Has thy heart sickened with deferred hope?
Or felt th’ impatient anguish of suspense?
Or hast thou tasted of the bitter cup
Which Disappointment’s withered hands dispense?
Thou knowest the poison which o’erflowed from hence
O’er Psyche’s tedious, miserable hours.
PSYCHE.
WHEN Emmeline arrived at her father’s, the servant informed her, that
both Mr. and Mrs. Benson were out in the carriage, but were expected
home before dinner. At that moment, she felt their absence was a relief,
and hastily getting out of the carriage, she desired the coachman, on
his return to town, immediately to ask whether Lord Fitzhenry had any
orders for him—for she still fondly hoped, that on reading her note, he
might follow her, and might himself wish for some explanation of what
had passed the preceding evening.
During the hour that elapsed before her father and mother returned,
Emmeline endeavoured to compose her spirits. She bathed her red and
swollen eyes, walked in the fresh air, and, hearing their carriage drive
up to the door, resolved to command herself, and went to meet them with
a cheerful countenance. But when the spirits are weak, there is nothing
so difficult to bear as tenderness. Her father’s fond benediction, the
smile of delight that beamed in her mother’s face, on unexpectedly
beholding her, were too much for poor Emmeline, unused as she was to
demonstrations of affection; and falling into her mother’s arms, in
spite of her resolutions and endeavours, she again burst into tears.
“My dear love! my child!” both exclaimed, “what can be the matter?”
“Nothing, nothing,” said Emmeline; “I have not been quite well lately,
and my spirits are in consequence weakened; and I was too happy to see
you—that is all.”
Mrs. Benson shook her head, and looked at her incredulously. Her father,
fixing his eyes stedfastly on her face, took her hand.
“Speak to me, my girl,” said he. “What is it that so distresses you?”
“Nothing!” again repeated Emmeline in a fainter voice; “I shall soon be
quite well.”
“Emmy! Emmy!” rejoined her father, “for once I don’t believe you; it is
too long since you have not been _well_, as you call it; and there is
_a_ something the matter that I must and will know.”
Emmeline averted her head, and did not answer.
“You need not attempt to deceive me any longer, girl,” said Mr. Benson,
sternly; “I have long suspected that all was not right between you and
your husband. I will now know the truth, and I have a right to demand it
of you.”
Still she was silent.
“What! you will not speak! you will not confide in me!” he continued,
his temper rising; “then I must seek for information elsewhere:” and he
moved towards the door of the room.
“Oh, my father!” exclaimed Emmeline, terrified—“What would you do?”
“Do? why I shall go to town directly. I shall see Lord Fitzhenry,” said
Mr. Benson, in a calmer, but decided tone; “and from him I must learn
what has passed between you, since you, my own child, will not trust
me.”
“Oh! speak not so to me, dear father! indeed I have full confidence in
your kindness—in your indulgence; but really, I have nothing to tell
which you do not know already—I have been to blame, perhaps—I mean I was
not aware—I was deceived,—even you dear father”—
“Deceived?” repeated Mr. Benson quickly—catching at the word: “deceived
by me? what do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing,” said Emmeline, alarmed at her father’s unusual
look of anger: “we were all to blame, but—but—perhaps it would have been
better if—”
Poor Mr. Benson, like many both of his superiors and inferiors could not
bear to be supposed to have erred, or even to have been mistaken, and
all the less when conscious the imputation was true; in a tone of
violence, therefore, which Emmeline had never heard addressed to her,
and suddenly letting go her hand, which he had been holding in both of
his: “What, Emmeline,” said he, “are you so unjust, so ungrateful, as to
accuse me as the cause of your misfortunes? blame your poor, doating,
old father for having given up his all to secure your happiness? For
shame, for shame, Emmy, I never expected that from you.”
“Oh hear me, hear me patiently!” she exclaimed, seizing on his arm.
“No, Emmeline, I can hear no more, bear no more, I have long guessed how
matters were between you and Lord Fitzhenry, and still I have forborne.
I held my peace as long as I could; but my pride will not allow me to be
any longer silent. I will not be trampled upon; I cannot endure to see
the delight of my old age, my only child, destroyed by neglect and
unkindness. Lord Fitzhenry presumes upon his superior rank. He thinks he
may with impunity insult and break the heart of the humble banker’s
daughter. But his lordship is mistaken; I too have pride as well as he.
