There was a simplicity of heart, a singleness of idea in herself,

that prevented her from ever attaching suspicion to others. But a sort

of vague, undefined apprehension floated through her brain as she

revolved the extraordinary behaviour of her cousin. Yet, it was that

sort of feeling to which she could not give either a local habitation or

a name; and she continued for some time in that most bewildering state

of trying, yet not daring to think. Some time elapsed, and Mary's

confusion of ideas was increasing rather than diminishing, when Lady

Emily slowly entered the room, and stood some moments before her without

speaking.

At length, making an effort, she abruptly said--"Pray, Mary, tell

me what you think of me?"

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

have always done."

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

just now?"

"I think," said Mary gently, "that if you have misunderstood me; that,

open and candid yourself, almost to a fault, you readily resent the

remotest appearance of duplicity in others. But you are too generous not

to do me justice--"

"Ah, Mary! how little do I appeal in my own eyes at this moment; and how

little, with all my boasting, have I known my own heart! No! It was not

because I am open and candid that I resented your engagement with

Colonel Lennox; it was because I was--because--cannot you guess?"

Mary's colour rose, as she cast down her eyes, and exclaimed with

agitation, "No-no, indeed!"

Lady Emily threw her arms around her:--"Dear Mary, you are perhaps the

only person upon earth I would make such a confession to--it was because

I, who had plighted my faith to another--I, who piqued myself upon my

openness and fidelity--I--how it chokes me to utter it! I was beginning

to love him myself!--only beginning, observe, for it is already over--I

needed but to be aware of my danger to overcome it. Colonel Lennox is

now no more to me than your lover, and Edward is again all that he ever

was to me; but I--what am I?--faithless and self-deceived!" and a few

tears dropped from her eyes.

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

heart.

"These are tears of shame, of penitence, though I must own they look

very like those of regret and mortification. What a mercy it is that

'the chemist's magic art' _cannot_ 'crystalise these sacred treasures,'"

said she with a smile, as she shook a tear-drop from her hand; "they are

gems I am really not at all fond of appearing in."

"And yet you never appeared to greater advantage," said Mary, as she

regarded her with admiration. "Ah! so you say; but there

is, perhaps, a little womanish feeling lurking there. And now you

doubtless expect--no, _you_ don't, but another would that I should begin

a sentimental description of the rise and progress of this ill-fated

attachment, as I suppose it would be styled in the language of romance;

but in truth I can tell you nothing at all about it."

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

her suspicion.

"No, no--Colonel Lennox was not to blame. There was no false play on

either side; he is as much above the meanness of coquetry, as--I must

say it--as I am. His thoughts were all along taken up with you, even

while he talked, and laughed, and quarrelled with me. While I, so strong

in the belief that worlds could not shake my allegiance to Edward, could

have challenged all mankind to win my love; and this wicked, wayward,

faithless heart kept silent till you spoke, and then it uttered such a

fearful sound! And yet I don't think it was love neither--'l'on n'aime

bien qu'une seule fois; c'est la première;'--it was rather a sort

of an idle, childish, engrossing sentiment, that _might_ have grown to

something stronger; but 'tis past now. I have shown you all the weakness

of my heart--despise me if you will."

"Dearest Lady Emily, had I the same skill to show the sentiments of

mine, you would there see what I cannot express--how I admire this noble

candour, this generous self-abasement--"

"Oh, as to meanly hiding my faults, that is what I scorn to do. I

may be ignorant of them myself, and in ignorance I may cherish them;

but, once convinced of them, I give them to the winds, and all who

choose may pick them up. Violent and unjust, and self-deceived, I have

been, and may be again; but deceitful I never was, and never will

be."

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

"Ah! I know what you mean, and I begin to think you are in the right;

by-and-bye, I believe, I shall come to be of your way of thinking (if

ever I have a daughter she certainly shall), but not just at present,

the reformation would be too sudden. All that I can promise for at

present is, that 'henceforth I will chide no breather in the world but

myself, against whom I know most faults;' and now, from this day, from

this moment, I vow--"

"No, I shall do it for you," said Mary, with a smile, as she threw her

arms around her neck; "henceforth

'The golden laws of love shall be

Upon this pillar hung;

A simple heart, a single eye,

A true and constant tongue.

'Let no man for more love pretend

Than he has hearts in store;

True love begun shall never end:

Love one, and love no more.'" [1]

[1] "Marquis of Montrose."

But much as Mary loved and admired her cousin, she could not be blind to

the defects of her character, and she feared they might yet be

productive of great unhappiness to herself. Her mind was open to the

reception of every image that brought pleasure along with it; while, in

the same spirit, she turned from everything that wore an air of

seriousness or self-restraint; and even the best affections of a

naturally good heart were borne away by the ardour of her feelings and

the impetuosity of her temper. Mary grieved to see the graces of a noble

mind thus running wild for want of early culture; and she sought by

every means, save those of lecture and admonition to lead her to more

fixed habits of reflection and self examination.

But it required all her strength of mind to turn her thoughts at this

time from herself to another--she, the betrothed of one who was now in

the midst of danger, of whose existence she was even uncertain, but on

whose fate she felt her own suspended.

"Oh!" thought she, with bitterness of heart, "how dangerous it is to

yield too much even to our best affections. I, with so many objects to

share in mine, have yet pledged my happiness on a being perishable as

myself!" And her soul sickened at the ills her fancy drew. But she

strove to repress this strength of attachment, which she felt would

otherwise become too powerful for her reason to control; and if she did

not entirely succeed, at least the efforts she made and the continual

exercise of mind enabled her in some degree to counteract the baleful

effects of morbid anxiety and overweening attachment. At length her

apprehensions were relieved for a time by a letter from Colonel Lennox.

An engagement with the enemy had taken place, but he had escaped unhurt.

He repeated his vows of unalterable affection; and Mary felt that she

was justified in receiving them. She had made Lady Juliana and Mrs.

Douglas both acquainted with her situation. The former had taken no

notice of the communication, but the latter had expressed her approval

in all the warmth and tenderness of gratified affection.

CHAPTER XXIX.

"Preach as I please, I doubt our curious men

Will choose a pheasant still before a hen."

HORACE.

AMONGST the various occupations to which Mary devoted herself, there was

none which merits to be recorded as a greater act of immolation than her

unremitting attentions to Aunt Grizzy. It wa not merely the sacrifice of

time and talents that was required for carrying on this intercourse;

these, it is to be hoped, even the most selfish can occasionally

sacrifice to the _bienseances_ of society; but it was, as it were, a

total surrender of her whole being. To a mind of any reflection no

situation can ever be very irksome in which we can enjoy the privileges

of sitting still and keeping silent--but as the companion of Miss Grizzy,

quiet and reflection were alike unattainable. When not engaged in

_radotage_ with Sir Sampson, her life was spent in losing her scissors,

mislaying her spectacles, wondering what had become of her thimble, and

speculating on the disappearance of a needle--all of which losses daily

and hourly recurring, subjected Mary to an unceasing annoyance, for she

could not be five minutes in her aunt's company without out being at

least as many times disturbed, with--"Mary, my dear, will you get up?--I

think my spectacles must be about you "--or, "Mary, my dear, your eyes

are younger than mine, will you look if you can see my needle on the

carpet?"--or, "Are you sure, Mary, that's not my thimble you have got?

It's very like it; and I'm sure I can't conceive what's become of mine,

if that's not it," etc. etc. etc. But her idleness was, if possible,

still more irritating than her industry. When she betook herself to the

window, it was one incessant cry of "Who's coach is that, Mary, with the

green and orange liveries? Come and look at this lady and gentleman,

Mary; I'm sure I wonder who they are! Here's something, I declare I'm

sure I don't know what you call it--come here, Mary, and see what it is

"--and so on _ad infinitum._ Walking was still worse. Grizzy not only

stood to examine every article in the shop windows, but actually turned

round to observe every striking figure that passed. In short, Mary could

not conceal from herself that weak vulgar relations are an evil to those

whose taste and ideas are refined by superior intercourse. But even this

discovery she did not deem sufficient to authorise her casting off or

neglecting poor Miss Grizzy, and she in no degree relaxed in her patient

attentions towards her.

Even the affection of her aunt, which she possessed in the highest

possible degree, far from being an alleviation, was only an additional

torment. Every meeting began with, "My dear Mary, how did you sleep last

night? Did you make a good breakfast this morning? I declare I think you

look a little pale. I'm sure I wish to goodness, you mayn't have got

cold--colds are going very much about just now--one of the maids in this

house has a very bad cold--I hope you will remember to bathe your feet

And take some water gruel to night, and do everything that Dr. Redgill

desires you, honest man!" If Mary absented herself for a day, her

salutation was, "My dear Mary, what became of you yesterday? I assure you

I was quite miserable about you all day, thinking, which was quite

natural, that something was the matter with you; and I declare I never

closed my eyes all night for thinking about you. I assure you if it had

not been that I couldn't leave Sir Sampson, I would have taken a hackney

coach, although I know what impositions they are, and have gone to Beech

Park to see what had come over you."

Yet all this Mary bore with the patience of a martyr, to the admiration

of Lady Maclaughlan and the amazement of Lady Emily, who declared she

could only submit to be bored as long as she was amused.

On going to Milsom Street one morning Mary found her aunt in high

delight at two invitations she had just received for herself and her

niece.

"The one," said she, "is to dinner at Mrs. Pullens's. You can't remember

her mother, Mrs. Macfuss, I daresay, Mary--she was a most excellent

woman, I assure you, and got all her daughters married. And I remember

Mrs. Pullens when she was Flora Macfuss; she was always thought very

like her mother and Mr. Pullens is a most worthy man, and very rich and

it was thought at the time a great marriage for Flora Macfuss, for she

had no money of her own, but her mother was a very clever woman, and a

most excellent manager; and I daresay so is Mrs. Pullens, for the

Macfusses are all famous for their management--so it will be a great

thing for you, you know, Mary, to be acquainted with Mrs. Pullens."

Mary was obliged to break in upon the eulogium on Mrs. Pullens by

noticing the other card. This was a subject for still greater

gratulation.

"This," said she, "is from Mrs. Bluemits, and it is for the same day

with Mrs. Pullens, only it is to tea, not to dinner. To be sure it will

be a great pity to leave Mrs. Pullens so soon; but then it would be

a great pity not to go to Mrs. Bluemits's; for I've never seen her, and

her aunt, Miss Shaw, would think it very odd if I was to go back to the

Highlands without seeing Nancy Shaw, now Mrs. Bluemits; and at any rate

I assure you we may think much of being asked, for she is a very clever

woman, and makes it a point never to ask any but clever people to her

house; so it's a very great honour to be asked."

It was an honour Mary would fain have dispensed with. At another time

she might have anticipated some amusement from such parties, but at

present her heart was not tuned to the ridiculous, and she attempted to

decline the invitations, and get her aunt to do the same; but she gave

up the point when she saw how deeply Grizzy's happiness for the time

being was involved in these invitations, and she even consented to

accompany her, conscious, as Lady Maclaughlan said, that the poor

creature required a leading string, and was not fit to go alone. The

appointed day arrived, and Mary found herself in company with Aunt

Grizzy at the mansion of Mr. Pullens, the fortunate husband of the

_ci-devant_ Miss Flora Macfuss; but as Grizzy is not the best of

biographers, we must take the liberty of introducing this lady to the

acquaintance of our reader.

The domestic economy of Mrs. Pullens was her own theme, and the theme of

all her friends; and such was the zeal in promulgating her doctrines,

and her anxiety to see them carried into effect, that she had

endeavoured to pass it into a law that no preserves could be eatable but

those preserved in her method; no hams could be good but those cured

according to her receipt; no liquors drinkable but such as were made

from the results of her experience; neither was it possible that any

linens could be white, or any flannels soft, or any muslins clear,

unless after the manner practised in her laundry. By her own account she

was the slave of every servant within her door, for her life seemed to

be one unceasing labour to get everything done in her own way, to the

very blacking of Mr. Pullens's shoes, and the brushing of Mr. Pullens's

coat. But then these heroic acts of duty were more than repaid by the

noble consciousness of a life well spent. In her own estimation she was

one of the greatest characters that had ever lived; for, to use her own

words, she passed nothing over--she saw everything done herself--she

trusted nothing to servants, etc. etc. etc.

From the contemplation of these her virtues her face had acquired an

expression of complacency foreign to her natural temper; for, after

having scolded and slaved in the kitchen, she sat down to taste the

fruits of her labours with far more elevated feelings of conscious

virtue than ever warmed the breast of a Hampden or a Howard; and when

she helped Mr. Pullens to pie, made not by the cook, but by herself, it

was with an air of self-approbation that might have vied with that of

the celebrated Jack Horner upon a similar occasion. In many cases there

might have been merit in Mrs. Pullens's doings---a narrow income, the

capricious taste of a sick or a cross husband, may exalt the meanest

offices which woman can render into acts of virtue, and even diffuse a

dignity around them; but Mr. Pullens was rich and good-natured, and

would have been happy had his cook been allowed to dress his dinner, and

his barber his wig, quietly in their own way. Mrs. Pullens, therefore,

only sought the indulgence of her own low inclinations in thus

interfering in every menial department; while, at the same time, she

expected all the gratitude and admiration that would have been due to

the sacrifice of the most refined taste and elegant pursuits.

