# Lady Anne Granard/Chapter 48

CHAPTER XLVIII.
When Count Riccardini arrived in Welbeck Street, he was constrained in manner, and his fine countenance betrayed displeasure, it being an open book, always revealing what was passing within. Lady Anne could not be surprised at this, for he had been to the neighbourhood where she had taken such unwarrantable liberties with his name and that of the wife he loved; and, although many years had passed since then, the affair had come to him with all its original freshness, "for country people, not having the advantage of a succession of scandals, are obliged to nourish the memory of old affairs for their amusement."
Georgiana felt a little intimidated; but, recollecting what Helen had said of his kindness, and perceiving that her mamma was struck into unwonted silence, she ventured to "hope that his journey to the north had been productive of health and pleasure."
"It have, in every respect, for I have got in my possessione the picture of your aunt, my own beautiful Margarita, concerning which, Lady Anne, you tell me one large falshood; you say it was heirloom, and cannot be remove. The owner say "you might ​have it, and you decline; he make me present of it in very much of kindness."
"There must have been some mistake," said Lady Anne, inwardly relieved; "in the overwhelming distress I was then in, Count, I might, like Hotspur, say 'I would or would not, when they made me mad,' with distracting questions. You who knew dear Granard can surely conceive what the agony of parting with him and with his estate also must have been. Think of me turned out of house and home, with five helpless girls, unportioned, and the greater part uneducated: with boys a mother has hope of relief; but with girls—five girls!"
Lady Anne's handkerchief was at her eyes; the Count took her left hand, and, gently pressing it, exclaimed:—
"I was grief and vex, and I have speak my speech; never more will I invoke your sorrow. I did know Granard, and love him as my best friend on earth; never had he successor in my heart—but Glentworth—forgive me; take your tea, dear lady, from my hand."
"Presently, dear Count," said Lady Anne, rising, and slowly pacing the room; the eyes of Riccardini followed.
"She gets better in a strange way," said he, "for she is much thinner than she was when I left London."
"Mamma is going to write a book," said Georgians, anxious to set all at ease, and well aware that the ​less her widowed parent's sorrow was observed the better; "and she thought you could tell her a great deal about Italy—especially its church—that might be very interesting."
"So I can, my dear child, for I have had much thought of making book myself, expressly on that subject; but I can speak your tongue more good than I will write it; and littel mistake is bad in print book."
"But I can write any thing into good English, you know."
"Then," cried the Count, with animation, "I will reveal to you all the contents of my heart and my brain for twelve long years, as they have been exercised on the most awful, the most noble, the most interesting subject, on which an immortal soul can ponder. I will prove that in the Catholic church exist holiness, purity, devotion, and the elevation of purpose, that never have been or will be excelled, and which, in your church, rarely—perhaps never, equalled. I will shew you men that were angels below; and I will shew you, in the same church, imperious bigots flaming with zeal, destroying the peace of families, loading weak consciences with imaginary crimes, and inflicting penances the most cruel, and, eventually, fatal; interfering with your privacy, extorting money and lands from your property—perhaps inducing or compelling your wretched wife—but I will say no more. In the same church there are angels, so are there devils; in your church there are none ​such. Every man, in this country, carry his Bibel in his hand; he refer himself when he puzzle, not to this man or that man, but to the written word of God, to the abiding testimony."
"My dear Count, for Heaven's sake, don't run on in this way about things held obsolete by all people of fashion! I would not have had any body here, for the world, when you were talking about the Bible and such like—it is never done with us, I assure you."
"But I assure you it is, though. I spent three days, last week, with the Marquis of Wentworthdale; and there was visitants, noble and learned, who speak continual of such thing, and ask me question of many kinds; especial the Duke of Plymouth and the—"
"Were you really with Lord Wentworthdale?—what is he doing?—when will he come to town?—be is the strangest man I ever knew!"
"He have had a fever of rheumatics, which make him lame with crutch, his hair is bleach, his face has the puckers—he is very good man—man to love, but certainly not man for marry Georgina."
"Then why not say so?—why not write to me?—an infamous old man, what does he mean by being ill in the country?"
"Hush, hush, hush, he is very good, and not to call old; but he is infirm, and gets well as you do, by the long degree—I mean the slowness."
