Marriage Part 41

"Impossible! my perceptions are so peculiarly alive to all that is obnoxious to them that I could as soon preach my eyes into blindness, or my ears into deafness, as put down my feelings with chopping logic. If people _will_ be affected and ridiculous, why must I live in a state of warfare with myself on account of the feelings they rouse within me?"

"If people _will_ be irritable," said Mary, laughing, "why must others sacrifice their feelings to gratify them?"

"Because mine are natural feelings, and theirs are artificial. A very saint must sicken at sight of affectation, you'll allow. Vulgarity, even innate vulgarity, is bearable--stupidity itself is pardonable--but affectation is never to be endured or forgiven."

"It admits of palliation, at least," answered Mary. "I dare say there are many people who would have been pleasing and natural in their manners had not their parents and teachers interfered. There are many, I believe, who have not courage to show themselves such as they are--some who are naturally affected and many, very many, who have been taught affectation as a necessary branch of education."

"Yes--as my governesses would have taught me; but, thank heaven! I got the better of them. _Fascinating_ was what they wanted to make me; but whenever the word was mentioned, I used to knit my brows, and frown upon them in such a sort. The frown, like now, sticks by me; but no matter--a frowning brow is better than a false heart, and I defy anyone to say that I am fascinating."

"There certainly must be some fascination about you, otherwise I should never have sat so long listening to you," said Mary, as she rose from the table at which she had been a.s.sisting to dash off the at-homes.

"But you must listen to me a little longer," cried her cousin, seizing her hand to detain her. "I have not got half through my detestables yet; but to humour you, I shall let them go for the present. And now, that you mayn't suppose I am utterly insensible to excellence, you must suffer me to show you that I can and do appreciate worth when I can find it. I confess my talent lies fully as much in discovering the ridiculous as the amiable; and I am equally ready to acknowledge it is a fault, and no mark of superior wit or understanding; since it is much easier to hit off the glaring caricature line of deformity than the finer and more exquisite touches of beauty, especially for one who reads as he run---the sign-posts are sure to catch the eye. But now for my favourite--no matter for her name--it would frighten you if were you to hear it. In the first place, she is, as some of your old divines say, _hugely religious;_ 'but then she keeps her piety in its proper place, and where it ought to be--in her very soul. It is never a stumbling-block in other people's way, or interfering with other people's affairs. Her object is to _be,_ not to _seem, _religious; and there is neither hypocrisy nor austerity necessary for that. She is forbearing, without meanness--gentle, without insipidity--sincere, without rudeness. She practises all the virtues herself, and seems quite unconscious that others don't do the same. She is, if I may trust the expression of her eye, almost as much alive to the ridiculous as I am; but she is only diverted where I am provoked. She never bestows false praise even upon her friends; but a simple approval from her is of more value than the finest panegyric from another. She never finds occasion to censure or condemn the conduct of anyone, however flagrant it may be in the eyes of others; because she seems to think virtue is better expressed by her own actions than by her neighbour's vices. She cares not for admiration, but is anxious to do good and give pleasure. To sum up the whole, she could listen with patience to Lady Placid; she could bear to be advised by Mrs. Wiseacre; she could stand the scrutiny of Mrs. Downe Wright; and, hardest task of all" (throwing her arms around Mary's neck), "she can bear with all my ill-humour and impertinence."

CHAPTER X.

"Have I then no fears for thee, my _mother?_ Can I forget thy cares, from helpless years-- Thy tenderness for me? an eye still beamed With love!"

THOMPSON.

THE arrival of Lord Lindore brought a influx of visitors to Beech Park; and in the unceasing round of amus.e.m.e.nt that went on Mary found herself completely overlooked. She therefore gladly took advantage of her insignificance to pay frequent visits to Mrs. Lennox, and easily prevailed with Lady Juliana to allow her to spend a week there occasionally. In this way the acquaintance soon ripened into the warmest affection on both sides. The day seemed doubly dark to Mrs. Lennox that was not brightened by Mary's presence; and Mary felt all the drooping energies of her heart revive in the delight of administering to the happiness of another.

