CHAPTER VII.
“In vain may art the couch of sickness tend,Or friendship sigh, or sympathy implore,Or love, all sanguine, o’er the sufferer bend;The mortal sinks,—and every hope is o’er!These brooding thoughts in useless pangs expire;More soothing sounds let struggling nature hear,Catch from religion’s shrine an holier fire,And wake to duty, from her trance severe.”
“In vain may art the couch of sickness tend,Or friendship sigh, or sympathy implore,Or love, all sanguine, o’er the sufferer bend;The mortal sinks,—and every hope is o’er!These brooding thoughts in useless pangs expire;More soothing sounds let struggling nature hear,Catch from religion’s shrine an holier fire,And wake to duty, from her trance severe.”
“In vain may art the couch of sickness tend,Or friendship sigh, or sympathy implore,Or love, all sanguine, o’er the sufferer bend;The mortal sinks,—and every hope is o’er!These brooding thoughts in useless pangs expire;More soothing sounds let struggling nature hear,Catch from religion’s shrine an holier fire,And wake to duty, from her trance severe.”
“In vain may art the couch of sickness tend,Or friendship sigh, or sympathy implore,Or love, all sanguine, o’er the sufferer bend;The mortal sinks,—and every hope is o’er!These brooding thoughts in useless pangs expire;More soothing sounds let struggling nature hear,Catch from religion’s shrine an holier fire,And wake to duty, from her trance severe.”
“In vain may art the couch of sickness tend,
Or friendship sigh, or sympathy implore,
Or love, all sanguine, o’er the sufferer bend;
The mortal sinks,—and every hope is o’er!
These brooding thoughts in useless pangs expire;
More soothing sounds let struggling nature hear,
Catch from religion’s shrine an holier fire,
And wake to duty, from her trance severe.”
AfterMr. Pelham’s departure, Fitzhenry became very impatient to return to England. He was better certainly, and had regained some degree of strength; for now, leaning on Emmeline’s arm, hewas able to walk about his apartment; but still he did not seem to recover as rapidly as he should. A degree of varying fever still hung about him; his cough, which the French physician still called nervous, at times exhausted him much, and he had a look of languor quite unnatural to him; his cheek remained hollow, his eyes looked sunk.
Paris, meanwhile, grew insufferably hot; his anxiety to leave it, and his desire for home became so strong—partaking of the feverish longing of illness—that in the hope that the short sea voyage might prove rather beneficial to him than the contrary, it was at last decided that they should set out for Arlingford. They went down the Seine by water, and then hired a vessel to take them to Pool, whichwas within only twelve miles of their own home. The voyage seemed to do Fitzhenry good, the sea air to refresh him; and, on his near approach to Arlingford, his spirits and animation seemed to return; and Emmeline gazed with delight on the colour in his cheeks, and the sparkling gladness of his eyes; and oh! how eloquent was their language to her doating heart! what volumes did they tell in one single glance!
Perhaps many would not understand the emotion which made both their hearts beat even to pain, when they entered the well-known scenes of Arlingford;—but, again I repeat it, I address myself only to those who have known the deep feeling of tried affection, the wild enchantment of love. Emmeline fanciedshe saw sympathetic joy in every countenance, and as she returned the congratulatory salutations of the country people, (who, smiling, took off their hats as the carriage passed,) she could scarcely restrain her tears. At how many a turn in the road, or well-remembered path or ride, recalling moments and feelings of past unhappiness, did they almost involuntarily look at each other; and how often did Fitzhenry clasp Emmeline’s hand in his, and entreat her again and again to forgive him!
Thus buoyant with joy and gratitude, they at last drove up to the door of their own home. Fitzhenry’s spirits had been so much beyond his bodily strength, that they had quite exhausted him; so that when he left the carriage, it was withdifficulty he reached the drawing-room. As the servants all eagerly pressed forward to give him their assistance, “Poor Reynolds!” he exclaimed, tears starting into his eyes, “I wish I had his arm to lean on now, for how happy he would have been!”
When he was assisted to the couch in the drawing-room, he looked round the apartment for several minutes in silence, and when the door had closed on the attendants, he held out his arms to Emmeline. They could neither speak—but they did not need words to express their feelings; both knew what was passing in the mind of the other, and Emmeline secretly thanked the giver of all good for her present happiness.
We poor mortals do well to catch at each passing moment of joy, and feed on them while ours; for alas! how soon do they fade away! and how wretched the condition of those who, weak in faith, see not the bounty of God in every blessing, and cannot “lift the adoring eye e’en to the storm that wrecks them,” relying on the wisdom and mercy of his unsearchable providence.
