Mabel: A Novel. Vol. 2 (of 3)

by Mrs. C. J. Newby

Mrs. Villars hid her face in the sables which enveloped her, and sobbed convulsively; then, flinging down her purse, she begged her to dismiss the chaise, saying, she was Mrs. Lesly's sister, and must see her immediately.

"Let me beg you, ma'am," said Mrs. Hawkins, respectfully, "to compose yourself—it will be too much for you to-night."

"No, no, no," cried Mrs. Villars, as warm, repentant tears streamed rapidly down her face; "let me see her now—my poor, poor sister."

Mrs. Hawkins sadly led the way up the marble staircase, and across the gallery, to a door which she noiselessly opened, as if she feared to disturb the slumbers of the dead. The room was fully lighted by wax tapers—but the bed was partially concealed by the many folds of its crimson curtains.

An old woman was sitting by the fire, who rose on Mrs. Villars's entrance—and, at the same moment, glanced to the window, where Mabel was seated, gazing out upon the star-light stillness of the night, as if communing with her own spirit. She rose on perceiving them, and gliding from the recess, advanced rapidly and noiselessly to meet her aunt; placing both her hands on hers, she attempted to speak, but the words died between her half parted lips, and a quiet burst of tears succeeded the effort.

Mrs. Villars caught her in her arms, sobbing violently, with the excess of her emotion. She had seldom been with the dying, and did not remember having ever been in actual contact with death itself, and it was with an internal shrinking, that, at length, releasing the poor girl from her arms, she advanced to gaze on the face of her sister. How calm and placid seemed the sleep of the dead, in that still chamber—but, though sweetly tranquil was the countenance once so dear, it bore the unmistakable, terrible touch of death; and Mrs. Villars wrung her hands, and turned away; an icy coldness seemed taking possession of her senses, and terror prevented her stooping to touch the cold lips which never more would reproach her with their confiding words.

Mrs. Hawkins soon kindly put an end to this trying scene, by leading her from the room; there was enough in the bereavement itself to touch her sympathy, without her being aware of the pangs of awakening conscience, which added bitterness to a grief seemingly so natural.

How miserable those days of mourning seemed to the heartless woman—as hour slowly dragged after hour in that silent house. There were no exciting trifles to wear away the time—nothing but the endless black crape with which she tried to feel interested, though her senses sickened at the mournful tales it told. There, no company came to banish thought—thought of solemn things that she was little prepared to contemplate—she was alone with Mabel, and the dead.

Again, and again, she condemned herself for the deceptions she had practised, and endeavoured to appease her self-accusations with ideas of the most lavish generosity to Mabel—but justice—alas, that she felt she had placed it almost beyond her power to render her. She now owed her six hundred pounds, and well she knew, that, however frivolously she had spent, however small a part of her extravagances it had proved—this sum was almost the entire support her sister had saved for her orphan daughter; which, though little calculated to afford her maintenance as a gentle-woman, might, in talented hands, be the commencement of a respectable independence; or, at all events, save her, if dependent, from many minor, but bitter personal necessities which wound the delicate mind so sorely. Well she knew this—but she knew, also, that she never would have the courage, either to limit her own personal expenses, or to ask her husband for the money. Mabel must be repaid by the most lavish kindness, and by all the comforts of a home. She could not know of the debt, therefore would not feel her loss, and if, by a timely display of her beauty, and her painful bereavements, she could marry her well—she might then deem the debt repaid. All this she endeavoured to persuade herself; but, as she wandered from room to room in the twilight, which their closed windows afforded, something uneasy oppressed her, which forced her to repeat, again and again, the same line of consolation. It was then, with a sense of relief, that she saw the day for her sister's funeral draw near, and she watched the dark procession from the house, winding its way to the little church, with grief, indeed, but with grief lightened of its heaviest sense of oppression. With the greatest attention she watched over Mabel, whose strength had entirely given way, when the last sad scene, the last parting was over—and, for hours, seemed to have forgotten all that was selfish in her nature to minister to her comfort.

On the following morning, perceiving that she was sufficiently calm to listen to her, she begged her to enter on an explanation of her affairs; expressing herself anxious to know if she had thought of any plans for the future.