The hope of fame may in his heart have place,
But he has dread and horror of disgrace,
Nor has he that confiding easy way,
That might his learning and himself display;
But to his work, he from the world retreats,
And frets and glories o'er the favorite sheets.
CRABBE.
When Caroline quitted Mabel she hurried to her mother, with all the
petulance of a wayward child, and, with her, vented on Mabel the spleen
which she had not had the courage fully to express. Great was her
surprise when she found, that, instead of joining in her opinion, Mrs.
Villars only endeavoured to extenuate and defend Mabel's conduct,
though with that weakness which Caroline always had the hope of
overcoming; but, for once she was mistaken, and, more than ever
chagrined, the bitterness with which she regarded her cousin, only
increased. This Mabel had soon an opportunity of learning, and her
situation in the house became more and more uncomfortable, influenced as
it was, by those secret prejudices and envious feelings, which there is
no possibility of openly opposing.
Lucy, too, though still an object of solicitude to her, seemed shy of
her company, and, indeed, held herself much aloof from every one but
Beauclerc, whose attentions were now very generally remarked.
Still there was one room in the house where her presence was welcomed as
a real blessing, and this consciousness atoned to her for much that was
elsewhere almost unbearable.
At first, with the shyness which often attends the student, Mr. Villars
frequently locked his door, but gradually the habit ceased altogether.
One afternoon, he was sitting alone, his manner was restless, and his
eye absent in its expression.
The atmosphere without was unusually humid; small rain, which, in the
distance, looked almost like fog, hid the prospect, and made the room
dark, giving nothing of the inspiriting feeling produced by a hearty
shower. Within, the room seemed heavy and sombre. But within Mr.
Villars' own thoughts there was something darker still, something cold
and numbing--something that said the world was a dark and gloomy
world--something that said he lived alone and uncared-for in it. He rose
and walked up and down the room--that dark feeling haunted him still. He
turned to the window--on its ledge lay his pen-knife--he looked at it
uneasily--then walked away--then returned--and again regarded it as if
it had the power to injure him. He returned to the table, on it lay a
bundle of closely written papers--he turned from them, and again found
himself at the window.
That knife again.
His thoughts grew darker--that something again stole over him, till the
sweat stood in drops upon his brow, and his eyes glared feverishly.
Hark! He listens. The sound of a light footfall is in the passage--a
quick hand is on the lock, the door is opened, and Mabel is by his side,
looking uneasily and affectionately at him, with that expression of
light and beauty so peculiar to her.
"You are ill--I am sure you are," she said; "let me call my aunt."
"No, no," he replied, hurriedly, "I am better--if you will stay with me.
You must not go--you will not let them drive you from me."
Mabel looked puzzled--but eagerly promised anything he desired.
"Ah," said she, rallying her spirits, "I see it now. You have those
papers out again. Why are you always unhappy when you take them out?"
"Because they remind me of disappointment," he replied, bitterly.
"I have a great curiosity about them," said Mabel, "and have some fancy
that it is the manuscript of a book you have written."
"You do not deny it--then do read it to me."
"It would not give you any amusement."
"Now, uncle, how can you tell that? I am sure it will not make you so
miserable, if you do."
"Well, my little sage--but I must first tell you the circumstances under
which I wrote it, and the reasons I have for being disappointed."
"Stay one moment then," said she, drawing his arm-chair to the fire,
which she stirred, till it sent a good flame up the chimney, then
seating herself opposite, she begged him to go on. Beginning to feel
happier, he scarce knew why he sat down, and, after a moment's
hesitation, he said--
"I was always very fond of writing, when a young man--I dare say,
thought myself something of a genius--but though I wished to devote
myself entirely to study, this was so much opposed by my more prudent
father, that I gave up my own inclinations, and entered into a lucrative
mercantile establishment in London. Not long after this, I married, and
then it appeared to me, to be my duty to devote myself entirely to
business, in order that I might acquire wealth for my wife, and
increasing family--but I gave myself too rigidly to the task--I gave
myself no ease--always fearing that I longed for it, only from the
desire for selfish indulgence. The consequence has been that my family
has been educated in a manner of which I strongly disapprove--and, alas!
I feel the evil is so great as to require something stronger even than a
father's displeasure to remedy it."
Mr. Villars sighed, and then continued--
"In the short intervals of business, I noted down, from time to time,
scenes which were drawn either from real life, or my own fancy--together
with numerous remarks on the manners of my own times, which I thought
might be amusing--pining always to indulge what I falsely believed to be
a talent.
"How often desired blessings bring a curse. A few years since my
speculations were successful beyond my expectations, and I found myself
enabled to retire from business with a good conscience. This place was
the scene of my happy boyhood, and of my school days, and here I
resolved to settle, since it offered pleasures suited to us all.
