic peace, destroying that sanctuary, which, dark as the world around maybe, we look to as a shelter and a solace. If the curse be there, what other blessing can reach us with any effect!

Such was the punishment which the cautious, wily woman of the world had been so carefully storing up for herself—for this she had chained her own temper—for this she had submitted to many weary vexations—for this she had been lavish in indulgence, even when her tired spirit would have willingly—so she believed—have turned from the cunning and fatiguing artifices of perpetual deceit—for this she had entered "into the fields of the fatherless," to find, only too late, that "their Redeemer is indeed mighty."

The curse for which she had so strenuously laboured, had entered into her very household, and her own daughters were turned against her.

Colonel Hargrave found Mrs. Villars in tears when he went to explain his wishes, andthe reasons which led him to desire an early and private marriage.

"Take her when you like, and the sooner the better," exclaimed the goaded woman; "I care not when, and I only wish you could take away the ill she has brought with her."

Colonel Hargrave, who was accustomed to nothing but flattery in that house, felt a little surprise at the boldness with which the veil was now thrown aside.

"I hope," he said, at length, "that you will allow her to remain with you for the next three weeks. I wish this as a favour, because I would not have her forced to seek the protection even of old friends, at such a time—but I may as well add, that I know as well as yourself how little you have done your duty to your sister's orphan, and I make this the only condition which will force me to keep silence on the subject."

"Give me that promise and you shall not have cause to complain," said Mrs. Villars, apprehensively.

"It is yours," he returned, with great self-possession, which contrasted well with her pale face, and conscience stricken manner. "It is my particular wish," he added, "that our marriage should be as simple as possible, on account of the circumstances, which attend it. Any undue display would only hurt Mabel's feelings, as her year of mourning is not ended; but alone and friendless as she is, without a home at command, I say, with no hesitation, that the only thing she can do is, to accept that one which will ever hold her as its most honored mistress. But as even a private marriage may put you to some inconvenience, you must allow me the pleasure and privilege of providing against it."

As he said this, he placed a purse upon the table, which Mrs. Villars greedily laid herhands upon, and then he left the room, wondering, almost with some amusement, at himself, for the pique he felt at the sudden withdrawal of the adulation to which he had been accustomed, even though he had always seen its hollowness.

As he went down stairs to leave the house, for he had already announced his intention of removing to the White Lion, he met Lucy coming up, with such a bright blush upon her cheek, and looking so prettily agitated, that he stopped to enquire if any thing were the matter.

"Oh, I want Mabel—where is she—what have you done with her?"

"She went up stairs to take her bonnet off, and I think she will be glad of your company, to rouse her from certain little fears of a ceremony not very distant."

"Very well then, I will go to her," said Lucy, blushing yet more, and running pasthim. As he went on, he met Clair, coming from the study, and, as their destination was the same, they walked off arm-in-arm, talking of something which appeared entirely to engross them, till they reached the hotel, where they had dinner together.

"Oh, Mabel," said Lucy, when she had found her sitting in her own little room, "can you find time to think with me for one minute?"

"Of course I can," said Mabel, making her sit down on the trunk beside her.

"This dear old trunk, how I shall always love it," said Lucy, "how often we have sat upon it talking together; and to think of the trouble we had to shut it up, only last night, and how miserable we were then, and how happy we are now." She hid her blushing face on Mabel's shoulder as she went on. "You know I have such a strange thing to tell you. While you were out, I went into the study tofind papa to get him to walk, and there was Captain Clair, talking to him; so directly I came in, up gets papa, and, saying he has something very particular to see done before he goes out, makes me promise to wait for him, and then gives me such an affectionate kiss, and hurries off—cunning papa—and then what do you think happens."

"I think I can guess," said Mabel, with a kiss and a smile.

"No, I am sure you cannot. Arthur told me, Captain Clair, I mean, that he had been talking to papa about me, and that he loved me now, though he once thought he could love no one but you, and indeed, dear Mabel, he spoke so kindly and affectionately that—"

"I understand you love," said Mabel, embracing her, "I thought so—I hoped so a long time since."

