MABEL.

A Novel,

BY EMMA WARBURTON.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:
THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER,
30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE.
1854.

MABEL.

CHAPTER I.

Oh, give me comfort, if you can!
Oh, tell me where to fly!
Oh, tell me if there can be hope,
For one so lost as I!

Southey.

The grey dawn was slowly and faintly breaking, with the calm, dull light of a winter's morning. The stormy wind had sunk to rest, the fire, no longer fanned by its heavy gusts, had nearly abated, and what more was required to extinguish it, was afforded by the arrival of the fire engine, which had been forwarded with the usual promptitude, though from the distance it had to travel, it arrived too late to be of any effectual service.

Mrs. Lesly's house had been the last to take fire, and was not so completely destroyed, as the smaller cottages in the more thickly populated parts of the village. Mr. Ware was rejoiced to see that the church remained uninjured—his own house, too, had escaped, and no fears were entertained for the Manor. Yet, in many parts, the fire still smouldered, though its fury was spent, and gave a light to the landscape, which rivalled that of the wintry dawn.

There was a small and pleasant nook by the road side, where on summer evenings, children would assemble to play. Here a group had collected, composed of men and women, surrounding the prostrate form of the unhappy bailiff. Mr. Ware was supporting his head, with that pity for the wretched and suffering which his sacred character made as necessary as his natural feelings rendered it pleasant. Satisfied, as he believed, of the safety of Mrs. Lesly and her children, he had not been tempted from the side of the man, whose remorse called for all that attention which he only could give, and who, if he moved, piteously entreated him not to leave him. Well indeed might he beg him to remain, for in the various groups which surrounded him, he could not discover a single friend. Subject to his tyranny during his day of power, each among them might have stood forward to convict him of some harsh unkindness, if not of actual cruelty and oppression. Amongst others was Martin, his shaggy eyebrows bent in triumph on the man who, unable to display his usual bearing of conscious authority, lay weak and powerless before him.

The stranger was seen advancing slowly across the green, with his hat slouched over his face, and his arms crossed upon his chest. All slightly moved to make room for him, and allowed him to stand without being too closely pressed—but, whether from a sense of his personal bravery in their service, or from an unconscious respect to his commanding manner—few stopped to enquire. On his pale countenance were marks of agitation—he looked indeed almost faint—and Mr. Ware, fearing he might have sustained some injury in his many daring exploits, offered him some of the brandy, which he had been giving to the most weary. He eagerly accepted the offer, and then, seeing that the group had become silent since he joined it, he turned to Mr. Ware.

"As a minister of holy peace, sir," he said, "let me suggest to you, that some means be taken to find out by whom this foul deed has been committed, for the intention may well meet with as much condemnation as if it had succeeded."

"A foul deed most assuredly," said Mr. Ware, rising from his stooping posture—"a foul deed most truly has been attempted this night, and it ought indeed to humble us," he added, as a tear glistened in his eye, "to think that there is one among us, brethren, capable of doing so terrible a thing as to endeavour to put a man to death, even though he were his worst enemy, much less to conceive so horrible a means, even while ruin was on our own hearth sides, and the hand of Providence raised to punish. Oh, I am grieved beyond words to tell, not so much that ye are poor, but that poverty has brought sin among you, as I know it has done. Have you not had warning enough to-night?"

A groan escaped from the stranger, and all turned round, but his eyes were fixed on the ground.

"Now, my children," continued Mr. Ware, "let us cast off from ourselves this great sin, and tell all we know of it; and if he who has done it be amongst us, let him stand forward and suffer his punishment, as the only expiation he can offer."

"Not so," said the bailiff, raising himself with difficulty, and supporting himself on his arm, while he glanced timidly upon those who were about him; but carefully avoiding the stranger, whose dark eyes, from beneath his slouched hat, were bent upon him.

"And why," asked the latter, eagerly, "would you arrest the hand of justice?"

"Sir," said the bailiff, solemnly, "let the punishment rest upon him that deserves it. I am he. If it be wrong to think to take away my life—if it be sin to compass the death of any man—it is also sin to tempt a man to do it. Many have been the galling words I have spoken, and the wicked, taunting things I have done. But, oh, my fellow men, forgive me now, as you hope to be forgiven. This terrible night has brought my sins to remembrance, and, if I live I am a changed man—but if I die—"

Here a tremor seized his whole frame.

"Then you will not tell us?" said the stranger, enquiringly.

"No, sir," said Rogers, meeting his eye for the first time. "You have saved my life—but even for that I cannot do as you say; and before the light of the sky above us, I swear that his name shall never pass my lips."

"I did not know there was as much good as that in him," muttered Martin.

"I cannot help approving such sentiments," said the stranger; "for they shew a forgiving spirit, under hard circumstances, and it may be the beginning of better things which is strongly called for—since it is unlikely, that your master would overlook your neglect of the trust he so implicitly confided in you. (Rogers groaned.) Nothing can defend you, but a hearty and sincere repentance; but I do say," said the soldier, as his eye kindled, "that it is a good beginning; and, sir, I, for one, am willing to withdraw any further investigation of this mysterious affair, since he who has suffered most, will not come forward with his evidence."

"The crime lies heavily on my heart," replied Mr. Ware; "but I am little inclined to enter on such a business, though I know it is only right that the criminal should be punished. If, however, he would come forward and plead guilty to this outrage, it would remove the suspicion which now rests on us all."

"No, no, sir," cried the bailiff; "let him keep his own counsel, for by confessing, he makes you all partners in his crime, if you do not punish him. Let it be between him and me, and let him take my life, if I ever deserve again to lose it at his hands."

"It may be possible," said the stranger; "that your master will accept your repentance, the first fruits of which we all witness. Is there any amongst us," said he, looking round, "who is so unforgiving, as to think Colonel Hargrave wrong, should he give this poor man, an opportunity of redeeming his moral character in the situation in which he has lost it. I, for one, should it be necessary, would say that he was right."

A murmur of approval ran round the group, though many, at the same time doubted if they would be consulted on the subject.

A light of renewed strength, and hope, shot over the bailiff's dejected face; but when he tried to speak, the revulsion of feeling was too much for him, and he burst into tears.

"Take him home," said the stranger, and as several men hastened to execute his order, he turned away, and walked slowly down the village. As he did so, he was attracted by the observations of several women who were standing talking together.

"Poor young thing," said one; "so soon cut off. Well, the rich oftentimes go before the poor. 'Tis a sad night, indeed," said another; "I thought she would not bear it."

This was said with that tone of real sympathy in illness or death, which the poor feel so readily and sincerely.

"What has happened?" he enquired, stopping and addressing the last speaker.

"Well may you ask," replied she; "for it is a sweet flower that has been cut down to-night. I was just coming down from the Manor house, where I went to see the children, and as I came back through the avenue, what should I see, but a light in old Molly's cottage. Now I knew she had been up at the Manor time enough for her fire to have gone out; and, says I, to myself, I'll just step in and see—so, up to the house I went, and what should I see sitting on the door steps, but an old man a crying like any thing. 'What's the matter?' says I; he didn't look up, but he said, sobbing like:

"'It's all over.'

"'What's over?' says I.

"'She's gone to rest,' says he.

"'Who d'ye mean?' says I.

"'Miss Amy,' says he, and then—but, bless my heart!"

The stranger had sprung from them, and hurried forwards.

"I believe he's a spirit," said the terrified speaker.

"Nau, Nau," said an old woman, "he's flesh and blood, for I touched 'en."

They had not much time, however, for further remark, for they were summoned by their husbands to leave gossipping, and come and assist them in doing all they could towards their comfort. Already Mrs. Hawkins, housekeeper at the manor, had been busy in allotting to them the rooms over the stables, formerly occupied by the grooms and stable boys, and which were still neat and clean, and well aired, in the constant expectation of the Colonel's return, for the faithful servant was resolved, that, whenever her freakish master appeared, he should find her prepared for him. The accommodation thus afforded, was, however small, compared to the number of families, and, after dividing the whole of the servants' offices between them, she was obliged to quarter many in the better parts of the house; she was, therefore, not a little relieved, when she found that most of the farm houses in the neighbourhood had followed the good example set them, and freely opened their doors to the houseless.

The stranger might shortly afterwards be seen coming from the lodge, and hastening towards Mr. Ware, who was superintending the removal of Rogers to the rectory, where he hoped that during the hours of returning health, he might acquire an influence, which might turn his present feelings to good account.

"Sir," said he, as he joined him, "may I beg you to go to poor Miss Lesly."

"What has happened to her?" said Mr. Ware, anxiously.

"The child is dead," replied the stranger.

"Dead!" exclaimed Mr. Ware, in surprise, "I heard she was safe, poor child. How I wish I had seen her."

