MABEL.

A Novel,

BY EMMA WARBURTON.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON:

THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER,

30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE.

1854.

CONTENTS.

[CHAPTER I] 1
[CHAPTER II] 21
[CHAPTER III] 46
[CHAPTER IV] 88
[CHAPTER V] 102
[CHAPTER VI] 123
[CHAPTER VII] 154
[CHAPTER VIII] 172
[CHAPTER IX] 193
[CHAPTER X] 220
[CHAPTER XI] 247
[CHAPTER XII] 257

[MABEL]

[CHAPTER I.]

To your household Gods
Return! for by their altars Virtue dwells,
And Happiness with her.

There was something so pleasant in the feeling of the cheerful fire, that Mabel, who, for many days, had been up early and late, could not resist its influence; her thoughts began to wander from the book which she had again taken up; her heavy eyelids closed, and she fell asleep.

Again she was, where memory often carried her, in their happy cottage at Aston; she was again kneeling by her sister's side, holding her little hand in hers, and watching her tranquil sleep. Again the rumbling sound of many feet, and many voices, stole upon her ear, the air was thick with smoke—a smell of burning, and then, again, that fearful, hoarse, deafening cry of "fire."

She again awoke, startled at the sound, and, before she could analyse her remembrance, or distinguish the past from the present, she perceived that she was in flames. Her dress had fallen too near the fire, and had become ignited. Lucy was at the door, screaming fire, and calling wildly on the names of all in the house, for assistance. Caroline rushed to her, but retreated with a scream, just as Hargrave, who had been attracted by the sound of his name, came towards them. Quickly passing her, as she remained screaming with terror, he was by Mabel's side in an instant, and wrapping his powerful arms around her, he laid her on the floor as if she had been a child; then, folding the rug over her, he very soon succeeded in extinguishing the flames.

Caroline, reassured, now entered the room, and Lucy pattered back again, with her naked feet, into bed, and drew the curtains closely round her.

"Why, she has fainted!" cried Caroline; "and see how her chest is burnt," she added, tremblingly pulling aside the dress, which gave way to her touch, and displayed a scar upon her fair bosom. Hargrave turned aside his head, but she saw that he was pale, and that his hand trembled as he supported the senseless form of the beautiful girl. "Look," added Caroline, directing his attention again to her, "I shall remove this chain, for I am sure it will hurt her."

It was a small linked, gold chain, of African workmanship; and when Caroline drew it from her neck, she perceived that it was attached to a simple gold locket, large enough to contain a portrait. Holding it up, she said, laughingly:—

"Here is a secret; I must have just one little peep."

As she said this, she applied her finger to the spring, and was about to unclasp it, when Hargrave, suffering Mabel's head to rest upon the floor, started forward, and putting his arms round her, not only arrested her purpose, but took the locket from her hand, thrusting it, as he did so, into his bosom.

"It is sacred," he said, trying nervously to smile away Caroline's rising anger; and anxious to avoid a retort, he took Mabel in his arms, and carried her to the next room, where, laying her upon the sofa, he begged Caroline to watch her till he should return with a medical man.

The poor girl was not long left to the care of so angry a nurse, for the good-natured cook, upon whom she had made a very favourable impression, hurried up-stairs, and busily tried her numerous list of restoratives from fainting. She brought with her, too, a plate of raw potatoes, and a knife.

"And if," she said, "Miss Villars would but scrape a little of them, there was no knowing how it would cure the pain."

Caroline forced herself to comply, but knowing the stain which her fair fingers might sustain from such an employment, she drew on a pair of white gloves to protect them.

"Only look at her pretty neck now," lamented the cook, in tones at once of admiration and pity, which sounded ill in her young mistress's ears—rather as if she intended to detract in some way from her own acknowledged beauty—and she contemplated, with some uneasiness, the fair white bosom, and the beautifully rounded arm, which the cook was regarding with so much complacency.

Mabel soon, however, opened her eyes again, and looked wonderingly about her; when she saw how Caroline was employed, she smiled, almost with a look of gladness, as she eagerly thanked her for the trouble she was taking for her.

Mr. Mildman, the medical attendant of the family, soon made his appearance, and, after a slight examination, dispelled every fear of any serious consequences, commended the skill of the cook, and said he should not interfere with her remedy, except, indeed, by a little soothing medicine, or, perhaps, a little ointment to allay the irritation of the burn, gently commiserated with Mabel on the terror she had suffered, made a few jocose compliments to Caroline on her usefulness, and hurried away again.

"I thought," said Caroline, returning to the sitting-room, "that Mabel professed to have too strong a mind to faint for such a trifle—Mr. Mildman says it is a mere nothing."

"If," said Hargrave, severely, "you had as many bitter recollections connected with that terrible word 'fire' as she has, poor orphan, you would believe that the strongest nerves would fail, sometimes."

Mrs. Villars looked entreatingly at her, and managed, by dint of many signs, to suppress the angry reply which was rising to her lips. This she the more easily did, as Hargrave seemed bent on making her forget the rudeness of which he had been guilty; he laughed and talked and sang, and did whatever they asked him, with so good a grace, that, in a few minutes, he succeeded in restoring her good humour, even to her own surprise, and led by his example, and rejoicing in its magic effect, the whole party were soon in the gayest spirits—though none gayer than Hargrave himself.

Meanwhile, Mabel, having escaped from the hands of the cook, who wished to imprison her to the sofa, returned to Lucy's room—and, fearing that she might be prevented from remaining with her, suppressed every sensation of the acute pain she was suffering, lest, perhaps, she might lose the only opportunity of winning the wounded heart of the wilful and fickle girl.

Had the high mental abilities she possessed, usurped the power over her heart, which her fond father had once feared, she might have looked on her companion's sorrows with contempt, as she saw her, by turns, forgetting, without contending with affliction, at others, bending before it in despair. But the path of sorrow had not been trodden by her in vain. Under its chastising influence, she had learnt the softer feelings most fitting a woman's nature, and could see, with childish simplicity, the value of a single spark of Heavenly flame above all the mental light, which, without it, might illuminate a world. She had placed, with careful hands, the veil of charity over eyes which could have detected faults under the shrewdest disguise; and, while she could not hide from herself the fact that Lucy was selfish, weak, and vain, she hoped, and, perhaps, not unjustly, that a better nature might slumber beneath, waiting but the kindly culture of a friendly hand to call it into life and being.

As she now sat, trying to read, her companion watched her with covert attention, and, as thoughts of high and holy purpose spread their influence over her countenance, she regarded her with wonder, not unmingled with awe and pleasure.

Then she perceived, with some curiosity, that Mabel raised her hand to her neck, while an expression of pain died upon her lips; then, as if recollecting herself, the hand wandered in search of something, and, not finding it, she rose, and looked about the room, and then in the next, but returned again, disappointed.

"What are you looking for?" enquired Lucy, at length, seeing how troubled her face became.

She started at perceiving she was noticed, and replied, with ill affected carelessness—

"I had a chain round my neck which I can't find."

"Oh," said Lucy, "that is quite safe—for Henry has it for you."

"How did he get it?" said Mabel, her face and neck suffused with deep crimson.

