Mrs. C. J. Newby

It hath done its sacred mission
Sorrow's hand was sent to cure,
Bless it for the bitter anguish
Thou wert called on to endure.

Culver Allen.

"Only one week," thought Maria, "and the house will be cleared of a nuisance; but I must play my cards well for this one week, short as it is, or my game will be lost."

She was standing in the drawing-room as she said this, dangling her bonnet by one string, for she had just come in from their afternoon's walk in the park, and from busy, shopping, fascinating Milsom Street.

"Let me only keep things right for one week," she continued, to herself, "and I have him; but I fear it is but a desperate chance."

She was interrupted in these meditations by a brisk rapping at the street-door, and, very soon afterwards, Mr. Stokes made his appearance, and Maria's quick eye immediately saw signs of a proposal in the carefully arranged morning costume, and the very precise tie of his cravat, though, that the same proposal would not be meant for her, she saw with equal readiness.

His first enquiry was—"Whether it was quite true that Miss Lesly was about to leave them?"

"How tiresome," said Maria, "then I suppose every one knows it; and yet we have been so anxious to keep it private."

Here she looked much vexed.

"What has gone wrong, then?" enquired the Squire.

"Oh, nothing," said Maria, in a tone which implied everything had. "It is true, we are obliged to send her away; but there is no use making a talk about it. It is no business of anybody's, is it?"

"Oh, dear no," said the Squire, nervously.

"I should think one's poor relations might be sent to their native obscurity, without everybody's taking it up," added Maria.

"Yes—but she seems so sweet-tempered. I should have thought her a great acquisition to your family party."

"You do not really mean to say you think so?" said she, looking as if she would say—"I know you are a better judge than that"—"She is sweet in company, I know—but in private she is as haughty as a young duchess—She even finds fault with mamma. She comes of a good family, certainly; but, I fear, she is something like the dregs of the cask, only a little bit turned sour."

Mr. Stokes began whipping his boots, as if greatly annoyed at the dust upon them.

"Oh, dear," said Maria; "let me get you a duster."

She instantly sprang to an old arm-chair, and bringing one from its secret recesses, began dusting his boots, upon her knees, before he had time to prevent her.

"Well," she said, rising, and resuming her seat, and glancing at his large, but well-turned foot, "there is nothing to be ashamed about."

"Really," he said, jocosely, "I ought to feel flattered."

"Well," said Maria, resuming the conversation she had interrupted, "I am thankful I have not a pretty face—it is the fruit of more mischief than enough."

Mr. Stokes gave another stroke to his boots—(there was not a particle of dust remaining on them.)

"Oh, I forgot," said Maria, unlocking her work-box; "I have not given you your last pocket-handkerchief—Is not this beautiful work?"

Mabel had finished it for her.

As she said this, she held it so close to his eyes, that, for gallantry's sake, he was forced to kiss the hand that offered it.

He did so; and Maria gave him a very gentle slap on the cheek, at the same time, bringing her half laughing, half pouting face so near his, that, forgetful of better manners, he gave it a kiss.

Maria only laughed still more, saying—

"Oh, you naughty man—fie, for shame."

The Squire laughed, too, though not so gaily, for he had been turned in a purpose which he hoped would have secured his domestic happiness, so that he soon shook hands with her, and hurried away.

Maria was delighted with the success of her interview, and went about the house in the most evident spirits.

But in the evening came a P. P. C. card from Mr. Stokes; and she learnt that he had started for Gloucestershire.

Maria was so put out with this information, that she could have killed flies, rather than have revenged her injured feelings on nothing; and she eagerly seized the better opportunity of gratifying herself by spiting Mabel.

Every discomfort that she could throw in her way—every allusion before strangers to her destination, as a governess, were eagerly used for her annoyance. If she were out of spirits, she asked some question, which forcibly dragged into sight the worst points of her position—or pitied her in that tone and manner, which has placed pity as akin to contempt.