He did not speak again till they reached the lodge, and then leaving his companion without, he entered the chamber of death. There lay his little favorite on her couch, which had been arranged with studious care. By her side knelt Mabel, her head buried in her hands, her hair loose and disordered, and looking almost as lifeless as the child she mourned.

Miss Ware was in the room, and hurried to meet her brother with an affectionate kiss, for she had not seen him for some hours.

"I am glad you are come, Edmund," said she, "for I can do nothing for the poor girl—she will not even speak to me."

"Do not even try to comfort her," said her brother, taking her hand, kindly; "we who are grateful for each other's safety can well enter into her feelings. Send away these good friends, and keep only one with you, and then stay with her a little while; but do not rouse her yet—I will come again and see her."

His sister, always prompt in following his advice, choosing one steady woman to be with her, dismissed the rest (who had crowded in with the hope of being of service) with thanks for their attention.

Mr. Ware then joined the stranger, and walked on towards the rectory; he said:—

"I can do nothing for her yet—but my sister is with her. It is too soon to offer comfort—for it seems like mockery in the first moments of anguish. You seem to take an interest in our favorite."

"It is impossible to be insensible to such heartrending scenes," he returned, laconically, as if to check further remark.

"We are much indebted, sir, for your exertions last night," said Mr. Ware, at length.

"Pray mention nothing of that," he said, evasively.

"But how can I help it—is it in the nature of man to receive favors with a thankless heart?"

"It is."

"Yes, but not, I trust, so soon after they have been conferred. I own that benefits are often, much too often forgotten—but you wrong us, if you believe we could so return a favor bestowed by a stranger. You shall receive my thanks, at least; and do not think my simple-hearted friends less accustomed to feel because they often express their feelings with difficulty. No, let me assure you, that as long as the tale of this night shall be told by the cottage hearth, so long will your name be spoken of with praise."

"Sir," he replied, "I have been soured by the world, or I should not have expressed a doubt, which, believe me, I am very far from feeling. I know, as you say, that my poor services will be handed down as part of this night's sad tale; and of yourself, sir," he slightly raised his hat, "I have seen enough to convince me, that you deserve my respect, even had I not seen it reflected from those whose hearts are difficult to win; and let me assure you, that I am more gratified than you would easily believe, for the good opinion you so kindly express, though I feel myself utterly unworthy of it. It were hard for me to doubt the existence of gratitude, when the smallest benefits, and even the kindly words of—

'Auld lang syne'

are treasured up in my mind. No; past benefits are like stars which we leave behind in our onward path, but which may light it still. But," added he, relaxing into his desponding tone, "how very few have we to remember—how scantily are those kindnesses shewn which keep the heart warm towards its fellow creatures."

"Pardon me," replied Mr. Ware, "carry back your thoughts perhaps to a mother's tender care, and her love which can find an excuse for every fault—the more thoughtful pride of a father, and the thousand little kindnesses and confidences by which sisters and brothers bind themselves to each other by links which the world finds it difficult to break.

"Remember our school days and school-fellows, friends at college, and why not friends in after life. Oh, the heart must be bereaved indeed that has nothing to excite its gratitude—and, excuse me, the heart is kept warm towards the world more by its power of blessing others, than of being blessed itself—and that is in the power of all, even if it be but the gift of a kindly word and a sympathizing look. I am surprised that one so skilled in giving assistance to others should speak as you do; but it seems, if I may venture to say so, as if the world had dealt hardly with you."

"And you," said the stranger, "speak as one who has been so fortunate as both to have given and received blessings."

"You speak truly, at least so far, that I have been much blessed through a life which I may call a long one—let me hope that you may be equally so."

"What I may be," he replied, moodily, "none can say—but what the past has been, I know too well. Yet why I intrude my confidence upon you, I can scarcely tell, except that your kindness encourages it. Yet, when I am far from here, I shall remember your courtesy with pleasure, and would plead that I may not be altogether forgotten."

"You need not ask me that," said Mr. Ware; "but you are not going to-day, and must come and dine with me."

"I must deny myself that pleasure," he returned; "for I have sent my horse to the little inn at Fowly, and ordered my dinner—and besides, you will have another guest."

"Then I must wish you good day for the present," said Mr. Ware, as they parted, he to see after the comforts of the sick bailiff, while the stranger crossed the fields to the Aston woods, and buried himself in its wild paths for the rest of the day.

CHAPTER II.

Life is before ye—from the fated road
Ye cannot turn; then take ye up your load,
Not yours to tread, or leave the unknown way,
Ye must go o'er it, meet ye what ye may;
Gird up your souls within ye to the deed,
Angels and fellow spirits bid ye speed,
What tho' the brightness dim, the pleasure fade,
The glory wane—oh! not of these is made
The awful life that to your trust is given.

F. Butler.

Towards evening Mr. Ware repaired to the lodge. When he entered the small room he found his sister sitting near the window, while Mabel was still upon her knees by the bed-side.

"I cannot rouse her in the least," said Miss Ware, anxiously, as she met his eye, "this is a wretched place for her to stay in, and it will only do her harm."

Mr. Ware approached her, and repeating her name gently, waited for an answer, but receiving none, he laid his hand on her shoulder, and said, with attempted firmness—

"My child, your mother asks for you."

A heaving of the chest and a deep drawn sigh shewed that he was heard.

"Shall she ask in vain," he continued, "will you refuse to go to her, dear Mabel—will you not go and weep with her?"

Mabel raised her head, but her first effort caused her eyes to fall upon the bed, and she burst into a passionate flood of tears.

The brother and sister, both deeply moved, looked at each other in silence.

Again Mabel raised her head, and seemingly relieved, stretched her hand towards Mr. Ware, who took it, and kindly pressed it in both his own.

"Bear with me a little while," she murmured, with quivering lips, "and I will go with you—yes, I am ready now," she said, slowly rising, then stopping to look round upon the desolate chamber, she exclaimed—

"But how can I leave her here?"

"Leave her to my care," said Miss Ware, "and she shall be properly removed to the Manor."

Mabel seized her hand, but then, as if afraid of trusting herself, she tore herself away, and hurried out. Once in the open air she accepted Mr. Ware's proffered arm, and allowed him to guide her where he pleased. She neither spoke nor looked around her, nor did he seek to excite her to any further effort, he was contented in the idea that he was taking her where she would not long remain inert; so he only drew the cloak, he had thrown round her, closer over her head, to shield her from the cold air, and led her quietly to the Manor.

It no longer wore the air of solemn silence, which was its wont; the sound of many confused voices woke the echoes in the court-yard, and men and women lounged freely about the usually strictly kept premises.

The hall door was opened as they approached, by Mrs. Hawkins, who had seen them from one of the windows—the good woman looked considerably hurried from superintending the different parts of the well-filled mansion, and in doing her utmost to preserve the carpets, hangings, and statues from the touch of the children, and the over curious.

Mabel paused as she entered the hall, and looked anxiously round her. This was the only show part of the house, but it amply repaid the visit of the stranger. Around the walls statues of great beauty and immense value were placed in niches—above was a gallery in which paintings of the choicest kind were arranged with much taste. This reached by two marble staircases at each end. The hall was of the height of the house itself, and was thoroughly lighted by windows, and a sky light, so that the pictures were seen to the greatest advantage. Beneath it opened on passages leading to different sitting-rooms, while the picture-gallery above led to the bedrooms. All these being fitted up in a style which included every luxury which the most lavish wealth could purchase, yet so completely in keeping that the whole appeared a thoroughly comfortable English home, after all.

For a few moments Mabel remained looking round her in bewildered silence. Mr. Ware watched her attentively, but her open countenance did not, as usual, tell him the train of thought which oppressed her. He took her hand, saying kindly—

"Mrs. Hawkins is waiting to take you to your mother."

"I am ready," said Mabel, drawing a long breath, as she turned and followed her to the room which had been given to Mrs. Lesly, and where already every comfort, which the good housekeeper could devise, surrounded her.

Satisfied now that the mother and daughter were together, Mr. Ware left the mansion with many sad reflections.

The next day was Sunday, and strangely came that time of rest after the two last days of confusion and terror. The morning was cold, clear, and frosty, and as glad a sun as ever cheers a wintry landscape, shone down upon the smouldering ruins of the village. As the time for morning service approached, a merry peal from the bells of the village church welcomed sunshine to the earth, and peace and safety to the hearts of men.