Curse on _his_ rank, curse on _your_ money; they have been the cause of
all this; but I will have redress.”
“Redress! Good God, what do you mean?” enquired Emmeline, terrified at
his words and manner.
“I will insist on an immediate separation; on a divorce, in short, for
the law will give it me.”
A scream of horror escaped from Emmeline’s heart at these words. “No
power on earth shall ever separate me from him,” she exclaimed, with the
wild energy of passion. “Oh! my dear father, be appeased; have patience
and all will be well.”
She had sunk on her knees, and, overcome with the variety of her
painfully contending feelings, her head grew giddy, her sobs choked her,
and she fell nearly senseless at Mr. Benson’s feet. Every attention of
doating fondness was lavished upon her. Before long, she became more
composed, and her parents, whose every feeling was centered in her,
seeing how weak she was, both in body and spirits, said no more, but
turned their whole endeavours towards cheering and restoring her;
avoiding, for the moment, every thing that could renew her sorrows.
After some little time had elapsed, as if by common consent, they all
forced themselves to talk on indifferent subjects, but, in the effort,
poor Emmeline’s lip often quivered. At dinner, she turned away her
heavy, sickened eye from the food before her; and when her father filled
her glass with wine, bidding her drink it, for that it would do her
good, and, assuming a gay manner, pledged her and drank to her health,
tears again rushed into her eyes, as she recollected the pride with
which he was always wont on such occasions to unite her husband’s name
with hers.
The next morning, resolving if possible still to deceive her parents,
and by assumed cheerfulness to do away the impression made upon their
minds the preceding evening, poor Emmeline entered the breakfast-room
with as composed a countenance as she could command, and even forced a
smile, when, as in former days, she went up to her father to claim his
parental kiss. Mr. Benson, however, did not raise his eyes towards her,
or even return the pressure of her hand, but in silence pointed to the
seat prepared for her. She looked at her mother, whose eyes were fixed
on the table before her, and she saw that they were red with crying.
Twice Emmeline endeavoured at conversation by making some remark on the
weather, but no answer was given to her. Mr. Benson’s attention seemed
entirely engrossed by the newspaper that lay beside him, his breakfast
remaining untouched.
Aware that something disagreeable must have happened from the disturbed
appearance of her father and mother, a thousand vague but dreadful
apprehensions soon took possession of Emmeline’s mind, and at last,
unable any longer to endure the state of alarm and suspense into which
her fears had thrown her, she suddenly seized her father’s arm,
entreating him for pity’s sake to tell her what had so discomposed him,
what had happened.
“You, Lady Fitzhenry, can better inform _us_ of that,” he coldly said,
as he put the paper into her hand, and pointed to the following
paragraph:
“A singular fracas took place at the Opera on Saturday night;
not being yet informed of the particulars, we forbear making any
reflections. As it is a double intrigue, and therefore neither
party can complain, it is impossible to say how the affair may
end. The _chère amie_ of the noble lord is well known in the
fashionable world both _abroad_ and at _home_; and it is not
perhaps surprising that the neglected wife should have _pris son
parti_, and found a champion to espouse her cause. He is said to
be in the _diplomatic_ line, and _of course_ a particular friend
of the husband. One rumour states the injured wife to have
eloped—another that a duel has taken place. Certain it is that
two carriages with the F—z—y arms were seen to drive furiously
out of Grosvenor-street at different hours and in different
directions on Sunday afternoon.”
Emmeline turned deadly pale as she read this cruel paragraph; but a
still more ghastly hue spread itself over her mother’s face as she
anxiously watched her daughter’s countenance, and fancied that in her
emotion she read confession of guilt.
There was a dead silence. Emmeline, entirely satisfied as to her own
perfect innocence, and horror-stricken by the latter part of the
paragraph relating to the duel, was occupied in dwelling on the
possibility of there being any foundation for the rumour; and her whole
mind was so engrossed by that one thought, the safety of Fitzhenry, that
she did not even think of exculpating herself from the charge. Indeed,
she had totally forgotten the presence even of her parents, when Mr.
Benson, striking his hand with violence on the table, in a voice of
agony exclaimed—
“Speak Emmeline, are you innocent? or am I for ever disgraced?”
Emmeline startled by her father’s vehemence, looked wildly at him for an
instant, as if not understanding his words.
“I see, but too plainly, how it is. Don’t speak, don’t speak,” he
continued quickly; and, covering his face with both his hands, he gave
way to the violence of his feelings.
