I CAME down a little before
eight, next morning, as I knew
by the striking of a distant
clock. There was no appearance
of breakfast. I waited above
an hour before it came, still
vainly longing for access to
the library; and, after that
lonely repast was concluded,
I waited again about an hour
and a half in great suspense
and discomfort, uncertain what
to do. At length Lady Ashby came
to bid me good-morning. She informed
me she had only just breakfasted,
and now wanted me to take an
early walk with her in the park.
She asked how long I had been
up, and on receiving my answer,
expressed the deepest regret,
and again promised to show me
the library. I suggested she
had better do so at once, and
then there would be no further
trouble either with remembering
or forgetting. She complied,
on condition that I would not
think of reading, or bothering
with the books now; for she wanted
to show me the gardens, and take
a walk in the park with me, before
it became too hot for enjoyment;
which, indeed, was nearly the
case already. Of course I readily
assented; and we took our walk
accordingly.
As we were strolling in the
park, talking of what my companion
had seen and heard during her
travelling experience, a gentleman
on horseback rode up and passed
us. As he turned, in passing,
and stared me full in the face,
I had a good opportunity of seeing
what he was like. He was tall,
thin, and wasted, with a slight
stoop in the shoulders, a pale
face, but somewhat blotchy, and
disagreeably red about the eyelids,
plain features, and a general
appearance of languor and flatness,
relieved by a sinister expression
in the mouth and the dull, soulless
eyes.
'I detest that man!' whispered
Lady Ashby, with bitter emphasis,
as he slowly trotted by.
'Who is it?' I asked, unwilling
to suppose that she should so
speak of her husband.
'Sir Thomas Ashby,' she replied,
with dreary composure.
'And do you DETEST him, Miss
Murray?' said I, for I was too
much shocked to remember her
name at the moment.
'Yes, I do, Miss Grey, and
despise him too; and if you knew
him you would not blame me.'
'But you knew what he was before
you married him.'
'No; I only thought so: I did
not half know him really. I know
you warned me against it, and
I wish I had listened to you:
but it's too late to regret that
now. And besides, mamma ought
to have known better than either
of us, and she never said anything
against it - quite the contrary.
And then I thought he adored
me, and would let me have my
own way: he did pretend to do
so at first, but now he does
not care a bit about me. Yet
I should not care for that: he
might do as he pleased, if I
might only be free to amuse myself
and to stay in London, or have
a few friends down here: but
HE WILL do as he pleases, and
I must be a prisoner and a slave.
The moment he saw I could enjoy
myself without him, and that
others knew my value better than
himself, the selfish wretch began
to accuse me of coquetry and
extravagance; and to abuse Harry
Meltham, whose shoes he was not
worthy to clean. And then he
must needs have me down in the
country, to lead the life of
a nun, lest I should dishonour
him or bring him to ruin; as
if he had not been ten times
worse every way, with his betting-book,
and his gaming- table, and his
opera-girls, and his Lady This
and Mrs. That - yes, and his
bottles of wine, and glasses
of brandy-and-water too! Oh,
I would give ten thousand worlds
to be Mss Murray again! It is
TOO bad to feel life, health,
and beauty wasting away, unfelt
and unenjoyed, for such a brute
as that!' exclaimed she, fairly
bursting into tears in the bitterness
of her vexation.
Of course, I pitied her exceedingly;
as well for her false idea of
happiness and disregard of duty,
as for the wretched partner with
whom her fate was linked. I said
what I could to comfort her,
and offered such counsels as
I thought she most required:
advising her, first, by gentle
reasoning, by kindness, example,
and persuasion, to try to ameliorate
her husband; and then, when she
had done all she could, if she
still found him incorrigible,
to endeavour to abstract herself
from him - to wrap herself up
in her own integrity, and trouble
herself as little about him as
possible. I exhorted her to seek
consolation in doing her duty
to God and man, to put her trust
in Heaven, and solace herself
with the care and nurture of
her little daughter; assuring
her she would be amply rewarded
by witnessing its progress in
strength and wisdom, and receiving
its genuine affection.
'But I can't devote myself
entirely to a child,' said she;
'it may die - which is not at
all improbable.'
'But, with care, many a delicate
infant has become a strong man
or woman.'
'But it may grow so intolerably
like its father that I shall
hate it.'
'That is not likely; it is
a little girl, and strongly resembles
its mother.'
'No matter; I should like it
better if it were a boy - only
that its father will leave it
no inheritance that he can possibly
squander away. What pleasure
can I have in seeing a girl grow
up to eclipse me, and enjoy those
pleasures that I am for ever
debarred from? But supposing
I could be so generous as to
take delight in this, still it
is ONLY a child; and I can't
centre all my hopes in a child:
that is only one degree better
than devoting oneself to a dog.
And as for all the wisdom and
goodness you have been trying
to instil into me - that is all
very right and proper, I daresay,
and if I were some twenty years
older, I might fructify by it:
but people must enjoy themselves
when they are young; and if others
won't let them - why, they must
hate them for it!'
'The best way to enjoy yourself
is to do what is right and hate
nobody. The end of Religion is
not to teach us how to die, but
how to live; and the earlier
you become wise and good, the
more of happiness you secure.
And now, Lady Ashby, I have one
more piece of advice to offer
you, which is, that you will
not make an enemy of your mother-in-law.
Don't get into the way of holding
her at arms' length, and regarding
her with jealous distrust. I
never saw her, but I have heard
good as well as evil respecting
her; and I imagine that, though
cold and haughty in her general
demeanour, and even exacting
in her requirements, she has
strong affections for those who
can reach them; and, though so
blindly attached to her son,
she is not without good principles,
or incapable of hearing reason.
If you would but conciliate her
a little, and adopt a friendly,
open manner - and even confide
your grievances to her - real
grievances, such as you have
a right to complain of - it is
my firm belief that she would,
in time, become your faithful
friend, and a comfort and support
to you, instead of the incubus
you describe her.' But I fear
my advice had little effect upon
the unfortunate young lady; and,
finding I could render myself
so little serviceable, my residence
at Ashby Park became doubly painful.
But still, I must stay out that
day and the following one, as
I had promised to do so: though,
resisting all entreaties and
inducements to prolong my visit
further, I insisted upon departing
the next morning; affirming that
my mother would be lonely without
me, and that she impatiently
expected my return. Nevertheless,
it was with a heavy heart that
I bade adieu to poor Lady Ashby,
and left her in her princely
home. It was no slight additional
proof of her unhappiness, that
she should so cling to the consolation
of my presence, and earnestly
desire the company of one whose
general tastes and ideas were
so little congenial to her own
- whom she had completely forgotten
in her hour of prosperity, and
whose presence would be rather
a nuisance than a pleasure, if
she could but have half her heart's
desire.
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