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                                 MABEL.

                                A NOVEL,
                           BY EMMA WARBURTON.

                          _IN THREE VOLUMES._

                                VOL. I.


                                LONDON:

                    THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER,
                 30, WELBECK STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE.
                                 1854.




                                   TO
                         MISS EMMA TYLNEY LONG,
                           THIS WORK
                              IS INSCRIBED
                   AS A SLIGHT BUT SINCERE EXPRESSION
                               OF GRATEFUL ESTEEM.




                                 MABEL.




                               CHAPTER I.

     Oh, timely, happy, timely wise,
     Hearts that with rising morn arise,
     Eyes that the beam celestial view,
     Which evermore makes all things new.

     New every morning is the love,
     Our waking and uprising prove,
     Through sleep and darkness safely brought,
     Restored to life, and power, and thought.

                                                        KEEBLE.


One morning, early in the month of August, a few years since, the sun
rose lazily and luxuriously over the hills that bounded the little
village of Aston, which lay in one of the prettiest valleys of
Gloucestershire. The golden beams of that glorious luminary falling
first upon the ivy-covered tower of the little church, seemed, to the
eye of fancy, to linger with pleasure round the sacred edifice, as if
glad to recognize the altar of Him, who, from the beginning, had fixed
his daily course through the bright circle of the heavens, then pouring
a flood of brilliancy on the simple rectory, danced over the hills, and
played with the many windows of the old Manor House, which, situated at
a short distance from the church, formed one of the most striking
objects of the village.

Only here and there a thick volume of smoke rose from the cottages
scattered over the valley, while the only living object visible was a
young man, who thus early walked down the steep and winding path, which
led from the rectory, and strolled leisurely forward, as if attracted by
the beauties of the early morning. The slow pace with which he moved
seemed to betoken either indolence or fatigue, while his dress, which
was of the latest fashion, slightly contrasted with the ancient-looking
simplicity of the place.

Captain Clair, for such was his name, had quitted his regiment, then in
India, and returned to England, with the hope of recruiting his health,
which had been considerably impaired by his residence abroad.

On the preceding evening, he had arrived at the rectory, upon a visit to
his uncle, who wished him to try the bracing air of Gloucestershire as a
change from town, where he had been lingering for some little time since
his return to England.

In person, the young officer was slight and well made, with a becoming
military air; his countenance light and fresh, spite of Indian
suns, and, on the whole, prepossessing, though not untinged by certain
worldly characters, as if he had entered perhaps too thoughtlessly on a
world of sin and temptation.

There is, however, something still and holy in the early morning, when
the sin and folly of nature has slept, or seemed to sleep, and life
again awakes with fresh energy to labor. The dew from heaven has not
fallen upon the herb alone, it seems to rest upon the spirit of man
which rises full of renewed strength to that toil before which it sank
heavily at eve; and as Captain Clair felt the breeze rising with its
dewy incense to heaven, his mind seemed to receive fresh impetus, and
his thoughts a higher tone. Languidly as he pursued his way, his eye
drank in the beauties of a new country, with all the fervour of a
poetical imagination.

On the right and left of the village, as he entered it, were high hills,
covered with brushwood, a few cottages, with their simple gardens, lay
in the hollow, and the church, standing nearly alone, was built a
little above these, having the hill on the left immediately behind it.
There was great beauty in that simple church, with that thickly covered
hill above, and nothing near to disturb its solemnity.

Further on, the hills opened, and gave a view of the whole country
beyond, presenting a scene of loveliness very common in our fertile
island. A small but beautiful river wound through the valley, carrying
life and fertility along its banks. Wide spreading oaks and tall
beeches, with the graceful birch and chestnut trees bending their lower
branches nearly to the green turf beneath, enclosed the grounds of the
Manor House, which, built on a gentle ascent, looked down on the
peaceful valley below.

The house, itself, was a fine old building, well suited to the habits of
a country gentleman, though not so large as the gardens and plantation
surrounding it, might have admitted. These had been gradually acquired
by each successive owner of the mansion, who took pleasure in adding to
the family estate by purchasing all property immediately adjoining, but
had wisely refrained from patching and spoiling the house itself.

Captain Clair was determined to admire every thing; he had got up
unusually early, and that in itself was a meritorious action, which put
him in perfect good humour with himself. It was a very pleasant morning,
too, numbers of insects, he had scarcely ever seen or thought of since
he was a boy, attracted his attention, and flew out from the dewy
hedges, over which the white lily, or bindweed, hung in careless grace.
The butterfly awoke, and sported in the sunshine--and the bee went forth
to the busy labors of the day, humming the song of cheerful industry.
All combined to bring back long forgotten days of innocent childhood and
boyish mirth; the pulse which an Indian clime had weakened, beat
quicker, and his spirits revived before the influence of happy memories
and the healthy breezes of the Cotswold. Then, as the morning advanced,
he lingered to watch the movements of the villagers, and to muse upon
the characters of the inmates of the different cottages as he passed
them, and to observe that those who dwelt in the neatest were those who
stirred the first. The labourers had gone to their work, and now the
windows and doors were opened, and children came forth to play.

As he returned again to reach the rectory in time for its early
breakfast, he perceived one dwelling much superior in character to those
around it, with its antique gable front ornamented with carefully
arranged trelliswork, over which creepers twined in flowery luxuriance,
and the simple lawn sloping down towards the road, from which a low,
sunk fence divided it. Here, careless of observation, a young child had
seated herself--her straw hat upon the turf beside her, while she was
busily engaged in twining for it a wreath of the wild lily, forgetful
that in a few minutes its beauty would perish; she was a lovely child,
the outline of her infantine features was almost faultless, and her
little face dimpled with smiles as she looked up from her occupation to
nod some brief salutation to the poor men as they passed her on their
way home.

