Book: Marriage

S >> Susan Edmonstone Ferrier >> Marriage




"I hope not," replied Mary, laughing; "but if I should, that seems
scarcely so bad as the sect of Independents in the marriage state; for
example, there is Mrs. Boston, who by all strangers is taken for a
widow, such emphasis does she lay upon the personal pronoun--with her,
'tis always, _I_ do this, or _I_ do that, without the slightest
reference to her husband; and she talks of _my_ house, _my_ gardens,
_my_ carriage, _my_ children, as if there were no copartnery in the
case."

"Ah, she is very odious," cried Lady Emily; "she is both master and
mistress, and more if possible she makes her husband look like her
footman; but she is a fool, as every woman must needs be who thinks she
can raise herself by lowering her husband. Then there is the sect of the
Wranglers, whose marriage is only one continued dispute. But, in short,
I see it is reserved for me to set a perfect example to my sex in the
married state. But I'm more reasonable than you, I suspect, for I don't
insist upon having a bright genius for my mate."

"I confess I should like that my husband's genius was at least as bright
as my own," said Mary, "and I can't think there is anything unreasonable
in that; or rather, I should say, were I a genius myself, I could better
dispense with a certain portion of intellect in my husband; as it has
been generally remarked that those who are largely endowed themselves
can easier dispense with talents in their companions than others of more
moderate endowments can do; but virtue and talents on the one side,
virtue and tenderness on the other, I look upon as the principal
ingredients in a happy union."

"Well, I intend to be excessively happy; and yet, I don't think Edward
will ever find the longitude. And, as for my tenderness--humph!--as
Lady Maclaughlan says; but as for you--I rather think you're in some
danger of turning into an Aunt Grizzy, with a long waist and large
pockets, peppermint drops and powdered curls; but, whatever you do, for
heaven's sake let us have no more human sacrifices--if you do, I shall
certainly appear at your wedding in sackcloth." And this was all of
comfort or advice that her Ladyship could bestow.

As Lady Emily was not a person who concealed either her own secrets or
those of others, Colonel Lennox was not long of hearing from her what
had passed, and of being made thoroughly acquainted with Mary's
sentiments on love and marriage. "Such a heart must be worth winning,"
thought he; but he sighed to think that he had less chance for the prize
than another. Independent of his narrow fortune, which, he was aware,
would be an insuperable bar to obtaining Lady Juliana's consent, Mary's
coldness and reserve towards him seemed to increase rather than
diminish. Or if she sometimes gave way to the natural frankness and
gaiety of her disposition before him, a word or look expressive of
admiration on his part instantly recalled to her those painful ideas
which had been for a moment forgot, and seemed to throw him at a greater
distance than ever.

Colonel Lennox was too noble-minded himself to suppose for an instant
that Mary actually felt dislike towards him because at the commencement
of their acquaintance he had not done justice to her merits; but he was
also aware that, until he had explained to her the nature of his
sentiments, she must naturally regard his attentions with suspicion, and
consider them rather as acts of duty towards his mother than as the
spontaneous expression of his own attachment. He therefore, in the most
simple and candid manner, laid open to her the secret of his heart, and
in all the eloquence of real passion, poured forth those feelings of
love and admiration with which she had unconsciously inspired him.

For a moment Mary's distrust was overcome by the ardour of his
address, and the open manly manner in which he had avowed the rise and
progress of his attachment; and she yielded herself up to the delightful
conviction of loving and being beloved.

But soon that gave way to the mortifying reflection that rushed over her
mind, "He _has_ tried to love me!" thought she; "but it is in obedience
to his mother's wish, and he thinks he has succeeded. No, no; I cannot
be the dupe of his delusion--I will not give myself to one who has been
solicited to love me!" And again wounded delicacy and woman's pride
resumed their empire over her, and she rejected the idea of _ever_
receiving Colonel Lennox as a lover. He heard her determination with the
deepest anguish, and used every argument and entreaty to soften her
resolution; but Mary had wrought herself up to a pitch of heroism-she
had rejected the man she loved--the only man she ever _could_ love: that
done, to persist in the sacrifice seemed easy; and they parted with
increased attachment in their hearts, even though those hearts seemed
severed for ever.

Soon after he set off to join his regiment; and it was only in saying
farewell that Mary felt how deeply her happiness was involved in the
fate of the man she had for ever renounced. To no one did she impart
what had passed; and Lady Emily was too dull herself, for some days
after the departure of her friend, to take any notice of Mary's
dejection.




CHAPTER XXV.

