Poured in soft dalliance at a lady’s feet,
In fondest rapture he appeared to lie....
Their words she heard not—words had ne’er exprest
What well her sickening fancy could supply—
All that their silent eloquence confest
As breathed the sigh of fire from each impassioned breast.
While thus she gazed, her quivering lips turn pale,
Contending passions rage within her breast,
Nor ever had she known such bitter bale,
Or felt by such fierce agony opprest.
PSYCHE.
EMMELINE having a general invitation to the house of Lady Mowbray—one of
her new acquaintance, who was _at-home_ on a stated day every week; and
never having yet been to any of her _soirées_, she one evening exerted
herself to pay her a visit. There were not many people assembled, owing
to the _many things to be done_, a phrase in the fashionable slang of
London, expressive of that delightful prospect of busy pleasure, which
consists in passing the greatest part of the night in a carriage,
fighting in and out of a dozen houses, the owners of which are, perhaps,
never seen by their visitors.
Among the few whom these many pleasures had that evening spared to Lady
Mowbray, Emmeline found none with whom she was much acquainted; so that
after having remained what she thought a sufficient time, hearing a loud
knock, announcing a fresh reinforcement of company, and thinking she had
performed her duty of civility, she meditated her departure, when the
door opened, and Lady Florence Mostyn was announced.
At that name, Emmeline started so violently, that her neighbour turned
round to see what had alarmed her; but could neither perceive any cause
for her agitation, nor receive any answer to her enquires, whether she
was well, for Emmeline’s eyes, thoughts, and every sense, were fixed on
her rival.
Lady Florence, after speaking to one or two other people, went up to
Lady Mowbray, and seated herself by her, luckily at some distance from
where Emmeline was placed. Lady Florence was past the first bloom and
beauty of youth; but this was more apparent in the somewhat thickened
contour of her figure, than in her face. Her deep blue eyes were still
brilliant; her lovely chiselled mouth still opened to show teeth like
pearls, and the roses and lillies still contended in her cheeks. She was
simply dressed; but there was not a curl, however careless it appeared,
but fell just where it should, and the large shawl in which she was
wrapped, took some new graceful fold each time she moved, and by its
brilliant colours gave additional effect to the delicate whiteness of a
round arm, covered with bracelets. Her voice, and look, were sweetness
itself; but in her eyes, an expression lurked, that recalled to the
mind, Walter Scott’s “Wiley Dame Heron.”
Lost in a trance of most painful feelings, Emmeline sat for some time
like a statue, without power to form any resolution, as to whether she
would fly or face her enemy. _There_ was the being who reigned paramount
in her husband’s heart! Those were the eyes on which he gazed with
fondness! on that hand he had sworn constancy! on those lips he had
sealed his vows! the silver tones of that voice thrilled to _his_ heart,
as his did to hers!
Poor Emmeline gazed on all these charms, till, growing frightened at her
own increasing agitation, she hastily got up, and moved towards the
door.
“My dear Lady Fitzhenry,” exclaimed Lady Mowbray, who unfortunately had
observed her intended departure, “I hope you are not already going?”
At that name, the eyes of Lady Florence eagerly followed those of the
speaker, and rested on Emmeline. And, for an instant, as if impelled by
some power they could not resist, the rivals glanced at each other, and
their eyes met. But Emmeline’s soon fell beneath the scrutiny, and she
turned away her death-like face. The whole expression of Lady Florence’s
countenance had changed. Emmeline’s appearance, every way so different
from what she had expected, in an instant roused, within her, feelings
she could scarcely command. Her uncontrolled passions were plainly
painted in her face; the deep crimson in her cheeks overcame the well
applied rouge; her eyes flashed fire; and the lovely smile on her lips,
was replaced by a fearful expression of “envy, hatred, and malice.”
Emmeline, scarcely able to support herself, and endeavouring to utter
some excuse, still moved towards the door.
“Well, really you are using me very shabbily,” said Lady Mowbray, in
reply to her uncertain accents, and following her with most officious
civility. “But I know this is the moment when it is impossible to keep
any body for half an hour; and quiet, sober people, like myself, have no
chance of collecting anything like agreeable society. I suppose you are
going to the D——e house, or some such gay thing.”
