Book: Marriage

S >> Susan Edmonstone Ferrier >> Marriage




Three days beheld the rise, progress, and decline of Lady Juliana's
whole system of education; and it would have been well for the children
had the trust been delegated to those better qualified to discharge it.
But neither of the preceptresses was better skilled in the only true
knowledge. Signora Cicianai was a bigoted Catholic, whose faith hung
upon her beads, and Madame Grignon was an _esprit forte,_ who had no
faith in anything but _le plaisir._ But the Signora's singing was
heavenly, and Madame's dancing was divine, and what lacked there more?

So passed the first years of beings training for immortality. The
children insensibly ceased to be children, and Lady Juliana would have
beheld the increasing height and beauty of her daughter with extreme
disapprobation, had not that beauty, by awakening her ambition, also
excited her affection, if the term affection could be applied to that
heterogeneous mass of feelings and propensities that "shape had none
distinguishable." Lady Juliana had fallen into an error very common with
wiser heads than hers that of mistaking the _effect_ for the _cause._ She
looked no farther than to her union with Henry Douglas for the
foundation of all her unhappiness; it never once occurred to her that
her marriage was only the _consequence_ of something previously wrong;
she saw not the headstrong passions that had impelled her to please
herself--no matter at what price. She thought not of the want of
principle, she blushed not at the want of delicacy, that had led her to
deceive a parent and elope with a man to whose character she was a total
stranger. She therefore considered herself as having fallen a victim to
love; and could she only save her daughter from a similar error she might
yet by her means retrieve her fallen fortune. To implant principles of
religion and virtue in her mind was not within the compass of her own;
but she could scoff at every pure and generous affection; she could
ridicule every disinterested attachment; and she could expatiate on the
never-fading joys that attend on wealth and titles, jewels and
equipages; and all this she did in the belief that she was acting the
part of a most wise and tender parent! The seed, thus carefully sown,
promised to bring forth an abundant harvest. At eighteen Adelaide
Douglas was as heartless and ambitious as she was beautiful and
accomplished; but the surface was covered with flowers, and who would
have thought of analysing the soil?

It sometimes happens that the very means used with success in the
formation of one character produce a totally opposite effect upon
another. The mind of Lady Emily Lindore had undergone exactly the same
process in its formation as that of her cousin; yet in all things they
differed. Whether it were the independence of high birth, or the pride
of a mind conscious of its own powers, she had hitherto resisted the
sophistry of her governesses and the solecisms of her aunt. But her
notions of right and wrong were too crude to influence the general tenor
of her life, or operate as restraints upon a naturally high spirit and
impetuous temper. Not all the united efforts of her preceptresses had
been able to form a manner for their pupil; nor could their authority
restrain her from saying what she thought, and doing what she pleased;
and, in spite of both precept and example, Lady Emily remained as
insupportably natural and sincere as she was beautiful and _piquante._
At six years old she had declared her intention of marrying her cousin
Edward Douglas, and at eighteen her words were little less equivocal.
Lord Courtland, who never disturbed himself about anything, was rather
diverted with this juvenile attachment; and Lady Juliana, who cared
little for her son, and still less for her niece, only wondered how
people could be such fools as to think of marrying for love, after she
had told them how miserable it would make them.




CHAPTER XXIX.

"Unthought of frailties cheat us in the wise;
The fool lies hid in inconsistencies."

POPE.

SUCH were the female members of the family to whom Mary was about to be
introduced. In her mother's heart she had no place, for of her absent
husband and neglected daughter she seldom thought; and their letters
were scarcely read, and rarely answered. Even good Miss Grizzy's
elaborate epistle, in which were curiously entwined the death of her
brother and the birth and christening of her grand-nephew, in a truly
Gordian manner, remained disentangled. Had her Ladyship only read to the
middle of the seventh page she would have learned the indisposition of
her daughter, with the various opinions thereupon; but poor Miss
Grizzy's labours were vain, for her letter remains a dead letter to this
day. Mrs. Douglas was therefore the first to convey the unwelcome
intelligence, and to suggest to the mind of the mother that her
alienated daughter still retained some claims upon her care and
affection; and although this was done with all the tenderness and
delicacy of a gentle and enlightened mind, it called forth the most
bitter indignation from Lady Juliana.

