A MARRIAGE
IN HIGH LIFE.
EDITED BY
THE AUTHORESS OF ‘FLIRTATION.’
“I was compelled to _her_—but I love _thee_
By love’s own sweet constraint.”
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1828.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
LONDON:
IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE.
The following pages, which I now offer to the public, may, perhaps, not
attract general interest; they contain merely a few passages in the
history of the heart and feelings of an individual placed in singular
and trying circumstances; but those who should recognize beneath the
feigned name of Lady Fitzhenry, one whom they may remember to have seen
in the gay scenes of fashionable life, will probably feel some interest
in the events which occasioned her first introduction into the world,
and her sudden disappearance from it.
THE EDITOR.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A
MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE.
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
A mon avis, l’Hymen et ses liens
Sont les plus grands, ou des maux, ou des biens;
Point de milieu; l’état du mariage
Est des humains le plus cher avantage.
Quand le rapport des esprits, des cœurs
Des sentimens, des gouts, et des humeurs,
Serre ces liens tissus par la nature
Que l’amour forme, et que l’honneur épure.
L’ENFANT PRODIGUE.
TOWARDS the end of a London spring, that is to say, about the middle of
August, was married by special license, at her father’s house in Harley
Street, Emmeline Benson to Ernest, Lord Fitzhenry, only son of the Earl
of Arlingford.
The ceremony was like most others of its kind; the drawing-room was
crowded with relations and friends on both sides, dressed in
congratulatory smiles, and new bridal finery.
Emmeline’s father, an opulent city merchant and banker, appeared arrayed
in a complete new suit for the occasion. The first gloss was not off his
coat, which hung stiff upon him, as if not yet reconciled to the homely
person to which it was destined to belong, while each separate bright
button reflected the collected company. His countenance glowing with
happiness, he busied himself in attentions to his guests, provoking, by
his remarks, those congratulations which flattered his pride and
parental fondness; and, with bustling joy, making the necessary
preliminary arrangements for the ceremony about to take place, which was
to raise his only and beloved child to that elevated situation in life,
in which it had ever been the first wish of his heart to see her placed,
and which his partial affection thought her so well fitted to grace.
Mrs. Benson’s feelings seemed of a less joyous nature, and sometimes,
even a tear started into her eye, in spite of herself, when she
endeavoured to smile in return to the kind wishes of her friends. She
was too fond a mother not to feel painfully the loss of her daughter;
and that feeling was not unmixed with anxiety, in giving her to one of
whom (of late years at least) she personally knew but little.
All were now assembled excepting the bride and bridegroom. The father of
the latter, apparently as much delighted as Mr. Benson himself with the
intended union, being of course among the company. But Lord Fitzhenry
did not appear! Various conjectures were formed as to his absence. One
person declared he had observed his carriage at the door of his lodgings
as he had passed; another, that he was certain he had seen him in a
distant part of the town not long before. The delay was beginning to be
awkward, and at every distant sound of wheels, both fathers looked
anxiously along the street, but in vain.
Gradually the conversation of the guests lowered itself into whispers,
as some new surmise was started with regard to the possible cause of
this strange absence of the most important personage at so important a
moment. But even these whispers died away from lack of new ideas on the
subject, and the now total silence was only occasionally broken by the
rustling of the clergyman’s surplice, when he left his post before the
large family prayer-book (laid open ready at the marriage ceremony) with
the benevolent wish, by some commonplace observation, to dissipate the
unpleasant feelings which seemed to infect all present; or when he
followed Mr. Benson to the window, whither he had taken up his station
of observation in the hopes of being the first to give the much
wished-for news of the approaching bridegroom. Poor Mrs. Benson’s cheeks
became momentarily of a deeper and deeper dye, and she betrayed her
anxious agitation by the nervous twitching of the gold chain round her
neck, to which was suspended her daughter’s portrait, and the constant
arranging of her lace shawl, which she regularly each time pulled off
her shoulders. At last, the welcome rattle of a carriage driving
furiously was heard. It stopped at Mr. Benson’s door, and in a minute
Lord Fitzhenry, with a flushed cheek, hurried into the drawing-room.
