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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. II.

LONDON:

HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.

1828.

A

MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE.

CHAPTER I.

Now, in his turn, offended and surprised,

The knight in silence from her side withdrew;

With pain she marked it, but her pain disguised,

And heedless seemed her journey to pursue,

Nor backward deigned to him one anxious view,

As oft she wished.

Psyche.

Easter was now fast approaching, and Fitzhenry announced to Emmeline his intention of going out of town for a fortnight,—but not to Arlingford—And he concluded by saying, that, of course, he supposed she would like to pass the time with her father at Charlton.

At any other time, and under any other circumstances, how gladly would she have availed herself of the opportunity of returning to her former, peaceful, happy home! But, like a sick person, her feverish mind had for some time past dwelt on Arlingford. She longed to find herself again there, for there, they must meet—there they might be alone! and she could not help hoping for some explanation between them, which might make her, at least, less miserable. Fitzhenry’s manner towards her had of late changed: it had no longer the ease of indifference, the coldness of mere civility; but, alas! it had only changed to apparent dislike, or at least displeasure. He observed her more; but his observations seemed always to prejudice him still more against her.

And yet, what could she do? or what leave undone? She had tried all means to please him, and all had failed. She first had followed the dictates of her own heart, and then, relying on Pelham’s knowledge of her husband’s character, and on his advice, she had played a part most unnatural to her—that of a gay, unfeeling woman of the world, when her heart was breaking. All, in turn, seemed to be wrong.

For an instant, a horrid thought had crossed her mind. Could Pelham be deceiving her? Could he, for any view, either of his own, or Fitzhenry’s, be endeavouring to draw her on to what was lowering her still more in her husband’s opinion? Was Pelham untrue to his friend? or what would be still worse, was it a concerted plan, to exasperate her, and at last to force her to break a connexion, which, to her husband, had become intolerable thraldom. Emmeline, shuddering, turned away from such thoughts, almost reproaching herself for ingratitude in having, even for a moment, entertained them. But again disappointed in what she had looked to with some degree of satisfaction, and finding she must relinquish even those faint hopes which she had built, on their return to Arlingford, her sick mind preyed on itself, and conjured up these painful surmises, producing doubt and suspicion in the most confiding of all characters.

Emmeline heard Fitzhenry’s notification about leaving town in silent acquiescence; and, having no choice, to Charlton she went; but her heart sank within her as she drove up to her father’s door, for, aware of how much she was changed, she dreaded her parents’ observation, and feared, that when constantly in their society, she could not keep up those false spirits which she always endeavoured to assume when with them. Poor Emmeline was in truth sadly changed. Instead of the active, cheerful being she used to be, she was now generally abstracted, and sometimes even apparently totally insensible to every thing around her; and then, when fearful of betraying herself, she suddenly broke forth into those unnatural bursts of feverish spirits, so painful to witness, because so evidently proceeding from internal suffering.

Mrs. Benson watched her in silent anxiety; but her loss of bloom, of activity, and appetite, even of spirits, all was attributed to a far different cause; and, after some enquiries respecting her health, which Emmeline always evaded, the warm-hearted mother, not without smiling at her daughter’s overstrained shyness and delicacy, questioned her no more on the subject; but contented herself with paying every possible attention to her bodily comfort, while she indulged in the delightful anticipation of new objects for her maternal pride and fondness.

And thus deceived as to the cause of Emmeline’s altered appearance, she spared her any more embarrassing conversations.

The stated fortnight was past, and still she did not receive from Fitzhenry the promised letter, announcing his return to town. But one day the servant put into her hand one with the Arlingford post-mark. It was not franked by Fitzhenry; the writing was unknown to her; and, in alarm, she hastily broke the seal.

She found it was from Brown, the housekeeper, informing her that Reynolds had been seized with a violent and dangerous illness; that the doctors, who attended him, gave little hope of his recovery; and that he so constantly expressed his anxiety to see her, and Lord Fitzhenry, that she could not help complying with his request, and informing her ladyship of his situation and wishes. She added—“I have also taken the liberty to write to my lord; and not knowing where his lordship is, have sent the letter to the steward in town to forward to him.”

Emmeline knew but too well whither the letter would follow him; but thinking he might not receive it in time, or that, possibly, in the society he then was, he might be little inclined to attend such a summons, she determined immediately to go to Arlingford. How much the desire of being there, of visiting every spot, every inanimate object in her mind connected with Fitzhenry, and the possibility even of thus meeting him, might have influenced her benevolent decision—probably she herself did not know.

On arriving at Arlingford, Emmeline’s first question was, whether Lord Fitzhenry was there: and the feeling of deep disappointment with which she learnt that he was not, and that he was not even expected, betraying to herself her real object in coming, made her half-ashamed when at length she enquired after the poor invalid.

The accounts of Reynolds’s situation had been in no way exaggerated. He was still alive, and sensible; but there was no possibility whatever of recovery. Emmeline therefore endeavoured to overcome her own selfish feelings, and went immediately to the sick room.

Independent of the gratification she received from witnessing the pleasure which her presence seemed to give to the faithful old servant, the duty she undertook then was one every way better suited to her present state of mind, than the dissipation in which she had been lately engaged. It soothed and quieted the tumult of her feelings, and brought back to her mind some of the innocent, calm remembrances of happier days. Educated by her mother in the exercise of every religious duty, she, who had so lately been seen glittering in ball rooms, now knelt by the bed of sickness; and while raising the dying man’s mind and hopes to that better world to which he was hastening, she found herself strengthened to bear the sorrows of that, in which she was still appointed to suffer.

Towards the end of the second day after Emmeline’s arrival at Arlingford, Reynolds grew rapidly worse; the symptoms of death seemed to be fast increasing, and, aware of his approaching dissolution, his anxiety for Fitzhenry’s arrival, and the nervous perturbation of his mind, were painful to witness. Emmeline frequently asked if he had any request to make, any wish she could communicate to him; but his only answer was, that he must see him before he died.

To compose, and turn his thoughts to other things, Emmeline had again recourse to religion; and, when thus employed, and while the last rays of the evening sun shone faintly through the curtains of the sick room on her kneeling figure, and on the sacred book she held in her hand, the door of the apartment slowly opened, and Fitzhenry appeared.

He started back on seeing Emmeline, and, for a moment, stood still, as if awed by the scene before him; but Reynolds recognizing him, and exclaiming—“’Tis him! God be praised, I shall now die in peace,” Fitzhenry hastened up to him, kindly taking his extended hand; then again looking at Emmeline—“Good God! Lady Fitzhenry, since when have you been here?”

“Only a day or two; I was sent for,” said Emmeline, hardly knowing whether thus unexpectedly seeing her had given him pain or pleasure.

“I was so bold as to send for her ladyship,” said Reynolds. “It was my request, my dying request. I knew I had not long to live. I knew I should not die easy, unless I could once more see you, once more see that angel!” and still grasping Fitzhenry with one hand, he held out the other to Emmeline.

At such a moment, not to comply with any wish of the sick man, was impossible; though, half fearful of his intention, she tremblingly put her hand in his.

“Dear, dear Lord Fitzhenry,” continued Reynolds, “you know I love you as if you were my own son. Death makes us all equal, and it makes me bold. I have often wished, longed, to speak to you, but felt it was not my place; and I had not courage; but listen to a dying man’s advice. I know all—you know I do. Oh, my dear master! repent, and turn from your evil ways! Do not any longer trifle with God, and with the happiness he has offered you! Do not cast from you the angel Heaven has sent you!”—and he joined their hands. “God of heaven!” he continued, with a trembling voice, “look down on these, thy servants, and make them happy together!”

Fitzhenry’s head fell on the bed, as if wishing to avoid the eyes of Emmeline, as he involuntarily sunk on his knees.

As for Emmeline, overcome and terrified at what had passed; fearful as to the manner in which Fitzhenry might interpret such a seemingly premeditated appeal to his feelings in her behalf; perhaps, even, humbled at the situation in which it placed her, she hastily, almost unconsciously, withdrew her hand from the feeble grasp of the dying man, while his dimmed eyes were still raised to heaven; and, before either he, or her husband, had time to discover her intention, she hastily left the room.

But she had no sooner quitted it than she repented her hasty flight. When Reynolds joined their hands, although Fitzhenry had not clasped hers in token of affection, still he had suffered his to remain with it; and, overcome by the old man’s address to him, he had appeared to have given way to the kind—the virtuous impulse of the moment. That impulse, and those virtuous feelings, might possibly have produced a favourable explanation; and she, by leaving him so abruptly, had now, she feared, evidently shown a reluctance to any thing which might have produced a reconciliation between them.

Twice she had her hand on the lock to return; but, timid from excess of affection, each time her courage failed her. The door which she had scarcely closed, reopened of itself, and she heard these words uttered by Fitzhenry: “It is impossible—indeed it can’t be so;—but depend upon it, nothing shall be wanting on my part to contribute to her happiness, and——”

Emmeline waited for no more. As one pursued by a horrid vision, she hurried to her own room. The shades of evening deepened around her, as, alone and half stupified with her various feelings, she counted the striking of the heavy hours as they passed. Not a sound was to be heard in the uninhabited house—no one came near her.

At length, when the clock slowly, solemnly sounded twelve, she started up, and, recollecting that her maid was probably waiting for her, she rung the bell, that she might dismiss her for the night; but she first sent her to enquire after Reynolds, whose room was in a distant part of the building. On the return of Jenkins, the report she brought was—“That my lord was still with Reynolds—that they were apparently engaged in serious conversation—for that no one was allowed to go into the room, my lord himself giving him the necessary medicines, and having dismissed the nurse.”

