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MABEL. 
 
ABEL. 
 
 % label, 
 
 BY EMMA WARBURTON 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES, 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER, 
 
 30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE. 
 1854. 
 

 % 
 
 
 TO 
 
 ISS EMMA TYLNEY LONG, 
 
 THIS WOKE 
 
 
 <J 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 V 
 
 IS INSCRIBED 
 
 AS A SLIGHT BUT SINCERE EXPRESSION 
 
 OF GRATEFUL ESTEEM . 
 
 3 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/mabelnovelinthre01newb 
 
MABEL. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 Oh, timely, happy, timely wise, 
 Hearts that with rising morn arise, 
 Eyes that the beam celestial view, 
 Which evermore makes all things new. 
 
 New every morning is the love, 
 Our waking and uprising prove, 
 Through sleep and darkness safely brought, 
 Restored to life, and power, and thought. 
 
 Keeble. 
 
 One morning, early in the month of August, a 
 few years since, the sun rose lazily and luxuri- 
 ously over the hills that bounded the little 
 
 YOL. I. B 
 
MABEL. 
 
 Tillage of Aston, which lay in one of the 
 prettiest valleys of Gloucestershire. The 
 golden beams of that glorious luminary falling 
 first upon the ivy-coyered tower of the little 
 church, seemed, to the eye of fancy, to linger 
 with pleasure round the sacred edifice, as if 
 glad to recognize the altar of Him, who. froip 
 the beginning, had fixed his daily course 
 through the bright circle of the heavens, then 
 pouring a flood of brilliancy on the simple 
 rectory, danced over the hills, and played with 
 the many windows of the old Manor House, 
 which, situated at a short distance from the 
 church, formed one of the most striking objects 
 of the village. 
 
 Only here and there a thick volume of smoke 
 rose from the cottages scattered over the 
 valley, while the only living object visible was 
 a young man, who thus early walked down the 
 steep and winding path, which led from the 
 rectory, and strolled leisurely forward, as if at- 
 tracted by the beauties of the early morning. 
 
MABEL. O 
 
 The slow pace with which, he moved seemed to 
 betoken either indolence or fatigue, while his 
 dress, which was of the latest fashion, slightly- 
 contrasted with the ancient-looking simplicity 
 of the place. 
 
 Captain Clair, for such was his name, had 
 quitted his regiment, then in India, and re- 
 turned to England, with the hope of recruiting 
 his health, which had been considerably im- 
 paired by his residence abroad. 
 
 On the preceding evening, he had arrived 
 at the rectory, upon a visit to his uncle, 
 who wished him to try the bracing air of 
 Gloucestershire as a change from town, where 
 he had been lingering for some little time since 
 his return to England. 
 
 In person, the young officer was slight and 
 well made, with a becoming military air ; his 
 countenance light and fresh colored, spite of 
 Indian suns, and, on the whole, prepossessing, 
 though not untinged by certain worldly charac- 
 b 3 
 
4 MABEL. 
 
 ters, as if he had entered perhaps too thought- 
 lessly on a world of sin and temptation. 
 
 There is, however, something still and holy 
 in the early morning, when the sin and folly of 
 nature has slept, or seemed to sleep, and life 
 again awakes with fresh energy to labor. The 
 dew from heaven has not fallen upon the herb 
 alone, it seems to rest upon the spirit of man 
 which rises full of renewed strength to that 
 toil before which it sank heavily at eve ; and 
 as Captain Clair felt the breeze rising with its 
 dewy incense to heaven, his mind seemed to 
 receive fresh impetus, and his thoughts a 
 higher tone. Languidly as he pursued his 
 way, his eye drank in the beauties of a new 
 country, with all the fervour of a poetical 
 imagination. 
 
 On the right and left of the village, as he 
 entered it, were high hills, covered with brush- 
 wood, a few cottages, with their simple gardens, 
 lay in the hollow, and the church, standing 
 
MABEL. 
 
 nearly alone, was built a little above these, 
 having the hill on the left immediately behind 
 it. There was great beauty in that simple 
 church, with that thickly covered hill above, 
 and nothing near to disturb its solemnity. 
 
 Further on, the hills opened, and gave a 
 view of the whole country beyond, presenting 
 a scene of loveliness very common in our fer- 
 tile island. A small but beautiful river wound 
 through the valley, carrying life and fertility 
 along its banks. Wide spreading oaks and 
 tall beeches, with the graceful birch and ches- 
 nut trees bending their lower branches nearly 
 to the green turf beneath, enclosed the grounds 
 of the Manor House, which, built on a gentle 
 ascent, looked down on the peaceful valley 
 below. 
 
 The house, itself, was a fine old building, 
 well suited to the habits of a country gentle- 
 man, though not so large as the gardens and 
 plantation surrounding it, might have admitted. 
 These had been gradually acquired by each 
 
6 MABEL. 
 
 successive owner of the mansion, who took plea- 
 sure in adding to the family estate by purchas- 
 ng all property immediately adjoining, but 
 had wisely refrained from patching and spoiling 
 the house itself. 
 
 Captain Clair was determined to admire every 
 thing ; he had got up unusually early, and that 
 in itself was a meritorious action, which put 
 him in perfect good humour with himself. It 
 was a very pleasant morning, too, numbers of 
 insects, he had scarcely ever seen or thought of 
 since he was a boy, attracted his attention, and 
 flew out from the dewy hedges, over which the 
 white lily, or bindweed, hung in careless grace. 
 The butterfly awoke, and sported in the sun- 
 shine — and the bee went forth to the busy 
 labors of the day, humming the song of cheer- 
 ful industry. All combined to bring back long 
 forgotten days of innocent childhood and boy- 
 ish mirth ; the pulse which an Indian clime 
 had weakened, beat quicker, and his spirits 
 revived before the influence of happy memories 
 
MAlEL. 7 
 
 and the healthy breezes of the Cotswold. Then, 
 as the morning advanced, he lingered to 
 watch the movements of the villagers, and to 
 muse upon the characters of the inmates of the 
 different cottages as he passed them, and to 
 observe that those who dwelt in the neatest 
 were those who stirred the first. The la- 
 bourers had gone to their work, and now the 
 windows and doors were opened, and children 
 came forth to play. 
 
 As he returned again to reach the rectory in 
 time for its early breakfast, he perceived one 
 dwelling much superior in character to those 
 around it, with its antique gable front orna- 
 mented with carefully arranged trellis work, 
 over which creepers twined in flowery luxu- 
 riance, and the simple lawn sloping down to- 
 wards the road, from which a low, sunk fence 
 divided it. Here, careless of observation, a 
 young child had seated herself — her straw hat 
 upon the turf beside her, while she was busily 
 engaged in twining for it a wreath of the wild 
 lily, forgetful that in a few minutes its beauty 
 
8 MAEFL. 
 
 would perish ; she was a lovely child, the 
 outline of her infantine features was almost 
 faultless, and her little face dimpled with smiles 
 as she looked up from her occupation to nod- 
 some brief salutation to the poor men as they 
 passed her on their way home. 
 
 Arthur Clair could scarcely tell, why, of all 
 the objects he had observed that morning, none 
 should make so deep an impression as the sight 
 of that young child, or why he felt almost sad, 
 as he thought of her twining those fading 
 flowers, and as he strolled on, why, he looked at 
 nothing further, but still found himself musing 
 on the delicate features of that young face. 
 
 When he reached the garden gate, he found 
 his uncle strolling about, waiting for him. 
 
 Mr. Ware was a fine looking old gentleman, 
 with silver hair curling over a wide and ex- 
 pansive forehead. Though a little under the 
 middle height, there was a gentle dignity in 
 his manner that could scarcely fail to be noticed, 
 of if not noticed, it was sure to be felt. He 
 
MABEL. y 
 
 was neither very witty, nor very learned — yet 
 none knew him very long without liking him. 
 His face, not originally striking, had become 
 more handsome as he had grown older — for the 
 struggle bet ?f een good and evil, which must be 
 in every well principled mind, a perpetual strug- 
 gle, had been carried on by him for many 
 years, and so successfully, that each year 
 brought heaven nearer to the good man's 
 thoughts ; and now, as the race was so nearly 
 finished, his zeal became more earnest, and his 
 conscience more tender; fearing, lest, after a 
 life spent in his Master's service, he might be 
 found lingering at the last, and lose the prize 
 for which he had been so long striving. In 
 his eye was that look of serenity and peace 
 which seemed to say, " he feared no evil 
 tidings ; 55 for he walked continually under the 
 protection, which only can give that feeling of 
 security which those who have it not would 
 bestow great riches to possess. We have lin- 
 
10 MABEL. 
 
 gered longer than we at first intended in des- 
 cription, but, perhaps not too long. 
 
 When we look back to the innocence of 
 childhood, we sigh to think that we can never 
 be children again ; we recal that happy time 
 when the world had not written its own cha- 
 racters of sin and falsehood in our hearts ; we 
 sigh to think that childhood is gone — but no 
 sigh will recal it. But when we see an old 
 man who has passed the waves of this trouble- 
 some world, true to the faith with which he 
 entered life, we feel that here is an example 
 which we may follow. Childhood we have 
 left behind, but old age is before us, and if 
 we live on, must come ; and, as the body decays, 
 do we not feel that the spirit should increase in 
 holiness and strength, preparing itself for that 
 beautiful world of light which it must enter 
 or die. 
 
 Mr. Ware had resided for many years at 
 Aston ; when a younger man, he had been 
 
MABEL. 11 
 
 tutor, for a few months, to Colonel Hargrave, 
 the present possessor of the Aston property — 
 and though with his pupil, only during a tour 
 through Italy, the attachment between them 
 was such, that the young man solicited his 
 father to prefer his tutor to Aston, when that 
 living became vacant, partly, he told him, from 
 his wish to secure himself a friend and com- 
 panion, whenever he visited home. Mr. Ware 
 gratefully accepted an offer which at once 
 placed him in independence ; and, as soon as 
 he had settled himself in his new house, he 
 carried one of his favourite projects into execu- 
 tion, by sending for his only sister, who had 
 been obliged to procure her livelihood as a 
 governess ; his own small means being, since 
 their father's death, insufficient for both. 
 
 It was not then for his own sake entirely that he 
 rejoiced in his improved circumstances. When 
 he drove his neat little carriage to meet his 
 sister, and when he brought her home, and 
 shewed her his house — their house as he called 
 
12 MABEL. 
 
 it — with its pretty comfortable sitting-room, 
 looking out upon the garden, and the neat 
 little chamber, where all her old favourite 
 books — recovered from the friend who had 
 taken charge of them during her wanderings 
 — rested upon the neatly arranged shelves, 
 he felt as happy as man can wish to be. And 
 when, with eyes glistening with pleasure, he 
 assured her that it was her home as lorn?; as she 
 lived — he said what he never found reason to 
 repent, for the cheerful face of his companion 
 bore perpetual remembrance of his brotherly 
 kindness. 
 
 He had once thought of marriage ; but the 
 idea had now passed away entirely. In early 
 years, he had been sincerely attached to a 
 school friend of his sister's, whom he had met 
 during one of his Oxford vacations ; but she 
 died early, leaving her memory too deeply im- 
 pressed, to make him wish to replace it by 
 giving his affection to another. His sister, now 
 almost his only near relative, had sympathised, 
 
MABEL. 13 
 
 most sincerely, in his loss, and had endea- 
 voured to aid his own manly judgment in 
 regaining that cheerfulness of tone so neces- 
 sary for the right discharge of the eveiy-day 
 duties of life. She had been rewarded by the 
 more than usual continuation of a brother's 
 early love and esteem, and she had, therefore, 
 no scruple of accepting his offer of protection 
 and a home. 
 
 From that time, she had continued to keep 
 his house with the most cheerful attention to 
 his wishes and whims, and with an evenness of 
 temper which had always been peculiar to 
 her. 
 
 There was an air of gaiety about the whole 
 house ; the two maid-servants and the old 
 gardener seemed to possess peculiarly good 
 tempers — they were, indeed, scarcely ever 
 disturbed, and we may venture to add, that 
 they were not very much overworked. 
 
 There were hives of bees in the garden, 
 chickens in the courtyard, and the gaily- 
 
14 MABEL. 
 
 feathered cock strutting about, giving a lazy 
 crow now and then — all seeming to take their 
 ease, and enjoy themselves. In fact, there was 
 a blessing on the good man's home, that was 
 always smiling round it. 
 
 It was to this pleasant abode that the young 
 soldier had come down wearied with London 
 amusements, like some strange being who had 
 yet to find a place in its social order. 
 
 " You are fortunate, sir," he said, as he 
 strolled down the garden by his uncle's side, 
 " in your neighbourhood. I have seldom seen 
 anything before more comfortably beautiful, if 
 I may use the expression." 
 
 " I am glad you like it," replied Mr. Ware, 
 " and I assure you I shall be quite contented 
 if it has the power to make you spend a month 
 or two here agreeably. If you arc fond of 
 scenery, there are many places worth seeing, 
 even within a walking distance." 
 
 " I suppose the Manor Ilouse is amongst the 
 number?" observed his nephew, " I have been 
 
MABEL. 15 
 
 admiring it extremely. I cannot think why 
 Hargrave does not come down here. Has he 
 been since he came into the property ?" 
 
 " Yes — but only once, and then only for a 
 short while ; but you speak as if you knew 
 him?" 
 
 " A little," replied Clair, " he came home 
 with us from Malta ; but friendship, some- 
 times, ripen fast. He found out my relation- 
 ship to you, which commenced our acquaint- 
 ance ; I was charmed with him — indeed, I 
 scarcely ever met more variety in any charac- 
 ter. Sometimes I could scarcely keep pace 
 with his flow of spirits, and then he would 
 fall into a fit of musing, piquing my curiosity 
 to discover why so great a change should take 
 place, as it were, in an instant — in short, I'd 
 defy any one to get into his confidence. But 
 you know him, sir ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Ware, " I knew him very 
 well at one time ; his father sent me with him to 
 Italy, and in return, the generous boy ob- 
 
16 MABEL. 
 
 tained me this preferment. But I have not 
 seen him now, I think, for six or seven years 
 — though we write to each other occasionally. 
 Yon must tell me more about him at your 
 leisure, however, for he is a great favourite 
 with Mary as well as myself; but now, I think, 
 you must be ready for breakfast — Mary is 
 waiting for us, I see. Afterwards, if you are 
 not tired, we will pay a visit to the church — 
 there are two or three monuments of the 
 Hargrave family worth looking at." 
 
 " You are very kind," replied Clair, " I am 
 sure I feel better already with the fresh country 
 air — and health after sickness is happiness itself, 
 sometimes." 
 
 At this moment, Miss Ware opened the 
 glass door which led into the garden. She 
 was dressed, with studied simplicity, in a black 
 silk gown, with white muslin apron, and her 
 cap, looking as white as snow, fastened roimd 
 the head by a broad lilac ribbon ; but the smile 
 upon her face was the best of all, and was never 
 
MABEL. 17 
 
 wanting at the breakfast-table, forshe always 
 maintained that no one had a right to be dull 
 after a good night's rest, or to anticipate the 
 troubles of the day before they came. 
 
 " Good morning, Edmund," said she to her 
 brother, u and good morning, Arthur," giving 
 her hand to her nephew. " I was just pre- 
 paring to send your breakfast up-stairs, when 
 I heard you had been out for more than two 
 hours." 
 
 " I am not sorry to save you the trouble of 
 nursing me, aunt — I have had enough of that 
 in London," said Clair, gaily, as he followed 
 her to the morning-room, where breakfast 
 waited them. The meal was dispatched with 
 cheerfulness, and he amused his aunt by an 
 account of his walk, and the guesses which it 
 had allowed him to make of the character of 
 their poorer neighbours, with whom she was 
 herself well acquainted. 
 
 After breakfast, Mr. Ware invited him to 
 join his morning ramble. 
 
] 8 MABEL. 
 
 " I shall have an opportunity," he said, as 
 they descended the hill leading to the lower 
 part of the village, " of pointing out to you 
 some of the evils of absenteeism — of which you 
 have, doubtless, heard much. I have always 
 noticed, that what we gain from our [own 
 observation is worth much more than the in- 
 formation of others. In this little spot, un- 
 happily, you will see very much to condemn. 
 I have already told you that our landlord, 
 Colonel Hargrave, has not been here for more 
 than six years, and before that visit, which 
 was chiefly occupied in field sports, his sojourn 
 here had been very rare, for his talented mind 
 led him to seek the more extensive knowledge 
 to be gained from foreign travel, even before 
 he entered the army. His father, who has now 
 been dead some years, constantly resided here, 
 till the death of his wife, which made Aston 
 a very different place from what it is at present. 
 Poor Mrs. Hargrave was universally beneficent, 
 and was so much loved and respected by the 
 
MAJBEL. 19 
 
 people in this neighbourhood, rich as well as 
 poor, that her name is scarcely ever mentioned 
 without the title of ' good J being added to it. 
 The time when good Mrs. Hargrave liyed is 
 always looked back upon with affectionate 
 regret. When she died, however, her husband, 
 who was passionately fond of her, took a dis- 
 taste to a place which constantly reminded him of 
 his loss, and he only paid very casual visits to 
 it during the remainder of his life, which did 
 not last long after the domestic blow he had 
 sustained. At present, the estate is in the 
 hands of a rapacious bailiff, who amply fulfils 
 that proverb, which says, £ A poor man that 
 oppresseth the poor is like a sweeping rain 
 which leaveth no food.' Unfortunately, I have 
 no influence with him, and as he has to pay 
 me tithe, he regards me in the light of others 
 who are dependent upon him. It is an un- 
 happy state of things, certainly, for the 
 wages of the poor laborers employed on the 
 estate, are, in some cases, kept back for months 
 
20 MABEL. 
 
 together. You may easily fancy how difficult 
 it is for men to live under these circumstances, 
 having no other resource beyond the fruit of 
 their labors." 
 
 They had, by this time, reached the hollow 
 between the two hills, where a great many 
 cottages were situated. About. them was an 
 appearance of neglect, that is, at all times, dis- 
 agreeable to contemplate. In most parts, the 
 thatch had become blackened by the weather, 
 and here and there pieces of it had been blown 
 off by the high winds, or were kept in place 
 only by heavy stones laid upon the roof. In 
 some places the walls, which bounded the little 
 gardens, had been suffered to crumble down 
 — loose stones lying in the gaps, but no effort 
 seemed to have been made to. replace them. 
 A ditch ran along the road, partially covered 
 with long grass and weeds; but the glimpses here 
 and there afforded of it, told that it was used 
 as a receptacle for the drains of that part of 
 the parish — and a noxious stench arose from it 
 
MABEL. 21 
 
 exercising a baneful influence, as might be 
 seen by the pale faces of the children who 
 played about it. 
 
 Added to this, there was a desponding tone 
 over the general features of the place, which 
 might have accounted for the wastes of ground 
 which might be seen, here and there, covered 
 with weeds, rather than converted to any useful 
 purpose. 
 
 " Surely," said Clair, attracting his uncle's 
 attention, " this self-neglect cannot be attri- 
 buted to Hargrave ?" 
 
 " Not altogether," replied Mr. "Ware, "this 
 is an evil which I hope time will remedy ; 
 there is ; indeed, no excuse for it ; yet the 
 reason I believe simply to be, that the people, 
 losing their accustomed stimulant, arising from 
 a resident family, and depressed by the low 
 and uncertain wages they receive from an op- 
 pressive bailiff, have not yet learned to take 
 care of themselves ; but yet I hope, from day 
 to day," said the good man, looking round, 
 
22 :mabel. 
 
 " it would not do for me to despond as well as 
 the rest." 
 
 Stepping over a small plank that crossed the 
 ditch, they entered one of the cottages. The 
 interior presented a kind of untidy comfort ; 
 a large heap of fuel lay in one comer, and a 
 bed was at one side, and seemed used as a 
 substitute for a seat during the day. The 
 windows, where panes had been broken, were 
 filled up with dirty rags ; two or three children 
 were playing about with naked feet, and their 
 mother, a remarkably pretty young woman, 
 was working at the darkened window, By the 
 fire was seated a strong hale young man, with 
 his hands upon his knees, contemplating it 
 with gloomy fixedness. A red cap ornamented 
 his head, and partly shaded a pair of dark eyes, 
 and a scowling countenance. 
 
 Mr. Ware could not but enter the cottage 
 with the consciousness that he was not par- 
 ticularly welcome ; yet this did not render his 
 visits less frequent. 
 
MABEL. I 23 
 
 f* 
 
 "Well, Martin," said he, "I am sorry to 
 see you at home, for I fear you are out of 
 work." 
 
 The man answered, without rising from his 
 seat — 
 
 "lam out of work, and so I am likely to 
 remain, I suppose. It is up-hill work to have 
 nothing better to look to than this comes to — 
 and it is very hard to be owed ever so much 
 money, which I have earned by as honest labor 
 as was ever given in exchange for money. I 
 have heard you read — l cursed is he that keepeth 
 a marts wages all night by him until the morn- 
 ing ',' — but I don't know what would be said to 
 him that can keep them for months, letting a 
 poor man starve, without thinking of him for 
 a moment. When rent day comes round, then 
 it must be rent, or turn out ; we hav'nt got no 
 power in our hands ; but I say 'tis a very hard 
 
 case." 
 
 " It is very hard, I allow, Martin," said Mr. 
 Ware, "but the wrong done jou does no* 
 
24 MA3EL. 
 
 excuse your sitting here idle ; have you been 
 trying for work ?" 
 
 " Yes, I've been to all the farmers round ; 
 but there's none to be got." 
 
 " How do you manage to get on then ?" 
 
 " We live as we can," answered the man, 
 sullenly. 
 
 "Well, my good fellow," said Mr. Ware, 
 kindly, "make another effort, and do not sit 
 down here idle all day. I hear that Colonel 
 Hargrave is coming to England shortly, if, 
 indeed, he is not already here." 
 
 " We have heard that so often," growled 
 Martin, " that we cannot put any faith in it. 
 He'll never come to do us any good, I reckon." 
 
 Mr. Ware offered him a little more advice as 
 to exerting himself, and then, with a small 
 gratuity to his wife, left the cottage with his 
 nephew. 
 
 "He is a notorious poacher," said he, as they 
 walked on, " and his excuse is, if they do not 
 give us our own money, we must take an 
 
MABEL. 25 
 
 equivalent. It is difficult to preach, while 
 poverty and starvation are opposed to the 
 maxims we would wish to inculcate. I wish 
 something could make the Colonel believe the 
 actual state of things ; but I do sometimes fear 
 he entirely forgets us. In that neat-looking ' 
 dwelling/' he continued, after a pause, " lives 
 a woman, who has hitherto obtained her liveli- 
 hood by supplying the poor inhabitants with 
 bread and other necessaries ; for tome months 
 past, however, Rogers, the bailiff, has found 
 excuses to withhold the wages from most of the 
 workmen engaged in repairing the premises at 
 Aston, and they have been obliged to live upon 
 credit, which this poor woman has been per- 
 suaded to give them — in consequence, she tells 
 me, she is nearly ruined ; and from the con- 
 fusion in which her money matters stand, she 
 has fallen quite into a state of melancholy. I 
 went to her yesterday, so that I will not ask 
 you to see her to-day ; but we will come in 
 here," he said, at the same time lifting the 
 vol. i. c 
 
26 MABEL. 
 
 latch of a door, which opened into a small 
 room, more like some hovel, attached to a 
 tenement which contained several families. 
 
 It was a wretched-looking place, and Clair 
 could scarcely suppress a shudder as he 
 entered it. It was but badly lighted from a 
 broken window ; an old piece of furniture 
 served, at once, for a table and a sort of cup- 
 board ; two chairs, and a stool, completed the 
 furniture, with the exception of a shelf, on 
 w T hich the poverty of the house was displayed, 
 in half a loaf of bread which rested on it. 
 Here an old man sat by the smouldering 
 embers of a wood fire, holding his hands as 
 close to it as possible, as if he hoped to find 
 comfort in the miserable heat it afforded, for 
 his thin hands looked cold, though it was still 
 early in autumn. He welcomed them with 
 pleasure, and offered his two chairs to the gen- 
 tlemen with ready alacrity, taking possession 
 of the stool for himself. 
 
 While Mr. Ware continued talking to jthe 
 
MABEL. 2 *7 
 
 old man, Clair gave a searching glance round 
 the poor dwelling, and trembled to think how 
 the cold December wind would whistle through 
 the old window ; but when he thought of ask- 
 ing some questions concerning it, he was 
 checked, by hearing the two old men discourse 
 with such apparent ease and cordiality, as if 
 they had entirely forgotten where they were. 
 
 " Is it really possible, sir," said he, when 
 they had left, "that nothing can be done for 
 that poor old man ?" 
 
 " I fear nothing can be done/' returned Mr. 
 Ware, " unless we can persuade Hargrave to 
 return to us." 
 
 "But how," enquired Clair, "would his 
 coming remedy the evil. 
 
 " It would do so in a great measure," re- 
 plied Mr. Ware, as they turned homewards. 
 " A man with his wealth could afford to keep 
 all that are now out of labour, well employed. 
 A farmer cannot well afford to pay an old man 
 for the little labour he can give, but a rich 
 c 2 
 
28 MABEL. 
 
 landlord can easily find him employment ; at a 
 lower rate of wages, of course. Formerly, 
 those who were too old for hard work, were 
 allowed to sweep away the leaves, or clean the 
 weeds from the walks on the estate, which 
 were a few years since beautifully kept. The 
 absence of a rich family in a place where the 
 people have learnt to depend upon them, is a 
 serious loss. You will wonder, perhaps, that 
 I do not instantly, and fully relieve the situa- 
 tion of the old man we visited just now, but 
 the poverty which has prevailed in almost 
 every house during the past year, has been 
 very great ; and I have been obliged to divide 
 my charity so as to make it more extensive. 
 Besides, I do not much approve of giving 
 where it can be avoided ; and, therfore, hus- 
 band my means for the scarcity of the coming 
 winter. 
 
 " I should have guessed/ 5 said his nephew, 
 " that some such motive influenced you, or I 
 know such cases would meet with instant re- 
 
MABEL. 29 
 
 lief — but of one thing, I am certain, Hargrave 
 cannot be aware of this." 
 
 " We will hope not," said Mr. Ware, some- 
 what sadly; but I have written to him fre- 
 quently, and if Eogers gave me the proper 
 directions, it is hardly likely my letters have 
 not reached him. It is too probable, that, like 
 many more, he relies too much upon his bailiff." 
 
 They had, by this time, reached the rectory, 
 and Clair, exhausted from unusual exercise, 
 threw himself into an arm-chair, and took up a 
 book. 
 
30 MABEL. 
 
 CPIAPTEE II. 
 
 From dream to dream, with her to rove, 
 Like faery nurse, with hermit child, 
 Teach her to think, to pray, to love, 
 Make grief less bitter, joy less wild, 
 These were thy tasks, — . 
 
 Church Poetry. 
 
 About a quarter of a mile from the rectory, 
 and close to the Church, was the pretty little 
 residence which had attracted Clair's attention 
 in his morning walk. It was an old fashioned 
 little house, with gable front, and latticed win- 
 dows, with ivy climbing over the walls, and 
 jasmine and honeysuckle creeping in rich luxu- 
 riance over the old porch. In front, the grass- 
 plot sloped down, with a wide gravel walk 
 
MABEL. 31 
 
 running round it, to the gate, which shut it in 
 from the high road. At the back lay a spaci- 
 ous vegetable garden, irregularly laid out, and 
 interrupted here and there by a rose-bush, or 
 bed of beautiful carnations, as it suited the old 
 gardener's taste — for he had lived in the family 
 so many years, that no one dared dispute his 
 will in the garden — it was conducted on his 
 most approved style of good gardening ; and 
 old John would have defended that style against 
 all the world. To have discharged him from 
 her service would have been one of the last 
 things his mistress would have thought of; 
 therefore, the only alternative was to let him 
 have his own way in every thing. One part of 
 his system was to put every thing in the place 
 best suited to its growth, without much regard 
 to order, and the garden often presented a 
 strange medley in consequence ; the hottest 
 corners were shared by early lettuces, and rich 
 double stocks, and radish beds, and so on, 
 throughout the garden; but there was some- 
 
32 MABEL. 
 
 thing not unpleasing in the mixture, though it 
 looked a little singular, and the general neatness 
 was not to be found fault with — and the turf 
 walks cutting the garden in many directions, 
 were always smoothly cut and rolled. 
 
 The spot where old John was most certain to 
 be found, was just in the middle of the garden, 
 where he had enclosed a small piece of ground 
 by a high and closely clipped yew hedge, to 
 keep out the wind, In this small enclosure, 
 were two or three hot-beds, with cucumbers, 
 melons, or some yery early radishes, or cress 
 under glass frames. He had always something 
 to do round these beds, the matting covers were 
 to be put on or taken off, and the glasses opened 
 a little more, and more, as the day advanced, 
 and then, of course, to be closed again, by de- 
 grees, towards evening. If any one touched 
 them but himself, he looked as if his whole 
 crop must inevitably be spoilt ; but the secret 
 might have been, that, he had always some 
 little surprise to bring out of them, such as 
 
MABEL. 33 
 
 a cucumber ten days earlier than could have 
 been expected ; or some mustard and cress, be- 
 fore any one else thought of planting any, 
 which, of course, was not to be seen till quite 
 ready for the table. 
 
 There was an appearance about the inside of 
 the house, as well as of the garden, as if a 
 great* deal of money had been spent upon it 
 formerly, for there were many solid and 
 ornamental comforts in both, which might have 
 been dispensed with if required. 
 
 The drawing-room, though small, was sub- 
 stantially and elegantly furnished, though old 
 fashioned ; every thing in the room too bore 
 the evidence of refined habits, bnt nothing 
 told of any present expenditure. Such as it 
 had been ten years before, it very much re- 
 mained now. The dining-room and usual sit- 
 ting-room, had much of the same appearance 
 though it did not give quite the same reflective, 
 feeling — ladies' work, and a child's playthings, 
 gave life and animation to it. 
 c 5 
 
34 MABEL. 
 
 Colonel Lesly had lived here for many years 
 since his retirement from the army, having lost 
 a leg during the Peninsular war, where he had 
 served as a brave officer, and only retired rrcm 
 the service when unable to be of further use to 
 it. On his return to England, he, with his 
 wife and child, settled in his native county — 
 and fixed on this cottage for his residence. 
 His wife was most sincerely attached to him, 
 and her society with that of their daughter 
 Mabel, made him scarcely regret, being obliged 
 so soon to retire from a profession so w^ell 
 adapted to his tastes. He had been fond of 
 reading, when a boy, and had not neglected the 
 opportunities presented by his wandering abroad, 
 to cultivate his taste for general information. 
 One of his chief pleasures soon became that of 
 teaching his little Mabel all he knew, and her 
 intelligent questions often led him to take an 
 interest in subjects he might otherwise have 
 neglected. 
 
 Since their settling at Aston, Colonel and Mrs. 
 
MABEL. 35 
 
 Lesly had had several children, who had all died 
 in infancy, still leaving Mabel as the only object 
 of parental love. ; fondly did her father guard the 
 young girl's mind, growing in intelligence, and 
 beauty, whilst her speaking features lighted up 
 with smiles whenever he came near. Proudly did 
 he watch her as each year gave her something 
 more soft, more touching, more womanly ; and 
 earnestly did he hope that life would be spared 
 him to guide aright a mind of such firmness 
 and power, joined to feelings so warm and 
 eager, that it seemed to him a question 
 which would have the ascendancy, heart or 
 mind. But that wish was not to be granted, 
 and Mabel's first real sorrow, was her father's 
 death. He had gone on a short visit to Lon- 
 don, upon some urgent business, and had there 
 taken the typhus fever, which made its appear- 
 ance soon after his return home, and, acting on 
 an enfeebled constitution, carried him to his 
 grave, after a short illness. A few days after 
 his death, Mabel's youngest sister was born. 
 
36 mabe:. 
 
 It was, indeed, to a house of sorrow and mourn- 
 ing, that the little child came, for her mother's 
 constitution never recovered the shock she had 
 sustained in the loss of one, not only most dear, 
 but on whom she had become almost wholly 
 dependent. 
 
 It was then that Mabel felt the benefit of 
 her father's lessons so firmly impressed on her 
 mind, and resolved to act as she believed he 
 would have led her to do, could he have been 
 allowed the power of guiding her still. So 
 severely did her mother feel the loss she had 
 sustained, both in health and spirits, that she 
 rather required support herself than felt able 
 to afford it to those dependent on her ; Mabel, 
 therefore, soon felt the necessity of exerting 
 herself, as all the family responsibilities seemed 
 left entirely to her care. 
 
 As soon then as she could at all recover from 
 the blow occasioned by her father's death, she 
 applied herself to the management of their 
 now reduced income, and busied herself in 
 
MABEL. 37 
 
 cutting off all the expenses which the Colonels 
 liberal habits had rendered almost necessary to 
 his happiness, but which were now quite be- 
 yond their means. 
 
 In the course of her enquiries, she had no 
 greater opponent than old John; he first in- 
 sisted that he himself was quite indispensable 
 to the arrangements of the family ; and when 
 he had gained that point, he was equally ob- 
 stinate about the carriage and ponies. But 
 Mabel had the advantage in that particular, at 
 least ; the old gardener was left in quiet pos- 
 session — but the coach-house and stable were 
 shut up — and after many a battle with their 
 old friend, everything else that could be dis- 
 pensed with, was cut off, till the expenditure 
 was reduced to something within their income. 
 John pined and fretted, but his young mistress 
 had such a winning way, he could not keep his 
 ill humour long. He had declared, during one 
 of his contests, that she never could be happy 
 without the pretty pony which had carried her 
 
38 MABEL. 
 
 up and down the hills so often ; but he was 
 obliged to give up the point, when he saw the 
 delight with which she carried her infant sister 
 in her arms and danced her in the sunshine, 
 with half a mother's hope and pride, as if she 
 wanted nothing more to make her perfectly 
 happy. 
 
 Sometimes, when the child grew older, she 
 would take her to gather the yellow cress, or 
 the cowslip, and watch her trembling steps 
 with the most careful attention, or lead her to 
 the church-yard, and there, seated on their 
 father's tomb, give her her first lesson in 
 eternal things. And then they would return 
 together to cheer their mother's solitude, and 
 try to divert her from her never ceasing re- 
 grets ; and thus years passed by, and if sorrow 
 laid again its heavy hand on Mabel's brow, re- 
 signation had followed to smooth away its 
 lines, and leave it soft and gentle as before. 
 
 On that bright August morning, which we 
 have before described, she was sitting with her 
 
MABEL. 39 
 
 little sister, now a beautiful but weak and un- 
 healthy child, of seven or eight, at her lessons 
 in the cheerful little sitting-room. Mabel — 
 with her bright, quick eye, changing color, and 
 speaking countenance over which a thought, 
 perhaps a single shade of mournfulness had 
 been cast, and the little girl by her side looked 
 well together, and they were almost always in 
 company. Amy was at her French lesson, 
 which that morning seemed peculiarly hard to 
 learn, and much as she always tried to please 
 her sister, she could not help turning her wan- 
 dering eyes rather often to the open window to 
 watch the butterflies flit past in the merry sun- 
 shine. 
 
 "It is so difficult, Mabel dear," said she, at 
 length, " I learnt it perfectly this morning, 
 but I cannot remember the words now." 
 
 "Well, try once more," replied Mabel; 
 " but you must not look out of the window." 
 
 " But my head aches so," said Amy, coax- 
 
40 MABEL. 
 
 ingly, knowing that Mabel could hardly ever 
 resist her plea of illness. 
 
 " "Well, there is mamma's bell, and while I 
 go to dress her, yon can take a run round the 
 garden — but do not be long, or I shall have to 
 call you." 
 
 Mabel went up-stairs, and Amy ran off to 
 the garden — her first object was the fruit trees, 
 to see if any were on the ground — she found 
 none — but many beautiful ripe peaches were 
 on one tree, which was carefully trained 
 against the wall, and one finer than the rest, 
 perfectly ready, and peeping out from the 
 leaves, looked peculiarly tempting. She 
 stopped to look, then felt it gently, then tried 
 to see if it were loose, till one unfortunate 
 push, and the peach tumbled to the ground. 
 Amy looked frightened, and gazed round to 
 see if any one was in sight, but seeing no one, 
 she picked it up, and began to eat it. 
 
 Suddenly the awful step of old John was 
 heard coming from the cucumber-bed. 
 
MABEL. 41 
 
 " How did you get that peach, miss ?" he 
 said, roughly. 
 
 The child turned red, but answered quickly, 
 
 " I picked it up." 
 
 " Well, I would not have lost that peach," 
 said he, " for half-a-dozen others. Miss Mabel 
 told me to save half-a-dozen for Mr. Ware, and 
 this|was the best of the lot — -I shan't have such 
 another beauty this year. Oh, miss." 
 
 " But you said I might have all I picked 
 up," answered Amy, clinging to her subter- 
 fuge. 
 
 " Yes ; but I thought this was too firm to 
 fall, watching it as I did too," said he, as he 
 looked in consternation from the tree to the 
 half eaten peach in Amy's hand. 
 
 The child was not long in taking advantage 
 of his silence, and ran into the house jiist in 
 time to take up the French lesson before 
 Mabel returned. 
 
 There was a look of indignation not easily 
 
42 MABEL. 
 
 mistaken by Amy on her sister's face, when 
 she entered the room. 
 
 M Oh, Amy," she said, in tones of anger and 
 surprise. 
 
 Amy looked up, but said nothing — she was 
 frightened, for she knew that she had been 
 doing wrong. 
 
 " I did not think," said Mabel, while an ex- 
 pression of contempt curled her beautiful lip, 
 " I did not think you could be so mean as to 
 screen yourself from blame by a falsehood." 
 
 Amy was going to speak, but her sister in- 
 terrupted her. 
 
 " I know every word you would say ; but it 
 is all, all wrong. I heard every word, and I 
 dare say, guessed every thought. You did not 
 really mean to pick the peach, but you could 
 not resist the temptation to loosen its hold. 
 When it fell, you were surprised and sorry ; 
 but you could not resist the temptation to eat, 
 because you were alone, and thought that no 
 
MABEL. 43 
 
 one saw you ; then, when John came, you 
 turned coward, because you were wrong, and 
 told him you had picked it up — and this was 
 true, though it was also true that you were the 
 means of knocking it down first—- so you had 
 neither the courage to speak the truth, nor tell 
 a falsehood." 
 
 Mabel spoke quickly and impetuously, and 
 as the whole truth glared on the child's mind, 
 the hot tears fell quickly on her burning 
 cheek. 
 
 "You do not love me, Mabel," she said. 
 
 " Because I will not let you be mean, 
 deceitful, and wicked. What would papa have 
 said had he seen his child act so ?" 
 
 " Oh, forgive me, dear Mabel, and do not 
 talk like that," said Amy. 
 
 There was a tear in Mabel's eye that softened 
 the severity of her tone, and sitting down by 
 her, she said, more quietly — 
 
 " Amy, love, in that little action, I saw 
 
44 MABEL. 
 
 enough, to make me indignant, and more to 
 make me sorry ; for if you do not get rid of 
 that deceit, which has led you wrong now, it 
 will go on, leading you into worse errors, and 
 how can I take care of you if I am not certain 
 you are speaking the truth, Falsehood is the 
 beginning of all sin ; and you will learn to 
 deceive me ; and when I think my darling is 
 all I wish her, I shall discover something 
 hidden and sinful, that will tell me I am 
 wrong. Oh, I am so vexed." 
 
