"For marriage is a matter of more worthThan to be dealt with in attorneyship."
"ALLOW me to introduce to you, ladies, that most high and puissant Princess, her Grace the Duchess of Altamont, Marchioness of Norwood, Countess of Penrose, Baroness of, etc. etc.," cried Lady Emily, as she threw open the drawing-room door, and ushered Mary into the presence of her mother and sister, with all the demonstrations of ceremony and respect. The one frowned-the other coloured.
"How vastly absurd!" cried Lady Juliana angrily.
"How vastly amusing!" cried Adelaide contemptuously.
"How vastly annoying!" cried Lady Emily; "to think that this little Highlander should bear a loft the ducal crown, while you and I, Adelaide, must sneak about in shabby straw bonnets," throwing down her own in pretended indignation. "Then to think, which is almost certain, of her Viceroying it someday; and you and I, and all of us, being presented to her Majesty—having the honour of her hand to kiss—retreating from the royal presence upon our heels.
"Oh! ye Sylphs and Gnomes!" and she pretended to sink down overwhelmed with mortification.
Lady Emily delighted in tormenting her aunt and cousin, and she saw that she had completely succeeded. Mary was disliked by her mother, and despised by her sister; and any attempt to bring her forward, or raise her to a level with themselves, never failed to excite the indignation of both. The consequences were always felt by her in the increased ill-humour and disdainful indifference with which she was treated; and on the present occasion her injudicious friend was only brewing phials of wrath for her. But Lady Emily never looked to future consequences—present effect was all she cared for; and she went on to relate seriously, as she called it, but in the most exaggerated terms, the admiration which the Duke had expressed for Mary, and her own firm belief that she might be Duchess when she chose; "that is, after the expiry of his mourning for the late Duchess. Everyone knows that he is desirous of having a family, and is determined to marry the moment propriety permits; he is now decidedly on the look-out, for the year must be very near a close; and then, hail Duchess of Altamont!"
"I must desire, Lady Emily, you will find some other subject for your wit, and not fill the girl's head with folly and nonsense; there is a great deal too much of both already."
"Take care what you say of the future representative of majesty of this may be high treason yet; only I trust your Grace will be as generous as Henry the Fifth was, and that the Duchess of Altamont will not remember the offences committed against Mary Douglas."
Lady Juliana, to whom a jest was an outrage, and raillery incomprehensible, now started up, and, as she passionately swept out of the room, threw down a stand of hyacinths, which, for the present, put a stop to Lady Emily's diversion.
The following day Mrs. Downe Wright arrived with her son, evidently primed for falling in love at first sight. He was a very handsome young man, gentle, and rather pleasing in his manners; and Mary, to whom his intentions were not so palpable, thought him by no means deserving of the contempt her cousin had expressed for him.
"Well!" cried Lady Emily, after they were gone, "the plot begins to thicken; lovers begin to pour in, but all for Mary; how mortifying to you and me, Adelaide! At this rate we shall have nothing to boast of in the way of disinterested attachment nobody refused!—nothing renounced! By-and-bye Edward will be reckoned a very good match for _me,_andyouwill be thought greatly married if you succeed in securing Lindore—poorLord Lindore, as it seems that wretch Placid calls him."
Adelaide heard all her cousin's taunts in silence and with apparent coolness; but they rankled deep in a heart already festering with pride, envy, and ambition. The thoughts of her sister—and that sister so inferior to herself—attaining a more splendid alliance, was not to be endured. True, she loved Lord Lindore, and imagined herself beloved in return; but even that was not sufficient to satisfy the craving passions of a perverted mind. She did not, indeed, attach implicit belief to all that her cousin said on the subject; but she was provoked and irritated at the mere supposition of such a thing being possible; for it is not merely the jealous whose happiness is the sport of trifles light as air—every evil thought, every unamiable feeling, bears about with it the bane of that enjoyment after which it vainly aspires.
Mary felt the increasing ill-humour which this subject drew upon her, without being able to penetrate the cause of it; but she saw that it was displeasing to her mother and sister, and that was sufficient to make her wish to put a stop to it. She therefore earnestly entreated Lady Emily to end the joke.
"Excuse me," replied her Ladyship, "I shall do no such thing. In the first place, there happens to be no joke in the matter. I'm certain, seriously certain, or certainly serious, which you like, that you may be Duchess of Altamont, if you please. It could be no common admiration that prompted his Grace to an original and spontaneous effusion of it. I have met with him before, and never suspected that he had an innate idea in his head. I certainly never heard him utter anything half so brilliant before—it seemed quite like the effect of inspiration."
"But I cannot conceive, even were it as you say, why my mother should be so displeased about it. She surely cannot suppose me so silly as to be elated by the unmeaning admiration of anyone, or so meanly aspiring as to marry a man I could not love, merely because he is a Duke. She was incapable of such a thing herself, she cannot then suspect me."
"It seems as impossible to make you enter into the characters of your mother and sister as it would be to teach them to comprehend yours, and far be it from me to act as interpreter betwixt your understandings. If you can't even imagine such things as prejudice, narrow-mindedness, envy, hatred, and malice, your ignorance is bliss, and you had better remain in it. But you may take my word for one thing, and that is, that 'tis a much wiser thing to resist tyranny than to submit to it. Your patient Grizzles make nothing of it, except in little books: in real life they become perfect pack-horses, saddled with the whole offences of the family. Such will you become unless you pluck up spirit and dash out. Marry the Duke, and drive over the necks of all your relations; that's my advice to you."
