——It grieved her not a little, tho’
She seemed it well to beare.
And thus she reasons with herself—
‘Some fault perhaps in me,
‘Somewhat is done, that so he doth:
‘Alas! what may it be?
‘How may I winne him to myself?
‘He is a man, and men
‘Have imperfections; it behoves
‘Me pardon nature then.’
THE PATIENT COUNTESS.
THE next morning, before her maid came to her, Emmeline renewed her
search, but with as little success as on the night before. It delayed
her dressing; and when she entered the breakfast-room, all were
assembled—Mr. Moore coming in at an opposite door at the same minute.
“Who owns a turquoise pin?” said he, in a loud, sententious voice, as he
approached the breakfast table, “with some mysterious, and, I conclude,
very sentimental letters at the back.”
Fitzhenry, who was reading the newspaper, instantly laid it down. He
felt for his brooch, and forgetting that he had not put on any that
morning, exclaimed, at the same moment with Emmeline—”I do!” Both looked
at each other, and coloured.
“Well, I never knew such a pattern pair,” said Moore; “they have so
conscientiously every thing in common, that they have but one brooch
between them, and I suppose wear it alternately. Pin of my pin—brooch of
my brooch,” added he, laughing: “without the help of Solomon, I really
don’t know how to decide the matter between you, for it is quite a law
case in his line, and much beyond me.”
“Pray give it me,” said Emmeline, in a low voice, inexpressibly annoyed.
“The brooch is mine,” said Fitzhenry, holding out his hand for it, and
apparently not much less discomposed.
“Hold, if you please,” said Moore; “I have not studied the law, up three
pair of stairs in Lincoln’s Inn, and poured over musty books for
nothing. I must have proofs and witnesses before I adjudge the disputed
prize. Let us call into court the letters at the back, they may throw
some light on the subject—Let me see,” continued he, putting on his nose
the spectacles of one of the company, and affecting an important, legal
tone, “_Fi_ is very easily distinguished, but what the deuce is it that
comes between that and _z e_, which are plainly the letters at the end.
_F i_ looks a little as if it really did belong to one Lord Fitzhenry, I
must own; (if he is so unsentimental as to wear his own name next his
heart;) but even under that extraordinary supposition, I can’t turn _z
e_ into _r y_ by any trick of law or logic—so I am still at a loss; for
do what I will, I cannot, with these letters, spell _fidele_, or
_fidelità_, or any of those pretty words.”
Emmeline said no more; she tried to busy herself with the
breakfast-things, but poured out every thing wrong, and made all sorts
of strange mistakes. Fitzhenry got up, and went to Mr. Moore.
“Come, Moore, no more of this nonsense; give me the brooch, and Lady
Fitzhenry and I can afterwards settle to which of us it belongs.”
“As lord of the manor, I suppose you claim all stray goods,” rejoined
Moore; “otherwise I must say yours is a most despotic measure, and a
little like the lion in the fable.”
At this, Miss Danvers, who had been some time tittering, burst into an
immoderate fit of laughter.
“How droll Mr. Moore is!” she exclaimed: “pray, Lord Fitzhenry, let me
look at this brooch; there is such a fuss about it that it must be
something very extraordinary, and I am sure I could make out the
letters,” said she, looking significantly at Moore, “for I know all
sorts of mottos, and sentiments, and those kind of things, for brooches,
and bracelets, and purses, and seals,”—and she held out her hand for the
brooch.
“It is not worth looking at,” said Fitzhenry, coldly, as he put it into
his pocket.
“I think the lion is a little gruff,” whispered the young lady to her
neighbour at the breakfast-table, and again laughed violently at what
she imagined to be wit.
“Well,” she continued, “I give notice, that when I marry, I mean to have
my own way, and be my own mistress, and not be so submissive as Lady
Fitzhenry. I shall have as many brooches as I please, given me by whom I
please; for I suspect,” added she, significantly, “there is some story
about this brooch—some mystery we none of us know; but I am determined I
will find it out: it is just the sort of thing I like—and see how Lady
Fitzhenry blushes—I am getting near the mark, I suspect.”