Emmeline stammered out, that she was obliged to go home.
“Home! I fear you are not well,” retorted Lady Mowbray, now, for the
first time, observing her blanched cheek, and bloodless lips. “Do at
least wait till you hear that your carriage is ready:” and, cruelly well
bred, she rang the bell, enquiring repeatedly whether Emmeline would not
be prevailed upon to take something.
Unable to speak, she shook her head in answer, and the instant the
welcome sound of her own name reached her ears, she darted out of the
room, though still followed by the civilities and offers of the lady of
the house.
When in her carriage, and when too late, Emmeline remembered Pelham’s
often repeated advice, to endeavour to control, or, at least conceal,
her feelings better. She was aware she had humbled herself before her,
who, of all people, she would least wish should read those feelings; and
she felt also that she had left herself and her husband subjects for
animadversion, certainly not of the most charitable nature. But poor
Emmeline, in common with all those who allow their affections to control
their judgment, never, till too late, discovered what her conduct should
have been—an artlessness of disposition, ill-calculated to contend with
a guileful world.
This evening’s adventure completely sickened her of the amusements of
London; and aware from constant, sad experience, of her inability to
perform her hard part properly, she resolved to avoid in future the
possibility of any recurrence of such scenes; for though her mind had
long been intent on meeting Lady Florence, from a sort of anxious,
jealous curiosity, yet now she felt she could not endure the trial
again; and, that weakened both in health and spirits, she was no longer
equal to the exertions which she knew she should make. She remained,
therefore, in spite of Lady Saville’s repeated attacks and railleries,
for some time entirely at home; and, catching gladly at an excuse for
avoiding even the opera, she gave away her box the following week, to
some Hampshire neighbours, who she heard were in town; and the weather
being uncommonly hot, she had, on the Saturday, ordered her carriage,
after her solitary dinner, to take a drive out of town, in the hope that
a little fresh air might revive and compose her spirits.
But just as she was going, a note arrived from Lady Saville, to say,
that she was disappointed of a friend, with whom she was to have gone to
the opera, that night, and, who being now unavoidably prevented, had
made over the box to her, but her carriage being broken, and having no
one to go with, she would be obliged to give up the plan entirely,
unless Emmeline would be compassionate and carry her; and she entreated
she would overcome her abominable laziness, and agree to the
proposal—adding, it was the new opera, and that it would do her good,
for she gave herself the blue devils, by moping so much at home.
Too indifferent to every thing, even to refuse, Emmeline gave up her
intended drive, changed her dress, and she and Lady Saville went
together to the opera.
About the beginning of the second act, she saw Lady Florence come into a
box on the same tier, about ten or twelve off; she was alone—and at that
distance, Emmeline thought would probably not recognize her; but,
wishing to conceal herself from her view, she made some apology to Lady
Saville for being whimsical, and, begging to change places with her, she
moved to the opposite seat, drawing the curtain of the box so as
entirely to hide herself; although, like the poor bird ensnared by the
serpent, she never could withdraw her eyes from her rival.
Before long, a man entered the box where Lady Florence was; he seated
himself directly with his back towards Emmeline; but it was impossible
for _her_ to mistake him;—the oval head, the brown, curly hair, the
attitude and air of the arm that leant on the edge of the box, the
action of the hand, all told her but too well it could only be
Fitzhenry.
Never before had she beheld them together; never before had she, in a
manner, witnessed those words, those looks of love, addressed to Lady
Florence, which should now have belonged to her. Though but too well
aware of the whole truth, she had as yet suffered merely from a vague,
unembodied feeling of jealousy. She had been wounded by neglect; by the
mortifying conviction that she was not beloved by her husband; but had
never yet actually witnessed his demonstrations of love to another.
Lady Florence leant towards Fitzhenry, and seemed to whisper something
to him. He shook his head, as if contradicting her; but soon after,
Emmeline saw him look round towards the box where she was, with a glass,
as if in search of some one. She hastily, although she hardly knew why,
shrunk back, hiding herself behind the curtain, which she drew still
more forward.
