# Lady Anne Granard/Chapter 28

CHAPTER XXVIII.
It is the peculiar property of jealousy to "make the food it lives on;" and although poor Isabella hid not one point on which to hang an argument, save the evident uneasiness of her husband—though she did not know whether her supposed rival was dead or alive, whether the complaints she at once pitied and resented were those which "poppy and mandragora" might medicine, or "those written troubles of the brain" which were incapable of cure, she contrived to make up for herself a draught of most terrible infliction. If Glentworth, conscious of his late errors, struggled to appear cheerful, and explain, with his wonted ability, the situation of a temple in Pompeii, point out the finest portions of a landscape, or dilate on the character of the Neapolitans, she would suppose he had received pleasant letters, and endeavour to learn, by every indirect medium, if any had arrived. Her eye was ever restless and inquiring—she was suspicious that the servants knew more than they ought of their master's secrets—and when at length her misery had palpably affected her health, and Mary lamented it, she thought that "she also helped ​to deceive her," and addressed her with a petulance and acrimony so new and alarming in her, that the tender sister burst into tears of sincere sorrow and profound compassion,
"Isabella," said she, at length, "I pity you more than I have words to express; but I must also exhort you; if you cannot conquer the sorrow which has seized you wholly, yet you may control the temper which arises from it, otherwise, you may render a temporary trouble a life-long alienation, for many women have done so. You are encouraging a passion which will not only destroy your happiness, but your amiability, and may really bring upon you the evil you dread. 'You are jealous, Isabella!'"
"And have I no cause! Can you, Mary, in whose integrity I could at one time have fully confided, deny that I have cause for suspicion? and have not you, in many little matters, tried to mislead me?"
"I have undoubtedly tried to put the best construction on your husband's conduct; and when you did so yourself, were you not much happier than you are now? and was it not more consistent with the obedience you have promised, the honour in which you hold him? Surely, you do not wish to hold out Mr. Glentworth to the world as a man who would, in so short a time, degrade himself by deserting the young wife so lately married for love. You cannot explain in what his error consists. You cannot accuse him of any thing tangible—and every one ​must see how attentive he is in going with you from place to place. I can also see that he struggles much to appear cheerful, for your sake, and that your altered manners, and your bad health, affect him deeply."
Isabella might have truly said—"The change began with him; he has led me on till I resigned myself to that demon which, like the evil spirits of old, seek unto themselves others more wicked, to enter the heart and dwell there;" but she sought for no excuse, and started with horror from the idea of doing, saying, or even thinking, any thing which could bring obloquy upon her husband. She recalled many times of late, "when in the bitterness of her feelings she had repelled with coldness those attentions long withdrawn, but now, from pity, again conceded; and she felt that if she had indeed lost his love, it would be well to accept the substitute that remained; "for whatever might be his feelings, she had not ceased to love:" "there was no sacrifice she could make for his happiness too great; no proof of tenderness she could display too endearing."
"If your sensibility is alive to his merits—if you still love so fondly—there is the greater necessity for you to retain, or renew, his love. You must call on your fortitude and your patience, to endure that which he inflicts—not willingly, it is certain—but from some terrible necessity, some painful mystery, of which we cannot judge. You think you could ​sacrifice a limb, nay a life, for his service; can you not then sustain your spirits and preserve your temper? Confide in his goodness, if you cannot in his affections, and pray to God for better times to you both?"
Isabella threw herself into Mary's arms, and, for a short time, wept vehemently; but she struggled with, and conquered, an emotion which she knew, from sad experience, would leave her exhausted, and entail evil on the dear, though unborn, heir of her affliction. Mary seated her on the couch, and after kissing her tenderly, withdrew; trusting that she might take the sacred advice—"commune with thy heart in thy chamber, and be still." Hoping that Mr. Glentworth would not see her sister whilst her eyes were so red, she inquired "if he had returned from the ride he generally took after breakfast?" and was answered by an English servant.
"Master did return from his ride, ma'am, half an hour ago; but finding a letter from Rome, he went out again, and is walking on the Chiajia, a-reading of it."
Mary's heart sunk within her; and, sensible that her countenance changed, she turned hastily towards her own room; but Robert was an old servant of her father's (on which account Glentworth had engaged him), and he rarely missed an opportunity of speaking to Miss Granard, therefore she could not avoid the farther observation of—
​ "I don't like them there Roman letters a bit—they brings more bile to master than a lord mayor's dinner would do."
