Book: Marriage

S >> Susan Edmonstone Ferrier >> Marriage




Mary listened to the half-breathed wishes of her dear old friend with
painful feelings of regret and self-reproach.

"Charles Lennox loved me," thought she, "truly, tenderly loved me; and
had I but repaid his noble frankness--had I suffered him to read my
heart when he laid his open before me, I might now have gladdened the
last days of the mother he adores. I might have proudly avowed that
affection I must now forever hide."

But at the end of some weeks Mrs. Lennox was no longer susceptible of
emotions either of joy or sorrow. She gradually sank into a state of
almost total insensibility, from which not even the arrival of her son
had power to rouse her. His anguish was extreme at finding his mother in
a condition so perfectly hopeless; and every other idea seemed, for the
present, absorbed in his anxiety for her. As Mary witnessed his watchful
cares and tender solicitude, she could almost have envied the
unconscious object of such devoted attachment.

A few days after his arrival his leave of absence was abruptly recalled,
and he was summoned to repair to headquarters with all possible
expedition. The army was on the move, and a battle was expected to be
fought. At such a time hesitation or delay, under any circumstances,
would have been inevitable disgrace; and, dreadful as was the
alternative, Colonel Lennox wavered not an instant in his resolution.
With a look of fixed agony, but without uttering a syllable, he put the
letter into Mary's hand as she sat by his mother's bedside, and then
left the room to order preparations to be made for his instant
departure. On his return Mary witnessed the painful conflict of his
feelings in his extreme agitation as he approached his mother, to look
for the last time on those features, already moulded into more than
mortal beauty. A bright ray of the setting sun streamed full upon that
face, now reposing in the awful but hallowed calm which is sometimes
diffused around the bed of death. The sacred stillness was only broken
by the evening song of the blackbird and the distant lowing of the
cattle--sounds which had often brought pleasure to that heart, now
insensible to all human emotion. All nature shone forth in gaiety and
splendour, but the eye and the ear were alike closed against all earthly
objects. Yet who can tell the brightness of those visions with which the
parting soul may be visited? Sounds and sights, alike unheard, unknown
to mortal sense, may then hold divine communion with the soaring spirit,
and inspire it with bliss inconceivable, ineffable!

Colonel Lennox gazed upon the countenance of his mother. Again and again
he pressed her inanimate hands to his lips, and bedewed them with his
tears, as about to tear himself from her for ever. At that moment she
opened her eyes, and regarded him with a look of intelligence, which
spoke at once to his heart. He felt that he was seen and known. Her look
was long and fondly fixed upon his face; then turned to Mary with an
expression so deep and earnest that both felt the instantaneous appeal.
The veil seemed to drop from their hearts; one glance sufficed to tell
that both were fondly, truly loved; and as Colonel Lennox received
Mary's almost fainting form in his arms, he knelt by his mother, and
implored her blessing on her children. A smile of angelic brightness
beamed upon her face as she extended her hand towards them, and her lips
moved as in prayer, though no sound escaped them. One long and lingering
look was given to those so dear even in death. She then raised her eyes
to heaven, and the spirit sought its native skies!




CHAPTER XXVIII.

"Cette liaison n'est ni passion ni amitie pure:
elle fait une classe a part." --LA BRUYERE

IT was long before Mary could believe in the reality of what had passed.
It appeared to her as a beautiful yet awful dream. Could it be that she
had plighted her faith by the bed of death; that the last look of her
departed friend had hallowed the vow now registered in heaven; that
Charles Lennox had claimed her as his own, even in the agony of tearing
himself from all he loved; and that she had only felt how dear she was
to him at the very moment when she had parted from him, perhaps for
ever? But Mary strove to banish these overwhelming thoughts from her
mind, as she devoted herself to the performance of the last duties to
her departed friend. These paid, she again returned to Beech Park.

Lady Emily had been a daily visitor at Rose Hall during Mrs. Lennox's
illness, and had taken a lively interest in the situation of the family;
but, notwithstanding, it was some time before Mary could so far subdue
her feelings as to speak with composure of what had passed. She felt,
too, how impossible it was by words to convey to her any idea of that
excitement of mind, where a whole life of ordinary feeling seems
concentrated in one sudden but ineffable emotion. All that had passed
might be imagined, but could not be told; and she shrank from the task
of portraying those deep and sacred feelings which language never could
impart to the breast of another.

