The announcement that our sovereign Lady herself had resolved to take a bird’s-eye view of her dominions from the clouds, could hardly have created a greater sensation in the county of Somersetshire, than the rumour, presently confirmed “by authority,” that the Earl of Dashleigh was to be one of the Ærial travellers in the Eaglet. From the squire to the swineherd, every one within a circuit of many miles was full of the strange report. The nobleman’s motive for attempting the feat was palpable to all who had read or heard of “The Precipice and the Peer;” and speculation was rife, and heavy bets were exchanged as to whether the hero of the Swiss adventure would ever summon up sufficient courage to mount aloft in a balloon.

The rumour reached the dwelling of the Bardons. The doctor elevated his bushy black brows, and drew in his lips as if to whistle; while Cecilia stole a glance at the countess to see the effect of the announcement upon her. Annabella changed colour, but affected to believe the report absurd, and dismissed the subject at once from her discourse if not from her thoughts. But from that hour the young wife’s manner became reserved and gloomy. She made no effort to keep up conversation, did not seem to hear questions addressed to her, or if she heard, gave her replies at random. She would scarcely touch at table the delicate food procured for her with trouble and expense. Cecilia in vain taxed her brain to find something that a peeress could eat, and the doctor brought vegetables from his garden which he believed that Covent Garden could not equal, to see them lie untasted on the plate of his silent guest.

Under any other circumstances the temper of the old lion would have given way, but the report of Dashleigh’s intended exploit had filled him with malignant delight. Bardon felt assured that the spirit of the adventurous peer would fail him when put to the proof, and so eager was the doctor to enjoy this expected new source of humiliation to his foe, that he resolved to accept Augustine’s invitation after all, and make one of the spectators who should witness the ascent of the Eaglet.

Poor Cecilia, however, who had no such secret source of satisfaction,—who would, of course, be constrained to remain at home with her guest, and see nothing of the gaiety at Aspendale, began to suspect that even the honour of entertaining a peeress might be purchased at too high a price. Annabella now took no pains to flatter the little vanity of her hostess; never even glanced admiringly at her elaborate dress, never asked her to touch the guitar, praised nothing, smiled at nothing, seemed really to care for nothing; while the poor lady of the cottage scarcely dared to think what her father would say when the tradesmen should send in their formidable bills!

Amongst those who were most startled by the news that Dashleigh had decided on ascending with his friend, was the aspirant to the same perilous distinction, the enthusiastic Mabel Aumerle. The warm champion of the wife doubted at first whether she could consistently make one in a party in which the tyrant husband was to appear. But Mabel did not long waver in doubt. Her desire to share her uncle’s excursion was too intense to be easily damped.

“I need have nothing to say to the earl,” she observed, “even if sitting in the car by his side. My uncle has a right to invite whom he pleases, and I have none to find fault with his selection. Besides, I daresay when it comes to the point, that the nervous earl will find some excuse for not ascending at all.”

Mabel might have added that late events had shown her that her admired countess had not the right altogether on her side. With all her spirit of partisanship, Mabel could not defend “The Precipice and the Peer,” and she was hurt and almost offended at the abrupt manner in which her cousin had quitted the vicarage. On the whole, therefore, Mabel decided that no reason existed to prevent her doing her utmost to persuade her indulgent father to permit her to join the Æronauts in their excursion through the realms of air.

The vicar and his wife, on hearing of the earl’s intention to be at Aspendale, at once relinquished their purpose of going thither themselves. They felt that there would be an awkwardness in meeting him in society after receiving his disobedient young wife into their house. Ida, also, for more than one reason, declined her uncle’s invitation. But to Mabel staying away upon such an occasion would have been a disappointment which the whole amount of her philosophy would not have enabled her to bear; and Augustine therefore arranged to drive over for his youngest niece early on the morning of the eventful 12th of May.

“Ida, dearest,” exclaimed Mabel on the evening preceding the long-desired day, “do you know that at last, after coaxing,—such hard, such persevering coaxing,—I have really managed to get a sort of consent from Papa to my going up in the Eaglet! I took his arm as he was walking up and down upon the lawn, and I was so persuasive, so irresistible, I told him so much about Mr. Verdon, and how he could manage a balloon just as easily as I manage a pony,—that at last convinced—”

“Or tired out,” suggested Ida,—

“He said to me, with his dear kind smile, ‘I don’t forbid your going, my child, but you must ask your mother’s opinion about it.’ O Ida! I could have danced for joy! What a kiss I gave him for the permission! There never was so kind a father as he!”