Awkward as such an entrance must naturally be, still his agitation
seemed even beyond what the circumstances of the moment would have been
likely to produce on a young man of the world.
Lord Fitzhenry, at twenty-seven, was remarkably good-looking; and on his
countenance and whole figure was that stamp of high birth, which, even
where beauty does not exist, more than compensates for its absence. The
general character of his countenance was that of openness and good
humour; but an agitated, even a melancholy expression now clouded it,
which all noticed.
“Marriage is certainly an awful ceremony,” whispered an elderly lady to
Mrs. Benson; “and I am glad to see his lordship betraying so much
feeling and seriousness at such a moment. It is a good sign in a young
man.” The poor trembling mother scarcely heard the remark, nor was there
much time for more observation, for Mr. Benson had already left the
room, and in a few minutes returned, leading in his daughter.
Emmeline was nineteen. She was slightly formed, had a most winning
countenance, innocent laughing eyes, and a delicate, fair complexion,
although now deepened into crimson, in her cheeks, by the agitation of
the moment, as was very apparent, even through the folds of the
beautiful lace veil that hung all over her.
The marriage ceremony commenced immediately. As it proceeded, the
bridegroom trembled violently. When called upon to pronounce his vow,
his voice was scarcely audible; and as he placed the ring on his bride’s
hand, he nearly let it fall to the ground.
But all was soon finally said and done—so few are the words which, once
read over, totally change our existence, and fix our fate in life for
ever! The usual congratulations passed, and the chaise and four,
decorated with bridal favours, rattled to the door.
Emmeline threw herself sobbing into her mother’s arms—the first sob,
since those of childhood, which had ever been wrung from her light
heart. Her proud father gaily kissed her cheek, addressing her by her
new title of “Lady Fitzhenry;” then, drawing her arm within his, hurried
her down stairs, placed her in the carriage, into which the bridegroom
followed, and the “happy pair” drove off as fast as four post horses
could convey them.
How blank such moments are to those who remain behind! The company soon
separated after the usual breakfast, and Mr. and Mrs. Benson were left
alone.
All excitement, over the deserted mother’s spirits then sank; mournfully
she paced the now silent room, and mechanically removed from the table
Emmeline’s work-box, which she had left behind her, gazing on her name,
engraven on the lid, till her tears burst forth. Her distress roused Mr.
Benson from the trance of exultation in which he had been lost as he
watched the last bridal carriage that had driven from the door, and he
kindly hastened to his wife.
“Why, my good woman, crying! and on such a day! when you should be so
happy—for shame! for shame!”
Mrs. Benson shook her head mournfully. “God grant it indeed _prove_ a
happy day! may our beloved child be so!” and she sighed deeply.
“Why, how can you doubt she will?” said her husband; “she has every
thing this world can give; rank!” (and he laid a great stress on that
word,) “riches, youth; and, for a husband, a most excellent and
accomplished young man, of whom every one speaks well. None of your
gamblers, jockies, spendthrifts. I am sure Emmeline and ourselves are
the envy of all our acquaintance. Any one might be pleased and proud to
see his daughter so well married.”
Mrs. Benson again sighed, wiped away her tears, and then quietly
returned to her usual avocations.
Meanwhile, Lord and Lady Fitzhenry travelled on, and a few hours brought
them to Arlingford Hall, which, on his son’s marriage, Lord Arlingford
had given up to him, meaning to reside himself at a villa at Wimbledon;
his health, which had of late been very precarious, making a near
residence to town advisable.
Arlingford Hall, which was in Hampshire, had been completely repaired
and refurnished for the new married couple; Lord Fitzhenry having
himself been much there lately, superintending the alterations. At
least, that occupation was always mentioned as an apology for his
absence from town, and for his not attending more assiduously on his
future bride.
