ISABELLA.

A NOVEL.

BY

THE AUTHOR OF “RHODA,” &c,

“Take, if you can, ye careless and supine,

Counsel and caution from a voice like mine.

Truths that the theorist could never reach,

And observation taught me,—I teach.”

COWPER.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN AND CO.

1823.

ISABELLA.

CHAP. I.

“Oh! these deliberate fools!”

SHAKESPEARE.

“Example draws where Precept fails;

And Sermons are less read than Tales.”

IT is advisable, therefore, that Tales should supply the place of Sermons; but it is not therefore necessary that they should resemble them.

These little Volumes do not, then, contain an illustration of mysteries, which, if they could be illustrated, would be no longer mysteries. Nor do they pretend to argue the plea of Faith versus Works — nor Works versus Faith. No! we leave such high and inscrutable matters to those who prefer the means to the end. We deal in simple facts; and present you with the veritable, and, as we trust, the delightful

HISTORY

OF

ISABELLA HASTINGS.

Isabella was the eldest daughter of Lady Jane Hastings, a widow, whose purposed web of life had been broken to pieces by the unexpected accident of her husband dying before his father. By this untimely, and, as Lady Jane always called it, unnatural event, the title and fortunes which had determined her choice in a companion for life, had eluded her hopes, and had rested with a younger brother of her husband’s. The several sons which had blessed the first period of the marriage had all died in their infancy; and several years having elapsed between the death of the last, and the quick succession in which she had presented Mr. Hastings with the three daughters who survived him, Lady Jane found herself, on his death, in the wane of life, without having made one ascending step from the rank in which she was born, with a limited income, and three girls, who, if they were to be countesses, baronesses, or even splendidly-established commoners, could only hope to be so by the favours bestowed upon them by Nature, or from the reputation imposed upon them by education. In the minute features of the loveliest babe ever born, it is beyond the skill of the most practised eye to ascertain whether the expanding form will be that of ugliness or beauty. Lady Jane was resolved to leave nothing to chance; she determined to inflict on the powerless victims every accomplishment that could adorn beauty, if such should be their happy lot, or which would most effectually countervail the want of it, were she destined to be the unfortunate creature who was to bring out to observation a train of Misses whom no one would wish to look upon.

From these motives Isabella, had received what Lady Jane called, “the best of all possible educations.” Not, indeed, in one particular, resembling those of the present day; where authority seems to have changed hands, and the child rules the parent. “Sic volo” was Lady Jane’s motto: and, as her maternal feelings were not of a nature to lead her to sacrifice the future well-being of her offspring to the indulgence of the present moment, she was not deterred by any harshness in the process from pursuing the end which she had in view. But who shall arraign the motives of parental fondness? She could only design the good of her children; and her indefatigable labourings to promote this good were so evident to all, that the least candid of her acquaintance could not but allow that the Misses Hastings were contracting a debt of obligation to their mother, that the most implicit obedience in their disposal in life, and their most devoted affection through the course of it, would but inadequately discharge.

Does any one ask upon what foundation so extensive a claim was rested? the answer is easy. No one could accumulate a greater variety of dancing and drawing, of singing and language masters for their daughters than Lady Jane Hastings had done; no one could have poured into their tender minds a greater portion of premature knowledge, and no slave-master could more rigorously have enacted the fulfilment of every successive task than had Lady Jane.

Nor let it be supposed that the moral of education had escaped the acuteness of her intellect. She well knew, when properly modified, how it might tend to enhance the merit of the more essential parts of her system; the additional brilliancy which the setting might give to the stone. Her moral was not indeed conveyed in the antiquated phraseology of the apostolic age, but she had many, if not unanswerable, reasons to prove, that it meant the same thing. If she dropped the motive “for letting their light to shine before men,” she enforced the duty. No one could instil into the tender minds of the pupils a higher respect for the “world’s good opinion,” nor a greater dread of its censure; nor could more eruditely instruct them in all the mysteries of a “dignified pride,” nor better inforce the sacredness of the duties that we owe “to ourselves.” If in the spirited acting up to the full sense of such instructions the confines of another’s pride were trespassed upon, or the duties that we owe “to others” were forgotten, the fault was not Lady Jane’s. Inconvenience must happen to individuals, but each ought to take care of themselves. So she had been instructed; by the rule which she now gave she had acted; and she imagined that she could plead her own success as a proof of the solidity of its foundation.

As the master architect, Lady Jane attended herself to the great outlines of her daughters’ education; the minor parts she left to be filled by the assistant governess. Her own time being fully occupied by seeing that the expensive attendance of the various accomplishment masters was not thrown away, or that the person during their absence lost not the ply which it had been the result of so much trouble to give it, she committed to Mrs. Obrien all the cares of religious instruction. Having made it an indispensable part of her recommendation that she should be “a member of the Established Church,” she modestly said, that she considered her as a person better fitted than herself to go into all the “detail of such matters.”––“Mrs. Obrien had been educated to understand them;” and indeed she had “no great fault to find with the manner of enforcing what she knew;”—“if there were a little too much point made of outward observances which sometimes encroached upon a time barely sufficient for all the necessary parts of education, or a little too literal an interpretation of rules and precepts which a more extended intellect would have taken in a more liberal sense, yet the error was on the right side. Provided that nothing more important was omitted, there was no harm, while girls were young, in being something more scrupulous, perhaps than others, of doing, what however all the world did, and what all the world must do in the end,—but the reputation of strictness had its advantages, and she must acknowledge that nobody could have nobler sentiments than Mrs. Obrien, or could better know how to instil them into her pupils; so that she hoped there would be no great harm done by a little preciseness while they continued in the school-room,—it made them more obedient there, and would soon wear off when they came into the world.”

Lady Jane had already begun to reap the reward of so happy an union of energy and supineness,—of vigilant watchfulness and dormant confidence,—of unbending control and modest acquiescence. It was agreed on all hands that Lady Jane was the most exemplary of mothers, and the Misses Hastings the best educated of daughters. Lady Jane drew the consequence, that the Misses Hastings would be the earliest and best established young ladies of the age, that is of the next—five years! Already she had a little foretaste of this supreme felicity in the disappointment which seemed to hover over the as strenuous, but, as she conceived, less well-directed efforts of her sister-in-law, the Lady Stanton.—Lady Stanton had a little preceded her in the race of bringing up, and bringing out, “accomplished females,” and Lady Jane having felt that the titled daughters of Lady Stanton had advantages beyond any which she could claim for her own, she had wisely appeared to waive all competition where she had little hope of victory. She had calculated, indeed, that the most formidable of these daughters would be disposed of before she brought any of her own under public observation; but Lady Charlotte Stanton had now “been out” the last three years, and she was Lady Charlotte Stanton still!—Lady Jane wondered how it could be!—for she was beautiful as an angel, or a goddess, or any other unearthly being which happened to occur to Lady Jane’s imagination when she spoke of her niece—yet perhaps it might be accounted for—she had always seen errors in her sister’s way of bringing up her girls: errors which she flattered herself she had kept free from. The difference would be seen.—Isabella, after all, might be disposed of before her transcendant cousin. Every body knew how strictly her daughters had been educated.—Lady Stanton’s system was different,—it might be right;—it might attract more admirers, but for her part she did not think it so likely to secure husbands.—Men liked women who had been used to obey; who would not always have a will of their own.—If she had taught her daughters any thing, it was the natural superiority of the other sex, and the necessity in all females to bow to it.—Men did not like to be shouldered by an equal every hour in the day; if they wanted amusement they could find it elsewhere.—A cheerful, quiet home, was what men sought for when they did marry.—Wives that had talents at their husband’s command, not such as were always seeking for public display. She was sure Lord Stanton was of her opinion — he had often said, — “we are wrong Jane, you are right — you bring up your daughters so as that they may make rational men happy —Lady Stanton educates hers as if they were never to know control.”

