Book: Marriage

S >> Susan Edmonstone Ferrier >> Marriage




Mrs. Lennox sighed and shook her head. She had long cherished the hope
that if ever her son came home it would be to fall in love with and
marry her beloved Mary; and she had dwelt upon this favourite scheme
till it had taken entire possession of her mind. In the simplicity of
her heart she also imagined that it would greatly help to accelerate the
event were she to suggest the idea to her son, as she had no doubt but
that the object of her affections must necessarily become the idol of
his. So little did she know of human nature that the very means she used
to accomplish her purpose were the most effectual she could have
contrived to defeat it. Such is man, that his pride revolts from all
attempts to influence his affections. The weak and the undiscerning,
indeed, are often led to "choose love by another's eyes;" but the lofty
and independent spirit loves to create for itself those feelings which
lose half their charms when their source is not in the depths of their
own heart.

It was with no slight mortification that Mrs. Lennox saw Mary depart
without having made the desired impression on the heart of her son; or,
what was still more to be feared, of his having secured himself a place
in her favour. But again and again she made Mary repeat her promise of
returning soon, and spending some days with her. "And then," thought
she, "things will all come right. When they live together, and see each
other constantly, they cannot possibly avoid loving each other, and all
will be as it should be. God grant I may live to see it!"

And hope softened the pang of disappointment.




CHAPTER XII.

"Qui vous a pu plonger dans cette humeur chagrine,
A-t-on par quelque edit reforme la cuisine?"

BOILEAU.

MARY'S inexperienced mind expected to find, on her return to Beech Park,
some vestige of the pleasures of the preceding night--some shadows, at
least, of gaiety, to show what happiness she had sacrificed what delight
her friends had enjoyed; but for the first time she beheld the hideous
aspect of departed pleasure. Drooping evergreens, dying lamps, dim
transparencies, and faded flowers, met her view as she crossed the hall;
while the public rooms were covered with dust from the chalked floors,
and wax from the droppings of the candles. Everything, in short, looked
tawdry and forlorn. Nothing was in its place--nothing looked as it used
to do--and she stood amazed at the disagreeable metamorphose an things
had undergone.

Hearing some one approach, she turned and beheld Dr. Redgill enter.

"So--it's only you, Miss Mary!" exclaimed he in a tone of chagrin. "I
was in hopes it was some of the women-servants. 'Pon my soul, it's
disgraceful to think that in this house there is not a woman stirring
yet! I have sent five messages by my man to let Mrs. Brown know that I
have been waiting for my breakfast these two hours; but this confounded
ball has turned everything upside down! You are come to a pretty scene,"
continued he, looking round with a mixture of fury and contempt,--"a
very pretty scene! 'Pon my honour, I blush to see myself standing here!
Just look at these rags!" kicking a festoon of artificial roses that had
fallen to the ground. "Can anything be more despicable?--and to think
that rational creatures in possession of their senses should take
pleasure in the sight of such trumpery! 'Pon my soul, I--I--declare it
confounds me! I really used to think Lady Emily (for this is all her
doing) had some sense--but such a display of folly as this!"

"Pshaw!" said Mary, "it is not fair in us to stand here analysing the
dregs of gaiety after the essence is gone. I daresay this was a very
brilliant scene last night."

"Brilliant scene, indeed!" repeated the Doctor in a most; wrathful
accent: "I really am amazed--I--yes--brilliant enough--if you mean that
there was a glare of light enough to blind the devil. I thought my eyes
would have been put out the short time I stayed; indeed, I don't think
this one has recovered it yet," advancing a fierce blood-shot eye almost
close to Mary's. "Don't you think it looks a _leettle_ inflamed, Miss
Mary?"

Mary gave it as her opinion that it did.

"Well, that's all I've got by this business; but I never was consulted
about it. I thought it my duty, however, to give a _leettle_ hint to the
Earl, when the thing was proposed. 'My Lord,' says I, 'your house is
your own; you have a right to do what you please with it; burn it; pull
it down; make a purgatory of it; but, for God's sake, don't give a ball
in it!' The ball was given, and you see the consequences. A ball! and
what's a ball, that a whole family should be thrown into disorder for
it?"

"I daresay, to those who are engaged in it, it is a very delightful
amusement at the time."

