F. Butler.

The next day was unusually warm. Heavy clouds had been slowly rising up from behind the hills all the morning, till they covered the whole sky, and frowned darkly down upon the gay city—and the air was hushed with heavy silence. Mrs. Villars and her daughters were sitting in the drawing-room, at work; and Colonel Hargrave sat at a side table, near the window, touching up a sketch, which he had that morning finished, of the venerable abbey. Mr. Villars, too, walked into the room, for people love to be together when a storm is coming. He took up the paper, and sat down. Lucy looked fondly at him from her work—and then walked to the window to look at Hargrave's drawing, and to whisper him to come away, in case it lightened—for, between them, a friendship had sprung newly up—she had thanked him for all that had before offended her, and he was always ready with some little act, which shewed he felt a kindness for her.

He told her he was finishing his sketch for her album—and she thanked him frankly, and not with the blush, as formerly, which is as often the tell-tale of a sinful, as of an innocent heart, and reminded him that he had promised her some lines for her album, as well, and she would go and fetch it.

"Well," said he, when she returned with it; "bring me a pen, for I have just made an impromptu."

She brought him a large goose quill, and, after carefully mending it, he wrote as the sky grew blacker and blacker, the following lines:—

"There," he said, passing her back the book, "now I will finish the sketch; but," he added, under his breath, "do go and look for Mabel, the storm is coming up so fast—I hope she is not out."

"No, she is in her room I dare say, but I will go and find her if I can."

So saying, Lucy left the room, bearing the album with her, to read the lines to Mabel.

As soon as she was gone, Mrs. Villars looked up from her work and said to Hargrave—

"I want your advice, Henry, on a little matter."

"I shall be most happy to give it," he said, gaily, still intent upon his drawing.

"Well, then, do you not think the most prudent thing we could do for Mabel would be to get her a nice place as a governess?"

"Really," replied he, shrugging his shoulders, "really, that is a matter which must so very much depend upon yourself, that I must be excused giving an opinion."

Caroline remarked, with pleasure, that he did not seem surprised.

"But Henry," continued Mrs. Villars, "as a friend of our family, do you not think that, the kindest and best thing that can be done for her?"

"It shall not be," said Mr. Villars, laying down his paper, "with my consent."

"Yes, but Henry," she said, still speaking to him, "do you not see what an artful flirt she is, and how injurious she is likely to prove to my daughters."

Hargrave only gave another doubtful shrug.

"And see," she continued, "how useful she has contrived to make herself to Mr. Villars."

"No, no," said Mr. Villars, speaking entirely to his wife, "she has been so disinterested that far from trying to ingratiate herself, only, she has made Lucy my constant companion, and so quietly has she withdrawn from my notice, that I could now very probably part with her, without any loss of comfort; but Caroline, you cannot imagine the misery and horror from which she has saved me."

He stopped, and then continued in a more agitated tone of voice—

"I have studied the history of the human mind too deeply, to be mistaken in myself, and I am convinced that, e'er this, mine would have sunk into that ruin which has wrecked many a better and wiser man than myself. There was inertness in my ideas, sameness in my thoughts, a sense of causeless misery and perpetual fear; all fatal signs of that derangement, which the worst and the best shrink from with terror, as something too dreadfully vague for contemplation. What I might have been now, had I not received, as it were, a fresh impetus from that angelic girl, I tremble to think; for what I am, I feel grateful to her as the second cause." Here he bowed reverently, as if a holier name mingled with his silent aspirations, and as he did so, the first flash of the thunder storm played round his head, and gave almost majesty to his words—at the same time that the side door, behind him, leading from the best drawing-room, opened, and Mabel glided in and stood by his side. Her manner was perfectly collected, but there was a deep red spot upon each cheek, and her eye glistened, as she cast it round the room.

"You have been listening," said Caroline, when she had recovered from the sudden effect of her entrance.

