Book: Marriage

S >> Susan Edmonstone Ferrier >> Marriage




"But there is a strange contradiction about Mrs. Wiseacre, for though it
appears that all her friends' misfortunes proceed from neglecting her
advice, it is no less apparent, by her account, that her own are all
occasioned by following the advice of others. She is for ever doing
foolish things, and laying the blame upon her neighbours. Thus, 'Had it
not been for my friend Mrs. Jobbs there, I never would have parted with
my house for an old song as I did;' or, 'It was entirely owing to Miss
Glue's obstinacy that I was robbed of my diamond necklace, or, 'I have
to thank my friend Colonel Crack for getting my carriage smashed to
pieces.' In short, she has the most comfortable repository of stupid
friends to have recourse to, of anybody I ever knew. Now what I have to
warn you against, Mary, is the sin of ever listening to any of her
advices. She will preach to you about the pinning of your gown and the
curling of your hair till you would think it impossible not to do exactly
what she wants you to do. She will inquire with the greatest solicitude
what shoemaker you employ, and will shake her head most significantly
when she hears it is any other than her own. But if ever I detect you
paying the smallest attention to any of her recommendations, positively
I shall have done with you."

Mary laughingly promised to turn a deaf ear to all Mrs. Wiseacre's
wisdom; and her cousin proceeded:

"Then here follows a swarm as, thick as idle motes in sunny ray,' and
much of the same importance, methinks, in the scale of being. Married
ladies only celebrated for their good dinners, or their pretty
equipages, or their fine jewels. How I should scorn to be talked of as
the appendage to any soups or pearls! Then there are the daughters of
these ladies--Misses, who are mere misses, and nothing more. Oh! the
insipidity of a mere Miss! a soft simpering thing with pink cheeks, and
pretty hair, and fashionable clothes _sans_ eyes for anything but
lovers_-sans_ ears for anything but flattery--_sans_ taste for anything
but balls_--sans_ brains for anything at all! Then there are ladies who
are neither married nor young, and who strive with all their might to
talk most delightfully, that the charms of their conversation may efface
the marks of the crows' feet; but 'all these I passen by, and nameless
numbers moe.' And now comes the Hon. Mrs. Downe Wright, a person of
considerable shrewdness and penetration--vulgar, but unaffected. There
is no politeness, no gentleness in her heart; but she possesses some
warmth, much honesty, and great hospitality. She has acquired the
character of being--oh, odious thing!--a clever woman! There are two
descriptions of clever women, observe; the one is endowed with corporeal
cleverness--the other with mental; and I don't know which of the two is
the greater nuisance to society; the one torments you with her
management--the other with her smart sayings; the one is for ever
rattling her bunch of keys in your ears--the other electrifies you with
the shock of her wit; and both talk _so_ much and _so _loud, and are
such egotists, that I rather think a clever woman is even a greater term
of reproach than a good creature. But to return to that clever woman Mrs.
Downe Wright: she is a widow, left with the management of an only son--a
commonplace, weak young man. No one, I believe, is more sensible of his
mental deficiencies than his mother; but she knows that a man of fortune
is, in the eyes of the many, a man of consequence; and she therefore
wisely talks of it as his chief characteristic. To keep him in good
company, and get him well married, is all her aim; and this, she thinks,
will not be difficult, as he is very handsome-possesses an estate of ten
thousand a year--and succeeds to some Scotch Lord Something's
title--there's for you, Mary! She once had views of Adelaide, but
Adelaide met the advances with so much scorn that Mrs. Downe Wright
declared she was thankful she had shown the cloven foot in time, for
that she never would have done for a wife to her William. Now you are
the very thing to suit, for you have no cloven feet to show."

"Or at least you are not so quick-sighted as Mrs. Downe Wright. You
have not spied them yet, it seems," said Mary, with a smile.

"Oh, as to that, if you had them, I should defy you, or anyone, to hide
them from me. When I reflect upon the characters of most of my
acquaintances, I sometimes think nature has formed my optics only to see
disagreeables."

"That must be a still more painful faculty of vision than even the
second-sight," said Mary; "but I should think it depended very much upon
yourself to counteract it."

"Impossible! my perceptions are so peculiarly alive to all that is
obnoxious to them that I could as soon preach my eyes into blindness, or
my ears into deafness, as put down my feelings with chopping logic. If
people _will_ be affected and ridiculous, why must I live in a state of
warfare with myself on account of the feelings they rouse within me?"

