Do I entice you? do I speak you fair?
Or rather, do I not in plainest truth
Tell you—I do not, nor I cannot love you?
MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM.
LORD ARLINGFORD had, early in life, entangled himself in pecuniary
difficulties by every species of thoughtless extravagance, in which an
expensive, fashionable wife had assisted him. Her fortune and health
both soon declined, and a consumption rapidly carried her to the grave
while still in the prime of life, and when her only child, Ernest, was
but ten years old. That which extravagance began, indolence soon
completed; and long before his son came of age, Lord Arlingford found
himself, in the language of the world, to be totally ruined.
Mr. Benson had been always much employed and consulted by Lord
Arlingford’s family in all matters relating to business; and to him, in
the present desperate situation of his affairs, his lordship was obliged
to have recourse for advice and assistance. Mr. Benson had toiled all
his life as a merchant, and was now one of the most opulent bankers in
London. He had an only child; and to her he meant to bequeath all his
wealth, provided she made a marriage to his choice; by which, he meant
one in that rank of life, which, with all his useful good sense, he had
the folly to imagine essential to human happiness.
Being every way an excellent man of business, Mr. Benson was appointed
to be one of the trustees, into whose hands it was now deemed necessary
to consign Lord Arlingford’s estate; in order, if possible, to retrieve
his affairs, and protect the interests of his son.
One day, when talking over his difficulties with his client, and when
Emmeline was but seven years old, Mr. Benson first proposed, in the form
of a joke, as a means by which all might be set to rights, that their
children should be united in marriage. He finished his speech by a loud
laugh; but it was one of mere agitation, for he anxiously looked into
Lord Arlingford’s face to see how such a proposal agreed with the
ancient, aristocratic pride of the Fitzhenrys.
Lord Arlingford for a minute made no reply; he kept his eyes fixed on
the parchment he held in his hands. The table before him was covered
with deeds, bonds, mortgages, and every awful sign of the irretrievable
state of his affairs; and, strange as it may appear, he caught
immediately at the idea, as to that which alone could save him from
utter ruin. His answer, when at last it came, transported the ambitious
banker with joy; and by degrees, and by constantly treating of the
subject, the two fathers seemed to think it was a matter they had but to
settle between themselves, and that there could be no difficulty
whatever in a scheme which was to give to both, what they both wanted.
Mr. Benson’s promises were most liberal, and Lord Arlingford subdued all
the hereditary pride of his feelings, and seemed quite content to lay
himself and his family under obligations to a man on whom he in return
conferred so much honour.
As a first step towards bringing about this favourite scheme, Ernest,
when at home for his holidays, was constantly sent to Mr. Benson’s,
where he was of course indulged in his every boyish fancy, and every
species of amusement imagined for him in which little Emmeline could
take a part.
On her birthday every year, a ball was given by Mrs. Benson, which was
opened by her and young Lord Fitzhenry, while the two fathers looked on
in admiration, and declared that they were born for each other.
At twenty, Fitzhenry left Oxford; he was then to remain abroad for three
years; and, at his return, it was settled that the marriage should take
place; although as yet, nothing had been said on the subject to either
of those most concerned in the plan.
Before his departure, however, Lord Arlingford thought it proper to open
the business to his son, and also to lay before him the embarrassed
state of his affairs.
Such disclosures make little impression on young minds, to whom, as yet
unacquainted either with its value or want, money is but a vague sort of
blessing; and Lord Arlingford was forced to overcharge the picture to
give it due influence on his son. He talked much of his own distresses,
his sacrifices for the sake of his dear Ernest, and, when he had worked
on his filial affections, mentioned merely as a passing thought the long
projected plan of his union with Miss Benson. Ernest, starting,
coloured, and stammered out some undecided words. But finding no
_positive objection_ made, Lord Arlingford pushed on the affair—praised
Emmeline—(then only thirteen years old,) extorted from Ernest first,
that he thought her a fine girl, and at last a sort of agreement that he
would think of the proposal, and, on his return from abroad, marry her,
and make his father happy.