Mabel turned directly to her, and replied—

"I went into the drawing-room to read and watch the storm—a few minutes since I heard my own name mentioned, and, while I hesitated whether I should come here at once, I have heard what has deeply gratified me. To you, dear sir," she said, turning to her uncle, "I owe very much—very much kindness and support I have received from you; I will not repay it by being the cause of discord in your family, for one moment longer than I can help—nay," she said, placing her hand fondly in his, "do not say any thing; you can offer me a home I know, but not a welcome—that you cannot command." Then, looking to her aunt, she continued, "it was at your express desire, ma'am, that I came here—not only your desire, but your entreaty—but do not think I meant always to encroach upon your kindness. This will convince you, that I did not." Here she handed her an open letter. "And now I must solicit the favor of a few moments alone with you."

Mrs. Villars turned pale, but immediately rose, and Mabel, gently pressing her uncle's hand, followed her from the room.

As she had stood there, her indignant face turned upon them all, the lightning had flashed about her unquailing form, and when she was gone they were all silent, as if her presence had awed them still.

"What do you want with me?" said her aunt, when she had closed the door of the breakfast room, behind them.

"Will you have the kindness first to read that letter?"

"Well, I see from it that your friend—let me see where does she live?—Oh, yes, I see, at Stratford—romantic place certainly, Shakespeare and all that—well, she says she will be happy to receive you—eh?"

"Yes," replied Mabel; "she was an old friend of mine, and not being well off, or in good health, I have offered to educate her children for nothing."

Mrs. Villars opened her eyes.

"Thus you see, aunt, I shall be able to do very well; for my little fortune, small as it is, will keep me in dress."

Mrs. Villars smiled kindly, saying, that though Mabel had not been perfectly candid, still she rejoiced to hear that she had not been left without resources, as she had imagined.

This speech was spoken so smoothly, that Mabel was puzzled.

"Surely aunt there was nothing left for me to tell—the only money I have, is in your hands, and when you can conveniently let me have it, or part of it, I shall carry my plan into execution."

"There must be some mistake in this, my dear. I have no money of yours, except the half sovereign you kindly lent me the other morning. What do you mean?"

She was astonished; but she answered quickly, though respectfully—

"I am speaking of the six hundred pounds my mamma lent you, from time to time; and which you promised to keep safely for me."

"I promised, my dear," said Mrs. Villars, with well feigned astonishment. "I never said or thought of such a thing; but I will tell you how this mistake arose. I did borrow the sums you mention, from time to time, as you say, and you may remember, when your poor dear mother and I met last." The lightning flashed in her eyes, and she covered them with her hands; but the rain had begun to patter against the window, and the thunder rolled, at longer intervals; as the storm abated, she became bolder, and continued—"Well, at that time, we were very long alone, as, perhaps, you remember. Then she said to me—I remember the very words, and where she was sitting, poor thing—'Caroline,' she said, 'I never had the courage to tell you, that I have often vexed so deeply, to think that, when I married, I accepted a larger portion from our father's generosity than he gave you; and I shall never die happy till I have made it up to you—in order to do that, I shall cancel all your obligations to me, and give you a hundred more to-day.' I begged her to think of her children, and the answer she made was remarkable. 'I would rather leave them honesty than money.' It was so like her, poor thing."

Here she put her handkerchief to her eyes, while Mabel watched her with mingled pity, contempt, and indignation.

"Well, my dear, she went to her old secretary—you remember it, I am sure."—Of course she did, a thousand remembrances clung to every old-fashioned article of that dear home; but duplicity and cunning were before her, and she was too shocked to think of them now—"From that secretary," continued her aunt, "she took a bundle of papers. I saw my own writing, at once, and knew them to be the securities, that is, the written promises I had given her for the money. I stretched out my hand to take them, but she put it back, while she threw the papers in the fire."

"There was no fire," said Mabel, as if thinking aloud.

"No, you are right," said Mrs. Villars, colouring violently, for, from that moment, she saw she was suspected. "I meant to say she burnt them at the taper I had lighted to seal a letter. And now, you see, there has been a little mistake, which I am sorry for; had you spoken before, it might have been avoided; but, perhaps, you divined what is really the case, that if I wished to give you the money, I have not got it by me; and, therefore, I must take advantage of my poor dear sister's generosity."

