It was a beautiful idea of Plato, and not at all an unchristian idea,
that the sins which people have committed during life, and which in
this case were termed _manes_, had an existence after death, and were
the instruments for punishing those who had committed them--the worm
that dieth not, and the fire that cannot be quenched. But had Plato
seen into the bosom of Lord Dewry, he would have perceived that his
theory might be carried a little further; and that the sins and
passions do not wait till we are dead in order to torment their
authors, but punish them even in this world, not alone in their
consequences, but by their very existence. After having laboured
_manibus pedibusque_ to render every member of his sister's household
as uncomfortable as possible, the noble lord sunk back in his
carriage, with his frame exhausted and his whole heart on fire
with that flaming up of painful memories and violent passions
which the occurrences we have related had excited. Unfortunately,
however, it happens in the wonderful arrangement of this our earthly
dwelling-place, that here our evil qualities not only torment
ourselves, but others also; and the noble lord might have consoled
himself with the certainty that he had, for the time at least,
destroyed much tranquillity, and turned joy into bitterness.
Of all who suffered on the occasion, Marian de Vaux perhaps suffered
most. Mrs. Falkland, for her part, had been very much offended, but
she respected her brother too little to permit his ill temper or
rudeness to produce any lasting effect upon her. Edward de Vaux
believed that his father's present mood would not be long ere it
yielded to circumstances; and Colonel Manners, though of course
considerably annoyed by what had taken place between Lord Dewry and
himself, was not aware of what had passed afterward; and consequently
did not enter, as he would otherwise have done most feelingly, into
the uncomforts of Mrs. Falkland and his friend De Vaux. But with
Marian the matter was different. She knew nothing of all the
occurrences of the morning: she had seen her uncle retire on the
preceding night, apparently dropping his dispute with Colonel Manners;
and she never, for a moment, connected his extraordinary conduct of
that day with the disagreement of the preceding evening.
In almost all cases of apprehension and uncertainty, the human mind
has a natural tendency to connect the occurrence of the moment,
whatever it may be, with the principal object of our wishes and our
feelings at the time. It matters not whether the two things be as
distinct and distant as the sun is from the moon; association in an
instant spins a thousand gossamer threads between them, forming a
glistening sort of spider-like bridge, scarcely discernible to other
people's eyes, but fully strong enough for fancy to run backwards and
forwards upon for ever.
Thus, then, was it with poor Marian de Vaux. It had been settled that
her marriage with her cousin was to take place on the day she became
of age--that is to say, in about three weeks. Now, whether she was
pleased with the arrangement or not, we do not at all intend to say;
but she had made up her mind to it completely; and the first thing
that Lord Dewry's broken sentences suggested to her mind was, that
some difficulty had occurred in regard to her union with Edward, and
that his father had withdrawn the consent he had been before so
willing to give.
When Lord Dewry left her, she was as pale as death; and though before
she reached the breakfast-room the colour had come back into her
cheek, yet all her former ideas were so completely scattered to the
four winds of heaven, that she felt it would be absolutely necessary
to think what her own conduct, under such circumstances, ought to be,
before she met any of the party; and especially before she met her
cousin Edward, as towards him, of course, the regulation of her
behaviour was most important. She turned, then, as we have before
said, to the music-room, and entering it ere she perceived that any
one was in it, found herself there alone with no other than Edward de
Vaux.
Whether he had gone there purposely or accidentally--from a habit
which some people have, of returning to take a look at places where
they have spent happy moments, or from a sort of presentiment that he
might find Marian there, we have no means of judging; but on her part
the meeting certainly was unexpected, and being such, it would hardly
be fair to look narrowly into her manner of receiving her lover's
first salutation, which salutation was sufficiently warm.
As soon as she recollected herself, however, she turned at once to the
subject of her thoughts. "But, Edward," she said, "this is a most
unfortunate occurrence--in regard to your father, I mean."
"Most unfortunate, indeed!" replied De Vaux, looking grave
immediately.