Mr. Benson was informed of the favourable progress of their scheme,
which he furthered by every means in his power; and Emmeline was soon
taught to look upon Ernest as her future husband. On his taking leave of
them before his departure for the Continent, he kissed her smooth young
cheek, addressing her by the name of his little wife. But neither the
kiss nor the appellation brought even an additional tinge of colour into
that cheek; although she might childishly have grieved at the loss of
her almost only companion.
During the first months of his absence, Lord Fitzhenry wrote two or
three times to Emmeline, once when sending her a watch from Geneva, and
again with a chain from Venice; but he soon found more interesting
occupations than composing letters for the capacity of a mere child: the
boy had grown into a man, and if he did not actually forget the
engagement into which his father had drawn him, he allowed it but little
to occupy his thoughts.
Lord Fitzhenry first visited Italy; at Naples, he formed an intimacy
with the English minister then residing there; and, on the removal of
that minister to Vienna, Ernest followed him.
The three years allotted for his residence abroad, had already nearly
elapsed; but, having acquired a taste for the habits of the Continent,
Ernest begged for longer leave of absence; and by his letters, no less
than by the accounts of all those who met with him, his foreign life
seemed so much to have improved his mind and manners, that Lord
Arlingford, whose purely worldly character saw little beyond such
acquirements, agreed to his prolonging his stay; and he was the more
willing to acquiesce in his son’s wishes, as Emmeline, scarcely yet
sixteen, was still in appearance and manners so much of a child, that
any contemplation of her immediate marriage would have been premature.
Lord Fitzhenry, at twenty-three, with excellent and even superior
abilities, naturally noble feelings, strong sentiments of honour, and a
warmly affectionate heart, wanted only those serious principles of
conduct, which his father had neither bestowed on, nor ever required
from him. Had Lord Arlingford been asked whether or no he was an
atheist, he would have resented the question as an affront; but,
nevertheless, religion had never occupied his own thoughts, and had
never in any distinct form entered into the education of his son. The
companion he selected for him during his residence on the Continent, was
a young man of considerable abilities, who had been destined for the
law; but who, having been early led abroad, and having a decided turn
for a wandering life, was too happy to return to scenes in which he
delighted, and to give up Lincoln’s Inn, and studies, for which he had
no relish, for the existence he preferred, in present, and the future
chance of Lord Arlingford’s patronage.
Such a companion, gay and thoughtless as himself, was not likely to
supply the neglected part of Lord Fitzhenry’s education; and thus,
although gifted by nature with a mind and heart formed for virtue, in
its highest acceptation, Fitzhenry was turned adrift on the world
without any help or defence against its snares, except those common
rules of worldly honour by which men, who may infringe nearly every law,
human and divine, fancy themselves to be guided.
At Vienna, Lord Fitzhenry became acquainted with Lady Florence Mostyn,
and that chance acquaintance influenced his whole future life and
conduct.
Lady Florence, who had early in life been married to a man whom she had
never loved, and whose understanding and character she could not
respect, had every allurement, every charm to captivate, except that of
innocence. Such a deficiency one might have hoped would have preserved a
refined mind like that of Fitzhenry’s from her chains; but, under the
influence of passion, artfully excited, and the example of the society
in which he lived, he fell completely into the snare purposely laid for
him, and became the slave of an artful, bewitching, and violent woman.
In the intoxication of her society, every thing was forgotten or
disregarded. In vain were his father’s repeated injunctions, that he
should return home; in vain his self-reproaches at losing, in idleness,
some of the best years of his life. And it was only when alarming
accounts of Lord Arlingford’s health roused his better feelings, that he
was induced to tear himself away from Greece, whither Lady Florence and
her passive, accommodating husband had accompanied him; and, in the
middle of winter, to set off for England with the hope and promise that
they would join him there early in spring.
Six years had now elapsed since Lord Fitzhenry had left home. His
person, character, manners—all had changed. His “Little Wife” was nearly
forgotten; and when she did chance to cross his mind, he looked upon his
engagement with her as a mere joke of childhood, and trusted his father
would do the same.
