There was nothing of austerity in this; on the contrary, there was so

much sweetness mingled with the melancholy which shaded his countenance,

that even Lady Emily was touched, and for a moment silent. The entrance

of Mrs. Lennox relieved her from her embarrassment. She flew towards

her, and taking her hand, "My dear Mrs. Lennox, I feel very much as if I

were come here in the capacity of an executioner;--no, not exactly that,

but rather a sort of constable or bailiff;--for I am come, on the part

of Lady Juliana Douglas, to summon you to surrender the person of her

well-beloved daughter, to be disposed of as she in her wisdom may think

fit."

"Not to-day, surely," cried Mrs. Lennox, in alarm; "to-morrow----"

"My orders are peremptory--the suit is pressing," with a significant

smile to Mary; "this day--oh, ye hours!" looking at a timepiece, "this

very minute. Come Mary--are you ready--_cap-à-pie_?"

At another time Mary would have thought only of the regrets of her

venerable friend at parting with her; but now she felt only her own

impatience to be gone, and she hastily quitted the room to prepare for

her departure.

On returning to it Colonel Lennox advanced to meet her, evidently

desirous of saying something, yet labouring under great embarrassment.

"Were it not too selfish and presumptuous," said he, while his

heightened colour spoke his confusion, "I would venture to express a hope

that your absence will not be very long from my poor mother."

Mary pretended to be very busy collecting her work, drawings, etc.,

which lay scattered about, and merely bent her head in acknowledgment.

Colonel Lennox proceeded--

"I am aware of the sacrifice it must be to such as Miss Douglas to

devote her time and talents to the comforting of the blind and desolate;

and I cannot express--she cannot conceive--the gratitude--the

respect--the admiration, with which my heart is filled at such proofs of

noble disinterested benevolence on her part."

Had Mary raised her eyes to those that vainly sought to meet hers, she

would there have read all, and more than had been expressed; but she

could only think, "He has been entreated to love!" and at that

humiliating idea she bent her head still lower to the colour that dyed

her cheek to an almost painful degree, while a sense of suffocation at

her throat prevented her disclaiming, as she wished to do, the merit of

any sacrifice. Some sketches of Lochmarlie lay upon a table at which she

had been drawing the day before; they had ever been precious in her

sight till now; but they only excited feelings of mortification, as she

recollected having taken them from her _portefeuille_ at Mrs. Lennox's

request to show to her son.

"This was part of the parade by which I was to win him," thought she

with bitterness; and scarcely conscious of what she did, she crushed

them together, and threw them into the fire. Then hastily advancing to

Mrs. Lennox, she tried to bid her farewell; but as she thought it was

for the last time, tears of tenderness as well as pride stood in her

eyes.

"God bless you, my dear child!" said the unsuspecting Mrs. Lennox, as

she held her: in her arms. "And God _will_ bless you in His way--though

His ways are not as our ways. I cannot urge you to return to this dreary

abode. But oh, Mary! Think sometimes in your gaiety, that when you do

come, you bring gladness to a mournful heart, and lighten eyes that

never see the sun!"

Mary, too much affected to reply, could only wring the hand of her

venerable friend, as she tore herself from her embrace, and followed

Lady Emily to the carriage. For some time they proceeded in silence.

Mary dreaded to encounter her cousin's eyes, which she was aware were

fixed upon her with more than their usual scrutiny. She therefore kept

hers steadily employed in surveying the well-known objects the road

presented. At length her Ladyship began in a grave tone.

"You appear to have had very stormy weather at Rose Hall?"

"Very much so," replied Mary, without knowing very well what she said.

"And we have had nothing but calms and sunshine at Beech Park. Is not

that strange?"

"Very singular indeed."

"I left the barometer very high--not quite at _settled calm_--that would

be too much; but I find it very low indeed--absolutely below nothing."

Mary now did look up in some surprise; but she hastily withdrew from the

intolerable expression of her cousin's eyes.

"Dear Lady Emily!" cried she in a deprecating tone.

"Well--what more? You can't suppose I'm to put up with hearing my own

name; I've heard that fifty times to-day already from Lady Juliana's

parrot--come, your face speaks volumes. I read a declaration of love in

the colour of your cheeks--a refusal in the height of your nose--and a

sort of general agitation in the quiver of your lip and the

_déréglement_ of your hair. Now for your pulse--a _leettle_ hasty, as

Dr. Redgill would say; but let your tongue declare the rest."

Mary would fain have concealed the cause of her distress from every

human being, as she felt as if degraded still lower by repeating it to

another; and she remained silent, struggling with her emotions.

"'Pon my honour, Mary, you really do use great liberties with my

patience and good-nature. I appeal to yourself whether I might not just

as well have been reading one of Tully's orations to a mule all this

while. Come, you must really make haste to tell your tale, for I am

dying to disclose mine. Or shall I begin? No--that would be inverting

the order of nature or custom, which is the same thing--beginning with

the farce, and ending with the tragedy--so _commencez au commencement,

m'amie."_

Thus urged, Mary at length, and with much hesitation, related to her

cousin the humiliation she had experienced. "And after all," said she,

as she ended, "I am afraid I behaved very like a fool. And yet what

could I do in my situation, what would you have done?"

"Done! why, I should have taken the old woman by the shoulder, and cried

Boh! in her ear. And so this is the mighty matter! You happen to

overhear Mrs. Lennox, good old soul! recommending you as a wife to her

son. What could be more natural except his refusing to fall head in ears

in love before he had time to pull his boots off. And then to have a

wife recommended to him! and all your perfections set forth, as if you

had been a laundrymaid--an early riser, neat worker, regular attention

upon church! Ugh I--I must say I think his conduct quite meritorious. I

could almost find in my heart to fall in love with him myself, were it

for no other reason than because he is not such a Tommy Goodchild as to

be in love at his mamma's bidding--that is, loving his mother as he

does--for I see he could cut off a hand, or pluck out an eye, to please

her, though he can't or won't give her his heart and soul to dispose of

as she thinks proper."

"You quite misunderstand me," said Mary, with increasing vexation. "I

did not mean to say anything against Colonel Lennox. I did not wish--I

never once thought whether he liked me or not."

"That says very little for you. You must have a very bad taste if you

care more for the mother's liking than the son's. Then what vexes you so

much? Is it at having made the discovery that your good old friend is

a--a--I beg your pardon--a bit of a goose? Well, never mind--since you

don't care for the man, there's no mischief done. You have only to

change the _dramatis personae._ Fancy that you overheard mere commending

you to Dr. Redgill for your skill in cookery--you'd only have laughed at

that--so why should you weep at t'other. However, one thing I must tell

you, whether it adds to your grief or not, I did remark that Charles

Lennox looked very lover-like towards you; and, indeed, this sentimental

passion he has put you in becomes you excessively. I really never saw

you look so handsome before--it has given an energy and _esprit_ to your

countenance, which is the only thing it wants. You are very much obliged

to him, were it only for having kindled such a fire in your eyes, and

raised such a carnation in your cheek. It would have been long before

good _larmoyante_, Mrs. Lennox would have done as much for you. I

shouldn't wonder were he to fall in love with you after all."

Lady Emily little thought how near she was the the truth when she talked

in this random way. Colonel Lennox saw the wound he had innocently

inflicted on Mary's feelings, and a warmer sentiment than any he had

hitherto experienced had sprung up in his heart. Formerly he had merely

looked upon her as an amiable sweet-tempered girl; but when he saw he

roused to a sense of her own dignity, and marked the struggle betwixt

tender affection and offended delicacy he, formed a higher estimate of

her character, and a spark was kindled that wanted but opportunity to blaze

into a flame, pure and bright as the shrine on which it burned. Such is

the waywardness and price of even the best affections of the human

breast.

CHAPTER XVIII

"C'est a moi de _choisir_ mon gendre;

Toi, tel qu'il est, c'est à it toi de Ie prendre;

De vous aimer, si vous pouvez tous deux, Et d'obéir

à tout ce que je veux." _L'Enfant Prodigue._

"AND now," said Lady Emily, "that I have listened to your story, which

after all is really a very poor affair, do you listen to mine. The

heroine in both is the same, but the hero differs by some degrees. Know,

then, as the ladies in novels say, that the day which saw you depart

from Beech Park was the day destined to decide your fate, and dash your

hopes, if ever you had any, of becoming Duchess of Altamont. The Duke

arrived, I know, for the express purpose of being enamoured of you; but,

alas! you were not. And there was Adelaide so sweet--so gracious--so

beautiful--the poor gull was caught, and is now, I really believe, as

much in love as it is in the nature of a stupid man to be. I must own

she has played her part admirably, and has made more use of her time

than I, with all my rapidity, could have thought possible. In fact, the

Duke is now all but her declared lover, and that merely stands upon a

point of punctilio."

"But Lord Lindore!" exclaimed Mary in astonishment.

"Why, that part of the story is what I _don't_ quite comprehend.

Sometimes I think it is a struggle with Adelaide. Lindore, poor,

handsome, captivating, on one hand; his Grace, rich, stupid,

magnificent, on the other. As for Lindore, he seems to stand quite

aloof. Formerly, you know, he never used to stir from her side, or notice

anyone else. Now he scarcely notices her, at least in presence of the

Duke, Sometimes he affects to look unhappy, but I believe it is mere

affectation. I doubt if he ever thought seriously of Adelaide, or indeed

anybody else, that he could have in a straightforward Ally Croker sort

of a way--but something too much of this. While all this has been going

on in one corner, there comes regularly everyday Mr. William Downe

Wright, looking very much as if he had lost his shoestring, or pocket

handkerchief, and had come there to look for it. I had some suspicion of

the nature of the loss, but was hopeful he would have the sense to keep

it to himself. No such thing: he yesterday stumbled upon Lady Juliana

all alone, and, in the weakest of his weak moments, informed her that

the loss he had sustained was no less than the loss of that precious

jewel his heart; and that the object of his search was no other than

that of Miss Mary Douglas to replace it! He even carried his

_bêtise_ so far as to request her permission, or her influence,

or, in short, something that her Ladyship never was asked for by any

mortal in their senses before, to aid him in his pursuit. You know how

it delights her to be dressed in a little brief authority; so you may

conceive her transports at seeing the sceptre of power thus placed in

her hands. In the heat of her pride she makes the matter known to the

whole household. Redgills, cooks, stable-boys, scullions, all are quite

_au_ _fait_ to your marriage with Mr. Downe Wright; so I hope you'll

allow that it was about time _you _should be made acquainted with it

yourself. But why so pale and frightened-looking?"

Poor Mary was indeed shocked at her cousin's intelligence. With the

highest feelings of filial reverence, she found herself perpetually

called upon either to sacrifice her own principles or to act indirect

opposition to her mother's will, and upon this occasion she saw nothing

but endless altercation awaiting her; for her heart revolted from the

indelicacy of such measures, and she could not for a moment brook the

idea of being _bestowed_ in marriage. But she had little time for

reflection. They were now at Beech Park; and as she alighted a servant

informed her Lady Juliana wished to see her in her dressing-room

immediately. Thither she repaired with a beating heart and agitated

step. She was received with greater kindness than she had ever yet

experienced from her mother.

"Come in, my dear," cried she, as she extended two fingers to her, and

slightly touched her cheek. "You look very well this morning--much

better than usual. Your complexion is much improved. At the same time

you must be sensible how few girls are married merely for their

looks--that is, married well--unless, to be sure, their beauty is

something _à merveilleuse_--such as your sister's, for instance.

I assure you, it is an extraordinary piece of good fortune in a merely

pretty girl to make what is vulgarly called a good match. I know, at

least, twenty really very nice young women at this moment who cannot get

themselves established."

Mary was silent; and her mother, delighted at her own good sense and

judicious observations, went on--

"That being the case, you may judge how very comfortable I must feel at

having managed to procure for you a most excessive good

establishment--just the very thing I have long wished, as I have felt

quite at a loss about you of late, my dear. When your sister marries, I

shall, of course, reside with her; and as I consider your _liaison _with

those Scotch people as completely at an end, I have really been quite

wretched as to what was to become of you. I can't tell you, therefore,

how excessively relieved I was when Mr. Downe Wright yesterday asked my

permission to address you. Of course I could not hesitate an instant; so

you will meet him at dinner as your accepted. By-the-bye, your hair is

rather blown. I shall send Fanchon to dress it for you. You have really

got very pretty hair; I wonder never remarked it before. Oh! and Mrs.

