Old Lady Mary | Page 2

grief, nor the higher levels she had touched
in her day. She did not forget the dark day when her first-born was laid
in the grave, nor that triumphant and brilliant climax of her life when
every one pointed to her as the mother of a hero. All these things were
like pictures hung in the secret chambers of her mind, to which she
could go back in silent moments, in the twilight seated by the fire, or in
the balmy afternoon, when languor and sweet thoughts are over the
world. Sometimes at such moments there would be heard from her a
faint sob, called forth, it was quite as likely, by the recollection of the
triumph as by that of the deathbed. With these pictures to go back upon
at her will she was never dull, but saw herself moving through the
various scenes of her life with a continual sympathy, feeling for herself
in all her troubles,--sometimes approving, sometimes judging that
woman who had been so pretty, so happy, so miserable, and had gone
through everything that life can go through. How much that is, looking
back upon it!--passages so hard that the wonder was how she could
survive them; pangs so terrible that the heart would seem at its last gasp,
but yet would revive and go on.

Besides these, however, she had many mild pleasures. She had a pretty
house full of things which formed a graceful entourage suitable, as she
felt, for such a woman as she was, and in which she took pleasure for
their own beauty,--soft chairs and couches, a fireplace and lights which
were the perfection of tempered warmth and illumination. She had a
carriage, very comfortable and easy, in which, when the weather was
suitable, she went out; and a pretty garden and lawns, in which, when
she preferred staying at home, she could have her little walk, or sit out
under the trees. She had books in plenty, and all the newspapers, and
everything that was needful to keep her within the reflection of the
busy life which she no longer cared to encounter in her own person.
The post rarely brought her painful letters; for all those impassioned
interests which bring pain had died out, and the sorrows of others,
when they were communicated to her, gave her a luxurious sense of
sympathy, yet exemption. She was sorry for them; but such
catastrophes could touch her no more: and often she had pleasant letters,
which afforded her something to talk and think about, and discuss as if
it concerned her,--and yet did not concern her,--business which could
not hurt her if it failed, which would please her if it succeeded. Her
letters, her papers, her books, each coming at its appointed hour, were
all instruments of pleasure. She came down-stairs at a certain hour,
which she kept to as if it had been of the utmost importance, although it
was of no importance at all: she took just so much good wine, so many
cups of tea. Her repasts were as regular as clockwork--never too late,
never too early. Her whole life went on velvet, rolling smoothly along,
without jar or interruption, blameless, pleasant, kind. People talked of
her old age as a model of old age, with no bitterness or sourness in it.
And, indeed, why should she have been sour or bitter? It suited her far
better to be kind. She was in reality kind to everybody, liking to see
pleasant faces about her. The poor had no reason to complain of her;
her servants were very comfortable; and the one person in her house
who was nearer to her own level, who was her companion and most
important minister, was very comfortable too. This was a young
woman about twenty, a very distant relation, with "no claim,"
everybody said, upon her kind mistress and friend,--the daughter of a
distant cousin. How very few think anything at all of such a tie! but
Lady Mary had taken her young namesake when she was a child, and

she had grown up as it were at her godmother's footstool, in the
conviction that the measured existence of the old was the rule of life,
and that her own trifling personality counted for nothing, or next to
nothing, in its steady progress. Her name was Mary too--always called
"little Mary" as having once been little, and not yet very much in the
matter of size. She was one of the pleasantest things to look at of all the
pretty things in Lady Mary's rooms, and she had the most sheltered,
peaceful, and pleasant life that could be conceived. The only little thorn
in her pillow was, that whereas in the novels, of which she read a great
many, the heroines all go