The dreary desolation of her future existence, from which, appalled at the prospect, she at first shrunk with horror, now constantly occupied her, to the exclusion of every other thought, and of every ray of hope. A short twelve-month back, knowing no felicity beyond loving, and being beloved by her fond parents, she was at peace, and happy—now, new feelings, new powers of heart, unknown to herself before, had been awakened in her, and she hated herself when she felt—(and she could not help feeling it) that not all their kindness, all their partial affection, could soothe and occupy a heart which love, love for Fitzhenry had now so entirely engrossed. Love is a draught of so inebriating a quality, that it is long before one who has known its delirious power can (even when that delirium ceases) return satisfied to the sober feelings of friendship. The sun which had warmed and illumined life is set; and all other near and dear affections, are as the quiet cold rays of moonlight to the bereaved soul which shivers beneath their chilling influence.
How often when endeavouring to soothe those who are writhing under such sorrows, are the affections of parent and kindred offered as compensations. But such comfort, sickening the heart at its own ingratitude, only adds to its misery. Time alone, the sobering influence of years, can heal such wounds, or rather skin them over, for the scar remains, till at last it thickens and hardens, rendering it insensible to every impression; but is that happiness? When a sacred voice announced, that “a man shall leave father and mother, and cleave to his wife”—it plainly told how overwhelming such feelings were intended to be; and if allowed, nay, commanded in man, how much more in woman, whose existence is made up of the affections of the heart!
Poor Emmeline endeavoured to resume her usual occupations, but in vain. She tried to read—it was impossible; once or twice, in the wish to pass the heavy hours, she proposed reading aloud to her mother, as she had formerly done. Her lips mechanically uttered the words; but, at a pause, Mrs. Benson making some remark on the book, Emmeline startled at the sound of her voice—looked vacantly at her, apparently unconscious of what she alluded to. The mother, suppressing a sigh, endeavoured at some explanation, but seeing how hopeless was the attempt to fix her daughter’s mind on any subject, she quietly closed the book, saying, “Emmy, my love, we will continue that some other time, for I think reading hurts your eyes.”
Emmeline gave her a meanless, melancholy smile in answer, and sat in silence; her eyes fixed on the volume, as if even unconscious that their lecture was over. Lost as she was in thought, it would perhaps have been difficult for her to have told what those thoughts were, all was so vague; and on no one circumstance in her situation, could she rest her mind with expectation of any sort. Even religion could bring her little comfort. Had Fitzhenry, penitent towards heaven and herself, been taken from her by death, she would have found peace for her thoughts in piety. She could have said to her widowed heart—we shall meet again. But that way, Emmeline, shuddering, dared not look. Often too, she aggravated her distress by reproaching herself for having brought sorrow and melancholy to that home, which had been always hitherto one of content and cheerfulness; and she sometimes thought it was her duty to leave it, and relieve her parents of her painful presence—but whither could she go? was Arlingford still her home? could she venture to return there?
Thus, day after day sadly passed without her being able to form any plan for herself or the future, till she was one morning roused from the state of stupor into which she had sunk, by Lord Arlingford being suddenly announced.
Since the marriage, for which both he and Mr. Benson had been so equally anxious, there had been little intercourse between them. Lord Arlingford having obtained his object, and secured Emmeline’s fortune, he was not particularly anxious to keep up any thing like intimacy with Mr. Benson, whose honest, blunt vulgarity, did not at all suit the refined elegance of his own manners and habits.
Emmeline was with her mother alone when Lord Arlingford entered. She turned deadly pale; for, in a minute, a thousand apprehensions as to the possible purport of his visit occurred to her; and, hardly knowing in what manner to meet him, she remained in her place, with the feelings of a criminal awaiting the sentence of his judge. But such alarming fears were soon dissipated—his manner was more than usually kind—she was his “dear Emmeline, his pretty daughter.” He quite overcame Mrs. Benson with civilities, and was so very particular and anxious in his enquiries after Mr. Benson, and whether he could not have the pleasure of seeing him, that at last Emmeline thought it best to go and inform her father of his visit, hoping that Lord Arlingford’s conciliatory manner might pacify his justly indignant feelings. When she told him who was in the drawing-room with her mother,——
“I know it—I know it quite well child,” said he, impatiently; “you need not have come for me; why did you not say I was out, or busy, or sick? I am sure you may say the last with truth, for I am not half the man I used to be. I don’t want to see him; he is only come to try and palaver me over; and if I do go down to him, what in the world can we say to each other? Your marriage is the only thing we have talked about these last ten years, and the less now said of that the better, I am sure: and I am sore here,” said the good old citizen, seizing on his waistcoat, and rubbing it across his breast; “and I don’t want him to make matters worse. I wish his lordship had staid at home; for what the deuce can he be come here for?”
“For no unkind purpose, I am sure,” said Emmeline, wishing to pacify her father—“for his manner to me is more than usually affectionate. For my sake, dear father, come down to him, and be cordial to him,” said she, grasping his hand with fervency, while her imploring eyes, fixed on his face, spoke all the feelings of heart.
“You are a silly girl, Emmy,” said her father: “you have no proper pride. This abominable husband of yours has made a perfect fool of you; but go away to the drawing-room; say I will be down directly. Plague on him, he has turned me quite topsy-turvy.”