But in the evening came a P. P. C. card from Mr. Stokes; and she learnt that he had started for Gloucestershire.
Maria was so put out with this information, that she could have killed flies, rather than have revenged her injured feelings on nothing; and she eagerly seized the better opportunity of gratifying herself by spiting Mabel.
Every discomfort that she could throw in her way—every allusion before strangers to her destination, as a governess, were eagerly used for her annoyance. If she were out of spirits, she asked some question, which forcibly dragged into sight the worst points of her position—or pitied her in that tone and manner, which has placed pity as akin to contempt.
But, with all this, Mabel contended only with patience and good temper, though she, sometimes thought, that hours of heavy trial were scarcely so difficult to bear, as the perpetual annoyances by which she was surrounded.
Had one discontented word, one passionate or impatient look escaped her, Mrs. Villars would have had a lighter conscience; but, as it was, she would willingly have entreated her to remain, had it not been for Caroline, whose fiery temper so greatly awed her. Alas! unhappy woman, few would envy you. The thought of the orphan's money, procured for past wanton and thoughtless expenditure; dresses, flowers, and finery, which were now only encumbrances; shows and visits, which had answered no purpose—these were but slight compensations for a wounded conscience.
"Only one week," also soliloquised Lucy, as she sat near the old-fashioned window, of the study, and looked out, sadly—"only one week, and Mabel will be gone; and yet nothing I can say can stop this cruel act."
She leant her elbow on the window sill, and supported her head with her hand.
That face, once so light, and fickle, and coquettish, had acquired, now, that modesty and sobriety of expression, which, some think, once lost, is never again recovered.
Her step was more thoughtful, and the light, ringing laugh, once so fickle, and so joyous, but so often heedless and unfeeling, was now seldom or never heard—and in its place, there was a bright look—it could scarcely be called a smile—that seemed to say, she tried to be happy, rather from the fear of giving pain, than, as before, in the buoyancy of an untamed spirit, seeking indulgence for the selfishness of a spoilt, and unchecked fancy. Could it really be Lucy, upon whose lip the unkind word died before the angry flush that preceded its thought had passed from her cheek. Could it be Lucy, who listened with unaffected interest and humility, to the high-toned conversation of her father; or, with girlish playfulness, enticed him to take the walk his health required; and, as he did so, led him where the birds carolled, and the sun shone on green meadows, beside the beautiful Avon—sometimes alone, but often with Mabel—and, when with her, listening, rather than attempting to join in conversation, drawn from the well-stored mind of each. Could this, indeed, be the wild girl whom Mabel had watched with such untiring care, fearing lest the follies of the gay world might again ensnare her, and lead her from peace and hope, back to vanity and heartlessness again. It was, indeed, the same Lucy, though very, very changed, as she sat now by the study window, listening more to the echo of her own thoughts, than to any real sound.
The essence of spring will find an inlet to the heart, if possible—and though the view of the shady little court, on which the window opened, was bounded indeed, the air from the pure sky blew fresh upon her forehead, and seemed to speak of the green fields and budding flowers it had left behind.