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A MARRIAGE
IN HIGH LIFE.
EDITED BY
THE AUTHORESS OF ‘FLIRTATION.’

“I was compelled to her—but I love thee

By love’s own sweet constraint.”

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:

HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

1828.

LONDON:

IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND.

PREFACE.

The following pages, which I now offer to the public, may, perhaps, not attract general interest; they contain merely a few passages in the history of the heart and feelings of an individual placed in singular and trying circumstances; but those who should recognize beneath the feigned name of Lady Fitzhenry, one whom they may remember to have seen in the gay scenes of fashionable life, will probably feel some interest in the events which occasioned her first introduction into the world, and her sudden disappearance from it.

THE EDITOR.

A

MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE.

CHAPTER I.

A mon avis, l’Hymen et ses liens

Sont les plus grands, ou des maux, ou des biens;

Point de milieu; l’état du mariage

Est des humains le plus cher avantage.

Quand le rapport des esprits, des cœurs

Des sentimens, des gouts, et des humeurs,

Serre ces liens tissus par la nature

Que l’amour forme, et que l’honneur épure.

L’Enfant Prodigue.

Towards the end of a London spring, that is to say, about the middle of August, was married by special license, at her father’s house in Harley Street, Emmeline Benson to Ernest, Lord Fitzhenry, only son of the Earl of Arlingford.

The ceremony was like most others of its kind; the drawing-room was crowded with relations and friends on both sides, dressed in congratulatory smiles, and new bridal finery.

Emmeline’s father, an opulent city merchant and banker, appeared arrayed in a complete new suit for the occasion. The first gloss was not off his coat, which hung stiff upon him, as if not yet reconciled to the homely person to which it was destined to belong, while each separate bright button reflected the collected company. His countenance glowing with happiness, he busied himself in attentions to his guests, provoking, by his remarks, those congratulations which flattered his pride and parental fondness; and, with bustling joy, making the necessary preliminary arrangements for the ceremony about to take place, which was to raise his only and beloved child to that elevated situation in life, in which it had ever been the first wish of his heart to see her placed, and which his partial affection thought her so well fitted to grace.

Mrs. Benson’s feelings seemed of a less joyous nature, and sometimes, even a tear started into her eye, in spite of herself, when she endeavoured to smile in return to the kind wishes of her friends. She was too fond a mother not to feel painfully the loss of her daughter; and that feeling was not unmixed with anxiety, in giving her to one of whom (of late years at least) she personally knew but little.

All were now assembled excepting the bride and bridegroom. The father of the latter, apparently as much delighted as Mr. Benson himself with the intended union, being of course among the company. But Lord Fitzhenry did not appear! Various conjectures were formed as to his absence. One person declared he had observed his carriage at the door of his lodgings as he had passed; another, that he was certain he had seen him in a distant part of the town not long before. The delay was beginning to be awkward, and at every distant sound of wheels, both fathers looked anxiously along the street, but in vain.

Gradually the conversation of the guests lowered itself into whispers, as some new surmise was started with regard to the possible cause of this strange absence of the most important personage at so important a moment. But even these whispers died away from lack of new ideas on the subject, and the now total silence was only occasionally broken by the rustling of the clergyman’s surplice, when he left his post before the large family prayer-book (laid open ready at the marriage ceremony) with the benevolent wish, by some commonplace observation, to dissipate the unpleasant feelings which seemed to infect all present; or when he followed Mr. Benson to the window, whither he had taken up his station of observation in the hopes of being the first to give the much wished-for news of the approaching bridegroom. Poor Mrs. Benson’s cheeks became momentarily of a deeper and deeper dye, and she betrayed her anxious agitation by the nervous twitching of the gold chain round her neck, to which was suspended her daughter’s portrait, and the constant arranging of her lace shawl, which she regularly each time pulled off her shoulders. At last, the welcome rattle of a carriage driving furiously was heard. It stopped at Mr. Benson’s door, and in a minute Lord Fitzhenry, with a flushed cheek, hurried into the drawing-room.

Awkward as such an entrance must naturally be, still his agitation seemed even beyond what the circumstances of the moment would have been likely to produce on a young man of the world.

Lord Fitzhenry, at twenty-seven, was remarkably good-looking; and on his countenance and whole figure was that stamp of high birth, which, even where beauty does not exist, more than compensates for its absence. The general character of his countenance was that of openness and good humour; but an agitated, even a melancholy expression now clouded it, which all noticed.

“Marriage is certainly an awful ceremony,” whispered an elderly lady to Mrs. Benson; “and I am glad to see his lordship betraying so much feeling and seriousness at such a moment. It is a good sign in a young man.” The poor trembling mother scarcely heard the remark, nor was there much time for more observation, for Mr. Benson had already left the room, and in a few minutes returned, leading in his daughter.

Emmeline was nineteen. She was slightly formed, had a most winning countenance, innocent laughing eyes, and a delicate, fair complexion, although now deepened into crimson, in her cheeks, by the agitation of the moment, as was very apparent, even through the folds of the beautiful lace veil that hung all over her.

The marriage ceremony commenced immediately. As it proceeded, the bridegroom trembled violently. When called upon to pronounce his vow, his voice was scarcely audible; and as he placed the ring on his bride’s hand, he nearly let it fall to the ground.

But all was soon finally said and done—so few are the words which, once read over, totally change our existence, and fix our fate in life for ever! The usual congratulations passed, and the chaise and four, decorated with bridal favours, rattled to the door.

Emmeline threw herself sobbing into her mother’s arms—the first sob, since those of childhood, which had ever been wrung from her light heart. Her proud father gaily kissed her cheek, addressing her by her new title of “Lady Fitzhenry;” then, drawing her arm within his, hurried her down stairs, placed her in the carriage, into which the bridegroom followed, and the “happy pair” drove off as fast as four post horses could convey them.

How blank such moments are to those who remain behind! The company soon separated after the usual breakfast, and Mr. and Mrs. Benson were left alone.

All excitement, over the deserted mother’s spirits then sank; mournfully she paced the now silent room, and mechanically removed from the table Emmeline’s work-box, which she had left behind her, gazing on her name, engraven on the lid, till her tears burst forth. Her distress roused Mr. Benson from the trance of exultation in which he had been lost as he watched the last bridal carriage that had driven from the door, and he kindly hastened to his wife.

“Why, my good woman, crying! and on such a day! when you should be so happy—for shame! for shame!”

Mrs. Benson shook her head mournfully. “God grant it indeed prove a happy day! may our beloved child be so!” and she sighed deeply.

“Why, how can you doubt she will?” said her husband; “she has every thing this world can give; rank!” (and he laid a great stress on that word,) “riches, youth; and, for a husband, a most excellent and accomplished young man, of whom every one speaks well. None of your gamblers, jockies, spendthrifts. I am sure Emmeline and ourselves are the envy of all our acquaintance. Any one might be pleased and proud to see his daughter so well married.”

Mrs. Benson again sighed, wiped away her tears, and then quietly returned to her usual avocations.

Meanwhile, Lord and Lady Fitzhenry travelled on, and a few hours brought them to Arlingford Hall, which, on his son’s marriage, Lord Arlingford had given up to him, meaning to reside himself at a villa at Wimbledon; his health, which had of late been very precarious, making a near residence to town advisable.

Arlingford Hall, which was in Hampshire, had been completely repaired and refurnished for the new married couple; Lord Fitzhenry having himself been much there lately, superintending the alterations. At least, that occupation was always mentioned as an apology for his absence from town, and for his not attending more assiduously on his future bride.

