A MARRIAGE
IN HIGH LIFE.
EDITED BY
THE AUTHORESS OF ‘FLIRTATION.’
“I was compelled to _her_—but I love _thee_
By love’s own sweet constraint.”
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1828.
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A
MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
Now, in his turn, offended and surprised,
The knight in silence from her side withdrew;
With pain she marked it, but her pain disguised,
And heedless seemed her journey to pursue,
Nor backward deigned to him one anxious view,
As oft she wished.
PSYCHE.
EASTER was now fast approaching, and Fitzhenry announced to Emmeline his
intention of going out of town for a fortnight,—but not to
Arlingford—And he concluded by saying, that, of course, he supposed she
would like to pass the time with her father at Charlton.
At any other time, and under any other circumstances, how gladly would
she have availed herself of the opportunity of returning to her former,
peaceful, happy home! But, like a sick person, her feverish mind had for
some time past dwelt on Arlingford. She longed to find herself again
there, for there, they _must_ meet—there they _might_ be alone! and she
could not help hoping for some explanation between them, which might
make her, at least, less miserable. Fitzhenry’s manner towards her had
of late changed: it had no longer the ease of indifference, the coldness
of mere civility; but, alas! it had only changed to apparent dislike, or
at least displeasure. He observed her more; but his observations seemed
always to prejudice him still more against her.
And yet, what could she do? or what leave undone? She had tried all
means to please him, and all had failed. She first had followed the
dictates of her own heart, and then, relying on Pelham’s knowledge of
her husband’s character, and on his advice, she had played a part most
unnatural to her—that of a gay, unfeeling woman of the world, when her
heart was breaking. All, in turn, seemed to be wrong.
For an instant, a horrid thought had crossed her mind. Could Pelham be
deceiving her? Could he, for any view, either of his own, or
Fitzhenry’s, be endeavouring to draw her on to what was lowering her
still more in her husband’s opinion? Was Pelham untrue to his friend? or
what would be still worse, was it a concerted plan, to exasperate her,
and at last to force her to break a connexion, which, to her husband,
had become intolerable thraldom. Emmeline, shuddering, turned away from
such thoughts, almost reproaching herself for ingratitude in having,
even for a moment, entertained them. But again disappointed in what she
had looked to with some degree of satisfaction, and finding she must
relinquish even those faint hopes which she had built, on their return
to Arlingford, her sick mind preyed on itself, and conjured up these
painful surmises, producing doubt and suspicion in the most confiding of
all characters.
Emmeline heard Fitzhenry’s notification about leaving town in silent
acquiescence; and, having no choice, to Charlton she went; but her heart
sank within her as she drove up to her father’s door, for, aware of how
much she was changed, she dreaded her parents’ observation, and feared,
that when constantly in their society, she could not keep up those false
spirits which she always endeavoured to assume when with them. Poor
Emmeline was in truth sadly changed. Instead of the active, cheerful
being she used to be, she was now generally abstracted, and sometimes
even apparently totally insensible to every thing around her; and then,
when fearful of betraying herself, she suddenly broke forth into those
unnatural bursts of feverish spirits, so painful to witness, because so
evidently proceeding from internal suffering.
Mrs. Benson watched her in silent anxiety; but her loss of bloom, of
activity, and appetite, even of spirits, all was attributed to a far
different cause; and, after some enquiries respecting her health, which
Emmeline always evaded, the warm-hearted mother, not without smiling at
her daughter’s overstrained shyness and delicacy, questioned her no more
on the subject; but contented herself with paying every possible
attention to her bodily comfort, while she indulged in the delightful
anticipation of new objects for her maternal pride and fondness.
And thus deceived as to the cause of Emmeline’s altered appearance, she
spared her any more embarrassing conversations.
The stated fortnight was past, and still she did not receive from
Fitzhenry the promised letter, announcing his return to town. But one
day the servant put into her hand one with the Arlingford post-mark. It
was not franked by Fitzhenry; the writing was unknown to her; and, in
alarm, she hastily broke the seal.
