"Dear Aunt Grizzy would certainly have been in tears these two days,

fancying the thousand deaths Lord Lindore must have died; and Aunt Jacky

would have been inveighing from morning till night against the

irregularities of young men. And Aunt Nicky would have been lamenting

that the black cock had been roasted yesterday, or that there would be

no fish for to-morrow." And the result of Mary's comparison was, that

her aunts' feelings, however troublesome, were better than no feelings

at all. "They are, to be sure, something like brambles," thought she;

"they fasten upon one in every possible way, but still they are better

than the faded exotics of fashionable life."

At last, on the third day, when dinner was nearly over, and Dr. Redgill

was about to remark for the third time, "I think it's as well we didn't

wait for Lord Lindore," the door opened, and, without warning or bustle,

Lord Lindore walked calmly into the room.

Lady Emily, uttering an exclamation of joy, threw herself into his arms.

Lord Courtland was roused to something like animation, as he cordially

shook hands with his son; Lady Juliana flew into raptures at the beauty

of his Italian greyhound; Adelaide, at the first glance, decided that

her cousin was worthy of falling in love with her; Mary thought on the

happiness of the family reunion; and Dr. Redgill offered up a silent

thanksgiving that this _fracas_ had not happened ten minutes sooner,

otherwise the woodcocks would have been as cold as death. Chairs were

placed by the officious attendants in every possible direction; and the

discarded first course was threatening to displace the third. But Lord

Lindore seemed quite insensible to all these attentions; he stood

surveying the company with a _nonchalance_ that had nothing of rudeness

in it, but seemed merely the result of high-bred ease. His eye, for a

moment, rested upon Adelaide. He then slightly bowed and smiled, as in

recognition of their juvenile acquaintance.

"I really can't recommend either the turtle soup or the venison to your

Lordship to-day," said Dr. Redgill, who experienced certain uneasy

sensations at the idea of beholding them resume their stations,

something resembling those which Macbeth testified at sight of Banquo's

ghost, or Hamlet on contemplating Yorick's skull--"after travelling,

there is nothing like a light dinner; allow me to recommend this

_prretty, leettle cuisse de poulet en papillote;_ and here are some

fascinating _beignets d'abricots_--quite foreign."

"If there is any roast beef or boiled mutton to be had, pray let me have

it," said Lord Lindore, waving off the zealous _maître d'hotel,_

as he kept placing dish after dish before him.

"Roast beef, or boiled mutton!" ejaculated the Doctor, with a sort of

internal convulsion; "he is certainly mad."

"How did you contrive to arrive without being heard by me, Frederick?"

asked Lady Emily; "my ears have been wide open these two days and three

nights watching your approach?"

"I walked from Newberry House," answered he, carelessly. "I met Lord

Newberry two days ago, as I was coming here, and he persuaded me to

alter my course and accompany him home."

"Vastly flattering to your friends here," said Lady Emily in a tone of

pique.

"What! you walked all the way from Newberry," exclaimed the Earl, "and

the ground covered with snow. How could you do so foolish a thing?"

"Simply because, as the children say, I liked it," replied Lord Lindore,

with a smile.

"That's just of a piece with his liking to eat boiled mutton," muttered

the Doctor to Mary; "and yet, to look at him, one would really not

expect such gross stupidity."

There certainly was nothing in Lord Lindore's appearance that denoted

either coarseness of taste or imbecility of mind. On the contrary, he

was an elegant-looking young man, rather slightly formed, and of the

middle size, possessing that ease and grace in all his movements which a

perfect proportion alone can bestow. There was nothing foreign or

_recherché_ either in his dress or deportment; both were plain,

even to simplicity; yet an almost imperceptible air of _hauteur_ was

mingled with the good-humoured indifference of his manner. He spoke

little, and seemed rather to endure than to be gratified by attentions;

his own were chiefly directed to his dog, as he was more intent on

feeding it than on answering the questions that were put to him. There

never was anything to be called conversation at the dinner-table at

Beech Park; and the general practice was in no danger of being departed

from on the present occasion. The Earl hated to converse--it was a bore;

and he now merely exchanged a few desultory sentences with his son, as he

ate his olives and drank his claret. Lady Juliana, indeed, spoke even

more than her usual quantity of nonsense, but nobody listened to it.

Lady Emily was somewhat perplexed in her notions about her brother. He

was handsome and elegant, and appeared good-humoured and gentle; yet

something was wanting to fill up the measure of her expectations, and a

latent feeling of disappointment lurked in her heart. Adelaide was

indignant that he had not instantly paid her the most marked attention,

and revenged herself by her silence. In short, Lord Lindore's arrival

seemed to have added little or nothing to the general stock of pleasure;

and the effervescence of joy--the rapture of _sensation_, like some

subtle essence, had escaped almost as soon as it was perceived.

"How stupid everybody always is at a dinner table!" exclaimed Lady Emily,

rising abruptly with an air of chagrin. "I believe it is the fumes of the

meat that dulls one's senses, and renders them so detestable. I long to

see you in the drawing-room Frederick. I've a notion you are more of a

carpet knight than a knight of the round table; so pray," in a whisper

as she passed, "leave papa to be snored asleep by Dr. Redgill, and do

you follow us--here is metal more attractive," pointing to the sisters,

as they quitted the room; and she followed without waiting for her

brother's reply.

CHAPTER VIII.

"Io dubito, Signor M. Pietro che il mio Cortegiano non sarà

stato altro che fatica mia, e fastidio degli amici."

BALDASSARRE CASTIGLIONE.

LORD LINDORE was in no haste to avail himself of his sister's

invitation; and when he did, it was evident his was a "mind not to be

changed by place;" for he entered more with the air of one who was tired

of the company he had left, than expecting pleasure from the society he

sought.

"Do come and entertain us, Lindore," cried Lady Emily, as he entered,

"for we are all heartily sick of one another. A snow-storm and a lack of

company are things hard to be borne; it is only the expectancy of your

arrival that has kept us alive these two days, and now pray don't let us

die away of the reality."

"You have certainly taken a most effectual method of sealing my lips,"

said her brother with a smile.

"How so?"

"By telling me that I am expected to be vastly entertaining, since every

word I utter can only serve to dispel the illusion, and prove that I am

gifted with no such miraculous power."

"I don't think it requires any miraculous power, either to entertain or

be entertained. For my part, I flatter myself I can entertain any man,

woman, or child in the kingdom, when I choose; and as for being

entertained, that is still an easier matter. I seldom meet with anybody

who is not entertaining, either from their folly, or their affectation,

or their stupidity, or their vanity; or, in short, something of the

ridiculous, that renders them not merely supportable, but positively

amusing."

"How extremely happy you must be," said Lord Lindore.

"Happy! No--I don't know that my feelings precisely amount to happiness

neither; for at the very time I'm most diverted I'm sometimes disgusted

too, and often provoked. My spirit gets chafed, and---"

"You long to box the ears of all your acquaintances," said her brother,

laughing. "Well, no matter--there is nothing so enviable as a facility

of being amused, and even the excitement of anger is perhaps preferable

to the stagnation of indifference."

"Oh, thank heaven! I know nothing about indifference; I leave that to

Adelaide."

Lord Lindore turned his eyes with more animation than he had yet evinced

towards his cousin, who sat reading, apparently paying no attention to

what was going on. He regarded her for a considerable time with an

expression of admiration; but Adelaide, though she was conscious of his

gaze, calmly pursued her studies. "Come, you positively must do

something to signalise yourself. I assure you it is expected of you that

you should be the soul of the company. Here is Adelaide waltzes like an

angel, when she can get a partner to her liking."

"But I waltz like a mere mortal," said Lord

Lindore, seating himself at a table, and turning over the leaves of a

book.

"And I am engaged to play billiards with my uncle," said Adelaide,

rising with a blush of indignation.

"Shall we have some music, then? Can you bear to listen to our croakings

after the warbling of your Italian nightingales?" asked Lady Emily.

"I should like very much to hear you sing," answered her brother, with

an air of the most perfect indifference.

"Come then, Mary, do you be the one to 'untwist the chains that tie the

hidden soul of harmony.' Give us your Scotch Exile, pray? It is

tolerably appropriate to the occasion, though an English one would have

been still more so; but, as you say, there is nothing in this country to

make a song about."

Mary would rather have declined, but she saw a refusal would displease

her cousin; and she was not accustomed to consult her own inclination in

such frivolous matters. She therefore seated herself at the harp, and

sang the following verses;--

THE EXILE.

The weary wanderer may roam

To seek for bliss in change of scene;

Yet still the loved idea of home,

And of the days he there has seen,

Pursue him with a fond regret,

Like rays from suns that long have set.

"Tis not the sculptor's magic art,

"Tis not th' heroic deeds of yore,

That fill and gratify the heart.

No! 'tis affection's tender lore--

The thought of friends, and love's first sigh,

When youth, and hope, and health were nigh.

What though on classic ground we tread,

What though we breathe a genial air--

Can these restore the bliss that's fled?

Is not remembrance ever there?

Can any soil protect from grief,

Or any air breathe soft relief?

No! the sick soul, that wounded flies

From all its early thoughts held dear,

Will more some gleam of memory prize,

That draws the long-lost treasure near;

And warmly presses to its breast

The very thought that mars its rest.

Some mossy stone, some torrent rude,

Some moor unknown to worldly ken,

Some weeping birches, fragrant wood,

Or some wild roebuck's fern-clad glen;--

Yes! these his aching heart delight,

These bring his country to his sight.

Ere the song was ended Lord Lindore had sauntered away to the

billiard-room, singing, "Oh! Jiove Omnipotente!" and seemingly quite

unconscious that any attentions were due from him in return. But there,

even Adelaide's charms failed to attract, in spite of the variety of

graceful movements practised before him--the beauty of the extended arm,

the majestic step, and the exclamations of the enchanting voice Lord

Lindore kept his station by the fire, in a musing attitude, from which

he was only roused occasionally by the caresses of his dog. At supper it

was still worse. He placed himself by Mary, and when he spoke, it was

only of Scotland.

"Well--what do you think of Lindore?" demanded Lady Emily of her aunt

and cousins, as they were about to separate for the night. "Is he not

divine?"

"Perfectly so!" replied Lady Juliana, with all the self-importance of a

fool. "I assure you I think very highly of him. He is a vastly charming,

clever young man-perfectly beautiful, and excessively amiable; and his

attention to his dog is quite delightful--it is so uncommon to see men

at all kind to their dogs. I assure you I have known many who were

absolutely cruel to them--beat them, and starved them, and did a

thousand shocking things; and----"

"Pray, Adelaide, what is your opinion of my brother"

"Oh! I--I--have no doubt he is extremely amiable," replied Adelaide,

with a gentle yawn. "As mamma says, his attentions to his dog prove it."

"And you, Mary, are your remarks to be equally judicious and polite?"

Mary, in all the sincerity of her heart, said she thought him by much

the handsomest and most elegant-looking man she had ever seen. And there

she stopped.

"Yes; I know all that. But--however, no matter--I only wish he may have

sense enough to fall in love with you, Mary. How happy I should be to

see you Lady Lindore!--_En attendant_--you must take care of your heart;

for I hear he is _un peu volage_--and, moreover, that he admires none

but _les dames Mariées._ As for Adelaide, there is no fear of

her. She will never cast such a pearl away upon one who is merely, no

doubt, extremely amiable," retorting Adelaide's ironical tone.

"Then you may feel equally secure upon my account," said Mary, "as I

assure you I am still less danger of losing mine, after the warning you

have given."

This off-hand sketch of her brother's character, which Lady Emily had

thoughtlessly given, produced the most opposite effects on the minds of

he sisters. With Adelaide it increased his consequence and enhanced his

value. It would be no vulgar conquest to fix and reform one who was

notorious for his inconstancy and libertine principles; and from that

moment she resolved to use all the influence of her charms to captivate

and secure the heart of her cousin. In Mary's well-regulated mind other

feelings arose. Although she was not one of the outrageous virtuous, who

storm and rail at the very mention of vice, and deem it contamination to

hold any intercourse with the vicious, she yet possessed proper ideas

for the distinction to be drawn; and the hope of finding a friend and

brother in her cousin now gave way to the feeling that in future she

could only consider him as an common acquaintance.

