CHAPTER VI.
——Whilst I rememberThee, and thy virtues, I cannot forgetMy blemishes in them; and so still think ofThe wrong I did myself.Winter’s Tale.
——Whilst I rememberThee, and thy virtues, I cannot forgetMy blemishes in them; and so still think ofThe wrong I did myself.Winter’s Tale.
——Whilst I rememberThee, and thy virtues, I cannot forgetMy blemishes in them; and so still think ofThe wrong I did myself.Winter’s Tale.
——Whilst I rememberThee, and thy virtues, I cannot forgetMy blemishes in them; and so still think ofThe wrong I did myself.
——Whilst I remember
Thee, and thy virtues, I cannot forget
My blemishes in them; and so still think of
The wrong I did myself.
Winter’s Tale.
Winter’s Tale.
A fewdays after the scene recorded in the last chapter, when Fitzhenry appeared better than he had yet done since his illness, and that he had even some of his own natural and playful cheerfulness, “Lady Fitzhenry,” said he, with a smile, “how long is it since you haveliked me—lovedme?” added he faintly, colouring.
Emmeline coloured too. “Oh! I can’t remember,” said she; “I tried to hate you, for I felt it my duty to myself to do so; but somehow, from the very first, I could not.”
“How strange!” continued Fitzhenry; “I should not have thought I could have been so very blind and stupid. Our sex is pretty clear-sighted where our vanity is concerned; but I suppose I was so conscious that I deserved to be hated by you, that I convinced myself I was so; and every, even the slightest occurrence, confirmed me more and more in this opinion. Perhaps too I felt (at first at least) that it was an ease to my conscience to think you disliked me, trying to persuade myself in that manner thatwe were quits. Pelham, when he came to Arlingford, soon saw how things were, and took me to task—he had known me long; known all my history.”
Fitzhenry paused: at length, resuming in a lower, graver tone—“Emmeline! my wife!” said he, “I must ease my mind by confessing all to you. I have loved—madly loved—it was a delirium, an intoxication, an infatuation—but on my honour, before God!” and he fervently clasped his hands together—“before God, I swear it is over. My esteem, my admiration, all is now, indeed has long been, yours.”
Fitzhenry had left out the word love; and Emmeline missed it. She turned away her face from her husband, but not so quick as to prevent his observing the change in her countenance; and, drawingher towards him, he (smiling) added, “And my love too.” Still Emmeline kept her eyes averted. “Listen to my story,” said Fitzhenry, “and then you will believe me. I need not tell you in what a pretty humour I was married. Good God! when I recollect the state of mind in which I was—that dreadful day—I really now wonder how I got through it all as well as I did.
“I resolved on civil indifference towards you; and, at the beginning, it was easy enough to keep to my resolution, although from the first, your conduct astonished, and consequently interested me. I expected reproaches, sullenness, or childish repinings, and complaint, but found sweetness, good sense, and delicacy. Emmeline! I could swear that you never in your lifesuffered as I did that morning after our marriage, when I had to encounter you in the breakfast-room. You held out your hand to me—there was a smile on your face, that went to my heart as a dagger. That day however over, my thoughts and feelings returned into their former channel, and I was so entirely engrossed by them, that my remorse died away. I persuaded myself I behaved vastly well to you, and that you thoroughly deserved that fate which you had brought on yourself. The civil indifference which I determined to maintain in my conduct towards you, soon, however, became difficult to pursue. There was sometimes an archness in your smiles—in your look and manner—an appearance of reading my thoughts, and laughing at the awkward situationin which I had placed myself, that piqued me, and made me almost in awe of you. I was often, too, I am ashamed to say it, provoked with you for your patient good humour, for not seeming to feel my abominable conduct towards you more. But, at others, I foundyouwhom I had resolved to disregard—to dislike—to my surprise, I found you (forgive the seeming impertinence of the expression) a most intelligent, conversible companion; and more than once I caught myself owning how agreeable you were.