During the journey, Lord Fitzhenry’s agitation and abstraction rather encreased, and it could no longer escape Emmeline’s observation. His conversation was forced; in his manner towards her he was punctiliously attentive and civil—but perfectly cold and distant.

When they arrived at Arlingford, all the servants were assembled in the hall to receive them; a numerous and respectable group, who, by the tears of joy which some of them shed, seemed most sincerely to partake in the supposed happiness of their young master. One of them, who stood apart from the rest, even ventured to address him with particular congratulation as with the familiarity of an old friend, and to give Emmeline his blessing.

“Thank you, Reynolds, thank you,” said Fitzhenry hastily, as he shook the old man by the hand.

Emmeline’s heart was cast in nature’s best mould, and this simple action of her husband found its way to it. She smiling raised her tearful eyes to his face, but the expression she there found, soon made her again cast them down. The scene seemed to have totally discomposed him; and, in an awkward, hurried manner, thanking the rest of the servants, he led the way to the drawing-room. Dinner was ordered directly, and all seemed so zealous to serve their young master and mistress, that it was not long coming, but still there was an awful pause.

Lord Fitzhenry walked up and down the room, forced himself to speak, then, suddenly, as if recollecting that some degree of gallant attention was to be expected from him, a bridegroom of only six or eight hours, he hurried up to Emmeline and helped her off with her shawl; but his manner was so odd, so unlover-like, that it at last alarmed even her innocent, unsuspecting mind, and she timidly asked if he was not well. He started at her question, and seemed much embarrassed; but, after a moment’s pause, replied, “The journey, the hurry, I suppose; indeed, I hardly know what, but something has given me a dreadful headache.”

And then, as if roused by her remark to a sense of the strangeness of his behaviour, he put more force upon himself, showed her the public rooms, her own sitting room, in which were collected books, musical instruments, and every possible means of amusement. In answer to her enquiries, explained to Emmeline who were her new relations that hung framed on the walls; and, when she admired the comfort of the house, and particularly of her own boudoir, he said something about hoping she would be happy in it, but the phrase died away in uncertain accents.

Dinner at length came to his relief; he then was attention itself, but the repast could not last for ever; and, when the servants had left the room, Lord Fitzhenry’s embarrassment returned worse than before. Emmeline had lived so little in society, and, consequently, had so little the habit of general conversation—and the six years during which she and her husband had been separated, had so entirely broken off the first intimacy which had existed between them when children, that, timid in his company, and now unassisted and unencouraged by him, she felt it impossible to keep up any thing like conversation. It was, therefore, no small relief when, after an awkwardly protracted silence, she saw him leave the room.

As the door closed upon him, Emmeline involuntarily fell into a reverie not of the most pleasing nature. “This is all very strange!” thought she; and over her usually gay countenance a sadness crept. She sighed, she hardly knew why; and, when her thoughts wandered back to her former happy home, her parents, and their doating fondness, some “natural tears” stole down her cheek, and she felt herself, as in a dream, neglected and deserted.

But Emmeline was not in love; and her husband’s behaviour, though it astonished her, and though she felt it was not what it ought to be, did not wound her heart as it otherwise would have done.

Emmeline was very young, even for her age. With a most superior mind and character, with tender, even romantic feelings, her innocence and simplicity of heart were so great, and all her qualities had as yet lain so dormant, that her character was scarcely known even to herself; and, to common observers, she passed for a mere gay, good-humoured, pleasing girl. She was, however, no common character, nor what one would have supposed the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Benson to have been. Nature sometimes seems to amuse herself with playing such fanciful tricks; and Emmeline’s natural superiority made it appear as if she had been thrown into a sphere totally different from that for which she had been originally designed, and that she now was only restored to her own proper station, when raised, by her marriage, to be the companion of Fitzhenry.

To explain how such a being came to be thus passively united to a man who seemed already to have repented the step he had taken, it will be necessary to go back a little in our narrative.

CHAPTER II.

Do I entice you? do I speak you fair?

Or rather, do I not in plainest truth

Tell you—I do not, nor I cannot love you?

Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Lord Arlingford had, early in life, entangled himself in pecuniary difficulties by every species of thoughtless extravagance, in which an expensive, fashionable wife had assisted him. Her fortune and health both soon declined, and a consumption rapidly carried her to the grave while still in the prime of life, and when her only child, Ernest, was but ten years old. That which extravagance began, indolence soon completed; and long before his son came of age, Lord Arlingford found himself, in the language of the world, to be totally ruined.

Mr. Benson had been always much employed and consulted by Lord Arlingford’s family in all matters relating to business; and to him, in the present desperate situation of his affairs, his lordship was obliged to have recourse for advice and assistance. Mr. Benson had toiled all his life as a merchant, and was now one of the most opulent bankers in London. He had an only child; and to her he meant to bequeath all his wealth, provided she made a marriage to his choice; by which, he meant one in that rank of life, which, with all his useful good sense, he had the folly to imagine essential to human happiness.

Being every way an excellent man of business, Mr. Benson was appointed to be one of the trustees, into whose hands it was now deemed necessary to consign Lord Arlingford’s estate; in order, if possible, to retrieve his affairs, and protect the interests of his son.

One day, when talking over his difficulties with his client, and when Emmeline was but seven years old, Mr. Benson first proposed, in the form of a joke, as a means by which all might be set to rights, that their children should be united in marriage. He finished his speech by a loud laugh; but it was one of mere agitation, for he anxiously looked into Lord Arlingford’s face to see how such a proposal agreed with the ancient, aristocratic pride of the Fitzhenrys.

Lord Arlingford for a minute made no reply; he kept his eyes fixed on the parchment he held in his hands. The table before him was covered with deeds, bonds, mortgages, and every awful sign of the irretrievable state of his affairs; and, strange as it may appear, he caught immediately at the idea, as to that which alone could save him from utter ruin. His answer, when at last it came, transported the ambitious banker with joy; and by degrees, and by constantly treating of the subject, the two fathers seemed to think it was a matter they had but to settle between themselves, and that there could be no difficulty whatever in a scheme which was to give to both, what they both wanted. Mr. Benson’s promises were most liberal, and Lord Arlingford subdued all the hereditary pride of his feelings, and seemed quite content to lay himself and his family under obligations to a man on whom he in return conferred so much honour.

As a first step towards bringing about this favourite scheme, Ernest, when at home for his holidays, was constantly sent to Mr. Benson’s, where he was of course indulged in his every boyish fancy, and every species of amusement imagined for him in which little Emmeline could take a part.

On her birthday every year, a ball was given by Mrs. Benson, which was opened by her and young Lord Fitzhenry, while the two fathers looked on in admiration, and declared that they were born for each other.

At twenty, Fitzhenry left Oxford; he was then to remain abroad for three years; and, at his return, it was settled that the marriage should take place; although as yet, nothing had been said on the subject to either of those most concerned in the plan.

Before his departure, however, Lord Arlingford thought it proper to open the business to his son, and also to lay before him the embarrassed state of his affairs.

Such disclosures make little impression on young minds, to whom, as yet unacquainted either with its value or want, money is but a vague sort of blessing; and Lord Arlingford was forced to overcharge the picture to give it due influence on his son. He talked much of his own distresses, his sacrifices for the sake of his dear Ernest, and, when he had worked on his filial affections, mentioned merely as a passing thought the long projected plan of his union with Miss Benson. Ernest, starting, coloured, and stammered out some undecided words. But finding no positive objection made, Lord Arlingford pushed on the affair—praised Emmeline—(then only thirteen years old,) extorted from Ernest first, that he thought her a fine girl, and at last a sort of agreement that he would think of the proposal, and, on his return from abroad, marry her, and make his father happy.

