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