"You thought so," said Lucy, "impossible! I never could even have dreamt of such a thing yesterday."

"I tell you so," replied her cousin, "because I always knew his love for me only arose from the enthusiasm of circumstances; while those same circumstances only made him disapprove of you, as much as you did of yourself. I knew he could not see you so changed without really loving you."

"And do you think I shall ever be good enough for him?"

"Only keep as you are, and he will be quite satisfied."

"And, do you know that the doctors say, that if he returns to India it will kill him; and he has been for a long time wishing to become a clergyman; and now he has quite made up his mind, and he has entered his name at the college, at Dublin, which is the easiest way he says."

"That will be very, very nice, for we shallkeep you both with us," exclaimed Mabel. "I am so very, very happy."

"And," almost whispered Lucy, "he so much wishes to be married on the same day that you and Henry are; but I hardly know whether mamma will consent."

"Oh, I dare say she will," said Mabel, "and I am glad of it for your sake."

Further conversation was interrupted by the dressing bell, and Lucy hurried away.

As Mabel had anticipated, there was little difficulty in getting Mrs. Villars's consent, when it was formally demanded by Clair, for in this piece of unexpected good fortune she hoped to find, at least a temporary respite, from the malice of her two disappointed children. In this, however, she was mistaken, for the marriage of their sister was no satisfaction to their jealous minds, and they did not fail to show their impression of their mother's injustice, on every occasion, and quite destroyed thepleasure she would have taken in providing Lucy'strousseau.

Mr. Villars looked upon the marriages as peculiar pet schemes of his own, and laid aside his writings to aid Mabel and Lucy in the choice of dresses and laces, with the most perfect good-humour and enjoyment. And when Lucy spoke with regret of leaving him, and felt half inclined to delay her marriage, for his sake, he would not hear of it, declaring that he should keep up a constant correspondence with both, and whenever he felt dull, if it were possible now that he had so much to do and to think of, he should run over and see them, wherever they were, and so recruit his spirits. For the present, he was almost their constant companion, for both Hargrave and Clair had so much to do, in a little time, that they had very little leisure at their disposal. There were settlements to be drawn, and Hargrave's was a very long one, licenses to procure, and a great many things besides, which, on such an occasion, were of no small importance. Besides which they were planning a visit together to Aston.

On the afternoon before they started, however, they accompanied Mr. Villars and his fair companions on a shopping expedition, and a pleasant afternoon they managed to spend. Hargrave, too, had his purchases to make, which he did with some pride in his own taste, of some beautiful Irish poplins, which he ordered to be directed, with his compliments, to Mrs. and the Misses Villars, together with some lace scarfs, which he thought would look very pretty at the wedding.

In due time they were delivered, and opened with much pleasure by Mrs. Villars and her daughter Selina, who seemed as tranquilly placid as ever, as if determined to find pleasure herself, whatever happened. She was just in the act of gathering the material in herfingers to see how well it would look made up, when Caroline entered.

"What is all this?" she cried, looking round upon Hargrave's present.

"Oh, my dear," said her mother, anxiously, "these beautiful poplins are from Henry Hargrave, who begs our acceptance of them, and hopes we will wear them at the wedding."

"And what do you mean to do with them?" enquired Caroline, looking at her fiercely.

"Why to wear them, of course, my dear; will you not do the same?"

"Not I, neither will you; I will have no such cringing ways done within my knowledge." Here she looked significantly at her mother, and then walking to the table, she began, deliberately, to refold the dresses, which they suffered her to do without interruption, hoping that she was relenting towards them. But when she had carefully folded every rumpled yard of the dresses, she placedthem as carefully in their separate papers, and then tying them altogether, she wrote on the outside, and rang the bell.

"What are you doing, dear Cary?" cried Selina.

"You will see," said Caroline, and at that moment, their man-servant appearing, she turned to him, and said—"Take that parcel to Colonel Hargrave, at the White Lion, with mamma's compliments."

