CHAPTER XXXIV.

"Having a tongue rough as a cat, and biting like an adder, and all their

reproofs are direct scoldings, their common intercourse is open

contumely."--JEREMY TAYLOR.

"THOUGH last, not least of nature's works, I must now introduce you to a

friend of mine," said Mr. Douglas, as, the Bailie having made his bow,

they bent their steps towards the Castle Hill. "Mrs. Violet Macshake is

an aunt of my mother's, whom you must often have heard of, and the last

remaining branch of the noble race of Girnachgowl."

"I am afraid she is rather a formidable person, then?" said Mary.

Her uncle hesitated. "No, not formidable--only rather particular, as all

old people are; but she is very good-hearted."

"I understand, in other words, she is very disagreeable. All

ill-tempered people, I observe, have the character of being

good-hearted; or else all good people are ill-tempered, I can't tell

which."

"It is more than reputation with her," said Mr. Douglas, somewhat

angrily: "for she is, in reality, a very good-hearted woman, as I

experienced when a boy at college. Many a crown piece and half-guinea I

used to get from her. Many a scold, to be sure, went along with them;

but that, I daresay, I deserved. Besides, she is very rich, and I am her

reputed heir; therefore gratitude and self-interest combine to render her

extremely amiable in my estimation."

They had now reached the airy dwelling where Mrs. Macshake resided, and

having rung, the door was at length most deliberately opened by an

ancient, sour-visaged, long-waisted female, who ushered them into an

apartment, the _coup d'oeil_ of which struck a chill to Mary's heart. It

was a good-sized room, with a bare sufficiency of small-legged

dining-tables, and lank haircloth chairs, ranged in high order round the

walls. Although the season was advanced, and the air piercing cold, the

grate stood smiling in all the charms of polished steel; and the

mistress of the mansion was seated by the side of it in an arm-chair,

still in its summer position. She appeared to have no other occupation

than what her own meditations afforded; for a single glance sufficed to

show that not a vestige of book or work was harboured there. She was a

tall, large-boned woman, whom even Time's iron hands scarcely bent, as

she merely stooped at the shoulders. She had a drooping snuffy nose, a

long turned-up chin, small quick gray eyes, and her face projected

far beyond her figure, with an expression of shrewd restless curiosity.

She wore a mode (not _à-la-mode )_ bonnet, and cardinal of the

same, a pair of clogs over her shoes, and black silk mittens on her arms.

As soon as she recognised Mr. Douglas she welcomed him with much

cordiality, shook him long and heartily by the hand, patted him on the

back, looked into his face with much seeming satisfaction; and, in

short, gave all the demonstrations of gladness usual with gentlewomen of

a certain age. Her pleasure, however, appeared to be rather an

_impromptu_ than an habitual feeling; for as the surprise wore off her

visage resumed its harsh and sarcastic expression, and she seemed eager

to efface any agreeable impression her reception might have

excited.

"An' wha thought o' seein ye enow?" said she, in a quick gabbling voice.

"What brought you to the toon? Are ye come to spend our honest faither's

siller ere he's weel cauld in his grave, puir man?"

Mr. Douglas explained that it was upon account of his niece's health.

"Health!" repeated she, with a sardonic smile; "it wad mak' an ool

laugh to hear the wark that's made aboot young fowk's health noo-a-days.

I wonder what ye're aw made o' "--grasping Mary's arm in her great bony

hand--"a wheen puir feckless windlestraes; ye maun awa' to Ingland for

ye're healths. Set ye up! I wonder what cam' o' the lasses i' my time,

that bute to bide at hame? And whilk o' ye, I sude like to ken, 'II ere

leive to see ninety-sax, like me? Health!--he, he !"

Mary, glad of a pretence to in indulge the mirth the old lady's manner

and appearance had excited, joined most heartily in the laugh.

"Tak. aff ye're bannet, bairn, an' let me see ye're face. Wha can tell

what like ye are wi' that snule o' a thing on ye're head?" Then after

taking an accurate survey of her face, she pushed aside her pelisse."

Weel, it's ae mercy, I see ye hae neither the red heed nor the muckle

cuits o' the Douglases. I ken nae whuther ye're faither had them or no.

I ne'er set een on him; neither him nor his braw leddie thought it worth

their while to speer after me; but I was at nae loss, by aw accounts."

"You have not asked after any of your Glenfern friends," said Mr.

Douglas, hoping to touch a more sympathetic chord.

"Time eneugh. Wull ye let me draw my breath, man? Fowk canna say awthing

at ance. An' ye bute to hae an Inglish wife tu; a Scotch lass wad nae

serr ye. An' ye're wean, I'se warran', it's ane o' the warld's wonders;

it's been unco lang o' cummin--he, he!"

"He has begun life under very melancholy auspices, poor fellow!" said

Mr. Douglas, in allusion to his father's death.

"An' wha's faut was that? I ne'er heard tell the like o't; to hae the

bairn kirsened an' its grandfather deein! But fowk are naither born,

nor kirsened, nor do they wad or dee as they used to du---awthing's

changed."

"You must, indeed, have witnessed many changes," observed Mr. Douglas,

rather at a loss how to utter anything of a conciliatory nature.

"Changes!--weel a wat, I sometimes wonder if it's the same warld,

an' if it's my ain heed that's upon my shoothers."

"But with these changes you must also have seen many improvements?"

said Mary, in a tone of diffidence.

"Impruvements!" turning sharply round upon her; "what ken ye about

impruvements, bairn? A bony impruvement or ens no, to see tyleyors and

sclaters leavin whar I mind jewks an yerls. An' that great glowrin' new

toon there"--pointing out of her windows--"whar I used to sit an' luck

oot at bonny green parks, and see the coos milket, and the bits o'

bairnies rowin' an' tummlin,' an' the lasses trampin i' their tubs--what

see I noo, but stane an' lime, an' stoor' an' dirt, an' idle cheels, an'

dinket-oot madams prancin'. Impruvements, indeed!"

Mary found she was not likely to advance her uncle's fortune by the

judiciousness of her remarks, therefore prudently resolved to hazard no

more. Mr. Douglas, who was more _au fait_ to the prejudices of old age,

and who was always amused with her bitter remarks when they did not

touch himself, encouraged her to continue the conversation by some

observation on the prevailing manners.

"Mainers!" repeated she, with a contemptuous laugh, "what caw ye

mainers noo, for I dinna ken? Ilk ane gangs bang in till their neebor's

hoose, and bang oot o't as it war a chynge-hoose; an' as for the maister

o't, he's no o' sae muckle vaalu as tho flunky ahynt his chyre. I' my

grandfather's time, as I hae heard him tell, ilka maister o' a faamily

had his ain sate in his ain hoose aye, an' sat wi' his hat on his heed

afore the best o' the land, an' had his ain dish, an' was aye helpit

first, an' keepit up his owthority as a man sude du. Paurents war

paurents then; bairnes dardna set up their gabs afore them than as they

du noo. They ne'er presumed to say their heeds war their ain i' thae

days--wife an' servants, reteeners an' childer, aw trummelt i' the

presence o' their heed."

Here a long pinch of snuff caused a pause in the old lady's harangue;

but after having duly wiped her nose with her coloured handkerchief, and

shook off all the particles that might be presumed to have lodged upon

her cardinal, she resumed--

"An' nae word o' ony o' your sisters gaun to get husbands yet? They

tell me they're but coorse lasses: an' wha'll tak ill-farred tocherless

queans whan there's walth o' bonny faces an' lang purses i' the

market--he, he!" Then resuming her scrutiny of Mary--"An' I'se warran'

ye'll be lucken for an Inglish sweetheart tu that'll be what's takin' ye

awa' to Ingland."

"On the contrary," said Mr. Douglas, seeing Mary was too much

frightened to answer for herself--"on the contrary, Mary declares she

will never marry any but a true Highlander--one who wears the dirk and

plaid, and has the second-sight. And the nuptials are to be celebrated

with all the pomp of feudal times; with bagpipes, and bonfires, and

gatherings of clans, and roasted sheep, and barrels of whisky, and--"

"Weel a wat, an' she's i' the right there," interrupted Mrs. Macshake,

with more complacency than she had yet shown. "They may caw them what

they like, but there's nae waddins noo. Wha's the better o' them but

innkeepers and chise-drivers? I wud nae count mysel' married i' the

hiddlins way they gang aboot it noo."

"I daresay you remember these, things done in a very different style?"

said Mr. Douglas.

"I dinna mind them whan the war at he best; but I hae heard my mither

tell what a bonny ploy was at her waddin. I canna tell ye hoo mony was

at it; mair nor the room wad haud, ye may be sure, for every relation

an' freend o' baith sides war there, as well they sude; an' aw in full

dress: the leddies in their hoops round them, an' some o' them had

sutten up aw night till hae their heeds drest; for they hadnae thae

pooket-like taps ye hae noo," looking with contempt at Mary's Grecian

contour. "An' the bride's goon was aw shewed ow'r wi' favour, frae the

tap doon to the tail, an' aw roond the neck, an' aboot the sleeves; and,

as soon as the ceremony was ow'r, ilk ane ran till her, an' rugget an'

rave at her for the favours till they hardly left the claise upon her

back. Than they did nae run awa as they du noo, but sax an't hretty o'

them sat doon till a graund denner, and there was a ball at night, an'

ilka night till Sabbath cam' roond; an' than the bride an' the

bridegroom, drest in their waddin suits, an' aw their freends 'n theirs,

wi' their favours on their breests, walkit in procession till the kirk.

An' was nae that something like a waddin? It was worth while to be

married i' thae days-he, he!"

"The wedding seems to have been admirably conducted," said Mr. Douglas,

with much solemnity. "The christening, I presume, would be the next

distinguished event in the family?"

"Troth, Archie-an' ye sude keep your thoomb upon kirsnins as lang's ye

leeve; yours was a bonnie kirsnin or ens no! I hae heard o' mony things,

but a bairn kirsened whan its grandfaither was i' the deed-thraw, I

ne'er heard tell o' before." Then observing the indignation that spread

over Mr. Douglas's face, she quickly resumed, "An' so ye think the

kirsnin was the neist ploy? He, he! Na; the cryin was a ploy, for the

leddies did nae keep themsels up than as they do noo; but the day after

the bairn was born, the leddy sat up i' her bed, wi' her fan intill her

hand; an' aw her freends earn' an' stud roond her, an' drank her health

an' the bairn's. Than at the leddy's recovery there was a graund supper

gien that they caw'd the _cummerfealls,_ an' there was a great pyramid

o' hens at the tap o' the table, an' anither pyramid o' ducks at the

fit, an' a muckle stoup fu' o' posset i' the middle, an' aw kinds o'

sweeties doon the sides; an' as sune as ilk ane had eatin their fill

they aw flew till the sweeties, an' fought, an' strave, an' wrastled for

them, leddies an' gentlemen an' aw; for the brag was wha could pocket

maist; an' whiles they wad hae the claith aff the table, an' aw thing i'

the middle i' the floor, an' the chyres upside doon. Oo! muckle gude

diversion, I'se warran,' was at the _cummerfealls_. Than whan they had

drank the stoup dry, that ended the ploy. As for the kirsnin, that was

aye whar it sude be--i' the hoose o' God, an' aw the kith an' kin bye in

full dress, an' a band o' maiden cimmers aw in white; an' a bonny sight

it was, as I've heard my mither tell."

Mr. Douglas, who was now rather tired of the old lady's reminiscences,

availed himself of the opportunity of a fresh pinch to rise and take

leave.

"Oo, what's takin' ye awa, Archie, in sic a hurry? Sit doon there,"

laying her hand upon his arm, "an' rest ye, an' tak a glass o' wine, an'

a bit breed; or may be," turning to Mary, "ye wad rather hae a drap

broth to warm ye. What gars ye luck sae blae, bairn? I'm sure it's no

cauld; but ye're juste like the lave; ye gang aw skiltin aboot the

streets half naked, an' than ye maun sit an' birsle yoursels afore the

fire at hame."

