Call ye the city gay? its revels joyous?
—They may be so to you; for ye are young
(Belike) and happy. She is young in years,
But often in mid-spring will blighting winds
Do Autumn’s work: and there is pain of heart
That doth the work of time; can cloud the brow,
And pale the cheek, and sober down the spirit.
This gewgaw scene hath fewer charms for her,
Than for the crone, who, numbering sixty winters,
Pronounceth it all folly.—Wonder not
’Tis left thus willingly.
OLD PLAY.
PARLIAMENT met early this year, and Lord Fitzhenry signified his
intention of being in town at its opening. The party at Arlingford,
therefore, before long, dispersed different ways; and, with a heavy
heart, Emmeline went to settle herself in Grosvenor-street. Young as she
was, and disposed for gaiety as she had been but a few months past, she
could, in her circumstances, only look to the world and to the routine
of fashionable life in London with dismay. She would be thrown into a
totally new society, where she had not a friend, scarcely an
acquaintance. Had Fitzhenry been to her what he ought, how proudly would
she, at her lover’s side, have shown herself to an admiring world, as
the being he had chosen. But this was not the situation of Emmeline, and
she shrunk with a feeling of apprehension from the tumult in which she
would be left deserted and solitary.
She foresaw, too, that a London life would necessarily throw her and her
husband more apart; for, little as she saw of him in the country, yet
still in the course of the day she was certain of being in his society
and of hearing his voice, although seldom now addressed in conversation
to herself. In town, it would be easier for him to avoid her, and she
much feared he would take advantage of the opportunities offered.
And Emmeline was right in her conjectures. Under pretence of business,
and attendance at the House of Commons, he was so constantly from home,
that they rarely met. Their hours, too, were different; breakfast was no
longer a certain moment for meeting; for, as it would now have obliged
them to a daily _tête-à-tête_, it was brought to them in their separate
apartments. During the morning, therefore, it was only by accident that
they were ever together. Fitzhenry rarely dined at home, except when
there was company; and, of course, living so much apart, Emmeline did
not even know what his evening engagements were; and often they met by
chance, for the first time, during forty-eight hours, in some distant
place of amusement. If then he chanced to give her a look of kind
recognition, poor Emmeline went home with her spirits raised, resolving
to improve the advantage she fancied she had gained; but again,
forty-eight hours passed in the same manner, and, perhaps, if then again
they accidentally met, he would scarcely notice her.
Thus deserted, she saw she must submit to endeavour to make to herself
an independent existence; but it was a vain attempt when every thought,
every feeling was with him. Lady Saville had offered herself as
Emmeline’s _chaperon_, on her first entry into the world of London
society, and she could not have had a better companion; for Lady Saville
had just feeling enough to enable her to perform all her social duties
without a shadow of blame, and even in her own set to obtain the
character of being remarkably goodnatured;—but she had none of those
refined sentiments, which could lead her to read and detect the emotions
of Emmeline’s heart. Pre-occupation of mind, variation of spirits and
complexion, on a look or word; all such symptoms of a stricken heart she
attributed to mere physical causes; sometimes rallying Emmeline on her
_vapeurs_, but generally too much amused and occupied herself to doubt
her companion being equally so. Had that companion’s heart been gay and
free as it was but a few months back, what attractions the world, into
which she was now, for the first time, introduced, might have had for
her!
Emmeline’s beauty had much improved since her marriage, and even by her
loss of happiness; for, in the place of the mere expression of youthful
joy and good-humour, was a look of _sentiment_, almost of languor, over
her whole countenance and person, that added inexpressibly to its charm,
and gave additional effect to her own peculiarly bright smile, when it
was sometimes for a moment recalled.
As Fitzhenry’s wife, she first attracted attention; and, with pleasing
manners, rank, riches, youth, and beauty at once to recommend her, she
was soon sought for, admired, and courted; and had she been willing to
take advantage of the universal cry in her favour, Emmeline might, with
little or no trouble on her part, have been raised to that envied
distinction, obtained no one knows how, or why, of being the _fashion_.
For the world is so capricious and wayward in its preferences, that it
often greets beings like Lady Fitzhenry (from circumstances regardless
of its favour) with those winning, gracious smiles, which it perversely
withholds from others most indefatigable in their efforts to obtain
them. Witness the anxious and fatiguing labours of so many candidates
for its patronage, their eternal struggles to grasp at what constantly
escapes them, if for a moment they pause to take breath, or relax the
little hold they have secured.
When individuals are blamed for either too much or too little love of
the world, the different welcome it bestows seems little considered. How
little does the situation of a courted, fashionable girl, surrounded by
partners and admirers, and thus at liberty to give herself every
impertinent air, which a vain mind, and a selfish, unfeeling heart
dictate, resemble that of the unobserved, disregarded being, who, night
after night, follows some elderly, undistinguished _chaperon_ through
the regular round of London amusements, and, seated by her hour after
hour in dull neglect, seems at last to become a part of the bench she
rests on, till reduced, perhaps, to be even envious of its
insensibility; yet the same enlivening music plays to both; the same
bright lights are cast on both, and the same glittering, buzzing crowd
surrounds them; but question them, after their night’s dissipation, as
to the entertainment at which they were both present, and how different
will be their accounts of the same scene—of what is called the gay
world! of all worlds the most melancholy to those who are not gay.
