"Io dubito, Signor M. Pietro che il mio Cortegiano non sarà stato altro che fatica mia, e fastidio degli amici."
LORD LINDORE was in no haste to avail himself of his sister's invitation; and when he did, it was evident his was a "mind not to be changed by place;" for he entered more with the air of one who was tired of the company he had left, than expecting pleasure from the society he sought.
"Do come and entertain us, Lindore," cried Lady Emily, as he entered, "for we are all heartily sick of one another. A snow-storm and a lack of company are things hard to be borne; it is only the expectancy of your arrival that has kept us alive these two days, and now pray don't let us die away of the reality."
"You have certainly taken a most effectual method of sealing my lips," said her brother with a smile.
"How so?"
"By telling me that I am expected to be vastly entertaining, since every word I utter can only serve to dispel the illusion, and prove that I am gifted with no such miraculous power."
"I don't think it requires any miraculous power, either to entertain or be entertained. For my part, I flatter myself I can entertain any man, woman, or child in the kingdom, when I choose; and as for being entertained, that is still an easier matter. I seldom meet with anybody who is not entertaining, either from their folly, or their affectation, or their stupidity, or their vanity; or, in short, something of the ridiculous, that renders them not merely supportable, but positively amusing."
"How extremely happy you must be," said Lord Lindore.
"Happy! No—I don't know that my feelings precisely amount to happiness neither; for at the very time I'm most diverted I'm sometimes disgusted too, and often provoked. My spirit gets chafed, and—-"
"You long to box the ears of all your acquaintances," said her brother, laughing. "Well, no matter—there is nothing so enviable as a facility of being amused, and even the excitement of anger is perhaps preferable to the stagnation of indifference."
"Oh, thank heaven! I know nothing about indifference; I leave that toAdelaide."
Lord Lindore turned his eyes with more animation than he had yet evinced towards his cousin, who sat reading, apparently paying no attention to what was going on. He regarded her for a considerable time with an expression of admiration; but Adelaide, though she was conscious of his gaze, calmly pursued her studies. "Come, you positively must do something to signalise yourself. I assure you it is expected of you that you should be the soul of the company. Here is Adelaide waltzes like an angel, when she can get a partner to her liking."
"But I waltz like a mere mortal," said Lord Lindore, seating himself at a table, and turning over the leaves of a book.
"And I am engaged to play billiards with my uncle," said Adelaide, rising with a blush of indignation.
"Shall we have some music, then? Can you bear to listen to our croakings after the warbling of your Italian nightingales?" asked Lady Emily.
"I should like very much to hear you sing," answered her brother, with an air of the most perfect indifference.
"Come then, Mary, do you be the one to 'untwist the chains that tie the hidden soul of harmony.' Give us your Scotch Exile, pray? It is tolerably appropriate to the occasion, though an English one would have been still more so; but, as you say, there is nothing in this country to make a song about."
Mary would rather have declined, but she saw a refusal would displease her cousin; and she was not accustomed to consult her own inclination in such frivolous matters. She therefore seated herself at the harp, and sang the following verses;—
The weary wanderer may roamTo seek for bliss in change of scene;Yet still the loved idea of home,And of the days he there has seen,
Pursue him with a fond regret,Like rays from suns that long have set.
"Tis not the sculptor's magic art,"Tis not th' heroic deeds of yore,That fill and gratify the heart.No! 'tis affection's tender lore—The thought of friends, and love's first sigh,When youth, and hope, and health were nigh.
What though on classic ground we tread,What though we breathe a genial air—Can these restore the bliss that's fled?Is not remembrance ever there?Can any soil protect from grief,Or any air breathe soft relief?
No! the sick soul, that wounded fliesFrom all its early thoughts held dear,Will more some gleam of memory prize,That draws the long-lost treasure near;And warmly presses to its breastThe very thought that mars its rest.
Some mossy stone, some torrent rude,Some moor unknown to worldly ken,Some weeping birches, fragrant wood,Or some wild roebuck's fern-clad glen;—Yes! these his aching heart delight,These bring his country to his sight.
Ere the song was ended Lord Lindore had sauntered away to the billiard-room, singing, "Oh! Jiove Omnipotente!" and seemingly quite unconscious that any attentions were due from him in return. But there, even Adelaide's charms failed to attract, in spite of the variety of graceful movements practised before him—the beauty of the extended arm, the majestic step, and the exclamations of the enchanting voice Lord Lindore kept his station by the fire, in a musing attitude, from which he was only roused occasionally by the caresses of his dog. At supper it was still worse. He placed himself by Mary, and when he spoke, it was only of Scotland.
"Well—what do you think of Lindore?" demanded Lady Emily of her aunt and cousins, as they were about to separate for the night. "Is he not divine?"
"Perfectly so!" replied Lady Juliana, with all the self-importance of a fool. "I assure you I think very highly of him. He is a vastly charming, clever young man-perfectly beautiful, and excessively amiable; and his attention to his dog is quite delightful—it is so uncommon to see men at all kind to their dogs. I assure you I have known many who were absolutely cruel to them—beat them, and starved them, and did a thousand shocking things; and——"
"Pray, Adelaide, what is your opinion of my brother"
"Oh! I—I—have no doubt he is extremely amiable," replied Adelaide, with a gentle yawn. "As mamma says, his attentions to his dog prove it."
"And you, Mary, are your remarks to be equally judicious and polite?"
Mary, in all the sincerity of her heart, said she thought him by much the handsomest and most elegant-looking man she had ever seen. And there she stopped.
"Yes; I know all that. But—however, no matter—I only wish he may have sense enough to fall in love with you, Mary. How happy I should be to see you Lady Lindore!—En attendant—you must take care of your heart; for I hear he isun peu volage—and, moreover, that he admires none butles dames Mariées.As for Adelaide, there is no fear of her. She will never cast such a pearl away upon one who is merely, no doubt, extremely amiable," retorting Adelaide's ironical tone.
"Then you may feel equally secure upon my account," said Mary, "as I assure you I am still less danger of losing mine, after the warning you have given."
This off-hand sketch of her brother's character, which Lady Emily had thoughtlessly given, produced the most opposite effects on the minds of he sisters. With Adelaide it increased his consequence and enhanced his value. It would be no vulgar conquest to fix and reform one who was notorious for his inconstancy and libertine principles; and from that moment she resolved to use all the influence of her charms to captivate and secure the heart of her cousin. In Mary's well-regulated mind other feelings arose. Although she was not one of the outrageous virtuous, who storm and rail at the very mention of vice, and deem it contamination to hold any intercourse with the vicious, she yet possessed proper ideas for the distinction to be drawn; and the hope of finding a friend and brother in her cousin now gave way to the feeling that in future she could only consider him as an common acquaintance.
