Book: Marriage

S >> Susan Edmonstone Ferrier >> Marriage




"Duchess of Altamont, to be sure," said Mary: "and then such a man! Oh!
such a man!"




CHAPTER XIV.

"For marriage is a matter of more worth
Than to be dealt with in attorneyship."

SHAKESPEARE.

"ALLOW me to introduce to you, ladies, that most high and puissant
Princess, her Grace the Duchess of Altamont, Marchioness of Norwood,
Countess of Penrose, Baroness of, etc. etc.," cried Lady Emily, as she
threw open the drawing-room door, and ushered Mary into the presence of
her mother and sister, with all the demonstrations of ceremony and
respect. The one frowned-the other coloured.

"How vastly absurd!" cried Lady Juliana angrily.

"How vastly amusing!" cried Adelaide contemptuously.

"How vastly annoying!" cried Lady Emily; "to think that this little
Highlander should bear a loft the ducal crown, while you and I,
Adelaide, must sneak about in shabby straw bonnets," throwing down her
own in pretended indignation. "Then to think, which is almost certain, of
her Viceroying it someday; and you and I, and all of us, being presented
to her Majesty--having the honour of her hand to kiss--retreating from
the royal presence upon our heels.

"Oh! ye Sylphs and Gnomes!" and she pretended to sink down overwhelmed
with mortification.

Lady Emily delighted in tormenting her aunt and cousin, and she saw that
she had completely succeeded. Mary was disliked by her mother, and
despised by her sister; and any attempt to bring her forward, or raise
her to a level with themselves, never failed to excite the indignation of
both. The consequences were always felt by her in the increased
ill-humour and disdainful indifference with which she was treated; and
on the present occasion her injudicious friend was only brewing phials
of wrath for her. But Lady Emily never looked to future
consequences--present effect was all she cared for; and she went on to
relate seriously, as she called it, but in the most exaggerated terms,
the admiration which the Duke had expressed for Mary, and her own firm
belief that she might be Duchess when she chose; "that is, after the
expiry of his mourning for the late Duchess. Everyone knows that he is
desirous of having a family, and is determined to marry the moment
propriety permits; he is now decidedly on the look-out, for the year
must be very near a close; and then, hail Duchess of Altamont!"

"I must desire, Lady Emily, you will find some other subject for your
wit, and not fill the girl's head with folly and nonsense; there is a
great deal too much of both already."

"Take care what you say of the future representative of majesty of this
may be high treason yet; only I trust your Grace will be as generous as
Henry the Fifth was, and that the Duchess of Altamont will not remember
the offences committed against Mary Douglas."

Lady Juliana, to whom a jest was an outrage, and raillery
incomprehensible, now started up, and, as she passionately swept out of
the room, threw down a stand of hyacinths, which, for the present, put a
stop to Lady Emily's diversion.

The following day Mrs. Downe Wright arrived with her son, evidently
primed for falling in love at first sight. He was a very handsome young
man, gentle, and rather pleasing in his manners; and Mary, to whom his
intentions were not so palpable, thought him by no means deserving of
the contempt her cousin had expressed for him.

"Well!" cried Lady Emily, after they were gone, "the plot begins to
thicken; lovers begin to pour in, but all for Mary; how mortifying to
you and me, Adelaide! At this rate we shall have nothing to boast of in
the way of disinterested attachment nobody refused!--nothing renounced!
By-and-bye Edward will be reckoned a very good match for _me,_and _you_
will be thought greatly married if you succeed in securing
Lindore--_poor_ Lord Lindore, as it seems that wretch Placid calls him."

Adelaide heard all her cousin's taunts in silence and with apparent
coolness; but they rankled deep in a heart already festering with pride,
envy, and ambition. The thoughts of her sister--and that sister so
inferior to herself--attaining a more splendid alliance, was not to be
endured. True, she loved Lord Lindore, and imagined herself beloved in
return; but even that was not sufficient to satisfy the craving passions
of a perverted mind. She did not, indeed, attach implicit belief to all
that her cousin said on the subject; but she was provoked and irritated
at the mere supposition of such a thing being possible; for it is not
merely the jealous whose happiness is the sport of trifles light as
air--every evil thought, every unamiable feeling, bears about with it
the bane of that enjoyment after which it vainly aspires.

Mary felt the increasing ill-humour which this subject drew upon her,
without being able to penetrate the cause of it; but she saw that it was
displeasing to her mother and sister, and that was sufficient to make
her wish to put a stop to it. She therefore earnestly entreated Lady
Emily to end the joke.