But "envy does merit as its shade pursue," as Mrs Pullens experienced,

for she found herself assailed by a host of housekeepers who attempted

to throw discredit on her various arts. At the head of this association

was Mrs. Jekyll, whose arrangements were on a quite contrary plan. The

great branch of science on which Mrs. Pullens mainly relied for fame was

her unrivalled art in keeping things long beyond the date assigned by

nature; and one of her master-strokes was, in the middle of summer, to

surprise a whole company with gooseberry tarts made of gooseberries of

the preceding year; and her triumph was complete when any of them were

so polite as to assert that they might have passed upon them for the

fruits of the present season. Another art in which she flattered herself

she was unrivalled was that of making things pass for what they were

not; thus, she gave pork for lamb--common fowls for turkey

poults--currant wine for champagne--whisky with peach leaves for noyau;

but all these deceptions Mrs. Jekyll piqued herself immediately

detecting, and never failed to point out the difference, and in the

politest manner to hint her preference of the real over the spurious.

Many were the wonderful morsels with which poor Mr. Pullens was regaled,

but he had now ceased to be surprised at anything that appeared on his

own table; and he had so often heard the merit of his wife's

housekeeping extolled by herself that, contrary to his natural

conviction, he now began to think it must be true; or if he had

occasionally any little private misgivings when he thought of the good

dinners he used to have in his bachelor days, he comforted himself by

thinking that his lot was the lot of all married men who are blest with

active, managing, economical wives. Such were Mr. and Mrs. Pullens; and

the appearance of the house offered no inadequate idea of the

mistress. The furniture was incongruous, and everything was

ill-matched--for Mrs. Pullens was a frequenter of sales, and, like many

other liberal-minded ladies, never allowed a bargain to pass, whether she

required the articles or not. Her dress was the same; there was always

something to wonder at; caps that had been bought for nothing, because

they were a little soiled, but by being taken down and washed, and new

trimmed, turned out to be just as good as new gowns that had been dyed,

turned, cleaned, washed, etc.; and the great triumph was when nobody

could tell the old breadth from the new.

The dinner was of course bad, the company stupid, and the conversation

turned solely upon Mrs. Pullens's exploits, with occasional attempts of

Mrs. Jekyll to depreciate the merits of some of her discoveries. At

length the hour of departure arrived, to Mary's great relief, as she

thought any change must be for the better. Not so Grizzy, who was

charmed and confounded by all she had seen, and heard, and tasted, and

all of whose preconceived ideas on the subjects of washing, preserving,

etc., had sustained a total _bouleversement,_ upon hearing of the

superior methods practised by Mrs. Pullens.

"Well, certainly, Mary, you must allow Mrs. Pullens is an astonishing

clever woman! Indeed, I think nobody can dispute it--only think of her

never using a bit of soap in her house--everything is washed by steam.

To be sure, as Mrs Jekyll said, the table linen was remarkably

ill-coloured--but no wonder, considering--it must be a great saving, I'm

sure--and she always stands and sees it done herself, for there's no

trusting these things to servants. Once when she trusted it to them,

they burned a dozen of Mr. Pullens's new shirts, just from carelessness,

which I'm sure was very provoking. To be sure, as Mrs. Jekyll said, if

she had used soap like other people that wouldn't have happened; and

then it is wonderful how well she contrives to keep things. I declare I

can't think enough of these green peas that we had at dinner today

having been kept since summer was a year. To be sure, as Mrs. Jekyll

said, they certainly were hard--nobody can deny that--but then, you

know, anything would be hard that had been kept since summer was a year;

and I'm sure I thought they ate wonderfully well considering--and these

red currants, too--I'm afraid you didn't taste them--I wish to

goodness you had tasted them, Mary. They were sour and dry, certainly, as

Mrs. Jekyll said; but no wonder, anything would be sour and dry that had

been kept in bottles for three years."

Grizzy was now obliged to change the current of her ideas, for the

carriage had stopped at Mrs. Bluemits's.

CHAPTER XXX.

"It is certain great knowledge, if it be without vanity, is the most

severe bridle of the tongue. For so have I heard, that all the noises

and prating of the pool, the croaking of frogs and toads, is hushed and

appeased upon the instant of bringing upon them the light of a candle or

torch. Every beam of reason, and ray of knowledge, checks the

dissolutions of the tongue."-JEREMY TAYLOR.

THEY were received by Mrs. Bluemits with that air of condescension

which great souls practise towards ordinary mortals, and which is

intended, at one and the same time, to encourage and to repel; to show

the extent of their goodness, even while they make, or try to make,

their _protege_ feel the immeasurable distance which nature or fortune

has placed between them.

It was with this air of patronising grandeur that Mrs. Bluemits took

her guests by the hand, and introduced them to the circle of females

already assembled.

Mrs. Bluemits was not an avowed authoress; but she was a professed

critic, a well-informed woman, a woman of great conversational powers,

etc., and, to use her own phrase, nothing but conversation was spoken in

her house. Her guests were therefore, always expected to be

distinguished, either for some literary production or for their taste in

the _belles lettres._ Two ladies from Scotland, the land of poetry and

romance, were consequently hailed as new stars in Mrs. Bluemits's

horizon. No sooner were they seated than Mrs. Bluemits began--

"As I am a friend to ease in literary society, we shall, without

ceremony, resume our conversation; for, as Seneca observes, the 'comfort

of life depends upon conversation.'"

"I think," said Miss Graves, "it is Rochefoucault who says, 'The great

art of conversation is to hear patiently and answer precisely.'"

"A very poor definition for so profound a philosopher," remarked Mrs.

Apsley.

"The amiable author of what the gigantic Johnson styles the melancholy

and angry "Night Thoughts," gives a nobler, a more elevated, and, in my

humble opinion, a juster explication of the intercourse of mind," said

Miss Parkins; and she repeated the following lines with pompous

enthusiasm:--

Speech ventilates our intellectual fire,

Speech burnishes our mental magazine,

Brightens for ornament, and whets for use.

What numbers, sheath'd in erudition, lie,

Plung'd to the hilts in venerable tomes,

And rusted in, who might have borne an edge,

And play'd a sprightly beam, if born to speech---

If born blest heirs of half their mother's tongue!"

Mrs. Bluemits proceeded:

"'Tis thought's exchange, which, like the alternate push

Of waves conflicting, breaks the learned scum,

And defecates the student's standing pool."

"The sensitive poet of Olney, if I mistake not," said Mrs. Dalton,

"steers a middle course, betwixt the somewhat bald maxim of the Parisian

philosopher and the mournful pruriency of the Bard of Night, when he

says,

'Conversation, in its better part,

May be esteem'd a gift, and not an art.'"

Mary had been accustomed to read, and to reflect upon what she read, and

to apply it to the purpose for which it is valuable, viz. in enlarging

her mind and cultivating her taste; but she had never been accustomed to

prate, or quote, or sit down for the express purpose of displaying her

acquirements; and she began to tremble at hearing authors' names

"familiar in their mouths as household words;" but Grizzy, strong in

ignorance, was no wise daunted. True, she heard what she could not

comprehend, but she thought she would soon make things clear; and she

therefore turned to her neighbour on her righthand, and accosted her

with--"My niece and I are just come from dining at Mrs. Pullens's--I

daresay you have heard of her--she was Miss Flora Macfuss; her father,

Dr. Macfuss, was a most excellent preacher, and she is a remarkable

clever woman."

"Pray, ma'am, has she come out, or is she simply _bel esprit?_"

inquired the lady.

Grizzy was rather at a loss; and, indeed, to answer a question put in an

unknown language, would puzzle wiser brains than hers; but Grizzy was

accustomed to converse without being able to comprehend, and she

therefore went on.

"Her mother, Mrs. Macfuss--but she is dead--was a very clever woman too;

I'm sure I declare I don't know whether the Doctor or her was the

cleverest; but many people, I know, think Mrs. Pullens beats them both."

"Indeed! may I ask in what department she chiefly excels?"

"Oh, I really think in everything. For one thing, everything in her

house is done by steam; and then she can keep everything, I can't tell

how long, just in paper bags and bottles; and she is going to publish a

book with all her receipts in it. I'm sure it will be very interesting."

"I beg ten thousand pardons for the interruption," cried Mrs. Bluemits

from the opposite side of the room; "but my ear was smote with the

sounds of _publish,_ and _interesting,--words _which never fail to

awaken a responsive chord in my bosom. Pray," addressing Grizzy, and

bringing her into the full blaze of observation, "may I ask, was it of

_the_ Campbell these electric words were spoken? To you, Madam, I am

sure I need not apologise for my enthusiasm--you who claim the proud

distinction of being a country woman, need I ask--an acquaintance?"

All that poor Grizzy could comprehend of this harangue was that it was

reckoned a great honour to be acquainted with a Campbell; and chuckling

with delight at the idea of her own consequence, she briskly replied--

"Oh, I know plenty of Campbells; there's the Campbells of Mireside,

relations of ours; and there's the Campbells of Blackbrae, married into

our family; and there's the Campbells of Windlestrae Glen, are not very

distant by my mother's side."

Mary felt as if perforated by bullets in all directions, as she

encountered the eyes of the company, turned alternately upon her aunt

and her; but they were on opposite sides of the room; therefore to

interpose betwixt Grizzy and her assailants was impossible.

"Possibly," suggested Mrs. Dalton, "Miss Douglas prefers the loftier

strains of the mighty Minstrel of the Mountains to the more polished

periods of the Poet of the Transatlantic Plain."

"Without either a possibility or a perhaps," said Mrs. Apsley, "the

probability is, Miss Douglas prefers the author of the 'Giaour' to all

the rest of her poetical countrymen. Where, in either Walter Scott or

Thomas Campbell, will you find such lines as these;--

'Wet with their own best blood, shall drip

Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip!'"

"Pardon me, madam," said Miss Parkin; "but I am of opinion you have

scarcely given a fair specimen of the powers of the Noble Bard in

question. The image here presented is a familiar one; 'the gnashing

tooth' and 'haggard lip' we have all witnessed, perhaps some of us may

even have experienced. There is consequently little merit in presenting

it to the mind's eye. It is easy, comparatively speaking, to portray the

feelings and passions of our own kind. We have only, as Dryden expresses

it, to descend into ourselves to find the secret imperfections of our

mind. It is therefore in his portraiture of the canine race that the

illustrious author has so far excelled all his contemporaries--in fact,

he has given quite a dramatic cast to his dogs," and she repeated, with

an air of triumph--

"And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall,

Hold o'er the dead their carnival;

Gorging and growling o'er carcase and limb,

They were too busy to bark at him!

From a Tartar's skull they had stripped the flesh,

As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh;

And their white tusks crunched o'er the whiter skull,

As it slipped through their jaws when their edge grew dull;

As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead,

When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed."

"Now, to enter into the conception of a dog--to embody one's self, as it

were, in the person of a brute--to sympathise in its feelings--to make

its propensities our own--to 'lazily mumble the bones of the dead,' with

our own individual 'white tusks'! Pardon me, madam, but with all due

deference to the genius of a Scott, it is a thing he has not dare to

attempt. Only the finest mind in the universe as capable of taking so

bold a flight. Scott's dogs, madam, are tame, domestic animals--mere

human dogs, if I may say so. Byron's dogs--But let them speak for

themselves!

'The scalps were in the wild dog's maw,

The hair was tangled round his jaw.'

Show me, if you can, such an image in Scott?"

"Very fine, certainly!" was here uttered by five novices, who were only

there as probationers, consequently not privileged to go beyond a

response.

"Is it the dancing dogs they are speaking about?" asked Grizzy. But

looks of silent contempt were the only replies she received.

"I trust I shall not be esteemed presumptuous," said Miss Graves, "or

supposed capable of entertaining views of detracting from the merits of

the Noble Author at present under discussion, if I humbly but firmly

enter my caveat against the word 'crunch,' as constituting an innovation

in our language, the purity of which cannot be too strictly preserved or

pointedly enforced. I am aware that by some I may be deemed

unnecessarily fastidious; and possibly Christina, Queen of Sweden, might

have applied to me the celebrated observation, said to have been

elicited from her by the famed work of the laborious French

Lexicographer, viz. that he was the most troublesome person in the

world, for he required of every word to produce its passport, and to

declare whence it came and whither it was going. I confess, I too, for

the sake of my country, would wish that every word we use might be

compelled to show its passport, attested by our great lawgiver, Dr.

Samuel Johnson."

