Oft in life's stillest shade reclining,
In desolation, unrepining,
Without a hope on earth to find,
A mirror in an answering mind.
Meek souls there are who little dream,
Their daily task an Angel's theme;
Or that the rod they take so calm,
Shall prove in Heaven a martyr's palm.
CHRISTIAN YEAR.
The night was piercingly cold.
Mabel sat down upon her travelling trunk, which had preceded her to her
room, and which, carelessly, had been left corded. There was no bell by
which she could summon assistance, and therefore, with trembling
fingers, she undid the tightly-knotted cord, and with some difficulty,
for the box was heavy, she managed to open it; but, having done so, it
seemed as if she almost forgot the purpose for which she wished it--for
clasping her hands together she wept long and convulsively. How many
bitter thoughts crowded upon her in that hour of weakness. Her mind
seemed to lose all its strength, as she hurried from the past to the
future. Where was the elastic promise of bold reliance on that future,
made by her mother's side? Where was that mother? Sleeping in the cold
grave, and as Mabel wept on, there might have come the thought that in
that grave there was peace and refuge, though the night winds even now
howled above it. How had she flattered herself that she had gained the
control of her own fervent imagination, and yet how it trembled at the
thought of the morrow.
Hargrave, her infidel lover, so warmly loved and yet so steadily
rejected, how should she meet him on that morrow--did he still love
her, and if so, would he press his suit, and force her to fly from
temptation, or would he prove the truth of his threat, that with him
there was no medium between truthful love and contemptuous
forgetfulness. If so, how could she bear it, how would they meet day
after day, keeping up the formal semblance of politeness, and if it were
true, that he was making his suit to Caroline, how could she find
strength for the daily trials which would necessarily be hers.
The quick, fiery blood of jealousy kindled in her cheek, as this last
thought arose, and she mechanically raised her hand and loosened the
twisted tresses of her hair, as if her heated brain needed relief.
If there be, as some affirm, a good and evil angel to guard our way, and
track our steps through life, it was the evil angel that had power then.
She felt it--she rose, and almost instantly sunk upon her knees. Her
clasped hands were now raised above her head--now clasped convulsively
over her face--as hour followed hour through that dark and cheerless
night, till her head gradually sank upon the bed by which she kneeled,
and she remained for a long time in perfect stillness. Her long,
disordered hair hiding every feature from sight.
The Abbey clock announced the approach of the chill winter morning,
before Mabel again raised her head, but then her countenance was firm,
and there was a soft radiance about her eyes that told that those dark
and weary hours had not been spent in vain.
Wearied with the long conflict, she laid herself down to rest, and was
soon asleep.
Strong minds, when they are sick, require strong remedies; had any one
watched her calm repose, and quiet breathing, they might have told, that
with her the crisis was past.
As she slept--flitting dreams crossed her fancy--once she thought she
stood upon a high hill, where a noble castle of fairy and transparent
beauty, was built immediately above a rocky precipice. Suddenly, as she
lost her footing, and fell, she tried to prepare for death, when
invisible hands supported her, and softly placed her on the bank above.
Then her dream became more distinct--she was again at Aston, and the
setting sun was going down behind the hills--while its golden rays gave
beauty to earth and sky. She was seated on her father's tomb, in the
well-known church-yard, and close beside her was the delicate form of
the little Amy, which her arm encircled with the covetous clasp of
affection. They both gazed upon the setting sun, and the child listened,
as she spoke of the ages it had shone in beauty, and the ages it might
still shine; of the time it marked, and the eternity it presaged, till
her eyes grew brighter, and her color deepened. Then it seemed as if a
strain of holy music softly stole upon the evening air, and Amy raised
her hand to attract her attention to it--her face grew of more than
earthly loveliness, and, as the music died away, Mabel woke and found
herself alone. The moonlight streamed into her little room, rendering
every object distinctly visible. It is beautiful to see the mingling
light of the waning moon and rising sun changing the scenes of the early
morning with the rapidity of a diorama; Mabel watched the light for some
time with unthinking pleasure, till gradually upon her waking senses
arose the remembrance of the night, but with the early morning came the
strength for which she had so earnestly pleaded through those hours of
darkness.
