Recollections of a chaperon

Poor Fanny’s thoughts were soon called off to real and actual sorrow, in which all other griefs were absorbed; and she almost wondered how she ever could have felt so much about any thing that did not concern her mother. Lady Elmsley’s health declined rapidly; and the whole family repaired to Clifton, in hopes that she might derive benefit from the springs. In vain! Fanny was doomed to endure that sorrow, to which, as being in the due course of nature, some say the mind reconciles itself with more calmness than to many others. But notwithstanding all the arguments of cool philosophy, the loss of a parent is one of the most acute and lasting griefs to which human nature is liable. It often befals the young and the prosperous, and, coming upon them in the midst of health, strength, and happiness, finds their minds unprepared and unchastened by any previous suffering. Moreover, it is a loss, absolutely irremediable, which, though time may soften, can in no length of time, ever, ever be replaced.

During the whole of her mother’s illness, Fanny was so occupied in her anxious attendance upon her, that every other thought was banished from her mind. When Lady Elmsley once, and once only, alluded to the state of Fanny’s affections, and spoke favourably of an amiable young man, of excellent connexions, and fair prospects, whose attentions had been unequivocal, she was able to assure her mother, with truth, “That although Mr. Lisford had not succeeded in making himself agreeable to her, all prepossession for another was quite over.”

It is vain to dwell on the melancholy details of gradual decay. Suffice it to say, that Fanny watched, with agonised feelings, the last moments of a beloved parent; and only conquered her own emotions, to alleviate those of her father.

After the funeral, they returned to their desolate home. Their hearts sank within them as they drove along the well-known avenue, which led straight to the front of the house, on which the hatchment met their eyes, for the last half-mile of their approach.

Fanny supported her father into the drawing-room, where every object which met their eyes was but a renewal of grief. The easy chair, with cushions of every shape, to procure ease to a frame wearied and worn out—the invalid sofa-table, the footstool, just where Lady Elmsley had last used it—the portable book-case, containing her favourite authors, stood on the table as usual—the large basket of carpet-work, which was deemed too cumbrous to be taken to Clifton—the glass vase, which Fanny always kept replenished with the choicest flowers, and which the gardener had now filled with care, that the room might look cheerful, and which the housemaid had placed on the accustomed spot, all combined to make their return more painful, if possible, than they had anticipated.

The next morning, when, before her father left his room, Fanny altered the disposition of the furniture, and removed the things which so forcibly reminded them of her for whom they mourned, she felt it almost a sacrilegious act to touch them.

Time, however, rolled on, and Sir Edward became calm and resigned; but Fanny’s spirits did not rally. She had fervently loved her mother; she missed her in every occupation, in every duty, in every amusement. Strange to say, her thoughts, which during her mother’s illness had been so completely weaned from the subject of her own disappointment, in her present quiet and solitude would revert to former scenes.

She did not recur to the happy days of delusion, when she believed herself the object of Lord Delaford’s preference; she felt that would have been a sin: but she fancied that by dwelling only on recollections, in which the images of Lord Delaford and of Isabella were blended together, she was accustoming herself to the idea of their union, and preparing her mind for seeing them, as man and wife, when, on their return from the Continent, they were to pay their promised visit to the Priory. She forgot that,

As she wandered about her lonely flower-garden, she at one time remembered how Lord Delaford had gathered some of the beautiful double dahlias, and had called Isabella’s attention to the rich blending of their various hues; how Isabella had laughingly twisted them into her hair: and how surpassingly beautiful she had looked when bending over the marble basin (she had used it, as nymphs of old, for her looking-glass,) while the evening sun just tipped her dark brown curls with a golden hue, and tinged her downy mantling cheek with a more mellow bloom. Fanny could almost fancy she again saw the eyes of rapturous admiration with which he watched her graceful action.

At another time, if she were training the straggling honeysuckles over the treillage, she recollected how her hopes had received their death-blow, when, on entering the drawing-room before dinner, she found Lord Delaford and Isabella in their morning dress, still occupied in reducing the unruly tendrils to obedience; and how Isabella blushed to find it so late, and Lord Delaford insisted it must be Fanny who had mistaken the hour. In recollecting these circumstances, she again experienced the same painful feelings of mortification and despondency; she did not thus acquire forgetfulness, or indifference.

After an absence of about a year, Lord and Lady Delaford announced their return to England, and their intention of finding themselves very shortly at the Priory. Fanny believed herself rejoiced at the intelligence, and began setting every thing in order for their arrival.

She was agitated when they actually came, but at that moment the recollection of her mother, and of the sad change that had taken place in her home, was uppermost in her mind, and almost all the tears she shed, were from a pure and holy source.

Isabella was truly sorry for the loss of her aunt: Lord Delaford was all kindness, although the sort of gêne which exists between the dearest and most intimate friends, when they meet after any severe misfortune, prevented their at first deriving much pleasure from each other’s society. The persons least interested do not feel sure how far they may venture to allude to the sad event, how far they may venture to be cheerful, and their fear of not exactly falling in with the tone of feeling of the mourners, imparts to their manner a want of ease which is infectious, and prevents a free and unconstrained flow of confidence.

This, however, did not last long. Fanny soon poured forth into Isabella’s ear every melancholy detail of the last moments of her beloved parent, and found her heart warm towards the person to whom she could dwell upon the subject.

When nothing occurred to call forth her love of admiration, her love of power, or her love of the world, her naturally good heart, and her constitutional good temper, rendered Isabella as loveable as she was lovely. Her faults had been fostered by her early education, while her good qualities had not been cultivated.