 " Forgive me — oh, do say you forgive me ?" 
 cried the punished child. 
 
 "Have I the power to forgive what is 
 sinful ?" said Mabel, kissing her affectionately. 
 
 Amy understood, and running to the cham- 
 ber where they both slept, she fell upon her 
 knees, and clasped her little hands in prayer. 
 
 A child's repentance is not very long, and 
 Amy soon returned, her countenance meek and 
 subdued, and looked timidly at her sister. 
 
MABEL. 45 
 
 "Now then, Amy," said Mabel, " prepare 
 yourself for a difficult duty — come and tell 
 John all you have done." 
 
 Amy hesitated and trembled. 
 
 "He will be so cross," said she, entreat - 
 ingly. 
 
 " Yery likely ; but you are not a coward 
 now- — you are not afraid to do right. It is 
 difficult, I know, for John will not understand 
 what you feel, and may remember it for a long 
 time ; but still you will come." 
 
 Amy gave her trembling hand to her sister, 
 and, with a very blank countenance, accom- 
 pauied her in search of John. 
 
 They had to go all over the garden ; but 
 found him, at length, standing disconsolate by 
 the peach-tree. 
 
 " John," said Amy. 
 
 " Yes, miss," replied the old man, gloomily, 
 and half angrily. 
 
 " John," she continued, " I touched the 
 peach, and that was why it fell d^wn." 
 
46 MABEL. 
 
 He looked too amazed to answer. 
 
 "lam very, very sorry — will you forgive 
 me for telling a falsehood ?" murmured Amy, 
 beseechingly. 
 
 John looked still very surprised and angry. 
 
 " Miss Amy," he began, " I could not have 
 thought you — " 
 
 "But forgive her this time," interposed 
 Mabels " she is very sorry, and it has been a 
 hard struggle to come and tell you how very 
 wrong she has been." 
 
 " Bless you, miss," answered the old gar- 
 dener, quickly, " you are your own father's 
 child, and I know how much you must have 
 suffered when you found any kindred of your'n 
 a telling lies. But I forgive you, Miss Amy, 
 and never you do wrong like that again. Bless 
 you, Miss Mabel, for you be leading the dear 
 young lady in the right path, as well as walking 
 in it yourself." 
 
MABEL. 47 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 Love not, love not, the thing you love may change. 
 
 What general interest is excited by the ar- 
 rival of the post. Who ever settled himself in 
 a new place, for the shortest time, without 
 making himself acquainted with its details, 
 the time when it arrives and leaves ? And 
 who ever entirely loses this interest, spite of 
 its often more than daily occurrence ? There 
 is no sameness in it, because there is no cer- 
 tainty. 
 
 Letters only came to Aston twice in a week, 
 and then they were brought by a man — who 
 
48 MABEL. 
 
 could hardly be dignified by the title of post- 
 man — at some uncertain time in the middle of 
 the day. 
 
 On these days the road by which he came 
 was an object of interest to Mabel and her 
 sister, and they often walked in that direction 
 to secure any letters there might be for them, 
 without waiting for their tardy delivery. They 
 were often joined by Mr. Ware on the same 
 errand, and that afternoon they overtook him 
 as he was leisurely mounting the first hill on 
 the road. 
 
 " Well, young ladies," said he, greeting them 
 with a smile, " we are all going to meet the 
 postman as usual I suppose ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied Mabel, " the post always 
 seems to have sufficient interest to make even 
 you choose this road on Tuesdays and Fri- 
 days." 
 
 "Well, I confess," he replied, "I always 
 have great pleasure in seeing the man turn the 
 
MABEL. 49 
 
 corner, besides, as he is so uncertain, one is 
 tempted to take a longer walk, expecting to see 
 him every moment." 
 
 " Yes," said Mabel, " we almost always meet 
 him, and yet there is seldom more than the 
 possibility of a letter after all." 
 
 " My hopes are not quite so indefinite," said 
 Mr. Ware, " I am always certain of a paper, 
 which is often worth more to me than a letter. 
 I used to think when a person took great 
 interest in the post it was a sign that they were 
 not quite happy at home or in themselves." 
 
 " And do you not think so still ?" said 
 Mabel. 
 
 "Not so much, certainly," he replied, "I 
 think it often arises from the feeling that we 
 are not quite independent of the outer world 
 till the letters of the day have been read. 
 Good and bad news must frequently come by 
 letter, and, therefore, as long as we have any 
 friends separated from us, we must feel a little 
 anxious to know if there be any news at all." 
 
 VOL. I. d 
 
£ 
 
 MABEL. 
 
 "Do you not think," said Mabel, " that this 
 is sometimes carried too far, and may degene- 
 rate into almost a sickly feeling ?" 
 
 " Yes, certainly ; I would not have any one 
 indifferent on eommon subjects, but too great 
 attention to things of this kind must be 
 wrong." 
 
 "I have often thought so," said Mabel, 
 thoughtfully, "when I have felt quite anxious 
 on seeing the man coming, and then when I 
 open my letters, full of the most ordinary busi- 
 ness, I feel quite ashamed of myself." 
 
 " And what were you really hoping for, dear 
 child ?" said Mr. Ware. 
 
 The color rose fast over her truthful counte- 
 nance, but at this moment the postman himself 
 was seen, and saved her the pain of answer- 
 ing. 
 
 Mr. Ware soon secured his papers, and one 
 or two letters, and being anxious to convey one 
 home to his nephew, he took leave of them 
 where the road separated. 
 
MABEL. 51 
 
 " ISow then," said Mabel, when they had 
 parted from him, " let us see which will get 
 home first, for mamma will be glad to get this 
 letter from aunt Villars." 
 
 Amy reached home first, but Mabel quickly 
 followed her to the drawing-room. 
 
 " Here, mamma, is a letter from aunt Vil- 
 lars," said Mabel, echoed by Amy. 
 
 a From Caroline," said Mrs. Lesly, " I do 
 not think it can be from Caroline, for there is 
 no Bath post-mark, it comes from Cheltenham." 
 
 " Do open it mamma, and see if they are at 
 Cheltenham," said Mabel. 
 
 " Fetch me my glasses then," returned her 
 mother, " stay — here they are, but you must 
 not hurry me, or my head will begin to ache 
 again, it has been very bad all the morning." 
 
 " Oh, yes, mamma, there is plenty of time ; 
 come, Amy dear, and take your bonnet off." 
 
 Mabel had taken up her work before she 
 again ventured to ask any questions. At length 
 she said — 
 d 2 
 
£2 MABEL. 
 
 " Is aunt Villars at Cheltenham, mamma ?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear, but only for a week or ten 
 days." 
 
 " "Will she come and see us now she is so 
 near ?" she enquired. 
 
 " I will read what she says about that, my 
 dear," said Mrs. Lesly, taking up the letter, 
 (some part of the aunt's communications being 
 always mysteriously reserved). 
 
 Here it is : — 
 
 " I cannot leave Gloucestershire without 
 coming to see you, dear Annie, and your sweet 
 children, and therefore, if you say nothing to 
 the contrary, I will drive over some how on 
 Monday, and remain till Tuesday. If not 
 asking too much of my dear sister, I shall leave 
 Lucy with you ; she is not quite well, and a run 
 in the country will do her good, after the heat 
 of Bath. My little girl finds pleasure in any- 
 thing, and I promise you she shall be very 
 good if you will let her come to you." 
 
MABEL. 53 
 
 " Oh, how nice, mamma," cried Amy. 
 
 "Very nice that your aunt is coming, I 
 allow," said Mrs. Lesly, " but I do not know 
 what to say to Lucy, all little girls are not so 
 good as my Amy." 
 
 "It would be unkind to refuse her," said 
 Mabel. 
 
 " And if she is not well, poor child," added 
 her mother. " I quite forget how old Lucy is, 
 she cannot be so very little after all. 
 
 " But," said Amy, " aunt calls her, her little 
 girl, and says she will be very good ; if she 
 were grown up like Mabel, of course she would 
 not be naughty." 
 
 " I do not know that," said Mrs. Lesly, with 
 a smile, " grown up people are often as naughty 
 as little ones ; so either way she was right to 
 promise. Well, we must have the spare room 
 opened, it must be quite damp, I fear, after 
 being shut up so long." 
 
 "Oh, no, mamma," said Mabel, "I open 
 
54 MABEL. 
 
 the windows every morning, myself, so that I 
 am sure the room is well aired.'' 
 
 " There must be a fire there, however, I 
 suppose," replied her mother, trying to exert 
 herself to think. 
 
 " Yes, Betsy shall light a fire there to-day, 
 and I will see that the room is comfortable." 
 
 " But stay," said Mrs. Lesly, who was 
 always troubled by anything like arrange- 
 ments, " who is to sleep in Lucy's room when 
 Caroline is gone. I am afraid we cannot man- 
 age it." 
 
 "We will see how old she is when she 
 comes," suggested Mabel, and if she is afraid 
 to sleep by herself Betsy must sleep with her ; 
 but from what I remember she cannot be very 
 young." 
 
 u Well then, my dear," said her mother, 
 " and so you will promise to contrive to make 
 everything comfortable; now nothing makes me 
 so ill as arranging, and your poor papa never 
 left me anything of that kind to think of. I 
 
MABEL. 55 
 
 remember once going down to Weymouth, 
 when you were a baby. I could not tell what 
 I should do there, being obliged to sleep at an 
 hotel, for the first night, for we could not find 
 a lodging, the town was so very Ml. So when 
 we came there, we could get nothing but a 
 small, uncomfortable room ; and some how or 
 other, we could not find any of the baby's 
 things without pulling our boxes all about so, 
 and I was so tired and teased, that I sat down, 
 and — and — 
 
 " c Annie,' said he, l now don't cry — I can 
 bear anything better than your tears — leave 
 everything to me — it will be much the easiest 
 plan.' 
 
 " And so I did — and he put my nurse to 
 work so busily, that my baby was asleep before 
 I could think about it ; and the next morning 
 he was up early, managed to secure us a 
 lodging, and made us all comfortable. Ah, I 
 am afraid he spoilt me, I do not know how to 
 do anything now, I fear." 
 
56 MABEL. 
 
 " Well, dear mamma," said Mabel, twining 
 her arm round her neck, and kissing her affec- 
 tionately, " I would not have you miss my 
 dear papa less than you do ; but you must not 
 tease yourself about anything. Did I not 
 promise to try and supply his place. I do not 
 mean to let you have any trouble at all. Here 
 is your desk and a new pen — the ink is a little 
 too light, but it writes freely — and now, 
 while you answer my aunt's letter, you will be 
 glad to get rid of us." 
 
 "I do not want to drive you away, love," 
 replied her mother ; u but you know I can 
 never write if there is the least noise — so, per- 
 haps, you had better go, and take Amy with 
 you. I have not written for such an age, it 
 makes me 'quite nervous." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know, mamma dear ; come, 
 Amy, we will go and look to the spare room. 
 I will seal your letter, mamma, when it is 
 finished." 
 
 Mabel was soon busy in thinking over the 
 
MABEL. 57 
 
 accommodations necessary for visitors, with 
 Betsy's aid, amidst Amy's incessant questions. 
 
 "Do you think, Mabel," she began, "that 
 Lucy is very little ?" 
 
 " I do not much think she is little at all," 
 replied Mabel. 
 
 " But aunt Yillars called her, my little girl," 
 persisted Amy. 
 
 "Yes, but many mammas talk of grown up 
 children in the same way." 
 : "Do you think," said Amy, after watching 
 her sister for a few minutes in silence, " I had 
 better put some of my books on the shelf for 
 her to read, if she happens to like them." 
 
 " If you have any that will look pretty, you 
 may put them there certainly." 
 
 " Do you think she will like the swing at Mr. 
 Ware's ?" 
 
 " If she is like you, perhaps she may ; but 
 whether she be little or not, we must both try 
 and make her pass her time pleasantly, you 
 d 5 
 
58 MABEL. 
 
 know," said Mabel, as she glanced round the 
 room with approval. 
 
 The chintz curtains had been re- hung — the 
 snow-white coverlet had been placed upon the 
 bed — and the dressing-table arranged with the 
 most careful attention to comfort and conveni- 
 ence. Everything, in the careful arrangement 
 which Mabel had bestowed upon the room, 
 seemed to speak a welcome ; and through the 
 open window the fresh breezes of the Cotswold 
 hills passed freely. 
 
 " Does it not look comfortable ?" said Mabel, 
 appealing to her talkative companion. 
 
 " Yes, Mabel, dear, everything looks nice 
 that you manage ; but," added she, returning 
 to the former subject, " if she is a great girl, 
 what can I do to amuse her ?" 
 
 " Oh, many things," returned Mabel ; " even 
 you can do, I think, if you try ; you must not 
 talk to her very much, and ask her too many 
 questions." 
 
MABEL. 59 
 
 "Do I tease you, Mabel, dear, when I ask 
 you questions ?" 
 
 "Not often; but then you know I love 
 you," said her sister, " and therefore do not 
 get teased." 
 
 " But why do you think she will not love 
 me?" 
 
 "I think it very likely she will love you," 
 said Mabel, looking down upon her affection- 
 ately, " if you are good ; but not till she knows 
 you, not very much, at least. You know, we 
 must buy people's love." 
 
 " Do you mean by making them presents ?" 
 said Amy, looking a little shocked at the idea. 
 
 " Not what you mean by presents certainly," 
 said Mabel, smiling. 
 
 " What then ?" 
 
 " Well then, first, you must give them your 
 love, before you consider what they think of 
 you." 
 
 " Is that a certain way of buying love ?" 
 
 " It will be nearly certain," said Mabel, " to 
 
60 MABEL. 
 
 get you good will, at least, from every one, 
 whose esteem is really valuable, for when we 
 love, we try to do everything that is kind ; we 
 are not easily offended by little things that 
 might annoy us, if we did not love ; and then 
 the wish to avoid giving offence, will lead us 
 to govern our feelings, so that we may not be 
 sullen, or out of temper, which would make us 
 disoblige them by saying anything to wound 
 their feelings." 
 
 " Would it do anything else ?" said Amy, 
 who always liked to hear her sister talk. 
 
 " Yes, I think it would lead us to speak the 
 truth, for fear of encouraging them in any bad 
 thing ; for if we must not do wrong, we must 
 not let it be done by others, if we can help it, 
 particularly by those we love." 
 
 " But then," said Amy, " if a person is bad ; 
 do not you think it would be better to wait and 
 see ? We ought not to like a bad person, you 
 said, one day." 
 
 " Not exactly that ; I told you not to be 
 
MABEL. 61 
 
 intimate with Mary Watson, because she did 
 many things I did not like, and knew a good 
 many little girls, who could not teach her any 
 good ; but still, I think, if, for some reason, we 
 were obliged to have Mary Watson here, you 
 might love her just as much as I told you to 
 love Lucy, for if you spoke the truth, she could 
 not think you liked any of her naughty ways." 
 
 " Then why may I not know her now — 
 could I not speak the truth ?" 
 
 " Perhaps you might," said Mabel; "but I 
 think, sometimes, that not to avoid temptation, 
 is taking one step to evil ; so I thonght it best to 
 avoid Mary Watson, as I could scarcely hope 
 you would do her very much good, and she 
 might do you harm." 
 
 " You always think of me, Mabel," said 
 Amy; "when do you find time to think of 
 yourself?" 
 
 " When I go to bed," she replied • " and 
 then I ask myself if I have been as kind to my 
 little orphan sister as I ought to be ?" 
 
62 MABEL. 
 
 "But, Mabel, dear, when you sit alone, 
 sometimes, and look so very sad, and I come 
 in, and see tears on your face, is that about 
 me?" 
 
 " No ; but it is not often so." 
 
 " Not often ; but I am so vexed when it is. 
 Why is it, Mabel dear ?" 
 
 " Because," she said, her eyes filling with 
 tears as she spoke, " somebody loved me once, 
 who does not love me now." 
 
 "No, I am sure that is not true — every one 
 loves you; mamma, Mr. "Ware, Miss Ware, 
 Betsys John, every one." " I am sure 
 that can't be true, and it is naughty to 
 fancy unkind things ; Mabel, dear, dear, 
 Mabel," said the child, jumping on a stool 
 and throwing her arms lightly round her 
 neck, " and you are never naughty." 
 
 " Oh, yes I am, many many times a-day," 
 said Mabel, hiding her face on Amy's shoulder, 
 " my good, good, child, what should I do with- 
 out you." 
 
MABEL. 63 
 
 "Oh, nothing without me, you could not 
 get on at all without me." 
 
 "Not very well, I think, certainly," said 
 Mabel, smiling through her tears at Amy's 
 satisfaction, "but we have been a long time 
 away, and mamma must have finished her 
 letter — come and let us seal it before the man 
 calls again, for if it is not ready, vvhat will be- 
 come of our visitors. " But, Amy." said she, 
 sinking her voice almost to a whisper, " never 
 tell mamma or any one that I ever cry, or why 
 I cry." 
 
 " Oh, never, you know I can keep a secret." 
 
 " You promise," said Mabel. 
 
 " Yes, I promise faithfully." 
 
64 MABEL. 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 This is a likeness may they all declare, 
 And I have seen him, but I know not where. 
 
 Crabbe. 
 
 Mrs. Lesly had been, as a girl, both beautiful 
 and accomplished, gifted with good natural 
 talents, though possessing little perseverance 
 and much indolence of character. Upon her 
 marriage every faculty of her mind became 
 absorbed in devotion to her husband, and an 
 almost indolent dependence on Iris will. Since 
 his death she had continued so very depressed 
 that, at the time when both Mabel and Amy 
 might have much needed a mother's care, she felt 
 
MABEL. 65 
 
 every exertion too great for her weakened 
 nerves and failing health. 
 
 She had, by her marriage, entered a family 
 a little above her own, and now suffered the 
 too general consequence, in the neglect of her 
 husband's relations. She felt all things deeply, 
 and this, if possible, aggravated her loss. The 
 Lesly and Hargrave families were closely con- 
 nected, but the absence of the Colonel, whose 
 family mansion lay so near them, prevented 
 her receiving that attention which the neigh- 
 bourhood of a rich relation might have pro- 
 cured her. The secluded life to which she 
 now clung so earnestly, only increased the 
 extreme sensitiveness of her feelings. Her 
 mind therefore, suffered to prey upon itself, be- 
 came a curse instead of a blessing, as it might 
 have been, had it been employed in any useful 
 purpose ; and the delicacy and refinement of her 
 nature, now only quickened her perception of 
 the slightest coldness, or unkindness in those 
 around her ; spreading about her a kind of at- 
 
66 MABEL. 
 
 mosphere of refined suffering, which duller 
 eyes would never have discovered. 
 
 Yet the indulgence which she claimed from 
 others always rendered her an object of affection, 
 and her devotion to the memory of her husband 
 veiled many failings, and excused her indolence 
 sometimes even in the eyes of the most ascetic. 
 Joined to this weakness of character, however, she 
 possessed many fine qualities. She was generous 
 in the extreme, and liberal to a total forgetful - 
 ness of self, and would forgive, where no injury 
 was intended, with a magnanimity, which, ap- 
 plied to a real offence, would have been noble. 
 She was also very patient under the oppression 
 of continual ill health, and though too indolent 
 to exert herself, she was capable of suffering 
 without complaint. 
 
 Mabel inherited her mother's intellect and 
 delicacy of feeling, but seconded by a strong 
 will and great common sense. She possessed 
 also beauty equal, if not superior, to hers, though 
 in her face it always seemed secondary to the 
 
MABEL. 67 
 
 feelings which were spoken by it. But there 
 was one peculiar charm in her character, which 
 secured the love of those around her as power- 
 fully as an Eastern talisman. It was a reliance 
 on the good will of others, drawn perhaps from 
 the reflection of her own heart — a kind of se- 
 curity in the feeling that there is always good 
 to those who rightly seek it ; a trust in the 
 virtue of others which often proves a touch- 
 stone to wake its hidden springs, whilst all feel 
 ashamed of disappointing a hope, founded more 
 on the truest feelings of charity, than on weak- 
 ness or pusillanimity. 
 
 Unlike her mother, she scarcely ever suffered 
 from illness, and gratefully used the blessing 
 of strong nerves and untiring strength in aiding 
 the weakness or bearing with the irritability of 
 others. 
 
 Happy the child who possessed such a guide 
 and playfellow, to listen to all the questions 
 and trifles so wearisome to the sick or weak. 
 
 MabePs patience was often called in requi- 
 
68 MABEL. 
 
 sition during the few days which passed before 
 the arrival of the aunt and niece from Chelten- 
 ham. At least half a dozen questions would 
 be asked almost in the same form, to which she 
 had to give answers. 
 
 At length however, the long expected hour 
 arrived, and Amy had seated herself on the 
 lawn to catch the first sight of that corner of 
 the road which was the furthest point visible, 
 and Mabel was frequently sent to the gate to 
 watch for the carriage, by Mrs. Lesly, who 
 was enduring all the discomfort and nervous- 
 ness of being quite ready to receive them a 
 long while before it was at all probable they 
 would arrive. 
 
 Captain Clair, too, who had, as Mr. Ware's 
 nephew, established a kind of intimacy at the 
 cottage, was leaning over the gate, refusing to 
 come in, lest he should disturb the family 
 meeting, yet seeming well inclined to chat 
 away the time with either of the sisters. 
 
 " 1 am sure you are spoiling your sister, Miss 
 
MABEL. 69 
 
 Lesly," said he, after hearing the patient 
 answer to the sixth repetition of ' do yon think 
 they are coming ;' and Amy had ran in to her 
 mamma to report. 
 
 " That is a very grave accusation, bnt I do 
 not think yon quite believe it," said Mabel ; 
 " indulge, but not spoil." 
 
 " Well, indeed," said he, " it would be 
 difficult to find fault with such persevering 
 self-denial, so we will say, indulgence." 
 
 " It requires little self-denial, said Mabel ; 
 "to be kind to a very young, and very dear 
 sister. No, self- denial will not do, I will not 
 take the praise of a martyr for doing what I 
 love best. Are you certain," she added, " you 
 do not feel the sun too much, where you are 
 standing, had you not better come in and speak 
 to mamma ?" 
 
 " Not on any account, thank you," he re- 
 plied, smiling ; " I intend to vanish when the 
 carriage comes up, and present only the very 
 
70 MABEL. 
 
 intoresting appearance of a departing friend, in 
 order to give a little life to such a landscape." 
 
 Mabel laughed. 
 
 " Here they are, then, now you may look 
 picturesque." 
 
 " Not quite yet, wait a bit, I must be a 
 little more prominent first, or they would never 
 see me. Now is the very moment," raising his 
 hat to Mabel, and with these concluding words, 
 he walked slowly away. 
 
 Mabel was seized with momentary shyness, 
 and retreated unobserved, to seek Mrs. Lesly, 
 whose head began to ache, from waiting so 
 long — but, as the party took a long time in 
 alighting, and collecting from the vehicle a 
 multiplicity of boxes, she felt ashamed of being 
 afraid of strangers, and ran down again to meet 
 them. 
 
 " Oh, my charming niece," exclaimed her 
 aunt, with apparent cordiality, and kissing her 
 warmly ; " how do you do, my sweet girl, let 
 me make you acquainted with my Lucy." 
 
MABEL. 71 
 
 Lucy, who, to Amy's disappointed eye, did 
 not look at all little, took Mabel's hand with 
 earnestness, and putting one arm round 
 her neck, kissed her with extreme warmth, 
 exclaiming : — 
 
 " We shall be dear friends, I know." 
 
 " I hope so," said Mabel, startled alike at 
 her relation's warmth, and her own composure, 
 which appeared something like coldness. 
 
 Mrs. Lesly was met by her sister with the 
 same enthusiasm which quite overcame her 
 weak nerves, and she burst into tears \ she 
 could not tell why, she thought it might be 
 joy, or that her head was overpowered by the 
 sweet scent on their pocket-handkerchiefs, or 
 the rapidity of her sister's conversation, and 
 expressions of endearment. Mabel looked on 
 in dismay, a scene had been produced which 
 she was puzzled to remove. 
 
 " Dear mamma, do not cry," said she, then 
 turning to Mrs. Yillars who was overwhelming 
 her with caresses, she added, hastily; "mamma 
 
72 MABEL. 
 
 is not quite well to-day, but she will be better 
 presently, if she is quiet a little while. "Will, 
 you come and take your bonnet off, aunt, for 
 you must be tired after your drive. 
 
 " No, my dear, but I think I will venture 
 to leave her a moment while I run down and see 
 if our boxes are all right ; an immense deal of 
 luggage, but then, I am going home, you 
 know. I brought my maid too, though I for- 
 got to mention her in my note." ' Mrs. Lesly 
 looked alarmed. " I really do not know if she 
 has looked to every thing, but I will go and 
 see, T always like to see things right myself," 
 and with an important air, she hurried down 
 stairs. 
 
 Mrs. Yillars was of imposing appearance, 
 though too bustling in her manners to be alto- 
 gether dignified, with colour a little too bril- 
 liant, and hair a little too stffliy curled, to be 
 quite natural. Yet, whatever, was artificial, 
 was very well added to a good figui e, and fine 
 face. 
 
MABEL. 73 
 
 Poor Amy was quite awed into a bewildered 
 silence. Mrs. Yillars presently bustled back 
 again, telling Mabel she was now quite ready 
 to go to her room. 
 
 " This way, then," said Mabel, shewing 
 them to the chamber she had so carefully pre- 
 pared ; " this is your room, and I hope you will 
 find every thing comfortable." 
 
 " Oh, I dare say," she said, looking round, 
 as if approving a child's doll's-house ; " every 
 thing so very neat and nice, and where is Lncy 
 to sleep," 
 
 " This is the only spare room we have fur- 
 nished and fit for sleeping in now ; the rest 
 are shut up," said Mabel, a little timidly, " and 
 we thought you would not mind sleeping to- 
 gether for one night, as you say you cannot 
 stay longer, aunt." 
 
 " Oh, yes, we will contrive — but what is to 
 be done with our maid." 
 
 " I must manage for her presently," said 
 
 VOL. I. e 
 
74 MABEL. 
 
 Mabel ; " Betsy has been told to make her 
 comfortable for the present." 
 
 " What time do you dine, dear," said Mrs. 
 Yillars ; " the air of these hills makes one 
 hungry. I really could dine unfashionably 
 early to-day." 
 
 " I fancied so, and therefore ordered dinner to 
 be ready half an hour after your expected ar- 
 rival," said Mabel; who tried to keep them in 
 conversation till Mrs. Lesly should have time 
 to recover herself; and this delay so far suc- 
 ceeded, that on their return to the drawing- 
 room, they found her quite composed. 
 
 " Dinner being soon after announced, Mrs. 
 Yillars gave her arm to her sister, in the ten- 
 derest manner possible, saying. 
 
 " Well, dear, I hoped to find you quite 
 strong, I must not have any more of these 
 naughty hysterics, or I shall think you are not 
 glad to see me." 
 
 " Indeed — indeed, Caroline, you mistake my 
 feelings." 
 
MABEL. i a 
 
 " Well, then, smile away, and I shall read 
 them right. What do yon think of my Lncy ?" 
 she added, in a whisper ; " I wish I conld 
 shew yon all my girls — -for admiring beanty, 
 and accomplishments, as yon always did — I do 
 not know what yon wonld say, if you saw them 
 all together. Now, in my opinion, Mabel is 
 perfect." 
 
 The last speech reached Mabel's ear, and, 
 perhaps, was intended to do so — but quick as 
 she was in the ready perception of virtue, she 
 had never feebly blinded herself to the faults of 
 others. These few words made her feel uncom- 
 fortable — for she was immediately aware that 
 there was a want of sincerity in her aunt's 
 manner, which, betraying some latent reason 
 for dissimulation, always produces a feeling 
 of dislike, or fear. 
 
 To Mrs. Villars Mabel soon became an object 
 
 of fear — she could not tell why, but she had 
 
 scarcely been a few minutes in her company 
 
 without perceiving that superiority which the 
 
 E 2 
 
76 MABEL. 
 
 weak-minded find it difficult cheerfully to re- 
 cognise. Superiority in what, she did not stop 
 to analyse — but even while most lavish of her 
 endearments, she was secretly almost uncom- 
 fortable in her presence. 
 
 Mrs. Yillars had given herself a worldly edu- 
 cation, which, though it had moulded even her 
 virtues and foibles according to its own fashion, 
 had never yet been able, entirely, to eradicate 
 the sense of right which had been inculcated in 
 earlier years ; yet she only preserved it 
 as a continual punishment for every act of dis- 
 simulation and wrong, without ever allowing it 
 to regain entire ascendency over her ; though 
 it was a conscience to which she felt bound 
 perpetually to excuse herself. So false, indeed, 
 had she turned to herself, that Mabel's open, 
 honest, truth- telling eyes seemed something 
 like a reproach. 
 
 Love for her children — one of the greatest 
 virtues of a woman's heart — had become one 
 of her greatest failings. Her natural disposi- 
 
MABEL. 77 
 
 tion rendered her love strong and untiring ; 
 but worldliness had warped its usefulness, 
 rendering that love, in its foolish extreme, 
 only a means of making herself miserable, 
 without really serving them. She learned to 
 spoil, but had no resolution to reprove ; and 
 they had grown up in accordance with such 
 training. 
 
 As children they had been coaxed and 
 bribed to appear sweet-tempered and obliging 
 in company — the plan succeeded ; but only 
 left them more ill-tempered and unmanageable 
 when the restraint was removed. This system 
 was, however, too readily followed; and as 
 they grew older, their foolish parent saw no 
 other efficient plan for securing their position in 
 society, than that of continuing the same course 
 of indulgence. She now tried, by the most un- 
 bounded gratification of their wishes, to secure 
 to herself that love which timely discipline 
 might easily have preserved in tempers not 
 naturally degenerate. But veiling this weak- 
 
78 MABEL. 
 
 ness, she prided herself on the greatness of her 
 parental love, and threatened to weary every- 
 one else by the excess to which she carried 
 it. 
 
 Glad of an opportunity of touching on her 
 favorite topic, she said to her sister — 
 
 " You must come and see us all some day. 
 Mr. Yillars would be so glad to see you, and I 
 should have an opportunity of shewing you my 
 pet girls." 
 
 " I never stir out now," returned Mrs. 
 Lesly, shaking her head mournfully, " scarcely 
 even beyond my own door. But Lucy will, 
 I dare say, give us a specimen of all your 
 sayings and doings in time. I should much 
 like to see the children ; but fear there is but 
 little inducement to ask any of them to a place 
 where there is so very little going on. My 
 Mabel is very fond of the country, or I should 
 often have been vexed at our seeing so little 
 company." 
 
 " Oh, you are quite mistaken, my dear," said 
 
MABEL. 79 
 
 Mrs. Villars, quickly. " Caroline and Selina 
 are very fond of the country, and so are you, 
 Lucy." 
 
 " Yes, I like it very well in the summer," 
 said Lucy, languidly. 
 
 " Do you like the snow ?" asked Amy, speak- 
 ing for the first time. 
 
 " No, not much ; but we had better not talk 
 of snow in August — it is too near to be plea- 
 sant," said Lucy, a little impatiently. 
 
 " You forget the balls, my dear," said her 
 mama, soothingly, and watchful of her 
 children's tempers as a lover of his mistress. 
 
 " No, mama, I was speaking of snow in the 
 country, and there, I suppose, there is not 
 much dancing. Are you fond of balls, Mabel ? 
 but I forgot, I need not ask, for, of course, you 
 are. 
 
 " I have never been to a public ball," re- 
 plied Mabel, " but I have often enjoyed a 
 dance at a friend's house." 
 
80 MABEL. 
 
 " Have you really never been to a ball/'' 
 exclaimed Lucy, opening her pretty blue eyes 
 wide, with half real and half affected astonish- 
 ment. " You would be enchanted with Bath. 
 We have such delightful balls once a week. 
 The Thursday balls they are called, and then 
 every season — " 
 
 " Lucy, love, you will tire your aunt with 
 your prattle," said her mama, " now confess, 
 Annie, does she not make your head ache ?" 
 
 " A little," replied her sister, " but do not 
 let my weakness interfere with her enjoyment. 
 She will have little else to listen to besides her 
 own voice," Mrs, Lesly added, trying to smile 
 away her sister's chagrin at finding it really 
 possible that she could be tired at hearing Lucy 
 talk. 
 
 There was a momentary pause, when Mrs. 
 Lesly, anxious to conciliate by returning to 
 the subject she perceived gave most interest, 
 enquired — 
 
MABEL. 81 
 
 " Is Lucy your eldest ?" 
 
 " Oh, dear no ! Caroline is the eldest, 
 Selina second, and Lucy the youngest." 
 
 " But I think you have one more, have you 
 not ?" said Mrs. Lesly. 
 
 " How can you forget how many children 
 your own sister has ?" said Mrs. Yillars. 
 
 " My memory is getting feeble, and you 
 must excuse me," replied Mrs. Lesly anx- 
 iously, " my forgetfulness arises from no want 
 of affection ; but I have not seen you for a year 
 or two now," 
 
 " I had forgotten," returned Mrs. Yillars, 
 " how time flies. I really must write oftener 
 to you, and keep up your knowledge of us. 
 Well, there is my Maria — but, poor child, I am 
 in despair with her — so unfortunate." 
 
 " Not ill, I hope ?" enquired Mrs. Lesly. 
 
 " No, no — that could be cured — a doctor 
 
 might cure that ; but this, nothing can cure • 
 
 She is ugly — positively ugly — by the side of 
 
 her sisters at least ; and more than that, she is 
 
 b 5 
 
82 MABEL. 
 
 ungraceful. I have tried the best academy in 
 the town, but nothing will do her any good — 
 such a contrast to the rest, she never will settle 
 I fear." 
 
 Mabel glanced at Amy, who was drinking in 
 her aunt's words with the eager curiosity 
 natural to a child, and fearing the effects of 
 this worldly conversation upon her young 
 sister, she persuaded Lucy to come with them 
 into the garden. 
 
 Lucy put her arm in Mabel's, whilst Amy 
 watched the movement jealously. 
 
 "Here is a lovely peep at the hills," said 
 Mabel, leading their guest to one of the 
 prettiest parts of the garden, where a stone 
 seat was placed near a break in the trees, 
 commanding a view of the country beyond. 
 
 Here they seated themselves, looking for a 
 short while, in silence, on the landscape, which 
 the setting sun rendered still more lovely. Had 
 Mabel expected any fine remark to follow this 
 momentary pause in the conversation, she 
 
MABEL. 83 
 
 would have been disappointed, for Lucy's next 
 enquiry was whether there were many nice 
 people in the neighbourhood. 
 
 " Yes," said Mabel. " Mr. and Miss Ware 
 are very nice people." 
 
 " Yfho are they ?" asked Lucy. 
 
 " Our rector and his sister." 
 
 "Is he unmarried?" enquired Lucy, with 
 increasing interest. 
 
 " Yes," replied Mabel, smiling, " but not 
 very young." 
 
 " But still marriageable, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Barely," said Mabel, " at least, I do not 
 think he would consider himself so now. Why, 
 he must be nearly seventy." 
 
 " Then who was that fine young man that 
 was walking down the road just now, with 
 light whiskers, and a military air. 1 did not 
 expect to see such a handsome, distingue look- 
 ing young man down in the country here." 
 
 " That is Mr. Ware's nephew," said Mabel, 
 
84 MABEL. 
 
 " Oh ! then he does live here — what is his 
 name ?" 
 
 " Captain Clair ; he is only here for a short 
 time, for his health," replied Mabel ; " but 
 how could you tell he had light whiskers ?" 
 
 " Because he passed while we were at dinner, 
 so that I had a good look at him," said Lucy, 
 half blushing. 
 
 " Amy," said Mabel, "there is Captain 
 Clair beckoning for you to run to him, and I 
 dare say he will get you the blackberries he 
 promised you." 
 
 Amy ran away to the garden-gate, where 
 Captain Clair was waiting for her, and hand 
 in hand they were soon down the blackberry 
 lane that led to the fields. 
 
 " What a very fine young man," exclaimed 
 Lucy, as she watched them out of sight ; "do 
 you see him often — I suppose he is a beau of 
 yours ?" 
 
 " No, oh, no," said Mabel ; "a sort of friend 
 
MABEL. 85 
 
 he has made himself — but certainly not a 
 beau." 
 
 " Ah, you say so." 
 
 " And I mean so/' said Mabel. 
 
 " You mean then, that he is free for eon- 
 quest," laughed Lucy, coquet tishly. 
 
 " As far as I am concerned, he is as free as 
 air," said Mabel ; " but I would not have you 
 attempt such a conquest, I should think he 
 was too easily won to be kept long in subjec- 
 ttion." 
 
 " Ah, I know what you mean," said Lucy ; 
 " a sort of man that falls in love with every 
 tolerable girl he meets — the very thing for a 
 country visit." 
 
 "Well, I suppose neither party would be in 
 much danger if those are your real sentiments," 
 said Mabel. " Captain Clair is too discerning 
 to be entangled by a mock feeling, and you are 
 wise enough to think of nothing more." 
 
 " Exactly so," replied Lucy ; " but oh, 
 
86 MABEL. 
 
 whose pretty house is that amongst the 
 trees ?" 
 
 " Colonel Hargrave's," said Mabel. 
 
 " Colonel Hargrave !" cried Lucy, " cousin 
 Henry, as we call him now. Do you know, 
 Mabel, he is just come back to England, and 
 mamma wrote to ask him to come and see us 
 in Bath. I am so longing to meet him ; and 
 we have made up in our minds, already, a match 
 between him and Caroline — that you know 
 would do very well, for she is just thirty, and 
 he must be a few years older, must he not ?" 
 
 " Yes, I think so," said Mabel. 
 
 " And that would be a very nice difference, 
 you know. I am quite longing for him to 
 come. I have talked the match over with 
 Selina so often, that I cannot help looking 
 upon it as quite certain ; and then we should 
 have such a nice house to come and stay at ; 
 and you would be so delightfully near — would 
 it not be pleasant ?" 
 
MABEL. 87 
 
 u You will find it cold without your bon- 
 net," said Mabel, evasively, " shall we go in 
 and fetch it." 
 
 "No, thank you," said Lucy ; "but I see 
 you are not fond of match-making." 
 
 " No, I confess I am not," said Mabel ; " but 
 I suppose you hear a great deal of it in Bath, 
 where so many matches must be talked oyer." 
 
 " Oh ! an immense deal — it is quite amusing 
 to hear of so many projected marriages, and 
 of their coming to nothing after all." 
 
 " But that is why I think match-making 
 anything but amusing," said Mabel. 
 
 " But then all the eclat of a conquest would 
 be gone," suggested Lucy, " if there were no 
 talking beforehand. I assure you, last year, 
 there were I do not know how many half 
 offers in our family. Selina and I used to 
 walk round the Crescent and count them all 
 up, and they helped us through the dull 
 weather amazingly; something like the nibbling 
 
88 MABEL. 
 
 of a trout, which just serves to keep up the 
 hope of ultimately catching one. Mamma 
 talks a great deal about Caroline's beauty, and 
 her charming spirits — but she does not know 
 how to sleep for wishing her married. It would 
 be horrible to have her an old maid — so I hope 
 and trust the good Colonel, with, I dare say, 
 Indian guineas, and an Indian face, will take 
 pity on her, and bring her here." 
 