From Italy, where he found the accounts of Lord Arlingford were still
very alarming, he travelled day and night to make up for past
negligence, and found his parent on his arrival, but slowly recovering
from a very dangerous illness.
Real feeling and affection broke forth from Fitzhenry’s selfish, worldly
father, on again beholding his son; and beholding him, as in truth he
was, a son to be proud of.
Lord Arlingford’s illness, by weakening his nerves, had given to his
manners an appearance of sentiment unusual to him; and Ernest almost
wondered how he could have been such a monster as so long to have
deserted him. A constant visitor in his father’s sick room, he found Mr.
Benson. With a feeling not unmixed with remorse he warmly thanked him
for having supplied his place, and inquired after Mrs. and Miss Benson,
as after old friends of his boyhood.
“Well, quite well,” said Mr. Benson; “but Emmeline is so grown, that you
will hardly know her again: however she is not altered in any way, I
assure you; she has not forgotten her old playfellow;” and he looked
cunningly into Fitzhenry’s face, to observe the effect of this
flattering assurance. “You have been a sad rambler, Lord Fitzhenry,” he
continued; “but now you are returned to old England, we shall, I hope,
all live comfortably together; and I am sure you will be quite delighted
with Emmy, although perhaps she is not just like your foreign madams;
but none the worse for that I suspect—they don’t make such good wives;
and now that you have, as I may say, sown your wild oats,” he added with
a laugh, “you will not be sorry to sit down at home and enjoy a little
home-bred, quiet English comfort.”
Fitzhenry saw but too plainly the drift of all this, and he was totally
at a loss for an answer. His eyes, fearful of meeting those of Mr.
Benson, wandered round the room, till they fell on a view of Naples
which hung over the chimney. The sight was not favourable to the picture
of _English happiness_ which Mr. Benson had just been presenting to him.
Hours of rapture produced by the first intoxication of passion, beneath
an Italian sky, and amid scenes calculated to enhance every feeling of
romantic enjoyment, rose up before him in an instant, and formed such a
contrast to the homely, domestic comfort just held out to him, that his
very soul sickened at the thought; and, making some awkward sort of
vague answer to Mr. Benson’s _very pointed_ remark, he abruptly left
him.
Ernest had expected to have found his father irritated against him, in
consequence of his long absence and his frequent excuses for not obeying
his summons to return home. He also feared that the real cause of his
protracted stay might have reached England, and he dreaded how much of
his story, since they had parted, might have been made known to Lord
Arlingford. But the manner of his father was so perfectly kind and
cordial, that it reassured Ernest as to his secret being as yet safe,
and at the same time filled his affectionate heart with gratitude and
self reproach.
Some days after his arrival, when talking on various subjects connected
with the place, estate, &c., Lord Arlingford suddenly said, “Mr. Benson,
as soon as I am a little better, and fit for visitors, you must write in
my name, and invite Mrs. Benson and Emmeline to come here. Ernest must
be impatient to see his little wife. Eh, my boy?”
Ernest did not parry this second attack any better than the first—he
started, and stammered out something about “pleasure, honour.” But his
father did not, or would not, see his reluctance to touch on the
subject; he returned again and again to the charge, said his happiness,
his life even, depended upon the marriage; and by the nervous irritation
which illness had produced, and which opposition to his will increased,
Ernest feared he spoke truly.
Harassed and perplexed, Ernest at last took courage, and resolved to
confess to his father the attachment he had formed abroad—his
unalterable, violent, decided devotion to another. Lord Arlingford
seemed breathless with anger and anxiety, and imperatively desired him
to inform him who was the object of it.
Lord Fitzhenry cleared his voice, rose from his chair, paced the room,
and twice, in vain, tried to speak; but at last making an effort, “she
is a married woman,” he said, “Lady Florence Mostyn.” The name was
scarcely audible.
“And is that _all_?” replied his father, much relieved. “Don’t think you
are telling us any thing new; we have heard of your pranks abroad, my
boy; but you will not make the worse husband for having passed through
the fire. And as for your _unalterable_ attachment, that is all
nonsense. So I thought, at your age, with _my_ first love; for I had two
or three _affairs_ of the sort before I was married; and, indeed, never
quite forgot one of my favourites.”
