“Unhappy Psyche! soon the latent wound
The fading roses of her cheek confess,
Her eyes bright beams in swimming sorrows drown’d,
Sparkle no more with life and happiness,
Her parents’ fond exulting heart to bless.”
IT was now about six weeks since the fatal day on which Lord and Lady
Fitzhenry were married. His feelings towards her, to all appearance,
remained the same; but, with Emmeline, the happiness which depends on
insensibility was gone.
Business had hitherto always prevented Mr. and Mrs. Benson from
accepting the invitation to Arlingford Hall; but their visit was now
fixed to take place as soon as the present company in the house were
gone. Emmeline respected her father, and dearly loved her mother; but
still she had by nature so nice a tact, that she was soon aware that
herself, as well as Lord Fitzhenry, would be better pleased that they
should not fall into a set and style of society which they could not
suit, and which would not suit them.
Emmeline rather dreaded her mother’s visit, dreaded the quick eye of
tender affection, and the gossip of servants. “But,” thought she, “this
visit once over, I have nothing more to fear; all will then go on
smoothly—smoothly and sadly to me,” she added. “But I will hope a time
may come when he will care for me—already I think he is used to my
society; at least, he does not _dislike_ it, for I am no longer a
constraint to him—I must be patient.” And with a deep-drawn sigh, she
turned over the leaves of her as yet unopened music-books, and sat down
to practise some of her father’s favourite songs, which since her
marriage she had neglected; for Fitzhenry had never asked her to play or
sing, and, unsolicited, she had not had sufficient courage. Since Lord
Arlingford had been with them they had dined late, and cards and
conversation had filled up the evenings.
At length, the day came on which Mr. and Mrs. Benson were expected.
Emmeline’s heart beat quick the whole of it, and her eye was on the road
which led to the house, her ear watching for every sound all the
morning, although it was impossible they could arrive till late in the
day. Fitzhenry sent his horses to meet them at the last stage, watched
for their arrival, was at the door of the house to receive them, helped
them out of the carriage, and himself conducted them up to Emmeline’s
room. There, for a few minutes, he left them to fold to their hearts
their beloved child. For it was not a scene that he wished to witness,
or in which he felt, circumstanced as they were, he had any part to
play.
Emmeline’s feelings were worked up to the utmost. Joy, fear, a thousand
confused ideas conspired to weaken her nerves, and she fell quite
overcome into her mother’s arms. It was some time before she could
compose herself. But agitation at that moment was so natural, that it
seemed to cause no astonishment, nor raise any suspicions.
“My own dear Emmeline!” exclaimed Mrs. Benson, as she kissed her again
and again, “how happy I am to see you once more, and to see you, as I
trust I do, every way so happy;” and she looked round with complacency
on the refined comfort of her room.
Emmeline pressed her mother’s hand, she could not speak, and with
difficulty forced a smile.
“And how well my lord looks,” said her father: “the last time I saw him,
on your wedding-day you know, Emmy—Lady Fitzhenry, I mean; I beg your
ladyship’s pardon,” said he, chuckling, while making her a formal bow in
order to pass off for wit, what was in fact the real overflowings of his
vanity at her newly-acquired rank:—”on that day, the nineteenth of
August, eighteen hundred and twenty-three, I did not like his looks at
all. I really was afraid he was not well; but I was told it was _natural
agitation_. Now I can’t for my life conceive why a man is to look red
and yellow and melancholy on the happiest day of his life. I dare say I
did not when I was married to my good woman there—Eh, Mrs. B.?—However,
now a wholesome country life, and true domestic English happiness, you
know, my Lady Fitzhenry, seem to have made quite another man of him.
Emmeline tried again to smile.
“It was so good of him,” continued Mr. Benson, “to press us so often to
come—but it was impossible sooner; business must be attended to—my old
saying, you know;—and then the kindness of sending his horses for us,
although I dare say there were plenty to be had at the inn; but still
your old father liked very much to be brought to Arlingford Hall in a
manner in triumph, driven by two postilions in the handsome old
Fitzhenry livery, with the coachman on before to show the way, although
I suppose the drivers knew it quite well; but it did not signify, I
liked all that, egad I did—and I am not ashamed to own it. And then,
thought I, a man so full of pretty attentions to his father-in-law, must
make a good husband to my dear girl.”