CHAPTER IX

"On sera ridicule et je n'oserai rire!"

BOILEAU.

IN honour of her brother's return Lady Emily resolved to celebrate it

with a ball; and always prompt in following up her plans, she fell to

work immediately with her visiting list.

"Certainly," said she, as she scanned it over, "there never was any

family so afflicted in their acquaintances as we are. At least one-half

of the names here belong to the most insufferable people on the face of

the earth. The Claremonts, and the Edgefields, and the Bouveries, and the

Sedleys, and a few more, are very well; but can anything in human form

be more insupportable than the rest; for instance, that wretch Lady

Placid?"

"Does her merit lie only in her name then?" asked Mary.

"You shall judge for yourself when I have given you a slight sketch of

her character. Lady Placid, in the opinion of all sensible persons in

general, and myself in particular, is a vain, weak, conceited, vulgar

egotist. In her own eyes she is a clever, well-informed, elegant,

amiable woman; and though I have spared no pains to let her know how

detestable I think her, it is all in vain; she remains as firmly

entrenched in her own good opinion as folly and conceit can make her;

and I have the despair of seeing all my buffetings fall blunted to the

ground. She reminds me of some odious fairy or genii I have read of, who

possessed such a power in their person that every hostile weapon

levelled against them was immediately turned into some agreeable

present. Stones became balls of silk--arrows, flowers--swords, feathers,

etc. Even so it is with Lady Placid. The grossest insult that could be

offered she would construe into an elegant compliment; the very crimes

of others she seems to consider as so much incense offered up at the

shrine of her own immaculate virtue. I'm certain she thinks she deserves

to be canonised for having kept out of Doctors' Commons. Never is any

affair of that sort alluded to that she does not cast such a triumphant

look towards her husband, as much as to say, 'Here am I, the paragon of

faithful wives and virtuous matrons!' Were I in his place, I should

certainly throw a plate at her head. And here, you may take this passing

remark--How much more odious people are who have radical faults, than

those who commit, I do not say positive crimes, but occasional

weaknesses. Even a noble nature may fall into a great error; but what is

that to the ever-enduring pride, envy, malice, and conceit of a little

mind? Yes, I would at any time rather be the fallen than the one, so

exult over the fall of another. Then, as a mother, she is, if possible,

still more meritorious a woman (this is the way she talks): A woman has

nobly performed her part to her country, and for posterity, when she has

brought a family of fine healthy children into the world. 'I can't agree

with you,' I reply 'I think many mothers have brought children into the

world who would have been much better out of it. A mother's merit must

depend solely upon how she brings up her children (hers are the most

spoiled brats in Christendom). 'There I perfectly agree with you, Lady

Emily. As you observe, it is not every mother who does her duty by her

children. Indeed, I may say to you, it is not everyone that will make

the sacrifices for their family I have done; but thank God! I am richly

repaid. My children are everything I could wish them to be!' Everything

of hers, as a matter of course, must be superior to every other

person's, and even what she is obliged to share in common with others

acquires some miraculous charm in operating upon her. Thus it is

impossible for anyone to imagine the delight she takes in bathing; and

as for the sun, no mortal can conceive the effect it has upon her. If

she was to have the plague she would assure you it was owing to some

peculiar virtue in her blood; and if she was to be put in the pillory

she would ascribe it entirely to her great merit. If her coachman were

to make her a declaration of love she would impute it to the boundless

influence of her charms; that every man who sees her does not declare

his passion is entirely owing to the well-known severity of her morals

and the dignity of her deportment. If she is amongst the first invited

to my ball, that will be my eagerness to secure her: if the very last,

it will be a mark of my friendship, and the easy footing we are upon. If

not invited at all, then it will be jealousy. In short, the united

strength of worlds would not shake that woman's good opinion of herself;

and the intolerable part of it is there are so many fools in this one

that she actually passes with the multitude for being a charming

sweet-tempered woman--always the same--always pleased and contented.

Contented! just as like contentment as the light emitted by putridity

resembles the divine halo! But too much of her. Let her have a card,

however.

"Then comes Mrs. Wiseacre, that renowned law-giver, who lavishes her

advice on all who will receive it, without hope of fee or reward, except

that of being thought wiser than anybody else. But, like many more

deserving characters, she meets with nothing but ingratitude in return;

and the wise sentences that are for ever hovering around her pursed up

mouth have only served to render her insupportable. This is her mode of

proceeding--' If I might presume to advise, Lady Emily;' or, 'If my

opinion could be supposed to have any weight;' or 'If my experience goes

for anything;' or, 'I'm an old woman now, but I think I know something

of the world;' or, 'If a friendly hint of mine would be of any service:

--then when very desperate, it is, 'However averse I am to obtrude my

advice, yet as I consider it my duty, I must for once;' or, 'It

certainly is no affair of mine, at the same time I must just observe,'

etc. etc. I don't say that she insists, however, upon your swallowing

all the advice she crams you with; for, provided she has the luxury of

giving it, it can make little difference how it is taken; because

whatever befals you, be it good or bad, it is equally a matter of

exultation to her. Thus she has the satisfaction of saying, 'If poor

Mrs. Dabble had but followed my advice, and not have taken these pills

of Dr. Doolittle's, she would have been alive to-day, depend upon it;'

or, 'If Sir Thomas Speckle had but taken advantage of a friendly hint I

threw out some time ago, about the purchase of the Drawrent estate, he

might have been a man worth ten thousand a year at this moment;' or, 'If

Lady Dull hadn't been so infatuated as to neglect the caution I gave her

about Bob Squander, her daughter might have been married to Nabob Gull.'

"But there is a strange contradiction about Mrs. Wiseacre, for though it

appears that all her friends' misfortunes proceed from neglecting her

advice, it is no less apparent, by her account, that her own are all

occasioned by following the advice of others. She is for ever doing

foolish things, and laying the blame upon her neighbours. Thus, 'Had it

not been for my friend Mrs. Jobbs there, I never would have parted with

my house for an old song as I did;' or, 'It was entirely owing to Miss

Glue's obstinacy that I was robbed of my diamond necklace, or, 'I have

to thank my friend Colonel Crack for getting my carriage smashed to

pieces.' In short, she has the most comfortable repository of stupid

friends to have recourse to, of anybody I ever knew. Now what I have to

warn you against, Mary, is the sin of ever listening to any of her

advices. She will preach to you about the pinning of your gown and the

curling of your hair till you would think it impossible not to do exactly

what she wants you to do. She will inquire with the greatest solicitude

what shoemaker you employ, and will shake her head most significantly

when she hears it is any other than her own. But if ever I detect you

paying the smallest attention to any of her recommendations, positively

I shall have done with you."

Mary laughingly promised to turn a deaf ear to all Mrs. Wiseacre's

wisdom; and her cousin proceeded:

"Then here follows a swarm as, thick as idle motes in sunny ray,' and

much of the same importance, methinks, in the scale of being. Married

ladies only celebrated for their good dinners, or their pretty

equipages, or their fine jewels. How I should scorn to be talked of as

the appendage to any soups or pearls! Then there are the daughters of

these ladies--Misses, who are mere misses, and nothing more. Oh! the

insipidity of a mere Miss! a soft simpering thing with pink cheeks, and

pretty hair, and fashionable clothes _sans_ eyes for anything but

lovers_-sans_ ears for anything but flattery--_sans_ taste for anything

but balls_--sans_ brains for anything at all! Then there are ladies who

are neither married nor young, and who strive with all their might to

talk most delightfully, that the charms of their conversation may efface

the marks of the crows' feet; but 'all these I passen by, and nameless

numbers moe.' And now comes the Hon. Mrs. Downe Wright, a person of

considerable shrewdness and penetration--vulgar, but unaffected. There

is no politeness, no gentleness in her heart; but she possesses some

warmth, much honesty, and great hospitality. She has acquired the

character of being--oh, odious thing!--a clever woman! There are two

descriptions of clever women, observe; the one is endowed with corporeal

cleverness--the other with mental; and I don't know which of the two is

the greater nuisance to society; the one torments you with her

management--the other with her smart sayings; the one is for ever

rattling her bunch of keys in your ears--the other electrifies you with

the shock of her wit; and both talk _so_ much and _so _loud, and are

such egotists, that I rather think a clever woman is even a greater term

of reproach than a good creature. But to return to that clever woman Mrs.

Downe Wright: she is a widow, left with the management of an only son--a

commonplace, weak young man. No one, I believe, is more sensible of his

mental deficiencies than his mother; but she knows that a man of fortune

is, in the eyes of the many, a man of consequence; and she therefore

wisely talks of it as his chief characteristic. To keep him in good

company, and get him well married, is all her aim; and this, she thinks,

will not be difficult, as he is very handsome-possesses an estate of ten

thousand a year--and succeeds to some Scotch Lord Something's

title--there's for you, Mary! She once had views of Adelaide, but

Adelaide met the advances with so much scorn that Mrs. Downe Wright

declared she was thankful she had shown the cloven foot in time, for

that she never would have done for a wife to her William. Now you are

the very thing to suit, for you have no cloven feet to show."

"Or at least you are not so quick-sighted as Mrs. Downe Wright. You

have not spied them yet, it seems," said Mary, with a smile.

"Oh, as to that, if you had them, I should defy you, or anyone, to hide

them from me. When I reflect upon the characters of most of my

acquaintances, I sometimes think nature has formed my optics only to see

disagreeables."

"That must be a still more painful faculty of vision than even the

second-sight," said Mary; "but I should think it depended very much upon

yourself to counteract it."

"Impossible! my perceptions are so peculiarly alive to all that is

obnoxious to them that I could as soon preach my eyes into blindness, or

my ears into deafness, as put down my feelings with chopping logic. If

people _will_ be affected and ridiculous, why must I live in a state of

warfare with myself on account of the feelings they rouse within me?"

"If people _will_ be irritable," said Mary, laughing, "why must others

sacrifice their feelings to gratify them?"

"Because mine are natural feelings, and theirs are artificial. A very

saint must sicken at sight of affectation, you'll allow. Vulgarity, even

innate vulgarity, is bearable--stupidity itself is pardonable--but

affectation is never to be endured or forgiven."

"It admits of palliation, at least," answered Mary. "I dare say there are

many people who would have been pleasing and natural in their manners

had not their parents and teachers interfered. There are many, I

believe, who have not courage to show themselves such as they are--some

who are naturally affected and many, very many, who have been taught

affectation as a necessary branch of education."

"Yes--as my governesses would have taught me; but, thank heaven! I got

the better of them. _Fascinating_ was what they wanted to make me; but

whenever the word was mentioned, I used to knit my brows, and frown upon

them in such a sort. The frown, like now, sticks by me; but no matter--a

frowning brow is better than a false heart, and I defy anyone to say

that I am fascinating."

"There certainly must be some fascination about you, otherwise I should

never have sat so long listening to you," said Mary, as she rose from

the table at which she had been assisting to dash off the at-homes.

"But you must listen to me a little longer," cried her cousin, seizing

her hand to detain her. "I have not got half through my detestables yet;

but to humour you, I shall let them go for the present. And now, that

you mayn't suppose I am utterly insensible to excellence, you must

suffer me to show you that I can and do appreciate worth when I can find

it. I confess my talent lies fully as much in discovering the ridiculous

as the amiable; and I am equally ready to acknowledge it is a fault, and

no mark of superior wit or understanding; since it is much easier to hit

off the glaring caricature line of deformity than the finer and more

exquisite touches of beauty, especially for one who reads as he

run---the sign-posts are sure to catch the eye. But now for my

favourite--no matter for her name--it would frighten you if were you to

hear it. In the first place, she is, as some of your old divines say,

_hugely religious;_ 'but then she keeps her piety in its proper place,

and where it ought to be--in her very soul. It is never a

stumbling-block in other people's way, or interfering with other

people's affairs. Her object is to _be,_ not to _seem, _religious; and

there is neither hypocrisy nor austerity necessary for that. She is

forbearing, without meanness--gentle, without insipidity--sincere,

without rudeness. She practises all the virtues herself, and seems quite

unconscious that others don't do the same. She is, if I may trust the

expression of her eye, almost as much alive to the ridiculous as I am;

but she is only diverted where I am provoked. She never bestows false

praise even upon her friends; but a simple approval from her is of more

value than the finest panegyric from another. She never finds occasion

to censure or condemn the conduct of anyone, however flagrant it may be

in the eyes of others; because she seems to think virtue is better

expressed by her own actions than by her neighbour's vices. She cares

not for admiration, but is anxious to do good and give pleasure. To sum

up the whole, she could listen with patience to Lady Placid; she could

bear to be advised by Mrs. Wiseacre; she could stand the scrutiny of

Mrs. Downe Wright; and, hardest task of all" (throwing her arms around

Mary's neck), "she can bear with all my ill-humour and impertinence."