"On sera ridicule et je n'oserai rire!"
IN honour of her brother's return Lady Emily resolved to celebrate it with a ball; and always prompt in following up her plans, she fell to work immediately with her visiting list.
"Certainly," said she, as she scanned it over, "there never was any family so afflicted in their acquaintances as we are. At least one-half of the names here belong to the most insufferable people on the face of the earth. The Claremonts, and the Edgefields, and the Bouveries, and the Sedleys, and a few more, are very well; but can anything in human form be more insupportable than the rest; for instance, that wretch Lady Placid?"
"Does her merit lie only in her name then?" asked Mary.
"You shall judge for yourself when I have given you a slight sketch of her character. Lady Placid, in the opinion of all sensible persons in general, and myself in particular, is a vain, weak, conceited, vulgar egotist. In her own eyes she is a clever, well-informed, elegant, amiable woman; and though I have spared no pains to let her know how detestable I think her, it is all in vain; she remains as firmly entrenched in her own good opinion as folly and conceit can make her; and I have the despair of seeing all my buffetings fall blunted to the ground. She reminds me of some odious fairy or genii I have read of, who possessed such a power in their person that every hostile weapon levelled against them was immediately turned into some agreeable present. Stones became balls of silk—arrows, flowers—swords, feathers, etc. Even so it is with Lady Placid. The grossest insult that could be offered she would construe into an elegant compliment; the very crimes of others she seems to consider as so much incense offered up at the shrine of her own immaculate virtue. I'm certain she thinks she deserves to be canonised for having kept out of Doctors' Commons. Never is any affair of that sort alluded to that she does not cast such a triumphant look towards her husband, as much as to say, 'Here am I, the paragon of faithful wives and virtuous matrons!' Were I in his place, I should certainly throw a plate at her head. And here, you may take this passing remark—How much more odious people are who have radical faults, than those who commit, I do not say positive crimes, but occasional weaknesses. Even a noble nature may fall into a great error; but what is that to the ever-enduring pride, envy, malice, and conceit of a little mind? Yes, I would at any time rather be the fallen than the one, so exult over the fall of another. Then, as a mother, she is, if possible, still more meritorious a woman (this is the way she talks): A woman has nobly performed her part to her country, and for posterity, when she has brought a family of fine healthy children into the world. 'I can't agree with you,' I reply 'I think many mothers have brought children into the world who would have been much better out of it. A mother's merit must depend solely upon how she brings up her children (hers are the most spoiled brats in Christendom). 'There I perfectly agree with you, Lady Emily. As you observe, it is not every mother who does her duty by her children. Indeed, I may say to you, it is not everyone that will make the sacrifices for their family I have done; but thank God! I am richly repaid. My children are everything I could wish them to be!' Everything of hers, as a matter of course, must be superior to every other person's, and even what she is obliged to share in common with others acquires some miraculous charm in operating upon her. Thus it is impossible for anyone to imagine the delight she takes in bathing; and as for the sun, no mortal can conceive the effect it has upon her. If she was to have the plague she would assure you it was owing to some peculiar virtue in her blood; and if she was to be put in the pillory she would ascribe it entirely to her great merit. If her coachman were to make her a declaration of love she would impute it to the boundless influence of her charms; that every man who sees her does not declare his passion is entirely owing to the well-known severity of her morals and the dignity of her deportment. If she is amongst the first invited to my ball, that will be my eagerness to secure her: if the very last, it will be a mark of my friendship, and the easy footing we are upon. If not invited at all, then it will be jealousy. In short, the united strength of worlds would not shake that woman's good opinion of herself; and the intolerable part of it is there are so many fools in this one that she actually passes with the multitude for being a charming sweet-tempered woman—always the same—always pleased and contented. Contented! just as like contentment as the light emitted by putridity resembles the divine halo! But too much of her. Let her have a card, however.
"Then comes Mrs. Wiseacre, that renowned law-giver, who lavishes her advice on all who will receive it, without hope of fee or reward, except that of being thought wiser than anybody else. But, like many more deserving characters, she meets with nothing but ingratitude in return; and the wise sentences that are for ever hovering around her pursed up mouth have only served to render her insupportable. This is her mode of proceeding—' If I might presume to advise, Lady Emily;' or, 'If my opinion could be supposed to have any weight;' or 'If my experience goes for anything;' or, 'I'm an old woman now, but I think I know something of the world;' or, 'If a friendly hint of mine would be of any service: —then when very desperate, it is, 'However averse I am to obtrude my advice, yet as I consider it my duty, I must for once;' or, 'It certainly is no affair of mine, at the same time I must just observe,' etc. etc. I don't say that she insists, however, upon your swallowing all the advice she crams you with; for, provided she has the luxury of giving it, it can make little difference how it is taken; because whatever befals you, be it good or bad, it is equally a matter of exultation to her. Thus she has the satisfaction of saying, 'If poor Mrs. Dabble had but followed my advice, and not have taken these pills of Dr. Doolittle's, she would have been alive to-day, depend upon it;' or, 'If Sir Thomas Speckle had but taken advantage of a friendly hint I threw out some time ago, about the purchase of the Drawrent estate, he might have been a man worth ten thousand a year at this moment;' or, 'If Lady Dull hadn't been so infatuated as to neglect the caution I gave her about Bob Squander, her daughter might have been married to Nabob Gull.'
"But there is a strange contradiction about Mrs. Wiseacre, for though it appears that all her friends' misfortunes proceed from neglecting her advice, it is no less apparent, by her account, that her own are all occasioned by following the advice of others. She is for ever doing foolish things, and laying the blame upon her neighbours. Thus, 'Had it not been for my friend Mrs. Jobbs there, I never would have parted with my house for an old song as I did;' or, 'It was entirely owing to Miss Glue's obstinacy that I was robbed of my diamond necklace, or, 'I have to thank my friend Colonel Crack for getting my carriage smashed to pieces.' In short, she has the most comfortable repository of stupid friends to have recourse to, of anybody I ever knew. Now what I have to warn you against, Mary, is the sin of ever listening to any of her advices. She will preach to you about the pinning of your gown and the curling of your hair till you would think it impossible not to do exactly what she wants you to do. She will inquire with the greatest solicitude what shoemaker you employ, and will shake her head most significantly when she hears it is any other than her own. But if ever I detect you paying the smallest attention to any of her recommendations, positively I shall have done with you."
