Whence then that peace
So dovelike? settling o'er a soul that loved
Earth and its treasures? Whence that angel smile
With which the allurements of a world so dear
Were counted and resigned?
MRS. SIGOURNEY.
Mabel and Lucy retired that night early, in order that they might leave
the sisters time to talk quietly over the fire, which a chilly evening
rendered not unwelcome.
Mrs. Villars placed her feet on the fender, and turning up her dress to
prevent the fire injuring it, she made herself perfectly comfortable in
preparation for a long chat. Mrs. Lesly had seated herself opposite in
her arm-chair, with a glass of lemonade on a small table by her side,
which she sipped from time to time, as she listened to long accounts of
her sister's hopes and fears for her children's welfare, together with
various anecdotes, tending to show the admiration they excited wherever
they appeared. At length, these long and varied narrations came to an
end--and Mrs. Villars, turning to her sister, enquired, in a tone which
seemed to say, confidence claimed confidence, if there had not been some
story about Mabel's marrying.
A very sensible feeling of pain passed for an instant over Mrs. Lesly's
countenance before she replied--
"Yes, but that was a long time ago, and I cannot bear to think of it
now."
"But," said Mrs. Villars, who always peculiarily interested herself in
anything relative to marriage, "you never told me the particulars, and I
should so like to know them."
"No," said Mrs. Lesly, "I remember I only just mentioned it for I was so
much pained at the time, that I could not write on the subject."
"You never even told me the gentleman's name," said Mrs. Villars.
"No, Mabel made me promise to mention that to no one; I felt it was
delicate and right in her to wish it, and I have never spoken of him
openly since, indeed amongst ourselves he is as if forgotten."
"A man of property, was he not?" said Mrs. Villars, "and quite young I
think you said?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Lesly, with a half sigh, "the marriage seemed in every
way desirable, they were well suited in age, and I thought in character,
and rejoiced to think that she would have a companion in life so well
calculated to show her off to advantage. He was, besides, a man of
considerable fortune, and my Mabel is, I think, particularly fitted for
a station above that which she at present enjoys. Her taste in painting
and sculpture, has been acknowledged by masters--and tho' so kind and
useful and simple hearted now, I always thought she was fitted to
dispense even patronage. Ah, well, these were the dreams of days gone
by, and I do not know why I bring them up to-night, except to shew you
that the sacrifice she made was no ordinary one. Ah, poor girl, the
contrast is striking, now she is soon likely to want even a home."
"Was it not a long attachment?" said Mrs. Villars as her sister paused.
"Yes," returned, Mrs. Lesly, rousing herself, "they had been more or
less attached from childhood. There was always a kind of wayward
goodness in Mabel, that was very attractive. She had generally her own
way, but that way seemed so unselfish that I had neither the power nor
the wish to complain. He admired this spirit, mixed with so much
sweetness; nothing she did seemed wrong, and even when she was
indiscreet, which I dare say she might have been very often--he said, it
was because she was more pure-minded than other people."
"Well, I do not see anything very sad in all this. I should have been
highly flattered," said Mrs. Villars, "now my Selina is so like what you
describe, she does the most indiscreet and pretty things imaginable
sometimes."
Mrs. Lesly continued silent for a few minutes, then again rousing
herself she continued--
"He used to call Mabel his little wife, long before her papa died, and I
used to think over it all, as you remember we used to talk of things a
long time since."
"I see," thought Mrs. Villars, "a case of jilt, very distressing, but an
old story to those who know the world as well as I do." She felt a
slight sensation of comfort at arriving at this idea, when she
remembered her own unmarried daughters.
"Well," continued, Mrs. Lesly, "whenever he came to the neighbourhood,
which he often did, they were almost always together. Sometimes they
would walk in the fields at the back of our house, Mabel leaning on his
arm, whilst he carried Amy. But unfortunately when his father died he
went to Paris, and staid there about a twelve-month. When he returned he
was altered, how or why I could not tell, but it seemed as if the
simplicity of his character was gone, though I tried hard to think him
only more manly. Mabel was a beautiful girl when he returned, and it was
soon easy to perceive that however changed he might be in other
respects, his affection for her remained unaltered." Mrs. Lesly stopped
to sip her lemonade, and then with some little effort continued--"His
return," she said, "to which we looked forward so much, did not make us
happier. He would persuade her to go out sometimes, but she always came
back soon, and often looked as though she had been crying, though she
never said any thing--I then noticed and watched him more carefully,
and at length I found that he had not entered the church since his
return from France, a practice he never before neglected. I then paid
more attention to his conversation, and often brought up serious
questions on purpose. Here I discovered the sad truth; he talked very
seriously of virtue and moral responsibility, but if I spoke of religion
in connexion with it, he changed the subject or looked at Mabel, and was
silent.
