My husband! no not mine—but we were wedded;
This ring was here in hallowed nuptial placed;
A priest did bless it.
ELLEN.
ALL those who have had trials in this world—and who has not?—must know
that there are moments in our life during which we seem to live
centuries! and that a few hours sometimes are sufficient to rouse,
influence, and form a character for ever.
So was it with poor Emmeline! She who had never known a sorrow—she who
had looked to her future life as to one scene of bright enjoyment, on a
sudden saw the picture changed, and beheld nothing but trials,
disappointment, mortification, and sorrow. She had at once to decide,
and on one of the most important steps probably in her life, without a
single friend to counsel and uphold her: and he, who should have been
that friend, that support, was the one against whom she had to arm
herself, and exert energies of character, of which she did not even know
herself to be possessed.
What Fitzhenry had said was true—she did not love him; that is to say,
was not _in love_ with him; but she had entertained a sort of girlish
affection for the companion of her early youth, and it was impossible
not to admire the handsome, accomplished, informed being he now was. Her
innocent mind adding to these prepossessions, the light in which she had
ever been taught to consider him, of her future husband, gave to her
feelings something sacred and tender, so that she had looked to her
union with him with stronger anticipations of happiness, than those
which mere obedience to her father’s wishes could have given.
Fitzhenry’s letter fell from her hands, and almost hysteric sobs escaped
from her heart. “What have I done to be so cruelly used, so scorned, so
upbraided!” she could not help ejaculating; and again she seized the
fatal letter. “He despises me for having trusted him; he even reproaches
me for that, in which he alone is to blame. She would leave him; leave
those paltry honours which he thought had been her object; leave him
that wealth which had been the motive (she could no longer doubt it) of
her having been sought in marriage by him; and with the vehemence of
indignant feeling, she directly seized on a pen, in order to demand an
immediate and total separation.
But scarcely had she written the first word, when, with the natural
timidity of a young girl, she shrunk from the responsibility and
_enterprise_ of so desperate a step, and from all the publicity which
she would, by it, draw on herself. She laid down her pen; pressed, with
both hands, her throbbing temples, as if to quiet their agitated
pulsations; and then, returning to the fatal letter, she perused it
again and again, till gradually her most angry feelings were calmed. She
_could_ not curse him—_would_ not upbraid him. His language to her,
though harsh, was so open, so honourable! and then, with the happy
buoyancy of youth, and of an innocent, unbroken mind—”I will make him
love me yet,” she thought—”I will so consult his wishes in every thing;
so play my hard part, that he shall see I am not the mere child, the
worldly insensible fool he thinks me; he must in time love me, and we
shall still be happy.”
This was what her _feelings_ dictated; and this line of conduct she told
herself her duty to her parents required of her. She would not break
their hearts by letting them know how they had been deceived; but, for
their sakes, she would submit to her fate.
Happy in having thus reconciled her duties to her inclinations, she
could not help picturing to herself _that_ future to which, with such
fortunate credulity, she fondly looked, when she should have overcome
her husband’s unfavourable opinion of her, and won his affections; and,
in indulging such flattering dreams, Emmeline sat some time lost in
thought, till roused by the sound of hurried steps in the adjoining
room. That room was Lord Fitzhenry’s.
The drawing-room opened into a gallery, the first door in which, was
that of Emmeline’s dressing-room; her bedroom was beyond; and beyond
that again, but, having no communication with Emmeline’s apartment, was
Lord Fitzhenry’s; it had been his when a boy; and that now allotted to
Emmeline had been his father’s.
The sound of measured steps in that room, like those of a person
suffering from impatience and anxiety of mind, reminded her that she
must answer her husband’s letter. But, what could she write? She took
her pen, but for long had not power to express a thought. At last, not
trusting herself to look a second time at what she had said, she hastily
wrote, and folded up a paper, containing the following words.
“I will not curse, I will not upbraid you; yet I have been most
cruelly used and deceived. Your wishes shall be laws to me. You
need apprehend no childish weaknesses or complaints on my part.
In time, you will learn better to know her whom you have made
your wife. And to God alone shall I apply for relief or
assistance under any trial that may assail me.
“EMMELINE.”