She found it was from Brown, the housekeeper, informing her that
Reynolds had been seized with a violent and dangerous illness; that the
doctors, who attended him, gave little hope of his recovery; and that he
so constantly expressed his anxiety to see her, and Lord Fitzhenry, that
she could not help complying with his request, and informing her
ladyship of his situation and wishes. She added—“I have also taken the
liberty to write to my lord; and not knowing where his lordship is, have
sent the letter to the steward in town to forward to him.”
Emmeline knew but too well whither the letter would follow him; but
thinking he might not receive it in time, or that, possibly, in the
society he then was, he might be little inclined to attend such a
summons, she determined immediately to go to Arlingford. How much the
desire of being there, of visiting every spot, every inanimate object in
her mind connected with Fitzhenry, and the possibility even of thus
meeting him, might have influenced her benevolent decision—probably she
herself did not know.
On arriving at Arlingford, Emmeline’s first question was, whether Lord
Fitzhenry was there: and the feeling of deep disappointment with which
she learnt that he was not, and that he was not even expected, betraying
to herself her real object in coming, made her half-ashamed when at
length she enquired after the poor invalid.
The accounts of Reynolds’s situation had been in no way exaggerated. He
was still alive, and sensible; but there was no possibility whatever of
recovery. Emmeline therefore endeavoured to overcome her own selfish
feelings, and went immediately to the sick room.
Independent of the gratification she received from witnessing the
pleasure which her presence seemed to give to the faithful old servant,
the duty she undertook then was one every way better suited to her
present state of mind, than the dissipation in which she had been lately
engaged. It soothed and quieted the tumult of her feelings, and brought
back to her mind some of the innocent, calm remembrances of happier
days. Educated by her mother in the exercise of every religious duty,
she, who had so lately been seen glittering in ball rooms, now knelt by
the bed of sickness; and while raising the dying man’s mind and hopes to
that better world to which he was hastening, she found herself
strengthened to bear the sorrows of that, in which she was still
appointed to suffer.
Towards the end of the second day after Emmeline’s arrival at
Arlingford, Reynolds grew rapidly worse; the symptoms of death seemed to
be fast increasing, and, aware of his approaching dissolution, his
anxiety for Fitzhenry’s arrival, and the nervous perturbation of his
mind, were painful to witness. Emmeline frequently asked if he had any
request to make, any wish she could communicate to him; but his only
answer was, that he must see him before he died.
To compose, and turn his thoughts to other things, Emmeline had again
recourse to religion; and, when thus employed, and while the last rays
of the evening sun shone faintly through the curtains of the sick room
on her kneeling figure, and on the sacred book she held in her hand, the
door of the apartment slowly opened, and Fitzhenry appeared.
He started back on seeing Emmeline, and, for a moment, stood still, as
if awed by the scene before him; but Reynolds recognizing him, and
exclaiming—“’Tis him! God be praised, I shall now die in peace,”
Fitzhenry hastened up to him, kindly taking his extended hand; then
again looking at Emmeline—“Good God! Lady Fitzhenry, since when have you
been here?”
“Only a day or two; I was sent for,” said Emmeline, hardly knowing
whether thus unexpectedly seeing her had given him pain or pleasure.
“I was so bold as to send for her ladyship,” said Reynolds. “It was my
request, my dying request. I knew I had not long to live. I knew I
should not die easy, unless I could once more see you, once more see
that angel!” and still grasping Fitzhenry with one hand, he held out the
other to Emmeline.
At such a moment, not to comply with any wish of the sick man, was
impossible; though, half fearful of his intention, she tremblingly put
her hand in his.
“Dear, dear Lord Fitzhenry,” continued Reynolds, “you know I love you as
if you were my own son. Death makes us all equal, and it makes me bold.