They then appeared to be engaged in most earnest conversation for some
time, till at length Fitzhenry, leaning back in his chair, sat with his
hand over his face, and there seemed to be a total silence between them.
Ere long, a third person came into the box. Fitzhenry then moved from
his place, and disappeared.
To those who have known the torments of jealousy, I need not describe
Emmeline’s feelings; and to those who have not, my expressions would
appear exaggerated and unnatural. Like a statue, she sat during the
remainder of the opera, not able to attend to any thing around her.
Luckily, Lady Saville, who was engaged in a regular flirtation, observed
neither her preoccupation, nor additional dejection; and when the
curtain fell, Emmeline mechanically followed her companions out of the
box. Her complete absence of manner, and Lady Saville’s exclusive
attention to him, who was whispering soft nothings in her ear, had so
effectually driven away all other visitors, that Emmeline had no one to
take charge of her; and Lady Saville and her admirer soon parted from
her, the former having found a friend to take her to the usual supper
party at Lady L——y’s after the opera; and the latter being too gallant,
and too much _épris_ not to accompany her to the carriage, promising,
however, to return to Emmeline. At this minute, however, Pelham, luckily
observed her, and forcibly making his way up to her, exclaimed,
“What here! and alone! I thought I saw strangers in your box, so never
went near it; how comes it I find you in this desolate situation? Do
take my arm.”
Emmeline made no reply; and, soon perceiving that she was more than
usually depressed, Pelham, after one two ineffectual efforts, forbore
even to speak to her. They made their way towards the door at the top of
the great stairs; and, leaving her there, Pelham went to look for her
carriage.
Emmeline shrunk behind the door, wrapping herself close up in her cloak,
and not daring to raise her eyes from the ground for fear of meeting
those of her husband, or of Lady Florence. Her own name, however,
pronounced close by her, soon roused her, and she saw Mrs. Osterley
coming up to speak to her, accompanied by Mr. Moore.
“My dear Lady Fitzhenry,” said she, “what an age it is since I have seen
you! Where have you been hiding yourself? What can you have been about?”
“I have been out of town,” replied Emmeline, in a faint voice.
“Oh, yes! I suppose at Easter, of course; but surely you have been
returned some weeks; for I have frequently met Lord Fitzhenry: and, by
the bye, now I recollect, I heard of you the other evening, at Lady
Mowbray’s, where I was so unlucky, as just to miss you; and I was sorry
to hear you were taken ill there: I hope you are quite recovered.”
“Perfectly so,” said Emmeline, coldly.
“How did you like our new opera, to-night?” continued Mrs. Osterley. “I
thought it inexpressibly dull; yet, in Paris, I had liked it very much;
what did you think of it?”
“I?” said Emmeline, absently, “I really don’t know.”
“Don’t know? I suppose you mean you have been so agreeably engaged in
conversation, that you did not attend,” retorted Mrs. Osterley,
laughing. “No one comes to the opera for the music in London.”
At that minute, Pelham relieved poor Emmeline by saying, that her
carriage was driving up, and that they had better be moving down stairs.
She willingly took his proffered arm, bowing to Mrs. Osterley, who,
before the door had closed upon them, and within Emmeline’s hearing,
exclaimed, (with a loud laugh to Mr. Moore,) “Well! that is the best
arranged, best understood affair I ever saw. Lord Fitzhenry and his
_chère amie_ are just gone down one stair, and Lady Fitzhenry and Pelham
are making their escape by the other! and then we English boast of our
morality!”
The door closing, prevented Emmeline from hearing more than the burst of
applause which followed this remark. Involuntarily she shrunk from
Pelham; but he, not aware of any thing that had passed, intent on
getting her to the carriage as soon as possible, only pressed her arm
the closer, to steady her steps, and hurried her almost forcibly after
him.
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they found an unusual crowd
and bustle among the servants; and, by the noise and lashing of whips in
the street, there appeared to be great contention among the coachmen.
Pelham, anxious to get Emmeline out of the confusion, still drew her on,
persuaded that her carriage must, by that time, be ready. But, when they
got outside into the street, he saw that her coachman was engaged in
violent contest with another, both endeavouring to drive up at the same
moment.
