“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.
“Oh, let the ungentle spirit learn from hence, A small unkindness is a great offence!”
“Don’t talk to me,” cried Mrs. Aumerle, in the tone of decision which to her was habitual; “I say that a young wife does wrong, exceedingly wrong, in leaving the home of her natural protector, and throwing herself back upon her own family, just because she and her husband have chanced to have some unpleasant words together.”
The time was the afternoon of the day following that of Annabella’s unexpected arrival; the scene was the sitting-room at the vicarage; the auditor, Mabel Aumerle.
“Unpleasant words!” repeated Mabel angrily; “why the earl tore her writing to pieces, and ordered her out of the room, before her own servant—only think of that, before her own liveried servant! No woman of spirit could submit to that!”
“Woman of spirit—nonsense!” cried the step-mother, “a woman’s spirit ought to be one of submission.”