CHAPTER III.

And is this eye, with tears o’erfraught, To thine no longer known? This eye that read the tender thought Erewhile soft trembling in thine own; By thee, alas! to weep since taught, And all its lustre flown?

_Unpublished Poems._

At length the divorce passed, and Maria became the wife of him whom she loved with increasing tenderness; for all she had given up for his sake only endeared him the more to her. Man, on the contrary, though he may feel kindness, pity, gratitude, to woman, for the sacrifices she has made to him, considers her as in some measure responsible for those he has made to her.

Maria was now for the first time to see Lord Sotheron’s mother. Mrs. Fitz-Eustace, though bowed down by this last heavy affliction, was too gentle to be soured by it. She promised to receive her, when once she was really her daughter-in-law. She only wished to contribute, as far as in her lay, to the welfare or the comfort of the beloved son, who, though no longer the pride and joy of her heart, was still to her the most precious thing on earth.

What were Maria’s feelings as she drew near the abode of that devoted mother, whose fate, already sad, she had so utterly blasted? When she thought of presenting to her a grandchild who might not bear the name to which the eldest son of Lord Sotheron ought to have been entitled? No village bells were ringing to greet their arrival, no old and faithful servants crowding the door to welcome their master’s bride. She thought of her reception at Ellersville Castle. The approach was thronged with villagers, the air resounded with the chimes of the neighbouring parishes, the castle terrace was surrounded with the tenantry, the great steps were lined with servants, all eager to show attention to their new lady. She was then happy, thoughtless, innocent; she could then look back into herself without remorse or shame, and she felt, as the carriage drew up at Mrs. Fitz-Eustace’s door, and as they waited till the servant answered the bell, that not all the fervour and depth of her devotion to Walter could compensate, even in this world, for the loss of self-esteem, and of respectability in the eyes of others.

They were ushered into the drawing-room by a grey-headed man, who greeted Walter with respectful but serious affection. He said he would let his mistress know. They heard doors open and shut rapidly, hurried steps in the passage, the whispering of subdued female voices, still Mrs. Fitz-Eustace did not appear; and they felt that his mother had need to summon all her courage for the dreaded interview. At length she entered, and her subdued, mild, broken-hearted countenance, went more to Maria’s heart than all she had hitherto experienced.

Mrs. Fitz-Eustace embraced her son with the tenderest affection; she kissed Maria, she took her grandchild in her arms, she did every thing that kindness could prompt; but they saw the quivering lip, they heard the unsteady voice, and Maria’s shame and remorse nearly overpowered her. Mrs. Fitz-Eustace asked some indifferent questions about the weather and the journey, and Maria answered it was hot or cold, the journey long or short, without knowing what she uttered. Lord Sotheron, anxious to escape from a position that was so unpleasant to him, left the room, and they remained alone. A few more attempts were made to keep up a languishing conversation; Maria longed to throw herself at the feet of Walter’s mother, and there to breathe forth all her agony of self-accusation, and to implore her pardon for the sorrow she had brought upon her grey hairs, but there was a gentle reserve about the grief of Eleanor that awed, while it touched, that repressed all outpourings of the heart, while it deeply interested; and Maria took refuge in busying herself over the baby till Mrs. Fitz-Eustace proposed to show her her room.

When Maria at length found herself alone, she gave way to tears that were perhaps more bitter than any she had hitherto shed. She had wept for herself, she had wept her fault, she had wept her degradation, but never did she feel that degradation so acutely as at this moment. Her sorrows appeared to her such guilty ones, that they revolted her; while Eleanor’s, on the contrary, wore a character of holiness, of sanctity. And that she should have filled the measure of her bitter cup,—that she should have crushed the broken spirit! oh! it was almost too much for endurance.

The dressing-bell rang. It is wonderful how much those who have lived in the world, and whose feelings may be least under the salutary control of principle, mechanically submit to that of _les convenances_ of society. She repressed her tears, she calmed her sobs, dressed herself, and went down to dinner with a composed voice and tranquil manner. The dinner was as uncomfortable as one might expect it to be, under the existing circumstances. The succeeding days were passed in the same restraint. The moment never came in which they alluded to past events, and although they all felt kindly towards each other, there was not the free interchange of thought which alone renders a domestic circle truly happy.

