Mrs. C. J. Newby

He only can the cause reveal,
Why, at the same fond bosom fed;
Taught in the self-same lap to kneel,
Till the same prayer were duly said.

Brothers in blood, and nurture too,
Aliens in heart so oft should prove,
One lose, the other keep, Heaven's clue;
One dwell in wrath, and one in love.

Christian Year.

Mrs. Lesly found Mabel waiting for her in her room. A book was lying open by her side, but she appeared to have been rather thinking, than reading.

"Mabel, my love," she said, "it is past twelve o'clock. I am so sorry you sat up for me."

"I am only waiting to undress you, mamma," said Mabel, "you are so much later to-night, that I thought you would be tired. I have been lying on your sofa, half asleep, for more than an hour. Have you been talking of me?" she added, lowering her voice.

"Yes, a little," replied Mrs. Lesly; "but why do you ask, what can any one say ill of you."

Mabel sighed.

"I talked of you, dear, not merely to satisfy my sister's curiosity; but, because there is in the world a very strong prejudice against single ladies, old maids, as they are termed, in contempt, when there is no good reason given for their not marrying. It is a foolish prejudice, but still a strong one; and, therefore, I would rather that people knew why you are not married; at least, that all those who have any right to criticise your conduct, should know that it has been by your own choice."

"Ah, mamma," said Mabel, "you are thinking of my feelings as they would once have been."

"And as they may be again," said the mother; "but not as they ought to be, I allow. But you bear your trial so well, love, that I would not have it increased by one unkind, or worldly remark. You have done right, and can, therefore, afford to suffer; yet there is no harm in sparing yourself any needless pain. Go to sleep, now, my child, I do not wish to see you tired, to-morrow."

Mabel retired to her own room, with feelings stirred up, she scarce knew why, by the arrival of their new guests, and she would willingly have thought awhile in silence, but Amy was awake, and restless.

"What time is it, Mabel, dear," for by that affectionate title, she usually addressed her.

"Past one o'clock, dear," said Mabel; "are you awake, still."

"I have been to sleep, once," said Amy; "but I was dreaming all the time, first of Lucy, and then about Captain Clair, and the blackberries. You said she would not like me quite at first, but she seems to love you in one evening—how is that?"

"I really do not know; Lucy puzzles me, rather, but she says she likes, or dislikes, quickly."

"But that is what you tell me not to do," said Amy, sitting up in her bed, as if prepared for a regular discussion of the subject.

"Yes," said Mabel, "because I am afraid you will not choose your friends well, and may be mistaken if you judge too quickly."

"Well," said Amy, gravely; "I suppose Lucy is clever to find you out so soon, but it puzzles me to think how she could tell you were good, in one evening."

"I do not think she does know much about me, yet," said Mabel; "but do not let us think of her just now, for if we never think of ourselves at any other time, I think we should before we go to sleep. So, now you must not talk any more."

Mabel then turned her pillow, smoothed the hair back from her heated cheeks, and made her comfortable, so that Amy, having no further excuse for keeping awake, soon fell asleep.

The next morning Mrs. Lesly was up earlier than usual, that she might enjoy as much of her sister's society as her short visit permitted.

After breakfast, Mrs. Villars said, that if they could have a chat by themselves, she should be glad.

To this Mrs. Lesly willingly agreed, and after some little conversation on the arrangements of the day, led her to her sunny dressing-room, where her own mornings were most frequently spent.

"I hope," said Mrs. Lesly, taking up her work, "that nothing unpleasant has occurred, to make you wish to speak to me; but, perhaps you have been thinking over our last night's conversation."

Mrs. Villars coloured slightly with the consciousness that the feelings awakened by her sister's conversation, had been of very short duration.

"No, dear," said she; "last night I listened to your trials and troubles, this morning you must hear mine."

"Oh," said Mrs. Lesly, "I would never have taken up your time last night, had I known that you were thinking of any thing that pained you."

"You are always too kind to me," said Mrs. Villars, "and I am sure I would much rather hear you talk than talk myself, for it does me good to be with you, but really, now we are sitting down, I have hardly the courage to speak of what I wanted to say."

"No one is ever afraid of me," said Mrs. Lesly, "and you know, if you are in any trouble, I never can find fault."

"Well then," said Mrs. Villars, "I will tell you exactly how I am situated. You must know that Mr. Villars has had, or pretends to have, had a great many losses this year, which have really quite soured his temper. He does nothing now but grumble, saying, I am not half so economical as I ought to be, and I do not know what peevish stuff. He says I dress the children too expensively, and then he tells me they would look better in white muslin than in all the laces I put on them."

"Well, there I think he is right," interposed Mrs. Lesly, "nothing makes a girl look so nice as a simple white dress."