CHAPTER X.

"Have I then no fears for thee, my _mother?_

Can I forget thy cares, from helpless years--

Thy tenderness for me? an eye still beamed

With love!"

THOMPSON.

THE arrival of Lord Lindore brought a influx of visitors to Beech Park;

and in the unceasing round of amusement that went on Mary found herself

completely overlooked. She therefore gladly took advantage of her

insignificance to pay frequent visits to Mrs. Lennox, and easily

prevailed with Lady Juliana to allow her to spend a week there

occasionally. In this way the acquaintance soon ripened into the warmest

affection on both sides. The day seemed doubly dark to Mrs. Lennox that

was not brightened by Mary's presence; and Mary felt all the drooping

energies of her heart revive in the delight of administering to the

happiness of another.

Mrs. Lennox was one of those gentle amiable beings, who engage our

affections far more powerfully than many possessed of higher attributes.

Her understanding was not strong--neither had it been highly cultivated,

according to the ideas of the present time; but she had a benevolence of

heart and a guileless simplicity of thought that shamed the pride of wit

and pomp of learning. Bereft of all external enjoyments, and destitute

of great mental resources, it was retrospection and futurity that gilded

the dark evening of her days, and shed their light on the dreary

realities of life. She loved to recall the remembrance of her

children--to tell of their infant beauties, their growing virtues--and

to retrace scenes of past felicity which memory loves to treasure in the

heart.

"Oh! none but a mother can tell," she would exclaim, "the bitterness of

those tears which fall from a mother's eyes. All other sorrows seem

natural, but--God forgive me!--surely it is not natural that the old

should weep for the young. Oh! when I saw myself surrounded by my

children, little did I think that death was so soon to seal their eyes!

Sorrow mine! and yet me thinks I would rather have suffered all than

have stood in the world a lonely being. Yes, my children revered His

power and believed in His name, and, thanks to His mercy, I feel assured

they are now angels in heaven! Here," taking some papers from a

writing-box, "my Louisa speaks to me even from the tomb! These are the

words she wrote but a few hours before her death. Read them to me; for

it is not every voice I can bear to hear uttering her last thoughts."

Mary read as follows:--

FOR EVER GONE.

For ever gone! oh, chilling sound!

That tolls the knell of hope and joy!

Potent with torturing pang to wound,

But not in mercy to destroy.

For ever gone! what words of grief--

Replete with wild mysterious woe!

The Christian kneels to seek relief--

A Saviour died---It is not so.

For a brief space we sojourn here,

And life's rough path we journey o'er;

Thus was it with the friend so dear,

That is not lost, but sped before.

For ever gone! oh, madness wild

Dwells in that drear and Atheist doom!

But death of horror is despoiled,

When Heaven shines forth beyond the tomb.

For ever gone! oh, dreadful fate!

Go visit nature--gather thence

The symbols of man's happier state,

Which speak to every mortal sense.

The leafless spray, the withered flower,

Alike with man owns death's embrace;

But bustling forth, in summer hour,

Prepare anew to run life's race.

And shall it be, that man alone

Dies, never more to rise again?

Of all creation, highest one,

Created but to live in vain?

For ever gone! oh, dire despair!--

Look to the heavens, the earth, the sea--

Go, read a Saviour's promise there--

Go, heir of Immortality!

From such communings as these the selfish would have turned with

indifference; but Mary's generous heart was ever open to the

overflowings of the wounded spirit. She had never been accustomed to

lavish the best feelings of her nature on frivolous pursuits or

fictitious distresses, but had early been taught to consecrate them to

the best, the most ennobling purposes of humanity--even to the

comforting of the weary soul, the binding of the bruised heart. Yet Mary

was no rigid moralist. She loved amusement as the amusement of an

imperfect existence, though her good sense and still better principles

taught her to reject it as the _business_ of an immortal being.

Several weeks passed away, during which Mary had been an almost constant

inmate at Rose Hall; but the day of Lady Emily's _fête _arrived,

and with something of hope and expectation fluttering at her heart, she

anticipated her _debut_ in the ball-room. She repaired to the

breakfast-table of her venerable friend with even more than usual

hilarity; but, upon entering the apartment, her gaiety fled; for she was

struck with the emotion visible on the countenance of Mrs. Lennox. Her

meek but tearful eyes were raised to heaven, and her hands were crossed

on her bosom, as if to subdue the agitation of her heart. Her faithful

attendant stood by her with an open letter in her hand.

Mary flew towards her; and as her light step and soft accents met

her ear, she extended her arms towards her.

"Mary, my child, where are you?" exclaimed she, as she pressed her with

convulsive eagerness to her heart. "My son!--my Charles!--to-morrow I

shall see him. See him! oh, God help me! I shall never see him more!"

And she wept in all the agony of contending emotions, suddenly and

powerful excited.

"But you will hear him--you will hold him to your heart--you will be

conscious that he is beside you," said Mary.

"Yes, thank God! I shall once more hear the voice of a living child! Oh,

how often do those voices ring in my heart, that are all hushed in the

grave! I am used to it now; but to think of his returning to this

wilderness! When last he left it he had father, brothers, sisters--and

to find all gone!"

"Indeed it will be a sad return," said the old housekeeper, as she wiped

her eyes; "for the Colonel doated on his sister, and she on him, and his

brothers too! Dearly they all loved one another. How in this very room

have I seen them chase each other up and down in their pretty plays,

with their papa's cap and sword, and say they would be soldiers!"

Mary motioned the good woman to be silent; then turning to Mrs Lennox,

she sought to sooth her into composure, and turned, as she always did,

he bright side of the picture to view, by dwelling on the joy her son

would experience in seeing her. Mrs. Lennox shook her head mournfully.

"Alas! he cannot joy in seeing me, such as I am. I have too long

concealed from him my dreary doom; he knows not that these poor eyes are

sealed in darkness! Oh, he will seek to read a mother's fondness there,

and he will find all cold and silent."

"But he will also find you resigned--even contented," said Mary, while

her tears dropped on the hand she held to her lips.

"Yes; God knows I do not repine at His will. It is not for myself these

tears fall, but my son. How will he bear to behold the mother he so

loved and honoured, now blind, bereft, and helpless?" And the wounds of

her heart seemed to bleed afresh at the excitement of even its happiest

emotions--the return of a long absent, much-loved son.

Mary exerted all the powers of her understanding, all the tenderness of

her heart, to dispel the mournful images that pressed on the mind of her

friend; but she found it was not so much her _arguments _as her

_presence_ that produced that effect; and to leave her in her present

situation seemed impossible. In the agitation of her spirits she had

wholly forgotten the occasion that called for Mary's absence, and she

implored her to remain with her till the arrival of her son with an

earnestness that was irresistible.

The thoughts of her cousin's displeasure, should she absent herself upon

such an occasion, caused Mary to hesitate; yet her feelings would not

allow her to name the cause.

"How unfeeling it would sound to talk of balls at such a time," thought

she; "what a painful contrast must it present! Surely Lady Emily will

not blame me, and no one will miss me----" And, in the ardour of her

feelings, she promised to remain. Yet she sighed as she sent off her

excuse, and thought of the pleasures she had renounced. But the

sacrifice made, the regrets were soon past; and she devoted herself

entirely to soothing the agitated spirits of her venerable friend.

It is perhaps the simplest and most obvious truth, skilfully

administered, that, in the season of affliction, produces the most

salutary effects upon our mind. Mary was certainly no logician, and all

that she could say might have been said by another; but there is

something in the voice and manner that carries an irresistible influence

along with it--something that tells us our sorrows are felt and

understood, not coldly seen and heard. Mary's well-directed exertions

were repaid with success; she read, talked, played, and sang, not in her

gayest manner, but in that subdued strain which harmonised with the

feelings, while it won upon the attention, and she had at length the

satisfaction of seeing the object of her solicitude restored to her

usual state of calm confiding acquiescence.

"God bless you, my dear Mary!" said she, as they were about to separate

for the night. "He only can repay you for the good you have done me this

day!"

"Ah!" thought Mary, as she tenderly embraced her, "such a blessing is

worth a dozen balls?"

At that moment the sound of a carriage was heard, and an unusual bustle

took place below; but scarcely had they time to notice it ere the door

flew open, and Mrs. Lennox found herself locked in the arms of her son.

For some minutes the tide of feeling was too strong for utterance, and

"My mother!" "My son!" were the only words that either could articulate.

At length, raising his head, Colonel Lennox fixed his eyes on his

mother's face with a gaze of deep and fearful inquiry; but no returning

glance spoke there. With that mournful vacuity, peculiar to the blind,

which is a thousand times more touching than all the varied expression

of the living orb, she continued to regard the vacant space which

imagination had filled with the image she sought in vain to behold.

At this confirmation of his worst fears a shade of the deepest

anguish overspread the visage of her son. He raised his eyes, as in

agony, to heaven--then threw himself on his mother's bosom; and as Mary

hurried from the apartment she heard the sob which burst from his manly

heart, as he exclaimed, "My dear mother! do I indeed find you

thus?"

CHAPTER Xl

"There is more complacency in the negligence of some men, than in what

is called the good breeding of others; and the little absences of the

heart are often more interesting and engaging than the punctilious

attention of a thousand professed sacrificers to the graces."--MACKENZIE.

POWERFUL emotions are the certain levellers of ordinary feelings. When

Mary met Colonel Lennox in the breakfast-room the following morning, he

accosted her not with the ceremony of a stranger but with the frankness

of a heart careless of common forms, and spoke of his mother with

indications of sensibility which he vainly strove to repress. Mary knew

that she had sought to conceal her real situation from him; but it

seemed a vague suspicion of the truth had, crossed his mind, and having

with difficulty obtained a short leave of absence he had hastened to

have either his hopes or fears realised.

"And now that I know the worst," said he, "I know it only to deplore it.

Far from alleviating, presence seems rather to aggravate my poor

mother's misfortune. Oh! it is heartrending to see the strivings of

these longing eyes to look upon the face of those she loves!"

"Ah!" thought Mary, "were they to behold that face now, how changed

would it appear!" as she contrasted it with the portrait that hung

immediately over the head of the original. The one in all the brightness

of youth--the radiant eyes, the rounded cheek, the fair open brow, spoke

only of hope, and health, and joy. Those eyes were now dimmed by sorrow;

the cheek was wasted with toil; the brow was clouded by cares. Yet, "as

it is the best part of beauty which a picture cannot express," [1]

so there is something superior to the mere charms of form and colour; and

an air of high-toned feeling, of mingled vivacity and sensibility, gave

a grandeur to the form and an expression to the countenance which more

than atoned for the want of youth's more brilliant attributes.

[1] Lord Bacon.

At least, so thought Mary; but her comparisons were interrupted by the

entrance of Mrs. Lennox. Her son flew towards her, and taking her arm

from that of her attendant, led her to her seat, and sought to render

her those little offices which her helplessness required.

"My dear Charles," said she, with a smile, as he tried to adjust her

cushions, "your hands have not been used to this work. Your arm is my

best support, but a gentler hand must smooth my pillow. Mary, my love,

where are--? Give me your hand." Then placing it in that of her son--

"Many a tear has this hand wiped from your mother's eyes!"

Mary, blushing deeply, hastily withdrew it. She felt it as a sort of

appeal to Colonel Lennox's feelings; and a sense of wounded delicacy

made her shrink from being thus recommended to his gratitude. But

Colonel Lennox seemed too much absorbed in his own painful reflections

to attach such a meaning to his mother's words; and though they excited

him to regard Mary for a moment with peculiar interest, yet, in a little

while, he relapsed into the mournful reverie from which he had been

roused.