"Unquestionably," said Mrs. Bluemits, "purity of language ought to be

preserved inviolate at any price; and it is more especially incumbent to

those who exercise a sway over our minds--those are, as it were, the

moulds in which our young imaginations are formed, to be the watchful

guardians of our language. But I lament to say that in fact it is not so;

and that the aberrations of our vernacular tongue have proceeded solely

from the licentious use made of it by those whom we are taught to

reverence as the fathers of the Sock and Lyre."

"Yet in familiar colloquy, I do not greatly object to the use of a word

occasionally, even although unsanctioned by the authority of our mighty

Lexicographer," said a new speaker.

"For my part," said Miss Parkins, "a genius fettered by rules always

reminds me of Gulliver in the hairy bonds of the Lilliputians; and the

sentiment of the elegant and enlightened bard of Twickenham is also

mine--

'Great wits sometimes may glorious offend,

And rise to faults true critics dare not mend;

From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part,

And match a grace beyond the reach of art.'

So it is with the subject of our argument: a tamer genius than the

illustrious Byron would not have dared to 'crunch' the bone. But where,

in the whole compass of the English language, will you find a word

capable of conveying the same idea?"

"Pick," modestly suggested one of the novices in a low key, hoping to

gain some celebrity by this her first effort; but this dawn of intellect

passed unnoticed.

The argument was now beginning to run high; parties were evidently

forming of crunchers and anticrunchers, and etymology was beginning to

be called for, when a thundering knock at the door caused a cessation of

hostilities.

"That, I flatter myself, is my friend Miss Griffon," said Mrs. Bluemits,

with an air of additional importance; and the name was whispered round

the circle, coupled with "Celebrated Authoress--'Fevers of the Heart'--

'Thoughts of the Moment,'" etc. etc.

"Is she a _real_ authoress that is coming?" asked Miss Grizzy at the

lady next her. And her delight was great at receiving an answer in the

affirmative; for Grizzy thought to be in company with an authoress was

the next thing to being an authoress herself; and, like some other

people, she had a sort of vague mysterious reverence for everyone whose

words had been printed in a book.

"Ten thousand thousand pardons, dearest Mrs. Bluemits!" exclaimed Miss

Griffon, as she entered. "I fear a world of intellect is lost to me by

this cruel delay." Then in an audible whisper--"But I was detained by

my publisher. He quite persecutes me to write. My 'Fevers of the Heart'

has had a prodigious run; and even my 'Thoughts,' which, in fact, cost

me no thought, are amazingly _recherché._ And I actually had to

force my way to you to-night through a legion of printer's devils, who

were lying in wait for me with each a sheet of my 'Billows of Love.'"

"The title is most musical, most melancholy," said Mrs. Bluemits, "and

conveys a perfect idea of what Dryden terms 'the sweeping deluge of the

soul;' but I flatter myself we shall have something more than a name

from Miss Griffon's genius. The Aonian graces, 'tis well known, always

follow in her train."

"They have made a great hole in it then," said Grizzy, officiously

displaying a fracture in the train of Miss Griffon's gown, and from

thence taking occasion to deliver her sentiments on the propriety of

people who tore gowns always being obliged to mend them.

After suitable entreaties had been used, Miss Griflon was at last

prevailed upon to favour the company, with some specimens of the

"Billows of Love" (of which we were unable to procure copies) and the

following sonnet, the production of a friend;--

"Hast thou no note for joy, thou weeping lyre?

Doth yew and willow ever shade thy string

And melancholy sable banners fling,

Warring 'midst hosts of elegant desire?

How vain the strife--how vain the warlike gloom!

Love's arms are grief--his arrows sighs and tears;

And every moan thou mak'st, an altar rears,

To which his worshippers devoutly come.

Then rather, lyre, I pray thee, try thy skill,

In varied measure, on a sprightlier key:

Perchance thy gayer tones' light minstrelsy

May heal the poison that thy plaints distil.

But much I fear that joy is danger still;

And joy, like woe, love's triumph must fulfil."

This called forth unanimous applause--"delicate imagery"--"smooth

versification" --"classical ideas"--"Petrarchian sweetness," etc. etc.,

resounded from all quarters.

But even intellectual joys have their termination, and carriages and

servants began to be announced in rapid succession.

"Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour," said Mrs. Bluemits to the first of

her departing guests, as the clock struck ten.

"It is gone, with its thorns and its roses," replied er friend with a

sigh, and a farewell pressure of the hand.

Another now advanced--"Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day."

"I have less will to go than care to stay," was the reply.

"_Parta ti lascio adio,_" warbled Miss Parkins.

"I vanish," said Mrs. Apsley, snatching up her tippet, reticule, etc.,

"and, like the baseless fabric of a vision, leave not a wreck behind."

"Fare-thee-well at once--Adieu, adieu, adieu, remember me!" cried the

last of the band, as she slowly retreated.

Mrs. Bluemits waved her hand with a look of tender reproach, as she

repeated--

"An adieu should in utterance die,

Or, if written, should faintly appear--

Should be heard in the sob of a sigh,

Or be seen in the blot of a teal."

"I'm sure, Mary," said Grizzy, when they were in the carriage, "I

expected, when all the ladies were repeating, that you would have

repeated something too. You used to have the Hermit and all Watts's

Hymns by heart, when you was little. It's a thousand pities, I declare,

that you should have forgot them; for I declare I was quite affronted to

see you sitting like a stick, and not saying a word, when all the ladies

were speaking and turning up their eyes, and moving their hands so

prettily; but I'm sure I hope next time you go to Mrs. Bluemits's you

will take care to learn something by heart before you go. I'm sure I

haven't a very good memory, but I remember some things; and I was very

near going to repeat 'Farewell to Lochaber' myself, as we were coming

away; and I'm sure I wish to goodness I had done it; but I suppose it

wouldn't do to go back now; and at any rate all the ladies are away, and

I dare say the candles will be out by this time."

Mary felt it a relief to have done with this surfeit of soul, and was of

opinion that learning, like religion, ought never to be forced into

conversation; and that people who only read to talk of their reading

might as well let it alone. Next morning she gave so ludicrous an

account of her entertainment that Lady Emily was quite charmed.

"Now I begin to have hopes of you," said she, "since I see you can laugh

at your friends as well as me."

"Not at my friends, I hope," answered Mary; "only at folly."

"Call it what you will--I only wish I had been there. I should certainly

have started a controversy upon the respective merits of Tom Thumb and

Puss in Boots, and so have called them off Lord Byron. Their pretending

to measure the genius of a Scott or a Byron must have been something

like a fly attempting to take the altitude of Mont Blanc. How I detest

those idle disquisitions about the colour of a goat's beard, or the

blood of an oyster."'

Mary had seen in Mrs. Douglas the effects of a highly cultivated

understanding shedding its mild radiance on the path of domestic life,

heightening its charms, and softening its asperities, with the benign

spirit of Christianity. Her charity was not like that of Mrs. Fox; she

did not indulge herself in the purchase of elegant ornaments, and then,

seated in the easy chair of her drawing-room, extort from her visitors

money to satisfy the wants of those who had claims on her own bounty.

No: she gave a large portion of her time, her thoughts, her fortune,

to the most sacred of all duties--charity, in its most comprehensive

meaning. Neither did her knowledge, like that of Mrs. Bluemits,

evaporate in pedantic discussion or idle declamation, but showed itself

in the tenor of a well-spent life, and in the graceful discharge of

those duties which belonged to her sex and station. Next to goodness

Mary most ardently admired talents. She knew there were many of her own

sex who were justly entitled to the distinction of literary fame. Her

introduction to the circle at Mrs. Bluemits's had disappointed her; but

they were mere pretenders to the name. How different from those

described by one no less amiable and enlightened herself!--"Let such

women as are disposed to be vain of their comparatively petty

attainments look up with admiration to those contemporary shining

examples, the venerable Elizabeth Carter and the blooming Elizabeth

Smith. In them let our young ladies contemplate profound and various

learning, chastised by true Christian humility. In them let them

venerate acquirements which would have been distinguished in a

university, meekly softened, and beautifully shaded by the exertion of

every domestic virtue, the unaffected exercise of every feminine

employment." [1]

[1] "Coelebs."

CHAPTER XXXI.

"The gods, to curse Pamela with her pray'rs,

Gave the gilt coach and dappled Flanders mares;

The shining robes, rich jewels, beds of state,

And, to complete her bliss, a fool for mate.

She glares in balls, front boxes, and the ring--

A vain, unquiet, glitt'ring, wretched thing!

Pride, pomp, and state, but reach her outward part;

She sighs, and is no duchess at her heart."

POPE

FOR many months Mary was doomed to experience all the vicissitudes of

hope and fear, as she heard of battles and sieges in which her lover had

a part. He omitted no opportunity of writing to her; but scarcely had

she received the assurance of his safety from himself when her

apprehensions were again excited by rumours of fresh dangers he would

have to encounter; and it required all her pious confidence and strength

of mind to save her from yielding to the despondency of a

naturally sensitive heart. But in administering to the happiness of

others she found the surest alleviation to the misfortune that

threatened herself; and she often forgot her own cares in her benevolent

exertions for the poor, the sick, and the desolate. It was then she felt

all the tenderness of that divine precept which enjoins love of the

Creator as the engrossing principle of the soul. For, oh! the

unutterable anguish that heart must endure which lavishes all its best

affections on a creature mutable and perishable as itself, from whom a

thousand accidents may separate or estrange it, and from whom death must

one day divide it! Yet there is something so amiable, so exalting, in

the fervour of a pure and generous attachment, that few have been able

to resist its overwhelming influence; and it is only time and suffering

that can teach us to comprehend the miseries that wait on the excess,

even of our virtuous inclinations, where these virtues aspire not beyond

this transitory scene.

Mary seldom heard from her mother or sister. Their time was too precious

to be wasted on dull country correspondents; but she saw their names

frequently mentioned in the newspapers, and she flattered herself, from

the éclat with whioh the Duchess seemed to be attended, that she

had found happiness in those pleasures where she had been taught to

expect it. The Duchess was indeed surrounded with all that rank, wealth,

and fashion could bestow. She had the finest house, jewels, and

equipages in London, but she was not happy. She felt the draught bitter,

even though the goblet that held it was of gold. It is novelty only that

can lend charms to things in themselves valueless; and when that wears

off, the disenchanted baubles appear in all their native worthlessness.

There is even a satiety in the free indulgence of wealth, when that

indulgence centres solely in self, and brings no general self-approving

reflections along with it. So it was with the Duchess of Altamont. She

sought, in the gratification of every expensive whim, to stimulate the

languid sense of joy; and, by loading herself with jewels, she strove to

still the restless inquietude of a dissatisfied heart. But it is only

the vulgar mind which can long find enjoyment in the mere attributes of

wealth--in the contemplation of silk hangings, and gilded chairs, and

splendid dresses, and showy equipages. Amidst all these the mind of any

taste or refinement, "distrusting, asks if this be joy." And Adelaide

possessed both taste and refinement, though her ideas had been perverted

and her heart corrupted by the false maxims early instilled into her.

Yet, selfish and unfeeling as she was, she sickened at the eternal

recurrence of self-indulged caprices; and the bauble that had been

hailed with delight the one day as a charmed amulet to dispel her ennui,

was the next beheld with disgust or indifference. She believed, indeed,

that she had real sources of vexation in the self-will and obstinacy of

her husband, and that, had he been otherwise than he was, she should

then have been completely happy. She would not acknowledge, even to

herself, that she had done wrong in marrying a man whose person was

disagreeable to her, and whose understanding she despised; while her

preference was decidedly in favour of another. Even her style of life

was in some respects distasteful to her; yet she was obliged to conform

to it. The Duke retained exactly the same notions of things as had taken

possession of his brain thirty years before; consequently everything in

his establishment was conducted with a regularity and uniformity unknown

to those whose habits are formed on the more eccentric models of the

present day; or rather, who have no models save those of their own

capricious tastes and inclinations. He had an antipathy to balls,

concerts, and masquerades; for he did not dance, knew nothing of music,

and stil less of _badinage._ But he liked great dull dinners, for there

the conversation was generally adapted to his capacity; and it was a

pleasure to him to arrange the party--to look over the bill of fare--to

see all the family plate displayed--and to read an account of the grand

dinner at the Duke of Altamont's in the "Morning Post" of the following

day. All this sounds very vulgar for the pastimes of a Duke; but there

are vulgar-minded Dukes as there are gifted ploughmen, or any other

anomalies. The former Duchess, a woman of high birth, similar years, and

kindred spirit of his own in all matters of form and _etiquette,_ was

his standard of female propriety; and she would have deemed it highly

derogatory to her dignity to have patronised any other species of

entertainment than grand dinners and dull assemblies.