Completely roused by the burst of passion in one so seldom moved to
tears, Emmeline threw herself on her knees beside him, and, endeavouring
to take hold of his hand, exclaimed,
“Oh, my father, what can all this mean? is it possible you can
suspect?—God knows how innocent I am.”
Mr. Benson, wiping away his tears, looked at her for an instant in
silence. “Repeat those blessed words again, child, for I must believe
you.”
“By the God of truth!” exclaimed Emmeline, as she clasped her hands with
fervency and fixed her eyes steadfastly on Mr. Benson, “I am innocent of
having, in thought, word, or deed, departed from the love and duty, I
swore to my husband at the altar. Alas!” added she, as she hid her face
in her father’s bosom, “I only love him too well, too entirely for my
happiness.” These last words became indistinct, and choked by her tears.
“Thank God, thank God!” repeated Mr. Benson, with a sort of hurried
nervousness of manner, as he kissed his daughter’s forehead: “I could
not have borne that; your dishonour I could not have borne, Emmy, it
would soon have brought me to my grave. I believe you, Emmeline, on my
honour I do; you never in your life deceived me; but what does that
cursed story mean?” pointing to the paragraph to which his mind seemed
again to have returned with doubt and anxiety.
“I will tell you all, as far as——” and Emmeline stopped short, for how
could she explain what had passed, without drawing on a necessary
confession of her whole sad story.
“No more concealments, Emmy, I will and must know all,” said Mr. Benson
sternly.
Emmeline looked at her father as if supplicating for pity.
“Spare her now Mr. Benson,” said her mother as she folded her in her
arms: “we have it from her own true lips, that she is blameless, and let
what will have happened, we can bear any thing now.”
“Bless you, bless you for believing me,” said Emmeline, as she threw her
arms round her mother’s neck in gratitude: “but,” added she, with a
melancholy and reproachful look, “my father does not, he still doubts
me.”
“No, my girl, indeed I don’t,” cried Mr. Benson: “do you think I would
call you my Emmy, and let you remain one instant under my roof if I
thought you were disgraced. On my honour, I believe you, but I am
fretted and unhappy. I have toiled for your happiness, and it has ended
in nothing but mortification; for I see my darling is not happy, which
is more than I can bear,” and tears once more rushed into his eyes. “And
who the deuce do they mean by their ‘diplomatic champion?’” added he,
again casting his eyes on the paragraph.
“The whole is an abominable falsehood,” said Emmeline, in a hurried
manner. “They mean Mr. Pelham, I suppose, for he was with me;” and she
reddened as she spoke, at the bare possibility of such an insinuation.
“Coming out of the opera-house last night, there was a battle between
the coachmen—and it seemed as if something disagreeable had passed
between Lord Fitzhenry and Mr. Pelham—but it must have been only a
misunderstanding—no one was to blame—only when I parted from them last
night, they certainly seemed much irritated against each other.”
“And have you not seen your husband since?” eagerly enquired Mrs.
Benson.
“No,” said Emmeline, in a low tone, and averting her head. Mr. Benson
gave a significant shrug of his shoulders.
“And pray what had you, and Mr. Pelham, and Lord Fitzhenry to do with
the fighting of the coachmen; and, above all, what in the name of
wonder, had his _chère amie_, as the idiots call her, to do with it at
all? whose carriage fought with yours? for I presume, you and your
husband were together; surely you can sit in the same coach, though you
can’t sleep in the same room?”
“I really can’t tell—it was all such a confusion,” replied Emmeline,
colouring deeply. “But, dear father, don’t waste time, but, for pity’s
sake, send some one to Grosvenor-street, and ask if all is well—and yet,
perhaps,” added she, the next minute, alarmed at the possible
consequences of her own suggestion, “perhaps it will be better not—it
must be all a foolish story.”
“I shall go myself to Lord Fitzhenry’s,” said Mr. Benson, after a
moment’s reflection.
“_You_ go?” exclaimed Emmeline, terrified—“indeed there is no
necessity—it is only a trifle—in fact nothing has occurred, only the
carriage——I assure you, Lord Fitzhenry will be quite surprised to see
you—perhaps displeased—indeed you had better not go.”
“I shall judge for myself,” said Mr. Benson, coldly. “I don’t believe
one word about the carriage story; your husband would not be such a fool
as to fight about a scratched panel; and as for his displeasure, I shall
care little for that, for he seems very little to care for mine.”