“She had endeavoured to deserve such approbation. She had educated her daughters for wives, and she did suspect they would be sooner sought than those who might perhaps have some outward advantages over them.”

These suspicions were swelling fast into hopes when she saw the first, the second, and the third year of Lady Charlotte’s “entrance into the world” come and go, without the great end of all Lady Stanton’s cares having been answered. These hopes broke out in a little civil triumphing; a little complimentary comparison of her own ways of education when opposed to those of Lady Stanton, rounded off with the candid acknowledgment, that “every body know their own concerns best;” and that “nobody could deny but that Lady Stanton as earnestly desired the establishment of her children as any body in the world could; but the issue would be seen.”

This prophecy was now upon the point of being accomplished. Isabella descended from the school room, and entered the arena where her cousin had been skirmishing for the last three years with so little success; and now the great problems of each of these relative, but rival families were, “whether Isabella would be established in her first season,”—or, “whether Lady Charlotte would be established at all.”

CHAP. II.

“I would not marry her, ’though she was endowed

with all that Adam had left him before he trans-

gressed.” SHAKESPEARE.

NOTHING could be more opposite than the characters of Isabella and Lady Charlotte. Isabella brought up under the strictest discipline, with the whole weight of parental authority unceasingly pressing on her imagination,—accustomed to have her performance severely criticised, and being scantily fed with praise, even when it was beyond the power of criticism to find fault, was diffident of her own powers, and cautious of bringing into open day either her inclinations or her opinions, yet acute, and endued with the most genuine and lively feelings, she felt more than she expressed, and knew more than she displayed.

Lady Charlotte, the spoiled Child, of a self-willed Mother, the victim at once of violence and indulgence, unconscious of the very meaning of self-government, estimating herself highly, confident, with fiery passions, and a cold heart, was quick to conceive, and ready to exhibit; but her acquirements were wholly superficial: it was the reputation, and not the acquisition of knowledge that was her aim. The mortification of others was the aliment of her happiness; the mortification of Isabella was peculiarly so: the indiscreet emulations of education had already established a rivalry between them, and however stoutly Lady Charlotte might deny it to others, she could not conceal from herself, that her three years’ seniority had not secured to her even the simple advantage over Isabella of being farther advanced in the various lessons that had been imposed upon each; she knew that Isabella excelled her in most of the shewy parts of education, to which she made the most pretence, and that in spite of the impediments that the modesty and feeling of Isabella threw in the way of its manifestation, her superiority would make itself felt whenever a comparison was instituted between them. Hence she had always both hated and feared her. Their personal attractions partook of the difference of their characters. Lady Charlotte was a Goddess.—Isabella was a Grace: passion flashed from the dark eyes of Lady Charlotte, love beamed from the intelligent azure of Isabella’s—the soft voluptuousness of Lady Charlotte’s browner tint intoxicated the senses, the modest purity of Isabella’s fairness gave repose to affection: Lady Charlotte might make a man mad; Isabella could only make him happy.

The moment was now arrived when the powers of each were to be tried by competition.

The gloss of novelty was something worn off from Lady Charlotte — she had been seen; — she had been criticised; — she had been appreciated, and — she had not been chosen! — she felt this.—She felt it the more when the garland which had not been offered to her acceptance, might any moment be placed on the brow of Isabella. They were relations, they were intimate acquaintance, they were nominally friends, and Lady Charlotte made use of the prerogatives of the latter character to draw the portrait of her rival with the pencil of knowledge.

“Who can know her better than I do? Dear, sweet girl! I wonder how she will succeed in the world? That odious Lady Jane has so bowed the poor thing’s spirit, that she has scarcely left her the power of knowing black from white. All that she does is so sweet! — so good! —so in rule! — that I am terribly afraid she will be thought dull; but she is not dull, I can assure you. Yet, if the truth must be spoken, there is something very like dullness in her feelings. None of that devoûment which marks the existence of superior spirits. Hers is not a superior spirit. How peaceably will she pass through life! While I —” The inference was easily made, and all acute feelers declared for Lady Charlotte. But more particularly did she desire to fasten this inference upon the imagination of Mr. Willoughby — the handsome, the fashionable, the agreeable, the rich Mr. Willoughby! —the desired of all beholders who had daughters to marry, and of those who wished to become wives themselves.

The dazzling charms of Lady Charlotte had powerfully attracted him: he seemed to be on the point of surrendering to manners so animated, and a display so imposing as scarcely to leave admiration an option: yet the magical words had not yet been spoken —he was still without the fatal circle — and a more powerful enchantress might rend asunder in a moment all the spells which it had cost Lady Charlotte so much pains and art to weave.

CHAP. III.

“Much may be said on both sides.”

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

“THE good horse is mine,” said Lord Burghley to Mr. Lascelles: “Willoughby weds, and the fair Isabella is the bride.”

“How do you prove this, my Lord?” asked Mr. Lascelles.

“Oh! as l’ami de famille, I am in the secret. Besides, I have this moment parted from Willoughby, radiant with joy and triumph.”

“Triumph!” repeated Mr. Lascelles: “what, over his own inclinations? I have lost my money, but I shall keep my opinion. I still maintain that he takes the woman he approves, rather than the one whom he admires.”

“The choice does him honour,” replied Lord Burghley.

“Do you mean to call him a fool, my Lord?”

“Is it folly, in an engagement for life, to prefer that which will retain its excellence through every period of it, to that which will only charm for a day?”

“I lost my money on a contrary calculation,” replied Mr. Lascelles; “and on what can approbation fasten in a school-room automaton, the creature of Mamma and la Governante? One who has been bribed to show no will of her own before matrimony, by the hopes of never submitting to that of another afterwards?”

“You do not know Isabella,” said Lord Burghley. “Yes, I do,” replied Mr. Lascelles. “I know her for a miracle of education! So much accomplishment, so much wisdom, so much propriety, at eighteen, is an artificial monster, that revolts me more than could the most hideous incongruities of nature.”

“Oh!” returned Lord Burghley, “if imperfection is your taste, Lady Jane’s education has left enough of that to satisfy any man. You might pursue your favourite plan of reform, even if this monster of perfection had fallen to your lot. I speak of natural qualities, not artificial adjuncts; and I repeat, that you do not know Isabella.”

“Better than she does herself, poor innocent!” replied Mr. Lascelles. She would not do a naughty thing for the world! Oh no! But she knows not how much undue restraint Nature has to indemnify herself for; not how far the bow must be bent the contrary way before it can attain its natural perpendicular. Besides, with all her timid bashfulness, I have seen a sparkle in the eye, and an arch play about the mouth, that tell me that Mrs. Willoughby and Miss Hastings will probably have nothing in common but the person.”

“You would then prefer,” said Lord Burghley, “the eccentricities, — the petulancies, — the stoutly declared will of Lady Charlotte, to the even course of propriety, and yielding spirit of Isabella?”