“But, although such thoughts at times occupied me, still my affections were so strongly engaged—my whole soul so enthralled by mad passion, that they were but passing thoughts; the impression, as yet, was not deep. I then left home for some time, and returned to you with allmy old feelings strengthened. I had renewed all my vows of constancy, of fidelity to another, perfectly regardless of the solemn, sacred engagement, into which I had entered with you—(profligate, unprincipled villain that I was!) Wishing to avoid, in future, the possibility of atête-à-têtewith you, I had invited several friends to meet me at Arlingford, on my return there. I thought that by that means, we might avoid even the common intimacy produced by living under the same roof, and meeting daily, as I flattered myself that you would be lost in the mass. But that plan failed. I heard your name, your praises, from every one, and every where. Your voice always attracted my attention, and the very resolution to slight, and dislike you, made me constantly occupied about you.
“Among the party then at Arlingford, you remember, was Pelham. He had come to England, on purpose to see me, and to make your acquaintance. Knowing my former history, he had, as a true friend, rejoiced at my marriage, for I had basely concealed from him the circumstances that had attended it, fearing his strict integrity; but, when living with us, it was impossible for him long to remain ignorant of our real situation. I was forced to confess all to him; and he did not spare me. He persecuted me eternally with your perfections. I allowed that you possessed sense, acquirements, gentleness, most pleasing manners; but I insisted upon your total want of feeling, on your having no heart; and I brought, as proofs of my assertions, your apparent perfect contentment under circumstancesthat would have roused the anger, if not broken the heart, of any woman who had a particle of sensibility. Even on that point he would not give way; and, one evening, while the whole party were busily employed in dancing, and you were engaged at the piano-forte, we were discussing the subject pretty warmly, (something that had passed having given rise to it,) and Pelham was maintaining you wereevenmuchattachedtome; when a break in the music, a sudden burst of voices, and your name often repeated, made me turn round, and I beheld you in apparent gaiety of heart, waltzing joyously by yourself—‘Look there,’ said I to Pelham, (with the true selfish pride and impertinence of man,) ‘look at the sentimental girl, who is dying for love of me.’
“Pelham stared at you in astonishment. He was silenced; for, at that moment, I am sure he read you as little aright as myself. As for me, I at first looked at you in scorn; but other feelings soon succeeded. You were, at that minute, perfectly beautiful; there was a look of wild enjoyment, a brilliancy in your complexion, a grace in your person, that fixed my attention, and, in spite of myself, forced my admiration. I had never seen any one, (anybut one,) waltz so well: at that moment, I almost thought I had never seen any one so lovely. The truth was, I seldom before had ever looked at you attentively, for I feared to encounter your eyes, and somehow they always instantly seemed to know when mine were directed towards you.
“For an instant, I was lost in admiration, as I followed your light form round the room; so I suppose was Pelham, for our argument seemed totally forgotten by us both. Suddenly you came up to me, and seized my arm. Had the marble statue left its pedestal, and done the same, I could scarcely have started more violently beneath its grasp. I was altogether so thrown off my guard, that I hardly knew what to say or do. Your conduct surprised, (I must own,) even disgusted me; I thought it was no subject for ajoke, and that there was a want of delicacy in thus braving me. You may remember I was made to waltz with you.”
Emmeline’s deep crimson showed she remembered it well.
Fitzhenry pressed her hand, which heheld still more closely, and continued—“It seemed to me to be all a concerted plan to torment me; my momentary trance of admiration was dispelled, and was succeeded by feelings very opposite. You then appeared to me to endeavour, by old and hacknied arts of coquetry, to attract my attention: you fell almost entirely into my arms; you laid your head on my shoulder, and complained of faintness. I cannot describe the strange mixture of feelings which at that moment took possession of me—for though, even then I fancied I disliked you, yet, I verily believe regret and disappointment were uppermost on discovering (as I thought I then did) the common-place, artful nature of your character. To extricate myself from you was, however, my first object; and, underpretext of gallant attention, I directly left the room to procure a glass of water.
“In truth, your indisposition was evidently not feigned, for you were as pale as death; but in my vexation I would not own that even to myself. I was in a devil of a humour all that evening. The next day Moore made that foolish piece of work about the brooch, (which circumstance, by the bye, I still don’t comprehend); however, I know well that I wrote you someimpertinence. What, I don’t recollect, and I suspect I had better not remember. It seemed to me that you and Moore were in a league to plague and provoke me; and I hated you both most cordially. I felt it was impossible to go on in this way; and, to put an end to the whole thing, I pretended sudden and violent zeal for the welfare of mycountry, and announced my intention to go early to town, to attend parliament. But it was not politics which took me there; nor did I, as I believe I basely let you imagine, pass my days and nights in the House of Commons.