Yet she felt it was using her cousin unkindly to keep her in ignorance
of what she was certain would give her pleasure to hear; and, summoning
her resolution, she at length disclosed to her all that had taken place.
Her own embarrassment was too great to allow her to remark Lady Emily's
changing colour, as she listened to her communication; and after it was
ended she remained silent for some minutes, evidently struggling with
her emotions.

At length she exclaimed indignantly--"And so it seems Colonel Lennox
and you have all this time been playing the dying lover and the cruel
mistress to each other? How I detest such duplicity! and duplicity with
me! My heart was ever open to you, to him, to the whole world; while
yours--nay, your very faces--were masked to me!"

Mary was too much confounded by her cousin's reproaches to be able to
reply to them for some time; and when she did attempt to vindicate
herself, she found it was in vain. Lady Emily refused to listen to
her; and in haughty displeasure quitted the room, leaving poor Mary
overwhelmed with sorrow and amazement.

There was a simplicity of heart, a singleness of idea in herself,
that prevented her from ever attaching suspicion to others. But a sort
of vague, undefined apprehension floated through her brain as she
revolved the extraordinary behaviour of her cousin. Yet, it was that
sort of feeling to which she could not give either a local habitation or
a name; and she continued for some time in that most bewildering state
of trying, yet not daring to think. Some time elapsed, and Mary's
confusion of ideas was increasing rather than diminishing, when Lady
Emily slowly entered the room, and stood some moments before her without
speaking.

At length, making an effort, she abruptly said--"Pray, Mary, tell
me what you think of me?"

Mary looked at her with surprise. "I think of you, my dear cousin, as I
have always done."

"That is no answer to my question. What do you think of my behaviour
just now?"

"I think," said Mary gently, "that if you have misunderstood me; that,
open and candid yourself, almost to a fault, you readily resent the
remotest appearance of duplicity in others. But you are too generous not
to do me justice--"

"Ah, Mary! how little do I appeal in my own eyes at this moment; and how
little, with all my boasting, have I known my own heart! No! It was not
because I am open and candid that I resented your engagement with
Colonel Lennox; it was because I was--because--cannot you guess?"

Mary's colour rose, as she cast down her eyes, and exclaimed with
agitation, "No-no, indeed!"

Lady Emily threw her arms around her:--"Dear Mary, you are perhaps the
only person upon earth I would make such a confession to--it was because
I, who had plighted my faith to another--I, who piqued myself upon my
openness and fidelity--I--how it chokes me to utter it! I was beginning
to love him myself!--only beginning, observe, for it is already over--I
needed but to be aware of my danger to overcome it. Colonel Lennox is
now no more to me than your lover, and Edward is again all that he ever
was to me; but I--what am I?--faithless and self-deceived!" and a few
tears dropped from her eyes.

Mary, too much affected to speak, could only press her in silence to her
heart.

"These are tears of shame, of penitence, though I must own they look
very like those of regret and mortification. What a mercy it is that
'the chemist's magic art' _cannot_ 'crystalise these sacred treasures,'"
said she with a smile, as she shook a tear-drop from her hand; "they are
gems I am really not at all fond of appearing in."

"And yet you never appeared to greater advantage," said Mary, as she
regarded her with admiration. "Ah! so you say; but there
is, perhaps, a little womanish feeling lurking there. And now you
doubtless expect--no, _you_ don't, but another would that I should begin
a sentimental description of the rise and progress of this ill-fated
attachment, as I suppose it would be styled in the language of romance;
but in truth I can tell you nothing at all about it."

"Perhaps Colonel Lennox," said Mary, blushing, and hesitating to name
her suspicion.

"No, no--Colonel Lennox was not to blame. There was no false play on
either side; he is as much above the meanness of coquetry, as--I must
say it--as I am. His thoughts were all along taken up with you, even
while he talked, and laughed, and quarrelled with me. While I, so strong
in the belief that worlds could not shake my allegiance to Edward, could
have challenged all mankind to win my love; and this wicked, wayward,
faithless heart kept silent till you spoke, and then it uttered such a
fearful sound! And yet I don't think it was love neither--'l'on n'aime
bien qu'une seule fois; c'est la premiere;'--it was rather a sort
of an idle, childish, engrossing sentiment, that _might_ have grown to
something stronger; but 'tis past now. I have shown you all the weakness
of my heart--despise me if you will."