“Don’t rattle on so foolishly, Selina,” said her mother, trying to check
her talkative daughter.
“That is what mamma always says,” retorted Miss Danvers, pettishly, and
looking round for support in her denial of the charge of folly. “Mamma
never lets me speak, which is very hard, for I am sure I am saying no
harm,” added she, addressing Mr. Moore, whom she seemed to have dubbed
her champion.
“I never presume to contradict mammas,” answered he; “otherwise I should
say that such a mouth could never utter any thing which it would not be
agreeable to hear.”
The young lady giggled, and, encouraged by the compliment, went on—
“Pray, Mr. Moore, _seriously_, as you are a lawyer, will you tell me,
have husbands a right by law to read all their wives’ letters, as well
as seize on their naughty brooches? Lady Fitzhenry, does Lord Fitzhenry
read all your letters?”
“I should think he would be sorry to take the trouble,” said Emmeline,
forced to reply to so direct a question, although from the quickness
with which one silly idea chased another in Selina’s mind, she seldom
required any answer.
“Why? have you a great many correspondents? I do so like correspondents,
don’t you? and to get letters all crossed, and written under the seal,
and every where; is it not delightful? I have so many friends I doat
upon, that there is not a day I don’t write two or three long letters,
and tell them every thing I feel and think; and then it passes away the
morning so well; don’t it, Mr. Moore?”
“Why, I really cannot boast of as many confidential friends, or as much
capacity of heart as you seem to be blessed with,” said he; “and,
moreover, I have nothing to confide; so that I fear a very small note
would contain all my feelings and thoughts.”
“Dear, how shocking! and how odd! I have so many charming friends, to
whom I have so much to say, that I could write to them for ever; and
then, when we have nothing particular to tell, we suppose ourselves
people in a novel, and so carry on a story, you know, under feigned
names: mine is Celestina.”
“It must be very interesting; and may I ask,” continued Moore, “who is
the hero worthy of such a heroine?”
“Oh, that I won’t tell,” said Miss Danvers, slyly—”that is a secret;
but, if you choose to guess, I will tell you when you are wrong. So far
I will go; but I won’t allow of any questions about tall and short, and
fat and thin, and that sort of thing.”
Here all laughed; and Selina, quite satisfied that it was at her wit,
glanced round the table with an eye of triumph, till, encountering
Fitzhenry’s grave, preoccupied countenance, which, plainly showed that
he had not joined in the applause, she said: “Ah, Lord Fitzhenry is
still thinking of his brooch, and of that blush of Lady Fitzhenry’s,
which seems to stick in his throat.”
“I am sure you are very good to take so much interest in what concerns
us,” replied Fitzhenry, dryly.
“Oh no, it is not good at all; for it is my greatest amusement to find
out every body’s little secrets, and I am determined I will get at the
bottom of this somehow.” After a pause, she addressed Emmeline. “By the
bye, now I recollect, you were very busy poking about all Lord
Fitzhenry’s things in his room, yesterday morning; but what that may
have to do with all this, I can’t just now make out.”
Fitzhenry looked up astonished, and his eyes were fixed on Emmeline’s
crimson cheek; but, though he looked at her attentively for a few
minutes, he said nothing; and, by this time, the frowns from Mrs.
Danvers had become so repeated, and so decided, that they at last
succeeded in checking the exuberant loquacity of the lively Selina.
An awkward silence ensued; every one seemed disconcerted, and Fitzhenry,
for the first time, to Emmeline’s observation, appeared totally out of
humour. He soon got up from the breakfast-table, and left the room.