“But my conscience was perfectly at rest, for your conduct then seemed to sanction mine. You plunged madly into dissipation, and for days together, although living under the same roof, we often did not meet. I believe I again gave a sigh when I thought how I had been mistaken in your character, for I had fancied there was, at least, nothing of frivolity in it, and had frequently been forced to confess to myself, that had I been free, and to choose one who would have suited me as a wife, (barring your supposed want of feelingand tenderness of nature,) I should have chosen you. On the whole, however, I rejoiced at your apparent levity of disposition. I felt as if I thus regained my liberty, and that your follies excused my faults. It seemed to me that it was by mutual consent that we then each went our own way. But mine was no longer one of pleasantness. I felt—and yet the feeling was pain—I felt I did not love as I had done. I saw her as she was, wanting all that beauty of innocence, of virtue, which you so eminently possessed; but, still infatuated, I sought her society although the charm was gone.
“We had not been long in town, however, before a strange madness came over me. I hardly know how, or when it began. You had general success——wereuniversally admired; but I fancied thatPelham in particular admired you; and, when once that thought had taken possession of my mind, every trifling circumstance gave it additional certainty; till one night, at Almacks, I surprised you together in such earnest conversation, and in such evident emotion, that I had no longer a doubt left on the subject. Although I had voluntarily rejected your affections, and repulsed you from me, yet I could not bear that another should awaken feelings which I had tried to persuade myself you did not possess. I really believe I was vain and ridiculous enough to want you to love me, when I had no intention of returning the partiality, and certainly made no attempt to inspire it. I had soughtPelham that evening, having something of consequence to say to him; but when I saw you, I totally forgot my errand. I looked at you stedfastly, to try and read your heart. You blushed deeply. How can I own my folly, my perverseness, my inconsistency! I gazed on you in jealousy! for I then saw and acknowledged your attractions: I saw that your smiles, your gaiety, your bloom was gone. I saw that some secret sorrow had changed the character of your countenance, had altered the whole tone of your mind, and of your manners. But, every way totally deceived, I never once dreamt I was the cause of that sorrow.
“At Easter, I would not go to Arlingford, for if I had, there could have been no reason why you, why Pelham, shouldnot have accompanied me, and I did not feel that I could have stood the trial. So I went to Mostyn Hall; but, on my honour, it was more to avoid you, and Pelham, than to seek her; for all was there changed. Suspicion and discontent now poisoned our intercourse; and when I called to mind your gentleness, your femininehomeperfections, she fell still lower in the comparison. I was then summoned home on account of poor Reynolds’s illness; she ridiculed my feelings for him; but, for the first time, I disregarded her raillery, I resisted her allurements, and set off directly for Arlingford. You may imagine what was the effect produced on my mind, when on opening the door of the invalid’s room, I beheld you kneeling by the bed of my old servant. I had no idea you were atArlingford. I had left you apparently engrossed by the world and its dissipation. Indeed, according to the suspicions of my jealous fancy, by still more powerful attractions, and could hardly believe my senses. Oh! how my heart at that minute smote me for my hasty and seemingly unjust judgment of you.
“Poor Reynolds, you may remember, joined our hands; an unaccountable fear, shyness, I know not what, came over me. I had not courage to retain your hand when you withdrew it from mine; I felt you were a being too pure, too good for me; and I allowed you to fly from me. Reynolds talked to me much about you—told me long stories about your goodness, your affection for me—about having found you gazing onmy picture, and I know not what; but I fancied his mind began to wander; that I could not trust to what he said; in short, I would not be convinced, although I wished it. But still his exhortations, the awfulness of the scene, and my own accusing conscience, all combined to work on my feelings; and I resolved, the first moment I could, to leave him to go to you, seek an explanation, and implore your forgiveness.
“When I reached your door for that purpose, my heart beat with various contending feelings. I hardly knew what I said; I longed to fall at your feet, to ask you to forgive and love me. A word, a look of kindness on your part would then have fixed our fate—one smile, and I should have caught you to my heart——beenyours for ever. But I found you cold, distant, and for the first time, since I had known you, even irritated and repulsive. There were traces of tears on your face, which you endeavoured to hide from me; your whole manner betrayed emotion and feelings, which you wished to conceal. I saw then, as I thought, but too plainly, how it was—all combined to deceive me. Mrs. Osterley’s thoughtless hints came to my mind, and confirmed me in my suppositions. I fancied that the case was hopeless. My pride then closed both my heart, and lips, and I would not confess to you feelings which I was convinced you could not now return.
