On that evening, a small but cheerful party were assembled in the sitting-room of the vicarage. Dr. Bardon and his daughter Cecilia, oft-invited guests, had joined the circle of the Aumerles. A week never passed without some little act of kindness being shown by the clergyman or his family to the disinherited man. Bardon heartily esteemed, and even felt a warm regard for the vicar. But let it not be supposed that he was overburdened with a sense of gratitude for unwearying kindness and attention. No, he was far too proud for that. The doctor was ever keeping a balance in his mind between benefits received and benefits conferred; and by means of that curious mental instrument, of which Mabel had penetrated the secret, he managed always, in his own opinion, to keep the balance weighed down in his favour. If the Aumerles showed him hospitality, it was, he easily persuaded himself, because they were really glad to have a little society. Bardon did them an actual favour by so often eating their dinners! Volunteered advice upon diet and medical subjects, though given to those whose health was perfect, the doctor also regarded as obligations of no trivial nature; and he often calculated how much the Aumerles owed to him in the shape of fees!

On this evening the mind of Bardon was particularly easy, for he had brought to the vicar the gift of a crystallized pebble, which he had discovered in some ancient drawer, and which, he was perfectly assured, must be a curious geological specimen. The Aumerles had sufficient of that politeness which is “good-nature refined,” to humour the fancy of their guest; and there was a discussion for nearly twenty minutes upon the beauties, peculiarities, and supposed origin of the wonderful stone.

A heavy rain is pattering without, and flashes of bright lightning are occasionally reflected on the wall; but safe in the comfortable dwelling, the party give little heed to the weather. In one corner sits Dr. Bardon, engaged in a game of chess with Mrs. Aumerle. He considers that he is giving her a lesson; she, having no particular desire to learn the game, and finding no great amusement in an inevitable check-mate, is good-humouredly submitting to be beaten for the gratification of her guest. Cecilia, rather over-dressed, as usual, as if, as Mabel once observed, she were always expecting a grand party, after much persuasion, which she regards as the indispensable prelude to her performance, has passed her pink ribbon over her neck, and is giving her friends a song, to the accompaniment of the guitar. It is with her music as with things more important, Cecilia, in her efforts to rise above mediocrity, only manages to sink below it. She is not contented with the soft middle tones, in which her voice shows considerable sweetness; Cecilia must sing very high; and the painful result is, that the strained organ cannot reach the prescribed point, falls flat, and discord annoys the ear. Miss Bardon is not satisfied with simple ballads, which she could sing with feeling and taste; she must show off her very indifferent execution in difficult bravura airs. As her dress must be that of a peeress, so her music must be that of a professor. Cecilia aims not at giving pleasure, but at exciting admiration, and succeeds in accomplishing neither object. Poor Ida, a distressed listener to the flourishes in “Bel raggio lusinghier,” is meditating how she can contrive to unite politeness with truthfulness; and in thanking Miss Bardon for her song, neither violate sincerity nor hurt the feelings of her sensitive friend. Mabel, who has kept up a low, whispered conversation with her uncle at the very farthest end of the room, is impatiently waiting till Cecilia’s cadenzas and appoggiaturas shall cease, to speak to her father on a subject of which her mind is quite full.

The last twang at length is given; Ida says, what she can say; if it be a little less than the singer would have liked, it is a little more than the speaker’s conscience could warrant. Mr. Aumerle’s simple thanks have been uttered, and Mabel, released from the necessity of being comparatively quiet, runs up to her father, and says, playfully leaning on his arm; “O papa! I have such a favour, such a great favour to ask of you!”

“If it be anything reasonable.”

“I don’t know if you’ll think it reasonable or not, but Uncle Augustine sees no objections. He says that he will, if you only consent, take me up with him in the balloon!”

“My child!” exclaimed the vicar.

“Bless the girl!” cried Mrs. Aumerle from her chess-board. Cecilia lifted her hands in surprise, while Dr. Bardon laughed aloud.

“O papa! what’s the harm? It is not as if a party of strangers were going on the airy excursion,—people who did not know how to manage. Mr. Verdon is so experienced, he has been up fourteen or fifteen times, and no accident ever has happened. Uncle Augustine goes himself!”

“But because Uncle Augustine chooses to risk his own neck sky-larking amongst the clouds, I see no reason why he should carry my little girl with him on a dangerous excursion.”

“Shakspeare tells us,” said Augustine, coming towards the centre of the room, “that

but the poet adds

When steam-vessels were first introduced it was thought an act of daring to go in one,—when railroads were yet a novelty it was foolhardiness to venture in a train.”

“Perhaps,” joined in the eager Mabel, “balloons will some day become as common as carriages!”

“In that case,” observed the doctor, “perhaps Miss Mabel will not care to enter one.”

Mabel coloured and laughed. “I daresay,” she replied, “that there is something in the excitement and danger,—supposed danger I mean,—that makes the thought of such a trip so delightful. I should like, I own, to do something which no lady in the county ever has done before.”

“That’s pride,” said her step-mother abruptly.

Such a gush of fierce angry emotion rose in the heart of the young girl at the word, opprobrious and yet so true, that Augustine, perceiving her feelings in her face, and fearing that she might give them vent, thought it as well to effect an immediate diversion. “I hope,” said he, turning towards the doctor, “that you and Miss Bardon will honour Aspendale by your presence on the day of the ascent of the Eaglet.”

The doctor bowed, for his sensitiveness was gratified by the respectful terms in which the invitation was couched.

“We shall not be a large, but a select party,” continued Augustine Aumerle. “I met Reginald Dashleigh to-day, and I think that he and his lady will come to witness the ascent.”

“Do you mean to say that you expect the earl as one of your guests?” exclaimed Bardon.

“If nothing prevent, I think that you will meet him at my house.”

“Something will prevent!” cried the old lion, shaking his white mane with haughty disdain. “I am willing to meet at your table any one else whom you may choose to invite;—I would sit down with farmer—ploughboy—pauper, but not—not with Reginald Earl of Dashleigh!”

An uncomfortable silence instantly fell like cold water over the circle; the vicar, a peacemaker by nature as well as profession, was particularly annoyed by this unexpected declaration of enmity against his niece’s husband, made by one of his own oldest friends. He was in act to speak, when Mabel suddenly exclaimed, “There is the sound of a carriage!”

“You must be mistaken,” said Mrs. Aumerle, “no one would come at this hour, and especially on so stormy an evening.”

“But it is a carriage,” said Mabel, going to the window, “I see the red liveries of the Dashleighs.”

The sentence unconsciously escaped her lip, and she bit it with vexation at having thoughtlessly uttered the name; for the doctor started up from his seat so hastily, that he upset the chess-table before him.

This created a little noise and confusion, in the midst of which Annabella suddenly entered the room unannounced, looking so haggard and ill, that her uncle involuntary exclaimed, “My dear Anna! has anything happened?”

“Might I speak with you for a moment alone,” said the countess assuming with effort a forced calmness. The vicar, without reply, took her by the trembling hand, and led her to his own little study.

“Dear me! how ill the countess looks!” exclaimed Cecilia.

“Something serious has occurred, depend upon it,” said Mrs. Aumerle; and a variety of conjectures arose as to the cause of the lady’s strange visit, though most of the party present had the prudence to keep these conjectures to themselves.

The vicar returned after rather a long absence, and his entrance caused a dead silence in the room, while every eye rested on him with a look of inquiry. He appeared very grave, and drawing his wife aside, said in a low tone of voice, “My dear, do you think that Ida could arrange to share Mabel’s apartment to-night, and give up her own to Annabella?”

“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.