Mabel did not, for an instant, doubt her aunt's falsehood; but, immediately remembered that she had nothing to plead but her own assertion of her mother's words, unsupported by any evidence. On such proofs, to obtain her money, appeared at once, to be impossible, and no other reason would have led her to expose a relation, to the charge of the meanest subterfuge and falsehood; but, though she said nothing, her whole soul was in her face, and Mrs. Villars writhed under its expression. Hoping to arrange a compromise on good terms, she handed her five sovereigns, saying—

"There, my dear, ask me for more when you want it."

"Thank you," said Mabel, pushing back the money, "I have sufficient for my present wants; but, as I shall be obliged to find a different situation from this," she added, taking up the letter, "I shall be glad if you will allow me to remain here a little while longer."

"Certainly, my dear, certainly; and I should be glad if you could remain here altogether—that is, if you would not make yourself obnoxious to Caroline—that is, if you would not be quite so independent."

"I have done nothing to offend either of my cousins," said Mabel, her bosom heaving with emotion. "I have not deserved the treatment I have received, either at their hands, or yours, and you know I have not."

"If this is all the return your sainted pretensions can make," said her aunt, chafing herself into a passion, "for all my kindness to you—if you have not one word of thanks to offer me, you are but a poor companion for my daughters. I must make an example of you, and, therefore, I leave you to yourself. I care not what becomes of you. Go," she screamed, with shrill violence, as she herself advanced to the door, and, as if either satisfied or ashamed, burst from the room, as if it were contaminated.

Mabel covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears; indignation and a sense of desolation, struggled within her, and sob after sob burst from her, with a violence which, though natural to her temper, was usually suppressed entirely.

Suddenly she heard a step, and, before she could recover herself, Mr. Morley stood before her, coming as he did, in his customary shadowy manner.

"Why do you weep," he said, in a tone of severity.

"I have quarrelled with my aunt."

"Well?"

"And I wish to leave this house as soon as I can."

"Have you done wrong?"

"No."

"Then what have you to fear?"

"Myself, for I am deeply agitated."

"What, you fear that you cannot forgive. Rise, Mabel, and face the storm, not of worldly trouble, but of your own passions, drive them back; do not sit down and weep over them as one who has chosen no other trust than her own, weak, defenceless heart. There are more eyes upon you than you imagine—the weak to find confidence, and the fool and the scoffer, to find jest and scorn. And, besides, what are you called upon to do—to leave a house where dependence would grind your spirit, or envy calumniate, and make you seem vile in the eyes of others.

"And what have you to endure? A few years of honest labour, re-paid by the wide spreading opportunity of sowing the seeds of virtue in the hearts of many, who, in years to come, may bless you for the happiness which the stability of their first principles has cast upon their households—which may again send forth fresh seeds of virtue to new generations, disseminating to children's children the thoughts and principles which were first inculcated by you. Is not this influence enough for you, though you yourself may live and die unheeded, and soon forgotten—your better part will live in others. I do not speak to you," continued Mr. Morley, as with one hand extended, he seemed rather to address an assembly, "as valuing such paltry things as wealth, or praise, or idle ease, but because you are, for a moment, forgetting what you do value—for these are times when temptations take us unawares, and, in a weak moment, have the power to surprise us, and I tell you again, Mabel Lesly, that the wicked and the wavering watch your movements for derision or guidance."

Strong medicines should be given to strong minds. Mabel's fears, and sorrow, and indignation, vanished, before he had ceased speaking.

"Thank you," said she, ardently, "the staff that can prop up the falling indeed deserves thanks, and I am grateful that you have come between me and weak and wicked thoughts. But do go further, and give me some advice—I will go any where, happily, only I cannot remain here."

"Well," said he, slightly relaxing his exalted tone, to one more suited to common life, "we will see what can be done."

Here he drew the last edition of the Times from his pocket, and glanced down the advertisements, with rapid attention.