"If people _will_ be irritable," said Mary, laughing, "why must others
sacrifice their feelings to gratify them?"

"Because mine are natural feelings, and theirs are artificial. A very
saint must sicken at sight of affectation, you'll allow. Vulgarity, even
innate vulgarity, is bearable--stupidity itself is pardonable--but
affectation is never to be endured or forgiven."

"It admits of palliation, at least," answered Mary. "I dare say there are
many people who would have been pleasing and natural in their manners
had not their parents and teachers interfered. There are many, I
believe, who have not courage to show themselves such as they are--some
who are naturally affected and many, very many, who have been taught
affectation as a necessary branch of education."

"Yes--as my governesses would have taught me; but, thank heaven! I got
the better of them. _Fascinating_ was what they wanted to make me; but
whenever the word was mentioned, I used to knit my brows, and frown upon
them in such a sort. The frown, like now, sticks by me; but no matter--a
frowning brow is better than a false heart, and I defy anyone to say
that I am fascinating."

"There certainly must be some fascination about you, otherwise I should
never have sat so long listening to you," said Mary, as she rose from
the table at which she had been assisting to dash off the at-homes.

"But you must listen to me a little longer," cried her cousin, seizing
her hand to detain her. "I have not got half through my detestables yet;
but to humour you, I shall let them go for the present. And now, that
you mayn't suppose I am utterly insensible to excellence, you must
suffer me to show you that I can and do appreciate worth when I can find
it. I confess my talent lies fully as much in discovering the ridiculous
as the amiable; and I am equally ready to acknowledge it is a fault, and
no mark of superior wit or understanding; since it is much easier to hit
off the glaring caricature line of deformity than the finer and more
exquisite touches of beauty, especially for one who reads as he
run---the sign-posts are sure to catch the eye. But now for my
favourite--no matter for her name--it would frighten you if were you to
hear it. In the first place, she is, as some of your old divines say,
_hugely religious;_ 'but then she keeps her piety in its proper place,
and where it ought to be--in her very soul. It is never a
stumbling-block in other people's way, or interfering with other
people's affairs. Her object is to _be,_ not to _seem, _religious; and
there is neither hypocrisy nor austerity necessary for that. She is
forbearing, without meanness--gentle, without insipidity--sincere,
without rudeness. She practises all the virtues herself, and seems quite
unconscious that others don't do the same. She is, if I may trust the
expression of her eye, almost as much alive to the ridiculous as I am;
but she is only diverted where I am provoked. She never bestows false
praise even upon her friends; but a simple approval from her is of more
value than the finest panegyric from another. She never finds occasion
to censure or condemn the conduct of anyone, however flagrant it may be
in the eyes of others; because she seems to think virtue is better
expressed by her own actions than by her neighbour's vices. She cares
not for admiration, but is anxious to do good and give pleasure. To sum
up the whole, she could listen with patience to Lady Placid; she could
bear to be advised by Mrs. Wiseacre; she could stand the scrutiny of
Mrs. Downe Wright; and, hardest task of all" (throwing her arms around
Mary's neck), "she can bear with all my ill-humour and impertinence."




CHAPTER X.

"Have I then no fears for thee, my _mother?_
Can I forget thy cares, from helpless years--
Thy tenderness for me? an eye still beamed
With love!"
THOMPSON.

THE arrival of Lord Lindore brought a influx of visitors to Beech Park;
and in the unceasing round of amusement that went on Mary found herself
completely overlooked. She therefore gladly took advantage of her
insignificance to pay frequent visits to Mrs. Lennox, and easily
prevailed with Lady Juliana to allow her to spend a week there
occasionally. In this way the acquaintance soon ripened into the warmest
affection on both sides. The day seemed doubly dark to Mrs. Lennox that
was not brightened by Mary's presence; and Mary felt all the drooping
energies of her heart revive in the delight of administering to the
happiness of another.

Mrs. Lennox was one of those gentle amiable beings, who engage our
affections far more powerfully than many possessed of higher attributes.
Her understanding was not strong--neither had it been highly cultivated,
according to the ideas of the present time; but she had a benevolence of
heart and a guileless simplicity of thought that shamed the pride of wit
and pomp of learning. Bereft of all external enjoyments, and destitute
of great mental resources, it was retrospection and futurity that gilded
the dark evening of her days, and shed their light on the dreary
realities of life. She loved to recall the remembrance of her
children--to tell of their infant beauties, their growing virtues--and
to retrace scenes of past felicity which memory loves to treasure in the
heart.