During the journey, Lord Fitzhenry’s agitation and abstraction rather
encreased, and it could no longer escape Emmeline’s observation. His
conversation was forced; in his manner towards her he was punctiliously
attentive and civil—but perfectly cold and distant.
When they arrived at Arlingford, all the servants were assembled in the
hall to receive them; a numerous and respectable group, who, by the
tears of joy which some of them shed, seemed most sincerely to partake
in the supposed happiness of their young master. One of them, who stood
apart from the rest, even ventured to address him with particular
congratulation as with the familiarity of an old friend, and to give
Emmeline his blessing.
“Thank you, Reynolds, thank you,” said Fitzhenry hastily, as he shook
the old man by the hand.
Emmeline’s heart was cast in nature’s best mould, and this simple action
of her husband found its way to it. She smiling raised her tearful eyes
to his face, but the expression she there found, soon made her again
cast them down. The scene seemed to have totally discomposed him; and,
in an awkward, hurried manner, thanking the rest of the servants, he led
the way to the drawing-room. Dinner was ordered directly, and all seemed
so zealous to serve their young master and mistress, that it was not
long coming, but still there was an awful pause.
Lord Fitzhenry walked up and down the room, forced himself to speak,
then, suddenly, as if recollecting that some degree of gallant attention
was to be expected from him, a bridegroom of only six or eight hours, he
hurried up to Emmeline and helped her off with her shawl; but his manner
was so odd, so unlover-like, that it at last alarmed even her innocent,
unsuspecting mind, and she timidly asked if he was not well. He started
at her question, and seemed much embarrassed; but, after a moment’s
pause, replied, “The journey, the hurry, I suppose; indeed, I hardly
know what, but something has given me a dreadful headache.”
And then, as if roused by her remark to a sense of the strangeness of
his behaviour, he put more force upon himself, showed her the public
rooms, her own sitting room, in which were collected books, musical
instruments, and every possible means of amusement. In answer to her
enquiries, explained to Emmeline who were her new relations that hung
framed on the walls; and, when she admired the comfort of the house, and
particularly of her own boudoir, he said something about hoping she
would be happy in it, but the phrase died away in uncertain accents.
Dinner at length came to his relief; he then was attention itself, but
the repast could not last for ever; and, when the servants had left the
room, Lord Fitzhenry’s embarrassment returned worse than before.
Emmeline had lived so little in society, and, consequently, had so
little the habit of general conversation—and the six years during which
she and her husband had been separated, had so entirely broken off the
first intimacy which had existed between them when children, that, timid
in his company, and now unassisted and unencouraged by him, she felt it
impossible to keep up any thing like conversation. It was, therefore, no
small relief when, after an awkwardly protracted silence, she saw him
leave the room.
As the door closed upon him, Emmeline involuntarily fell into a reverie
not of the most pleasing nature. “This is all very strange!” thought
she; and over her usually gay countenance a sadness crept. She sighed,
she hardly knew why; and, when her thoughts wandered back to her former
happy home, her parents, and their doating fondness, some “natural
tears” stole down her cheek, and she felt herself, as in a dream,
neglected and deserted.
But Emmeline was not _in love_; and her husband’s behaviour, though it
astonished her, and though she felt it was not what it ought to be, did
not wound her heart as it otherwise would have done.
Emmeline was very young, even for her age. With a most superior mind and
character, with tender, even romantic feelings, her innocence and
simplicity of heart were so great, and all her qualities had as yet lain
so dormant, that her character was scarcely known even to herself; and,
to common observers, she passed for a mere gay, good-humoured, pleasing
girl. She was, however, no common character, nor what one would have
supposed the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Benson to have been. Nature
sometimes seems to amuse herself with playing such fanciful tricks; and
Emmeline’s natural superiority made it appear as if she had been thrown
into a sphere totally different from that for which she had been
originally designed, and that she now was only restored to her own
proper station, when raised, by her marriage, to be the companion of
Fitzhenry.
To explain how such a being came to be thus passively united to a man
who seemed already to have repented the step he had taken, it will be
necessary to go back a little in our narrative.
------------------------------------------------------------------------