"I cannot agree with that," said Mrs. Villars. "Caroline has just the figure—just the majestic style of beauty that does not do for white muslin and simplicity, and in her black velvet and pearls, I do assure you, she looks fit to be a duchess. Selina, too, has just that fairy beauty which requires the lightest and most delicate of colors, and how very soon they soil, particularly with polking—and, besides, they cannot always be wearing the same dresses in a place like Bath. I cannot help wishing to see them respectably dressed, when I hear every one speak so highly of their beauty. You must forgive a mother's pride, but I cannot help it."

"But, my dear," said Mrs. Lesly, "if your object is to marry them well, you ought not to dress them so expensively. Few men intending to marry, like the prospect of furnishing an extravagant wardrobe. The idea of having to pay for their dress should gently insinuate itself, not glare upon their attention in velvet and satin."

"Now, Annie," said Mrs. Villars, "how unkind it is of you to talk in this way. You see, I had reason to be afraid of speaking to you."

"I meant it most kindly, I do assure you," said Mrs. Lesly.

"That may be," said Mrs. Villars, poutingly; "but that cutting way of speaking hurts the feelings, and you are very fond of it, sometimes."

"Well, dear," said Mrs. Lesly, "I only meant a little good advice, but as you do not like it, I will say no more."

"Besides," continued Mrs. Villars, "I expect girls with such pretensions and advantages as mine have, to marry men of wealth and station, who will only be too proud to see them dress well. You ought to see them enter a ball-room, and how immediately they are surrounded."

"Ah, yes, I dare say," said Mrs. Lesly, who was always too indolent for any long argument, and generally gave up a point, even with Amy, when persisted in beyond her patience.

"But now then, to return to my little difficulty," said Mrs. Villars, recovering her good-temper. "You know Mr. Villars is so horribly cross now, I do not dare to bring anything before him."

"I am sorry to hear that," said Mrs. Lesly; "my William never said a cross word to me, that I remember."

"Ah," sighed Mrs. Villars, "it is very different with me, I assure you—Villars is always finding fault now, since the girls are come out."

"Well," repeated Mrs. Lesly, "I certainly never remember being afraid of my poor husband."

"No; but then he was a soldier, that makes a man very different," said Mrs. Villars, "so kind and open-hearted. Now Villars, though he has left his business in the city, and is only a sleeping partner, yet he seems to take as much interest in it as ever; and if anything goes wrong, then he is off to London to give his advice, he says, and comes home so cross, there is no speaking a word to him, and if he finds us going out, as we do, of course, nearly every night, then he goes off sulky to his study. Married life with such a man, is no joke, I can tell you. When we first married, he had such an easy temper; he says I spoilt it, but the fault lies at his own door, of that I am certain. But I would not say this to every one."

"I hope not, indeed," said Mrs. Lesly, much pained; "it is better to keep these things from everybody; and you cannot blame him without finding fault with yourself at the same time."

"And that I am not disposed to do," interrupted Mrs. Villars; "no, I assure you, before company, I make him appear the very pattern of perfection. I would not lower myself by showing the world how very little influence I have over him. But now to the point—I must tell you, that last winter, I was foolish enough to run up some bills with my jeweller, milliner, and others, a little higher than ordinary, and now every day they become more importunate, and I have made excuses till they will listen no longer. I do not know where to turn for money, till this business pressure is over and Villars has recovered his temper. Now could you, I know you could if you would, just lend me a hundred pounds for a few months?"

"Ah, Caroline, but ought I?" said Mrs. Lesly; "think of my poor children, and my health such as it is."

"But what possible harm could that do them?" said Mrs. Villars, as if surprised; "do you think I could be so barbarous as to think of hurting them. It is perfectly safe with me; and I will pay you in six months."

"But, my dear Caroline," said Mrs. Lesly, "why not tell Mr. Villars? it will be but the anger of an hour—contrast that with the pain of deceiving him."

"I do not mind telling him everything, when his present difficulties are over—now it would be unkind to ask me."

"But," answered her sister, timidly, "do you think I am right in suffering more of my money to be in private hands, even in yours?"

"Oh," said Mrs. Villars, coloring slightly, "you are speaking of the five hundred I owe you already; but you know I promised to pay that back with five per cent interest when my aunt Clara dies, and leaves me the legacy she promised, and which Villars always said I should do just as I liked with. I gave you a memorandum of the promise, in case of any mistake."

"Yes, I know," said Mrs. Lesly; "but I really do not know what I have done with it—I am afraid it is mislaid."

"I dare say," said Mrs. Villars, again coloring, and looking down upon the spill she was twisting from the pieces of an old letter; "but surely, if it be lost, you could not think your own sister would—"

"Oh, no, no," said Mrs. Lesly; "I think nothing but that you are imprudent; and oh, Caroline, however I may disguise the truth from Mabel—I am not ignorant that a few weeks may, and a few years certainly will, bring me to my grave. Now am I right to trust so much even to you?"

