"'I have heard,' he said, after looking at me for a while, 'hundreds of miles south, of your charity, and your munificence. I came to see their author, and am disappointed.'

"'Since you have done me so much honor, may I ask whom I address, sir?'

I said, with overstrained politeness.

"'Your mother's brother, Mr. Morley,' he replied, 'who hoped never to have seen one, in whose veins ran kindred blood, defile his intellect, as you have done.'

"This strange introduction only led to a long and heated argument on religious subjects, in which my unexpected casuistry so far baffled him, as to leave him without an answer; and I parted from him in triumph.

"The next day, he found me again, and told me that he had sat up the whole night, till he had prepared himself with the answer he could not, at first, command. If he had thought to convince me in my perverseness, he was mistaken--for obstinacy has an answer for everything; but there is something in genuine enthusiasm, and self-denying energy, which always claims respect, and though I argued as obstinately, it was more respectfully than before. He came to me again and again, and the same topic began or ended every conversation, and left me as hardened as ever. Ah, Mabel, it is a sad confession for such ears as yours; but I never have deceived you yet, and I never will."

Mabel's bright eyes were dimmed by tears; but her hand rested confidingly in his, as he continued--

"One evening I was sitting alone by the light of the moon; my thoughts had travelled, unchecked and unbidden, to England, and as I thought, I drew from my bosom, the first and only keepsake I had received from you, the small clasped Bible, in which you had written my name and your own.

I had often tried to throw it away, but could not--wherever I went, it accompanied me, a silent reproach, but nothing more. That night, I opened it, and read; before I was aware, my uncle, who had entered unperceived, approached me. I would have hid the precious volume, had I had time; but he saw it, and I threw it carelessly aside. He took it up, and opened it. I never shall forget the look of benignity and pleasure which lighted up his features at that moment. Are they not worn out and haggard now? but they seemed beautiful then, as he said--

"'There is hope.'

"'No, uncle, that will not do,' I said, attempting to laugh, 'it is only a keepsake.'

"He looked at the first page, and repeated, softly--'Mabel, Mabel.' I do not think he ever forgot the name; and, from that time, it was a.s.sociated with good and holy things.

"Anxious to change the subject, I prevailed on him to walk; and, as we went, I engaged him in talking over lighter topics, for I felt unable to renew our customary arguments that evening.

"As we strolled on, we came upon a group of many peasants, who were eagerly engaged in looking at something in their centre, and talking loudly all the while. Wishing to observe what had attracted them, we drew nearer, and soon perceived that they were standing round two wretched women, who, with their caps torn under their feet, and their hair streaming about their faces, were fighting, with the fury of demons, using, at the same time, the most fearful imprecations, while the mob cheered and irritated them by turns. I was leaving the spot in disgust, when my uncle, pa.s.sing his arm through mine, prevented my doing so. Though I had pa.s.sed through many horrible scenes, I felt sick when I looked on this.

"At length, one of the women, with a horrible shriek of triumph, held up, to the crowd, a handful of hair, which she had torn from her adversary's head; but, as she turned slightly to do so, the other took the opportunity of tripping her up, and they both rolled on the ground, struggling together, and the crowd closed round them. I turned a sick look on my uncle, who, far less moved than myself, exclaimed, in an emphatic voice--

"'Who would spend an eternity with such companions?'

"The boldest arguments he had used never made so strong an impression upon me as did these words. I broke from him, and pursued my walk alone.

I, who had turned with disgust from every moral deformity--I, to whom refinement was as the breath of life, to be cla.s.sed with such wretches as these.

"The words fastened upon me; they seemed burning their impression on my very brain. That night I spent upon the floor of my apartment; conscience was awakened, and it was beyond my power to lay it to sleep again. For the first time, I felt the full consciousness of sin, and how terrible was the load; my spirit was weighed down, and the arguments which had upset the weak or wavering, and scoffed at the strong, failed utterly before that power of conscience. In the morning, my uncle found me in strong delirium, for the strength of my body, robust as it was, had fallen before the terror of that one wretched night. I wildly reproached him, and begged him to leave me to the curse which he had brought upon me; but what could turn such a man from his purpose? He who employed his time in persevering efforts for the happiness of thousands, now devoted himself entirely to me. After weeks of illness, I rose from my bed pale, emaciated, and wretched, but humbled to the dust. My first effort, however, was to seek my former friends, and to urge my own doubts upon them, but, those I had had the power to lead into error, laughed at my pain, and mocked at my scruples. I had lost caste with them, and retired from their society loaded with the most bitter ridicule.

