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 hearts to 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 would darken 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 how feeble 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 one de mauvaise augure, and shall in future live on my hand for a memento, like Prince Cheri’s. I will marry you over again with this.”
And, with a half melancholy smile, he drew from his finger a small fretted gold ring, 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.”