CHAPTER XLIII.
There is said to be a stage in sorrow, after which an addition can beborne with apathy; but this the heart of Marion seemed never likely toreach. It is a natural source of comfort, however, in mourning over theloss of those we love, to find that they are appreciated and lamentedby others; and many kind letters of condolence on the death of SirArthur reached the young mourner, from old companions and youngacquaintances. Some were written with overdone and inflated expressionsof sorrow, as if the writer had lost a parent of her own; and if theoccasion had been less heartbreaking to herself, Marion might almosthave smiled at their tone of exaggerated grief. Others wrote studiedcompositions, so beautifully got up, and with such skilfully turnedperiods, that the writer must have felt certain of Marion's "Life andCorrespondence" being hereafter collected and published; while othersconcluded with "Yours, in haste," as an evident apology for neitherhead nor heart being much enlisted on the occasion; but all werereceived with grateful interest, being more or less a proof of kindintentions, very soothing to the feelings of a solitary girl.
Each letter, as it came, caused her a palpitation of hope, followed bya pang of disappointment; for every morning she arose with a confidenthope that now Richard Granville must certainly write, and every eveningclosed in with an added weight of discouragement and sorrow; for nowindeed the roses of life seemed all to have faded, and the thorns onlyto remain.
As Shakspeare observes, "every one can master a grief but he that hasit;" and among the many well-meaning but commonplace acquaintances whocame to gossip over the sorrows of Marion, and to ascertain exactly howmuch Sir Arthur had left, there was not one to whom she could unveilher feelings. Each of her well-intentioned visitors said a few words inpraise of Sir Arthur, enough to convince Marion that no one but herselfcould appreciate the hundredth part of his inestimable worth--asentence or two then followed of pious reflection, obviously spokenwith restraint, and picked up by rote from some volume of religiousmeditations, and the whole was generally concluded in a masterlymanner, by repeating a few texts of Scripture, strung together from aconcordance.
There is a solemn dignity in real grief, beside which all commonplaceor trifling consolations fall powerless and cold; but strangers inreturn for their contributions of sympathy and comfort, evidentlyexpected from Marion an ostentatious display of affection, and wereoften not a little disappointed, at the pale, still, concentratedcalmness of the lonely girl, who, subdued beneath the weight of herrecent sorrow, received visitors only when she felt able to do so withcomposure, speaking to them with gentle, melancholy kindness, andevidently endeavoring to derive all the comfort she could from theirsociety; yet often in the solitude which followed, did she feelinclined to agree with an author, who remarks, that "_la pitie n'estpas le plus due a celui qui pleure dans la solitude_."
Marion seemed to live in a dream, yet she gazed on the daylight and thepeople moving about on their errands of pleasure or business, till shefelt that the whole was a sad reality. The common, every day routine oflife seemed strange and unnatural, amidst the agony of her firstsorrow, when the tomb had so recently closed over her earliest friend.She felt as if nature herself should have suspended her ordinarycourse, and as if the melancholy awe so impressed upon her own heartshould extend to everything animate or inanimate around--as if the verysun itself should scarcely rise and shine as heretofore; and nothingappeared to Marion so strange, as that sameness visible in the outwardworld, contrasted with the mighty revolution in all her own inwardfeelings. Marion tried to take a lesson in cheerful resignation, fromthinking sometimes of the many created by the same Almighty Father, andyet suffering far more than she had ever done; and her eye fell one dayon a blind beggar, seated near her window, shivering with cold,emaciated with hunger, solitary and deserted, shut out from the lightof day, friendless, homeless, and desolate, with none to sympathize inhis sorrows, or to cheer him by their affection. "Yet," thought Marion,"that miserable being finds an object to live for, and would notperhaps willingly die! God gives something to all his creatures; andwho makes me to differ from the most wretched. But bodily wants are notthe real sorrows of life! O no! The mind, when relieved from suchabject cares, has more leisure to grieve over withered hopes andblighted affections; yet all trials, if rightly received, are butblessings in disguise. It is well if, by tasting such sorrows asmine--and they are many--I am taught to avoid the far greater and morepermanent evils of futurity. In this world, we are suspended over theabyss of eternity, by a thread which grows more feeble every hour; andall events should be welcome which are ordained by infinite wisdom, toprepare me for that hour when my place on earth shall be vacant, and myplace in eternity--in a ceaseless eternity, shall be filled."
