Book: Marriage

S >> Susan Edmonstone Ferrier >> Marriage




"Pshaw!" interrupted Mary, colouring, "that is mere absence--nothing to
the purpose--or perhaps," forcing a smile, "he may be _trying_ to love
me!"

Mary thought of her poor old friend, as she said this, with bitterness
of heart. It was long since she had seen her; and when she had last
inquired for her, her son had said he did not think her well, with a look
Mary could not misunderstand. She had heard him make an appointment with
Lord Lindore for the following day, and she took the opportunity of his
certain absence to visit his mother. Mrs. Lennox, indeed, looked ill, and
seemed more than usually depressed. She welcomed Mary with her usual
tenderness, but even her presence seemed to fail of inspiring her with
gladness.

Mary found she was totally unsuspicious of the cause of her
estrangement, and imputed it to a very different one.

"You have been a great stranger, my dear!" said she, as she
affectionately embraced her; "but at such a time I could not expect you
to think of me."

"Indeed," answered Mary, equally unconscious of her meaning, "I have
thought much and often, very often, upon you, and wished I could have
come to you; but---" she stopped, for she could not tell the truth, and
would not utter a falsehood.

"I understand it all," said Mrs. Lennox, with a sigh. "Well--well--God's
will be done!" Then trying to be more cheerful, "Had you come little
sooner, you would have met Charles. He is just gone out with Lord
Lindore. He was unwilling to leave me, as he always is, and when he
does, I believe it is as much to please me as himself. Ah! Mary, I once
hoped that I might have lived to see you the happy wife of the best of
sons. I may speak out now, since that is all over. God has willed
otherwise, an may you be rewarded in the choice you have made!"

Mary was struck with consternation to find that her supposed engagement
with Mr. Downe Wright had spread even to Rose Hall; and in the greatest
confusion she attempted to deny it. But after the acknowledgment she had
just heard, she acquitted herself awkwardly; for she felt as if an open
explanation would only serve to revive hopes that never could be
realised, and subject Colonel Lennox and herself to future perplexities.
Nothing but the whole truth would have sufficed to undeceive Mrs. Lennox,
for she had had the intelligence of Mary's engagement from Mrs. Downe
Wright herself, who, for better security of what she already considered
her son's property, had taken care to spread the report of his being the
accepted lover before she left the country. Mary felt all the
unpleasantness of her situation. Although detesting deceit and artifice
of every kind, her confused and stammering denials seemed rather to
corroborate the fact; but she felt that she could not declare her
resolution of never bestowing her hand upon Mr. Downe Wright without
seeming at the same time to court the addresss of Colonel Lennox. Then
how painful--how unjust to herself, as well as cruel to him, to have it
for an instant believed that she was the betrothed of one whose wife she
was resolved she never would be!

In short, poor Mary's mind was a complete chaos; and for the first time
in her life she found it impossible to determine which was the right
course for her to pursue. Even in the midst of her distress, however,
she could not help smiling at the _naivete_ of the good old lady's
remarks.

"He is a handsome young man, I hear," said she, still in allusion to Mr.
Downe Wright: "has a fine fortune, and an easy temper. All these things
help people's happiness, though they cannot make it; and his choice of
you, my dear Mary, shows that he has some sense."

"What a eulogium!" said Mary, laughing and blushing. "Were he really to
me what you suppose, I must be highly flattered; but I must again assure
you it is not using Mr. Downe Wright well to talk of him as anything to
me. My mother, indeed--".

"Ah! Mary, my dear, let me advise you to beware of being led, even by a
mother, in such a matter as this. God forbid that I should ever
recommend disobedience towards a parent's will; but I fear you have
yielded too much to yours. I said, indeed, when I heard it, that I
feared undue influence had been used; for that I could not think William
Downe Wright would ever have been the choice of your heart. Surely
parents have much to answer for who mislead their children in such an
awful step as marriage!"

This was the severest censure Mary had ever heard drop from Mrs.
Lennox's lips; and she could not but marvel at the self-delusion that
led her thus to condemn in another the very error she had committed
herself, but under such different circumstances that she would not
easily have admitted it to be the same. She sought for the happiness of
her son, while Lady Juliana, she was convinced, wished only her own
aggrandisement.

"Yes, indeed," said Mary, in answer to her friend's observation,
"parents ought, if possible, to avoid even forming wishes for their
children. Hearts are wayward things, even the best of them." Then more
seriously she added, "And, dear Mrs. Lennox, do not either blame my
mother nor pity me; for be assured, with my heart only will I give my
hand; or rather, I should say, with my hand only will I give my heart:
And now good-bye," cried she, starting up and hurrying away, as she
heard Colonel Lennox's voice in the hall.

