“Un siècle d’attente—un jour de bonheur.”
TEN days of the month passed, and still no intelligence of any sort
about Lord Fitzhenry reached Charlton.
Emmeline saw his and Pelham’s name in the papers among those who had
crossed the water to Calais; but she heard no more. This strange silence
seemed to confirm her husband’s hostile determination with regard to
her, and to fix her future fate. She uttered no complaint, shed no
tears, was silent, and resigned, and appeared to be some figure wound up
to perform the ordinary actions of life without taking any part in them,
so still was her composure. But sometimes, when her mother looked at
her, pressed her hand, or kissed her pale cheek, then, a momentary
convulsive sob would escape from her oppressed bosom, and a solitary
burning tear would steal down her face.
There is a dead pause in affliction which is dreadful. As long as we
have to act, to exert ourselves, even though those exertions may be
painful, still they are more bearable than sitting down quietly with
grief, without any thing to look to. When day after day passes the same,
and when at last from the sameness of our thoughts and feelings, even
suffering has no longer power to affect us, our tears cease to flow,
though the heart within is breaking.
The dreary desolation of her future existence, from which, appalled at
the prospect, she at first shrunk with horror, now constantly occupied
her, to the exclusion of every other thought, and of every ray of hope.
A short twelve-month back, knowing no felicity beyond loving, and being
beloved by her fond parents, she was at peace, and happy—now, new
feelings, new powers of heart, unknown to herself before, had been
awakened in her, and she hated herself when she felt—(and she could not
help feeling it) that not all their kindness, all their partial
affection, could soothe and occupy a heart which _love_, love for
Fitzhenry had now so entirely engrossed. Love is a draught of so
inebriating a quality, that it is long before one who has known its
delirious power can (even when that delirium ceases) return satisfied to
the sober feelings of friendship. The sun which had warmed and illumined
life is set; and all other near and dear affections, are as the quiet
cold rays of moonlight to the bereaved soul which shivers beneath their
chilling influence.
How often when endeavouring to soothe those who are writhing under such
sorrows, are the affections of parent and kindred offered as
compensations. But such comfort, sickening the heart at its own
ingratitude, only adds to its misery. Time alone, the sobering influence
of years, can heal such wounds, or rather skin them over, for the scar
remains, till at last it thickens and hardens, rendering it insensible
to every impression; but is that happiness? When a sacred voice
announced, that “a man shall leave father and mother, and cleave to his
wife”—it plainly told how overwhelming such feelings were intended to
be; and if allowed, nay, commanded in man, how much more in woman, whose
existence is made up of the affections of the heart!
Poor Emmeline endeavoured to resume her usual occupations, but in vain.
She tried to read—it was impossible; once or twice, in the wish to pass
the heavy hours, she proposed reading aloud to her mother, as she had
formerly done. Her lips mechanically uttered the words; but, at a pause,
Mrs. Benson making some remark on the book, Emmeline startled at the
sound of her voice—looked vacantly at her, apparently unconscious of
what she alluded to. The mother, suppressing a sigh, endeavoured at some
explanation, but seeing how hopeless was the attempt to fix her
daughter’s mind on any subject, she quietly closed the book, saying,
“Emmy, my love, we will continue that some other time, for I think
reading hurts your eyes.”
Emmeline gave her a meanless, melancholy smile in answer, and sat in
silence; her eyes fixed on the volume, as if even unconscious that their
lecture was over. Lost as she was in thought, it would perhaps have been
difficult for her to have told what those thoughts were, all was so
vague; and on no one circumstance in her situation, could she rest her
mind with expectation of any sort. Even religion could bring her little
comfort. Had Fitzhenry, penitent towards heaven and herself, been taken
from her by death, she would have found peace for her thoughts in piety.
She could have said to her widowed heart—we shall meet again. But that
way, Emmeline, shuddering, dared not look. Often too, she aggravated her
distress by reproaching herself for having brought sorrow and melancholy
to that home, which had been always hitherto one of content and
cheerfulness; and she sometimes thought it was her duty to leave it, and
relieve her parents of her painful presence—but whither could she go?
was Arlingford still her home? could she venture to return there?
Thus, day after day sadly passed without her being able to form any plan
for herself or the future, till she was one morning roused from the
state of stupor into which she had sunk, by Lord Arlingford being
suddenly announced.
Since the marriage, for which both he and Mr. Benson had been so equally
anxious, there had been little intercourse between them. Lord Arlingford
having obtained his object, and secured Emmeline’s fortune, he was not
particularly anxious to keep up any thing like intimacy with Mr. Benson,
whose honest, blunt vulgarity, did not at all suit the refined elegance
of his own manners and habits.
Emmeline was with her mother alone when Lord Arlingford entered. She
turned deadly pale; for, in a minute, a thousand apprehensions as to the
possible purport of his visit occurred to her; and, hardly knowing in
what manner to meet him, she remained in her place, with the feelings of
a criminal awaiting the sentence of his judge. But such alarming fears
were soon dissipated—his manner was more than usually kind—she was his
“dear Emmeline, his pretty daughter.” He quite overcame Mrs. Benson with
civilities, and was so very particular and anxious in his enquiries
after Mr. Benson, and whether he could not have the pleasure of seeing
him, that at last Emmeline thought it best to go and inform her father
of his visit, hoping that Lord Arlingford’s conciliatory manner might
pacify his justly indignant feelings. When she told him who was in the
drawing-room with her mother,——
“I know it—I know it quite well child,” said he, impatiently; “you need
not have come for me; why did you not say I was out, or busy, or sick? I
am sure you may say the last with truth, for I am not half the man I
used to be. I don’t want to see him; he is only come to try and palaver
me over; and if I do go down to him, what in the world can we say to
each other? Your marriage is the only thing we have talked about these
last ten years, and the less now said of that the better, I am sure: and
I am sore here,” said the good old citizen, seizing on his waistcoat,
and rubbing it across his breast; “and I don’t want him to make matters
worse. I wish his lordship had staid at home; for what the deuce can he
be come here for?”
“For no unkind purpose, I am sure,” said Emmeline, wishing to pacify her
father—“for his manner to me is more than usually affectionate. For my
sake, dear father, come down to him, and be cordial to him,” said she,
grasping his hand with fervency, while her imploring eyes, fixed on his
face, spoke all the feelings of heart.
“You are a silly girl, Emmy,” said her father: “you have no proper
pride. This abominable husband of yours has made a perfect fool of you;
but go away to the drawing-room; say I will be down directly. Plague on
him, he has turned me quite topsy-turvy.”
Emmeline returned to Lord Arlingford, and was happy to find him and her
mother conversing on indifferent subjects. In nervous agitation, she
seated herself by them, listening with painful anxiety for her father’s
approach—while her eyes and ears were fixed on Lord Arlingford, eagerly
watching for every look, every tone, that bore the slightest resemblance
to his son. It is hard to say, whether there is most pain or pleasure in
such recollections of a beloved object, but who can help catching at
them? A glance, a word will sometimes make the heart start from a stupor
of grief to which it had been reduced, and give it a passing sensation
of something we, at the moment, mistake for happiness. So it was with
Emmeline; and, lost in such thoughts, she sat gazing on the still
handsome countenance of Lord Arlingford, till, hearing her father’s
step, she hastily rose, and walked towards the window, to conceal her
nervous apprehensions as to the result of their meeting.
Mr. Benson entered the room with a knit brow and both hands in his
pockets; but Lord Arlingford’s decided resolution to meet him cordially,
at last forced one hand out of its repulsive retreat.
“I am glad to find our Emmeline looking better than I expected,” said
Lord Arlingford, a little at a loss for a subject to begin with—the
coldness of Mr. Benson’s look and manner having rather disconcerted him.
“I heard she had left town on account of her health, the heat having
been too much for her.”
“I don’t know what your lordship expected,” said Mr. Benson, surlily,
“but Lady Fitzhenry can scarcely look worse than she does.”
Lord Arlingford not seeming to heed the incivility of his answer,
continued—“Ernest, too, did well to leave London, for he knocked himself
up in the House of Commons. No constitution can stand it; and I was
quite glad when I heard he had obtained _leave_ of _absence_ to take a
little trip on the continent, with his friend Mr. Pelham,”—and Lord
Arlingford glanced at Emmeline, with a look which meant to express
gallant pleasantry, but the anxiety which accompanied it, was very
perceptible.
Mr. Benson cleared his throat—seemed beating the time of some tune on
his knee, and, after a moment’s pause, said: “In my time, husbands and
wives took those little trips together; but I presume that is no longer
the fashion; at least, not at the west end of the town.”
Lord Arlingford made no reply—but, turning to Emmeline—“I suppose you
can hardly have heard from our travellers yet; that lazy boy, Ernest,
has not written to me one word since he went. Indeed, it was the
newspapers that first informed me of his departure; but, in truth, I
believe the wind has been directly contrary for packets coming over. I
never remember, at this time of the year, such a continuation of high
winds; and those diplomatic people always travel _ventre à terre_, in
order, I suppose, to give a vast opinion of their importance; so we must
not be too severe on Fitzhenry.”
Emmeline tried to speak; her nervous lips moved, but not a word could
she articulate; and her mother, wishing to change the subject, made some
remarks on the freshness and beauty of the country.
“Yes, indeed it is particularly beautiful just now,” said Arlingford;
“and I do wonder how people can remain in town as they do; however,
numbers have followed our wise example, and I thought the streets looked
very dull and empty to-day, as I passed through. I suppose, Lady
Fitzhenry, you have no thoughts of returning to Grosvenor-Street, while
Ernest is away. I dare say he would not trust you in the gay world of
London without him,” added he laughing.
Emmeline, without raising her eyes from the carpet, on which they had
been fixed, replied, that she meant to remain at Charlton some time
longer.
There was a dead pause. Poor Mrs. Benson was painfully occupied in
observing her daughter; and Mr. Benson seemed resolved on avoiding every
thing like advances to his visitor, who, at last, was again forced to
start a new subject. Taking, therefore, a desperate resolution to come
at once to the point, and ascertain how matters were likely to be
between him and the Benson family, or rather, between his son and
daughter-in-law, he said, “the principal object of my visit to-day, was
to try and persuade you all three to come and pay me a visit at
Wimbledon. I am now quite alone, and it would really be a charity”—and
he addressed himself particularly to Mr. Benson.
“You know I am a man of business, my lord,” said he dryly—“my time is
little at my own disposal. I cannot at present absent myself from home;
and as for Emmeline, I do not think she is just now in a state to make
any visits.”
“But, coming to me,” rejoined Lord Arlingford, with most determined
civility and good humour, “would only be exchanging one home for
another. My dear Emmeline, will you not indulge me?”
Emmeline made some answer, but her words were unintelligible. She saw,
every minute, that Mr. Benson’s temper was rising, and she shook from
head to foot.
“Well, you will think of it, and let me know when you feel inclined to
come,” said Lord Arlingford, seeing it was useless to endeavour to press
the matter any further—“and, perhaps, if we put it off a little, Mr. and
Mrs. Benson will be able to accompany you.”
Mr. Benson made no answer; he had left his seat, and was restlessly
fidgeting about the room. “So it shall remain that you write to me, and
name your own day,” added Lord Arlingford, rising.
“Yes, your lordship will shortly hear from me,” said Mr. Benson, with a
meaning, in his tone and manner, that Emmeline understood but too well;
and, unasked, he rung the bell.
“Well, God bless you, my fair Emmeline,” said Lord Arlingford, kissing
her on both cheeks, with a sort of flirting gallantry of manner that was
so habitual to him, that neither age nor the infirmities of sickness had
altered it, and which he maintained even with his daughter-in-law. “Make
haste and recover the roses which, I must confess, the dissipation of
London has a little _flétri_, that Ernest may find you in bloom and
beauty on his return; and we must mutually let each other know when we
hear from him; I am the most interested in the bargain, as I think we
can guess who will have the first intelligence.”
Again Lord Arlingford forced Mr. Benson’s reluctant hand into his, and
overcoming Mrs. Benson with civil speeches, went to his carriage. Mr.
Benson constrained himself so far as to accompany his visitor to the
hall-door.
“By the bye, my dear Benson,” said Lord Arlingford, stepping back just
as he was entering the carriage, “when you do come, you shall find my
horses to meet you in London, for it is too far to come the whole way
with your own, and mine have positively nothing to do, so that it will
be a kindness to give them a little exercise.”
