# Marriage (Ferrier)/Chapter XXIV

"He either fears his fate too much,  Or his deserts are small,  Who dares not put it to the touch,  To gain or lose it all."
 Marquis of Montrose.
TIME rolled on, but no event occurred in Grizzy's life worthy of being commemorated. Lady Juliana began to recover from the shock of her arrival, and at length was even prevailed upon to pay her a visit, and actually spent five minutes in the same room with her. All her Ladyship's plans seemed now on the point of being accomplished. Mr. Downe Wright was now Lord Glenallan, with an additional fifteen thousand per annum, and by wiser heads than hers would have been thought an unexceptionable match for any young woman. Leaving his mother to settle his affairs in Scotland, to which she was much more au fait than himself, he hastened to Beech Park to claim Mary's promised hand.
But neither wealth nor grandeur possessed any sway over Mary's well-regulated mind, and she turned from that species of happiness which she felt would be insufficient to satisfy the best affections of her heart. "No," thought she, "it is not in splendour and distinction that I shall find happiness; it is in the cultivation of the domestic virtues—the peaceful joys of a happy home and a loved companion, that my felicity must consist. Without these I feel that I should still be poor, were I mistress of millions;" and she took the first opportunity of acquainting Lord Glenallan with the nature of her sentiments.
He received the communication with painful surprise; but as he was one of those who do not easily divest themselves of an idea that has once taken possession of their brain, he seemed resolved to persevere in his quiet, though pointed attentions.
Lady Juliana's anger at the discovery of her daughter's refusal it is needless to describe—it may easily be imagined; and poor Mary was almost heartbroken by the violence and duration of it. Sometimes she wavered in her ideas as to whether she was doing right in thus resisting her mother's wishes; and in the utmost distress she mentioned her scruples to Lady Emily.
"As to Lady Juliana's wishes," said her cousin, "they are mere soap-bubbles; but as to your own views—why, really you are somewhat of a riddle to me. I rather think, were I such a quiet, civil, well-disposed person as you, I could have married Lord Glenallan well enough. He is handsome, good-natured, and rich; and though 'he is but a Lord, and nothing but a Lord,' still there is a dash and bustle in twenty thousand a year that takes off from the ennui of a dull companion. With five hundred a year, I grant you, he would be execrable."
"Then I shall never marry a man with twenty thousand a year whom I would not have with five hundred."
"In short, you are to marry for love—that's the old story, which, with all your wisdom, you wise, well-educated girls always end in. Where shall I find a hero upon five hundred a year for you? Of course he must be virtuous, noble, dignified, handsome, brave, witty. What would you think of Charles Lennox?"
Mary coloured. "After what passed, I would not marry Colonel Lennox; no"—affecting to smile—"not if he were to ask me, which is certainly the most unlikely of all things."
"Ah! true, I had forgot that scrape. No, that won't do; it certainly would be most pitiful in you, after what passed. Well, I don't know what's to be done with you. There's nothing for it but that you should take Lord Glenallan, with all his imperfections on his head; and, after all, I really see nothing that he wants but a little more brain, and as you'll have the managing of him you can easily supply that deficiency."
"Indeed," answered Mary, "I find I have quite little enough for myself, and I have no genius whatever for managing. I shall therefore never marry, unless I marry a man on whose judgment I could rely for advice and assistance, and for whom I could feel a certain deference that I consider due from a wife to her husband."
"I see what you would be at," said Lady Emily; "you mean to model yourself upon the behaviour of Mrs. Tooley, who has such a deference for the judgment of her better half, that she consults him even about the tying of her shoes, and would not presume to give her child a few grains of magnesia without this full and unqualified approbation. Now I flatter myself my husband and I shall have a more equitable division; for, though man is a reasonable being, he shall know and own that woman is so too—sometimes. All things that men ought to know better I shall yield; whatever may belong to either sex, I either seize upon as my prerogative, or scrupulously divide; for which reason I should like the profession of my husband to be something in which I could not possibly interfere. How difficult must it be for a woman in the lower ranks of life to avoid teaching her husband how to sew, if he is a tailor; or how to bake, if he is a baker, etc.
"Nature seems to have provided for this tendency of both sexes, by making your sensible men—that is, men who think themselves sensible, and wish everybody else to think the same—incline to foolish women. I can detect one of these sensible husbands at a glance, by the pomp and formality visible in every word, look, or action—men, in short, whose 'visages do cream and mantle like a standing pond;' who are perfect Joves in their own houses—who speak their will by a nod, and lay down the law by the motion of their eyebrow—and who attach prodigious ideas of dignity to frightening their children, and being worshipped by their wives, till you see one of these wiseacres looking as if he thought himself and his obsequious helpmate were exact personifications of Adam and Eve—' he for God only, she for God in him.' Now I am much afraid, Mary, with all your sanctity, you are in some danger of becoming one of these idolatresses."
