Caroline, however, was perverse, and chose that day to be timid. Indeed, the idea of Mabel's sly rivalry, as she called it, haunted her like a phantom--and she thought it certain, that if one staid behind, it would be she, so that she insisted on choosing the very quietest horse. Maria was already mounted by Mr. Stokes, whose services she had demanded--and Selina was always timid.

Hargrave bit his lip.

"Oh, I am not in the least frightened," said Mabel; "I never am timid."

"But you have not been on horseback so long," suggested Hargrave.

"No--but never mind me."

And before he had time to argue further, she had accepted Mr. Stokes's hand, and sprang lightly to her saddle.

"Well," said Hargrave, "it does not much signify--for I promised the man that I would hold one of his bridles."

Caroline no sooner perceived, that by her wish to disoblige her cousin, she had robbed herself of his constant attention during the ride, than she repented--and saying, that she knew she was very frightened, offered to change places with her--but it was too late--for Mabel, with guileless heart, did not see the hidden motive, and persisted on keeping her horse; and Caroline had nothing to do but to mount her own, and rue her perverseness.

How provoking to see him carefully adjust the reins, and placing one in Mabel's hand, take the other over his arm, looking, as he did it, so manly and handsome. Even Selina's constant smiles provoked her, when she saw her by her side, and knew that even Maria was better off, riding with Mr. Stokes behind, while she looked only like a chaperone to the party.

To Mabel, the feeling that she was again on horseback, afforded exquisite pleasure. The hysterical sensation had pa.s.sed, leaving her only more sensitive to the pleasure which followed it, and her spirits rose with a buoyancy and lightness, which, for many months, had been strangers to her; she did not stop to a.n.a.lyse the various causes which contributed to her light-heartedness, while the air she breathed--the n.o.ble animal she rode--the blue sky--and the sparkling sun-light--everything around her seemed to reflect the gladdened likeness of her own thoughts. She seemed again the light-hearted being, whose gay smile and merry laugh had carried joy wherever they went--before clouds of sadness and trial had darkened her life's dream of happiness.

The veil which had been thrown over her beauty by the withering hand of grief, was, for awhile, withdrawn, and her eyes sparkled with dazzling brilliancy, brighter, far brighter, even than in days gone by, as she turned them on her companion, who was riding by her side in embarra.s.sed silence, watching the fiery eye, or impatient toss of her steed, to which she seemed indifferent.

They had now left the town behind them, wrapped in its shadowy mist, and had entered on the country so peculiarly beautiful, in its vicinity.

"And is it to you that I owe this exquisite treat?" she enquired, checking the rapid canter into which they had broken, on perceiving how really apprehensive he appeared.

"I believe you owe it more to yourself," he replied, shaking off his embarra.s.sed air; "since they all declared you would not wear that old hat."

"Then I owe it to your superior discrimination, that you knew I did not care for such a trifle, in comparison with a ride. It reminds me of old, happy old times--and I feel like a new being."

"Ah, I used, in my old days of lofty aspiration, to look on good temper as the virtue of second rate characters, and I believed that great minds must be fickle and changeable."

"And if you have altered your opinion, why do you not practise your new doctrine?" she said, archly.

"You allude to my getting out of temper at dinner on Sat.u.r.day; but then you must own I instantly recovered myself."

"I do not mean then only; but I often see the flash which denotes the inward storm, though no thunder follows."

"What, am I to sit unmoved, and hear the best motives misjudged--self-devotion ridiculed--the mourner made to feel all the bitterness of grief--and the orphan without a friend?"

"If you speak of me," replied his companion, with a gay smile, "do not forget that I have some friends left still; but if I had none, no champion of mine should use the weapons I would not wield myself; and, remember, I can change my position when I like."

"How?"

"By changing dependence, if it be so--but I do not like to call it that--for independence."

And she leant forward, and patted her horse's impatient head, with a look of childish unconcern.

"Then how can you remain here if you have the power to leave?"

"You will think me vain if I tell you," she said, carefully smoothing back the mane, which would get on the wrong side.

"No, no--tell me why? for you make me curious."