“As I was leaving you, by accident your hair—one of these beautiful longringlets—got entangled on the button of my coat sleeve. Had you been forced to touch a serpent, you could not have recoiled from it with more horror than you did from me. Do you remember all that Lady Fitzhenry? and pray how do you explain your conduct?” said he, smiling.
“In the whole of your supposed love-story, for ‘Pelham’ read ‘Ernest,’” answered Emmeline, in a low voice, as she hid her face on his shoulder, “and all will be fully explained.”
“What a pity it was, that we were both so proud or so stupid!” continued Fitzhenry, sighing deeply as he gazed on her in tenderness: “I was both, and left you in anger; although, I confess, I had little right to take the matterup in that manner. The next day, provoked with you, with myself, miserable every way, I would not attempt to detain you at Arlingford, though I ardently wished it; I only read impatience to return to Pelham in your resolved departure, and would not for the world have allowed you to think I wished you to remain. I remember, however, that as you drove from the door, you cast back one look—one melancholy look, which shot as a ray of light through my heart; (for I was watching you from my room;) had I been at the door, I believe, even then I should have endeavoured to stop you; but, before I had time to decide, you drove off. I then persuaded myself that the look of regret which I had fancied I had seen on yourcountenance was mere fancy; I took your thus leaving me as declared war on your part; and, when I joined you in town, I determined that my conduct should be such as (fool, idiot, that I was!) I thought befitting my pride and honour—fine sounding words, which I put in the place of selfishness and passion.
“In consequence of this resolution, I totally neglected you; we ceased almost entirely to speak to each other when we did chance to meet, and I returned in desperation to your rival. I endeavoured in her society to forget every thing, to banish from my mind you Emmeline, my friend, and all the dreams of happiness—of domestic happiness which now eternally haunted me. But in vain! the fascination of her societywas gone—we were both changed; it was impossible to recall feelings which truth had destroyed. She could not again blind me; suspicion made herexigeante—her thraldom became insupportable; my feelings, my temper, both were irritated beyond my control; my mind was sick, as my body now is.”
For a minute or two, Fitzhenry hid his face in his hands, and seemed lost in no pleasing recollections; at length, after a deep-drawn sigh, (whether of regret or repentance Emmeline could not decide,) he continued:
“I now come to the last and the worst part of my story. I would fain forget it all; but Emmeline, you shall know the very worst; shall be aware what a hot-headed fool you have to dealwith, and then you must still love me if you can. I think I need hardly ask, if you remember a certain Saturday night at the opera. By accident, I happened to know, that you had, that night, given away your box; and, therefore, feeling secure you would not be there, had agreed to accompany Lady Florence; for, abominably as I had behaved, you must do me the justice to allow, I never so far insulted you as openly before you to be seen with your rival; how much certain selfish feelings and awkward uncomfortable sensations of shame influenced me, I will not pretend to say. Well, I joined Lady Florence. After I had been with her a few minutes, she carelessly told me, she believed she had seen you. I directly looked round tothe box which she said she had observed you enter; but, not being able to distinguish you, I was satisfied that she must have been mistaken. Presuming on her former power, she then spoke of you. I could not bear to hear your name in her mouth; I felt it almost an insult to myself. She spoke too of you with a sort of ridicule and levity that disgusted me; she hinted at the attachment between you and Pelham, and seemed to enjoy the pain she saw she was inflicting. Although a smile was on her lips, yet her eyes flashed fire—the fire of jealousy and revenge. This, in the present state of my feelings, was not to be endured. I dared not speak; I knew too well also the violence of her temper; it was not the moment for ascene, and I said not a word; but still, there I remained, as if spell-bound. My mind was, however, busily at work, and I formed many resolutions for extricating myself, from my present miserable situation. You then rose to my imagination, gay, blooming, gentle, artless, as you were when I first took you to Arlingford; when I had sworn to love and protect you; and had then basely repulsed, and abandoned to your hard fate. My conscience smote me sorely. I felt how greatly I had injured you; that, young and inexperienced as you were, I had, by my cruelty and neglect, driven you into danger. I thought, perhaps, you still had not wandered so far, but that your affections might yet be recalled. On my honour, Emmeline, infatuatedas I was, I had then no doubt of your innocence, your purity, your virtue. Nor could I even bring myself to suspect Pelham’s honour. That you loved each other, I did not doubt; but I respected you both too much to think I had been injured by you. I resolved, in short, that, on that very night, we should open our hearts to each other; that all should be explained between us. I determined to propose to you, Emmeline, to leave town with me—to leave England directly, and by mutual forgiveness, to make up for the past, and begin a new life of penitence—I hoped finally of happiness. Lost in these thoughts, I sat unconscious of what was passing around me, till the falling of the curtain roused me from my trance. Lady Florence then seized myarm. She saw she had displeased me; feared she had gone too far, and would not quit her hold. When we reached the lobby, I saw you and Pelham. I hurried her down stairs in the opposite direction; but she had seen you too, and I could distinguish a smile of triumph on her countenance.
