“The brooch is mine,” said Fitzhenry, holding out his hand for it, and apparently not much less discomposed.
“Hold, if you please,” said Moore; “I have not studied the law, up three pair of stairs in Lincoln’s Inn, and poured over musty books for nothing. I must have proofs and witnesses before I adjudge the disputed prize. Let us call into court the letters at the back, they may throw some light on the subject—Let me see,” continued he, putting on his nose the spectacles of one of the company, and affecting an important, legal tone, “Fi is very easily distinguished, but what the deuce is it that comes between that and z e, which are plainly the letters at the end. F i looks a little as if it really did belong to one Lord Fitzhenry, I must own; (if he is so unsentimental as to wear his own name next his heart;) but even under that extraordinary supposition, I can’t turn z e into r y by any trick of law or logic—so I am still at a loss; for do what I will, I cannot, with these letters, spell fidele, or fidelità, or any of those pretty words.”
Emmeline said no more; she tried to busy herself with the breakfast-things, but poured out every thing wrong, and made all sorts of strange mistakes. Fitzhenry got up, and went to Mr. Moore.
“Come, Moore, no more of this nonsense; give me the brooch, and Lady Fitzhenry and I can afterwards settle to which of us it belongs.”
“As lord of the manor, I suppose you claim all stray goods,” rejoined Moore; “otherwise I must say yours is a most despotic measure, and a little like the lion in the fable.”
At this, Miss Danvers, who had been some time tittering, burst into an immoderate fit of laughter.
“How droll Mr. Moore is!” she exclaimed: “pray, Lord Fitzhenry, let me look at this brooch; there is such a fuss about it that it must be something very extraordinary, and I am sure I could make out the letters,” said she, looking significantly at Moore, “for I know all sorts of mottos, and sentiments, and those kind of things, for brooches, and bracelets, and purses, and seals,”—and she held out her hand for the brooch.
“It is not worth looking at,” said Fitzhenry, coldly, as he put it into his pocket.
“I think the lion is a little gruff,” whispered the young lady to her neighbour at the breakfast-table, and again laughed violently at what she imagined to be wit.
“Well,” she continued, “I give notice, that when I marry, I mean to have my own way, and be my own mistress, and not be so submissive as Lady Fitzhenry. I shall have as many brooches as I please, given me by whom I please; for I suspect,” added she, significantly, “there is some story about this brooch—some mystery we none of us know; but I am determined I will find it out: it is just the sort of thing I like—and see how Lady Fitzhenry blushes—I am getting near the mark, I suspect.”