"Caroline wanted to look at it—but, just as she was going to raise the spring of the locket to see what was in it, he put his arms round her, and took it from her—not very polite certainly—but your locket is safe—for I do not suppose he will look at it, as he took it from Caroline."

Mabel covered her face with her hands, and Lucy saw, with surprise, that tears were trickling through her fingers—but presently she brushed them aside, exclaiming—

"How silly to be put out by such a trifle—promise me, dear Lucy, not to say how vexed I was at nothing."

"No, Mabel—it would indeed be unkind to notice the few unreasonable moods in which you ever indulge."

Neither said more at that time—and Lucy, as had been her habit lately, was silent for some hours.

The evening had closed in, Mabel had excused herself from appearing at the dinner-table; and, as it was now too dark to see to read or work, she laid aside her book, and seated herself to remain awhile unoccupied. Then Lucy raised herself a little, and leaning her head upon one hand, looked attentively at her, while she said, in a low tone—

"I have been thinking, these long, long days, of all the wrong I have ever done you. Nay, do not interrupt me—let me condemn myself as I deserve. When I first went to Aston, I well remember how kindly you tried to make me happy, even while I was turning you into ridicule, in order that I might prevent Captain Clair admiring you. With the wish to shew my superior nerve, and spirit for fun, I persisted in being one great cause of poor Amy's accident, while I called you prudish and old maidish. When I was in despair, you turned from your own grief to comfort mine; and yet so selfish was I still, that when I refused to leave you to nurse alone, it was only because I loved Captain Clair. When I found he loved you, I left you without remorse—and, oh! when she was dying—the poor child I had helped to murder—I was acting a part at a fancy ball, without one thought but of the admiration I excited. You came here. I felt, at first, that I could have done anything to please you; but I soon forgot you again—for I was once more infatuated, and could see nothing, think of nothing, but Beauclerc. I left you alone, to contend with my sisters, who were prejudiced against you—and when you interfered, for my good, I met you with peevishness and ill-humour. And how have I been punished—that very ball was the beginning of my unhappiness. When I went to the fancy ball, I deserved to meet Beauclerc, and to be deceived in him as I have been. And now, mother and sisters all desert me—none can bear to witness the workings of such a frivolous mind as mine—none stand by me—none care for me—but you, you whom I have most injured—no one but you thinks my spirit worth preserving from its sin and worldliness. Oh, Mabel, you have entirely conquered me—but I dare not promise anything—I am so very, very weak."

"It is for such a moment as this," replied Mabel, "that I have waited and watched. Lucy, you are dear to me, because I have thought and prayed for you so long. I know how difficult it is to do right, when you have long done wrong; but I know, that if you try, there is no difficulty you will not overcome."

"And if I do not try," said Lucy, tears gathering in her eyes, "what is to become of me; I leave nothing but trifling and despair behind me. Only point out some way by which I can shew I repent, for I know I must be doing something, or I shall fall back into idle habits again—only point out something for me to begin with, and I will get up to-morrow—for I am not ill—only unhappy."

"I can tell you, then," said Mabel, "of one social duty, of which you never think, and, without performing it, I can scarcely believe that a blessing can rest either on your worldly fortune, or your eternal hopes. Pardon me for speaking severely—but why has your father, upon whose hardly earned wealth you have rested so much of your pleasure, why is he left alone to feel that no one cares for him?"

"But, do you think he would care for my company? and, besides, you are always with him."

"He would indeed care, if you would but try to please him—and I shall give up my place, when you are ready to take it. Indeed, my duty lies elsewhere, and I must soon obey its call. I would not have any one ignorant of their real talents through false modesty," she continued, "because they are weapons lent us by Heaven, which we must either use, or abuse, or leave to rust in our hands. You know you have a winning way, when you like—it has been your snare in society—but it may make your peace at home."

"I will try," cried Lucy, smiling, "no one can give comfort as you can; but I will not talk, I have wasted too much on words already."

"But one thing more," said Mabel—"can you bear now to let me speak of Mr. Beauclerc?"

"I meant to have forgotten him," replied Lucy, shrinkingly; "but what of him?"

"He has written to me—and, if you will let me, I should like you to hear his letter."

"Very well then," she returned, but her countenance had fallen.

Mabel read—

Lucy blushed when she came to the commendation of "her artless candour and ingenuousness."

"Well," she said, "I forgive him, he can ask no more."

"Nor does he," replied Mabel, "but you can do more, and I strongly advise you to do so. It would not only be generous, but prudent, to aid in making a reconciliation between him and his wife; for, if he reflects, and the world comments on your conduct, it had better be on your generosity than on any thing else. I carefully bring forward these motives, because it is dangerous to pique oneself on doing a noble thing, when, being prudent, it serves our own purpose. Will you do this, dear Lucy?"

"I will try," said she, very slowly, as if with difficulty, "but Millie and I have quarrelled."

"She had cause for irritation, if she believed that you were flirting with her husband; and I am sure you can allow for any thing she may have said under that impression; for, without intending it, how greatly you must have pained her."

"Yes, Mabel, yes, I have pained every body and lost my own peace as well. Oh, what would I give to be conscience free—free from all the petty wickedness of which I have been guilty. Believe me, all the time that Beauclerc seemed flirting, he was only talking seriously, and he never would have been so much with me had I not attracted him by a thousand artifices—pleading my own ignorance and great admiration for his talent, which I really felt, but ought not to have spoken. But you will not reproach me, for I am bitterly punished, and even your contempt is disarmed. I will go to Millie, yes, I will do every thing so that I may win peace at last. Oh that to-morrow were come; but, that it may be blessed, I will pray to-night. Now, dearest Mabel, do go to bed, you look so pale and ill, and I have been talking and keeping you up, and how your poor neck must pain you—I shall ring for that good tempered cook to come and dress it for you."

"Good night love." And so the girls parted for the night.

To-morrow came, and Lucy rose, pale, but composed, and this satisfied Mabel more than any greater display of ardour.

"It is difficult," she said, turning from the mirror, which reflected back her altered features, "but it may bring me peace. Give me your arm, Mabel dear, and then we will go to the study—my face will look strange there, after that of the intellectual Mabel."

"Hush and take courage, we shall see which will be the favorite soon. Believe me, much as I value my uncle's favor, I shall be glad to resign it to you, if we cannot both be loved."

"Do not make me cry," returned Lucy, "I have shed tears enough—see how heavy my eyelids look."

Arm-in-arm they proceeded to the study, where Mr. Villars was seated at his work, no longer a disappointed student. He looked up, with a little surprise, on seeing Lucy, but, without a moment's hesitation, she advanced towards him, and, laying her hand on the table to steady herself, for she trembled with weakness, she said—

"Papa, the world has vexed me, will you let me come to you, for then I shall be safe."

She could scarcely have chosen a better introduction, for, had she offered her services and her company, both would probably have been now declined; but Mr. Villars was a kind-hearted man, and the speech touched him, and he replied, taking her hand—

"Come, my poor girl, whenever you like, for you are right in saying you will be safe with me, and I need a companion when Mabel is out of the way."

Then Mabel drew her to her own chosen seat by the fire, and gave her a footstool, telling her, that, if she liked, she might go on copying something she had begun, and when she was tired she could tack some papers together, with the needle and thread which she placed ready for her hand, on the little table where she had laid some writing materials.