She had now shuffled along to the farther end of the room, and opening a

press, took out wine, and a plateful of various-shaped articles of

bread, which she handed to Mary.

"Hae, bairn--tak a cookie; tak it up--what are you fear'd for? It'll no

bite ye. Here's t'ye, Glenfern, an' your wife, an' your wean, puir tead;

it's no had a very chancy ootset, weel a wat."

The wine being drunk, and the cookies discussed, Mr. Douglas made

another attempt to withdraw, but in vain.

"Canna ye sit still a wee, man, an' let me spear after my auld freens at

Glenfern? Hoo's Grizzy, an' Jacky, and Nicky? Aye workin awa at the

pills an' the drogs?---he, he! I ne'er swallowed a pill, nor gied a doit

for drogs aw my days, an' see an ony of them'll rin a race wi' me whan

they're naur five score."

Mr. Douglas here paid her some compliments upon her appearance, which

were pretty graciously received; and added that he was the bearer of a

letter from his Aunt Grizzy, which he would send along with a roebuck

and brace of moor-game.

"Gin your roebuck's nae better than your last, at weel it's no worth the

sendin'-poor dry fisinless dirt, no worth the chowing; weel a wat I

begrudged my teeth on't. Your muirfowl was na that ill, but they're no

worth the carryin; they're dong cheap i'the market enoo, so it's nae

great compliment. Gin ye had brought me a leg o' gude mutton, or a

cauler sawmont, there would hae been some sense in't; but ye're ane o'

the fowk that'll ne'er harry yoursel' wi' your presents; it's but the

pickle poother they cost you, an' I'se warran' ye're thinkin mail' o'

your ain diversion than o' my stamick, when ye're at the shootin' o'

them, puir beasts."

Mr. Douglas had borne the various indignities levelled against himself

and his family with a philosophy that had no parallel in his life

before; but to this attack upon his game he was not proof. His colour

rose, his eyes flashed fire, and something resembling an oath burst from

his lips as he strode indignantly towards the door.

His friend, however, was too nimble for him. She stepped before him,

and, breaking into a discordant laugh, as she patted him on the back,

"So I see ye're just the auld man, Archie,--aye ready to tak the strums,

an' ye dinna get a' thing yer ain wye. Mony a time I had to fleech ye

oot o' the dorts whan ye was a callant. Div ye mind hoo ye was affronted

because I set ye doon to a cauld pigeon-pie, an' a tanker o' tippenny,

ae night to ye're fowerhoors, afore some leddies--he, he, he! Weel a wat,

yer wife maun hae her ain adoos to manage ye, for ye're a cumstairy

chield, Archie."

Mr. Douglas still looked as if he was irresolute whether to laugh or be

angry.

"Come, come, sit ye do on there till I speak to this bairn," said she,

as she pulled Mary into an adjoining bedchamber, which wore the same

aspect of chilly neatness as the one they had quitted. Then pulling a

huge bunch of keys from her pocket she opened a drawer, out of which she

took a pair of diamond earrings. "Hae, bairn," said she as she stuffed

them into Mary's hand; "they belanged to your father's grandmother. She

was a gude woman, an' had fouran'-twenty sons an' dochters, an' I wiss

ye nae war fortin than just to hae as mony. But mind ye," with a shake

of her bony finger, "they maun a be Scots. Gin I thought ye wad mairry

ony pock-puddin', fient haed wad ye hae gotten frae me. Noo, had ye're

tongue, and dinna deive me wi' thanks," almost pushing her into the

parlour again; "and sin ye're gaun awa the morn, I'll see nae mair o' ye

enoo--so fare ye weel. But, Archie, ye maun come an' tak your breakfast

wi' me. I hae muckle to say to you; but ye manna be sae hard upon my

baps as ye used to be," with a facetious grin to her mollified

favourite, as they shook hands and parted.

"Well, how do you like Mrs. Macshake, Mary?" asked her uncle as they

walked home.

"That is a cruel question, uncle," answered she, with a smile. "My

gratitude and my taste are at such variance," displaying her splendid

gift, "that I know not how to reconcile them."

"That is always the case with those whom Mrs. Macshake has obliged,"

returned Mr. Douglas. "She does many liberal things, but in so

ungracious a manner that people are never sure whether they are obliged

or insulted by her. But the way in which she receives kindness is still

worse. Could anything equal her impertinence about my roebuck? Faith,

I've a good mind never to enter her door again!"

Mary could scarcely preserve her gravity at her uncle's indignation,

which seemed so disproportioned to the cause. But, to turn the current

of his ideas, she remarked that he had certainly been at pains to select

two admirable specimens of her countrywomen for her.

"I don't think I shall soon forget either Mrs. Gawffaw or Mrs Macshake,"

said she, laughing.

"I hope you won't carry away the impression that these two _lusus

naturae_ specimens of Scotchwomen," said her uncle. "The former, indeed,

is rather a sort of weed that infests every soil; the latter, to be

sure, is an indigenous plant. I question if she would have arrived at

such perfection in a more cultivated field or genial clime. She was born

at a time when Scotland was very different from what it is now. Female

education was little attended to, even in families of the highest rank;

consequently, the ladies of those days possess a _raciness_ in their

manners and ideas that we should vainly seek for in this age of

cultivation and refinement. Had your time permitted, you could have seen

much good society here; superior, perhaps, to what is to be found

anywhere else, as far as mental cultivation is concerned. But you will

have leisure for that when you return."

Mary acquiesced with a sigh. _Return_ was to her still a

melancholy-sounding word. It reminded her of all she had left--of the

anguish of separation--the dreariness of absence; and all these painful

feelings were renewed in their utmost bitterness when the time

approached for her to bid adieu to her uncle. Lord Courtland's carriage

and two respectable-looking servants awaited her; and the following

morning she commenced her journey in all the agony of a heart that

fondly clings to its native home.

END OF VOL. I.

_Printed _by R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh._

_***_

MARRIAGE (VOL II)

A Novel by Susan Ferrier

"Life consists not of a series of illustrious actions; the greater part

of our time passes in compliance with necessities--in the performance of

daily duties--in the removal of small inconveniences--in the procurement

of petty pleasures; and we are well or ill at ease, as the main stream

of life glides on smoothly, or is ruffled by small and frequent

interruption."--JOHNSON.

Edinburgh Edition

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOLUME II.

LONDON

RICHARD BENTLEY & SON

Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen

1881

_Printed _by R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_

MARRIAGE.

CHAPTER I.

"Nor only by the warmth

And soothing sunshine of delightful things,

Do minds grow up and flourish."

AKENSIDE.

AFTER parting with the last of her beloved relatives Mary tried to think

only of the happiness that awaited her in a reunion with her mother and

sister; and she gave herself up to the blissful reveries of a young

and ardent imagination. Mrs. Douglas had sought to repress, rather than

excite, her sanguine expectations; but vainly is the experience of

others employed in moderating the enthusiasm of a glowing heart.

Experience _cannot_ be imparted. We may render the youthful mind

prematurely cautious, or meanly suspicious; but the experience of a pure

and enlightened mind is the result of observation, matured by time.

The journey, like most modern journeys, was performed in comfort and

safety; and, late one evening, Mary found herself at the goal of her

wishes--at the threshold of the house that contained her mother!

One idea filled her mind; but that idea called up a thousand emotions.

"I am now to meet my mother!" thought she; and, unconscious of

everything else, she was assisted from the carriage, and conducted into

the house. A door was thrown open; but shrinking from the glare of light

and sound of voices that assailed her, he stood dazzled and dismayed,

till she beheld a figure approaching that she guessed to be her mother.

Her heart beat violently--a film was upon her eyes--she made an effort

to reach her mother's arms, and sank lifeless on her bosom!

Lady Juliana, for such it was, doubted not but that her daughter was

really dead; for though he talked of fainting every hour of the day

herself, still what is emphatically called a _dead-faint_ was a

spectacle no less strange than shocking to her. She was therefore

sufficiently alarmed and overcome to behave in a very interesting

manner; and some yearnings of pity even possessed her heart as she

beheld her daughter's lifeless form extended before her--her beautiful,

though inanimate features, half hid by the profusion of golden ringlets

that fell around her. But these kindly feelings were of short duration;

for no sooner was the nature of her daughter's insensibility as

ascertained, than all her former hostility returned, as she found

everyone's attention directed to Mary, and she herself entirely

overlooked in the general interest she had excited; and her displeasure

was still further increased as Mary, at length slowly unclosing her

eyes, stretched out her hands, and faintly articulated, "My mother!"

"Mother! What a hideous vulgar appellation!" thought the fashionable

parent to herself; and, instead of answering her daughter's appeal, she

hastily proposed that she should be conveyed to her own apartment; then,

summoning her maid, she consigned her to her care, slightly touching her

cheek as she wished her good-night, and returned to the card-table.

Adelaide too resumed her station at the harp, as if nothing had happened;

but Lady Emily attended her cousin to her room, embraced her again and

again, as she assured her she loved her already, she was so like her

dear Edward; then, after satisfying herself that everything was

comfortable, affectionately kissed her, and withdrew.

Bodily fatigue got the better of mental agitation; and Mary slept

soundly, and awoke refreshed.

"Can it be," thought she, as she tried to collect her bewildered

thoughts, "can it be that I have really beheld my mother, that I have

been pressed to her heart, that she has shed tears over me while I lay

unconscious in her arms? Mother! What a delightful sound; and how

beautiful she seemed! Yet I have no distinct idea of her, my head was

so confused; but I have a vague recollection of something very fair, and

beautiful, and seraph-like, covered with silver drapery, and flowers,

and with the sweetest voice in the world. Yet that must be too young for

my mother; perhaps it was my sister; and my mother was too much overcome

to meet her stranger child. Oh, how happy must I be with such a mother

and sister!"

In these delightful cogitations Mary remained till Lady Emily entered.

"How well you look this morning, my dear cousin," said she, flying to

her; "you are much more like my Edward than you were last night. Ah! and

you have got his smile too! You must let me see that very often."

"I am sure I shall have cause," said Mary, returning her cousin's

affectionate embrace; "but at present I feel anxious about my mother and

sister. The agitation of our meeting, and my weakness, I fear it has

been too much for them;" and she looked earnest in Lady Emily's face for

a confirmation of her fears.

"Indeed, you need be under no uneasiness on their account," returned her

cousin, with her usual bluntness; "their feelings are not so easily

disturbed; you will see them both at breakfast, so come along."

The room was empty; and again Mary's sensitive heart trembled for the

welfare of those already so dear to her; but Lady Emily did not appear

to understand the nature of her feelings.

"Have a little patience, my dear!" said she, with something of an

impatient tone, as she rang for breakfast; "they will be here at their

usual time. Nobody in this house is a slave to hours, or _gêné _with

each other's society. Liberty is the motto here; everybody breakfasts

when and where they please. Lady Juliana, I believe, frequently takes

hers in her dressing-room; Papa never is visible till two or three

o'clock; and Adelaide is always late."

"What a selfish cold-hearted thing is grandeur!" thought Mary, as Lady

Emily and she sat like two specks in the splendid saloon, surrounded by

all that wealth could purchase or luxury invent; and her thoughts

reverted to the pious thanksgiving and affectionate meeting that graced

their social meal in the sweet sunny parlour at Lochmarlie.

Some of those airy nothings, without a local habitation, who are always

to be found flitting about the mansions of the great, now lounged into

the room; and soon after Adelaide made her _entrée._ Mary,

trembling violently, was ready to fall upon her sister's neck, but

Adelaide seemed prepared to repel everything like a _scènce _for,

with a cold, but sweet, "I hope you are better this morning?" she seated

herself at the opposite side of the table. Mary's blood rushed back to

her heart; her eyes filled with tears, she knew not why; for she could

not analyse the feelings that swelled in her bosom. She would have

shuddered to _think_ her sister unkind, but she _felt_ she was so.