And Emmeline, in spite of her general popularity, was among that number:
how far she might equally have resisted its snares, and despised its
pleasures, had there been corresponding joy within, we cannot pretend to
say; but, as it was, the first transient amusement produced by novelty,
very soon went off, leaving her mind wearied and depressed, and, at any
time, in the gayest scene, the sight of Fitzhenry at a distance, in the
crowd of a ball-room, or at the opera, had power instantly to dispel
every feeling of enjoyment; and then, totally regardless of what passed
around her, or of the flattering compliments addressed to her, her eyes
were rivetted to the spot where he was, busied in the eager examination
of those near him, in search of that form, those features, which had
captivated him; and often when she had observed him engrossed in
conversation with any woman, or even when merely paying the common
attentions of civility, breathless with agitation, she has enquired who
the favoured being was, as if in strange eagerness “most to seek what
she would most avoid;” but still Lady Florence never appeared; her
dreaded name was never mentioned.
Although now, to all appearance, totally deserted by her husband, still
he kept strictly to his engagement with her. Every possible indulgence
and pleasure which money could give, were hers; and in such outward
attentions he even seemed occupied about her. The horse she rode at
Arlingford, although formerly his favourite hunter, was now considered
as entirely hers, and without her even expressing a wish on the subject,
had been brought to town for her exclusive use; he had himself secured a
box at the opera for her, after having ascertained in what part of the
house she would prefer it; and, on their first arrival in town, he had
again repeated his desire, that she should ask any and every one she
liked to the house. In short, she was again and again enjoined to
consult only her own happiness and enjoyment in every thing: kind words
in the mouth of any other husband; but, producing the painful conviction
of her loneliness, they brought but tears into Emmeline’s eyes, when
hastily pronounced by Fitzhenry, with his hand on the lock of the door,
in order that he might leave her the instant they were uttered, and so
escape the possibility of thanks or comment.
Wishing, however, to show that she was sensible of his intended
kindness, in the liberty he gave, and with a last faint hope, that by
making his home agreeable, she might entice him to be more with her,
Emmeline determined to endeavour to collect society at her house. She
took a favourable moment to inform Fitzhenry of her intention, and of
the nights for which she had made the invitations. He seemed much to
approve of the plan, but said nothing as to his own attendance.
On the day appointed for the first party, Emmeline, as was generally now
the case, dined alone. During her solitary repast, she made firm
resolutions that she would act upon the advice Pelham had given her at
Arlingford—put that mask on her feelings which he recommended, and adopt
those manners of the world that he said Fitzhenry admired. Emmeline had
a sort of natural _tact_ on all such subjects; and, had she been in the
habit of doing the honours of her own house, during her whole life, she
could not have acquitted herself better. All were delighted with her,
and with the evening’s amusement. It was not till towards the close of
it, that Fitzhenry appeared. Long had poor Emmeline’s eyes anxiously
wandered toward the door, watching for his entrance; and when at last he
came, it was not without difficulty that she continued to perform her
gay part with spirit; but a momentary break in what she was saying—a
rapid beating of her heart, and the deepened colour in her cheek, alone
betrayed her agitation at his presence.
He came up to her; remarked how well the rooms were lighted;
complimented her on the disposal of the furniture—on her arrangement of
the flowers: and, in return, the poor hypocrite played her part well.
She carelessly asked his opinion as to the placing of the lamps and the
pianoforte. Even attempted at rallying him on his absence; and to all
appearance no two people could be on an easier footing.
The company were by this time beginning to clear away. As they
dispersed, Emmeline eagerly looked around for Fitzhenry. She thought he
had noticed her more than usual, and she determined to follow up this
little fancied success, by assuming a careless gaiety, which she
certainly did not feel, but which she sometimes believed she would do
well to adopt. When, therefore, she had performed her last act of
civility to her last guest, she hurried back to the spot where she had
left him. But he too had disappeared. Alone she paced the now silent,
empty rooms, lost in thought, and totally forgetful of the lateness of
the hour, until at length, the entrance of Reynolds rousing her from her
trance, she hastily retired into her own room—but not to sleep.—Various
thoughts agitated her mind: sometimes even hope, (albeit of late not a
usual visitor,) forced itself in: Fitzhenry had certainly smiled on her;
he had appeared pleased; had even seemed to take interest in her
attempt, and she determined to persevere.
Emmeline counted the days to her next party, as a school-girl does those
to her first ball; for, on its success she again built flattering
expectations for the future—expectations which perhaps to herself were
hardly to be defined. “But at all events, I shall certainly see him,”
she thought, as with most excuseable care and anxiety she endeavoured to
improve, to the best advantage, those personal attractions which nature
had bestowed upon her. But in vain she decked her hair with the freshest
flowers; in vain she listened for, and anxiously watched the result of,
each loud knock at her door. Every one she had asked, flew to her
invitation, (such is the power of novelty in London,) all but _him_ for
whom the whole had been prepared.
Disheartened and dispirited, poor Emmeline almost resolved on seeking
some pretext for putting off altogether her third entertainment; but a
good humoured word of recognition from her husband, as they met in the
lobby of the opera-house, the Tuesday before, again made her yield to
the natural buoyancy of her disposition; and Fitzhenry, having asked
Pelham and the Savilles to dine with him on the day appointed for her
party, his presence seemed thus secured. All now, therefore, appeared
propitious to Emmeline. Fitzhenry himself was, on that day, evidently
more disposed for cheerfulness than he had been of late; and the
smallness of their party at dinner, obliging them to more intercourse
than they had had for long, Emmeline gave way to the exhilaration of
spirits belonging to youth and hope, and, her cheeks again bright with
the flush of enjoyment, she bore her part in the conversation with
unusual liveliness. Emmeline was aware of this herself, and could not,
moreover, help indulging in the flattering idea, that even Fitzhenry had
(at least for that once) thought her agreeable. With a step made still
more light than usual by the innocent exultation of the moment, she
gaily bounded up to the drawing-room with Lady Saville, to make the
necessary preparations for the expected company. Knowing how much
Fitzhenry liked music, she had collected all the best Italian singers;
and, with her companion, Emmeline was still occupied in arranging the
lights and instruments, when Pelham and Sir George Saville joined them,
but not Fitzhenry. Coffee came; still he did not appear. Half fearful of
what she might learn, but not able to bear the suspense any longer, she
at length, with an anxious look, enquired whether he was gone out.
