CHAPTER I.

_Duke._ And what’s her history.

_Viola._ A blank, my lord.

Why is it that the bustling matron, who (having, without preference or selection, married the first man who proposed to her,) has spent her days in the unsentimental details of a household, a nursery, and a school-room, merely considering her partner as the medium through which the several departments are provided for?—why is it that the languid beauty, who has sold herself to age or folly for an opera-box, an equipage, a title?—why is it that the scold, who has jangled through a wedded life of broils and disputes—and the buxom widow, whose gay and blooming face gives the lie to her mourning garments?—why is it that they all cast a pitying glance of contempt on the “single woman of a certain age” who ventures an opinion on the subject of love? Why do they all look as if it were impossible she could ever have felt its influence?

On the contrary, the very fact of singleness affords in itself presumptive evidence of the power of some strong and unfortunate predilection. Few women pass through life without having had some opportunities of what is commonly called “settling;” therefore the chances are, that betrayed affections, an unrequited attachment, or an early prepossession, has called forth the sentiment of which they are supposed incapable—and called it forth, too, in a mind of too much delicacy to admit the idea of marriage from any other motive than that of love.

The following story, which is ushered into the world by so unattractive a title, might afford an example, that a life which appears “a blank” in the history of events, may be far from “a blank” in the history of feelings.

By the death of her father, Lord T——, Isabella St. Clair found herself, at the age of nineteen, an orphan possessed of a considerable fortune, of great personal attractions, and of all the accomplishments which, in these days of education and refinement, are expected to grace young ladies of fashion. Her brother, the young Lord T——, was not of an age to serve as her protector, and accordingly she removed to the house of her uncle and guardian, Sir Edward Elmsley.

Sir Edward and Lady Elmsley were of that respectable class of English gentry who, by not attempting to move in a more elevated circle than that in which they are naturally placed, command the esteem and respect of those above, as well as of those below them. Their daughter Fanny, although of the same age as her cousin Isabella, had not yet been initiated into the pleasures and the pains of a London campaign.

Isabella, who had been accustomed to a life of excitement, was not sorry, at the expiration of her mourning for her father, to join in whatever gaiety was going forward, and to exercise once more the power of that beauty which, even in London, had attracted its full share of admiration.

In the country, where beauty, rank, fashion, fortune, and accomplishments are not so common, of course the brilliant Miss St. Clair was the star of every ball; and all the young men of any pretensions in the county vied with each other in obtaining a word, a smile, a look from the lovely Isabella.

Nor did the charms with which she was really endowed lose any thing from want of skill in the possessor. She had the art of keeping an indefinite number of persons occupied with her alone; she had left her shawl in the next room, and, with a thousand graceful apologies, she asked one person to fetch it for her, at the same time holding her cup in a helpless manner, and casting a beseeching glance around her, which brought a hundred eager hands to set it down. Then she looked timidly confused at having given so much trouble. Presently she had a message to send to her cousin Fanny, with which she despatched one admirer, while she hinted in a low voice to another, who was pressing her to stand up in the next quadrille, that she did not like to do so while Fanny was sitting still. The devoted youth flew to dance with Fanny, claiming as his reward the hand of Isabella for the ensuing waltz. She knew how to pique and to excite the vanity of each: to one she implied she had heard something of him which certainly had very much surprised her; to another that she understood he had been abusing her horridly; she playfully scolded a third for not admiring Fanny half as much as he ought, and wondered how he could be so blind. She assured a fourth that he and all the world had quite mistaken her disposition; indeed, that scarcely any one did understand her; implying there was depth of character and feeling beyond the reach of the multitude, and thereby piquing and interesting the sentimental youth to discover these hidden treasures.

Fanny, meanwhile, placid and contented, enjoyed what she met with that was agreeable, without its ever crossing her imagination to feel envy or jealousy of her cousin. She was not mortified, for she saw her so beautiful, so brilliant, that all rivalry seemed out of the question. They were happy and affectionate with each other. Isabella, constitutionally gay, good-humoured, and joyous, was never crossed or thwarted by Fanny, and, although an acute observer might discover in her fondness for her cousin, a tone of superiority, a protecting kindness, Fanny so completely acquiesced in that superiority, that it never for a moment wounded her self-love.