Adelaide had attempted with a high hand at once to overturn the whole

system of Altamont House, and had failed. She had declared her

detestation of dinners, and been heard in silence. She had kept her room

thrice when they were given, but without success. She had insisted upon

giving a ball, but the Duke, with the most perfect composure, had

peremptorily declared it must be an assembly. Thus baffled in all her

plans of domestic happiness, the Duchess would have sought her pleasures

elsewhere. She would have lived anywhere but in her own house associated

with everybody but her own husband and done everything but what she had

vowed to do. But even in this she was thwarted. The Duke had the same

precise formal notions of a lady's conduct abroad, as well as her

appearance at home; and the very places she would have most wished to go

to were those she was expressly prohibited from ever appearing at.

Even all that she could have easily settled to her own satisfaction by

the simple apparatus of a separate establishment carried on in the same

house; but here too she was foiled, for his Grace had stubborn notions

on that score also, and plainly hinted that any separation must be final

and decided; and Adelaide could not yet resolve upon taking so

formidable a step in the first year of her marriage. She was therefore

compelled to drag the chain by which, with her own will, she had bound

herself for life to one she already despised and detested. And bound she

was, in the strictest sense of the metaphor; for, though the Duke had

not the smallest pleasure in the society of his wife, he yet attached

great ideas of propriety to their being always seen together, side by

side. Like his sister, Lady Matilda, he had a high reverence for

appearances, though he had not her _finesse _in giving them effect. He

had merely been accustomed to do what he thought looked well, and gave

him an air of additional dignity. He had married Aidelaide because he

thought she had a fine presence, and would look well as Duchess of

Altamont; and, for the same reason, now that she was his wedded wife, he

thought it looked well to be seen always together. He therefore made a

point of having no separate engagements; and even carried his sense of

propriety so far, that as regularly as the Duchess's carriage came to

the door the Duke was prepared to hand her in, in due form, and take his

station by her side. This alone would have been sufficient to have

embittered Adelaide's existence, and she had tried every expedient, but

in vain, to rid herself of this public display of conjugal duty. She had

opened her landaulet in cold weather, and shut it, even to the glasses,

in a scorching sun; but the Duke was insensible to heat and cold. He was

most provokingly healthy; and she had not even the respite which an

attack of rheumatism or toothache would have afforded. As his Grace was

not a person of keen sensation, this continual effort to keep up

appearances cost him little or nothing; but to the Duchess's nicer tact

it was martyrdom to be compelled to submit to the semblance of affection

where there was no reality. Ah, nothing but a sense of duty, early

instilled and practically enforced, can reconcile a refined mind to the

painful task of bearing with meekness and gentleness the ill-temper,

adverse will, and opposite sentiments of those with whom we can

acknowledge no feeling in common!

But Adelaide possessed no sense of duty, and was a stranger to

self-command; and though she boasted refinement of mind, yet it was of

that spurious sort which, far from elevating and purifying the heart,

tends only to corrupt and debase the soul, while it sheds a false and

dazzling lustre upon those perishable graces which captivate the senses.

It may easily be imagined the good sense of the mother did not tend to

soothe the irritated feelings of the daughter. Lady Juliana was indeed

quite as much exasperated as the Duchess at these obstacles thrown in

the way of her pleasures, and the more so as she could not quite clearly

comprehend them. The good-nature of her husband and the easy indolence

of her brother even _her _folly had enabled her, on many occasions, to

get the better of; but the obstinacy of her son-in-law was invincible to

all her arts. She could therefore only wonder to the Duchess how she

could not manage to get the better of the Duke's prejudices against

balls and concerts and masquerades. It was so excessively ridiculous, so

perfectly foolish, not to do as other people did; and there was the

Duchess of Ryston gave Sunday concerts, and Lady Oakham saw masks, and

even old ugly Lady Loddon had a ball, and the Prince at it! How vastly

provoking! how unreasonable in a man of the Duke's years to expect a

girl like Adelaide to conform to all his old-fashioned notions! And then

she would wisely appeal to Lord Lindore whether it was not too absurd in

the Duke to interfere with the Duchess's arrangements.

Lord Lindore was a frequent visitor at Altamont House; for the Duke,

satisfied with his having been once refused, was no wise jealous of him;

and Lord Lindore was too quiet and refined in his attentions to excite

the attention of anyone so stupid and obtuse. It was not the least of

the Duchess's mortifications to be constantly contrasting her former

lover--elegant, captivating, and _spirituel--_with her husband, awkward,

insipid, and dull, as the fat weed that rots on Lethe's shore. Lord

Lindore was indeed the most admired man in London, celebrated for his

conquests, his horses, his elegance, manner, dress; in short, in

everything he gave the tone. But he had too much taste to carry anything

to extreme; and in the midst of incense, and adulation, and imitation,

he still retained that simple unostentatious elegance that marks the man

of real fashion--the man who feels his own consequence, independent of

all extraneous modes or fleeting fashions.

There is, perhaps, nothing so imposing, nothing that carries a greater

sway over a mind of any refinement, than simplicity, when we feel

assured that it springs from a genuine contempt of show and ostentation.

Lord Lindore was aware of this, and he did not attempt to vie with the

Duke of Altamont in the splendour of his equipage, the richness of his

liveries, the number of his attendants, or any of those previous

attractions attractions; on the contrary, everything belonging to him

was of the plainest description; and, except in the beauty of his

horses, he seemed to scorn every species of extravagance; but then he

rode with so much elegance, he drove his curricle with such graceful

ease, as formed a striking contrast to the formal Duke, sitting

bolt-upright in his state chariot, _chapeau bras,_ and star; and the

Duchess often quitted the Park, where Lord Lindore was the admired of

all admirers, mortified and ashamed at being seen in the same carriage

with the man she had chosen for her husband. Ambition had led her to

marry the Duke, and that same passion now heightened her attachment for

Lord Lindore; for, as some one has remarked, ambition is not always the

desire for that which is in itself excellent, but for that which is most

prized by others; and the handsome Lord Lindore was courted and caressed

in circles where the dull, precise Duke of Altamont was wholly

overlooked. Months passed in this manner, and every day added something

to Adelaide's feelings of chagrin and disappointment. But it was still

worse when she found herself settled for a long season at Norwood Abbey

a dull, magnificent residence, with a vast unvaried park, a profusion of

sombre trees, and a sheet of stillwater, decorated with leaden deities.

Within doors everything was in the same style of vapid, tasteless

grandeur, and the society was not such as to dispel the ennui these

images served to create. Lady Matilda Sufton, her satellite Mrs. Finch,

General Carver, and a few stupid elderly lords and their well-bred

ladies comprised the family circle; and the Duchess experienced, with

bitterness of spirit, that "rest of heart, and pleasure felt at home,"

are blessings wealth cannot purchase nor greatness command; while she

sickened at the stupid, the almost _vulgar_ magnificence of her lot.

At this period Lord Lindore arrived on a visit, and the daily, hourly

contrast that occurred betwixt the elegant, impassioned lover, and the

dull, phlegmatic husband, could not fail of producing the usual

effects on an unprincipled mind. Rousseau and Goethe were studied, French

and German sentiments were exchanged, till criminal passion was exalted

into the purest of all earthly emotions. It were tedious to dwell upon

the minute, the almost imperceptible occurrences that tended to heighten

the illusion of passion, and throw an air of false dignity around the

degrading spells of vice; but so it was, that in something less than a

year from the time of her marriage, this victim of self-indulgence again

sought her happiness in the gratification of her own headstrong

passions, and eloped with Lord Lindore, vainly hoping to find peace and

joy amid guilt and infamy.

CHAPTER XXXII.

"On n'est guères obligé aux gens qui ne nous viennent

voir, que pour nous quereller, qui pendant toute une visite, ne nous

disent pas une seule parole obligeante, et qui se font un plaisir malin

d'attaquer notre conduite, et de nous faire entrevoir nos

défauts." -- L' ABBE Dé BELLEGARDE.

THE Duke, although not possessed of the most delicate feelings, it may

be supposed was not insensible to his dishonour. He immediately set

about taking the legal measures for avenging it; and damages were

awarded, which would have the effect of rendering Lord Lindore for ever

an alien to his country. Lady Juliana raved, and had hysterics, and

seemed to consider herself as the only sufferer by her daughter's

misconduct. At one time Adelaide's ingratitude was all her theme: at

another, it was Lord Lindore's treachery, and poor Adelaide was

everything that was amiable and injured: then it was the Duke's

obstinacy; for, had Adelaide got leave to do as she liked, this never

would have happened; had she only got leave to give balls, and to go to

masquerades, she would have made the best wife in the world, etc. etc.

etc.

All this was warmly resented by Lady Matilda, supported by Mrs. Finch

and General Carver, till open hostilities were declared between the

ladies, and Lady Juliana was compelled to quit the house she had looked

upon as next to her own, and became once more a denizen of Beech Park.

Mary's grief and horror at her sister's misconduct were proportioned to

the nature of the offence. She considered it not as how it might affect

herself, or would be viewed by the world, but as a crime committed

against the law of God; yet, while she the more deeply deplored it on

that account, no bitter words of condemnation passed her lips. She

thought with humility of the superior advantages she had enjoyed in

having principles of religion early and deeply engrafted in her soul;

and that, but for these, such as her sister's fate was, hers might have

been.

She felt for her mother, undeserving as she was of commiseration; and

strove by every means in her power to promote her comfort and happiness.

But that was no easy task. Lady Juliana's notions of comfort and

happiness differed as widely from those of her daughter as reason and

folly could possibly do. She was indeed "than folly more a fool--a

melancholy fool without her bells." She still clung to low earth-born

vanities with as much avidity as though she had never experienced their

insecurity; still rung the same changes on the joys of wealth and

grandeur, as if she had had actual proof of their unfading felicity.

Then she recurred to the Duke's obstinacy and Lord Lindore's artifices,

till, after having exhausted herself in invective against them, she

concluded by comforting herself with the hope that Lord Lindore and

Adelaide would marry; and although it would be a prodigious degradation

to her, and she could not be received at Court, she might yet get into

very good society in town. There were many women of high rank exactly in

the same situation, who had been driven to elope from their husbands,

and who married the men they liked and made the best wives in the world.

Mary heard all this in shame and silence; but Lady Emily, wearied and

provoked by her folly and want of principle, was often led to express

her indignation and and contempt in terms which drew tears from her

cousin's eyes. Mary was indeed the only person in the world who felt her

sister's dereliction with the keenest feelings of shame and sorrow. All

Adelaide's coldness and unkindness had not been able to eradicate from

her heart those deep-rooted sentiments of affection which seem to have

been entwined with our existence, and which, with some generous natures,

end but with their being. Yes! there are ties that bind together those

of one family, stronger than those of taste, or choice, or friendship,

or reason; for they enable us to love, even in opposition to them all.

It was understood the fugitives had gone to Germany; and after wonder

and scandal were exhausted, and a divorce obtained, the Duchess of

Altamont, except to her own family, was as though she had never been.

Such is the transition from--from guilt to insignificance!

Amongst the numerous visitors who flocked to Beech Park, whether from

sympathy, curiosity, or exultation, was Mrs. Downe Wright. None of these

motives, singly, had brought that lady there, for her purpose was that

of giving what she genteelly termed some _good hits_ to the Douglas's

pride--a delicate mode of warfare, in which, it must be owned, the

female sex greatly excel.

Mrs. Downe Wright had not forgiven the indignity of her son having

been refused by Mary, which she imputed entirely to Lady Emily's

influence, and had from that moment predicted the downfall of the whole

pack, as she styled the family; at the same time always expressing her

wish that she might be mistaken, as she wished them well--God knows she

bore them no ill-will, etc. She entered the drawing-room at Beech Park

with a countenance cast to a totally different expression from that with

which she had greeted Lady Matilda Sufton's widowhood. Melancholy would

there have been appropriate, here it was insulting; and accordingly,

with downcast eyes, and silent pressures of the hand, she saluted every

member of the family, and inquired after their healths with that air of

anxious solicitude which implied that if they were all well it was what

they ought not to be. Lady Emily's quick tact was presently aware of her

design, and she prepared to take the field against her.

"I had some difficulty in getting admittance to you," said Mrs.

Downe Wright. "The servant would fain have denied you; but at such a

time, I knew the visit of a friend could not fail of being acceptable,

so I made good my way in spite of him."

"I had given orders to be at home to friends only," returned Lady Emily,

"as there is no end to the inroads of acquaintances."

"And poor Lady Juliana," said Mrs. Downe Wright in a tone of affected

sympathy, "I hope she is able to see her friends?"

"Did you not meet her?" asked Lady Emily carelessly. "She is just gone

to Bath for the purpose of securing a box during the term of Kean's

engagement; she would not trust to _l'éloquence du billet_ upon

such an occasion."

"I'm vastly happy to hear she is able for anything of the kind," in a

tone of vehement and overstrained joy, rather unsuitable to the

occasion.

A well-feigned look of surprise from Lady Emily made her fear she had

overshot her mark; she therefore, as if from delicacy, changed the

conversation to her own affairs. She soon contrived to let it be known

that her son was going to be married to a Scotch Earl's daughter; that

she was to reside with them; and that she had merely come to Bath for

the purpose of letting her house--breaking up her establishment--packing

up her plate--and, in short, making all those magnificent arrangements

which wealthy dowagers usually have to perform on a change of residence.