"When a man of his age takes it into his head to marry, he ought to do the thing at once; a coup-de-​main is every thing, as I told him indirectly—had I been more explicit, I should have been called a manœuvring mamma, or something of that kind."
"Nevertheless, it is surely the proper, that he should consider very serious, if he will be happy and make happy the girl he marry, and whom it is his duty so to guide that she will take the way to Heaven when he leave her on earth."
"Way to Heaven!—what, in the name of wonder, has Heaven to do with it?—if he makes a young, unportioned woman a marchioness, he has done very handsomely by her; she ought to be grateful, and expect nothing more—really the world is in a most unaccountable way. You turn protestant, when there is nothing in the world to be got by it, and he—"
"Pardon me! there is personal freedom, which is worth more than political freedom—freedom from penances and fastings; from pilgrimages and hair-shirts; freedom to read the Bible—most glorious of all gifts."
"Georgiana, play that sweet sonata the Count sings so delightfully (the poor man is really very near gone—I wonder if Finch could take him at my recommendation? I fear not)—do sing, dear Count—Georgiana's taste is quite equal to Helen's."
The Count approached the instrument mechanically, internally observing, "her illness have destroy her faculties, poor thing; she cannot think on one thing serious: her mind is fatuitous, poor lady."
The performers were soon wrapt and absorbed in ​"sounds themselves did make," and Lady Anne's thoughts flew back to the Marquis. If half was true that the Count declared, he never could be persuaded that Georgiana loved him, and happy would it be if the sailor came back and took her away at once; for surely it was by no means unlikely, if she were alone, the sympathy attaching to their similar inflictions might, under existing circumstances, lead him to see that she would be much more of a suitable companion than any of her daughters—"we have known the same people, witnessed the same events, met at the courts of the same monarchs—all circumstances that tend to unite people."
"Your judgment is right," cried the male singer—"why did you not consult it before you marry little Isabella to Glentworth?—how could a girl of sixteen be the company for a man who had travelled much, seen much, felt much?—my heart bleed when I thinking of her, what she have suffer, what she must suffer."
Lady Anne had had no idea that she had spoken aloud in her reverie; but, since it was impossible to deny a fact to which the reply was so palpable, she found it a relief to turn the conversation on her youngest daughter, and, with some confusion, but quickness, replied—
"I had nothing to do with it—Isabella was really in love with Glentworth."
"That I belief, for she is so at this moment: but, ​what I say is, that you should have had much to do with it; for, a clever woman as you, must see that he was not in love with her, and it is on the man's side the more large lump of the love should lie. He was good man and handsome man, and she know no other man, so she love him, poor child; but they no fit for each other, as she would have found out in a year or so, if you get her to think—"
"Think? and run the risk of losing his fortune out of the family!"
"No fear for that; you always think right when the money is not in your head, but wrong when it is—you judge quite right in thinking the Marquis will you suit. I tell him so myself. I say Lady Anne born in the same year with yourself, milord (so say the book of the peeritch), only she is in the beginning, and you in the end; and he make for answer, 'She is a very fine woman of her years, certain.'"
Lady Anne was very angry, both at herself and the Count; nevertheless, his perfect simplicity and sincerity, and the nonchalance with which he spoke, amused her as much as it vexed her; and, as poor Georgiana, after various efforts to subdue her risibility, was constrained to laugh outright, the features of Lady Anne admitted the Chesterfieldian smile, and she exclaimed, "Really, Count, you are the drollest man in the world, and say the oddest things in the world."
"I thought droll thing in your tongue was scandal ​thing. I never say that, neither repeat it to my heart, for fix it in such place, even when it have been spoke of myself. No, no; I am not much droll. Talk of your book—if you will not have my memoirs, what will you have for make it?"
"I have known so many people of rank in my time, and the lower world is so eager to know something of that circle from which they are necessarily excluded, that I proposed a work of reminiscences and anecdotes made on the plan of one written by a lady, which of course you have not read, but which had a prodigious run last year, but is probably superseded now. My object is to get a thousand pounds, as she did."
"A thousand pounds for a book that live a year only. O! my dear lady, that never will do, it ruin the man which publish."
"That can be nothing to me, you know, Count, if I get the money?"
