As t’other day my hand he seized,
My blood with thrilling motion flew:
Trembling all o’er, like one ill pleased,
Perhaps I from his hold withdrew.
T’was fear alone—he read me wrong—
Had he retained my hand, ere long
He had felt its pressure too.
GAY.
TWO tedious solitary days were still to be passed before Emmeline
expected Fitzhenry at Arlingford. Being secure that she had the house
all to herself she felt a strong inclination to go into his room, which
she had never yet entered. It would be, she thought, the next best thing
to seeing himself. Treading softly, as if fearful he might hear her, she
put her hand on the lock—looked round to see if she was observed, and
then hastily turned it. The door was locked.
The noise she made brought a housemaid out of an adjoining room.—”The
door is locked my lady: when my lord went away, he desired the
housekeeper to keep the key, but I will step to Mrs. Brown and fetch it,
if your ladyship wants any thing.”
“Oh no, it is of no consequence,” said Emmeline, colouring deeply, as if
detected in some crime.
Emmeline was the most single-hearted of beings. She had not sufficient
presence of mind to think of any excuse for wishing to go into her
husband’s room; and with a feeling of awkwardness, almost of shame, she
returned to her own. Disappointed, and dispirited, she knew not what to
turn to; and for the first time in her life, felt it impossible to
occupy herself; the day appeared endless, and her time, an insupportable
weight. As she wandered about her own room, her eyes fell on a petition
she had had from a poor man residing on the estate, whose house and mill
had been nearly destroyed by fire. He lived a few miles off, and
Emmeline determined to enquire of Reynolds about him, and, glad to have
found an object, to ride to his abode in order to see what could be done
for the family—rather ashamed of herself for having allowed her mind to
be so entirely engrossed by one subject, that she had totally forgotten
this petition which she had received while at Charlton.
Emmeline went into the dining-room and summoned Reynolds. In this room
hung a picture of Fitzhenry, painted at the time of his leaving school,
when a boy about sixteen. It was much less handsome than he now was; his
character was not then, as now, marked on his countenance, giving it
that look of manly openness, and yet of feeling, for which it was so
remarkable; but, (as the eyes looking out of the picture seemed to smile
on the beholder,) it was so agreeable to Emmeline to gaze on it, that,
lost in thought, she forgot entirely what brought her there. How long
she had remained, she knew not, but on turning round she saw Reynolds in
the room quietly waiting her orders.
“Did you ring, my lady,” said the old man, with a benevolent smile.
“Oh yes,” said Emmeline, rather embarrassed. “But at this moment I have
forgotten——.”
“Ah, many a time have I forgot myself looking at that picture,” answered
Reynolds. “It was considered an excellent likeness when it was done; it
was just when we left Eton.”
“Why, were you there with Lord Fitzhenry?”
“Oh yes!” my lady, I have been with my Lord ever since he was seven
years old; Lord Arlingford did not like to have nursery-maids about him,
so I had entire the charge of him—went with him to school, to Oxford,
and then abroad; so no wonder I love him, I may say as my son. I hope no
offence,” added he, tears starting into his eyes.
“What, you were abroad with him?” said Emmeline, hastily catching at the
word; _why_ she did not know, except that it seemed always as if that
word contained the history of her husband’s life and affections.
“Yes, my lady, I was in Italy and at Vienna with him. I was three years
abroad, and then, when he returned again to Italy ... (he paused)—I felt
I was too old to begin again; I thought some younger servant would suit
my lord better, and I begged leave to come home; and though certainly it
was not my place, yet I tried hard to persuade my lord to come home too;
for I own I thought little good would come of living so much out of
one’s own country—people get a love for rambling, never can settle, and
learn bad foreign ways——.”
And again he stopped short, as if he feared he might already have said
too much. Emmeline longed to hear more, and yet she also thought perhaps
she had allowed him to go too far; and making no comment on what he had
said, she hastily ejaculated—”Oh! I remember now what I rang for. I want
to know where that man of the name of Rawlins now lives, who wrote me
this petition, and if you know any thing about him, and what can be done
for him.”
