# Lady Anne Granard/Chapter 12

CHAPTER XII.
At three o'clock there was no chance of Lady Anne being visible soon, and Mr. Glentworth drove up to the door in Welbeck Street. The girls, who were assembled in the parlour, marvelled to hear him ask for Lady Anne only, while Isabella trembled like a leaf; fortunately she was seated a little apart; she had not said a syllable to her sisters; her spirits were too much oppressed for confidence. Lady Anne was not down, and they could hear Mr. Glentworth pacing overhead with quick and irregular steps.
"Do you know, I think Mr. Glentworth," said Georgiana, "is going to make mamma an offer; this is their second tété-à-têté."
"You do not think any such thing," replied Helen. Lady Anne, at that moment, entered the drawing-room; she felt rather glad to see Mr. Glentworth; not being aware of his visit the day before, she had begun to fear that he really had taken it into his head to retire, and then who could foresee what he would do with his money?
"Our excellent friend Mr. Glentworth!" exclaimed she; "why, what a stranger you have been! you cannot think how the girls have missed you."
​ "Surely, Lady Anne," replied he, "you cannot have forgotten our last conversation.
"' Who speaks so well should never speak in vain.'
I have only obeyed your wishes."
"Oh!" cried her ladyship, "you quite mistook my meaning. I was only anxious that, as you declared you were not the lover of one of my girls, people, in general, should not consider you as such; you know the world has no sympathy with romantic friendships; it does not understand them."
"Perhaps," said Mr. Glentworth, "the world might not approve of a man of my age assuming the character of lover to one of your young and pretty daughters."
"Your age!" exclaimed Lady Anne; "what does a lover's age matter? who thinks of a person's age under such circumstances?"
"The young ladies themselves might," returned he.
"Young ladies thinking!" cried Lady Anne; "I have no notion of any such nonsense."
"To come to the point, however," said Mr. Glentworth, abruptly, "my business this morning is to ask, 'have I your permission to address one of the Misses Granard?'" Lady Anne was silent a moment from sheer delight; she had taken the right method after all; what a triumph over Lady Penrhyn! And so Mary—for she instantly decided that it was her—would be married at last! Her congratulations soon found words.
​ "My permission, indeed! you have my warmest approbation. I have not a single objection. Mary is a lucky girl."
"I am not," replied the gentleman, "speaking of Miss Granard."
Lady Anne felt secretly disappointed; however, any daughter was better than none. "Louisa, or Ellen you mean?"
"No," returned Mr. Glentworth.
"Not Georgiana?" interrupted Lady Anne—she could not give up the idea of a coronet for the beauty and the favourite.
"No, no!" exclaimed her listener, who felt that is was too ridiculous having the girls submitted one after another to his choice, "I allude to Isabella."
"Isabella!" ejaculated Lady Anne, in a tone of blank amazement. That her youngest and neglected daughter should be the object of preference had never once occurred to her; it was almost as good as Mary, if she had been the choice. "Isabella!" continued she, joyfully—"oh, yes, certainly! she will be only too happy. I will go and tell her this moment!"
"It is unnecessary," said Mr. Glentworth; "I have already obtained Isabella's consent."
Lady Anne thought that, he had given himself un-necessary trouble; however, he was too rich not to be indulged in a few peculiarities. The conversation now turned on business matters; and even Lady Anne was amazed at Mr. Glentworth's wealth and liberality. ​She had no idea that he was so rich, still less that he would be so generous.
"The girl has fetched a good price," said Lady Penrhyn, with a bitter sneer, in answer to Lady Anne's triumphant details of rent-rolls and settlements; "those old men always do choose such young girls."
"Old!" cried Lady Anne; "why, it was but the other day that you said he was too young to be the friend of my daughters!"
"A man is always too young for such sentimental friendships," replied the other. "Isabella is not yet seventeen. I will give her three years before she runs away!"
All was now gaiety and bustle in Welbeck Street. Mr. Glentworth was anxious to gratify even every caprice of his betrothed; and, if she had them not, he invented them for her. For the first time, Lady Anne felt almost fond of her daughter when she saw her jewel-box. There is certainly a great deal of delusion in marriage, as far as the lady is concerned: it is not only the lover of which she suddenly becomes possessed, but of white satin, white silk, white lace, "rings, bracelets, and carkanets," such as never crossed even the visions of her girlhood. One would think that her marriage was an individual advantage to all her friends, so much interest do they appear to take in the matter. It might seem that love and marriage were more especially confined in their interest to the happy two, and "two only;" no such thing, it is ​diffused through the whole circle of their acquaintance; and when the happy event has actually taken place, the bride and bridegroom are, as if they had not only never been seen before, but were especially worthy of being seen, so pressing, so numerous are the invitations heaped upon them.
After all, it says something for the kind-heartedness of human nature, this readiness to sympathize; whether they are or are not, the young couple are supposed to be happy: and it is an amiable feeling that prompts the many to rejoice with them. It is curious to observe that there are some delusions which are for ever renewed; experience shows, that ninety-nine marriages lead to great wretchedness on either side; and yet, people go on with congratulations as warm and as sincere as if there were common and constant cause for the said congratulations.
