CHAPTER III.

My husband! no not mine—but we were wedded;This ring was here in hallowed nuptial placed;A priest did bless it.Ellen.

My husband! no not mine—but we were wedded;This ring was here in hallowed nuptial placed;A priest did bless it.

My husband! no not mine—but we were wedded;

This ring was here in hallowed nuptial placed;

A priest did bless it.

Ellen.

Allthose who have had trials in this world—and who has not?—must know that there are moments in our life during which we seem to live centuries! and that a few hours sometimes are sufficient to rouse, influence, and form a character for ever.

So was it with poor Emmeline! She who had never known a sorrow—she who had looked to her future life as toone scene of bright enjoyment, on a sudden saw the picture changed, and beheld nothing but trials, disappointment, mortification, and sorrow. She had at once to decide, and on one of the most important steps probably in her life, without a single friend to counsel and uphold her: and he, who should have been that friend, that support, was the one against whom she had to arm herself, and exert energies of character, of which she did not even know herself to be possessed.

What Fitzhenry had said was true—she did not love him; that is to say, was notin lovewith him; but she had entertained a sort of girlish affection for the companion of her early youth, and it was impossible not to admire the handsome,accomplished, informed being he now was. Her innocent mind adding to these prepossessions, the light in which she had ever been taught to consider him, of her future husband, gave to her feelings something sacred and tender, so that she had looked to her union with him with stronger anticipations of happiness, than those which mere obedience to her father’s wishes could have given.

Fitzhenry’s letter fell from her hands, and almost hysteric sobs escaped from her heart. “What have I done to be so cruelly used, so scorned, so upbraided!” she could not help ejaculating; and again she seized the fatal letter. “He despises me for having trusted him; he even reproaches me for that, in whichhe alone is to blame. She would leave him; leave those paltry honours which he thought had been her object; leave him that wealth which had been the motive (she could no longer doubt it) of her having been sought in marriage by him; and with the vehemence of indignant feeling, she directly seized on a pen, in order to demand an immediate and total separation.

But scarcely had she written the first word, when, with the natural timidity of a young girl, she shrunk from the responsibility andenterpriseof so desperate a step, and from all the publicity which she would, by it, draw on herself. She laid down her pen; pressed, with both hands, her throbbing temples, as if to quiet their agitated pulsations;and then, returning to the fatal letter, she perused it again and again, till gradually her most angry feelings were calmed. Shecouldnot curse him—wouldnot upbraid him. His language to her, though harsh, was so open, so honourable! and then, with the happy buoyancy of youth, and of an innocent, unbroken mind—”I will make him love me yet,” she thought—”I will so consult his wishes in every thing; so play my hard part, that he shall see I am not the mere child, the worldly insensible fool he thinks me; he must in time love me, and we shall still be happy.”

This was what herfeelingsdictated; and this line of conduct she told herself her duty to her parents required of her. She would not break their hearts by lettingthem know how they had been deceived; but, for their sakes, she would submit to her fate.

Happy in having thus reconciled her duties to her inclinations, she could not help picturing to herselfthatfuture to which, with such fortunate credulity, she fondly looked, when she should have overcome her husband’s unfavourable opinion of her, and won his affections; and, in indulging such flattering dreams, Emmeline sat some time lost in thought, till roused by the sound of hurried steps in the adjoining room. That room was Lord Fitzhenry’s.

The drawing-room opened into a gallery, the first door in which, was that of Emmeline’s dressing-room; her bedroom was beyond; and beyond thatagain, but, having no communication with Emmeline’s apartment, was Lord Fitzhenry’s; it had been his when a boy; and that now allotted to Emmeline had been his father’s.

The sound of measured steps in that room, like those of a person suffering from impatience and anxiety of mind, reminded her that she must answer her husband’s letter. But, what could she write? She took her pen, but for long had not power to express a thought. At last, not trusting herself to look a second time at what she had said, she hastily wrote, and folded up a paper, containing the following words.

“I will not curse, I will not upbraid you; yet I have been most cruelly usedand deceived. Your wishes shall be laws to me. You need apprehend no childish weaknesses or complaints on my part. In time, you will learn better to know her whom you have made your wife. And to God alone shall I apply for relief or assistance under any trial that may assail me.“Emmeline.”

