During that melancholy breakfast, of which neither eat, Emmeline was the one who played her part the best. When it was gone, Fitzhenry said, “I have some letters I must write”—and, struck with the possible interpretation of his own words, he coloured deeply; “but they will soon be written,” he added hastily, “and probably you too will wish to write to tell your mother of your sate arrival; and,”—again embarrassed, he stopped short. However, in a minute, he recovered himself, and said, “The post leaves at one; after that, if the day continues fine, you will perhaps like to go out and see the place. I don’t know what sort of a horsewoman you may be, but I have a very docile animal, if you will venture to mount him.”
Emmeline, who had ridden much, and thought that that species of exercise, with a groom attending, would, under their awkward circumstances, be better than a tête-à-tête walk, directly said she had no fears, and would prefer riding.
Thus they parted; and Emmeline went to her own room to write to her parents. It was then that the melancholy of her prospects overcame her with a bitterness she had not before experienced.
She had taken her pen in her hand—placed the blank paper before her; but the moment she was going to address her mother, an involuntary burst of tears escaped from her, and she laid her head down on the table, unable to write; for, alas! what could she write to that doating mother? what feelings express, but those of mortification, and the anticipation, the conviction, indeed, of certain future unhappiness to them as well as to herself? Perhaps equally, if not more poignant, would be the feelings of many women, were they but a few years after their fate in life is thus fixed, to re-peruse the letters written during the early period of their marriage, breathing nothing but the belief of continued felicity and of unalterable love. But no such even transient dream of bliss existed to poor Emmeline. Again she took her pen, wiped away the tears that had blotted her paper, and, as well as she could, made out a letter to satisfy her mother’s anxious heart.
There was no lover at her side, fondly to follow each motion of her hand, each thought that her pen traced, and with the playfulness of overflowing love and happiness, to guide that hand when, for the first time, signing his name as her own.
When the hour fixed on for their ride arrived, Emmeline went to the appointment with as cheerful a countenance as she could command. Fitzhenry left it to the groom to put her on her horse, and never looked at her when mounted; but, otherwise, was careful of her safety; and this cold neglect on his part she at the minute rejoiced at, as she had feared he must have observed the trace of her tears. The fresh air and a new and agreeable country revived her spirits, by nature at all times inclined to cheerfulness. The awkwardness and mental absence of her companion also a little wore off, and, on the whole, they got through the morning better than she had expected.
Fitzhenry told Emmeline that his father was coming to them the Wednesday following, and that he had invited some friends for the end of the week. She rejoiced to hear of these arrangements; not but that her feelings towards that father had much changed since the truth had begun to break in upon her; but then, any third person would be such a relief!
When she thought of the way in which their honeymoon was to be passed—that after hurrying away from town and the world with all accustomed bustle—and, although only married four and twenty hours, they both already looked to society for relief, the absurdity of their situation struck her for an instant as so ridiculous, that involuntarily a smile, which she saw did not escape her companion, stole over her features; but, as it faded, a deep-drawn sigh succeeded, and she averted her head, to conceal from Fitzhenry, the revolution of feeling which she was conscious was painted in her face. A long train of reflections passed through her mind, as, absorbed in thought, she carelessly with her whip brushed from the bushes, as she passed them, the drops remaining from a late shower; and so deep was her reverie, (the first almost in which poor Emmeline had ever been lost,) that Lord Fitzhenry twice spoke to her before she heard him, and when she did, the tone of her voice in answer, had in it, (perhaps unknown to herself,) a something of repulsive coldness, unusual to her. Whether it so struck him or not, cannot be ascertained; but the remainder of their ride was performed nearly in total silence.
Emmeline at once wisely took to her own occupations, and allowed her husband to go his own way. It would be often wise and prudent if even new-married lovers did the same; for, shocked as they may be at the idea, even real love will at last become dull and wearisome; and many a fondly devoted bride has, I dare say, during the very first week, often wished for her usual occupations, as much as her lover has for his gun and pointers. But with Lord and Lady Fitzhenry, there was no form, no farce of sentiment to keep up. Each felt happier when apart from the other; and, by having many an hour for reflection, Emmeline was enabled to school her mind to the trials to which she felt she must be exposed—trials but too likely to increase; for gradually her irritated feelings gave way. When Fitzhenry’s letter, and its harsh expressions of determined indifference towards her returned to her recollection, then her offended pride enabled her to act her part with spirit; and she could talk, and even laugh, with apparent gaiety, to show him he had not had power to wound her feelings deeply. For, amiable as was Emmeline’s disposition, enough of human infirmity lurked about her—enough of the “Woman scorned,” to allow her a degree of pleasure in mortifying one, who had shown so little scruple in more than mortifying her.
At moments, too, her natural gaiety was not to be restrained; and when, on the third evening of their residence at Arlingford, her laughing eye caught the look of astonishment in the old butler’s countenance, when, as he entered the room, he found the supposed lovers occupied with their books at opposite ends of the apartment, apparently as unconscious of each other’s presence as any indifferent pair after a dozen years’ marriage,—she could not command the inclination to laughter that overcame her.