"Stop a moment, my dear, do consider," said her mother.

"Ma'am," replied her daughter, "no consideration is necessary. James, take the parcel."

And, without waiting further orders, he took it as she directed, leaving Mrs. Villars vexed and annoyed, but too timid to remonstrate.

Caroline, however, was disappointed at the satisfaction of knowing that Hargrave wasannoyed, for he never even alluded to the subject.

The next morning, Hargrave and Clair set off, early, on their journey to Aston. The day was bright as a May morning could be desired to be, and the country, through which they drove, full of lovely home scenery. They had hired a phaeton, and took their own pace across the country—Hargrave driving, and delighting his companion with one of his very best humours, now sparkling with wit, or laughing in the merriment of his heart, and then suddenly changing his tone to one of deeper earnestness, as they spoke of the future or the past.

It was not till the close of the evening, that they espied the well-known landmarksofthe little village—the simple spire of the rustic church, and the many windowed halls of Aston Manor.

As they entered the village, Hargrave suffered his horse to bring his tired trot to a walk, while they both eagerly looked around. Hargrave tried to fancy what his bride would feel, on the first sight of a place so loved, and so changed—and he thought, perhaps, she would have liked the old place better after all.

"Still there is nothing sickly in Mabel's mind," he said to himself, as he looked round, and considered how very greatly it was improved in reality. Here, were well drained roads, raised pathways, and neatly built houses, which might have proved models for many an English gentleman's estate, well lighted, well ventilated, as they were, and slightly ornamented besides, with the simple porch, and the little gardens which surrounded them. It made his heart beat high with that quick sensation of pleasure, which is almost pain. And there, too, on the site of Mrs. Lesly's cottage, rose one, smaller indeed, but stillsufficiently like to recall it, and as then, the lawn in front sloped down to the road—and all beside, even to the simple gateway, seemed like the time gone-by. And, for the first time that long day, Clair looked sad, for he remembered when he had first looked upon it—and he thought of the graceful child, in her almost infantine beauty, as she sat and twined, with so much care, her fading wreath of the wild lily.

Little did he then think, that her dying wreath—dying even as she twined it—might so soon be regarded as her own fit emblem.

But they have ascended the hill, and though it is May, and the day has been warm, there is a brisk column of smoke curling up from the parlour chimney of the dear old rectory. They got down at the Hargrave Arms, and leaving their phaeton, just as they are recognised by the landlord, stroll on together.

It looked solikehome, that old garden, asthey entered it, they could almost fancy they heard the good rector's step in the well-known walks, and by the neat bee-hives; but no, the shutters were closed, and through their creeks issued a small stream of bright light, just giving a sly hint of the comfort they left in the snug parlour within.

To raise the window of the glass-door, and to spring into the passage, was but the work of one moment, and in the next, they were in the snug parlour itself, and shaking hands with Mr. Ware and his sister with a heartiness which nothing could exceed. And how the good man's face glowed when he welcomed his dear old pupil back, and, in the warmth of that one greeting, assured himself that he was "just as he used to be when he was a boy." And how, not altogether, or even one at a time, scarcely in any connection either, and certainly not as long stories are sometimes told, they made him understand why they had come,and all the changes which had taken place—and best of all, that Mabel was coming back to be mistress of Aston Manor, and Lucy—happy hearted Lucy—was to be Clair's wife, would all take too long to tell. But that they were a thoroughly comfortable and happy party, that night, there is no doubt. Then, as it grew later, Mr. Clifford, the young architect, returned from a long day, spent with some friends, and Hargrave was delighted to see him.

"Your work has been done almost with the rapidity of magic," he said, speaking kindly to him, for it had been his first essay. "I was quite pleased with what I saw as we lingered through the village."

Mr. Clifford looked much gratified by his approval.

"I am come down," Hargrave continued, "partly for the purpose of letting these cottages to those most deserving, and mosthonest; and you, my dear sir, must assist me," he said, turning to Mr. Ware; "my bailiff has already given notice, that they should all assemble in the large room, at the new inn, to-morrow, and you must come with me to see that I do justice."

