CHAPTER V.
Nae mair of that, dear Jenny: to be free, There’s some men constanter in love than we. They’ll reason caumly, and with kindness smile, When our short passions wad our peace beguile: Sae, whensoe’er they slight their maiks at haine, ’Tis ten to ane their wives are maist to blame.
_Gentle Shepherd._
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
‘Have blest his home, and crown’d our wedded loves.’”
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.