“At Easter, I would not go to Arlingford, for if I had, there could have been no reason why you, why Pelham, should not have accompanied me, and I did not feel that I could have stood the trial. So I went to Mostyn Hall; but, on my honour, it was more to avoid you, and Pelham, than to seek her; for all was there changed. Suspicion and discontent now poisoned our intercourse; and when I called to mind your gentleness, your feminine home perfections, she fell still lower in the comparison. I was then summoned home on account of poor Reynolds’s illness; she ridiculed my feelings for him; but, for the first time, I disregarded her raillery, I resisted her allurements, and set off directly for Arlingford. You may imagine what was the effect produced on my mind, when on opening the door of the invalid’s room, I beheld you kneeling by the bed of my old servant. I had no idea you were at Arlingford. I had left you apparently engrossed by the world and its dissipation. Indeed, according to the suspicions of my jealous fancy, by still more powerful attractions, and could hardly believe my senses. Oh! how my heart at that minute smote me for my hasty and seemingly unjust judgment of you.
“Poor Reynolds, you may remember, joined our hands; an unaccountable fear, shyness, I know not what, came over me. I had not courage to retain your hand when you withdrew it from mine; I felt you were a being too pure, too good for me; and I allowed you to fly from me. Reynolds talked to me much about you—told me long stories about your goodness, your affection for me—about having found you gazing on my picture, and I know not what; but I fancied his mind began to wander; that I could not trust to what he said; in short, I would not be convinced, although I wished it. But still his exhortations, the awfulness of the scene, and my own accusing conscience, all combined to work on my feelings; and I resolved, the first moment I could, to leave him to go to you, seek an explanation, and implore your forgiveness.
“When I reached your door for that purpose, my heart beat with various contending feelings. I hardly knew what I said; I longed to fall at your feet, to ask you to forgive and love me. A word, a look of kindness on your part would then have fixed our fate—one smile, and I should have caught you to my heart——been yours for ever. But I found you cold, distant, and for the first time, since I had known you, even irritated and repulsive. There were traces of tears on your face, which you endeavoured to hide from me; your whole manner betrayed emotion and feelings, which you wished to conceal. I saw then, as I thought, but too plainly, how it was—all combined to deceive me. Mrs. Osterley’s thoughtless hints came to my mind, and confirmed me in my suppositions. I fancied that the case was hopeless. My pride then closed both my heart, and lips, and I would not confess to you feelings which I was convinced you could not now return.
“As I was leaving you, by accident your hair—one of these beautiful long ringlets—got entangled on the button of my coat sleeve. Had you been forced to touch a serpent, you could not have recoiled from it with more horror than you did from me. Do you remember all that Lady Fitzhenry? and pray how do you explain your conduct?” said he, smiling.
“In the whole of your supposed love-story, for ‘Pelham’ read ‘Ernest,’” answered Emmeline, in a low voice, as she hid her face on his shoulder, “and all will be fully explained.”
“What a pity it was, that we were both so proud or so stupid!” continued Fitzhenry, sighing deeply as he gazed on her in tenderness: “I was both, and left you in anger; although, I confess, I had little right to take the matter up in that manner. The next day, provoked with you, with myself, miserable every way, I would not attempt to detain you at Arlingford, though I ardently wished it; I only read impatience to return to Pelham in your resolved departure, and would not for the world have allowed you to think I wished you to remain. I remember, however, that as you drove from the door, you cast back one look—one melancholy look, which shot as a ray of light through my heart; (for I was watching you from my room;) had I been at the door, I believe, even then I should have endeavoured to stop you; but, before I had time to decide, you drove off. I then persuaded myself that the look of regret which I had fancied I had seen on your countenance was mere fancy; I took your thus leaving me as declared war on your part; and, when I joined you in town, I determined that my conduct should be such as (fool, idiot, that I was!) I thought befitting my pride and honour—fine sounding words, which I put in the place of selfishness and passion.
