Crabbe.
When Caroline quitted Mabel she hurried to her mother, with all the petulance of a wayward child, and, with her, vented on Mabel the spleen which she had not had the courage fully to express. Great was her surprise when she found, that, instead of joining in her opinion, Mrs. Villars only endeavoured to extenuate and defend Mabel's conduct, though with that weakness which Caroline always had the hope of overcoming; but, for once she was mistaken, and, more than ever chagrined, the bitterness with which she regarded her cousin, only increased. This Mabel had soon an opportunity of learning, and her situation in the house became more and more uncomfortable, influenced as it was, by those secret prejudices and envious feelings, which there is no possibility of openly opposing.
Lucy, too, though still an object of solicitude to her, seemed shy of her company, and, indeed, held herself much aloof from every one but Beauclerc, whose attentions were now very generally remarked.
Still there was one room in the house where her presence was welcomed as a real blessing, and this consciousness atoned to her for much that was elsewhere almost unbearable.
At first, with the shyness which often attends the student, Mr. Villars frequently locked his door, but gradually the habit ceased altogether.
One afternoon, he was sitting alone, his manner was restless, and his eye absent in its expression.
The atmosphere without was unusually humid; small rain, which, in the distance, looked almost like fog, hid the prospect, and made the room dark, giving nothing of the inspiriting feeling produced by a hearty shower. Within, the room seemed heavy and sombre. But within Mr. Villars' own thoughts there was something darker still, something cold and numbing—something that said the world was a dark and gloomy world—something that said he lived alone and uncared-for in it. He rose and walked up and down the room—that dark feeling haunted him still. He turned to the window—on its ledge lay his pen-knife—he looked at it uneasily—then walked away—then returned—and again regarded it as if it had the power to injure him. He returned to the table, on it lay a bundle of closely written papers—he turned from them, and again found himself at the window.
That knife again.
His thoughts grew darker—that something again stole over him, till the sweat stood in drops upon his brow, and his eyes glared feverishly.