After her maid had taken off Emmeline’s gown, unplaited her hair, and, at her desire, lit the fire in her dressing-room, as she fancied it would be a sort of companion to her, which, in her present state of mind, she felt to be necessary, she sent Jenkins to bed, and, drawing her chair close upon the hearth, Emmeline remained lost in reflections neither cheering nor soothing. The near neighbourhood of a death-bed gives an awful feeling even to one in the full pride of youth and health. To be aware that so close to us a fellow-creature is probably just then passing, through the agonies of death, to that eternity to which we all look with awe, is an overpowering sensation; and Emmeline shuddered as these thoughts crossed her mind. She cast her eyes fearfully round the room, and endeavoured to brighten the flame in the grate. Still death and its horrors hung over her imagination, which wandered now to future scenes of pain and punishment; and the thought that Fitzhenry—her loved Fitzhenry, who had wound himself round every fibre of her heart—might perhaps be an outcast from that heaven to which she had been taught to look, as the end and aim of her existence, was agony. For she could not conceal from herself that he was living in bold defiance, or rather in total disregard and indifference to the will and laws of his God.

Emmeline’s blood curdled, and a cold shiver crept all over her frame. Instinctively she sunk on her knees, and prayed for him who had never been taught to pray for himself. Her head sank on her clasped hands, which rested on a chair beside her; her long hair falling over her face and shoulders. The dead silence that surrounded her, appalled her awe-stricken mind; she eagerly listened for some sound of human existence and neighbourhood; but nothing was to be heard but the regular vibration of the great clock in the hall. Emmeline remained kneeling, till her nervous agitation grew so painfully strong, that she hardly dared to move, and had not power to shake off the superstitious horror which had taken possession of her. Every limb trembled; the cold sweat stood on her forehead; and it was an inexpressible relief to her disordered mind, when, at length, she heard a slow step in the gallery, and a gentle knock at her door. She concluded it was her maid, bringing her some tidings of Reynolds, and she quickly and joyfully bade her enter. The door softly opened, and Fitzhenry appeared.

An unearthly vision could scarcely have startled Emmeline more. She uttered an exclamation, almost of terror, as she hastily rose from her knees; but almost directly sank into the chair beside her, her trembling limbs refusing to support her.

“I think you gave me leave to come in,” said Fitzhenry, still standing at the door. Emmeline bowed assent, when, closing it after him, he came up to her, and put his candle on the mantle-piece.

It was the first time he had ever entered her room since that day when, on her parents’ first arrival at Arlingford, he had conducted them to it; and, dreading the possible purport of his visit now, after the scene that had lately occurred, she had not courage to say a word. For a minute, both were silent—at length Fitzhenry said—

“I thought you would be anxious to hear about poor Reynolds; and as he has now sunk into something like sleep, I came away for a minute to tell you he is more easy and composed; but I fear this stupor is only the forerunner of death, and that all will soon be over. I shall lose a most faithful servant—indeed, an attached friend—.”

He paused; but Emmeline, still too nervous to speak, said nothing.

“I also came,” said he, in an agitated, hurried manner, “to thank you for your kindness in coming to him: it was most kind—good—excellent;—like yourself. I feel it deeply, I assure you, as well as Reynolds.”

These few words of praise, so unlike what she had expected from him after what had passed, still more overpowered Emmeline. Had she dared to give way to the feelings of the moment, she would have thrown herself into her husband’s arms, and, in his tenderness, claimed a reward for an action which he seemed to take as a kindness to himself. But alas! not for one moment could she be deceived as to the nature of his feelings; not for one moment, after the decisive declaration which she had again heard him make, could she attribute his present manner towards her to any thing but mere gratitude for her attentions to his old servant; and, repressing the throbbings of her bosom, and scarcely knowing what she said, with a breathless voice she answered:

“I came to Arlingford because I thought Brown’s letter might not reach you in time, and I did not know where to write to you—I mean, I thought you might be otherwise engaged yourself.”——And then struck with the appearance of coldness and reproof in her words, and the possible interpretation to be given to them, she stopped short.

Fitzhenry made no comment. Both were now standing seemingly occupied with watching the dying embers of the fire—at last he turned towards her, she felt his eyes were on her.

“Poor Reynolds often names you,” he said; “but I think, unless you wish it—perhaps you had better not go to him again—such scenes are painful, and——”

He was continuing, but with the quick touchiness of love, (of unrequited love, which interprets every thing to its disadvantage,) Emmeline, catching at those words, and fancying they alluded to what had lately passed, and were meant as a hint to her to avoid any possible recurrence of the same scene, immediately, with a voice scarcely audible from agitation, said:

“Oh no, certainly. And perhaps now that you are here, and that my presence is no longer desired—I mean not necessary—it may be more convenient if I return to Charlton——or to town.”

“Just whatever you prefer,” said Fitzhenry, coldly; and, after a moment’s pause, “you know my wish is, that you should always do whatever you like and judge to be best.” And he put up his hand to take his candle, as if in preparation to leave the room.

Poor Emmeline had, in a moment of perhaps excusable irritation, artfully made the proposal of leaving Arlingford, in the hope of its being opposed; and this cold acquiescence quite overcame her. She could not speak, for her lips quivered when she attempted it; and, depressed and nervous with all that had passed, big tears again rolled down her cheeks, and she kept her head averted to conceal them from Fitzhenry.

In raising his hand to take his candle, he somehow had caught on the button of his coat-sleeve a lock of her long hair, which was hanging loose over her shoulders; and, during the pause that followed his answer, he was endeavouring to disentangle himself; but in vain. Surprised at his still remaining near her, and in silence, she at last looked up, and seeing what had happened, her trembling hands darted on the entangled hair, and with the vehemence of vexation, she broke and untwisted it till she again set him free. He looked at her for a minute in seeming astonishment, and then, coldly wishing her good-night, left the room.

He had scarcely been gone a minute, when recalling the kindness of his manner on first entering, and blaming herself for the irritation she had given way to, she determined to recall him; and, passing from one extreme to another, and buoyed up with instant hope—though she scarcely knew of what—she hastily collected her hair with a comb, folded her wrapper closer around her, and opening her door, hurried into the gallery. All there was dark and silent; she turned towards Fitzhenry’s room—his door was open—but he was gone! Stopping a minute to listen and take breath, she heard him crossing the hall below on his way to Reynolds’s apartment. She determined to recall him, and hurried along the gallery to the head of the stairs for that purpose. When she got there, she saw the last faint ray of the light he was carrying glimmering across the hall. Twice she endeavoured to pronounce his name—but it was a name that never could be pronounced by her calmly. She was frightened at the sound of her own voice, faint as its accents were, (so faint that they never reached him to whom they were addressed,) and her courage totally failed her.

“Alas!” thought she, as she sadly leant against the bannisters for support, “if he came, what could I say to him? what have I to ask of him, but pity for feelings which he can neither understand nor return? and may I at least never so far forget myself. I am humbled enough already.” And now, even alarmed at what those feelings had so nearly betrayed her into, she returned to her own room as hastily as she had a minute before quitted it; so capricious, so inconsistent does passion render its victims.

Towards dawn of day, Emmeline, whose heavy eyes sleep had never visited, heard a bustle below; several doors were hastily opened and shut. In a little time, Fitzhenry (for she could never mistake his step) passed hastily along the gallery to his own room, and closed the door immediately after him. Then there was again a dead silence.

“It is all over,” thought Emmeline; “Reynolds is at peace: the only being in this house who loved me is gone!” A cold shiver crept over her; she buried her tear-bedewed face in her pillow, and thus lay for long immoveable, no conscious thought passing through her agitated mind.

When her maid came to her in the morning, she informed her Reynolds had died about five o’clock; that Lord Fitzhenry had never left him; that he had supported him in his arms to the last, and, when all was over, appearing much affected, he had gone immediately to his own room, giving orders that no one was to go to him till he rung.

Jenkins, unbidden, brought Emmeline her breakfast in her own apartment, although at Arlingford that was a meal at which she and Fitzhenry had always hitherto met. How painfully did she then feel the separation between them! Fitzhenry was in sorrow, and she, his wife, dared not go near him; even the servants seemed to dictate to her her conduct, and to be aware of her situation.

As to her departure, she knew not what to determine. She had said she would go. Her husband had not opposed her declared intention, and she did not like again to be accused of caprice. Not feeling, however, that she could leave Arlingford without at least again seeing him, she put off her journey till the following day.

To pass the slow unoccupied hours, Emmeline, knowing there was no chance of seeing Fitzhenry for some time, wandered out. The country was now in its first freshness of beauty—all smiled around her. Those rides and paths which, the summer before, she had first seen, with Fitzhenry at her side, were again clothed in the lovely green of spring. Often at those spots, connected in her mind with some circumstance, word, or even look of Fitzhenry, which a few months back had, although in delusion, made her heart sometimes beat with the flattering hope that she was not quite indifferent to him, poor Emmeline would remain fixed, quite unconscious of the time she thus passed in vague reverie. For, compared with what she had endured in London, there was a sort of pleasure in her present state of mind, raised and soothed as it had been, by the late pious duties in which she had been engaged, and softened by the charm of renovated nature. How often does some accidental sound or perfume, wafted to us on a spring breeze, startle the mind by confused recollections of hours gone by, and by undefinable sensations of mixed pain and pleasure!

Emmeline had not been long returned to the house before a servant came and told her that dinner was ready, and that my lord was waiting for her. Their meeting was rather awkward on both sides. Fitzhenry never raised his eyes upon her; but she was now well used to that sort of cold neglect on his part. It was the first time for several months that they had been tête-à-tête. This circumstance, and the room they were in, all brought back forcibly to Emmeline’s mind their wedding-day; that day of exultation and joy to her parents, and at its dawn of hope and happiness even to herself—and how had it all ended!

To one formed for tenderness, for all the social charities of life, there could not be a more cheerless fate than hers; for, repulsed from where her heart should have found its best home, she was even denied the consolations of confidential friendship. Occupied with these thoughts, Emmeline was little inclined to join in uninteresting, forced conversation. Fitzhenry, too, seemed much depressed, and they ate their repast in nearly total silence.

When it was ended, Fitzhenry, under the plea of having several orders to give, and many things to arrange in consequence of the death of Reynolds, soon returned to his own room, and Emmeline passed the remainder of the evening alone. On the approach of midnight, as he never appeared, she concluded that Fitzhenry did not intend to return; she therefore rang for her candle, and left the drawing-room; but before she reached her own apartment, she was met in the gallery by her husband—they both stopped.