"Excuse me," replied her Ladyship, "I shall do no such thing. In the
first place, there happens to be no joke in the matter. I'm certain,
seriously certain, or certainly serious, which you like, that you may be
Duchess of Altamont, if you please. It could be no common admiration
that prompted his Grace to an original and spontaneous effusion of it. I
have met with him before, and never suspected that he had an innate idea
in his head. I certainly never heard him utter anything half so
brilliant before--it seemed quite like the effect of inspiration."

"But I cannot conceive, even were it as you say, why my mother should be
so displeased about it. She surely cannot suppose me so silly as to be
elated by the unmeaning admiration of anyone, or so meanly aspiring as
to marry a man I could not love, merely because he is a Duke. She was
incapable of such a thing herself, she cannot then suspect me."

"It seems as impossible to make you enter into the characters of your
mother and sister as it would be to teach them to comprehend yours, and
far be it from me to act as interpreter betwixt your understandings. If
you can't even imagine such things as prejudice, narrow-mindedness,
envy, hatred, and malice, your ignorance is bliss, and you had better
remain in it. But you may take my word for one thing, and that is, that
'tis a much wiser thing to resist tyranny than to submit to it. Your
patient Grizzles make nothing of it, except in little books: in real
life they become perfect pack-horses, saddled with the whole offences of
the family. Such will you become unless you pluck up spirit and dash
out. Marry the Duke, and drive over the necks of all your relations;
that's my advice to you."

"And you may rest assured that when I follow your advice it shall be
in whole not in part."

"Well, situated so detestably as you are, I rather think the best thing
you could do would be to make yourself Duchess of Altamont. How
disdainful you look! Come, tell me honestly now, would you really refuse
to be Your Grace, with ninety thousand a year, and remain simple Mary
Douglas, passing rich with perhaps forty?"

"Unquestionably," said Mary.

"What! you really pretend to say you would not marry the Duke of
Altamont?" cried Lady Emily. "Not that I would take him myself; but as
you and I, though the best of friends, differ widely in our sentiments
on most subjects, I should really like to know how it happens that we
coincide in this one. Very different reasons, I daresay, lead to the
same conclusion; but I shall generously give you the advantage of
hearing mine first. I shall say nothing of being engaged--I shall even
banish that idea from my thoughts; but were I free as air--unloving and
unloved--I would refuse the Duke of Altamont; first, because he: is
old--no, first, because he is stupid; second, because he is formal;
third, because he swallows all Lady Matilda's flummery; fourth, because
he is more than double my age; fifth, because he is not handsome; and,
to sum up the whole in the sixth, he wants that inimitable _Je ne scais
quoi_ which I consider as a necessary ingredient in the matrimonial cup.
I shall not, in addition to these defects, dwell upon his unmeaning
stare, his formal bow, his little senseless simper, etc. etc. etc. All
these enormities, and many more of the same stamp, I shall pass by, as I
have no doubt they had their due effect upon you as well as me; but then
I am not like you, under the torments of Lady Juliana's authority. Were
that the case, I should certainly think it a blessing to become Duchess
of anybody to-morrow."

"And can you really imagine," said Mary, "that for the sake of shaking
off a parent's authority I would impose upon myself chains still
heavier, and even more binding? Can you suppose I would so far forfeit
my honour and truth as that I would swear to love, honour, and obey,
where I could feel neither love nor respect, and where cold constrained
obedience would be all of my duty I could hope to fulfil?"

"Love!"
exclaimed Lady Emily; "can I credit my ears? Love! did you say I
thought that had only been for naughty ones, such as me; and that
saints like you would have married for anything and everything but
love! Prudence, I thought, had been the word with you proper ladies--a
prudent marriage! Come, confess, is not that the climax of virtue in
the creed of your school?"

"I never learnt the creed of any school," said Mary, "nor ever heard
anyone's sentiments on the subject, except my dear Mrs. Douglas's."

"Well, I should like to hear your oracle's opinion, if you can give it
in shorthand."

"She warned me there was a passion which was very fashionable, and which
I should hear a great deal of, both in conversation and books, that was
the result of indulged fancy, warm imaginations, and ill-regulated
minds; that many had fallen into its snares, deceived by its glowing
colours and alluring name; that--"

"A very good sermon, indeed!" interrupted Lady Emily; "but, no offence
to Mrs. Douglas, I think I could preach a better myself. Love is a
passion that has been much talked of, often described, and little
understood. Cupid has many counterfeits going about the world, who pass
very well with those whose minds are capable of passion, but not of
love. These Birmingham Cupids have many votaries amongst boarding-school
misses, militia officers, and milliners 'apprentices; who marry upon the
mutual faith of blue eyes and scarlet coats; have dirty houses and
squalling children, and hate each other most delectably. Then there is
another species for more refined souls, which owes its birth to the
works of Rousseau, Goethe, Cottin, etc. Its success depends very much
upon rocks, woods, and waterfalls; and it generally ends daggers,
pistols, or poison. But there, I think, Lindore would be more eloquent
than me, so I shall leave it for him to discuss that chapter with you.
But, to return to your own immediate concerns. Pray, are you then
positively prohibited from falling in love? Did Mrs. Douglas only dress
up a scarecrow to frighten you, or had she the candour to show you Love
himself in all his majesty?"