“Your lordship is very kind,” said the banker, with an expression of
irony, and ill concealed, offended pride on his countenance, “_whenever_
I do visit you, I will certainly claim your obliging offer.”
After Lord Arlingford had driven off, all remained for some time silent;
at length Mr. Benson muttered to himself, “I see through it all—I am not
the fool he takes me for—I am not to be coaxed by a few civil speeches
from a lord into mean forbearance. A fortnight more, and I shall most
assuredly visit his lordship, and he shall see whom he has to deal with.
_You_, Emmeline, I dare say, would wish to go and curry favour with him,
that he may speak a word in your favour to his precious son, and you
may, if you please; but I’ll be d—d if I do, till it is to tell him a
bit of my mind, and inform him, in pretty plain terms, that you and your
husband are two, and that the law will give us redress.”
And so saying, Mr. Benson left the room more irritated in temper than
Emmeline had ever seen him. Her head fell on her hands, and her
long-stifled feelings burst forth.
“Bear up, dearest Emmy,” said her mother, endeavouring to soothe her;
“surely this visit of Lord Arlingford’s must, in many ways, give you
comfort. He never would have come unless he had known that all was
likely soon to be explained, and to end well between you and your
husband.”
Emmeline shook her head. “You don’t know them as I do. No two beings can
be so different, can act on such different motives, as Lord Arlingford
and——Fitzhenry.” At that name, that beloved name, for the first time for
long uttered by herself, she sobbed as if her heart would break. “And
then my father,” she continued, “he terrifies me. Oh! that he could,
that he would for my sake, be more patient, more conciliatory! He talks,
too, always of pride, and forgets that one can have none where one loves
as I do. Oh! if I could but see _him_ once again!” she exclaimed,
clasping her hands, “I believe I could on my knees entreat of him to be
kind to me, to love me—I am so very miserable; and yet when I was with
him, when I saw him every day, I was cold and repulsive, I know I was; I
believe I was the most to blame. I dare say I could have won upon his
kindness had I acted differently; for he is so kind to every body, every
thing—but me. It must have been all my fault.”
Thus did poor Emmeline comfort herself by voluntary self-accusation,
rather than impute blame to him she worshipped.
After the agitation occasioned by Lord Arlingford’s visit had subsided,
the family-party at Charlton returned to their former melancholy
composure. Day after day still passed, and no letter came; no
intelligence reached them. Every ray of hope now vanished; all
intercourse between Emmeline and the being on whom her existence hung,
seemed now at an end for ever. Her father never alluded to the subject;
but she had every reason to think that he still kept to his resolution
of demanding an explanation; and indeed their formal and total
separation seemed now almost unavoidable. Even Pelham, her best friend,
seemed to have forgotten her; and thus deserted, the few past months of
her life, during which all the feelings of her heart had been roused,
and a new existence had been opened to her, seemed a dream of delirium.
All had vanished. Apparently also neglected by that gay world which so
lately courted her with all its most intoxicating blandishments, the
admired, flattered Lady Fitzhenry, had again sunk into Emmeline Benson,
and was living in all the retired concealment of guilt, without one
fault, one folly to be laid to her charge.
Perhaps some of her fashionable friends when they chanced to drive
through Grosvenor-street, and when their attention was attracted by the
closed windows of Lord Fitzhenry’s house, at that season of the year
when every open London balcony is gay with dear-bought sooty flowers,
might, as they cast up their eyes on the deserted habitation, wonder
what had become of its inmates, and what might be the most like truth of
the many stories which were for some days circulated about them.
But after those few days, the daily business of amusement, and some new
tale of scandal, soon superseded that of the Fitzhenrys; their vacated
places were soon filled up at those meetings of pleasure to which they
had been invited; and _he_ was allowed quietly to prosecute his journey
on the Continent, and _she_ to drag on her melancholy existence within
nine miles of all her former associates, unmolested and unthought of.
Who then would sacrifice happiness or comfort to the opinion of the
world? Often the sacrifice of a whole life to the idle talk of a day!
One evening, when the Benson family were as usual sitting together in
mournful silence, which was only at times broken by some forced remark
from Mrs. Benson, as she sat dismally at her work, her husband having
had recourse to his usual amusement, the newspapers, the latter looking
suddenly towards Emmeline, said: “At last I see the abominable west wind
has changed, and has allowed vessels to get across the Channel: no less
than four French mails are due. Emmy, dear girl, cheer up,” added he,
patting her cheek as he spoke; “there is no saying what news these mails
may bring, for I dreamt last night——”
Mr. Benson was here interrupted in his intended story by a loud ringing
at the door-bell; he started up and hurried out of the room. No one
spoke, but all had the same idea—all fancied it could only be Lord
Fitzhenry. Mrs. Benson laid down her work, and moved towards the hall.
Emmeline alone sat immoveable. Her father was at the house-door, and
opened it before any servant could reach it. She heard the trampling of
a horse on the threshold—heard a voice in brief communication with him.
A footstep approached the room—she fixed her eyes wildly on the door,
scarcely able to breathe. But again she had to endure the torture of
disappointment—Mr. Benson entered alone, with a letter in his hand,
brought, he said, by a man on horseback, who had orders to deliver it
with all speed. The letter was for Emmeline, and the direction was in
Pelham’s hand-writing. She hastily broke the seal, and while every pulse
in her heart and in her head throbbed, she read these words:
“You would have heard from us before, but Fitzhenry has been
ill—indeed is so still. We are here at Paris delayed on our
journey. If you could, (I need hardly add, if you would,) I
should wish you to set off immediately, on receiving this, to
join us. Trust me, I would urge nothing that I was not certain
was for your and your husband’s _mutual_ good. At Dover you will
find a vessel ready to bring you over, and my own courier to
accompany you, who will prevent all delays and difficulties.
Lose no time. Fitzhenry has had a most violent and alarming
fever; but to-day, I think, there is some decided amendment—the
medical people now are sanguine. God bless you.
“G. PELHAM.”
Emmeline held out the letter to her father, while her full heart
relieved itself by tears; when he had read it, without looking at her,
he said: “Well, how do you mean to act?”
“How!” said Emmeline, breathless with agitation, “why set off directly.”
“I don’t know that I shall agree to that,” answered Mr. Benson, with the
same forced _sang froid_. “In this business you are not fit to judge for
yourself, and I must consider for you.”
Emmeline grasped her father’s arm, endeavouring to catch his averted
eyes: “Dear father! I think you have never yet had reason to doubt my
obedience to your will, so you must now forgive me for saying, that no
power on earth shall prevent my going to my husband. My only chance for
happiness in this world, duty, every thing, in short, calls me to him.
Do not, I entreat, forbid me, for I could not obey you.”
“But,” rejoined Mr. Benson, rather impatiently, “it is not your husband
that sends for you. Mr. Pelham does not even say that he knows of his
writing to you; and I am sure he would make the very best of the matter,
for he seems to be a kind, friendly sort of man.”
“Indeed he is,” answered Emmeline; “and indeed I can trust to him. He
would not have written for me had he not been sure it was _his_ wish.
Dearest father, I must, I will set off directly; and do not let me go
with the pain of your displeasure.”
Mrs. Benson joined her arguments to Emmeline’s entreaties, bringing in,
with excusable artifice, something about the duty and devotion of a
wife, till, at last, Mr. Benson seemed somewhat moved; and a glance
which he caught of Emmeline’s face, crimsoned with agitation and
animated with painful anxiety, completely overcoming his intended
firmness, he opened his arms to his trembling daughter: “Well, well, you
women always get the better, always make fools of us men. The truth is,
I am heartily tired of your dismal face, Emmy, and of all this weeping
and wailing—that is the truth of it; so e’en take your own way, so that
we may be all happy again. But I can tell you, positively you shall not
go alone, child; at all events, I _will_ go with you to Dover.”
“But directly, dear father—no delay—the happiness or misery of my life
may depend on an hour—now, this very night, let me set off.”
“Oh! as for that, I am always for dispatch, you know. If a thing is to
be done, let it be done directly, that is my saying. There is no fear of
John Benson dawdling.”
And the good-hearted old man, rubbing his hands, hurried out of the room
to give the necessary orders.
In an instant, all was bustle in the house. Mr. Benson himself paced
away to the stables to hasten the harnessing of the horses; and
Emmeline, a few minutes before inanimate and almost lifeless, now, with
a flushed cheek, restlessly paced the hall and drawing-room, impatient
at every moment’s delay. She hardly knew whether she had most cause for
dread or hope from the contents of Mr. Pelham’s letter. Fitzhenry was
ill—plainly very ill; and, as her father said, it was not even hinted
that it was by his desire she had been summoned; but still she thought
she could trust to that kind, considerate friend; and the idea, the
delightful idea, that in a few days she would again behold Fitzhenry,
got the better of every other thought.
While Emmeline was thus counting every second till the carriage came to
the door, Mrs. Benson busied herself in those necessary preparations for
the journey, which her pre-occupied daughter never thought of. At last,
by midnight, all was ready; and followed by the blessings and good
wishes of her mother, Emmeline set off with her father for Dover.
“I shall come back to you, perhaps, the happiest of human beings,” said
she, as she returned Mrs. Benson’s fond embrace—“perhaps——” She had not
courage to finish the sentence.
“Foolish girl!” said her father, as he helped her into the carriage; “no
more whimpering. Now shut the door; bid the man drive on: and you, Mrs.
Benson, my good woman, do you go away to your bed. Pretty wild doings
these! This comes of connecting oneself with quality!”
The horses set off; and the rapidity with which they went, the feeling
that she was hurrying to the object of all her wishes, and the fresh air
of a fine summer’s night, all helped to compose and revive poor
Emmeline; so that, at Dover, Mr. Benson, with a lightened heart,
resigned her to the care of Mr. Pelham’s courier, whom they found there
waiting her orders. Her father offered himself to go on with her to
Paris; but that she for many reasons declined; and at last he consented
to return to Charlton. He first of all, however, went with her down to
the beach, saw her safe into the boat that was to convey her to the
vessel, and, from the pier, watched its white sails as long as he could,
with his glass, distinguish his daughter on the deck, waving her many a
farewell with his handkerchief. At last, his dear Emmy became a speck,
and vanished. The good man, then, brushing away a tear from his eye, and
ejaculating to himself a benediction on his darling, returned alone to
the inn, and resumed his journey homewards.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER IV.
Mercy, dear Lord, saide he, what grace is this
That thou hast shewed to me, sinfull wight,
To send thine angell from her bowre of bliss
To comfort me in my distressed plight?
Angell, or goddess, doe I call thee right?
What service may I doe unto thee meete,
That hast from darkness me returned to light?
FAERY QUEENE, Canto 5.
WITH all superior characters, such as Emmeline’s, the mind so supports
the body, that, for the time, it is rather strengthened than exhausted
by exertion. Although her health had been impaired, and her nerves much
weakened, by all she had lately undergone—yet, fearless of fatigue, she
travelled on without stopping, and arrived in Paris on the evening of
the third day from that on which she had left Charlton.
On entering the barriers, her heart almost ceased to beat; and when she
drove into the court-yard of the hotel to which the courier directed the
postilions, a death-like cold crept over her frame. But at the door, she
saw Mr. Pelham; and the smile with which he welcomed her again gave her
life.
“He is safe; he is out of danger;” he hastily said, as he ventured to
receive in his arms Emmeline’s almost inanimate form, and pressed her,
as a brother would a beloved sister, to his heart.
“Will he see me?” said Emmeline, looking still doubtfully in Mr.
Pelham’s face.
“Soon, very soon,” said he; “but you must compose yourself first; the
least agitation must be spared him.” And he led her up stairs to
Fitzhenry’s apartments.
“Did he send for me?” said Emmeline timidly, as soon as her agitations
allowed her to speak.
“My dear Lady Fitzhenry,” replied Pelham, “I never have deceived you,
and will not do so now; Fitzhenry did _not_ send for you; did not even
know of my writing. At that time, in truth, I despaired of his life; but
I know my friend well enough to be convinced, that had he had a moment’s
composure, he would have been glad to have had it in his power to demand
and obtain your forgiveness. It has pleased Heaven to give a more
favourable issue to this illness than I then had dared to anticipate.
Fitzhenry is now pronounced out of danger, but he is in a state of
weakness that, of course, has necessarily precluded all conversation on
that, or any other subject. Therefore your presence here is no way
expected by him.”
