# Lady Anne Granard/Chapter 27

CHAPTER XXVII.
Mr. Glentworth was a man of too much genuine feeling not to pity the sufferings of his young wife, which became so much increased by the heat of Marseilles that her sister was seriously alarmed, thinking that a frame so attenuated as hers must sink under its influence, and he, therefore, hastily arranged his affairs, and they removed to Civita Vecchia.
Their little voyage was beneficial, in the greatest degree, to Isabella; therefore they soon renewed it as far as Leghorn, from whence they went to Pisa, not choosing to leave the sea at a great distance, as it appeared to be the best friend of the invalid. Here it was certain she rapidly recovered her lost strength, and recruited her wasted form; and here she received the letters of her beloved family, relating many circumstances well known to our readers, but new to the travellers, the tidings having far to go. They were delighted with the idea of their mamma having forgiven Louisa, but sorry, she thought, such a public proof of her pardon necessary as that of giving a party; for the sisters well knew how great an embargo it would lay on the purses of Helen and Georgiana; ​and Mrs. Glentworth sincerely wished she were at home again, that she might obviate their inconvenience, or in any way contribute to their comfort. Neither could she doubt that her residence near them was as likely to contribute to their eventual advantage as their temporary pleasure; and being, in fact, more calculated to live on the heart than the mind, she began to wish exceedingly for reunion with her family, and observed to Mary:—
"You are a great deal better, and so am I. Had we not better go home immediately, dear sister? I should like just to see Rome, which could be easily done since we are so near it; but, as to Florence and its grand galleries, Genoa and its palaces, Naples and its burning mountains, even Venice and all its wonders fade in my eyes, when I think of the delight I should enjoy in having mamma and all my sisters around me, and dear Mr. and Mrs. Palmer seated at our table."
"I hope you will have that pleasure next spring; but, since we are here, and Mr. Glentworth intends to take us to all these places, we must not offend him by underrating them."
"But it is principally on his account that I would return home, Mary, for he has never been happy, I am confident, since we entered Italy; he has been nervous and ill at ease since the hour we landed at Civita Vecchia, I am certain."
"He was extremely anxious about you."
"So I thought; and I did my very best, on that ​account, to appear well, and, thank God, I soon became so; but he did not, therefore, get better: on the contrary, he is frequently pale and abstracted. If ever we speak of Rome, he becomes either bewildered or angry; yet, if a cross word escapes him, makes ten times the apology called for. Your anxiety about me, dear sister, has prevented your noticing these things, but I cannot fail to see them; besides, no one can observe so much as myself; he often sighs and mutters in his sleep, and more than once has said, 'dear Margarita!' or 'oh, Margarita!'"
"That is accounted for by his anxiety for you, since Margarita is your name; though seldom used in your family, he may like it the best."
"He may" said the young wife, musingly, "but I have a great notion, Mary, that he is not thinking of me. Sleep restores the absent and the dead. It strikes me that the passion of his youth referred to, when he made me an offer, has been felt for one whom he knew in Italy, and who probably died here."
"Very likely, my dear; it is by no means uncommon for young and beautiful girls in consumption (the most interesting of all human beings) to end their short lives in this country."
"I think he supposed that a length of time, a new connection, and the great pleasure he has in works of art and the many glories of Italy, would enable him to bear the memory of her loss with resignation and calmness, whereas he finds himself more affected than he ​expected, and fears to retread the scenes where he has been happy with the departed. Why else should we delay going to Rome, which is as near the sea as Pisa, and has always been the especial spot to which my wishes pointed?"
"He said this very morning he should go soon thither, and procure us a house, you know."
"He did so; and there was trouble written in every feature of his fine countenance, at the moment. Why does he not tell me his troubles, dear Mary? why not permit my sympathy to soothe his sorrows by partaking them? He would not find me jealous or exacting; on the contrary, he would gain the freedom to mourn unwatched, to lament unreproved, to praise uncontradicted. I am willing to drop a tear on the grave of her he loved, as if she were my sister; for, surely, our preference of the same dear object, our admiration of the same virtues, form a tie between us. I can look up to her pure and happy spirit with veneration, and trust she can look down on me with approbation, if I make her beloved happy."