"In this miserable time came a thirst for England, my health required it, I retired from the army, and returned home. Did it not seem like a judgment upon me, that I reached my own village, but to find it in flames? No one can tell what a store of repentance I laid up that night: at the story of old Giles, which you may have heard from his own lips;--the rebuke which everywhere raised itself against me;--the wretchedness which on all sides appeared to upset my ostentatious moral well-doing; and the death of that poor child in her simple faith. Was not this a fit welcome for the returning infidel?"

Mabel placed her hand upon her forehead; for there was terror in the remembrance of that awful night. And, then when he spoke again, the thought seemed to have pa.s.sed from him, and his voice was low, and thrillingly gentle.

"I dared not seek you then; I dared not bring to you uncertain repentance; and that it was not complete, I knew, because I could not even then humble myself to ask your forgiveness. But directly I came here, I found out one of my boyhood's friends, a good and simple-hearted clergyman, and with him I have spent every Sunday since I first arrived in Bath. The benefit I have received from him has been very great; and all that was left of pride or revenge in my heart, you have long since subdued by your gentleness and patience, and more than all, have I admired, the frankness which enabled you to avoid the error of foolishly seeming entirely to have forgotten me, while you preserved the most delicate reserve on all occasions. Mabel, dear, dear Mabel," he said, taking her trembling hand in both his, "you have entirely subdued me, and, cost what it may, I will not forfeit the smallest chance of regaining your confidence, for aught else the world has to offer."

"It is yours, dear Henry, without reserve," said Mabel, raising her trusting eyes to his, "I give it back with all the unchanging love I have ever felt for you, and for no other."

As Hargrave gazed down upon her, with pride and affection, there was a moment's happy silence, and then she looked up again, more timidly, while her lip slightly trembled.

"And can you say that you have loved no other?"

"I can indeed," he replied, while a half, well pleased smile, stole over his countenance. "In all my wanderings, no other image but yours has accompanied me, and much as I tried to banish it, it has been unrivalled."

"I do not speak of your wanderings," said Mabel, half catching the smile.

"Oh! I see, you mean your cousin. No: I honestly tell you, that I have never been led, even by the many petty plots by which I have been surrounded, to do anything which could place my conduct, with regard to her, in a doubtful light. Had I done so, I should have grieved deeply; and such a heartless act would have been a canker in my present enjoyment. I do own, that when I saw you thought so, I did not undeceive you, because I was anxious to see how you would act under an impression, which so often brings out evil, if any exists; but if you knew how much of our future happiness was at stake, you would forgive me for placing it beyond a doubt, that you were the same self-devoted, n.o.ble girl, who could refuse all that I had to offer, when her conscience called on her to do so."

"But forgive me," persisted Mabel, "why did you stay here so long; did not that look suspicious?"

"Well," said Hargrave, as they now walked on side by side, "I think I can explain that too. You know that when you were at Aston Manor, I could not be there, and wanted some plausible excuse for remaining away; no better offered, and every thing was done to induce me to remain in Bath; but I suppose you will not be quite satisfied till I tell you, that when, after a visit of a few days, I was pressed to remain, I agreed, only on condition that I should be allowed to pay for the extra expense, which my prolonged stay might cause; you will believe that I have done this in no grudging manner. And besides, the game and venison from Aston, and other luxuries of the kind, have been always at your Aunt's command. As I knew that I had a secret motive to serve, by remaining here, I felt that I could do no less with any satisfaction to myself. I do not think your cousins or uncle knew of this agreement, but Mrs. Villars regarded it as a whim of mine, and said if I liked to increase her pin-money, I might. Are you satisfied love?"

"Quite," said Mabel, musingly.

