CHAPTER IV.

Surtout les femmes nourries dans la mollesse, l’abondance et l’oisiveté, sont indolentes et dédaigneuses pour tout ce détail. Elles ne font pas grande différence entre la vie champêtre et celle des sauvages de Canada: si vous leur parlez de bled, de cultures de terres, de différentes natures de revenus, de la levée de rentes, et des autres droits seigneuriaux, de la meilleure manière de faire des fermes ou d’établir des receveurs, elles croyent que vous voulez les réduire à des occupations indignes d’elles. Ce n’est pourtant que par ignorance qu’on méprise cette science de l’économie.—FENELON.

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,

“En songeant qu’il faut l’oublier, Elle s’en souvient.”

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.