"Your feelings on this delicate subject are all amiable, and even exalted, my sweet sister; but there are few who can comprehend them; and, though I really think Mr. Glentworth would do so, and be sincerely grateful for your tenderness and your affectionate comprehension of his troubles, yet I do not think it will do for you to seek his confidence, or venture, as it were, to seize on his secret. We sisters have all been so ​accustomed to share each other's griefs, and support each other through all our little troubles, that we do not know how to live without pity and the consolations of affection. But man, in the pride of his sex, may not choose that a cherished sorrow should be noticed and soothed, even by a devoted wife. He may wrestle with it and overcome it, as he has done at other times, and the cloud now on his breast and his brow may subside. Hold yourself at all times ready to receive any communication with your wonted kindness, but seek not to lift the veil, even to pour balm on the wound it hides."
"But can I be cheerful when he is sad, Mary? can I doubt whether sorrow or anger, or ill health, oppresses him, and never seem to care for his affliction?"
"Apply your cares exclusively to the last named evil, which will enable him to hide or reveal as much as he pleases. Let us both strive to win him into conversation, receive all our pleasures and information from his hands, be willing to take what he gives, and never regret what he withholds—and in time (perhaps a short time) he will be all himself."
Thus Mary spoke, and Isabella thankfully acceded to her advice, but deeply did the elder sister grieve that there was occasion to give it, for she was far from being persuaded that it was for a buried love poor Glentworth was now suffering. To the pure mind of Isabella thought of no other had arisen; and it was far better that the generous romance of her young heart should expatiate on the rival in heaven, than for a ​moment dread a rival on earth, and therefore become subject to jealousy, which would render heaven itself a hell, more especially to one so altogether absorbed in her husband as Isabella.
At times Mary thought it not improbable that Glentworth, if he accounted at all for the evident weight on his spirits, the silence and abstraction which they were unable to shake from their own manners under his infliction, would speak to her in preference to one so young as her sister, and so situated as to her health and her expectations. She remembered her mother once saying, in a tone of anxiety, about the time of their marriage, "surely Isabella will have children, for Glentworth always loved them about him; besides, every rich man wants heirs;" and these words had, for some months, in which there was no likelihood of such a circumstance, given her a little uneasiness, and induced her to suppose her brother-in-law anxious on the subject; but, although particularly desirous that his wife should have all possible medical advice and indulgence, she never had perceived that the prospect gave him pleasure. A few words of Charles Penrhyn's, added to his wife's letter, conveyed a far warmer sense of joy in the circumstance, and of grateful love and tenderness to Louisa, than any thing which had fallen thus far from the lips of the rich and generous Glentworth. This was the more remarkable, because he was a man of acute sensibility, not devoid of family pride, and accustomed to speak of certain purchases and estates ​received from his uncle as devolving on heirs, and including responsibilities. Could a man so situated fail to evince the joy he felt in the circumstance expected; thereby, delighting and sustaining his suffering young wife, if he were not wrapt and absorbed in the contemplation of an object still more interesting—an object still living, still capable, however high or virtuous, of working woe to Isabella?
Carefully did Mary conceal these thoughts in her bosom, and earnestly did she beseech Almighty mercy to avert the evils they threatened, and Almighty guidance to those who were the subject of her fears and her affections. At the same time, active in mind, calm in manners, and firm in the path of duty, the lovelorn maiden (who, in resigning her own hopes of happiness, had bound herself the more entirely to that of her sisters,) evinced the good sense and the warm affection, the considerate pity demanded by the mysterious troubles of one party, and the better understood solicitude and physical inflictions of the other.
Glentworth proceeded to Rome, in the prosecution of the intention he had spoken of, which was that of procuring a house at the healthy season, and, in the interim, proposed going by sea to Naples, touching at Genoa, and in every respect being governed by the health and capabilities of his young wife, who would gladly have accompanied him, but dared not make the proposal, as he was evidently determined to be alone, not taking even his valet with him. Isabella had no ​doubt that he sought to weep in solitude over the grave of her he had loved, and only grieved that she was not permitted to share his sorrows. Mary encouraged the supposition, though she could not share it, and engaged Isabella much in making purchases of beautiful work at various nunneries, learning particulars on the subject of festas and miracles, and bestowing on the peasantry useful gifts, which drew forth blessings uttered in the glowing fervour of their hearts and their sweet language with poetic fluency, so that his few days of absence passed with little of repining, and he actually returned at the time he had specified, to the great delight of Isabella, who was never weary of thanking him, until she became alarmed by the change in his countenance, which indicated either positive illness or severe affliction.
