Lady Anne Granard/Chapter 30
CHAPTER XXX.
This open exhibition of love and war did not take place, as may be supposed, the first year of Glentworth's visit, but it did on the second, when Margarita, having entered her fifteenth year, and being introduced into society, had become so attractive, that the timidity of the lover and the prudence of the man gave way, and his declaration was the signal of that unhappy strife which we have mentioned, and which involved every member of this little circle in anxiety and distress.
"We were happiest of the happy before you came amongst us," said the countess, in effect; "leave us, that we may regain our peace, and maintain our principles; we love and esteem you as a friend, but can not receive you as a son. To our only child we are devoted so entirely, that we must not give her to one whose example and whose tenderness (combined with her childhood's recollections of your country and my conduct) would in time be sure to seduce her from the truth. She has a great capacity, a love for investigation; she reads and thinks too much, and would become a victim to her reasoning faculties, the great error of Protestantism. In loving you she would love your creed, and would return to your church as to the friend of her infancy. You could not refuse her right to worship at the same altar, offer up the same prayers with yourself, and train up her children in their father's faith?"
"God forbid that I should attempt it! Though I would not invite her to join me, I could not desire to hinder her."
"Thus the soul of my Margarita would be lost; and how do I know that some terrible accident or wasting disease might not cut her off before my eyes, as the retribution due to the transgression?"
"Allow me to say, madam, that you lived several years in great peace and comfort with the Count, each party following different forms of worship, but both obeying that spirit of Christian charity which is above all forms—if you were not converted by the Count, whom you undoubtedly loved entirely, why should Margarita yield obedience to my more simple code?"
"Because it is more simple, and, in its simplicity, becomes sublime to a mind like her's—in my days of darkness I did not like the ceremonies of the church, but classed them with silly mummeries, hardening my heart against that which I did not understand—now you would have no such feelings to contend with; Margarita could not be disgusted with your inefficient, but interesting worship; on the contrary, she would embrace it with the proviso of aiding it by the adoption of the fasts, feasts, and ritual of her own church, so far as she could consistently."
"And, surely, such a worship, offered in sincerity and humility (the essence of all true religion) would be acceptable to God?"
The Countess would think long, but never finally assent; for, in truth, from her priest must the effective answer come, either to permit or refuse the marriage. Many causes operated to render a negative desirable. The country had been long harassed, the lands devoted to monastic and ecclesiastical establishments overrun, and sacred buildings were dilapidated, property destroyed which it would take many years to repair; and how could the estates of the last of his family (save one daughter) be better appropriated than in repairing the sufferings of the church? If deprived of her heretic lover, Margaret might hide her sorrows under the veil, by which means her salvation would be secured, and, in all probability, the now flourishing property of her father take the right direction. We cannot justly blame this line of argument, until we have been placed in the same situation with the good monks, and partaken their enthusiasm to rebuild the waste places of the land.
The language of Margarita was the reverse of that of the mother; she yet loved with unbounded tenderness—"In my love for you I have found a new life, not less sweet because it is dashed with sorrow; forsake me not, I beseech you, for my existence is bound in your's; when you leave me I should die, but for a constant correspondence, by which your heart may be moved to give all possible attention to the truths I may be inspired to lay before you—or, if your judgment refuse conviction, your love will be led into farther compliance; it is only when divided that each party will be able to consider how far we are able to live without the other, and what sacrifices each can make for the other—in six months mamma may be more yielding, and papa allows for me so much, in fact, loves you so well, that, be assured, he would not give me to a prince by compulsion."
The letters of Margarita were all that the fondest lover could desire, the eye of a poet linger on, but they did not contain the casuistry which could lead Glentworth to renounce a faith which he had now been led to examine in a manner he had certainly never done before. He was become so completely in love, and the pains of absence were so great, that he entirely overlooked the certainty that his marriage with a Catholic would occasion his uncle to renounce him, and would be a source of sincere sorrow to his friend Granard, though his niece was the object of his choice; but he could not fail to know that a man should think long and feel strongly before he openly renounced the religion of his country for one which closed to him many of the rights and much of the freedom it was that country's especial pride to bestow. He did not choose to abandon the position in which he stood, without seeing what it was—often had he admired the manly manner in which he had seen both French and Italian gentlemen enter their always open churches to partake the service of the hour, saying to himself, "let their religion be what it may, they are not ashamed of it, as we English too often are;" and he now determined to examine that which he professed as an Englishman.
The result was a full conviction that he never could become a good Catholic—he could love and honour many who professed the religion; and he could allow, unblamed, the wife of his bosom to hold its tenets, obey its precepts, and submit in part to its discipline—beyond this he could not go; and he well knew, that much less than this would be perfectly satisfactory to Count Riccardini.
