“Bitterest to the lip of pride, When hopes presumptuous fade and fall.”
Keble.
“Save me alike from foolish pride,
Or impious discontent
For what Thy wisdom hath denied,
Or what Thy goodness lent!”
Pope.
The Countess of Dashleigh sat in her boudoir, surrounded by all the luxuries which art can devise or wealth procure. But she paid little attention to anything around her, for her thoughts were absorbed in her occupation,—to a young authoress a very delightful occupation,—that of revising the proof-sheets of her first romance. “Egeria” was now taking a flight above the columns of a periodical; she was about to present to the world a volume in violet and gold! How to give her ideas the richest setting, how to display her talent to most advantage, was now the one prevailing thought which occupied her mind from morning till night. Annabella was like a mother rejoicing over a first-born child; and she examined the rough proofs with the interest and delight which a young parent might feel in surveying[89] the little elegancies of the wardrobe of her darling babe.
“Egeria” smiled to herself as she imagined the various reviews of her work which would doubtless appear in the papers and periodicals of the day. She fancied what passages would be extracted, what characters praised; what might possibly be censured, what must be admired. In the midst of her enjoyment of this feast of imagination, she was interrupted by the entrance of the earl. Alas! that the presence of a husband should ever be felt unwelcome!
“Annabella, my love, I have just received a letter, which I should be obliged by your answering for me. I am glad to find you with a pen in your hand.”
“Presently, Reginald; I will answer it presently,” said the countess, a slight frown of impatience passing over her brow; “I am most exceedingly busy at present.”
“What are you doing?” inquired the earl, who was not in the secret of his lady’s occupation, though aware that she devoted much time to her pen. “May I see?” he added, taking up one of the dirty proof-sheets which had just received Annabella’s corrections.
“Are you to be my first critic?” said the countess playfully; “if so, I hope that you will be an indulgent one.”
The earl looked for a few minutes a little embarrassed, as if a subject had been suddenly brought[90] before him on which he had not had time to make up his mind. He then seated himself on the sofa, and twisting the paper about in his fingers as he addressed his wife without looking at her, he began in his somewhat formal style:—“It seems to me, Annabella, that authorship is not what is most exactly suitable for one who holds the position of a countess.”
“Are countesses then supposed to be more stupid than other people?” asked Annabella.
The earl made no direct reply to a question which appeared to him rather impertinent. He was desirous to avoid an argument, and rather to have recourse to persuasion. “You have so many other resources,” he began, “so many pleasures—”
“Not one of them,—not all of them together to be compared to this!” exclaimed Annabella with animation. “I value the smallest bay-leaf from Parnassus more than the strawberry-leaves on a ducal coronet!”
The Earl of Dashleigh was offended. “I am aware, madam,” he said stiffly, “that you take a pride in disparaging the advantages of high social standing. A lofty position has no charms for you.”
“I have known the time, Dashleigh,” said his wife, laughing, but with something of bitterness in her mirth, “when a lofty position had no charms for you. When you stood upon a certain Swiss mountain, able neither to get upwards nor downwards, and glad of the assistance of my little hand—”
[91]
“That has nothing on earth to do with the question!” cried the earl, colouring and looking angry.
“Oh! I beg your lordship’s pardon; I was going to draw an analogy, as the learned say; I was going to make a metaphor of a fact. I looked at snowy peaks, deep abysses, awful chasms, and was transported with a sense of their grandeur, as you are with that of hereditary rank! Mont Blanc seemed to me loftier—more sublime—than the woolsack appears to you! You, on the contrary, grew a little dizzy,—you only considered the fatigue of the climbing, and the danger—”
“This is idle talk!” cried the earl impatiently. “I happened to be taken with a fit of vertigo, and—and of course you have no intention of publishing?” he inquired, making a very abrupt turn in the conversation.
“Of course I have,” replied Annabella.
“You do not mean to—to let me infer for a moment that you, the Countess of Dashleigh, have ever dreamed of deriving any pecuniary advantage—” The words appeared almost to choke him, so he left the sentence incomplete.
“You do not suppose that I intend to make a present to the publisher of the effusions of my genius,” said the lady. “No, I have the pleasure of working for a good cause. The new gallery of our church is to be propped up by this little pen!”[92] and with some pride Annabella held upright on the table............