Poor Emmeline’s countenance fell;—a thousand vague hopes and
expectations were in an instant crushed!
Pelham observed her emotion, and added: “I cannot attempt to excuse my
friend’s conduct; a strange infatuation has blinded him, and, for a
time, clouded his better nature; but I am much mistaken if that fatal
madness is not entirely and for ever at an end.”
All must know how hard it is to bear the blank feeling of
disappointment when we have (even unreasonably) raised our hopes as to
some desired bliss. Emmeline had pictured to herself her husband
changed—penitent—receiving her to his heart; and, when she learnt the
real truth, she almost lost the sense of happiness at his safety, in
the bitter feeling, that even though her rival’s reign was over, still
_she_ had never been thought of by him. She covered her face with her
hands, while tears of mortification slowly stole down her cheeks.
Meanwhile, the servants had unloaded the carriage; and, as she heard it
driving out of the court-yard, Emmeline, in the humiliating pain of
disappointed feelings, almost resolved instantly to leave Paris, again
return to her father, and not force herself upon one who evidently
wished not for her.
With this idea, she suddenly rose from her seat. “I will see him once
more,” said she in a hurried manner: “could I not unseen follow you into
his room? I will not speak to him—he shall not see or hear me—I will
leave him directly, and for ever——” she added; but in so low a voice
that Pelham did not catch the words; and, attributing all her agitation
to anxiety about her husband’s safety, and thinking that nothing but
beholding him would satisfy her as to his existence, he drew her arm
within his, and led the way to Fitzhenry’s bed-room.
On opening the door, the darkness seemed so total, every window being
closed, that Emmeline, satisfied she could not be observed, followed Mr.
Pelham to the bed-side; the curtain was down, so that she could not see
Fitzhenry’s face, but merely heard him breathe; by degrees, as her eyes
got used to the obscurity, and judging by his immovable stillness, that
he had not observed their entrance, she ventured gently to put the
curtain aside and look on him. But to the fond eye of love alone was he
the same Fitzhenry from whom she had parted scarcely a month before. His
eyes were closed; his cheek was sunk and colourless; his brown curly
hair fell lank on his pale forehead, which was contracted with the
expression of suffering.
The sight was too much for her, and totally overcame her recently-formed
resolution of leaving him for ever. She sunk on her knees at his side;
her hand fell on his, which lay apparently lifeless on the bed; and, in
the agony of her feelings, careless of consequences, she covered with
tears and with kisses, that hand which she had never before dared to
touch; but which now felt not her fervent lips; was insensible to her
burning tears, and lay passive within hers.
Emmeline remained fixed at the bed-side of her husband. The former
unhappiness of their connexion, his indifference and even apparent
dislike, her own punctilious distance of manner toward him, all seemed
now forgotten by her. In trembling anxiety, she watched each heaving of
his bosom, each movement of his languid limbs; and how her heart
throbbed the first time his lips moved, and that she heard his voice! It
was weak and hollow; but still it was that voice which thrilled to her
inmost soul; he expressed a wish for something to moisten his parched
mouth; Pelham brought the glass to Emmeline; her trembling hand was
steadied when she held it to his lips, while she put her arm round him
to support his head.
She now seemed his established sick nurse: what she should do when his
amendment allowed him to know who it was that was attending upon him,
never was talked of, indeed was never thought of by Emmeline. To be
allowed to see him constantly, to perform for him the offices of
affection, was such happiness that she would not destroy it by venturing
to look forward. She gave him all his medicines. Sometimes, unconscious
what he did, he took hold of her hand, and held it long within his; but,
exhausted apparently by his illness, he never opened his eyes, never
enquired what he took, nor from whose hands he received it. The
physicians, however, assured Emmeline, that this insensibility was
merely the natural consequence of the violence of the fever through
which he had struggled, that they hourly saw some amendment, and found
increased strength of pulse.
On the second evening after her arrival, he had sunk into something more
like natural sleep than the state of stupor in which he had hitherto
lain. Fearful of moving, and thereby of disturbing him, Pelham had taken
hold of the first book he could reach, and was reading it by the light
of the lamp in the sick room. Emmeline was sitting at the foot of the
bed, with her eyes fixed on her husband’s countenance, for it was serene
and calm, and had more of its own natural expression than she had yet
seen. At length, he moved, passed his hand over his eyes, which then
rested on Emmeline, and endeavoured to raise himself. She saw that
sensibility had returned; and not daring to advance towards him herself,
she made sign to Mr. Pelham to come to him.
“Where am I?” exclaimed Fitzhenry.—“I have been very ill, Pelham, have I
not? I have no recollection—indeed, my head is still confused. I could
even now fancy,” continued he, staring wildly on Emmeline, “that I see
Lady Fitzhenry before me.”
“Yes, dear Fitzhenry,” replied his friend, “you have been ill—long very
ill; but you are now pronounced to be quite convalescent, and a few more
days will, I trust, restore you even to strength.”
“But my head is so weak—you will laugh at me Pelham—but I repeat it—I
could swear that at this moment I see Lady Fitzhenry quite plainly
sitting at the end of my bed; but I suppose it is all weakness, and that
such odd delusions will go off—but how very strange such fancies are!”
“Would you wish it to be no fancy?” said Pelham calmly: “would you like
your delirious vision to be realized?”
“Oh, Pelham, why do you talk in that way to me? you will only confuse my
poor brain still more—you too well know how impossible it is.”
“Do you still fancy you see her?” said Pelham.
“Still—still: it is her very countenance, her melancholy expression; and
she looks at me now—I almost fancy I see her breathe and move—Oh!
Pelham, for God’s sake give me something to rouse me out of this
miserably nervous state;” and Fitzhenry covered his eyes with both his
hands.
“Fitzhenry,” said Pelham, in a slow but tremulous voice, frightened at
the possible effect of that which he was going to impart,—“what if I
were to tell you that this is no sick dream—but that the figure before
you, is in truth and reality Lady Fitzhenry, your Emmeline?”
Fitzhenry gave a violent start, and grasped Pelham’s hand—“Good God!
Lady Fitzhenry in reality, here!—Speak to her Pelham—I dare not,
cannot.”
Poor Emmeline, trembling with anxiety, had not courage to move or utter
a single word, and during all this conversation had appeared the phantom
her husband had taken her for.
“Fitzhenry!” said Pelham, “compose yourself; you have nothing to fear
from Lady Fitzhenry; affection alone brought her here—and you will at
last be convinced, that far from being hated, you are loved as few can
hope to be.”
“Is it possible! do you not deceive me?” said Fitzhenry, eagerly, a
faint smile playing on his lips as he turned towards Emmeline. But she
still, doubting her happiness, remained immoveable.
“What, Emmeline!” said he, “cannot you forgive me?”
At that name, at those words, all fear forsook her; he held out to her
his feeble arms, and she rushed to his heart; his head fell on her
bosom; and, overcome with his feelings, he wept like a child. In a few
minutes, he recovered himself, and gazing in her face, their eyes met.
Oh! who can describe the happiness of that moment? Emmeline read
affection in those eyes which she had never before dared to encounter;
and when Fitzhenry again pressed her to his heart, and, half timidly,
kissed her burning cheek,—at that minute she almost could have wished to
breathe her last, so perfect was her bliss.
Such emotion, however, was not good for the invalid; and Pelham forced
Emmeline for a time to leave the room, till she had recovered the power
to endure her happiness with composure. When she returned, she again
took her station, in silence, by his bed-side. Fitzhenry seized her
hand, held it in both of his, but spoke not. One minute, one look,
however, had sufficed to open their hearts to each other; no explanation
was necessary; indeed, Emmeline would have been fearful of breaking the
dream of felicity in which she now lived, by one word recalling the
past.
Fitzhenry now daily seemed to gain strength. Occasionally, a short
cough, which the physicians pronounced to be nervous, tormented him by
disturbing his rest; but his eyes looked less languid. At times, some
colour returned to his cheeks; and, supported by cushions, he could now
sit up on a couch. And what a delight it was to Emmeline to wait upon
him, to watch and prevent his wishes; to smooth his pillow, and receive
in return a smile of kindness and gratitude!
Sometimes, however, a cloud would darken her present happiness. If
Fitzhenry was more than usually silent or thoughtful, (and he now often
fell into long fits of deep abstraction,) then her jealous fancy
pictured to her that his thoughts and affections were wandering back to
Lady Florence. When he talked of England, of his wish to return home,
again she took alarm; and, in spite of herself, interpreted his anxiety
on the subject into the desire again to be in the same country with her
rival—perhaps, indeed, again to return to her chains.
Lady Florence had never yet been in any way alluded to—Fitzhenry seemed
to shun the subject as much as Emmeline; so that she hardly knew her
fate, hardly knew by how strong, or how feeble a tenure she held her
present felicity.
One day, however, he suddenly seemed to summon courage for some sort of
explanation between them. Emmeline had, as usual, been arranging his
sofa. Her hand still lingered on the pillow which supported him; and,
after gazing on it a minute, he seized it, and looking attentively on
her wedding-ring—
“Emmeline,” said he, “give me back that ring, you shall wear it no more;
it was one _de mauvaise augure_, and shall in future live on my hand for
a memento, like Prince Cheri’s. I will marry you over again with
_this_.”
And, with a half melancholy smile, he drew from his finger a small
fretted gold ring, which appeared to have been intended for a woman. At
the same time, apparently repeating some words to himself, he put in its
place that which he had taken off Emmeline’s hand. “Give me a
prayer-book,” said he; “and look for the marriage ceremony, for I have
forgotten what I then promised.”
When he got the book, he read it to himself for some time in silence.
“Good God!” he at length exclaimed, “did I pronounce these words? did I
make those vows? villain that I was! Emmeline, can you forgive the
past?”
“Oh! do not talk of the past,” she eagerly exclaimed; “I am too happy
now to wish to think of it.”
“But what an awful account I shall have to give,” added he, again
casting his eyes on the book recording his solemn engagement with God.
“Dearest Fitzhenry!” said Emmeline, sinking on her knees beside him, “a
God of mercy will forgive all.”
“Pray to him for me,” said he, in a low tone; “I fear I cannot. I never
prayed!”
Emmeline shuddered, she seized his hand: “Oh! Fitzhenry, talk not so
wildly; God is now calling you to him, shrink not from him.”
Fitzhenry pressed her hand; again took the prayer-book, and with a
tremulous voice read these words:
“I, Ernest, take thee, Emmeline, to my wedded wife, to love and to
cherish; and forsaking all other, keep myself only unto thee as long as
we both shall live; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
The last words died on his lips, and closing his eyes, he sank back,
seemingly both affected and exhausted. Emmeline was too much moved to
speak: she pressed to her lips and to her heart, that hand now a second
time given her—but in how different a manner!
From that day, Emmeline’s prayer-book was his constant companion. She
saw his mind was deeply affected, and left the strong impression to work
its own effect.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER VI.
——Whilst I remember
Thee, and thy virtues, I cannot forget
My blemishes in them; and so still think of
The wrong I did myself.
WINTER’S TALE.
A FEW days after the scene recorded in the last chapter, when Fitzhenry
appeared better than he had yet done since his illness, and that he had
even some of his own natural and playful cheerfulness, “Lady Fitzhenry,”
said he, with a smile, “how long is it since you have liked me—_loved_
me?” added he faintly, colouring.
Emmeline coloured too. “Oh! I can’t remember,” said she; “I tried to
hate you, for I felt it my duty to myself to do so; but somehow, from
the very first, I could not.”
“How strange!” continued Fitzhenry; “I should not have thought I could
have been so very blind and stupid. Our sex is pretty clear-sighted
where our vanity is concerned; but I suppose I was so conscious that I
deserved to be hated by you, that I convinced myself I was so; and
every, even the slightest occurrence, confirmed me more and more in this
opinion. Perhaps too I felt (at first at least) that it was an ease to
my conscience to think you disliked me, trying to persuade myself in
that manner that we were quits. Pelham, when he came to Arlingford, soon
saw how things were, and took me to task—he had known me long; known all
my history.”
Fitzhenry paused: at length, resuming in a lower, graver tone—“Emmeline!
my wife!” said he, “I must ease my mind by confessing all to you. I have
loved—madly loved—it was a delirium, an intoxication, an infatuation—but
on my honour, before God!” and he fervently clasped his hands
together—“before God, I swear it is over. My esteem, my admiration, all
is now, indeed has long been, yours.”
