THE UNEXPECTED GUEST.
“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 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, 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.
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.”
“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.’
When steam-vessels were first introduced it was thought an act of daring
to go in one,—when railroads were yet a novelty it was foolhardiness to
venture in a train.”
“Perhaps,” joined in the eager Mabel, “balloons will some day become as
common as carriages!”
“In that case,” observed the doctor, “perhaps Miss Mabel will not care to
enter one.”
Mabel coloured and laughed. “I daresay,” she replied, “that there is
something in the excitement and danger,—_supposed_ danger I mean,—that
makes the thought of such a trip so delightful. I should like, I own, to
do something which no lady in the county ever has done before.”
“That’s pride,” said her step-mother abruptly.
Such a gush of fierce angry emotion rose in the heart of the young girl
at the word, opprobrious and yet so true, that Augustine, perceiving her
feelings in her face, and fearing that she might give them vent, thought
it as well to effect an immediate diversion. “I hope,” said he, turning
towards the doctor, “that you and Miss Bardon will honour Aspendale by
your presence on the day of the ascent of the _Eaglet_.”
The doctor bowed, for his _sensitiveness_ was gratified by the respectful
terms in which the invitation was couched.
“We shall not be a large, but a select party,” continued Augustine
Aumerle. “I met Reginald Dashleigh to-day, and I think that he and his
lady will come to witness the ascent.”
“Do you mean to say that you expect the earl as one of your guests?”
exclaimed Bardon.
“If nothing prevent, I think that you will meet him at my house.”
“Something will prevent!” cried the old lion, shaking his white mane with
haughty disdain. “I am willing to meet at your table any one else whom
you may choose to invite;—I would sit down with farmer—ploughboy—pauper,
but not—not with Reginald Earl of Dashleigh!”
An uncomfortable silence instantly fell like cold water over the circle;
the vicar, a peacemaker by nature as well as profession, was particularly
annoyed by this unexpected declaration of enmity against his niece’s
husband, made by one of his own oldest friends. He was in act to speak,
when Mabel suddenly exclaimed, “There is the sound of a carriage!”
“You must be mistaken,” said Mrs. Aumerle, “no one would come at this
hour, and especially on so stormy an evening.”
“But it is a carriage,” said Mabel, going to the window, “I see the red
liveries of the Dashleighs.”
The sentence unconsciously escaped her lip, and she bit it with vexation
at having thoughtlessly uttered the name; for the doctor started up from
his seat so hastily, that he upset the chess-table before him.
This created a little noise and confusion, in the midst of which
Annabella suddenly entered the room unannounced, looking so haggard and
ill, that her uncle involuntary exclaimed, “My dear Anna! has anything
happened?”
“Might I speak with you for a moment alone,” said the countess assuming
with effort a forced calmness. The vicar, without reply, took her by the
trembling hand, and led her to his own little study.
“Dear me! how ill the countess looks!” exclaimed Cecilia.
“Something serious has occurred, depend upon it,” said Mrs. Aumerle; and
a variety of conjectures arose as to the cause of the lady’s strange
visit, though most of the party present had the prudence to keep these
conjectures to themselves.
The vicar returned after rather a long absence, and his entrance caused
a dead silence in the room, while every eye rested on him with a look of
inquiry. He appeared very grave, and drawing his wife aside, said in a
low tone of voice, “My dear, do you think that Ida could arrange to share
Mabel’s apartment to-night, and give up her own to Annabella?”
“Is the countess so unwell that she cannot return to her own home? The
weather seems to be clearing,” said the vicar’s wife in a voice much more
audible than that of her husband had been.
“She does not wish to return,” replied Mr. Aumerle sadly; “we must all do
our best to make her comfortable here, at least for the present.”
In a few minutes Ida had glided out of the room, and was in the study at
the side of her cousin, listening with wonder and pain to the passionate
outpourings of a wounded spirit. Cecilia who delighted in anything
mysterious, was endeavouring to draw from Mabel her opinion as to the
cause of the countess’s distress, and Mrs. Aumerle was bustling about to
“make things smooth,” as she said, in the household department, of which
the arrangements had been so suddenly disturbed by the unexpected arrival.
“Something wrong with Dashleigh, I fear,” observed Augustine half aloud.
“Something wrong—everything wrong, I should say!” exclaimed the doctor
who overheard him. “The case is clear enough to any one who has had
a glimpse behind the scenes as I have had. The poor little thing is
wretched at home, she has sold her happiness for a title, she has thrown
herself away on the most proud, selfish, domineering—”
“Dashleigh is my friend,” interrupted Augustine sternly.
“I’d rather have him for my enemy than my friend!” muttered Bardon
between his clenched teeth.