"C'est a moi dechoisirmon gendre;Toi, tel qu'il est, c'est à it toi de Ie prendre;De vous aimer, si vous pouvez tous deux, Et d'obéirà tout ce que je veux."L'Enfant Prodigue.
"AND now," said Lady Emily, "that I have listened to your story, which after all is really a very poor affair, do you listen to mine. The heroine in both is the same, but the hero differs by some degrees. Know, then, as the ladies in novels say, that the day which saw you depart from Beech Park was the day destined to decide your fate, and dash your hopes, if ever you had any, of becoming Duchess of Altamont. The Duke arrived, I know, for the express purpose of being enamoured of you; but, alas! you were not. And there was Adelaide so sweet—so gracious—so beautiful—the poor gull was caught, and is now, I really believe, as much in love as it is in the nature of a stupid man to be. I must own she has played her part admirably, and has made more use of her time than I, with all my rapidity, could have thought possible. In fact, the Duke is now all but her declared lover, and that merely stands upon a point of punctilio."
"But Lord Lindore!" exclaimed Mary in astonishment.
"Why, that part of the story is what Idon'tquite comprehend. Sometimes I think it is a struggle with Adelaide. Lindore, poor, handsome, captivating, on one hand; his Grace, rich, stupid, magnificent, on the other. As for Lindore, he seems to stand quite aloof. Formerly, you know, he never used to stir from her side, or notice anyone else. Now he scarcely notices her, at least in presence of the Duke, Sometimes he affects to look unhappy, but I believe it is mere affectation. I doubt if he ever thought seriously of Adelaide, or indeed anybody else, that he could have in a straightforward Ally Croker sort of a way—but something too much of this. While all this has been going on in one corner, there comes regularly everyday Mr. William Downe Wright, looking very much as if he had lost his shoestring, or pocket handkerchief, and had come there to look for it. I had some suspicion of the nature of the loss, but was hopeful he would have the sense to keep it to himself. No such thing: he yesterday stumbled upon Lady Juliana all alone, and, in the weakest of his weak moments, informed her that the loss he had sustained was no less than the loss of that precious jewel his heart; and that the object of his search was no other than that of Miss Mary Douglas to replace it! He even carried hisbêtiseso far as to request her permission, or her influence, or, in short, something that her Ladyship never was asked for by any mortal in their senses before, to aid him in his pursuit. You know how it delights her to be dressed in a little brief authority; so you may conceive her transports at seeing the sceptre of power thus placed in her hands. In the heat of her pride she makes the matter known to the whole household. Redgills, cooks, stable-boys, scullions, all are quiteaufaitto your marriage with Mr. Downe Wright; so I hope you'll allow that it was about time _you _should be made acquainted with it yourself. But why so pale and frightened-looking?"
Poor Mary was indeed shocked at her cousin's intelligence. With the highest feelings of filial reverence, she found herself perpetually called upon either to sacrifice her own principles or to act indirect opposition to her mother's will, and upon this occasion she saw nothing but endless altercation awaiting her; for her heart revolted from the indelicacy of such measures, and she could not for a moment brook the idea of beingbestowedin marriage. But she had little time for reflection. They were now at Beech Park; and as she alighted a servant informed her Lady Juliana wished to see her in her dressing-room immediately. Thither she repaired with a beating heart and agitated step. She was received with greater kindness than she had ever yet experienced from her mother.
"Come in, my dear," cried she, as she extended two fingers to her, and slightly touched her cheek. "You look very well this morning—much better than usual. Your complexion is much improved. At the same time you must be sensible how few girls are married merely for their looks—that is, married well—unless, to be sure, their beauty is somethingà merveilleuse—such as your sister's, for instance. I assure you, it is an extraordinary piece of good fortune in a merely pretty girl to make what is vulgarly called a good match. I know, at least, twenty really very nice young women at this moment who cannot get themselves established."
Mary was silent; and her mother, delighted at her own good sense and judicious observations, went on—
"That being the case, you may judge how very comfortable I must feel at having managed to procure for you a most excessive good establishment—just the very thing I have long wished, as I have felt quite at a loss about you of late, my dear. When your sister marries, I shall, of course, reside with her; and as I consider your _liaison _with those Scotch people as completely at an end, I have really been quite wretched as to what was to become of you. I can't tell you, therefore, how excessively relieved I was when Mr. Downe Wright yesterday asked my permission to address you. Of course I could not hesitate an instant; so you will meet him at dinner as your accepted. By-the-bye, your hair is rather blown. I shall send Fanchon to dress it for you. You have really got very pretty hair; I wonder never remarked it before. Oh! and Mrs. Downe Wright is to wait upon me to-morrow, I think; and then I believe we must return the visit. There is a sort of etiquette, you know, in all these matters—that is the most unpleasant part of it; but when that is over you will have nothing to think of but ordering your things."
For a few minutes Mary was too much confounded by her mother's rapidity to reply. She had expected to be urged to accept of Mr. Downe Wright; but to be told that was actually done for her was more than she was prepared for. At length she found voice to say that Mr. Downe Wright was almost a stranger to her, and she must therefore be excused from receiving his addresses at present.
"How excessively childish!" exclaimed Lady Juliana angrily. "I won't hear of anything so perfectly foolish. You know (or, at any rate, I do) all that is necessary to know. I know that he is a man of family and fortune, heir to a title, uncommonly handsome, and remarkably sensible and well-informed. I can't conceive what more you would wish to know!"
"I would wish to know something of his character, his principles, his habits, temper, talents—in short, all those things on which my happiness would depend."
"Character and principles!—one would suppose you were talking of your footman! Mr. Downe Wright's character is perfectly good. I never heard anything against it. As to what you call his principles, I must profess my ignorance. I really can't tell whether he is a Methodist; but 1 know he is a gentleman—has a large fortune—is very good-looking—and is not at all dissipated, I believe. In short, you are most excessively fortunate in meeting with such a man."
"But I have not the slightest partiality for him," said Mary, colouring. "It cannot be expected that I should, when I have not been half a dozen time in his company. I must be allowed some time before I can consent even to consider—"
"I don't mean that you are to marry to-morrow. It may probably be six weeks or two months before everything can be arranged."
Mary saw she must speak boldly.
"But I must be allowed much longer time before I can consider myself as sufficiently acquainted with Mr. Downe Wright to think of him at all in that light. And even then—he may be very amiable, and yet"—hesitating— "I may not be able to love him as I ought."
"Love!" exclaimed Lady Juliana, her eyes sparkling with anger; "I desire I may never hear that word again from any daughter of mine. I am determined I shall have no disgraceful love-marriages in the family. No well-educated young woman ever thinks of such a thing now, and I won't hear a syllable on the subject."
"I shall never marry anybody, I am sure, that you disapprove of," saidMary timidly.
"No; I shall take care of that. I consider it the duty of parents to establish their children properly in the world, without any regard to their ideas on the subject. I think I must be rather a better judge of the matter than you can possibly be, and I shall therefore make a point of your forming what I consider a proper alliance. Your sister, I know, won't hesitate to sacrifice her own affections to please me. She was most excessively attached to Lord Lindore—everybody knew that; but she is convinced of the propriety of preferring the Duke of Altamont, and won't hesitate in sacrificing her own feelings to mine. But indeed she has ever been all that I could wish—so perfectly beautiful, and, at the same time, so excessively affectionate and obedient. She approves entirely of your marriage with Mr. Downe Wright, as, indeed, all your friends do. I don't includeyourfriend Lady Emily in that number. I look upon her as a most improper companion for you; and the sooner you are separated from her the better. So now good-bye for the present. You have only to behave as other young ladies do upon those occasions, which, by-the-bye, is generally to give as much trouble to their friends as they possibly can."
