# Marriage (Ferrier)/Chapter XVI

". . . . As in apothecaries' shops all sorts of drugs are permitted to be, so may all sorts of books be in the library; and as they out of vipers, and scorpions, and poisonous vegetables extract often wholesome medicaments for the life of mankind, so out of whatsoever book good instruction and examples may be acquired."—DRUMMOND of Hawthornden.
MARY's thoughts had often reverted to Rose Hall since the day she had last quitted it, and she longed to fulfil her promise to her venerable friend; but a feeling of delicacy, unknown to herself, withheld her. "She will not miss me while she has her son with her," said she to herself; but in reality she dreaded her cousin's raillery should she continue to visit there as frequently as before. At length a favourable opportunity occurred. Lady Emily, with great exultation, told her the Duke of Altamont was to dine at Beech Park the following day, but that she was to conceal it from Lady Juliana and Adelaide; "for assuredly," said she, "if they were apprised of it, they would send you up to the nursery as a naughty girl, or perhaps down to the scullery, and make a Cinderella of you. Depend upon it you would not get leave to show your face in the drawing-room."
"Do you really think so?" asked Mary.
"I know it. I know Lady Juliana would torment you till she had set you a crying; and then she would tell you you had made yourself such a fright that you were not fit to be seen, and so order you to your own room. You know very well it would not be the first time that such a thing has happened."
Mary could not deny the fact; but, sick of idle altercation, she resolved to say nothing, but walk over to Rose Hall the following morning. And this she did, leaving a note for her cousin, apologising for her flight.
She was received with rapture by Mrs. Lennox.
"Ah! my dear Mary," said she, as she tenderly embraced her, "you know not, you cannot conceive, what a blank your absence makes in my life! When you open your eyes in the morning, it is to see the light of day and the faces you love, and all is brightness around you. But when I wake it is still to darkness. My night knows no end. 'Tis only when I listen to your dear voice that I forget I am blind."
"I should not have stayed so long from you," said Mary, "but I knew you had Colonel Lennox with you, and I could not flatter myself you would have even a thought to bestow upon me."
"My Charles is, indeed, everything that is kind and devoted to me. He walks with me, reads to me, talks to me, sits with me for hours, and bears with all my little weaknesses as a mother would with her sick child; but still there are a thousand little feminine attentions he cannot understand. I would not that he did. And then to have him always with me seems so selfish; for, gentle and tender-hearted as he is, I know he bears the spirit of an eagle within him; and the tame monotony of my life can ill accord with the nobler habits of his. Yet he says he is happy with me, and I try to make myself believe him."
"Indeed," said Mary, "I cannot doubt it. It is always a happiness to be with those we love, and whom we know love us, under any circumstances; and it is for that reason I love so much to come to my dear Mrs. Lennox," caressing her as she spoke.
"Dearest Mary, who would not love you? Oh! could I but see—could I but hope—"
"You must hope everything you desire," said Mary gaily, and little guessing the nature of her good friend's hopes; "I do nothing but hope." And she tried to check a sigh, as she thought how some of her best hopes had been already blighted by the unkindness of those whose love she had vainly striven to win.
Mrs. Lennox's hopes were already upon her lips, when the entrance of her son fortunately prevented their being for ever destroyed by a premature disclosure. He welcomed Mary with an appearance of the greatest pleasure, and looked so much happier and more animated than when she last saw him, that she was struck with the change, and began to think he might almost stand a comparison with his picture.
"You find me still here, Miss Douglas," said he, "although my mother gives me many hints to be gone, by insinuating what indeed cannot be doubted, how very ill I supply your place; but—" turning to his mother—"you are not likely to be rid of me for sometime, as I have just received an additional leave of absence; but for that, I must have left you tomorrow."
"Dear Charles, you never told me so. How could you conceal it from me? How wretched I should have been had I dreamed of such a thing!"
"That is the very reason for which I concealed it, and yet you reproach me. Had I told you there was a chance of my going, you would assuredly have set it down for a certainty, and so have been vexed for no purpose."
"But your remaining was a chance too," said Mrs. Lennox, who could not all at once reconcile herself even to an escape from danger; "and think, had you been called away from me without any preparation!— Indeed, Charles, it was very imprudent."
"My dearest mother, I meant it in kindness. I could not bear to give you a moment's certain uneasiness for an uncertain evil. I really cannot discover either the use or the virtue of tormenting one's self by anticipation. I should think it quite as rational to case myself in a suit of mail, by way of security to my person, as to keep my mind perpetually on the rack of anticipating evil. I perfectly agree with that philosopher who says, if we confine ourselves to general reflections on the evils of life, that can have no effect in preparing us for them; and if we bring them home to us, that is the certain means of rendering ourselves miserable."
"But they will come, Charles," said his mother mournfully, "whether we bring them or not."
"True, my dear mother; but when misfortune does come, it comes commissioned from a higher power, and it will ever find a well-regulated mind ready to receive it with reverence, and submit to it with resignation. There is something, too, in real sorrow that tends to enlarge and exalt the soul; but the imaginary evils of our own creating can only serve to contract and depress it."
Mrs. Lennox shook her head. "Ah! Charles, you may depend upon it your reasoning is wrong, and you will be convinced of it some day."
"I am convinced of it already. I begin to fear this discussion will frighten Miss Douglas away from us. There is an evil anticipated! Now, do you, my dear mother, help me to avert it; where that can be done, it cannot be too soon apprehended."