Mrs. Lennox was one of those gentle amiable beings, who engage our affections far more powerfully than many possessed of higher attributes.

Her understanding was not strong--neither had it been highly cultivated, according to the ideas of the present time; but she had a benevolence of heart and a guileless simplicity of thought that shamed the pride of wit and pomp of learning. Bereft of all external enjoyments, and dest.i.tute of great mental resources, it was retrospection and futurity that gilded the dark evening of her days, and shed their light on the dreary realities of life. She loved to recall the remembrance of her children--to tell of their infant beauties, their growing virtues--and to retrace scenes of past felicity which memory loves to treasure in the heart.

"Oh! none but a mother can tell," she would exclaim, "the bitterness of those tears which fall from a mother's eyes. All other sorrows seem natural, but--G.o.d forgive me!--surely it is not natural that the old should weep for the young. Oh! when I saw myself surrounded by my children, little did I think that death was so soon to seal their eyes!

Sorrow mine! and yet me thinks I would rather have suffered all than have stood in the world a lonely being. Yes, my children revered His power and believed in His name, and, thanks to His mercy, I feel a.s.sured they are now angels in heaven! Here," taking some papers from a writing-box, "my Louisa speaks to me even from the tomb! These are the words she wrote but a few hours before her death. Read them to me; for it is not every voice I can bear to hear uttering her last thoughts."

Mary read as follows:--

FOR EVER GONE.

For ever gone! oh, chilling sound!

That tolls the knell of hope and joy!

Potent with torturing pang to wound, But not in mercy to destroy.

For ever gone! what words of grief-- Replete with wild mysterious woe!

The Christian kneels to seek relief-- A Saviour died---It is not so.

For a brief s.p.a.ce we sojourn here, And life's rough path we journey o'er; Thus was it with the friend so dear, That is not lost, but sped before.

For ever gone! oh, madness wild Dwells in that drear and Atheist doom!

But death of horror is despoiled, When Heaven shines forth beyond the tomb.

For ever gone! oh, dreadful fate!

Go visit nature--gather thence The symbols of man's happier state, Which speak to every mortal sense.

The leafless spray, the withered flower, Alike with man owns death's embrace; But bustling forth, in summer hour, Prepare anew to run life's race.

And shall it be, that man alone Dies, never more to rise again?

Of all creation, highest one, Created but to live in vain?

For ever gone! oh, dire despair!-- Look to the heavens, the earth, the sea-- Go, read a Saviour's promise there-- Go, heir of Immortality!

From such communings as these the selfish would have turned with indifference; but Mary's generous heart was ever open to the overflowings of the wounded spirit. She had never been accustomed to lavish the best feelings of her nature on frivolous pursuits or fict.i.tious distresses, but had early been taught to consecrate them to the best, the most enn.o.bling purposes of humanity--even to the comforting of the weary soul, the binding of the bruised heart. Yet Mary was no rigid moralist. She loved amus.e.m.e.nt as the amus.e.m.e.nt of an imperfect existence, though her good sense and still better principles taught her to reject it as the _business_ of an immortal being.

Several weeks pa.s.sed away, during which Mary had been an almost constant inmate at Rose Hall; but the day of Lady Emily's _fete _arrived, and with something of hope and expectation fluttering at her heart, she antic.i.p.ated her _debut_ in the ball-room. She repaired to the breakfast-table of her venerable friend with even more than usual hilarity; but, upon entering the apartment, her gaiety fled; for she was struck with the emotion visible on the countenance of Mrs. Lennox. Her meek but tearful eyes were raised to heaven, and her hands were crossed on her bosom, as if to subdue the agitation of her heart. Her faithful attendant stood by her with an open letter in her hand.

Mary flew towards her; and as her light step and soft accents met her ear, she extended her arms towards her.

"Mary, my child, where are you?" exclaimed she, as she pressed her with convulsive eagerness to her heart. "My son!--my Charles!--to-morrow I shall see him. See him! oh, G.o.d help me! I shall never see him more!"

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

"But you will hear him--you will hold him to your heart--you will be conscious that he is beside you," said Mary.

