Who that other was, Emmeline no longer doubted. Something she recollected having heard of Lord Fitzhenry’s admiration for Lady Florence Mostyn, when abroad; but he had then been so long out of England, Emmeline’s thoughts were little occupied about him, and the intelligence had made but slight impression on her young mind. Now, putting various circumstances together, she could no longer doubt that Lady Florence was her favoured rival, if indeed a rival she could be called, where there was no competition.
For, much as Emmeline might wish to propitiate her husband, and though even a little vanity and pique might enter into the feeling, yet she had no idea of any of the arts of coquetry, and if she now exerted all her powers of agreeableness, it was from the simple wish to make their present melancholy life pass as well as the awkward circumstances in which they were placed allowed. If she might hope in time to win her companion’s affections, she gave up, as perfectly hopeless, all attempts to captivate his imagination. And that very feeling made her more at ease, and therefore more agreeable than she could otherwise have been. On all general subjects, Fitzhenry was more than willing to converse. The publications of the day opened a wide field for discussion. It was neutral ground, on which they could meet and parley. There was a peculiar liveliness, and originality in all he said, which Emmeline was not only able to appreciate, but, by taking up his ideas with quickness, to encourage fresh remarks, and even improve upon them. The merits of Sir Walter Scott, Miss Edgeworth, and Southey, were all thoroughly commented upon. Lord Byron came too near home, and, as if by mutual consent, they always avoided him and his writings.
One evening—the last they now had to pass alone—Emmeline had somehow wandered in her conversation to Italy; but she immediately observed a cloud of recollections darken her husband’s brow, and, making rather an awkward retreat, she resumed the book she was reading, and which had given rise to her unlucky remark; and never took her eyes from it till the usual time for retiring to her own room. Fitzhenry had also remained silent; but the moment she moved, he started up as if roused from a reverie, lit her candle for her and wished her good night, hoping the slight headache she had complained of would be better next day. The tone of his voice was so agreeable, the expression of his countenance so mild, that she felt with Juliet,
“Parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I could say good night till it be morrow.”
When she reached her own room, unconscious of what she did, she leant her head on her hand, and stood thus for some time at the chimney-piece, on which she had placed her candle, lost in thought. Had she been asked what those thoughts were, perhaps she could not have defined them; but at length, a deep sigh escaped her as she ejaculated to herself “How pleasant he is! and if so to me, whom he dislikes, despises, what must he be to her, to whom his whole mind and heart are laid open? With me it is almost impossible to avoid forbidden subjects—Italy, I see, I must never touch upon. Not only the present but the past belongs to Lady Florence; I am only connected with the future in his mind, and a future to which he looks with dislike and dread.”
The next day was that on which they expected Lord Arlingford; and Emmeline, when she met her husband at breakfast, was concerned to see that all those miserable, agitated feelings, which had apparently much subsided, had now returned worse than ever. During that meal, he was so hurried, so abstracted, that when after it was over, he had placed himself at the window to read the newspaper, she ventured to go up to him, and purposely said something about his father’s arrival, hoping that she might dispel the anxiety which seemed to oppress him, by showing him how little Lord Arlingford’s presence would add to her awkward feelings. She therefore, to open the subject, asked at what time he thought he would arrive.
Fitzhenry, without taking his eyes off the paper, said he did not expect him till dinner-time—there was a pause, Emmeline not knowing well how again to begin—at length, Fitzhenry himself broke the silence by saying, “Had you not better write to Mr. and Mrs. Benson, and propose their making us a visit here soon? You will probably be anxious to meet them before long.”
“Thank you very much,” exclaimed Emmeline, quite moved by the kindness of his proposal, and feeling as if she could have seized with affection on the hand that rested on the edge of the window near her. For a minute, the temptation was strong; her breath came quick, and the blood rushed into her cheeks. But those cruel words in Fitzhenry’s letter, “my affections can never be yours,” flashed like lightning across her mind, and prevented her from forgetting herself. Still lost in thought, there she stood. It seemed as if he felt the awkwardness of the moment, and made a motion to go. “Perhaps then you will give me a frank for my father,” she said timidly, and wishing to detain him.
“Certainly, with pleasure;” and he sat down to the table to write it. As he gave it her, his hand trembled. Again Emmeline’s better judgment failed her—again her feelings, unused to concealment, got the better of her prudence. Sorry to observe his excessive perturbation, and wishing as far as she could to alleviate it, while taking the frank from his hand, and without raising her eyes from the writing, she said in a tremulous voice, “Don’t distress yourself——indeed you may trust me.” Alas! these words had the direct contrary effect from what she had meant and hoped. Fitzhenry started up, and hurried out of the room.