Seven thousand a-year was firmly settled on Lord Fitzhenry, and the residue of Mr. Benson’s immense property promised at his death. He added likewise a few thousands of ready money for plate, jewels, equipages, &c.; “in order,” as he said, “to set the young people a-going.”
Every one was satisfied but poor Ernest. To his feelings, all this was hateful; and he was doubly shocked when he found, during the legal details into which he had now to enter, that Arlingford Hall, the abode of his childhood, although it had been long in the family, yet from not being entailed like the rest of the property, had only been saved by Mr. Benson’s liberality; and, that in the involved perplexity of his father’s affairs and the urgency of his creditors, all the expenses of his late election had been defrayed from the same source.
Sick at heart, as soon as he could extricate himself from lawyers and papers, Ernest signified his intention of leaving town, in order, as he let it be understood, to superintend the repairs at Arlingford, but, in fact, to fly to Lady Florence, who was still in the country.
It was their first meeting since his marriage had been declared; and with an unprincipled, impassioned woman, he had to undergo scenes still more agonizing than those with his father.
Fitzhenry’s love for Lady Florence was far beyond her power of appreciating—unable to do justice to his character, she could not trust to such devotion as he expressed, and as he really felt. He believed that for his sake she had sacrificed both honour and virtue, and his whole life, his every affection, he conceived would hardly repay the debt.
Ernest’s heart was capable of love of the purest, noblest kind; and, even towards so unworthy an object, it partook more of the nature of his own character than of her’s who had inspired it. During the period employed in preparations for his nuptials, instead of attending on his bride, Fitzhenry never left Lady Florence. Her power seemed strengthened by the very circumstances that should have lessened it; he accompanied her to town; and, even the morning of his marriage, on her entreating to see him, if but for a moment, he had flown to her bewitching presence.
A most violent scene ensued; it ended by a solemn vow on his part to remain true to her, his first, his only love, in thought, word, and deed. That Emmeline should merely be the mistress of his house; that, in public, he should behave to her with perfect attention and civility, but nothing more.
Hardly knowing what he did, and not till long after the hour appointed for the celebration of his nuptials, he left Lady Florence for Mr. Benson’s house. Hence his flushed cheek, and his agitated manner, the too true indications of his troubled soul.
Fitzhenry had no distinct religious feelings; but still, when he heard the sacred vow he was to pronounce, (and of which he had never thought,) with his lips still vibrating with that he had pledged to Lady Florence; no wonder those lips quivered. Although no dread of the anger of his God appalled his mind, yet, as a man of honour, he felt the atrocity of the act. Of Emmeline, of the poor victim, who stood trembling beside him, he hardly thought. He looked upon her as a mere obedient child without a character; perhaps, even worse, an ambitious, worldly being; and all his thoughts, all his compassion, were bestowed on Lady Florence and himself.
Fitzhenry wanted neither decision nor character. During their melancholy journey to Arlingford Hall, he had sufficiently surmounted his agitation to have decided on his conduct. He resolved to tell all to Emmeline, to let her fully enjoy the honours, the worldly advantages of the situation he thought she had in her union with him sought; to assure her he would ever endeavour to make her happy, but that she must never hope for his affections.