"But tell me what it is all about, Edward," rejoined his cousin. "I do
not understand your father's conduct. Do explain it to me!"
"I do not understand it either, my dear Marian," answered De Vaux;
"his conduct is quite inexplicable."
The tears would fain have run away over Marian de Vaux's cheeks; but
she shut the gates in time, and only one straggler made its escape
into the court of her eyes, unable to get farther. Her cousin did not
see one-half of what was going on in the fair tabernacle of her bosom;
but he saw that she was much distressed, and endeavoured to sooth her
with the same assurances wherewith he made his own mind easy in regard
to his father's conduct. "Nay, nay, dearest Marian!" he said, "do not
distress yourself about this business, unfortunate as it is. The
principal part of my father's present heat in the affair will pass
away, for a great share is mere passion. I cannot however flatter
myself into believing that his dislike will ever entirely subside,
because, as you know, he is not a man who changes easily in such
matters; but all his violence and his threatenings will die away and
end in nothing."
Marian, who had now recovered from her first emotion, paused, and
looked pensively upon the ground; but while her bosom seemed as calm
as monumental marble, there was a sad struggle going on within.
"Edward!" said she, at length, "we cannot tell what may be your
father's ultimate conduct; but, indeed, I think, that while his
present objection--or, as you call it, dislike--continues, we ought
certainly to delay our marriage."
"Good God, Marian!" exclaimed Edward de Vaux, in utter astonishment:
"in the name of heaven, my beloved, what has my father's dislike to
Colonel Manners to do with our union?"
"His dislike to Colonel Manners!" said Marian, blushing a good deal as
she began to perceive her mistake, and comprehended at a glance that
the clearing up of the matter might make an _expose_ of her inmost
thoughts that for reasons of her own she did not desire. "His dislike
to Colonel Manners! Oh, is that all! His words and conduct towards me
just now, made me think that his dislike was to me, Edward, and to our
union."
"And did the thought give you so much pain, Marian?" said De Vaux,
somewhat anxiously.
But Marian de Vaux had by this time completely mastered her agitation,
and she answered in her usual quiet sweet tone: "Of course it gave me
great pain, Edward, to think that I had lost my uncle's regard, and
great pain to think that the consequences might pain you. But tell me,
was it really nothing more than his dispute with Colonel Manners which
made your father's conduct so very strange?"
"Nothing more, I can assure you," answered her lover; "but you know
that my father, when he bursts forth into one of these fits of
passion, is like Don Quixote at the puppet-show, and deals his blows
to the right and left upon all things, whether they have offended him
or not."
"Hush, hush, Edward!" cried Marian, "he is your father, remember."
De Vaux coloured slightly, and indeed he had not got to the end of his
speech ere he had found that he had better have left it unsaid; for,
notwithstanding his general fastidiousness, and a certain degree of
bitter that mingled with his views of other people, he had too much
taste to find any pleasure in pointing out the faults or follies of
his near relations. He might feel them a little too sensitively, it is
true; but he seldom made them the subject of his conversation; and he
was now vexed, both that he had done so at all, and that Marian had
been the person to whom he had done it.
Thus, Edward de Vaux was a little out of humour with himself, and, as
a matter of course, he soon found cause to be dissatisfied with
others; for the human mind--to which nothing is so burdensome as
self-reproach of any kind--is always glad to cast a part of its load
upon the shoulders of other people. The first thing, then, that, upon
reflecting rapidly over the moments just passed, Edward de Vaux found
to be discontented with, was the manner in which Marian had spoken of
delaying their union; and once having started this idea, he hunted it
up and down through all the chambers and passages of his mind, like a
boy after a mouse. "Their marriage seemed to her a matter of great
indifference," he thought; and then he went onto persuade himself that
her love for him was of a very calm and tranquil character compared
with his for her. Indeed, it seemed little more than indifference, he
fancied, or at best _sisterly affection_; and at the very thought of
such a thing as _sisterly affection_, the spirit of Edward de Vaux
sprang up as if a serpent had crossed his path, although his person
remained perfectly calm, with his arm resting on the harpsichord, and
his fingers twisting some of the strings of the harp. One of the
strings breaking, with a sharp twang, called the spirit suddenly back
again; and he found himself standing abstractedly before his fair
cousin; while she looked upon him with a smile, which seemed to say,
"I could triumph, if I would! but it is not in my nature."
