Emmeline was the most single-hearted of beings. She had not sufficient presence of mind to think of any excuse for wishing to go into her husband’s room; and with a feeling of awkwardness, almost of shame, she returned to her own. Disappointed, and dispirited, she knew not what to turn to; and for the first time in her life, felt it impossible to occupy herself; the day appeared endless, and her time, an insupportable weight. As she wandered about her own room, her eyes fell on a petition she had had from a poor man residing on the estate, whose house and mill had been nearly destroyed by fire. He lived a few miles off, and Emmeline determined to enquire of Reynolds about him, and, glad to have found an object, to ride to his abode in order to see what could be done for the family—rather ashamed of herself for having allowed her mind to be so entirely engrossed by one subject, that she had totally forgotten this petition which she had received while at Charlton.
Emmeline went into the dining-room and summoned Reynolds. In this room hung a picture of Fitzhenry, painted at the time of his leaving school, when a boy about sixteen. It was much less handsome than he now was; his character was not then, as now, marked on his countenance, giving it that look of manly openness, and yet of feeling, for which it was so remarkable; but, (as the eyes looking out of the picture seemed to smile on the beholder,) it was so agreeable to Emmeline to gaze on it, that, lost in thought, she forgot entirely what brought her there. How long she had remained, she knew not, but on turning round she saw Reynolds in the room quietly waiting her orders.
“Did you ring, my lady,” said the old man, with a benevolent smile.
“Oh yes,” said Emmeline, rather embarrassed. “But at this moment I have forgotten——.”
“Ah, many a time have I forgot myself looking at that picture,” answered Reynolds. “It was considered an excellent likeness when it was done; it was just when we left Eton.”
“Why, were you there with Lord Fitzhenry?”
“Oh yes!” my lady, I have been with my Lord ever since he was seven years old; Lord Arlingford did not like to have nursery-maids about him, so I had entire the charge of him—went with him to school, to Oxford, and then abroad; so no wonder I love him, I may say as my son. I hope no offence,” added he, tears starting into his eyes.
“What, you were abroad with him?” said Emmeline, hastily catching at the word; why she did not know, except that it seemed always as if that word contained the history of her husband’s life and affections.
“Yes, my lady, I was in Italy and at Vienna with him. I was three years abroad, and then, when he returned again to Italy ... (he paused)—I felt I was too old to begin again; I thought some younger servant would suit my lord better, and I begged leave to come home; and though certainly it was not my place, yet I tried hard to persuade my lord to come home too; for I own I thought little good would come of living so much out of one’s own country—people get a love for rambling, never can settle, and learn bad foreign ways——.”
And again he stopped short, as if he feared he might already have said too much. Emmeline longed to hear more, and yet she also thought perhaps she had allowed him to go too far; and making no comment on what he had said, she hastily ejaculated—”Oh! I remember now what I rang for. I want to know where that man of the name of Rawlins now lives, who wrote me this petition, and if you know any thing about him, and what can be done for him.”