Book: Marriage

S >> Susan Edmonstone Ferrier >> Marriage




Lady Emily explained to her the nature of the entertainment, and Mary
was in still greater raptures.

"It will be a perfect scene of enchantment, I have no doubt," continued
her cousin, "for Lady M. understands giving balls, which is what every
one does not; for there are dull balls as well as dull every things else
in the world. But come, I have left Lady Juliana and Adelaide in grand
debate as to their dresses. We must also hold a cabinet council upon
ours. Shall I summon the inimitable Slash to preside?"

"The mention of her mother recalled Mary's thoughts from the festive
scene to which they had already flown.

"But are you _quite_ sure," said she, "that I shall have my mother's
consent to go?"

"Quite the contrary," answered her cousin coolly. "She won't hear of
your going. But what signifies that? You could go to church in spite of
her, and surely you can't think her consent of much consequence to a
ball?"

Poor Mary's countenance fell, as the bright vision of her imagination
melted into air.

"Without my mother's permission," said she, "I shall certainly not think
of, or even wish--" with a sigh--"to go to the ball, and if she has
already refused it that is enough."

Lady Emily regarded her with astonishment. "Pray, is it only on Sundays
you make a point of disobeying your mother?"

"It is only when I conceive a higher duty is required of me," answered
Mary.

"Why, I confess I used to think that to honour one's father and mother
_was _a duty, till you showed me the contrary. I have to thank you for
ridding me of that vulgar prejudice. And now, after setting me such a
noble example of independence, you seem to have got a new light on the
subject yourself."

"My obedience and disobedience both proceed from the same source,"
answered Mary. "My first duty, I have been taught, is to worship my
Maker--my next to obey my mother. My own gratification never can come in
competition with either."

"Well, I really can't enter into a religious controversy with you; but
it seems to me the sin, if it is one, is precisely the same, whether you
play the naughty girl in going to one place or another. I can see no
difference."

"To me it appears very different," said Mary; "and therefore I should be
inexcusable were I to choose the evil, believing it to be such."

"Say what you will," cried her cousin pettishly, "you never will convince
me there can be any harm in disobeying such a mother as yours--so
unreasonable--so--"

"The Bible makes no exceptions," interrupted Mary gently; "it is not
because of the reasonableness of our parents' commands that we are
required to obey them, but because it is the will of God."

"You certainly are a Methodist--there's no denying it. I have fought
some hard battles for you, but I see I must give you up. The thing won't
conceal." This was said with such an air of vexation that Mary burst
into a fit of laughter.

"And yet you are the oddest compound," continued her cousin, "so gay
and comical, and so little given to be shocked and scandalised at the
wicked ways of others; or to find fault and lecture; or, in short, to do
any of the insufferable things that your good people are so addicted to.
I really don't know what to think of you."

"Think of me as a creature with too many faults of her own to presume to
meddle with those of others," replied Mary, smiling at her cousin's
perplexity.

"Well, if all good people were like you, I do believe I should become a
saint myself. If you are right, I must be wrong; but fifty years hence
we shall settle that matter with spectacles on nose over our family
Bibles. In the meantime the business of the ball-room is much more
pressing. We really must decide upon something. Will you choose your own
style, or shall I leave it to Madame Trieur to do us up exactly alike?"

"You have only to choose for yourself, my dear cousin," answered Mary.
"You know I have no interest in it--at least not till I have received
my mother's permission."

"I have told you already there is no chance of obtaining it. I had a
_brouillerie_ with her on the subject before I came to you."

"Then I entreat you will not say another word. It is a thing of so
little consequence, that I am quite vexed to think that my mother should
have been disturbed about it. Dear Lady Emily, if you love me, promise
that you will not say another syllable on the subject."

"And this is all the thanks I get for my trouble and vexation,"
exclaimed Lady Emily, angrily; "but the truth is, I believe you think it
would be a sin to go to a ball; and as for dancing--oh, shocking! That
would be absolute ---. I really can't say the bad word you good people
are so fond of using."

"I understand your meaning," answered Mary, laughing; "but, indeed, I
have no such apprehensions. On the contrary, I am very fond of dancing;
so fond, that I have often taken Aunt Nicky for my partner in a
Strathspey rather than sit still--and, to confess my weakness, I should
like very much to go to a ball."