As Mr. Ware slowly ascended the steep path leading to the church, he was followed by many groups of old and young, who, at his bidding, hastened to testify their thankfulness for the sparing of their lives. One young life had alone been cut down, and none passed Mrs. Lesly's cottage, without thinking sadly of Amy. When the whole of the little congregation had assembled, crowding the church, for all were there, the stranger entered with a sad and serious countenance. Avoiding the seat belonging to the Manor, which the clerk readily opened for him, he entered the next pew, and kneeling gently, seemed anxious to avoid the many eyes which were turned admiringly upon him, who, for their sakes, had braved every danger with reckless confidence. The sermon was rendered impressive by its touching simplicity, and found an echo in every heart subdued by the late calamity. None listened more attentively than did their stranger benefactor; and when the service was concluded, he seemed still impressed with what he had heard, as, avoiding all companionship he walked again to the woods, which, by their peculiar beauty, always attracted the attention of the tourist. But when the bell again called to service, he returned, and entered the church, late, as before; possibly to avoid the many groups which had been loitering round it; and, when they again left the church, he lingered till he could join Mr. Ware in the porch, walking quietly out with him through his private gate; thus, avoiding those who were anxious to offer him their thanks.

"You understand, sir," he said, "how to touch the feelings."

"It is of little consequence, I fear, to excite the feelings," replied Mr. Ware; "for so many are contented to go no further."

"I believe you; yet our feelings are often the gateways to our reason."

"Yes, indeed; and therefore the power of appealing to them is not to be slighted. I was myself deeply impressed, to-day, when I saw the many anxious faces looking up to me as I spoke. Oh, I do believe this might be the beginning of better things in my parish, if—."

"If what," enquired the stranger; "are you, too, going to throw all the blame on the poor landlord."

"Willingly, most willingly would I throw not the blame, but all the praise of their well-being upon him, if he would but return and give us the blessing of feeling him to be amongst us."

"Yet you cannot help being angry with him."

"Perhaps not, but mine is more the pettishness of jealous affection, and I cannot bear to see him keeping away from those whose hearts he might make all his own—and wasting health, and time, and happiness, in the wayward course he has chosen.

"But, sir," added Mr. Ware, checking himself. "You will come to my house, to-day."

"I thank you, time presses with me; and here you see my horse is waiting. A fine fellow, is he not; how gallantly he bore that long ride the other night, and he looks none the worse for it now. Here, my good fellow," he said, dismissing the man who led him, and taking the rein upon his arm. "Will you not walk a little further with me," he continued to Mr. Ware.

"Certainly, though I confess myself thoroughly disappointed that you will not stay with me."

"Another time, dear sir, I will not fail to avail myself of the pleasure of your acquaintance; but I really have engagements I do not like to break. Do you think there is any hope of the poor bailiff?"

"I trust so."

"I know you will do every thing you can for him, mentally and bodily. If he would become a changed man, the comfort of your people might be better secured, than by the appointment of a fresh bailiff."

"Very possibly," replied Mr. Ware.

The deep shadows of the winter's evening were now rapidly closing round them, and the light streaks on the horizon growing fainter and fainter—yet, still they lingered as if their short acquaintance rendered them reluctant to part so soon.

"The night warns me that I must go," said the stranger, at length, as he mounted his horse, casting as he did so, a glance at the surrounding country; "though I would willingly stay—but the shadows always come between me and happiness."

"Not so," said Mr. Ware, earnestly.

"Is it not so," said the stranger, slightly bending towards him, and as he did so, raising his hat, together with the mass of red hair which disguised his countenance, now beaming upon him in its characteristic and noble beauty—to which the deep black of his hair added all that was wanting. Before, however, Mr. Ware had time to utter a word, a light stroke of the whip sent the horse forward, and as he dashed onwards, he cried; "Say nothing till we meet again." In a few seconds he had turned the corner, and as Mr. Ware stood entirely bewildered with the revelation which had burst so suddenly upon him—he heard nothing but the echo of his horse's hoofs—as its utmost speed carried him further away—till the last sound died upon the night air.

CHAPTER III.

Oh, there are griefs for nature too intense,
Whose first rude shock but stupifies the soul;
Nor hath the fragile, and o'er labour'd sense,
Strength e'en to feel at once their dread controul.

But when 'tis past, that still and speechless hour
Of the sealed bosom, and the tearless eye,
Then the roused mind awakes with tenfold power,
To grasp the feelings of its agony.

Hemans.

The heavy sound of the funeral bell may, in crowded cities, lose half its influence by falling upon ears which use has attuned to its sound; but in a small and remote village death comes at long intervals, and reads a more solemn lesson, lest he may be altogether forgotten. How strange and oppressive is the sound of the minute bell—the pause—the silence—and then the low booming sound which strikes to the heart of the most careless, as if it would urge us while the king of terrors is before us, and weighing oppressively on our hearts—to wake from the lethargy of sin, and the fascinating dreams of worldly pleasure and ambition. The air feels heavy, though on the brightest summer day, and, though we may not waken to the things which death calls to our remembrance, we cannot sleep as firmly as before.

Such, perhaps, might have been the thoughts of the worthy Rector, as he remembered many unruly members of his church, and wished that the awful sound might waken them, to look with him beyond the dark tomb and funeral pall, when that solemn tolling spoke to them of the fair young child, who had departed from amongst them. As the simple procession neared the church, those employed in clearing away the ruins, leant upon their spades, and for awhile forgot their labour. Amy had been Mabel's favorite messenger of mercy to the sick and afflicted, and every little gift had come with more grace from the hands of the beautiful child; to many a fevered couch had she carried the ripe fruit, which she had begged from the old gardener; and many watched now with tearful eye as she passed to her long home. Mabel followed her with feelings of anguish, she in vain endeavoured to tranquillize, for her natural passions were as strong as the controul she so steadily placed over them. Captain Clair had obtained permission to attend, and those who did not fully understand the poor child's history wondered at the emotion he betrayed. It was a cheerless, dark day, when they laid her to rest in her narrow bed, amongst the graves, where, led by a gentle sister's hand, she had from infancy learned to think of

"A heaven of joy and love,"

and to know

"That holy children when they die,
Go to that land above."

The remembrance of those by-gone scenes—of the sunny days of Amy's childhood, and the earnest face with which she would listen when she talked, came fresh to Mabel's mind; but, when she remembered that they had not been passed so thoughtlessly as they might have been, she tried to chase away selfish thoughts, and to turn with calm submission from the past, which she had loved so well—to a hard and relentless future. Yet, when the last rites had been performed, when she had gone from the grave and again entered Aston Manor, a loneliness fell upon her heart with cold oppressiveness. It was, perhaps, some relief to her that she was surrounded by no familiar objects which could have recalled memory after memory of past days. The marble staircase, and the beautiful pictures which hung round the gallery, could form no memorial of their neat but old-fashioned cottage, where her father's retirement, and Amy's whole life, had been spent. The soft carpets and silk hangings could only recall, by contrast, those which neatness and economy alone had rendered respectable. With one glance at her black dress, which her mother was to see for the first time, she opened the door of the room which Mrs. Hawkins had chosen for them, and stole noiselessly in Mrs. Lesly slept, and her faithful maid sat by her, weeping silently. It was a relief to poor Mabel not to be obliged to speak, and she withdrew to a window-seat, where she might think without interruption. Her mother slept in a bed of crimson silk, which fell in graceful folds to the ground. The whole furniture of the room was costly; pictures, of sacred subjects, by the first masters, hung round the walls, and every comfort which luxury could suggest, or wealth purchase, betokened the riches and taste of the possessor of the mansion. She turned her eyes to the window, where a view presented itself fully in keeping with the interior of the building. The wide spreading oaks had been so arranged as to open on a vista, which admitted the copse covered hills, beyond; while, immediately below the windows, lay the gardens, which, like the house, gained what they lost in size, in rich and careful cultivation, and where now, evergreens, of all varieties, from all countries, gave a still life to the scene. The wind had again risen, and dark clouds chased each other over the lowering sky, such, as in our melancholy or fanciful moods, seem the hieroglyphics by which we may read our destiny. By how many fanciful links are we united to the invisible world. But it was beyond the cloudy screen, that hung so darkly over the earth, that Mabel's clear eye endeavoured to penetrate. With her hands clasped before her, she remained gazing upon the pure sky, which at intervals might be discovered as one cloud rolled by, though immediately followed by another, as if the image it brought to her mind cheered and upheld her. With childlike trust, she endeavoured to resign that which had endeared a life, which one sorrow had done much to darken; but the duty was a hard one. It was not easy to lose the occupation, the thought of the present, and the preparations and visions of the future; at once, to be forced, in stillness to think, when, before, active exertion had found an object, and every motive an end.