"You are ill, dear Glentworth, or you have been, I am certain? "
"I had a little bilious attack at Rome, but it is over now."
"There are good physicians there, of course—did you see one?"
"I saw a physician, certainly, but he did me no good—he half killed me."
As Mr, Glentworth spoke, he left the room, and Mary read in his countenance an expression of agony which he sought to hide by retiring to his dressing-room, where he kept his books and papers, and spent much time in general; but Isabella construed the words ​literally, and grieved that he had not procured an English physician. She had not seen the expression which alarmed her sister, and would have been the source of equal sorrow and solicitude, vain conjecture, and rejected pity, to herself; it was therefore well for her to escape it. There was sufficient mortification in finding that several hours elapsed before her husband joined them, which, after five days' absence, could not fail to be painful: if he were not interested in her pursuits, yet he well knew how much she was in his; "had he nothing to communicate, who had been visitsing imperial Rome?"
It appeared he had not, for the evening passed in silence, save when Glentworth said, that "on the following day they would leave Pisa, as a vessel would put in at Leghorn in the evening." When Isabella recollected the trouble she used to have in preparing for a removal to Brighton, she could not help contrasting her situation then with that she held now, when the most material changes called for no personal exertion, and abundance of handsome apparel, suitable for every place and every want, were always at hand, and her heart swelled with gratitude not less than love. But when she turned her glistening eyes on him who had bestowed so much, his look of care and absence told her to keep silence, "though it was pain and grief" to her, lest she should intrude on the treasured reverie, and convert his sorrow into anger, his coldness into contempt.
​ When busy he was better, and appeared to think perpetual motion a panacea for his unnamed and un-nameable complaint; and so much were they hurried from place to place, after their arrival at Genoa, that both sisters were thankful when they embarked again, as the sea appeared a resting-place; and during their placid sail to Naples, Isabella regained the quiet she required to her person, but she could not fail to perceive that her husband was proportionately ill at ease; perpetual motion seemed necessary for him; and when not hastily walking the deck, he would be asking incessant questions of every person on board, without attending to their replies, or apparently remembering what he had inquired about. There was a bustling attention to their wants, that was entirely new in his conduct, and evidently arose from a vain wish to escape from some corroding care, which he could neither conquer nor explain, and which he sought especially to hide from his own family, though it might be accounted for by the situation of his lady.
On arriving at the hotel in Naples, he immediately inquired for letters, and on one being given to him which was from Rome, he put it in his pocket, and proceeded to select rooms suitable for their accommodation; having settled every thing in a manner more like himself than usual, he said he must take a short turn on the Chiajia, and see if the mountain looked as it used to do, and not till he had completely left the house did he draw forth and read the letter.
​ Isabella's eye was following him. "Who could the letter be from?—had it any thing to do with the state of mind he had lately evinced?"
When these questions were repeated to Mary, she answered,—"That most likely it was from the owner of the house he had taken, since it was plain he had given orders that some communication should be made to him as he asked for the letter, and not less so that it was a mere matter of business which could be read at any time, since he never even looked at it whilst he was with them."
Isabella accepted the explanation, but her heart was not satisfied with it; she remembered that Louisa used to pocket Charles's letters, and keep them as treasures to be opened only at bedtime, or when she could be alone. The business of a house might be supposed to concern her as much as himself, and it would have been natural to say what he had heard respecting it, Mary was mistaken.
Alas! Isabella was not. In that incident she imbibed the poison which circumstances almost compelled her to receive, since from the very first she had, in the modesty of her nature, held herself incapable of winning and retaining the affections of so superior a man as Glentworth, and his manners, even when most kind, had been calculated to confirm her fears. She had still been in his eyes the child with whom he had been wont to play, the little girl he felt most interested in, because ill-treated by her mother as plain, whilst ​she possessed a countenance and features to him more interesting a thousand times than those of her dazzling sisters.
He might also have known "she had that within which passeth show," but it is certain that until Mary insisted on her possession of mental power, he had given her no credit for it; but, having really a very high opinion of Miss Granard's good sense and discrimination, he was willing to believe all she said, but since that time his mind had been in such a situation as to leave him little power for investigating the mind of another.