Mabel Volume Ii Part 8

Again, and again, she condemned herself for the deceptions she had practised, and endeavoured to appease her self-accusations with ideas of the most lavish generosity to Mabel--but justice--alas, that she felt she had placed it almost beyond her power to render her. She now owed her six hundred pounds, and well she knew, that, however frivolously she had spent, however small a part of her extravagances it had proved--this sum was almost the entire support her sister had saved for her orphan daughter; which, though little calculated to afford her maintenance as a gentle-woman, might, in talented hands, be the commencement of a respectable independence; or, at all events, save her, if dependent, from many minor, but bitter personal necessities which wound the delicate mind so sorely. Well she knew this--but she knew, also, that she never would have the courage, either to limit her own personal expenses, or to ask her husband for the money. Mabel must be repaid by the most lavish kindness, and by all the comforts of a home. She could not know of the debt, therefore would not feel her loss, and if, by a timely display of her beauty, and her painful bereavements, she could marry her well--she might then deem the debt repaid. All this she endeavoured to persuade herself; but, as she wandered from room to room in the twilight, which their closed windows afforded, something uneasy oppressed her, which forced her to repeat, again and again, the same line of consolation. It was then, with a sense of relief, that she saw the day for her sister's funeral draw near, and she watched the dark procession from the house, winding its way to the little church, with grief, indeed, but with grief lightened of its heaviest sense of oppression. With the greatest attention she watched over Mabel, whose strength had entirely given way, when the last sad scene, the last parting was over--and, for hours, seemed to have forgotten all that was selfish in her nature to minister to her comfort.

On the following morning, perceiving that she was sufficiently calm to listen to her, she begged her to enter on an explanation of her affairs; expressing herself anxious to know if she had thought of any plans for the future.

"No, dear aunt," was Mabel's reply; "but I must soon think of them."

"What money have you left?" enquired Mrs. Villars.

"In the funds only one hundred pounds, I believe," replied Mabel, "for the physicians I procured from London were so expensive in their fees--but the rest you know--"

"Yes, yes," interrupted Mrs. Villars, too troubled, and too uncertain as to her future conduct to commit herself, by answering what she apprehended to be an allusion to her debt, "but I was going to ask, did you save anything from the fire?"

"Yes, some plate, a little more than a hundred pounds worth, I think--Captain Clair kindly secured it."

"Ah," said Mrs. Villars, self awaking, "I remember it is just the same pattern as mine; if you like I will have it properly valued, and pay you for it--people may think if they like, that your poor mother left it to me."

"Thank you," returned Mabel, who had perceived her aunt's hesitation with regard to the money, and therefore was little willing to increase the debt; "but I do not think I shall dispose of it yet, if at all."

"But then I cannot make people believe it was left me?"

"There will be no necessity; for what I am not ashamed of doing I can bear to have known; and it is only for my sake that you can have any scruple."

"Oh, dear, no, of course not," returned her aunt, not the better pleased to find Mabel so unlike her mother in worldly matters. "Well, then, if you do not like the plate turned into money, the hundred pounds will keep you in dress for two years, and by that time I trust you will be, better provided for, by a respectable marriage."

Mrs. Villars had been too accustomed to speak of marriage, in this kind of jobbing style, to her daughters, to be fully alive to the blush of exquisite pain, which, for an instant, brightened the pale cheek of her companion. Something, however, in that blush, recalled a resemblance she only rarely shewed to her mother, and Mrs. Villars felt again all the pangs of concealed shame. Hastening then to relieve herself, she entered more eagerly on the real subject of her conversation, and at once pressed her, with affectionate warmth, to accept the protection of her home, to find in her a second mother, to be one with her daughters, sharer in all their privileges, and pleasures, and sisterly love.

Mabel started, and, as she listened to the generous proposal her aunt so warmly advocated, she could not help reproaching herself, for ever having regarded her as worldly minded. In vain she gently urged the inconvenience this arrangement might possibly bring; Mrs. Villars would hear nothing of it, and when Mabel still hesitated, she folded her in her arms and asked her piteously and entreatingly, while tears choked her utterance, if she would deny her the privilege of atoning to her lost sister for all the neglect, for which she now so bitterly reproached herself.