Mary laughingly promised to turn a deaf ear to all Mrs. Wiseacre's wisdom; and her cousin proceeded:
"Then here follows a swarm as, thick as idle motes in sunny ray,' and much of the same importance, methinks, in the scale of being. Married ladies only celebrated for their good dinners, or their pretty equipages, or their fine jewels. How I should scorn to be talked of as the appendage to any soups or pearls! Then there are the daughters of these ladies—Misses, who are mere misses, and nothing more. Oh! the insipidity of a mere Miss! a soft simpering thing with pink cheeks, and pretty hair, and fashionable clothessanseyes for anything but lovers_-sans_ ears for anything but flattery—sanstaste for anything but balls_—sans_ brains for anything at all! Then there are ladies who are neither married nor young, and who strive with all their might to talk most delightfully, that the charms of their conversation may efface the marks of the crows' feet; but 'all these I passen by, and nameless numbers moe.' And now comes the Hon. Mrs. Downe Wright, a person of considerable shrewdness and penetration—vulgar, but unaffected. There is no politeness, no gentleness in her heart; but she possesses some warmth, much honesty, and great hospitality. She has acquired the character of being—oh, odious thing!—a clever woman! There are two descriptions of clever women, observe; the one is endowed with corporeal cleverness—the other with mental; and I don't know which of the two is the greater nuisance to society; the one torments you with her management—the other with her smart sayings; the one is for ever rattling her bunch of keys in your ears—the other electrifies you with the shock of her wit; and both talksomuch and _so _loud, and are such egotists, that I rather think a clever woman is even a greater term of reproach than a good creature. But to return to that clever woman Mrs. Downe Wright: she is a widow, left with the management of an only son—a commonplace, weak young man. No one, I believe, is more sensible of his mental deficiencies than his mother; but she knows that a man of fortune is, in the eyes of the many, a man of consequence; and she therefore wisely talks of it as his chief characteristic. To keep him in good company, and get him well married, is all her aim; and this, she thinks, will not be difficult, as he is very handsome-possesses an estate of ten thousand a year—and succeeds to some Scotch Lord Something's title—there's for you, Mary! She once had views of Adelaide, but Adelaide met the advances with so much scorn that Mrs. Downe Wright declared she was thankful she had shown the cloven foot in time, for that she never would have done for a wife to her William. Now you are the very thing to suit, for you have no cloven feet to show."
"Or at least you are not so quick-sighted as Mrs. Downe Wright. You have not spied them yet, it seems," said Mary, with a smile.
"Oh, as to that, if you had them, I should defy you, or anyone, to hide them from me. When I reflect upon the characters of most of my acquaintances, I sometimes think nature has formed my optics only to see disagreeables."
"That must be a still more painful faculty of vision than even the second-sight," said Mary; "but I should think it depended very much upon yourself to counteract it."
"Impossible! my perceptions are so peculiarly alive to all that is obnoxious to them that I could as soon preach my eyes into blindness, or my ears into deafness, as put down my feelings with chopping logic. If peoplewillbe affected and ridiculous, why must I live in a state of warfare with myself on account of the feelings they rouse within me?"
"If peoplewillbe irritable," said Mary, laughing, "why must others sacrifice their feelings to gratify them?"
"Because mine are natural feelings, and theirs are artificial. A very saint must sicken at sight of affectation, you'll allow. Vulgarity, even innate vulgarity, is bearable—stupidity itself is pardonable—but affectation is never to be endured or forgiven."
"It admits of palliation, at least," answered Mary. "I dare say there are many people who would have been pleasing and natural in their manners had not their parents and teachers interfered. There are many, I believe, who have not courage to show themselves such as they are—some who are naturally affected and many, very many, who have been taught affectation as a necessary branch of education."
"Yes—as my governesses would have taught me; but, thank heaven! I got the better of them.Fascinatingwas what they wanted to make me; but whenever the word was mentioned, I used to knit my brows, and frown upon them in such a sort. The frown, like now, sticks by me; but no matter—a frowning brow is better than a false heart, and I defy anyone to say that I am fascinating."
"There certainly must be some fascination about you, otherwise I should never have sat so long listening to you," said Mary, as she rose from the table at which she had been assisting to dash off the at-homes.
"But you must listen to me a little longer," cried her cousin, seizing her hand to detain her. "I have not got half through my detestables yet; but to humour you, I shall let them go for the present. And now, that you mayn't suppose I am utterly insensible to excellence, you must suffer me to show you that I can and do appreciate worth when I can find it. I confess my talent lies fully as much in discovering the ridiculous as the amiable; and I am equally ready to acknowledge it is a fault, and no mark of superior wit or understanding; since it is much easier to hit off the glaring caricature line of deformity than the finer and more exquisite touches of beauty, especially for one who reads as he run—-the sign-posts are sure to catch the eye. But now for my favourite—no matter for her name—it would frighten you if were you to hear it. In the first place, she is, as some of your old divines say,hugely religious;'but then she keeps her piety in its proper place, and where it ought to be—in her very soul. It is never a stumbling-block in other people's way, or interfering with other people's affairs. Her object is tobe,not to _seem, _religious; and there is neither hypocrisy nor austerity necessary for that. She is forbearing, without meanness—gentle, without insipidity—sincere, without rudeness. She practises all the virtues herself, and seems quite unconscious that others don't do the same. She is, if I may trust the expression of her eye, almost as much alive to the ridiculous as I am; but she is only diverted where I am provoked. She never bestows false praise even upon her friends; but a simple approval from her is of more value than the finest panegyric from another. She never finds occasion to censure or condemn the conduct of anyone, however flagrant it may be in the eyes of others; because she seems to think virtue is better expressed by her own actions than by her neighbour's vices. She cares not for admiration, but is anxious to do good and give pleasure. To sum up the whole, she could listen with patience to Lady Placid; she could bear to be advised by Mrs. Wiseacre; she could stand the scrutiny of Mrs. Downe Wright; and, hardest task of all" (throwing her arms around Mary's neck), "she can bear with all my ill-humour and impertinence."
"Have I then no fears for thee, mymother?Can I forget thy cares, from helpless years—Thy tenderness for me? an eye still beamedWith love!"THOMPSON.
THE arrival of Lord Lindore brought a influx of visitors to Beech Park; and in the unceasing round of amusement that went on Mary found herself completely overlooked. She therefore gladly took advantage of her insignificance to pay frequent visits to Mrs. Lennox, and easily prevailed with Lady Juliana to allow her to spend a week there occasionally. In this way the acquaintance soon ripened into the warmest affection on both sides. The day seemed doubly dark to Mrs. Lennox that was not brightened by Mary's presence; and Mary felt all the drooping energies of her heart revive in the delight of administering to the happiness of another.
Mrs. Lennox was one of those gentle amiable beings, who engage our affections far more powerfully than many possessed of higher attributes. Her understanding was not strong—neither had it been highly cultivated, according to the ideas of the present time; but she had a benevolence of heart and a guileless simplicity of thought that shamed the pride of wit and pomp of learning. Bereft of all external enjoyments, and destitute of great mental resources, it was retrospection and futurity that gilded the dark evening of her days, and shed their light on the dreary realities of life. She loved to recall the remembrance of her children—to tell of their infant beauties, their growing virtues—and to retrace scenes of past felicity which memory loves to treasure in the heart.
