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MABEL.
A Novel,
BY EMMA WARBURTON.
_IN THREE VOLUMES._
VOL. III.
LONDON:
THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER,
30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE.
1854.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I 1
CHAPTER II 21
CHAPTER III 46
CHAPTER IV 88
CHAPTER V 102
CHAPTER VI 123
CHAPTER VII 154
CHAPTER VIII 172
CHAPTER IX 193
CHAPTER X 220
CHAPTER XI 247
CHAPTER XII 257
MABEL
CHAPTER I.
To your household Gods
Return! for by their altars Virtue dwells,
And Happiness with her.
There was something so pleasant in the feeling of the cheerful fire,
that Mabel, who, for many days, had been up early and late, could not
resist its influence; her thoughts began to wander from the book which
she had again taken up; her heavy eyelids closed, and she fell asleep.
Again she was, where memory often carried her, in their happy cottage at
Aston; she was again kneeling by her sister's side, holding her little
hand in hers, and watching her tranquil sleep. Again the rumbling sound
of many feet, and many voices, stole upon her ear, the air was thick
with smoke--a smell of burning, and then, again, that fearful, hoarse,
deafening cry of "fire."
She again awoke, startled at the sound, and, before she could analyse
her remembrance, or distinguish the past from the present, she perceived
that she was in flames. Her dress had fallen too near the fire, and had
become ignited. Lucy was at the door, screaming fire, and calling wildly
on the names of all in the house, for assistance. Caroline rushed to
her, but retreated with a scream, just as Hargrave, who had been
attracted by the sound of his name, came towards them. Quickly passing
her, as she remained screaming with terror, he was by Mabel's side in an
instant, and wrapping his powerful arms around her, he laid her on the
floor as if she had been a child; then, folding the rug over her, he
very soon succeeded in extinguishing the flames.
Caroline, reassured, now entered the room, and Lucy pattered back again,
with her naked feet, into bed, and drew the curtains closely round her.
"Why, she has fainted!" cried Caroline; "and see how her chest is
burnt," she added, tremblingly pulling aside the dress, which gave way
to her touch, and displayed a scar upon her fair bosom. Hargrave turned
aside his head, but she saw that he was pale, and that his hand trembled
as he supported the senseless form of the beautiful girl. "Look," added
Caroline, directing his attention again to her, "I shall remove this
chain, for I am sure it will hurt her."
It was a small linked, gold chain, of African workmanship; and when
Caroline drew it from her neck, she perceived that it was attached to a
simple gold locket, large enough to contain a portrait. Holding it up,
she said, laughingly:--
"Here is a secret; I must have just one little peep."
As she said this, she applied her finger to the spring, and was about to
unclasp it, when Hargrave, suffering Mabel's head to rest upon the
floor, started forward, and putting his arms round her, not only
arrested her purpose, but took the locket from her hand, thrusting it,
as he did so, into his bosom.
"It is sacred," he said, trying nervously to smile away Caroline's
rising anger; and anxious to avoid a retort, he took Mabel in his arms,
and carried her to the next room, where, laying her upon the sofa, he
begged Caroline to watch her till he should return with a medical man.
The poor girl was not long left to the care of so angry a nurse, for the
good-natured cook, upon whom she had made a very favourable impression,
hurried up-stairs, and busily tried her numerous list of restoratives
from fainting. She brought with her, too, a plate of raw potatoes, and a
knife.
"And if," she said, "Miss Villars would but scrape a little of them,
there was no knowing how it would cure the pain."
Caroline forced herself to comply, but knowing the stain which her fair
fingers might sustain from such an employment, she drew on a pair of
white gloves to protect them.
"Only look at her pretty neck now," lamented the cook, in tones at once
of admiration and pity, which sounded ill in her young mistress's
ears--rather as if she intended to detract in some way from her own
acknowledged beauty--and she contemplated, with some uneasiness, the
fair white bosom, and the beautifully rounded arm, which the cook was
regarding with so much complacency.
Mabel soon, however, opened her eyes again, and looked wonderingly about
her; when she saw how Caroline was employed, she smiled, almost with a
look of gladness, as she eagerly thanked her for the trouble she was
taking for her.
Mr. Mildman, the medical attendant of the family, soon made his
appearance, and, after a slight examination, dispelled every fear of any
serious consequences, commended the skill of the cook, and said he
should not interfere with her remedy, except, indeed, by a little
soothing medicine, or, perhaps, a little ointment to allay the
irritation of the burn, gently commiserated with Mabel on the terror she
had suffered, made a few jocose compliments to Caroline on her
usefulness, and hurried away again.
"I thought," said Caroline, returning to the sitting-room, "that Mabel
professed to have too strong a mind to faint for such a trifle--Mr.
Mildman says it is a mere nothing."
"If," said Hargrave, severely, "you had as many bitter recollections
connected with that terrible word 'fire' as she has, poor orphan, you
would believe that the strongest nerves would fail, sometimes."