“Oh no!” replied Pelham; “he is only answering a letter which he has
just received; he will be here directly.”
A flash of her own bright smile instantly re-illumined her features; and
afterwards, in the middle of one of Camporese’s beautiful songs, it
glanced again over her countenance, for she saw Fitzhenry enter the
room, and, for an instant, caught his eyes fixed upon her. But the song
over, and after the general stir and bustle that usually follows, she
looked for him in vain. The crowd was now every minute thickening, and
with difficulty Emmeline forced herself to address to each those
common-place remarks which always equally weary those who make them, and
those to whom they are made. She restlessly went from room to room on
some excuse to herself as well as others, but her search was vain—he was
gone!
At once the bright scene totally changed! although the music was
beautiful, and the buzz of gaiety and happiness went round. Poor
Emmeline, alone in the scene of enjoyment which she had herself created,
was wretched. Gladly she at length saw her visitors depart, and the
rooms gradually become empty; for her spirits, which had been so
unusually excited, were totally exhausted, and her only object now was,
the conclusion of that evening to which she had looked with such bright
expectation. Lady Saville and Pelham remained the last.
“Well, my dear Lady Fitzhenry,” said the former, “I staid to the end
purposely to congratulate you on the full success of your _soirées_;
nothing could have gone off better than they have done; every one
declares that nobody understands the matter so well as Lady Fitzhenry. I
wonder where you learnt the art,” said she, as she looked, with a
complimentary smile, into Emmeline’s face. On that face, tears were
slowly, and almost unconsciously stealing down. “Good heavens! Lady
Fitzhenry!” exclaimed Lady Saville, “what is the matter?”
“Nothing,” said Emmeline, provoked at her weakness: “but however well I
may do the honours of my house, it is a fatigue to which I am new, and
perfectly unequal. I have had a bad headache all day; and I find the
trouble of being agreeable so much greater than the reward, that however
delightful my parties may be, I shall attempt them no more.”
Poor Emmeline spoke in the impatient tone of vexation and
disappointment—a tone so unusually heard from her lips, that Lady
Saville looked at her astonished.
“How very foolish!” she exclaimed, “when nothing of the sort, I am sure,
could succeed better, and when you ought to be so pleased and flattered
by the general pleasure you have produced. In your place, I should be
quite delighted; and then to give it all up merely because you happen at
this minute to feel a little tired and exhausted, particularly when you
seemed to enjoy it all so much yourself, as I am sure you did only an
hour ago. What is it that has gone wrong to make you change your mind so
suddenly?”
Emmeline only shook her head in reply; but encountering Pelham’s grave
look, it recalled to her mind his counsels, and brushing away her tears
with her hand, and forcing a smile, she said, as gaily as she could—
“Well, we need not discuss the matter at present. I will think about it;
but really, now, I must drive you away, and go to bed; for I am quite
knocked up; and you see fatigue has already made a fool of me, as I dare
say, if the truth was told, I cried like a child to think I had eaten my
cake, and that these delightful parties were over.”
Lady Saville, taking her hint, was preparing to depart, when Fitzhenry,
who, on returning home, had still seen some carriages in the street, and
therefore thought he could venture up stairs, entered the room. Lady
Saville immediately went up to him. “Oh, Lord Fitzhenry! do second me;
for I am trying to persuade your capricious, perverse wife, to give some
more parties; for she says they don’t repay her for the trouble; that
they exhaust her, and that she will have no more. Now have they not been
particularly agreeable? and does she not play the part of lady of the
revels to perfection?”
Emmeline, who, on her husband’s entrance, had walked to the further end
of the room, now began busying herself with a basket of flowers,
forgetting that she could no longer have any excuse for the employment.
As for Fitzhenry, he too seemed rather embarrassed by Lady Saville’s
direct questions; but soon recollecting himself—”I certainly think Lady
Fitzhenry would do very wrong to give up what seemed to give herself, as
well as every one else, so much pleasure.”
Emmeline bent over the flowers to hide her face, which was crimsoned
with pique and impatience, as she repeated to herself—”What gives _me_
so much _pleasure!_ and that is all I have gained by my last attempt,
still more to deceive him as to my real character, and real feelings. He
thinks I am to be satisfied with all this noise and empty show of
enjoyment; and that it will make up to the worldly fool, the insensible
child, for the want of happiness!”
Lady Saville returned to her charge, begging Emmeline would at once name
a day, and that she would again endeavour to secure Camporese for her.
Forced to answer, and no longer able even to pretend occupation with the
flowers, she hastily composed herself; and, quietly saying she was too
tired then to think of the matter, held out her hand to Lady Saville,
wishing her good night.
The altered tone of Emmeline’s voice, since he had last heard it,
probably struck Fitzhenry, for he hastily raised his eyes towards her.
