“From Nature’s weeping earth more fair appears, So should good works succeed repentant tears!”
Gloriously poured down the fervid rays of a July sun, colouring the peach on the wall, swelling the rich fig under its clustering leaves, ripening the purple grape, and over the corn fields throwing a mantle of gold! No longer in the fisherman’s hovel, but reclining on a sofa in the countess’s splendid boudoir, we find the Earl of Dashleigh, yet pale from recent illness; the outline of the sunken cheek, the violet tint beneath the eyes, the whiteness of the transparent skin, tell of suffering severe and protracted, but health and strength are returning to his frame, while to the restored invalid lately released from the confinement of a sick room—
“The common air, the earth, the skies,
To him are opening paradise!”
By the softened light which steals in through the green venetians, the earl has been whiling away the languid, luxurious hour of noon by perusing a volume of light literature, in which he has found great[264] amusement; that volume, bound in violet and gold, is now lying on the sofa beside him; we recognise in it “The Fairy Lake,” written by the Countess of Dashleigh.
Annabella is seated on a low ottoman beside her lord. She has been listening with pleased attention to his remarks and comments upon her work.
“Perhaps, after all,” observes Dashleigh, laying his hand on the book, “it is hard to restrict to a few that which might afford pleasure to the many, and to deprive the young authoress of the praise and the fame which publication would bring her.”
“O Reginald!” replies his wife with glistening eyes, “your praise to me outweighs that of the world, and empty fame is nothing in comparison to a husband’s heart! It would pain me if any eye but yours should ever look on that which I must ever regard as a monument of my own disobedience.”
Annabella’s manner towards her husband has undergone a change since their re-union in the fisherman’s cottage. She is gradually resuming her playfulness of conversation, and the wit in which the earl delights still sparkles for his amusement; but there is more, far more of submission to his authority, and of deference to his wishes in her demeanour; Annabella no longer desires to forget that her vow was not only to love, but to obey.
This change is chiefly owing to that which has passed over the earl himself. His spirit by intense[265] suffering has been purified, exalted, refined. That respect which he once claimed on account of his rank is yielded readily on account of his character. Annabella had been disposed to ridicule a dignity that rested on an empty title; her spirit of opposition had been roused, and she had gloried in showing herself above the meanness of aristocratic pride, conscious of a loftier claim to the world’s regard than a coronet or a pedigree could give. But if the countess still knows herself to be superior to her husband in intellectual attainments, in moral qualifications she now feels herself far his inferior. Annabella has a quick perception of character, an intuitive reverence for what is solid and real; when she sees beneficence free from ostentation, purity of language and life adopted, not because the reverse would disgrace a peer, but because it would be unworthy of a Christian, she renders the natural homage of an ingenuous heart to virtue, and obedience and tender affection follow in the track of respect.
The conversation has taken a new turn. The earl and his wife have fallen into a train of discourse on some of the occurrences which have been related in preceding chapters. Annabella has now no concealment from her husband, and his gentleness invites her confidence.
“It appears, my love,” remarked Dashleigh, “that you quitted the home of the Bardons with scant ceremony and little courtesy.”
[266]
“He had deserved none,” replied Annabella, with something of her old haughtiness in her tone, for very bitter were the memories connected with Timon Bardon.
“There is but one man,” pursued the earl, “who, as far as I know, entertains any feeling of resentment against me, or has any just cause to do so. That man is Dr. Bardon.”
“It is you who have just cause for resentment against him,” said the countess.
“His pride and mine clashed together, and like the collision of flint and steel produced the angry spark which set his spirit in a flame. But, Annabella, I now desire to be at peace with all men. I have never returned the doctor’s visit,—you and I will do so to-day.”
Annabella opened her large eyes so wide at a proposition so unexpected, as to raise a smile on the lips of the earl.
“You think that I am still too proud to let the red liveries of the Dashleighs be seen at the door of Mill Cottage?”
“If you were to invade that little nest,” said the countess, “you would find that the birds had flown. Do you not remember that Dr. Bardon is now the proprietor of Nettleby Tower?”
“Ah! I recollect—by Auger’s will, was it not?” replied Dashleigh, raising his thin hand to his brow. “But this need make no difference in our arrangement[267] for a visit. We will order the carriage in the cool of the eve, and drive over to wish the old man and his daughter joy on their return to the family mansion.”
Annabella turned upon her husband a look of admiration and love. She knew how much it must cost him to make the first step towards reconciliation with a man who had wronged, hated, and insulted him. Never, even in the earliest days of their union, had Dashleigh possessed such influence over the affections of his young wife, as he gained by the simple, unostentatious act which marked a conquest over Pride and self.
The sun was sloping towards the west, bathing earth and sky in the rich glory of his streaming rays, changing the clouds into floating islands of roses, and lighting up a little river which flowed through the landscape, till it glittered like a thread of gold, as Timon Bardon led a party of guests, comprising all the family of the Aumerles, to the summit of his grey old tower, to survey the extensive and beautiful prospect.
Many a word of admiration was spoken as the vicar and his party moved from one spot to another, finding new beauties wherever they gazed. Cecilia, elegantly dressed as became the lady of the mansion, appeared in her glory, doing the honours of the place to her guests. If anything tended in the least degree to damp her delight, it was her perception[268] that the practical eye of Mrs. Aumerle (notwithstanding sundry improvements in the dwelling wrought out under Miss Bardon’s direction), had detected many an unsightly heap of rubbish, many an unfurnished and dreary chamber, many a defaced cornice and broken pane, at variance with the notions of comfort and neatness entertained by the vicar’s wife.
Ida and Mabel, who had more poetry in their nature than had fallen to the lot of Mrs. Aumerle, and who delighted in whatever recalled to their minds grand images of the days of chivalry, saw in the marks of dilapidation but the footprints of ages gone by, and in imagination peopled the grass-grown court and the mouldering battlements with mailed knights, bold archers, and the fair maidens whose charms had been sung by minstrel and bard in the time of the old Plantagenets.
“That little grey dot yonder, is it not—” Mabel began, and paused, for Cecilia, whom she was addressing, looked as if she did not wish to see it.
“Yes, that is Mill Cottage,” said the doctor in a tone more loud and decided even than usual; “the place where the master of Nettleby Tower dug out his own potatoes in his garden, and the lady—”
“And that must be Dashleigh Hall,” interrupted Mabel, wishing to effect a diversion, for it was evident that while the doctor’s pride made him rather glory in his late poverty, that of Miss Bardon rendered her desirous to forget the days of her humiliation.
[269]
But Mabel’s diversion was very ill-chosen. At the mention of the name “Dashleigh,” the doctor’s countenance, which had been wearing an expression far more complacent than that habitual to his leonine features, changed to one dark and louring, the index of the gloomy passions that reigned within. Mabel saw not the change, for her eyes were fixed upon the distant prospect, but it was witnessed by Augustine and Ida, who exchanged glances with each other,—the gentle girl’s significant of regret, the uncle’s of indignation. “Is not the black drop wrung out from that proud heart yet?” was the mental comment of Augustine.
“Has not this house the repute of being haunted?” asked Ida, in order to turn the doctor’s thoughts into a different channel.
“Old women and young fools say that it is so still,” replied Timon Bardon gruffly.
“O! Papa,” lisped Cecilia, who had no inclination to acknowledge herself as coming under either of these denominations, “you know what strange noises are heard every nigh............