“But you had a condition to fulfil,” observed Ida, “which must have moderated your delight.”

“Yes; I am not fond of asking any one’s opinion, above all, that of—well, don’t look so grave, dear Mentor, I won’t say anything to shock you; but to think of Papa’s calling her my mother! Off I flew to Mrs. Aumerle, eager as a bird on the wing. I found her in her store-room, measuring out tea and sugar, soap and candles. ‘Mrs. Aumerle,’ I cried, without waiting to get my breath, ‘Papa does not forbid my going up in the car of the Eaglet with my uncle, but he desires me to ask your—’ The old horror did not even give me time to finish my sentence. ‘Mabel,’ she said, looking as prim as that poker, ‘once for all, I tell you I will never give my consent to your doing so ridiculous a thing;’ but she was overshooting her mark,” continued Mabel, laughing gaily, “papa told me to ask her opinion, and not her consent,—there’s a mighty difference between the two.”

“But, Mabel, when Mrs. Aumerle positively forbids you to go—”

“She’s not my mother!” cried Mabel quickly; “I’m not bound to yield obedience to her. You do not do so yourself. Did not Mrs. Aumerle tell you to have nothing more to do with the woman at the toll, and yet you gave her some tea and warm flannel the very next day!”

“But, Mabel, I thought that the woman was misjudged and hardly treated, and—”

“She turned out to be a hypocrite, you know; but that is nothing to the point. The question is,—whether you and I are to be lorded over by Mrs. Aumerle? whether we are forced to obey any one but our own dear father?”

Ida knew not what to reply; for had she counselled strict obedience to her step-mother, she too well knew that her practice would contradict her preaching.

“Ah! you think just as I do,” cried Mabel; “we ought to be civil and attentive to Mrs. Aumerle for the sake of peace, and to please Papa, but we need not be ruled by her commands.”

“In the present case,” said Ida, avoiding the point of discussion, “I think that our step-mother may be right. I should not be easy if you were to be exposed to the slightest danger.”

“Danger! nonsense!” cried Mabel; “when this is Mr. Verdon’s fifteenth ascent, and we are to come down in a couple of hours! Why, even the earl, with his sensitive nerves, does not fear to ascend!”

“And yet I cannot help dreading—”

“Ida, Ida,” exclaimed Mabel, putting her hand playfully before the lips of her sister, “you have no voice in the matter; Papa never told me to ask your consent or even your opinion. If he see no danger, why should you? You would never be so unkind, so dreadfully unkind, as to prevent my having what would be to me the greatest enjoyment in the world!”

Mabel said a great deal more which it is not necessary here to repeat, to remove every lingering objection which might be felt by her sister. Ida disliked the idea of the excursion, though half convinced by Mabel’s arguments that there was no real cause for apprehension; but in her opposition she did not take her stand on the only tenable ground,—that of the duty of submission to lawful authority. Ida, with all her gentleness and tenderness of conscience, felt as strong a repugnance as her sister to bowing to the judgment of the woman to whom her sympathies so little inclined. She constantly repeated to herself that their natures and their spheres were different, and that the step-mother and step-daughters might each pursue their own course of usefulness without interfering with one another. Ida would be on the footing rather of a friendly ally than that of a dependent subject of the mistress of her father’s house. Pride had not lost his hold upon the gentle, self-sacrificing Christian.

Mabel was very glad that during the evening the conversation of the family circle turned rather upon Annabella and her husband than on her own share in the morrow’s balloon expedition; she was so fearful lest anything should be said to induce her father to revoke his extorted permission to her to ascend in the car.

When the young ladies had retired for the night, the vicar said to his wife, “Did Mabel ask your consent, my dear, to the excursion on which her heart is so greatly set?” (the father, it may be observed, did not draw the nice distinction upon which Mabel had insisted between opinion and consent.)

“She did,” replied the lady, folding up her work, “and I put an extinguisher at once upon the project.”

“You did?” said the vicar thoughtfully; “well, I daresay, my love, you were right.”