"Most willingly, my dear Hargrave," replied Mr. Ware, whose countenance looked one continued beam of delight.

"And the next morning," continued Hargrave, "we are going to run away with you, as we cannot think of being married by any one but you."

Mr. Ware looked still more pleased, as he, at first, modestly declined, but very easily suffered himself to be persuaded to take the office assigned him.

"Now then, I have another plan to propose," pursued Hargrave. "You all know the little hamlet of Cheswell, over the hill—and how, of late years, it has increased to look morelike a village of itself—and you may, perhaps, know how valuable the stone quarries have become to this estate. Well, I am thinking of erecting there, a small church, together with a snug house for a clergyman, and school house for the neglected children of that neighbourhood; partly from the knowledge of the great utility of such a measure, and partly because I wish to give some public testimony of my respect for the ordinances I once abused."

He colored deeply, as he made this confession, and then continued, more rapidly—

"I intend to endow this church property—and if, by the time it is finished, Clair is in orders, I shall present him with it. Why not, my dear sir, let him remain with you, till that time. I am sure," he added, with a bow to Miss Ware, "my cousin Lucy cannot learn to keep house, at once with cheerfulness and economy, better anywhere than here."

"Delightful," exclaimed Mr. Ware. "Arthur, my dear fellow, I have long known your intention of leaving the army; and may venture to say that your plans have not been settled with lightness and inconsideration. Will you come and live with us, for the present? Lucy can be with your aunt, whenever you may be forced to be long absent—you need not doubt that she shall be as welcome as you are."

"Should Lucy consent, I will gladly accept your offer, dear uncle," returned Clair; "but help me to thank Hargrave for this unexpected, unlooked-for kindness."

"No, no," said Hargrave, rising, and looking really embarrassed—"oblige me, by not saying a word. Come with me—I am going to carry you with me to the Manor. I shall sleep there to-night, for the first time, for more than six years—come and help me to do the polite to my faithful housekeeper."

"Ah, Colonel Hargrave," said Miss Ware, as she pressed his hand with reverence, for, with all his faults, she never forgot that she owed to him the happy home they had enjoyed, for so many years, "you will be welcome there, indeed, for you are come back to make us all happy."

Hargrave looked still more embarrassed, tried to say something, and failed—so seizing Clair by the arm, he hurried him off, without waiting for another word.

The first sound which greeted his ear, on the following morning, was a merry peal from the old church. He started up, and almost glad to find that Clair was still sleeping, he went, alone, to every part of the house, so well known, and so well remembered. Once again he felt master of his own—and the spell which had sent him forth a wilful wanderer was broken for ever.

With what pleasure he loitered from roomto room, and then out to the green-houses and gardens; and, sometimes, he almost started, as some once familiar object distinctly recalled to mind the days of his boyhood. And then he would pause, to fancy how beautiful and how happy all would be, in the sunshine of his Mabel's presence.

But now Clair came to seek him, and they returned to a hearty breakfast, and then hurried off to the rectory, to fetch Mr. Ware and young Clifford to come with them to the inn, where already many an anxious peasant awaited them.

And when they did reach it, it was no light task to answer all claims, and equally to distribute favors, to the many who sought them.

Clair's head began to ache, many times, from the heated air of the large but well-filled room, and he, many times, strolled back to the rectory, to refresh himself.

Mr. Ware went back to his regular lunch, and dinner—and even Clifford found many opportunities of absenting himself; but still Hargrave sat on, apparently unwearied, as one after another sought his hearing, and laid claim to this or that disputed tenement. And his patience was well rewarded, by the satisfaction which he had afforded—for, towards the close of day, when the last claimant had been satisfied, the room was still thronged by those who were anxious to thank him for the attention he had shewn.