Mrs. Villars looked entreatingly at her, and managed, by dint of many
signs, to suppress the angry reply which was rising to her lips. This
she the more easily did, as Hargrave seemed bent on making her forget
the rudeness of which he had been guilty; he laughed and talked and
sang, and did whatever they asked him, with so good a grace, that, in a
few minutes, he succeeded in restoring her good humour, even to her own
surprise, and led by his example, and rejoicing in its magic effect, the
whole party were soon in the gayest spirits--though none gayer than
Hargrave himself.
Meanwhile, Mabel, having escaped from the hands of the cook, who wished
to imprison her to the sofa, returned to Lucy's room--and, fearing that
she might be prevented from remaining with her, suppressed every
sensation of the acute pain she was suffering, lest, perhaps, she might
lose the only opportunity of winning the wounded heart of the wilful and
fickle girl.
Had the high mental abilities she possessed, usurped the power over her
heart, which her fond father had once feared, she might have looked on
her companion's sorrows with contempt, as she saw her, by turns,
forgetting, without contending with affliction, at others, bending
before it in despair. But the path of sorrow had not been trodden by her
in vain. Under its chastising influence, she had learnt the softer
feelings most fitting a woman's nature, and could see, with childish
simplicity, the value of a single spark of Heavenly flame above all the
mental light, which, without it, might illuminate a world. She had
placed, with careful hands, the veil of charity over eyes which could
have detected faults under the shrewdest disguise; and, while she could
not hide from herself the fact that Lucy was selfish, weak, and vain,
she hoped, and, perhaps, not unjustly, that a better nature might
slumber beneath, waiting but the kindly culture of a friendly hand to
call it into life and being.
As she now sat, trying to read, her companion watched her with covert
attention, and, as thoughts of high and holy purpose spread their
influence over her countenance, she regarded her with wonder, not
unmingled with awe and pleasure.
Then she perceived, with some curiosity, that Mabel raised her hand to
her neck, while an expression of pain died upon her lips; then, as if
recollecting herself, the hand wandered in search of something, and, not
finding it, she rose, and looked about the room, and then in the next,
but returned again, disappointed.
"What are you looking for?" enquired Lucy, at length, seeing how
troubled her face became.
She started at perceiving she was noticed, and replied, with ill
affected carelessness--
"I had a chain round my neck which I can't find."
"Oh," said Lucy, "that is quite safe--for Henry has it for you."
"How did he get it?" said Mabel, her face and neck suffused with deep
crimson.
"Caroline wanted to look at it--but, just as she was going to raise the
spring of the locket to see what was in it, he put his arms round her,
and took it from her--not very polite certainly--but your locket is
safe--for I do not suppose he will look at it, as he took it from
Caroline."
Mabel covered her face with her hands, and Lucy saw, with surprise, that
tears were trickling through her fingers--but presently she brushed them
aside, exclaiming--
"How silly to be put out by such a trifle--promise me, dear Lucy, not to
say how vexed I was at nothing."
"No, Mabel--it would indeed be unkind to notice the few unreasonable
moods in which you ever indulge."
Neither said more at that time--and Lucy, as had been her habit lately,
was silent for some hours.
The evening had closed in, Mabel had excused herself from appearing at
the dinner-table; and, as it was now too dark to see to read or work,
she laid aside her book, and seated herself to remain awhile unoccupied.
Then Lucy raised herself a little, and leaning her head upon one hand,
looked attentively at her, while she said, in a low tone--
"I have been thinking, these long, long days, of all the wrong I have
ever done you. Nay, do not interrupt me--let me condemn myself as I
deserve. When I first went to Aston, I well remember how kindly you
tried to make me happy, even while I was turning you into ridicule, in
order that I might prevent Captain Clair admiring you. With the wish to
shew my superior nerve, and spirit for fun, I persisted in being one
great cause of poor Amy's accident, while I called you prudish and old
maidish. When I was in despair, you turned from your own grief to
comfort mine; and yet so selfish was I still, that when I refused to
leave you to nurse alone, it was only because I loved Captain Clair.
When I found he loved you, I left you without remorse--and, oh! when she
was dying--the poor child I had helped to murder--I was acting a part at
a fancy ball, without one thought but of the admiration I excited. You
came here. I felt, at first, that I could have done anything to please
you; but I soon forgot you again--for I was once more infatuated, and
could see nothing, think of nothing, but Beauclerc. I left you alone, to
contend with my sisters, who were prejudiced against you--and when you
interfered, for my good, I met you with peevishness and ill-humour. And
how have I been punished--that very ball was the beginning of my
unhappiness. When I went to the fancy ball, I deserved to meet
Beauclerc, and to be deceived in him as I have been. And now, mother and
sisters all desert me--none can bear to witness the workings of such a
frivolous mind as mine--none stand by me--none care for me--but you, you
whom I have most injured--no one but you thinks my spirit worth
preserving from its sin and worldliness. Oh, Mabel, you have entirely
conquered me--but I dare not promise anything--I am so very, very weak."
"It is for such a moment as this," replied Mabel, "that I have waited and
watched. Lucy, you are dear to me, because I have thought and prayed for
you so long. I know how difficult it is to do right, when you have long
done wrong; but I know, that if you try, there is no difficulty you will
not overcome."