“I shall leave this place to-morrow,” said Emmeline, in a low voice. “Have you any letters or orders to send by me?” She still fondly hoped he would make some objection to her departure; but he merely replied, that he concluded she was going to Grosvenor-Street; that he would follow in a few days; and that if she did not set out early, he would send some letters by her.

“I can go at any hour,” said Emmeline, “I am in no hurry; it does not signify at what time I go; all hours are the same to me.” And so they parted.

It was in the same cold, distant manner that they separated next morning, when Emmeline left Arlingford for town. For though she loitered on, always hoping Fitzhenry would let fall some word at which she might catch as an encouragement to stay, he never in any manner opposed her departure; and at last, with a heavy heart, she entered her carriage, and, after a melancholy, solitary journey, drove over London’s noisy pavement, now glazed by a burning May sun, into Grosvenor-Street.

Those who have lived in London when melancholy circumstances have excluded them from participating in its amusements, will enter into Emmeline’s feelings when, during the first, and on many an ensuing dismal evening, which she spent alone, she heard the carriages hurry past her door in the constant bustle of pleasure. Often, as she sat in the dusk of the now long-protracted spring evenings, Emmeline was only roused from some deep reverie to a consciousness of the lateness of the hour, by the glare of the lamps and flambeaux of some of these gay equipages passing her darkened windows, and hastening to some general resort of diversion.

For it was now the high tide, the carnival of London. Every one was there——and every one went every where—hurrying and crowding after each other, although caring for no one. What a wretched, humiliating picture of human nature does London present during the months of May, June, and July! Affection, friendship, all the social virtues, and charities, disappear before folly, dissipation, and selfishness. And so infectious is the disease, that almost the best hearts are, at least for the moment, tainted; the steadiest heads turned. It is a constant hurry, a perpetual bustle, in which no one has leisure to care, or feel for another, whatever may be the inclination; and scarcely is there time to drop a tear over the grave of a friend. If an uncle, cousin, or some such near relation, is so inconsiderate as to choose these interesting, busy moments to depart this life, it is looked upon as an almost unpardonable act of selfishness on the part of the defunct, by which so much time, perhaps many entertainments and balls, are lost to his surviving family. On the other hand, the demise of some mere nightly companion in the resorts of dissipation is generally hailed with joy, not for their own demerits, but that not only their opera-box and ticket at Almacks, but that of all those nearly connected with them will thereby become disposable; a short retirement being considered necessary both to dry their tears, and give time to a fashionable tailor or mantua-maker to send home the becoming mourning, in which they can again sally forth to make up for the time they have lost, by returning with renovated spirits to their dissipated duties. In the mean time, anxious notes fly about town as soon as the death is announced in the papers; and the doors of all the patronesses of fashion are beset by the dear friends of the deceased, anxious to be the first to apply for the vacated subscription, which happily can neither be carried away from this world by the selfish, nor be disposed of by will by the obliging.

And this was the world into which poor Emmeline had to carry a breaking heart!

After Fitzhenry had joined her in town, although nothing further had ever passed,—no dispute, no difference had taken place,—yet, they appeared mutually to consider themselves as more than ever, in short, totally estranged.

Both looked miserable: an additional shade of melancholy seemed to have gathered on Lord Fitzhenry’s countenance; and yet Emmeline was now certain that her rival was again in town, and that he passed with Lady Florence those hours which she now spent alone in Grosvenor-Street. For Emmeline felt it impossible to return to her former life; and, as there was no reason why she should, no one for whom she was called upon to make the exertion, she gave up what had already injured her health, both of mind and body.

Emmeline’s temper even was not what it used to be; often, if Fitzhenry accidentally spoke to her, she answered him with asperity, and then the minute he had disappeared, she wept bitterly for her fault—for her offence towards love; longing for his return, that, on her knees, she might implore his forgiveness. Yet, when they again met, it was the same repulsive coldness on both sides.

But if there can ever be an excuse for one gifted by nature with the blessing of a mild, gentle disposition, for giving way to irritation, Emmeline might plead it. Her heart was every way wounded; even Pelham she now dreaded; Mrs. Osterley’s hints eternally haunted her: if she caught his eye fixed upon her in anxious interest, her sick fancy took alarm, and the deep crimson in her cheeks betrayed apprehensions, which she wished to conceal even from herself.

Tormented with this idea, she now shunned his society and conversation, as much as she had formerly sought it; for, although her extreme diffidence with regard to her own attractions, (a diffidence which her husband’s disregard of her had much increased,) her unsuspecting innocence, and simplicity of heart, would rather have led her to prize than avoid the attentions of an agreeable man, regardless of their raising suspicions in the breast of others, any more than in her own; yet, now being aware of what the world could and did say, that very innocence and simplicity made her fly from the least appearance of evil. She was not one of those to play off on a husband the arts of infidelity, in order, by jealousy, to rouse his feelings, and by the fear of wounded honour, to attract his attentions towards her.

Fitzhenry cared not for her; but the vow of constancy which her lips had pronounced at the altar, and which was since engraven by strong affection on her heart, was too sacred in her estimation to allow even the uninterested world to suspect that she trifled with it.

Her intercourse with Pelham being thus embittered, and her parents being the last to whom she could reveal her sorrows, she dragged on, in wretched solitude of heart, a listless, useless, aimless existence. The young, the gay, and the busy meantime bustled around her, careless of her unhappiness; or, if they sometimes observed its melancholy symptoms on her pale cheek, or in her heavy, absent eye, they only wondered “what could make Lady Fitzhenry so discontented, when she possessed every thing in the world to render her happy.”

It is thus we too often pass harsh and hasty judgment on those whose grave or suffering countenances chance to cross us in the paths of pleasure, checking, for a minute, by their sad and therefore unwelcome presence, our feeling of enjoyment, in reminding us, most disagreeably, of its transient nature.

CHAPTER II.

Poured in soft dalliance at a lady’s feet,

In fondest rapture he appeared to lie....

Their words she heard not—words had ne’er exprest

What well her sickening fancy could supply—

All that their silent eloquence confest

As breathed the sigh of fire from each impassioned breast.

While thus she gazed, her quivering lips turn pale,

Contending passions rage within her breast,

Nor ever had she known such bitter bale,

Or felt by such fierce agony opprest.

Psyche.

Emmeline having a general invitation to the house of Lady Mowbray—one of her new acquaintance, who was at-home on a stated day every week; and never having yet been to any of her soirées, she one evening exerted herself to pay her a visit. There were not many people assembled, owing to the many things to be done, a phrase in the fashionable slang of London, expressive of that delightful prospect of busy pleasure, which consists in passing the greatest part of the night in a carriage, fighting in and out of a dozen houses, the owners of which are, perhaps, never seen by their visitors.

Among the few whom these many pleasures had that evening spared to Lady Mowbray, Emmeline found none with whom she was much acquainted; so that after having remained what she thought a sufficient time, hearing a loud knock, announcing a fresh reinforcement of company, and thinking she had performed her duty of civility, she meditated her departure, when the door opened, and Lady Florence Mostyn was announced.

At that name, Emmeline started so violently, that her neighbour turned round to see what had alarmed her; but could neither perceive any cause for her agitation, nor receive any answer to her enquires, whether she was well, for Emmeline’s eyes, thoughts, and every sense, were fixed on her rival.

Lady Florence, after speaking to one or two other people, went up to Lady Mowbray, and seated herself by her, luckily at some distance from where Emmeline was placed. Lady Florence was past the first bloom and beauty of youth; but this was more apparent in the somewhat thickened contour of her figure, than in her face. Her deep blue eyes were still brilliant; her lovely chiselled mouth still opened to show teeth like pearls, and the roses and lillies still contended in her cheeks. She was simply dressed; but there was not a curl, however careless it appeared, but fell just where it should, and the large shawl in which she was wrapped, took some new graceful fold each time she moved, and by its brilliant colours gave additional effect to the delicate whiteness of a round arm, covered with bracelets. Her voice, and look, were sweetness itself; but in her eyes, an expression lurked, that recalled to the mind, Walter Scott’s “Wiley Dame Heron.”

Lost in a trance of most painful feelings, Emmeline sat for some time like a statue, without power to form any resolution, as to whether she would fly or face her enemy. There was the being who reigned paramount in her husband’s heart! Those were the eyes on which he gazed with fondness! on that hand he had sworn constancy! on those lips he had sealed his vows! the silver tones of that voice thrilled to his heart, as his did to hers!

Poor Emmeline gazed on all these charms, till, growing frightened at her own increasing agitation, she hastily got up, and moved towards the door.

“My dear Lady Fitzhenry,” exclaimed Lady Mowbray, who unfortunately had observed her intended departure, “I hope you are not already going?”

At that name, the eyes of Lady Florence eagerly followed those of the speaker, and rested on Emmeline. And, for an instant, as if impelled by some power they could not resist, the rivals glanced at each other, and their eyes met. But Emmeline’s soon fell beneath the scrutiny, and she turned away her death-like face. The whole expression of Lady Florence’s countenance had changed. Emmeline’s appearance, every way so different from what she had expected, in an instant roused, within her, feelings she could scarcely command. Her uncontrolled passions were plainly painted in her face; the deep crimson in her cheeks overcame the well applied rouge; her eyes flashed fire; and the lovely smile on her lips, was replaced by a fearful expression of “envy, hatred, and malice.”

Emmeline, scarcely able to support herself, and endeavouring to utter some excuse, still moved towards the door.

“Well, really you are using me very shabbily,” said Lady Mowbray, in reply to her uncertain accents, and following her with most officious civility. “But I know this is the moment when it is impossible to keep any body for half an hour; and quiet, sober people, like myself, have no chance of collecting anything like agreeable society. I suppose you are going to the D——e house, or some such gay thing.”

Emmeline stammered out, that she was obliged to go home.

“Home! I fear you are not well,” retorted Lady Mowbray, now, for the first time, observing her blanched cheek, and bloodless lips. “Do at least wait till you hear that your carriage is ready:” and, cruelly well bred, she rang the bell, enquiring repeatedly whether Emmeline would not be prevailed upon to take something.

