# Lady Anne Granard/Chapter 9

CHAPTER IX.
Louisa Granard was seated in her own room, writing what the size of the paper implied was a small note—not so, if it was to be judged by the length of time which the note took writing. Yet the employment seemed a pleasant one; her cheek was flushed with a clear, rich crimson—her face
"Was like any fair lake that the morning is on,
When it breaks into dimples, and laughs in the sun."
And if, ever and anon, the brow was clouded by a shade of pensiveness, it was quickly dispelled by the consciousness of present happiness. A letter was open beside her, to whose contents it seemed necessary often to refer; but, when once taken up to read, it was not easily laid down again; and the fair student seemed to dwell on every word, and find out a new meaning each time. The fact was, Louisa Granard was answering a love-letter. Few there are whose hearts have not beat with delicious quickness at sight of a handwriting dearer than aught else in the world besides.
The first love-letter is an epoch in love's happy season—it makes assurance doubly sure—that which has hitherto, perhaps, only found utterance in sweet and ​hurried words, now seems to take a more tangible existence. A love-letter is a proof of how dearly, even in absence, you are remembered. I once heard a young friend regret her approaching marriage, because she would then receive no more charming notes. Alas! the charming notes are not the only charming things that are no more. But a love-letter!—how much of life's most perfect happiness do those two words contain! With what anxiety it is expected!—with what delight it is received!—it seems almost too great a pleasure to open it. Suddenly we mock ourselves for the charmed delay—the seal is hastily broken—the contents eagerly devoured; then it is read slowly, dwelling on every sentence to lengthen out its enjoyment; how sweet does every little word of endearment appear!—what importance is attached to the choice of an epithet, to the turn of a phrase! Through the whole day, with what a conscious thrill its possession is recalled!—with what care it is read over at night, till its contents mingle with our dreams! I often wonder, when I see people settled down in that cold calmness, too often the atmosphere around the domestic hearth, whether they ever recall the words they used to say, and the letters they used to write! Would those letters appear absurd and exaggerated, or would they for a moment bring back the old feeling, or, at all events, a tender regret for its departure?
Louisa was, however, at the first and happiest time; her engagement was of that most harassing kind, where, ​too poor to marry, lovers are obliged to trust the future with all those hopes which the present denies; still, the consciousness of loving and being beloved was satisfaction enough. They were young enough both to wait, and to look forward with all the confidence in fate and each other that youth, and youth only, can feel. Oh! it takes many disappointments, both in faith and fortune, before the human heart, naturally so buoyant and so confiding, learns to despond and to distrust. Charles Penrhyn, for he was the object of Louisa's preference, had expectations—that term, so vague when those expectations depend upon others. When Lord, then Mr. Penrhyn, married a distant relative of his own, pretty and portionless, he expressly protested against any hopes that her family might form. Still, when one dying off after another left only the youngest an orphan, it became a needful sacrifice to public opinion to do something for a relative who people in general would consider as having a claim upon him. A situation was therefore found for Charles in the Foreign Office—immediate provision was thus secured, and there was some talk of pushing him forward in the diplomatic line. But Lord Penrhyn, being able to talk of what he had done for his brother-in-law, was in no hurry to do more; besides, he soon found that Charles was exceedingly useful in looking over his accounts, letters, &c.—he was a private secretary in all but the salary—while the young man was delighted at the opportunity of proving his gratitude; ​besides, there is a moral pride about useful occupation. But there is sometimes a danger in being too useful; and Charles Penrhyn had found that his very services precluded their reward; he was too valuable to Lord Penrhyn to be spared to a wider and more profitable sphere of action. Still he hoped that in time his services would give him a claim; and, till he met Louisa Granard, he was careless when the time might actually come.
But a serious and earnest attachment brought with it serious and earnest thoughts. He began to picture to himself a very different life to that which he had hitherto led—a life of active duties, whose reward had reference to another. The novelty of society was over, and, with it, much of its attraction; and he thought that, instead of perpetual operas, concerts, and balls, many pleasant evenings might be passed in a quiet home, with one rational and affectionate companion. On his present income it would be insanity to marry; but, let him once obtain a moderate independence, with the prospect of increase, and he knew that both Louisa and himself would be content to make many sacrifices, or what would be called such, in their circle. He felt that he had a right to claim further assistance from Lord Penrhyn; and his letter to Louisa announced his intention of doing so that very day. Louisa read and re-read the precious pages, and had just finished a few lines, or rather what had originally been intended to be a few lines, of encouragement and affection. These ​few lines, however, had extended to the second sheet of paper. Oh! if it be delightful to receive a letter, it is as delightful to answer it. At first there is the timidity which trembles to express what yet it is so sweet to acknowledge—gradually the words fall, for the. heart is too full for silence, and it is easier to write than to speak; one gentle assurance strengthens the other, and the close of the letter is always more tender than the beginning.