Mr. Benson was informed of the favourable progress of their scheme, which he furthered by every means in his power; and Emmeline was soon taught to look upon Ernest as her future husband. On his taking leave of them before his departure for the Continent, he kissed her smooth young cheek, addressing her by the name of his little wife. But neither the kiss nor the appellation brought even an additional tinge of colour into that cheek; although she might childishly have grieved at the loss of her almost only companion.

During the first months of his absence, Lord Fitzhenry wrote two or three times to Emmeline, once when sending her a watch from Geneva, and again with a chain from Venice; but he soon found more interesting occupations than composing letters for the capacity of a mere child: the boy had grown into a man, and if he did not actually forget the engagement into which his father had drawn him, he allowed it but little to occupy his thoughts.

Lord Fitzhenry first visited Italy; at Naples, he formed an intimacy with the English minister then residing there; and, on the removal of that minister to Vienna, Ernest followed him.

The three years allotted for his residence abroad, had already nearly elapsed; but, having acquired a taste for the habits of the Continent, Ernest begged for longer leave of absence; and by his letters, no less than by the accounts of all those who met with him, his foreign life seemed so much to have improved his mind and manners, that Lord Arlingford, whose purely worldly character saw little beyond such acquirements, agreed to his prolonging his stay; and he was the more willing to acquiesce in his son’s wishes, as Emmeline, scarcely yet sixteen, was still in appearance and manners so much of a child, that any contemplation of her immediate marriage would have been premature.

Lord Fitzhenry, at twenty-three, with excellent and even superior abilities, naturally noble feelings, strong sentiments of honour, and a warmly affectionate heart, wanted only those serious principles of conduct, which his father had neither bestowed on, nor ever required from him. Had Lord Arlingford been asked whether or no he was an atheist, he would have resented the question as an affront; but, nevertheless, religion had never occupied his own thoughts, and had never in any distinct form entered into the education of his son. The companion he selected for him during his residence on the Continent, was a young man of considerable abilities, who had been destined for the law; but who, having been early led abroad, and having a decided turn for a wandering life, was too happy to return to scenes in which he delighted, and to give up Lincoln’s Inn, and studies, for which he had no relish, for the existence he preferred, in present, and the future chance of Lord Arlingford’s patronage.

Such a companion, gay and thoughtless as himself, was not likely to supply the neglected part of Lord Fitzhenry’s education; and thus, although gifted by nature with a mind and heart formed for virtue, in its highest acceptation, Fitzhenry was turned adrift on the world without any help or defence against its snares, except those common rules of worldly honour by which men, who may infringe nearly every law, human and divine, fancy themselves to be guided.

At Vienna, Lord Fitzhenry became acquainted with Lady Florence Mostyn, and that chance acquaintance influenced his whole future life and conduct.

Lady Florence, who had early in life been married to a man whom she had never loved, and whose understanding and character she could not respect, had every allurement, every charm to captivate, except that of innocence. Such a deficiency one might have hoped would have preserved a refined mind like that of Fitzhenry’s from her chains; but, under the influence of passion, artfully excited, and the example of the society in which he lived, he fell completely into the snare purposely laid for him, and became the slave of an artful, bewitching, and violent woman.

In the intoxication of her society, every thing was forgotten or disregarded. In vain were his father’s repeated injunctions, that he should return home; in vain his self-reproaches at losing, in idleness, some of the best years of his life. And it was only when alarming accounts of Lord Arlingford’s health roused his better feelings, that he was induced to tear himself away from Greece, whither Lady Florence and her passive, accommodating husband had accompanied him; and, in the middle of winter, to set off for England with the hope and promise that they would join him there early in spring.

Six years had now elapsed since Lord Fitzhenry had left home. His person, character, manners—all had changed. His “Little Wife” was nearly forgotten; and when she did chance to cross his mind, he looked upon his engagement with her as a mere joke of childhood, and trusted his father would do the same.

From Italy, where he found the accounts of Lord Arlingford were still very alarming, he travelled day and night to make up for past negligence, and found his parent on his arrival, but slowly recovering from a very dangerous illness.

Real feeling and affection broke forth from Fitzhenry’s selfish, worldly father, on again beholding his son; and beholding him, as in truth he was, a son to be proud of.

Lord Arlingford’s illness, by weakening his nerves, had given to his manners an appearance of sentiment unusual to him; and Ernest almost wondered how he could have been such a monster as so long to have deserted him. A constant visitor in his father’s sick room, he found Mr. Benson. With a feeling not unmixed with remorse he warmly thanked him for having supplied his place, and inquired after Mrs. and Miss Benson, as after old friends of his boyhood.

“Well, quite well,” said Mr. Benson; “but Emmeline is so grown, that you will hardly know her again: however she is not altered in any way, I assure you; she has not forgotten her old playfellow;” and he looked cunningly into Fitzhenry’s face, to observe the effect of this flattering assurance. “You have been a sad rambler, Lord Fitzhenry,” he continued; “but now you are returned to old England, we shall, I hope, all live comfortably together; and I am sure you will be quite delighted with Emmy, although perhaps she is not just like your foreign madams; but none the worse for that I suspect—they don’t make such good wives; and now that you have, as I may say, sown your wild oats,” he added with a laugh, “you will not be sorry to sit down at home and enjoy a little home-bred, quiet English comfort.”

Fitzhenry saw but too plainly the drift of all this, and he was totally at a loss for an answer. His eyes, fearful of meeting those of Mr. Benson, wandered round the room, till they fell on a view of Naples which hung over the chimney. The sight was not favourable to the picture of English happiness which Mr. Benson had just been presenting to him. Hours of rapture produced by the first intoxication of passion, beneath an Italian sky, and amid scenes calculated to enhance every feeling of romantic enjoyment, rose up before him in an instant, and formed such a contrast to the homely, domestic comfort just held out to him, that his very soul sickened at the thought; and, making some awkward sort of vague answer to Mr. Benson’s very pointed remark, he abruptly left him.

Ernest had expected to have found his father irritated against him, in consequence of his long absence and his frequent excuses for not obeying his summons to return home. He also feared that the real cause of his protracted stay might have reached England, and he dreaded how much of his story, since they had parted, might have been made known to Lord Arlingford. But the manner of his father was so perfectly kind and cordial, that it reassured Ernest as to his secret being as yet safe, and at the same time filled his affectionate heart with gratitude and self reproach.

Some days after his arrival, when talking on various subjects connected with the place, estate, &c., Lord Arlingford suddenly said, “Mr. Benson, as soon as I am a little better, and fit for visitors, you must write in my name, and invite Mrs. Benson and Emmeline to come here. Ernest must be impatient to see his little wife. Eh, my boy?”

Ernest did not parry this second attack any better than the first—he started, and stammered out something about “pleasure, honour.” But his father did not, or would not, see his reluctance to touch on the subject; he returned again and again to the charge, said his happiness, his life even, depended upon the marriage; and by the nervous irritation which illness had produced, and which opposition to his will increased, Ernest feared he spoke truly.

Harassed and perplexed, Ernest at last took courage, and resolved to confess to his father the attachment he had formed abroad—his unalterable, violent, decided devotion to another. Lord Arlingford seemed breathless with anger and anxiety, and imperatively desired him to inform him who was the object of it.

Lord Fitzhenry cleared his voice, rose from his chair, paced the room, and twice, in vain, tried to speak; but at last making an effort, “she is a married woman,” he said, “Lady Florence Mostyn.” The name was scarcely audible.