"It can only be the difference of our manners," sighed she to herself;

"I am sure my sister loves me, though she does not show it in the same

way I should have done;" and she gazed with the purest admiration and

tenderness on the matchless beauty of her face and form. Never had she

beheld anything so exquisitely beautiful; and she longed to throw

herself into her sister's arms and tell her how she loved her. But

Adelaide seemed to think the present company wholly unworthy of her

regard; for, after having received the adulation of the gentlemen, as

they severally paid her a profusion of compliments upon her appearance,

"Desire Tomkins," said she to a footman, "to ask Lady Juliana for the

'Morning Post,' and the second volume of 'Le----,' of the French novel I

am reading; and say she shall have it again when I have finished it."

"In what different terms people may express the same meaning," thought

Mary; "had I been sending a message to my mother, I should have expressed

myself quite differently; but no doubt my sister's meaning is the same,

though she may not use the same words."

The servant returned with the newspaper, and the novel would be sent

when it could be found.

"Lady Juliana never reads like anybody else," said her daughter; "she is

for ever mislaying books. She has lost the first volumes of the two last

novels that came from town before I had even seen then."

This was uttered in the softest, sweetest tone imaginable, and as if she

had been pronouncing a panegyric.

Mary was more and more puzzled.

"'What can be my sister's meaning here?" thought she. "The words seemed

almost to imply censure; but that voice and smile speak the sweetest

praise. How truly Mrs. Douglas warned me never to judge of people by

their words."

At that moment the door opened, and three or four dogs rushed in,

followed by Lady Juliana, with a volume of a novel in her hand. Again

Mary found herself assailed by a variety of powerful emotions. She

attempted to rise; but, pale and breathless, she sank back in her chair.

Her agitation was unmarked by her mother, who did not even appear to be

sensible of her presence; for, with a graceful bend of her head to the

company in general, she approached Adelaide, and putting her lips to her

forehead, "How do you do, love? I'm afraid you are very angry with me

about that teazing La---I can't conceive where it can be; but here is

the third volume, which is much prettier than the second."

"I certainly shall not read the third volume before the second," said

Adelaide with her usual serenity.

"Then I shall order another copy from town, my love; or I daresay I

could tell you the story of the second volume: it is not at all

interesting, I assure you. Hermilisde, you know--but I forget where the

first volume left off."--Then directing her eyes to Mary, who had

summoned strength to rise, and was slowly venturing to approach her, she

extended a finger towards her. Mary eagerly seized her mother's hand,

and pressed it with fervour to her lips; then hid her face on her

shoulder to conceal the tears that burst from her eyes.

"Absurd, my dear!" said her Ladyship in a peevish tone, as she

disengaged herself from her daughter; "you must really get the better of

this foolish weakness; these _scènes_ are too much for me. I was

most excessively shocked last night, I assure you, and you ought not to

have quitted your room to-day."

Poor Mary's tears congealed in her eyes at this tender salutation, and

she raised her head, as if to as certain whether it really proceeded

from her mother; but instead of the angelic vision she had pictured to

herself, she beheld a face which, though once handsome, now conveyed no

pleasurable feeling to the heart.

Late hours, bad temper, and rouge had done much to impair Lady Juliana's

beauty. There still remained enough to dazzle a superficial observer; but

not to satisfy the eye used to the expression of all the best affections

of the soul. Mary almost shrank from the peevish inanity portrayed on

her mother's visage, as a glance of the mind contrasted it with the mild

eloquence of Mrs. Douglas's countenance; and, abashed and disappointed,

she remained mournfully silent.

"Where is Dr. Redgill?" demanded Lady Juliana of the company in general.

"He has got scent of a turtle at Admiral Yellowchops," answered Mr. P.

"How vastly provoking," rejoined her Ladyship, "that he should be out of

the way the only time I have wished to see him since he came to the

house!"

"Who is this favoured individual whose absence you are so pathetically

lamenting, Julia?" asked Lord Courtland, as he indolently sauntered into

the room.

"That disagreeable Dr. Redgill. He has gone somewhere to eat turtle at

the very time I wished to consult him about--"

"The propriety of introducing a new niece to your Lordship," said Lady

Emily, as, with affected solemnity, she introduced Mary to her uncle.

Lady Juliana frowned--the Earl smiled--saluted his niece--hoped she had

recovered the fatigue of the journey--remarked it was very cold; and

then turned to a parrot, humming "Pretty Poll, say," etc.

Such was Mary's first introduction to her family; and those only who have

felt what it was to have the genial current of their souls chilled by

neglect or changed by unkindness can sympathise in the feelings of

wounded affection--when the overflowings of a generous heart are

confined within the narrow limits of its own bosom, and the offerings of

love are rudely rejected by the hand most dear to us.

Mary was too much intimidated by her mother's manner towards her to

give way, in her presence, to the emotions that agitated her; but she

followed her sister's steps as she quitted the room, and, throwing her

arms around her, sobbed in a voice almost choked with the excess of her

feelings, "My sister, love me!-oh! love me!" But Adelaide's heart,

seared by selfishness and vanity, was incapable of loving anything in

which self had no share; and for the first time in her life she felt

awkward and embarrassed. Her sister's streaming eyes and supplicating

voice spoke a language to which she was a stranger; for art is ever

averse to recognise the accents of nature. Still less is it capable of

replying to them; and Adelaide could only wonder at her sister's

agitation, and think how unpleasant it was; and say something about

overcome, and _eau-de-luce,_ and composure; which was all lost upon Mary

as she hung upon her neck, every feeling wrought to its highest tone by

the complicated nature of those emotions which swelled her heart. At

length, making an effort to regain her composure, "Forgive me, my

sister!" said she. "This is very foolish--to weep when I ought to

rejoice--and I do rejoice--and I know I shall be so happy yet!" but in

spite of the faint smile that accompanied her words, tears again burst

from her eyes.

"I am sure I shall have infinite pleasure in your society," replied

Adelaide, with her usual sweetness; and placidity, as she replaced a

ringlet in its proper position; "but I have unluckily an engagement at

this time. You will, however, be at no loss for amusement; you will find

musical instruments there," pointing to an adjacent apartment; "and here

are new publications, and _portefeuilles_ of drawings you will

perhaps like to look over;" and so saying she disappeared.

"Musical instruments and new publications!" repeated Mary mechanically

to herself. "What have I to do with them? Oh for one kind word from my

mother's lips!--one kind glance from my sister's eye!"

And she remained overwhelmed with the weight of those emotions, which,

instead of pouring into the hearts of others, she was compelled to

concentrate in her own. Her mournful reveries were interrupted by her

kind friend Lady Emily; but Mary deemed her sorrow too sacred to be

betrayed even to her, and therefore rallying her spirits, she strove

to enter into those schemes of amusement suggested by her cousin for

passing the day. But she found herself unable for such continued

exertion; and, hearing a large party was expected to dinner, she

retired, in spite of Lady Emily's remonstrance, to her own apartment,

where she sought a refuge from her thoughts in writing to her friends

at Glenfern.

Lady Juliana looked in upon her as she passed to dinner. She was in a

better humour, for she had received a new dress which was particularly

becoming, as both her maid and her glass had attested.

Again Mary's heart bounded towards the being to whom she owed her birth;

yet afraid to give utterance to her feelings, she could only regard her

with silent admiration, till a moment's consideration converted that

into a less pleasing feeling, as she observed for the first time that

her mother wore no mourning.

Lady Juliana saw her astonishment, and, little guessing the cause, was

flattered by it. "Your style of dress is very obsolete, my dear," said

she, as she contrasted the effect of her own figure and her daughter's

in a large mirror; "and there's no occasion for you to wear black here.

I shall desire my woman to order some things for you; though perhaps

there won't be much occasion, as your stay here is to be short; and of

course you won't think of going out at all. _Apropos,_ you will find it

dull here by yourself, won't you? I shall leave you my darling Blanche

for companion," kissing a little French lap-dog as she laid it in Mary's

lap; "only you must be very careful of her, and coax her, and be very,

very good to her; for I would not have my sweetest Blanche vexed, not

for the world!" And, with another long and tender salute to her dog, and

a "Good-bye, my dear!" to her daughter, she quitted her to display her

charms to a brilliant drawing-room, leaving Mary to solace herself in

her solitary chamber with the whines of a discontented lap-dog.

CHAPTER II.

"C'est un personnage illustre dans son genre, et qui a porté le

talent de se bien nourrir jusques ou il pouvoit aller; . . . il ne

semble né que pour la digestion."--LA BRUYERE.

IN every season of life grief brings its own peculiar antidote along

with it. The buoyancy of youth soon repels its deadening weight, the

firmness of manhood resists its weakening influence, the torpor of old

age is insensible to its most acute pangs.

In spite of the disappointment she had experienced the preceding day,

Mary arose the following morning with fresh hopes of happiness springing

in her heart.

"What a fool I was," thought she, "to view so seriously what, after all,

must be merely difference of manner; and how illiberal to expect every

one's manners should accord exactly with my ideas; but now that I have

got over the first impression, I daresay I shall find everybody quite

amiable and delightful!"

And Mary quickly reasoned herself into the belief that she only could

have been to blame. With renovated spirits she therefore joined her

cousin, and accompanied her to the breakfasting saloon. The visitors had

all departed, but Dr. Redgill had returned and seemed to be at the

winding up of a solitary but voluminous meal. He was a very tall

corpulent man, with a projecting front, large purple nose, and a

profusion of chin.

"Good morning, ladies," mumbled he with a full mouth, as he made a feint

of half-rising from his chair. "Lady Emily, your servant--Miss Douglas,

I presume--hem! allow me to pull the bell for your Ladyship," as he sat

without stirring hand or foot; then, after it was done--"'Pon my

honour, Lady Emily, this is not using me well Why did you not desire me?

And you are so nimble, I defy any man to get the start of you."

"I know you have been upon hard service, Doctor, and therefore I

humanely wished to spare you any additional fatigue," replied Lady

Emily.

"Fatigue, phoo! I'm sure I mind fatigue as little as any man; besides

it's really nothing to speak of. I have merely rode from my friend

Admiral Yellowchops' this morning."

"I hope you passed a pleasant day there yesterday?"

"So, so--very so, so," returned the Doctor drily.

"Only so, so, and a turtle in the case!" exclaimed Lady Emily.

"Phoo!--as to that, the turtle was neither here nor there. I value

turtle as little as any man. You may be sure it wasn't for that I went

to see my old friend Yellowchops. It happened, indeed, that there _was_

a turtle, and a very well dressed one too; but where five and thirty

people (one half of them ladies, who, of course, are always helped

first) sit down to dinner, there's an end of all rational happiness in

my opinion."

"But at a turtle feast you have surely something much better. You know

you may have rational happiness any day over a beef-steak."

"I beg your pardon--that's not such an easy matter. I can assure you it

is a work of no small skill to dress a beef-steak handsomely; and,

moreover, to eat it in perfection a man must eat it by himself. If once

you come to exchange words over it, it is useless. I once saw the finest

steak I ever clapped my eyes upon completely ruined by one silly

scoundrel asking another if he liked fat. If he liked fat!--what a

question for one rational being to ask another! The fact is, a

beef-steak is like a woman's reputation, if once it is breathed upon

it's good for nothing!"

"One of the stories with which my nurse used to amuse my childhood,"

said Mary, "was that of having seen an itinerant conjuror dress a

beef-steak on his tongue."

The Doctor suspended the morsel he was carrying to his mouth, and for

the first time regarded Mary with looks of unfeigned admiration.

"'Pon my honour, and that was as clever a trick as ever I heard of! You

are a wonderful people, you Scotch--a very wonderful people--but, pray,

was she at any pains to examine the fellow's tongue?"

"I imagine not," said Mary; "I suppose the love of science was not

strong enough to make her run the risk of burning her fingers."

