Mabel Volume Ii Part 7

"Yes," was the faint reply, followed by a deep sigh.

"Really, Lucy," said Caroline, a little sharply, "you should not give way so, it will not mend matters now."

Lucy had not temper for the "soft answer," and was too spiritless to retort an angry one.

"I think," said Hargrave, "you must have met a fellow-voyager of mine, a Captain Clair--he said he was going to stay with his uncle at Aston."

"Yes," said Lucy, despairingly, "I did meet him; and he said he knew you."

"How did you like him?" he pursued, anxious to make her speak.

"Oh, pretty well," she said, carelessly; but a burning blush kindled brighter and deeper on her pale cheek, as his penetrating eye watched for her reply.

She moved impatiently beneath his glance; but she felt that it was not withdrawn, and painfully conscious of her increasing color, she rose abruptly, and turning on him, for a moment, like the wearied stag at bay, she looked angrily at him, and then hastened from the room.

Still, however, as she once more retreated to her chamber, and shut the door violently behind her, that glance seemed to follow her, not simply inquisitive, but compa.s.sionately answering her own angry expression, as if deprecating its violence.

"He must know something about me," she thought. "Could Clair have spoken of her to him, and in the same terms, which she had overheard him use to his uncle, accompanied, perhaps, by ridicule. Yes," thought she, actually throwing herself upon the floor in the vehemence of her pa.s.sion, "he sees me with Clair's eyes--if he pities, he despises me, as the girl who was only used as the cloak to more honorable attentions to Mabel. I cannot endure this--anything but to be both neglected and despised. There is one, at least," she added, to herself, proudly, "who appreciates me--but this time I will keep my own counsel." She rose, and looked at the gla.s.s--but it now only told her that the boasted beauty of the night before had faded before her tears. "I will weep no more," she said, angrily, brus.h.i.+ng the heavy drops from her cheeks, "I will weep no more--but, I fear my heart will become hard indeed."

A pa.s.sionate burst of tears again interrupted her resolutions, and she turned from the disappointing mirror, which had, only a few hours before, reflected a form of airy liveliness, which had even astonished herself.

Of one thing, however, she was resolved; to avoid, as much as possible, the offensive pity with which she imagined Hargrave regarded her; and this resolution was so well kept that she always, after that night, avoided him with studious shyness.

CHAPTER VIII.

What sadder sight can angels view, Than self deceiving tears, Pour'd idly over some dark page, Of earlier life, though pride or rage, The record of to-day engage, A woe for future years.

CHRISTIAN YEAR.

Colonel Hargrave rapidly domesticated himself in Sydney Place, and very soon placed himself on terms of intimacy with the Villars family. Still nothing occurred which seemed to bring Caroline nearer her object, and though for some weeks her temper remained unruffled in his presence, nothing betrayed any thing like admiration on his part; nothing could warm into affection the every-day friends.h.i.+p which had been established between them, or induce him to take advantage of his popularity, by choosing a mistress for Aston Manor.

Mrs. Villars was too ready to interpose her powers of contrivance, and took every opportunity of throwing them together; in public, she often succeeded, but in their private circle he was more than a match for all her address, for when the manners of the perfect gentleman failed to secure him from any well-laid scheme to entrap his admiration, he was ready to a.s.sume those of the bear.

One great difficulty consisted in dragging him to the b.a.l.l.s and evening parties, which began to succeed each other in rapid succession; and sometimes when they had wholly reckoned on his company, he would be found in his morning coat, busily employed in writing letters, which no coaxing could induce him to leave. At these times Caroline would often plead a head-ache, and remain at home, but to very little purpose, as he seemed to believe the excuse, and, probably supposing quiet the best restorative, he would gather up his books, and retire to his own room.