But, as she still gazed upon the scene around her, a cloud stole over her brow, and she looked uneasily at the dark woods, which skirted the landscape. She took a long review of the past, which, as it were, forced itself, in this terrible hour, upon her mind; the struggle which she recalled, had nearly cost her her life, and would have rendered life valueless, had it not been for the victory of principle over wayward and exorbitant passion, which, turning her thoughts inward, upon a sinful heart, and forward, to a future, still richly blessed, taught her that, even deprived of the blessing she had so fondly prized, she had yet sufficient to call forth her warmest gratitude. When first she had brought herself unflinchingly to sacrifice her love to her religion, she might have deemed that sacrifice of her heart's best affections one which might atone for much evil, and that, the victim of a broken heart, she would find a martyr's grave. But there was within her a better though a humbler seed—the germ of a higher and holier principle. It had slept in prosperity, and the bitter tears of sorrow were needed to call it into life. Under its influence, she learnt a truer idea of herself, and her own duties. She found that life, though spent in weariness and pain, is a boon of boundless blessing, since it is a working day, on whose wages our whole happiness depends. Six years had passed since Mabel and her lover had parted. She seemed, indeed, to those around her to be the same being—but in herself how changed in those few years. All that before was impulse or wayward goodness, now rose from the one pure motive—the hope of blessing instead of being blessed. She had, therefore, learnt to govern her temper—to give up her own selfish inclinations—and to counteract any morbid remembrance of the past. The habit of self control, thus earnestly acquired, she now found of avail in the hour of need, in a way scarcely to be comprehended by the habitual victims of weakness, or the slaves of the feelings of the hour. She rose and left the window, and taking a seat by her mother's side, partially screened herself from her notice, lest the first sight of her mourning dress might too evidently recall the day's sad duties. Yet she could not refrain from watching her as she slept, with that anxious solicitude which Mr. Ware had foreseen would not long be absent from her mind; for how soon she too would be removed, he feared to think. But to Mabel's ever hopeful mind had come a doubt of her danger, which gave a zeal to every effort to forward her recovery. Mrs. Lesly's removal to Aston Manor—the seat of her husband's near kinsman—served to soothe one of the few selfish feelings she possessed. There was something peculiarly agreeable to a proud and refined mind like her own, in the luxury with which she was surrounded, and, though she might have had some reluctance in taking advantage of it, could her health have allowed her removal, she quickly gave up the point, with her constitutional indolence, and readily acquiesced in an arrangement, which, in its general effect, soothed and gratified her. The poor and neglected widow would spend her last days in the mansion, where she felt honor to be her due, though she could scarcely tell why. Yet she might be forgiven the few failings to which she was subject, and which always did more injury to herself than others, to whom her kindness was ever most lavish. Since her confidence with Mabel, as to the lost papers, her mind had seemed at ease, and her daughter had skilfully prevented her recurring to the subject, or again suffering that uneasiness which had preyed so seriously on her mind before. Perhaps, with the vague remembrance that Mabel had suggested something, though in reality but the quick prompting of an affectionate heart, she had flattered herself that all was well—and Mabel rejoiced that it was so. To say that the latter was indifferent when she allowed herself to think, would have been untrue; but now, with Amy, had gone, all restless doubts of the future. A steady mind, a firm and trusting heart, and an humble, but courageous, self-reliance, were sufficient, she felt, for her own provision, though she would have trembled to have entrusted one so dear, and so helpless, to such support as the brave man, sometimes, when called on, to protect those he loves, has been seen to lose nerve through dangers which, had he met them alone, would scarcely have excited a thought of fear.

At length, Mrs. Lesly slowly opened her eyes, and gazed round her for a few moments, as if to bring back the reality, and to separate it from her dreaming fancy. Mabel shrunk slightly back; but her mother, as if divining her motive, herself drew aside the curtain, and taking her hand, said, gently—

"My sweet child, why should I fear to look upon these sad signs of your grief? I have little cause to regret that she has gone a few days before me. No, dear, I, who have seen so much of this cold world, could scarcely wish to leave my darling to its stinted kindness—so young—so helpless—and so unfriended."

"Ah," thought Mabel, as tears rushed to her eyes, "to have begged for her her daily bread, would have been joy to losing her."

"I see," continued Mrs. Lesly, "that you can, with difficulty, perceive why I speak so now; but, my Mabel, will remember, with gratitude, should she ever suffer the unkindness of the world, that her sister shares it not, and her noble heart will rejoice that she alone will have to bear the trials, from which a dying mother cannot protect her."

"Ah, Mamma, that word alone is dreadful; you must not—cannot leave me."

"My child knows that there is a must, which cannot be resisted—and I have mistaken my Mabel if she does not bow before this, with as much courage and submission, as before every other trial. Remember your dear father's words in his last illness—'Mabel, life is but a short campaign after all, and you must fight to the end; who would be so cowardly as to lay down his sword for a wound'?"

"I will remember, dearest mamma," said Mabel, more firmly, for the words of her father always had influence with her; "and, oh, forgive my selfishness."

Tears were in her mother's eyes, though her voice had been firm; and Mabel, fearing to continue the conversation, returned to the window, and looked out again upon the night, which was fast closing around; but scarcely did she now heed the flitting clouds, and the coming darkness, or the wind as it rocked the old trees, or their branches, which, by their fantastic motion, appeared beckoning her attention; they seemed, an hour ago, to echo back the light laugh, whose gay music she would hear no more; but now the hour of fancy was over, and oppressed by the real presence of grief, she bowed her head, and chastened her heart to silence.

CHAPTER IV.

There is one
Must be mine inmate, for I may not choose,
But love him.

Southey.

On the Saturday evening of the week which had been so eventful at Aston, the Villars family were assembled in their showily furnished drawing-room, in Sydney Place, Bath, each engaged in different occupations; but all eagerly expecting the promised arrival of their rich cousin, Colonel Hargrave. The drawing-room had been studiously arranged, and had not failed to become what it was intended to be—tempting morning and evening lounge, where every single, and eligible man, obtained an easy chair, an amusing chat, and a welcome, which flattered his vanity.

On the present occasion, the ladies of the family were all as finely and as tastefully dressed in the newest mode, as an evening at home could allow—and certainly, taken together, they might have been regarded as a singularly fine family.

Mrs. Villars we have already had occasion to describe; yet, en passant, it is necessary to say that herself at Aston, (swayed by the conflicting feelings of conscience, and her sister's straightforward reasoning, exercised with a candour, known to their girlhood before either had chalked out her path in life,) was a very different personage, indeed, to Mrs. Villars in Bath. The stately importance, or smiling dignity, with which she received her levy of morning callers, or evening guests, showed no wavering conscience, or doubtful heart. A certain degree of intrigue many might have detected; but in the mother of so large and fair a family that was easily forgiven; and, while the gaiety of her conversation rendered her ever a welcome and popular guest, the size of her rooms, and brilliancy of her parties rendered her a valuable hostess. She was now moving about the room to adjust something or other, or taking a peep at the dining-table, to secure herself against anything which might give a bad impression to the expected guest.

Next, if not first, in dignity, stood her daughter Caroline. She was certainly beautiful, though rather fine than engaging, and her expression was haughty and severe—yet beautiful she certainly was, if the most perfect outline of feature is beauty. In figure she was above the middle height; but this was modified by a well rounded person, and a certain academical grace of movement. Her person did not belie her character; she did not rate herself below her real value, and might, indeed, often have erred on the wrong side. In her manners, she was overbearing, but seldom unlady-like. She was talented, yet wanted solidity—haughty and ill-tempered, yet seldom mean, unless greatly tempted. In her own family she rivalled her mother's influence—being a sort of person over whom it was very difficult to have authority. Her age was something beyond thirty, and the remembrance that, with all her beauty, she was still unmarried, gave her mind a sourness which greatly embittered the comfort of the circle of which she formed so prominent a part. On the present occasion, however, she was in one of her best moods, for, slow to take warning from the past, she looked on future conquest as certain. The expected arrival of Colonel Hargrave, about whom, for the last few months, she had been incessantly rallied by her mother and sisters, gave a brilliancy to her color, and a radiancy to her large black eyes—and as she leant over her harp, rambling over a few airs, which might form a romantic greeting to him, Mrs. Villars looked upon her with satisfied triumph. To tell the truth, she was very much afraid of her on account of the haughty and imperious temper, which, in childhood, she had forgotten to guide, and looked upon no scheme for the benefit of her family, with more interest than on the one which might secure Caroline a settlement, which would satisfy her temper, bring honor on herself, and, not least, remove her from all rivalry with her younger sisters. She had, therefore, on the present occasion, been spared nothing which could coax her wayward humour into rendering itself as fascinating as possible—for well did Mrs. Villars know that by a little ill-timed opposition, her anger might be roused, and thus all hopes of her settling be lost. Her expensive taste had, therefore, been for the last few weeks fully gratified, though Mrs. Villars trembled at every request which she feared to refuse. Selina, her second sister, was lounging about the room, sometimes taking up an old album, or a piece of knitting, and wondering where the Colonel could be. She was a very fair-skinned, fair-haired girl, with very light blue eyes—bearing an expression of indolent, good nature. Her prevailing taste was dancing, of which she was passionately fond. Less talented than her elder sister, she yet understood better how to render herself acceptable in society. The pretty lisp with which she often declined attempting a difficult song, was by many deemed more pleasing than her sister's perfect execution of it; and the many pretty nothings about nothing, with which she entertained her partner in the dance, or the smile which meant anything he liked to interpret from it, was often preferred to Caroline's more sensible conversation. She was not, however, so silly as she sometimes chose to appear; a quiet sense of self-preservation usually befriended her, and rendered her sufficiently alive to her own interest. But though very generally liked, she was not often seriously admired.

