Book: Marriage

S >> Susan Edmonstone Ferrier >> Marriage




"That is sympathy," said Mary.




CHAPTER VII.

"Quelle fureur, dit-il, quei aveugle caprice
Quand Ie diner est pret."
BOILEAU.

"I HOPE your Lordship has no thoughts of waiting dinner for Lord
Lindore?" asked Dr. Redgill, with a face of alarm, as seven o'clock
struck, and neither dinner nor Lord Lindore appeared.

"I have no thoughts upon the subject," answered Lord Courtland, as
he turned over some new caricatures with as much _nonchalance_ as if it
had been mid-day.

"That's enough, my Lord; but I suspect Mr. Marshall, in his
officiousness, takes the liberty of thinking for you, and that we shall
have no dinner without orders," rising to pull the bell.

"We ought undoubtedly to wait for Frederick," said Lady Juliana; "it is
of no consequence when we sit down to table."

A violent yell from the sleeping Beauty on the rug sounded like a
summary judgment on her mistress.

"What is the meaning of this?" cried her Ladyship, flying to the
offended fair one, in all the transports of pity and indignation; "how
can you, Dr. Redgill, presume to treat my dog in such a manner?"

"Me treat your Ladyship's dog!" exclaimed the Doctor in well-feigned
astonishment--"Pon my honour!--I'm quite at a loss!--I'm absolutely
confounded!"

"Yes! I saw you plainly give her a kick, and--"

"Me kick Beauty!--after that!--'Pon my soul, I should just as soon have
thought of kicking my own grandmother. I did give her a _leettle_--a
very _leettle_ shove, just with the point of my toe, as I was going to
pull the bell; but it couldn't have hurt a fly. I assure you it would be
one of the last action of my life to treat Beauty ill--Beauty!--poor
Beauty!"--affecting to pat and soothe, by way of covering his
transgression. But neither Beauty nor her mistress were to be taken in
by the Doctor's cajolerie. The one felt, and the other saw the indignity
he had committed; and his caresses and protestations were all in vain.
The fact was, the Doctor's indignation was so raised by Lady Juliana's
remark, made in all the plenitude of a late luncheon, that, had it been
herself instead of her favourite, he could scarcely have refrained from
this testimony of his detestation and contempt. But much as he despised
her, he felt the necessity of propitiating her at this moment, when
dinner itself depended upon her decision; for Lord Courtland was
perfectly neutral, Lady Emily as not present, and a servant waited to
receive orders.

"I really believe it's hunger that's vexing her poor brute!" continued
he, with an air of us feigned sympathy; "she knows the dinner hour as
well as any of us. Indeed, the instinct of dogs in that respect is
wonderful. Providence has really--ahem!--indeed it's no joke to tamper
with dogs, when they've got the notion of dinner in their heads. A
friend of mine had a very fine animal--just such another as poor Beauty
there--she had always been accustomed, like Beauty, to attend the family
to dinner at a particular hour; but one day, by some accident, instead of
sitting down at five, she was kept waiting till half-past six; the
consequence was, the disappointment, operating upon an empty
stomach, brought on an attack of the hydrophobia, and the poor thing was
obliged to be shot the following morning. I think your Lordship
said--Dinner," in a loud voice to the servant; and Lady Juliana, though
still sullen, did not dissent.

For an hour the Doctor's soul was in a paradise still more substantial
than a Turk's; for it was lapt in the richest of soups and _ragouts_,
and, secure of their existence, it smiled at ladies of quality, and
deified their lap-dogs.

Dinner passed away, and supper succeeded, and breakfast; dinner and
supper revolved, and still no Lord Lindore appeared. But this excited no
alarm in the family. It was Lord Courtland's way, and it was Lady
Juliana's way, and it was all their ways, not to keep to their appointed
time, and they therefore experienced none of the vulgar consternation
incident to common minds when the expected guest fails to appear. Lady
Emily indeed wondered, and was provoked, and impatient; but she was not
alarmed; and Mary amused herself with contrasting in her own mind the
difference of her aunts' feelings in similar circumstances.

"Dear Aunt Grizzy would certainly have been in tears these two days,
fancying the thousand deaths Lord Lindore must have died; and Aunt Jacky
would have been inveighing from morning till night against the
irregularities of young men. And Aunt Nicky would have been lamenting
that the black cock had been roasted yesterday, or that there would be
no fish for to-morrow." And the result of Mary's comparison was, that
her aunts' feelings, however troublesome, were better than no feelings
at all. "They are, to be sure, something like brambles," thought she;
"they fasten upon one in every possible way, but still they are better
than the faded exotics of fashionable life."

