In the meantime Annabella with a trembling hand had sealed up two large envelopes. The one contained “The Precipice and the Peer,” hastily but vigorously written, and was directed to the editor of the magazine in which the countess had, as before mentioned, occasionally written. The other letter was addressed to her publisher in London, giving him her free permission not only to complete the printing of her romance, but to put the authoress’s name on the title-page, not as “Egeria,” but “the Countess of Dashleigh.”
“I will show my lord,” thought the proud, young authoress, “that I can bring more dignity to the name by my pen, than he by his sounding title. I shall make him envy the renown of the woman whom he thought it condescension to marry! He has thought to humble—to subdue—to crush me; I will prove to him that I can stand alone, ay, stand on a loftier pedestal than any to which he ever had power to raise me! And he will be humbled, mortified! He would not have the world even guess that his wife could join the throng of authors, or touch a publisher’s pay; he will see that his wife glories in the talents which admit her among the aristocracy of genius! I have now broken my chain, and can soar aloft unfettered!”
Thoughts like these animated the ambitious girl while actually engaged in her work. Intoxicated by anger and pride, she gave no audience to reason or conscience, but wrote as if writing for life. But when Annabella had actually placed the two letters in the hands of her maid, when she had heard the door close after Bates, there came a sudden revulsion of feeling, and the countess was startled and alarmed at what she herself had done. Was she not giving mortal offence to him whom she was bound to honour? could she expose him to ridicule without bringing deeper disgrace upon herself? Had not the church pronounced them to be one? Annabella’s eye fell on the little circlet of gold which Reginald had placed on her finger on the solemn occasion when, in the sight of men, and the presence of God, she had taken him for her wedded husband, never to be divided from him, as she then hoped and believed, until death itself should them part! How many associations were linked with the sight of that ring! If gratified pride had powerfully inclined Annabella to incline to Reginald’s suit, that pride had once been closely linked with love. She had once listened eagerly for his step, fondly gazed on his handwriting, heard the tones of his voice with delight, and believed her heart to be unalterably his! Annabella ran to her window which commanded a prospect of the road which led to the village, with an undefined yet strong wish to call back the messenger whom she had sent. She saw Bates walking briskly from the house, but yet so near, that her mistress’s voice might reach her. The countess called her, but faintly, for a feeling of shame choked her voice. Bates did not hear, did not stop. But the sound reached another ear, and Mabel, attired for a walk, came forth from the house, and looked up to the window at which the countess now stood. The young girl’s face was bright and kindly, and the light shining on her blue eyes and auburn tresses, gave her, to the fancy of her cousin, the appearance of pictured Hope.
“Did you wish to call back Bates?” asked Mabel. “I will run and being her back in a moment.”
How important in life may be a single second, when on its little point hangs a momentous decision! The countess almost pronounced the word “yes!” but with the rapidity of lightning, Pride poured his suggestions into her ear. Not only would the revocation of the order given appear weak indecision to the maid, but Mabel would naturally carry back the letters, while Bates proceeded to the post with Ida’s, and she could hardly avoid seeing their addresses. She would then easily guess the cause of their writer’s vacillation and change of purpose; she would conclude that her cousin had penned that which she was afraid or ashamed to send. These ideas took much less time in rushing through the brain of Annabella, than they have done in passing before the eye of the reader, and they silenced the assent which trembled on the lip of the irresolute countess.
“Shall I call back Bates?” asked Mabel again.
“No,” answered Annabella from above; and retiring from the window the miserable girl threw herself on a chair, and exclaiming, “It is too late now,—too late! the irrevocable step is taken!” she covered her face with her hands, as if by so doing she could shut out reflection. Yet, strange to say, she yet clung to the shadow of a hope that Bates might find the post-office closed, and bring back to her the fatal letters!