A woman's heart, when regulated by no higher principle than that of its own native impulses, is often piqued into love by the very means which should have restrained it, and Caroline's had been left to the government of vanity and coquetry, habits which insensibly corrode the innate modesty of the female mind. Hargrave's failings, therefore, excited more affection than his virtues--for the necessity of watching his humours, and of courting rather than receiving his attentions, insensibly interested her, and though her feeling was composed of component parts of vanity, self-love, avarice, and, ambition, it could scarcely be affirmed that it did not contain a few grains of genuine affection. She had indeed merely expected some broken down nabob, who would have formed an easy conquest, and she was therefore agreeably surprised by Hargrave's manner and appearance, for his manly bearing and easy air, compensated for any injury an Indian sun might have given his complexion, and called forth the praise of all Caroline's fair friends. Thus, stimulated by opposition, she left no art untried to win him, and watched his movements with secret and constant jealousy; while her mother, with the foolish fondness, which had grown almost to fear of her beautiful daughter, encouraged her to hope, by repeating and magnifying, sometimes even inventing, speeches, which seemed to betray more than Hargrave openly professed.

Meanwhile, he evaded these manoeuvres, and placed himself on terms of equal civility with all the sisters, by whom he found even his weakest foibles caressed. Lucy, alone, resisted his fascinations, and long after every shadow of her grief had disappeared, continued to avoid him, and never mentioned, before him, the name of her new admirer, whom she now frequently met, either at the public b.a.l.l.s, or the morning concerts in the Pump room, the fas.h.i.+onable resort of the sick, who drank its waters, the musical, or the idle.

Mr. Beauclerc considered himself a judge of music, and might frequently be seen listening to the performance with a scientific air. He seldom failed to join the Villars party, and engage Lucy in conversation, to her unfeigned satisfaction. She could not fail to perceive that there was one subject which dwelt in his thoughts, though seldom more than dimly hinted at, which gave an air of sadness to his mind.

What this might be, Lucy knew not, though vanity echoed a ready answer, and, whenever he spoke of his own loneliness or unhappiness, she evaded the subject with a coquetry sufficiently skilful to check his confidence, and, though it sometimes sent him away in an ill humour, he invariably returned, in a short while, and she flattered herself that each little exertion of her power only riveted his chains more surely.

Several weeks had thus pa.s.sed when, one morning, Mrs. Villars received a letter from Mr. Ware, begging her immediate presence at Aston, as the symptoms of her sister's illness had a.s.sumed a more dangerous character, and he feared that the utmost haste would be required to enable her to reach Aston in time to see her alive. Estranged as Mrs. Villars had been from her sister, she yet loved her, as warmly as her selfish nature would allow--and she hastened to her husband's study, to make preparations for her immediate journey; she would not, however, hear of his offer to accompany her, lest Colonel Hargrave might take the alarm, and leave them--she, therefore, only begged him to keep less to his study, at least, in the evenings. Mr. Villars replied, that his own sense of delicacy might be relied on; which made her fear that he would give them too much of his company; but she had little time to argue, for, before her hasty preparations were completed, the post-chaise, which had been ordered, was at the door.

As she was stepping in, Colonel Hargrave offered to accompany her for a few stages, saying that he had a friend in the direction she was going, whom he was anxious to visit.

"I am going to a sad scene," said Mrs. Villars, when they had travelled for a few miles, "and, besides the loss of my sister, my feelings will be agonised, I know, for she leaves a daughter to mourn her loss, homeless and unprotected."

"Yes," said Hargrave; "but your presence will be some comfort to her."

"I quite dread the meeting," continued Mrs. Villars. "Did you read Mr.

Ware's letter? I fear there is no hope."

"None, indeed, I fear," replied Hargrave, looking out to urge the post-boy to greater speed. "What is to become of Miss Lesly?" he presently asked, "she has, I suppose, something to depend upon."

Mrs. Villars slightly coloured, and couched hastily, when she perceived her change of countenance observed.

"I do not think they were very good managers, to tell you the truth,"

she said; "and they had not much to save from."

"What will become of her then?" he repeated, with sudden animation.

"I can scarcely tell what may happen eventually," replied Mrs. Villars; "but should my poor sister die, I mean to bring my niece back with me, for the present, at least. She is a good-looking girl, and I may be able to get her settled."

"Settled!" repeated Hargrave, mechanically, and relapsed into silence.

