FOR some months all was peaceful seclusion in Mary's life, and the only varieties she knew were occasional visits to Aunt Grizzy's, and now and then spending some days with Mrs. Lennox. She saw with sorrow the declining health of her venerable friend, whose wasted form and delicate features had now a.s.sumed an almost ethereal aspect. Yet she never complained, and it was only from her languor and weakness that Mary guessed she suffered. When urged to have recourse to medical advice she only smiled and shook her head; yet, ever gentle and complying to the wishes of others, she was at length prevailed upon to receive the visits of a medical attendant, and her own feelings were but too faithfully confirmed by his opinion. Being an old friend of the family, he took upon himself to communicate the intelligence to her son, then abroad with his regiment; and in the meantime Mary took up her residence at Rose Hall, and devoted herself unceasingly to the beloved friend she felt she was so soon to lose.

"Ah! Mary," she would sometimes say, "G.o.d forgive me! but my heart is not yet weaned from worldly wishes. Even now, when I feel all the vanity of human happiness, I think how it would have soothed my last moments could I have but seen you my son's before I left the world! Yet, alas!

our time here is so short that it matters little whether it be spent in joy or grief, provided it be spent in innocence and virtue. Mine has been a long life compared to many; but when I look back upon it, what a span it seems! And it is not the remembrance of its brightest days that are now a solace to my heart. Dearest Mary, if you live long, you will live to think of the sad hours you have given me, as the fairest, of perhaps, of many a happy day that I trust Heaven has yet in store for you. Yes! G.o.d has made some whose powers are chiefly ordained to comfort the afflicted, and in fulfilling His will you must surly be blest."

Mary listened to the half-breathed wishes of her dear old friend with painful feelings of regret and self-reproach.

"Charles Lennox loved me," thought she, "truly, tenderly loved me; and had I but repaid his n.o.ble frankness--had I suffered him to read my heart when he laid his open before me, I might now have gladdened the last days of the mother he adores. I might have proudly avowed that affection I must now forever hide."

But at the end of some weeks Mrs. Lennox was no longer susceptible of emotions either of joy or sorrow. She gradually sank into a state of almost total insensibility, from which not even the arrival of her son had power to rouse her. His anguish was extreme at finding his mother in a condition so perfectly hopeless; and every other idea seemed, for the present, absorbed in his anxiety for her. As Mary witnessed his watchful cares and tender solicitude, she could almost have envied the unconscious object of such devoted attachment.

A few days after his arrival his leave of absence was abruptly recalled, and he was summoned to repair to headquarters with all possible expedition. The army was on the move, and a battle was expected to be fought. At such a time hesitation or delay, under any circ.u.mstances, would have been inevitable disgrace; and, dreadful as was the alternative, Colonel Lennox wavered not an instant in his resolution.

With a look of fixed agony, but without uttering a syllable, he put the letter into Mary's hand as she sat by his mother's bedside, and then left the room to order preparations to be made for his instant departure. On his return Mary witnessed the painful conflict of his feelings in his extreme agitation as he approached his mother, to look for the last time on those features, already moulded into more than mortal beauty. A bright ray of the setting sun streamed full upon that face, now reposing in the awful but hallowed calm which is sometimes diffused around the bed of death. The sacred stillness was only broken by the evening song of the blackbird and the distant lowing of the cattle--sounds which had often brought pleasure to that heart, now insensible to all human emotion. All nature shone forth in gaiety and splendour, but the eye and the ear were alike closed against all earthly objects. Yet who can tell the brightness of those visions with which the parting soul may be visited? Sounds and sights, alike unheard, unknown to mortal sense, may then hold divine communion with the soaring spirit, and inspire it with bliss inconceivable, ineffable!

Colonel Lennox gazed upon the countenance of his mother. Again and again he pressed her inanimate hands to his lips, and bedewed them with his tears, as about to tear himself from her for ever. At that moment she opened her eyes, and regarded him with a look of intelligence, which spoke at once to his heart. He felt that he was seen and known. Her look was long and fondly fixed upon his face; then turned to Mary with an expression so deep and earnest that both felt the instantaneous appeal.

The veil seemed to drop from their hearts; one glance sufficed to tell that both were fondly, truly loved; and as Colonel Lennox received Mary's almost fainting form in his arms, he knelt by his mother, and implored her blessing on her children. A smile of angelic brightness beamed upon her face as she extended her hand towards them, and her lips moved as in prayer, though no sound escaped them. One long and lingering look was given to those so dear even in death. She then raised her eyes to heaven, and the spirit sought its native skies!

CHAPTER XXVIII.

"Cette liaison n'est ni pa.s.sion ni amitie pure: elle fait une cla.s.se a part." --LA BRUYERE

IT was long before Mary could believe in the reality of what had pa.s.sed.