At the end of this triumphant declaration, she added--

"I fain would have the young people live by themselves, and let me just

go on in my own way; but neither my son nor Lady Grace would hear of

that, although her family are my son's nearest neighbours, and most

sensible, agreeable people they are. Indeed, as I said to Lord

Glenallan, a man's happiness depends fully as much upon his wife's

family as upon herself."

Mary was too noble-minded to suspect that Mrs. Downe Wright could intend

to level innuendoes; but the allusion struck her; she felt herself

blush; and, fearful Mrs. Downe Wright would attribute it to a wrong

motive, she hastened to join in the eulogium on the Benmavis family in

general, and Lady Grace in particular.

"Lady Benmavis is, indeed, a sensible, well-principled woman, and her

daughters have been all well brought up."

Again Mary coloured at the emphasis which marked the sensible,

well-principled mother, and the well brought-up daughters; and in some

confusion she said something about Lady Grace's beauty.

"She certainly is a very pretty woman," said Mrs. Downe Wright with

affected carelessness; "but what is better, she is out of a good nest.

For my own part I place little value upon beauty now; commend me to

principles. If a woman is without principles the less beauty she has the

better."

"If a woman has no principles," said Lady Emily, "I don't think it

signifies a straw whether she has beauty or not--ugliness can never add

to one's virtue."

"I beg your pardon, Lady Emily; a plain woman will never make herself so

conspicuous in the world as one of your beauties."

"Then you are of opinion wickedness lies all in the eye of the world,

not in the depths of the heart? Now I think the person who cherishes--no

matter how secretly--pride, envy, hatred, malice, or any other besetting

sin, must be quite as criminal in the sight of God as those who openly

indulge their evil propensity."

"I go very much by outward actions," said Mrs. Downe Wright; "they are

all we have to judge by."

"But I thought we were forbidden to judge one another?"

"There's no shutting people's mouths, Lady Emily."

"No; all that is required, I believe, is that we should shut our own."

Mary thought the conversation was getting rather too _piquante_ to be

pleasant, and tried to soften the tone of it by asking that most

innocent question, Whether there was any news?

"Nothing but about battles and fightings, I suppose," answered Mrs.

Downe Wright. "I'm sure they are to be pitied who have friends or

relations either in army or navy at present. I have reason to be

thankful my son is in neither. He was very much set upon going into one

or other; but I was always averse to it; for, independent of the danger,

they are professions that spoil a man for domestic life; they lead to

such expensive, dissipated habits, as quite ruin them for family men. I

never knew a military man but what must have his bottle of port every

day. With sailors, indeed, it's still worse; grog and tobacco soon

destroy them. I'm sure if I had a daughter it would make me miserable if

she was to take fancy to a naval or military man;--but," as if suddenly

recollecting herself, "after all, perhaps it's a mere prejudice of

mine."

"By no means," said Lady Emily "there is no prejudice in the matter;

what you say is very true. They are to be envied who can contrive to fall

in love with a stupid, idle man: _they_ never can experience any

anxiety; _their_ fate is fixed; 'the waveless calm, the slumber of the

dead,' is theirs; as long as they can contrive to slumber on, or at

least to keep their eyes shut, 'tis very well, they are in no danger of

stumbling till they come to open them; and if they are sufficiently

stupid themselves there is no danger of their doing even that. The have

only to copy the owl, and they are safe."

"I quite agree with your Ladyship ," said Mrs. Downe Wright, with a well

_got-up,_ good-humoured laugh. "A woman has only not to be a wit or a

genius, and there is no fear of her; not that _I_ have that antipathy to

a clever woman that many people have, and especially the gentlemen. I

almost quarrelled with Mr. Headley, the great author, t'other day, for

saying that he would rather encounter a nest of wasps than a clever

woman."

"I should most cordially have agreed with him," said Lady Emily, with

equal _naïveté._ "There is nothing more insupportable than

one of your clever women, so called. They are generally under-bred,

consequently vulgar. They pique themselves upon saying good things

_côitte qu'il coûte._ There is something, in short, quite

professional about them; and they wouldn't condescend to chat nonsense

as you and I are doing at this moment--oh! not for worlds! Now, I think

one of the great charms of life consists in talking nonsense. Good

nonsense is an exquisite thing; and 'tis an exquisite thing to be stupid

sometimes, and to say nothing at all. Now, these enjoyments the clever

woman must forego. Clever she is, and clever she must be. Her life must

be a greater drudgery than that of any actress. _She_ merely frets her

hour upon the stage; the curtain dropped, she may become as dull as she

chooses; but the clever woman must always stage it, even at her own

fireside."

"Lady Emily Lindore is certainly the last person from whom I should have

expected to hear a panegyric on stupidity," said Mrs. Downe Wright, with

some bitterness.

"Stupidity!--oh, heavens! my blood curdles at the thought of real,

genuine, downright stupidity! No! I should always like to have the

command of intellect, as well as of money, though my taste, or my

indolence, or my whim, perhaps, never would incline me to be always

sparkling, whether in wit or in diamonds. 'Twas only when I was in the

nursery that I envied the good girl who spoke rubies and pearls. Now it

seems to me only just better than not spitting toads and vipers." And

she warbled a sprightly French _ariette_ to a tame bullfinch that flew

upon her hand.

There was an airy, high-bred elegance in Lady Emily's impertinence that

seemed to throw Mrs. Downe Wright's coarse sarcasms to an immeasurable

distance; and that lady was beginning to despair, but she was determined

not to give in while she could possibly stand out. She accordingly

rallied her forces, and turned to Mary.

"So you have lost your neighbour, Mrs. Lennox, since I was here? I think

she was an acquaintance of yours. Poor woman! her death must have been a

happy release to herself and her friends. She has left no family, I

believe?" quite aware of the report of Mary's engagement with Colonel

Lennox."

"Only one son," said Mary, with a little emotion.

"Oh! very true. He's in the law, I think?"

"In the army," answered Mary, faintly.

"That's a poor trade," said Mrs. Downe Wright, "and I doubt he'll not

have much to mend it. Rose Hall's but a poor property. I've heard they

might have had a good estate in Scotland if it hadn't been for the pride

of the General, that wouldn't let him change his name for it, He thought

it grander to be a poor Lennox than a rich Macnaughton, or some such

name, It's to be hoped the son's of the same mind?"

"I have no doubt of it," said Lady Emily. "Tis a noble name-quite a

legacy in itself."

"It's one that, I am afraid, will not be easily turned into bank notes,

however," returned Mrs. Downe Wright, with a _real_ hearty laugh. And

then, delighted to get off with what she called flying colours, she

hastily rose with an exclamation at the lateness of the hour, and a

remark how quickly time passed in pleasant company; and, with friendly

shakes of the hand, withdrew.

"How very insupportable is such a woman," said Lady Emily to Mary, "who,

to gratify her own malice, says the most cutting things to her

neighbours, and at the same time feels self-approbation, in the belief

that she is doing good. And yet, hateful as she is, I blush to say I

have sometimes been amused by her ill-nature when it was directed

against people I hated still more. Lady Matilda Sufton, for

example,--there she certainly shone, for hypocrisy is always fair game;

and yet the people who love to hunt it are never amiable. You smile, as

much as to say, Here is Satan preaching a sermon on holiness. But

however satirical and intolerant you may think me, you must own that I

take no delight in the discovery of other people's faults: if I want the

meekness of a Christian, at least I don't possess the malice of a Jew.

Now Mrs. Downe Wright has a real heartfelt satisfaction in saying

malicious things, and in thrusting herself into company where she must

know she is unwelcome, for the sole purpose of saying them. Yet many

people are blessed with such blunt perceptions that they are not at all

aware of her real character, and only wonder, when she has left them,

what made them feel so uncomfortable when she was present. But she has

put me in such a bad humour that I must go out of door and apostrophise

the sun, like Lucifer. Do come, Mary, you will help to dispel my

chagrin. I really feel as if my heart had been in a limekiln. All its

kingly feelings are so burnt up by the malignant influences of Mrs.

Downe Wright; while you," continued she, as they strolled into the

gardens, "are as cool, and as sweet, and as sorrowful as these violets,"

gathering some still wet with an April shower. "How delicious, after

such a mental _sirocco,_ to feel the pure air and hear the birds sing,

and look upon the flowers and blossoms, and sit here, and bask in the

sun from laziness to walk into the shade. You must needs acknowledge,

Mary, that spring in England is a much more amiable season than in your

ungentle clime."

This was the second spring Mary had seen set in, in England. But the

first had been wayward and backward as the seasons of her native

climate. The present was such a one as poets love to paint. Nature was

in all its first freshness and beauty--the ground was covered with

flowers, the luxuriant hedgerows were white with blossoms, the air was

impregnated with the odours of the gardens and orchards. Still Mary

sighed as she thought of Lochmarlie--its wild tangled woods, with here

and there a bunch of primroses peeping forth from amidst moss and

withered ferns--its gurgling rills, blue lakes, and rocks, and

mountains--all rose to view; and she felt that, even amid fairer scenes,

and beneath brighter suns, her heart would still turn with fond regret

to the land of her birth.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

"Wondrous it is, to see in diverse mindes

How diversly Love doth his pageants play

And shows his power in variable kinds."

SPENSER.

BUT even the charms of spring were overlooked by Lady Emily in the

superior delight she experienced at hearing that the ship in which

Edward Douglas was had arrived at Portsmouth; and the intelligence was

soon followed by his own arrival at Beech Park. He was received by her

with rapture, and by Mary with the tenderest emotion. Lord Courtland was

always glad of an addition to the family party; and even Lady Juliana

experienced something like emotion as she beheld her son, now the exact

image of what his father had been twenty years before.

Edward Douglas was indeed a perfect model of youthful beauty, and

possessed of all the high spirits and happy _insouciance_ which can only

charm at that early period. He loved his profession, and had already

distinguished himself in it. He was handsome, brave, good-hearted, and

good-humoured, but he was not clever; and Mary felt some solicitude as

to the permanency of of Lady Emily's attachment to him. But Lady Emily,

quick-sighted to the defects of the whole world, seemed happily blind to

those of her lover; and when even Mary's spirits were almost exhausted

by his noisy rattle, Lady Emily, charmed and exhilarated, entered into

all his practical jokes and boyish frolics with the greatest delight.

She soon perceived what was passing in Mary's mind.

"I see perfectly well what you think of my _penchant_ for Edward," said

she one day; "I can tell you exactly what was passing in your thoughts

just now. You were thinking how strange, how passing strange it is, that

I, who am (false modesty avaunt!) certainly cleverer than Edward, should

yet be so partial to him, and that my lynx eyes should have failed to

discover in him faults which, with a single glance, I should have

detected in others. Now, can't you guess what renders even these very

faults so attractive to me?"

"The old story, I suppose?" said Mary. "Love."

"Not at all. Love might blind me to his faults altogether, and then my

case would be indeed hopeless, were I living in the belief that I was

loving a piece of perfection--a sort of Apollo Belvidere in mind as well

as in person. Now, so far from that, I could reckon you up a whole

catalogue of his faults; and nevertheless, I love him with my whole

heart, faults and all. In the first place, they are the faults with

which I have been familiar from infancy; and therefore they possess a

charm (to my shame be it said!) greater than other people's virtues

would have to me. They come over my fancy like some snatch of an old

nursery song, which one loves to hear in defiance of taste and reason,

merely because it is something that carries us back to those days which,

whatever they were in reality, always look bright and sunny in

retrospection. In the second place, his faults are real, genuine,

natural faults; and in this age of affectation how refreshing it is to

meet with even a natural fault! I grant you, Edward talks absurdly, and

asks questions _à faire dresser les cheveux_ of a Mrs. Bluemits.

But that amuses me; for his ignorance is not the ignorance of vulgarity

or stupidity, but the ignorance of a light head and a merry heart--of

one, in short, whose understanding has been at sea when other people's

were at school. His _bonmots_ certainly would not do to be printed; but

then they make me laugh a great deal more than if they were better, for

he is always _naif_ and original, and I prefer an in indifferent

original any day to a good copy. How it shocks me to hear people

recommending to their children to copy such a person's manners! A copied

manner, how insupportable! The servile imitator of a set pattern, how

despicable! No! I would rather have Edward in all the freshness of his

own faults rather than in the faded semblance of another persons's

proprieties."

Mary agreed to the truth of her cousin's observations in some respects,

though she could not help thinking that love had as much to say in her

case as in most others; for if it did not blind her to her lover's

faults, it certainly made her much more tolerant of them.

