Book: Marriage

S >> Susan Edmonstone Ferrier >> Marriage




She was received with rapture by Mrs. Lennox.

"Ah! my dear Mary," said she, as she tenderly embraced her, "you know
not, you cannot conceive, what a blank your absence makes in my life!
When you open your eyes in the morning, it is to see the light of day
and the faces you love, and all is brightness around you. But when I
wake it is still to darkness. My night knows no end. 'Tis only when I
listen to your dear voice that I forget I am blind."

"I should not have stayed so long from you," said Mary, "but I knew you
had Colonel Lennox with you, and I could not flatter myself you would
have even a thought to bestow upon me."

"My Charles is, indeed, everything that is kind and devoted to me. He
walks with me, reads to me, talks to me, sits with me for hours, and
bears with all my little weaknesses as a mother would with her sick
child; but still there are a thousand little feminine attentions he
cannot understand. I would not that he did. And then to have him always
with me seems so selfish; for, gentle and tender-hearted as he is, I
know he bears the spirit of an eagle within him; and the tame monotony
of my life can ill accord with the nobler habits of his. Yet he says he
is happy with me, and I try to make myself believe him."

"Indeed," said Mary, "I cannot doubt it. It is always a happiness
to be with those we love, and whom we know love us, under any
circumstances; and it is for that reason I love so much to come to my
dear Mrs. Lennox," caressing her as she spoke.

"Dearest Mary, who would not love you? Oh! could I but see--could I
but hope--"

"You must hope everything you desire," said Mary gaily, and little
guessing the nature of her good friend's hopes; "I do nothing but hope."
And she tried to check a sigh, as she thought how some of her best hopes
had been already blighted by the unkindness of those whose love she had
vainly striven to win.

Mrs. Lennox's hopes were already upon her lips, when the entrance of her
son fortunately prevented their being for ever destroyed by a premature
disclosure. He welcomed Mary with an appearance of the greatest
pleasure, and looked so much happier and more animated than when she
last saw him, that she was struck with the change, and began to think he
might almost stand a comparison with his picture.

"You find me still here, Miss Douglas," said he, "although my mother
gives me many hints to be gone, by insinuating what indeed cannot be
doubted, how very ill I supply your place; but--" turning to his
mother--"you are not likely to be rid of me for sometime, as I have just
received an additional leave of absence; but for that, I must have left
you tomorrow."

"Dear Charles, you never told me so. How could you conceal it from me?
How wretched I should have been had I dreamed of such a thing!"

"That is the very reason for which I concealed it, and yet you reproach
me. Had I told you there was a chance of my going, you would assuredly
have set it down for a certainty, and so have been vexed for no
purpose."

"But your remaining was a chance too," said Mrs. Lennox, who could not
all at once reconcile herself even to an _escape_ from danger; "and
think, had you been called away from me without any preparation!--
Indeed, Charles, it was very imprudent."

"My dearest mother, I meant it in kindness. I could not bear to give you
a moment's certain uneasiness for an uncertain evil. I really cannot
discover either the use or the virtue of tormenting one's self by
anticipation. I should think it quite as rational to case myself in a
suit of mail, by way of security to my person, as to keep my mind
perpetually on the rack of anticipating evil. I perfectly agree with
that philosopher who says, if we confine ourselves to general
reflections on the evils of life, _that_ can have no effect in preparing
us for them; and if we bring them home to us, _that_ is the certain
means of rendering ourselves miserable."

"But they will come, Charles," said his mother mournfully, "whether we
bring them or not."

"True, my dear mother; but when misfortune does come, it comes
commissioned from a higher power, and it will ever find a well-regulated
mind ready to receive it with reverence, and submit to it with
resignation. There is something, too, in real sorrow that tends to
enlarge and exalt the soul; but the imaginary evils of our own creating
can only serve to contract and depress it."

Mrs. Lennox shook her head. "Ah! Charles, you may depend upon it your
reasoning is wrong, and you will be convinced of it some day."

"I am convinced of it already. I begin to fear this discussion will
frighten Miss Douglas away from us. _There_ is an evil anticipated! Now,
do you, my dear mother, help me to avert it; where that can be done, it
cannot be too soon apprehended."