Louisa had just sealed her note, and was indulging herself in a last glance at that of her lover's, when a light tap was heard at the door. To hide the letter, blush deeply, and say "come in," were the work of a moment; but the rosy colour was yet warm when Isabella entered. "Do not mind me," said Isabella, smiling. "I shall not tell any body that you are writing to Charles Penrhyn."
Louisa stood, the image of confusion, and it was some minutes before she recovered breath to say—"However did you find out my secret?"
"Not so difficult as you may imagine, my dear sister," replied the other; "it is my nature to observe. If I had not seen the note Charles Penrhyn placed for you the other morning, mamma would have had it instead of yourself."
"I fear I am very wrong," whispered Louisa.
"I do not think so," replied Isabella. "If we were treated with only half the kindness that Mrs. Palmer shows to her husband's children, such an ​affection would be to me a sacred bond against even an approach to deception. Ah! Louisa, dear, I often think how happy, how very happy, must those children be who possess the confidence and love of their parents! I feel as if there were no hardships that would not be light under such circumstances—how much happier we are for loving each other! But you know as well as I do, that what I am saying would appear nonsense to mamma. She looks upon us as so much merchandise, to be disposed of to the best bidder. Marriage is with her only a certain position in society. She never thinks whether it would make us happier or better. I certainly wish that you had become attached to some one in more independent circumstances than Mr. Penrhyn; but I do believe that sincere affection will sweeten every difficulty."
"Lord Penrhyn can and ought to do something for his brother-in-law," said Louisa, "and Charles is to speak to him this very evening."
"I am glad of it," replied Isabella; "whenever any thing disagreeable has to be done, the sooner it is done the better. Difficulties are always exaggerated by dwelling upon them."
The two sisters now entered into a long and confidential conversation, most delightful to Louisa, who had a natural and girlish pleasure in dwelling upon the merits of her lover, which seemed more than confirmed by Isabella's approval. The restraint she had imposed upon the expression of her feelings was doubly painful to one of her timid and candid temper.
​ "You cannot think what a punishment it has been for my fault," said she; "the reserve I have thought myself obliged to maintain—how many of your kind words have seemed to me so many reproaches. I was keeping a secret from those who kept none from me. But I was acting without mamma's sanction, and did not like to implicate my sisters."
"You were right," replied Isabella, "and I should not have surprised your confidence, had I not had something I wished to say. I know what you mean to do with Mr. Glentworth's gift—a marriage would scarcely be one without wedding-dresses—he has been equally generous to me, and you must keep the money till it is wanted, which, I hope, will be soon." So saying, affectionately kissing her, she vanished, without giving Louisa time for either objections or thanks.
Every age has its characteristic, and our present one is not behind its predecessors in that respect; it is the age of systems, every system enforced by a treatise. The politician who opposes the corn-laws and advocates free trade, does so on a system, which, as soon as it begins to work, will set the civilized world to rights. The phrenologist, who regulates heart and mind by undulations of the skull, has another system. The professor of animal magnetism, who throws housemaids into a deep sleep, when they talk Latin without knowing it, has a third. While Mrs. Geary, who makes stays the realization of the ancient girdle of the Graces, does so on a "system which has the approval of the ​highest medical authorities." One system, however, still requires its organization and its treatise;—we allude to the sublime, yet delicate, the universal, yet domestic science of managing a husband. The science has its practice, but it lacks its theory. Theory follows the practice which it improves. Aristotle found his examples of poetry in Homer and Eschylus; and Ude's dishes had made the felicity of dinners, before either reduced their divine art to received and written rules. Conjugal government requires its treatises. A young woman setting out in life lacks a printed guide. Her cookery-book, however, may afford some useful hints till one be actually directed to the important subject just mentioned. Many well-known receipts are equally available for a batterie de cuisine or du cœur. Your roasted husband is subdued by the fire of fierce words and fiercer looks—your broiled husband, under the pepper and salt of taunt and innuendo—your stewed husband, under the constant application of petty vexations—your boiled husband dissolves under the watery influences—while your confectionized husband goes through a course of the blanc mange of flattery, or the preserves and sweets of caresses and smiles.
"So you are quite decided on not purchasing those lovely inlaid tables?" said Lady Penrhyn, as she stepped into her carriage, accompanied by her husband.
"Quite," replied Lord Penrhyn; "our drawing-rooms are already so crowded that it is much as one's neck is worth to walk across them."