At last, on the third day, when dinner was nearly over, and Dr. Redgill
was about to remark for the third time, "I think it's as well we didn't
wait for Lord Lindore," the door opened, and, without warning or bustle,
Lord Lindore walked calmly into the room.

Lady Emily, uttering an exclamation of joy, threw herself into his arms.
Lord Courtland was roused to something like animation, as he cordially
shook hands with his son; Lady Juliana flew into raptures at the beauty
of his Italian greyhound; Adelaide, at the first glance, decided that
her cousin was worthy of falling in love with her; Mary thought on the
happiness of the family reunion; and Dr. Redgill offered up a silent
thanksgiving that this _fracas_ had not happened ten minutes sooner,
otherwise the woodcocks would have been as cold as death. Chairs were
placed by the officious attendants in every possible direction; and the
discarded first course was threatening to displace the third. But Lord
Lindore seemed quite insensible to all these attentions; he stood
surveying the company with a _nonchalance_ that had nothing of rudeness
in it, but seemed merely the result of high-bred ease. His eye, for a
moment, rested upon Adelaide. He then slightly bowed and smiled, as in
recognition of their juvenile acquaintance.

"I really can't recommend either the turtle soup or the venison to your
Lordship to-day," said Dr. Redgill, who experienced certain uneasy
sensations at the idea of beholding them resume their stations,
something resembling those which Macbeth testified at sight of Banquo's
ghost, or Hamlet on contemplating Yorick's skull--"after travelling,
there is nothing like a light dinner; allow me to recommend this
_prretty, leettle cuisse de poulet en papillote;_ and here are some
fascinating _beignets d'abricots_--quite foreign."

"If there is any roast beef or boiled mutton to be had, pray let me have
it," said Lord Lindore, waving off the zealous _maitre d'hotel,_
as he kept placing dish after dish before him.

"Roast beef, or boiled mutton!" ejaculated the Doctor, with a sort of
internal convulsion; "he is certainly mad."

"How did you contrive to arrive without being heard by me, Frederick?"
asked Lady Emily; "my ears have been wide open these two days and three
nights watching your approach?"

"I walked from Newberry House," answered he, carelessly. "I met Lord
Newberry two days ago, as I was coming here, and he persuaded me to
alter my course and accompany him home."

"Vastly flattering to your friends here," said Lady Emily in a tone of
pique.

"What! you walked all the way from Newberry," exclaimed the Earl, "and
the ground covered with snow. How could you do so foolish a thing?"

"Simply because, as the children say, I liked it," replied Lord Lindore,
with a smile.

"That's just of a piece with his liking to eat boiled mutton," muttered
the Doctor to Mary; "and yet, to look at him, one would really not
expect such gross stupidity."

There certainly was nothing in Lord Lindore's appearance that denoted
either coarseness of taste or imbecility of mind. On the contrary, he
was an elegant-looking young man, rather slightly formed, and of the
middle size, possessing that ease and grace in all his movements which a
perfect proportion alone can bestow. There was nothing foreign or
_recherche_ either in his dress or deportment; both were plain,
even to simplicity; yet an almost imperceptible air of _hauteur_ was
mingled with the good-humoured indifference of his manner. He spoke
little, and seemed rather to endure than to be gratified by attentions;
his own were chiefly directed to his dog, as he was more intent on
feeding it than on answering the questions that were put to him. There
never was anything to be called conversation at the dinner-table at
Beech Park; and the general practice was in no danger of being departed
from on the present occasion. The Earl hated to converse--it was a bore;
and he now merely exchanged a few desultory sentences with his son, as he
ate his olives and drank his claret. Lady Juliana, indeed, spoke even
more than her usual quantity of nonsense, but nobody listened to it.
Lady Emily was somewhat perplexed in her notions about her brother. He
was handsome and elegant, and appeared good-humoured and gentle; yet
something was wanting to fill up the measure of her expectations, and a
latent feeling of disappointment lurked in her heart. Adelaide was
indignant that he had not instantly paid her the most marked attention,
and revenged herself by her silence. In short, Lord Lindore's arrival
seemed to have added little or nothing to the general stock of pleasure;
and the effervescence of joy--the rapture of _sensation_, like some
subtle essence, had escaped almost as soon as it was perceived.