"Dearest Lady Emily, had I the same skill to show the sentiments of
mine, you would there see what I cannot express--how I admire this noble
candour, this generous self-abasement--"

"Oh, as to meanly hiding my faults, that is what I scorn to do. I
may be ignorant of them myself, and in ignorance I may cherish them;
but, once convinced of them, I give them to the winds, and all who
choose may pick them up. Violent and unjust, and self-deceived, I have
been, and may be again; but deceitful I never was, and never will
be."

"My dear cousin, what might you not be if you chose!"

"Ah! I know what you mean, and I begin to think you are in the right;
by-and-bye, I believe, I shall come to be of your way of thinking (if
ever I have a daughter she certainly shall), but not just at present,
the reformation would be too sudden. All that I can promise for at
present is, that 'henceforth I will chide no breather in the world but
myself, against whom I know most faults;' and now, from this day, from
this moment, I vow--"

"No, I shall do it for you," said Mary, with a smile, as she threw her
arms around her neck; "henceforth

'The golden laws of love shall be
Upon this pillar hung;
A simple heart, a single eye,
A true and constant tongue.

'Let no man for more love pretend
Than he has hearts in store;
True love begun shall never end:
Love one, and love no more.'" [1]

[1] "Marquis of Montrose."

But much as Mary loved and admired her cousin, she could not be blind to
the defects of her character, and she feared they might yet be
productive of great unhappiness to herself. Her mind was open to the
reception of every image that brought pleasure along with it; while, in
the same spirit, she turned from everything that wore an air of
seriousness or self-restraint; and even the best affections of a
naturally good heart were borne away by the ardour of her feelings and
the impetuosity of her temper. Mary grieved to see the graces of a noble
mind thus running wild for want of early culture; and she sought by
every means, save those of lecture and admonition to lead her to more
fixed habits of reflection and self examination.

But it required all her strength of mind to turn her thoughts at this
time from herself to another--she, the betrothed of one who was now in
the midst of danger, of whose existence she was even uncertain, but on
whose fate she felt her own suspended.

"Oh!" thought she, with bitterness of heart, "how dangerous it is to
yield too much even to our best affections. I, with so many objects to
share in mine, have yet pledged my happiness on a being perishable as
myself!" And her soul sickened at the ills her fancy drew. But she
strove to repress this strength of attachment, which she felt would
otherwise become too powerful for her reason to control; and if she did
not entirely succeed, at least the efforts she made and the continual
exercise of mind enabled her in some degree to counteract the baleful
effects of morbid anxiety and overweening attachment. At length her
apprehensions were relieved for a time by a letter from Colonel Lennox.
An engagement with the enemy had taken place, but he had escaped unhurt.
He repeated his vows of unalterable affection; and Mary felt that she
was justified in receiving them. She had made Lady Juliana and Mrs.
Douglas both acquainted with her situation. The former had taken no
notice of the communication, but the latter had expressed her approval
in all the warmth and tenderness of gratified affection.




CHAPTER XXIX.

"Preach as I please, I doubt our curious men
Will choose a pheasant still before a hen."

HORACE.

AMONGST the various occupations to which Mary devoted herself, there was
none which merits to be recorded as a greater act of immolation than her
unremitting attentions to Aunt Grizzy. It wa not merely the sacrifice of
time and talents that was required for carrying on this intercourse;
these, it is to be hoped, even the most selfish can occasionally
sacrifice to the _bienseances_ of society; but it was, as it were, a
total surrender of her whole being. To a mind of any reflection no
situation can ever be very irksome in which we can enjoy the privileges
of sitting still and keeping silent--but as the companion of Miss Grizzy,
quiet and reflection were alike unattainable. When not engaged in
_radotage_ with Sir Sampson, her life was spent in losing her scissors,
mislaying her spectacles, wondering what had become of her thimble, and
speculating on the disappearance of a needle--all of which losses daily
and hourly recurring, subjected Mary to an unceasing annoyance, for she
could not be five minutes in her aunt's company without out being at
least as many times disturbed, with--"Mary, my dear, will you get up?--I
think my spectacles must be about you "--or, "Mary, my dear, your eyes
are younger than mine, will you look if you can see my needle on the
carpet?"--or, "Are you sure, Mary, that's not my thimble you have got?
It's very like it; and I'm sure I can't conceive what's become of mine,
if that's not it," etc. etc. etc. But her idleness was, if possible,
still more irritating than her industry. When she betook herself to the
window, it was one incessant cry of "Who's coach is that, Mary, with the
green and orange liveries? Come and look at this lady and gentleman,
Mary; I'm sure I wonder who they are! Here's something, I declare I'm
sure I don't know what you call it--come here, Mary, and see what it is
"--and so on _ad infinitum._ Walking was still worse. Grizzy not only
stood to examine every article in the shop windows, but actually turned
round to observe every striking figure that passed. In short, Mary could
not conceal from herself that weak vulgar relations are an evil to those
whose taste and ideas are refined by superior intercourse. But even this
discovery she did not deem sufficient to authorise her casting off or
neglecting poor Miss Grizzy, and she in no degree relaxed in her patient
attentions towards her.