As Colonel Lennox's character unfolded itself, Mary saw much to admire in it; and it is more than probable the admiration would soon have been reciprocal, had it been allowed to take its course. But good Mrs. Lennox would force it into a thousand little channels prepared by herself, and love itself must have been quickly exhausted by the perpetual demands that were made upon it. Mary would have been deeply mortified had she suspected the cause of her friend's solicitude to show her off; but she was a stranger to match-making in all its bearings, had scarcely ever read a novel in her life, and was consequently not at all aware of the necessity there was for her falling in love with all convenient speed. She was therefore sometimes amused, though oftener ashamed, at Mrs. Lennox's panegyrics, and could not but smile as she thought how Aunt Jacky's wrath would have been kindled had she heard the extravagant praises that were bestowed on her most trifling accomplishments.
"You must sing my favourite song to Charles, my love—he has never heard you sing. Pray do: you did not use to require any entreaty from me, Mary! Many a time you have gladdened my heart with your songs when, but for you, it would have been filled with mournful thoughts!"
Mary, finding whatever she did or did not, she was destined to hear only her own praises, was glad to take refuge at the harp, to which she sang the following ancient ditty:—
"Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright,  The bridal of the earth and sky,  Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night,  For thou must die.
 "Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave,  Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,  Thy root is ever in its grave;  And thou must die.
 "Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses,  A box where sweets compacted lie,  My music shows you have your closes,  And all must die.
 "Only a sweet and virtuous soul,  Like season'd timber, never gives;  But when the whole world turns to coal,  Then chiefly lives."
"That," said Colonel Lennox, "is one of the any exquisite little pieces of poetry which are to be found, like jewels in an Ethiop's ear, in my favourite Isaac Walton. The title of the book offers no encouragement to female readers, but I know few works from which I rise with such renovated feelings of benevolence and good-will. Indeed, I know no author who has given with so much naïveté so enchanting a picture of a pious and contented mind. Here—" taking the book from a shelf, and turning over the leaves—"is one of the passages which has so often charmed me:—'That very hour which you were absent from me, I sat down under a willow by the water-side, and considered what you had told me of the owner of that pleasant meadow in which you left me—that he has a plentiful estate, and not a heart to think so; that he has at this time many lawsuits depending, and that they both damped his mirth, and took up so much of his time and thoughts that he himself had not leisure to take that sweet comfort I, who pretended no title to them, took in his fields; for I could there sit quietly, and, looking in the water, see some fishes sport themselves in the silver streams, others leaping at flies of several shapes and colours. Looking on the hills, I could behold them spotted with woods and groves; looking down upon the meadows I could see, here a boy gathering lilies and lady-smocks, and there a girl cropping culverkeys and cowslips, all to make garlands suitable to this present month of May. These, and many other field flowers, so perfumed the air, that I thought that very meadow like that field in Sicily, of which Diodorus speaks, where the perfumes arising from the place make all dogs that hunt in it to fall off and lose their scent. I say, as I thus sat joying in my own happy condition, and pitying this poor rich man that owned this and many other pleasant groves and meadows about me, I did then thankfully remember what my Saviour said, that the meek possess the earth—or, rather, they enjoy what the others possess and enjoy not; for anglers and meek-spirited men are free from those high, those restless thoughts,—which corrode the sweets of life; and they, and they only, can say, as the poet has happily expressed it—
'Hail, blest estate of lowliness!  Happy enjoyments of such minds  As, rich in self-contentedness,  Can, like the reeds in roughest winds,  By yielding, make that blow but small,  By which proud oaks and cedars fall.'"
"There is both poetry and painting in such prose as this," said Mary; "but I should certainly as soon have thought of looking for a pearl necklace in a fishpond as of finding pretty poetry in a treatise upon the art of angling."
"That book was a favourite of your father's, Charles," said Mrs. Lennox, "and I remember, in our happiest days, he used to read parts of it to me. One passage in particular made a strong impression upon me, though I little thought then it would ever apply to me. It is upon the blessings of sight. Indulge me by reading it to me once again."
Colonel Lennox made an effort to conquer his feelings, while he read as follows:—
"What would a blind man give to see the pleasant rivers, and meadows, and flowers, and fountains, that we have met with! I have been told that if a man that was born blind could attain to have his sight for but only one hour during his whole life, and should, at the first opening of his eyes, fix his sight upon the sun when it was in its full glory, either at the rising or the setting, he would be transported and amazed, and so admire the glory of it that he would not willingly turn his eyes from that first ravishing object to behold all the other various beauties this world could present to them. And this, and many other like objects, we enjoy daily—-"
A deep sigh from Mrs. Lennox made bier son look up. Her eyes were bathed in tears.
He threw his arms around her. "My dearest mother!" cried he in a voice choked with agitation, "how cruel—how unthinking—thus to remind you—"
"Do not reproach yourself for my weakness, dear Charles; but I was thinking how much rather, could I have my sight but for one hour, I would look upon the face of my own child than on all the glories of the creation!"
Colonel Lennox was too deeply affected to speak. He pressed his mother's hand to his lips—then rose abruptly, and quitted the room. Mary succeeded in soothing her weak and agitated spirits into composure; but the chord of feeling had been jarred, and all her efforts to restore it to its former tone proved abortive for the rest of the day.