# Lady Anne Granard/Chapter 52

CHAPTER LII.
"My father had placed me in the convent expressly as a Protestant, and it is only justice to the sisterhood amongst whom I lived to say, that they did not, for several years, seek to unsettle my mind; but having had no instructions as to any other mode of faith, and being, by the rules of the establishment, required to join in the gorgeous services, though exempted from the penances of the order, every succeeding year drew me imperceptibly into their circle. I was affectionate and imaginative; devotion alone seemed to supply the want of my heart; and I therefore, in time, entered warmly into that faith by which their forms expressed it, and was already ripe for that which they would have proclaimed as conversion, proceeding from our patron-saint, when the death of my father was announced, at the very time when I was in daily expectation of receiving his accustomed visit, and had fully ​intended to beg permission to be received into the Romish communion.
"To tell you the overwhelming agony this dreadful privation inflicted is impossible. My father was my world, my all. Three times in the year had he spent two or three weeks in Pisa, ever since I was settled there, that he might every day pass some hours with me in the parlour, and where he never failed to lavish on me every gift his fortune could supply, delight me by the encomiums he bestowed on my music and needlework (always an object of importance in a nunnery), and prove, by his admiring looks and his tender tones, how entirely he loved me. Well do I remember the very last time he had visited me, when, to his question, 'Is there any thing in the world which you want, Sophia?' on my replying 'Nothing, dear papa, save a sister or a brother,' he became dreadfully agitated, and fled from the parlour to the cloisters, where he remained a considerable time. On his return, I saw he had been weeping much, though he then appeared to have regained composure, and said to me, with a tender seriousness which I often recollect, as if it were a presentiment of this being our last meeting—
"'My love, you have a brother, a good and handsome boy, seven years older than yourself, and like you, motherless. His name is Francis ​Glentworth—do not forget it, and—do not speak—I cannot answer you a single question,—and I charge you not to ask one of the holy mother, or any other person.'
"This is digression, Isabella, but I could not forbear to write it, for the names uttered in secresy thousands of times have been as a spell upon me. Little did I then dream that I could become the injurer of that dear, unknown brother, whom my imagination invested with every charm, and every virtue, more especially an unbounded affection for myself. Thus far the dream of my heart was useful; it was the only possible consolation for the loss of my father; and although I must ever gratefully recal the kindness of the sisterhood, I well know that, from my secret hopes of finding a brother in the world, should I ever enter it, my only comfort was derived; and this brother I have never seen, never must see: the die is cast.
"The death of my father was announced by letter to the abbess from a relation of her own, who had been the means of gaining me as a resident in the convent. He died in landing at Civita Vecchia, whether from a fall which took place, as he stepped on the quay, or from an apoplectic seizure, which occasioned the fall, was never known. Signor Testati, who had gone down to meet him, saw him approach apparently in florid health, and saw him ​also expire, before his eyes. He was a good man, and performed the last duties, and wrote not only to the abbess, but to a Mr. Glentworth in England, with whom, he had reason to believe, the late Mr. Delemaine was nearly connected. Finding upon the corpse more money than was required for the funeral, he transmitted it to the abbess, together with a small valise, containing, besides apparel, some trifling articles of jewellery, and the bracelet transmitted to you, which was wrapped in paper, on which was written—'Miniature of my sainted wife.'
"About two months afterwards, a person arrived from England, saying he was a trustee, and empowered by the will of my late father to settle my accounts, and remove me from the convent. In a short time, weeping, and almost senseless, I was literally torn from the happy seclusion (to which I but lately returned), and accompanied Mr. Barrow first to Rome, then to Marseilles, and soon afterwards to England. He always placed me under female care as soon as we arrived at a new place, and was extremely kind in causing me to be shewn every thing remarkable; and after a while I began to enjoy the novelties, and enter into the new gaieties which courted my attention. I ceased to regret the convent, though I continued to love the nuns, and I believed that my vocation was for the ​world. My guardian I found was a merchant, generally resident at Marseilles, and whose intention it was to send me to England when he could find any respectable persons willing to take the charge. He was more kind in manner the longer I lived with him, but he neither would answer a question respecting my parents or others; he was a good man, I cannot doubt, but he was a mistaken one, as I was an intelligent girl, two or three years forwarder than those of my age in England, and it would have been better that I should have been made acquainted with the misfortunes attendant on my birth, than be left as I was to feel their crushing influence when it fell with unmerciful severity.