Mabel could say nothing, nor did she wish to urge anything more, for sweetly did those words sound to her ears, "home and sisters," kind sisters who would wile away her sorrow, and re-awaken her interest in life--home where her tried spirit might find refreshment and repose.

She suffered her head to sink upon the bosom to which she was so warmly prest, and murmured forth an answer of affection and grat.i.tude.

Shortly afterwards Mr. Ware was announced, and to him her new plans were immediately confided by Mabel. He had believed Mrs. Villars a worldly-minded woman, and was, therefore, much pleased when he perceived, by the tone of both, that the arrangement had been so cordially proposed.

"One alteration I must," said he, "beg in my favour: Mabel is so justly dear to us all, that to part with her before even attempting to console her grief, is more than I could well bear. You must indeed, madam, spare her to us at the rectory for a little while."

"Willingly, my dear sir," replied Mrs. Villars, with that tone of manner which often rendered her popular, "and we can manage it in this way--I have a friend at Cheltenham, who has been long pressing me to visit her, I will go and see her now, it will do me good after this sad trial--and, provided Mabel promises to obey my summons, I will leave her to join me on the road. She is now my ward, by her own consent," she added, smiling kindly at her.

This proposal was eagerly accepted by Mr. Ware, who dreaded losing Mabel, and clung to any pretext for keeping her.

"I must go and tell my sister that this dear child will soon be with us," said he, rising to take his leave, "and you, madam, suffer me to offer an old man's blessing for your kindness to this poor orphan," he said, laying his hand on Mabel's head, "I would have gladly taken her to my heart and home, to be the blessing there she has long been, but this selfish wish would deprive her of the healthy companionship of those who will be her sisters, and kindly cheer her young life, which has been bowed with many sorrows. I need not ask you to deal kindly with her for you have done that already. I only say, may an old man's blessing be upon you and yours, as you have dealt kindly by this poor lamb."

Mrs. Villars turned aside her head to conceal her rising emotion, and Mabel's face was bathed in tears, as Mr. Ware, with glistening eyes and trembling steps, hurried from the room to repress the feelings which had become too strong for utterance.

CHAPTER IX.

All have their tasks and trials; thine are hard, But short the time, and glorious the reward, Thy patient spirit to thy duties give, Regard the dead, but to the living live.

CRABBE.

It was with pleasure--melancholy, indeed, but still most sincere--that Mabel was welcomed at the rectory. Mr. Ware and his sister emulated each other, in endeavours to cheer her, before her introduction to a gayer scene, which they knew awaited her in Bath. Their party had been increased by the arrival of Mr. Clifford, the young architect, mentioned by Colonel Hargrave, who had easily been induced to accept a room in the pleasant rectory; so that, together with Rogers, the bailiff, whose sick room required every attention, Mr. Ware was busy enough. Mr.

Clifford brought with him different plans for the improvement of the estate, and the re-building of the village, on a different scale; and the greater part of the evening was generally occupied in talking these over, or drawing fresh ones. In this occupation Mr. Ware would gladly have interested Mabel; but she was scarcely equal to the exertion, and he well knew he could expect nothing, reasonably, beyond the unmurmuring resignation, which characterised her grief, and the transient, tearful interest she sometimes displayed in what they were doing. The comfort and happiness of her favorite village never could be unheeded by her; but it required some relaxation of her over taxed nervous system before she could again become the self-forgetful, cheerful companion she had been. This indulgence was freely granted her--and her affectionate heart soon warmed to the watchful love which surrounded her, as the drooping flowers turn to the warm beams of the returning sun.