"With the eagerness of a schoolboy I fitted up this study; it was the
very perfection of my taste, it contains every book I take any pleasure
in, and yet," he said, looking gloomily round him, "it has been to me
the scene of greater misery than even you, seemingly deprived of almost
every blessing, can calculate upon.
"Secure as I believed of the interest of my family, for year after year
of, to me, heavy toil had, I believe, purchased it beyond a doubt. I
thought I would prepare them a treat, and so set about collecting my
scattered writings, and forming them into a whole, promising them a
reading every Saturday of what I had done in the week.
"I never shall forget the first Saturday evening. You have, I dare say,
often heard that an author's vanity is capable of blinding him to the
opinions of others. I cannot understand the feeling myself, and I was
not slow in perceiving that my book soon failed to interest--but I tire
you."
"You pain, but interest me," replied Mabel.
"Well, it is hard to believe that one's composition is too bad to
interest those whose affection ought to make them indulgent to the
dullest of our pursuits; but so it was; they eagerly courted any other
Saturday engagement, and when they did come, they yawned or whispered
over their work, and seemed so completely wearied with my reading that
one day I threw down the book, and refused to continue. I forget what
followed, but I know I was never asked to resume my readings. From that
time I have been more and more alone, and I am sorry to confess that,
after years of well rewarded toil, I find life losing interest with me."
Mabel started at the last words; there was an ominous meaning in them,
that terrified her--while she watched him now pacing the room again,
with a disturbed air, muttering exclamations of despair. She hastened to
interrupt him.
"How very much I should like to hear your manuscript. Would you have
patience to read it to me?"
Mr. Villars turned and looked full upon her; but she repeated her
request eagerly. She saw the coming of that mental cloud, which has
obscured many a noble intellect, and her eyes sparkled as she saw him
yielding to her request, and that the dawn of hope was again upon the
face of the disappointed student.
"Evening is the time for a work of fiction," she observed, "but let us
have the first chapter now. If it will not tire you to read."
"If you really wish it," he said, handling the papers with trembling
fingers.
"Oh, yes, I do wish it, but let me first get my work, for that is to us
what chipping is to the Americans, it only assists our attention. While
you find the first part I will go and fetch it."
Her errand took her longer than she had anticipated, for in the morning
room she found her aunt, with Hargrave, Caroline, and Selina discussing
a print with some eagerness.
"I would give anything to have such a head-dress," exclaimed Caroline.
"Well, my dear," said her mother, "I should be glad for you to have it
too, but I fear you must give it up. I am sure, Henry, you ought to be
complimented, for Caroline has been trying this hour to please you."
"Well, it is a pity," said Hargrave; "she would look well in it, but I
am sorry I spoke of it, if it has given her so much trouble."
Mabel stopped at the table, and taking up the print, exclaimed--
"I remember seeing something like this at Gibraltar. Perhaps I could
make it--may I try," she said, glancing at the crape which Caroline had
been cutting and wasting.
"If you think you can do it," returned Caroline, "do take it and
try--but I want to wear it to-night, at the ball."
"Then give me everything," said she, her manner excited from the scene
in the library; and gathering up the crape, ribbon, and wire into her
apron, she took the print and hurried to the library. When she entered,
Mr. Villars was seated by the fire, with some papers on his knees, but
the look of gloom had again settled on his usually patient face. "Oh, I
am so sorry to have kept you waiting," she said, anxiously, "but look
how much work I had to bring--now I am quite ready."
Mr. Villars said nothing, but appeased by the affectionate warmth of her
manner began reading.
She listened attentively, and gladly found herself interested, without
an effort, as she heard with surprise sentences, in a style of boldness,
and purity of devotion, which she had scarcely expected.
Mutually pleased, the hours slipped away, Mr. Villars charmed by the
attention of his listener, while she busily continued her work.
The small greasy rain dimmed the window, and darkened the room, till the
shades of evening closed upon them, but its influence had ceased. A
cheerful smile shewed the pleasure of the author, and the renewed hope
with which he began to feel inspired.
"I scarcely know if I like the name--'The Merchant's Recollections;' it
is scarcely striking enough," said Mabel, when he stopped to rest.
"I do not think I could call it anything else, after knowing it so long
by that name."
"Well then, I suppose you must keep its name, but do make an effort to
have it published, or do so yourself. I am certain it would be popular.
Pray let me have what is in your hand, and I will give you the novelty
of listening to your own composition; but first, let me light your
little candle."