"I was at length sent with a servant to Geneva, where I found an English family, relations of Mr. Barrow, who received me politely, though coldly, and first taught me to perceive the peculiarity of English manners. I have no doubt they considered themselves extremely condescending to admit my company, but my musical talents subdued their pride, or thawed the frost of their hearts, for they appeared to grow every day a little kinder. They were staying in an hotel where there were several English families, and it was usual for them to make parties to view the wonderful objects of sublimity or beauty in that singular country, and which so entirely awoke my enthusiastic imagination as to ​inform me with a kind of new existence, inspiring me with eloquence, and enabling me to express that which I felt, whatever might be the sternness or the rank of my hearers.
"How often have I contrasted the freedom and enjoyment of my spirit then, with the unutterable weight which has lain upon it ever since! I entered this paradise, ignorant of myself and my situation; I left it informed and miserable, yet under that influence which is the most sustaining of all earthly solace, and which in my case was increasing every hour—need I say this solace was love?
"Lady Osmond was extremely intimate with the Mortimers, and might be said to be of their party, and to me she appeared much the most amiable. Soon after our arrival, she was joined by her son, who had been making excursions with other young men in the mountains, being almost as much an enthusiast as myself. There was in him no weighing of words, or repressing of thoughts, much less that measuring of civilities according to rank or wealth, which I had remarked in his countrymen, and he possessed the same taste for music, the same poetic fervour, and the same preference for the magnificent in nature and the excellent in art, which were inherent in myself. No wonder we soon distinguished each other, soon found that similarity of sentiment which led us step by step to— ​I will not say destruction, but unquestionably to misery.
"Mrs. Mortimer had seen farther into our situation than ourselves, and had, therefore, from pure goodwill, frustrated many little plans of walks and drives, held many anxious conversations with Lady Osmond, and at length arrived at a resolution, before we set out on a journey which would necessarily throw Charles and myself more than ever together, to speak to me on the most cruel and hateful of all subjects, as the only medium of preventing me from plunging into the most irretrievable of all evils, an early and imprudent marriage.
"I will abridge my story as much as I am able. She told me I must guard myself from indulging any expectation of a marriage connexion with Charles Osmond, who was only a younger son, had been brought up to the law, and was destined by his father to practice in India so soon as he was called to the bar, which would be immediately on his return to England. 'Sir Henry,' said she, 'has a large family; even his eldest son will have a small fortune; the younger ones must be content with an education which will help them to make their own.'
"I had been told that I had a handsome fortune, and my heart swelled with the sweet, proud thought ​that I could make him rich; perhaps my countenance expressed what was passing within, for she immediately added—
"'You will yourself have a handsome fortune, it is true, but it will be between five and six years before you come into possession of it; but that is not the matter—Sir Henry is a man of old family and unsullied honour; had he only half of his estate, and were his family twice the number, he would pertinaciously disclaim an alliance with you for any one of his sons, and Charles is the especial darling of his heart, being indeed a youth of uncommon promise. Yes, he would spurn the idea that money could atone for——'
"'For what?' cried I, indignantly; 'wherein have I done wrong? If he fears that I am of a different religion, tell him I will listen to instruction, I will——'
" 'Sophia, his prejudice is one no effort, no merit of your own can ever remove. It is evident you are not aware there has been a ban upon you from the day of your birth. It cuts my heart to tell you, but you must be told, lest you learn it from a ruder tongue, a spirit less penetrated by pity than mine. Your parents were never married—never could be, for each had given their vows to another; hence you are (though innocent) disgraced—though virtuous, one from whom the virtuous shrink. It is a ​cruel, nay, a wicked prejudice; but your father knew it would avail against you in the world, and, in order to obviate it, he committed an act of gross injustice, by actually leaving you all the fortune his misconduct had left himself, to the ruin of his own amiable son.'