“And is that all?” replied his father, much relieved. “Don’t think you are telling us any thing new; we have heard of your pranks abroad, my boy; but you will not make the worse husband for having passed through the fire. And as for your unalterable attachment, that is all nonsense. So I thought, at your age, with my first love; for I had two or three affairs of the sort before I was married; and, indeed, never quite forgot one of my favourites.”

“But surely, Sir, with such feelings——!”

“Feeling! stuff again,” replied Lord Arlingford. “Why really, Ernest, you have learnt little of the world in your travels; I am sure any one of your young friends would laugh to hear you give such a reason for refusing a most excellent, and, I must add, advantageous marriage.”

Although without principles, Ernest was shocked at his father’s levity; he was in all the heroic romance of passion; to love more than one, to plight his faith to another, did not strike him as morally, religiously wrong, but as sacrilege to the one adored being. All he could obtain, however, was delay, and that his father would allow him some little time for reflection.

Thus passed some months. Lord Fitzhenry occasionally met the Benson family; but Emmeline he hardly looked at, hardly noticed; although, when in her society, his manner towards her was perfectly civil; but it was the civility of indifference; his thoughts were fixed on another, and had he been asked the colour of Emmeline’s hair or eyes, he probably could not have answered.

Spring arrived, and with it Lady Florence. This event did not further Lord Arlingford’s plan. Fitzhenry was more and more decided in his objections, and in his determination not to fulfil what his father called his engagement.

Many violent altercations passed between them, and, at last, in one of these agitating scenes, Lord Arlingford was seized with an apoplectic fit, and (as Ernest thought) fell dead at his feet. Horror-stricken, he raised him from the ground; medical assistance was procured, and life and hope returned after some days of dreadful apprehension and suspense; but the impression left on his mind was too strong to allow of further resistance; and, in an unguarded moment, Fitzhenry, attacked on every side, gave his reluctant consent to the hated union. His father allowed him no time to retract. His proposals were immediately made; though not without a secret hope, on Fitzhenry’s part, of their being rejected, which, owing to the marked neglect with which he had ever treated her whose hand he claimed, seemed not unlikely. But, contrary to his expectations, his offer was accepted.

Emmeline, as has before been stated, was remarkably young and innocent for her age; she had been brought up in the idea that Lord Fitzhenry was to be her husband; and, although without any very decided preference for him, and with a heart perfectly free, she had looked to her marriage as to a thing of course, and as to an event that was to secure her happiness.

His indifference, however, had not escaped her observation; and, her cheek reddening with offended pride, she mentioned it to her father, when, breathless with delight, he came to announce to her that Lord Fitzhenry claimed her as his bride.

Mr. Benson ridiculed what he called her conceit, her romance; exaggerated into compliments many a simply civil thing which Fitzhenry had, or possibly had not, said of her; set forth all the advantages of the marriage; used every argument which he knew her affectionate deference to him would give weight to; even hinted at his word being pledged, till he succeeded at last in silencing her doubts and scruples. The good and pious Mrs. Benson too was not quite free from worldly vanities; she told herself, and she told Emmeline, that so good a son must make a good husband; that it would be such a comfort to see her settled in life with one whom she had known since a boy, and of whom she knew so much good.

At last, with something between a smile and a sigh, Emmeline gave her consent, and all was thus finally arranged:

Seven thousand a-year was firmly settled on Lord Fitzhenry, and the residue of Mr. Benson’s immense property promised at his death. He added likewise a few thousands of ready money for plate, jewels, equipages, &c.; “in order,” as he said, “to set the young people a-going.”

Every one was satisfied but poor Ernest. To his feelings, all this was hateful; and he was doubly shocked when he found, during the legal details into which he had now to enter, that Arlingford Hall, the abode of his childhood, although it had been long in the family, yet from not being entailed like the rest of the property, had only been saved by Mr. Benson’s liberality; and, that in the involved perplexity of his father’s affairs and the urgency of his creditors, all the expenses of his late election had been defrayed from the same source.

Sick at heart, as soon as he could extricate himself from lawyers and papers, Ernest signified his intention of leaving town, in order, as he let it be understood, to superintend the repairs at Arlingford, but, in fact, to fly to Lady Florence, who was still in the country.

It was their first meeting since his marriage had been declared; and with an unprincipled, impassioned woman, he had to undergo scenes still more agonizing than those with his father.

Fitzhenry’s love for Lady Florence was far beyond her power of appreciating—unable to do justice to his character, she could not trust to such devotion as he expressed, and as he really felt. He believed that for his sake she had sacrificed both honour and virtue, and his whole life, his every affection, he conceived would hardly repay the debt.

Ernest’s heart was capable of love of the purest, noblest kind; and, even towards so unworthy an object, it partook more of the nature of his own character than of her’s who had inspired it. During the period employed in preparations for his nuptials, instead of attending on his bride, Fitzhenry never left Lady Florence. Her power seemed strengthened by the very circumstances that should have lessened it; he accompanied her to town; and, even the morning of his marriage, on her entreating to see him, if but for a moment, he had flown to her bewitching presence.

A most violent scene ensued; it ended by a solemn vow on his part to remain true to her, his first, his only love, in thought, word, and deed. That Emmeline should merely be the mistress of his house; that, in public, he should behave to her with perfect attention and civility, but nothing more.

Hardly knowing what he did, and not till long after the hour appointed for the celebration of his nuptials, he left Lady Florence for Mr. Benson’s house. Hence his flushed cheek, and his agitated manner, the too true indications of his troubled soul.

Fitzhenry had no distinct religious feelings; but still, when he heard the sacred vow he was to pronounce, (and of which he had never thought,) with his lips still vibrating with that he had pledged to Lady Florence; no wonder those lips quivered. Although no dread of the anger of his God appalled his mind, yet, as a man of honour, he felt the atrocity of the act. Of Emmeline, of the poor victim, who stood trembling beside him, he hardly thought. He looked upon her as a mere obedient child without a character; perhaps, even worse, an ambitious, worldly being; and all his thoughts, all his compassion, were bestowed on Lady Florence and himself.

Fitzhenry wanted neither decision nor character. During their melancholy journey to Arlingford Hall, he had sufficiently surmounted his agitation to have decided on his conduct. He resolved to tell all to Emmeline, to let her fully enjoy the honours, the worldly advantages of the situation he thought she had in her union with him sought; to assure her he would ever endeavour to make her happy, but that she must never hope for his affections.

Often, after an awful pause, he resolved to speak, but each time his courage failed him; and finding all explanation by word of mouth impossible, he then resolved on writing to her. It was to compose this letter, therefore, that, after dinner, he left his bride, as has before been said.

Such a letter was not easily written; and Emmeline had some time to ruminate on her situation, before he returned. At last he came. He seemed in the feverish state of one who has taken a desperate resolution: he hurried up to Emmeline; asked her if she was not fatigued? if he should ring for candles? and then, without waiting for an answer, rung the bell violently till it broke. His hand shook so much, that he tried in vain to tie the string together again. Emmeline smiling said, she supposed she was more used to strings and knots, and begged to assist him. As she took the cord, her hand accidentally touched his—it was icy cold.

Reynolds, the old servant, brought in the candles, and asked, if his lordship, “if my lady,” would not have any supper? any wine and water? “Yes, some wine directly,” said Fitzhenry, as if hardly conscious of his demand.

When it came, he endeavoured to pour out some for Emmeline; but twice, from the nervous shaking of his hand, he was forced to put down the bottle.