This intention of her father’s seriously alarmed Emmeline; for, in the
state of irritation, in which both he and Lord Fitzhenry then were, she
dreaded the result of their meeting; and, clinging to Mr. Benson, she
ejaculated—“Oh, then pray let me go with you!”
Brought up in the good old fashioned system of filial obedience and
dependence, Emmeline, although the object of the tenderest affection,
had no idea even now that she was a wife, of putting her will in
opposition to that of her parents, or of boldly declaring any
determination of her own. She could only entreat, and _that_ her
countenance did most eloquently, during the moment or two that now
passed before Mr. Benson answered her. At length, he consented,
saying—“Yes; I believe that will be best, for I shall by that means hear
both sides.”
These words raised fresh apprehensions in Emmeline’s mind, for she saw
that her father’s intention was to come to some explanation with her
husband; and good, even kind as she knew those intentions were, yet she
felt, that any interference on his part, particularly at that moment,
would only widen the breach between them, and make her situation worse,
by bringing matters to that crisis from which she shrank with dismay.
She, therefore, said every thing she could venture upon, to induce him
to desist; but her words seemed only to irritate him still more against
Lord Fitzhenry, and to make him the more resolved on seeking an
interview with him; so at last, finding how vain were all her arguments,
and that having settled the matter in his own mind, Mr. Benson would
listen to no excuse, no reason, that she could give for changing her
opinion so quickly, Emmeline gave up the point in despair, and, in a
short time, she and her father were on the road to town.
At first, the miles appeared to her to be endless, but, as they drew
near town, dreading the possible result of their visit to
Grosvenor-street, poor Emmeline was several times tempted to beg the
driver might slacken his pace, but she controlled her nervous agitation
as well as she could, and they drove on in silence, till they entered
London; when she suddenly seized Mr. Benson’s hand, saying, with a look
of entreaty—“If we see him, you will leave all to me,—indeed, he is no
way to blame, only a misunderstanding, which I shall soon be able to
clear up.”
“Ay, and it _shall_ be cleared up,” replied Mr. Benson. “If you, Lady
Fitzhenry, are content to let this vile slur remain on your reputation,
I am not, and I shall oblige those who can refute it, to do so. I shall
most certainly see Lord Fitzhenry, and I must from him get a better
explanation of all this strange business, than I can from you. My God!”
added he, after a moment’s pause, as if speaking to himself—“to think
that my daughter’s name should appear in a public paper, with such an
imputation attached to it! to think, that after all my labours, it
should have come to this!” And, after striking his cane several times
with impatience on the bottom of the carriage, he suddenly, as if he
thought greater speed would relieve his feelings, bade the coachman
drive faster.
This injunction was the means of soon bringing them into
Grosvenor-square; and poor Emmeline’s agitation became almost
unbearable. What was she going to learn? what was going to be her fate?
for on the next hour she felt that it depended. They drove up to the
door of her husband’s house—of her own home—and yet she shrunk back, in
dread and dismay. A hasty glance showed her, that all the shutters were
closed—and a cold, deadly sickness came over her. The servant
knocked—but no one answered—he knocked again, and rung; and at length
the porter appeared, and a parley ensued between him and Mr. Benson’s
servant.
Emmeline could endure the suspense no longer; and, with the paleness of
death on her face, grasping her father’s arm—“In pity!” she cried,
“speak to the man yourself.” Mr. Benson beckoned him to the carriage
window.
“I want to see Lord Fitzhenry,” said he. “Is he at home?”
“No, sir; neither my lord nor my lady are at home”—for Emmeline had so
shrunk to the back of the carriage, that the man did not see her.
“Is Lord Fitzhenry quite well?” rejoined Mr. Benson, not knowing very
well how to get at the information he wanted.
“Yes, sir! I believe so,” said the porter, apparently surprised at the
question. “His lordship went away yesterday afternoon; he did not leave
his room till late, but I did not hear that he was any ways ill; I
thought my lady had gone to Charlton.”
“Do you know where he is gone to?” continued Mr. Benson.
“No, I really can’t say; his lordship ordered post horses in a great
hurry, and the carriage was to take him up at some place in town, but I
really can’t tell where; but I will enquire in the house if any one
knows.”
“Did he leave word when he was to return?”
“No, my lord said nothing, and we do not expect him back for some days,
as he gave no orders.”
