CHAPTER IV.

Mercy, dear Lord, saide he, what grace is thisThat thou hast shewed to me, sinfull wight,To send thine angell from her bowre of blissTo comfort me in my distressed plight?Angell, or goddess, doe I call thee right?What service may I doe unto thee meete,That hast from darkness me returned to light?Faery Queene, Canto 5.

Mercy, dear Lord, saide he, what grace is this

That thou hast shewed to me, sinfull wight,

To send thine angell from her bowre of bliss

To comfort me in my distressed plight?

Angell, or goddess, doe I call thee right?

What service may I doe unto thee meete,

That hast from darkness me returned to light?

Faery Queene, Canto 5.

Withall superior characters, such as Emmeline’s, the mind so supports the body, that, for the time, it is rather strengthened than exhausted by exertion. Although her health had been impaired, and her nerves much weakened, by all she had lately undergone—yet, fearlessof fatigue, she travelled on without stopping, and arrived in Paris on the evening of the third day from that on which she had left Charlton.

On entering the barriers, her heart almost ceased to beat; and when she drove into the court-yard of the hotel to which the courier directed the postilions, a death-like cold crept over her frame. But at the door, she saw Mr. Pelham; and the smile with which he welcomed her again gave her life.

“He is safe; he is out of danger;” he hastily said, as he ventured to receive in his arms Emmeline’s almost inanimate form, and pressed her, as a brother would a beloved sister, to his heart.

“Will he see me?” said Emmeline, looking still doubtfully in Mr. Pelham’s face.

“Soon, very soon,” said he; “but you must compose yourself first; the least agitation must be spared him.” And he led her up stairs to Fitzhenry’s apartments.

“Did he send for me?” said Emmeline timidly, as soon as her agitations allowed her to speak.

“My dear Lady Fitzhenry,” replied Pelham, “I never have deceived you, and will not do so now; Fitzhenry didnotsend for you; did not even know of my writing. At that time, in truth, I despaired of his life; but I know my friend well enough to be convinced, that had he had a moment’s composure, he would have been glad to have had it in his power to demand and obtain your forgiveness. It has pleased Heaven togive a more favourable issue to this illness than I then had dared to anticipate. Fitzhenry is now pronounced out of danger, but he is in a state of weakness that, of course, has necessarily precluded all conversation on that, or any other subject. Therefore your presence here is no way expected by him.”

Poor Emmeline’s countenance fell;—a thousand vague hopes and expectations were in an instant crushed!

Pelham observed her emotion, and added: “I cannot attempt to excuse my friend’s conduct; a strange infatuation has blinded him, and, for a time, clouded his better nature; but I am much mistaken if that fatal madness is not entirely and for ever at an end.”

All must know how hard it is to bearthe blank feeling of disappointment when we have (even unreasonably) raised our hopes as to some desired bliss. Emmeline had pictured to herself her husband changed—penitent—receiving her to his heart; and, when she learnt the real truth, she almost lost the sense of happiness at his safety, in the bitter feeling, that even though her rival’s reign was over, stillshehad never been thought of by him. She covered her face with her hands, while tears of mortification slowly stole down her cheeks.

Meanwhile, the servants had unloaded the carriage; and, as she heard it driving out of the court-yard, Emmeline, in the humiliating pain of disappointed feelings, almost resolved instantlyto leave Paris, again return to her father, and not force herself upon one who evidently wished not for her.

With this idea, she suddenly rose from her seat. “I will see him once more,” said she in a hurried manner: “could I not unseen follow you into his room? I will not speak to him—he shall not see or hear me—I will leave him directly, and for ever——” she added; but in so low a voice that Pelham did not catch the words; and, attributing all her agitation to anxiety about her husband’s safety, and thinking that nothing but beholding him would satisfy her as to his existence, he drew her arm within his, and led the way to Fitzhenry’s bed-room.

On opening the door, the darknessseemed so total, every window being closed, that Emmeline, satisfied she could not be observed, followed Mr. Pelham to the bed-side; the curtain was down, so that she could not see Fitzhenry’s face, but merely heard him breathe; by degrees, as her eyes got used to the obscurity, and judging by his immovable stillness, that he had not observed their entrance, she ventured gently to put the curtain aside and look on him. But to the fond eye of love alone was he the same Fitzhenry from whom she had parted scarcely a month before. His eyes were closed; his cheek was sunk and colourless; his brown curly hair fell lank on his pale forehead, which was contracted with the expression of suffering.

