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FRANCIS & CO.'S
LITTLE LIBRARY:
FOR YOUNG PERSONS OF VARIOUS AGES.
* * * * *
TURNS OF FORTUNE:
BY MRS. S.C. HALL.
FRANCIS & CO.'S LITTLE LIBRARY.
C.S. Francis & Co., New York, _have published a uniform Series of
Choice volumes for Young People, by some of the most distinguished
writers for Children. Neatly bound in cloth, and illustrated by
Engravings._
L. MARIA CHILD.--FLOWERS FOR CHILDREN: No. 1, for Children eight or
nine years old.
---- FLOWERS FOR CHILDREN: No. 2, for Children three or four years
old.
---- FLOWERS FOR CHILDREN: No. 3, for Children eleven or twelve years
old.
MARY HOWITT.--FIRESIDE TALES.
---- THE CHRISTMAS TREE: A Book of Stories.
---- THE TURTLE DOVE OF CARMEL; and Other Stories.
---- THE FAVORITE SCHOLAR; LITTLE CHATTERBOX; PERSEVERANCE, and other
Tales. By Mary Howitt, Mrs. S.C. Hall, and others.
MRS. TRIMMER.--THE ROBBINS; OR DOMESTIC LIFE AMONG THE BIRDS. Designed
for the Instruction of Children respecting their Treatment of Animals.
MISS LESLIE.--RUSSEL AND SIDNEY AND CHASE LORING: Tales of the
American Revolution.
MRS. CAROLINE GILMAN.--THE LITTLE WREATH OF STORIES AND POEMS FOR
CHILDREN.
---- STORIES AND POEMS FOR CHILDREN.
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.--A CHRISTMAS GREETING: Thirteen New Stories
from the Danish of Hans Christian Andersen.
---- A PICTURE BOOK WITHOUT PICTURES; and other Stories: by Hans
Christian Andersen. Translated by Mary Howitt, with a Memoir of the
Author.
---- A DANISH STORY BOOK.
CLAUDINE; OR HUMILITY THE BASIS OF ALL THE VIRTUES. A Swiss Tale. By a
Mother; author of "Always Happy," "True Stories from History," &c.
FACTS TO CORRECT FANCIES; or Short Narratives compiled from the
Memoirs of Remarkable Women. By a Mother.
HOLIDAY STORIES. Containing five Moral Tales.
MRS. HOFLAND.--THE HISTORY OF AN OFFICER'S WIDOW, and her Young
Family.
---- THE CLERGYMAN'S WIDOW, and her Young Family.
---- THE MERCHANT'S WIDOW, and her Young Family.
MISS ABBOT.--KATE AND LIZZIE; OR SIX MONTHS OUT OF SCHOOL.
MISS ELIZA ROBBINS.--CLASSIC TALES. Designed for the Instruction
and Amusement of Young Persons. By the author of "American Popular
Lessons," &c.
MRS. S.C. HALL.--TURNS OF FORTUNE; ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS, &C.
---- THE PRIVATE PURSE; CLEVERNESS, and other Tales.
NEW VOLUMES
OF
FRANCIS & CO.'S LITTLE LIBRARY.
_Thirty volumes of this series have been published, including some
of the choicest books for young people, by Mary Howitt; Maria Child;
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others_.
The Story Teller; TALES FROM THE DANISH of Hans Christian Andersen.
_Containing_ Ole Lucköie; The Buckwheat: The Wild Swans; The Angel;
The Fellow-Traveler; The Elfin Mound; The Flying Trunk; The Bundle of
Matches.
The Ugly Duck; AND OTHER TALES: by Hans Christian Andersen.
_Containing_ The Ugly Duck; Top and Ball; The Little Mermaid; The
Storks; The Nightingale: The Rose of the Elf; Holger Danske; The
Emperor Frederick Barbarossa; The Dying Child.
Little Ellie; AND OTHER TALES: by Hans Christian Andersen.
_Containing_ Little Ellie; The Tinder Box; The Wicked King; The
Resolute Leaden Soldier; The Garden of Paradise; The Shepherdess and
Chimney-Sweep; Little Ida's Flowers; The Daisy; New Year's Eve.
The Merchant's Daughter; AND OTHER TALES: by Mrs. S.C. Hall.
How to Win Love; OR, RHODA'S LESSON. A story for the Young.
"A delightful little book, which will not only attract the young, but
minister instruction to the _instructors_ of youth."--_Edin. Witness_.
TURNS OF FORTUNE;
AND OTHER TALES.
BY MRS. S.C. HALL.
NEW-YORK. C.S. FRANCIS & CO., 252 BROADWAY.
BOSTON: J.H. FRANCIS, 128 WASHINGTON-STREET.
1851.
CONTENTS
TURNS OF FORTUNE 9
"ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS" 63
"THERE IS NO HURRY" 143
TURNS OF FORTUNE
CHAPTER I.
"Hush, Sarah!" exclaimed old Jacob Bond, as he sat up in his bed,
while the wind clattered and whistled through the shivering window
frames. "Hush! Is that Brindle's bark?"
"No, father; it is one of the farm dogs near the village. Lie down,
dearest father; it is a cold night, and you are trembling."
"I don't know why I should feel cold, Sarah," he replied, pointing his
shadowy fingers towards the grate, where an abundant fire blazed; "I
am sure you have put down as much wood as would roast an ox."
"It is so very cold, father."
"Still, we must not be wasteful, Sarah," he answered; "wilful waste
makes woful want." Sarah Bond covered the old man carefully over,
while he laid himself stiffly down upon his pallet, re-muttering his
favourite proverb over and over again.
She then drew the curtains more closely, and seated herself in an
old-fashioned chair beside a little table in front of the fire.
The room had been the drawing-room of the old house in which Mr. Bond
and his daughter resided, but for the sake of saving both labour and
expense, he had had his bed removed into it; and though anything but
comfortable, a solitary, impoverished, and yet gorgeous appearance
pervaded the whole, such as those who delineate interiors, loving
small lights and deep shadows, would covet to convey to their canvass.
The bed upon which the old man lay was canopied, and of heavy crimson
damask. In the dim light of that spacious room, it looked to the
worn-out eyes of Sarah Bond more like a hearse than a bed. Near it
was an old spinnet, upon which stood a labelled vial, a tea-cup, and
a spoon. When Sarah seated herself at the table, she placed her elbows
upon it, and pressed her folded hands across her eyes; no sigh or moan
escaped her, but her chest heaved convulsively; and when she removed
her hands, she drew a Bible toward her, trimmed the lamp, and began to
read.
The voice of an old French clock echoed painfully through the chamber.
Sarah longed to stop it, and yet it was a companion in her watchings.
Once, a shy, suspicious, bright-eyed mouse rattled among the cinders,
and ran into the wainscot, and then came out again, and stared at
Sarah Bond, who, accustomed to such visits, did not raise her eyes
to inquire into the cause of the rustling which in a few more moments
took place upon a tray containing the remnants of some bread and
cheese, her frugal supper.
"Sarah," croaked Mr. Bond; "what noise is that?"
"Only the mice, father, as usual; do, father, try to sleep. I watch
carefully; there is nothing to fear."
"Ay, ay, men and mice all the same; nothing but waste. When I am gone,
Sarah, keep what you will have; it won't be much, Sarah, my poor girl,
it won't be much; just enough to need care; but KEEP IT; don't lend
it, or give it, or spend it; you are fond of spending, my poor girl;
see that huge fire, enough for three nights; early bad habits. When
we lived in a small house and were poor, it was then you learned to be
extravagant; I had no money then, so did not know its value."
"But we were happier then, father," said Sarah Bond; "we were so
cheerful and happy then, and so many poor people blessed my dear
mother, and Mary"--
"Hiss--ss," uttered the dying miser; "don't dare mention your sister,
who disgraced me by marrying a pauper; a pauper who threatened my
life, because I would not give him my money to save him from starving;
but he _did not_ get the old father-in-law's gold; no; he _starved,
and_"--
The words thus uttered by her father, who she knew had not many hours
to live--uttered, too, with such demoniac bitterness--forced the
gentle, patient woman to start from her seal, and pass rapidly across
the room to the side of his bed, where she sank upon her knees, and
seized his shrunken hands in hers. "Father!" she exclaimed, "I have
been your child for forty years, and you have said, that during that
period, by no act of my own, have I _ever_ angered you. Is it not so?"
The old man withdrew one hand gently, turned himself round, and looked
in her face: "Forty years! Is it forty years?" he repeated; "but it
must be; the fair brow is wrinkled, and the abundant hair grown thin
and gray. You were a pretty baby, Sarah, and a merry child; a cheerful
girl, too, until that foolish fancy. Well, dear, I'll say no more
about it; good, dutiful girl. You gave it up to please your father
full twenty years ago, and when he dies, you shall have _all_ his
gold--there's a good father! You must _keep_ it, Sarah, and not give
it, nor lend it. I know you won't marry, as _he_ is dead; nor see your
sister--mind that; if you see _her_, or serve her, the bitterest curse
that ever rose from a father's grave will compass you in on every
side."