Now, Edward de Vaux, though he read the smile, and read it aright,
which is not always done in that difficult language of which it was
one of the hieroglyphics, was all the more puzzled when he had done.
But the fact is, that women's eyes, in matters of love, seem to be not
eyes but microscopes; and Marian had traced the whole fine progress of
Edward's thoughts and feelings, through every turning and winding, as
accurately as if he had laid them all open before her with his own
free will. Then, connecting the result with some foregone conclusions
in her own mind, the combination produced a smile, being, as we before
said, the equivalent sign, in the language mentioned, of the words, "I
could triumph, if I would! but it is not in my nature." There was,
however, a little mental reservation, perhaps, in regard to the
triumph, inasmuch as she reserved unto herself entire right and
privilege of triumphing hereafter, in case she should find it
necessary and expedient to do so.
The time occupied in reading the smile, together with the beauty of
the smile itself, and the exceeding loveliness of the lips on which it
rested, all tended to get the better of the demon in the heart of De
Vaux, and to make him feel, that as he loved her beyond anything on
earth, he must try to content himself with obtaining her upon her own
terms. Having come to this conclusion, it was natural enough that he
should seek to linger out the time with her alone; but Marian felt
that if she did stay at that moment, she might be obliged to triumph
in the way she wished not to do, or to explain her smile without
triumphing at all, which was still more disagreeable. She therefore
determined to retreat to the breakfast-room, in which she was sure of
finding allies; and which--as her apprehensions in regard to Lord
Dewry's disapprobation, and the consequent emotion, had now been
dissipated--she was no longer afraid of entering.
De Vaux would fain have detained her, pleading that he had had no
opportunity of conversing with her alone since his return, and urging
all those little arguments which we leave to imagination. Marian,
however, resisted with fortitude; and her lover, forced to content
himself with a promise to take a long ramble with him after breakfast,
as they had done in the days of their early youth, led her to the
breakfast-room, where they found the rest of the party assembled, and
conversing with as much ease and cheerfulness as if nothing had
occurred to disturb the tranquillity of the morning.
"Well, Edward," said Mrs. Falkland, "your father would not stay
longer; and I forbore to press him," she added, with a little
pardonable hypocrisy, "as I know that he has a good deal of business
on his hands; and when he is determined on any point, it is vain to
try to move him." As she spoke, she looked for an instant towards
Colonel Manners, to give more meaning to her words in her nephew's
ears than the words themselves imported.
"I saw my father myself, my dear aunt," replied De Vaux: "he was with
me in my room for half an hour, and explained the necessity of his
departure."
Colonel Manners could have smiled; but he thought it best to follow
the lead that had been given, and to appear ignorant of anything else
having taken place, though, of course, he felt internally convinced
that his unfortunate dispute with De Vaux's father had been the cause
of that nobleman's sudden and abrupt departure. "I think your father
mentioned last night," he said, in pursuance of this plan, "that he
was going to Dimden, did he not, De Vaux? Does it belong to your
family?"
"It always has done so," replied his friend: "it is here, very
near--but a few miles off; but it is not kept up as I think it should
be. My father always resides at the other house; and seems to have so
strong an aversion to Dimden, that, not contented with not living
there, he lets it fall somewhat to decay."
"I must make you take me there some morning," answered Colonel
Manners; "I have heard that it contains a fine collection of
pictures."
"Fine, I believe, but small," answered De Vaux, delighted to fancy
that his friend had totally forgotten the dispute of the night before,
and was ignorant of any fresh discomfort which had been produced by
that morning; "fine, I believe, but small--but I do not understand
anything about pictures."