 " Give me a description of Caroline," said 
 Mabel, suddenly. " Is she not very beautiful 
 and accomplished ?" 
 
 " How you startle me," said Lucy. " Why 
 she is very tall — fine features, people say — she 
 has black hair and black eyes, and dances 
 splendidly — polks to admiration — soverygcod- 
 natured — and witty before company — and 
 rather the reverse behind the scenes — in short, 
 would do much better for Mrs. Hargrave than 
 for the eldest of four maiden sisters — and so, 
 in all due affection, I should be very glad to 
 see her married." 
 
MABEL. 89 
 
 " Is she clever as well as beautiful?" said 
 Mabel. 
 
 " She sings and plays beautifully. Yes, I 
 believe she is clever — knows French well." 
 
 Mabel sighed. 
 
 " I do not know how it is," said Lucy, when 
 after a short silence, they prepared to return to 
 the house, " but I feel you to be quite a friend 
 already. I must love you, whether you will 
 let me or not." 
 
 " I shall be very glad to have you love me," 
 said Mabel, gently ; " but wait till you know 
 me better." 
 
 " I can never wait and deliberate, when lov- 
 ing is the question," said Lucy ; "it is like 
 me ; I am always quick in my likes and dis- 
 likes — and I feel now as if I could tell you 
 every secret of my heart — I am only nineteen, 
 so such want of consideration is pardonable — 
 is it not, dear Mabel ?" 
 
 "It is not quite safe, perhaps," replied Mabel; 
 " but yet rather easy to forgive, in the present 
 
90 MABEL. 
 
 instance — at least, when I feel myself to be 
 concerned, But if you make me your friend, 
 you must give me the power of an elder 
 sister." 
 
 "Not like Caroline," said Lucy, with a look 
 of pretended terror. 
 
 " I shall not let you find fault with Caro- 
 line," said Mabel, " that is my first effort of 
 authority ; but you have chosen to love me, 
 and you must take my friendship on my own 
 terms." 
 
 " Well, I think I will take it on any terms. 
 I dare say it will be worth having," said Lucy; 
 " but first, you must seal our friendship with a 
 kiss, and tell me that you love me as much as 
 I do you." 
 
 " My love is of slower growth," replied 
 Mabel, smiling ; " but I promise to deal with 
 you as if I loved you. Will that do ?" 
 
 " I suppose it must," said Lucy. 
 
 " You are right," said Mabel, kissing her 
 pouting lips, "that must do till we know each 
 other better." 
 
MABEL. 91 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 Whence then that peace 
 
 So dovelike % settling o'er a soul that loved 
 
 Earth and its treasures % Whence that angel smile 
 
 With which the allurements of a world so dear 
 
 Were counted and resigned ? 
 
 Mrs. Sigourney. 
 
 Mabel and Lucy retired that night early, in 
 order that they might leave the sisters time to 
 talk quietly over the fire, which a chilly even- 
 ing rendered not unwelcome. 
 
 Mrs. Yillars placed her feet on the fender, 
 and turning up her dress to prevent the fire in- 
 juring it, she made herself perfectly comfort- 
 able in preparation for a long chat. Mrs. 
 
92 MABEL. 
 
 Lesly had seated herself opposite in her arm- 
 chair, with a glass of lemonade on a small 
 table by her side, which she sipped from time 
 to time, as she listened to long accounts of her 
 sister's hopes and fears for her children's wel- 
 fare,together with various anecdotes, tending 
 to show the admiration they excited wherever 
 they appeared. At length, these long and 
 varied narrations came to an end — and Mrs. 
 Villars, turning to her sister, enquired, in a 
 tone which seemed to say, confidence claimed 
 confidence, if there had not been some story 
 about Mabel's marrying. 
 
 A very sensible feeling of pain passed for a^i 
 instant over Mrs. Lesly's countenance before 
 she replied — 
 
 " Yes, but that was a long time ago, and I 
 cannot bear to think of it now." 
 
 " But," said Mrs. Yillars, who always pecu- 
 liarily interested herself in anything relative 
 to marriage, " you never told me the particu- 
 lars, and I should so like to know them." 
 
MABEL. 93 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Lesly, " I remember I 
 only just mentioned it for I was so much 
 pained at the time, that I could not write on 
 the subject." 
 
 '* You never even told me the gentleman's 
 name," said Mrs. Villars. 
 
 " No, Mabel made me promise to mention 
 that to no one ; I felt it was delicate and right 
 in her to wish it, and I have never spoken of 
 him openly since, indeed amongst ourselves he 
 is as if forgotten." 
 
 "A man of property, was he not?" said 
 Mrs. Villars, " and quite young I think you 
 said?" 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Lesly, with a half sigh, 
 " the marriage seemed in every way desirable, 
 they were well suited in age, and I thought 
 in character, and rejoiced to think that she 
 would have a companion in life so well calcu- 
 lated to show her off to advantage. Se was, 
 besides, a man of considerable fortune, and my 
 Mabel is, I think, particularly fitted for a 
 
94 MABEL. 
 
 station above that which she at present enjoys. 
 Her taste in painting and sculpture, has been 
 acknowledged by masters — and tho' so kind 
 and useful and simple hearted now, I always 
 thought she was fitted to dispense even patron- 
 age. Ah, well, these were the dreams of days 
 gone by, and I do not know why I bring them 
 up to-night, except to shew you that the sacri- 
 fice she made was no ordinary one. Ah, poor 
 girl, the contrast is striking, now she is soon 
 likely to want even a home." 
 
 " Was it not a long attachment ?" said Mrs. 
 Yillars as her sister paused. 
 
 " Yes," returned, Mrs. Lesly, rousing her- 
 self, " they had been more or less attached from 
 childhood. There was always a kind of way- 
 ward goodness in Mabel, that was very attrac- 
 tive. She had generally her own way, but 
 that way seemed so unselfish that I had neither 
 the power nor the wish to complain. He ad- 
 mired this spirit, mixed with so much sweet- 
 ness ; nothing she did seemed wrong, and 
 
MABEL. 95 
 
 even when she was indiscreet, which I dare 
 say she might have been very often — he said 
 it was because she was more pure-minded than 
 other people." 
 
 " "Well, I do not see anything very sad in 
 all this. I should have been highly flattered " 
 said Mrs, Yillars, " now my Selina is so like 
 what you describe, she does the most indiscreet 
 and pretty things imaginable sometimes," 
 
 Mrs. Lesly continued silent for a few 
 minutes, then again rousing herself she con- 
 tinued — 
 
 "He used to call Mabel his little wife, long 
 before her papa died, and I used to think 
 over it all, as you remember we used to talk of 
 things a long time since." 
 
 " I see," thought Mrs. Yillars, " a case of 
 jilt, very distressing, but an old story to those 
 who know the world as well as I do." She 
 felt a slight sensation of comfort at arriving at 
 this idea, when she remembered her own un- 
 married daughters. 
 
96 MABED. 
 
 " Well, "continued, Mrs. Lesly, " whenever he 
 came to the neighbourhood, which he often did, 
 they were almost always together. Sometimes they 
 would walk in the fields at the back of our house, 
 Mabel leaning on his arm, whilst he carried 
 Amy. But unfortunately when his father died he 
 went to Paris, and staid there about a twelve- 
 month. When he returned he was altered, 
 how or why I could not tell, but it seemed as if 
 the simplicity of his character was gone, though 
 I tried hard to think him only more manly. 
 Mabel was a beautiful girl when he returned, and it 
 was soon easy to perceive that however changed 
 he might be in other respects, his affection for 
 her remained unaltered." Mrs. Lesly stopped 
 to sip her lemonade, and then with some little 
 effort continued — "His return," she said, "to 
 which we looked forward so much, did not 
 make us happier. He would persuade her to 
 go out sometimes, but she always came back 
 soon, and often looked as though she had been 
 crying, though she never said any thing- — I 
 
MABEL. 97 
 
 tlien noticed and watched him more carefully, 
 and at length I found that he had not entered 
 the church since his return from France, a 
 practice he never before neglected. I then 
 paid more attention to his conversation, and 
 often brought up serious questions on purpose. 
 Here I discovered the sad truth ; he talked 
 very seriously of virtue and moral responsi- 
 bility, but if I spoke of religion in connexion 
 with it, he changed the subject or looked at 
 Mabel, and was silent." 
 
 " I was now quite puzzled, it seemed hard to 
 find fault with one so good in every other 
 respect, but in religion, which he spoke of as a 
 curious and useful superstition, acting as a 
 guide to vulgar minds. ' Mabel,' said I, one 
 day, ' what does all this mean ? What has 
 come oyer him to make him think as he does ?' 
 
 " You must know, Caroline, that indolent as 
 my weak health has made me, and careless of 
 imparting things, I used so much to value, I 
 had not neglected my child in the most impor- 
 
 YOL. i. . ¥ 
 
98 MABEL. 
 
 tant of all points of knowledge ; sickness had 
 made me prize that, in proportion as every 
 thing else lost interest ; but I did fear for her 
 when, with only my weak lessons she had, per- 
 haps, to answer the arguments of a man of pecu- 
 liar talent, and great though mistaken penetra- 
 tion, aided by the love, I was well aware, she 
 felt for him." 
 
 " But you studied these points well I know,'* 
 said Mrs. Yillars, " and I dare say fully ex- 
 plained them," 
 
 "You are right," replied Mrs. Lesly, "at 
 least I tried to do so, I always have endeavoured 
 to make the heart and head act together. 
 You will see that I succeeded, beyond my 
 hopes. It seeemed that he had been in the 
 constant habit, of confiding every thing to her, 
 and had always found an admiring listener to 
 his thoughts on most subjects. On his return 
 from France, he was too candid to conceal from 
 her, the change his opinions had undergone. 
 It appeared, from his own account, that while 
 
MABEL. 99 
 
 abroad, his society had been mostly composed 
 of those generally distinguished by the name 
 of free thinkers. Perhaps, feeling that he could 
 argue well, and with a too presumptuous trust 
 in himself, he courted every opprtunity of dis- 
 puting with them on the nature of their opi- 
 nions. With daring intellect, he trusted every 
 thing to his understanding, and nothing to his 
 faith. He found superior intellect, ard the 
 consequences were too natural — I do not think 
 he had any settled views afterwards, and I very 
 much fear became little less than an infidel. All 
 this I gleaned by repeated questions from my 
 poor, broken-hearted child. 
 
 "Now," said I, "my Mabel, this is too 
 serious a point for husband and wife to differ 
 upon, this I once hoped you would be to each 
 other, but he is no longer worthy of you. Now 
 you must prove what and how you believe. I 
 spoke sternly, for I feared for her, she kissed 
 me fervently but she could not speak. 
 " Do you understand me, Mabel," I said. 
 v 2 
 
100 MABEL. 
 
 " She only replied, ' I do,' but that was suffi- 
 cient, my heart ached for her, but I was at 
 peace. It was not long after this conversation, that 
 the last scene occurred ; I remember I had been 
 sitting in my room all the morning, finishing 
 some work that Mabel had begun for me. At 
 length, I grew tired of being alone, and, 
 taking up my work, I went down stairs. I 
 heard a voice speaking loudly in the sitting- 
 room, and I guessed whose it was. I felt 
 frightened — for since my William's death, 
 everything affects me — so I stopped ; but I 
 heard my child sobbing, and I opened the door 
 directly. She was seated at the table, leaning 
 down, and covering her face with her hands. 
 She always feared to vex me by letting me see 
 her grieve; but I saw she was too agitated 
 even to think of me at that moment. He was 
 standing opposite, glaring on her like a 
 maniac. 
 
 " i Madam,' said he, turning to me as I 
 
MABEL. 101 
 
 looked for an explanation, ' it is well, perhaps, 
 that yon are here, to witness your daughter's 
 coquetry, or her madness.' 
 
 " ' Sir,' replied I, l pray remember to whom 
 you speak ; there may be a slight difference in 
 our rank, or wealth rather, but none that I re- 
 cognise where my child is concerned.' 
 
 " 'Do not attempt to reason with me,' he 
 replied, ' I am mad. Your daughter, in whose 
 love I, at least, had faith, is fanatic enough to 
 refuse to marry me, because we differ on some 
 absurd points of superstitious doctrine.' 
 
 " 'I cannot agree with you,' I said, trying 
 to speak calmly, i in calling them absurd, and 
 that is where we differ. What happiness can 
 Mabel expect with one who ridicules the 
 motives which are, at once, the guide and 
 blessing of her existence ? — or what reliance 
 can she have on a man who does not even re- 
 cognise the principles on which she alone relies 
 for strength. I think Mabel is quite right to 
 
102 MABEL. 
 
 remain as she is, sacrificing, as she does, every 
 worldly interest to a noble principle.' 
 
 " The poor girl started up, and walking to 
 him, laid her pretty hand upon his arm, and 
 looking at him beseechingly, she said — 
 1 Do not let us part in anger — I can bear 
 anything but that — let me remain your friend 
 for ever, even as you are ; but do not think 
 me wrong for refusing to be your wife.' 
 " I never shall forget that moment ; he shook, 
 her from him, as if she had been a serpent. 
 She reeled back for an instant, and then sank at 
 my feet. " He looked down upon her, as she lay 
 upon the floor, hiding her face in my gown, as 
 if he would have withered her with his contempt. 
 Oh, how could he think I could have trusted 
 her to one like him ? 
 
 " 6 Feeble as was my hold on religion before,' 
 he burst out — u c It is broken now, if this be 
 the effects of it,' and he looked down upon my 
 poor stricken girl. 
 
MABEL. 103 
 
 " I was silent. 
 
 " c What right,' thought I, i have I to re- 
 taliate upon him reproach for reproach ?' but I 
 thought my heart would break, 
 
 " ' Why did she not try to win me to her 
 truth/ he exclaimed, l if she thinks it of so 
 much consequence ?' 
 
 " ' Has she not done so for the last four 
 months ? J I said. 
 
 " l Yes ; but as a wife,' he replied, c she 
 would have had treble power.' 
 
 " ' She is forbidden to be your wife,' I said, 
 ' by the very religion she professes — and would 
 her acting in opposition to its laws have con- 
 vinced you of its truth ?' 
 
 " ' There was no love in the case,' said he, 
 not heeding me, ' and now she wishes to be 
 my friend,' he continued, with a sneer, i as if 
 there were any medium with me between 
 love and hate, except utter forgetfulness.' 
 " 'Madam,' he exclaimed, as if suddenly 
 
104 MABEL. 
 
 remembering himself, ' forgive me what I have 
 been saying ; had she let me, I would have 
 been to you more than a son — as it is — fare 
 well.' " Without another word to Mabel, he 
 let u>, and I have never seen him since. 
 
 " I dare say a great deal passed more than I 
 have told you ; but I am very forgetful now — 
 though I well remember how miserable I was 
 that day, and for a very long time afterwards, 
 for poor Mabel was very ill, and never left her 
 bed for weeks. I sent to our good Mr. Ware, 
 and told him everything, and asked him to 
 come and comfort Mabel ; and so he did, most 
 effectual^. JSTight after night did I sit by her, 
 terrified by her fits of delirium and the dreadful 
 exhaustion which followed them. I took cold 
 then, and my nurse wanted me to go to bed, 
 and leave her to watch by her ; but what was 
 life and rest. to me, without my child ? 
 
 " Amy sat upon her pillow nearly all day, 
 and would wisper, ' don't cry, dear Mabel.' 
 
MABEL. 105 
 
 There was not much comfort in her baby words ; 
 but I think Mabel liked to hear her. 
 
 " Mr. Ware was unwearied in his attentions 
 to her ; and, at length, she began to rally. 
 Then I became ill, with anxiety, perhaps, or 
 the cold I took from the night-watching, and it 
 was quite touching to see how hard she tried to 
 get well, that she might nurse me in turn. Oh, 
 what a comfort it was when she began to smile 
 again. You see how well she is now — she is 
 never ill, and how cheerful and happy she 
 seems. I try to think it all for the best, 
 though it is difficult sometimes." 
 
 " Well, you have, indeed, had a great deal 
 to vex you," said Mrs. Yillars, much touched. 
 
 " I have, however, much happiness to look 
 back upon," said Mrs. Lesly, sighing gently, 
 " in my William's kindness for so many years ; 
 but my health is failing sadly — and I have one 
 care certainly, when I think of leaving my 
 children without a friend in the world to take 
 e 5 
 
106 MABEL. 
 
 care of them — particularly as with my life, my 
 pension, which is the only source of our income, 
 will cease." 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Yillars, " it was almost a 
 pity she did not marry the young man — what 
 a provision it would have been for both." 
 
 " I think you would have acted as I did," 
 said Mrs. Lesly, " would you not ?" 
 
 "Why you know," she replied, "I never 
 thought of those things as seriously as you do, 
 and my love for my orphan children would 
 have been a great temptation. Indeed, that 
 love for my family guides me in almost every- 
 thing, and after all, why his staying away from 
 church would not have prevented her going." 
 
 " No, no, Caroline," said Mrs. Lesly, too 
 indolent to contest this narrow view of the 
 subject. " I have been foolish in many things, 
 over and over again, but in this I feel that I 
 acted wisely." 
 
 " Not with much worldly wisdom, dear 
 Annie," said her sister, smiling. 
 
MABEL. 107 
 
 " Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Lesly, " those 
 who believe in an overruling Providence, act 
 most wisely, even for this world, when they 
 obey its laws.' 
 
 Caroline sighed ; her sister's single-minded 
 language recalled days long gone by ; when 
 their views had been more in accordance, and 
 for the moment, she would have given much 
 to have retained the simple faith of their child- 
 hood ; for her life was made up of shallow, and 
 quickly forgotten repentances. 
 
 After a pause, she said : — 
 
 u Annie, I hope you will live many years ; 
 but if it should be otherwise, do not have one 
 care for your children, for while I live they 
 shall find a home, wherever I may be." 
 
 " My dear, dear sister," said Mrs. Lesly, 
 while tears of gratitude and affection dimmed 
 her eyes ; " that is so like your old kind- 
 hearted way of speaking. Could I believe 
 that you would, indeed, be a friend to my chil- 
 dren, I should be spared many a wakeful night, 
 
108 MABEL. 
 
 and this freedom from anxiety might prolong 
 my life. But, Caroline, you have a large 
 family, and can ill spare your means.' ' 
 
 " It may be so," replied the other; " but 
 you set me an example of doing right without 
 regard to consequences ; why should I not fol- 
 low it? And you recall the days of our happy 
 childhood, when these feelings, and such as 
 these, were common to us both — let them be 
 common again, dear Annie." 
 
 Mrs. Lesly, kissed her sister with grateful 
 affection, and again, and again, thanked her for 
 her generous promises. Alas ! judging of her 
 by herself, she little knew how evanescent were 
 her resolutions, nor guessed that the sentiments 
 she sometimes professed, as little belonged to 
 her own heart, as the delusive images of the 
 Fata Morgana to the waters they enliven. They 
 soon afterwards parted for the night, Mrs. 
 Lesly more cheerful, and her sister more seri- 
 ous than before their evening conversation. 
 
MABEL. 109 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 He only can the cause reveal, 
 Why, at the same fond bosom fed ; 
 Taught in the self-same lap to kneel, 
 Till the same prayer were duly said. 
 
 Brothers in blood, and nurture too, 
 Aliens in heart so oft should prove, 
 One lose, the other keep, Heaven's clue ; 
 One dwell in wrath, and one in love. 
 
 Christian Yeab. 
 
 Mrs. Lesly found Mabel waiting for her in her 
 room. A book was lying open by her side, but 
 she appeared to haye been rather thinking, 
 than reading. 
 
 " Mabel, my love," she said, "it is past 
 twelve o'clock. I am so sorry you sat up for 
 me." 
 
] 10 MABEL, 
 
 " I am only waiting to undress you, mamma," 
 said Mabel, " you are so much later to-night, 
 that I thought you would be tired. I have 
 been lying on your sofa, half asleep, for more 
 than an hour. Have you been talking of me." 
 she added, lowering her voice. 
 
 "Yes, a little," replied Mrs. Lesly ; "but 
 why do you ask, what can any one say ill of 
 you." 
 
 Mabel sighed. 
 
 " I talked of you, dear, not merely to satisfy 
 my sister's curiosity ; but, because there is in 
 the world a very strong prejudice against sin- 
 gle ladies, old maids, as they are termed, in 
 contempt, when there is no good reason given 
 for their not marrying. It is a foolish pre- 
 judice, but still a strong one ; and, therefore, 
 I would rather that people knew why you are 
 not married ; at least, that all those who have 
 any right to criticise your conduct, should know 
 that it has been by your own choice,*' 
 
 " Ah, mamma," said Mabel, " you are think- 
 
MABEL. Ill 
 
 ing of my feelings as they would once have 
 been." 
 
 " And as they may be again," said the mo- 
 ther ; " but not as they ought to be, I allow. 
 But you bear your trial so well, love, that I 
 would not have it increased by one unkind, or 
 worldly remark. You have done right, and 
 can, therefore, afford to suffer ; yet there is no 
 harm in sparing yourself any needless pain. 
 Go to sleep, now, my child, I do not wish to 
 see you tired, to-morrow." 
 
 Mabel retired to her own room, with 
 feelings stirred up, she scarce knew why, 
 by the arrival of their new guests, and 
 she would willingly have thought awhile in 
 silence, but Amy was awake, and restless. 
 
 " What time is it, Mabel, dear," for by that 
 affectionate title, she usually addressed her. 
 
 " Past one o'clock, dear," said Mabel ; ci are 
 you awake, still." 
 
 " I have been to sleep, once," said Amy ; 
 " but I was dreaming all the time, first 
 of Lucy, and then about Captain Clair, and 
 
112 MABEL. 
 
 the blackberries. You said she would not 
 like me quite at first, but she seems to love you 
 in one evening — how is that ?" 
 
 " I really do not know ; Lucy puzzles me, 
 rather, but she says she likes, or dislikes, 
 quickly." 
 
 " But that is what you tell me not to do," 
 said Amy, sitting up in her bed, as if prepared 
 for a regular discussion of the subject. 
 
 " Yes," said Mabel, " because I am afraid 
 you will not choose your friends well, and may 
 be mistaken if you judge too quickly. 
 
 "Well," said Amy, gravely; "I suppose 
 Lucy is clever to find you out so soon, but it 
 puzzles me to think how she could tell you 
 were good, in one evening." 
 
 " I do not think she does know much about 
 me, yet," said Mabel ; " but do not let us 
 think of her just now, for if we never think of 
 ourselves at any other time, I think we should 
 before we go to sleep. So, now you must not 
 talk any more." 
 
 Mabel then turned her pillow, smoothed the 
 
MABEL. 113 
 
 hair back from her heated cheeks, and made 
 her comfortable, so that Amy, having no fur- 
 ther excuse for keeping awake, soon fell asleep. 
 
 The next morning Mrs. Lesly was up earlier 
 than usual, that she might enjoy as much of 
 her sister's society as her short visit permitted. 
 
 After breakfast, Mrs. Yillars said, that if 
 they could have a chat by themselves, she 
 should be glad. 
 
 To this Mrs. Lesly willingly agreed, and 
 after some little conversation on the arrange- 
 ments of the day, led her to her sunny dressing- 
 room, where her own mornings were most fre- 
 quently spent. 
 
 " I hope,', said Mrs. Lesly, taking up her 
 work, " that nothing unpleasant has occurred, 
 to make you wish to speak to me ; but, per- 
 haps you have been thinking over our last 
 night's conversation." 
 
 Mrs. Yillars coloured slightly with the con- 
 sciousness that the feelings awakened by her 
 
114 MABEA. 
 
 sister's conversation, had been of very short 
 duration. 
 
 " No, dear," said she ; " last night I listened 
 to your trials and troubles, this morning you 
 must hear mine." 
 
 " Oh," said Mrs. Lesly, " I would never 
 have taken up your time last night, had I 
 known that you were thinking of any thing that 
 pained you. 
 
 " You are always too kind to me," said Mrs. 
 Villars, and I am sure I would much rather 
 hear you talk than talk myself, for it does me 
 good to be with you, but really, now we are 
 sitting down, 1 have hardly the courage to 
 speak of what I wanted to say." 
 
 " No one is ever afraid of me," said Mrs. 
 Lesly, " and you know, if you are in any 
 trouble, I never can find fault." 
 
 " Well then," said Mrs. Villars, " I will tell 
 you exactly how I am situated. You must know 
 that Mr. Villars has had, or pretends to have, 
 
MABEL. 115 
 
 had a great many losses this year, which have 
 really quite soured his temper. He does 
 nothing now but grumble, saying, I am not 
 half so economical as I ought to be, and I do 
 not know what peevish stuff. He says I dress 
 the children too expensively, and then he tells 
 me they would look better in white muslin than 
 in all the laces I put on them." 
 
 " "Well, there I think he is right," interposed 
 Mrs. Lesly, " nothing makes a girl look so nice 
 as a simple white dress." 
 
 " I cannot agree with that," said Mrs. 
 Yillars. " Caroline has just the figure — just the 
 majestic style of beauty that does not do for 
 white muslin and simplicity, and in her black 
 velvet and pearls, I do assure you, she looks 
 fit to be a duchess. Selina, too, has just that 
 fairy beauty which requires the lightest 
 and most delicate of colors, and how very soon 
 they soil, particularly with polking — and, be- 
 sides, they cannot always be wearing the same 
 dresses in a place like Bath. I cannot help 
 
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118 MABEL. 
 
 " Ah," sighed Mrs. Yillars, "it is very dif- 
 ferent with me, I assure you — Yillars is 
 always finding fault now, since the girls are 
 come out." 
 
 " "Well," repeated Mrs. Lesly, " I certainly 
 never remember being afraid of my poor 
 husband." 
 
 " No ; but then he was a soldier, that 
 makes a man very different," said Mrs. Yillars, 
 " so kind and open-hearted. Now Yillars, 
 though he has left his business in the city, and 
 is only a sleeping partner, yet he seems to take 
 as much interest in it as ever ; and if anything 
 goes wrong, then he is off to London to give 
 his advice, he says, and comes home so cross, 
 there is no speaking a word to him, and 
 if he finds us going out, as we do, of course, 
 nearly every night, then he goes off sulky to 
 his study. Married life with such a man, is no 
 joke, I can tell you. When we first married, 
 he had such an easy temper ; he says I spoilt it, 
 but the fault lies at his own door, of that I am 
 
MABEL. 119 
 
 certain. But I would not say this to every 
 
 one." 
 
 " I hope not, indeed," said Mrs. Lesly, much 
 pained ; " it is better to keep these things from 
 everybody ; and you cannot blame him without 
 finding fault with yourself at the same time." 
 
 " And that I am not disposed to do," inter- 
 rupted Mrs. Yillars ; " no, I assure you, before 
 company, I make him appear the very pattern 
 of perfection. I would not lower myself by 
 showing the world how very little influence I 
 have over him. But now to the point — I must 
 tell you, that last winter, I was foolish enough 
 to run up some bills with my jeweller, milliner, 
 and others, a little higher than ordinary, and 
 now every day they become more importunate, 
 and I have made excuses till they will listen no 
 longer. I do not know where to turn for 
 money, till this business pressure is over and 
 Villars has recovered his temper. Now could 
 you, I know you could if you would, just lend 
 me a hundred pounds for a few months ?" 
 
120 MABEL. 
 
 " Ah, Caroline, but ought I ?" said Mrs. 
 Lesly ; " think of my poor children, and my 
 health such as it is." 
 
 "But what possible harm could that do 
 them ?" said Mrs. Yillars, as if surprised ; " do 
 you think I could be so barbarous as to think 
 of hurting them. It is perfectly safe with me ; 
 and I will pay you in six months." 
 
 " But, my dear Caroline," said Mrs. Lesly, 
 " why not tell Mr. Yillars ? it will be but the 
 anger of an hour — contrast that with the pain 
 of deceiving him." 
 
 "I do not mind telling him everything," 
 when his present difficulties are over — now it 
 would be unkind to ask me." 
 
 "But," answered her sister, timidly, "do 
 you think I am right in suffering more of my 
 money to be in private hands, even in yours ?" 
 
 " Oh," said Mrs. Yillars, coloring slightly, 
 " you are speaking of the five hundred I owe 
 you already ; but you know I promised to pay 
 that back with five per cent interest when my 
 
MABEL. 121 
 
 aunt Clara dies, and leaves me the legacy she 
 promised, and which Villars always said I 
 should do just as I liked with. I gave you a 
 memorandum of the promise, in case of any 
 mistake." 
 
 u Yes, I know," said Mrs. Lesly; "but I 
 really do not know what I have done with it — 
 I am afraid it is mislaid." 
 
 " I dare say," said Mrs. Yiliars, again color- 
 ing, and looking down upon the spill she was 
 twisting from the pieces of an old letter ; " but 
 surely, if it be lost, you could not think your 
 own sister would — " 
 
 " Oh, no, no," said Mrs. Lesly ; "I think 
 nothing but that you are imprudent ; and oh, 
 Caroline, however I may disguise the truth 
 from Mabel — I am not ignorant that a few 
 weeks may, and a few years certainly will, 
 bring me to my grave. Now am I right to 
 trust so much even to you ?" 
 
 A mother's courage was strong, even in her 
 
 vol. i. a 
 
122 MAEEL. 
 
 timid and indolent mind, and she spoke with 
 tears in her eyes. 
 
 " Now then," said Mrs. Yillars, " I promise, 
 if you will be generous this once, that your 
 children shall never want a home while I 
 have one, and every comfort which my own 
 possess shall be theirs ; only rescue me this 
 once from my husband's anger." 
 
 " I have done it so often," said Mrs. Lesly, 
 "lam afraid it is unkind to both of you to do 
 it again." 
 
 " Oh, do not say so," cried Mrs. Villars, 
 " oh, think again, do not say that, and you so 
 kind and good. You know I have given 
 you a written promise, to pay it out of the 
 legacy aunt Clara is to leave me, and that is as 
 binding to my mind, beloved sister, as a legally 
 executed deed ; as Yillars promises positively, 
 I shall do what I like with the money, when I 
 get it. Have I not promised to continue to 
 pay five per cent interest to your children as 
 well as yourself, should you not live, as I hope 
 
MABEL. 123 
 
 and trust you may, many, many years. I can 
 do that easily, as I have done before ; at least 
 I could have done so had we not agreed to let 
 the interest accumulate, that I might pay you 
 in the lump. "Where is my promise ? you have 
 lost it you say, but I remember it all well 
 enough. Oh, good, kind Annie, think again.' , 
 
 " But that paper is lost," said Mrs. Lesly, 
 with a vacant look, and she passed her hand over 
 her forehead, as if trying to remember some- 
 thing of it. 
 
 " I would offer to write another promise," 
 said Mrs. Yillars, " only I do not like to bind 
 myself to two sums ; for every one may not be 
 so honourable as yourself, and you must have 
 it somewhere, but you need not doubt me if 
 it is lost, need you ?' ■ 
 
 " I wish you would not talk of doubting," 
 said Mrs. Lesly, "it makes me feel so uncom- 
 fortable ; but once again, my dear sister, let me 
 entreat you to have no concealments from your 
 
 husband, they never lead to good. If you will 
 G 2 
 
124 MABEL. 
 
 tell him everything, I promise to lend you the 
 money." 
 
 " That is as good as refusing altogether," 
 replied Mrs. Yillars, sulkily, " why not say 
 you will not at once, that would be plain and 
 open, but as it is," she added, bursting into 
 tears, " I see you do not care for me." 
 
 "Well, dear" said Mrs. Leslie, much pained, 
 " you know I can never bear to see you cry- — 
 dry your tears and listen to me. How are we 
 to get the money ?" 
 
 Mrs. Yillars brightened up in an instant. 
 
 "Why," said she, "you bank at Coutts's — 
 write me a draft, and I will get it changed in 
 Bath, some how ; I can manage it as I did be- 
 fore." 
 
 " My money," said Mrs. Lesly, with unusual 
 gravity, "has been reduced for your sake, to a 
 very few hundreds, a mere trifle, but my 
 children !" exclaimed she, suddenly droppiing 
 her pen, and clasping her hands convulsively. 
 
 " I have promised to be their mother," said 
 
MABEL. 125 
 
 Mrs. Villars, "but nonsense, you will live 
 many years yet." 
 
 "Do not think of it, do not think of it, my 
 doctor knows my constitution too well to flatter 
 me with such vain hopes. I have been better 
 since you have been here, but that is excite- 
 ment, and now my head-aches so." 
 
 She placed her hand upon her forehead, and 
 sank into deep thought. 
 
 Mrs. Yillars grew impatient ; for there was a 
 struggle going on within her, in which her 
 better self was busily engaged ; and the worldly 
 woman almost feared the world would lose the 
 victory, while she trembled at the feelings she 
 was exciting. 
 
 The whole truth indeed being, that the 
 money she so earnestly solicited, was intended, 
 not to discharge debts already incurred, but to 
 furnish additional display both in dress and 
 housekeeping, during the approaching visit of 
 Colonel Hargrave to Bath, which the worldly 
 mother hoped, till she believed, would end in a 
 marriage between him and her eldest daughter, 
 
126 MABEL. 
 
 whose temper was becoming soured, by the 
 failure of repeated matrimonial speculations. 
 
 Mr. Villars had found it necessary to lay 
 down a plan of economy for the following year ; 
 limiting its proposed expenditure in a manner 
 which little suited the taste or the tactics of 
 his family, and it, therefore, occurred to his im- 
 prudent wife, that there would be no harm in 
 forestalling the legacy of a thousand pounds, 
 promised by an invalid aunt, by adding another 
 hundred to the five she had already borrowed 
 upon it, under the impression that any present 
 expenditure would be amply compensated if 
 she succeeded in placing her daughter in pos- 
 session of Aston, with whose broad lands she 
 was well acquainted, though of the character, 
 disposition, or principles of its owner, she 
 was quite ignorant. 
 
 She well knew how to work upon her sister's 
 feelings, already enervated by grief and ill- 
 health, and the nirrow views of a selfish woman 
 had often led her to do so ; but now, as she re- 
 garded the weakness that seemed to implore 
 
MABEL. 127 
 
 protection, she felt her powers of dissimulation 
 fast failing before these new thoughts of com- 
 punction. After all, she thought she might do 
 without the money, the girls' old dresses were 
 new to Hargraye, and he might be a man of 
 simple habits, and, perhaps, would really be more 
 attracted by white muslin, than crimson velvet 
 — if so, she was perhaps sinning for no purpose 
 — might she not do without the money — she 
 might, but she had never learnt the principle 
 of self-denial, where right and wrong is con- 
 cerned ; and than come second thoughts — why 
 did she wait for them ? When temptation is 
 present, the first quick generous impulse is the 
 safest. There is a voice in our hearts which 
 never directs us wrong, let us listen to its least 
 whisper. "Why, like the avaricious prophet of old, 
 are we dissatisfied with its first answer — why 
 will we ask, and ask again, till the reply suits, 
 not our conscience, but our desires. 
 
 In this case as in many others, Mrs. Villars's 
 second thoughts triumphed. Why should she 
 submit to her husband's pitiful economy — was 
 
128 MABEL. 
 
 it not his fault if she were forced to borrow ; 
 and she paid, or meant to pay, her sister good 
 interest, which would atone for every thing ; 
 and, at the end of the season, no doubt the 
 longed-for marriage would take place ; and, even 
 supposing her grateful daughter forgot to share 
 her pin money with her, Mr. Yillars could not 
 but applaud her conduct and settle her debt ; 
 and, even if not — but she was in no humour for 
 ifs — and a glance from the window at the rich 
 woods which skirted the Aston estate, and a 
 glimpse through the trees at the mansion itself, 
 quite settled the question, and she continued 
 twisting her spills with perfect satisfaction. 
 
 "Not so Mrs. Lesly, she had seated herself at 
 her desk, indeed, and taken up her pen with a 
 trembling hand ; but her eyes were vacantly 
 following her sister's occupation. 
 
 " This will never do," thought the worldly 
 woman ; yet she was afraid to hurry her. 
 
 " I was thinking," said Mrs. Lesly, at 
 length, after continuing in the same attitude of 
 observation, " I w T as thinking how very strange 
 
MABEL. 129 
 
 it was that I never remember our talking 
 about money, but you were making spills all 
 the time." 
 
 " Why, you see," said Mrs. Villars, care- 
 lessly, " I never thought it worth while to 
 bring my work for the short time I generally 
 stay, and I never like to sit quite idle." 
 
 " Yes ; but when you stayed with me for a 
 month, it happened then as well," said Mrs. 
 Lesly, in a musing kind of tone. 
 
 " It was rather strange, certainly — but more 
 strange that you should remember such trifles," 
 said Mrs. Villars, her face turning rather dis- 
 agreeably pale. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Lesly, fearing she had offended 
 her, took up her pen, and wrote like a 
 frightened child, then quickly handed her the 
 draft. 
 
 Mrs. Villars hastily rose and kissed her, and 
 then, taking her pen from her hand, wrote a 
 memorandum of the loan, which Mrs. Lesly 
 placed in her work-basket. 
 
130 MABEL. 
 
 At that moment, Amy ran into the room, 
 crying out — 
 
 " Mamma, mamma, I have cut my ringer — do 
 please give me a piece of rag, or I shall spoil 
 my dress." 
 
 Mrs. Lesly, easily frightened, hurried to her 
 assistance, and, though Amy kept exclaiming 
 that she was only anxious about her dress, 
 hurried her off to a receptacle of old linen, 
 which she kept in preparation for every acci- 
 dent. 
 
 Mrs. Yillars glanced at the paper she had 
 just written. 
 
 " How careless Annie is," thought she. 
 " Yet she seemed suspicious just now about the 
 spills — could she have guessed I tore up the 
 other papers I wrote? No — impossible! It 
 is so awkward to be pressed for money, at all 
 sorts of times, and poor Annie is not long for 
 this world, I see. That Mabel has a sharp 
 eye, and would not be easily deceived. Well, 
 it does not alter the obligation one bit, and 
 
MABEL. 131 
 
 what does it signify between sisters. I only do 
 not wish to be hurried." 
 
 A clue to these thoughts might be given by 
 her putting out her hand, and drawing the 
 paper to her, amongst the pieces she was tear- 
 ing up. Where was the voice of conscience 
 then ? Alas ! for a time, it slept, for she had 
 slighted its first warning. 
 
 She tore the paper in two, and then said to 
 herself, " Well, it is done now," rather as if 
 somebody else had done it, and it was no act of 
 her own. Then she slowly twisted bit after 
 bit into spills, laying each with those she had 
 already done, and the last piece had just as- 
 sumed its taper appearance, when Mrs. Lesly 
 entered the room. 
 
 " What did I do with that paper ?" said she, 
 after looking on all sides for it, "how careless 
 I am." 
 
 "I think," said Mrs. Villars, "you put it 
 in your secretary — you had it open while you 
 were writing." 
 
 " Ah, so I must, I suppose," said Mrs. 
 
