# Lady Anne Granard/Chapter 11

CHAPTER XI.
Mr. Glentworth passed a very disagreeable fortnight before he called in Welbeck Street. Though, as both Lady Anne and Mrs. Palmer would impress upon his mind, he was "young and good-looking," he was past the age when the gay spirits find amusement in any thing. He missed the cheerful and yet rational evenings in Welbeck Street, when his mind felt its own powers, while striving to call forth those of others. He found the theatre dull, now he could no longer see the amusement which it gave reflected in the young faces by which he had lately been surrounded. He missed, too, more than all, the feeling that he was adding to the happiness of others. He caught himself wishing, a dozen times a day, that the Misses Granard had really been his daughters, or, at all events, his sisters. At length, he thought a sufficient lapse of time had gone by to make his visit suit even Lady Anne's idea of les bienséances; and, as to Mrs. Palmer's suggestion, it must be owned he thought of it as little as he could; and, when he did, it was to think that the best course was to mark, by his kindness to each, that there was no individual preference.
​ "Lady Anne is at home, but the young ladies are out, walking," was the answer of the page; but, in the drawing-room, he found Isabella alone. Languid and dispirited, she had declined accompanying her sisters, and was employed in copying a drawing. It was a sketch of Mr. Glentworth's, and he had been describing the scene, the last evening that he spent in Welbeck Street. He caught sight of her face—it was unusually pale, and there was a glitter on the long, dark lash, and a dimness in the eye, as if tears had been recently shed. Not such was the countenance that turned and met his own. The dark eyes filled with light, a rich colour mantled the cheek, and smiles surrounded the lip, whose welcome was at first inaudible.
"How we have missed you!" exclaimed she. "Do you know that we have left the book you were reading to us in the middle—we could not bear to go on in your absence." She did not add that this was her own suggestion.
"I have been much engaged," replied Mr. Glentworth.
"I hope your engagements are over now," said she; "we have grown so accustomed to you, that we can not get on without you."
"I fear," said he, hesitatingly, "I shall soon be obliged to go abroad." He was startled to see the effect of his own words in Isabella's ashy paleness—she could not force a reply. But there is a timidity in genuine feeling, which brings with it an intuitive ​desire of concealment; and she was soon able to add, "You have been so kind to us all.'" At this moment Mr. Glentworth's eye fell on a little pencilled sketch of himself. In her joy at seeing the original, Isabella had forgotten the copy. Again a bright scarlet passed over her face; and her companion, from that necessity of saying something which originates more subjects of conversation than any thing else, observed, "I did not know you had a talent for taking likenesses."
"I never tried before," said Isabella, hesitatingly.
"You ought to cultivate it," continued Mr. Glentworth. "Would you like to take some lessons?"
"No," replied his companion; and then hastily added, "I should have no interest, unless the face were one I knew."
Here, for the first time, the conversation languished. Isabella felt embarrassed, though she did not even surmise a cause, and Mr. Glentworth was thoughtful.
"Do you know," said she, after a long pause, "I fear I am ungrateful; for I feel quite sorry that we have known you. What shall we do when you go away?—At least," added she, in a subdued tone, "we shall never forget your kindness." But the effort at forced composure was too much for the young and unpractised girl—her voice became inaudible, and she burst into tears.
"My going is still uncertain," said Mr. Glentworth, trying to soothe her with the utmost kindness.
"Ah!" exclaimed she, "how much happier we ​have been since you came—how much we owe to your kindness! I had no idea that life could be so pleasant till we knew you;" and again poor Isabella's voice failed.
Mr. Glentworth rose, and took one or two turns up and down the room; suddenly he caught Isabella's eyes fixed upon him with such a look of wretchedness that his heart smote him. He thought on the lonely and unprotected state of such singularly lovely girls—he could not be blind to what Isabella's feeling was to himself, so unconsciously, so innocently betrayed—he felt that he was not only their sole friend, but that he possessed the power to make that friendship available in many ways, while he was scarcely able to do so in their peculiar situation. A sudden impulse led to an equally sudden resolution—he took a seat by Isabella's side, and took her little, cold, trembling hand in his own.
"My dear girl," said he, very kindly, "I have a great deal to say to you. Will you listen to me, patiently?"
Isabella's eyes, even more than her words, assured him that her patience would be little tried while listening to him. "Are you aware," asked he, "of why I have not been to see you during the last fortnight?" His companion looked astonished. "The fact is," continued he, "Lady Anne fears that my visits here may prove detrimental to what she considers your best interests. I thought myself an old, safe friend; ​but, as that cannot be explained to every body, she fears that I may keep off other and more eligible lovers." Isabella tried to speak, but the words died in utterance. "In short, whether I shall be obliged to give up visiting altogether depends upon yourself. As the husband of one of you, no exception could be taken. Tell me, truly, my dear, do you think that I could make you happy as my wife?" Isabella's eyes, that had hitherto been fixed on Mr. Glentworth's, half-wonder, half-regret, were now cast down—again a sweet colour mantled her cheek.
"Happy!" murmured a voice so low as to be almost inaudible—"Do you not make every one near you happy?" Could consent be given more graciously or more gracefully?—Mr. Glentworth felt that he had sealed his fate; he was dizzy, confused, and sought in vain to speak. Mechanically he retained the hand that trembled in his own—but Isabella needed no protestations—one word from his mouth had been enough, and she sat in silent "measureless content." She was yet too happy to wonder at her own good fortune.