I have often wished, longed, to speak to you, but felt it was not my
place; and I had not courage; but listen to a dying man’s advice. I know
all—you know I do. Oh, my dear master! repent, and turn from your evil
ways! Do not any longer trifle with God, and with the happiness he has
offered you! Do not cast from you the angel Heaven has sent you!”—and he
joined their hands. “God of heaven!” he continued, with a trembling
voice, “look down on these, thy servants, and make them happy together!”
Fitzhenry’s head fell on the bed, as if wishing to avoid the eyes of
Emmeline, as he involuntarily sunk on his knees.
As for Emmeline, overcome and terrified at what had passed; fearful as
to the manner in which Fitzhenry might interpret such a seemingly
premeditated appeal to his feelings in her behalf; perhaps, even,
humbled at the situation in which it placed her, she hastily, almost
unconsciously, withdrew her hand from the feeble grasp of the dying man,
while his dimmed eyes were still raised to heaven; and, before either
he, or her husband, had time to discover her intention, she hastily left
the room.
But she had no sooner quitted it than she repented her hasty flight.
When Reynolds joined their hands, although Fitzhenry had not clasped
hers in token of affection, still he had suffered his to remain with it;
and, overcome by the old man’s address to him, he had appeared to have
given way to the kind—the virtuous impulse of the moment. That impulse,
and those virtuous feelings, might possibly have produced a favourable
explanation; and she, by leaving him so abruptly, had now, she feared,
evidently shown a reluctance to any thing which might have produced a
reconciliation between them.
Twice she had her hand on the lock to return; but, timid from excess of
affection, each time her courage failed her. The door which she had
scarcely closed, reopened of itself, and she heard these words uttered
by Fitzhenry: “It is impossible—indeed it can’t be so;—but depend upon
it, nothing shall be wanting on my part to contribute to her happiness,
and——”
Emmeline waited for no more. As one pursued by a horrid vision, she
hurried to her own room. The shades of evening deepened around her, as,
alone and half stupified with her various feelings, she counted the
striking of the heavy hours as they passed. Not a sound was to be heard
in the uninhabited house—no one came near her.
At length, when the clock slowly, solemnly sounded twelve, she started
up, and, recollecting that her maid was probably waiting for her, she
rung the bell, that she might dismiss her for the night; but she first
sent her to enquire after Reynolds, whose room was in a distant part of
the building. On the return of Jenkins, the report she brought was—“That
my lord was still with Reynolds—that they were apparently engaged in
serious conversation—for that no one was allowed to go into the room, my
lord himself giving him the necessary medicines, and having dismissed
the nurse.”
After her maid had taken off Emmeline’s gown, unplaited her hair, and,
at her desire, lit the fire in her dressing-room, as she fancied it
would be a sort of companion to her, which, in her present state of
mind, she felt to be necessary, she sent Jenkins to bed, and, drawing
her chair close upon the hearth, Emmeline remained lost in reflections
neither cheering nor soothing. The near neighbourhood of a death-bed
gives an awful feeling even to one in the full pride of youth and
health. To be aware that so close to us a fellow-creature is probably
just then passing, through the agonies of death, to that eternity to
which we all look with awe, is an overpowering sensation; and Emmeline
shuddered as these thoughts crossed her mind. She cast her eyes
fearfully round the room, and endeavoured to brighten the flame in the
grate. Still death and its horrors hung over her imagination, which
wandered now to future scenes of pain and punishment; and the thought
that Fitzhenry—her loved Fitzhenry, who had wound himself round every
fibre of her heart—might perhaps be an outcast from that heaven to which
she had been taught to look, as the end and aim of her existence, was
agony. For she could not conceal from herself that he was living in bold
defiance, or rather in total disregard and indifference to the will and
laws of his God.
Emmeline’s blood curdled, and a cold shiver crept all over her frame.