Colonel Lennox was evidently not a show-off character. He seemed

superior to the mere vulgar aim of making himself agreeable--an aim

which has much oftener its source in vanity than in benevolence. Yet the

exerted himself to meet his mother's cheerfulness; though as often as he

looked at her, or raised his eyes to the youthful group that hung before

them, his changing hue and quivering lip betrayed the anguish he strove

to hide.

Breakfast ended, Mary rose to prepare for her departure, in spite of the

solicitations of her friend that she should remain till the following

day.

"Surely, my dear Mary," said she in an imploring accent, "you will not

refuse to bestow one day of happiness upon me?--and it is _such _a

happiness to see my Charles and you together. I little thought that ever

I should have been so blessed. Ah! I begin to think God has yet some

good in store for my last days! Do not then leave me just when I am

beginning to taste of joy!"--And she clung to her with that pathetic

look which Mary had ever found irresistble.

But upon this occasion she steeled her heart against all supplication.

It was the first time she had ever turned from the entreaty of old age

or infirmity; and those only who have lived in the habitual practice of

administering to the happiness of others can conceive how much it costs

the generous heart to resist even the weaknesses of those it loves. But

Mary felt she had already sacrificed too much to affection, and she

feared the reproaches and ridicule that awaited her return to Beech

Park. She therefore gently, though steadily, adhered to her resolution,

only softening it by a promise of returning soon.

"What an angel goes there!" exclaimed Mrs. Lennox to her son, as Mary

left the room to prepare for her departure. "Ah! Charles, could I but

hope to see her yours!"

Colonel Lennox smiled--"That must be when I am an angel myself then. A

poor weather-beaten soldier like me must be satisfied with something

less."

"But is she not a lovely creature?" asked his mother, with some

solicitude.

"Angels, you know, are always fair," replied Colonel Lennox laughingly,

trying to parry this attack upon his heart.

"Ah! Charles, that is not being serious. But young people now are

different from what they were in my day. There is no such thing as

falling in love now, you are all so cautious."

And the good old lady's thoughts reverted to the time when the gay and

gallant Captain Lennox had fallen desperately in love with her, as she

danced a minuet in a blue satin sacque and Bologna hat at a county ball.

"You forget, my dear mother, what a knack I had in falling in love ten

years ago. Since then, I confess I have got rather out of the way of it;

but a little, a very little practice, I am sure, will make me as expert

as ever;--and then I promise you shall have no cause to complain of my

caution."

Mrs. Lennox sighed and shook her head. She had long cherished the hope

that if ever her son came home it would be to fall in love with and

marry her beloved Mary; and she had dwelt upon this favourite scheme

till it had taken entire possession of her mind. In the simplicity of

her heart she also imagined that it would greatly help to accelerate the

event were she to suggest the idea to her son, as she had no doubt but

that the object of her affections must necessarily become the idol of

his. So little did she know of human nature that the very means she used

to accomplish her purpose were the most effectual she could have

contrived to defeat it. Such is man, that his pride revolts from all

attempts to influence his affections. The weak and the undiscerning,

indeed, are often led to "choose love by another's eyes;" but the lofty

and independent spirit loves to create for itself those feelings which

lose half their charms when their source is not in the depths of their

own heart.

It was with no slight mortification that Mrs. Lennox saw Mary depart

without having made the desired impression on the heart of her son; or,

what was still more to be feared, of his having secured himself a place

in her favour. But again and again she made Mary repeat her promise of

returning soon, and spending some days with her. "And then," thought

she, "things will all come right. When they live together, and see each

other constantly, they cannot possibly avoid loving each other, and all

will be as it should be. God grant I may live to see it!"

And hope softened the pang of disappointment.

CHAPTER XII.

"Qui vous a pu plonger dans cette humeur chagrine,

A-t-on par quelque edit réformé la cuisine?"

BOILEAU.

MARY'S inexperienced mind expected to find, on her return to Beech Park,

some vestige of the pleasures of the preceding night--some shadows, at

least, of gaiety, to show what happiness she had sacrificed what delight

her friends had enjoyed; but for the first time she beheld the hideous

aspect of departed pleasure. Drooping evergreens, dying lamps, dim

transparencies, and faded flowers, met her view as she crossed the hall;

while the public rooms were covered with dust from the chalked floors,

and wax from the droppings of the candles. Everything, in short, looked

tawdry and forlorn. Nothing was in its place--nothing looked as it used

to do--and she stood amazed at the disagreeable metamorphose an things

had undergone.

Hearing some one approach, she turned and beheld Dr. Redgill enter.

"So--it's only you, Miss Mary!" exclaimed he in a tone of chagrin. "I

was in hopes it was some of the women-servants. 'Pon my soul, it's

disgraceful to think that in this house there is not a woman stirring

yet! I have sent five messages by my man to let Mrs. Brown know that I

have been waiting for my breakfast these two hours; but this confounded

ball has turned everything upside down! You are come to a pretty scene,"

continued he, looking round with a mixture of fury and contempt,--"a

very pretty scene! 'Pon my honour, I blush to see myself standing here!

Just look at these rags!" kicking a festoon of artificial roses that had

fallen to the ground. "Can anything be more despicable?--and to think

that rational creatures in possession of their senses should take

pleasure in the sight of such trumpery! 'Pon my soul, I--I--declare it

confounds me! I really used to think Lady Emily (for this is all her

doing) had some sense--but such a display of folly as this!"

"Pshaw!" said Mary, "it is not fair in us to stand here analysing the

dregs of gaiety after the essence is gone. I daresay this was a very

brilliant scene last night."

"Brilliant scene, indeed!" repeated the Doctor in a most; wrathful

accent: "I really am amazed--I--yes--brilliant enough--if you mean that

there was a glare of light enough to blind the devil. I thought my eyes

would have been put out the short time I stayed; indeed, I don't think

this one has recovered it yet," advancing a fierce blood-shot eye almost

close to Mary's. "Don't you think it looks a _leettle_ inflamed, Miss

Mary?"

Mary gave it as her opinion that it did.

"Well, that's all I've got by this business; but I never was consulted

about it. I thought it my duty, however, to give a _leettle_ hint to the

Earl, when the thing was proposed. 'My Lord,' says I, 'your house is

your own; you have a right to do what you please with it; burn it; pull

it down; make a purgatory of it; but, for God's sake, don't give a ball

in it!' The ball was given, and you see the consequences. A ball! and

what's a ball, that a whole family should be thrown into disorder for

it?"

"I daresay, to those who are engaged in it, it is a very delightful

amusement at the time."

"Delightful fiddlestick! 'Pon my soul, I'm surprised at you, Miss Mary!

I thought your staying away was a pretty strong proof of your good

sense; but I--hem! Delightful amusement, indeed! to see human creatures

twirling one another about all night like so many monkeys--making

perfect mountebanks of themselves. Really, I look upon dancing as a most

degrading and a most immoral practice. 'Pon my soul, I--_I_ couldn't

have the face to waltz, I know; and it's all on account of this

delightful amusement--" with a convulsive shake of his chin--"that things

are in this state--myself kept waiting for my breakfast two hours and a

half beyond my natural time: not that I mind myself at all--that's

neither here nor there--and if I was the only sufferer, I'm sure I

should be the very last to complain--but I own it vexes--it distresses

me. 'Pon my honour, can't stand seeing a whole family going to

destruction!"

The Doctor's agitation was so great that Mary really pitied him.

"It is rather hard that you cannot get any breakfast since you had no

enjoyment in the ball," said she. "I daresay, were I to apply to Mrs.

Brown, she would trust me with her keys; and I shall be happy too

officiate for her in making your tea."

"Thank you, Miss Mary," replied the Doctor coldly. "I'm very much obliged

to you. It is really a very polite offer on your part; but--hem!--you

might have observed that I never take tea to breakfast. I keep that for

the evening; most people, I know, do the reverse, but they're in the

wrong. Coffee is too nutritive for the evening. The French themselves

are in an error there. That woman, that Mrs. Brown knows what I like; in

fact, she's the only woman I ever met with who could make coffee--coffee

that I thought drinkable. She knows that--and she knows that I like it

to a moment--and yet---"

Here the Doctor blew his nose, and Mary thought she perceived a tear

twinkle in his eye. Finding she was incapable of administering

consolation, she was about to quit the room, when the Doctor, recovering

himself, called after her.

"If you happen to be going the way of Mrs. Brown's room, Miss Mary, I

would take it very kind if you could just contrive to let her know what

time of day it is; and that I have not tasted a mouthful of anything

since last night at twelve o'clock, when I took a _leettle_ morsel of

supper in my own room."

Mary took advantage of the deep sigh that followed to make her escape;

and as she crossed the vestibule she descried the Doctor's man, hurrying

along with a coffee pot, which she had no doubt would pour consolation

into his master's soul.

As Mary was aware of her mother's dislike to introduce her into

company, she flattered herself she had for once done something to merit

her approbation by having absented herself on this occasion. But Mary

was a novice in the ways of temper, and had yet to learn that to study

to please, and to succeed, are very different things. Lady Juliana had

been decidedly averse to her appearing at the ball, but she was equally

disposed to take offence at her having stayed away; besides, she had not

been pleased herself, and her glass told her she looked jaded and ill.

She was therefore, as her maid expressed it, in a most particular bad

temper; and Mary had to endure reproaches, of which she could only make

out that although she ought not to have been present she was much to

blame in having been absent. Lady Emily's indignation was in a different

style. There was a heat and energy in her anger that never failed to

overwhelm her victim at once. But it was more tolerable than the

tedious, fretful ill humour of the other; and after she had fairly

exhausted herself in invectives, and ridicule, and insolence, and drawn

tears from her cousin's eyes by the bitterness of her language, she

heartily embraced her, vowed she liked her better than anybody in the

world, and that she was a fool for minding anything she said to

her.

"I assure you," said she, "I was only tormenting you a little, and you

must own you deserve that; but you can't suppose I meant half what I

said; that is a _bêtise_ I can't conceive you guilty of. You see I

am much more charitable in my conclusions than you. You have no scruple

in thinking me a wretch, though I am too good-natured to set you down

for a fool. Come, brighten up, and I'll tell you all about the ball. How

I hate it, were it only for having made your nose red! But really the

thing in itself was detestable. Job himself must have gone mad at the

provocations I met with. In the first place, I had set my heart upon

introducing you with éclat, and instead of which you preferred

psalm-singing with Mrs. Lennox, or sentiment with her son--I don't know

which. In the next place there was a dinner in Bath, that kept away some

of the best men; then, after waiting an hour and a half for Frederick to

begin the ball with Lady Charlotte M---, I went myself to his room, and

found him lounging by the fire with a volume of Rousseau in his hand,

not dressed, and quite surprised that I should think his presence at all

necessary; and when he did make his entré, conceive my feelings

at seeing him single out Lady Placid as his partner! I certainly would

rather have seen him waltzing with a hyena! I don't believe he knew or

cared whom he danced with--unless, perhaps, it had been Adelaide, but she

was engaged; and, by-the-bye, there certainly is some sort of a liaison

there; how it will end I don't know; it depends upon on themselves, for

I'm sure the course of their love may run smooth if they choose--I know

nothing to interrupt it. Perhaps, indeed, it may become stagnate from

that very circumstance; for you know, or perhaps you don't know, 'there

is no spirit under heaven that works with such delusion.'"

Mary would have felt rather uneasy at his intelligence, had she believed

it possible for her sister to be in love; but she had ever appeared to

her so insensible to every tender emotion and generous affection, that

she could not suppose even love itself as capable of making any

impression on her heart. When, however, she saw them together, she began

to waver in her opinion. Adelaide, silent and disdainful to others, was

now gay and enchanting to Lord Lindore, and looked as if she triumphed

in the victory she had already won. It was not so easy to ascertain the

nature of Lord Lindore's feelings towards his cousin, and time only

developed them.

CHAPTER XIII.

"Les douleurs muettes et stupides sont hors d'usage; on pleure, on

récite, on répète, on est si touchée de la mort de son mari, qu'on

n'en oublie pas la moindre circonstance."

LA BRUYERE.