Time has wings, even when they move most heavily, and as day after daypassed slowly onwards, Marion felt more and more astonished to hearnothing of Agnes, who had written but once, a very few days after herdeparture from home, in gay and almost triumphant spirits, boasting ofthe excessive attention she met with from all the party, of thesplendor in which they travelled, of the admiration she had herselfexcited, and of several magnificent presents she had received from LordDoncaster. In a postscript to this letter, she expressed a careless,patronizing hope, that poor, dear Sir Arthur was now convalescent; andas for anything but a recovery, she seemed no more to doubt it than ifdeath had been altogether abolished. To Marion's surprise, when lookingat the signature of Agnes, a broad line had been drawn through the nameof Dunbar, and the whole was surrounded by a fantastic wreath offlourishes, exactly imitating the very peculiar way in which LordDoncaster was accustomed usually to encircle his own autograph; andmuch she marvelled what this uncommon device was intended to indicate,though she secretly dreaded to hear the interpretation of it, which herfears had at first suggested.
As the mind and heart become more matured in this world, they too oftenbecome, from sad experience, more apprehensive of evil, and moresuspicious of earthly friendships; but it was otherwise with Marion inrespect to Richard Granville; though a dark curtain had fallen suddenlybetween them, all intercourse was most unaccountably suspended, and thevery thought of his attachment, once a pleasure without alloy, was nowaccompanied by a heavy, leaden depression and anxiety. She told herselfa thousand times over that all would hereafter be explained, and yether heart seemed turning to stone, while day after day dawned andclosed without a line to give her comfort or to reassure her heart.
In this state of wearing suspense a visiting card was brought to Marionone morning of Captain De Crespigny's, accompanied by a letter which hehad brought from Sir Patrick, strongly urging on her, in almostarbitrary terms, his earnest desire that she should reconsider herdecision against her friend, and no longer wasting her affections on apenniless curate, who had proved himself undeserving of her,--bestowthem where they would be so much better appreciated, and where theywould exalt her to so distinguished a situation. Marion was astonishedto think how Sir Patrick could know that she had any cause ofdissatisfaction against Mr. Granville, whom she had never even named oflate; but resolute if possible to avoid meeting Captain De Crespigny,she was denied again and again when he called, though to her surprisehe persevered in almost daily inquiring for her, and numbered hisvisiting cards conspicuously on the corner till they amounted at lastto more than a dozen.
Marion was sitting alone one evening, beside her solitary hearth, andto a spectator she would have seemed of more than earthly beauty,though the cold tear stood unheeded on her cheek, while her memory hadbecome haunted by the ghost of departed happiness. She thought of herdeceased uncle in his silent grave, yet it seemed as if still she couldtrace his step and hear his voice by her side. All was still as death,her soul seemed wandering in a mysterious existence, amidst thesolitary and deserted world, and hope itself grew dim within herbreast. The flood-gates of memory were now unclosed, pouring into herheart and spirit a ceaseless stream of old recollections, old scenes,and recent sorrows; while the bright mirror of joy which had once shonein radiant splendor
before her eyes seemed now broken to shivers. Noone seemed destined hereafter to know the deep mine of thoughts andaffections which lay unspoken in her breast. She felt as if the summermight shine in its brightness, the spring might be gay with theblossoms of hope, but that her spring and summer would return in thisworld no more, yet she believed and knew that it was better to witnessthe death of every dear affection, and the burial of every promisingexpectation, if, when thus blighted and withered upon earth, theybecame rooted and strengthened for eternity.
