Convinced that she had now done all she could; that she had battled with her fate as much as possible; and, seeing that every exertion and endeavour to please and win him, only seemed to cast her further from him, she resolved to give over the vain struggle, and for her own sake, at least, endeavour in reality to be the frivolous, heartless being he thought her. And thus, in a sort of desperation, flying from herself, and from a cheerless home, which only reminded her of her blighted youth and hopes, she followed Lady Saville to every dissipation that was proposed. The last, and apparently the gayest, at every amusement; bright with false smiles and false colours; poor Emmeline endeavoured to conceal, beneath excited spirits, an aching heart: but the labour was such, that it allowed of no respite. One day left to herself, her own sad reflections again rushed back, and with increased acuteness—all her disappointed, withered feelings, the suffering present, and the cheerless future, pressed upon her soul. To pause in the mad career of dissipation was therefore impossible. She danced, she laughed, she talked. All shyness, all feeling even, seemed to have vanished, and her eyes sparkled with that feverish dazzle, so unlike the bright sunshine of happiness, but so often mistaken for it by a thoughtless, uninterested observer. How falsely do those of the world mutually pass sentence on each other! Meeting, perhaps, merely in the gay resorts of fashion, each individual attributes to the other that worldliness and frivolity which belongs to the scene, but which they apply to the character—and how false such judgments are, those may declare, who by peculiar circumstances, or duty of some sort, are drawn into such amusements, when from natural disposition and taste they may be particularly little suited to enjoy them.
Emmeline’s looks, health, even temper, all seemed to suffer from the life she now led. Often, after an evening of apparent gaiety, on her return home, she was so agitated, and so ill, that many a night it was only by laudanum that she obtained rest. Jenkins repeatedly observed how “My Lady” was changed; that she never now seemed to know her own mind; that she would often dress for an evening’s amusement, and then, when the time came, dismiss her carriage, and flinging herself, in all her finery, on her bed, would cry bitterly; till, like a child, she fell asleep from mere fatigue; and then, next morning, she would laugh at what she called her nervous folly, and begin again her life of hurry and laborious amusement.
But poor Emmeline, made for better things, felt humbled at herself. Was this the life that a rational, accountable, immortal being should lead? Alas! was this the end of all those dreams of happiness which illume the mind, and warm the heart of youth? Worn out in body and spirits, Emmeline longed for Arlingford and quiet; and looked forward with something like pleasure to Easter, when she concluded Fitzhenry would propose going there.
Amid all those who now buzzed and fluttered around her, one friend always followed her steps with interest, one friend she always met with real pleasure. That friend was Pelham. Although he never, since the conversation at Arlingford, had in the most distant manner alluded to the estrangement between her and her husband, yet she could plainly perceive, that he was well aware of their real situation; and she could not help also observing, that, of late, Pelham and Fitzhenry were less cordial together than formerly, although both seemed still anxious, when they met, to carry on the farce of friendship. But Pelham came much less often to their house than he used to do, and generally at those hours when Fitzhenry was most likely to be from home. This Emmeline every way regretted, she always had felt as if he was a link between them, and she had even vaguely imagined that he might some day have been the means of uniting them; and, besides the dispiriting conviction that thus, one by one, every hope to which she clung gave way, she could not help feeling painfully aware that it was Pelham’s partiality to her, which had estranged her husband from him.
One evening at Almacks, Lady Saville, with whom she had gone, being engaged dancing, Emmeline had sought a refuge from the heat and crowd in the tea-room, and Pelham had followed her. Half serious, half jesting, he was attacking her upon the life she now led, and upon the impossibility of ever seeing her quietly, and the eternal hurry of pleasure and spirits in which he always found her.
“Why I only do like others,” said Emmeline, with forced gaiety.
“Perhaps so,” replied Pelham. “But you are not like those others whom you imitate and follow. I am sure that all this dissipation cannot satisfy your mind, cannot make you happy.”
“Perhaps not,” said Emmeline, her forced smile fading from her lips; for happiness was a word which always grated on her heart, and sounded harsh in her ears.
“But what can I do?—il faut hurler avec les loups,” added she, again endeavouring to resume her gaiety.
“This assumed levity cannot take me in,” continued Pelham. “I am certain it is impossible but that all this frivolity and fatigue must wear out both your mind and body. How different you were at Arlingford! how little you then seemed to anticipate pleasure from what you now enter into so warmly!”