"Delightful fiddlestick! 'Pon my soul, I'm surprised at you, Miss Mary!
I thought your staying away was a pretty strong proof of your good
sense; but I--hem! Delightful amusement, indeed! to see human creatures
twirling one another about all night like so many monkeys--making
perfect mountebanks of themselves. Really, I look upon dancing as a most
degrading and a most immoral practice. 'Pon my soul, I--_I_ couldn't
have the face to waltz, I know; and it's all on account of this
delightful amusement--" with a convulsive shake of his chin--"that things
are in this state--myself kept waiting for my breakfast two hours and a
half beyond my natural time: not that I mind myself at all--that's
neither here nor there--and if I was the only sufferer, I'm sure I
should be the very last to complain--but I own it vexes--it distresses
me. 'Pon my honour, can't stand seeing a whole family going to
destruction!"

The Doctor's agitation was so great that Mary really pitied him.

"It is rather hard that you cannot get any breakfast since you had no
enjoyment in the ball," said she. "I daresay, were I to apply to Mrs.
Brown, she would trust me with her keys; and I shall be happy too
officiate for her in making your tea."

"Thank you, Miss Mary," replied the Doctor coldly. "I'm very much obliged
to you. It is really a very polite offer on your part; but--hem!--you
might have observed that I never take tea to breakfast. I keep that for
the evening; most people, I know, do the reverse, but they're in the
wrong. Coffee is too nutritive for the evening. The French themselves
are in an error there. That woman, that Mrs. Brown knows what I like; in
fact, she's the only woman I ever met with who could make coffee--coffee
that I thought drinkable. She knows that--and she knows that I like it
to a moment--and yet---"

Here the Doctor blew his nose, and Mary thought she perceived a tear
twinkle in his eye. Finding she was incapable of administering
consolation, she was about to quit the room, when the Doctor, recovering
himself, called after her.

"If you happen to be going the way of Mrs. Brown's room, Miss Mary, I
would take it very kind if you could just contrive to let her know what
time of day it is; and that I have not tasted a mouthful of anything
since last night at twelve o'clock, when I took a _leettle_ morsel of
supper in my own room."

Mary took advantage of the deep sigh that followed to make her escape;
and as she crossed the vestibule she descried the Doctor's man, hurrying
along with a coffee pot, which she had no doubt would pour consolation
into his master's soul.

As Mary was aware of her mother's dislike to introduce her into
company, she flattered herself she had for once done something to merit
her approbation by having absented herself on this occasion. But Mary
was a novice in the ways of temper, and had yet to learn that to study
to please, and to succeed, are very different things. Lady Juliana had
been decidedly averse to her appearing at the ball, but she was equally
disposed to take offence at her having stayed away; besides, she had not
been pleased herself, and her glass told her she looked jaded and ill.
She was therefore, as her maid expressed it, in a most particular bad
temper; and Mary had to endure reproaches, of which she could only make
out that although she ought not to have been present she was much to
blame in having been absent. Lady Emily's indignation was in a different
style. There was a heat and energy in her anger that never failed to
overwhelm her victim at once. But it was more tolerable than the
tedious, fretful ill humour of the other; and after she had fairly
exhausted herself in invectives, and ridicule, and insolence, and drawn
tears from her cousin's eyes by the bitterness of her language, she
heartily embraced her, vowed she liked her better than anybody in the
world, and that she was a fool for minding anything she said to
her.

"I assure you," said she, "I was only tormenting you a little, and you
must own you deserve that; but you can't suppose I meant half what I
said; that is a _betise_ I can't conceive you guilty of. You see I
am much more charitable in my conclusions than you. You have no scruple
in thinking me a wretch, though I am too good-natured to set you down
for a fool. Come, brighten up, and I'll tell you all about the ball. How
I hate it, were it only for having made your nose red! But really the
thing in itself was detestable. Job himself must have gone mad at the
provocations I met with. In the first place, I had set my heart upon
introducing you with eclat, and instead of which you preferred
psalm-singing with Mrs. Lennox, or sentiment with her son--I don't know
which. In the next place there was a dinner in Bath, that kept away some
of the best men; then, after waiting an hour and a half for Frederick to
begin the ball with Lady Charlotte M---, I went myself to his room, and
found him lounging by the fire with a volume of Rousseau in his hand,
not dressed, and quite surprised that I should think his presence at all
necessary; and when he did make his entre, conceive my feelings
at seeing him single out Lady Placid as his partner! I certainly would
rather have seen him waltzing with a hyena! I don't believe he knew or
cared whom he danced with--unless, perhaps, it had been Adelaide, but she
was engaged; and, by-the-bye, there certainly is some sort of a liaison
there; how it will end I don't know; it depends upon on themselves, for
I'm sure the course of their love may run smooth if they choose--I know
nothing to interrupt it. Perhaps, indeed, it may become stagnate from
that very circumstance; for you know, or perhaps you don't know, 'there
is no spirit under heaven that works with such delusion.'"