"Perhaps so, Robert; but he has not many."
"I think it's pretty thick, four within a fortnight, and every one a shaking him down, as it were, and making him an old man afore his time." ‘
"He does look old," said Mary to herself, as she closed the door; "and if these letters come so frequently, poor Isabella has more cause for jealousy than I apprehended. It may be something amiss in his affairs! Would it were!—the dear creature could lose her new-found luxuries much better than her husband's affections!"
Mary sate down, silent tears rolling over her cheeks, wondering how all would end, and seeking, in vain, to find what was her duty in a case affecting her so nearly, yet, in many respects, precluding her interference, since there was no quarrel to make up, no injury to complain of. Perhaps the same thoughts were passing the mind of Isabella; but her grief was necessarily more acute, and its expression more vivid. After Mary had withdrawn, she tried to meditate, tried to pray, and especially tried so to chasten her heart that, come what would, it should never again rebel against the husband she loved so entirely, and whose sorrows demanded her pity, whatever were their cause. Whilst absorbed in ​thoughts like these, and happily, ignorant of the new cause which existed to warrant suspicion (and which had drawn from her husband's eyes tears that fell like scalding lead from his burning brain), she slowly paced her dressing-room (the door of which was unclosed, because unnoticed), and had exclaimed, as she had done many a time before—"if he would but tell me!—if he would but tell me!" when Glentworth stood before her.
Isabella was afraid of her husband; her very love caused her to fear from its excess; and Mary's late advice had so clearly shown her the error into which her jealousy had led her, that for a moment she stood before him as one convicted of guilt; yet she felt as if now, or never, must she seek for an explanation necessary to her very existence, and before he had time either for comment or inquiry, she exclaimed—
"Yes, I must, I will be told, why you are thus ill and wretched, flying from me to solitude as a comfort, and associating with me as a duty? Why have you a trouble too deep for me to partake, who would thankfully share with you the meanest hut we have beheld in all our travels, and look round on the wide world saying, 'envy me; I am Glentworth's wife!'"
"My dear Belle!—my noble-hearted girl——!"
"Girl! There is my misfortune! You fancy me a child, incapable of comprehending your difficulties and sharing your troubles. You are mistaken; for ​your instructions (received as those who love receive all that the beloved gives), have left me not ignorant, so far as knowledge is required in woman, and the solicitude of a wife has matured me in all other feelings. I am your one wedded wife, and I need not say, the pure, innocent, young wife, whose eye has never lingered on another form, and who trusts she will give to your fond caress, and to your future guidance, another innocent creature, perhaps more dear, but not more loving than herself. I am no child—no girl—no silly miss: I am a wife who may be trusted, and claim confidence, not adulation?"
Glentworth was astonished by the energy, the eloquence, and the truth, with which she spoke; for truth, simple honest truth, borne out by conduct, will have its effect. He caught her to his bosom, saying,
"I do believe you are right. I think you can keep a secret—act a secret."
Isabella thought for a moment; she then said slowly and deliberately—
"I can, save from my sister Mary, alike your friend and mine."
"That she is such I firmly believe; but this must not be trusted to her. Not because she would not keep it, but because it would embarrass her."
"That is enough. I will never add to her sufferings more than I can help. Now to your story, Glentworth."
"It involves not merely sympathy, but action; ​prompt action, temporary humiliation, the generous sympathies of friendship, the tenderness of woman, the self-oblivion of wifehood, the———Oh God! I cannot ask you to———"
"You could not, would not ask me to do a wicked, nor even a wrong thing, Glentworth, for my father's sake; you are an honourable man, and even a religious man, which goes far beyond earthly honour in its demands. You do not ask me to do wrong!"
"God forbid! No, there is neither sin nor shame in what I require; but there is partial, apparent degradation—such as taking the character of a servant, a—a—nurse to a sick—indeed a dying lady; the Marchesa di Morello, who is, in fact, your own cousin, and who earnestly desires to know you. I must not, however, disguise from you that her motive originates in love for me—love that must soon be quenched in death."
"I know my father had a sister, whose name was added by him to that of Isabella at the font; but I was never called by it. The Margarita murmured in your dreams, Glentworth, was this Marchesa. Poor Isabella had no share in your thoughts—God help me!"
The low, deep tones of Isabella's self-commiserating voice cleft the heart of her husband—he threw himself on the couch, hid his face, and sobbed in agony, saying something that seemed like blame to himself for having rendered her so wretched; but his words were inarticulate from suffocating grief.