There are some people who, furious themselves at opposition, cannot understand the possibility of others being equally firm and decided in a gentle manner. Lady Juliana was one of those who always expect to carry their point by a raised voice and sparkling eyes; and it was with difficulty Mary, with her timid air and gentle accents, could convince her that she was determined to judge for herself in a matter in which her happiness was so deeply involved. When at last brought to comprehend it, her Ladyship's indignation knew no bounds; and Mary was accused in the same breath with having formed some low connection in Scotland, and of seeking to supplant her sister by aspiring to the Duke of Altamont. And at length the conference ended pretty much where it began—Lady Juliana resolved that her daughter should marry to please her, and her daughter equally resolved not to be driven into an engagement from which her heart recoiled.
"Qu'on vante en lui la foi, l'honneur, la probité;Qu'on prise sa candeur et sa civilité;Qu'il soit doux, complaisant, oflicieux, sincere:On Ie veut, j'y souscris, et suis prêt à me taire."
WHEN Mary entered the drawing-room she found herself, without knowing how, by the side of Mr. Downe Wright. At dinner it was the same; and in short it seemed an understood thing that they were to be constantly together.
There was something so gentle and unassuming in his manner that, almost provoked as she was by the folly of his proceedings, she found it impossible to resent it by her behaviour towards him; and indeed, without being guilty of actual rudeness, of which she was incapable, it would not have been easy to have made him comprehend the nature of her sentiments. He appeared perfectly satisfied with the toleration he met with; and, compared to Adelaide's disdainful glances, and Lady Emily's biting sarcasms, Mary's gentleness and civility might well be mistaken for encouragement. But even under the exhilarating influence of hope and high spirits his conversation was so insipid and commonplace, that Mary found it a relief to turn even to Dr. Redgill. It was evident the Doctor was aware of what was going on, for he regarded her with that increased respect due to the future mistress of a splendid establishment. Between the courses he made some complimentary allusions to Highland mutton and red deer; and he even carried his attentions so far as to whisper, at the very first mouthful, thatles côtellettes de saumonwere superb, when he had never been known to commend anything to another until he had fully discussed it himself. On the opposite side of the table sat Adelaide and the Duke of Altamont, the latter looking still more heavy and inanimate than ever. The operation of eating over, he seemed unable to keep himself awake, and every now and then yielded to a gentle slumber, from which, however, he was instantly recalled at the sound of Adelaide's voice, when he exclaimed, "Ah! Charming—very charming, ah!"—Lady Emily lookedfromthem as she hummed some part of Dryden's Ode—
"Aloft in awful stateThe godlike hero sate, etc.The lovely Thais by his side,Look'd like a blooming Eastern bride."
Then, as his Grace closed his eyes, and his head sank on his shoulder—
"With ravish'd earsThe monarch hears,Assumes the god,Affects to nod."
Lady Juliana, who would have been highly incensed had she suspected the application of the words, was so unconscious of it as to join occasionally in singing them, to Mary's great confusion and Adelaide's manifest displeasure.
When they returned to the drawing-room, "Heavens! Adelaide," exclaimed her cousin, in an affected manner, "what are you made of? Semelé herself was but a mere cinder-wench to you! How can you stand such a Jupiter—and not scorched! not even singed, I protest!" pretending to examine her all over. "I vow I trembled at your temerity—your familiarity with the imperial nod was fearful. I every instant expected to see you turned into a live coal."
"I did burn," said Adelaide, "with shame, to see the mistress of a house forget what was due to her father's guests."
"There's a slap on the cheek for me! Mercy! how it burns! No, I did not forget what was due to my father's guests; on the contrary, I consider it due to them to save them, if I can, from the snares that I see set for them. I have told you that I abhor all traps, whether for the poor simple mouse that comes to steal its bit of cheese, or for the dull elderly gentleman who falls asleep with a star on his breast."
"This is one of the many kind and polite allusions for which I am indebted to your Ladyship," said Adelaide haughtily; "but I trust the day will come when I shall be able to discharge what I owe you."
And she quitted the room, followed by Lady Juliana, who could only make out that Lady Emily had been insolent, and that Adelaide was offended. A pause followed.
"I see you think I am in the wrong, Mary; I can read that in the little reproachful glance you gave me just now. Well, perhaps I am; but I own it chafes my spirit to sit and look on such a scene of iniquity. Yes, iniquity I call it, for a woman to be in love with one man, and at the same time laying snares for another. You may think, perhaps, that Adelaide has no heart to love anything; but she has a heart, such as it is, though it is much too fine for every-day use, and therefore it is kept locked up in marble casket, quite out of reach of you or I. But I'm mistaken if Frederick has not made himself master of it! Not that I should blame her for that, if she would be honestly and downrightly in love with him. But how despicable to see her, with her affections placed upon one man, at the same time lavishing all her attentions on another—and that other, if he had been plain John Altamont, Esq., she would not have been commonly civil to! And,àproposof civility—I must tell you, if you mean to refuse your hero, you were too civil by half to him. I observed you at dinner, you sat perfectly straight, and answered everything he said to you."
"What could I do?" asked Mary, in some surprise.
"I'll tell you what I would have done, and have thought the most honourable mode of proceeding; I should have turned my back upon him, and have merely thrown him a monosyllable now and then over my shoulder."
"I could not be less than civil to him, and I am sure I was not more."
"Civility is too much for a man one means to refuse. You'll never get rid of a stupid man by civility. Whenever I had any reason to apprehend a lover, I thought it my duty to turn short upon him and give him a snarl at the outset, which rid me of him at once. But I really begin to think I manage these matters better than anybody else—'Where I love, I profess it: where I hate, in every circumstance I dare proclaim it.'"
Mary tried to defend her sister, in the first place; but though her charity would not allow her to censure, her conscience whispered there was much to condemn; and she was relieved from what she felt a difficult task when the gentlemen began to drop in.
In spite of all her manoeuvres Mr. Downe Wright contrived to be next her, and whenever she changed her seat, she was sure of his following her. She had also the mortification of overhearing Lady Juliana tell the Duke that Mr. Downe Wright was the accepted lover of her youngest daughter, that he was a man of large fortune, and heir to his uncle, Lord Glenallan!
"Ah! a nephew of my Lord Glenallan's!—Indeed—a pretty young man—like the family!—Poor Lord Glenallan! I knew him very well. He has had the palsy since then, poor man—ah!"
The following day Mary was compelled to receive Mrs. Downe Wright's visit; but she as scarcely conscious of what passed, for Colonel Lennox arrived at the same time; and it was equally evident that his visit was also intended for her. She felt that she ought to appear unconcerned in his presence, and he tried to be so; but still the painful idea would recur that he had been solicited to love her, and, unskilled in the arts of even innocent deception, she could only try to hide the agitation under the coldness of her manner.