“What happened afterwards you know. The two carriages had got entangled, for your coachman, Emmeline, was fighting your battle for you, and contending with Lady Florence Mostyn’s. In the confusion I caught a glimpse of you, at the moment when she had fallen back into my arms. I heard the coarse jokes of the mob of footmen as your carriage drove off. I was nearly frantic. Florence had been slightly hurt, was stillfrightened, and nervous. I could not be so brutal as to leave her in that state. I went home with her. I meant calmly, kindly, to speak to her; to represent the misery of our intercourse—in short, to open my heart to her. But the instant she suspected my meaning—overpowered by her passions, her fury knew no bounds, nor her envenomed malice and jealousy towards you. My blood fired—a violent scene ensued. I left her in anger——and fully resolved for ever.”
Fitzhenry had latterly spoken so quick, that he paused for a minute, as if exhausted and overcome by his feelings; but Emmeline was too much interested and agitated by the narration to make any comment; and, after a moment’s total silence between them, he continued,although in a still more perturbed manner.
“I hurried home—I was in that feverish state of mind, when to think, to pause, is impossible. I felt I must instantly throw myself at your feet, that our fate must be that minute determined. I meant to propose to you to set off for Dover that very night. I had ceased to loveher; but my mind was torn with contending feelings, my brain was on fire. As soon as I reached home, I rushed up stairs—I heard Pelham’s voice in the drawing-room—the door was not closed, my ear caught these words, ‘Honour—you may trust me’—(and you will allow those are awkward words for a husband to overhear addressed to his wife.) I was determined to be satisfied at once—tohave all doubts removed. I burst into the room; and my worst suspicions were confirmed. Pelham had hold of your hand; you were close to him; your head rested on him—you were violently agitated—both started on seeing me—you were both evidently discomposed, and thrown off your guard. Was it strange that I converted all this into evidences of guilt? I had just enough command over myself not to speak. You attempted some excuse for the situation in which I found you. Your effrontery surprised and shocked me. At that minute, I totally forgot your wrongs and my own conduct, and I only considered myself as basely betrayed and injured. Pelham then followed you to the door of your own room; he said something to you in a low voice——againhe took your hand. All that before my face was too much. I wonder how I contained the rage that burned within me. I felt that I could not then discuss the matter with him, and I left the house like a madman. I paced up and down the street, and watched for Pelham’s departure before I returned home; giving way to all the delirium of passion, and distracted by all the misery of doubt. My first impulse was to write to him, imperiously to demand an explanation of his conduct, and satisfaction for my injured honour. Heavens! to think that I sought an opportunity to deprive of life Pelham, my best, my tried, my devoted friend! I passed the night writing letter after letter to you both, and destroying them as fast as I wrote.By degrees, however, my passion cooled; I sometimes thought, and fondly hoped, I might be mistaken. When I recalled to mind my friend’s strict principles of virtue and integrity—principles that had so often made me blush for my faults—I could not think that what I suspected was possible, strong as appearances were against you both. Your virtues too, Emmeline, your look of artless innocence, haunted me. How could I reconcile your present supposed conduct with all those perfections which I had so admired in you?
