What sadder sight can angels view,
Than self deceiving tears,
Pour'd idly over some dark page,
Of earlier life, though pride or rage,
The record of to-day engage,
A woe for future years.
CHRISTIAN YEAR.
Colonel Hargrave rapidly domesticated himself in Sydney Place, and very
soon placed himself on terms of intimacy with the Villars family. Still
nothing occurred which seemed to bring Caroline nearer her object, and
though for some weeks her temper remained unruffled in his presence,
nothing betrayed any thing like admiration on his part; nothing could
warm into affection the every-day friendship which had been established
between them, or induce him to take advantage of his popularity, by
choosing a mistress for Aston Manor.
Mrs. Villars was too ready to interpose her powers of contrivance, and
took every opportunity of throwing them together; in public, she often
succeeded, but in their private circle he was more than a match for all
her address, for when the manners of the perfect gentleman failed to
secure him from any well-laid scheme to entrap his admiration, he was
ready to assume those of the bear.
One great difficulty consisted in dragging him to the balls and evening
parties, which began to succeed each other in rapid succession; and
sometimes when they had wholly reckoned on his company, he would be
found in his morning coat, busily employed in writing letters, which no
coaxing could induce him to leave. At these times Caroline would often
plead a head-ache, and remain at home, but to very little purpose, as
he seemed to believe the excuse, and, probably supposing quiet the best
restorative, he would gather up his books, and retire to his own room.
A woman's heart, when regulated by no higher principle than that of its
own native impulses, is often piqued into love by the very means which
should have restrained it, and Caroline's had been left to the
government of vanity and coquetry, habits which insensibly corrode the
innate modesty of the female mind. Hargrave's failings, therefore,
excited more affection than his virtues--for the necessity of watching
his humours, and of courting rather than receiving his attentions,
insensibly interested her, and though her feeling was composed of
component parts of vanity, self-love, avarice, and, ambition, it could
scarcely be affirmed that it did not contain a few grains of genuine
affection. She had indeed merely expected some broken down nabob, who
would have formed an easy conquest, and she was therefore agreeably
surprised by Hargrave's manner and appearance, for his manly bearing
and easy air, compensated for any injury an Indian sun might have given
his complexion, and called forth the praise of all Caroline's fair
friends. Thus, stimulated by opposition, she left no art untried to win
him, and watched his movements with secret and constant jealousy; while
her mother, with the foolish fondness, which had grown almost to fear of
her beautiful daughter, encouraged her to hope, by repeating and
magnifying, sometimes even inventing, speeches, which seemed to betray
more than Hargrave openly professed.
Meanwhile, he evaded these manoeuvres, and placed himself on terms of
equal civility with all the sisters, by whom he found even his weakest
foibles caressed. Lucy, alone, resisted his fascinations, and long after
every shadow of her grief had disappeared, continued to avoid him, and
never mentioned, before him, the name of her new admirer, whom she now
frequently met, either at the public balls, or the morning concerts in
the Pump room, the fashionable resort of the sick, who drank its
waters, the musical, or the idle.
Mr. Beauclerc considered himself a judge of music, and might frequently
be seen listening to the performance with a scientific air. He seldom
failed to join the Villars party, and engage Lucy in conversation, to
her unfeigned satisfaction. She could not fail to perceive that there
was one subject which dwelt in his thoughts, though seldom more than
dimly hinted at, which gave an air of sadness to his mind.
What this might be, Lucy knew not, though vanity echoed a ready answer,
and, whenever he spoke of his own loneliness or unhappiness, she evaded
the subject with a coquetry sufficiently skilful to check his
confidence, and, though it sometimes sent him away in an ill humour, he
invariably returned, in a short while, and she flattered herself that
each little exertion of her power only riveted his chains more surely.
