Yet must my soul unveiled to thee be shown,
And all its dreams and all its passions known,
Thou shalt not be deceived, for pure as Heaven,
Is thy young love in faith and fervour given.
HEMANS.
What a breakfast they had next morning! Mabel agitated; Lucy frightened
and silent; and the rest tired and wofully cross.
If Caroline had looked most beautiful the night before, she was now
quite the reverse. Some indeed say, that there were lines made by
passion on her face, which never quite wore away again, but grew deeper
as she grew older. However this may be, there she sat that morning,
looking, every minute, ready to break out afresh with some bitter
remark, should occasion offer; particularly, as, under the impression of
happy circumstances, Mabel's countenance seemed to grow more and more
beautiful.
Colonel Hargrave, the servant told them, had taken his breakfast with
Mr. Villars, and had since gone out.
This was a momentary relief to Caroline, it seemed like coldness or
inconstancy; and whenever she saw Mabel's eyes turn anxiously to the
door, she caught the glance, and returned it with one of malicious
exultation. At length, however, he came in, looking so happy, that all
her short-lived triumph was over.
Gently, and unobtrusively pressing Mabel's hand, and bidding the others
good morning, with cheerfulness which was not responded to--he told her,
that he had been to place a letter, written by her uncle, in the hands
of the Weymouth coachman, for Mrs. Noble, and that he had received many
promises of its safe delivery.
Mabel thanked him, and waited anxiously for even a ceremonious
invitation from her aunt to remain with them, but none came, and no one
spoke. Lucy, vexed and ashamed, stole away, and her sisters remained, in
perfect silence, secretly determined to put the lovers out of
countenance. Mabel could scarcely believe how very happy and how very
uncomfortable she felt at that moment.
"I came in partly to ask you to take a short stroll with me, Mabel,"
said Hargrave, turning to his betrothed, and looking, in truth, rather
impatient to be gone.
She got up instantly, and went to put on her bonnet, while the mother
and sisters remained in the same dead silence, till her return, seeming
determined to keep aloof from all their proceedings.
But they were quickly gone, and passing by the busy streets, were soon
on their way to the country--where they seemed to breathe freely, and
insensibly slackened their pace. How gloriously the sun shone that day,
over the green hills and valleys--and what sweet odours did the earth
yield back as willing incense. They felt, and enjoyed every thing, even
while they seemed to have no thought for any thing but each other.
"I tremble to feel so happy," said Hargrave, at length, speaking almost
for the first time, as they lingered by a low stile which interrupted
their walk, and turned to gaze around them; "knowing myself to be so
unworthy--but I am, really, very, very happy; and at this moment, when I
have regained all that impenitence had lost, I feel, indeed, forgiven.
I have a hundred things to say, and yet, while we are alone, it seems
happiness enough to be silent."
"It has all come so rapidly," said Mabel, "that I feel in some fairy
dream. Do tell me how, and why,"--she hesitated.
"How, and why, we are standing here as we are," he replied, with a
smile; "but, tell me first, do you not feel as you used, when we
wandered on the hills, at Aston. I scarcely think six years have passed
as they have done."
"Come, talk seriously, dear Henry," said Mabel, "or my heart will break
for very happiness; tell me what has worked this blessed change."
"It is a long and painful story, love," returned Hargrave, "but I will
tell it now, and then we shall quite understand each other. Do you
remember that dark day on which we parted; when, with all the pride
which made my spirit so cruel, I cast you from me, and saw you fall
against your mother's knee, as if a look of mine might crush, but could
not turn you, because you would not follow my free spirit in the
unfettered liberty it had made for itself?
"They tell me, that, after that day, sickness laid you low, but only
strengthened the principles for which you had martyred your affections.
