A SUNNY MORN.
“Ay, those were days when life had wings,
And flew—ah! flew so wild a height,
That like the lark that sunward springs,
I was giddy with too much light!”
MOORE.
It was with a sensation of delightful expectation that Mabel Aumerle
rose on the following morning. The sun rising over the distant hills
was scarcely so early as she. Mabel could hardly believe that the
long-expected day was actually come, on which her most delightful dream
of hope was to be fully realized!
No one else in the vicarage was stirring when the young girl crept softly
from the house, for her spirit felt so blythe and elastic that it could
only expand in freedom under the open vault of heaven. How deliciously
fresh was the breath of morn! Mabel gazed at the light clouds above her,
and almost shouted for joy at the thought that in a few hours she would
be winging her way amongst them, no more chained down as a captive to
earth. She would no longer envy the little bird, pouring his carol down
from the sky—she would soar yet higher than he!
Mabel lingered about the garden for nearly two hours, too much excited to
settle for a moment to any quiet occupation. She was troubled by nothing
but the fever of impatience, and the fear that something might occur to
stop her expected treat. She ever and anon looked anxiously towards the
house; as long as Mrs. Aumerle’s shutters were closed, Mabel retained a
feeling of security; but as soon as she saw them open, the eager girl
determined to go a little way on the road by which her uncle was to come,
“to meet him and prevent delay,” as she said to herself, but really to
give opportunity to no one to object to her ascent in the _Eaglet_.
How quiet the road appeared! how thick lay the diamond dew on the sward
that fringed it! how bright and cheerful all nature looked to the
rejoicing eye of Mabel! Yet her uncle seemed to her to take a wearisome
time in coming. The minutes were terribly long, and the impatient girl
could scarcely believe the testimony of the village church clock when it
struck only the number eight.
“I think that the morning will never end!” exclaimed Mabel; “I was
foolish to rise so early. But see,—see,—surely there is a gig coming at
last down the hill,—and that is my uncle driving; I should know Black
Prince miles off, he trots down at so dashing a pace! O uncle!” she
cried, running forward to meet him, “it seemed as if you never would
come!”
“I’m not late,” said Augustine, reining up his horse, whose black hide
was flecked with foam; “we shall be back in good time for breakfast. Up
with you!” and Mabel, with eager pleasure, mounted to the seat at his
side.
“Shall I just wish them good morning at the vicarage, and see if Ida has
changed her mind?”
“Oh no! pray don’t,” said Mabel uneasily, “I am certain that Ida would
not come.”
“Well, then we had better be off for Aspendale, and not keep Verdon
waiting for breakfast,” cried Augustine, backing his horse up to the
hedge to turn his head round on the narrow road.
“How good you are to come all this way for me!” said Mabel. “And so Mr.
Verdon has really arrived, and the balloon, is it all right—all ready?”
“It will be ready by the time that our guests arrive,” replied her uncle,
lightly shaking the rein, and touching his steed with the whip, “Have you
leave to ascend with us, Mabel?”
“Yes; Papa’s leave, at least,” she replied. “Oh! how delightful it is to
go driving on at this pace; but it will be far more delightful still to
go scudding aloft before the breeze!”
“Is not that Bardon’s cottage?” asked Augustine, as they dashed past a
little tenement. Mabel gave an affirmative reply.
“I had had some thought,” observed her uncle, “of calling for Dr. Bardon;
but I confess that, after what has past, I feel somewhat disgusted at
his coming at all. There is a singular want of good taste in his showing
himself at this time to Dashleigh.”
“Surely the doctor is not going in the balloon!” exclaimed Mabel.
“No, no, not quite so bad as that,” answered Augustine with a smile; “I
could not undertake to carry up lion and bear in one car, even with my
fair niece to help me to keep the peace between them.”
“But do you believe,” asked Mabel, “that the earl will really ascend?”
Augustine’s handsome countenance became grave. “He must do something,
poor fellow,” he observed, “to efface from the minds of men the
remembrance of that mischievous squib.”
“But if he be really so timid—”
“Reginald has no want of courage,” said Augustine Aumerle, with unusual
warmth in his manner; “I have seen him plunge into a rapid stream to save
a drowning child; and when we were boys together, I have known him fight
a bully who was twice as strong as himself. Certainly he never could
climb a tree,” added the friend in a more thoughtful tone.
“And he played a poor figure on the mountain, according to ‘The Precipice
and the Peer,’” said Mabel.
“There was a great deal of exaggeration in that piece; any one could see
that,” replied Augustine. “It contained the very essence of malicious
satire. I don’t know what could have possessed the countess to write it.”
“Pride, I suppose,” answered Mabel.
“Detestable pride!” muttered her uncle.
“But do you not think that they will be one day reconciled to each other?
Annabella has so much that is noble in her; she is so generous and
affectionate,—and you seem to have a good opinion of the earl.”
“The mischief is,” replied Augustine, “that he is as proud as she. No, I
fear that neither will ever yield, and that this grievous separation will
last as long as their lives.”