She opened the door into the gallery—all was silent. With hurried,
trembling steps, she went into the drawing-room, placed her letter on a
conspicuous part of the table, involuntarily looked round the room, as
if to recall some of those gay, bright anticipations with which she had
that day first entered it; and then, with noiseless steps, regained her
own apartment. As she went to it, she saw light beneath the door of Lord
Fitzhenry’s room. Satisfied that he was still up, and that he would look
for her letter, she closed her door, and sat breathless, with flushed
cheeks, to hear him pass into the drawing-room for it. In a little
while, she heard him tread softly along the gallery. At the door of her
room he paused—then went hastily on. On his return, he again paused.
“He listens,” thought Emmeline, “to hear if all is quiet, and whether
the insensible fool whom he has made his wife sleeps soundly;”—and tears
of mortification again made their way down her face; again the door of
her husband’s room closed, and all was quiet.
The dawn of day found poor Emmeline in the same listening attitude in
which she had sat when Fitzhenry passed her room—her hands clasped
together, her eyes fixed on vacancy. She was roused by the extinguishing
candle falling into its socket, and looked up astonished to see broad
day light. She went to the window to throw open the sash, that the fresh
air might cool her eyes and cheeks: in drawing up the blind for the
purpose, the string caught the rings on her finger. She started on
seeing her wedding ring, and, above it, the circles of diamonds, rubies,
&c., the presents of doating parents, and perhaps envious friends, on
the morning of that ceremony, which was, they imagined, to secure her
future happiness. “Alas!” thought she, “how they were mistaken!”
Emmeline soon felt chilled by the fresh morning air. She hastily bound
up her loose locks, laid herself on her bed, and the fatigue of her
mind, (a feeling so new to her,) procured for her the rest she needed.
She awoke with that confused impression of distress, which the unhappy
know so well; which oppresses the mind even before we can clearly
remember what occasions it. Still she was refreshed by those few hours
of sleep, and felt better able to encounter the dreaded meeting with her
husband than she could have thought possible.
She got up and rang for her maid. From her window, she had seen
Fitzhenry out before the house, and she hurried herself to be in the
breakfast-room before his return. While she was dressing, she schooled
herself in the part she was to act, and resolved to meet him with the
unembarrassed kindness of friendship. Had she had to expect him _one_
minute longer, her nerves would have failed her; but she saw him hurry
towards the house. The servants had fortunately left the room. She heard
his footsteps on the stairs, the door opened, and in he came. He was
deadly pale; Emmeline went up to him,—held out her hand. Hardly knowing
what she said, she made some remark on the weather, the heat, and,
without pausing, in a hurried voice, asked him some other indifferent
questions.
Fitzhenry returned the pressure of her hand, once looked in her face,
apparently with surprise; tried to speak, and at last, in time, overcame
his agitation; but never again did his eyes meet hers, or were they even
ever raised towards her. He had brought into the room with him some
greyhounds, apparently as subjects for conversation. They fawned and
jumped on their master; and the noise and bustle they made—the feeding
them, and Emmeline’s endeavours to ingratiate herself in their favour,
was a something to do, and a relief.
During that melancholy breakfast, of which neither eat, Emmeline was the
one who played her part the best. When it was gone, Fitzhenry said, “I
have some letters I must write”—and, struck with the possible
interpretation of his own words, he coloured deeply; “but they will soon
be written,” he added hastily, “and probably you too will wish to write
to tell your mother of your sate arrival; and,”—again embarrassed, he
stopped short. However, in a minute, he recovered himself, and said,
“The post leaves at one; after that, if the day continues fine, you will
perhaps like to go out and see the place. I don’t know what sort of a
horsewoman you may be, but I have a very docile animal, if you will
venture to mount him.”
Emmeline, who had ridden much, and thought that that species of
exercise, with a groom attending, would, under their awkward
circumstances, be better than a _tête-à-tête_ walk, directly said she
had no fears, and would prefer riding.
Thus they parted; and Emmeline went to her own room to write to her
parents. It was then that the melancholy of her prospects overcame her
with a bitterness she had not before experienced.