"My father!" she said, "oh! in mercy to yourself, revoke these words.
She knew nothing of her husband's conduct; he used her even worse than
he used you. Oh! for my sake say you will forgive Mary. It is all I
ask. Do what you please with your wealth, but forgive my sister."
"You were always a fool, Sarah," he replied faintly and peevishly. "If
I could do as I please, I would take my property with me, for you will
surely spend it. But there is another condition, another promise you
must give me. Now, don't interrupt me again. We will talk of _her_
by-and-bye, perhaps. As long as you live, Sarah, _as you value my
blessing_, you must not part with anything in this room. You will live
on in the old house, or perhaps sell it, and have a smaller; yet don't
spend money in new furnishing--don't; but never part with anything in
_this room_; never so much as a stick."
This promise was willingly given; for, independently of her love for
her father, Sarah Bond had become attached to the inanimate objects
which had so long been before her. Again she endeavoured to lead
her father away from that avarice which had corrupted his soul, and
driven happiness and peace from their dwelling. She urged the duty of
forgiveness, and pleaded hard for her sister; but, though the hours
wore away, she made no impression upon him. Utterly unmindful of
her words, he did not either interrupt her or fall into his former
violence. On the contrary, he seemed involved in some intricate
calculation--counting on his fingers, or casting up lines of imaginary
figures upon the coverlit.
Sarah, heart-broken, and silently weeping, retreated to the table, and
again, after turning the fire, betook her to her solace--the precious
volume that never fails to afford consolation to the afflicted. She
read a few passages, and then, though she looked upon the book, her
mind wandered. She recalled the happy days of her childhood, before
her father, by the extraordinary and most unexpected bequest of a
distant relative, became possessed of property to what extent she
could form no idea. She knew that this relative had quarrelled with
the heir-at-law, and left all to one he had never seen. This bequest
had closed up her father's heart; instead of being a blessing, so
perfectly avaricious had he grown, that it was a curse. Previously, he
had been an industrious farmer; and though a thrifty one, had evinced
none of the bitterness of avarice, none of its hardness or tyranny.
He could then sleep at nights, permit his wife and children to share
their frugal stores with those who needed, troll "Ere around the huge
oak," while his wife accompanied him on the spinnet, and encourage
his daughters to wed men in what was their then sphere of life, rather
than those who might not consider the gentle blood they inherited, and
their superior education, a sufficient set-off to their limited means
and humble station. Suddenly, riches poured in upon him: his eldest
daughter, true to the faith she plighted, would marry her humble
lover, and her father's subsequent harshness to her favourite
child broke the mother's heart. Sarah not only had less firmness of
character than her sister, but loved her father more devotedly, and
gave up the affection of her young heart to please him. His narrow
nature could not understand the sacrifice: and when her cheek faded,
and her really beautiful face contracted into the painful expression
of that pining melancholy which has neither words nor tears--to lull
his sympathy, he muttered to himself, "good girl, _she_ shall have
_all_ I have."
No human passion grows with so steady, so imperceptible, yet so
rampant a growth as avarice. It takes as many shapes as Proteus,
and may be called, above all others, the vice of middle life, that
soddens into the gangrene of old age; gaining strength by vanquishing
all virtues and generous emotions, it is a creeping, sly, keen,
persevering, insidious sin, assuming various forms, to cheat even
itself; for it shames to name itself unto itself; a cowardly,
darkness-loving sin, never daring to look human nature in the face;
full of lean excuses for self-imposed starvation, only revelling
in the impurity and duskiness of its own shut-up heart. At last the
joy-bells ring its knell, while it crawls into eternity like a vile
reptile, leaving a slimy track upon the world.
The inmates of the mansion enclosed in its old court-yard had long
ceased to attract the observation of their neighbours. Sometimes
Sarah called at the butcher's, but she exchanged smiles or greetings
with few; and the baker rang the rusty bell twice a-week, which was
answered by their only servant. When Mr. Bond first took possession
of the manor-house, he hired five domestics, and everybody said they
could not do with so few; and there were two men to look after the
gardens; but after his daughter's elopement and his wife's death,
three were discharged, and he let the lands and gardens; and then
another went, and Sarah felt the loneliness so great, that she made
the remaining one sleep in her own room. The house had been frequently
attacked; once, in a fit of despair, her brother-in-law had forced
his way in the night to the old man's side, and but for her prompt
interference, murder would have been done. No wonder, then, that her
shattered nerves trembled as she watched the shortening candle, and
heard the raving of the wind, saw the spectral shadows the broken
plumes that ornamented the canopy of the bed cast upon the fantastic
walls, _felt_ that _his_ hour was at hand, and feared that "he would
die and make no sign;" still, while those waving fantasies passing
to and fro through her active but weakened mind, made her tremble
in every limb, and ooze at every pore; and though unable to read
on steadily, her eyes continued fixed upon the book which her hand
grasped, with the same feeling that made those of old cling to the
altar of their God for sanctuary. Suddenly her father called--and she
started as from a dream--"Sarah!"
She hastened to his side; "Dear father, what do you want?"
"Child, the room is dark; and you had so much light just now. All
is dark. Where are you? But it was better, after all, to put out the
light; wilful waste makes"--
Before the miser had concluded his proverb, the light of _his_
existence was extinguished for ever!
CHAPTER II.
Several weeks elapsed before Sarah Bond recovered sufficiently from
the shock, ay, and genuine grief, occasioned by her father's death,
so as to investigate her affairs; the hardness and the tyranny she
had borne for so many years had become habitual, and her own will was
absolutely paralysed by inaction. Jacob Bond had always treated his
daughter as if she were a baby, and it was some time before she could
collect herself sufficiently to calculate upon her future plans. She
had no friends; and the sister to whom, despite her father's cruel
words, her heart clung so fondly, was far from her, she knew not
where. The mourning for herself and her servant was ordered from a
neighbouring shop, with a carelessness as to expense which made people
say that Sarah was of habits different from her father.
The rector and curate of the parish both called, but she shrunk
from strangers. The very first act, however, of her liberty, was to
take a pew at church, a whole pew, to herself, which she ordered to
be curtained all round. Some said this indicated pride, some said
ostentation; but it was simply shyness. And soon after she placed in
the aisle a white marble tablet, "To the memory of Jacob Bond, who
died in the seventy-eighth year of his age, deeply lamented by his
sorrowing daughter."
Some ladies connected with a society for clothing the poor, called
upon and explained to her their object; she poked five old guineas
into the hands of the spokeswoman, but forbade the insertion of her
donation in the visitor's book. During the following week she had
numerous applications from various charitable bodies, to whom she gave
generously, they said, while she reproached herself with narrowness;
to all, however, she positively refused to become a yearly subscriber;
and when closely urged by the rector to be one of the patrons of his
school, she answered, "Sir, my father received his property suddenly,
and I may be as suddenly deprived of it. I will give, but I will not
promise." Her impulse was to give, her habit to withhold.
She added one more servant to her establishment; and as she did not
send out cards returning thanks for the 'inquiries,' which increased
daily, Sarah Bond was a very lonely woman; for though some, from
curiosity, others from want of occupation, others, again, from the
unfortunately universal desire to form acquaintance with the rich,
would have been glad, now the solitary old miser was gone, to make
fellowship with his gentle-looking and wealthy daughter, yet her
reserve and quietness prevented the fulfilment of their wishes. Weeks
and months rolled on; the old house had been repaired and beautified.
Mr. Cramp, Sarah's law agent and 'man of business,' advised her to let
the house, of which she occupied about as much as a wren could fill of
the nest of an eagle; and, strangely enough, finding that the house
of her childhood was to let, she took it, removing thither all the
furniture which her father made her promise never to part with.
The ceiling of the best bed-room was obliged to be raised to admit
the lofty bed with its plumes, and the spinnet was assigned a very
comfortable corner in a parlour, where the faded stately chairs
and gorgeous furniture formed a curious contrast to the bright
neatly-papered walls and drugget-covered floor; for in all matters
connected with her own personal expenses, Sarah Bond was exceedingly
frugal.
_After_ her removal, though shy and strange as ever, still she
_looked_ kind things to her rich, and _did_ kind things to her poor
neighbours, only in a strange, unusual way; and her charity was given
by fits mid starts--not continuously. She moved silently about her
garden, and evinced much care for her plants and flowers. Closely
economical from long habit, rather than inclination, her domestic
arrangements were strangely at variance with what could not be called
public gifts, because she used every effort in her power to conceal
her munificence. She did not, it is true, think and calculate, how the
greatest good could be accomplished. She knew but one path to charity,
and that was paved with gold. She did not know how to offer sympathy,
or to enhance a gift by the manner of giving. Her father had
sacrificed everything to multiply and keep his wealth; all earthly
happiness had been given up for it; and unsatisfying as it had been
to her own heart, it had satisfied his. Inclination prompted to give,
habit to withhold; and certainly Sarah Bond felt far more enjoyment in
obeying inclination than in following habit; though sometimes what she
believed a duty triumphed over inclination.
