CHAPTER IV.
“Un siècle d’attente—un jour de bonheur.”
“Un siècle d’attente—un jour de bonheur.”
“Un siècle d’attente—un jour de bonheur.”
“Un siècle d’attente—un jour de bonheur.”
“Un siècle d’attente—un jour de bonheur.”
Tendays of the month passed, and still no intelligence of any sort about Lord Fitzhenry reached Charlton.
Emmeline saw his and Pelham’s name in the papers among those who had crossed the water to Calais; but she heard no more. This strange silence seemed to confirm her husband’s hostile determination with regard to her, and to fix her future fate. She uttered no complaint,shed no tears, was silent, and resigned, and appeared to be some figure wound up to perform the ordinary actions of life without taking any part in them, so still was her composure. But sometimes, when her mother looked at her, pressed her hand, or kissed her pale cheek, then, a momentary convulsive sob would escape from her oppressed bosom, and a solitary burning tear would steal down her face.
There is a dead pause in affliction which is dreadful. As long as we have to act, to exert ourselves, even though those exertions may be painful, still they are more bearable than sitting down quietly with grief, without any thing to look to. When day after day passes the same, and when at last from the samenessof our thoughts and feelings, even suffering has no longer power to affect us, our tears cease to flow, though the heart within is breaking.
The dreary desolation of her future existence, from which, appalled at the prospect, she at first shrunk with horror, now constantly occupied her, to the exclusion of every other thought, and of every ray of hope. A short twelve-month back, knowing no felicity beyond loving, and being beloved by her fond parents, she was at peace, and happy—now, new feelings, new powers of heart, unknown to herself before, had been awakened in her, and she hated herself when she felt—(and she could not help feeling it) that not all their kindness, all their partial affection,could soothe and occupy a heart whichlove, love for Fitzhenry had now so entirely engrossed. Love is a draught of so inebriating a quality, that it is long before one who has known its delirious power can (even when that delirium ceases) return satisfied to the sober feelings of friendship. The sun which had warmed and illumined life is set; and all other near and dear affections, are as the quiet cold rays of moonlight to the bereaved soul which shivers beneath their chilling influence.
How often when endeavouring to soothe those who are writhing under such sorrows, are the affections of parent and kindred offered as compensations. But such comfort, sickening the heart at its own ingratitude, onlyadds to its misery. Time alone, the sobering influence of years, can heal such wounds, or rather skin them over, for the scar remains, till at last it thickens and hardens, rendering it insensible to every impression; but is that happiness? When a sacred voice announced, that “a man shall leave father and mother, and cleave to his wife”—it plainly told how overwhelming such feelings were intended to be; and if allowed, nay, commanded in man, how much more in woman, whose existence is made up of the affections of the heart!
Poor Emmeline endeavoured to resume her usual occupations, but in vain. She tried to read—it was impossible; once or twice, in the wish to pass theheavy hours, she proposed reading aloud to her mother, as she had formerly done. Her lips mechanically uttered the words; but, at a pause, Mrs. Benson making some remark on the book, Emmeline startled at the sound of her voice—looked vacantly at her, apparently unconscious of what she alluded to. The mother, suppressing a sigh, endeavoured at some explanation, but seeing how hopeless was the attempt to fix her daughter’s mind on any subject, she quietly closed the book, saying, “Emmy, my love, we will continue that some other time, for I think reading hurts your eyes.”
Emmeline gave her a meanless, melancholy smile in answer, and sat in silence; her eyes fixed on the volume,as if even unconscious that their lecture was over. Lost as she was in thought, it would perhaps have been difficult for her to have told what those thoughts were, all was so vague; and on no one circumstance in her situation, could she rest her mind with expectation of any sort. Even religion could bring her little comfort. Had Fitzhenry, penitent towards heaven and herself, been taken from her by death, she would have found peace for her thoughts in piety. She could have said to her widowed heart—we shall meet again. But that way, Emmeline, shuddering, dared not look. Often too, she aggravated her distress by reproaching herself for having brought sorrow and melancholy to that home, which had been always hitherto one of contentand cheerfulness; and she sometimes thought it was her duty to leave it, and relieve her parents of her painful presence—but whither could she go? was Arlingford still her home? could she venture to return there?
Thus, day after day sadly passed without her being able to form any plan for herself or the future, till she was one morning roused from the state of stupor into which she had sunk, by Lord Arlingford being suddenly announced.
Since the marriage, for which both he and Mr. Benson had been so equally anxious, there had been little intercourse between them. Lord Arlingford having obtained his object, and secured Emmeline’s fortune, he was not particularlyanxious to keep up any thing like intimacy with Mr. Benson, whose honest, blunt vulgarity, did not at all suit the refined elegance of his own manners and habits.