She met him on the stair, and would have passed on with a slight remark,
but he turned with her, and finding she had dismissed the carriage,
intending to walk home, he requested permission to attend her. Mary
declined; but snatching up his hat, and whistling his dogs, he set out
with her in spite of her remonstrances to the contrary.

"If you persist in refusing my attendance," said he, "you will inflict an
incurable wound upon my vanity. I shall suspect you are ashamed of being
seen in such company. To be sure, myself, with my shabby jacket and my
spattered dogs, do form rather a ruffian-like escort; and I should not
have dared to have offered my services to a fine lady; but you are not a
fine lady, I know;" and he gently drew her arm within his as they began
to ascend a hill.

This was the first time Mary had found herself alone with Colonel
Lennox since that fatal day which seemed to have divided them for ever.
At first she felt uneasy and embarrassed, but there was so much good
sense and good feeling in the tone of his conversation--it was so far
removed either from pedantry or frivolity, that all disagreeable ideas
soon gave way to the pleasure she had in conversing with one whose turn
of mind seemed so similar to her own; and it was not till she had parted
from him at the gate of Beech Park she had time to wonder how she could
possibly have walked two miles _tete-a-tete_ with a man whom she
had heard solicited to love her!

From that day Colonel Lennox's visits insensibly increased in length
and number; but Lady Emily seemed to appropriate them entirely to
herself; and certainly all the flow of his conversation, the brilliancy
of his wit, were directed to her; but Mary could not but be conscious
that his looks were much oftener riveted on herself, and if his
attentions were not such as to attract general observation, they were
such as she could not fail of perceiving and being unconsciously
gratified by.

"How I admire Charles Lennox's manner to you, Mary," said her cousin,
"after the awkward dilemma you were both in. It was no easy matter to
know how to proceed; a vulgar-minded man would either have oppressed you
with his attentions, or insulted you by his neglect, while he steers so
gracefully free from either extreme; and I observe you are the only
woman upon whom he designs to bestow _les petits soins._ How I despise a
man who is ever on the watch to pick up every silly Miss's fan or glove
that she thinks it pretty to drop! No--the woman he loves, whether his
mother or his wife, will always be distinguished by him, were she
amongst queens and empresses, not by his silly vanity or vulgar
fondness, but by his marked and gentlemanlike attentions towards her.
In short, the best thing you can do is to make up your quarrel with
him--take him for all in all--you won't meet with such another--
certainly not amongst your Highland lairds, by all that I can learn;
and, by-the-bye, I do suspect he is now, as you say, trying to love you;
and let him--you will be very well repaid if he succeeds."

Mary's heart swelled at the thoughts of submitting to such an indignity,
especially as she was beginning to feel conscious that Colonel Lennox
was not quite the object of indifference to her that he ought to be; but
her cousin's remarks only served to render her more distant and reserved
to him than ever.




CHAPTER XXI.

"What dangers ought'st thou not to dread,
When Love, that's blind, is by blind Fortune, led?"

COWLEY.

AT length the long-looked for day arrived. The Duke of Altamont's
proposals were made in due form, and in due form accepted. Lady Juliana
seemed now touching the pinnacle of earthly joy; for, next to being
greatly married herself, her happiness centred in seeing her daughter at
the head of a splendid establishment. Again visions of bliss hovered
around her, and "Peers and Dukes and all their sweeping train" swam
before her eyes, as she anticipated the brilliant results to herself
from so noble an alliance; for self was still, as it had ever been, her
ruling star, and her affection for her daughter was the mere result of
vanity and ambition.