If Sarah Bond ministered to her sister's necessities, she did so
secretly, hardly venturing to confess she did so, but shielding
herself from her father's curse, by sending to her sister's child, and
not her sister. Receiving few letters, the village postman grumbled
far more at having to walk out to Greenfield, than if he was
accustomed to do so every day; and one morning in particular; when
he was obliged to do so while the rain poured, he exhibited a letter,
sealed with a large black seal, to the parish-clerk, saying he wished
with all his heart Miss Bond had remained at the old manor-house up
street, instead of changing; and where was the good of taking her
a mourning letter such a gloomy day? it would be very unkind, and
he would keep it "till the rain stopped;" and so he did, until the
next morning; then taking back word to the village postmaster that
Miss Bond wanted a post-chaise and four horses instantly, which
intelligence set not only the inn, but the whole village in commotion.
She, who had never wanted a post-chaise before, to want four horses to
it now, was really wonderful.
"Which road shall I take, Miss?" inquired the post-boy, turning round
in his saddle, and touching his cap.
"On straight," was the answer. Such a thrill of disappointment as
ran through the little crowd, who stood at the door to witness her
departure. "On straight!" Why, they must wait the post-boy's return
before they could possibly know which way she went. Such provoking
suspense was enough to drive the entire village demented.
Miss Bond remained away a month, and then returned, bringing with her
her niece, a girl of about eight years old--her deceased sister's only
child, Mabel Graham.
The following Sunday Sarah Bond went to church, leading her young
companion by the hand; both were in deep mourning, and yet the very
least observant of the congregation remarked, that they had never seen
Miss Bond look so happy as when, coming out after service, and finding
that the wind had changed to the north-east, she took off her scarf
in the church porch, and put it round the neck of the lovely girl, who
strongly remonstrated against the act. It was evident that Mabel had
been accustomed to have her own way; for when she found her aunt was
resolved her throat should be protected, she turned round, and in
a moment tore the silk into halves. "Now, dear aunt, neither of our
throats will suffer," she exclaimed; while Sarah Bond did not know
whether she ought to combat her wilfulness or applaud the tender
care of herself. It was soon talked of throughout the village, how
wonderfully Sarah Bond was changed; how cheerful and even gay she had
become. Instead of avoiding society, how willingly, yet how awkwardly,
she entered into it; how eagerly she sought to learn and to make
herself acquainted with every source and system of education. No
traveller in the parchy desert ever thirsted more for water than she
did for knowledge, and her desire seemed to increase with what it fed
upon. The more she had the more she required; and all this was for the
sake of imparting all she learned to Mabel. She fancied that teachers
might not be kind to this new-found idol; that she could transfer
information more gently and continuously; that the relative was the
best instructress; in short, the pent-up tenderness of her nature, the
restrained torrent of affections that had so long lain dormant, were
poured forth upon the little heiress, as she was already called; and
captious and determined she was, as ever heiress could be; but withal
of so loving a nature, and so guileless a heart, so confiding, so
generous, and so playful, and overflowing with mirth and mischief,
that it would have been impossible to fancy any living creature who
had felt the sunshine of fourteen summers more charming or tormenting.
"I wish, dear aunt," exclaimed Mabel, one morning, as she sat at her
embroidery, the sun shining through the open window upon the abundant
glories of her hair, while her aunt sat, as she always did, opposite
to her, that she might, when she raised her eyes from off the
Italian lesson she was conning for her especial edification, have the
happiness of seeing her without an effort; "I wish, dear aunt, you
would send that old spinnet out of the room; it looks so odd by the
side of my beautiful piano."
"My dear Mabel," replied her aunt, "I have put as much _new_ furniture
as you wished into this room, but I cannot part with the old"--
"Rubbish!" added Mabel, snapping her worsted with the impatience of
the movement.
"It may be rubbish in _your_ eyes, Mabel, but I have told you before
that my dear father desired I should never part with the furniture of
the room he died in."
Mabel _looked_ the truth--"that she was not more inclined toward the
old furniture on that account;" but she did not say so. "Have you got
the key of the old spinnet, aunt? I should like to hear its tone."
"I have never found the key, my dear, though I have often looked for
it; I suppose my father lost it. I have danced to its music before now
to my mother's playing; but I am sure it has not a tone left."
"I wish you would dance now, dear aunt," exclaimed Mabel, jumping up
at the idea; "you never told me you could dance; I never, somehow,
fancied you could dance, and I have been obliged to practise my
quadrilles with two high-backed chairs and my embroidery frame. Do,
dear aunt; put by that book, and dance." It would be impossible to
fancy a greater contrast than aunt and niece. Sarah Bond's erect and
perfectly flat figure was surmounted by a long head and face, round
which an abundance of gray hair was folded; for by no other term can
I describe its peculiar dress; her cap plain, but white as snow; and a
black silk gown, that had seen its best days, was pinned and _primmed_
on, so as to sit as close as possible to a figure which would have
been greatly improved by heavy and abundant drapery. Mabel, lithe and
restless, buoyant and energetic, unable even to wish for more luxury
or more happiness than she possessed, so that her active mind was
_forced_ to employ its longings on trifles, as it really had nothing
else to desire; her face was round as those faces are which become
oval in time; and her bright laughing eyes sparkled like sunbeams
at the bare notion of making "aunt Sarah" take either the place of a
high-backed chair, or the embroidery frame in a quadrille. "Do dance,"
she repeated.
"My dear child, I know as little of your quadrilles as you do of my
country dances and reels. No, Mabel; I can neither open the spinnet
nor dance quadrilles; so you have been twice refused this morning; a
novelty, is it not, my dearest Mabel?"
"But why do you not break open the spinnet? Do break it open, aunt; I
want to see the inside of it so much."
"No, Mabel; the lock is a peculiar one, and could not be broken
without defacing the marquetre on the cover, which I should not like
to do. My poor mother was so proud of that cover, and used to dust and
polish it with her own hands."
"What! herself?" exclaimed the pretty Mabel; "why did not her servants
do it?"
"Because, my dear, she had but one."
"But one! I remember when my poor mamma had none," sighed Mabel, "and
we were _so_ miserable."
"But not from lack of attendants, I think," answered Sarah Bond. "If
they _are_ comforts, they are careful ones, and sadly wasteful. We
were never so happy as we were then. Your mother and I used to set
the milk, and mind the poultry, and make the butter, and cultivate the
flower-garden, and help to do the house work; and then in the evening
we would run in the meadows, come home laden with wild flowers, and
tired as we were by alternate work and play, my dear mother would play
on that old instrument, and my poor father sing, and we sisters wound
up the evening by a merry dance, your mother and myself trying hard
which could keep up the dance longest."
Mabel resumed her embroidery without once speaking. Sarah Bond laid
down the book she had been reading, and moved restlessly about; her
manner, when either thoughtful or excited, prevented her features
from being disturbed; so her feelings were soothed by wandering from
place to place, or table to table; but after a considerable pause,
she said--"I wish you were a little older, Mabel; I wish you to be
older, that I might convince you, dear, that it is in vain to expect
happiness from the possession of wealth, unless we circulate it, share
it with others, and yet do so prudently and watchingly. Yet, my poor
dear father would be very angry if he heard me say that, Mabel."
"Yes, I know," interrupted the thoughtless girl, "_for he was a
miser_."
"Hush, Mabel!" exclaimed her aunt; "how can you say anything so harsh
of him from whom we inherit all we have. He was careful, peculiar,
very peculiar; but he saved all for me; and may God judge mercifully
between him and me if I cannot in all things do as he would have had
me," and then she paused, as if reasoning and arguing with herself;
apologising for the human throes in her own bosom that led her to act
so frequently in direct opposition to her father's desires; so that to
those who could not understand her motives and feelings, she appeared
every day more inconsistent. "It is difficult to judge of motives in
any case. I am sure, if he had only gone abroad into the world, and
seen distress as I have seen it, he could not have shut his heart
against his fellow-creatures: but his feelings were hardened against
some, whom he considered types of all, and he shut himself up; and
seeing no misery, at last believed, as many do, whom the world never
dreams of calling as you called him, Mabel--seeing no misery, believed
that it only existed in the popular whine. I am sure, if he had seen,
he would have relieved it. I always think _that_ when I am giving; it
is a great blessing to be able to give; and I would give more, were I
not fearful that it might injure you."
"Injure me, dear aunt, how?"