Since her marriage, the devotion of her husband had rendered her fully aware of her unbounded influence over him; while, at the same time, the society with which she had mixed on the Continent, and the unsettled life of travellers, had been peculiarly unfavourable to the acquirement of domestic habits.

When Fanny, in return, inquired into the manner which Isabella had passed her time abroad, preparing her mind for a picture of conjugal bliss, and resolving to rejoice in the happiness of two people for whom she felt so sincere a friendship, her feelings were put to a very different trial from that which she anticipated. All Isabella’s descriptions were of the gay parties at Florence; the delightful riding parties from Rome; the agreeable Dukes, and Princes, and Cardinals, and Monsignores, they had met with: the brilliant fancy balls, the entertaining masquerades, the gorgeous fêtes, the select soirées, the exclusive petits soupers, and Fanny wondered that Lord Delaford should be grown so fond of dissipation. Yet she remarked than when he spoke of foreign scenes, he seldom dwelt on those which alone had formed the subject of Isabella’s descriptions. He frequently spoke of home and of rural occupations as delightful, and conversed with Sir Edward on the state of the agricultural interest, and that of the poor. On such occasions Isabella would laughingly interrupt him, and beg the gentlemen to be more gallant, and not to discuss subjects which could be of no possible interest to them. Fanny, who had been accustomed to consider attention to the humbler classes as one of the duties of the rich, could not help one day saying to her, when the gentlemen left the room,

“But don’t you think, Isabella, it is rather interesting to us, who live in the country, to learn how one may do good, and not run the risk of doing mischief, when one wishes to be useful to one’s fellow creatures?”

“But, my dear, you don’t imagine I am going to be buried in the country all my life, enacting the part of a Lady Bountiful at Fordborough Castle. I have no objection to supplying the money, but, as to staying to distribute it, I leave that to the clergyman’s wife, whose business it is to attend to that kind of thing.”

“But Lord Delaford is so fond of the country, and he always talks of what he means to do at his own place. Depend upon it he means to live in the country a great part of the year; I have heard him say he thought it right.”

“Oh, yes! You know it is never worth while to argue a point—I hold it out of the question for a man and wife to dispute; but I have not the least idea of letting him put these golden-age romantic notions in practice. Not that I have the least objection to the country at Christmas, or at Easter, or occasionally in the autumn, in a reasonable way; but, as for taking up my abode at Fordborough Castle, I shall not do it.”

“But every thing is prepared for you now. He has had the drawing-room and saloon new furnished, and your own boudoir is made lovely!”

“Oh, you know it could not be left as it was in my good mother-in-law’s time, with straight-backed chairs, and pembroke-tables; but I shan’t live there, you will see if I do.”

“But, Isabella, I am convinced Lord Delaford wishes it.”

“Oh! he fancies it would be vastly agreeable; but, in fact, he would be moped to death there, and so should I.”

“Well, I don’t understand being moped to death with a husband one loves,” and she felt a slight blush rise to her cheek, which she attributed to the little rebuke implied in her answer; and she added, half smiling, “you know, you do like him very much, Isabella!”

“Like him! to be sure I do. He is the best creature in the world; and, after all, nobody looks so like a gentleman. He was generally the best-looking man in the room, except Count Pfaffenhoffen, and he was so foolish that one was ashamed to be seen talking to him, though one endured his conversation for the sake of his waltzing. He is the most becoming waltzer! He is just the right height, and he does not bend too forward, nor too far back, and he holds his arm just right. What a pity it is he should be so silly!”

Soon after this conversation Lord and Lady Delaford went to their own place, where they established themselves very comfortably. Fanny spent a day with them. She began to flatter herself that Isabella’s worldly notions were only to be found in her conversation, and not in her actions. She left her very busy, and apparently happy, in making discoveries of curious old China, and arranging it in the drawing-room. While these and similar occupations lasted, she was amused and contented, and her husband was delighted to see her, as he thought, acquiring a taste for the country.

One short week afterwards, Fanny received a note from her, written as she was setting off for London, to meet her dear friend Lady B——, who was only in town for a few days, on her way from Paris to Ireland.

She soon again heard from her, that she was very unwell, and that Doctor S—— had ordered her warm sea-baths, and that she was therefore obliged to go to Brighton.

There they remained till Christmas, when they returned to Fordborough Castle, and brought with them a large party of friends. Fanny was to join them at the particular wish of Sir Edward, who lamented that she did not regain her natural spirits.

She found Lord Delaford looking harassed and oppressed. His company was not of his own choosing, and wearied him. Of his wife he saw but little, and he had no time for his own occupations.

One day he had to do the honours of the place to a party of particular friends, for whom he did not care a straw; another to provide shooting for a set of young men, who thought it a very bad day’s sport if the birds did not get up as fast as two gardes de chasse could load their guns.

There is nothing more agreeable than the exercise of hospitality towards those whom you like, and who like you in return; but when every point in which the accommodation and luxuries of your house, fall short of those at such a hall, or such a castle, where every amusement you may be able to provide, merely provokes a comparison between the sport Lord so and so, and the Duke of so and so, gives his friends; the delightful and poetical rites of hospitality, become a tiresome tax upon the time and patience of the luckless possessor of an ancient mansion and an extensive domain.

This fashionable, but most unsatisfactory party dispersed, and Lord and Lady Delaford were on the point of going to town for the meeting of Parliament, when they obtained a promise from Sir Edward, that Fanny should pay them a visit in London after Easter. To do Isabella justice, she felt real affection for Fanny, and sincerely regretted seeing her so joyless, and conscientiously believed that the pleasures of London would prove a balm for every sorrow.