“Rawlins whose mill was burnt? Oh yes! my lady, I know him very well,
but all that is settled. My lord, to whom he also applied, wrote to me
to find him employment, and to give him and his family, for the present,
a cottage that chanced to be vacant, and he also desired me to give the
wife some allowance weekly till they had a little recovered themselves,
and till he could see what more could be done for them, for they are
honest industrious people, and my lord is so good. I have his letter
somewhere about me, if your ladyship would like to see it,” added
Reynolds, searching in a large pocket-book, in which among heaps of
bills and papers he at last found it, and gave it to Emmeline.
Her heart overflowed towards her husband. “How good! how kind he is!”
thought she, and she almost added, “kind to every one but me.”
The letter said nothing more than what Reynolds had repeated; but still,
even to see his hand-writing was agreeable. She was just going to return
it to him, when on the other side of the page, a postscript and her own
name caught her eye, and with a beating heart, she continued:—
“I hope you have attended to those alterations in the greenhouse which
Lady Fitzhenry wished to have made—and desire the groom to exercise her
horse properly for her before her return, for when I last rode him he
was much too spirited.”
Emmeline read and re-read these few words expressive of care and thought
for her, till she exaggerated their meaning far beyond their original
import, and on them built many a visionary castle of future happiness.
She mounted her horse, and many an additional caress and kind word she
addressed to the animal, now that it was connected in her mind with
Fitzhenry, and with the first expression of interest about herself that
had ever escaped him. She found the Rawlins family overflowing with
gratitude, and offering up prayers for her husband, in which it cannot
be doubted she most heartily joined.
Buoyed up by all these exhilarating feelings, she had almost forgotten
her real situation, and the terms on which she and this beloved
Fitzhenry lived; and in these flattering dreams, the two intervening
days quickly passed, and that on which she was to expect him at last
arrived. The whole of the morning was spent in restless anticipations of
happiness, picturing to herself their meeting, fancying what he would
say to her, how he would look at her, till she actually heard his
carriage drive up to the door. With a beating heart she flew to the
window, and her delighted eye caught the first glance of the face she
loved.
His two friends were with him, and all three entered the room together.
Emmeline was so overjoyed at seeing him again after a month’s
separation—(a century in love’s calculation of time,) that fearful of
expressing too much, she remained as if spell-bound in her place.
Fitzhenry came up to her, but his manner was, if possible, more cold,
more embarrassed than ever. How unlike the meeting that she had indulged
herself in acting over and over in her own mind! He introduced his two
companions to her. Mr. Pelham had one of those calm but expressive
countenances which directly obtains our interest; and when he held out
his hand to Emmeline, claiming the friendship of his friend’s wife, the
interest seemed reciprocal. Indeed, his look of anxious curiosity when
presented to her, would have been embarrassing, had not his manner been
marked with a peculiar appearance of kindness.
Very different was the impression made on Emmeline by Mr. Moore.
Although he looked clever and lively, she shrunk at once from him; the
glance of his eye had something penetrating and satirical which she
dreaded. With a pure guileless heart, and an unreproving conscience,
poor Emmeline could not help fearing a quick observer of feelings in all
the little daily occurrences of life.
The rest of the party that Fitzhenry had announced followed the day
after. Lady Saville was what might be called agreeable in society,
although more from possessing the polish and easy manner of the world,
than from any decided talents or accomplishments. At first, she and her
sister had, with the true impertinence of fine ladies, settled between
them, that Emmeline could only be fit to laugh at; and they anticipated
no little amusement in quizzing the banker’s daughter. But when they
found her, as even they were themselves obliged to allow, quite on a par
with themselves, perfect in manners, and in fact possessing the outward
good breeding of the world, although free from that falsehood and
selfishness which so often destroys its charm, they changed their tone,
and resolved they would patronize her, declaring, “she was quite a
person to be brought forward.” And they soon, found real pleasure in her
society and conversation.
