Marriage Part 45

"And such as I do feel, and will always feel, for my Edward," said Lady Emily. "But there is the dressing-bell!" And she flew off, singing--

"To keep one sacred flame," etc.

CHAPTER XV.

"Some, when they write to their friends, are all affection; Some are wise and sententious; some strain their powers for efforts of gaiety; some write news, and some write secrets--but to make a letter without affection, without wisdom, without gaiety, without news, and without a secret, is doubtless the great epistolic art. "-DR. JOHNSON.

AN unusual length of time had elapsed since Mary had heard from Glenfern, and she was beginning to feel some anxiety on account of her friends there, when her apprehensions were dispelled by the arrival of a large packet, containing letters from Mrs. Douglas and Aunt Jacky. The former, although the one that conveyed the greatest degree of pleasure, was perhaps not the one that would be most acceptable to the reader.

Indeed, it is generally admitted that the letters of single ladies are infinitely more lively and entertaining than those of married ones--a fact which can neither be denied nor accounted for. The following is a faithful transcript from the original letter in question;--

"GLENFERN CASTLE, ---s.h.i.+RE, N.B. _Feb. 19th,_ 18--.

"My DEAR MARY--Yours was _received_ with _much_ pleasure, as it is _always_ a satisfaction to your friends _here_ to know that you are _well_ and doing _well._ We all _take_ the most _sincere_ interest in your _health,_ and also in your _improvements_ in other _respects._ But I am _sorry_ to say they do not quite _keep_ pace with _our_ expectations. I must therefore _take_ this opportunity of _mentioning_ to you a _fault_ of yours, _which,_ though a very great _one _in itself, is one _that_ a very slight _degree_ of attention on your _part,_ will, I have _no_ doubt, enable you to _get_ entirely the _better of._ is fortunate for _you,_ my dear Mary, that you have _friends_ who are always ready to point _out_ your errors to you. For _want_ of that _most_ invaluable _blessing,_ viz. a sincere _friend, _many a _one_ has gone out of the _world,_ no wiser in many _respects,_ than when they _came_ into it. But that, I flatter _myself,_ will not be your _case,_ as you cannot _but_ be sensible of the great _pains_ my sister and I have _taken_ to point out your _faults_ to you from the _hour _of your birth. The _one_ to which I particularly _allude _at present is, the constant omission of _proper_ dates to your _letters,_ by which means we are all of us very often _brought_ into _most_ unpleasant _situations._ As an _instance_ of it, our _worthy_ minister, Mr M'Drone, happened to be _calling_ here the very _day_ we received your last _letter._ After _hearing_ it read, he most _naturally_ inquired the date of it; and I _cannot_ tell you how _awkward_ we all _felt_ when we were _obliged_ to confess it had _none!_ And since I am _upon_ that subject, I think it much _better_ to tell you candidly that I _do_ not think your _hand_ of write by any _means_ improved. It does not _look_ as if you _bestowed_ that pains upon it which you _undoubtedly_ ought to do; for without _pains,_ I can a.s.sure you, Mary, you _will_ never do any _thing_ well.

As our admirable _grandmother,_ good Lady Girnachgowl, _used_ to say, pains _makes_ gains; and so it was _seen_ upon her; for it was entirely _owing_ to her _pains_ that the Girnachgowl estate was relieved, and _came_ to be what it is now, viz. a most valuable and _highly_ productive _property._