Emmeline was with her mother alone when Lord Arlingford entered. She turned deadly pale; for, in a minute, a thousand apprehensions as to the possible purport of his visit occurred to her; and, hardly knowing in what manner to meet him, she remained in her place, with the feelings of a criminal awaiting the sentence of his judge. But such alarming fears were soon dissipated—his manner was more than usually kind—she was his “dear Emmeline, his pretty daughter.” He quite overcame Mrs. Benson with civilities, and was so very particular and anxious in his enquiries after Mr.Benson, and whether he could not have the pleasure of seeing him, that at last Emmeline thought it best to go and inform her father of his visit, hoping that Lord Arlingford’s conciliatory manner might pacify his justly indignant feelings. When she told him who was in the drawing-room with her mother,——
“I know it—I know it quite well child,” said he, impatiently; “you need not have come for me; why did you not say I was out, or busy, or sick? I am sure you may say the last with truth, for I am not half the man I used to be. I don’t want to see him; he is only come to try and palaver me over; and if I do go down to him, what in the world can we say to each other? Your marriage is the only thing we have talkedabout these last ten years, and the less now said of that the better, I am sure: and I am sore here,” said the good old citizen, seizing on his waistcoat, and rubbing it across his breast; “and I don’t want him to make matters worse. I wish his lordship had staid at home; for what the deuce can he be come here for?”
“For no unkind purpose, I am sure,” said Emmeline, wishing to pacify her father—“for his manner to me is more than usually affectionate. For my sake, dear father, come down to him, and be cordial to him,” said she, grasping his hand with fervency, while her imploring eyes, fixed on his face, spoke all the feelings of heart.
“You are a silly girl, Emmy,” said her father: “you have no proper pride.This abominable husband of yours has made a perfect fool of you; but go away to the drawing-room; say I will be down directly. Plague on him, he has turned me quite topsy-turvy.”
Emmeline returned to Lord Arlingford, and was happy to find him and her mother conversing on indifferent subjects. In nervous agitation, she seated herself by them, listening with painful anxiety for her father’s approach—while her eyes and ears were fixed on Lord Arlingford, eagerly watching for every look, every tone, that bore the slightest resemblance to his son. It is hard to say, whether there is most pain or pleasure in such recollections of a beloved object, but who can help catching at them? A glance, a word will sometimes make the heart startfrom a stupor of grief to which it had been reduced, and give it a passing sensation of something we, at the moment, mistake for happiness. So it was with Emmeline; and, lost in such thoughts, she sat gazing on the still handsome countenance of Lord Arlingford, till, hearing her father’s step, she hastily rose, and walked towards the window, to conceal her nervous apprehensions as to the result of their meeting.
Mr. Benson entered the room with a knit brow and both hands in his pockets; but Lord Arlingford’s decided resolution to meet him cordially, at last forced one hand out of its repulsive retreat.
“I am glad to find our Emmeline looking better than I expected,” said Lord Arlingford, a little at a loss for asubject to begin with—the coldness of Mr. Benson’s look and manner having rather disconcerted him. “I heard she had left town on account of her health, the heat having been too much for her.”
“I don’t know what your lordship expected,” said Mr. Benson, surlily, “but Lady Fitzhenry can scarcely look worse than she does.”
Lord Arlingford not seeming to heed the incivility of his answer, continued—“Ernest, too, did well to leave London, for he knocked himself up in the House of Commons. No constitution can stand it; and I was quite glad when I heard he had obtainedleaveofabsenceto take a little trip on the continent, with his friend Mr. Pelham,”—and Lord Arlingford glanced at Emmeline, with a lookwhich meant to express gallant pleasantry, but the anxiety which accompanied it, was very perceptible.
Mr. Benson cleared his throat—seemed beating the time of some tune on his knee, and, after a moment’s pause, said: “In my time, husbands and wives took those little trips together; but I presume that is no longer the fashion; at least, not at the west end of the town.”
Lord Arlingford made no reply—but, turning to Emmeline—“I suppose you can hardly have heard from our travellers yet; that lazy boy, Ernest, has not written to me one word since he went. Indeed, it was the newspapers that first informed me of his departure; but, in truth, I believe the wind has been directlycontrary for packets coming over. I never remember, at this time of the year, such a continuation of high winds; and those diplomatic people always travelventre à terre, in order, I suppose, to give a vast opinion of their importance; so we must not be too severe on Fitzhenry.”
Emmeline tried to speak; her nervous lips moved, but not a word could she articulate; and her mother, wishing to change the subject, made some remarks on the freshness and beauty of the country.