"Nothing to you? Nothing to an Inglis lady of rank, that you have injure the man of commerce? When he come to you with the document and shew he made loss, you must repay, and the repay is inconvenient."
"It would be so, undoubtedly, but I don't see the necessity; there is no law to that end, I am certain."
"If there is no law in your inside to that end, you ​are in a worse state than I did apprehend, yet I had a large fear. I wish you good night, and very much better than you are, my Lady Anne."
With a little pressure of Georgiana's hand, the Count withdrew, looking very sorrowful, and shaking his head most ominously. Even then the young lady thought him quite as handsome as Helen had described him to be, but she was drawn from the Count to her mamma.
"What can that strange creature mean by talking of my inside, and wishing me better so emphatically? At Brighton, he spoke, I remember, of ulcers going down the throat, and sticking to the lungs. Surely, he does not apprehend any thing of that kind has taken place with me?"
"Dear mamma, Signor Riccardini was talking only of your moral health, and your imaginary debt to the publisher of your book; by wishing you 'much better,' he meant to desire you to be just and honourable as well as legal."
"I hope you are right, child; indeed, I am sure you are; but as with all his eccentric, far-fetched notions, he is no fool, and has buried both a wife and daughter, it struck me at the moment he might see something in me that resembled them, but that is impossible; I am no relation whatever to any of the set, you know."
"You are not, and I really think keeping so much ​at home has injured you; besides, you have not been to Rotheles castle, which always did you good, you know. Pray don't think about the book till you are stronger. Cannot you spend a day with dear sister Penrhyn; I am sure that would do you good?"
"I don't think so; but you shall go to-morrow, and ask her husband for the hundred pounds I told her I should want about this time: and mind what I say, if Charles Penrhyn seems to part with it freely, say I should prefer a hundred and fifty—can you say that?"
"Surely I can, mamma, when I know that you must have a hundred and fifty to pay Mr. Palmer with next week, on the fifteenth."
"You are a mighty accurate person, but like many other wise young ladies, are out in your reckoning. I shall get old Palmer to renew the loan for six months; I will invite myself to dinner (which of course will please them), and then I can mention it, and manage him. By the way, how did you get the gown you have on, and several other things I have seen of late; surely you have not dared to run a bill any where?"
"No, mamma; I would rather be ragged than do that."
"You are quite right;—then your uncle made you a present; it is the first time he has thought proper to remember that girls require clothing."
"He is very good, but he does not notice one's wants, as Mr. Glentworth did. It was Isabella who ​sent me a little bill by the Count. I was in a dreadful shabby state before I got it. Indeed my bonnet is so now."
"You may take mine; I mean the white chip I got at Brighton, for I must have a proper winter bonnet, and as you say I must go out and get rid of the weakness that hangs about me."
Georgiana brought home a check for the hundred and fifty pounds, receiving at the same time an earnest exhortation to persuade mamma to pay Mr. Palmer, on the fifteenth, from Mr. and Mrs. Penrhyn. On repeating the why and wherefore, as they had given it, she was gravely assured that there was no occasion to attend to their advice or their reason whatever. "In all cases where people lend money," said Lady Anne, "they consider themselves entitled to talk of the necessity of being exact in repayment and prudent in expenditure, and all that kind of thing; they feel their own right to be disagreeable, and very few omit it—therefore, when one can do it, it is better to beg than to borrow, for a giver (they are few in number, unfortunately) generally lays down the cash without comment. Poor Riccardini, I must say, gave me three hundred pounds, at Brighton, in the most handsome manner possible; generally speaking, no people give the contents of their purse so freely as sailors."
Georgiana had been what they call, in Yorkshire, ​"flamagasted" by the information Lady Anne gave her, having herself sealed the letter which conveyed her uncle's gift, but the word "sailor" recalled her scattered senses. "Suppose I were, indeed, married to dear Arthur; and when he came home from a long voyage, he should find that I spent all the money he had been gaining, poor fellow, so that he could afford to give nothing, and found himself in debt, how very shocking it would be! But that will never be the case with me or any of mamma's daughters; we all know the value of money too well."