Her countenance, her manner, all was changed; the bright colour in her
cheeks was gone; the smile that had played round her mouth had vanished:
Pelham’s eyes too were fixed upon her, and Fitzhenry observed it. Again
he glanced at them both, and then for some minutes seemed totally lost
in thought, till Lady Saville, moving towards the door to go, and
wishing him good night, he was roused from his reverie; he offered her
his arm, and both he and Pelham went down stairs with her.
For a few minutes, Emmeline listened for Fitzhenry’s return—she almost
hoped he would enquire into the cause of what he might deem her ill
humour: in short, at that moment, she felt she should be glad of any
opening from him that could possibly bring matters to a crisis, however
painful that crisis might be; for she felt as if it was impossible to go
on enduring her present existence. But, after pacing the room for some
time in nervous anxiety, which increased on hearing a footstep on the
stairs, she was at length obliged to give up even that hope, as Reynolds
alone entered the room, and immediately after, she heard the door of
Fitzhenry’s apartment close.
Convinced that she had now done all she could; that she had battled with
her fate as much as possible; and, seeing that every exertion and
endeavour to please and win him, only seemed to cast her further from
him, she resolved to give over the vain struggle, and for her own sake,
at least, endeavour in reality to be the frivolous, heartless being he
thought her. And thus, in a sort of desperation, flying from herself,
and from a cheerless home, which only reminded her of her blighted youth
and hopes, she followed Lady Saville to every dissipation that was
proposed. The last, and apparently the gayest, at every amusement;
bright with false smiles and false colours; poor Emmeline endeavoured to
conceal, beneath excited spirits, an aching heart: but the labour was
such, that it allowed of no respite. One day left to herself, her own
sad reflections again rushed back, and with increased acuteness—all her
disappointed, withered feelings, the suffering present, and the
cheerless future, pressed upon her soul. To pause in the mad career of
dissipation was therefore impossible. She danced, she laughed, she
talked. All shyness, all feeling even, seemed to have vanished, and her
eyes sparkled with that feverish dazzle, so unlike the bright sunshine
of happiness, but so often mistaken for it by a thoughtless,
uninterested observer. How falsely do those of the world mutually pass
sentence on each other! Meeting, perhaps, merely in the gay resorts of
fashion, each individual attributes to the other that worldliness and
frivolity which belongs to the scene, but which they apply to the
character—and how false such judgments are, those may declare, who by
peculiar circumstances, or duty of some sort, are drawn into such
amusements, when from natural disposition and taste they may be
particularly little suited to enjoy them.
Emmeline’s looks, health, even temper, all seemed to suffer from the
life she now led. Often, after an evening of apparent gaiety, on her
return home, she was so agitated, and so ill, that many a night it was
only by laudanum that she obtained rest. Jenkins repeatedly observed how
“My Lady” was changed; that she never now seemed to know her own mind;
that she would often dress for an evening’s amusement, and then, when
the time came, dismiss her carriage, and flinging herself, in all her
finery, on her bed, would cry bitterly; till, like a child, she fell
asleep from mere fatigue; and then, next morning, she would laugh at
what she called her nervous folly, and begin again her life of hurry and
laborious amusement.
But poor Emmeline, made for better things, felt humbled at herself. Was
this the life that a rational, accountable, immortal being should lead?
Alas! was this the end of all those dreams of happiness which illume the
mind, and warm the heart of youth? Worn out in body and spirits,
Emmeline longed for Arlingford and quiet; and looked forward with
something like pleasure to Easter, when she concluded Fitzhenry would
propose going there.
Amid all those who now buzzed and fluttered around her, one friend
always followed her steps with interest, one friend she always met with
real pleasure. That friend was Pelham. Although he never, since the
conversation at Arlingford, had in the most distant manner alluded to
the estrangement between her and her husband, yet she could plainly
perceive, that he was well aware of their real situation; and she could
not help also observing, that, of late, Pelham and Fitzhenry were less
cordial together than formerly, although both seemed still anxious, when
they met, to carry on the farce of friendship. But Pelham came much less
often to their house than he used to do, and generally at those hours
when Fitzhenry was most likely to be from home. This Emmeline every way
regretted, she always had felt as if he was a link between them, and she
had even vaguely imagined that he might some day have been the means of
uniting them; and, besides the dispiriting conviction that thus, one by
one, every hope to which she clung gave way, she could not help feeling
painfully aware that it was Pelham’s partiality to her, which had
estranged her husband from him.
One evening at Almacks, Lady Saville, with whom she had gone, being
engaged dancing, Emmeline had sought a refuge from the heat and crowd in
the tea-room, and Pelham had followed her. Half serious, half jesting,
he was attacking her upon the life she now led, and upon the
impossibility of ever seeing her quietly, and the eternal hurry of
pleasure and spirits in which he always found her.
“Why I only do like others,” said Emmeline, with forced gaiety.
“Perhaps so,” replied Pelham. “But you are not like those others whom
you imitate and follow. I am sure that all this dissipation cannot
satisfy _your_ mind, cannot make _you_ happy.”
“_Perhaps_ not,” said Emmeline, her forced smile fading from her lips;
for _happiness_ was a word which always grated on her heart, and sounded
harsh in her ears.
“But what can I do?—_il faut hurler_ _avec les loups_,” added she, again
endeavouring to resume her gaiety.
“This assumed levity cannot take me in,” continued Pelham. “I am certain
it is impossible but that all this frivolity and fatigue must wear out
both your mind and body. How different you were at Arlingford! how
little you then seemed to anticipate pleasure from what you now enter
into so warmly!”