She had taken her pen in her hand—placed the blank paper before her; but
the moment she was going to address her mother, an involuntary burst of
tears escaped from her, and she laid her head down on the table, unable
to write; for, alas! what could she write to that doating mother? what
feelings express, but those of mortification, and the anticipation, the
conviction, indeed, of certain future unhappiness to them as well as to
herself? Perhaps equally, if not more poignant, would be the feelings of
many women, were they but a few years after their fate in life is thus
fixed, to re-peruse the letters written during the early period of their
marriage, breathing nothing but the belief of continued felicity and of
unalterable love. But no such even transient dream of bliss existed to
poor Emmeline. Again she took her pen, wiped away the tears that had
blotted her paper, and, as well as she could, made out a letter to
satisfy her mother’s anxious heart.
There was no lover at her side, fondly to follow each motion of her
hand, each thought that her pen traced, and with the playfulness of
overflowing love and happiness, to guide that hand when, for the first
time, signing his name as her own.
When the hour fixed on for their ride arrived, Emmeline went to the
appointment with as cheerful a countenance as she could command.
Fitzhenry left it to the groom to put her on her horse, and never looked
at her when mounted; but, otherwise, was careful of her safety; and this
cold neglect on his part she at the minute rejoiced at, as she had
feared he must have observed the trace of her tears. The fresh air and a
new and agreeable country revived her spirits, by nature at all times
inclined to cheerfulness. The awkwardness and mental absence of her
companion also a little wore off, and, on the whole, they got through
the morning better than she had expected.
Fitzhenry told Emmeline that his father was coming to them the Wednesday
following, and that he had invited some friends for the end of the week.
She rejoiced to hear of these arrangements; not but that her feelings
towards that father had much changed since the truth had begun to break
in upon her; but then, any third person would be such a relief!
When she thought of the way in which their honeymoon was to be
passed—that after hurrying away from town and the world with all
accustomed bustle—and, although only married four and twenty hours, they
both already looked to society for relief, the absurdity of their
situation struck her for an instant as so ridiculous, that involuntarily
a smile, which she saw did not escape her companion, stole over her
features; but, as it faded, a deep-drawn sigh succeeded, and she averted
her head, to conceal from Fitzhenry, the revolution of feeling which she
was conscious was painted in her face. A long train of reflections
passed through her mind, as, absorbed in thought, she carelessly with
her whip brushed from the bushes, as she passed them, the drops
remaining from a late shower; and so deep was her reverie, (the first
almost in which poor Emmeline had ever been lost,) that Lord Fitzhenry
twice spoke to her before she heard him, and when she did, the tone of
her voice in answer, had in it, (perhaps unknown to herself,) a
something of repulsive coldness, unusual to her. Whether it so struck
him or not, cannot be ascertained; but the remainder of their ride was
performed nearly in total silence.
Emmeline at once wisely took to her own occupations, and allowed her
husband to go his own way. It would be often wise and prudent if even
new-married _lovers_ did the same; for, shocked as they may be at the
idea, even real love will at last become dull and wearisome; and many a
fondly devoted bride has, I dare say, during the very first week, often
wished for her usual occupations, as much as her lover has for his gun
and pointers. But with Lord and Lady Fitzhenry, there was no form, no
farce of sentiment to keep up. Each felt happier when apart from the
other; and, by having many an hour for reflection, Emmeline was enabled
to school her mind to the trials to which she felt she must be
exposed—trials but too likely to increase; for gradually her irritated
feelings gave way. When Fitzhenry’s letter, and its harsh expressions of
determined indifference towards her returned to her recollection, then
her offended pride enabled her to act her part with spirit; and she
could talk, and even laugh, with apparent gaiety, to show him he had not
had power to wound her feelings deeply. For, amiable as was Emmeline’s
disposition, enough of human infirmity lurked about her—enough of the
“Woman scorned,” to allow her a degree of pleasure in mortifying one,
who had shown so little scruple in more than mortifying her.
At moments, too, her natural gaiety was not to be restrained; and when,
on the third evening of their residence at Arlingford, her laughing eye
caught the look of astonishment in the old butler’s countenance, when,
as he entered the room, he found the supposed lovers occupied with their
books at opposite ends of the apartment, apparently as unconscious of
each other’s presence as any indifferent pair after a dozen years’
marriage,—she could not command the inclination to laughter that
overcame her.
Lord Fitzhenry looked up astonished.