It appeared to her as a beautiful yet awful dream. Could it be that she had plighted her faith by the bed of death; that the last look of her departed friend had hallowed the vow now registered in heaven; that Charles Lennox had claimed her as his own, even in the agony of tearing himself from all he loved; and that she had only felt how dear she was to him at the very moment when she had parted from him, perhaps for ever? But Mary strove to banish these overwhelming thoughts from her mind, as she devoted herself to the performance of the last duties to her departed friend. These paid, she again returned to Beech Park.

Lady Emily had been a daily visitor at Rose Hall during Mrs. Lennox's illness, and had taken a lively interest in the situation of the family; but, notwithstanding, it was some time before Mary could so far subdue her feelings as to speak with composure of what had pa.s.sed. She felt, too, how impossible it was by words to convey to her any idea of that excitement of mind, where a whole life of ordinary feeling seems concentrated in one sudden but ineffable emotion. All that had pa.s.sed might be imagined, but could not be told; and she shrank from the task of portraying those deep and sacred feelings which language never could impart to the breast of another.

Yet she felt it was using her cousin unkindly to keep her in ignorance of what she was certain would give her pleasure to hear; and, summoning her resolution, she at length disclosed to her all that had taken place.

Her own embarra.s.sment was too great to allow her to remark Lady Emily's changing colour, as she listened to her communication; and after it was ended she remained silent for some minutes, evidently struggling with her emotions.

At length she exclaimed indignantly--"And so it seems Colonel Lennox and you have all this time been playing the dying lover and the cruel mistress to each other? How I detest such duplicity! and duplicity with me! My heart was ever open to you, to him, to the whole world; while yours--nay, your very faces--were masked to me!"

Mary was too much confounded by her cousin's reproaches to be able to reply to them for some time; and when she did attempt to vindicate herself, she found it was in vain. Lady Emily refused to listen to her; and in haughty displeasure quitted the room, leaving poor Mary overwhelmed with sorrow and amazement.

There was a simplicity of heart, a singleness of idea in herself, that prevented her from ever attaching suspicion to others. But a sort of vague, undefined apprehension floated through her brain as she revolved the extraordinary behaviour of her cousin. Yet, it was that sort of feeling to which she could not give either a local habitation or a name; and she continued for some time in that most bewildering state of trying, yet not daring to think. Some time elapsed, and Mary's confusion of ideas was increasing rather than diminishing, when Lady Emily slowly entered the room, and stood some moments before her without speaking.

At length, making an effort, she abruptly said--"Pray, Mary, tell me what you think of me?"

Mary looked at her with surprise. "I think of you, my dear cousin, as I have always done."

"That is no answer to my question. What do you think of my behaviour just now?"

"I think," said Mary gently, "that if you have misunderstood me; that, open and candid yourself, almost to a fault, you readily resent the remotest appearance of duplicity in others. But you are too generous not to do me justice--"

"Ah, Mary! how little do I appeal in my own eyes at this moment; and how little, with all my boasting, have I known my own heart! No! It was not because I am open and candid that I resented your engagement with Colonel Lennox; it was because I was--because--cannot you guess?"

Mary's colour rose, as she cast down her eyes, and exclaimed with agitation, "No-no, indeed!"

Lady Emily threw her arms around her:--"Dear Mary, you are perhaps the only person upon earth I would make such a confession to--it was because I, who had plighted my faith to another--I, who piqued myself upon my openness and fidelity--I--how it chokes me to utter it! I was beginning to love him myself!--only beginning, observe, for it is already over--I needed but to be aware of my danger to overcome it. Colonel Lennox is now no more to me than your lover, and Edward is again all that he ever was to me; but I--what am I?--faithless and self-deceived!" and a few tears dropped from her eyes.

Mary, too much affected to speak, could only press her in silence to her heart.

"These are tears of shame, of penitence, though I must own they look very like those of regret and mortification. What a mercy it is that 'the chemist's magic art' _cannot_ 'crystalise these sacred treasures,'"

said she with a smile, as she shook a tear-drop from her hand; "they are gems I am really not at all fond of appearing in."

"And yet you never appeared to greater advantage," said Mary, as she regarded her with admiration. "Ah! so you say; but there is, perhaps, a little womanish feeling lurking there. And now you doubtless expect--no, _you_ don't, but another would that I should begin a sentimental description of the rise and progress of this ill-fated attachment, as I suppose it would be styled in the language of romance; but in truth I can tell you nothing at all about it."

"Perhaps Colonel Lennox," said Mary, blushing, and hesitating to name her suspicion.

"No, no--Colonel Lennox was not to blame. There was no false play on either side; he is as much above the meanness of coquetry, as--I must say it--as I am. His thoughts were all along taken up with you, even while he talked, and laughed, and quarrelled with me. While I, so strong in the belief that worlds could not shake my allegiance to Edward, could have challenged all mankind to win my love; and this wicked, wayward, faithless heart kept silent till you spoke, and then it uttered such a fearful sound! And yet I don't think it was love neither--'l'on n'aime bien qu'une seule fois; c'est la premiere;'--it was rather a sort of an idle, childish, engrossing sentiment, that _might_ have grown to something stronger; but 'tis past now. I have shown you all the weakness of my heart--despise me if you will."