“Oh! for propriety and yielding, I give her no more credit than for the colour of her gown; the one is imposed and the other chosen by Lady Jane. The taste and the temper of women never declare themselves till after they are married. But for what is really their own, who would not exchange the softest smile that ever mantled over the ruby lips of Isabella, for one of those love-inspiring, though disdainful glances, that dart from the eye of the fire-souled Charlotte?”

“I would not,” said Lord Burghley, with emphasis, “if the suffrage of a sexagenary may have any weight; and it is plain that Willoughby would not. He may boast a little more penetration than you lay claim to, my friend; and probably may have seen enough of the taste and the temper also of the virgin, to resolve to shun the wife. And had not Dunstan been hoodwinked by something more than love, he might have seen the same, but he will find it out some of these days; for I have more news for you — Willoughby does not only marry Isabella Hastings, but Dunstan weds Lady Charlotte Stanton, and that in a fortnight.”

“What, our nouveau Riche?” exclaimed Mr. Lascelles. “And is the haughty Charlotte come to this? Yet I thank you for your news, my Lord: it has saved me some useless compassion. I was just going to propose that Mr. Willoughby should be hanged on the next willow tree, as a recreant knight; but, if the lady is not induced to hang herself in despair, I do not know why the false swain should be hung in terrorem. When the consolation is so near, and in such a form, the injury cannot have been great.”

“The injury,” returned Lord Burghley, “is just as many thousands as Mr. Willoughby’s income exceeds Mr. Dunstan’s, and no more.”

CHAP. IV.

“He offer’d the jewels, and gold in store;

So she gave her hand—and they said no more.”

OLD BALLAD.

“MY dear Isabella,” said Mr. Willoughby, as he sat playing with the shining ringlets of his young bride, “you are all that I can wish. The sweetness of your temper, and the elegance of your appearance, secure my happiness. Let me always see you thus good-humoured and well-dressed, and I shall have nothing to ask.”

Such, in the estimation of Mr. Willoughby, were the boundaries of matrimonial happiness, and such the means of securing it; and in marrying Isabella Hastings, he believed that he had given a pregnant proof how discreetly he could conduct this most important transaction of life. Ten years’ experience in the ways of the world, unchecked by parental restraint, and borne above the control of circumstances by the powers of an affluent fortune, had allowed Mr. Willoughby to taste of every stream that is supposed to flow from the fountain of pleasure; and at two and thirty he was inclined, with a much wiser man, to pronounce all that was vanity.

It is not, however, that in exhausting the relish for life, that we get rid of our existence; and at the age to which Mr. Willoughby had yet only arrived, he might reasonably reckon upon a long remainder, for the enjoyment of which it was the part of prudence to provide some substitute for the evanescent delights which had escaped his grasp. The provision to which he had recourse was matrimony, and he set about it with a precaution, and a spirit of calculation for which he gave himself the more credit, as it was the first instance of his life in which he had exercised either of those qualities. They did for him all that, perhaps, could be hoped for from such counsellors: they rather secured him from the mischiefs of the state than procured for him its pleasures. He had been too often in love to suffer love alone to decide his choice: he had gathered the flower and had found the serpent under it, and he rather sought to shun the rocks by which he believed himself to be surrounded, than hoped to attain that fairy land, where every sun is bright, and every gale is perfume.

In having seen much of the wives of others, he concluded that he must have learnt what to avoid in choosing his own,— for once he resolved to be wise, and, alike to the surprise of his associates, and to his own, he stemmed the current of passion which was carrying him rapidly towards Lady Charlotte, and, under the gentler auspices of approbation and reason, he married Miss Hastings.

In her birth and her beauty he found all that could justify his selection to the world, and believing that education had given her all the qualities that would justify it to himself, he looked no further; naturally concluding that what was itself so lovely, must be to him an object of love.

The motives that had determined Isabella in the acceptance of Mr. Willoughby, if they were not more natural than those which had decided his choice in her favour, were at least more simple.

The earliest impression that had been made on the mind of Isabella was, that she had the best and most sedulous of mothers, and the next was the intended purpose of all these cares and pains. Why had all the honest impulses of nature been held down that the surface might not lose its smoothness, or the figure its proportion, but for the one great end of female existence? and that this end should be accomplished in Lady Jane’s family, by the distinguished matrimonial establishment of all and each of the daughters? This had been the stimulant to industry, the promised reward of obedience, Isabella well understood all this, and knew that a failure in the attainment of the object so long, and so assiduously looked forward to, would not be pitied in her as a misfortune, but would be punished as a fault.

She therefore held herself ready to be sacrificed at the shrine of Plutus, whenever the maternal sacrificer should give the word.

Isabella indeed neither thought of the god, nor the sacrificer, nor the sacrifice. It was not by these names that she designated the immorality that she was prompt to commit — she called the whole thing “being established; and being established as mamma thought best.” — Thus, when in hearing of the proposals of Mr. Willoughby she found the purpose for which she had been so carefully educated likely to be so soon and so eligibly answered, nothing occurred to her but to acquiesce in the opinion which she had heard confidently expressed by others, that there was nothing to be done but to accept the hand that was offered her, and to rejoice that it was offered by a man whom she knew to have been the object of the hopes and fears of half her acquaintance.

She married: and was then at leisure to discover how far the having in possession all the requisites to matrimonial happiness of which she had ever heard, could in fact produce the result that had been promised from them.

Had Lady Jane been equally successful in petrifying the feelings as she had been in controlling the actions of her daughter, Isabella might never have discovered any error in the calculation which had made the destiny of her life. If she could have confined her affection to rich shawls and splendid jewels; if she could have gloated on the elegance and variety of her equipage; or have exulted in her well-fancied liveries, or her exquisitely decorated mansion, she might have been — no! —I will not profane the word — she would no more have been a happy woman than she would have been a rational being; but she might have been one of those animals who have no existence but in their senses, who sport and flutter in a mid-day sun, and who are chilled into annihilation by a passing cloud.

But the heart and understanding of Isabella alike forbad such a degradation. Nor could either one or the other have secured her happiness, had the splendours of life been presented to her by the hand of age, of folly, or of vice. As the gift of Mr. Willoughby, indeed, it is not to be wondered at if they dazzled her senses and confounded her judgment; if, in the first glow of exultation attendant on the sudden acquisition of all that she had been accustomed to hear spoken of as the ne plus ultra of life, she did not distinguish how little she held by the sacred bond of that appropriate affection which makes of two individuals but one soul, and how much she owed to the incidental circumstances of being the wife of a man of fortune.

Isabella found herself the happiest of women; and she blessed the prudence and foresight of her mother that had made her so. Hitherto, indeed, she had thought more of the conquest that she had made, than the return that it demanded from herself. She felt assured of the love of Mr. Willoughby, but had not yet asked herself whether she loved him.

It was one of Lady Jane’s maxims, that a well-educated girl would of course love the husband who had placed her above the level of her companions, that is, that she would love him “sufficiently.” But she could prove by a thousand arguments that there might be as much indiscretion in too devoted an attachment to a husband, in the wife of a man of fashion, as in the head-long fancy of any love-sick damsel by the side of a purling stream. She could talk learnedly of the various claims that people of distinction had upon their feelings, and their time;— of the duties that they owed to society; — of the immorality of suffering the Aaron’s rod of conjugal attachment to swallow up all that we owed to our family: with many more such erudite and original et cœteras, as shewed at once the acuteness of the intellect, and the softness of the heart.

