# Lady Anne Granard/Chapter 10

CHAPTER X.
Nothing could exceed the satisfaction of the Misses Granard in such an acquisition as Mr. Glentworth proved to their circle. Pleasures they had hitherto only known by name, they now shared in common with the other young people. The exhibitions were a source of delight inexhaustible; and the drive in the open carriage, which had at first been offered to Mary as the invalid, had, without neglecting her, been gradually extended to all her sisters. Mrs. Palmer, to whom the girls had made a little fête of introducing their new acquaintance, was delighted with him. She felt, with the quick sympathy of a generous nature, that her young friends had gained a valuable and steady friend.
"Poor things! they needed it," said she one night to her husband, during the discussion of some scalloped oysters, over which their mutual confidences usually took place.
"Mr. Glentworth is rather young and handsome," replied Mr. Palmer, "to be the intimate friend of so many pretty girls. My daughter Charlotte said to me this very morning that she only hoped good might ​come of it. I wish he would make up his mind, and marry one of them."
"I wish he would," answered Mrs. Palmer; "it would be a blessing to all the sisters if one of them were well married. But the idea of marrying I do not think has ever entered his head. He does not appear to me to have a preference; he looks upon them as children, and if they were his own he could not be kinder to them."
"I have not," continued Mr. Palmer, "told you all Mrs. Gooch observed. 'I am sure,’ said she, 'that Isabella is in love with him; she blushes when ever his name is mentioned; and the other evening I saw she started whenever he spoke to her; and you know how ready she is to talk in general; she is shy and timid while speaking to him.' Now Charlotte said this, and there is not much that she lets pass her."
Mrs. Palmer remained silent: her first impulse was to exclaim, "What nonsense!" her next was to think that the remark had more truth for its foundation than she liked to acknowledge even to herself. She, too, remembered, now that her attention was drawn to the matter, divers very suspicious blushes and starts, and together with this came the even strengthened conviction of Mr. Glentworth's indifference. "Poor thine!" said she, unconsciously aloud, "she is a kind, good—."
"And pretty girl," interrupted her husband. "I ​would take an even bet on her chance of catching the nabob.'"
Mr. Glentworth had never quitted Europe, and his wealth was either good English landed property, or equally undeniable English consols; still he was a stranger, very rich, and suddenly come from abroad. Such a man was necessarily a nabob in Mr. Palmer's eyes. India had been the place for making large fortunes in his young days. Mrs. Palmer, though her wishes went along with his prediction, could not believe it, with a full, entire, and comfortable belief, so she took refuge in a general phrase, "Well, I shall hope for the best." Still her satisfaction in the Granards having acquired such a valuable friend was greatly qualified, it would be dearly purchased if the price of happiness.
There was, also, another person who was any thing but content at the way in which things were going on, and that was Lady Anne Granard. Days, weeks, had glided by since the memorable dinner party, and Mr. Glentworth had not only not made any of her daughters an offer, but seemed to have no intention of ever making one. True, he added largely to the enjoyments of the girls; but that was a point on which she was perfectly indifferent. True, he was in the habit of making them magnificent presents, but the shapes which they took were very unacceptable to her ladyship—books, music, drawings, were trash in her eyes; a new dress, or a pretty ​ornament would have appeared to her the more rational exercise of his liberality. Had he been older, she might have calculated on his death and its attendant legacies; that was, however, out of the question: she could not look forward to the death of one some years younger than herself. From thinking him useless, Lady Anne soon began to consider him detrimental; his constant attendance kept off others.
On this point her penetration was assisted by a sneer or two of Lady Penrhyn's, who, struck with Mr. Glentworth's appearance, had accepted the invitation to join a family party to Richmond, only to find attention devoted to those Granard girls, as she called them. Like all married women, who make flirtation the sole business of life, she had a natural antipathy to the young, pretty, and unmarried. While she affected to despise the simplicity and want of finish in the perhaps blushing and embarrassed girl, she was, in reality, the rival that she most dreaded. A deep and sincere attachment was the first thing that taught a man to set a just value on the flutter of gratified vanity, in which her power consisted. Besides, she envied her the bloom and freshness, which she had lost for ever—the bloom and freshness of the heart, even more than the cheek. Intimate as she was with Lady Anne, she would not but see how little the Misses Granard had of the ordinary pleasures of their age—but it never entered into her head to add to them—had one of their sweet ​faces been seen in her box at the opera, it might have attracted that attention she was feverishly covetous of engrossing.
