All her efforts, however, were unavailing, her mother's strength rapidly failed, and the utmost care could scarcely keep her sister from sinking under the pain she suffered.
Day after day, the opinion of the medical man fluctuated, until he scarcely gave any hope—for he well knew that Amy's constitution, from infancy, little fitted her to struggle with disease of any kind. Still Mabel clung fondly to the possibility of her recovery, with a pertinacity which made her enter eagerly into any new course of treatment, which she hoped might prove more successful.
It was with difficulty that she found time to think of Lucy—yet a willing heart can do much. She endeavoured to keep as much with her as possible to support her, in her new formed resolutions—and she was gratified to find, that Lucy had been able to meet Clair several times, with the composure she had recommended.
Poor Lucy's dignified calmness, however, very much resembled pouting, and, instead of inspiring Clair with any great respect, a little amused him; for he looked upon this change in her manner as a new mode of attack, against which he resolved to be armour proof. Her stability of character being not very great—she could scarcely preserve her manner, when she saw it produced no immediate effect as she had anticipated. It was vain to hope that he would notice her composed forgiveness; and her well-meant resolution faded away before the disappointment of failure.
She was one afternoon engaged busily in blaming him, and excusing herself, when he entered the morning-room, where she was seated at work, and, saying he had been to meet the postman, presented her with a letter from Bath. It contained the news, that Mrs. Clifford, one of the richest ladies in the town, intended giving a fancy ball at the Rooms which was to eclipse everything that had been seen for many seasons, and Mrs. Clifford was very anxious she should return for it. Besides, Colonel Hargrave had accepted the invitation to visit them, and was expected in Bath the following week. The letter was of great length, but contained little more than those two pieces of news greatly enlarged upon.
It seemed as if all Lucy's grief and gravity had disappeared, like the mist before the sunshine; for, starting up, she gave three bounds towards the ceiling, clapping her hands in utter thoughtlessness.
"Miss Villars," cried Clair, indignantly, "can you forget where you are? How can you give vent to such expressions of joy, in a house you have helped me to make desolate?"
"I wish," exclaimed Lucy, turning round pettishly, "that you would not preach to me all day the same disagreeable truths, with a face as long as that of a methodist parson—and such a face too, 'tis indeed a pity it covers such a wicked dissembling heart; but there is no trusting appearances in these days."
"What do you mean, Miss Villars?" he enquired, coloring violently.
"Ask your own conscience, and then, if it has not forgotten how to speak the truth, you will find which is the greatest sinner, you or I," said she, trying to speak playfully, to hide the real passion which burnt in her eyes, and tingled in her cheeks.