"Nay, nay, Edward, do not say that," exclaimed Miss Falkland. "Do you
not love everything that is beautiful and fine in nature? have you not
an eye to mark every shade and every line that is worth looking at in
a landscape? and do you call that not understanding pictures? I have
seen you and Marian find out a thousand beautiful little tints and
touches, and lights and shades, in a view that I had generalized most
vulgarly."
Colonel Manners and Mrs. Falkland smiled; and perhaps both might have
said, had they spoken their thoughts, "It was because your two cousins
were in love, fair lady, and you were not!" They left the matter
unexplained, however, contenting themselves with thinking that Isadore
might, some time, learn the secret of finding out new beauties in a
view; and De Vaux answered in his own style, "Still, Isadore, I know
nothing about pictures, depend upon it. I cannot talk of _breadth_,
and _handling_ and _chiar' oscuro_, and _juice_, and _ordonnance_."
"Except when you mean a park of artillery, De Vaux," said Colonel
Manners; "but, if I understand you rightly, you can see and feel the
beauties of a picture as well as any one, though you cannot talk the
jargon of a connoisseur about it."
"Perhaps that is what I do mean," answered his friend; "but I believe
the truth is, Manners, that you and I are both far behind in the
elegant charlatanism of dilettanteship. Why, I have heard a man go on
by the hour with the _copia fandi_ of a Cicero about a picture, the
beauties of which he no more understood than the frame in which it was
placed. These men's minds are like a yard measure, a thing on which a
multitude of figures are written down, without the slightest use till
they are properly applied by some one else. When I am seeing anything
fine, heaven deliver me from the proximity of a walking dictionary of
technical terms!"
"They are very useful things in their way, Edward," answered Isadore;
"and only think, if these men can be so eloquent about things that
they do not feel, solely upon the strength of their jargon, how much
more eloquent you, who do feel them, would be, if you had the jargon
too."
She spoke jestingly; but De Vaux, whose spleen had been somewhat
excited, answered quickly, "I do not know, Isadore--I do not know. I
very often think that a great acquaintance with the jargon of art
tends to destroy the feeling for it. I have heard of a great critic,
who, on viewing the Apollo of Belvidere, declared that had the lip
been a hair's breadth longer, the god would have been lost. This was
all very connoisseurish and very true, no doubt; but, depend upon it,
that man felt the beauties of the immortal statue a thousand times
more, whose only exclamation on seeing it was, 'Good God!' I would
rather have the fresh feelings of even ignorance itself than the
tutored and mechanical taste that measures the cheek-bones of a Venus,
gauges the depth of colour in a Claude, or feels the edges of a book
instead of looking into the inside."
"Yes, but consider, Edward," said Marian, who since she entered the
room had been sitting silent at the breakfast-table, "it surely does
not follow that because we understand a thing well, we lose our first
and natural taste for it. If I could paint like Claude or Poussin, I
surely should not take less pleasure in a beautiful landscape."
"NO, Marian," exclaimed Miss Falkland, well knowing that De Vaux would
not support his sarcasms very vigorously against his cousin, "no; but,
depend upon it, no one who could paint like Claude or Poussin would
talk like a connoisseur."
"Perhaps," said Colonel Manners, "knowledge of all kinds may be like
the fabled cup, whose influence entirely depended upon those who drank
from it--to some it was death, to others immortal life; wisdom to
some, and foolishness to others. And thus I should think a great
acquaintance with any art, in some instances--where the taste was good
and the mind was strong--would refine the taste and give humility to
the mind, by showing what an unfathomable mine of undiscovered things
every study presents; while in other cases--where the taste was null
and the mind weak--the result would be the vanity of ill-digested
knowledge, and an idle gabble of unmeaning terms."
"And how often would the latter be the case when compared with the
former?" said De Vaux. "Answer me, my dear colonel."
