CHAPTER XXXII.
To the great alarm of poor Isabella, Mr. Glentworth did not return to the house where they had been lodged by Dr. Parizzi for several hours, and his appearance indicated in what extreme distress and utter abandonment of spirit he had passed the intervening time. Happily for her that kind friend had remained, and now busied himself in persuading him to take food and wine, and earnestly to exhort him, for the sake of her who had done so much, to exert himself, and not yield to sorrow.
But for him there was no peace; continual movement, and even absolute fatigue, seemed a necessity, and he proposed the next morning to set out again immediately for Naples, saying, "You have done miracles, dear Isabella—I am bound to you for ever; but I trust you will go with me immediately, for you will see that I cannot stay in this place whilst the funeral of Margarita is going on; besides, you require the solace of dear Mary's society."
"Then must her sister come to her, and certainly the sooner the better; but, as to a long journey, I protest against it," said the friendly physician.
"I am willing to remain alone. I have borne worse things than that lately; you can go without me."
Glentworth looked perplexed: "I certainly ought to go, for I must see Count Riccardini; how else can I fulfil my promise to poor Margarita?"
"She made you promise to be good to me, to guard me affectionately," thought Isabella; but she could not speak; her heart was very full.
"You must see all this, dear Isabella?" reiterated Glentworth.
"I do see that it will be better for you to go, my dear; but, as you cannot bring Count Riccardini hither, poor man, and your presence at his abode may bring him no good, and is sure to affect you severely, I think it a pity you should go thither. You must not cherish your sorrow; she begged you would not, for my sake—I ask you not to do it for hers; it is better to encourage no surmises, to recall no memories of the past."
"My remaining life must consist only of recollections," said Glentworth, flinging out of the room and the house with an air of utter recklessness; but, ere he had gone many yards, his heart smote him, and he returned with rapid steps, and, running into the room he had left, found Isabella, with her head laid on the table, weeping bitterly.
Concluding that his sorrow must be her sorrow, and that all who wept in the Eternal City must weep for Margarita alone, he placed himself on the sofa beside her, and putting his arm round her, caused her to raise her head, and he then began to console her by the commonplaces poured into the ears of mourners. Alas! poor Isabella wept for herself, for the blighted hopes, the gloomy vista of life before her—for that bitter mortification which told her she had laboured to no end, endured to no purpose, placed herself in the most cruel position ever occupied by any human being without obtaining the reward due to her love and her sorrow, due even for her humility. At length she said slowly, in reply:
"I do not doubt one word that you say; I believe she is happy, very happy. I am sure she ought to be an object of my envy now, as much as she was one of my love and admiration lately."
"Then you will not cry again, Isabella, in that terrible way."
"I never cry when I can help it, for mamma never allowed what she called 'puling misses.' God only knows how much I have felt in the last three weeks, yet I have not troubled you with complaints and tears! Of course, after receiving my cousin's last breath, listening to the last words she uttered, obeying her last injunctions at a hazard I felt terrific; to have another parting to go through is hard. But—I am not a child, Glentworth; I can remain, but I wish not to remain in this place. I am no longer the meet companion of di Morello's servants."
"What have I been thinking of!" exclaimed Glentworth; "we will go into our own house directly; it has been ready some days, and there are three servants in it."
This was soon accomplished, after which Glentworth set out; and, when the English couple were inquired for by the servants of the marchese, he was informed that they were already out of the country, having procured passports the day following that when the marchesa died. It appeared that the widower was almost distracted by the severity of his sorrow, and was about to bury himself in the retirement of his country seat, so that no fear remained on the subject of discovery, and Isabella really congratulated herself that she had been enabled to pay the tenderest attentions to a relation so much entitled to her affection as Margarita, and one who must for a long period continue to have an influence on her happiness through the way in which it would affect her husband's."