Downe Wright is to wait upon me to-morrow, I think; and then I believe

we must return the visit. There is a sort of etiquette, you know, in all

these matters--that is the most unpleasant part of it; but when that is

over you will have nothing to think of but ordering your things."

For a few minutes Mary was too much confounded by her mother's rapidity

to reply. She had expected to be urged to accept of Mr. Downe Wright;

but to be told that was actually done for her was more than she was

prepared for. At length she found voice to say that Mr. Downe Wright was

almost a stranger to her, and she must therefore be excused from

receiving his addresses at present.

"How excessively childish!" exclaimed Lady Juliana angrily. "I won't

hear of anything so perfectly foolish. You know (or, at any rate, I do)

all that is necessary to know. I know that he is a man of family and

fortune, heir to a title, uncommonly handsome, and remarkably sensible

and well-informed. I can't conceive what more you would wish to know!"

"I would wish to know something of his character, his principles, his

habits, temper, talents--in short, all those things on which my

happiness would depend."

"Character and principles!--one would suppose you were talking of your

footman! Mr. Downe Wright's character is perfectly good. I never heard

anything against it. As to what you call his principles, I must profess

my ignorance. I really can't tell whether he is a Methodist; but 1 know

he is a gentleman--has a large fortune--is very good-looking--and is not

at all dissipated, I believe. In short, you are most excessively

fortunate in meeting with such a man."

"But I have not the slightest partiality for him," said Mary,

colouring. "It cannot be expected that I should, when I have not been

half a dozen time in his company. I must be allowed some time before I

can consent even to consider--"

"I don't mean that you are to marry to-morrow. It may probably be six

weeks or two months before everything can be arranged."

Mary saw she must speak boldly.

"But I must be allowed much longer time before I can consider myself as

sufficiently acquainted with Mr. Downe Wright to think of him at all in

that light. And even then--he may be very amiable, and yet"--hesitating--

"I may not be able to love him as I ought."

"Love!" exclaimed Lady Juliana, her eyes sparkling with anger; "I

desire I may never hear that word again from any daughter of mine. I am

determined I shall have no disgraceful love-marriages in the family. No

well-educated young woman ever thinks of such a thing now, and I won't

hear a syllable on the subject."

"I shall never marry anybody, I am sure, that you disapprove of," said

Mary timidly.

"No; I shall take care of that. I consider it the duty of parents to

establish their children properly in the world, without any regard to

their ideas on the subject. I think I must be rather a better judge of

the matter than you can possibly be, and I shall therefore make a point

of your forming what I consider a proper alliance. Your sister, I know,

won't hesitate to sacrifice her own affections to please me. She was

most excessively attached to Lord Lindore--everybody knew that; but she

is convinced of the propriety of preferring the Duke of Altamont, and

won't hesitate in sacrificing her own feelings to mine. But indeed she

has ever been all that I could wish--so perfectly beautiful, and, at the

same time, so excessively affectionate and obedient. She approves

entirely of your marriage with Mr. Downe Wright, as, indeed, all your

friends do. I don't include _your_ friend Lady Emily in that number. I

look upon her as a most improper companion for you; and the sooner you

are separated from her the better. So now good-bye for the present. You

have only to behave as other young ladies do upon those occasions,

which, by-the-bye, is generally to give as much trouble to their friends

as they possibly can."

There are some people who, furious themselves at opposition, cannot

understand the possibility of others being equally firm and decided in a

gentle manner. Lady Juliana was one of those who always expect to carry

their point by a raised voice and sparkling eyes; and it was with

difficulty Mary, with her timid air and gentle accents, could convince

her that she was determined to judge for herself in a matter in which

her happiness was so deeply involved. When at last brought to comprehend

it, her Ladyship's indignation knew no bounds; and Mary was accused in

the same breath with having formed some low connection in Scotland, and

of seeking to supplant her sister by aspiring to the Duke of Altamont.

And at length the conference ended pretty much where it began--Lady

Juliana resolved that her daughter should marry to please her, and her

daughter equally resolved not to be driven into an engagement from which

her heart recoiled.

CHAPTER XIX.

"Qu'on vante en lui la foi, l'honneur, la probité;

Qu'on prise sa candeur et sa civilité;

Qu'il soit doux, complaisant, oflicieux, sincere:

On Ie veut, j'y souscris, et suis prêt à me taire."

BOILEAU.

WHEN Mary entered the drawing-room she found herself, without knowing

how, by the side of Mr. Downe Wright. At dinner it was the same; and in

short it seemed an understood thing that they were to be constantly

together.

There was something so gentle and unassuming in his manner that, almost

provoked as she was by the folly of his proceedings, she found it

impossible to resent it by her behaviour towards him; and indeed,

without being guilty of actual rudeness, of which she was incapable, it

would not have been easy to have made him comprehend the nature of her

sentiments. He appeared perfectly satisfied with the toleration he met

with; and, compared to Adelaide's disdainful glances, and Lady Emily's

biting sarcasms, Mary's gentleness and civility might well be mistaken

for encouragement. But even under the exhilarating influence of hope and

high spirits his conversation was so insipid and commonplace, that Mary

found it a relief to turn even to Dr. Redgill. It was evident the Doctor

was aware of what was going on, for he regarded her with that increased

respect due to the future mistress of a splendid establishment. Between

the courses he made some complimentary allusions to Highland mutton and

red deer; and he even carried his attentions so far as to whisper, at

the very first mouthful, that _les côtellettes de saumon_ were

superb, when he had never been known to commend anything to another

until he had fully discussed it himself. On the opposite side of the

table sat Adelaide and the Duke of Altamont, the latter looking still

more heavy and inanimate than ever. The operation of eating over, he

seemed unable to keep himself awake, and every now and then yielded to a

gentle slumber, from which, however, he was instantly recalled at the

sound of Adelaide's voice, when he exclaimed, "Ah! Charming--very

charming, ah!"--Lady Emily looked _from_ them as she hummed some part

of Dryden's Ode--

"Aloft in awful state

The godlike hero sate, etc.

The lovely Thais by his side,

Look'd like a blooming Eastern bride."

Then, as his Grace closed his eyes, and his head sank on his shoulder--

"With ravish'd ears

The monarch hears,

Assumes the god,

Affects to nod."

Lady Juliana, who would have been highly incensed had she suspected the

application of the words, was so unconscious of it as to join

occasionally in singing them, to Mary's great confusion and Adelaide's

manifest displeasure.

When they returned to the drawing-room, "Heavens! Adelaide," exclaimed

her cousin, in an affected manner, "what are you made of? Semelé herself

was but a mere cinder-wench to you! How can you stand such a

Jupiter--and not scorched! not even singed, I protest!" pretending to

examine her all over. "I vow I trembled at your temerity--your

familiarity with the imperial nod was fearful. I every instant expected

to see you turned into a live coal."

"I did burn," said Adelaide, "with shame, to see the mistress of a house

forget what was due to her father's guests."

"There's a slap on the cheek for me! Mercy! how it burns! No, I did not

forget what was due to my father's guests; on the contrary, I consider

it due to them to save them, if I can, from the snares that I see set

for them. I have told you that I abhor all traps, whether for the poor

simple mouse that comes to steal its bit of cheese, or for the dull

elderly gentleman who falls asleep with a star on his breast."

"This is one of the many kind and polite allusions for which I am

indebted to your Ladyship," said Adelaide haughtily; "but I trust the

day will come when I shall be able to discharge what I owe you."

And she quitted the room, followed by Lady Juliana, who could only make

out that Lady Emily had been insolent, and that Adelaide was offended. A

pause followed.

"I see you think I am in the wrong, Mary; I can read that in the little

reproachful glance you gave me just now. Well, perhaps I am; but I own

it chafes my spirit to sit and look on such a scene of iniquity. Yes,

iniquity I call it, for a woman to be in love with one man, and at the

same time laying snares for another. You may think, perhaps, that

Adelaide has no heart to love anything; but she has a heart, such as it

is, though it is much too fine for every-day use, and therefore it is

kept locked up in marble casket, quite out of reach of you or I. But I'm

mistaken if Frederick has not made himself master of it! Not that I

should blame her for that, if she would be honestly and downrightly in

love with him. But how despicable to see her, with her affections placed

upon one man, at the same time lavishing all her attentions on

another--and that other, if he had been plain John Altamont, Esq., she

would not have been commonly civil to! And, _àpropos_ of

civility--I must tell you, if you mean to refuse your hero, you were too

civil by half to him. I observed you at dinner, you sat perfectly

straight, and answered everything he said to you."

"What could I do?" asked Mary, in some surprise.

"I'll tell you what I would have done, and have thought the most

honourable mode of proceeding; I should have turned my back upon him,

and have merely thrown him a monosyllable now and then over my

shoulder."

"I could not be less than civil to him, and I am sure I was not more."

"Civility is too much for a man one means to refuse. You'll never get

rid of a stupid man by civility. Whenever I had any reason to apprehend

a lover, I thought it my duty to turn short upon him and give him a

snarl at the outset, which rid me of him at once. But I really begin to

think I manage these matters better than anybody else--'Where I love, I

profess it: where I hate, in every circumstance I dare proclaim it.'"

Mary tried to defend her sister, in the first place; but though her

charity would not allow her to censure, her conscience whispered there

was much to condemn; and she was relieved from what she felt a difficult

task when the gentlemen began to drop in.

In spite of all her manoeuvres Mr. Downe Wright contrived to be next

her, and whenever she changed her seat, she was sure of his following

her. She had also the mortification of overhearing Lady Juliana tell the

Duke that Mr. Downe Wright was the accepted lover of her youngest

daughter, that he was a man of large fortune, and heir to his uncle,

Lord Glenallan!

"Ah! a nephew of my Lord Glenallan's!--Indeed--a pretty young man--like

the family!--Poor Lord Glenallan! I knew him very well. He has had the

palsy since then, poor man--ah!"

The following day Mary was compelled to receive Mrs. Downe Wright's

visit; but she as scarcely conscious of what passed, for Colonel Lennox

arrived at the same time; and it was equally evident that his visit was

also intended for her. She felt that she ought to appear unconcerned in

his presence, and he tried to be so; but still the painful idea would

recur that he had been solicited to love her, and, unskilled in the arts of

even innocent deception, she could only try to hide the agitation under

the coldness of her manner.

"Come, Mary," cried Lady Emily, as if in answer to something Colonel

Lennox had addressed to her in a low voice, "do you remember the promise

I made Colonel Lennox, and which it rests with you to perform?"

"I never consider myself bound to perform the promises of others,"

replied Mary gravely.

"In some cases that may be a prudent resolution, but in the present it

is surely an unfriendly one," said Colonel Lennox.

"A most inhuman one!" cried Lady Emily, "since you and I, it seems,

cannot commence our friendship without something sentimental to set us

agoing. It rests with you, Mary, to be the founder of our friendship;

and if you manage the matter well, that is, sing in your best manner, we

shall perhap, make it a triple alliance, and admit you as third."

"As every man is said to be the artificer of his own fortune, so every

one, I think, had best be the artificer of their own friendship," said

Mary, trying to smile, as she pulled her embroidery frame towards her,

and began to work.

"Neither can be the worse of a good friend to help them on," observed

Mrs. Downe Wright.

"But both may be materially injured by an injudicious one," said Colonel

Lennox; "and although, on this occasion, I am the greatest sufferer by

it, I must acknowledge the truth of Miss Douglas's observation.

Friendship and love, I believe, will always be found to thrive best when

left to themselves."

"And so ends my novel, elegant, and original plan for striking up a

sudden friendship," cried Lady Emily. "Pray, Mr. Downe Wright, can you

suggest anything better for the purpose than an old song?"

Mr. Downe Wright, who was not at all given to suggesting, looked a

little embarrassed.

"Pull the bell, William, for the carriage," said his mother; "we must

now be moving." And with a general obeisance to the company, and a

significant pressure of the hand to Mary, she withdrew her son from his

dilemma. Although a shrewd, penetrating woman, she did not possess that

tact and delicacy necessary to comprehend the finer feelings of a mind

superior to her own; and in Mary's averted looks and constrained manner

she saw nothing but what she thought quite proper and natural in her

situation. "As for Lady Emily," she observed, "there would be news of

her and that fine dashing-looking Colonel yet, and Miss Adelaide would

perhaps come down a pin before long."

Soon after Colonel Lennox took his leave, in spite of Lady Emily's

pressing invitation for him to spend the day there, and meet her

brother, who had been absent for some days, but was now expected home.