Isabella had taken it for granted that she should love the husband that Lady Jane presented to her, and when she saw that husband the handsome and captivating Mr. Willoughby, she had no doubt but that she did love him, but as yet she knew not what it was to love, nor even the indications that might have assured her that she was beloved. How, otherways, could she have mistaken the even good humour, the laugh, the jest, the assured and easy approach of Mr. Willoughby, for symptoms of a heart trembling for its dearest interests, and doubtful how it should secure them? indeed, as Mr. Willoughby had made himself content with the acceptance of his offers from the mother, rather than sought to secure the affections of the daughter, he had in fact never had one doubt or fear upon the subject. He might have repeated the boast of Caesar, with a slight variation of phrase, He came, he demanded, —he obtained! — and, pleased with his acquisition, he resembled more a happy victor than a successful lover. But the settlements were now arranged, the equipage chosen, the jewels presented, and the moment approached, that for a certain time at least, the fiat of fashion decreed that Mr. Willoughby and his bride were to be all the world to each other.

On their marriage they had withdrawn to Mr. Willoughby’s house in Hertfordshire; the season was November, London was empty, and every publick place supplementary to the attractions of the capital, began to be deserted. Mr. Willoughby was no sportsman; seclusion with so beautiful and innocent a companion as Isabella was a novelty that for the time filled up every wish; and now indeed might she with reason have believed herself the idol of his affections: and now it was that she resigned her heart to him, so absolutely and so irrecoverably that neither circumstance nor time could henceforth restore it to her keeping.—He seemed but to exist in her presence; her wishes were his laws, and so sedulously was her accommodation or her pleasure anticipated, that if she were always to have lived only with Mr. Willoughby, it seemed that hands, and feet, and thought, would have been superfluous to Isabella.

How natural was it for a girl hitherto checked, controled, held down, without a choice even in the colour of a ribbon, or the power of command in the slightest instance, to be at once astonished and intoxicated with her situation: Isabella was both; but she was something more; she was abashed with the triumph that she believed she had attained. She could not believe that she owed such excess of happiness to any merits or charms of her own: it was the goodness, the kindness of Mr. Willoughby alone from which it flowed; and while she loved him the better for the thought, she became timid lest he should discover some imperfection in her, which might make her less worthy in his eyes, of that ardour of affection, on which she was now sensible that all her future happiness must depend. What now were splendour and riches to her?—to live always with Mr. Willoughby, and thus to live with him, bounded her ideas of felicity.

But was it so with Mr. Willoughby? — to him there was a world beyond Beech Wood. The first, the second, the third, nay even the fourth week was past, and neither satiety nor weariness had been felt.—Oh might it always be so!—thought the too well-experienced Mr. Willoughby — and he felt that the charm was broken.

The fifth week was ushered in with, “My dear Isabella, we must not always live so — I must not seclude you thus from the world — our friends will think that we mean to bury ourselves alive — it is really high time not only to enjoy, but to celebrate our union.”

Isabella thought that the enjoyment was the best celebration — but she did not say so — she was modest and retiring, and knew not how to presume to appropriate wholly to herself what she thought so well suited to make the happiness of many.

“It would indeed be wrong that you should live in seclusion,” said she.

“Oh we should neither of us like it,” replied Mr. Willoughby, —and began immediately to write his letters of invitation, desiring Isabella, that she would summon her mother and sisters to their Christmas party.

“We must have Lady Charlotte,” said Mr. Willoughby, “and — dire necessity! — that fool her husband too. That fair cousin of yours, Isabella, I fear has paid too dear for her whistle.”

“Why should you think so?” said Isabella. “I really believe that she likes Mr. Dunstan. At least, I am quite sure she chose to marry him; for she always did what she pleased, in spite of my uncle. Lady Stanton would never suffer her to be contradicted.

“Like Dunstan!” exclaimed Mr. Willoughby, “oh! no, that’s impossible. Lady Charlotte has better taste: take my word for it she knows that Dunstan is a low-bred fool; one who disgraces his birth, low as it is. He was a kind of a pis aller, I take it.”

“What, at one and twenty?” returned Isabella. “With so much beauty, with so many charms, as Lady Charlotte possesses?”

“You young Ladies,” said Mr. Willoughby, fondly patting the cheek of Isabella, “attach a great deal of glory to doing your business quickly. Lady Charlotte, with all her beauty, and all her charms, had seen more than one competitor who had started with her reach the goal before her; and I suspect that she was not unapprehensive of being distanced by her sweet little cousin here,” said he, gently drawing Isabella towards him.

Isabella coloured a deep crimson. All the petty jealousies and heart-burnings that had ever been between them rushed into her mind, and a consciousness that she had been complimented on having robbed her cousin of her favourite admirer, completed her confusion.

“You look terribly guilty, my dear Isabella,” said Mr. Willoughby. “What! You did not suspect that I was such an adept in the arcana of your sex?”

“Indeed I have no arcana,” replied Isabella, blushing, and even trembling, with the varied emotion, of fear lest she was lowered in the opinion of the man whom she loved, and eagerness to vindicate herself. “I have no arcana. Mamma, indeed, wished that I should marry early; but I did not care about it, except to please her.”

“I am most happy,” said Mr. Willoughby, caressing her, “that it pleased Mamma that you should marry me.”

“Oh! but that pleased me too,” said Isabella, timidly, and with her eyes cast on the ground.

It would have been well for Mr. Willoughby if at this moment his vanity had stood his friend, and given the whole meaning of this compliment to his personal qualities; but he had known too many machinating mothers and obedient daughters, not to allow his “rent-roll,” — “his princely mansion in the country,” — and his “excellent town-house,” their full share in the pleasure so ingenuously expressed by Isabella. He knew that choice had had no part in her acceptance of his hand; and while he gave her credit for softness and truth, he regarded her as too much the creature of circumstances to feel his self-love much flattered by an attachment which he believed that she would have felt equally for any man who had been her husband. He emboldened not, therefore, this first indirect acknowledgment of love on the part of Isabella by any answering tenderness on his side, but pursuing his arrangement of the purposed party.

“I know,” said he, “we may have Sir Charles Seymour. He promised to hold himself in readiness for the first summons I should give when his visit would not be an intrusion, and I suspect he may think it long of coming; and we will have your old play-fellow Burghley; he is a good-natured spirited creature, and as full of tricks as a kitten; and with George Stanton, and one or two more, the house will be full. If Eagle’s Crag were a little nearer we would adjourn thither, and enact such a Christmas as has not been seen since the days of good Queen Bess; but it would be a bad joke to travel into Westmoreland for the purpose, so we must do as well as we can in the more limited space of Beech Wood.”

Isabella was acquiescent; the house was filled; and she felt more from deprivation than accession, that she was no longer its sole inhabitant. But how could she wish it otherways when Mr. Willoughby had so many other claims upon his attention? Hers was not that sickly love which droops if it is not fed every hour in the day with sugar plums. She could indeed a little wonder that he did not appear to regret the uninterrupted intercourse which he had once seemed to estimate so highly; that she heard no more of the exquisite bliss of being “all to each other;” the joy of being “he the relator, she sole auditress.” She perceived that there were others to whom he could “relate,” and by whose attention he seemed to think himself well repaid. She felt no such changes in herself; yet she was not the less obliged to attend more to others. And perhaps this was the case with Mr. Willoughby also; only he had more command over himself than she had; he could appear pleased with what, perhaps, after all, he only endured:—it was a debt due to society. She admired him the more for being thus able to discharge it; she tried to imitate him, looking for her indemnification when they should be once again alone.

CHAP. V.

