# Marriage (Ferrier)/Chapter I

"Nor only by the warmth  And soothing sunshine of delightful things,  Do minds grow up and flourish."
 AKENSIDE.
AFTER parting with the last of her beloved relatives Mary tried to think only of the happiness that awaited her in a reunion with her mother and sister; and she gave herself up to the blissful reveries of a young and ardent imagination. Mrs. Douglas had sought to repress, rather than excite, her sanguine expectations; but vainly is the experience of others employed in moderating the enthusiasm of a glowing heart. Experience cannot be imparted. We may render the youthful mind prematurely cautious, or meanly suspicious; but the experience of a pure and enlightened mind is the result of observation, matured by time.
The journey, like most modern journeys, was performed in comfort and safety; and, late one evening, Mary found herself at the goal of her wishes—at the threshold of the house that contained her mother!
One idea filled her mind; but that idea called up a thousand emotions.
"I am now to meet my mother!" thought she; and, unconscious of everything else, she was assisted from the carriage, and conducted into the house. A door was thrown open; but shrinking from the glare of light and sound of voices that assailed her, he stood dazzled and dismayed, till she beheld a figure approaching that she guessed to be her mother. Her heart beat violently—a film was upon her eyes—she made an effort to reach her mother's arms, and sank lifeless on her bosom!
Lady Juliana, for such it was, doubted not but that her daughter was really dead; for though he talked of fainting every hour of the day herself, still what is emphatically called a dead-faint was a spectacle no less strange than shocking to her. She was therefore sufficiently alarmed and overcome to behave in a very interesting manner; and some yearnings of pity even possessed her heart as she beheld her daughter's lifeless form extended before her—her beautiful, though inanimate features, half hid by the profusion of golden ringlets that fell around her. But these kindly feelings were of short duration; for no sooner was the nature of her daughter's insensibility as ascertained, than all her former hostility returned, as she found everyone's attention directed to Mary, and she herself entirely overlooked in the general interest she had excited; and her displeasure was still further increased as Mary, at length slowly unclosing her eyes, stretched out her hands, and faintly articulated, "My mother!"
"Mother! What a hideous vulgar appellation!" thought the fashionable parent to herself; and, instead of answering her daughter's appeal, she hastily proposed that she should be conveyed to her own apartment; then, summoning her maid, she consigned her to her care, slightly touching her cheek as she wished her good-night, and returned to the card-table. Adelaide too resumed her station at the harp, as if nothing had happened; but Lady Emily attended her cousin to her room, embraced her again and again, as she assured her she loved her already, she was so like her dear Edward; then, after satisfying herself that everything was comfortable, affectionately kissed her, and withdrew.
Bodily fatigue got the better of mental agitation; and Mary slept soundly, and awoke refreshed.
"Can it be," thought she, as she tried to collect her bewildered thoughts, "can it be that I have really beheld my mother, that I have been pressed to her heart, that she has shed tears over me while I lay unconscious in her arms? Mother! What a delightful sound; and how beautiful she seemed! Yet I have no distinct idea of her, my head was so confused; but I have a vague recollection of something very fair, and beautiful, and seraph-like, covered with silver drapery, and flowers, and with the sweetest voice in the world. Yet that must be too young for my mother; perhaps it was my sister; and my mother was too much overcome to meet her stranger child. Oh, how happy must I be with such a mother and sister!"
In these delightful cogitations Mary remained till Lady Emily entered.
"How well you look this morning, my dear cousin," said she, flying to her; "you are much more like my Edward than you were last night. Ah! and you have got his smile too! You must let me see that very often."
"I am sure I shall have cause," said Mary, returning her cousin's affectionate embrace; "but at present I feel anxious about my mother and sister. The agitation of our meeting, and my weakness, I fear it has been too much for them;" and she looked earnest in Lady Emily's face for a confirmation of her fears.
"Indeed, you need be under no uneasiness on their account," returned her cousin, with her usual bluntness; "their feelings are not so easily disturbed; you will see them both at breakfast, so come along."
The room was empty; and again Mary's sensitive heart trembled for the welfare of those already so dear to her; but Lady Emily did not appear to understand the nature of her feelings.
"Have a little patience, my dear!" said she, with something of an impatient tone, as she rang for breakfast; "they will be here at their usual time. Nobody in this house is a slave to hours, or gêné with each other's society. Liberty is the motto here; everybody breakfasts when and where they please. Lady Juliana, I believe, frequently takes hers in her dressing-room; Papa never is visible till two or three o'clock; and Adelaide is always late."