Some of the county neighbours, with whom Lady Saville was previously
acquainted, joined the party, and the house was quite full. This,
Emmeline plainly saw was now Fitzhenry’s plan of life when forced to be
at Arlingford; and she was compelled with a sigh to own it was the best
for them both; for in so numerous a society of course they were
necessarily apart, and any coldness was little remarked. She could not
help being aware that the distance between them, and the awkwardness of
their manner, had rather encreased than worn off. And could it be
otherwise? Two people no way connected can live under the same roof
mutually cold and careless, and still be perfectly good friends, for the
one will think so little about the other, that, when thrown together by
chance, their manners will wear the ease of indifference. But between
Fitzhenry and Emmeline, this was impossible. Both entirely engrossed by
one feeling, which was to be concealed from the other, they had no
_point de reunion_, no neutral ground on which to meet; and the more
poor Emmeline’s affections became engaged, the more—and she felt
conscious of it herself—the more timid and cold her manner grew towards
her husband, and that of course reacted on Fitzhenry’s. He evidently too
was now much out of spirits, and looked ill. Mr. Moore’s gaiety seemed
too much for him; he rallied him too much on his gravity, and on his
lately acquired married importance, as he called it, appearing to
Emmeline purposely to take pleasure in tormenting him.
Mr. Pelham seemed the friend he preferred, and yet, after their being
long together, Fitzhenry always appeared more than usually abstracted
and dejected. Mr. Pelham too was the person who seemed to pay the most
attention, and to take the greatest interest in herself. She fancied,
indeed, that he watched them both; but it was always with such a kind,
compassionate, benignant look, that she did not, as with Mr. Moore,
shrink from his scrutiny.
The winter was now far advanced; hunting and shooting kept the gentlemen
almost entirely out of doors, and Emmeline and her female companions
were generally all the morning left to themselves. One rainy day, on
which it was impossible for them to leave the house, and when Lady
Saville had run through or yawned over every novel and review in the
drawing-room, she proposed, for the sake of exercise, to go all over the
house. “I have never yet even been admitted into your sanctum sanctorum,
Lady Fitzhenry, pray let me go.”
“Oh! pray do,” echoed a young lady, starting up from a table at which
she had been seated the whole morning, with most laudable industry
engaged in working a purse, and endeavouring to make a hearts-ease out
of invisible blue and yellow beads. “Do let us go; it will get us
through this dull morning so nicely; and really without Mr. Moore and
the battledoor and shuttlecock, one don’t know what to do with oneself.”
Emmeline, always wishing to be obliging, led the way to her apartment.
“How comfortable! how pretty!” all exclaimed. “Did you fit up this room
yourself?” enquired Lady Saville. Emmeline answered, that she found it
as it was when she first came to Arlingford. “What a delightful, gallant
husband!” said Lady Saville. “Now that was his foreign education; all
men should be sent abroad before they marry, to be properly drilled; it
improves them wonderfully.” Poor Emmeline could not quite assent to this
observation.
“Oh! dear, dear Lady Fitzhenry!” said the purse-making young lady, (by
name Miss Selina Danvers,) flying up to her and seizing her hand with
ecstatic fondness, “I have the greatest possible favour to ask of you;
pray, pray grant it—it is to let me see your wedding-dress; I shall be
more obliged to you than I can express.”
“There is nothing remarkable to see,” said Emmeline, coldly, not feeling
the smallest wish to behold, or have discussed, what brought back so
painfully to her mind the day on which she wore it.
“That is really being very modest,” said Lady Saville, “for it was
beautiful, and, moreover, you looked remarkably pretty in it; and I own
I was rather provoked at my worthy cousin Fitzhenry’s excessive
stupidity or bashfulness, for I don’t think he ever looked at you. I
never saw a man appear so completely stupified, and put out as he was at
his marriage; and when I wished him joy, he stared, and looked as silly
and sheepish as possible. Love certainly had upon him the direct
contrary effect from what it had on Cymon.”