Several weeks had thus passed when, one morning, Mrs. Villars received
a letter from Mr. Ware, begging her immediate presence at Aston, as the
symptoms of her sister's illness had assumed a more dangerous character,
and he feared that the utmost haste would be required to enable her to
reach Aston in time to see her alive. Estranged as Mrs. Villars had been
from her sister, she yet loved her, as warmly as her selfish nature
would allow--and she hastened to her husband's study, to make
preparations for her immediate journey; she would not, however, hear of
his offer to accompany her, lest Colonel Hargrave might take the alarm,
and leave them--she, therefore, only begged him to keep less to his
study, at least, in the evenings. Mr. Villars replied, that his own
sense of delicacy might be relied on; which made her fear that he would
give them too much of his company; but she had little time to argue,
for, before her hasty preparations were completed, the post-chaise,
which had been ordered, was at the door.
As she was stepping in, Colonel Hargrave offered to accompany her for a
few stages, saying that he had a friend in the direction she was going,
whom he was anxious to visit.
"I am going to a sad scene," said Mrs. Villars, when they had travelled
for a few miles, "and, besides the loss of my sister, my feelings will
be agonised, I know, for she leaves a daughter to mourn her loss,
homeless and unprotected."
"Yes," said Hargrave; "but your presence will be some comfort to her."
"I quite dread the meeting," continued Mrs. Villars. "Did you read Mr.
Ware's letter? I fear there is no hope."
"None, indeed, I fear," replied Hargrave, looking out to urge the
post-boy to greater speed. "What is to become of Miss Lesly?" he
presently asked, "she has, I suppose, something to depend upon."
Mrs. Villars slightly coloured, and couched hastily, when she perceived
her change of countenance observed.
"I do not think they were very good managers, to tell you the truth,"
she said; "and they had not much to save from."
"What will become of her then?" he repeated, with sudden animation.
"I can scarcely tell what may happen eventually," replied Mrs. Villars;
"but should my poor sister die, I mean to bring my niece back with me,
for the present, at least. She is a good-looking girl, and I may be able
to get her settled."
"Settled!" repeated Hargrave, mechanically, and relapsed into silence.
Soon afterwards, a turn in the road brought in sight some tall,
old-fashioned gates, opening on an avenue of dark trees, through which
nothing could be discerned, but the gable ends of a more distant
mansion. Here Hargrave alighted, and bidding her good-bye, in a tone of
sadness, which seemed the highest compliment to her present affliction,
entered the old gateway, and stood there, till Mrs. Villars was beyond
his sight.
Musingly she continued her journey, and gladly would she have had his
further companionship, to screen her from the thoughts which were now
rapidly gaining entrance into her mind.
It was one of those dark days, when the shadows seem to fall long before
the unseen sun has set; and, as the horses speeded along, she gathered
the folds of her cloak closer around her, and endeavoured to suppress
the shudder, which something beyond the cold biting air of a dull
easterly wind made to pass over her frame. Night had already closed,
dark, dismal, and cold, before she reached Aston. As they entered the
village, she leaned from the window, and expressed her desire to stop at
the inn, she remembered; but a further glance at the ruined village,
faintly shewn by the light of the carriage-lamps, as she rattled through
it, told her of nothing but scattered timbers and blackened walls, and
thus obliged her to change her order, and drive, at once, to Aston
Manor.
As the chaise rolled lightly up the smooth gravelled avenue to the
Manor, Mrs. Villars endeavoured to calm her trembling agitation, with
the hope that all would yet be well; but the low, hurried whispers, in
the dimly lighted hall, that greeted her arrival, unnerved her, and,
dispensing with the assistance, she usually so rigorously exacted from
her inferiors, she hurried from the chaise, and entered the hall,
exclaiming--
"Can it be possible? am I too late?"
"Yes, indeed, ma'am," replied the housekeeper, now advancing; "it is too
true. We closed her eyes but late last night."
Mrs. Villars hid her face in the sables which enveloped her, and sobbed
convulsively; then, flinging down her purse, she begged her to dismiss
the chaise, saying, she was Mrs. Lesly's sister, and must see her
immediately.
"Let me beg you, ma'am," said Mrs. Hawkins, respectfully, "to compose
yourself--it will be too much for you to-night."
"No, no, no," cried Mrs. Villars, as warm, repentant tears streamed
rapidly down her face; "let me see her now--my poor, poor sister."
Mrs. Hawkins sadly led the way up the marble staircase, and across the
gallery, to a door which she noiselessly opened, as if she feared to
disturb the slumbers of the dead. The room was fully lighted by wax
tapers--but the bed was partially concealed by the many folds of its
crimson curtains.