"What a selfish cold-hearted thing is grandeur!" thought Mary, as Lady Emily and she sat like two specks in the splendid saloon, surrounded by all that wealth could purchase or luxury invent; and her thoughts reverted to the pious thanksgiving and affectionate meeting that graced their social meal in the sweet sunny parlour at Lochmarlie.
Some of those airy nothings, without a local habitation, who are always to be found flitting about the mansions of the great, now lounged into the room; and soon after Adelaide made her entrée. Mary, trembling violently, was ready to fall upon her sister's neck, but Adelaide seemed prepared to repel everything like a scènce for, with a cold, but sweet, "I hope you are better this morning?" she seated herself at the opposite side of the table. Mary's blood rushed back to her heart; her eyes filled with tears, she knew not why; for she could not analyse the feelings that swelled in her bosom. She would have shuddered to think her sister unkind, but she felt she was so.
"It can only be the difference of our manners," sighed she to herself; "I am sure my sister loves me, though she does not show it in the same way I should have done;" and she gazed with the purest admiration and tenderness on the matchless beauty of her face and form. Never had she beheld anything so exquisitely beautiful; and she longed to throw herself into her sister's arms and tell her how she loved her. But Adelaide seemed to think the present company wholly unworthy of her regard; for, after having received the adulation of the gentlemen, as they severally paid her a profusion of compliments upon her appearance, "Desire Tomkins," said she to a footman, "to ask Lady Juliana for the 'Morning Post,' and the second volume of 'Le——,' of the French novel I am reading; and say she shall have it again when I have finished it."
"In what different terms people may express the same meaning," thought Mary; "had I been sending a message to my mother, I should have expressed myself quite differently; but no doubt my sister's meaning is the same, though she may not use the same words."
The servant returned with the newspaper, and the novel would be sent when it could be found.
"Lady Juliana never reads like anybody else," said her daughter; "she is for ever mislaying books. She has lost the first volumes of the two last novels that came from town before I had even seen then."
This was uttered in the softest, sweetest tone imaginable, and as if she had been pronouncing a panegyric.
Mary was more and more puzzled.
"'What can be my sister's meaning here?" thought she. "The words seemed almost to imply censure; but that voice and smile speak the sweetest praise. How truly Mrs. Douglas warned me never to judge of people by their words."
At that moment the door opened, and three or four dogs rushed in, followed by Lady Juliana, with a volume of a novel in her hand. Again Mary found herself assailed by a variety of powerful emotions. She attempted to rise; but, pale and breathless, she sank back in her chair.
Her agitation was unmarked by her mother, who did not even appear to be sensible of her presence; for, with a graceful bend of her head to the company in general, she approached Adelaide, and putting her lips to her forehead, "How do you do, love? I'm afraid you are very angry with me about that teazing La—-I can't conceive where it can be; but here is the third volume, which is much prettier than the second."
"I certainly shall not read the third volume before the second," said Adelaide with her usual serenity.
"Then I shall order another copy from town, my love; or I daresay I could tell you the story of the second volume: it is not at all interesting, I assure you. Hermilisde, you know—but I forget where the first volume left off."—Then directing her eyes to Mary, who had summoned strength to rise, and was slowly venturing to approach her, she extended a finger towards her. Mary eagerly seized her mother's hand, and pressed it with fervour to her lips; then hid her face on her shoulder to conceal the tears that burst from her eyes.
"Absurd, my dear!" said her Ladyship in a peevish tone, as she disengaged herself from her daughter; "you must really get the better of this foolish weakness; these scènes are too much for me. I was most excessively shocked last night, I assure you, and you ought not to have quitted your room to-day."
Poor Mary's tears congealed in her eyes at this tender salutation, and she raised her head, as if to as certain whether it really proceeded from her mother; but instead of the angelic vision she had pictured to herself, she beheld a face which, though once handsome, now conveyed no pleasurable feeling to the heart.
Late hours, bad temper, and rouge had done much to impair Lady Juliana's beauty. There still remained enough to dazzle a superficial observer; but not to satisfy the eye used to the expression of all the best affections of the soul. Mary almost shrank from the peevish inanity portrayed on her mother's visage, as a glance of the mind contrasted it with the mild eloquence of Mrs. Douglas's countenance; and, abashed and disappointed, she remained mournfully silent.
"Where is Dr. Redgill?" demanded Lady Juliana of the company in general.
"He has got scent of a turtle at Admiral Yellowchops," answered Mr. P.