"It's a thousand pities," said the Doctor, as he dropped his chin with

an air of disappointment. "I am surprised none of your Scotch _scavans_

got hold of the fellow and squeezed the secret out of him. It might have

proved an important discovery--a very important discovery; and your

Scotch are not apt to let anything escape them--a very searching,

shrewd people as ever I knew--and that's the only way to arrive at

knowledge. A man must be of a stirring mind if he expects to do good."

"A poor woman below wishes to se you, sir," said a servant.

"These poor women are perfect pests to society," said the Doctor, as his

nose assumed a still darker hue; "there is no resting upon one's seat

for them--always something the matter! The burn, and bruise, and hack

themselves and their brats, one would really think, on purpose to give

trouble."

"I have not the least doubt of it," said Lady Emily; "they must find

your sympathy so soothing."

"As to that, Lady Emily, if you know as much about poor women as I do,

you wouldn't think so much of them as you do. Take my word for it--they

are one and all of them a very greedy, ungrateful set, and require to be

kept at a distance."

"And also to be kept waiting. As poor people's time is their only

wealth, I observe you generally make them pay a pretty large fee in that

way."

"That is really not what I would have expected from you, Lady Emily. I

must take the liberty to say your Ladyship does me the greatest

injustice. You must be sensible how ready I am to fly," rising as if he

had been glued to his chair, "when there is any real danger. I'm sure it

was only last week I got up as soon as I had swallowed my dinner to see

a man who had fallen down in a fit; and now I am going to this woman,

who, I daresay, has nothing the matter with her, before my breakfast is

well down my throat."

"Who is that gentleman?" asked Mary, as the Doctor at length, with much

reluctance, shuffled out of the room.

"He is a sort of medical aid-de-camp of papa's," answered Lady Emily;

"who, for the sake of good living, has got himself completely

domesticated here. He is vulgar, selfish, and _gourmand_, as you must

already have discovered; but these are accounted his greatest

perfections, as papa, like all indolent people, must be diverted--and

_that_ he never is by genteel, sensible people. He requires something

more _piquant,_and nothing fatigues him so much as the conversation of a

commonplace, sensible man--one who has the skill to keep his foibles out

of sight. Now what delights him in Dr. Redgill, there is no

_retenu_--any child who runs may read his character at a glance."

"It certainly does not require much penetration," said Mary, "to

discover the Doctor's master-passion; love of ease and self-indulgence

seem to be the pre-dominant features of his mind; and he looks as if,

when he sat in an arm-chair, with his toes on the fender and his hands

crossed, he would not have an idea beyond 'I wonder what we shall have

for dinner to-day.'"

"I'm glad to hear you say so, Miss Douglas," said the Doctor, catching

the last words as he entered the room, and taking them to be the

spontaneous effusions of the speaker's own heart; "I rejoice to hear you

say so. Suppose we send for the bill of fare,"--pulling the bell; and

then to the servant, who answered the summons, "Desire Grillade to send

up his bill--Miss Douglas wishes to see it."

"Young ladies are much more house wifely in Scotland than they are in

this country," continued the Doctor, seating himself as close as

possible to Mary,--"at least they were when I knew Scotland; but that's

not yesterday, and it's much changed since then, I daresay. I studied

physic in Edinburgh, and went upon a _tower _through the Highlands. 'I

was very much pleased with what I saw, I assure you. Fine country in

some respects--nature has been very liberal."

Mary's heart leapt within her at hearing her dear native land praised

even by Dr. Redgill, and her conscience smote her for the harsh and

hasty censure she had passed upon him. "One who can admire the scenery

of the Highlands," thought she, "must have a mind. It has always been

observed that only persons of taste were capable of appreciating the

peculiar charms of mountain scenery. A London citizen, or a Lincolnshire

grazier, sees nothing but deformity in the sublime works of nature,"

_ergo,_ reasoned Mary, "Dr. Redgill must be of a more elevated way of

thinking than I had supposed." The entrance of Lady Juliana prevented

her expressing the feelings that were upon her lips; but she thought

what pleasure she would have in resuming the delightful theme at another

opportunity.

After slightly noticing her daughter, and carefully adjusting her

favourites, Lady Juliana began:--

"I am anxious to consult you, Dr. Redgill, upon the state of this young

person's health.--You have been excessively ill, my dear, have you not?

(My sweetest Blanche, do be quiet!) You had a cough, I think, and

everything that was bad.--And as her friends in Scotland have sent her

to me for a short time, entirely on account of her health (My charming,

Frisk, your spirits are really too much!), I think it quite proper that

she should be confined to her own apartment during the winter, that she

may get quite well and strong against spring. As to visiting or going

into company, that of course must be quite out of the question. You can

tell Dr. Redgill, my dear, all about your complaints yourself."

Mary tried to articulate, but her feelings rose almost to suffocation,

and the words died upon her lips.

"Your Ladyship confounds me," said the Doctor, pulling out his

spectacles, which, after duly wiping, he adjusted on his nose, and

turned their beams full on Mary's face--"I really never should have

guessed there was anything the matter with the young lady. She does look

a _leettle_ delicate, to be sure-changing colour, too--but hand

cool--eye clear--pulse steady, a _leettle_ impetuous, but that's

nothing, and the appetite good. I own I was surprised to see you cut so

good a figure after the delicious meals you have been accustomed to in

the North: you must find it miserable picking here. An English

breakfast," glancing with contempt at the eggs, muffins, toast,

preserves, etc. etc., he had collected round him, "is really a most

insipid meal. If I did not make a rule of rising early and taking

regular exercise, I doubt very much if I should be able to swallow a

mouthful-there's nothing to whet the appetite here; and it's the same

everywhere; as Yellowchops says, our breakfasts are a disgrace to

England. One would think the whole nation was upon a regimen of tea and

toast--from the Land's End to Berwick-upon-Tweed, nothing but tea and

toast. Your Ladyship must really acknowledge the prodigious advantage

the Scotch possess over us in that respect."

"I thought the breakfasts, like everything else in Scotland, extremely

disgusting," replied her Ladyship, with indignation.

"Ha! well, that really amazes me. The people I give up--they are dirty

and greedy--the country, too, is a perfect mass of rubbish, and the

dinners not fit for dogs--the cookery, I mean; as to the materials, they

are admirable. But the breakfasts! That's what redeems the land; and

every country has its own peculiar excellence. In Argyleshire you have

the Lochfine herring, fat, luscious, and delicious, just out of the

water, falling to pieces with its own richness--melting away like butter

in your mouth. In Aberdeenshire you have the Finnan haddo' with a

flavour all its own, vastly relishing--just salt enough to be _piquant,_

without parching you up with thirst. In Perthshire there is the Tay

salmon, kippered, crisp, and juicy--a very magnificent morsel--a

_leettle_ heavy, but that's easily counteracted by a teaspoonful of the

Athole whisky. In other places you have the exquisite mutton of the

country made into hams of a most delicate flavour; flour scones, soft

and white; oatcake, thin and crisp; marmalade and jams of every

description; and--but I beg pardon--your Ladyship was upon the subject

of this young lady's health. 'Pon my honour! I can see little the

matter. We were just going to look over the bill together when your

Ladyship entered. I see it begins with that eternal _soupe_

_santé,_ and that paltry _potage-an-riz._ This is the second day

within a week Monsieur Grillade has thought fit to treat us with them;

and it's a fortnight yesterday since I have seen either oyster or

turtle soup upon the table. 'Pon my honour! such inattention is infamous.

I know Lord Courtland detests _soupe_ _santé, _or, what's the

same thing, he's quite indifferent to it; for I take indifference and

dislike to be much the same. A man's indifference to his dinner-is a

serious thing, and so I shall let Monsieur Grillade know." And the

Doctor's chin rose and fell like the waves of the sea.

"What is the name of the physician at Bristol who is so celebrated for

consumptive complaints?" asked Lady Juliana of Adelaide. "I shall send for

him; he is the only person I have any reliance upon. I know he always

recommends confinement for consumption."

Tears dropped from Mary's eyes. Lady Juliana regarded her with surprise

and severity.

"How very tiresome! I really can't stand these perpetual

_scènes._ Adelaide, my love, pull the bell for my _eau-de-luce._

Dr. Redgill, place the screen there. This room is insufferably hot. My

dogs will literally be roasted alive;" and her Ladyship fretted about in

all the perturbation of ill-humour.

"'Pon my honour! I don't think the room hot," said the Doctor, who, from

a certain want of tact and capacity of intellect, never comprehended the

feelings of others. "I declare I have felt it much hotter when your

Ladyship has complained of the cold; but there's no accounting for

people's feelings. If you would move your seat a _leettle_ this way, I

think you would be cooler; and as to your daughter--"

"I have repeatedly desired, Dr. Redgill, that you will not use these

familiar appellations when you address me or any of my family,"

interrupted Lady Juliana with haughty indignation.

"I beg pardon," said the Doctor, nowise discomposed at this rebuff.

"Well, with regard to Miss--Miss--this young lady, I assure your

Ladyship, you need be under no apprehensions on her account. She's a

_leettle_ nervous, that's all--take her about by all means--all young

ladies love to go about and see sights. Show her the pump-room, and the

ball-room, and the shops, and the rope-dancers, and the wild beasts, and

there's no fear of her. I never recommend confinement to man, woman, or

child. It destroys the appetite--and our appetite is the best part of

us. What would we be without appetites? Miserable beings! worse than the

beasts of the field!" And away shuffled the Doctor to admonish Monsieur

Grillade on the iniquity of neglecting this the noblest attribute of

man.

"It appears to me excessively extraordinary," said Lady Juliana,

addressing Mary, "that Mrs. Douglas should have alarmed me so much about

your health, when it seems there's nothing the matter with you. She

certainly showed very little regard for my feelings. I can't understand

it; and I must say, if you are not ill, I have been most excessively

ill-used by your Scotch friends." And, with an air of great indignation,

her Ladyship swept out of the room, regardless of the state into which

she had thrown her daughter.

Poor Mary's feelings were now at their climax, and she gave way to all

the repressed agony that swelled her heart. Lady Emily, who had been

amusing herself at the other end of the saloon, and had heard nothing of

what had passed, flew towards her at sight, of her suffering, and

eagerly demanded of Adelaide the cause.

"I really don't know," answered Adelaide, lifting her beautiful eyes

from her book with the greatest composure; "Lady Juliana is always cross

of a morning."

"Oh no!" exclaimed Mary, trying to regain her composure, "the fault is

mine. I--I have offended my mother, I know not how. Tell me, oh tell me,

how I can obtain her forgiveness!"

"Obtain her forgiveness!" repeated Lady Emily indignantly, "for what?"

"Alas! I know not; but in some way I have displeased my mother; her

looks--her words--her manner--all tell me how dissatisfied she is with

me; while to my sister, and even to her very dogs-----Here Mary's

agitation choked her utterance.

"If you expect to be treated like a dog, you will certainly be

disappointed," said Lady Emily. "I wonder Mrs. Douglas did not warn you

of what you had to expect. She must have known something of Lady

Juliana's ways; and it would have been as well had you been better

prepared to encounter them."

Mary looked hurt, and making an effort to conquer her emotion, she said,

"Mrs. Douglas never spoke, of my mother with disrespect; but she did

warn me against expecting too much from her affection. She said I had

been too long estranged from her to have retained my place in her heart;

but still--"

"You could not foresee the reception you have me with? Nor I neither.

Did you, Adelaide?'

"Lady Juliana is sometimes so odd,"

answered her daughter in her sweetest tone, "that I really am seldom

surprised at anything she does; but all this _fracas _appears to me

perfectly absurd, as nobody minds anything she says."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Mary; "my duty must ever be to reverence my

mother. My study should be to please her, if I only knew how; and oh!

would she but suffer me to love her!"

Adelaide regarded her sister for a moment with a look of surprise; then

rose and left the room, humming an Italian air.

Lady Emily remained with her cousin, but she was a bad comforter. Her

indignation against the oppressor was always much stronger than her

sympathy with the oppressed; and she would have been more in her element

scolding the mother than soothing the daughter.

