# Lady Anne Granard/Chapter 53

CHAPTER LIII.
"Closely shrouded in my cottage at Brighton, an object of wonder and conjecture to the idle and the imaginative, by slow degrees I gained the health I sought, and with it a certain portion of those spirits natural to my season of life, and which ought to be inseparable from the humble of heart, and the virtuous in conduct. Here I first obtained true light on subjects of religion, on which I read and meditated much: and here I experienced a partial relief to my solitude in the society of yourself and your sisters. Parted so far from my husband, the pleasures of correspondence were almost denied to me, and the more I found myself equal to enjoying society, the more acutely did I feel the deprivation of it. The languor which pervaded my faculties in India had rendered me content to wait, in passive quietude, the return of my husband from the scene of his exertions; and his account of what had occurred fully satisfied my curiosity, and sufficed for my amusement; but in busy, energetic England ​—printing and publishing England—there was always a something afloat on which one wished to form a judgment, or communicate one. My companion was a worthy and sensible woman, but she neither read, nor approved of reading; and, considering my situation as a young and handsome woman even more critical than it was, actually dreaded my sending for a poem or a novel to the circulating library, lest it might attract attention, and involve me in trouble. I now repented that I had adopted a false name, and almost determined, at times, to address Lady Osmond, to whom I was sincerely attached, but a fear of giving offence prevented me. At length, however, I did venture to address a letter to Mr. Glentworth, the brother of my father, humbly imploring him to see me before I returned to my husband, and entreating to know whether my brother was likely to visit England before my return to Calcutta, or if I might be able to visit him on the continent.
"I have still his answer, which ran thus:
"'Madam—If, under any pretence whatever, Francis Glentworth either speaks or writes to you, I shall immediately disinherit him; and if you dare to intrude upon me, I shall appeal to the law to escape intrusion from you. "'Edward Glentworth.'
"From that time I sought only to quit the country, ​lest I should injure him I sought to save; and so determined was my late guardian to prevent me from having any intercourse with my brother, that he transmitted the money due to my husband through the bank, in preference to myself. I now believe that he acted wisely towards him, whom I innocently injured, and was not permitted to benefit; him whom I still fondly clung to, and even now would give the world to know.
"I was received, with sincere pleasure, by the only human being who cared for me; but he had become a busy man, and one much sought after, so that there was no alternative between a positive solitude to me, or mingling in company, to which I had taken disgust from their first reception. Besides, my health was never good, and, at length, I was again sent to Europe; but, as my husband accompanied me, we ventured on the overland journey, and settled for a time in Italy. When I was fixed in my native air, and near my old convent, Osmond left me, to visit the parents and family he dearly loved, and there he received the honour of a title, his father and elder brother being still living, and the circumstances of his family still calling for his exertions; and I am in daily expectation of his return, when I shall proceed to India with him, by the same route which brought us; but my old friend parts with us here for ever. I have received kind ​letters and invitations from Lady Osmond and her married daughters; but I cannot learn that the feelings of Sir Henry are altered towards me, even after the long period in which I have proved myself a loving, prudent, and generous wife; therefore, I shall never stoop to solicit his suffrage, or reason with his prejudice. Knowing that in Italy Mr. Glentworth travelled much, I have pleased myself often, since my arrival, with romantic hopes of seeing him (unseen myself); but I have never dared to pronounce his name, until your declaration gave me permission, by shewing that my remorseless enemy was in the grave; and, to my great relief, had gone thither without disinheriting him.
"By this time he may have returned to you; God grant him the health for which he sought at such an expence, as that of quitting you and your fair boy, who I have seen and kissed repeatedly, little thinking it shared my blood, but fancying (as women do fancy, that it resembled my own.) No human being but one, who is legally akin to none, who is disowned by all, and whose heart glows with all the sweetest affections of our common nature, can know the mingled and distressing emotions of a creature so situated—the indignation of one hour, the utter prostration of the next—the agony that recoils from a parent's shame, the burning love, the weeping tenderness, clinging to that parent, as by a tenfold ​tie—the consciousness that even he who loves you, honours your virtues, surveys your person and accomplishments with pride, yet shrinks from owning the name of that innocent creature who gave him a heart as pure as it was fond—oh, these are agonies!
"Dear Isabella, it will not be long ere my fortune reaches your husband's hands; if, in the meantime, you can seize a moment, in which to tell him my sad story, and soften his heart towards me, do it, I beseech you! I know not whether he resembles his faulty but kind father, or his stern uncle; but I trust it is—indeed I am sure it is—the former, for I am sure you love him warmly, entirely. Seize, then, some melting moment, and plead on my behalf—a single line from him, in a letter from you, would be a sunbeam, which would revive hope in my sick and solitary hours, and shed comfort even on the grave of your unhappy, but most affectionate sister, "Sophia Osmond."
The conclusion of this long letter unlocked the very sluices of pity and sorrow in the breast of Isabella, and for some minutes she resigned herself to tears; but feeling afraid of its effects on her husband, she stepped hastily to her dressing-room, and laid the last sheet down beside him, and then retired. She could not, however, do so without ​stealing a glance at his face, in which she read the truth of all that she had feared—he was evidently overwhelmed by emotions, operating under the aid of circumstances, to awaken a sensibility so acute, as to be destructive.