"PRAY put on your Lennox face this morning, Mary," said Lady Emily one

day to her cousin, "for I want you to go and pay a funeral visit with me

to a distant relation, but unhappily a near neighbour of ours, who has

lately lost her husband. Lady Juliana and Adelaide ought to go, but they

won't, so you and I must celebrate, as we best can, the obsequies of the

Honourable Mr. Sufton."

Mary readily assented; and when they were seated in the carriage, her

cousin began--

"Since I am going to put you in the way of a trap, I think it but fair

to warn you of it. All traps are odious things, and I make it my

business to expose them wherever I find them. I own it chafes my spirit

to see even sensible people taken in by the clumsy machinery of such a

woman as Lady Matilda Sufton. So here she is in her true colours. Lady

Matilda is descended from the ancient and illustrious family of

Altamont. To have a fair character is, in her eyes, much more important

than to deserve it. She has prepared speeches for every occasion, and

she expects they are all to be believed--in short, she is a _show_

woman; the world is her theatre, and from it she looks for the plaudits

due to her virtue; for with her the reality and the semblance are

synonymous. She has a grave and imposing air, which keeps the timid at a

distance; and she delivers the most common truths as if they were the

most profound aphorisms. To degrade herself is her greatest fear; for,

to use her own expression, there is nothing so degrading as associating

with our inferiors--that is, our inferiors in rank and wealth--for with

her all other gradations are incomprehensible. With the lower orders of

society she is totally unacquainted; she knows they are meanly clothed

and coarsely fed, consequently they are mean. She is proud, both from

nature and principle; for she thinks it is the duty of every woman of

family to be proud, and that humility is only a virtue in the

_canaille._ Proper pride she calls it, though I rather think it ought

to be pride _proper,_ as I imagine it is a distinction that was unknown

before the introduction of heraldry. The only true knowledge, according

to her creed, is the knowledge of the world, by which she means a

knowledge of the most courtly etiquette, the manners and habits of the

great, and the newest fashions in dress. Ignoramuses might suppose she

entered deeply into things, and was thoroughly acquainted with human

nature. No such thing; the only wisdom she possesses, like the owl is

the look of wisdom, and that is the very part of it which I detest.

Passions or feelings she has none, and to love she is an utter stranger.

When somewhat 'in the sear and yellow leaf' she married Mr. Sufton, a

silly old man, who had been dead to the world for many years. But after

having had him buried alive in his own chamber till his existence was

forgot, she had him disinterred for the purpose of giving him a splendid

burial in good earnest. That done, her duty is now to mourn, or appear

to mourn, for the approbation of the world. And now you shall judge for

yourself, for here is Sufton House. Now for the trappings and the weeds

of woe."

Aware of her cousin's satirical turn, Mary was not disposed to yield

conviction to her representation, but entered Lady Matilda's

drawing-room with a mind sufficiently unbiassed to allow her to form her

own judgment; but a very slight survey satisfied her that the picture

was not overcharged. Lady Matilda sat in an attitude of woe--a

crape--fan and open prayer-book lay before her--her cambric handkerchief

was in her hand--her mourning-ring was upon her finger--and the tear,

not unbidden, stood in her eye. On the same sofa, and side by side, sat

a tall, awkward, vapid-looking personage, whom she introduced as her

brother, the Duke of Altamont. His Grace was flanked by an

obsequious-looking gentleman, who was slightly named as General Carver;

and at a respectful distance was seated a sort of half-cast

gentle-woman, something betwixt the confide humble companion, who was

incidentally as "my good Mrs. Finch."

Her Ladyship pressed Lady Emily's hand--

"I did not expect, my dearest young friend, after the blow I have

experienced--I did not expect I should so soon have been enabled to see

my friends; but I have made a great exertion. Had I consulted my own

feelings, indeed!--but there is a duty we owe to the world--there is an

example we are all bound to show--but such a blow!" Here she had

recourse to her handkerchief.

"Such a blow!" echoed the Duke.

"Such a blow!" re-echoed the General.

"Such a blow!" reverberated Mrs. Finch.

"The most doating husband! I may say he lived but in my sight. Such a

man!"

"Such a man!" said the Duke.

"Such a man!" exclaimed the General.

"Oh! such a man!" sobbed Mrs. Finch, as she complacently dropped a few

tears. At hat moment, sacred to tender remembrance, the door opened, and

Mrs. Downe Wright was announced. She entered the room as if she had come

to profane the ashes of the dead, and insult the feelings of the living.

A smile was upon her face; and, in place of the silent pressure, she

shook her Ladyship heartily by the hand as she expressed her pleasure at

seeing her look so well.

"Well!" replied the Lady, "that is wonderful, after whatever have

suffered; but grief, it seems, will not kill!"

"I never thought it would," said Mrs. Downe Wright; "but I thought your

having been confined to the house so long might have affected your

looks. However, I'm happy to see that is not the case, as I don't

recollect ever to have seen you so fat."

Lady Matilda tried to look her into decency, but in vain. She sighed,

and even groaned; but Mrs. Downe Wright would not be dolorous, and was

not to be taken in, either by sigh or groan, crape-fan or prayer-book.

There was nobody her Ladyship stood so much in awe of as Mrs. Downe

Wright. She had an instinctive knowledge that she knew her, and she felt

her genius repressed by her, as Julius Cresar's was by Cassius. They had

been very old acquaintances, but never were cordial friends, though many

worthy people are very apt to confound the two. Upon this occasion Mrs.

Downe Wright certainly did; for, availing herself of this privilege, she

took off her cloak, and said, "'Tis so long since I have seen you, my

dear; and since I see you so well, and able to enjoy the society of your

friends, I shall delay the rest of my visits, and spend the morning with

you."

"That is truly kind of you, my dear Mrs. Downe Wright," returned the

mourner, with a countenance in which real woe was now plainly depicted;

"but I cannot be so selfish as to claim such a sacrifice from you."

"There is no sacrifice in the case, I assure you, my dear," returned

Mrs. Downe Wright. "This is a most comfortable room; and I could go

nowhere that I would meet a pleasanter little circle," looking round.

Lady Matilda thought herself undone. Looking well--fat--comfortable

room--pleasant circle--rung in her ears, and caused almost as great a

whirl in her brain as noses, lips, handkerchiefs, did in Othello's Mrs.

Downe Wright, always disagreeable, was now perfectly insupportable. She

had disconcerted all her plans--she was a bar to all her studied

speeches--even an obstacle to all her sentimental looks; yet to get rid

of her was impossible. In fact, Mrs. Downe Wright was far from being an

amiable woman. She took a malicious pleasure in tormenting those she did

not like; and her skill in this art was so great that she even deprived

the tormented of the privilege of complaint. She had a great insight

into character, and she might be said to read the very thoughts of his

victims. Making a desperate effort to be herself again, Lady Matilda

turned to her two young visitors, with whom she had still some hopes of

success.

"I cannot express how much I feel indebted to the sympathy of my friends

upon this trying occasion--an occasion, indeed, that called for

sympathy."

"A most melancholy occasion!" said the Duke.

"A most distressing occasion!" exclaimed the General.

"Never was greater occasion!" moaned Mrs_._ Finch.

Her Ladyship wiped her eyes, and resumed.

"I feel that I act but a melancholy part, in spite of every exertion.

But my kind friend Mrs. Downe Wright's spirits will, I trust, support

me. She knows what it is to lose--"

Again her voice was buried in her handkerchief, and again she recovered

and proceeded.

"I ought to apologise for being thus overcome; but my friends, I hope,

will make due allowance for my situation. It cannot be expected that I

should at all times find myself able for company."

"Not at all!" said the Duke; and the two satellites uttered their

responses.

"You are able for a great deal, my dear!" said the provoking Mrs. Downe

Wright; "and I have no doubt but, with a very little exertion, you could

behave as if nothing had happened."

"Your partiality makes you suppose me capable of a great deal more than

I am equal to," answered her Ladyship, with a real hysteric sob. "It is

not everyone who is blessed with the spirits of Mrs. Downe Wright."

"What woman can do, you dare; who dares do more, is none!" said the

General, bowing with a delighted air at this brilliant application.

Mrs. Downe Wright charitably allowed it to pass, as she thought it might

be construed either as a compliment or a banter. Visitors flocked in,

and the insufferable Mrs. Downe Wright declared to all that her Ladyship

was astonishingly well; but without the appropriate whine, which gives

proper pathos, and generally accompanies this hackneyed speech. Mrs.

Finch indeed laboured hard _to _counteract the effect of this

injudicious cheerfulness by the most orthodox sighs, shakes of the head,

and confidential whispers, in which "wonderful woman!"--"prodigious

exertion!"--"perfectly overcome!"--"suffer for this afterwards,"--were

audibly heard by all present; but even then Mrs. Downe Wright's drawn-up

lip and curled nose spoke daggers. At length the tormentor recollected

an engagement she had made elsewhere, and took leave, promising to

return, if possible, the following day. Her friend, in her own mind,

took her measures accordingly. She resolved to order her own carriage to

be in waiting, and if Mrs. Downe Wright put her threat in execution she

would take an airing. True, she had not intended to have been able for

such an exertion for at least a week longer; but, with the blinds down,

she thought it might have an interesting effect.

The enemy fairly gone, Lady Matilda seemed to feel like a person

suddenly relieved from the nightmare; and she was beginning to give a

fair specimen of her scenic powers when Lady Emily, seeing the game was

up with Mrs. Downe Wright, abruptly rose to depart.

"This has been a trying scene for you, my sweet young friends!" said her

Ladyship, taking a hand of each.

"It has indeed!" replied Lady Emily, in a tone so significant as made

Mary start.

"I know it would--youth is always so full of sympathy. I own I have a

preference for the society of my young friends on that account. My good

Mrs. Finch, indeed, is an exception; but worthy Mrs. Downe Wright has

been almost too much for me."

"She is too much!" said the Duke.

"She is a great deal too much!" said the General.

"She is a vast deal too much!" said Mrs. Finch.

"I own I have been rather overcome by her!" with a deep-drawn sigh,

which her visitors hastily availed themselves of to make their retreat.

The Duke and the General handed Lady Emily and Mary to their

carriage.

"You find my poor sister wonderfully composed," said the former.

"Charming woman, Lady Matilda!" ejaculated the latter; "her feelings do

honour to her head and heart!"

Mary sprang into the carriage as quick as possible to be saved the

embarrassment of a reply; and it was not till they were fairly out of

sight that she ventured to raise her eyes to her cousin's face. There

the expression of ill-humour and disgust were so strongly depicted that

she could not longer repress her risible emotions, but gave way to a

violent fit of laughter.

"How!" exclaimed her companion, "is this the only effect 'Matilda's

moan' has produced upon you? I expected your taste for grief would have

been highly gratified by this affecting representation."

"My appetite, you ought rather to say," replied Mary; "taste implies

some discrimination, which you seem to deny me."

"Why, to tell you the truth, I do look upon you as a sort of

intellectual ghoul; you really do remind me of the lady in the Arabian

Nights, whose taste or appetite, which you will, led her to scorn

everything that did not savour of the churchyard."

"The delicacy of your comparison is highly flattering," said Mary; "but

I must be duller than the fatweed were I to give my sympathy to such as

Lady Matilda Sufton."

"Well, I'm glad to hear you say so; for I assure you I was in pain lest

you should have been taken in, notwithstanding my warning to say

something _larmoyante--or_ join the soft echo--or heave a sigh--or drop a

tear--or do something, in short, that would have disgraced you with me

for ever. At one time, I must do you the justice to own, I thought I saw

you with difficulty repress a smile, and then you blushed so, for fear

you had betrayed yourself! The smile I suppose has gained you one

conquest--the blush another. How happy you who can hit the various

tastes so easily! Mrs. Downe Wright whispered me as she left the room,

'What a charming intelligent countenance your cousin has!' While my Lord

Duke of Altamont observed, as he handed me along, 'What a very sweet

modest-looking girl Miss Douglas was! 'So take your choice--Mrs. William

Downe Wright, or Duchess of Altamont!"

"Duchess of Altamont, to be sure," said Mary: "and then such a man! Oh!

such a man!"

CHAPTER XIV.

"For marriage is a matter of more worth

Than to be dealt with in attorneyship."

SHAKESPEARE.