Even the affection of her aunt, which she possessed in the highest
possible degree, far from being an alleviation, was only an additional
torment. Every meeting began with, "My dear Mary, how did you sleep last
night? Did you make a good breakfast this morning? I declare I think you
look a little pale. I'm sure I wish to goodness, you mayn't have got
cold--colds are going very much about just now--one of the maids in this
house has a very bad cold--I hope you will remember to bathe your feet
And take some water gruel to night, and do everything that Dr. Redgill
desires you, honest man!" If Mary absented herself for a day, her
salutation was, "My dear Mary, what became of you yesterday? I assure you
I was quite miserable about you all day, thinking, which was quite
natural, that something was the matter with you; and I declare I never
closed my eyes all night for thinking about you. I assure you if it had
not been that I couldn't leave Sir Sampson, I would have taken a hackney
coach, although I know what impositions they are, and have gone to Beech
Park to see what had come over you."

Yet all this Mary bore with the patience of a martyr, to the admiration
of Lady Maclaughlan and the amazement of Lady Emily, who declared she
could only submit to be bored as long as she was amused.

On going to Milsom Street one morning Mary found her aunt in high
delight at two invitations she had just received for herself and her
niece.

"The one," said she, "is to dinner at Mrs. Pullens's. You can't remember
her mother, Mrs. Macfuss, I daresay, Mary--she was a most excellent
woman, I assure you, and got all her daughters married. And I remember
Mrs. Pullens when she was Flora Macfuss; she was always thought very
like her mother and Mr. Pullens is a most worthy man, and very rich and
it was thought at the time a great marriage for Flora Macfuss, for she
had no money of her own, but her mother was a very clever woman, and a
most excellent manager; and I daresay so is Mrs. Pullens, for the
Macfusses are all famous for their management--so it will be a great
thing for you, you know, Mary, to be acquainted with Mrs. Pullens."

Mary was obliged to break in upon the eulogium on Mrs. Pullens by
noticing the other card. This was a subject for still greater
gratulation.

"This," said she, "is from Mrs. Bluemits, and it is for the same day
with Mrs. Pullens, only it is to tea, not to dinner. To be sure it will
be a great pity to leave Mrs. Pullens so soon; but then it would be
a great pity not to go to Mrs. Bluemits's; for I've never seen her, and
her aunt, Miss Shaw, would think it very odd if I was to go back to the
Highlands without seeing Nancy Shaw, now Mrs. Bluemits; and at any rate
I assure you we may think much of being asked, for she is a very clever
woman, and makes it a point never to ask any but clever people to her
house; so it's a very great honour to be asked."

It was an honour Mary would fain have dispensed with. At another time
she might have anticipated some amusement from such parties, but at
present her heart was not tuned to the ridiculous, and she attempted to
decline the invitations, and get her aunt to do the same; but she gave
up the point when she saw how deeply Grizzy's happiness for the time
being was involved in these invitations, and she even consented to
accompany her, conscious, as Lady Maclaughlan said, that the poor
creature required a leading string, and was not fit to go alone. The
appointed day arrived, and Mary found herself in company with Aunt
Grizzy at the mansion of Mr. Pullens, the fortunate husband of the
_ci-devant_ Miss Flora Macfuss; but as Grizzy is not the best of
biographers, we must take the liberty of introducing this lady to the
acquaintance of our reader.