“Yes, indeed it is particularly beautiful just now,” said Arlingford; “and I do wonder how people can remain in town as they do; however, numbers have followed our wise example, and I thought the streets looked very dull and emptyto-day, as I passed through. I suppose, Lady Fitzhenry, you have no thoughts of returning to Grosvenor-Street, while Ernest is away. I dare say he would not trust you in the gay world of London without him,” added he laughing.
Emmeline, without raising her eyes from the carpet, on which they had been fixed, replied, that she meant to remain at Charlton some time longer.
There was a dead pause. Poor Mrs. Benson was painfully occupied in observing her daughter; and Mr. Benson seemed resolved on avoiding every thing like advances to his visitor, who, at last, was again forced to start a new subject. Taking, therefore, a desperate resolution to come at once to the point, and ascertain how matters were likely to be betweenhim and the Benson family, or rather, between his son and daughter-in-law, he said, “the principal object of my visit to-day, was to try and persuade you all three to come and pay me a visit at Wimbledon. I am now quite alone, and it would really be a charity”—and he addressed himself particularly to Mr. Benson.
“You know I am a man of business, my lord,” said he dryly—“my time is little at my own disposal. I cannot at present absent myself from home; and as for Emmeline, I do not think she is just now in a state to make any visits.”
“But, coming to me,” rejoined Lord Arlingford, with most determined civility and good humour, “would only be exchanging one home for another. Mydear Emmeline, will you not indulge me?”
Emmeline made some answer, but her words were unintelligible. She saw, every minute, that Mr. Benson’s temper was rising, and she shook from head to foot.
“Well, you will think of it, and let me know when you feel inclined to come,” said Lord Arlingford, seeing it was useless to endeavour to press the matter any further—“and, perhaps, if we put it off a little, Mr. and Mrs. Benson will be able to accompany you.”
Mr. Benson made no answer; he had left his seat, and was restlessly fidgeting about the room. “So it shall remain that you write to me, and name your own day,” added Lord Arlingford, rising.
“Yes, your lordship will shortly hear from me,” said Mr. Benson, with a meaning, in his tone and manner, that Emmeline understood but too well; and, unasked, he rung the bell.
“Well, God bless you, my fair Emmeline,” said Lord Arlingford, kissing her on both cheeks, with a sort of flirting gallantry of manner that was so habitual to him, that neither age nor the infirmities of sickness had altered it, and which he maintained even with his daughter-in-law. “Make haste and recover the roses which, I must confess, the dissipation of London has a littleflétri, that Ernest may find you in bloom and beauty on his return; and we must mutually let each other know when we hear from him; I am the most interested in thebargain, as I think we can guess who will have the first intelligence.”
Again Lord Arlingford forced Mr. Benson’s reluctant hand into his, and overcoming Mrs. Benson with civil speeches, went to his carriage. Mr. Benson constrained himself so far as to accompany his visitor to the hall-door.
“By the bye, my dear Benson,” said Lord Arlingford, stepping back just as he was entering the carriage, “when you do come, you shall find my horses to meet you in London, for it is too far to come the whole way with your own, and mine have positively nothing to do, so that it will be a kindness to give them a little exercise.”
“Your lordship is very kind,” said the banker, with an expression of irony, andill concealed, offended pride on his countenance, “wheneverI do visit you, I will certainly claim your obliging offer.”
After Lord Arlingford had driven off, all remained for some time silent; at length Mr. Benson muttered to himself, “I see through it all—I am not the fool he takes me for—I am not to be coaxed by a few civil speeches from a lord into mean forbearance. A fortnight more, and I shall most assuredly visit his lordship, and he shall see whom he has to deal with.You, Emmeline, I dare say, would wish to go and curry favour with him, that he may speak a word in your favour to his precious son, and you may, if you please; but I’ll be d—d if I do, till it is to tell him a bit of my mind, and inform him, in pretty plain terms, that you andyour husband are two, and that the law will give us redress.”
And so saying, Mr. Benson left the room more irritated in temper than Emmeline had ever seen him. Her head fell on her hands, and her long-stifled feelings burst forth.
“Bear up, dearest Emmy,” said her mother, endeavouring to soothe her; “surely this visit of Lord Arlingford’s must, in many ways, give you comfort. He never would have come unless he had known that all was likely soon to be explained, and to end well between you and your husband.”