"I do not think, however, that I shall remain here beyond to-day--with them, I mean--for my popularity is gone--and my temper would be sorely tried, for little purpose--so I have taken rooms at the Lion. Besides, I have another purpose to serve, by remaining there, as it is near the Abbey--and I should like to be married there."

"Yes--but--"

"Yes--but--" repeated Hargrave, smiling on his blushing companion; "tell me, is there any reason why you should not be mine at once?"

Mabel glanced at her mourning dress, and burst into tears.

"Do you remember," he said, gently, "my asking you to let me see your little sister, that night, alone? It will be a comfort to you, to know, that, young and childlike as she was, I entrusted my secret to her, and she died in the confidence of an hour like this, when her Mabel, her dear sister, would be the honoured mistress of a happy home. Consider, dearest, how you are placed; you are not even offered a formal welcome here--and I tremble to think how much unkindness you must yet experience. As to going to other friends, no one would advise it, when, in your husband, you can find one, who can so fully sympathise in your feelings--and, I promise you, that, for the remainder of the year, we will continue quietly in the country, bent only on serving our poor tenants. The shorter time we linger here, the better--for I long to be away, and alone, sharing that confidence which I could not give even to you, so freely as I could to my wife. Do not trifle with me--say you will be mine, before this month has pa.s.sed away."

"So soon?" said Mabel.

"Nay, if you love me--why should you hesitate? I am sure you will not."

Mabel looked down--she always had been afraid to contradict him, since, when a child, she had looked up with veneration to his superior strength and height.

"You doubt me still," said Hargrave, turning aside his head, with such a look of vexation, that she was quite conquered.

Taking his hand, as she had often done in those old, childish quarrels, she looked up in his face, and whispered gentle words, which brought the smile back again.

"And now, my love," he said, as he drew her closer to him, taking from his pocket the chain and portrait, which Caroline had so eagerly desired to examine, and placing it again upon her neck; "let me give you back your own. Little can you imagine the exquisite pleasure I experienced, when I discovered that the portrait of your undeserving lover was still so faithfully preserved. Nay, blush not, my darling--when love has been once confessed, there can be no indelicacy in cherishing it to the very death. It will be very, very hard for me to retrace what has been lost--but with my sweet wife to help me, there is nothing I will not dare; and, knowing that you are so good and truthful, and untouched by the world, as I have found you, through all these trying months, I have learnt to trust all my aching conscience to your care."

He paused to look down upon the tearful face of his betrothed--but she was too much affected to reply.

How gloriously the sun shone on, and how blithely the birds carolled--and how pleasantly hummed the bees, in their busy search over the clover fields. That was a day to be well remembered.

"Well," said Hargrave, when they entered the town again, "we must temporise with our present difficulties. I suppose you would not like me to bribe my aunt into peace while you remain?"

"Oh, dear no--only tell her what I have not the courage to say--and leave the bribery, as you call it, to me. I have a little treasure, a great treasure it seemed once, in case of need, which I can now readily part with--I mean, the box of plate which was saved from that terrible fire. It is a coveted thing, and, therefore, will be a welcome present, that will pay for any fancied obligation; and I will send for it directly."

"A brilliant idea, truly; but only behold, here is Miss Lovelace--for the sake of gossip she shall be at our wedding."

"What do I see," said that young lady, coming up with her ringlets and flounces, quite in a ferment, with surprise--"Miss Lesly, why I thought you were at Weymouth, by this time; well, I am quite glad to see you."

"No doubt," said Hargrave, gaily; "the street is not exactly a place for explanations--but, depend upon it, you shall be one of the first to know the reason of this change in Miss Lesly's arrangements."

Raising his hat, as he pa.s.sed her, he left her in a perfect ecstasy of curiosity; but whatever her after a.s.sertions, as to the depth of her penetration might be, it is pretty certain, that she did not arrive near the truth, after all her conjectures.

"Surely," thought she, "that ill-tempered Miss Villars has actually spoken the truth, and they are to be married--and Miss Lesly remains to be a useful bridesmaid."

That she was not over pleased, when she arrived at this conclusion, might be inferred from the toss which she gave her little head, ringlets and all, as she went on her way.