Love’s golden links alone unchanged remain,
Hallowed by faith, to be renewed in heaven again.”
“She has not a particle of pride!” Such may be the judgment5 of the world, which looks not below the surface, but the recording6 angel may give a very different account. Let us examine a little more closely into the character of the countess, and see if she may fairly be ranked amongst the poor in spirit, of whom is the kingdom of heaven.
Annabella had been an orphan7 almost from her birth, and had been brought up by a tender grandmother, since deceased, who had made an idol8 of her little darling, the heiress to all her wealth. As soon as the child had power to frame a sentence, that sentence was law to the household. Annabella, the fairy queen, acquired a habit of ruling, which gave a permanent cast to her mind. Gifted with joyous9 spirits, a sweet temper, and a strong desire to please, her pride was seldom offensive. Annabella’s subjects were willing, for the sovereign was beloved.
[61]
As the child grew into the woman, her views began to expand; she desired a wider sway. Annabella was not contented10 to rule merely in a household, to influence only a small circle of friends. Like those who cut their names on a pyramid, she was ambitious of leaving her mark on the world. The only instrument by which it seemed possible to accomplish this object of ambition was the pen. If “the press” is the fourth power in the state, Annabella resolved to have a share in that power. She had a lively fancy, a ready wit, and, to her transporting delight, her first essay was successful. The young lady’s contributions to a monthly periodical were indeed sent under a nom de guerre, but Annabella’s darling hope was to make that adopted title of “Egeria” famous throughout the land.
It was at this point of her history that the Earl of Dashleigh, smarting under the sting of mortified12 pride, and casually13 thrown much into the charming society of Annabella, made her the offer of his hand. The eye of the young heiress had not, like that of her cousin Ida, been fixed14 upon objects so high that the glare of earthly grandeur15 died away before it like the sparkles of fireworks below. Annabella was completely dazzled by the idea of such a brilliant alliance. Her imagination immediately invested the young earl with every great and glorious quality. Love threw a halo around him, and the maiden16 fancied that she saw realized in her noble suitor every[62] poetical17 dream of her girlhood. Nor was love the only chord that vibrated to rapture18 in the heart of Dashleigh’s young bride. Did not this elevation19 to rank and dignity offer at once a wider sphere to her eager ambition? From the rapidity of her conquest, Annabella deemed that her power over the earl would be unbounded, little imagining how much that conquest was owing to the effect of his pride and pique20.
Marriage soon undeceived Annabella. She found herself united to a man at least as proud as herself, though his pride took a different form. As long as the bride was contented simply to please, there was domestic harmony; Annabella was happy in her husband, and he thought that no companion could be so agreeable as his witty21 and lively wife. But the moment that the countess attempted to rule, the elements of discord22 began to work. The earl, who never lost consciousness of high birth and distinguished23 rank, was aware that he had married one who, though of good family, was yet considerably24 below himself in social position. This, however, would have mattered little, had Annabella readily accommodated herself to the new circumstances in which she was placed. The nobleman, in the famous old tale, had deigned25 to wed4 even the humble26 Griselda; he had had no reason to regret his choice, but then there was a difference, wide as north from south, between Griselda and Annabella! As soon as the[63] young countess became aware that her husband felt that he had stooped a little when he raised her to share his rank, all her pride at once rose in arms. She was more determined27 than ever to assert the independence which she regarded as the right of her sex.
The bond which pride had first helped to form was ill fitted to bear the daily strain which was now put upon it. Annabella, all the romance of courtship over, saw her idol without its gilding, the halo of fancy faded away, and he over whom its lustre28 had been thrown, appeared but as an ordinary mortal. In a thousand little ways, scarcely apparent to any but the parties immediately concerned, the habits and wishes of the ill-assorted couple jarred painfully on each other. Pride revelled29 in his work of mischief30 as he glided31 from the one to the other.
“Your wife,” he would whisper to the earl, “with all her talents, and all her charms, is ill fitted for the station which she holds. She has not the dignity, the stateliness of mien32 which would beseem the lady of Dashleigh Hall. She has vulgar tastes, vulgar friends, vulgar amusements. Her very dress is not such as becomes the wife of a peer of the realm. She is giddy, fantastic, and vain, and altogether devoid33 of a due sense of your condescension34 in placing her at the head of your splendid establishment. Your choice has been a mistake.”