"And you may rest assured that when I follow your advice it shall be in whole not in part."
"Well, situated so detestably as you are, I rather think the best thing you could do would be to make yourself Duchess of Altamont. How disdainful you look! Come, tell me honestly now, would you really refuse to be Your Grace, with ninety thousand a year, and remain simple Mary Douglas, passing rich with perhaps forty?"
"Unquestionably," said Mary.
"What! you really pretend to say you would not marry the Duke of Altamont?" cried Lady Emily. "Not that I would take him myself; but as you and I, though the best of friends, differ widely in our sentiments on most subjects, I should really like to know how it happens that we coincide in this one. Very different reasons, I daresay, lead to the same conclusion; but I shall generously give you the advantage of hearing mine first. I shall say nothing of being engaged—I shall even banish that idea from my thoughts; but were I free as air—unloving and unloved—I would refuse the Duke of Altamont; first, because he: is old—no, first, because he is stupid; second, because he is formal; third, because he swallows all Lady Matilda's flummery; fourth, because he is more than double my age; fifth, because he is not handsome; and, to sum up the whole in the sixth, he wants that inimitableJe ne scais quoiwhich I consider as a necessary ingredient in the matrimonial cup. I shall not, in addition to these defects, dwell upon his unmeaning stare, his formal bow, his little senseless simper, etc. etc. etc. All these enormities, and many more of the same stamp, I shall pass by, as I have no doubt they had their due effect upon you as well as me; but then I am not like you, under the torments of Lady Juliana's authority. Were that the case, I should certainly think it a blessing to become Duchess of anybody to-morrow."
"And can you really imagine," said Mary, "that for the sake of shaking off a parent's authority I would impose upon myself chains still heavier, and even more binding? Can you suppose I would so far forfeit my honour and truth as that I would swear to love, honour, and obey, where I could feel neither love nor respect, and where cold constrained obedience would be all of my duty I could hope to fulfil?"
"Love!" exclaimed Lady Emily; "can I credit my ears? Love! did you say I thought that had only been for naughty ones, such as me; and that saints like you would have married for anything and everything but love! Prudence, I thought, had been the word with you proper ladies—a prudent marriage! Come, confess, is not that the climax of virtue in the creed of your school?"
"I never learnt the creed of any school," said Mary, "nor ever heard anyone's sentiments on the subject, except my dear Mrs. Douglas's."
"Well, I should like to hear your oracle's opinion, if you can give it in shorthand."
"She warned me there was a passion which was very fashionable, and which I should hear a great deal of, both in conversation and books, that was the result of indulged fancy, warm imaginations, and ill-regulated minds; that many had fallen into its snares, deceived by its glowing colours and alluring name; that—"
"A very good sermon, indeed!" interrupted Lady Emily; "but, no offence to Mrs. Douglas, I think I could preach a better myself. Love is a passion that has been much talked of, often described, and little understood. Cupid has many counterfeits going about the world, who pass very well with those whose minds are capable of passion, but not of love. These Birmingham Cupids have many votaries amongst boarding-school misses, militia officers, and milliners 'apprentices; who marry upon the mutual faith of blue eyes and scarlet coats; have dirty houses and squalling children, and hate each other most delectably. Then there is another species for more refined souls, which owes its birth to the works of Rousseau, Goethe, Cottin, etc. Its success depends very much upon rocks, woods, and waterfalls; and it generally ends daggers, pistols, or poison. But there, I think, Lindore would be more eloquent than me, so I shall leave it for him to discuss that chapter with you. But, to return to your own immediate concerns. Pray, are you then positively prohibited from falling in love? Did Mrs. Douglas only dress up a scarecrow to frighten you, or had she the candour to show you Love himself in all his majesty?"
"She told me," said Mary, "that there was a love which even the wisest and most virtuous need not blush to entertain—the love of a virtuous object, founded upon esteem, and heightened by similarity of tastes and sympathy of feelings, into a pure and devoted attachment: unless I feel all this, I shall never fancy myself in love."
"Humph! I can't say much as to the similarity of tastes and sympathy of souls between the Duke and you, but surely you might contrive to feel some love and esteem for a coronet and ninety thousand a year." "Suppose I did," said Mary, with a smile, "the next point is to honour; and surely he is as unlikely to excite that sentiment as the other. Honour—-"
"I can't have a second sermon upon honour. 'Can honour take away the grief of a wound?' as Falstaff says. Love is the only subject I care to preach about; though, unlike many young ladies, we can talk about other things too; but as to this Duke,Icertainly 'had rather live on cheese and garlic, in a windmill far, than feed on cakes, and have him talk to me in any summer-house in Christendom;' and now I have had Mrs. Douglas's second-hand sentiments upon the subject, I should like to hear your own."
"I have never thought much upon the subject," said Mary; "my sentiments are therefore all at second-hand, but I shall repeat to you what I think is not love, and what is." And she repeated these pretty and well-known lines:—
To sigh—yet feel no pain;To weep-yet scarce know why;To sport an hour with beauty's chain,Then throw it idly by;To kneel at many a shrine,Yet lay the heart on none;To think all other charms divineBut those we just have won:—This is love-careless love—Such as kindleth hearts that rove.To keep one sacred flameThrough life, unchill'd, unmov'd;To love in wint'ry age the sameThat first in youth we loved;To feel that we adoreWith such refined excess,That though the heart would break with more,We could not love with less:—This is love—faithful love—Such as saints might feel above.