An old woman was sitting by the fire, who rose on Mrs. Villars's
entrance--and, at the same moment, glanced to the window, where Mabel
was seated, gazing out upon the star-light stillness of the night, as if
communing with her own spirit. She rose on perceiving them, and gliding
from the recess, advanced rapidly and noiselessly to meet her aunt;
placing both her hands on hers, she attempted to speak, but the words
died between her half parted lips, and a quiet burst of tears succeeded
the effort.
Mrs. Villars caught her in her arms, sobbing violently, with the excess
of her emotion. She had seldom been with the dying, and did not remember
having ever been in actual contact with death itself, and it was with an
internal shrinking, that, at length, releasing the poor girl from her
arms, she advanced to gaze on the face of her sister. How calm and
placid seemed the sleep of the dead, in that still chamber--but, though
sweetly tranquil was the countenance once so dear, it bore the
unmistakable, terrible touch of death; and Mrs. Villars wrung her hands,
and turned away; an icy coldness seemed taking possession of her senses,
and terror prevented her stooping to touch the cold lips which never
more would reproach her with their confiding words.
Mrs. Hawkins soon kindly put an end to this trying scene, by leading her
from the room; there was enough in the bereavement itself to touch her
sympathy, without her being aware of the pangs of awakening conscience,
which added bitterness to a grief seemingly so natural.
How miserable those days of mourning seemed to the heartless woman--as
hour slowly dragged after hour in that silent house. There were no
exciting trifles to wear away the time--nothing but the endless black
crape with which she tried to feel interested, though her senses
sickened at the mournful tales it told. There, no company came to banish
thought--thought of solemn things that she was little prepared to
contemplate--she was alone with Mabel, and the dead.
Again, and again, she condemned herself for the deceptions she had
practised, and endeavoured to appease her self-accusations with ideas of
the most lavish generosity to Mabel--but justice--alas, that she felt
she had placed it almost beyond her power to render her. She now owed
her six hundred pounds, and well she knew, that, however frivolously she
had spent, however small a part of her extravagances it had proved--this
sum was almost the entire support her sister had saved for her orphan
daughter; which, though little calculated to afford her maintenance as
a gentle-woman, might, in talented hands, be the commencement of a
respectable independence; or, at all events, save her, if dependent,
from many minor, but bitter personal necessities which wound the
delicate mind so sorely. Well she knew this--but she knew, also, that
she never would have the courage, either to limit her own personal
expenses, or to ask her husband for the money. Mabel must be repaid by
the most lavish kindness, and by all the comforts of a home. She could
not know of the debt, therefore would not feel her loss, and if, by a
timely display of her beauty, and her painful bereavements, she could
marry her well--she might then deem the debt repaid. All this she
endeavoured to persuade herself; but, as she wandered from room to room
in the twilight, which their closed windows afforded, something uneasy
oppressed her, which forced her to repeat, again and again, the same
line of consolation. It was then, with a sense of relief, that she saw
the day for her sister's funeral draw near, and she watched the dark
procession from the house, winding its way to the little church, with
grief, indeed, but with grief lightened of its heaviest sense of
oppression. With the greatest attention she watched over Mabel, whose
strength had entirely given way, when the last sad scene, the last
parting was over--and, for hours, seemed to have forgotten all that was
selfish in her nature to minister to her comfort.
On the following morning, perceiving that she was sufficiently calm to
listen to her, she begged her to enter on an explanation of her affairs;
expressing herself anxious to know if she had thought of any plans for
the future.
"No, dear aunt," was Mabel's reply; "but I must soon think of them."
"What money have you left?" enquired Mrs. Villars.
"In the funds only one hundred pounds, I believe," replied Mabel, "for
the physicians I procured from London were so expensive in their
fees--but the rest you know--"
"Yes, yes," interrupted Mrs. Villars, too troubled, and too uncertain as
to her future conduct to commit herself, by answering what she
apprehended to be an allusion to her debt, "but I was going to ask, did
you save anything from the fire?"
"Yes, some plate, a little more than a hundred pounds worth, I
think--Captain Clair kindly secured it."