He promised to return again soon, and departed.

"How prodigiously handsome Colonel Lennox looked to-day," said she,

addressing Mary; "and how perfectly unconscious, at least indifferent,

he seems about it. It is quite refreshing to see a handsome man that is

neither a fool nor a coxcomb."

"Handsome! no, I don't think he is very handsome," said Lady Juliana.

"Rather dark, don't you think, my love?" turning to Adelaide, who sat

apart at a table writing, and had scarcely deigned to lift her head all

the time.

"Who do you mean? The man who has just gone out? Is his name Lennox?

Yes, he is rather handsome."

"I believe. you are right; he certainly is good-looking, but in a

peculiar style. I don't quite like the expression of his eye, and he

wants that air _distingué,_ which, indeed, belongs exclusively to

persons of birth."

"He has perfectly the air of a man of fashion," said Adelaide, in a

decided tone, as if ashamed to agree with her mother. "Perhaps _un peu

militaire,_ but nothing at all professional."

"Lennox!--it is a Scotch name," observed Lady Juliana contemptuously.

"And, to cut the matter short," said Lady Emily, as she was quitting the

room, "the man who has just gone out is Colonel Lennox, and not the Duke

of AItamont."

After a few more awkward, indefinite sort of visits, in which Mary found

it impossible to come to an explanation, she was relieved for the

present from the assiduities of her lover. Lady Juliana received a

note from Mrs. Downe Wright, apologising for what she termed her son's

unfortunate absence at such a critical time; but he had received accounts

of the alarming illness of his uncle Lord Glenallan, and had, in

consequence, set off instantly for Scotland, where she was preparing to

follow; concluding with particular regards to Miss Mary--hopes of being

soon able to resume their pleasant footing in the family, etc. etc.

"How excessively well arranged it will be that old man's dying at this

time!" said her Ladyship, as she tossed the note to her daughter; "Lord

Glenallan will sound so much better than Mr. Downe Wright. The name I

have always considered as the only objectionable part. You are really

most prodigiously fortunate."

Mary was now aware of the folly of talking reason to her mother, and

remained silent; thankful for the present peace this event would ensure

her, and almost tempted to wish that Lord Glenallan's doom might not

speedily be decided.

CHAPTER XX.

"It seems it is as proper to our age

To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions,

As it is common for the younger sort

To lack discretion."

_Hamlet._

LORD LINDORE and Colonel Lennox has been boyish acquaintances, and a

sort of superficial, intimacy was soon established between them, which

served as the ostensible cause of his frequent visits at Beech Park. But

to Mary, who was more alive to the difference of their characters and

sentiments than any other member of the family, this appeared very

improbable, and she could not help suspecting that love for the sister,

rather than friendship for the brother, was the real motive by which he

was actuated. In half jesting manner she mentioned her suspicions to

Lady Emily, who treated the idea with her usual ridicule.

"I really could not have supposed you so extremely missy-ish, Mary," said

she, "as to imagine that because two people like each other's society,

and talk and laugh together a little more than usual, that the must

needs be in love! I believe Charles Lennox loves me much the same as he

did eleven years ago, when I was a little wretch that used to pull his

hair and spoil his watch. And as for me, you know that I consider myself

quite as an old woman--at least as a married one; and he is perfectly

_au fait_ to my engagement with Edward. I have even shown him his

picture and some of his letters."

Mary looked incredulous.

"You may think as you please, but I tell you it is so. In my situation

I should scorn to have Colonel Lennox, or anybody else, in love with me.

As to his liking to talk to me, pray who else can he talk to? Adelaide

would sometimes _condescend_ indeed; but he won't be condescended to,

that's clear, not even by a Duchess. With what mock humility he meets

her airs! how I adore him for it! Then you are such a pillar of ice!--so

shy and unsociable when he is present!--and, by-the-bye, if I did not

despise recrimination as the _pis aller_ of all conscious Misses, I would

say you are much more the object of his _attention,_ at least, than I

am. Several times I have caught him looking very earnestly at you, when,

by the laws of good breeding, his eyes ought to have been fixed

exclusively upon me; and--"

"Pshaw!" interrupted Mary, colouring, "that is mere absence--nothing to

the purpose--or perhaps," forcing a smile, "he may be _trying_ to love

me!"

Mary thought of her poor old friend, as she said this, with bitterness

of heart. It was long since she had seen her; and when she had last

inquired for her, her son had said he did not think her well, with a look

Mary could not misunderstand. She had heard him make an appointment with

Lord Lindore for the following day, and she took the opportunity of his

certain absence to visit his mother. Mrs. Lennox, indeed, looked ill, and

seemed more than usually depressed. She welcomed Mary with her usual

tenderness, but even her presence seemed to fail of inspiring her with

gladness.

Mary found she was totally unsuspicious of the cause of her

estrangement, and imputed it to a very different one.

"You have been a great stranger, my dear!" said she, as she

affectionately embraced her; "but at such a time I could not expect you

to think of me."

"Indeed," answered Mary, equally unconscious of her meaning, "I have

thought much and often, very often, upon you, and wished I could have

come to you; but---" she stopped, for she could not tell the truth, and

would not utter a falsehood.

"I understand it all," said Mrs. Lennox, with a sigh. "Well--well--God's

will be done!" Then trying to be more cheerful, "Had you come little

sooner, you would have met Charles. He is just gone out with Lord

Lindore. He was unwilling to leave me, as he always is, and when he

does, I believe it is as much to please me as himself. Ah! Mary, I once

hoped that I might have lived to see you the happy wife of the best of

sons. I may speak out now, since that is all over. God has willed

otherwise, an may you be rewarded in the choice you have made!"

Mary was struck with consternation to find that her supposed engagement

with Mr. Downe Wright had spread even to Rose Hall; and in the greatest

confusion she attempted to deny it. But after the acknowledgment she had

just heard, she acquitted herself awkwardly; for she felt as if an open

explanation would only serve to revive hopes that never could be

realised, and subject Colonel Lennox and herself to future perplexities.

Nothing but the whole truth would have sufficed to undeceive Mrs. Lennox,

for she had had the intelligence of Mary's engagement from Mrs. Downe

Wright herself, who, for better security of what she already considered

her son's property, had taken care to spread the report of his being the

accepted lover before she left the country. Mary felt all the

unpleasantness of her situation. Although detesting deceit and artifice

of every kind, her confused and stammering denials seemed rather to

corroborate the fact; but she felt that she could not declare her

resolution of never bestowing her hand upon Mr. Downe Wright without

seeming at the same time to court the addresss of Colonel Lennox. Then

how painful--how unjust to herself, as well as cruel to him, to have it

for an instant believed that she was the betrothed of one whose wife she

was resolved she never would be!

In short, poor Mary's mind was a complete chaos; and for the first time

in her life she found it impossible to determine which was the right

course for her to pursue. Even in the midst of her distress, however,

she could not help smiling at the _naïvete_ of the good old lady's

remarks.

"He is a handsome young man, I hear," said she, still in allusion to Mr.

Downe Wright: "has a fine fortune, and an easy temper. All these things

help people's happiness, though they cannot make it; and his choice of

you, my dear Mary, shows that he has some sense."

"What a eulogium!" said Mary, laughing and blushing. "Were he really to

me what you suppose, I must be highly flattered; but I must again assure

you it is not using Mr. Downe Wright well to talk of him as anything to

me. My mother, indeed--".

"Ah! Mary, my dear, let me advise you to beware of being led, even by a

mother, in such a matter as this. God forbid that I should ever

recommend disobedience towards a parent's will; but I fear you have

yielded too much to yours. I said, indeed, when I heard it, that I

feared undue influence had been used; for that I could not think William

Downe Wright would ever have been the choice of your heart. Surely

parents have much to answer for who mislead their children in such an

awful step as marriage!"

This was the severest censure Mary had ever heard drop from Mrs.

Lennox's lips; and she could not but marvel at the self-delusion that

led her thus to condemn in another the very error she had committed

herself, but under such different circumstances that she would not

easily have admitted it to be the same. She sought for the happiness of

her son, while Lady Juliana, she was convinced, wished only her own

aggrandisement.

"Yes, indeed," said Mary, in answer to her friend's observation,

"parents ought, if possible, to avoid even forming wishes for their

children. Hearts are wayward things, even the best of them." Then more

seriously she added, "And, dear Mrs. Lennox, do not either blame my

mother nor pity me; for be assured, with my heart only will I give my

hand; or rather, I should say, with my hand only will I give my heart:

And now good-bye," cried she, starting up and hurrying away, as she

heard Colonel Lennox's voice in the hall.

She met him on the stair, and would have passed on with a slight remark,

but he turned with her, and finding she had dismissed the carriage,

intending to walk home, he requested permission to attend her. Mary

declined; but snatching up his hat, and whistling his dogs, he set out

with her in spite of her remonstrances to the contrary.

"If you persist in refusing my attendance," said he, "you will inflict an

incurable wound upon my vanity. I shall suspect you are ashamed of being

seen in such company. To be sure, myself, with my shabby jacket and my

spattered dogs, do form rather a ruffian-like escort; and I should not

have dared to have offered my services to a fine lady; but you are not a

fine lady, I know;" and he gently drew her arm within his as they began

to ascend a hill.

This was the first time Mary had found herself alone with Colonel

Lennox since that fatal day which seemed to have divided them for ever.

At first she felt uneasy and embarrassed, but there was so much good

sense and good feeling in the tone of his conversation--it was so far

removed either from pedantry or frivolity, that all disagreeable ideas

soon gave way to the pleasure she had in conversing with one whose turn

of mind seemed so similar to her own; and it was not till she had parted

from him at the gate of Beech Park she had time to wonder how she could

possibly have walked two miles _tete-à-tete_ with a man whom she

had heard solicited to love her!

From that day Colonel Lennox's visits insensibly increased in length

and number; but Lady Emily seemed to appropriate them entirely to

herself; and certainly all the flow of his conversation, the brilliancy

of his wit, were directed to her; but Mary could not but be conscious

that his looks were much oftener riveted on herself, and if his

attentions were not such as to attract general observation, they were

such as she could not fail of perceiving and being unconsciously

gratified by.

"How I admire Charles Lennox's manner to you, Mary," said her cousin,

"after the awkward dilemma you were both in. It was no easy matter to

know how to proceed; a vulgar-minded man would either have oppressed you

with his attentions, or insulted you by his neglect, while he steers so

gracefully free from either extreme; and I observe you are the only

woman upon whom he designs to bestow _les petits soins._ How I despise a

man who is ever on the watch to pick up every silly Miss's fan or glove

that she thinks it pretty to drop! No--the woman he loves, whether his

mother or his wife, will always be distinguished by him, were she

amongst queens and empresses, not by his silly vanity or vulgar

fondness, but by his marked and gentlemanlike attentions towards her.

In short, the best thing you can do is to make up your quarrel with

him--take him for all in all--you won't meet with such another--

certainly not amongst your Highland lairds, by all that I can learn;

and, by-the-bye, I do suspect he is now, as you say, trying to love you;

and let him--you will be very well repaid if he succeeds."

Mary's heart swelled at the thoughts of submitting to such an indignity,

especially as she was beginning to feel conscious that Colonel Lennox

was not quite the object of indifference to her that he ought to be; but

her cousin's remarks only served to render her more distant and reserved

to him than ever.

CHAPTER XXI.

"What dangers ought'st thou not to dread,

When Love, that's blind, is by blind Fortune, led?"

COWLEY.

AT length the long-looked for day arrived. The Duke of Altamont's

proposals were made in due form, and in due form accepted. Lady Juliana

seemed now touching the pinnacle of earthly joy; for, next to being

greatly married herself, her happiness centred in seeing her daughter at

the head of a splendid establishment. Again visions of bliss hovered

around her, and "Peers and Dukes and all their sweeping train" swam

before her eyes, as she anticipated the brilliant results to herself

from so noble an alliance; for self was still, as it had ever been, her

ruling star, and her affection for her daughter was the mere result of

vanity and ambition.

