"On n'est guères obligé aux gens qui ne nous viennent voir, que pour nous quereller, qui pendant toute une visite, ne nous disent pas une seule parole obligeante, et qui se font un plaisir malin d'attaquer notre conduite, et de nous faire entrevoir nos défauts." — L' ABBE Dé BELLEGARDE.
THE Duke, although not possessed of the most delicate feelings, it may be supposed was not insensible to his dishonour. He immediately set about taking the legal measures for avenging it; and damages were awarded, which would have the effect of rendering Lord Lindore for ever an alien to his country. Lady Juliana raved, and had hysterics, and seemed to consider herself as the only sufferer by her daughter's misconduct. At one time Adelaide's ingratitude was all her theme: at another, it was Lord Lindore's treachery, and poor Adelaide was everything that was amiable and injured: then it was the Duke's obstinacy; for, had Adelaide got leave to do as she liked, this never would have happened; had she only got leave to give balls, and to go to masquerades, she would have made the best wife in the world, etc. etc. etc.
All this was warmly resented by Lady Matilda, supported by Mrs. Finch and General Carver, till open hostilities were declared between the ladies, and Lady Juliana was compelled to quit the house she had looked upon as next to her own, and became once more a denizen of Beech Park.
Mary's grief and horror at her sister's misconduct were proportioned to the nature of the offence. She considered it not as how it might affect herself, or would be viewed by the world, but as a crime committed against the law of God; yet, while she the more deeply deplored it on that account, no bitter words of condemnation passed her lips. She thought with humility of the superior advantages she had enjoyed in having principles of religion early and deeply engrafted in her soul; and that, but for these, such as her sister's fate was, hers might have been.
She felt for her mother, undeserving as she was of commiseration; and strove by every means in her power to promote her comfort and happiness. But that was no easy task. Lady Juliana's notions of comfort and happiness differed as widely from those of her daughter as reason and folly could possibly do. She was indeed "than folly more a fool—a melancholy fool without her bells." She still clung to low earth-born vanities with as much avidity as though she had never experienced their insecurity; still rung the same changes on the joys of wealth and grandeur, as if she had had actual proof of their unfading felicity. Then she recurred to the Duke's obstinacy and Lord Lindore's artifices, till, after having exhausted herself in invective against them, she concluded by comforting herself with the hope that Lord Lindore and Adelaide would marry; and although it would be a prodigious degradation to her, and she could not be received at Court, she might yet get into very good society in town. There were many women of high rank exactly in the same situation, who had been driven to elope from their husbands, and who married the men they liked and made the best wives in the world.
Mary heard all this in shame and silence; but Lady Emily, wearied and provoked by her folly and want of principle, was often led to express her indignation and and contempt in terms which drew tears from her cousin's eyes. Mary was indeed the only person in the world who felt her sister's dereliction with the keenest feelings of shame and sorrow. All Adelaide's coldness and unkindness had not been able to eradicate from her heart those deep-rooted sentiments of affection which seem to have been entwined with our existence, and which, with some generous natures, end but with their being. Yes! there are ties that bind together those of one family, stronger than those of taste, or choice, or friendship, or reason; for they enable us to love, even in opposition to them all.
It was understood the fugitives had gone to Germany; and after wonder and scandal were exhausted, and a divorce obtained, the Duchess of Altamont, except to her own family, was as though she had never been. Such is the transition from—from guilt to insignificance!
Amongst the numerous visitors who flocked to Beech Park, whether from sympathy, curiosity, or exultation, was Mrs. Downe Wright. None of these motives, singly, had brought that lady there, for her purpose was that of giving what she genteelly termed some good hits to the Douglas's pride—a delicate mode of warfare, in which, it must be owned, the female sex greatly excel.
Mrs. Downe Wright had not forgiven the indignity of her son having been refused by Mary, which she imputed entirely to Lady Emily's influence, and had from that moment predicted the downfall of the whole pack, as she styled the family; at the same time always expressing her wish that she might be mistaken, as she wished them well—God knows she bore them no ill-will, etc. She entered the drawing-room at Beech Park with a countenance cast to a totally different expression from that with which she had greeted Lady Matilda Sufton's widowhood. Melancholy would there have been appropriate, here it was insulting; and accordingly, with downcast eyes, and silent pressures of the hand, she saluted every member of the family, and inquired after their healths with that air of anxious solicitude which implied that if they were all well it was what they ought not to be. Lady Emily's quick tact was presently aware of her design, and she prepared to take the field against her.
"I had some difficulty in getting admittance to you," said Mrs. Downe Wright. "The servant would fain have denied you; but at such a time, I knew the visit of a friend could not fail of being acceptable, so I made good my way in spite of him."
"I had given orders to be at home to friends only," returned Lady Emily, "as there is no end to the inroads of acquaintances."