"I know there are _many_ young _people_ who are very _apt _to think it _beneath_ them to take _pains;"_ but I sincerely trust, my dear Mary, you have _more_ sense than to be so very _foolish._ Next to a good distinct _hand_ of write, and _proper_ stops (which I observe you never _put),_ the thing _most_ to be attended to is your style, _which_ we all think might _be_ greatly _improved_ by a _little _reflection on your _part,_ joined to a _few_ judicious _hints_ from your friends. We are _all_ of opinion, that your _periods_ are too short, and also _that_ your expressions are _deficient_ in dignity. _Neither_ are you sufficiently circ.u.mstantial in your _intelligence,_ even upon subjects of the highest _importance._ Indeed, upon some _subjects,_ you _communicate_ no information whatever, which is _certainly_ very extraordinary in a _young_ person, who ought to be naturally extremely communicative. Miss M'Pry, who is here upon a _visit_ to us at _present,_ is perfectly _astonished_ at the total _want_ of news in your _letters. _She has a _niece_ residing in the neighbourhood of _Bath, _who sends her regular lists of the company there, and also an _account_ of the most _remarkable_ events that take _place _there. Indeed, had it not _been_ for Patty M'Pry, we never would have _heard_ a _syllable_ of the celebrated _Lady _Travers's elopement with _Sir_ John Conquest; and, indeed, I cannot _conceal_ from you, that we have heard more as to what goes on in Lord Courtland's _family_ through Miss Patty M'Pry, than _ever_ we have heard from you, _Mary._

"In short, I _must_ plainly tell you, _however_ painful you may _feel_ it, that not one of us is ever a _whit_ the wiser after reading your _letters_ than we _were_ before. But I am _sorry_ to say this is not the _most_ serious part of the _complaint_ we have to _make_ against you.

We are all _willing_ to find excuses for you, even _upon_ these points, but I must _confess,_ your neglecting to _return_ any answers to certain inquiries of your aunts', _appears_ to me perfectly inexcusable. Of _course,_ you must _understand_ that I allude to that _letter_ of your Aunt Grizzy's, dated the 17th of December, wherein she _expressed_ a strong desire that you should endeavour to make yourself _mistress_ of Dr. Redgill's opinion with _respect_ to lumbago, as she is extremely anxious to _know_ whether he _considers_ the seat of the disorder to be in the bones or the sinews; and undoubtedly it is of the greatest _consequence_ to procure the _opinion_ of a sensible well-informed English _physician,_ upon a subject of such vital _importance._ Your Aunt Nicky, also, in a letter, _dated_ the 22d of December, requested to be _informed_ whether Lord Courtland (like our _great_ landholders) killed his own _mutton_, as Miss P. M'P. insinuates in a _letter_ to her aunt, that the _servants_ there are suspected of being _guilty_ of great _abuses_ on that _score_; but there you also _preserve_ a most unbecoming, and I own I think _somewhat mysterious silence._

"And now, my dear Mary, _having_ said all that _I_ trust is necessary to _recall_ you to a sense of _your_ duty, I _shall_ now communicate to you a _piece_ of intelligence, _which,_ I am certain, will _occasion_ you the _most _unfeigned pleasure, viz. the prospect there is of your soon _beholding_ some of your friends from this _quarter_ in Bath. Our valuable friend and _neighbour,_ Sir Sampson, has been rather (we think) worse than _better_ since you left us. He is now _deprived_ of the entire use of one leg. He _himself _calls his _complaint_ a morbid rheumatism; but Lady Maclaughlan _a.s.sures_ us it is a rheumatic palsy, and she has now _formed_ the resolution of _taking_ him _up_ to Bath early in the ensuing _spring._ And not only that, but she has most considerately _invited_ your Aunt Grizzy to accompany them, _which,_ of course, she is to do with the greatest _pleasure._ We are therefore all extremely _occupied_ in getting your aunt's things _put_ in order for such an _occasion;_ and you must _accept_ of that as an apology for none of the girls _being_ at leisure to write _you_ at present, and _likewise_ for the shortness of _this_ letter. But be a.s.sured we will all _write_ you fully by Grizzy. Meantime, all _unite_ in kind remembrance to _you._ And I _am,_ my dear Mary, your most affectionate aunt,

"JOAN DOUGLAS."

"P.S.--Upon _looking_ over your letter, I am much _struck_ with your X's. You surely _cannot_ be so ignorant as _not_ to know that a well _made x_ is neither more nor _less_ than _two c's_ joined together back to back, _instead_ of these senseless crosses you _seem_ so fond of; and as to _your z's, _I defy any _one_ to distinguish them _from_ your _y_'s.