As she busied herself in these little preparations, it was beautiful to see how her cheek flushed with rich color, and how bright her eye sparkled, and then, as she gently moved away and left them to themselves, how cheerfully she looked back upon them; as if, in that kindly glance, she left a blessing behind her, when she departed.

[CHAPTER II.]

Ridicule is a weak weapon, when levelled at a strong mind.

Trusting that this introduction to her father's study might be to Lucy the beginning of a life of usefulness and activity, Mabel took her work to the common sitting-room, which, during Lucy's illness, she had rarely entered. But now she began to feel conscious, that solitude, and retirement were becoming too dear to her, and she resolved, rather to court, than avoid the society which the house afforded, however uncongenial it might be.

She found the sisters at work, or rather, at something which might better be termed an excuse for work. Caroline was leaning over her embroidery frame, engaged in talking with Selina, who was twisting silk over a small lyre, intended for the formation of a watch guard, which was to be presented, not to any person in particular, but as a gratifying remembrance to any old gentleman, at whose house she might next have the pleasure of staying. Maria was hemming a silk pocket-handkerchief, covered with innumerable foxes-heads; intended, perhaps, for some gay hunting friend.

They all looked up upon her entrance, as if to say, they scarcely cared for this addition to their party, and were not very pleased to see, that she had relieved herself from the restraints of her sick-room attendance. If this caused, for an instant, a painful sensation, she instantly checked the thought, with that ready self-controul, which she had taught herself to exercise, ever since she had been old enough to observe the unhappiness caused to her mother, by too great an indulgence of her original sensitiveness of disposition, which, from its extreme delicacy, could scarcely venture into the every day world without carrying back to retirement food for reflection and regret. She was, therefore, prepared to meet the world in all its roughness, and had saved herself from a great deal of trouble and annoyance, by never taking offence till it was too plain to be mistaken; and, from the effects of this early curb upon her temper, she had almost begun to believe the world as kind as her own warm-hearted zeal would have made it.

Taking her seat by Maria, who was a little apart from her sisters, she offered her assistance in her work. Even Maria had learnt to abate something, in her presence, of her natural sharpness—and she received the offer with something like politeness.

"There," she said, carelessly selecting a pocket-handkerchief from the bundle which lay at her feet; "if you like to take the trouble, you will save mine, for I am heartily tired of them."

Mabel's nimble fingers were soon engaged, while Maria gave her a ludicrous account of the fatigue she had been enduring.

"I am no great worker," she said; "and this long side has taken me more than an hour, moaning bitterly all the time; but, then, I reflect, that as I am no beauty, I must do penance, since being agreeable is in fashion just now; and if I did not keep Mamma on tenter-hooks, expecting an offer now and then, a sorry life I should lead. So, with these pleasing thoughts, I turn again to the everlasting hem, where the silk will unravel for ever, provoking the deploring eyes of a hundred foxes, which I think must be the ghosts of all the men who are mourning, not that I jilted them poor fools, but tout au contraire. Well-a-day, I think I was made for hunting foxes rather than fox hunters. There, I shall rest while you are working for me."

So saying, she took up a novel which lay open on the table, and which had occupied her attention at intervals—placed her feet upon a chair, and soon became quite absorbed.

Mabel excelled in needle work, for in her own home her fingers had never been idle, when her mind had not been seriously occupied. Many a light, happy hour had she passed in superintending the domestic requirements of their cottage, or in exercising her ingenuity, to supply the want of new fashions, on a cap for her mother, or a dress for herself or Amy, and now, with the rapidity of habit, she ran over the ground which Maria had found so heavy, in comparison with the more tempting pages of the light book by her side.

Her companions, however, were not very agreeable, for Caroline and Selina were carrying on a whispered conversation, and occasionally a word reached her, only sufficiently distinct to make her guess, that she was the subject of observation; together with half uttered allusions to landing-place conversations, slyness, &c., which made her cheeks tingle rather unpleasantly. Once too, Caroline had asked her what had become of Lucy, in a tone which seemed to imply that her duty was to be with her, forgetful that, if so, the duty was self-imposed.

She was then not a little relieved when the loud sounding bell announced a visitor.

After a longer delay than usual a gentleman was introduced by the name of "Morley." All eyes turned instantly upon him, and Mabel's were interested in a moment. He was short in stature, and the bony strength of his limbs, joined to great leanness, gave his person an angular appearance. His features were strongly marked, the flesh had shrunk from the high cheek-bone, leaving it more strikingly a feature of his face; while his complexion bore the bronze of many an Eastern sun, heedlessly encountered, for it was nearly copper colored. This, and a slight stoop in the shoulder, gave him an appearance of age; while his hair of untinged black, the arched eyebrow, and piercing eye, spoke almost of youthfulness. That eye was the single attraction of his face, and so rigidly still was every other feature, that it seemed the only weapon of offence or defence, made to express the hasty fire of an enthusiastic mind, or the milder sensations of the heart beneath. If it closed, it left the countenance in stern and harsh composure, with something upon it that spoke contempt of pleasure and defiance of pain; as if, upon the rack, every nerve had been wound up for endurance of severest trial, and utterly refused a compromise. But open, that eye gazing with all its power, it forced the observer's thoughts back upon himself, and seemed there to detect the slightest shade of falsehood or deceit, which might before have slumbered unperceived.

His dress too, partook of his singularity, for it seemed made for a stouter and taller man, and hung loosely about him, in shabby negligé; and over all he wore a kind of thick Spanish cloak, which, like his face, had had a tolerable share of wear and sunshine, and helped, with all the other ingredients of face, figure, and dress, to mark him for a "character."

All the girls were a little surprised. Selina assumed, with admirable quickness, her pretty mean-nothing smile, and Maria laid down her book, and, being in the back-ground, indulged in a full stare; while Caroline said she feared there was some mistake, as her mamma was not acquainted with the name.

"Very possibly," replied Mr. Morley, "but I conclude your servant acted by your orders when he said, that if I wanted to wait for Colonel Hargrave I had better do so here."

Caroline slightly colored, as she was fully aware that any gentleman of marriageable rank and age had rather too free an introduction to the house, and was seldom allowed to leave it without having had a tolerable opportunity of falling in love. This general desire of the mistress to admit all gentlemen, was pretty well known to Jones, their accomplished serving man, who had been in the family long enough to comprehend and half sympathise with its views; and he seldom suffered a stranger's call to end without admittance to the drawing-room by some clever mistake. And without too severe a scrutiny of Mr. Morley's appearance, beyond the intuitive feeling that he was a gentleman (a point in which servants seldom err) he had persuaded him that it would be better for him to wait for Colonel Hargrave in the sitting-room, where the young ladies were. But Caroline was not quite so quick in this discovery, and treated him with an air of condescending haughtiness, as she said—

"If you wish to speak with the Colonel, pray take a seat; he is only gone to put a letter in the post for me, and I expect him back directly."

Satisfied with this display of her influence, she bowed to a chair which Mabel, springing up, instantly gave him; for, quickly reading the gentleman under the disguise of eccentricity, she was anxious to atone for Caroline's manner, which too plainly testified her idea that he was a tradesman calling for orders, or a supplicant, begging pecuniary assistance.

"Thank you, Miss Lesly," said he, in a voice of peculiar depth and melody.