It was a thoroughly wet day; even the gentlemen could not go out—and, to
pass the morning, Lady Saville proposed practising some songs, in which
one of them took a part. Poor Emmeline, who could not rally her spirits
at all, felt little inclined to sing—but she complied, till at length,
fatigued and harassed, she gave up her place at the pianoforte to
Selina, and went to her own room. There on the table she found a note
addressed to her, in Fitzhenry’s handwriting. She trembled as she opened
it—it contained her own brooch, and these words:—
“I return you, what I suppose to be yours; how it came into my
possession, I know not. I have kept to my promise—I do all in my
power to promote your happiness—do then the same by me, and
respect feelings which I have honestly confessed to you.
“FITZHENRY.”
Emmeline read this over and over, scarcely knowing what the latter words
could refer to; so perfectly innocent did she feel of any infringement
of their agreement, and so satisfied that she had never, directly or
indirectly, to him or others, hinted at her cruel situation. However, at
last, calling to mind the way in which Selina had that morning so
provokingly entertained the company with her silly remarks, she felt
convinced, in spite of Fitzhenry’s well-known contempt for the person
who made them, that they had raised suspicions in his mind of her having
taken advantage of his absence to invade his apartment, and pry into his
secrets; perhaps had even led him to imagine that she had stolen his
favourite brooch with the foolish intention of wantonly tormenting him.
Wounded tenderness, and offended pride, alternately wrung her heart. To
clear herself was impossible, without confessing feelings, which she
could not bring herself to avow to one who evidently despised and
abhorred her. In total despair at the cruelly unfavourable light in
which untoward circumstances always placed her before him, whom it was
the first, almost the only wish of her heart to conciliate and please,
poor Emmeline wept in bitterness of soul.
Some explanation on her part, however, was absolutely necessary, but it
was long before she could resolve on what to say. At length, entering
into no particulars, she wrote merely these words.
“You do me great injustice, and totally mistake me: explanation,
however, is impossible—indeed, would probably be only
uninteresting and irksome to you, and therefore I shall not
attempt any.
“EMMELINE.”
How to give this to Fitzhenry unnoticed was the next difficulty, without
the risk of a _tête-à-tête_ interview, which in the present nervous and
irritated state of her feelings, she had no courage to seek. She heard
him in his room, which joined to hers, and there he remained all the
morning alone.
With her note concealed in her hand, and with tell-tale eyes, Emmeline
joined the party at the usual hour of luncheon, in case her absence
might create surprise. Mr. Pelham’s attention was soon attracted towards
her.
“I fear you have not yet recovered your waltzing of last night,” said he
kindly, as if to account for her disordered appearance, which no one
could help observing: “you have still a headache I am sure, and I am not
surprised at it. When you _give balls_, you should put out your stoves;
I wonder how any of the dancers could stand the heat of the room last
night: a walk would do you good; I think it is clearing up; will you let
me accompany you?”
Emmeline feeling, in spite of her endeavours, that tears still forced
themselves into her eyes, and aware that she was not quite in a fit
state to make the _agréable_ to her company, readily agreed. The fresh
air revived and composed her, and, by degrees, her usual spirits
returned. Pelham first talked on indifferent subjects. At length, some
improvement in the place which he was observing, brought in Fitzhenry’s
name, when, after a moment’s pause, he said—”I see my friend Fitzhenry
has no patience with that poor silly girl, Miss Danvers. I have often
lectured him on the subject of his want of toleration for folly, and of
the way that he is apt to take things that should only be laughed at,
_au grand serieux_. It is the fault of all grave, substantial characters
like his; and he allows trifles to go too deep with him. To be sure, the
poor Selina is a fool, _comme on en voit peu_; but it is not necessary
to attend to her, and I should be almost tempted with regard to her, to
give _you_ the same advice as to Fitzhenry, not any way to notice the
nonsense that flows from her. There are some people who can make
themselves important in society only by teazing others; and if they once
find out this power, they never let it rest unemployed. I am very
impudent I think,” added Pelham, “in presuming to give you advice; but,
as the friend of Fitzhenry, I feel that I have a sort of established
right to lecture even you.”
Emmeline looked up and smiled, to show in what good part she took what
was so kindly meant.