"Come, Mary," cried Lady Emily, as if in answer to something ColonelLennox had addressed to her in a low voice, "do you remember the promiseI made Colonel Lennox, and which it rests with you to perform?"
"I never consider myself bound to perform the promises of others," replied Mary gravely.
"In some cases that may be a prudent resolution, but in the present it is surely an unfriendly one," said Colonel Lennox.
"A most inhuman one!" cried Lady Emily, "since you and I, it seems, cannot commence our friendship without something sentimental to set us agoing. It rests with you, Mary, to be the founder of our friendship; and if you manage the matter well, that is, sing in your best manner, we shall perhap, make it a triple alliance, and admit you as third."
"As every man is said to be the artificer of his own fortune, so every one, I think, had best be the artificer of their own friendship," said Mary, trying to smile, as she pulled her embroidery frame towards her, and began to work.
"Neither can be the worse of a good friend to help them on," observedMrs. Downe Wright.
"But both may be materially injured by an injudicious one," said Colonel Lennox; "and although, on this occasion, I am the greatest sufferer by it, I must acknowledge the truth of Miss Douglas's observation. Friendship and love, I believe, will always be found to thrive best when left to themselves."
"And so ends my novel, elegant, and original plan for striking up a sudden friendship," cried Lady Emily. "Pray, Mr. Downe Wright, can you suggest anything better for the purpose than an old song?"
Mr. Downe Wright, who was not at all given to suggesting, looked a little embarrassed.
"Pull the bell, William, for the carriage," said his mother; "we must now be moving." And with a general obeisance to the company, and a significant pressure of the hand to Mary, she withdrew her son from his dilemma. Although a shrewd, penetrating woman, she did not possess that tact and delicacy necessary to comprehend the finer feelings of a mind superior to her own; and in Mary's averted looks and constrained manner she saw nothing but what she thought quite proper and natural in her situation. "As for Lady Emily," she observed, "there would be news of her and that fine dashing-looking Colonel yet, and Miss Adelaide would perhaps come down a pin before long."
Soon after Colonel Lennox took his leave, in spite of Lady Emily's pressing invitation for him to spend the day there, and meet her brother, who had been absent for some days, but was now expected home. He promised to return again soon, and departed.
"How prodigiously handsome Colonel Lennox looked to-day," said she, addressing Mary; "and how perfectly unconscious, at least indifferent, he seems about it. It is quite refreshing to see a handsome man that is neither a fool nor a coxcomb."
"Handsome! no, I don't think he is very handsome," said Lady Juliana. "Rather dark, don't you think, my love?" turning to Adelaide, who sat apart at a table writing, and had scarcely deigned to lift her head all the time.
"Who do you mean? The man who has just gone out? Is his name Lennox?Yes, he is rather handsome."
"I believe. you are right; he certainly is good-looking, but in a peculiar style. I don't quite like the expression of his eye, and he wants that airdistingué,which, indeed, belongs exclusively to persons of birth."
"He has perfectly the air of a man of fashion," said Adelaide, in a decided tone, as if ashamed to agree with her mother. "Perhapsun peu militaire,but nothing at all professional."
"Lennox!—it is a Scotch name," observed Lady Juliana contemptuously.
"And, to cut the matter short," said Lady Emily, as she was quitting the room, "the man who has just gone out is Colonel Lennox, and not the Duke of AItamont."
After a few more awkward, indefinite sort of visits, in which Mary found it impossible to come to an explanation, she was relieved for the present from the assiduities of her lover. Lady Juliana received a note from Mrs. Downe Wright, apologising for what she termed her son's unfortunate absence at such a critical time; but he had received accounts of the alarming illness of his uncle Lord Glenallan, and had, in consequence, set off instantly for Scotland, where she was preparing to follow; concluding with particular regards to Miss Mary—hopes of being soon able to resume their pleasant footing in the family, etc. etc.
"How excessively well arranged it will be that old man's dying at this time!" said her Ladyship, as she tossed the note to her daughter; "Lord Glenallan will sound so much better than Mr. Downe Wright. The name I have always considered as the only objectionable part. You are really most prodigiously fortunate."
Mary was now aware of the folly of talking reason to her mother, and remained silent; thankful for the present peace this event would ensure her, and almost tempted to wish that Lord Glenallan's doom might not speedily be decided.
"It seems it is as proper to our ageTo cast beyond ourselves in our opinions,As it is common for the younger sortTo lack discretion."
Hamlet.
LORD LINDORE and Colonel Lennox has been boyish acquaintances, and a sort of superficial, intimacy was soon established between them, which served as the ostensible cause of his frequent visits at Beech Park. But to Mary, who was more alive to the difference of their characters and sentiments than any other member of the family, this appeared very improbable, and she could not help suspecting that love for the sister, rather than friendship for the brother, was the real motive by which he was actuated. In half jesting manner she mentioned her suspicions to Lady Emily, who treated the idea with her usual ridicule.
"I really could not have supposed you so extremely missy-ish, Mary," said she, "as to imagine that because two people like each other's society, and talk and laugh together a little more than usual, that the must needs be in love! I believe Charles Lennox loves me much the same as he did eleven years ago, when I was a little wretch that used to pull his hair and spoil his watch. And as for me, you know that I consider myself quite as an old woman—at least as a married one; and he is perfectlyau faitto my engagement with Edward. I have even shown him his picture and some of his letters."
Mary looked incredulous.
"You may think as you please, but I tell you it is so. In my situation I should scorn to have Colonel Lennox, or anybody else, in love with me. As to his liking to talk to me, pray who else can he talk to? Adelaide would sometimescondescendindeed; but he won't be condescended to, that's clear, not even by a Duchess. With what mock humility he meets her airs! how I adore him for it! Then you are such a pillar of ice!—so shy and unsociable when he is present!—and, by-the-bye, if I did not despise recrimination as thepis allerof all conscious Misses, I would say you are much more the object of hisattention,at least, than I am. Several times I have caught him looking very earnestly at you, when, by the laws of good breeding, his eyes ought to have been fixed exclusively upon me; and—"
"Pshaw!" interrupted Mary, colouring, "that is mere absence—nothing to the purpose—or perhaps," forcing a smile, "he may betryingto love me!"
Mary thought of her poor old friend, as she said this, with bitterness of heart. It was long since she had seen her; and when she had last inquired for her, her son had said he did not think her well, with a look Mary could not misunderstand. She had heard him make an appointment with Lord Lindore for the following day, and she took the opportunity of his certain absence to visit his mother. Mrs. Lennox, indeed, looked ill, and seemed more than usually depressed. She welcomed Mary with her usual tenderness, but even her presence seemed to fail of inspiring her with gladness.
Mary found she was totally unsuspicious of the cause of her estrangement, and imputed it to a very different one.
"You have been a great stranger, my dear!" said she, as she affectionately embraced her; "but at such a time I could not expect you to think of me."
"Indeed," answered Mary, equally unconscious of her meaning, "I have thought much and often, very often, upon you, and wished I could have come to you; but—-" she stopped, for she could not tell the truth, and would not utter a falsehood.