"Dearest Lady Emily, had I the same skill to show the sentiments of mine, you would there see what I cannot express--how I admire this n.o.ble candour, this generous self-abas.e.m.e.nt--"

"Oh, as to meanly hiding my faults, that is what I scorn to do. I may be ignorant of them myself, and in ignorance I may cherish them; but, once convinced of them, I give them to the winds, and all who choose may pick them up. Violent and unjust, and self-deceived, I have been, and may be again; but deceitful I never was, and never will be."

"My dear cousin, what might you not be if you chose!"

"Ah! I know what you mean, and I begin to think you are in the right; by-and-bye, I believe, I shall come to be of your way of thinking (if ever I have a daughter she certainly shall), but not just at present, the reformation would be too sudden. All that I can promise for at present is, that 'henceforth I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults;' and now, from this day, from this moment, I vow--"

"No, I shall do it for you," said Mary, with a smile, as she threw her arms around her neck; "henceforth

'The golden laws of love shall be Upon this pillar hung; A simple heart, a single eye, A true and constant tongue.

'Let no man for more love pretend Than he has hearts in store; True love begun shall never end: Love one, and love no more.'" [1]

[1] "Marquis of Montrose."

But much as Mary loved and admired her cousin, she could not be blind to the defects of her character, and she feared they might yet be productive of great unhappiness to herself. Her mind was open to the reception of every image that brought pleasure along with it; while, in the same spirit, she turned from everything that wore an air of seriousness or self-restraint; and even the best affections of a naturally good heart were borne away by the ardour of her feelings and the impetuosity of her temper. Mary grieved to see the graces of a n.o.ble mind thus running wild for want of early culture; and she sought by every means, save those of lecture and admonition to lead her to more fixed habits of reflection and self examination.

But it required all her strength of mind to turn her thoughts at this time from herself to another--she, the betrothed of one who was now in the midst of danger, of whose existence she was even uncertain, but on whose fate she felt her own suspended.

"Oh!" thought she, with bitterness of heart, "how dangerous it is to yield too much even to our best affections. I, with so many objects to share in mine, have yet pledged my happiness on a being perishable as myself!" And her soul sickened at the ills her fancy drew. But she strove to repress this strength of attachment, which she felt would otherwise become too powerful for her reason to control; and if she did not entirely succeed, at least the efforts she made and the continual exercise of mind enabled her in some degree to counteract the baleful effects of morbid anxiety and overweening attachment. At length her apprehensions were relieved for a time by a letter from Colonel Lennox.

An engagement with the enemy had taken place, but he had escaped unhurt.

He repeated his vows of unalterable affection; and Mary felt that she was justified in receiving them. She had made Lady Juliana and Mrs.

Douglas both acquainted with her situation. The former had taken no notice of the communication, but the latter had expressed her approval in all the warmth and tenderness of gratified affection.

CHAPTER XXIX.

"Preach as I please, I doubt our curious men Will choose a pheasant still before a hen."

HORACE.

AMONGST the various occupations to which Mary devoted herself, there was none which merits to be recorded as a greater act of immolation than her unremitting attentions to Aunt Grizzy. It wa not merely the sacrifice of time and talents that was required for carrying on this intercourse; these, it is to be hoped, even the most selfish can occasionally sacrifice to the _bienseances_ of society; but it was, as it were, a total surrender of her whole being. To a mind of any reflection no situation can ever be very irksome in which we can enjoy the privileges of sitting still and keeping silent--but as the companion of Miss Grizzy, quiet and reflection were alike unattainable. When not engaged in _radotage_ with Sir Sampson, her life was spent in losing her scissors, mislaying her spectacles, wondering what had become of her thimble, and speculating on the disappearance of a needle--all of which losses daily and hourly recurring, subjected Mary to an unceasing annoyance, for she could not be five minutes in her aunt's company without out being at least as many times disturbed, with--"Mary, my dear, will you get up?--I think my spectacles must be about you "--or, "Mary, my dear, your eyes are younger than mine, will you look if you can see my needle on the carpet?"--or, "Are you sure, Mary, that's not my thimble you have got?

It's very like it; and I'm sure I can't conceive what's become of mine, if that's not it," etc. etc. etc. But her idleness was, if possible, still more irritating than her industry. When she betook herself to the window, it was one incessant cry of "Who's coach is that, Mary, with the green and orange liveries? Come and look at this lady and gentleman, Mary; I'm sure I wonder who they are! Here's something, I declare I'm sure I don't know what you call it--come here, Mary, and see what it is "--and so on _ad infinitum._ Walking was still worse. Grizzy not only stood to examine every article in the shop windows, but actually turned round to observe every striking figure that pa.s.sed. In short, Mary could not conceal from herself that weak vulgar relations are an evil to those whose taste and ideas are refined by superior intercourse. But even this discovery she did not deem sufficient to authorise her casting off or neglecting poor Miss Grizzy, and she in no degree relaxed in her patient attentions towards her.