Year after year passed by, and twice in each year had Glentworth spent several weeks in the same house with Margarita, either relighting the taper of passion, or confirming the warm admiration her distinguished talents and her virtuous conduct elicited: his esteem for her was perfect, and, although time tamed down in them both the more ardent portion of their love, the tenacity of their attachment seemed rather to increase, for the Countess had found it utterly impossible, even with the aid of the confessor, to make her daughter resign those dear interviews so fatal to her peace, even when she had proved they answered no end, save to feed
those flames which burn
To light the dead, and warm the funeral urn
In the mean time, the mother was literally breaking her own heart, in endeavouring to break the tie which bound that of her daughter; and the father, who ardently desired his daughter's marriage, beheld all her blooming years pass by without the hope of seeing his wishes fulfilled. The death of Mr. Granard affected his sister exceedingly; and the religious exercises she engaged in, on his behalf, threw her into so weak a state, that the visit which Glentworth made as early as he could after the news of this loss was received, showed him clearly that it would be the last in which he should be called on to listen to her exhortations and reply to her arguments. Poor Riccardini was distracted, between the dread of losing the wife he fondly loved, the hope that her death might realize the great wish of his heart, by giving Margarita leave to marry, and a fear lest she should be entrapped into taking the veil, which he well knew was a point often pressed by the priests, who might at present be said to be the only company admitted, to his melancholy abode.
The invalid lived much longer than was expected; and she so entirely won the whole heart of her idolizing daughter, that she prevailed on her to promise that she would never marry Glentworth for the express reason "that he would make her so excellent a husband, that his virtues would seduce her from her church, and that he would not allow her to bring up his children in the true faith. "She did not, however, even wish her to take the veil; she said "an act of obedience to her father, in becoming a wife, would be more acceptable to Heaven."
"I can never marry any other than Glentworth."
"You are mistaken, Margarita; your affection has been nourished by those frequent meetings, and that constant correspondence, from which I have vainly tried to divert you; the parting must now be entire and complete, for both your sakes, and the love still lingering will naturally expire. He is now rich enough, I should suppose, and will return to England, and, most likely, marry. I trust he will be happy; I wish him well. I forgive him fully the many years of sorrow he has brought on me, for he brought it innocently, and he has suffered severely. We will speak of him no more; I fully rely on your promise."
When Glentworth again presented himself, the countess had been some days in her grave; and he received from the bereaved husband and disappointed father information which for ever closed the dream of young love, the expectation of matured affection. He saw Margarita for a few moments only; she was like a faded flower, but her conduct was that of a firm or rather an exhausted spirit. In truth, she then believed that she had ceased to love; that the penances to which she had submitted had exorcised the demon, which it was her duty to expel.
This long, sad waste of life and happiness, though told in few pages, might, in its details of trying scenes, deep solicitude, fruitless argument, tender reproach, false hopes, hours of joy and years of sorrow, have occupied folios. It would have gone far to destroy life and unsettle reason, in the weaker one, if she had not been sustained by the cheerful love of her father, and occupied by her mother, with the unceasing ceremonies and amusing pageants of her religion. To Glentworth business supplied the necessary panacea; he was too upright to neglect that which involved the welfare of others: and he found the cares of the lover suspended or forgotten in the cares of the merchant, and the circumstance of continually shifting the scene compelled him to take "thought for the morrow," and by that means elude the pressure of the present.
He was, in fact, much better for being completely cut off from hope and left to shape his course as circumstances might direct, wisely determining never to trust himself again in Italy, and having, as desired, returned the letters of Signora Riccardini, received and burnt his own. He trusted his heart would hence forward be as free as his person. It so happened that he heard of the marriage of Margarita at the same time that he was summoned to England to take possession of his uncle's fortune; therefore, the cares of wealth devolved upon him at the very period when it became his duty to bid a still farther and an eternal adieu to every remaining care and thought of love; and, as he had arrived at that season of life when the "episodes" love causes to man generally subside, he might be said to enter on his new state of existence as an English gentleman, free to choose his own mode of seeking such happiness as a very enviable position in society afforded to a worn and disappointed, but yet a warm and generous heart.
The very circumstance of the Riccardini name being proscribed by Lady Anne Granard, would have taken him to her house as a safe resort; but he had loved her husband most sincerely—and, in proportion as he condemned her past conduct and pitied the privations of her situation, so did he sympathize with those dear young creatures who were wont to play on his knee, call him uncle, and kiss him for little presents of which he had not failed to keep up the memory by those which were of more cost, and came from a great distance, which the young generally consider a circumstance which enhances value. He was surprised at finding them become young women, especially Isabella, who was the "little one" when he left England, but had been remembered much better than any other on account of her resemblance to Margarita, and whom, therefore, he was impatient to see, when Lady Anne consigned her to the nursery for want of a second muslin frock.