“Dear, how odd!” exclaimed Miss Danvers. “But who is Mr. Cymon, and what
did it do to him? Now don’t laugh at me so, one can’t know every body;
and I don’t go every year to London as you do.”
This new scent about Cymon, however, could not put the wedding finery
out of Selina’s head, and she teazed poor Emmeline till she obtained
from her a reluctant consent that her maid and the gown should be rung
for; and soon the whole paraphernalia was exhibited with pride and pomp
by Mrs. Jenkins.
Miss Selina went into ecstasies at each separate flower and flounce, and
putting the veil over her head, she flew to the glass to look at
herself. “What a beauty it is!” she exclaimed. “Dear, how I should like
to be married! one looks so interesting in a lace gown and veil. Lady
Fitzhenry, were you very much frightened at the ceremony? did you cry?
For my part, I don’t think I should be able to keep my countenance for
laughing.”
“At what?” demanded Lady Saville.
“Oh! I don’t know at what, in particular; but I think it would be so odd
for me to be married.”
“Why should it be more odd to you than any one else?” rejoined Lady
Saville.
“Oh! I can’t tell, only because I think it would be so droll—but I
should like it of all things—and then the new chaise-and-four, and the
favours, and driving off in such a bustle, and all the people in the
street staring at one; and one’s wedding-ring, and one’s new name; it
would all be so charming. If I was you, Lady Fitzhenry, I think I should
have rung the bell the minute I was married, to have had the pleasure of
hearing the servant say, ‘Yes, _my Lady_.’ Oh! I have another great
favour to ask,” continued Miss Selina, who had by this time satisfied
her curiosity about the gown and veil; “do let me see your picture of
Lord Fitzhenry.”
Emmeline assured her she had none to show her.
“No? Dear, how odd! I thought when people were married, they had always
their picture painted in miniature as a thing of course, and I had even
settled beforehand how _ours_ should be done—I all in clouds and thin
drapery by Mrs. Mee, you know, and he in armour.”
“And who is the _he_ whose costume you have already fixed upon?”
enquired Lady Saville.
“Oh! I don’t know; whoever I may chance to marry. But, Lady Fitzhenry,
how did it happen that you had no miniatures done? for yours was a
regular marriage, was it not? Every body delighted, and jewels and
plate, and all that sort of thing; and then Lord Fitzhenry is so
handsome. Lady Saville, don’t you think Lord Fitzhenry is the most
beautiful man you ever saw, and the most agreeable?”
“Why I don’t know how far I may venture to answer that question. What
would Sir George say?” replied Lady Saville, laughing.
“Oh! Sir George is very tall and good looking too, and dresses himself
very well; but still he does not put on his neckcloth near so well as
Lord Fitzhenry; and after all, the neckcloth is the principal thing in a
man, and Lady Fitzhenry is certainly the most fortunate of people; but
she takes her good luck very quietly, I must say—not even to have talked
of her wedding gown! was it not strange?”
By this time every thing was thoroughly admired, examined, and descanted
upon in Emmeline’s room, and many a question put to her, which she found
rather difficult to answer.
“Well, where do we proceed to next?” said Lady Saville, going out into
the gallery. “What room is this?” pointing to Ernest’s.
“Oh! that is Lord Fitzhenry’s,” answered Emmeline hastily; “we had
better not go there.”
“Why not?” enquired Lady Saville.
“He may be engaged with business,” replied Emmeline, conscious she was
colouring.
“Engaged? why you know he is out hunting twenty miles off; but at any
rate, we may knock and demand admission.” And she knocked at the door.
No sound was to be heard, and she turned the lock. “Why I really
believe, Lady Fitzhenry,” continued she, “you are afraid of going in,
for fear of finding all my worthy cousin’s former _cheres amies_ hanging
round the room on pegs, like Blue-beard’s wives.”
At this sally, Miss Danvers laughed violently. “I am dying to go
in.—Dear Lady Saville, pray, pray open the door; I am sure we shall find
something odd.”