“But surely, Sir, with such feelings——!”
“Feeling! stuff again,” replied Lord Arlingford. “Why really, Ernest,
you have learnt little of the world in your travels; I am sure any one
of your young friends would laugh to hear you give such a reason for
refusing a most excellent, and, I must add, advantageous marriage.”
Although without principles, Ernest was shocked at his father’s levity;
he was in all the heroic romance of passion; to love more than one, to
plight his faith to another, did not strike him as morally, religiously
wrong, but as sacrilege to the one adored being. All he could obtain,
however, was delay, and that his father would allow him some little time
for reflection.
Thus passed some months. Lord Fitzhenry occasionally met the Benson
family; but Emmeline he hardly looked at, hardly noticed; although, when
in her society, his manner towards her was perfectly civil; but it was
the civility of indifference; his thoughts were fixed on another, and
had he been asked the colour of Emmeline’s hair or eyes, he probably
could not have answered.
Spring arrived, and with it Lady Florence. This event did not further
Lord Arlingford’s plan. Fitzhenry was more and more decided in his
objections, and in his determination not to fulfil what his father
called his engagement.
Many violent altercations passed between them, and, at last, in one of
these agitating scenes, Lord Arlingford was seized with an apoplectic
fit, and (as Ernest thought) fell dead at his feet. Horror-stricken, he
raised him from the ground; medical assistance was procured, and life
and hope returned after some days of dreadful apprehension and suspense;
but the impression left on his mind was too strong to allow of further
resistance; and, in an unguarded moment, Fitzhenry, attacked on every
side, gave his reluctant consent to the hated union. His father allowed
him no time to retract. His proposals were immediately made; though not
without a secret hope, on Fitzhenry’s part, of their being rejected,
which, owing to the marked neglect with which he had ever treated her
whose hand he claimed, seemed not unlikely. But, contrary to his
expectations, his offer was accepted.
Emmeline, as has before been stated, was remarkably young and innocent
for her age; she had been brought up in the idea that Lord Fitzhenry was
to be her husband; and, although without any very decided preference for
him, and with a heart perfectly free, she had looked to her marriage as
to a thing of course, and as to an event that was to secure her
happiness.
His indifference, however, had not escaped her observation; and, her
cheek reddening with offended pride, she mentioned it to her father,
when, breathless with delight, he came to announce to her that Lord
Fitzhenry claimed her as his bride.
Mr. Benson ridiculed what he called her conceit, her romance;
exaggerated into compliments many a simply _civil_ thing which Fitzhenry
had, or possibly had _not_, said of her; set forth all the advantages of
the marriage; used every argument which he knew her affectionate
deference to him would give weight to; even hinted at his word being
pledged, till he succeeded at last in silencing her doubts and scruples.
The good and pious Mrs. Benson too was not quite free from worldly
vanities; she told herself, and she told Emmeline, that so good a son
must make a good husband; that it would be such a comfort to see her
settled in life with one whom she had known since a boy, and of whom she
knew so much good.
At last, with something between a smile and a sigh, Emmeline gave her
consent, and all was thus finally arranged:
Seven thousand a-year was firmly settled on Lord Fitzhenry, and the
residue of Mr. Benson’s immense property promised at his death. He added
likewise a _few thousands_ of ready money for plate, jewels, equipages,
&c.; “in order,” as he said, “to set the young people a-going.”
Every one was satisfied but poor Ernest. To his feelings, all this was
hateful; and he was doubly shocked when he found, during the legal
details into which he had now to enter, that Arlingford Hall, the abode
of his childhood, although it had been long in the family, yet from not
being entailed like the rest of the property, had only been saved by Mr.
Benson’s liberality; and, that in the involved perplexity of his
father’s affairs and the urgency of his creditors, all the expenses of
his late election had been defrayed from the same source.