But Mary had not been taught to trust to mortals weak as herself for

support in the hour of trial. She knew her aid must come from a higher

source; and in solitude she sought for consolation.

"This must be all for my good," sighed she, "else it would not be. I had

drawn too bright a picture of happiness; already it is blotted out with

my tears. I must set about replacing it with one of soberer colours."

Alas! Mary knew not how many a fair picture of human felicity had shared

the same fate as hers!

CHAPTER III.

"They were in sooth a most enchanting train;

. . skilful to unite

With evil good, and strew with pleasure pain."

_Castle of Indolence._

IN writing to her maternal friend Mary did not follow the mode usually

adopted by young ladies of the heroic cast, viz. that of giving a minute

and circumstantial detail of their own complete wretchedness, and

abusing, in terms highly sentimental, every member of the family with

whom they are associated. Mary knew that to breathe a hint of her own

unhappiness would be to embitter the peace of those she loved; and she

therefore strove to conceal from their observation the disappointment

she had experienced. Many a sigh was heaved, however, and many a tear

was wiped away ere a letter could be composed that would carry pleasure

to the dear group at Glenfern. She could say nothing of her mother's

tenderness or her sister's affection, but she dwelt upon the elegance of

the one and the beauty of the other. She could not boast of the warmth

of her uncle's reception, but she praised his good-humour, and enlarged

upon Lady Emily's kindness and attention. Even Dr. Redgill's admiration

of Scotch breakfasts was given as a _bonne bouche_ for her good old

aunts.

"I declare," said Miss Grizzy, as she ended her fifth perusal of the

letter, "Mary must be a happy creature, everybody must allow; indeed I

never heard it disputed that Lady Juliana is a most elegant being; and I

daresay she is greatly improved since we saw her, for you know that is a

long time ago."

"The mind may improve after a certain age," replied Jacky, with one of

her wisest looks, "but I doubt very much if the person does."

"If the inside had been like the out, there would have been no need for

improvement," observed Nicky.

"I'm sure you are both perfectly right," resumed the sapient Grizzy,

"and I have not the least doubt but that our dear niece is a great deal

wiser than when we knew her; nobody can deny but she is a great deal

older; and you know people always grow wiser as they grow older, of

course."

"They _ought_ to do it," said Jacky, with emphasis.

"But there's no fool like an old fool," quoth Nicky.

"What a delightful creature our charming niece Adelaide must be, from

Mary's account," said Grizzy; "only I can't conceive how her eyes come

to be black. I'm sure there's not a black eye amongst us. The

Kilnacroish family are black, to be sure; and Kilnacroish's

great-grandmother was first cousin, once removed, to our grandfather's

aunt, by our mother's side. It's wonderful the length that resemblances

run in some old families; and I really can't account for our niece

Adelaide's black eyes naturally any other way than just through the

Kilnacroish family; for I'm quite convinced it's from us she takes

them,--children always take their eyes from their father's side;

everybody knows that Becky's, and Bella's, and Baby's are all as like

their poor father's as they can stare."

"There's no accounting for the varieties of the human species," said

Jacky.

"And like's an ill mark," observed Nicky.

"And only think of her being so much taller than Mary, and twins! I

declare it's wonderful--I should have thought, indeed I never doubted,

that they would have been exactly the same size. And such a beautiful

colour too, when we used to think Mary rather pale; it's very

unaccountable!"

"You forget," said Jacky, who had not forgot the insult offered to her

nursing system eighteen years before; "you forget that I always

predicted what would happen."

"I never knew any good come of change," said Nicky.

"I'm sure that's very true," rejoined Grizzy; "and we have great reason

to thank our stars that Mary is not a perfect dwarf; which I really

thought she would have been for long, till she took a shooting,--summer

was a year."

"But she'll shoot no more," said Jacky, with a shake of the head that

might have vied with Jove's imperial nod; "England's not the place for

shooting."

"The Englishwomen are all poor droichs," said Nicky, who had seen three

in the course of her life.

"It's a great matter to us all, however, and to herself too, poor thing,

that Mary should be so happy," resumed Grizzy. "I'm sure I don't know

what she would have done if Lord Courtland had been an ill-tempered

harsh man, which, you know, he might just as easily have been; and it

would really have been very hard upon poor Mary--and Lady Emily such a

sweet creature too! I'm sure we must all allow we have the greatest

reason to be thankful."

"I don't know," said Jacky; "Mary was petted enough before, I wish she

may have a head to stand any more."

"She'll be ten times nicer than ever," quoth Nicky.

"There is some reason, to be sure, that can't be denied, to be afraid of

that; at the same time, Mary has a great deal of sense of her own when

she chooses; and it's a great matter for her, and indeed for all of us,

that she is under the eye of such a sensible worthy man as that Dr.

Redgill. Of course we may be sure Lord Courtland will keep a most

elegant table, and have a great variety of sweet things, which are

certainly very tempting for young people; but I have no doubt but Dr.

Redgill will look after Mary, and see that she doesn't eat too many of

them."

"Dr. Redgill must be a very superior man," pronounced Jacky, in her

most magisterial manner.

"If I could hear of a private opportunity," exclaimed Nicky, in a

transport of generosity, "I would send him one of our hams, and a nice

little pig [1] of butter--the English are all great people for

butter."

The proposal was hailed with rapture by both sisters in a breath; and it

was finally settled that to those tender pledges of Nicky's, Grizzy

should add a box of Lady Maclaughlan's latest invented pills, while Miss

Jacky was to compose the epistle that was to accompany them.

The younger set of aunts were astonished that Mary had said nothing

about lovers and offers of marriage, as they had always considered going

to England as synonymous with going to be married.

To Mrs. Douglas's more discerning eye, Mary's happiness did not appear

in so dazzling a light as to the weaker optics of her aunts.

"It is not like my Mary," thought she, "to rest so much on mere external

advantages; surely her warm affectionate heart cannot be satisfied with

the _grace_ of a mother and the _beauty_ of a sister. These she might

admire in a stranger; but where we seek for happiness we better prize

more homely attributes. Yet Mary is so open and confiding, I think she

could not have concealed from me had she experienced a disappointment."

Mrs. Douglas was not aware of the effect of her own practical lessons;

and that, while she was almost unconsciously practising the quiet

virtues of patience, and fortitude, and self-denial, and

unostentatiously sacrificing her own wishes to promote the comfort of

others, her example, like a kindly dew, was shedding its silent

influence on the embryo blossoms of her pupil's heart.

[1] Jar.

CHAPTER IV.

". . . So the devil prevails often; _opponit nubem,_ he claps cloud

between; some little objection; a stranger is come; or my head aches; or

the church is too cold; or I have letters to write; or I am not

disposed; or it is not yet time; or the time is past; these, and such as

these, are the clouds the devil claps between heaven and us; but these

are such impotent objections, that they were as soon confuted, as

pretended, by all men that are not fools, or professed enemies of

religion." --JEREMY TAYLOR.

LADY Juliana had in vain endeavoured to obtain a sick certificate for

her daughter, that would have authorised her consigning her to the

oblivion of her own apartment. The physicians whom she consulted all

agreed, for once, in recommending a totally different system to be

pursued; and her displeasure, in consequence, was violently excited

against the medical tribe in general, and Dr. Redgill in particular. For

that worthy she had indeed always entertained a most thorough contempt

and aversion; for he was poor, ugly, and vulgar, and these were the

three most deadly sins in her calendar. The object of her detestation

was, however, completely insensible to its effects. The Doctor, like

Achilles, was vulnerable but in one part, and over that she could

exercise no control. She had nothing to do with the _ménage_--possessed

no influence over Lord Courtland, nor authority over Monsieur Grillade.

She differed from himself as to the dressing of certain dishes; and, in

short, he summed up her character in one emphatic sentence, that in his

idea conveyed severer censure than all that Pope or Young ever wrote--"

I don't think she has the taste of her mouth!"

Thus thwarted in her scheme, Lady Juliana's dislike to her daughter

rather increased than diminished; and it was well for Mary that lessons

of forbearance had been early infused into her mind; for her spirit was

naturally high, and would have revolted from the tyranny and injustice

with which she was treated had she not been taught the practical duties

of Christianity, and that "patience, with all its appendages, is the

sum total of all our duty that is proper to the day of sorrow."

Not that Mary sought, by a blind compliance with all her mother's

follies and caprices, to ingratiate herself into her favour--even the

motive she would have deemed insufficient to have sanctified the deed;

and the only arts she employed to win a place in her parent's heart were

ready obedience, unvarying sweetness, and uncomplaining submission.

Although Mary possessed none of the sour bigotry of a narrow mind, she

was yet punctual in the discharge of her religious duties; and the

Sunday following her arrival, as they sat at breakfast, she inquired of

her cousin at what time the church service began.

"I really am not certain--I believe it is late," replied her cousin

carelessly. "But why do you ask?'

"Because I wish to be there in proper time."

"But we scarcely ever go--never, indeed, to the parish church--and we

are rather distant from any other; so you must say your prayers at home."

"I would certainly prefer going to church," said Mary.

"Going to church!" exclaimed Dr. Redgill in amazement. "I wonder what

makes people so keen of going to church! I'm sure there's little good to

be got there. For my part, I declare I would just as soon think of going

into my grave. Take my word for it, churches and churchyards are rather

too nearly related."

"In such a day as this," said Mary, "so dry and sunny, I am sure there

can be no danger."

"Take your own way, Miss Mary," said the Doctor; "but I think it my

duty to let you know my opinion of churches. I look upon them as

extremely prejudicial to the health. They are invariably either too

hot or too cold; you are either stewed or starved in them; and, till some

improvement takes place, I assure you my foot shall never enter one of

them. In fact, they are perfect receptacles of human infirmities. I can

tell you one of your church-going ladies at a glance; they have all

rheumatisms in their shoulders, and colds in their heads, and swelled

faces. Besides it's a poor country church--there's nothing to be seen

after you do go."

"I assure you Lady Juliana will be excessively annoyed if you go," said

Lady Emily, as Mary rose to leave the room.

"Surely my mother cannot be displeased at my attending church!" said

Mary in astonishment.

"Yes, she can, and most certainly will. She never goes herself now,

since she had a quarrel with Dr. Barlow, the clergyman; and she can't

bear any of the family to attend him."

"And you have my sanction for staying away, Miss Mary," added the

Doctor.

"Is he a man of bad character?" asked Mary, as she stood irresolute

whether to proceed.

"Quite the reverse. He is a very good man; but he was scandalised at

Lady Juliana's bringing her dogs to church one day, and wrote her what

she conceived a most insolent letter about it. But here come your

lady-mamma and the culprits in question."

"Your Ladyship is just come in time to settle a dispute here," said the

Doctor, anxious to turn her attention from a hot muffin, which had just

been brought in, and which he meditated appropriating to himself: "I

have said all I can--(Was you looking at the toast, Lady Emily?)--I must

now leave it to your Ladyship to convince this young lady of the folly

of going to church."

The Doctor gained his point. The muffin was upon his own plate, while

Lady Juliana directed her angry look towards her daughter.

"Who talks of going to church?" demanded she.

Mary gently expressed her wish to be permitted to attend divine service.

"I won't permit it. I don't approve of girls going about by themselves.

It is vastly improper, and I won't hear of it."

"It is the only place I shall ask to go to," said Mary timidly; "but I

have always been accustomed to attend church, and---"

"That is a sufficient reason for my choosing that you should not attend

it here. I won't suffer a Methodist in the house."

"I assure you the Methodists are gaining ground very fast," said the

Doctor, with his mouth full. 'Pon my soul, I think it's very alarming!"

"Pray, what is so alarming in the apprehension? asked Lady Emily.

"What is so alarming! 'Pon my honour, Lady Emily, I'm astonished to hear

you ask such a question!"--muttering to himself, "zealots--fanatics--

enthusiasts--bedlamites! I'm sure everybody knows what Methodists are!"

"There has been quite enough said upon the subject," said Lady Juliana.