"Ah," said Mrs. Villars, self awaking, "I remember it is just the same
pattern as mine; if you like I will have it properly valued, and pay you
for it--people may think if they like, that your poor mother left it to
me."
"Thank you," returned Mabel, who had perceived her aunt's hesitation
with regard to the money, and therefore was little willing to increase
the debt; "but I do not think I shall dispose of it yet, if at all."
"But then I cannot make people believe it was left me?"
"There will be no necessity; for what I am not ashamed of doing I can
bear to have known; and it is only for my sake that you can have any
scruple."
"Oh, dear, no, of course not," returned her aunt, not the better pleased
to find Mabel so unlike her mother in worldly matters. "Well, then, if
you do not like the plate turned into money, the hundred pounds will
keep you in dress for two years, and by that time I trust you will be,
better provided for, by a respectable marriage."
Mrs. Villars had been too accustomed to speak of marriage, in this kind
of jobbing style, to her daughters, to be fully alive to the blush of
exquisite pain, which, for an instant, brightened the pale cheek of her
companion. Something, however, in that blush, recalled a resemblance she
only rarely shewed to her mother, and Mrs. Villars felt again all the
pangs of concealed shame. Hastening then to relieve herself, she entered
more eagerly on the real subject of her conversation, and at once
pressed her, with affectionate warmth, to accept the protection of her
home, to find in her a second mother, to be one with her daughters,
sharer in all their privileges, and pleasures, and sisterly love.
Mabel started, and, as she listened to the generous proposal her aunt so
warmly advocated, she could not help reproaching herself, for ever
having regarded her as worldly minded. In vain she gently urged the
inconvenience this arrangement might possibly bring; Mrs. Villars would
hear nothing of it, and when Mabel still hesitated, she folded her in
her arms and asked her piteously and entreatingly, while tears choked
her utterance, if she would deny her the privilege of atoning to her
lost sister for all the neglect, for which she now so bitterly
reproached herself.
Mabel could say nothing, nor did she wish to urge anything more, for
sweetly did those words sound to her ears, "home and sisters," kind
sisters who would wile away her sorrow, and re-awaken her interest in
life--home where her tried spirit might find refreshment and repose.
She suffered her head to sink upon the bosom to which she was so warmly
prest, and murmured forth an answer of affection and gratitude.
Shortly afterwards Mr. Ware was announced, and to him her new plans were
immediately confided by Mabel. He had believed Mrs. Villars a
worldly-minded woman, and was, therefore, much pleased when he
perceived, by the tone of both, that the arrangement had been so
cordially proposed.
"One alteration I must," said he, "beg in my favour: Mabel is so justly
dear to us all, that to part with her before even attempting to console
her grief, is more than I could well bear. You must indeed, madam, spare
her to us at the rectory for a little while."
"Willingly, my dear sir," replied Mrs. Villars, with that tone of manner
which often rendered her popular, "and we can manage it in this way--I
have a friend at Cheltenham, who has been long pressing me to visit her,
I will go and see her now, it will do me good after this sad
trial--and, provided Mabel promises to obey my summons, I will leave her
to join me on the road. She is now my ward, by her own consent," she
added, smiling kindly at her.
This proposal was eagerly accepted by Mr. Ware, who dreaded losing
Mabel, and clung to any pretext for keeping her.
"I must go and tell my sister that this dear child will soon be with
us," said he, rising to take his leave, "and you, madam, suffer me to
offer an old man's blessing for your kindness to this poor orphan," he
said, laying his hand on Mabel's head, "I would have gladly taken her to
my heart and home, to be the blessing there she has long been, but this
selfish wish would deprive her of the healthy companionship of those who
will be her sisters, and kindly cheer her young life, which has been
bowed with many sorrows. I need not ask you to deal kindly with her for
you have done that already. I only say, may an old man's blessing be
upon you and yours, as you have dealt kindly by this poor lamb."
Mrs. Villars turned aside her head to conceal her rising emotion, and
Mabel's face was bathed in tears, as Mr. Ware, with glistening eyes and
trembling steps, hurried from the room to repress the feelings which had
become too strong for utterance.