"Then you must and shall go to this one. It is really a pity that you
should have enraged Lady Juliana so much by that unfortunate
church-going; but for that, I think she might have been managed; and even
now, I should not despair, if you would, like a good girl, beg pardon
for what is past, and promise never to do so any more."

"Impossible!" replied Mary. "You surely cannot be serious in
supposing I would barter a positive duty for a trifling amusement?"

"Oh, hang duties! they are odious things. And as for your amiable,
dutiful, virtuous Goody Two-Shoes characters, I detest them. They never
would go down with me, even in the nursery, with all he attractions of a
gold watch and coach and six. They were ever my abhorrence, as every
species of canting and hypocrisy still is---"

Then struck with a sense of her own violence and impetuosity, contrasted
with her cousin's meek unreproving manner, Lady Emily threw her arms
round her, begging pardon, and assuring her she did not mean her.

"If you had," said Mary, returning her embrace, "you would only have told
me what I am in some respects. Dull and childish, I know I am; for I am
not the same creature I was at Lochmarlie"--and a tear trembled in her
eye as she spoke--"and troublesome, I am sure, you have found me."

"No, no!" eagerly interrupted Lady Emily; "you are the reverse of
all that. You are the picture of my Edward, and everything that is
excellent and engaging; and I see by that smile you will go to the
ball--there's a darling!"

Mary shook her head.

"I'll tell you what we can do," cried her persevering patroness; "we
can go as masks, and Lady Juliana shall know nothing about it. That will
save the scandal of an open revolt or a tiresome dispute. Half the
company will be masked; so, if you keep your own secret, nobody will
find it out. Come, what characters shall we choose?"

"That of Janus, I think, would be the most suitable for me," said Mary.
Then, in a serious tone, she added, "I can neither disobey nor deceive
my mother. Therefore, once for all, my dear cousin, let me entreat of
you to be silent on a subject on which my mind is made up. I am
perfectly sensible of your kindness, but any further discussion will be
very painful to me."

Lady Emily was now too indignant to stoop to remonstrance. She quitted
her cousin in great anger, and poor Mary felt as if she had lost her only
friend.

"Alas!" sighed she, "how difficult it is to do right, when even the
virtues of others throw obstacles in our way! And how easy our duties
would be could we kindly aid one another in the performance of them!"

But such is human nature. The real evils of life, of which we so loudly
complain, are few in number, compared to the daily, hourly pangs we
inflict on one another.

Lady Emily's resentment, though violent, was short-lived; and in the
certainty that either the mother would relent or the daughter rebel, she
ordered a dress for Mary; but the night of the ball arrived, and both
remained unshaken in their resolution. With a few words Adelaide might
have obtained the desired permission for her sister; but she chose to
remain neuter, coldly declaring she never interfered in quarrels.

Mary beheld the splendid dresses and gay countenances of the party for
the ball with feelings free from envy, though perhaps not wholly unmixed
with regret. She gazed with the purest admiration on the extreme beauty
of her sister, heightened as it was by the fantastic elegance of her
dress, and contrasted with her own pale visage and mourning habiliments.

"Indeed," thought she, as she turned from the mirror, with rather a
mournful smile, "my Aunt Nicky was in the right: I certainly am a poor
_shilpit_ thing."

As she looked again at her sister she observed that her earrings were
not so handsome as those she had received from Mrs. Macshake; and she
instantly brought them, and requested Adelaide would wear them for that
night.

Adelaide took them with her usual coolness--remarked how very
magnificent they were--wished some old woman would take it into her head
to make her such a present; and, as she clasped them in her ears,
regarded herself with increased complacency. The hour of departure
arrived; Lord Courtland and Lady Juliana were at length ready, and Mary
found herself left to a _tete-a-tete_ with Dr. Redgill; and,
strange as it may seem, neither in a sullen nor melancholy mood. But
after a single sigh, as the carriage drove off, she sat down with a
cheerful countenance to play backgammon with the Doctor.

The following day she heard of nothing but the ball and its delights;
for both her mother and her cousin sought (though from different
motives) to heighten her regret at not having been there. But Mary
listened to the details of all she had missed with perfect fortitude,
and only rejoiced to hear they had all been so happy.




CHAPTER VI.

"Day follows night. The clouds return again
After the falling of the latter rain;
But to the aged blind shall ne'er return
Grateful vicissitude: She still must mourn
The sun, and moon, and every starry light,
Eclipsed to her, and lost in everlasting night."