132 MABEL. 
 
 Lesly ; but she looked suspiciously at the 
 secretary, she had no remembrance of going 
 there ; yet, she had had it open that morning, 
 she knew. Her sister must remember better 
 than she did. She would look presently, she 
 had not quite the resolution to look now ; and 
 suffering her characteristic indolence to over- 
 come her prudence, she sank into an arm-chair, 
 and took up her knitting. 
 
 At this moment, the chaise, which had been 
 ordered, slowly drove up to the door, and Mabel 
 entered to tell them that luncheon waited them 
 in the sitting-room. 
 
 Mrs. Yiiiars started up, full of business and 
 bustle, which shefelt to be a welcome relief after 
 the morning's tete-d-tete, and hurried down 
 stairs. Mabel regarded her mother's pale looks 
 with affectionate anxiety ; but there was little 
 time for thought, as Mrs. Yillars and her maid 
 kept the house in a perfect ferment for the 
 next five minutes. 
 
 Amy stood looking aghast at a very bright 
 carpet-bag, with a [dud of travelling scent 
 
MABEL. 183 
 
 about it, which she thought grander and newer 
 than anything of the kind she had before seen ; 
 and she quite shrank within herself when her 
 aunt kissed her, and blessed her in a tone which 
 made her feel cold; nor was she sorry when she 
 saw her get into the carriage, attended by the 
 bright carpet-bag — and when box after box 
 was moved to the top of the creaking vehicle 
 — and when the vehicle itself moved down the 
 walk, she drew a long breath, as if relieved 
 from some heavy pressure, feeling the place 
 once more quite their own, 
 
 Lucy ran to the gate, to open it to let her 
 mamma pass, kissing her hand to her, and stop- 
 ping to watch till the carriage turned the corner, 
 and was only visible down Amy's point of ob- 
 servation on the wall. She then came back with 
 her cheeks crimson, and putting her arm round 
 Mabel's waist, she whispered — 
 
 " Who do you think passed while I was 
 holding the gate ?" 
 
 " Who ?" said Mabel, a little surprised at 
 anything like an apparition in their quiet 
 
134 MABEL. 
 
 village, and not yet quite aware of their Bath 
 cousin's usual train of thought. " I cannot 
 guess." 
 
 Lucy's cheeks were of a deeper tint, as she 
 whispered — 
 
 " Captain Clair." 
 
MABEL. 
 
 135 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 But when the weight of sorrow found 
 My spirit prostrate and resigned, 
 The anguish of the bleeding wound 
 Taught me to feel for all mankind. 
 
 Eliza Cook. 
 
 Mrs. Lesly's ill health had made her rather 
 retire from society, than take any pains to seek 
 i^ during her widowhood, and she had gradu- 
 ally drawn her circle of friends so closely round 
 her, that it now scarcely extended beyond her 
 immediate neighbourhood. Mabel, whose af- 
 fectionate attendance was necessary to her mo- 
 ther's happiness, never thought of leaving her, 
 by accepting any invitation to stay from home ; 
 and years had almost insensibly passed away 
 
136 MABEL. 
 
 in the cultivation of elegant tastes, and in con- 
 stant, but looal benevolence, without their 
 being tempted to ask any distant relative or 
 friend to visit them. 
 
 Mabel was, therefore, at first, a little puzzled 
 to think how she might render their quiet home 
 agreeable to the gay girl who had so unex- 
 pectedly entered it. Luey, however, seemed 
 determined to be pleased, if only allowed to be 
 moving, and she ran away with great cheerful- 
 ness, to prepare for the walk which Mabel pro- 
 posed soon after the departure of Mrs. Yillars. 
 $ " Do you often call at the rectory ?" she 
 asked, as they strolled up the hill leading 
 through the village. 
 
 " We will call as we return from our walk," 
 replied Mabel, " if you fancy going there with 
 me." 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Lucy, " I should like it so 
 much, for you said Mr. Ware was such a nice 
 man ; his sister, I suppose, is quite an old 
 maid." 
 
 " She is such a pleasant old lady, that you 
 
MABEL. 187 
 
 cannot help liking her," said Mabel ; " but I 
 ought not to say that, I suppose, as some people 
 always dislike those they are told they shall 
 like, and I should be very sorry if you were 
 not pleased with them both." 
 
 " Oh, I shall be sure to like them if they 
 are favorites of yours. But do look how 
 lovely ;" she exclaimed, as a sudden turn in the 
 winding walk they had chosen, gave them a 
 fine view of the distant country, with Aston 
 manor in the fore-ground. " What a beautiful 
 house. Is that the house we saw from the 
 garden ? Is that Harry Hargrave's ?" 
 
 " Yes," was the laconic reply. 
 
 " Why do you look so grave ?" 
 
 " I did not mean to look so," said Mabel ; 
 stopping by an old hawthorn tree, which was 
 lying upon the ground, though the branches 
 were still covered with foliage. " Let us sit 
 down here, for the sun is quite oppressive. 
 This," continued she," is a favorite seat of 
 mine ; the tree fell a long time ago, and has 
 been left as it is, ever since. You will get a 
 
138 MABEL. 
 
 better view of the house here, than you will 
 find any where else." 
 
 Lucy readily seated herself by Mabel's side, 
 upon the old tree which had fallen in a pleasant 
 spot. A high hedge shaded it from the sun on 
 one side, and clusters of wild roses hung down 
 it, and scented the air. A gentle breeze stole 
 up from the valley, and a small stream rippled 
 by in melodious monotony, falling in a tiny 
 cascade over the bank into the river below. 
 The songs of many birds came from all sides of 
 the well wooded country — and here and there a 
 gay butterfly crossed over the fields. 
 
 They continued for some little time in silence, 
 which Lucy was the first to break, by en- 
 quiring if Aston Manor were as pleasant inside 
 as it seemed to promise to be. 
 
 " Yes, even more pleasant," replied Mabel ; 
 " it is a very compact house, the rooms are of a 
 very good size — and the whole place splendidly 
 furnished, and generally admired in our coun- 
 ty ; the hall is surrounded by a gallery, hung 
 with paintings of great value. The gardens 
 
MABEL. 139 
 
 are very beautiful, und every thing else in 
 keeping. Indeed, I think it is quite a bijou of 
 a place." 
 
 " Is there any room that would do nicely for 
 a dance ?" enquired Lucy. 
 
 " They used to have many pleasant dances 
 there, in good Mrs. Hargrave's lifetime, which 
 mamma remembers well. 
 
 " Oh, that will be so nice," said Lucy. 
 
 u What will ?" said Mabel, in surprise. 
 
 " Why, when our castle in the air marriage 
 takes place," said Lucy ; " because Caroline is 
 so very fond of dancing, and could lead off a 
 ball with such spirit ; and I shall contrive to 
 be nearly always staying with them." 
 
 14 Why do you suppose every thing so cer- 
 tain," said Mabel, startled, alike at the inde- 
 licacy of the scheme, and Lucy's cool thought- 
 lessness in speaking of it. 
 
 " Do not say it will not be," said Lucy, 
 "or I shall punish you some how or other. 
 Now, would you not be glad to have us down 
 here, Colonel Hargrave and all ; think what 
 
140 MABEL. 
 
 nice parties there would be ; and who knows 
 what nice beau might come down and take you 
 away with him. 
 
 Mabel's cheek blushed scarlet, and her lips 
 curled in preparation for some angry retort — 
 suddenly she checked herself as she remem- 
 bered the conversation of the preceding night. 
 Have I then failed so soon, thought she to 
 herself, 
 
 " Ah, mamma, you know my vain wicked 
 heart better than I do — for the first observation 
 that seems to point me out as single, and 
 needing a lover, makes me angry." 
 
 " Ah, you blush, Mabel," pursued her 
 heedless tormentor, too unaccustomed to feel 
 for others, to be able to read her countenance, 
 or tell why her words had given pain ; " per- 
 haps, you are engaged to some one, under the 
 rose, all the while." 
 
 Mabel was silent for a moment ; it required 
 that moment to seize the reins with which she 
 usually held her temper in check, and then she 
 replied, gently, but gravely. 
 
MABEL. 141 
 
 "I am not engaged to any one ; you mistake 
 my face entirely, but I colored because I was 
 silly enough to feel angry at your thinking I 
 was wishing to be married — but it was wrong 
 of me, because you could not understand my 
 feelings without being told. So I must tell 
 you," she continued smiling, " that I am a 
 determined old maid ; though, perhaps, you 
 mav think such a resolution needless in a 
 place where gentlemen seldom come to disturb 
 our equanimity." 
 
 " What, wedded to your duties, are you ? 
 Or what other queer reason may have led you 
 to such a determination," enquired Lucy, who 
 could not help feeling that her new friend's 
 speech meant more than it usually does in the 
 mouth of a beautiful girl ; and she was sur- 
 prised to think she should wish to retire from 
 the field of conquest, before actually driven 
 from it by dulness or age. Her own vanity 
 could not conceal from her, a certain indescriba- 
 ble something which rendered her cousin par 
 ticularly attractive, and, though she certainly 
 
142 MABEL. 
 
 ranked her second to herself, that did not im- 
 ply any very low degree of merit. 
 
 Mabel's composure, which was seldom lost, 
 was now entirely restored, and she answered 
 Lucy's wondering eyes with one of her pecu- 
 liarly sweet and gentle smiles. 
 
 " You may well wonder," said she, " that I, 
 who seem so little your senior, should already 
 have made such a resolution. I too, who am 
 fond of society, fond of companionship, and all 
 that is domestic, and choose solitude only as 
 wholesome medicine ; but some destinies are 
 fixed early, others late ; and I, who once 
 thought, and still think, marriage, with its 
 social harmony and sweet feelings of depend- 
 ence, most fitted for a woman's nature, have 
 yet quite made up my mind to remain single," 
 
 " I shall not believe you till you give me 
 some good reason," said Lucy. 
 
 " You are too kind," replied Mabel, as her 
 voice slightly trembled, " to seek to probe a 
 wound only from the curiosity of seeing how 
 deep it is — when you have no power to heal. 
 
MABEL. 143 
 
 I speak of myself now," she added, hastily; 
 " lest in our future conversations, you may 
 pain me without knowing it, and perhaps I 
 might think you unkind when you were only 
 seeking to amuse me. Oh, Lucy," said she, 
 turning round with sudden energy, " I have 
 suffered terribly, and still suffer, when I lose 
 my self-command for a moment — do not then 
 talk of my loving or needing love — do not tease 
 me with the intention of pleasing — do not talk— " 
 Mabel suddenly stopped and burst into tears 
 — for a very long time, she had never spoken 
 intimately with a young girl in her own station 
 of life, and the novelty had surprised her. A 
 few large drops rolled quickly down her crim- 
 son cheeks, but were soon brushed away, and 
 half smiling, she begged her cousin's forgive- 
 ness for speaking so hastily — in a few more 
 seconds, she was again gentle and submissive as 
 a child. 
 
 " Then must I never speak of love at all ?" 
 said Lucy, fearing that all the most interesting 
 of her stories would find an unwilling listener. 
 
144 MABEL. 
 
 " Oh, you mistake me," said Mabel; " do 
 not think me so selfish — talk as much as you 
 like of yourself, and forget me ; and } ou will, 
 perhaps, find me a better listener, perhaps a 
 better adviser, because I have altogether re- 
 tired from the lists of conquest ; and, be assured, 
 the necessity of placing a guard over myself, 
 and the difficulty of doing it effectually, only 
 tells me how much I ought to feel for others. 
 If you will always let me speak the truth, 
 without being offended with me, I will take 
 interest in your feelings at any time, only re- 
 member that mine are like ' The Arab's sealed 
 fountain,' whose waters will never see the light- 
 again." 
 
 " You are a very strange girl, my sweet, 
 new friend," said Lucy ; " but I love you 
 better for having a history, although I see I 
 must not read it quite yet ; at all events, not 
 till I know you better, and you learn how well 
 I can keep a secret." 
 
 " No, not even then," replied Mabel, " I 
 
MABEL. 1 45 
 
 cannot speak of myself without speaking of 
 more than myself; so content yourself with 
 what I have told you, and do not think of me 
 again, or I shall repent having said any- 
 thing ." 
 
 " Weil, it shall be quite as you like, I will 
 do anything you wish, only you must tell me, 
 that you love me very, very much indeed." 
 
 " I will tell you no such thing," said Mabel, 
 laughing; " remember, I only met you yester- 
 day morning." 
 
 " Well then, come and call at the rectory, 
 and that will shew me you love me." 
 
 " But I could do such a little thing, whether I 
 loved you or not," said Mabel ; " so I will take 
 you for charity's sake, for I see, like the cat 
 who was turned into a lady, and yet ran after 
 mice — you cannot go without your accustomed 
 food." 
 
 " I thought you said you liked society," said 
 Lucy. 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
146 MABEL. 
 
 " And so I do — so let us walk on, for this 
 green lane will lead us round to the rectory." 
 
 One of the rectory pets was an immense 
 Newfoundland dog, who began to bark loudly 
 as they approached the house. 
 
 "Oh!" said Lucy, with a half scream, "I 
 cannot go on — I am sure he is untied — nasty 
 thing." 
 
 "No, he never barks when he is loose — 
 come on, dear, I am sure he will not hurt 
 you." 
 
 Lucy clung to her arm in real or affected 
 terror till they reached the house door. 
 
 Much to her disappointment, they found no 
 one but Miss Ware at home, and she sat up 
 during the visit, as silent, and apparently as 
 timid, as a child, amusing herself by poking 
 her parasol through the cage of the pet parrot, 
 who appeared highly offended at her familiarity. 
 
 Mabel was a great favorite at the rectory, 
 and Miss "Ware, certain of finding her inter- 
 ested in her news, had many little things to 
 
MABEL. 147 
 
 tell her ; she had had a letter from one old 
 friend, and had worked a birth- day present for 
 another, with many other little incidents to 
 notice, which Lucy amused herself by silently 
 turning into ridicule, though they were so 
 kindly told that few would have found it diffi- 
 cult to enter into the little cares and joys which, 
 after all, were never selfish. 
 
 " My brother and nephew are gone to look 
 over the church," said she, " which I conclude 
 Miss Yillars has not yet seen. Edwin is 
 always wishing to improve the old tower, and 
 to scrape away the mortar and white- wash 
 from the walls inside the church, for he says 
 they are painted with beautiful figures — but 
 he will never have money enough for that I 
 am afraid— yet he puts by all he can spare • —for 
 he does not like running into debt, and I agree 
 with him, it is doing evil that good may come. 
 So he saves every year —but I fear he will not 
 get enough in his lifetime, to carry out this pet 
 scheme." 
 
 H 2 
 
148 MABEL. 
 
 " I wish we were all rich enough to raise a 
 subscription," said Mabel, " I should so much 
 like to see him fully employed in rinding out 
 all the beauties of our dear old church." 
 
 " Yes," said Miss \Yare, " I like to hear 
 him talk on the subject, because he enters upon 
 it in the true genuine spirit — he feels it to be 
 almost an insult to religion to allow its altars 
 to be kept in the slovenly state they too often 
 are ; grudged almost the necessary repairs by 
 those who are lavish where their own minutest 
 comforts are concerned. The Roman Catholics 
 might cry shame at us." 
 
 "Why do you not ask Colonel Hargrave, 
 ma'am ?" enquired Lucy, turning round from 
 the parrot. 
 
 "My brother has mentioned the subject 
 several times," said Miss Ware, "without 
 being able to interest him. Young men too 
 seldom enter, with warmth, on these subjects, 
 and he has now left us so long." 
 
 " Oh, I will tell him he must," said Lucy, 
 
MABEL. 149 
 
 " with his fortune it is really quite shabby of 
 him." 
 
 " Do you know him then ?" enquired Miss 
 Ware. 
 
 " Yes — no — not exactly — but he is a relation 
 of ours. He is coming to stay with us in Bath, 
 and I will take an early opportunity of men- 
 tioning the church to him." 
 
 " Oh, I remember," said Miss Ware, " he is, 
 I know, related to you through Colonel Lesly, 
 but I am afraid you will scarcely succeed, where 
 my brother has failed — if strength of argument 
 be needed, few can put a thing in a stronger 
 light than Edwin can." 
 
 " Oh," said Lucy, laughing, " I never con- 
 descend to argue with a man — I will tell him 
 he must — suggest that not to do so is shabby, 
 mean — with a few more epithets to match, and 
 then leave his own good taste to draw the con- 
 clusion." 
 
 " Well," said Miss Ware, recovering from 
 her slight pique, at thinking any ony one could 
 succeed where Edwin failed, "if you never 
 
150 MABEL. 
 
 use your ridicule for a worse purpose, you will 
 do well." 
 
 The subject here took another turn, and Lucy 
 again applied herself to tease the parrot with 
 the same listlessness as before — thinking the 
 conversation very dull, yet too idle to throw in 
 her share. She was aroused from her apathy, 
 by hearing Miss Ware ask Mabel if she would 
 bring her young friend to tea on the morrow, 
 if Mrs. Lesly could content herself with Amy's 
 company ; for to ask her, she knew to be use- 
 less. Lucy feared Mabel was going to decline, 
 and she cast such an imploring look at her as 
 to decide the question, and make her promise 
 that, if Mrs. Lesly continued as well as she had 
 been, and would consent to part with them, 
 they would come with pleasure. Lucy thought 
 this, a very satisfactory conclusion, to so dull a 
 visit, and once again all smiles, shook Miss 
 Ware warmly by the hand, as Mabel rose to 
 leave, and returned home in high spirits. 
 
MABEL. 151 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 A parent's heart may prove a snare ; 
 The child she loves so well, 
 Her hand may lead, with gentlest care, 
 Down the smooth road to hell. 
 Nourish its flame, destroy its mind, 
 Thus do the blind mislead the blind, 
 Even with a mother's love. 
 
 Lucy Villirs was a pretty girl, with fairy-like 
 figure, small features, laughing mouth, bright 
 blue sparkling eyes, and a profusion of light 
 ringlets. Her step was buoyant, and her voice 
 full of animation. It might have been vanity 
 that made the sparkle of those eyes so brilliant, 
 and her smiles so frequent, but as her merry 
 
152 MABEL. 
 
 laugh echoed hack the joyousness of her own 
 heart, few were disposed to condemn the feel- 
 ing, whatever it might he, that rendered her so 
 seemingly happy with herself, and all around 
 her. 
 
 What mental abilities she might possess, 
 however, were completely overshadowed by the 
 mistakes of early education ; at times they 
 would peep forth when her feelings were really 
 stirred by any strong impulse of good or evil; but 
 so uncommon were these indications of mind, 
 that no one could regard them as any true sign 
 even of an originally strong intellect ; and her 
 ordinary flippancy was, perhaps, more certainly 
 chosen as an index to the spirit within. 
 
 She had been but an apt pupil in a bad 
 school. When scarcely more than a tottering 
 child, she had taken her place at the dancing 
 academy, learning in her lisping language to 
 compare waltzes and polkas, and criticise dress, 
 and to display her tiny figure for the admira- 
 tion of spectators; feeling her little heart bound 
 when perhaps she attracted notice from being 
 
MABEL. 153 
 
 the smallest and gayest of her companions. 
 Then, in the jnvenile party, where the lesson of 
 the morning could be so well displayed, where 
 she early learnt to hear her nonsense listened 
 to with pleasure, and, where, even the old and 
 sensible regarded her little affectations with a 
 smile, she found another opportunity for dis- 
 play in the world for which she was educated. 
 
 These were too tempting after the dry 
 formula of French verbs and geography lessons, 
 not to engross the greater part of her thoughts ; 
 and, as she grew older, the evening ball, with 
 its glare of light, its flirtations and too visible 
 admiration, and the morning promenade, con- 
 cert, or town gossip, served to keep up the ex- 
 cited, thoughtless feeding to which she had 
 been so early trained. Oh, England, do you 
 educate all your daughters in this manner ! 
 Your matrons, reverenced by all nations, answer 
 no ! 
 
 It could scarcely be wondered at, that Lucy 
 Yillars had thus learnt to place too high a 
 h 5 
 
154 MABEL. 
 
 value on personal beauty. We would not for 
 an instant deny its merit. We reverence all 
 that is beautiful in art or nature, we glow with 
 admiration of a fine picture, and the sight of a 
 rich landscape elevates the feelings of him who 
 gazes upon it; we picture angels beautiful, and 
 we look forward to a heaven where all is per- 
 fect beauty. It cannot then be valueless when 
 exhibited in the human face or figure. It has 
 indeed been much over and underrated. May 
 we not look upon it as a talent bestowed for 
 some high purpose, as a means of influence 
 which must be some day accounted for. 
 
 No such thoughts ever occupied Lucy's 
 mind for a moment ; she had learnt her own 
 estimate of its value from the frivolous admi- 
 ration of a gay city; she had heard it praised in 
 others as if of the greatest importance ; and she 
 had chosen her acquaintance amongst those 
 who studied every means of enhancing its 
 charms. 
 
 She now entered on her country visit with 
 the same feelings ; and, bent on displaying her- 
 
MABEL. 155 
 
 self to the best advantage at the rectory, she 
 spent the greater part of the next morning, 
 during the hours usually occupied by Mabel in 
 attending to Amy's lessons, in selecting from 
 her wardrobe a dress best suited for the occa- 
 sion. Mabel was again and again consulted, 
 and Amy began to show great impatience at 
 her sister's divided attention, usually all her 
 own, during her study hours. 
 
 But Mabel, much to her disappointment, not 
 unwilling to teach her self-denial, persisted in 
 attending to Lucy's questions, and in the even- 
 ing the latter found herself attired to her per- 
 fect satisfaction, and looking remarkably well. 
 
 " You seem to think dress of little impor- 
 tance," she said, lounging into her cousin's 
 room, and stopping to take another peep in the 
 glass, without seeing that Mabel had not 
 finished dressing, and was a little late. 
 
 " No indeed," replied Mabel, fastening a 
 bouquet of geraniums in her simple white dress, 
 without the aid of the usurped mirror, " I 
 think it of so much consequence, that no woman 
 
156 MABEL. 
 
 should be indifferent to it, when at her toilet, 
 or with her milliner. They say a lady's taste 
 is to be read in her dress, and I should not like 
 to give soiled lace or badly blended colors, as 
 an index to mine." 
 
 " Do you find any fault with my dress to- 
 night?" enquired Lucy." 
 
 Mabel only suggested that a simple brooch 
 might be preferred to the bright bow which 
 ornamented her bosom, but she had ample time 
 to repent the observation, for Lucy insisted on 
 going over her whole box of jewelry to find a 
 substitute, and was scarcely ready by the 
 time when Mabel, having provided books, 
 work, tea, and every thing she could think of 
 for Mrs. Lesly and Amy, wailed for her in the 
 garden. 
 
 They found Mr. Ware looking for them at 
 his garden gate. Mabel hurried forward to 
 meet him, and then turned to introduce her 
 cousin. 
 
 " Most welcome, my dear young ladies,'' 
 said lie, extending a hand to each, " my sister 
 
MABEL. 157 
 
 has no mean opinion of her own hospitality to 
 venture on inviting you to join our party," 
 
 Lucy blushed with conscious beauty, while 
 Mabel said, with a smile — 
 
 " You throw all the blame on Miss Ware, I 
 fear then, you would not have asked us to come 
 yourself." 
 
 " Nay, nay, I cannot exactly say what I 
 would have done ; but here is Arthur, no 
 doubt he can play at words better than I can." 
 
 Captain Clair gracefully raised his hat as he 
 came in sight, and then shaking hands with 
 Mabel, requested, in a low voice to be intro- 
 duced to her lovely cousin. The " lovely," 
 was pronounced distinctly enough to reach 
 Lucy's ears, and the blush with which she re- 
 ceived Mabel's introduction shewed him that 
 the compliment had been accepted. 
 
 As the party lounged round the garden, 
 Mabel reminded Mr. Ware of his promise to 
 show her some improvements he had been 
 making amongst the evergreens in the shrub- 
 
158 MABEL. 
 
 bery ; and Lucy Villars gladly siezed the oppor- 
 tunity of commencing a flirting conversation 
 with Captain Clair, who, being well drilled in 
 the accomplishment of small talk, by long 
 practice, easily fell into a tete-a-tete. 
 
 Mabel's hand was placed affectionately in 
 the old man's arm, as they walked on together, 
 finding some kindred thought from every topic 
 they chose. He had been kind to her when a 
 firm friend had been most needed, and she now 
 sought to she w, in every way, that he had not 
 bestowed that kindness on one incapable of 
 appreciating it. 
 
 The ready sympathy she felt in all in which 
 he took any interest, was, perhaps, the best re- 
 turn she could have thought of. We value 
 most that for which we pay the highest, and 
 friendship is purchased by no common coin. 
 
 It was a great pleasure to Mr. Ware, to have 
 her society and ready sympathy. Few friends 
 lay within reach of Aston, and her elegant 
 mind supplied what would otherwise have 
 been wanting in his simple home, and gave 
 
MABEL. 159 
 
 Mm an opportunity of conversing on his favo- 
 rite topics. 
 
 u We shall not be seeing so much of you I 
 fear," he said, as they walked back towards the 
 house, but I must not be selfish. 
 
 " Indeed I hope that will not be the case," 
 she replied, " do come and walk with us when- 
 ever you have time. No one can shew the 
 the beauties of our county better than you can, 
 and I never enjoy a party so much as when 
 you are with us." 
 
 " If you are in earnest I feel inclined to 
 gratify you, if not, to punish you, by accepting 
 your invitation." 
 
 " Do not let us even pretend to be insincere," 
 said Mabel, eagerly, " hypocrisy is so hateful. 
 Take me at my word, and trust me till I break 
 it," 
 
 " Well, then, so I will ; I scarcely know 
 which I like most, to trust or be trusted, both 
 are so pleasant ; so, if you are going to do any 
 thing delightful out of doors, like a walk or a 
 nutting expedition, ask us to join you, and we 
 
160 MABEL. 
 
 will do the same, so we shall the better be able 
 to amuse our guests. People often require 
 too good a reason for meeting — we will have 
 none." 
 
 " I will most willingly promise," returned 
 Mabel, " only remember, that on some days 
 mamma feels so low that I never leave her — 
 then you must excuse me, for every thing at- 
 home depends on her." 
 
 " You are quite right to let it be so," said 
 Mr. Ware, " and I will never say a word 
 against such an arrangement. Only tell her 
 we mean to take her by storm some night 
 and come to tea. You shall give it us on the 
 green, and then she can look on without mind- 
 ing our noise." 
 
 " Mamma will be very glad to see you, I 
 am sure," said Mabel, " if you will only pro- 
 pose it. The effort would do her good." 
 
 u y er y W eYL then, I will tell her when I see 
 her next," said Mr. Ware, with a smile. 
 
 They had now reached the open window of 
 
MABEL. 161 
 
 the sitting-room, where Mabel was welcomed 
 by Miss "Ware. 
 
 " The evening is really quite sultry/' said 
 she, " yet the air at this time of day so often 
 gives me cold 7 that I had not courage to ven- 
 ture out, though I so much wished to join 
 ycu." 
 
 " Had I known that, my dear Miss "Ware, 
 I should not have been tempted to remain out 
 so long." 
 
 " !No, no, dear child, I am not so selfish, for 
 1 know when once you begin to talk to Edwin 
 there is no leaving off ; but I hope you have 
 not forgotten your pretty cousin to-night. You 
 promised to bring her with you." 
 
 " Oh, yes, she is with us," said Mabel, 
 turning round, but no Lucy was to be seen. 
 
 " Oh, Arthur is taking care of her, 1 be- 
 lieve," said Mr. Ware, " and they will be 
 here soon, I dare say." 
 
 It was some little time, however, before they 
 did appear, and then they were seen advancing 
 
162 MABEL. 
 
 down the gravel walk, both laughing, and Lucy 
 with a very high colour. 
 
 " Why," said Mr. Ware, " you stole a 
 march upon us, Arthur, where have you been 
 keeping this young lady in the damp ?" 
 
 " Are we at the chair of confession ?" asked 
 the young officer, still laughing. 
 
 " Yes, yes, every one confesses everything 
 here ; but sit down to tea first, and take off 
 your bonnet, Miss Villars." 
 
 " Well then," said Clair, when they were 
 comfortably seated at the tea-table, " I per- 
 ceive I must apologise for a very grave offence 
 in keeping Miss Lucy Yillars so long absent ; 
 the whole crime, I fear, lies with me, I indeed, 
 the scape-goat for every offender, must, I fear, 
 take the blame on myself." 
 
 " Come, come, Arthur," said his uncle, " be 
 laconic." 
 
 " My dear uncle, you should allow a pri- 
 soner to state his own case fairly — if he has 
 not studied Burke on the c Sublime and Beau- 
 tiful,' the £ Patriot King,' and other models of 
 
MABEL. 163 
 
 pure English compostion, you must let a poor 
 fellow express himself as he can, so that he 
 speaks the truth. So to proceed ; we were 
 talking of country pursuits, and Miss Lucy 
 could not understand how I could contrive to 
 while away my time, after being accustomed to 
 town, Portsmouth, Southampton, Cheltenham, 
 Scarborough, Bombay, Calcutta and such 
 places ; how, in fact, I contrived to vegetate 
 here." 
 
 Lucy laughed merrily, and displayed in 
 doing so a very pretty set of white teeth. 
 But Mr. Ware saw with regret that a new 
 sphit had entered their small circle of society, 
 whose influence might do much to counteract 
 his own on the versatile disposition of his 
 nephew, even without being conscious of it. 
 
 " Well, aunt," Captain Clair continued gaily, 
 " you look serious, as if I meant any bad compli- 
 ment to the sweetest village in England ; 
 though, my dear aunt, vegetation is vegetation 
 after all, whether displayed on the Cotswold 
 hills or in the back woods of America." 
 
164 MABEL. 
 
 Mabel looked at him for an instant, and her 
 deep blue eyes seemed to deprecate a remark 
 which her ever kind heart told her was giving 
 pain. Clare bowed, and then said almost in a 
 whisper : " Thank you, T was wrong," and 
 continued his narrative, after a moment's 
 pause. 
 
 " Well, as I before said, Miss Lucy wished 
 to know how I amused myself in the country, 
 and, amongst other things, I mentioned my 
 workshop, situated, as you may remember, over 
 the stable, and accessible only by a ladder. 
 However, this lady honored me by expressing 
 a wish to see it, and you know how difficult it 
 is to refuse to gratify a lady's taste for a hobby 
 of our own, therefore, we proceeded to 
 the stable, where, after some time being spent 
 in the ascent of the ladder, in looking at my 
 tools, and all my attempts at carpentering 
 rickety garden chairs, and tables that never 
 will be persuaded to stand even, and after my 
 g'.ving her a promise to turn her a jewel box, 
 (which I hope she did not believe) we ex- 
 
MABEL. 165 
 
 perienced the same difficulty in coming down, 
 that we did in going up, but at length we are 
 here, and at your service." 
 
 " What a long story about nothing," said 
 his aunt. 
 
 " Then, if you think so, you do neither me 
 nor my narrative justice ; I have given it for 
 the amusement of the public, and feel myself 
 ill-used to find it not appreciated. Miss Lucy 
 you play chess, you said. Honor me by playing ? 
 We are ill-treated by the rest of the company, 
 so may well retire from notice." 
 
 Mabel was surprised to see the sudden in- 
 timacy which had sprung up in less than an 
 hour, and expected that Lucy would evade 
 the familiarity with which she was so soon 
 treated, by some evidence of woman's tact ; 
 but she very soon saw her seated by the little 
 chess-table, in the corner, apart from the rest, 
 and listening to the low conversation addressed 
 to her, as if her host, and hostess, and friend, 
 had not been in the room. 
 
166 MA3EL. 
 
 She could not help feeling a little angry at 
 her cousin's total neglect of the friends whom 
 she had ever been accustomed to treat with 
 affection and respect, but studiously en- 
 deavoured to engage their attention, and to pre- 
 vent their thinking of it. Still, it is never so 
 difficult to talk as when we most try to do so, 
 and, almost for the first time, with them, she 
 felt it tedious to support the conversation. 
 
 At length, after giving Lucy two or three 
 games, which her inferior play would never 
 have won, Captain Clair shut up the board, 
 and the two turned round for amusement to 
 the rest of the company. 
 
 " Do you know, Mabel," said Lucy, " that 
 Captain Clair came home from Malta with 
 Colonel Har grave." 
 
 " Yes, Mr. "Ware told me so." 
 
 " Do then join with me in begging a de- 
 scription of him." 
 
 "Surely," she replied, " Captain Clair does 
 not need two requests." 
 
MABEL. 167 
 
 " Do then," said Lucy, turning to him, 
 " give us a nice long description of him." 
 
 " I really do not know where to begin," 
 said he, particularly as you say you will see 
 him so soon." 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Lucy, with quiet pride, 
 " he is coming to see us in Bath. But now do 
 describe him," she reiterated, with her pret- 
 tiest look of entreaty. 
 
 " Well then, though it is hard to have 
 to describe a character that throws one's own 
 into shade." 
 
 " No, my dear boy," said Mr. Ware, his 
 eyes glistening at this modest avowal ; " true 
 praise of another's worth only enhances your 
 own." 
 
 a Not in every one's opinion, I fear, uncle ; 
 virtue seems to stand so much by comparison, 
 at least, I have often found it so ; but that 
 shall nut prevent my giving as faithful a pic- 
 ture as I can remember of Hargrave. I am 
 rather fond of studying character." 
 
168 MABEL. 
 
 "How you wander," said Lucy; " do be- 
 gin — P 
 
 " No, miss Lucy, I was not wandering so 
 much as you think, my observation on charac- 
 ter might after a bit have led to Hargrave — 
 but, like a true knight, once more I obey. 
 What shall I begin with ? A man's agreeable 
 qualities are generally judged by his acres ; 
 allow me, ' said he, waving his hand towards 
 the window, and pointing to the landscape of 
 hill and vale, and rich woods, and winding 
 river, over which the moon was shining, to 
 shew you his most agreeable phase in the eyes 
 of fair ladies. 
 
 Lucy visibly colored, and Clair looked at her 
 scrutinisingly, till she laughingly told him to 
 
 go on. 
 
 " Well, if that description does not satisfy, I 
 must be more minute, and bring up qualities, 
 which, in these refined days, are not so much 
 thought of, unfortunately. First, then, his 
 personal appearance. He is very tall, and 
 
MABEL. 169 
 
 broad shouldered, and athletic; yet, at the 
 same time, though he is as strong as a giant, 
 you might almost call him graceful. He seems 
 to have acquired the difficult art of standing 
 perfectly still; no shifting from one foot to 
 another, a habit, Miss Lucy, I am prone to in- 
 dulge in. Now then for his face, dark eyes, 
 dark hair, dark complexion, white teeth, and a 
 good nose, and I suppose my description is com- 
 plete." 
 
 u No, not yet, by any means," said Lucy, 
 " tell us a little more." 
 
 " Ah, I forgot his sneer, which is perfect, I 
 never saw one so cutting before ; but then his 
 smile atones for it, though as rare as the sun- 
 shine in November. The sneer is that of a 
 proud, contemptuous, arrogant man — the smile, 
 that of an infant. Then, his eye — there is no 
 describing his eye — you may remember it, 
 uncle ; it seems as if continual fire were 
 sleeping in it, like the fire of uncurbed intel- 
 lect ; an eye capable of reading the counte- 
 
 VOL. I. i 
 
170 MABEL. 
 
 nance of another, yet, almost slothful n the 
 attempt to do so." 
 
 " What a horrid man !" exclaimed Lucy." 
 
 " You will not think so when you see him, 
 or if you do, you will be singular, 7 ' said Clair. 
 " Then I was going to tell you, that he is 
 changeable as the moon. Perhaps, when you 
 are alone with him, he will startle and entrance 
 you, by his eloquent observations on men, and 
 things ; and you will invite your friends to 
 meet him, expecting them to be equally fasci- 
 nated ; but, perhaps, during the whole evening, 
 he will scarcely make even a common-place 
 observation. He is, indeed, a curious, fascina- 
 ting, wilful being; clever, and accomplished, 
 beyond a doubt, and his character is unim- 
 peachable ; yet he always seems to want some- 
 thing to make him entirely happy." 
 
 " Poor fellow," sighed Mr. Ware. 
 
 " Perhaps he is in love," suggested Lucy. 
 
 " Hardly unsuccessfully, I should think ; 
 indeed, were I he, I should never despair — but 
 
MABEL. 171 
 
 I own," said he, laughing; "I have some- 
 times caught him looking at the moon." 
 
 " Well," said Mabel, rising ; " I am sure 
 we have to thank you for your description of 
 our lord of the manor, though you have made 
 him rather a terrible personage. Gome, Lucy, 
 I fear we must go." 
 
 " If you must, you will allow me to see you 
 home," said Clair. 
 
 " I always take Mabel home," said his un- 
 cle; Cl but, if you will come with us, as there 
 are two ladies to be taken care of, we shall 
 walk home together." 
 
 Clair gladly assented to this arrangement ; 
 but, to Lucy's surprise, offered Mabel his arm, 
 leaving her to walk with his uncle ; a plan she 
 so decidedly disliked, that she insisted on keep- 
 ing hei pocket-handkerchief to her mouth the 
 whole way home, though the night was re- 
 markably clear, and her stifled and negligent 
 answers gave little encouragement to her com- 
 panion's attempts at conversation, 
 i 2 
 
172 MABEL. 
 
 When they reached home, they found only 
 Betsy, waiting up for them, and Mahcl begged 
 Lucy to go as quietly as possible to her room, 
 for fear of waking Amy — but she insisted on 
 following her, without stopping to remark the 
 expression of unusual paleness and fatigue, 
 which was visible in her countenance, and com- 
 pelled her to listen to the story of her evening's 
 adventures. 
 
 " You know," said she, blushing. " when I 
 was up in that high poky place, at the top of 
 the long ladder, Captain Clair said he would 
 not let me go down till I gave him some reward ; 
 of course I knew he wanted a kiss, but I was 
 not going to give it him, and so I stood still, 
 till I was so tired, that I compromised the 
 matter by giving him my hand to kiss ; so then 
 he let me go, saying, he supposed he must be 
 contented.' ' 
 
 " Oh ! Lucy," cried Mabel, " how could you 
 be so imprudent as to go up there alone — how 
 
MLBEL. 173 
 
 impertinent of him — why did you let hm take 
 such a liberty." 
 
 " Come, nonsense, now sweetest, do not be a 
 prude, it does not become you to look like an 
 old maid. What is the harm of having a kiss 
 on one's hand, one's cheek would be different, 
 and, of course, I would not allow him to do 
 that." 
 
 " But, Lucy, dear, is it not imprudent to 
 place yourself in a position which would allow 
 him to ask such a thing — will it not make you 
 appear a flirt — does it not lower you to allow 
 him to be so free, after seeing him only for a 
 few hours. Do consider." 
 
 " Why, one would think I was a grand- 
 mother. I hate being cross at every little 
 thing. I am sure it is more wicked to quarrel, 
 after all." 
 
 " Yes, but if you would only understand 
 me," said Mabel, " you would know, I would 
 not have you quarrel, either. But if you will 
 
174 MABEL. 
 
 let me, we will talk of it again to-morrow, for 
 now poor Amy is waking. You know," said 
 she, gently putting her arm round her pretty 
 cousin, and kissing her forehead softly; " you 
 know you promised to let me talk to you 
 in this way, and you half promised to listen. 
 