As Colonel Lennox's character unfolded itself, Mary saw much to admire
in it; and it is more than probable the admiration would soon have been
reciprocal, had it been allowed to take its course. But good Mrs. Lennox
would force it into a thousand little channels prepared by herself, and
love itself must have been quickly exhausted by the perpetual demands
that were made upon it. Mary would have been deeply mortified had she
suspected the cause of her friend's solicitude to show her off; but she
was a stranger to match-making in all its bearings, had scarcely ever
read a novel in her life, and was consequently not at all aware of the
necessity there was for her falling in love with all convenient speed.
She was therefore sometimes amused, though oftener ashamed, at Mrs.
Lennox's panegyrics, and could not but smile as she thought how Aunt
Jacky's wrath would have been kindled had she heard the extravagant
praises that were bestowed on her most trifling accomplishments.

"You must sing my favourite song to Charles, my love--he has never heard
you sing. Pray do: you did not use to require any entreaty from me,
Mary! Many a time you have gladdened my heart with your songs when, but
for you, it would have been filled with mournful thoughts!"

Mary, finding whatever she did or did _not,_ she was destined to hear
only her own praises, was glad to take refuge at the harp, to which she
sang the following ancient ditty:--

"Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night,
For thou must die.

"Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave;
And thou must die.

"Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
My music shows you have your closes,
And all must die.

"Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like season'd timber, never gives;
But when the whole world turns to coal,
Then chiefly lives."

"That," said Colonel Lennox, "is one of the any exquisite little pieces
of poetry which are to be found, like jewels in an Ethiop's ear, in my
favourite Isaac Walton. The title of the book offers no encouragement to
female readers, but I know few works from which I rise with such
renovated feelings of benevolence and good-will. Indeed, I know no
author who has given with so much _naivete _so enchanting a
picture of a pious and contented mind. Here--" taking the book from a
shelf, and turning over the leaves--"is one of the passages which has
so often charmed me:--'That very hour which you were absent from me, I
sat down under a willow by the water-side, and considered what you had
told me of the owner of that pleasant meadow in which you left me--that
he has a plentiful estate, and not a heart to think so; that he has at
this time many lawsuits depending, and that they both damped his mirth,
and took up so much of his time and thoughts that he himself had not
leisure to take that sweet comfort I, who pretended no title to
them, took in his fields; for I could there sit quietly, and, looking in
the water, see some fishes sport themselves in the silver streams,
others leaping at flies of several shapes and colours. Looking on the
hills, I could behold them spotted with woods and groves; looking down
upon the meadows I could see, here a boy gathering lilies and
lady-smocks, and there a girl cropping culverkeys and cowslips, all to
make garlands suitable to this present month of May. These, and many
other field flowers, so perfumed the air, that I thought that very
meadow like that field in Sicily, of which Diodorus speaks, where the
perfumes arising from the place make all dogs that hunt in it to fall
off and lose their scent. I say, as I thus sat joying in my own happy
condition, and pitying this poor rich man that owned this and many other
pleasant groves and meadows about me, I did then thankfully remember
what my Saviour said, that the _meek possess the earth--or,_ rather,
they enjoy what the others possess and enjoy not; for anglers and
meek-spirited men are free from those high, those restless
thoughts,--which corrode the sweets of life; and they, and they only,
can say, as the poet has happily expressed it--

'Hail, blest estate of lowliness!
Happy enjoyments of such minds
As, rich in self-contentedness,
Can, like the reeds in roughest winds,
By yielding, make that blow but small,
By which proud oaks and cedars fall.'"

"There is both poetry and painting in such prose as this," said Mary;
"but I should certainly as soon have thought of looking for a pearl
necklace in a fishpond as of finding pretty poetry in a treatise upon
the art of angling."

"That book was a favourite of your father's, Charles," said Mrs. Lennox,
"and I remember, in our happiest days, he used to read parts of it to
me. One passage in particular made a strong impression upon me, though I
little thought then it would ever apply to me. It is upon the blessings
of sight. Indulge me by reading it to me once again."

Colonel Lennox made an effort to conquer his feelings, while he read as
follows:--

"What would a blind man give to see the pleasant rivers, and meadows,
and flowers, and fountains, that we have met with! I have been told that
if a man that was born blind could attain to have his sight for _but
only one hour_ during his whole life, and should, at the first opening
of his eyes, fix his sight upon the sun when it was in its full glory,
either at the rising or the setting, he would be transported and amazed,
and so admire the glory of it that he would not willingly turn his eyes
from that first ravishing object to behold all the other various
beauties this world could present to them. And this, and many other like
objects, we enjoy daily---"

A deep sigh from Mrs. Lennox made bier son look up. Her eyes were
bathed in tears.