Mabel and her uncle soon arrived at Aspendale Lodge, a lonely but
comfortable dwelling, picturesquely situated on the slope of a wooded
hill, with a large meadow spangled with daisies and buttercups behind it,
from which the ascent was to take place.
Augustine helped Mabel to alight, and then leading her into his house,
introduced her to Mr. Verdon, a small, lightly-built man, with sharp
features, and an appearance of remarkable intelligence in his keen grey
eyes. Mabel was so eager to see the balloon that she could not wait until
she had partaken of the breakfast to which her drive and early rising had
disposed her to do full justice, but hurried into the back field.
The huge ball was not yet inflated, but Mabel looked with interest on
the inert mass, which was so soon to rise as if instinct with life, and
was full of eager questions, which the goodnatured æronaut, himself an
enthusiast on the subject, took a pleasure in answering.
The breakfast was a very cheerful meal. Augustine had such a vast
intellectual store always at his command, and Vernon was so completely
master of the theme then most interesting to Mabel, that she listened,
and occasionally joined in the conversation with the most keen delight.
Then when the breakfast was concluded, and preparations were begun for
inflating the balloon with gas, Mabel joyously flitted from meadow to
hall, from hall to meadow, now watching Mr. Verdon’s operations, now
superintending those of the housekeeper, busy in laying out the elegant
collation which Augustine had ordered for his guests. Mabel was in her
element, in her glory! She was to do the honours of her uncle’s house,
receive her uncle’s guests; and this to a lively girl of fifteen was a
dignity of no common order!
As carriage after carriage arrived, Mabel welcomed every new comer,
imitating Ida’s manner as well as her overflowing spirits would let her.
It was her chief pleasure to tell every friend whom she knew, that she
herself was to go in the balloon, to hear this one marvel at her courage,
and that one envy her rare fortune,—to feel herself something of a
heroine, an object of attention to those around her.
Dr. Bardon was one of the earliest arrivals at Aspendale Lodge. His first
question was, “Has the earl come?”
Mabel replied, “Not yet;” and he gave a malicious smile.
“What does the countess say to this?” inquired Mabel; “did she know that
you were coming to the Lodge?”
“I can scarcely make out what she knows or does not know, what she likes
or does not like,” said the doctor gruffly; “but I suspect she’ll look
out for the balloon. The wind, I see, is from the east; ’twill bear you
in the direction of Mill Cottage.”
The circle of guests would now have been complete, but for the
non-arrival of one. That one was most eagerly watched for. The
oft-repeated question, “Has the earl come?” was now exchanged for
another, “Will the earl come?” and jests were made, and bets were laid,
while every minute that elapsed added to the impatience of the party.
A large concourse of people had gathered in a neighbouring field, drawn
from a circuit of many miles to see the ascent of the _Eaglet_. Ayrton
had sent its labourers, Pelton its shopboys and mechanics; the ploughman
had left his team, and merry farmers’ wives had forsaken their dairies,
and come with their children and grandchildren to witness the wonderful
sight. The hedge which surrounded Augustine’s meadow was lined and
double lined with the eager heads of such spectators as these, while
around the balloon itself gathered a brilliant circle of gaily-dressed
guests, privileged to occupy a nearer place.
The great striped ball had now been swelled to its utmost dimensions, and
swayed gently to and fro, as if luxuriating in the sense of power, only
restrained by a number of strong ropes from bursting upwards towards the
skies.
“It is like swollen pride,” observed Mabel, “impatient to mount aloft.”
“And puffed out with the idea of its importance, like the fools of this
world,” added the doctor; “but,” he continued with a sardonic sneer,
“good strong cords of prudence will keep the most aspiring down!”
Augustine was annoyed at the sarcasm, and the pretty general remark
now occasioned by the non-arrival of Dashleigh. Mr. Verdon had quite
completed his preparations. In the gaily painted wicker car, ornamented
with little fluttering flags, the ballast had been carefully placed,
together with the grappling irons, a case of instruments to be used
by Augustine for scientific purposes, and “last, not least,” a basket
containing some refreshments, and two bottles of sparkling champagne.
Mabel was becoming almost wild with impatience, when suddenly the heads
of the outside spectators were turned round in an opposite direction from
that of the balloon, and then hats and handkerchiefs waved in the air,
and cheer after cheer from the rural crowd announced to the more select
circle that the long-expected was coming at last. Presently a chariot,
with servants in red liveries, and a coronet on the panel, dashed up
the hill to Aspendale Lodge! Mabel could not refrain from clapping her
hands. “He is come! he is come!” the murmur ran through the crowd, and
the guests assembled in the meadow simultaneously directed their gaze
towards the house. Augustine, with a sense of relief, hurried in to greet
his illustrious guest at the front entrance. After the lapse of some
minutes he emerged from the dwelling, and crossed his back garden on his
way to the meadow; while at his side, pale and silent as a corpse, walked
Reginald, Earl of Dashleigh.