“I am much diverted with what I am reading,” said Emmeline, to account
for her sudden burst of mirth, (colouring at the same time, with the
consciousness of her departure from truth,) although perhaps not sorry
of an opportunity of showing him, that even in _his_ society, when so
totally neglected by him, and after all he had said and done to depress
her spirits, she was still disposed to cheerfulness.
“May I ask what book you are reading, that I may benefit also by the
entertainment,” replied her husband.
“Perhaps you would not be equally amused by it,” said she. “Sometimes
little things tickle our fancy, without our being able to say why; and
much depends on the humour we are in.”
Lord Fitzhenry looked a little disconcerted, and Emmeline could not be
so generous as to regret it.
But in his society, she soon ceased to show either spirit or triumph;
soon forgot to be angry. The mildness of his manners, the charm of his
conversation, when sometimes for a little he seemed to forget their
peculiar situation, and to give way to his natural habits and
disposition, soon won upon Emmeline, and, with a sigh, she thought, “How
she _could_ have loved him!” When galloping on before her, and when
certain she should not be observed, her eyes were fixed on his manly,
graceful figure, and she admired the ease, and indescribable _elegance_
(if one may use a word so degraded) of all his actions.
There is something in the manners and conversation of an intelligent man
of the world, which it is impossible adequately to describe,—which,
without being either information or wit, pleases more than either. It
is, perhaps, the art of giving to each subject no more than its due
proportion of time and thought, which prevents conversation from
becoming tedious, and hinders any idea, however serious, from weighing
too heavily on the mind. Fitzhenry possessed this art in a superlative
degree; and Emmeline, to whom such conversation was almost totally new,
and who by nature was formed to appreciate every refinement, was
powerfully captivated by it. And, added to this, there was a certain
foreign gallantry of manner, (that among her father’s acquaintance she
had certainly never experienced,) and a habit of attention to women,
which, in Fitzhenry, was so strong, that his behaviour, even to
Emmeline, partook of it—to her, whom he never looked at, nor apparently
noticed.
The whole plan of his present life, the footing upon which he meant Lady
Fitzhenry and himself to live together, was, perhaps of foreign growth.
A true-bred Englishman would never have behaved with the civility of
good breeding to a wife so forced upon him. He could never have thought
it possible to have established any one in his house on the terms on
which Emmeline was to be placed. But although Lord Fitzhenry looked upon
the observance of English customs in a total retirement after marriage
as particularly irksome, it never could make him wanting in respect, and
even in kindness, to one of Emmeline’s sex. His will once made
known,—told, as it had been, very plainly and decidedly,—there was
nothing more to settle between them, and he behaved to her with that
sort of general observance and attention due from a man to a woman.
In short, he could not help being agreeable, although differing so
cruelly from the animated, enthusiastic Fitzhenry, known to his friends.
Perhaps such conduct was more calculated to excite despair than even
apparent dislike would have been to one, who, like Emmeline, aimed at
winning his love; but, quick as she was, her inexperience prevented her
from being aware, that these attentions of civility were paid by him
from mere force of habit; she therefore gave way to the charm which
daily captivated her, and did not always suspect that those words on
which her ear delighted to hang, and which sometimes even wore the
semblance of gallantry, were uttered by him generally in total absence
of mind, with his thoughts fixed on another.
Who that other was, Emmeline no longer doubted. Something she
recollected having heard of Lord Fitzhenry’s admiration for Lady
Florence Mostyn, when abroad; but he had then been so long out of
England, Emmeline’s thoughts were little occupied about him, and the
intelligence had made but slight impression on her young mind. Now,
putting various circumstances together, she could no longer doubt that
Lady Florence was her favoured rival, if indeed a rival she could be
called, where there was no competition.
For, much as Emmeline might wish to propitiate her husband, and though
even a little vanity and pique might enter into the feeling, yet she had
no idea of any of the arts of coquetry, and if she now exerted all her
powers of agreeableness, it was from the simple wish to make their
present melancholy life pass as well as the awkward circumstances in
which they were placed allowed. If she might hope _in time_ to _win_ her
companion’s _affections_, she gave up, as perfectly hopeless, all
attempts to _captivate_ his imagination. And that very feeling made her
more at ease, and therefore more agreeable than she could otherwise have
been. On all general subjects, Fitzhenry was more than willing to
converse. The publications of the day opened a wide field for
discussion. It was neutral ground, on which they could meet and parley.