“Let observation, with extensive view,

Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife,

And watch the busy scenes of crowded life;

Then say how hope and fear, desire and hate,

O’erspread with snares the clouded maze of fate.”

JOHNSON.

IN the mean time the hours passed not unpleasantly; — the whole party seemed to be in good humour with themselves and each other; Lady Jane was at the acme of delight. The splendour, the elegance, the festivity with which Isabella was surrounded, she regarded only as the fruits of her own sagacity and management. She was willing even to undervalue the personal attractions of Isabella, that she might exalt her own talents in having made them produce more than their price.

“You see, girls,” she would observe to her daughters, “that it is not superior beauty that always succeeds best;—there is no denying that Lady Charlotte is handsomer than Isabella — at least more imposing — she suffers the powers of her charms to be less disputed, but what has all this done for her? after three years’ exhibition on her part, and all the manoeuvering possible on Lady Stanton’s, what is it come to at last? she had married, — what? a man of warehouses and manufactories. Not that I look down upon trade—God forbid! it is the sinews of the Nation, and the best houses in the peerage have been beholden to it. But this Mr. Dunstan? — so recent! so fresh from the shop! his manners so little purified! his clumsy opulence reminds one every moment of his only distinction, and the lowness of his mind shows how little worthy he is even of that. I am astonished my brother would consent to such an union; but he has such a tribe of daughters, and his estate is so encumbered! — the fault was in Lady Charlotte; and it all springs from the same source — education! education! — I always foretold how it would be, and now I hope you will acknowledge that I was right, and be sensible of the obligations that you all owe to my care. Three years’ experience has shown that a man of fashion would not have so self-willed a wife, and Lady Charlotte was glad to take up with the man that would. I hope that she will be duly thankful to him, but what would Lady Stanton give to call Mr. Willoughby her son-in-law.”

The young ladies could not but allow that Lady Jane had done excellently well for one daughter, and secretly hoping that she would be equally successful for the other two, felt a fresh flow of spirits, and anticipated enjoyment, as they looked around on ottomans and candelabras, on gorgeous liveries and elegant carriages. Of the two latter ingredients in matrimonial happiness it must be acknowledged that Lady Charlotte was by no means deficient; nor could it be discovered by any outward sign or gesture, except sometimes a slight movement in her beautiful lip when addressed by Mr. Dunstan, that she thought there was any thing wanting to make her the object of envy — never had her brow been seen so cloudless — never had her manners been so equal; every childish or school room emulation appeared to be forgotten. Isabella was her “dear cousin” — her “chere amie:”—and it was “we,” and “us” — and “you and I know, my dear,”––with every other phase of familiar intercourse and appropriate liking, that bespoke the friendship of near relations and chosen companions.

How wonderfully is Lady Charlotte improved by her marriage! thought Isabella — I am quite convinced that she has done the thing she liked; and now that she is at ease, as to her establishment in life, we shall see no more of those hot and cold fits, those uncertainties and carprices which used to make her so intolerable — as we must be much together, the change will be greatly to my advantage.

Yet when Isabella heard and saw Mr. Dunstan, certain doubts came across her mind!—“Was he not all that Lady Charlotte had been accustomed to ridicule and despise?—his plebeian birth, his ludicrous deference for all that was great, even the creeping devotion which he paid to his titled wife, she should have supposed would have been of all things revolting to her high and disdainful spirit.” These doubts were not weakened by a certain turn of Lady Charlotte’s eye, which Isabella knew well, and which, although it appeared now to be put more than usually under control, seemed to say that Lady Charlotte’s present forbearance rested on no sound foundation; nor did she think this the less for the pains which Lady Charlotte took to magnify all Mr. Dunstan’s supposable good qualities, and her eager recommendation of him to Isabella’s approbation. Isabella suspected that so much unnecessary pains, had the merits been real, must arise either from Lady Charlotte’s consciousness that they did not exist, or for the purpose of keeping the object of them in good humour, as a froward child is bribed to behave well in company. In all their driving or riding parties Lady Charlotte laid claim to Mr. Willoughby, while she would consign Isabella to Mr. Dunstan, with, “do, dear Isabella, accompany Mr. Dunstan, you are such a favourite with him!”—but Isabella would not be so consigned; and there were others who would have disputed the consignment, had she been willing to have submitted to it. There was the young and mirthful Burghley, — the companion of her childhood, the nephew and heir to her never-failing friend Lord Burghley; — there was Sir Charles Seymour, the well-bred, the fashionable Sir Charles Seymour; whose civilities, always well-placed, were never obtrusive; who outraged no decorum, affected no superiority, was at the disposal of every body, and passed for the best tempered and most obliging person in the world. With such aids-de-camp Isabella found no difficulty in eluding the awkward attempts of Mr. Dunstan to establish himself as her professed attendant. She had always to plead a prior engagement to Sir Charles Seymour; or some wild trick of the boyish Burghley threw him so intirely out of his play, that, as he sometimes observed, with mingled resentment and surprise, “Mrs. Willoughby had never, no not once, tried his curricle, though he might say, without a boast, that it was the first curricle going, and so said his friend the Duke; and Lord L. ‘absolutely could not conjecture how he could get such a one: nobody else had any thing like it;’ — and no doubt that was the simple truth; for nobody but himself knew how to give proper directions about such things; few people indeed would or could go to the expence necessary to have such a complete thing;—if Mrs. Willoughby would but once try it, she would soon see the difference; for, certainly, though every thing that Mr. Willoughby had was elegant, fashionable, and dashing enough, the ease of the thing was what he did not understand, indeed he might repeat it, that nobody did but himself.”

“Happy Lady Charlotte!” cried Burghley, in a tone which made Lady Charlotte frown, and every body else laugh.

But although Lady Charlotte had the mortification to see that Mr. Dunstan was more truly appreciated by her simple cousin than she had hoped might have been the case, and that, still worse, this cousin was also more highly estimated by others than her invidious praises, and the air of protecting superiority which she assumed towards her, were likely to have allowed, yet she was sufficiently successful in drawing almost the whole of Mr. Willoughby’s attention to herself. The field was, indeed, entirely open to her. Isabella was, by all the laws of fashion and hospitality, quite out of the question; and her sisters were the sisters of Mr. Willoughby also; so that, farther than, “Pray, Burghley, take care of Isabella,” — “George, you must be Harriet’s beau,” it could not be expected that his gallantry would extend in that direction. And thus, as Lady Charlotte was left the undisputed property of Mr. Willoughby in every morning excursion, so she became the paramount object of his care, that the evenings should pass in the way most agreeable to her. A word from her decided between music, dancing, or cards. The latter she usually left to those whom she designated as invalids; amongst which number her husband was invariably one. “Heaven knows,” would she say, “he has no music in his soul.” “His knowledge in that delicious science was not one of the good parts for which she suffered love for him.” “It was a great treat to her to sing and play to one who could understand her.” She seized therefore generally on the instrument, and calling Mr. Willoughby to her side, sometimes employing him in turning over the leaves of the music-book, and sometimes inducing him to join his voice to hers, she would keep possession of him for hours. In vain would Mr. Burghley declare that Isabella could sing the song better, or Sir Charles Seymour gently inquire, if there were not another instrument? Lady Charlotte was equally deaf to both. “Let us go on,” she would say to Mr. Willoughby; and she would say it with so expressive a tone, and a look of so much favour, that it was not in man to say no.