The crowd of footmen who had gathered round the interesting spot,
encouraging the merciless combatants, was so great, that to retreat was
impossible. Pelham could not, among them, distinguish Emmeline’s
servants; and, amid the din of voices, whips, trampling of hoofs on the
pavement, and shivering of breaking lamps, it was vain to attempt to
make them hear him.
Emmeline, nervous and frightened at the uproar around her, forgot for a
minute all her former apprehensions, and clung terrified to Pelham; who,
to defend her as well as he could, from the unruly mob, put his arm
round her. Just then, the horses in her carriage, high-bred, spirited
animals, and lately little employed by their mistress, irritated beyond
endurance by the lashing of the whip, became ungovernable; they reared
up, throwing themselves away from their opponents, and, in the struggle,
one of them fell down on the foot-pavement, increasing the confusion.
A loud scream was uttered by a female voice, and, by the rush of
link-boys in an instant to the spot, Emmeline beheld Lady Florence
Mostyn thrown back on Fitzhenry’s breast. The pole of the carriage had
touched her, but it was the cry of terror more than of pain.
“Stop! on peril of your life, you rascal!” exclaimed a voice, that shot
through Emmeline’s very soul.
“Whose carriage is that?” demanded Fitzhenry, in an authoritative tone,
while still supporting Lady Florence in his arms. There was a sudden
silence; the contending coachmen’s whips instantly were both quieted. He
again repeated his question more loudly than before.
“My lord!” said one of Emmeline’s footmen, going up to Fitzhenry, “it is
your lordship’s carriage.”
“_My_ carriage!” he exclaimed angrily. “Who ordered it here?”
“We are here with my lady,” replied the terrified footman. “Her ladyship
is just getting in—shall I tell her your lordship wishes to be taken
home?”
“No, no, you fool!” answered Fitzhenry, in a tone of passion which
Emmeline had never before heard from his lips, and which made her
shudder; “drive off as fast as you can.”
By this time, Pelham had put his charge, more dead than alive, into her
carriage, and, not liking to leave her alone in the agitated state she
then was, got in after her. Emmeline put out her feeble hand, meaning to
prevent him; but, quite overcome, she could not articulate a word; and,
no longer able to command herself, she burst into violent hysteric sobs.
Totally mistaking her meaning, and interpreting the action into a wish
that he should not leave her, Pelham tenderly seized her hand, desiring
the servants to go home as fast as possible. The fallen horse was soon
raised. The contending vehicles disengaged, and they drove rapidly
off—but followed by cheers and laughter from the more blackguard part of
the mob who had witnessed the fray; to which were added personal jokes
and remarks, that made Pelham hastily draw up the glasses.
Emmeline still made efforts to speak but Pelham could not distinguish a
single word which she endeavoured to articulate; and, only bidding her
compose herself, said every thing most kind and soothing, while he again
and again pressed her hand in his. When they arrived in
Grosvenor-street, he forcibly drew Emmeline’s arm within his, to help
her up stairs, and, placing her on a couch, demanded in a low voice,
whether she would take any thing, and whether he should send for her
maid.
“Oh no, I shall soon recover—make no fuss, I entreat—it is nothing—I
have been very foolish—and frightened—that is all. But,” added she, with
an imploring look, “leave me—for God’s sake leave me.”
“Not till I see you better, I really cannot.” For her bosom still heaved
with convulsive sobs, and her heart seemed bursting.
Uncertain what to do, or say, and surprised at her repulsive manner
towards him, Pelham walked, disturbed, up and down the room in silence,
thinking it best for a little time to leave her to herself. At length,
hastily coming up to her, “My dearest Lady Fitzhenry!” he exclaimed,
“allow me to speak to you.”
Emmeline started, and looked at him aghast; but without noticing, or
even looking at her, Pelham continued in a hurried manner, “I trust you
will pardon me for venturing on so sacred a subject,—for touching on
sorrows, which you, with such courage, such delicacy, conceal in your
own breast—but I know all;—and I know your husband so well, that I am
sure I can give you comfort and hope.”