"What empty shadows glimmer nigh! They once were Friendship, Truth, and Love! Oh! die to thought, to mem'ry die, Since lifeless to my heart ye prove!"
Martin had brought in the tea-tray, and Marion scarcely noticed hisentrance or departure while mournfully gazing on the dim embersexpiring in the grate, when her attention became suddenly attracted byhearing a carriage draw up close to the door, and her pale cheek grewpaler, when a moment afterwards her sister hurried into the room, andwith a strange, wild, hysterical smile, clasped her arms around Marion,and locked her in a long embrace. Marion thought no grief too great forthe loss they had both sustained, and yet she became startled toperceive that Agnes was actually shivering with agitation; that hereyes were blood-shot, her hair dishevelled, her whole form shrunk andaltered, while her lips quivered for a moment as if she would havespoken but could not articulate; and a look of unutterable anguishswept across her pallid countenance. At length, burying her face onMarion's shoulder, she exclaimed, in a voice of thrilling agony,
"I knew you would welcome me! I knew it, Marion! Cold and heartless asI have been, you will not reproach me. You deserve a better sister."
"I could love none other so well," replied Marion, alarmed and shockedat the unexpected excess of Agnes' grief. "We are all the world to eachother now, Agnes!"
"Yes! yes! Who ever dreamed it could come to this! You alone will pityme, Marion! Here at least I shall find a refuge till I find one in thegrave! Do not look so alarmed, Marion! If I had brought disgrace tothis house, I never would have entered it again; but I have been duped,made miserable, and, worse than all, ridiculous! The whole world willlaugh, and well they may; but in the living death I have brought uponmyself, still one friend remains who will never reproach me for myfolly. Dear kind Sir Arthur, too, if he had lived! Alas! Marion, I knowhis value now; but I know it too late! To obtain his forgiveness, Icould follow him to the very grave."
Marion gasped for breath, and tried to suppress her emotion, that shemight compose the mind of Agnes, whose voice had become hollow, hereyes were brightened by fever, and there was a frantic energy in hertone and manner so tearfully agitating, that Marion entreated her topostpone all farther discussion till she was better able to bear it;but Agnes continued to pour forth her words like a gushing torrent.
"I shall be better when all is told! Hear me out now, Marion! Believeme it is better! You remember Dixon!--that wretched woman who attemptedonce to destroy me. She stole into my room at Mrs. O'Donoghoe's someweeks ago. Imagine my horror and affright when she entered! Dixonrelated to me her own history--seduced, ruined, and forsaken by CaptainDe Crespigny. She fancied at first that he had deserted her for me; butshe has since discovered, as I have done, Marion, that he is attachedonly to you!"
"It matters little, Agnes, who Captain De Crespigny fancies for apassing hour, provided it be one whose happiness cannot be injured byhis caprice."
"Dixon added," continued Agnes, with a gasping sob of angry emotion,"that Lord Doncaster had been equally deceived into believing that hisnephew liked me--that I was the only obstacle to his marrying theheiress, Miss Howard; and his whole attentions at Harrowgate were paidto expose my self-interestedness,--he had carried it on as a farce toamuse an idle hour. The plot had amused him; and, after a time, hebecame flattered by the consciousness that a girl, young, beautiful,and admired, as I was, could be induced to accept him; but Mrs.O'Donoghoe is now actually his mistress! Spare me, Marion, therecapitulation of all that passed: it is too humbling, too dreadful.She told me that Captain De Crespigny, the only man I ever loved, hadspoken of me to his uncle--as--as I deserved, with scorn, derision, andcensure! She repeated the whole scene, and I then saw myself as I am inthe sight of others--seared in heart, degraded, contemptible, wretched!and oh! how ungrateful to those who were, indeed, my friends!"