“You are very young, my dear Lady Fitzhenry,” continued he; “very new to
the world, and your own character is naturally so open, so natural,—that
you are perhaps _too_ artless. Some part we almost all must, to a
degree, act in this world. We are all sometimes obliged to put a mask on
our features and feelings. You know I am a _diplomate_ by profession,”
said Pelham, endeavouring to give a light turn to his advice, seeing how
much at the moment his _thin skinned_ auditor needed the mask he talked
of. “Fitzhenry has been much used to the world—to women of the world,”
continued he, with a quick, embarrassed manner. “Perhaps _you_ are too
much without art, for him to believe you artless, paradoxical as this
may sound. In short, as you are destined to live in a wicked, unfeeling
world, I could, I believe, wish you to be a little more wicked and
unfeeling yourself.”
At this moment, Fitzhenry, with his gun and dogs, appeared at a little
distance, and when he saw them, came towards them. It was fortunate, for
it would have been difficult for Pelham and Emmeline to have extricated
themselves from the conversation in which they were engaged; for, vague
as it might have appeared to any third person, those concerned both
feared they had gone too far; the one, in what he had said, the other,
in what she had listened to.
As Fitzhenry approached, Emmeline resolved she would endeavour to exert
that degree of self-control which Pelham recommended, and a feeling of
offended pride, and of injustice towards her on Fitzhenry’s part,
enabled her to succeed. She drew her bonnet over her face, and though
her heart beat, and at first her voice trembled, she forced herself to
speak on indifferent subjects, as if nothing had past, or rather, as if
what _had_ passed, had not had power to wound her; and, taking an
opportunity when Pelham was a yard or two behind, she held out her note
to Fitzhenry. For a minute, he seemed reluctant to take it; but the
next, received it from her hand, and putting it hastily within his
waistcoat, immediately began talking with Pelham about the view he was
then looking at.
When they met at dinner-time, Fitzhenry’s manner to her was as usual;
but the party was so large, that they could have little intercourse. In
the evening, to avoid any possibility of the waltzing scene of the
preceding night, Emmeline immediately took out her work, about which she
pretended to be particularly interested, and left the rest of the party
to provide for their own amusement.
She and Fitzhenry still appeared to be the objects of Mr. Moore’s
particular observation, and for that purpose, seating himself by
Emmeline, “I hope Lady Fitzhenry,” said he, “you have forgiven me for
not proving myself a better advocate for you this morning; but really
Fitzhenry’s frowns were so very _eloquent_ and _convincing_, that I
could say no more on the subject.”
“And you need not say more now,” answered Fitzhenry, rather impatiently,
without taking his eyes from the Review he was reading; “that foolish
affair is settled; we have both our own, and both are satisfied.”
“Alas!” thought Emmeline, “how much he is mistaken!”
Moore looked at them alternately with an air of incredulity. “Well, you
are strange mysterious people,” said he; “but if you are content, I am
sure so am I;” and, laying his hand on the first book he saw, and which
proved to be Childe Harold, he read some lines of it aloud.
“Are you a great admirer of Lord Byron, Lady Fitzhenry?” said he.
“Of course,” replied Emmeline, forcing a smile.
“Of course of his poetry,” continued Moore; “but I hope _not_ of his
sentiments: his descriptions of scenery are beautiful, and sometimes
those of feeling and affection; but when he comes to paint his own dark,
venom-spitting mind, he is hateful; and it always provokes me, that he
should feel the beauties of nature so deeply, and not be the better for
that feeling. Have you ever been in Italy, Lady Fitzhenry?”
“No, never,” said Emmeline shortly, not much liking to get on such
tender ground.
“I should have sworn you had; I have heard you talk as if you knew all
Italy by heart; and you have in your composition, that suavity of mind
and temper, which the sun, the air, the beauteous scenes of Italy, the
dark blue of its seas give. I should have been ten times more detestable
than I am, had I not passed so much of my life in the pure, soft
atmosphere of Italy. I don’t know, by the bye, that my friend Fitzhenry
there proves my doctrine true; I don’t think he has benefited much by
such education; vide the pin affair. But I suppose it is only the effect
of change of climate, and that the cold, dark fogs of this country, have
again contracted his heart, and made it selfish and English.”
