The evening had closed in, Mabel had excused herself from appearing at the dinner-table; and, as it was now too dark to see to read or work, she laid aside her book, and seated herself to remain awhile unoccupied. Then Lucy raised herself a little, and leaning her head upon one hand, looked attentively at her, while she said, in a low tone—
"I have been thinking, these long, long days, of all the wrong I have ever done you. Nay, do not interrupt me—let me condemn myself as I deserve. When I first went to Aston, I well remember how kindly you tried to make me happy, even while I was turning you into ridicule, in order that I might prevent Captain Clair admiring you. With the wish to shew my superior nerve, and spirit for fun, I persisted in being one great cause of poor Amy's accident, while I called you prudish and old maidish. When I was in despair, you turned from your own grief to comfort mine; and yet so selfish was I still, that when I refused to leave you to nurse alone, it was only because I loved Captain Clair. When I found he loved you, I left you without remorse—and, oh! when she was dying—the poor child I had helped to murder—I was acting a part at a fancy ball, without one thought but of the admiration I excited. You came here. I felt, at first, that I could have done anything to please you; but I soon forgot you again—for I was once more infatuated, and could see nothing, think of nothing, but Beauclerc. I left you alone, to contend with my sisters, who were prejudiced against you—and when you interfered, for my good, I met you with peevishness and ill-humour. And how have I been punished—that very ball was the beginning of my unhappiness. When I went to the fancy ball, I deserved to meet Beauclerc, and to be deceived in him as I have been. And now, mother and sisters all desert me—none can bear to witness the workings of such a frivolous mind as mine—none stand by me—none care for me—but you, you whom I have most injured—no one but you thinks my spirit worth preserving from its sin and worldliness. Oh, Mabel, you have entirely conquered me—but I dare not promise anything—I am so very, very weak."
"It is for such a moment as this," replied Mabel, "that I have waited and watched. Lucy, you are dear to me, because I have thought and prayed for you so long. I know how difficult it is to do right, when you have long done wrong; but I know, that if you try, there is no difficulty you will not overcome."
"And if I do not try," said Lucy, tears gathering in her eyes, "what is to become of me; I leave nothing but trifling and despair behind me. Only point out some way by which I can shew I repent, for I know I must be doing something, or I shall fall back into idle habits again—only point out something for me to begin with, and I will get up to-morrow—for I am not ill—only unhappy."
"I can tell you, then," said Mabel, "of one social duty, of which you never think, and, without performing it, I can scarcely believe that a blessing can rest either on your worldly fortune, or your eternal hopes. Pardon me for speaking severely—but why has your father, upon whose hardly earned wealth you have rested so much of your pleasure, why is he left alone to feel that no one cares for him?"
"But, do you think he would care for my company? and, besides, you are always with him."
"He would indeed care, if you would but try to please him—and I shall give up my place, when you are ready to take it. Indeed, my duty lies elsewhere, and I must soon obey its call. I would not have any one ignorant of their real talents through false modesty," she continued, "because they are weapons lent us by Heaven, which we must either use, or abuse, or leave to rust in our hands. You know you have a winning way, when you like—it has been your snare in society—but it may make your peace at home."
"I will try," cried Lucy, smiling, "no one can give comfort as you can; but I will not talk, I have wasted too much on words already."
"But one thing more," said Mabel—"can you bear now to let me speak of Mr. Beauclerc?"
"I meant to have forgotten him," replied Lucy, shrinkingly; "but what of him?"