"How stupid everybody always is at a dinner table!" exclaimed Lady Emily,
rising abruptly with an air of chagrin. "I believe it is the fumes of the
meat that dulls one's senses, and renders them so detestable. I long to
see you in the drawing-room Frederick. I've a notion you are more of a
carpet knight than a knight of the round table; so pray," in a whisper
as she passed, "leave papa to be snored asleep by Dr. Redgill, and do
you follow us--here is metal more attractive," pointing to the sisters,
as they quitted the room; and she followed without waiting for her
brother's reply.




CHAPTER VIII.

"Io dubito, Signor M. Pietro che il mio Cortegiano non sara
stato altro che fatica mia, e fastidio degli amici."

BALDASSARRE CASTIGLIONE.

LORD LINDORE was in no haste to avail himself of his sister's
invitation; and when he did, it was evident his was a "mind not to be
changed by place;" for he entered more with the air of one who was tired
of the company he had left, than expecting pleasure from the society he
sought.

"Do come and entertain us, Lindore," cried Lady Emily, as he entered,
"for we are all heartily sick of one another. A snow-storm and a lack of
company are things hard to be borne; it is only the expectancy of your
arrival that has kept us alive these two days, and now pray don't let us
die away of the reality."

"You have certainly taken a most effectual method of sealing my lips,"
said her brother with a smile.

"How so?"

"By telling me that I am expected to be vastly entertaining, since every
word I utter can only serve to dispel the illusion, and prove that I am
gifted with no such miraculous power."

"I don't think it requires any miraculous power, either to entertain or
be entertained. For my part, I flatter myself I can entertain any man,
woman, or child in the kingdom, when I choose; and as for being
entertained, that is still an easier matter. I seldom meet with anybody
who is not entertaining, either from their folly, or their affectation,
or their stupidity, or their vanity; or, in short, something of the
ridiculous, that renders them not merely supportable, but positively
amusing."

"How extremely happy you must be," said Lord Lindore.

"Happy! No--I don't know that my feelings precisely amount to happiness
neither; for at the very time I'm most diverted I'm sometimes disgusted
too, and often provoked. My spirit gets chafed, and---"

"You long to box the ears of all your acquaintances," said her brother,
laughing. "Well, no matter--there is nothing so enviable as a facility
of being amused, and even the excitement of anger is perhaps preferable
to the stagnation of indifference."

"Oh, thank heaven! I know nothing about indifference; I leave that to
Adelaide."

Lord Lindore turned his eyes with more animation than he had yet evinced
towards his cousin, who sat reading, apparently paying no attention to
what was going on. He regarded her for a considerable time with an
expression of admiration; but Adelaide, though she was conscious of his
gaze, calmly pursued her studies. "Come, you positively must do
something to signalise yourself. I assure you it is expected of you that
you should be the soul of the company. Here is Adelaide waltzes like an
angel, when she can get a partner to her liking."

"But I waltz like a mere mortal," said Lord
Lindore, seating himself at a table, and turning over the leaves of a
book.

"And I am engaged to play billiards with my uncle," said Adelaide,
rising with a blush of indignation.

"Shall we have some music, then? Can you bear to listen to our croakings
after the warbling of your Italian nightingales?" asked Lady Emily.

"I should like very much to hear you sing," answered her brother, with
an air of the most perfect indifference.

"Come then, Mary, do you be the one to 'untwist the chains that tie the
hidden soul of harmony.' Give us your Scotch Exile, pray? It is
tolerably appropriate to the occasion, though an English one would have
been still more so; but, as you say, there is nothing in this country to
make a song about."

Mary would rather have declined, but she saw a refusal would displease
her cousin; and she was not accustomed to consult her own inclination in
such frivolous matters. She therefore seated herself at the harp, and
sang the following verses;--

THE EXILE.

The weary wanderer may roam
To seek for bliss in change of scene;
Yet still the loved idea of home,
And of the days he there has seen,

Pursue him with a fond regret,
Like rays from suns that long have set.

"Tis not the sculptor's magic art,
"Tis not th' heroic deeds of yore,
That fill and gratify the heart.
No! 'tis affection's tender lore--
The thought of friends, and love's first sigh,
When youth, and hope, and health were nigh.

What though on classic ground we tread,
What though we breathe a genial air--
Can these restore the bliss that's fled?
Is not remembrance ever there?
Can any soil protect from grief,
Or any air breathe soft relief?