"And such as I do feel, and will always feel, for my Edward," said LadyEmily. "But there is the dressing-bell!" And she flew off, singing—
"To keep one sacred flame," etc.
"Some, when they write to their friends, are all affection; Some are wise and sententious; some strain their powers for efforts of gaiety; some write news, and some write secrets—but to make a letter without affection, without wisdom, without gaiety, without news, and without a secret, is doubtless the great epistolic art. "-DR. JOHNSON.
AN unusual length of time had elapsed since Mary had heard from Glenfern, and she was beginning to feel some anxiety on account of her friends there, when her apprehensions were dispelled by the arrival of a large packet, containing letters from Mrs. Douglas and Aunt Jacky. The former, although the one that conveyed the greatest degree of pleasure, was perhaps not the one that would be most acceptable to the reader. Indeed, it is generally admitted that the letters of single ladies are infinitely more lively and entertaining than those of married ones—a fact which can neither be denied nor accounted for. The following is a faithful transcript from the original letter in question;—
"GLENFERN CASTLE, —-SHIRE, N.B.Feb. 19th,18—.
"My DEAR MARY—Yours wasreceivedwithmuchpleasure, as it isalwaysa satisfaction to your friendshereto know that you arewelland doingwell.We alltakethe mostsincereinterest in yourhealth,and also in yourimprovementsin otherrespects.But I amsorryto say they do not quitekeeppace withourexpectations. I must thereforetakethis opportunity ofmentioningto you afaultof yours,which,though a very great _one _in itself, is onethata very slightdegreeof attention on yourpart,will, I havenodoubt, enable you togetentirely thebetter of.is fortunate foryou,my dear Mary, that you havefriendswho are always ready to pointoutyour errors to you. Forwantof thatmostinvaluableblessing,viz. a sincere _friend, _many aonehas gone out of theworld,no wiser in manyrespects,than when theycameinto it. But that, I flattermyself,will not be yourcase,as you cannotbutbe sensible of the greatpainsmy sister and I havetakento point out yourfaultsto you from the _hour _of your birth. Theoneto which I particularly _allude _at present is, the constant omission ofproperdates to yourletters,by which means we are all of us very oftenbroughtintomostunpleasantsituations.As aninstanceof it, ourworthyminister, Mr M'Drone, happened to becallinghere the verydaywe received your lastletter.Afterhearingit read, he mostnaturallyinquired the date of it; and Icannottell you howawkwardwe allfeltwhen we wereobligedto confess it hadnone!And since I amuponthat subject, I think it muchbetterto tell you candidly that Idonot think yourhandof write by anymeansimproved. It does notlookas if youbestowedthat pains upon it which youundoubtedlyought to do; for withoutpains,I can assure you, Mary, youwillnever do anythingwell. As our admirablegrandmother,good Lady Girnachgowl,usedto say, painsmakesgains; and so it wasseenupon her; for it was entirelyowingto herpainsthat the Girnachgowl estate was relieved, andcameto be what it is now, viz. a most valuable andhighlyproductiveproperty.
"I know there aremanyyoungpeoplewho are very _apt _to think itbeneaththem to takepains;"but I sincerely trust, my dear Mary, you havemoresense than to be so veryfoolish.Next to a good distincthandof write, andproperstops (which I observe you neverput),the thingmostto be attended to is your style,whichwe all think mightbegreatlyimprovedby a _little _reflection on yourpart,joined to afewjudicioushintsfrom your friends. We areallof opinion, that yourperiodsare too short, and alsothatyour expressions aredeficientin dignity.Neitherare you sufficiently circumstantial in yourintelligence,even upon subjects of the highestimportance.Indeed, upon somesubjects,youcommunicateno information whatever, which iscertainlyvery extraordinary in ayoungperson, who ought to be naturally extremely communicative. Miss M'Pry, who is here upon avisitto us atpresent,is perfectlyastonishedat the totalwantof news in your _letters. _She has anieceresiding in the neighbourhood of _Bath, _who sends her regular lists of the company there, and also anaccountof the mostremarkableevents that take _place _there. Indeed, had it notbeenfor Patty M'Pry, we never would haveheardasyllableof the celebrated _Lady _Travers's elopement withSirJohn Conquest; and, indeed, I cannotconcealfrom you, that we have heard more as to what goes on in Lord Courtland'sfamilythrough Miss Patty M'Pry, thaneverwe have heard from you,Mary.
"In short, Imustplainly tell you,howeverpainful you mayfeelit, that not one of us is ever awhitthe wiser after reading yourlettersthan wewerebefore. But I amsorryto say this is not themostserious part of thecomplaintwe have tomakeagainst you. We are allwillingto find excuses for you, evenuponthese points, but I mustconfess,your neglecting toreturnany answers to certain inquiries of your aunts',appearsto me perfectly inexcusable. Ofcourse,you mustunderstandthat I allude to thatletterof your Aunt Grizzy's, dated the 17th of December, wherein sheexpresseda strong desire that you should endeavour to make yourselfmistressof Dr. Redgill's opinion withrespectto lumbago, as she is extremely anxious toknowwhether heconsidersthe seat of the disorder to be in the bones or the sinews; and undoubtedly it is of the greatestconsequenceto procure theopinionof a sensible well-informed Englishphysician,upon a subject of such vitalimportance.Your Aunt Nicky, also, in a letter,datedthe 22d of December, requested to beinformedwhether Lord Courtland (like ourgreatlandholders) killed his ownmutton, as Miss P. M'P. insinuates in aletterto her aunt, that theservantsthere are suspected of beingguiltyof greatabuseson thatscore; but there you alsopreservea most unbecoming, and I own I thinksomewhat mysterious silence.