They tell me, that, in watching her child, your mother grew ill, and
that you rose from sickness to be her nurse, and that you managed her
affairs, and once more became the light of that loved home; they tell me
poverty came, year by year, and that the little which had been saved
became the prey, of a rapacious woman. That then came sickness, and
trial, and death, in all its gloom--your home destroyed, nothing left
but blackened ruins to remind you of the past. I know that you have
since been subject to a thousand little vexations, and annoyances; a
cold welcome, and a zealous watch. Now, tell me, have you never repented
the hour which parted us?"
Mabel looked up timidly.
"Nay, never fear me; I can bear the truth, now."
"No, Henry; you know I have never repented."
"Ah, well I do," he said; "there could not have been such an angel calm
round your whole being, had there been an unsettled principle within.
"Now, listen; when I turned my back upon Aston, as I believed, for ever,
in my mad fury, I might have kept my purpose, had you turned upon me, in
your beauty, and spurned me as I had spurned you; but that deep,
beseeching look, that prostrate form clinging to the earth in its
wretchedness, but, without a frown or reproach for me--I carried it
away--that last glance of yours; it haunted me, and would not let me go,
though I turned upon it in fury, and would have beaten it madly back.
"I need not tell you with what haste I exchanged my place in the English
army, to one in a regiment starting for India; or, how I fought upon its
burning plains, amongst the brave and the victorious. Even then, that
last look pursued me. I studied with the learned, in Eastern lore. I was
praised for my knowledge. Learning and enterprise were my pursuits--my
society, the bold, and free-thinking; and my mind and imagination
unfettered. But, what the world calls vice, that I knew not--there was
something in the long forgotten, but not unfelt, impressions of
childhood, and a mother's purity and love, that kept me back from
that--and, while my charity was profuse, and my hand dealt bountifully
to mankind, I proudly turned upon the professors of religion, and, as I
held their weak points up to scandal, I bade them acknowledge the
superiority of my moral code."
"Oh, Henry, say no more," cried Mabel.
"Do not shrink from me, because my confession is unreserved, but hear it
to the very end. All this time, I forgot that pride and malice were in
my heart, though I did sometimes feel what I have since seen expressed
by Luther: 'An evil conscience is like a tormenting spirit, it is
alarmed in the midst of outward prosperity.'
"So I continued till about a year since, when, one evening, I was at
supper with a large party of friends, whose views corresponded with my
own. With them there were some strangers, and amongst them, a strange
old man, who regarded me attentively. I remember speaking more freely
than I used, that night; and, conscious that I had done so, I left the
party earlier than I had intended, partly because I was anxious to
escape from the eyes of that strange man.
"The evening was delightful, and, instead of returning to my tent, I
took a stroll in the moonlight. Much to my annoyance, I soon perceived
that I was followed by the very man it had been my whim to avoid.
Turning round, to confront him, our eyes met again, and I stood
transfixed by the strange expression of his face.
"'I have heard,' he said, after looking at me for a while, 'hundreds of
miles south, of your charity, and your munificence. I came to see their
author, and am disappointed.'
"'Since you have done me so much honor, may I ask whom I address, sir?'
I said, with overstrained politeness.
"'Your mother's brother, Mr. Morley,' he replied, 'who hoped never to
have seen one, in whose veins ran kindred blood, defile his intellect,
as you have done.'
"This strange introduction only led to a long and heated argument on
religious subjects, in which my unexpected casuistry so far baffled him,
as to leave him without an answer; and I parted from him in triumph.
"The next day, he found me again, and told me that he had sat up the
whole night, till he had prepared himself with the answer he could not,
at first, command. If he had thought to convince me in my perverseness,
he was mistaken--for obstinacy has an answer for everything; but there
is something in genuine enthusiasm, and self-denying energy, which
always claims respect, and though I argued as obstinately, it was more
respectfully than before. He came to me again and again, and the same
topic began or ended every conversation, and left me as hardened as
ever. Ah, Mabel, it is a sad confession for such ears as yours; but I
never have deceived you yet, and I never will."