Fitzhenry had left out the word love; and Emmeline missed it. She turned
away her face from her husband, but not so quick as to prevent his
observing the change in her countenance; and, drawing her towards him,
he (smiling) added, “And my love too.” Still Emmeline kept her eyes
averted. “Listen to my story,” said Fitzhenry, “and then you will
believe me. I need not tell you in what a pretty humour I was married.
Good God! when I recollect the state of mind in which I was—that
dreadful day—I really now wonder how I got through it all as well as I
did.
“I resolved on civil indifference towards you; and, at the beginning, it
was easy enough to keep to my resolution, although from the first, your
conduct astonished, and consequently interested me. I expected
reproaches, sullenness, or childish repinings, and complaint, but found
sweetness, good sense, and delicacy. Emmeline! I could swear that you
never in your life suffered as I did that morning after our marriage,
when I had to encounter you in the breakfast-room. You held out your
hand to me—there was a smile on your face, that went to my heart as a
dagger. That day however over, my thoughts and feelings returned into
their former channel, and I was so entirely engrossed by them, that my
remorse died away. I persuaded myself I behaved vastly well to you, and
that you thoroughly deserved that fate which you had brought on
yourself. The civil indifference which I determined to maintain in my
conduct towards you, soon, however, became difficult to pursue. There
was sometimes an archness in your smiles—in your look and manner—an
appearance of reading my thoughts, and laughing at the awkward situation
in which I had placed myself, that piqued me, and made me almost in awe
of you. I was often, too, I am ashamed to say it, provoked with you for
your patient good humour, for not seeming to feel my abominable conduct
towards you more. But, at others, I found _you_ whom I had resolved to
disregard—to dislike—to my surprise, I found you (forgive the seeming
impertinence of the expression) a most intelligent, conversible
companion; and more than once I caught myself owning how agreeable you
were.
“But, although such thoughts at times occupied me, still my affections
were so strongly engaged—my whole soul so enthralled by mad passion,
that they were but passing thoughts; the impression, as yet, was not
deep. I then left home for some time, and returned to you with all my
old feelings strengthened. I had renewed all my vows of constancy, of
fidelity to another, perfectly regardless of the solemn, sacred
engagement, into which I had entered with you—(profligate, unprincipled
villain that I was!) Wishing to avoid, in future, the possibility of a
_tête-à-tête_ with you, I had invited several friends to meet me at
Arlingford, on my return there. I thought that by that means, we might
avoid even the common intimacy produced by living under the same roof,
and meeting daily, as I flattered myself that you would be lost in the
mass. But that plan failed. I heard your name, your praises, from every
one, and every where. Your voice always attracted my attention, and the
very resolution to slight, and dislike you, made me constantly occupied
about you.
“Among the party then at Arlingford, you remember, was Pelham. He had
come to England, on purpose to see me, and to make your acquaintance.
Knowing my former history, he had, as a true friend, rejoiced at my
marriage, for I had basely concealed from him the circumstances that had
attended it, fearing his strict integrity; but, when living with us, it
was impossible for him long to remain ignorant of our real situation. I
was forced to confess all to him; and he did not spare me. He persecuted
me eternally with your perfections. I allowed that you possessed sense,
acquirements, gentleness, most pleasing manners; but I insisted upon
your total want of feeling, on your having no heart; and I brought, as
proofs of my assertions, your apparent perfect contentment under
circumstances that would have roused the anger, if not broken the heart,
of any woman who had a particle of sensibility. Even on that point he
would not give way; and, one evening, while the whole party were busily
employed in dancing, and you were engaged at the piano-forte, we were
discussing the subject pretty warmly, (something that had passed having
given rise to it,) and Pelham was maintaining you were _even_ much
_attached_ to _me_; when a break in the music, a sudden burst of voices,
and your name often repeated, made me turn round, and I beheld you in
apparent gaiety of heart, waltzing joyously by yourself—‘Look there,’
said I to Pelham, (with the true selfish pride and impertinence of man,)
‘look at the sentimental girl, who is dying for love of me.’
“Pelham stared at you in astonishment. He was silenced; for, at that
moment, I am sure he read you as little aright as myself. As for me, I
at first looked at you in scorn; but other feelings soon succeeded. You
were, at that minute, perfectly beautiful; there was a look of wild
enjoyment, a brilliancy in your complexion, a grace in your person, that
fixed my attention, and, in spite of myself, forced my admiration. I had
never seen any one, (any _but one_,) waltz so well: at that moment, I
almost thought I had never seen any one so lovely. The truth was, I
seldom before had ever looked at you attentively, for I feared to
encounter your eyes, and somehow they always instantly seemed to know
when mine were directed towards you.
“For an instant, I was lost in admiration, as I followed your light form
round the room; so I suppose was Pelham, for our argument seemed totally
forgotten by us both. Suddenly you came up to me, and seized my arm. Had
the marble statue left its pedestal, and done the same, I could scarcely
have started more violently beneath its grasp. I was altogether so
thrown off my guard, that I hardly knew what to say or do. Your conduct
surprised, (I must own,) even disgusted me; I thought it was no subject
for a _joke_, and that there was a want of delicacy in thus braving me.
You may remember I was made to waltz with you.”
Emmeline’s deep crimson showed she remembered it well.
Fitzhenry pressed her hand, which he held still more closely, and
continued—“It seemed to me to be all a concerted plan to torment me; my
momentary trance of admiration was dispelled, and was succeeded by
feelings very opposite. You then appeared to me to endeavour, by old and
hacknied arts of coquetry, to attract my attention: you fell almost
entirely into my arms; you laid your head on my shoulder, and complained
of faintness. I cannot describe the strange mixture of feelings which at
that moment took possession of me—for though, even then I fancied I
disliked you, yet, I verily believe regret and disappointment were
uppermost on discovering (as I thought I then did) the common-place,
artful nature of your character. To extricate myself from you was,
however, my first object; and, under pretext of gallant attention, I
directly left the room to procure a glass of water.
“In truth, your indisposition was evidently not feigned, for you were as
pale as death; but in my vexation I would not own that even to myself. I
was in a devil of a humour all that evening. The next day Moore made
that foolish piece of work about the brooch, (which circumstance, by the
bye, I still don’t comprehend); however, I know well that I wrote you
some _impertinence_. What, I don’t recollect, and I suspect I had better
not remember. It seemed to me that you and Moore were in a league to
plague and provoke me; and I hated you both most cordially. I felt it
was impossible to go on in this way; and, to put an end to the whole
thing, I pretended sudden and violent zeal for the welfare of my
country, and announced my intention to go early to town, to attend
parliament. But it was not politics which took me there; nor did I, as I
believe I basely let you imagine, pass my days and nights in the House
of Commons.
“But my conscience was perfectly at rest, for your conduct then seemed
to sanction mine. You plunged madly into dissipation, and for days
together, although living under the same roof, we often did not meet. I
believe I again gave a sigh when I thought how I had been mistaken in
your character, for I had fancied there was, at least, nothing of
frivolity in it, and had frequently been forced to confess to myself,
that had I been free, and to choose one who would have suited me as a
wife, (barring your supposed want of feeling and tenderness of nature,)
I should have chosen you. On the whole, however, I rejoiced at your
apparent levity of disposition. I felt as if I thus regained my liberty,
and that your follies excused my faults. It seemed to me that it was by
mutual consent that we then each went our own way. But mine was no
longer one of pleasantness. I felt—and yet the feeling was pain—I felt I
did not love as I had done. I saw her as she was, wanting all that
beauty of innocence, of virtue, which you so eminently possessed; but,
still infatuated, I sought her society although the charm was gone.
“We had not been long in town, however, before a strange madness came
over me. I hardly know how, or when it began. You had general
success——were universally admired; but I fancied that _Pelham in
particular admired you_; and, when once that thought had taken
possession of my mind, every trifling circumstance gave it additional
certainty; till one night, at Almacks, I surprised you together in such
earnest conversation, and in such evident emotion, that I had no longer
a doubt left on the subject. Although I had voluntarily rejected your
affections, and repulsed you from me, yet I could not bear that another
should awaken feelings which I had tried to persuade myself you did not
possess. I really believe I was vain and ridiculous enough to want you
to love me, when I had no intention of returning the partiality, and
certainly made no attempt to inspire it. I had sought Pelham that
evening, having something of consequence to say to him; but when I saw
you, I totally forgot my errand. I looked at you stedfastly, to try and
read your heart. You blushed deeply. How can I own my folly, my
perverseness, my inconsistency! I gazed on you in jealousy! for I then
saw and acknowledged your attractions: I saw that your smiles, your
gaiety, your bloom was gone. I saw that some secret sorrow had changed
the character of your countenance, had altered the whole tone of your
mind, and of your manners. But, every way totally deceived, I never once
dreamt I was the cause of that sorrow.
“At Easter, I would not go to Arlingford, for if I had, there could have
been no reason why you, why Pelham, should not have accompanied me, and
I did not feel that I could have stood the trial. So I went to Mostyn
Hall; but, on my honour, it was more to avoid you, and Pelham, than to
seek her; for all was there changed. Suspicion and discontent now
poisoned our intercourse; and when I called to mind your gentleness,
your feminine _home_ perfections, she fell still lower in the
comparison. I was then summoned home on account of poor Reynolds’s
illness; she ridiculed my feelings for him; but, for the first time, I
disregarded her raillery, I resisted her allurements, and set off
directly for Arlingford. You may imagine what was the effect produced on
my mind, when on opening the door of the invalid’s room, I beheld you
kneeling by the bed of my old servant. I had no idea you were at
Arlingford. I had left you apparently engrossed by the world and its
dissipation. Indeed, according to the suspicions of my jealous fancy, by
still more powerful attractions, and could hardly believe my senses. Oh!
how my heart at that minute smote me for my hasty and seemingly unjust
judgment of you.
“Poor Reynolds, you may remember, joined our hands; an unaccountable
fear, shyness, I know not what, came over me. I had not courage to
retain your hand when you withdrew it from mine; I felt you were a being
too pure, too good for me; and I allowed you to fly from me. Reynolds
talked to me much about you—told me long stories about your goodness,
your affection for me—about having found you gazing on my picture, and I
know not what; but I fancied his mind began to wander; that I could not
trust to what he said; in short, I would not be convinced, although I
wished it. But still his exhortations, the awfulness of the scene, and
my own accusing conscience, all combined to work on my feelings; and I
resolved, the first moment I could, to leave him to go to you, seek an
explanation, and implore your forgiveness.
“When I reached your door for that purpose, my heart beat with various
contending feelings. I hardly knew what I said; I longed to fall at your
feet, to ask you to forgive and love me. A word, a look of kindness on
your part would then have fixed our fate—one smile, and I should have
caught you to my heart——been yours for ever. But I found you cold,
distant, and for the first time, since I had known you, even irritated
and repulsive. There were traces of tears on your face, which you
endeavoured to hide from me; your whole manner betrayed emotion and
feelings, which you wished to conceal. I saw then, as I thought, but too
plainly, how it was—all combined to deceive me. Mrs. Osterley’s
thoughtless hints came to my mind, and confirmed me in my suppositions.
I fancied that the case was hopeless. My pride then closed both my
heart, and lips, and I would not confess to you feelings which I was
convinced you could not now return.
“As I was leaving you, by accident your hair—one of these beautiful long
ringlets—got entangled on the button of my coat sleeve. Had you been
forced to touch a serpent, you could not have recoiled from it with more
horror than you did from me. Do you remember all that Lady Fitzhenry?
and pray how do you explain your conduct?” said he, smiling.
“In the whole of your supposed love-story, for ‘Pelham’ read ‘Ernest,’”
answered Emmeline, in a low voice, as she hid her face on his shoulder,
“and all will be fully explained.”
“What a pity it was, that we were both so proud or so stupid!” continued
Fitzhenry, sighing deeply as he gazed on her in tenderness: “I was both,
and left you in anger; although, I confess, I had little right to take
the matter up in that manner. The next day, provoked with you, with
myself, miserable every way, I would not attempt to detain you at
Arlingford, though I ardently wished it; I only read impatience to
return to Pelham in your resolved departure, and would not for the world
have allowed you to think I wished you to remain. I remember, however,
that as you drove from the door, you cast back one look—one melancholy
look, which shot as a ray of light through my heart; (for I was watching
you from my room;) had I been at the door, I believe, even then I should
have endeavoured to stop you; but, before I had time to decide, you
drove off. I then persuaded myself that the look of regret which I had
fancied I had seen on your countenance was mere fancy; I took your thus
leaving me as declared war on your part; and, when I joined you in town,
I determined that my conduct should be such as (fool, idiot, that I
was!) I thought befitting my pride and honour—fine sounding words, which
I put in the place of selfishness and passion.