Unable to speak, she shook her head in answer, and the instant the welcome sound of her own name reached her ears, she darted out of the room, though still followed by the civilities and offers of the lady of the house.

When in her carriage, and when too late, Emmeline remembered Pelham’s often repeated advice, to endeavour to control, or, at least conceal, her feelings better. She was aware she had humbled herself before her, who, of all people, she would least wish should read those feelings; and she felt also that she had left herself and her husband subjects for animadversion, certainly not of the most charitable nature. But poor Emmeline, in common with all those who allow their affections to control their judgment, never, till too late, discovered what her conduct should have been—an artlessness of disposition, ill-calculated to contend with a guileful world.

This evening’s adventure completely sickened her of the amusements of London; and aware from constant, sad experience, of her inability to perform her hard part properly, she resolved to avoid in future the possibility of any recurrence of such scenes; for though her mind had long been intent on meeting Lady Florence, from a sort of anxious, jealous curiosity, yet now she felt she could not endure the trial again; and, that weakened both in health and spirits, she was no longer equal to the exertions which she knew she should make. She remained, therefore, in spite of Lady Saville’s repeated attacks and railleries, for some time entirely at home; and, catching gladly at an excuse for avoiding even the opera, she gave away her box the following week, to some Hampshire neighbours, who she heard were in town; and the weather being uncommonly hot, she had, on the Saturday, ordered her carriage, after her solitary dinner, to take a drive out of town, in the hope that a little fresh air might revive and compose her spirits.

But just as she was going, a note arrived from Lady Saville, to say, that she was disappointed of a friend, with whom she was to have gone to the opera, that night, and, who being now unavoidably prevented, had made over the box to her, but her carriage being broken, and having no one to go with, she would be obliged to give up the plan entirely, unless Emmeline would be compassionate and carry her; and she entreated she would overcome her abominable laziness, and agree to the proposal—adding, it was the new opera, and that it would do her good, for she gave herself the blue devils, by moping so much at home.

Too indifferent to every thing, even to refuse, Emmeline gave up her intended drive, changed her dress, and she and Lady Saville went together to the opera.

About the beginning of the second act, she saw Lady Florence come into a box on the same tier, about ten or twelve off; she was alone—and at that distance, Emmeline thought would probably not recognize her; but, wishing to conceal herself from her view, she made some apology to Lady Saville for being whimsical, and, begging to change places with her, she moved to the opposite seat, drawing the curtain of the box so as entirely to hide herself; although, like the poor bird ensnared by the serpent, she never could withdraw her eyes from her rival.

Before long, a man entered the box where Lady Florence was; he seated himself directly with his back towards Emmeline; but it was impossible for her to mistake him;—the oval head, the brown, curly hair, the attitude and air of the arm that leant on the edge of the box, the action of the hand, all told her but too well it could only be Fitzhenry.

Never before had she beheld them together; never before had she, in a manner, witnessed those words, those looks of love, addressed to Lady Florence, which should now have belonged to her. Though but too well aware of the whole truth, she had as yet suffered merely from a vague, unembodied feeling of jealousy. She had been wounded by neglect; by the mortifying conviction that she was not beloved by her husband; but had never yet actually witnessed his demonstrations of love to another.

Lady Florence leant towards Fitzhenry, and seemed to whisper something to him. He shook his head, as if contradicting her; but soon after, Emmeline saw him look round towards the box where she was, with a glass, as if in search of some one. She hastily, although she hardly knew why, shrunk back, hiding herself behind the curtain, which she drew still more forward.

They then appeared to be engaged in most earnest conversation for some time, till at length Fitzhenry, leaning back in his chair, sat with his hand over his face, and there seemed to be a total silence between them. Ere long, a third person came into the box. Fitzhenry then moved from his place, and disappeared.

To those who have known the torments of jealousy, I need not describe Emmeline’s feelings; and to those who have not, my expressions would appear exaggerated and unnatural. Like a statue, she sat during the remainder of the opera, not able to attend to any thing around her. Luckily, Lady Saville, who was engaged in a regular flirtation, observed neither her preoccupation, nor additional dejection; and when the curtain fell, Emmeline mechanically followed her companions out of the box. Her complete absence of manner, and Lady Saville’s exclusive attention to him, who was whispering soft nothings in her ear, had so effectually driven away all other visitors, that Emmeline had no one to take charge of her; and Lady Saville and her admirer soon parted from her, the former having found a friend to take her to the usual supper party at Lady L——y’s after the opera; and the latter being too gallant, and too much épris not to accompany her to the carriage, promising, however, to return to Emmeline. At this minute, however, Pelham, luckily observed her, and forcibly making his way up to her, exclaimed,

“What here! and alone! I thought I saw strangers in your box, so never went near it; how comes it I find you in this desolate situation? Do take my arm.”

Emmeline made no reply; and, soon perceiving that she was more than usually depressed, Pelham, after one two ineffectual efforts, forbore even to speak to her. They made their way towards the door at the top of the great stairs; and, leaving her there, Pelham went to look for her carriage.

Emmeline shrunk behind the door, wrapping herself close up in her cloak, and not daring to raise her eyes from the ground for fear of meeting those of her husband, or of Lady Florence. Her own name, however, pronounced close by her, soon roused her, and she saw Mrs. Osterley coming up to speak to her, accompanied by Mr. Moore.

“My dear Lady Fitzhenry,” said she, “what an age it is since I have seen you! Where have you been hiding yourself? What can you have been about?”

“I have been out of town,” replied Emmeline, in a faint voice.

“Oh, yes! I suppose at Easter, of course; but surely you have been returned some weeks; for I have frequently met Lord Fitzhenry: and, by the bye, now I recollect, I heard of you the other evening, at Lady Mowbray’s, where I was so unlucky, as just to miss you; and I was sorry to hear you were taken ill there: I hope you are quite recovered.”

“Perfectly so,” said Emmeline, coldly.

“How did you like our new opera, to-night?” continued Mrs. Osterley. “I thought it inexpressibly dull; yet, in Paris, I had liked it very much; what did you think of it?”

“I?” said Emmeline, absently, “I really don’t know.”

“Don’t know? I suppose you mean you have been so agreeably engaged in conversation, that you did not attend,” retorted Mrs. Osterley, laughing. “No one comes to the opera for the music in London.”

At that minute, Pelham relieved poor Emmeline by saying, that her carriage was driving up, and that they had better be moving down stairs. She willingly took his proffered arm, bowing to Mrs. Osterley, who, before the door had closed upon them, and within Emmeline’s hearing, exclaimed, (with a loud laugh to Mr. Moore,) “Well! that is the best arranged, best understood affair I ever saw. Lord Fitzhenry and his chère amie are just gone down one stair, and Lady Fitzhenry and Pelham are making their escape by the other! and then we English boast of our morality!”

The door closing, prevented Emmeline from hearing more than the burst of applause which followed this remark. Involuntarily she shrunk from Pelham; but he, not aware of any thing that had passed, intent on getting her to the carriage as soon as possible, only pressed her arm the closer, to steady her steps, and hurried her almost forcibly after him.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they found an unusual crowd and bustle among the servants; and, by the noise and lashing of whips in the street, there appeared to be great contention among the coachmen. Pelham, anxious to get Emmeline out of the confusion, still drew her on, persuaded that her carriage must, by that time, be ready. But, when they got outside into the street, he saw that her coachman was engaged in violent contest with another, both endeavouring to drive up at the same moment.

The crowd of footmen who had gathered round the interesting spot, encouraging the merciless combatants, was so great, that to retreat was impossible. Pelham could not, among them, distinguish Emmeline’s servants; and, amid the din of voices, whips, trampling of hoofs on the pavement, and shivering of breaking lamps, it was vain to attempt to make them hear him.

Emmeline, nervous and frightened at the uproar around her, forgot for a minute all her former apprehensions, and clung terrified to Pelham; who, to defend her as well as he could, from the unruly mob, put his arm round her. Just then, the horses in her carriage, high-bred, spirited animals, and lately little employed by their mistress, irritated beyond endurance by the lashing of the whip, became ungovernable; they reared up, throwing themselves away from their opponents, and, in the struggle, one of them fell down on the foot-pavement, increasing the confusion.

A loud scream was uttered by a female voice, and, by the rush of link-boys in an instant to the spot, Emmeline beheld Lady Florence Mostyn thrown back on Fitzhenry’s breast. The pole of the carriage had touched her, but it was the cry of terror more than of pain.

“Stop! on peril of your life, you rascal!” exclaimed a voice, that shot through Emmeline’s very soul.

“Whose carriage is that?” demanded Fitzhenry, in an authoritative tone, while still supporting Lady Florence in his arms. There was a sudden silence; the contending coachmen’s whips instantly were both quieted. He again repeated his question more loudly than before.

“My lord!” said one of Emmeline’s footmen, going up to Fitzhenry, “it is your lordship’s carriage.”

“My carriage!” he exclaimed angrily. “Who ordered it here?”

“We are here with my lady,” replied the terrified footman. “Her ladyship is just getting in—shall I tell her your lordship wishes to be taken home?”

“No, no, you fool!” answered Fitzhenry, in a tone of passion which Emmeline had never before heard from his lips, and which made her shudder; “drive off as fast as you can.”

By this time, Pelham had put his charge, more dead than alive, into her carriage, and, not liking to leave her alone in the agitated state she then was, got in after her. Emmeline put out her feeble hand, meaning to prevent him; but, quite overcome, she could not articulate a word; and, no longer able to command herself, she burst into violent hysteric sobs. Totally mistaking her meaning, and interpreting the action into a wish that he should not leave her, Pelham tenderly seized her hand, desiring the servants to go home as fast as possible. The fallen horse was soon raised. The contending vehicles disengaged, and they drove rapidly off—but followed by cheers and laughter from the more blackguard part of the mob who had witnessed the fray; to which were added personal jokes and remarks, that made Pelham hastily draw up the glasses.

