When she thought of the way in which their honeymoon was to be passed—that after hurrying away from town and the world with all accustomed bustle—and, although only married four and twenty hours, they both already looked to society for relief, the absurdity of their situation struck her for an instant as so ridiculous, that involuntarily a smile, which she saw did not escape her companion, stole over her features; but, as it faded, a deep-drawn sigh succeeded, and she averted her head, to conceal from Fitzhenry, the revolution of feeling which she was conscious was painted in her face. A long train of reflections passed through her mind, as, absorbed in thought, she carelessly with her whip brushed from the bushes, as she passed them, the drops remaining from a late shower; and so deep was her reverie, (the first almost in which poor Emmeline had ever been lost,) that Lord Fitzhenry twice spoke to her before she heard him, and when she did, the tone of her voice in answer, had in it, (perhaps unknown to herself,) a something of repulsive coldness, unusual to her. Whether it so struck him or not, cannot be ascertained; but the remainder of their ride was performed nearly in total silence. Emmeline at once wisely took to her own occupations, and allowed her husband to go his own way. It would be often wise and prudent if even new-married _lovers_ did the same; for, shocked as they may be at the idea, even real love will at last become dull and wearisome; and many a fondly devoted bride has, I dare say, during the very first week, often wished for her usual occupations, as much as her lover has for his gun and pointers. But with Lord and Lady Fitzhenry, there was no form, no farce of sentiment to keep up. Each felt happier when apart from the other; and, by having many an hour for reflection, Emmeline was enabled to school her mind to the trials to which she felt she must be exposed—trials but too likely to increase; for gradually her irritated feelings gave way. When Fitzhenry’s letter, and its harsh expressions of determined indifference towards her returned to her recollection, then her offended pride enabled her to act her part with spirit; and she could talk, and even laugh, with apparent gaiety, to show him he had not had power to wound her feelings deeply. For, amiable as was Emmeline’s disposition, enough of human infirmity lurked about her—enough of the “Woman scorned,” to allow her a degree of pleasure in mortifying one, who had shown so little scruple in more than mortifying her.