"Before I bid you good night," said Hargrave, rising as he spoke—and, as he did so, the fading rays of the evening sun played carelessly with his dark hair, and shed a light upon his face; "I have one question to ask you. Is there one among you, who will disapprove of my leniency in continuing this man," here he laid his hand upon the shoulder of his bailiff, who, with eyes fixed upon theground, stood next him, and had been near him all day, "as my steward. If, since the night of the fire, he has done one wanton, or careless act—If he has neglected my interests by injuring you—speak, and he does not continue a day longer in his office; but, if not, I am not the man to close the gates of mercy against the repentant; and I say, that he shall have full opportunity of atoning for the past. If he has done wrong, in any one single instance, speak—if not, hold up your hands."

Every hand was raised, and the timid, but grateful expression, with which Rogers ventured to raise his eyes for the first time, seemed to say that the testimony thus given him was deserved.

"Very well," said Hargrave; "then he is my steward still, and long may he do his duty—but, my friends, remember, that I shall now be almost constantly with you, and I invite you all to dine on my grounds—on my wedding day,for I shall soon give Aston a mistress, who is already known, and loved, here. Mr. Clifford, who has already done so much foryourcomfort, will be kind enough to superintend your gaiety, and join you, I hope, in drinking my health. The only thing left me to ask, is your confidence, and your love, my good people, for I am come back to make a home among you."

The buzz of approbation which echoed through the long room, and even into the court-yard, beyond, might have satisfied him—but when, with a smile, he drew from his pocket awigof shaggy hair, of the reddest hue, together with the slouched hat of a traveller, and placed them upon his head, they exclaimed, as with one voice, "The stranger!" and almost rent the place with their acclamations, pressing, at the same time, so closely round him, that he was glad to escape by a side door, from their eager protestations—and, as he paced rapidly up the path, through the fields, to the manor, he could still hear, in the distance, the untired hum of many voices, talking in surprise over the little romance of which he had been the hero.

There were many happy hearts in Aston that night, but none happier than that of its repentant master.

O breathe those vows all hopefully,A blessing from aboveIs resting on the sacred bondOf hallowed human love.

Culver Allen.

"As soon as you have prepared your drawings for the new church, we shall be glad to see them," said Hargrave, to young Clifford, as he took up the reins, and drove off from the rectory with Mr. Ware, and his nephew. There was such amagic in that simple pronoun, 'we,' that he could not forget it long after it had passed his lips, leaving the young architect to indulge a long day dream on his kindness, which was to end in the happiness of one other patient young being, long plighted to his uncertain fortunes. Hargrave had, indeed, been determined to be lavish of the blessings which he had, himself, so bounteously received, and already reaped the fruits of well-doing in the pleasure it gave him.

Before evening they reached Bath, where the good rector was received with unaffected delight by Mabel, and with much timid apprehension by his nephew's intended bride, who was, however, soon reassured by the kindness of his manner.

In the midst of all this busy happiness, Caroline and Maria continued to make themselves often remembered, and poor Mabel had to endure very much at their hands, and toexperience so many complicated annoyances, that she looked to her marriage as to a haven of rest. She had received from Mr. Ware the box of plate, of which he had the charge, and presented it to her aunt, and, so far, had discharged all duty to her: but, though she had been cruelly injured, she could not help sincerely pitying her, since so much painful dissension had sprung up between her and her daughters; at the same time, that she must deeply feel the disappointment of all her schemes.

But time hurried on till the first of June, which had been fixed for the double marriages, and on that morning the bells of the venerable Abbey startled the passers by with such a merry peal, as left little doubt of their import. It really would be difficult to calculate the exact quantity of Macassar oil and scents, which were expended in the two hours which Miss Lovelace spent at her toilet, on theoccasion; but, certainly, her ringlets were in the very best order, when she arrived in Sydney Place, and the pink silk dress which had been presented to her, with its numberless tiny flounces, from her very waist to the ground, became her exceedingly. Unfortunately, the party was, she found, very deficient in beaux—but, as scandal was to her, almost as rich a source of amusement as flirtation; she contented herself by keeping her eyes open, and noting down facts in her memory with wonderful precision; subject, indeed, to a coloring of her own, with which she always heightened events in narration much in the same way as that in which the lights and shadows of a highly finished picture often far exceed those of reality.