The ensuing weeks were passed in all the bustle of preparations
necessarily attendant on the nuptials of the great. Every morning
brought from Town dresses, jewels, patterns, and packages of all
descriptions. Lady Juliana was in ecstasies, even though it was but
happiness in the second person. Mary watched her sister's looks with the
most painful solicitude; for from her lips she knew she never would
learn the sentiments of her heart. But Adelaide was aware she had a part
to act, and she went through it with an ease and self-possession that
seemed to defy all scrutiny. Once or twice, indeed, her deepening colour
and darkening brow betrayed the feelings of her heart, as the Duke of
Altamont and Lord Lindore were brought into comparison; and Mary
shuddered to think that her sister was even now ashamed of the man whom
she was so soon to vow to love, honour, and obey. She had vainly tried
to lead Adelaide to the subject. Adelaide would listen to nothing which
she had reason to suppose was addressed to herself; but either with cool
contempt took up a book, or left the room, or, with insolent
affectation, would put her hands to her head, exclaiming, _"Mes oreilles
n'etoient pas faites pour les entretiens serieux."_ All Mary's worst
fears were confirmed a few days before that fixed for the marriage. As
she entered the music-room she was startled to find Lord Lindore and
Adelaide alone. Unwilling to suppose that her presence would be
considered as an interruption, she seated herself at a little distance
from them, and was soon engrossed by her task. Adelaide, too, had the
air of being deeply intent upon some trifling employment; and Lord
Lindore, as he sat opposite to her, with his head resting upon his
hands, had the appearance of being engaged in reading. All were silent
for some time; but as Mary happened to look up, she saw Lord
Lindore'seyes fixed earnestly upon her sister, and with _voice_ of
repressed feeling he repeated,_"Ah! je le sens, ma Julie! si'l falloit
renoncer a vous, il n'y auroit plus pour moi d'autre sejour ni d'autre
saison:"_ and throwing down the book, he quitted the room. Adelaide pale
and agitated, rose as if to follow him; then, recollecting herself, she
rushed from the apartment by an opposite door. Mary followed, vainly
hoping that in this moment of excited feeling she might be induced to
open her heart to the voice of affection; but Adelaide was a stranger to
sympathy, and saw only the degradation of confessing the struggle she
endured in choosing betwixt love and ambition. That her heart was Lord
Lindore's she could not conceal from herself, though she would not
confess it to another--and that other the tenderest of sisters, whose
only wish was to serve her. Mary's tears and entreaties were therefore
in vain, and at Adelaide's repeated desire she at length quitted her and
returned to the room she had left.

She found Lady Emily there with a paper in her hand. "Lend me your ears,
Mary," cried she, "while I read these lines to you. Don't be afraid,
there are no secrets in them, or at least none that you or I will be a
whit the wiser for, as they are truly in a most mystic strain. I found
them lying upon this table, and they are in Frederick's handwriting, for
I see he affects the _soupirant_ at present; and it seems there has been
a sort of a sentimental farce acted between Adelaide and him. He
pretends that, although distractedly in love with her, he is not so
selfish as even to wish her to marry him in preference to the Duke of
Altamont; and Adelaide, not to be outdone in heroics, has also made it
out that it is the height of virtue in her to espouse the Duke of
Altamont, and sacrifice all the tenderest affections of her heart to
duty! Duty! yes, the duty of being a Duchess, and of living in state and
splendour with the man she secretly despises, to the pleasure of
renouncing both for the man she loves; and so they have parted, and
here, I suppose, are Lindore's lucubrations upon it, intended as a
_souvenir_ for Adelaide, I presume. Now, night visions befriend me!

"The time returns when o'er my wilder'd mind,
A thraldom came which did each sense enshroud;
Not that I bowed in willing chain confined,
But that a soften'd atmosphere of cloud
Veiled every sense--conceal'd th' impending doom.
'Twas mystic night, and I seem'd borne along
By pleasing dread--and in a doubtful gloom,
Where fragrant incense and the sound of song,
And all fair things we dream of, floated by,
Lulling my fancy like a cradled child,
Till that the dear and guileless treachery,
Made me the wretch I am--so lost, so wild--
A mingled feeling, neither joy or grief,
Dwelt in my heart--I knew not whence it came,
And--but that woe is me! 'twas passing brief,
Even at this hour I fain would feel the same!
I track'd a path of flowers--but flowers among
Were hissing serpents and drear birds of night,
That shot across and scared with boding cries;
And yet deep interest lurked in that affright,
Something endearing in those mysteries,
Which bade me still the desperate joy pursue,
Heedless of what might come--when from mine eyes
The cloud should pass, or what might then accrue.
The cloud _has_ passed--the blissful power is flown,
The flowers are wither'd--wither'd all the scene.
But ah! the dear delusions I have known
Are present still, with loved though altered mien:
I tread the selfsame path in heart unchanged;
But changed now is all that path to me,
For where 'mong flowers and fountains once I ranged
Are barren rocks and savage scenery!"

Mary felt it was in vain to attempt to win her sister's confidence, and
she was too delicate to seek to wrest her secrets from her; she
therefore took no notice of this effusion of love and disappointment,
which she concluded it to be.