Instinctively she sunk on her knees, and prayed for him who had never
been taught to pray for himself. Her head sank on her clasped hands,
which rested on a chair beside her; her long hair falling over her face
and shoulders. The dead silence that surrounded her, appalled her
awe-stricken mind; she eagerly listened for some sound of human
existence and neighbourhood; but nothing was to be heard but the regular
vibration of the great clock in the hall. Emmeline remained kneeling,
till her nervous agitation grew so painfully strong, that she hardly
dared to move, and had not power to shake off the superstitious horror
which had taken possession of her. Every limb trembled; the cold sweat
stood on her forehead; and it was an inexpressible relief to her
disordered mind, when, at length, she heard a slow step in the gallery,
and a gentle knock at her door. She concluded it was her maid, bringing
her some tidings of Reynolds, and she quickly and joyfully bade her
enter. The door softly opened, and Fitzhenry appeared.
An unearthly vision could scarcely have startled Emmeline more. She
uttered an exclamation, almost of terror, as she hastily rose from her
knees; but almost directly sank into the chair beside her, her trembling
limbs refusing to support her.
“I think you gave me leave to come in,” said Fitzhenry, still standing
at the door. Emmeline bowed assent, when, closing it after him, he came
up to her, and put his candle on the mantle-piece.
It was the first time he had ever entered her room since that day when,
on her parents’ first arrival at Arlingford, he had conducted them to
it; and, dreading the possible purport of his visit _now_, after the
scene that had lately occurred, she had not courage to say a word. For a
minute, both were silent—at length Fitzhenry said—
“I thought you would be anxious to hear about poor Reynolds; and as he
has now sunk into something like sleep, I came away for a minute to tell
you he is more easy and composed; but I fear this stupor is only the
forerunner of death, and that all will soon be over. I shall lose a most
faithful servant—indeed, an attached friend—.”
He paused; but Emmeline, still too nervous to speak, said nothing.
“I also came,” said he, in an agitated, hurried manner, “to
thank you for your kindness in coming to him: it was most
kind—good—excellent;—like yourself. I feel it deeply, I assure you, as
well as Reynolds.”
These few words of praise, so unlike what she had expected from him
after what had passed, still more overpowered Emmeline. Had she dared to
give way to the feelings of the moment, she would have thrown herself
into her husband’s arms, and, in his tenderness, claimed a reward for an
action which he seemed to take as a kindness to himself. But alas! not
for one moment could she be deceived as to the nature of _his_ feelings;
not for one moment, after the decisive declaration which she had again
heard him make, could she attribute his present manner towards her to
any thing but mere gratitude for her attentions to his old servant; and,
repressing the throbbings of her bosom, and scarcely knowing what she
said, with a breathless voice she answered:
“I came to Arlingford because I thought Brown’s letter might not reach
you in time, and I did not know where to write to you—I mean, I thought
you might be otherwise engaged yourself.”——And then struck with the
appearance of coldness and reproof in her words, and the possible
interpretation to be given to them, she stopped short.
Fitzhenry made no comment. Both were now standing seemingly occupied
with watching the dying embers of the fire—at last he turned towards
her, she felt his eyes were on her.
“Poor Reynolds often names you,” he said; “but I think, unless you wish
it—perhaps you had better not go to him again—such scenes are painful,
and——”
He was continuing, but with the quick touchiness of love, (of unrequited
love, which interprets every thing to its disadvantage,) Emmeline,
catching at those words, and fancying they alluded to what had lately
passed, and were meant as a hint to her to avoid any possible recurrence
of the same scene, immediately, with a voice scarcely audible from
agitation, said:
“Oh no, certainly. And perhaps now that you are here, and that my
presence is no longer desired—I mean not necessary—it may be more
convenient if I return to Charlton——or to town.”
“Just whatever you prefer,” said Fitzhenry, coldly; and, after a
moment’s pause, “you know my wish is, that you should always do whatever
you like and judge to be best.” And he put up his hand to take his
candle, as if in preparation to leave the room.
Poor Emmeline had, in a moment of perhaps excusable irritation, artfully
made the proposal of leaving Arlingford, in the hope of its being
opposed; and this cold acquiescence quite overcame her. She could not
speak, for her lips quivered when she attempted it; and, depressed and
nervous with all that had passed, big tears again rolled down her
cheeks, and she kept her head averted to conceal them from Fitzhenry.
