“Chill falls the rain, Night-winds are blowing;
Dreary and dark is
The way thou’rt going!”
Moore.
On that evening, a small but cheerful party were assembled in the sitting-room of the vicarage. Dr. Bardon and his daughter Cecilia, oft-invited guests, had joined the circle of the Aumerles. A week never passed without some little act of kindness being shown by the clergyman or his family to the disinherited man. Bardon heartily esteemed, and even felt a warm regard for the vicar. But let it not be supposed that he was overburdened with a sense of gratitude for unwearying kindness and attention. No, he was far too proud for that. The doctor was ever keeping a balance in his mind between benefits received and benefits conferred; and by means of that curious mental instrument, of which Mabel had penetrated the secret, he managed always, in his own opinion, to keep the balance weighed down in his favour. If the Aumerles showed him hospitality, it was, he easily persuaded himself, because they were really[112] glad to have a little society. Bardon did them an actual favour by so often eating their dinners! Volunteered advice upon diet and medical subjects, though given to those whose health was perfect, the doctor also regarded as obligations of no trivial nature; and he often calculated how much the Aumerles owed to him in the shape of fees!
On this evening the mind of Bardon was particularly easy, for he had brought to the vicar the gift of a crystallized pebble, which he had discovered in some ancient drawer, and which, he was perfectly assured, must be a curious geological specimen. The Aumerles had sufficient of that politeness which is “good-nature refined,” to humour the fancy of their guest; and there was a discussion for nearly twenty minutes upon the beauties, peculiarities, and supposed origin of the wonderful stone.
A heavy rain is pattering without, and flashes of bright lightning are occasionally reflected on the wall; but safe in the comfortable dwelling, the party give little heed to the weather. In one corner sits Dr. Bardon, engaged in a game of chess with Mrs. Aumerle. He considers that he is giving her a lesson; she, having no particular desire to learn the game, and finding no great amusement in an inevitable check-mate, is good-humouredly submitting to be beaten for the gratification of her guest. Cecilia, rather over-dressed, as usual, as if, as Mabel once observed, she were always expecting a grand party,[113] after much persuasion, which she regards as the indispensable prelude to her performance, has passed her pink ribbon over her neck, and is giving her friends a song, to the accompaniment of the guitar. It is with her music as with things more important, Cecilia, in her efforts to rise above mediocrity, only manages to sink below it. She is not contented with the soft middle tones, in which her voice shows considerable sweetness; Cecilia must sing very high; and the painful result is, that the strained organ cannot reach the prescribed point, falls flat, and discord annoys the ear. Miss Bardon is not satisfied with simple ballads, which she could sing with feeling and taste; she must show off her very indifferent execution in difficult bravura airs. As her dress must be that of a peeress, so her music must be that of a professor. Cecilia aims not at giving pleasure, but at exciting admiration, and succeeds in accomplishing neither object. Poor Ida, a distressed listener to the flourishes in “Bel raggio lusinghier,” is meditating how she can contrive to unite politeness with truthfulness; and in thanking Miss Bardon for her song, neither violate sincerity nor hurt the feelings of her sensitive friend. Mabel, who has kept up a low, whispered conversation with her uncle at the very farthest end of the room, is impatiently waiting till Cecilia’s cadenzas and appoggiaturas shall cease, to speak to her father on a subject of which her mind is quite full.
[114]
The last twang at length is given; Ida says, what she can say; if it be a little less than the singer would have liked, it is a little more than the speaker’s conscience could warrant. Mr. Aumerle’s simple thanks have been uttered, and Mabel, released from the necessity of being comparatively quiet, runs up to her father, and says, playfully leaning on his arm; “O papa! I have such a favour, such a great favour to ask of you!”
“If it be anything reasonable.”
“I don’t know if you’ll think it reasonable or not, but Uncle Augustine sees no objections. He says that he will, if you only consent, take me up with him in the balloon!”
“My child!” exclaimed the vicar.
“Bless the girl!” cried Mrs. Aumerle from her chess-board. Cecilia lifted her hands in surprise, while Dr. Bardon laughed aloud.
“O papa! what’s the harm? It is not as if a party of strangers were going on the airy excursion,—people who did not know how to manage. Mr. Verdon is so experienced, he has been up fourteen or fifteen times, and no accident ever has happened. Uncle Augustine goes himself!”
“But because Uncle Augustine chooses to risk his own neck sky-larking amongst the clouds, I see no reason why he should carry my little girl with him on a dangerous excursion.”
[115]
“Shakspeare tells us,” said Augustine, coming towards the centre of the room, “that
‘’Tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink,’
but the poet adds
‘Out of the nettle, danger, we pluck the flower, safety.&rs............