“Emmeline.”

She opened the door into the gallery—all was silent. With hurried, trembling steps, she went into the drawing-room, placed her letter on a conspicuous part of the table, involuntarily looked round the room, as if to recall some of those gay, bright anticipations with which she had that day first entered it; and then, with noiseless steps, regainedher own apartment. As she went to it, she saw light beneath the door of Lord Fitzhenry’s room. Satisfied that he was still up, and that he would look for her letter, she closed her door, and sat breathless, with flushed cheeks, to hear him pass into the drawing-room for it. In a little while, she heard him tread softly along the gallery. At the door of her room he paused—then went hastily on. On his return, he again paused.

“He listens,” thought Emmeline, “to hear if all is quiet, and whether the insensible fool whom he has made his wife sleeps soundly;”—and tears of mortification again made their way down her face; again the door of her husband’s room closed, and all was quiet.

The dawn of day found poor Emmelinein the same listening attitude in which she had sat when Fitzhenry passed her room—her hands clasped together, her eyes fixed on vacancy. She was roused by the extinguishing candle falling into its socket, and looked up astonished to see broad day light. She went to the window to throw open the sash, that the fresh air might cool her eyes and cheeks: in drawing up the blind for the purpose, the string caught the rings on her finger. She started on seeing her wedding ring, and, above it, the circles of diamonds, rubies, &c., the presents of doating parents, and perhaps envious friends, on the morning of that ceremony, which was, they imagined, to secure her future happiness. “Alas!” thought she, “how they were mistaken!”

Emmeline soon felt chilled by the fresh morning air. She hastily bound up her loose locks, laid herself on her bed, and the fatigue of her mind, (a feeling so new to her,) procured for her the rest she needed.

She awoke with that confused impression of distress, which the unhappy know so well; which oppresses the mind even before we can clearly remember what occasions it. Still she was refreshed by those few hours of sleep, and felt better able to encounter the dreaded meeting with her husband than she could have thought possible.

She got up and rang for her maid. From her window, she had seen Fitzhenry out before the house, and she hurried herself to be in the breakfast-room before his return. While she wasdressing, she schooled herself in the part she was to act, and resolved to meet him with the unembarrassed kindness of friendship. Had she had to expect himoneminute longer, her nerves would have failed her; but she saw him hurry towards the house. The servants had fortunately left the room. She heard his footsteps on the stairs, the door opened, and in he came. He was deadly pale; Emmeline went up to him,—held out her hand. Hardly knowing what she said, she made some remark on the weather, the heat, and, without pausing, in a hurried voice, asked him some other indifferent questions.

Fitzhenry returned the pressure of her hand, once looked in her face, apparently with surprise; tried to speak,and at last, in time, overcame his agitation; but never again did his eyes meet hers, or were they even ever raised towards her. He had brought into the room with him some greyhounds, apparently as subjects for conversation. They fawned and jumped on their master; and the noise and bustle they made—the feeding them, and Emmeline’s endeavours to ingratiate herself in their favour, was a something to do, and a relief.

During that melancholy breakfast, of which neither eat, Emmeline was the one who played her part the best. When it was gone, Fitzhenry said, “I have some letters I must write”—and, struck with the possible interpretation of his own words, he coloured deeply; “butthey will soon be written,” he added hastily, “and probably you too will wish to write to tell your mother of your sate arrival; and,”—again embarrassed, he stopped short. However, in a minute, he recovered himself, and said, “The post leaves at one; after that, if the day continues fine, you will perhaps like to go out and see the place. I don’t know what sort of a horsewoman you may be, but I have a very docile animal, if you will venture to mount him.”

Emmeline, who had ridden much, and thought that that species of exercise, with a groom attending, would, under their awkward circumstances, be better than atête-à-têtewalk, directly said she had no fears, and would prefer riding.

Thus they parted; and Emmeline wentto her own room to write to her parents. It was then that the melancholy of her prospects overcame her with a bitterness she had not before experienced.