"I understand it all," said Mrs. Lennox, with a sigh. "Well—well—God's will be done!" Then trying to be more cheerful, "Had you come little sooner, you would have met Charles. He is just gone out with Lord Lindore. He was unwilling to leave me, as he always is, and when he does, I believe it is as much to please me as himself. Ah! Mary, I once hoped that I might have lived to see you the happy wife of the best of sons. I may speak out now, since that is all over. God has willed otherwise, an may you be rewarded in the choice you have made!"
Mary was struck with consternation to find that her supposed engagement with Mr. Downe Wright had spread even to Rose Hall; and in the greatest confusion she attempted to deny it. But after the acknowledgment she had just heard, she acquitted herself awkwardly; for she felt as if an open explanation would only serve to revive hopes that never could be realised, and subject Colonel Lennox and herself to future perplexities. Nothing but the whole truth would have sufficed to undeceive Mrs. Lennox, for she had had the intelligence of Mary's engagement from Mrs. Downe Wright herself, who, for better security of what she already considered her son's property, had taken care to spread the report of his being the accepted lover before she left the country. Mary felt all the unpleasantness of her situation. Although detesting deceit and artifice of every kind, her confused and stammering denials seemed rather to corroborate the fact; but she felt that she could not declare her resolution of never bestowing her hand upon Mr. Downe Wright without seeming at the same time to court the addresss of Colonel Lennox. Then how painful—how unjust to herself, as well as cruel to him, to have it for an instant believed that she was the betrothed of one whose wife she was resolved she never would be!
In short, poor Mary's mind was a complete chaos; and for the first time in her life she found it impossible to determine which was the right course for her to pursue. Even in the midst of her distress, however, she could not help smiling at thenaïveteof the good old lady's remarks.
"He is a handsome young man, I hear," said she, still in allusion to Mr. Downe Wright: "has a fine fortune, and an easy temper. All these things help people's happiness, though they cannot make it; and his choice of you, my dear Mary, shows that he has some sense."
"What a eulogium!" said Mary, laughing and blushing. "Were he really to me what you suppose, I must be highly flattered; but I must again assure you it is not using Mr. Downe Wright well to talk of him as anything to me. My mother, indeed—".
"Ah! Mary, my dear, let me advise you to beware of being led, even by a mother, in such a matter as this. God forbid that I should ever recommend disobedience towards a parent's will; but I fear you have yielded too much to yours. I said, indeed, when I heard it, that I feared undue influence had been used; for that I could not think William Downe Wright would ever have been the choice of your heart. Surely parents have much to answer for who mislead their children in such an awful step as marriage!"
This was the severest censure Mary had ever heard drop from Mrs. Lennox's lips; and she could not but marvel at the self-delusion that led her thus to condemn in another the very error she had committed herself, but under such different circumstances that she would not easily have admitted it to be the same. She sought for the happiness of her son, while Lady Juliana, she was convinced, wished only her own aggrandisement.
"Yes, indeed," said Mary, in answer to her friend's observation, "parents ought, if possible, to avoid even forming wishes for their children. Hearts are wayward things, even the best of them." Then more seriously she added, "And, dear Mrs. Lennox, do not either blame my mother nor pity me; for be assured, with my heart only will I give my hand; or rather, I should say, with my hand only will I give my heart: And now good-bye," cried she, starting up and hurrying away, as she heard Colonel Lennox's voice in the hall.
She met him on the stair, and would have passed on with a slight remark, but he turned with her, and finding she had dismissed the carriage, intending to walk home, he requested permission to attend her. Mary declined; but snatching up his hat, and whistling his dogs, he set out with her in spite of her remonstrances to the contrary.
"If you persist in refusing my attendance," said he, "you will inflict an incurable wound upon my vanity. I shall suspect you are ashamed of being seen in such company. To be sure, myself, with my shabby jacket and my spattered dogs, do form rather a ruffian-like escort; and I should not have dared to have offered my services to a fine lady; but you are not a fine lady, I know;" and he gently drew her arm within his as they began to ascend a hill.
This was the first time Mary had found herself alone with Colonel Lennox since that fatal day which seemed to have divided them for ever. At first she felt uneasy and embarrassed, but there was so much good sense and good feeling in the tone of his conversation—it was so far removed either from pedantry or frivolity, that all disagreeable ideas soon gave way to the pleasure she had in conversing with one whose turn of mind seemed so similar to her own; and it was not till she had parted from him at the gate of Beech Park she had time to wonder how she could possibly have walked two milestete-à-tetewith a man whom she had heard solicited to love her!
From that day Colonel Lennox's visits insensibly increased in length and number; but Lady Emily seemed to appropriate them entirely to herself; and certainly all the flow of his conversation, the brilliancy of his wit, were directed to her; but Mary could not but be conscious that his looks were much oftener riveted on herself, and if his attentions were not such as to attract general observation, they were such as she could not fail of perceiving and being unconsciously gratified by.
"How I admire Charles Lennox's manner to you, Mary," said her cousin, "after the awkward dilemma you were both in. It was no easy matter to know how to proceed; a vulgar-minded man would either have oppressed you with his attentions, or insulted you by his neglect, while he steers so gracefully free from either extreme; and I observe you are the only woman upon whom he designs to bestowles petits soins.How I despise a man who is ever on the watch to pick up every silly Miss's fan or glove that she thinks it pretty to drop! No—the woman he loves, whether his mother or his wife, will always be distinguished by him, were she amongst queens and empresses, not by his silly vanity or vulgar fondness, but by his marked and gentlemanlike attentions towards her. In short, the best thing you can do is to make up your quarrel with him—take him for all in all—you won't meet with such another— certainly not amongst your Highland lairds, by all that I can learn; and, by-the-bye, I do suspect he is now, as you say, trying to love you; and let him—you will be very well repaid if he succeeds."
Mary's heart swelled at the thoughts of submitting to such an indignity, especially as she was beginning to feel conscious that Colonel Lennox was not quite the object of indifference to her that he ought to be; but her cousin's remarks only served to render her more distant and reserved to him than ever.
"What dangers ought'st thou not to dread,When Love, that's blind, is by blind Fortune, led?"
AT length the long-looked for day arrived. The Duke of Altamont's proposals were made in due form, and in due form accepted. Lady Juliana seemed now touching the pinnacle of earthly joy; for, next to being greatly married herself, her happiness centred in seeing her daughter at the head of a splendid establishment. Again visions of bliss hovered around her, and "Peers and Dukes and all their sweeping train" swam before her eyes, as she anticipated the brilliant results to herself from so noble an alliance; for self was still, as it had ever been, her ruling star, and her affection for her daughter was the mere result of vanity and ambition.