"I was now quite puzzled, it seemed hard to find fault with one so good
in every other respect, but in religion, which he spoke of as a curious
and useful superstition, acting as a guide to vulgar minds. 'Mabel,'
said I, one day, 'what does all this mean? What has come over him to
make him think as he does?'
"You must know, Caroline, that indolent as my weak health has made me,
and careless of imparting things, I used so much to value, I had not
neglected my child in the most important of all points of knowledge;
sickness had made me prize that, in proportion as every thing else lost
interest; but I did fear for her when, with only my weak lessons she
had, perhaps, to answer the arguments of a man of peculiar talent, and
great though mistaken penetration, aided by the love, I was well aware,
she felt for him."
"But you studied these points well I know," said Mrs. Villars, "and I
dare say fully explained them."
"You are right," replied Mrs. Lesly, "at least I tried to do so, I
always have endeavoured to make the heart and head act together. You
will see that I succeeded, beyond my hopes. It seemed that he had been
in the constant habit, of confiding every thing to her, and had always
found an admiring listener to his thoughts on most subjects. On his
return from France, he was too candid to conceal from her, the change
his opinions had undergone. It appeared, from his own account, that
while abroad, his society had been mostly composed of those generally
distinguished by the name of free thinkers. Perhaps, feeling that he
could argue well, and with a too presumptuous trust in himself, he
courted every opportunity of disputing with them on the nature of their
opinions. With daring intellect, he trusted every thing to his
understanding, and nothing to his faith. He found superior intellect,
and the consequences were too natural--I do not think he had any settled
views afterwards, and I very much fear became little less than an
infidel. All this I gleaned by repeated questions from my poor,
broken-hearted child.
"'Now,' said I, 'my Mabel, this is too serious a point for husband and
wife to differ upon, this I once hoped you would be to each other, but
he is no longer worthy of you. Now you must prove what and how you
believe.' I spoke sternly, for I feared for her, she kissed me fervently
but she could not speak. 'Do you understand me, Mabel,' I said.
"She only replied, 'I do,' but that was sufficient, my heart ached for
her, but I was at peace. It was not long after this conversation, that
the last scene occurred; I remember I had been sitting in my room all
the morning, finishing some work that Mabel had begun for me. At length,
I grew tired of being alone, and, taking up my work, I went down stairs.
I heard a voice speaking loudly in the sitting-room, and I guessed whose
it was. I felt frightened--for since my William's death, everything
affects me--so I stopped; but I heard my child sobbing, and I opened the
door directly. She was seated at the table, leaning down, and covering
her face with her hands. She always feared to vex me by letting me see
her grieve; but I saw she was too agitated even to think of me at that
moment. He was standing opposite, glaring on her like a maniac.
"'Madam,' said he, turning to me as I looked for an explanation, 'it is
well, perhaps, that you are here, to witness your daughter's coquetry,
or her madness.'
"'Sir,' replied I, 'pray remember to whom you speak; there may be a
slight difference in our rank, or wealth rather, but none that I
recognise where my child is concerned.'
"'Do not attempt to reason with me,' he replied, 'I am mad. Your
daughter, in whose love I, at least, had faith, is fanatic enough to
refuse to marry me, because we differ on some absurd points of
superstitious doctrine.'
"'I cannot agree with you,' I said, trying to speak calmly, 'in calling
them absurd, and that is where we differ. What happiness can Mabel
expect with one who ridicules the motives which are, at once, the guide
and blessing of her existence?--or what reliance can she have on a man
who does not even recognise the principles on which she alone relies for
strength. I think Mabel is quite right to remain as she is,
sacrificing, as she does, every worldly interest to a noble principle.'
"The poor girl started up, and walking to him, laid her pretty hand upon
his arm, and looking at him beseechingly, she said--'Do not let us part
in anger--I can bear anything but that--let me remain your friend for
ever, even as you are; but do not think me wrong for refusing to be your
wife.'
"I never shall forget that moment; he shook her from him, as if
she had been a serpent. She reeled back for an instant, and then sank at
my feet.
"He looked down upon her, as she lay upon the floor, hiding her
face in my gown, as if he would have withered her with his contempt. Oh,
how could he think I could have trusted her to one like him?
"'Feeble as was my hold on religion before,' he burst out--"'It is
broken now, if this be the effects of it,' and he looked down upon my
poor stricken girl.
"I was silent.