She almost raved at what she termed the base ingratitude and hypocrisy
of her sister-in-law. After the sacrifice she had made in giving up her
child to her when she had none of her own, it was a pretty return to
send her back only to die. But she saw through it. She did not believe a
word of the girl's silliness; that was a trick to get rid of her. Now
they had a child of their own, they had no use for hers; but she was not
to be made a fool of in such a way, and by such people, etc. etc.

"If Mrs. Douglas is so vile a woman," said the provoking Lady Emily,
"the sooner my cousin is taken from her the better."

"You don't understand these things, Emily," returned her aunt
impatiently.

"What things?"

"The trouble and annoyance it will occasion me to take charge of the
girl at this time."

"Why at this time more than at any other?"

"Absurd, my dear! how can you ask so foolish a question? Don't you
know that you and Adelaide are both to bring out this winter, and how
can I possibly do you justice with a dying girl upon my hands?"

"I thought you suspected it was all a trick," continued the persecuting
Lady Emily.

"So I do; I haven't the least doubt of it. The whole story is the most
improbable stuff I ever heard."

"Then you will have less trouble than you expect."

"But I hate to be made a dupe of, and imposed upon by low cunning. If
Mrs. Douglas had told me candidly she wished me to take the girl, I would
have thought nothing of it; but I can't bear to be treated like a fool."

"I don't see anything at all unbecoming in Mrs. Douglas's treatment."

"Then what can I do with a girl who has been educated in Scotland? She
must be vulgar--all Scotchwomen are so. They have red hands and rough
voices; they yawn, and blow their noses, and talk, and laugh loud, and
do a thousand shocking things. Then, to hear the Scotch
brogue--oh, heavens! I should expire every time she opened her mouth!"

"Perhaps my sister may not speak so _very_ broad," kindly suggested
Adelaide in her sweetest accents.

"You are very good, my love, to think so; but nobody can live in that
odious country without being infected with its _patois._ I really
thought I should have caught it myself; and Mr. Douglas" (no longer
Henry) "became quite gross in his language after living amongst his
relations."

"This is really too bad," cried Lady Emily indignantly. "If a person
speaks sense and truth, what does it signify how it is spoken? And
whether your Ladyship chooses to receive your daughter here or not, I
shall at any rate invite my cousin to my father's house." And, snatching
up a pen, she instantly began a letter to Mary.

Lady Juliana was highly incensed at this freedom of her niece; but she
was a little afraid of her, and therefore, after some sharp altercation,
and with infinite violence done to her feelings, she was prevailed upon
to write a decently civil sort of a letter to Mrs. Douglas, consenting
to receive her daughter for a _few months;_ firmly resolving in her own
mind to conceal her from all eyes and ears while she remained, and to
return her to her Scotch relations early in the summer.

This worthy resolution formed, she became more serene and awaited the
arrival of her daughter with as much firmness as could reasonably have
been expected.




CHAPTER XXX.

"And for unfelt imaginations
They often feel a world of restless cares."

SHAKESPEARE.

LITTLE weened the good ladies of Glenfern the ungracious reception their
_protegee_ was likely to experience from her mother; for, in spite of
the defects of her education, Mary was a general favourite in the
family; and however they might solace themselves by depreciating her to
Mrs. Douglas, to the world in general, and their young female
acquaintances in particular, she was upheld as an epitome of every
perfection above and below the sun. Had it been possible for them to
conceive that Mary could have been received with anything short of
rapture, Lady Juliana's letter might in some measure have opened the
eyes of their understanding; but to the guileless sisters it seemed
everything that was proper. Sorry for the necessity Mrs. Douglas felt
under of parting with her adopted daughter, was "prettily expressed;"
had no doubt it was merely a slight nervous affection, "was kind and
soothing;" and the assurance, more than once repeated, that her friends
might rely upon her being returned to them in the course of a very few
months, "showed a great deal of feeling and consideration." But as their
minds never maintained a just equilibrium long upon any subject, but,
like falsely adjusted scales, were ever hovering and vibrating at either
extreme, so they could not rest satisfied in the belief that Mary was to
be happy; there must be something to counteract that stilling sentiment;
and that was the apprehension that Mary would be spoilt. This, for the
present, was the pendulum of their imaginations.

