A FATAL STEP.
“The arrow once discharged from this weak hand,
Can I arrest its flight in the free air?
Where will this course now lead me?”
CAMOENS. BY H. S. G. TUCKER.
The countess advanced one step towards Bardon, and held out her hand. He
took it cordially, and looked at her bloodless face with mingled interest
and concern.
“Do not suppose,” said Annabella, resuming her seat, and motioning to him
to take a chair beside her,—“do not suppose that I see you in order to
ask for your medical advice. You must know well that it is beyond your
power to ‘minister to a mind diseased,’ that my case is not one which the
whole pharmacopeia can cure. I see you as a friend,”—her lip quivered as
she spoke,—“as one who will understand my feelings, and not torment me
with well-meant advice which I would rather die than follow!”
“You are a noble creature—a brave creature!” exclaimed Bardon; “I am
proud of the spirit which you have shown.”
“Have you been far to-day?” asked the countess, colouring slightly at the
ill-merited praise.
“I was at Pelton this morning on business, or I should have called upon
you earlier,” was the doctor’s reply.
“You have been, doubtless, at many houses,”—Annabella seemed to
frame each sentence with difficulty,—“you have seen many people—have
heard—heard much that is—that must be said—and—.” She stopped, and looked
at the doctor, but he did not seem disposed to guess the meaning of her
unfinished sentence.
“I wish to learn from you,” continued the countess, forcing herself to a
more explicit explanation; “it is important for me to know what the world
says of this—this unhappy affair.”
“You care as little as I do for what the world says,” replied the doctor.
But it was not so with Annabella. Popular distinction, the applause of
others, had been to her as the breath of life. Her pride was not the
pride of self-sufficiency; she was intensely desirous to know whether
public opinion were inclining to her side or that of her lord, and she
pressed the doctor for a more definite reply.
“Of course,” he answered at last, “there are almost as many versions of
the story as there are narrators of it. No tale loses by the telling.
Some say this thing, some say that, some pity, and some blame. What is,
however, pretty universally received as the most authentic account is—”
“Tell me!” cried the countess nervously, as the speaker paused.
“Why, it is said that you had somehow got into the snares of the Papists.
That an old priest and a nun in disguise had made their way into
Dashleigh Hall; and, some affirm, had a private mass there. That the
earl discovered amongst your papers a prayer to the Virgin, or something
of that sort, and that he was so much disgusted by what he called your
apostasy, that tearing the paper into a thousand fragments, he turned you
out of the room.”
“Did any one believe such a senseless tale?” cried Annabella.
“It was said to come from the best authority, and is very generally
credited.”
“Did you not give it indignant refutation?”
“My dear lady, you forget that I am in utter darkness upon the subject
myself. I could stake my life that you had good cause for what you did,
but of that cause I know no more than this chair.”
“Then you shall know all,” exclaimed Annabella, “that you may be able to
give an answer to such idle calumnies as these;” and with rapid utterance
she gave the doctor an account of what had occurred, her narrative
following truth in the main, though coloured by prejudice and passion.
Bardon’s face showed gloomy satisfaction as he listened to the excited
speaker. “So then,” he exclaimed as she concluded, “your crime is having
drawn so faithful a portrait, that he who sat for it would not own it!
What a fool he was to quarrel with one who has him so completely at her
mercy!”
“What do you mean?” said Annabella quickly.
“You carried your desk with you, did you not?” said Bardon, with an
expressive glance at that on the table; “and you carried with you the wit
that can sting. Write out that paper again; give it to the public;—the
world will laugh, and the earl will wince. No one who reads but will
understand (I will do my best to enlighten dull comprehensions) _why_
the peer was so angry with his wife—_why_ he who stood trembling on the
mountain was afraid of the wit of a woman.”
“It would be retribution!” exclaimed Annabella.
“It would be revenge!” cried the haughty old man.
Little did the Aumerles divine that the physician whom they had admitted
in order that he might quiet a fevered pulse, was pouring venom into
a wound which he should rather have sought to heal; that he was doing
the work, obeying the hest of the demon Pride, and drawing further from
happiness and peace the young creature who had turned to him in her
distress.
There was a strange, almost fierce satisfaction in the looks of Dr.
Bardon when he descended to the sitting-room, that was incomprehensible
to the Aumerles.
“You will send her a sleeping draught?” said the vicar.