"Isabella," exclaimed he, starting up, "I will write to you this evening; I cannot speak all I could wish; read my letter carefully; think before you decide. I shall send for the answer in the morning. God bless you!" Isabella held her breath to hear his last step; she sprang to the window, and watched long after he was out of sight; she then hurried into ​their little back parlour; she was too intensely happy to wish for any thing but solitude; she felt as if she feared to wake from so delightful a dream.
Isabella loved Francis with the freshness of a sweet and child-like love, but also with a steadiness belonging to her character rather than to her years; she had delighted in his presence, she had been wretched in his absence; but it had never occurred to her that she was in love with him, still less did she think of him with reference to herself. It would have appeared to her far more probable, that if he were to prefer any, it would have been one of her sisters. I have heard it said that the gentleman's declaration should always precede the lady's attachment. This supposes a greater degree of vanity and of calculation than really do form part of feminine affection. A girl's love is half poetry, an unconscious preference till startled into self-knowledge. Isabella had been grateful for Mr. Glentworth's kindness—struck with his cultivated mind, and impressed with his distinguished appearance; so were all her sisters; but she alone was timid in expressing that admiration; in her alone had they inspired that feeling, which, shy, vague, and tender, is love. Pretty, and of a prettiness likely to improve for many years to come; lady-like, unusually clever, with a sweet temper, a warm, kind heart, wholly devoted to himself—not seventeen, Mr. Glentworth was fully justified in thinking himself the happiest of men. Whether he so considered himself or not, the following ​letter may serve to show. Lady Anne was chaperoning three of the girls to a juvenile ball. Mary was never in any one's way, so that there was no restraint on Isabella's joy when she received Mr. Glentworth's letter. If ever this world contained a perfectly happy human being, it was Isabella Granard when she broke the seal, and began to read her long and closely-written epistle:—
"My very dear Isabella (for such you will always be to me, whatever may be your decision after reading the following pages,)
"Since I left Welbeck Street to-day, I have most seriously considered our mutual position. For both our sakes, I must be as explicit as possible; and if I write more coldly than it may seem to you I ought, remember I write with the fear of your future before me. Though thoughtful far beyond your years, you are very inexperienced; and I would not have a preference that may originate in your little knowledge of others, or a romantic exaggeration of slight kindnesses, lead you into a precipitate union with me, unless you most seriously examine your own heart, and weigh the various consequences. I am double your own age, my habits formed, my spirits saddened, and the life I would choose one of quiet and seclusion. I have loved before passionately, entirely, as none ever love twice. Hitherto that attachment, though hopeless, has kept me from forming other ties; it might have done so, even unto the end, but for my late ​intimacy with your family.—I must add, and with you. I feel that my home is lonely, uncheered by affection. I desire to have some one to love and to care for. I think I could make one even young as you are happy. I should watch over, and seek to screen your path even from the shadow of a sorrow. Knowing your affectionate temper, I feel that it would add to your happiness, having a home to offer any of your family. I think also that you would be happy in making me so. Sometimes I picture to myself a cheerful future, whose sunshine I shall owe to yourself, and then again I am discouraged.
"Do not decide hastily, consult any friend you please, think over your tastes and fancies, be even unreasonable in conjuring up objections, think of yourself while you decide. You will ever have an anxious and indulgent friend in "Your truly affectionate" Francis Glentworth."
The letter dropped on the floor as Isabel raised her pale and bewildered face from its perusal. "He does not love me; he marries me out of pity to us all;" and her head dropped upon her arm, while the large tears dropped slowly through her clasped hands. "I must write," exclaimed she, "and tell him how grateful I am, but that he need not think of marrying me." She drew the paper towards her, but, instead of writing, she began to read his letter again. A shade of indecision passed over her face, and she read it over ​for the third time. "I will go and ask Mrs. Palmer what I ought to do; but no," said she, "it is my own heart that must counsel me in this matter." For some time Isabella had sought to check her tears, but now she gave free course to them; they relieved, and the mood which they softened soon became elevated; tears smooth the way for prayers.
"I may," said she, "be wrong; Heaven support and direct me! but my heart seems reassured. He says that his heart is lonely, and that I shall have a home for my sisters; should I not think of him and them rather than of myself?" Her cheek was pale as the marble of a gravestone, and her hand cold and trembling as she wrote the following answer:—
"You tell me I may consult a friend, and I will consult my oldest and my kindest—yourself. Tell me what to do, and, in order that you may advise, I will tell you what my feelings are. I am very grateful to you; and you say most truly 'that I should be happy in making you so;' but can I? As you answer that question to me, so do I answer to you. Accept the prayers and blessings of "Your gratefully attached, "Isabella Granard."
The note was duly sent for the next morning, and an answer returned in less than half an hour.
"My dearest Isabel, you can make me very happy, and to make you so will be my constant anxiety. I ​shall call in an hour and speak (may I not?) to Lady Anne Granard. "Ever your affectionate and grateful "Francis Glentworth."
Mr. Glentworth received his note while pacing up and down the library, where he had passed a night, given neither to study nor to sleep. He started when he saw the address—broke the seal, while the blood started from the firmly-compressed lip. He drew a deep breath; he was reassured by the shortness; till then he had not acknowledged, even to himself, how much he dreaded an acceptance. He read it, and, flinging himself into a chair, hid his face in his hands. "It is too late to repent!" exclaimed he, and wrote an answer. "Let me make her happy," muttered he, "and then it matters not." Francis Glentworth and Isabel Granard were both generous, high-minded, and disinterested; they were about to marry with the best intentions. Alas! best intentions are not the best things in the world to marry upon.