"I declare, Mary, my sisters and I could get no sleep last night for
thinking of you," said Miss Grizzy; _"we_ are all certain that Lady
Juliana especially, but indeed all your English relations, will think so
much of you--from not knowing you, you know--which will be quite
natural. I'm sure that my sisters and I have taken it into our
heads--but I hope it won't be the case, as you have a great deal of good
sense of your own--that they will quite turn your head."

"Mary's head is on her shoulders to little purpose," followed up Miss
Jacky, "if she can't stand being made of when she goes amongst
strangers; and she ought to know by this time that a mother's partiality
is no proof of a child's merit."

"You hear that, Mary," rejoined Miss Grizzy; "so I'm sure I hope you
won't mind a word that your mother says to you, I mean about yourself;
for of course you know she can't be such a good judge of you as us, who
have known you all your life. As to other things, I daresay she is very
well informed about the country, and politics, and these sort of
things--I'm certain Lady Juliana knows a great deal."

"And I hope, Mary, you will take care and not get into the daadlin'
handless ways of the English women," said Miss Nicky; "I wouldn't give a
pin for an Englishwoman."

"And I hope you will never look at an Englishman, Mary," said Miss
Grizzy, with equal earnestness; "take my word for it they are a very
dissipated, unprincipled set. They all drink, and game, and keep
race-horses; and many of them, I'm told, even keep play-actresses; so
you may think what it would be for all of us if you were to marry any of
them,"--and tears streamed from the good spinster's eyes at the bare
supposition of such a calamity.

"Don't be afraid, my dear aunt," said Mary, with a kind caress; "I
shall come back to you your own 'Highland Mary.' No Englishman with his
round face and trim meadows shall ever captivate me. Heath covered hills
and high cheek-bones are the charms that must win my heart."

"I'm delighted to hear you say so, my dear Mary," said the
literal-minded Grizzy. "Certainly nothing can be prettier than the
heather when it's in flower; and there is something very manly--nobody
can dispute that--in high cheek-bones; and besides, to tell you a
secret, Lady Maclaughlan has a husband in her eye for you. We none of us
can conceive who it is, but of course he must be suitable in every
respect; for you know Lady Maclaughlan has had three husbands herself;
so of course she must be an excellent judge of a good husband."

"Or a bad one," said Mary, "which is the same thing. Warning is as good
as example."

Mrs. Douglas's ideas and those of her aunt, did not coincide upon this
occasion more than upon most others. In her sister-in-Iaw's letter she
flattered herself she saw only fashionable indifference; and she fondly
hoped that would soon give way to a tenderer sentiment, as her daughter
became known to her. At any rate it was proper that Mary should make the
trial, and whichever way it ended, it must be for her advantage.

"Mary has already lived too long in these mountain solitudes," thought
she; "her ideas will become romantic, and her taste fastidious. If it is
dangerous to be too early initiated into the ways of the world, it is
perhaps equally so to live too long secluded from it. Should she make
herself a place in the heart of her mother and sister it will be so much
happiness gained; and should it prove otherwise, it will be a lesson
learnt--a hard one indeed! but hard are the lessons we must all learn in
the school of life!" Yet Mrs. Douglas's fortitude almost failed her as
the period of separation approached.

It had been arranged by Lady Emily that a carriage and servants
should meet Mary at Edinburgh, whither Mr. Douglas was to convey her.
The cruel moment came; and mother, sister, relations, friends,--all the
bright visions which Mary's sanguine spirit had conjured up to soften
the parting pang, all were absorbed in one agonising feeling, one
overwhelming thought. Oh, who that for the first time has parted from
the parent whose tenderness and love were entwined with our earliest
recollections, whose sympathy had soothed our infant sufferings, whose
fondness had brightened our infant felicity;--who that has a heart, but
must have felt it sink beneath the anguish of a first farewell! Yet
bitterer still must be the feelings of the parent upon committing the
cherished object of their cares and affections to the stormy ocean of
life. When experience points to the gathering cloud and rising surge
which soon may assail their defenceless child, what can support the
mother's heart but trust in Him whose eye slumbereth not, and whose
power extendeth over all? It was this pious hope, this holy confidence,
that enabled this more than mother to part from her adopted child with a
resignation which no earthly motive could have imparted to her mind. It
seems almost profanation to mingle with her elevated feelings the coarse
yet simple sorrows of the aunts, old and young, as they clung around the
nearly lifeless Mary, each tendering the parting gift they had kept as a
solace for the last.

