So saying, he rose, and drew on his gloves, and wished her good morning—leaving her in a pleasing reverie.
"Ha, master Henry," she observed to herself; "you are not so deep, but you let out a secret, now and then. So you are testing me, are you—I understand."
As she indulged these thoughts, one by one of the breakfast party strolled in, and conversation was soon briskly engaged in on the bonnets, shawls, and gloves, which they intended wearing, interspersed by some hints from Caroline, on the agreeable nature of her morning's tête-à-tête. Before the meal was fully concluded, the bells from the different churches began to ring, but, somehow, they were not in harmony with the voices of the little party, as, one after another, they took up the same solemn tune, in different notes, all speaking the same language, but in such harsh tones, it seemed as if the sisters disliked them, for they rose up hastily, and hurried off to dress for church.
Neither did those bells seem to speak less harshly, when they intruded their voices into the quiet study; yet there was a sadness, too, about them, when they found Mr. Villars seated there, at his table, surrounded by books and papers—his inkstand, and letter-drawer, and scraps of his book—and wearing his dusty coat—and as his pen ran rapidly and unceasingly across and across the paper, they seemed to whisper, still in sadder, sadder tones—
"No man can do seven days' work."
Perhaps he heard that whisper, for he stopped, and listened, and laid his hand uneasily upon his aching brow; and when he went on again, trying to shut out their voices, something darker and darker stole upon his mind, and he stopped and listened again to the same sad tones—sadder, sadder still—as he heeded them more and more.
But merrily, merrily, merrily over the hills and green meadows—up from the busy town, and borne upon the rippling waters of the Avon, came those bells—when Mabel sat at her garret window, and looked out upon the small peep of blue sky, which was not shut out by the dark walls and tall chimney pots, which surrounded her—and as they fell upon her ear, they whispered—"We are glad sounds to those who listen for us as you do"—But back with those bells had her thoughts gone to the student, in his silent room—and the expression of her face grew more and more sad.
"I cannot leave him there," she said, to herself; "but what can I say to him? Oh, is there not enough. I will tell him how he is wasting himself week after week without rest. I will tell him, that knowledge so acquired is like the manna of the wilderness, which only turned to corruption, when gathered on the Sabbath. Yes, surely he will listen to me, for truth is so plain—I will go now."
The light of enthusiastic fervour brightened her saddened countenance—and once again stopping to take sweet counsel with the bells—she left her room full of strong resolve. But when she reached the study door, and laid her hand upon its lock, she paused, tremblingly. Often had she come before, on the same errand, and as often had retired, unheard, and disappointed at her own timidity. Now, her beautiful cheek flushed, and her heart beat so loudly, that she laid her hand upon it to still its beating; yet trembling, throbbing, uneasy, as was that heart, it was true to its purpose still.
She had sat in her garret room for more than an hour that morning, thinking of what she should say—she had listened to the Sabbath bells, as one after another they took up the same hallowed tone—and still she had found no words strong enough and meek enough to speak to him. Yet had she come.