Soon afterwards, a turn in the road brought in sight some tall, old-fas.h.i.+oned gates, opening on an avenue of dark trees, through which nothing could be discerned, but the gable ends of a more distant mansion. Here Hargrave alighted, and bidding her good-bye, in a tone of sadness, which seemed the highest compliment to her present affliction, entered the old gateway, and stood there, till Mrs. Villars was beyond his sight.

Musingly she continued her journey, and gladly would she have had his further companions.h.i.+p, to screen her from the thoughts which were now rapidly gaining entrance into her mind.

It was one of those dark days, when the shadows seem to fall long before the unseen sun has set; and, as the horses speeded along, she gathered the folds of her cloak closer around her, and endeavoured to suppress the shudder, which something beyond the cold biting air of a dull easterly wind made to pa.s.s over her frame. Night had already closed, dark, dismal, and cold, before she reached Aston. As they entered the village, she leaned from the window, and expressed her desire to stop at the inn, she remembered; but a further glance at the ruined village, faintly shewn by the light of the carriage-lamps, as she rattled through it, told her of nothing but scattered timbers and blackened walls, and thus obliged her to change her order, and drive, at once, to Aston Manor.

As the chaise rolled lightly up the smooth gravelled avenue to the Manor, Mrs. Villars endeavoured to calm her trembling agitation, with the hope that all would yet be well; but the low, hurried whispers, in the dimly lighted hall, that greeted her arrival, unnerved her, and, dispensing with the a.s.sistance, she usually so rigorously exacted from her inferiors, she hurried from the chaise, and entered the hall, exclaiming--

"Can it be possible? am I too late?"

"Yes, indeed, ma'am," replied the housekeeper, now advancing; "it is too true. We closed her eyes but late last night."

Mrs. Villars hid her face in the sables which enveloped her, and sobbed convulsively; then, flinging down her purse, she begged her to dismiss the chaise, saying, she was Mrs. Lesly's sister, and must see her immediately.

"Let me beg you, ma'am," said Mrs. Hawkins, respectfully, "to compose yourself--it will be too much for you to-night."

"No, no, no," cried Mrs. Villars, as warm, repentant tears streamed rapidly down her face; "let me see her now--my poor, poor sister."

Mrs. Hawkins sadly led the way up the marble staircase, and across the gallery, to a door which she noiselessly opened, as if she feared to disturb the slumbers of the dead. The room was fully lighted by wax tapers--but the bed was partially concealed by the many folds of its crimson curtains.

An old woman was sitting by the fire, who rose on Mrs. Villars's entrance--and, at the same moment, glanced to the window, where Mabel was seated, gazing out upon the star-light stillness of the night, as if communing with her own spirit. She rose on perceiving them, and gliding from the recess, advanced rapidly and noiselessly to meet her aunt; placing both her hands on hers, she attempted to speak, but the words died between her half parted lips, and a quiet burst of tears succeeded the effort.

Mrs. Villars caught her in her arms, sobbing violently, with the excess of her emotion. She had seldom been with the dying, and did not remember having ever been in actual contact with death itself, and it was with an internal shrinking, that, at length, releasing the poor girl from her arms, she advanced to gaze on the face of her sister. How calm and placid seemed the sleep of the dead, in that still chamber--but, though sweetly tranquil was the countenance once so dear, it bore the unmistakable, terrible touch of death; and Mrs. Villars wrung her hands, and turned away; an icy coldness seemed taking possession of her senses, and terror prevented her stooping to touch the cold lips which never more would reproach her with their confiding words.

Mrs. Hawkins soon kindly put an end to this trying scene, by leading her from the room; there was enough in the bereavement itself to touch her sympathy, without her being aware of the pangs of awakening conscience, which added bitterness to a grief seemingly so natural.

How miserable those days of mourning seemed to the heartless woman--as hour slowly dragged after hour in that silent house. There were no exciting trifles to wear away the time--nothing but the endless black c.r.a.pe with which she tried to feel interested, though her senses sickened at the mournful tales it told. There, no company came to banish thought--thought of solemn things that she was little prepared to contemplate--she was alone with Mabel, and the dead.