"There is nothing here," he said, at length, "nothing wanted, but a companion for an old lady, any one else will do for that, and you might stagnate in such a position. I will go out amongst my friends, and enquire for you."

"Something immediate," said she, earnestly.

Mr. Morley frowned.

"You are impatient of enduring a few days of discomfort, how can you meet a life of labour?"

"That would be ease to my present position."

"Pride, pride, will that ever be uppermost? But do not fear me, I always finish one thing at a time, so that I shall not be long about my business. Let me see; what is the list of your acquirements—sound English education, music, singing, French, a little German, a little Italian, and a little Latin. Umph! I think that will do—good-bye."

So saying, he glided from the room, with noiseless tread.

Mabel retired soon after to her own room, where she employed herself till dinner time, in writing letters to many of her friends, and particularly to her old school-fellow, expressing her regret at not being able to go to her, as she had hoped, without a salary—finding it necessary to maintain herself entirely.

This occupation did much to restore her self-possession, by the time when it was necessary for her to appear at dinner. But there was so much restraint thrown over the little party, by the remembrance of the scene of the afternoon, that the usually social meal passed in dulness and silence; when, however, they all went to the drawing-room, to amuse themselves for the evening, the spirits of the sisters rose, even to more oppressive gaiety—though Lucy sat apart from them in silence, perplexed and troubled.

Caroline had seated herself near the window, in order that she might display, with greater advantage, a portfolio of her own drawings, to Hargrave. They were very neatly executed, and the copy was as like the original as might be, yet Mabel could scarcely think them worth the high encomiums which he bestowed upon them, while Caroline blushed and evaded his compliments, though evidently gratified all the while, and willing to receive as many more as he chose to cater for her.

"I wish," thought Mabel, "that they would not laugh quite so loud, my spirits are out of tune to-night."

Just then she heard Caroline whisper something to Hargrave, as she leant forward, over the little table which parted them, so far, that a curl of her silken hair touched his cheek. Her sensitive ear caught the word, "governess," slightingly spoken, while Hargrave only replied by a shrug, and a slight elevation of his eyebrows; and when Caroline whispered something, with a still more provoking expression, he actually laughed aloud.

Mabel was conscious that she was turning giddy, and she rose with the intention of leaving the room, when the door opened, and Mr. Morley beckoned her to come to him.

"Have you thought it over," he said, when she came to him, in the passage.

"Oh, yes," she replied eagerly; "and I have written to several friends."

"Right, never depend on any but yourself. As it happens, however, I have heard of something. Put on your bonnet, and come out with me."

Without remaining to ask any questions, she did as he desired, and was soon walking by his side, along the lighted streets.

"Not very pleasant, there, eh?" he enquired, elevating his eyebrows, to designate the house they had left.

"Not very," she answered, in a low, half choked voice, and they said nothing more till they reached the White Lion Hotel. Then, when they heard the hum of its business within, Mr. Morley suddenly stopped, and enquired if she were frightened.

"I might have been, yesterday," was the reply; "but, to-night, I feel nothing so much as the anxiety to be free."

"Free," muttered he; "free; that is a word for men; the more our intellectual range is unfettered, the freer we are to pursue unbeaten tracts of usefulness the better; but free is a dangerous word on the lips of a woman."

"You mistake me, sir," she said, blushing; "I did not mean free from constraint, for that I must meet with in the situation I am trying to obtain; but, indeed, it is very hard to stay where I am, neither useful nor welcome. If this be wrong, excuse me, to-night, for my feelings have been sadly tried."

"Excuse," he said, severely; "that is a word which has been fertile in wrong. Excuse—excuse," he continued to mutter till they had entered the hotel, where he enquired, rather fiercely, for Mrs. Noble, and they were soon ushered into the apartment, where the lady, he enquired for was sitting. She was a stout, heavy, weighty looking person, with a sallow complexion, a pair of small, dead black eyes, and hair of the same dull, heavy hue, shading a forehead of no ordinary expanse; and her countenance gave an idea of cumbrous intellect. She was seated in an easy attitude, from which she did not care to move, by the dinner-table, on which lay some early strawberries.

