Christobelle ventured to think the baby would prove their greatest amusement, and Isabel's eyes and lips seconded the observation. Miss Boscawen smiled good-humouredly upon Christobelle, as upon a child whose opinions availed nothing, though the motive was amiable which produced them; but she addressed Mrs. Boscawen in reply.
"Oh! sister, this is such a sad business—every thing will be very uncomfortable, and that poor little baby will be heated into a fever."
Isabel replied gently to all the uncomfortable prophecies uttered by her sister-in-law; but their constant repetition destroyed the pleasure of the drive. It was vain to contend against Miss Boscawen's reasoning, for the result was a quietly-expressed pertinacity, which must end in the discomfiture of her gentle antagonist: it was equally impossible to resent an opposition which took its rise in anxiety for the object whom she professed to love and watch over.
Miss Boscawen was not aware of her own failings; she could not detect herself, how deeply her desire to lead was interwoven with the affection she professed, and really felt, towards Isabel. That desire for power became the bane of her young sister's repose: had Miss Boscawen possessed that power, her kind heart would have ministered in every thing to Isabel's happiness; but, in striving for a poor and useless supremacy, both parties became victims to the struggle.
It was so on this day of pleasure: when they entered the town so long desired, so impatiently anticipated as the scene of matronly pride, Isabel was jaded and disquieted by the miseries of the journey, and Miss Boscawen became doubly impressed by her own complainings, that Bridgnorth would prove a miserable affair. When Mr. Boscawen came forward to assist them in alighting, he was surprised at Isabel's languid appearance, and alarmed at the languor of her voice. Isabel was overcome by her husband's anxious inquiry, his affectionate endearments, and alarms about herself and his child: he stood again before her as her protector from his sister's vexatious remarks, ready to soothe her grief, and advocate her cause: his presence was a relief—it was a pleasure—she began to feel it was even necessary now to her happiness.
Isabel took Mr. Boscawen's arm when she left the carriage, and clung to it with an involuntary movement of delight: her husband perceived the expression of her eyes, as the warm pressure of her hand turned his looks towards her, and that expression agitated his feelings. He forgot Miss Boscawen, his long companion and housekeeper at Brierly—he forgot the sister who had borne with him the dull routine of twenty years in almost positive seclusion, to enjoy a new and delightful emotion in the certainty of having at last won his young wife's heart. That one absorbing pleasure, so novel, and so delicious, caused Mr. Boscawen to forget the existence of Miss Boscawen and Christobelle, who stood ready to receive his attentions upon Isabel's alighting. He had flown with Isabel up stairs, followed by the nurse and her young charge, and Miss Boscawen's transit took place under the superintendence of the waiter, but, on her part, in profound silence. It was evident a severe blow had been inflicted upon her heart or vanity, by this unexpected movement.
When they entered the apartment destined to their use, Mr. Boscawen was still offering all his cares and attentions to Isabel. She was arranged most comfortably on the sofa with the assiduity of a lover. It was not Mr. Boscawen watching over the proprieties of an estranged pupil—it was a husband attending to the comfort of a beloved wife.
Christobelle rejoiced in the scene which gave to her view Isabel happy and unreserved in the presence of Mr. Boscawen. She rejoiced to think her sister was loving him as she had always loved him—that her studies must in future be as pleasing to her sister, as they had ever appeared to herself—that they should now enjoy the dressing-room together, as sincerely as she had formerly abhorred it. Christobelle's countenance betrayed the thoughts of her heart, for Isabel gave her a smiling glance as she gazed upon her; and the annoyances of the journey faded away in the contemplation of her happy, contented position, as she still held Mr. Boscawen's hand, while the babe lay sleeping in her lap.
Miss Boscawen made no remark, by word or look, upon the past and present: her head was thrown more back, and a look of injured innocence pervaded her form and movements; but not a syllable fell from her lips, as she moved in silent dignity to the table, and seated herself to her employments for the day. Neither Isabel nor Mr. Boscawen yet perceived their sister's wounded feelings: they were both watching their child, and enjoying their newly-awakened interest in each other, by disjointed chat on the part of Isabel, and in little, rather awkward, fond civilities on that of Mr. Boscawen. Isabel, too, had gained another step in intimacy and unreserve: she now addressed her husband as "dear Boscawen," which evidently gave intense satisfaction to its object.
"I shall walk round the Castle Hill with my baby when he wakes, dear Boscawen."