Marion saw that Agnes, when she spoke, gazed at the portrait of SirArthur; and tears sprang into the eyes of both, as they looked uponthat silent memorial of past worth and affection.
"My reputation must be irreparably injured in the world's eye by suchassociation!" continued Agnes, rapidly. "All is agony and horror! WhileDixon yet spoke, I hated myself and everything around. Shame andmortification overpowered me! All became shadowy, confused, andwavering in my thoughts. That night I was seized with fever anddelirium. A sick-nurse was placed to attend on me; and I am thankful tofind that Mrs. O'Donoghoe, with her party, instantly left the house. Iam ashamed to think what folly my ravings must have disclosed! Theworst horror of fever is, that it betrays all to others! I hovered onthe very brink of the grave! Oh! that I had been as fully prepared toenter another world as I was to leave this! How happy are those whosetrials and mortifications are buried in the silent grave, and whosepulse is no longer like mine--the knell of a living death! Life is,indeed, an awful gift, with its deceitful hopes and consuming sorrows!"
"Yes, if we will not be satisfied with the happiness provided for us byGod himself; if we will persist in laying out a plan of life forourselves, and in being wretched when the infinite wisdom of ourCreator sees fit to alter it. Even now, Agnes, you may, if you choose,have peace and cheerfulness. How much better it is, to lose all yourlovers, than to marry a bad husband! Let us live for each other; let usimprove our minds; let us console the many who are worse off thanourselves; let us encourage one another in all the difficulties oflife; and, whatever is wanting to us now, we can look the morethankfully forward to those regions of eternal joy, for which oursorrows here are all sent on purpose to prepare us. Dear Agnes, for mysake you must not despond."
"I ought not, Marion, while you are my sister! I hate the world andevery thing in it, but who would not love you," replied Agnes, in avoice of dark and stormy grief, while no tear was on her cheek. "Myheart seems dry as summer dust! My body is a dreary sepulchre to mymind, all dark, cold, and desolate. There is nothing in life worthliving for!"
Though little of Agnes' depression was really caused by Sir Arthur'sdeath, yet her grief became now as deep as crape and bombazine couldmake it. She had not the generosity to struggle against her mortifiedfeelings, or to spare those of Marion, but from day to day her waywardmind seemed to cherish the chagrin which inch by inch consumed her. Nogentle self-renunciation appeared in her sorrow, but she seemed tofancy that in all the world there was no tear except of hershedding,--no sigh but of her breathing,--and she forgot to observe howMarion had banished all her own anxieties and cares while listening tothe egotism of grief in another, thus bearing the whole burden of both.Agnes gradually delivered herself up to a state of peevish, listless,apathetic despondency. If she attempted to read, her eyes looked onlyon a wilderness of words without meaning; she had no taste for work,not a correspondent in the world, and never had cared for a newspaper;therefore unable to fix her attention on any employment, she proceededwith sullen, mechanical indifference, through the ordinary routine oflife, without energy and without interest.
Agnes' mind was like a crushed butterfly, disfigured and valueless; allits buoyant hopes and fantastic flights for ever at an end. She knewnot that sunshine of the heart, often divinely given amidst the darkesthours of life, when inward peace, amidst external sorrow, might becompared to a cheerful, quiet room, while a torrent and tempest areraging unheeded around. Agnes mistakenly believed that the onlypossible aggravation to her melancholy would arise, if her thoughtswere turned to religion, since hitherto she had seen in it nothing butthe gloomy terrors of futurity. She never had cultivated any taste forreading that infalli
ble balm to the depressed, and least of all wouldshe have thought of appealing to the Holy Scriptures for relief fromthe cankering irritation of her proud but broken spirit, and nothinghad ever annoyed her more, than when Marion, one day, from the fulnessof her own heart, observed with soothing gentleness, that they shouldbe too grateful for the blessings bestowed, to repine for those whichwere withheld, especially as affliction was generally the surest way toamend the heart.