Fanny was unwilling to leave her father, and had a vague dread of being so entirely domesticated under Lord Delaford’s roof. Had her mother been still living, she would have interfered to prevent her child’s feelings and principles being put to so unusual, and so needless a trial; she would have taken care that the peace of mind she had striven so hard to regain, should run no risk of being disturbed; but Sir Edward would not hear of her dutiful regrets at leaving him; and if she harboured any other thought in her mind, it was one which could not be hinted at,—one she scarcely dared own to her secret soul, without implying a mistrust of herself.

To London, therefore, she went. She found Lady Delaford in the full vortex of dissipation. She possessed beauty, rank, talents, and riches. Many women who might boast of these advantages, are not the fashion. But Lady Delaford added to them all, the wish, and the determination to be a leading person in society. What wonder, then, if she instantly accomplished her object, when, without any of the qualifications before enumerated, it is often attained by simple, strong volition.

CHAPTER V.

Lord Delaford, though considerably occupied with politics, was not entirely engrossed by them, and he wished extremely for the quiet enjoyment of domestic life. When he returned from the House, he would fain have been greeted by his wife, or at least he would have been glad to know where he might join her; but among the many engagements for each night, he did not know where to find her; and after having once or twice followed her through the whole list of parties, he gave up the point, and went to bed, jaded and out of spirits.

She seldom came down-stairs till so late, that he had long breakfasted, and was on the point of going out to some committee. Sometimes, being free from business, he determined to remain at home, and to devote the morning to the society of his young and lovely wife. On these occasions he usually found her so beset till two o’clock by her maid, by milliners, by tradesmen, by innumerable notes to answer, and arrangements to make, that she could only answer him with an absent air, her thoughts evidently intent on the organizing of some plan of amusement for that, or the ensuing day. After two o’clock, her drawing-room was of course crowded with dandies whipping their boots—with sage politicians, a race who peculiarly enjoy the délassement of a pretty woman’s society,—and with literati, a tribe who are very apt to find peculiar gratification from the favourable suffrage of the lovely and titled, though upon the most dry and abstruse work, into which the fair critic had never looked, and which, if she had looked into it, she could not possibly have understood. This select crowd (for none but the most distinguished of each genus was admitted) did not disperse till the carriage had been long announced, and the hour of some appointment was long past; when, hurrying away from the admiring throng, she drove from her own door without having given a moment of her attention to her husband.

Lord Delaford’s anticipated morning of conjugal felicity generally ended in his seizing his hat and stick, and marching forth at a quick pace, and in no very enviable frame of mind.

Fanny was at first bewildered by this mode of life, but she accompanied her friend through the whole routine, till she found that neither her spirits nor her health could stand such constant wear and tear; she was obliged occasionally to remain at home, while Isabella continued her giddy round of pleasures; and she could not avoid perceiving that Lord Delaford was a man formed for all the charities of life—and that Isabella was throwing away happiness such as seldom falls to the lot of woman.

The gradual decline of wedded happiness is a melancholy subject of contemplation to the most indifferent by-stander; how much more so to one deeply interested in the welfare of both parties! She felt justified in her dejection. Perhaps, if she had witnessed the unrestrained flow of confidence, the fulness of mutual devotion, she might not have found the sight so exhilarating as she sincerely believed it would have been. However that might be, reassured by her sorrow at not seeing her wishes for their happiness fulfilled—that her joy, if they were fulfilled, would be as great, she reposed in fancied security that the interest she took in his welfare was that of simple friendship, and she did not think it necessary to avoid him, if he found her alone in the drawing-room, where he in vain sought the wife of whom he was still deeply enamoured.

He would sometimes sigh to find her still absent, and would occasionally express his desire of a more domestic life; he even confessed feelings of discontent and dissatisfaction—he wished his wife would give him more of her society—he wished her disposition was more like Fanny’s.

These words fell on her ear with a sensation she scarcely knew how to define. Was it pleasure?—was it pain?

It is a dangerous situation for any young woman to be the confidante of any young man’s sorrows, especially if they proceed from blighted affections and deceived hopes; but to Fanny, how tenfold dangerous!

The world is scarcely sufficiently indulgent to those who are deprived of the tender vigilance of a mother; nor are the young who enjoy such a blessing, sufficiently thankful for possessing it. Had Lady Elmsley lived, Fanny would never have been placed in the position of confidante to the domestic sorrows of the man who had won her young affections, as the lover approved of, and courted by, her parents. Was it in nature that she should not think, “If I had been his choice, the happiness of which he so feelingly deplores the loss might then

Another circumstance occurred, which roused her from the security into which she had lulled herself.

Among the multitudes of young men who frequented Lady Delaford’s house, some were sensible to the unpresuming charms of Fanny, and especially Lord John Ashville became seriously attached to her. There was no possible objection to him, and Isabella flattered herself she should have the pleasure of announcing to Sir Edward that, under her auspices, Fanny had made a brilliant match. Both she and Lord Delaford were astonished when he was rejected, and Fanny herself was grieved to find she could not love him, as she thought it her bounden duty to love the person to whom she should swear eternal constancy. She would have been glad to prove to herself that former impressions were completely obliterated; but she could not succeed in persuading herself that she preferred him to all others.