She had taken her pen in her hand—placed the blank paper before her; but the moment she was going to address her mother, an involuntary burst of tears escaped from her, and she laid her head down on the table, unable to write; for, alas! what could she write to that doating mother? what feelings express, but those of mortification, and the anticipation, the conviction, indeed, of certain future unhappiness to them as well as to herself? Perhaps equally, if not more poignant, would be the feelings of many women, were they but a few years after their fate in life is thus fixed, to re-perusethe letters written during the early period of their marriage, breathing nothing but the belief of continued felicity and of unalterable love. But no such even transient dream of bliss existed to poor Emmeline. Again she took her pen, wiped away the tears that had blotted her paper, and, as well as she could, made out a letter to satisfy her mother’s anxious heart.

There was no lover at her side, fondly to follow each motion of her hand, each thought that her pen traced, and with the playfulness of overflowing love and happiness, to guide that hand when, for the first time, signing his name as her own.

When the hour fixed on for their ride arrived, Emmeline went to the appointmentwith as cheerful a countenance as she could command. Fitzhenry left it to the groom to put her on her horse, and never looked at her when mounted; but, otherwise, was careful of her safety; and this cold neglect on his part she at the minute rejoiced at, as she had feared he must have observed the trace of her tears. The fresh air and a new and agreeable country revived her spirits, by nature at all times inclined to cheerfulness. The awkwardness and mental absence of her companion also a little wore off, and, on the whole, they got through the morning better than she had expected.

Fitzhenry told Emmeline that his father was coming to them the Wednesday following, and that he had invited somefriends for the end of the week. She rejoiced to hear of these arrangements; not but that her feelings towards that father had much changed since the truth had begun to break in upon her; but then, any third person would be such a relief!

When she thought of the way in which their honeymoon was to be passed—that after hurrying away from town and the world with all accustomed bustle—and, although only married four and twenty hours, they both already looked to society for relief, the absurdity of their situation struck her for an instant as so ridiculous, that involuntarily a smile, which she saw did not escape her companion, stole over her features; but, as it faded, a deep-drawn sigh succeeded,and she averted her head, to conceal from Fitzhenry, the revolution of feeling which she was conscious was painted in her face. A long train of reflections passed through her mind, as, absorbed in thought, she carelessly with her whip brushed from the bushes, as she passed them, the drops remaining from a late shower; and so deep was her reverie, (the first almost in which poor Emmeline had ever been lost,) that Lord Fitzhenry twice spoke to her before she heard him, and when she did, the tone of her voice in answer, had in it, (perhaps unknown to herself,) a something of repulsive coldness, unusual to her. Whether it so struck him or not, cannot be ascertained; but the remainder of their ride was performed nearly in total silence.

Emmeline at once wisely took to her own occupations, and allowed her husband to go his own way. It would be often wise and prudent if even new-marriedloversdid the same; for, shocked as they may be at the idea, even real love will at last become dull and wearisome; and many a fondly devoted bride has, I dare say, during the very first week, often wished for her usual occupations, as much as her lover has for his gun and pointers. But with Lord and Lady Fitzhenry, there was no form, no farce of sentiment to keep up. Each felt happier when apart from the other; and, by having many an hour for reflection, Emmeline was enabled to school her mind to the trials to which she felt she must be exposed—trials but too likely to increase;for gradually her irritated feelings gave way. When Fitzhenry’s letter, and its harsh expressions of determined indifference towards her returned to her recollection, then her offended pride enabled her to act her part with spirit; and she could talk, and even laugh, with apparent gaiety, to show him he had not had power to wound her feelings deeply. For, amiable as was Emmeline’s disposition, enough of human infirmity lurked about her—enough of the “Woman scorned,” to allow her a degree of pleasure in mortifying one, who had shown so little scruple in more than mortifying her.

At moments, too, her natural gaiety was not to be restrained; and when, on the third evening of their residence atArlingford, her laughing eye caught the look of astonishment in the old butler’s countenance, when, as he entered the room, he found the supposed lovers occupied with their books at opposite ends of the apartment, apparently as unconscious of each other’s presence as any indifferent pair after a dozen years’ marriage,—she could not command the inclination to laughter that overcame her.