A new and appalling idea now flashed across Emmeline’s mind—could
Fitzhenry and Lady Florence have fled together! and, not content with
the entire possession of each other’s affections, could they have
determined by that open act, at once to rid themselves of the thraldom
of their respective marriages! There was nothing of which she could not
suspect Lady Florence; but her heart smote her for thus, even for an
instant, accusing Fitzhenry; and, shocked at her own surmises, she
hastily enquired whether Lord Fitzhenry had left no letter, no message
for her.
“Not that I knows of, my lady,” said the porter, bowing to Emmeline, and
evidently astonished at her question, as well as at her appearance, as
she had hitherto remained concealed behind Mr. Benson; “but I will go
and enquire.”
“This is all very strange,” muttered Mr. Benson to himself, while he was
gone; “I can’t make it out for the life of me.”
As for poor Emmeline, she was totally unable to express, or even to form
an opinion; so many fearful apprehensions succeeded each other in her
mind. After an interval of time, which appeared to her endless, the man
returned with a note in his hand.
“I can hear of no letter, my lady; but this note the housekeeper found
in your ladyship’s room; perhaps it is what you mean.”
Emmeline eagerly seized it; but what was her mortification on finding it
was her own note to Fitzhenry, with the seal still unbroken. In the
confusion of her mind, she could not recollect whether, on leaving home
the preceding day, she had given any orders about it: if she had, she
must conclude, that Fitzhenry, occupied by other objects, had neglected,
perhaps scorned, to read it. But at all events, as that note was unread,
he must have gone from home in the full conviction that she, on her
part, had left it in open, declared war.
Quite overcome by the combination of distressing circumstances in which
she was placed, after tearing her ill-fated note in a thousand pieces,
with a vehemence of impatience very foreign to her nature, Emmeline
again sunk back in the carriage, to conceal her disordered state from
the servants. There was a moment’s pause. At length Mr. Benson,
enquiring where Mr. Pelham lived, desired the coachman to drive to his
house. Emmeline drew down the blind, spoke not a word, but seemed to
give herself up to her fate in despair.
When they reached the end of the street to which they had been directed,
Mr. Benson stopped the carriage, and saying he would return to her
directly, got out. He was some time absent: when he returned, he
evidently was endeavouring to maintain a composure which he did not
feel.
“Mr. Pelham has likewise left London,” said he. “He too went away
yesterday evening with post horses——very strange; but, I suppose, some
junket out of town,” added he, making an awkward attempt at
cheerfulness. The step of the carriage was let down for him. “Hang me!”
continued Mr. Benson, “if I know what to do next, or where to go to. To
drive after them would really be a wild-goose chase; for the chances are
a hundred to one against our taking the same road; for the plague is,
that one don’t know at all where they are gone to. Mr. Pelham’s
servants, too, can’t tell where their master went—a parcel of stupid,
outlandish boobies, that can’t speak Christian-like language.”
And apparently much distressed and perplexed, Mr. Benson, with one foot
on the step of the carriage, looked anxiously up and down the street, as
if in the hope of seeing some one, or something, that could suggest an
idea to him.
“Let us return to Charlton, directly,” said Emmeline, in a low, broken
voice; for a new apprehension had entered her mind. When she reflected
on the gentle nature of Pelham’s temper, on his devoted affection for
Fitzhenry, and adverted to the falsehood of the newspaper story in the
part relating to herself, her mind began to be much easier with regard
to the report of the duel. As to Fitzhenry’s sudden departure from town,
it was certainly strange; and in spite of her endeavours to combat the
idea, she could not help interpreting it in a way the most agonizing to
her feelings: but still it was just possible that even there she might
be mistaken; and if so, nothing would be more likely to incense
Fitzhenry against her, or to widen the breach between them, than finding
she was following his steps like a spy; and that even Mr. Benson took
upon himself to enquire into his actions. The instant this idea entered
her mind, her whole anxiety was to return to Charlton, and there wait
patiently till time explained this alarming business; and a very few
hours must, she thought, relieve her at least from suspense: she
therefore again entreated that they might go back to Charlton
immediately.
Mr. Benson paused for a minute or two, as if ruminating in his own mind
on some method of obtaining information; but none occurring, he, in a
dejected tone, bade the servants return home. The coachman turned his
horses’ heads, and the father and daughter travelled the nine weary
miles back to Charlton in total silence.