She proved herself, indeed, a most useful bridesmaid, for Selina, who alone would consent to appear at church, required quite as much attendance as the brides, and, in this way, shelearnt a great many secrets that morning, which were afterwards circulated no one could imagine how. In her readiness to do any thing for "dear Miss Lesly," she found out that she had all this time been sleeping in the servants' attic, and in a room not even so well furnished as theirs; and she drew a strong contrast between its humble appearance, and the beautiful pearl bracelet which she fastened round her wrist—bearing testimony, in her own mind, to the rare beauty which, on the morrow, she piqued half her friends, by describing in the most glowing colors—because she alone had been present to see how lovely Mabel had looked in her simple bridal attire, standing in all the modest dignity of her nature, in that small, mean, garret chamber.

Then, as she stepped into the carriage, which was to take her to church, attended by the eccentric Mr. Morley, she noted, from the window, the exact degree of emotion shewn bythe two brides as they left the house, Lucy being supported by Mr. Villars—nor were the liveries and horses, belonging to the fashionable equipage which lingered near the church door, forgotten, or the more modest looking one, which stood near it, and had been hired by Clare, for the occasion. Lightly did she trip up the aisle, and take her place, casting a pretty glance round her, which told her, at once, that a venerable man, with hair of silvery whiteness waited for them, by the altar, and that Hargrave and Clair, with their own chosen friends, were standing by, looking very handsome, indeed, but much more serious than she thought necessary; still, it became them very well, and made them look more interesting—she did not take time to consider the touching solemnity of the ceremony she was come to assist in, or to read in Hargrave's earnest manner the steadfast resolutions, which were never broken, of loving, and protecting, and confiding in thatfair being, whose light step soon trod the silent aisle, and brought her, in all her trusting affection, to his side—in all the purity of untainted womanhood, to plight her single-hearted faith to him, and, without a doubt, to place the happiness of a life-time in his keeping.

How peacefully upon his wearied heart fell the blessing which was pronounced with trembling lips, and how proudly he led her away when all was over, and whispered—

"Nothing can part us now, love."

And how happy Arthur Clare looked as he led the blushing Lucy to the carriage, trembling as she was, so much, that he was almost obliged to lift her in. But Miss Lovelace's powers of observation were still further called into action, when she reached Sydney Place again; she could scarcely believe her own eyes, indeed, as she afterwards affirmed, when she met Caroline and Maria, for the first time, and found themwearing old silk dresses, rather more faded than those they usually wore of a morning. The pink silk flounces, and the glossy and well arranged ringlets suffered a simultaneous shock—nor could she resist, slightly raising her eyes as they encountered those of Hargrave, who, she instantly noticed, remarked the intended slight.

She saw, too, that Caroline did not even make a shew of congratulation; indeed, so many other instances could be observed of the intentional neglect of the refinements of a marriage festival, even of the simplest kind, that she did not wonder that Hargrave seemed impatient to be gone, and that, when he had secured the hand of his fair bride he should hurry her into the carriage and seat himself beside her, with a look of indescribable relief, as they drove rapidly away—leaving Lucy and her husband to a more prolonged leave taking.

Miss Lovelace, finding that with the departure of the wedding party, her services were deemed concluded, only remained to take a peep at the disappointed family circle before she departed.

She was not slow in divining the state of things amongst them, and Mrs. Villars's altered looks betrayed much of the annoyances she suffered. Indeed, as she afterwards remarked, in giving an account of the wedding, poor Mrs. Villars aged very fast, and as for Caroline and Maria, she had never seen girls expose themselves as they had done; she was sure, indeed, after the way in which they had treated the lovely Mrs. Hargrave, they had lost their chance of settling, if, indeed, they ever had any. As for herself, she said that she had determined to have nothing more to do with them, for that handsome Colonel Hargrave was better than the whole family put together.

