Crabbe.
On the night which followed Lucy's departure the cottage seemed singularly lonely. The wayward girl could not but be missed in so small a household. Her very waywardness, indeed, had caused excitement, which slightly roused Mabel's thoughts from present and coming evils.
It was night—how strange is its power over us? Can it be more than fancy that the spirits of darkness have freer power to wander unseen upon our earth? Why else should we start with such vague terror, at the slightest sound which breaks the stillness? Why should we often feel almost a childish desire for companionship?
Mabel had stolen to her mother's room to persuade herself that she slept, and stood for a moment watching her. The feeble light of the night lamp shone upon her features, and she trembled when she marked the sunken cheeks, and the countenance deeply traced and drawn down by care and pain. It seemed as if, in that moment, the conviction which she had so long defied, forced itself upon her mind, and she felt that that loved parent must die. Those only who have experienced that sudden belief can tell of the bitterness with which it comes. And it is sudden, for we may speak of death as possible, nay, even probable, with calmness; but this is not belief, not the feeling which comes when the varying color, the emaciated hand, or the hollow eye attracts our attention, and we feel the truth striking coldly on our hearts. Then, almost for the first time, the full power of fear and love is known. We long to arrest the hand of death by the vehemence of our passion; and, though we know such efforts are vain, yet how difficult is it to be resigned.
Mabel turned from her mother's room with the choking sensation, of tears, that will not be suppressed. The cold, loud wind beat against the cottage, tossing dry leaves and broken sticks against the casement, then howling round, as if in derision of her grief. Amy was sleeping, the sweet, gentle, exhausted sleep, that sometimes follows pain; but Mabel knew that in a short while she would awake, and require refreshment, and she did not care to lie down, till she had made her comfortable.
There was a letter lying upon the dressing-table, placed so as to catch her eye; the sight of it was a relief to her, and she took it and broke the seal, then shading the light from her sister, she sat down and read as follows:—
"Dear Miss Lesly,
"I will trust that you will forgive me the liberty I take in addressing you by letter; for your unwearied attention to those who now claim your care, gives me little hope of speaking to you without interruption. I might not have time to tell you that the remembrance of my share in the late unhappy accident renders me miserable when I am compelled to watch your patient suffering, without the power to afford you the least redress or comfort. It is impossible to remember the last few happy weeks, without contrasting them, but too painfully with the present. I cannot forbear continually reproaching myself with the change, nor shall I cease to be unhappy till I may, in some way alleviate your sufferings. Let me entreat you, then, to forgive my presumption, in seeking a remedy in the gratification of the fondest hopes of my life. I needed some acquaintance with you, to remove the prejudices which I have been led to form, through the too thoughtless behaviour of some ladies, it needed, I may say, even the last bitter trial, to shew me the nature of your character, and the refinement to which sorrow could bring it. How else could I have been aware of the existence of such uncommon resignation, and such sweet forgiveness. They have inspired me with a feeling, which, while hope remains, softens the pain I feel; they lead me to aspire with boldness, which may surprise you, but I am a soldier, and though too accustomed to feign sentiment which does not exist, I am only capable of bluntness where my heart is really touched; and, therefore, at once, most boldly, but most respectfully do I ask you to be my wife.
"The fortune with which I am blessed, renders my profession more an amusement than a necessity, and it would be amply sufficient to secure your sweet sister all the comforts which may alleviate pain, and all the medical advice which may help to remove it. Only give me the power to protect you from the cold blasts of the world, and the right to aid you in taking charge of one, whose helplessness has been caused by my fault, and I will shew you that a husband's tenderest love and a brother's most watchful care will ever be ready to protect you both. One word more. Though with the most jealous hand I would guard you from all pain, I must, though but for a moment, inflict it in alluding to past events. I am aware of much, if not all, of your early history, and know that I cannot be the first object of your affections; yet would I rather have your second love, or even your friendship, than the warmest attachment of any other woman living.