In raising his hand to take his candle, he somehow had caught on the
button of his coat-sleeve a lock of her long hair, which was hanging
loose over her shoulders; and, during the pause that followed his
answer, he was endeavouring to disentangle himself; but in vain.
Surprised at his still remaining near her, and in silence, she at last
looked up, and seeing what had happened, her trembling hands darted on
the entangled hair, and with the vehemence of vexation, she broke and
untwisted it till she again set him free. He looked at her for a minute
in seeming astonishment, and then, coldly wishing her good-night, left
the room.
He had scarcely been gone a minute, when recalling the kindness of his
manner on first entering, and blaming herself for the irritation she had
given way to, she determined to recall him; and, passing from one
extreme to another, and buoyed up with instant hope—though she scarcely
knew of what—she hastily collected her hair with a comb, folded her
wrapper closer around her, and opening her door, hurried into the
gallery. All there was dark and silent; she turned towards Fitzhenry’s
room—his door was open—but he was gone! Stopping a minute to listen and
take breath, she heard him crossing the hall below on his way to
Reynolds’s apartment. She determined to recall him, and hurried along
the gallery to the head of the stairs for that purpose. When she got
there, she saw the last faint ray of the light he was carrying
glimmering across the hall. Twice she endeavoured to pronounce his
name—but it was a name that never could be pronounced by her calmly. She
was frightened at the sound of her own voice, faint as its accents were,
(so faint that they never reached him to whom they were addressed,) and
her courage totally failed her.
“Alas!” thought she, as she sadly leant against the bannisters for
support, “if he came, what could I say to him? what have I to ask of
him, but pity for feelings which he can neither understand nor return?
and may I at least never so far forget myself. I am humbled enough
already.” And now, even alarmed at what those feelings had so nearly
betrayed her into, she returned to her own room as hastily as she had a
minute before quitted it; so capricious, so inconsistent does passion
render its victims.
Towards dawn of day, Emmeline, whose heavy eyes sleep had never visited,
heard a bustle below; several doors were hastily opened and shut. In a
little time, Fitzhenry (for she could never mistake _his_ step) passed
hastily along the gallery to his own room, and closed the door
immediately after him. Then there was again a dead silence.
“It is all over,” thought Emmeline; “Reynolds is at peace: the only
being in this house who loved me is gone!” A cold shiver crept over her;
she buried her tear-bedewed face in her pillow, and thus lay for long
immoveable, no conscious thought passing through her agitated mind.
When her maid came to her in the morning, she informed her Reynolds had
died about five o’clock; that Lord Fitzhenry had never left him; that he
had supported him in his arms to the last, and, when all was over,
appearing much affected, he had gone immediately to his own room, giving
orders that no one was to go to him till he rung.
Jenkins, unbidden, brought Emmeline her breakfast in her own apartment,
although at Arlingford that was a meal at which she and Fitzhenry had
always hitherto met. How painfully did she then feel the separation
between them! Fitzhenry was in sorrow, and she, his wife, dared not go
near him; even the servants seemed to dictate to her her conduct, and to
be aware of her situation.
As to her departure, she knew not what to determine. She had said she
would go. Her husband had not opposed her declared intention, and she
did not like again to be accused of caprice. Not feeling, however, that
she could leave Arlingford without at least again seeing him, she put
off her journey till the following day.
To pass the slow unoccupied hours, Emmeline, knowing there was no chance
of seeing Fitzhenry for some time, wandered out. The country was now in
its first freshness of beauty—all smiled around her. Those rides and
paths which, the summer before, she had first seen, with Fitzhenry at
her side, were again clothed in the lovely green of spring. Often at
those spots, connected in her mind with some circumstance, word, or even
look of Fitzhenry, which a few months back had, although in delusion,
made her heart sometimes beat with the flattering hope that she was not
quite indifferent to him, poor Emmeline would remain fixed, quite
unconscious of the time she thus passed in vague reverie. For, compared
with what she had endured in London, there was a sort of pleasure in her
present state of mind, raised and soothed as it had been, by the late
pious duties in which she had been engaged, and softened by the charm of
renovated nature. How often does some accidental sound or perfume,
wafted to us on a spring breeze, startle the mind by confused
recollections of hours gone by, and by undefinable sensations of mixed
pain and pleasure!