“In consequence of this resolution, I totally neglected you; we ceased
almost entirely to speak to each other when we did chance to meet, and I
returned in desperation to your rival. I endeavoured in her society to
forget every thing, to banish from my mind you Emmeline, my friend, and
all the dreams of happiness—of domestic happiness which now eternally
haunted me. But in vain! the fascination of her society was gone—we were
both changed; it was impossible to recall feelings which truth had
destroyed. She could not again blind me; suspicion made her
_exigeante_—her thraldom became insupportable; my feelings, my temper,
both were irritated beyond my control; my mind was sick, as my body now
is.”
For a minute or two, Fitzhenry hid his face in his hands, and seemed
lost in no pleasing recollections; at length, after a deep-drawn sigh,
(whether of regret or repentance Emmeline could not decide,) he
continued:
“I now come to the last and the worst part of my story. I would fain
forget it all; but Emmeline, you shall know the very worst; shall be
aware what a hot-headed fool you have to deal with, and then you must
still love me if you can. I think I need hardly ask, if you remember a
certain Saturday night at the opera. By accident, I happened to know,
that you had, that night, given away your box; and, therefore, feeling
secure you would not be there, had agreed to accompany Lady Florence;
for, abominably as I had behaved, you must do me the justice to allow, I
never so far insulted you as openly before you to be seen with your
rival; how much certain selfish feelings and awkward uncomfortable
sensations of shame influenced me, I will not pretend to say. Well, I
joined Lady Florence. After I had been with her a few minutes, she
carelessly told me, she believed she had seen you. I directly looked
round to the box which she said she had observed you enter; but, not
being able to distinguish you, I was satisfied that she must have been
mistaken. Presuming on her former power, she then spoke of you. I could
not bear to hear your name in her mouth; I felt it almost an insult to
myself. She spoke too of you with a sort of ridicule and levity that
disgusted me; she hinted at the attachment between you and Pelham, and
seemed to enjoy the pain she saw she was inflicting. Although a smile
was on her lips, yet her eyes flashed fire—the fire of jealousy and
revenge. This, in the present state of my feelings, was not to be
endured. I dared not speak; I knew too well also the violence of her
temper; it was not the moment for a _scene_, and I said not a word; but
still, there I remained, as if spell-bound. My mind was, however, busily
at work, and I formed many resolutions for extricating myself, from my
present miserable situation. You then rose to my imagination, gay,
blooming, gentle, artless, as you were when I first took you to
Arlingford; when I had sworn to love and protect you; and had then
basely repulsed, and abandoned to your hard fate. My conscience smote me
sorely. I felt how greatly I had injured you; that, young and
inexperienced as you were, I had, by my cruelty and neglect, driven you
into danger. I thought, perhaps, you still had not wandered so far, but
that your affections might yet be recalled. On my honour, Emmeline,
infatuated as I was, I had then no doubt of your innocence, your purity,
your virtue. Nor could I even bring myself to suspect Pelham’s honour.
That you loved each other, I did not doubt; but I respected you both too
much to think I had been injured by you. I resolved, in short, that, on
that very night, we should open our hearts to each other; that all
should be explained between us. I determined to propose to you,
Emmeline, to leave town with me—to leave England directly, and by mutual
forgiveness, to make up for the past, and begin a new life of
penitence—I hoped finally of happiness. Lost in these thoughts, I sat
unconscious of what was passing around me, till the falling of the
curtain roused me from my trance. Lady Florence then seized my arm. She
saw she had displeased me; feared she had gone too far, and would not
quit her hold. When we reached the lobby, I saw you and Pelham. I
hurried her down stairs in the opposite direction; but she had seen you
too, and I could distinguish a smile of triumph on her countenance.
“What happened afterwards you know. The two carriages had got entangled,
for your coachman, Emmeline, was fighting your battle for you, and
contending with Lady Florence Mostyn’s. In the confusion I caught a
glimpse of you, at the moment when she had fallen back into my arms. I
heard the coarse jokes of the mob of footmen as your carriage drove off.
I was nearly frantic. Florence had been slightly hurt, was still
frightened, and nervous. I could not be so brutal as to leave her in
that state. I went home with her. I meant calmly, kindly, to speak to
her; to represent the misery of our intercourse—in short, to open my
heart to her. But the instant she suspected my meaning—overpowered by
her passions, her fury knew no bounds, nor her envenomed malice and
jealousy towards you. My blood fired—a violent scene ensued. I left her
in anger——and fully resolved for ever.”
Fitzhenry had latterly spoken so quick, that he paused for a minute, as
if exhausted and overcome by his feelings; but Emmeline was too much
interested and agitated by the narration to make any comment; and, after
a moment’s total silence between them, he continued, although in a still
more perturbed manner.
“I hurried home—I was in that feverish state of mind, when to think, to
pause, is impossible. I felt I must instantly throw myself at your feet,
that our fate must be that minute determined. I meant to propose to you
to set off for Dover that very night. I had ceased to love _her_; but my
mind was torn with contending feelings, my brain was on fire. As soon as
I reached home, I rushed up stairs—I heard Pelham’s voice in the
drawing-room—the door was not closed, my ear caught these words,
‘Honour—you may trust me’—(and you will allow those are awkward words
for a husband to overhear addressed to his wife.) I was determined to be
satisfied at once—to have all doubts removed. I burst into the room; and
my worst suspicions were confirmed. Pelham had hold of your hand; you
were close to him; your head rested on him—you were violently
agitated—both started on seeing me—you were both evidently discomposed,
and thrown off your guard. Was it strange that I converted all this into
evidences of guilt? I had just enough command over myself not to speak.
You attempted some excuse for the situation in which I found you. Your
effrontery surprised and shocked me. At that minute, I totally forgot
your wrongs and my own conduct, and I only considered myself as basely
betrayed and injured. Pelham then followed you to the door of your own
room; he said something to you in a low voice——again he took your hand.
All that before my face was too much. I wonder how I contained the rage
that burned within me. I felt that I could not then discuss the matter
with him, and I left the house like a madman. I paced up and down the
street, and watched for Pelham’s departure before I returned home;
giving way to all the delirium of passion, and distracted by all the
misery of doubt. My first impulse was to write to him, imperiously to
demand an explanation of his conduct, and satisfaction for my injured
honour. Heavens! to think that I sought an opportunity to deprive of
life Pelham, my best, my tried, my devoted friend! I passed the night
writing letter after letter to you both, and destroying them as fast as
I wrote. By degrees, however, my passion cooled; I sometimes thought,
and fondly hoped, I might be mistaken. When I recalled to mind my
friend’s strict principles of virtue and integrity—principles that had
so often made me blush for my faults—I could not think that what I
suspected was possible, strong as appearances were against you both.
Your virtues too, Emmeline, your look of artless innocence, haunted me.
How could I reconcile your present supposed conduct with all those
perfections which I had so admired in you?
“Hours passed on, daylight returned. The servants began to stir about
the house. I heard footsteps in the room above—in your room, Lady
Fitzhenry. Every minute I expected some message from you, some note,
some explanation in short; and kept my letter to Pelham unsealed, still
hoping I might have been in error, and that something would undeceive
me. I soon, however, heard preparations for your departure; your leaving
my house thus, without even taking leave of me, I interpreted into a
decided resolution on your part that a final, formal separation should
take place between us. You had said you were going to Charlton. I
sometimes hardly believed that you were really going there, and, in
frantic moments, I suspected the worst. But at others, when my own
conduct forced itself on my mind, when I reflected on your wrongs, I
then thought that, exasperated probably by my ill treatment, you were
leaving my roof for ever, determined, perhaps, that the law should
dissolve an union which had been but a source of misery to you, in order
that you might legally unite yourself to the man you loved. Again, had
not pride restrained me, I would have sought that explanation which I
longed for, and then all would soon have been understood between us; had
our eyes but met, we must, at that moment, have read each other’s
hearts; but in proud, sullen silence, I awaited some opening from you.
“None came; at length your carriage drove up to the door; I heard your
footsteps on the stairs; you stopped at my door; my heart beat to
suffocation; I thought, nay, I felt almost sure that you were coming to
me; my hand was actually on the lock to open it; just then I heard one
of the servants speaking to you, you passed on—I heard the carriage-door
shut, and you drove off. I felt that we had parted for ever; and, when
too late, I regretted the blessing I had thrown away.
“My Emmeline, I am not _now_ ashamed to own to you, that I wept in
bitterness of heart.
“The instant you were gone, in desperation I sealed and directed my
abominable letter to Pelham. I ordered post horses directly, desiring
that the carriage should follow me to his lodgings. On arriving there, I
learnt he was gone out of town. This confirmed all to me; I tore open my
letter, said we could never again meet but in _one_ way, and for _one_
purpose. That I was going instantly to Arlingford, that he might there
follow me, and give me the satisfaction I demanded, unless indeed he was
already far off with another.
“How perverse is human nature! Man’s nature at least. On my arrival at
Arlingford, I missed you whom I had always before shunned, at every
turn. I missed the gentle being who had so long, so patiently submitted
to my most impertinent vagaries. I missed my poor victim! Every room,
every inanimate object recalled her who would have given to all such a
charm! I spent hours in your room, Emmeline, in useless, tormenting
regrets. In that room which I had hitherto avoided with such care!
Alternately condemning myself and you, I felt that I had lost every
thing—I was completely miserable!”
Greatly exhausted by this narration, during which Fitzhenry had often
been interrupted by his cough, he leant back on the couch. The door, at
that moment gently opened, and Pelham appeared. On observing the very
visible signs of emotion on both his friends countenances, he was again
hastily retreating, when Fitzhenry called to him—“No, come in, Pelham;
what we were talking about need be no secret from you, for indeed you
are principally concerned. I was telling Emmeline all my history. In
other words, confessing all my faults; and as you are, God knows, well
acquainted with both, I wish you would relieve me, by bringing the
narrative to a conclusion; I have owned to her all my strange fears and
fancies, my suspicions even of you. Can you, Pelham, ever forgive and
forget them? can you forgive the ravings of a madman, for such they now
appear to me to have been.”
“Don’t be too humble in your apologies to me,” said Pelham, smiling—“for
I am not sure how far I am myself innocent, if it is guilt to esteem, to
admire, to——” Pelham stopped, for a minute. “In short,” added he—“I had
more than half a mind to punish you, Fitzhenry, for your extreme
stupidity; and endeavour myself to win the pearl of great price which
you rejected; but, from the first, I had, luckily for me, penetration
sufficient to discover that the attempt would be perfectly hopeless.”
Pelham said this in the light tone of pleasantry; but, as he spoke, his
eyes glanced mournfully on Emmeline, and a slight tinge of red
momentarily suffused his sallow cheek. But his emotion totally escaped
Emmeline’s observation, whose eyes and attention were entirely fixed on
her husband, fearful of losing a word, or look.
Fitzhenry, however, saw all; his eye moistened as he held out his hand
to his friend, and warmly pressed his within it. “Well Pelham, now you
must take up our history from my sudden departure for Arlingford, where
you found me; and do not spare me; I deserve thoroughly the worst you
may be tempted to say of me.”
“Don’t be afraid, my good friend,” replied Pelham; “I am, you know, not
apt to compliment you.—Well, Lady Fitzhenry, to go back to that fatal
Saturday night: Fitzhenry had appeared in so strange a mood when we then
parted, so agitated, so unlike himself, that I had determined to be in
Grosvenor-street early next morning; but the arrival of a courier from
the continent with dispatches of importance, obliged me directly to
repair to our foreign minister’s: he was, I found, gone to his villa at
Putney; thither I followed him, and was there detained so long on
business, which could not be deferred, that I did not get back to town
till late in the afternoon. I drove straight to Grosvenor-street, and
learnt, to my surprise, that both of you had left London—but not
together. I feared something disagreeable had passed, and when I reached
my own house, I found Fitzhenry’s letter, which confirmed my
apprehensions. I declare, that at first I thought he was mad—and could
scarcely guess what he meant, what he could allude to. Although obliged
in four and twenty hours to leave England, yet I could not go without
seeing him, without endeavouring at least to clear up all this sad
misunderstanding; and I lost no time in repairing to Arlingford. It is
fortunate that I am by nature blest with a very calm temperament,
otherwise this meeting might possibly have ended in our running each
other through the body. But Fitzhenry and I had been too long real
friends for any _unfounded_ misunderstanding long to exist between us.