He threw his arms around her. "My dearest mother!" cried he in a voice
choked with agitation, "how cruel--how unthinking--thus to remind
you--"

"Do not reproach yourself for my weakness, dear Charles; but I was
thinking how much rather, could I have my sight but for one hour, I
would look upon the face of my own child than on all the glories of the
creation!"

Colonel Lennox was too deeply affected to speak. He pressed his mother's
hand to his lips--then rose abruptly, and quitted the room. Mary
succeeded in soothing her weak and agitated spirits into composure; but
the chord of feeling had been jarred, and all her efforts to restore it
to its former tone proved abortive for the rest of the day.




CHAPTER XVII.

"Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the office and affairs of love:
Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;
Let every eye negotiate for itself,
And trust no agent."

Much Ado about Nothing.

THERE was something so refreshing in the domestic peacefulness of Rose
Hall, when contrasted with the heartless bustle of Beech Park, that Mary
felt too happy in the change to be in any hurry to quit it. But an
unfortunate discovery soon turned all her enjoyment into bitterness of
heart; and Rose Hall, from being to her a place of rest, was suddenly
transformed into an abode too hateful to be endured.

It happened one day as she entered the drawing-room, Mrs. Lennox was, as
usual, assailing the heart of her son in her behalf. A large Indian
screen divided the room, and Mary's entrance was neither seen nor heard
till she was close by them.

"Oh, certainly, Miss Douglas is all that you say--very pretty--very
amiable--and very accomplished, said Colonel Lennox, with a sort of
half-suppressed yawn, in answer to a eulogium of his mother's.

"Then why not love her? Ah! Charles, promise me that you will at least
try!" said the good old lady, laying her hand upon his with the greatest
earnestness.

This was said when Mary was actually standing before her. To hear the
words, and to feel their application, was a flash of lightning; and for
a moment she felt as if her brain were on fire. She was alive but to one
idea, and that the most painful that could be suggested to a delicate
mind. She had heard herself recommended to the love of a man who was
indifferent to her. Could there be such a humiliation--such a
degradation? Colonel Lennox's embarrassment was scarcely less; but his
mother saw not the mischief she had done, and she continued to speak
without his having the power to interrupt her. But her words fell
unheeded on Mary's ear--she could hear nothing but what she had already
heard. Colonel Lennox rose and respectfully placed a chair for her, but
the action was unnoticed--she saw only herself a suppliant for his love;
and, insensible to everything but her own feelings, she turned and
hastily quitted the room without uttering a syllable. To fly from Rose
Hall, never again to enter it, was her first resolution; yet how was she
to do so without coming to an explanation, worse even than the cause
itself: for she had that very morning yielded to the solicitations of
Mrs. Lennox, and consented to remain till the following day.

"Oh!" thought she, as the scalding tears of shame for the first time
dropped from her eyes, "what a situation am I placed in! To continue
to live under the same roof with the man whom I have heard solicited to
love me; and how mean--how despicable must I appear in his eyes--thus
offered--rejected! How shall I ever be able to convince him that I
care not for his love--that I wished it not--that I would, refuse, scorn
it to-morrow were it offered to me. Oh! could I but tell him so; but he
must ever remain, stranger to my real sentiments--he might reject--but
_I_ cannot disavow! And yet to have him think that I have all this while
been laying snares for him--that all this parade of my acquirements was
for the purpose of gaining his affections! Oh how blind and stupid I was
not to see through the injudicious praises of Mrs. Lennox! I should not
then have suffered this degradation in the eyes of her son!"

Hours passed away unheeded by Mary, while she was giving way to the
wounded sensibility of a naturally high spirit and acute feelings, thus
violently excited in all their first ardour. At length she was recalled
to herself by hearing the sound of a carriage, as it passed under her
window; and immediately after she received a message to repair to the
drawing-room to her cousin, Lady Emily.

"How fortunate!" thought she; "I shall now get away--no matter how or
where, I shall go, never again to return."

And, unconscious of the agitation visible in her countenance, she
hastily descended, impatient to bid an eternal adieu to her once loved
Rose Hall. She found Lady Emily and Colonel Lennox together. Eyes less
penetrating than her cousin's would easily have discovered the state of
poor Mary's mind as she entered the room; her beating heart--her flushed
cheek and averted eye, all declared the perturbation of her spirits; and
Lady Emily regarded her for a moment with an expression of surprise that
served to heighten her confusion.