Mary would have felt rather uneasy at his intelligence, had she believed
it possible for her sister to be in love; but she had ever appeared to
her so insensible to every tender emotion and generous affection, that
she could not suppose even love itself as capable of making any
impression on her heart. When, however, she saw them together, she began
to waver in her opinion. Adelaide, silent and disdainful to others, was
now gay and enchanting to Lord Lindore, and looked as if she triumphed
in the victory she had already won. It was not so easy to ascertain the
nature of Lord Lindore's feelings towards his cousin, and time only
developed them.




CHAPTER XIII.

"Les douleurs muettes et stupides sont hors d'usage; on pleure, on
recite, on repete, on est si touchee de la mort de son mari, qu'on
n'en oublie pas la moindre circonstance."

LA BRUYERE.


"PRAY put on your Lennox face this morning, Mary," said Lady Emily one
day to her cousin, "for I want you to go and pay a funeral visit with me
to a distant relation, but unhappily a near neighbour of ours, who has
lately lost her husband. Lady Juliana and Adelaide ought to go, but they
won't, so you and I must celebrate, as we best can, the obsequies of the
Honourable Mr. Sufton."

Mary readily assented; and when they were seated in the carriage, her
cousin began--

"Since I am going to put you in the way of a trap, I think it but fair
to warn you of it. All traps are odious things, and I make it my
business to expose them wherever I find them. I own it chafes my spirit
to see even sensible people taken in by the clumsy machinery of such a
woman as Lady Matilda Sufton. So here she is in her true colours. Lady
Matilda is descended from the ancient and illustrious family of
Altamont. To have a fair character is, in her eyes, much more important
than to deserve it. She has prepared speeches for every occasion, and
she expects they are all to be believed--in short, she is a _show_
woman; the world is her theatre, and from it she looks for the plaudits
due to her virtue; for with her the reality and the semblance are
synonymous. She has a grave and imposing air, which keeps the timid at a
distance; and she delivers the most common truths as if they were the
most profound aphorisms. To degrade herself is her greatest fear; for,
to use her own expression, there is nothing so degrading as associating
with our inferiors--that is, our inferiors in rank and wealth--for with
her all other gradations are incomprehensible. With the lower orders of
society she is totally unacquainted; she knows they are meanly clothed
and coarsely fed, consequently they are mean. She is proud, both from
nature and principle; for she thinks it is the duty of every woman of
family to be proud, and that humility is only a virtue in the
_canaille._ Proper pride she calls it, though I rather think it ought
to be pride _proper,_ as I imagine it is a distinction that was unknown
before the introduction of heraldry. The only true knowledge, according
to her creed, is the knowledge of the world, by which she means a
knowledge of the most courtly etiquette, the manners and habits of the
great, and the newest fashions in dress. Ignoramuses might suppose she
entered deeply into things, and was thoroughly acquainted with human
nature. No such thing; the only wisdom she possesses, like the owl is
the look of wisdom, and that is the very part of it which I detest.
Passions or feelings she has none, and to love she is an utter stranger.
When somewhat 'in the sear and yellow leaf' she married Mr. Sufton, a
silly old man, who had been dead to the world for many years. But after
having had him buried alive in his own chamber till his existence was
forgot, she had him disinterred for the purpose of giving him a splendid
burial in good earnest. That done, her duty is now to mourn, or appear
to mourn, for the approbation of the world. And now you shall judge for
yourself, for here is Sufton House. Now for the trappings and the weeds
of woe."

Aware of her cousin's satirical turn, Mary was not disposed to yield
conviction to her representation, but entered Lady Matilda's
drawing-room with a mind sufficiently unbiassed to allow her to form her
own judgment; but a very slight survey satisfied her that the picture
was not overcharged. Lady Matilda sat in an attitude of woe--a
crape--fan and open prayer-book lay before her--her cambric handkerchief
was in her hand--her mourning-ring was upon her finger--and the tear,
not unbidden, stood in her eye. On the same sofa, and side by side, sat
a tall, awkward, vapid-looking personage, whom she introduced as her
brother, the Duke of Altamont. His Grace was flanked by an
obsequious-looking gentleman, who was slightly named as General Carver;
and at a respectful distance was seated a sort of half-cast
gentle-woman, something betwixt the confide humble companion, who was
incidentally as "my good Mrs. Finch."