A mother's courage was strong, even in her timid and indolent mind, and she spoke with tears in her eyes.

"Now then," said Mrs. Villars, "I promise, if you will be generous this once, that your children shall never want a home while I have one, and every comfort which my own possess shall be theirs; only rescue me this once from my husband's anger."

"I have done it so often," said Mrs. Lesly, "I am afraid it is unkind to both of you to do it again."

"Oh, do not say so," cried Mrs. Villars, "oh, think again, do not say that, and you so kind and good. You know I have given you a written promise, to pay it out of the legacy aunt Clara is to leave me, and that is as binding to my mind, beloved sister, as a legally executed deed; as Villars promises positively, I shall do what I like with the money, when I get it. Have I not promised to continue to pay five per cent interest to your children as well as yourself, should you not live, as I hope and trust you may, many, many years. I can do that easily, as I have done before; at least I could have done so had we not agreed to let the interest accumulate, that I might pay you in the lump. Where is my promise? you have lost it you say, but I remember it all well enough. Oh, good, kind Annie, think again."

"But that paper is lost," said Mrs. Lesly, with a vacant look, and she passed her hand over her forehead, as if trying to remember something of it.

"I would offer to write another promise," said Mrs. Villars, "only I do not like to bind myself to two sums; for every one may not be so honourable as yourself, and you must have it somewhere, but you need not doubt me if it is lost, need you?"

"I wish you would not talk of doubting," said Mrs. Lesly, "it makes me feel so uncomfortable; but once again, my dear sister, let me entreat you to have no concealments from your husband, they never lead to good. If you will tell him everything, I promise to lend you the money."

"That is as good as refusing altogether," replied Mrs. Villars, sulkily, "why not say you will not at once, that would be plain and open, but as it is," she added, bursting into tears, "I see you do not care for me."

"Well, dear," said Mrs. Lesly, much pained, "you know I can never bear to see you cry—dry your tears and listen to me. How are we to get the money?"

Mrs. Villars brightened up in an instant.

"Why," said she, "you bank at Coutts's—write me a draft, and I will get it changed in Bath, some how; I can manage it as I did before."

"My money," said Mrs. Lesly, with unusual gravity, "has been reduced for your sake, to a very few hundreds, a mere trifle, but my children!" exclaimed she, suddenly dropping her pen, and clasping her hands convulsively.

"I have promised to be their mother," said Mrs. Villars, "but nonsense, you will live many years yet."

"Do not think of it, do not think of it, my doctor knows my constitution too well to flatter me with such vain hopes. I have been better since you have been here, but that is excitement, and now my head aches so."

She placed her hand upon her forehead, and sank into deep thought.

Mrs. Villars grew impatient; for there was a struggle going on within her, in which her better self was busily engaged; and the worldly woman almost feared the world would lose the victory, while she trembled at the feelings she was exciting.

The whole truth indeed being, that the money she so earnestly solicited, was intended, not to discharge debts already incurred, but to furnish additional display both in dress and housekeeping, during the approaching visit of Colonel Hargrave to Bath, which the worldly mother hoped, till she believed, would end in a marriage between him and her eldest daughter, whose temper was becoming soured, by the failure of repeated matrimonial speculations.

Mr. Villars had found it necessary to lay down a plan of economy for the following year; limiting its proposed expenditure in a manner which little suited the taste or the tactics of his family, and it, therefore, occurred to his imprudent wife, that there would be no harm in forestalling the legacy of a thousand pounds, promised by an invalid aunt, by adding another hundred to the five she had already borrowed upon it, under the impression that any present expenditure would be amply compensated if she succeeded in placing her daughter in possession of Aston, with whose broad lands she was well acquainted, though of the character, disposition, or principles of its owner, she was quite ignorant.

She well knew how to work upon her sister's feelings, already enervated by grief and ill-health, and the narrow views of a selfish woman had often led her to do so; but now, as she regarded the weakness that seemed to implore protection, she felt her powers of dissimulation fast failing before these new thoughts of compunction. After all, she thought she might do without the money, the girls' old dresses were new to Hargrave, and he might be a man of simple habits, and, perhaps, would really be more attracted by white muslin, than crimson velvet—if so, she was perhaps sinning for no purpose—might she not do without the money—she might, but she had never learnt the principle of self-denial, where right and wrong is concerned; and then come second thoughts—why did she wait for them? When temptation is present, the first quick generous impulse is the safest. There is a voice in our hearts which never directs us wrong, let us listen to its least whisper. Why, like the avaricious prophet of old, are we dissatisfied with its first answer—why will we ask, and ask again, till the reply suits, not our conscience, but our desires.