"Alas! alas!" exclaimed Isabella, as she paced Mary's chamber, whose return she impatiently desired; "all we have done for him will go for nothing—his long journey, his painful absence, all we have both suffered in order to restore him, will——"
At this moment Glentworth rang his bell violently, and she heard him giving rapid orders to his valet; in the next he entered Mary's room, and clasping her to his bosom, laid his head on her shoulder, and wept as man seldom weeps, save when his wife is a beloved one, and his only witness.
"I cannot wonder you are thus affected, my dear Glentworth, and it would ill become me to seek to——"
"Yes, yes, I know, Isabella, you feel and see all that I would say and that I must do. But be comforted, my dearest; I have given orders for post horses; Williams is packing my valise, I shall get to Civita Vecchia as soon as possible, and then hire a felucca for Marseilles—the weather is calm, you have nothing to fear—but mind my words! Should ​she have set out for Malta, I must follow—perhaps to Alexandria, for I cannot live till I have spoken peace to that troubled soul, till I have assured her that my mother's son can receive as a sister the innocent daughter of his guilty father. My sense of justice (even without the compassion she has stirred up from the very depths of my heart) compels me to seek her."
"But you will take me with you, dear Glentworth?"
"You! impossible! You! who have but just recovered from the country fever, so apt to return! Besides, the child; for Heaven's sake, take care of him! Allerton will do every thing for you, and you can follow me to Marseilles when you are able."
He flew down stairs; on his way met and kissed his child, and then was gone. The whole affair appeared a troubled dream; but it had left a real loss behind it, and scarcely could Isabella help deploring that she had ever met Lady Osmond at all, for she had got a fever and lost a husband by it. "If," said she, "her gains were equal to my loss, I hope I would not deplore it; but alas, poor thing! the very hour they meet they will be parted, and she will leave Europe with new regrets and acuter lamentations than ever."
Nothing could exceed the surprise of Lord ​Allerton and Miss Granard, on their return, than this sudden movement, on the part of Glentworth; and very awkward did Isabella find it, to relate, in as few words as might be, the circumstances that led to it, as it was impossible to escape referring to circumstances which might wound Lord Allerton. He did not, however, allow this to be the case, for he was too happy to permit retrospective evils to touch him, and he was far too much attached to Glentworth to condemn the sensibility which actuated him; though he fully agreed with Isabella, that it would be well to follow him as soon as she was able.
Accordingly, four days afterwards the whole family embarked for Marseilles, and, on arriving there, had the satisfaction to find Glentworth in good health, and just returned from seeing his interesting relation on board, Sir Charles Osmond not having arrived at Marseilles until the day after himself, a circumstance in their situation desirable. At Isabella's earnest request, he took both her and the child on board, for the single hour which remained to the voyagers, to the satisfaction of all parties, and it seemed as if the long-drooping flower had already revived beneath the genial smile of consanguinity, and the very tears she had shed were sweet and grateful, refreshing the bosom moved so tenderly.
​ The pleasure evinced by Sir Charles was only less than that of his lady, and, as he appeared every way worthy of her, and sensible of her value, Mr. Glentworth bade her adieu with the more cheerfulness, and, on their return to the hotel, Isabella had ceased to lament the transaction, and all agreed to praise that promptitude of action which had enabled him to perform his wishes so happily. Lord Allerton founded on this a plea for hastening his marriage, as at Marseilles there was every convenience for that purpose, and after a certain time Mary consented, preferring the greater privacy, to be insured to the éclat of the ambassador's chapel in Paris, towards which capital they afterwards slowly journeyed, taking Switzerland in their way, at that season when its sublime horrors were witnessed to the greatest advantage, and its internal accommodations secured most effectually, because sought by few—they might, indeed, be said to be the only travellers to be found willing to "sup their fill of horrors."
Although to Isabella Glentworth related every particular of his first affecting interview with her he now called sister, and dwelt on every lineament in her person, which recalled his father to his memory, or allied her to himself, a narrative that evidently cost him much, yet Isabella remarked that he seldom recurred to Lady Osmond, even cursorily, ​therefore, she did not, for she dreaded every subject likely to awaken his feelings. One thing had resulted from the meeting of great satisfaction to her, which was an ameliorated sensation towards Lady Anne, because she had permitted the visit of her children to the unknown stranger, thereby softening the tedium of many a painful hour to one party, and imparting to the other her own happy pronunciation of the Italian tongue, in many of its most charming ariettas, as Isabella gave proof when they sate round the blazing fires of evening during a journey in which incident abounded more than comfort, and was one of constant solicitude on behalf of the youngest traveller.
All went eventually well with them; they were neither "toppled down headlong from a precipice, nor buried 'neath an avalanche;" and Glentworth grew better the more dangers they encountered, and difficulties they contended with. He frequently joked Lord Allerton on compelling his bride to pass through the rough paths of her new life, the first, in order that she might find all the rest of it comparatively smooth, but the latter regretted much that they had undertaken it at such a season, and, in truth, all were heartily rejoiced, when they found themselves set down at Meurice's Hotel in Paris, where they determined to rest for a time; indeed, ​Mr. Glentworth now spoke much of sending for Lady Anne and the two young ladies.
But how pleasantly was their ease awakened into enjoyment, when, on the very following day, Count Riccardini broke in upon them with all his accustomed cheerfulness and urbanity!