Luckily a kiss of rapture, which he then imprinted on that dear girl’s
face, saved the necessity of a reply.
By this time, Fitzhenry again made his appearance, apologizing for his
absence under the plea of having had some orders to give his coachman.
“No apology, my lord,” said the excellent old citizen, seizing his hand,
which he heartily shook; “I consider myself at home here; you and
Emmeline are one, you know, and it would be hard indeed if I did not
feel at home in my daughter’s house.”
Fitzhenry endeavoured to say something in return, but failed, and as a
retreat from observation, walked to the window.
“She is a dear, good little girl, this daughter of mine—is she not, my
lord?” continued Mr. Benson, patting Emmeline’s cheek; “and happiness,
and your good care of her, have given her such a colour, that I declare
I think you must have already taught her to wear rouge, as your fine
ladies do.” And Mr. Benson laughed heartily, in gaiety of heart, at his
own wit. Alas! poor Emmeline’s colour was the flushed crimson of nervous
agitation. Again Fitzhenry had recourse to looking out of the window at
the horses and carriages, which luckily had not yet driven off.
“Ay, they are beautiful animals,” said Mr. Benson, following him; “bred
here I believe; and then they are so well matched. I have been admiring
them all the way. Do you ever drive them yourself? though _now_ I
suppose Emmeline has taken the reins into her own hands—Eh, Lady
Fitzhenry?”
“This will never do,” thought Emmeline; her heart sank within her, and
to put an end to the present trying moment, she proposed showing her
mother her room; she trusted that her father’s exuberant spirits would
before long vent themselves, and at any rate, separately, both she and
Fitzhenry could better bear such attacks. So leaving her father and
husband together, she went out of the room with Mrs. Benson. The
house—her apartment—the view from the windows—the attentions of the old
housekeeper who, in a rustling silk gown, came to make her reverence and
offer her services, all delighted the latter. They had much to talk of,
aunts, uncles, cousins to enquire after, and Emmeline’s spirits became
more composed.
At length, it was time to dress for dinner, and Emmeline retired to her
own room. But when there, alone, her head sank on her hand; and a shiver
of unhappiness—(I write only to those who have _hearts_, and to all such
these sensations are but too well known)—the cold deserted shiver of
unhappiness crept over her frame—”Oh! mine is a hard fate!” thought she,
“to have eternally a part to act, a secret to conceal, with one, for
one, whose heart is for ever closed to me.”
The sight of her father and mother had revived all the affections and
associations of Emmeline’s early youth; and, disappointed in all her
dreams of happiness, the mad, the desperate thought of confessing her
real situation, of leaving Fitzhenry and Arlingford for ever, and
returning to her parents, crossed her mind. But a feeling which every
day was gaining ground in her heart, almost unknown to herself, made
her, the next minute, start with horror at the thought; and, almost
terrified at the idea of the irretrievable step which in a moment of
hopeless depression she might have been tempted to take, she resolved
that she would keep her word with her husband, conceal and bear all, and
trust to time and heaven.
Emmeline cooled her burning eyelids, rang for her maid, and dressed for
dinner. Fitzhenry was perfect in his manner and attentions to Mr. and
Mrs. Benson. He seemed instinctively to know how to please the former;
sent for the oldest wine out of the cellar for him, filled his snuff-box
on purpose, bore with his bad jokes, adapted his conversation to him,
asking him questions—the replies to which perhaps he never listened
to—but which gave the appearance of seeking information from him; and,
in the gratitude of her heart for all this kindness, when she ventured
to raise her eyes on her husband’s handsome, manly countenance, smiling
in goodnature on her parents, Emmeline wondered how the idea of leaving
him, betraying him, ever could have entered her mind, and she thought
that to live with so amiable a being, on any terms, would be happiness.
As soon as the servants had left the dining-room, Mr. Benson filled his
glass to a bumper. Emmeline, who observed the smile on his face as he
deliberately poured in the wine, dreaded what was coming. “I am an old
fashioned old man,” said Mr. Benson, “and I love all old customs, so I
must beg leave to propose a toast—My Lord and Lady Fitzhenry,” said he,
bowing to them exultingly, “and may they, and may I, see many happy
returns of the nineteenth of August.”
Emmeline coloured, and fixed her eyes on the table before her.