"Who taught the parrot to cry, hail?
What taught the chattering pie his tale?
Hunger; that sharpener of the wits,
Which gives e'en fools some thinking fits"

DRUMMOND'S
_Persius._

MARY found herself bereft of both her lovers nearly at the same time.
Lord Glenallan, after formally renewing his suit, at length took a final
leave, and returned to Scotland. Lady Juliana's indignation could only
be equalled by Dr. Redgill's upon the occasion. He had planned a snug
retreat for himself during the game season at Glenallan Castle; where,
from the good-nature and easy temper of both master and mistress, he had
no doubt but that he should in time come to _rule the roast,_ and be
lord paramount over kitchen and larder. His disappointment was therefore
great at finding all the solid joys of red deer and moor-game, kippered
salmon and mutton hams, "vanish like the baseless fabric of a vision,"
leaving not a wreck behind.

"Refused Lord Glenallan!" exclaimed he to Lady Emily, upon first
hearing of it. "The thing's incredible--absolutely impossible--I won't
believe it!"

"That's right, Doctor; who is it that says 'And still believe the story
false that _ought_ not to be true? I admire your candour, and wish I
could imitate it."

"Then your Ladyship really believes it. 'Pon my soul, I--I--it's really a
very vexatious affair. I feel for Lady Juliana, poor woman! No wonder
she's hysterical-five and twenty thousand a year refused! What is it she
would have? The finest deer park in Scotland! Every sort of game upon
the estate! A salmon fishing at the very door!--I should just like to
know what _is_ the meaning of it?"

"Cannot you guess, Doctor" asked Lady Emily.

"Guess! No, 'pon my soul! I defy any man to guess what could tempt a
woman to refuse five and twenty thousand a year; unless, indeed, she has
something higher in view, and even then she should be pretty sure of her
mark. But I suppose, because Miss Adelaide has got a Duke, she thinks
she must have one too. I suppose that's the story; but I can tell her
Dukes are not so plenty; and she's by no means so fine a woman as her
sister, and her market's spoilt, or I'm much mistaken. What man in his
senses would ever ask a woman who had been such an idiot as to refuse
five and twenty thousand a year?"

"I see, Doctor, you are quite a novice in the tender passion. Cannot you
make allowance for it: a young lady's not being in love?"

"In what?" demanded the Doctor.

"In love," repeated Lady Emily.

"Love! Bah--nonsense--no mortal in their senses ever thinks of such
stuff now."

"Then you think love and madness are one and the same thing, it seems?"

"I think the man or woman who could let their love stand in the way of
five and twenty thousand a year is the next thing to being mad," said
the Doctor warmly; "and in this case I can see no difference."

"But you'll allow there are some sorts of love that may be indulged
without casting any shade upon the understanding?"

"I really can't tell what your Ladyship means," said the Doctor
impatiently.

"I mean, for example, the love one may feel towards a turtle, such as we
had lately."

"That's quite a different thing," interrupted the Doctor.

"Pardon me, but whatever the consequence may be, the effects in both
cases were very similar, as exemplified in yourself. Pray, what
difference did it make to your friends, who were deprived of your
society, whether you spent your time in walking with 'even step, and
musing gait,' before your Dulcinea's window or the turtle's
cistern?--whether you were engrossed in composing a sonnet to your
mistress's eyebrow, or in contriving a new method of heightening the
enjoyments of _calipash?_ --whether you expatiated with greater rapture
on the charms of a white skin or green fat?--whether you were most
devoted to a languishing or a lively beauty?--whether----"

"'Pon my honour, Lady Emily, I really--I--I can't conceive what it is you
mean. There's a time for everything; and I'm sure nobody but yourself
would ever have thought of bringing in a turtle to a conversation upon
marriage."

"On the contrary, Doctor, I thought it had been upon love; and I was
endeavouring to convince you that even the wisest of men may be
susceptible of certain tender emotions towards a beloved object."

"You'll never convince me that any but a fool can be in love," cried
the Doctor, his visage assuming a darker purple as the argument
advanced.

"Then you must rank Lord Glenallan, with his five and twenty thousand a
year, amongst the number, for he is desperately in love, I assure you."

"As to that, Lord Glenallan, or any man with his fortune, may be
whatever he chooses. He has a right to be in love. He can afford to be
in love."

"I have heard much of the torments of love," said Lady Emily; "but I
never heard it rated as a luxury before. I hope there is no chance of
your being made Premier, otherwise I fear we should have a tax upon
love-marriages immediately."

"It would be greatly for the advantage of the nation, as well as the
comfort of individuals, if there was," returned the Doctor. "Many a
pleasant fellow has been lost to society by what you call a
love-marriage. I speak from experience. I was obliged to drop the
oldest friend I had upon his making one of your love-marriages."