Then the spirit of mischief would breathe out his[64] treason to Annabella: “Your husband, if superior to you in descent, you have now discovered to be so in no single other point. He has neither your wit nor your spirit. He is rather a weak, though an obstinate35 man, and thinks much more than common-sense warrants of what has been called ‘the accident of birth.’ Have you not much more reason to exult36 in belonging to the aristocracy of talent, than that of mere11 rank like him? Do you glory in the name of Countess as you do in that of ‘Egeria,’ by which alone you are known to reading thousands?”
Having thus given my readers a glimpse of “the skeleton in the house” where all appears outwardly so full of enjoyment37, I will take up my thread where I laid it down, and return to the drawing-room of Dashleigh Hall.
Dr. Bardon, as we have seen, had been restored to good humour by the tact38 and attentions of the countess, and Cecilia exhausted39 all her superlatives in admiration40 of everything that she saw. The conversation flowed pleasantly between Annabella and the doctor, for Bardon was a well read and intelligent man, and literature was the countess’s passion. Cecilia, however, found the discourse41 assuming too much of the character of a tête-a-tête, and not being content to remain exclusively a listener, watched eagerly for an opportunity to drop in her little contribution to “the feast of reason and the flow of soul.”
“Yes, the world is much like a library,” said[65] Annabella, in reply to an observation from the doctor, “but most persons enter it rather to give a superficial glance at the binding42 of the books, than to make themselves masters of the contents.”
“They are satisfied if the gilding lie thick enough on the backs of the tomes,” said the doctor.
“But what a deep, what a curious study would every character be, if we could read it through from beginning to end (skipping the preface, of course, for school-boys and school-girls are objects of natural aversion). What romances would some lives disclose—while others would offer the most forcible sermons that ever were written. What exquisite43 beauty, what touching44 poetry we might find in the daily course of some whom now we regard with little attention!”
“Your lovely Cousin Ida, for instance,” chimed in Cecilia, trying to catch the tone of the conversation, “I always think of her as a living poem!”
“If Ida be a poem,” said Annabella rather coldly, “she is certainly one in blank verse,—a new version of ‘Young’s Night Thoughts,’ exceedingly admirable and sublime45!”
The countess had always professed46 herself attached to her cousin, with whom she had from childhood interchanged a thousand little tokens of affection. She would have done much to promote the happiness of Ida, or to avert47 from her any real sorrow, and yet—strange contradiction—Annabella never liked to[66] hear warm praise of her friend. It almost appeared as though the countess considered the admiration accorded to her beautiful cousin as so much subtracted from herself. When just commendation of another excites an uneasy sensation in our minds, we need no supernatural power to recognise in it the fretting48 jar of the jealous chain which pride has fixed on our souls.
Annabella was also at this time a little displeased49 with her cousin. Ida Aumerle, from motives50 of delicacy51 which the reader will understand though the countess could not, had declined repeated invitations to pay a long visit to Dashleigh Hall. Annabella, who was eager to show her new possessions to the friend of her youth, was hurt at what appeared to her to be coldness, if not unkindness. To be easily offended is one of the most indubitable marks of pride, and from this Annabella was certainly not free.
While the preceding conversation was proceeding52 in the drawing-room, a horseman, attended by a groom53, rode up to the entrance of Dashleigh Hall. He was a man who had scarcely yet reached the meridian54 of life. His figure was graceful55, though affording small promise of physical strength; his features well-formed, and of almost feminine delicacy, though the prevailing56 expression which sat upon them was one of conscious superiority,—now softening57 into condescension, now, at any real or imagined affront58, rising into that of offended dignity.
[67]
Reginald, Earl of Dashleigh—for this was he—seemed, figuratively speaking, never to be out of the cumbersome59 robes in which, on state occasions, he appeared as a peer of the realm. Whether he mingled60 in society, or conversed61 alone with his wife, proffered62 hospitality, or received it, he appeared to feel the weight of a coronet always encircling his brow. The question which he asked himself before entering upon any line of action, was less whether it were right or wrong, prudent63 or foolish, as whether it were worthy64 of Reginald, twelfth Earl of Dashleigh. Pride had kept the young nobleman from many of the vices65 and follies66 of his age; pride had prevented him from doing anything that might injure his character in the eyes of the world, and had led him to do many things which gained for him popular applause; but pride, at the best, is but a miserable67 substitute for a higher principle of action; its fruits may appear fair to the eye, but are dust and corruption68 within.