"She told me," said Mary, "that there was a love which even the wisest
and most virtuous need not blush to entertain--the love of a virtuous
object, founded upon esteem, and heightened by similarity of tastes and
sympathy of feelings, into a pure and devoted attachment: unless I feel
all this, I shall never fancy myself in love."

"Humph! I can't say much as to the similarity of tastes and sympathy
of souls between the Duke and you, but surely you might contrive to feel
some love and esteem for a coronet and ninety thousand a year."
"Suppose I did," said Mary, with a smile, "the next point
is to honour; and surely he is as unlikely to excite that sentiment as
the other. Honour---"

"I can't have a second sermon upon honour. 'Can honour take away the
grief of a wound?' as Falstaff says. Love is the only subject I care to
preach about; though, unlike many young ladies, we can talk about other
things too; but as to this Duke, _I_ certainly 'had rather live on
cheese and garlic, in a windmill far, than feed on cakes, and have him
talk to me in any summer-house in Christendom;' and now I have had Mrs.
Douglas's second-hand sentiments upon the subject, I should like to hear
your own."

"I have never thought much upon the subject," said Mary; "my sentiments
are therefore all at second-hand, but I shall repeat to you what I think
is not love, and what is." And she repeated these pretty and well-known
lines:--

CARELESS AND FAITHFUL LOVE.

To sigh--yet feel no pain;
To weep-yet scarce know why;
To sport an hour with beauty's chain,
Then throw it idly by;
To kneel at many a shrine,
Yet lay the heart on none;
To think all other charms divine
But those we just have won:--
This is love-careless love--
Such as kindleth hearts that rove.
To keep one sacred flame
Through life, unchill'd, unmov'd;
To love in wint'ry age the same
That first in youth we loved;
To feel that we adore
With such refined excess,
That though the heart would break with more,
We could not love with less:--
This is love--faithful love--
Such as saints might feel above.

"And such as I do feel, and will always feel, for my Edward," said Lady
Emily. "But there is the dressing-bell!" And she flew off, singing--

"To keep one sacred flame," etc.




CHAPTER XV.


"Some, when they write to their friends, are all affection; Some are
wise and sententious; some strain their powers for efforts of gaiety;
some write news, and some write secrets--but to make a letter without
affection, without wisdom, without gaiety, without news, and without a
secret, is doubtless the great epistolic art. "-DR. JOHNSON.

AN unusual length of time had elapsed since Mary had heard from
Glenfern, and she was beginning to feel some anxiety on account of her
friends there, when her apprehensions were dispelled by the arrival of a
large packet, containing letters from Mrs. Douglas and Aunt Jacky. The
former, although the one that conveyed the greatest degree of pleasure,
was perhaps not the one that would be most acceptable to the reader.
Indeed, it is generally admitted that the letters of single ladies are
infinitely more lively and entertaining than those of married ones--a
fact which can neither be denied nor accounted for. The following is a
faithful transcript from the original letter in question;--

"GLENFERN CASTLE, ---SHIRE, N.B. _Feb. 19th,_ 18--.