No! the sick soul, that wounded flies
From all its early thoughts held dear,
Will more some gleam of memory prize,
That draws the long-lost treasure near;
And warmly presses to its breast
The very thought that mars its rest.

Some mossy stone, some torrent rude,
Some moor unknown to worldly ken,
Some weeping birches, fragrant wood,
Or some wild roebuck's fern-clad glen;--
Yes! these his aching heart delight,
These bring his country to his sight.



Ere the song was ended Lord Lindore had sauntered away to the
billiard-room, singing, "Oh! Jiove Omnipotente!" and seemingly quite
unconscious that any attentions were due from him in return. But there,
even Adelaide's charms failed to attract, in spite of the variety of
graceful movements practised before him--the beauty of the extended arm,
the majestic step, and the exclamations of the enchanting voice Lord
Lindore kept his station by the fire, in a musing attitude, from which
he was only roused occasionally by the caresses of his dog. At supper it
was still worse. He placed himself by Mary, and when he spoke, it was
only of Scotland.

"Well--what do you think of Lindore?" demanded Lady Emily of her aunt
and cousins, as they were about to separate for the night. "Is he not
divine?"

"Perfectly so!" replied Lady Juliana, with all the self-importance of a
fool. "I assure you I think very highly of him. He is a vastly charming,
clever young man-perfectly beautiful, and excessively amiable; and his
attention to his dog is quite delightful--it is so uncommon to see men
at all kind to their dogs. I assure you I have known many who were
absolutely cruel to them--beat them, and starved them, and did a
thousand shocking things; and----"

"Pray, Adelaide, what is your opinion of my brother"

"Oh! I--I--have no doubt he is extremely amiable," replied Adelaide,
with a gentle yawn. "As mamma says, his attentions to his dog prove it."

"And you, Mary, are your remarks to be equally judicious and polite?"

Mary, in all the sincerity of her heart, said she thought him by much
the handsomest and most elegant-looking man she had ever seen. And there
she stopped.

"Yes; I know all that. But--however, no matter--I only wish he may have
sense enough to fall in love with you, Mary. How happy I should be to
see you Lady Lindore!--_En attendant_--you must take care of your heart;
for I hear he is _un peu volage_--and, moreover, that he admires none
but _les dames Mariees._ As for Adelaide, there is no fear of
her. She will never cast such a pearl away upon one who is merely, no
doubt, extremely amiable," retorting Adelaide's ironical tone.

"Then you may feel equally secure upon my account," said Mary, "as I
assure you I am still less danger of losing mine, after the warning you
have given."

This off-hand sketch of her brother's character, which Lady Emily had
thoughtlessly given, produced the most opposite effects on the minds of
he sisters. With Adelaide it increased his consequence and enhanced his
value. It would be no vulgar conquest to fix and reform one who was
notorious for his inconstancy and libertine principles; and from that
moment she resolved to use all the influence of her charms to captivate
and secure the heart of her cousin. In Mary's well-regulated mind other
feelings arose. Although she was not one of the outrageous virtuous, who
storm and rail at the very mention of vice, and deem it contamination to
hold any intercourse with the vicious, she yet possessed proper ideas
for the distinction to be drawn; and the hope of finding a friend and
brother in her cousin now gave way to the feeling that in future she
could only consider him as an common acquaintance.




CHAPTER IX

"On sera ridicule et je n'oserai rire!"

BOILEAU.

IN honour of her brother's return Lady Emily resolved to celebrate it
with a ball; and always prompt in following up her plans, she fell to
work immediately with her visiting list.

"Certainly," said she, as she scanned it over, "there never was any
family so afflicted in their acquaintances as we are. At least one-half
of the names here belong to the most insufferable people on the face of
the earth. The Claremonts, and the Edgefields, and the Bouveries, and the
Sedleys, and a few more, are very well; but can anything in human form
be more insupportable than the rest; for instance, that wretch Lady
Placid?"

"Does her merit lie only in her name then?" asked Mary.