_I trust you will _attend_ to this, and show that it _proceeds _rather from want of proper _attention_ than _from_ wilful airs.

J.

D."

"P.S.-Miss P. M'Pry _writes_ her aunt that _there_ is a strong _report _of Lord Lindore's marriage to our _niece_ Adelaide; but _we _think that is _impossible,_ as you certainly _never_ could have omitted to _inform_ us of a circ.u.mstance _which_ so deeply concerns _us._ If so, I must _own_ I shall think you quite _unpardonable._ At the _same_ time, it _appears _extremely improbable _that_ Miss M'P. _would_ have mentioned _such_ a thing to her _aunt,_without having good _grounds_ to _go_ upon.

J. D."

Mary could not entirely repress her mirth while she read this catalogue of her crimes; but she was, at the same time, eager to expiate her offences, real or imaginary, in the sight of her good old aunt; and she immediately sat down to the construction of a letter after the model prescribed;--though with little expectation of being able to cope with the intelligent Miss P. M'P. in the extent of her communications. Her heart warmed at the thoughts of seeing again the dear familiar face of Aunt Grizzy, and of hearing the tones of that voice, which, though sharp and cracked, still sounded sweet in memory's ear. Such is the power that early a.s.sociations ever retain over the kind and unsophisticated heart.

But she was aware how differently her mother would feel on the subject, as she never alluded to her husband's family but with indignation or contempt; and she therefore resolved to be silent with regard to Aunt Grizzy's prospects for the present.

CHAPTER XVI.

". . . . As in apothecaries' shops all sorts of drugs are permitted to be, so may all sorts of books be in the library; and as they out of vipers, and scorpions, and poisonous vegetables extract often wholesome medicaments for the life of mankind, so out of whatsoever book good instruction and examples may be acquired."--DRUMMOND _of Hawthornden._

MARY's thoughts had often reverted to Rose Hall since the day she had last quitted it, and she longed to fulfil her promise to her venerable friend; but a feeling of delicacy, unknown to herself, withheld her.

"She will not miss me while she has her son with her," said she to herself; but in reality she dreaded her cousin's raillery should she continue to visit there as frequently as before. At length a favourable opportunity occurred. Lady Emily, with great exultation, told her the Duke of Altamont was to dine at Beech Park the following day, but that she was to conceal it from Lady Juliana and Adelaide; "for a.s.suredly,"

said she, "if they were apprised of it, they would send you up to the nursery as a naughty girl, or perhaps down to the scullery, and make a Cinderella of you. Depend upon it you would not get leave to show your face in the drawing-room."

"Do you really think so?" asked Mary.

"I know it. I know Lady Juliana would torment you till she had set you a crying; and then she would tell you you had made yourself such a fright that you were not fit to be seen, and so order you to your own room. You know very well it would not be the first time that such a thing has happened."

Mary could not deny the fact; but, sick of idle altercation, she resolved to say nothing, but walk over to Rose Hall the following morning. And this she did, leaving a note for her cousin, apologising for her flight.

She was received with rapture by Mrs. Lennox.

"Ah! my dear Mary," said she, as she tenderly embraced her, "you know not, you cannot conceive, what a blank your absence makes in my life!

When you open your eyes in the morning, it is to see the light of day and the faces you love, and all is brightness around you. But when I wake it is still to darkness. My night knows no end. 'Tis only when I listen to your dear voice that I forget I am blind."

"I should not have stayed so long from you," said Mary, "but I knew you had Colonel Lennox with you, and I could not flatter myself you would have even a thought to bestow upon me."

"My Charles is, indeed, everything that is kind and devoted to me. He walks with me, reads to me, talks to me, sits with me for hours, and bears with all my little weaknesses as a mother would with her sick child; but still there are a thousand little feminine attentions he cannot understand. I would not that he did. And then to have him always with me seems so selfish; for, gentle and tender-hearted as he is, I know he bears the spirit of an eagle within him; and the tame monotony of my life can ill accord with the n.o.bler habits of his. Yet he says he is happy with me, and I try to make myself believe him."