“This is the happiest day of my life I believe,” continued Mr. Benson,
“not even excepting my own wedding-day; my heart had been so long set on
seeing my Emmy happily settled as your wife; and I must congratulate
myself, as well as you, my Lord, at its having at last come to pass. For
you too have had it long in your head, or I am much mistaken,” added Mr.
Benson, nodding significantly to Lord Fitzhenry. “Well do I remember,
when Emmy was not above so high, your calling her your little wife, and
saying you had a right to kiss her, when you took leave of us, on going
abroad. I warrant you have not forgot that any more than myself.”
And in the exuberance of his joy, he again held out his hand to his
son-in-law. Emmeline dared not look up to see how her husband stood this
trial; her heart beat so violently that she felt as if its pulsations
must be heard during the dead silence, which for an instant followed Mr.
Benson’s speech.
Lord Fitzhenry was the first to break it; and, hastily drinking off his
glass, as he bowed in return to Mr. Benson, “You will find this wine
very good, I think,” said he; “it is some which a friend of mine brought
me from Madeira, and has never been in a wine-merchant’s hands.”
“Yes, indeed, most excellent,” replied Mr. Benson, “and I hope by this
time next year I may drink some of it, to the health of a little heir to
the family.”
On poor Emmeline’s cheek, a deadly paleness so rapidly succeeded the
deep crimson of a minute before, that it caught even Mr. Benson’s eye,
who, although not quick at observing such dumb indications of feeling,
was sorry to have distressed her, though he hardly guessed how he had
done so. His spirits were elevated by the exultation of the moment, and
the “excellent wine” beyond his usual hilarity—and even beyond his
control.
“Come, come, Emmy,” said he, smiling on her—”I meant no offence; but you
know such things often, indeed I may say commonly do happen, as people
having little boys and little girls after they are married; and I hope
you may have a little boy some of those days, that’s all;” and he winked
his eye facetiously at Lord Fitzhenry.
The latter however was, as well as Emmeline, examining the pattern of
the China-plate before him; so that poor Mr. Benson meeting with no
encouragement from any one, was forced to change the subject of
conversation, and Emmeline soon proposed to her mother to leave the
dining-room.
Mrs. Benson took no notice of what had passed; and Emmeline gradually
recovered herself, although, on the gentlemen joining them, she found it
impossible to encounter her husband’s eyes, and, hastily getting up, she
went to the pianoforte. At first, her hand trembled, but a feeling of
pride steadied it; and on her father asking for one of his old favourite
songs, she complied.
Fitzhenry gradually approached her, and when she had finished
singing—”That is very beautiful,” said he, “You have never before
indulged me with any music.”
“No!” replied Mr. Benson, “that is a great shame, when I paid I don’t
know what to a Signor——what do you call him? for teaching her. She can
sing you any of your fine bravuras; but a plain English song, for my
money; it is worth all your Italian airs, for there is some sense, some
meaning in that, but, as for your foreign nonsense, one can’t understand
what the words are about; no one can make head or tail of them.”
Emmeline could not help smiling; and, looking up, her eyes met
Fitzhenry’s. He too smiled, and smiled so kindly on her that, for an
instant, she fancied there was affection, even fondness in their
expression.
“Perhaps,” said he, “you will nevertheless indulge me with one of the
unmeaning songs Mr. Benson complains of.”
Emmeline sang one of Rossini’s. Fitzhenry sat down by the pianoforte
opposite to her, his head leaning on his hand; and, at first, he looked
attentively at her, but when the song was over, he seemed so lost in
thought as to have totally forgot the singer. He said nothing; suffered
her to leave the instrument without making any attempt at detaining her,
and soon after left the room.
On his return, he proposed a game at whist; Emmeline had early learnt it
to make up her father’s party, so a card-table was rung for. Of course,
Mr. and Mrs. Benson were to play together, and many cruel things were
said about not parting husband and wife, &c. But Fitzhenry’s behaviour
that evening had been to Emmeline (in spite of his disregard of the song
he had asked for) an additional draft of love, and she bore all most
bravely, for she felt it was for him she was bearing it; she did not
venture to observe him while all this was passing, but by the tone of
his voice, he seemed to endure these trials with patience and unruffled
temper.
Mr. Benson and his wife won every game, for their adversaries knew
little of what was going on, trumping and taking each other’s tricks
with the most perfect mutual indifference. But Mr. Benson only exulted
in his superior play, as chuckling, he put his daughter’s money into his
pocket, and he retired to bed in high good humour.