Emmeline was really alarmed. “Surely,” again, she said timidly, “you are very unwell.” He did not seem to heed her, but drank off a large goblet of wine, and then, with a steadier voice and manner said—”I have something on my mind which I must make known to you—perhaps I should have done it sooner—I thought it best for both of us to write it,” and he held out his letter—”Take it with you into your own room,” he added, seeing she was going to break the seal. He took up a candle, gave it her, went with her to the door, put his hand on the lock, and said—”When you have read this, forgive me if you can;” then hastily seizing her hand, which he almost convulsively grasped, he left her.

What poor Emmeline’s feelings were, can be better imagined than described.

In one short moment, a thousand vague fears and horrors passed through her mind. It was her turn now to tremble, as, with the dreaded letter in her hand, she hurried to her own room. She there found her maid, whose presence disconcerted her much; but she resolved to take off her gown speedily, and then dismiss her. Never before, she thought, had her attendant been so slow and tedious. She entangled or pulled every string into a knot. At last, her gown off—that beautiful lace gown in which her poor mother had that morning, with so much pride, arrayed her—all her bridal finery laid aside, she told her maid she wanted nothing more.

“Nothing more, my lady!” said the maid astonished; “shall I not put up your ladyship’s hair? Shall I not wait to take away your candle? Mrs. Benson desired me to”——and she stopped short.

“No, I want nothing,” again said Emmeline, in a voice she could hardly command. The woman stared, busied herself still some time in the room, and, at length, reluctantly departed.

When she was gone, Emmeline sat for several minutes with the letter in her hand, before she had courage to open it. At length, taking a violent resolution, she broke the seal, and read as follows:—

“When you have read this, you will, I fear, be tempted to upbraid and curse the writer; but I act according to my conscience, to my sense of honour, in imparting to you what I am going to unfold—at least, you shall not now accuse me of deceiving you—I think, I trust, I never have done so; for little as you have, I believe, lived in the world, still, unless purposely, artfully concealed from you, you must have been aware, that my affections have long since been disposed of, and that, at my return from abroad, they were no longer mine to bestow.

“Under such circumstances, I never should have renewed the offer of my hand; but parental authority, and the distressing and perplexing situation in which I found myself placed, extracted from me my consent to our marriage. But even in so doing, I did not attempt to deceive. You cannot accuse me of having, in any way, endeavoured to gain your affections. You saw me as I was, indifferent to you, and you were at liberty to refuse me: but you were content to become my wife on these terms—that is to say, of bearing my name, and sharing the poor advantages which rank affords.

“These you still may, still shall enjoy: but nothing more can I offer you; for every feeling of my soul is another’s—forgive me for saying so; but this is no moment for disguise of any sort. To that other, I am bound by every tie, every vow of affection and honour. You will be shocked at hearing such sentiments from me—from your husband; but I should consider myself to be indeed the unprincipled villain you may deem me, if, with such feelings, I could, for a minute, look upon you in any other light than that of a sister. I know full well what love is; and you do not, cannot love me. Therefore I feel not your injuries to be what they otherwise would. You shall enjoy all the worldly advantages you have sought in your marriage with me—all the happiness which wealth—your own wealth—can bestow; and it shall be my endeavour, as far as I can, to make your life happy. You shall be completely mistress in your own house, and of all your actions. Your comfort shall ever be consulted; and I think can venture to say for myself, that you may depend on my kindness, and even on my friendship; but my affections as a lover, as a husband, while the same heart beats in my breast, can never be yours.

“If I may venture, claiming no other right of a husband, to make a request, it is that this subject may never, in any way, directly or indirectly, after this fatal day, be mentioned between us. With regard to your own parents, and to my father, your own good sense and delicacy will, I dare say, dictate to you what conduct to pursue. But if you cannot agree to these, I confess humiliating terms—if you desire an immediate separation, you have but to name your wishes. I will tell all to the world, bear all the blame, and agree to any arrangement which you and your father may choose to dictate.

“Whatever you have to say, write immediately, and put your letter into the adjoining room. In a short time all will be at rest in the house. I will then myself go for it. If possible, every thing must be fully settled and understood between us before we meet to-morrow morning.

“Fitzhenry.”

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.

All those 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 to one 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 not in love with 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 which he 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 and enterprise of 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. She could not curse him—would not 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 her feelings dictated; and this line of conduct she told herself her duty to her parents required of her. She would not break their hearts by letting them 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 herself that future 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 that again, 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 used and 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.”

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, regained her 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 Emmeline in 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 was dressing, 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 him one minute 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; “but they 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 a tête-à-tête walk, directly said she had no fears, and would prefer riding.

Thus they parted; and Emmeline went to 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-peruse the 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 appointment with 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 some friends 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-married lovers did 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 at Arlingford, 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 in his society, when so totally neglected by him, and after all he 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 he seemed 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 she could have 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 indescribable elegance (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 and thought, 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, the footing 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 to her 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, and which 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 wish to 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 hope in time to win her companion’s affections, she gave up, as perfectly hopeless, all attempts to captivate his 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.”

When she reached her own room, unconscious of what she did, she leant her head on her hand, and stood thus for some 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; I am 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 him till 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——indeed you 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 all anger at 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 he made 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 the object 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 not yet destroyed its 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 first time, 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 in her husband’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, as then they were compelled to 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 that gallantry 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.

CHAPTER IV.

“Unhappy Psyche! soon the latent wound

The fading roses of her cheek confess,

Her eyes bright beams in swimming sorrows drown’d,

Sparkle no more with life and happiness,

Her parents’ fond exulting heart to bless.”

It was now about six weeks since the fatal day on which Lord and Lady Fitzhenry were married. His feelings towards her, to all appearance, remained the same; but, with Emmeline, the happiness which depends on insensibility was gone.

Business had hitherto always prevented Mr. and Mrs. Benson from accepting the invitation to Arlingford Hall; but their visit was now fixed to take place as soon as the present company in the house were gone. Emmeline respected her father, and dearly loved her mother; but still she had by nature so nice a tact, that she was soon aware that herself, as well as Lord Fitzhenry, would be better pleased that they should not fall into a set and style of society which they could not suit, and which would not suit them.

Emmeline rather dreaded her mother’s visit, dreaded the quick eye of tender affection, and the gossip of servants. “But,” thought she, “this visit once over, I have nothing more to fear; all will then go on smoothly—smoothly and sadly to me,” she added. “But I will hope a time may come when he will care for me—already I think he is used to my society; at least, he does not dislike it, for I am no longer a constraint to him—I must be patient.” And with a deep-drawn sigh, she turned over the leaves of her as yet unopened music-books, and sat down to practise some of her father’s favourite songs, which since her marriage she had neglected; for Fitzhenry had never asked her to play or sing, and, unsolicited, she had not had sufficient courage. Since Lord Arlingford had been with them they had dined late, and cards and conversation had filled up the evenings.

At length, the day came on which Mr. and Mrs. Benson were expected. Emmeline’s heart beat quick the whole of it, and her eye was on the road which led to the house, her ear watching for every sound all the morning, although it was impossible they could arrive till late in the day. Fitzhenry sent his horses to meet them at the last stage, watched for their arrival, was at the door of the house to receive them, helped them out of the carriage, and himself conducted them up to Emmeline’s room. There, for a few minutes, he left them to fold to their hearts their beloved child. For it was not a scene that he wished to witness, or in which he felt, circumstanced as they were, he had any part to play.

Emmeline’s feelings were worked up to the utmost. Joy, fear, a thousand confused ideas conspired to weaken her nerves, and she fell quite overcome into her mother’s arms. It was some time before she could compose herself. But agitation at that moment was so natural, that it seemed to cause no astonishment, nor raise any suspicions.