PRIOR

AMONGST the numerous letters and parcels with which Mary had been
entrusted by the whole county of-----, there was one she had received
from the hands of Lady Maclaughlan, with a strict injunction to be the
bearer of it herself; and, as even Lady Maclaughlan's wishes now wore an
almost sacred character in Mary's estimation, she was very desirous of
fulfilling this her parting charge. But, in the thraldom in which she
was kept, she knew not how that was to be accomplished. She could not
venture to wait upon the lady to whom it was addressed without her
mother's permission; and she was aware that to ask was upon every
occasion only to be refused. In his dilemma she had recourse to Lady
Emily; and, showing her the letter, craved her advice and assistance.

"Mrs. Lennox, Rose Hall," said her cousin, reading the superscription.
"Oh! I don't think Lady Juliana will care a straw about your going
there. She is merely an unfortunate blind old lady, whom everybody
thinks it a bore to visit--myself, I'm afraid, amongst the number. We
ought all to have called upon her ages ago, so I shall go with you now."

Permission for Mary to accompany her was easily obtained; for Lady
Juliana considered a visit to Mrs. Lennox as an act of penance rather
than of pleasure; and Adelaide protested the very mention of her name
gave her the vapours. There certainly was nothing that promised much
gratification in what Mary had heard; and yet she already felt
interested in this unfortunate blind lady whom everybody thought it
a bore to visit, and she sought to gain some more information respecting
her. But Lady Emily, though possessed of warm feelings and kindly
affections, was little given to frequent the house of mourning, or
sympathise with the wounded spirit; and she yawned as she declared she
was very sorry for poor Mrs. Lennox, and would have made a point of
seeing her oftener, could she have done her any good.

"But what can I possibly say to her," continued she, "after losing
her husband, and having I don't know how many sons killed in battle, and
her only daughter dying of a consumption, and herself going blind in
consequence of her grief for all these misfortunes--what can I possibly
do for her, or say to her? Were I in her situation, I'm sure I should
hate the sight and sound of any human being, and should give myself up
entirely to despair."

"That would be but a pagan sacrifice," said Mary.

"What would you do in such desperate circumstances?" demanded Lady
Emily.

"I would hope," answered Mary, meekly.

"But in poor Mrs. Lennox's case that would be to hope though hope were
lost; for what can she hope for now? She has still something to fear,
however, as I believe she has still one son remaining, who is in the
brunt of every battle; of course she has nothing to expect but accounts
of his death."

"But she may hope that heaven will preserve him, and--"

"That you will marry him. That would do excellently well, for he is as
brave as a real Highlander, though he has the misfortune to be only half
a one. His father, General Lennox, was a true Scot to the very tip of
his tongue, and as proud and fiery as any chieftain need be. _His_
death, certainly was an improvement in the family. But there is Rose
Hall, with its pretty shrubberies and nice parterres, what
do you say to becoming its mistress?"

"If I am to lay snares," answered Mary, laughing, "it must be for nobler
objects than hedgerow elms and hillocks green."

"Oh, it must be for black crags and naked hills! Your country really
does vastly well to rave about! Lofty mountains and deep glens, and blue
lakes and roaring rivers, are mighty fine-sounding things; but I suspect
cornfields and barnyards are quit as comfortable neighbours; so take my
advice and marry Charles Lennox."

Mary only answered by singing, "My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is
not here," etc., as the carriage drew up.

"This is the property of Mrs. Lennox," said Lady Emily, in answer to
some remark of her companion's; "she is the last of some ancient stock;
and you see the family taste has been treated with all due respect."

Rose Hall was indeed perfectly English: it was a description of place of
which there are none in Scotland; for it wore the appearance of
antiquity, without the too usual accompaniments of devastation or decay;
neither did any incongruities betray vicissitude of fortune or change of
owner; but the taste of the primitive possessor seemed to have been
respected through ages by his descendants; and the ponds remained as
round, and the hedges as square, and the grass walks as straight, as the
day they had been planned. The same old-fashioned respectability was
also apparent in the interior of the mansion. The broad heavy oaken
staircase shone in all the lustre of bees' wax; and the spacious
sitting-room into which they were ushered had its due allowance of
Vandyke portraits, massive chairs, and china jars, standing much in the
same positions they had been placed in a hundred years before.