Emmeline had not been long returned to the house before a servant came
and told her that dinner was ready, and that my lord was waiting for
her. Their meeting was rather awkward on both sides. Fitzhenry never
raised his eyes upon her; but she was now well used to that sort of cold
neglect on his part. It was the first time for several months that they
had been _tête-à-tête_. This circumstance, and the room they were in,
all brought back forcibly to Emmeline’s mind their wedding-day; that day
of exultation and joy to her parents, and at its dawn of hope and
happiness even to herself—and how had it all ended!
To one formed for tenderness, for all the social charities of life,
there could not be a more cheerless fate than hers; for, repulsed from
where her heart should have found its best home, she was even denied the
consolations of confidential friendship. Occupied with these thoughts,
Emmeline was little inclined to join in uninteresting, forced
conversation. Fitzhenry, too, seemed much depressed, and they ate their
repast in nearly total silence.
When it was ended, Fitzhenry, under the plea of having several orders to
give, and many things to arrange in consequence of the death of
Reynolds, soon returned to his own room, and Emmeline passed the
remainder of the evening alone. On the approach of midnight, as he never
appeared, she concluded that Fitzhenry did not intend to return; she
therefore rang for her candle, and left the drawing-room; but before she
reached her own apartment, she was met in the gallery by her
husband—they both stopped.
“I shall leave this place to-morrow,” said Emmeline, in a low voice.
“Have you any letters or orders to send by me?” She still fondly hoped
he would make some objection to her departure; but he merely replied,
that he concluded she was going to Grosvenor-Street; that he would
follow in a few days; and that if she did not set out early, he would
send some letters by her.
“I can go at any hour,” said Emmeline, “I am in no hurry; it does not
signify at what time I go; all hours are the same to me.” And so they
parted.
It was in the same cold, distant manner that they separated next
morning, when Emmeline left Arlingford for town. For though she loitered
on, always hoping Fitzhenry would let fall some word at which she might
catch as an encouragement to stay, he never in any manner opposed her
departure; and at last, with a heavy heart, she entered her carriage,
and, after a melancholy, solitary journey, drove over London’s noisy
pavement, now glazed by a burning May sun, into Grosvenor-Street.
Those who have lived in London when melancholy circumstances have
excluded them from participating in its amusements, will enter into
Emmeline’s feelings when, during the first, and on many an ensuing
dismal evening, which she spent alone, she heard the carriages hurry
past her door in the constant bustle of pleasure. Often, as she sat in
the dusk of the now long-protracted spring evenings, Emmeline was only
roused from some deep reverie to a consciousness of the lateness of the
hour, by the glare of the lamps and flambeaux of some of these gay
equipages passing her darkened windows, and hastening to some general
resort of diversion.