Edward was, in truth, at times almost provokingly boyish and unthinking,

and possessed a flow of animal spirits as inexhaustible as they were

sometimes overpowering; but she flattered herself time would subdue them

to a more rational tone; and she longed for his having the advantages of

Colonel Lennox's society--not by way of pattern, as Lady Emily expressed

it, but that he might be gradually led to something of more refinement,

from holding intercourse with a superior mind. And she obtained her wish

sooner than she had dared to hope for it. That battle was fought which

decided the fate of Europe, and turned so many swords into ploughshares;

and Mary seemed now touching the pinnacle of happiness when she saw her

lover restored to her. He had gained additional renown in the bloody

field of Waterloo; and, more fortunate than others, his military career

had terminated both gloriously and happily.

If Mary had ever distrusted the reality of his affection, all her doubts

were now at an end. She saw she was beloved with all the truth and

ardour of a noble ingenuous mind, too upright to deceive others, too

enlightened to deceive itself. All reserve betwixt them was now at an

end; and, secure in mutual affection, nothing seemed to oppose itself to

their happiness.

Colonel Lennox's fortune was small; but such as it was,

it seemed sufficient for all the purposes of rational enjoyment. Both

were aware that wealth is a relative thing, and that the positively rich

are not those who have the largest possessions but those who have the

fewest vain or selfish desires to gratify. From these they were happily

exempt. Both possessed too many resources in their own minds to require

the stimulus of spending money to rouse them into enjoyment, or give

them additional importance in the eyes of the world; and, above all,

both were too thoroughly Christian in their principles to murmur at any

sacrifices or privations they might have to endure in the course of

their earthly pilgrimage.

But Lady Juliana's weak, worldly mind, saw things in a very different

light; and when Colonel Lennox, as a matter of form, applied to her for

her consent to their union, he received a positive and angry refusal.

She declared she never would consent to any daughter of hers making so

foolish, so very unsuitable a marriage. And then, sending for Mary, she

charged her, in the most peremptory manner, to break of all intercourse

with Colonel Lennox.

Poor Mary was overwhelmed with grief and amazement at this new display

of her mother's tyranny and injustice, and used all the powers of

reasoning and entreaty to alter her sentiments; but in vain. Since

Adelaide's elopement Lady Juliana had been much in want of some subject

to occupy her mind--something to excite a sensation, and give her

something to complain of, and talk about, and put her in a bustle, and

make her angry, and alarmed, and ill-used, and, in short, all the things

which a fool is fond of being.

Although Mary had little hopes of being able to prevail by any

efforts of reason, she yet tried to make her mother comprehend the

nature of her engagement with Colonel Lennox as of a sacred nature, and

too binding ever to be dissolved. But Lady Juliana's wrath blazed forth

with redoubled violence at the very mention of an engagement. She had

never heard of anything so improper. Colonel Lennox must be a most

unprincipled man to lead her daughter into an engagement unsanctioned by

her; and she had acted in the most improper manner in allowing herself

to form an attachment without the consent of those who had the best

title to dispose of her. The person who could act thus was not fit to be

trusted, and in future it would be necessary for her to have her

constantly under her own eye.

Mary found her candour had therefore only reduced her to the alternative

of either openly rebelling, or of submitting to be talked at, and

watched, and guarded, as if she had been detected in carrying on some

improper clandestine intercourse. But she submitted to all the

restrictions that were imposed and the torments that were inflicted, if

not with the heroism of a martyr, at least with the meekness of one; for

no murmur escaped her lips. She was only anxious to conceal from others

the extent of her mother's folly and injustice, and took every

opportunity of entreating Colonel Lennox's silence and forbearance. It

required, indeed, all her influence to induce him to submit patiently to

the treatment he experienced. Lady Juliana had so often repeated to Mary

that it was the greatest presumption in Colonel Lennox to aspire to a

daughter of hers, that she had fairly talked herself into the belief

that he was all she asserted him to be--a man of neither birth nor

fortune certainly a Scotsman from his name--consequently having

thousands of poor cousins and vulgar relations of every description. And

she was determined that no daughter of hers should ever marry a man

whose family connections she knew nothing about. She had suffered a

great deal too much from her (Mary's) father's low relations ever to run

the risk of anything of the same kind happening again. In short, she at

length made it out clearly, to her own satisfaction, that Colonel Lennox

was scarcely a gentleman; and she therefore considered it as her duty to

treat him on every occasion with the most marked rudeness. Colonel

Lennox pitied her folly too much to be hurt by her ill-breeding and

malevolence, but he could scarcely reconcile it to his notions of duty

that Mary's superior mind should submit to the thraldom of one who

evidently knew not good from evil.

Lady Emily was so much engrossed by her own affairs that for some time

all this went on unnoticed by her. At length she was struck with Mary's

dejection, and observed that Colonel Lennox seemed also dispirited; but,

imputing it to a lover's quarrel, she laughingly taxed them with it.

Although Mary could, suppress the cause of her uneasiness, she was too

ingenuous to deny it; and, being pressed by her cousin, she at length

disclosed to her the cause of her sorrow.

"Colonel Lennox and you have behaved like two fools," said she, at the

end of her cousin's communication. "What could possibly instigate you to

so absurd an act as that of asking Lady Juliana's consent? You surely

might have known that the person who is never consulted about anything

will invariably start difficulties to everything; and that people who

are never accustomed to be even listened to get quite unmanageable when

appealed to. Lady Juliana gave an immediate assent to Lord Glenallan's

proposals because she was the first person consulted about them; and

besides, she had a sort of an instinctive knowledge that it would create

a sensation and make her of consequence--in short, she was to act in a

sort of triple capacity, as parent, lover, and bride. Here, on the

contrary, she was aware that her consent would stand as a mere cipher,

and, once given, would never be more heard of. Liberty of opinion is an

attitude many people quite lose themselves in. When once they attempt to

think, it makes confusion worse confounded; so it is much better to take

that labour off their hands, and settle the matter for them. It would

have been quite time enough to have asked Lady Juliana's consent after

the thing was over; or, at any rate, the minute before it was to take

place. I would not even have allowed her time for a flood of tears or a

fit of hysterics. And now that your duty has brought you to this, even

my genius is a a loss how to extricate you. Gretna Green might have been

advisable, and that would have accorded with your notions of duty; that

would have been following your mamma's own footsteps; but it is become

too vulgar an exploit. I read of a hatter's apprentice having carried

off a grocer's heiress t'other day. What do you purpose doing yourself?"

"To try the effect of patience and submission," said Mary, "rather than

openly set at defiance one of the most sacred duties--the obedience of a

child to a parent. Besides, I could not possibly be happy were I to

marry under such circumstances."

"You have much too nice a conscience," said Lady Emily; "and yet I could

scarcely wish you otherwise than you are. What an angel you are, to

behave as you do to such a mother; with such sweetness, and gentleness,

and even respect! Ah! they know little of human nature who think that to

perform great actions one must necessarily be a great character. So far

from that, I now see there may be much more real greatness of mind

displayed in the quiet tenor of a woman's life than in the most

brilliant exploits that ever were performed by man. Methinks I myself

could help to storm a city; but to rule my own spirit is a task beyond

me. What a pity it is you and I cannot change places. Here am I,

languishing for a little opposition to my love. My marriage will be

quite an insipid, every-day affair; I yawn already to think of it. Can

anything be more disheartening to a young couple, anxious to signalise

their attachment in the face of the whole world, than to be allowed to

take their own way? Conceive my vexation at being told by papa this

morning that he had not the least objection to Edward and me marrying

whenever we pleased, although he thought we might both have done better;

but that was our own affair, not his; that he thought Edward a fine,

good humoured fellow--excessively amusing; hoped he would get a ship some

day, although he had no interest whatever in the Admiralty; was sorry he

could not give us any money, but hoped we should remain at Beech Park as

long as we liked. I really feel quite flat with all these dull

affirmations."

"What! you had rather have been locked up in a tower--wringing your

hands at the height of the windows, the thickness of the walls, and so

forth," said Mary.

"No: I should never have done anything so like a washerwoman as to wring

my hands; though I might, like some heroines, have fallen to work in a

regular blacksmith-way, by examining the lock of the door, and perhaps

have succeeded in picking it; but, alas! I live in degenerate days. Oh

that I had been born the persecuted daughter of some ancient baron bold

instead of the spoiled child of a good natured modern earl! Heavens! to

think that I must tamely, abjectly submit to be married in the presence

of all my family, even in the very parish church! Oh, what detractions

from the brilliancy of my star!"

In spite of her levity Lady Emily was seriously interested in her

cousin's affairs, and tried every means of obtaining Lady Juliana's

consent; but Lady Juliana was become more unmanageable than ever. Her

temper, always bad, was now soured by chagrin and disappointment into

something, if possible, still worse, and Lady Emily's authority had no

longer any control over her; even the threat of producing Aunt Grizzy to

a brilliant assembly had now lost its effect. Dr. Redgill was the only

auxiliary she possessed in the family, and he most cordially joined he in

condemning Miss Mary's obstinacy and infatuation. What could she see in

a man with such an insignificant bit of property, a mere nest for

blackbirds and linnets, and such sort of vermin. Not a morsel of any

sort of game on his grounds; while at Glenallan, he had been credibly

informed, such was the abundance that the deer had been seen stalking and

the black-cock flying past the very door! But the Doctor's indignation

was suddenly suspended by a fit of apoplexy; from which, however, he

rallied, and passed it off for the present as a sort of vertigo, in

consequence of the shock he had received at hearing of Miss Mary's

misconduct.

At length even Colonel Lennox's forbearance was exhausted, and Mary's

health and spirits were sinking beneath the conflict she had to

maintain, when a sudden revolution in Lady Juliana's plans caused also a

revolution in her sentiments. This was occasioned by a letter from

Adelaide, now Lady Lindore. It was evidently written under the influence

of melancholy and discontent; and, as Lady Emily said, nothing could be

a stronger proof of poor Adelaide's wretchedness than her expressing a

wish that her mother should join her in the South of France, where she

was going on account of her health.

Adelaide was indeed one of the many melancholy proofs of the effects of

headstrong passions and perverted principles. Lord Lindore had married

her from a point of honour; and although he possessed too much

refinement to treat her ill, yet his indifference was not the less

cutting to a spirit haughty as hers. Like many others, she had vainly

imagined that, in renouncing virtue itself for the man she loved, she

was for ever ensuring his boundless gratitude and adoration; and she

only awoke from her delusive dream to find herself friendless in a

foreign land, an outcast from society, an object of indifference even to

him for whom she had abandoned all.

But Lady Juliana would see nothing of all this. She was charmed at what

she termed this proof of her daughter's affection, in wishing to have

her with her; and the prospect of going abroad seemed like a vision of

paradise to her. Instant preparations were made for her departure, and

in the bustle attendant on them, Mary and her affairs sank into utter

insignificance. Indeed, she seemed rather anxious to get her disposed of

in any way that might prevent her interfering with her own plans; and a

consent to her marriage, such as it was, was easily obtained.

"Marry whom you please," said she; "only remember I am not responsible

for the consequences. I have always told you what a wretched thing a

love-marriage is, therefore you are not to blame me for your future

misery."

Mary readily subscribed to the conditions; but, as she embraced her

mother at parting, she timidly whispered a hope that she would ever

consider her house as her home. A smile of contempt was the only reply

she received, and they parted never more to meet. Lady Juliana found

foreign manners and principles too congenial to her tastes ever to return

to Britain.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

"O most gentle Jupiter! what tedious homily of love have

you wearied your parishioners withal, and never cried,

_Have patience, good people!"_

_As You Like it._

THE only obstacle to her union thus removed, Mary thought she might now

venture to let her Aunt Grizzy into the secret; and accordingly, with

some little embarrassment, she made the disclosure of the mutual

attachment subsisting between Colonel Lennox and herself. Grizzy

received the communication with all the astonishment which ladies

usually experience upon being made acquainted with a marriage which they

had not had the prescience to foresee and foretell--or even one which

they had; for, common and natural as the event seems to be, it is one

which perhaps in no instance ever took place without occasioning the

greatest amazement to some one individual or another; and it will also

be generally found that either the good or the bad fortune of one or

other of the parties is the subject of universal wonder. In short, a

marriage which excites no surprise, pity, or indignation, must be

something that has never yet been witnessed on the face of this round

world. It is greatly to be feared none of my readers will sympathise in

the feelings of the good spinster on this occasion, as she poured them

forth in the following _extempore_ or _improvisatorial_ strain:-

"Well, Mary, I declare I'm perfectly confounded with all you have been

telling me! I'm sure I never heard the like of it! It seems but the

t'other day since you began your sampler; and it looks just

like yesterday since your father and mother were married. And such a work

as there was at your nursing! I'm sure your poor grandfather was out of

all patience about it. And now to think that you are going to be

married! not but what it's a thing we all expected, for there's no doubt

England's the place for young women to get husbands--we always said

that, you know; not but what I dare say you might have been married,

too, if you had stayed in the Highlands, and to a real Highlander, too,

which, of course, would have been still better for us all; for it will

be a sad thing if you are obliged to stay in England, Mary; but I hope

there's no chance of that: you know Colonel Lennox can easily sell his

place, and buy an estate in the Highlands. There's a charming property,

I know, to be sold just now, that _marches_ with Glenfern. To be sure

it's on the wrong side of the hill--there's no denying that; but then,

there's I can't tell you how many thousand acres of fine muir for

shooting, and I daresay Colonel Lennox is a keen sportsman; and they say

a great deal of it might be very much improved. We must really inquire

after it, Mary, and you must speak to Colonel Lennox about it, for you

know such a property as that may be snapped up in a minute."