"I have no doubt I am a very unwelcome visitor here to all parties,"
said she; "for I come--how shall I declare it?--to carry you home, Mary,
by command of Lady Juliana."

"No, no!" exclaimed Mary eagerly; "you are quite welcome. I am quite
ready. I was wishing--I was waiting." Then, recollecting herself, she
blushed still deeper at her own precipitation.

"There is no occasion to be so vehemently obedient," said her cousin;
_"I_ am not quite ready, neither am I wishing or waiting to be off in
such a hurry. Colonel Lennox and I had just set about reviving an old
acquaintance; begun, I can't tell when--and broken off when I was a thing
in the nursery, with a blue sash and red fingers. I have promised him
that when he comes to Beech Park you shall sing him my favourite Scotch
song, 'Should auld acquaintance be forgot?' I would sing it myself if I
could; but I think every Englishwoman who pretends to sing Scotch songs
ought to have the bowstring." Then, turning to the harpsichord, she
began to play it with exquisite taste and feeling.

"There," said she, rising with equal levity; "is not that worth all the
formal bows--and 'recollects to have had the pleasure'--and 'long time
since I had the honour'--and such sort of hateful reminiscences, that
make one feel nothing but that they area great deal older, and uglier,
stupider, and more formal than they were so many years before."

"Where the early ties of the heart remain unbroken," said Colonel
Lennox, with some emotion, "such remembrances do indeed give it back all
its first freshness; but it cannot be to everyone a pleasure to have its
feelings awakened even by tones such as these."

There was nothing of austerity in this; on the contrary, there was so
much sweetness mingled with the melancholy which shaded his countenance,
that even Lady Emily was touched, and for a moment silent. The entrance
of Mrs. Lennox relieved her from her embarrassment. She flew towards
her, and taking her hand, "My dear Mrs. Lennox, I feel very much as if I
were come here in the capacity of an executioner;--no, not exactly that,
but rather a sort of constable or bailiff;--for I am come, on the part
of Lady Juliana Douglas, to summon you to surrender the person of her
well-beloved daughter, to be disposed of as she in her wisdom may think
fit."

"Not to-day, surely," cried Mrs. Lennox, in alarm; "to-morrow----"

"My orders are peremptory--the suit is pressing," with a significant
smile to Mary; "this day--oh, ye hours!" looking at a timepiece, "this
very minute. Come Mary--are you ready--_cap-a-pie_?"

At another time Mary would have thought only of the regrets of her
venerable friend at parting with her; but now she felt only her own
impatience to be gone, and she hastily quitted the room to prepare for
her departure.

On returning to it Colonel Lennox advanced to meet her, evidently
desirous of saying something, yet labouring under great embarrassment.

"Were it not too selfish and presumptuous," said he, while his
heightened colour spoke his confusion, "I would venture to express a hope
that your absence will not be very long from my poor mother."

Mary pretended to be very busy collecting her work, drawings, etc.,
which lay scattered about, and merely bent her head in acknowledgment.
Colonel Lennox proceeded--

"I am aware of the sacrifice it must be to such as Miss Douglas to
devote her time and talents to the comforting of the blind and desolate;
and I cannot express--she cannot conceive--the gratitude--the
respect--the admiration, with which my heart is filled at such proofs of
noble disinterested benevolence on her part."

Had Mary raised her eyes to those that vainly sought to meet hers, she
would there have read all, and more than had been expressed; but she
could only think, "He has been entreated to love!" and at that
humiliating idea she bent her head still lower to the colour that dyed
her cheek to an almost painful degree, while a sense of suffocation at
her throat prevented her disclaiming, as she wished to do, the merit of
any sacrifice. Some sketches of Lochmarlie lay upon a table at which she
had been drawing the day before; they had ever been precious in her
sight till now; but they only excited feelings of mortification, as she
recollected having taken them from her _portefeuille_ at Mrs. Lennox's
request to show to her son.

"This was part of the parade by which I was to win him," thought she
with bitterness; and scarcely conscious of what she did, she crushed
them together, and threw them into the fire. Then hastily advancing to
Mrs. Lennox, she tried to bid her farewell; but as she thought it was
for the last time, tears of tenderness as well as pride stood in her
eyes.