"Oh! none but a mother can tell," she would exclaim, "the bitterness of those tears which fall from a mother's eyes. All other sorrows seem natural, but—God forgive me!—surely it is not natural that the old should weep for the young. Oh! when I saw myself surrounded by my children, little did I think that death was so soon to seal their eyes! Sorrow mine! and yet me thinks I would rather have suffered all than have stood in the world a lonely being. Yes, my children revered His power and believed in His name, and, thanks to His mercy, I feel assured they are now angels in heaven! Here," taking some papers from a writing-box, "my Louisa speaks to me even from the tomb! These are the words she wrote but a few hours before her death. Read them to me; for it is not every voice I can bear to hear uttering her last thoughts." Mary read as follows:—
For ever gone! oh, chilling sound!That tolls the knell of hope and joy!Potent with torturing pang to wound,But not in mercy to destroy.
For ever gone! what words of grief—Replete with wild mysterious woe!The Christian kneels to seek relief—A Saviour died—-It is not so.
For a brief space we sojourn here,And life's rough path we journey o'er;Thus was it with the friend so dear,That is not lost, but sped before.
For ever gone! oh, madness wildDwells in that drear and Atheist doom!But death of horror is despoiled,When Heaven shines forth beyond the tomb.
For ever gone! oh, dreadful fate!Go visit nature—gather thenceThe symbols of man's happier state,Which speak to every mortal sense.
The leafless spray, the withered flower,Alike with man owns death's embrace;But bustling forth, in summer hour,Prepare anew to run life's race.
And shall it be, that man aloneDies, never more to rise again?Of all creation, highest one,Created but to live in vain?
For ever gone! oh, dire despair!—Look to the heavens, the earth, the sea—Go, read a Saviour's promise there—Go, heir of Immortality!
From such communings as these the selfish would have turned with indifference; but Mary's generous heart was ever open to the overflowings of the wounded spirit. She had never been accustomed to lavish the best feelings of her nature on frivolous pursuits or fictitious distresses, but had early been taught to consecrate them to the best, the most ennobling purposes of humanity—even to the comforting of the weary soul, the binding of the bruised heart. Yet Mary was no rigid moralist. She loved amusement as the amusement of an imperfect existence, though her good sense and still better principles taught her to reject it as thebusinessof an immortal being.
Several weeks passed away, during which Mary had been an almost constant inmate at Rose Hall; but the day of Lady Emily's _fête _arrived, and with something of hope and expectation fluttering at her heart, she anticipated herdebutin the ball-room. She repaired to the breakfast-table of her venerable friend with even more than usual hilarity; but, upon entering the apartment, her gaiety fled; for she was struck with the emotion visible on the countenance of Mrs. Lennox. Her meek but tearful eyes were raised to heaven, and her hands were crossed on her bosom, as if to subdue the agitation of her heart. Her faithful attendant stood by her with an open letter in her hand.
Mary flew towards her; and as her light step and soft accents met her ear, she extended her arms towards her.
"Mary, my child, where are you?" exclaimed she, as she pressed her with convulsive eagerness to her heart. "My son!—my Charles!—to-morrow I shall see him. See him! oh, God help me! I shall never see him more!" And she wept in all the agony of contending emotions, suddenly and powerful excited.
"But you will hear him—you will hold him to your heart—you will be conscious that he is beside you," said Mary.
"Yes, thank God! I shall once more hear the voice of a living child! Oh, how often do those voices ring in my heart, that are all hushed in the grave! I am used to it now; but to think of his returning to this wilderness! When last he left it he had father, brothers, sisters—and to find all gone!"
"Indeed it will be a sad return," said the old housekeeper, as she wiped her eyes; "for the Colonel doated on his sister, and she on him, and his brothers too! Dearly they all loved one another. How in this very room have I seen them chase each other up and down in their pretty plays, with their papa's cap and sword, and say they would be soldiers!"
Mary motioned the good woman to be silent; then turning to Mrs Lennox, she sought to sooth her into composure, and turned, as she always did, he bright side of the picture to view, by dwelling on the joy her son would experience in seeing her. Mrs. Lennox shook her head mournfully.
"Alas! he cannot joy in seeing me, such as I am. I have too long concealed from him my dreary doom; he knows not that these poor eyes are sealed in darkness! Oh, he will seek to read a mother's fondness there, and he will find all cold and silent."
"But he will also find you resigned—even contented," said Mary, while her tears dropped on the hand she held to her lips.
"Yes; God knows I do not repine at His will. It is not for myself these tears fall, but my son. How will he bear to behold the mother he so loved and honoured, now blind, bereft, and helpless?" And the wounds of her heart seemed to bleed afresh at the excitement of even its happiest emotions—the return of a long absent, much-loved son.
Mary exerted all the powers of her understanding, all the tenderness of her heart, to dispel the mournful images that pressed on the mind of her friend; but she found it was not so much her _arguments _as herpresencethat produced that effect; and to leave her in her present situation seemed impossible. In the agitation of her spirits she had wholly forgotten the occasion that called for Mary's absence, and she implored her to remain with her till the arrival of her son with an earnestness that was irresistible.
The thoughts of her cousin's displeasure, should she absent herself upon such an occasion, caused Mary to hesitate; yet her feelings would not allow her to name the cause.
"How unfeeling it would sound to talk of balls at such a time," thought she; "what a painful contrast must it present! Surely Lady Emily will not blame me, and no one will miss me——" And, in the ardour of her feelings, she promised to remain. Yet she sighed as she sent off her excuse, and thought of the pleasures she had renounced. But the sacrifice made, the regrets were soon past; and she devoted herself entirely to soothing the agitated spirits of her venerable friend.
It is perhaps the simplest and most obvious truth, skilfully administered, that, in the season of affliction, produces the most salutary effects upon our mind. Mary was certainly no logician, and all that she could say might have been said by another; but there is something in the voice and manner that carries an irresistible influence along with it—something that tells us our sorrows are felt and understood, not coldly seen and heard. Mary's well-directed exertions were repaid with success; she read, talked, played, and sang, not in her gayest manner, but in that subdued strain which harmonised with the feelings, while it won upon the attention, and she had at length the satisfaction of seeing the object of her solicitude restored to her usual state of calm confiding acquiescence.
"God bless you, my dear Mary!" said she, as they were about to separate for the night. "He only can repay you for the good you have done me this day!"
"Ah!" thought Mary, as she tenderly embraced her, "such a blessing is worth a dozen balls?"