The ensuing weeks were passed in all the bustle of preparations

necessarily attendant on the nuptials of the great. Every morning

brought from Town dresses, jewels, patterns, and packages of all

descriptions. Lady Juliana was in ecstasies, even though it was but

happiness in the second person. Mary watched her sister's looks with the

most painful solicitude; for from her lips she knew she never would

learn the sentiments of her heart. But Adelaide was aware she had a part

to act, and she went through it with an ease and self-possession that

seemed to defy all scrutiny. Once or twice, indeed, her deepening colour

and darkening brow betrayed the feelings of her heart, as the Duke of

Altamont and Lord Lindore were brought into comparison; and Mary

shuddered to think that her sister was even now ashamed of the man whom

she was so soon to vow to love, honour, and obey. She had vainly tried

to lead Adelaide to the subject. Adelaide would listen to nothing which

she had reason to suppose was addressed to herself; but either with cool

contempt took up a book, or left the room, or, with insolent

affectation, would put her hands to her head, exclaiming, _"Mes oreilles

n'etoient pas faites pour les entretiens sérieux."_ All Mary's worst

fears were confirmed a few days before that fixed for the marriage. As

she entered the music-room she was startled to find Lord Lindore and

Adelaide alone. Unwilling to suppose that her presence would be

considered as an interruption, she seated herself at a little distance

from them, and was soon engrossed by her task. Adelaide, too, had the

air of being deeply intent upon some trifling employment; and Lord

Lindore, as he sat opposite to her, with his head resting upon his

hands, had the appearance of being engaged in reading. All were silent

for some time; but as Mary happened to look up, she saw Lord

Lindore'seyes fixed earnestly upon her sister, and with _voice_ of

repressed feeling he repeated,_"Ah! je le sens, ma Julie! si'l falloit

renoncer a vous, il n'y auroit plus pour moi d'autre sejour ni d'autre

saison:"_ and throwing down the book, he quitted the room. Adelaide pale

and agitated, rose as if to follow him; then, recollecting herself, she

rushed from the apartment by an opposite door. Mary followed, vainly

hoping that in this moment of excited feeling she might be induced to

open her heart to the voice of affection; but Adelaide was a stranger to

sympathy, and saw only the degradation of confessing the struggle she

endured in choosing betwixt love and ambition. That her heart was Lord

Lindore's she could not conceal from herself, though she would not

confess it to another--and that other the tenderest of sisters, whose

only wish was to serve her. Mary's tears and entreaties were therefore

in vain, and at Adelaide's repeated desire she at length quitted her and

returned to the room she had left.

She found Lady Emily there with a paper in her hand. "Lend me your ears,

Mary," cried she, "while I read these lines to you. Don't be afraid,

there are no secrets in them, or at least none that you or I will be a

whit the wiser for, as they are truly in a most mystic strain. I found

them lying upon this table, and they are in Frederick's handwriting, for

I see he affects the _soupirant_ at present; and it seems there has been

a sort of a sentimental farce acted between Adelaide and him. He

pretends that, although distractedly in love with her, he is not so

selfish as even to wish her to marry him in preference to the Duke of

Altamont; and Adelaide, not to be outdone in heroics, has also made it

out that it is the height of virtue in her to espouse the Duke of

Altamont, and sacrifice all the tenderest affections of her heart to

duty! Duty! yes, the duty of being a Duchess, and of living in state and

splendour with the man she secretly despises, to the pleasure of

renouncing both for the man she loves; and so they have parted, and

here, I suppose, are Lindore's lucubrations upon it, intended as a

_souvenir_ for Adelaide, I presume. Now, night visions befriend me!

"The time returns when o'er my wilder'd mind,

A thraldom came which did each sense enshroud;

Not that I bowed in willing chain confined,

But that a soften'd atmosphere of cloud

Veiled every sense--conceal'd th' impending doom.

'Twas mystic night, and I seem'd borne along

By pleasing dread--and in a doubtful gloom,

Where fragrant incense and the sound of song,

And all fair things we dream of, floated by,

Lulling my fancy like a cradled child,

Till that the dear and guileless treachery,

Made me the wretch I am--so lost, so wild--

A mingled feeling, neither joy or grief,

Dwelt in my heart--I knew not whence it came,

And--but that woe is me! 'twas passing brief,

Even at this hour I fain would feel the same!

I track'd a path of flowers--but flowers among

Were hissing serpents and drear birds of night,

That shot across and scared with boding cries;

And yet deep interest lurked in that affright,

Something endearing in those mysteries,

Which bade me still the desperate joy pursue,

Heedless of what might come--when from mine eyes

The cloud should pass, or what might then accrue.

The cloud _has_ passed--the blissful power is flown,

The flowers are wither'd--wither'd all the scene.

But ah! the dear delusions I have known

Are present still, with loved though altered mien:

I tread the selfsame path in heart unchanged;

But changed now is all that path to me,

For where 'mong flowers and fountains once I ranged

Are barren rocks and savage scenery!"

Mary felt it was in vain to attempt to win her sister's confidence, and

she was too delicate to seek to wrest her secrets from her; she

therefore took no notice of this effusion of love and disappointment,

which she concluded it to be.

Adelaide appeared at dinner as usual. All traces of agitation had

vanished; and her manner was a cool and collected as if all had been

peace and tranquillity at heart. Lord Lindore's departure was slightly

noticed. It was generally understood that he had been rejected by his

cousin; and his absence at such a time was thought perfectly natural;

the Duke merely remarking, with a vacant simper, "So Lord Lindore is

gone--Ah! poor Lord Lindore."

Lady Juliana had, in a very early stage of the business, fixed in her

own mind that she, as a matter of course, would be invited to accompany

her daughter upon her marriage; indeed, she had always looked upon it as

a sort of triple alliance, that was to unite her as indissolubly to the

fortunes of the Duke of Altamont as though she had been his wedded wife.

But the time drew near, and in spite of all her hints and manoeuvres no

invitation had yet been extorted from Adelaide. The Duke had proposed to

her to invite her sister, and even expressed something like a wish to

that effect; for though he felt no positive pleasure in Mary's society,

he was yet conscious of a void in her absence. She was always in good

humour--always gentle and polite--and, without being able to tell why,

his Grace always felt more at ease with her than with anybody else. But

his selfish bride seemed to think that the joys of her elevation would

be diminished if shared even by her own sister, and she coldly rejected

the proposal. Lady Juliana was next suggested--for the Duke had a sort of

vague understanding that his safety lay in a multitude. With him, as

with all stupid people, company was society, words were

conversation--and all the gradations of intellect, from Sir Isaac Newton

down to Dr. Redgill, were to him unknown. But although, as with most

weak people, obstinacy was his _forte,_ he was here again compelled to

yield to the will of his bride, as she also declined the company of her

mother for the present. The disappointment was somewhat softened to Lady

Juliana by the sort of indefinite hopes that were expressed by her

daughter of seeing her in town when they were fairly established; but

until she had seen Altamont House, and knew its accommodations, she

could fix nothing; and Lady Juliana was fain to solace herself with this

dim perspective, instead of the brilliant reality her imagination had

placed within her grasp. She felt, too, without comprehending, the

imperfectness of all earthly felicity. As she witnessed the magnificent

preparations for her daughter's marriage, it recalled the bitter

remembrance of her own--and many a sigh burst from her heart as he

thought, "Such as Adelaide is, I might have been had I been blest with

such a mother, and brought up to know what was for my good!"

The die was cast. Amidst pomp and magnificence, elate with pride, and

sparkling with jewels, Adelaide Douglas reversed the fate of her mother;

and while her affections were bestowed on another, she vowed, in the

face of heaven, to belong only to the Duke of Altamont!

"Good-bye, my dearest love!" said her mother, as she embraced her with

transport, "and I shall be with you very soon; and, above all things,

try to secure a good opera-box for the season. I assure you it is of the

greatest consequence."

The Duchess impatiently hurried from the congratulations of her family,

and throwing herself into the splendid equipage that awaited her was

soon lost to their view.

CHAPTER XXII.

"Every white will have its black,

And every sweet its sour:"

As Lady Juliana experienced. Her daughter was Duchess of Altamont, but

Grizzy Douglas had arrived in Bath! The intelligence was communicated to

Mary in a letter. It had no date, but was as follows:--

My DEAR MARY--You will See from the Date of this, that we are at last

Arrived here, after a very long journey, which, you of Course Know it is

from this to our Part of the country; at the same Time, it was

uncommonly Pleasant, and we all enjoyed it very Much, only poor Sir

Sampson was so ill that we Expected him to Expire every minute, which

would have made it Extremely unpleasant for dear Lady M'Laughlan. He is

now, I am Happy to say, greatly Better, though still so Poorly that I am

much afraid you will see a very Considerable change upon him. I

sincerely hope, my dear Mary, that you will make a proper Apology to

Lady Juliana for my not going to Beech Park (where I know I would be

made most Welcome) directly--but I am Certain she will Agree with me

that it would be Highly Improper in me to leave Lady M'Laughlan when she

is not at all Sure how long Sir Sampson may Live; and it would Appear

very Odd if I was to be out of the way at such a time as That. But you

may Assure her, with my Kind love, and indeed all our Loves (as I am

sure None of us can ever forget the Pleasant time she spent with us at

Glenfern in my Poor brother's lifetime, before you was Born), that I

will Take the very first Opportunity of Spending some time at Beech Park

before leaving Bath, as we Expect the Waters will set Sir Sampson quite

on his Feet again. It will be a happy Meeting, I am certain, with Lady

Juliana and all of us, as it is Eighteen years this spring since we have

Met. You may be sure I have a great Deal to tell you and Lady Juliana

too, about all Friends at Glenfern, whom I left all quite Well. Of course,

the Report of Bella's and Betsy's marriages Must have reached Bath by

this time, as it will be three Weeks to-day since we left our part of

the country; but in case it has not reached you, Lady M'Laughlan is of

opinion that the Sooner you are made Acquainted with it the Better,

especially as there is no doubt of it. Bella's marriage, which is in a

manner fixed by this time, I daresay, though of Course it will not take

place for some time, is to Capt. M'Nab of some Regiment, but I'm sure I

Forget which, for there are so many Regiments, you know, it is

Impossible to remember them All; but he is quite a Hero, I know that, as

he has been in Several battles, and had Two of his front teeth Knocked

Out at one of them, and was Much complimented about it; and he Says, he

is quite Certain of getting Great promotion--at any Rate a pension for

it, so there is no Fear of him.

"Betsy has, if Possible, been still More fortunate than her Sister,

although you know Bella was always reckoned the Beauty of the Family,

though some people certainly preferred Betsy's Looks too. She has made a

Complete conquest of Major M'Tavish, of the Militia, who, Independent of

his rank, which is certainly very High, has also distinguished himself

very Much, and showed the Greatest bravery once when there was a Very

serious Riot about the raising the Potatoes a penny a peck, when there

was no Occasion for it, in the town of Dunoon; and it was very much

talked of at the Time, as well as Being in all the Newspapers. This

gives us all the Greatest Pleasure, as I am certain it will also Do Lady

Juliana and you, my dear Mary. At the same time, we Feel very much for

poor Babby, and Beenie, and Becky, as they Naturally, and indeed all of

us, Expected they would, of Course, be married first; and it is

certainly a great Trial for them to See their younger sisters married

before them. At the same Time, they are Wonderfully supported, and

Behave with Astonishing firmness; and I Trust, my dear Mary, you will do

the Same, as I have no Doubt you will All be married yet, as I am sure

you Richly deserve it when it Comes. I hope I will see you Very soon, as

Lady M'Laughlan, I am certain, will Make you most Welcome to call. We

are living in Most elegant Lodgings--all the Furniture is quite New, and

perfectly Good. I do not know the Name of the street yet, as Lady

M'Laughlan, which is no wonder, is not fond of being Asked questions

when she is Upon a Journey; and, indeed, makes a Point of never

Answering any, which, I daresay, is the Best way. But, of Course,

anybody will Tell you where Sir Sampson Maclaughlan, Baronet, of

Lochmarliie Castle, Perthshire, N. B., lives; and, if You are at any

Loss, it has a Green door, and a most Elegant Balcony. I must now bid

you adieu, my dear. Mary, as I Am so soon to See yourself. Sir Sampson

and Lady M'Laughlan unite with Me in Best compliments to the Family at

Beech Park. And, in kind love to Lady Juliana and you, I remain, My dear

Mary, your most affectionate Aunt,

GRIZZEL DOUGLAS.

_"P.S._--I have a long letter for you from Mrs. Douglas, which is in my

Trunk, that is Coming by the Perth Carrier, and unless he is stopped by

the Snow, I Expect he will be here in ten days."

With the idea of Grizzy was associated in Mary's mind all the dear

familiar objects of her happiest days, and her eyes sparkled with

delight at the thoughts of again beholding her.

