Louisa glances into the mirror with a smile and a blush. It is chiefly by working upon her vanity that her aunt has obtained such influence over her weak and ill-regulated mind. It is an hour of pride to the maiden. About to change her name for a title—her present small abode for a luxurious house of her own—receiving congratulations from every quarter—her table covered with splendid gifts—rich jewels glittering on her fair brow—her childish heart is elated, and for the instant she believes herself happy. But why, while the blush heightens on her cheek, has the smile entirely disappeared? Why is the feeling of momentary elation succeeded by misgiving and gloom? The door has opened, and the bride elect sees reflected in the mirror beside her own image that of another. She sees a face, not plain, but unpleasing—not coarse in its outlines, but hard in its expression; she sees him whom she is about to pledge herself to love, honour, and obey yet whom she regards with indifference—happy if indifference be not one day exchanged for fear, mistrust, and aversion! Louisa Effingham has for the second time made the world her deliberate choice. House, carriage, title, jewels, estate,—for such baubles as these will she, a few days hence, in the presence of God and man, bind herself to one whom she loves not, whom she never can learn to love! Slave to a proud and capricious tyrant, her home will be but a luxurious prison, and the unhappy wife will bitterly rue the day when she sold herself to a bondage more intolerable than that under which the poor African groans!
This is the crowning sacrifice to which the world dooms its willing slaves. The poor victim goes crowned to the altar; friends smile, relations congratulate, and admiring spectators applaud. Who would then whisper of a galling yoke, a wounded spirit, a breaking heart; who would whisper that the gold circlet on the finger may be but the first link in a heavy chain? Moloch’s shrieking victims were soon destroyed in the flames;—more wretched the fate of those whose slow-consuming pangs make life itself one long sacrifice of woe!
CHAPTER XXVII
PASSING AWAY.
Lady Selina had succeeded in making “a most eligible marriage” for one of her nieces, but she speedily discovered that she had by no means effected her chief object, that of securing a home for herself. “I am married to Louisa, and not to her family,” said Sir Mordaunt, not long after the wedding, and his conduct to his wife’s relations accorded with the spirit of his words.
Lady Selina was bitterly disappointed and deeply wounded. The failure of her most cherished project preyed on her spirits, and probably shortened her life. The base ingratitude of mankind, the emptiness of all earthly hopes, became the constant topic of her conversation. But though she could rail against the world in her hours of depression, it was still her most cherished idol. Dagon might be broken, its fair proportion and beauty all destroyed, but the mutilated stump was enthroned on its pedestal of pride, to be honoured and worshipped still!
“Arabella, my dear,” said Lady Selina, as one morning she appeared in the breakfast-room at a late hour, wrapped in her dressing-gown, and shivering as if with cold—“Arabella, my dear, I feel so ill, that I wish that you would write and ask the doctor to call.”
Arabella was seated at her desk. She had not risen on the entrance of her aunt, nor did she think it in the least necessary to bear her company at her lonely meal. Lady Selina, with a shaking hand, helped herself to some tea, but left the cup unemptied, its contents were so bitter and cold.
“I suppose,” said Arabella carelessly, without looking up from her writing, “that you’ll not go to the countess’s to-night?”