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Page 4
No human passion grows with so steady, so imperceptible, yet so
rampant a growth as avarice. It takes as many shapes as Proteus,
and may be called, above all others, the vice of middle life, that
soddens into the gangrene of old age; gaining strength by vanquishing
all virtues and generous emotions, it is a creeping, sly, keen,
persevering, insidious sin, assuming various forms, to cheat even
itself; for it shames to name itself unto itself; a cowardly,
darkness-loving sin, never daring to look human nature in the face;
full of lean excuses for self-imposed starvation, only revelling
in the impurity and duskiness of its own shut-up heart. At last the
joy-bells ring its knell, while it crawls into eternity like a vile
reptile, leaving a slimy track upon the world.
The inmates of the mansion enclosed in its old court-yard had long
ceased to attract the observation of their neighbours. Sometimes
Sarah called at the butcher's, but she exchanged smiles or greetings
with few; and the baker rang the rusty bell twice a-week, which was
answered by their only servant. When Mr. Bond first took possession
of the manor-house, he hired five domestics, and everybody said they
could not do with so few; and there were two men to look after the
gardens; but after his daughter's elopement and his wife's death,
three were discharged, and he let the lands and gardens; and then
another went, and Sarah felt the loneliness so great, that she made
the remaining one sleep in her own room. The house had been frequently
attacked; once, in a fit of despair, her brother-in-law had forced
his way in the night to the old man's side, and but for her prompt
interference, murder would have been done. No wonder, then, that her
shattered nerves trembled as she watched the shortening candle, and
heard the raving of the wind, saw the spectral shadows the broken
plumes that ornamented the canopy of the bed cast upon the fantastic
walls, _felt_ that _his_ hour was at hand, and feared that "he would
die and make no sign;" still, while those waving fantasies passing
to and fro through her active but weakened mind, made her tremble
in every limb, and ooze at every pore; and though unable to read
on steadily, her eyes continued fixed upon the book which her hand
grasped, with the same feeling that made those of old cling to the
altar of their God for sanctuary. Suddenly her father called--and she
started as from a dream--"Sarah!"
She hastened to his side; "Dear father, what do you want?"
"Child, the room is dark; and you had so much light just now. All
is dark. Where are you? But it was better, after all, to put out the
light; wilful waste makes"--
Before the miser had concluded his proverb, the light of _his_
existence was extinguished for ever!
CHAPTER II.
Several weeks elapsed before Sarah Bond recovered sufficiently from
the shock, ay, and genuine grief, occasioned by her father's death,
so as to investigate her affairs; the hardness and the tyranny she
had borne for so many years had become habitual, and her own will was
absolutely paralysed by inaction. Jacob Bond had always treated his
daughter as if she were a baby, and it was some time before she could
collect herself sufficiently to calculate upon her future plans. She
had no friends; and the sister to whom, despite her father's cruel
words, her heart clung so fondly, was far from her, she knew not
where. The mourning for herself and her servant was ordered from a
neighbouring shop, with a carelessness as to expense which made people
say that Sarah was of habits different from her father.
The rector and curate of the parish both called, but she shrunk
from strangers. The very first act, however, of her liberty, was to
take a pew at church, a whole pew, to herself, which she ordered to
be curtained all round. Some said this indicated pride, some said
ostentation; but it was simply shyness. And soon after she placed in
the aisle a white marble tablet, "To the memory of Jacob Bond, who
died in the seventy-eighth year of his age, deeply lamented by his
sorrowing daughter."
Some ladies connected with a society for clothing the poor, called
upon and explained to her their object; she poked five old guineas
into the hands of the spokeswoman, but forbade the insertion of her
donation in the visitor's book. During the following week she had
numerous applications from various charitable bodies, to whom she gave
generously, they said, while she reproached herself with narrowness;
to all, however, she positively refused to become a yearly subscriber;
and when closely urged by the rector to be one of the patrons of his
school, she answered, "Sir, my father received his property suddenly,
and I may be as suddenly deprived of it. I will give, but I will not
promise." Her impulse was to give, her habit to withhold.
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