The sight was too much for her, and totally overcame her recently-formed resolution of leaving him for ever. She sunk on her knees at his side; her hand fell on his, which lay apparently lifeless on the bed; and, in the agony of her feelings, careless of consequences, she covered with tears and with kisses, that hand which she had never before dared to touch; but which now felt not her fervent lips; was insensible to her burning tears, and lay passive within hers.

Emmeline remained fixed at the bed-side of her husband. The former unhappiness of their connexion, his indifference and even apparent dislike, her own punctilious distance of manner toward him, all seemed now forgotten by her.In trembling anxiety, she watched each heaving of his bosom, each movement of his languid limbs; and how her heart throbbed the first time his lips moved, and that she heard his voice! It was weak and hollow; but still it was that voice which thrilled to her inmost soul; he expressed a wish for something to moisten his parched mouth; Pelham brought the glass to Emmeline; her trembling hand was steadied when she held it to his lips, while she put her arm round him to support his head.

She now seemed his established sick nurse: what she should do when his amendment allowed him to know who it was that was attending upon him, never was talked of, indeed was never thought of by Emmeline. To be allowed to seehim constantly, to perform for him the offices of affection, was such happiness that she would not destroy it by venturing to look forward. She gave him all his medicines. Sometimes, unconscious what he did, he took hold of her hand, and held it long within his; but, exhausted apparently by his illness, he never opened his eyes, never enquired what he took, nor from whose hands he received it. The physicians, however, assured Emmeline, that this insensibility was merely the natural consequence of the violence of the fever through which he had struggled, that they hourly saw some amendment, and found increased strength of pulse.

On the second evening after her arrival, he had sunk into something morelike natural sleep than the state of stupor in which he had hitherto lain. Fearful of moving, and thereby of disturbing him, Pelham had taken hold of the first book he could reach, and was reading it by the light of the lamp in the sick room. Emmeline was sitting at the foot of the bed, with her eyes fixed on her husband’s countenance, for it was serene and calm, and had more of its own natural expression than she had yet seen. At length, he moved, passed his hand over his eyes, which then rested on Emmeline, and endeavoured to raise himself. She saw that sensibility had returned; and not daring to advance towards him herself, she made sign to Mr. Pelham to come to him.

“Where am I?” exclaimed Fitzhenry.—“I have been very ill, Pelham, have I not? I have no recollection—indeed, my head is still confused. I could even now fancy,” continued he, staring wildly on Emmeline, “that I see Lady Fitzhenry before me.”

“Yes, dear Fitzhenry,” replied his friend, “you have been ill—long very ill; but you are now pronounced to be quite convalescent, and a few more days will, I trust, restore you even to strength.”

“But my head is so weak—you will laugh at me Pelham—but I repeat it—I could swear that at this moment I see Lady Fitzhenry quite plainly sitting at the end of my bed; but I suppose it is all weakness, and that such odd delusionswill go off—but how very strange such fancies are!”

“Would you wish it to be no fancy?” said Pelham calmly: “would you like your delirious vision to be realized?”

“Oh, Pelham, why do you talk in that way to me? you will only confuse my poor brain still more—you too well know how impossible it is.”

“Do you still fancy you see her?” said Pelham.

“Still—still: it is her very countenance, her melancholy expression; and she looks at me now—I almost fancy I see her breathe and move—Oh! Pelham, for God’s sake give me something to rouse me out of this miserably nervous state;” and Fitzhenry covered his eyes with both his hands.

“Fitzhenry,” said Pelham, in a slow but tremulous voice, frightened at the possible effect of that which he was going to impart,—“what if I were to tell you that this is no sick dream—but that the figure before you, is in truth and reality Lady Fitzhenry, your Emmeline?”

Fitzhenry gave a violent start, and grasped Pelham’s hand—“Good God! Lady Fitzhenry in reality, here!—Speak to her Pelham—I dare not, cannot.”

Poor Emmeline, trembling with anxiety, had not courage to move or utter a single word, and during all this conversation had appeared the phantom her husband had taken her for.

“Fitzhenry!” said Pelham, “compose yourself; you have nothing to fear fromLady Fitzhenry; affection alone brought her here—and you will at last be convinced, that far from being hated, you are loved as few can hope to be.”