Emmeline still made efforts to speak but Pelham could not distinguish a single word which she endeavoured to articulate; and, only bidding her compose herself, said every thing most kind and soothing, while he again and again pressed her hand in his. When they arrived in Grosvenor-street, he forcibly drew Emmeline’s arm within his, to help her up stairs, and, placing her on a couch, demanded in a low voice, whether she would take any thing, and whether he should send for her maid.

“Oh no, I shall soon recover—make no fuss, I entreat—it is nothing—I have been very foolish—and frightened—that is all. But,” added she, with an imploring look, “leave me—for God’s sake leave me.”

“Not till I see you better, I really cannot.” For her bosom still heaved with convulsive sobs, and her heart seemed bursting.

Uncertain what to do, or say, and surprised at her repulsive manner towards him, Pelham walked, disturbed, up and down the room in silence, thinking it best for a little time to leave her to herself. At length, hastily coming up to her, “My dearest Lady Fitzhenry!” he exclaimed, “allow me to speak to you.”

Emmeline started, and looked at him aghast; but without noticing, or even looking at her, Pelham continued in a hurried manner, “I trust you will pardon me for venturing on so sacred a subject,—for touching on sorrows, which you, with such courage, such delicacy, conceal in your own breast—but I know all;—and I know your husband so well, that I am sure I can give you comfort and hope.”

Inexpressibly relieved as Emmeline was by these words, which satisfied her that she still had a friend on whom she could rest, yet other feelings for the moment prevailed, and clasping her hands with the vehemence of despair: “Oh, that is impossible! there is no hope, no happiness for me in this world!”

“On my honour,” replied Pelham, with earnestness, “you may trust me; I would not deceive you;” and, sitting down by her, he took her nervously shaking hand in his. A few minutes before, Emmeline would have shrunk from his touch, but those words had been sufficient to banish entirely all her former miserable apprehensions; soothed by hearing once more the consolatory voice of friendship, for an instant she smiled in gratitude on his kind countenance, and then, quite overcome with the variety of her feelings, tears again burst forth, and her head sank on his shoulder.

At that instant, the door was hastily pushed open, and Fitzhenry appeared! He started on seeing Pelham and Emmeline. As she quickly raised her head at the noise he had made on entering, involuntarily a faint exclamation of dismay escaped her, and even Pelham seemed disconcerted.

“Lady Fitzhenry is not very well;” the latter at length said, after an awkward pause, as if feeling that some explanation of the scene was necessary; “and,” added he, addressing himself to Emmeline, “allow me to recommend you to retire to your own room.”

Emmeline rose from her seat; every limb shook. Fitzhenry came towards them, fixed his eyes sternly upon her, but said nothing. “I have not been very well lately,” she with difficulty stammered out: “the heat in town does not agree with me; and, I think, I will go to Charlton to-morrow.”

Still Fitzhenry spake not, but Emmeline plainly saw anger and contempt written on his countenance: she faintly wished him and Pelham good night. The words died on her lips; for a sad foreboding told her she was taking a final leave of her husband, as she was aware that it was impossible they could any longer continue even on the footing they then were. She paused a minute in hopes Fitzhenry would speak. One word would have brought her to his arms, all forgiven, all forgotten. But he seemed resolved on silence, and Emmeline went on into the inner drawing-room that led to her own apartment.

Pelham perplexed, and uncertain how to act, followed her with his eyes without moving from the spot she had quitted, while Fitzhenry, in great apparent perturbation, paced the room. At length, just as Emmeline had reached the door of her own apartment, seeing her trembling hands had some difficulty in opening it, Pelham hurried to her assistance.

“You mean then,” said he in a low voice, as he turned the lock, “to go to Charlton to-morrow. You shall hear from me, probably see me, and I will bring you good news, perhaps even Fitzhenry;—cheer up, I entreat you, all will yet be well.”

Emmeline forced a faint smile, and held out her hand to him; he seized it with affection. “God of heaven bless and support you,” he said, with earnestness, and hastily left her.

When he returned to the outward drawing-room, Fitzhenry was gone; he hurried down stairs in hopes of finding him in his own room, but the servants informed him, he had again left the house.

Emmeline ordered her carriage after church next morning, to take her to Charlton; but how great a change do a few hours often make in our views! She already repented having declared her intention of leaving town. Twice, as the hour named by her drew near, she delayed the carriage, wishing (much as she dreaded the interview) to see Fitzhenry before she went. It was now past three, but still he did not appear, and no message came from him. She rang the bell—“Is Lord Fitzhenry gone out?” She enquired, rather fearfully.

“No, my lady,” answered the footman; “I believe my lord is not yet up; at least he has not rung his bell; but shall I enquire?”

“Oh! no matter,” said Emmeline, with a faltering voice, and dismissing the man. Convinced by this, that it was her husband’s intention they should not meet, she determined to write to him; for to part thus, in what seemed a decided, open rupture, without some sort of reconciliation taking place, she now felt to be impossible: she therefore sat down, and took her pen, although not knowing what to say. She once thought she would beg for an interview—demand to be released from her promise of silence, in order to come to some explanation. But yet what had she to say? what had she to learn?

Even if Mrs. Osterley’s strange and cruel hints had reached his ears,—if he could so mistake her and his friend, as to give any credit to them, could she flatter herself he was enough interested about her, to care whom she might prefer? On the other hand, to endeavour to exculpate herself from suspicions which he might never have entertained, seemed ridiculous. Besides, could she now, as a new thing, charge him with coldness, dislike, and infidelity—all which he had openly declared, and for all which he had prepared her months before.

Discouraged by these considerations from adverting to what had passed the night before, she at length, after various doubts and indecisions, merely wrote these words:—

“A very few days in the country will, I am sure, quite restore me to my usual health. I will return to Grosvenor Street by the end of the week; but if, for any reasons, you should wish me to come home sooner, I trust to your letting me know, and I shall be most willing to obey your summons. You will find me at my father’s.

“Emmeline Fitzhenry.”

This she intended should be given to Fitzhenry after her departure, and she sealed and directed it for the purpose.

The carriage drove up to the door—the servants busied themselves in putting on the luggage, and, hopeless of an interview with Fitzhenry, Emmeline went slowly, sadly, to her own room, to prepare for her departure.

On opening a drawer, she saw the small Geneva watch and chain which Fitzhenry had sent her when a girl. Hardly aware of what she did, she pressed it to her lips—then hung it round her neck. She felt a sad presentiment that she was leaving her husband’s roof for ever, and this watch was the only token of kindness she had ever received from him; the only memorial she possessed, except her fatal wedding-ring, placed by him on her hand in reluctance and aversion.

As Emmeline passed back through the drawing-room, she looked mournfully at each object in it, convinced she was beholding them for the last time. She slowly descended the stairs; every limb trembling with nervous apprehension. Again she thought she would endeavour to see her husband; and she paused at the door of his room to give herself one more chance; for she thought, perhaps, when he heard her, he would come out to meet her; or if she could only once more catch the sound of his voice, in its usual tone of gentleness and kindness, it would give her courage to demand admittance. But all was still. While thus standing debating with herself, her heart beat so violently, that she could scarcely breathe, and she was forced to lean against the banister for support.

“The chaise is quite ready, my lady,” said a footman, coming up to her; for, seeing her on the stairs, he fancied her impatient to set off—“every thing is put in.”

With no possible farther excuse for delay, feeling her fate was fixed, she drew down her veil, to conceal her agitation, hurried through the hall, and without allowing herself more time for reflection, got into the carriage.

“To Charlton,” said the butler, who had closed the door after her, the servants being already placed in the seat behind, and the postilions immediately drove off.

Emmeline looked back once more at the house from which she felt she was, probably, banishing herself for ever; and then sinking back in the carriage, gave way to her feelings. “Farewell, then, Fitzhenry,” she exclaimed, “since such is your will; and may heaven bless you, and have pity on me!”

As she drew near Charlton, she endeavoured to compose herself, but in vain: when she looked to the future, all was so dark and hopeless, and she was so strongly impressed with the idea that she should never see Fitzhenry again, that she felt her heart sink within her; and, quite overpowered, and fearful of betraying her secret to her parents, she more than once thought of stopping the carriage. But whither could she go?

Fitzhenry had allowed her to depart. It seemed, indeed, even his wish that she should go; and, unsolicited, she could not return. On they drove. It was a beautiful bright Sunday; every one around her seemed to be enjoying the day in gladness and gratitude. The roads and fields were filled with joyous groups, the air with gay sounds.

“Do I sin in loving him so entirely, so passionately?” thought Emmeline; “that amid so many that rejoice, I alone am doomed to be miserable?”

In uttering these words, perhaps Emmeline did sin. But it is the sin into which suffering betrays us all. The wretched are hidden, or hide themselves, from our view; and when, in sorrow, we look around us, we compare our situation with those only who happen, at that moment, to be basking in the transitory sunshine of cheerfulness. How many, as Emmeline’s gay equipage drove rapidly by, probably coveted her riches, her luxuries, her youth, and her beauty! while she envied the ragged, laughing beggar-boy, by the road-side, who, as her carriage passed, tossed his naked arms in the air, hallooing, in pure gaiety of heart and enjoyment of existence.

CHAPTER III.

Has thy heart sickened with deferred hope?

Or felt th’ impatient anguish of suspense?

Or hast thou tasted of the bitter cup

Which Disappointment’s withered hands dispense?

Thou knowest the poison which o’erflowed from hence

O’er Psyche’s tedious, miserable hours.

Psyche.

When Emmeline arrived at her father’s, the servant informed her, that both Mr. and Mrs. Benson were out in the carriage, but were expected home before dinner. At that moment, she felt their absence was a relief, and hastily getting out of the carriage, she desired the coachman, on his return to town, immediately to ask whether Lord Fitzhenry had any orders for him—for she still fondly hoped, that on reading her note, he might follow her, and might himself wish for some explanation of what had passed the preceding evening.