"What! you were afraid of the effects of evil example?" asked Lady
Emily.

"No--it was not for that; but he asked me to take a family dinner with
him one day, and I, without knowing anything of the character of the
woman he had married, was weak enough to go. I found a very so-so
tablecloth and a shoulder of mutton, which ended our acquaintance. I
never entered his door after it. In fact, no man's happiness is proof
against dirty tablecloths and bad dinners; and you may take my word for
it, Lady Emily, these are the invariable accompaniments of your
love-marriages."

"Pshaw! that is only amongst the _bourgeois,"_ said Lady Emily
affectedly; "that is not the sort of _menage_ I mean to have.
Here is to be the style of my domestic establishment;" and she repeated
Shenstone's beautiful pastoral--

"My banks they are furnished with bees," etc.,

till she came to--

"I have found out a gift for my fair,
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed."

"There's some sense in that," cried the Doctor, who had been listening
with great weariness." You may have a good pigeon-pie, or _un saute de
pigeons au sang,_ which is still better when well dressed."

"Shocking!" exclaimed Lady Emily; "to mention pigeon-pies in the
same breath with nightingales and roses!"

"I'll tell you what, Lady Emily, it's just these sort of nonsensical
descriptions that do all the mischief amongst you young ladies. It's
these confounded poets that turn all your heads, and make you think you
have nothing to do after you are married but sit beside fountains and
grottoes, and divert yourself with birds and flowers, instead of looking
after your servants, and paying your butcher's bills; and, after all,
what is the substance of that trash you have just been reading, but to
say that the man was a substantial farmer and grazier, and had bees;
though I never heard of any man in his senses going to sleep amongst his
beehives before. 'Pon my soul! if I had my will I would burn every line
of poetry that ever was written. A good recipe for a pudding is worth
all that your Shenstones and the whole set of them ever wrote; and
there's more good sense and useful information in this book"--rapping
his knuckles against a volume he held in his hand--"than in all your
poets, ancient and modern."

Lady Emily took it out of his hand and opened it.

"And some very poetical description, too, Doctor; although you affect
to despise it so much. Here is an eulogium on the partridge. I doubt
much if St. Preux ever made a finer on his adorable Julie;" and she read
as follows:--

"La Perdrix tient Ie premier rang apres la Becasse, dans la cathegorie
des gibiers a plumes. C'est, lorsqu'elle est rouge, l'un des plus
honorables et desmeilleurs rotis qui puissent etre etales sur une table
gourmande. Sa forme appetissante, sa taille elegante et svelte, quoiqu'
arrondie, son embonpoint modere, ses jambes d'ecarlate; enfin, son fumet
divin et ses qualites restaurantes, tout concourt a la faire rechercher
des vrais amateurs. D'autres gibiers sont plus rares, plus chers, mieux
accueillis par la vanite, le prejuge, et la mode; la Perdrix rouge,
belle de sa propre beaute, dont les qualites sont independantes de la
fantaisie, qui reunit en sa personne tout ce qui peut charmer les yeux,
delecter Ie palais, stimuler l'appetit, et ranimer les forces, plaira
dans-tous les temps, et concourra a l'honneur de tous les festins, sous
quelque forme qu'elle y paroisse." [1]

[1] "Manuel des Amphitryons."

The Doctor sighed: "That's nothing to what he says of the woodcock:" and
with trembling hand she turned over the leaves, till he found the
place. "Here it is," said he, "page 88, chap. xvi. Just be so good as
read that, Lady Emily, and say whether it is not infamous that Monsieur
Grillade has never even attempted to make it."

With an air of melancholy enthusiasm she read--"Dans les pays ou les
Becasses sont communes, on obtient, de leurs carcasses pilees dans un
mortier, une puree sur laquelle on dresse diverses entrees, telles que
de petites cotelettes de mouton, etc. Cotte puree est l'une des plus
delicieuses choses qui puisse etre introduite dans Ie palais d'un
gourmand, et l'on peut assurer que quiconque n'en a point mange n'a
point connu les joies du paradis terrestre. Une puree de Becasse, bien
faite, est Ie _ne plus ultra_ des jouissances humaines. II faut mourir
apres l'avoir goutee, car toutes les autres alors ne paroitront plus
qu'insipides."

"And these _becasses,_ these woodcocks, perfectly swarm on the
Glenallan estate in the season," cried the Doctor; "and to think that
such a man should have been refused. But Miss Mary will repent this the
longest day she lives. I had a cook in my eye for them, too--one who is
quite up to the making of this _puree. _'Pon my soul! she
deserve to live upon sheep's head and haggis for the rest of her life;
and if I was Lady Juliana I would try the effect of bread and water."