"There are plenty of sermons in the house, Miss Mary," continued the

Doctor, who, like many other people, thought he was always doing a

meritorious action when he could dissuade anybody from going to church.

"I saw a volume somewhere not long ago; and at any rate there's the

Spectator, if you want Sunday's reading--some of the papers there are as

good as any sermon you'll get from Dr. Barlow."

Mary, with fear and hesitation, made another attempt to overcome her

mother's prejudice, but in vain.

"I desire I may hear no more about it!" cried she, raising her voice.

"The clergyman is a most improper person. I won't suffer any of my

family to attend his church; and therefore, once for all, I won't hear

another syllable on the subject."

This was said in a tone and manner not to be disputed, and Mary felt her

resolution give way before the displeasure of her mother. A contest of

duties was new to her, and she could not all at once resolve upon

fulfilling one duty at the expense of another. "Besides," thought she,

"my mother thinks she is in the right. Perhaps, by degrees, I may bring

her to think otherwise; and it is surely safer to try to conciliate than

to determine to oppose."

But another Sabbath came, and Mary found she had made no progress in

obtaining the desired permission. She therefore began seriously to

commune with her own heart as to the course she ought to pursue.

The commandment of "Honour thy father and thy mother" had been deeply

imprinted on her mind, and few possessed higher notions of filial

reverence; but there was another precept which also came to her

recollection. "Whosoever loveth father and mother more than me cannot be

my disciple." "But I may honour and obey my parent without loving her

more than my Saviour," argued she with herself, in hopes of lulling her

conscience by this reflection. "But again," thought she, "the Scripture

saith, 'He that keepeth my commandments, he it is that loveth me.'" Then

she felt the necessity of owning that if she obeyed the commands of her

mother, when in opposition to the will of her God, she gave one of the

Scripture proofs of either loving or fearing her parent upon earth more

than her Father which is in heaven. But Mary, eager to reconcile

impossibilities--viz. the will of an ungodly parent with the holy

commands of her Maker--thought now of another argument to calm her

conscience. "The Scripture," said she, "says nothing positive about

attending public worship; and, as Lady Emily says, I may say my prayers

just as well at home." But the passages of Scripture were too deeply

imprinted on her mind to admit of this subterfuge. "Forsake not the

assembling of yourselves together." "Where two or three are gathered

together in my name, there will I be in the midst of them," etc. etc. But

alas! two or three never were gathered together at Beech Park, except

upon parties of pleasure, games of hazard, or purposes of conviviality.

The result of Mary's deliberations was a firm determination to do what

she deemed her duty, however painful. And she went in search of Lady

Emily, hoping to prevail upon her to use her influence with Lady Juliana

to grant the desired permission; or, should she fail in obtaining it, she

trusted her resolution would continue strong enough to enable her have

her mother's displeasure in this act of conscientious disobedience. She

met her cousin, with her bonnet on, prepared to go out.

"Dear Lady Emily," said she, "let me entreat of you to use your

influence with my mother to persuade her to allow me to go to church."

"In the first place," answered her cousin, "you may know that I have no

influence;--in the second, that Lady Juliana is never to be persuaded

into any thing;--in the third, I really can't suppose you are serious in

thinking it a matter of such vast moment whether or not you go to

church."

"Indeed I do," answered Mary earnestly. "I have been taught to consider

it as such; and----"

"Pshaw! nonsense! these are some of your stiff-necked Presbyterian

notions. I shall really begin to suspect you are a Methodist and yet you

are not at all like one."

"Pray, tell me," said Mary, with a smile, "what are your ideas of

a Methodist?"

"Oh! thank heaven, I know little about them!--almost as little as Dr.

Redgill, who, I verily believe, could scarcely tell the difference

betwixt a Catholic and a Methodist, except that the one dances and

t'other prays. But I am rather inclined to believe it is a sort of a

scowling, black-browed, hard-favoured creature, with its greasy hair

combed straight upon its flat forehead, and that twirls its thumbs, and

turns up its eyes, and speaks through its nose and, in short, is

everything that you are not, except in this matter--of going to church.

So, to avert all these evil signs from falling upon you, I shall make a

point of your keeping company with me for the rest of the day."

Again Mary became serious, as she renewed her entreaties to her

cousin to intercede with Lady Juliana that she might be allowed to

attend _any_ church.

"Not for kingdoms!" exclaimed she. "Her Ladyship is in one of her most

detestable humours to-day; not that I should mind that, if it was

anything of real consequence that I had to compass for you. A ball, for

instance--I should certainly stand by you there but I am really not so

fond of mischief as to enrage her for nothing!"

"Then I fear I must go to church without it," said Mary in a melancholy

tone.

"If you are to go at all, it must certainly be without it. And here is

the carriage--get your bonnet, and come along with me. You shall at

least have a sight of the church."

Mary went to put on her pelisse; and, descending to join her cousin in

the drawing-room, she found her engaged in an argument with Dr. Redgill.

How it had commenced did not appear; but the Doctor's voice was raised

as if to bring it to a decided termination.

"The French, madam, in spite of your prejudices, are a very superior

nation to us. Their skill and knowledge are both infinitely higher.

Every man in France is a first-rate cook--in fact, they are a nation of

cooks; and one of our late travellers assures us that they have

discovered three hundred methods of dressing eggs, for one thing."

"That is just two hundred and ninety-nine ways more than enough," said

Lady Emily "give me a plain boiled egg, and I desire no other variety of

the produce of a hen till it takes the form of a chicken."

Dr. Redgill lowered his eyebrows and drew up his chin, but disdained

to waste more arguments upon so tasteless a being. "To talk sense to a

woman is like feeding chickens upon turtle soup," thought he to

himself.

As for Lady Juliana, she exulted in the wise and judicious manner in

which she had exercised her authority, and felt her consequence greatly

increased by a public display of it--power being an attributes he was

very seldom invested with now. Indeed, to do her Ladyship justice, she

was most feelingly alive to the duty due to parents, though that such a

commandment existed seemed quite unknown to her till she became a

mother. But she made ample amends for former deficiencies now; as to

hear her expatiate on the subject, one would have deemed it the only

duty necessary to be practised, either by Christian or heathen, and

that, like charity, it comprehended every virtue, and was a covering for

every sin. But there are many more sensible people than her Ladyship who

entertain the same sentiments, and, by way of variety, reverse the time

and place of their duties. When they are children, they make many

judicious reflections on the duties of parents; when they become

parents, they then acquire a wonderful insight into the duties of

children. In the same manner husbands and wives are completely alive to

the duties incumbent upon each other, and the most ignorant servant is

fully instructed in the duty of a master. But we shall leave Lady

Juliana to pass over the duties of parents, and ponder upon those of

children, while we follow Lady Emily and Mary in their airing.

The road lay by the side of a river; and though Mary's taste had been

formed upon the wild romantic scenery of the Highlands, she yet looked

with pleasure on the tamer beauties of an English landscape. And though

accustomed to admire even "rocks where the snowflake reposes;" she had

also taste, though of a less enthusiastic kind, for the "gay landscapes

and gardens of roses," which, in this more genial clime, bloomed even

under winter's sway. The carriage drove smoothly along, and the sound of

the church bell fell at intervals on the ear, "in cadence sweet, now

dying all away;" and, at the holy sound, Mary's heart flew back to the

peaceful vale and primitive kirk of Lochmarlie, where all her happy

Sabbath had been spent. The view now opened upon the village church,

beautifully situated on the slope of a green hill. Parties of straggling

villagers in their holiday suits were descried in all directions, some

already assembled in the churchyard, others traversing the neat

footpaths that led through the meadows. But to Mary's eyes the

well-dressed English rustic, trudging along the smooth path, was a far

less picturesque object than the barefooted Highland girl, bounding over

trackless heath-covered hills; and the well-preserved glossy blue coat

seemed a poor substitute for the varied drapery of the graceful plaid.

So much do early associations tincture all our future ideas.

They had now reached the church, and as Mary adhered to her resolution

of attending divine worship, Lady Emily declared her intention of

accompanying her, that she might come in for her share of Lady Juliana's

displeasure; but in spite of her levity, the reverend aspect, and meek,

yet fervent piety of Dr. Barlow, impressed her with better feelings; and

she joined in the service with outward decorum if not with inward

devotion. The music consisted of an organ, simply but well played; and

to Mary, unaccustomed to any sacred sounds save those twanged through

the nose of a Highland _precentor,_ it seemed the music of the spheres.

Far different sounds than those of peace and praise awaited her return.

Lady Juliana, apprised of this open act of rebellion, was in all the

paroxysms incident to a little mind on discovering the impotence of its

power. She rejected all attempts at reconciliation; raved about

ingratitude and disobedience; declared her determination of sending Mary

back to her vulgar Scotch relations one moment--the next protested

she should never see those odious Methodists again; then she was to take

her to France, and shut her up in a convent, etc., till, after uttering

all the incoherences usual with ladies in a passion, she at last

succeeded in raving herself into a fit of hysterics.

Poor Mary was deeply affected at this (to her) tremendous display of

passion. She who had always been used to the mild placidity of Mrs.

Douglas, and who had seen her face sometimes clouded with sorrow, but

never deformed by anger-what a spectacle! To behold a parent subject to

the degrading influence of an ungovernable temper! Her very soul

sickened at the sight; and while she wept over her mother's weakness,

she prayed that the Power which stayed the ocean's wave would mercifully

vouchsafe to still the wilder tempests of human passion.

CHAPTER V.

"Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain,

Which, with pain purchased, doth inherit pain."

SHAKESPEARE.

IN addition to her mother's implacable wrath and unceasing animadversion

Mary found she was looked upon as a sort of alarming character by the

whole family. Lord Courtland seemed afraid of being drawn into a

religious controversy every time he addressed her. Dr. Redgill retreated

at her approach and eyed her askance, as much as to say, "'Pon my

honour, a young lady that can fly in her mother's face about such a

trifle as going to church is not very safe company." And Adelaide

shunned her more than ever, as if afraid of coming in contact with a

professed Methodist. Lady Emily, however, remained staunch to her; and

though she had her own private misgivings as to her cousin's creed, she

yet stoutly defended her from the charge of Methodism, and maintained

that, in many respects, Mary was no better than her neighbours.

"Well, Mary," cried she, as she entered her room one day with an air of

exultation, "here is an opportunity for you to redeem your character.

There," throwing down a card, "is an invitation for you to a fancy ball."

Mary's heart bounded at the mention of a ball. She had never been at

one, and it was pictured in her imagination in all the glowing colours

with which youth and inexperience deck untried pleasures.

"Oh, how charming!" exclaimed she, with sparkling eyes, "how my aunts

Becky and Bella will love to hear an account of a ball! And a fancy

ball!--what is that?"

Lady Emily explained to her the nature of the entertainment, and Mary

was in still greater raptures.

"It will be a perfect scene of enchantment, I have no doubt," continued

her cousin, "for Lady M. understands giving balls, which is what every

one does not; for there are dull balls as well as dull every things else

in the world. But come, I have left Lady Juliana and Adelaide in grand

debate as to their dresses. We must also hold a cabinet council upon

ours. Shall I summon the inimitable Slash to preside?"

"The mention of her mother recalled Mary's thoughts from the festive

scene to which they had already flown.

"But are you _quite_ sure," said she, "that I shall have my mother's

consent to go?"

"Quite the contrary," answered her cousin coolly. "She won't hear of

your going. But what signifies that? You could go to church in spite of

her, and surely you can't think her consent of much consequence to a

ball?"

Poor Mary's countenance fell, as the bright vision of her imagination

melted into air.

"Without my mother's permission," said she, "I shall certainly not think

of, or even wish--" with a sigh--"to go to the ball, and if she has

already refused it that is enough."

Lady Emily regarded her with astonishment. "Pray, is it only on Sundays

you make a point of disobeying your mother?"

"It is only when I conceive a higher duty is required of me," answered

Mary.