These were all home truths, which Emmeline could not answer, and she
merely stammered out, that she had now no choice.
“Indeed!” replied Pelham, warmly. “You wrong your friends when you say
that.”
“My friends?” repeated Emmeline, sadly, “I have no friends to——” and she
stopped short, her own words, rousing from the bottom of her heart
painful feelings, which she in vain endeavoured to smother by
dissipation; and which, by hiding them from others, she hoped to forget
herself. She averted her head from Pelham, and fixed her tearful eyes on
the ground.
Apparently fearful of going too far, Pelham was also silent; he looked
at her with melancholy interest; he could not help observing how greatly
she was altered, how much she had lost of the graceful roundness of her
form, and how evidently
“Concealment, like a worm in the bud,
Fed on her damask cheek.”
At that minute, Fitzhenry suddenly entered the room, and, hastily coming
up to Pelham, “I have been looking for you this half hour,” said he; “I
want to speak to you for a minute.”
Fitzhenry had spoken these words so quick that it was not till he ended,
that the preoccupied look of his auditor seemed to strike him; his eyes
glanced from him to Emmeline, and there remained fixed. His sudden
entrance had brought the blood into her face, but could not dispel from
it the traces of emotion which were very evident; and there was a
contrast between the expression of her countenance, the listless neglect
of her whole person, and the glittering trappings in which she was
attired, that must have struck and interested any one; and which
arrested her husband’s attention so forcibly, that Emmeline blushed
still deeper beneath his gaze.
This seemed to rouse him from the sort of dream in which he appeared to
be lost; and suddenly turning to Pelham, “I stopped at your house, and
there learnt you were here; I had no idea you ever honoured such places
with your presence when you could possibly help it.”
“Sometimes, when the spirit moves me,” answered Pelham, carelessly. “But
what is it you have to say to me?”
“I have a message to you from the Speaker, with whom I have been
dining,” said Fitzhenry, as if suddenly recollecting his errand, and he
drew Pelham aside for a minute. Emmeline then ventured to raise her eyes
upon her husband, and could not help, with a sort of melancholy pride,
comparing him to those around him, and exulting in his superiority of
look, air, and manner. When his conversation with Pelham was over, he
again turned towards Emmeline, and again his eyes were rivetted on her.
“You have left off dancing, I think, Lady Fitzhenry,” said he, as if he
thought it necessary to say something, and hardly knew what; “I thought
you had liked it. Pelham, do you ever dance now?”
“It is some time since I was guilty of any thing so frisky,” he replied.
“I should be afraid I might be thought not behaving myself with proper
diplomatic gravity; but as for Lady Fitzhenry, I must say that, in her,
it is pure laziness, and therefore most reprehensible, for I have myself
heard many a humble application made to her during this last half hour.”
“We take to ourselves the right to be fanciful and capricious, you
know,” said Emmeline, trying to smile.
“Yes, and caprice is sometimes the only thing women are steady to,”
replied Fitzhenry; while an expression of satirical displeasure seemed
to curl his handsome lip.
Emmeline felt she no way deserved that severe remark, and indeed hardly
thought he ever noticed her enough even to observe the faults she might
have. But in his manner, just then, he was altogether so unlike himself,
and had so much the appearance of offended ill humour, that she would
have thought something particularly disagreeable had just passed between
the two friends, except that she saw Pelham was, as indeed he was
always, perfectly mild and composed.
At that moment a very pretty woman, dressed in the height of Parisian
fashion, came into the room; and, after acknowledging Mr. Pelham with a
familiar bow, addressed Fitzhenry.
“How basely you have deserted me, and forgotten our engagement. I have
been looking for you every where. The waltz is nearly over.”
“Ten thousand pardons,” said Fitzhenry rather embarrassed: “I am quite
ashamed, but really I had entirely forgotten.”
“That does not mend the matter much,” answered she, laughing, and
glancing at Emmeline. “You have, I think, already forgotten your foreign
gallantry;” and, taking the arm he offered, they both went into the
dancing-room.
“Who is that?” said Emmeline eagerly, as she followed them with her
eyes.
“It is Mrs. Osterley,” replied Pelham. “She is a Vienna acquaintance of
ours, and just returned from abroad.”
Emmeline again breathed; but, complaining of the heat of the tea-room,
got up and went towards the door. Mr. Pelham smiled on her in compassion
as he drew her arm within his, and suffered her to lead him which way
she chose, and they soon found themselves among the crowd of waltzers.
Fitzhenry was then dancing with Mrs. Osterley, and when they stopped, it
was close by Emmeline; though an intervening waltzing pair, also pausing
in their giddy labours, hid her entirely from their view.
“Who was that you were talking to in the tea-room when I went to claim
you so inconsiderately?” said Mrs. Osterley to her partner.
“Don’t you know?” answered he, rather embarrassed by the question, or
rather by the manner in which it was put; “it was Lady Fitzhenry.”
“Lady Fitzhenry! your wife! you surprise me! what a very pretty woman
she is! I had heard her so differently described; she is an uncommonly
interesting looking person, _vraiment je vous en fais mon compliment_.”
Fitzhenry bowed; and Emmeline could see that the mantling blood had
tinged even his forehead.
“And from what I further heard,” continued his gay companion, looking
archly in his face, “I should have thought you were the last man to have
been detected in a flirtation with your wife; though really, now I have
seen her, I do not wonder she should have made you a little _volage_.”
“I had gone in search of Pelham,” said Fitzhenry, coldly, apparently
much disconcerted by her remark.