There was a peculiar liveliness, and originality in all he said, which
Emmeline was not only able to appreciate, but, by taking up his ideas
with quickness, to encourage fresh remarks, and even improve upon them.
The merits of Sir Walter Scott, Miss Edgeworth, and Southey, were all
thoroughly commented upon. Lord Byron came too near home, and, as if by
mutual consent, they always avoided him and his writings.
One evening—the last they now had to pass alone—Emmeline had somehow
wandered in her conversation to Italy; but she immediately observed a
cloud of recollections darken her husband’s brow, and, making rather an
awkward retreat, she resumed the book she was reading, and which had
given rise to her unlucky remark; and never took her eyes from it till
the usual time for retiring to her own room. Fitzhenry had also remained
silent; but the moment she moved, he started up as if roused from a
reverie, lit her candle for her and wished her good night, hoping the
slight headache she had complained of would be better next day. The tone
of his voice was so agreeable, the expression of his countenance so
mild, that she felt with Juliet,
“Parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I could say good night till it be morrow.”
When she reached her own room, unconscious of what she did, she leant
her head on her hand, and stood thus for some time at the chimney-piece,
on which she had placed her candle, lost in thought. Had she been asked
what those thoughts were, perhaps she could not have defined them; but
at length, a deep sigh escaped her as she ejaculated to herself “How
pleasant he is! and if so to me, whom he dislikes, despises, what must
he be to her, to whom his whole mind and heart are laid open? With me it
is almost impossible to avoid forbidden subjects—Italy, I see, I must
never touch upon. Not only the present but the past belongs to Lady
Florence; _I_ am only connected with the future in his mind, and a
future to which he looks with dislike and dread.”
The next day was that on which they expected Lord Arlingford; and
Emmeline, when she met her husband at breakfast, was concerned to see
that all those miserable, agitated feelings, which had apparently much
subsided, had now returned worse than ever. During that meal, he was so
hurried, so abstracted, that when after it was over, he had placed
himself at the window to read the newspaper, she ventured to go up to
him, and purposely said something about his father’s arrival, hoping
that she might dispel the anxiety which seemed to oppress him, by
showing him how little Lord Arlingford’s presence would add to her
awkward feelings. She therefore, to open the subject, asked at what time
he thought he would arrive.
Fitzhenry, without taking his eyes off the paper, said he did not expect
him till dinner-time—there was a pause, Emmeline not knowing well how
again to begin—at length, Fitzhenry himself broke the silence by saying,
“Had you not better write to Mr. and Mrs. Benson, and propose their
making us a visit here soon? You will probably be anxious to meet them
before long.”
“Thank you very much,” exclaimed Emmeline, quite moved by the kindness
of his proposal, and feeling as if she could have seized with affection
on the hand that rested on the edge of the window near her. For a
minute, the temptation was strong; her breath came quick, and the blood
rushed into her cheeks. But those cruel words in Fitzhenry’s letter, “my
affections can never be yours,” flashed like lightning across her mind,
and prevented her from forgetting herself. Still lost in thought, there
she stood. It seemed as if he felt the awkwardness of the moment, and
made a motion to go. “Perhaps then you will give me a frank for my
father,” she said timidly, and wishing to detain him.
“Certainly, with pleasure;” and he sat down to the table to write it. As
he gave it her, his hand trembled. Again Emmeline’s better judgment
failed her—again her feelings, unused to concealment, got the better of
her prudence. Sorry to observe his excessive perturbation, and wishing
as far as she could to alleviate it, while taking the frank from his
hand, and without raising her eyes from the writing, she said in a
tremulous voice, “Don’t distress yourself——indeed you may trust me.”
Alas! these words had the direct contrary effect from what she had meant
and hoped. Fitzhenry started up, and hurried out of the room.
“What have I done!” thought poor Emmeline, as the door closed upon him.
“I have forgotten my promise, broken my word—I have displeased him!” and
she sank on the chair he had quitted. She hoped he would return; but he
did not come. She then thought she would write to him, but, fortunately,
nothing which she could express, satisfied her feelings; and, at length,
she resolved that she would rather try and make him forget one unguarded
word, by never referring to it, and never again so offending.
