The grief of Annabella and of Ida partook of the nature of their several characters; one was violent and passionate, the other quiet and deep. In the strong revulsion of feeling and anguish of remorse, the countess could scarcely remember a fault in him whom she had lately stigmatised as tyrannical, and satirized as weak. The earl’s tragical fate seemed to throw a halo around him, and his wife remembered him but as the tender wooer, the affectionate husband, the dignified, yet courteous nobleman, graceful in person, lofty in principle—who had sought and won the heart of a girl whose pride, petulance, and passion, had destroyed the man whom she loved! Annabella tore her beautiful hair, and struck her bosom, as if she would have wreaked vengeance on herself for the fearful ruin that her folly had wrought!

Ida found that her presence could afford no consolation to her cousin; and then, not till then, she hastened up to Mabel’s little room, now again to become her own, and falling on her knees by the bedside, buried her face in her hands, and poured forth an agonized prayer. She remained long in the same position, and then arose trembling and pale. Every object in the room seemed to awaken a fresh burst of sorrow. There was Ida’s own likeness on the wall, sketched by the hand of Mabel,—a rough, unfinished drawing, indeed, but yet a labour of love. There were fragrant lilac blossoms from the favourite bush which Mabel always called her “Ida,” and there on the toilette table lay a small Bible, Mabel’s birthday gift from her sister, where many a mark and double mark showed that it had at least been perused with interest and attention. This Bible now afforded the most soothing consolation to the aching heart of Ida.

Mrs. Aumerle had been far more astonished than pleased at the unexpected return of the countess, until she learned its sad cause. Her feelings then became of a very mingled nature. The danger of the party in the balloon, and the grief of those left behind, excited her heartfelt pity; but her soul vibrated between that emotion, and indignation at the conduct which had occasioned the tragic event. When the lady thought of the countess’s pride, or the wilful disobedience of Mabel, she could not shut out from her mind the reflection that they had brought all their trouble upon themselves. Mrs. Aumerle’s predominating sensation, however, was sympathy with her afflicted husband, and she did everything that lay in her power to inspire him with the cheering hopes that were strong within her own bosom.

“Nay, Lawrence, give not way to despair; this agrees neither with reason nor religion. Depend upon it everything will turn out far better than you could expect. The balloon will come down quietly to earth as other balloons have done, and we shall have the whole party sitting here—perhaps to-morrow, talking over their adventures, and smiling at our alarm. Don’t tell me that your brother knows nothing about guiding a balloon—he is so wonderfully clever that he knows everything by intuition. He will find some method of getting safely out of the difficulty; my mind always grows easier when I think what a genius he is!”

Aumerle was walking up and down in his study, as if motion could relieve his mental distress, at each turn pausing at the window to look anxiously out upon the sky. He stopped short as his wife concluded her last sentence, and murmured, “My poor, poor brother! the bitterest trial of all is the fear that he is unprepared for the awful change!”

“This very trial may be sent to prepare him for it, to make him think more than he has ever yet done of the one thing that is needful. And our poor wilful Mabel—”

“Oh! blame not her—blame not her!” exclaimed Ida, who had entered as Mrs. Aumerle was speaking, and who now bent at her stepmother’s feet in a posture of humiliation as well as of grief; “you and my dear father must learn how much of her fault rests with me. It is a bitter confession, but I can find no peace till it is made. Dear Mabel came to me yesterday evening, and told me that Papa had given a kind of permission to her to ascend in the Eaglet, bidding her at the same time consult you—”

“I positively forbade her,” interrupted the lady.

“I know it—she told me all—and had I done my duty,” continued Ida, her voice hardly articulate through sobs, “I would have told her that your refusal was sufficient—that she should submit and obey. But somehow—I can scarcely recall in what way—a chord of pride was touched in my own sinful heart; I felt it difficult to urge on her a duty which I had so often neglected myself, and I can now scarcely hope for my father’s forgiveness, or yours, or my own—”

The last words were sobbed forth on the bosom of Mrs. Aumerle, for Ida’s lowly confession had made her step-mother forget everything but the sister’s grief and repentance, and no parent could more kindly have strained to her heart a beloved and penitent child, than the hard, severe, practical Barbara Aumerle embraced the daughter of her husband. Her tones were those of maternal tenderness and sympathy for the sorrower as she said, “Don’t reproach yourself, darling,—don’t reproach yourself, I believe there were faults on both sides!”

The vicar, with moist eyes and a thankful heart, saw for the first time cordial sympathy between two beings whom he dearly loved; and Pride fled in gloomy disappointment from the scene, for he knew that the chain of his captive was broken!