Lord Fitzhenry looked up astonished.

“I am much diverted with what I am reading,” said Emmeline, to account for her sudden burst of mirth, (colouring at the same time, with the consciousness of her departure from truth,) although perhaps not sorry of an opportunity of showing him, that even inhissociety, when so totally neglected by him, and after allhe had said and done to depress her spirits, she was still disposed to cheerfulness.

“May I ask what book you are reading, that I may benefit also by the entertainment,” replied her husband.

“Perhaps you would not be equally amused by it,” said she. “Sometimes little things tickle our fancy, without our being able to say why; and much depends on the humour we are in.”

Lord Fitzhenry looked a little disconcerted, and Emmeline could not be so generous as to regret it.

But in his society, she soon ceased to show either spirit or triumph; soon forgot to be angry. The mildness of his manners, the charm of his conversation, when sometimes for a little heseemed to forget their peculiar situation, and to give way to his natural habits and disposition, soon won upon Emmeline, and, with a sigh, she thought, “How shecouldhave loved him!” When galloping on before her, and when certain she should not be observed, her eyes were fixed on his manly, graceful figure, and she admired the ease, and indescribableelegance(if one may use a word so degraded) of all his actions.

There is something in the manners and conversation of an intelligent man of the world, which it is impossible adequately to describe,—which, without being either information or wit, pleases more than either. It is, perhaps, the art of giving to each subject no more than its due proportion of time andthought, which prevents conversation from becoming tedious, and hinders any idea, however serious, from weighing too heavily on the mind. Fitzhenry possessed this art in a superlative degree; and Emmeline, to whom such conversation was almost totally new, and who by nature was formed to appreciate every refinement, was powerfully captivated by it. And, added to this, there was a certain foreign gallantry of manner, (that among her father’s acquaintance she had certainly never experienced,) and a habit of attention to women, which, in Fitzhenry, was so strong, that his behaviour, even to Emmeline, partook of it—to her, whom he never looked at, nor apparently noticed.

The whole plan of his present life, thefooting upon which he meant Lady Fitzhenry and himself to live together, was, perhaps of foreign growth. A true-bred Englishman would never have behaved with the civility of good breeding to a wife so forced upon him. He could never have thought it possible to have established any one in his house on the terms on which Emmeline was to be placed. But although Lord Fitzhenry looked upon the observance of English customs in a total retirement after marriage as particularly irksome, it never could make him wanting in respect, and even in kindness, to one of Emmeline’s sex. His will once made known,—told, as it had been, very plainly and decidedly,—there was nothing more to settle between them, and he behaved toher with that sort of general observance and attention due from a man to a woman.

In short, he could not help being agreeable, although differing so cruelly from the animated, enthusiastic Fitzhenry, known to his friends.

Perhaps such conduct was more calculated to excite despair than even apparent dislike would have been to one, who, like Emmeline, aimed at winning his love; but, quick as she was, her inexperience prevented her from being aware, that these attentions of civility were paid by him from mere force of habit; she therefore gave way to the charm which daily captivated her, and did not always suspect that those words on which her ear delighted to hang, andwhich sometimes even wore the semblance of gallantry, were uttered by him generally in total absence of mind, with his thoughts fixed on another.

Who that other was, Emmeline no longer doubted. Something she recollected having heard of Lord Fitzhenry’s admiration for Lady Florence Mostyn, when abroad; but he had then been so long out of England, Emmeline’s thoughts were little occupied about him, and the intelligence had made but slight impression on her young mind. Now, putting various circumstances together, she could no longer doubt that Lady Florence was her favoured rival, if indeed a rival she could be called, where there was no competition.