Her Ladyship pressed Lady Emily's hand--

"I did not expect, my dearest young friend, after the blow I have
experienced--I did not expect I should so soon have been enabled to see
my friends; but I have made a great exertion. Had I consulted my own
feelings, indeed!--but there is a duty we owe to the world--there is an
example we are all bound to show--but such a blow!" Here she had
recourse to her handkerchief.

"Such a blow!" echoed the Duke.

"Such a blow!" re-echoed the General.

"Such a blow!" reverberated Mrs. Finch.

"The most doating husband! I may say he lived but in my sight. Such a
man!"

"Such a man!" said the Duke.

"Such a man!" exclaimed the General.

"Oh! such a man!" sobbed Mrs. Finch, as she complacently dropped a few
tears. At hat moment, sacred to tender remembrance, the door opened, and
Mrs. Downe Wright was announced. She entered the room as if she had come
to profane the ashes of the dead, and insult the feelings of the living.
A smile was upon her face; and, in place of the silent pressure, she
shook her Ladyship heartily by the hand as she expressed her pleasure at
seeing her look so well.

"Well!" replied the Lady, "that is wonderful, after whatever have
suffered; but grief, it seems, will not kill!"

"I never thought it would," said Mrs. Downe Wright; "but I thought your
having been confined to the house so long might have affected your
looks. However, I'm happy to see that is not the case, as I don't
recollect ever to have seen you so fat."

Lady Matilda tried to look her into decency, but in vain. She sighed,
and even groaned; but Mrs. Downe Wright would not be dolorous, and was
not to be taken in, either by sigh or groan, crape-fan or prayer-book.
There was nobody her Ladyship stood so much in awe of as Mrs. Downe
Wright. She had an instinctive knowledge that she knew her, and she felt
her genius repressed by her, as Julius Cresar's was by Cassius. They had
been very old acquaintances, but never were cordial friends, though many
worthy people are very apt to confound the two. Upon this occasion Mrs.
Downe Wright certainly did; for, availing herself of this privilege, she
took off her cloak, and said, "'Tis so long since I have seen you, my
dear; and since I see you so well, and able to enjoy the society of your
friends, I shall delay the rest of my visits, and spend the morning with
you."

"That is truly kind of you, my dear Mrs. Downe Wright," returned the
mourner, with a countenance in which real woe was now plainly depicted;
"but I cannot be so selfish as to claim such a sacrifice from you."

"There is no sacrifice in the case, I assure you, my dear," returned
Mrs. Downe Wright. "This is a most comfortable room; and I could go
nowhere that I would meet a pleasanter little circle," looking round.

Lady Matilda thought herself undone. Looking well--fat--comfortable
room--pleasant circle--rung in her ears, and caused almost as great a
whirl in her brain as noses, lips, handkerchiefs, did in Othello's Mrs.
Downe Wright, always disagreeable, was now perfectly insupportable. She
had disconcerted all her plans--she was a bar to all her studied
speeches--even an obstacle to all her sentimental looks; yet to get rid
of her was impossible. In fact, Mrs. Downe Wright was far from being an
amiable woman. She took a malicious pleasure in tormenting those she did
not like; and her skill in this art was so great that she even deprived
the tormented of the privilege of complaint. She had a great insight
into character, and she might be said to read the very thoughts of his
victims. Making a desperate effort to be herself again, Lady Matilda
turned to her two young visitors, with whom she had still some hopes of
success.

"I cannot express how much I feel indebted to the sympathy of my friends
upon this trying occasion--an occasion, indeed, that called for
sympathy."

"A most melancholy occasion!" said the Duke.

"A most distressing occasion!" exclaimed the General.

"Never was greater occasion!" moaned Mrs_._ Finch.

Her Ladyship wiped her eyes, and resumed.

"I feel that I act but a melancholy part, in spite of every exertion.
But my kind friend Mrs. Downe Wright's spirits will, I trust, support
me. She knows what it is to lose--"

Again her voice was buried in her handkerchief, and again she recovered
and proceeded.

"I ought to apologise for being thus overcome; but my friends, I hope,
will make due allowance for my situation. It cannot be expected that I
should at all times find myself able for company."

"Not at all!" said the Duke; and the two satellites uttered their
responses.