"And poor Lady Juliana," said Mrs. Downe Wright in a tone of affected sympathy, "I hope she is able to see her friends?"
"Did you not meet her?" asked Lady Emily carelessly. "She is just gone to Bath for the purpose of securing a box during the term of Kean's engagement; she would not trust to l'éloquence du billet upon such an occasion."
"I'm vastly happy to hear she is able for anything of the kind," in a tone of vehement and overstrained joy, rather unsuitable to the occasion.
A well-feigned look of surprise from Lady Emily made her fear she had overshot her mark; she therefore, as if from delicacy, changed the conversation to her own affairs. She soon contrived to let it be known that her son was going to be married to a Scotch Earl's daughter; that she was to reside with them; and that she had merely come to Bath for the purpose of letting her house—breaking up her establishment—packing up her plate—and, in short, making all those magnificent arrangements which wealthy dowagers usually have to perform on a change of residence. At the end of this triumphant declaration, she added—
"I fain would have the young people live by themselves, and let me just go on in my own way; but neither my son nor Lady Grace would hear of that, although her family are my son's nearest neighbours, and most sensible, agreeable people they are. Indeed, as I said to Lord Glenallan, a man's happiness depends fully as much upon his wife's family as upon herself."
Mary was too noble-minded to suspect that Mrs. Downe Wright could intend to level innuendoes; but the allusion struck her; she felt herself blush; and, fearful Mrs. Downe Wright would attribute it to a wrong motive, she hastened to join in the eulogium on the Benmavis family in general, and Lady Grace in particular.
"Lady Benmavis is, indeed, a sensible, well-principled woman, and her daughters have been all well brought up."
Again Mary coloured at the emphasis which marked the sensible, well-principled mother, and the well brought-up daughters; and in some confusion she said something about Lady Grace's beauty.
"She certainly is a very pretty woman," said Mrs. Downe Wright with affected carelessness; "but what is better, she is out of a good nest. For my own part I place little value upon beauty now; commend me to principles. If a woman is without principles the less beauty she has the better."
"If a woman has no principles," said Lady Emily, "I don't think it signifies a straw whether she has beauty or not—ugliness can never add to one's virtue."
"I beg your pardon, Lady Emily; a plain woman will never make herself so conspicuous in the world as one of your beauties."
"Then you are of opinion wickedness lies all in the eye of the world, not in the depths of the heart? Now I think the person who cherishes—no matter how secretly—pride, envy, hatred, malice, or any other besetting sin, must be quite as criminal in the sight of God as those who openly indulge their evil propensity."
"I go very much by outward actions," said Mrs. Downe Wright; "they are all we have to judge by."
"But I thought we were forbidden to judge one another?"
"There's no shutting people's mouths, Lady Emily."
"No; all that is required, I believe, is that we should shut our own."
Mary thought the conversation was getting rather too piquante to be pleasant, and tried to soften the tone of it by asking that most innocent question, Whether there was any news?
"Nothing but about battles and fightings, I suppose," answered Mrs. Downe Wright. "I'm sure they are to be pitied who have friends or relations either in army or navy at present. I have reason to be thankful my son is in neither. He was very much set upon going into one or other; but I was always averse to it; for, independent of the danger, they are professions that spoil a man for domestic life; they lead to such expensive, dissipated habits, as quite ruin them for family men. I never knew a military man but what must have his bottle of port every day. With sailors, indeed, it's still worse; grog and tobacco soon destroy them. I'm sure if I had a daughter it would make me miserable if she was to take fancy to a naval or military man;—but," as if suddenly recollecting herself, "after all, perhaps it's a mere prejudice of mine."
"By no means," said Lady Emily "there is no prejudice in the matter; what you say is very true. They are to be envied who can contrive to fall in love with a stupid, idle man: they never can experience any anxiety; their fate is fixed; 'the waveless calm, the slumber of the dead,' is theirs; as long as they can contrive to slumber on, or at least to keep their eyes shut, 'tis very well, they are in no danger of stumbling till they come to open them; and if they are sufficiently stupid themselves there is no danger of their doing even that. The have only to copy the owl, and they are safe."
"I quite agree with your Ladyship ," said Mrs. Downe Wright, with a well got-up, good-humoured laugh. "A woman has only not to be a wit or a genius, and there is no fear of her; not that I have that antipathy to a clever woman that many people have, and especially the gentlemen. I almost quarrelled with Mr. Headley, the great author, t'other day, for saying that he would rather encounter a nest of wasps than a clever woman."