“Oh! is that the way of it?” retorted Mrs. Osterley laughing: “well, I
really cannot pity you; it is but fair play, for you richly deserve it.
But is Pelham really at last caught? Well, I shall be truly curious to
become acquainted with the piece of perfection who has had power to
overcome his impenetrable insensibility—pray do introduce me to _your
wife_.” And she again laughed more heartily than before.
Fitzhenry did not, as she seemed to have expected, join in the laugh;
and, with a smile of contempt, she added, “Surely _you_ don’t think it
incumbent upon you to play the English husband and be angry, for that
would be taking a very unnecessary degree of trouble, I should think.”
Luckily, Pelham’s attention had, during this conversation, been
attracted another way, so that Emmeline had gently withdrawn her arm,
and the crowd had soon divided them. Disgusted with Mrs. Osterley’s
levity, and fearful that Fitzhenry might perceive her, she drew back,
although she would have given much to have heard his answer. She soon
again saw them in the giddy round, and went to a seat which she observed
to be un-occupied.
She had not been there long, before Miss Selina Danvers flew up to her,
with ecstasy in her looks, and a perfect parterre of flowers in her
head, and seizing her hand vehemently, “Well, my dear Lady Fitzhenry,
here I am! actually at Almacks! and all owing to you, I am sure, I am
more obliged to you than I can express. What an enchanting place it is!
But only think how abominably those odious lady patronesses have
behaved! After all, mamma has no ticket! Did you ever hear any thing
like it? It is quite atrocious. I really thought I should have died with
anxiety when we came to Willis’s room this morning to hear our fate; and
my heart sank within me when I saw how full the street was of carriages,
for we got into a regular string just like a ball—so delightful! We were
there full an hour and a half waiting, but I am sure it was well worth
while, and I really believe I screamed with joy when I saw my ticket;
but, as I said before, there was none for mamma; so then we had to drive
all over the town to find a _chaperon_ for me to go with; at last we
went to Lady Coddrington, and only think! she had got one for herself,
and none for her daughter! Did you ever hear any thing so shocking! And
she was so cross and sulky about it at first, that she said she would
not go; but by abusing the lady patronesses, we got her into
good-humour, and she agreed to take me; but, between ourselves, she is a
very disagreeable _chaperon_; for out of spite, I suppose, because her
ugly daughter could not get a ticket, she won’t try and get me a
partner; and, odious woman, she came so late that the evening is already
more than half over. I suppose you know all the men here, Lady
Fitzhenry, don’t you?”
“Very few dancers,” said Emmeline, not feeling at all inclined to press
Selina on any of her acquaintance.
“Dear! there is Mr. Moore!” exclaimed the young lady, already in a
flutter of expectation; “and I do believe he is coming this way; and we
danced constantly together at Arlingford, you know.”
That was true; but dancing and diverting himself with the simple Selina
at Arlingford, and selecting her as his partner at Almacks, were two
very different things; and after making her a distant, chilling bow, Mr.
Moore sat down on the other side of Emmeline. Poor Selina’s countenance
fell. Moore went on talking, _sotto-voce_, to Emmeline, till Selina
could bear it no longer.
“Dear, Mr. Moore! how come you not to be dancing? I thought you liked it
of all things!”
“I may ask you the same question,” returned he.
“Oh no, perhaps nobody has asked me,” answered Selina, pettishly.
“That is quite impossible; I will not suppose any thing so disgraceful
to the taste and judgment of all the smart young gentlemen I see here,”
added he, carelessly, and then returned to his affectedly interesting
conversation with Emmeline, who listened apparently quite unworthy of
the honour conferred on her. Selina saw with mortification that nothing
was to be hoped from Mr. Moore. But just then, a foppishly dressed young
man, coming up and speaking to Emmeline, Selina’s spirits revived: she
touched her arm, whispering, “Who is that? could you introduce me to
him?” At first Emmeline paid no attention, but Selina’s pinches became
so urgent, that she at last was obliged to say: “Lord William Vernon,
will you allow me to introduce my friend, Miss Danvers, to you?”
For a minute, an expression of displeasure animated Lord William’s
unmeaning countenance: he made Selina a slight bow with his head, as he
took a hasty survey of her person; and after saying something very
uninteresting about the heat of the room, to Emmeline, and enlarging on
the merits of a newly purchased cabriolet-horse, to Moore, he walked
away.
Poor Selina bit her lip in vexation, and finding she did not thrive at
all in her present situation, jumped up to see what could be done with
her cross _chaperon_, whom she had spied in conversation with a
gentleman at the opposite side of the room.
“How in the name of wonder came Miss Danvers here?” exclaimed Moore, as
soon as she had left them—”what could possess the lady patronesses to
give her a ticket?”
“I applied for one for her,” answered Emmeline.
“I think that was rather a work of supererogation on your part,”
continued Moore. “You surely are not going to hamper yourself with that
girl: you soon frightened away Vernon, trembling for his newly acquired
dignity in the hierarchy of fashion; and I must give you notice, if you
take to introducing Miss Selina Danvers about, even you, even Lady
Fitzhenry, charming as she is, will be voted a bore. What business has
that sort of girl here? and how can she be so unreasonable as to expect
to be asked to dance? it is perfect nonsense—she had much better stick
to her Hampshire county ball; there she may play _un grand rôle_. Misses
are really sad nuisances in society, unless they sit quiet, and don’t
trouble one; so take my advice Lady Fitzhenry. Good-nature is quite
_mauvais ton_ in London—it is a bad style to take up, and will never do.
But it is impossible to sit still and moralize when Collinet is playing
that waltz so delightfully; will you take a turn or two with me?”