“Hours passed on, daylight returned. The servants began to stir about the house. I heard footsteps in the room above—in your room, Lady Fitzhenry. Every minute I expected some messagefrom you, some note, some explanation in short; and kept my letter to Pelham unsealed, still hoping I might have been in error, and that something would undeceive me. I soon, however, heard preparations for your departure; your leaving my house thus, without even taking leave of me, I interpreted into a decided resolution on your part that a final, formal separation should take place between us. You had said you were going to Charlton. I sometimes hardly believed that you were really going there, and, in frantic moments, I suspected the worst. But at others, when my own conduct forced itself on my mind, when I reflected on your wrongs, I then thought that, exasperated probably by my ill treatment, you were leaving my roof forever, determined, perhaps, that the law should dissolve an union which had been but a source of misery to you, in order that you might legally unite yourself to the man you loved. Again, had not pride restrained me, I would have sought that explanation which I longed for, and then all would soon have been understood between us; had our eyes but met, we must, at that moment, have read each other’s hearts; but in proud, sullen silence, I awaited some opening from you.
“None came; at length your carriage drove up to the door; I heard your footsteps on the stairs; you stopped at my door; my heart beat to suffocation; I thought, nay, I felt almost sure that you were coming to me; my hand was actually on the lock to open it; just then Iheard one of the servants speaking to you, you passed on—I heard the carriage-door shut, and you drove off. I felt that we had parted for ever; and, when too late, I regretted the blessing I had thrown away.
“My Emmeline, I am notnowashamed to own to you, that I wept in bitterness of heart.
“The instant you were gone, in desperation I sealed and directed my abominable letter to Pelham. I ordered post horses directly, desiring that the carriage should follow me to his lodgings. On arriving there, I learnt he was gone out of town. This confirmed all to me; I tore open my letter, said we could never again meet but inoneway, and foronepurpose. That I was going instantly to Arlingford, that hemight there follow me, and give me the satisfaction I demanded, unless indeed he was already far off with another.
“How perverse is human nature! Man’s nature at least. On my arrival at Arlingford, I missed you whom I had always before shunned, at every turn. I missed the gentle being who had so long, so patiently submitted to my most impertinent vagaries. I missed my poor victim! Every room, every inanimate object recalled her who would have given to all such a charm! I spent hours in your room, Emmeline, in useless, tormenting regrets. In that room which I had hitherto avoided with such care! Alternately condemning myself and you, I felt that I had lost every thing—I was completely miserable!”
Greatly exhausted by this narration, during which Fitzhenry had often been interrupted by his cough, he leant back on the couch. The door, at that moment gently opened, and Pelham appeared. On observing the very visible signs of emotion on both his friends countenances, he was again hastily retreating, when Fitzhenry called to him—“No, come in, Pelham; what we were talking about need be no secret from you, for indeed you are principally concerned. I was telling Emmeline all my history. In other words, confessing all my faults; and as you are, God knows, well acquainted with both, I wish you would relieve me, by bringing the narrative to a conclusion; I have owned to her all my strange fears and fancies, mysuspicions even of you. Can you, Pelham, ever forgive and forget them? can you forgive the ravings of a madman, for such they now appear to me to have been.”
“Don’t be too humble in your apologies to me,” said Pelham, smiling—“for I am not sure how far I am myself innocent, if it is guilt to esteem, to admire, to——” Pelham stopped, for a minute. “In short,” added he—“I had more than half a mind to punish you, Fitzhenry, for your extreme stupidity; and endeavour myself to win the pearl of great price which you rejected; but, from the first, I had, luckily for me, penetration sufficient to discover that the attempt would be perfectly hopeless.”
Pelham said this in the light toneof pleasantry; but, as he spoke, his eyes glanced mournfully on Emmeline, and a slight tinge of red momentarily suffused his sallow cheek. But his emotion totally escaped Emmeline’s observation, whose eyes and attention were entirely fixed on her husband, fearful of losing a word, or look.
Fitzhenry, however, saw all; his eye moistened as he held out his hand to his friend, and warmly pressed his within it. “Well Pelham, now you must take up our history from my sudden departure for Arlingford, where you found me; and do not spare me; I deserve thoroughly the worst you may be tempted to say of me.”