"'What right,' thought I, 'have I to retaliate upon him reproach for
reproach?' but I thought my heart would break.
"'Why did she not try to win me to her truth,' he exclaimed, 'if she
thinks it of so much consequence?'
"'Has she not done so for the last four months?' I said.
"'Yes; but as a wife,' he replied, 'she would have had treble power.'
"'She is forbidden to be your wife,' I said, 'by the very religion she
professes--and would her acting in opposition to its laws have convinced
you of its truth?'
"'There was no love in the case,' said he, not heeding me, 'and now she
wishes to be my friend,' he continued, with a sneer, 'as if there were
any medium with me between love and hate, except utter forgetfulness.'
"'Madam,' he exclaimed, as if suddenly remembering himself, 'forgive me
what I have been saying; had she let me, I would have been to you more
than a son--as it is--fare well.'
"Without another word to Mabel, he left us, and I have never seen him
since.
"I dare say a great deal passed more than I have told you; but I am very
forgetful now--though I well remember how miserable I was that day, and
for a very long time afterwards, for poor Mabel was very ill, and never
left her bed for weeks. I sent to our good Mr. Ware, and told him
everything, and asked him to come and comfort Mabel; and so he did, most
effectually. Night after night did I sit by her, terrified by her fits
of delirium and the dreadful exhaustion which followed them. I took cold
then, and my nurse wanted me to go to bed, and leave her to watch by
her; but what was life and rest to me, without my child?
"Amy sat upon her pillow nearly all day, and would whisper, 'don't cry,
dear Mabel.' There was not much comfort in her baby words; but I think
Mabel liked to hear her.
"Mr. Ware was unwearied in his attentions to her; and, at length, she
began to rally. Then I became ill, with anxiety, perhaps, or the cold I
took from the night-watching, and it was quite touching to see how hard
she tried to get well, that she might nurse me in turn. Oh, what a
comfort it was when she began to smile again. You see how well she is
now--she is never ill, and how cheerful and happy she seems. I try to
think it all for the best, though it is difficult sometimes."
"Well, you have, indeed, had a great deal to vex you," said Mrs.
Villars, much touched.
"I have, however, much happiness to look back upon," said Mrs. Lesly,
sighing gently, "in my William's kindness for so many years; but my
health is failing sadly--and I have one care certainly, when I think of
leaving my children without a friend in the world to take care of
them--particularly as with my life, my pension, which is the only source
of our income, will cease."
"Yes," said Mrs. Villars, "it was almost a pity she did not marry the
young man--what a provision it would have been for both."
"I think you would have acted as I did," said Mrs. Lesly, "would you
not?"
"Why you know," she replied, "I never thought of those things as
seriously as you do, and my love for my orphan children would have been
a great temptation. Indeed, that love for my family guides me in almost
everything, and after all, why his staying away from church would not
have prevented her going."
"No, no, Caroline," said Mrs. Lesly, too indolent to contest this narrow
view of the subject. "I have been foolish in many things, over and over
again, but in this I feel that I acted wisely."
"Not with much worldly wisdom, dear Annie," said her sister, smiling.
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Lesly, "those who believe in an overruling
Providence, act most wisely, even for this world, when they obey its
laws."
Caroline sighed; her sister's single-minded language recalled days long
gone by; when their views had been more in accordance, and for the
moment, she would have given much to have retained the simple faith of
their childhood; for her life was made up of shallow, and quickly
forgotten repentances.
After a pause, she said:--
"Annie, I hope you will live many years; but if it should be otherwise,
do not have one care for your children, for while I live they shall find
a home, wherever I may be."
"My dear, dear sister," said Mrs. Lesly, while tears of gratitude and
affection dimmed her eyes; "that is so like your old kindhearted way of
speaking. Could I believe that you would, indeed, be a friend to my
children, I should be spared many a wakeful night, and this freedom
from anxiety might prolong my life. But, Caroline, you have a large
family, and can ill spare your means."
"It may be so," replied the other; "but you set me an example of doing
right without regard to consequences; why should I not follow it? And
you recall the days of our happy childhood, when these feelings, and
such as these, were common to us both--let them be common again, dear
Annie."
Mrs. Lesly, kissed her sister with grateful affection, and again, and
again, thanked her for her generous promises. Alas! judging of her by
herself, she little knew how evanescent were her resolutions, nor
guessed that the sentiments she sometimes professed, as little belonged
to her own heart, as the delusive images of the Fata Morgana to the
waters they enliven. They soon afterwards parted for the night, Mrs.
Lesly more cheerful, and her sister more serious than before their
evening conversation.