"Why, I confess I used to think that to honour one's father and mother

_was _a duty, till you showed me the contrary. I have to thank you for

ridding me of that vulgar prejudice. And now, after setting me such a

noble example of independence, you seem to have got a new light on the

subject yourself."

"My obedience and disobedience both proceed from the same source,"

answered Mary. "My first duty, I have been taught, is to worship my

Maker--my next to obey my mother. My own gratification never can come in

competition with either."

"Well, I really can't enter into a religious controversy with you; but

it seems to me the sin, if it is one, is precisely the same, whether you

play the naughty girl in going to one place or another. I can see no

difference."

"To me it appears very different," said Mary; "and therefore I should be

inexcusable were I to choose the evil, believing it to be such."

"Say what you will," cried her cousin pettishly, "you never will convince

me there can be any harm in disobeying such a mother as yours--so

unreasonable--so--"

"The Bible makes no exceptions," interrupted Mary gently; "it is not

because of the reasonableness of our parents' commands that we are

required to obey them, but because it is the will of God."

"You certainly are a Methodist--there's no denying it. I have fought

some hard battles for you, but I see I must give you up. The thing won't

conceal." This was said with such an air of vexation that Mary burst

into a fit of laughter.

"And yet you are the oddest compound," continued her cousin, "so gay

and comical, and so little given to be shocked and scandalised at the

wicked ways of others; or to find fault and lecture; or, in short, to do

any of the insufferable things that your good people are so addicted to.

I really don't know what to think of you."

"Think of me as a creature with too many faults of her own to presume to

meddle with those of others," replied Mary, smiling at her cousin's

perplexity.

"Well, if all good people were like you, I do believe I should become a

saint myself. If you are right, I must be wrong; but fifty years hence

we shall settle that matter with spectacles on nose over our family

Bibles. In the meantime the business of the ball-room is much more

pressing. We really must decide upon something. Will you choose your own

style, or shall I leave it to Madame Trieur to do us up exactly alike?"

"You have only to choose for yourself, my dear cousin," answered Mary.

"You know I have no interest in it--at least not till I have received

my mother's permission."

"I have told you already there is no chance of obtaining it. I had a

_brouillerie_ with her on the subject before I came to you."

"Then I entreat you will not say another word. It is a thing of so

little consequence, that I am quite vexed to think that my mother should

have been disturbed about it. Dear Lady Emily, if you love me, promise

that you will not say another syllable on the subject."

"And this is all the thanks I get for my trouble and vexation,"

exclaimed Lady Emily, angrily; "but the truth is, I believe you think it

would be a sin to go to a ball; and as for dancing--oh, shocking! That

would be absolute ---. I really can't say the bad word you good people

are so fond of using."

"I understand your meaning," answered Mary, laughing; "but, indeed, I

have no such apprehensions. On the contrary, I am very fond of dancing;

so fond, that I have often taken Aunt Nicky for my partner in a

Strathspey rather than sit still--and, to confess my weakness, I should

like very much to go to a ball."

"Then you must and shall go to this one. It is really a pity that you

should have enraged Lady Juliana so much by that unfortunate

church-going; but for that, I think she might have been managed; and even

now, I should not despair, if you would, like a good girl, beg pardon

for what is past, and promise never to do so any more."

"Impossible!" replied Mary. "You surely cannot be serious in

supposing I would barter a positive duty for a trifling amusement?"

"Oh, hang duties! they are odious things. And as for your amiable,

dutiful, virtuous Goody Two-Shoes characters, I detest them. They never

would go down with me, even in the nursery, with all he attractions of a

gold watch and coach and six. They were ever my abhorrence, as every

species of canting and hypocrisy still is---"

Then struck with a sense of her own violence and impetuosity, contrasted

with her cousin's meek unreproving manner, Lady Emily threw her arms

round her, begging pardon, and assuring her she did not mean her.

"If you had," said Mary, returning her embrace, "you would only have told

me what I am in some respects. Dull and childish, I know I am; for I am

not the same creature I was at Lochmarlie"--and a tear trembled in her

eye as she spoke--"and troublesome, I am sure, you have found me."

"No, no!" eagerly interrupted Lady Emily; "you are the reverse of

all that. You are the picture of my Edward, and everything that is

excellent and engaging; and I see by that smile you will go to the

ball--there's a darling!"

Mary shook her head.

"I'll tell you what we can do," cried her persevering patroness; "we

can go as masks, and Lady Juliana shall know nothing about it. That will

save the scandal of an open revolt or a tiresome dispute. Half the

company will be masked; so, if you keep your own secret, nobody will

find it out. Come, what characters shall we choose?"

"That of Janus, I think, would be the most suitable for me," said Mary.

Then, in a serious tone, she added, "I can neither disobey nor deceive

my mother. Therefore, once for all, my dear cousin, let me entreat of

you to be silent on a subject on which my mind is made up. I am

perfectly sensible of your kindness, but any further discussion will be

very painful to me."

Lady Emily was now too indignant to stoop to remonstrance. She quitted

her cousin in great anger, and poor Mary felt as if she had lost her only

friend.

"Alas!" sighed she, "how difficult it is to do right, when even the

virtues of others throw obstacles in our way! And how easy our duties

would be could we kindly aid one another in the performance of them!"

But such is human nature. The real evils of life, of which we so loudly

complain, are few in number, compared to the daily, hourly pangs we

inflict on one another.

Lady Emily's resentment, though violent, was short-lived; and in the

certainty that either the mother would relent or the daughter rebel, she

ordered a dress for Mary; but the night of the ball arrived, and both

remained unshaken in their resolution. With a few words Adelaide might

have obtained the desired permission for her sister; but she chose to

remain neuter, coldly declaring she never interfered in quarrels.

Mary beheld the splendid dresses and gay countenances of the party for

the ball with feelings free from envy, though perhaps not wholly unmixed

with regret. She gazed with the purest admiration on the extreme beauty

of her sister, heightened as it was by the fantastic elegance of her

dress, and contrasted with her own pale visage and mourning habiliments.

"Indeed," thought she, as she turned from the mirror, with rather a

mournful smile, "my Aunt Nicky was in the right: I certainly am a poor

_shilpit_ thing."

As she looked again at her sister she observed that her earrings were

not so handsome as those she had received from Mrs. Macshake; and she

instantly brought them, and requested Adelaide would wear them for that

night.

Adelaide took them with her usual coolness--remarked how very

magnificent they were--wished some old woman would take it into her head

to make her such a present; and, as she clasped them in her ears,

regarded herself with increased complacency. The hour of departure

arrived; Lord Courtland and Lady Juliana were at length ready, and Mary

found herself left to a _tete-à-tete_ with Dr. Redgill; and,

strange as it may seem, neither in a sullen nor melancholy mood. But

after a single sigh, as the carriage drove off, she sat down with a

cheerful countenance to play backgammon with the Doctor.

The following day she heard of nothing but the ball and its delights;

for both her mother and her cousin sought (though from different

motives) to heighten her regret at not having been there. But Mary

listened to the details of all she had missed with perfect fortitude,

and only rejoiced to hear they had all been so happy.

CHAPTER VI.

"Day follows night. The clouds return again

After the falling of the latter rain;

But to the aged blind shall ne'er return

Grateful vicissitude: She still must mourn

The sun, and moon, and every starry light,

Eclipsed to her, and lost in everlasting night."

PRIOR

AMONGST the numerous letters and parcels with which Mary had been

entrusted by the whole county of-----, there was one she had received

from the hands of Lady Maclaughlan, with a strict injunction to be the

bearer of it herself; and, as even Lady Maclaughlan's wishes now wore an

almost sacred character in Mary's estimation, she was very desirous of

fulfilling this her parting charge. But, in the thraldom in which she

was kept, she knew not how that was to be accomplished. She could not

venture to wait upon the lady to whom it was addressed without her

mother's permission; and she was aware that to ask was upon every

occasion only to be refused. In his dilemma she had recourse to Lady

Emily; and, showing her the letter, craved her advice and assistance.

"Mrs. Lennox, Rose Hall," said her cousin, reading the superscription.

"Oh! I don't think Lady Juliana will care a straw about your going

there. She is merely an unfortunate blind old lady, whom everybody

thinks it a bore to visit--myself, I'm afraid, amongst the number. We

ought all to have called upon her ages ago, so I shall go with you now."

Permission for Mary to accompany her was easily obtained; for Lady

Juliana considered a visit to Mrs. Lennox as an act of penance rather

than of pleasure; and Adelaide protested the very mention of her name

gave her the vapours. There certainly was nothing that promised much

gratification in what Mary had heard; and yet she already felt

interested in this unfortunate blind lady whom everybody thought it

a bore to visit, and she sought to gain some more information respecting

her. But Lady Emily, though possessed of warm feelings and kindly

affections, was little given to frequent the house of mourning, or

sympathise with the wounded spirit; and she yawned as she declared she

was very sorry for poor Mrs. Lennox, and would have made a point of

seeing her oftener, could she have done her any good.

"But what can I possibly say to her," continued she, "after losing

her husband, and having I don't know how many sons killed in battle, and

her only daughter dying of a consumption, and herself going blind in

consequence of her grief for all these misfortunes--what can I possibly

do for her, or say to her? Were I in her situation, I'm sure I should

hate the sight and sound of any human being, and should give myself up

entirely to despair."

"That would be but a pagan sacrifice," said Mary.

"What would you do in such desperate circumstances?" demanded Lady

Emily.

"I would hope," answered Mary, meekly.

"But in poor Mrs. Lennox's case that would be to hope though hope were

lost; for what can she hope for now? She has still something to fear,

however, as I believe she has still one son remaining, who is in the

brunt of every battle; of course she has nothing to expect but accounts

of his death."

"But she may hope that heaven will preserve him, and--"

"That you will marry him. That would do excellently well, for he is as

brave as a real Highlander, though he has the misfortune to be only half

a one. His father, General Lennox, was a true Scot to the very tip of

his tongue, and as proud and fiery as any chieftain need be. _His_

death, certainly was an improvement in the family. But there is Rose

Hall, with its pretty shrubberies and nice parterres, what

do you say to becoming its mistress?"

"If I am to lay snares," answered Mary, laughing, "it must be for nobler

objects than hedgerow elms and hillocks green."

"Oh, it must be for black crags and naked hills! Your country really

does vastly well to rave about! Lofty mountains and deep glens, and blue

lakes and roaring rivers, are mighty fine-sounding things; but I suspect

cornfields and barnyards are quit as comfortable neighbours; so take my

advice and marry Charles Lennox."

Mary only answered by singing, "My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is

not here," etc., as the carriage drew up.

"This is the property of Mrs. Lennox," said Lady Emily, in answer to

some remark of her companion's; "she is the last of some ancient stock;

and you see the family taste has been treated with all due respect."

Rose Hall was indeed perfectly English: it was a description of place of

which there are none in Scotland; for it wore the appearance of

antiquity, without the too usual accompaniments of devastation or decay;

neither did any incongruities betray vicissitude of fortune or change of

owner; but the taste of the primitive possessor seemed to have been

respected through ages by his descendants; and the ponds remained as

round, and the hedges as square, and the grass walks as straight, as the

day they had been planned. The same old-fashioned respectability was

also apparent in the interior of the mansion. The broad heavy oaken

staircase shone in all the lustre of bees' wax; and the spacious

sitting-room into which they were ushered had its due allowance of

Vandyke portraits, massive chairs, and china jars, standing much in the

same positions they had been placed in a hundred years before.

To the delicate mind the unfortunate are always objects of respect. As

the ancients held sacred those places which had been blasted by

lightning, so the feeling heart considers the afflicted as having been

touched by the hand of God Himself. Such were the sensations with which

Mary found herself in the presence of the venerable Mrs.

Lennox--venerable rather through affliction than age; for sorrow, more

than time, had dimmed the beauty of former days, though enough still

remained to excite interest and engage affection in the mournful yet

gentle expression of her countenance, and the speaking silence of her

darkened eyes. On hearing the names of her visitors, she arose, and,

guided by a little girl, who had been sitting at her feet, advanced to

meet them, and welcomed them with a kindness and simplicity of manner

that reminded Mary of the home she had left and the maternal tenderness

of her beloved aunt. She delivered her credentials, which Mrs. Lennox

received with visible surprise; but laid the letter aside without any

comments.