"Why, Mabel, my heart is greatly fixed upon seeing you a rich heiress,
and, in time, suitably established."
"You have just been saying how much happier you were when you were all
poor together, and yet you want to make me rich."
"People may be very happy in poverty before they have known riches;
but having once been rich, it would, I think, be absurd to suppose we
could ever be happy again in poverty."
"I saw," replied the girl, "two children pass the gate this morning
while I was gathering flowers--bunches of the simple white jessamine
you love so much, dear aunt--and they asked so hard for bread, that I
sent them a shilling."
"Too much," interrupted Sarah Bond, habitually rather than from
feeling; "too much, dear Mabel, to give to common beggars."
"There were two, you know, and they looked wan and hungry. About three
hours after, I was cantering my pony down Swanbrook Lane--the grass
there is so soft and green, that you cannot hear his feet, while I can
hear every grasshopper that chirps--suddenly, I heard a child's voice
singing a tune full of mirth, and I went softly, softly on; and there,
under a tree, sat one of my morning acquaintances, making believe to
sing through a stick, while the other danced with bare feet, and her
very rags fluttered in time to the tune. They looked pale and hungry,
though a thick crust of bread upon the grass proved that they were
not the latter; but I never saw more joy in well-fed, well-clothed
children, for they paused and laughed, and then began again. Poverty
was no pain to _them_, at all events."
"My dear," said Sarah Bond, "you forget the crust of bread was their
riches, for it was a superfluity."
"And is it not very shocking that in England a crust of bread _should
be_ a superfluity," inquired Mabel.
"Very, dear; _but a shilling was a great deal to give at the gate_,"
observed her aunt, adding, after a pause, "and yet it shows how little
will make the poor happy. I am sure, if my father had looked abroad,
instead of staying at home to watch his--his--money, he would have
thought it right to share what he had. It is an unnatural thing to
shut one's self up from the duties of life; one gets no interest
for any other outlay to do the heart service; but though those poor
children danced their rags in the sunshine, and felt not the stones
they danced on, yet my dear Mabel could not dance with poverty as her
companion--my blessed, blessed child!"
"I'd rather dance a jig with mirth than a minuet with melancholy,"
laughed the girl; "and yet it would take a great deal to make me
miserable if I were with you, and you loved me, my dear aunt. Still,
I own I like to be rich, so as to have everything I want, and give
everybody what they want; and, aunt Sarah, you know very well I cannot
finish this rose without the pale floss silk, and my maid forgot both
that and to order the seed pearl."
Mabel's complaint was interrupted by the entrance of the servant, who
told Miss Bond that Mr. Cramp, her attorney, wished to see her.
"Show him in," said Miss Bond.
"He wishes to see you alone, ma'am."
"His wife is going to die, and he will want you to marry him!"
exclaimed Mabel, heedless of the servant's presence. "Do, dear aunt,
and let me be bride's-maid."
Sarah Bond changed colour; and then, while stooping to kiss her
wayward niece, she called her "a foolish child."
CHAPTER III.
Mr. Cramp, whom we introduced at the conclusion of the last chapter,
as Miss Bond's man of business, was a plain little man, skilled in the
turnings and windings of the law, beside which he could not be said to
know distinctly any other code of morals.
On this particular morning, after a few common-place observations,
Mr. Cramp made a somewhat strange inquiry. "Had Miss Bond heard that
Mr. Alfred Bond had come over to England?" No; she had not heard
it. It was, Mr. Cramp _insinuated_ (for he never _said_ anything
directly)--it was rather an awkward circumstance Mr. Alfred Bond's
coming to England. He thought--he believed--he _hoped_ it would make
no difference to Miss Bond.
Miss Bond opened her wide eyes still more widely. She knew that
Mr. Alfred Bond was the heir-at-law to the property bequeathed her
father; but what of that? he had never, that she heard of, dreamed of
disputing the will; and she had never felt one pang of insecurity as
to the possessions which had of late grown so deeply into her heart.
At this unexpected intimation she felt the blood rush through her
veins in a wild untameable manner. In all her trials--and they had
been many--in all her illnesses--not a few--she had never fainted,
never fallen into that symptom of weak-mindedness, a fit of hysterics;
but now she sat without power of speech, looking at Mr. Cramp's round
face.
"My dear Miss Bond, you are not ill, I hope?" exclaimed Mr. Cramp. "I
pray you to bear up; what has been said is doubtless wrong--must be
wrong; a threat of the opposite party--an undefined threat, which
we must prepare ourselves to meet in a lawyer-like way. Hope for the
best, and prepare"--
"For what, sir?" inquired Miss Bond, gaspingly.
"For any--anything--that is my plan. Unfortunately, the only way to
deal with the world, so as to meet it on equal terms, is to think
every man a rogue. It is a deeply painful view to take of human
nature, and it agonizes me to do so. Let me, however, entreat you to
bear up"--
"Against what, sir?" said Sarah Bond abruptly, and almost fiercely,
for now Mr. Cramp's face was reduced to its original size, and she
had collected her ideas. "There are few things I could _not_ bear up
against, but I must know what I have to sustain."
"Your father's will, my dear lady, is safe; the document, leaving
everything to you, that is safe, and all other documents are safe
enough except Cornelius Bond Hobart's will--a will bequeathing the
property to your uncle. _Where_ is that will to be found? for if
Alfred Bond proceeds, the veritable document must be produced."
"Why, so it can be, I suppose," said Sarah Bond, relapsing in some
degree into agitation; "it was produced when my father inherited the
property, as you know."
"I beg your pardon, Miss Bond," he answered; "certainly not as I
_know_, for I had not the honour of being your father's legal adviser
at that time. It was my master and subsequent partner. I had not
the privilege of your father's confidence until after my colleague's
death."
"No one," said Miss Bond, "ever had my father's _confidence_, properly
so called; he was very close in all money transactions. The will,
however, must be, I think, in Doctors' Commons! Go there immediately,
Mr. Cramp; and--stay--I will go with you; there it is, and there are
the names of the witnesses."
"My dear lady!" expostulated the attorney, in the softest tones of his
soft voice, "I _have_ been there already. I wished to spare a lady of
your sensibility as much pain as possible; and so I went there myself,
with Mr. Alfred Bond's man of business, whom I happened to know; and I
was grieved--cut up, I may say, to the very heart's core, to hear what
he said; and he examined the document very closely too--very closely;
and, I assure you, spoke in the handsomest, I may say, the _very_
handsomest manner of you, of your character, and usefulness, and
generosity, and Christian qualities; he did indeed; but we have all
our duties to perform in this world; paramount things are duties, Miss
Bond, and his is a very painful one."
"What need of all these words to state a simple matter. Have you seen
the will?" said Sarah Bond.
"I have."
"Well, and what more is there to see, unless Mr. Alfred Bond denies
his relative's power to make a will?"
"Which, I believe he does not do. He says he never made a will; that
is all."
"But there _is_ the will," maintained Sarah Bond.
"I am very sorry to wound you; but cannot you understand?"
"Speak plainly if you can, sir," said Sarah Bond sternly; "speak
plainly if you can; I listen."
"He maintains, on the part of his client, that the will is a forgery."
"He maintains a falsehood, then," exclaimed Miss Bond, with a firm
determination and dignity of manner that astonished Mr. Cramp. "If
the will be forged, who is the forger? Certainly not my father; for
he inherited the property from his elder brother, who died insane. The
will is in _his_ favour, and not in my father's. Besides, neither of
them held any correspondence with the testator for twenty years; he
died abroad, and the will was sent to England after his death. Would
any one there do a gratuitous service to persons they had never
seen? Where could be the reason--the motive? How is it, that, till
now, Alfred Bond urged no claim. There are reasons," she continued,
"reasons to give the world. But I have within me, what passes all
reason--a feeling, a conviction, a true positive knowledge, that my
father was incapable of being a party to such a crime. He was a stern
man, loving money--I grant that--but honest in heart and soul. The
only creature he ever wronged was himself. He did _that_, I know. He
despoiled himself of peace and comfort, of rest and repose. In _that_
he sinned against God's dispensation, who gives that we may give, not
merely to others, but lawfully to ourselves. After all, it would have
been but a small thing for him to have been without this property, for
it gave him no one additional luxury. I wonder, Mr. Cramp, that you,
as a man, have courage to stand before me, a poor unprotected woman,
and dare to say, that will is forged."
While she spoke, Sarah Bond stood forth a new creature in the
astonished eyes of the sleek attorney. He absolutely quailed before
the vehemence and fervour of the usually mild woman. He assured her
she was mistaken; that _he_ had not yielded to the point that the will
was a forgery; that he never would confess that such was the case;
that it should be his business to disprove the charge; that he hoped
she did not suppose he yielded to the plaintiff, who was resolved to
bring the matter into a court of justice. He would only ask her one
little question; had she ever seen her father counterfeit different
hands? Yes, she said, she had; he could counterfeit, copy, any hand he
ever saw, so that the real writer could not tell the counterfeit from
the original. Mr. Cramp made no direct observation on this, except to
beg that she would not mention that "melancholy circumstance" to any
one else.