"My DEAR MARY--Yours was _received_ with _much_ pleasure, as it is
_always_ a satisfaction to your friends _here_ to know that you are
_well_ and doing _well._ We all _take_ the most _sincere_ interest in
your _health,_ and also in your _improvements_ in other _respects._ But
I am _sorry_ to say they do not quite _keep_ pace with _our_
expectations. I must therefore _take_ this opportunity of _mentioning_
to you a _fault_ of yours, _which,_ though a very great _one _in itself,
is one _that_ a very slight _degree_ of attention on your _part,_ will,
I have _no_ doubt, enable you to _get_ entirely the _better of._ is
fortunate for _you,_ my dear Mary, that you have _friends_ who are
always ready to point _out_ your errors to you. For _want_ of that
_most_ invaluable _blessing,_ viz. a sincere _friend, _many a _one_ has
gone out of the _world,_ no wiser in many _respects,_ than when they
_came_ into it. But that, I flatter _myself,_ will not be your _case,_
as you cannot _but_ be sensible of the great _pains_ my sister and I
have _taken_ to point out your _faults_ to you from the _hour _of your
birth. The _one_ to which I particularly _allude _at present is, the
constant omission of _proper_ dates to your _letters,_ by which means we
are all of us very often _brought_ into _most_ unpleasant _situations._
As an _instance_ of it, our _worthy_ minister, Mr M'Drone, happened to
be _calling_ here the very _day_ we received your last _letter._ After
_hearing_ it read, he most _naturally_ inquired the date of it; and I
_cannot_ tell you how _awkward_ we all _felt_ when we were _obliged_ to
confess it had _none!_ And since I am _upon_ that subject, I think it
much _better_ to tell you candidly that I _do_ not think your _hand_ of
write by any _means_ improved. It does not _look_ as if you _bestowed_
that pains upon it which you _undoubtedly_ ought to do; for without
_pains,_ I can assure you, Mary, you _will_ never do any _thing_ well.
As our admirable _grandmother,_ good Lady Girnachgowl, _used_ to say,
pains _makes_ gains; and so it was _seen_ upon her; for it was entirely
_owing_ to her _pains_ that the Girnachgowl estate was relieved, and
_came_ to be what it is now, viz. a most valuable and _highly_
productive _property._

"I know there are _many_ young _people_ who are very _apt _to think it
_beneath_ them to take _pains;"_ but I sincerely trust, my dear Mary,
you have _more_ sense than to be so very _foolish._ Next to a good
distinct _hand_ of write, and _proper_ stops (which I observe you never
_put),_ the thing _most_ to be attended to is your style, _which_ we all
think might _be_ greatly _improved_ by a _little _reflection on your
_part,_ joined to a _few_ judicious _hints_ from your friends. We are
_all_ of opinion, that your _periods_ are too short, and also _that_
your expressions are _deficient_ in dignity. _Neither_ are you
sufficiently circumstantial in your _intelligence,_ even upon subjects
of the highest _importance._ Indeed, upon some _subjects,_ you
_communicate_ no information whatever, which is _certainly_ very
extraordinary in a _young_ person, who ought to be naturally extremely
communicative. Miss M'Pry, who is here upon a _visit_ to us at
_present,_ is perfectly _astonished_ at the total _want_ of news in your
_letters. _She has a _niece_ residing in the neighbourhood of _Bath, _who
sends her regular lists of the company there, and also an _account_ of
the most _remarkable_ events that take _place _there. Indeed, had it not
_been_ for Patty M'Pry, we never would have _heard_ a _syllable_ of the
celebrated _Lady _Travers's elopement with _Sir_ John Conquest; and,
indeed, I cannot _conceal_ from you, that we have heard more as to what
goes on in Lord Courtland's _family_ through Miss Patty M'Pry, than
_ever_ we have heard from you, _Mary._

"In short, I _must_ plainly tell you, _however_ painful you may _feel_
it, that not one of us is ever a _whit_ the wiser after reading your
_letters_ than we _were_ before. But I am _sorry_ to say this is not the
_most_ serious part of the _complaint_ we have to _make_ against you.
We are all _willing_ to find excuses for you, even _upon_ these points,
but I must _confess,_ your neglecting to _return_ any answers to certain
inquiries of your aunts', _appears_ to me perfectly inexcusable. Of
_course,_ you must _understand_ that I allude to that _letter_ of your
Aunt Grizzy's, dated the 17th of December, wherein she _expressed_ a
strong desire that you should endeavour to make yourself _mistress_ of
Dr. Redgill's opinion with _respect_ to lumbago, as she is extremely
anxious to _know_ whether he _considers_ the seat of the disorder to be
in the bones or the sinews; and undoubtedly it is of the greatest
_consequence_ to procure the _opinion_ of a sensible well-informed
English _physician,_ upon a subject of such vital _importance._ Your
Aunt Nicky, also, in a letter, _dated_ the 22d of December, requested to
be _informed_ whether Lord Courtland (like our _great_ landholders)
killed his own _mutton_, as Miss P. M'P. insinuates in a _letter_ to her
aunt, that the _servants_ there are suspected of being _guilty_ of great
_abuses_ on that _score_; but there you also _preserve_ a most
unbecoming, and I own I think _somewhat mysterious silence._

