Thus buoyant with joy and gratitude, they at last drove up to the door of their own home. Fitzhenry’s spirits had been so much beyond his bodily strength, that they had quite exhausted him; so that when he left the carriage, it was with difficulty he reached the drawing-room. As the servants all eagerly pressed forward to give him their assistance, “Poor Reynolds!” he exclaimed, tears starting into his eyes, “I wish I had his arm to lean on now, for how happy he would have been!”
When he was assisted to the couch in the drawing-room, he looked round the apartment for several minutes in silence, and when the door had closed on the attendants, he held out his arms to Emmeline. They could neither speak—but they did not need words to express their feelings; both knew what was passing in the mind of the other, and Emmeline secretly thanked the giver of all good for her present happiness.
We poor mortals do well to catch at each passing moment of joy, and feed on them while ours; for alas! how soon do they fade away! and how wretched the condition of those who, weak in faith, see not the bounty of God in every blessing, and cannot “lift the adoring eye e’en to the storm that wrecks them,” relying on the wisdom and mercy of his unsearchable providence.
Fitzhenry had a restless night of cough and fever; and although Emmeline attributed both to the fatigue and agitation of the preceding day, yet she sent off an express for an eminent physician residing at Winchester; and on his arrival, with a beating heart, led him into her husband’s apartment. Doctor Harrington, who had formerly often seen Fitzhenry, appeared much struck with the alteration in his appearance: he questioned him minutely as to his cough, and other symptoms of his complaint; then, drawing out his watch, he repeatedly counted his pulse. Emmeline, who in breathless anxiety watched every look and word, could not help taking fright at his manner; and her alarm was increased, when, on pretence of writing a prescription, he followed her into the adjoining room, and addressed her with—“Pray, Lady Fitzhenry, do I remember right, was not the late Lady Arlingford consumptive?”
Poor Emmeline’s blood froze in her veins, and her pale lips betrayed the terror his question had conveyed.
“I beg you will not be alarmed,” he added, in a sententious tone, observing her emotion; “Lord Fitzhenry is young; has always, I believe, lived most temperately. At present, I apprehend no immediate danger; but we must be careful. These hereditary complaints are sometimes obstinate, and difficult to deal with.”
And thus he went on for some time with the sang froid which some of his profession, perhaps naturally, acquire; fancying he could in that manner reassure his trembling auditor. But she scarcely heard him. The sudden transition from joy and the overflowings of her grateful heart, to the dreadful apprehensions which now took possession of her mind, was too violent to be endured.
Almost unconscious what she did, she received from Doctor Harrington’s hand his written prescription; and, with an altered countenance, returned to her husband. The flushed crimson of his cheek, the bright, feverish sparkling of his eyes, now made her shudder; and she hid her face at the back of the arm-chair in which he was sitting, fearing she might betray herself.
“Well, Emmeline,” said he at last, “what news from Doctor Harrington? he looked prodigiously pompous about me; but I hope he will give me something to stop my cough, and make me sleep: in fact, that is all I now require to be well. But it is wearisome. Last night I never closed my eyes: however, I believe that was the effect of happiness, at being once more at Arlingford, and with you. What does the sapient doctor recommend? Let me look at what he has written. This is all Greek and Hebrew to me,” said he, in a light tone, as he returned the paper to Emmeline; “indeed, I hope, for my learning’s credit, even more unintelligible—but, Emmeline, are you not well? how pale you look! I think you require a little doctoring as well as myself. You have worn yourself out by nursing me; I will not let you do so any more. Last night you did not leave my room for hours, I know, for I watched you, and at last was forced to feign sleep, in order that you might go and get some yourself. But this shall not be any longer. I really do not now want my servant, or, indeed, any attendance. We will have that little couch-bed moved into my room for you; and no soporific which the doctor can recommend, will make me sleep half so well, as knowing you have that rest which I am sure you need even more than myself.”
Emmeline hid her face on the cushion on which his head was lying—she could not speak.