"How often have I had reason to be grateful to you, dear sir?" she said, one morning, as she pa.s.sed her hand through Mr. Ware's arm, to accompany him in his walk round the garden. It was one of those days, which, in England, so often surprise us in the midst of winter, with their balmy air and spring-like feeling. "And now more than ever," she continued, "for supporting me at this sad season. You can little know how very, very grateful I am for this thoughtful kindness."

"My dear child," returned Mr. Ware, soothingly, "it must be very easy to accept the kindness which you have never forgotten to afford to others."

"Always kind," said Mabel, with a sigh, "how shall I bear to part from you?"

"Or I from you, dear Mabel; often have you secured me from the regrets, which, in a life of such seclusion as we have past here, might have invaded my quiet. You have afforded me that society which I could not otherwise have secured, and willingly would I have kept you still; but I feel that Aston would, at least for the present, be full of too many regrets for you to make me urge it. Besides, our natural relations have a claim upon us, and, with yours, you will probably find a safe and happy home. My Mabel will not forget that these have a claim upon her, and that she may be called to new duties amongst them."

"And new trials," said Mabel, sadly, "I shall meet _him_."

"Yes, for a while--only a little while; I need not say anything on that subject, your heart will best dictate your conduct--only be firm, and remember always, if annoyances prevail elsewhere, here is your home."

"Not so--I trust he will soon be here--he ought to be here--and, oh, how gladly would I see that. Do you not think his strange appearance on that awful night--the delicacy he has since shewn--Mr. Clifford's coming--do you not think all this looks well?"

Mr. Ware looked earnestly and painfully at her; she seemed immediately to understand that look, for turning from him, she wrung her hands together bitterly.

"Oh, why," she exclaimed, "can I never indulge my best hopes, without the appearance of selfishness--must they always be so inseparable; but you, at least, understand me," she added, turning her beautiful face full upon him with a look of supplication.

"Yes, indeed, I do," he replied, "only I began to fear--I do understand you, my n.o.ble-hearted girl--trust me, I do."

But Mabel only turned aside her head to weep, and though he tried to renew the subject, she skilfully evaded it, and when that pained him, she turned and soothed him with the eager caress of childlike affection.

At this moment, Clair was seen walking pensively up and down the walk, at some little distance, and, as Mr. Ware was called away, Mabel suffered him to go in alone, and advanced timidly towards his nephew; she gained upon him before he was fully aware of her presence, and joining him, she walked by his side, for a few minutes, in silence. He was moodily musing, and she seemed, for a time, watchful how best to interrupt him. She had never yet alluded to his letter, and spite of the afflicting scenes which had so lately engaged her attention, he felt slightly annoyed as well as disappointed--so little, however, did he acknowledge such a feeling, even to himself, that he was a little startled when she said, softly and timidly--

"You are offended with me."

"Offended, Miss Lesly?"

"Yes, and justly so--but if you could but know how many times I have tried to speak to you without having the courage to do so, you would forgive me."

Clair's eye kindled with sudden pleasure, but she saw the look, and hastened to temper it.

"You told me that you knew something of my early history."

"Yes, Miss Lesly," he said, puzzled at her manner, and one moment appearing ready to sink back into his dejection, the next, to seize her hand--and give way to something more than joy.

"You must know, then," she continued, fixing her eyes on the ground; "that the heart which has been once given away, is no longer capable of appreciating you."

"Unless," said Clair, eagerly.

"Ah, but with me, there is no unless," said Mabel; "do not ask me to unveil the painful recesses of a mind inured, but not insensible to sorrow; and do not, oh, do not, like me, prepare for yourself that loneliness of heart which I must carry with me always. I dare not trifle with a feeling whose intensity I know too well; but, yet, I hope, so earnestly do I hope, that you have mistaken yourself, and, that pity for my sorrows, and the unhappy share you had in them, have led you to think of me as you have done, and that these feelings may be easily overcome. I feel privileged to speak to you," she said, raising her eyes timidly, "because we are both unhappy."

"Ah, Miss Lesly, you little know me; I would give all my affection, even, for the pleasure of your society--even if you would but tolerate me for a while--my devotion might--."