Fitzhenry had a restless night of cough and fever; and although Emmeline attributed both to the fatigue and agitation of the preceding day, yet she sent off an express for an eminent physician residing at Winchester; and on his arrival, with a beating heart, led him into her husband’s apartment. Doctor Harrington,who had formerly often seen Fitzhenry, appeared much struck with the alteration in his appearance: he questioned him minutely as to his cough, and other symptoms of his complaint; then, drawing out his watch, he repeatedly counted his pulse. Emmeline, who in breathless anxiety watched every look and word, could not help taking fright at his manner; and her alarm was increased, when, on pretence of writing a prescription, he followed her into the adjoining room, and addressed her with—“Pray, Lady Fitzhenry, do I remember right, was not the late Lady Arlingford consumptive?”
Poor Emmeline’s blood froze in her veins, and her pale lips betrayed the terror his question had conveyed.
“I beg you will not be alarmed,” he added, in a sententious tone, observing her emotion; “Lord Fitzhenry is young; has always, I believe, lived most temperately. At present, I apprehend no immediate danger; but we must be careful. These hereditary complaints are sometimes obstinate, and difficult to deal with.”
And thus he went on for some time with thesang froidwhich some of his profession, perhaps naturally, acquire; fancying he could in that manner reassure his trembling auditor. But she scarcely heard him. The sudden transition from joy and the overflowings of her grateful heart, to the dreadful apprehensions which now took possession of her mind, was too violent to be endured.
Almost unconscious what she did, she received from Doctor Harrington’s hand his written prescription; and, with an altered countenance, returned to her husband. The flushed crimson of his cheek, the bright, feverish sparkling of his eyes, now made her shudder; and she hid her face at the back of the arm-chair in which he was sitting, fearing she might betray herself.
“Well, Emmeline,” said he at last, “what news from Doctor Harrington? he looked prodigiously pompous about me; but I hope he will give me something to stop my cough, and make me sleep: in fact, that is all I now require to be well. But it is wearisome. Last night I never closed my eyes: however, I believe that was the effect of happiness,at being once more at Arlingford, and with you. What does the sapient doctor recommend? Let me look at what he has written. This is all Greek and Hebrew to me,” said he, in a light tone, as he returned the paper to Emmeline; “indeed, I hope, for my learning’s credit, even more unintelligible—but, Emmeline, are you not well? how pale you look! I think you require a little doctoring as well as myself. You have worn yourself out by nursing me; I will not let you do so any more. Last night you did not leave my room for hours, I know, for I watched you, and at last was forced to feign sleep, in order that you might go and get some yourself. But this shall not be any longer. I really do not now want myservant, or, indeed, any attendance. We will have that little couch-bed moved into my room for you; and no soporific which the doctor can recommend, will make me sleep half so well, as knowing you have that rest which I am sure you need even more than myself.”
Emmeline hid her face on the cushion on which his head was lying—she could not speak.
“What, Emmeline!” he continued, “will you not agree to my proposal? Have I said any thing to displease you? Foolish girl!” and he drew away her hands, that were hiding her face.
On beholding it, he looked at her a moment in silence. His countenance changed. He took her hand in his,raised his eyes to heaven, but said nothing.
The apprehensions which Dr. Harrington’s report, guarded as it was, had raised in Emmeline’s mind, made her anxious for further advice; and yet she feared to alarm Fitzhenry by proposing it: but at her first word, he understood her, and calmly said—“Do whatever you like, whatever will easeyourmind.” And she wrote immediately to Doctor Baillie.
During the days that passed till his arrival, she made an effort to throw back from her heart the miserable anxiety that was oppressing it, and to pursue her usual occupations. Many a burning tear stole down her cheek in silence and solitude; but she always met her husband with a smile; and if he ever sawtraces of her feelings on her countenance, he forbore noticing them.
With sensations of apprehension not to be described, Emmeline, at last, on the day he had appointed, saw Baillie drive up to the door. She felt that her fate hung on his opinion. Dr. Harrington had come to meet him; and after a short private conversation between the two medical men, they proceeded, with Emmeline, into their patient’s room. Fitzhenry welcomed them with cheerfulness; talked for some time of the news of the day, and on indifferent subjects, to Baillie; and then turning to Emmeline, who had been unequal to the exertion of a single word during their conversation,—
“Lady Fitzhenry,” said he, “you must leave me to say my catechism toDr. Baillie alone. I want too to make serious complaints of you,” added he, gaily; “of your obstinacy and disobedience; of the way in which you sit up all night, destroying your health and bloom.”
Baillie made some attempt at a compliment; but his kind heart felt for the anguish he saw painted on her countenance; and, unable to answer him, Emmeline in silence left the room.