 " Well, sweet cousin, I think you may be 
 speaking the truth, after all. It was very 
 naughty of me, perhaps," she added, with a 
 smile, " to go up in the loft, and so I will try 
 and be better in future. Oh dear ! dear ! Amy 
 is awake ; well, I am very sorry. Go to sleep, 
 child, Mabel is tired," and off she ran to her 
 own room, leaving her cousin to soothe the 
 restless child as she could. 
 
 Perhaps it was as well that Mabel was thus 
 prevented from following the train of depressing 
 thought into which she seemed to have fallen 
 on her return from the rectory, for, as she sunk 
 to rest, with Amy's head upon her arm, she re- 
 membered, that if sorrow had ever laid its heavy 
 
MABEL. 175 
 
 hand upon her life, the treasure of a sister's 
 love had yet been given her — a sister rendered 
 more dear by sickness and weakness. And in 
 these thoughts the unselfish girl soon forgot all 
 other feelings. 
 
180 MABEL. 
 
 surprised to find she had come back so soon ; 
 regarding her presence almost with feverish 
 impatience. In vain, Mabel entreated to be 
 allowed to know the cause of this change. 
 Mrs. Lesly only answered her questions by ex- 
 cuses ; or, if much pressed, by tears, causing 
 poor Mabel the utmost uneasiness. The rest- 
 less agitation she continually felt, rapidly wore 
 upon both health and spirits, and their failure 
 only increased the nervous desire to find what 
 now seemed of tenfold importance to her dis- 
 ordered fancy. 
 
 It is melancholy to trace the effects of bodily 
 illness, when it finds, as it were, an echo in 
 the mind of the sufferer. 
 
 It was in vain that Mrs. Lesly reasoned 
 with herself, trying to believe that she could 
 perfectly rely on her sister's promise. She 
 could not but remember her wanton extrava- 
 gance, and the little guard she had ever learned 
 to place on herself, even in the indulgence of 
 the slightest whim ; and her affection for her 
 could not blind her to the fact that she had 
 
MABEL. 1 81 
 
 chosen for her children a guardian too weak to 
 protect herself from the slightest temptation. 
 Again and again, the same thoughts pressed 
 upon her, and the same course of reasoning oc- 
 curred, giving her less satisfaction on every 
 recurrence to it. 
 
 Then followed the burning desire to recover 
 the lost papers ; with renewed impatience 
 she would return to the secretary — till wearied 
 and worn out she would sink into her chair dis- 
 appointed and spiritless. 
 
 " Ah, dearest Mamma," said Mabel, when 
 having determined to remain at home, though 
 the day was lovely, and favored a walk to the 
 woods which had been agreed on, she entered 
 the room, and found her seated, unoccupied, 
 except by her own harassing thoughts. " You 
 are unhappy, and will not tell me why. Is 
 not this unkind ?" 
 
 "Unkind," echoed Mrs. Lesly, vacantly, 
 yes, I have been very unkind to you both." 
 " No, no, dear Mamma, I do not mean that 
 
 a 
 
178 MABEL. 
 
 pounds, supposing them lost, could not be 
 equivalent to the pain she suffered. 
 
 The magnitude of our misfortunes depends, 
 not so much on themselves, for the pain they 
 give us, as upon the state in which they find 
 us. In good spirits, and vigorous health, we 
 may, perhaps, smile at trials which would make 
 another's cup of sorrows run over. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Lesly, weakened in health, and 
 with feeble nerves, began to entertain suspicions 
 that she had acted imprudently. A fear, of 
 she knew not what, entered her mind, and she 
 began to feel a restless impatience to find the 
 written promise given by her sister, which re- 
 mained as the only security for the money 
 with which she had so weakly parted. This 
 anxiety seemed, for a time, to conquer her con- 
 stitutional indolence, and much of her time 
 was spent in looking over old drawers, desks, 
 and boxes, and the search always ended with 
 the secretary, where she turned over every 
 paper in a vain investigation. Every excuse she 
 could make for being alone, she eagerly seized 
 
MABEL. 179 
 
 upon to renew it ; for, while she had, at first, 
 felt it difficult to explain to Mabel, that she had 
 risked the greater part of her small fortune, 
 not from any strong motive, but, simply be- 
 cause her sister had been extravagant enough 
 to embarrass herself by the purchase of luxuries, 
 and she had been too weak to refuse the loan 
 which the superior claim of her children had 
 rendered rather unjust than generous, she 
 now found this difficulty increased by a constant 
 fear that she should guess the truth. It was, 
 therefore, necessary to carry on the search un- 
 observed, and the wish to do so, fixed upon her 
 like a spell, and harassed her continually. 
 She would, then, on the morning of any pro- 
 posed expedition, endeavour to appear as gay 
 and well as possible, that she might induce 
 Mabel to join the party ; but, on their return, 
 hours of harassing disappointment generally 
 shewed themselves in her sickly appearance at 
 night ; and Mabel was grieved to find that, in- 
 stead of welcoming her return as usual, after 
 even the shortest absence, she seemed rather 
 
180 MABEL. 
 
 surprised to find she had come back so soon ; 
 regarding her presence almost with feverish 
 impatience. In vain, Mabel entreated to be 
 allowed to know the cause of this change. 
 Mrs. Lesly only answered her questions by ex- 
 cuses ; or, if much pressed, by tears, causing 
 poor Mabel the utmost uneasiness. The rest- 
 less agitation she continually felt, rapidly wore 
 upon both health and spirits, and their failure 
 only increased the nervous desire to find what 
 now seemed of tenfold importance to her dis- 
 ordered fancy. 
 
 It is melancholy to trace the effects of bodily 
 illness, when it finds, as it were, an echo in 
 the mind of the sufferer. 
 
 It was in vain that Mrs. Lesly reasoned 
 with herself, trying to believe that she could 
 perfectly rely on her sister's promise. She 
 could not but remember her wanton extrava- 
 gance, and the little guard she had ever learned 
 to place on herself, even in the indulgence of 
 the slightest whim ; and her affection for her 
 could not blind her to the fact that she had 
 
MABEL. 1 81 
 
 chosen for her children a guardian too weak to 
 protect herself from the slightest temptation. 
 Again and again, the same thoughts pressed 
 upon her, and the same course of reasoning oc- 
 curred, giving her less satisfaction on every 
 recurrence to it. 
 
 Then followed the burning desire to recover 
 the lost papers ; with renewed impatience 
 she would return to the secretary — till wearied 
 and worn out she would sink into her chair dis- 
 appointed and spiritless. 
 
 " Ah, clearest Mamma," said Mabel, when 
 having determined to remain at home, though 
 the day was lovely, and favored a walk to the 
 woods which had been agreed on, she entered 
 the room, and found her seated, unoccupied, 
 except by her own harassing thoughts. " You 
 are unhappy, and will not tell me why. Is 
 riot this unkind ?" 
 
 "Unkind," echoed Mrs. Lesly, vacantly, 
 u yes, I have been very unkind to you both." 
 
 " No, no, dear Mamma, I do not mean that 
 
182 MABEL. 
 
 — not really unkind — only it vexes me to see 
 you so sad." 
 
 "lam sad indeed, my dear," returned Mrs. 
 Lesly, in the same absent tone, " but I cannot 
 find them, though they are all here," She 
 stopped and glanced at the secretary wistfully, 
 as if its old-fashioned drawers could speak if 
 they liked. 
 
 " What is lost ?" said Mabel, " let me try 
 and find it — I will look over all the papers if 
 you will let me. 
 
 "No, no, what I have lost I ought to find, 
 it is my own indolence which has done it. 
 
 "Yes, but do not think of that now, 
 mamma, love, remember Doctor Parkinson said 
 you were to be kept quite quiet, and now 
 you are wandering about all day — only think 
 how precious your health is to us, and how 
 happy we all are when you are well." 
 
 " Mabel, you kill me by these words — I feel 
 that I am dying, but do not kill me before the 
 time appointed." 
 
MABEL. 183 
 
 Mabel was silent, and stood looking at her 
 mother with painful earnestness. 
 
 " Do not look at me so, sweet child. Well 
 may you be surprised when I have ruined you 
 both." 
 
 " Euin ! my own mother, what do you 
 mean ?" 
 
 " Ah, you may well wonder at me," replied 
 Mrs. Lesly, much excited, " how could I be 
 so silly as to injure my own children." 
 
 " Ah, now you are unkind," said Mabel, 
 " why not tell me — is there a sorrow I have 
 refused to bear — is it not my privilege to be 
 sorrowful." 
 
 Tears rolled down her heated cheeks, and 
 Mrs. Lesly continued to regard her in silence. 
 
 " Is it not unjust to me, your own child," 
 continued Mabel, (for she had often before 
 failed in obtaining her confidence,) " day after 
 day you are wearying yourself with something 
 you will not let me know, and injuring your 
 health, which is more precious to us than any 
 
184 MABEL. 
 
 thing else — mamma — I did not know you could 
 be so unkind." 
 
 " Dear child, do not talk in this way, my 
 only thought is of my children, and oh !" said 
 she, turning her head towards the secretary, 
 " if I could but find them." 
 
 " What ?» 
 
 " The papers." 
 
 " What papers ? Do tell me, can any thing 
 be worse than this concealment — you have 
 always told me everything." 
 
 " Ah, if I had," said Mrs. Lesly, with a 
 sigh. 
 
 " But do tell me now, I would rather hear 
 any thing than see you suffer." 
 
 " Can you really bear it ?" enquired her 
 mother, seeming to shake off the oppressive 
 calmness with which she had been speaking be- 
 fore, and looking attentively at her daughter, 
 whose warm feelings were almost ready to 
 burst control. 
 
 " I will bear any thing," answered Mabel, 
 
MABEL. 185 
 
 talking to her, and kneeling by her side, f< any 
 thing yon can tell me." 
 
 " Then yon shall hear me now, lest you 
 have cause to cnrse your mother's memory, if 
 you heard it when I was gone from yon. 
 Your poor father put by a thousand pounds, 
 which I never told you of before. It would 
 have been but a poor pittance — yet it would 
 have saved you from want ; but this is nearly 
 all gone now, for my sister has been borrowing 
 of me from time to time, promising to be a 
 mother to my children — I have lent her six 
 hundred of the thousand, and I have lost her 
 promises to repay them back. Should any thing 
 happen to either of us, what will you do ?" 
 
 " Trust to me, mother, dear. He who has 
 supported me through far worse trials will sup- 
 port me still." 
 
 "Keproach me now, Mabel, " said Mrs. 
 Lesly, sorrowfully, " but do not live to curse 
 me in the bitterness of your heart." 
 
 " ISTo, my loved mother," said her daughter, 
 looking up in her face with unmistakeable 
 
186 MABEL. 
 
 cheerfulness," think no more of this now. 
 Amy shall not suffer while health is left me, 
 and power to use the education my dear father 
 gave me ; and I am so happy to think nothing 
 worse is to be feared, even should any thing 
 so strange occur as that aunt Yillars could not 
 pay us. And do you think I could once forget 
 that it was because you were kind, unselfish 
 and generous, that you lent the money." 
 
 Mrs. Lesly lent down and folded her child 
 in her arms, saying, in a low repentant voice — 
 
 " Not generous but weak, we should but 
 injure ourselv s, not those dependent on us 
 in order to serve others." 
 
 Yet she felt as if a weight had passed from 
 her heart, and though she was still apprehen- 
 sive, she was no longer despairing. 
 
MABEL. 187 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 How brief is the time since heT voice was the clearest, 
 Her laughter the loudest, amid the gay throug. 
 
 Hkmans. 
 
 Could the selfish but remember how much less 
 they would feel their own sorrows by sharing 
 those of others, they would learn an easy way to 
 alleviate the unhappiness they are continually 
 guarding against, by so occupying themselves 
 in thoughts of pity and kindness as to leave 
 little room in their own minds for fear or re- 
 gret. 
 
 The kindhearted very soon begin to fee an 
 
188 MABEL. 
 
 interest in those who are thrown much with 
 them, and, though Lucy presented many- 
 faults to her notice, Mabel learnt to watch her 
 with great interest. It soon became evident to 
 her that she was perfectly in earnest in her 
 attempts to engage the affections of Captain 
 Clari, and, though at first she had been dis- 
 gusted and pained at the idea — more ready to 
 pity than condemn — she felt for Lucy when she 
 perceived, by her variable spirits, that her heart 
 was engaged in the flirtation she had so 
 thoughtlessly commenced. The conduct of 
 Clair puzzled her, she wished to believe that 
 his attentions were serious, and yet she could 
 not help thinking they meant nothing beyond 
 the fashionable love he might often have pro- 
 fessed for the most pleasing young lady of any 
 society in which he happened to find himself. 
 Still, she hoped she was mistaken; and thought, 
 over again and again the little anecdotes which 
 Lucy daily brought to her confidence, assuming 
 them as unmistakeable signs of an affection 
 which would soon declare itself, 
 
MABEL. 189 
 
 Mabel knew that a look, a single word, even 
 an emphasis on an ordinary word are some- 
 times the evidences of affection. Yet, all that 
 Lucy told her, seemed to fall short, certainly of 
 her ideas of love, formed, as they had been, from 
 her own unhappy history. Yet she hesitated 
 to speak her opinion freely ; for, after all, it 
 might be only a very nnkind suspicion of one 
 who had not given any very good cause for 
 helieving him to be a trifler. He had, besides, 
 been so kind to herself, that she could not help 
 feeling prepossessed in his favor. 
 
 Meanwhile-, Clair appeared as attentive as 
 ever, but his attentions were never varied by 
 ill humour or depression. Still Lucy rested 
 confident in the power of her own attractions — 
 and, persisting in believing he was only diffi- 
 dent — she became more and more lavish of 
 encouragement, without, however, finding 
 her admirer become either warmer or 
 bolder. 
 
 What was to be done ? Her letters to Bath 
 
190 MABEL. 
 
 had been full of the admiration she had in- 
 spired in the young officer, and of expectations 
 that, in a few more posts, she would have to 
 announce his decided proposals. The letters 
 she received in return were full of delighted 
 badinage from her sisters, and good advice 
 from her mother. How then could she bear to 
 return home with the tacit confession that her 
 vanity had deceived her ; and thus subject her- 
 self to her sisters' cutting jests, and the bitter- 
 ness of her often disappointed mother. The 
 poor girl had been spoilt by education and 
 companionship, and she was, according to her 
 own idea, forced to play desperately in order to 
 justify what she had written home. She did 
 not stop to consider that all delicacy, modesty, 
 and all that is precious in a woman, would be 
 risked in such a game, when she read such 
 words as these in her mother's letters, " you 
 might well pride yourself," she wrote, "on 
 being the first of my daughters whom I shall 
 have the pleasure of seeing married. Indeed 
 
MABEL. 191 
 
 I have always flattered myself, that my Lucy 
 would be the first to secure herself an establish- 
 ment." 
 
 The seeds of vanity, thus sown by a mother's 
 hand, grew quickly in the daughter's heart. 
 To be the first to be married was an idea that 
 filled her with pleasure ; she did not stop to 
 analyze, or she might have discovered that the 
 hope of mortifying her sisters by her marriage, 
 was inconsistent with the love she believed she 
 felt for them. 
 
 But now, what could she do ! how could she 
 bring her" backward lover to a proposal ! She 
 eagerly seized any opportunity of meeting him, 
 and never neglected pursuing any conversation 
 which seemed likely to lead to love. Still she 
 was as far from her object as ever, and at length 
 she felt the feverish eagerness of a gambler to 
 bring the game to a successful close. 
 
 Mabel, who saw she suffered, sincerely, 
 pitied her, though unable to divine her thoughts. 
 Disappointed affection the poor girl might have 
 successfully struggled against ; but she could 
 
192 MABEL. 
 
 not banish the idea of the sneers and jests, 
 which, in contrast to her present popularity, 
 would meet her at home. Home, which in its 
 sacred circle ought to have afforded a refuge 
 from every evil passion, as from every outward 
 danger. She knew it would not be so, and 
 willingly would she almost have thrown herself 
 at the Captain's feet, and begged him to pro- 
 tect her from it, rather than oblige her to re- 
 turn to such a sanctuary. 
 
 Oh, fashionable and speculating mothers, 
 why do you crush in your children some of the 
 sweetest and loveliest of their feelings. Why 
 are you so utterly foolish, as, first to make them 
 unworthy of a husband's trust and confidence, 
 and then wonder that they do not obtain them. 
 A man seeks, in his wife, for a companion to his 
 best feelings, fit your daughters to fill such 
 situations, and, should they then fail to obtain 
 them, they will still hold an honored place in 
 society. 
 
 Lucy felt that her success, in a matrimonial 
 point of view, was all that her mother regarded, 
 
MABEL. 193 
 
 that she seemed to view her daughters with 
 the eyes of the public, and valued them in pro- 
 portion to the admiration they excited, and she 
 now strained every nerve to gratify both her 
 and herself. 
 
 There was one little plan to which she looked 
 with great interest. Mr. Ware's proposal of 
 their taking tea in Mrs. Lesly's garden, was 
 to be carried into effect. They were all to 
 dine early, and drink tea soon enough to pre- 
 vent any danger of taking cold, and Mabel was 
 to prepare them tea and fruit in the garden, 
 while Miss Ware would take hers quietly in 
 doors with Mrs. Leslv- Amy talked herself 
 tired with planning it, for a week before, 
 asking Mabel for an exact list of all the fruit 
 she meant to get for their entertainment. 
 Lucy looked forward to it more seriously ; she 
 fancied Clair entered so eagerly into the plan 
 that she hoped he had some particular reason 
 for wishing it, more than the mere pleasure of 
 taking tea in the open air. Was it not very 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
194 MABEL. 
 
 likely, that lounging down one of the shady 
 walks which skirted the garden, he might find 
 courage to tell ail she so much wished to hear. 
 
 The expected evening at length arrived. 
 
 Mrs. Lesly was unusually well, for the re- 
 newed confidence between herself and her 
 daughter had produced the most happy effects. 
 Lucy was all sparkling animation, and Clair 
 forgot to be rational in the effervescence of his 
 good spirits. Lucy, whose fear of caterpillars 
 was quite touching, had persuaded Mabel to 
 place the tea-table on the open grass-plot — 
 and there the sisters had delighted themselves 
 in arranging the simple repast. Amy was so 
 accustomed to bustle along by Mabel's side, 
 that she had come to the belief that she could 
 do nothing well without her; and she now 
 hurried about, laughing merrily, as she con- 
 veyed to the table, plates of early fruit, which 
 old John had always carefully matted through 
 the summer. Mr. Ware was particularly fond 
 of fruit, and it was a great pleasure to the 
 sisters, to store up every little luxury for him. 
 
MABEL. 195 
 
 The table looked very pretty with its 
 fruit, and cream, and flowers, and the 
 little party was a merry one, ready to take 
 pleasure and amusement in anything. Mr. 
 Ware told stories of other days, and Clair 
 brought anecdotes of the fashionable world of 
 his day, while the girls were well-pleased 
 listeners. 
 
 When tea had been fully discussed, they 
 strolled round the garden, watching for the 
 sunset, which was to be the signal for taking 
 shelter in the house. Lucy, the captain, and 
 Amy, went off laughing together, while Mabel, 
 choosing the driest path in the garden, paced 
 up and down by the side of Mr. Ware. 
 
 "It is very kind of you," he said, " to 
 prefer my company to those who are gayer and 
 younger ; but I am sorry to perceive that you 
 are not quite in your usual spirits — I hope you 
 have no reason to be depressed." 
 
 "None at all," replied Mabel, "and yet I 
 am foolish enough to feel low-spirited. But 
 k 2 
 
196 MABEL. 
 
 have you never felt a vague apprehension that 
 something dreadful was going to happen — I 
 cannot overcome it to-night." 
 
 " I have often felt the same from no reason, 
 as you say, and have as often found my fears 
 groundless. Do you not remember those beau- 
 tiful words — l Hefeareth no evil tidings V n 
 
 u Oh yes — I must not think of it again." 
 
 Mr. Ware thought this might be no bad 
 opportunity of speaking of Mrs. Lesly's 
 delicate health, and leading her to prepare 
 herself for a trial which he foresaw was not 
 far distant ; but at the very moment that he 
 was thinking how to introduce the subject, the 
 sound of merry laughter came from the other 
 side of the garden, and Mabel exclaimed — 
 
 " Oh, I fear they are at the swing, and John 
 says it's unsafe. I must go and stop them." 
 
 And so saying, she ran quickly across the 
 garden, till she reached the spot where the 
 swing was suspended from the branch of two 
 tall fir trees. 
 
 Amy was in the swing, which Captain Clair 
 
MABEL. 197 
 
 was pushing, while Lucy was clapping her 
 hands as each time the child rose higher in the 
 air. 
 
 " Oh, do stop,' said Mabel, running up to 
 them quite out of breath, and scarcely able to 
 say any more. 
 
 " No, no," said Lucy, " we want to see if 
 Amy can touch that bough. What a beautiful 
 swinger she is — she nearly did it then, I 
 declare — try again, Amy." 
 
 " John says it is unsafe," cried Mabel, try- 
 ing to be heard, " do, do stop — for mercy's 
 sake, Captain Clair, do stop her." 
 
 Both were, however, deaf to her entreaty. 
 Lucy rejoiced in what she thought superior 
 nerve, and called to her not to be an old maid, 
 frightened at everything ; while Clair thought 
 her very feminine and pretty, but apprehended 
 no real danger. 
 
 Mabel continued to exclaim, till unable to get 
 a hearing, she burst into tears of vexation and 
 alarm, fearing to touch the rope, lest she might 
 cause the accident she feared. 
 
198 MABEL. 
 
 At the same moment, while she watched 
 Amy ascend quickly through the air, till her 
 feet scattered a few leaves from the bough she 
 had been trying to touch, there came a heaving 
 sound, then a loud crash — the swing gave way, 
 and Amy fell violently to the ground. With a 
 scream of piercing anguish, she sprang to her 
 side, where she lay close by a knotted root of 
 the tree, which she had struck in falling. 
 
 Lucy stood blushing and terrified, uttering 
 some confused excuses for not listening to one 
 who justice whispered was never fanciful. 
 
 Captain Clair looked bewildered and 
 thoroughly ashamed, for often the only ex- 
 cuse for daring is its suceess. 
 
 Mr. Ware fortunately soon reached the spot, 
 and though extremely vexed at such a termina- 
 tion to the day's enjoyment, merely roused his 
 nephew, by telling him to carry the poor child 
 into the house, and then to fetch a doctor, that 
 they might be certain she had sustained no 
 serious injury. 
 
 His nephew, too happy to have some duty 
 
MABEL. 199 
 
 assigned, raised Amy in his arms, for she was 
 perfectly insensible, and, as Mabel supported 
 her drooping head, carried her into the house. 
 Mabel's conduct during that short walk cut 
 him to the heart ; she seemed entirely to have 
 forgotten that his obstinacy had injured her 
 sister ; and in her anxiety for her safety, she 
 did not suffer a complaining word to escape 
 her. Those who possess little control over 
 their own feelings, often reverence those who 
 have great self-command — and to Clair, who a 
 few minutes before, had been laughing with 
 almost childish excitement, and was now utterly 
 depressed, Mabel seemed like a superior being 
 in the calm dignity of her silent distress. 
 
 At length, Amy was safely placed upon her 
 bed, and leaving Mabel and their servant-maid 
 to try every means to restore her to consci- 
 ousness, he hastened in search of a surgeon. 
 He met Lucy in the lane, who told him that 
 she had anticipated his errand, but that the 
 doctor had gone to see a patient many miles 
 away. 
 
200 MABEL. 
 
 " Then I shall go for a horse, and follow 
 him," said he, " anything will be better than 
 this suspense," 
 
 " And what shall I do ?" cried Lucy, wring- 
 ing her hands ; but Clair had no comfort to 
 offer, and hurried on to the village to find a 
 horse. 
 
 Lucy returned to the house, frightened, and 
 ashamed. She did not like to remain alone, 
 yet there was no one in the sitting-room ; and 
 not daring to seek any one, she retired to her 
 own chamber, which looked so still and lonely, 
 that she put the door half open, and seated 
 herself in a chair close by, to listen for any 
 news from Amy's room. She could not help 
 recalling to herself the wild laugh of the 
 poor child only half an hour before, and she 
 could not bear to think of how still she was 
 lying there. 
 
 At length she heard Betsy, the privileged 
 maid, say : — 
 
 " It is all Miss Lucy's fault, I know, for the 
 
MABEL. 201 
 
 house has not been the same since she came 
 into it." 
 
 " Hush, Betsy," was the murmured reply, 
 in her cousin's well known voice ; " those 
 thoughts will only make it harder to bear." 
 
 Betsy was not so easily stopped, but Mabel 
 seemed to reply no more. 
 
 Every word went to Lucy's heart. The fre- 
 quent question of despairing feeling. " What 
 shall I do ?" received no answer, and she sat on 
 in her desolate seat, or varied her watch by 
 stealing on tiptoe to the end of the passage. 
 Thus the weary time slipt away, and she had 
 listened to the church clock, as it struck the 
 hours till midnight — she then heard the sound 
 of horses' feet, and anxious for any change, 
 she ran down stairs — but she found that 
 Clare and the surgeon had already been ad- 
 mitted by Mr. Ware, who was watching for 
 them, and, feeling herself of no use, she again 
 crept to her room to listen, trembling for the 
 doctor's opinion. The examination lasted a 
 long time, and she became nearly worn out 
 
202 MABEL 
 
 with waiting, and trying every minute to 
 
 divine something from the hurried voices, or 
 
 hurried steps of the attendants in the sick 
 
 room. But she could learn nothing, till she 
 
 heard the doctor leave the room, and lead 
 
 Mabel to that next her own, and then she 
 
 heard her say in a tremulous voice. 
 
 " What do you think of her, Mr. Williams ?" 
 
 " The accident Las been a severe one," he 
 
 returned. 
 
 " Can she recover ?" was asked, in a tone 
 
 which Lucy trembled to hear, and she leant 
 
 forward to catch the answer. 
 
 " A complete cure is beyond hope, my dear 
 Miss Lesly ; I entreat you to bear up against 
 this blow," were the words she caught; " my 
 heart bleeds for you, but I see the back is 
 broken, and you know — " a groan of anguish, 
 which she would have fled miles to have 
 escaped hearing, was the only answe 
 sentence thus given. 
 
 Then followed confused words, as if he were 
 trying to comfort, broken by suppressed sobs. 
 
MABEL. 203 
 
 An agony of terror, alike for Amy and her 
 sister, then seized her — she trembled in every 
 limb ; and when she attempted to cry out, her 
 tongue seemed to refuse to utter a sound. She 
 sank upon the floor, too overpowered to move, 
 and yet without the relief of fainting. Her 
 thoughts became more and more distinct — of 
 Amy, growing, perhaps, in beauty and woman- 
 hood, stretched on the bed of helpless sickness, 
 unable to find advantages in either. What a 
 blight had she cast upon a home she had found 
 so happy. And Mabel, too, the beautiful un- 
 selfish Mabel, no longer the playfellow of in- 
 nocent childhood, but the hopeless nurse of 
 youthful decrepitude. 
 
 Too carelessly instructed as she had been, in 
 the forms, and almost wholly deficient in the 
 spiri f , of the religion she professed, she knew 
 of no balm that could heal a wound of such 
 bitterness — she saw no light that could have 
 guided her to comfort. Highly as she prized 
 youth and its enjoyments, its hopes, and its 
 ties, much as she sparkled in company, and 
 
204 MABEL. 
 
 revelled in the admiration she excited, so much 
 did she feel the reverse to be dark and hard to 
 bear. She* pictured Amy passing, in one five 
 minutes, from her joyous youthfulness, with its 
 light laugh, and bounding glee, to the trials of 
 sickness which she might never more escape ; 
 probably, too, the highly intellectual child 
 becoming only the feeble-minded woman, 
 weakened by disease and suffering, and cut off 
 from all those endearing ties so prized by a 
 woman's heart. As these thoughts passed 
 slowly, and impressively before her — she 
 covered her face with her hands, and wept long 
 and bitterly. 
 
MABEL. 205 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Oh, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, 
 By that sweet ornament which truth doth give . 
 The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem, 
 For that sweet odour which doth in it live. 
 
 Siiakspe are's, Sonnet, 
 
 How awful is the feeling with, which morning 
 breaks in a house where sudden grief and deso- 
 lation has been wrought. Like Adam and Eve 
 in the garden, we shrink from each other, as if 
 we feared to read our own feelings in the faces 
 of others, whose sufferings only embitter our 
 own. 
 
 The stillness of the past night broken by house- 
 hold sounds usually so familiar as to attract no 
 
206 MABEL. 
 
 attention, recal the mind to the fact that 
 another day has opened on our life, showing 
 more clearly the sorrow of the night before. 
 
 " Poor Amy ! Mabel's love had thrown a 
 kind of halo round the orphan child, and 
 those who did not love her for her own, loved 
 her for Mabel's sake. 
 
 Old John went heavily to his work, to move 
 the benches and other signs of the last even- 
 ing's simple pleasure. 
 
 " Miss Mabel shall not see them again," he 
 said to himself; " I cannot give her much com- 
 fort — but I may spare her a little pain." 
 
 Mr. Ware and his sister had gone home, 
 after affording all the comfort and assistance in 
 their power. 
 
 Mrs. Lesly had been persuaded to lie down, 
 for, terrified and ill, she needed repose, and 
 Mabel, in grief, as in gladness, always took the 
 lead. 
 
 Lucy, exhausted and spiritless, too weary to 
 get up, and too irresolute to undress, had 
 
MABEL. 207 
 
 thrown herself upon her bed, and fallen 
 asleep. 
 
 When she again opened her eyes, the noon- 
 day light was streaming in upon her bed, and, 
 to her great surprise, Mabel was standing by 
 her ; she was pale as the dead, and her 
 countenance gave evidence of the agony of the 
 last few hours — but there was a pale light in 
 her eyes, and a still repose about her, that 
 seemed to hallow the grief they concealed. 
 
 " I am glad you are awake," she said, in a 
 voice scarcely above a whisper — "I feared you 
 might be ill — you slept so long.*' 
 
 Lucy's eyes were swollen with weeping and 
 watching, and she looked at her for a moment 
 in despairing silence ; at last she raised herself, 
 and seizing Mabel's hand, grasped it eagerly. 
 
 " Oh, Mabel, Mabel, 5 ' said she, " what have 
 I done — where can I hide my face ?" 
 
 And she sank again upon the bed, and 
 buried her face in the pillow. 
 
 " You meant me no harm," replied her 
 cousin — :i at least, not much — and I forgive 
 
208 MABEL. 
 
 you from my heart. My grief is too heavy for 
 resentment. But get up, Lucy, and do not 
 distress me still more by giving way in this 
 manner." 
 
 " Oh, how I despise myself ! to think that I 
 am lying here while you are waiting on me." 
 
 " "Well, dear Lucy, get up now, for you will 
 be better doing something, and I cannot help 
 pitying you here alone." 
 
 " Then tell me something I can do for you. 
 Oh, I will do anything, but I cannot get up 
 to sit as I did last eight." 
 
 " This is Saturday," replied Mabel, u and 
 there are many things you can do for me, which 
 will enable me to be entirely with my poor 
 Amy. Shall I leave them to you ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes," cried Lucy, jumping up, and 
 throwing her arms round her ; " you are an 
 angel — I cannot forgive myself — yet you for- 
 give me before I ask you." 
 
 Mabel kissed her silently, and gliding from 
 the room, was soon again by her sister's bed. 
 
 Amy was feverish, and perpetually wanted 
 
MABEL. 209 
 
 something to drink, but it was touching to see 
 how gently she asked for it, and how earnestly 
 she seemed to try to repress her own fretf ill- 
 ness, with her large blue eyes fixed on her 
 sister's face, as if trying to read her approval 
 of every checked complaint. 
 
 " It was very naughty of me/' she whis- 
 pered, " to get into the swing, Mabel dear, 
 when you told me not in the morning. Will 
 you forgive me ?" 
 
 " You are in pain, love," said Mabel, 
 tremulously ; " and I cannot call you naughty 
 now/' 
 
 " Then I am glad you have taught me not 
 to want to be told — but I shall not be happy 
 till you just say you forgive me." 
 
 " My own darling, I forgive you a thousand 
 times — would that I could suffer instead of 
 you." 
 
 " If I had not done wrong, I should not so 
 much mind," said Amy, thoughtfully ; " but 
 give me a little water, dear." 
 
210 MABEL. 
 
 Mabel held the water to her lips, and Amy 
 looked at her earnestly as her hand trembled. 
 
 " Do not cry, Mabel dear," said she, in a 
 feeble voice, " I shall very soon be well again." 
 
 And weary with the pain she was bearing, 
 without a murmur, she closed her eyes. 
 
 Mabel's restrained tears fell fast, for well she 
 knew that years to come might find her the 
 same helpless invalid as she now lay before her. 
 
 The surgeon had given little hope, even in 
 the first moment, when it is seldom withheld ; 
 and she threw herself upon her knees, 
 and covered her face with her hands. 
 Amy's fortitude and patience, while it deeply 
 moved her, made her thankful to find that her 
 early lessons had not been bestowed in vain. 
 
 Meanwhile Lucy roused herself with a 
 stronger desire to be really useful than she had 
 felt for years. Mrs. Lesly had gone to sit with 
 her two children, so that she required nothing 
 from her. She felt Mabel could not more 
 effectually have forgiven her than by allowing 
 
MABEL. 211 
 
 her to assist in her duties, for it prevented her 
 feeling the remorse of the evening before. She 
 ran down stairs with cups and waiters from 
 the sick room, which, if allowed to accumulate, 
 give such real discomfort to the sufferer, and 
 even busied herself in helping Betsy in the 
 kitchen, spite of the sulkiness with which her 
 services were accepted. 
 
 But idle habits are not easily thrown aside 
 with the distaste for them ; and, as the day 
 wore on, she began to feel so fatigued that she 
 could not think how Mabel managed to do 
 everything she did on ordinary days — when, 
 spite of her desire to please her, she felt her 
 strength fail in a few hours. 
 
 "But I have not been brought up like 
 Mabel," she thought, too willing to throw the 
 blame on others, if by so doing she at all re- 
 moved it from herself. " How can she ever 
 get through it," she said to herself, eying dis 
 consoiately the large basket of clean linen, 
 caps, and frills, which Betsy had just laid down 
 
212 MABEL. 
 
 before her, saying that Miss Lesly had said she 
 would be kind enough to sort them. 
 
 She forced herself, however, to attempt it 
 with many a sigh over its difficulties. She 
 had scarcely finished her task, when she saw 
 Clair coming up to the house, and, feeling a 
 better conscience from her exertions, for her 
 spirits were easily elated, she went down stairs 
 to meet him. 
 
 When she entered the sitting-room, where, 
 not venturing to knock or ring, he had already 
 seated himself, she found him with his head 
 buried in his hands, which rested on the table 
 before him. He looked up as she entered, and 
 a momentary shudder passed over him, which 
 she could not help perceiving. His face was 
 deadly pale, and his features drawn together, 
 and bearing the traces of deeper thought than 
 that in which he usually indulged. He had 
 indeed done many things more careless, and 
 ten times as wrong, but the consequences had 
 never followed so rapidly nor been so heart- 
 rending. 
 
MABEL. 213 
 
 " Oh, you have suffered," exclaimed Lucy, 
 " and what a night I have passed !" 
 
 " If you can see Miss Lesly," returned 
 Clare, scarcely heeding her observation, " ask 
 her, in mercy, to see me for a few minutes." 
 
 His first thoughts are of Mabel, thought 
 Lucy, with ready jealousy, not one kind word 
 for me. 
 
 "Will you?" said he, seeing her hesitate, 
 " will you ask her to see me? What does 
 she say ? How does she bear it ? Does she 
 reproach me ?" 
 
 " What question shall I answer first ?" said 
 Lucy, with a little of her returning levity. 
 
 Clair bit his lip, and looked at her with sur- 
 prise, but Lucy quickly recovering herself, 
 said quietly, 
 
 " She bears it as we might have expected 
 from her, she never spoke of you — and forgave 
 me before I dared ask for forgiveness, and she 
 would not suffer her servant to reproach me to 
 her." 
 
 " Then there is some hope for me," he ex- 
 
214 MABEL. 
 
 claimed, " but oh ! how ten times more killing 
 is it to have injured one who will not return an 
 injury by an unkind word. Last night she 
 looked at me with such pity in her beautiful 
 eyes, that I could have worshipped her. But 
 do go." 
 
 Lucy burst into tears. 
 
 " What !" thought she, " was I earning 
 for Mabel, when I was trying to shew bow 
 much more nerve and spirit I possessed ?" 
 
 Clair sat in silence, he did not spring to her 
 side and take her hand, soothing her, as only a 
 lover knows how ; and she left the room to 
 seek Mabel with feelings of indescribable re- 
 morse. Having delivered her message to 
 Betsy, she locked herself in her room, and 
 once more gave way to the most passionate 
 grief. 
 
 Clair was left only a short while alone, be- 
 fore Mabel entered the room. One glance at 
 her pale cheek and sorrowful countenance, was 
 sufficient to tell, at once, how great the suffer- 
 ing had been, and how it had been borne. 
 
MABEL. 215 
 
 " Ah, Miss Lesly," he began, hurriedly, 
 " can you ever look upon me again without 
 shuddering ? I, who have been the cause of 
 this dreadful, desolating blow. Is it possible 
 you can ever forgive me ? but I know you can ; 
 were I the vilest person on this earth you 
 would forgive me, if I asked it, but never will 
 you look on me without lamenting the horrid 
 scene I shall always recall. Yet, I must hear 
 your forgiveness, and oh ! if you could know 
 what I have suffered, in these few last wretched 
 hours, you would pity me." 
 
 " I should not do you justice, Captain 
 Clair," replied Mabel, trying to speak steadily, 
 " if I did not pity the pain you must feel in 
 having been the most unwilling cause of such 
 an accident ; but you must not forget that it 
 was unintentional : and I forgive you, from my 
 heart, for any share you may have had in this 
 unhappy accident." 
 
 They tell me," said he, shuddering, " that 
 she never can be quite well again. Oh !" cried 
 
21 G MABEL. 
 
 lie, throwing himself on his chair and groan- 
 ing heavily, that I should have lived to be 
 such a curse." 
 
 " You are but the instrument in a Hand 
 mightier than your own," replied Mabel. 
 
 " Few punishments can be so great," re- 
 plied Clair, bitterly, " as to be chosen lor the 
 instrument of justice. It is only the worst 
 soldier in the army that is forced to inflict 
 death on his condemned brother. You will 
 hate the instrument that has been raised to 
 afflict you ?" 
 
 " Should I not then be rebellious against 
 the Hand that raised it?" replied Mabel. "But, 
 for my sake and your own, command your 
 feelings. I dare not think, yet, and you would 
 force me to do so. Why this has been suf- 
 fered I must not ask now, for my faith may be 
 too small for argument, while grief has almost 
 robbed me of my senses. But I can see that 
 you may have been made the unwilling cause, 
 possibly that you may think. Do not 
 
MABEL. 217 
 
 forget the merit of suffering, for, if it chastens, 
 it often purifies the heart ; and do not let poor 
 Amy's health and hopes in life be offered up 
 for nothing, for there is a nobler self within 
 you, which sorrow for our loss may call forth — ■ 
 shake off all that sullies your character- — all 
 its littleness or frivolity — and be yourself. De- 
 vote your life to some higher purpose, and to 
 nobler aims — go forth to the world again, a 
 blessing to those around you — and then," said 
 she, sinking her voice as her eye lost its bril- 
 liant fire, " and then Amy, on her sick bed, will 
 feel that her loss has been your advan- 
 tage." 
 