Mrs. Benson, who had been anxiously awaiting their return, soon saw she
had little good to learn; and forbore to question Emmeline; but, after
putting into her hand a letter that had come for her during her absence,
went to learn what had passed from Mr. Benson.
The letter was from Mr. Pelham: it contained these words, and was dated
Sunday evening.
“I cannot, as I had hoped and intended, see you to-day, nor
indeed to-morrow. I find Fitzhenry has left town, and I am about
to follow him. Depend on me for doing all that friendship can
do, to restore him to you. So I still say, ‘be of good cheer.’
As soon as Fitzhenry and I have met, I am sure I shall be able
to bring you good news. By Wednesday, I think, you may depend on
seeing me; or, at all events, on hearing from me; and I don’t
despair of even bringing Fitzhenry with me.”
This letter, meant to express comfort and hope, conveyed the very
reverse to Emmeline’s sick mind; she had now no doubt but that Fitzhenry
and Lady Florence had left town together, and that if Pelham attempted
at any remonstrance or interference, however mild and sensible, still
every thing was to be feared from his meeting with her husband under
such circumstances. That she had parted with Fitzhenry for ever, seemed
now but too certain. There was a mystery in Pelham’s letter that
evidently showed he had something to conceal, and that could only be the
most dreadful of all intelligence to her. Poor Emmeline raised her
streaming eyes to heaven, while she clasped her hands in the energy of
suffering, but not one prayer could she utter. Alas! what had she to
ask? Could she wish again to behold him who scorned, who loathed, who
had, in short, fled from her? And could she wish to cease to love him?
What affectionate mind but recoils with horror from the dreary thought?
She might, indeed, pray for release from an existence which was become
insupportable to her! And, perhaps, in the rebellion of a young and
suffering heart, she did give utterance to the impatient wish. But let
mortals adore the Merciful Power, who, pitying the weakness of
short-sighted humanity, marks not down those prayers. It is the first
pang of severe suffering that wrings them from us; in time, we learn to
endure; and, in the evening of a chequered life we look back, perhaps,
on those very moments of sorrow with the greatest gratitude, and say
with the poet——
“Amid my list of blessings infinite,
Stands this the foremost—that my heart has bled.”
The next morning the following paragraph, which appeared in the
newspaper, seemed very much to relieve Mr. Benson; but, if possible, it
only increased Emmeline’s apprehensions.
“It is with sincere pleasure that we can confidently contradict
a report in our last, respecting a certain noble pair in
Grosvenor-Street, in so far at least as the fair fame of _one_
of the ladies is concerned. Lady F——y, we understand, merely
left town in order to pay a visit to her father at Ch—l—n, where
she now is. A legal separation between the parties may however
be anticipated, as it is certain that the noble Lord has also
most abruptly left home, and, it is whispered, not _alone_.
Rumour also states that the diplomatic friend has followed the
fugitives, in order, if possible, to prevent the scandal of a
public eclat.”
Mr. Benson’s feelings had been so entirely engrossed by that part of the
first newspaper story, alluding to his daughter’s supposed levity of
conduct, and his mind was so relieved by this public and honourable
acquittal, that he might have overlooked the rest of the paragraph just
mentioned, had not Emmeline’s look of misery reminded him, that though
that unfounded subject for distress was removed, all her but too real
causes for anxiety remained.
Tuesday passed without any intelligence of any kind reaching them.
Wednesday at length arrived, and during its heavy hours, the
perturbation of Emmeline’s agitated mind was painful to witness. For on
what Pelham was that day to impart, she felt her future fate in life
depended.
With one so young, and unused to sorrow, hope still will linger, and
even though against her reason and her conviction, the concluding words
in Pelham’s letter sometimes for an instant caused a thrill of pleasure
to her heart, and she gave way to delightful anticipations. Fitzhenry
might have mistaken _her_ feelings towards him: she was aware that
latterly she had given way to irritation in her manner. Pelham might let
him into the real state of her affections, for she well knew that that
friend had read her heart right, and, perhaps, when her husband knew
all, his better feelings would prevail, and would restore him to her.
But when Emmeline’s imagination had carried her thus far, the chilling
conviction of the truth came at once to destroy these dreams of
happiness, and make place for despair. Thus, in all the miserable
agitation of doubt and anxiety, she passed the day listening to every
sound, starting at the noise of every bell, and the opening of every
door; and so wild were sometimes her fantasies, that she more than once
thought she heard her husband’s step on the stairs, and his voice in the
passage that led to her room. But the day passed, and no one came.