During the hour that elapsed before her father and mother returned, Emmeline endeavoured to compose her spirits. She bathed her red and swollen eyes, walked in the fresh air, and, hearing their carriage drive up to the door, resolved to command herself, and went to meet them with a cheerful countenance. But when the spirits are weak, there is nothing so difficult to bear as tenderness. Her father’s fond benediction, the smile of delight that beamed in her mother’s face, on unexpectedly beholding her, were too much for poor Emmeline, unused as she was to demonstrations of affection; and falling into her mother’s arms, in spite of her resolutions and endeavours, she again burst into tears.

“My dear love! my child!” both exclaimed, “what can be the matter?”

“Nothing, nothing,” said Emmeline; “I have not been quite well lately, and my spirits are in consequence weakened; and I was too happy to see you—that is all.”

Mrs. Benson shook her head, and looked at her incredulously. Her father, fixing his eyes stedfastly on her face, took her hand.

“Speak to me, my girl,” said he. “What is it that so distresses you?”

“Nothing!” again repeated Emmeline in a fainter voice; “I shall soon be quite well.”

“Emmy! Emmy!” rejoined her father, “for once I don’t believe you; it is too long since you have not been well, as you call it; and there is a something the matter that I must and will know.”

Emmeline averted her head, and did not answer.

“You need not attempt to deceive me any longer, girl,” said Mr. Benson, sternly; “I have long suspected that all was not right between you and your husband. I will now know the truth, and I have a right to demand it of you.”

Still she was silent.

“What! you will not speak! you will not confide in me!” he continued, his temper rising; “then I must seek for information elsewhere:” and he moved towards the door of the room.

“Oh, my father!” exclaimed Emmeline, terrified—“What would you do?”

“Do? why I shall go to town directly. I shall see Lord Fitzhenry,” said Mr. Benson, in a calmer, but decided tone; “and from him I must learn what has passed between you, since you, my own child, will not trust me.”

“Oh! speak not so to me, dear father! indeed I have full confidence in your kindness—in your indulgence; but really, I have nothing to tell which you do not know already—I have been to blame, perhaps—I mean I was not aware—I was deceived,—even you dear father”—

“Deceived?” repeated Mr. Benson quickly—catching at the word: “deceived by me? what do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” said Emmeline, alarmed at her father’s unusual look of anger: “we were all to blame, but—but—perhaps it would have been better if—”

Poor Mr. Benson, like many both of his superiors and inferiors could not bear to be supposed to have erred, or even to have been mistaken, and all the less when conscious the imputation was true; in a tone of violence, therefore, which Emmeline had never heard addressed to her, and suddenly letting go her hand, which he had been holding in both of his: “What, Emmeline,” said he, “are you so unjust, so ungrateful, as to accuse me as the cause of your misfortunes? blame your poor, doating, old father for having given up his all to secure your happiness? For shame, for shame, Emmy, I never expected that from you.”

“Oh hear me, hear me patiently!” she exclaimed, seizing on his arm.

“No, Emmeline, I can hear no more, bear no more, I have long guessed how matters were between you and Lord Fitzhenry, and still I have forborne. I held my peace as long as I could; but my pride will not allow me to be any longer silent. I will not be trampled upon; I cannot endure to see the delight of my old age, my only child, destroyed by neglect and unkindness. Lord Fitzhenry presumes upon his superior rank. He thinks he may with impunity insult and break the heart of the humble banker’s daughter. But his lordship is mistaken; I too have pride as well as he. Curse on his rank, curse on your money; they have been the cause of all this; but I will have redress.”

“Redress! Good God, what do you mean?” enquired Emmeline, terrified at his words and manner.

“I will insist on an immediate separation; on a divorce, in short, for the law will give it me.”

A scream of horror escaped from Emmeline’s heart at these words. “No power on earth shall ever separate me from him,” she exclaimed, with the wild energy of passion. “Oh! my dear father, be appeased; have patience and all will be well.”

She had sunk on her knees, and, overcome with the variety of her painfully contending feelings, her head grew giddy, her sobs choked her, and she fell nearly senseless at Mr. Benson’s feet. Every attention of doating fondness was lavished upon her. Before long, she became more composed, and her parents, whose every feeling was centered in her, seeing how weak she was, both in body and spirits, said no more, but turned their whole endeavours towards cheering and restoring her; avoiding, for the moment, every thing that could renew her sorrows.

After some little time had elapsed, as if by common consent, they all forced themselves to talk on indifferent subjects, but, in the effort, poor Emmeline’s lip often quivered. At dinner, she turned away her heavy, sickened eye from the food before her; and when her father filled her glass with wine, bidding her drink it, for that it would do her good, and, assuming a gay manner, pledged her and drank to her health, tears again rushed into her eyes, as she recollected the pride with which he was always wont on such occasions to unite her husband’s name with hers.

The next morning, resolving if possible still to deceive her parents, and by assumed cheerfulness to do away the impression made upon their minds the preceding evening, poor Emmeline entered the breakfast-room with as composed a countenance as she could command, and even forced a smile, when, as in former days, she went up to her father to claim his parental kiss. Mr. Benson, however, did not raise his eyes towards her, or even return the pressure of her hand, but in silence pointed to the seat prepared for her. She looked at her mother, whose eyes were fixed on the table before her, and she saw that they were red with crying. Twice Emmeline endeavoured at conversation by making some remark on the weather, but no answer was given to her. Mr. Benson’s attention seemed entirely engrossed by the newspaper that lay beside him, his breakfast remaining untouched.

Aware that something disagreeable must have happened from the disturbed appearance of her father and mother, a thousand vague but dreadful apprehensions soon took possession of Emmeline’s mind, and at last, unable any longer to endure the state of alarm and suspense into which her fears had thrown her, she suddenly seized her father’s arm, entreating him for pity’s sake to tell her what had so discomposed him, what had happened.

“You, Lady Fitzhenry, can better inform us of that,” he coldly said, as he put the paper into her hand, and pointed to the following paragraph:

“A singular fracas took place at the Opera on Saturday night; not being yet informed of the particulars, we forbear making any reflections. As it is a double intrigue, and therefore neither party can complain, it is impossible to say how the affair may end. The chère amie of the noble lord is well known in the fashionable world both abroad and at home; and it is not perhaps surprising that the neglected wife should have pris son parti, and found a champion to espouse her cause. He is said to be in the diplomatic line, and of course a particular friend of the husband. One rumour states the injured wife to have eloped—another that a duel has taken place. Certain it is that two carriages with the F—z—y arms were seen to drive furiously out of Grosvenor-street at different hours and in different directions on Sunday afternoon.”

Emmeline turned deadly pale as she read this cruel paragraph; but a still more ghastly hue spread itself over her mother’s face as she anxiously watched her daughter’s countenance, and fancied that in her emotion she read confession of guilt.

There was a dead silence. Emmeline, entirely satisfied as to her own perfect innocence, and horror-stricken by the latter part of the paragraph relating to the duel, was occupied in dwelling on the possibility of there being any foundation for the rumour; and her whole mind was so engrossed by that one thought, the safety of Fitzhenry, that she did not even think of exculpating herself from the charge. Indeed, she had totally forgotten the presence even of her parents, when Mr. Benson, striking his hand with violence on the table, in a voice of agony exclaimed—

“Speak Emmeline, are you innocent? or am I for ever disgraced?”

Emmeline startled by her father’s vehemence, looked wildly at him for an instant, as if not understanding his words.

“I see, but too plainly, how it is. Don’t speak, don’t speak,” he continued quickly; and, covering his face with both his hands, he gave way to the violence of his feelings.

Completely roused by the burst of passion in one so seldom moved to tears, Emmeline threw herself on her knees beside him, and, endeavouring to take hold of his hand, exclaimed,

“Oh, my father, what can all this mean? is it possible you can suspect?—God knows how innocent I am.”

Mr. Benson, wiping away his tears, looked at her for an instant in silence. “Repeat those blessed words again, child, for I must believe you.”

“By the God of truth!” exclaimed Emmeline, as she clasped her hands with fervency and fixed her eyes steadfastly on Mr. Benson, “I am innocent of having, in thought, word, or deed, departed from the love and duty, I swore to my husband at the altar. Alas!” added she, as she hid her face in her father’s bosom, “I only love him too well, too entirely for my happiness.” These last words became indistinct, and choked by her tears.

“Thank God, thank God!” repeated Mr. Benson, with a sort of hurried nervousness of manner, as he kissed his daughter’s forehead: “I could not have borne that; your dishonour I could not have borne, Emmy, it would soon have brought me to my grave. I believe you, Emmeline, on my honour I do; you never in your life deceived me; but what does that cursed story mean?” pointing to the paragraph to which his mind seemed again to have returned with doubt and anxiety.

“I will tell you all, as far as——” and Emmeline stopped short, for how could she explain what had passed, without drawing on a necessary confession of her whole sad story.

“No more concealments, Emmy, I will and must know all,” said Mr. Benson sternly.

Emmeline looked at her father as if supplicating for pity.

“Spare her now Mr. Benson,” said her mother as she folded her in her arms: “we have it from her own true lips, that she is blameless, and let what will have happened, we can bear any thing now.”

“Bless you, bless you for believing me,” said Emmeline, as she threw her arms round her mother’s neck in gratitude: “but,” added she, with a melancholy and reproachful look, “my father does not, he still doubts me.”

“No, my girl, indeed I don’t,” cried Mr. Benson: “do you think I would call you my Emmy, and let you remain one instant under my roof if I thought you were disgraced. On my honour, I believe you, but I am fretted and unhappy. I have toiled for your happiness, and it has ended in nothing but mortification; for I see my darling is not happy, which is more than I can bear,” and tears once more rushed into his eyes. “And who the deuce do they mean by their ‘diplomatic champion?’” added he, again casting his eyes on the paragraph.

“The whole is an abominable falsehood,” said Emmeline, in a hurried manner. “They mean Mr. Pelham, I suppose, for he was with me;” and she reddened as she spoke, at the bare possibility of such an insinuation. “Coming out of the opera-house last night, there was a battle between the coachmen—and it seemed as if something disagreeable had passed between Lord Fitzhenry and Mr. Pelham—but it must have been only a misunderstanding—no one was to blame—only when I parted from them last night, they certainly seemed much irritated against each other.”

