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Page 5
She added one more servant to her establishment; and as she did not
send out cards returning thanks for the 'inquiries,' which increased
daily, Sarah Bond was a very lonely woman; for though some, from
curiosity, others from want of occupation, others, again, from the
unfortunately universal desire to form acquaintance with the rich,
would have been glad, now the solitary old miser was gone, to make
fellowship with his gentle-looking and wealthy daughter, yet her
reserve and quietness prevented the fulfilment of their wishes. Weeks
and months rolled on; the old house had been repaired and beautified.
Mr. Cramp, Sarah's law agent and 'man of business,' advised her to let
the house, of which she occupied about as much as a wren could fill of
the nest of an eagle; and, strangely enough, finding that the house
of her childhood was to let, she took it, removing thither all the
furniture which her father made her promise never to part with.
The ceiling of the best bed-room was obliged to be raised to admit
the lofty bed with its plumes, and the spinnet was assigned a very
comfortable corner in a parlour, where the faded stately chairs
and gorgeous furniture formed a curious contrast to the bright
neatly-papered walls and drugget-covered floor; for in all matters
connected with her own personal expenses, Sarah Bond was exceedingly
frugal.
_After_ her removal, though shy and strange as ever, still she
_looked_ kind things to her rich, and _did_ kind things to her poor
neighbours, only in a strange, unusual way; and her charity was given
by fits mid starts--not continuously. She moved silently about her
garden, and evinced much care for her plants and flowers. Closely
economical from long habit, rather than inclination, her domestic
arrangements were strangely at variance with what could not be called
public gifts, because she used every effort in her power to conceal
her munificence. She did not, it is true, think and calculate, how the
greatest good could be accomplished. She knew but one path to charity,
and that was paved with gold. She did not know how to offer sympathy,
or to enhance a gift by the manner of giving. Her father had
sacrificed everything to multiply and keep his wealth; all earthly
happiness had been given up for it; and unsatisfying as it had been
to her own heart, it had satisfied his. Inclination prompted to give,
habit to withhold; and certainly Sarah Bond felt far more enjoyment in
obeying inclination than in following habit; though sometimes what she
believed a duty triumphed over inclination.
If Sarah Bond ministered to her sister's necessities, she did so
secretly, hardly venturing to confess she did so, but shielding
herself from her father's curse, by sending to her sister's child, and
not her sister. Receiving few letters, the village postman grumbled
far more at having to walk out to Greenfield, than if he was
accustomed to do so every day; and one morning in particular; when
he was obliged to do so while the rain poured, he exhibited a letter,
sealed with a large black seal, to the parish-clerk, saying he wished
with all his heart Miss Bond had remained at the old manor-house up
street, instead of changing; and where was the good of taking her
a mourning letter such a gloomy day? it would be very unkind, and
he would keep it "till the rain stopped;" and so he did, until the
next morning; then taking back word to the village postmaster that
Miss Bond wanted a post-chaise and four horses instantly, which
intelligence set not only the inn, but the whole village in commotion.
She, who had never wanted a post-chaise before, to want four horses to
it now, was really wonderful.
"Which road shall I take, Miss?" inquired the post-boy, turning round
in his saddle, and touching his cap.
"On straight," was the answer. Such a thrill of disappointment as
ran through the little crowd, who stood at the door to witness her
departure. "On straight!" Why, they must wait the post-boy's return
before they could possibly know which way she went. Such provoking
suspense was enough to drive the entire village demented.
Miss Bond remained away a month, and then returned, bringing with her
her niece, a girl of about eight years old--her deceased sister's only
child, Mabel Graham.
The following Sunday Sarah Bond went to church, leading her young
companion by the hand; both were in deep mourning, and yet the very
least observant of the congregation remarked, that they had never seen
Miss Bond look so happy as when, coming out after service, and finding
that the wind had changed to the north-east, she took off her scarf
in the church porch, and put it round the neck of the lovely girl, who
strongly remonstrated against the act. It was evident that Mabel had
been accustomed to have her own way; for when she found her aunt was
resolved her throat should be protected, she turned round, and in
a moment tore the silk into halves. "Now, dear aunt, neither of our
throats will suffer," she exclaimed; while Sarah Bond did not know
whether she ought to combat her wilfulness or applaud the tender
care of herself. It was soon talked of throughout the village, how
wonderfully Sarah Bond was changed; how cheerful and even gay she had
become. Instead of avoiding society, how willingly, yet how awkwardly,
she entered into it; how eagerly she sought to learn and to make
herself acquainted with every source and system of education. No
traveller in the parchy desert ever thirsted more for water than she
did for knowledge, and her desire seemed to increase with what it fed
upon. The more she had the more she required; and all this was for the
sake of imparting all she learned to Mabel. She fancied that teachers
might not be kind to this new-found idol; that she could transfer
information more gently and continuously; that the relative was the
best instructress; in short, the pent-up tenderness of her nature, the
restrained torrent of affections that had so long lain dormant, were
poured forth upon the little heiress, as she was already called; and
captious and determined she was, as ever heiress could be; but withal
of so loving a nature, and so guileless a heart, so confiding, so
generous, and so playful, and overflowing with mirth and mischief,
that it would have been impossible to fancy any living creature who
had felt the sunshine of fourteen summers more charming or tormenting.
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