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Page 7
Mabel resumed her embroidery without once speaking. Sarah Bond laid
down the book she had been reading, and moved restlessly about; her
manner, when either thoughtful or excited, prevented her features
from being disturbed; so her feelings were soothed by wandering from
place to place, or table to table; but after a considerable pause,
she said--"I wish you were a little older, Mabel; I wish you to be
older, that I might convince you, dear, that it is in vain to expect
happiness from the possession of wealth, unless we circulate it, share
it with others, and yet do so prudently and watchingly. Yet, my poor
dear father would be very angry if he heard me say that, Mabel."
"Yes, I know," interrupted the thoughtless girl, "_for he was a
miser_."
"Hush, Mabel!" exclaimed her aunt; "how can you say anything so harsh
of him from whom we inherit all we have. He was careful, peculiar,
very peculiar; but he saved all for me; and may God judge mercifully
between him and me if I cannot in all things do as he would have had
me," and then she paused, as if reasoning and arguing with herself;
apologising for the human throes in her own bosom that led her to act
so frequently in direct opposition to her father's desires; so that to
those who could not understand her motives and feelings, she appeared
every day more inconsistent. "It is difficult to judge of motives in
any case. I am sure, if he had only gone abroad into the world, and
seen distress as I have seen it, he could not have shut his heart
against his fellow-creatures: but his feelings were hardened against
some, whom he considered types of all, and he shut himself up; and
seeing no misery, at last believed, as many do, whom the world never
dreams of calling as you called him, Mabel--seeing no misery, believed
that it only existed in the popular whine. I am sure, if he had seen,
he would have relieved it. I always think _that_ when I am giving; it
is a great blessing to be able to give; and I would give more, were I
not fearful that it might injure you."
"Injure me, dear aunt, how?"
"Why, Mabel, my heart is greatly fixed upon seeing you a rich heiress,
and, in time, suitably established."
"You have just been saying how much happier you were when you were all
poor together, and yet you want to make me rich."
"People may be very happy in poverty before they have known riches;
but having once been rich, it would, I think, be absurd to suppose we
could ever be happy again in poverty."
"I saw," replied the girl, "two children pass the gate this morning
while I was gathering flowers--bunches of the simple white jessamine
you love so much, dear aunt--and they asked so hard for bread, that I
sent them a shilling."
"Too much," interrupted Sarah Bond, habitually rather than from
feeling; "too much, dear Mabel, to give to common beggars."
"There were two, you know, and they looked wan and hungry. About three
hours after, I was cantering my pony down Swanbrook Lane--the grass
there is so soft and green, that you cannot hear his feet, while I can
hear every grasshopper that chirps--suddenly, I heard a child's voice
singing a tune full of mirth, and I went softly, softly on; and there,
under a tree, sat one of my morning acquaintances, making believe to
sing through a stick, while the other danced with bare feet, and her
very rags fluttered in time to the tune. They looked pale and hungry,
though a thick crust of bread upon the grass proved that they were
not the latter; but I never saw more joy in well-fed, well-clothed
children, for they paused and laughed, and then began again. Poverty
was no pain to _them_, at all events."
"My dear," said Sarah Bond, "you forget the crust of bread was their
riches, for it was a superfluity."
"And is it not very shocking that in England a crust of bread _should
be_ a superfluity," inquired Mabel.
"Very, dear; _but a shilling was a great deal to give at the gate_,"
observed her aunt, adding, after a pause, "and yet it shows how little
will make the poor happy. I am sure, if my father had looked abroad,
instead of staying at home to watch his--his--money, he would have
thought it right to share what he had. It is an unnatural thing to
shut one's self up from the duties of life; one gets no interest
for any other outlay to do the heart service; but though those poor
children danced their rags in the sunshine, and felt not the stones
they danced on, yet my dear Mabel could not dance with poverty as her
companion--my blessed, blessed child!"
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