At this moment, Fitzhenry, with his gun and dogs, appeared at a little distance, and when he saw them, came towards them. It was fortunate, for it would have been difficult for Pelham and Emmeline to have extricated themselves from the conversation in which they were engaged; for, vague as it might have appeared to any third person, those concerned both feared they had gone too far; the one, in what he had said, the other, in what she had listened to.
As Fitzhenry approached, Emmeline resolved she would endeavour to exert that degree of self-control which Pelham recommended, and a feeling of offended pride, and of injustice towards her on Fitzhenry’s part, enabled her to succeed. She drew her bonnet over her face, and though her heart beat, and at first her voice trembled, she forced herself to speak on indifferent subjects, as if nothing had past, or rather, as if what had passed, had not had power to wound her; and, taking an opportunity when Pelham was a yard or two behind, she held out her note to Fitzhenry. For a minute, he seemed reluctant to take it; but the next, received it from her hand, and putting it hastily within his waistcoat, immediately began talking with Pelham about the view he was then looking at.
When they met at dinner-time, Fitzhenry’s manner to her was as usual; but the party was so large, that they could have little intercourse. In the evening, to avoid any possibility of the waltzing scene of the preceding night, Emmeline immediately took out her work, about which she pretended to be particularly interested, and left the rest of the party to provide for their own amusement.
She and Fitzhenry still appeared to be the objects of Mr. Moore’s particular observation, and for that purpose, seating himself by Emmeline, “I hope Lady Fitzhenry,” said he, “you have forgiven me for not proving myself a better advocate for you this morning; but really Fitzhenry’s frowns were so very eloquent and convincing, that I could say no more on the subject.”
“And you need not say more now,” answered Fitzhenry, rather impatiently, without taking his eyes from the Review he was reading; “that foolish affair is settled; we have both our own, and both are satisfied.”
“Alas!” thought Emmeline, “how much he is mistaken!”
Moore looked at them alternately with an air of incredulity. “Well, you are strange mysterious people,” said he; “but if you are content, I am sure so am I;” and, laying his hand on the first book he saw, and which proved to be Childe Harold, he read some lines of it aloud.
“Are you a great admirer of Lord Byron, Lady Fitzhenry?” said he.
“Of course,” replied Emmeline, forcing a smile.
“Of course of his poetry,” continued Moore; “but I hope not of his sentiments: his descriptions of scenery are beautiful, and sometimes those of feeling and affection; but when he comes to paint his own dark, venom-spitting mind, he is hateful; and it always provokes me, that he should feel the beauties of nature so deeply, and not be the better for that feeling. Have you ever been in Italy, Lady Fitzhenry?”