“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 did not send 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 to give 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 bear the 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, still she had 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 instantly to 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.