"And now, my dear Mary,havingsaid all thatItrust is necessary torecallyou to a sense ofyourduty, Ishallnow communicate to you apieceof intelligence,which,I am certain, willoccasionyou the _most _unfeigned pleasure, viz. the prospect there is of your soonbeholdingsome of your friends from thisquarterin Bath. Our valuable friend andneighbour,Sir Sampson, has been rather (we think) worse thanbettersince you left us. He is nowdeprivedof the entire use of one leg. He _himself _calls hiscomplainta morbid rheumatism; but Lady Maclaughlanassuresus it is a rheumatic palsy, and she has nowformedthe resolution oftakinghimupto Bath early in the ensuingspring.And not only that, but she has most consideratelyinvitedyour Aunt Grizzy to accompany them,which,of course, she is to do with the greatestpleasure.We are therefore all extremelyoccupiedin getting your aunt's thingsputin order for such anoccasion;and you mustacceptof that as an apology for none of the girlsbeingat leisure to writeyouat present, andlikewisefor the shortness ofthisletter. But be assured we will allwriteyou fully by Grizzy. Meantime, allunitein kind remembrance toyou.And Iam,my dear Mary, your most affectionate aunt,
"P.S.—Uponlookingover your letter, I am muchstruckwith your X's. You surelycannotbe so ignorant asnotto know that a wellmade xis neither more norlessthantwo c'sjoined together back to back,insteadof these senseless crosses youseemso fond of; and as to _your z's, _I defy anyoneto distinguish themfromyoury's. _I trust you willattendto this, and show that it _proceeds _rather from want of properattentionthanfromwilful airs.
"P.S.-Miss P. M'Prywritesher aunt thatthereis a strong _report _of Lord Lindore's marriage to ournieceAdelaide; but _we _think that isimpossible,as you certainlynevercould have omitted toinformus of a circumstancewhichso deeply concernsus.If so, I mustownI shall think you quiteunpardonable.At thesametime, it _appears _extremely improbablethatMiss M'P.wouldhave mentionedsucha thing to her _aunt,_without having goodgroundstogoupon. J. D."
Mary could not entirely repress her mirth while she read this catalogue of her crimes; but she was, at the same time, eager to expiate her offences, real or imaginary, in the sight of her good old aunt; and she immediately sat down to the construction of a letter after the model prescribed;—though with little expectation of being able to cope with the intelligent Miss P. M'P. in the extent of her communications. Her heart warmed at the thoughts of seeing again the dear familiar face of Aunt Grizzy, and of hearing the tones of that voice, which, though sharp and cracked, still sounded sweet in memory's ear. Such is the power that early associations ever retain over the kind and unsophisticated heart. But she was aware how differently her mother would feel on the subject, as she never alluded to her husband's family but with indignation or contempt; and she therefore resolved to be silent with regard to Aunt Grizzy's prospects for the present.
". . . . As in apothecaries' shops all sorts of drugs are permitted to be, so may all sorts of books be in the library; and as they out of vipers, and scorpions, and poisonous vegetables extract often wholesome medicaments for the life of mankind, so out of whatsoever book good instruction and examples may be acquired."—DRUMMONDof Hawthornden.
MARY's thoughts had often reverted to Rose Hall since the day she had last quitted it, and she longed to fulfil her promise to her venerable friend; but a feeling of delicacy, unknown to herself, withheld her. "She will not miss me while she has her son with her," said she to herself; but in reality she dreaded her cousin's raillery should she continue to visit there as frequently as before. At length a favourable opportunity occurred. Lady Emily, with great exultation, told her the Duke of Altamont was to dine at Beech Park the following day, but that she was to conceal it from Lady Juliana and Adelaide; "for assuredly," said she, "if they were apprised of it, they would send you up to the nursery as a naughty girl, or perhaps down to the scullery, and make a Cinderella of you. Depend upon it you would not get leave to show your face in the drawing-room."
"Do you really think so?" asked Mary.
"I know it. I know Lady Juliana would torment you till she had set you a crying; and then she would tell you you had made yourself such a fright that you were not fit to be seen, and so order you to your own room. You know very well it would not be the first time that such a thing has happened."
Mary could not deny the fact; but, sick of idle altercation, she resolved to say nothing, but walk over to Rose Hall the following morning. And this she did, leaving a note for her cousin, apologising for her flight.
She was received with rapture by Mrs. Lennox.
"Ah! my dear Mary," said she, as she tenderly embraced her, "you know not, you cannot conceive, what a blank your absence makes in my life! When you open your eyes in the morning, it is to see the light of day and the faces you love, and all is brightness around you. But when I wake it is still to darkness. My night knows no end. 'Tis only when I listen to your dear voice that I forget I am blind."