"Oh! none but a mother can tell," she would exclaim, "the bitterness of
those tears which fall from a mother's eyes. All other sorrows seem
natural, but--God forgive me!--surely it is not natural that the old
should weep for the young. Oh! when I saw myself surrounded by my
children, little did I think that death was so soon to seal their eyes!
Sorrow mine! and yet me thinks I would rather have suffered all than
have stood in the world a lonely being. Yes, my children revered His
power and believed in His name, and, thanks to His mercy, I feel assured
they are now angels in heaven! Here," taking some papers from a
writing-box, "my Louisa speaks to me even from the tomb! These are the
words she wrote but a few hours before her death. Read them to me; for
it is not every voice I can bear to hear uttering her last thoughts."
Mary read as follows:--

FOR EVER GONE.

For ever gone! oh, chilling sound!
That tolls the knell of hope and joy!
Potent with torturing pang to wound,
But not in mercy to destroy.

For ever gone! what words of grief--
Replete with wild mysterious woe!
The Christian kneels to seek relief--
A Saviour died---It is not so.

For a brief space we sojourn here,
And life's rough path we journey o'er;
Thus was it with the friend so dear,
That is not lost, but sped before.

For ever gone! oh, madness wild
Dwells in that drear and Atheist doom!
But death of horror is despoiled,
When Heaven shines forth beyond the tomb.

For ever gone! oh, dreadful fate!
Go visit nature--gather thence
The symbols of man's happier state,
Which speak to every mortal sense.

The leafless spray, the withered flower,
Alike with man owns death's embrace;
But bustling forth, in summer hour,
Prepare anew to run life's race.

And shall it be, that man alone
Dies, never more to rise again?
Of all creation, highest one,
Created but to live in vain?

For ever gone! oh, dire despair!--
Look to the heavens, the earth, the sea--
Go, read a Saviour's promise there--
Go, heir of Immortality!

From such communings as these the selfish would have turned with
indifference; but Mary's generous heart was ever open to the
overflowings of the wounded spirit. She had never been accustomed to
lavish the best feelings of her nature on frivolous pursuits or
fictitious distresses, but had early been taught to consecrate them to
the best, the most ennobling purposes of humanity--even to the
comforting of the weary soul, the binding of the bruised heart. Yet Mary
was no rigid moralist. She loved amusement as the amusement of an
imperfect existence, though her good sense and still better principles
taught her to reject it as the _business_ of an immortal being.

Several weeks passed away, during which Mary had been an almost constant
inmate at Rose Hall; but the day of Lady Emily's _fete _arrived,
and with something of hope and expectation fluttering at her heart, she
anticipated her _debut_ in the ball-room. She repaired to the
breakfast-table of her venerable friend with even more than usual
hilarity; but, upon entering the apartment, her gaiety fled; for she was
struck with the emotion visible on the countenance of Mrs. Lennox. Her
meek but tearful eyes were raised to heaven, and her hands were crossed
on her bosom, as if to subdue the agitation of her heart. Her faithful
attendant stood by her with an open letter in her hand.

Mary flew towards her; and as her light step and soft accents met
her ear, she extended her arms towards her.

"Mary, my child, where are you?" exclaimed she, as she pressed her with
convulsive eagerness to her heart. "My son!--my Charles!--to-morrow I
shall see him. See him! oh, God help me! I shall never see him more!"
And she wept in all the agony of contending emotions, suddenly and
powerful excited.

"But you will hear him--you will hold him to your heart--you will be
conscious that he is beside you," said Mary.

"Yes, thank God! I shall once more hear the voice of a living child! Oh,
how often do those voices ring in my heart, that are all hushed in the
grave! I am used to it now; but to think of his returning to this
wilderness! When last he left it he had father, brothers, sisters--and
to find all gone!"

"Indeed it will be a sad return," said the old housekeeper, as she wiped
her eyes; "for the Colonel doated on his sister, and she on him, and his
brothers too! Dearly they all loved one another. How in this very room
have I seen them chase each other up and down in their pretty plays,
with their papa's cap and sword, and say they would be soldiers!"