The next morning, after breakfast, Fitzhenry took Mr. Benson to show him
the farm, stables, &c. and Emmeline and her mother were left together.
Mrs. Benson for some time fidgetted about the room, giving dry laconic
answers to all Emmeline’s observations, which she knew well, was a
symptom of her working herself up to say something unusual, and she
dreaded what it might be. At length, Mrs. Benson came up to her
daughter, and folding her to her heart, as she printed a fond kiss on
her forehead——”Well, my dear child,” she said, “I trust I see you as
happy as heart—as even my foolish heart can wish?”
“How can you doubt it?” answered Emmeline, greatly embarrassed by so
direct a question. “You see how kind, how excellent he is”—and to avoid
her mother’s anxious gaze, she stooped down to caress an old poodle of
Fitzhenry’s that had lately established himself in her room. “Speak,
Tiber,” said she to the dog—”Have we not a most kind master?”
There was a pause, but Mrs. Benson returned to the charge.
“I find you live quite _fashionably_, in separate apartments. I must say
I think that is a silly new fangled, refinement which I don’t approve of
at all, and I hope it is no fancy of yours?”
Emmeline coloured deeply.—”Lord Fitzhenry,” she replied, “had so long
lived abroad, was so used to foreign customs, that she did not wonder he
liked to adopt them at home.”
“But, Lord Fitzhenry was not a married man abroad, I presume?” said Mrs.
Benson, forcing a laugh.
Emmeline forced one too, but her lip quivered, tears came into her eyes,
and again she was obliged to stoop and coax the dog.
“By the bye, Emmeline,” said Mrs. Benson, after a moment’s silence, “I
have brought you your work-box which you left in Harley-street; I wonder
you did not miss it, for I suppose you have a good deal of time to
yourself now, and are more alone than you used to be with us?”
“All women must be a good deal alone when they leave home,” replied
Emmeline, with as steady a voice as she could command,—”for the
occupations and amusements of men are so different, particularly in the
country.”
“Then you _are_ chiefly by yourself,” said Mrs. Benson, hastily, as if
catching at the confession, as something she was seeking for.
“Oh dear no, I go out riding with some of the gentlemen nearly every
day.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” said Mrs. Benson; “and Lord Fitzhenry, does he go
too?”
“Yes, generally.”
“I thought he had not,” said Mrs. Benson rather vacantly, and appearing
to be engaged in some ruminations of her own.
Emmeline took advantage of the momentary pause that followed, to start a
new subject of conversation. She trusted, that when her mother saw how
perfectly good humoured and indulgent Lord Fitzhenry was to her; in all
things allowing her to be her own mistress, as well as mistress of his
house, that the doubts and suspicions which she saw had been raised in
her mind, either by her own observations, or her maid’s gossipping
reports, would subside. For, as Emmeline suspected, this conversation
had, in fact, been brought on by some stories which Mrs. Benson had
already heard. Her maid and Emmeline’s were old acquaintance; and what
maid or mistress can help talking over her neighbour’s affairs? The
truth was, that Mrs. Brown, the old housekeeper, and Susan, Emmeline’s
maid, (now promoted to Mrs. Jenkins,) had already quarrelled; for the
latter soon began to throw out hints, which Mrs. Brown, thinking herself
bound to stand up for her master, resented violently; so that by the
time Mrs. Benson arrived, Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Brown were open enemies;
and the former lost no time in securing on her side her old companion
Warren—Mrs. Benson’s maid.
As soon, therefore, as they had swallowed their tea, at which solemn and
important ceremony Mrs. Brown had presided in all the pomp of
housekeeper civility, the two friends retired; and while Mrs. Benson’s
clothes were arranged in the drawers by the maid, Jenkins, with many a
sigh over poor Miss Emmeline, and many an exaggeration, gave an account
of the _dreadful_ way in which Lord and Lady Fitzhenry lived together,
and of my Lord’s shameful neglect of her. “In short,” she ended with
saying, “things are come to such a pitch, that Mrs. Brown and I are
scarce on speaking terms, and I am, as you see, very distant even with
Mr. Reynolds. People must see what they does see, except those people
who wo’nt see, and I am quite resolved on one thing—which is, to be as
uppish as possible both with Mrs. Brown and Mr. Reynolds till I see my
lord behave better to my lady. I am but a servant, certainly; but I
can’t for all that, help thinking it a very strange thing the way they
go on.”
