Mary Lyndsay

Front matter

VOL BT THE LADY EMILY PONSONBY, AUTHOK OF '■THE DISCIPLINE OF LIFE," •KATHERINE AND HER SISTERS," &c, &c. " How much we love God, how submissive we are to God's will, we cannot otherwise than by willingly undergoing or patiently bearing afflictions, well express; without it no sore trial of virtue can be; without it no excellent example of goodness had ever been" — Barrow. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. in. LONDON: HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, 13, GREAT MAELBOBOUGH STREET. 1863. The right of Translation is reserved.

Chapter I

" Oh ! grief — beside the stream of holy love To stand, and mark its everlasting flow, Its laughing leaps, its murmurs sweet and low, Its bordering flowers, its glory from above Yet feel that thine own home for ever stands Amidst the desert sands." W. S. Walk.ek. The slight improvement which had taken place in the relations of Mary and her husband lasted through another day. No advance was made, but it maintained its ground Happy to have some new subject to VOL. Ill B speak upon, she told him of her visit to the Davis's, and casually asked how he supposed Mr. Davis had "got on so fast," as Mrs. Davis had expressed it. It was a question addressed to the very heart of the singular man to whom she spoke. His countenance changed and lighted, and he rose in his chair and stooped forward to answer her.

When a man speaks with interest, it is impossible not to listen with interest, and Mary's attention was caught and carried away as he described to her in vivid, glowing terms, the hopes, and fears, and ventures cf a merchant's life. It was not till the tale was finished, and he, becoming conscious of and half ashamed of the excitement he had shown, drew back and resumed his newspaper, that Mary also shrank back and shuddered. Shuddered at this revelation of the mind of her husband. His love of money had of late escaped her memory; he was so liberal to herself, so just in his household, so liberal towards Frank and to her father, that she had for gotten the hateful passion that had once absorbed him. The feverish gleam of his eyes during his late speech, revealed the still living and breathing passion, and she shuddered.

For a moment her thoughts turned in pity towards him and his welfare; she felt that to her it was entrusted to make war with the disease ; but the love of money was veiy hateful to her ; she sighed as she thought of the task before her; and with the sigh her thoughts relapsed again with an aching longing to the remembrance of the one being in whom her soul had foimd sym pathy. b That longing she struggled with; but it was Alan of whom her thoughts were full, and it was Alan's welfare which replaced the momentary pity for Mr. Meri vale. During these days when she had been busy for Frank's pleasure, that reck less, despairing face was ever pursuing her; she had still felt that unless shortly assured of his well-being, the burden of life would be insupportable. Her sense of duty kept her from visits to Mrs. Clifton, where she might meet with him, and from inquiries of which he might be told; but Mrs. Clifton and Alan thought of her, and very shortly her anxiety was relieved.

It was on the evening of the third day since Alan's Visit that a note was brought her. She and Mr. Merivale were as usual alone. There had not been many words between them, but the few there had been had been peaceful ones. Mary was working ; hard at work on a bright coloured pattern to make a cushion for her mother's back. Mr. Merivale was busy with his unceasing newspapers ; but now and then his eyes stole towards Mary, as if the sight of her in her pretty evening dress, and even the bright wools on which her fingers were employed, were soothing to him. The note was brought in, the servant saying, " It was left by Mrs. Clifton's carriage, and she will call to-morrow." If Mary's eyes turned eagerly towards it, more eagerly still Mr. Merivale watched her eagerness and her countenance as she read.

He could see a gradual change, he could see and feel a flash of gladness pass over it, and he watched on with the suspicion of a jealous mind, and the anguish of an unloved one. Mary twice read the note, hen looked up and met the gaze fastened upon her. She blushed and hesitated, glanced again at her letter, again hesitated, and then blushing, and timidly, held out the note towards him. " It is a note from Mrs. Clifton, telling me what I am glad to hear." He would have given the world to be able to refuse this mark of innocent confidence, but he could not. The relief in her countenance was so great, that great as that relief was the imperative longing to know its cause. He held out his hand and read : — " Mt dearest Mary. " I know you will be as glad as I am to hear that a friend of ours has come to his senses, and done the only wise thing in his power, that is to leave London and go to his uncle.