She had bent before the repeated strokes of Providence with something of
the feeling that her earthly duties were finished. But now came purer
and holier thoughts. "What right," she asked herself, "had she to say
that she had suffered enough?" Had she not already some call to
exertion, some friends whom she might perhaps love and serve, and more,
the fresh suffering that seemed in preparation, told her that it was
right to suffer. "Thy will be done," she repeated, in trembling
accents, as she knelt in meek and quiet devotion, and the words came
from a heart not untried by many sorrows.
Mabel's mind was anything but morbid, for the dangerous tendency so
strongly developed in her mother, had been checked and controlled by
that very mother herself, who gladly saw in her more active child, the
same delicate perception of the beautiful, the good and the painful,
sobered by her care for others, and her love of exertion.
It was then with a feeling of gratitude that she looked round the little
room, which, to many would have excited the most painful feelings of
neglect and desolation. The small bed had been evidently used, formerly,
in the nursery, and was diminutive in size; yet, as Kirk White,
humorously observes of his study fireplace:--
"So big, it covered o'er,
Full half the spacious room, and more."
One side, from the ceiling, shelved down to the floor, leaving dark
corners, where the light from the small window never penetrated, giving
an uncomfortable suspicion of dust and cobwebs. The wide window ledge,
which served for the purpose of dressing table, with one shabby chair,
completed the fittings of the room--for, as Mrs. Villars had observed in
her casual glance--a chest of drawers had been omitted.
It was impossible that any one so careful of the comforts of others--so
used to luxury as she had lately been, at Aston, should not read, at a
glance, the nature of the apartment which one of her mother's servants
would, perhaps, have hesitated to occupy--yet she busied herself in
arranging it to advantage. She could scarcely satisfy herself when she
had finished, for the room was not quite clean, and nothing she could do
could remedy that deficiency--so she turned to the window, and looked
out upon the back view it displayed of chimney-pots--dark back windows,
as cheerless as her own, and walls blackened by falling smoke. Still,
above the low dark, damp, courts, there was a glimpse of the pure blue
sky; and as Mabel's eye rested upon it, even the passing shade of
discontent vanished from her mind, as she remembered by whom her
comforts and trials were meted; and then she turned her eyes again upon
the room, and all that was uncomfortable before, seemed to have a light
about it that made it look different now. It was all better than she
might have had--more than she had any right to claim. Was she not under
her aunt's protection, when she might have been left with strangers;
left for the first time, in that kind of independence, most trying to a
delicate woman? "Was not every thing," she again repeated, "better than
she deserved? What could have made her think the room dark, and
uncomfortable? What could have changed it so? Nothing but the reflected
light of a humble and thankful heart. After remaining some little time
longer in consideration, she went down stairs. She soon found the room
where she remembered having been introduced the evening before; but, on
opening the door, she perceived that it was still darkened, the
window-curtains drawn, and the chairs arranged as they had been left on
the preceding night. Looking again at her watch to persuade herself that
it was really nine o'clock, she found her way to the drawing-room, which
was in such dusty confusion, that she was going to return to her own
room again, when a side door opened, and Mr. Villars appeared.
"Come in, come in," he said, stopping her; "you will not find a good
fire any where else, for at least half an hour. My family are not fond
of early rising, as you see; so I generally take my breakfast alone."
"Then, perhaps, I shall intrude upon you, sir;" said she, seeing the
preparations for his simple meal already made.
"Not if you will have some breakfast with me; you look tired already,
and will be better for it. Only say so, and I will ring for a cup and
saucer."
He laid his hand on the bell as he spoke, but hesitatingly, as if
accustomed to have his attempts at sociability negatived; but, when
Mabel readily assented, he cheerfully busied himself in preparing for
her. While he was doing so, she had an opportunity of scanning the
apartment, which her host designated his den. It was lined on two sides,
from the floor to the ceiling, with bookshelves, containing books of all
languages, arranged according to their different subjects. Part of
another side contained a selection from the best light literature of the
day--and, beneath, were drawers, that seemed to have a habit of being
always open, in which was a large store of written papers. The fourth
side of the room was ornamented by a collection of stuffed birds,
reptiles, and insects; curious specimens of botany, conchology, and
mineralogy--shewing the various studies in which Mr. Villars had, from
time to time, taken an interest.