"And now, my dear Mary, _having_ said all that _I_ trust is necessary
to _recall_ you to a sense of _your_ duty, I _shall_ now communicate to
you a _piece_ of intelligence, _which,_ I am certain, will _occasion_
you the _most _unfeigned pleasure, viz. the prospect there is of your
soon _beholding_ some of your friends from this _quarter_ in Bath. Our
valuable friend and _neighbour,_ Sir Sampson, has been rather (we think)
worse than _better_ since you left us. He is now _deprived_ of the
entire use of one leg. He _himself _calls his _complaint_ a morbid
rheumatism; but Lady Maclaughlan _assures_ us it is a rheumatic palsy,
and she has now _formed_ the resolution of _taking_ him _up_ to Bath
early in the ensuing _spring._ And not only that, but she has most
considerately _invited_ your Aunt Grizzy to accompany them, _which,_ of
course, she is to do with the greatest _pleasure._ We are therefore all
extremely _occupied_ in getting your aunt's things _put_ in order for
such an _occasion;_ and you must _accept_ of that as an apology for
none of the girls _being_ at leisure to write _you_ at present, and
_likewise_ for the shortness of _this_ letter. But be assured we will all
_write_ you fully by Grizzy. Meantime, all _unite_ in kind remembrance
to _you._ And I _am,_ my dear Mary, your most affectionate aunt,

"JOAN
DOUGLAS."

"P.S.--Upon _looking_ over your letter, I am much _struck_ with your
X's. You surely _cannot_ be so ignorant as _not_ to know that a well
_made x_ is neither more nor _less_ than _two c's_ joined together back
to back, _instead_ of these senseless crosses you _seem_ so fond of; and
as to _your z's, _I defy any _one_ to distinguish them _from_ your _y_'s.
_I trust you will _attend_ to this, and show that it _proceeds _rather
from want of proper _attention_ than _from_ wilful airs.

J.
D."

"P.S.-Miss P. M'Pry _writes_ her aunt that _there_ is a strong _report
_of Lord Lindore's marriage to our _niece_ Adelaide; but _we _think that
is _impossible,_ as you certainly _never_ could have omitted to _inform_
us of a circumstance _which_ so deeply concerns _us._ If so, I must
_own_ I shall think you quite _unpardonable._ At the _same_ time, it
_appears _extremely improbable _that_ Miss M'P. _would_ have mentioned
_such_ a thing to her _aunt,_without having good _grounds_ to _go_ upon.
J. D."

Mary could not entirely repress her mirth while she read this catalogue
of her crimes; but she was, at the same time, eager to expiate her
offences, real or imaginary, in the sight of her good old aunt; and she
immediately sat down to the construction of a letter after the model
prescribed;--though with little expectation of being able to cope with
the intelligent Miss P. M'P. in the extent of her communications. Her
heart warmed at the thoughts of seeing again the dear familiar face of
Aunt Grizzy, and of hearing the tones of that voice, which, though sharp
and cracked, still sounded sweet in memory's ear. Such is the power that
early associations ever retain over the kind and unsophisticated heart.
But she was aware how differently her mother would feel on the subject,
as she never alluded to her husband's family but with indignation or
contempt; and she therefore resolved to be silent with regard to Aunt
Grizzy's prospects for the present.




CHAPTER XVI.

". . . . As in apothecaries' shops all sorts of drugs are permitted to
be, so may all sorts of books be in the library; and as they out of
vipers, and scorpions, and poisonous vegetables extract often wholesome
medicaments for the life of mankind, so out of whatsoever book good
instruction and examples may be acquired."--DRUMMOND _of Hawthornden._

MARY's thoughts had often reverted to Rose Hall since the day she had
last quitted it, and she longed to fulfil her promise to her venerable
friend; but a feeling of delicacy, unknown to herself, withheld her.
"She will not miss me while she has her son with her," said she to
herself; but in reality she dreaded her cousin's raillery should she
continue to visit there as frequently as before. At length a favourable
opportunity occurred. Lady Emily, with great exultation, told her the
Duke of Altamont was to dine at Beech Park the following day, but that
she was to conceal it from Lady Juliana and Adelaide; "for assuredly,"
said she, "if they were apprised of it, they would send you up to the
nursery as a naughty girl, or perhaps down to the scullery, and make a
Cinderella of you. Depend upon it you would not get leave to show your
face in the drawing-room."

"Do you really think so?" asked Mary.

"I know it. I know Lady Juliana would torment you till she had set you a
crying; and then she would tell you you had made yourself such a fright
that you were not fit to be seen, and so order you to your own room. You
know very well it would not be the first time that such a thing has
happened."

Mary could not deny the fact; but, sick of idle altercation, she
resolved to say nothing, but walk over to Rose Hall the following
morning. And this she did, leaving a note for her cousin, apologising
for her flight.

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