Mary (as we know) was at that time nursing, or at least enduring, a secret sorrow, Louisa fostering a secret attachment; but the other three innocent girls were all delighted to see the dear young "uncle Frank" again, and could soon have been led to experience a more vivid sentiment if, as Lady Anne said, "he had been a marrying man," but the thought never entered his mind; when he saw that the children were become women, it reminded him only that he had become older in the same time which made the alteration. How that time had passed, how it had been lost or murdered, it were now vain to recall; his task was that of forgetting it, which was always done best among those he still thought and called the "dear children." To contrive for their present pleasures and their future comforts, was the business and amusement of his life; but we can hardly doubt that there was a certain tenderness in the tone of his voice, or a lingering look of his eye, when Isabella was near, which conveyed to her guileless and ingenuous heart much more than was intended. She imbibed a fond and abiding passion, the pains of which he could estimate only too well, and pity too tenderly. He could not bear to inflict on another the sorrows under which he had suffered so severely himself; and he took her, not because he loved her, but that she loved him, believing, at the time, that all other love, had been dead in his bosom, and feeling that the preference the dear child evinced would ever animate his bosom in her behalf.
After his marriage, under the peculiar circumstances already described, had he remained at home, enlarged his sphere of duties by entering into public life, or his acquaintance, as the head of a family, all would have gone well with them undoubtedly; but he had promised to instruct his successor in his duties, and could not honourably evade going to Marseilles, and the tour took place as we have seen. When at Marseilles, he heard, by chance, that the "Marchesa di Morello, once Signora Riccardini, had become the mother of a son, who died soon after he was born; that she was herself in very bad health in Rome, to which city she had removed in order to ensure the services of a celebrated physician."
Margarita married, and the mother of a son, seemed to startle the senses of Glentworth—strange! and sickening!—was she indeed the wife of another? "How could she have given the sacred name of father to any one, save him who had loved her so long and so constantly? who had borne so much for her sake, and was so closely united to her by congeniality of taste, feeling, and intellectual power—was she, really, gone for ever?"
It appeared as if he had heard with the ear, but not believed with the heart, till now, that all ties were dissolved between him and Margarita, whose image again rose as vividly to his mind's eye as if it were wafted by the wind, or brought by the sunbeam. He determined to avoid the possibility of seeing her, yet found it utterly impossible to return to England without knowing the actual state of her health, and the probability of her happiness; and after many a plan devised and abandoned, at length resolved to see her father, whom he always loved, and on whose information he could best rely.
During their stay at Civita Vecchia, chance favoured him so far, that he learned the physician under whose care she was placed was one who formerly resided near their own estates, whom he knew well in the first years of his acquaintance with the Riccardini family, and to whom he had himself been of essential service by recovering money due to him from the legacy of an English patient. To this gentleman he determined to apply in the first place, that he might on no account venture to reside in Rome till he knew how to place himself at the greatest possible distance from the establishment of the Marchese di Morello.
He learnt all that he wished, yet dreaded to hear. Margarita was hopelessly ill, yet not in immediate danger. "She married to please her father, and she is dying to satisfy herself. Had her child lived, it might have won her to the love of life, perhaps to the love of its father, for the marchese is handsome and clever, and fond of her to distraction. His own love renders him conscious of the deficiency of hers, but hitherto her coldness has been attributed to her mother's habits and manners; should he discover the truth, the volcano in his bosom would flame out to her destruction, in the state to which she is reduced. She knows you are in this neighbourhood, and would give the world to see you, if only for five minutes. She talks perpetually of entreating your pardon—of living only to be forgiven."
"Does she not know I am married?"
"Yes; she read it in the English journals, and being pregnant and unwell, it occasioned her to faint, which was attributed to an article headed 'Atrocious Murder,' on which the marchese determined that no more things of that description should enter the house. When better, she told me 'it consoled her that you had married a cousin, who resembled her, in your opinion, she knew.'"
Before Glentworth left Rome, a short note, as from a dying woman, was placed in his hand, confirmatory of her desire to see him, but despairing as to the possibility. It ended with these words,—"I fear we have both been mistaken in supposing that hearts bound together as ours were during the best years of existence could permit us any happiness in another union, but you, as belonging to the world, may one day find it, more especially when I am gone; and you can devote your whole heart to your wedded wife. Oh! that I knew her, that I could infuse into her my heart, imbue her with my imagination, and render her the girl you loved so dearly, and who was, alas! who is, your loving
"Margarite."