Our friend Lucy was seated on a stool near the fire, seemingly anxious to catch the fitful light as it fell upon a picture of Finella, (her intended character for the fancy ball,) which she held in her hand. It might have been that she remembered something of the time when Captain Clair had so earnestly dissuaded her from going to that very ball, for the color came and went upon her cheeks as if her thoughts were far from the present scene, and as if they so much occupied her as to prevent her feeling the tedium of expectation.

Maria, the youngest of the sisters, was standing by her, trying, at times, to rally her by remarks which dyed her cheek still deeper, though she remained determinately inattentive to them.

Over Maria her mother had spent many a desponding hour; to her, beauty was everything, and the beauty so lavishly given to her other daughters, was in Maria singularly wanting. Maria, however, possessed more energy than the others, and was not disposed to weep over a deficiency, which she very justly considered to be no fault of hers. Her mouth indeed was very misshapen, and her nose anything but Grecian—but the irregularity of these features was very much redeemed by a pair of handsome eyes, which, though they sometimes sparkled with satire, as often sparkled with fun, in which she peculiarly delighted, though, unfortunately, it occasionally degenerated into vulgarity. She had sufficient common sense to know that if she remained inactive, comparisons, which in most cases are odious, would be doubly so between herself and her sisters, and she seldom allowed her tongue to be sufficiently silent to lead any one to take the trouble to scan her countenance; and, perhaps, the knowledge of her own deficiency did much to compensate for its existence.

One of the first exclamations a stranger would feel inclined to make, on an introduction to this family circle, would be—Why are all these girls unmarried? but no satisfactory answer could be given. Maria suggested, when the subject was discussed in private, that luck was against them. They were sought for, invited out, admired, flirted with by a host of young men, who professed they would have died to serve them, but somehow forgot to make those bona fide proposals, which would probably have been of more service to them than their deaths.

In leaving the description of Mr. Villars to the last, we are only following a fashion which was too prevalent in his household. There was little that was striking in his first appearance; he was only very thoughtful, very gentle, and very gentlemanly. He was the younger son of a wealthy merchant, and had been placed, much against his inclinations, in a firm of some consequence in London. His natural tastes led him to prefer rather classical studies, than the active part in the world of business for which his father designed him. Respect for parental authority, however, prevented his choosing his own profession, in opposition to it; and, being a man of high principle, he resolved that the dislike he entertained for his employment, should not prevent his vigorously exerting himself in the state of life in which he found himself. His prudence was rewarded, and during the thirty years which he had unrepiningly given to his business, he was fortunate enough to realize a fortune which enabled him to retire from it, and having amply provided for his family, by insurances effected on his own life, he was enabled, during his lifetime, to gratify both himself and them in every reasonable way. Having ceased to take any active share in the business, he removed to Bath, where he hoped to find gaiety sufficient to satisfy their wishes, while he indulged his dearly prized leisure in literary pursuits. This plan, however, failed to answer his expectations; his former occupations had given him little time to inspect personally the rising characters of his children, who had been left entirely to their mother's guidance, and he now found, when too late, that they were little calculated to form that domestic circle towards which, through so many long years, he had looked, as the haven of his rest. His tastes were not theirs, and the self denying love which can atone for such deficiencies, had, in their education, been forgotten. They were fond of him in their own way, but this did not prevent their finding the time spent in his study, in hunting for a lost passage, in a favorite author, or listening to some of his own elegant compositions, very dull indeed—though many efforts did he make to overcome this difficulty, and to find one, at least, amongst his four daughters, who might make a pleasant companion; but he had not the heart to command the attentions which he well knew love alone could supply, and with a sigh, he retired, not only companionless, but with a lower idea of his own merits than they deserved. The greater part of his time was now spent alone, in a way which little suited his gentle and domestic disposition; and, contented with holding the reins of domestic government, in serious matters, he let smaller arrangements take their course, without troubling or interesting himself in them. Such was the family group assembled to welcome Colonel Hargrave. The hour appointed, had, however, long passed; Mr. Villars had taken out his watch for the twentieth time, and now stood with it in his hand. Mrs. Villars wearied of her repeated messages to the kitchen to put off the dinner, and Caroline looked lowering for a storm. But nothing availed; quarter followed quarter, counted by impatient minutes. Yet, still, Mrs. Villars referred to the Colonel's note, which she carefully carried in her bag, and again and again read his promise to be with them at the time mentioned, in order that he might accompany them to the ball on the Monday. She had boasted of this, in no unsparing language, and, should he fail her now, her mortification would be complete. Still, concealing her own fears, she glanced, every now and then, entreatingly, at her daughter.

At length, Mr. Villars declared he would wait no longer. This resolution being at length carried, they adjourned, in no very agreeable mood, to the dining-room, to partake of a fine dinner, completely spoilt. Mr. Villars, feeling annoyed at the disrespect which a neglected appointment often implies, was not in the best possible humour, and his wife, eager to support the popularity of her unknown favorite, was obliged to exercise no small rhetoric to make all smooth. But when she looked at Caroline, and saw the cloud of ill-humour gathering fast, and, as quickly shading her beauty, she as fervently wished he would stay away for that night, at least, as she had before been eager for his arrival. This last wish was fully gratified, for the evening wore away, and yet no Hargrave made his appearance.

CHAPTER V.

At me you smiled, but unbeguiled,
I saw the snare and I retired.

Tennyson.

The Monday appointed for the fancy ball arrived, and still nothing had been heard of Hargrave. Mrs. Villars fretted, and Caroline assumed a haughty and sulky indifference. During the day, every knock and ring brought disappointment, till the lateness of the hour warned them to prepare for the ball. It was then that Caroline, for the first time, announced her intention of remaining at home. In vain did Mrs. Villars remonstrate that her fancy Sultana's dress had cost more than twice as much as her sisters', and it was of as little use to flatter her vanity by representing that she would be the most elegantly dressed in the whole ball-room; Caroline's temper was not to be conquered in a single night. Tired of persuasion, her mother stormed, and changing entreaties for threats, commanded her to go; but Caroline was obstinate, and nothing but bodily force could have moved her from the arm-chair, in which she had settled herself for the evening, with a candle close to her elbow, and a new novel in her lap. She would not go, she declared, with a haughtiness which would have suited a more unworthy proposal. Nor would she move from her chair, even to give the assistance of her advice at her sisters' toilet, or, in any other way betray the slightest interest in an amusement for which they had all been so long and so busily preparing.

Extremely chagrined, Mrs. Villars was compelled to submit, and, as she gave a last glance at the beautiful velvet dress which taste and money had alike been expended to prepare, the bitterness of her disappointment was not a little increased by remembering that this fruitless purchase had been made with part of the loan so hardly wrung from her sister; and it was with an uneasy sensation of annoyance, that she led her fair daughters that night into the crowded ball-room.

Lucy, with a heart upon the rebound, and flushed with the determination of piquing Clair, if possible, had never looked more lovely than she did that night. A white dress of the greatest simplicity distinguished her character, as Finella, while her long light curls fell in careless tresses over her neck and shoulders, forming a veil, which enhanced the beauty they seemed bent upon concealing. How wildly beat the heart in that illregulated bosom? Her simply going to the ball would, she imagined, shew herself free from any deference to Arthur Clair's opinion, and if any thoughts of Amy Lesly came unbidden amongst the revelry, she banished the remembrance by a lighter laugh or a bolder sally. She could not fail to attract attention, and many strangers were anxious to be introduced to the fairy Villars, as she was that night called; but one only attracted, and soon absorbed her attention, he was a young man of a prepossessing appearance, with large melting eyes and a low persuasive voice. Evidently attracted by her appearance, he had obtained an introduction, under the name of Beauclerc. He waltzed to perfection, and the implied compliments he every now and then offered, in a tone and voice of great sweetness, Lucy took for deeper homage than he perhaps intended, and the ready blush deepened on her cheek, and her eye sparkled when she suffered herself to be led to a seat apart from the dancers, where his witty remarks afforded her ample amusement. So readily, indeed, flowed his language, that the absent Clair sunk into nothing, a mere every-day flirt, compared with this fascinating new acquaintance. Besides, he possessed the power of drawing her out, and made her feel quite clever, by leading her to display herself in a new light. He listened to her remarks with the most flattering attention, and resigned her to the gentleman who next claimed her hand for the dance, with apparent reluctance. She was then surprised to find that she had as little to say as formerly, and that her new partner's observations on the fashionable news of the day had become quite uninteresting. She was not, therefore, sorry to find Mr. Beauclerc again by her side, when the dance was over, and she had taken a seat by her mamma.