"I should most cordially have agreed with him," said Lady Emily, with equal naïveté. "There is nothing more insupportable than one of your clever women, so called. They are generally under-bred, consequently vulgar. They pique themselves upon saying good things côitte qu'il coûte. There is something, in short, quite professional about them; and they wouldn't condescend to chat nonsense as you and I are doing at this moment—oh! not for worlds! Now, I think one of the great charms of life consists in talking nonsense. Good nonsense is an exquisite thing; and 'tis an exquisite thing to be stupid sometimes, and to say nothing at all. Now, these enjoyments the clever woman must forego. Clever she is, and clever she must be. Her life must be a greater drudgery than that of any actress. She merely frets her hour upon the stage; the curtain dropped, she may become as dull as she chooses; but the clever woman must always stage it, even at her own fireside."
"Lady Emily Lindore is certainly the last person from whom I should have expected to hear a panegyric on stupidity," said Mrs. Downe Wright, with some bitterness.
"Stupidity!—oh, heavens! my blood curdles at the thought of real, genuine, downright stupidity! No! I should always like to have the command of intellect, as well as of money, though my taste, or my indolence, or my whim, perhaps, never would incline me to be always sparkling, whether in wit or in diamonds. 'Twas only when I was in the nursery that I envied the good girl who spoke rubies and pearls. Now it seems to me only just better than not spitting toads and vipers." And she warbled a sprightly French ariette to a tame bullfinch that flew upon her hand.
There was an airy, high-bred elegance in Lady Emily's impertinence that seemed to throw Mrs. Downe Wright's coarse sarcasms to an immeasurable distance; and that lady was beginning to despair, but she was determined not to give in while she could possibly stand out. She accordingly rallied her forces, and turned to Mary.
"So you have lost your neighbour, Mrs. Lennox, since I was here? I think she was an acquaintance of yours. Poor woman! her death must have been a happy release to herself and her friends. She has left no family, I believe?" quite aware of the report of Mary's engagement with Colonel Lennox."
"Only one son," said Mary, with a little emotion.
"Oh! very true. He's in the law, I think?"
"In the army," answered Mary, faintly.
"That's a poor trade," said Mrs. Downe Wright, "and I doubt he'll not have much to mend it. Rose Hall's but a poor property. I've heard they might have had a good estate in Scotland if it hadn't been for the pride of the General, that wouldn't let him change his name for it, He thought it grander to be a poor Lennox than a rich Macnaughton, or some such name, It's to be hoped the son's of the same mind?"
"I have no doubt of it," said Lady Emily. "Tis a noble name-quite a legacy in itself."
"It's one that, I am afraid, will not be easily turned into bank notes, however," returned Mrs. Downe Wright, with a real hearty laugh. And then, delighted to get off with what she called flying colours, she hastily rose with an exclamation at the lateness of the hour, and a remark how quickly time passed in pleasant company; and, with friendly shakes of the hand, withdrew.
"How very insupportable is such a woman," said Lady Emily to Mary, "who, to gratify her own malice, says the most cutting things to her neighbours, and at the same time feels self-approbation, in the belief that she is doing good. And yet, hateful as she is, I blush to say I have sometimes been amused by her ill-nature when it was directed against people I hated still more. Lady Matilda Sufton, for example,—there she certainly shone, for hypocrisy is always fair game; and yet the people who love to hunt it are never amiable. You smile, as much as to say, Here is Satan preaching a sermon on holiness. But however satirical and intolerant you may think me, you must own that I take no delight in the discovery of other people's faults: if I want the meekness of a Christian, at least I don't possess the malice of a Jew. Now Mrs. Downe Wright has a real heartfelt satisfaction in saying malicious things, and in thrusting herself into company where she must know she is unwelcome, for the sole purpose of saying them. Yet many people are blessed with such blunt perceptions that they are not at all aware of her real character, and only wonder, when she has left them, what made them feel so uncomfortable when she was present. But she has put me in such a bad humour that I must go out of door and apostrophise the sun, like Lucifer. Do come, Mary, you will help to dispel my chagrin. I really feel as if my heart had been in a limekiln. All its kingly feelings are so burnt up by the malignant influences of Mrs. Downe Wright; while you," continued she, as they strolled into the gardens, "are as cool, and as sweet, and as sorrowful as these violets," gathering some still wet with an April shower. "How delicious, after such a mental sirocco, to feel the pure air and hear the birds sing, and look upon the flowers and blossoms, and sit here, and bask in the sun from laziness to walk into the shade. You must needs acknowledge, Mary, that spring in England is a much more amiable season than in your ungentle clime."
This was the second spring Mary had seen set in, in England. But the first had been wayward and backward as the seasons of her native climate. The present was such a one as poets love to paint. Nature was in all its first freshness and beauty—the ground was covered with flowers, the luxuriant hedgerows were white with blossoms, the air was impregnated with the odours of the gardens and orchards. Still Mary sighed as she thought of Lochmarlie—its wild tangled woods, with here and there a bunch of primroses peeping forth from amidst moss and withered ferns—its gurgling rills, blue lakes, and rocks, and mountains—all rose to view; and she felt that, even amid fairer scenes, and beneath brighter suns, her heart would still turn with fond regret to the land of her birth.