Sick at heart, as soon as he could extricate himself from lawyers and
papers, Ernest signified his intention of leaving town, in order, as he
let it be understood, to superintend the repairs at Arlingford, but, in
fact, to fly to Lady Florence, who was still in the country.
It was their first meeting since his marriage had been declared; and
with an unprincipled, impassioned woman, he had to undergo scenes still
more agonizing than those with his father.
Fitzhenry’s love for Lady Florence was far beyond her power of
appreciating—unable to do justice to his character, she could not trust
to such devotion as he expressed, and as he really felt. He believed
that for his sake she had sacrificed both honour and virtue, and his
whole life, his every affection, he conceived would hardly repay the
debt.
Ernest’s heart was capable of love of the purest, noblest kind; and,
even towards so unworthy an object, it partook more of the nature of his
own character than of her’s who had inspired it. During the period
employed in preparations for his nuptials, instead of attending on his
bride, Fitzhenry never left Lady Florence. Her power seemed strengthened
by the very circumstances that should have lessened it; he accompanied
her to town; and, even the morning of his marriage, on her entreating to
see him, if but for a moment, he had flown to her bewitching presence.
A most violent scene ensued; it ended by a solemn vow on his part to
remain true to her, his first, his only love, in thought, word, and
deed. That Emmeline should merely be the mistress of his house; that, in
public, he should behave to her with perfect attention and civility, but
nothing more.
Hardly knowing what he did, and not till long after the hour appointed
for the celebration of his nuptials, he left Lady Florence for Mr.
Benson’s house. Hence his flushed cheek, and his agitated manner, the
too true indications of his troubled soul.
Fitzhenry had no distinct religious feelings; but still, when he heard
the sacred vow he was to pronounce, (and of which he had never thought,)
with his lips still vibrating with that he had pledged to Lady Florence;
no wonder those lips quivered. Although no dread of the anger of his God
appalled his mind, yet, as a man of honour, he felt the atrocity of the
act. Of Emmeline, of the poor victim, who stood trembling beside him, he
hardly thought. He looked upon her as a mere obedient child without a
character; perhaps, even worse, an ambitious, worldly being; and all his
thoughts, all his compassion, were bestowed on Lady Florence and
himself.
Fitzhenry wanted neither decision nor character. During their melancholy
journey to Arlingford Hall, he had sufficiently surmounted his agitation
to have decided on his conduct. He resolved to tell all to Emmeline, to
let her fully enjoy the honours, the worldly advantages of the situation
he thought she had in her union with him sought; to assure her he would
ever endeavour to make her happy, but that she must never hope for his
affections.
Often, after an awful pause, he resolved to speak, but each time his
courage failed him; and finding all explanation by word of mouth
impossible, he then resolved on writing to her. It was to compose this
letter, therefore, that, after dinner, he left his bride, as has before
been said.
Such a letter was not easily written; and Emmeline had some time to
ruminate on her situation, before he returned. At last he came. He
seemed in the feverish state of one who has taken a desperate
resolution: he hurried up to Emmeline; asked her if she was not
fatigued? if he should ring for candles? and then, without waiting for
an answer, rung the bell violently till it broke. His hand shook so
much, that he tried in vain to tie the string together again. Emmeline
smiling said, she supposed she was more used to strings and knots, and
begged to assist him. As she took the cord, her hand accidentally
touched his—it was icy cold.
Reynolds, the old servant, brought in the candles, and asked, if his
lordship, “if my lady,” would not have any supper? any wine and water?
“Yes, some wine directly,” said Fitzhenry, as if hardly conscious of his
demand.
When it came, he endeavoured to pour out some for Emmeline; but twice,
from the nervous shaking of his hand, he was forced to put down the
bottle.
Emmeline was really alarmed. “Surely,” again, she said timidly, “you are
very unwell.” He did not seem to heed her, but drank off a large goblet
of wine, and then, with a steadier voice and manner said—”I have
something on my mind which I must make known to you—perhaps I should
have done it sooner—I thought it best for both of us to write it,” and
he held out his letter—”Take it with you into your own room,” he added,
seeing she was going to break the seal. He took up a candle, gave it
her, went with her to the door, put his hand on the lock, and said—”When
you have read this, forgive me if you can;” then hastily seizing her
hand, which he almost convulsively grasped, he left her.