The sisters exchanged glances. So little do we naturally like to be overlooked by the most indifferent people, on the most indifferent occasions, that Caroline's eye grew dark as she imagined that her cousin had already become an object of remark; forgetting that the difference in her dress might easily distinguish the orphan.

The mention of her name seemed to Mabel to claim something like acquaintance, and, seeing that her cousins were unwilling to shew him any politeness, she at once endeavoured to draw him into conversation. At first he seemed to pay little attention to the trifling subjects, which, at the commencement of a conversation, almost necessarily form an introduction to others; but, at length, as if roused by the tones of her sweet voice, he eagerly entered upon a topic of foreign interest, which she casually mentioned, with as much eloquence and enthusiasm as he had before shewn indifference.

Mabel, at the same time, shewed that she was perfect mistress of the subject she had introduced, in all its details, and, without once violating that delicate calmness in debate, which feminine modesty should never exceed, she drew out his opinions, and stated her own, with so much truth and elegance, that Maria laid down her book, and listened with wondering attention.

In a house where every thing was display, Mabel had never yet found or sought, an opportunity of shewing the talents, which vigilant and miscellaneous reading had richly cultivated. She had infused, rather than spoken, her sentiments, but now, her tongue unloosed by the evident pleasure she was giving, and her mind recalled to old subjects of interest, she spoke as if a sudden spell had wakened her energy.

"I see," said Mr. Morley, after watching, in silence, the flushed cheek and sparkling eye which added emphasis and sincerity to what she said, "I see that you would tell me that 'Honesty is the best policy,' in public as in private life. If there were many women in this world who could enforce this doctrine in the same manner, we should not so often see, the husbands, brothers, and sons, of old England, erring from that golden rule. Cherish such sentiments, for the fountain of the heart should be pure and holy, since the current of the world can so soon soil its waters. I can better excuse an erring practice than an erring principle, for the one may be the result of a thousand strong and bitter temptations, but the other must be the effect of ignorant or wilful wickedness and ingratitude. The good may fall seven times in a day, indeed, but the man of corrupt principle is too low to fall at all. If you feel as you speak, and act as you feel, you are a noble girl, and worthy to be a statesman's wife."

Every word which he uttered with the tone of unquestioned authority, went, like a poisoned sting, to Caroline's heart. She bent over her work, with affected contempt, but she would have given much, if, at that moment, she could have struck him as the Asiatic would a slave. Greatly, too, to her mortification, she saw the side door, which connected the room in which they were sitting, with the drawing-room beyond, open, and Hargrave entered.

"Pardon me, my dear sir," he said, hurrying to Mr. Morley, and taking his hand; "but as I came to meet you, the sound of your voice overpowered me—and, waiting to recover myself, I overheard part of the conversation in which you were engaged."

As he said this, he turned his eyes towards Mabel, perhaps expecting, to see something in her countenance, of the animation expressed by her words; but her face was suffused, as with the brightness of the rose, shrouded by evening dew—her eyes were bent on the ground—and, as if, like that lovely flower, her head were too heavy for her slender neck to support, she bent it also beneath his glance. Could this be the tranquil, self-commanding Mabel, blushing, perhaps, because she perceived, that, while seeking to draw a timid stranger into conversation, she had been insensibly gratifying the same wish, on his part, and had been, unconsciously, displaying her own powers to his observation.

Mr. Morley gently touched the arm of the younger man, who turned round, as if to introduce him to Miss Villars—but, as he did so, the hall-bell again announced a visitor.

"Come, my dear sir," he then said, changing his purpose, "come to my room, before we are inveigled into fashionable talk—I must have you all to myself."

And he dragged rather than led him from the room, just as Mr. Stokes, a sporting gentleman from Gloucestershire, was announced.

Maria started from her lazy position, flung aside her book, and darting to Mabel, snatched the pocket-handkerchief she was hemming from her hand, almost disordering her hair by the violence of the action, and then hurriedly seated herself, as if she had been working. This little diversion, in her favor, was covered by the retreat of the two gentlemen, and the necessary pause at the door, as the one party retreated, and Mr. Stokes entered, whip in hand, with splashed boots, and the dress which most became him, his red hunting coat, which gave point to his blunt, off-hand manners.

Mabel pitied, and struggled, with her accustomed gentleness, to excuse her cousin's rudeness, as she listened to Mr. Stokes's blunt compliment on Maria's needle-work, and his animated account of the chace, from which he had just ridden home.

Some accidental allusion to Gloucestershire soon told him that Mabel was from his native country—and being a great lover of everything that seemed like home, he began talking to her so fast, that she had little need to say anything to help forward the conversation. Maria was evidently annoyed—and Mabel did her best to be silent; but it was an unfortunate afternoon, and seemed destined to make her worse enemies than she had before. Her silence could not be imputed to stupidity by the dullest, who looked in her face; and the squire, charmed with the idea of having made her shy, which he deemed the effect of something in himself, and, at the same time, feeling the charm of retreating beauty, pursued what he deemed an amusing advantage, addressed all his jokes and stories to her, and called for her approval of his quotations from their county dialect, which were so inimitable and so familiar, that she could no longer suppress her smiles. Maria bit her lips to conceal her vexation. True, he laughed just as immoderately over the use she made of the whimsical slang of the day—called her a "funny fellow," and taught her pretty oaths, which, after all, are but a kind of paper currency for sin. Yet, when he spoke to Mabel, he insensibly assumed more respect for himself and her; for few men are so quick at discovering where respect is really due, as those who are the most ready to lay it aside, when in their power to do so.

Maria was shrewd and penetrating. Her self-love had received too many rebuffs in the gay world in which she lived, to blind her to the truth—and she had not listened more than one tedious hour—for the Squire paid long visits—before she discovered that she had made a fatal mistake in his character. She soon perceived that neither the roughness of his manners, nor the random style of his conversation, had left him insensible to the purity of a deep, blue eye, or the magic influence of feminine delicacy and refinement.

And was it to win the heart of such a man that she had so studiously dropped the little she had possessed of feminine reserve, to adopt the coarser and freer manners which she had imagined a sportsman would most admire. She felt the ground was lost, which she had no power to retrieve, and her spirit chafed, with all the bitterness and mortification which those must feel, who have in any way debased themselves to obtain any worldly object, and are conscious of it only when they find themselves disappointed. She would have been still more chagrined could she have divined that nothing but her having so rudely snatched the handkerchief had given a turn to Mabel's thoughts, and prevented her leaving the room, since by doing so, she would have appeared either snubbed or affronted.

Poor Maria! she had never believed herself so near marriage before.

Scarcely had they reached this height of discomfort, when another morning visitor was introduced—Miss Lovelace, with a multitudinous number of light ringlets and narrow flounces. With a nod to Maria, which meant—"I see you are better engaged," she took her seat near the two elder girls, and was soon deep in an account of a charming ball, which she had attended the night before, with which she mixed many hints of her own conquests, together, with her indignation at all the spiteful things people said of her, and the Misses Villars.

After talking, with the utmost rapidity, for half-an-hour, she suddenly changed her tone to one of commiseration, as she enquired—

"And how is poor Lucy?"

"Thank you, she is down stairs to-day," replied Caroline.