The domestic economy of Mrs. Pullens was her own theme, and the theme of
all her friends; and such was the zeal in promulgating her doctrines,
and her anxiety to see them carried into effect, that she had
endeavoured to pass it into a law that no preserves could be eatable but
those preserved in her method; no hams could be good but those cured
according to her receipt; no liquors drinkable but such as were made
from the results of her experience; neither was it possible that any
linens could be white, or any flannels soft, or any muslins clear,
unless after the manner practised in her laundry. By her own account she
was the slave of every servant within her door, for her life seemed to
be one unceasing labour to get everything done in her own way, to the
very blacking of Mr. Pullens's shoes, and the brushing of Mr. Pullens's
coat. But then these heroic acts of duty were more than repaid by the
noble consciousness of a life well spent. In her own estimation she was
one of the greatest characters that had ever lived; for, to use her own
words, she passed nothing over--she saw everything done herself--she
trusted nothing to servants, etc. etc. etc.

From the contemplation of these her virtues her face had acquired an
expression of complacency foreign to her natural temper; for, after
having scolded and slaved in the kitchen, she sat down to taste the
fruits of her labours with far more elevated feelings of conscious
virtue than ever warmed the breast of a Hampden or a Howard; and when
she helped Mr. Pullens to pie, made not by the cook, but by herself, it
was with an air of self-approbation that might have vied with that of
the celebrated Jack Horner upon a similar occasion. In many cases there
might have been merit in Mrs. Pullens's doings---a narrow income, the
capricious taste of a sick or a cross husband, may exalt the meanest
offices which woman can render into acts of virtue, and even diffuse a
dignity around them; but Mr. Pullens was rich and good-natured, and
would have been happy had his cook been allowed to dress his dinner, and
his barber his wig, quietly in their own way. Mrs. Pullens, therefore,
only sought the indulgence of her own low inclinations in thus
interfering in every menial department; while, at the same time, she
expected all the gratitude and admiration that would have been due to
the sacrifice of the most refined taste and elegant pursuits.

But "envy does merit as its shade pursue," as Mrs Pullens experienced,
for she found herself assailed by a host of housekeepers who attempted
to throw discredit on her various arts. At the head of this association
was Mrs. Jekyll, whose arrangements were on a quite contrary plan. The
great branch of science on which Mrs. Pullens mainly relied for fame was
her unrivalled art in keeping things long beyond the date assigned by
nature; and one of her master-strokes was, in the middle of summer, to
surprise a whole company with gooseberry tarts made of gooseberries of
the preceding year; and her triumph was complete when any of them were
so polite as to assert that they might have passed upon them for the
fruits of the present season. Another art in which she flattered herself
she was unrivalled was that of making things pass for what they were
not; thus, she gave pork for lamb--common fowls for turkey
poults--currant wine for champagne--whisky with peach leaves for noyau;
but all these deceptions Mrs. Jekyll piqued herself immediately
detecting, and never failed to point out the difference, and in the
politest manner to hint her preference of the real over the spurious.
Many were the wonderful morsels with which poor Mr. Pullens was regaled,
but he had now ceased to be surprised at anything that appeared on his
own table; and he had so often heard the merit of his wife's
housekeeping extolled by herself that, contrary to his natural
conviction, he now began to think it must be true; or if he had
occasionally any little private misgivings when he thought of the good
dinners he used to have in his bachelor days, he comforted himself by
thinking that his lot was the lot of all married men who are blest with
active, managing, economical wives. Such were Mr. and Mrs. Pullens; and
the appearance of the house offered no inadequate idea of the
mistress. The furniture was incongruous, and everything was
ill-matched--for Mrs. Pullens was a frequenter of sales, and, like many
other liberal-minded ladies, never allowed a bargain to pass, whether she
required the articles or not. Her dress was the same; there was always
something to wonder at; caps that had been bought for nothing, because
they were a little soiled, but by being taken down and washed, and new
trimmed, turned out to be just as good as new gowns that had been dyed,
turned, cleaned, washed, etc.; and the great triumph was when nobody
could tell the old breadth from the new.

The dinner was of course bad, the company stupid, and the conversation
turned solely upon Mrs. Pullens's exploits, with occasional attempts of
Mrs. Jekyll to depreciate the merits of some of her discoveries. At
length the hour of departure arrived, to Mary's great relief, as she
thought any change must be for the better. Not so Grizzy, who was
charmed and confounded by all she had seen, and heard, and tasted, and
all of whose preconceived ideas on the subjects of washing, preserving,
etc., had sustained a total _bouleversement,_ upon hearing of the
superior methods practised by Mrs. Pullens.

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