Mary assented to all that was said; and Grizzy proceeded--

"I wonder you never brought Colonel Lennox to see us, Mary. I'm sure he

must think it very odd. To be sure, Sir Sampson's situation is some

excuse; but at any rate I wonder you never spoke about him. We all found

out your Aunt Bella's attachment from the very first, just from her

constantly speaking about Major M'Tavish and the militia; and we had a

good guess of Betsy's too, from the day her face turned so red after

giving Captain M'Nab for her toast; but you have really kept yours very

close, for I declare I never once suspected such a thing. I wonder if

that was Colonel Lennox that I saw you part with at the door one

day--tall, and with brown hair, and a bluecoat. I asked Lady Maclaughlan

if she knew who it was, and she said it was Admiral Benbow; but I think

she must have been mistaken, for I daresay now it was just Colonel

Lennox. Lennox--I'm sure I should be able to remember something about

somebody of that name; but my memory's not so good as it used to be, for

I have so many things, you know, to think about, with Sir Sampson, that

I declare sometimes my head's quite confused; yet I think always there's

something about them. I wish to goodness Lady Maclaughlan was come from

the dentist's, that I might consult her about it; for of course, you'll

do nothing without consulting all your friends--I know you've too much

sense for that. An here's Sir Sampson coming; it will be a fine piece of

news to tell him."

Sir Sampson having been now wheeled in by the still active Philistine,

and properly arranged with the assistance of Miss Grizzy, she took her

usual station by the side of his easy chair, and began to shout into his

ear.

"Here's my niece Mary, Sir Sampson; you remember her when she was

little, I daresay--you know you used to call her the fairy of

Lochmarlie; and I'm sure we all thought for long she would have been a

perfect fairy, she was so little; but she's tall enough now, you see,

and she's going to be married to a fine young man. None of us know him

yet, but I think I must have seen him; and at any rate I'm to see him

to-morrow, and you'll see him too, Sir Sampson, for Mary is to bring him

to call here, and he'll tell you all about the battle of Waterloo, and

the Highlanders; for he's half a Highlander too, and I'm certain he'll buy

the Dhuanbog estate, and then, when my niece Mary marries Colonel

Lennox--"

"Lennox!" repeated Sir Sampson, his little dim eyes kindling at the

name--"Who talks of Lennox I--I--I won't suffer it. Where's my Lady?

Lennox!--he's a scoundrel! You shan't marry a Lennox!" Turning to

Grizzy, "Call Philistine, and my Lady." And his agitation was so great

that even Grizzy, although accustomed for forty years to witness similar

ebullitions, became alarmed.

"You see it's all for fear of my marrying," whispered she to Mary.

"I'm sure such a disinterested attachment, it's impossible for me

ever to repay it!"

Then turning to Sir Sampson, she sought to soothe his perturbation by

oft-repeated assurances that it was not her but her niece Mary that was

going to be married to Colonel Lennox. But in vain; Sir Sampson

quivered, and panted, and muttered; and the louder Grizzy screamed out

the truth the more his irritation increased. Recourse was now had to

Philistine; and Mary, thoroughly ashamed of the éclat attending

the disclosure of her secret, and finding she could be of no use, stole

away in the midst of Miss Grizzy's endless _verbiage_, but as she

descended the stairs she still heard the same assurance resounding--"I

can assure you, Sir Sampson, it's not me, but my niece Mary that's going

to be married to Colonel Lennox," etc.

On returning to Beech Park she said nothing of what had passed either to

Lady Emily or Colonel Lennox--aware of the amusement it would furnish to

both; and she felt that her aunt required all the dignity with which she

could invest her before presenting her to her future nephew. The only

delay to her marriage now rested with herself; but she was desirous it

should take place under the roof which had sheltered her infancy, and

sanctioned by the presence of those whom she had ever regarded as her

parents. Lady Emily, Colonel Lennox, and her brother had all endeavoured

to combat this resolution, but in vain; and it was therefore settled

that she should remain to witness the union of her brother and her

cousin, and then return to Lochmarlie. But all Mary's preconceived plans

were threatened with a downfall by the receipt of the following letter

from Miss Jacky:--

GLENFERN CASTLE, ---SHIRIE, _June_ 19, 181--.

"It _is_ impossible for _language_ to express to _you_ the _shame,_

grief, amazement, and _indignation,_ with _which_ we are _all_ filled at

the distressing, the _ignominious_ disclosure that has _just_ taken

_place_ concerning you, _through_ our most _excellent_ friend Miss P.

M'Pry. Oh, Mary, _how_ have you _deceived_ us all!!! What a _dagger

_have _you_ plunged into _all_ our hearts! Your _poor _Aunt _Grizzy!_

how my _heart_ bleeds _for_ her! What a difficult part _has_ she to

act! and at her _time_ of life! with her acute _feelings!_ with her

devoted _attachment _to the _house_ of M'Laughlan! What a _blow!_ and a

_blow _from your _hand!_ Oh, Mary, I _must_ again repeat, how _have_ you

deceived us _all_!!! Yet _do_ not imagine I mean to _reproach_ you!

Much, much of the blame is _doubtless _imputable to the errors of _your_

education! At the _same _time, even these _offer_ no justification of

your _conduct _upon the present occasion! You are now (I lament to say

it!) _come_ to that time of _life_ when _you_ ought to know _what_ is

right; or, where you entertain _any_ doubts, you ought _most_

unquestionably to _apply_ to those _who_, you _may_ be certain, _are_

well qualified to direct you. _But,_ instead _of_ that, you have

_pursued_ a diametrically opposite _plan:_ a plan which _might_ have

_ended_ in your destruction! Oh, Mary, _I_ cannot too _often _repeat,

how have _you_ deceived us all!!! From no _lips _but those of Miss M'Pry

_would_ I have believed _what_ I have heard, videlicet, that you (oh,

Mary!) have, for many, many months _past,_ been carrying on a

clandestine _correspondence _with a _young_ man, unknown, unsuspected by

_all_ your friends here! and that _young_ man, the very _last_ man on

the face of the _earth_ whom you, or any of _us,_ ought to have given

our countenance _to!_ The very man, in _short,_ whom we were all

_bound,_ by every _principle_ of duty, gratitude, and esteem, to have

shunned, and who you are _bound, _from this _moment,_ to renounce for

ever. How you ever _came _to be acquainted _with_ Colonel Charles Lennox

of Rose Hall is a mystery none of us can fathom; but surely the person,

_whoever _it was that _brought_ it about, has much, _much_ to answer

for! Mrs. Douglas (to whom I _thought_ it proper to _make _an immediate

_communication_ on the subject) pretends to _have_ been well informed of

all that has _been_ going on, and even insists that _your_ acquaintance

_with_ the Lennox family _took_ place through Lady M'Laughlan! _But_

that we _all_ know to be _morally_ impossible. Lady M'Laughlan is the

_very_ last person in the _world_ who would have _introduced_ you, or

any _young_ creature for whom she had the _slightest_ regard, to a

Lennox, the _mortal enemy of the M'Laughlan race!_ I most _sincerely_

trust she is spared the _shock_ we have all experienced at this painful

_disclosure. _With her _high_ principles, and _great_ regard for us, I

tremble to think _what_ might be the consequences! And dear Sir Sampson,

in his delicate state, how _would_ he ever be able to _stand_ such a

blow! and a blow, too, from your _hand,_ Mary! you, who he _was_ always

_like_ a father to! _Many_ a time, I am sure, _have_ you sat upon his

_knee,_ and you certainly _cannot_ have forgot the _elegant_ Shetland

pony he presented you _with_ the day you was five _years_ old! And

_what_ a return for such favours!

"But I fondly trust it _is_ not yet too late. You have _only_ to give up

this unworthy attachment, and all _will_ be forgotten and _forgiven_;

and we will all receive you as if _nothing_ had happened. Oh, Mary! I

must, for the last _time_ repeat, how have you deceived us _all_!

"I am your distressed aunt,

"JOAN DOUGLAS.

P.S.--I conclude abruptly, in _order_ to leave _room_ for your Aunt Nicky

to _state_ her sentiments also on this _most_ afflicting subject."

Nicky's appendix was as follows:--

"DEAR MARY--Jacky has read her letter to us. It is most excellent. We

are all much affected by it. Not a word but deserves to be printed. I

can add nothing. You see, if you marry Colonel L. none of us can be at

your marriage. How could we? I hope you will think twice about it.

Second thoughts are best. What's done cannot be undone. Yours,

"N. D."

Mary felt somewhat in the situation of the sleeper awakened, as she

perused these mysterious anathemas; and rubbed her eyes more than once

in hopes of dispelling the mist that she thought must needs be upon

them. But in vain: it seemed only to increase with every effort she made

to remove it. Not a single ray of light fell on the palpable obscure of

Miss Jacky's composition, that could enable her to penetrate the dark

profound that encompassed her. She was aware, indeed, that when her aunt

meant to be pathetic or energetic she always had recourse to the longest

and the strongest words she could possibly lay her hands upon; and Mary

had been well accustomed to hear her childish faults and juvenile

indiscretions denounced in the most awful terms as crimes of the deepest

dye. Many an exordium she had listened to on the tearing of her frock,

or the losing of her glove, that might have served as a preface to the

"Newgate Calendar," "Colquhoun on the Police," or any other register of

crimes. Still she had always been able to detect some clue to her own

misdeeds; but here even conjecture was baffled, and in vain she sought

for some resting-place for her imagination, in the probable misdemeanour

of her lover. But even allowing all possible latitude for Jacky's pen,

she was forced to acknowledge there must be some ground for her aunt to

build upon. Superficial as her structures generally were, like

children's card-houses, they had always something to rest upon; though

(unlike them) her creations were invariably upon a gigantic scale.

Mary had often reflected with surprise that, although Lady Maclauglan

had been the person to introduce her to Mrs. Lennox, no intercourse had

taken place between the families themselves; and when she had mentioned

them to each other Mrs. Lennox had only sighed, and Lady Maclaughlan had

humphed. She despaired of arriving at the knowledge of the truth from

her aunts. Grizzy's brain was a mere wisp of contradictions; and Jacky's

mind was of that violent hue that cast its own shade upon every object

that came in contact with it. To mention the matter to Colonel Lennox

was only to make the relations ridiculous; and, in short, although it

was a formidable step, the result of her deliberation was to go to

Lady Maclaughlan, and request a solution of her aunt's dark sayings. She

therefore departed for Milsom Street, and, upon entering the

drawing-room, found Grizzy alone, and evidently in even more than usual

perturbation.

"Oh, Mary!" cried she, as her niece entered, "I'm sure I'm thankful

you're come. I was just wishing for you. You can't think how much

mischief your yesterday's visit has done. It's a thousand pities, I

declare, that ever you said a word about your marriage to Sir Sampson.

But of course I don't mean to blame you, Mary. You know you couldn't

help it; so don't vex yourself, for you know that will not make the

thing any better now. Only if Sir Sampson should die--to be sure I must

always think it was that that killed him; and I'm sure it at will soon

kill me too-such a friend--oh, Mary!" Here a burst of grief choked poor

Miss Grizzy's utterance.

"My dear aunt," said Mary, "you certainly must be mistaken. Sir Sampson

seems to retain no recollection of me. It is therefore impossible that I

could cause him any pain or agitation."

"Oh certainly!" said Grizzy. "There's no doubt Sir Sampson has quite

forgot you, Mary--and no wonder-with your being so long away; but I

daresay he'll come to know you yet. But I'm sure I hope to goodness

he'll never know you as Mrs. Lennox, Mary. That would break his heart

altogether; for you know the Lennoxes have always been the greatest

enemies of the Maclaughlans,--and of course Sir Sampson can't bear

anybody of the name, which is quite natural. And it was very thoughtless

in me to have forgot that till Philistine put me in mind of it, and poor

Sir Sampson has had a very bad night; so I'm sure I hope, Mary, you'll

never think any more about Colonel Lennox; and, take my word for it,

you'll get plenty of husbands yet. Now, since there's a peace, there

will be plenty of fine young officers coming home. There's young

Balquhadan, a captain, I know, in some regiment; and there's

Dhalahulish, and Lochgrunason, and--" But Miss Grizzy's ideas here shot

out into so many ramifications upon so many different branches of the

county tree, that it would be in vain for any but a true Celt to attempt

to follow her.

Mary again tried to lead her back to the subject of the Lennoxes, in

hopes of being able to extract some spark of knowledge from the dark

chaos of her brain.