"I am afraid, indeed, nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a
thousand," replied Colonel Manners: "and what, I must confess, is
worse still, the proportion of those who would bow to the vanity of
ill-digested knowledge, and give implicit credit to the gabble of
unmeaning terms, would be still greater; while taste, and genius, and
mind would be forced to content themselves with the poor thousandth
part of those whom they addressed."
"Then how is it, Colonel Manners," said Marian, "that we are told that
what is really good has always ultimate success, notwithstanding this
terrific array of folly against it?"
"Because truth is permanent in its very essence; and falsehood--of
every kind, as well false tastes as false statements--is evanescent,"
replied Colonel Manners. "Such is, I suppose, the broad reason; but,
to examine it more curiously, we shall find the progress of the thing
somewhat amusing: for even the ultimate establishment of truth and
wisdom is, in a great measure, owing to the voice of the false and
foolish. Here is a fine picture or a fine statue, of that chaste but
not attractive kind which ensures the admiration of those who can feel
beauty, but does not win the attention of the crowd. A man without
taste sees a man of taste gazing at it; hears him praise its beauties;
and, as there is nothing so servile or so vain as folly, instantly
affects to perceive the beauties which he never saw, and goes forth
to trumpet them as things of his own discovery. Others come to see,
and, as one fool will never be outdone by another, each sings its
praises in the same vociferous tone, each gains his little stock of
self-complacency from praising what others praise, and the reputation
of the thing is established."
"Unless," said De Vaux, "one of the learned fools we were talking
of should step in; and as his vanity is always of the pugnacious
kind--the vanity that will lead, instead of being led--he of course
condemns what others have been praising; declares that the statue has
no contour--that the picture wants breadth, force, chiar' oscuro. All
the others cry out that it is evident it does so; wonder they could
have admired it; and poor patient merit is kicked back into the
shade."
"But still, the same process takes place again," rejoined Colonel
Manners. "The learned fool and his generation die off; but still, the
merit of the thing remains till some one again rescues it from
oblivion, and its reputation is finally established."
"Indeed, now, Colonel Manners," said Mrs. Falkland, "I think that you
have admitted Marian's maxim with too little limitation. That what is
really good may always have ultimate success, is true, undoubtedly,
when spoken of transcendent merit or of superexcellent qualities; but
this transcendent merit only appears once, perhaps, in a century;
and the world shows that, in the great mass of worldly things, the
every-day virtues, the every-day exertions, the every-day characters
which surround us in this busy existence, virtue and merit are not
always ultimately successful. The religious, the political, the
scientific charlatan often carries all before him; while the man of
modest talent and unassuming virtue plods on his way unnoticed, and
dies forgotten. So much, indeed, is this the case, that do not we
daily see that many a shrewd man of real talent feels obliged to mix a
little charlatanism with his other qualities for the sake of ensuring
success? If Marian had said that things which are intrinsically
immortal--which have in themselves inherent permanence--must have
ultimate success when they are really good, and condemnation when
they are bad, I would have granted it at once; but in all lesser
things--and the world is made up of them--I sincerely believe that
success depends upon accident or impudence."
Colonel Manners smiled, and abandoned, or at least modified, his
theory, admitting that Mrs. Falkland was right; for he was one of
those men who, having generally reason on their side, can be candid
without fear. But there was also something more than this in his
candour: it sprung from his heart--it was a part of his character; and
though it may seem unnatural to the greater part of mankind, it is no
less a fact, that he was so great a lover of truth that, when once he
was convinced, he never dreamed of contending against his conviction.
He therefore gave up the position, that merit would always be
ultimately successful, limiting it according to Mrs. Falkland's
showing.
Isadore added, that she thought it must be so, and would be sorry to
believe it otherwise, as the occasional separation of virtue and
success in this world afforded to her mind one of the strongest
corroborative assurances of a future state. De Vaux laughed at her,
and called her a little philosopher, and the conversation branched off
to other things.