Arthur Clair could scarcely tell, why, of all the objects he had
observed that morning, none should make so deep an impression as the
sight of that young child, or why he felt almost sad, as he thought of
her twining those fading flowers, and as he strolled on, why, he looked
at nothing further, but still found himself musing on the delicate
features of that young face.

When he reached the garden gate, he found his uncle strolling about,
waiting for him.

Mr. Ware was a fine looking old gentleman, with silver hair curling over
a wide and expansive forehead. Though a little under the middle height,
there was a gentle dignity in his manner that could scarcely fail to be
noticed, or if not noticed, it was sure to be felt. He was neither very
witty, nor very learned--yet none knew him very long without liking him.
His face, not originally striking, had become more handsome as he had
grown older--for the struggle between good and evil, which must be in
every well principled mind, a perpetual struggle, had been carried on by
him for many years, and so successfully, that each year brought heaven
nearer to the good man's thoughts; and now, as the race was so nearly
finished, his zeal became more earnest, and his conscience more tender;
fearing, lest, after a life spent in his Master's service, he might be
found lingering at the last, and lose the prize for which he had been so
long striving. In his eye was that look of serenity and peace which
seemed to say, "he feared no evil tidings;" for he walked continually
under the protection, which only can give that feeling of security which
those who have it not would bestow great riches to possess. We have
lingered longer than we at first intended in description, but, perhaps
not too long.

When we look back to the innocence of childhood, we sigh to think that
we can never be children again; we recall that happy time when the world
had not written its own characters of sin and falsehood in our hearts;
we sigh to think that childhood is gone--but no sigh will recall it. But
when we see an old man who has passed the waves of this troublesome
world, true to the faith with which he entered life, we feel that here
is an example which we may follow. Childhood we have left behind, but
old age is before us, and if we live on, must come; and, as the body
decays, do we not feel that the spirit should increase in holiness and
strength, preparing itself for that beautiful world of light which it
must enter or die.

Mr. Ware had resided for many years at Aston; when a younger man, he had
been tutor, for a few months, to Colonel Hargrave, the present
possessor of the Aston property--and though with his pupil, only during
a tour through Italy, the attachment between them was such, that the
young man solicited his father to prefer his tutor to Aston, when that
living became vacant, partly, he told him, from his wish to secure
himself a friend and companion, whenever he visited home. Mr. Ware
gratefully accepted an offer which at once placed him in independence;
and, as soon as he had settled himself in his new house, he carried one
of his favourite projects into execution, by sending for his only
sister, who had been obliged to procure her livelihood as a governess;
his own small means being, since their father's death, insufficient for
both.

It was not then for his own sake entirely that he rejoiced in his
improved circumstances. When he drove his neat little carriage to meet
his sister, and when he brought her home, and shewed her his
house--their house as he called it--with its pretty comfortable
sitting-room, looking out upon the garden, and the neat little chamber,
where all her old favourite books--recovered from the friend who had
taken charge of them during her wanderings--rested upon the neatly
arranged shelves, he felt as happy as man can wish to be. And when, with
eyes glistening with pleasure, he assured her that it was her home as
long as she lived--he said what he never found reason to repent, for the
cheerful face of his companion bore perpetual remembrance of his
brotherly kindness.

He had once thought of marriage; but the idea had now passed away
entirely. In early years, he had been sincerely attached to a school
friend of his sister's, whom he had met during one of his Oxford
vacations; but she died early, leaving her memory too deeply impressed,
to make him wish to replace it by giving his affection to another. His
sister, now almost his only near relative, had sympathised, most
sincerely, in his loss, and had endeavoured to aid his own manly
judgment in regaining that cheerfulness of tone so necessary for the
right discharge of the every-day duties of life. She had been rewarded
by the more than usual continuation of a brother's early love and
esteem, and she had, therefore, no scruple of accepting his offer of
protection, and a home.

From that time, she had continued to keep his house with the most
cheerful attention to his wishes and whims, and with an evenness of
temper which had always been peculiar to her.

There was an air of gaiety about the whole house; the two maid-servants
and the old gardener seemed to possess peculiarly good tempers--they
were, indeed, scarcely ever disturbed, and we may venture to add, that
they were not very much overworked.

There were hives of bees in the garden, chickens in the court-yard, and
the gaily-feathered cock strutting about, giving a lazy crow now and
then--all seeming to take their ease, and enjoy themselves. In fact,
there was a blessing on the good man's home, that was always smiling
round it.

It was to this pleasant abode that the young soldier had come down
wearied with London amusements, like some strange being who had yet to
find a place in its social order.

"You are fortunate, sir," he said, as he strolled down the garden by his
uncle's side, "in your neighbourhood. I have seldom seen anything before
more comfortably beautiful, if I may use the expression."

"I am glad you like it," replied Mr. Ware, "and I assure you I shall be
quite contented if it has the power to make you spend a month or two
here agreeably. If you are fond of scenery, there are many places worth
seeing, even within a walking distance."

"I suppose the Manor House is amongst the number?" observed his nephew,
"I have been admiring it extremely. I cannot think why Hargrave does
not come down here. Has he been since he came into the property?"

"Yes--but only once, and then only for a short while; but you speak as
if you knew him?"

"A little," replied Clair, "he came home with us from Malta; but
friendship, sometimes, ripen fast. He found