Adelaide appeared at dinner as usual. All traces of agitation had
vanished; and her manner was a cool and collected as if all had been
peace and tranquillity at heart. Lord Lindore's departure was slightly
noticed. It was generally understood that he had been rejected by his
cousin; and his absence at such a time was thought perfectly natural;
the Duke merely remarking, with a vacant simper, "So Lord Lindore is
gone--Ah! poor Lord Lindore."

Lady Juliana had, in a very early stage of the business, fixed in her
own mind that she, as a matter of course, would be invited to accompany
her daughter upon her marriage; indeed, she had always looked upon it as
a sort of triple alliance, that was to unite her as indissolubly to the
fortunes of the Duke of Altamont as though she had been his wedded wife.
But the time drew near, and in spite of all her hints and manoeuvres no
invitation had yet been extorted from Adelaide. The Duke had proposed to
her to invite her sister, and even expressed something like a wish to
that effect; for though he felt no positive pleasure in Mary's society,
he was yet conscious of a void in her absence. She was always in good
humour--always gentle and polite--and, without being able to tell why,
his Grace always felt more at ease with her than with anybody else. But
his selfish bride seemed to think that the joys of her elevation would
be diminished if shared even by her own sister, and she coldly rejected
the proposal. Lady Juliana was next suggested--for the Duke had a sort of
vague understanding that his safety lay in a multitude. With him, as
with all stupid people, company was society, words were
conversation--and all the gradations of intellect, from Sir Isaac Newton
down to Dr. Redgill, were to him unknown. But although, as with most
weak people, obstinacy was his _forte,_ he was here again compelled to
yield to the will of his bride, as she also declined the company of her
mother for the present. The disappointment was somewhat softened to Lady
Juliana by the sort of indefinite hopes that were expressed by her
daughter of seeing her in town when they were fairly established; but
until she had seen Altamont House, and knew its accommodations, she
could fix nothing; and Lady Juliana was fain to solace herself with this
dim perspective, instead of the brilliant reality her imagination had
placed within her grasp. She felt, too, without comprehending, the
imperfectness of all earthly felicity. As she witnessed the magnificent
preparations for her daughter's marriage, it recalled the bitter
remembrance of her own--and many a sigh burst from her heart as he
thought, "Such as Adelaide is, I might have been had I been blest with
such a mother, and brought up to know what was for my good!"

The die was cast. Amidst pomp and magnificence, elate with pride, and
sparkling with jewels, Adelaide Douglas reversed the fate of her mother;
and while her affections were bestowed on another, she vowed, in the
face of heaven, to belong only to the Duke of Altamont!

"Good-bye, my dearest love!" said her mother, as she embraced her with
transport, "and I shall be with you very soon; and, above all things,
try to secure a good opera-box for the season. I assure you it is of the
greatest consequence."

The Duchess impatiently hurried from the congratulations of her family,
and throwing herself into the splendid equipage that awaited her was
soon lost to their view.




CHAPTER XXII.

"Every white will have its black,
And every sweet its sour:"

As Lady Juliana experienced. Her daughter was Duchess of Altamont, but
Grizzy Douglas had arrived in Bath! The intelligence was communicated to
Mary in a letter. It had no date, but was as follows:--

My DEAR MARY--You will See from the Date of this, that we are at last
Arrived here, after a very long journey, which, you of Course Know it is
from this to our Part of the country; at the same Time, it was
uncommonly Pleasant, and we all enjoyed it very Much, only poor Sir
Sampson was so ill that we Expected him to Expire every minute, which
would have made it Extremely unpleasant for dear Lady M'Laughlan. He is
now, I am Happy to say, greatly Better, though still so Poorly that I am
much afraid you will see a very Considerable change upon him. I
sincerely hope, my dear Mary, that you will make a proper Apology to
Lady Juliana for my not going to Beech Park (where I know I would be
made most Welcome) directly--but I am Certain she will Agree with me
that it would be Highly Improper in me to leave Lady M'Laughlan when she
is not at all Sure how long Sir Sampson may Live; and it would Appear
very Odd if I was to be out of the way at such a time as That. But you
may Assure her, with my Kind love, and indeed all our Loves (as I am
sure None of us can ever forget the Pleasant time she spent with us at
Glenfern in my Poor brother's lifetime, before you was Born), that I
will Take the very first Opportunity of Spending some time at Beech Park
before leaving Bath, as we Expect the Waters will set Sir Sampson quite
on his Feet again. It will be a happy Meeting, I am certain, with Lady
Juliana and all of us, as it is Eighteen years this spring since we have
Met. You may be sure I have a great Deal to tell you and Lady Juliana
too, about all Friends at Glenfern, whom I left all quite Well. Of course,
the Report of Bella's and Betsy's marriages Must have reached Bath by
this time, as it will be three Weeks to-day since we left our part of
the country; but in case it has not reached you, Lady M'Laughlan is of
opinion that the Sooner you are made Acquainted with it the Better,
especially as there is no doubt of it. Bella's marriage, which is in a
manner fixed by this time, I daresay, though of Course it will not take
place for some time, is to Capt. M'Nab of some Regiment, but I'm sure I
Forget which, for there are so many Regiments, you know, it is
Impossible to remember them All; but he is quite a Hero, I know that, as
he has been in Several battles, and had Two of his front teeth Knocked
Out at one of them, and was Much complimented about it; and he Says, he
is quite Certain of getting Great promotion--at any Rate a pension for
it, so there is no Fear of him.