Poor Miss Grizzy was more than usually incoherent as she displayed "a
nice new umbrella that could be turned into a nice walking-stick, or
anything;" and a dressing-box, with a little of everything in it; and,
with a fresh burst of tears, Mary was directed where she would _not_
find eye-ointment, and where she was _not_ to look for
sticking-plaister.

Miss Jacky was more composed as she presented a flaming copy of
Fordyce's Sermons to Young Women, with a few suitable observations; but
Miss Nicky could scarcely find voice to tell that the _housewife_ she
now tendered had once been Lady Girnchgowl's, and that it contained
Whitechapel needles of every size and number. The younger ladies had
clubbed for the purchase of a large locket, in which was enshrined a lock
from each subscriber, tastefully arranged by the----- jeweller, in the
form of a wheat sheaf upon a blue ground. Even old Donald had his
offering, and, as he stood tottering at the chaise door, he contrived to
get a "bit snishin mull" laid on Mary's lap, with a "God bless her bonny
face, an'may she ne'er want a good sneesh!"

The carriage drove off, and for a while Mary's eyes were closed in
despair.




CHAPTER XXXI.

"Farewell to the mountains, high covered with snow;
Farewell to the straths, and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests, and wild hanging woods,
Farewell to the torrents, and loud roaring floods!"

_Scotch Song._

HAPPILY in the moral world as in the material one the warring elements
have their prescribed bounds, and "the flood of grief decreaseth when it
can swell no higher;" but it is only by retrospection we can bring
ourselves to believe in this obvious truth. The young and untried heart
hugs itself in the bitterness of its emotions, and takes a pride in
believing that its anguish can end but with its existence; and it is not
till time hath almost steeped our senses in forgetfulness that we
discover the mutability of all human passions.

But Mary left it not to the slow hand of time to subdue in some measure
the grief that swelled her heart. Had she given way to selfishness, she
would have sought the free indulgence of her sorrow as the only
mitigation of it; but she felt also for her uncle. He was depressed at
parting with his wife and child, and he was taking a long and dreary
journey entirely upon her account. Could she therefore be so selfish as
to add to his uneasiness by a display of her sufferings? No--she would
strive to conceal it from his observation, though to overcome it was
impossible. Her feelings must ever remain the same, but, she would
confine them to her own breast; and she began to converse with and even
strove to amuse, her kindhearted companion. Ever and anon indeed a rush
of tender recollections came across her mind, and the soft voice and the
bland countenance of her maternal friend seemed for a moment present to
her senses; and then the dreariness and desolation that succeeded as the
delusion vanished, and all was stillness and vacuity! Even self-reproach
shot its piercing sting into her ingenuous heart; levities on which, in
her usual gaiety of spirit, she had never bestowed a thought, now
appeared to her as crimes of the deepest dye. She thought how often she
had slighted the counsels and neglected the wishes of her gentle
monitress; how she had wearied of her good old aunts, their cracked
voices, and the everlasting _tic-a-tic_ of their knitting needles; how
coarse and vulgar she had sometimes deemed the younger ones; how she had
mimicked Lady Maclaughlan, and caricatured Sir Sampson, and "even poor
dear old Donald," said she, as she summed up the catalogue of her
crimes, "could not escape my insolence and ill-nature. How clever I
thought it to sing 'Haud awa frae me, Donald,' and how affectedly I
shuddered at everything he touched;" and the "sneeshin mull" was bedewed
with tears of affectionate contrition. But every painful sentiment was
for a while suspended in admiration of the magnificent scenery that was
spread around them. Though summer had fled, and few even of autumn's
graces remained, yet over the august features of mountain scenery the
seasons have little control. Their charms depend not upon richness of
verdure, or luxuriance of foliage, or any of the mere prettinesses of
nature; but whether wrapped in snow, or veiled in mist, or glowing in
sunshine, their lonely grandeur remains the same; and the same feelings
fill and elevate the soul in contemplating these mighty works of an
Almighty hand. The eye is never weary in watching the thousand varieties
of light and shade, as they flit over the mountain and gleam upon the
lake; and the ear is satisfied with the awful stillness of nature in her
solitude.

Others besides Mary seemed to have taken a fanciful pleasure in
combining the ideas of the mental and elemental world, for in the dreary
dwelling where they were destined to pass the night she found inscribed
the following lines:--

"The busy winds war mid the waving bonghs,
And darkly rolls the heaving surge to land;
Among the flying clouds the moonbeam glows
With colours foreign to its softness bland.