"Yes! but in mending you may break it," replied Agnes, discontentedly."My existence here is a living death, with nothing to care for, nothingto hope for, nothing to do, meditating continually on my feelings,hating life, and yet dreading death."
"But," replied Marion, laying her hand on the Bible, "here, Agnes, Ifind enough to care for, enough to hope for, and more than enough todo. No mortal being has all his wishes granted, and why should weexpect to be an exception? The world and its affections have deprivedus of peace, and this is the only guiding-star which can lead us tofind it again. If we were to study a portion of this volume togetherevery day----"
"Marion! I am surely melancholy enough already, without becomingmethodistical!" interrupted Agnes, impatiently. "I wept when I wasborn; and every day since shews me I had cause to do so! If I ever doget up my spirits again, I may perhaps read the Bible more carefully,but, not while I feel so low and depressed."
"You remind me, Agnes, of Lady Towercliffe saying last year, that shefelt much too ill to see a doctor, but would send for one if she becamebetter. We find ourselves lonely and benighted now; but here is abright path of glory pointed out, and strength offered us to pursueit."
"Well, Marion! if you must soar to the clouds, pray leave me to grovelon the earth!" replied Agnes, peevishly. "You are so fond of readingnow, that, like Petrarch, your head will be pillowed on a book when youdie; but can you not talk of something more cheerful to me? Thosemournful subjects are fit only for a deathbed, or a tract. When peopletalk to me of religion, I always feel like the felons at Newgate in thecondemned pew, with their coffins gaping at their elbow! What makes youalways talk so dismally about resignation now, Marion?"
"My own sorrows and your's, Agnes. We both need comfort, and neither ofus can find any, except in religion. 'God gives what bankrupt naturenever can.' The effect of time would be only to benumb our hearts; butfaith could restore them to cheerfulness."
"You might as well plant flowers on a tomb-stone, as attempt to enlivenme, Marion! It is a hopeless endeavor! No! the wing of hope is brokenwithin me for ever and ever. It is the misfortune of having too muchfeeling! Life seems to me a cold and bitter blast, with all its events,like snow-flakes, driving in my face. I have been brought into itwithout my consent, and shall be torn from it against my will, while
Dream after dream ensues; And still I dream that I shall still succeed, And still am disappointed."
"Yet, Agnes, there is not probably a single living being with whom youwould change places!"
"Yes! hundreds! thousands!"
"Indeed! Would you take the looks, habits, tastes, age, health, andconversation, of any other person who could be named, instead of yourown?"
"No! not exactly! Probably no person living would agree to such anexchange, and least of all one who has in some respects such amplereason to be satisfied," replied Agnes, with a complacent glance at themirror, which was not, however, so satisfactory as in former days; forher eye had lost much of its lustre, the bloom had faded from hercheek, and her very features looked crushed and contracted by thegnawing effect of mortification. "I should like to have the fortune ofCaroline Howard, the rank of Charlotte Malcolm----"
"But Agnes! you are not entitled to expect such a pic-nic of happiness,'made of ev'ry creature's best.' No; the more we look into life, themore we shall see how equally distributed are its enjoyments--satietyto the rich, contentment to the poor, and compensation of one kind orother to all, for their various privations; but one only gift of Godmakes life a blessing or a curse, according as it is given or withheld;and it is only in proportion as we have the gifts of Divine graceshowered upon us, that we can measure our own happiness, or that of anyother mortal being."
Agnes's ill-humor was growing rapidly into misanthropy, and her sorrowseemed never likely to be of that kind which "forgets to weep, andlearns to pray;" but Marion's more happily gifted mind clung to everynatural source of enjoyment which offered itself, being resolute, evenwhen she was not happy, for the sake of Agnes, to appear so. Marion'ssorrows taught her to feel tenfold for others; but the sympathies ofAgnes were concentrated entirely on herself.