Emmeline could think of no further reason to give for not entering; and,
in truth, felt rather glad of the opportunity so forced upon her to
visit that room where Fitzhenry had passed and still passed so many
hours of his life. A person’s apartment is certainly the next best thing
to their society, and even ranks in the gratification of our feelings
before a letter; we seem to be admitted into all their occupations, even
into their very thoughts. Then the little things belonging to them
scattered about identify them so much to us. Every one must have
experienced this when going into the room that has been inhabited by
some dear friend immediately after their departure; the pens they have
used still lying wet on the table, the books they had been reading—a
glove, or handkerchief forgotten. How strongly do such trifles sometimes
affect us, and give us a deceitful feeling of their presence!
Lady Saville had opened the door into Fitzhenry’s room, and Emmeline had
gone in with the rest, when luckily, after Miss Selina had expressed her
astonishment at Lord Fitzhenry’s sleeping in the little couch bed, and
had enquired of Lady Saville whether it was not very droll—a book of
French caricatures attracted and fixed the attention of the whole party,
and Emmeline was thus left at liberty to look at every thing in the
room, and indulge in her own reflections.
_There_ was the table at which he wrote, the chair on which he sat, and
she placed herself in it. On the table, among a confusion of
parliamentary papers, pamphlets, bills, &c. was a volume of Petrarch,
lying open, as if lately read, and by it the cover of a letter recently
torn open. It was directed to Fitzhenry, and in a woman’s hand. On the
seal, were the words—“_Tout ou rien_”—words that said volumes to poor
Emmeline’s heart. She tried to make out the post-mark, but it was so
blotted over that she could only decypher the date, which convinced her
it had been that very day received! With a sort of shudder she threw it
down again, and, getting up from her seat, her eye was attracted by two
drawings that hung over the chimney-piece—they were evidently views in
Italy and Greece. In both these, were the same two figures: below one of
the drawings, these lines from Lord Byron were written:—
“Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times
When worlds were staked for ladies eyes.
Had bards as many realms as rhymes,
Thy charms might raise new Anthonies.
“Though fate forbids such things to be,
Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curled,
I cannot lose a world for thee,
But would not lose thee for a world.”
Beneath the other drawing, was a Greek inscription. They were slight
sketches, and the figures were small; one of them had an air of
Fitzhenry not to be mistaken by her who knew his every look and gesture.
The other was a female figure. Emmeline’s eyes were rivetted on the
drawings; she could not doubt who, and what they represented; some days
of peculiar enjoyment, some tender moments were thus recalled, and poor
Emmeline’s spirit groaned within her.
On the mantle-piece, lay Fitzhenry’s pencil-case, pocket-book, and
several of those sort of trifles that seem so intimately connected with
the person to whom they belong. Emmeline had a gratification in taking
them in her hand, and examining them minutely: at last, she found a
small turquoise brooch which she had often observed in his
neck-handkerchief; it had apparently been originally meant for a woman’s
ornament. Emmeline had on one almost exactly similar. The temptation to
exchange them was too strong to be resisted—with trembling fingers she
undid her own pin; but again carefully examined Fitzhenry’s, for fear of
his detecting the exchange. At the back of his, in small letters, she
saw “Firenze,” but they were almost worn away; her courage however
nearly failed her, although she thought she might contrive to scratch
something on her own broach to resemble the inscription, but, just at
that minute, Lady Saville, who had finished her book of caricatures, and
looked at every thing in the room, coming up, proposed their proceeding
to the rest of the house—Emmeline almost started with the embarrassment
of guilt: she had no time for further doubt, she hastily threw down on
the marble-slab her own brooch, and carried off her husband’s.
Almost terrified at what she had done, when they met in the drawing-room
before dinner, she looked anxiously at Fitzhenry’s handkerchief, but,
when he turned towards the light, she had the satisfaction to see her
own pin placed as usual, and, consequently, that he had not discovered
her robbery.
To those who may be inclined to think the feelings of Emmeline on such a
trifle exaggerated, we have only to say, that proving themselves never
to have been _in love_ we can no more attempt to speak to their feelings
than to describe colours to a person born blind.