At that moment the sound of a carriage was heard, and an unusual bustle took place below; but scarcely had they time to notice it ere the door flew open, and Mrs. Lennox found herself locked in the arms of her son.
For some minutes the tide of feeling was too strong for utterance, and "My mother!" "My son!" were the only words that either could articulate. At length, raising his head, Colonel Lennox fixed his eyes on his mother's face with a gaze of deep and fearful inquiry; but no returning glance spoke there. With that mournful vacuity, peculiar to the blind, which is a thousand times more touching than all the varied expression of the living orb, she continued to regard the vacant space which imagination had filled with the image she sought in vain to behold.
At this confirmation of his worst fears a shade of the deepest anguish overspread the visage of her son. He raised his eyes, as in agony, to heaven—then threw himself on his mother's bosom; and as Mary hurried from the apartment she heard the sob which burst from his manly heart, as he exclaimed, "My dear mother! do I indeed find you thus?"
"There is more complacency in the negligence of some men, than in what is called the good breeding of others; and the little absences of the heart are often more interesting and engaging than the punctilious attention of a thousand professed sacrificers to the graces."—MACKENZIE.
POWERFUL emotions are the certain levellers of ordinary feelings. When Mary met Colonel Lennox in the breakfast-room the following morning, he accosted her not with the ceremony of a stranger but with the frankness of a heart careless of common forms, and spoke of his mother with indications of sensibility which he vainly strove to repress. Mary knew that she had sought to conceal her real situation from him; but it seemed a vague suspicion of the truth had, crossed his mind, and having with difficulty obtained a short leave of absence he had hastened to have either his hopes or fears realised.
"And now that I know the worst," said he, "I know it only to deplore it. Far from alleviating, presence seems rather to aggravate my poor mother's misfortune. Oh! it is heartrending to see the strivings of these longing eyes to look upon the face of those she loves!"
"Ah!" thought Mary, "were they to behold that face now, how changed would it appear!" as she contrasted it with the portrait that hung immediately over the head of the original. The one in all the brightness of youth—the radiant eyes, the rounded cheek, the fair open brow, spoke only of hope, and health, and joy. Those eyes were now dimmed by sorrow; the cheek was wasted with toil; the brow was clouded by cares. Yet, "as it is the best part of beauty which a picture cannot express," [1] so there is something superior to the mere charms of form and colour; and an air of high-toned feeling, of mingled vivacity and sensibility, gave a grandeur to the form and an expression to the countenance which more than atoned for the want of youth's more brilliant attributes.
[1] Lord Bacon.
At least, so thought Mary; but her comparisons were interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Lennox. Her son flew towards her, and taking her arm from that of her attendant, led her to her seat, and sought to render her those little offices which her helplessness required.
"My dear Charles," said she, with a smile, as he tried to adjust her cushions, "your hands have not been used to this work. Your arm is my best support, but a gentler hand must smooth my pillow. Mary, my love, where are—? Give me your hand." Then placing it in that of her son— "Many a tear has this hand wiped from your mother's eyes!"
Mary, blushing deeply, hastily withdrew it. She felt it as a sort of appeal to Colonel Lennox's feelings; and a sense of wounded delicacy made her shrink from being thus recommended to his gratitude. But Colonel Lennox seemed too much absorbed in his own painful reflections to attach such a meaning to his mother's words; and though they excited him to regard Mary for a moment with peculiar interest, yet, in a little while, he relapsed into the mournful reverie from which he had been roused.
Colonel Lennox was evidently not a show-off character. He seemed superior to the mere vulgar aim of making himself agreeable—an aim which has much oftener its source in vanity than in benevolence. Yet the exerted himself to meet his mother's cheerfulness; though as often as he looked at her, or raised his eyes to the youthful group that hung before them, his changing hue and quivering lip betrayed the anguish he strove to hide.
Breakfast ended, Mary rose to prepare for her departure, in spite of the solicitations of her friend that she should remain till the following day.
"Surely, my dear Mary," said she in an imploring accent, "you will not refuse to bestow one day of happiness upon me?—and it is _such _a happiness to see my Charles and you together. I little thought that ever I should have been so blessed. Ah! I begin to think God has yet some good in store for my last days! Do not then leave me just when I am beginning to taste of joy!"—And she clung to her with that pathetic look which Mary had ever found irresistble.
But upon this occasion she steeled her heart against all supplication. It was the first time she had ever turned from the entreaty of old age or infirmity; and those only who have lived in the habitual practice of administering to the happiness of others can conceive how much it costs the generous heart to resist even the weaknesses of those it loves. But Mary felt she had already sacrificed too much to affection, and she feared the reproaches and ridicule that awaited her return to Beech Park. She therefore gently, though steadily, adhered to her resolution, only softening it by a promise of returning soon.
"What an angel goes there!" exclaimed Mrs. Lennox to her son, as Mary left the room to prepare for her departure. "Ah! Charles, could I but hope to see her yours!"
Colonel Lennox smiled—"That must be when I am an angel myself then. A poor weather-beaten soldier like me must be satisfied with something less."
"But is she not a lovely creature?" asked his mother, with some solicitude.
"Angels, you know, are always fair," replied Colonel Lennox laughingly, trying to parry this attack upon his heart.
"Ah! Charles, that is not being serious. But young people now are different from what they were in my day. There is no such thing as falling in love now, you are all so cautious."
And the good old lady's thoughts reverted to the time when the gay and gallant Captain Lennox had fallen desperately in love with her, as she danced a minuet in a blue satin sacque and Bologna hat at a county ball.
"You forget, my dear mother, what a knack I had in falling in love ten years ago. Since then, I confess I have got rather out of the way of it; but a little, a very little practice, I am sure, will make me as expert as ever;—and then I promise you shall have no cause to complain of my caution."
Mrs. Lennox sighed and shook her head. She had long cherished the hope that if ever her son came home it would be to fall in love with and marry her beloved Mary; and she had dwelt upon this favourite scheme till it had taken entire possession of her mind. In the simplicity of her heart she also imagined that it would greatly help to accelerate the event were she to suggest the idea to her son, as she had no doubt but that the object of her affections must necessarily become the idol of his. So little did she know of human nature that the very means she used to accomplish her purpose were the most effectual she could have contrived to defeat it. Such is man, that his pride revolts from all attempts to influence his affections. The weak and the undiscerning, indeed, are often led to "choose love by another's eyes;" but the lofty and independent spirit loves to create for itself those feelings which lose half their charms when their source is not in the depths of their own heart.
It was with no slight mortification that Mrs. Lennox saw Mary depart without having made the desired impression on the heart of her son; or, what was still more to be feared, of his having secured himself a place in her favour. But again and again she made Mary repeat her promise of returning soon, and spending some days with her. "And then," thought she, "things will all come right. When they live together, and see each other constantly, they cannot possibly avoid loving each other, and all will be as it should be. God grant I may live to see it!"