But, with all this, Mabel contended only with patience and good temper, though she, sometimes thought, that hours of heavy trial were scarcely so difficult to bear, as the perpetual annoyances by which she was surrounded.

Had one discontented word, one passionate or impatient look escaped her, Mrs. Villars would have had a lighter conscience; but, as it was, she would willingly have entreated her to remain, had it not been for Caroline, whose fiery temper so greatly awed her. Alas! unhappy woman, few would envy you. The thought of the orphan's money, procured for past wanton and thoughtless expenditure; dresses, flowers, and finery, which were now only encumbrances; shows and visits, which had answered no purpose—these were but slight compensations for a wounded conscience.

"Only one week," also soliloquised Lucy, as she sat near the old-fashioned window, of the study, and looked out, sadly—"only one week, and Mabel will be gone; and yet nothing I can say can stop this cruel act."

She leant her elbow on the window sill, and supported her head with her hand.

That face, once so light, and fickle, and coquettish, had acquired, now, that modesty and sobriety of expression, which, some think, once lost, is never again recovered.

Her step was more thoughtful, and the light, ringing laugh, once so fickle, and so joyous, but so often heedless and unfeeling, was now seldom or never heard—and in its place, there was a bright look—it could scarcely be called a smile—that seemed to say, she tried to be happy, rather from the fear of giving pain, than, as before, in the buoyancy of an untamed spirit, seeking indulgence for the selfishness of a spoilt, and unchecked fancy. Could it really be Lucy, upon whose lip the unkind word died before the angry flush that preceded its thought had passed from her cheek. Could it be Lucy, who listened with unaffected interest and humility, to the high-toned conversation of her father; or, with girlish playfulness, enticed him to take the walk his health required; and, as he did so, led him where the birds carolled, and the sun shone on green meadows, beside the beautiful Avon—sometimes alone, but often with Mabel—and, when with her, listening, rather than attempting to join in conversation, drawn from the well-stored mind of each. Could this, indeed, be the wild girl whom Mabel had watched with such untiring care, fearing lest the follies of the gay world might again ensnare her, and lead her from peace and hope, back to vanity and heartlessness again. It was, indeed, the same Lucy, though very, very changed, as she sat now by the study window, listening more to the echo of her own thoughts, than to any real sound.

The essence of spring will find an inlet to the heart, if possible—and though the view of the shady little court, on which the window opened, was bounded indeed, the air from the pure sky blew fresh upon her forehead, and seemed to speak of the green fields and budding flowers it had left behind.

Who has not felt, when the opening year is returning to its activity, and when sober autumn, and hoary winter, have given place to their young sister spring, who hastens to sow her seeds, and send forth the buds which are to furnish summer blossoms and fruits, and the harvest time of plenty and rejoicing—a sensation he scarce can comprehend—urging him to activity.

Who is so sluggish as never to have heard an echo in his own bosom, warning him to be up and doing a something, it signifies not what, if good or prudent, in preparation for coming years—to cast off the sloth which has fallen upon him, and, like the budding year, to begin life afresh.

Spring and autumn, summer and winter, flit over our heads, and as they pass to their grave, in the bosom of eternity, leave us their warning; and, though the lesson is too often unheeded, we cannot think but that it will come to all.

As Lucy sat there, the bells from a distant church began to ring, and, sometimes, bursting on her ear, at others, retiring, as if they would lead her fancy with them far, far away, added still deeper emphasis to her thoughts; but she was presently disturbed from them, by the sudden entrance of Captain Clair, who apologised for breaking in upon her solitude, by saying, that Mr. Villars had requested him to find a book there for him.

"And where is papa, then?" said Lucy; "I have been waiting here so long for him."

"He has been walking up and down Pulteney Street with me," said Clair; "and we were talking of something which he wishes to find in this book."

Though he laid his hand upon the volume, with little difficulty, he still lingered. But Lucy said nothing to tempt him to remain.

