'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 recherche. 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 eclat 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 gueres oblige 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 defauts." — L' ABBE De 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'eloquence 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 naivete. "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 coitte qu'il coute. 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 a 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 eclat 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.