And hope softened the pang of disappointment.
"Qui vous a pu plonger dans cette humeur chagrine,A-t-on par quelque edit réformé la cuisine?"
MARY'S inexperienced mind expected to find, on her return to Beech Park, some vestige of the pleasures of the preceding night—some shadows, at least, of gaiety, to show what happiness she had sacrificed what delight her friends had enjoyed; but for the first time she beheld the hideous aspect of departed pleasure. Drooping evergreens, dying lamps, dim transparencies, and faded flowers, met her view as she crossed the hall; while the public rooms were covered with dust from the chalked floors, and wax from the droppings of the candles. Everything, in short, looked tawdry and forlorn. Nothing was in its place—nothing looked as it used to do—and she stood amazed at the disagreeable metamorphose an things had undergone.
Hearing some one approach, she turned and beheld Dr. Redgill enter.
"So—it's only you, Miss Mary!" exclaimed he in a tone of chagrin. "I was in hopes it was some of the women-servants. 'Pon my soul, it's disgraceful to think that in this house there is not a woman stirring yet! I have sent five messages by my man to let Mrs. Brown know that I have been waiting for my breakfast these two hours; but this confounded ball has turned everything upside down! You are come to a pretty scene," continued he, looking round with a mixture of fury and contempt,—"a very pretty scene! 'Pon my honour, I blush to see myself standing here! Just look at these rags!" kicking a festoon of artificial roses that had fallen to the ground. "Can anything be more despicable?—and to think that rational creatures in possession of their senses should take pleasure in the sight of such trumpery! 'Pon my soul, I—I—declare it confounds me! I really used to think Lady Emily (for this is all her doing) had some sense—but such a display of folly as this!"
"Pshaw!" said Mary, "it is not fair in us to stand here analysing the dregs of gaiety after the essence is gone. I daresay this was a very brilliant scene last night."
"Brilliant scene, indeed!" repeated the Doctor in a most; wrathful accent: "I really am amazed—I—yes—brilliant enough—if you mean that there was a glare of light enough to blind the devil. I thought my eyes would have been put out the short time I stayed; indeed, I don't think this one has recovered it yet," advancing a fierce blood-shot eye almost close to Mary's. "Don't you think it looks aleettleinflamed, Miss Mary?"
Mary gave it as her opinion that it did.
"Well, that's all I've got by this business; but I never was consulted about it. I thought it my duty, however, to give aleettlehint to the Earl, when the thing was proposed. 'My Lord,' says I, 'your house is your own; you have a right to do what you please with it; burn it; pull it down; make a purgatory of it; but, for God's sake, don't give a ball in it!' The ball was given, and you see the consequences. A ball! and what's a ball, that a whole family should be thrown into disorder for it?"
"I daresay, to those who are engaged in it, it is a very delightful amusement at the time."
"Delightful fiddlestick! 'Pon my soul, I'm surprised at you, Miss Mary! I thought your staying away was a pretty strong proof of your good sense; but I—hem! Delightful amusement, indeed! to see human creatures twirling one another about all night like so many monkeys—making perfect mountebanks of themselves. Really, I look upon dancing as a most degrading and a most immoral practice. 'Pon my soul, I—Icouldn't have the face to waltz, I know; and it's all on account of this delightful amusement—" with a convulsive shake of his chin—"that things are in this state—myself kept waiting for my breakfast two hours and a half beyond my natural time: not that I mind myself at all—that's neither here nor there—and if I was the only sufferer, I'm sure I should be the very last to complain—but I own it vexes—it distresses me. 'Pon my honour, can't stand seeing a whole family going to destruction!"
The Doctor's agitation was so great that Mary really pitied him.
"It is rather hard that you cannot get any breakfast since you had no enjoyment in the ball," said she. "I daresay, were I to apply to Mrs. Brown, she would trust me with her keys; and I shall be happy too officiate for her in making your tea."
"Thank you, Miss Mary," replied the Doctor coldly. "I'm very much obliged to you. It is really a very polite offer on your part; but—hem!—you might have observed that I never take tea to breakfast. I keep that for the evening; most people, I know, do the reverse, but they're in the wrong. Coffee is too nutritive for the evening. The French themselves are in an error there. That woman, that Mrs. Brown knows what I like; in fact, she's the only woman I ever met with who could make coffee—coffee that I thought drinkable. She knows that—and she knows that I like it to a moment—and yet—-"
Here the Doctor blew his nose, and Mary thought she perceived a tear twinkle in his eye. Finding she was incapable of administering consolation, she was about to quit the room, when the Doctor, recovering himself, called after her.
"If you happen to be going the way of Mrs. Brown's room, Miss Mary, I would take it very kind if you could just contrive to let her know what time of day it is; and that I have not tasted a mouthful of anything since last night at twelve o'clock, when I took aleettlemorsel of supper in my own room."
Mary took advantage of the deep sigh that followed to make her escape; and as she crossed the vestibule she descried the Doctor's man, hurrying along with a coffee pot, which she had no doubt would pour consolation into his master's soul.
As Mary was aware of her mother's dislike to introduce her into company, she flattered herself she had for once done something to merit her approbation by having absented herself on this occasion. But Mary was a novice in the ways of temper, and had yet to learn that to study to please, and to succeed, are very different things. Lady Juliana had been decidedly averse to her appearing at the ball, but she was equally disposed to take offence at her having stayed away; besides, she had not been pleased herself, and her glass told her she looked jaded and ill. She was therefore, as her maid expressed it, in a most particular bad temper; and Mary had to endure reproaches, of which she could only make out that although she ought not to have been present she was much to blame in having been absent. Lady Emily's indignation was in a different style. There was a heat and energy in her anger that never failed to overwhelm her victim at once. But it was more tolerable than the tedious, fretful ill humour of the other; and after she had fairly exhausted herself in invectives, and ridicule, and insolence, and drawn tears from her cousin's eyes by the bitterness of her language, she heartily embraced her, vowed she liked her better than anybody in the world, and that she was a fool for minding anything she said to her.