"ALLOW me to introduce to you, ladies, that most high and puissant

Princess, her Grace the Duchess of Altamont, Marchioness of Norwood,

Countess of Penrose, Baroness of, etc. etc.," cried Lady Emily, as she

threw open the drawing-room door, and ushered Mary into the presence of

her mother and sister, with all the demonstrations of ceremony and

respect. The one frowned-the other coloured.

"How vastly absurd!" cried Lady Juliana angrily.

"How vastly amusing!" cried Adelaide contemptuously.

"How vastly annoying!" cried Lady Emily; "to think that this little

Highlander should bear a loft the ducal crown, while you and I,

Adelaide, must sneak about in shabby straw bonnets," throwing down her

own in pretended indignation. "Then to think, which is almost certain, of

her Viceroying it someday; and you and I, and all of us, being presented

to her Majesty--having the honour of her hand to kiss--retreating from

the royal presence upon our heels.

"Oh! ye Sylphs and Gnomes!" and she pretended to sink down overwhelmed

with mortification.

Lady Emily delighted in tormenting her aunt and cousin, and she saw that

she had completely succeeded. Mary was disliked by her mother, and

despised by her sister; and any attempt to bring her forward, or raise

her to a level with themselves, never failed to excite the indignation of

both. The consequences were always felt by her in the increased

ill-humour and disdainful indifference with which she was treated; and

on the present occasion her injudicious friend was only brewing phials

of wrath for her. But Lady Emily never looked to future

consequences--present effect was all she cared for; and she went on to

relate seriously, as she called it, but in the most exaggerated terms,

the admiration which the Duke had expressed for Mary, and her own firm

belief that she might be Duchess when she chose; "that is, after the

expiry of his mourning for the late Duchess. Everyone knows that he is

desirous of having a family, and is determined to marry the moment

propriety permits; he is now decidedly on the look-out, for the year

must be very near a close; and then, hail Duchess of Altamont!"

"I must desire, Lady Emily, you will find some other subject for your

wit, and not fill the girl's head with folly and nonsense; there is a

great deal too much of both already."

"Take care what you say of the future representative of majesty of this

may be high treason yet; only I trust your Grace will be as generous as

Henry the Fifth was, and that the Duchess of Altamont will not remember

the offences committed against Mary Douglas."

Lady Juliana, to whom a jest was an outrage, and raillery

incomprehensible, now started up, and, as she passionately swept out of

the room, threw down a stand of hyacinths, which, for the present, put a

stop to Lady Emily's diversion.

The following day Mrs. Downe Wright arrived with her son, evidently

primed for falling in love at first sight. He was a very handsome young

man, gentle, and rather pleasing in his manners; and Mary, to whom his

intentions were not so palpable, thought him by no means deserving of

the contempt her cousin had expressed for him.

"Well!" cried Lady Emily, after they were gone, "the plot begins to

thicken; lovers begin to pour in, but all for Mary; how mortifying to

you and me, Adelaide! At this rate we shall have nothing to boast of in

the way of disinterested attachment nobody refused!--nothing renounced!

By-and-bye Edward will be reckoned a very good match for _me,_and _you_

will be thought greatly married if you succeed in securing

Lindore--_poor_ Lord Lindore, as it seems that wretch Placid calls him."

Adelaide heard all her cousin's taunts in silence and with apparent

coolness; but they rankled deep in a heart already festering with pride,

envy, and ambition. The thoughts of her sister--and that sister so

inferior to herself--attaining a more splendid alliance, was not to be

endured. True, she loved Lord Lindore, and imagined herself beloved in

return; but even that was not sufficient to satisfy the craving passions

of a perverted mind. She did not, indeed, attach implicit belief to all

that her cousin said on the subject; but she was provoked and irritated

at the mere supposition of such a thing being possible; for it is not

merely the jealous whose happiness is the sport of trifles light as

air--every evil thought, every unamiable feeling, bears about with it

the bane of that enjoyment after which it vainly aspires.

Mary felt the increasing ill-humour which this subject drew upon her,

without being able to penetrate the cause of it; but she saw that it was

displeasing to her mother and sister, and that was sufficient to make

her wish to put a stop to it. She therefore earnestly entreated Lady

Emily to end the joke.

"Excuse me," replied her Ladyship, "I shall do no such thing. In the

first place, there happens to be no joke in the matter. I'm certain,

seriously certain, or certainly serious, which you like, that you may be

Duchess of Altamont, if you please. It could be no common admiration

that prompted his Grace to an original and spontaneous effusion of it. I

have met with him before, and never suspected that he had an innate idea

in his head. I certainly never heard him utter anything half so

brilliant before--it seemed quite like the effect of inspiration."

"But I cannot conceive, even were it as you say, why my mother should be

so displeased about it. She surely cannot suppose me so silly as to be

elated by the unmeaning admiration of anyone, or so meanly aspiring as

to marry a man I could not love, merely because he is a Duke. She was

incapable of such a thing herself, she cannot then suspect me."

"It seems as impossible to make you enter into the characters of your

mother and sister as it would be to teach them to comprehend yours, and

far be it from me to act as interpreter betwixt your understandings. If

you can't even imagine such things as prejudice, narrow-mindedness,

envy, hatred, and malice, your ignorance is bliss, and you had better

remain in it. But you may take my word for one thing, and that is, that

'tis a much wiser thing to resist tyranny than to submit to it. Your

patient Grizzles make nothing of it, except in little books: in real

life they become perfect pack-horses, saddled with the whole offences of

the family. Such will you become unless you pluck up spirit and dash

out. Marry the Duke, and drive over the necks of all your relations;

that's my advice to you."

"And you may rest assured that when I follow your advice it shall be

in whole not in part."

"Well, situated so detestably as you are, I rather think the best thing

you could do would be to make yourself Duchess of Altamont. How

disdainful you look! Come, tell me honestly now, would you really refuse

to be Your Grace, with ninety thousand a year, and remain simple Mary

Douglas, passing rich with perhaps forty?"

"Unquestionably," said Mary.

"What! you really pretend to say you would not marry the Duke of

Altamont?" cried Lady Emily. "Not that I would take him myself; but as

you and I, though the best of friends, differ widely in our sentiments

on most subjects, I should really like to know how it happens that we

coincide in this one. Very different reasons, I daresay, lead to the

same conclusion; but I shall generously give you the advantage of

hearing mine first. I shall say nothing of being engaged--I shall even

banish that idea from my thoughts; but were I free as air--unloving and

unloved--I would refuse the Duke of Altamont; first, because he: is

old--no, first, because he is stupid; second, because he is formal;

third, because he swallows all Lady Matilda's flummery; fourth, because

he is more than double my age; fifth, because he is not handsome; and,

to sum up the whole in the sixth, he wants that inimitable _Je ne scais

quoi_ which I consider as a necessary ingredient in the matrimonial cup.

I shall not, in addition to these defects, dwell upon his unmeaning

stare, his formal bow, his little senseless simper, etc. etc. etc. All

these enormities, and many more of the same stamp, I shall pass by, as I

have no doubt they had their due effect upon you as well as me; but then

I am not like you, under the torments of Lady Juliana's authority. Were

that the case, I should certainly think it a blessing to become Duchess

of anybody to-morrow."

"And can you really imagine," said Mary, "that for the sake of shaking

off a parent's authority I would impose upon myself chains still

heavier, and even more binding? Can you suppose I would so far forfeit

my honour and truth as that I would swear to love, honour, and obey,

where I could feel neither love nor respect, and where cold constrained

obedience would be all of my duty I could hope to fulfil?"

"Love!"

exclaimed Lady Emily; "can I credit my ears? Love! did you say I

thought that had only been for naughty ones, such as me; and that

saints like you would have married for anything and everything but

love! Prudence, I thought, had been the word with you proper ladies--a

prudent marriage! Come, confess, is not that the climax of virtue in

the creed of your school?"

"I never learnt the creed of any school," said Mary, "nor ever heard

anyone's sentiments on the subject, except my dear Mrs. Douglas's."

"Well, I should like to hear your oracle's opinion, if you can give it

in shorthand."

"She warned me there was a passion which was very fashionable, and which

I should hear a great deal of, both in conversation and books, that was

the result of indulged fancy, warm imaginations, and ill-regulated

minds; that many had fallen into its snares, deceived by its glowing

colours and alluring name; that--"

"A very good sermon, indeed!" interrupted Lady Emily; "but, no offence

to Mrs. Douglas, I think I could preach a better myself. Love is a

passion that has been much talked of, often described, and little

understood. Cupid has many counterfeits going about the world, who pass

very well with those whose minds are capable of passion, but not of

love. These Birmingham Cupids have many votaries amongst boarding-school

misses, militia officers, and milliners 'apprentices; who marry upon the

mutual faith of blue eyes and scarlet coats; have dirty houses and

squalling children, and hate each other most delectably. Then there is

another species for more refined souls, which owes its birth to the

works of Rousseau, Goethe, Cottin, etc. Its success depends very much

upon rocks, woods, and waterfalls; and it generally ends daggers,

pistols, or poison. But there, I think, Lindore would be more eloquent

than me, so I shall leave it for him to discuss that chapter with you.

But, to return to your own immediate concerns. Pray, are you then

positively prohibited from falling in love? Did Mrs. Douglas only dress

up a scarecrow to frighten you, or had she the candour to show you Love

himself in all his majesty?"

"She told me," said Mary, "that there was a love which even the wisest

and most virtuous need not blush to entertain--the love of a virtuous

object, founded upon esteem, and heightened by similarity of tastes and

sympathy of feelings, into a pure and devoted attachment: unless I feel

all this, I shall never fancy myself in love."

"Humph! I can't say much as to the similarity of tastes and sympathy

of souls between the Duke and you, but surely you might contrive to feel

some love and esteem for a coronet and ninety thousand a year."

"Suppose I did," said Mary, with a smile, "the next point

is to honour; and surely he is as unlikely to excite that sentiment as

the other. Honour---"

"I can't have a second sermon upon honour. 'Can honour take away the

grief of a wound?' as Falstaff says. Love is the only subject I care to

preach about; though, unlike many young ladies, we can talk about other

things too; but as to this Duke, _I_ certainly 'had rather live on

cheese and garlic, in a windmill far, than feed on cakes, and have him

talk to me in any summer-house in Christendom;' and now I have had Mrs.

Douglas's second-hand sentiments upon the subject, I should like to hear

your own."

"I have never thought much upon the subject," said Mary; "my sentiments

are therefore all at second-hand, but I shall repeat to you what I think

is not love, and what is." And she repeated these pretty and well-known

lines:--

CARELESS AND FAITHFUL LOVE.

To sigh--yet feel no pain;

To weep-yet scarce know why;

To sport an hour with beauty's chain,

Then throw it idly by;

To kneel at many a shrine,

Yet lay the heart on none;

To think all other charms divine

But those we just have won:--

This is love-careless love--

Such as kindleth hearts that rove.

To keep one sacred flame

Through life, unchill'd, unmov'd;

To love in wint'ry age the same

That first in youth we loved;

To feel that we adore

With such refined excess,

That though the heart would break with more,

We could not love with less:--

This is love--faithful love--

Such as saints might feel above.

"And such as I do feel, and will always feel, for my Edward," said Lady

Emily. "But there is the dressing-bell!" And she flew off, singing--

"To keep one sacred flame," etc.

CHAPTER XV.

"Some, when they write to their friends, are all affection; Some are

wise and sententious; some strain their powers for efforts of gaiety;

some write news, and some write secrets--but to make a letter without

affection, without wisdom, without gaiety, without news, and without a

secret, is doubtless the great epistolic art. "-DR. JOHNSON.

AN unusual length of time had elapsed since Mary had heard from

Glenfern, and she was beginning to feel some anxiety on account of her

friends there, when her apprehensions were dispelled by the arrival of a

large packet, containing letters from Mrs. Douglas and Aunt Jacky. The

former, although the one that conveyed the greatest degree of pleasure,

was perhaps not the one that would be most acceptable to the reader.

Indeed, it is generally admitted that the letters of single ladies are

infinitely more lively and entertaining than those of married ones--a

fact which can neither be denied nor accounted for. The following is a

faithful transcript from the original letter in question;--

"GLENFERN CASTLE, ---SHIRE, N.B. _Feb. 19th,_ 18--.