The ensuing weeks were passed in all the bustle of preparations necessarily attendant on the nuptials of the great. Every morning brought from Town dresses, jewels, patterns, and packages of all descriptions. Lady Juliana was in ecstasies, even though it was but happiness in the second person. Mary watched her sister's looks with the most painful solicitude; for from her lips she knew she never would learn the sentiments of her heart. But Adelaide was aware she had a part to act, and she went through it with an ease and self-possession that seemed to defy all scrutiny. Once or twice, indeed, her deepening colour and darkening brow betrayed the feelings of her heart, as the Duke of Altamont and Lord Lindore were brought into comparison; and Mary shuddered to think that her sister was even now ashamed of the man whom she was so soon to vow to love, honour, and obey. She had vainly tried to lead Adelaide to the subject. Adelaide would listen to nothing which she had reason to suppose was addressed to herself; but either with cool contempt took up a book, or left the room, or, with insolent affectation, would put her hands to her head, exclaiming,"Mes oreilles n'etoient pas faites pour les entretiens sérieux."All Mary's worst fears were confirmed a few days before that fixed for the marriage. As she entered the music-room she was startled to find Lord Lindore and Adelaide alone. Unwilling to suppose that her presence would be considered as an interruption, she seated herself at a little distance from them, and was soon engrossed by her task. Adelaide, too, had the air of being deeply intent upon some trifling employment; and Lord Lindore, as he sat opposite to her, with his head resting upon his hands, had the appearance of being engaged in reading. All were silent for some time; but as Mary happened to look up, she saw Lord Lindore'seyes fixed earnestly upon her sister, and withvoiceof repressed feeling he repeated,"Ah! je le sens, ma Julie! si'l falloit renoncer a vous, il n'y auroit plus pour moi d'autre sejour ni d'autre saison:"and throwing down the book, he quitted the room. Adelaide pale and agitated, rose as if to follow him; then, recollecting herself, she rushed from the apartment by an opposite door. Mary followed, vainly hoping that in this moment of excited feeling she might be induced to open her heart to the voice of affection; but Adelaide was a stranger to sympathy, and saw only the degradation of confessing the struggle she endured in choosing betwixt love and ambition. That her heart was Lord Lindore's she could not conceal from herself, though she would not confess it to another—and that other the tenderest of sisters, whose only wish was to serve her. Mary's tears and entreaties were therefore in vain, and at Adelaide's repeated desire she at length quitted her and returned to the room she had left.
She found Lady Emily there with a paper in her hand. "Lend me your ears, Mary," cried she, "while I read these lines to you. Don't be afraid, there are no secrets in them, or at least none that you or I will be a whit the wiser for, as they are truly in a most mystic strain. I found them lying upon this table, and they are in Frederick's handwriting, for I see he affects thesoupirantat present; and it seems there has been a sort of a sentimental farce acted between Adelaide and him. He pretends that, although distractedly in love with her, he is not so selfish as even to wish her to marry him in preference to the Duke of Altamont; and Adelaide, not to be outdone in heroics, has also made it out that it is the height of virtue in her to espouse the Duke of Altamont, and sacrifice all the tenderest affections of her heart to duty! Duty! yes, the duty of being a Duchess, and of living in state and splendour with the man she secretly despises, to the pleasure of renouncing both for the man she loves; and so they have parted, and here, I suppose, are Lindore's lucubrations upon it, intended as asouvenirfor Adelaide, I presume. Now, night visions befriend me!
"The time returns when o'er my wilder'd mind,A thraldom came which did each sense enshroud;Not that I bowed in willing chain confined,But that a soften'd atmosphere of cloudVeiled every sense—conceal'd th' impending doom.'Twas mystic night, and I seem'd borne alongBy pleasing dread—and in a doubtful gloom,Where fragrant incense and the sound of song,And all fair things we dream of, floated by,Lulling my fancy like a cradled child,Till that the dear and guileless treachery,Made me the wretch I am—so lost, so wild—A mingled feeling, neither joy or grief,Dwelt in my heart—I knew not whence it came,And—but that woe is me! 'twas passing brief,Even at this hour I fain would feel the same!I track'd a path of flowers—but flowers amongWere hissing serpents and drear birds of night,That shot across and scared with boding cries;And yet deep interest lurked in that affright,Something endearing in those mysteries,Which bade me still the desperate joy pursue,Heedless of what might come—when from mine eyesThe cloud should pass, or what might then accrue.The cloudhaspassed—the blissful power is flown,The flowers are wither'd—wither'd all the scene.But ah! the dear delusions I have knownAre present still, with loved though altered mien:I tread the selfsame path in heart unchanged;But changed now is all that path to me,For where 'mong flowers and fountains once I rangedAre barren rocks and savage scenery!"
Mary felt it was in vain to attempt to win her sister's confidence, and she was too delicate to seek to wrest her secrets from her; she therefore took no notice of this effusion of love and disappointment, which she concluded it to be.
Adelaide appeared at dinner as usual. All traces of agitation had vanished; and her manner was a cool and collected as if all had been peace and tranquillity at heart. Lord Lindore's departure was slightly noticed. It was generally understood that he had been rejected by his cousin; and his absence at such a time was thought perfectly natural; the Duke merely remarking, with a vacant simper, "So Lord Lindore is gone—Ah! poor Lord Lindore."
Lady Juliana had, in a very early stage of the business, fixed in her own mind that she, as a matter of course, would be invited to accompany her daughter upon her marriage; indeed, she had always looked upon it as a sort of triple alliance, that was to unite her as indissolubly to the fortunes of the Duke of Altamont as though she had been his wedded wife. But the time drew near, and in spite of all her hints and manoeuvres no invitation had yet been extorted from Adelaide. The Duke had proposed to her to invite her sister, and even expressed something like a wish to that effect; for though he felt no positive pleasure in Mary's society, he was yet conscious of a void in her absence. She was always in good humour—always gentle and polite—and, without being able to tell why, his Grace always felt more at ease with her than with anybody else. But his selfish bride seemed to think that the joys of her elevation would be diminished if shared even by her own sister, and she coldly rejected the proposal. Lady Juliana was next suggested—for the Duke had a sort of vague understanding that his safety lay in a multitude. With him, as with all stupid people, company was society, words were conversation—and all the gradations of intellect, from Sir Isaac Newton down to Dr. Redgill, were to him unknown. But although, as with most weak people, obstinacy was hisforte,he was here again compelled to yield to the will of his bride, as she also declined the company of her mother for the present. The disappointment was somewhat softened to Lady Juliana by the sort of indefinite hopes that were expressed by her daughter of seeing her in town when they were fairly established; but until she had seen Altamont House, and knew its accommodations, she could fix nothing; and Lady Juliana was fain to solace herself with this dim perspective, instead of the brilliant reality her imagination had placed within her grasp. She felt, too, without comprehending, the imperfectness of all earthly felicity. As she witnessed the magnificent preparations for her daughter's marriage, it recalled the bitter remembrance of her own—and many a sigh burst from her heart as he thought, "Such as Adelaide is, I might have been had I been blest with such a mother, and brought up to know what was for my good!"
The die was cast. Amidst pomp and magnificence, elate with pride, and sparkling with jewels, Adelaide Douglas reversed the fate of her mother; and while her affections were bestowed on another, she vowed, in the face of heaven, to belong only to the Duke of Altamont!
"Good-bye, my dearest love!" said her mother, as she embraced her with transport, "and I shall be with you very soon; and, above all things, try to secure a good opera-box for the season. I assure you it is of the greatest consequence."
The Duchess impatiently hurried from the congratulations of her family, and throwing herself into the splendid equipage that awaited her was soon lost to their view.