“And what does Mrs. Brown say to this?” enquired her auditor.
“Oh she says, forsooth, that it is all my vulgar notions, and because I
have not been used to quality.”
“Quality, indeed!” echoed her friend. “Fine airs, upon my word. Miss
Emmeline was as good as Lord Fitzhenry any day in the year, I am sure. I
should like to know who had the most money, and the best of the bargain?
Poor thing! she is much changed; and when she said to me, ‘How do you
do, Warren?’ I could plainly see that all was not right between her and
Lord Fitzhenry. You know _I_ was always against the match.”
The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Brown, who
came to enquire whether any thing was wanted in the rooms.
“Nothing ma’am, thank you,” said Warren dryly, endeavouring to throw
into her manner that dignity which Jenkins said she was determined to
keep up till Lord Fitzhenry was a better husband, and which Warren, as
her sworn ally, thought it right to adopt also. And then pretending to
be busily occupied, she took no notice of Mrs. Brown. Warren’s behaviour
was so different from what it had been when they had parted at the tea
table, that the consequential housekeeper guessed directly to whose
influence the change was owing. She said nothing; but settling the shawl
that was pinned on her shoulders, and casting an angry glance at
Jenkins, she bustled out of the room, saying, she would send the
_housemaid_ to attend upon them; and resolving to be revenged on the two
friends.
“You have affronted Mrs. Brown finely,” said Jenkins, as soon as she
had, with somewhat of a jirk, closed the door after her; “but I am glad
of it, for really that is the only way to mend matters, and I feel it my
duty to my lady, to quarrel in a manner with Mrs. Brown, though, as far
as I am myself concerned, I am, as you know, the most good naturedest of
people, and willing to live in peace and harmony with every one.”
“That you are,” replied Mrs. Warren; for, at that moment, she thought it
good policy to forget, as well as Mrs Jenkins did, the many regular
pitched battles they had fought, when the latter was simple Susan, and
nominally under Warren’s controul.
The result of this conversation was a mysterious and sorrowful
expression on Warren’s countenance when she attended her lady, Mrs.
Benson, at bed-time; and a significantly melancholy tone of voice when
she said, “I hope you find Lady Fitzhenry pretty well, ma’am?”
“Quite well,” said Mrs. Benson. “She has not been ill that I know of.
Susan does not say she has been unwell, does she?”
“Oh no; Mrs. Jenkins says her ladyship’s health is wonderfully good,
considering,” replied Warren.
“Considering _what_?” said Mrs. Benson, turning quickly round, and
looking her in the face, “What do you mean by _considering_?”
“_I_ mean? dear me, how should _I_ mean any thing?”
“Why, you speak as if you _did_ mean something; and I desire if you know
any thing about Emmeline’s health, that you will tell me.”
“La, ma’am! there is nothing the matter with Miss Emmeline as I know of,
only I thought perhaps she might not be so lively-like as she used to
be, living so much alone.”
“What do you mean by alone? I suppose Lord and Lady Fitzhenry are as
much together as other married people are? I don’t expect he sits all
day at home with her, any more than Mr. Benson does with me.”
“I believe you will find it is very different from you and my master,”
said Warren, with a significant sigh.
“What _can_ you mean by all this?” said Mrs. Benson, alarmed.
“Why, I mean, ma’am, that Miss Emmeline, (Lady Fitzhenry, that is to
say,) is always alone.”
“Always alone?” repeated Mrs. Benson; “really Warren I don’t know what
you would be at—and I don’t believe _you_ know yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Warren, bridling up; “and I only say what I know to
be true. Lord Fitzhenry sleeps in his own room alone all night, and Lady
Fitzhenry sits in her room alone all day; and, if that is living like a
married pair, I don’t know what a married pair is.”
“Who tells you all this nonsense?” said Mrs. Benson, angrily, and yet
wishing to hear more.
“Why, Mrs. Jenkins, to be sure, ma’am. She says, that my lord quarrelled
with my lady on their very wedding-day—for that she herself heard high
words between them and doors shut in a passion-like—and ever since that
terrible scene—which Jenkins can swear to—they have continued to live in
this strange way. For my part, I don’t think if I was Mrs. Jenkins I
would remain in so unpleasant a family, although to be sure all is in
very high style, and the housekeeper’s room as good as many ladies’
drawing-rooms, with a nice Turkey carpet; but still all can’t be right.
