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Ebook has 991 lines and 65512 words, and 20 pages

"The wound which she inflicted was not a deep one," remarked Intemperance. "Dashleigh was speedily consoled, without even seeking comfort from me."

"I poisoned his wound," exclaimed Pride, "and drove him to seek instant cure. Dashleigh's rejection aroused in his breast as much indignation as grief; and I made the disappointed and irritated man at once offer his hand to one who was not likely to decline it, Annabella, the young cousin of Ida."

"And what said the high-souled Ida to the sudden change in the object of his devotion?"

"I breathed in her ear," answered Pride, "the suggestion, 'He might have waited a little longer.' I called up a flush to the maiden's cheek when she received tidings of the hasty engagement. But still I met with little but repulse. With maidenly reserve Ida concealed even from her own family a secret which pride might have led her to reveal, and none more affectionately congratulated the young countess on her engagement, than she who might have worn the honours which now devolved upon another."

"Ida Aumerle appears to be gifted with such a power of resisting your influence and repelling your temptations, that I can scarcely imagine," quoth Intemperance, "upon what you can ground your assurance that you hold her captive at length. Pride of beauty, pride of conquest, pride of ambition, she has subdued; to spiritual pride she never has yielded. What dart remains in your quiver when so many have swerved from the mark?"

"Or rather, have fallen blunted from the shield of faith," gloomily interrupted Pride. "Ida's real danger began when she thought the dart too feeble to render it needful to lift the shield against it. Ida, on her return home, found her father on the point of contracting a second marriage with a lady who had been one of his principal assistants in arranging and keeping in order the machinery of his parish. Miss Lambert, by her activity and energy, seemed a most fitting help-meet for a pastor. She was Aumerle's equal in fortune and birth, and not many years his junior in age. She had been always on good terms with his family, and the connection appeared one of the most suitable that under the circumstances could have been formed. And so it might have proved," continued Pride, "but for me!"

"Is Mrs. Aumerle, then, under your control?"

"She is somewhat proud of her good management, of her clear common sense, of her knowledge of the world," was the dark one's reply; "and this is one cause of the coldness between her and the daughters of her husband. Ida, from childhood, had been accustomed to govern her own actions and direct her own pursuits. Steady and persevering in character, she had not only pursued a course of education by herself, but had superintended that of her more impetuous sister. Since her mother's death Ida had been subject to no sensible control, for her father looked upon her as perfection, and left her a degree of freedom which to most girls might have been highly dangerous. Thus her spirit had become more independent, and her opinions more formed than is usual in those of her age. On her father's marriage Ida found herself dethroned from the position which she so long had held. She was second where she had been first,--second in the house, second in the parish, second in the affections of a parent whom she almost idolatrously loved. I saw that the moment had come for inflicting a pang; you will believe that the opportunity was not trifled away! Ida had been accustomed to lead rather than to follow. She exercised almost boundless influence over her sister Mabel, and was regarded as an oracle by the poor. Another was now taking her place, and another whose views on many subjects materially differed from her own, who saw various duties in a different light, and whose character disposed her to act in petty matters the part of a zealous reformer. I marked Ida's annoyance at changes proposed, improvements resolved on, and I silently pushed my advantage. I have now placed Ida in the position of an independent state, armed to resist encroachments from, and owning no allegiance to a powerful neighbour. There is indeed no open war; decency, piety, and regard for the feelings of a husband and father alike forbid all approach to that; but there is secret, ceaseless, determined opposition. I never suffer Ida to forget that her own tastes are more refined, her ideas more elevated than those of her step-mother; and I will not let her perceive that in many of the affairs of domestic life, Mrs. Aumerle, as she had wider experience, has also clearer judgment than herself. I represent advice from a step-mother as interference, reproof from a step-mother as persecution, and draw Ida to seek a sphere of her own as distinct as possible from that of the woman whom her father has chosen for his wife."