"Oh, I am so glad—for I heard such dismal accounts of her, last night, I could not help coming to see how she was. I won't ask to see her—but I do so pity her."

"I suppose her story is half over the town," said Caroline; "silly girl—of course, mamma knew nothing about it, or she would have seen into it before."

"Did not she though?" said Miss Lovelace, with great interest, gathering materials, as she was, for the next visit. "Why, every one saw it long ago, and said she was dying for him—the wretch."

"And what do people say now?" lisped Selina, as if she were talking of the reputation of a hair pin instead of that of a sister.

"Why, you know, now, the truth is in every one's mouth—quite the talk of the day. How it was known that he was married, I cannot tell—but my maid told me—and all my partners were talking of it last night. I told young Philips I would never waltz with him again, if he did not find some innocent way of murdering Mrs. Beauclerc, and bringing Lucy's love affair to a happy conclusion. And the best of it is, young Philips himself has been as bad, for he has been wandering up and down the Circus like a mad thing, for this month past, trying to catch a sight of Miss Foster, and contented if he only saw her shadow pass the window."

Here they all laughed, and Mr. Stokes chimed in.

"What is that story about Miss Lucy Villars and Mr. Beauclerc? I heard something of it at the hunt, from young farmer Sykes—but I thought it might be delicate ground."

Mabel did not wait to hear the answer to this last remark—for when the sisters so coolly deserted the standard of delicacy, she felt she had no right to interfere; and blushing, more for them than for Lucy, she left the room, rather too precipitately—for Mr. Stokes, having, the minute before, whispered a compliment, which she had been too occupied even to hear, he attributed her flight to the sudden admiration she was conscious she was exciting. As the door closed upon her, he remembered how often he had joined Caroline and Maria, in laughing over the eccentricities of their country cousin, whom he had never before seen—and, fearing a repetition of the same remarks, or their ridicule, if he refused to join in them, he took up his hat, and rapidly apologising for having made such a complete "visitation," he wished them good morning, and departed, without waiting to hear more than he could help of Miss Lovelace's answer to his question.

Mabel had no sooner escaped from the drawing-room, than she hurried to the study. Her first glance told her that Lucy had been exerting herself beyond her strength to appear cheerful and happy, for she looked pale and wearied; and no sooner did she see her enter, than she went to her, folded her arms round her, and laid her head upon her shoulder—then, raising it again, that she might look her in the face, and thank her for all her kindness to her, she burst into hysteric sobs.

Mabel drew her away, led her to her own room, and caressed and soothed her again into tranquillity, when she made her go to bed, and then stopped and praised her first day's effort so warmly, that Lucy almost smiled her thanks.

She then returned to the study, where Mr. Villars was waiting, in some alarm. Taking her hand, he enquired, anxiously—

"How is my child?"

"She is much better, dear uncle—but she is very weak, you know, yet—and her spirits are uncertain—though she tried to exert them, lest you might think her dull. I shall give her entirely to you to take care of now."

"My good girl," he replied, with the thick, husky voice of suppressed emotion, "when I worked, for so many long years, at a business that I hated—I dreamed of such a time as this. The last few hours have been the happiest I have spent since my retirement. And is not this your doing? How true it is, that we often entertain angels unawares."

She tried to speak, while tears of hallowed pleasure dimmed the sparkle of her deep azure eyes, her lips trembled, and her cheek flushed; then stooping over the hand that held hers, she kissed it, drew herself away, and fled from the room.

She might have said to herself—"What! have I devoted so many weeks to his service, and yet a few hours from the truant Lucy give him more pleasure than all those of my unwearied service!"

But no such thought, even by its most transitory influence, sullied the heart of the self-devoted girl.

[CHAPTER III.]

Merrily, merrily,
Welcome and sweet,
Ready hearts, waiting them,
Sabbath chimes greet.
Mournfully, mournfully,
Yet do they fall
On the dull, worldly ear.
Deaf to their call.

Culver Allen.

"Who is your fat friend?" enquired Caroline of Hargrave, when they met at dinner.

"The gentleman who called this morning," he replied, drawing himself up with much hauteur, "is my uncle."

Mrs. Villars cast a look upon her daughter, which seemed to say, half in entreaty, and half in reproof.

"Oh, your unfortunate tongue."

At the same time, Hargrave, perhaps, perceiving that Mabel's quick glance was upon him, suddenly changed his manner, and seemed, by the gentleness of his tone, anxious to apologise for the short feeling of anger Caroline's query had occasioned.

"I had not time to introduce him this morning," he said, "before the entrance of Mr. Stokes; but I was otherwise going to ask my aunt to give him the entrée of the house, as he is a perfect stranger here, and his only object is to see me."

"Oh, certainly," said Mrs. Villars, with one of her blandest smiles—"any friend of yours is welcome here, as a matter of course; I shall be delighted to know him."

"He is a singular being," returned Hargrave, smiling his thanks; "and those only who are familiar with his peculiarities, can see through them, the greatness and goodness of his heart. There is no man to whom I owe so much—and few whom I esteem so highly."

"Indeed," said Caroline, "one ought not to judge so hastily of strangers. I am sure, I beg your pardon, for speaking of him disrespectfully."

Hargrave's timely change of tone had thus prevented the display of temper which Mabel had foreseen and dreaded.

"Pray do not mention it," he rejoined, quickly; "I ought to have forestalled observation, by introducing him to you—and you said nothing, after all—I only thought you looked contemptuous—so I was too hasty, and it was my fault. You may, probably, never have heard of him, for he has not been in England for many years. He is my maternal uncle, the son of my grandmother, by her first husband—my own mother being a Lesly. I have heard that, when a very young man, he was of such enthusiastic temperament, that he entered the church mission, which took him abroad, for a long time, where, amongst heathen and savage life, he devoted himself to the work he had undertaken with great success, enduring, cheerfully, every kind of privation, being separated from the society of his equals, and without reserving to himself a single solace, but the one feeling that he was performing his duty. One cannot help admiring such a character," he added, hastily, as if excusing his energy, and concluding the last words in a tone of cold considerative philosophy.

"Well, and has he never been home since then?" enquired Caroline.

"Yes," replied Hargrave, "he returned about twenty years ago to take possession of a large property in Northumberland, which he inherited by the death of his elder brother—but after converting all that could be alienated into ready money, he let his house and land to a friend, upon whose charity to his poorer tenants, he could fully rely, and did so, at a rent sufficiently low to enable him to expend what otherwise might have come direct to him, in useful improvements. It was during his stay at Aston, with my father, that I first saw a little of him; but I cannot say I knew him till we met as strangers, a short time ago, in India, where I found him devoting his wealth to the advancement of Christianity."

When he reached the last word, he uttered it in so incoherent a tone, that it seemed as if he had some difficulty in pronouncing it; and, as soon as dinner was concluded, he retreated to his room, in one of those moods, when, by common consent, they always left him to himself. He did not make his appearance again that evening; and when Caroline retired for the night, her chamber being above his, she could still hear the hasty tread up and down his room, which varied the dull silence which ever now and then preceded it; and next morning, when she woke, the first sound that greeted her ears, was the same hasty tread, resumed with the dawning light.