"Can you tell me?" she said, turning to him, with a smile, "why, just now, I had plenty to say, but immediately I began to dance with that gentleman, I felt so dull I could not say any thing at all. I have been labouring at conversation, I assure you, with as much industry and dulness as the noted donkey at Carrisbrooke Castle employs in his task, but with far less success, for he succeeds in fetching up some water—I am afraid I cannot say the same, of a single idea. Would you believe that I twice observed on the band, once on the room, and three times on the lights. Can you tell me why, since you seem to have the genius of explaining every thing?"

A well pleased smile passed over his lips as he replied, only, by taking out a small hunting watch which he quietly opened, and then handing it to her, he presented her at the same time with the key of his escritoir.

"Will you," said he "oblige me by winding this watch."

"Oblige you," replied Lucy, laughing, "by breaking the spring, I suppose—that key belongs to your desk."

"You give me the very answer I desired. You cannot wind my watch, because I have not given you the right key. This illustrates what I am going to say.

"There are some minds suited to other minds, as this watch is to its key. This beautiful piece of mechanism," said he, playing with the watch in his hand, "would be to me, or to any one else, perfectly useless without the key, which, however simple in its construction, is yet so necessary to the watch, that it alone can render it of any service. It is so with the human mind, we may live for years without being fortunate enough to meet with one answering mind which can unlock the treasures of our heart, and the secret springs of feeling, and of thought, and bring them into exercise. It is the sympathy of those around us which we need, the power which others possess of understanding us; to place ourselves in a true light—do you understand me?"

"Partly," replied Lucy, hesitating, and looking down.

"Partly, but not entirely," returned Mr. Beauclerc, repeating her words, with an emphasis, which argued a slight degree of superiority, to which Lucy readily bowed. "Yet I would say you were made to enjoy these things as well as understand them. Nay, you must not think me rude if I say I read as much when first introduced to you; and that I felt I should be understood if I ventured to speak in a way which the world too often ridicules, because it does not comprehend it. It is only the simple language of truth; yet, because it is not exactly the same as the hacknied language of the world, it is regarded as nonsense."

Lucy did not quite understand all he said, but she felt that she was receiving an admiration more flattering, because paid to her understanding; and she only broke up the conversation after repeated invitations to the dance, and her pulse fluttered quickly as she heard, or fancied she heard, a sigh from the accomplished Beauclerc, as she gracefully resigned herself to a young officer, upon whose arm she was soon whirled past him in the giddy round.

Mrs. Villars smiled with secret pride, when some of her friends rallied her on her daughter's conquest, and she took an early opportunity of asking a friend who he might be.

"Have you not heard?" was the reply, "that he has brought his own carriage, and two hunters, to the Castle, and Ball—and, besides, his person speaks for itself, it is so distingué."

Mrs. Villars sought for Lucy, to impart these particulars, but was not sorry to find her waltzing with Mr. Beauclerc.

"What a handsome couple they would make," thought she; "and, oh, if Caroline and Hargrave were but here, I should be quite happy." But she little dreamt of the pleasure yet in store for that evening.

Mr. Villars soon beginning to feel impatient, she was compelled to draw her party together. Beauclerc accompanied them to the door; and as he handed Lucy into the carriage, she fancied his hand trembled. With this pleasing impression, she leant back in the fly which conveyed them home, and gave herself up to pleasant reverie, and castle building. She ran over every word which had passed in their long conversations, and thought they were an easy beginning to a more pleasing acquaintance than they often met with—she began then to feel quite surprised that she ever had given a tear to Captain Clair.

"Willingly," she said to herself; "will I resign him to Mabel, if she will have him; yet there was something in him I liked, though I cannot well remember what it was now. Why, he never talked in six weeks, half the sense which Mr. Beauclerc has thrown into one conversation. I feel quite grateful to him for deserting me, since, otherwise, I never should have met this very superior man, who, as he himself observed, though not in plain words exactly, possesses the key to my mind—and does not that seem like affection?"

These pleasing considerations were interrupted by their stopping at their own door, paying the driver, and running gaily up stairs.

"Hark," said Mrs. Villars, "there are voices in the drawing-room, I am certain. There are, I do believe."

"Why mamma," said Maria, who, with more courage, had applied her eye to the key-hole; it is only Caroline talking to somebody. When, upon this information, they opened the door, Caroline was discovered tête-à-tête, with a strange gentleman, with as much ease and nonchalance as if at the regular calling hour.

There was a slight tone of triumph in her voice as she said:—

"Colonel Hargrave, papa?"

"Oh, Colonel," said Mrs. Villars, taking the words out of her husband's mouth; "I can scarcely forgive you for obliging us to go to the ball without you."

"He has excused himself most ably," said Caroline; "the death of a friend detained him."

"I assure you," said he, with the greatest courtesy, "that nothing but so serious a reason would have prevented my keeping my appointment; and I trust, my dear sir, that you will excuse my keeping your dinner waiting on Saturday; but, as I said, just now, some very sad circumstances detained me on my road."

"Pray, say not another word," said Mrs. Villars; "we are very sorry for you, I am sure."

"I suppose," said Maria, "you did not arrive in time to join us?"

"Do you think," said Caroline, "that he could go to a fancy ball after attending the death-bed of a friend?"

"No, truly," said he, "I was in no humor for such gaiety, and was more pleased by the quiet welcome I have already received."

"Caroline has only expressed the feelings we should all entertain," said Mrs. Villars, smiling benignly, "and, indeed, I am most happy to see my truant nephew, at last."

Hargrave slightly started at the word nephew, not being able to divine how his distant connection with the family could be twisted into so close a relationship.

"I trust," continued Mrs. Villars, "that Caroline has taken every care of you, and that you have had some refreshment."

"Indeed she has been most kind," replied he politely. "She would not allow me to persuade her to retire to rest, when I had once announced my intention of remaining up to introduce myself. I will, however, no longer tax your patience; but will go to my own room, if you will allow me."

They accordingly separated, the Colonel lingering to say a few words to his host, and the ladies retiring to a kind of mutual dressing-room.

"Well, my love," said Mrs. Villars to her eldest daughter, "I will never blame you again, for I see you know how to manage without my interference. Nothing could have turned out better."

She felt, indeed, half inclined to idolise her, for the very ill-temper, which, in the early part of the evening, she had more justly blamed. Caroline, in her turn, looked upon them all with an air of superiority, as if the accident had been the result of her prudence.

"Indeed," she said, "he is a most sensible and entertaining man, and, I dare say, if the truth were known, my evening was the most pleasant after all."

"Not quite," replied Lucy, "for I also met with a most sensible and entertaining man."

"Yes," echoed Maria, "such a handsome man too—Hargrave is nothing to him. Every one was wondering who he was, and remarking on his attentions to Lucy."

"What, is Lucy taken in again?" said Caroline, with jealous bitterness. "I thought once in a season was sufficient."

Lucy coloured deeply and angrily, for it was not the first wound she had received.

"Well," said she to herself, "I will be closer this time—I will have no one to abuse my confidence by taunting speeches."

"Come, come," interposed Mrs. Villars, "do not let us quarrel with fortune; for my part, I feel inclined to be on good terms with all the world. Nothing could have been more propitious than your meeting in such a romantic manner. What were you doing when he came in?—at your harp, I hope. Well, how do you like him?"

"Why, Mamma, I think you believe in love at first sight. I am not so easily won."

"Nor the Colonel either, I dare say," said Maria.

"I will thank you, Miss Maria, to remember what you say, and to whom you say it."

"That I very seldom forget," retorted Maria, as she laid down her Swiss hat and ribbons, with a sigh, to think that she might not display them again.

"Come, come," again urged Mrs. Villars, "surely, Caroline, you can give us your opinion of him. You are so quick at reading character."

"That may be," replied Caroline, "but I scarcely think the right advantage to take of discrimination is to retail a private conversation, for the sake of subjecting a friend to everybody's quizzing observations."

Here she glanced angrily at Maria.