Isabella was too modest even to wish to enter the lists with her; and Lady Jane, who was rather an ambitious than a vain mother, more proud of her own management than pleased with her daughter’s acquirements, was careless whether or no Isabella spread her nets, now the fish was caught; and as for her other two daughters, there was no one of the present party whom she could either wish or hope that they would attract.

Mr. Burghley she thought too young, and too dependant; Sir Charles was too wary; and cousin George Stanton was poor, and a gamester. Nor was there any thing more hopeful in the fleeting guests, who came and went, tarrying but a day. Lady Jane, therefore, let every thing go on without any interruption from her, provided only that she had her rubber at whist. This Isabella always took care to arrange as much to her satisfaction as she possibly could. George Stanton would rather play a half-crown game than none at all, especially as he was sure to find a ready acquiescence from Mr. Willoughby to any bet he could propose; and Mr. Dunstan, who played whist well, and who was not unversed in any of the accumulating advantages of small gains, was always to be had; but Mr. Burghley and Sir Charles Seymour were equally immovable whenever she talked to them of the card table, except she would make one of the party. To this nothing but the necessity of securing Lady Jane her favourite amusement ever induced her to do; for though she could sacrifice her own pleasure to that of her mother, yet she had in fact but one point of attraction in the whole circle by which she was surrounded.

Of Mr. Willoughby’s various ways of pleasing, all were equally new to Isabella. Before marriage she had seen him handsome, gay, acquiescent; she had known him since as a passionate and doating lover; and perhaps in this, the nonage of her reason, she might have been best pleased had she never advanced one step farther in her knowledge;—but there is nothing stationary under the moon. Mr. Willoughby must be something more or less than a lover. Isabella must know him in all the various lights that society throws upon the character. She must see him abide the touch stone of moral feeling, — she must hear him recognize the obligations of a responsible being, before she could judge whether or no “her lot was cast in a fair ground,” whether, indeed, she had “a goodly heritage.” Of all this, at present, she knew nothing; but she hourly gained some light on subjects so interesting; the social qualities were now under her observation; and Isabella proudly compared her destiny with that of Lady Charlotte’s.

Could there, indeed, be a greater contrast than between the gay, good-humoured, and accommodating Willoughby, and the solemn, morose, and immoveable Dunstan? — between the intelligent good-breeding of the former, and the pedantic civility of the latter? between him who estimated himself by his personal qualities alone, and him who valued himself only on the weight of his purse? — in a word, between the gentleman by birth and education, and an upstart who held his place in society by the money he spent there?

It was not, however, necessary that Mr. Willoughby should have had so deep a relief to have brought all his engaging qualities to bear full on the mind of Isabella. Without comparing him with any other, her eye followed him with delight through all the various exercises of the day;—she could have wished herself the object of every civility, or act of good-will, that he showed to each of his guests; and in the evenings she sat intently listening for the sounds of his voice as they sometimes mingled with Lady Charlotte’s, or made audible some gay remark, or acute observation; but nothing of jealousy or mistrust made a part of her feelings. To her he was never wanting in a kind word or look, a gentle pressure of the hand as he passed her, or a fond caress when no eye was upon them. All the time that he gave to Lady Charlotte Isabella knew to be no more than is customary for the master of the mansion to dedicate to the female guest of the most distinction, yet she could not but wish that all this would come to an end, that the festivities of the joyous Christmas should cease, that they should repair to town, — where, as she knew, they might live much more to themselves if they wished it, so she had not a doubt but that Mr. Willoughby did wish it, as earnestly as she did herself.

CHAP. VI.

“Oh! how the spring of love resembleth well

Th’ uncertain glory of an April day,

Which now shews all the glory of the Sun,

And by and by, a cloud takes all away.”

SHAKESPEARE.

AT last the desired moment arrived. The party at Beechwood broke up, and Isabella took possession for the first time of her town house: that house which had made so prominent a feature in the enumerated advantages of her projected marriage. Two months before, it is possible that she would not have thought its consequence overrated; but the novelty of having servants and carriages at her command, of being surrounded by costly mirrors and silken draperies, all her own property, as had been so often emphatically insisted upon, was already worn off; her eye was satiated with them, and her ear weary of hearing of their omnipotency. Her heart had spoken, and it required as the sine qua non of her happiness, that she should be the first, the declared, the undisputed object of her husband’s affections.

We are again alone, thought she. Again we shall be every thing to each other.

But the days of Hertfordshire returned no more!

Mr. Willoughby had morning occupations and evening engagements, in which Isabella had no share. There was certainly nothing extraordinary in this, and they were also not unfrequently together; but they were also often apart, and apart when it appeared to Isabella that it only depended upon Mr. Willoughby’s wish that they might have been together. But Isabella would not allow herself to believe that there was anything wrong in a creature who was to her so charming: she was rather inclined to doubt the force of her own attractions. She was unused to flattery, and the rigid manner in which all that she had been taught had been invariably judged, made her more alive to her own imperfections than to the points in which she really excelled others. How little, she thought, could she hope to be sufficient in companionship to such a man as Mr. Willoughby! She half envied the volubility of Lady Charlotte. He was all kindness! all goodness! and if more variety was necessary to him than to her, it proceeded only from the superiority of his acquirements, his more extended occupations, the larger number of human beings to whom he could give pleasure, or from whom he could receive it, and the ever-recurring opportunities of such communication. But if she had less of his company than during the first weeks of their residence in Hertfordshire, if she had not so much of it as even in London she thought might have fallen to her share, other proofs of his love seemed to arise, to supply the place of those which she, perhaps, too sensibly regretted.

Her entrance into the fairy palace of which she was henceforth to be the deity, had been hailed by the most gay and splendid festivities, professedly given to celebrate the event of her nuptials. Nor was the feast that was spread before her the feast of Tantalus. Her kind, her fashionable husband, had said, “pluck, and eat;” and in the unbounded indulgence, and the exuberance of pleasure, that Mr. Willoughby pressed upon Isabella, she still persuaded herself that she recognised the fervour of that passion which it so much flattered her heart and her vanity to believe that she had excited.

She felt, however, something of disappointment, when she observed that she was more unrestrained, than fostered — more allowed to please herself, than the object of pleasure to her husband; and that, provided he met her “well-dressed” and “good-humoured,” amidst a score of “his friends,” at his own, or some other festive board, he seemed little to concern himself how she disposed of herself in the interim. She could not now wholly solve this mystery by any doubt of her own powers of charming. She was now come forth into open day, and she had hourly proofs that the more she was seen the more highly was she appreciated. There were countenances that brightened with delight whenever she appeared; there were those who hung with rapture on every word that she uttered. She made dangerous comparisons: she might have felt dangerous regrets, had she not fortunately entertained in reality that passion for her husband, that she so mistakenly imagined that he must feel for her. It was this sacred feeling which, like the charmed gift of some benignant fairy, bore Isabella safe through the dangers by which she was surrounded: for as yet Isabella had no principles. Between the worldly maxims of Lady Jane, and the “grand sentiments” of la Governante, Isabella felt herself perpetually impelled different ways. Her morality was a “chateau en Espagne,” — beautiful in its parts, but destitute of the proportions of virtue, or the stability of truth. Without one evil propensity, with a vague notion that nothing was lovely but what was right, her good name below, and her eternal happiness above, were at the mercy of the accidents of the day, — of the forbearance of others, rather than secured by any guardianship of her own.