"She certainly does not aspire to such joys as are here portrayed in
this _your_ book of life," said Lady Emily; "for I suspect she could
endure existence even upon roast mutton with the man she loves."

"That's nothing to the purpose, unless the man she loves, as you call it,
loves to live upon roast mutton too. Take my word for it, unless she
gives her husband good dinners he'll not care twopence for her in a
week's time. I look upon bad dinners to be the source of much of the
misery we hear of in the married life. Women are much mistaken if they
think it's by dressing themselves they are to please their husbands."

"Pardon me, Doctor, we must be the best judges there, and I have the
authority of all ages and sages in my favour: the beauty and the charms
of women have been the favourite theme, time immemorial; now no one ever
heard of a fair one being celebrated for her skill in cookery."

"There I beg leave to differ from you," said the Doctor, with an air of
exultation, again referring to his _text-book_--"here is the great
Madame Pompadour, celebrated for a single dish: 'Les tendrons d'agneau
au soleil et a la Pompadour, sont sortis de l'imagination de
cette dame celebre, pour entrer dans la bouche d'un roi."

"But it was Love that inspired her--it was Love that kindled the fire in
her imagination. In short, you must acknowledge that

"Love rules the court, the camp, the grove."

"I'll acknowledge no such thing," cried the Doctor, with indignation.
"Love rule the camp, indeed! A very likely story! Don't I know that all
our first generals carry off the best cooks--that there's no such living
anywhere as in camp--that their aides-de-camp are quite ruined by
it--that in time of war they live at the rate of twenty thousand a year,
and when they come home they can't get a dinner they can eat? As for the
court, I don't pretend to know much about it; but I suspect there's more
cooks than Cupids to be seen about it. And for the groves, I shall only
say I never heard of any of your _fetes champetre_, or picnics,
where all the pleasure didn't seem to consist in the eating and
drinking."

"Ah, Doctor, I perceive you have taken all your ideas on that subject
from Werter, who certainly was a sort of a sentimental _gourmand,_ he
seems to have enjoyed so much drinking his coffee under the shade of the
lime-trees, and going to the kitchen to take his own pease-soup; and
then he breaks out into such raptures at the idea of the illustrious
lovers of Penelope killing and dressing their own meat! Butchers and
cooks in one! only conceive them with their great knives and blue
aprons, or their spits and white nightcaps! Poor Penelope! no wonder she
preferred spinning to marrying one of these creatures! Faugh! I must
have an ounce of civet to sweeten my imagination." And she flew of,
leaving the Doctor to con over the "Manuel des Amphitryons," and sigh
at the mention of joys, sweet, yet mournful, to his soul.




CHAPTER XXVI.

"The ample proposition that hope makes
In all designs begun on earth below,
Fails in the promised largeness."

SHAKESPEARE.

THERE is no saying whether the Doctor's system might not have been
resorted to had not Lady Juliana's wrath been for the present suspended
by an invitation to Altamont House. True, nothing could be colder than
the terms in which it was couched; but to that her Ladyship was
insensible, and would have been equally indifferent had she known that,
such as it was, she owed it more to the obstinacy of her son-in-law than
the affection of her daughter. The Duke of Altamont was one of those who
attach great ideas of dignity to always carrying their point; and though
he might sometimes be obliged to suspend his plans, he never had been
known to relinquish them. Had he settled in his own mind to tie his
neckcloth in a particular way, not all the eloquence of Cicero or the
tears of O'Neil would have induced him to alter it; and Adelaide, the
haughty, self-willed Adelaide, soon found that, of all yokes, the most
insupportable is the yoke of an obstinate fool. In the thousand trifling
occurances of domestic life (for his Grace was interested in all the
minutiae of his establishment), where good sense and good humour on
either side would have gracefully yielded to the other, there was a
perpetual contest for dominion, which invariably ended in Adelaide's
defeat. The Duke, indeed, never disputed, or reasoned, or even replied;
but the thing was done; till, at the end of six weeks, the Duchess of
Altamont most heartily hated and despised the man she had so lately
vowed to love and obey. On the present occasion his Grace certainly
appeared in the most amiable light in wishing to have Lady Juliana
invited to his house; but in fact it proceeded entirely from his
besetting sin, obstinacy. He had propose her accompanying her daughter
at the time of her marriage, and been overruled; but with all the
pertinacity of a little mind he had kept fast hold of the idea, merely
because it was his own, and he was now determined to have it put in
execution. In a postscript to the letter, and in the same cordial style,
the Duchess said something of a hope, that _if_ her mother did come to
town, Mary should accompany her; but this her Ladyship, to Mary's great
relief, declared should not be, although she certainly was very much at
a loss how to dispose of her. Mary timidly expressed her wish to be
permitted to return to Lochmarlie, and mentioned that her uncle and aunt
had repeatedly offered to come to Bath for her, if she might be allowed
to accompany them home; but to this her mother also gave a decided
negative, adding that she never should see Lochmarlie again, if she
could help it. In short, she must remain where she was till something
could be fixed as to her future destination. "It was most excessively
tiresome to be clogged with a great unmarried daughter," her Ladyship
observed, as she sprang into the carriage with a train of dogs, and
drove off to dear delightful London.