"Indeed," said Mary, "I cannot doubt it. It is always a happiness to be with those we love, and whom we know love us, under any circ.u.mstances; and it is for that reason I love so much to come to my dear Mrs. Lennox," caressing her as she spoke.

"Dearest Mary, who would not love you? Oh! could I but see--could I but hope--"

"You must hope everything you desire," said Mary gaily, and little guessing the nature of her good friend's hopes; "I do nothing but hope."

And she tried to check a sigh, as she thought how some of her best hopes had been already blighted by the unkindness of those whose love she had vainly striven to win.

Mrs. Lennox's hopes were already upon her lips, when the entrance of her son fortunately prevented their being for ever destroyed by a premature disclosure. He welcomed Mary with an appearance of the greatest pleasure, and looked so much happier and more animated than when she last saw him, that she was struck with the change, and began to think he might almost stand a comparison with his picture.

"You find me still here, Miss Douglas," said he, "although my mother gives me many hints to be gone, by insinuating what indeed cannot be doubted, how very ill I supply your place; but--" turning to his mother--"you are not likely to be rid of me for sometime, as I have just received an additional leave of absence; but for that, I must have left you tomorrow."

"Dear Charles, you never told me so. How could you conceal it from me?

How wretched I should have been had I dreamed of such a thing!"

"That is the very reason for which I concealed it, and yet you reproach me. Had I told you there was a chance of my going, you would a.s.suredly have set it down for a certainty, and so have been vexed for no purpose."

"But your remaining was a chance too," said Mrs. Lennox, who could not all at once reconcile herself even to an _escape_ from danger; "and think, had you been called away from me without any preparation!-- Indeed, Charles, it was very imprudent."

"My dearest mother, I meant it in kindness. I could not bear to give you a moment's certain uneasiness for an uncertain evil. I really cannot discover either the use or the virtue of tormenting one's self by antic.i.p.ation. I should think it quite as rational to case myself in a suit of mail, by way of security to my person, as to keep my mind perpetually on the rack of antic.i.p.ating evil. I perfectly agree with that philosopher who says, if we confine ourselves to general reflections on the evils of life, _that_ can have no effect in preparing us for them; and if we bring them home to us, _that_ is the certain means of rendering ourselves miserable."

"But they will come, Charles," said his mother mournfully, "whether we bring them or not."

"True, my dear mother; but when misfortune does come, it comes commissioned from a higher power, and it will ever find a well-regulated mind ready to receive it with reverence, and submit to it with resignation. There is something, too, in real sorrow that tends to enlarge and exalt the soul; but the imaginary evils of our own creating can only serve to contract and depress it."

Mrs. Lennox shook her head. "Ah! Charles, you may depend upon it your reasoning is wrong, and you will be convinced of it some day."

"I am convinced of it already. I begin to fear this discussion will frighten Miss Douglas away from us. _There_ is an evil antic.i.p.ated! Now, do you, my dear mother, help me to avert it; where that can be done, it cannot be too soon apprehended."

As Colonel Lennox's character unfolded itself, Mary saw much to admire in it; and it is more than probable the admiration would soon have been reciprocal, had it been allowed to take its course. But good Mrs. Lennox would force it into a thousand little channels prepared by herself, and love itself must have been quickly exhausted by the perpetual demands that were made upon it. Mary would have been deeply mortified had she suspected the cause of her friend's solicitude to show her off; but she was a stranger to match-making in all its bearings, had scarcely ever read a novel in her life, and was consequently not at all aware of the necessity there was for her falling in love with all convenient speed.

She was therefore sometimes amused, though oftener ashamed, at Mrs.

Lennox's panegyrics, and could not but smile as she thought how Aunt Jacky's wrath would have been kindled had she heard the extravagant praises that were bestowed on her most trifling accomplishments.

"You must sing my favourite song to Charles, my love--he has never heard you sing. Pray do: you did not use to require any entreaty from me, Mary! Many a time you have gladdened my heart with your songs when, but for you, it would have been filled with mournful thoughts!"