For, much as Emmeline might wishto propitiate her husband, and though even a little vanity and pique might enter into the feeling, yet she had no idea of any of the arts of coquetry, and if she now exerted all her powers of agreeableness, it was from the simple wish to make their present melancholy life pass as well as the awkward circumstances in which they were placed allowed. If she might hopein timetowinher companion’saffections, she gave up, as perfectly hopeless, all attempts tocaptivatehis imagination. And that very feeling made her more at ease, and therefore more agreeable than she could otherwise have been. On all general subjects, Fitzhenry was more than willing to converse. The publications of the day opened a wide field for discussion.It was neutral ground, on which they could meet and parley. There was a peculiar liveliness, and originality in all he said, which Emmeline was not only able to appreciate, but, by taking up his ideas with quickness, to encourage fresh remarks, and even improve upon them. The merits of Sir Walter Scott, Miss Edgeworth, and Southey, were all thoroughly commented upon. Lord Byron came too near home, and, as if by mutual consent, they always avoided him and his writings.

One evening—the last they now had to pass alone—Emmeline had somehow wandered in her conversation to Italy; but she immediately observed a cloud of recollections darken her husband’s brow, and, making rather an awkward retreat,she resumed the book she was reading, and which had given rise to her unlucky remark; and never took her eyes from it till the usual time for retiring to her own room. Fitzhenry had also remained silent; but the moment she moved, he started up as if roused from a reverie, lit her candle for her and wished her good night, hoping the slight headache she had complained of would be better next day. The tone of his voice was so agreeable, the expression of his countenance so mild, that she felt with Juliet,

“Parting is such sweet sorrow,That I could say good night till it be morrow.”

“Parting is such sweet sorrow,

That I could say good night till it be morrow.”

When she reached her own room, unconscious of what she did, she leant her head on her hand, and stood thus forsome time at the chimney-piece, on which she had placed her candle, lost in thought. Had she been asked what those thoughts were, perhaps she could not have defined them; but at length, a deep sigh escaped her as she ejaculated to herself “How pleasant he is! and if so to me, whom he dislikes, despises, what must he be to her, to whom his whole mind and heart are laid open? With me it is almost impossible to avoid forbidden subjects—Italy, I see, I must never touch upon. Not only the present but the past belongs to Lady Florence;Iam only connected with the future in his mind, and a future to which he looks with dislike and dread.”

The next day was that on which they expected Lord Arlingford; and Emmeline,when she met her husband at breakfast, was concerned to see that all those miserable, agitated feelings, which had apparently much subsided, had now returned worse than ever. During that meal, he was so hurried, so abstracted, that when after it was over, he had placed himself at the window to read the newspaper, she ventured to go up to him, and purposely said something about his father’s arrival, hoping that she might dispel the anxiety which seemed to oppress him, by showing him how little Lord Arlingford’s presence would add to her awkward feelings. She therefore, to open the subject, asked at what time he thought he would arrive.

Fitzhenry, without taking his eyes off the paper, said he did not expect himtill dinner-time—there was a pause, Emmeline not knowing well how again to begin—at length, Fitzhenry himself broke the silence by saying, “Had you not better write to Mr. and Mrs. Benson, and propose their making us a visit here soon? You will probably be anxious to meet them before long.”

“Thank you very much,” exclaimed Emmeline, quite moved by the kindness of his proposal, and feeling as if she could have seized with affection on the hand that rested on the edge of the window near her. For a minute, the temptation was strong; her breath came quick, and the blood rushed into her cheeks. But those cruel words in Fitzhenry’s letter, “my affections can never be yours,” flashed like lightning across her mind,and prevented her from forgetting herself. Still lost in thought, there she stood. It seemed as if he felt the awkwardness of the moment, and made a motion to go. “Perhaps then you will give me a frank for my father,” she said timidly, and wishing to detain him.

“Certainly, with pleasure;” and he sat down to the table to write it. As he gave it her, his hand trembled. Again Emmeline’s better judgment failed her—again her feelings, unused to concealment, got the better of her prudence. Sorry to observe his excessive perturbation, and wishing as far as she could to alleviate it, while taking the frank from his hand, and without raising her eyes from the writing, she said in a tremulous voice, “Don’t distress yourself——indeedyou may trust me.” Alas! these words had the direct contrary effect from what she had meant and hoped. Fitzhenry started up, and hurried out of the room.

“What have I done!” thought poor Emmeline, as the door closed upon him. “I have forgotten my promise, broken my word—I have displeased him!” and she sank on the chair he had quitted. She hoped he would return; but he did not come. She then thought she would write to him, but, fortunately, nothing which she could express, satisfied her feelings; and, at length, she resolved that she would rather try and make him forget one unguarded word, by never referring to it, and never again so offending.