"I assure you," said she, "I was only tormenting you a little, and you must own you deserve that; but you can't suppose I meant half what I said; that is abêtiseI can't conceive you guilty of. You see I am much more charitable in my conclusions than you. You have no scruple in thinking me a wretch, though I am too good-natured to set you down for a fool. Come, brighten up, and I'll tell you all about the ball. How I hate it, were it only for having made your nose red! But really the thing in itself was detestable. Job himself must have gone mad at the provocations I met with. In the first place, I had set my heart upon introducing you with éclat, and instead of which you preferred psalm-singing with Mrs. Lennox, or sentiment with her son—I don't know which. In the next place there was a dinner in Bath, that kept away some of the best men; then, after waiting an hour and a half for Frederick to begin the ball with Lady Charlotte M—-, I went myself to his room, and found him lounging by the fire with a volume of Rousseau in his hand, not dressed, and quite surprised that I should think his presence at all necessary; and when he did make his entré, conceive my feelings at seeing him single out Lady Placid as his partner! I certainly would rather have seen him waltzing with a hyena! I don't believe he knew or cared whom he danced with—unless, perhaps, it had been Adelaide, but she was engaged; and, by-the-bye, there certainly is some sort of a liaison there; how it will end I don't know; it depends upon on themselves, for I'm sure the course of their love may run smooth if they choose—I know nothing to interrupt it. Perhaps, indeed, it may become stagnate from that very circumstance; for you know, or perhaps you don't know, 'there is no spirit under heaven that works with such delusion.'"
Mary would have felt rather uneasy at his intelligence, had she believed it possible for her sister to be in love; but she had ever appeared to her so insensible to every tender emotion and generous affection, that she could not suppose even love itself as capable of making any impression on her heart. When, however, she saw them together, she began to waver in her opinion. Adelaide, silent and disdainful to others, was now gay and enchanting to Lord Lindore, and looked as if she triumphed in the victory she had already won. It was not so easy to ascertain the nature of Lord Lindore's feelings towards his cousin, and time only developed them.
"Les douleurs muettes et stupides sont hors d'usage; on pleure, on récite, on répète, on est si touchée de la mort de son mari, qu'on n'en oublie pas la moindre circonstance."
"PRAY put on your Lennox face this morning, Mary," said Lady Emily one day to her cousin, "for I want you to go and pay a funeral visit with me to a distant relation, but unhappily a near neighbour of ours, who has lately lost her husband. Lady Juliana and Adelaide ought to go, but they won't, so you and I must celebrate, as we best can, the obsequies of the Honourable Mr. Sufton."
Mary readily assented; and when they were seated in the carriage, her cousin began—
"Since I am going to put you in the way of a trap, I think it but fair to warn you of it. All traps are odious things, and I make it my business to expose them wherever I find them. I own it chafes my spirit to see even sensible people taken in by the clumsy machinery of such a woman as Lady Matilda Sufton. So here she is in her true colours. Lady Matilda is descended from the ancient and illustrious family of Altamont. To have a fair character is, in her eyes, much more important than to deserve it. She has prepared speeches for every occasion, and she expects they are all to be believed—in short, she is ashowwoman; the world is her theatre, and from it she looks for the plaudits due to her virtue; for with her the reality and the semblance are synonymous. She has a grave and imposing air, which keeps the timid at a distance; and she delivers the most common truths as if they were the most profound aphorisms. To degrade herself is her greatest fear; for, to use her own expression, there is nothing so degrading as associating with our inferiors—that is, our inferiors in rank and wealth—for with her all other gradations are incomprehensible. With the lower orders of society she is totally unacquainted; she knows they are meanly clothed and coarsely fed, consequently they are mean. She is proud, both from nature and principle; for she thinks it is the duty of every woman of family to be proud, and that humility is only a virtue in thecanaille.Proper pride she calls it, though I rather think it ought to be prideproper,as I imagine it is a distinction that was unknown before the introduction of heraldry. The only true knowledge, according to her creed, is the knowledge of the world, by which she means a knowledge of the most courtly etiquette, the manners and habits of the great, and the newest fashions in dress. Ignoramuses might suppose she entered deeply into things, and was thoroughly acquainted with human nature. No such thing; the only wisdom she possesses, like the owl is the look of wisdom, and that is the very part of it which I detest. Passions or feelings she has none, and to love she is an utter stranger. When somewhat 'in the sear and yellow leaf' she married Mr. Sufton, a silly old man, who had been dead to the world for many years. But after having had him buried alive in his own chamber till his existence was forgot, she had him disinterred for the purpose of giving him a splendid burial in good earnest. That done, her duty is now to mourn, or appear to mourn, for the approbation of the world. And now you shall judge for yourself, for here is Sufton House. Now for the trappings and the weeds of woe."
Aware of her cousin's satirical turn, Mary was not disposed to yield conviction to her representation, but entered Lady Matilda's drawing-room with a mind sufficiently unbiassed to allow her to form her own judgment; but a very slight survey satisfied her that the picture was not overcharged. Lady Matilda sat in an attitude of woe—a crape—fan and open prayer-book lay before her—her cambric handkerchief was in her hand—her mourning-ring was upon her finger—and the tear, not unbidden, stood in her eye. On the same sofa, and side by side, sat a tall, awkward, vapid-looking personage, whom she introduced as her brother, the Duke of Altamont. His Grace was flanked by an obsequious-looking gentleman, who was slightly named as General Carver; and at a respectful distance was seated a sort of half-cast gentle-woman, something betwixt the confide humble companion, who was incidentally as "my good Mrs. Finch."
Her Ladyship pressed Lady Emily's hand—
"I did not expect, my dearest young friend, after the blow I have experienced—I did not expect I should so soon have been enabled to see my friends; but I have made a great exertion. Had I consulted my own feelings, indeed!—but there is a duty we owe to the world—there is an example we are all bound to show—but such a blow!" Here she had recourse to her handkerchief.
"Such a blow!" echoed the Duke.
"Such a blow!" re-echoed the General.
"Such a blow!" reverberated Mrs. Finch.
"The most doating husband! I may say he lived but in my sight. Such a man!"
"Such a man!" said the Duke.
"Such a man!" exclaimed the General.
"Oh! such a man!" sobbed Mrs. Finch, as she complacently dropped a few tears. At hat moment, sacred to tender remembrance, the door opened, and Mrs. Downe Wright was announced. She entered the room as if she had come to profane the ashes of the dead, and insult the feelings of the living. A smile was upon her face; and, in place of the silent pressure, she shook her Ladyship heartily by the hand as she expressed her pleasure at seeing her look so well.
"Well!" replied the Lady, "that is wonderful, after whatever have suffered; but grief, it seems, will not kill!"
"I never thought it would," said Mrs. Downe Wright; "but I thought your having been confined to the house so long might have affected your looks. However, I'm happy to see that is not the case, as I don't recollect ever to have seen you so fat."
Lady Matilda tried to look her into decency, but in vain. She sighed, and even groaned; but Mrs. Downe Wright would not be dolorous, and was not to be taken in, either by sigh or groan, crape-fan or prayer-book. There was nobody her Ladyship stood so much in awe of as Mrs. Downe Wright. She had an instinctive knowledge that she knew her, and she felt her genius repressed by her, as Julius Cresar's was by Cassius. They had been very old acquaintances, but never were cordial friends, though many worthy people are very apt to confound the two. Upon this occasion Mrs. Downe Wright certainly did; for, availing herself of this privilege, she took off her cloak, and said, "'Tis so long since I have seen you, my dear; and since I see you so well, and able to enjoy the society of your friends, I shall delay the rest of my visits, and spend the morning with you."