"How vastly provoking," rejoined her Ladyship, "that he should be out of the way the only time I have wished to see him since he came to the house!"
"Who is this favoured individual whose absence you are so pathetically lamenting, Julia?" asked Lord Courtland, as he indolently sauntered into the room.
"That disagreeable Dr. Redgill. He has gone somewhere to eat turtle at the very time I wished to consult him about—"
"The propriety of introducing a new niece to your Lordship," said Lady Emily, as, with affected solemnity, she introduced Mary to her uncle. Lady Juliana frowned—the Earl smiled—saluted his niece—hoped she had recovered the fatigue of the journey—remarked it was very cold; and then turned to a parrot, humming "Pretty Poll, say," etc.
Such was Mary's first introduction to her family; and those only who have felt what it was to have the genial current of their souls chilled by neglect or changed by unkindness can sympathise in the feelings of wounded affection—when the overflowings of a generous heart are confined within the narrow limits of its own bosom, and the offerings of love are rudely rejected by the hand most dear to us.
Mary was too much intimidated by her mother's manner towards her to give way, in her presence, to the emotions that agitated her; but she followed her sister's steps as she quitted the room, and, throwing her arms around her, sobbed in a voice almost choked with the excess of her feelings, "My sister, love me!-oh! love me!" But Adelaide's heart, seared by selfishness and vanity, was incapable of loving anything in which self had no share; and for the first time in her life she felt awkward and embarrassed. Her sister's streaming eyes and supplicating voice spoke a language to which she was a stranger; for art is ever averse to recognise the accents of nature. Still less is it capable of replying to them; and Adelaide could only wonder at her sister's agitation, and think how unpleasant it was; and say something about overcome, and eau-de-luce, and composure; which was all lost upon Mary as she hung upon her neck, every feeling wrought to its highest tone by the complicated nature of those emotions which swelled her heart. At length, making an effort to regain her composure, "Forgive me, my sister!" said she. "This is very foolish—to weep when I ought to rejoice—and I do rejoice—and I know I shall be so happy yet!" but in spite of the faint smile that accompanied her words, tears again burst from her eyes.
"I am sure I shall have infinite pleasure in your society," replied Adelaide, with her usual sweetness; and placidity, as she replaced a ringlet in its proper position; "but I have unluckily an engagement at this time. You will, however, be at no loss for amusement; you will find musical instruments there," pointing to an adjacent apartment; "and here are new publications, and portefeuilles of drawings you will perhaps like to look over;" and so saying she disappeared.
"Musical instruments and new publications!" repeated Mary mechanically to herself. "What have I to do with them? Oh for one kind word from my mother's lips!—one kind glance from my sister's eye!"
And she remained overwhelmed with the weight of those emotions, which, instead of pouring into the hearts of others, she was compelled to concentrate in her own. Her mournful reveries were interrupted by her kind friend Lady Emily; but Mary deemed her sorrow too sacred to be betrayed even to her, and therefore rallying her spirits, she strove to enter into those schemes of amusement suggested by her cousin for passing the day. But she found herself unable for such continued exertion; and, hearing a large party was expected to dinner, she retired, in spite of Lady Emily's remonstrance, to her own apartment, where she sought a refuge from her thoughts in writing to her friends at Glenfern.
Lady Juliana looked in upon her as she passed to dinner. She was in a better humour, for she had received a new dress which was particularly becoming, as both her maid and her glass had attested.
Again Mary's heart bounded towards the being to whom she owed her birth; yet afraid to give utterance to her feelings, she could only regard her with silent admiration, till a moment's consideration converted that into a less pleasing feeling, as she observed for the first time that her mother wore no mourning.
Lady Juliana saw her astonishment, and, little guessing the cause, was flattered by it. "Your style of dress is very obsolete, my dear," said she, as she contrasted the effect of her own figure and her daughter's in a large mirror; "and there's no occasion for you to wear black here. I shall desire my woman to order some things for you; though perhaps there won't be much occasion, as your stay here is to be short; and of course you won't think of going out at all. Apropos, you will find it dull here by yourself, won't you? I shall leave you my darling Blanche for companion," kissing a little French lap-dog as she laid it in Mary's lap; "only you must be very careful of her, and coax her, and be very, very good to her; for I would not have my sweetest Blanche vexed, not for the world!" And, with another long and tender salute to her dog, and a "Good-bye, my dear!" to her daughter, she quitted her to display her charms to a brilliant drawing-room, leaving Mary to solace herself in her solitary chamber with the whines of a discontented lap-dog.