The earl was not a remarkably69 skilful70 rider. Nature had not gifted him with either muscular strength or iron nerve. At the moment that he reached his own door his horsemanship was put to unpleasant proof. An incident, ludicrous as that which Cowper has celebrated71 in his humorous poem, proved that the same mishaps72 may overtake a peer of the realm, and “a citizen of credit and renown73.” The sudden, prolonged bray74 of a donkey—most unwonted[68] sound in that lordly place—startled the steed which was ridden by the earl. Its sudden plunge75 unseated its rider, and the illustrious aristocrat76 measured his length upon the road! The accident was of no serious nature; the nobleman was in an instant again on his feet, shaking the dust from his garments; nothing had suffered from the fall but Reginald’s dignity, and, consequently, his temper. The accident appeared absurd from its cause, and Dashleigh was more provoked at the occurrence than he might have been had some grave evil befallen him.
“How came that brute77 there?” he exclaimed to the servants, who officiously crowded around him with proffers78 of assistance, which were impatiently rejected by their master. “How came that brute there?” he angrily repeated, looking indignantly at the animal which had drawn79 Dr. Bardon’s humble conveyance80, and which was now quietly feeding in the luxuriant pasture of the park.
“Please you, my lord, visitors to see her ladyship came in that chaise,” replied a footman, scarcely able to suppress a smile.
“Visitors!” said the earl sharply; “the milliner or the dressmaker, I suppose. Tell Mills at the lodge81 never again to suffer such a thing to enter the gate;” and without troubling himself with further investigation82, the nobleman entered into his house. As he did so, he turned to his butler—“Let covers[69] be laid for three,” he said, in a tone of command; “and give the housekeeper83 notice that the Duke of Montleroy is likely to be here at luncheon84.”
“Covers are laid already for four, by her ladyship’s order,” said the butler.
“Indeed! what guests are expected?” asked the earl.
“The lady and gentleman, my lord, who came in the chaise, and who are now in the drawing-room,” was the reply.
The earl stalked into the library in a state, not only of high irritation85 and annoyance86, but also of considerable perplexity. Annabella had never before appeared to him so utterly87 regardless of his wishes and feelings, so completely destitute88 of a sense of what was due to her position. To invite low people—for such, he thought, that her guests assuredly must be—to share her meal, to be introduced to her husband, it was an offence scarcely to be forgiven! And what was to be done on the present occasion? Dashleigh had, on that morning, casually met and invited a duke! It would be impossible to insult a man of his quality by making him sit at the same table with such canaille! The idea of such a breach89 of etiquette90 was abhorrent91 to the feelings of the aristocrat, and yet, how was the reality to be avoided? Annabella had invited her own friends, and the earl was too much of a gentleman to be willing to commit any decided92 breach of[70] courtesy towards his wife’s guests, even though they might have come in a donkey conveyance.
We talk of the petty miseries93 of pride; to Dashleigh the misery94 was not petty. It was with feelings of serious annoyance that he rang his library bell, and bade the servant who answered it request his lady to speak with the earl directly.
The message was carried to Annabella while she was pursuing with the doctor a playful argument on some literary question.
“Is the earl aware that I am engaged with guests?” asked the incautious countess.
“His lordship knows who is here,” replied the servant.
Annabella instantly perceived her mistake, for she saw the blood mount to the cheek of the sensitive old Doctor. His pride was evidently on the qui vive; and it served to awaken95 hers. The countess felt somewhat disposed to return to her liege lord such an answer as Horatio received from his widow. She had no inclination96 to play Griselda in the presence of her early friends. She contented herself, however, with showing that she was in no haste to obey the summons of her titled husband, and finished her discussion before (after apologizing to the Bardons for a brief absence) she proceeded to the library, where her indignant lord was impatiently awaiting her.
Dr. Bardon walked up to the window with his hands behind him, and waited for a space in silence.[71] Cecilia saw by the motion of his feet that a storm was brewing97 in the air. Presently he turned suddenly round with the question: “Do you suppose that this earl means to make his appearance?”
“Ye-e-es,” replied Cecilia timidly.
“No!” exclaimed the doctor fiercely. The two words, and the manner of pronouncing them, were characteristic of father and daughter, and might almost have been adopted as mottoes by the twain. “Yes” was very often on Cecilia’s lips, but she appeared to feel the affirmation too short to answer the full purpose of politeness, and always managed to drawl out the monosyllable to the length of three. Bardon’s “No,” on the contrary, came out short and sharp, like a bark. He seemed to concentrate into it his haughty98 spirit of perpetual dissent99 from the opinions of the rest of the world.