For it was now the high tide, the carnival of London. Every one was
there——and every one went every where—hurrying and crowding after each
other, although caring for no one. What a wretched, humiliating picture
of human nature does London present during the months of May, June, and
July! Affection, friendship, all the social virtues, and charities,
disappear before folly, dissipation, and selfishness. And so infectious
is the disease, that almost the best hearts are, at least for the
moment, tainted; the steadiest heads turned. It is a constant hurry, a
perpetual bustle, in which no one has leisure to care, or feel for
another, whatever may be the inclination; and scarcely is there time to
drop a tear over the grave of a friend. If an uncle, cousin, or some
such near relation, is so inconsiderate as to choose these interesting,
busy moments to depart this life, it is looked upon as an almost
unpardonable act of selfishness on the part of the defunct, by which so
much time, perhaps many entertainments and balls, are lost to his
surviving family. On the other hand, the demise of some mere nightly
companion in the resorts of dissipation is generally hailed with joy,
not for their own demerits, but that not only _their_ opera-box and
ticket at Almacks, but that of all those nearly connected with them will
thereby become disposable; a short retirement being considered necessary
both to dry their tears, and give time to a fashionable tailor or
mantua-maker to send home the becoming mourning, in which they can again
sally forth to make up for the time they have lost, by returning with
renovated spirits to their dissipated duties. In the mean time, anxious
notes fly about town as soon as the death is announced in the papers;
and the doors of all the patronesses of fashion are beset by the dear
friends of the deceased, anxious to be the first to apply for the
vacated subscription, which happily can neither be carried away from
this world by the selfish, nor be disposed of by will by the obliging.
And this was the world into which poor Emmeline had to carry a breaking
heart!
After Fitzhenry had joined her in town, although nothing further had
ever passed,—no dispute, no difference had taken place,—yet, they
appeared mutually to consider themselves as more than ever, in short,
totally estranged.
Both looked miserable: an additional shade of melancholy seemed to have
gathered on Lord Fitzhenry’s countenance; and yet Emmeline was now
certain that her rival was again in town, and that he passed with Lady
Florence those hours which she now spent alone in Grosvenor-Street. For
Emmeline felt it impossible to return to her former life; and, as there
was no reason why she should, no one for whom she was called upon to
make the exertion, she gave up what had already injured her health, both
of mind and body.
Emmeline’s temper even was not what it used to be; often, if Fitzhenry
accidentally spoke to her, she answered him with asperity, and then the
minute he had disappeared, she wept bitterly for her fault—for her
offence towards love; longing for his return, that, on her knees, she
might implore his forgiveness. Yet, when they again met, it was the same
repulsive coldness on both sides.
But if there can ever be an excuse for one gifted by nature with the
blessing of a mild, gentle disposition, for giving way to irritation,
Emmeline might plead it. Her heart was every way wounded; even Pelham
she now dreaded; Mrs. Osterley’s hints eternally haunted her: if she
caught his eye fixed upon her in anxious interest, her sick fancy took
alarm, and the deep crimson in her cheeks betrayed apprehensions, which
she wished to conceal even from herself.
Tormented with this idea, she now shunned his society and conversation,
as much as she had formerly sought it; for, although her extreme
diffidence with regard to her own attractions, (a diffidence which her
husband’s disregard of her had much increased,) her unsuspecting
innocence, and simplicity of heart, would rather have led her to prize
than avoid the attentions of an agreeable man, regardless of their
raising suspicions in the breast of others, any more than in her own;
yet, now being aware of what the world _could_ and _did_ say, that very
innocence and simplicity made her fly from the least appearance of evil.
She was not one of those to play off on a husband the arts of
infidelity, in order, by jealousy, to rouse his feelings, and by the
fear of wounded honour, to attract his attentions towards her.
Fitzhenry cared not for her; but the vow of constancy which her lips had
pronounced at the altar, and which was since engraven by strong
affection on her heart, was too sacred in her estimation to allow even
the uninterested world to suspect that she trifled with it.
Her intercourse with Pelham being thus embittered, and her parents being
the last to whom she could reveal her sorrows, she dragged on, in
wretched solitude of heart, a listless, useless, aimless existence. The
young, the gay, and the busy meantime bustled around her, careless of
her unhappiness; or, if they sometimes observed its melancholy symptoms
on her pale cheek, or in her heavy, absent eye, they only wondered “what
could make Lady Fitzhenry so discontented, when she possessed every
thing in the world to render her happy.”
It is thus we too often pass harsh and hasty judgment on those whose
grave or suffering countenances chance to cross us in the paths of
pleasure, checking, for a minute, by their sad and therefore unwelcome
presence, our feeling of enjoyment, in reminding us, most disagreeably,
of its transient nature.
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