What poor Emmeline’s feelings were, can be better imagined than
described.
In one short moment, a thousand vague fears and horrors passed through
her mind. It was _her_ turn now to tremble, as, with the dreaded letter
in her hand, she hurried to her own room. She there found her maid,
whose presence disconcerted her much; but she resolved to take off her
gown speedily, and then dismiss her. Never before, she thought, had her
attendant been so slow and tedious. She entangled or pulled every string
into a knot. At last, her gown off—that beautiful lace gown in which her
poor mother had that morning, with so much pride, arrayed her—all her
bridal finery laid aside, she told her maid she wanted nothing more.
“Nothing more, my lady!” said the maid astonished; “shall I not put up
your ladyship’s hair? Shall I not wait to take away your candle? Mrs.
Benson desired me to”——and she stopped short.
“No, I want nothing,” again said Emmeline, in a voice she could hardly
command. The woman stared, busied herself still some time in the room,
and, at length, reluctantly departed.
When she was gone, Emmeline sat for several minutes with the letter in
her hand, before she had courage to open it. At length, taking a violent
resolution, she broke the seal, and read as follows:—
“When you have read this, you will, I fear, be tempted to
upbraid and curse the writer; but I act according to my
conscience, to my sense of honour, in imparting to you what I am
going to unfold—at least, you shall not _now_ accuse me of
deceiving you—I think, I trust, I never have done so; for little
as you have, I believe, lived in the world, still, unless
purposely, artfully concealed from you, you must have been
aware, that my affections have long since been disposed of, and
that, at my return from abroad, they were no longer mine to
bestow.
“Under such circumstances, I never should have renewed the offer
of my _hand_; but parental authority, and the distressing and
perplexing situation in which I found myself placed, extracted
from me my consent to our marriage. But even in so doing, I did
not attempt to _deceive_. You cannot accuse me of having, in any
way, endeavoured to gain your affections. You saw me as I was,
indifferent to you, and you were at liberty to refuse me: but
you were content to become my wife on these terms—that is to
say, of bearing my name, and sharing the poor advantages which
rank affords.
“These you still _may_, still _shall_ enjoy: but nothing
more can I offer you; for every feeling of my soul is
another’s—forgive me for saying so; but this is no moment
for disguise of any sort. To that other, I am bound by every
tie, every vow of affection and honour. You will be shocked
at hearing such sentiments from _me_—from your _husband_;
but I should consider myself to be indeed the unprincipled
villain you may deem me, if, with such feelings, I could,
for a minute, look upon you in any other light than that of
a sister. I know full well what love is; and you do not,
cannot love me. Therefore I feel not your injuries to be
what they otherwise would. You shall enjoy all the worldly
advantages you have sought in your marriage with me—all the
happiness which wealth—your own wealth—can bestow; and it
shall be my endeavour, as far as I can, to make your life
happy. You shall be completely mistress in your own house,
and of all your actions. Your comfort shall ever be
consulted; and I think can venture to say for myself, that
you may depend on my kindness, and even on my friendship;
but my affections as a _lover_, as a _husband_, while the
same heart beats in my breast, can never be yours.
“If I may venture, claiming no other right of a husband, to make
a request, it is that this subject may never, in any way,
directly or indirectly, after this fatal day, be mentioned
between us. With regard to your own parents, and to my father,
your own good sense and delicacy will, I dare say, dictate to
you what conduct to pursue. But if you cannot agree to these, I
confess humiliating terms—if you desire an immediate separation,
you have but to name your wishes. I will tell all to the world,
bear all the blame, and agree to any arrangement which you and
your father may choose to dictate.
“Whatever you have to say, write immediately, and put your
letter into the adjoining room. In a short time all will be at
rest in the house. I will then myself go for it. If possible,
every thing must be fully settled and understood between us
before we meet to-morrow morning.
“FITZHENRY.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------