About a year after Isabella’s arrival at Elmsley Priory, the society of that neighbourhood received a very animating addition in the young Lord Delaford, who, soon after his return from his travels, established himself at his beautiful Castle of Fordborough. He joined to the most prepossessing appearance and manners, an excellent character, considerable talents, and extensive possessions. He paid a visit to Sir Edward Elmsley, and of course Isabella counted upon him as her devoted slave, and thought such a conquest was not to be neglected.

She was rather surprised that he handed the quiet Fanny to dinner, but she satisfactorily accounted for this circumstance by supposing he considered it a courtesy to which the young lady of the house was entitled. But when, in the course of the evening, he voluntarily seated himself by Fanny, and appeared interested by her conversation, she certainly was very much astonished, and not much pleased.

To Lord Delaford, who had lately come into the country, wearied and disgusted with the dissipation of Paris, and the turmoil of London, the style, the vivacity, and even the beauty of Isabella, were too much what he had been in the habit of seeing every day, to possess any peculiar attractions for him; while the calm brow, the placid air, the perfect innocence and unconsciousness of Fanny’s manner, appeared to him as soothing and refreshing as the green trees and verdant meadows after the glare and confusion of the streets. In conversation he found her modest and well-informed, and he sought her society the next day and the next. By degrees his manner assumed a tone of admiration which, to a person accustomed as she was to be placed in the shade, had more than the usual effect attributed to admiration, that of enhancing the charms by which it was first excited.

Those who imagine they do not please, often neglect the means by which they might do so; whereas, if they once become aware that all they say and do finds favour in the sight of others, they are no longer ashamed of being charming, or afraid to be agreeable.

People in general were astonished at the wonderful improvement in Fanny, but her mother remarked that, when Lord Delaford entered the room, her soft brown eyes shone with a lustrous consciousness, that if he addressed her, the colour mounted in her pale and delicate complexion, and she understood full well the cause of this improvement.

If Lord Delaford had been originally attracted by the unruffled placidity of her expression, he was infinitely more so by finding that his presence had the power of disturbing that placidity. Though he could not doubt that he possessed many qualities which might make him an object of preference to young ladies, and every adventitious qualification to make him approved of by the old; though he must have known he had been sighed for by daughters, and sought by mammas; still he was not one of those men who are piqued by coldness, and inflamed by the difficulty of winning the object. On the contrary, there was a natural diffidence about him which made him vulnerable to the attentions of women, and easily daunted by any appearance of disinclination.

Fanny was too amiable and too humble ever to have felt jealous of her cousin, but she was not insensible to the pleasure of finding herself suddenly preferred by the one person whose favour all were desirous to gain. Every thing seemed to prosper to the utmost of her or her parents’ wishes. Lord Delaford became every day more serious in his attentions, and there appeared to be no reason why Fanny should not yield to the engrossing fascinations of a passion which, if felt for the first time at the age of twenty, combines with the freshness of a first love the depth and strength of which the more formed character is susceptible.

In the mean time Isabella no longer found the same gratification in the insipid crowd of common-place admirers, whose suffrages had before elated her. She felt, truly enough, of how much more value were the sincere esteem and affection of one true heart, than all the frivolous admiration of people she did not care for; all her former conquests lost their value in her eyes; she, for the first time, felt herself the forgotten and neglected one. Vanity, like ambition, only becomes the more insatiable by being fed, and, as the single Mordecai, who refused to bow before the pomp of Haman, embittered all the glories of his triumph, so the one person who was proof against her charms outweighed, in her estimation, the herd who acknowledged their power.

She had too much tact, too much knowledge of the world, too much spirit, to allow these feelings to be visible to the eyes of common observers. Lord Delaford and Fanny were so completely occupied with each other that they could not remark any thing about Isabella; but Lady Elmsley, with maternal quick-sightedness, perceived her mortification, and with pride, which may perhaps be pardoned in a mother, could not help being pleased that, at length, her daughter’s merits should be valued, as they deserved, above those of Isabella.

Occasionally Isabella caught a glance of triumph which escaped from the eyes of Lady Elmsley, and she resolved to let slip no opportunity of gaining the attention of Lord Delaford.

Mortification is but half felt while it is only felt in secret. It is not till we perceive it has been remarked by others, that it becomes one of the most painful sensations to which the weak, the vain, and the worldly, are liable, and one from which the most humble and pure minded can scarcely boast of being entirely free.