Inexpressibly relieved as Emmeline was by these words, which satisfied
her that she still had a friend on whom she could rest, yet other
feelings for the moment prevailed, and clasping her hands with the
vehemence of despair: “Oh, that is impossible! there is no hope, no
happiness for me in this world!”
“On my honour,” replied Pelham, with earnestness, “you may trust me; I
would not deceive you;” and, sitting down by her, he took her nervously
shaking hand in his. A few minutes before, Emmeline would have shrunk
from his touch, but those words had been sufficient to banish entirely
all her former miserable apprehensions; soothed by hearing once more the
consolatory voice of friendship, for an instant she smiled in gratitude
on his kind countenance, and then, quite overcome with the variety of
her feelings, tears again burst forth, and her head sank on his
shoulder.
At that instant, the door was hastily pushed open, and Fitzhenry
appeared! He started on seeing Pelham and Emmeline. As she quickly
raised her head at the noise he had made on entering, involuntarily a
faint exclamation of dismay escaped her, and even Pelham seemed
disconcerted.
“Lady Fitzhenry is not very well;” the latter at length said, after an
awkward pause, as if feeling that some explanation of the scene was
necessary; “and,” added he, addressing himself to Emmeline, “allow me to
recommend you to retire to your own room.”
Emmeline rose from her seat; every limb shook. Fitzhenry came towards
them, fixed his eyes sternly upon her, but said nothing. “I have not
been very well lately,” she with difficulty stammered out: “the heat in
town does not agree with me; and, I think, I will go to Charlton
to-morrow.”
Still Fitzhenry spake not, but Emmeline plainly saw anger and contempt
written on his countenance: she faintly wished him and Pelham good
night. The words died on her lips; for a sad foreboding told her she was
taking a final leave of her husband, as she was aware that it was
impossible they could any longer continue even on the footing they then
were. She paused a minute in hopes Fitzhenry would speak. One word would
have brought her to his arms, all forgiven, all forgotten. But he seemed
resolved on silence, and Emmeline went on into the inner drawing-room
that led to her own apartment.
Pelham perplexed, and uncertain how to act, followed her with his eyes
without moving from the spot she had quitted, while Fitzhenry, in great
apparent perturbation, paced the room. At length, just as Emmeline had
reached the door of her own apartment, seeing her trembling hands had
some difficulty in opening it, Pelham hurried to her assistance.
“You mean then,” said he in a low voice, as he turned the lock, “to go
to Charlton to-morrow. You shall hear from me, probably see me, and I
will bring you good news, perhaps even Fitzhenry;—cheer up, I entreat
you, all will yet be well.”
Emmeline forced a faint smile, and held out her hand to him; he seized
it with affection. “God of heaven bless and support you,” he said, with
earnestness, and hastily left her.
When he returned to the outward drawing-room, Fitzhenry was gone; he
hurried down stairs in hopes of finding him in his own room, but the
servants informed him, he had again left the house.
Emmeline ordered her carriage after church next morning, to take her to
Charlton; but how great a change do a few hours often make in our views!
She already repented having declared her intention of leaving town.
Twice, as the hour named by her drew near, she delayed the carriage,
wishing (much as she dreaded the interview) to see Fitzhenry before she
went. It was now past three, but still he did not appear, and no message
came from him. She rang the bell—“Is Lord Fitzhenry gone out?” She
enquired, rather fearfully.
“No, my lady,” answered the footman; “I believe my lord is not yet up;
at least he has not rung his bell; but shall I enquire?”
“Oh! no matter,” said Emmeline, with a faltering voice, and dismissing
the man. Convinced by this, that it was her husband’s intention they
should not meet, she determined to write to him; for to part thus, in
what seemed a decided, open rupture, without some sort of reconciliation
taking place, she now felt to be impossible: she therefore sat down, and
took her pen, although not knowing what to say. She once thought she
would beg for an interview—demand to be released from her promise of
silence, in order to come to some explanation. But yet what had she to
say? what had she to learn?