"Oh! when may I go to Bath to dear Aunt Grizzy?" exclaimed she, as

she finished the letter. Lady Juliana looked petrified. Then

recollecting that this was the first intimation her mother had received

of such an event being even in contemplation, she made haste to

exculpate her aunt at her own expense, by informing her of the truth.

But nothing could be more unpalatable than the truth; and poor Mary's

short-lived joy was soon turned into the bitterest sorrow at the

reproaches that were showered upon her by the incensed Lady Juliana. But

for her these people never would have thought of coming to Bath; or if

they did, she should have had no connection with them. She had been most

excessively ill-used by Mr. Douglas's family, and had long since

resolved to have no further intercourse with them--they were nothing to

her, etc. etc. The whole concluding with a positive prohibition against

Mary's taking any notice of her aunt. "From all that has been said,

Mary," said Lady Emily gravely, "there can be no doubt but that you are

the origin of Lady Juliana's unfortunate connection with the family of

Douglas."

"Undoubtedly," said her Ladyship.

"But for you, it appears that she would not have known--certainly never

would have acknowledged that her husband had an aunt?"

"Certainly not," said Lady Juliana, warmly.

"It is a most admirable plan," continued Lady Emily in the same manner,

"and I shall certainly adopt it. When I have children I am determined

they shall be answerable for my making a foolish marriage; and it shall

be their fault if my husband has a mother. _En attendant,_ I am

determined to patronise Edward's relations to the last degree; and

therefore, unless Mary is permitted to visit her aunt as often as she

pleases, I shall make a point of bringing the dear Aunt Grizzy here. Yes"

(Putting her hand to the bell), "I shall order my carriage this instant,

and set off. To-morrow, you know, we give a grand dinner in

honour of Adelaide's marriage. Aunt Grizzy shall be queen of the feast."

Lady Juliana was almost suffocated with passion; but she knew her niece

too well to doubt her putting her threat into execution, and there was

distraction in the idea of the vulgar obscure Grizzy Douglas being

presented to a fashionable party as her aunt. After a violent

altercation, in which Mary took no part, an ungracious permission was at

length extorted, which Mary eagerly availed herself of; and, charged

with kind messages from Lady Emily, set off in quest of Aunt Grizzy and

the green door.

After much trouble, and many unsuccessful attacks upon green doors and

balconies, she was going to give up the search in despair, when her eye

was attracted by the figure of Aunt Grizzy herself at full length,

stationed at a window, in an old-fashioned riding-habit and spectacles.

The carriage was stopped and in an instant Mary was in the arms of her

aunt, all agitation, as Lochmarlie flashed on her fancy, at again

hearing its native accents uttered by the voice familiar to her from

infancy. Yet the truth must be owned, Mary's taste was somewhat

startled, even while her heart warmed at the sight of the good old aunt.

Association and affection still retained their magical influence over

her; but absence had dispelled the blest illusions of habitual

intercourse; and for the first time she beheld her aunt freed from its

softening spell. Still her heart clung to her, as to one known and loved

from infancy; and she Soon rose superior to the weakness she felt was

besetting her in the slight sensation of shame, as she contrasted her

awkward manner and uncouth accent with the graceful refinement of those

with whom she associated.

Far different were the sensations with which the good spinster regarded

her niece. She could not often enough declare her admiration of the

improvements that had taken place. Mary was grown taller, and stouter,

and fairer and fatter, and her back was a straight as an arrow, and her

carriage would even surprise Miss M'Gowk herself. It was quite

astonishing to see her, for she had always understood Scotland was the

place for beauty, and that nobody ever came to anything in England. Even

Sir Sampson and Lady Maclaughlan were forgot as she stood riveted in

admiration, and Mary was the first to recall her recollection to them.

Sir Sampson, indeed, might well have been overlooked by a more accurate

observer; for, as Grizzy observed, he was worn away to nothing, and the

little that remained seemed as if it might have gone too without being

any loss. He was now deaf, paralytic, and childish, and the only symptom

of life he showed was an increased restlessness and peevishness. His

lady sat by him, calmly pursuing her work, and, without relaxing from it,

merely held up her face to salute Mary as she approached her.

"So I'm glad you are no worse than you was, dear child," surveying her

from head to foot; "that's more than _we_ can say. You see these poor

creatures," pointing to Sir Sampson and Aunt Grizzy. "They are much about

it now. Well, we know what we are, but God knows what we shall

be--humph!"

Sir Sampson showed no signs of recognising her, but seemed pleased when

Grizzy resumed her station beside him; and began for the five hundredth

time to tell him why he was not in Lochmarlie Castle, and why he was in

Bath.

Mary now saw that there are situations in which a weak capacity has its

uses, and that the most foolish chat may sometimes impart greater

pleasure than all the wisdom of the schools, even when proceeding from a

benevolent heart.

Sir Sampson and Grizzy were so much upon a pair in intellect, that they

were reciprocally happy in each other. This the strong sense of Lady

Maclaughlan had long perceived, and was the principal reason of her

selecting so weak a woman as her companion; though, at the same time, in

justice to her Ladyship's heart as well as head, she had that partiality

for her friend for which no other reason can be assigned than that given

by Montaigne: "Je l'amais parceque c'étoit _elle,_ parceque c'étoit moi."

Mary paid a long visit to her aunt, and then took leave, promising to

return the following day to take Miss Grizzy to deliver a letter of

introduction she had received, and which had not been left to the chance

of the carrier and the snow.

CHAPTER XXIII.

"This sort of person is skilled to assume the appearance of all virtues

and all good qualities; but their favourite mask is universal

benevolence. And the reason why they prefer this disguise to all others,

is, that it tends to conceal its opposite, which is, indeed, their true

character--an universal selfishness."

--KNOX'S _Essays._

ALTHOUGH, on her return, Mary read her mother's displeasure in her

looks, and was grieved at again having incurred it, she yet felt it a

duty towards her father to persevere in her attentions to his aunt. She

was old, poor, and unknown, plain in her person, weak in her intellects,

vulgar in her manners; but she was related to her by ties more binding

than the laws of fashion or the rules of taste. Even these

disadvantages, which, to a worldly mind, would have served as excuses

for neglecting her, to Mary's generous nature were so many incentives to

treat her with kindness and attention. Faithful to her promise,

therefore, she repaired to Milsom Street, and found her aunt all

impatience for her arrival, with the letter so firmly grasped in both

hands, that she seemed almost afraid to trust anyone with a glance at

the direction.

"This letter, Mary," said she, when they were seated in the carriage,

"will be a great thing for me, and especially for you. I got it from

Mrs. Menzies, through Mrs. M'Drone, whose friend, Mrs. Campbell's

half-sister, Miss Grant, is a great friend of Mrs. Fox's, and she says

she is a most charming woman. Of course she is no friend to the great

Fox; or you know it would have been very odd in me, with Sir Sampson's

principles, and my poor brother's principles, and all our own

principles, to have visited her. But she's quite of a different family

of Foxes: she's a Fox of Peckwell, it seems--a most amiable woman, very

rich, and prodigiously charitable. I am sure we have been most fortunate

in getting a letter to such a woman." And with this heartfelt

ejaculation they found themselves at Mrs. Fox's.

Everything corresponded with the account of this lady's wealth and

consequence; the house was spacious and handsomely furnished, with its

due proportion of livery servants; and they were ushered into a

sitting-room which was filled with all the 'wonders of nature and

art,--Indian shells, inlaid cabinets, ivory boxes, stuffed birds, old

china, Chinese mandarins, stood disclosed in all their charms. The lady

of this mansion was seated at table covered with works of a different

description: it exhibited the various arts of woman, in regular

gradation, from the painted card-rack and gilded firescreen, to the

humble thread-paper and shirt-button. Mrs. Fox was a fine,

fashionable-looking woman, with a smooth skin, and still smoother

address. She received her visitors with that overstrained complaisance

which, to Mary's nicer tact, at once discovered that all was hollow; but

poor Miss Grizzy was scarcely seated before she was already transfixed

with admiration at Mrs. Fox's politeness, and felt as if her whole life

would be too short to repay such kindness. Compliments over--the

weather, etc., discussed, Mrs. Fox began:

"You must be surprised, ladies, to see me in the midst of such a litter,

but you find me busy arranging the works of some poor _protégées_ of

mine. A most unfortunate family!--I have given them what little

instruction I could in these little female works; and you see," putting

a gaudy work-basket into Grizzy's hands, "it is astonishing what

progress they have made. My friends have been most liberal in their

purchases of these trifles, but I own I am a wretched beggar. They are

in bad hands when they are in mine, poor souls! The fact is, I can give,

but I cannot beg. I tell them they really must find somebody else to

dispose of their little labours--somebody who has more of what I call

the gift of begging than I am blest with."

Tears of admiration stood in Grizzy's eye; her hand was in her

pocket. She looked to Mary, but Mary's hands and eyes betrayed no

corresponding emotions; she felt only disgust at the meanness and

indelicacy of the mistress of such a mansion levying contributions from

the stranger within her door.

Mrs. Fox proceeded: "That most benevolent woman Miss Gull was here this

morning, and bought no less than seven of these sweet little

pincushions. I would fain have dissuaded her from taking so many--it

really seemed such a stretch of virtue; but she said, 'My dear Mrs. Fox,

how can one possibly spend their money better than in doing a good

action, and at the same time enriching themselves?'"

Grizzy's purse was in her hand. "I declare that's very true. I never

thought of that before; and I'm certain Lady Maclaughlan will say the

very same; and I'm sure she will be delighted--I've no doubt of that--to

take a pincushion; and each of my sisters I'm certain, will take one,

though we have all plenty of pincushions; and I'll take one to myself,

though I have three, I'm sure, that I've never used yet."

"My dear Miss Douglas, you really are, I could almost say, _too_ good.

Two and two's four, and one's five--five half-crowns! My poor

_protégées!_ you will really be the making of their fortune!"

Grizzy, with trembling hands, and a face flushed with conscious virtue,

drew forth the money from her little hoard.

But Mrs. Fox did not quit her prey so easily. "If any of your friends

are in want of shirt-buttons, Miss Douglas, I would fain recommend those

to them. They are made by a poor woman in whom I take some interest, and

are far superior to any that are to be had from the shops. They are made

from the very best materials. Indeed, I take care of that, as" (in a

modest whisper) "I furnish her with the material myself; but the

generality of those you get to purchase are made from old materials.

I've ascertained that, and it's a fact you may rely upon."

Poor Grizzy's hair stood on end, to hear of such depravity in a sphere

where she had never even suspected it; but, for the honour of her

country, she flattered herself such practices were there unknown; and

she was entering upon a warm vindication of the integrity of Scotch

shirt-buttons, when Mrs. Fox coolly observed--

"Indeed, our friend Miss Grant was so conscious of the great superiority

of these buttons over any others, that she bespoke thirty-six dozen of

them to take to Scotland with her. In fact, they are the real good

old-fashioned shirt-buttons, such as I have heard my mother talk of; and

for all that, I make a point of my poor woman selling them a penny a

dozen below the shop price; so that in taking twelve dozen, which is the

common quantity, there is a shilling saved at once."

Grizzy felt as if she would be the saving of the family by the

purchase of these incomparable shirt buttons, and, putting down her five

shillings, became the happy possessor of twelve dozen of them.

Fresh expressions of gratitude and admiration ensued, till Grizzy's

brain began to whirl even more rapidly than usual, at the thought of the

deeds she had done.

"And now," said Mrs. Fox, observing her eyes in a fine frenzy rolling

from her lapful of pincushions and shirt buttons, to a mandarin nearly

as large as life, "perhaps, my dear Miss Douglas, you will do me the

favour to take a look of my little collection."

"Favour!" thought Grizzy; "what politeness!" and she protested there was

nothing she liked so much as to look at everything, and that it would be

the greatest favour to show her anything. The mandarin was made to shake

his head--a musical snuffbox played its part--and a variety of other

expensive toys were also exhibited.

Mary's disgust increased. "And this woman," thought she, "professes to

be charitable amidst all this display of selfish extravagance. Probably

the price of one of these costly baubles would have provided for the

whole of these poor people for whom she affects so much compassion,

without subjecting her to the meanness of turning her house into a

beggar's repository." And she walked away to the other end of the room

to examine some fine scriptural paintings.