Time and prosperity had hardened Lady Penrhyn's into an intensely selfish nature—it had never been softened by affection, or purified by sorrow—her course of worldly prosperity had been unbroken, and she had neither the experience of suffering, nor the native sympathy of a kindly temper, which makes us enter into the feelings of others. She spoke of misfortunes as if they had been faults; and poverty, sickness, or disappointment, appeared to her quite inexcusable. She could not endure that five uninformed girls should engross so handsome and so distinguished looking a man as Mr. Glentworth, though she had quite penetration enough to perceive that his kindness was that of a parent, and equally extended to all. Still, it was not to be borne, and she well knew from what quiver to select her arrow.
"Pray," said she, during her next morning visit in Welbeck Street, "when, and on which of your daughter's marriage with Mr. Glentworth, am I to congratulate you? What a fortunate connexion!"
Lady Anne, with whom long knowledge of the world often supplied the place of sense, was too guarded to admit her disappointment, and calmly replied, "Mr. Glentworth is only a very old friend of the family."
"Not so very old," said Lady Penrhyn, with a ​malicious smile; "I should rather say much too young to be trusted with so many girls—you will have them all in love with him."
"I trust," answered Lady Anne, with a quiet air of security, "that my girls have been too well brought up to think of such nonsense as falling in love."
"At all events," said her companion, and this time she sent the shaft to the mark, "they will have the credit of being so, and consider how very much such a report will be in the way of their settling. A dangler like Mr. Glentworth, who means nothing, keeps off those who would be more desirable."
Her ladyship soon afterwards took her leave, but not with her departed the doubts and fears she had left in Lady Anne's mind, and who should meet Lady Penrhyn on the stairs, but Mr. Glentworth. "Not for the world," exclaimed she, declining his offered escort to the carriage; "I will not keep you one moment from your nest of sucking doves. To which of them do you mean at last to throw the handkerchief?" and, humming the air of "Colin sait-il choiser," she left him without time to reply.
On entering the drawing-room, he found Lady Anne alone. Never very cordial in her manner, to-day it was even frozen. He inquired after the young ladies, and received the information that they were walking. Conversation here stopped from indifference on the part of Mr. Glentworth, and ​preoccupation on that of Lady Anne, who was secretly planning a very desperate measure—nothing less than that of hinting to the old friend of the family that his visits ought in future to be "like those of angels, few and far between." This was more easily resolved than effected, not that Lady Anne had any tender misgivings, prompted by the recollection of much kindness, but Mr. Glentworth was too rich to be affronted lightly—an offer was not hopeless—and presents floated in the foreground, while legacies dimly filled the perspective in the distance. Moreover, she was afraid of him: the strong mind and the decided temper exercised their usual control over the weak and the irritable. A mother with a touch of sentiment might have talked with great effect of young and susceptible feelings, and have wound up with maternal anxiety for the happiness of her daughters. This was a view of the case that never occurred to Lady Anne—the heart was with her wholly, hors de combat—she only looked to the establishment, and the more she considered the matter, the more grave she considered the danger the said establishments were incurring.
Making a strong effort, she said at last, "Mr. Glentworth, I have for some time been wishing to speak to you." Of course her companion became at once attentive, and she, gaining courage at the sound of her own voice, went on. "You must be aware of what great importance it is to me to see my girls settled in life. Mr. Granard's imprudence——."
​ Mr. Glentworth felt inclined to interrupt her with "your ladyship's, do you not mean?" but he refrained, and she proceeded.
"Mr. Granard's imprudence having left his children completely unprovided for, their marriage is of the utmost consequence. Will you pardon me for observing that your acquaintance, otherwise so fortunate, and so agreeable, will, I fear, be an obstacle to my natural expectations on that point."
Mr. Glentworth looked what he was, amazed, and Lady Anne went on.
"You are not a marrying man," this was said with some still lurking hope that it might bring from him a declaration completely the reverse of her own, but it was heard in acquiescing silence. "Now every body," continued Lady Anne, "is not aware of this fact, and your being so constantly seen with my girls leads to the supposition that you must be attracted by one or other of them. I am constantly being asked which of the Misses Granard is to be Mrs. Glentworth?"
"Gossiping nonsense," exclaimed the gentleman; "why can you not at once say that I am one of their father's oldest friends, and that I am anxious to show his children some portion of the kindness which he showed me."
"People are not easily," replied Lady Anne, "persuaded to believe what is improbable."
​ "Improbable!" exclaimed Mr. Glentworth; "what is there improbable in affection and gratitude?"
"I really," returned the other with a sneer, "cannot agree about probabilities or improbabilities, but I know what the generality will think when they see a gentleman constantly with five very pretty girls, and I also know what they will say."
"It is amazing to me," said Mr. Glentworth, "that your acquaintances should give themselves so much trouble to settle those affairs in which they precisely have the least concern."