"My DEAR MARY--Yours was _received_ with _much_ pleasure, as it is

_always_ a satisfaction to your friends _here_ to know that you are

_well_ and doing _well._ We all _take_ the most _sincere_ interest in

your _health,_ and also in your _improvements_ in other _respects._ But

I am _sorry_ to say they do not quite _keep_ pace with _our_

expectations. I must therefore _take_ this opportunity of _mentioning_

to you a _fault_ of yours, _which,_ though a very great _one _in itself,

is one _that_ a very slight _degree_ of attention on your _part,_ will,

I have _no_ doubt, enable you to _get_ entirely the _better of._ is

fortunate for _you,_ my dear Mary, that you have _friends_ who are

always ready to point _out_ your errors to you. For _want_ of that

_most_ invaluable _blessing,_ viz. a sincere _friend, _many a _one_ has

gone out of the _world,_ no wiser in many _respects,_ than when they

_came_ into it. But that, I flatter _myself,_ will not be your _case,_

as you cannot _but_ be sensible of the great _pains_ my sister and I

have _taken_ to point out your _faults_ to you from the _hour _of your

birth. The _one_ to which I particularly _allude _at present is, the

constant omission of _proper_ dates to your _letters,_ by which means we

are all of us very often _brought_ into _most_ unpleasant _situations._

As an _instance_ of it, our _worthy_ minister, Mr M'Drone, happened to

be _calling_ here the very _day_ we received your last _letter._ After

_hearing_ it read, he most _naturally_ inquired the date of it; and I

_cannot_ tell you how _awkward_ we all _felt_ when we were _obliged_ to

confess it had _none!_ And since I am _upon_ that subject, I think it

much _better_ to tell you candidly that I _do_ not think your _hand_ of

write by any _means_ improved. It does not _look_ as if you _bestowed_

that pains upon it which you _undoubtedly_ ought to do; for without

_pains,_ I can assure you, Mary, you _will_ never do any _thing_ well.

As our admirable _grandmother,_ good Lady Girnachgowl, _used_ to say,

pains _makes_ gains; and so it was _seen_ upon her; for it was entirely

_owing_ to her _pains_ that the Girnachgowl estate was relieved, and

_came_ to be what it is now, viz. a most valuable and _highly_

productive _property._

"I know there are _many_ young _people_ who are very _apt _to think it

_beneath_ them to take _pains;"_ but I sincerely trust, my dear Mary,

you have _more_ sense than to be so very _foolish._ Next to a good

distinct _hand_ of write, and _proper_ stops (which I observe you never

_put),_ the thing _most_ to be attended to is your style, _which_ we all

think might _be_ greatly _improved_ by a _little _reflection on your

_part,_ joined to a _few_ judicious _hints_ from your friends. We are

_all_ of opinion, that your _periods_ are too short, and also _that_

your expressions are _deficient_ in dignity. _Neither_ are you

sufficiently circumstantial in your _intelligence,_ even upon subjects

of the highest _importance._ Indeed, upon some _subjects,_ you

_communicate_ no information whatever, which is _certainly_ very

extraordinary in a _young_ person, who ought to be naturally extremely

communicative. Miss M'Pry, who is here upon a _visit_ to us at

_present,_ is perfectly _astonished_ at the total _want_ of news in your

_letters. _She has a _niece_ residing in the neighbourhood of _Bath, _who

sends her regular lists of the company there, and also an _account_ of

the most _remarkable_ events that take _place _there. Indeed, had it not

_been_ for Patty M'Pry, we never would have _heard_ a _syllable_ of the

celebrated _Lady _Travers's elopement with _Sir_ John Conquest; and,

indeed, I cannot _conceal_ from you, that we have heard more as to what

goes on in Lord Courtland's _family_ through Miss Patty M'Pry, than

_ever_ we have heard from you, _Mary._

"In short, I _must_ plainly tell you, _however_ painful you may _feel_

it, that not one of us is ever a _whit_ the wiser after reading your

_letters_ than we _were_ before. But I am _sorry_ to say this is not the

_most_ serious part of the _complaint_ we have to _make_ against you.

We are all _willing_ to find excuses for you, even _upon_ these points,

but I must _confess,_ your neglecting to _return_ any answers to certain

inquiries of your aunts', _appears_ to me perfectly inexcusable. Of

_course,_ you must _understand_ that I allude to that _letter_ of your

Aunt Grizzy's, dated the 17th of December, wherein she _expressed_ a

strong desire that you should endeavour to make yourself _mistress_ of

Dr. Redgill's opinion with _respect_ to lumbago, as she is extremely

anxious to _know_ whether he _considers_ the seat of the disorder to be

in the bones or the sinews; and undoubtedly it is of the greatest

_consequence_ to procure the _opinion_ of a sensible well-informed

English _physician,_ upon a subject of such vital _importance._ Your

Aunt Nicky, also, in a letter, _dated_ the 22d of December, requested to

be _informed_ whether Lord Courtland (like our _great_ landholders)

killed his own _mutton_, as Miss P. M'P. insinuates in a _letter_ to her

aunt, that the _servants_ there are suspected of being _guilty_ of great

_abuses_ on that _score_; but there you also _preserve_ a most

unbecoming, and I own I think _somewhat mysterious silence._

"And now, my dear Mary, _having_ said all that _I_ trust is necessary

to _recall_ you to a sense of _your_ duty, I _shall_ now communicate to

you a _piece_ of intelligence, _which,_ I am certain, will _occasion_

you the _most _unfeigned pleasure, viz. the prospect there is of your

soon _beholding_ some of your friends from this _quarter_ in Bath. Our

valuable friend and _neighbour,_ Sir Sampson, has been rather (we think)

worse than _better_ since you left us. He is now _deprived_ of the

entire use of one leg. He _himself _calls his _complaint_ a morbid

rheumatism; but Lady Maclaughlan _assures_ us it is a rheumatic palsy,

and she has now _formed_ the resolution of _taking_ him _up_ to Bath

early in the ensuing _spring._ And not only that, but she has most

considerately _invited_ your Aunt Grizzy to accompany them, _which,_ of

course, she is to do with the greatest _pleasure._ We are therefore all

extremely _occupied_ in getting your aunt's things _put_ in order for

such an _occasion;_ and you must _accept_ of that as an apology for

none of the girls _being_ at leisure to write _you_ at present, and

_likewise_ for the shortness of _this_ letter. But be assured we will all

_write_ you fully by Grizzy. Meantime, all _unite_ in kind remembrance

to _you._ And I _am,_ my dear Mary, your most affectionate aunt,

"JOAN

DOUGLAS."

"P.S.--Upon _looking_ over your letter, I am much _struck_ with your

X's. You surely _cannot_ be so ignorant as _not_ to know that a well

_made x_ is neither more nor _less_ than _two c's_ joined together back

to back, _instead_ of these senseless crosses you _seem_ so fond of; and

as to _your z's, _I defy any _one_ to distinguish them _from_ your _y_'s.

_I trust you will _attend_ to this, and show that it _proceeds _rather

from want of proper _attention_ than _from_ wilful airs.

J.

D."

"P.S.-Miss P. M'Pry _writes_ her aunt that _there_ is a strong _report

_of Lord Lindore's marriage to our _niece_ Adelaide; but _we _think that

is _impossible,_ as you certainly _never_ could have omitted to _inform_

us of a circumstance _which_ so deeply concerns _us._ If so, I must

_own_ I shall think you quite _unpardonable._ At the _same_ time, it

_appears _extremely improbable _that_ Miss M'P. _would_ have mentioned

_such_ a thing to her _aunt,_without having good _grounds_ to _go_ upon.

J. D."

Mary could not entirely repress her mirth while she read this catalogue

of her crimes; but she was, at the same time, eager to expiate her

offences, real or imaginary, in the sight of her good old aunt; and she

immediately sat down to the construction of a letter after the model

prescribed;--though with little expectation of being able to cope with

the intelligent Miss P. M'P. in the extent of her communications. Her

heart warmed at the thoughts of seeing again the dear familiar face of

Aunt Grizzy, and of hearing the tones of that voice, which, though sharp

and cracked, still sounded sweet in memory's ear. Such is the power that

early associations ever retain over the kind and unsophisticated heart.

But she was aware how differently her mother would feel on the subject,

as she never alluded to her husband's family but with indignation or

contempt; and she therefore resolved to be silent with regard to Aunt

Grizzy's prospects for the present.

CHAPTER XVI.

". . . . As in apothecaries' shops all sorts of drugs are permitted to

be, so may all sorts of books be in the library; and as they out of

vipers, and scorpions, and poisonous vegetables extract often wholesome

medicaments for the life of mankind, so out of whatsoever book good

instruction and examples may be acquired."--DRUMMOND _of Hawthornden._

MARY's thoughts had often reverted to Rose Hall since the day she had

last quitted it, and she longed to fulfil her promise to her venerable

friend; but a feeling of delicacy, unknown to herself, withheld her.

"She will not miss me while she has her son with her," said she to

herself; but in reality she dreaded her cousin's raillery should she

continue to visit there as frequently as before. At length a favourable

opportunity occurred. Lady Emily, with great exultation, told her the

Duke of Altamont was to dine at Beech Park the following day, but that

she was to conceal it from Lady Juliana and Adelaide; "for assuredly,"

said she, "if they were apprised of it, they would send you up to the

nursery as a naughty girl, or perhaps down to the scullery, and make a

Cinderella of you. Depend upon it you would not get leave to show your

face in the drawing-room."

"Do you really think so?" asked Mary.

"I know it. I know Lady Juliana would torment you till she had set you a

crying; and then she would tell you you had made yourself such a fright

that you were not fit to be seen, and so order you to your own room. You

know very well it would not be the first time that such a thing has

happened."

Mary could not deny the fact; but, sick of idle altercation, she

resolved to say nothing, but walk over to Rose Hall the following

morning. And this she did, leaving a note for her cousin, apologising

for her flight.

She was received with rapture by Mrs. Lennox.

"Ah! my dear Mary," said she, as she tenderly embraced her, "you know

not, you cannot conceive, what a blank your absence makes in my life!

When you open your eyes in the morning, it is to see the light of day

and the faces you love, and all is brightness around you. But when I

wake it is still to darkness. My night knows no end. 'Tis only when I

listen to your dear voice that I forget I am blind."

"I should not have stayed so long from you," said Mary, "but I knew you

had Colonel Lennox with you, and I could not flatter myself you would

have even a thought to bestow upon me."

"My Charles is, indeed, everything that is kind and devoted to me. He

walks with me, reads to me, talks to me, sits with me for hours, and

bears with all my little weaknesses as a mother would with her sick

child; but still there are a thousand little feminine attentions he

cannot understand. I would not that he did. And then to have him always

with me seems so selfish; for, gentle and tender-hearted as he is, I

know he bears the spirit of an eagle within him; and the tame monotony

of my life can ill accord with the nobler habits of his. Yet he says he

is happy with me, and I try to make myself believe him."

"Indeed," said Mary, "I cannot doubt it. It is always a happiness

to be with those we love, and whom we know love us, under any

circumstances; and it is for that reason I love so much to come to my

dear Mrs. Lennox," caressing her as she spoke.

"Dearest Mary, who would not love you? Oh! could I but see--could I

but hope--"

"You must hope everything you desire," said Mary gaily, and little

guessing the nature of her good friend's hopes; "I do nothing but hope."

And she tried to check a sigh, as she thought how some of her best hopes

had been already blighted by the unkindness of those whose love she had

vainly striven to win.

Mrs. Lennox's hopes were already upon her lips, when the entrance of her

son fortunately prevented their being for ever destroyed by a premature

disclosure. He welcomed Mary with an appearance of the greatest

pleasure, and looked so much happier and more animated than when she

last saw him, that she was struck with the change, and began to think he

might almost stand a comparison with his picture.

"You find me still here, Miss Douglas," said he, "although my mother

gives me many hints to be gone, by insinuating what indeed cannot be

doubted, how very ill I supply your place; but--" turning to his

mother--"you are not likely to be rid of me for sometime, as I have just

received an additional leave of absence; but for that, I must have left

you tomorrow."

"Dear Charles, you never told me so. How could you conceal it from me?

How wretched I should have been had I dreamed of such a thing!"

