There was the table at which he wrote, the chair on which he sat, and she placed herself in it. On the table, among a confusion of parliamentary papers, pamphlets, bills, &c. was a volume of Petrarch, lying open, as if lately read, and by it the cover of a letter recently torn open. It was directed to Fitzhenry, and in a woman’s hand. On the seal, were the words—“Tout ou rien”—words that said volumes to poor Emmeline’s heart. She tried to make out the post-mark, but it was so blotted over that she could only decypher the date, which convinced her it had been that very day received! With a sort of shudder she threw it down again, and, getting up from her seat, her eye was attracted by two drawings that hung over the chimney-piece—they were evidently views in Italy and Greece. In both these, were the same two figures: below one of the drawings, these lines from Lord Byron were written:—
“Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times
When worlds were staked for ladies eyes.
Had bards as many realms as rhymes,
Thy charms might raise new Anthonies.
“Though fate forbids such things to be,
Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curled,
I cannot lose a world for thee,
But would not lose thee for a world.”
Beneath the other drawing, was a Greek inscription. They were slight sketches, and the figures were small; one of them had an air of Fitzhenry not to be mistaken by her who knew his every look and gesture. The other was a female figure. Emmeline’s eyes were rivetted on the drawings; she could not doubt who, and what they represented; some days of peculiar enjoyment, some tender moments were thus recalled, and poor Emmeline’s spirit groaned within her.