When Parizzi could spare an hour, he devoted it to showing her some of the many objects of interest by which she was surrounded, and she earnestly endeavoured, as she had often done before, so to store her mind and exercise her intellectual faculties, that she might become the more suitable companion for her husband; and, as she could not forbear to see that his late sorrows had taken a great effect on his person, streaking his full dark hair with grey, and planting premature wrinkles on his brow, she rendered the mourning she adopted proper for an older person, and in every respect determined to appear a suitable partner, trusting that he would comprehend her feelings, and in time reward them. She now knew what she had to dread; no circumstance could arise to her in future life so pungent in its inflictions as that which she had passed through.
Perhaps she was right; the more acute suffering was passed, and the rival in her grave was less to be dreaded than she had been in life; nevertheless, there was much to fear, for, when we are unwise enough to compare the living with the dead (since the grave hallows its victims, shrouding their faults and beatifying their virtues), the living are seldom deemed their equals. The impressions made in early life are so vivid, and those of poor Glentworth had been so reiterated and woven, as it were, into his nature, they were never likely to be erased, and his standard of excellence was so high, it was not to be expected any second woman could ever reach it till he had forgotten the first, who had all the advantages of his own young imagination to assist her attractions.
Isabella had this advantage, that the only person to whom she could speak at all, was one to whom she could speak freely, and who really felt for her. and acted towards her, as if she were a daughter, transferring the regard he had felt for Margarita to one whose meekness and firmness, unbounded love and unhesitating obedience, made him earnestly desire her welfare. That he understood her well, and spoke very tolerable English, was also a relief to her, for she could not continue her Italian studies in the absence of her husband, on whom she was continually thinking, to calculate when he would return, how he would look, and whether he would remember he had a wife, which at times she suspected he did not, as he would frequently start from the reveries into which he was accustomed to fall, and exclaim, "Ah! Isabella!—yes, yes; I remember now."
"Nivver sit and do thinking, it is very bad for youse; get the gay book, the journal, play some, sing some, look at the picture, youse have that ready in every chiesa. The hosban run over mountains, go here, go there, for kill the thinking; youse shall kill him at home for sake your baby; baby restore health and life to him father, love and joy to him mother. No think, no think, sweet lady," said Parizzi.
"I will do my best, I will be cheerful; I will look forward to better times; my dear sister is coming, and she will help me."
"Youse must help yourself, most peoples think for self, all men do, we cannot help it, we no know it is so, we will be angry when told it is, but in de truth it is in man's nature; the husband of youse he is noble and generous, he do me one large good, he give one grand fee, but he think of self; dat must not be grieve to youse, neither blame to him. Say in your heart, 'it is habit of bachelor, it is habit of years,' nivver think hard of him, nivver have sorrow for dat, take so much of happy as you can; give much happy to others; rich man's wife can always give de happy to many."
"To whom can I give any thing?" cried Isabella, eagerly.
"To the young mother and her babe, the widowed mother and her poor children. Will youse visit them? I will not take youse where sight or sound can hurt youse."
At his persuasion, she employed herself in visiting the widow and the fatherless in their affliction, not only to relieve them out of her abundance, but console them by her sympathy. Her own anxiety grew lighter as she considered their wants, and pondered on the means to help them; and although she often most gratefully thanked the dear husband who had given her the power to be bountiful, she ceased to dwell on him with restless desire for his presence, or a painful exertion of fortitude to bear his absence. She had been so happy as to meet with a physician who could "administer to a mind diseased," and did so far "raze out the written troubles of the brain," as to restore her health, which had been greatly injured, and give strength to bear the trial she must soon expect to encounter.
Far different was the state of her husband, when at length he returned to gladden her eyes with the sight of her sister, who was at this especial time as welcome as himself; he looked ill and dejected, and Mary observed, had done so ever since he had returned, except when they were actually travelling, when he became animated and sociable, the same dear pleasant man they had known him in days past.
Isabella had very naturally conceived a high opinion of the skill of Dr. Parizzi; and as he called upon her at least once a day, she thought it better to wait for than send for him, having observed that Glentworth insisted that he was not ill, and she therefore feared to offend him by officiousness, though he evidently expected from her much sympathy, saying, "that in one respect he had felt constantly the want of her society, as he had no one to whom he could speak of Margarita, except in the single day in which he had met poor Count Riccardini."