 Clair almost held his breath while she spoke, 
 and then exclaimed, with a soldier's energy, 
 as his eye seemed to have caught the fire 
 which had died in hers, 
 
 " I will, I will ! You have doubly for- 
 given, for you have bestowed thoughts which 
 inspire me with hope. You," said he, as he 
 respectfully raised her hand to his lips, " y ou 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
218 MABEL. 
 
 have more than forgiven, and I bless you from 
 my very soul." 
 
 Mabel gently withdrew her hand, and, ex- 
 cusing herself from staying longer, left him to 
 indulge the new reflections which her words 
 had awakened. 
 
MABEL. 219 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 In the service of mankind to be 
 A guardian god below ; still to emploj 
 The mind's brave ardour in heroic arms, 
 Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd 
 And make us shine for ever — that is life. 
 
 Thompson. 
 
 It was with increasing uneasiness, that Mabel 
 perceived the effects of their common grief on the 
 weakened constitution of her mother. Mrs. Lesly, 
 at first, insisted on being constantly with her 
 sick child, but day by day her cheek became 
 more pale, and her low hollow cough more 
 L 3 
 
220 MABEL. 
 
 frequent, until she could scarcely reach Amy's 
 room without fatigue, and, instead of being 
 able to nurse her, required, herself, a further 
 exertion of Mabel's ever watchful care. Grate- 
 ful indeed did the latter feel for the strong 
 health, and stronger nerves, which enabled her 
 to maintain the watching and waiting required 
 of her — while the consciousness of being loved 
 taught her that each personal service rose in 
 value because she rendered it. Lucy still re- 
 mained with them ; she had insisted on her 
 services being received ; and, though the idle 
 girl was rather giving trouble than making 
 herself useful, Mabel did not refuse her offer 
 to continue with her, hoping that the wish to 
 serve might be the seed of better feelings and 
 stronger self-denial. 
 
 But Lucy had not perhaps fully understood 
 her motives, when she ascribed her wish to 
 stay to the desire to be of service. 
 
 Clair seemed entirely to have forgotten her, 
 or only to make use of her to deliver messages, 
 or to convey grapes and other luxuries to the 
 
MABEL. 221 
 
 little invalid ; but it seemed entirely to have 
 escaped his memory, that any thing, even so 
 interesting as a common flirtation, had ever 
 taken place between them ; and indeed he 
 seemed in every way altered, as if he were 
 trying to convince her that he was scarcely the 
 same person. However, she did not altogether 
 give up the hope of regaining the affections 
 she had before so fully counted upon. Yet, 
 having thrown aside the light and fashionable 
 gallantry which he had delighted to display, he 
 was now utterly impervious to all the common 
 attacks of even the most accomplished flirt ; and, 
 however clever she might be in raillery, badi- 
 nage, and spirited nonsense, Lucy had learned 
 little of that language which springs from heart 
 to heart, in trouble and suffering — or of those 
 serious and elevating thoughts which alone 
 bring with them consolation to the deep 
 thinking. 
 
 She was, then, entirely at a loss when she 
 found her former companion, rather annoyed 
 
222 MABEL. 
 
 than otherwise, by conversation which would 
 formerly have amused him for half a- day ; but 
 this change only increased her affection, while 
 it effectually removed him from her power ; she 
 listened, waited, and watched for him, but, 
 though she tried every capricious art to bring 
 him again to her side, she found that nothing 
 prevailed, and, at the close of the day, she had 
 not even the lightest word to treasure up, as 
 an evidence of the love she had already spoken 
 of as certain, to her friends in Bath. 
 
 One evening, as events were progressing in a 
 manner so unsatisfactory to Lucy, Mr. Ware 
 and his nephew might have been seen pacing 
 up and down the lane leading to Mrs. Lesly's 
 house, which was rendered romantically pretty, 
 by the trees which overhung it, from the 
 garden which was considerably raised above it. 
 
 Clair had been for some time engaged in 
 silently beating down the leaves and branches, 
 which grew most prominently in the hedge 
 above their walk, with a light cane he carried 
 
MABEL. 223 
 
 in his hand, when Mr. Ware, turning kindly, 
 yet with a slight tone of embarrassment, said to 
 him — 
 
 " My dear boy, I would not wish to presume 
 a moment either upon my age or my relation- 
 ship to you, but would rather gain an interest 
 by favor, and as a friend ; may I then ask a 
 question, which my anxiety for you alone dic- 
 tates," 
 
 His nephew looked slightly surprised at this 
 address, but replied in a depressed tone. 
 
 " You may say any thing you like uncle, 
 without fearing that I shall mistake the kind- 
 ness which leads you to speak at all. You 
 have been too kind to me, ever since I have 
 been with you, not to make me feel that af- 
 fection must ever second the duty and respect 
 you deserve from me." 
 
 " Thank you," replied his uncle, " I feel 
 that the late unhappy accident has much 
 changed you; and what you now say convinces 
 me that the change is one which, however it 
 may sadden you, cannot be regretted." 
 
214 MABEL. 
 
 " I hope not," replied Clair, in the same 
 tone of depression ; " can you understand what 
 I mean, when I say that I feel, that, though I 
 had no intention the other evening beyond 
 causing a momentary pain, which, in a beauti- 
 ful girl I thought charming, I yet feel that I 
 have been so thoughtless of the comfort of 
 others, during my past life, that I have deserved 
 to be the agent of such a misfortune, in 
 retribution, as it were, for all that has before 
 gone unpunished. Little Amy's sweet voice 
 rings in my ear wherever I go — such as it was 
 when I first saw her, when she looked up from 
 the wild wreath she was twining, to give some 
 kind word to the laborers as they past her, the 
 morning after my coming here. Her simple 
 questions return to my memory, and her 
 purity and innocence have made a deeper im- 
 pression on my mind, by the sad reverse which 
 has followed my acquaintance with her family 
 — I cannot help thinking what an interesting 
 young woman she might have been, through 
 the careful training of such a sister, who has 
 
MABEL. 225 
 
 planted in her mind, young as she is, her own 
 childlike tenets of religion. When I reverse 
 the picture, I see her growing^up a weak un- 
 happy cripple, perhaps, sinking under accumu- 
 lated disease, the victim of an early grave. 
 Can you wonder that I am changed, uncle, and 
 that I now find the follies and amusements, in 
 which I have too often sought forgetfulness of 
 the weakness of my own heart, now utterly re- 
 pulsive to me? When I see Mabel Lesly 
 forgiving without reserve, and enduring with- 
 out complaint, sorrow which would have found 
 me in a very different temper, can you doubt, 
 dear uncle, that, contemplating such rare and 
 beautiful virtues, I have been led to seek the 
 cause, and to find out on what basis they are 
 founded ; and, while raising my thoughts to the 
 source and spring of every true virtue, and 
 pouring its healing waters on my soul, must I 
 not shudder to discover there, nothing but 
 pollution, and feel depressed and sad, with the 
 sense of what I am, and what I have been. 
 l 5 
 
226 MABEL. 
 
 " Yet do not think this dejection is attended 
 with anything like despair ; no one, who had 
 conversed with your sweet friend, would long 
 retain such a feeling. A few words, indeed, 
 from her, while they convinced me of the 
 aimless existence I have been rather enduring, 
 than living, gave me an inspiring principle 
 which spoke of better things. You may think 
 I am suddenly turned into an imaginary,- but 
 you can scarcely tell how deep an impression 
 this late accident has left upon me." 
 
 " Not so," replied Mr. Ware, " the heart 
 that awoke to chivalry in other clays, is not 
 dead because chivalry has assumed another 
 form — and, indeed, we too often try to be luke- 
 warm in our feelings. But, to be candid, my 
 dear Arthur, I do think, as you say, that too 
 much of your time has been trifled away in the 
 pursuits of garrison glory, and watering-place 
 amusements. I have been, for some weeks, 
 patiently waiting for some season or time, when 
 I could enforce the necessity of sowing a richer 
 harvest for the decline of life, than you have 
 
MABEL. 227 
 
 hitherto been doing. Conld I have chosen 
 some other less touching call to wakefulness, I 
 would have done so ; but these things are not 
 in our own disposing — it only belongs to us, 
 to use well the circumstances and opportuni- 
 ties which are given us ; and I was even now 
 going to say what you have anticipated. 
 Grateful, indeed, am I to think, that, even 
 so trying a time, can yield its sweetness, for I 
 hope you speak of your feelings without any 
 exaggeration." 
 
 Mr. Ware paused, but, as Clair did not seem 
 disposed to reply, he continued — 
 
 " There is one subject in which I feel par- 
 ticularly concerned — may I — I ask it as a 
 favor — may I speak candidly upon it." 
 
 " You may speak with candour on any 
 subject, sir, without fearing that I shall be 
 weak enough to take anything but in good 
 part." 
 
 " Thank you for this confidence. May I 
 then ask if you are quite sincere in your 
 attentions to Miss Villars? and, if so, why 
 
228 MABEL. 
 
 your behaviour has so decidedly changed with 
 regard to her ? Forgive me for asking so 
 delicate a question , which nothing but the in- 
 terest I take in your happiness could excuse," 
 
 " Oh, do not be so alarmed on my account," 
 said Clair, half smiling, "it is only my 
 tenth garrison flirtation, and you cannot thiuk 
 me seriously entangled." 
 
 " Then," said Mr. Ware, with a tone of 
 severity, which he very seldom used, " what 
 do you mean by becoming her constant com- 
 panion — paying her every attention, short of 
 actually making love. Shame on your new- 
 found repentance — if this be the fruit of it." 
 
 " Do not be too hasty in forning your judg- 
 ment," replied Clair. " I have only done 
 what mos' other young men would, under the 
 same circumstances — though. I own, my changed 
 opinions have led me to withdraw the atten- 
 tions you condemn." 
 
 " I own that I would much rather have had 
 your thoughts fix upon a girl more like her 
 
MABEL. 229 
 
 cousin ; but, when I believed you sincerely 
 attached — since you persisted in your attentions 
 spite of my hints — I thought it could not be 
 helped ; and, perceiving she returned your 
 attachment, I ceased to object, feeling that love 
 corrects many faults. Little knowing that all 
 this time, you were acting a part which should 
 have made me blush for shame." 
 
 " Uncle, you are passing a stern judgment — 
 sterner far than I deserve ; give me your 
 patience for a few minutes, and I will convince 
 you that I am not so much to blame. Lucy 
 Yillars is one of that class of girls called flirts, 
 and, for a flirt, she possesses all the necessary 
 qualifications. She is chatty, thoughtless, and 
 good-humoured — and, better than all, has no 
 heart. She is, however, something more than 
 a flirt — she is a husband hunter, and set her 
 would-be affections on me, before she knew a 
 single feature of my face, much less a quality 
 of my mind — so that I do not flatter myself 
 with possessing anything in her eyes beyond 
 an average fortune and family. Had I been 
 
230 MABEL. 
 
 a man of no discrimination, I might have 
 fallen a victim to a very bold game ; but, as I 
 happen to have seen a little of the world, I 
 have spent a few weeks more pleasantly than 
 ordinarily. And now may I ask you, uncle, 
 would you, even with your high sentiments of 
 right, expect me to marry a girl whom I could 
 never trust — who would jilt me for a richer 
 man to-morrow, and if not so, granting even 
 that she loved me, would form but an insipid 
 companion at the best." 
 
 " You are wrong," said Mr. Ware, who had 
 been listening with great impatience, " and 
 you know that you are wrong, or you would 
 not use so much sophistry to convince me you 
 are right. Let me ask you, if she be the girl 
 you describe her to be, was she a fit companion 
 even for your idlest moments ? If she be the 
 designer you would prove her to be, was it 
 right to place yourself in daily temptation, by 
 communion with one whose sentiments must 
 be corrupt, if they rise from such a polluted 
 spring. Were you right in choosing for the 
 
KABEL. 231 
 
 object of your admiration, one whom you 
 despised in your heart. Sorry am I that you 
 had not courage to withhold your countenance 
 from one whom you did not approve, but could 
 rather act so deceitful, so mean a part. But, 
 think again, yo.r judgment may have deceived 
 you, and, if she be not what you say, may she 
 not have given you a heart, which (if it be so) 
 you have obtained in so unworthy a manner." 
 
 " Could I think so," replied Clair, " I 
 should be more vexed than you will give me 
 credit for ; but I am too well acquainted with 
 the world, to believe anything like real affec- 
 tion can be hidden under such open and daring 
 encouragement as I have received from her ; 
 and, really, my dear sir, you must not be 
 grieved on her account, or my own. I feel too 
 much the frivolity of my past character, to try 
 such amusements again ; but, at the same time, 
 no chivalrous principle tells me that I should 
 do right to bring into my confidence, or to unite 
 myself in, tha holiest of self-formed ties that 
 
232 MABEL. 
 
 can exist on earth, with a girl whose character is so 
 feathery. Far different would my choice be 
 when thinking seriously of marriage. The woman 
 I should choose for a wife would be one who 
 would inspire me with higher thoughts and 
 lead me to better things. One, who pure as 
 sensible, would make my home a paradise, and 
 while, by her zeal, she led me to heaven, would, 
 by her womanly attentions to my wishes, make 
 a happy road to it. Such a woman would as 
 much excel a flirt as a small piece of gold 
 would one double its size in tinsel." 
 
 " Arthur, your eloquence and sophistry are 
 carrying you away altogether. Had you acted 
 thoughtlessly only it would have been easier 
 to excuse ; but, now, I see, that with proper 
 ideas and the most worthy sentiments, you 
 have yet been capable of acting a part as un- 
 like to them as your own comparison of gold 
 to tinsel. Your excuses are common ones, and 
 I fear will not privilege you to minister to the 
 follies of others by indulging your own. How 
 
MABEL. 233 
 
 much kinder would it be to withhold unde- 
 served admiration, and to shew that yours is only 
 to be earned by what really deserves it. "Would 
 you not in this way, perhaps, find an oppor- 
 tunity of reading a lesson without words, to 
 many, who are still young enough to improve 
 by it. By refraining altogether from such 
 deceitful flirtations, you might tend to dis- 
 courage those mothers who educate their 
 daughters for display, and force them to try 
 for an advantageous settlement." 
 
 " And how many do you think would follow 
 my example ?" enquired the young man with 
 a smile. 
 
 a It is a consideration of no weight when 
 making up your mind to do right — though it 
 sweetens a good conscience and embitters an 
 evil one— to remember that no one is so mean 
 as to give no impulse to virtue or vice by his 
 example. One great mistake is, that men un- 
 fortunately forget that they are christians, 
 when in the fashionable world, as if our duties 
 
234 MABBL. 
 
 were altogether banished by an evening dress, 
 or the light of conscience entirely eclipsed by 
 the brilliant and fantastic tapers of a ball- 
 room. It is for this reason that so many turn 
 anchorites : forgetful that the world may be 
 enjoyed with a christian's dress, and a 
 christian's thoughts, they only remember, that 
 when they visited the gay scenes they have 
 resigned, they did so with a conscience pecu- 
 liar to the occasion, and entirely different 
 from the one they were familiar with in retire- 
 ment." 
 
 " You speak severely," said Clair. 
 
 " I speak with the courage which arises 
 from my knowing, that, though you are thought- 
 less enough to err, you possess sufficient can- 
 dour to bear reproof without reproach to him 
 who offers it, and, however scrupulous I may 
 in general be about offering advice, or ven- 
 turing to find fault, I cannot allow such senti- 
 ments as you have just expressed to be uttered 
 in my presence without testifying my sense of 
 that error, if heard in any company and from 
 
MABEL. 235 
 
 any person, much less from one so dear to me 
 as yourself, and I have spoken "boldly, hoping 
 to lead you to refine your sense of honor, till 
 it reaches a standard which a christian soldier 
 may not justly be ashamed to acknowledge." 
 
 A few weeks since Clair might have smiled 
 at the simplicity and unworldliness of his 
 uncle's remarks, but there was something 
 within him then that told him they were 
 stamped with the irresistible force of truth. 
 
 He walked on in silence, pushing aside with 
 his feet, the few withered leaves which were 
 straggling in his path. It was one of those 
 dark, mysterious days, when the wind blows 
 sullenly amongst the trees, speaking strange 
 words, in its own wild tones, of the year that 
 is past ; and the withered leaves as they spin 
 round in the edying wind, seem to call at- 
 tention to themselves, and to ask what men 
 have been doing since they budded forth in the 
 gay spring, full of hope and promise to the 
 sons of earth. They had played their part 
 well and merrily, they had gladdened the heart 
 
236 MABEL. 
 
 and delighted the eye, they had made fair and 
 beautiful the spots where their short day of 
 life had been spent, and now, as they fell with 
 their fantastic motion to the ground, their 
 rustling music seemed to speak in forcible lan- 
 guage to the heart of him, who had idled 
 away part of the glowing summer of his life 
 with few thoughts but of selfish amusement. 
 
 With some such thoughts as these the two 
 continued their short walk, which had been 
 confined to the dry bit of road under the trees, 
 which in damp or dirty weather was often 
 chosen as a sort of promenade. 
 
 Mr. Ware was not sorry to see his nephew's 
 unusual silence, for he was naturally too ready 
 to act without thinking, and often, by the 
 readiness of his professions in favor of any 
 new idea of improvement, cheated his con- 
 science of its performance, and he now 
 watched him, with the grave interest which 
 a good man feels, when he looks on the strug- 
 gles of conscience, and does not know on which 
 side the victory will lie. 
 
MABEL. 237 
 
 " Even you, sir," exclaimed Clair, rather 
 suddenly, " would not wish me to marry Lucy 
 Yillars ! fool as I have been, you do not think 
 I deserve so great a punishment as the pos- 
 session of such a wife." 
 
 " I wish you," replied Mr. Ware, " to do 
 neither more nor less then your own sense of 
 honor and good feeling may dictate, under . the 
 difficult circumstances in which you have placed 
 yourself." 
 
 " I cannot — I never can do that !" ex- 
 claimed Clair, vehemently. 
 
 " Neither will I ever ask you to approach 
 so sacred a rite with lightness, much less with 
 repugnance ; but, at the same time, you ought to 
 understand, that your attentions have been 
 sufficiently pointed, to make people suppose that 
 you only wanted a convenient opportunity of 
 declaring yourself." 
 
 " Impossible ! Who ever heard of a man's 
 making serious love in such a manner. You 
 at least do not believe it." 
 
 " Now, certainly I do not, for your words 
 
233 MABEL. 
 
 bear a different interpretation, and, if I mistake 
 not, the opinion you now entertain of her, arises 
 from comparison with another character of a 
 highter standard." 
 
 Clair colored, but he answered quickly. 
 
 " If you have so far read my thoughts, do 
 you find it possible to blame me. Could I be 
 insensible to the attractions of a girl of such 
 uncommon excellence ?" 
 
 " Alas, I do blame you," replied Mr. Ware, 
 sadly, "for you have been acting a doubly de- 
 ceitful part, but I cannot withhold my pity, for 
 you must meet the difficulties with which you 
 have entangled yourself." 
 
 " I must think uncle, I must think," said 
 Clair, stopping, " you put my mind into com- 
 plete confusion — I believed I was going to act 
 for the best ; now, I do not know what to be at, 
 though my chief consolation is that Lucy 
 Yillars never cared a straw for me, I know 
 you lay bare the wounds of conscience only to 
 heal them, and though you have spoken severely 
 I know you feel for me. What am I to do 
 
MABEL. 239 
 
 under these circumstances ? I feel I have been 
 wrong, and would willingly make any atone- 
 ment, but remember, how many struggles 
 there are in the world to make us wretched, 
 without our adding a desolate hearth, and a 
 miserable home to make everything else doubly 
 hard. I must go and think alone. 
 
 "And remember," said Mr. Ware, "that Miss 
 Lucy may deserve some allowance for her 
 feelings. I am not quite certain that she is so 
 much a trifler as you would make yourself be- 
 lieve." 
 
 " Why you will drive me out of my senses, 
 uncle, " I cannot increase my difficulties by 
 thinking that to be possible. I know women 
 too well — but, for the present, good bye," he 
 said, laying his hand on the stile which divided 
 the path to the Aston woods from the road, 
 " but do not, at least till we meet again, think 
 even so hardly of me as I deserve," he added, 
 in a tone of gentle persuasion, which often 
 screened him from blame, or, if not altogether 
 
240 MABEL. 
 
 so, had obtained the love of those with whose 
 esteem he often trifled. 
 
 Then, with a light bound he cleared, the stile, 
 and, walking quickly onwards, he was soon lost 
 in the windings of the path he had chosen for 
 the scene of his meditations. 
 
3IABEL. 241 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 My friend, your house Is made of glass, 
 
 As any one may see, 
 I pray you, therefore, have a care, 
 
 How you throw stones at me. 
 
 Culver Allen. 
 
 "If you please miss/' said Betsy, entering 
 Amy's room, where Mabel was sitting, " will 
 yon go to Miss Lucy's room for she is crying 
 and sobbing like any thing, and she has got 
 the door locked and will not open it — some- 
 thing must be the matter." 
 
 vol. i. u 
 
242 MAEEL. 
 
 " I will go to Iier directly, and will soon be 
 back, love," said Mabel, kissing her sister, who 
 never saw her leave without regret. 
 
 She then went to Lucy's room, and tapping 
 gently, demanded admittance. 
 
 After a short pause the door was opened by 
 Lucy, whose eyes were swollen with weeping, and 
 her cheeks wet with the tears which were 
 flowing quickly. She had been lying on the 
 bed, and, content with letting Mabel in, she 
 threw herself again upon it hastily, rubbing 
 her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief, though 
 the tears burst forth afresh on every attempt 
 to clear them away. 
 
 Mabel's woman's heart quickly thought of 
 Clair, and, seating herself by her side, she 
 waited patiently till she became a little com- 
 posed, and then begged her to say if she could 
 do any thing for her. 
 
 " Nobody can do anything for me," said 
 Lucy, and the effort to speak called forth a 
 fresh burst of sobs and tears. 
 
 " What has happened, do tell me ?" said 
 
MABEL. 243 
 
 Mabel, " has any one been unkind to you, clear 
 Lucy. 
 
 '* The wretch," sobbed Lucy, " the mean- 
 spirited wretch." 
 
 " I hope you do not speak of Clair," said 
 Mabel, " what can he have been doing ?" 
 
 "Oh, go away," cried Lucy, "go away, I am 
 so unhappy, so wretched, 1 wish I had never 
 seen him — never come here. Oh ! leave me, 
 go away, where shall I hide my face." 
 
 " I cannot leave you thus — do tell me what 
 he has been doing ?" 
 
 " They will laugh at me at home. What 
 will Miss Lovelace say — oh dear !" 
 
 " Come, do tell me," said Mabel, anxiously, 
 " I may be able to give you comfort." 
 
 " Oh, I cannot tell you." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Ah, Mabel, if I were as good as you I 
 should not cry." 
 
 A faint blush passed over her countenance, 
 and she was silent, till, presently, after many 
 m 2 
 
244 MABEL. 
 
 tears and sobs she told Mabel the cause of her 
 distress. 
 
 She had been walking in the nut avenue by 
 the side of the lane, and had thus overheard 
 the greater part of the conversation between 
 Mr. Ware and his nephew, narrated in the last 
 chapter. The sound of her own name had at- 
 tracted her attention, and, having once yielded 
 to the temptation of listening, she found, as 
 she imagined, sufficient excuse for wishing to 
 hear all — and enough had, in this manner, 
 reached her ears to send her home full of mor- 
 tified feeling. 
 
 Mabel listened, with unfeigned surprise, to 
 the story of this adventure — and to those sen- 
 tences, which, applying directly to herself, Lucy 
 had most accurately remembered — but, when 
 she heard from her of the admiration which 
 she had so unconsciously inspired, she looked 
 entirely amazed, and at a loss. This Lucy 
 dwelt upon with a candour which surprised 
 her. 
 
 " The wretch," said the latter, when she 
 
MABEL. 245 
 
 had concluded her story — " the worst of it is, 
 that I cannot hate him as he deserves." 
 
 "Do not say so," replied Mabel, "if you 
 are able to forgive him so easily, you will have 
 much less to suffer ; there is nothing so pain- 
 ful as the indulgence of sinful or angry 
 passions." 
 
 " Mabel," said Lucy, gravely, " you will 
 marry him, of course, and I will try to wish 
 you both happy." 
 
 " Dear Lucy," replied Mabel, taking her 
 hand kindly, " I am very, very sorry for you, 
 but rely on my friendship if you can, and I, 
 who have suffered as much as you are suffer- 
 ing now, may be some support to you. Do 
 not, for one moment, imagine, that, should 
 Captain Clair ever place it in my power to 
 marry him, I should for an instant think 
 of it. I have told you already, that unhappy 
 circumstances have rendered all thoughts of 
 love repulsive to me, and, even if it were not 
 so, I could not give my affections to one whom 
 I have so long regarded as your lover." 
 
246 MABEL. 
 
 u Do you really mean that?" cried Lucy, 
 with the desperation of a drowning man catch- 
 ing at a straw. 
 
 " I do indeed. Do you think I would trifle 
 with you, when you are in distress. You 
 must not let his unhappy preference prevent 
 your trusting me as much as before, and you 
 must let me guide you till you are strong 
 enough to guide yourself." 
 
 Lucy flung her arms round her neck, saying 
 heartily — 
 
 " You shall do anything you like with me, 
 my own sweet friend; but, oh, there is some- 
 thing wanting in my heart which you have not 
 the power to heal ; but let me talk to you for a 
 few minutes— if you understand me, you can 
 better advise me." 
 
 Mabel was silent, and Lucy, leaning back 
 upon her pillow, and looking fixedly at her, 
 said, after a moment's pause — 
 
 " I have been brought up in a very different 
 home from yours — and when you think of me, 
 you must give me all the excuses my circum- 
 
MABEL. 247 
 
 stances claim. I feel I might have been hap- 
 pier in a different life, yet, as it is, I have been 
 happy enough. When I first came here, I thought I 
 never could live in so dull a place, though I 
 appeared delighted with it, because I feared to 
 offend you ; but now I dread nothing so much 
 as leaving, and going back to Bath. Mamma 
 talks a great deal of being very fond of us — 
 but she despairs of getting so many girls mar- 
 ried, and would give her right hand to get rid 
 of us in a respectable manner. Very little is 
 talked of when we are alone, but the chances 
 of this or that young man's coming forward. 
 I confess, with shame, that no one has talked 
 on this subject, with more zeal than I have done 
 — and I boldly determined to do my very best 
 to get married. You will call this all very 
 unwomanly, and so I acknowledge now, but 
 anything seemed preferable to being an old 
 maid. So far, you see, Arthur Clair was right ; 
 when I first saw him — marriage being at all 
 times uppermost in my thoughts — I wished to 
 
248 MABEL. 
 
 make a conquest of him, if possible. You see 
 how far I succeeded — even you were deceived, 
 and thought him sincere, while, it appears, he 
 was only trifling with me, as I deserved. I 
 wrote home glowing accounts to Bath — and by 
 this time, H is whispered half over the town, 
 in all the coteries where mamma visits — and I 
 shall now have to go back to disappoint them, 
 and be laughed at myself ; but this would be 
 nothing, if I could go back, as light-hearted as I 
 came here. Arthur Clair is wrong in supposing I 
 have no heart — but I do not love him less for 
 despising the character he supposes me to be. 
 It was very cruel of him to act as he did — but 
 yet I must have appeared to him a sad trifler, 
 and worse than that, for, while I really loved 
 you more than I do any other girl I know, I 
 was, when with him, perpetually turning you 
 into ridicule to prevent his admiring you. You, 
 too, must hate and despise me ; but I am tired 
 of deceit, and will have nothing more to do 
 with it." 
 
 Mabel's quick judgment foresaw that her 
 
MABEL. 249 
 
 cousin's repentance was probably as light, as 
 her confession of deceit was easy — but she 
 knew, at the same time, that she had no right 
 to take this for granted, and that her only 
 duty was to catch at even the lightest spark of 
 virtue, and use her utmost power to kindle it 
 into a bright and lasting rlame. Sorrow was 
 around her in every shape, destitution and de- 
 pendence were before her, yet, no grief of her 
 own, could prevent her turning a willing ear to 
 the complaints, which, her truly womanly 
 nature told her, arose from that suffering which 
 is perhaps the hardest a woman can feel. 
 
 With extreme gentleness she offered comfort, 
 mingled with the censure, she could rot in 
 sincerity withhold, and Lucy listened with 
 surprise to advice unmingled with any taunt or 
 reproach. 
 
 " Do you not think," she said, " that I haa 
 better tell him I heard what he said, and that 
 I know that I do not deserve that he should 
 think well oi me." 
 h 5 
 
250 MABEL. 
 
 " By no means/' replied Mabel J '* I would 
 strongly advise you to give up all thoughts of 
 him at once, for you are convinced that he 
 does not care for you, and you acknowledge 
 that you have, in a great measure, brought 
 this unhappy affair upon yourself, You must 
 forgive him fully, for, from what you tell me, 
 he certainly does not seem so much to blame 
 as I supposed ; and, if you took any unworthy 
 means to obtain his good opinion, you certainly 
 fully deserve to have lost it. I do not admire 
 a prude, but I do think that no woman has a 
 right to make the first advances, and, if she 
 does so, she certainly must be prepared to take 
 the consequences. But let me earnestly beg 
 you, to spend this season of affliction in school- 
 ing your own heart against this and future 
 temptations, and hasten to vindicate your 
 character to yourself, and to him. Shew him, 
 that if you have been wrong, you are changed. 
 It will be very difficult, I own, to teach him 
 thoroughly to respect you ; nay, do not curl 
 your lip at the mention of respect ; there may 
 
MABEL. 251 
 
 be a time when you will learn, how valuable, 
 how necessary, respect is to a woman's peace ; 
 and the calm dignity with which you can bear 
 this disappointment may purchase it, even from 
 the doubting Clair. A calm and composed 
 behaviour you must aim at — do not assume 
 total indifference, for that will soon be per- 
 ceived — but submit, if possible, without com- 
 plaint, and without resentment — you will find 
 this the easiest way of bearing trials." 
 
 Mabel secretly hoped, that, by following her 
 advice, Lucy might not only reform her charac- 
 ter, but also display it to advantage in the 
 eyes of the man she loved — nor did she think 
 it improbable, that, disappointed in his suit to 
 herself, he might find in Lucy's altered behavior, 
 a charm sufficiently strong to lure him to 
 a real, instead of a feigned affection, and thus 
 preserve her from the snares which surrounded 
 her in her own home. 
 
 With these thoughts she returned to the 
 sick chamber, leaving Lucy to think over what 
 she had said. 
 
252 MABEL. 
 
 During the last few weeks, she had allowed 
 herself but little repose. Iler time was spent 
 alternately with her sister and mother, who in 
 their separate rooms, each needed the refresh- 
 ment of her presence. Her step was quick — 
 her ready hand untiring — and her watchful 
 eye alwavs observant — yet, though no complaint 
 had passed her lips since the sad night of 
 Amy's accident, few could fail to observe how 
 heavily she felt the sorrow by which she was 
 subdued. 
 
 The nights passed wearily, marked only by 
 the hollow cough, which told her of her 
 mother's failing health, and the loud wintry 
 wind which whistled in the crevices of the 
 house, or swept by it in loud blasts from the 
 hills. 
 
 All who have felt sorrow, or who have been 
 called to watch by the bed of the sick, must 
 remember how much more sad these times ap- 
 pear in winter, than in any other time of the 
 year. 
 
 Y\ r e need our best spirits to laugh away the 
 
MABEL. 253 
 
 frost, and snow, and foggy days, and all the as- 
 sociations called up by the withering earth and 
 closing year. 
 
 Yet all these, with present trouble, past re- 
 gret, and future fears, marked this sad time to 
 Mabel. Her greatest satisfaction now, was the 
 paying the most lavish attention to the two in- 
 valids. 
 
 Though their means were at all times 
 limited, she spared no expense, where it could 
 be likely to be of any service to the sufferers ; she 
 prevailed upon her mother to allow her to 
 draw, as she pleased upon, the few hundreds 
 still remaining of her savings, and this enabled 
 her to procure, for both, the best medical advice 
 which England afforded, though at a cost which 
 the warmest of her friends could scarcely 
 advocate. 
 
 Ail her efforts, however, were unavailing, 
 her mother's strength rapidly failed, and the 
 utmost care could scarcely keep her sister 
 from sinking under the pain she suffered. 
 
 Day after day, the opinion of the medical 
 
254 MABEL. 
 
 man fluctuated, until he scarcely gave any hope 
 — for he well knew that Amy's constitution, 
 from infancy, little fitted her to struggle with 
 disease of any kind. Still Mabel clung fondly 
 to the possibility of her recovery, with a per- 
 tinacity which made her enter eagerly into any 
 new course of treatment, which she hoped 
 might prove more successful. 
 
 It was with difficulty that she found time 
 to think of Lucy — yet a willing heart can do 
 much. She endeavoured to keep as 
 much with her as possible to support her, in 
 her new formed resolutions — and she was 
 gratified to find, that Lucy had been able to 
 meet Clair several times, with the composure 
 she had recommended. 
 
 Poor Lucy's dignified calmness, however, 
 very much resembled pouting, and, instead of 
 inspiring Clair with any great respect, a little 
 amused him ; for he looked upon this change 
 in her manner as a new mode of attack, against 
 which he resolved to be armour proof. Her 
 stability of character being not very great — 
 
MABEL. 255 
 
 she could scarcely preserve her manner, when 
 she saw it produced no immediate effect as she 
 had anticipated. It was vain to hope that he 
 would notice her composed forgiveness; and her 
 well-meant resolution faded away before the 
 disappointment of failure. 
 
 She was one afternoon engaged busily in 
 blaming him, and excusing herself, when he 
 entered the morning-room, where she wa3 
 seated at work, and, saying he had been to meet 
 the post-man, presented her with a letter from 
 Bath. It contained the news, that Mrs. Clifford, 
 one of the richest ladies in the town, intended 
 giving a fancy ball at the Eooms which was to 
 eclipse everything that had been seen for many 
 seasons, and Mrs. Clifford was very anxious 
 she should return for it. Besides, Colonel 
 Hargrave had accepted the invitation to visit 
 them, and was expected in Bath the following 
 week. The letter was of great length, but 
 contained little more than those two pieces of 
 news greatly enlarged upon. 
 
 It seemed as if all Lucy's grief and gravity 
 
256 MABEL. 
 
 had disappeared, like the mist before the sun- 
 shine ; for, starting up, she gave three bounds 
 towards the ceiling, clapping her hands in utter 
 thoughtlessness. 
 
 " Miss Yillars," cried Clair, indignantly, 
 " can you forget where you are ? How can 
 you give vent to such expressions of joy, in a 
 house you have helped me to make desolate ?" 
 
 " I wish," exclaimed Lucy, turning round 
 pettishly, " that you would not preach to me 
 all day the same disagreeable truths, with a 
 face as long as that of a methodist parson — 
 and such a face too, 'tis indeed a pity it covers 
 such a wicked dissembling heart ; but there is 
 no trusting appearances in these days." 
 
 " What do you mean, Miss Villars ?" he en- 
 quired, coloring violently. 
 
 "Ask your own conscience, and theu, if it 
 has not forgotten how to speak the truth, you 
 will find which is the greatest sinner, you or 
 I," said she, trying to speak playfully, to hide 
 the real passion which burnt in her eyes, and 
 tingle d in her cheeks. 
 
MABEL. 257 
 
 "Surely," said Clair, a little haughtily, 
 " you do not allude to the silly flirtation, which 
 I have quite sufficiently repented, as my 
 manners may have already expressed." 
 
 "You double dealing wretch," exclaimed 
 Lucy, in a perfect rage at the superiority he 
 assumed, " you oily-tongued hypocrite, how 
 dare you talk to me in this way ? Why, I 
 heard you talking to Mr. Ware, when you 
 little thought I was walking in the nut-avenue. 
 You despised me, did you, in your vaunted 
 goodness — and, because you are fickle enough 
 to turn from one girl to another, you try to 
 justify your behaviour, by abusing me to one 
 too good to listen to such stuff about either of 
 us. What do you say to me now ?" she said, 
 her eyes dancing with delighted passion at 
 seeing him utterly confounded. " JNow carry 
 your sanctimonious looks elsewhere, for they 
 will not take with me, I can tell you. I could 
 have forgiven your flirting, because they say 
 — ' a fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind ;' 
 but, bad as I am, I never abused a man that 
 
258 MABEL. 
 
 had been silly enough to admire me — nor did 
 I ever set myself up as anything better than I 
 am. I am glad you feel what I say, and now 
 go to the noble-hearted Mabel, and say, ' Here 
 I am — I have been flirting, before your very 
 eyes, with a girl I despised ; but she served to 
 make a few weeks pass more pleasantly than 
 they might otherwise have done. I have been 
 sporting with her feelings instead of making 
 honest court to you. And then, flushed with 
 the success, purchased by such hypocrisy, tell 
 her, that you have come to lay your laurels and 
 a deceitful heart at her feet, and that you think 
 them just offerings to her purity, and an ample 
 return for the cruelty you were led to commit, 
 by my persuasion. It will be safest to lay all 
 the blame on me, to her, as well as to Mr. 
 Ware. It told with him, and it may with her 
 — go and try." 
 
 She here stopped for want of breath, but, as 
 Clair made no reply, she quicldy resumed. 
 
 " You have not a word to answer me, 
 have you now ? How very pretty you look, 
 
MABEL. 253 
 
 standing abashed before the girl you despised. 
 If I were a man you might run your sword 
 through me, for want of a better argument in 
 your favor, but, as it is, I am afraid there is 
 nothing to be done," she continued, (as her 
 companion threw himself into an arm chair 
 and seemed determined to let her say her 
 worst, without the slightest attempt at inter- 
 ruption,) then walking to the window she 
 began singing part of the Spanish girl's song 
 to her Irish lover. 
 
 1 They say that the spirit most gallant in war 
 Is always the truest in love.' " 
 
 ' For Mrs. Lesly's sake do not make so 
 much noise," said Clair. 
 
 " Unfortunately," replied Lucy, " I am not 
 so unfeeling, for Mrs. Lesly's room is at the 
 other end of the house. You said, if I re- 
 member rightly, that my character was too 
 feathery to suit you — nevertheless, I think for 
 a feather my strokes are rather hard. Have 
 you nothing to say for yourself?" 
 
 " Yes, when you have blamed me as much 
 
260 THE HERMIT. 
 
 as you may think I deserve, I will venture to 
 reply." 
 
 " Oh, say on, I have done." 
 
 " Then, if you have leisure to hear me, I 
 will now say, that, before this conversation, I 
 thought I might have been wrong ; but I am 
 now fully convinced by the indignation you so 
 openly express, that a I have been mistaken in 
 you. I confess that 1 have injured you in the 
 most ungenerous manner — for which I dare 
 not offer any excuse, since every one would be 
 too light to have any weight. I will then 
 only ask you to be generous enough to forgive 
 me ?" 
 