"Betsy has, if Possible, been still More fortunate than her Sister,
although you know Bella was always reckoned the Beauty of the Family,
though some people certainly preferred Betsy's Looks too. She has made a
Complete conquest of Major M'Tavish, of the Militia, who, Independent of
his rank, which is certainly very High, has also distinguished himself
very Much, and showed the Greatest bravery once when there was a Very
serious Riot about the raising the Potatoes a penny a peck, when there
was no Occasion for it, in the town of Dunoon; and it was very much
talked of at the Time, as well as Being in all the Newspapers. This
gives us all the Greatest Pleasure, as I am certain it will also Do Lady
Juliana and you, my dear Mary. At the same time, we Feel very much for
poor Babby, and Beenie, and Becky, as they Naturally, and indeed all of
us, Expected they would, of Course, be married first; and it is
certainly a great Trial for them to See their younger sisters married
before them. At the same Time, they are Wonderfully supported, and
Behave with Astonishing firmness; and I Trust, my dear Mary, you will do
the Same, as I have no Doubt you will All be married yet, as I am sure
you Richly deserve it when it Comes. I hope I will see you Very soon, as
Lady M'Laughlan, I am certain, will Make you most Welcome to call. We
are living in Most elegant Lodgings--all the Furniture is quite New, and
perfectly Good. I do not know the Name of the street yet, as Lady
M'Laughlan, which is no wonder, is not fond of being Asked questions
when she is Upon a Journey; and, indeed, makes a Point of never
Answering any, which, I daresay, is the Best way. But, of Course,
anybody will Tell you where Sir Sampson Maclaughlan, Baronet, of
Lochmarliie Castle, Perthshire, N. B., lives; and, if You are at any
Loss, it has a Green door, and a most Elegant Balcony. I must now bid
you adieu, my dear. Mary, as I Am so soon to See yourself. Sir Sampson
and Lady M'Laughlan unite with Me in Best compliments to the Family at
Beech Park. And, in kind love to Lady Juliana and you, I remain, My dear
Mary, your most affectionate Aunt,

GRIZZEL DOUGLAS.

_"P.S._--I have a long letter for you from Mrs. Douglas, which is in my
Trunk, that is Coming by the Perth Carrier, and unless he is stopped by
the Snow, I Expect he will be here in ten days."

With the idea of Grizzy was associated in Mary's mind all the dear
familiar objects of her happiest days, and her eyes sparkled with
delight at the thoughts of again beholding her.

"Oh! when may I go to Bath to dear Aunt Grizzy?" exclaimed she, as
she finished the letter. Lady Juliana looked petrified. Then
recollecting that this was the first intimation her mother had received
of such an event being even in contemplation, she made haste to
exculpate her aunt at her own expense, by informing her of the truth.
But nothing could be more unpalatable than the truth; and poor Mary's
short-lived joy was soon turned into the bitterest sorrow at the
reproaches that were showered upon her by the incensed Lady Juliana. But
for her these people never would have thought of coming to Bath; or if
they did, she should have had no connection with them. She had been most
excessively ill-used by Mr. Douglas's family, and had long since
resolved to have no further intercourse with them--they were nothing to
her, etc. etc. The whole concluding with a positive prohibition against
Mary's taking any notice of her aunt. "From all that has been said,
Mary," said Lady Emily gravely, "there can be no doubt but that you are
the origin of Lady Juliana's unfortunate connection with the family of
Douglas."

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