“Yes, indeed, most excellent,” replied Mr. Benson, “and I hope by this time next year I may drink some of it, to the health of a little heir to the family.”
On poor Emmeline’s cheek, a deadly paleness so rapidly succeeded the deep crimson of a minute before, that it caught even Mr. Benson’s eye, who, although not quick at observing such dumb indications of feeling, was sorry to have distressed her, though he hardly guessed how he had done so. His spirits were elevated by the exultation of the moment, and the “excellent wine” beyond his usual hilarity—and even beyond his control.
“Come, come, Emmy,” said he, smiling on her—”I meant no offence; but you know such things often, indeed I may say commonly do happen, as people having little boys and little girls after they are married; and I hope you may have a little boy some of those days, that’s all;” and he winked his eye facetiously at Lord Fitzhenry.
The latter however was, as well as Emmeline, examining the pattern of the China-plate before him; so that poor Mr. Benson meeting with no encouragement from any one, was forced to change the subject of conversation, and Emmeline soon proposed to her mother to leave the dining-room.
Mrs. Benson took no notice of what had passed; and Emmeline gradually recovered herself, although, on the gentlemen joining them, she found it impossible to encounter her husband’s eyes, and, hastily getting up, she went to the pianoforte. At first, her hand trembled, but a feeling of pride steadied it; and on her father asking for one of his old favourite songs, she complied.
Fitzhenry gradually approached her, and when she had finished singing—”That is very beautiful,” said he, “You have never before indulged me with any music.”
“No!” replied Mr. Benson, “that is a great shame, when I paid I don’t know what to a Signor——what do you call him? for teaching her. She can sing you any of your fine bravuras; but a plain English song, for my money; it is worth all your Italian airs, for there is some sense, some meaning in that, but, as for your foreign nonsense, one can’t understand what the words are about; no one can make head or tail of them.”
Emmeline could not help smiling; and, looking up, her eyes met Fitzhenry’s. He too smiled, and smiled so kindly on her that, for an instant, she fancied there was affection, even fondness in their expression.
“Perhaps,” said he, “you will nevertheless indulge me with one of the unmeaning songs Mr. Benson complains of.”
Emmeline sang one of Rossini’s. Fitzhenry sat down by the pianoforte opposite to her, his head leaning on his hand; and, at first, he looked attentively at her, but when the song was over, he seemed so lost in thought as to have totally forgot the singer. He said nothing; suffered her to leave the instrument without making any attempt at detaining her, and soon after left the room.