It was Sunday, and knowing that Hargrave would most likely absent himself, as usual, for the whole day, she resisted her disposition to take another nap, and got up, anxious not to lose the chance of seeing him, and, perhaps, having a tête-à-tête before breakfast.

Of all the days in the week, Sunday, in that house, was the least comfortable, particularly at breakfast time.

Every one was late, and never came down at any particular time—and somebody was sure to have a cold, and require breakfast sent up-stairs—joined, too, to all this, was the stiffness originating in the feeling that they were in Sunday costume, composed of dresses which required a great deal of care to be taken of them.

Caroline often secured to herself the pleasure of giving Hargrave a cup of tea before the others made their appearance; and Mabel, having, unluckily, made her entrée, one morning, at what she deemed so inopportune a period, avoided being early ever afterwards.

Caroline, having, this morning, been fortunate enough to secure her position, made a rather ostentatious display of her care for his comfort.

"There," she said, when he came in, "I have made you some toast—and your tea is quite ready—no, I mean your chocolate—for you must try that this morning—it is best quite hot—so I have got it in this little pot by the fire, for, see, I have been making it myself."

"Thank you," said Hargrave, in a sufficiently discouraging tone, as he accepted her services.

"You are a naughty boy," she returned; "you never say anything more than that sulky thank you."

"Because I am really sorry to give you so much trouble," said he, sincerely; "I am so accustomed to wait on myself, that—"

"Say no more, you sulky creature," cried she, with one of her blandest smiles; "'virtue is its own reward'—so I will give you your chocolate without any thanks. But I wish you would not go away to-day—do come with us to the Octagon?"

"No, thank you—I am engaged."

"Why, you are as punctual to your engagements, as if you were courting some country lass, in your Sunday's best. I am afraid you are doing no good. You are not going, I hope, to act the play of the lowly lady over again?"

"What was that?"

"Why, do you not remember the story of the young lord, pretending to be a country-man, or artist, or something of that kind, and so marrying a young lady—no, not a lady, a poor girl, I mean—and never telling her till he took her home to his grand house?"

"Oh, yes, I do, now you speak of it. Not a bad idea, upon my word—it would be something novel to be certain of exciting a disinterested affection."

Caroline's cheeks tingled—she had never got him so near the subject before.

"Are you one of the sceptics on that point, then?" she enquired.

"No—yes—well, I really do not know—but I am, at times, puzzled to think what makes women marry sometimes so badly, and often with so little consideration."

"Oftener for love than you suppose," said she, leaning over his shoulder, to put a tempting white nub of sugar in his chocolate, suspending it awhile as she held it.

"Perhaps so," he replied, attacking his plate of ham, which she had been thinly slicing for him, with very good appetite.

"I suppose," said she, "having Aston Manor, and its goodly acres, tacked to your other accomplishments, makes you suspicious?"

"Not unjustly so—no—no—I would soon contrive some test by which to try the woman I admired, if I doubted her. Thank you, no more chocolate, I am going."

So saying, he rose, and drew on his gloves, and wished her good morning—leaving her in a pleasing reverie.

"Ha, master Henry," she observed to herself; "you are not so deep, but you let out a secret, now and then. So you are testing me, are you—I understand."

As she indulged these thoughts, one by one of the breakfast party strolled in, and conversation was soon briskly engaged in on the bonnets, shawls, and gloves, which they intended wearing, interspersed by some hints from Caroline, on the agreeable nature of her morning's tête-à-tête. Before the meal was fully concluded, the bells from the different churches began to ring, but, somehow, they were not in harmony with the voices of the little party, as, one after another, they took up the same solemn tune, in different notes, all speaking the same language, but in such harsh tones, it seemed as if the sisters disliked them, for they rose up hastily, and hurried off to dress for church.

Neither did those bells seem to speak less harshly, when they intruded their voices into the quiet study; yet there was a sadness, too, about them, when they found Mr. Villars seated there, at his table, surrounded by books and papers—his inkstand, and letter-drawer, and scraps of his book—and wearing his dusty coat—and as his pen ran rapidly and unceasingly across and across the paper, they seemed to whisper, still in sadder, sadder tones—

"No man can do seven days' work."

Perhaps he heard that whisper, for he stopped, and listened, and laid his hand uneasily upon his aching brow; and when he went on again, trying to shut out their voices, something darker and darker stole upon his mind, and he stopped and listened again to the same sad tones—sadder, sadder still—as he heeded them more and more.

But merrily, merrily, merrily over the hills and green meadows—up from the busy town, and borne upon the rippling waters of the Avon, came those bells—when Mabel sat at her garret window, and looked out upon the small peep of blue sky, which was not shut out by the dark walls and tall chimney pots, which surrounded her—and as they fell upon her ear, they whispered—"We are glad sounds to those who listen for us as you do"—But back with those bells had her thoughts gone to the student, in his silent room—and the expression of her face grew more and more sad.

"I cannot leave him there," she said, to herself; "but what can I say to him? Oh, is there not enough. I will tell him how he is wasting himself week after week without rest. I will tell him, that knowledge so acquired is like the manna of the wilderness, which only turned to corruption, when gathered on the Sabbath. Yes, surely he will listen to me, for truth is so plain—I will go now."

The light of enthusiastic fervour brightened her saddened countenance—and once again stopping to take sweet counsel with the bells—she left her room full of strong resolve. But when she reached the study door, and laid her hand upon its lock, she paused, tremblingly. Often had she come before, on the same errand, and as often had retired, unheard, and disappointed at her own timidity. Now, her beautiful cheek flushed, and her heart beat so loudly, that she laid her hand upon it to still its beating; yet trembling, throbbing, uneasy, as was that heart, it was true to its purpose still.

She had sat in her garret room for more than an hour that morning, thinking of what she should say—she had listened to the Sabbath bells, as one after another they took up the same hallowed tone—and still she had found no words strong enough and meek enough to speak to him. Yet had she come.

Mr. Villars raised his head, as she entered, and, after a quick greeting, went on with his writing. Across and across the paper went the unwearying hand. She stood at the other side of the table, hoping he would look up and say something—but he still continued writing.

On went the bells—from the venerable and gray stoned Abbey belfry—from the good, old-fashioned, little church of Walcot—and, far as the ear could reach, from the ivy-covered tower on the hill—on they went—and Mr. Villars continued writing—and Mabel stood irresolute, for all her eloquence was gone; but, at length, she stammered forth—

"Uncle, will you come to church?"

He looked up—her very soul was in those few words—and in the tearful eyes which seconded her request.

On went the bells.

He laid down his pen, and looked at her—but her eyes were fixed upon the ground.

"Who is going?" he said, at length, looking more fixedly.

"Lucy and I."

"Very well then, make haste and put on your bonnet, for I hear the bells."

He did hear them indeed, for what a clatter they made, one after another, as if they would be heard.

Mabel ran away all joyousness—very soon she had her bonnet on, for that took little time, and then she was down with Lucy—getting her shawl, and finding her lost gloves, and her prayer-book, and then, all pleasant bustle, as if she feared he would change his mind, down again to her uncle's study, ready with the soft brush to smooth his sleek hat.