Sarah Bond told him she should not feel bound to make this talent of
her father's a crime, by twisting into a _secret_ what he used to do
as an amusement. Mr. Cramp urged mildly the folly of this, when she
had a defence to make; but she stood all the more firmly upon what she
fearlessly considered the dignity of right and truth; at the same time
assuring him, she would to the last contest that _right_, not so much
for her own sake, or the sake of one who was dear to her beyond all
power of expression, but for the sake of _him_ in whose place she
stood, and whose honour she would preserve with her life. Mr. Cramp
was a good, shrewd man of business. He considered all Miss Bond's
energy, on the subject of her father's honour, as romance, though he
could not help believing _she_ was in earnest about it. He thought it
was perfectly in accordance with the old miser's character, that he
should procure or make such a document; though he considered it very
extraordinary, for many reasons, that it should have imposed upon men
more penetrating and learned than himself.
Sarah Bond, after his departure, endeavoured to conceal her anxiety
from her niece; but in vain. Mabel was too clear-sighted; and it was
a relief, as much as an astonishment to her aunt, to see how bravely
she bore up against the evil news. Miss Bond did not remember that the
knowledge of the _power_ of wealth does not belong to sixteen summers.
Mabel knew and thought so little of its artificial influence, that
she believed her happiness sprang from birds and flowers, from music,
and dancing, and books--those silent but immortal tongues that live
through centuries, for our advantage; besides, her young heart welled
forth so much hope, that she really did not understand, even if they
lost their fortune, their "troublesome fortune," as she called
it, that it would seriously affect their happiness. There was no
philosophy, no heroism in this; it was simply the impulse of a bright,
sunny, beautiful young mind.
The course of events promised soon to strip Mabel of all except her
own bright conceptions. Mr. Alfred Bond urged on his plea with all the
energy and bitterness of one who had been for many years despoiled
of his right. His solicitor, soon after his claim was first declared,
made an offer to Sarah Bond to settle an annuity on her and her niece
during the term of their natural lives; but this was indignantly
spurned by Sarah; from him she would accept no favour; she either had
or had not a right to the whole of the property originally left to
her uncle. Various circumstances, too tedious to enumerate, combined
to prove that the will deposited in Doctors Commons was not a true
document; the signature of Cornelius Bond Hobart was disproved by
many; but second only to one incident in strangeness was the fact,
that though sought in every direction, and widely advertised for in
the newspapers of the day, the witnesses to the disputed document
could not be found--they had vanished.
The incident, so strange as to make more than one lawyer believe for
a time that really such a quality as honesty was to be found in the
world, was as follows:--Sarah Bond, be it remembered, had never seen
the disputed will; she was very anxious to do so; and yet, afterwards,
she did not like to visit Doctors Commons with any one. She feared,
she knew not what; and yet, above all things, did she desire to see
this will with her own eyes.
Mr. Cramp was sitting in his office when a woman, muffled in a cloak,
and veiled, entered and seated herself without speaking. After a
moment she unclasped her cloak, loosened the wrapping from her throat,
threw back her veil, and asked for a glass of water.
"Bless me, Miss Bond, is it you? I am sure I am much honoured--very
much!"
"No honour, sir," she replied, "but necessity. I have been to Doctors
Commons; have seen the will--it is my father's writing!"
"You confess this to me?" said Mr. Cramp, drawing back on his chair,
and almost gasping for breath.
"I do," she answered; "I proclaim it; it is my father's _copy_ of the
original will. But how the copy could have been substituted for the
real will, I can only conjecture."
"Surmise is something," replied the lawyer, a little relieved;
"conjecture sometimes leads to proof."
"My father and uncle lived together when the will came into their
possession. They were in partnership as farmers. My father's habits
were precise: he always copied every writing, and endorsed his copies
with a large _C_; the very _C_ is marked upon the will I have just
seen at Doctors Commons."
"That is singular," remarked Cramp; "but it does not show us the way
out of the difficulty; on the contrary, that increases. _Somebody_--I
don't for an instant suppose Mr. Jacob Bond--in proving the will must
have sworn that, to the best of their knowledge and belief, those were
the real, which are only copies of the signatures."
"True--and such a mistake was extremely characteristic of my uncle,
who performed many strange acts before he was known to be insane. This
was doubtless one of them."
"But _where_ is the original?" inquired the man of business.
"Heaven knows! I cannot find it; but I am not the less assured of its
existence."
"Then we must persist in our plea of the truth of the document in
Doctors Commons."
"Certainly not," said Sarah; "you must not persist in a falsehood in
my name. If you do, I shall rise up in court, and contradict you! I
feel it my duty, having seen the will, to state my firm belief that it
is a copy of the original will, and nothing more."
Poor Mr. Cramp was dreadfully annoyed. He could, he thought, manage
all sorts of clients. He reasoned, he proved, he entreated, he got
her counsel to call upon her, but all was in vain. She would go
into court, she said, herself, if her counsel deserted her. She
would _not_ give up the cause; she would plead for the sake of her
father's honour. She was well assured that the real will was still
in existence, and would be discovered--found--sooner or later--though
not, perhaps, till she was in her grave.
The senior counsel was so provoked at what he called his client's
obstinacy, that he threw up his brief, and the junior took advantage
of the circumstance to make a most eloquent speech, enlarging upon
the singularity of no appeal having been previously made by the
plaintiff--of the extraordinary disappearance of the witnesses--of the
straight-forward, simple, and beautiful truthfulness of the defendant;
in short, he moved the court to tears, and laid the foundation of his
future fortune. But after that day, Sarah Bond and her niece, Mabel,
were homeless and houseless. Yet I should not say that; for the gates
of a jail gaped widely for the "miser's daughter," but only for a few
days; after which society rang with praises, loud and repeated, of Mr.
Alfred Bond's liberality, who had discharged the defendant's costs as
well as his own. In truth, people talked so much and so loudly about
this, that they altogether forgot to inquire what had become of Sarah
and Mabel.
CHAPTER IV.
The clergyman of the parish was their first visiter. He assisted
them to look into the future. It was, he who conveyed to Sarah Bond
Alfred's determination that she should be held scatheless. The good
man delivered this information with the manner of a person who feels
he comes with good news, and expects it will be so received; but
Sarah Bond could only regard Alfred as the calumniator of her father's
memory, the despoiler of her rights. The wild expression of joy in
Mabel's face, as she threw herself on her aunt's bosom, gave her to
understand that she ought to be thankful for what saved her from a
prison.
Words struggled for utterance. She who had borne so much and so
bravely, was overcome. Again and again she tried to speak, but for
some hours she fell from one fainting fit into another. She had
borne up against all disasters, until the power of endurance was
overwhelmed; and now, she was attacked by an illness so violent, that
it threatened dissolution. At this very time, when she needed so much
sympathy, a stern and severe man, in whom there was no pity, a man who
had received large sums of money from Miss Bond as a tradesman, and
whose account had stood over from a particular request of his own,
believing that all was gone, and that he should lose, took advantage
of her illness to levy an execution upon the goods, and to demand a
sale.
At this time her reason had quite deserted her, and poor Mabel was
incapable of thought beyond her duty to her aunt, which made her
remove her to a cottage-lodging from the turmoil of the town. No one
distinctly knew, except Mabel, why Sarah Bond was so attached to
the old furniture, and few cared. And yet more than one kind heart
remembered how she had liked the "rubbishing things," and bought in
several, resolved that, if she recovered, and ever had "a place of
her own again," they would offer them for her acceptance. Her illness
was so tedious, that except the humble curate and the good rector,
her inquirers had fallen off--for long sickness wears out friends.
Some would pause as they passed the cottage window, where the
closely-pinned down curtain told of the caution and quiet of sickness;
and then they would wonder how poor Miss Bond was; and if they entered
the little passage to inquire, they could scarcely recognise in the
plainly-dressed, jaded, bent girl, whose eyes knew no change but
from weeping to watching, and watching to weeping, the buoyant and
beautiful heiress whose words were law, and who once revelled in
luxury. The produce of the sale--though everything, of course, went
below its value--left a small surplus, after all debts and expenses
were paid; which the clergyman husbanded judiciously, and gave in
small portions to Mabel. Alfred Bond himself called to offer any
assistance that might be required, which Mabel declined, coldly and at
once.