"You shall judge for yourself when I have given you a slight sketch of
her character. Lady Placid, in the opinion of all sensible persons in
general, and myself in particular, is a vain, weak, conceited, vulgar
egotist. In her own eyes she is a clever, well-informed, elegant,
amiable woman; and though I have spared no pains to let her know how
detestable I think her, it is all in vain; she remains as firmly
entrenched in her own good opinion as folly and conceit can make her;
and I have the despair of seeing all my buffetings fall blunted to the
ground. She reminds me of some odious fairy or genii I have read of, who
possessed such a power in their person that every hostile weapon
levelled against them was immediately turned into some agreeable
present. Stones became balls of silk--arrows, flowers--swords, feathers,
etc. Even so it is with Lady Placid. The grossest insult that could be
offered she would construe into an elegant compliment; the very crimes
of others she seems to consider as so much incense offered up at the
shrine of her own immaculate virtue. I'm certain she thinks she deserves
to be canonised for having kept out of Doctors' Commons. Never is any
affair of that sort alluded to that she does not cast such a triumphant
look towards her husband, as much as to say, 'Here am I, the paragon of
faithful wives and virtuous matrons!' Were I in his place, I should
certainly throw a plate at her head. And here, you may take this passing
remark--How much more odious people are who have radical faults, than
those who commit, I do not say positive crimes, but occasional
weaknesses. Even a noble nature may fall into a great error; but what is
that to the ever-enduring pride, envy, malice, and conceit of a little
mind? Yes, I would at any time rather be the fallen than the one, so
exult over the fall of another. Then, as a mother, she is, if possible,
still more meritorious a woman (this is the way she talks): A woman has
nobly performed her part to her country, and for posterity, when she has
brought a family of fine healthy children into the world. 'I can't agree
with you,' I reply 'I think many mothers have brought children into the
world who would have been much better out of it. A mother's merit must
depend solely upon how she brings up her children (hers are the most
spoiled brats in Christendom). 'There I perfectly agree with you, Lady
Emily. As you observe, it is not every mother who does her duty by her
children. Indeed, I may say to you, it is not everyone that will make
the sacrifices for their family I have done; but thank God! I am richly
repaid. My children are everything I could wish them to be!' Everything
of hers, as a matter of course, must be superior to every other
person's, and even what she is obliged to share in common with others
acquires some miraculous charm in operating upon her. Thus it is
impossible for anyone to imagine the delight she takes in bathing; and
as for the sun, no mortal can conceive the effect it has upon her. If
she was to have the plague she would assure you it was owing to some
peculiar virtue in her blood; and if she was to be put in the pillory
she would ascribe it entirely to her great merit. If her coachman were
to make her a declaration of love she would impute it to the boundless
influence of her charms; that every man who sees her does not declare
his passion is entirely owing to the well-known severity of her morals
and the dignity of her deportment. If she is amongst the first invited
to my ball, that will be my eagerness to secure her: if the very last,
it will be a mark of my friendship, and the easy footing we are upon. If
not invited at all, then it will be jealousy. In short, the united
strength of worlds would not shake that woman's good opinion of herself;
and the intolerable part of it is there are so many fools in this one
that she actually passes with the multitude for being a charming
sweet-tempered woman--always the same--always pleased and contented.
Contented! just as like contentment as the light emitted by putridity
resembles the divine halo! But too much of her. Let her have a card,
however.

"Then comes Mrs. Wiseacre, that renowned law-giver, who lavishes her
advice on all who will receive it, without hope of fee or reward, except
that of being thought wiser than anybody else. But, like many more
deserving characters, she meets with nothing but ingratitude in return;
and the wise sentences that are for ever hovering around her pursed up
mouth have only served to render her insupportable. This is her mode of
proceeding--' If I might presume to advise, Lady Emily;' or, 'If my
opinion could be supposed to have any weight;' or 'If my experience goes
for anything;' or, 'I'm an old woman now, but I think I know something
of the world;' or, 'If a friendly hint of mine would be of any service:
--then when very desperate, it is, 'However averse I am to obtrude my
advice, yet as I consider it my duty, I must for once;' or, 'It
certainly is no affair of mine, at the same time I must just observe,'
etc. etc. I don't say that she insists, however, upon your swallowing
all the advice she crams you with; for, provided she has the luxury of
giving it, it can make little difference how it is taken; because
whatever befals you, be it good or bad, it is equally a matter of
exultation to her. Thus she has the satisfaction of saying, 'If poor
Mrs. Dabble had but followed my advice, and not have taken these pills
of Dr. Doolittle's, she would have been alive to-day, depend upon it;'
or, 'If Sir Thomas Speckle had but taken advantage of a friendly hint I
threw out some time ago, about the purchase of the Drawrent estate, he
might have been a man worth ten thousand a year at this moment;' or, 'If
Lady Dull hadn't been so infatuated as to neglect the caution I gave her
about Bob Squander, her daughter might have been married to Nabob Gull.'

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