“Don’t be afraid, my good friend,” replied Pelham; “I am, you know, notapt to compliment you.—Well, Lady Fitzhenry, to go back to that fatal Saturday night: Fitzhenry had appeared in so strange a mood when we then parted, so agitated, so unlike himself, that I had determined to be in Grosvenor-street early next morning; but the arrival of a courier from the continent with dispatches of importance, obliged me directly to repair to our foreign minister’s: he was, I found, gone to his villa at Putney; thither I followed him, and was there detained so long on business, which could not be deferred, that I did not get back to town till late in the afternoon. I drove straight to Grosvenor-street, and learnt, to my surprise, that both of you had left London—but not together. I feared something disagreeable had passed,and when I reached my own house, I found Fitzhenry’s letter, which confirmed my apprehensions. I declare, that at first I thought he was mad—and could scarcely guess what he meant, what he could allude to. Although obliged in four and twenty hours to leave England, yet I could not go without seeing him, without endeavouring at least to clear up all this sad misunderstanding; and I lost no time in repairing to Arlingford. It is fortunate that I am by nature blest with a very calm temperament, otherwise this meeting might possibly have ended in our running each other through the body. But Fitzhenry and I had been too long real friends for anyunfoundedmisunderstanding long to exist between us.
“I at length succeeded in convincing him how perfectly absurd and unjust his suspicions were, as far as I was myself concerned. But there, my powers of persuasion ended: he would listen to nothing I could say about you, Lady Fitzhenry: you hated him, he said; if it was not me whom you preferred, it was some one else. You were quite changed towards him—he could hardly blame you, but things had now gone too far to allow of any hope of reconciliation. You had left his house in anger, just anger—gone to your father’s; had probably told him all, intending no doubt to insist on a formal separation—on a divorce. Perhaps legal proceedings were already commenced against him. And whatever he might suffer, he could, andwould, only acquiesce in whatever you chose to dictate.
“Fitzhenry then repeated to me again and again, all hisproofsof your indifference and dislike,—all which were only proofs of his own blind infatuation. In short, poor fellow,” added Mr. Pelham, smiling—“he talked a great deal of nonsense. However, at last, by setting up my proofs in opposition to his, I succeeded in extorting from him an agreement, that he would go with me directly to Charlton. I was first to see you alone, and he promised that he would then be guided by my judgment as to his own conduct. The carriage which was to convey us to you was actually at the door, but, unfortunately, Fitzhenry, who was in a state of diseasedanxiety, and restlessness of mind, insisted on waiting for the arrival of the post; it brought no letter from you, (which was what he had secretly hoped for,) but one from his father, that immediately destroyed all I had been labouring to accomplish. Gossip had been busy with you and your husband; indeed had even brought in my name. The scene which took place at the opera, your both abruptly leaving town—these circumstances, put together, and enlarged upon, had been formed into a regular story of rupture, elopement, duel, and the Lord knows what, till at last it found its way into the newspapers, I was told; and thus reached Lord Arlingford, who, much alarmed at the report, wrote directly to his son, entreating him to considerwell what he was about; to break off immediately a connexion which was now become so public, and consequently so disgraceful, and endeavour to be reconciled to his wife.
“So far all was well; but unfortunately the arguments he used were the last to influence your husband’s noble mind, for they were those of interest. Knowing Lord Arlingford as well as he did, at any other time Fitzhenry would have treated such a hint with the contempt it deserved; but he was then no way himself—he tore his father’s letter into a thousand pieces, and, with a bitter smile, while his face was ghastly pale said, ‘he is right, quite right; it is myinterestto be reconciled to Lady Fitzhenry—no power on earth shall makeme seek her forgiveness—the first overtures must come from herself. Even you surely would not have me go as a beggar, and sue and humble myself to her father: what an honourable appearance would repentance have just now! No, Pelham, I will not do it; and any attempt to persuade me to such a step, I warn you, will be perfectly vain.’
“During our friend’s own story,” continued Pelham, “I think, Lady Fitzhenry, he has probably let you a little into the secret of his character; and, therefore, I may venture to say, that pride is his besetting sin. Had I but hinted this at that time, I suppose he would have knocked me down; but we have him in our power now; and who would believe, seeing him, as henow is, so meek, so humble, so contrite, and subdued, what a perfect devil he was then!”
“Come, come, Pelham,” said Fitzhenry, while his pale face was slightly coloured: “you are a little exceeding the liberty I gave—tell the story fairly, but no comments. Let Lady Fitzhenry find out my faults herself; she will do that quite soon enough without your assistance; indeed, God knows she has had full opportunity already——”
“Lady Fitzhenry has but one fault to find,” interrupted Emmeline, as she looked half reproachfully in her husband’s face: “it is that you persist in calling her by that cruel formal name.”