Mary motioned the good woman to be silent; then turning to Mrs Lennox,
she sought to sooth her into composure, and turned, as she always did,
he bright side of the picture to view, by dwelling on the joy her son
would experience in seeing her. Mrs. Lennox shook her head mournfully.

"Alas! he cannot joy in seeing me, such as I am. I have too long
concealed from him my dreary doom; he knows not that these poor eyes are
sealed in darkness! Oh, he will seek to read a mother's fondness there,
and he will find all cold and silent."

"But he will also find you resigned--even contented," said Mary, while
her tears dropped on the hand she held to her lips.

"Yes; God knows I do not repine at His will. It is not for myself these
tears fall, but my son. How will he bear to behold the mother he so
loved and honoured, now blind, bereft, and helpless?" And the wounds of
her heart seemed to bleed afresh at the excitement of even its happiest
emotions--the return of a long absent, much-loved son.

Mary exerted all the powers of her understanding, all the tenderness of
her heart, to dispel the mournful images that pressed on the mind of her
friend; but she found it was not so much her _arguments _as her
_presence_ that produced that effect; and to leave her in her present
situation seemed impossible. In the agitation of her spirits she had
wholly forgotten the occasion that called for Mary's absence, and she
implored her to remain with her till the arrival of her son with an
earnestness that was irresistible.

The thoughts of her cousin's displeasure, should she absent herself upon
such an occasion, caused Mary to hesitate; yet her feelings would not
allow her to name the cause.

"How unfeeling it would sound to talk of balls at such a time," thought
she; "what a painful contrast must it present! Surely Lady Emily will
not blame me, and no one will miss me----" And, in the ardour of her
feelings, she promised to remain. Yet she sighed as she sent off her
excuse, and thought of the pleasures she had renounced. But the
sacrifice made, the regrets were soon past; and she devoted herself
entirely to soothing the agitated spirits of her venerable friend.

It is perhaps the simplest and most obvious truth, skilfully
administered, that, in the season of affliction, produces the most
salutary effects upon our mind. Mary was certainly no logician, and all
that she could say might have been said by another; but there is
something in the voice and manner that carries an irresistible influence
along with it--something that tells us our sorrows are felt and
understood, not coldly seen and heard. Mary's well-directed exertions
were repaid with success; she read, talked, played, and sang, not in her
gayest manner, but in that subdued strain which harmonised with the
feelings, while it won upon the attention, and she had at length the
satisfaction of seeing the object of her solicitude restored to her
usual state of calm confiding acquiescence.

"God bless you, my dear Mary!" said she, as they were about to separate
for the night. "He only can repay you for the good you have done me this
day!"

"Ah!" thought Mary, as she tenderly embraced her, "such a blessing is
worth a dozen balls?"

At that moment the sound of a carriage was heard, and an unusual bustle
took place below; but scarcely had they time to notice it ere the door
flew open, and Mrs. Lennox found herself locked in the arms of her son.

For some minutes the tide of feeling was too strong for utterance, and
"My mother!" "My son!" were the only words that either could articulate.
At length, raising his head, Colonel Lennox fixed his eyes on his
mother's face with a gaze of deep and fearful inquiry; but no returning
glance spoke there. With that mournful vacuity, peculiar to the blind,
which is a thousand times more touching than all the varied expression
of the living orb, she continued to regard the vacant space which
imagination had filled with the image she sought in vain to behold.

At this confirmation of his worst fears a shade of the deepest
anguish overspread the visage of her son. He raised his eyes, as in
agony, to heaven--then threw himself on his mother's bosom; and as Mary
hurried from the apartment she heard the sob which burst from his manly
heart, as he exclaimed, "My dear mother! do I indeed find you
thus?"




CHAPTER Xl

"There is more complacency in the negligence of some men, than in what
is called the good breeding of others; and the little absences of the
heart are often more interesting and engaging than the punctilious
attention of a thousand professed sacrificers to the graces."--MACKENZIE.



POWERFUL emotions are the certain levellers of ordinary feelings. When
Mary met Colonel Lennox in the breakfast-room the following morning, he
accosted her not with the ceremony of a stranger but with the frankness
of a heart careless of common forms, and spoke of his mother with
indications of sensibility which he vainly strove to repress. Mary knew
that she had sought to conceal her real situation from him; but it
seemed a vague suspicion of the truth had, crossed his mind, and having
with difficulty obtained a short leave of absence he had hastened to
have either his hopes or fears realised.