To such heartless scandal, we must leave Mrs. Villars and her daughters; but reluctantly, most reluctantly, for we feel that they were intended for something better.

Who would not have an eyeTo see the sun, where others see a cloud,A frame so vernal, as in spite of snow,To think it genial summer all year round;I do not know the fool, would not be suchA man.

Sheridan Knowles.

Once again we must change the scene, and, for the last time, take a peep at the lovely village of Aston.

Two months had passed sincetheevents recorded in the last chapter; and one busy year had gone its round since the time ofCaptain Clair's first visit to the rectory. He was now fully established there, with his cheerful little wife.

Miss Ware shook her head when she first heard of this intended arrangement; but no one approved of it more highly than she did now; for all the winning little graces, which had made Lucy the admired coquette of the ball-room, used, with a higher motive, made her the pet and pride of the home into which she had been adopted.

Miss Ware was perpetually discovering something new to love in her, which she always prided herself in being the first to perceive—nor did Arthur Clair ever seem disposed to contradict her—too glad to see his wife admired and loved.

In his aunt's eyes, indeed, no one could do anything so well—no one could feed the poultry with so much care and fondness for them, or arrange the flowers in the vases, orrun about to the cottages, with such grace as did the little coquettish Lucy. And in all this Clair was well inclined to agree, for to him she was all that affection could be, looking up to him with half real and half sportive reverence; humouring his whims, and winning him from his faults. Sometimes she would come and seat herself on the sill of the open window, in the room where he was studying, and calling round her, from the yard, turkeys, ducks, chickens and pigeons, would feed them from the large, wooden bowl, which she held upon her lap, turning with a light laugh to to her husband, when anything occurred to excite her merriment. But when she saw this tired him, and he really wished to read quietly, she would run away with her motley group of followers, and then, escaping from them, would stroll back again, and, seating herself by his side, would take up a book and read in silence, till he himself proposed a change, and they would go out together.

On the day to which we must now call attention; they were all standing in the garden, prepared for a walk. Mr. Ware's hat had been smoothly brushed, gloves—always unwilling companions of his—were in his hand, while his sister displayed her best mantle and bonnet, and took his arm with an air of greater ceremony than was her wont, looking, now and then, at Lucy, who was as carefully, but more gaily dressed than herself. They were, in fact, upon their way to Aston Manor, to make the bridal visit, as Colonel and Mrs. Hargrave had returned the evening before.

As they strolled through the village, they found so many causes to make them linger, that they spent twice as much time as was needed on the way. Old Giles, whose new cottage lay the nearest to the Manor gates, could not help persuading them to come in and take a peep at his room, which was filledwith every moderate comfort, to which he had ever been accustomed. "Which was a good return," he said, "for the foolish story he had told about himself and his young master, at the inn, little dreaming that that master was the most attentive of his listeners; and to think that he had come down that morning early, to tell him that he should always have a pension from the family, and never want for anything again. Was not that more than he deserved?" he asked, with tears in his eyes.

Heartily congratulating their old friend, the little party proceeded to the Manor.

They were not unexpected, for Mabel was waiting their coming. She was sitting in the room which Hargrave had dedicated expressly to her, though with the reserve that it should not be termed her boudoir. Here were paintings of the most exquisite art, and books of the first authors in poetry, science, or the light literature of the most generally known of themodern languages, while the work-table, and the sweet toned cottage piano, were not forgotten—nor the harp, whose expensive music had been so long laid aside. On the table before her lay an open parcel of the last new books, from Town, which she had been attentively considering, and, at the window, which opened to the ground, stood Hargrave, sometimes looking out upon the sunny Italian garden, whose bright flowers bloomed in untiring loveliness, but oftener looking in upon his bride, who was to him the glad sunshine of everything on which his eyes rested.

Laying aside the book, which had, for some time, occupied her, Mabel rose, and hurried to meet her friends, with that true, genuine warmth of manner, which at once told them, that all the affection they brought with them was entirely returned.