But, alas! the insecurity of even the best-laid schemes of human
foresight! Lady Juliana was in the midst of arrangements for endless
pleasures, when she received accounts of the death of her now almost
forgotten husband! He had died from the gradual effects of the climate,
and that was all that remained to be told of the unfortunate Henry
Douglas! If his heartless wife shed some natural tears, she wiped them
soon; but the wounds of disappointment and vanity were not so speedily
effaced, as she contrasted the brilliant court-dress with the unbecoming
widow's cap. Oh, she so detested black things--it was so hateful to wear
mourning--she never could feel happy or comfortable in black! and, at
such a time, how particularly unfortunate! Poor Douglas! she was very
sorry! And so ended the holiest and most indissoluble of human ties!

The Duchess did not think it incumbent upon her to be affected by the
death of a person she had never seen; but she put on mourning; put off
her presentation at Court for a week, and stayed away one night from the
opera.

On Mary's warm and unpolluted heart the tidings of her father's death
produced a very different effect. Though she had never known, in their
fullest extent, those feelings of filial affection, whose source begins
with our being, and over which memory loves to linger, as at the
hallowed fount of the purest of earthly joys, she had _yet_ been taught
to cherish a fond remembrance of him to whom she owed her being. She had
been brought up in the land of his birth--his image was associated in
her mind with many of the scenes most dear to her--his name and his
memory were familiar to those amongst whom she dwelt, and thus her
feelings of natural affection had been preserved in all their genuine
warmth and tenderness. Many a letter, and many a little token of her
love, she had, from her earliest years, been accustomed to send him; and
she had ever fondly cherished the hope of her father's return, and that
she would yet know the happiness of being blest in a parent's love. But
now all these hopes were extinguished; and, while she wept over them in
bitterness of heart, she yet bowed with pious resignation to the decree
of heaven.




CHAPTER XXVII

"Shall we grieve their hovering shades,
Which wait the revolution in our hearts?
Shall we disdain their silent, soft address;
Their posthumous advice and pious prayer?"

YOUNG.

FOR some months all was peaceful seclusion in Mary's life, and the only
varieties she knew were occasional visits to Aunt Grizzy's, and now and
then spending some days with Mrs. Lennox. She saw with sorrow the
declining health of her venerable friend, whose wasted form and delicate
features had now assumed an almost ethereal aspect. Yet she never
complained, and it was only from her languor and weakness that Mary
guessed she suffered. When urged to have recourse to medical advice she
only smiled and shook her head; yet, ever gentle and complying to the
wishes of others, she was at length prevailed upon to receive the visits
of a medical attendant, and her own feelings were but too faithfully
confirmed by his opinion. Being an old friend of the family, he took
upon himself to communicate the intelligence to her son, then abroad
with his regiment; and in the meantime Mary took up her residence at
Rose Hall, and devoted herself unceasingly to the beloved friend she felt
she was so soon to lose.

"Ah! Mary," she would sometimes say, "God forgive me! but my heart is
not yet weaned from worldly wishes. Even now, when I feel all the vanity
of human happiness, I think how it would have soothed my last moments
could I have but seen you my son's before I left the world! Yet, alas!
our time here is so short that it matters little whether it be spent in
joy or grief, provided it be spent in innocence and virtue. Mine has
been a long life compared to many; but when I look back upon it, what a
span it seems! And it is not the remembrance of its brightest days that
are now a solace to my heart. Dearest Mary, if you live long, you will
live to think of the sad hours you have given me, as the fairest, of
perhaps, of many a happy day that I trust Heaven has yet in store for
you. Yes! God has made some whose powers are chiefly ordained to comfort
the afflicted, and in fulfilling His will you must surly be blest."

Copyright (c) 2007. knowncrafts.net. All rights reserved.