Nothing is more common than that a person under the influence of mortification and disappointment should rush headlong into a fresh engagement; but this most frequently occurs when the mortification is one of which others are aware, and such a measure, it is hoped, will be a virtual disproval of the fact. Though a dangerous experiment, it is one which succeeds oftener than might be expected from so desperate a remedy. Fanny’s sense of right and wrong, however, could not reconcile itself to the plain fact of solemnly vowing an untruth, and she already found the duty of watching over her secret affections sufficiently difficult, not to venture to impose upon herself the additional one of loving where she was not inclined to do so.

Perhaps time and perseverance might have conquered her objections, but, a proposal once made, and once rejected, an opportunity is seldom afforded for further acquaintance.

This event had an unfavourable effect upon her mind. It proved to her that her heart was not free, that she had combated in vain.

She was one day looking back upon her wayward fate, and reproaching herself for her weakness, when Lord Delaford entered the room, and inquired for Isabella.

Fanny told him “she was walking in Kensington Gardens with the Miss Merfields.”

“And when do you expect her home?”

“Lady B—— takes her from Kensington Gardens to Grosvenor Place, where they dine together; and she accompanies her to the French play in her morning dress, so I am afraid she will not be at home till she returns to prepare for the balls.”

“Balls! why how many is she going to to-night?”

“Oh, there are five on the list; but she is only going to two.”

“And what becomes of you?”

“I dine with my father’s old friend, Mrs. Burley, and then I shall go quietly to bed; for I was at the Duchess’s ball last night, you know.”

“So, I suppose, I must dine at my club, for I hate a solitary dinner in my own house. If I cannot have the comforts of home, I will play at the independence of a bachelor. Well, when I married, this was not the life to which I looked forward. But how comes it you are so quiet? Why do not you run the same course? Why are you not at all in the ring? You can endure the sight of your own fireside. You can find time for conversation, for reading. Your mind is not in a perpetual whirl.”

“Oh, but you know I am not very strong; I could not do so much.”

“But have you, then, the inclination?”

“Why, not quite; I like it very much in its way; nobody can enjoy society more, I am sure, only——”

“Only you have room in your heart for other things; you are not wholly engrossed by that all-devouring passion for the world. Ah, Fanny, if you had been able to like me when first we were acquainted, I should have been a happier man.”

“Lord Delaford!” exclaimed Fanny, in a voice of doubt and fear.

“Why, you know, when first I went to Elmsley Priory, you were the person I should naturally have liked, only you did not care for me, and Isabella did. Kind and affectionate as you are in other respects, you seem to have no room in your heart for love, as poor Lord John has experienced also. But Isabella! she then seemed made up of feeling!”

Fanny dared not speak, breathe, move, for fear of betraying her agitation. Did she hear from his own lips that he had loved her? Did she hear him accuse her of coldness, while her brain was dizzy, and her heart throbbing with feelings, which, for two long years, she had attempted (she now felt how vainly attempted) to quell? And must she sit still and allow him to think her insensible and heartless? Yes! religion, principle, and duty, forbade her betraying, by word or look, emotions which might have invested her in his eyes with the only charm in which he fancied her deficient. Impossible to let him ever guess she could harbour an unlawful preference for the husband of another, that other her kind and unsuspecting cousin. The very idea made her recoil with horror from herself. A pause ensued. She longed to break it—could she trust her voice to speak? What would Lord Delaford think of her silence? But, if he should perceive that her voice trembled! She was relieved from her difficulty by his exclaiming,—

“No! it could not have been my own infatuation! Isabella was then all I believed her to be!”

Fanny perceived he was not thinking of her, and she had time to compose herself. The love to which he had so calmly alluded, had left not a trace behind, unless the confidence he felt in her now, might owe its origin to the esteem he had then imbibed for her character.

Following the course of his own thoughts, he continued to compare what Isabella once was, to what she was now become. He regretted their tour on the Continent, and attributed her present dissipation to the habits acquired in Italy and at Paris.

Fanny was able to utter common-place hopes that her cousin would soon be weary of this useless life, and assurances that her heart was still true and warm.

When she was alone, Fanny found herself fearfully happy. A load seemed taken off her mind. Painful as it might be to know that, by her own pride, (false pride, perhaps,) she had lost the happiness of her life; the joy of finding that she had not let herself be won unsought,—that she had not wasted the whole affections of her young pure heart upon a person to whom they had always been a matter of perfect indifference; that her love had not been wholly unrequited,—relieved her from that humiliation which had constantly sunk her to the earth.

She was, however, convinced, that a longer residence under Lord Delaford’s roof would not be conducive either to the peace or the purity of her mind. She had been considering what excuse she should make for wishing to return to Elmsley Priory, when, in the course of conversation, Lord Delaford one day spoke of her presence, her example, her advice, as the pillar on which he rested his hope of reclaiming Isabella to the quiet duties of a wife, and he entreated her to use all her influence over her cousin towards the accomplishment of this object.

This request gave a new current to her thoughts. If it was true that she had influence over Isabella, that she might reclaim her from the worldly course she seemed likely to run, would she be justified in leaving her friend at this moment? If she could be the means of causing his happiness, though through another, would she refuse to attempt it?

People often argue themselves into believing it their duty to do what their inclination prompts. In this case, however, Fanny really wished to find herself once more under her father’s roof. She trembled at the undertaking before her—she felt a salutary fear and doubt of her own heart, which she had found so weak, and she humbly strengthened herself for the task imposed upon her. She looked with satisfaction to the prospect of being really useful to others, and she thought that, next to being the object of his love, the most enviable situation was to be the object of his gratitude.