Upon a table, near the window, were placed some open books, marked at
different passages--together with scraps of paper, old envelopes, and
backs of notes, all neatly written upon.
But the breakfast table was prepared with great neatness, and nothing
but an unopened paper of the day before gave any temptation to reading.
Mr. Villars, having made the tea, and toasted his muffin, drew a chair
to the table, and begged her to partake of both.
There is a kind of freemasonry by which some have the power of unlocking
the hearts of others, and making them unreserved; perhaps it is the
power of being genuinely natural oneself, which sets others so much at
ease.
Mabel soon found herself conversing quietly, and without the least
effort; and Mr. Villars, without anything of his nervous hesitation, had
offered to assist her reading, by his advice, and instruction, as often
as she pleased to spend an hour or two with him.
"May I then, feel free to come and go when I like;" enquired Mabel,
rising when they had finished breakfast.
"Yes, at any time; at least, excepting when I have any particular desire
to be alone."
"And then you must lock the door," she said, smiling; "because you might
not like to turn me out--so that shall be a sign that you wish to be
alone."
"A very effectual sign indeed," said Mr. Villars, returning her smile,
though he suspected that he should not be often obliged to resort to
this defence, as it did not seem likely that she would be more attached
to his study than his daughters were.
Mabel felt reluctant to leave the quiet repose of his society, but
unwilling longer to absent herself, she went to the breakfast room,
where, by this time, the whole party, excepting Hargrave, had assembled.
She stopped to give her aunt a kiss, with a warmth, which might have
told an intelligent observer, that the gratitude she felt for her
protection had closed her eyes to distrust.
Caroline, who had been left mistress of the house in her mother's
absence, had intended the situation and furniture of her bed-room, at
once, to announce the fact, that if admitted to their circle, it must be
in the rank of a dependent. But this attempt to humiliate her, had
seemingly failed. Mabel appeared pale, subdued, and sorrow-stricken, but
evidently possessing a mind superior to trifles; and though, when she
took her seat apart from the table, her lip slightly trembled, and her
color came and went, not a sigh escaped from the sad heart within.
Caroline, as she rose from breakfast, said that Hargrave had promised to
practise some duets with her, and she must go and find him--Maria and
Selina followed her--and Mrs. Villars went to her house-keeping, leaving
Lucy behind.
There was a momentary and awkward silence--and then Lucy walked up to
her, and sunk down upon the floor at her feet, crying--
"How can you ever look upon me again? Think of my laughing and amusing
myself, when--"
A shudder finished the sentence.
And Mabel stooped to raise her head, whispering--
"It is too easy to forgive you--you were more unkind to yourself than to
me."
"How?" said Lucy.
"Because such things make the heart grow hard."
Lucy was silent, for a moment, and then exclaimed--
"How I wish I were married, and had a home to offer you of my own. Then
you should not have such an old, poky bed-room as Caroline has looked
out for you--I had such a quarrel with her about it. She is jealous,
because I said you were beautiful, I know she is."
"Ah, Lucy," said Mabel, "how unkind to try and expose the weaknesses of
a sister--remember the fable of the bundle of sticks. For myself,
knowing that I do not deserve her unkindness, I shall not feel it. I own
it is a trial--but as I am dependent on your mamma's kindness, by my own
choice, and by my wish to please her, and not of necessity, and I can
and will assert my independence when I please--it is quite a different
thing."
"Are you going to be married then?"
"No, no," said Mabel, smiling; "I will tell you what I mean another
day--perhaps I do not quite know how myself--I only know I will if I see
it best--but do not let us talk of that now."
So saying, she took up a skein of silk which Caroline had been
attempting to wind.
"Never mind that," said Lucy, "that is Caroline's, and she will never
thank you for the trouble you take."
"Lucy!" said Mabel.
"Ah, I know you are the best of human beings; but I do not know what you
would have been, had you been brought up in such a school as I have."
"Scarcely four months have passed," returned Mabel, "since you spoke
that thought before. You have not used events rightly, if you can say it
sincerely now. Oh, why have you been so sorely tried," said she, placing
her hand fondly on her head--"Why have you been wounded so severely, if
not to purify you from the errors of the past? Might not those sad
events be made fit answers to the excuse you then made for yourself?"
