"Well, and has he never been home since then?" enquired Caroline.

"Yes," replied Hargrave, "he returned about twenty years ago to take possession of a large property in Northumberland, which he inherited by the death of his elder brother--but after converting all that could be alienated into ready money, he let his house and land to a friend, upon whose charity to his poorer tenants, he could fully rely, and did so, at a rent sufficiently low to enable him to expend what otherwise might have come direct to him, in useful improvements. It was during his stay at Aston, with my father, that I first saw a little of him; but I cannot say I knew him till we met as strangers, a short time ago, in India, where I found him devoting his wealth to the advancement of Christianity."

When he reached the last word, he uttered it in so incoherent a tone, that it seemed as if he had some difficulty in p.r.o.nouncing it; and, as soon as dinner was concluded, he retreated to his room, in one of those moods, when, by common consent, they always left him to himself. He did not make his appearance again that evening; and when Caroline retired for the night, her chamber being above his, she could still hear the hasty tread up and down his room, which varied the dull silence which ever now and then preceded it; and next morning, when she woke, the first sound that greeted her ears, was the same hasty tread, resumed with the dawning light.

It was Sunday, and knowing that Hargrave would most likely absent himself, as usual, for the whole day, she resisted her disposition to take another nap, and got up, anxious not to lose the chance of seeing him, and, perhaps, having a _tete-a-tete_ before breakfast.

Of all the days in the week, Sunday, in that house, was the least comfortable, particularly at breakfast time.

Every one was late, and never came down at any particular time--and somebody was sure to have a cold, and require breakfast sent up-stairs--joined, too, to all this, was the stiffness originating in the feeling that they were in Sunday costume, composed of dresses which required a great deal of care to be taken of them.

Caroline often secured to herself the pleasure of giving Hargrave a cup of tea before the others made their appearance; and Mabel, having, unluckily, made her _entree_, one morning, at what she deemed so inopportune a period, avoided being early ever afterwards.

Caroline, having, this morning, been fortunate enough to secure her position, made a rather ostentatious display of her care for his comfort.

"There," she said, when he came in, "I have made you some toast--and your tea is quite ready--no, I mean your chocolate--for you must try that this morning--it is best quite hot--so I have got it in this little pot by the fire, for, see, I have been making it myself."

"Thank you," said Hargrave, in a sufficiently discouraging tone, as he accepted her services.

"You are a naughty boy," she returned; "you never say anything more than that sulky thank you."

"Because I am really sorry to give you so much trouble," said he, sincerely; "I am so accustomed to wait on myself, that--"

"Say no more, you sulky creature," cried she, with one of her blandest smiles; "'virtue is its own reward'--so I will give you your chocolate without any thanks. But I wish you would not go away to-day--do come with us to the Octagon?"

"No, thank you--I am engaged."

"Why, you are as punctual to your engagements, as if you were courting some country la.s.s, in your Sunday's best. I am afraid you are doing no good. You are not going, I hope, to act the play of the lowly lady over again?"

"What was that?"

"Why, do you not remember the story of the young lord, pretending to be a country-man, or artist, or something of that kind, and so marrying a young lady--no, not a lady, a poor girl, I mean--and never telling her till he took her home to his grand house?"

"Oh, yes, I do, now you speak of it. Not a bad idea, upon my word--it would be something novel to be certain of exciting a disinterested affection."

Caroline's cheeks tingled--she had never got him so near the subject before.

"Are you one of the sceptics on that point, then?" she enquired.

"No--yes--well, I really do not know--but I am, at times, puzzled to think what makes women marry sometimes so badly, and often with so little consideration."

"Oftener for love than you suppose," said she, leaning over his shoulder, to put a tempting white nub of sugar in his chocolate, suspending it awhile as she held it.

"Perhaps so," he replied, attacking his plate of ham, which she had been thinly slicing for him, with very good appet.i.te.

"I suppose," said she, "having Aston Manor, and its goodly acres, tacked to your other accomplishments, makes you suspicious?"

"Not unjustly so--no--no--I would soon contrive some test by which to try the woman I admired, if I doubted her. Thank you, no more chocolate, I am going."

So saying, he rose, and drew on his gloves, and wished her good morning--leaving her in a pleasing reverie.

"Ha, master Henry," she observed to herself; "you are not so deep, but you let out a secret, now and then. So you are testing me, are you--I understand."

As she indulged these thoughts, one by one of the breakfast party strolled in, and conversation was soon briskly engaged in on the bonnets, shawls, and gloves, which they intended wearing, interspersed by some hints from Caroline, on the agreeable nature of her morning's _tete-a-tete_. Before the meal was fully concluded, the bells from the different churches began to ring, but, somehow, they were not in harmony with the voices of the little party, as, one after another, they took up the same solemn tune, in different notes, all speaking the same language, but in such harsh tones, it seemed as if the sisters disliked them, for they rose up hastily, and hurried off to dress for church.