Delighted and elated with her prize, poor Emmeline’s spirits rose above
their now usual state, and when, after dinner, Lady Saville declared she
wanted exercise to get rid of a headache, and proposed dancing, Emmeline
readily forwarded her wish and offered her service as musician. Every
one willingly acquiesced, and they soon made up a quadrille. Fitzhenry
and Mr. Pelham were the only two who did not join in the dance, but
continued standing over the fire, seemingly engaged in very earnest
conversation. When the quadrille was ended, Emmeline played a waltz;
this was still less to be resisted, and the whole party immediately
swung round the room.
“I can play a waltz,” said Mrs. Danvers, the purse-making young lady’s
mother, who had just then entered the room—”I can’t bear to see you,
Lady Fitzhenry, labouring at the pianoforte, do let _me_ play who can do
nothing else; and do you go and join the dancers.”—And she insisted on
Emmeline resigning her post.
All were engaged: there was no one left to waltz with. Emmeline was
young; by nature gay, she liked dancing as all gay young people do. The
music, the sight of others dancing, all had revived her former love for
the amusement, and, not liking to deprive any one else of her partner,
she set off alone after the rest. Unsupported, and lately out of
practise, she soon grew giddy, the room turned round, she knew not where
she went, and, to save herself from falling, she caught hold of
something she had run against, putting her other hand over her eyes till
the dizziness had gone off. When it had subsided, still keeping her
hold, she looked up to see where she was.
It was her husband’s arm she had hold of.
She could scarcely check a scream of alarm which burst from her on
seeing what she had done: she hastily withdrew her hand, her flushed
cheek turning deadly pale. Fitzhenry was looking at her attentively, but
with apparent surprise, and indeed, even apparent displeasure.
The whole occurrence, which did not occupy above a minute, had been
mistaken by the dancers. They thought she was proposing to him to waltz
with her, and Mr. Moore hastily said, “That is right, Lady Fitzhenry;
make that lazy fellow dance. No one waltzes so well or _was_ so fond of
it; and it is too ridiculous his giving himself already the airs of an
old married man!”
“Lord and Lady Fitzhenry dance together! Oh! that will be charming,”
exclaimed Miss Selina, clapping her hands in foolish ecstasy.
“Come, come along, Fitzhenry,” rejoined Mr. Moore: “don’t be bashful;
ask Lady Fitzhenry in proper form to do you the favour of dancing with
you.”
“Certainly,” said Ernest, rather embarrassed: “certainly—with pleasure,
if Lady Fitzhenry wishes——I mean, if she will waltz with me, and can get
no better partner.”
“Oh! I never meant that—I was only giddy——,” said Emmeline, hardly
knowing what she said or did. The other waltzers stopped. “Now, Lady
Fitzhenry, we will follow you,” said the persecuting Mr. Moore. Any
further explanation or objection was impossible: waltz together they
must—and Fitzhenry put his arm round her.
All those who talk of the waltz as of a dance possessing no other
attraction, no more interest than that of any other, and owing the ill
name it bears merely to a cry raised against it by prejudice in a
country where as yet it is but newly introduced, have never waltzed with
_him_ or _her_ they love; for then their own feelings would answer, and
silence them.
Emmeline felt her husband’s arm round her waist; her hand was clasped in
his, and his breath played on her forehead. Her feelings almost overcame
her! Her heart beat so violently that she could hardly breathe, and
again her head turned round.
Fitzhenry, as Mr. Moore had said, was an excellent waltzer—he had
waltzed much at Vienna, where his intimacy with Lady Florence had
commenced by her teaching him this very dance. Without any seeming
effort, he bore along Emmeline’s slight form—for already she could
hardly support herself. She fancied he pressed her more closely to
him—it could, alas! be only fancy; but quite overcome, and complaining
of faintness, she begged him, in a scarcely audible voice, to stop. He
immediately withdrew his arm, took her to a chair, and seeing her really
near fainting, fetched her a glass of water.