"Poor man, how does he bear his affliction?"
"Better on the whole than I expected, though he was dreadfully agitated on seeing me; he had expected the death of his daughter from the time her child died, it seems, and found great consolation in hearing what were her plans for himself, with which he wishes to comply; he will be here in a day or two."
"Here! what in Rome?" exclaimed Isabella, whose imagination conjured up a thousand terrors, in consequence of what Margarita had hinted of the Inquisition.
"This house will be his protection; you need not be uneasy about him."
Nevertheless, it will be evident that she would rather have been without a visitant of his sex at this time, and that he was the last person who should associate with her husband, if the tone of his spirits was to be restored, and her own situation, as the wife of his bosom, to be recognized; again her heart sunk, and the shadows of fear and sorrow settled on her spirits.
Still farther was the gloom increased, when, after many questions, Parizzi pronounced her husband suffering from a low fever, which was always accompanied by dejection of spirits, and would only yield to travel. "I would send you," said he, "into Greece or Egypt, any where in short where you had never been before, where the excitement should be great and the difficulties by no means few. Live in the air. get a poor lodging, scanty food, objects of great interest around you, and not unfrequently of apprehension also, and you will soon be better; at least I know no other way to make you so; nothing else will do, I assure you; nothing less."
"Perhaps," cried Isabella, forgetting her own previous conclusion, "the poor Count will like to go with you, dear Glentworth."
"He is too old a man for the kind of journey I mean. A servant who will also be a guide, a country abounding either in natural wonders or historical associations, and if rich in ruins and poor in luxuries so much the better."
"But surely he need not leave us far, for all that? Sicily has the wonders both of nature and art to excite curiosity, and from all I ever heard, it is wild and rough enough for any thing, and has never been explored as it deserves to be. Why should he not go to Sicily?"
"Why not indeed? I do really think the selection is admirable, for Etna alone is a world worth expending a life upon," said Parizzi.
"And I can follow you thither, and wander about with you, dear Glentworth, when I am well again."
"I believe the advice to be very good, and am sensible of being wonderfully better for the air, and even for motion, nor do I dislike the idea of going to Sicily: I have frequently wished to find the exact spot where the Grecian army beheld the water, for want of which they were expiring. I will go;" he cast his eyes on Isabella, whose very lips were pale with alarm, and added, "but not till you wish me to do so."
And, in truth, he did not for a time require the excitements or the troubles of travel, to tear his mind from a cherished sorrow, by offering a new interest; for Isabella, who well merited to be always such, did now recover her rights, and in the alarm which he experienced, Glentworth was led to believe that the anxiety and sorrow she had felt throughout her acquaintance with Margarita, and the shock given by her death, had produced an effect on her constitution which would render her present trial fatal. "She resembled her cousin in person, and would resemble her also in her fate," he observed to Parizzi, in a voice of terror.
"Take comfort, it was only in the voice and the features they resemble each other. Margarita was a spoiled child, and afterwards an adored wife—the mother, whose religious scruples denied her the great wish of her heart, granted all the lesser, rendering her (sweet girl as she was) capricious and petulant—her husband went still farther in worship and indulgence—your lady has not been ruined by such weakness."
"She has not," said Glentworth, as certain passages of lovers' quarrels rose upon his mind, which, however sweet when healed, had not given promise of that submission and glad obedience ever found in the wife, and he sighed, profoundly ejaculating, "poor Isabella!" and, perceiving he was again left alone, eagerly traversed the long drawing-room, hour after hour, in terrible solicitude—at length he was summoned: a living son and a living mother (though a weak one) were before him.
If there is a moment in man's life when he feels, profoundly and intensely, that he has a heart, it is at such a moment as this; and Glentworth, a man endowed by nature with the acutest sensibility, which of late he had fostered at the expence of sober and rational happiness, could not fail to experience the glowing gratitude to Heaven; the thankfulness, tenderness, pity, and love for his young wife, her late sufferings so justly demanded. To find himself placed in a situation he had so often contemplated as being the summit of all earthly felicity to a man of his description, and from which he had been so cruelly torn away from time to time, rendered his position as surprising as it was delightful, and a miracle seemed to have been wrought in his favour, as if to reward him for the sorrow of past years by the promise of the future.