Neither did those bells seem to speak less harshly, when they intruded their voices into the quiet study; yet there was a sadness, too, about them, when they found Mr. Villars seated there, at his table, surrounded by books and papers--his inkstand, and letter-drawer, and sc.r.a.ps of his book--and wearing his dusty coat--and as his pen ran rapidly and unceasingly across and across the paper, they seemed to whisper, still in sadder, sadder tones--

"No man can do seven days' work."

Perhaps he heard that whisper, for he stopped, and listened, and laid his hand uneasily upon his aching brow; and when he went on again, trying to shut out their voices, something darker and darker stole upon his mind, and he stopped and listened again to the same sad tones--sadder, sadder still--as he heeded them more and more.

But merrily, merrily, merrily over the hills and green meadows--up from the busy town, and borne upon the rippling waters of the Avon, came those bells--when Mabel sat at her garret window, and looked out upon the small peep of blue sky, which was not shut out by the dark walls and tall chimney pots, which surrounded her--and as they fell upon her ear, they whispered--"We are glad sounds to those who listen for us as you do"--But back with those bells had her thoughts gone to the student, in his silent room--and the expression of her face grew more and more sad.

"I cannot leave him there," she said, to herself; "but what can I say to him? Oh, is there not enough. I will tell him how he is wasting himself week after week without rest. I will tell him, that knowledge so acquired is like the manna of the wilderness, which only turned to corruption, when gathered on the Sabbath. Yes, surely he will listen to me, for truth is so plain--I will go now."

The light of enthusiastic fervour brightened her saddened countenance--and once again stopping to take sweet counsel with the bells--she left her room full of strong resolve. But when she reached the study door, and laid her hand upon its lock, she paused, tremblingly. Often had she come before, on the same errand, and as often had retired, unheard, and disappointed at her own timidity. Now, her beautiful cheek flushed, and her heart beat so loudly, that she laid her hand upon it to still its beating; yet trembling, throbbing, uneasy, as was that heart, it was true to its purpose still.

She had sat in her garret room for more than an hour that morning, thinking of what she should say--she had listened to the Sabbath bells, as one after another they took up the same hallowed tone--and still she had found no words strong enough and meek enough to speak to him. Yet had she come.

Mr. Villars raised his head, as she entered, and, after a quick greeting, went on with his writing. Across and across the paper went the unwearying hand. She stood at the other side of the table, hoping he would look up and say something--but he still continued writing.

On went the bells--from the venerable and gray stoned Abbey belfry--from the good, old-fashioned, little church of Walcot--and, far as the ear could reach, from the ivy-covered tower on the hill--on they went--and Mr. Villars continued writing--and Mabel stood irresolute, for all her eloquence was gone; but, at length, she stammered forth--

"Uncle, will you come to church?"

He looked up--her very soul was in those few words--and in the tearful eyes which seconded her request.

On went the bells.

He laid down his pen, and looked at her--but her eyes were fixed upon the ground.

"Who is going?" he said, at length, looking more fixedly.

"Lucy and I."

"Very well then, make haste and put on your bonnet, for I hear the bells."

He did hear them indeed, for what a clatter they made, one after another, as if they _would_ be heard.

Mabel ran away all joyousness--very soon she had her bonnet on, for that took little time, and then she was down with Lucy--getting her shawl, and finding her lost gloves, and her prayer-book, and then, all pleasant bustle, as if she feared he would change his mind, down again to her uncle's study, ready with the soft brush to smooth his sleek hat.

And then they were in the street, and taking their way, not to any of the fashionable places of worship, but down the shady part of the old town to a little church which seemed to hide itself from view, so small that the imagination could scarcely wander round its walls, from the voice of the venerable preacher, whose simple but well chosen language brought conviction with it. There too, the white-haired, aged clerk, in his stiff quaint reading desk, and the twelve old pensioners, nearly as old as himself. And then so few to listen they could not choose but hear.

Mabel felt tremblingly happy, for she had succeeded in her desire to get her uncle to break his bad habit of remaining shut up on a Sunday. She saw, too, that he was happier, as they walked home together, though he often looked, when he met any one he knew, as if he had been committing some crime. But however that might be, he himself proposed going in the evening, and gladly did she consent, and when they walked home again through the lighted streets, talking of what they had heard, alone, for Lucy was too delicate to venture in the evening air, she felt happy indeed. And when they reached home again no one was more ready to join in the conversation over the bright fire where the sisters sat, glad to welcome Hargrave back from his mysterious absence. And Mr. Villars too, as he went to bed that night, could scarcely understand why he felt such pleasant fatigue, not that fatigue which makes the very heart ache, and keep the eyes awake with uneasy watchfulness, but which closes them in light repose, and bids them open again in cheerful, buoyant hope to the light of day.

For many a long week, indeed, he had not welcomed Monday morning so pleasantly. The sun shone so brightly that the spendthrift might almost have been excused for being guided by the presence of the ill-fated swallow. The Spring air was light and warm, and the rich, pink blossom of the almond supplied the place of leaves and flowers.

Colonel Hargrave was as gay as the sunshine, as he stood joking with the little party lingering over the breakfast table.