Even if Mrs. Osterley’s strange and cruel hints had reached his ears,—if
he could so mistake her and his friend, as to give any credit to them,
could she flatter herself he was enough interested about her, to care
whom she might prefer? On the other hand, to endeavour to exculpate
herself from suspicions which he might never have entertained, seemed
ridiculous. Besides, could she now, as a new thing, charge him with
coldness, dislike, and infidelity—all which he had openly declared, and
for all which he had prepared her months before.
Discouraged by these considerations from adverting to what had passed
the night before, she at length, after various doubts and indecisions,
merely wrote these words:—
“A very few days in the country will, I am sure, quite restore
me to my usual health. I will return to Grosvenor Street by the
end of the week; but if, for any reasons, you should wish me to
come home sooner, I trust to your letting me know, and I shall
be most willing to obey your summons. You will find me at my
father’s.
“EMMELINE FITZHENRY.”
This she intended should be given to Fitzhenry after her departure, and
she sealed and directed it for the purpose.
The carriage drove up to the door—the servants busied themselves in
putting on the luggage, and, hopeless of an interview with Fitzhenry,
Emmeline went slowly, sadly, to her own room, to prepare for her
departure.
On opening a drawer, she saw the small Geneva watch and chain which
Fitzhenry had sent her when a girl. Hardly aware of what she did, she
pressed it to her lips—then hung it round her neck. She felt a sad
presentiment that she was leaving her husband’s roof for ever, and this
watch was the only token of kindness she had ever received from him; the
only memorial she possessed, except her fatal wedding-ring, placed by
him on her hand in reluctance and aversion.
As Emmeline passed back through the drawing-room, she looked mournfully
at each object in it, convinced she was beholding them for the last
time. She slowly descended the stairs; every limb trembling with nervous
apprehension. Again she thought she would endeavour to see her husband;
and she paused at the door of his room to give herself one more chance;
for she thought, perhaps, when he heard her, he would come out to meet
her; or if she could only once more catch the sound of his voice, in its
usual tone of gentleness and kindness, it would give her courage to
demand admittance. But all was still. While thus standing debating with
herself, her heart beat so violently, that she could scarcely breathe,
and she was forced to lean against the banister for support.
“The chaise is quite ready, my lady,” said a footman, coming up to her;
for, seeing her on the stairs, he fancied her impatient to set
off—“every thing is put in.”
With no possible farther excuse for delay, feeling her fate was fixed,
she drew down her veil, to conceal her agitation, hurried through the
hall, and without allowing herself more time for reflection, got into
the carriage.
“To Charlton,” said the butler, who had closed the door after her, the
servants being already placed in the seat behind, and the postilions
immediately drove off.
Emmeline looked back once more at the house from which she felt she was,
probably, banishing herself for ever; and then sinking back in the
carriage, gave way to her feelings. “Farewell, then, Fitzhenry,” she
exclaimed, “since such is your will; and may heaven bless you, and have
pity on me!”
As she drew near Charlton, she endeavoured to compose herself, but in
vain: when she looked to the future, all was so dark and hopeless, and
she was so strongly impressed with the idea that she should never see
Fitzhenry again, that she felt her heart sink within her; and, quite
overpowered, and fearful of betraying her secret to her parents, she
more than once thought of stopping the carriage. But whither could she
go?
Fitzhenry had allowed her to depart. It seemed, indeed, even his wish
that she should go; and, unsolicited, she could not return. On they
drove. It was a beautiful bright Sunday; every one around her seemed to
be enjoying the day in gladness and gratitude. The roads and fields were
filled with joyous groups, the air with gay sounds.
“Do I sin in loving him so entirely, so passionately?” thought Emmeline;
“that amid so many that rejoice, I alone am doomed to be miserable?”
In uttering these words, perhaps Emmeline _did sin_. But it is the sin
into which suffering betrays us all. The wretched are hidden, or hide
themselves, from our view; and when, in sorrow, we look around us, we
compare our situation with those only who happen, at that moment, to be
basking in the transitory sunshine of cheerfulness. How many, as
Emmeline’s gay equipage drove rapidly by, probably coveted her riches,
her luxuries, her youth, and her beauty! while she envied the ragged,
laughing beggar-boy, by the road-side, who, as her carriage passed,
tossed his naked arms in the air, hallooing, in pure gaiety of heart and
enjoyment of existence.
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