There is no wretchedness where guilt is not; Religion can relieve the sharpest woes,
All—save remorse, be softened or forgot!
But where can she—the hopeless, find repose
Whose anguish from her own transgression flows!
My pride—my folly—bade a husband die,
His life embittered, hastened on its close!
Yes, weep, ye who can weep,—but I—but I—
My heart weeps tears of blood,—and yet my eyes are dry!
The mind of Ida was not quite satisfied that it was right in her sister to ascend in the Eaglet, contrary to the direct and positive prohibition of her step-mother. Ida could not help suspecting that she herself had not proved altogether a safe guide for her younger sister; she feared that while discouraging the expedition on the plea of danger, she had not sufficiently done so on the score of duty. The more Ida reflected on the subject, the more conscience reproached her for rather nurturing than repressing the spirit of independence which proudly rose against the control of Mrs. Aumerle, both in Mabel’s heart and her own.
Ida was not one to deaden conscience by refusing to listen to its voice, and she arose on the morning[202] of the 12th resolved to use her strongest persuasions to induce Mabel to give up her project. She went to the room of her sister, but found it already empty; and then proceeded to the garden, but Mabel had left it some minutes before.
Ida felt that it was too late for her to undo any mischief which might have been done, and made no mention at the breakfast table of Mabel’s intention to ascend, not wishing to be the first to draw upon her sister the displeasure of Mrs. Aumerle.
“Perhaps,” thought Ida, “reflection has had the same effect upon Mabel that it has had upon myself; she may have come to the like conclusion that it would be wrong to go in the car. I earnestly hope that it may be so, for I feel a strange uneasiness at the thought of her venturing aloft. Yet there can be no real danger, or my uncle would never have wished to take Mabel with him, nor my dear father have half consented to her going up in the balloon. If she only come back in safety I shall feel a weight taken off my heart, and I shall in future more earnestly try to lead her aright in all things.”
About the hour of noon, as the vicar was writing in his study, he was interrupted by the entrance of Ida.
“Dearest Papa,” said she, gently approaching him, and seating herself at his feet, “forgive me for disturbing you when you are busy, but I want your permission to go and see Annabella again.”
[203]
The vicar looked grave, but made no reply.
“When I last went to Mill Cottage with Mabel, and our cousin refused to see us, you said that it was your desire that we should leave her to herself for the present; but it is to-day, as you know, that her husband is to go up in the Eaglet, and I cannot help imagining how anxious and unhappy Annabella must be, because—”
“Because she has goaded him to the step,” said the vicar.
“Somehow I am so restless to-day—I can neither read nor work,—and my heart draws me towards Annabella. I fancy—it may be presumption, but I fancy that her spirit may be softened just now, and that some word might be spoken which might make it more easy to reconcile her to her husband. Have I your consent to my going?”
“I will go with you, my child,” said the vicar putting up his papers and locking his desk. “I believe that anything that we may say to that poor misguided girl will be likely to have more effect during the absence of Dr. Bardon. Whatever may be the cause for his dislike, it is evident that he nourishes a strong prejudice against the Earl of Dashleigh.”
It was not long before the father and daughter, bound on their errand of love, reached the cottage in which the countess had chosen to take up her abode. They were ushered into the sitting-room[204] where they found Cecilia bending pensively over a piece of embroidery, and the countess with a book in her hand, which she had, however, only taken up as a device for silencing conversation, as during the last half-hour she had not turned over a leaf.
Miss Bardon welcomed her guests with smiles; Annabella with a stiff politeness, which said as distinctly as manner could convey meaning, “There must be no entering upon any disagreeable subject of conversation; the parson must not preach, nor the friend attempt to persuade.”
Ida’s heart yearned over her cousin, but she had not courage to break through that formidable barrier of reserve. The vicar saw that the first sentence bordering upon reproof would be the signal for his niece to quit the apartment. Disappointed, but not yet disheartened, the good man inwardly prayed that He who can alone order the unruly wil............