“My own dear Emmeline!” exclaimed Mrs. Benson, as she kissed her again and again, “how happy I am to see you once more, and to see you, as I trust I do, every way so happy;” and she looked round with complacency on the refined comfort of her room.

Emmeline pressed her mother’s hand, she could not speak, and with difficulty forced a smile.

“And how well my lord looks,” said her father: “the last time I saw him, on your wedding-day you know, Emmy—Lady Fitzhenry, I mean; I beg your ladyship’s pardon,” said he, chuckling, while making her a formal bow in order to pass off for wit, what was in fact the real overflowings of his vanity at her newly-acquired rank:—”on that day, the nineteenth of August, eighteen hundred and twenty-three, I did not like his looks at all. I really was afraid he was not well; but I was told it was natural agitation. Now I can’t for my life conceive why a man is to look red and yellow and melancholy on the happiest day of his life. I dare say I did not when I was married to my good woman there—Eh, Mrs. B.?—However, now a wholesome country life, and true domestic English happiness, you know, my Lady Fitzhenry, seem to have made quite another man of him.

Emmeline tried again to smile.

“It was so good of him,” continued Mr. Benson, “to press us so often to come—but it was impossible sooner; business must be attended to—my old saying, you know;—and then the kindness of sending his horses for us, although I dare say there were plenty to be had at the inn; but still your old father liked very much to be brought to Arlingford Hall in a manner in triumph, driven by two postilions in the handsome old Fitzhenry livery, with the coachman on before to show the way, although I suppose the drivers knew it quite well; but it did not signify, I liked all that, egad I did—and I am not ashamed to own it. And then, thought I, a man so full of pretty attentions to his father-in-law, must make a good husband to my dear girl.”

Luckily a kiss of rapture, which he then imprinted on that dear girl’s face, saved the necessity of a reply.

By this time, Fitzhenry again made his appearance, apologizing for his absence under the plea of having had some orders to give his coachman.

“No apology, my lord,” said the excellent old citizen, seizing his hand, which he heartily shook; “I consider myself at home here; you and Emmeline are one, you know, and it would be hard indeed if I did not feel at home in my daughter’s house.”

Fitzhenry endeavoured to say something in return, but failed, and as a retreat from observation, walked to the window.

“She is a dear, good little girl, this daughter of mine—is she not, my lord?” continued Mr. Benson, patting Emmeline’s cheek; “and happiness, and your good care of her, have given her such a colour, that I declare I think you must have already taught her to wear rouge, as your fine ladies do.” And Mr. Benson laughed heartily, in gaiety of heart, at his own wit. Alas! poor Emmeline’s colour was the flushed crimson of nervous agitation. Again Fitzhenry had recourse to looking out of the window at the horses and carriages, which luckily had not yet driven off.

“Ay, they are beautiful animals,” said Mr. Benson, following him; “bred here I believe; and then they are so well matched. I have been admiring them all the way. Do you ever drive them yourself? though now I suppose Emmeline has taken the reins into her own hands—Eh, Lady Fitzhenry?”

“This will never do,” thought Emmeline; her heart sank within her, and to put an end to the present trying moment, she proposed showing her mother her room; she trusted that her father’s exuberant spirits would before long vent themselves, and at any rate, separately, both she and Fitzhenry could better bear such attacks. So leaving her father and husband together, she went out of the room with Mrs. Benson. The house—her apartment—the view from the windows—the attentions of the old housekeeper who, in a rustling silk gown, came to make her reverence and offer her services, all delighted the latter. They had much to talk of, aunts, uncles, cousins to enquire after, and Emmeline’s spirits became more composed.

At length, it was time to dress for dinner, and Emmeline retired to her own room. But when there, alone, her head sank on her hand; and a shiver of unhappiness—(I write only to those who have hearts, and to all such these sensations are but too well known)—the cold deserted shiver of unhappiness crept over her frame—”Oh! mine is a hard fate!” thought she, “to have eternally a part to act, a secret to conceal, with one, for one, whose heart is for ever closed to me.”

The sight of her father and mother had revived all the affections and associations of Emmeline’s early youth; and, disappointed in all her dreams of happiness, the mad, the desperate thought of confessing her real situation, of leaving Fitzhenry and Arlingford for ever, and returning to her parents, crossed her mind. But a feeling which every day was gaining ground in her heart, almost unknown to herself, made her, the next minute, start with horror at the thought; and, almost terrified at the idea of the irretrievable step which in a moment of hopeless depression she might have been tempted to take, she resolved that she would keep her word with her husband, conceal and bear all, and trust to time and heaven.

Emmeline cooled her burning eyelids, rang for her maid, and dressed for dinner. Fitzhenry was perfect in his manner and attentions to Mr. and Mrs. Benson. He seemed instinctively to know how to please the former; sent for the oldest wine out of the cellar for him, filled his snuff-box on purpose, bore with his bad jokes, adapted his conversation to him, asking him questions—the replies to which perhaps he never listened to—but which gave the appearance of seeking information from him; and, in the gratitude of her heart for all this kindness, when she ventured to raise her eyes on her husband’s handsome, manly countenance, smiling in goodnature on her parents, Emmeline wondered how the idea of leaving him, betraying him, ever could have entered her mind, and she thought that to live with so amiable a being, on any terms, would be happiness.

As soon as the servants had left the dining-room, Mr. Benson filled his glass to a bumper. Emmeline, who observed the smile on his face as he deliberately poured in the wine, dreaded what was coming. “I am an old fashioned old man,” said Mr. Benson, “and I love all old customs, so I must beg leave to propose a toast—My Lord and Lady Fitzhenry,” said he, bowing to them exultingly, “and may they, and may I, see many happy returns of the nineteenth of August.”

Emmeline coloured, and fixed her eyes on the table before her.

“This is the happiest day of my life I believe,” continued Mr. Benson, “not even excepting my own wedding-day; my heart had been so long set on seeing my Emmy happily settled as your wife; and I must congratulate myself, as well as you, my Lord, at its having at last come to pass. For you too have had it long in your head, or I am much mistaken,” added Mr. Benson, nodding significantly to Lord Fitzhenry. “Well do I remember, when Emmy was not above so high, your calling her your little wife, and saying you had a right to kiss her, when you took leave of us, on going abroad. I warrant you have not forgot that any more than myself.”

And in the exuberance of his joy, he again held out his hand to his son-in-law. Emmeline dared not look up to see how her husband stood this trial; her heart beat so violently that she felt as if its pulsations must be heard during the dead silence, which for an instant followed Mr. Benson’s speech.

Lord Fitzhenry was the first to break it; and, hastily drinking off his glass, as he bowed in return to Mr. Benson, “You will find this wine very good, I think,” said he; “it is some which a friend of mine brought me from Madeira, and has never been in a wine-merchant’s hands.”

“Yes, indeed, most excellent,” replied Mr. Benson, “and I hope by this time next year I may drink some of it, to the health of a little heir to the family.”

On poor Emmeline’s cheek, a deadly paleness so rapidly succeeded the deep crimson of a minute before, that it caught even Mr. Benson’s eye, who, although not quick at observing such dumb indications of feeling, was sorry to have distressed her, though he hardly guessed how he had done so. His spirits were elevated by the exultation of the moment, and the “excellent wine” beyond his usual hilarity—and even beyond his control.

“Come, come, Emmy,” said he, smiling on her—”I meant no offence; but you know such things often, indeed I may say commonly do happen, as people having little boys and little girls after they are married; and I hope you may have a little boy some of those days, that’s all;” and he winked his eye facetiously at Lord Fitzhenry.