However, I should be sorry to tell tales and make mischief; but you
know, ma’am, you forced me to speak, otherwise I am sure I should have
held my tongue about it all to my dying day, for I am sure I would not
for all the world make you uneasy, ma’am.”
“Well, I desire you will hold your tongue to every body else,” said Mrs.
Benson gravely, “and bid Susan come to me to-morrow morning.”
Susan told her story, heightening the picture as much as she could; and,
after all this, it will not be wondered at that Mrs. Benson endeavoured
to discover the truth from Emmeline. Her answers, her praises of
Fitzhenry, staggered her; and, as Emmeline had anticipated, the
appearance of perfect good humour on the part of her husband, often even
of gallant attention towards her, made Mrs. Benson think the whole was
no more than the common gossip of servants; and, at any rate, she had
too much good sense to endeavour to pry into matrimonial secrets and
arrangements, which her daughter did not seem to wish to have noticed;
so, resolving to be very watchful, she said no more.
A day or two after, several of the neighbours, who had been invited,
came to Arlingford. Mr. and Mrs. Benson were of course delighted on
seeing the deference and court paid to their daughter; and the bustle
occasioned by the visitors, the driving about in the morning, viewing
the country, and returning visits, occupied Mrs. Benson’s time, if not
her thoughts, so entirely, that she and Emmeline being seldom alone
together, the latter was spared any more distressing conversations.
At the end of about a week, Mr. Benson received letters which obliged
him to return immediately to town on some mercantile business. “But,”
said he, casting a doubtful, enquiring look on Lord Fitzhenry, “I need
not carry off my good lady wife, if you will give her house-room a
little longer, and I can perhaps return for her; or, at any rate, I
think I may by this time trust her to travel alone, whatever other
husbands may”—winking his eye at Emmeline.
Lord Fitzhenry directly expressed great pleasure in Mrs. Benson
prolonging her visit, and then, after a moment’s pause, added, “Indeed
it will be particularly kind to Lady Fitzhenry if she will, for I myself
shall be obliged to leave home in a day or two.”
Emmeline gave a start, and involuntarily looked up towards her husband.
For an instant their eyes met; but, as if by mutual consent, both were
instantly withdrawn. “He catches at the first opportunity to leave me,”
thought she. “Glad his penance is over.”
Whither he was going, Fitzhenry never said, and Emmeline dared not ask;
indeed, she hardly knew whether, during his absence, he would expect her
to write to him; and therefore, if even under that pretext she could
venture to enquire.
On the day settled for his departure, when the carriage was ready at the
door, he came into the drawing-room to take leave. Mrs. Benson was there
with Emmeline.
“If there come any letters for me,” said he, “I have desired Reynolds to
send them to the house in town, and I shall leave word there to have
them forwarded.” Still he said nothing about her writing to him. He
staid some time in the room, seemingly uncertain what to do or say, or
how to take leave of her. At length, apparently summoning courage for a
disagreeable effort, he walked hastily up to Mrs. Benson, shook hands
with her, came up to Emmeline and did the same, adding, in rather a low
voice, “I shall be glad to hear from you;” and, not waiting for any
answer, he hurried out of the room.
It was the first time their hands had ever met since that morning after
their marriage, when she had herself offered hers to Fitzhenry in token
of forgiveness and goodwill. Since then, now nearly two months past, her
sentiments towards him had taken a totally different character; her face
blushed crimson; but he, whose slightest touch had thus thrilled to her
heart, and had power to raise that blush, almost before the “eloquent
blood” had reached her cheek, was already gone.
From the window she sadly saw him drive off; whither and to whom he was
going, she could not doubt.
Several days passed, and she heard nothing from him; at last, a letter,
franked Fitzhenry, was put into her hands; she opened it hastily—her
heart beating with emotion—but it merely enclosed a printed one from
some trades-person in London, applying for her custom. In a fit of
vexation, almost of anger, she was nearly throwing the whole into the
fire, when some writing on one of the flaps of the cover caught her
attention, and she found these words.
“The longer Mrs. Benson can stay with you the better; I believe
I shall not be home for a fortnight. Should she not be able to
remain, perhaps you had better go and pay your father a visit;
and I will let you know when I am likely to be at Arlingford
again; but now, and always, do whatever you yourself like best.