“I have given her something _to compose_,” replied Bardon, a grim smile
relaxing his features.
“You think her very feverish?” inquired Ida.
“Oh, there’s nothing to alarm,” said the doctor; “she will be much
relieved by-and-bye.”
As soon as he had quitted the vicarage, Ida went up to Annabella’s room,
and gently knocked at the door.
“I wish to be alone!” said a voice from within, and Ida immediately
retired.
When the carriage which had been ordered by Augustine Aumerle rolled up
to the front of the vicarage, Ida was sent again to try her powers of
persuasion, to induce the countess to avail herself of it to return to
her husband’s home.
Ida felt the errand painful, and almost hopeless. She hesitated for
a moment ere she knocked, and heard within the sound of a pen moving
rapidly over the paper.
“Annabella, my love,” began Ida, as she softly unclosed the door.
The countess was bending over her desk, apparently absorbed in writing.
Her back was towards the door, but she started on the entrance of Ida,
and turning hastily round showed a countenance crimsoned to the temples
with a burning flush.
“I can’t be disturbed!” she exclaimed in a voice strangely harsh and
impatient.
“O dear cousin!” cried Ida, “if you would but listen for a moment—”
“I will hear you to-morrow,” said Annabella, “let me feel that in this
room at least I am safe from unwelcome intrusion!”
Intrusion! what a word—and from those lips! Ida Aumerle was deeply
hurt, not to say offended, and returned again to her family mortified
and dejected. The vicar breathed a weary sigh, and Mrs. Aumerle said
something about “a termagant,” which made Mabel extremely angry.
“So then I must be off!” said Augustine. “I had so little hope of the
fair lady’s yielding, that, as you see, my travelling bag is all ready.
Farewell, Mrs. Aumerle; thanks for your hospitality. Lawrence, remember
that I expect you all at Aspendale on the 12th. I shall be glad if by
that time you think my friend Mabel sufficiently fledged to try a flight
in the blue empyrean!”
After her uncle’s departure Ida retired with a heavy heart to the little
room which, since Annabella’s arrival, she had shared with her sister
Mabel. The gratitude which a woman feels towards one who has offered
to her his home and his heart, and the affection which Ida had from
childhood entertained for her cousin, rendered both the earl and the
countess objects of deep interest to the maiden. Family division jarred
on her soul, like discord on a musical ear, and Ida felt perhaps as
forcibly as her stepmother could, the evil of the course which Annabella
was wilfully pursuing. She was wounded by the words of impatience from
her cousin, which sensitiveness construed into actual unkindness, and
Ida could scarcely draw her thoughts sufficiently from the subject which
engrossed them, to write a letter in reply to some petition for relief
which she knew that it would be wrong to postpone.
Ida lingered over her letter till she began to fear that it might be late
for the post, to which she proposed taking it herself. As she was putting
on her scarf, in preparation for her walk, Ida heard the countess’s
bell,—Annabella was ringing for her maid. When Ida left her apartment she
met the attendant in the passage, on her return from the room of the lady.
“Is the countess feeling unwell?” inquired Ida.
“Her ladyship only rang,” replied Bates, “to desire me to get ready to
carry her letters to the post.”
“I am going thither myself,” said Ida; “I will take my cousin’s notes; I
think that you might be late.”
“Thank you, miss,” replied the maid; “but my lady said expressly that I
was to post the letters myself, and not let them out of my hand till I
did so. Perhaps I might carry yours also, Miss Aumerle; I shall not be a
minute in dressing.”
Ida thanked the maid for the offer, and gave the note into her charge.
But when Bates had hurried off to make her little preparations, Ida
stood motionless in thought. Her heart misgave her as to the nature of
the despatches which Annabella had evidently written with such nervous
haste, and was about to send off with such anxious precaution. Why should
the countess object to trust her letters to any one but her own menial
servant? did she fear that the eye of a loving relative should chance to
rest on the address? Was Annabella about to take some foolish step which
should further alienate her from her husband? Ida remembered with pain
the expression which she had last beheld on the countess’s face.
“I had better go to her,—I may be in time to prevent some act which
Annabella would hereafter bitterly regret.” This was Ida’s first thought,
and under its impulse she almost laid her finger on the handle of her
cousin’s door. But another feeling made her pause and draw back. Had she
not already found her presence regarded as an unwelcome intrusion,—should
she subject herself again to repulse? “Back! back!” whispered Pride,
though so softly that his tones were not recognised; “force not your
society on one who does not desire it, your counsel on her who despises
it.”