I could not, although I guessed you would be anxious, write to tell you this until I was certain he was actually off. I went, therefore, to his lodgings this afternoon, and heard from the elderly lady who keeps them that he not only was gone, but had given up his lodgings, telling her he did not intend to return at present. I hope there fore that he is out of harm's way, and that all will end well. Y"ou have been a sad truant, but I guessed your reason. God bless you, dear Mary, and be happy. " Your affectionate friend, " M. Clifton. Now there were many comforting and comfortable thoughts to be gathered from this letter. Alan was gone, and Mary was glad he was gone. He was not only gone for a time, but he did not intend to return. Mary had so little soughs; to see him, that she had not gone to her only friend lest she should see him.

These and other reflections Mr. Merivale might have made, but if he had had power to make them, what were they to him? He never doubted Mary's truth and duty. What he did doubt was her affection, and too convincingly clear did this note make it, that her affection, her anxiety, had been following Alan. As he slowly read, drinking his misery in, his eyes glanced over the past days, beginning at Mary's pale looks, and ending with his own vain and idle hopes ; and as he made his survey and drew his deductions, he laid the letter down and said coldly, con temptuously, and in the bitterness of his disappointed heart, insolently, " You take a warm interest in that young man's welfare ! " He had scarcely spoken before he would have sacrificed thousands of his precious gold to recall his words, for in Mary's face there was an expression that made his heart shiver; an expression that told him he had forfeited his last hope of gaining her love.

Could Mary have read that poor heart, and appreciated its disappointment, she might, she must have pitied it ; but he him self had repelled her sympathy, and he felt the fruits of that repelling. She thought of all that had passed, of all she had sacrificed, of all she had suffered; and the insult of his words stung her, — (not beyond human endurance, for some more perfect in heavenly charity might have borne), — but beyond her power to bear. A tear, not a soft one, flashed in her eye, and though she said not one word, volumes could not have spoken the keen and cutting reproach which her one glance gave. Nothing more passed. In his secret soul Mr. Merivale implored her pardon; but his outward act was to push the note towards her, to resume his newspaper, and suffer in silence. As Mary took back the note, and replaced it in its envelope, her indignation, the moment's expression of her wounded feelings, died away ; and after an instant she tore it up, and threw it into a basket at her feet ; then returned to her work, and worked on again industriously.

But no more glances stole towards her; the very tearing of the letter irritated him, and when the servant entered again with a letter, this time addressed to him, he accepted the relief from his wife's society with a feeling of rapture, and without a look or word left her to herself. Mary sighed for a moment, but Mr Merivale was right ; he had forfeited his hope of her love. Perhaps the feeling had been silently growing of late, and this last provocation only set its seal upon a gradual change ; but certainly from this time he lost much of his power to wound, from the simple fact that she was growing indifferent. The relief regarding Alan was so great, so excessive, that in the rebound from her anxiety concerning his moral welfare, a feeling almost of happiness sprang up ; and this, combined with her growing indifference to her husband's ill-temper, led her into a new life.

With the elasticity of youth, with the elas ticity of a sweet temper and large powers of enjoyment, she now looked about her, and endeavoured to make the best of her sad lot. She began to occupy herself with many things. Frequent visits to Mrs. Clifton to a certain degree introduced her into society and Mrs. Clifton's friends, charmed with her beauty and sense, and winning manners, sought her in her own home, far as it was from the common haunts of the fashionable world. And at Mrs. Clifton's, where society of all kinds assembled, and all kinds of topics were discussed, Mary became aware of her deficiencies, and a thirst for know ledge was kindled in her heart. She began to read. She wrote to her father for advice, and read steadily; she noted down the books of lighter literature that she heard mentioned, and read them with avidity.

It was a new phase in her history, a new starting point in her existence, and her mind opened as a flower opens to the light. i She followed up also her acquaintance with Mary Davis, to the surprise of the family, selecting her as the object of her notice. The extreme youth and freshness of the young girl cheered her sad heart and gratified her longings to give pleasure. To give her pleasure, Mary visited many sights and scenes which otherwise would have been unvisited; and thus, too, her mind gained food for thought and conversation, and she was becoming fitter to live in the world of life. Occupation also of a very different kind was thrust upon her; thrust upon her first, then eagerly seized and followed out. The clergyman of the parish in which Mary lived was one of those rare men who observe, and who not only observe, but who draw deductions from what they see.

