What a change a marriage makes--what a blank it leaves in a house! Ours
has been very dull since poor Lisa went away.
I know not why I call her "poor Lisa." She seems the gayest of the gay,
and the happiest of the happy; two characters which, by the way, are not
always identical. Her letters from Paris are full of enjoyment. Augustus
takes her everywhere, and introduces her to everybody. She was the
"belle mariée" of a ball at the British Embassy, and has been presented
to my old aversion, though he is really turning out a creditable
individual in some things; "never too late to mend," even for a Louis
Napoleon. Of course, Lisabel now thinks him "the most charming man in
the world," except Augustus.
Strange, that she should take delight in such dissipations. She, not
three weeks married. How very little she must have of her husband's
society. Now, I should think the pleasantest way of spending a honeymoon
would be to get out of everybody's way, and have a little peace and
quiet, rambling about at liberty, and looking at pretty places together.
But tastes differ; that is not Lisabel's fancy, nor was her's the sort
of marriage likely to make such a honeymoon desirable. She used to say
she should get tired of the angel Gabriel if she had him all to herself
for four mortal weeks. Possibly; I remember once making a similar
remark.
But surely that dread and weariness of two people, in being left to one
another's sole society, must apply chiefly to cases of association for
mere amusement or convenience; not to those who voluntarily bind
their lives together, "for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in
sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part;"
how solemn the words are! They thrilled me all through, on the morning
of Lisabel's marriage.
I have never set down here anything about that day. I suppose it
resembled most other wedding-days--came and went like a dream, and not a
very happy dream either. There seemed a cloud over us all.
One of the reasons was, Francis did not come: at the last minute, he
sent an apology; which was not behaving well, I thought. Nor did the
excuse seem a valid one. But it might have been a painful day to him,
and Francis is one of those sort of people--very pleasant, and not
ill-meaning people either--who like to escape pain, if possible. Still,
he might have considered that it was not likely to be the happiest of
days to Penelope herself, nor made more so by his absence;--which she
bore in perfect silence; and nobody, except Augustus, who observed,
laughingly, that it was "just like cousin Charteris," ventured any
comment on the subject.
I do not join Mrs. Granton and our Lisa in their tirades against long
engagements. I do not see why, when people are really fond of
one another, and cannot possibly be married, they should not live
contentedly betrothed for an indefinite time: it is certainly better
than living wholly apart, forlorn and hopeless, neither having towards
the other any open right, or claim, or duty. But then every betrothal
should resemble marriage itself, in its perfect confidence, patience,
and unexacting tenderness. Also, it ought never to be made so public, or
allowed to be so cruelly talked over, as this engagement of Penelope's.
Well, Francis did not appear, and everybody left earlier than we had
expected. On the marriage evening, we were quite alone; and the day
after, Rockmount was its dull self again, except the want of poor Lisa.
I still call her so--I cannot help it. We never discover the value of
things till we have lost them. Out of every corner I miss our Lisa--her
light laugh that used to seem heartless, yet was the merriest sound in
the house; her tall, handsome figure sailing in and about the rooms;
her imperturbable good-temper, which I often tried--her careless, untidy
ways, that used for ever to aggravate Penelope--down to her very follies
and flirtations, carried on to the last in spite of Augustus.
My poor Lisa! The putting away of her music from the piano, her books
from the shelf, and her clothes from the drawers, cost me as sharp an
agony as I ever had in my life. I was not half good enough to her when
I had her,--if I had her again, how different it should be. Ah, that
is what we always say, as the great shadow Time keeps advancing and
advancing, yet we always let it slip by, and we cannot make it go back
for a single hour.
Mrs. Granton and Colin came to tea to-night. Their company was a relief;
our evenings are often very dull. We sit all three together, but no
one has much sympathy with what the other is doing or thinking; as not
seldom happens in families, we each live in a distinct world of our own,
never intruded on, save when we collectively entertain visitors. Papa
asked Doctor Urquhart to dinner twice, but received an apology both
times, which rather offended him, and he says he shall not invite
him again until he has called. He ought to call, for an old man likes
attention, and is justified in exacting it.
To-night, while Mrs. Granton gossipped with papa and Penelope, Colin
talked to me. He bears Lisabel's marriage far better than I expected,
probably because he has got something to do. He told me a long story
about a row of labourers' cottages, which Doctor Urquhart advised him to
build at the corner of the moor, each with its bit of land, convertible
into a potato-field or a garden. There Colin busies himself from morning
till night, superintending, planning, building, draining, "working like
a horse," he protests, "and never enjoyed anything more in his life." He
says, he has seen a great deal of Doctor Urquhart lately, and had great
assistance from him in the matter of these cottages.
Then can he be so exceedingly occupied as not to have an hour or two for
a visit? Shame on me for the suspicion! The idea that Doctor Urquhart
would, even in a polite excuse, state a thing which was not true!
Colin is much improved. He is beginning to suspect that Colin Granton,
Esq., owner of a free estate, and twenty-seven years old, has got
something to do besides lounge about, shoot rabbits, and play billiards.