The latter however was, as well as Emmeline, examining the pattern of the China-plate before him; so that poor Mr. Benson meeting with no encouragement from any one, was forced to change the subject of conversation, and Emmeline soon proposed to her mother to leave the dining-room.

Mrs. Benson took no notice of what had passed; and Emmeline gradually recovered herself, although, on the gentlemen joining them, she found it impossible to encounter her husband’s eyes, and, hastily getting up, she went to the pianoforte. At first, her hand trembled, but a feeling of pride steadied it; and on her father asking for one of his old favourite songs, she complied.

Fitzhenry gradually approached her, and when she had finished singing—”That is very beautiful,” said he, “You have never before indulged me with any music.”

“No!” replied Mr. Benson, “that is a great shame, when I paid I don’t know what to a Signor——what do you call him? for teaching her. She can sing you any of your fine bravuras; but a plain English song, for my money; it is worth all your Italian airs, for there is some sense, some meaning in that, but, as for your foreign nonsense, one can’t understand what the words are about; no one can make head or tail of them.”

Emmeline could not help smiling; and, looking up, her eyes met Fitzhenry’s. He too smiled, and smiled so kindly on her that, for an instant, she fancied there was affection, even fondness in their expression.

“Perhaps,” said he, “you will nevertheless indulge me with one of the unmeaning songs Mr. Benson complains of.”

Emmeline sang one of Rossini’s. Fitzhenry sat down by the pianoforte opposite to her, his head leaning on his hand; and, at first, he looked attentively at her, but when the song was over, he seemed so lost in thought as to have totally forgot the singer. He said nothing; suffered her to leave the instrument without making any attempt at detaining her, and soon after left the room.

On his return, he proposed a game at whist; Emmeline had early learnt it to make up her father’s party, so a card-table was rung for. Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Benson were to play together, and many cruel things were said about not parting husband and wife, &c. But Fitzhenry’s behaviour that evening had been to Emmeline (in spite of his disregard of the song he had asked for) an additional draft of love, and she bore all most bravely, for she felt it was for him she was bearing it; she did not venture to observe him while all this was passing, but by the tone of his voice, he seemed to endure these trials with patience and unruffled temper.

Mr. Benson and his wife won every game, for their adversaries knew little of what was going on, trumping and taking each other’s tricks with the most perfect mutual indifference. But Mr. Benson only exulted in his superior play, as chuckling, he put his daughter’s money into his pocket, and he retired to bed in high good humour.

The next morning, after breakfast, Fitzhenry took Mr. Benson to show him the farm, stables, &c. and Emmeline and her mother were left together. Mrs. Benson for some time fidgetted about the room, giving dry laconic answers to all Emmeline’s observations, which she knew well, was a symptom of her working herself up to say something unusual, and she dreaded what it might be. At length, Mrs. Benson came up to her daughter, and folding her to her heart, as she printed a fond kiss on her forehead——”Well, my dear child,” she said, “I trust I see you as happy as heart—as even my foolish heart can wish?”

“How can you doubt it?” answered Emmeline, greatly embarrassed by so direct a question. “You see how kind, how excellent he is”—and to avoid her mother’s anxious gaze, she stooped down to caress an old poodle of Fitzhenry’s that had lately established himself in her room. “Speak, Tiber,” said she to the dog—”Have we not a most kind master?”

There was a pause, but Mrs. Benson returned to the charge.

“I find you live quite fashionably, in separate apartments. I must say I think that is a silly new fangled, refinement which I don’t approve of at all, and I hope it is no fancy of yours?”

Emmeline coloured deeply.—”Lord Fitzhenry,” she replied, “had so long lived abroad, was so used to foreign customs, that she did not wonder he liked to adopt them at home.”

“But, Lord Fitzhenry was not a married man abroad, I presume?” said Mrs. Benson, forcing a laugh.

Emmeline forced one too, but her lip quivered, tears came into her eyes, and again she was obliged to stoop and coax the dog.

“By the bye, Emmeline,” said Mrs. Benson, after a moment’s silence, “I have brought you your work-box which you left in Harley-street; I wonder you did not miss it, for I suppose you have a good deal of time to yourself now, and are more alone than you used to be with us?”

“All women must be a good deal alone when they leave home,” replied Emmeline, with as steady a voice as she could command,—”for the occupations and amusements of men are so different, particularly in the country.”

“Then you are chiefly by yourself,” said Mrs. Benson, hastily, as if catching at the confession, as something she was seeking for.

“Oh dear no, I go out riding with some of the gentlemen nearly every day.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” said Mrs. Benson; “and Lord Fitzhenry, does he go too?”

“Yes, generally.”

“I thought he had not,” said Mrs. Benson rather vacantly, and appearing to be engaged in some ruminations of her own.

Emmeline took advantage of the momentary pause that followed, to start a new subject of conversation. She trusted, that when her mother saw how perfectly good humoured and indulgent Lord Fitzhenry was to her; in all things allowing her to be her own mistress, as well as mistress of his house, that the doubts and suspicions which she saw had been raised in her mind, either by her own observations, or her maid’s gossipping reports, would subside. For, as Emmeline suspected, this conversation had, in fact, been brought on by some stories which Mrs. Benson had already heard. Her maid and Emmeline’s were old acquaintance; and what maid or mistress can help talking over her neighbour’s affairs? The truth was, that Mrs. Brown, the old housekeeper, and Susan, Emmeline’s maid, (now promoted to Mrs. Jenkins,) had already quarrelled; for the latter soon began to throw out hints, which Mrs. Brown, thinking herself bound to stand up for her master, resented violently; so that by the time Mrs. Benson arrived, Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Brown were open enemies; and the former lost no time in securing on her side her old companion Warren—Mrs. Benson’s maid.

As soon, therefore, as they had swallowed their tea, at which solemn and important ceremony Mrs. Brown had presided in all the pomp of housekeeper civility, the two friends retired; and while Mrs. Benson’s clothes were arranged in the drawers by the maid, Jenkins, with many a sigh over poor Miss Emmeline, and many an exaggeration, gave an account of the dreadful way in which Lord and Lady Fitzhenry lived together, and of my Lord’s shameful neglect of her. “In short,” she ended with saying, “things are come to such a pitch, that Mrs. Brown and I are scarce on speaking terms, and I am, as you see, very distant even with Mr. Reynolds. People must see what they does see, except those people who wo’nt see, and I am quite resolved on one thing—which is, to be as uppish as possible both with Mrs. Brown and Mr. Reynolds till I see my lord behave better to my lady. I am but a servant, certainly; but I can’t for all that, help thinking it a very strange thing the way they go on.”

“And what does Mrs. Brown say to this?” enquired her auditor.

“Oh she says, forsooth, that it is all my vulgar notions, and because I have not been used to quality.”

“Quality, indeed!” echoed her friend. “Fine airs, upon my word. Miss Emmeline was as good as Lord Fitzhenry any day in the year, I am sure. I should like to know who had the most money, and the best of the bargain? Poor thing! she is much changed; and when she said to me, ‘How do you do, Warren?’ I could plainly see that all was not right between her and Lord Fitzhenry. You know I was always against the match.”

The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Brown, who came to enquire whether any thing was wanted in the rooms.

“Nothing ma’am, thank you,” said Warren dryly, endeavouring to throw into her manner that dignity which Jenkins said she was determined to keep up till Lord Fitzhenry was a better husband, and which Warren, as her sworn ally, thought it right to adopt also. And then pretending to be busily occupied, she took no notice of Mrs. Brown. Warren’s behaviour was so different from what it had been when they had parted at the tea table, that the consequential housekeeper guessed directly to whose influence the change was owing. She said nothing; but settling the shawl that was pinned on her shoulders, and casting an angry glance at Jenkins, she bustled out of the room, saying, she would send the housemaid to attend upon them; and resolving to be revenged on the two friends.