From the first Sunday on which Mary and Mr. Merivale set their foot in his crowded church, he had noticed them; the sad-faced but lovely young wife; the grave and gloomy husband. There was an old Merivale pew situated beneath the pulpit ; for many years it had been let, but immediately on his marriage Mr. Meri vale regained possession of it, and to this pew he, with Mary, Sunday after Sunday bent his steps. Having once noticed, the clergyman watched them. He could see that one thought alone possessed the husband's mind ; that whether it were prayer, or praise, or instruction, he worshipped only, heeded only, the being at his side. He could see that far otherwise was it with the sad, sweet face that was lifted up to him as his words issued above their heads. He could see how she hung upon those words as if they were her life ; how at times, if he spoke of the world's disap pointments, and the comforts of trust in God, the muscles of her face would quiver and her eyelids droop lest a tear should fall.

He noted, and after a time — for time with him was a thing that almost existed not — he called upon her. • And here again began another phase in the history of her mind. Hitherto her pas sion to do good had been confined to her home, or those near her. Her youth, her shrinking from suffering, her occupations at home, had all prevented a spreading charity ; but when seeing, reading as he did the secret cares and sorrows of her mind, the clergyman invited her help in some of his many avocations, her heart leapt up to meet . his wishes ; and that one visit he paid secured him an assistant whose very countenance invited confidence, softened rudeness, won love, and whose heart required only to see need to bestow help — all the help that was in her power. Thus, then, Mary was fully occupied, and thus she fought with the troubles of her home and the sorrows of her heart.

It was certainly wise ; it was certainly good ; and yet . . . At this time of her life, when more occupied with active charity, when doing more actual good than she ever had done in life before, there was less real charity burning in Mary's heart than at any time since her earliest childhood. There was one spot over which a callous matter was growing, stifling its soft impulses ; it was that spot which Mr. Merivale's image occupied. She still most faithfully and pertinaciously endeavoured to do her duty to him. She asked his leave for every new occupation she undertook ; she mentioned to him every fresh acquaintance she made; and she even sometimes asked his help in the larger charities, a larger acquaintance with the needs of London required. The faithful performance of these and other im- ■* posed duties blinded her eyes to the change in her feelings, but he felt the change.

He could see that her cheek no longer flushed, nor her lip trembled, if his words were repellent and harsh ; he could see that, if more than usually morose, she did not sink in despair as once she had done, but en deavoured to divert her thoughts. Indiffer ence to his moods was growing up. She was unconscious of the fact, but he felt it. Yet Mary was not happy in her in difference — happy with her occupations — happy with her duties. Her, cares did divert the surface of her mind, but sorrow, and regret, and disappointment preyed at heart. She was less dejected than she had been when thoughts only of submission occupied her, but she was far less at peace. c VOL. " Why does your sister always look so sad ? " Mary Davis asked, one evening, when Frank was honouring her with some attention. "She has almost everything she can wish for, and yet she always looks sad."

" You had better ask her," Frank replied, not knowing what to say. " Oh ! Mr. Lyndsay, you do not think I would be so impertinent ! I only ask you because it makes me unhappy. She tries to make others happy, but she never looks happy herself. I often think her smile is the saddest thing of all." " I suppose, Miss Davis, there are a great many things in married life that we un married people know nothing about." " Perhaps ; but . . . but I won't ask anything more if I had better not." " Oh ! pray ask anything you please, only don't expect me to understand women's hearts." Frank spoke with some acrimony. Miss Davis blushed, and said no more. "Well, now," Frank continued, after a moment, " you have said a thing to-day that surprised me. I didn't know you thought so much about money." " Me," said his young companion, with a slight scream.

" Yes ; you say Mary has got every thing a woman can wish for. What do you mean that she has got except money? What do you know of Mr. Merivale? What do you know about her home?" "She has got beauty, and the power of making everybody like her ! and that is having all she can wish." " I thought you meant money, hke the rest of the world," he said, and he pro ceeded to converse in a mollified tone. It will be perceived, perhaps, that Frank Lyndsay had been in some way disapc2 pointed, and though no great interest is expected in his affairs, they must be men tioned. He did not speak of Mrs. Larpent for some weeks ; and though Mary made many attempts to draw him on, he re sisted them. At the end of three or four weeks, however, he voluntarily said : — " Well, Mary, I went to tea in Glou cester Terrace, and I have been there several times," and then he stopped.

