"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that far from trying to ingratiate herself, only, she has made Lucy my constant companion, and so quietly has she withdrawn from my notice, that I could now very probably part with her, without any loss of comfort; but Caroline, you cannot imagine the misery and horror from which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 a.s.sertion 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 pa.s.sion, "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."