It was not till they had resided for some months under the same roof that the barrier of reserve between them was broken down.

Soon after the birth of a second boy, Maria was lying on her sofa, while the young Edward was playing on the floor. Eleanor caught the expression of anguish with which Maria gazed on the eldest; their eyes met, and that glance revealed to each all that was passing in the mind of the other. At that moment all coldness, all reserve, was broken through. Throwing herself at the feet of her mother-in-law, and hiding her face in her hands, Maria sobbed out, “Forgive me! oh, forgive me! pardon the ruin I have brought on your son, the disgrace I have brought on your grandchild! No—no! it is impossible! kind and gentle as you are, you must—you must hate me, as well as despise me.”

Touched and alarmed at this agony, Mrs. Fitz-Eustace raised her, soothed her, bade her be composed. But having once opened upon the subject, she poured forth all the pent-up feelings of remorse and shame that had so long been consuming her. They mingled their tears, and Eleanor’s gentle words of compassion and forgiveness restored her to something like composure.

From this time there was no thought of her soul hidden from her mother-in-law, and Mrs. Fitz-Eustace’s maternal partiality saw, in the irresistible attractions of her son, an excuse for Maria’s fault, which made pity almost usurp the place of blame. It became the mother’s task to console her who had blighted all the prospects of that beloved son; for Maria saw and felt too well that the life of aimless, listless idleness that Lord Sotheron led, was affecting his spirits, his temper, and his character; she knew and felt to her heart’s core that her eldest boy would always have to struggle against the flaw in his birth.

By Eleanor’s advice they resolved to pass some time on the continent, till the painful notoriety at present attached to their name had in some measure subsided, and it was not till after the lapse of two or three years that they took possession of their magnificent mansion of Stonebury.

Many were the family discussions to which the arrival of Lord and Lady Sotheron gave rise. The gay wished to participate in the society which they thought would probably be assembled at Stonebury; the easy and good-natured understood that Lady Sotheron had conducted herself with the greatest propriety since her present marriage, and were inclined to forget any past misconduct; the vulgar enjoyed the opportunity of protecting a person of rank and fortune. On the other hand, the rigid urged the unanswerable argument, that unless a decided line be drawn between virtue and vice, there must be an utter end of all morality in the land. They naturally were shocked that the woman who had abandoned all her duties should be at the head of society, enjoying rank, fortune, and even respectability.

Alas! if they could have read the heart of her whose worldly prosperity thus excited their virtuous indignation, they would have found her as much an object of pity as those who have erred should ever be, to those who need not shrink from the reproaches of conscience or the judgment of their fellow creatures. Not one of these visits passed without some occurrence, which to a sensitive mind gave exquisite pain.

Children are usually a great resource during the formal quarter of an hour which precedes a dinner in the country, and on one of these occasions a young lady, in talking to the eldest boy, called him Lord Stonebury. This touched Maria where she was most vulnerable, when the young lady’s mother immediately addressing the younger boy by the title of Lord Stonebury, covered her with tenfold confusion. It proved that her story was all known, and all remembered; and she, who was once the high-bred, the self-possessed Lady Ellersville, whose manner of receiving her company had been the admiration of the most polished society, was awkward, hurried; she addressed people by wrong names, did not hear when she was spoken to; there was a restlessness in her eye, and a rapidity in her utterance, very unlike the careless grace with which, without appearing to do anything, she once contrived to put every one at their ease. She feared she was not civil enough, and a sensation of humility prompted her to change her seat for the purpose of addressing some one to whom she had not already spoken,—then a movement of pride made her spirit rebel at so courting vulgar people, who would once have thought themselves honoured by a passing acknowledgment from her. This gave her manner an air of constraint. There was something out of keeping, and many wondered where was the charm of address which had been reckoned so bewitching.

On another occasion the conversation happened to turn on the comparative beauty of the Lady D——s. One person remarked, that she “had always thought poor Lady Anne’s countenance the most attractive of all.” “I never saw her,” observed another, who had lately taken a place in the neighbourhood. “Oh, no! She married unfortunately, poor thing! and ran away with Captain B——. It was a sad business.”