"Well, Frank." " Well, and I agree with you. I don't like that woman." Mary could scarcely refrain from an expression of thankfulness, but she saw he looked annoyed, and did refrain. " It was what I expected to happen," she merely said. "Well, Mary, it shows your discern ment, I own. She's not like the same woman. I never could have beheved money could change a woman to that degree. But I suppose it's the same all the world over." He spoke so bitterly, that Mary began to suspect some rival had appeared. " But, Frank," she asked hesitatingly, " is there .... surely 1 am not mis taken in thinking she likes you still?" " Likes me. Oh ! yes," he said, drawing himself up. " I believe she does. She's very ready to jump down my throat now. But that's one of the things that disgust me. I didn't expect any sentiment about poor Larpent ; I didn't wish for it.

I should have thought her a hypocrite if she had put it on ; but there is such a thing as decency and propriety, at least to my mind there ought to be. However," he continued, after a moment, " I think per haps I should have forgiven that. You know there are causes; and if she has always liked me ... . why, you know, Mary, some people can't help showing what they feel." "Then what is it?" " It's the woman herself. You wouldn't know it was the same woman as Louisa Davis. So set up with airs ! Now if there is one thing that in my humble opinion a man can't stand, it's airs in a woman. I, at least, will never stand them, and so Mrs. Larpent may keep her money to herself, or give it to whoever she pleases." " What shall you do then, Frank ? Shall you have to give up going to the Davis's ? I am sorry for that."

" Oh, no ; there is no need, Mrs. Lar pent and I are very good friends. I took care to be discreet, because, after what you said, I fancied it possible she might be changed. We met only as friends, and though she makes advances, thinking I am diffident, I don't seem to notice them. A man with his wits about him knows how to act in such matters ; and besides, after what you said about that other girl, I have been paying some attention to her. I don't mean matrimonial attentions, I only mean I have been trying to find out if what you say about her was true." "Well?" Mary asked, smiling. " Well, Mary, I think she's a good useful girl, and might make a man a comfortable wife. I don't mean to speak of anything more at present. Only as I am quite determined not to be disappointed in my wishes again, I thought it right to ascertain whether Mr. Davis gives any fortune to his daughters, and I find he does, £5,000.

Now if I should turn my thoughts that way, and if I should rise as I intend to do, I think £5,000 will make it not so foolish an affair. What do you say? "I think I could live on very little with a person I liked, dear Frank ; and I think if people will be content to be happy, and not try to be grand, a very little is enough." Frank saw a flush on her cheek as she spoke, and after a moderate acqui escence in her opinion, discreetly changed the subject. " There's only one thing more, Mary. If that girl should ever be my wife I will not have her called Polly; and I don't see what is to be done." "There will be no need," Mary said, laughing. " It is kind to let Mrs. Davis call her Polly, but she can be Mary to you." " Oh ! no, indeed. You are my Mary. I won't have any other." The speech was so totally free from sentiment, that Mary, though her heart bounded at the affection it betrayed, re strained herself from any expression of gratitude, simply assuring him that some thing would suggest itself, if ever the neces sary decision came.

But when, after Frank's departure, she sat alone, she could not but feel grateful and thankful for the power she had gained over him. It was her words which had swayed him; had led to a wise decision, and might lead to a happy choice for the future ; and she told herself with tears that she ought not to repine while such trust and such affection were hers. She ought not; and yet the days and weeks passed on, and Mary still was sad.

Chapter II

" The voice which I did more esteem Than music in her sweetest key, Those eyes which unto me did seem More comfortable than the day ; Those now by me, as they have been Shall never more be heard or seen." S. Wither. The weeks and months went by. It was September ; nearly five months since Mary's marriage. Nearly five months, and she had not yet seen her parents. A strange reluctance on both sides prevented this meeting, though always, in almost every letter it was talked of, and looked forward to. Letters, presents, thoughts, went unceasingly from Mary's new home to her old one, but she could not make the effort to return to it. She dreaded her father's silent gaze ; she dreaded still more her mother's questionings. She had of late so hid her thoughts under a calm exterior, that she shrank with terror from facing them, or having them faced, and so, on her part, the visit was not paid.

The reluctance on the part of Captain Lyndsay was still greater. He enjoyed the comforts Mary's riches sent ; and, warned in his secret soul that the price paid was the earthly happiness of his child, he dared not see the wreck he had made; he dared not know what yet he knew too well. He too, therefore, spoke daily, weekly, of running up to see her, or sending Mrs. Lyndsay, but the deed was not done. In the constant hope of going, Mrs. Lyndsay lived ; over the con stant disappointment, grumbled ; but she was far too indolent to take a step her self. Well dressed, in a warm room, and a comfortable arm-chair, she peacefully passed her life ; and though she thought it was quite impossible Mary could be happy with Mr. Merivale, now that young man was alive, still she was so comfortable that she hoped it was so.