No one was more rejoiced at the prospect of Isabella's marriage than Mrs. Palmer; she saw all the advantages of the connexion, and she could not help having a secret feeling of self-congratulation that she had had some hand in bringing the matter about. Mr. Glentworth had called expressly to communicate his marriage. "I may," said he, "have done a foolish thing in marrying such a mere girl, but I do it with a firm belief, that it is her happiness I have chiefly consulted."
"Isabella is deeply attached to you," replied Mrs, Palmer; "and she is not only a pretty, but a very ​good girl, and naturally serious and thoughtful. You dwell too much on your age; a man at seven and thirty is in the prime of life."
"Still," returned he, "twenty years is a great difference; however, I have done for the best, and such I hope it will turn out."
Mrs. Palmer had no misgivings about the matter; still, she could not but observe that Isabella was not in her usual spirits; and, as the day approached, she grew more silent and more abstracted. Lady Anne thought of nothing beyond the new dresses, and the glittering "toys and trifles." Her sisters thought that silence was only part of being in love; and, though glad of what every one called "Isabella's good fortune," they were too sad, when they thought it involved their separation, to wonder that she should sometimes be sad like themselves. But Mrs. Palmer saw that there was more than the natural and sweet sorrow which a kind and affectionate temper feels at the prospect of parting with the companions of her girlhood; she had, to use the old lady's phrase, "evidently something on her mind." What that was, Mrs. Palmer learned two days before her marriage, when Isabella came, for the last time, to drink tea with her alone.
"You are wrong," said the agitated girl, who had dwelt on one subject till she could bear its bitterness no longer, and confidence became the greatest relief.—"you are quite wrong, in supposing that I am not ​attached to Mr. Glentworth." This idea had entered Mrs. Palmer's imagination; she thought that perhaps she had been mistaken in Isabella's feelings, and that she was, in mistaken disinterestedness, sacrificing her self to the good of her family. "I love him to a degree that I do not understand. It is wonderful that a stranger should be dearer to me than those whom I have loved and known for years—yet, dearer is he to me; I would forsake all, and follow him alone."
"Very natural, and very proper," replied Mrs. Palmer; "but what, then, is the matter with you?"
"I will tell you," answered Isabella, in a choked voice—"I love him! but he does not love me!"
Mrs. Palmer started. "What does he marry you for, then?"
"Kindness!—pity," replied she, "for the orphans of his friend!"
"Gentlemen do not often marry for such praise worthy reasons," replied Mrs. Palmer, who would certainly have laughed, if her young friend had looked less serious.
"If there ever was any body kind and good, it is yourself," exclaimed Isabella; "read this letter," giving Mr. Glentworth's, "and tell me whether I have not cause to be unhappy."
Mrs. Palmer drew the candle towards her, adjusted her spectacles, and began to read. Isabella thought she never would have finished; and when the letter was ended, the old lady deliberately began and read it over again. "A very kind, considerate letter," ​said she, folding it carefully, and returning it to the owner, "but I cannot find out what there is in it to make you unhappy."
"Do you not see," exclaimed Isabella, fancying that one portion of the epistle must have been omitted, "that he owns he has loved another?"
"My dear, little foolish girl," cried Mrs. Palmer, with an expression of the greatest relief, "is that all? I should never have thought that you would have been so silly—what else could you expect? Do you think that a handsome man like Mr. Glentworth, going about the world, too, all his life, should never have been in love till now! it would be ridiculous to suppose such a thing." Isabella gave a deep sigh. "Almost every boy fancies that he is in love—and every girl too, for the matter of that," continued Mrs. Palmer; "but it always ends in nothing—and very lucky for them it does."
"But," said Isabella, "Mr. Glentworth alludes to a serious, devoted attachment."
"But," replied Mrs. Palmer, "one hopeless, and therefore at an end." Poor Isabella did not feel as if an attachment must be at an end because hopeless. She said nothing, however, and Mrs. Palmer went on. "Now there is my husband and myself: he was not only married before, but it was a love-match; but it never came into my head to be jealous of the late Mrs. Palmer." This scarcely appeared a case in point to her youthful listener, who still remained silent, from not knowing very well what to say. "Listen to ​me, my dear little Isabella, and come and sit here," pointing to a seat beside the arm-chair, and passing her hand caressingly over the pretty head that now rested on her knee, "never make fanciful miseries for yourself. There is plenty of real sorrow, without your inventing any. Here have you been fretting, and making me more anxious than you suppose, and all for what?—because a man turned thirty has already had an attachment! I dare say he has had half a dozen." Isabella thought that she preferred half a dozen to the one; still, she could not help secretly feeling that the matter was beginning to appear of less paramount importance.