He opened up to my sympathy a long series of schemes about these
cottages: how he meant to instigate industry, cleanliness, and, indeed,
all the cardinal virtues, by means of cottagers' prizes for tidy houses,
well-kept gardens, and the best brought-up and largest families. He will
never be clever, poor Colin! but he may be a most useful character in
the county, and he has the kindest heart in the world. By the way, he
told me in his ultra-simple fashion, that somebody had informed him one
of the Rockmount young ladies said so! I felt myself grow hot to the
ears, which exceedingly astonished Colin.
Altogether, a not unpleasant evening. But oh, moon!--whom I saw making
cross-panes on the carpet, when I came in--it was not like the evenings
a month ago, when Lisabel was at home.
I think women, as well as men, require something to do. I wish I had it;
it would do me as much good as it has done Colin. I am beginning to fear
I lead a wretchedly idle life: all young ladies at home do, it seems,
except perhaps the eldest sister, if she chances to be such a woman
as our Penelope. Why cannot I help Penelope? Mrs. Granton took it for
granted that I do; that I shall be the greatest comfort and assistance
to Miss Johnston, now Miss Lisabel is gone.
I am not, the least in the world! which I would fain have explained,
only mere friends can never understand the ins and outs of a family. If
I offered to assist her in the house, how Penelope would stare! Or
even in her schools and parish--but that I cannot do. Teaching is to
me perfectly intolerable. The moment I have to face two dozen pairs
of round eyes, every particle of sense takes flight, and I become the
veriest of cowards, ready to sink through the floor. The same, too,
in district visiting. What business have I, because I happen to be the
clergyman's daughter, to go lifting the latch, and poking about poor
people's houses, obliging them to drop me curtseys, and receive civilly
my tracts and advice--which they neither read nor follow; and might be
none the better for it if they did?
Yet this may be only my sophistries for not doing what I so heartily
dislike. Others do it--and successfully: take by storm the poor folks'
hearts, and, what is better, their confidence; never enter without a
welcome, and depart without a blessing; as, for instance, Dr. Urquhart.
Mrs. Granton was telling about his doings among the poor families down
with fever and ague, near the camp, at Moor-edge.
Why cannot I do the same good? not so much, of course, but just a
little? Why can not somebody show me how to do it?
No, I am not worthy. My quarter-century of-life has been of no more
use to myself or any human creature than that fly's which my fire has
stirred up to a little foolish buzzing in the window-curtain, before it
drops and dies. I might drop down and die in the same manner, leaving no
better memorial.
There--I hear Penelope in her room fidgetting about her drawers, and
scolding the housemaid--she is always taking juvenile incompetent
housemaids out of her village school, teaching and lecturing them for
a twelvemonth, and then grumbling because they leave her. Yet, this
is doing good: sometimes, they come back and thank her for having made
capital servants of them; and very seldom, indeed, does such a case
happen, as pretty, silly Lydia Cartwright's, who went up to London and
never came back any more.
My dear sister Penelope, who, except in company, hardly has a civil
word for anybody--Francis excepted:--Penelope, who has managed the
establishment ever since she was a girl of sixteen; has kept the house
comfortable, and maintained the credit of the family to the
world without,--truly, with all your little tempers, sneers, and
crabbednesses, you are worth a dozen of your sister Theodora.
I wonder if Doctor Urquhart thinks so. He looked at her closely, more
than once, when we were speaking about Francis. He and she would have
many meeting points of interest, if they only knew it, and talked much
together. She is not very sweet to him, but that would not matter; he
only values people for what they are, and not for the manner in which
they behave to himself. Perhaps, if they were better acquainted,
Penelope might prove a better friend for him than the "little lady."
"Little lady!" that is just such a name as one would give to an idle,
useless butterfly-creature, of no value but as an amusement, a plaything
of leisure-hours; in time of business or care to be altogether set aside
and forgotten.
Does he think me that? If he does--why, let him.
A fine proof of how dull Rockmount is, and how little I have to write
about when I go on scribbling such trivialities as these. If no better
subjects can be found, I shall give up my journal. Meantime, I intend
next week to begin a serious course of study, in history, Latin and
German, for the latter, instead of desultory reading, I shall try
written translations, probably from my favourite, Wallenstein.--To
think that anybody should have been ignorant even of the name of Max
Piccolomini! He always was my ideal of a hero,--faithful, trustful,
brave, and infinitely loving; yet able to renounce love itself for the
sake of conscience.--And then, once a-week I shall have a long letter to
write to Lisabel--I who never had a regular correspondence in my life.
It will be almost as good as Penelope's with Francis Char-teris.
At last, I hear Penelope dismiss her maiden, bolt the door, and settle
for the night. When, for a wonder, she finds herself alone and quiet,
with nothing to do, and nobody to lecture,--I wonder what Penelope
thinks about? Is it Francis? Do people in their position always think
about one another the last thing? Probably. When all the day's cares and
pleasures are ended, and the rest of the world shut out, the heart would
naturally turn to the only one in whom, next to Heaven, is its real
rest, its best comfort, closer than either friend, or brother, or sister
--less another person than half itself?
No sentiment! Go to bed, Theodora.