"I should not have stayed so long from you," said Mary, "but I knew you had Colonel Lennox with you, and I could not flatter myself you would have even a thought to bestow upon me."
"My Charles is, indeed, everything that is kind and devoted to me. He walks with me, reads to me, talks to me, sits with me for hours, and bears with all my little weaknesses as a mother would with her sick child; but still there are a thousand little feminine attentions he cannot understand. I would not that he did. And then to have him always with me seems so selfish; for, gentle and tender-hearted as he is, I know he bears the spirit of an eagle within him; and the tame monotony of my life can ill accord with the nobler habits of his. Yet he says he is happy with me, and I try to make myself believe him."
"Indeed," said Mary, "I cannot doubt it. It is always a happiness to be with those we love, and whom we know love us, under any circumstances; and it is for that reason I love so much to come to my dear Mrs. Lennox," caressing her as she spoke.
"Dearest Mary, who would not love you? Oh! could I but see—could I but hope—"
"You must hope everything you desire," said Mary gaily, and little guessing the nature of her good friend's hopes; "I do nothing but hope." And she tried to check a sigh, as she thought how some of her best hopes had been already blighted by the unkindness of those whose love she had vainly striven to win.
Mrs. Lennox's hopes were already upon her lips, when the entrance of her son fortunately prevented their being for ever destroyed by a premature disclosure. He welcomed Mary with an appearance of the greatest pleasure, and looked so much happier and more animated than when she last saw him, that she was struck with the change, and began to think he might almost stand a comparison with his picture.
"You find me still here, Miss Douglas," said he, "although my mother gives me many hints to be gone, by insinuating what indeed cannot be doubted, how very ill I supply your place; but—" turning to his mother—"you are not likely to be rid of me for sometime, as I have just received an additional leave of absence; but for that, I must have left you tomorrow."
"Dear Charles, you never told me so. How could you conceal it from me?How wretched I should have been had I dreamed of such a thing!"
"That is the very reason for which I concealed it, and yet you reproach me. Had I told you there was a chance of my going, you would assuredly have set it down for a certainty, and so have been vexed for no purpose."
"But your remaining was a chance too," said Mrs. Lennox, who could not all at once reconcile herself even to anescapefrom danger; "and think, had you been called away from me without any preparation!— Indeed, Charles, it was very imprudent."
"My dearest mother, I meant it in kindness. I could not bear to give you a moment's certain uneasiness for an uncertain evil. I really cannot discover either the use or the virtue of tormenting one's self by anticipation. I should think it quite as rational to case myself in a suit of mail, by way of security to my person, as to keep my mind perpetually on the rack of anticipating evil. I perfectly agree with that philosopher who says, if we confine ourselves to general reflections on the evils of life,thatcan have no effect in preparing us for them; and if we bring them home to us,thatis the certain means of rendering ourselves miserable."
"But they will come, Charles," said his mother mournfully, "whether we bring them or not."
"True, my dear mother; but when misfortune does come, it comes commissioned from a higher power, and it will ever find a well-regulated mind ready to receive it with reverence, and submit to it with resignation. There is something, too, in real sorrow that tends to enlarge and exalt the soul; but the imaginary evils of our own creating can only serve to contract and depress it."
Mrs. Lennox shook her head. "Ah! Charles, you may depend upon it your reasoning is wrong, and you will be convinced of it some day."
"I am convinced of it already. I begin to fear this discussion will frighten Miss Douglas away from us.Thereis an evil anticipated! Now, do you, my dear mother, help me to avert it; where that can be done, it cannot be too soon apprehended."
As Colonel Lennox's character unfolded itself, Mary saw much to admire in it; and it is more than probable the admiration would soon have been reciprocal, had it been allowed to take its course. But good Mrs. Lennox would force it into a thousand little channels prepared by herself, and love itself must have been quickly exhausted by the perpetual demands that were made upon it. Mary would have been deeply mortified had she suspected the cause of her friend's solicitude to show her off; but she was a stranger to match-making in all its bearings, had scarcely ever read a novel in her life, and was consequently not at all aware of the necessity there was for her falling in love with all convenient speed. She was therefore sometimes amused, though oftener ashamed, at Mrs. Lennox's panegyrics, and could not but smile as she thought how Aunt Jacky's wrath would have been kindled had she heard the extravagant praises that were bestowed on her most trifling accomplishments.
"You must sing my favourite song to Charles, my love—he has never heard you sing. Pray do: you did not use to require any entreaty from me, Mary! Many a time you have gladdened my heart with your songs when, but for you, it would have been filled with mournful thoughts!"
Mary, finding whatever she did or didnot,she was destined to hear only her own praises, was glad to take refuge at the harp, to which she sang the following ancient ditty:—
"Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright,The bridal of the earth and sky,Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night,For thou must die.
"Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,Thy root is ever in its grave;And thou must die.
"Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses,A box where sweets compacted lie,My music shows you have your closes,And all must die.
"Only a sweet and virtuous soul,Like season'd timber, never gives;But when the whole world turns to coal,Then chiefly lives."