​ Lady Penrhyn made no reply, and soon afterwards asked "What o'clock is it?" in the most indifferent tone of voice in the world.
"We shall get home in time to dress for dinner," was her husband's not very direct reply, though it indicated the tone of his thoughts. Lord Penrhyn never could bear to wait for his dinner. It was ready to be served the instant of their arrival; yet, rapid as were the proceedings of the well-trained cook and butler, Lady Penrhyn was equally rapid with her toilette; neither soup nor fish grew cool from her delay. It was really quite pleasant to see a wife so attentive to her husband as was Lady Penrhyn, during the progress of the repast.
"I cannot allow you to try yonder temptation," said she, removing, with a pretty assumption of authority, a dish which she knew he disliked; "but I must recommend these fillets to your left—they are perfect."
Little conversation took place during dinner—the process was too important to be interrupted by frivolous discourse—but, as the dessert came in, her ladyship began to narrate, and very amusingly, one or two anecdotes of the day. Gradually, as his lordship approached the pleasant repose of his third glass of port, her voice ceased; he looked up to discover the cause of her unusual silence, and found that his wife's face was buried in the depths of a cambric pocket-handkerchief. She was crying. Lord Penrhyn had the ​character to support of an excellent husband; it was unpleasant to be disturbed in the first approaches of that sleep so conducive to digestion; but he could not see his wife in tears, without an inquiry as to their cause. She abandoned to him her passive hand, but it was some time before her grief found words.
"Ah! Penrhyn," at last she exclaimed, in the sweetest of reproachful whispers, "what have I done to lose your love?" Her most innocent feeling stood aghast. "I remember the time," continued the weeping lady, "when the least wish of mine was sufficient."
"I am sure," exclaimed her bewildered auditor, "I do every thing I can to please you."
"Yet," resumed his wife, "how harshly you refused me those tables to-day!"
"Is that all?" said Lord Penrhyn.
"All!" said her ladyship, her grief taking a slight tone of resentment; "is it not enough for me to find that you no longer care for any wish of mine?"
"My dearest Julia," exclaimed the relieved husband, "you shall have the tables."
"I do not care for them; I would not have them now," cried Lady Penrhyn; "it is only your affection I care for. Do not suppose, for a moment, that I wish for the tables when you do not: oh, no! my only concern was for your indifference. But I am content if you tell me I was mistaken."
"Mistaken indeed, my dear love," returned his lordship, "if you thought me indifferent. You shall have the tables to-morrow."
​ "No, no," cried she, "I was very foolish; all I cared about in the matter was your feeling towards myself." A kiss of reconciliation settled the matter, and Lord Penrhyn again composed himself in his most composing arm-chair.
"What an expensive thing marriage is!" was his latest reflection—Nota Bene. The tables were sent in next morning; at first objected to, but afterwards submitted to remain in compliance with, and as a mark of submission to, her husband's will.
It was fated, however, that Lord Penrhyn was to court "Tired nature's (and temper's), sweet restorer, balmy sleep," in vain that night; for before he relaxed himself into repose from his contemplation of the expence that marriage had brought on his devoted head and purse, a loud rap came to the door, and Charles Penrhyn entered into the dinner-room. He had some business about which he wished to speak to his young relative, and on that account he roused himself up; business which, with an Englishman, is predominant over even rest and digestion.
"And now," said Charles, the discussion being at an end, "will you let me speak a little on my own business?"
"Your business!" exclaimed Lord Penrhyn; "what possible business can you have?"
"Why, not much at present," returned the other; "and that is the very cause of my speaking. I wish to have more. The fact is, I want something to do. ​I feel every day, more and more, that I am wasting my time, and whatever ability I may chance to possess."
"Do you find the last mentioned commodity get much in your way?" asked Lord Penrhyn, with a civil sneer.
The young man swallowed down his annoyance, and continued, "I am now eight-and-twenty, and it seems to me time that I should think a little of the future; what chance have I otherwise of looking forward to a home, or to independence?"
"A home!" interrupted his hearer; "why this house is as good as a home to you; you are always sure of a dinner here."
"A dinner, sir," persisted Charles, "does not, in my idea, quite constitute a home."
"And, pray, what does constitute your idea of a home?"
"Its duties and its ties," replied the other; "a fireside made cheerful by affection."
"By these neatly-turned phrases," exclaimed his lordship, "I conclude that your idea of a home includes that of a wife."
"It certainly does," replied his young relative.
"Charles," said Lord Penrhyn, solemnly, "I have, on more than one occasion, had reason to think you a sensible young man; either I was mistaken, or you are suddenly gone mad."