There is not merely piety, but good humor also, in being happy; andmuch ill-humor is invariably associated with that grief which refusesto be consoled. Agnes had strewed her own path with thorns, and wouldnot be comforted; her heart had now the frozen coldness of an ice-boundstream, on which the breeze might play, or the sun might shine, whileit still continued cold and cheerless as before; but Marion, resistingall the selfish supineness of sorrow, found out many around to whom hertime could be made useful. With no schemes of worldly ambition, shefelt that there must be, in every heart, some object to live for; andin her solitary walks, the very trees and flowers became hercompanions, while the brightness of nature's coloring, the hum of bees,the chirping of birds, the ripple of a pebbly stream, or the daisy shepicked on the grass, reminded her that there are simple pleasures shewas born to enjoy, and of which she had formerly been deprived duringthe long years when her best feelings had been heartlessly wasted inthe tumult of education at Mrs. Penfold's. On first beholding any signof human life and enjoyment, it seemed to Marion strange and unnatural.The joyous laugh of children at play in the fields grated harshly onher ear; but before long, she pleased herself with listening to themilk-girls gaily singing as they passed along the road, and was readyto feel for that most desolate of all beings, the blind fiddler,playing his melancholy tune on a rainy night. Religion was to Marionnow like the sun behind a fog. She knew that it would before long warm,cheer, and revive her; yet for a time it seemed shorn of its brighterbeams, and, in the words of a Christian poet, she was ready to say,
"Give what Thou can'st, without Thee I am poor, And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away."
The emotion which Agnes felt on first returning home, had been onlylike the last quiver of molten lead before it becomes cold and hard forever. She now grew daily more peevish and discontented, and, far fromaffording any relief to Marion only aggravated her distress; for ifthere were any subject more disagreeable than another to be harpedupon, she fastened on it with ceaseless irritability, continuallyprophesying evil, and recollecting injuries. She took the most teazingview of all subjects, attributed the worst motives to everybody'sconduct, and spoke with incessant and bitter invectives against allthose by whom she thought herself ill-treated. Far from forgivinginjuries, she seemed never, even for a moment, to forget them, whilethe effect of her tedious vituperation was like that of a file uponvelvet, to the gentle Marion, who tried often to give a more Christian,as well as a more cheerful turn, to their _tete-a-tete_ conversation.
It was singular that Agnes still evidently found a mysterious pleasurein exercising to the utmost her powers of torturing; and in nothing didshe so deeply wound the feelings of Marion, as by constantly comparingthe conduct of Richard Granville to that of Captain De Crespigny,speaking coldly of both, as being selfish, hypocritical, and deceitful.Marion's whole heart shrank from allowing any resemblance, while onceor twice she spoke warmly and eloquently in defence of her absentlover; but finding that this only lifted the veil which concealed herown inmost feelings, and exposed them to one who made no generous useof her confidence, she at length passively allowed Agnes to follow thebent of her humor, and kept their discussions as much as possible onindifferent topics, taking always as cheerful and contented a view asshe could of life.
"You know, Agnes," observed Marion one day, in answer to some peevishlamentations of her sister's, "we might as well attempt to carry theocean in an oyster-shel
l, as to satisfy our immortal souls withanything in this life. Christians must not let their imaginations runwild after every fancy, but put on the strait-waistcoat of reason andreligion, to curb their inclinations. We should not only expect, butdesire the correction which is necessary, as much for us as for others.You cannot expect all our years to be summers!"
"No!" replied Agnes, discontentedly; "but they need not all be winters!You seem to think we are like the Indian savages, who must carry aweight on their heads to make them upright."
"Yes, Agnes, I do!" added Marion, gently. "It often occurs to my mindwhat a character mine must naturally have been, which has required somuch discipline to correct it; for every sorrow or anxiety I feel isabsolutely necessary for my good, I know, or it would not be sent.Though the blossoms of hope lie withered at our feet, however, let usreap the fruit hereafter, and who could wish to be fed with thepromises of spring, rather than with the fulfilment of autumn?"
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