Mabel's bright eyes were dimmed by tears; but her hand rested
confidingly in his, as he continued--
"One evening I was sitting alone by the light of the moon; my thoughts
had travelled, unchecked and unbidden, to England, and as I thought, I
drew from my bosom, the first and only keepsake I had received from you,
the small clasped Bible, in which you had written my name and your own.
I had often tried to throw it away, but could not--wherever I went, it
accompanied me, a silent reproach, but nothing more. That night, I
opened it, and read; before I was aware, my uncle, who had entered
unperceived, approached me. I would have hid the precious volume, had I
had time; but he saw it, and I threw it carelessly aside. He took it up,
and opened it. I never shall forget the look of benignity and pleasure
which lighted up his features at that moment. Are they not worn out and
haggard now? but they seemed beautiful then, as he said--
"'There is hope.'
"'No, uncle, that will not do,' I said, attempting to laugh, 'it is only
a keepsake.'
"He looked at the first page, and repeated, softly--'Mabel, Mabel.' I do
not think he ever forgot the name; and, from that time, it was
associated with good and holy things.
"Anxious to change the subject, I prevailed on him to walk; and, as we
went, I engaged him in talking over lighter topics, for I felt unable to
renew our customary arguments that evening.
"As we strolled on, we came upon a group of many peasants, who were
eagerly engaged in looking at something in their centre, and talking
loudly all the while. Wishing to observe what had attracted them, we
drew nearer, and soon perceived that they were standing round two
wretched women, who, with their caps torn under their feet, and their
hair streaming about their faces, were fighting, with the fury of
demons, using, at the same time, the most fearful imprecations, while
the mob cheered and irritated them by turns. I was leaving the spot in
disgust, when my uncle, passing his arm through mine, prevented my doing
so. Though I had passed through many horrible scenes, I felt sick when I
looked on this.
"At length, one of the women, with a horrible shriek of triumph, held
up, to the crowd, a handful of hair, which she had torn from her
adversary's head; but, as she turned slightly to do so, the other took
the opportunity of tripping her up, and they both rolled on the ground,
struggling together, and the crowd closed round them. I turned a sick
look on my uncle, who, far less moved than myself, exclaimed, in an
emphatic voice--
"'Who would spend an eternity with such companions?'
"The boldest arguments he had used never made so strong an impression
upon me as did these words. I broke from him, and pursued my walk alone.
I, who had turned with disgust from every moral deformity--I, to whom
refinement was as the breath of life, to be classed with such wretches
as these.
"The words fastened upon me; they seemed burning their impression on my
very brain. That night I spent upon the floor of my apartment;
conscience was awakened, and it was beyond my power to lay it to sleep
again. For the first time, I felt the full consciousness of sin, and how
terrible was the load; my spirit was weighed down, and the arguments
which had upset the weak or wavering, and scoffed at the strong, failed
utterly before that power of conscience. In the morning, my uncle found
me in strong delirium, for the strength of my body, robust as it was,
had fallen before the terror of that one wretched night. I wildly
reproached him, and begged him to leave me to the curse which he had
brought upon me; but what could turn such a man from his purpose? He who
employed his time in persevering efforts for the happiness of thousands,
now devoted himself entirely to me. After weeks of illness, I rose from
my bed pale, emaciated, and wretched, but humbled to the dust. My first
effort, however, was to seek my former friends, and to urge my own
doubts upon them, but, those I had had the power to lead into error,
laughed at my pain, and mocked at my scruples. I had lost caste with
them, and retired from their society loaded with the most bitter
ridicule.
"In this miserable time came a thirst for England, my health required
it, I retired from the army, and returned home. Did it not seem like a
judgment upon me, that I reached my own village, but to find it in
flames? No one can tell what a store of repentance I laid up that
night: at the story of old Giles, which you may have heard from his own
lips;--the rebuke which everywhere raised itself against me;--the
wretchedness which on all sides appeared to upset my ostentatious moral
well-doing; and the death of that poor child in her simple faith. Was
not this a fit welcome for the returning infidel?"