"Why do you always so carefully avoid me?" he said, at length.

"Because you are like an evil conscience, always bringing up hard things."

"Is there not a way of soothing the remembrance of the past, without banishing it, by repenting, rather than forgetting? and that remedy, I think, you have already tried. We have both erred—let us forgive."

"I have repented," said Lucy; "and I do forgive you; do not think there are any petty jealousies between us. Yet, I must confess, I am not quite pleased with you."

"Why?"

"Because you courted Mabel in prosperity, and forsake her now, when she needs friends, if ever she did. I am so unhappy when I think of losing her."

"I see you have altogether mistaken me," said he, quickly; "your cousin would not accept me, were I again to offer myself. I have such good reasons, indeed, for believing so, that I have felt it my duty to banish every feeling approaching to love, when I think of her. Do me the justice to believe, that, foreseeing such a time as this, as I did when I first proposed to her, it is very unlikely I should draw back now?"

"Yes, it is, indeed," said Lucy; "but I wish it had not been so—I should be so happy if she were not obliged to go away so far, and to spend all her life in teaching."

"I wish, indeed," he replied, "it could be avoided; but you can do nothing, and, therefore, cannot reproach yourself. Only be as kind to her as you can, though, I know, you need no injunction about that."

"No, indeed, not now," said Lucy, with a sigh; "but do not keep that dear papa of mine waiting. He will be ruining himself at the first bookseller's, if you do not go, and take care of him."

Clair smiled, and taking up the book, hurried away; and Lucy went up-stairs, to make another useless effort to persuade Caroline to get their mother to make Mabel stay.

Shortly after she had left the room, Mabel herself entered, and, seeing it unoccupied, took up a book, to wait for her uncle's return.

She had not waited very long, before he returned alone.

Mabel advanced timidly to meet him.

"Dear uncle," she said, "I want you to tell me that you were not offended with me yesterday."

"Offended with you, my poor child," said he, kindly; "far from it. Sad I am, indeed, about many things. I cannot bear the thought that my daughters' unkindness forces you to fly from us."

"Do not blame them, do not think of that, dear uncle, and believe only, how thankful I am that you have already shewn me so much kindness. I do not need consideration as much as I did, for I am quite resigned to all my losses now, and can go into the world and meet it with courage."

"I wish you were not going on Wednesday, either, for I have business which I must attend to that evening, and I should like to have spent it with you."

"Better as it is," said Mabel, smiling faintly, "I could not bear the thought of its being a last evening."

"No, no,—not the last by many times, I hope," said her uncle, "but I shall be up to see you into the coach in the morning, and, perhaps, may go a stage with you. But now I want to ask you how much money you will require for the present?"

"None, I thank you," said Mabel, smiling at the coolness with which he, evidently, hoped to surprise her into taking some.

"You pain me," he said, taking out a well-filled purse. "See, I have been to the bank to replenish my store for you, you will not grieve me, I am sure."

"No, no, dear uncle," said she, putting aside his hand. "I accept your kind offer, but will not take it now. Should I lose my health, or ever be really destitute—should all my bright visions fail, and leave me one among the many who know not where to find their daily bread while every friend shrinks from them—then I will come to you for my purse, but not till then. Nay, you know not how I prize my independence, do not take from me the only bright speck I see at this moment in my future course."

"Noble-hearted girl," he said, looking almost proudly on the bright and beaming face which was turned to him. "Mind, I take that promise, and I shall return this purse to a place of safety, where it shall remain untouched for you. Ah, but I wish you could be with us still, I grieve, beyond expression, over the cause of your departure."

"Oh, no, indeed, it is much better for me, very much better, if you knew all—do not think of it again; when I have got over the pain of parting from you, my kind, good uncle, I shall be very happy I have no doubt."

But her lips trembled as she made this assertion, and, feeling her courage fail, she hastily left the study to spare him the sight of her agitation.