"Did you think yourself mad?" asked Mr. Penrhyn, "when you married my sister?" His lordship looked as if half tempted to confess that he held such ​to have been the case; apparently, he considered that such an avowal would be misplaced to his dear Julia's brother; and he contented himself with observing, "I was in very different circumstances. I could afford the expense of a wife, and the expense is enormous. Why Julia's diamond necklace alone, that she wore at the last drawing-room, cost two thousand guineas."
"I should marry a woman," replied Julia's brother, "who would be satisfied without any diamonds at all."
"And where," asked his lordship, "do you expect to find such a phœnix? Have you found some piece of rural simplicity, whom you have persuaded that nothing is so becoming as a few wild flowers placed carelessly in the hair? Both she and you will soon find out the difference. Believe me, all women are alike."
"I cannot agree with you," eagerly interrupted the lover."
"I did not expect you to agree with me; no single man ever agrees with a married man on such a subject. Hope and experience take two different sides of an argument. Marriage is the greatest act of folly that a man can commit; he ought at least to put it off as long as possible."
"Delays are dangerous," said Charles; "I may perhaps never get married at all."
"And no harm if you never do," replied his brother-in-law; "greater misfortunes may befall you than that. No, no! I set myself against this sudden whim ​of marrying. What is a wife but a pretended stumbling-block in the man's path, who has his way to make in the world?"
"I should rather say," exclaimed Charles, "a wife would be a perpetual stimulus to exertion and to perseverance."
"The expences of married life," said Lord Penrhyn, rather thinking his own thoughts aloud than answering, "are awful. I have often thought that women were superfluities in creation. There is, of course," added he, suddenly recollecting himself, "an exception in favour of your dear sister."
Charles knew his brother-in-law well enough to see that any attempt to enlist Lord Penrhyn's kindness on his side was in vain; he therefore decided to try another plan, and the most direct appeared also the best. "Your opinion of the ill consequences of matrimony," said he, "have put out of my head what I called this evening about. Leaving my future wife till I find her, let me think of my actually existing self. I hear that the place of secretary of legation will soon be vacant at the court of——; will you use your interest to get me appointed?"
"I heard of this before," said his lordship, every feature growing more harsh than usual with denial, "but Sir Charles Neville is trying to procure it for his third son."
"Why," exclaimed Penrhyn, "he is utterly unfit for such a situation; Robert is but one remove from a fool."
​ "I do not mean to say that he will obtain it, but I cannot use any influence to counteract Sir Charles's interest; for he is in the committee of our railroad bill, now passing the house; and were I to oppose him, he would inevitably vote against me." To this equitable arrangement Charles could give no answer, and with a heavy heart he followed his companion to the drawing-room: apparently, however, Lord Penrhyn could not satisfactorily dismiss the subject from his mind, for while stirring his second cup of coffee he said,
"Do you know, Julia, that Charles has taken some wild-goose fancy into his head about marrying?"
"Why, what heiress have you picked up?" asked his sister. "I am sure that I am very glad of it, though I cannot form a guess who it is. I never knew a season so unprofitable in that respect as the present."
"An heiress, Charles!" cried Lord Penrhyn; "that alters my view of the whole matter; why could you not tell me?"
"I could not," replied Charles, "tell you what did not exist. I only spoke of the matter generally," added he, very little desirous that his sister should form a guess of how matters stood; it would inevitably lead to his losing his chief opportunity of improving his situation.
"A great heiress is certainly a temptation," continued his sister.
"I tell you, there is no heiress in the case," ​interrupted Charles. "I only said to Lord Penrhyn, that at my age a man begins to think of his future, and of settling in life."
"Settling in folly!" cried Lady Penrhyn. "I hate to hear young men talk of marrying; they are lost to all intents and purposes. Half the pleasant houses open to you while single, would be shut when you are double. Who do you think would care to waltz or to sing with you if you were once married?"
"I am glad to find, my dear," said Lord Penrhyn, "how completely we always agree." Charles saw the fruitlessness of saying more on the subject. From his sister he could hope for no sympathy, and from her husband no help."
"So," muttered he, bitterly, as he sought his lodgings, "I must not think of affection and independence, because my sister holds that no one would care to flirt with me if I were married, and because my brother-in-law will not risk losing a vote on a question which only involves a few hundreds that he would not miss if he threw them to-morrow into the fire. I wish that I had only a small portion of his wealth. I think, I hope, that I should make a better use of it." So we all think till the time comes, and then, whether wealth bring the curse of selfishness along with it, or that the leaven was in our nature, only dormant till called forth by circumstances, we are only too apt to misuse it, even as others have done before us.