Ida hesitated—went away some few steps, and then returned to the door, as
if attracted towards her unhappy cousin by some invisible spell. Again
there was a moment’s reflection, again Pride recalled to her mind her
late discourteous reception by the countess, and with a sigh of doubt and
apprehension, Ida Aumerle returned to her own room.
In the meantime Annabella with a trembling hand had sealed up two large
envelopes. The one contained “The Precipice and the Peer,” hastily but
vigorously written, and was directed to the editor of the magazine in
which the countess had, as before mentioned, occasionally written. The
other letter was addressed to her publisher in London, giving him her
free permission not only to complete the printing of her romance, but to
put the authoress’s name on the title-page, not as “Egeria,” but “the
Countess of Dashleigh.”
“I will show my lord,” thought the proud, young authoress, “that I
can bring more dignity to the name by my pen, than he by his sounding
title. I shall make him envy the renown of the woman whom he thought
it condescension to marry! He has thought to humble—to subdue—to crush
me; I will prove to him that I can stand alone, ay, stand on a loftier
pedestal than any to which he ever had power to raise me! And _he_ will
be humbled, mortified! He would not have the world even guess that his
wife could join the throng of authors, or touch a publisher’s pay; he
will see that his wife glories in the talents which admit her among the
aristocracy of genius! I have now broken my chain, and can soar aloft
unfettered!”
Thoughts like these animated the ambitious girl while actually engaged in
her work. Intoxicated by anger and pride, she gave no audience to reason
or conscience, but wrote as if writing for life. But when Annabella
had actually placed the two letters in the hands of her maid, when she
had heard the door close after Bates, there came a sudden revulsion of
feeling, and the countess was startled and alarmed at what she herself
had done. Was she not giving mortal offence to him whom she was bound to
honour? could she expose him to ridicule without bringing deeper disgrace
upon herself? Had not the church pronounced them to be one? Annabella’s
eye fell on the little circlet of gold which Reginald had placed on her
finger on the solemn occasion when, in the sight of men, and the presence
of God, she had taken him for her wedded husband, never to be divided
from him, as she then hoped and believed, until death itself should
them part! How many associations were linked with the sight of that
ring! If gratified pride had powerfully inclined Annabella to incline to
Reginald’s suit, that pride had once been closely linked with love. She
had once listened eagerly for his step, fondly gazed on his handwriting,
heard the tones of his voice with delight, and believed her heart to be
unalterably his! Annabella ran to her window which commanded a prospect
of the road which led to the village, with an undefined yet strong wish
to call back the messenger whom she had sent. She saw Bates walking
briskly from the house, but yet so near, that her mistress’s voice might
reach her. The countess called her, but faintly, for a feeling of shame
choked her voice. Bates did not hear, did not stop. But the sound reached
another ear, and Mabel, attired for a walk, came forth from the house,
and looked up to the window at which the countess now stood. The young
girl’s face was bright and kindly, and the light shining on her blue eyes
and auburn tresses, gave her, to the fancy of her cousin, the appearance
of pictured Hope.
“Did you wish to call back Bates?” asked Mabel. “I will run and being her
back in a moment.”
How important in life may be a single second, when on its little point
hangs a momentous decision! The countess almost pronounced the word
“yes!” but with the rapidity of lightning, Pride poured his suggestions
into her ear. Not only would the revocation of the order given appear
weak indecision to the maid, but Mabel would naturally carry back the
letters, while Bates proceeded to the post with Ida’s, and she could
hardly avoid seeing their addresses. She would then easily guess the
cause of their writer’s vacillation and change of purpose; she would
conclude that her cousin had penned that which she was afraid or ashamed
to send. These ideas took much less time in rushing through the brain of
Annabella, than they have done in passing before the eye of the reader,
and they silenced the assent which trembled on the lip of the irresolute
countess.
“Shall I call back Bates?” asked Mabel again.
“No,” answered Annabella from above; and retiring from the window the
miserable girl threw herself on a chair, and exclaiming, “It is too late
now,—too late! the irrevocable step is taken!” she covered her face with
her hands, as if by so doing she could shut out reflection. Yet, strange
to say, she yet clung to the shadow of a hope that Bates might find the
post-office closed, and bring back to her the fatal letters!