Mabel placed her hand upon her forehead; for there was terror in the
remembrance of that awful night. And, then when he spoke again, the
thought seemed to have passed from him, and his voice was low, and
thrillingly gentle.
"I dared not seek you then; I dared not bring to you uncertain
repentance; and that it was not complete, I knew, because I could not
even then humble myself to ask your forgiveness. But directly I came
here, I found out one of my boyhood's friends, a good and simple-hearted
clergyman, and with him I have spent every Sunday since I first arrived
in Bath. The benefit I have received from him has been very great; and
all that was left of pride or revenge in my heart, you have long since
subdued by your gentleness and patience, and more than all, have I
admired, the frankness which enabled you to avoid the error of foolishly
seeming entirely to have forgotten me, while you preserved the most
delicate reserve on all occasions. Mabel, dear, dear Mabel," he said,
taking her trembling hand in both his, "you have entirely subdued me,
and, cost what it may, I will not forfeit the smallest chance of
regaining your confidence, for aught else the world has to offer."
"It is yours, dear Henry, without reserve," said Mabel, raising her
trusting eyes to his, "I give it back with all the unchanging love I
have ever felt for you, and for no other."
As Hargrave gazed down upon her, with pride and affection, there was a
moment's happy silence, and then she looked up again, more timidly,
while her lip slightly trembled.
"And can you say that you have loved no other?"
"I can indeed," he replied, while a half, well pleased smile, stole over
his countenance. "In all my wanderings, no other image but yours has
accompanied me, and much as I tried to banish it, it has been
unrivalled."
"I do not speak of your wanderings," said Mabel, half catching the
smile.
"Oh! I see, you mean your cousin. No: I honestly tell you, that I have
never been led, even by the many petty plots by which I have been
surrounded, to do anything which could place my conduct, with regard to
her, in a doubtful light. Had I done so, I should have grieved deeply;
and such a heartless act would have been a canker in my present
enjoyment. I do own, that when I saw you thought so, I did not undeceive
you, because I was anxious to see how you would act under an impression,
which so often brings out evil, if any exists; but if you knew how much
of our future happiness was at stake, you would forgive me for placing
it beyond a doubt, that you were the same self-devoted, noble girl, who
could refuse all that I had to offer, when her conscience called on her
to do so."
"But forgive me," persisted Mabel, "why did you stay here so long; did
not that look suspicious?"
"Well," said Hargrave, as they now walked on side by side, "I think I
can explain that too. You know that when you were at Aston Manor, I
could not be there, and wanted some plausible excuse for remaining away;
no better offered, and every thing was done to induce me to remain in
Bath; but I suppose you will not be quite satisfied till I tell you,
that when, after a visit of a few days, I was pressed to remain, I
agreed, only on condition that I should be allowed to pay for the extra
expense, which my prolonged stay might cause; you will believe that I
have done this in no grudging manner. And besides, the game and venison
from Aston, and other luxuries of the kind, have been always at your
Aunt's command. As I knew that I had a secret motive to serve, by
remaining here, I felt that I could do no less with any satisfaction to
myself. I do not think your cousins or uncle knew of this agreement, but
Mrs. Villars regarded it as a whim of mine, and said if I liked to
increase her pin-money, I might. Are you satisfied love?"
"Quite," said Mabel, musingly.
"I do not think, however, that I shall remain here beyond to-day--with
them, I mean--for my popularity is gone--and my temper would be sorely
tried, for little purpose--so I have taken rooms at the Lion. Besides, I
have another purpose to serve, by remaining there, as it is near the
Abbey--and I should like to be married there."
"Yes--but--"
"Yes--but--" repeated Hargrave, smiling on his blushing companion; "tell
me, is there any reason why you should not be mine at once?"
Mabel glanced at her mourning dress, and burst into tears.