“And have you not seen your husband since?” eagerly enquired Mrs. Benson.

“No,” said Emmeline, in a low tone, and averting her head. Mr. Benson gave a significant shrug of his shoulders.

“And pray what had you, and Mr. Pelham, and Lord Fitzhenry to do with the fighting of the coachmen; and, above all, what in the name of wonder, had his chère amie, as the idiots call her, to do with it at all? whose carriage fought with yours? for I presume, you and your husband were together; surely you can sit in the same coach, though you can’t sleep in the same room?”

“I really can’t tell—it was all such a confusion,” replied Emmeline, colouring deeply. “But, dear father, don’t waste time, but, for pity’s sake, send some one to Grosvenor-street, and ask if all is well—and yet, perhaps,” added she, the next minute, alarmed at the possible consequences of her own suggestion, “perhaps it will be better not—it must be all a foolish story.”

“I shall go myself to Lord Fitzhenry’s,” said Mr. Benson, after a moment’s reflection.

“You go?” exclaimed Emmeline, terrified—“indeed there is no necessity—it is only a trifle—in fact nothing has occurred, only the carriage——I assure you, Lord Fitzhenry will be quite surprised to see you—perhaps displeased—indeed you had better not go.”

“I shall judge for myself,” said Mr. Benson, coldly. “I don’t believe one word about the carriage story; your husband would not be such a fool as to fight about a scratched panel; and as for his displeasure, I shall care little for that, for he seems very little to care for mine.”

This intention of her father’s seriously alarmed Emmeline; for, in the state of irritation, in which both he and Lord Fitzhenry then were, she dreaded the result of their meeting; and, clinging to Mr. Benson, she ejaculated—“Oh, then pray let me go with you!”

Brought up in the good old fashioned system of filial obedience and dependence, Emmeline, although the object of the tenderest affection, had no idea even now that she was a wife, of putting her will in opposition to that of her parents, or of boldly declaring any determination of her own. She could only entreat, and that her countenance did most eloquently, during the moment or two that now passed before Mr. Benson answered her. At length, he consented, saying—“Yes; I believe that will be best, for I shall by that means hear both sides.”

These words raised fresh apprehensions in Emmeline’s mind, for she saw that her father’s intention was to come to some explanation with her husband; and good, even kind as she knew those intentions were, yet she felt, that any interference on his part, particularly at that moment, would only widen the breach between them, and make her situation worse, by bringing matters to that crisis from which she shrank with dismay. She, therefore, said every thing she could venture upon, to induce him to desist; but her words seemed only to irritate him still more against Lord Fitzhenry, and to make him the more resolved on seeking an interview with him; so at last, finding how vain were all her arguments, and that having settled the matter in his own mind, Mr. Benson would listen to no excuse, no reason, that she could give for changing her opinion so quickly, Emmeline gave up the point in despair, and, in a short time, she and her father were on the road to town.

At first, the miles appeared to her to be endless, but, as they drew near town, dreading the possible result of their visit to Grosvenor-street, poor Emmeline was several times tempted to beg the driver might slacken his pace, but she controlled her nervous agitation as well as she could, and they drove on in silence, till they entered London; when she suddenly seized Mr. Benson’s hand, saying, with a look of entreaty—“If we see him, you will leave all to me,—indeed, he is no way to blame, only a misunderstanding, which I shall soon be able to clear up.”

“Ay, and it shall be cleared up,” replied Mr. Benson. “If you, Lady Fitzhenry, are content to let this vile slur remain on your reputation, I am not, and I shall oblige those who can refute it, to do so. I shall most certainly see Lord Fitzhenry, and I must from him get a better explanation of all this strange business, than I can from you. My God!” added he, after a moment’s pause, as if speaking to himself—“to think that my daughter’s name should appear in a public paper, with such an imputation attached to it! to think, that after all my labours, it should have come to this!” And, after striking his cane several times with impatience on the bottom of the carriage, he suddenly, as if he thought greater speed would relieve his feelings, bade the coachman drive faster.

This injunction was the means of soon bringing them into Grosvenor-square; and poor Emmeline’s agitation became almost unbearable. What was she going to learn? what was going to be her fate? for on the next hour she felt that it depended. They drove up to the door of her husband’s house—of her own home—and yet she shrunk back, in dread and dismay. A hasty glance showed her, that all the shutters were closed—and a cold, deadly sickness came over her. The servant knocked—but no one answered—he knocked again, and rung; and at length the porter appeared, and a parley ensued between him and Mr. Benson’s servant.

Emmeline could endure the suspense no longer; and, with the paleness of death on her face, grasping her father’s arm—“In pity!” she cried, “speak to the man yourself.” Mr. Benson beckoned him to the carriage window.

“I want to see Lord Fitzhenry,” said he. “Is he at home?”

“No, sir; neither my lord nor my lady are at home”—for Emmeline had so shrunk to the back of the carriage, that the man did not see her.

“Is Lord Fitzhenry quite well?” rejoined Mr. Benson, not knowing very well how to get at the information he wanted.

“Yes, sir! I believe so,” said the porter, apparently surprised at the question. “His lordship went away yesterday afternoon; he did not leave his room till late, but I did not hear that he was any ways ill; I thought my lady had gone to Charlton.”

“Do you know where he is gone to?” continued Mr. Benson.

“No, I really can’t say; his lordship ordered post horses in a great hurry, and the carriage was to take him up at some place in town, but I really can’t tell where; but I will enquire in the house if any one knows.”

“Did he leave word when he was to return?”

“No, my lord said nothing, and we do not expect him back for some days, as he gave no orders.”

A new and appalling idea now flashed across Emmeline’s mind—could Fitzhenry and Lady Florence have fled together! and, not content with the entire possession of each other’s affections, could they have determined by that open act, at once to rid themselves of the thraldom of their respective marriages! There was nothing of which she could not suspect Lady Florence; but her heart smote her for thus, even for an instant, accusing Fitzhenry; and, shocked at her own surmises, she hastily enquired whether Lord Fitzhenry had left no letter, no message for her.

“Not that I knows of, my lady,” said the porter, bowing to Emmeline, and evidently astonished at her question, as well as at her appearance, as she had hitherto remained concealed behind Mr. Benson; “but I will go and enquire.”

“This is all very strange,” muttered Mr. Benson to himself, while he was gone; “I can’t make it out for the life of me.”

As for poor Emmeline, she was totally unable to express, or even to form an opinion; so many fearful apprehensions succeeded each other in her mind. After an interval of time, which appeared to her endless, the man returned with a note in his hand.

“I can hear of no letter, my lady; but this note the housekeeper found in your ladyship’s room; perhaps it is what you mean.”

Emmeline eagerly seized it; but what was her mortification on finding it was her own note to Fitzhenry, with the seal still unbroken. In the confusion of her mind, she could not recollect whether, on leaving home the preceding day, she had given any orders about it: if she had, she must conclude, that Fitzhenry, occupied by other objects, had neglected, perhaps scorned, to read it. But at all events, as that note was unread, he must have gone from home in the full conviction that she, on her part, had left it in open, declared war.

Quite overcome by the combination of distressing circumstances in which she was placed, after tearing her ill-fated note in a thousand pieces, with a vehemence of impatience very foreign to her nature, Emmeline again sunk back in the carriage, to conceal her disordered state from the servants. There was a moment’s pause. At length Mr. Benson, enquiring where Mr. Pelham lived, desired the coachman to drive to his house. Emmeline drew down the blind, spoke not a word, but seemed to give herself up to her fate in despair.

When they reached the end of the street to which they had been directed, Mr. Benson stopped the carriage, and saying he would return to her directly, got out. He was some time absent: when he returned, he evidently was endeavouring to maintain a composure which he did not feel.

“Mr. Pelham has likewise left London,” said he. “He too went away yesterday evening with post horses——very strange; but, I suppose, some junket out of town,” added he, making an awkward attempt at cheerfulness. The step of the carriage was let down for him. “Hang me!” continued Mr. Benson, “if I know what to do next, or where to go to. To drive after them would really be a wild-goose chase; for the chances are a hundred to one against our taking the same road; for the plague is, that one don’t know at all where they are gone to. Mr. Pelham’s servants, too, can’t tell where their master went—a parcel of stupid, outlandish boobies, that can’t speak Christian-like language.”

And apparently much distressed and perplexed, Mr. Benson, with one foot on the step of the carriage, looked anxiously up and down the street, as if in the hope of seeing some one, or something, that could suggest an idea to him.

“Let us return to Charlton, directly,” said Emmeline, in a low, broken voice; for a new apprehension had entered her mind. When she reflected on the gentle nature of Pelham’s temper, on his devoted affection for Fitzhenry, and adverted to the falsehood of the newspaper story in the part relating to herself, her mind began to be much easier with regard to the report of the duel. As to Fitzhenry’s sudden departure from town, it was certainly strange; and in spite of her endeavours to combat the idea, she could not help interpreting it in a way the most agonizing to her feelings: but still it was just possible that even there she might be mistaken; and if so, nothing would be more likely to incense Fitzhenry against her, or to widen the breach between them, than finding she was following his steps like a spy; and that even Mr. Benson took upon himself to enquire into his actions. The instant this idea entered her mind, her whole anxiety was to return to Charlton, and there wait patiently till time explained this alarming business; and a very few hours must, she thought, relieve her at least from suspense: she therefore again entreated that they might go back to Charlton immediately.

Mr. Benson paused for a minute or two, as if ruminating in his own mind on some method of obtaining information; but none occurring, he, in a dejected tone, bade the servants return home. The coachman turned his horses’ heads, and the father and daughter travelled the nine weary miles back to Charlton in total silence.

Mrs. Benson, who had been anxiously awaiting their return, soon saw she had little good to learn; and forbore to question Emmeline; but, after putting into her hand a letter that had come for her during her absence, went to learn what had passed from Mr. Benson.

The letter was from Mr. Pelham: it contained these words, and was dated Sunday evening.