“You have affronted Mrs. Brown finely,” said Jenkins, as soon as she had, with somewhat of a jirk, closed the door after her; “but I am glad of it, for really that is the only way to mend matters, and I feel it my duty to my lady, to quarrel in a manner with Mrs. Brown, though, as far as I am myself concerned, I am, as you know, the most good naturedest of people, and willing to live in peace and harmony with every one.”

“That you are,” replied Mrs. Warren; for, at that moment, she thought it good policy to forget, as well as Mrs Jenkins did, the many regular pitched battles they had fought, when the latter was simple Susan, and nominally under Warren’s controul.

The result of this conversation was a mysterious and sorrowful expression on Warren’s countenance when she attended her lady, Mrs. Benson, at bed-time; and a significantly melancholy tone of voice when she said, “I hope you find Lady Fitzhenry pretty well, ma’am?”

“Quite well,” said Mrs. Benson. “She has not been ill that I know of. Susan does not say she has been unwell, does she?”

“Oh no; Mrs. Jenkins says her ladyship’s health is wonderfully good, considering,” replied Warren.

“Considering what?” said Mrs. Benson, turning quickly round, and looking her in the face, “What do you mean by considering?”

“I mean? dear me, how should I mean any thing?”

“Why, you speak as if you did mean something; and I desire if you know any thing about Emmeline’s health, that you will tell me.”

“La, ma’am! there is nothing the matter with Miss Emmeline as I know of, only I thought perhaps she might not be so lively-like as she used to be, living so much alone.”

“What do you mean by alone? I suppose Lord and Lady Fitzhenry are as much together as other married people are? I don’t expect he sits all day at home with her, any more than Mr. Benson does with me.”

“I believe you will find it is very different from you and my master,” said Warren, with a significant sigh.

“What can you mean by all this?” said Mrs. Benson, alarmed.

“Why, I mean, ma’am, that Miss Emmeline, (Lady Fitzhenry, that is to say,) is always alone.”

“Always alone?” repeated Mrs. Benson; “really Warren I don’t know what you would be at—and I don’t believe you know yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Warren, bridling up; “and I only say what I know to be true. Lord Fitzhenry sleeps in his own room alone all night, and Lady Fitzhenry sits in her room alone all day; and, if that is living like a married pair, I don’t know what a married pair is.”

“Who tells you all this nonsense?” said Mrs. Benson, angrily, and yet wishing to hear more.

“Why, Mrs. Jenkins, to be sure, ma’am. She says, that my lord quarrelled with my lady on their very wedding-day—for that she herself heard high words between them and doors shut in a passion-like—and ever since that terrible scene—which Jenkins can swear to—they have continued to live in this strange way. For my part, I don’t think if I was Mrs. Jenkins I would remain in so unpleasant a family, although to be sure all is in very high style, and the housekeeper’s room as good as many ladies’ drawing-rooms, with a nice Turkey carpet; but still all can’t be right. However, I should be sorry to tell tales and make mischief; but you know, ma’am, you forced me to speak, otherwise I am sure I should have held my tongue about it all to my dying day, for I am sure I would not for all the world make you uneasy, ma’am.”

“Well, I desire you will hold your tongue to every body else,” said Mrs. Benson gravely, “and bid Susan come to me to-morrow morning.”

Susan told her story, heightening the picture as much as she could; and, after all this, it will not be wondered at that Mrs. Benson endeavoured to discover the truth from Emmeline. Her answers, her praises of Fitzhenry, staggered her; and, as Emmeline had anticipated, the appearance of perfect good humour on the part of her husband, often even of gallant attention towards her, made Mrs. Benson think the whole was no more than the common gossip of servants; and, at any rate, she had too much good sense to endeavour to pry into matrimonial secrets and arrangements, which her daughter did not seem to wish to have noticed; so, resolving to be very watchful, she said no more.

A day or two after, several of the neighbours, who had been invited, came to Arlingford. Mr. and Mrs. Benson were of course delighted on seeing the deference and court paid to their daughter; and the bustle occasioned by the visitors, the driving about in the morning, viewing the country, and returning visits, occupied Mrs. Benson’s time, if not her thoughts, so entirely, that she and Emmeline being seldom alone together, the latter was spared any more distressing conversations.

At the end of about a week, Mr. Benson received letters which obliged him to return immediately to town on some mercantile business. “But,” said he, casting a doubtful, enquiring look on Lord Fitzhenry, “I need not carry off my good lady wife, if you will give her house-room a little longer, and I can perhaps return for her; or, at any rate, I think I may by this time trust her to travel alone, whatever other husbands may”—winking his eye at Emmeline.

Lord Fitzhenry directly expressed great pleasure in Mrs. Benson prolonging her visit, and then, after a moment’s pause, added, “Indeed it will be particularly kind to Lady Fitzhenry if she will, for I myself shall be obliged to leave home in a day or two.”

Emmeline gave a start, and involuntarily looked up towards her husband. For an instant their eyes met; but, as if by mutual consent, both were instantly withdrawn. “He catches at the first opportunity to leave me,” thought she. “Glad his penance is over.”

Whither he was going, Fitzhenry never said, and Emmeline dared not ask; indeed, she hardly knew whether, during his absence, he would expect her to write to him; and therefore, if even under that pretext she could venture to enquire.

On the day settled for his departure, when the carriage was ready at the door, he came into the drawing-room to take leave. Mrs. Benson was there with Emmeline.

“If there come any letters for me,” said he, “I have desired Reynolds to send them to the house in town, and I shall leave word there to have them forwarded.” Still he said nothing about her writing to him. He staid some time in the room, seemingly uncertain what to do or say, or how to take leave of her. At length, apparently summoning courage for a disagreeable effort, he walked hastily up to Mrs. Benson, shook hands with her, came up to Emmeline and did the same, adding, in rather a low voice, “I shall be glad to hear from you;” and, not waiting for any answer, he hurried out of the room.

It was the first time their hands had ever met since that morning after their marriage, when she had herself offered hers to Fitzhenry in token of forgiveness and goodwill. Since then, now nearly two months past, her sentiments towards him had taken a totally different character; her face blushed crimson; but he, whose slightest touch had thus thrilled to her heart, and had power to raise that blush, almost before the “eloquent blood” had reached her cheek, was already gone.

From the window she sadly saw him drive off; whither and to whom he was going, she could not doubt.

Several days passed, and she heard nothing from him; at last, a letter, franked Fitzhenry, was put into her hands; she opened it hastily—her heart beating with emotion—but it merely enclosed a printed one from some trades-person in London, applying for her custom. In a fit of vexation, almost of anger, she was nearly throwing the whole into the fire, when some writing on one of the flaps of the cover caught her attention, and she found these words.

“The longer Mrs. Benson can stay with you the better; I believe I shall not be home for a fortnight. Should she not be able to remain, perhaps you had better go and pay your father a visit; and I will let you know when I am likely to be at Arlingford again; but now, and always, do whatever you yourself like best. I hope soon to hear you are well.

“Yours,
“Fitzhenry.”

“So you have got a letter from your husband,” said Mrs. Benson; “and a fine thick packet. I hope he is well?”

“Quite well,” said Emmeline, sadly.

“What news does he give? what has he been about?”

“News?” repeated Emmeline, absently—

“Yes; I mean—what does he say?”

“Say? oh, nothing.”