And then, Hargrave was with them, welcoming all, with the frank-hearted cheerfulness which had so long been a stranger to him.

They had so much to tell, that half that sultry afternoon slipped away before they were aware of it; and Hargrave, leading Mr. Ware out into the garden, told him how they had risen early that morning, and, before any idlers were stirring, had gone down to the church-yard to see the tomb of Mrs. Lesly and her child.

"And how did she bear it?" enquired Mr. Ware.

"Much better than I had expected—but not better than I might have hoped," replied Hargrave, with some emotion—"for she has, I am sure,nothingto regret, with regard to them; and remorse, after all, is often half the cause of our deepest griefs—nay, she must feel, that if they have any knowledge of her present fortunes, they would only rejoice with her; but it is a trial to her, at first, coming backhere—and you cannot think how anxiously I have been watching her all the morning."

"Nay, you have no cause for that," said Mr. Ware, kindly, as they turned again to the window; "if Mabel could make herself happy in adversity, do you think it possible that she would be unhappy with you?"

Hargrave returned the compliment by a cheerful smile, which was altered to one of exquisite sweetness, when Mabel came out, beaming with delighted pleasure.

"Look, love," she said, holding up a book to him, "see what I have found in the parcel—'The Merchant's Recollections!' my dear uncle's novel, published already. What a pleasure for dear Lucy—I am going to let her carry it away with her to look at first."

"And yet you are dying to read it, all the while you are giving it away, my sweet wife; but give this copy to Lucy, and I will orderanother from town for you. Mabel has been talking of you, all the morning, my dear sir," he said, turning to Mr. Ware, "sending you, in imagination, the first papers, books, flowers, and fruit, and thinking how you will dream old times are come back again."

"Hush," said Mabel, "those were all to be surprises."

"Oh, I quite forgot that; but now you will be bound to carry your long dreams into reality; but one thing, remember, dear sir, that in all my wanderings, I have ever looked back, with the greatest regret, to the loss of your society, and I am selfishly anxious to secure as much of it now as possible."

"If I am a welcome guest," replied the good Rector cheerfully, "you will no doubt very often find me a ready one, for, though we have lived in seclusion so many years, I have not lost my taste for that society, which a house like yours ought to afford; indeed, without my friendMabel, I scarcely know how I should long have got on without it."

"Thank you, thank you," returned Hargrave, "let me ever be the same to you as I was in sunny Italy, with no constraint between us, but that of self-respect; and now love," he said, turning to Mabel, "go and put on your bonnet, and we will shew our friends your beautiful Arab, and our intended improvements, and then we will walk to the village to see your two old servants; you had better go there at once, and then all fear of visiting the old place will be gone."

Mabel's pretty straw bonnet was soon put on, and she was walking with them through the gardens and pleasure grounds, giving her own happy tone of feeling to every thing they looked upon; for wherever she stirred, there, life, and industry, and comfort were sure to appear. She was now the half idolized mistress of a wide domain, and more well stored wealth than shecould afford time to calculate, and, wide as her influence was likely to extend, would she spread abroad the sun-light principles of her own pure heart.

And, as she goes forth with Hargrave, leaning fondly on his arm, and bringing forward a hundred plans, which would call forth his energy, and bring a blessing on those around them—we will leave them, not sluggish and contented, as if the cares and exertions of life were ended,buthappy in their restored love to begin it anew.

THE END.

T. C. Newby, Printer, 30, Welbeck Street, Cavendish Square.

In the Press.TICONDEROGA:AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE,IN THREE VOLS.BYG. P. R. JAMES, Esq.

HOPE:A STORY OF CHEQUERED LIFE.BY ALFRED W. COLE,Author of "The Cape and the Kaffirs," &c.

In the Press.LISMORE.A NOVEL.By the Author of "The Lady of the Bed-Chamber,""The Double Marriage," &c., &c.

THE WORLD, AND HOW TO SQUARE IT.BY HARRY HIEOVER,Author of "Proper Conditions for all Horses,""Sporting Facts and Sporting Fancies," &c.

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