Modest and unpresuming, she had never ventured to remonstrate seriously with Isabella upon her mode of life; indeed, she had always experienced a degree of shyness in alluding to Lord Delaford, and to the feelings of a wife, which had prevented her saying what she might naturally have done. She had also an instinctive horror of interfering between man and wife—on most occasions, a praiseworthy fear; but which, in complying with Lord Delaford’s wishes, she thought it right to overcome.

But how to introduce the subject?

Common and trite observations upon the duties of matrimony, she knew would only excite Isabella’s raillery upon her antiquated notions; but perhaps, by alarming her fears, she might have some chance of arresting her attention.

Fanny was so little accustomed to having any plan, any ulterior object in her communications with her fellow-creatures, that her heart beat, and she felt almost guilty, as she seized the first opportunity when they were alone, to say,—

“I wonder, Isabella, you are not afraid of quite losing Lord Delaford’s affections.”

“Quite lose his affections, Fanny! What can you mean? I certainly do not anticipate any such misfortune,” she answered, smiling; and her eye glanced complacently over the mirror, at which she was trying on the hat which she was to wear that evening at a bal costumé.

“Why, my dear Isabella, you must be aware he is not what he was—that your indifference is beginning to have a corresponding effect upon him.”

“Nonsense, Fanny, you are joking!” But she took off the beautiful hat, and sat arranging and re-arranging the feathers, though in a manner which would have been far from satisfactory to the artiste, who had hit off that particular disposition of feathers, in a fortunate moment of inspiration.

Instinct had served Fanny on this occasion, as well as a deeper knowledge of the world; for vanity and affection can both take alarm at the idea of losing the devotion they have been accustomed to. She now remained silent, simply because she did not know what she had best say; but her silence had the effect of piquing Lady Delaford. After a pause of several minutes, Isabella added:

“Lady B—— and Mrs. Clairville tell me they never saw any husband so devoted as mine; they wish I would impart my secret, that they might profit by it.”

“They mean he is kind, and lets you have your own way; that he is the least selfish of human beings: but you must know, and feel, that he is not the contented, cheerful person, he once was; that his countenance does not brighten when he sees you, as it once did; that he is silent, abstracted. You cannot be happy, Isabella, and see your husband—and such a husband!—gradually weaning himself from your society, his confidence lessening, his affections cooling? Did I say he was indifferent? No, not indifferent! But he is hurt—wounded! he is shutting up his heart from you! Oh, Isabella! and can you let such a heart close itself to you? you, who might have all the treasures of that noble mind, that manly understanding, that warm generous soul, poured out at your feet—can you throw away such happiness?—you, who might be the happiest woman in the whole world!”

Her voice faltered—a tear trembled in her eye—she dared not trust herself to speak another word. Isabella was struck by Fanny’s manner, though she jestingly replied:

“One would think I was the worst wife in the world! Now, I could name you a dozen, much worse, among our most intimate acquaintances.”

“But, Isabella, are you satisfied with not being a bad wife? Don’t you wish to be a good one?”

“Well, I do not see what harm I do. I am never cross; I never worry him; I do not run in debt; and I am very civil to all his friends, whenever he asks them to dinner, however great bores they may be: and it is not every wife who can say as much for herself!”

“But, Isabella, of what comfort are you to him? If he has any annoyance, does he find you ready to sympathise with him? If he has any joy, are you there to share it with him? When do you communicate your thoughts, opinions, pleasures, pains, to each other? You do order dinner for him; but really I cannot see what other advantage he derives from having a house, a home, a wife, une maison montée.”

“Well, I see what you are driving at, all this time; I will make breakfast for him to-morrow morning—that will be quite right and wife-like.”

At this moment, the servant entered to say that the box at the French play, which her ladyship had wished to have, had been given up, and that it was at her service for that evening.

“Oh, Fanny, that is charming! We can go there for the two first pieces, and come home to dress.”

“But Lord Delaford was to dine at home, and he will dine alone if we go.”

“Oh! he does not mind that.”

“Doesn’t he?” said Fanny, in a low, marked tone.

Lady Delaford desired the servant to let the man wait; and Fanny felt she had gained something.

“Now, I don’t think he will care a pin whether we are at home or not; and he goes back to the House afterwards.”

“Not till ten o’clock, he said.”

“Married people should not see too much of each other. Toujours perdrix is insipid!”

“How much have you seen of him to-day?”

“Why, let me see! he looked in, did he not, just as we had done breakfast, about one?”

“Yes; and your Italian improvisatore came two minutes afterwards, whose energetic rhapsodies of gratitude for your patronage, and admiration of your talents, were delivered in so stentorian a voice, that he took his departure, to prevent the drums of his ears from being broken. And yesterday—what did we see of him yesterday?”

“Why, he dined out, you know, at a political man-dinner—that was not my fault—and in the morning we were at Lady F.’s breakfast.”

“And the day before?”

“Oh! that was the day of our water-party to Greenwich; and that occupied the whole day. Well, I see how it is—but you will make me spoil him; and then, when he is quite unmanageable and untractable, I shall reproach you!”

“Well, dearest Isabella, I give you full leave to do so—then!”

Lady Delaford rang the bell, and sent back the tickets.

“Now, how bored we shall all three of us be to-day at dinner! I shall be thinking all the time of that dear little Mademoiselle Hyacinthe.”

“No, no, you won’t, dear Isabella. You will be your own gay, agreeable self.”

Lord Delaford came home to dinner, and seemed pleased to find so small a party. Isabella told him, with an arch glance at Fanny, that he was very near finding a still smaller one; that the tickets for the best box at the French play had been sent to them after all.

“And why did you not go?” asked Lord Delaford.

