The sound of measured steps in that room, like those of a person suffering from impatience and anxiety of mind, reminded her that she must answer her husband’s letter. But, what could she write? She took her pen, but for long had not power to express a thought. At last, not trusting herself to look a second time at what she had said, she hastily wrote, and folded up a paper, containing the following words.
“I will not curse, I will not upbraid you; yet I have been most cruelly used and deceived. Your wishes shall be laws to me. You need apprehend no childish weaknesses or complaints on my part. In time, you will learn better to know her whom you have made your wife. And to God alone shall I apply for relief or assistance under any trial that may assail me.
“Emmeline.”
She opened the door into the gallery—all was silent. With hurried, trembling steps, she went into the drawing-room, placed her letter on a conspicuous part of the table, involuntarily looked round the room, as if to recall some of those gay, bright anticipations with which she had that day first entered it; and then, with noiseless steps, regained her own apartment. As she went to it, she saw light beneath the door of Lord Fitzhenry’s room. Satisfied that he was still up, and that he would look for her letter, she closed her door, and sat breathless, with flushed cheeks, to hear him pass into the drawing-room for it. In a little while, she heard him tread softly along the gallery. At the door of her room he paused—then went hastily on. On his return, he again paused.
“He listens,” thought Emmeline, “to hear if all is quiet, and whether the insensible fool whom he has made his wife sleeps soundly;”—and tears of mortification again made their way down her face; again the door of her husband’s room closed, and all was quiet.
The dawn of day found poor Emmeline in the same listening attitude in which she had sat when Fitzhenry passed her room—her hands clasped together, her eyes fixed on vacancy. She was roused by the extinguishing candle falling into its socket, and looked up astonished to see broad day light. She went to the window to throw open the sash, that the fresh air might cool her eyes and cheeks: in drawing up the blind for the purpose, the string caught the rings on her finger. She started on seeing her wedding ring, and, above it, the circles of diamonds, rubies, &c., the presents of doating parents, and perhaps envious friends, on the morning of that ceremony, which was, they imagined, to secure her future happiness. “Alas!” thought she, “how they were mistaken!”
Emmeline soon felt chilled by the fresh morning air. She hastily bound up her loose locks, laid herself on her bed, and the fatigue of her mind, (a feeling so new to her,) procured for her the rest she needed.
She awoke with that confused impression of distress, which the unhappy know so well; which oppresses the mind even before we can clearly remember what occasions it. Still she was refreshed by those few hours of sleep, and felt better able to encounter the dreaded meeting with her husband than she could have thought possible.
She got up and rang for her maid. From her window, she had seen Fitzhenry out before the house, and she hurried herself to be in the breakfast-room before his return. While she was dressing, she schooled herself in the part she was to act, and resolved to meet him with the unembarrassed kindness of friendship. Had she had to expect him one minute longer, her nerves would have failed her; but she saw him hurry towards the house. The servants had fortunately left the room. She heard his footsteps on the stairs, the door opened, and in he came. He was deadly pale; Emmeline went up to him,—held out her hand. Hardly knowing what she said, she made some remark on the weather, the heat, and, without pausing, in a hurried voice, asked him some other indifferent questions.
Fitzhenry returned the pressure of her hand, once looked in her face, apparently with surprise; tried to speak, and at last, in time, overcame his agitation; but never again did his eyes meet hers, or were they even ever raised towards her. He had brought into the room with him some greyhounds, apparently as subjects for conversation. They fawned and jumped on their master; and the noise and bustle they made—the feeding them, and Emmeline’s endeavours to ingratiate herself in their favour, was a something to do, and a relief.