"Doubtless you occasionally remind the fair maid," suggested Intemperance, "that but for her own heroic unworldliness she might have been a peeress of the realm."

"O Pride, Pride!" exclaimed Intemperance with a burst of admiration, "I am a child in artifice compared with you!"

"Rest assured that when any young mortal is disposed to look down upon one placed above her by the will of a higher power, that pride is lingering near."

"And by what name may you be known in this particular phase of your being?" inquired Intemperance.

SNARES.

HENRY ST. GEORGE TUCKER.

"The pastor and his wife I see approaching the church," observed Intemperance, glancing down in the direction of the path along which advanced a rather stout lady, with large features and high complexion, who was leaning on the arm of a tall, handsome, but rather heavily-built man, in whose mild, dark eyes might be traced a resemblance to those of his daughter.

"They come early," said Pride; "he, to prepare for service; his wife, to hear the school children rehearse the hymns appointed for the day. This was once Ida's weekly care; she is far more qualified for the charge than her step-mother, and the music has suffered from the change."

"Ida showed humility, at least, in yielding up that charge," remarked Intemperance.

"Is the minister himself a good man?" inquired Intemperance.

"Good! yes, good, if any of the worms of earth can be called so," replied Pride, with gloomy bitterness, "for he does not regard himself as good. Naturally weak and corrupt are the best of mortals, prone to fall, and liable to sin, yet I succeed in persuading many that the gold which is intrusted to their keeping imparts some intrinsic merit to the clay vessel which contains it; that the cinder, glowing bright from the fire which pervades it, is in itself a brilliant and beautiful thing!"

"But Lawrence Aumerle was never your captive?"

"I thought once that he would be so," replied Pride, his features darkening at the recollection of disappointment and failure. "Aumerle had been a singularly prosperous man--his life had appeared one uninterrupted course of success. Easy in circumstances, cherished in his family, a favourite in society, beloved by the poor, with a disposition easy and tranquil, disturbed by no violent passion,--the lot of Aumerle was one which might well render him a subject of envy. In the pleasantness of that lot lay its peril. Aumerle was not the first saint who in prosperity has thought that he should never be moved, who has been tempted to regard earthly blessings as tokens of Heaven's peculiar favour. He knew little of the burden and heat of the day, still less of the strife and the struggle. Self-satisfaction was beginning to creep over his soul, as vegetation mantles a standing pool over which the rough winds never sweep. 'He is mine!' I thought, 'mine until death, and indolence and apathy shall soon add their links to the chain forged by pride of prosperity.' But mine was not the only eye that was watching the Vicar of Ayrley. There is an ever-wakeful Wisdom which ofttimes defeats my most subtle schemes, leading the blind by a way they know not, drawing back wandering souls to the orbit of duty, even as that same Wisdom hangs the round world upon nothing, and guides the stars in their courses! My chain was suddenly snapped asunder by a blow which came from a hand of love, but which, in its needful force, laid prostrate the soul which it saved. Aumerle's loved partner was smitten with sickness, smitten unto death, and the doating husband wrestled in agonizing prayer for her who was dearer to him than life. The prayer was not granted, for the wings of the saint were fledged. She escaped, like a freed bird, from the power of temptation, for ever! Her husband remained behind,--Lawrence Aumerle was an altered man. Earth had lost for him its alluring charm, and enchained his affections no more. He was softened--humbled," continued Pride, with the bitterness of one who records his own defeat, "and in another world he will reckon as the most signal mercy of his life the tempest which scattered his joys, and dashed his hopes to the ground! Let us not speak of him more," continued the fierce spirit with impatience; "his younger brother, the stately Augustine, will not shake off my yoke so lightly."

"His pride may well be personal pride," said Intemperance, following the direction of the glance of his stern companion, "if that be he who, with the rest of the congregation, is now obeying the summons of the church bells. Mine eyes never rested on a more goodly man."