Isabella did not like to take all the credit, when she felt she deserved but little, and she answered: “Why, I believe Fanny suspects you of having a bad conscience; at least she thought you would not like to be alone.”

Lord Delaford cast a glance of gratitude towards Fanny, which made her heart beat with a joy for which she had no occasion to reproach herself. He thanked them both for their attention to him, and was more gay and communicative than he had been for some time. The dinner was agreeable. Isabella was pleased to feel she was doing right, although she did not know that was the reason she was in spirits. Lord Delaford was gratified, and full of hope that more domestic days were about to dawn upon him. Fanny was animated; but there was a flutter in her animation, she scarcely knew wherefore.

CHAPTER VI.

The next morning Isabella did come down to breakfast; but it was a great effort, and she soon relaxed into her former habits. Engagements previously formed could not be broken through, and one engagement led to another. Occasionally, however, Fanny persuaded her to give up one or two of the many evening-parties, and she succeeded in making her rather more quiet in the morning, so that her husband sometimes found her at liberty, and he could sit down and converse upon the passing events.

When he was alone with Fanny he almost invariably talked over his future prospects, and attributed to her every symptom of improvement in his wife. Though these thanks and praises fell on her ear as the most delightful music, still she felt rather uneasy at the kind of understanding that existed between them. Though the subject was one so wholly unconnected with herself, and so conducive to his future conjugal felicity, she could not help a guilty consciousness, when, upon the entrance of Isabella, they changed the topic of their conversation. She resolved, when once she had accomplished the grand object of persuading Isabella to take up her abode at Fordborough Castle, she would rescue herself from her trying situation, return to her father’s house, and devote herself with redoubled energy to being the consolation and solace of his widowed home.

London was growing thin. Balls became more rare: water-parties more frequent; well-laden carriages, awfully encumbered with wells, imperials, boots, trunks, and bonnet-boxes, &c., were constantly seen whirling along the streets. One day they happened, all three, to be standing at the window debating whether the weather was sufficiently settled for Mrs. Clairville’s rural fête to take place, when they were amused by watching the immense number of nurses, children, boxes, and bundles, which were crammed into an immense coach, one of the three carriages which were getting under weigh at the opposite door. Lord Delaford thought this would be a good moment to enter on the subject, by asking, in an easy tone, but well aware of the difficulties he was going to encounter,

“And when shall we go to Fordborough Castle, Isabella?”

“Heavens, Lord Delaford! London is just beginning to be agreeable. All the bores are gone, or going, and society is becoming really select, and every thing on an easy, sensible, pleasant footing. The sight we see opposite, gives one a delightful promise of what London will be! Don’t you hear that sound?” as the three carriages were set in motion, and rumbled heavily along the street. “Society will be as light and elastic when cleared of such heavy component parts, as the air after a thunder-storm!”

“And have you not had enough of society yet? I am almost sick of my fellow-creatures’ faces, and yet I am no misanthrope! Do you not long to see green fields and trees and flowers, and to smell the sweet smells of the country?”

“That is just the reason why I like water-parties, and excursions into the country, and Mrs. Clairville’s breakfasts, so much! How lovely the evening was as we rowed down the river from Richmond! and as for flowers, where can you see any half so beautiful as at Lady P——’s enchanting villa? You can have no taste, no refinement, if you do not doubly enjoy all the beauties of nature in the society of the most polished, the most gifted, in short, of the master spirits of the age! to say nothing of all the prettiest women.”

“I do not wish to see all the pretty women;” and he added with some bitterness, “I only wish to see one woman, who, if she was as perfect in mind as she is in person, would be all-sufficient for my happiness; though,” and his tone changed to one of deep mortification, “I see how little I am so to hers,” and he left the room.

Isabella was somewhat startled. Fanny looked at her with a beseeching face of woe, and eyes full of tears.

“You are playing a dangerous game, Isabella. Heaven grant you may not repent it! You have nearly destroyed the happiness of one of the most perfect of human beings. Heaven grant you may not alter his nature too! Heaven grant that may remain unchanged! To see his kindly temper soured, his manly character degraded into the mere obsequious husband of a London fine lady,—I beg your pardon, Isabella, but it would indeed be a melancholy sight!”

“You seem to take a very lively interest in his welfare,” answered Isabella, a little frightened at the effect she had produced on her husband, and consequently half inclined to be pettish.

Fanny rejoined with warmth,—

“Who can see one woman wilfully cast from her a fate which would be the summit of happiness to almost every other, and not feel warmly?”

“Why, Fanny, I never saw you so animated; I believe you have fallen in love with him yourself, and are envying me this same fate of mine.”

Fanny’s face became suddenly crimson. She had been carried away by her feelings—she had forgotten her own secret, she was so moved at seeing him mortified, and wounded, that she thought only of him.

Isabella’s half-joking speech recalled it all to her; she felt betrayed, discovered, and her confusion knew no bounds. Isabella, surprised at the effect she had produced, in a moment recollected the suspicions she had once entertained, but she was just smarting under the mortification of finding she had over-calculated her complete influence over her husband, of finding that Fanny was right in her advice, and of feeling she deserved her rebuke, and she exclaimed,—

“Well, I never saw such a guilty face.”

Fanny was thunder-struck, bewildered—she burst into tears, and, hiding her face with her hands, she exclaimed—

“Spare me, Isabella! spare me! if you have discovered my secret, spare me!” and, throwing herself on her knees, she hid her face in Isabella’s lap. “Yes, I have loved your husband, but I loved him before you thought of him, and I have struggled and combated, and fought to subdue my feelings; indeed I have. And I have loved him with a holy love,”—and she lifted up her tearful face with an expression of solemn grief and earnestness which was almost sublime: “Yes! I call Heaven to witness, never, for a moment, have I ceased to wish for your happiness, to pray for it, to use every endeavour to forward it. Is it not true? Isabella, I appeal to yourself?”