To the delicate mind the unfortunate are always objects of respect. As
the ancients held sacred those places which had been blasted by
lightning, so the feeling heart considers the afflicted as having been
touched by the hand of God Himself. Such were the sensations with which
Mary found herself in the presence of the venerable Mrs.
Lennox--venerable rather through affliction than age; for sorrow, more
than time, had dimmed the beauty of former days, though enough still
remained to excite interest and engage affection in the mournful yet
gentle expression of her countenance, and the speaking silence of her
darkened eyes. On hearing the names of her visitors, she arose, and,
guided by a little girl, who had been sitting at her feet, advanced to
meet them, and welcomed them with a kindness and simplicity of manner
that reminded Mary of the home she had left and the maternal tenderness
of her beloved aunt. She delivered her credentials, which Mrs. Lennox
received with visible surprise; but laid the letter aside without any
comments.

Lady Emily began some self-accusing apologies for the length of time
that had intervened since her last visit, but Mrs Lennox gently
interrupted her.

"Do not blame yourself, my dear Lady Emily," said she; "for what is so
natural at your age. And do not suppose I am so unreasonable as to
expect that the young and the gay should seek for pleasure in the
company of an old blind Woman. At your time of life I would not have
courted distress anymore than you."

"At every time of life," said Lady Emily, "I am sure you must have been a
very different being from what I am, or ever shall be."

"Ah! you little know what changes adversity makes in the character,"
said Mrs. Lennox mournfully; "and may you never know--unless it is for
your good."

"I doubt much if I shall ever be good on any terms," answered Lady Emily
in a half melancholy tone; "I don't think I have the elements of
goodness in my composition, but here is my cousin, who is fit to stand
proxy for all the virtues."

Mrs. Lennox involuntarily turned her mild but sightless eyes towards
Mary, then heaved a sigh and shook her head, as she was reminded of her
deprivation. Mary was too much affected to speak; but the hand that was
extended to her she pressed with fervour to her lips, while her eyes
overflowed with tears. The language of sympathy is soon understood. Mrs.
Lennox seemed to feel the tribute of pity and respect that flowed from
Mary's warm heart, and from that moment they felt towards each other
that indefinite attraction which, however it may be ridiculed, certainly
does sometimes influence our affections.

"That is a picture of your son, Colonel Lennox, is it not?" asked Lady
Emily, "I mean the one that hangs below the lady in the satin gown with
the bird on her hand."

Mrs. Lennox answered in the affirmative; then added, with a sigh, "And
when I _could_ look on that face, I forgot all I had lost; but I was too
fond, too proud a mother. Look at it, my dear," taking Mary's hand, and
leading her to the well-known spot, while her features brightened with
an expression which showed maternal vanity was not yet extinct in the
mourner's heart. "He was only eighteen," continued she, "when that was
done; and many a hot sun has burned on that fair brow; and many a
fearful sight has met these sweet eyes since then; and sadly that face
may be changed; but I shall never see it more!"

"Indeed," said Lady Emily, affecting to be gay, while a tear stood in
her eye, "it is a very dangerous face to look on; and I should be afraid
to trust myself with it, were not my heart already pledged. As for my
cousin there, there is no fear of her falling a sacrifice to hazel eyes
and chestnut hair, her imagination is all on the side of sandy locks and
frosty gray eyes; and I should doubt if Cupid himself would have any
chance with her, unless he appeared in tartan plaid and Highland
bonnet."

"Then my Charles would have some," said Mrs. Lennox, with a faint smile;
"for he has lately been promoted to the command of a Highland regiment."

"Indeed!" said Lady Emily, "that is very gratifying, and you have
reason to be proud of Colonel Lennox; he has distinguished himself upon
every occasion."

"Ah! the days of my pride are now past," replied Mrs. Lennox, with a
sigh; "'tis only the more honour, the greater danger, and I am weary of
such bloody honours. See there!" pointing to another part of the room,
where hung a group of five lovely children, "three of these cherub heads
were laid low in battle; the fourth, my Louisa, died of a broken heart
for the loss of her brothers. Oh! what can human power or earthly
honours do to cheer the mother who has wept o'er her children's graves?
But there _is_ a Power," raising her darkened eyes to heaven, "that can
sustain even a mother's heart; and here," laying her hand upon an open
Bible, "is the balm He has graciously vouchsafed to pour into the
wounded spirit. My comfort is not that my boys died nobly, but that they
died Christians."