He could have been eloquent in his praises of his wife, and the far sweeter praises of her fair boy; and much did he wish to apologize for every word and look (from whatever cause) that could by possibility have hurt her; but he was hurried away, lest he should injure her whom at this moment he could have died to bless.
Isabella recovered slowly, but her child was a thriving one, and became to her a source of such constant occupation and delight, that she urged her husband to set out on his projected journey. Much as he had desired to do so a week before, he now sought rather to elude the prescription than take it; but he soon found of a truth something must be submitted to, for his late mental disease had become bodily ailment, which would not yield to his bidding.
"You must go—there is no helping it now—you need not travel over such rough ground as I prescribed at first, nor seek at all hazards for excitement, for the cord that draws you homeward will supply it; but you must live in the air, and change it continually—we shall have malaria here, and I will soon get your family to the coast, where, in a few weeks, I trust, you will join them quite a new man."
Before he set out, Count Riccardini arrived, and it was evidently well for Glentworth that his departure was fixed, since the state in which the Count found the family was necessarily very affecting to one who had so lately lost his only daughter, and, having spent a few days with his son-in-law, had by no means been good for either of them. The doctor observed to Isabella, to whom alone he ever spoke English, "Youse countrymen have great advantaage in de politics, dey take away all trouble beside demself—make youse husben man of parliament so soon as you get him home; de contension in great house and de heir in his own house make him forget Italy and her grieves."
"I will persuade him to do so—a man of his abilities and large fortune ought to be in parliament," said Isabella, who constantly held Parizzi’s words as those of an oracle.
On resuming her drawing-room she became first pleased with and then sincerely attached to poor Riccardini, whom she called her "dear uncle," as did Mary also; for the word, though not the relationship, was familiar to them. To the bereaved husband and father they were dear and delightful—he had loved their father with all the enthusiasm of his country, and, having seen little of their mother, save as a beautiful woman doing the honours of her establishment gracefully, and looking on him even "in his low estate" graciously, he was kindly disposed to her and her's; perhaps secretly attributing (with a vanity common to very handsome men) her extreme anger at his marriage to a sentiment very distinct from the contempt it expressed, and he might suppose her misconduct as an extravagant wife was allied to the same cause.
We believe his conjectures to have been wholly wrong, but, be that as it may, the effect was so far pleasant that the sisters had the satisfaction of hearing their father warmly praised by one who knew him well, without a single hint which disparaged their mother, which was a delightful novelty. The Count was a kind and most intelligent guide to Mary during her short stay in the Eternal City, and, on their leaving it for Leghorn, a most desirable travelling companion, considering all the cares of the nursery with the tenderness and knowledge of one who had been accustomed to the subject—to Isabella he was the happiest of all acquisitions; "the only one," she said, with tears, "that could make me amends for you, dear Dr. Parizzi."
"Do not say de farewel, dear lady, I no like farewel—when come de ship wit smoke, I come see you in Inglon; I have good relation in London."
"You shall visit no relation, no friend, but me; remember, I claim you for my own—I shall have a house before then, of course, and it must be your house."
"Be it so—no say more; I will cheat myself, and think to call to-morrow."
Of Isabella it might perhaps be said, "some natural tears she dropped, but wiped them soon;" yet promised herself never to forget the many pithy maxims the good old man had uttered in the way of advice, nor the true kindness and support he had given in those trying scenes which would hereafter appear to her as the dreams of "romance rather than reality." Surely her after-life would be that of calm, yet, what some might call mere hum-drum happiness. She was young, but in a short time she had gone through whole ages of fears and sorrows. Was she not going through them now, for where was Glentworth?—how was his health?—had he arrived at Messina?
Some of these questions were likely to be answered, for the Count put into her hands a letter, directed, as agreed between them, to Leghorn.