Sadly she retired to her own sitting-room, and saw no more of Fitzhenry,
till, at their usual hour for riding, a servant came and told her the
horses were ready, and that my lord was at the door waiting for her.
Emmeline hurried down stairs. She dared not even look at her husband,
for the wish to please had begun already to make her timid; but, by the
tone of his voice, she soon judged that all _anger_ at least, if ever
entertained against her, was gone. He even exerted himself more than
usual to talk on indifferent subjects.
Lord Arlingford arrived to dinner—Emmeline met him with the cordiality
of a daughter. He seemed in high spirits, delighted with her, with the
improvements in the house, with every thing. Many a time, did the blood
rush into Emmeline’s cheek at the allusions he made to their late
marriage, his railleries on the honey moon, and such common hackneyed
subjects, which, trifling as they are, generally possess a power of
pleasing where happiness really exists, but which to her and Lord
Fitzhenry were torture. She turned all this off as well as she could;
sometimes almost hating herself for having already become so artful.
They thus got to the end of the first day of Lord Arlingford’s visit
better than she had expected. The father and son had much to look at,
much to talk over about the place, plantations, &c. and after the first
two days, their party was enlarged by some young men, friends of
Fitzhenry.
Emmeline now found her task comparatively easy; she was of course the
object of much attention with all her new guests; all were anxious to
please her, and to court her acquaintance as Lord Fitzhenry’s wife; all,
too, seemed surprised at finding Emmeline Benson, the banker’s daughter,
the agreeable, intelligent, and perfectly well-bred person which, in
truth, she was.
At first, timidity made her feel embarrassed in her new situation; but
that soon wore off, and, naturally gay, her spirits rose with the gaiety
and lively conversation of those around her. She could not be
indifferent to the flattering attentions paid her; and, to her own
surprise, Emmeline soon found herself at her ease, and happy. For
Emmeline’s heart was as yet comparatively free; an all-engrossing
passion had not _yet_ destroyed its happy tranquillity, and a gay,
joyous laugh often showed the innocent lightness of that heart. Once,
from the other end of the dinner-table, she found Lord Fitzhenry’s eyes
fixed upon her, but whether it was surprise at the part she was able to
take in conversation, or displeasure, perhaps even disgust, at the
gaiety which had thus attracted his attention towards her, she knew not.
But that look—although his eyes were immediately withdrawn on meeting
hers—had power instantly to check her mirth; and her neighbour scarcely
recognised in the absent, silent person that now sat beside him, the gay
companion, who, a few minutes before, entered so readily into all his
ideas.
Emmeline now, nearly for the first time, heard herself called by her new
name. Her husband, too, forced sometimes to designate and address her,
called her “Lady Fitzhenry.” To hear oneself spoken to by a name so
dear, that formerly one hardly dared pronounce it—to be thus reminded,
each time, that we are indissolubly bound to that being we adore, is
delightful. But in _her_ husband’s mouth it was to poor Emmeline an
insult. It only seemed to cast her further from him, and remind her of
the distant footing of mere form on which they lived, on which they were
ever to live; for “Emmeline,” the name which when a child she had so
often heard him pronounce, when she cared not for the endearing intimacy
of the appellation, now never passed his lips.
She now saw him but little, and never alone; for he never came into her
own sitting-room, and seldom into the drawing-room, except at those
hours, when he was certain of finding some of the rest of the party
there also. She felt that since they had had society in the house, she
had rather lost than gained ground with him, and she now regretted the
week they had spent tête-à-tête, much as she had wished it over at the
time, as _then_ they were _compelled_ to have some sort of intercourse
together.
Gradually, Emmeline’s abstraction increased, and her spirits changed;
for, almost unconscious to herself, when in Fitzhenry’s society, her
thoughts and attention were entirely occupied by him. The most
flattering compliments that gallantry could suggest, had sometimes to be
twice repeated to her, and were at last received with a vacant smile;
for if she caught the distant tone of Fitzhenry’s voice, she heard
nothing else; and if, during the day, he had more than usually spoken to
her, or paid her some attention of mere civility, her spirits rose even
beyond their natural level, and thus gave to her manner at times an
appearance of caprice far from her nature.
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