As these thoughts passed Georgiana's mind, those of Lady Anne ran thus:—
"If I can make nothing of the marquis, either for Georgiana or myself, I shall have been dreadfully taken in, for undoubtedly that young Hales would have been the best of my sons-in-law. Glentworth, in taking two daughters, providing for another, and sending paltry bits of bills to the other two, thinks he does enough. Charles Penrhyn, knowing that money makes money, will always part with it like his heart's 'ruddy drops,' and the only advantage one has in getting any thing out of him, is the certainty that he can't prosecute. Now, sailors at times get prize-money to a considerable amount, and that young man might and would have respected my claims—then, if not noble, he is nobly allied, and if his brother should die, would come in at once. I fear much he has ​forgotten the girl by this time, otherwise I would now give consent. By writing a handsome letter, ascribing my refusal to a wicked report now proved to be entirely false (and which, if true, would have com promised the happiness of my most beloved child), I shall get over the matter in a way to prove me the best of mothers, and in time, it stands to reason that be will be grateful.
"There is no saying where he may be, but, if addressed to his grandfather, it would, undoubtedly, take effect; besides, if the girl were disposed of, the marquis would be less tempted, and more at liberty to see the advantage of a suitable match; even at the worst, if he must needs have a young wife, or none, I can send for Helen, who is perfectly at liberty, and, being really a sensible girl, must see at once how completely a marriage with the marquis would set her above all her sisters. One cannot expect every thing in this world, so if one gets the happiness she desires, another may be thankful for the grandeur she achieves. It would be hard, indeed, for me not to catch a single nobleman, after so ardently desiring at least three out of the five."
Lady Anne fulfilled her intention: she did not write a book, but she did write a letter, which she could do much better, and which was much more to her credit than her projected authorship. She also went out a great deal to evening parties, which increased her ​milliner's and silk mercer's bills to a great extent, but she did not accept dinner invitations, as she inevitably found that one additional glass of wine lost her a whole night's rest, and fixed on her cheek a hectic blush, more beautiful than agreeable. Happy was Georgiana when a summons arrived from Rotheles Castle, (the consequence of that letter, of which she was hitherto ignorant) because she trusted that her mother's native air in early spring could hardly fail to be restorative. Mamma would not allow, indeed, that she ailed any thing, and had been positively denied to the Count, (for whom she had still a lingering affection) because he insisted that she was far from well, and grew thinner every day, and, of course, even the most inexperienced of her children thought that something might be done, and ought to be done on her behalf.
We might expatiate on the literary parties to which at this period of her career Lady Anne Granard "did seriously incline," under the idea of becoming herself a bright star in the galaxy of "noble authors," but, as we do not want to gild refined gold, by extolling the highly gifted, and the truly agreeable, and still less to caricature our friends, and so paint little blemishes, that they become great eye-sores, we will leave such descriptions to those of keener eye-sight, and more satirical taste. Whatever might be the talents of the party, it is certain Lady Anne was ​always received with the most flattering distinction, few amongst the gifted throng had so learned to estimate their own pretensions, as to be critically inclined towards so fine a woman, who was the daughter of an earl. Unfortunately, however, though Lady Anne received the most flattering attention and the most eloquent compliments which ever met her ear, she could not consider herself as being in her vocation. To her a peer was more than a poet, and, had Gibbon the historian been present, she would have considered his friend, Lord Sheffield, infinitely the greater man; and, after being present at three of these reunions in the house of an honourable, she declared that she would go to no more, for one of the men, in consequence of something which she had said, pronounced her "a woman of genius," in the very same tone and style he had used when speaking of some American woman who wrote verses.
"Now," added Lady Anne, "I have no objection to be called a talented lady or so, because, without talents, no book can possibly go down, but to be termed a 'genius,' I cannot think of. At least, ninety-nine out of a hundred men of genius have been persons in what is called the middle ranks of society, and many from its dregs. I don't believe more than half a dozen aristocrats were positively 'men of genius,' from Chaucer to Byron. There was Sir Philip Sydney and Lord Surrey, Locke, and Boyle, and Bacon; ​quite a proportion, perhaps, because we have been few always; at this time, there are more than there ever were before, but still not enough for it to be agreeable to me to accept of such a distinction; in fact, I feel it to be a foreign order, as yet unauthorized by my own court."
END OF VOL. II.
LONDON: F. SHOBERL, JUN, 51, RUPERT STREET, HAYMARKET, PRINTER TO H.R.H. PRINCE ALBERT.