Lady Emily and Mary were both silent from different causes. The former
was at a loss what to say--the latter felt too much affected to trust
her voice with the words of sympathy that hovered on her lips.

"I ought to beg your pardon, my dears," said Mrs. Lennox, after a pause,
for talking in this serious manner to you who cannot be supposed to
enter into sorrows to which you are strangers. But you must excuse me,
though my heart does sometimes run over."

"Oh, do not suppose," said Mary, making an effort to conquer her
feelings, "that we are so heartless as to refuse to take a part in the
afflictions of others; surely none can be so selfish; and might I be
allowed to come often--very often--" She stopped and blushed; for she
felt that her feelings were carrying her farther than she was warranted
to go.

Mrs. Lennox kindly pressed her hand. "Ah! God hath, indeed, sent some
into the world, whose province it is to refresh the afflicted, and
lighten the eyes of the disconsolate. Such, I am sure, you would be to
me; for I feel my heart revive at the sound of your voice; it reminds me
of my heart's darling, my Louisa! and the remembrance of her, though
sad, is still sweet. Come to me, then, when you will, and God's
blessing, and the blessing of the blind and desolate, will reward you."

Lady Emily turned away, and it was not till they had been some time
in the carriage that Mary was able to express the interest this visit
had excited, and her anxious desire to be permitted to renew it.

"It is really an extraordinary kind of delight, Mary, that you take in
being made miserable," said her cousin, wiping her eyes; "for my part,
it makes me quite wretched to witness suffering that I can't relieve;
and how can you or I possibly do poor Mrs. Lennox any good? We can't
bring back her sons."

"No; but we can bestow our sympathy, and that, I have been taught, is
always a consolation to the afflicted."

"I don't quite understand the nature of that mysterious feeling called
sympathy. When I go to visit Mrs. Lennox, she always sets me a-crying,
and I try to set her a-laughing. Is that what you call sympathy?"

Mary smiled, and shook her head.

"Then I suppose it is sympathy to blow one's nose--and--and read the
Bible. Is that it? or what is it?"

Mary declared she could not define it; and Lady Emily insisted she could
not comprehend it.

"You will some day or other," said Mary; "for none, I believe, have ever
passed through life without feeling, or at least requiring its support;
and it is well, perhaps, that we should know betimes how to receive as
well as how to bestow it."

"I don't see the necessity at all. I know I should hate mortally to be
what you call sympathised with; indeed, it appears to me the height of
selfishness in anybody to like it. If I am wretched, it would be no
comfort to me to make everybody else wretched; and were I in Mrs.
Lennox's place, I would have more spirit than to speak about my
misfortunes."

"But Mrs. Lennox does not appear to be what you call a spirited
creature. She seems all sweetness, and--"

"Oh, sweet enough, certainly!--But hers is a sort of Eolian harp, that
lulls me to sleep. I tire to death of people who have only two or three
notes in their character. By-the-bye, Mary, you have a tolerable compass
yourself, when you choose, though I don't think you have science enough
for a _bravura; there_ I certainly have the advantage of you, as I
flatter myself my mind is a full band in itself. My kettledrums and
trumpets I keep for Lady Juliana, and I am quite in the humour for
giving her a flourish today. I really require something of an
exhilarating nature after Mrs. Lennox's dead march."

An unusual bustle seemed to pervade Beech Park as the carriage stopped,
and augured well for its mistress's intention of being more than usually
vivacious. It was found to be occasioned by the arrival of her brother
Lord Lindore's servants and horses, with the interesting intelligence
that his Lordship would immediately follow; and Lady Emily, wild with
delight, forgot everything in the prospect of embracing her brother.

"How does it happen," said Mary, when her cousin's transports had a
little subsided, "that you, who are in such ecstasies at the idea of
seeing your brother, have scarcely mentioned his name to me?"

"Why, to tell you the truth, I fear I was beginning to forget there was
such a person in the world. I have not seen him since I was ten years
old. At that time he went to college, and from thence to the Continent.
So all I remember of him is that he was very handsome and very
good-humoured; and all that have heard of him is, that wherever he goes
he is the 'glass of fashion and the mould of form'--not that he is much
of a Hamlet, I've a notion, in other respects. So pray put off that
Ophelia phiz, and don't look as if you were of ladies most deject and
wretched, when everybody else is gay and happy. Come, give your last
sigh to the Lennox, and your first smile to _Lindore."_

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