 Lucy, whose feelings were ever subject to 
 the most sudden variations, burst into tears 
 and ran out of the room, but, as Clair continued 
 regarding the door through which she had 
 made her sudden exit, it opened as quickly 
 as it had closed, and she again entered ; 
 holding out her hand, as she walked up to 
 him. 
 
 " I am glad you are not gone," said she, 
 
MABEL. 261 
 
 panting for breath, " because I can tell you I 
 forgive you on condition that you forgive and 
 forget all I said in my passion just now. 
 
 " It was richly deserved, " said Clair, grasp- 
 ing her hand warmly. 
 
 " But that does not make it the more easy to 
 bear, you know. If it is quite unjust we let it 
 pass as l the idle wind which we regard not,' 
 but, if it be just, we take it more to heart, and, 
 seriously, I am very sorry for what I said just 
 
 now." 
 
 " And I," said Clair, " am very sorry for a 
 great many foolish things I have said and done 
 in the last few weeks." 
 
 " Well then," cried Lucy, "we are both 
 sorry, so let us be friends, and talk no more 
 about love and all that kind of nonsense. I 
 shall go home in a day or two, and then," said 
 she, with a half sigh, " all I ask is, that you 
 will not think me quite so thoughtless and 
 foolish as you did ; or, if you do," she added, 
 smiling quickly, " remember you were as weak 
 and thoughtless as myself." 
 
262 MABEL. 
 
 " I will not fail to do so," he answered, re- 
 turning her smile, " if the remembrance of your 
 present generosity, does not make me forget 
 everything which caused it to be called into 
 exercise.' ' 
 
 " I have had quite enough of your 
 flattery," said Lucy, holding up her finger, " do 
 not give me another dose, or I shall be obliged 
 to repeat the antidote, and give you another 
 scolding, Come now, I am thinking of the 
 fancy ball, and, as I am determined to be in time 
 for it — for I am of no use to Mabel by staying 
 here — I shall choose my character at once. 
 Here," handing him a book of Byron's beauties, 
 '' choose me the one you think would suit me best. 
 
 Let me venture to suggest," replied Clair, 
 as he took the book and turned over the 
 leaves thoughtfully, " that leaving such a house 
 as this, it would scarcely be right for you, to 
 appear at a fancy ball at all." 
 
 " Oh, you methodist ! give me the book." 
 
 " You w T ill not then be persuaded," he said, 
 laying his hand gently on the sketches of the 
 
MABEL. 263 
 
 frail beauties she had asked him to choose 
 among. "Think, that for the sake of a few hours 
 of doubtful enjoyment you lay yourself open to 
 severe self-reproach, and may wound the 
 feelings of your friends here. It may sound odd 
 that I should venture to speak so seriously, but — ' ' 
 
 " Yes, it does seem very odd, certainly, and 
 I thought I had given you a surfeit of preach- 
 ing just now." 
 
 " Yet before you decide, T would ask 
 you to consider whether you are not wronging 
 yourself, by acting so thoughtlessly." 
 
 " Now let me ask you in return," she re- 
 plied, pettishly, " if I am at Bath what harm 
 my going would do or what good I could get 
 by staying away ?" 
 
 " Yery little, perhaps, actually, but no 
 one could think any unkindness intended by 
 your remaining at home. I can hardly expect 
 you, however, to listen to me, but, should your 
 own better judgment lead you to come to the 
 same determination I shall be rejoiced." 
 
 Lucy sat down, half sullenly turning over the 
 
264 MABEL. 
 
 book of beauties, and seeming to be examining 
 their dresses with the greatest attention, as if 
 she were trying to discover how they might be 
 imitated by tinsel and gauze. 
 
 The Captain stood looking at her earnestly. 
 Mr. Ware's advice recurred to his mind, and, 
 though he had found it difficult to follow it, he 
 had tried his best. 
 
 Lucy, with her face glowing with excite- 
 ment, her eyes moist with recent tears, looked 
 exceedingly pretty, and he could not help 
 longing for the power to plant a different 
 spirit within her, at length he exclaimed, with 
 sudden energy' — 
 
 " Lucy Yillars, will you not listen to me. Do 
 not trifle, after the fearful judgment that has 
 fallen upon this house, through our means. 
 Is it possible you can forget what a wither- 
 ing blow it has been. Surely, surely you will 
 not go to a fancy ball, while Mabel is watching 
 over her suffering mother and sister. You 
 do not mean it, you surely cannot ; only think 
 for one moment," said he, laying his hand upon 
 
KABEL. 265 
 
 hers, and staying the quick motion with which 
 she turned over the leaves of the book. It is 
 doubtful how Clair might have felt (for he had 
 certainly deceived himself when he imagined 
 she had never made any serious impression 
 upon him) had his advice, his first effort at 
 serious advice, been well received, for there was 
 an earnestness in his manner, which he had 
 never before displayed. But Lucy rose hastily, 
 and brushing his hand aside with an indignant 
 motion, prepared to leave the room ; turning 
 at the door, she said coldly — - 
 
 " There might have been a time when 
 Captain Clair could have asked a favor, without 
 risk of being charged with interference or im- 
 pertinence, but I can now see no excuse which 
 would lead me to make his wishes the rule of 
 my actions — I would advise you in future to 
 obtain influence, before you seek to use it." 
 
 So saying, and bowing coldly, she left the 
 room. 
 
 Her return home, and her plan of travelling, 
 
 vol. i. y 
 
266 MABEL. 
 
 were soon settled by her hearing of a friend who 
 was at this time returning to Bath from 
 Cheltenham, and whose escort was offered her. 
 
 Perhaps the pleasure of piquing Clair, added 
 a little zest to the preparations which were 
 carried on with a cheerfulness that surprised 
 him. Deeply touched himself by recent events, 
 and quite unable to recover his spirits, he re- 
 garded her with a wonder not a little mingled 
 with contempt. 
 
 Mabel herself, as keenly susceptible to pain 
 as she was open to pleasure, could scarcely 
 undei stand the variable nature of her cousin's 
 disposition, which, at times attracted her by its 
 naivete and candour, at others, alarmed her by 
 its indifference and frivolity. Though really 
 a little hurt at the coolness with which she 
 prepared to leave her, directly it suited her own 
 convenience, after her many professions, she 
 suffered her to take her course without remark ; 
 particularly when she found, from the account 
 she received of her conversation with Clair, that 
 
MABEL. 267 
 
 she could not preserve towards him, the com- 
 posure necessary to ensure her own dignity. 
 
 All was, therefore, soon arranged, and Lucy, 
 as the parting drew near, became so affection- 
 ately distressed, that Mabel quickly forgave 
 her previous indifference, and parted from 
 her with a regret, she had scarcely supposed 
 she could have felt a few weeks before. 
 
 As she stood for several moments in the 
 garden, watching the vehicle which bore her 
 from the village, her thoughts naturally re- 
 curred to the hour when, with far different 
 feelings, she had stood in the same place to 
 wait her coming. The scene was the 
 same, and yet how changed. There was 
 not a leaf upon the many bold trees which 
 skirted the landscape. Here and there round 
 the garden a single monthly rose bloomed 
 in place of the many gay, Autumnal 
 flowers, which had then been so brilliant. 
 Heavy clouds hung overhead, and silently and 
 n 2 
 
268 MABEL. 
 
 gloomily feathery pieces of snow fell through 
 the cold air. 
 
 "It is the sunshine of the heart that is 
 gone," thought Mabel, unconsciously clasping 
 her hands, and glancing at the scene around 
 her ; while she remembered how comparatively 
 free from care she had been that day, and 
 how gladly had the little Amy waited to catch 
 the first sight of the expected carriage, how 
 eagerly she had watched the first peep of the 
 high road. Where was she now, poor child ? 
 when would her light feet carry her so merrily 
 to that gate again. 
 
 " I know it must be right," thought Mabel, 
 as if unwilling to dwell longer on feelings and 
 afflictions which unnerved her ; but sick at 
 heart, and with tears swimming in her eyes, 
 she turned towards the house. She stopped 
 on hearing Clair's voice, who approached to 
 meet her, having waited till the parting 
 was over, hoping to remove any feeling 
 of loneliness she might experience on Lucy's 
 
MABEL. 269 
 
 departure. His steps were sedate, and his 
 countenance serious and reflective, as it had of 
 late become. 
 
 " Ah," said he, as he joined her. " Hap- 
 py would it have been for you had neither of 
 us crossed your path, to throw the shadow upon 
 it we have done." 
 
 " We will not blame poor Lucy now she is 
 gone," said Mabel, " and do not blame your- 
 self again. I did not think I should miss her 
 as much as I do ; but there is such a pleasure 
 in meeting a friend of about my own age." 
 
 " If there are three dark sides to a subject, 
 and one bright one, you are sure to turn to 
 the bright," said Clair. 
 
 " Should we not do so ?" said Mabel, smiling 
 faintly — " particularly when we must feel that 
 even the one bright side is undeserved." 
 
 " I should very much have liked to have 
 known your poor father," said Clair, rather 
 abruptly. 
 
 " You would, indeed," said Mabel, " but 
 what made you think of him ?" 
 
270 MABEL. 
 
 " Because I have heard that the lessons he 
 gave you were so admirable ; and practically il- 
 lustrated — they are beautiful I" 
 
 " Nay, if you wish to flatter me, speak of 
 him — not myself; truly, he was a gentleman, a 
 scholar, and a soldier," said Mabel, as her eyes 
 brightened, " and I cannot tell how much I 
 owe to him. Now, if I am tempted to do 
 anything wrong, his spirit seems to stand be- 
 tween me and the temptation. See what an 
 advantage it is to be good," said she smiling, 
 as if fearful of speaking too much of herself, 
 u what an influence you possess." 
 
 " You do, indeed, possess an influence," said 
 Clair, emphatically, as he turned his eyes to 
 hers, with an expression of mingled admiration 
 and respect. 
 
 " I must go in," replied Mabel, hurriedly, 
 " talking of my dear father has cheated me 
 into staying longer than I meant to have done. 
 I must go to my dear child — good bye," said 
 she, extending her hand frankly. u Go, and 
 do anything but be sad about me," 
 
MABEL. 271 
 
 Without waiting for a reply, she ran into the 
 house, and Clair leant upon the gate and 
 watched her departing figure, like one en- 
 tranced, till, fearful of attracting observation, 
 he briskly roused himself, as if from some 
 pleasant dream, and pursued his walk through 
 the village. 
 
 Meanwhile, Lucy continued her journey. At 
 first the natural pain of parting from Aston 
 led her to a train of sorrowful reflection. Per- 
 haps she too remembered how different the 
 home she had left had been when she entered it ; 
 but she had also to remember many mortifying 
 things besides. Her easy conquest, as 
 she imagined, had ended in total failure. 
 If she had unintentionally brought evil 
 on Mabel, she had also brought good, in 
 the admiration of the fascinating Clair. 
 Her recollections soon became too painful to 
 be encouraged, and she took the ready source 
 of comfort open to those who do not care to 
 probe the conscience, and tried not to think at 
 
272 MABEL. 
 
 all. It was easiest and most agreeable, but 
 she had to arm herself for the reception she 
 would probably meet at home. How could she 
 say she had entirely failed ; and what reason 
 could she give for believing that Clair was in 
 earnest ; she had not the heart to blame him. 
 " If Mabel had not been there," she thought, 
 " he never would have changed, but I will not 
 think any harm of her, I suppose she could not 
 help it." 
 
 " Once in Bath, this country dream will be 
 over, and I shall have the pleasure of prepar- 
 ing for the fancy ball — and then, the arrival of 
 Colonel Hargrave, and possibly — if he is not at- 
 tracted by Caroline's majestic style of beauty, 
 who knows but he may find other objects of 
 admiration — " and she glanced down upon her 
 pretty little foot, with an air of condescending 
 affection, as it rested on the shawl which lay 
 beneath it. Then came the remembrance that 
 Mabel had lent her that shawl, and had herself 
 wrapped it round her with that attention to 
 
MABEL. 273 
 
 the comfort of others, which was so peculiar to 
 her, and she lent back and wept bitterly for 
 some miles. 
 
 At Cheltenham, however, she was joined by 
 her promised fellow traveller, also returning to 
 Bath for the season. Mrs. Eichardson, for this 
 was her name, was a good-tempered, stout 
 little lady, who possessed a great fondness for 
 young people, particularly for those who, either 
 pretty, witty, or engaging, were sure to be 
 popular in society. She formed a very useful 
 chaperone, in case of necessity, never being 
 unwilling to join any party of pleasure, from 
 the most crowded rout, to the dullest and 
 quietest card party. 
 
 Lucy had not been slow in finding out this 
 useful virtue, and, Mrs. Eichardson being a 
 great admirer of hers, they usually got on 
 very well together. But now, the badinage 
 she had to endure, on the many conquests she 
 must have made, during her country visit, 
 amongst rich squires, grated sadly on her ears ; 
 n 5 
 
274 MABEL, 
 
 while Ker attemps to divert the conversation, 
 only renewed her companion's desire to obtain 
 an account of all she had been doing and 
 
 seeing. 
 
 The tedious journey, however, drew at 
 length to a conclusion, and she found herself 
 cnce more in Bath. Again settled at home, 
 she was not a little surprised, and not quite 
 pleased to find that her Aston adventure had 
 occupied far less of the family attention than 
 she had imagined. Indeed, so thoroughly were 
 they occupied in preparing for Colonel Har- 
 grave's \isit, that they scarcely listened to her 
 accounts. The whole house, and household 
 furnituie, seemed stirring up to look their best 
 welcome to the rich Indian wanderer. The 
 best si air carpets were laid down, and the best 
 drawing-room was uncovered and made habita- 
 ble, and a thousand little expenses were ex- 
 cused, under the pretence of necessity, on such 
 an occasion. The name of Hargrave was 
 passed perpetually from one to another, and 
 
MABEL. 275 
 
 Caroline already fancied herself mistress of 
 Aston Manor. 
 
 " Oh I" thought Lucy, " could I have thought 
 they cared so little about me, I would have 
 been more independent of their opinion." 
 
 She, however, soon endeavoured to dispel 
 the listlessness which followed her return to old 
 pursuits, by entering into the subject of general 
 interest, with as much seeming zest as her 
 sisters ; but, sometimes, when she seemed the 
 merriest of them all, her thoughts would revert 
 to Aston, and her gay laugh would find a 
 check. Gaiety may sear, but it never yet 
 has healed a wounded heart. 
 
276 MABEL. 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 He shall again be seen when evening comes, 
 And social parties crowd their favorite rooms, 
 Where on the table pipes and papers lie, 
 The steaming bowl and foaming tankard by. 
 
 Crabbe. 
 
 Almost every village possesses a house of 
 public entertainment, however humble in ap- 
 pearance. Unfortunately, this is generally the 
 most comfortable place accessible to the lower 
 orders, who are often unwittingly tempted to 
 increase the one pint of beer, which secures a 
 seat by the large inn fire, drop by drop, till 
 habits of drunkenness are too readily acquired. 
 
MABEL. 277 
 
 Some have recommended the establishment of 
 something similar to a coffee-room in every 
 village, where laboring men might enjoy the 
 pleasures of society and conversation, without 
 the temptations to a vice which adds many 
 a tragedy to " the short and simple annals of 
 the poor." 
 
 It could indeed scarcely be wondered at, 
 that at Aston, many of the laborers left their 
 weather-beaten cottages, which, in some cases, 
 formed scarcely a shelter from the wind and 
 rain — and, without stopping to calculate the 
 mischief which might ensue to their neglected 
 families, should frequently resort to the " Har- 
 grave Arms," where a blazing fire and a com- 
 fortable seat by a chatty neighbour were 
 generally to be found. Here, at least, poverty 
 and discomfort might be forgotten for a while, 
 even by those who did not seek to drown re- 
 membrance in the fatal draught. 
 
 One Friday evening, many of the regular 
 customers of the house assembled themselves 
 
278 MABED. 
 
 as usual, more, perhaps, to chat than to drink, 
 for they seldom carried their conviviality to 
 any great height, except on the Saturday, 
 when the young men of the village brought, 
 too often, the first fruits of their week's 
 earnings. On the occasion we now mention, a 
 more sober conclave was assembled. The 
 white haired Giles, whom Clair had visited 
 with his uncle, on the first morning of his 
 visit, was one of the guests. Not, now, with 
 his head bent, and his hands extended over the 
 dying embers of his wood fire, but with head 
 errect in a comfortable corner, with the air of 
 a man whose opinions are respected, and whose 
 words claim immediate attention. Martin, the 
 poacher, was also there, smoking a pipe, whose 
 dusty colour bespoke long service. Besides 
 these, were several of the most respectable 
 labourers of the village, young and old. 
 
 The landlord, himself, was a middle aged, 
 sleepy looking man, with eyes that seemed to 
 say that they had no particular time for taking 
 
MABEL. 279 
 
 rest, but seized every opportunity that occurred 
 for shutting up at a moment's notice. 
 
 The night was cold and gusty, and the large 
 fire burnt with peculiar brightness — conversa- 
 tion went on briskly ; when a new object of at- 
 tention presented itself in the sound of horses' 
 feet, which at this hour were very unusual. 
 
 This caused the landlord's eyes to open to 
 the things about him, and he walked to the 
 door to offer whatever hospitality might be re- 
 quired by the new comer. 
 
 By the time he had reached the open air, 
 which he did with some reluctance, he found 
 that the rider had dismounted, His horse ap- 
 peared to have been well ridden, for, though a 
 fine strong built animal, fitted for the hilly 
 country he had been through, he seemed ex- 
 hausted, and covered with dust and foam. 
 The gentleman, on the contrary, seemed per- 
 fectly cool and free from fatigue, and equally 
 indifferent to the weather, though the wind 
 was high, and easterly, and his short cloak was 
 whitened by the snow, which had been falling, 
 
280 MABEL. 
 
 at intervals, during the afternoon, giving signs 
 of an early coming winter. There was suffi- 
 cient of that nameless something in his ap- 
 pearance, even by the light of our host's 
 lantern, to speak him a gentleman, and to 
 procure for him a series of nods, intended for 
 graceful acknowledgments of welcome. 
 
 " My horse wants rest, and a good stable," 
 said the new comer ; " light me, and I will see 
 him housed, myself. I will follow you." 
 
 This was spoken in a tone of accus- 
 tomed and easy authority, and taking the 
 bridle over his arm, he followed his land- 
 lord to the stable ; where, with indifferent ex- 
 travagance which baffled any interference, he 
 seized an immense armful of straw from a 
 heap which lay in one corner, and threw it on 
 the bed, which already seemed tolerably sup- 
 plied. So rapid and easy were his movements, 
 that, before his astonished landlord had framed 
 the remonstrance he meditated offering, he an- 
 nounced himself ready to accompany him to 
 the house. 
 
MABEL. 281 
 
 " Would you like dinner in the parlor, sir," 
 enquired his sleepy host, leading him back 
 through the court-yard. 
 
 " No, I will take a glass of grog, in the 
 bar." 
 
 " The bar is full, sir; and may be you will 
 not like — ." 
 
 " What," enquired the stranger, " to sit 
 side by side, with a poor man — you are mista- 
 ken, but heark-ye," said he, stopping, " the 
 less civility you show me the better, I will pay 
 you." 
 
 " I twig," he replied, shutting one sleepy 
 eye with an attempt to look cunning, while, at 
 the same time, he was a little startled at the 
 deep and peculiar tone of the voice which ad- 
 dressed itself so particularly to his ear, and he 
 was not sorry to catch a full view of his own 
 huge blazing fire, and the familiar faces around 
 it. 
 
 " A stranger wants a seat by the fire," 
 muttered he, as he entered the bar. 
 
 " A stranger should have the best seat," 
 
282 MABEL. 
 
 said old Giles, moving quietly to offer him his 
 arm-chair. 
 
 " I have been accustomed, sir, to take place 
 according to my years," said the stranger, in 
 a voice of peculiar melody, as he declined the 
 offer, and, at the same, time chose a seat further 
 from the fire, where the fitful light only some- 
 times partially illumed his countenance. 
 
 u Landlord," said he, "your guests will, I 
 dare say, join mo in my grog ; bring enough, 
 not forgetting yourself." 
 
 A short silence followed this speech, partly 
 caused by tho landlord's absence ; during which 
 all eyes were turned to observe the appear- 
 ance of the last arrival. His figure was con- 
 siderably above the middle height, but his 
 limbs were in such exact proportion, that he 
 preserved the appearance of strength which 
 tall men often lose. His shoulders were broad, 
 and his chest wide and expansive. The only 
 sign of delicacy about him appeared in his 
 hand, which, for his height, was small, and 
 very white and smooth, ornamented by a plain 
 
MABEL. 283 
 
 signet ring. This, they had an opportunity of 
 observing, for his head was resting on his 
 hand, though, seemingly more in thought than 
 fatigue. His eyes were large, dark, and pene- 
 trating, made to flash with anger, to command, 
 or reprove ; yet, bearing in general a cold still 
 hue, as if more accustomed to command, or to 
 suffer, than to ask, or supplicate the world's 
 favour. The mouth was expressive of great 
 sweetness, as long as his features continued, 
 in repose, though the lips seemed especially 
 capable of curling into a sneer. His nose was 
 long and aquiline, and gave a character of 
 boldness to the countenance ; and a finely 
 sloped head, well set upon his shoulders, added 
 to his lofty bearing. 
 
 All these features, fitted to form a face of 
 striking manly beauty, were quite spoilt by 
 the fact that, while the whiskers, moustache, 
 and finely arched eye-brows, were black ; his 
 hair, of which he wore a great deal, and that, 
 too long for the English fashion, was of a 
 
284 MABEL. 
 
 bright red, and gave a very peculiar shade to 
 his countenance. 
 
 His dress was half military, though re- 
 markably simple, and on the present occasion, 
 much soiled with long riding, and even shabby ; 
 with the exception of his boots, which appeared 
 to have shared the care which had secured 
 to the hand the marks of gentle breeding. 
 It would have been very difficult to trace his 
 age, in any part of his outward bearing, beyond 
 the certainty that he was neither twenty nor 
 fifty — anything between these two periods might 
 have been attributed to him without much diffi- 
 culty. Since his entrance he had not changed the 
 position into which he had thrown himself ; 
 perfectly at ease in every limb, and still as a 
 statue, he seemed scarcely aware of the ob- 
 servation he excited from his companions. 
 
 Probably he was inured to the weather, and 
 indifferent to its effects, for he did not attempt 
 to dry his clothes by drawing nearer the fire. 
 Perhaps, his studious silence was intended 
 
MABEL. 285 
 
 to set his companions at ease, or, perhaps, 
 occupied with other thoughts, he really forgot 
 them after the first order he had given for 
 their entertainment. However it joight be, 
 conversation gradually returned to its former 
 channel, and he remained almost unnoticed. 
 
 The snowy afternoon led them to speak of 
 the weather, when Martin enquired, with an 
 indifferent tone — • 
 
 " Did it come in upon you last night, 
 Giles ?" 
 
 " It did sadly," he replied ; "I was obliged 
 to get up, and move my bed." 
 
 " Has the rain been so heavy here then?" 
 enquired the stranger with some interest. 
 
 "Not in particular, sir," said Martin, " if 
 our roofs were waterproof — but they ain't ; I 
 don't care who knows it. Look at this old 
 man," he said, turning to Giles, " is he fit to 
 live in a hole with the roof half off, and the 
 sun and rain coming in every where. It 
 almost drives me wild to think of it — and if it 
 
286 MABEL. 
 
 goes on much longer, there'll be mischief come 
 on it, that I know." 
 
 " Do not talk in that way," said old Giles, 
 gently, " if I am content with my house, you 
 you should not make it a cause for dispute." 
 
 " Yes ; but if any one could claim a proper 
 shelter for his head, it is you, Giles. You 
 served the family for fifty years, and after 
 spending the best part of your life working 
 for them, the least they could do, would be to 
 keep the wind and rain off your old white 
 head." 
 
 "It is not right to talk like this, Martin," 
 returned Giles, gravely, " for you might make 
 me discontented with my lot. You forget that 
 by allowing me to work for them, they gave me 
 food for all those years — and if I did my 
 work honestly, only for the reward they had to 
 give me, I deserved to lose it." 
 
 " Of what family are you speaking ?" en- 
 quired the stranger, slightly rousing himself, 
 and drawing a little more into the circle. 
 
 & 
 
MABEL. 287 
 
 " Who is your landlord, and what prevents his 
 seeing to your comforts ?" 
 
 Martin seemed anxious to reply ; but he was 
 prevented by Giles. 
 
 " Our landlord is Colonel Hargrave, a very 
 brave officer, I have heard ; but, in looking for 
 glory abroad, he has, unfortunately for himself 
 and us, forgotten his dependents at home. He 
 has scarcely seen anything of us since he came 
 into the property." 
 
 "But surely," said the stranger, warmly, 
 "if he did spend his time beyond the seas — I 
 dare say, for some private reason — he 
 must have left some trusty steward, who 
 could take charge of his property during his 
 absence, and protect the labourers on his 
 estate from the privations you speak of?" 
 
 " Trusty steward, indeed," Martin began, in 
 a growling voice, but Giles again interrupted 
 him. 
 
 " Sir, it is kind of you to take so much in- 
 terest in our concerns. It may be that you 
 have estates somewhere yourself — it may be 
 
288 MABEL. 
 
 that you have left them to the care of others, 
 believing that you are trusting honest servants ; 
 but, if you could see how much we have suf- 
 fered, you would never do so again. Our 
 landlord has left with us an oppressive and 
 cruel man, who takes pleasure in shewing his 
 power in the smallest thing. In our good 
 lady's time, we were allowed to pick up any 
 wood that the wind blew down, so that our 
 firing cost us next to nothing ; but now this is 
 entirely done away by the keepers. Many of 
 our little rights too he has taken away, accord- 
 ing, as he says, to his master's orders, though 
 'tis not very likely a gentleman abroad would 
 think of such things so many miles away. He 
 receives our rents without spending any part of 
 them in repairing our cottages, and the con- 
 sequence is., they are tumbling down for want 
 of repair, while the same rent is demanded for 
 them. This brings much illness and discomfort 
 — but what I lament over most," said the old 
 man, with a sigh, " is that the feelings of 
 every one are aggravated against Colonel 
 
MABEL. 289 
 
 Hargrave, who, it may be, knows nothing about 
 it." 
 
 " Then he ought to know," said Martin. 
 
 " There is a sad spirit spreading, sir," said 
 Giles, casting, as he continued, a rsproving 
 look on Martin, " amongst our young men, and 
 a hatred of the gentry, which cannot be right, 
 though it is hard to keep them from it when we 
 have lo much privation." 
 
 " Aye, that is true enough," said Martin, 
 glancing at his younger companions. 
 
 " Why do you not write to Colonel Har- 
 grave?" said the stranger, bending forwards, 
 and suffering his large full eye to fall on 
 Martin for an instant, " surely you should not 
 judge him so hastily." 
 
 " Parson Ware has written, and the only 
 answer he gets is, that Mr. Eogers is an old and 
 tried servant, and he can depend on his doing 
 for the best." 
 
 A bitter laugh went round the circle in echo 
 to this unpopular opinion. 
 
 vol. i. o 
 
290 mabe:. 
 
 The stranger lent back in his chair, and 
 fixing his eyes on the fire, seemed inclined 
 to leave the conversation, which the wounded 
 feelings of those present appeared likely to 
 render too heated. 
 
 " Things never went right," said a little old 
 man in the chimney-corner, in a deep husky 
 voice, for he prided himself on being a sort of 
 prophet in the village, u since he went to 
 France, and I never had no very great opinion 
 of Frenchmen before — ha, ha, ha !" There did 
 not seem much to call for laughter ; but he 
 generally accompanied his speeches with that 
 peculiar chuckle, which sounded anything but 
 pleasantly to those who were not accustomed to 
 him. " I saw him many times after that," con- 
 tinued he, " and he wam't the same open- 
 hearted gentleman he was afore, He often 
 looked as if he'd got some one looking over 
 his shoulder as he did'nt over relish — ha, ha !" 
 
 The sepulchral chuckle which followed this 
 
MABEL. 291 
 
 remark produced a short, uneasy silence, which 
 was broken by Martin, who enquired — 
 
 " Do you think his religion has anything to 
 do with our houses and wages ?" 
 
 u Yes," replied Giles, " can we expect that 
 he who has proved disloyal to his Maker, would 
 be thoughtful for his fellow men." 
 
 He spoke in a tone of such gentle authority, 
 that even Martin was silent, and, for a few 
 seconds, the ticking of the old-fashioned clock, 
 and the crackling of the wood on the tire, were 
 the only sounds. 
 
 " I can call to mind," resumed the old man, 
 interrupting the silence, which had followed his 
 last remark, " a time of much sorrow to me, 
 and I never think of it without trembling. 
 It is some years since, now, when I worked 
 on the Manor, and I used to be something of 
 a favorite of my young masters ; and I am 
 sure, at that time, I would have given my 
 life to serve him; he had such a way with 
 him ; no one had anything to do with him with- 
 o 2 
 
292 MABEL. 
 
 out loving him. Well I remember how glad 
 I was when he ordered me to go out with him 
 to beat up the bushes for game. But the time 
 I said I was sorry to remember, was when, one 
 Saturday night late, he came down here 
 in a great hurry, and he said he must go again 
 on the Monday, and so he would look about 
 him. I can't tell how it was we took so to each 
 other ; but I was strong and hearty then, 
 though 'tis but a few years ago. Martin speaks 
 truth when he says I have served the family 
 fifty years, for I began by running errands for 
 the servants, when I was but a little boy, and I 
 am now nearly seventy ; but I was quite a 
 strong man at that time I have been talking 
 about, and I used often to go out shooting with 
 Master Hargrave, to carry his game, and such 
 like. Well, on this Sunday morniug, he told 
 me to take his gun, and wait for him at the 
 entrance of the wood. Nobody ever said no to 
 him then, and I had not the courage, and, 
 though I knew that I was doing wrong all the 
 while, I took the gun, and went as he bade 
 
MABEL. 293 
 
 me. We had a regular good day's sport, and 
 we went to the woods furthest from the village, 
 for fear the guns or dogs might be heard. 
 'Twas a beautiful autumn afternoon, I know, 
 as we came home, and, when we came to the 
 wood overlooking the church, the bells rang 
 out such a merry peal. I had forgot 'twas 
 Sunday, for my blood was hot, and the sport 
 was good ; but now, as we stopped on the top 
 of the hills, like thieves, I could not help wish- 
 ing we had never been out, and I said so with 
 a dogged, frightened air, for I was afraid of 
 him all the while. He laughed at my fright, 
 and began talking as if going to church were 
 all mummery. Well, I could not help listening 
 — -what he said seemed so clever and funny, I 
 could not answer him. After that day, I began 
 to doubt and doubt, till I believed nothing the 
 minister said, and left off going to church." 
 
 " And what turned ye ?" enquired the little 
 man in the chimney-corner. 
 
 "I was wretched," replied Giles; "I felt 
 that I had no comfort upon earth, and no hope 
 
294 MABEL. 
 
 beyond it. Till, at last, I thought that this 
 unbelief was only a curse for having done 
 wrong. So I took to prayer, and never gave it 
 up till better thoughts came." 
 
 " But how," asked the stranger, bending 
 forward, and regarding the old man earnestly, 
 till it made him almost shrink from that dark 
 eye, which looked almost piteous in its in- 
 tensity, while the voice of the enquirer was 
 touching, deep, and melodious, " how could 
 you pray when you had no faith." 
 
 "Sir," said Giles, "whatever creed or 
 religion you may profess, you must still feel, 
 that to doubt as I did, is the greatest curse 
 that can fall upon the heart of man, and doubt 
 as we may, we know it to be a curse. If 
 you ever feel as I did, do not ask questions, 
 and put yourself wrong, and then try and set 
 yourself right by yonr own judgment, as I did ; 
 but go down upon your bended knees, and 
 pray for light as a child might pray — I never 
 found peace till then." 
 
 The stranger folded his arms upon his breast, 
 
MABEL. 295 
 
 and, with his eyes fixed on the fire, as before, 
 gave no sign that he had even heard the reply- 
 to his question. 
 
 Giles, perhaps, thought he had said too 
 much, and remained in confusion, glancing un- 
 easily at him. The wind, which had been 
 rising more and more during the evening, now 
 howled aloud increasing the comfort of the 
 inn fire, and the dislike of the party to sepa- 
 rate ; yet no one seemed inclined to speak, and 
 the wind roared on, yelling as it swept in 
 heavy gusts through the building. 
 
 Suddenly, a loud and tremulous knocking 
 was heard at the door, together with voices 
 demanding admittance. After a little hesita- 
 tion, the door was opened by the landlord, and 
 several women rushed in, crying vehemently. 
 
 " For, heaven's sake, come and help us, for 
 the plaoe is all on fire !" 
 
296 MABEL, 
 
 CHAPTEE XY. 
 
 She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer ; 
 Apart she sighed ; alone she shed the tear. 
 Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave 
 Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave. 
 
 Cbabbe. 
 
 On the night which followed Lucy's departure 
 the cottage seemed singularly lonely. The 
 wayward girl could not but be missed in so 
 small a household. Her very waywardness, 
 indeed, had caused excitement, which slightly 
 roused Mabel's thoughts from present and 
 coming evils. 
 
 It was night — how strange is its power 
 over us ? Can it be more than fancy that the 
 
MABEL. 297 
 
 spirits of darkness have freer power to wander 
 unseen upon our earth ? Why else should we 
 start with such vague terror, at the slightest 
 sound which breaks the stillness ? Why should 
 we often feel almost a childish desire for com- 
 panionship ? 
 
 Mabel had stolen to her mother's room to 
 persuade herself that she slept, and stood for a 
 moment watching her. The feeble light of 
 the night lamp shone upon her features, and 
 she trembled when she marked the sunken 
 cheeks, and the countenance deeply traced and 
 drawn down by care and pain. It seemed as 
 if, in that moment, the conviction which she had 
 so long defied, forced itself upon her mind, and 
 she felt that that loved parent must die. Those 
 only who have experienced that sudden belief 
 can tell of the bitterness with which it comes. 
 And it is sudden, for we may speak of death 
 as possible, nay, even probable, with calmness ; 
 but this- is not belief, not the feeling which 
 comes when the varying color, the ema- 
 ciated hand, or the hollow eye attracts our at- 
 
298 MABEL. 
 
 tention, and we feel the truth striking 
 coldly on our hearts. Then, almost for 
 the first time, the full power of fear 
 and love is known. We long to arrest 
 the hand of death by the vehemence of our 
 passion ; and, though we know such efforts are 
 vain, yet how difficult is it to be resigned. 
 
 Mabel turned from her mother's room with 
 the choking sensation, of tears, that will not be 
 suppressed. The cold, loud wind beat against 
 the cottage, tossing dry leaves and broken 
 sticks against the casement, then howling round, 
 as if in derision of her grief. Amy was sleep- 
 ing, the sweet, gentle, exhausted sleep, that 
 sometimes follows pain ; but Mabel knew that 
 in a short while she would awake, and require 
 refreshment, and she did not care to lie down, 
 till she had made her comfortable. 
 
 There was a letter lying upon the dressing- 
 table, placed so as to catch her eye ; the sight 
 of it was a relief to her, and she took it and 
 broke the seal, then shading the light from her 
 sister, she sat down and read as follows : — 
 
MABEL. 299 
 
 " Dear Miss Lesly, 
 
 " I will trust that 
 you will forgive me the liberty I take in ad- 
 dressing you by letter ; for your unwearied at- 
 tention to those who now claim your care, gives 
 me little hope of speaking to you without in- 
 terruption. I might not have time to tell you 
 that the remembrance of my share in the late 
 unhappy accident renders me miserable when I 
 am compelled to watch your patient suffering, 
 without the power to afford you the least re- 
 dress or comfort. It is impossible to remem- 
 ber the last few happy weeks, without con- 
 trasting them, but too painfully with the pre- 
 sent. I cannot forbear continually reproaching 
 myself with the change, nor shall I cease to be 
 unhappy till I may, in some way alleviate your 
 sufferings. Let me entreat you, then, to for- 
 give my presumption, in seeking a remedy in 
 the gratification of the fondest hopes of my 
 life. I needed some acquaintance with you, to 
 remove the prejudices which I have been led 
 to form, through the too thoughtless behaviour 
 
300 MABEL. 
 
 of some ladies, it needed, I may say, even 
 the last bitter trial, to shew me the nature of 
 your character, and the refinement to which 
 sorrow could bring it. How else could I have 
 been aware of the existence of such uncommon 
 resignation, and such sweet forgiveness. They 
 have inspired me with a feeling, which, while 
 hope remains, softens the pain I feel ; they lead 
 me to aspire with boldness, which may sur- 
 prise you, but I am a soldier, and though too 
 accustomed to feign sentiment which does not 
 exist, I am only capable of bluntness where 
 my heart is really touched ; and, therefore, at 
 once, most boldly, but most respectfully do I 
 ask you to be my wife. 
 
 " The fortune with which I am blessed, ren- 
 ders my profession more an amusement than a 
 necessity, and it would be amply sufficient to 
 secure your sweet sister all the comforts which 
 may alleviate pain, and all the medical advice 
 which may help to remove it. Only give me 
 the power to protect you from the cold blasts 
 of the world, and the right to aid you in 
 
MABEL. 301 
 
 taking charge of one, whose helplessness has 
 been caused by my fault, and I will shew you 
 that a husband's tenderest love and a brother's 
 most watchful care will ever be ready to pro- 
 tect you both. One word more. Though 
 with the most jealous hand I would guard you 
 from all pain, I must, though but for a mo- 
 ment, inflict it in alluding to past events. 
 I am aware of much, if not all, of your early 
 history, and know that I cannot be the first 
 object of your affections ; yet would I rather 
 have your second love, or even your friend- 
 ship, than the warmest attachment of any 
 other woman living. 
 
 " Do not then turn away from me without 
 consideration, think of your sister — of me — 
 and of yourself, unprotected in a world of 
 strangers, and, if you can, accept the love of 
 
 " Your most devoted and repectful 
 
 " Arthur Clair." 
 
 u 
 
 The Rectory, 
 " Friday Evening." 
 
302 MABEL, 
 
 Mabel was troubled, not only by the 
 generous tone of the letter, but because it 
 brought to view, subjects which she had not 
 allowed herself to think upon; for her real 
 strength consisted in a knowledge of her weak- 
 ness, and she knew that she should be quite 
 incapable of acting, if, to present pain, she 
 added the contemplation of future trials. But 
 now, Clair, in offering her a provision for the 
 future had forced her to think of it. Perhaps 
 generously to save her from the imputation of 
 accepting him, only when pressed by circum- 
 stances, as she might be, in but a few weeks. 
 
 Now the letter as it lay before her would 
 have her think. She had but a few minutes 
 before left her mother's room with the saddest 
 conviction ; and now, crowding on her remem- 
 brance came a thousand little speeches, that 
 told her, how earnestly, that dear mother had 
 tried to warn her of her approaching death. 
 Speeches which then appeared but the result 
 of nervous weakness, now occurred to her as 
 truths, which no reasoning could controvert. 
 