"That is the very reason for which I concealed it, and yet you reproach

me. Had I told you there was a chance of my going, you would assuredly

have set it down for a certainty, and so have been vexed for no

purpose."

"But your remaining was a chance too," said Mrs. Lennox, who could not

all at once reconcile herself even to an _escape_ from danger; "and

think, had you been called away from me without any preparation!--

Indeed, Charles, it was very imprudent."

"My dearest mother, I meant it in kindness. I could not bear to give you

a moment's certain uneasiness for an uncertain evil. I really cannot

discover either the use or the virtue of tormenting one's self by

anticipation. I should think it quite as rational to case myself in a

suit of mail, by way of security to my person, as to keep my mind

perpetually on the rack of anticipating evil. I perfectly agree with

that philosopher who says, if we confine ourselves to general

reflections on the evils of life, _that_ can have no effect in preparing

us for them; and if we bring them home to us, _that_ is the certain

means of rendering ourselves miserable."

"But they will come, Charles," said his mother mournfully, "whether we

bring them or not."

"True, my dear mother; but when misfortune does come, it comes

commissioned from a higher power, and it will ever find a well-regulated

mind ready to receive it with reverence, and submit to it with

resignation. There is something, too, in real sorrow that tends to

enlarge and exalt the soul; but the imaginary evils of our own creating

can only serve to contract and depress it."

Mrs. Lennox shook her head. "Ah! Charles, you may depend upon it your

reasoning is wrong, and you will be convinced of it some day."

"I am convinced of it already. I begin to fear this discussion will

frighten Miss Douglas away from us. _There_ is an evil anticipated! Now,

do you, my dear mother, help me to avert it; where that can be done, it

cannot be too soon apprehended."

As Colonel Lennox's character unfolded itself, Mary saw much to admire

in it; and it is more than probable the admiration would soon have been

reciprocal, had it been allowed to take its course. But good Mrs. Lennox

would force it into a thousand little channels prepared by herself, and

love itself must have been quickly exhausted by the perpetual demands

that were made upon it. Mary would have been deeply mortified had she

suspected the cause of her friend's solicitude to show her off; but she

was a stranger to match-making in all its bearings, had scarcely ever

read a novel in her life, and was consequently not at all aware of the

necessity there was for her falling in love with all convenient speed.

She was therefore sometimes amused, though oftener ashamed, at Mrs.

Lennox's panegyrics, and could not but smile as she thought how Aunt

Jacky's wrath would have been kindled had she heard the extravagant

praises that were bestowed on her most trifling accomplishments.

"You must sing my favourite song to Charles, my love--he has never heard

you sing. Pray do: you did not use to require any entreaty from me,

Mary! Many a time you have gladdened my heart with your songs when, but

for you, it would have been filled with mournful thoughts!"

Mary, finding whatever she did or did _not,_ she was destined to hear

only her own praises, was glad to take refuge at the harp, to which she

sang the following ancient ditty:--

"Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright,

The bridal of the earth and sky,

Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night,

For thou must die.

"Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,

Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Thy root is ever in its grave;

And thou must die.

"Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses,

A box where sweets compacted lie,

My music shows you have your closes,

And all must die.

"Only a sweet and virtuous soul,

Like season'd timber, never gives;

But when the whole world turns to coal,

Then chiefly lives."

"That," said Colonel Lennox, "is one of the any exquisite little pieces

of poetry which are to be found, like jewels in an Ethiop's ear, in my

favourite Isaac Walton. The title of the book offers no encouragement to

female readers, but I know few works from which I rise with such

renovated feelings of benevolence and good-will. Indeed, I know no

author who has given with so much _naïveté _so enchanting a

picture of a pious and contented mind. Here--" taking the book from a

shelf, and turning over the leaves--"is one of the passages which has

so often charmed me:--'That very hour which you were absent from me, I

sat down under a willow by the water-side, and considered what you had

told me of the owner of that pleasant meadow in which you left me--that

he has a plentiful estate, and not a heart to think so; that he has at

this time many lawsuits depending, and that they both damped his mirth,

and took up so much of his time and thoughts that he himself had not

leisure to take that sweet comfort I, who pretended no title to

them, took in his fields; for I could there sit quietly, and, looking in

the water, see some fishes sport themselves in the silver streams,

others leaping at flies of several shapes and colours. Looking on the

hills, I could behold them spotted with woods and groves; looking down

upon the meadows I could see, here a boy gathering lilies and

lady-smocks, and there a girl cropping culverkeys and cowslips, all to

make garlands suitable to this present month of May. These, and many

other field flowers, so perfumed the air, that I thought that very

meadow like that field in Sicily, of which Diodorus speaks, where the

perfumes arising from the place make all dogs that hunt in it to fall

off and lose their scent. I say, as I thus sat joying in my own happy

condition, and pitying this poor rich man that owned this and many other

pleasant groves and meadows about me, I did then thankfully remember

what my Saviour said, that the _meek possess the earth--or,_ rather,

they enjoy what the others possess and enjoy not; for anglers and

meek-spirited men are free from those high, those restless

thoughts,--which corrode the sweets of life; and they, and they only,

can say, as the poet has happily expressed it--

'Hail, blest estate of lowliness!

Happy enjoyments of such minds

As, rich in self-contentedness,

Can, like the reeds in roughest winds,

By yielding, make that blow but small,

By which proud oaks and cedars fall.'"

"There is both poetry and painting in such prose as this," said Mary;

"but I should certainly as soon have thought of looking for a pearl

necklace in a fishpond as of finding pretty poetry in a treatise upon

the art of angling."

"That book was a favourite of your father's, Charles," said Mrs. Lennox,

"and I remember, in our happiest days, he used to read parts of it to

me. One passage in particular made a strong impression upon me, though I

little thought then it would ever apply to me. It is upon the blessings

of sight. Indulge me by reading it to me once again."

Colonel Lennox made an effort to conquer his feelings, while he read as

follows:--

"What would a blind man give to see the pleasant rivers, and meadows,

and flowers, and fountains, that we have met with! I have been told that

if a man that was born blind could attain to have his sight for _but

only one hour_ during his whole life, and should, at the first opening

of his eyes, fix his sight upon the sun when it was in its full glory,

either at the rising or the setting, he would be transported and amazed,

and so admire the glory of it that he would not willingly turn his eyes

from that first ravishing object to behold all the other various

beauties this world could present to them. And this, and many other like

objects, we enjoy daily---"

A deep sigh from Mrs. Lennox made bier son look up. Her eyes were

bathed in tears.

He threw his arms around her. "My dearest mother!" cried he in a voice

choked with agitation, "how cruel--how unthinking--thus to remind

you--"

"Do not reproach yourself for my weakness, dear Charles; but I was

thinking how much rather, could I have my sight but for one hour, I

would look upon the face of my own child than on all the glories of the

creation!"

Colonel Lennox was too deeply affected to speak. He pressed his mother's

hand to his lips--then rose abruptly, and quitted the room. Mary

succeeded in soothing her weak and agitated spirits into composure; but

the chord of feeling had been jarred, and all her efforts to restore it

to its former tone proved abortive for the rest of the day.

CHAPTER XVII.

"Friendship is constant in all other things

Save in the office and affairs of love:

Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues;

Let every eye negotiate for itself,

And trust no agent."

Much Ado about Nothing.

THERE was something so refreshing in the domestic peacefulness of Rose

Hall, when contrasted with the heartless bustle of Beech Park, that Mary

felt too happy in the change to be in any hurry to quit it. But an

unfortunate discovery soon turned all her enjoyment into bitterness of

heart; and Rose Hall, from being to her a place of rest, was suddenly

transformed into an abode too hateful to be endured.

It happened one day as she entered the drawing-room, Mrs. Lennox was, as

usual, assailing the heart of her son in her behalf. A large Indian

screen divided the room, and Mary's entrance was neither seen nor heard

till she was close by them.

"Oh, certainly, Miss Douglas is all that you say--very pretty--very

amiable--and very accomplished, said Colonel Lennox, with a sort of

half-suppressed yawn, in answer to a eulogium of his mother's.

"Then why not love her? Ah! Charles, promise me that you will at least

try!" said the good old lady, laying her hand upon his with the greatest

earnestness.

This was said when Mary was actually standing before her. To hear the

words, and to feel their application, was a flash of lightning; and for

a moment she felt as if her brain were on fire. She was alive but to one

idea, and that the most painful that could be suggested to a delicate

mind. She had heard herself recommended to the love of a man who was

indifferent to her. Could there be such a humiliation--such a

degradation? Colonel Lennox's embarrassment was scarcely less; but his

mother saw not the mischief she had done, and she continued to speak

without his having the power to interrupt her. But her words fell

unheeded on Mary's ear--she could hear nothing but what she had already

heard. Colonel Lennox rose and respectfully placed a chair for her, but

the action was unnoticed--she saw only herself a suppliant for his love;

and, insensible to everything but her own feelings, she turned and

hastily quitted the room without uttering a syllable. To fly from Rose

Hall, never again to enter it, was her first resolution; yet how was she

to do so without coming to an explanation, worse even than the cause

itself: for she had that very morning yielded to the solicitations of

Mrs. Lennox, and consented to remain till the following day.

"Oh!" thought she, as the scalding tears of shame for the first time

dropped from her eyes, "what a situation am I placed in! To continue

to live under the same roof with the man whom I have heard solicited to

love me; and how mean--how despicable must I appear in his eyes--thus

offered--rejected! How shall I ever be able to convince him that I

care not for his love--that I wished it not--that I would, refuse, scorn

it to-morrow were it offered to me. Oh! could I but tell him so; but he

must ever remain, stranger to my real sentiments--he might reject--but

_I_ cannot disavow! And yet to have him think that I have all this while

been laying snares for him--that all this parade of my acquirements was

for the purpose of gaining his affections! Oh how blind and stupid I was

not to see through the injudicious praises of Mrs. Lennox! I should not

then have suffered this degradation in the eyes of her son!"

Hours passed away unheeded by Mary, while she was giving way to the

wounded sensibility of a naturally high spirit and acute feelings, thus

violently excited in all their first ardour. At length she was recalled

to herself by hearing the sound of a carriage, as it passed under her

window; and immediately after she received a message to repair to the

drawing-room to her cousin, Lady Emily.

"How fortunate!" thought she; "I shall now get away--no matter how or

where, I shall go, never again to return."

And, unconscious of the agitation visible in her countenance, she

hastily descended, impatient to bid an eternal adieu to her once loved

Rose Hall. She found Lady Emily and Colonel Lennox together. Eyes less

penetrating than her cousin's would easily have discovered the state of

poor Mary's mind as she entered the room; her beating heart--her flushed

cheek and averted eye, all declared the perturbation of her spirits; and

Lady Emily regarded her for a moment with an expression of surprise that

served to heighten her confusion.

"I have no doubt I am a very unwelcome visitor here to all parties,"

said she; "for I come--how shall I declare it?--to carry you home, Mary,

by command of Lady Juliana."

"No, no!" exclaimed Mary eagerly; "you are quite welcome. I am quite

ready. I was wishing--I was waiting." Then, recollecting herself, she

blushed still deeper at her own precipitation.

"There is no occasion to be so vehemently obedient," said her cousin;

_"I_ am not quite ready, neither am I wishing or waiting to be off in

such a hurry. Colonel Lennox and I had just set about reviving an old

acquaintance; begun, I can't tell when--and broken off when I was a thing

in the nursery, with a blue sash and red fingers. I have promised him

that when he comes to Beech Park you shall sing him my favourite Scotch

song, 'Should auld acquaintance be forgot?' I would sing it myself if I

could; but I think every Englishwoman who pretends to sing Scotch songs

ought to have the bowstring." Then, turning to the harpsichord, she

began to play it with exquisite taste and feeling.

"There," said she, rising with equal levity; "is not that worth all the

formal bows--and 'recollects to have had the pleasure'--and 'long time

since I had the honour'--and such sort of hateful reminiscences, that

make one feel nothing but that they area great deal older, and uglier,

stupider, and more formal than they were so many years before."

"Where the early ties of the heart remain unbroken," said Colonel

Lennox, with some emotion, "such remembrances do indeed give it back all

its first freshness; but it cannot be to everyone a pleasure to have its

feelings awakened even by tones such as these."