"Every white will have its black,And every sweet its sour:"
As Lady Juliana experienced. Her daughter was Duchess of Altamont, butGrizzy Douglas had arrived in Bath! The intelligence was communicated toMary in a letter. It had no date, but was as follows:—
My DEAR MARY—You will See from the Date of this, that we are at last Arrived here, after a very long journey, which, you of Course Know it is from this to our Part of the country; at the same Time, it was uncommonly Pleasant, and we all enjoyed it very Much, only poor Sir Sampson was so ill that we Expected him to Expire every minute, which would have made it Extremely unpleasant for dear Lady M'Laughlan. He is now, I am Happy to say, greatly Better, though still so Poorly that I am much afraid you will see a very Considerable change upon him. I sincerely hope, my dear Mary, that you will make a proper Apology to Lady Juliana for my not going to Beech Park (where I know I would be made most Welcome) directly—but I am Certain she will Agree with me that it would be Highly Improper in me to leave Lady M'Laughlan when she is not at all Sure how long Sir Sampson may Live; and it would Appear very Odd if I was to be out of the way at such a time as That. But you may Assure her, with my Kind love, and indeed all our Loves (as I am sure None of us can ever forget the Pleasant time she spent with us at Glenfern in my Poor brother's lifetime, before you was Born), that I will Take the very first Opportunity of Spending some time at Beech Park before leaving Bath, as we Expect the Waters will set Sir Sampson quite on his Feet again. It will be a happy Meeting, I am certain, with Lady Juliana and all of us, as it is Eighteen years this spring since we have Met. You may be sure I have a great Deal to tell you and Lady Juliana too, about all Friends at Glenfern, whom I left all quite Well. Of course, the Report of Bella's and Betsy's marriages Must have reached Bath by this time, as it will be three Weeks to-day since we left our part of the country; but in case it has not reached you, Lady M'Laughlan is of opinion that the Sooner you are made Acquainted with it the Better, especially as there is no doubt of it. Bella's marriage, which is in a manner fixed by this time, I daresay, though of Course it will not take place for some time, is to Capt. M'Nab of some Regiment, but I'm sure I Forget which, for there are so many Regiments, you know, it is Impossible to remember them All; but he is quite a Hero, I know that, as he has been in Several battles, and had Two of his front teeth Knocked Out at one of them, and was Much complimented about it; and he Says, he is quite Certain of getting Great promotion—at any Rate a pension for it, so there is no Fear of him.
"Betsy has, if Possible, been still More fortunate than her Sister, although you know Bella was always reckoned the Beauty of the Family, though some people certainly preferred Betsy's Looks too. She has made a Complete conquest of Major M'Tavish, of the Militia, who, Independent of his rank, which is certainly very High, has also distinguished himself very Much, and showed the Greatest bravery once when there was a Very serious Riot about the raising the Potatoes a penny a peck, when there was no Occasion for it, in the town of Dunoon; and it was very much talked of at the Time, as well as Being in all the Newspapers. This gives us all the Greatest Pleasure, as I am certain it will also Do Lady Juliana and you, my dear Mary. At the same time, we Feel very much for poor Babby, and Beenie, and Becky, as they Naturally, and indeed all of us, Expected they would, of Course, be married first; and it is certainly a great Trial for them to See their younger sisters married before them. At the same Time, they are Wonderfully supported, and Behave with Astonishing firmness; and I Trust, my dear Mary, you will do the Same, as I have no Doubt you will All be married yet, as I am sure you Richly deserve it when it Comes. I hope I will see you Very soon, as Lady M'Laughlan, I am certain, will Make you most Welcome to call. We are living in Most elegant Lodgings—all the Furniture is quite New, and perfectly Good. I do not know the Name of the street yet, as Lady M'Laughlan, which is no wonder, is not fond of being Asked questions when she is Upon a Journey; and, indeed, makes a Point of never Answering any, which, I daresay, is the Best way. But, of Course, anybody will Tell you where Sir Sampson Maclaughlan, Baronet, of Lochmarliie Castle, Perthshire, N. B., lives; and, if You are at any Loss, it has a Green door, and a most Elegant Balcony. I must now bid you adieu, my dear. Mary, as I Am so soon to See yourself. Sir Sampson and Lady M'Laughlan unite with Me in Best compliments to the Family at Beech Park. And, in kind love to Lady Juliana and you, I remain, My dear Mary, your most affectionate Aunt,
"P.S.—I have a long letter for you from Mrs. Douglas, which is in my Trunk, that is Coming by the Perth Carrier, and unless he is stopped by the Snow, I Expect he will be here in ten days."
With the idea of Grizzy was associated in Mary's mind all the dear familiar objects of her happiest days, and her eyes sparkled with delight at the thoughts of again beholding her.
"Oh! when may I go to Bath to dear Aunt Grizzy?" exclaimed she, as she finished the letter. Lady Juliana looked petrified. Then recollecting that this was the first intimation her mother had received of such an event being even in contemplation, she made haste to exculpate her aunt at her own expense, by informing her of the truth. But nothing could be more unpalatable than the truth; and poor Mary's short-lived joy was soon turned into the bitterest sorrow at the reproaches that were showered upon her by the incensed Lady Juliana. But for her these people never would have thought of coming to Bath; or if they did, she should have had no connection with them. She had been most excessively ill-used by Mr. Douglas's family, and had long since resolved to have no further intercourse with them—they were nothing to her, etc. etc. The whole concluding with a positive prohibition against Mary's taking any notice of her aunt. "From all that has been said, Mary," said Lady Emily gravely, "there can be no doubt but that you are the origin of Lady Juliana's unfortunate connection with the family of Douglas."
"Undoubtedly," said her Ladyship.
"But for you, it appears that she would not have known—certainly never would have acknowledged that her husband had an aunt?"
"Certainly not," said Lady Juliana, warmly.
"It is a most admirable plan," continued Lady Emily in the same manner, "and I shall certainly adopt it. When I have children I am determined they shall be answerable for my making a foolish marriage; and it shall be their fault if my husband has a mother.En attendant,I am determined to patronise Edward's relations to the last degree; and therefore, unless Mary is permitted to visit her aunt as often as she pleases, I shall make a point of bringing the dear Aunt Grizzy here. Yes" (Putting her hand to the bell), "I shall order my carriage this instant, and set off. To-morrow, you know, we give a grand dinner in honour of Adelaide's marriage. Aunt Grizzy shall be queen of the feast."
Lady Juliana was almost suffocated with passion; but she knew her niece too well to doubt her putting her threat into execution, and there was distraction in the idea of the vulgar obscure Grizzy Douglas being presented to a fashionable party as her aunt. After a violent altercation, in which Mary took no part, an ungracious permission was at length extorted, which Mary eagerly availed herself of; and, charged with kind messages from Lady Emily, set off in quest of Aunt Grizzy and the green door.
After much trouble, and many unsuccessful attacks upon green doors and balconies, she was going to give up the search in despair, when her eye was attracted by the figure of Aunt Grizzy herself at full length, stationed at a window, in an old-fashioned riding-habit and spectacles. The carriage was stopped and in an instant Mary was in the arms of her aunt, all agitation, as Lochmarlie flashed on her fancy, at again hearing its native accents uttered by the voice familiar to her from infancy. Yet the truth must be owned, Mary's taste was somewhat startled, even while her heart warmed at the sight of the good old aunt. Association and affection still retained their magical influence over her; but absence had dispelled the blest illusions of habitual intercourse; and for the first time she beheld her aunt freed from its softening spell. Still her heart clung to her, as to one known and loved from infancy; and she Soon rose superior to the weakness she felt was besetting her in the slight sensation of shame, as she contrasted her awkward manner and uncouth accent with the graceful refinement of those with whom she associated.