"Oh, I'm sure, Mary, if you want to hear about that, I can tell you

plenty about the Lennoxes; or at any rate about the Maclaughlans, which

is the same thing. But I must first find my huswife."

To save Miss Grizzy's reminiscence, a few words will suffice to clear up

the mystery. A family feud of remote origin had long subsisted between

the families of Lennox and Maclaughlan, which had been carefully

transmitted from father to son, till the hereditary brand had been

deposited in the breast of Sir Sampson. By the death of many intervening

heirs General Lennox, then a youth, was next in succession to the

Maclaughlan estate; but the power of alienating it was vested in Sir

Sampson, as the last remaining heir of the entail. By the mistaken zeal

of their friends both were, at an early period, placed in the same

regiment, in the hope that constant as association together would

quickly destroy their mutual prejudices, and produce a reconciliation.

But the inequalities were too great ever to assimilate. Sir Sampson

possessed a large fortune, a deformed person, and a weak, vain,

irritable mind. General (then Ensign) Lennox had no other patrimony than

his sword--a handsome person, high spirit, and dauntless courage. With

these tempers, it may easily be conceived that a thousand trifling

events occurred to keep alive the hereditary animosity. Sir Sampson's

mind expected from his poor kinsman a degree of deference and respect

which the other, so far from rendering, rather sought opportunities of

showing his contempt for, and of thwarting and ridiculing him upon every

occasion, till Sir Sampson was obliged to quit the regiment. From that

time it was understood that all bearing the name of Lennox were for ever

excluded from the succession to the Maclaughlan estates; and it was

deemed a sort of petty treason even to name the name of a Lennox in

presence of this dignified chieftain.

Many years had worn away, and Sir Sampson had passed through the various

modifications of human nature, from the "mewling infant" to "mere

oblivion," without having become either wiser or better. His mind

remained the same--irascible and vindictive to the last. Lady

Maclaughlan had too much sense to attempt to reason or argue him out of

his prejudices, but she contrived to prevent him from ever executing a

new entail. She had known and esteemed both General and Mrs. Lennox

before her marriage with Sir Sampson, and she was too firm and decided

in her predilections ever to abandon them; and while she had the credit

of sharing in all her husband's animosity, she was silently protecting

the lawful rights of those who had long ceased to consider them as such.

General Lennox had always understood that he and his family were under

Sir Sampson's _ban_, and he possessed too high a spirit ever to express

a regret, or even allude to the circumstances. It had therefore made a

very faint impression on the minds of any of his family, and in the long

lapse of years had been almost forgot by Mrs. Lennox, till recalled by

Lady Maclaughlan's letter. But she had been silent on the subject to

Mary; for she could not conceal from herself that her husband had been

to blame--that the heat and violence of his temper had often led him to

provoke and exasperate where mildness and forbearance would have soothed

and conciliated, without detracting from his dignity; but her gentle

heart shrank from the task of unnecessarily disclosing the faults of

the man she had loved; and then she heard Mary talk with rapture of the

wild beauties of Lochmarlie, she had only sighed to think that the pride

and prejudice of others had alienated the inheritance of her son.

But all this Mary was still in ignorance of, for Miss Grizzy had gone

completely astray in the attempt to trace the rise and progress of the

Lennox and Maclaughlan feud. Happily Lady Maclauglan's entrance

extricated her from her labyrinth, as it as the signal for her to repair

to Sir Sampson. Mary, in some little confusion, was beginning to express

to her Ladyship regret at hearing that Sir Sampson had been so unwell,

when she was stopped.

"My dear child, don't learn to tell lies. You don't care two pence for

Sir Sampson. I know all. You are going to be married to Charles Lennox.

I'm glad of it. I wished you to marry him. Whether you'll thank me for

that twenty years hence, _I_ can't tell--you can't tell--he can't

tell--God knows--humph! Your aunts will tell you he is Beelzebub,

because his father said he could make a Sir Sampson out of a mouldy

lemon. Perhaps he could. I don't know but your aunts are fools. You know

what fools are, and so do I. There are plenty of fools in the world; but

if they had not been sent for some wise purpose they wouldn't have been

here; and since they are here they have as good a right to have

elbow-room in the world as the wisest. Sir Sampson hated General Lennox

because he laughed at him; and if Sir Sampson had lived a hundred years

ago, his hatred might have been a fine thing to talk about now. It is

the same passion that makes heroes of your De Montforts, and your

Manuels, and your Corsairs, and all the rest of them; but they wore

cloaks and daggers, and these are the supporters of hatred. Everybody

laughs at the hatred of a little old man in a cocked hat. You may laugh

too. So now, God bless you! Continue as you are, and marry the man you

like, though the world should set its teeth against you. 'Tis not

every woman can be trusted to do that--farewell!" And with a cordial

salute they parted.

Mary was too well accustomed to Lady Maclaughlan's style not to

comprehend that her marriage with Colonel Lennox was an event she had

long wished for and now most warmly sanctioned; and she hastened home to

convey the glad tidings in a letter to her aunts, though doubtful if the

truth itself would be able to pierce its way through their prejudices.

Another stroke of palsy soon rendered Sir Sampson unconscious even to

the charms of Grizzy's conversation, and as she was no longer of use to

him, and was evidently at a loss how to employ herself, Mary proposed

that she should accompany her back to Lochmarlie, to which she yielded a

joyful assent. Once convinced of Lady Maclaughlan's approbation of her

niece's marriage she could think and talk of nothing else.

Some wise individuals have thought that most people act from the

inspiration of either a good or an evil power: to which class Miss

Grizzy belonged would have puzzled the most profound metaphysician to

determine. She was, in fact, a Maclaughlanite; but to find the _root_ of

Maclaughlan is another difficulty--thought is lost.

Colonel Lennox, although a little startled at his first introduction to

his future aunt, soon came to understand the _naiveté_ of her

character; and his enlarged mind and good temper made such ample

allowance for her weaknesses, that she protested, with tears in her

eyes, she never knew the like of him--she never could think enough of

him. She wished to goodness Sir Sampson was himself again, and could

only see him; she was sure he would think just as she did, etc. etc.

etc.

The day of Lady Emily's marriage arrived, and found her in a more

serious mood than she had hitherto appeared in; though it seemed

doubtful whether it was most occasioned by her own prospects or the

thoughts of parting with Mary, who with Aunt Grizzy, was to set off for

Lochmarlie immediately after witnessing the ceremony. Edward and his

bride would fain have accompanied her; but Lord Courtland was too much

accustomed to his daughter and amused by his nephew to bear their

absence, and they therefore yielded the point, though with reluctance.

"This is all for want of a little opposition to have braced my nerves,"

said Lady Emily, as she dropped a few tears. "I verily believe I should

have wept outright had I not happily descried Dr. Redgill shrugging his

shoulders at me; that has given a filip to my spirits. After all, 'tis

perhaps a foolish action I've committed. The icy bonds of matrimony are

upon me already; I feel myself turning into a fond, faithful, rational,

humble, meek-spirited wife! Alas! I must now turn my head into a museum,

and hang up all my smart sayings inside my brain, there to petrify, as

warnings to all pert misses. Dear Mary! if ever I am good for anything,

it will be to you I owe it!"

Mary could only embrace her cousin in silence, as she parted from her

brother and her with the deepest emotion, and, assisted by Colonel

Lennox (who was to follow), took her station by the side of her aunt.

"I wish you a pleasant journey, Miss Mary," cried Dr. Redgill. "The game

season is coming on, and--" But the carriage drove off; and the rest of

the sentence was dispersed by the wind; and all that could be collected

was, "grouse always acceptable--friends at a distance--roebuck stuffed

with heather carries well at all times," etc. etc.

To one less practised in her ways, and less gifted with patience, the

eternal babbling of Aunt Grizzy as a travelling companion would have

occasioned considerable ennui, if not spleen. There are perhaps few

greater trials of temper than that of travelling with a person who

thinks it necessary to be actively pleasant, without a moment's

intermission, from the rising till the setting sun. Grizzy was upon this

fatal plan, the rock of thousands! Silence she thought synonymous with

low spirits; and she talked, and wondered, and exclaimed incessantly,

and assured Mary she need not be uneasy, she was certain Colonel Lennox

would follow very soon; she had not the least doubt of that. She would

not be surprised if he Was to be at Lochmarlie almost as soon as

themselves; at any rate very soon after them.

But even these little torments were forgot by Mary when she found

herself again in her native land. The hills, the air, the waters, the

people, even the _peat-stacks_, had a charm that touched her heart,

and brought tears into her eyes as they pictured home. But her feelings

arose to rapture when Lochmarlie burst upon her view in all the

grandeur, beauty, and repose of a setting sun, shedding its farewell

rays of gold and purple, and tints of such matchless hue, as no pencil

ere can imitate--no poet's pen describe. Rocks, woods, hills, and

waters, all shone with a radiance that seemed of more than earthly

beauty. "Oh, there are moments in life, keen, blissful, never to be

forgotten!" and such was the moment to Mary when the carriage stopped,

and she again heard the melody of that voice familiar from infancy--and

looked on the face known with her being--and was pressed to that heart

where glowed a parent's love!

When Mary recovered from the first almost _agonising_ transports of joy,

she marked with delight the increased animation and cheerfulness visible

in Mrs. Douglas. All the livelier feelings of her warm heart had indeed

been excited and brought into action by the spirit and playfulness of

her little boy, and the increased happiness of her husband; while all

her uneasiness respecting her former lover was now at an end. She had

heard from himself that he had married, and was happy. Without being

guilty of inconstancy, such are the effects of time upon mutable human

nature!

Colonel Lennox lost no time in arriving to claim his promised bride; and

Mary's happiness was complete when she found her own choice so warmly

approved of by the friends she loved.

The three aunts and their unmarried nieces, now the sole inhabitants of

Glenfern Castle, were not quite decided in their opinions at first. Miss

Jacky looked with a suspicious eye upon the _mortal enemy of the

Maclaughlan race;_ but, upon better acquaintance, his gaiety and

good-humour contrived to charm asleep even her good sense and

prejudices, and she pronounced him to be a pleasant, well-informed young

man, who gave himself no airs, although he certainly had rather a high

look.

Nicky doubted, from his appearance, that he would be nice, and she

had no patience with nice men; but Nicky's fears vanished when she saw,

as she expressed it, "how pleasantly he ate the sheep's head, although

he had never seen one in his life before."

The younger ladies thought Captain M'Nab had a finer complexion, and

wondered whether Colonel Lennox (like him) would be dressed in full

regimentals at his marriage.

But, alas! "all earthly good still blends itself with harm," for on the

day of Mary's marriage--a day consecrated to mirth, and bride-cake, and

wedding favors, and marriage presents, and good cheer, and reels, and

revelry, and bagpipes--on that very day, when the marriage ceremony was

scarcely over, arrived the accounts of the death of Sir Sampson

Maclaughlan! But on this joyous day even Grizzy's tears did not flow so

freely as they would have done at another time; and she declared that

although it was impossible anybody could feel more than she did, yet

certainly it would not be using Colonel and Mrs. Lennox well to be very

distressed upon such an occasion; and there was no doubt but she would

have plenty of time to be sorry about it yet, when they were all sitting

quietly by themselves, with nothing else in their heads; though, to be

sure, they must always think what a blessing it was that Colonel Lennox

was to succeed.

"I wish he may ever fill Sir Sampson's shoes!" said Miss Nicky, with a

sigh.

"Colonel Lennox cannot propose a better model to himself than Sir

Sampson Maclaughlan," said Miss Jacky. "He has left him a noble example

of propriety, frugality, hospitality, and respectability; and, above

all, of forgiveness of his mortal enemies."

"Oh, Mary!" exclaimed Miss Grizzy, as they were about to part with their

niece, "what a lucky creature you are! Never, I am sure, did any young

person set out in life with such advantages. To think of your succeeding

to Lady Maclaughlan's laboratory, all so nicely fitted up with every

kind of thing, and especially plenty of the most charming bark, which,

I'm sure, will do Colonel Lennox the greatest good, as you know all

officers are much the better of bark. I know it was the saving of young

Ballingall's life, when he came home in an ague from some place; and I'm

certain Lady Maclaughlan will leave you everything that is there, you

was always such a favourite. Not but what I must always think that you

had a hand in dear Sir Sampson's death. Indeed, I have no doubt of it.

Yet, at the same time, I don't mean to blame you in the least; for I'm

certain, if Sir Sampson had been spared, he would have been delighted,

as we all are, at your marriage."

Colonel and Mrs. Lennox agreed in making choice of Lochmarlie for their

future residence; and in a virtuous attachment they found as much

happiness as earth's pilgrims ever possess, whose greatest felicity must

spring from a higher source. The extensive influence which generally

attends upon virtue joined to prosperity was used by them for its best

purposes. It was not confined either to rich or poor, to caste or sect;

but all shared in their benevolence whom that benevolence could benefit.

And the poor, he sick, and the desolate, united in blessing what heaven

had already blessed--this happy Marriage.

THE END.