"And if I do not try," said Lucy, tears gathering in her eyes, "what is
to become of me; I leave nothing but trifling and despair behind me.
Only point out some way by which I can shew I repent, for I know I must
be doing something, or I shall fall back into idle habits again--only
point out something for me to begin with, and I will get up
to-morrow--for I am not ill--only unhappy."
"I can tell you, then," said Mabel, "of one social duty, of which you
never think, and, without performing it, I can scarcely believe that a
blessing can rest either on your worldly fortune, or your eternal hopes.
Pardon me for speaking severely--but why has your father, upon whose
hardly earned wealth you have rested so much of your pleasure, why is he
left alone to feel that no one cares for him?"
"But, do you think he would care for my company? and, besides, you are
always with him."
"He would indeed care, if you would but try to please him--and I shall
give up my place, when you are ready to take it. Indeed, my duty lies
elsewhere, and I must soon obey its call. I would not have any one
ignorant of their real talents through false modesty," she continued,
"because they are weapons lent us by Heaven, which we must either use,
or abuse, or leave to rust in our hands. You know you have a winning
way, when you like--it has been your snare in society--but it may make
your peace at home."
"I will try," cried Lucy, smiling, "no one can give comfort as you can;
but I will not talk, I have wasted too much on words already."
"But one thing more," said Mabel--"can you bear now to let me speak of
Mr. Beauclerc?"
"I meant to have forgotten him," replied Lucy, shrinkingly; "but what of
him?"
"He has written to me--and, if you will let me, I should like you to
hear his letter."
"Very well then," she returned, but her countenance had fallen.
Mabel read--
Lucy blushed when she came to the commendation of "her artless candour
and ingenuousness."
"Well," she said, "I forgive him, he can ask no more."
"Nor does he," replied Mabel, "but you can do more, and I strongly
advise you to do so. It would not only be generous, but prudent, to aid
in making a reconciliation between him and his wife; for, if he
reflects, and the world comments on your conduct, it had better be on
your generosity than on any thing else. I carefully bring forward these
motives, because it is dangerous to pique oneself on doing a noble
thing, when, being prudent, it serves our own purpose. Will you do this,
dear Lucy?"
"I will try," said she, very slowly, as if with difficulty, "but Millie
and I have quarrelled."
"She had cause for irritation, if she believed that you were flirting
with her husband; and I am sure you can allow for any thing she may have
said under that impression; for, without intending it, how greatly you
must have pained her."
"Yes, Mabel, yes, I have pained every body and lost my own peace as
well. Oh, what would I give to be conscience free--free from all the
petty wickedness of which I have been guilty. Believe me, all the time
that Beauclerc seemed flirting, he was only talking seriously, and he
never would have been so much with me had I not attracted him by a
thousand artifices--pleading my own ignorance and great admiration for
his talent, which I really felt, but ought not to have spoken. But you
will not reproach me, for I am bitterly punished, and even your contempt
is disarmed. I will go to Millie, yes, I will do every thing so that I
may win peace at last. Oh that to-morrow were come; but, that it may be
blessed, I will pray to-night. Now, dearest Mabel, do go to bed, you
look so pale and ill, and I have been talking and keeping you up, and
how your poor neck must pain you--I shall ring for that good tempered
cook to come and dress it for you."
"Good night love." And so the girls parted for the night.
To-morrow came, and Lucy rose, pale, but composed, and this satisfied
Mabel more than any greater display of ardour.
"It is difficult," she said, turning from the mirror, which reflected
back her altered features, "but it may bring me peace. Give me your arm,
Mabel dear, and then we will go to the study--my face will look strange
there, after that of the intellectual Mabel."
"Hush and take courage, we shall see which will be the favorite soon.
Believe me, much as I value my uncle's favor, I shall be glad to resign
it to you, if we cannot both be loved."
"Do not make me cry," returned Lucy, "I have shed tears enough--see how
heavy my eyelids look."
Arm-in-arm they proceeded to the study, where Mr. Villars was seated at
his work, no longer a disappointed student. He looked up, with a little
surprise, on seeing Lucy, but, without a moment's hesitation, she
advanced towards him, and, laying her hand on the table to steady
herself, for she trembled with weakness, she said--
"Papa, the world has vexed me, will you let me come to you, for then I
shall be safe."
She could scarcely have chosen a better introduction, for, had she
offered her services and her company, both would probably have been now
declined; but Mr. Villars was a kind-hearted man, and the speech touched
him, and he replied, taking her hand--
"Come, my poor girl, whenever you like, for you are right in saying you
will be safe with me, and I need a companion when Mabel is out of the
way."
Then Mabel drew her to her own chosen seat by the fire, and gave her a
footstool, telling her, that, if she liked, she might go on copying
something she had begun, and when she was tired she could tack some
papers together, with the needle and thread which she placed ready for
her hand, on the little table where she had laid some writing materials.
As she busied herself in these little preparations, it was beautiful to
see how her cheek flushed with rich color, and how bright her eye
sparkled, and then, as she gently moved away and left them to
themselves, how cheerfully she looked back upon them; as if, in that
kindly glance, she left a blessing behind her, when she departed.