MABEL. 303 
 
 Some of their little property she knew rested 
 in the hands of an improvident and extrava- 
 gant aunt, and the remainder of their income 
 would fail altogther when her mother's pension 
 dropped. 
 
 And Amy, whose precarious health rendered 
 her now unable to be even moved from room 
 to room, she on whom she had lavished all the 
 comforts which affluence can invent, how could 
 she bear the trials of poverty ? How could 
 she suffer the privations to which they would 
 inevitably be reduced ; she who could scarcely 
 hear the sound of a heavy footfal without 
 pain, or be moved, without the greatest agony, 
 from the couch on which she constantly lay. 
 Not that she wavered with regard to Clair, 
 but his letter made her uneasy. Poverty, 
 death, and even that place where " ail that's 
 wretched paves the way to death," she would 
 have preferred to marriage, if she could but 
 have endured them alone. But who would 
 be her companion ? she turned her eyes to the 
 bed where, with cheeks flushed and eyes that 
 
304 MABEL. 
 
 scarcely closed, lay the little sufferer, her small, 
 wasted hand tightly compressed as if with 
 pain. At this moment she slightly moved, 
 and Mabel was instantly by her side. Her 
 eyes glistening bright with fever were 
 now opened wide, and gazing anxiously on 
 poor Mabel's tell-tale face. 
 
 " Mabel," said she in a low, sweet but 
 peculiar voice, " sit down by me, for I must 
 talk to you to-night, as my pain is all gone." 
 
 Mabel seated herself by her, and took the 
 little hand in hers. 
 
 " You will not be frightened, Mabel dear," 
 said the child, "if I talk about strange things, 
 and about going away." 
 
 " No, sweet one, no," replied her sister, 
 " talk of anything you like ; but where are you 
 going ?" 
 
 " Mabel, dear," she returned softly, " 1 
 suffer such pain that I do not think it will be 
 much longer — I must die soon, and then I 
 hope I am going to that beautiful country we 
 have talked of so often in the churchyard. I 
 
MABEL. 305 
 
 wish you could come with me, Mabel dear, for 
 I dream so often that papa is waiting for me, 
 and it is all so beautiful." 
 
 A quiet pressure of her hand was the only 
 answer. 
 
 u But I cannot help thinking of you, love," 
 continued Amy, " and what you will do with- 
 out me when I am gone ; but yet, Mabel dear, 
 think how strange it would be to me to lie her6 
 always ; and, if I grew big like this, you would 
 only cry over me, as you do when you think 
 I am asleep ; so, Mabel dear, let me go to 
 heaven." 
 
 The last words were spoken in the coaxing 
 tone with which she used so often to carry her 
 point in some little argument, and, finding no 
 answer, she put her hand under Mabel's head, 
 which was bent down, and raised it gently, 
 her face was very pale, and tears were stream- 
 ing from her eyes. 
 
 " Mabel, dear, dear Mabel," cried Amy, " I, 
 who have been such a trouble to you all my 
 
306 MABEL. 
 
 life, are you so sorry to part from me, your 
 naughty child. But now, I know it was very 
 good in you to correct me sometimes, or I 
 never should have been as happy as I am, 
 and now, I feel it to be all right that I should 
 be in such pain. Will you not rejoice too, 
 darling ? Look at me, there are no tears in my 
 eyes though I am talking of leaving you." 
 
 But the moment the sisters' eyes met, Amy's 
 were filled with tears, and her head sunk 
 back exhausted. Mabel could not trust herself 
 to say anything ; but, gently smoothing her 
 pillow, she suffered her own head to sink upon 
 it, and, fatigued alike by grief and want of 
 rest, she closed her eyes, and fell asleep. 
 " Tired nature's sweet restorer balmy sleep," 
 
 Of what untold comfort are you to the 
 mourner. Cares, that bow the head to the 
 earth at night, seem lighter to the waking 
 thoughts, refreshed, perhaps, by good angels 
 while we sleep. Were there no such sweet 
 forgetfulness of sorrow, could we bear to look 
 upon it long ? 
 
MABEL. 307 
 
 CHAPTEE XVI. 
 
 But oh ! to him whose self-accusing thought 
 Whispers : ' 'twas he that desolation wrought.' 
 
 Hemans. 
 
 " Fire ! fire ?" Who starts not at that terrible 
 cry? 
 
 The terrified women had scarcely told their 
 tale, before all the men in the " Hargrave 
 Arms " were on their feet, starting into the 
 open air. They soon perceived cause for alarm. 
 Proceeding from that quarter of the village 
 where the houses lay closest together, rose a 
 column of smoke and flame, blown hither and 
 thither by the boisterous wind, which was 
 
308 MABEL. 
 
 spreading the red sparks in every direction, 
 tossing them high in the air, and then suffer- 
 ing them to fall on some distant cottage, whose 
 thatched roof rendered it a ready prey. 
 
 So rapidly had the fire spread, that several 
 cottages were already burning, and the men 
 ran hither and thither from one to the other in 
 consternation, and uncertain what course to 
 pursue to save their property. All seemed at 
 stake — wives, children, the sick, household 
 furniture, the cherished articles purchased, 
 perhaps, by long and mutual saving before 
 marriage, and therefore doubly dear — and these 
 thoughts occurring to each, confused the move- 
 ments of all. 
 
 But, in the midst of these sudden difficulties, 
 the coolness of the stranger did not desert 
 him, He had followed his companions from 
 the inn, to ascertain the cause of alarm, and 
 he was almost immediately after seen leading 
 his horse. Arresting the attention of old 
 Giles, he enquired — 
 
MABEL. 309 
 
 " Where shall we send for fire engines ?" 
 
 " There is not one to be had nearer than 
 Cheltenham," was the reply. 
 
 " Now then/' cried he, seizing a yonng man, 
 who was hurrying about, scarcely knowing 
 what he did, " do you know the road to Chel- 
 tenham ?" 
 
 Being answered in the affirmative, he bade 
 him mount his horse, and ride as fast as 
 possible in search of engines. Well he knew 
 his own good steed would die rather than give 
 up the journey, and, though he sighed as he 
 thought how long the- way would be, he dared 
 not reckon his horse's life against those of his 
 fellow creatures. 
 
 His next effort was to brine the scattered 
 crowd a little into order, for the purpose of 
 checking the rapid spread of the fire. Nothing 
 secures obedience to a command so much 
 as the decision and coolness with which it is 
 given ; and all were soon engaged in pulling 
 down, at his suggestion, the cottage which 
 lay nearest to those already burning. 
 
310 MABEL. 
 
 But the futility of the attempt was soon 
 perceived by the sparks leaping over and catch- 
 ing the roof of a more distant tenement. As 
 soon as the fire touched it, an up- stair lattice- 
 window was thrown open, and a woman lean- 
 ing out, and raising her hands wildly in the 
 air, cried aloud for help. 
 
 " Come down," said the stranger, in a voice 
 distinctly heard above the tempest, and the 
 confused noises around him, " come down, and 
 you are safe — nothing hinders you." 
 
 " My father !" screamed the woman, " I 
 cannot move him — come up, in mercy, come to 
 me. Help ! help ! — we are all on fire !" 
 
 The stranger, followed closely by Clair, who, 
 on hearing the tumult had hurried to the scene, 
 accompanied by his uncle, hastened into the 
 house, and soon reached the upper room, from 
 which the woman had called for assistance. The 
 strong fire-light gleaming on all around, dis- 
 closed to their view a room, which made the 
 stranger shudder. A low bedstead, scarcely 
 raised from the ground, with a box in one 
 
MABEL. 311 
 
 corner, on which an old coat was lying, formed 
 the only furniture of the room; while thin 
 holes in the lath and plaister wall, let in the 
 cruel blast. On the floor was lying an old 
 man, with some bed-clothes huddled round 
 him, It seemed that his daughter had dragged 
 him from the bed ; but had been unable to get 
 him farther than the door. 
 
 " Father's been bed-ridden these two years," 
 said the woman, hastily, " he cannot crawl 
 down stairs, and I cannot carry him." 
 
 " You are safe now," said the stranger, in a 
 re-assuring voice. " Follow us ;" and he took 
 the old man up in his powerful arms. " Why 
 do you stay ?" he said, turning at the door. 
 " Could there be anything worth saving," 
 thought he, " iu this wretched hovel — any- 
 thing but life ?" 
 
 The woman soon joined them, bearing in 
 her arms, a small geranium-pot, and an old 
 Bible. 
 
 The stranger turned aside his head, and the 
 
312 MABEL. 
 
 old man wondered to see a tear in his fearless 
 eye. 
 
 Gently placing his burden on the ground, 
 he returned to the house, and, leaning his 
 shoulder against the door, forced its rusty 
 hinges to give way, then, throwing the scanty 
 mattress upon it, he lifted up the old man, and 
 placed him securely on this hastily formed 
 litter, which had been constructed before the 
 woman had time to think of her deliverance. 
 He then called to two or three able-bodied 
 men, 
 
 " For the love of mercy," cried he, " carry 
 this poor man to Aston Manor, and tell the 
 house-keeper to see to his comfort." 
 
 " She'll never open the doors," growled the 
 men in surprise. 
 
 " 1 tell you she will," cried he, as quickly 
 roused by opposition as a spoilt child, " take 
 him along with you." 
 
 Thus urged, the men took up the rude litter, 
 and, attended by the woman bearing her 
 
MABEL. 313 
 
 cherished treasures in her arms, they made as 
 much haste as could be, to the Manor House, 
 leaving the burning village behind them. They 
 needed neither moon nor stars to help them on 
 their way, for the sky was red with light, and 
 the hills around reflected back the fire — many 
 times had they to rest, and often, as they did 
 so, they turned their eyes back— where some- 
 times the attempts of the villagers would give 
 a temporary check, or, the falling in of some 
 roof, would damp the flame, and give a moment's 
 hope, till, presently, it would again burst forth 
 with wilder fury than before. 
 
 Then, urged with the desire to get back, or 
 the curiosity to know whether they would really 
 be admitted beyond the closely shut door of 
 the Manor House, they moved on more quickly 
 up the narrow pathway which lay most directly 
 in a line with it. Presently, they perceived a 
 man hurrying towards them, with a frightened 
 and bewildered air. On coming closer, they 
 recognised the hated bailiff Eogers — he was one 
 
 VOL. i. p 
 
314 MABEL. 
 
 whose manners, though smooth and oily to his 
 superiors, were, to his inferiors, blustering and 
 loud ; not indeed the off-hand manner which 
 often accompanies and conceals a good and 
 kindly heart, but rather a studied recklessness 
 of wounding the feelings of others, a total for- 
 getfulness of the circumstances and tempers of 
 those dependent on him, to whom a kind word 
 would have cost him nothing. Alas, since our 
 feelings are so finely tuned, why are we not 
 more careful how we play on those of others. 
 But Rogers found that this deliberate careless- 
 ness of offence, was, with the timid, a skilful 
 weapon, for it made them fear him, and he 
 rejoiced in the influence this fear gave to him. 
 He forgot in the day of power, how little sub- 
 stance it possesses, or that the sway of 
 tyranny bears in itself the elements of decay, 
 and must crumble away before the force of cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 He was evidently at that moment feeling at 
 a disadvantage. His thin, lanky figure hastily 
 attired, looked not half so important as usual, 
 
MABEL. 315 
 
 and he was trembling within with agitation or 
 cold. 
 
 The whole party stopped ; and the eldest of 
 the young men, whose countenance was very 
 far from prepossessing, drawing the bailiff 
 aside, said, with a low, chuckling kind of 
 laugh — 
 
 " Are you going down to the village, sir ?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Eogers, " I have not come 
 from it very long, and only just stepped back 
 to the Manor. But why do you ask ?" 
 
 " Because, if you take my advice, you'll 
 keep as clear of it as you can, for the men are 
 hot, and you know, sir," he added, with a low 
 laugh, " they aint all on em very particlar 
 friends o'yourn. I heard words spoke to-night, 
 as may be you would not like." 
 
 " I must go, however," replied Eogers, with 
 a shaky attempt to look swaggering," and I 
 should like to see what the cowards dare do." 
 
 " I tell you ye'd better not," said the young 
 man, decisively, " but I've given my warning, 
 p 2 
 
316 MABEL. 
 
 I heard some one say, it was very hard if one 
 life was not lost in the bustle to-night — though 
 I do not like peaching, but I owe you a good 
 turn for sending Sally Lyn and her old sick 
 father out of their cottage, that cold Christmas 
 night, at my asking," he added, with a bitter 
 laugh. 
 
 Eogers did not look particularly obliged by 
 this grateful reminder, that he had once lent 
 himself to his revenge at an easy bribe. As 
 the mingled smoke and flame rose in columns 
 of awful majesty, like the workings of a super- 
 natural power, till he felt sickened at the sight, 
 he would have given a great deal could the 
 young man have recalled one single act of dis- 
 interested mercy. 
 
 " Yet I must go," he said, at length, "I 
 cannot help it." 
 
 " "Well, then, be careful, that is all," replied 
 his companion. 
 
 Eogers smiled nervously, and passed slowly 
 on towards the village, leaving him to join the 
 
MABEL. 317 
 
 others, who, anxious to complete their task, 
 were waiting impatiently for him. 
 
 They had not much further to go, and soon 
 entered a side gate from which a narrow path- 
 way led through a shrubbery of evergreens, 
 round to the back entrance. Here two or three 
 dogs began to greet, them with a loud bark, 
 giving no very pleasing indications of welcome ; 
 and, as they carried their living burden up the 
 court-yard, they felt half inclined to turn back 
 or to leave the sick man at the door to speak 
 for himself ; but the woman hastily prevented 
 them by ringing loudly at the bell, which 
 sounded through the building, making her 
 heart sink. There was rather a lengthened 
 pause, and, tired with waiting for the unex- 
 pected welcome, and anxious to shift the re- 
 sponsibility from themselves, the men laid 
 down their burden, and, spite of the woman's 
 entreaties, left them to their fate. They had 
 scarcely passed the court- yard before they 
 heard the sound of doors unbolting, but they 
 did not stop to enquire further, and hurried 
 
318 MABEL. 
 
 back to the village, glad to escape from an 
 office of which they were heartily tired. 
 
 On their return, they found the place full 
 of confusion ; women and children, endangered 
 by the falling sparks, were running in all 
 directions ; Mr. "Ware, with a bottle of brandy 
 and a glass, was moving about, giving enough 
 to the fainting men to keep up their strength, 
 and to encourage them to continue the labour 
 of carrying water to throw upon the flames. 
 
 " We must save the Manor House and the 
 rectory, at least," said the stranger, to a group 
 of men who thronged around him in despair at 
 the failure of every effort ; " but I see no hope 
 for the thatched cottages." 
 
 "And the church," said Mr. Ware ; "but 
 that stands alone, and, I hope, is safe." 
 
 " I would not raise my hand," said a sullen 
 voice, which all recognized as that of Martin 
 the poacher — " I would not raise a hand to 
 save the Manor House, if I were to die for it." 
 
 " Shame on you," said the stranger; " if it 
 be necessary, I will make you." 
 
MABEL. 319 
 
 " I should like to see how," said Martin, 
 scowling on him ; " there is not many as can 
 make me do as 1 don't like. And I say, if the 
 master leaves us to starve, he may take care of 
 his honse himself. Share and share alike. We 
 owe him little enough." 
 
 And he turned his eyes towards the fire, and 
 pointed to his own cottage which was smoulder- 
 ing in ruins. 
 
 The stranger fixed his quick eye upon him 
 for a moment, and then turned to Eogers, who, 
 making his way through the crowd, came up, 
 and whispered for a few moments in his ear. 
 He bent his head to listen, and then looking 
 at those around him, he said, as he fixed his 
 keen eye on Martin. 
 
 " I have received a message, which tells me, 
 friends, that Aston Manor is now open, for the 
 women and children who may like to take re- 
 fuge in it ; and you may put any of your fur- 
 niture, which you can save, in the stables ; there 
 it will be in safety. I understand that there 
 are many fine pictures, statues, and ornaments 
 
320 MABEL. 
 
 of every kind there, and I need not ask you to 
 take care of them." 
 
 Every one listened with surprise to this 
 unusual news ; but he bade them hasten 
 to send their wives and children away. 
 "We shall be able to act better when they 
 are gone, sir," he said, bowing, for the first 
 time, to Mr. Ware, who failed not to applaud a 
 measure, at once humane and judicious, since it 
 gave an object, to the discontented, to protect 
 the mansion should it be necessary. 
 
 In a short time, all the children had left the 
 scene ; but most of the women remained, em- 
 ployed in dragging the furniture from the 
 fire, either laying it in heaps, or carrying it 
 towards the stables. 
 
 Suddenly a frightful yell burst upon every 
 ear. 
 
 " Some poor creature is in danger," said the 
 stranger, who was the first to speak — "I 
 thought you had searched the burning houses. 
 Come all of you." 
 
 So saying, he sprang to the nearest cottage, 
 
MABEL. 32 1 
 
 whose blazing roof threatened every moment 
 to fall in. 
 
 Clair followed him closely, crying aloud — 
 
 " Do not venture, the roof is coming down — 
 I have searched that place myself." 
 
 But, as he said so, another yell sounded upon 
 their ears. 
 
 " The door is tied here," said the stranger, 
 tearing at a well- knotted cord with impatient 
 violence — but it w^ould not give way. " Help 
 me then," he said to Clair; and, leaning his 
 shoulder against the door, the hinge snapped, 
 though the cord remained firm. 
 
 The apartmeut, on which they thus entered, 
 was bare of anything, save one living object. 
 Both started, as they beheld the wretched 
 Bogers, tied round the waist, by a thick cord, to 
 a strong piece of wood which ran up the side 
 to the ceiling. His eyes were glaring and dis- 
 tended — his face filled with death-like 
 anguish. Blood was gushing from his mouth 
 and nostrils, for he had ruptured a blood vessel 
 p 5 
 
322 3JABEL. 
 
 in his attempts to free his hands and mouth 
 from the bandages, which appeared to have 
 been tied over them. 
 
 " Wretched man, repent before it is too 
 late," said the stranger, as he hastened to 
 undo the cords which bound him. 
 
 It was not an easy matter, and every mo- 
 ment seemed an age of peril to the three. 
 
 Rogers opened his eyes, wide w r ith horror, 
 upon the stranger, for a moment, and then 
 turned aside his head and fainted. The room 
 was heated to suffocation, and fast flllino; with 
 smoke. Clair felt sick with horror ; but the 
 stranger, w r hose thought seemed action, raised 
 Eogers in his arms. With his head laid carefully 
 on his shoulder, and his own hands and gar- 
 ments dripping in his blood, he bore him out, 
 assisted by Clair. Scarcely had they cleared 
 the threshold, when the roof fell in, and the 
 cottage was in ruins. 
 
 A shout, from those who had feared to follow, 
 welcomed them as they appeared ; and the 
 stranger staggered through the ruins spread 
 
MABEL. 323 
 
 around him, to the group who anxiously waited 
 them. He singled out Mr. Ware, and laid 
 his fainting burden at his feet, then, bending 
 his knee in Eastern fashion before him, he 
 said — 
 
 " Father, judge who hath done this, for he 
 is a brother, though a sinful one." 
 
 A murmur of horror passed through the 
 crowd ; and Mr. Ware, kneeling by the side of 
 the hated Eogers, tried to reanimate him. 
 
 " He is not dead, sir," said he, in a low 
 voice; " he will live, I trust, if we can once 
 revive him." 
 
 " He will have time to repent, I hope," said 
 old Giles ; " bring some water to moisten his 
 lips, and let us clear the blood from his 
 mouth." 
 
 " Will you watch by him, sir ?" said the 
 stranger, again addressing Mr. Ware " he is 
 too sinful to die ; and if he wakes, you can 
 give him comfort." 
 
 M I will," said he, " I will take care of 
 him." 
 
324 MABEL. 
 
 The stranger covered his face with his hands, 
 as if anxious either to shut out the scenes 
 which had terrified him, or to collect his 
 thoughts. 
 
 Then rose a hasty cry, " Widow Dacre's — 
 the fire has taken it — there are sparks on the 
 roof." 
 
 He started, as if with sudden pain, and then 
 ran wildly towards the hill, at the bottom of 
 which lay the widow's cottage. On its height 
 the church looked down in its holy stillness, 
 and between both lay the picturesque thatched 
 cottage belonging to Mrs. Lesly. 
 
MABEL. 325 
 
 •CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 But when I see the fair wide brow 
 Half shaded by the silken hair, 
 That never looked so fair as now 
 When life and health were laughing there, 
 I wonder not that grief should swell 
 So wildly upward in the breast, 
 And that strong passion once rebel 
 That need not, cannot be suppressed. 
 
 All hands were now directed to save the small 
 cottage belonging to the Widow Dacre, but 
 with very little effect, for the wind which came 
 down from the hills with furious blasts seemed 
 to mock at every effort to extinguish the fire, 
 
32 6 MABEL. 
 
 while it fanned the faintest spark into a flame, 
 and then spread it with wonnderful rapidity. 
 But it was not for the sake of the tiny cottage, 
 which its owner had long since .vacated, they 
 all labored so zealously, but because it now 
 seemed a link between the ruined village and 
 the dwelling which all looked upon with in- 
 terest. Eomance seemed to have cast a kind 
 of charm round the little family, to which 
 Mabel belonged. 
 
 Upon whose threshold had Mabel's light step 
 been unwelcome ? And who was not ready 
 to protect the roof that sheltered her from 
 danger ? 
 
 Now, as all eyes watched the building, it 
 was, for the first time, perceived, that no one 
 stirred within; the shutters were fast closed, 
 and there was not the slightest sign that the 
 general alarm Lad reached it 
 
 " Is it possible," said the stranger, turning 
 to Clair, " that amidst all this din and con- 
 fusion they should sleep on and hear nothing ?" 
 
 " I will go and try to get in," said Clair. 
 
MABEL. 327 
 
 " And I," said the stranger, as they walked 
 both together to the door and rung the bell, at 
 first gently, but more loudly as they heard no 
 one moving. 
 
 Presently a shuffling step was heard, and a 
 somewhat sulky " Who's there ?" from 
 within. 
 
 " It is I," said Clair, " open the door, for 
 the village is on fire." 
 
 The door was immediately thrown open and 
 old John the gardener staggered back as he 
 perceived the red sky, which glared above him 
 on all sides. 
 
 " The ladies ! — " he exclaimed. 
 
 " We will take care of them, only go and 
 dress, and then come and help us," said Clair. 
 
 John speedily availed himself of this per- 
 mission, and then, with considerable coolness, 
 he hurried to the stable after his mistress's 
 Bath chair, which had not seen the light for 
 many a month. 
 
 Meanwhile, the two gentleman hurried up 
 stairs ; they had, however, scarcely reached the 
 
328 MABEL. 
 
 landing-place, when they heard a shout from 
 the outside, which made the stranger spring 
 back down the stairs to ascertain the cause, 
 begging Clair to remain. The latter, accord- 
 ingly, began to search for the bed-rooms in- 
 habited by Mrs. Lesly and her daughter. 
 Haying hastily tapped at one, and receiving no 
 answer, he did not hesitate to open it. Here 
 a night lamp was dimly burning, and, when he 
 looked at the heavy oak shutters, and the 
 closely drawn curtains, and perceived the still- 
 ness within, he no longer wondered that they 
 slept. This was Mrs. Lesly's room, and, on a 
 bed at her feet, reposed the faithful servant 
 Betsy, and so soundly that Clair had to shake her 
 with some little violence before he could 
 awaken her. Her expressions of terror soon 
 roused Mrs. Lesly, to whom Clair explained as 
 much as he thought proper, begging her to get 
 up and allow him to take her from the house, 
 should it be necessary, saying he would wait 
 for her on the outside. 
 
MABEL. 329 
 
 She needed no second bidding, but suf- 
 fered the affrighted Betsy to assist her to rise. 
 Clair lelt the room with the intention of con- 
 veying the same warning to Mabel, but, before 
 he coukl do so, the stranger hurried to him, 
 and, seizing him by the hand, he wrung it 
 wildly, saying, 
 
 " That shout told that the back part of the 
 house is already burning. "Will you take care 
 of Mrs. Lesly and her maid ? promise me not 
 to leave them till they are safe, and I hope I 
 can manage the rest." 
 
 There was one other duty which Clair would 
 willingly have chosen, but there was now no 
 time for parley, and the eager pressure of the 
 hand, which the stranger returned for his 
 promise, made him no longer regret it. But, as 
 he leant against the wall of the passage, wait- 
 ing for Mrs. Lesly, his countenance became 
 more and more haggard in appearance, and his 
 bloodless lips and heavy eyes rather spoke of 
 mental pain than the fatigue of bodily ex- 
 ertion. 
 
330 MABEL. 
 
 But, there was not much time to think, the 
 passage in which he waited began to feel into- 
 lerably warm, and the air gradually thickened 
 with smoke. 
 
 He then called eagerly to Mrs. Lesly, and 
 once again entering the room where poor Betsy 
 was sobbing with alarm, he hastily finished 
 her preparations, by taking up an immense 
 cloak which lay on the floor, and wrapping it 
 round the poor invalid, who was coughing 
 violently from the exertion of dressing, he 
 hurried her from the room, and down stairs to 
 the open air. 
 
 Here he was rejoiced to see the faithful 
 gardener. 
 
 " Put missis in here," he said, dragging the 
 chair forward, which he had provided for her — 
 " for I don't know which'll do her most harm, 
 the fire or the air." 
 
 " That's right," said Clair, placing her in it, 
 and as he did so, stooping down kindly, to sooth 
 her anxiety for her children, and covering her up 
 
MABEL. 331 
 
 from the night air, which blew chilly upon her, 
 for she had not left her bed for several weeks. 
 
 Hiding her eyes with her pocket-handker- 
 chief, she turned away at once from the terrific 
 scene before her, and the many cherished ob- 
 jects of her home, soon, perhaps, to be the 
 spoil of the raging fire. A thousand recollec- 
 tions crowded upon her mind, which was too 
 sensitive, and too delicately framed for the 
 struggles of common life. The acuteness of 
 her feelings, added bitterness to every trial, by 
 representing, them to her in the most touehing, 
 and even poetical light, till her heart was en- 
 tirely overcome by the sufferings she was too 
 skilled in describing to herself. In vain 
 Clair endeavoured to comfort her, as he accom- 
 panied her a little way on the road to the 
 Manor House, when, finding his presence of little 
 service, he left her in the hands of her careful 
 servant, and hastened back to afford any assis- 
 tance he could offer to the sisters. 
 
 During his absence, the stranger had not 
 been idle ; assured of Mrs. Lesly's safety by the 
 
332 MABEL. 
 
 promise which. Clair had given him ; he 
 turned to another door, and, too impatient to 
 summon its owner, he opened it gently. Here, 
 too, a lamp was burning, and the light that it 
 spread around, was quite sfficient for his rapid 
 gaze. Ee turned to the bed where lay the 
 beautiful, delicately shaped child ; her coun- 
 tenance still wet with tears, yet serene and 
 happy as if her dreams were not of earth. 
 Mabel's head lay upon the same pillow ; the 
 little haud in hers, and the rich curls of her 
 chesnut hair, half concealing her face ; she 
 seemed, in her motionless slumber, like some 
 trusting child, who knows that watchful eyes 
 guard her from danger — yet sorrow in many 
 shapes, had been, and was still around her. 
 
 He paused — the hasty call which would have 
 wakened both, died upon his lips; and he 
 stood, as if entranced, and forgetful of the dan- 
 ger which every moment's delay increased. 
 He bent forward, and earnestly contemplated 
 the sleepers, and, as he did so, a smile passed 
 
MABEL. 33'1 
 
 over Mabel's face, and she murmured some- 
 thing which made him listen still more ear- 
 nestly. 
 
 But, now she starts, her bosom heaves as if 
 something troubled her. Again, she sleeps — 
 but only to start again — her hand unclasps, she 
 turns as if in pain— then, leaping to her feet — 
 she suddenly stands before him—yet scarcely 
 roused from the dream which had awakened 
 her. 
 
 Light, brighter than the moon, and more 
 glowing than the sunshine, streamed in upon the 
 room, and rendered the stranger's face clearly 
 visible; Mabel's eyes fixed upon him with 
 something between terror and surprise ; she 
 tried to speak, but her lips trembled so 
 convulsively, that she could not utter a sound 
 — she tried to advance, but she felt that his 
 eye quelled every movement; and what did 
 that dark look mean, with which he regarded 
 her; and why, as it grew more dark, did 
 Mabel's form become more erect, while her 
 
334 MABEL. 
 
 lips curled, her cheeks flushed crimson, and her 
 eye also fixed on his, flashed with a fiery pride, 
 which but seldom showed itself upon her face. 
 Yet, this was but for a moment, for the stran- 
 ger taking the cloak which he had brought for 
 the purpose, he threw it round her, and raising 
 her almost from the ground with the rapidity 
 of his movements, he hurried her from the 
 room, and down the stairs. When they reach- 
 ed the garden, he loosened his hold, and 
 suffered the cloak, which had entirely covered 
 her face and head, to fall back. Mabel looked 
 wildly round ; a busy crowd was about the 
 house ; the sickly smell of fire was in the air, 
 and, as she gazed back, she saw flames bursting 
 from the lower windows of their cottage. 
 In an instant she had freed herself, and 
 springing past him with a wild cry of terror 
 and agony, she entered the house, and through 
 the smoke and sparks scattered about her, she 
 was once again by Amy's side, who was 
 awake, and greatly terrified; and, as Mabel 
 
MABEL. 335 
 
 threw herself upon her knees beside her, she 
 cried : — 
 
 " Do not leave me, Mabel dear — I shall die 
 if you do." 
 
 " Leave you, my darling," cried Mabel, 
 " nothing but death shall part us." 
 
 " If you had waited but a moment, I would 
 have brought her to you," said the stranger. 
 
 " Oh, why did you think of me first," cried 
 Mabel. 
 
 " 'Twas wrong, perhaps," said the stranger; 
 " but it made only the difference of a few mo- 
 ments. Come, my child," said he, stooping to 
 lift her from her couch. 
 
 " No, no," said Mabel, " you must take 
 couch and all. Oh !" said she, wringing her 
 hands, " will no one come and help you ?" 
 
 " I am not afraid of fire," said a gruff 
 voice, and Martin entered ; " I'll help, but you 
 must make haste." 
 
 " But my Mamma, where is she ?" exclaimed 
 Mabel. 
 

 36 MABEL. 
 
 "She is safe, and the two servants are with her." 
 
 " Oh then, dear Amy, let us go to them," 
 she said ; and, in a quick but concise manner, 
 she explained how r the springs of the couch 
 might be altered, so as to render the carriage of 
 it more easy. 
 
 The counterpane was then laid closely over, 
 and a shawl placed over Amy's face, and the 
 stranger and Martin, carrying the couch, pro- 
 ceeded carefully to leave the house- -Mabel, 
 bending over her sister, and soothing her at 
 every step, while she placed herself in the way 
 of anything which was blowing towards them, 
 seemingly forgetful of her own safety ; but, 
 though nothing shielded her, she passed through 
 the fire entirely uninjured. 
 
 Occupied as all were, each with, his separate 
 interests, few could resist a feeling of admira- 
 tion for the beautiful girl, who, in her own 
 simple neighbourhood, had won so much of the 
 love of those around her. 
 
MABEL. 337 
 
 Bending over the couch, which the stranger 
 and Martin bore between them, her hair blown 
 in wild disorder about her face, which shewed 
 a thousand mingled feelings, as she some- 
 times turned, shrinking, from the terrible 
 scene around her, to which she had so sud- 
 denly awakened — sometimes, looking up in 
 strange bewilderment, but always, with out- 
 stretched hands, placing her unprotected figure 
 between the loved child, and the sparks and 
 timbers, which were repeatedly blown across 
 the road ; she looked like some wild and 
 beautiful spirit of the storm, which it had no 
 power to harm. The uneasy motion gave 
 the greatest anguish to poor Amy, who, though 
 usually so patient, uttered shriek after shriek 
 of agony, which pierced the hearts of those 
 who hurried round in the vain hope of afford- 
 ing assistance. At every turn they took, fresh 
 torturing cries broke from the little sufferer, 
 who, agonised with pain, and terrified at the 
 
 VOL. i. Q 
 
338 MABEL. 
 
 scene around her, lost every power of self- 
 control. 
 
 Entirely overcome by the cries, of the 
 poor little sufferer, Mabel entreated them to 
 stop, and rather to lay her on the road 
 side, than take her further; Martin, who, 
 though a bold, and not an over humane 
 man, looked pale and sick with the duty he 
 had undertaken, readily suggested that they 
 might place her in the lodge, which had 
 long been deserted by its owner — an old woman 
 — who had taken refuge with the children at 
 the Manor House. 
 
 To this the stranger consented ; and, after 
 some little difficulty, they contrived to lay her 
 in the old woman's room. 
 
 " It is the hardest night's work I've ever 
 had," said Martin, as he turned away. " I'll 
 go and send some one to her, sir, as will do 
 more good than I can." 
 
 Poor Amy's shrieks had been heart-rending 
 when they laid her down ; but shortly after- 
 wards, they subsided into a low moaning sound, 
 
MABEL. 339 
 
 " Though there's plenty of fire," said Martin, 
 " I don't think there's a candle left in all the 
 place ; bnt I'll find one if I can." 
 
 He then went away, and the stranger alone 
 remained, for no one else had followed so far 
 but Clair, who had now gone to call his aunt. 
 
 " Can I do anything more for you ?" said 
 the stranger, in a voice trembling with 
 emotion. 
 
 Mabel raised her eyes, and as they met his 
 for an instant, a warm blush ' overspread her 
 pale countenance. 
 
 " Bless you for what you have done," she 
 murmured, despairingly. 
 
 " Water ?" said Amy, opening her eyes. 
 
 Mabel turned entreatingly to the stranger, 
 who, without another word, left the room. 
 
 Martin soon afterwards returned with a light, 
 and placed it on the floor, and Mabel again 
 entreated for water to moisten Amy's parched 
 lips ; but it was more difficult to obtain than 
 she imagined, for the whole furniture of the 
 
340 MABEL. 
 
 house had been long since removed, and the 
 empty cupboard looked comfortless indeed. 
 
 But, in a short while, the stranger returned, 
 and presented her with a cup of pure water, 
 which she eagerly gave to Amy. 
 
 " Thank you, sir," said Amy, gently, "and 
 thank you for carrying me. Did you mind my 
 crying ? I felt very ill, and could not help it," 
 she looked at him timidly. " Sir," she con- 
 tinued, rousing herself with an energy which 
 surprised him, " Mabel will soon be alone. 
 Do you think any one will comfort her, and 
 take care of her?" 
 
 " May I," said he, to Mabel, suddenly mov- 
 ing towards them, " may I speak to her 
 alone ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Amy, eagerly, " let him 
 speak to me. 
 
 " Her time is precious ;" said Mabel, rising 
 reluctantly, u do not keep me from her long." 
 
 " No, I will not, but a few minutes," said 
 the stranger, hurriedly, and Mabel leaving the 
 
MABEL. 341 
 
 room went into the open air, and, leaning 
 against the door way, she tried to tranquillize 
 her thoughts. The village was shut out by 
 the tall trees which surrounded the entrances 
 to the Manor House, and the low sighing of* 
 the wind, which was now beginning to sink, 
 was the only sound which met her ear, while 
 the busy clouds, dimly lighted by the occasional 
 appearance of the moon, traced their way across 
 the heavens. There were wild thoughts in 
 her own mind, which made her heart beat 
 tumultuously. "With a sudden burst of an- 
 guish, she threw herself upon her knees, and 
 laid her forehead upon the cold earth in the 
 bitterness of her soul. 
 
 She only rose when she heard the stranger's 
 step, and then, passing him quickly, for she 
 dared not trust herself to speak, she re-entered 
 the room. 
 
 Amy's cheeks were flashed, and the look of 
 pain seemed entirely to have passed away. 
 Her eyes were bright, " as if gazing on 
 
342 MABEL. 
 
 visions of ecstasy," while over her white coun- 
 tenance was spread a halo, at once so child- 
 like and so serene that Mabel stepped more 
 softly and knelt in silence by her side. 
 
 Amy put out her hand, and fondly stroked 
 her cheeks and smoothed her hair. 
 
 " You are very beautiful, Mabel dear," she 
 said, with gentle pride, as if she spoke to 
 her own thoughts, " and you look more and 
 more beautiful because you are so good, and 
 what pretty hair," she said, still speaking to 
 herself, while her sister blushed unconsciously 
 at her praises. 
 
 " Oh, it is a dear, good Mabel," said Amy, 
 fondly ; then changing her tone, and dropping 
 her hands upon her bosom with simple devotion, 
 she said, softly — 
 
 " Sing me to sleep." 
 
 Mabel made a strong effort to overcome her 
 emotion. 
 
 " I hear old John outside," said Amy, sud- 
 denly, though her sister could hear nothing, 
 
MABEL. 343 
 
 " but I cannot see him," and her eyes filled 
 with tears, " but will you tell him to let no one 
 else come, for I want to be alone a little while, 
 I feel better with you. Ah, poor mamma," 
 she added, thoughtfully, " but I cannot see 
 her either, to-night." 
 
 Old John was at the door as Amy had said, 
 and Mabel telling him to keep any one from 
 coming in, as Amy was going to sleep, returned 
 to her and then began the evening hymn. 
 Sweetly did those beautiful lines sound, 
 breathed in low and trembling melody, but she 
 had scarcely finished the third yerse when sobs 
 stopped her utterance, she was, however, try- 
 ing to go on, but Amy laid her hand upon her 
 lips. 
 
 " Don't go on, Mabel, dear, I shall soon hear 
 angels' music. They are waiting for me now, 
 but I must go alone," she said, " and your dear 
 voice is the last sound I wished to hear on 
 earth. Do not leave me," she added, seeing 
 her attempt to rise, " you have done all that 
 
344 MABEL. 
 
 can be done for me, and you must not go away 
 now." 
 
 Mabel saw indeed that it was too late to call 
 for assistance, and she scarcely breathed, lest a 
 word might escape her ear. 
 
 " You have been very kind to me," mur- 
 mered Amy, in faint accents, " and it is very 
 hard to part, but listen, listen," said she, 
 holding up her tiny hand ; then, as if the sound 
 were dying away, her hand fell softly down, 
 and all was over. A holy stillness stole over 
 the chamber of death, unbroken b\ a sound, 
 for Mabel's anguish was too great for tears. 
 
 The old gardener had seated himself on the 
 door step, and tears chased each other down 
 his weather beaten cheeks, as he listened to 
 Mabel's low singing, and remembered how 
 often the voices of both had mingled in gay 
 and thrilling merriment, which had made his 
 old heart dance, when he had pretended not 
 even to hear them. 
 
 " Ah, thought he, let the old house burn 
 
MABEL. 345 
 
 since they that made it glad are going or gone." 
 But then came thoughts of the sunny garden, 
 made more pleasant by the cheerful faces and 
 glad voices now hushed by death or sorrow, his 
 grief burst out afresh, and, burying his head in, 
 his knees, he gave himself up to old recollec- 
 tions, heedless of every thing about him. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 T. C. Newby, Printer, 30, Welbeck Street, Cavendish Square. 
 
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