“I cannot, as I had hoped and intended, see you to-day, nor indeed to-morrow. I find Fitzhenry has left town, and I am about to follow him. Depend on me for doing all that friendship can do, to restore him to you. So I still say, ‘be of good cheer.’ As soon as Fitzhenry and I have met, I am sure I shall be able to bring you good news. By Wednesday, I think, you may depend on seeing me; or, at all events, on hearing from me; and I don’t despair of even bringing Fitzhenry with me.”

This letter, meant to express comfort and hope, conveyed the very reverse to Emmeline’s sick mind; she had now no doubt but that Fitzhenry and Lady Florence had left town together, and that if Pelham attempted at any remonstrance or interference, however mild and sensible, still every thing was to be feared from his meeting with her husband under such circumstances. That she had parted with Fitzhenry for ever, seemed now but too certain. There was a mystery in Pelham’s letter that evidently showed he had something to conceal, and that could only be the most dreadful of all intelligence to her. Poor Emmeline raised her streaming eyes to heaven, while she clasped her hands in the energy of suffering, but not one prayer could she utter. Alas! what had she to ask? Could she wish again to behold him who scorned, who loathed, who had, in short, fled from her? And could she wish to cease to love him? What affectionate mind but recoils with horror from the dreary thought? She might, indeed, pray for release from an existence which was become insupportable to her! And, perhaps, in the rebellion of a young and suffering heart, she did give utterance to the impatient wish. But let mortals adore the Merciful Power, who, pitying the weakness of short-sighted humanity, marks not down those prayers. It is the first pang of severe suffering that wrings them from us; in time, we learn to endure; and, in the evening of a chequered life we look back, perhaps, on those very moments of sorrow with the greatest gratitude, and say with the poet——

“Amid my list of blessings infinite,

Stands this the foremost—that my heart has bled.”

The next morning the following paragraph, which appeared in the newspaper, seemed very much to relieve Mr. Benson; but, if possible, it only increased Emmeline’s apprehensions.

“It is with sincere pleasure that we can confidently contradict a report in our last, respecting a certain noble pair in Grosvenor-Street, in so far at least as the fair fame of one of the ladies is concerned. Lady F——y, we understand, merely left town in order to pay a visit to her father at Ch—l—n, where she now is. A legal separation between the parties may however be anticipated, as it is certain that the noble Lord has also most abruptly left home, and, it is whispered, not alone. Rumour also states that the diplomatic friend has followed the fugitives, in order, if possible, to prevent the scandal of a public eclat.”

Mr. Benson’s feelings had been so entirely engrossed by that part of the first newspaper story, alluding to his daughter’s supposed levity of conduct, and his mind was so relieved by this public and honourable acquittal, that he might have overlooked the rest of the paragraph just mentioned, had not Emmeline’s look of misery reminded him, that though that unfounded subject for distress was removed, all her but too real causes for anxiety remained.

Tuesday passed without any intelligence of any kind reaching them. Wednesday at length arrived, and during its heavy hours, the perturbation of Emmeline’s agitated mind was painful to witness. For on what Pelham was that day to impart, she felt her future fate in life depended.

With one so young, and unused to sorrow, hope still will linger, and even though against her reason and her conviction, the concluding words in Pelham’s letter sometimes for an instant caused a thrill of pleasure to her heart, and she gave way to delightful anticipations. Fitzhenry might have mistaken her feelings towards him: she was aware that latterly she had given way to irritation in her manner. Pelham might let him into the real state of her affections, for she well knew that that friend had read her heart right, and, perhaps, when her husband knew all, his better feelings would prevail, and would restore him to her.

But when Emmeline’s imagination had carried her thus far, the chilling conviction of the truth came at once to destroy these dreams of happiness, and make place for despair. Thus, in all the miserable agitation of doubt and anxiety, she passed the day listening to every sound, starting at the noise of every bell, and the opening of every door; and so wild were sometimes her fantasies, that she more than once thought she heard her husband’s step on the stairs, and his voice in the passage that led to her room. But the day passed, and no one came.

Late in the evening, when she had nearly given up all hope, she heard the door bell ring. She started up—every pulse throbbed—unable to move from her place, she remained breathless, watching the door: it opened, but no Fitzhenry appeared; and the servant entering, brought her a letter. It was not Fitzhenry’s hand-writing. A cold tremor crept over her; the room swam round her, and the letter fell from her hands. Her mother caught it up, and seeing how unable her daughter was herself to read it, and dreading the effects of such violent agitation on her already weakened frame, she ventured to break the seal, and hastily glancing her eyes over its contents. “My child,” said she, taking Emmeline’s icy hand, “it is from your friend Mr. Pelham. He says, he could not, as he meant, come to you; that pressing public affairs oblige him to return immediately to Vienna. He is already on his way to Dover. Your husband is quite well—but——”

“But what?” exclaimed Emmeline, with a look of horror.

“He too is gone abroad.”

“Gone!” repeated Emmeline wildly; “then it is all over:” and she was carried senseless to her bed.

Her wretched parents wept and prayed by her; for hers was a sorrow to which no earthly comfort could be given. In a few hours, however, composure—that dreadful composure of exhausted nature—returned, and the first minute she could read, she asked for Mr. Pelham’s letter. It contained these words:

“You will be surprised, and I fear painfully so, when you hear we are leaving England. Some unforeseen public affairs oblige me instantly to return to the Continent; and, I am going to take Fitzhenry with me: but, for God’s sake, keep up your spirits; he is well, and we have had a great deal of conversation. In time, you shall know all; and very soon, I am sure, he will be restored to you; but my poor friend’s mind is at present in a state approaching to delirium; and we must be patient with him.

“Dearest Lady Fitzhenry, I would not for the world give you false hopes; but, I still repeat, that all will be well; you deserve to be happy, and heaven will take care that you shall be so. Fitzhenry has been infatuated, blinded, deceived, every way. But his eyes are now opened, and, (not for the world would I deceive you, even to give you one moment of false happiness,) trust me, he admires and loves you; I was certain such excellence could not long be thrown away upon one so fitted to appreciate it. The fatal madness which has hitherto rendered him insensible to his real happiness, is now at an end—on my honour it is.

“I have time for no more; the carriage is at the door; I am only waiting for Fitzhenry; he knows I am writing to you; you shall ere long hear from me again.”

Emmeline hardly knew what to conclude from this letter; she read it over and over. Sometimes she interpreted its contents favourably to her feelings; but, in general, the impression it left was not that of hope. She believed Pelham, when he told her that Fitzhenry’s connexion with Lady Florence was at an end; she must believe such solemn assurances; but what had she gained? Her rival, no longer the cause, still her husband fled from her. What could that mean, but that still she had to encounter settled, determined aversion? for he was leaving England without one word, one attempt at reconciliation—and with no time even named for his return. In short, in spite of Pelham’s encouragement, she felt but too well convinced their separation was for ever.

Sorrow sunk deeply into Emmeline’s heart; but, for her parent’s sake, she resolved to exert herself. She left her room, agreed to go out into the fresh air; acquiesced in whatever was proposed to her; forced herself to converse on indifferent subjects; and even sometimes endeavoured at cheerfulness. But such exertions could not deceive. The “sickness of hope deferred,” preyed on her health; she grew daily thinner; and her cheeks were either deadly pale, or flushed with the deepest feverish crimson.

Poor Mrs. Benson gazed at her in silent anxiety. There was their Emmeline again returned to them, to the same place, the same quiet home, avocations and duties she used to perform; but, how changed! Formerly, she was their joy, their pride: to look on her laughing eyes, and on her fresh smooth cheek, had been enough to make them happy; but now the sight was misery. Mr. Benson also was changed. Though sometimes, in the kind endeavour to cheer his melancholy companions, he attempted to resume his usual loquacity, and even tried his bad jokes; yet, as they no longer proceeded from an exuberantly happy heart, they had lost their only merit; and, seeing how ill they in general succeeded, and that his intended wit and mirth oftener forced tears than smiles from his suffering daughter, he at last gave up the attempt entirely, and seemed to resign himself to the sadness which oppressed him. He appeared also to have entirely lost his usual bustling activity. He often stood for hours at the window, with his hands in his pockets, staring at the blue sky and green grass, objects which he had never been seen to gaze at before; or, sitting with the newspaper in his hand, reading over and over the same page, almost unconscious of the words before him; for now, neither public news, nor even the price of stocks, seemed to have power to arrest his attention.

Fitzhenry was never named among them, nor that painful subject any way alluded to.

One day, however, that Mr. Benson and Emmeline were alone together, after the former had, as was now usual to him, sat a long time silent, he suddenly looked up, and, addressing her in the decided tone of one who has well considered the matter of which he is about to treat—

“Emmy!” said he—for he had now quite left off calling her Lady Fitzhenry, which he had, with apparently proud satisfaction after her marriage, always done—“Emmy, I have indulged your fancies all this time—I have complied with your request—I have said nothing—done nothing. In short, to please you, I have, in truth, made but a silly figure; but this cannot go on—it is impossible—you cannot yourself wish it. Something decided must be settled between you and your husband.”

Emmeline’s pale cheek grew still paler, and, in answer, she put into her father’s hand Mr. Pelham’s last letter. He read it over and over and over several times, looked at the date, the signature, the direction, even with the precaution and accuracy of business, and then returning it—

“I can’t make head or tail of it. Lord Fitzhenry and you, Emmy, and your diplomatic champion, are all beyond my comprehension. I declare I don’t know what any of you would be at. If your husband has turned off his kept mistress, as I suppose he has by this, (shame on him ever to have had one—and another man’s wife, too, into the bargain,) why, now the coast is clear, why can’t he come and fetch you, his lawful wife, home, and live respectably, and be at least decently civil to you. What the deuce is he gone abroad for? unless indeed it is to look out for some new lady, being, I suppose, tired of the old one—for such madams, I believe, abound at Paris. In short, Emmy, I will not let this sort of thing go on any longer. I will give you one month; and if during that time, your husband makes no advances towards a reconciliation, I will then come forward. Surely, Emmeline, your own pride must make you wish that I should.”