Far different were the sensations with which the good spinster regarded her niece. She could not often enough declare her admiration of the improvements that had taken place. Mary was grown taller, and stouter, and fairer and fatter, and her back was a straight as an arrow, and her carriage would even surprise Miss M'Gowk herself. It was quite astonishing to see her, for she had always understood Scotland was the place for beauty, and that nobody ever came to anything in England. Even Sir Sampson and Lady Maclaughlan were forgot as she stood riveted in admiration, and Mary was the first to recall her recollection to them. Sir Sampson, indeed, might well have been overlooked by a more accurate observer; for, as Grizzy observed, he was worn away to nothing, and the little that remained seemed as if it might have gone too without being any loss. He was now deaf, paralytic, and childish, and the only symptom of life he showed was an increased restlessness and peevishness. His lady sat by him, calmly pursuing her work, and, without relaxing from it, merely held up her face to salute Mary as she approached her.
"So I'm glad you are no worse than you was, dear child," surveying her from head to foot; "that's more thanwecan say. You see these poor creatures," pointing to Sir Sampson and Aunt Grizzy. "They are much about it now. Well, we know what we are, but God knows what we shall be—humph!"
Sir Sampson showed no signs of recognising her, but seemed pleased whenGrizzy resumed her station beside him; and began for the five hundredthtime to tell him why he was not in Lochmarlie Castle, and why he was inBath.
Mary now saw that there are situations in which a weak capacity has its uses, and that the most foolish chat may sometimes impart greater pleasure than all the wisdom of the schools, even when proceeding from a benevolent heart.
Sir Sampson and Grizzy were so much upon a pair in intellect, that they were reciprocally happy in each other. This the strong sense of Lady Maclaughlan had long perceived, and was the principal reason of her selecting so weak a woman as her companion; though, at the same time, in justice to her Ladyship's heart as well as head, she had that partiality for her friend for which no other reason can be assigned than that given by Montaigne: "Je l'amais parceque c'étoitelle,parceque c'étoit moi."
Mary paid a long visit to her aunt, and then took leave, promising to return the following day to take Miss Grizzy to deliver a letter of introduction she had received, and which had not been left to the chance of the carrier and the snow.
"This sort of person is skilled to assume the appearance of all virtues and all good qualities; but their favourite mask is universal benevolence. And the reason why they prefer this disguise to all others, is, that it tends to conceal its opposite, which is, indeed, their true character—an universal selfishness."
—KNOX'SEssays.
ALTHOUGH, on her return, Mary read her mother's displeasure in her looks, and was grieved at again having incurred it, she yet felt it a duty towards her father to persevere in her attentions to his aunt. She was old, poor, and unknown, plain in her person, weak in her intellects, vulgar in her manners; but she was related to her by ties more binding than the laws of fashion or the rules of taste. Even these disadvantages, which, to a worldly mind, would have served as excuses for neglecting her, to Mary's generous nature were so many incentives to treat her with kindness and attention. Faithful to her promise, therefore, she repaired to Milsom Street, and found her aunt all impatience for her arrival, with the letter so firmly grasped in both hands, that she seemed almost afraid to trust anyone with a glance at the direction.
"This letter, Mary," said she, when they were seated in the carriage, "will be a great thing for me, and especially for you. I got it from Mrs. Menzies, through Mrs. M'Drone, whose friend, Mrs. Campbell's half-sister, Miss Grant, is a great friend of Mrs. Fox's, and she says she is a most charming woman. Of course she is no friend to the great Fox; or you know it would have been very odd in me, with Sir Sampson's principles, and my poor brother's principles, and all our own principles, to have visited her. But she's quite of a different family of Foxes: she's a Fox of Peckwell, it seems—a most amiable woman, very rich, and prodigiously charitable. I am sure we have been most fortunate in getting a letter to such a woman." And with this heartfelt ejaculation they found themselves at Mrs. Fox's.
Everything corresponded with the account of this lady's wealth and consequence; the house was spacious and handsomely furnished, with its due proportion of livery servants; and they were ushered into a sitting-room which was filled with all the 'wonders of nature and art,—Indian shells, inlaid cabinets, ivory boxes, stuffed birds, old china, Chinese mandarins, stood disclosed in all their charms. The lady of this mansion was seated at table covered with works of a different description: it exhibited the various arts of woman, in regular gradation, from the painted card-rack and gilded firescreen, to the humble thread-paper and shirt-button. Mrs. Fox was a fine, fashionable-looking woman, with a smooth skin, and still smoother address. She received her visitors with that overstrained complaisance which, to Mary's nicer tact, at once discovered that all was hollow; but poor Miss Grizzy was scarcely seated before she was already transfixed with admiration at Mrs. Fox's politeness, and felt as if her whole life would be too short to repay such kindness. Compliments over—the weather, etc., discussed, Mrs. Fox began:
"You must be surprised, ladies, to see me in the midst of such a litter, but you find me busy arranging the works of some poorprotégéesof mine. A most unfortunate family!—I have given them what little instruction I could in these little female works; and you see," putting a gaudy work-basket into Grizzy's hands, "it is astonishing what progress they have made. My friends have been most liberal in their purchases of these trifles, but I own I am a wretched beggar. They are in bad hands when they are in mine, poor souls! The fact is, I can give, but I cannot beg. I tell them they really must find somebody else to dispose of their little labours—somebody who has more of what I call the gift of begging than I am blest with."
Tears of admiration stood in Grizzy's eye; her hand was in her pocket. She looked to Mary, but Mary's hands and eyes betrayed no corresponding emotions; she felt only disgust at the meanness and indelicacy of the mistress of such a mansion levying contributions from the stranger within her door.
Mrs. Fox proceeded: "That most benevolent woman Miss Gull was here this morning, and bought no less than seven of these sweet little pincushions. I would fain have dissuaded her from taking so many—it really seemed such a stretch of virtue; but she said, 'My dear Mrs. Fox, how can one possibly spend their money better than in doing a good action, and at the same time enriching themselves?'"
Grizzy's purse was in her hand. "I declare that's very true. I never thought of that before; and I'm certain Lady Maclaughlan will say the very same; and I'm sure she will be delighted—I've no doubt of that—to take a pincushion; and each of my sisters I'm certain, will take one, though we have all plenty of pincushions; and I'll take one to myself, though I have three, I'm sure, that I've never used yet."
"My dear Miss Douglas, you really are, I could almost say,toogood. Two and two's four, and one's five—five half-crowns! My poorprotégées!you will really be the making of their fortune!"
Grizzy, with trembling hands, and a face flushed with conscious virtue, drew forth the money from her little hoard.
But Mrs. Fox did not quit her prey so easily. "If any of your friends are in want of shirt-buttons, Miss Douglas, I would fain recommend those to them. They are made by a poor woman in whom I take some interest, and are far superior to any that are to be had from the shops. They are made from the very best materials. Indeed, I take care of that, as" (in a modest whisper) "I furnish her with the material myself; but the generality of those you get to purchase are made from old materials. I've ascertained that, and it's a fact you may rely upon."