Patiently and devotedly did she watch beside the couch of her poor
aunt; one day suffering the most acute anxiety if the symptoms became
worse than usual; the next full of hope as they abated. Did I say
that one day after another this was the case? I should have written
it, one hour after another; for truly, at times she fluctuated so
considerably, that no one less hopeful than Mabel could have continued
faithful to hope. As Sarah Bond gained strength, she began to question
her as to the past. Mabel spoke cautiously; but, unused to any species
of dissimulation, could not conceal the fact, that the old furniture,
so valued by her uncle, and bequeathed with a conditional blessing,
was gone--sold! This had a most unhappy effect on the mind of Sarah
Bond. She felt as if her father's curse was upon her. She dared
not trust herself to speak upon the subject. When the good rector
(Mr. Goulding) alluded to the sale, and attempted to enter into
particulars, or give an account of the affairs he had so kindly and so
ably managed, she adjured him in so solemn a manner never to speak of
the past, if he wished her to retain her reason, that he, unconscious
of the motive, and believing it arose entirely from regret at her
changed fortunes, avoided it as much as she could desire; and thus
she had no opportunity of knowing how much had been saved by the
benevolence of a few kind persons. Sarah Bond fell into the very
common error of imagining that persons ought to _know_ her thoughts
and feelings, without her explaining them. But her mind and judgment
had been so enfeebled by illness and mental suffering, that, even
while she opposed her opinions, she absolutely leaned on Mabel--as
if the oak called to the woodbine to support its branches. What gave
Mabel the most uneasiness, was the determination she had formed to
leave the cottage as soon as she was able to be removed; and she
was seriously displeased because Mabel mentioned this intention to
Mr. Goulding. Despite all poor Mabel could urge to the contrary,
they quitted the neighbourhood--the sphere of Sarah Bond's sudden
elevation, and as sudden depression--alone, at night, and on foot. It
was a clear, moonlight evening, in midsummer, when the twilight can
hardly be said to give place to darkness; and when the moon shines out
so very brightly, that the stars are reduced to pale lone sparks of
_white_ rather than _light_, in the blue sky. It was a lovely evening;
the widow with whom they had lodged was not aware of their intention
until about an hour before their departure. She was very poor and
ignorant, but her nature was kind; and when Sarah Bond pressed upon
her, out of her own scanty store, a little present of money beyond her
stipulated rent, she would not take it, but accompanied them to the
little gate with many tears, receiving charge of a farewell letter
to the rector. "And haven't you one to leave me for the curate?" she
inquired. "Deary me! but I'm sure for every once the old gentleman
came when Miss Bond was so bad, the curate came three times; and no
letter for him! deary, oh, deary me!"
"Why did you not put me in mind to write to Mr. Lycight, Mabel?"
inquired her aunt, after the gate, upon which the poor woman leaned,
had closed.
Mabel made no reply; but Sarah felt the hand she held tightly within
hers tremble and throb. How did she then remember the days of her own
youth, as she thought, "Oh! in mercy _she_ might have escaped from
what only so causes the pulses to beat or the hand to tremble!"
Neither spoke; but Sarah had turned over the great page of Mabel's
heart, while Mabel did not confess, even to herself, that Mr.
Lycight's words, however slight, were more deeply cherished than Mr.
Goulding's precepts. They had a long walk to take that night, and
both wept at first; but however sad and oppressed the mind and spirits
maybe, there is a soothing and balmy influence in nature that lulls,
if it does not dispel, sorrow; every breeze was perfumed. As they
passed the hedges, there was a rustling and murmuring of birds amongst
the leaves; and Mabel could not forbear an exclamation of delight
when she saw a narrow river, now half-shadowed, then bright in the
moonbeams, bounding in one place like a thing of life, then brawling
around sundry large stones that impeded its progress, again subsiding
into silence, and flowing onward to where a little foot-bridge, over
which they had to pass, arched its course; beyond this was the church,
and there Mabel knew they were to await the coach which was to convey
them to a village many miles from their old homes, and where Sarah
Bond had accidentally heard there was a chance of establishing a
little school. Mabel paused for a moment to look at the venerable
church standing by the highway, the clergyman's house crouching in the
grove behind. The hooting and wheeling of the old owls in the ivied
tower was a link of life. Sarah Bond passed the turn-stile that led
into the church-yard, followed by Mabel, who shuddered when she found
herself surrounded by damp grass-green graves, and beneath the shadows
of old yew-trees.
She knew not where her aunt was going, but followed her silently.
Sarah Bond led the way to a lowly grave, marked by a simple
head-stone. She knelt down by its side, and while her bosom throbbed,
she prayed earnestly, deeply, within her very soul--she prayed, now a
faded, aged woman--she prayed above the ashes, the crumbling bones of
him she had loved with a love that never changes--that is green when
the head is gray--that Mabel might never suffer as she had suffered.
Relieved by these devotional exercises, Sarah rose, and the humble
and stricken pair bade adieu to the melancholy scene, and betook
themselves to their toilsome journey. Fortunately the stage soon
overtook them, and having, with some difficulty, obtained seats, they
were in due time deposited in a village, where Sarah felt there would
be no eyes prying into their poverty, no ears to hear of it, no tongue
to tell thereof, and point them out "as the poor ladies that once were
rich." This was a great relief, though it came of pride, and she knew
it; and she said within herself, When health strengthens my body, I
will wrestle with this feeling, for it is unchristian. She never even
to Mabel alluded to what was heaviest on her mind--the loss of the old
furniture; though she cheered her niece by the assurance that, after
a few months, if the Almighty blessed the exertions they must make for
their own support, she would write to their friend Mr. Goulding, and
say where they were; by "that time," she said, she hoped to be humble,
as a Christian should be. After this assurance was given, it was
astonishing to see how Mabel revived. Her steps recovered their
elasticity, her eyes their brightness. Sarah Bond had always great
superiority in needlework, and this procured her employment; while
Mabel obtained at once, by her grace and correct speaking, two or
three day pupils. Her wild and wayward temper had been subdued by
change of circumstances; but if she had not found occupation it
would have become morose Here was not only occupation, but success;
success achieved by the most legitimate means--the exertion of
her own faculties; there were occasionally bitter tears and many
disappointments; and the young soft fingers, so slender and beautiful,
were obliged to work in earnest; and she was forced by necessity to
rise early and watch late; and then she had to think, not how pounds
could be spent, but pennies could be earned. We need not, however,
particularize their labours in this scene of tranquil usefulness. It
is sufficient to say that Mabel's little school increased; and both
she and her aunt came at length to feel and speak thankfully of the
uses of adversity, and bless God for taking as well as for giving.
CHAPTER V.
Though Sarah Bond had used every means within her power to conceal her
place of retreat, yet she often felt bitterly pained that no one had
sought her out. She said she wished to be forgotten, unless she had
the power to clear away the imputation on her father's name. And yet,
unknown to herself, she cherished the hope, that some one would have
traced them, though only to say one cheering word of approbation
regarding their attempt at self-dependence. Sarah thanked the Almighty
greatly for one thing, that Mabel's cheerfulness was continued and
unfluctuating, and that her mind seemed to have gathered strength by
wholesome exercise. She believed her affections, if not free, were not
entangled, and that her pride had risen against her imagination; and
it was beautiful to see how, watching to avoid giving each other pain,
striving continually to show the bright side of every question, the
one to the other, and extract sweets instead of bitters from every
little incident, led to their actually enjoying even the privations
which exercised their tenderness towards each other.
Time wore away many of their sorrows, which old father Time always
does; a kindness we forget to acknowledge, though we often arraign him
for spoiling our pleasures. Sarah and Mabel had been taking an evening
walk, wondering how little they existed upon, and feeling that it was
a wide step towards independence to have few wants.
"I can see good working in all things," said Mabel; "for if I had
obtained the companionship of books, which I so eagerly desired at
first, I should not have had the same inducement to pursue my active
duties, to read my own heart, and the great book of nature, which is
opened alike to peer and peasant; I have found so much to learn, so
much to think of by studying objects and persons--reading persons
instead of books."
"Yes," added Sarah Bond; "and seeing how much there is to admire in
every development of nature, and how much of God there is in every
human being."
As they passed along the village street, Mabel observed that the
cottagers looked after them, and several of her little pupils darted
their heads in and out of their homes, and laughed; she thought that
some village fun was afloat, that some rural present of flowers, or
butter, or eggs, had been sent--a little mysterious offering for her
to guess at; and when she turned to fasten the wicket gate, there were
several of the peasants knotted together talking. A sudden exclamation
from her aunt, who had entered the cottage, confirmed her suspicion;
but it was soon dissipated. In their absence, their old friends Mr.