Late in the evening, when she had nearly given up all hope, she heard
the door bell ring. She started up—every pulse throbbed—unable to move
from her place, she remained breathless, watching the door: it opened,
but no Fitzhenry appeared; and the servant entering, brought her a
letter. It was not Fitzhenry’s hand-writing. A cold tremor crept over
her; the room swam round her, and the letter fell from her hands. Her
mother caught it up, and seeing how unable her daughter was herself to
read it, and dreading the effects of such violent agitation on her
already weakened frame, she ventured to break the seal, and hastily
glancing her eyes over its contents. “My child,” said she, taking
Emmeline’s icy hand, “it is from your friend Mr. Pelham. He says, he
could not, as he meant, come to you; that pressing public affairs oblige
him to return immediately to Vienna. He is already on his way to Dover.
Your husband is quite well—but——”
“But what?” exclaimed Emmeline, with a look of horror.
“He too is gone abroad.”
“Gone!” repeated Emmeline wildly; “then it is all over:” and she was
carried senseless to her bed.
Her wretched parents wept and prayed by her; for hers was a sorrow to
which no earthly comfort could be given. In a few hours, however,
composure—that dreadful composure of exhausted nature—returned, and the
first minute she could read, she asked for Mr. Pelham’s letter. It
contained these words:
“You will be surprised, and I fear painfully so, when you hear
we are leaving England. Some unforeseen public affairs oblige me
instantly to return to the Continent; and, I am going to take
Fitzhenry with me: but, for God’s sake, keep up your spirits; he
is well, and we have had a great deal of conversation. In time,
you shall know all; and very soon, I am sure, he will be
restored to you; but my poor friend’s mind is at present in a
state approaching to delirium; and we must be patient with him.
“Dearest Lady Fitzhenry, I would not for the world give you
false hopes; but, I still repeat, that all will be well; you
deserve to be happy, and heaven will take care that you shall be
so. Fitzhenry has been infatuated, blinded, deceived, every way.
But his eyes are now opened, and, (not for the world would I
deceive you, even to give you one moment of false happiness,)
trust me, he admires and loves you; I was certain such
excellence could not long be thrown away upon one so fitted to
appreciate it. The fatal madness which has hitherto rendered him
insensible to his real happiness, is now at an end—on my honour
it is.
“I have time for no more; the carriage is at the door; I am only
waiting for Fitzhenry; he knows I am writing to you; you shall
ere long hear from me again.”
Emmeline hardly knew what to conclude from this letter; she read it over
and over. Sometimes she interpreted its contents favourably to her
feelings; but, in general, the impression it left was not that of hope.
She believed Pelham, when he told her that Fitzhenry’s connexion with
Lady Florence was at an end; she must believe such solemn assurances;
but what had she gained? Her rival, no longer the cause, still her
husband fled from her. What could that mean, but that still she had to
encounter settled, determined aversion? for he was leaving England
without one word, one attempt at reconciliation—and with no time even
named for his return. In short, in spite of Pelham’s encouragement, she
felt but too well convinced their separation was for ever.
Sorrow sunk deeply into Emmeline’s heart; but, for her parent’s sake,
she resolved to exert herself. She left her room, agreed to go out into
the fresh air; acquiesced in whatever was proposed to her; forced
herself to converse on indifferent subjects; and even sometimes
endeavoured at cheerfulness. But such exertions could not deceive. The
“sickness of hope deferred,” preyed on her health; she grew daily
thinner; and her cheeks were either deadly pale, or flushed with the
deepest feverish crimson.
Poor Mrs. Benson gazed at her in silent anxiety. There was their
Emmeline again returned to them, to the same place, the same quiet home,
avocations and duties she used to perform; but, how changed! Formerly,
she was their joy, their pride: to look on her laughing eyes, and on her
fresh smooth cheek, had been enough to make them happy; but now the
sight was misery. Mr. Benson also was changed. Though sometimes, in the
kind endeavour to cheer his melancholy companions, he attempted to
resume his usual loquacity, and even tried his bad jokes; yet, as they
no longer proceeded from an exuberantly happy heart, they had lost their
only merit; and, seeing how ill they in general succeeded, and that his
intended wit and mirth oftener forced tears than smiles from his
suffering daughter, he at last gave up the attempt entirely, and seemed
to resign himself to the sadness which oppressed him. He appeared also
to have entirely lost his usual bustling activity. He often stood for
hours at the window, with his hands in his pockets, staring at the blue
sky and green grass, objects which he had never been seen to gaze at
before; or, sitting with the newspaper in his hand, reading over and
over the same page, almost unconscious of the words before him; for now,
neither public news, nor even the price of stocks, seemed to have power
to arrest his attention.