Breakfast is a meal at which one loves to linger. The daylight and the
wide world have all, more or less, an idea of labour attached to them;
and though that labour be of the lightest kind, there is still a
feeling in going forth after breakfast that we are about to take our
share of the original curse; which feeling inclines man naturally to
linger over the tea and coffee, and saunter to the window, or look
into the fire, or play with the knife and fork for a few minutes more
than is positively required. What between one oral occupation or
another, then, the party at Mrs. Falkland's breakfast-table contrived
to pass an hour very pleasantly. Colonel Manners, when all had risen,
bestowed five minutes more upon the long window--while Isadore and her
mother, De Vaux and Marian, held separate councils on the future
proceedings of the day--and then retired to his own room, to write a
note of business to some of his people in London. He had not long been
gone when the fat and venerable servant, whom we have called Peter,
entered the room, bearing a note, which, with much respectful
ceremony, he delivered over to the hands of Miss De Vaux. Marian
turned a little red and a little pale; and, had a jealous husband seen
her receive that billet, he might have begun to suspect one whose
every thought was pure; but the truth was, that poor Marian had
instantly recognised her uncle's hand; and as her last ideas in
respect to him had not been very pleasant, she was afraid that the new
ones about to be called up by his note might be still more
disagreeable. Without pausing to examine the scrawl upon the back,
which implied her name, she broke the seal, and read. As she did so, a
gentle smile and a softer suffusion stole over her face; but then she
became more grave, then looked vexed, and then handed the paper to
Mrs. Falkland, saying, "Do read it, my dear aunt; my uncle is both
very kind and very unkind; but, indeed, it concerns you and Edward a
great deal more than it does me."
Mrs. Falkland took the letter and read it, the substance of which was
to the following effect:--In the first place, the noble lord began by
expressing more affection for Marian de Vaux than he had ever been
known to express for man, woman, or child before in his existence. He
next went on to say, that there was nothing on earth which had ever
given him so much pleasure as the prospect of his son's marriage with
her on whom he had been showering such praises: it was the solacing
idea of his old age, he said, and the compensating joy for many a past
sorrow. He then declared that he had hoped to be much with Edward and
Marian during the days that were to intervene ere their marriage could
be celebrated, and to have witnessed the ceremony as the most joyful
and satisfactory one that he could ever behold; and next came the real
object and substance-matter of the whole; for he concluded by
expressing his bitter disappointment at not being able to do so, from
the circumstance of a man who had so grossly insulted him as Colonel
Manners had done, continuing in his sister's house, as her honoured
guest and his son's bosom friend. Marian would understand, he said,
that it was impossible for him to present himself again at
Morley-house while Colonel Manners was there, without loss of dignity
and honour; but he nevertheless besought her to let every thing
proceed as if he were present; and he added a desire to see her as
soon after her marriage as possible.
While Mrs. Falkland, and then Edward de Vaux, read the letter in turn,
Marian kept her eyes fixed on the ground. The fact is, however, that
there was much in her uncle's letter to pain her, as well as to
gratify her; and she would even willingly have sacrificed the
gratifying part, if by so doing she could have done away the painful.
It was very unpleasant, in the first place, to be pressed by
assurances of affection and kindness to commit a gross injustice for
the gratification of the person expressing that affection; and it was
not a little disagreeable to think of her marriage to Lord Dewry's son
taking place without his father's presence and countenance. Women of
the finest minds and the justest feelings will think of what the world
will say; and God forbid they ever should not. Marian de Vaux,
therefore, thought of what the world would say, in regard to Lord
Dewry being absent from her wedding; and she could not help feeling
that the comments of all her kind acquaintances would be painful,
both to her pride and her delicacy. All this was passing in her mind,
while her eyes were busy with a pair of nondescripts on the damask
table-cloth: but let it be clearly understood, that she never did
Colonel Manners the wrong to wish that he should go, on account of any
pain that she herself might suffer. She wished, indeed, that her uncle
would be more just, more placable, more generous; but she felt clearly
where the fault lay, and she never turned her eyes in the other
direction. Mrs. Falkland appreciated Marian's feelings in almost all
cases; but at present she estimated to the full all that would be
distressing to her niece in the conduct of her brother, and thought,
perhaps, that Marian might be more affected by it than she really
was. "My dear Marian," she said, "this is very disagreeable for us
all, and must be very painful to you, my sweet girl, in particular.