Goulding and the curate had arrived by the coach, and entered their
humble dwelling. From a wagon at the same time were lifted several
articles of old furniture, which were taken into the cottage, and
properly arranged. There were two old chairs, an embroidered stool,
a china vase, a cabinet, a table, and the spinnet. Strangely the
furniture looked on the sanded floor, but never was the spiciest
present from India more grateful to its receiver than these were to
the eyes of Sarah Bond. She felt as if a ban was removed from her
when she looked upon the old things so valued by her father. Absorbed
in the feelings of the moment, she did not even turn to inquire how
they had so unexpectedly come there. Nor did she note the cold and
constrained greeting which Mabel gave to Mr. Lycight. She herself,
after the first self-engrossed thoughts were past, turned to give both
gentlemen the cordial reception which their many former kindnesses,
not to speak of their apparent connexion with the present gratifying
occurrence, deserved. From Mr. Goulding she learnt that the furniture
had been bought up by a few old friends, and committed to him to be
sent to her as a mark of their goodwill; he had only delayed bringing
it to her, till she should have proved, as he knew she would, superior
to her misfortunes, by entering upon some industrious career.
As the evening closed in, and the astonishment and feelings of their
first meeting subsided, Sarah Bond and Mr. Goulding conversed apart,
and then, indeed, she listened with a brimming heart and brimming
eyes. He told of his young friend's deep attachment to Mabel; how he
had prevailed upon him to pause before he declared it; to observe how
she endured her changed fortune; and to avoid engaging her affections
until he had a prospect of placing her beyond the reach of the most
harrowing of all poverties, that which keeps up an appearance above
its means. "Her cheerfulness, her industry, her goodness, have
all been noted," he continued. "She has proved herself capable of
accommodating herself to her circumstances; the most difficult of all
things to a young girl enervated by luxury and indulgence. And if my
friend can establish an interest in her affections, he has no higher
views of earthly happiness, and I think he ought to have no other. You
will, I am sure, forgive me for having counselled the trial. If deep
adversity had followed your exertions--if you had failed instead of
succeeded--I should have been at hand to succour and to aid."
Sarah Bond had never forgotten the emotion of Mabel, caused by
the mention of the curate's name when they quitted their old
neighbourhood, and the very reserve Mabel showed proved to Sarah's
searching and clear judgment, that the feeling was unchanged. Truly
in that hour was her chastened heart joyful and grateful. "Mabel must
wait," she said, "until the prospect of advancement became a reality;
for it would be an ill return of disinterested love for a penniless
orphan to become a burden instead of a blessing. Mabel would grow more
worthy every day; they were doing well; ay, he might look round the
white-washed walls and smile, but they _were_ prosperous, healthful,
happy, and respected; and if she could only live to see the odium cast
upon her father's memory removed, she would not exchange her present
poverty for her past pride." She frequently afterwards thought of the
clergyman's rejoinder--"That riches, like mercy, were as blessed to
the giver as to the receiver, and that they only created evil when
hoarded, or bestowed by a heedless hand."
They certainly were a happy group in that lowly cottage room that
evening. Mabel's proud bearing had given place, as if by magic, to a
blushing shyness; which she tried to shield from observation by every
possible attempt at ease. She talked to Mr. Goulding, and found a
thousand uses for the old furniture she had once so heartily despised.
"She would sit in the great high chair at the end of that table,
with her feet on the stool, and the china vase in the midst, filled
with humble cottage flowers--meadow-sweet and wild roses, and
sweet-williams, sea-pinks, woodbine, and wild convolvulus! Did Mr.
Goulding like cottage flowers best?" No; the clergyman said he did
not, but he thought Mr. Lycight did, and the young man assured her
that it was so; and then gazed on the only love his heart, his deep,
unworn, earnest heart, had throbbed to, with an admiration which
is always accompanied by fear, lest something should prevent the
realization of the one great earthly hope. And Mabel was more fitful
than her aunt had ever seen her. Fearful lest her secret, as she
thought it, should be discovered, she made as many turns and windings
as a hare; and yet, unskilled in disguising her feelings, after
spending many words in arranging and re-arranging, she suddenly wished
that the spinnet could be opened, "If," she exclaimed, "_that_ could
be opened, I should be able to teach Mary Godwin music; and her mother
seemed to wish it so much: surely we can open the instrument?"
"It has not been opened for years," replied Miss Bond; "and I
remember, once before, Mabel wished it opened, and I refused, lest
forcing the lock might harm the marquetre, of which my poor mother was
so fond. It has never been opened since her death." But Mabel's desire
was of too much consequence, in her lover's eyes, to be passed over,
although all seemed agreed that if it were opened it could not be
played upon; so in a few minutes he procured a smith, who said he
would remove the hinges, and then unscrew the lock from the inside,
which would not injure the cover. This was done; but greatly to poor
Mabel's dismay, the cavity, where strings once had been, was filled
with old papers.
"Now, is not this provoking?" said Mabel, flinging out first one and
then another bundle of letters. "Is not this provoking?"
"No, no," exclaimed Sarah Bond, grasping a lean, long, parchment,
round which an abundance of tape was wound. "No. Who knows what may
be found here?" At once the idea was caught, Mabel thought no more
of the strings. "I cannot," said Sarah Bond to Mr. Goulding, "untie
this; can you?" Her fingers trembled, and she sank on her knees by the
clergyman's side. The eyes of the little group were fixed upon him;
not a word was spoken; every breath was hushed; slowly he unfastened
knot after knot; at last the parchment was unfolded; still, neither
Sarah Bond nor Mabel spoke; the latter gasped for breath--her lips
apart, her cheeks flushed; while Sarah's hands were clasped together,
locked upon her bosom, and every vestige of colour had deserted her
face.
"Be calm, my dear friend," he said, after glancing his eyes over the
parchment; "be calm. You have experienced enough of the changes and
chances of this world not to build too quickly upon any foundation but
the one--the goodness of God; I do believe this is an especial proof
of His Providence, for I do think this is Cornelius Bond Hobart's
original will in your uncle's favour."
It would be useless to attempt a description of the scene that
followed; but the joy at the _reality_ of the discovery was a heartful
temperate joy--the joy of chastened hearts. Sarah Bond, blessing God,
above all things, that, go the law as it would, her father's memory
would now be held as the memory of an honest man; that he had, as she
had said, copied, not forged the will. Mr. Goulding declared he should
find it difficult to forgive himself for having so long prevented the
old furniture from being sent, assuring her, the dread that Mabel was
unfit to contend with the privations to which the lives of humble men
are doomed, made him tremble for the happiness of the young friend who
had been consigned to his care by a dying mother; he feared to renew
the intercourse, until her character was developed; while poor Mabel
had little thought how closely she was watched along the humble and
thorny paths she had to traverse.
Sarah Bond's spirit was so chastened, that she regretted nothing save
the shadow cast upon her father's grave; and now that was removed,
she was indeed happy. She assured the rector how useful adversity had
been to them--how healthful it had rendered Mabel's mind--and how much
better, if they recovered what had been lost, they should know how to
employ their means of usefulness. Mr. Lycight's congratulations were
not so hearty as Mr. Goulding's; he felt that _now_ he was the curate
and Mabel the heiress; and he heard the kind good night which Mabel
spoke with a tingling ear. _He_, was proud in his own way; and pride,
as well as his affection, had been gratified by the idea of elevating
her he loved. Mabel saw this, and she wept during the sleepless night,
that he should believe her so unworthy and so ungrateful.
There was much to think of and to do; the witnesses were to be found,
and lawyers consulted, and proceedings taken, and much of the turmoil
and bitterness of the law to be endured, which it pains every honest
heart to think upon; and Mr. Cramp was seized with a sudden fit of
virtuous indignation against Mr. Alfred Bond, after Sarah Bond's
new "man of business" had succeeded in producing the only one of the
witnesses in existence, who, he also discovered, had been purposely
kept out of the way, on a former occasion, by some one or other. The
delays were vexatious, and the quirks and turns, and foldings, and
doubles innumerable; but they came to an end at last, and Mr. Alfred
Bond was obliged in his turn to vacate the old mansion, in which he
had revelled--a miser in selfish pleasures.
I have dwelt longer than was perhaps necessary on the _minutiæ_ of
this relation, the principal events of which are so strongly impressed
upon my memory. But the more I have thought over the story, the more
I have been struck with the phases and impulses of Sarah Bond's
unobtrusive, but deep feeling mind; her self-sacrificing spirit, her
devotion to her father's will, her dread, when first in possession of
the property, that any _one_ act of liberality on her part might be
considered a reproach to his memory; her habits struggling with her
feelings, leading me to the conclusion that she would never have
become, even with the expanding love of her niece to enlarge her
views, thoroughly unmanacled from the parsimonious habits of her
father, but for her lesson in adversity, which, instead of teaching as
it does a worldly mind, the _value of money_, taught her higher nature
_its proper uses_.