Lady Emily began some self-accusing apologies for the length of time

that had intervened since her last visit, but Mrs Lennox gently

interrupted her.

"Do not blame yourself, my dear Lady Emily," said she; "for what is so

natural at your age. And do not suppose I am so unreasonable as to

expect that the young and the gay should seek for pleasure in the

company of an old blind Woman. At your time of life I would not have

courted distress anymore than you."

"At every time of life," said Lady Emily, "I am sure you must have been a

very different being from what I am, or ever shall be."

"Ah! you little know what changes adversity makes in the character,"

said Mrs. Lennox mournfully; "and may you never know--unless it is for

your good."

"I doubt much if I shall ever be good on any terms," answered Lady Emily

in a half melancholy tone; "I don't think I have the elements of

goodness in my composition, but here is my cousin, who is fit to stand

proxy for all the virtues."

Mrs. Lennox involuntarily turned her mild but sightless eyes towards

Mary, then heaved a sigh and shook her head, as she was reminded of her

deprivation. Mary was too much affected to speak; but the hand that was

extended to her she pressed with fervour to her lips, while her eyes

overflowed with tears. The language of sympathy is soon understood. Mrs.

Lennox seemed to feel the tribute of pity and respect that flowed from

Mary's warm heart, and from that moment they felt towards each other

that indefinite attraction which, however it may be ridiculed, certainly

does sometimes influence our affections.

"That is a picture of your son, Colonel Lennox, is it not?" asked Lady

Emily, "I mean the one that hangs below the lady in the satin gown with

the bird on her hand."

Mrs. Lennox answered in the affirmative; then added, with a sigh, "And

when I _could_ look on that face, I forgot all I had lost; but I was too

fond, too proud a mother. Look at it, my dear," taking Mary's hand, and

leading her to the well-known spot, while her features brightened with

an expression which showed maternal vanity was not yet extinct in the

mourner's heart. "He was only eighteen," continued she, "when that was

done; and many a hot sun has burned on that fair brow; and many a

fearful sight has met these sweet eyes since then; and sadly that face

may be changed; but I shall never see it more!"

"Indeed," said Lady Emily, affecting to be gay, while a tear stood in

her eye, "it is a very dangerous face to look on; and I should be afraid

to trust myself with it, were not my heart already pledged. As for my

cousin there, there is no fear of her falling a sacrifice to hazel eyes

and chestnut hair, her imagination is all on the side of sandy locks and

frosty gray eyes; and I should doubt if Cupid himself would have any

chance with her, unless he appeared in tartan plaid and Highland

bonnet."

"Then my Charles would have some," said Mrs. Lennox, with a faint smile;

"for he has lately been promoted to the command of a Highland regiment."

"Indeed!" said Lady Emily, "that is very gratifying, and you have

reason to be proud of Colonel Lennox; he has distinguished himself upon

every occasion."

"Ah! the days of my pride are now past," replied Mrs. Lennox, with a

sigh; "'tis only the more honour, the greater danger, and I am weary of

such bloody honours. See there!" pointing to another part of the room,

where hung a group of five lovely children, "three of these cherub heads

were laid low in battle; the fourth, my Louisa, died of a broken heart

for the loss of her brothers. Oh! what can human power or earthly

honours do to cheer the mother who has wept o'er her children's graves?

But there _is_ a Power," raising her darkened eyes to heaven, "that can

sustain even a mother's heart; and here," laying her hand upon an open

Bible, "is the balm He has graciously vouchsafed to pour into the

wounded spirit. My comfort is not that my boys died nobly, but that they

died Christians."

Lady Emily and Mary were both silent from different causes. The former

was at a loss what to say--the latter felt too much affected to trust

her voice with the words of sympathy that hovered on her lips.

"I ought to beg your pardon, my dears," said Mrs. Lennox, after a pause,

for talking in this serious manner to you who cannot be supposed to

enter into sorrows to which you are strangers. But you must excuse me,

though my heart does sometimes run over."

"Oh, do not suppose," said Mary, making an effort to conquer her

feelings, "that we are so heartless as to refuse to take a part in the

afflictions of others; surely none can be so selfish; and might I be

allowed to come often--very often--" She stopped and blushed; for she

felt that her feelings were carrying her farther than she was warranted

to go.

Mrs. Lennox kindly pressed her hand. "Ah! God hath, indeed, sent some

into the world, whose province it is to refresh the afflicted, and

lighten the eyes of the disconsolate. Such, I am sure, you would be to

me; for I feel my heart revive at the sound of your voice; it reminds me

of my heart's darling, my Louisa! and the remembrance of her, though

sad, is still sweet. Come to me, then, when you will, and God's

blessing, and the blessing of the blind and desolate, will reward you."

Lady Emily turned away, and it was not till they had been some time

in the carriage that Mary was able to express the interest this visit

had excited, and her anxious desire to be permitted to renew it.

"It is really an extraordinary kind of delight, Mary, that you take in

being made miserable," said her cousin, wiping her eyes; "for my part,

it makes me quite wretched to witness suffering that I can't relieve;

and how can you or I possibly do poor Mrs. Lennox any good? We can't

bring back her sons."

"No; but we can bestow our sympathy, and that, I have been taught, is

always a consolation to the afflicted."

"I don't quite understand the nature of that mysterious feeling called

sympathy. When I go to visit Mrs. Lennox, she always sets me a-crying,

and I try to set her a-laughing. Is that what you call sympathy?"

Mary smiled, and shook her head.

"Then I suppose it is sympathy to blow one's nose--and--and read the

Bible. Is that it? or what is it?"

Mary declared she could not define it; and Lady Emily insisted she could

not comprehend it.

"You will some day or other," said Mary; "for none, I believe, have ever

passed through life without feeling, or at least requiring its support;

and it is well, perhaps, that we should know betimes how to receive as

well as how to bestow it."

"I don't see the necessity at all. I know I should hate mortally to be

what you call sympathised with; indeed, it appears to me the height of

selfishness in anybody to like it. If I am wretched, it would be no

comfort to me to make everybody else wretched; and were I in Mrs.

Lennox's place, I would have more spirit than to speak about my

misfortunes."

"But Mrs. Lennox does not appear to be what you call a spirited

creature. She seems all sweetness, and--"

"Oh, sweet enough, certainly!--But hers is a sort of Eolian harp, that

lulls me to sleep. I tire to death of people who have only two or three

notes in their character. By-the-bye, Mary, you have a tolerable compass

yourself, when you choose, though I don't think you have science enough

for a _bravura; there_ I certainly have the advantage of you, as I

flatter myself my mind is a full band in itself. My kettledrums and

trumpets I keep for Lady Juliana, and I am quite in the humour for

giving her a flourish today. I really require something of an

exhilarating nature after Mrs. Lennox's dead march."

An unusual bustle seemed to pervade Beech Park as the carriage stopped,

and augured well for its mistress's intention of being more than usually

vivacious. It was found to be occasioned by the arrival of her brother

Lord Lindore's servants and horses, with the interesting intelligence

that his Lordship would immediately follow; and Lady Emily, wild with

delight, forgot everything in the prospect of embracing her brother.

"How does it happen," said Mary, when her cousin's transports had a

little subsided, "that you, who are in such ecstasies at the idea of

seeing your brother, have scarcely mentioned his name to me?"

"Why, to tell you the truth, I fear I was beginning to forget there was

such a person in the world. I have not seen him since I was ten years

old. At that time he went to college, and from thence to the Continent.

So all I remember of him is that he was very handsome and very

good-humoured; and all that have heard of him is, that wherever he goes

he is the 'glass of fashion and the mould of form'--not that he is much

of a Hamlet, I've a notion, in other respects. So pray put off that

Ophelia phiz, and don't look as if you were of ladies most deject and

wretched, when everybody else is gay and happy. Come, give your last

sigh to the Lennox, and your first smile to _Lindore."_

"That is sympathy," said Mary.

CHAPTER VII.

"Quelle fureur, dit-il, quei aveugle caprice

Quand Ie dîner est prêt."

BOILEAU.

"I HOPE your Lordship has no thoughts of waiting dinner for Lord

Lindore?" asked Dr. Redgill, with a face of alarm, as seven o'clock

struck, and neither dinner nor Lord Lindore appeared.

"I have no thoughts upon the subject," answered Lord Courtland, as

he turned over some new caricatures with as much _nonchalance_ as if it

had been mid-day.

"That's enough, my Lord; but I suspect Mr. Marshall, in his

officiousness, takes the liberty of thinking for you, and that we shall

have no dinner without orders," rising to pull the bell.

"We ought undoubtedly to wait for Frederick," said Lady Juliana; "it is

of no consequence when we sit down to table."

A violent yell from the sleeping Beauty on the rug sounded like a

summary judgment on her mistress.

"What is the meaning of this?" cried her Ladyship, flying to the

offended fair one, in all the transports of pity and indignation; "how

can you, Dr. Redgill, presume to treat my dog in such a manner?"

"Me treat your Ladyship's dog!" exclaimed the Doctor in well-feigned

astonishment--"Pon my honour!--I'm quite at a loss!--I'm absolutely

confounded!"

"Yes! I saw you plainly give her a kick, and--"

"Me kick Beauty!--after that!--'Pon my soul, I should just as soon have

thought of kicking my own grandmother. I did give her a _leettle_--a

very _leettle_ shove, just with the point of my toe, as I was going to

pull the bell; but it couldn't have hurt a fly. I assure you it would be

one of the last action of my life to treat Beauty ill--Beauty!--poor

Beauty!"--affecting to pat and soothe, by way of covering his

transgression. But neither Beauty nor her mistress were to be taken in

by the Doctor's cajolerie. The one felt, and the other saw the indignity

he had committed; and his caresses and protestations were all in vain.

The fact was, the Doctor's indignation was so raised by Lady Juliana's

remark, made in all the plenitude of a late luncheon, that, had it been

herself instead of her favourite, he could scarcely have refrained from

this testimony of his detestation and contempt. But much as he despised

her, he felt the necessity of propitiating her at this moment, when

dinner itself depended upon her decision; for Lord Courtland was

perfectly neutral, Lady Emily as not present, and a servant waited to

receive orders.

"I really believe it's hunger that's vexing her poor brute!" continued

he, with an air of us feigned sympathy; "she knows the dinner hour as

well as any of us. Indeed, the instinct of dogs in that respect is

wonderful. Providence has really--ahem!--indeed it's no joke to tamper

with dogs, when they've got the notion of dinner in their heads. A

friend of mine had a very fine animal--just such another as poor Beauty

there--she had always been accustomed, like Beauty, to attend the family

to dinner at a particular hour; but one day, by some accident, instead of

sitting down at five, she was kept waiting till half-past six; the

consequence was, the disappointment, operating upon an empty

stomach, brought on an attack of the hydrophobia, and the poor thing was

obliged to be shot the following morning. I think your Lordship

said--Dinner," in a loud voice to the servant; and Lady Juliana, though

still sullen, did not dissent.

For an hour the Doctor's soul was in a paradise still more substantial

than a Turk's; for it was lapt in the richest of soups and _ragoûts_,

and, secure of their existence, it smiled at ladies of quality, and

deified their lap-dogs.

Dinner passed away, and supper succeeded, and breakfast; dinner and

supper revolved, and still no Lord Lindore appeared. But this excited no

alarm in the family. It was Lord Courtland's way, and it was Lady

Juliana's way, and it was all their ways, not to keep to their appointed

time, and they therefore experienced none of the vulgar consternation

incident to common minds when the expected guest fails to appear. Lady

Emily indeed wondered, and was provoked, and impatient; but she was not

alarmed; and Mary amused herself with contrasting in her own mind the

difference of her aunts' feelings in similar circumstances.