Emmeline shook her head. “You don’t know them as I do. No two beings can be so different, can act on such different motives, as Lord Arlingford and——Fitzhenry.”At that name, that beloved name, for the first time for long uttered by herself, she sobbed as if her heart would break. “And then my father,” she continued, “he terrifies me. Oh! that he could, that he would for my sake, be more patient, more conciliatory! He talks, too, always of pride, and forgets that one can have none where one loves as I do. Oh! if I could but seehimonce again!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands, “I believe I could on my knees entreat of him to be kind to me, to love me—I am so very miserable; and yet when I was with him, when I saw him every day, I was cold and repulsive, I know I was; I believe I was the most to blame. I dare say I could have won upon his kindness had I acteddifferently; for he is so kind to every body, every thing—but me. It must have been all my fault.”
Thus did poor Emmeline comfort herself by voluntary self-accusation, rather than impute blame to him she worshipped.
After the agitation occasioned by Lord Arlingford’s visit had subsided, the family-party at Charlton returned to their former melancholy composure. Day after day still passed, and no letter came; no intelligence reached them. Every ray of hope now vanished; all intercourse between Emmeline and the being on whom her existence hung, seemed now at an end for ever. Her father never alluded to the subject; but she had every reason to think that he still kept to his resolution of demanding an explanation; andindeed their formal and total separation seemed now almost unavoidable. Even Pelham, her best friend, seemed to have forgotten her; and thus deserted, the few past months of her life, during which all the feelings of her heart had been roused, and a new existence had been opened to her, seemed a dream of delirium. All had vanished. Apparently also neglected by that gay world which so lately courted her with all its most intoxicating blandishments, the admired, flattered Lady Fitzhenry, had again sunk into Emmeline Benson, and was living in all the retired concealment of guilt, without one fault, one folly to be laid to her charge.
Perhaps some of her fashionable friends when they chanced to drive throughGrosvenor-street, and when their attention was attracted by the closed windows of Lord Fitzhenry’s house, at that season of the year when every open London balcony is gay with dear-bought sooty flowers, might, as they cast up their eyes on the deserted habitation, wonder what had become of its inmates, and what might be the most like truth of the many stories which were for some days circulated about them.
But after those few days, the daily business of amusement, and some new tale of scandal, soon superseded that of the Fitzhenrys; their vacated places were soon filled up at those meetings of pleasure to which they had been invited; andhewas allowed quietly to prosecute his journey on the Continent, andshetodrag on her melancholy existence within nine miles of all her former associates, unmolested and unthought of. Who then would sacrifice happiness or comfort to the opinion of the world? Often the sacrifice of a whole life to the idle talk of a day!
One evening, when the Benson family were as usual sitting together in mournful silence, which was only at times broken by some forced remark from Mrs. Benson, as she sat dismally at her work, her husband having had recourse to his usual amusement, the newspapers, the latter looking suddenly towards Emmeline, said: “At last I see the abominable west wind has changed, and has allowed vessels to get across the Channel: no less than four French mails are due.Emmy, dear girl, cheer up,” added he, patting her cheek as he spoke; “there is no saying what news these mails may bring, for I dreamt last night——”
Mr. Benson was here interrupted in his intended story by a loud ringing at the door-bell; he started up and hurried out of the room. No one spoke, but all had the same idea—all fancied it could only be Lord Fitzhenry. Mrs. Benson laid down her work, and moved towards the hall. Emmeline alone sat immoveable. Her father was at the house-door, and opened it before any servant could reach it. She heard the trampling of a horse on the threshold—heard a voice in brief communication with him. A footstep approached the room—she fixed her eyes wildly on the door, scarcely ableto breathe. But again she had to endure the torture of disappointment—Mr. Benson entered alone, with a letter in his hand, brought, he said, by a man on horseback, who had orders to deliver it with all speed. The letter was for Emmeline, and the direction was in Pelham’s hand-writing. She hastily broke the seal, and while every pulse in her heart and in her head throbbed, she read these words:
“You would have heard from us before, but Fitzhenry has been ill—indeed is so still. We are here at Paris delayed on our journey. If you could, (I need hardly add, if you would,) I should wish you to set off immediately, on receiving this, to join us. Trust me, I would urgenothing that I was not certain was for your and your husband’smutualgood. At Dover you will find a vessel ready to bring you over, and my own courier to accompany you, who will prevent all delays and difficulties. Lose no time. Fitzhenry has had a most violent and alarming fever; but to-day, I think, there is some decided amendment—the medical people now are sanguine. God bless you.“G. Pelham.”
“You would have heard from us before, but Fitzhenry has been ill—indeed is so still. We are here at Paris delayed on our journey. If you could, (I need hardly add, if you would,) I should wish you to set off immediately, on receiving this, to join us. Trust me, I would urgenothing that I was not certain was for your and your husband’smutualgood. At Dover you will find a vessel ready to bring you over, and my own courier to accompany you, who will prevent all delays and difficulties. Lose no time. Fitzhenry has had a most violent and alarming fever; but to-day, I think, there is some decided amendment—the medical people now are sanguine. God bless you.