“Bad old habits, my Emmeline,” he replied smiling; “which, if they offendyou, shall be conquered; but Icouldexplain why I nevernowpronounce that name without feelings very, very different from those of coldness or dislike; do I not by it claim you as my own? But I want to have done with my history. So go on, Pelham, only remember no annotations and reflections.”
“I was ignorant of what had passed between Fitzhenry and Lady Florence,” continued Pelham, almost tempted to smile at his friend’s sickly petulance: “he had never named her. Had I known of their rupture, I should immediately have entreated you, Lady Fitzhenry, to have come, or at least to have written to him; but not aware of that connexion being at an end, I could not advise a step, which I felt you could hardly take,and which I thought, indeed, would do little good if all was to go on as it had done for some months past. Fitzhenry was seemingly wretched; but so he had long been. I had undeceived him as far as was possible for me to do with regard to your feelings towards him, and I certainly felt it was for him to seek you, and to implore your forgiveness.
“Hopeless, therefore, of bringing about a reconciliation between you at that moment, I informed him of my necessary and immediate departure for the continent, and proposed his accompanying me; I thought, by that means, the fatal connexion which seemed the bar to your mutual happiness might be broken; and, knowing well your heart, and certain that affection would, with you, getthe better of every other feeling, I trusted that time and circumstances would restore you to each other. Fitzhenry directly with eagerness caught at the idea of leaving England: ‘it is the best thing for us all,’ said he: ‘and it will break to Florence what at present I cannot say—cannot write to her.’
“On our way to town, however, being still unwilling to give up all hope, and still thinking it was incumbent on Fitzhenry to make the first advances to you, I formed a little plan to decoy your husband to Charlton on our road to Dover, and I pleased myself with thinking that I might, by this very allowable artifice, be the means of bringing about your mutual happiness; but something betrayed my scheme; and, as soon as hesuspected my intention, he was thrown into a state of violence and irritation of temper, in which I had never before seen him, and which really alarmed me. It was Mr. Benson’s presence which he dreaded, I believe: he could have laid his pride, (that stumbling-block of his,) at your feet Lady Fitzhenry, but he could not humble himself before others.”
“Indeed, Emmeline,” said Fitzhenry, interrupting him, “again Pelham barely does me justice; it was not pride that made me dread encountering you. On the contrary, it was shame, fear, humility, and all those perfectly contrary feelings.”
“Poh! poh! don’t let him take you in with all that pretty sounding humbug,” continued Pelham, laughing. “However,the real truth was, that he was as unlike his real self then, as, I am sorry to say, he is in many respects now. As we proceeded, I became more and more convinced that he was far from well. During the journey, I made little progress with my headstrong companion in my attempts to bring him to reason, and at last his answers became so strange and incoherent, that I was really alarmed; and, on our arrival here, I immediately sent for a physician. He found him, as I had suspected, in a high fever; and I am convinced his illness (brought on probably by agitation) had attacked his brain even before it showed itself visibly in his health; as at Arlingford, he certainly was in a state of irritation perfectly unnatural to him. Fortunately,the letters I here found enabled me to delay my further journey for a short time, in order to devote myself to him.
“You now know all,” continued Pelham; “and whatever my future lot in life may be, it will be one gratifying recollection that I was the means of uniting two beings so formed for each other, and whom I love so entirely.”
Mr. Pelham seized Emmeline’s hand as he uttered these words, and pressed it to his lips. “Reward my friend for his services to me and to yourself, Emmeline,” said Fitzhenry, “by letting him kiss that varying cheek of yours. Can I give a stronger proof that my delirious fever has quite left me?”
Pelham waited not for further leave; he pressed her to his heart, and, as heprinted a fond kiss on her forehead, “God bless you, Emmeline,—God bless and protect you both!” he cried, with emotion; “and in your future hours of happiness remember me.” Then resuming a more cheerful tone, he added: “And now, my dear friends, that my mind is at ease about you both, (for I do not now apprehend a relapse ofanysort,) and that I can leave you, Fitzhenry, in the care of so good a nurse, I must repair to my post, and set off to-morrow morning for Vienna, in case any longer delay should bring me to disgrace—as politics have little respect for the feelings of friendship.”