"This is Miss Lesly," said Mr. Morley, whose manner was still ruffled.

Mrs. Noble acknowledged the introduction by a heavy bend—and a still heavier stare, while she slowly begged them to be seated.

"Mr. Morley has, no doubt, been kind enough," she observed, at length, turning to Mabel, "to explain the nature of the situation I have to offer, and I conclude you feel inclined, and able to undertake it."

"No, indeed," said Mr. Morley; "I have done nothing of the kind."

"Then I must explain that I have eight children under fourteen, whom you would have to instruct. You can, I believe, undertake French, Latin, German, and the ordinary branches of a sound English education, together with music?"

"I think I could, with children of that age, and if you would let me try, as I have no other interest now, I could devote myself entirely to them."

"I do not offer more than thirty pounds a year."

"It will be quite sufficient for me," replied Mabel.

"The weather is warm," returned Mrs. Noble, after a long silence, which she suffered without the slightest appearance of impatience; "You had better take off your bonnet and shawl."

Mabel hesitated, but Mr. Morley interposed.

"Take them off; she wants to see what you look like."

"You are quick," said Mrs. Noble, laughing, drowsily.

Mabel instantly laid aside her heavy crape wrappings, with a blush and half a smile, as she stood as gracefully erect, as if for the artist's hand to sketch.

Mrs. Noble fixed her small gimlet eyes upon her face, as if she would have read every sign which might be found there. Beauty rested in every line of her fair features—yet, few would stop to call her beautiful, even when asleep. Candid, intellectual, gentle, affectionate, high-minded, pure—any thing but beautiful. And nothing gained more upon the confidence of others, than the confiding way she seemed to have, as if she could not help believing that all were as truthful and true hearted as she was herself.

"Good," said Mrs. Noble, "good, if I read that book right—I care not how soon my children learn it by heart."

Mabel looked up, and light played in her eyes, and danced about her countenance. It is so pleasant to be trusted when we mean to be trustworthy.

"One thing I have forgotten to mention," observed the lady, after another long pause, which she sustained with as much composure as before. "One of my little girls is a great invalid—indeed, is unable to walk, and I must stipulate for something more than common kindness to her."

"I had a little sister, who could not rise in her bed," was the affectionate reply, and while her eyes moistened, the mother's filled with tears.

"And when may I come to you?" enquired Mabel, a little eagerly.

"I must make some little arrangements for you," replied Mrs. Noble, "otherwise I would take you with me; but you may come to me this day week, and you will then join me at Weymouth. You must come by the coach, and a servant shall be waiting to meet you, and bring you to me. Did Mr. Morley tell you that I wished you to accompany me, in a few weeks, to the south of France?"

"No, ma'am; but I shall be most ready to go there."

Perceiving that there was no more to be said, Mabel put on her bonnet, and, with Mr. Morley, wished her good evening.

"Well," said her companion, when they were again in the street, "you have to fight the battle of life under new circumstances, that is all."

"Yes, that is all," said Mabel, cheerfully, "and with many thanks for the helping hand you have given me."

"I fear you will not be sufficiently tried to bring out the whole strength of your moral character, which I wish, for your sake, to see developed. She half loves you already."

"I wish that were true," said Mabel, laughing. "I am not sufficiently heroic to object to anything so pleasant as that. I should be quite miserable if I could get no one to love me."

"For shame!" said Mr. Morley, turning sternly upon her. "Is it not sufficient pleasure to feel that you are doing your duty."

"Sufficient to make me do it, perhaps; but still, there is something so pleasant in being loved by those about us, that I would not willingly place myself in a position where it was impossible, unless called upon by some imperative duty."

"Earth—earth—earth," said Mr. Morley, stopping at the door in Sydney Place, "clinging every where—mixing with every thing."

"Oh, do not be angry with me," said Mabel, "for such a little fault."

"Oh, earth, earth," he repeated, even when the door opened, "your spirit is every where." And turning away, spite of everything she said, he went off down the street, repeating still between his teeth—"Earth—earth—earth."