“Get up, my dear Fanny! For Heaven’s sake! I had not an idea—I did not mean”—and Isabella burst into tears also. She remembered, what she had almost forgotten, how she had once believed him attached to Fanny; she remembered, what she had often persuaded herself was not so, how she had used every art in her power to wean him from her, and she felt almost as guilty as Fanny did.

She had never intended to inflict such keen anguish on any one, and she was grieved to see what she had done. Had there been any thing to excite jealousy, or that might have touched her vanity, perhaps she would not have felt so amiably; but she was perfectly certain poor Fanny’s love was unrequited, and there was nothing mortifying in her husband’s having inspired so deep and fervent an attachment. Moreover, an uncontrolled burst of feeling, in a person habitually placid and reserved, is in itself almost an awful sight.

The two friends stood mutually abashed before each other, when Fanny exclaimed,—

“Do not utterly despise me, Isabella. Oh! if you knew half what I feel at this moment you would pity me. And I have been venturing to lecture you, to teach you your duty! But, indeed, I spoke from pure motives, indeed—though—I have—loved him”—and she again blushed crimson, her cheeks, her temples, her neck, at hearing herself speak words which, till that day, had never found utterance from her lips, “it was for your sake, as well as for his——”

“Dearest Fanny,” interrupted Isabella, “do you think I doubt your motives? No! they are pure and excellent as your own innocent heart. I spoke in jest—you so entirely succeeded in concealing your feelings——”

“But do you not utterly despise me now? Me, whom you once thought retiring and dignified, to have been so lavish of my affections as to love one who is devoted to another, to pass my life nurturing a hopeless and an unlawful preference! Oh! that thought almost maddens me sometimes. You must look down upon me as a poor, abject, weak, and wicked creature.”

“Fanny, don’t speak so of yourself, you make me miserable—it is I who ought to beg your forgiveness—it is I who have been guilty towards you—my foolish, selfish vanity could not bear to see him prefer you, and I did all I could to take him away from you; but I had no idea you really cared about him so much; I only meant to try my own power; and then, if you had seemed unhappy, I would have desisted,—at least I thought I would. But you appeared so cool, so indifferent, and then I liked him myself, and then I thought, if you cared so little, why there was no reason why I should give up so brilliant a parti, and then—I forgot all about you, and thought only of myself.”

“You do think, then, he did like me once?”

“It was that which piqued me so much; but, if I had known what you were feeling, dear Fanny——”

“Oh, Isabella, this is ridiculous! You are, as it were, defending yourself to me—to me, who stand here self-betrayed—self-accused. Oh! it is all wrong; this must not be; we must forget all this—bury it in oblivion—let it be as though it had never been. Only make him happy, dearest Isabella, for your own sake—for his sake, and a little for my sake too. Make him happy, and I shall rejoice in the fate that has made you his wife; make him happy, as you value your own happiness and his, in this world and the next. But I forget myself again. It is not for me to guide others—weak, erring, sinful creature that I am.”

She sank on the sofa, and, pressing her hands upon her eyes, and resting her head on the arm of the sofa, she strove to command and to subdue herself.

Isabella stood motionless beside her, in thought as deep and as painful. A mist seemed to have fallen from her sight. She looked on life with different eyes from what she had done an hour before.

The broken-hearted quivering form before her read her a lecture upon the effects of worldliness, which she had never thought of before. She saw, for the first time, what havoc blighted affections might cause. She thought of her husband, and she said to herself, “Shall I, through my own wilful folly, cause the misery of two good and amiable beings? I have already blasted the prospects of one, shall I throw a blight over those of the other, and that other the being I have sworn to love as long as I have life? Shall I have robbed poor Fanny of what would have made her happiness, and shall I not value the prize myself?”

A flood of tender and self-reproachful feelings rushed over her soul. Fanny’s grief cut her to the heart; she gazed upon her till she felt herself cruel and odious. She pictured to herself what sufferings she must have inflicted upon her during the days of her courtship, on her wedding-day, on a thousand other occasions; she remembered her unfailing, uncomplaining gentleness; she thought of the good advice she had given her at various times, and felt how generous and how judicious it had been.

Seating herself by her side, she gently lifted her head from the sofa—she kissed her—she wept with her—she used every tender and endearing epithet—she implored her to be comforted.

“I am weeping for my own degradation,” she replied, “that the secret I scarcely dared own to myself should be uttered in positive words, and to you, to his wife!—and you will betray me to him, you will tell him, I am sure you will. Oh! that I should have come to this!—I, who hoped to have passed through life with a fair, untarnished name, though my wretched heart might break! Oh, Isabella! in pity keep my secret—spare me this last bitter drop in the cup of life! He respects me now, and I think it would kill me to be despised by him.”

Her broken voice was choked by sobs—she again hid her face in her hands—she seemed to shrink into herself.

“Dearest Fanny! what shall I say, what shall I do? If you knew how your anguish harrows my very soul! I will promise any thing, I will do any thing that can relieve your mind.”

“Will you indeed do any thing that I ask?” said Fanny, looking up from her tears with a face in which beamed a high and lofty hope: “Then, all I ask of you is, to be happy: and to be truly so, you must place all your happiness in him; you must let no other feelings interfere with what is conducive to his welfare, his respectability. Promise this, Isabella, and I ask no more.”