And then they were in the street, and taking their way, not to any of the fashionable places of worship, but down the shady part of the old town to a little church which seemed to hide itself from view, so small that the imagination could scarcely wander round its walls, from the voice of the venerable preacher, whose simple but well chosen language brought conviction with it. There too, the white-haired, aged clerk, in his stiff quaint reading desk, and the twelve old pensioners, nearly as old as himself. And then so few to listen they could not choose but hear.

Mabel felt tremblingly happy, for she had succeeded in her desire to get her uncle to break his bad habit of remaining shut up on a Sunday. She saw, too, that he was happier, as they walked home together, though he often looked, when he met any one he knew, as if he had been committing some crime. But however that might be, he himself proposed going in the evening, and gladly did she consent, and when they walked home again through the lighted streets, talking of what they had heard, alone, for Lucy was too delicate to venture in the evening air, she felt happy indeed. And when they reached home again no one was more ready to join in the conversation over the bright fire where the sisters sat, glad to welcome Hargrave back from his mysterious absence. And Mr. Villars too, as he went to bed that night, could scarcely understand why he felt such pleasant fatigue, not that fatigue which makes the very heart ache, and keep the eyes awake with uneasy watchfulness, but which closes them in light repose, and bids them open again in cheerful, buoyant hope to the light of day.

For many a long week, indeed, he had not welcomed Monday morning so pleasantly. The sun shone so brightly that the spendthrift might almost have been excused for being guided by the presence of the ill-fated swallow. The Spring air was light and warm, and the rich, pink blossom of the almond supplied the place of leaves and flowers.

Colonel Hargrave was as gay as the sunshine, as he stood joking with the little party lingering over the breakfast table.

"Pray, ladies," said he, "how do you mean to make the most of this lovely day?"

"By keeping you with us, for the first thing," said Caroline.

"You wicked creature," said her mamma, by way of adding point to the observation; the object of which, however, remained rigidly indifferent. Nobody could say he flirted; he withdrew from all approach to such a thing, with the rapidity of a frightened girl. Mrs. Villars tried to believe, though against her better judgment, that he was timid, yet he had received sufficient encouragement to have made a boy propose; but never by muttered word or tender look had he taken advantage of it, never had he been betrayed into a tête-à-tête walk—never had he offered Caroline a present which had not a fac-simile in one to each of her sisters. In short, he was the most impenetrable being possible.

"Oh, for a ride," said Mabel, "far off into the country—would it not be delightful—why do you not go?"

"The very thing," said Hargrave, "let us take the day while we have it. You will go, will you not," he said, referring the matter to Caroline.

She readily agreed, and after a short discussion about the horses, which he engaged to procure from the livery stables where his own horse was kept, she went to prepare for the ride, with her sisters, while Hargrave hurried off, full of sparkling good humour.

Mabel would willingly have joined them, but she had no riding dress, and she checked the expression of a regret, lest it might damp their pleasure, little thinking, poor girl, how little they cared for her; and though she sighed for the air of her own Cotswold hills, she took up her needle and tried to work cheerfully. But accustomed as she had been, to the bracing air of Gloucestershire, her health had begun to vary under the enervating influence of the Bath air. Added to which, she had lately endured much fatigue, varied only by the pleasures derived from the industrious workings of a happy spirit, and she now began to feel, what she had before only readily sympathized in, the seemingly causeless depression which weak health so often engenders. For this, however, she severely reproached herself, for so slow and imperceptible had become its progress, that, unconscious of bodily weakness, she attributed her mental depression to a faulty principle. And now she taxed herself, thinking she must have relaxed the reins of self-government, or she never could feel so slight a disappointment so acutely, for she felt the tears starting to her eyes, when her cousins entered, fully equipped. Caroline and Selina looked overpoweringly charming, in becoming hats of the very last fashion, and even Maria seemed determined to rival her sisters, and partly succeeded, by the air of fun and off-hand carelessness, which, as she had once explained, never left a person time to scan her features.

Presently, in Hargrave hurried, looking pleased, healthy, and doubly handsome; he could not refrain from complimenting the sisters, but he had hardly heard their smiling reply, before he perceived Mabel sitting by the window, and struggling to look indifferent.

"What!" said he, in a tone of pique, "are you not ready, Miss Lesly—was not the ride your own proposition?"

Mabel never knew how very easy it was to cry before, but with affected calmness she replied, as she tried to smile—

"I would willingly have accompanied you, but I have neither hat nor habit."

He looked at her for an instant, half angrily, but there was something so constrained in her smile, that it led him, for the first time, to observe that the color was waning on her cheek, and he looked earnestly at her as she hastily laid down her work and left the room.

"Selina," he said, gravely, for it was evident that something vexed him, "you said one day that you had two habits—cannot you lend her one?"

"It is so shabby that I did not like to offer it, and now it is too late—I am very sorry I did not think of it, but it is too late now you know," she said, seeing the gathering storm on Caroline's lowering brow. "We are keeping the horses waiting, come along," she added, hurrying to the door, "do come."

Hargrave quietly seated himself.

"I am not coming," he said, "I cannot go and leave that poor pale girl, at home."

"Oh, there are Lucy, and papa, and mamma," cried Maria, "I will ask mamma to take her to the Pump-room."

"Lucy never rides now," said Hargrave, "or we would not consent to leave her at home, either. The Pump-room on such a day as this—it makes my head ache to think of it." So saying, he threw down his gloves and whip, laid aside his hat, and took up the paper.

The party were at a stand still. Hargrave looked seriously annoyed, and Caroline verging upon a storm.

"What shall I do?" said Selina, in a perplexed tone, looking from one to the other.

"Go and find your habit," said Hargrave.

"But it is so shabby," she said, looking fearfully at Caroline.

"You know Miss Lesly is above such trifles, besides, she can decide that."

"But there is no hat."

"There is one hanging up in the hall that looks like a lady's hat, for it has strings, try that."

"That old thing, covered with dust?"

"I dare say she will put up with it, if you will only find it, if not I am afraid we must stay at home."

"What shall I do?" she whispered to Caroline, in a trembling voice.

"Do as you like," she retorted, angrily, and aloud, as she turned to the window.

"Do come," said Selina, turning again to Hargrave, "Caroline never likes waiting with her hat on, it makes her head ache."

"I am sorry to hear it," replied the inexorable Hargrave, without moving.

"Well, here's a fix, all about nothing," cried Maria.

"I am sorry you think so," said Hargrave.

"Come, come, do not look like a methodist parson, while we are wasting all the sunshine. I have half a mind to gallop off by myself, and make the neighbours stare. Come, Selina, do go and get your habit, for I see Henry is determined to make Mabel a Guy—for the old hat is only fit for a bonfire. I did intend being charitable with it, on the last fifth of November, but I forgot it luckily."

Thus urged, Selina at length retreated to find her habit, which, when produced, was found to be in very good condition. But Maria's description of the hat had been more truthful, for the dust of repeated house-cleanings seemed to have settled on its unlucky beaver; and Maria, having climbed up to reach it from its peg in the hall, threw it down in disgust, raising a cloud of dust which threatened to soil her new habit.

Hargrave, however, who was now entirely restored to good humour, seized it as it fell, and began brushing it with great vigour.

As he did so, the door bell rang, and, before he had time to retreat, Mr. Stokes entered, whip in hand.