"That," said Colonel Lennox, "is one of the any exquisite little pieces of poetry which are to be found, like jewels in an Ethiop's ear, in my favourite Isaac Walton. The title of the book offers no encouragement to female readers, but I know few works from which I rise with such renovated feelings of benevolence and good-will. Indeed, I know no author who has given with so much _naïveté _so enchanting a picture of a pious and contented mind. Here—" taking the book from a shelf, and turning over the leaves—"is one of the passages which has so often charmed me:—'That very hour which you were absent from me, I sat down under a willow by the water-side, and considered what you had told me of the owner of that pleasant meadow in which you left me—that he has a plentiful estate, and not a heart to think so; that he has at this time many lawsuits depending, and that they both damped his mirth, and took up so much of his time and thoughts that he himself had not leisure to take that sweet comfort I, who pretended no title to them, took in his fields; for I could there sit quietly, and, looking in the water, see some fishes sport themselves in the silver streams, others leaping at flies of several shapes and colours. Looking on the hills, I could behold them spotted with woods and groves; looking down upon the meadows I could see, here a boy gathering lilies and lady-smocks, and there a girl cropping culverkeys and cowslips, all to make garlands suitable to this present month of May. These, and many other field flowers, so perfumed the air, that I thought that very meadow like that field in Sicily, of which Diodorus speaks, where the perfumes arising from the place make all dogs that hunt in it to fall off and lose their scent. I say, as I thus sat joying in my own happy condition, and pitying this poor rich man that owned this and many other pleasant groves and meadows about me, I did then thankfully remember what my Saviour said, that themeek possess the earth—or,rather, they enjoy what the others possess and enjoy not; for anglers and meek-spirited men are free from those high, those restless thoughts,—which corrode the sweets of life; and they, and they only, can say, as the poet has happily expressed it—
'Hail, blest estate of lowliness!Happy enjoyments of such mindsAs, rich in self-contentedness,Can, like the reeds in roughest winds,By yielding, make that blow but small,By which proud oaks and cedars fall.'"
"There is both poetry and painting in such prose as this," said Mary; "but I should certainly as soon have thought of looking for a pearl necklace in a fishpond as of finding pretty poetry in a treatise upon the art of angling."
"That book was a favourite of your father's, Charles," said Mrs. Lennox, "and I remember, in our happiest days, he used to read parts of it to me. One passage in particular made a strong impression upon me, though I little thought then it would ever apply to me. It is upon the blessings of sight. Indulge me by reading it to me once again."
Colonel Lennox made an effort to conquer his feelings, while he read as follows:—
"What would a blind man give to see the pleasant rivers, and meadows, and flowers, and fountains, that we have met with! I have been told that if a man that was born blind could attain to have his sight forbut only one hourduring his whole life, and should, at the first opening of his eyes, fix his sight upon the sun when it was in its full glory, either at the rising or the setting, he would be transported and amazed, and so admire the glory of it that he would not willingly turn his eyes from that first ravishing object to behold all the other various beauties this world could present to them. And this, and many other like objects, we enjoy daily—-"
A deep sigh from Mrs. Lennox made bier son look up. Her eyes were bathed in tears.
He threw his arms around her. "My dearest mother!" cried he in a voice choked with agitation, "how cruel—how unthinking—thus to remind you—"
"Do not reproach yourself for my weakness, dear Charles; but I was thinking how much rather, could I have my sight but for one hour, I would look upon the face of my own child than on all the glories of the creation!"
Colonel Lennox was too deeply affected to speak. He pressed his mother's hand to his lips—then rose abruptly, and quitted the room. Mary succeeded in soothing her weak and agitated spirits into composure; but the chord of feeling had been jarred, and all her efforts to restore it to its former tone proved abortive for the rest of the day.
"Friendship is constant in all other thingsSave in the office and affairs of love:Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;Let every eye negotiate for itself,And trust no agent."
Much Ado about Nothing.
THERE was something so refreshing in the domestic peacefulness of Rose Hall, when contrasted with the heartless bustle of Beech Park, that Mary felt too happy in the change to be in any hurry to quit it. But an unfortunate discovery soon turned all her enjoyment into bitterness of heart; and Rose Hall, from being to her a place of rest, was suddenly transformed into an abode too hateful to be endured.
It happened one day as she entered the drawing-room, Mrs. Lennox was, as usual, assailing the heart of her son in her behalf. A large Indian screen divided the room, and Mary's entrance was neither seen nor heard till she was close by them.
"Oh, certainly, Miss Douglas is all that you say—very pretty—very amiable—and very accomplished, said Colonel Lennox, with a sort of half-suppressed yawn, in answer to a eulogium of his mother's.
"Then why not love her? Ah! Charles, promise me that you will at least try!" said the good old lady, laying her hand upon his with the greatest earnestness.
This was said when Mary was actually standing before her. To hear the words, and to feel their application, was a flash of lightning; and for a moment she felt as if her brain were on fire. She was alive but to one idea, and that the most painful that could be suggested to a delicate mind. She had heard herself recommended to the love of a man who was indifferent to her. Could there be such a humiliation—such a degradation? Colonel Lennox's embarrassment was scarcely less; but his mother saw not the mischief she had done, and she continued to speak without his having the power to interrupt her. But her words fell unheeded on Mary's ear—she could hear nothing but what she had already heard. Colonel Lennox rose and respectfully placed a chair for her, but the action was unnoticed—she saw only herself a suppliant for his love; and, insensible to everything but her own feelings, she turned and hastily quitted the room without uttering a syllable. To fly from Rose Hall, never again to enter it, was her first resolution; yet how was she to do so without coming to an explanation, worse even than the cause itself: for she had that very morning yielded to the solicitations of Mrs. Lennox, and consented to remain till the following day.