​ Isabella approached the couch, knelt down by it, and drawing the hand nearest to her, covered it with kisses and tears. "You have been to blame for not telling me, dearest, because you planted in my bosom jealousy and suspicion, which are now vanished, therefore I can bear my share of your trouble; and on your part some of my surprise and bitter mortification must be endured also. If you can give me the history of this poor lady, do. If it will affect you too much do not attempt it, but say at once what you desire me to do."
"I have a letter from Doctor Parizzi, who has known her many years, and, with the exception of her confessor, is better acquainted with her feelings and wishes than any human being, and esteeming her very highly (as she well merits), would raise heaven and earth in her behalf, so as to procure her that she earnestly desires, the sight of me; should that be impracticable, as I fear it will, to know and converse with you would comfort her dying hours. 'Tis a melancholy task, but it will be a short one, from all that I can learn."
"Surely it is one that becomes me as her relation, and——"
"In that capacity you cannot approach her, because you are also my wife. Her husband is a doating, but a jealous one; also a bigoted Catholic; the Doctor has induced him, with much difficulty, to consent that she shall receive a young English woman, ​to divert her melancholy, by singing the songs of her country, and relating anecdotes of its people; but it will be required of her that she never speaks on the subject of religion."
"Alas!" said Isabella, "I am little likely to do that; my other duties I can perform. When shall we set out?"
"In two hours time. The evenings here are delightful, and the moon is favourable; we shall be unattended, travel early and late, resting in the middle of the day. We shall sleep at Velletri to-night."
"What shall be said to my sister? We cannot steal from her without saying something, as she would conclude we were murdered, apply to the ambassador, and bring on the very exposé we desire to avoid."
"You are right, Isabella, we should be ruined; besides, the cruelty to dear Mary. I leave the matter in your hands; but charge her to be very cautious, for there are circumstances connected with the case and the country not easily conceived by English people. Tell her she shall hear from me constantly, that I beg she will go frequently to the Opera, take airings on the Chiajia, and act as if we should be back very soon indeed; and so we may, you know. On our journey I will tell you every thing. I will prove that I hold you to be indeed my wife, as Portia claimed to be."
Isabella had thought of Portia's words; she also remembered her fate, and said to herself, "surely the burning coals are already at my heart."
​ Mary heard with sorrow, and fear also, of the projected journey; but the altered expression of Isabella's countenance was a great palliative—dreadful as it was that her husband should love another (and of that distressing fact it was impossible to doubt), his confidence was consoling; and her power to prove the firmness of her character, her right to his esteem, and the immolation of her happiness to further his desires, had, in itself, the sustainment which belongs to great sacrifice. Suffer she must; but there are degrees of pain, and the whole catalogue of miseries which man, either from design or carelessness, inflicts on his weaker moiety, is trifling when compared to jealousy, as man himself occasionally knows from bitter experience.
Glentworth, a man of kind and generous nature, prone to all the gentler charities, habituated to the exercise of the affections, and to consideration for his fellow-creatures, however situated, was the last man on earth to have willingly or heedlessly oppressed the woman he had promised to protect, or swerve from the spirit of the promise he had made at the altar; but he knew not the depths of his own heart, the effect of habitual affections, and more especially the power which some women possess of rekindling, through memory and circumstance, flames which appear to have expired from lapse of time, or have been crushed by reason, by religion, or those circumstances which influence the tide of human affairs. She whom ​the great master of the human heart termed the "Egyptian toy," to whom one of the world's masters "would return," was far less indebted to her beauty than her genius for her influence; and in all countries and ages, women so gifted, who are tolerably handsome, are generally found to have an abiding or a recurring power of captivation over that slippery thing, the heart of man, which, if once felt, is rarely wholly eradicated. There is a charm in the companionship, the novelty of idea, the poetry, which irradiates common objects; and the sublimity which occasionally pervades those beyond them, which mixes itself alike with the taste and the affections, the imagination and the intellect, and will not be forgotten, since it enhances all that is most lovely in beauty and attractive in youth, so long as they exist, and not unfrequently supplies their departure by its own imperishable talisman.
Margarita Riccardini held this spell; therefore was Glentworth to be more pitied than blamed in this unhappy conjuncture; but far more than either should the innocent Isabella claim our compassion. That information, which on her journey she received by fits and starts, as the resolution or the agony of the hour prevailed, we will offer in the following chapter.