Every thing conspired to overpower poor Emmeline: it was with difficulty
she restrained her tears, and as soon as she could trust herself to
walk, she left the room. But no Fitzhenry followed to ask an explanation
of her conduct; and in darkness, and alone, she no longer endeavoured to
stifle her feelings. Fitzhenry was evidently annoyed: there had been an
expression of displeasure, of formal, almost ironical civility on his
countenance, when forced to offer himself as her partner, that she had
never seen before, and which penetrated her heart. And then, though mere
common compassion had made him assist her when unwell, yet it was almost
beyond his usual coldness to allow her to leave the room alone, careless
of what had affected her, or whether she had recovered or not.
It was impossible to endeavour to explain herself before others, and
Fitzhenry now carefully avoided their ever being _tête-à-tête_. “Thus
ends,” thought Emmeline, “the vain dream—the last hope of ever winning
him! Indifference is growing into dislike; and soon we shall be more
than total strangers to each other.”
As she uttered these words, a gentle knock at the door made her heart
beat. It could only be him—and in an instant passing to the most
delightful anticipations, with a trembling voice, she gave leave to
enter. The door opened: but even through the darkness of the room, she
soon saw her mistake, for it was merely Lady Saville who came to enquire
after her.
“My dear Lady Fitzhenry,” said she, “I fear you are not well, so I
ventured to come and doctor you a little.”
“Oh! it is nothing,” replied Emmeline, with difficulty restraining fresh
tears of disappointment: “I have not waltzed lately, and it made me very
giddy, that is all.”
“And perhaps you should not have waltzed now,” added Lady Saville; “for
really you have not been looking well lately; we have all remarked it.
You overfag yourself with your constant endeavours to amuse our good
country neighbours, and with those long rides which you will take, for I
am sure you are not strong.”
Emmeline, wishing to avoid all conversation on the subject of her looks
and health, conscious that both had suffered from her loss of happiness,
hastily got up, declaring she was quite recovered; and, after bathing
her eyes and temples with some cold water, she proposed returning to the
drawing-room.
“But are you quite sure you are well enough?” said Lady Saville—”had you
not better lie down a little, for you still look pale.”
Emmeline insisted on going.
“Well, I understand your not liking to make a fuss and excite enquiries;
for one’s friends will teaze one so with remedies: so if you are really
able, come along, lean on me;” and she drew Emmeline’s arm within hers.
When they entered the room, Fitzhenry went up to them: hoped Emmeline
was quite recovered, and brought a chair for her; but all was done in
cold civility, and no more passed. Mr. Pelham came immediately and sat
by her, evidently and purposely entering into conversation to save her
from being an object of attention to the rest. The dancing went on; but
Emmeline’s spirits were gone, and she took no more part in what passed
around her that evening.
“What capital fun we have had!” said Selina, as they all left the
drawing-room for the night. “I am sure I could dance all day long: could
not you, Lady Fitzhenry? Don’t you like dancing of all things? I am sure
you must, you dance so well.”
Emmeline absently answered—”I _have_ liked it, but it is a taste that
soon goes off.”
“Soon, indeed!” said Mrs. Danvers, who had been playing the waltzes and
quadrilles to them for the last hour, “if it is already gone with you:
why you talk as if you were an old woman, Lady Fitzhenry. I don’t think
it is many months since I saw you apparently enjoying the amusement as
much as any one—indeed, not many minutes.”
Emmeline, vexed at her forgetfulness, did not answer. She saw her
husband’s eyes were fixed upon her; and, anxious to put an end to so
disagreeable an evening, wishing them all good night, she hastened into
her own room.
When there, she found that the brooch—the precious brooch, was missing.
She dared not tell her maid of her loss, for fear that any enquiry after
it would lead to a discovery of her theft; but, as soon as she was gone,
and all quiet in the house, Emmeline examined every part of her own
room, of the gallery, and of the drawing-room; but all in vain. Tired
and annoyed, she was at last obliged to give up the search, trusting
that daylight would betray its hiding place.
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