The perils of her situation seemed to increase hourly. Isabella could no longer conceal from herself that she was the last object on whom the attentions of Mr. Willoughby were bestowed; that her approval or admiration was the approval or admiration that he was the least solicitous to secure. It was no longer to her that the eye of Mr. Willoughby was directed in the hope of being understood; it was not to her that the half-word which implies mutual understanding was addressed; the smile of intelligence had ceased to pass between them; nor did it seem that either her gaiety or her gravity retained any influence over the feelings of Mr. Willoughby. Could this growing indifference proceed from satiety, or preference to another? Each alternative was nearly equally painful; and the state of mind which the continual debating this anxious point produced in Isabella, was peculiarly fatal to her interests; it robbed her of her gaiety, and induced such a mistrust of her power to please as gave a timidity and reserve in her intercourse with her husband, which led Mr. Willoughby to the falsest conclusions as to the extent of her understanding, and the feelings of her heart. Although a wife she scarcely dared to express an opinion; and she ventured not to obtrude her love. The change was strange and direful; and Isabella drooped under it until she seemed almost to realize the imputation of coldness and apathy which Lady Charlotte industriously laboured to affix to her character.

CHAP. VII.

“Then she plots, then she ruminates, then she de-

vises; and what they think in their heart they may

effect, they will break their heart but they will effect.”

SHAKESPEARE.

IT was now that the bold game of that daring and unprincipled woman began to display itself. All of either fear or hatred that the rivalry of their childhood and youth had engendered in the breast of Lady Charlotte, was mild to what she had felt when at the moment that she believed she had secured to herself the hand of Mr. Willoughby, she saw it wrested from her by the machinations of Lady Jane Hastings, and given to the person in the world over whom she most desired to triumph. His distinction had not only excited her ambition, and flattered her vanity, but it had engaged her fancy; and had she had a heart to have been touched, it might probably have reached even that. She almost persuaded herself that this had really been the case; and willingly mistook the rage of disappointed pride for the mortification of slighted love. What vengeance could be too great for offences so atrocious? According to her own statement of the case, she had a heavy account, indeed, to adjust with Mr. Willoughby, and she promised herself most solemnly that he should not escape from her toils till he had paid the uttermost farthing; —but it was not with Mr. Willoughby alone that she had to reckon. If he had to account to her, she had to account to the world. She had given the pledge of superior charms, and superior pretensions, not very modestly veiled, that she “would not be one of the common herd of young ladies, who flutter and glitter for a few seasons, and are heard of no more.”—To continue Lady Charlotte another winter would be annihilation!—to behold Isabella established before her would be distraction! and yet she was conscious that a few more passing months, and these double horrors of her fate would be realized. At this agonizing moment Mr. Dunstan appeared like a guardian angel. Lady Charlotte paused not an instant. Assured of the reality and extent of his wealth, and confident of her own power to make it take whatever form would please her most, she thought not of his birth, his manners, or his mind. To prove to the world that she had not looked up to Mr. Willoughby with a hope that had been disappointed, and to precede Isabella in the matrimonial career, engrossed all the powers of her understanding, and controlled every feeling of her soul. Motives so interwoven with all that she felt, made the distinctions of life, — could even suspend her natural character, — could make the fiery Lady Charlotte mild, — the disdainful daughter of an Earl smile upon the son of a manufacturer!

On this occasion Mr. Dunstan could smile too; for he was not only enamoured of the beauty of Lady Charlotte, but he also was going to gratify the ruling passion of his soul, if a soul he had — he was going to be allied to nobility! — It was not therefore to be wondered at, if, with such incitements on each side, that Mr. Dunstan and Lady Charlotte pressed forward with such eagerness to the goal of matrimony, as to distance the more methodical and philosophical pace of Mr. Willoughby, who was only “going to be married.”

Lady Charlotte was a bride three whole months before Isabella became so, and so ably did she know how to turn the tables on Mr. Willoughby, that her friends boldly asserted, that it was her refusal of his hand that had given it to Isabella.

Isabella also had her partisans, and her flatterers. The fact was as stoutly denied on the one side, as asserted on the other. The advantage of the victory was not sufficient without the glory of it; and that both belonged to Isabella, the matrimonial destiny of Lady Charlotte was appealed to as an undeniable proof.

It could not be the result of choice; — “what judgment could step from this to that?” —“it was a dernier resort” — a “pis aller” — a flat acknowledgement that Lady Charlotte had been rejected, and Isabella taken. Lady Charlotte was not so destitute of friends as to be left in ignorance that such unpleasant truths were abroad. She tossed her lofty head on high, and affected to despise them, but they shed fresh venom upon the already rankling wounds of mortified vanity; and while she felt herself compelled to rebut such degrading insinuations, by putting a strong rein on the contempt and dislike that she felt for Mr. Dunstan, her hatred to Isabella, and her desire of vengeance upon Mr. Willoughby, were multiplied tenfold. To shew him how ill he had chosen, and to sting him to the heart, became the master movement of her soul, and provided that he was miserable, and Isabella degraded, she cared not at what price or evil to herself.

Living in the same society, and associating with the familiarity of relations, there was scarcely a day in which Lady Charlotte had not the means to mortify Isabella, or to spread her allurements before Mr. Willoughby. Isabella felt that she was held down in her presence; yet all was done with so much apparent carelessness and freedom from design, that she knew not of what to complain — all seemed to proceed from her rival’s superiority in the art of charming — and this superiority seemed to be hourly establishing itself more firmly in the only place where it would have given Isabella much pain to have allowed it. This was, however, a new feeling. Isabella had hitherto felt herself strong in the preference that had been given to her over Lady Charlotte by Mr. Willoughby, and it was not likely that she would, in the present circumstances, yield to her whatever she might have done to another, without a struggle.

Something beyond the general satisfaction that her self-love had experienced on being chosen by so distinguished a person as Mr. Willoughby, had been felt by Isabella, from believing that she had been deliberately and particularly preferred to Lady Charlotte—her flatterers had not left her ignorant of the fact, and the triumph had been boasted of by others, until poor Isabella had been too much a partaker of it. On this weak side, her boasted education had not only left her vulnerable, but had even been calculated to lay low all those defences that the natural rectitude of her mind might have furnished her with. To excel Lady Charlotte was a precept: — to take pleasure in seeing her humbled was a natural consequence which had not been guarded against.

She knew that she had always excelled her in all their youthful competitions, and she considered her own superiority as no longer to be disputed, when, in the question who was most worthy to charm a man of taste and refinement, Mr. Willoughby had decided in her favour. — Of all her acquaintance Lady Charlotte was perhaps the last of whom Isabella could have been persuaded she should have become jealous.

How acute was then the pang that wrung her heart, when from wondering, doubting, fearing — she could no longer withstand the conviction, that although the conversation of other females might be preferred to her own, that of Lady Charlotte was preferred to all the rest?

The vanity, the pride, the ambition, and the selfishness, that the mode of education to which Isabella had been subjected is so peculiarly fitted to engender, were on this conviction called into action in a moment; — and as quickly did the injunction, which she had so often received, “not to be wanting to herself,” occur to her recollection.

“What is this potent charm, thought she, that is to sink me into nothingness? Lady Charlotte has known my superiority, and she shall again know it! —It shall be seen whether I cannot rival her in all that seems to make her so charming in the eyes of him who no longer sees any charms in me. — My dress may be as studied — my taste as fastidious as hers; — like her I can be capricious — and like her I can prove my right to homage by encouraging numerous worshippers. Oh Willoughby! — and can this be the woman you prefer? — as a wife you rejected her; for what do you now seek her?”