"Suppose, as you have nothing better to do," cried Lady Anne, who was getting angry that the conversation held out no prospect of what she would have considered a satisfactory termination, "you set about reforming society altogether; but, till you succeed, you excuse me for not setting its opinions at defiance; and, I must say, that as you do not mean to marry one of the girls yourself, it is very hard that you should stand in the way of those who might."
"I am, therefore," said Mr. Glentworth, rising from his seat, "to consider it your wish that our acquaintance should terminate?"
"By no means," exclaimed Lady Anne, who began to be a little alarmed at what she had done, and who saw presents and legacies in the act of disappearing for ever. "I am sure that we have all the most sincere regard for you, and are delighted to see you; but we must have some little regard for the opinions of the world."
​ "And, in compliance," said Mr. Glentworth, "with that opinion, you wish to decline my acquaintance?"
"No such thing, my dear sir," replied her ladyship, in the blandest of tones: "I only refer to your own excellent judgment as to the propriety of making your attentions in public less marked, and your visits less frequent."
"Good morning, Lady Anne," said Mr. Glentworth, as he turned to the door; "do, pray, tell the world that I am too insignificant a person for its notice; and, above all, do assure yourself that I shall try as much as possible to avoid its notice." Lady Anne rose up with a host of pretensions on her lips, but Mr. Glentworth was gone. "Les ondits sont le gazette des foux" thought he, as he descended the staircase. The saying is true enough; still, it admits of a question whether such a gazette can be altogether disregarded, for "les foux" have, at all events, the majority on their side.
The sight of Mrs. Palmer at her window induced Mr. Glentworth to try if a visit to the kind-hearted old lady would not be a safety-valve for his present mood of irritation; besides, it would be pleasant to have some one agree with him in cordial dislike to Lady Anne's system of small yet selfish manœuvres. Nothing could be more old-fashioned, yet nothing could seem more cheerful than Mrs. Palmer's drawing-room. The furniture was the same when she married, and belonged to the spider-school. The legs ​of the tables were so thin, it was a marvel how they supported them; the chairs were high-backed and upright, and as hard as stuffing could make them; the sofas were ditto; while the tables, supported by the spiral legs, were of shapes wholly vanished from the modern upholsterer. There was a card, a sofa, and one oval-shaped table, with a drawer, and leaves that let up and down; all bearing that high polish, which made it the boast of the old-fashioned school that you could make the mahogany serve as a mirror. It would have made half a human existence, the hours of rubbing bestowed by footmen and housemaid on those shining surfaces.
The salmon-coloured walls were covered with divers specimens of feminine ingenuity—samplers, whose subjects it was a puzzle to guess; but the "Fanny," "Mary" and "Elizabeths" worked at the bottom, were distinct enough. I never was more struck with the disrepute into which these laborious trifles had fallen, than by one day finding an old and valued friend unpicking the one, on which the temple of Solomon had been worked in many colours, for a knife-cloth. It was a farewell to the last graceful vanity of youth. Beside these samplers hung divers fruit-pieces worked in worsted and flower pieces worked in floss-silk; also two or three drawings. All these had belonged to Claver House; they had been worked by the young ladies, and many a bright young face did they recall. There was also a round mirror, with ​candles and glass-drops on either side, and a chained bird trying to fly away on the top—no marvel, then, he attempted to fly from the image reflected in the glass, which gave you your face with the same likeness as does a silver spoon. Our grandfathers certainly hung these said mirrors as correctives, not incentives, to vanity. There were also two paintings in oil, half-length likenesses of Mr. and Mrs. Palmer: both were seated, he with part of a table on his side, on which stood a decanter, a liquor-stand, and half a dish of oranges; while his lady had a similar table, but decorated with the exact likeness of her best set of china tea-things. This was a perpetual grievance to Mrs. Gooch, and, indeed, to the other daughters: if, as they observed, papa had had a book in his hand, and mamma had a basket of flowers, there could have been no objection. But Mr. Palmer had always been accustomed to his own way; and he would have it in this instance. He chose that these pictures should represent his wife and himself, at what was their time of greatest enjoyment.
The only representatives of to-day, were two large and comfortable arm-chairs, and a few elegant-looking trifles, the work of the Misses Granard. Still there was a cheerful appearance; a capital fire burnt in the bright grate; there were some stands of thriving plants in the windows; and some canaries and Java sparrows chirped as if they were quite content to be "hereditary bondsmen."