"Oh!" thought she, as the scalding tears of shame for the first time dropped from her eyes, "what a situation am I placed in! To continue to live under the same roof with the man whom I have heard solicited to love me; and how mean—how despicable must I appear in his eyes—thus offered—rejected! How shall I ever be able to convince him that I care not for his love—that I wished it not—that I would, refuse, scorn it to-morrow were it offered to me. Oh! could I but tell him so; but he must ever remain, stranger to my real sentiments—he might reject—butIcannot disavow! And yet to have him think that I have all this while been laying snares for him—that all this parade of my acquirements was for the purpose of gaining his affections! Oh how blind and stupid I was not to see through the injudicious praises of Mrs. Lennox! I should not then have suffered this degradation in the eyes of her son!"
Hours passed away unheeded by Mary, while she was giving way to the wounded sensibility of a naturally high spirit and acute feelings, thus violently excited in all their first ardour. At length she was recalled to herself by hearing the sound of a carriage, as it passed under her window; and immediately after she received a message to repair to the drawing-room to her cousin, Lady Emily.
"How fortunate!" thought she; "I shall now get away—no matter how or where, I shall go, never again to return."
And, unconscious of the agitation visible in her countenance, she hastily descended, impatient to bid an eternal adieu to her once loved Rose Hall. She found Lady Emily and Colonel Lennox together. Eyes less penetrating than her cousin's would easily have discovered the state of poor Mary's mind as she entered the room; her beating heart—her flushed cheek and averted eye, all declared the perturbation of her spirits; and Lady Emily regarded her for a moment with an expression of surprise that served to heighten her confusion.
"I have no doubt I am a very unwelcome visitor here to all parties," said she; "for I come—how shall I declare it?—to carry you home, Mary, by command of Lady Juliana."
"No, no!" exclaimed Mary eagerly; "you are quite welcome. I am quite ready. I was wishing—I was waiting." Then, recollecting herself, she blushed still deeper at her own precipitation.
"There is no occasion to be so vehemently obedient," said her cousin;"Iam not quite ready, neither am I wishing or waiting to be off in such a hurry. Colonel Lennox and I had just set about reviving an old acquaintance; begun, I can't tell when—and broken off when I was a thing in the nursery, with a blue sash and red fingers. I have promised him that when he comes to Beech Park you shall sing him my favourite Scotch song, 'Should auld acquaintance be forgot?' I would sing it myself if I could; but I think every Englishwoman who pretends to sing Scotch songs ought to have the bowstring." Then, turning to the harpsichord, she began to play it with exquisite taste and feeling.
"There," said she, rising with equal levity; "is not that worth all the formal bows—and 'recollects to have had the pleasure'—and 'long time since I had the honour'—and such sort of hateful reminiscences, that make one feel nothing but that they area great deal older, and uglier, stupider, and more formal than they were so many years before."
"Where the early ties of the heart remain unbroken," said Colonel Lennox, with some emotion, "such remembrances do indeed give it back all its first freshness; but it cannot be to everyone a pleasure to have its feelings awakened even by tones such as these."
There was nothing of austerity in this; on the contrary, there was so much sweetness mingled with the melancholy which shaded his countenance, that even Lady Emily was touched, and for a moment silent. The entrance of Mrs. Lennox relieved her from her embarrassment. She flew towards her, and taking her hand, "My dear Mrs. Lennox, I feel very much as if I were come here in the capacity of an executioner;—no, not exactly that, but rather a sort of constable or bailiff;—for I am come, on the part of Lady Juliana Douglas, to summon you to surrender the person of her well-beloved daughter, to be disposed of as she in her wisdom may think fit."
"Not to-day, surely," cried Mrs. Lennox, in alarm; "to-morrow——"
"My orders are peremptory—the suit is pressing," with a significant smile to Mary; "this day—oh, ye hours!" looking at a timepiece, "this very minute. Come Mary—are you ready—cap-à-pie?"
At another time Mary would have thought only of the regrets of her venerable friend at parting with her; but now she felt only her own impatience to be gone, and she hastily quitted the room to prepare for her departure.
On returning to it Colonel Lennox advanced to meet her, evidently desirous of saying something, yet labouring under great embarrassment.
"Were it not too selfish and presumptuous," said he, while his heightened colour spoke his confusion, "I would venture to express a hope that your absence will not be very long from my poor mother."
Mary pretended to be very busy collecting her work, drawings, etc., which lay scattered about, and merely bent her head in acknowledgment. Colonel Lennox proceeded—
"I am aware of the sacrifice it must be to such as Miss Douglas to devote her time and talents to the comforting of the blind and desolate; and I cannot express—she cannot conceive—the gratitude—the respect—the admiration, with which my heart is filled at such proofs of noble disinterested benevolence on her part."
Had Mary raised her eyes to those that vainly sought to meet hers, she would there have read all, and more than had been expressed; but she could only think, "He has been entreated to love!" and at that humiliating idea she bent her head still lower to the colour that dyed her cheek to an almost painful degree, while a sense of suffocation at her throat prevented her disclaiming, as she wished to do, the merit of any sacrifice. Some sketches of Lochmarlie lay upon a table at which she had been drawing the day before; they had ever been precious in her sight till now; but they only excited feelings of mortification, as she recollected having taken them from herportefeuilleat Mrs. Lennox's request to show to her son.
