Fitzhenry had latterly spoken so quick, that he paused for a minute, as if exhausted and overcome by his feelings; but Emmeline was too much interested and agitated by the narration to make any comment; and, after a moment’s total silence between them, he continued, although in a still more perturbed manner.
“I hurried home—I was in that feverish state of mind, when to think, to pause, is impossible. I felt I must instantly throw myself at your feet, that our fate must be that minute determined. I meant to propose to you to set off for Dover that very night. I had ceased to love her; but my mind was torn with contending feelings, my brain was on fire. As soon as I reached home, I rushed up stairs—I heard Pelham’s voice in the drawing-room—the door was not closed, my ear caught these words, ‘Honour—you may trust me’—(and you will allow those are awkward words for a husband to overhear addressed to his wife.) I was determined to be satisfied at once—to have all doubts removed. I burst into the room; and my worst suspicions were confirmed. Pelham had hold of your hand; you were close to him; your head rested on him—you were violently agitated—both started on seeing me—you were both evidently discomposed, and thrown off your guard. Was it strange that I converted all this into evidences of guilt? I had just enough command over myself not to speak. You attempted some excuse for the situation in which I found you. Your effrontery surprised and shocked me. At that minute, I totally forgot your wrongs and my own conduct, and I only considered myself as basely betrayed and injured. Pelham then followed you to the door of your own room; he said something to you in a low voice——again he took your hand. All that before my face was too much. I wonder how I contained the rage that burned within me. I felt that I could not then discuss the matter with him, and I left the house like a madman. I paced up and down the street, and watched for Pelham’s departure before I returned home; giving way to all the delirium of passion, and distracted by all the misery of doubt. My first impulse was to write to him, imperiously to demand an explanation of his conduct, and satisfaction for my injured honour. Heavens! to think that I sought an opportunity to deprive of life Pelham, my best, my tried, my devoted friend! I passed the night writing letter after letter to you both, and destroying them as fast as I wrote. By degrees, however, my passion cooled; I sometimes thought, and fondly hoped, I might be mistaken. When I recalled to mind my friend’s strict principles of virtue and integrity—principles that had so often made me blush for my faults—I could not think that what I suspected was possible, strong as appearances were against you both. Your virtues too, Emmeline, your look of artless innocence, haunted me. How could I reconcile your present supposed conduct with all those perfections which I had so admired in you?
“Hours passed on, daylight returned. The servants began to stir about the house. I heard footsteps in the room above—in your room, Lady Fitzhenry. Every minute I expected some message from you, some note, some explanation in short; and kept my letter to Pelham unsealed, still hoping I might have been in error, and that something would undeceive me. I soon, however, heard preparations for your departure; your leaving my house thus, without even taking leave of me, I interpreted into a decided resolution on your part that a final, formal separation should take place between us. You had said you were going to Charlton. I sometimes hardly believed that you were really going there, and, in frantic moments, I suspected the worst. But at others, when my own conduct forced itself on my mind, when I reflected on your wrongs, I then thought that, exasperated probably by my ill treatment, you were leaving my roof for ever, determined, perhaps, that the law should dissolve an union which had been but a source of misery to you, in order that you might legally unite yourself to the man you loved. Again, had not pride restrained me, I would have sought that explanation which I longed for, and then all would soon have been understood between us; had our eyes but met, we must, at that moment, have read each other’s hearts; but in proud, sullen silence, I awaited some opening from you.
“None came; at length your carriage drove up to the door; I heard your footsteps on the stairs; you stopped at my door; my heart beat to suffocation; I thought, nay, I felt almost sure that you were coming to me; my hand was actually on the lock to open it; just then I heard one of the servants speaking to you, you passed on—I heard the carriage-door shut, and you drove off. I felt that we had parted for ever; and, when too late, I regretted the blessing I had thrown away.
“My Emmeline, I am not now ashamed to own to you, that I wept in bitterness of heart.
“The instant you were gone, in desperation I sealed and directed my abominable letter to Pelham. I ordered post horses directly, desiring that the carriage should follow me to his lodgings. On arriving there, I learnt he was gone out of town. This confirmed all to me; I tore open my letter, said we could never again meet but in one way, and for one purpose. That I was going instantly to Arlingford, that he might there follow me, and give me the satisfaction I demanded, unless indeed he was already far off with another.
“How perverse is human nature! Man’s nature at least. On my arrival at Arlingford, I missed you whom I had always before shunned, at every turn. I missed the gentle being who had so long, so patiently submitted to my most impertinent vagaries. I missed my poor victim! Every room, every inanimate object recalled her who would have given to all such a charm! I spent hours in your room, Emmeline, in useless, tormenting regrets. In that room which I had hitherto avoided with such care! Alternately condemning myself and you, I felt that I had lost every thing—I was completely miserable!”
Greatly exhausted by this narration, during which Fitzhenry had often been interrupted by his cough, he leant back on the couch. The door, at that moment gently opened, and Pelham appeared. On observing the very visible signs of emotion on both his friends countenances, he was again hastily retreating, when Fitzhenry called to him—“No, come in, Pelham; what we were talking about need be no secret from you, for indeed you are principally concerned. I was telling Emmeline all my history. In other words, confessing all my faults; and as you are, God knows, well acquainted with both, I wish you would relieve me, by bringing the narrative to a conclusion; I have owned to her all my strange fears and fancies, my suspicions even of you. Can you, Pelham, ever forgive and forget them? can you forgive the ravings of a madman, for such they now appear to me to have been.”
“Don’t be too humble in your apologies to me,” said Pelham, smiling—“for I am not sure how far I am myself innocent, if it is guilt to esteem, to admire, to——” Pelham stopped, for a minute. “In short,” added he—“I had more than half a mind to punish you, Fitzhenry, for your extreme stupidity; and endeavour myself to win the pearl of great price which you rejected; but, from the first, I had, luckily for me, penetration sufficient to discover that the attempt would be perfectly hopeless.”
Pelham said this in the light tone of pleasantry; but, as he spoke, his eyes glanced mournfully on Emmeline, and a slight tinge of red momentarily suffused his sallow cheek. But his emotion totally escaped Emmeline’s observation, whose eyes and attention were entirely fixed on her husband, fearful of losing a word, or look.