"Here, one dark shadow melts, in gloom profound,
The towering Alps--the guardians of the Lake';
There, one bright gleam sheds silver light around,
And shows the threat'ning strife that tempests wake.

"Thus o'er my mind a busy memory plays,
That shakes the feelings to their inmost core;
Thus beams the light of Hope's fallacious ray,
When simple confidence can trust no more.

"So one dark shadow shrouds each bygone hour,
So one bright gleam the coming tempest shows;
_That _tells of sorrows, which, though past, still lower,
And _this_ reveals th' approach of future woes."

While Mary was trying to decipher these somewhat mystic lines, her uncle
was carrying on a colloquy in Gaelic with their hostess. The
consequendes of the consultation were not of the choicest description,
consisting of braxy [1] mutton, raw potatoes, wet bannocks, hard
cheese, and whisky. Very differently would the travellers have fared had
the good Nicky's intentions been fulfilled. She had prepared with her
own hands a moorfowl pie and potted nowt's head, besides a profusion of
what she termed "trifles, just for Mary, poor thing, to divert herself
with upon the road." But alas! in the anguish of separation, the covered
basket had been forgot, and the labour of Miss Nicky's hands fell to be
consumed by the family, though Miss Grizzy protested, with tears in her
eyes, "that it went to her heart like a knife to eat poor Mary's puffs
and snaps."

[1] Sheep that have died a natural death and been salted.


Change of air and variety of scene failed not to produce the happiest
effects upon Mary's languid frame and drooping spirits. Her cheek,
already glowed with health, and was sometimes dimpled with smiles. She
still wept, indeed, as she thought of those she had left; but often,
while the tear trembled in her eye, its course was arrested by wonder,
or admiration, or delight; for every object had its charms for her. Her
cultivated taste and unsophisticated mind could descry beauty in the
form of a hill, and grandeur in the foam of the wave, and elegance in
the weeping birch, as it dipped its now almost leafless boughs in the
mountain stream. These simple pleasures, unknown alike to the sordid
mind and vitiated taste, are ever exquisitely enjoyed by the refined
yet unsophisticated child of nature.




CHAPTER XXXII

"Her native sense improved by reading,
Her native sweetness by good breeding."

DURING their progress through the Highlands the travellers were
hospitably entertained at the mansions of the country gentlemen, where
old-fashioned courtesy and modern comfort combined to cheer the stranger
guest. But upon _coming out,_ as it is significantly expressed by the
natives of these mountain regions, viz. entering the low country, they
found they had only made a change of difficulties. In the highlands they
were always sure that wherever there was a house that house would be to
them a home; but on a fairday in the little town of G----- they found
themselves in the midst of houses, and surrounded by people, yet unable
to procure rest or shelter.

At the only inn the place afforded they were informed "the horses were
baith oot, an' the ludgin' a' tane up, an' mair tu;" while the driver
asserted, what indeed was apparent, "that his beasts war nae fit to gang
the length o' their tae farrer--no for the king himsel'."

At this moment a stout, florid, good-humoured-looking man passed,
whistling "Roy's Wife" with all his heart and just as Mr. Douglas was
stepping out of the carriage to try what could be done, the same person,
evidently attracted by curiosity, repassed, changing his tune to
"There's cauld kail in Aberdeen."

He started at sight of Mr. Douglas; then eagerly grasping his hand,
"Ah! Archie Douglas, is this you?" exclaimed he with a loud laugh and
hearty shake. "'What! you haven't forgot your old schoolfellow Bob
Gawffaw?"

A mutual recognition now took place, and much pleasure was manifested on
both sides at this unexpected rencontre. No time was allowed to explain
their embarrassments, for Mr. Gawffaw had already tipped the post-boy
the wink (which he seemed easily to comprehend); and forcing Mr.
Douglas to resume his seat in the carriage, he jumped in himself.

"Now for Howffend and Mrs. Gawffaw! ha, ha, ha! This will be a surprise
upon her. She thinks I'm in my barn all this time--ha, ha, ha!"

Mr. Douglas here began to express his astonishment at his friend's
precipitation, and his apprehensions as to the trouble they might
occasion Mrs. Gawffaw; but bursts of laughter and broken expressions of
delight were the only replies he could procure from his friend.

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