"That is truly kind of you, my dear Mrs. Downe Wright," returned the mourner, with a countenance in which real woe was now plainly depicted; "but I cannot be so selfish as to claim such a sacrifice from you."
"There is no sacrifice in the case, I assure you, my dear," returned Mrs. Downe Wright. "This is a most comfortable room; and I could go nowhere that I would meet a pleasanter little circle," looking round.
Lady Matilda thought herself undone. Looking well—fat—comfortable room—pleasant circle—rung in her ears, and caused almost as great a whirl in her brain as noses, lips, handkerchiefs, did in Othello's Mrs. Downe Wright, always disagreeable, was now perfectly insupportable. She had disconcerted all her plans—she was a bar to all her studied speeches—even an obstacle to all her sentimental looks; yet to get rid of her was impossible. In fact, Mrs. Downe Wright was far from being an amiable woman. She took a malicious pleasure in tormenting those she did not like; and her skill in this art was so great that she even deprived the tormented of the privilege of complaint. She had a great insight into character, and she might be said to read the very thoughts of his victims. Making a desperate effort to be herself again, Lady Matilda turned to her two young visitors, with whom she had still some hopes of success.
"I cannot express how much I feel indebted to the sympathy of my friends upon this trying occasion—an occasion, indeed, that called for sympathy."
"A most melancholy occasion!" said the Duke.
"A most distressing occasion!" exclaimed the General.
"Never was greater occasion!" moaned Mrs_._ Finch.
Her Ladyship wiped her eyes, and resumed.
"I feel that I act but a melancholy part, in spite of every exertion. But my kind friend Mrs. Downe Wright's spirits will, I trust, support me. She knows what it is to lose—"
Again her voice was buried in her handkerchief, and again she recovered and proceeded.
"I ought to apologise for being thus overcome; but my friends, I hope, will make due allowance for my situation. It cannot be expected that I should at all times find myself able for company."
"Not at all!" said the Duke; and the two satellites uttered their responses.
"You are able for a great deal, my dear!" said the provoking Mrs. Downe Wright; "and I have no doubt but, with a very little exertion, you could behave as if nothing had happened."
"Your partiality makes you suppose me capable of a great deal more than I am equal to," answered her Ladyship, with a real hysteric sob. "It is not everyone who is blessed with the spirits of Mrs. Downe Wright."
"What woman can do, you dare; who dares do more, is none!" said theGeneral, bowing with a delighted air at this brilliant application.
Mrs. Downe Wright charitably allowed it to pass, as she thought it might be construed either as a compliment or a banter. Visitors flocked in, and the insufferable Mrs. Downe Wright declared to all that her Ladyship was astonishingly well; but without the appropriate whine, which gives proper pathos, and generally accompanies this hackneyed speech. Mrs. Finch indeed laboured hard _to _counteract the effect of this injudicious cheerfulness by the most orthodox sighs, shakes of the head, and confidential whispers, in which "wonderful woman!"—"prodigious exertion!"—"perfectly overcome!"—"suffer for this afterwards,"—were audibly heard by all present; but even then Mrs. Downe Wright's drawn-up lip and curled nose spoke daggers. At length the tormentor recollected an engagement she had made elsewhere, and took leave, promising to return, if possible, the following day. Her friend, in her own mind, took her measures accordingly. She resolved to order her own carriage to be in waiting, and if Mrs. Downe Wright put her threat in execution she would take an airing. True, she had not intended to have been able for such an exertion for at least a week longer; but, with the blinds down, she thought it might have an interesting effect.
The enemy fairly gone, Lady Matilda seemed to feel like a person suddenly relieved from the nightmare; and she was beginning to give a fair specimen of her scenic powers when Lady Emily, seeing the game was up with Mrs. Downe Wright, abruptly rose to depart.
"This has been a trying scene for you, my sweet young friends!" said herLadyship, taking a hand of each.
"It has indeed!" replied Lady Emily, in a tone so significant as madeMary start.
"I know it would—youth is always so full of sympathy. I own I have a preference for the society of my young friends on that account. My good Mrs. Finch, indeed, is an exception; but worthy Mrs. Downe Wright has been almost too much for me."
"She is too much!" said the Duke.
"She is a great deal too much!" said the General.
"She is a vast deal too much!" said Mrs. Finch.
"I own I have been rather overcome by her!" with a deep-drawn sigh, which her visitors hastily availed themselves of to make their retreat. The Duke and the General handed Lady Emily and Mary to their carriage.
"You find my poor sister wonderfully composed," said the former.
"Charming woman, Lady Matilda!" ejaculated the latter; "her feelings do honour to her head and heart!"
Mary sprang into the carriage as quick as possible to be saved the embarrassment of a reply; and it was not till they were fairly out of sight that she ventured to raise her eyes to her cousin's face. There the expression of ill-humour and disgust were so strongly depicted that she could not longer repress her risible emotions, but gave way to a violent fit of laughter.
"How!" exclaimed her companion, "is this the only effect 'Matilda's moan' has produced upon you? I expected your taste for grief would have been highly gratified by this affecting representation."
"My appetite, you ought rather to say," replied Mary; "taste implies some discrimination, which you seem to deny me."
"Why, to tell you the truth, I do look upon you as a sort of intellectual ghoul; you really do remind me of the lady in the Arabian Nights, whose taste or appetite, which you will, led her to scorn everything that did not savour of the churchyard."
"The delicacy of your comparison is highly flattering," said Mary; "butI must be duller than the fatweed were I to give my sympathy to such asLady Matilda Sufton."
"Well, I'm glad to hear you say so; for I assure you I was in pain lest you should have been taken in, notwithstanding my warning to say somethinglarmoyante—orjoin the soft echo—or heave a sigh—or drop a tear—or do something, in short, that would have disgraced you with me for ever. At one time, I must do you the justice to own, I thought I saw you with difficulty repress a smile, and then you blushed so, for fear you had betrayed yourself! The smile I suppose has gained you one conquest—the blush another. How happy you who can hit the various tastes so easily! Mrs. Downe Wright whispered me as she left the room, 'What a charming intelligent countenance your cousin has!' While my Lord Duke of Altamont observed, as he handed me along, 'What a very sweet modest-looking girl Miss Douglas was! 'So take your choice—Mrs. William Downe Wright, or Duchess of Altamont!"
"Duchess of Altamont, to be sure," said Mary: "and then such a man! Oh! such a man!"