Sadly she retired to her own sitting-room,and saw no more of Fitzhenry, till, at their usual hour for riding, a servant came and told her the horses were ready, and that my lord was at the door waiting for her. Emmeline hurried down stairs. She dared not even look at her husband, for the wish to please had begun already to make her timid; but, by the tone of his voice, she soon judged that allangerat least, if ever entertained against her, was gone. He even exerted himself more than usual to talk on indifferent subjects.

Lord Arlingford arrived to dinner—Emmeline met him with the cordiality of a daughter. He seemed in high spirits, delighted with her, with the improvements in the house, with every thing. Many a time, did the blood rush into Emmeline’s cheek at the allusions hemade to their late marriage, his railleries on the honey moon, and such common hackneyed subjects, which, trifling as they are, generally possess a power of pleasing where happiness really exists, but which to her and Lord Fitzhenry were torture. She turned all this off as well as she could; sometimes almost hating herself for having already become so artful. They thus got to the end of the first day of Lord Arlingford’s visit better than she had expected. The father and son had much to look at, much to talk over about the place, plantations, &c. and after the first two days, their party was enlarged by some young men, friends of Fitzhenry.

Emmeline now found her task comparatively easy; she was of course theobject of much attention with all her new guests; all were anxious to please her, and to court her acquaintance as Lord Fitzhenry’s wife; all, too, seemed surprised at finding Emmeline Benson, the banker’s daughter, the agreeable, intelligent, and perfectly well-bred person which, in truth, she was.

At first, timidity made her feel embarrassed in her new situation; but that soon wore off, and, naturally gay, her spirits rose with the gaiety and lively conversation of those around her. She could not be indifferent to the flattering attentions paid her; and, to her own surprise, Emmeline soon found herself at her ease, and happy. For Emmeline’s heart was as yet comparatively free; an all-engrossing passion had notyetdestroyedits happy tranquillity, and a gay, joyous laugh often showed the innocent lightness of that heart. Once, from the other end of the dinner-table, she found Lord Fitzhenry’s eyes fixed upon her, but whether it was surprise at the part she was able to take in conversation, or displeasure, perhaps even disgust, at the gaiety which had thus attracted his attention towards her, she knew not. But that look—although his eyes were immediately withdrawn on meeting hers—had power instantly to check her mirth; and her neighbour scarcely recognised in the absent, silent person that now sat beside him, the gay companion, who, a few minutes before, entered so readily into all his ideas.

Emmeline now, nearly for the firsttime, heard herself called by her new name. Her husband, too, forced sometimes to designate and address her, called her “Lady Fitzhenry.” To hear oneself spoken to by a name so dear, that formerly one hardly dared pronounce it—to be thus reminded, each time, that we are indissolubly bound to that being we adore, is delightful. But inherhusband’s mouth it was to poor Emmeline an insult. It only seemed to cast her further from him, and remind her of the distant footing of mere form on which they lived, on which they were ever to live; for “Emmeline,” the name which when a child she had so often heard him pronounce, when she cared not for the endearing intimacy of the appellation, now never passed his lips.

She now saw him but little, and never alone; for he never came into her own sitting-room, and seldom into the drawing-room, except at those hours, when he was certain of finding some of the rest of the party there also. She felt that since they had had society in the house, she had rather lost than gained ground with him, and she now regretted the week they had spent tête-à-tête, much as she had wished it over at the time, asthenthey werecompelledto have some sort of intercourse together.

Gradually, Emmeline’s abstraction increased, and her spirits changed; for, almost unconscious to herself, when in Fitzhenry’s society, her thoughts and attention were entirely occupied by him. The most flattering compliments thatgallantry could suggest, had sometimes to be twice repeated to her, and were at last received with a vacant smile; for if she caught the distant tone of Fitzhenry’s voice, she heard nothing else; and if, during the day, he had more than usually spoken to her, or paid her some attention of mere civility, her spirits rose even beyond their natural level, and thus gave to her manner at times an appearance of caprice far from her nature.

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