"This was part of the parade by which I was to win him," thought she with bitterness; and scarcely conscious of what she did, she crushed them together, and threw them into the fire. Then hastily advancing to Mrs. Lennox, she tried to bid her farewell; but as she thought it was for the last time, tears of tenderness as well as pride stood in her eyes.
"God bless you, my dear child!" said the unsuspecting Mrs. Lennox, as she held her: in her arms. "And Godwillbless you in His way—though His ways are not as our ways. I cannot urge you to return to this dreary abode. But oh, Mary! Think sometimes in your gaiety, that when you do come, you bring gladness to a mournful heart, and lighten eyes that never see the sun!"
Mary, too much affected to reply, could only wring the hand of her venerable friend, as she tore herself from her embrace, and followed Lady Emily to the carriage. For some time they proceeded in silence. Mary dreaded to encounter her cousin's eyes, which she was aware were fixed upon her with more than their usual scrutiny. She therefore kept hers steadily employed in surveying the well-known objects the road presented. At length her Ladyship began in a grave tone.
"You appear to have had very stormy weather at Rose Hall?"
"Very much so," replied Mary, without knowing very well what she said.
"And we have had nothing but calms and sunshine at Beech Park. Is not that strange?"
"Very singular indeed."
"I left the barometer very high—not quite atsettled calm—that would be too much; but I find it very low indeed—absolutely below nothing."
Mary now did look up in some surprise; but she hastily withdrew from the intolerable expression of her cousin's eyes.
"Dear Lady Emily!" cried she in a deprecating tone.
"Well—what more? You can't suppose I'm to put up with hearing my own name; I've heard that fifty times to-day already from Lady Juliana's parrot—come, your face speaks volumes. I read a declaration of love in the colour of your cheeks—a refusal in the height of your nose—and a sort of general agitation in the quiver of your lip and thedéréglementof your hair. Now for your pulse—aleettlehasty, as Dr. Redgill would say; but let your tongue declare the rest."
Mary would fain have concealed the cause of her distress from every human being, as she felt as if degraded still lower by repeating it to another; and she remained silent, struggling with her emotions.
"'Pon my honour, Mary, you really do use great liberties with my patience and good-nature. I appeal to yourself whether I might not just as well have been reading one of Tully's orations to a mule all this while. Come, you must really make haste to tell your tale, for I am dying to disclose mine. Or shall I begin? No—that would be inverting the order of nature or custom, which is the same thing—beginning with the farce, and ending with the tragedy—socommencez au commencement, m'amie."
Thus urged, Mary at length, and with much hesitation, related to her cousin the humiliation she had experienced. "And after all," said she, as she ended, "I am afraid I behaved very like a fool. And yet what could I do in my situation, what would you have done?"
"Done! why, I should have taken the old woman by the shoulder, and cried Boh! in her ear. And so this is the mighty matter! You happen to overhear Mrs. Lennox, good old soul! recommending you as a wife to her son. What could be more natural except his refusing to fall head in ears in love before he had time to pull his boots off. And then to have a wife recommended to him! and all your perfections set forth, as if you had been a laundrymaid—an early riser, neat worker, regular attention upon church! Ugh I—I must say I think his conduct quite meritorious. I could almost find in my heart to fall in love with him myself, were it for no other reason than because he is not such a Tommy Goodchild as to be in love at his mamma's bidding—that is, loving his mother as he does—for I see he could cut off a hand, or pluck out an eye, to please her, though he can't or won't give her his heart and soul to dispose of as she thinks proper."
"You quite misunderstand me," said Mary, with increasing vexation. "I did not mean to say anything against Colonel Lennox. I did not wish—I never once thought whether he liked me or not."
"That says very little for you. You must have a very bad taste if you care more for the mother's liking than the son's. Then what vexes you so much? Is it at having made the discovery that your good old friend is a—a—I beg your pardon—a bit of a goose? Well, never mind—since you don't care for the man, there's no mischief done. You have only to change thedramatis personae.Fancy that you overheard mere commending you to Dr. Redgill for your skill in cookery—you'd only have laughed at that—so why should you weep at t'other. However, one thing I must tell you, whether it adds to your grief or not, I did remark that Charles Lennox looked very lover-like towards you; and, indeed, this sentimental passion he has put you in becomes you excessively. I really never saw you look so handsome before—it has given an energy andespritto your countenance, which is the only thing it wants. You are very much obliged to him, were it only for having kindled such a fire in your eyes, and raised such a carnation in your cheek. It would have been long before goodlarmoyante, Mrs. Lennox would have done as much for you. I shouldn't wonder were he to fall in love with you after all."
Lady Emily little thought how near she was the the truth when she talked in this random way. Colonel Lennox saw the wound he had innocently inflicted on Mary's feelings, and a warmer sentiment than any he had hitherto experienced had sprung up in his heart. Formerly he had merely looked upon her as an amiable sweet-tempered girl; but when he saw he roused to a sense of her own dignity, and marked the struggle betwixt tender affection and offended delicacy he, formed a higher estimate of her character, and a spark was kindled that wanted but opportunity to blaze into a flame, pure and bright as the shrine on which it burned. Such is the waywardness and price of even the best affections of the human breast.