“G. Pelham.”
Emmeline held out the letter to her father, while her full heart relieved itself by tears; when he had read it, without looking at her, he said: “Well, how do you mean to act?”
“How!” said Emmeline, breathless with agitation, “why set off directly.”
“I don’t know that I shall agree to that,” answered Mr. Benson, with the same forcedsang froid. “In this business you are not fit to judge for yourself, and I must consider for you.”
Emmeline grasped her father’s arm, endeavouring to catch his averted eyes: “Dear father! I think you have never yet had reason to doubt my obedience to your will, so you must now forgive me for saying, that no power on earth shall prevent my going to my husband. My only chance for happiness in this world, duty, every thing, in short, calls me to him. Do not, I entreat, forbid me, for I could not obey you.”
“But,” rejoined Mr. Benson, rather impatiently, “it is not your husband that sends for you. Mr. Pelham does not even say that he knows of his writing to you; and I am sure he would make the very best of the matter, for he seems to be a kind, friendly sort of man.”
“Indeed he is,” answered Emmeline; “and indeed I can trust to him. He would not have written for me had he not been sure it washiswish. Dearest father, I must, I will set off directly; and do not let me go with the pain of your displeasure.”
Mrs. Benson joined her arguments to Emmeline’s entreaties, bringing in, with excusable artifice, something about the duty and devotion of a wife, till, at last,Mr. Benson seemed somewhat moved; and a glance which he caught of Emmeline’s face, crimsoned with agitation and animated with painful anxiety, completely overcoming his intended firmness, he opened his arms to his trembling daughter: “Well, well, you women always get the better, always make fools of us men. The truth is, I am heartily tired of your dismal face, Emmy, and of all this weeping and wailing—that is the truth of it; so e’en take your own way, so that we may be all happy again. But I can tell you, positively you shall not go alone, child; at all events, Iwillgo with you to Dover.”
“But directly, dear father—no delay—the happiness or misery of my life maydepend on an hour—now, this very night, let me set off.”
“Oh! as for that, I am always for dispatch, you know. If a thing is to be done, let it be done directly, that is my saying. There is no fear of John Benson dawdling.”
And the good-hearted old man, rubbing his hands, hurried out of the room to give the necessary orders.
In an instant, all was bustle in the house. Mr. Benson himself paced away to the stables to hasten the harnessing of the horses; and Emmeline, a few minutes before inanimate and almost lifeless, now, with a flushed cheek, restlessly paced the hall and drawing-room, impatient at every moment’s delay. She hardly knew whether she had most causefor dread or hope from the contents of Mr. Pelham’s letter. Fitzhenry was ill—plainly very ill; and, as her father said, it was not even hinted that it was by his desire she had been summoned; but still she thought she could trust to that kind, considerate friend; and the idea, the delightful idea, that in a few days she would again behold Fitzhenry, got the better of every other thought.
While Emmeline was thus counting every second till the carriage came to the door, Mrs. Benson busied herself in those necessary preparations for the journey, which her pre-occupied daughter never thought of. At last, by midnight, all was ready; and followed by the blessings and good wishes of her mother,Emmeline set off with her father for Dover.
“I shall come back to you, perhaps, the happiest of human beings,” said she, as she returned Mrs. Benson’s fond embrace—“perhaps——” She had not courage to finish the sentence.
“Foolish girl!” said her father, as he helped her into the carriage; “no more whimpering. Now shut the door; bid the man drive on: and you, Mrs. Benson, my good woman, do you go away to your bed. Pretty wild doings these! This comes of connecting oneself with quality!”
The horses set off; and the rapidity with which they went, the feeling that she was hurrying to the object of all her wishes, and the fresh air of a fine summer’snight, all helped to compose and revive poor Emmeline; so that, at Dover, Mr. Benson, with a lightened heart, resigned her to the care of Mr. Pelham’s courier, whom they found there waiting her orders. Her father offered himself to go on with her to Paris; but that she for many reasons declined; and at last he consented to return to Charlton. He first of all, however, went with her down to the beach, saw her safe into the boat that was to convey her to the vessel, and, from the pier, watched its white sails as long as he could, with his glass, distinguish his daughter on the deck, waving her many a farewell with his handkerchief. At last, his dear Emmy became a speck, and vanished. The good man, then, brushing away a tearfrom his eye, and ejaculating to himself a benediction on his darling, returned alone to the inn, and resumed his journey homewards.