​ Mrs. Palmer was seated knitting—that comfortable sort of work, which requires so little attention, and so little eyesight. Nothing could be more placid or more benevolent than her countenance—she was a very pretty old woman—and the close, white lace-cap, the dark silk gown, and the mittens, a style of costume she had worn for the last twenty years, seemed as if it had been invented expressly for her. She received Mr. Glentworth with even more than her usual kindness. There is nothing of which women are so susceptible as attention; it is but a slight tribute, yet it is one paramount to secure the heart's allegiance. Now Mrs. Palmer felt that Mr. Glentworth's call was an attention—and such they had hitherto been; but, to-day, it must be confessed, that he called more with reference to himself. Their conversation soon turned, as it always did, on "those dear girls." All the feminine romance—all the warm affection that Mrs. Palmer possessed, turned to her interesting neighbours. Her own daughters-in-law (she never used, nor even thought of, the epithet "in-law") were so comfortably married, lived so exactly from one year's end to another the same sort of life; it was impossible to feel any anxiety about them. But the loveliness, the refinement, and the uncertain position of the young Granards interested at once her fears and her hopes, and both she and Mr Glentworth felt that they had one point in common when they talked over their youthful friends. It was not long before the ​gentleman gave a full account of his interview with Lady Anne; but it struck him that, while Mrs. Palmer quite agreed with him respecting the heartless selfishness which dictated such a view of the question, the view itself did not seem to her as so exceedingly absurd; she hesitated, and seemed embarrassed, instead of giving the cordial assent to his finishing question of "Now, did you ever hear of any thing more ridiculous, than the supposition of a love affair between myself and those children?"
"You cannot call them children," said Mrs. Palmer, at last.
"They are such to me," returned Mr. Glentworth.
"You may think so," replied the old lady.
"And what on earth business," exclaimed he, "is it to any one else? I am rich, and independent, and have not a tie or relative in the world. Who can object to my considering the family of my oldest friend as my own?"
"I am not thinking," said Mrs. Palmer, "of people in general; I am thinking of the girls themselves."
"Then you will agree with me," interrupted Mr. Glentworth, "in seeing the advantages that are derived from having a friend like myself. I procure for them many pleasures, from which they have hitherto been excluded. I induce them, by a judicious choice of books, to turn their attention to subjects hitherto neglected, for their education has been worthless."
​ "Not quite," said Mrs. Palmer; "they have had the education of privation, self-denial, and of doing the best under the circumstances in which they have been placed."
"Well, certainly," replied their friend, "the result has been most fortunate, for I never met such very sweet girls. But they are now arrived at an age when the character of themselves and their future is in the balance. What chance has it in the hands of the weak, the selfish, and the worldly Lady Anne? now their happiness is safe in mine."
"Are you quite sure of that?" asked Mrs. Palmer.
"Quite sure, it would indeed be presumption to say," answered he; "but I have it in my power to smoothe many worldly difficulties, and I could not be more anxious about their happiness, were I really their father."
"I believe you," said Mrs. Palmer, earnestly.
"A little ridiculous gossip, of which," continued he, "a little time must show the fallacy, ought not to be weighed against the advantages of my sincere and disinterested affection. I will be their true friend and guide."
"You are too young and too handsome for any such office," interrupted Mrs. Palmer, who had for some time been nerving herself to the expression of her opinion; "and now, Mr. Glentworth, will you allow an old woman to offer you her judgment; mistaken it may be, but it is offered in all sincerity, and from great affection."
​ "I know no one," replied her companion, "whose opinion I should be more ready to take than your own."
"Has the danger," said Mrs. Palmer, "never recurred to you, that your kindness might be requited too tenderly; in short, for I must speak plainly, that one or other of the girls would be sure to fall in love with you?" Mr. Glentworth could safely protest that such an idea had never crossed his mind. "What else could you expect?" returned the old lady.
"You do not mean to say that such is the case?" exclaimed he, looking aghast at the supposition.
"I will say as little as I can upon the subject," replied Mrs. Palmer, "but I again repeat that you are too young and too good-looking to be friend and guide to such very lovely girls."
"I thank you for your kindness," said Mr. Glentworth, taking the old lady's hand to bid her good-by. "You may be right, and we will talk the subject over again; but now I am unfit for more conversation."
He wandered through the streets, anxious, confused, and equally discontented with himself and his morning's conversation. He was roused from his reverie by a sweet voice exclaiming—
"No, Mr. Glentworth, you shall not run over us;" he looked up and saw the two youngest Misses Granard—it was Georgiana who spoke, but he could not help seeing that Isabella's face was kindling with delight, though she addressed him more shyly than her sister. The day before he would have walked with ​them to their own door; to-day he past on hurriedly, saying something about pressing business. He glanced round, after he had passed, with a mingled feeling of regret and affection; but Isabella was looking back with an expression of sorrow and anxiety—a painful contrast to the radiant smile which had so recently lighted up her face—she caught his eye, and rapidly turned her head, but he saw that she blushed the deepest crimson.