"Well," returned the latter, perfectly undisturbed, "is it come to friend and private, already, that, at least, sounds like something, and if you will conquer the good nabob in your own way, I suppose we must excuse being kept in the dark, as the cat politely observed to the mouse, when he was introduced to him in the cupboard."

"I think he is very handsome," said Selina.

"Yes," said Maria, "well enough since he possesses good eyes, good teeth, good forehead, nose and eyes—all tolerably well put together. Yes, I suppose he might be called handsome. I will ask Miss Foster, she is such a judge of masculine beauty."

"I beg you will do no such thing," said Caroline; "he must be considered as one of our own family, and I do not see what right Miss Foster has to pass her observations on us."

"I am afraid you are not quite so rigid with regard to Miss Lovelace," retorted Maria.

Mrs. Villars saw that much bitter remark was rising, and knowing that nothing could be obtained from Caroline, dismissed the conclave, which had assembled at so late an hour, only in consequence of the importance of affairs under deliberation; and she retired to rest satisfied with the course events had taken, and fully impressed with respect for Caroline's judgment. She, meanwhile, in the retirement of her own room, condescended to give Selina an account of the evening's conversation, by which means Mrs. Villars heard the whole the next day from Selina, whose more gentle temper rendered her the general recipient of her mother's schemes.

CHAPTER VI.

He walked he knew not whither;
Doubt was on his daily path; and duties shewed not certain.

Tupper.

Colonel Hargrave was a little past the age when hearts are easily won—and the ready courtesy with which he had performed his part of the evening tête-à-tête, might have shown a less prejudiced judge, that he was too accustomed to beauty, grace, and all the endless charms so bewitching to a younger man, to make him very easily fall into the snare which had been laid for him.

However, he had but very lately landed in England, after some years spent in the East; and though like most English travellers, he had been, at first, delighted with the marvels and records of ancient days, which that quarter of the globe so lavishly affords, as well as with the customs and habits of a people with whom he had delighted to mingle, he was not sorry to find himself once again in merry, busy England—one of a people whose interests are more of the present than of the past, where the rapid march of improvement and discovery, form a striking contrast to the splendid dreams of past Eastern glory. Then the comfort of social society—home with all its thousand associations of comfort and tranquillity were not indifferent to him, and he was not sorry to find a gayer welcome than the lonely halls of his own beautiful Aston might have offered him. His sleeping apartment had been arranged with a care that made it seem luxurious after the cabin fare to which he had lately been accustomed, and he paid more attention to the trifles which surrounded him than he had ever before done, for of such trifles he, for the first time, perceived the importance, since all combined gave a feeling of homely comfort which he felt he had scarcely missed till now, when once more in the enjoyment of it. Opening from this room was another, arranged with the most studious attention to ease and appearance. A fire blazed a warm welcome, after his day's journey, and everything conspired to make his little sitting-room one suited to a gentleman's fancy—and by affording him a place of retreat, he perceived that he would be allowed to enjoy the company of his cousins only when he was inclined. In all this there was such an evident desire to please, that he could not help feeling a little flattered, though, perhaps, as representative of the family credit and opulence, he might, at the same time, have felt it to be his due, and a necessary appendage to the invitation.

Tempted by the blazing fire, he threw himself upon the horse-hair sofa, which was near it, and fixed his eyes upon its flickering and varying light, but as he did so, his countenance soon lost the air of courteous pleasantry, which had a short while before possessed it, and he appeared lost in deep and even bitter thought.

The grave accusations of old Giles, and the lighter description of Clair, were both true; and yet a few words more of his mental history is needed fully to unravel his character.

During the life of his mother, he had been the pride of her existence, and keenly sensible of the quicksands which await the young man on his entrance into life—she had watched his opening manhood with the most tender solicitude. Her death, however, left him entirely to the care of his father—and he, thinking the hot-house system of preservation no longer befitting a youth of talent and ability, sent him abroad, first with a tutor, and afterwards alone, in order that he might acquire a knowledge of the world, and the ease, conversation, and polish, which foreign travel is calculated to give. In this he was fully successful. A short residence in the gayest city in Europe, so called forth young Hargrave's natural refinement of taste, that few could find fault with the manners of the finished gentleman whom Paris sent back from its school. But in Paris he had been thrown with those of professed Infidel principles—and amongst them he found men of superior talent and great intellect, who, while they extorted his own secret admiration, rendered him a homage to his youthful talent of the most flattering kind. By them he was rashly led to argue on the tenets of natural and revealed religion, and to discuss points, which are rather matter for faith than comprehension—and he entered on these questions with a spirit of which older men have not been innocent, rather seeking to display his own powers in the argument, than to do honor to the truth. The contest was eagerly courted by those who only kept their hearts at ease by engaging in the excitement of perpetual warfare. They were subtle reasoners, and Hargrave found himself coping with them, only with the greatest difficulty.

But, who can unlock the secret mysteries of the human mind, or give a clue to its strange inconsistencies? Even while he argued, the dreadful doubt passed into his own mind, and, wondering and amazed, he found himself an unbeliever in the faith he had so warmly defended! Too often have those who have become the most devoted christians at an after period of their life, had to mourn such infidelity, though, for a time only; and had Hargrave resorted to the simple means used by his old tenant, whom his thoughtless words had led astray, he, like old Giles, might have been restored to comfort—but he only rushed deeper and deeper into argument, and the more confirmed in error—he, at length, ended by declaring himself vanquished, and thanking his new friends for having opened his eyes to his own superstition. Thus eagerly received by a brilliant coterie, adorned by wit, genius, and learning, he learnt to boast of the sentiments he at first deplored, and to wonder that he should have been weak enough to recognise any other.

Where then was the reward for a mother's untiring self-devoted love to her son, through the years of infancy and youth? Despair not, fond mothers—"cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shalt find it after many days"—after many days, remember, and be patient.

One result, was, however, evident in this wild fit of recklessness—under the pretence of keeping his intellect pure and unclouded, he preserved the same rigid principles she had recommended, and in this he was firm, spite of the ribaldry of his companions. "No one," he said, proudly, "should be able to affirm that he had abandoned his religion because too weak to obey its laws." His friends, therefore, left off their jests and boasted that no professor of revealed religion could be a better moralist, or a more virtuous man. But such virtue must ever be but an unsteady light, which is founded on no firmer basis than self-opinion, and Hargrave might have started when in foreign lands, he had lavished the most profuse charity on those around him, had he remembered how blind he was to the wants and sufferings of those who at home called him master.

Too late his father's death summoned him to Aston, to take possession of the immense wealth which he thus inherited. After but a brief stay, events induced him to leave his native country, and entering the Indian army, he sought employment for his restless energies on the banks of the Indus. There his military career had not been without honor, and why he had returned to England, scarcely himself could tell.

There he sat, an older, if not a wiser and better man. Dark thoughts, like heavy clouds, seemed to pass over his mind, as with his hand supporting his head, he gazed fixedly, but vacantly on the fire. Perhaps he was thinking of his early days, and of the mother who had taught him to hallow them. Perhaps he was remembering how unable he had been to build the fabric even of human and short lived earthly happiness, on so weak and failing a foundation as his own unassisted virtue. For, to his heart, common joys had been tainted. The sabbath chaunt had brought no melody to his ear, reminding him of the rest which its Maker had hallowed. "The gentle flowers that stooping o'er the wilderness—speak of joy, and faith, and love," had seemed to him only a difficult clause in the argument of an adversary. Such might have been the dark remembrances of the hour, for he swayed himself to and fro, as if in an agony of spirit, nor did he retire to rest till the grey dawn warned him of the necessity of seeking repose.

CHAPTER VII.

Wisdom revenges, said
The world; is quick and deadly of resentment;
Thrusts at the very shadow of affront,
And hastes by death to wipe its honor clean.

Pollock.