Fitzhenry was never named among them, nor that painful subject any way
alluded to.
One day, however, that Mr. Benson and Emmeline were alone together,
after the former had, as was now usual to him, sat a long time silent,
he suddenly looked up, and, addressing her in the decided tone of one
who has well considered the matter of which he is about to treat—
“Emmy!” said he—for he had now quite left off calling her Lady
Fitzhenry, which he had, with apparently proud satisfaction after her
marriage, always done—“Emmy, I have indulged your fancies all this
time—I have complied with your request—I have said nothing—done nothing.
In short, to please you, I have, in truth, made but a silly figure; but
this cannot go on—it is impossible—you cannot yourself wish it.
Something decided must be settled between you and your husband.”
Emmeline’s pale cheek grew still paler, and, in answer, she put into her
father’s hand Mr. Pelham’s last letter. He read it over and over and
over several times, looked at the date, the signature, the direction,
even with the precaution and accuracy of business, and then returning
it—
“I can’t make head or tail of it. Lord Fitzhenry and you, Emmy, and your
diplomatic champion, are all beyond my comprehension. I declare I don’t
know what any of you would be at. If your husband has turned off his
kept mistress, as I suppose he has by this, (shame on him ever to have
had one—and another man’s wife, too, into the bargain,) why, now the
coast is clear, why can’t he come and fetch you, his lawful wife, home,
and live respectably, and be at least decently civil to you. What the
deuce is he gone abroad for? unless indeed it is to look out for some
new lady, being, I suppose, tired of the old one—for such madams, I
believe, abound at Paris. In short, Emmy, I will not let this sort of
thing go on any longer. I will give you one month; and if during that
time, your husband makes no advances towards a reconciliation, I will
then come forward. Surely, Emmeline, your own pride must make you wish
that I should.”
“Pride!” repeated Emmeline, mournfully. “Oh! my father, what has pride
to do with affection?”
“What!” rejoined her father, warmly, “can you tamely submit to be
insulted and neglected as you are? And pray what has affection to do
with the business? when this man don’t seem to care one farthing for
you; and, now indeed that the truth comes out, it seems he never did. A
pretty object for affection truly. I thought you had better feelings.
Fool! idiot! that I was,” continued he, striking his forehead, “to be so
proud of this marriage. Could I have guessed how matters would have
turned out, I had rather have seen you the wife of the lowest clerk in
my banking-house, than that of this Lord Fitzhenry, or any other lord in
Christendom with his vile paramour. But who would have thought it of
him? such a fine young man as he was. I always liked the lad; there was
something so frank and manly about him. Do you remember those balls we
used to give on your birth-day, Emmy, when he always danced with you, as
a thing of course? How you used to tear about the room together like a
couple of madcaps, looking so happy! Then, when he took leave of you
going abroad—Lord, I remember it as if it was but yesterday—he kissed
you and called you his little wife. My silly heart jumped with joy at
those words. And then he sent you that watch which I see still hanging
round your neck. I thought all that promised so well. Who could have
dreamt of his turning out as he has done? And even since your marriage
at Arlingford, how civil and pleasant he was to me, and to you even
seemingly. I really can hardly now bring myself to believe any one so
young can be so deceitful and hardened!”
How long Mr. Benson might have gone on thus giving vent to the thoughts
which apparently now constantly engrossed his mind, it is impossible to
say; for, kind-hearted and affectionate as he was, he had so little
notion of the nature of love, of the refinement of poor Emmeline’s
passion, and of the feelings of a lacerated heart that recoils from
every touch, that he had no idea he was running daggers into hers; till,
no longer able to endure the torture of his words, and grasping his arm
in agony, “Oh, my father!” she exclaimed, “do not talk of him.”
“Well, well,” said he, patting her hand as he looked with concern on her
suffering countenance, “if it displeases you, we need not talk of the
matter just now; but remember, Emmy, one month more, and I _will_ have
my own way in this business.”
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