"Is he then a sceptic?" inquired Intemperance.

"Who is he with the long white hair," asked his companion, "who even now glanced up at these old towers with an expression so stern and so sad?"

"He who was once their heir," replied Pride. "You see Timon Bardon, whom you and I disinherited through the power which we possessed over his father."

"Have you not thereby lost the son?" asked Intemperance. "Would not the pride of wealth--"

He was rudely interrupted by his associate--"Know you not that there is also a pride of poverty?" he cried. "Have you forgotten that there is the acid fermentation as well as the vinous? Ha! ha! my influence is recognised over the rich and the great; but who knows--who knows," he repeated, clenching his shadowy hand, "in how heavy a grasp I can hold down the poor! But I can no longer linger here," continued Pride; "I must mingle with yon crowd of worshippers, even as they enter the house of prayer. Unless I keep close at the side of each, they may derive some benefit from the sermon, from forgetting to criticise the preacher."

"And I," exclaimed Intemperance, "must now away to do my work of death amongst such as never enter a house of prayer."

And so the two evil spirits parted, each on his own dark errand. My tale deals only with Pride, and rather as his influence is seen in the actions and characters of the human beings to whom the preceding conversation related, than as possessing any distinct existence of his own. Let these three first chapters be regarded as a preface in dialogue, explaining the design of my little volume; or as a glimpse of the hidden clockwork which, itself unseen, directs the movements of everyday life. Most thankful should I be if such a glimpse could induce my reader to look nearer at home; if, when ubiquitous Pride speaks to the various characters in this tale, the reader should ask himself whether there be not something familiar in the tone of that voice, and with a searching glance examine whether his own soul be clogged with no link of the tyrant's chain,--whether he himself be not a prisoner of Pride.

A GLANCE INTO THE COTTAGE.

"Where's he for honest poverty Wha hangs his head, and a' that, The coward slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that."

BURNS.

The "small grey speck" just visible from the summit of Nettleby Tower, on nearer approach expands into a stone cottage, which, excepting that it has two storeys instead of one, and can boast an iron knocker to the door, and an apology for a verandah round the window, has little that could serve to distinguish it from the dwelling of a common labourer.

We will not pause in the little garden, even to look at the bed of polyanthus in which its possessor takes great pride; we will at once enter the single sitting-room which occupies almost the whole of the ground floor, and after taking a glance at the apartment, give a little attention to its occupants.

It is evident, even on the most superficial survey, that different tastes have been concerned in the fitting up of the cottage. Most of the furniture is plain, even to coarseness; the table is of deal, and so are the chairs, but over the first a delicate cover has been thrown, and the latter--to the annoyance of the master of the house--are adorned with a variety of tidies, which too often form themselves into superfluous articles of dress for those who chance to occupy the seats. The wall is merely white-washed, but there has been an attempt to make it look gay, by hanging on it pale watercolour drawings of flowers, bearing but an imperfect resemblance to nature. One end of the room is devoted to the arts, and bears unmistakable evidence of the presence of woman in the dwelling. A green guitar-box, from which peeps a broad pink ribbon, occupies a place in the corner, half hidden by a little table, on which, most carefully arranged, appear several small articles of vertu. A tiny, round mirror occupies the centre, attached to an ornamental receptacle for cards; two or three miniatures in morocco cases, diminutive cups and saucers of porcelain, and a pair of china figures which have suffered from time, the one wanting an arm and the other a head,--these form the chief treasures of the collection, if I except a few gaily bound books, which are so disposed as to add to the general effect.

At this end of the room sits a lady engaged in cutting out a tissue paper ornament for the grate; for though the weather is cold, no chilliness of atmosphere would be thought to justify a fire in that room from the 1st of April to that of November. The lady, who is the only surviving member of the family of Timon Bardon and his late wife the farmer's daughter, seems to have numbered between thirty and forty years of age,--it would be difficult to say to which date the truth inclines, for Cecilia herself would never throw light on the subject. Miss Bardon's complexion is sallow; her tresses light, the eye-lashes lighter, and the brows but faintly defined. There is a general appearance of whity brown about the face, which is scarcely redeemed from insipidity by the lustre of a pair of mild, grey eyes.