“I at length succeeded in convincing him how perfectly absurd and unjust
his suspicions were, as far as I was myself concerned. But there, my
powers of persuasion ended: he would listen to nothing I could say about
you, Lady Fitzhenry: you hated him, he said; if it was not me whom you
preferred, it was some one else. You were quite changed towards him—he
could hardly blame you, but things had now gone too far to allow of any
hope of reconciliation. You had left his house in anger, just anger—gone
to your father’s; had probably told him all, intending no doubt to
insist on a formal separation—on a divorce. Perhaps legal proceedings
were already commenced against him. And whatever he might suffer, he
could, and would, only acquiesce in whatever you chose to dictate.
“Fitzhenry then repeated to me again and again, all his _proofs_ of your
indifference and dislike,—all which were only proofs of his own blind
infatuation. In short, poor fellow,” added Mr. Pelham, smiling—“he
talked a great deal of nonsense. However, at last, by setting up my
proofs in opposition to his, I succeeded in extorting from him an
agreement, that he would go with me directly to Charlton. I was first to
see you alone, and he promised that he would then be guided by my
judgment as to his own conduct. The carriage which was to convey us to
you was actually at the door, but, unfortunately, Fitzhenry, who was in
a state of diseased anxiety, and restlessness of mind, insisted on
waiting for the arrival of the post; it brought no letter from you,
(which was what he had secretly hoped for,) but one from his father,
that immediately destroyed all I had been labouring to accomplish.
Gossip had been busy with you and your husband; indeed had even brought
in my name. The scene which took place at the opera, your both abruptly
leaving town—these circumstances, put together, and enlarged upon, had
been formed into a regular story of rupture, elopement, duel, and the
Lord knows what, till at last it found its way into the newspapers, I
was told; and thus reached Lord Arlingford, who, much alarmed at the
report, wrote directly to his son, entreating him to consider well what
he was about; to break off immediately a connexion which was now become
so public, and consequently so disgraceful, and endeavour to be
reconciled to his wife.
“So far all was well; but unfortunately the arguments he used were the
last to influence your husband’s noble mind, for they were those of
interest. Knowing Lord Arlingford as well as he did, at any other time
Fitzhenry would have treated such a hint with the contempt it deserved;
but he was then no way himself—he tore his father’s letter into a
thousand pieces, and, with a bitter smile, while his face was ghastly
pale said, ‘he is right, quite right; it is my _interest_ to be
reconciled to Lady Fitzhenry—no power on earth shall make me seek her
forgiveness—the first overtures must come from herself. Even you surely
would not have me go as a beggar, and sue and humble myself to her
father: what an honourable appearance would repentance have just now!
No, Pelham, I will not do it; and any attempt to persuade me to such a
step, I warn you, will be perfectly vain.’
“During our friend’s own story,” continued Pelham, “I think, Lady
Fitzhenry, he has probably let you a little into the secret of his
character; and, therefore, I may venture to say, that pride is his
besetting sin. Had I but hinted this at that time, I suppose he would
have knocked me down; but we have him in our power now; and who would
believe, seeing him, as he now is, so meek, so humble, so contrite, and
subdued, what a perfect devil he was then!”
“Come, come, Pelham,” said Fitzhenry, while his pale face was slightly
coloured: “you are a little exceeding the liberty I gave—tell the story
fairly, but no comments. Let Lady Fitzhenry find out my faults herself;
she will do that quite soon enough without your assistance; indeed, God
knows she has had full opportunity already——”
“Lady Fitzhenry has but one fault to find,” interrupted Emmeline, as she
looked half reproachfully in her husband’s face: “it is that you persist
in calling her by that cruel formal name.”
“Bad old habits, my Emmeline,” he replied smiling; “which, if they
offend you, shall be conquered; but I _could_ explain why I never _now_
pronounce that name without feelings very, very different from those of
coldness or dislike; do I not by it claim you as my own? But I want to
have done with my history. So go on, Pelham, only remember no
annotations and reflections.”
“I was ignorant of what had passed between Fitzhenry and Lady Florence,”
continued Pelham, almost tempted to smile at his friend’s sickly
petulance: “he had never named her. Had I known of their rupture, I
should immediately have entreated you, Lady Fitzhenry, to have come, or
at least to have written to him; but not aware of that connexion being
at an end, I could not advise a step, which I felt you could hardly
take, and which I thought, indeed, would do little good if all was to go
on as it had done for some months past. Fitzhenry was seemingly
wretched; but so he had long been. I had undeceived him as far as was
possible for me to do with regard to your feelings towards him, and I
certainly felt it was for him to seek you, and to implore your
forgiveness.
“Hopeless, therefore, of bringing about a reconciliation between you at
that moment, I informed him of my necessary and immediate departure for
the continent, and proposed his accompanying me; I thought, by that
means, the fatal connexion which seemed the bar to your mutual happiness
might be broken; and, knowing well your heart, and certain that
affection would, with you, get the better of every other feeling, I
trusted that time and circumstances would restore you to each other.
Fitzhenry directly with eagerness caught at the idea of leaving England:
‘it is the best thing for us all,’ said he: ‘and it will break to
Florence what at present I cannot say—cannot write to her.’
“On our way to town, however, being still unwilling to give up all hope,
and still thinking it was incumbent on Fitzhenry to make the first
advances to you, I formed a little plan to decoy your husband to
Charlton on our road to Dover, and I pleased myself with thinking that I
might, by this very allowable artifice, be the means of bringing about
your mutual happiness; but something betrayed my scheme; and, as soon as
he suspected my intention, he was thrown into a state of violence and
irritation of temper, in which I had never before seen him, and which
really alarmed me. It was Mr. Benson’s presence which he dreaded, I
believe: he could have laid his pride, (that stumbling-block of his,) at
your feet Lady Fitzhenry, but he could not humble himself before
others.”
“Indeed, Emmeline,” said Fitzhenry, interrupting him, “again Pelham
barely does me justice; it was not pride that made me dread encountering
you. On the contrary, it was shame, fear, humility, and all those
perfectly contrary feelings.”
“Poh! poh! don’t let him take you in with all that pretty sounding
humbug,” continued Pelham, laughing. “However, the real truth was, that
he was as unlike his real self then, as, I am sorry to say, he is in
many respects now. As we proceeded, I became more and more convinced
that he was far from well. During the journey, I made little progress
with my headstrong companion in my attempts to bring him to reason, and
at last his answers became so strange and incoherent, that I was really
alarmed; and, on our arrival here, I immediately sent for a physician.
He found him, as I had suspected, in a high fever; and I am convinced
his illness (brought on probably by agitation) had attacked his brain
even before it showed itself visibly in his health; as at Arlingford, he
certainly was in a state of irritation perfectly unnatural to him.
Fortunately, the letters I here found enabled me to delay my further
journey for a short time, in order to devote myself to him.
“You now know all,” continued Pelham; “and whatever my future lot in
life may be, it will be one gratifying recollection that I was the means
of uniting two beings so formed for each other, and whom I love so
entirely.”
Mr. Pelham seized Emmeline’s hand as he uttered these words, and pressed
it to his lips. “Reward my friend for his services to me and to
yourself, Emmeline,” said Fitzhenry, “by letting him kiss that varying
cheek of yours. Can I give a stronger proof that my delirious fever has
quite left me?”
Pelham waited not for further leave; he pressed her to his heart, and,
as he printed a fond kiss on her forehead, “God bless you, Emmeline,—God
bless and protect you both!” he cried, with emotion; “and in your future
hours of happiness remember me.” Then resuming a more cheerful tone, he
added: “And now, my dear friends, that my mind is at ease about you
both, (for I do not now apprehend a relapse of _any_ sort,) and that I
can leave you, Fitzhenry, in the care of so good a nurse, I must repair
to my post, and set off to-morrow morning for Vienna, in case any longer
delay should bring me to disgrace—as politics have little respect for
the feelings of friendship.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER VII.
“In vain may art the couch of sickness tend,
Or friendship sigh, or sympathy implore,
Or love, all sanguine, o’er the sufferer bend;
The mortal sinks,—and every hope is o’er!
These brooding thoughts in useless pangs expire;
More soothing sounds let struggling nature hear,
Catch from religion’s shrine an holier fire,
And wake to duty, from her trance severe.”
AFTER Mr. Pelham’s departure, Fitzhenry became very impatient to return
to England. He was better certainly, and had regained some degree of
strength; for now, leaning on Emmeline’s arm, he was able to walk about
his apartment; but still he did not seem to recover as rapidly as he
should. A degree of varying fever still hung about him; his cough, which
the French physician still called nervous, at times exhausted him much,
and he had a look of languor quite unnatural to him; his cheek remained
hollow, his eyes looked sunk.
Paris, meanwhile, grew insufferably hot; his anxiety to leave it, and
his desire for home became so strong—partaking of the feverish longing
of illness—that in the hope that the short sea voyage might prove rather
beneficial to him than the contrary, it was at last decided that they
should set out for Arlingford. They went down the Seine by water, and
then hired a vessel to take them to Pool, which was within only twelve
miles of their own home. The voyage seemed to do Fitzhenry good, the sea
air to refresh him; and, on his near approach to Arlingford, his spirits
and animation seemed to return; and Emmeline gazed with delight on the
colour in his cheeks, and the sparkling gladness of his eyes; and oh!
how eloquent was their language to her doating heart! what volumes did
they tell in one single glance!
Perhaps many would not understand the emotion which made both their
hearts beat even to pain, when they entered the well-known scenes of
Arlingford;—but, again I repeat it, I address myself only to those who
have known the deep feeling of tried affection, the wild enchantment of
love. Emmeline fancied she saw sympathetic joy in every countenance, and
as she returned the congratulatory salutations of the country people,
(who, smiling, took off their hats as the carriage passed,) she could
scarcely restrain her tears. At how many a turn in the road, or
well-remembered path or ride, recalling moments and feelings of past
unhappiness, did they almost involuntarily look at each other; and how
often did Fitzhenry clasp Emmeline’s hand in his, and entreat her again
and again to forgive him!
Thus buoyant with joy and gratitude, they at last drove up to the door
of their own home. Fitzhenry’s spirits had been so much beyond his
bodily strength, that they had quite exhausted him; so that when he left
the carriage, it was with difficulty he reached the drawing-room. As the
servants all eagerly pressed forward to give him their assistance, “Poor
Reynolds!” he exclaimed, tears starting into his eyes, “I wish I had his
arm to lean on now, for how happy he would have been!”
When he was assisted to the couch in the drawing-room, he looked round
the apartment for several minutes in silence, and when the door had
closed on the attendants, he held out his arms to Emmeline. They could
neither speak—but they did not need words to express their feelings;
both knew what was passing in the mind of the other, and Emmeline
secretly thanked the giver of all good for her present happiness.
We poor mortals do well to catch at each passing moment of joy, and feed
on them while ours; for alas! how soon do they fade away! and how
wretched the condition of those who, weak in faith, see not the bounty
of God in every blessing, and cannot “lift the adoring eye e’en to the
storm that wrecks them,” relying on the wisdom and mercy of his
unsearchable providence.
Fitzhenry had a restless night of cough and fever; and although Emmeline
attributed both to the fatigue and agitation of the preceding day, yet
she sent off an express for an eminent physician residing at Winchester;
and on his arrival, with a beating heart, led him into her husband’s
apartment. Doctor Harrington, who had formerly often seen Fitzhenry,
appeared much struck with the alteration in his appearance: he
questioned him minutely as to his cough, and other symptoms of his
complaint; then, drawing out his watch, he repeatedly counted his pulse.
Emmeline, who in breathless anxiety watched every look and word, could
not help taking fright at his manner; and her alarm was increased, when,
on pretence of writing a prescription, he followed her into the
adjoining room, and addressed her with—“Pray, Lady Fitzhenry, do I
remember right, was not the late Lady Arlingford consumptive?”