“In consequence of this resolution, I totally neglected you; we ceased almost entirely to speak to each other when we did chance to meet, and I returned in desperation to your rival. I endeavoured in her society to forget every thing, to banish from my mind you Emmeline, my friend, and all the dreams of happiness—of domestic happiness which now eternally haunted me. But in vain! the fascination of her society was gone—we were both changed; it was impossible to recall feelings which truth had destroyed. She could not again blind me; suspicion made her exigeante—her thraldom became insupportable; my feelings, my temper, both were irritated beyond my control; my mind was sick, as my body now is.”
For a minute or two, Fitzhenry hid his face in his hands, and seemed lost in no pleasing recollections; at length, after a deep-drawn sigh, (whether of regret or repentance Emmeline could not decide,) he continued:
“I now come to the last and the worst part of my story. I would fain forget it all; but Emmeline, you shall know the very worst; shall be aware what a hot-headed fool you have to deal with, and then you must still love me if you can. I think I need hardly ask, if you remember a certain Saturday night at the opera. By accident, I happened to know, that you had, that night, given away your box; and, therefore, feeling secure you would not be there, had agreed to accompany Lady Florence; for, abominably as I had behaved, you must do me the justice to allow, I never so far insulted you as openly before you to be seen with your rival; how much certain selfish feelings and awkward uncomfortable sensations of shame influenced me, I will not pretend to say. Well, I joined Lady Florence. After I had been with her a few minutes, she carelessly told me, she believed she had seen you. I directly looked round to the box which she said she had observed you enter; but, not being able to distinguish you, I was satisfied that she must have been mistaken. Presuming on her former power, she then spoke of you. I could not bear to hear your name in her mouth; I felt it almost an insult to myself. She spoke too of you with a sort of ridicule and levity that disgusted me; she hinted at the attachment between you and Pelham, and seemed to enjoy the pain she saw she was inflicting. Although a smile was on her lips, yet her eyes flashed fire—the fire of jealousy and revenge. This, in the present state of my feelings, was not to be endured. I dared not speak; I knew too well also the violence of her temper; it was not the moment for a scene, and I said not a word; but still, there I remained, as if spell-bound. My mind was, however, busily at work, and I formed many resolutions for extricating myself, from my present miserable situation. You then rose to my imagination, gay, blooming, gentle, artless, as you were when I first took you to Arlingford; when I had sworn to love and protect you; and had then basely repulsed, and abandoned to your hard fate. My conscience smote me sorely. I felt how greatly I had injured you; that, young and inexperienced as you were, I had, by my cruelty and neglect, driven you into danger. I thought, perhaps, you still had not wandered so far, but that your affections might yet be recalled. On my honour, Emmeline, infatuated as I was, I had then no doubt of your innocence, your purity, your virtue. Nor could I even bring myself to suspect Pelham’s honour. That you loved each other, I did not doubt; but I respected you both too much to think I had been injured by you. I resolved, in short, that, on that very night, we should open our hearts to each other; that all should be explained between us. I determined to propose to you, Emmeline, to leave town with me—to leave England directly, and by mutual forgiveness, to make up for the past, and begin a new life of penitence—I hoped finally of happiness. Lost in these thoughts, I sat unconscious of what was passing around me, till the falling of the curtain roused me from my trance. Lady Florence then seized my arm. She saw she had displeased me; feared she had gone too far, and would not quit her hold. When we reached the lobby, I saw you and Pelham. I hurried her down stairs in the opposite direction; but she had seen you too, and I could distinguish a smile of triumph on her countenance.
“What happened afterwards you know. The two carriages had got entangled, for your coachman, Emmeline, was fighting your battle for you, and contending with Lady Florence Mostyn’s. In the confusion I caught a glimpse of you, at the moment when she had fallen back into my arms. I heard the coarse jokes of the mob of footmen as your carriage drove off. I was nearly frantic. Florence had been slightly hurt, was still frightened, and nervous. I could not be so brutal as to leave her in that state. I went home with her. I meant calmly, kindly, to speak to her; to represent the misery of our intercourse—in short, to open my heart to her. But the instant she suspected my meaning—overpowered by her passions, her fury knew no bounds, nor her envenomed malice and jealousy towards you. My blood fired—a violent scene ensued. I left her in anger——and fully resolved for ever.”