"Here," said Mrs. Fox to her victim, as she unlocked a superb cabinet,

"is what I value more than my whole collection put together. It is my

specimens of Scotch pebbles; and I owe them solely to the generosity and

good-will of my Scotch friends. I assure you that is a proud reflection

to me. I am a perfect enthusiast in Scotch pebbles, and, I may say, in

Scotch people. In fact, I am an enthusiast in whatever I am interested

in; and at present, I must own, my heart is set upon making a complete

collection of Scotch pebbles."

Grizzy began to feel a sort of tightness at her throat, at which was

affixed a very fine pebble brooch pertaining to Nicky, but lent to

Grizzy, to enable her to make a more distinguished figure in the gay

world.

"Oh!" thought she, "what a pity this brooch is Nicky's, and not mine; I

would have given it to this charming Mrs. Fox. Indeed, I don't see how I

can be off giving it to her, even although it is Nicky's."

"And, by-the-bye," exclaimed Mrs. Fox, as if suddenly struck with the

sight of the brooch, "that seems a very fine stone of yours. I wonder I

did not observe it sooner; but, indeed, pebbles are thrown away in

dress. May I beg a nearer view of it?"

Grizzy's brain was now all on fire. On the one hand there was the glory

of presenting the brooch to such a polite, charitable, charming woman;

on the other, there was the fear of Nicky's indignation. But then it was

quite thrown away upon Nicky--she had no cabinet, and Mrs. Fox had

declared that pebbles were quite lost anywhere but in cabinets, and it

was a thousand pities that Nicky's brooch should be lost. All these

thoughts Grizzy revolved with her usual clearness, as she unclasped the

brooch, and gave it into the hand of the collector.

"Bless me, my dear Miss Douglas, this is really a very fine stone! I had

no conception of it when I saw it sticking in your throat. It looks

quite a different thing in the hand; it is a species I am really not

acquainted with. I have nothing at all similar to it in my poor

collection. Pray, can you tell me the name of it, and where it is found,

that I may at least endeavour to procure a piece of it."

"I'm sure I wish to goodness my sister Nicky was here--I'm certain she

would--though, to be sure, she has a great regard for it; for it was

found on the Glenfern estate the very day my grandfather won his plea

against Drimsydie; and we always called it the lucky stone from that."

"The lucky stone! what a delightful name! I shall never think myself in

luck till I can procure a piece of your lucky stone. I protest, I could

almost go to Scotland on purpose. Oh, you dear lucky stone!" kissing it

with rapture.

"I'm sure--I'm almost certain--indeed, I'm convinced, if my sister Nicky

was here, she would be delighted to offer-- It would certainly be

doing my sister Nicky the greatest favour, since you think it would be

seen to so much greater advantage in your cabinet, which, for my own

part, I have not the least doubt of, as certainly my sister Nicky very

seldom wears it for fear of losing it, and it would be a thousand pities

if it was lost; and, to be sure, it will be much safer locked up--nobody

can dispute that--so I am sure it's by far the best thing my sister

Nicky can do--for certainly a pebble brooch is quite lost as a brooch."

"My dear Miss Douglas! I am really quite ashamed! This is a perfect

robbery, I protest! But I must insist upon your accepting some little

token of my regard for Miss Nicky in return." Going to her

charity-table, and returning with a set of painted thread-papers, "I

must request the favour of you to present these to Miss Nicky, with my

kind regards, and assure her I shall consider her lucky stone as the

most precious jewel in my possession."

The whole of this scene had been performed with such rapidity that poor

Grizzy was not prepared for the sudden metamorphose of Nicky's pebble

brooch into a set of painted thread-papers, and some vague alarms began

to float through her brain.

Mary now advanced, quite unconscious of what had been going on; and

having whispered her aunt to take leave, they departed. They returned in

silence. Grizzy was so occupied in examining her pincushions and

counting her buttons, that she never looked up till the carriage stopped

in Milsom Street.

Mary accompanied her in. Grizzy was all impatience to display her

treasures; and as she hastily unfolded them, began to relate her

achievements. Lady Maclaughlan heard her in silence, and a deep groan

was all that she uttered; but Grizzy was too well accustomed to be

groaned at, to be at all appalled, and went on, "But all that's nothing

to the shirt-buttons, made of Mrs. Fox's own linen, and only five

shillings the twelve dozen; and considering what tricks are played with

shirt-buttons now--I assure you people require to be on their guard with

shirt-buttons now."

"Pray, my dear, did you ever read the 'Vicar of Wakefield?'"

"The 'Vicar of Wakefield?' I--I think always I must have read it:--at

any rate, I'm certain I've heard of it."

"Moses and his green spectacles was as one of the acts of Solomon

compared to you and your shirtbuttons. Pray, which of you is it that

wears shirts?"

"I declare that's very true--I wonder I did not think of that sooner--to

be sure, none us wear shirts since my poor brother died."

"And what's become of her brooch?" turning to Mary, who for the first

time observed the departure of Nicky's crown jewel.

"Oh, as to the brooch," cried Grizzy, "I'm certain you'll all think that

well bestowed, and certainly it has been the saving of it." Upon which

she commenced a most entangled narrative, from which the truth was at

length extracted.

"Well," said Lady Maclaughlan, "there are two things God grant I may

never become,--an, _amateur_ in charity, and a collector of curiosities.

No Christian can be either--both are pickpockets. I wouldn't keep

company with my own mother were she either one or other--humph!"

Mary was grieved at the loss of the brooch; but Grizzy seemed more than

ever satisfied with the exchange, as Sir Sampson had taken a fancy for

the thread-papers, and it would amuse him for the rest of the day to be

told every two minutes what they were intended for. Mary therefore left

her quite happy, and returned to Beech Park.

CHAPTER XXIV.

"He either fears his fate too much,

Or his deserts are small,

Who dares not put it to the touch,

To gain or lose it all."

_Marquis of Montrose._

TIME rolled on, but no event occurred in Grizzy's life worthy of being

commemorated. Lady Juliana began to recover from the shock of her

arrival, and at length was even prevailed upon to pay her a visit, and

actually spent five minutes in the same room with her. All her

Ladyship's plans seemed now on the point of being accomplished. Mr.

Downe Wright was now Lord Glenallan, with an additional fifteen thousand

per annum, and by wiser heads than hers would have been thought an

unexceptionable match for any young woman. Leaving his mother to settle

his affairs in Scotland, to which she was much more _au fait_ than

himself, he hastened to Beech Park to claim Mary's promised hand.

But neither wealth nor grandeur possessed any sway over Mary's

well-regulated mind, and she turned from that species of happiness which

she felt would be insufficient to satisfy the best affections of her

heart. "No," thought she, "it is not in splendour and distinction that I

shall find happiness; it is in the cultivation of the domestic

virtues--the peaceful joys of a happy home and a loved companion, that

my felicity must consist. Without these I feel that I should still be

poor, were I mistress of millions;" and she took the first opportunity

of acquainting Lord Glenallan with the nature of her sentiments.

He received the communication with painful surprise; but as he was one

of those who do not easily divest themselves of an idea that has once

taken possession of their brain, he seemed resolved to persevere in his

quiet, though pointed attentions.

Lady Juliana's anger at the discovery of her daughter's refusal it

is needless to describe--it may easily be imagined; and poor Mary was

almost heartbroken by the violence and duration of it. Sometimes she

wavered in her ideas as to whether she was doing right in thus resisting

her mother's wishes; and in the utmost distress she mentioned her

scruples to Lady Emily.

"As to Lady Juliana's wishes," said her cousin, "they are mere

soap-bubbles; but as to your own views--why, really you are somewhat of

a riddle to me. I rather think, were I such a quiet, civil,

well-disposed person as you, I could have married Lord Glenallan well

enough. He is handsome, good-natured, and rich; and though 'he is but a

Lord, and nothing but a Lord,' still there is a dash and bustle in

twenty thousand a year that takes off from the ennui of a dull

companion. With five hundred a year, I grant you, he would be

execrable."

"Then I shall never marry a man with twenty thousand a year whom I would

not have with five hundred."

"In short, you are to marry for love--that's the old story, which, with

all your wisdom, you wise, well-educated girls always end in. Where

shall I find a hero upon five hundred a year for you? Of course he must

be virtuous, noble, dignified, handsome, brave, witty. What would you

think of Charles Lennox?"

Mary coloured. "After what passed, I would not marry Colonel Lennox;

no"--affecting to smile--"not if he were to ask me, which is certainly

the most unlikely of all things."

"Ah! true, I had forgot that scrape. No, that won't do; it certainly

would be most pitiful in you, after what passed. Well, I don't know

what's to be done with you. There's nothing for it but that you should

take Lord Glenallan, with all his imperfections on his head; and, after

all, I really see nothing that he wants but a little more brain, and as

you'll have the managing of him you can easily supply that deficiency."

"Indeed," answered Mary, "I find I have quite little enough for myself,

and I have no genius whatever for managing. I shall therefore never

marry, unless I marry a man on whose judgment I could rely for advice

and assistance, and for whom I could feel a certain deference that I

consider due from a wife to her husband."

"I see what you would be at," said Lady Emily; "you mean to model

yourself upon the behaviour of Mrs. Tooley, who has such a deference for

the judgment of her better half, that she consults him even about the

tying of her shoes, and would not presume to give her child a few grains

of magnesia without this full and unqualified approbation. Now I flatter

myself my husband and I shall have a more equitable division; for,

though man is a reasonable being, he shall know and own that woman is so

too--sometimes. All things that men ought to know better I shall yield;

whatever may belong to either sex, I either seize upon as my

prerogative, or scrupulously divide; for which reason I should like the

profession of my husband to be something in which I could not possibly

interfere. How difficult must it be for a woman in the lower ranks of

life to avoid teaching her husband how to sew, if he is a tailor; or how

to bake, if he is a baker, etc.

"Nature seems to have provided for this tendency of both sexes, by

making your sensible men--that is, men who think themselves sensible,

and wish everybody else to think the same--incline to foolish women. I

can detect one of these sensible husbands at a glance, by the pomp and

formality visible in every word, look, or action--men, in short, whose

'visages do cream and mantle like a standing pond;' who are perfect

Joves in their own houses--who speak their will by a nod, and lay down

the law by the motion of their eyebrow--and who attach prodigious ideas

of dignity to frightening their children, and being worshipped by their

wives, till you see one of these wiseacres looking as if he thought

himself and his obsequious helpmate were exact personifications of Adam

and Eve--' he for God only, she for God in him.' Now I am much afraid,

Mary, with all your sanctity, you are in some danger of becoming one of

these idolatresses."

"I hope not," replied Mary, laughing; "but if I should, that seems

scarcely so bad as the sect of Independents in the marriage state; for

example, there is Mrs. Boston, who by all strangers is taken for a

widow, such emphasis does she lay upon the personal pronoun--with her,

'tis always, _I_ do this, or _I_ do that, without the slightest

reference to her husband; and she talks of _my_ house, _my_ gardens,

_my_ carriage, _my_ children, as if there were no copartnery in the

case."

"Ah, she is very odious," cried Lady Emily; "she is both master and

mistress, and more if possible she makes her husband look like her

footman; but she is a fool, as every woman must needs be who thinks she

can raise herself by lowering her husband. Then there is the sect of the

Wranglers, whose marriage is only one continued dispute. But, in short,

I see it is reserved for me to set a perfect example to my sex in the

married state. But I'm more reasonable than you, I suspect, for I don't

insist upon having a bright genius for my mate."

"I confess I should like that my husband's genius was at least as bright

as my own," said Mary, "and I can't think there is anything unreasonable

in that; or rather, I should say, were I a genius myself, I could better

dispense with a certain portion of intellect in my husband; as it has

been generally remarked that those who are largely endowed themselves

can easier dispense with talents in their companions than others of more

moderate endowments can do; but virtue and talents on the one side,

virtue and tenderness on the other, I look upon as the principal

ingredients in a happy union."

"Well, I intend to be excessively happy; and yet, I don't think Edward

will ever find the longitude. And, as for my tenderness--humph!--as

Lady Maclaughlan says; but as for you--I rather think you're in some

danger of turning into an Aunt Grizzy, with a long waist and large

pockets, peppermint drops and powdered curls; but, whatever you do, for

heaven's sake let us have no more human sacrifices--if you do, I shall

certainly appear at your wedding in sackcloth." And this was all of

comfort or advice that her Ladyship could bestow.