Poor Emmeline’s blood froze in her veins, and her pale lips betrayed the
terror his question had conveyed.
“I beg you will not be alarmed,” he added, in a sententious tone,
observing her emotion; “Lord Fitzhenry is young; has always, I believe,
lived most temperately. At present, I apprehend no immediate danger; but
we must be careful. These hereditary complaints are sometimes obstinate,
and difficult to deal with.”
And thus he went on for some time with the _sang froid_ which some of
his profession, perhaps naturally, acquire; fancying he could in that
manner reassure his trembling auditor. But she scarcely heard him. The
sudden transition from joy and the overflowings of her grateful heart,
to the dreadful apprehensions which now took possession of her mind, was
too violent to be endured.
Almost unconscious what she did, she received from Doctor Harrington’s
hand his written prescription; and, with an altered countenance,
returned to her husband. The flushed crimson of his cheek, the bright,
feverish sparkling of his eyes, now made her shudder; and she hid her
face at the back of the arm-chair in which he was sitting, fearing she
might betray herself.
“Well, Emmeline,” said he at last, “what news from Doctor Harrington? he
looked prodigiously pompous about me; but I hope he will give me
something to stop my cough, and make me sleep: in fact, that is all I
now require to be well. But it is wearisome. Last night I never closed
my eyes: however, I believe that was the effect of happiness, at being
once more at Arlingford, and with you. What does the sapient doctor
recommend? Let me look at what he has written. This is all Greek and
Hebrew to me,” said he, in a light tone, as he returned the paper to
Emmeline; “indeed, I hope, for my learning’s credit, even more
unintelligible—but, Emmeline, are you not well? how pale you look! I
think you require a little doctoring as well as myself. You have worn
yourself out by nursing me; I will not let you do so any more. Last
night you did not leave my room for hours, I know, for I watched you,
and at last was forced to feign sleep, in order that you might go and
get some yourself. But this shall not be any longer. I really do not now
want my servant, or, indeed, any attendance. We will have that little
couch-bed moved into my room for you; and no soporific which the doctor
can recommend, will make me sleep half so well, as knowing you have that
rest which I am sure you need even more than myself.”
Emmeline hid her face on the cushion on which his head was lying—she
could not speak.
“What, Emmeline!” he continued, “will you not agree to my proposal? Have
I said any thing to displease you? Foolish girl!” and he drew away her
hands, that were hiding her face.
On beholding it, he looked at her a moment in silence. His countenance
changed. He took her hand in his, raised his eyes to heaven, but said
nothing.
The apprehensions which Dr. Harrington’s report, guarded as it was, had
raised in Emmeline’s mind, made her anxious for further advice; and yet
she feared to alarm Fitzhenry by proposing it: but at her first word, he
understood her, and calmly said—“Do whatever you like, whatever will
ease _your_ mind.” And she wrote immediately to Doctor Baillie.
During the days that passed till his arrival, she made an effort to
throw back from her heart the miserable anxiety that was oppressing it,
and to pursue her usual occupations. Many a burning tear stole down her
cheek in silence and solitude; but she always met her husband with a
smile; and if he ever saw traces of her feelings on her countenance, he
forbore noticing them.
With sensations of apprehension not to be described, Emmeline, at last,
on the day he had appointed, saw Baillie drive up to the door. She felt
that her fate hung on his opinion. Dr. Harrington had come to meet him;
and after a short private conversation between the two medical men, they
proceeded, with Emmeline, into their patient’s room. Fitzhenry welcomed
them with cheerfulness; talked for some time of the news of the day, and
on indifferent subjects, to Baillie; and then turning to Emmeline, who
had been unequal to the exertion of a single word during their
conversation,—
“Lady Fitzhenry,” said he, “you must leave me to say my catechism to Dr.
Baillie alone. I want too to make serious complaints of you,” added he,
gaily; “of your obstinacy and disobedience; of the way in which you sit
up all night, destroying your health and bloom.”
Baillie made some attempt at a compliment; but his kind heart felt for
the anguish he saw painted on her countenance; and, unable to answer
him, Emmeline in silence left the room.
Those who have felt their very existence depend on one word, may imagine
how she passed the cruel, anxious, long half-hour that now elapsed. At
length, the door of her room slowly opened, and Fitzhenry himself,
leaning on his stick, came in alone. His face was flushed; and though he
forced a smile, on entering, Emmeline plainly read in it an expression
that was like a death-knell to her heart and hopes. She flew up to him,
and helped him to a couch. After a moment’s pause, drawing her towards
him—
“Emmeline,” said he; “dearest! we have suffered too much, and too long,
from concealing our feelings from each other, for me to have courage to
undertake to keep another secret from you, although it is one which I
know will pain you.” Emmeline’s pallid face showed she was but too well
prepared for what he was going to say. “I have for some time suspected
my real situation,” added he; “but I was determined to learn the truth;
and I knew Baillie’s sensible upright honesty would not, at my serious
request, conceal it from me. I required of him to give me his candid
opinion as to my health.”
Fitzhenry paused; Emmeline clung to him, as if to stifle what more he
had to say; but he continued, though in a faltering voice.
“I had hoped it might have been otherwise; I had hoped, for your sake,
that we might have been allowed to live for some little time at least,
happily together; but that God whom you have taught me to worship and
submit to, no doubt judges wisely; and, we must, I fear, look to our
approaching, final separation.”
At these words, poor Emmeline could no longer command herself; an
agonized scream escaped from her bursting heart, as she sank on the
floor before him.
“My Emmeline! my dear Emmeline!” he cried, endeavouring to raise her in
his feeble arms—“Spare me—I entreat you—I cannot bear to see you suffer
thus—have pity on me.”
“I will, I will,” she almost convulsively exclaimed, “but this is
too—too much for me.”
“You mistake me, Emmeline,” said he, endeavouring to calm the agony he
had caused. “There may be hope yet; Baillie is you know famous for
seeing every thing _en noir_—he was very plain-spoken with me, for I
forced him to be so; but recollect, Emmeline,” added he, endeavouring to
cheer his voice, “even Baillie may be mistaken, and while there is life
there is hope: before winter, we are to go to a warmer climate; you will
pray to heaven for me, and your prayers, dearest, will perhaps be heard.
They have already once restored us to each other; they may do so again.
I should not have said all this to you, I believe, but it is so
necessary to me now to conceal nothing from you, that I could not have
borne the load alone; but, for God’s sake, dear Emmeline, compose
yourself, and for my sake, bear up.”
And for his sake, she did exert herself; for of what is the female
character not capable, when nerved by strong affection? All was settled
for their leaving England the beginning of October, when they were to
repair to Lisbon; till then, it was thought that the climate of
Hampshire would be better for Fitzhenry than that of Portugal. The
season was unusually fine; and, sometimes, when well enough to wander a
little way from the house, the balmy air, and cheering sounds and sights
of a fine autumn, seemed to revive him; and, if ever he prolonged his
walk one yard further than he had done on the preceding day—if he had
ever appeared rather more cheerful—his voice stronger—Emmeline, to whose
young heart happiness was so necessary, then again, for the moment, gave
way to delightful anticipations. Had she ventured to look back, and
trace from week to week the rapid progress of the fatal disease, that
was fast hurrying its victim to the grave, she could not have indulged
even such momentary gleams of hope, but then also, she could not have
performed her hard task with the courage she did.
Fitzhenry was generally calm, and even cheerful; and he sometimes talked
of what they would do on their return to Arlingford; and projected
alterations and improvements in the place; but all such plans for the
future, usually ended in a sigh, and were listened to in mournful
silence by his wretched wife; and although he thus forced himself to
appear interested in worldly affairs, yet, by the turn his conversation
now commonly took, it was plain to perceive that the whole tone of his
mind was completely changed; and when Emmeline proposed reading to him,
he always selected such books as led to reflection, to God, and to a
future world.
Their wedding-day, the 19th of August, was the last on which he left the
house; his exertions to appear cheerful on that day, had been so much
beyond his strength, that they had exhausted him. The next, he could not
leave his room. A fortnight more, and he could scarcely raise himself
from his couch. The end of September came, and the preparations for
their departure for Lisbon continued to be made, no one having the heart
to countermand them, although it was very evident to all, that he would
never quit his present home, but for that, where he would be for ever at
rest. As his bodily strength failed, his mind seemed to gain fresh
vigour, and to soar above the cares and sufferings of this transitory
life. Resignation was an easier task to him, than to the wretched being
who, strong in youth and health, was doomed to remain in that world from
which she saw her every joy fast departing. But she never complained;
she never wept; at least, her tears were ever concealed from him for
whom they flowed. With a steady voice, she read to him of the peace, the
bliss of heaven—of forgiveness to penitent sinners; and, when she saw
her husband’s eyes raised to that heaven in humble submission to its
decrees, she clasped her hands beside him in silence; and if a distinct
prayer escaped from her meek heart, it was to implore that she might be
released with him from this world of suffering.
One night, after she had read to him that beautiful Essay of Miss
Bowdler’s, on the Advantages of Sickness: “I am sure, Emmeline,” said
he, in a faint voice, “it will ever be a comfort and joy to you to
think, that through your means I have been saved from destruction. When
I think what I was only a short twelve-month ago, I bless God for the
change, although brought about by such cruel means. Oh! if I could but
live my life over again,” he added vehemently: “if I could but feel once
more the strength and health of mind and body, of which I made so bad a
use; if I could but see you, my own Emmy, the blooming light-hearted
girl you were when I married you, when I so cruelly scorned and
neglected you, how superlatively happy I should be. But all is over now;
the past cannot be recalled, and there is no future for me in this
world; and yet, convinced as I am of this, do you know that even now I
sometimes, during the long, tedious, sleepless hours of night, still
foolishly indulge in vain dreams of happiness, and picture to myself our
future life here; I see you admired by every one—the charm, the ornament
of my home, (for proud, worldly ideas will still cling to me.) I fancy I
see that innocent beaming smile I once saw—I hear that joyous laugh I
used to hear till my unkindness silenced it; in fancy, we ride together,
we _waltz_ together,” said he, forcing a faint smile: “and this perfect
earthly bliss, which providence offered me, I rejected and
spurned—spurned you, who would have made my home a heaven to me, and not
one word of reproach have I heard from you. Oh, Emmeline, if you were
less kind to me, I believe I should suffer less bitterly; that smile,
that look of love cuts me to the very soul. There is only one comfort of
which you have not been deprived by me, that of an approving conscience,
and the hope of happiness beyond the grave; for in heaven we shall be
again united, and by your means. I trust I am not too presumptuous, but
the entire resignation with which I look to approaching death, though
now possessed of every blessing this world can give, and the hope with
which I anticipate meeting you, my guardian angel, in the next, gives me
a strong feeling of confidence, that my past errors are blotted out.”
Fitzhenry’s voice became choked, he sank back and closed his eyes, and
for some time they both remained silent.
“I have talked too much,” he at length said; “I am rather exhausted, and
at times I feel more low without knowing why. I think I shall sleep, so
good night; God bless you, my Emmeline:” and he kissed her pale
tear-bedewed cheek, then turned his head away, and for about an hour all
was quiet. Fitzhenry never moved, and Emmeline trusted he was getting
some refreshing rest; he had coughed less that day, his pulse had
appeared to her to be quieter; and as she clasped her hands in humble
supplication, a faint gleam of hope even then shot through her sorrowful
heart.
“Oh! God of mercy, if possible, spare him!” she ejaculated with such
fervency, that her lips, unconsciously to herself, uttered the sounds.
Fearful that she might have disturbed him, she went softly to the couch
on which he was lying. He directly held out to her his feeble hand: “I
am not asleep,” said he, in a hollow altered tone, that made her
shudder; “I cannot sleep. I heard your prayer, my Emmeline, but it
cannot be; the decree is past; and, while yet I can, I have a favour to
ask of you, though I am sure, beforehand, you will grant it. In my
writing-desk you will find a letter—when I am gone—send it to—to
Florence. Do not start, dearest,—it is my wish, my last request that you
will read it—I have purposely left it open. But I would like to die in
peace with all—even with her. A time may come when, like me, she may
regret the past; and then it will be a comfort to her to know that I
forgave her the evil she was the cause of to us both—and also it
relieves my heart to ask forgiveness of her for what injury I have done,
what pain I may have inflicted upon her. As for you, my own Emmeline, I
know I should only grieve you if I were to ask for your forgiveness. I
am sure I have it,” said he, as he imprinted a fond kiss on her
quivering lips: “Heaven reward you with its best blessings! When you see
Pelham again, you will for my sake be kind to him. Poor Pelham! he loved
me most truly!—he loves you too, Emmeline.”