Those who have felt their very existence depend on one word, may imagine how she passed the cruel, anxious, long half-hour that now elapsed. At length, the door of her room slowly opened, and Fitzhenry himself, leaning on his stick, came in alone. His face was flushed; and though he forced a smile, on entering,Emmeline plainly read in it an expression that was like a death-knell to her heart and hopes. She flew up to him, and helped him to a couch. After a moment’s pause, drawing her towards him—
“Emmeline,” said he; “dearest! we have suffered too much, and too long, from concealing our feelings from each other, for me to have courage to undertake to keep another secret from you, although it is one which I know will pain you.” Emmeline’s pallid face showed she was but too well prepared for what he was going to say. “I have for some time suspected my real situation,” added he; “but I was determined to learn the truth; and I knew Baillie’s sensible upright honesty would not, at my serious request, conceal it from me. I requiredof him to give me his candid opinion as to my health.”
Fitzhenry paused; Emmeline clung to him, as if to stifle what more he had to say; but he continued, though in a faltering voice.
“I had hoped it might have been otherwise; I had hoped, for your sake, that we might have been allowed to live for some little time at least, happily together; but that God whom you have taught me to worship and submit to, no doubt judges wisely; and, we must, I fear, look to our approaching, final separation.”
At these words, poor Emmeline could no longer command herself; an agonized scream escaped from her bursting heart, as she sank on the floor before him.
“My Emmeline! my dear Emmeline!” he cried, endeavouring to raise her in his feeble arms—“Spare me—I entreat you—I cannot bear to see you suffer thus—have pity on me.”
“I will, I will,” she almost convulsively exclaimed, “but this is too—too much for me.”
“You mistake me, Emmeline,” said he, endeavouring to calm the agony he had caused. “There may be hope yet; Baillie is you know famous for seeing every thingen noir—he was very plain-spoken with me, for I forced him to be so; but recollect, Emmeline,” added he, endeavouring to cheer his voice, “even Baillie may be mistaken, and while there is life there is hope: before winter, we are to go to a warmer climate; you will pray toheaven for me, and your prayers, dearest, will perhaps be heard. They have already once restored us to each other; they may do so again. I should not have said all this to you, I believe, but it is so necessary to me now to conceal nothing from you, that I could not have borne the load alone; but, for God’s sake, dear Emmeline, compose yourself, and for my sake, bear up.”
And for his sake, she did exert herself; for of what is the female character not capable, when nerved by strong affection? All was settled for their leaving England the beginning of October, when they were to repair to Lisbon; till then, it was thought that the climate of Hampshire would be better for Fitzhenry than that of Portugal. The season was unusuallyfine; and, sometimes, when well enough to wander a little way from the house, the balmy air, and cheering sounds and sights of a fine autumn, seemed to revive him; and, if ever he prolonged his walk one yard further than he had done on the preceding day—if he had ever appeared rather more cheerful—his voice stronger—Emmeline, to whose young heart happiness was so necessary, then again, for the moment, gave way to delightful anticipations. Had she ventured to look back, and trace from week to week the rapid progress of the fatal disease, that was fast hurrying its victim to the grave, she could not have indulged even such momentary gleams of hope, but then also, she could not have performedher hard task with the courage she did.
Fitzhenry was generally calm, and even cheerful; and he sometimes talked of what they would do on their return to Arlingford; and projected alterations and improvements in the place; but all such plans for the future, usually ended in a sigh, and were listened to in mournful silence by his wretched wife; and although he thus forced himself to appear interested in worldly affairs, yet, by the turn his conversation now commonly took, it was plain to perceive that the whole tone of his mind was completely changed; and when Emmeline proposed reading to him, he always selected such books as led to reflection, to God, and to a future world.
Their wedding-day, the 19th of August, was the last on which he left the house; his exertions to appear cheerful on that day, had been so much beyond his strength, that they had exhausted him. The next, he could not leave his room. A fortnight more, and he could scarcely raise himself from his couch. The end of September came, and the preparations for their departure for Lisbon continued to be made, no one having the heart to countermand them, although it was very evident to all, that he would never quit his present home, but for that, where he would be for ever at rest. As his bodily strength failed, his mind seemed to gain fresh vigour, and to soar above the cares and sufferings of this transitory life. Resignation was an easiertask to him, than to the wretched being who, strong in youth and health, was doomed to remain in that world from which she saw her every joy fast departing. But she never complained; she never wept; at least, her tears were ever concealed from him for whom they flowed. With a steady voice, she read to him of the peace, the bliss of heaven—of forgiveness to penitent sinners; and, when she saw her husband’s eyes raised to that heaven in humble submission to its decrees, she clasped her hands beside him in silence; and if a distinct prayer escaped from her meek heart, it was to implore that she might be released with him from this world of suffering.
