Part 41 (1/2)

”Impossible! my perceptions are so peculiarly alive to all that is obnoxious to them that I could as soon preach my eyes into blindness, or my ears into deafness, as put down my feelings with chopping logic. If people _will_ be affected and ridiculous, why must I live in a state of warfare with myself on account of the feelings they rouse within me?”

”If people _will_ be irritable,” said Mary, laughing, ”why must others sacrifice their feelings to gratify them?”

”Because mine are natural feelings, and theirs are artificial. A very saint must sicken at sight of affectation, you'll allow. Vulgarity, even innate vulgarity, is bearable--stupidity itself is pardonable--but affectation is never to be endured or forgiven.”

”It admits of palliation, at least,” answered Mary. ”I dare say there are many people who would have been pleasing and natural in their manners had not their parents and teachers interfered. There are many, I believe, who have not courage to show themselves such as they are--some who are naturally affected and many, very many, who have been taught affectation as a necessary branch of education.”

”Yes--as my governesses would have taught me; but, thank heaven! I got the better of them. _Fascinating_ was what they wanted to make me; but whenever the word was mentioned, I used to knit my brows, and frown upon them in such a sort. The frown, like now, sticks by me; but no matter--a frowning brow is better than a false heart, and I defy anyone to say that I am fascinating.”

”There certainly must be some fascination about you, otherwise I should never have sat so long listening to you,” said Mary, as she rose from the table at which she had been a.s.sisting to dash off the at-homes.

”But you must listen to me a little longer,” cried her cousin, seizing her hand to detain her. ”I have not got half through my detestables yet; but to humour you, I shall let them go for the present. And now, that you mayn't suppose I am utterly insensible to excellence, you must suffer me to show you that I can and do appreciate worth when I can find it. I confess my talent lies fully as much in discovering the ridiculous as the amiable; and I am equally ready to acknowledge it is a fault, and no mark of superior wit or understanding; since it is much easier to hit off the glaring caricature line of deformity than the finer and more exquisite touches of beauty, especially for one who reads as he run---the sign-posts are sure to catch the eye. But now for my favourite--no matter for her name--it would frighten you if were you to hear it. In the first place, she is, as some of your old divines say, _hugely religious;_ 'but then she keeps her piety in its proper place, and where it ought to be--in her very soul. It is never a stumbling-block in other people's way, or interfering with other people's affairs. Her object is to _be,_ not to _seem, _religious; and there is neither hypocrisy nor austerity necessary for that. She is forbearing, without meanness--gentle, without insipidity--sincere, without rudeness. She practises all the virtues herself, and seems quite unconscious that others don't do the same. She is, if I may trust the expression of her eye, almost as much alive to the ridiculous as I am; but she is only diverted where I am provoked. She never bestows false praise even upon her friends; but a simple approval from her is of more value than the finest panegyric from another. She never finds occasion to censure or condemn the conduct of anyone, however flagrant it may be in the eyes of others; because she seems to think virtue is better expressed by her own actions than by her neighbour's vices. She cares not for admiration, but is anxious to do good and give pleasure. To sum up the whole, she could listen with patience to Lady Placid; she could bear to be advised by Mrs. Wiseacre; she could stand the scrutiny of Mrs. Downe Wright; and, hardest task of all” (throwing her arms around Mary's neck), ”she can bear with all my ill-humour and impertinence.”

CHAPTER X.

”Have I then no fears for thee, my _mother?_ Can I forget thy cares, from helpless years-- Thy tenderness for me? an eye still beamed With love!”

THOMPSON.

THE arrival of Lord Lindore brought a influx of visitors to Beech Park; and in the unceasing round of amus.e.m.e.nt that went on Mary found herself completely overlooked. She therefore gladly took advantage of her insignificance to pay frequent visits to Mrs. Lennox, and easily prevailed with Lady Juliana to allow her to spend a week there occasionally. In this way the acquaintance soon ripened into the warmest affection on both sides. The day seemed doubly dark to Mrs. Lennox that was not brightened by Mary's presence; and Mary felt all the drooping energies of her heart revive in the delight of administering to the happiness of another.

Mrs. Lennox was one of those gentle amiable beings, who engage our affections far more powerfully than many possessed of higher attributes.

Her understanding was not strong--neither had it been highly cultivated, according to the ideas of the present time; but she had a benevolence of heart and a guileless simplicity of thought that shamed the pride of wit and pomp of learning. Bereft of all external enjoyments, and dest.i.tute of great mental resources, it was retrospection and futurity that gilded the dark evening of her days, and shed their light on the dreary realities of life. She loved to recall the remembrance of her children--to tell of their infant beauties, their growing virtues--and to retrace scenes of past felicity which memory loves to treasure in the heart.

”Oh! none but a mother can tell,” she would exclaim, ”the bitterness of those tears which fall from a mother's eyes. All other sorrows seem natural, but--G.o.d forgive me!--surely it is not natural that the old should weep for the young. Oh! when I saw myself surrounded by my children, little did I think that death was so soon to seal their eyes!

Sorrow mine! and yet me thinks I would rather have suffered all than have stood in the world a lonely being. Yes, my children revered His power and believed in His name, and, thanks to His mercy, I feel a.s.sured they are now angels in heaven! Here,” taking some papers from a writing-box, ”my Louisa speaks to me even from the tomb! These are the words she wrote but a few hours before her death. Read them to me; for it is not every voice I can bear to hear uttering her last thoughts.”

Mary read as follows:--

FOR EVER GONE.

For ever gone! oh, chilling sound!

That tolls the knell of hope and joy!

Potent with torturing pang to wound, But not in mercy to destroy.

For ever gone! what words of grief-- Replete with wild mysterious woe!

The Christian kneels to seek relief-- A Saviour died---It is not so.

For a brief s.p.a.ce we sojourn here, And life's rough path we journey o'er; Thus was it with the friend so dear, That is not lost, but sped before.

For ever gone! oh, madness wild Dwells in that drear and Atheist doom!

But death of horror is despoiled, When Heaven s.h.i.+nes forth beyond the tomb.

For ever gone! oh, dreadful fate!

Go visit nature--gather thence The symbols of man's happier state, Which speak to every mortal sense.