"And now that I know the worst," said he, "I know it only to deplore it.
Far from alleviating, presence seems rather to aggravate my poor
mother's misfortune. Oh! it is heartrending to see the strivings of
these longing eyes to look upon the face of those she loves!"

"Ah!" thought Mary, "were they to behold that face now, how changed
would it appear!" as she contrasted it with the portrait that hung
immediately over the head of the original. The one in all the brightness
of youth--the radiant eyes, the rounded cheek, the fair open brow, spoke
only of hope, and health, and joy. Those eyes were now dimmed by sorrow;
the cheek was wasted with toil; the brow was clouded by cares. Yet, "as
it is the best part of beauty which a picture cannot express," [1]
so there is something superior to the mere charms of form and colour; and
an air of high-toned feeling, of mingled vivacity and sensibility, gave
a grandeur to the form and an expression to the countenance which more
than atoned for the want of youth's more brilliant attributes.

[1] Lord Bacon.

At least, so thought Mary; but her comparisons were interrupted by the
entrance of Mrs. Lennox. Her son flew towards her, and taking her arm
from that of her attendant, led her to her seat, and sought to render
her those little offices which her helplessness required.

"My dear Charles," said she, with a smile, as he tried to adjust her
cushions, "your hands have not been used to this work. Your arm is my
best support, but a gentler hand must smooth my pillow. Mary, my love,
where are--? Give me your hand." Then placing it in that of her son--
"Many a tear has this hand wiped from your mother's eyes!"

Mary, blushing deeply, hastily withdrew it. She felt it as a sort of
appeal to Colonel Lennox's feelings; and a sense of wounded delicacy
made her shrink from being thus recommended to his gratitude. But
Colonel Lennox seemed too much absorbed in his own painful reflections
to attach such a meaning to his mother's words; and though they excited
him to regard Mary for a moment with peculiar interest, yet, in a little
while, he relapsed into the mournful reverie from which he had been
roused.

Colonel Lennox was evidently not a show-off character. He seemed
superior to the mere vulgar aim of making himself agreeable--an aim
which has much oftener its source in vanity than in benevolence. Yet the
exerted himself to meet his mother's cheerfulness; though as often as he
looked at her, or raised his eyes to the youthful group that hung before
them, his changing hue and quivering lip betrayed the anguish he strove
to hide.

Breakfast ended, Mary rose to prepare for her departure, in spite of the
solicitations of her friend that she should remain till the following
day.

"Surely, my dear Mary," said she in an imploring accent, "you will not
refuse to bestow one day of happiness upon me?--and it is _such _a
happiness to see my Charles and you together. I little thought that ever
I should have been so blessed. Ah! I begin to think God has yet some
good in store for my last days! Do not then leave me just when I am
beginning to taste of joy!"--And she clung to her with that pathetic
look which Mary had ever found irresistble.

But upon this occasion she steeled her heart against all supplication.
It was the first time she had ever turned from the entreaty of old age
or infirmity; and those only who have lived in the habitual practice of
administering to the happiness of others can conceive how much it costs
the generous heart to resist even the weaknesses of those it loves. But
Mary felt she had already sacrificed too much to affection, and she
feared the reproaches and ridicule that awaited her return to Beech
Park. She therefore gently, though steadily, adhered to her resolution,
only softening it by a promise of returning soon.

"What an angel goes there!" exclaimed Mrs. Lennox to her son, as Mary
left the room to prepare for her departure. "Ah! Charles, could I but
hope to see her yours!"

Colonel Lennox smiled--"That must be when I am an angel myself then. A
poor weather-beaten soldier like me must be satisfied with something
less."

"But is she not a lovely creature?" asked his mother, with some
solicitude.

"Angels, you know, are always fair," replied Colonel Lennox laughingly,
trying to parry this attack upon his heart.

"Ah! Charles, that is not being serious. But young people now are
different from what they were in my day. There is no such thing as
falling in love now, you are all so cautious."

And the good old lady's thoughts reverted to the time when the gay and
gallant Captain Lennox had fallen desperately in love with her, as she
danced a minuet in a blue satin sacque and Bologna hat at a county ball.

"You forget, my dear mother, what a knack I had in falling in love ten
years ago. Since then, I confess I have got rather out of the way of it;
but a little, a very little practice, I am sure, will make me as expert
as ever;--and then I promise you shall have no cause to complain of my
caution."

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