Maria’s burning face betrayed her confusion. The lady had scarcely uttered the unfortunate words, when she recollected before whom she was speaking. She stopped short, and a dead silence prevailed. She tried hastily to speak on some other subject, but every one felt awkward, and her unassisted efforts again subsided into silence. Lady Sotheron, distressed at the allusion, was confounded at its being seized by others, and the whole evening was to her one of painful endurance. At other times she suffered almost equally from the studious avoidance of topics that might in any way be applicable to herself. In solitude her reflections were all bitter, and in society something constantly occurred which brought her situation more painfully to her recollection.

Walter meantime found his home disagreeable. He was beset by people not of his own selection, and who were not in any way suited to him. He determined to repair to London, to attend the House of Lords, and to seek interest and excitement in the line which he had often been told he was formed to pursue with success. Maria was delighted at this resolution. She felt that if he could fulfil an honourable political career, she should not be so guilty of having blasted his fate; his mother might once more be proud of her only child, instead of mourning in secret over his blighted prospects.

They went to London, and Lord Sotheron again mixed in the society he at once liked and adorned. His spirits revived, his eager temper was on fire, and he gave himself up to politics with an ardour the more vehement from the state of indolent vacuity in which he had latterly passed his time. She was rejoiced to see those eyes again beam with animation, to perceive energy in every movement, instead of the listless languor she had so often deplored. She scarcely remarked that she passed hours, days, alone, so engrossed was she in his interests; and when he made a brilliant and successful maiden speech, she felt proud, nay, almost happy, and wrote to his mother with more confidence than she had ever done before.

Lord Sotheron soon became a person of some importance, and he was invited to all the political dinners of the party to which he had attached himself. He thought it necessary to give dinners in return—and now arose discussions which made Maria’s situation more galling to her than ever. The wives of these great personages did not visit her, and how awkward to preside at one of these grand entertainments with no ladies to support her, except the two or three, who from family connections associated with her, but who were in no wise connected with the persons whom Walter wished to cultivate! Her sensitive mind recoiled from the whole discussion.

She entreated him to give only men dinners, not to struggle after that which they could not accomplish; and she assured him she had rather remain in her own room, than go through the mortifications and difficulties that must attend her making one of the party. He but faintly opposed her resolution, for in fact, ambition had taken possession of his soul, and he blindly followed its impulses. His time was completely occupied with debates, committees, dinners, which became more and more frequent, and Maria sat in her boudoir, eating her solitary morsel, and hearing the bustle of the servants waiting upon the party feasting below. Still she would not let herself repine at his having at length found scope for his talents. She would not wish it otherwise, but she could not help feeling miserable.

She attended still more to her children. They were always with her, and in their infantine prattle she often found pleasure; but even from that source she occasionally drank the bitter draught of shame. One day they had just returned from a walk in the square, where they had been playing with some young companions, when Edward said to her, “Mamma, why don’t they call me lord? That little boy in blue says, he is called lord, because he is the eldest. Now, I am the eldest, and yet Charles and Emily are called lord and lady, and I am not.”

This was more than she could endure. She tried to murmur something, but her lips refused to move, her tongue to utter. She blushed, she quailed under the innocent enquiring eye of her child. She hid her face in his curly locks, she drew him closer to her, she smothered him with kisses, she wept over him, she sobbed, till the child, frightened at the violent emotions he had so unconsciously excited, felt there was a mystery, and ever after avoided the subject with that precocious tact which children so often evince.

Another time he was reading a childish History of England, and when he came to a passage that treated of hereditary succession, he said, “Yes—the kingdom descends to the king’s eldest son, as papa’s land will descend to me;” anxious, as children always are, to illustrate by some familiar example. She thrilled through every nerve; but she thought it would be too cruel to bring him up in this error, from which he must one day be painfully undeceived. She summoned up all her courage, and without daring to reflect on what might be his next question, she forced herself to utter. “My dear! you will not inherit your father’s lands.” There was a constrained solemnity in the tone which awed the boy. He felt he was on forbidden ground, and he said no more.