“I should not wonder if the poor girl has got into a scrape for inviting100 us,” was the doctor’s next observation.
“Oh! dear papa!” exclaimed Cecilia, in an expostulatory tone, though the same thought had just been passing through her own mind.
“I’m not going to wait here like a lackey101 in a lobby!” said the doctor, moving towards the door. Cecilia was in a tremour of apprehension102.
“Papa, papa! we can’t slip away without bidding the countess good-bye,—without seeing the earl,—it would look so odd, so rude.”
[72]
“What’s odd and rude is their leaving us here, without paying us common civility! I’ll stand it no longer!” cried the irascible man; and opening the door, he proceeded along the corridor which led to the hall, followed by his expostulating daughter.
Unfortunately, their course lay past the library; and more unfortunately still, the library door happened to be very slightly ajar.
“Can’t you manage some way of getting rid of these miserable Bardons?” were the words, pronounced in an irritated tone, which struck like a pistol-shot on the ears of the countess’s guests.
It was as though that pistol-shot had exploded a mine of gunpowder103! To the earl’s amazement104 the library door was suddenly flung wide open, and, quivering with irrepressible rage, the fiery105 old doctor stood before him.
“Manage!” exclaimed Bardon, in a voice of thunder; “there is little management required in dismissing those who, had they known the despicable pride which inhabits here, would never have stooped,—never have stooped,” he repeated, “to degrade themselves by crossing your threshold! You have dared to apply to us the epithet106 of miserable,” continued Bardon, bringing out the word as with a convulsive effort, and fixing his fierce eye upon the disconcerted peer; “I retort back the opprobrious107 term! Who is miserable but the miserable slave of pride,—the worshipper of rank, the gilded108 puppet[73] of society, who claims from his ancestors’ name the importance which attaches to nothing of his own? This is the first time, sir, that I have visited you, and it shall be the last,—the last time that you shall have the opportunity of insulting, under your own roof, a gentleman whose pretensions109 to respect are, at least, as well grounded as yours, and who would not exchange his independence of spirit for all the pomp and pageantry which can never give dignity to their possessor, nor avert from him merited contempt!” With the last words on his lips, Bardon turned and departed; his loud, tramping step echoing along the hall, before the earl had time to recover his breath.
Annabella, agitated110 and excited, appeared about to hurry after her guests, but with an imperious gesture Dashleigh prevented his wife from doing so. Bitterly mortified at what had occurred, irritated, wounded, and offended, the countess burst into a flood of passionate111 tears.
Pride reigned112 triumphant113 that day in the Hall. He had worked out his evil will. He had steeped hearts in bitter gall114; he had loosened the bond between husband and wife; he had brought envy, hatred115, malice116, and all uncharitableness, to rush in at the breach which he had insidiously117 made.
The countess spent the rest of the day in her own apartment. She would not appear at her husband’s table, nor entertain her husband’s guest. She had[74] not learned to bear or to forbear; least of all was she prepared to submit her will to that of her imperious lord. Even when the breach between them appeared to be healed, it left its visible scar behind; the wound was ready to break out afresh, for the soft balm of meekness118 and love had not been poured upon it, and what else can effectually cure the hurt caused by the envenomed shaft119 of pride?
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1
nuptial
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| adj.婚姻的，婚礼的 | |
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2
gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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fetter
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| n./vt.脚镣，束缚 | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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12
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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pique
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| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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revelled
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| v.作乐( revel的过去式和过去分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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exult
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| v.狂喜，欢腾；欢欣鼓舞 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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avert
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| v.防止，避免；转移(目光、注意力等) | |
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fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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cumbersome
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| adj.笨重的，不便携带的 | |
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60
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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66
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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67
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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72
mishaps
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| n.轻微的事故，小的意外( mishap的名词复数 ) | |
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renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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bray
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| n.驴叫声, 喇叭声；v.驴叫 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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proffers
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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81
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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89
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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101
lackey
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| n.侍从；跟班 | |
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102
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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103
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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104
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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105
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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107
opprobrious
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| adj.可耻的，辱骂的 | |
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108
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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109
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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111
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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112
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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113
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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114
gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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115
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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116
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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117
insidiously
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| 潜在地，隐伏地，阴险地 | |
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118
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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119
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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