"Well, then--I hoped Lucy had some real affection for me--and I thought I might influence her, as I hope I have done--and I was deeply interested in my uncle--for he has been so kind to me--and I like him so much. Besides, had I any right, without good cause, to cast off my aunt's protection, since it was a pledge which she had given to my dear mother. No, I should have had no right to do that, at first--and I could not, had I wished to do it--for I had not spirit then to leave the refuge of the lowest hovel, had it given me shelter. There were many discomforts here, which were yet preferable to being so entirely unprotected, as I soon shall be--we women shrink from the idea of being our own protectors. But I cannot stay much longer where I am unwelcome--a few more thoughts for Lucy--a few more efforts to make them all love me, and then I think I shall go."

"But where will you go?"

"Oh, I have thought of that. There is a school friend of mine--a very dear friend, too, though I have not seen her for many years--she is now, poor thing, a widow--and, young as she is, has a family of six children, almost unprovided for, while she herself is in weak health. Now, I am thinking of offering to go, and live with her, and take charge of her children's education; for, you must know, that my aunt has more than six hundred pounds, which belong to me, the interest of which will furnish all I need, and enable me to do without a salary."

"Your aunt has your money, you say--how is that?"

"Why, mamma lent it to her, at different times, when she so warmly promised a home for us; but then, unfortunately, my dear mamma lost the written promise to repay it, which she had for the money; but then, that makes no difference between relations--a debt of honor must be binding; only I am uncomfortable about asking for the money, as my aunt would find it difficult to get such a large sum, I fear. And this is another reason which has kept me so pa.s.sive."

"You were not once so unsuspicious," said Hargrave, "as to think a debt of honor as good as a security."

"No; but then I had those to care for who made me feel as cautious as a man. Once more, I am a weak woman. But what do you think of my plan?"

"I think it a very good one, if you can get your money, but private security is always bad, and you have not even that. Do you consider to what a life you are dooming yourself."

"Not so bad as thousands, for, remember, I shall confer, as well as receive a benefit, for my friend cannot afford a governess, and is too unwell to educate her children herself. So I shall place her under a slight obligation."

"And doom yourself to a life of drudgery."

"Be quiet," said she, raising her whip playfully, "you ought to inspirit, and not discourage me--you should speak of the advantages of such a situation, of the influence it affords--of, in short, any thing but what you are talking of."

"You are a strange girl, Mabel," he said, looking steadily down upon her glowing face, "were I you, I should be rebelling, proud, or grovelling in despair."

"I am afraid you might."

"Why do you think so," he returned, in a tone of pique; "have you charity for all, and none for me?"

"Because," said she, almost sadly, "I should be so, if, like you, I trusted solely to my own strength."

He was silent for a few minutes, and then he said, thoughtfully.

"I am afraid there is no one like you."

"Yes, thousands, who have shewn in the world far more brilliant examples of the truth of what I believe, who have died unheeded and unrewarded on earth."

They were here interrupted by Caroline, who trotted up to them, leaving poor Selina by herself.

"I wish," she said to Mabel, "you would let me have a canter on that horse; mine is such a stupid animal."

Mabel looked puzzled.

"How dull you are," said Caroline, in a voice which she believed only reached her ear. "Cannot you see that Henry wanted a _tete-a-tete_ with me; did he not say as much, though I was not going to let him have me whenever he liked."

"Yes, that was true," thought Mabel, "he had said he meant the horse for her, and for how long after had he been sad and thoughtful." She felt a choking sensation of pain, "had she then so thoughtlessly been keeping them asunder, while she only talked of her own affairs. Were not these almost the only kind words he had addressed to her, since she had entered the house--how wrong she had been to prize them so highly." As these quick thoughts pa.s.sed through her mind, withering as they did the effects of the glad sunshine which had preceded them, she turned her eyes timidly and almost apologetically to Hargrave. There was a look of deep seated annoyance on his face. "Ah, he thinks I shall still refuse to take the hint"--she thought--and laying her hand lightly on the pommel, she quickly disengaged herself from the saddle, and jumped down before Hargrave had time to prevent her.