"You are able for a great deal, my dear!" said the provoking Mrs. Downe
Wright; "and I have no doubt but, with a very little exertion, you could
behave as if nothing had happened."

"Your partiality makes you suppose me capable of a great deal more than
I am equal to," answered her Ladyship, with a real hysteric sob. "It is
not everyone who is blessed with the spirits of Mrs. Downe Wright."

"What woman can do, you dare; who dares do more, is none!" said the
General, bowing with a delighted air at this brilliant application.

Mrs. Downe Wright charitably allowed it to pass, as she thought it might
be construed either as a compliment or a banter. Visitors flocked in,
and the insufferable Mrs. Downe Wright declared to all that her Ladyship
was astonishingly well; but without the appropriate whine, which gives
proper pathos, and generally accompanies this hackneyed speech. Mrs.
Finch indeed laboured hard _to _counteract the effect of this
injudicious cheerfulness by the most orthodox sighs, shakes of the head,
and confidential whispers, in which "wonderful woman!"--"prodigious
exertion!"--"perfectly overcome!"--"suffer for this afterwards,"--were
audibly heard by all present; but even then Mrs. Downe Wright's drawn-up
lip and curled nose spoke daggers. At length the tormentor recollected
an engagement she had made elsewhere, and took leave, promising to
return, if possible, the following day. Her friend, in her own mind,
took her measures accordingly. She resolved to order her own carriage to
be in waiting, and if Mrs. Downe Wright put her threat in execution she
would take an airing. True, she had not intended to have been able for
such an exertion for at least a week longer; but, with the blinds down,
she thought it might have an interesting effect.

The enemy fairly gone, Lady Matilda seemed to feel like a person
suddenly relieved from the nightmare; and she was beginning to give a
fair specimen of her scenic powers when Lady Emily, seeing the game was
up with Mrs. Downe Wright, abruptly rose to depart.

"This has been a trying scene for you, my sweet young friends!" said her
Ladyship, taking a hand of each.

"It has indeed!" replied Lady Emily, in a tone so significant as made
Mary start.

"I know it would--youth is always so full of sympathy. I own I have a
preference for the society of my young friends on that account. My good
Mrs. Finch, indeed, is an exception; but worthy Mrs. Downe Wright has
been almost too much for me."

"She is too much!" said the Duke.

"She is a great deal too much!" said the General.

"She is a vast deal too much!" said Mrs. Finch.

"I own I have been rather overcome by her!" with a deep-drawn sigh,
which her visitors hastily availed themselves of to make their retreat.
The Duke and the General handed Lady Emily and Mary to their
carriage.

"You find my poor sister wonderfully composed," said the former.

"Charming woman, Lady Matilda!" ejaculated the latter; "her feelings do
honour to her head and heart!"

Mary sprang into the carriage as quick as possible to be saved the
embarrassment of a reply; and it was not till they were fairly out of
sight that she ventured to raise her eyes to her cousin's face. There
the expression of ill-humour and disgust were so strongly depicted that
she could not longer repress her risible emotions, but gave way to a
violent fit of laughter.

"How!" exclaimed her companion, "is this the only effect 'Matilda's
moan' has produced upon you? I expected your taste for grief would have
been highly gratified by this affecting representation."

"My appetite, you ought rather to say," replied Mary; "taste implies
some discrimination, which you seem to deny me."

"Why, to tell you the truth, I do look upon you as a sort of
intellectual ghoul; you really do remind me of the lady in the Arabian
Nights, whose taste or appetite, which you will, led her to scorn
everything that did not savour of the churchyard."

"The delicacy of your comparison is highly flattering," said Mary; "but
I must be duller than the fatweed were I to give my sympathy to such as
Lady Matilda Sufton."

"Well, I'm glad to hear you say so; for I assure you I was in pain lest
you should have been taken in, notwithstanding my warning to say
something _larmoyante--or_ join the soft echo--or heave a sigh--or drop a
tear--or do something, in short, that would have disgraced you with me
for ever. At one time, I must do you the justice to own, I thought I saw
you with difficulty repress a smile, and then you blushed so, for fear
you had betrayed yourself! The smile I suppose has gained you one
conquest--the blush another. How happy you who can hit the various
tastes so easily! Mrs. Downe Wright whispered me as she left the room,
'What a charming intelligent countenance your cousin has!' While my Lord
Duke of Altamont observed, as he handed me along, 'What a very sweet
modest-looking girl Miss Douglas was! 'So take your choice--Mrs. William
Downe Wright, or Duchess of Altamont!"

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