“I promise you, dearest Fanny!” and, kneeling at her feet, her hands clasped and laid on Fanny’s knees, Isabella solemnly repeated, “I promise you that, for your sake, as well as for his own, I will love, cherish, and obey him, in sickness and in health, in joy and in sorrow, in poverty or in wealth: I will strive to be unto him a loving, dutiful, and virtuous wife.”

“Thank you, my own Isabella!” exclaimed Fanny, and, throwing themselves into each other’s arms, they mingled tears and embraces. At length Fanny added, “It is a weight off my mind that I have no longer anything concealed from you, Isabella; and if I could but feel sure that you, and you only, should know my weakness——”

“Shall I promise?”

“Do, dearest Isabella; let me hear a vow of secrecy pass your lips, and I think it will go farther towards eradicating every vestige of former folly than anything else can do.”

“I promise you that no one word of this day’s conversation shall pass my lips; and I promise that, except by my future conduct, you shall never be reminded of it. Will that satisfy you?”

“Oh, yes, generous, kind, good Isabella! You are only too good, too kind, and make me feel so inferior to you.”

“But, Fanny, we must make haste and go into the country. How soon can we go? I wish we could set out to-morrow; I long to begin my new career; I am so afraid of growing worldly again in London,—I mean worldly in my inclinations; my actions I can control, and my vow is sacred. But how shall I set about opening the subject to my husband? He was really angry to-day.”

“What so easy, dearest Isabella? Go at once to him, and say you saw he was annoyed, and that you are sorry he was so, and that, rather than annoy him, you are ready to go whenever he wishes.”

“He will think a very sudden change has come over me: however, I will try.”

That evening Fanny pleaded a headache, and went to bed. She was totally unfitted for society, and could not have ventured into Lord Delaford’s presence; so that, when he came in, he found Isabella alone.

For the first time he wished for company; he felt a tête-à-tête with his wife awkward and unpleasant. He was displeased and disappointed: it was evident to him he was not loved as he loved, and he was not yet worked up to the point of accomplishing by authority, what he fain would have accomplished by affection: his manner was cold and abstracted.

Isabella perceived that Fanny’s advice was not given before it was needed.

After a silence of some minutes, during which she had twisted a note into every variety of form of which a note is capable, and he had turned over the leaves of a very old Review, in which there was not one entertaining article, she resolved to break the ice at once. Shaking back her long locks, she looked up in his face, and, holding out her hand to him, she said—

“I want to make friends, Henry.” Then, smiling with a frankness of manner, which, when combined with any thing of emotion, was in her almost irresistible—“I don’t want to lose your affections by being obstinate and wilful, and I am ready to go into the country whenever you please.”

“Are you in earnest, Isabella, or am I dreaming?”

“I am in real good earnest, and you had better take me in earnest, for fear my good resolutions should evaporate. I do really wish to go into the country, and to be very good;—as good as Fanny.”

“But can you be happy with only me?”

“Why, I mean to try;” and she gave him a glance, such as a pretty woman can give when she feels she has regained her power, but means to use it in the most agreeable manner.

“Then I am the happiest of men!” said, and thought, Lord Delaford.

Reconciliations, joy and peace of mind, are totally uninteresting; therefore, the sooner the present story is brought to a close the better. Lord and Lady Delaford went almost immediately to Fordborough Castle—Fanny returned to her father. She experienced real pleasure in finding herself again at home, and in ministering to the comforts of her kind parent.

By some odd turn of the human mind, the avowal of her secret feelings to the very person towards whom they were an injury, went farther towards eradicating them, than all her own reflections and resolutions. Her conscience felt lighter; she looked back upon them as a matter of history; and her affection for Isabella had warmed into a real and ardent friendship. Every one loves a person whom they have served, essentially served; and every one loves a person over whose conduct they feel they have great influence.

One morning, Lord Delaford, having rode over to Elmsley Priory, took an opportunity of telling Fanny that he was the happiest of men, and that he was aware he owed all this happiness to her. Then did Fanny enjoy pure and unalloyed satisfaction! She felt she had not lived in vain: she had been of service to her fellow-creatures, and she felt raised in her own estimation.

Isabella, meanwhile, laboured hard to put in practice all the good advice she had received from Fanny. The happiness she found she had the power of bestowing, repaid her for her self-denial in relinquishing the exciting pleasures of the great world; and before she had time to weary of her domesticity, she found herself in a situation which called forth other, and as tender, feelings.

While she was in Italy, a premature confinement had prevented her knowing the engrossing affection of a mother, and had allowed her to plunge again into the vortex of dissipation.

A growing family is an excellent nostrum for keeping down an active, restless spirit. Time, health, and thoughts must be, in a great measure, devoted to their children, by those mothers who do not utterly neglect their duty; and the constant intercourse with such a mind as Lord Delaford’s, and the frequent visits which, after a time, Fanny paid at Fordborough Castle, gradually produced in her character a reformation of all that was reprehensible.

Fanny found new objects of interest in Isabella’s children: she was full of occupation at home; she was her father’s darling. Her life was a retired one, especially when Lord and Lady Delaford were in London in the spring; and as there are not many very charming partis in the immediate neighbourhood of Elmsley Priory, and as she would doubtless be somewhat difficult in her choice, and as she is no longer quite as young or as blooming as she has been, it is more than probable she may become a “single woman of a certain age.”

Though such should be her fate, may she not be allowed to have an opinion, should “affairs of the heart” be discussed in her presence?