Poor Grizzy's hair stood on end, to hear of such depravity in a sphere where she had never even suspected it; but, for the honour of her country, she flattered herself such practices were there unknown; and she was entering upon a warm vindication of the integrity of Scotch shirt-buttons, when Mrs. Fox coolly observed—
"Indeed, our friend Miss Grant was so conscious of the great superiority of these buttons over any others, that she bespoke thirty-six dozen of them to take to Scotland with her. In fact, they are the real good old-fashioned shirt-buttons, such as I have heard my mother talk of; and for all that, I make a point of my poor woman selling them a penny a dozen below the shop price; so that in taking twelve dozen, which is the common quantity, there is a shilling saved at once."
Grizzy felt as if she would be the saving of the family by the purchase of these incomparable shirt buttons, and, putting down her five shillings, became the happy possessor of twelve dozen of them.
Fresh expressions of gratitude and admiration ensued, till Grizzy's brain began to whirl even more rapidly than usual, at the thought of the deeds she had done.
"And now," said Mrs. Fox, observing her eyes in a fine frenzy rolling from her lapful of pincushions and shirt buttons, to a mandarin nearly as large as life, "perhaps, my dear Miss Douglas, you will do me the favour to take a look of my little collection."
"Favour!" thought Grizzy; "what politeness!" and she protested there was nothing she liked so much as to look at everything, and that it would be the greatest favour to show her anything. The mandarin was made to shake his head—a musical snuffbox played its part—and a variety of other expensive toys were also exhibited.
Mary's disgust increased. "And this woman," thought she, "professes to be charitable amidst all this display of selfish extravagance. Probably the price of one of these costly baubles would have provided for the whole of these poor people for whom she affects so much compassion, without subjecting her to the meanness of turning her house into a beggar's repository." And she walked away to the other end of the room to examine some fine scriptural paintings.
"Here," said Mrs. Fox to her victim, as she unlocked a superb cabinet, "is what I value more than my whole collection put together. It is my specimens of Scotch pebbles; and I owe them solely to the generosity and good-will of my Scotch friends. I assure you that is a proud reflection to me. I am a perfect enthusiast in Scotch pebbles, and, I may say, in Scotch people. In fact, I am an enthusiast in whatever I am interested in; and at present, I must own, my heart is set upon making a complete collection of Scotch pebbles."
Grizzy began to feel a sort of tightness at her throat, at which was affixed a very fine pebble brooch pertaining to Nicky, but lent to Grizzy, to enable her to make a more distinguished figure in the gay world.
"Oh!" thought she, "what a pity this brooch is Nicky's, and not mine; I would have given it to this charming Mrs. Fox. Indeed, I don't see how I can be off giving it to her, even although it is Nicky's."
"And, by-the-bye," exclaimed Mrs. Fox, as if suddenly struck with the sight of the brooch, "that seems a very fine stone of yours. I wonder I did not observe it sooner; but, indeed, pebbles are thrown away in dress. May I beg a nearer view of it?"
Grizzy's brain was now all on fire. On the one hand there was the glory of presenting the brooch to such a polite, charitable, charming woman; on the other, there was the fear of Nicky's indignation. But then it was quite thrown away upon Nicky—she had no cabinet, and Mrs. Fox had declared that pebbles were quite lost anywhere but in cabinets, and it was a thousand pities that Nicky's brooch should be lost. All these thoughts Grizzy revolved with her usual clearness, as she unclasped the brooch, and gave it into the hand of the collector.
"Bless me, my dear Miss Douglas, this is really a very fine stone! I had no conception of it when I saw it sticking in your throat. It looks quite a different thing in the hand; it is a species I am really not acquainted with. I have nothing at all similar to it in my poor collection. Pray, can you tell me the name of it, and where it is found, that I may at least endeavour to procure a piece of it."
"I'm sure I wish to goodness my sister Nicky was here—I'm certain she would—though, to be sure, she has a great regard for it; for it was found on the Glenfern estate the very day my grandfather won his plea against Drimsydie; and we always called it the lucky stone from that."
"The lucky stone! what a delightful name! I shall never think myself in luck till I can procure a piece of your lucky stone. I protest, I could almost go to Scotland on purpose. Oh, you dear lucky stone!" kissing it with rapture.
"I'm sure—I'm almost certain—indeed, I'm convinced, if my sister Nicky was here, she would be delighted to offer— It would certainly be doing my sister Nicky the greatest favour, since you think it would be seen to so much greater advantage in your cabinet, which, for my own part, I have not the least doubt of, as certainly my sister Nicky very seldom wears it for fear of losing it, and it would be a thousand pities if it was lost; and, to be sure, it will be much safer locked up—nobody can dispute that—so I am sure it's by far the best thing my sister Nicky can do—for certainly a pebble brooch is quite lost as a brooch."
"My dear Miss Douglas! I am really quite ashamed! This is a perfect robbery, I protest! But I must insist upon your accepting some little token of my regard for Miss Nicky in return." Going to her charity-table, and returning with a set of painted thread-papers, "I must request the favour of you to present these to Miss Nicky, with my kind regards, and assure her I shall consider her lucky stone as the most precious jewel in my possession."
The whole of this scene had been performed with such rapidity that poor Grizzy was not prepared for the sudden metamorphose of Nicky's pebble brooch into a set of painted thread-papers, and some vague alarms began to float through her brain.
Mary now advanced, quite unconscious of what had been going on; and having whispered her aunt to take leave, they departed. They returned in silence. Grizzy was so occupied in examining her pincushions and counting her buttons, that she never looked up till the carriage stopped in Milsom Street.
Mary accompanied her in. Grizzy was all impatience to display her treasures; and as she hastily unfolded them, began to relate her achievements. Lady Maclaughlan heard her in silence, and a deep groan was all that she uttered; but Grizzy was too well accustomed to be groaned at, to be at all appalled, and went on, "But all that's nothing to the shirt-buttons, made of Mrs. Fox's own linen, and only five shillings the twelve dozen; and considering what tricks are played with shirt-buttons now—I assure you people require to be on their guard with shirt-buttons now."
"Pray, my dear, did you ever read the 'Vicar of Wakefield?'"
"The 'Vicar of Wakefield?' I—I think always I must have read it:—at any rate, I'm certain I've heard of it."
"Moses and his green spectacles was as one of the acts of Solomon compared to you and your shirtbuttons. Pray, which of you is it that wears shirts?"
"I declare that's very true—I wonder I did not think of that sooner—to be sure, none us wear shirts since my poor brother died."
"And what's become of her brooch?" turning to Mary, who for the first time observed the departure of Nicky's crown jewel.
"Oh, as to the brooch," cried Grizzy, "I'm certain you'll all think that well bestowed, and certainly it has been the saving of it." Upon which she commenced a most entangled narrative, from which the truth was at length extracted.
"Well," said Lady Maclaughlan, "there are two things God grant I may never become,—an,amateurin charity, and a collector of curiosities. No Christian can be either—both are pickpockets. I wouldn't keep company with my own mother were she either one or other—humph!"
Mary was grieved at the loss of the brooch; but Grizzy seemed more than ever satisfied with the exchange, as Sir Sampson had taken a fancy for the thread-papers, and it would amuse him for the rest of the day to be told every two minutes what they were intended for. Mary therefore left her quite happy, and returned to Beech Park.