CHAPTER VI.

Trepideva pur anche per quel pudore che non nasce dalla triste scienza del male, per quel pudore che ignora se stesso, somigliante alla paura del fanciullo che trema nelle tenebre senza saper di che.—_I Promessi Sposi._

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?

MILLY AND LUCY.