With thrilling voice, and the purest accent, she read, and Mr. Villars
felt that he had never appreciated his own composition before. As he
listened, old recollections revived--an elasticity seemed given to his
thoughts. So carefully had the influence been obtained, which was now so
so cleverly exercised, that the sensitive author, with his keen
perception and acute sense of the finest tone of feeling, was impressed
with respect for his younger companion, who united sympathy in these to
a healthy strength of mind.
Now as he looked, and listened to her, who had so timely rendered
succour to intellect sinking, from discouragement, into despair, he
gladly welcomed the new current of ideas which were crowding upon his
attention. The thought of giving to the world the work which had so long
occupied him, the chance of popularity, even the bitterness of failure,
would be far preferable to the state of apathy into which he had been
gradually falling. There was something stirring and exciting in the
idea; there was life and employment in it, and he embraced it with
rapidity.
The dressing bell put an end to their reading, and Mabel then called
upon him to admire her workmanship, displayed in the pretty ornament she
had prepared, in imitation of that worn by the Spanish girl, in the
print, whose face was not unlike Caroline's.
"Are you going to the ball, to-night?" she enquired.
"I seldom go to those places."
"But I think you would enjoy it to-night, for they are all going, and I
am sure would be glad of your company."
"Well, I may perhaps; I might enjoy it."
"I think you will, and then you will enter better into this to-morrow,
for you have a great deal to do, and I am bent on seeing it completed."
"My good girl," said Mr. Villars, taking her hand with considerable
emotion; "you little know the obligations you have conferred upon me
to-day. I would give you all I possess for the power of conferring
happiness as skilfully as you can. Heaven bless you for it."
"Providence often chooses the weakest instruments," said Mabel, "to
fulfil its missions; and I endeavour to keep myself ready for service,
lest I may lose the chance of being employed;" then blushing at her own
speech, she withdrew her hand, and hurried from the room.
When they met at dinner, she begged Caroline to allow her to dress her
hair for the evening, to suit the head-dress she had been preparing.
The offer was readily accepted, and they retired together to the
dressing-room already mentioned. The comfort, and almost finical luxury
with which it was furnished, occurred to Caroline, as no very agreeable
contrast to that which she had prepared for the houseless orphan, so
lately deprived of all the comforts of home--but her attention was soon
occupied by her toilette, in which she took so great an interest.
Perhaps she would have been glad if their maid could have performed the
same services for her, with as much taste as Mabel; but as she could
not, she forced herself to accept her kindness with the best grace she
could command. The beautiful head-dress, contrasted well with her raven
hair; and when Mabel held the mirror before her, she scarcely believed
her eyes as she gazed upon her reflected self.
"Come, I do believe you are a good girl," exclaimed Maria; "one of the
right sort, after all. I wish you would concoct something for
me--singularity is what I affect--but, I fear me, nothing will do," she
added, going off singing.
There's nobody coming to marry me,
Nobody coming to woo;
O dear what can the matter be,
Oh dear what shall I do.
The gay party were soon assembled in the drawing-room. Hargrave looked
pleased when he saw the head-dress, and made many observations on its
beauty, which delighted Mrs. Villars, and made Caroline's cheek flush
with pleasure.
"Who knows," whispered Mrs. Villars, playfully pinching Mabel's arm,
"but that your pretty cap may hasten the denouement; look how pleased he
is."
Mabel felt sick, but no one saw the sudden pallor of her cheek, for the
carriages which were ordered to take them to the rooms were announced.
Caroline, drawing her ermine tippet closer round her shoulders, took
Hargrave's un-offered arm, saving:--
"You must be my first partner to-night, remember," and then walked down
stairs with him, talking playfully, and gaily. Mabel thought she had
never seen her look more beautiful. When they had all gone, she sunk
upon a chair, suffering from the revulsion of over exerted feelings. She
laid her hand upon her heart to still its beating; that heart, which
spite of all its chastenings, beat true to nature still. Had she only
decked Caroline to win a heart which was dearer to her than
life--dearest when she had rejected it, in the name of heaven.
Oh, if Caroline were but one likely to lead back his truant heart to the
duties he had more than neglected. Yet she felt little hope when she
remembered her lifeless and listless Sundays--her wandering eyes in
church, and the witty remarks which told how her thoughts had there been
occupied.
But she also felt that she had done right, and with this consciousness,
she could afford to abide by the consequences of her actions. Her
delicacy, also, soon reminded her of the necessity of putting a strict
guard over her imagination, lest even the pity and sorrow she felt for
him, might shew themselves, and be misunderstood. Grieve over him she
must, but she resolved that even he should not know it. It was a
difficult part for one so candid to play, but her delicacy stood upon
the defensive, and warned her to be firm.