“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.”
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“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.
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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 night!”
“creaking of doors, cracking of old timber, the wind whistling away in the chimneys!”
“well, i confess,” said cecilia, with a little affected laugh, “that delightful as the tower is on a summer’s day like this, i shall not care to wander much through its long echoing corridors on a dark winter’s night. mr. aumerle,” she continued, addressing[270] augustine, who was leaning on the stone parapet, and gazing down with an abstracted air, “you who know everything, do you know of no charm to lay the bad spirits that are said to haunt ancient houses?”
“i am afraid,” replied augustine gravely, “that such spirits are wont to haunt new houses as well as old ones, and that it needs more knowledge than philosophy can teach to give us the power to lay them.”
cecilia looked puzzled at the enigmatical reply, but before she had time to ask for a solution, mabel interrupted the conversation by suddenly exclaiming, “surely that is the dashleigh’s carriage that has just turned the corner of the hill!”
“we have stayed long enough on this tower,” said the doctor, averting his eyes from the direction in which those of mabel were turned; “let us descend to the court.”
his suggestion, which sounded like a command, was followed at once by his guests; poor cecilia heaved a sigh at the thought that once she might have indulged a hope that the gay carriage with its dashing bays might be bound for nettleby tower. “after all that has happened,” she reflected sadly, “that is impossible now!”
the descent of the long winding stairs, whose steep, rude, age-worn steps were only dimly lighted by narrow slits cut here and there in the massive[271] stone wall, required both caution and time. ere bardon, who was the last of the party, had emerged from the low-browed door which opened into the courtyard, the bridge across the moat had been crossed, and the earl and countess of dashleigh were already exchanging kindly greetings with the foremost of the aumerles.
the stern old doctor was more startled by the unexpected appearance at his threshold of visitors such as these, than he could have been by any apparition in his old haunted tower. mingled feelings of surprise, shame, remorse, and gratified pride struggled together in his bosom, as his eye met that of the nobleman from whose house he had turned with emotions of such vindictive wrath—words of such fiery passion! had bardon’s newly recovered estate depended upon his making such an effort, the proud man could not have bowed his spirit to the humiliation of visiting the earl; and yet the nobleman had come to him,—to him who had so meanly, so cruelly avenged one slighting sentence accidentally overheard!
dashleigh saw the surprise, the embarrassment written on the face of the haughty bardon,—he felt the delicacy of his own position, and resolutely breaking through what would once have been the inseparable barrier of reserve, he advanced two or three steps towards the doctor, and while a painful flush mantled over his wasted features, frankly held[272] out his hand. that hand was grasped—was wrung—but in silence; the proud man felt himself conquered; and from that hour the evil spirit of enmity between the two opponents was laid for ever!
can i add that the dark tyrant pride had for ever yielded up his empire, that he never again whispered his evil suggestions to those who so long had worn his chain?
alas! i dare not thus violate probability, or sacrifice the great truth of which this fiction is the fanciful vehicle. the contest against pride is a life-long campaign. from the time when he breathed ambition to eve in the words, ye shall be as gods, or roused in the heart of the first murderer the hatred which stained his hand with the blood of a more favoured brother, the influence of pride over our fallen race has been fearful, too often fatal! i have but sketched him in some of his forms,—of how many have i not even attempted to trace the outline! pride of purse, pride of person, family pride, national pride, the pride that draws the trigger of the duellist, that tightens the grasp of the oppressor, and, perhaps worst of all, spiritual pride, which brings satan before even the saintly in the guise of an angel of light! let some more powerful pencil draw these, till conscience start at the portrait of the demon who seeks the house that is cleansed and garnished, nor comes alone, but brings with him[273] ambition, dissension, jealousy, hatred, and other dark ministers of death.
reader! have you recognised pride as an evil, have you struggled with him as a foe? look to your soul and see if it bear not the mark of his galling chain. if the fetter be on it still, oh! with the strength of faith and the energy of prayer, burst it, even as samson burst the green withes with which a secret enemy had bound him! or, to change the metaphor, if you feel the proud spirit within, like the inflated sphere of the ?ronaut, ready to bear you aloft to a cloudy and perilous height, whence you will look down on your fellow-creatures, stop not to dally with danger, persuade not yourself that the peril is unreal, but resolute as one who knows that life and more than life is at stake, clip the soaring wing of the eaglet,—cut the cords of your balloon!
proud,—and of what? poor, vain, and helpless worm,
crawling in weakness through thy life’s brief term,
yet filled with thoughts presumptuous, bold, and high,
as though thy grovelling soul could scan the sky,—
as though thy wisdom, which cannot foreshow
what one day brings of coming weal or woe,
could pierce the depths of far futurity,
and all the winged shafts of fate defy!
art proud of riches? of the glittering dust
each day may rob thee of, and one day must;
when mines of wealth will purchase no delay,
when dust to dust must turn, and clay to clay,
and nought remain to thee, of all possessed,
save one dark cell in earth’s unconscious breast?
or proud of power? on this little ball
some petty tract may thee its master call,
some fellow-mortals, bending lowly down,
bask in thy smile, or tremble at thy frown
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great in the world’s eyes, in thine own more great,
how swells thy breast with conscious pride elate!
and art thou great? lift up—lift up thine eyes,
survey the heavens, gaze into the skies;
view the fair worlds that glitter o’er thy head,
orb above orb in bright succession spread,
beyond the reach of sight, the power of thought:—
then turn thy gaze to earth, and thou art—nought?
the globe itself a speck—an atom; thou—
oh! child of dust, shall pride exalt thee now?
in one thing only thou mayst glory still,
and let exulting joy thy bosom fill;
glory in this,—and what is all beside,
that for this worm, this atom,—jesus died.
does conscious genius fire thy haughty mind,
genius that raises man above his kind,—
the lofty soul that soars on wing of fire,
while crowds at distance marvel and admire?
oh! while the charmed world pays her homage just.
remember, every talent is a trust,
a treasure god doth to thy care confide,
a cause for gratitude, but none for pride!
if thou that precious talent misapply
to spread the power of infidelity,
to strew with flowers the path which sinners tread,
to hide one treacherous snare by satan spread,
how blest—how great compared to thee—that man
whose life obscurely ends as it began.
to whose meek soul no knowledge e’er was given,
save that, of all most high,—that guides to heaven
far as the sun’s pure radiance, streaming bright,
transcends the glow-worm’s dim and fading light,
the wisdom to his soul vouchsafed from high
exceeds the earth-born fires that flash—and die!
oh! where shall pride securely harbour then,
where urge his claims to rule the minds of men?
blest eden knew him not,—where all was fair—
where all was faultless—pride abode not there!
the glorious angels are above his sway,
their bliss to minister—to serve—obey;
we, only we, poor children of a day,
tread haughtily the ground for our sakes curst,
and wear with pride the chains our surety burst!
would that the world could know and truly prize
that which is great in the creator’s eyes!
the poor man, bending o’er his scanty store,
who, with god’s presence blest, desires no more,
who feels his sins—his weakness,—though his ways
be just and pure beyond all human praise;
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whose humble thoughts well with his prayer accord,
“have mercy upon me, a sinner, lord!”
who, heir of an eternal, heavenly throne,
rests all his hopes on christ, and christ alone!
wisest of men—for he alone is wise.—
richest of men—secure his treasure lies.—
greatest of men—his mansion is on high.
his father—god,—his rest—eternity!