"I hope not," replied Mary, laughing; "but if I should, that seems scarcely so bad as the sect of Independents in the marriage state; for example, there is Mrs. Boston, who by all strangers is taken for a widow, such emphasis does she lay upon the personal pronoun—with her, 'tis always, I do this, or I do that, without the slightest reference to her husband; and she talks of my house, my gardens, my carriage, my children, as if there were no copartnery in the case."
"Ah, she is very odious," cried Lady Emily; "she is both master and mistress, and more if possible she makes her husband look like her footman; but she is a fool, as every woman must needs be who thinks she can raise herself by lowering her husband. Then there is the sect of the Wranglers, whose marriage is only one continued dispute. But, in short, I see it is reserved for me to set a perfect example to my sex in the married state. But I'm more reasonable than you, I suspect, for I don't insist upon having a bright genius for my mate."
"I confess I should like that my husband's genius was at least as bright as my own," said Mary, "and I can't think there is anything unreasonable in that; or rather, I should say, were I a genius myself, I could better dispense with a certain portion of intellect in my husband; as it has been generally remarked that those who are largely endowed themselves can easier dispense with talents in their companions than others of more moderate endowments can do; but virtue and talents on the one side, virtue and tenderness on the other, I look upon as the principal ingredients in a happy union."
"Well, I intend to be excessively happy; and yet, I don't think Edward will ever find the longitude. And, as for my tenderness—humph!—as Lady Maclaughlan says; but as for you—I rather think you're in some danger of turning into an Aunt Grizzy, with a long waist and large pockets, peppermint drops and powdered curls; but, whatever you do, for heaven's sake let us have no more human sacrifices—if you do, I shall certainly appear at your wedding in sackcloth." And this was all of comfort or advice that her Ladyship could bestow.
As Lady Emily was not a person who concealed either her own secrets or those of others, Colonel Lennox was not long of hearing from her what had passed, and of being made thoroughly acquainted with Mary's sentiments on love and marriage. "Such a heart must be worth winning," thought he; but he sighed to think that he had less chance for the prize than another. Independent of his narrow fortune, which, he was aware, would be an insuperable bar to obtaining Lady Juliana's consent, Mary's coldness and reserve towards him seemed to increase rather than diminish. Or if she sometimes gave way to the natural frankness and gaiety of her disposition before him, a word or look expressive of admiration on his part instantly recalled to her those painful ideas which had been for a moment forgot, and seemed to throw him at a greater distance than ever.
Colonel Lennox was too noble-minded himself to suppose for an instant that Mary actually felt dislike towards him because at the commencement of their acquaintance he had not done justice to her merits; but he was also aware that, until he had explained to her the nature of his sentiments, she must naturally regard his attentions with suspicion, and consider them rather as acts of duty towards his mother than as the spontaneous expression of his own attachment. He therefore, in the most simple and candid manner, laid open to her the secret of his heart, and in all the eloquence of real passion, poured forth those feelings of love and admiration with which she had unconsciously inspired him.
For a moment Mary's distrust was overcome by the ardour of his address, and the open manly manner in which he had avowed the rise and progress of his attachment; and she yielded herself up to the delightful conviction of loving and being beloved.
But soon that gave way to the mortifying reflection that rushed over her mind, "He has tried to love me!" thought she; "but it is in obedience to his mother's wish, and he thinks he has succeeded. No, no; I cannot be the dupe of his delusion—I will not give myself to one who has been solicited to love me!" And again wounded delicacy and woman's pride resumed their empire over her, and she rejected the idea of ever receiving Colonel Lennox as a lover. He heard her determination with the deepest anguish, and used every argument and entreaty to soften her resolution; but Mary had wrought herself up to a pitch of heroism-she had rejected the man she loved—the only man she ever could love: that done, to persist in the sacrifice seemed easy; and they parted with increased attachment in their hearts, even though those hearts seemed severed for ever.
Soon after he set off to join his regiment; and it was only in saying farewell that Mary felt how deeply her happiness was involved in the fate of the man she had for ever renounced. To no one did she impart what had passed; and Lady Emily was too dull herself, for some days after the departure of her friend, to take any notice of Mary's dejection.