"Who have you got there? His face does not please me."
"It is, nevertheless, the face of a relation of yours," replied Smeaton. "I will introduce him to you as soon as we are alone; but let me see this packet. It may contain news of importance."
At the top of the first flight of steps were two good rooms, one of which, on the right hand, was retained for the use of the young nobleman; and here he found the packet which had been mentioned. Breaking it open at once, he perceived that it contained two letters for himself, and two for Richard Newark. Giving the latter instantly to his young friend, he invited Somerville to seat himself before he opened the letters which bore his own address, although one of them, in a small delicate hand--more like that of a lady in the present day than one of those times--seemed too precious to be long delayed. As soon as he had shown this piece of attention to his guest, he retreated into the window, and eagerly broke the seal of the letter addressed as I have mentioned. He was not deceived. Emmeline's name was at the bottom of the lines that were written upon the page; and, with a beating heart, he read words which might well have come from a more experienced mind or a less tender and affectionate heart. Yet love and tenderness were evident throughout, as the contents may show.
"My beloved Husband,--I snatch a moment and an opportunity to write to you, knowing what you must feel, but not knowing what you are doing. Anxious as I am to hear where you are, and all that you can tell me of your proceedings, I fondly believe that you are more anxious still to hear of your Emmeline. I am in London, in a small lodging near the Tower, at number thirty-two, in Tower Street, surrounded by the servants of my cousin, Sir John Newark, and, as he believes, cut off from all communication with other persons by their means. Amongst them, however, is one planed there by her who has befriended us at Ale Manor, and who has found means to assure me that he is devoted alone to my service. He will contrive to convey this to Devonshire. The time allowed me is but short.
"And now, what shall I say to you, my dear husband? I need not speak of love and gratitude. I need not tell you how my whole heart is devoted to you. I need not say how earnestly I wish it were possible for you to come yourself, and either claim me as your own in the face of all the world, or take me home in secret to spend my life with you in quiet retirement and content. But I must beseech you on no account to venture near this city, unless you can do so in perfect safety; to sacrifice for Emmeline no security, to run no risk, and above all, not to let affection for her--that eagerness to see her which I am sure you feel--nor the indignation which you must experience at the conduct you have met with, induce you to take any part in the struggle for the crown of these realms, which your own calm and ever just judgment does not warrant. I am sure you will not, and yet I write these words because I feel that it will be a comfort to you to know that Emmeline has no selfish wish to be gratified at your expense. Consult your own honour; consult your own dignity. Think of her; love her for ever, but do not let one thought of her, one feeling for her, influence you in circumstances where duty and honour are concerned, knowing that your honour is far dearer to her than her own happiness or her own life.
"Oh, how I long to see you! How I long to tell you, dear Henry, all I have suffered, all I have thought, all I have felt--to pour out my whole soul and heart to him who has alone seen and known them. But let not my longing have the least weight with you. Act as if I had never existed, or as if you had never known me; but let the memory of your Emmeline be as the miniature-portrait of one well loved, ever nearest to your heart, and think, whenever you think of her, that she is blessing you, and praying for you, and beseeching Heaven to guide, preserve, and prosper you in whatever course your own wisdom and God's grace shall lead you.
"I know not how to end my letter. The words seem so strange that I have to write; and yet I am--I feel--I know I am--
"Your affectionate and dutiful wife,
"Emmeline Eskdale."
Smeaton, with all his warm and strong enthusiasm was not a man of that soft and melting character which tender feelings, and what was then called "sentiment," easily moved to tears. In those days, and for nearly a century afterwards, there was what I may call a lachrymose school, which was weeping on every occasion where anything touching presented itself or could be found. He was not of this school, and hardly knew of its existence; yet the words of his dear and beautiful Emmeline brought the moisture into his eyes, and he turned to the window that no one might mark what he considered a weakness.