One night, after she had read to him that beautiful Essay of Miss Bowdler’s,on the Advantages of Sickness: “I am sure, Emmeline,” said he, in a faint voice, “it will ever be a comfort and joy to you to think, that through your means I have been saved from destruction. When I think what I was only a short twelve-month ago, I bless God for the change, although brought about by such cruel means. Oh! if I could but live my life over again,” he added vehemently: “if I could but feel once more the strength and health of mind and body, of which I made so bad a use; if I could but see you, my own Emmy, the blooming light-hearted girl you were when I married you, when I so cruelly scorned and neglected you, how superlatively happy I should be. But all is over now; the past cannot be recalled,and there is no future for me in this world; and yet, convinced as I am of this, do you know that even now I sometimes, during the long, tedious, sleepless hours of night, still foolishly indulge in vain dreams of happiness, and picture to myself our future life here; I see you admired by every one—the charm, the ornament of my home, (for proud, worldly ideas will still cling to me.) I fancy I see that innocent beaming smile I once saw—I hear that joyous laugh I used to hear till my unkindness silenced it; in fancy, we ride together, wewaltztogether,” said he, forcing a faint smile: “and this perfect earthly bliss, which providence offered me, I rejected and spurned—spurned you, who would have made my home a heavento me, and not one word of reproach have I heard from you. Oh, Emmeline, if you were less kind to me, I believe I should suffer less bitterly; that smile, that look of love cuts me to the very soul. There is only one comfort of which you have not been deprived by me, that of an approving conscience, and the hope of happiness beyond the grave; for in heaven we shall be again united, and by your means. I trust I am not too presumptuous, but the entire resignation with which I look to approaching death, though now possessed of every blessing this world can give, and the hope with which I anticipate meeting you, my guardian angel, in the next, gives me a strong feeling of confidence, that my past errors are blotted out.”
Fitzhenry’s voice became choked, he sank back and closed his eyes, and for some time they both remained silent.
“I have talked too much,” he at length said; “I am rather exhausted, and at times I feel more low without knowing why. I think I shall sleep, so good night; God bless you, my Emmeline:” and he kissed her pale tear-bedewed cheek, then turned his head away, and for about an hour all was quiet. Fitzhenry never moved, and Emmeline trusted he was getting some refreshing rest; he had coughed less that day, his pulse had appeared to her to be quieter; and as she clasped her hands in humble supplication, a faint gleam of hope even then shot through her sorrowful heart.
“Oh! God of mercy, if possible, sparehim!” she ejaculated with such fervency, that her lips, unconsciously to herself, uttered the sounds. Fearful that she might have disturbed him, she went softly to the couch on which he was lying. He directly held out to her his feeble hand: “I am not asleep,” said he, in a hollow altered tone, that made her shudder; “I cannot sleep. I heard your prayer, my Emmeline, but it cannot be; the decree is past; and, while yet I can, I have a favour to ask of you, though I am sure, beforehand, you will grant it. In my writing-desk you will find a letter—when I am gone—send it to—to Florence. Do not start, dearest,—it is my wish, my last request that you will read it—I have purposely left it open. But I would like to die in peace with all—even with her.A time may come when, like me, she may regret the past; and then it will be a comfort to her to know that I forgave her the evil she was the cause of to us both—and also it relieves my heart to ask forgiveness of her for what injury I have done, what pain I may have inflicted upon her. As for you, my own Emmeline, I know I should only grieve you if I were to ask for your forgiveness. I am sure I have it,” said he, as he imprinted a fond kiss on her quivering lips: “Heaven reward you with its best blessings! When you see Pelham again, you will for my sake be kind to him. Poor Pelham! he loved me most truly!—he loves you too, Emmeline.”
Fitzhenry paused, and fixed his languid, glazing eyes on her face; he seemedas if anxious to say more, but he only sighed deeply; and, after a few minutes’ silence, taking from under the pillow Emmeline’s prayer-book, which he had always kept since that day on which he had renewed to her his marriage vow: “And now, Emmeline,” said he, “read to me that prayer for the sick.”
In silence she complied, for she had taught her breaking heart to bear such trials: she had learnt to stifle her sobs, to swallow her bitter tears.
“Blessings on thee, my love,” he said, when she had finished; “your voice soothes me; your prayers do me so much good. But there is still another I would have you read—that for the dying.”
Emmeline looked at him aghast—his countenance had within the last hourvisibly changed—death was upon it—her blood chilled in her veins; but, making a desperate effort, with a tremulous voice, broken by convulsive sobs, she began to read. When she came to these words, “Look graciously on thy servant, O Lord! give him unfeigned repentance for the errors of his past life,” Fitzhenry’s hand pressed Emmeline’s more closely with a sort of nervous, convulsive grasp. She continued to read—his hand stiffened—grew cold——all was over——.
A loud shriek brought the attendants from the adjoining room: they raised poor Emmeline’s lifeless form from the ground; with difficulty unloosed her hand from that of her husband, and carried her to her bed.
When consciousness, after a lapse of some days, at length returned, she saw her father and mother hanging over her—but Fitzhenry, her adored Fitzhenry, was for ever shrouded in the close, cold habitation of death!