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 pa.s.sed 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 h.o.a.ry 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 pa.s.s 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 dest.i.tute--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."

"n.o.ble-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 a.s.sertion, and, feeling her courage fail, she hastily left the study to spare him the sight of her agitation.

CHAPTER VIII.

Love took up the gla.s.s of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might, Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pa.s.s'd in music out of sight.

LOCKSLEY HALL.

On the day before that fixed for Mabel's going, a grand ball was to be given at the a.s.sembly Rooms, to which Mrs. Villars and her daughters readily engaged themselves. For this party Caroline and Maria made the most elaborate preparations, for the sake of triumphing over Mabel.

They perpetually interrupted her small but neat preparations for her new situation, by begging her just to do this or that little thing for them, though they would not ask her for the world if it made her melancholy.

Mabel did everything she was asked to do, struggling all the while to suppress the contempt with which these petty annoyances inspired her.

Still the week dragged heavily on, and she could not help rejoicing to think it was so near its close.

On the morning of the ball, Caroline requested her, half condescendingly, to dress her hair in the evening, for Mabel's taste in dress was very superior. She consented at once--and, in order that she might give her undivided attention to her, for this last time, she spent the afternoon in finishing her simple packing.

When she had nearly completed it, Lucy knocked at the door, and, when she entered, Mabel saw that she had been crying.

"Would you believe it possible?" said she, scarcely able to speak for indignation, "but mamma insists that I should go to the ball to-night, spite of everything I say--I did so hope to spend this last night with you. What shall I do?"

"You had better go," replied Mabel, "if my aunt wishes it. You have promised to practise self-denial, and we must not choose amongst our trials which we will bear and which refuse."

"But how cruel it is to you!"