As Lady Emily was not a person who concealed either her own secrets or

those of others, Colonel Lennox was not long of hearing from her what

had passed, and of being made thoroughly acquainted with Mary's

sentiments on love and marriage. "Such a heart must be worth winning,"

thought he; but he sighed to think that he had less chance for the prize

than another. Independent of his narrow fortune, which, he was aware,

would be an insuperable bar to obtaining Lady Juliana's consent, Mary's

coldness and reserve towards him seemed to increase rather than

diminish. Or if she sometimes gave way to the natural frankness and

gaiety of her disposition before him, a word or look expressive of

admiration on his part instantly recalled to her those painful ideas

which had been for a moment forgot, and seemed to throw him at a greater

distance than ever.

Colonel Lennox was too noble-minded himself to suppose for an instant

that Mary actually felt dislike towards him because at the commencement

of their acquaintance he had not done justice to her merits; but he was

also aware that, until he had explained to her the nature of his

sentiments, she must naturally regard his attentions with suspicion, and

consider them rather as acts of duty towards his mother than as the

spontaneous expression of his own attachment. He therefore, in the most

simple and candid manner, laid open to her the secret of his heart, and

in all the eloquence of real passion, poured forth those feelings of

love and admiration with which she had unconsciously inspired him.

For a moment Mary's distrust was overcome by the ardour of his

address, and the open manly manner in which he had avowed the rise and

progress of his attachment; and she yielded herself up to the delightful

conviction of loving and being beloved.

But soon that gave way to the mortifying reflection that rushed over her

mind, "He _has_ tried to love me!" thought she; "but it is in obedience

to his mother's wish, and he thinks he has succeeded. No, no; I cannot

be the dupe of his delusion--I will not give myself to one who has been

solicited to love me!" And again wounded delicacy and woman's pride

resumed their empire over her, and she rejected the idea of _ever_

receiving Colonel Lennox as a lover. He heard her determination with the

deepest anguish, and used every argument and entreaty to soften her

resolution; but Mary had wrought herself up to a pitch of heroism-she

had rejected the man she loved--the only man she ever _could_ love: that

done, to persist in the sacrifice seemed easy; and they parted with

increased attachment in their hearts, even though those hearts seemed

severed for ever.

Soon after he set off to join his regiment; and it was only in saying

farewell that Mary felt how deeply her happiness was involved in the

fate of the man she had for ever renounced. To no one did she impart

what had passed; and Lady Emily was too dull herself, for some days

after the departure of her friend, to take any notice of Mary's

dejection.

CHAPTER XXV.

"Who taught the parrot to cry, hail?

What taught the chattering pie his tale?

Hunger; that sharpener of the wits,

Which gives e'en fools some thinking fits"

DRUMMOND'S

_Persius._

MARY found herself bereft of both her lovers nearly at the same time.

Lord Glenallan, after formally renewing his suit, at length took a final

leave, and returned to Scotland. Lady Juliana's indignation could only

be equalled by Dr. Redgill's upon the occasion. He had planned a snug

retreat for himself during the game season at Glenallan Castle; where,

from the good-nature and easy temper of both master and mistress, he had

no doubt but that he should in time come to _rule the roast,_ and be

lord paramount over kitchen and larder. His disappointment was therefore

great at finding all the solid joys of red deer and moor-game, kippered

salmon and mutton hams, "vanish like the baseless fabric of a vision,"

leaving not a wreck behind.

"Refused Lord Glenallan!" exclaimed he to Lady Emily, upon first

hearing of it. "The thing's incredible--absolutely impossible--I won't

believe it!"

"That's right, Doctor; who is it that says 'And still believe the story

false that _ought_ not to be true? I admire your candour, and wish I

could imitate it."

"Then your Ladyship really believes it. 'Pon my soul, I--I--it's really a

very vexatious affair. I feel for Lady Juliana, poor woman! No wonder

she's hysterical-five and twenty thousand a year refused! What is it she

would have? The finest deer park in Scotland! Every sort of game upon

the estate! A salmon fishing at the very door!--I should just like to

know what _is_ the meaning of it?"

"Cannot you guess, Doctor" asked Lady Emily.

"Guess! No, 'pon my soul! I defy any man to guess what could tempt a

woman to refuse five and twenty thousand a year; unless, indeed, she has

something higher in view, and even then she should be pretty sure of her

mark. But I suppose, because Miss Adelaide has got a Duke, she thinks

she must have one too. I suppose that's the story; but I can tell her

Dukes are not so plenty; and she's by no means so fine a woman as her

sister, and her market's spoilt, or I'm much mistaken. What man in his

senses would ever ask a woman who had been such an idiot as to refuse

five and twenty thousand a year?"

"I see, Doctor, you are quite a novice in the tender passion. Cannot you

make allowance for it: a young lady's not being in love?"

"In what?" demanded the Doctor.

"In love," repeated Lady Emily.

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

stuff now."

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

"I think the man or woman who could let their love stand in the way of

five and twenty thousand a year is the next thing to being mad," said

the Doctor warmly; "and in this case I can see no difference."

"But you'll allow there are some sorts of love that may be indulged

without casting any shade upon the understanding?"

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

impatiently.

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

had lately."

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

"Pardon me, but whatever the consequence may be, the effects in both

cases were very similar, as exemplified in yourself. Pray, what

difference did it make to your friends, who were deprived of your

society, whether you spent your time in walking with 'even step, and

musing gait,' before your Dulcinea's window or the turtle's

cistern?--whether you were engrossed in composing a sonnet to your

mistress's eyebrow, or in contriving a new method of heightening the

enjoyments of _calipash?_ --whether you expatiated with greater rapture

on the charms of a white skin or green fat?--whether you were most

devoted to a languishing or a lively beauty?--whether----"

"'Pon my honour, Lady Emily, I really--I--I can't conceive what it is you

mean. There's a time for everything; and I'm sure nobody but yourself

would ever have thought of bringing in a turtle to a conversation upon

marriage."

"On the contrary, Doctor, I thought it had been upon love; and I was

endeavouring to convince you that even the wisest of men may be

susceptible of certain tender emotions towards a beloved object."

"You'll never convince me that any but a fool can be in love," cried

the Doctor, his visage assuming a darker purple as the argument

advanced.

"Then you must rank Lord Glenallan, with his five and twenty thousand a

year, amongst the number, for he is desperately in love, I assure you."

"As to that, Lord Glenallan, or any man with his fortune, may be

whatever he chooses. He has a right to be in love. He can afford to be

in love."

"I have heard much of the torments of love," said Lady Emily; "but I

never heard it rated as a luxury before. I hope there is no chance of

your being made Premier, otherwise I fear we should have a tax upon

love-marriages immediately."

"It would be greatly for the advantage of the nation, as well as the

comfort of individuals, if there was," returned the Doctor. "Many a

pleasant fellow has been lost to society by what you call a

love-marriage. I speak from experience. I was obliged to drop the

oldest friend I had upon his making one of your love-marriages."

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

Emily.

"No--it was not for that; but he asked me to take a family dinner with

him one day, and I, without knowing anything of the character of the

woman he had married, was weak enough to go. I found a very so-so

tablecloth and a shoulder of mutton, which ended our acquaintance. I

never entered his door after it. In fact, no man's happiness is proof

against dirty tablecloths and bad dinners; and you may take my word for

it, Lady Emily, these are the invariable accompaniments of your

love-marriages."

"Pshaw! that is only amongst the _bourgeois,"_ said Lady Emily

affectedly; "that is not the sort of _ménage_ I mean to have.

Here is to be the style of my domestic establishment;" and she repeated

Shenstone's beautiful pastoral--

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

till she came to--

"I have found out a gift for my fair,

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed."

"There's some sense in that," cried the Doctor, who had been listening

with great weariness." You may have a good pigeon-pie, or _un sauté de

pigeons au sang,_ which is still better when well dressed."

"Shocking!" exclaimed Lady Emily; "to mention pigeon-pies in the

same breath with nightingales and roses!"

"I'll tell you what, Lady Emily, it's just these sort of nonsensical

descriptions that do all the mischief amongst you young ladies. It's

these confounded poets that turn all your heads, and make you think you

have nothing to do after you are married but sit beside fountains and

grottoes, and divert yourself with birds and flowers, instead of looking

after your servants, and paying your butcher's bills; and, after all,

what is the substance of that trash you have just been reading, but to

say that the man was a substantial farmer and grazier, and had bees;

though I never heard of any man in his senses going to sleep amongst his

beehives before. 'Pon my soul! if I had my will I would burn every line

of poetry that ever was written. A good recipe for a pudding is worth

all that your Shenstones and the whole set of them ever wrote; and

there's more good sense and useful information in this book"--rapping

his knuckles against a volume he held in his hand--"than in all your

poets, ancient and modern."

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

"And some very poetical description, too, Doctor; although you affect

to despise it so much. Here is an eulogium on the partridge. I doubt

much if St. Preux ever made a finer on his adorable Julie;" and she read

as follows:--

"La Perdrix tient Ie premier rang apres la Bécasse, dans la cathégorie

des gibiers à plumes. C'est, lorsqu'elle est rouge, l'un des plus

honorables et desmeilleurs rôtis qui puissent être étalés sur une table

gourmande. Sa forme appétissante, sa taille élégante et svelte, quoiqu'

arrondie, son embonpoint modéré, ses jambes d'écarlate; enfin, son fumet

divin et ses qualités restaurantes, tout concourt à la faire rechercher

des vrais amateurs. D'autres gibiers sont plus rares, plus chers, mieux

accueillis par la vanité, le prejuge, et la mode; la Perdrix rouge,

belle de sa propre beauté, dont les qualités sont indépendantes de la

fantaisie, qui réunit en sa personne tout ce qui peut charmer les yeux,

delecter Ie palais, stimuler l'appétit, et ranimer les forces, plaira

dans-tous les temps, et concourra à l'honneur de tous les festins, sous

quelque forme qu'elle y paroisse." [1]

[1] "Manuel des Amphitryons."

The Doctor sighed: "That's nothing to what he says of the woodcock:" and

with trembling hand she turned over the leaves, till he found the

place. "Here it is," said he, "page 88, chap. xvi. Just be so good as

read that, Lady Emily, and say whether it is not infamous that Monsieur

Grillade has never even attempted to make it."

With an air of melancholy enthusiasm she read--"Dans les pays oû les

Bécasses sont communes, on obtient, de leurs carcasses pilées dans un

mortier, une purée sur laquelle on dresse diverses entrées, telles que

de petites côtelettes de mouton, etc. Cotte purée est l'une des plus

délicieuses choses qui puisse être introduite dans Ie palais d'un

gourmand, et l'on peut assurer que quiconque n'en a point mangé n'a

point connu les joies du paradis terrestre. Une purée de Bécasse, bien

faite, est Ie _ne plus ultrâ_ des jouissances humaines. II faut mourir

après l'avoir goutée, car toutes les autres alors ne paroitront plus

qu'insipides."

"And these _bécasses,_ these woodcocks, perfectly swarm on the

Glenallan estate in the season," cried the Doctor; "and to think that

such a man should have been refused. But Miss Mary will repent this the

longest day she lives. I had a cook in my eye for them, too--one who is

quite up to the making of this _purée. _'Pon my soul! she

deserve to live upon sheep's head and haggis for the rest of her life;

and if I was Lady Juliana I would try the effect of bread and water."

"She certainly does not aspire to such joys as are here portrayed in

this _your_ book of life," said Lady Emily; "for I suspect she could

endure existence even upon roast mutton with the man she loves."

"That's nothing to the purpose, unless the man she loves, as you call it,

loves to live upon roast mutton too. Take my word for it, unless she

gives her husband good dinners he'll not care twopence for her in a

week's time. I look upon bad dinners to be the source of much of the

misery we hear of in the married life. Women are much mistaken if they

think it's by dressing themselves they are to please their husbands."

"Pardon me, Doctor, we must be the best judges there, and I have the

authority of all ages and sages in my favour: the beauty and the charms

of women have been the favourite theme, time immemorial; now no one ever

heard of a fair one being celebrated for her skill in cookery."

"There I beg leave to differ from you," said the Doctor, with an air of

exultation, again referring to his _text-book_--"here is the great

Madame Pompadour, celebrated for a single dish: 'Les tendrons d'agneau

au soleil et à la Pompadour, sont sortis de l'imagination de

cette dame célèbre, pour entrer dans la bouche d'un roi."

"But it was Love that inspired her--it was Love that kindled the fire in

her imagination. In short, you must acknowledge that

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

"I'll acknowledge no such thing," cried the Doctor, with indignation.