"God bless you, my dear child!" said the unsuspecting Mrs. Lennox, as
she held her: in her arms. "And God _will_ bless you in His way--though
His ways are not as our ways. I cannot urge you to return to this dreary
abode. But oh, Mary! Think sometimes in your gaiety, that when you do
come, you bring gladness to a mournful heart, and lighten eyes that
never see the sun!"

Mary, too much affected to reply, could only wring the hand of her
venerable friend, as she tore herself from her embrace, and followed
Lady Emily to the carriage. For some time they proceeded in silence.
Mary dreaded to encounter her cousin's eyes, which she was aware were
fixed upon her with more than their usual scrutiny. She therefore kept
hers steadily employed in surveying the well-known objects the road
presented. At length her Ladyship began in a grave tone.

"You appear to have had very stormy weather at Rose Hall?"

"Very much so," replied Mary, without knowing very well what she said.

"And we have had nothing but calms and sunshine at Beech Park. Is not
that strange?"

"Very singular indeed."

"I left the barometer very high--not quite at _settled calm_--that would
be too much; but I find it very low indeed--absolutely below nothing."

Mary now did look up in some surprise; but she hastily withdrew from the
intolerable expression of her cousin's eyes.

"Dear Lady Emily!" cried she in a deprecating tone.

"Well--what more? You can't suppose I'm to put up with hearing my own
name; I've heard that fifty times to-day already from Lady Juliana's
parrot--come, your face speaks volumes. I read a declaration of love in
the colour of your cheeks--a refusal in the height of your nose--and a
sort of general agitation in the quiver of your lip and the
_dereglement_ of your hair. Now for your pulse--a _leettle_ hasty, as
Dr. Redgill would say; but let your tongue declare the rest."

Mary would fain have concealed the cause of her distress from every
human being, as she felt as if degraded still lower by repeating it to
another; and she remained silent, struggling with her emotions.

"'Pon my honour, Mary, you really do use great liberties with my
patience and good-nature. I appeal to yourself whether I might not just
as well have been reading one of Tully's orations to a mule all this
while. Come, you must really make haste to tell your tale, for I am
dying to disclose mine. Or shall I begin? No--that would be inverting
the order of nature or custom, which is the same thing--beginning with
the farce, and ending with the tragedy--so _commencez au commencement,
m'amie."_

Thus urged, Mary at length, and with much hesitation, related to her
cousin the humiliation she had experienced. "And after all," said she,
as she ended, "I am afraid I behaved very like a fool. And yet what
could I do in my situation, what would you have done?"

"Done! why, I should have taken the old woman by the shoulder, and cried
Boh! in her ear. And so this is the mighty matter! You happen to
overhear Mrs. Lennox, good old soul! recommending you as a wife to her
son. What could be more natural except his refusing to fall head in ears
in love before he had time to pull his boots off. And then to have a
wife recommended to him! and all your perfections set forth, as if you
had been a laundrymaid--an early riser, neat worker, regular attention
upon church! Ugh I--I must say I think his conduct quite meritorious. I
could almost find in my heart to fall in love with him myself, were it
for no other reason than because he is not such a Tommy Goodchild as to
be in love at his mamma's bidding--that is, loving his mother as he
does--for I see he could cut off a hand, or pluck out an eye, to please
her, though he can't or won't give her his heart and soul to dispose of
as she thinks proper."

"You quite misunderstand me," said Mary, with increasing vexation. "I
did not mean to say anything against Colonel Lennox. I did not wish--I
never once thought whether he liked me or not."

"That says very little for you. You must have a very bad taste if you
care more for the mother's liking than the son's. Then what vexes you so
much? Is it at having made the discovery that your good old friend is
a--a--I beg your pardon--a bit of a goose? Well, never mind--since you
don't care for the man, there's no mischief done. You have only to
change the _dramatis personae._ Fancy that you overheard mere commending
you to Dr. Redgill for your skill in cookery--you'd only have laughed at
that--so why should you weep at t'other. However, one thing I must tell
you, whether it adds to your grief or not, I did remark that Charles
Lennox looked very lover-like towards you; and, indeed, this sentimental
passion he has put you in becomes you excessively. I really never saw
you look so handsome before--it has given an energy and _esprit_ to your
countenance, which is the only thing it wants. You are very much obliged
to him, were it only for having kindled such a fire in your eyes, and
raised such a carnation in your cheek. It would have been long before
good _larmoyante_, Mrs. Lennox would have done as much for you. I
shouldn't wonder were he to fall in love with you after all."

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