Lucy was going to reply, when a double knock at the hall door made her
start and blush, and then she jumped up, her face all radiance, and
hastily kissing Mabel's cheek, ran off to the drawing-room.
Once more alone, Mabel tried to occupy herself with the silk she held in
her hand, but her heart was full, and tears silently stole down her
cheeks, and fell upon her busy fingers.
Just then, Caroline returned, something had gone wrong in the singing
lesson, and her face wore its natural frown, and her cheek its angry
flush--she glanced impatiently at Mabel, and then stopping to warm
herself by the fire, looked angrily from it to her.
"What! are you crying again?" she said, peevishly, for her temper had
become almost insane from indulgence.
Mabel made no reply.
"I hope," continued her cousin, "you are not going to be always
miserable; for poor mamma's sake, you should command your feelings."
Mabel raised her eyes and looked firmly at her, as she said, slowly--
"I was alone."
"And is that what you call resignation?" said Caroline, in a tone of
reproof. "I hope you will not give way to your poor mother's
disposition."
"We mistake each other," said Mabel, rising, while her pale cheek
kindled, her head was proudly and firmly erect, and her eyes almost
flashed fire.
Caroline quailed; an uneasy sensation of something like fear stole upon
her.
"Perhaps," said she, her voice trembling with suppressed passion, "we
mistake our respective positions."
"We do," said Mabel.
Caroline would have been glad to relieve herself by some bitter speech,
but she felt powerless, and, endeavouring to hide her own discomfiture,
she swept indignantly from the room, saying that she had never believed
in perfect tempers, and she would have nothing to do with people who
tried to appear better than they were.
Mabel continued standing, her bosom heaving with emotion.
"I could have borne any thing but that--any reflection on myself," she
exclaimed, half aloud, "but to speak so of my poor mother, I cannot
bear. Ha--" she added, slightly startling on perceiving Hargrave, who
had entered by another door, and who was standing by her.
Their eyes met for an instant and then hers sought the ground.
"Miss Lesly," said he, coldly and peculiarly, "we have never met
before."
She looked up to read his meaning. His countenance was impenetrable,
except that he seemed impatient for reply. There had been a time when
her lightest word could move him, and when, to her, his smile was
happiness, and his frown brought misery. Yet neither testified now the
least emotion. After a pause she replied.
"You need not fear me, but I cannot, if I would, utter a falsehood. What
does it signify that we have met."
"The past is forgotten, then?" he enquired.
"It shall be as if it had never been," replied Mabel; "but as you were
candid then, be candid now."
"Why?"
"Because you cannot be happy without perfect confidence."
A fleeting smile passed over his lips, but she saw it not.
"You need not fear--no one shall take me under false pretences--I am
fallen indeed in your estimation, since you believe that possible."
"No," replied Mabel, "I reverence and admire the beauty of the
structure, but I do distrust the foundation on which it is built."
"Ah, some people do not think so deeply," he returned, gaily.
"I fear not," said she, sadly.
"Well, you have had trials sufficient," he added, "without adding mine
to them--do not fear for me, I hope some day to hear you congratulate me
on my happiness."
Without waiting for a reply he took up a book, which he had made the
nominal reason for his visit to the morning room, and disappeared.
She hurried quickly to her own little chamber, to think over this
strange conversation, which she believed conclusive of his attachment
to Caroline. But was she worthy of him, would she influence him
rightly--she tried to believe that the character drawn by her own quick
judgment was only wrought by jealousy. Not a little did she feel pained
at their quarrel, for she thought how easily might she prejudice her in
his opinion.
"I can bear to lose his love," she thought, "but not his esteem--and yet
I must, if necessary, do both, perhaps, if she speaks ill of me, and he
will surely believe her."
Those who have experienced many trials will remember, that sometimes, by
their quick succession, the mind becomes braced to endurance. It was so
with Mabel; besides, she had certain fixed principles, and though she
often erred from them, her mind almost invariably recovered its
strength; and she now endeavoured to school it to the endurance of those
small trials, which in her happy home at Aston, she had almost entirely
escaped.