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 friendship 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 assume those of the bear.

One great difficulty consisted in dragging him to the balls 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 balls, or the morning concerts in the Pump room, the fashionable 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 passed 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 assumed 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-fashioned 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 companionship, 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 pass 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 assistance, 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 crape 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.

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 gratitude.

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.