In this case as in many others, Mrs. Villars's second thoughts triumphed. Why should she submit to her husband's pitiful economy—was it not his fault if she were forced to borrow; and she paid, or meant to pay, her sister good interest, which would atone for every thing; and, at the end of the season, no doubt the longed-for marriage would take place; and, even supposing her grateful daughter forgot to share her pin money with her, Mr. Villars could not but applaud her conduct and settle her debt; and, even if not—but she was in no humour for ifs—and a glance from the window at the rich woods which skirted the Aston estate, and a glimpse through the trees at the mansion itself, quite settled the question, and she continued twisting her spills with perfect satisfaction.

Not so Mrs. Lesly, she had seated herself at her desk, indeed, and taken up her pen with a trembling hand; but her eyes were vacantly following her sister's occupation.

"This will never do," thought the worldly woman; yet she was afraid to hurry her.

"I was thinking," said Mrs. Lesly, at length, after continuing in the same attitude of observation, "I was thinking how very strange it was that I never remember our talking about money, but you were making spills all the time."

"Why, you see," said Mrs. Villars, carelessly, "I never thought it worth while to bring my work for the short time I generally stay, and I never like to sit quite idle."

"Yes; but when you stayed with me for a month, it happened then as well," said Mrs. Lesly, in a musing kind of tone.

"It was rather strange, certainly—but more strange that you should remember such trifles," said Mrs. Villars, her face turning rather disagreeably pale.

Poor Mrs. Lesly, fearing she had offended her, took up her pen, and wrote like a frightened child, then quickly handed her the draft.

Mrs. Villars hastily rose and kissed her, and then, taking her pen from her hand, wrote a memorandum of the loan, which Mrs. Lesly placed in her work-basket.

At that moment, Amy ran into the room, crying out—

"Mamma, mamma, I have cut my finger—do please give me a piece of rag, or I shall spoil my dress."

Mrs. Lesly, easily frightened, hurried to her assistance, and, though Amy kept exclaiming that she was only anxious about her dress, hurried her off to a receptacle of old linen, which she kept in preparation for every accident.

Mrs. Villars glanced at the paper she had just written.

"How careless Annie is," thought she. "Yet she seemed suspicious just now about the spills—could she have guessed I tore up the other papers I wrote? No—impossible! It is so awkward to be pressed for money, at all sorts of times, and poor Annie is not long for this world, I see. That Mabel has a sharp eye, and would not be easily deceived. Well, it does not alter the obligation one bit, and what does it signify between sisters. I only do not wish to be hurried."

A clue to these thoughts might be given by her putting out her hand, and drawing the paper to her, amongst the pieces she was tearing up. Where was the voice of conscience then? Alas! for a time, it slept, for she had slighted its first warning.

She tore the paper in two, and then said to herself, "Well, it is done now," rather as if somebody else had done it, and it was no act of her own. Then she slowly twisted bit after bit into spills, laying each with those she had already done, and the last piece had just assumed its taper appearance, when Mrs. Lesly entered the room.

"What did I do with that paper?" said she, after looking on all sides for it, "how careless I am."

"I think," said Mrs. Villars, "you put it in your secretary—you had it open while you were writing."

"Ah, so I must, I suppose," said Mrs. Lesly; but she looked suspiciously at the secretary, she had no remembrance of going there; yet, she had had it open that morning, she knew. Her sister must remember better than she did. She would look presently, she had not quite the resolution to look now; and suffering her characteristic indolence to overcome her prudence, she sank into an arm-chair, and took up her knitting.

At this moment, the chaise, which had been ordered, slowly drove up to the door, and Mabel entered to tell them that luncheon waited them in the sitting-room.

Mrs. Villars started up, full of business and bustle, which she felt to be a welcome relief after the morning's tÊte-À-tÊte, and hurried down stairs. Mabel regarded her mother's pale looks with affectionate anxiety; but there was little time for thought, as Mrs. Villars and her maid kept the house in a perfect ferment for the next five minutes.

Amy stood looking aghast at a very bright carpet-bag, with a kind of travelling scent about it, which she thought grander and newer than anything of the kind she had before seen; and she quite shrank within herself when her aunt kissed her, and blessed her in a tone which made her feel cold; nor was she sorry when she saw her get into the carriage, attended by the bright carpet-bag—and when box after box was moved to the top of the creaking vehicle—and when the vehicle itself moved down the walk, she drew a long breath, as if relieved from some heavy pressure, feeling the place once more quite their own.

Lucy ran to the gate, to open it to let her mamma pass, kissing her hand to her, and stopping to watch till the carriage turned the corner, and was only visible down Amy's point of observation on the wall. She then came back with her cheeks crimson, and putting her arm round Mabel's waist, she whispered—

"Who do you think passed while I was holding the gate?"

"Who?" said Mabel, a little surprised at anything like an apparition in their quiet village, and not yet quite aware of their Bath cousin's usual train of thought. "I cannot guess."

Lucy's cheeks were of a deeper tint, as she whispered—

"Captain Clair."