“Is it possible! do you not deceive me?” said Fitzhenry, eagerly, a faint smile playing on his lips as he turned towards Emmeline. But she still, doubting her happiness, remained immoveable.

“What, Emmeline!” said he, “cannot you forgive me?”

At that name, at those words, all fear forsook her; he held out to her his feeble arms, and she rushed to his heart; his head fell on her bosom; and, overcome with his feelings, he wept like a child. In a few minutes, he recovered himself, and gazing in her face, their eyes met.

Oh! who can describe the happiness of that moment? Emmeline read affection in those eyes which she had never before dared to encounter; and when Fitzhenry again pressed her to his heart, and, half timidly, kissed her burning cheek,—at that minute she almost could have wished to breathe her last, so perfect was her bliss.

Such emotion, however, was not good for the invalid; and Pelham forced Emmeline for a time to leave the room, till she had recovered the power to endure her happiness with composure. When she returned, she again took her station, in silence, by his bed-side. Fitzhenry seized her hand, held it in both of his, but spoke not. One minute, one look, however, had sufficed to open their heartsto each other; no explanation was necessary; indeed, Emmeline would have been fearful of breaking the dream of felicity in which she now lived, by one word recalling the past.

Fitzhenry now daily seemed to gain strength. Occasionally, a short cough, which the physicians pronounced to be nervous, tormented him by disturbing his rest; but his eyes looked less languid. At times, some colour returned to his cheeks; and, supported by cushions, he could now sit up on a couch. And what a delight it was to Emmeline to wait upon him, to watch and prevent his wishes; to smooth his pillow, and receive in return a smile of kindness and gratitude!

Sometimes, however, a cloud woulddarken her present happiness. If Fitzhenry was more than usually silent or thoughtful, (and he now often fell into long fits of deep abstraction,) then her jealous fancy pictured to her that his thoughts and affections were wandering back to Lady Florence. When he talked of England, of his wish to return home, again she took alarm; and, in spite of herself, interpreted his anxiety on the subject into the desire again to be in the same country with her rival—perhaps, indeed, again to return to her chains.

Lady Florence had never yet been in any way alluded to—Fitzhenry seemed to shun the subject as much as Emmeline; so that she hardly knew her fate, hardly knew by how strong, or howfeeble a tenure she held her present felicity.

One day, however, he suddenly seemed to summon courage for some sort of explanation between them. Emmeline had, as usual, been arranging his sofa. Her hand still lingered on the pillow which supported him; and, after gazing on it a minute, he seized it, and looking attentively on her wedding-ring—

“Emmeline,” said he, “give me back that ring, you shall wear it no more; it was onede mauvaise augure, and shall in future live on my hand for a memento, like Prince Cheri’s. I will marry you over again withthis.”

And, with a half melancholy smile, he drew from his finger a small fretted goldring, which appeared to have been intended for a woman. At the same time, apparently repeating some words to himself, he put in its place that which he had taken off Emmeline’s hand. “Give me a prayer-book,” said he; “and look for the marriage ceremony, for I have forgotten what I then promised.”

When he got the book, he read it to himself for some time in silence.

“Good God!” he at length exclaimed, “did I pronounce these words? did I make those vows? villain that I was! Emmeline, can you forgive the past?”

“Oh! do not talk of the past,” she eagerly exclaimed; “I am too happy now to wish to think of it.”

“But what an awful account I shall have to give,” added he, again castinghis eyes on the book recording his solemn engagement with God.

“Dearest Fitzhenry!” said Emmeline, sinking on her knees beside him, “a God of mercy will forgive all.”

“Pray to him for me,” said he, in a low tone; “I fear I cannot. I never prayed!”

Emmeline shuddered, she seized his hand: “Oh! Fitzhenry, talk not so wildly; God is now calling you to him, shrink not from him.”

Fitzhenry pressed her hand; again took the prayer-book, and with a tremulous voice read these words:

“I, Ernest, take thee, Emmeline, to my wedded wife, to love and to cherish; and forsaking all other, keep myself only unto thee as long as we bothshall live; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

The last words died on his lips, and closing his eyes, he sank back, seemingly both affected and exhausted. Emmeline was too much moved to speak: she pressed to her lips and to her heart, that hand now a second time given her—but in how different a manner!

From that day, Emmeline’s prayer-book was his constant companion. She saw his mind was deeply affected, and left the strong impression to work its own effect.

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