“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 from Lady 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.