Nevertheless we must do justice to ourselves. Were it any thing like a
sacrifice of mere pleasure, we might and would willingly do a great
deal to satisfy your uncle, and remove the unpleasant load he casts
upon us; but this is a matter of right and wrong, in which he is
decidedly in the wrong; and to yield to him would not only be
dishonourable to ourselves, but seems to me quite impossible. The
demeanour of Colonel Manners to me and mine has been every thing
that I could desire, and is in every respect accordant with his
well-established character, as a most gallant soldier and accomplished
gentleman; and I can neither suffer the whims nor the ill-temper of
any person, however near the relationship, to alter my conduct in such
a case. What do you say, Edward?
"I agree with you entirely, my dear aunt," he replied, "and so I told
my father this morning. Holding Manners, as I do, to be most nobly in
the right, I cannot suffer either my opinion of him, or my behaviour
towards him, to be changed by the sudden dislike of even my parent."
"And let me say, Edward, a most capricious and Lord Dewry-ish dislike
it is--though he be your father and my uncle," added Miss Falkland.
"What can he find to dislike in Colonel Manners? He is not beautiful,
it is true: but he saved your life at the risk of his own; he nursed
you in sickness; he was your companion in danger, and your friend at
all times; so that if any one loved him, it should be your father.
Besides, could any one have made himself more agreeable than he has
done since he has been here? What pretence does Lord Dewry think mamma
could have for turning such a man out of her house, when she had so
lately invited him in the most pressing terms?"
"Oh, of course, that is quite out of the question," said Mrs.
Falkland, smiling at her fair daughter's enthusiasm; "though I cannot
help thinking, Edward, that your father's design, in that letter, was
to make us do so, by rendering the contrary so disagreeable to us."
"If it were so, he will alter his behaviour," replied De Vaux, "when
he finds that we cannot follow such a course; and I am sure you think
with me, my dear aunt, that the only plan we can pursue is, to do as
he bids us in his note, and proceed as if he were present."
"Most certainly," replied Mrs. Falkland: "do you not think so too,
Marian?"
"Oh yes, Marian does," cried Isadore Falkland; "I am sure she does."
"I am afraid we must do so," answered Marian, smiling somewhat sadly;
"but, at all events, my dear aunt, I had better write to my uncle, and
I will try to persuade him to change his determination."
"Do so, my dear girl," replied her aunt; "though I am afraid you will
find it in vain."
Marian sat down and wrote, and put as much gentle sweetness into her
note as would have gone far to soften any other man upon earth. She
said not a word in regard to Colonel Manners, his quarrel with her
uncle, or her own feelings on the subject: but she expressed to Lord
Dewry how deeply gratified she was by his tenderness and affection;
how ardently she hoped to retain it when she should become the wife of
his son. She then went on to tell him, in language that came rushing
from her heart, how bitterly painful it would be to her, if he
continued the same determination of not being present at her marriage;
and she entreated, with persuasions that none but woman could have
written, that he would yield his resolution in this respect. In the
whole course of her letter--though it was as artless as any collection
of words that ever was penned--there was not one syllable that could
offend the pride, or the vanity, or the feelings of her uncle--not one
that could afford anger or irritation the least footing to rest upon.
Had it been calculated upon the most experienced view of all the
follies and passions of human nature, it could not have been better
constructed; and yet, as we have said, it was as artless a composition
as ever was penned: but the secret was, that it came from a fine, a
gentle, and a sensitive mind.
And now, while she folds, seals, and addresses it, with neat and
careful hand, and gives it to the servant to be sent off immediately,
we shall take the liberty of turning to another part of the subject,
and treating of the person whose presence was the point of difficulty.