Fitzhenry said nothing, and apparently was engrossed by his book. Mr.
Moore continued. “Many a battle Fitzhenry and I have had about Lord
Byron—I wonder what side you would take. I never can feel for his
imaginary woes. What the deuce is the matter with the fellow? what does
he want? He has had every thing this world can give. All the fools and
fine ladies running after him, and paying him court _à l’envi l’un de
l’autre_; and yet he went grumbling and whining about, despising, and
turning up his nose at us all, who are ten times better than himself. He
chose, too, to hate and ill-treat his wife, after he had insisted,
almost against her own will, or at least against her judgment, to marry
her, and she an heiress, into the bargain. This was to be a new
distress; and on this he begun, _de plus belle_, to grumble and whine,
and moreover to blackguard. Now, Fitzhenry, how do you defend all this?”
“I don’t pretend to defend him in any thing,” said Fitzhenry, very
impatiently; “I only say, that persons with totally different feelings
and characters cannot judge of each other. What would be keen suffering
to one, might be none to another. I might answer you in the words of
Madame de Staël—”_Les gens mediocres ne cessent de s’étonner que le
talent ait des besoins differens des leurs_; and as for Lord Byron’s
private history, neither you nor I have any business with it, or know
any thing about it.”
“The deuce we don’t?” said Moore, “many thanks, _par parenthese_, for
your pretty compliment to me, _au sujet de la mediocrité_; but we will
let that pass: I am well used to such from you,” said he, laughing; “but
I cannot give up so quietly Lord Byron, who certainly has had the bad
taste (to say no worse) to take pains to tell us all what a villain he
is, so that few of us can be ignorant of his private history.”
Fitzhenry said nothing; and resuming his book, turned away, as if the
light hurt his eyes.
“Lady Fitzhenry, don’t _you_ agree with me about Lord Byron,” continued
the indefatigable Moore.
“I believe not,” said Emmeline with a tremulous voice—”I _should_ not—I
think no one can, or should presume to judge of the feelings, hardly of
the situation and conduct of another.” An involuntary sigh finished the
sentence; fortunately it escaped her neighbour’s ear, as he was hastily
turning over the leaves of the book, reading a line here and there.
“_Il faut pourtant etre juste_,” said Moore; “and, to give the devil his
due, Lord Byron is in truth a most delightful poet. We all find that he
describes our own thoughts and feelings, which we have not had the wit
to put into rhyme ourselves. Here is a pretty specimen of sing-song
sentiment, for instance:—
‘Florence, whom I will love as well
As ever yet was said or sung,
(Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell,)
Whilst thou art fair, and I am young;
‘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 eye and ringlets curled,
I cannot lose a world for thee,
But would not lose thee for a world.’
Prudent vows those, making them to depend on his own youth, and his fair
one’s beauty. What think you of that moral sentiment, Lady Fitzhenry?”
Emmeline dared not speak; she feared a double meaning might be given to
whatever she said; but the crimson on her cheeks betrayed how well she
knew the lines. Fitzhenry, for an instant, looked up—his face was
scarcely less suffused than hers, and hastily rising from his seat, he
left the room.
“Alas!” thought Emmeline, “again he will accuse me of braving him; of
purposely wounding his feelings!” and it was with difficulty she could
conceal from Mr. Moore how much he had discomposed her.
The next day, when she went through the gallery, the door of Fitzhenry’s
room chanced to be open, and as her eyes eagerly wandered into it, she
observed that the two drawings had disappeared from over the chimney.
What this meant, she could but too well guess: she plainly saw that he
suspected her of meanly endeavouring to pry into his feelings, and to
trace each thought inimical to herself, with a view (perhaps he
concluded) to gain at least the power of tormenting him, when hopeless
of obtaining any other. “Oh, Fitzhenry!” thought she, “will the time
ever come, when you will know me better, and learn to do me justice?”
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