I hope soon to hear you are well.
“Yours,
“FITZHENRY.”
“So you have got a letter from your husband,” said Mrs. Benson; “and a
fine thick packet. I hope he is well?”
“Quite well,” said Emmeline, sadly.
“What news does he give? what has he been about?”
“News?” repeated Emmeline, absently—
“Yes; I mean—what does he say?”
“Say? oh, nothing.”
“What! nothing in all that quantity of paper and writing? Lord, child!
you are quite in a dream”—and Mrs. Benson took off her spectacles, and
her eyes from the newspaper she was reading, and fixed them attentively
on her daughter. This roused her from her reverie, and suddenly
recollecting herself, she said, “Oh yes, I forget; he says, he can’t
come home yet, and we had better go to Charlton to my father till his
return.”
“Well, I think that will be a very good plan,” said Mrs. Benson: “some
business, I suppose, detains him.”
“I suppose so,” echoed Emmeline.
Mrs. Benson still kept her eyes fixed on Emmeline, and both remained for
some time in silence and abstraction. Again all her former doubts and
suspicions returned to her mind; and when she looked on her absent,
dejected daughter, who still sat gazing on the letter in her hand, she
almost resolved to speak to her, and force herself into her confidence.
But though with little of the outward refinement of the world, Mrs.
Benson had great delicacy of feeling, as well as excellent sense: she
felt that when she was not called upon to give advice, or to reprehend
what was wrong, she had no business to interfere between her daughter
and her husband; and indeed, here, what could she say? Emmeline was
certainly changed; she was no longer the gay, light-hearted being she
used to be, but _apparently_ her husband behaved perfectly well to her;
at least nothing had ever passed, that Mrs. Benson could have named as a
proof of unkindness; and as for Emmeline, she was to him
gentleness—acquiescence itself; but still, Mrs. Benson could not help
feeling that all was not right, although she could not perhaps have
given any positive reason for her suspicions. How she longed to bid her
confide to her every feeling, every care of her heart, as in days of
yore, when she hushed her young sorrows to rest on her bosom, and kissed
away her childish tears! But when a mother resigns her darling child to
him who is to be the arbiter of her future destiny, she loses, in a
great measure, that dear prerogative of affection. Mrs. Benson, feeling
this, wisely forbore; and the next day, without any thing more passing
between them on the subject, they set off together for Charlton, where
Mr. Benson had, since Lady Fitzhenry’s marriage, chiefly resided.
When there, Emmeline wrote to her husband. There is something so
private, so sacred, in a letter—we can, in writing, express so much,
which, either from shyness, or emotion, we cannot bring ourselves to say
by word of mouth, that Emmeline longed to give way to her inclinations,
and pour out on the paper her feelings towards him; but she felt that
the utterance of one word which could in any way be interpreted into an
allusion to her painful situation, would be breaking her agreement; and
she merely told him of her journey and her safe arrival; glad of having
even such uninteresting subjects to treat of, and that to Fitzhenry! to
whom she _could_ have written volumes!
In about ten days she got an answer; it had no date: (his letters to her
never had beyond the post town on the frank.) In it, he named the day
for his return to Arlingford. Two days previous to it, notwithstanding
Mrs. Benson’s remonstrances, and her father’s railleries, Emmeline would
return home. “He might possibly arrive,” she thought to herself;
“something might bring him back before the day he had fixed upon, and
she was resolved on departure.”
But, exactly the contrary happened from what she had anticipated; that
day passed in anxious but vain expectation; and the next—and the next.
At length, on the fourth, Reynolds, with a countenance expressive of the
share he had taken in the disappointment, put a letter into her hand,
with the well-known, well-beloved signature of Fitzhenry. And it did
not, this time, merely enclose a printed petition, but was from himself.
He said in it, that the unexpected arrival of his friend Mr. Pelham,
(the minister at Vienna,) had detained him in town, as he had waited
till he could accompany him to Arlingford, which he now hoped he should
be able to do in a couple of days. Mr. Moore, his former travelling
companion, would also come with him, and they would soon be followed by
his cousin, Lady Saville, her husband, and sister. Emmeline had just
seen Lady Saville, when she had paid a visit of form to the Benson
family, on the match being declared; and on the wedding-day she was
present at the ceremony.
------------------------------------------------------------------------