"Yes, thank G.o.d! I shall once more hear the voice of a living child! Oh, how often do those voices ring in my heart, that are all hushed in the grave! I am used to it now; but to think of his returning to this wilderness! When last he left it he had father, brothers, sisters--and to find all gone!"

"Indeed it will be a sad return," said the old housekeeper, as she wiped her eyes; "for the Colonel doated on his sister, and she on him, and his brothers too! Dearly they all loved one another. How in this very room have I seen them chase each other up and down in their pretty plays, with their papa's cap and sword, and say they would be soldiers!"

Mary motioned the good woman to be silent; then turning to Mrs Lennox, she sought to sooth her into composure, and turned, as she always did, he bright side of the picture to view, by dwelling on the joy her son would experience in seeing her. Mrs. Lennox shook her head mournfully.

"Alas! he cannot joy in seeing me, such as I am. I have too long concealed from him my dreary doom; he knows not that these poor eyes are sealed in darkness! Oh, he will seek to read a mother's fondness there, and he will find all cold and silent."

"But he will also find you resigned--even contented," said Mary, while her tears dropped on the hand she held to her lips.

"Yes; G.o.d knows I do not repine at His will. It is not for myself these tears fall, but my son. How will he bear to behold the mother he so loved and honoured, now blind, bereft, and helpless?" And the wounds of her heart seemed to bleed afresh at the excitement of even its happiest emotions--the return of a long absent, much-loved son.

Mary exerted all the powers of her understanding, all the tenderness of her heart, to dispel the mournful images that pressed on the mind of her friend; but she found it was not so much her _arguments _as her _presence_ that produced that effect; and to leave her in her present situation seemed impossible. In the agitation of her spirits she had wholly forgotten the occasion that called for Mary's absence, and she implored her to remain with her till the arrival of her son with an earnestness that was irresistible.

The thoughts of her cousin's displeasure, should she absent herself upon such an occasion, caused Mary to hesitate; yet her feelings would not allow her to name the cause.

"How unfeeling it would sound to talk of b.a.l.l.s at such a time," thought she; "what a painful contrast must it present! Surely Lady Emily will not blame me, and no one will miss me----" And, in the ardour of her feelings, she promised to remain. Yet she sighed as she sent off her excuse, and thought of the pleasures she had renounced. But the sacrifice made, the regrets were soon past; and she devoted herself entirely to soothing the agitated spirits of her venerable friend.

It is perhaps the simplest and most obvious truth, skilfully administered, that, in the season of affliction, produces the most salutary effects upon our mind. Mary was certainly no logician, and all that she could say might have been said by another; but there is something in the voice and manner that carries an irresistible influence along with it--something that tells us our sorrows are felt and understood, not coldly seen and heard. Mary's well-directed exertions were repaid with success; she read, talked, played, and sang, not in her gayest manner, but in that subdued strain which harmonised with the feelings, while it won upon the attention, and she had at length the satisfaction of seeing the object of her solicitude restored to her usual state of calm confiding acquiescence.

"G.o.d bless you, my dear Mary!" said she, as they were about to separate for the night. "He only can repay you for the good you have done me this day!"

"Ah!" thought Mary, as she tenderly embraced her, "such a blessing is worth a dozen b.a.l.l.s?"

At that moment the sound of a carriage was heard, and an unusual bustle took place below; but scarcely had they time to notice it ere the door flew open, and Mrs. Lennox found herself locked in the arms of her son.

For some minutes the tide of feeling was too strong for utterance, and "My mother!" "My son!" were the only words that either could articulate.

At length, raising his head, Colonel Lennox fixed his eyes on his mother's face with a gaze of deep and fearful inquiry; but no returning glance spoke there. With that mournful vacuity, peculiar to the blind, which is a thousand times more touching than all the varied expression of the living orb, she continued to regard the vacant s.p.a.ce which imagination had filled with the image she sought in vain to behold.

At this confirmation of his worst fears a shade of the deepest anguish overspread the visage of her son. He raised his eyes, as in agony, to heaven--then threw himself on his mother's bosom; and as Mary hurried from the apartment she heard the sob which burst from his manly heart, as he exclaimed, "My dear mother! do I indeed find you thus?"