But what Mary had not the resolution to do for herself was at this time settled for her. In the beginning of September she caught a bad cold, and when the cold was cured she did not recover. The effects of those five months' secret sorrow now appeared. A languor, which she vainly endeavoured to shake off, settled upon her. Her eyes were heavy, and her nights restless. There was no apparent cause of illness, and yet she was ill. Mr. Merivale had thought but little of the cold. All men and women have colds, and when the cold was gone, he expected recovery, and felt no anxiety. It was suddenly, as on a former occasion, that his eyes fell on Mary's face, and observed the change. The black fines under the eyes ; the blue veins in her transparent skin ; and once again, with a pang indescribable, the thought shot through his brain that Mary would die.

On this occasion, however, the emotion was subdued. He was too convinced of Mary's indifference to hazard a word of anxiety, and he waited to speak until he could speak with the measured coldness he had imposed on himself in his relations with her. When he could trust himself, he spoke. " It is a foolish thing, Mary, to throw away health. I do not think you have recovered from your cold." " I don't think I have," she replied, with a faint smile. The smile was so faint, so sad, he could scarcely subdue the aching of his heart, but the remembrance why she was sad, was ever ready to thrust itself on his notice, and it came now and calmed him. " I shall send for Dr. ," he went on, " I hear him very highly spoken of. At what time will it suit you to see him?" " I will be at home at any time that suits him, or that you please," she replied, gently ; and then, after a moment, " Thank you for thinking of it.

I was beginning to feel that I ought to see some one." " Why did you not speak ?" he said, reproachfully. In reproach there is feeling, and Mary was touched. It was rarely that the veil of impenetrable reserve was lifted from that stony manner, and insensibly she felt warmed and cheered. " I have only just began to feel it," she said, with a more ready smile, " and I don't think there is much the matter. Perhaps I want fresh air." His countenance fell. Yes, that was it. Mary wanted separation from him. He said no more, however, except to observe that he would let her know at what hour to expect Dr. , and left her. In a different tone did he address the physician to whom he went, and the re presentation he made of his wife's health, and the anxiety of mind exhibited, led Dr. to appoint an hour that same day.

A note was sent to Mary, and she was ready. Unable to find any sufficient cause for her impaired health, the Physician asked her, with anxious interest and steadfast gaze, if she had anything upon her mind. It was not a difficult question to answer, but Mary felt guilty. She blushed deeply, and remained silent. It was no business of her medical adviser to inquire further. He was per plexed, but he was answered. That anxious husband, that sad-looking wife, that sweet ingenuous countenance, that guilty yet guileless blush ! What it could mean he could not understand, but he could understand the cause of her failing health. He prescribed country air, and as much air as possible. " Was she willing to obey him ?" " Most willing," she said, vol. in. d smiling, and the smile was so innocent that his half-drawn conclusions were put to flight.

According to his promise he called on Mr. Merivale at the Bank, assured him there was no cause for serious uneasiness, but at the same time that there was such evident languor of body and mind, that fresh air and change of scene were absolutely necessary. Mr. Merivale heard him with outward calm, with inward despair. It was come then, to this. His presence killed her, and they must part. This was the beginning of the end. Mary must either die or be torn from him. His hard-won treasure must be given up. After the physician left him he walked madly about his room, then sent word to Mary that he was busy and could not return to dinner. He could not face the long evening with her alone. He felt he could not hide his despair. It was late when he entered the drawing-room; but by that time he had com posed himself.

He sat down in a chair by the fire, and Mary asked him if he had dined. He made no answer to that question, but nerving himself began, "Dr. recomrecom- mends, as you imagined, country air. Where do you intend to go?" " Will you not come with me?" Mary said, timidly." " No. I am too much engaged." Her question had surprised him, and he hoped it would be repeated, but it was not. He had spoken roughly, and Mary was afraid to say more. " Where do you intend to go ?" he asked, again. For a moment a longing to return as d2 a daughter to her own home flashed before Mary's eyes, and made her heart beat. To return to her old occupations, alone and free ! to be herself again ! The momentary picture was like a picture of Paradise, and though, so fast do human beings change their tastes, it was possible Mary would not have found the reality as enchanting as she supposed, yet it was with a sigh that it was driven away.