"You will see," said Caroline, and at that moment, their man-servant appearing, she turned to him, and said—"Take that parcel to Colonel Hargrave, at the White Lion, with mamma's compliments."
"Stop a moment, my dear, do consider," said her mother.
"Ma'am," replied her daughter, "no consideration is necessary. James, take the parcel."
And, without waiting further orders, he took it as she directed, leaving Mrs. Villars vexed and annoyed, but too timid to remonstrate.
Caroline, however, was disappointed at the satisfaction of knowing that Hargrave was annoyed, for he never even alluded to the subject.
The next morning, Hargrave and Clair set off, early, on their journey to Aston. The day was bright as a May morning could be desired to be, and the country, through which they drove, full of lovely home scenery. They had hired a phaeton, and took their own pace across the country—Hargrave driving, and delighting his companion with one of his very best humours, now sparkling with wit, or laughing in the merriment of his heart, and then suddenly changing his tone to one of deeper earnestness, as they spoke of the future or the past.
It was not till the close of the evening, that they espied the well-known landmarks of the little village—the simple spire of the rustic church, and the many windowed halls of Aston Manor.
As they entered the village, Hargrave suffered his horse to bring his tired trot to a walk, while they both eagerly looked around. Hargrave tried to fancy what his bride would feel, on the first sight of a place so loved, and so changed—and he thought, perhaps, she would have liked the old place better after all.
"Still there is nothing sickly in Mabel's mind," he said to himself, as he looked round, and considered how very greatly it was improved in reality. Here, were well drained roads, raised pathways, and neatly built houses, which might have proved models for many an English gentleman's estate, well lighted, well ventilated, as they were, and slightly ornamented besides, with the simple porch, and the little gardens which surrounded them. It made his heart beat high with that quick sensation of pleasure, which is almost pain. And there, too, on the site of Mrs. Lesly's cottage, rose one, smaller indeed, but still sufficiently like to recall it, and as then, the lawn in front sloped down to the road—and all beside, even to the simple gateway, seemed like the time gone-by. And, for the first time that long day, Clair looked sad, for he remembered when he had first looked upon it—and he thought of the graceful child, in her almost infantine beauty, as she sat and twined, with so much care, her fading wreath of the wild lily.
Little did he then think, that her dying wreath—dying even as she twined it—might so soon be regarded as her own fit emblem.