The uncontrollable tears of bitter anguish rolled down the cheeks of the miserable Isabella; the hasty sparks of anger and revenge were extinguished—she trembled at her own thoughts, she shrunk from her own purposes — the rectitude of her heart revolted from the maxims by which she had been taught to regulate her conduct. It cannot be right, though she, to do wrong; — and would it not be wrong to do that from resentment, which my softer feelings condemn? yet what can be wrong that shall appear acceptable to my husband? what can be unfair that can aid me to preserve a heart so justly due to me?

CHAP. VIII.

“The Devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.”

SHAKSPEARE.

ISABELLA’S carriage was at the door; she was going out. “Drive,” said she, “to Mrs. Nesbitt’s.” “She is the best woman in the world, thought she, as the carriage moved on. I have heard Mamma say so a hundred times; and she knows what is right, and what the world will think to be right. And then she loves me so well, and is so ready to enter into all that concerns me. And she does not love Lady Charlotte. And she is so acute, that I shall have no occasion to say three words before she will see into the bottom of the grievance. How often has she penetrated, nay, even anticipated my thoughts. I cannot have a better counsellor.” Again tears filled the eyes of Isabella. “What am I about to do? thought she. Shall I confess that I fear Lady Charlotte’s influence over my husband? Shall I complain of that husband? I ought better to consult my own dignity: or rather, I ought better to consult my own heart. I will call upon Mrs. Nesbitt, but I will not say a word of my unhappiness; it may not be so confirmed as I think. Yet last night! Well, I will see farther.”

As Isabella made this wise resolution, she entered Mrs. Nesbitt’s boudoir, and was received by that friendly lady with a violent exclamation —

“My dearest Mrs. Willoughby! how pale you are! And there are tears absolutely in your eyes! You, my dear! can you have any thing to afflict or vex you?”

“Why should you suppose that I have either?” said Isabella: “I was up late; and the high wind —

“Don’t tell me of being up late, and the high wind,” interrupted Mrs. Nesbitt, which the familiarity which her age and her intimacy gave her a right to assume in her intercourse with Isabella. “My dear child, I have known you too well and too long not to read your very soul in that ingenuous countenance of yours. I know what is the matter. Yes, yes, I saw it all; although I was resolved not to say a word till you mentioned it to me. Never was there such a flirtation scene! It was quite abominable! And that passive husband to stand by and bear it all! as if an earl’s daughter could not do wrong. But the eccentricities of the beautiful Lady Charlotte, I suppose, are to be the excuse for all. She is to be judged by no common rules, I presume.”

Isabella burst into tears.

“And was it indeed so evident? And did you indeed see what I thought that no one but myself had seen — that is, had observed?”

“We must live in a better-natured world than we do for that to have been the case,” returned Mrs. Nesbitt. “Yes, it was evident enough; that must be confessed; but perhaps not so much noticed by any one as me, because there can be few who take so much interest in you as I do, my love.”

“And were you not surprised, my dear madam, that the very woman whom —”

“Your husband refused six months ago,” interrupted Mrs. Nesbitt, “should be the object of so much gallantry to that very husband? That is your question, my dear. And my answer is no: not in the least. Nay, never lift up those beautiful blue eyes in such astonishment. What man, with one grain of understanding, would have made Lady Charlotte his wife? And what man, who has his five senses, but must admire her?”

“Was it then only Mr. Willoughby’s understanding that chose me?” said Isabella mournfully.

“Look in the glass, my love,” replied the obliging Mrs. Nesbitt, “and answer yourself, even though you do look pale.”

“Ah! madam,” said Isabella, blushing, “I have heard such flattery before, from lips even more persuasive than yours; but what avail charms, the influence of which is so fleeting?”

“The influence will not be fleeting, if you know how to make use of it,” — returned Mrs. Nesbitt.

“Oh, teach me,” cried Isabella, “that most valuable of secrets, and take my everlasting blessing with you!”

“Why, my little novice in the ways of the world, and in the ways of the lords of it,” said Mrs. Nesbitt, “can it be necessary that you should come to me, though I were as wise as Ethan and Heman, and Chalcol or Darda, or even Solomon himself, for what any woman who has been married four months could tell you?––Is there indeed so little of the female in that dear heart, unhackneyed as it is, as not to tell you the weapons with which you ought to fight such a warfare as this?”

“I am afraid,” said Isabella consciously, “that there may have arisen some such thoughts as those to which you allude; but I endeavoured to repress them. Would not the weapons be unholy ones? — could I expect a fortunate issue from their use?”

“Why not?” said Mrs. Nesbitt. “Will not the end sanctify the means? If you mean no harm, can you do any?”

“I don’t know,” said Isabella.

“You don’t know!” replied Mrs. Nesbitt. “Why then, my dear, I must tell you, that your boasted education has left you ignorant of the science of life.”

“But, my dear madam,” said Isabella, “I do not perfectly understand you. What would you have me do?”

“Out-dress, out-shine, out-talk Lady Charlotte,” replied Mrs. Nesbitt. “Let Mr. Willoughby see that in the eyes of others you are her superior; ¾ let him hear you talked of for the elegance of the parties you give, — of the charm that you throw over every society into which you enter; — let him see that others can fall in love with you, and he will fall in love too.”

“I thought,” said Isabella, with great simplicity, “that he had already fallen in love with me.”

“Nothing like it, my dear,” returned Mrs. Nesbitt. “He knew that there was no occasion to be at that trouble; —he negotiated with mamma; he did not woo the daughter.”

“But he has known me since,” said Isabella meekly.

“Yes, my dear,” returned Mrs. Nesbitt; “he knows you to be one of those excellently good wives who can see nothing wrong in whatever their husbands do, and therefore do not fear to do whatever they chuse.”

“I do not know that Mr. Willoughby does any thing that is wrong,” said Isabella; “and I am quite sure that he does not mean any thing that is so. If he find other people more amusing that I am, that is my fault perhaps, not his.”

“It is your fault, my dear,” replied Mrs. Nesbitt, “but it is a fault that you may easily amend.—Mr. Willoughby with all his faults”––

“With all his faults!” interrupted Isabella, “I was told before I married that Mr. Willoughby had no faults, and I know not that he has any now; he is indulgence itself, and I have not a complaint to make, except — but I know you will laugh at me — except that he leaves me too much at liberty to please myself.”

“I do, indeed, believe,” returned Mrs. Nesbitt, “it is a fault of which not another wife in the liberties of London and Westminster would complain except yourself.”

“And shall I not love such a man?” said Isabella, fervently.

“To be sure, my dear!” said Mrs. Nesbitt. “Who would say to the contrary?––I beg I may not be misunderstood; — do not conceive that I am counselling you to rebellion, or witchcraft, or any other such crying sin! I think you know me better; — you know that I am quite religious. There are people who call me methodistical; — but I do not mind that; — I go on in the way which I know to be right, and let people think and talk as they please. I assure you, my dear, I live to myself, and my own notions; and to shew you that I am right I can quote Scripture for every thing that I advise; for I shall advise nothing but what shall be for the good of your husband, and your happiness; and you will see in twenty instances that I can quote you out of the Bible, that where the end is righteous, the means become so too; and in your case they will be strictly so; for what do I advise — Nothing in the least wrong in itself!—only to let your husband know that you have it in your power to do wrong if you please, that he may look about him, and make him lock up his jewel in his own bosom, lest it shoul