Our sharpest trials we lay down
When sin and self we crucify!”
“I own it, dear Ida, I own it! I did wrong, very wrong. I felt that as soon as the letter had passed from my hand; I must have been mad when I sent it. I wrote to the London editor the next day to endeavour to stop the publication, but the piece was already in type.”
Such, after a painful conference, was the confession which conscience wrung from the Countess of Dashleigh.
Annabella was reclining on the sofa, her hair disordered, her eyes red with weeping. Ida was kneeling beside her, and the magazine lay on the floor.
“O Anna, Anna! why not own all this to your husband; throw yourself on his mercy, entreat his forgiveness—”
“It would be of no use!” exclaimed Annabella; “that paper he never will forgive. I have already merited his anger; I will not expose myself to his contempt.”
“We may be objects of contempt when we wander from the line of duty, but never when we are struggling back to it again. When we are lost in a thorny labyrinth, what wiser, what nobler course can we pursue, than to retrace every step of the way?”
“I can’t, I can’t,” gasped Annabella; “there is now a deep gulf between me and my husband!”