"Love rule the camp, indeed! A very likely story! Don't I know that all

our first generals carry off the best cooks--that there's no such living

anywhere as in camp--that their aides-de-camp are quite ruined by

it--that in time of war they live at the rate of twenty thousand a year,

and when they come home they can't get a dinner they can eat? As for the

court, I don't pretend to know much about it; but I suspect there's more

cooks than Cupids to be seen about it. And for the groves, I shall only

say I never heard of any of your _fetes champétre_, or picnics,

where all the pleasure didn't seem to consist in the eating and

drinking."

"Ah, Doctor, I perceive you have taken all your ideas on that subject

from Werter, who certainly was a sort of a sentimental _gourmand,_ he

seems to have enjoyed so much drinking his coffee under the shade of the

lime-trees, and going to the kitchen to take his own pease-soup; and

then he breaks out into such raptures at the idea of the illustrious

lovers of Penelope killing and dressing their own meat! Butchers and

cooks in one! only conceive them with their great knives and blue

aprons, or their spits and white nightcaps! Poor Penelope! no wonder she

preferred spinning to marrying one of these creatures! Faugh! I must

have an ounce of civet to sweeten my imagination." And she flew of,

leaving the Doctor to con over the "Manuel des Amphitryons," and sigh

at the mention of joys, sweet, yet mournful, to his soul.

CHAPTER XXVI.

"The ample proposition that hope makes

In all designs begun on earth below,

Fails in the promised largeness."

SHAKESPEARE.

THERE is no saying whether the Doctor's system might not have been

resorted to had not Lady Juliana's wrath been for the present suspended

by an invitation to Altamont House. True, nothing could be colder than

the terms in which it was couched; but to that her Ladyship was

insensible, and would have been equally indifferent had she known that,

such as it was, she owed it more to the obstinacy of her son-in-law than

the affection of her daughter. The Duke of Altamont was one of those who

attach great ideas of dignity to always carrying their point; and though

he might sometimes be obliged to suspend his plans, he never had been

known to relinquish them. Had he settled in his own mind to tie his

neckcloth in a particular way, not all the eloquence of Cicero or the

tears of O'Neil would have induced him to alter it; and Adelaide, the

haughty, self-willed Adelaide, soon found that, of all yokes, the most

insupportable is the yoke of an obstinate fool. In the thousand trifling

occurances of domestic life (for his Grace was interested in all the

minutiae of his establishment), where good sense and good humour on

either side would have gracefully yielded to the other, there was a

perpetual contest for dominion, which invariably ended in Adelaide's

defeat. The Duke, indeed, never disputed, or reasoned, or even replied;

but the thing was done; till, at the end of six weeks, the Duchess of

Altamont most heartily hated and despised the man she had so lately

vowed to love and obey. On the present occasion his Grace certainly

appeared in the most amiable light in wishing to have Lady Juliana

invited to his house; but in fact it proceeded entirely from his

besetting sin, obstinacy. He had propose her accompanying her daughter

at the time of her marriage, and been overruled; but with all the

pertinacity of a little mind he had kept fast hold of the idea, merely

because it was his own, and he was now determined to have it put in

execution. In a postscript to the letter, and in the same cordial style,

the Duchess said something of a hope, that _if_ her mother did come to

town, Mary should accompany her; but this her Ladyship, to Mary's great

relief, declared should not be, although she certainly was very much at

a loss how to dispose of her. Mary timidly expressed her wish to be

permitted to return to Lochmarlie, and mentioned that her uncle and aunt

had repeatedly offered to come to Bath for her, if she might be allowed

to accompany them home; but to this her mother also gave a decided

negative, adding that she never should see Lochmarlie again, if she

could help it. In short, she must remain where she was till something

could be fixed as to her future destination. "It was most excessively

tiresome to be clogged with a great unmarried daughter," her Ladyship

observed, as she sprang into the carriage with a train of dogs, and

drove off to dear delightful London.

But, alas! the insecurity of even the best-laid schemes of human

foresight! Lady Juliana was in the midst of arrangements for endless

pleasures, when she received accounts of the death of her now almost

forgotten husband! He had died from the gradual effects of the climate,

and that was all that remained to be told of the unfortunate Henry

Douglas! If his heartless wife shed some natural tears, she wiped them

soon; but the wounds of disappointment and vanity were not so speedily

effaced, as she contrasted the brilliant court-dress with the unbecoming

widow's cap. Oh, she so detested black things--it was so hateful to wear

mourning--she never could feel happy or comfortable in black! and, at

such a time, how particularly unfortunate! Poor Douglas! she was very

sorry! And so ended the holiest and most indissoluble of human ties!

The Duchess did not think it incumbent upon her to be affected by the

death of a person she had never seen; but she put on mourning; put off

her presentation at Court for a week, and stayed away one night from the

opera.

On Mary's warm and unpolluted heart the tidings of her father's death

produced a very different effect. Though she had never known, in their

fullest extent, those feelings of filial affection, whose source begins

with our being, and over which memory loves to linger, as at the

hallowed fount of the purest of earthly joys, she had _yet_ been taught

to cherish a fond remembrance of him to whom she owed her being. She had

been brought up in the land of his birth--his image was associated in

her mind with many of the scenes most dear to her--his name and his

memory were familiar to those amongst whom she dwelt, and thus her

feelings of natural affection had been preserved in all their genuine

warmth and tenderness. Many a letter, and many a little token of her

love, she had, from her earliest years, been accustomed to send him; and

she had ever fondly cherished the hope of her father's return, and that

she would yet know the happiness of being blest in a parent's love. But

now all these hopes were extinguished; and, while she wept over them in

bitterness of heart, she yet bowed with pious resignation to the decree

of heaven.

CHAPTER XXVII

"Shall we grieve their hovering shades,

Which wait the revolution in our hearts?

Shall we disdain their silent, soft address;

Their posthumous advice and pious prayer?"

YOUNG.

FOR some months all was peaceful seclusion in Mary's life, and the only

varieties she knew were occasional visits to Aunt Grizzy's, and now and

then spending some days with Mrs. Lennox. She saw with sorrow the

declining health of her venerable friend, whose wasted form and delicate

features had now assumed an almost ethereal aspect. Yet she never

complained, and it was only from her languor and weakness that Mary

guessed she suffered. When urged to have recourse to medical advice she

only smiled and shook her head; yet, ever gentle and complying to the

wishes of others, she was at length prevailed upon to receive the visits

of a medical attendant, and her own feelings were but too faithfully

confirmed by his opinion. Being an old friend of the family, he took

upon himself to communicate the intelligence to her son, then abroad

with his regiment; and in the meantime Mary took up her residence at

Rose Hall, and devoted herself unceasingly to the beloved friend she felt

she was so soon to lose.

"Ah! Mary," she would sometimes say, "God forgive me! but my heart is

not yet weaned from worldly wishes. Even now, when I feel all the vanity

of human happiness, I think how it would have soothed my last moments

could I have but seen you my son's before I left the world! Yet, alas!

our time here is so short that it matters little whether it be spent in

joy or grief, provided it be spent in innocence and virtue. Mine has

been a long life compared to many; but when I look back upon it, what a

span it seems! And it is not the remembrance of its brightest days that

are now a solace to my heart. Dearest Mary, if you live long, you will

live to think of the sad hours you have given me, as the fairest, of

perhaps, of many a happy day that I trust Heaven has yet in store for

you. Yes! God has made some whose powers are chiefly ordained to comfort

the afflicted, and in fulfilling His will you must surly be blest."

Mary listened to the half-breathed wishes of her dear old friend with

painful feelings of regret and self-reproach.

"Charles Lennox loved me," thought she, "truly, tenderly loved me; and

had I but repaid his noble frankness--had I suffered him to read my

heart when he laid his open before me, I might now have gladdened the

last days of the mother he adores. I might have proudly avowed that

affection I must now forever hide."

But at the end of some weeks Mrs. Lennox was no longer susceptible of

emotions either of joy or sorrow. She gradually sank into a state of

almost total insensibility, from which not even the arrival of her son

had power to rouse her. His anguish was extreme at finding his mother in

a condition so perfectly hopeless; and every other idea seemed, for the

present, absorbed in his anxiety for her. As Mary witnessed his watchful

cares and tender solicitude, she could almost have envied the

unconscious object of such devoted attachment.

A few days after his arrival his leave of absence was abruptly recalled,

and he was summoned to repair to headquarters with all possible

expedition. The army was on the move, and a battle was expected to be

fought. At such a time hesitation or delay, under any circumstances,

would have been inevitable disgrace; and, dreadful as was the

alternative, Colonel Lennox wavered not an instant in his resolution.

With a look of fixed agony, but without uttering a syllable, he put the

letter into Mary's hand as she sat by his mother's bedside, and then

left the room to order preparations to be made for his instant

departure. On his return Mary witnessed the painful conflict of his

feelings in his extreme agitation as he approached his mother, to look

for the last time on those features, already moulded into more than

mortal beauty. A bright ray of the setting sun streamed full upon that

face, now reposing in the awful but hallowed calm which is sometimes

diffused around the bed of death. The sacred stillness was only broken

by the evening song of the blackbird and the distant lowing of the

cattle--sounds which had often brought pleasure to that heart, now

insensible to all human emotion. All nature shone forth in gaiety and

splendour, but the eye and the ear were alike closed against all earthly

objects. Yet who can tell the brightness of those visions with which the

parting soul may be visited? Sounds and sights, alike unheard, unknown

to mortal sense, may then hold divine communion with the soaring spirit,

and inspire it with bliss inconceivable, ineffable!

Colonel Lennox gazed upon the countenance of his mother. Again and again

he pressed her inanimate hands to his lips, and bedewed them with his

tears, as about to tear himself from her for ever. At that moment she

opened her eyes, and regarded him with a look of intelligence, which

spoke at once to his heart. He felt that he was seen and known. Her look

was long and fondly fixed upon his face; then turned to Mary with an

expression so deep and earnest that both felt the instantaneous appeal.

The veil seemed to drop from their hearts; one glance sufficed to tell

that both were fondly, truly loved; and as Colonel Lennox received

Mary's almost fainting form in his arms, he knelt by his mother, and

implored her blessing on her children. A smile of angelic brightness

beamed upon her face as she extended her hand towards them, and her lips

moved as in prayer, though no sound escaped them. One long and lingering

look was given to those so dear even in death. She then raised her eyes

to heaven, and the spirit sought its native skies!

CHAPTER XXVIII.

"Cette liaison n'est ni passion ni amitié pure:

elle fait une classe à part." --LA BRUYERE

IT was long before Mary could believe in the reality of what had passed.

It appeared to her as a beautiful yet awful dream. Could it be that she

had plighted her faith by the bed of death; that the last look of her

departed friend had hallowed the vow now registered in heaven; that

Charles Lennox had claimed her as his own, even in the agony of tearing

himself from all he loved; and that she had only felt how dear she was

to him at the very moment when she had parted from him, perhaps for

ever? But Mary strove to banish these overwhelming thoughts from her

mind, as she devoted herself to the performance of the last duties to

her departed friend. These paid, she again returned to Beech Park.

Lady Emily had been a daily visitor at Rose Hall during Mrs. Lennox's

illness, and had taken a lively interest in the situation of the family;

but, notwithstanding, it was some time before Mary could so far subdue

her feelings as to speak with composure of what had passed. She felt,

too, how impossible it was by words to convey to her any idea of that

excitement of mind, where a whole life of ordinary feeling seems

concentrated in one sudden but ineffable emotion. All that had passed

might be imagined, but could not be told; and she shrank from the task

of portraying those deep and sacred feelings which language never could

impart to the breast of another.

Yet she felt it was using her cousin unkindly to keep her in ignorance

of what she was certain would give her pleasure to hear; and, summoning

her resolution, she at length disclosed to her all that had taken place.

Her own embarrassment was too great to allow her to remark Lady Emily's

changing colour, as she listened to her communication; and after it was

ended she remained silent for some minutes, evidently struggling with

her emotions.

At length she exclaimed indignantly--"And so it seems Colonel Lennox

and you have all this time been playing the dying lover and the cruel

mistress to each other? How I detest such duplicity! and duplicity with

me! My heart was ever open to you, to him, to the whole world; while

yours--nay, your very faces--were masked to me!"

Mary was too much confounded by her cousin's reproaches to be able to

reply to them for some time; and when she did attempt to vindicate

herself, she found it was in vain. Lady Emily refused to listen to

her; and in haughty displeasure quitted the room, leaving poor Mary

overwhelmed with sorrow and amazement.