But if there be a want of colour in the countenance, the same fault cannot be found in the attire, which is not only studiously tasteful and neat, but richer in texture, and more fashionable in style, than might have been expected in the occupant of so poor a cottage. The fact is, that Cecilia Bardon's pride and passion is dress; it has been her weakness since the days of her childhood, when a silly mother delighted to deck out her first-born in all the extravagance of fashion. It is this pride which makes the struggle with poverty more severe, and which is the source of the selfishness which occasionally surprises her friends in one, on all other points, the most kindly and considerate of women. Cecilia would rather go without a meal than wear cotton gloves, and a silk dress affords her more delight than any intellectual feast. She had a sore struggle in her mind whether to expend the little savings of her allowance on a much-needed curtain to the window to keep out draughts in winter and glare in summer, a subscription to the village school, or a pair of fawn-coloured kid boots, which had greatly taken her fancy. Prudence, Charity, Vanity, contended together, but the fawn-coloured boots carried the day! One of them is now resting on a footstool, shewing off as neat a little foot as ever trod on a Brussels carpet,--at least, such is the opinion of its possessor. Grim Pride must have laughed when he framed his fetters of such flimsy follies as these!

Opposite to Cecilia sits her father, whose appearance, as well as character, offers a strong contrast to that of his daughter. Dr. Bardon is a man who, though his dress be of the commonest description, could hardly be passed in a crowd without notice. His dark eyes flash under thick, beetling, black brows with all the fire of youth; and but for the long white hair which falls almost as low as his shoulders, and furrows on each side of the mouth, caused by a trick of frequently drawing the corners downwards, Timon Bardon would appear almost too young to be the father of Cecilia. There is something leonine in the whole cast of his countenance, something that conveys an impression that he holds the world at bay, will shake his white mane at its darts, and make it feel the power of his claws. The doctor's occupation, however, at present is of the quietest description,--he is reading an old volume of theology, and his mind is absorbed in his subject. Presently a muttered "Good!" shows that he is satisfied with his author, and Bardon, after vainly searching his pockets, rises to look for a pencil to mark the passage that he approves.

He saunters up to Cecilia's show-table, and examines the ornamental card-rack attached to the tiny round mirror.

"Never find anything useful here!" he growls to himself; then, addressing his daughter, "Why don't you throw away these dirty cards, I'm sick of the very sight of them!"

Cecilia half rises in alarm, which occasions a shower of little pink paper cuttings to flutter from her knee to the floor. "O papa! don't, don't throw them away; they're the countess's wedding cards!"

Down went the corners of the lips. "Were they a duchess's," said Dr. Bardon, "there would be no reason for sticking them there for years."

"Only one year and ten months since Annabella married," timidly interposed Cecilia.

"What is it to me if it be twenty!" said the doctor, walking up and down the room as he spoke; "she's nothing to us, and we're nothing to her!"

"O papa! you used always to like Annabella."

"I liked Annabella well enough, but I don't care a straw for the countess; and if she had cared for me, she'd have managed to come four miles to see me."

"She has been abroad for some time, and--"

"And she has done with little people like us," said the doctor, drawing himself up to his full height, and looking as if he did not feel himself to be little at all. "I force my acquaintance on no one, and would not give one flower from my garden for the cards of all the peerage."

Cecilia felt the conversation unpleasant, and did not care to keep it up. She bent down, and picked up one by one the scraps of pink paper which she had scattered. Something like a sigh escaped from her lips.

Dr. Bardon was the first to speak.

"I saw Augustine Aumerle yesterday at church; I suppose he's on a visit to his brother the vicar."

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