“I will resign the honour to Miss Danvers,” said Emmeline, laughing—”and
luckily she is just coming this way; so do the thing handsomely, and ask
the poor girl, for she knows nobody here, and is dying to dance.”
“Oh, if you are really serious, I am off,” said Moore, and hastily
seizing his hat, which he had hid under the seat in preparation for his
waltz with Lady Fitzhenry, he hurried away.
Although little inclined to merriment, Emmeline could not help
laughing—the smile on her countenance caught Pelham’s eye, and he came
up to her to enquire what had amused her. Emmeline told Selina’s sad
tale.
“Poor thing!” said Pelham. “But this is a new character Moore has taken
up, I think, for he set out much more wisely, with the determination to
enjoy every amusement that came in his way, professing openly a love for
dancing and gaiety of every kind: but fashion, or what is called, in its
slang, _being fine_, is so catching a disease that none can escape. It
has taken the place of the small-pox; and I think it would be a good
plan if we could be inoculated for it, so as to secure having it mildly,
and of the best sort. I don’t know how _you_ manage to be _what_ and
_where_ you are in the world without it; but pray don’t follow Moore’s
advice on the subject—let us have _one_ specimen of a good-natured
London fine lady. By the bye, I too have some advice to give you, which
is, not to make up to that Mrs. Osterley: she was reckoned at Vienna _a
tres mauvaise langue_, and was always making _tracasseries_. She has a
gay, and apparently an artless manner, which at first takes one in.
Fitzhenry never liked her, so you need not be acquainted with her; and I
should really counsel you to avoid her.”
There was little necessity to give Emmeline that caution: what she had
already heard, had not prepossessed her in Mrs. Osterley’s favour in any
way; but at that minute, the two people of whom they were talking came
up.
“Mrs. Osterley begs to be introduced to you, Lady Fitzhenry,” said her
husband, with an evident painful embarrassment of manner. Emmeline got
up, and returned the salutation, though with a coldness which she could
not overcome, but which did not seem at all to discompose the person to
whom it was addressed.
“As an old friend of Lord Fitzhenry’s,” continued Mrs. Osterley, “I feel
I have a right to claim acquaintance with you, and I trust you will
allow me to endeavour to improve it.” And she seated herself by
Emmeline, who again bowed in silence; for never before had she felt so
totally at a loss for some of those usual phrases which mean nothing,
but which fill up the awkward pause, apt to take place after a first
introduction; and Fitzhenry no way helped her. He appeared to be
completely discomposed; and, under pretence of seeing an acquaintance,
removed to a distance. Mrs. Osterley finding Emmeline did not speak,
continued:—
“It is so long since I have been in England, that I hardly know any one:
quite a new set and generation have started up; and my _English_
acquaintances are merely those whom I have known abroad—by the bye, Mr.
Pelham, are the Mostyns in town?”
“I believe they have left it,” said he, coldly.
“Of course you know them,” continued Mrs. Osterley to Emmeline—”Mr.
Mostyn is so particular a friend of Lord Fitzhenry’s.”
“No, I have never met them,” answered Emmeline, commanding her voice as
well as she could, though she felt her face was to a great degree
betraying her feelings.
“You surprise me,” continued her tormenter. “But I suppose you and my
friend Lord Fitzhenry have been ruralizing, and sentimentalizing alone
in the country, _à la mode Anglaise_, since your marriage, and I cannot
wonder at either of you preferring that to the most agreeable society,”
added she, with a complimentary smile. “After Easter, I suppose every
body will be in town; and I trust Lady Florence will then return among
the number, for I really feel quite in a strange country. I am now so
little used to the forms, and cold, stiff proprieties of English ways,
that, to tell the truth, I find London very dull and stupid, and was
really delighted to-night, when I saw Lord Fitzhenry, to talk over
delightful foreign days with him. Mr. Pelham, don’t you find English
society much changed for the worse? I think my country folks are
pleasanter any where than in their own land; for, here they directly put
on their native buckram again, and are so prodigiously good and proper,
that there is no living with them.”
“I can’t agree with you,” replied Pelham. “I am so stupid, as to like
them better at home: abroad, they are too apt to cast off some of the
restraints which the opinions of their own country oblige them to submit
to, without adopting those of the nations they visit. In short, the case
is the same with manners as with religion;—they cease to be protestants
without becoming catholics; and they take advantage of the usual laxity
of morals and principles of other countries, without acquiring that
outward decorum of manner, which at least prevents such conduct from
offending the innocent; without, in short, adopting that excusable
hypocrisy, which a French author so justly calls _l’hommage que le vice
rend à la vertu_, an English woman rarely ceases to be virtuous, without
becoming coarse; a foreigner may understand _le metier_ better, but my
own opinion is—that there are few of my countrywomen much the better for
a long residence on the continent.”
“The present company always excepted, of course,” said Mrs. Osterley,
bowing to him. “Mr. Pelham is no complimenter, as I dare say you find,
Lady Fitzhenry; for I believe you have the pleasure of being intimately
acquainted with him.”
Fortunately for Emmeline, a new waltz just then began; and Fitzhenry, to
make up for his former negligence, came again to claim Mrs. Osterley as
his partner, although seemingly against his will. As they went away
together, Emmeline heard her say to Fitzhenry—
“I am not sure I admire your Lady Fitzhenry so much on nearer view as I
did at first sight. She is terribly _English_; so cold and distant—and I
see already she dislikes me for being the reverse; _et que je n’ai pas
l’honneur de lui plaire_.”