It was beautiful to see how Mabel grew into her aunt's virtues; and
even Mr. Goulding was startled by the energy and thoughtfulness of
her character. She soon convinced Mr. Lycight that her prospects grew
brighter in his love; and for a time he was romantic enough to wish
she had continued, penniless, and he had been born a peer, to prove
his disinterested affection. This, however, wore away, as man's
romance always does, and he absolutely became reconciled to his
bride's riches. Sarah Bond was living a very few years ago, beloved
and honoured, the fountain of prosperity and blessing to all who
needed. There was no useless expenditure, no show, no extravagance
in "the establishment" at the old manor house; but it was pleasant to
perceive the prosperity of the poor in the immediate neighbourhood;
there was evidence of good heads and kind hearts, superintending all
moral and intellectual improvements; there were flourishing schools,
and benevolent societies, and the constant exercise of individual
charities; and many said that Sarah Bond, and niece, and nephew, did
more good with hundreds than others did with thousands. From having
had practical experience of poverty, they understood how to remedy
its wants, and minister to its sorrows. And to the last hour of her
prolonged life, Sarah Bond remembered
THE USES OF ADVERSITY.
* * * * *
ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS.
CHAPTER I.
"There they go!" exclaimed old Mrs. Myles, looking after two
exceedingly beautiful children, as they passed hand in hand down
the street of the small town of Abbeyweld, to the only school,
that had "Seminary for Young Ladies," written in large hand, on a
proportionably large card, and placed against the bow window of an
ivied cottage. "There they go!" she repeated; "and though I'm their
grandmother, I may say a sweeter pair of children than Helen Marsh and
Rose Dillon never trod the main street of Abbeyweld--God bless them!"
She added earnestly, "God Almighty bless them!"
"Amen!" responded a kind voice; and turning round, Mrs. Myles saw the
curate of the parish, the Reverend Mr. Stokes, standing just at the
entry of her own house. To curtsey with the respect which in the "good
old times" was customary towards those who "meekly taught, and led the
way," and invite the minister in, was the work of a moment; the next
beheld Mrs. Myles and her visiter tete-a-tete in the widow's small
parlour. It was a cheerful, pleasant room, such as is often met with
in the clean villages of England. There were two or three pieces of
embroidery, in frames of faded gilding; an old-fashioned semicircular
card-table stood opposite the window, and upon it rested a filagree
tea-caddy, based by a mark-a-tree work-box, flanked on one side by the
Bible, on the other by a prayer-book; while on the space in front was
placed "The Whole Art of Cookery," by Mrs. Glasse. High-backed chairs
of black mahogany were ranged along the white-washed walls; a corner
cupboard displayed upon its door the magnificence of King Solomon, and
the liberality of the Queen of Sheba, while within glittered engraved
glasses, and fairy-like cups and saucers, that would delight the
hearts of the fashionables of the present day. Indeed, Mrs. Myles knew
their value, and prided herself thereon, for whenever the squire or
any great lady paid her a visit, she was sure, before they entered,
to throw the cupboard door slyly open, so as to display its treasures;
and then a little bit of family pride would creep out--"Yes, every one
said they were pretty--and so she supposed they were--but they were
nothing to her grandmother's, where she remembered the servants eating
off real India _chaney_." The room also contained a high-backed sofa,
covered with chintz; very stately, hard, and uncomfortable it was to
sit upon; indeed, no one except visiters ever did sit upon it, save
on Sundays, when Helen and Rose were permitted so to do, "if they
kept quiet," which in truth they seldom did for more than five minutes
together. "Moonlight"--Mrs. Myles's large cat--Moonlight would take
a nap there sometimes; but as Mrs. Myles, while she _hushed_ him off,
declared he was a "clean creature," it may be said that Moonlight was
the only thing privileged to _enjoy_ the sofa to his heart's content.
Why he liked it, I could not understand. Now she invited Mr. Stokes
to sit upon it; but he knew better, and took the window seat in
preference.
"They are fine children--are they not, sir?" inquired the good old
lady, reverting in the pride of her heart to her young charges. "Rose,
poor thing, will be obliged to shift for herself, for her father and
mother left her almost without provision: but when Helen's father
returns, I do hope he will be able to introduce her in the way she
seems born for. She has the heart of a princess--bless her!" added
Mrs. Myles, triumphantly.
"I hope, my good friend, she will have a Christian's heart," said Mr.
Stokes.
"Oh, certainly, sir, certainly, we all have that, I hope."
"I hope so too; but I think you will act wisely in directing the
proud spirit of Helen into an humbler channel, while you rouse and
strengthen the modest and retiring one of Rose."
"They are very, very different, sir," said the old lady, looking
particularly sagacious; "I don't mean as to talent, for they are both
very clever, nor as to goodness, for, thank God, they are both good;
but Helen has such a _noble_ spirit--such an uplooking way with her."
"We should all look up to God." said the minister.
"Oh, of course we all do." Mrs. Myles paused. "She has such a
lady-like, independent way with her, I'm sure she'll turn out
something _great_, sir. Well, there's no harm in a little ambition now
and then; we all, you know" want to be a little bit better off than we
are."
"We are too apt to indulge in a desire for what is beyond our reach,"
said the minister, gravely; "if every one was to reside on the hills,
who would cultivate the valleys? We should not forget that godliness,
with contentment, is great gain. It would be far better, Mrs. Myles,
if, instead of struggling to get _out _ of our sphere, we laboured to
do the best we could in it."
"Ah, sir, and that's true," replied Mrs. Myles; "just what I say to
Mrs. Jones, who _will_ give bad sherry at her little tea-parties; good
gooseberry, I say, is better than bad sherry. Will you taste mine,
sir?"
"No, thank you," said the good man, who at the very moment was
pondering over the art of self-deception, as practised by ourselves
_upon_ ourselves. "No, thank you; but do, my dear madam, imbue those
children with a contented spirit; there is nothing that keeps us so
truly at peace with the world as contentment--or with ourselves, for
it teaches peace--or with a Higher Power, for it is insulting to
His wisdom and love to go on repining through this beautiful world,
instead of enjoying what as Christians we can enjoy, and regarding
without envy that which we have not."
"Exactly so, good sir. 'Be content,' I said to Helen only this very
morning--'be content, my dear, with your pink gingham; _who knows but
by and by you may have a silk dress for Sundays_?'"
"Ah, my dear Mrs. Myles, you are sowing bad seed," said the clergyman.
"What, sir, when I told her to be content with the little pink
gingham?"
"No; but when you told her she might have a silk one hereafter. Don't
you see, instead of uprooting you were fostering pride?--instead of
directing her ambition to a noble object, and thereby elevating her
mind, you were lowering it by drawing it down to an inferior one?"
"I did not see it," observed Mrs. Myles, simply; "but you know, sir,
there's no more harm in a silk than a cotton."
"I must go now, my good lady," said the minister; "only observing
that there _is_ no more harm in one than in the other, except when the
desire to possess anything beyond our means leads to discontent, if
not to more actively dangerous faults. I must come and lecture the
little maids myself."
"And welcome, sir, and thank you kindly besides; poor little dears,
they have no one to look after them but me. I daresay I am wrong
sometimes, but I do my best--I do my best."
The curate thought she did according to her knowledge, but he lamented
that two such exquisitely beautiful children, possessed of such
natural gifts, should be left to the management of a vain old
woman--most vain--though kindly and good-hearted--giving kindness with
pleasure, and receiving it with gratitude--yet totally unfit to bring
up a _pair of beauties_, who, of all the female sex, require the most
discretion in the management.
"I wonder," thought the Reverend Mr. Stokes--"I wonder when our
legislature will contrive to establish a school for mothers. If girls
are sent to school, the chances are that the contamination over
which the teacher can have no control--the contamination of evil
girls--renders them vicious; if, on the contrary, they are kept at
home, the folly of their mothers makes them fools--a pretty choice!"
Mr. Stokes turned down a lane that ran parallel with the garden
where the children went to school; and hearing Helen's voice in loud
dispute, he paused for a moment to ascertain the cause.
"I tell you," said the little maid, "Rose may be what she likes, but
I'll be queen."
"How unfit," quoth the curate to himself--"how utterly unfit is Mrs.
Myles to manage Helen!" The good man paused again; and to the no small
confusion of the little group, who had been making holiday under the
shadow of a spreading apple-tree, suddenly entered amongst them,
and read her a lecture, gently, kindly, and judicious. Having thus
performed what he conceived his duty, he walked on; but his progress
was arrested by a little hand being thrust into his; and when he
looked down, the beaming, innocent face of Rose Dillon was up-turned
towards him.
"Do please, sir," she said, "let Helen Marsh be queen of the game;
if she is not, she won't play with a bit of heart--she won't, indeed,
sir. She will play to be sure, but not with any heart."
"I cannot unsay what I have said, little Rose," he answered; "I
cannot; it is better for her to play without heart, as you call it,
than to have that heart too highly uplifted by play."
Happy would it have been for Helen Marsh if she had always had a
judicious friend to correct her dangerous ambition. The good curate
admonished the one, and brought forward the other, of the cousins; but
what availed his occasional admonishing when counteracted by the weak
flattery of Mrs. Myles?