"I will tell you what, my very dear child," continued Mrs. Palmer, kindly and seriously, "there is neither judgment nor delicacy in questioning of these matters; let the past alone. You are about to marry a man worthy of any woman's affection; you will have a guide and a protector in the many difficulties of life; one to whom you may safely look up, and from whom you will meet all kindness and affection. Perhaps he fears that you may expect that exaggerated devotion suited to the romantic boy, but not to the rational and responsible husband. He tells you that your affection will constitute his happiness—let it be your study to make it such; and, a year hence, come and tell me how fond Mr. Glentworth is of his little Isabella."
Only those who have brooded over some sorrow ​connected with the affections—fanciful, perhaps, at first, but grown into painful reality by the imagination constantly dwelling upon it—can tell the relief which Isabella found in the mingled kindness and plain good sense of Mrs. Palmer. She blamed herself for morbid indulgence in what she now held was a vain and selfish regret, while she had not been sufficiently thankful for the actual blessings of her lot. Moreover, for the buoyant eye of youth always turns to the future, she looked forward to securing the attachment of her husband, by constant care for his happiness, her tender and anxious affection.
The day of the wedding came at last—a day of disappointment to Lady Anne, who found all her plans, of an elegant breakfast, a bishop to perform the ceremony, a special license, and a select party of friends—that is, those of her acquaintance whose names would look best in a paragraph; all this was "blighted in the bloom" by Mr. Glentworth's rigid determination that the marriage should be strictly private. Mrs. Palmer was the only guest whom he would allow to be invited; "and but for Lord Rotheles passing, by chance, through London, I verily believe," said Lady Anne, indignantly, "he would have asked Mr. Palmer to give you away."
While bills are being brought into the House of Commons to regulate every thing, from the sweeps crying "sweep," to "emancipation, vote by ballot, and free trade," is there no county member whose ​"time and talents" are devoted to "domestic policy," who will bring in a bill "for the better regulation of the marriage ceremony," and put the canonical hours later in the day? What justice, or, what is more to the point in the present day, what philanthropy is there in disturbing the natural rest of a whole household, because one of them is to be married? at all events, could there not be a special clause in favour of London? A spring morning there is the very reverse of Thomson's description; for "delicious mildness" read "a cutting east wind;" and for "veiled in roses" substitute "smoke and fog." The streets are given up to the necessities of life—to the milkman with his cans, the butcher with his tray, the baker with his basket; all belong to the material portion of existence. Now, marriage is (or ought to be) an affair of affections, sentiments, &c. The legislature ought to give it the full benefit of moonlight and wax-candles.
When they arrived at St. George's, Lady Anne looked better than her daughters; they had been up half the night, clinging with natural fondness to the sister about to leave her home for ever, and they had risen far earlier than was necessary; and, in their anxiety that she should look her best, had done their utmost, by over fatigue, to make the whole party look as ill as possible. Isabella was too much dressed; her slight figure was quite weighed down with satin and blonde. Mr. Glentworth had fallen into the common ​error of supposing that nothing could delight a young person so much as dress; while Lady Anne, enchanted to think that no restraint was laid upon the "milliners' bills," had launched into every possible extravagance, while Isabella thought it would be ungracious to reject aught that came to her as his gift.
Lord Rotheles gave the bride away with the most perfect propriety, assuming the interest that he did slightly feel, and wishing them, with an air equally cordial and sincere, that happiness which he thought they were taking the worst possible method of securing. The earl had been a very handsome man, but dissipation had assisted time, and he was now the wreck of his former self. Little did Mr. Glentworth dream of how much his own destiny had been connected with that of the Earl of Rotheles. His lordship regretted exceedingly that a particular and indispensable engagement on business precluded his accompanying them to Welbeck Street. The fact was, he dreaded a scene, and hated a family party. Mr. Glentworth hurried the leave-taking as much as he could, but not even her own conviction that she was most fortunate, most happy, could prevent a passionate burst of tears as the bride sank back in the elegant travelling-carriage.
"What a pity," exclaimed Lady Anne, as she cast a discontented look on her daughters, "that you should be so beautifully dressed, and no one to see you!" Her attention was, however, attracted to Mary, ​who, in the most ill-judged manner, fainted away in her new dress and bonnet. It was found to be a case beyond domestic remedies, and a physician was sent for. The patient was ordered to bed, and the medical man gave no hopes of rapid recovery. The fact was, Miss Granard was in that state of health which was unequal to the slightest exertion; patient and quiet, she never complained, till at last the excitement of her sister's marriage proved too much for her wasted and feeble frame. The physician soon began to hint at the necessity of change of scene, and Lady Anne to think how ill-fated she was to have a sickly daughter. "Why, it is only the other day," cried she, "that you had the scarlet fever."
"London never did agree with Mary," said Louisa, in an apologetic tone.
"Nonsense! London never disagrees with me," said her ladyship.
"But Mary has quite a different constitution," replied her sister; "she needs air and exercise."
"Air and exercise!" interrupted Lady Anne; "why did I not get you a key to the Portman Square Garden?"