What Fitzhenry replied, Emmeline did not hear; and, as it was now late,
and that she was wearied both in body and mind, she begged of Pelham to
ask for her carriage, desiring him to tell Lady Saville she would send
it back for her, if she had not ordered her own.
They crossed the room in silence: poor Emmeline taking one last look of
Fitzhenry, as he was still waltzing with Mrs. Osterley.
“That is a spiteful little devil,” said Pelham, who well knew whither
Emmeline’s eyes had wandered; “and I again advise you to keep clear of
her; she hates both Fitzhenry and me; for, the truth is, she tried to
turn both our heads alternately, and succeeded with neither: Fitzhenry
had too much good taste to be taken in by any thing so glaring.”
Emmeline made no comment, but sighed deeply. Her sigh was echoed by one
close to her; and, turning round, she saw poor Selina, cloaked up to her
ears, following her hard-hearted _chaperon_ down the stairs which she
had so lately mounted in such glee; the evening to which she had looked
forward so long, with so much ecstasy, already over—and having to her
been productive of nothing but mortification and disappointment.
“Good night, Lady Fitzhenry,” said she, sadly:—”for you see I am going:
but I am sure I don’t care; there is nobody here one knows, and though
it is a ball, nobody _will_ dance: it is the oddest thing I ever saw.
However, it is very well to come once, just to be able to say one has
been at Almacks, for that sounds well; but I declare I think it the
stupidest place I ever was at, and I wonder how people can make such a
fuss about it.”
The loud welcome cry of “Lady Fitzhenry’s carriage stops the way,”
prevented any more of Selina’s peevishness being heard, and Emmeline
returned to her solitary home. But harmless, unpresuming, and innocent
as she was, in absenting herself, she had left her character behind her;
and from that evening, (thanks to Mrs. Osterley,) all London talked of
and laughed at the decided _affair_ between Lady Fitzhenry and Mr.
Pelham; each narrator telling his own story, and inventing such facts as
each found wanting to render it plausible. Emmeline, however, lost
nothing in the good opinion of the fashionable world by this report,
which was treated, by some, as an excellent joke; by others, as a thing
of course; and many of those who thus carelessly discussed the matter,
and at once deprived poor Emmeline of her good name, might have ended
their remarks, if they had had honest consciences, with Lady Saville’s
first words of praise to Emmeline: “She is really quite on a par with
ourselves.”
END OF VOL I.
LONDON:
IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ERRATA TO VOL. I.
(See Transcriber’s Notes.)
Page 23, after _which_, dele _Mr. Benson_ (in some Copies.)
Page 43, for _the impression left was too strong on his mind_, read _the
impression left on his mind was too strong_.
Page 58, for _from your husband; and I should_, read _but I should_.
Page 75, for _the post leaves at one_, read _the post leaves this place
at one_.
Page 81, for _I dare say_, read _probably_.
Page 100, for _at her ease_, read _at ease_.
Page 106, for _nothing more to dread_, read _nothing more to fear_.
Page 107, for _Emmeline’s heart beat thick_, read _quick_.
Page 113, after _all the way_, dele _here_.
Page 145, after _two months_, insert _past_.
Page 155, after secure, _dele_ the comma.
Page 159, for _had entire_, read _had the entire_.
Page 161, for _rung_ read _rang_.
Page 169, for _would think_, read _will think_.
Page 169, for _would wear_, read _will wear_.
Page 187, for _handkerchief and when_, read _but when_.
Page 194, for _not pleased_, read _annoyed_.
Page 264, for _ndividual_, read _individual_.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
POPULAR NOVELS
JUST PUBLISHED BY
HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
* * * * *
1. FLIRTATION. Third Edition. In 3 vols. post 8vo. 1l. 11s. 6d.
“Flirtation” is not merely the title, but the prevailing genius of this
novel; as indeed it ought to be. The noble authoress follows her
subject, and never wanders from it; every incident is metamorphosed into
it. How redolent of flirtation is every chapter! What an entireness of
subject pervades every line! Flirtation on the part of men; flirtation
on the part of women; flirtation abroad; flirtation at home; flirtation
in low life, and in high life; flirtation among the single, and among
the married; private flirtation, and public flirtation; and many phases
more than we have room to enumerate of the same vice. If this picture
should fail in reforming the male coquets who indulge in it, we
entertain confident hopes that the fair will listen to her Ladyship’s
exhortations, and be taught to renounce so dangerous a pastime.”—NEW
MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
2. PELHAM; or, the ADVENTURES of a GENTLEMAN. 3 vols. post 8vo. 1l. 11s.
6d.
“A complete gentleman, who, according to Sir Fopling, ought to dress
well, dance well, fence well, have a genius for love-letters, and an
agreeable voice for a chamber.”—ETHERAGE.
3. AT HOME. By the Author of “ENGLISH FASHIONABLES ABROAD.” 3 vols. post
8vo. 1l. 11s. 6d.
4, ENGLISH FASHIONABLES ABROAD. In 3 vols. post 8vo. 1_l_. 11s. 6d.
“In the article of young ladies, unlike all other national manufactures,
our exports considerably exceed our imports. Gentlemen may travel to
study laws and politics, artists may travel to improve themselves, but
few girls leave their home, except on speculation.”—INTRODUCTION.
This text is amusingly illustrated and exemplified by the author of this
work, who has given some sketches of speculating aunts, flirting
daughters, and manœuvring mothers, that will startle some of our
fashionable Anglo-Italians.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ The Errata have been applied to this text.
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).