"Just in time, I hope, Colonel," he cried, "if I may be allowed to join your party—a ride—why it is the very thing—I see four side-saddles, and I am sure you cannot monopolise four ladies—may I go?"

Hargrave being in a compliant mood, replied gaily—

"You are welcome, I am sure—for I shall be glad to be relieved of half the burden. Ladies are troublesome creatures—particularly this one. Here, Maria, the hat will not hurt you now—run off with it—and try and persuade Miss Lesly to wear it, if you can."

"It has raised dust enough to make you doubt it, certainly," she replied, running gaily up-stairs, with her habit tucked over her arm.

There was some little difficulty to find Mabel, however, for she was gone to her own room, and no one was anxious to climb up to the top of the house to fetch her. At length, however, by dint of loud calls at the bottom of the stairs, she was made to know she was wanted.

When, by this means, she was brought down, she could hardly understand the combined movement which had so soon produced all that was required for her enjoyment of the ride—but putting on the habit as quickly as she could, and tying her black veil on the old hat, she hastened, without much question, to gratify the sisters, who scarcely allowed her time to snatch up her gloves, and tie on her hat, before they hurried her down stairs.

Maria could not check her desire to prevent her studying her appearance, since that might render her so much more charming in the eyes of her esquire—but she excused herself by thinking that she might get plenty of admirers without taking Mr. Stokes. Could she have guessed the powers of her own fascinations on his heart, Mabel might have aided her—but as she did not—nothing destroyed the faultless grace of her easy movements, which made everything suit her—however unlikely it seemed—and the look of pleasure and gratitude with which she regarded the party, was quite sufficient to nullify the foil of an ill-fitting habit, and a dust-worn and tumbled hat.

"Thank you," said Hargrave, as he passed her, to hand Caroline and Selina down.

And Mr. Stokes could scarcely withdraw his eyes from her, as he walked by her side to the hall, not talkative, as usual, but in silent observation.

"Now," said Hargrave, as the horses drew up, "I have only been able to hire three gentle horses. This beautiful creature is high-spirited, and very difficult to manage," he said, laying his hand on the neck of one of the horses, as he pawed the ground, in rather a threatening manner; "but I thought that you would not mind him, Caroline—for you care for nothing in horse-flesh."

Caroline, however, was perverse, and chose that day to be timid. Indeed, the idea of Mabel's sly rivalry, as she called it, haunted her like a phantom—and she thought it certain, that if one staid behind, it would be she, so that she insisted on choosing the very quietest horse. Maria was already mounted by Mr. Stokes, whose services she had demanded—and Selina was always timid.

Hargrave bit his lip.

"Oh, I am not in the least frightened," said Mabel; "I never am timid."

"But you have not been on horseback so long," suggested Hargrave.

"No—but never mind me."

And before he had time to argue further, she had accepted Mr. Stokes's hand, and sprang lightly to her saddle.

"Well," said Hargrave, "it does not much signify—for I promised the man that I would hold one of his bridles."

Caroline no sooner perceived, that by her wish to disoblige her cousin, she had robbed herself of his constant attention during the ride, than she repented—and saying, that she knew she was very frightened, offered to change places with her—but it was too late—for Mabel, with guileless heart, did not see the hidden motive, and persisted on keeping her horse; and Caroline had nothing to do but to mount her own, and rue her perverseness.

How provoking to see him carefully adjust the reins, and placing one in Mabel's hand, take the other over his arm, looking, as he did it, so manly and handsome. Even Selina's constant smiles provoked her, when she saw her by her side, and knew that even Maria was better off, riding with Mr. Stokes behind, while she looked only like a chaperone to the party.

To Mabel, the feeling that she was again on horseback, afforded exquisite pleasure. The hysterical sensation had passed, leaving her only more sensitive to the pleasure which followed it, and her spirits rose with a buoyancy and lightness, which, for many months, had been strangers to her; she did not stop to analyse the various causes which contributed to her light-heartedness, while the air she breathed—the noble animal she rode—the blue sky—and the sparkling sun-light—everything around her seemed to reflect the gladdened likeness of her own thoughts. She seemed again the light-hearted being, whose gay smile and merry laugh had carried joy wherever they went—before clouds of sadness and trial had darkened her life's dream of happiness.

The veil which had been thrown over her beauty by the withering hand of grief, was, for awhile, withdrawn, and her eyes sparkled with dazzling brilliancy, brighter, far brighter, even than in days gone by, as she turned them on her companion, who was riding by her side in embarrassed silence, watching the fiery eye, or impatient toss of her steed, to which she seemed indifferent.

They had now left the town behind them, wrapped in its shadowy mist, and had entered on the country so peculiarly beautiful, in its vicinity.

"And is it to you that I owe this exquisite treat?" she enquired, checking the rapid canter into which they had broken, on perceiving how really apprehensive he appeared.

"I believe you owe it more to yourself," he replied, shaking off his embarrassed air; "since they all declared you would not wear that old hat."

"Then I owe it to your superior discrimination, that you knew I did not care for such a trifle, in comparison with a ride. It reminds me of old, happy old times—and I feel like a new being."

"Ah, I used, in my old days of lofty aspiration, to look on good temper as the virtue of second rate characters, and I believed that great minds must be fickle and changeable."

"And if you have altered your opinion, why do you not practise your new doctrine?" she said, archly.

"You allude to my getting out of temper at dinner on Saturday; but then you must own I instantly recovered myself."

"I do not mean then only; but I often see the flash which denotes the inward storm, though no thunder follows."

"What, am I to sit unmoved, and hear the best motives misjudged—self-devotion ridiculed—the mourner made to feel all the bitterness of grief—and the orphan without a friend?"

"If you speak of me," replied his companion, with a gay smile, "do not forget that I have some friends left still; but if I had none, no champion of mine should use the weapons I would not wield myself; and, remember, I can change my position when I like."

"How?"

"By changing dependence, if it be so—but I do not like to call it that—for independence."

And she leant forward, and patted her horse's impatient head, with a look of childish unconcern.

"Then how can you remain here if you have the power to leave?"

"You will think me vain if I tell you," she said, carefully smoothing back the mane, which would get on the wrong side.

"No, no—tell me why? for you make me curious."

"Well, then—I hoped Lucy had some real affection for me—and I thought I might influence her, as I hope I have done—and I was deeply interested in my uncle—for he has been so kind to me—and I like him so much. Besides, had I any right, without good cause, to cast off my aunt's protection, since it was a pledge which she had given to my dear mother. No, I should have had no right to do that, at first—and I could not, had I wished to do it—for I had not spirit then to leave the refuge of the lowest hovel, had it given me shelter. There were many discomforts here, which were yet preferable to being so entirely unprotected, as I soon shall be—we women shrink from the idea of being our own protectors. But I cannot stay much longer where I am unwelcome—a few more thoughts for Lucy—a few more efforts to make them all love me, and then I think I shall go."

"But where will you go?"

"Oh, I have thought of that. There is a school friend of mine—a very dear friend, too, though I have not seen her for many years—she is now, poor thing, a widow—and, young as she is, has a family of six children, almost unprovided for, while she herself is in weak health. Now, I am thinking of offering to go, and live with her, and take charge of her children's education; for, you must know, that my aunt has more than six hundred pounds, which belong to me, the interest of which will furnish all I need, and enable me to do without a salary."