"I will not attempt to tell you what I felt; in fact, the excess of my suffering relieved itself, for I fainted, and for several hours successively relapsed as the recollection of what I had heard came over me. Mrs. Mortimer, alarmed, revealed the cause to Lady Osmond, who loved me very much, and could not forbear to relate what had occurred to her son, expressing at once the excess of her pity to me and her fear of his father. You will anticipate the consequence: Charles did not resemble his father; he had no prejudices regarding my birth; he thought my father justified in giving his female child the fortune which would protect her from contempt, since her son could easily be provided for by his rich uncle, and he secretly determined never to renounce one whose claims on his pity were not less strong than he felt them on his affections.
In the course of our travels, every thing was arranged by letter, for I was closely watched, and, on arriving in England, was placed in a small, superior establishment in Piccadilly, designed for orphans, after they had quitted boarding-school. I ​had liberty to visit Mrs. Mortimer, and her only. Charles published our marriage bans at a church in the city, and made a friend of one of his sisters, who contrived to accompany me thither, where we were married, in strict privacy—and indeed disguise, in part. Immediately afterwards we set out for Portsmouth, and embarked as soon as possible on board the ship where Charles alone was expected, and my appearance seemed to excite strange whisperings and surmises; but my husband lost no time in making a confidant of the captain, who introduced me to his own family, and insured my welcome to others. Still, there was an inquiry after me, the 'who was she?' that never can, that never must be answered; and it was pursued with only the more avidity, because my accomplishments proved that I had been expensively educated, and nature had stamped me with her own kindly distinctions. So grievously did these inquiries affect me, that on our arrival at Calcutta we lived in the very strictest privacy, which only increased the evil, and made us the subject of scandalous guesses, but had the good effect of keeping our expenses within due limits, and of rendering the talents of my husband effective for his advancement in his profession.
"I had a fine boy when I was in my nineteenth year, but he scarcely lived a twelvemonth, and his ​long illness and eventual loss affected me so much that I was sentenced to England for a residence of two or three years. I may well call it a sentence, for it was certainly banishment from all who loved me; but I objected to it the less because it would embrace the closing of my minority. Amongst our few acquaintance was a Mrs. Cranstoun, the widow of a brave old officer, to whose legal affairs (when in an extremely embarrassed state) Mr. Osmond had gratuitously and successfully attended, for a long time to a good end; and she was willing to be my companion. My kind husband accompanied me to the Cape, but we were then compelled to part, or he would have lost the fortune for which he was toiling, and which could alone atone, even in part, for his marriage. That he had married me was, we still trusted, unknown; but that he was married, could not possibly be so. In order to give no offence, and excite no observation, I proposed to live on the sea-coast, and adopt the name of my friend, who was of an age and appearance likely to pass for my mother-in-law.
"On giving due notice of my arrival to the house of which my friend Mr. Barrow was a member, to my great satisfaction that gentleman came to visit me, and, to my surprise, approved of my marriage, saying, 'he did not know what better a poor girl so situated could have done,' adding that my ​husband's character stood very high, and he would, probably, be a judge before my return. Thankful for this kind opinion, I proceeded to inform him that it had long been the first desire of my heart, and I had got full permission from my husband to that effect, to divide my fortune with my brother Francis Glentworth, for that I now knew from Mrs. Mortimer such a person was in existence; and I presented him the paper which my husband had drawn up for the occasion, and which it had certainly cost me some pains to procure, as he always thought my father must have known best what was his duty under circumstances so painfully peculiar.
"'You have had one child,' said Mr. Barrow, 'and you may have another; the property is vested in our hands for your benefit and that of your offspring, failing which it goes to Mr. Glentworth and his heirs. We can neither pay it to your husband nor you, but we have made the most of it for you. You will have a considerable sum to return with, and henceforward the interest will be regularly transmitted to Mr. Osmond, whose father must be the most positive old fool in creation, if he does not see that his son has been a very lucky fellow to get a fortune at all with such a woman as you.'
"'But my brother, pray tell me of him.'
"'He has taken my place at Marseilles; he is working hard, and will do well, for a better or a cleverer man it would be difficult to find.'
​ "'Has he ever heard of my existence? would he be glad to know me?'
"'I don't think he has, and it is better he should not, for he is likely to marry, and will then have relations of his own.'"
"Have you done with these papers, Isabella?" said Glentworth; "they are to me of the greatest importance:" and he took from her hands those sheets the reader has looked over, receiving them with a very different expression of countenance to that he lately wore.