Fitzhenry paused, and fixed his languid, glazing eyes on her face; he
seemed as if anxious to say more, but he only sighed deeply; and, after
a few minutes’ silence, taking from under the pillow Emmeline’s
prayer-book, which he had always kept since that day on which he had
renewed to her his marriage vow: “And now, Emmeline,” said he, “read to
me that prayer for the sick.”
In silence she complied, for she had taught her breaking heart to bear
such trials: she had learnt to stifle her sobs, to swallow her bitter
tears.
“Blessings on thee, my love,” he said, when she had finished; “your
voice soothes me; your prayers do me so much good. But there is still
another I would have you read—that for the dying.”
Emmeline looked at him aghast—his countenance had within the last hour
visibly changed—death was upon it—her blood chilled in her veins; but,
making a desperate effort, with a tremulous voice, broken by convulsive
sobs, she began to read. When she came to these words, “Look graciously
on thy servant, O Lord! give him unfeigned repentance for the errors of
his past life,” Fitzhenry’s hand pressed Emmeline’s more closely with a
sort of nervous, convulsive grasp. She continued to read—his hand
stiffened—grew cold——all was over——.
A loud shriek brought the attendants from the adjoining room: they
raised poor Emmeline’s lifeless form from the ground; with difficulty
unloosed her hand from that of her husband, and carried her to her bed.
When consciousness, after a lapse of some days, at length returned, she
saw her father and mother hanging over her—but Fitzhenry, her adored
Fitzhenry, was for ever shrouded in the close, cold habitation of death!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER VIII.
Yet still, thou mourner, o’er the death-bed stand,
Still honour, as thou canst, the breathless clay,
Still bring thy flowers, and strew with pious hand,
And weep behind the bier in slow array;
And raise the stone, inscribe the record kind,
And all thy heart’s vain tenderness reveal,
And guard the dust, in awful hope resigned,
And bow to heaven, that formed thee thus to feel.
_Extract from a Letter from the Rev. E. Pelham, to Sir George Pelham,
minister at Vienna._
——“You ask me if I can tell you any thing of Lady Fitzhenry.
Being some little time ago on a visit to a friend at Poole, and
anxious to be able to give you some more satisfactory account
than mere common report, I resolved to drive over one Sunday,
and attend divine service at the parish church of Arlingford, as
I was told that she was generally there to be seen; and, hearing
she lived perfectly retired, I did not like to intrude upon her
with the offer of a visit.
“You know it is now nearly a twelve-month since the death of
poor Fitzhenry. The pew belonging to the Arlingford family, the
pulpit, and communion table, are all still covered with black,
and with the escutcheons and arms of the Fitzhenrys. When the
church-bell had done ringing, Lady Fitzhenry, with her father
and mother, came into the gallery. A deep black veil at first
hid her face and nearly her whole person; but the church growing
very hot, she at length put it aside.
“Had I not previously known who it was, I certainly should not
have recognised her. There is no trace of the laughing eyes, of
the dimpled cheek, of the fresh gay young countenance, which I
was acquainted with. Perhaps it was partly owing to contrast and
to the quantity of black by which she was surrounded, but I
thought I had never seen so pale a face. Still, though she has
already lost much of the fresh beauty of youth, there is a charm
in her faded sadness—an air of sentiment over her whole person,
that more than compensates. Her hair was parted back on her
marble-white forehead; and the only thing about her that was not
black, was a gold chain, to which was hung a small watch. I am
thus particular, for I know you wish for particulars—and I
certainly never before paid such attention to the minutiæ of a
woman’s dress.
“During the service, Lady Fitzhenry appeared engrossed by it as
one whose heart’s home is in heaven. When it was ended, all
seemed respectfully to wait to let her pass; the village
children eagerly watching for an opportunity to catch her eye in
order to make their little obeisances, in the hope of a smile or
kind word from her in return. I too might then have spoken to
her, but a deep feeling of respect for her sorrows restrained
me. I feared the sight of me might recall past days, and I did
not like to intrude upon her.
“When all were gone, I still loitered in the church, and the
clergyman and I at last were left alone. Seeing me examining the
Fitzhenry arms with interest, he came up to me; and, after some
usual civilities had passed, I asked him whether Lord Fitzhenry
was buried in the church.
“‘Yes!’ he replied, pointing to a marble slab; ‘beneath that
stone is the family vault. It is now about a year since I read
over it the funeral service: and many such sad duties have I
performed, many melancholy scenes of death have I been witness
to; but never, I think, will the impression of that day be
effaced from my memory. I remember it was unusually fine for the
season, the bright sun forming such a striking contrast with the
scene. It seemed to be a gratification to Lord Arlingford’s
feelings to pay every possible outward mark of respect to his
son, and in every way to testify his deep affliction for his
loss; and, with this idea, he desired that no expense might be
spared at his funeral. ‘I don’t think that would have been the
way in which I should have indulged my grief,’ added the
respectable old pastor; ‘but we show our feelings differently;’
and certainly nothing could be more impressive than the sight of
the long funeral procession, and the waving of the black banners
and plumes, when moving slowly down the avenue that leads from
the house to the village. The whole parish, even the county for
many miles round attended; for Lord Fitzhenry was much and
justly beloved—and many too of course came for the mere show. Of
all this costly dismal pageant, what struck me with the
strongest feelings of melancholy was, the hearse, drawn by Lord
Fitzhenry’s own beautiful horses, which by his father’s orders
had been trained to a slow pace for the purpose; but, although
pains had been taken to break them into their mournful duty,
yet, excited and fretted I suppose by the crowd around them, and
the trappings with which they were covered, it was with
difficulty they could be restrained; and when, at last, they
were stopped at the gate of the church-yard, they proudly pawed
the ground, and tossed their heads, as in the days when they
drew their master in all the pride of youth and health, totally
unconscious of the last sad office they were then performing for
him. Lord Arlingford and Mr. Benson both attended, and were much
affected at the ceremony, particularly the latter.
“‘Late in the evening, I was,’ continued my narrator—‘roused
from no agreeable reverie, by being told that Lord Arlingford’s
carriage was driving through the village towards the church, and
that one of the servants had come to beg that the door of it
might be opened without delay; I immediately hurried thither. It
was a bright moonlight night, and I saw Mr. and Mrs. Benson, who
had already left the carriage, help out of it an almost lifeless
figure; they supported her along—for, as you may guess it was
poor Lady Fitzhenry. It seems, that nothing could divert her
from the idea of visiting the vault before it was again closed,
and at last the desire became so strong, that they thought it
best to comply with her wishes. Her hysteric screams, when she
threw herself on the coffin, still ring in my ears; and it was
with difficulty they tore her away from it. Twice, as if agony
of mind had given her more than usual strength, of body, she
broke from them. I really feared for her reason, under the
influence of such wild despair, and at length, by force, we
carried her back to the carriage. By Mrs. Benson’s desire, I
accompanied them to the house: she wished to try the effects of
my prayers and exhortations on the poor sufferer. When she was
laid on her couch, and had been given some composing medicine, I
went to her. It seemed as if all was then over with her in this
world. Not a tear fell from her fixed eyes. ‘He is gone—quite
gone—I shall never see him again—never—never,’ she repeated,
apparently quite unconscious of her words, and with a horrible
composure of voice, although there was wildness in her looks;
for she appeared as if gazing on some invisible form. I knelt by
her, I read, I said all that I thought was most likely to rouse
her from her stupor of grief, and move her feelings; and at
last, after one or two convulsive heavings of her bosom, tears
came to her relief. She fell sobbing into her mother’s arms; and
I left that excellent mother to give her all the comfort she was
then capable of receiving, that of sympathy and affection.’
“The kind-hearted old man here stopped, much overcome with his
recollections.
“‘Lady Fitzhenry has, I believe, resided here ever since the
death of her husband?’ I said, as soon as I saw he had
sufficiently recovered himself. ‘Yes,’ he replied: ‘by
agreement, and the wording of the deed, which, at the time of
Lord and Lady Fitzhenry’s marriage, saved this estate from
falling into the hands of Lord Arlingford’s creditors, (it not
being, like the rest of the property, entailed,) it became hers
in the event of their having no children.’ ‘Does she do much
good here?’ I enquired: ‘has she taken to the only employment
left for the unhappy?’ ‘Oh! she is the friend and hope of all
the poor of the neighbourhood,’ rejoined the good pastor with
fervency: ‘at first, indeed, she was so absorbed by her grief,
that she seemed to heed nothing which was passing around her,
and I have seen her mechanically bestow charity to any one who
chanced to cross her path; but her good mother gradually brought
her to make it the occupation and interest of her life. Alas! I
fear she has now no other. She is indefatigable in her exertions
to do good; and may the happiness she bestows on others be at
length repaid back on herself, and at least bring her peace and
comfort, if not enjoyment! I understand she is in general quite
calm, and even, at times, cheerful; she never, in the most
distant manner, alludes to her loss, or to the past year of her
life, and hastily turns off all conversation that can possibly
lead to any circumstance connected with it; even with her
parents, since the very first, she has maintained this same
reserve. It seems as if her husband’s memory was buried within
her own heart, and that she felt the grave had shut too close
over such an adored being for its sacredness ever to be
disturbed.’ I further learnt from my companion, that Mr. Benson
has given up all share both in his mercantile concerns and in
the banking-house; that his spirits and health seem to be both
much broken; that he has lost all his bustling activity, and
that he has just purchased a small place in the neighbourhood of
Arlingford, intending there to pass the remainder of his days.
“By this time, we had reached the door of the parsonage; its
owner invited me in, but I had already loitered much, and could
delay my departure no longer. Finding that I could return to my
place of destination by crossing Arlingford Park, I gave my name
at the lodge, and being admitted, although not without
difficulty, I drove as near the house as I could venture. The
hatchment darkened the windows of the principal room—many of the
others were closed. How different the whole place looked from
what it did only a few months back, when I met you there at the
time of the large shooting party which Fitzhenry had collected!
Poor fellow! I used to abuse him then for his strange
unaccountable conduct and coldness towards his pretty,
interesting little wife; but I believe others had worked upon
him and done mischief there. The place seemed kept in good order
as formerly; but all was silent, and had a look of desertion. I
did not see a living creature, except some horses at grass,
which I recognized to be Fitzhenry’s favourite hunters. They
eagerly pricked up their ears when I past, and threw back their
long-neglected manes, as if a carriage was now an unusual sight;
but when I had driven by, they quietly returned to their food.
“I travelled on many miles before I could get poor Lady
Fitzhenry out of my head; pondering too with some compunction on
a silly report to which I had carelessly given credence. The
said report concerned her and you; for you must know, George,
that the thoughtless, gossiping world, judging by its own
unfeeling self, even while Lady Fitzhenry is still shaded by her
weeds, and you are closely fixed at your political post at
Vienna, have already married you to each other.
“Remember, I am not so indiscreet as to ask how far this story
comes home to yourself. That you admired Lady Fitzhenry was
certainly very evident to my observation; but how far that
admiration may lead you in forming wishes for the future, I
can’t pretend to say. Indeed, I almost fear the account I have
now been giving, may destroy, or at least throw the gloom of
doubt over some flattering vision of connubial bliss. For, (I
may be mistaken,) but if I can judge of woman’s countenance, and
by it of woman’s constancy, I should say, the first could never
beam with joy again, and that her every affection is for ever
buried in the grave of her husband.
“Time will prove whether I am right; for your sake, I hope I am
not.”
THE END.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ERRATA TO VOL. II.
(See Transcriber’s Notes.)
Page 5, _for_ her heart sunk, _read_ sank.
Page 5, _for_ then when fearful of betraying herself she at others, &c.
_read_ at others, fearful of betraying herself, she suddenly,
&c.
Page 51, _after_ beneath the scrutiny, _omit_ of her rival.
Page 66, _after_ drive up, _omit_ their vehicles.
Page 86, _after_ out of the carriage, _read_ she desired, &c.
Page 104, _for_ Mr. Benson, _read_ Mrs. Benson.
LONDON:
IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ The Errata have been applied to this text.
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).