The next morning Lucy was down stairs by eight o'clock, appearing scarcely to feel any fatigue from the gaieties of the last evening. The servants, taking advantage of their mistress's slumbers, had not been very careful to rouse themselves early; and as Lucy wandered about the house, she found nothing but rooms half closed, and maids with sweeping brushes, dusters, and open windows, forming no tempting welcome on a cold morning. Yet, chill as was prospect both within and without, she felt nothing cheerless that morning, and, putting on her bonnet and cloak, she went out, saying she would be back by breakfast time. She found the atmosphere thick and humid, and cold drops quickly gathered on her veil. The streets, under the influence of a slight thaw, were wet with black mud; but she quickly threaded her way through them, till reaching Milsom Street, she took her way towards the higher parts of the town. Few people were stirring, shops were only just open, and the occupiers engaged in filling their empty windows with a display for the day. The light-hearted girl scarcely giving a thought to any thing around her, soon reached the Circus, a fine but gloomy part of the town. Time and the weather have cast a black shade over its formerly clean white stone, which gives it an appearance of sadness, which is shared by the sombre hue of the evergreens, which ornament its garden. To one of its houses Lucy hurried, and after a short pause, was ushered into it by an old man, apparently butler in the establishment. The room into which she was shown, was upon the ground floor, and shared in no very slight degree, the appearance of the outside of the buildings. Its furniture was dark green, and the curtains, with their many heavy folds had been suffered to trespass too much upon the windows. There was an oak wainscoting round the room, and here and there some old portrait frowned down from the walls. The room was rather long than wide, and lighted by windows only on the one side, looking on the street; this often made it appear dark, but, in contrast to every thing about the place, a bright fire blazed upon the hearth, and a small table, with a snowy cloth, supported the hissing urn, and a frugal but snug breakfast. Seated beside it was rather a young looking lady. There was a certain air of unmistakeable dignity over her whole appearance; her features, though irregular, were intellectual and commanding, and the sparkling eye wandered with restless energy. Her hair was black as an Indian's, and she might have been called beautiful, but for the melancholy, which, as a veil, seemed thrown round her, stilling every quicker impulse into chill composure. She held the Times in her hand, folded at the leading article, but she laid it down and rose, on Lucy's entrance, with a look of surprise and pleasure.

"Why love," said she, "I thought you would be sleeping for an hour or two yet, after the fatigues of last night. I am sure no common event would bring you out this foggy morning, but sit down and I will give you some breakfast, for I am sure you have had none; let me take off your shawl, and then you shall have some of your favorite chocolate, and tell me your news as you drink it."

"I could not sleep," said Lucy, "and as no one was up I thought I would come and see why you were not at the ball as you promised last night."

"My poor uncle was so bad with his gout, that I had not the resolution to leave him, and you know how little will tempt me to stay away from such things," said Miss Foster, with a sigh.

"Ah," said Lucy, smiling, "clever people like you do not need such frivolities; but what would my poor vacant brain do without them."

"Why is it vacant? But you have not, like me, given up the phantom happiness, or you would prefer seeking something more substantial."

Lucy glanced at the leading article, and gave a slight shrug.

"You may come to that at last," replied her friend, with a moonlight smile, which passed almost immediately away, "really you do not know what a pleasure the morning papers give me—they make me remember that I am a denizen of the world, and besides, a daughter of England, and then I forget how lonely I am as an individual."

"But why lonely," returned Lucy, "the slightest effort on your part would surround you with friends, and you might have a host of acquaintances instead of my poor self, whom alone you admit, and I enjoy that privilege, merely from accident."

"You do not quite know me yet," said Miss Foster, "such society is no longer tolerable. And I might never have known even you, had not your horse thrown you at our very door, and forced me to open it. There was, indeed, something so pleasing in being able to nurse you for a few days, that I became insensibly attached to you. But such accidents seldom occur, and I care not to go through the common ordeal of acquiring acquaintances."

"Well," said Lucy, "when I am inclined to turn anchorite, Millie, you must let me in, and I will come and live with you; but I am rather of opinion that the world is a mirror which reflects back our smiles and our frowns."

"Is that sentiment your own?" enquired her companion, quickly.

"No—second hand from a delightful partner that I met last night. Such a very nice man—quite beyond my poor powers of description; everything he said was so clever, and so new, it seemed as if he had read more of the human heart than any one I ever met. He talked to me nearly all the evening."

"Imprudent girl!" exclaimed Miss Foster.

"Oh, if you take everything I say so seriously," said Lucy, poutingly, "I will not tell you anything."

"What kind of looking man was he?" said Miss Foster, without heeding her remark.

"He must be thirty, at least," said Lucy—"with light brown hair, deep blue eyes, rather tall, and very nice looking—not quite so handsome as Captain Clair; but then his talking was the fascinating part."

"And what did he talk about?"

"Oh, nothing in particular," said Lucy, coloring.

"And did you hear his name?" enquired Miss Foster, almost restraining her breath.

"Beauclerc," said Lucy; "is it not a pretty name?"

"You must have nothing more to say to him, if he talks such in a way that you blush already. Will you promise me?" said she, most violently.

"You must give me some reason."

"Imprudent girl, you must take my warning."

"If he were making love, I might consider," said Lucy; "but, as a common acquaintance, and a delightful dancer, you must give me some reason for cutting him."

"You are rash," repeated Miss Foster; "do not have anything to say to him, or you will repent it."

"I am not to be led blind-folded," said Lucy; "and you must prove me in danger before I can think such advice needed. Pray let us talk of something else—my poor beaux always tease you."

There was a very palpable tinge of vanity in this last remark, which caused Miss Foster to bite her lips, as if suppressing violent emotion, and to remain silent, though the uneasy flash of her dark eye betrayed something of the violence of her temper.

At this inopportune moment, a knock at the hall door announced another early visitor.

The door of their sitting-room was, after an interval of some minutes, cautiously opened by the venerable butler, who, with some embarrassment, presented a card to his mistress on a silver salver.

Lucy almost trembled as she saw that the storm which had been gathering on her friend's countenance was now ready to burst forth.

Her cheeks, which had a moment before been brightly flushed, turned to a livid white, as she brushed the card from the salver without touching it, and then stamped upon it with impotent violence.

Lucy's eyes fell upon the name—it was that of "Beauclerc"—and, unperceived, she took it up, and concealed it in the folds of her dress from further indignity.

"I am not at home," said Miss Foster, in a decisive tone to the aged butler, who regarded the scene with more concern than surprise, and left the room slowly and sadly. The front door was presently heard to close. As if ashamed of the passion into which she had been betrayed, Miss Foster seated herself, at once, and tried to resume her usual coldness of demeanor.

"See," said she, "the way in which I dare to treat him, and judge for yourself if he is worthy to be received as an admirer of yours."

"I think," said Lucy, recovering her animation, "you have shewn yourself very little my friend to treat a man with indignity, when I had expressed a contrary opinion of him."

Miss Foster regarded her rising spleen with an indifferent coldness, which made her still more angry.

"I say," she reiterated, "that it is a most unkind and ungrateful way of returning my confidence."

"Wilful child!" exclaimed Miss Foster, "will you never be guided for your own advantage?"

"I am no child!" exclaimed Lucy; "and if I do choose a guide, it shall be one who can rule her own temper."

"You should allow for the emotion you cannot understand," said Miss Foster, gravely; "but leave me now, Lucy, and do not be angry—we are both excited—and may say things we do not mean."

"Leave you," exclaimed her offended friend, starting up, and putting on her shawl with trembling hands—"I will not stay another moment where I am not wanted."

Miss Foster's head had sunk upon her hand, perhaps she was too deeply absorbed in her own feelings to notice Lucy's anger, till suddenly raising her eyes, in which thick tears were gathering—she watched her movements with a curious interest—but Lucy was already at the door—and gasping a "good morning," she hurried away, leaving her friend to the unpleasant thoughts she was indulging.

It was not anger alone which led Lucy to leave the house so hastily, for she was curious to see her pleasing companion of the night before, if but for a moment. She was not disappointed, for, as she opened the door, she perceived him standing on the other side of the way.

Could he have seen her enter the house? and, might not his having done so, been the reason of his early call on Miss Foster. Vanity is a ready prompter; and she had not proceeded many steps before she believed the delusive argument, and attributed her friend's warnings to jealousy. She had scarcely arrived at this conclusion, before she perceived Mr. Beauclerc crossing to her side of the way, and she gave a bow and a smile, which proved a ready inducement for him to join her. He looked so dejected, that she had not the heart to check his intention of lounging by her side, and he was far too courtly and ready in his manners to give such a meeting the least appearance of awkwardness.

"You are acquainted with the lady of that house then?" he enquired, after a slight pause in the conversation.

"Yes," said Lucy, smiling and looking at him, "and I suspect you know her also."

"Do you know her well?" he said, slightly colouring.

"Oh, very intimately—she is a great friend of mine."

"You know all her secrets then?"

"Well, I dare say I do," she replied, smiling importantly; for, to confess that she had a friend, and did not know all her secrets, seemed a derogation from her own dignity; "but, I fear I shall not know many more, for we have parted in anger."

"Indeed! can that be true—you in anger."

"Yes, yes," said Lucy, looking archly at him; "and what do you think it could be about?"

"I have, indeed, no means of guessing," he replied, with an interest which Lucy attributed rather to herself than her subject.

"About yourself, it was then?" said she, looking slightly aside.

"Impossible!" he exclaimed, delightedly; "have you then been speaking of me?—and what did she say of me?"

"Nothing you would, perhaps, like to hear," she said, with the same archness as before.