"Do you remember," he said, gently, "my asking you to let me see your
little sister, that night, alone? It will be a comfort to you, to know,
that, young and childlike as she was, I entrusted my secret to her, and
she died in the confidence of an hour like this, when her Mabel, her
dear sister, would be the honoured mistress of a happy home. Consider,
dearest, how you are placed; you are not even offered a formal welcome
here--and I tremble to think how much unkindness you must yet
experience. As to going to other friends, no one would advise it, when,
in your husband, you can find one, who can so fully sympathise in your
feelings--and, I promise you, that, for the remainder of the year, we
will continue quietly in the country, bent only on serving our poor
tenants. The shorter time we linger here, the better--for I long to be
away, and alone, sharing that confidence which I could not give even to
you, so freely as I could to my wife. Do not trifle with me--say you
will be mine, before this month has passed away."
"So soon?" said Mabel.
"Nay, if you love me--why should you hesitate? I am sure you will not."
Mabel looked down--she always had been afraid to contradict him, since,
when a child, she had looked up with veneration to his superior strength
and height.
"You doubt me still," said Hargrave, turning aside his head, with such a
look of vexation, that she was quite conquered.
Taking his hand, as she had often done in those old, childish quarrels,
she looked up in his face, and whispered gentle words, which brought
the smile back again.
"And now, my love," he said, as he drew her closer to him, taking from
his pocket the chain and portrait, which Caroline had so eagerly desired
to examine, and placing it again upon her neck; "let me give you back
your own. Little can you imagine the exquisite pleasure I experienced,
when I discovered that the portrait of your undeserving lover was still
so faithfully preserved. Nay, blush not, my darling--when love has been
once confessed, there can be no indelicacy in cherishing it to the very
death. It will be very, very hard for me to retrace what has been
lost--but with my sweet wife to help me, there is nothing I will not
dare; and, knowing that you are so good and truthful, and untouched by
the world, as I have found you, through all these trying months, I have
learnt to trust all my aching conscience to your care."
He paused to look down upon the tearful face of his betrothed--but she
was too much affected to reply.
How gloriously the sun shone on, and how blithely the birds
carolled--and how pleasantly hummed the bees, in their busy search over
the clover fields. That was a day to be well remembered.
"Well," said Hargrave, when they entered the town again, "we must
temporise with our present difficulties. I suppose you would not like me
to bribe my aunt into peace while you remain?"
"Oh, dear no--only tell her what I have not the courage to say--and
leave the bribery, as you call it, to me. I have a little treasure, a
great treasure it seemed once, in case of need, which I can now readily
part with--I mean, the box of plate which was saved from that terrible
fire. It is a coveted thing, and, therefore, will be a welcome present,
that will pay for any fancied obligation; and I will send for it
directly."
"A brilliant idea, truly; but only behold, here is Miss Lovelace--for
the sake of gossip she shall be at our wedding."
"What do I see," said that young lady, coming up with her ringlets and
flounces, quite in a ferment, with surprise--"Miss Lesly, why I thought
you were at Weymouth, by this time; well, I am quite glad to see you."
"No doubt," said Hargrave, gaily; "the street is not exactly a place for
explanations--but, depend upon it, you shall be one of the first to know
the reason of this change in Miss Lesly's arrangements."
Raising his hat, as he passed her, he left her in a perfect ecstasy of
curiosity; but whatever her after assertions, as to the depth of her
penetration might be, it is pretty certain, that she did not arrive near
the truth, after all her conjectures.
"Surely," thought she, "that ill-tempered Miss Villars has actually
spoken the truth, and they are to be married--and Miss Lesly remains to
be a useful bridesmaid."
That she was not over pleased, when she arrived at this conclusion,
might be inferred from the toss which she gave her little head, ringlets
and all, as she went on her way.
Meanwhile, Hargrave, having accompanied Mabel home, immediately resigned
her to all the discomforts of her situation, while he went to seek an
interview with Mrs. Villars.