Pride and His Prisoners

by A. L. O. E.

After her uncle’s departure Ida retired with a heavy heart to the little room which, since Annabella’s arrival, she had shared with her sister Mabel. The gratitude which a woman feels towards one who has offered to her his home and his heart, and the affection which Ida had from childhood entertained for her cousin, rendered both the earl and the countess objects of deep interest to the maiden. Family division jarred on her soul, like discord on a musical ear, and Ida felt perhaps as forcibly as her stepmother could, the evil of the course which Annabella was wilfully pursuing. She was wounded by the words of impatience from her cousin, which sensitiveness construed into actual unkindness, and Ida could scarcely draw her thoughts sufficiently from the subject which engrossed them, to write a letter in reply to some petition for relief which she knew that it would be wrong to postpone.

Ida lingered over her letter till she began to fear that it might be late for the post, to which she proposed taking it herself. As she was putting on her scarf, in preparation for her walk, Ida heard the countess’s bell,—Annabella was ringing for her maid. When Ida left her apartment she met the attendant in the passage, on her return from the room of the lady.

“Is the countess feeling unwell?” inquired Ida.

“Her ladyship only rang,” replied Bates, “to desire me to get ready to carry her letters to the post.”

“I am going thither myself,” said Ida; “I will take my cousin’s notes; I think that you might be late.”

“Thank you, miss,” replied the maid; “but my lady said expressly that I was to post the letters myself, and not let them out of my hand till I did so. Perhaps I might carry yours also, Miss Aumerle; I shall not be a minute in dressing.”

Ida thanked the maid for the offer, and gave the note into her charge. But when Bates had hurried off to make her little preparations, Ida stood motionless in thought. Her heart misgave her as to the nature of the despatches which Annabella had evidently written with such nervous haste, and was about to send off with such anxious precaution. Why should the countess object to trust her letters to any one but her own menial servant? did she fear that the eye of a loving relative should chance to rest on the address? Was Annabella about to take some foolish step which should further alienate her from her husband? Ida remembered with pain the expression which she had last beheld on the countess’s face.

“I had better go to her,—I may be in time to prevent some act which Annabella would hereafter bitterly regret.” This was Ida’s first thought, and under its impulse she almost laid her finger on the handle of her cousin’s door. But another feeling made her pause and draw back. Had she not already found her presence regarded as an unwelcome intrusion,—should she subject herself again to repulse? “Back! back!” whispered Pride, though so softly that his tones were not recognised; “force not your society on one who does not desire it, your counsel on her who despises it.”

Ida hesitated—went away some few steps, and then returned to the door, as if attracted towards her unhappy cousin by some invisible spell. Again there was a moment’s reflection, again Pride recalled to her mind her late discourteous reception by the countess, and with a sigh of doubt and apprehension, Ida Aumerle returned to her own room.