“What, Emmeline!” he continued, “will you not agree to my proposal? Have I said any thing to displease you? Foolish girl!” and he drew away her hands, that were hiding her face.
On beholding it, he looked at her a moment in silence. His countenance changed. He took her hand in his, raised his eyes to heaven, but said nothing.
The apprehensions which Dr. Harrington’s report, guarded as it was, had raised in Emmeline’s mind, made her anxious for further advice; and yet she feared to alarm Fitzhenry by proposing it: but at her first word, he understood her, and calmly said—“Do whatever you like, whatever will ease your mind.” And she wrote immediately to Doctor Baillie.
During the days that passed till his arrival, she made an effort to throw back from her heart the miserable anxiety that was oppressing it, and to pursue her usual occupations. Many a burning tear stole down her cheek in silence and solitude; but she always met her husband with a smile; and if he ever saw traces of her feelings on her countenance, he forbore noticing them.
With sensations of apprehension not to be described, Emmeline, at last, on the day he had appointed, saw Baillie drive up to the door. She felt that her fate hung on his opinion. Dr. Harrington had come to meet him; and after a short private conversation between the two medical men, they proceeded, with Emmeline, into their patient’s room. Fitzhenry welcomed them with cheerfulness; talked for some time of the news of the day, and on indifferent subjects, to Baillie; and then turning to Emmeline, who had been unequal to the exertion of a single word during their conversation,—
“Lady Fitzhenry,” said he, “you must leave me to say my catechism to Dr. Baillie alone. I want too to make serious complaints of you,” added he, gaily; “of your obstinacy and disobedience; of the way in which you sit up all night, destroying your health and bloom.”
Baillie made some attempt at a compliment; but his kind heart felt for the anguish he saw painted on her countenance; and, unable to answer him, Emmeline in silence left the room.
Those who have felt their very existence depend on one word, may imagine how she passed the cruel, anxious, long half-hour that now elapsed. At length, the door of her room slowly opened, and Fitzhenry himself, leaning on his stick, came in alone. His face was flushed; and though he forced a smile, on entering, Emmeline plainly read in it an expression that was like a death-knell to her heart and hopes. She flew up to him, and helped him to a couch. After a moment’s pause, drawing her towards him—
“Emmeline,” said he; “dearest! we have suffered too much, and too long, from concealing our feelings from each other, for me to have courage to undertake to keep another secret from you, although it is one which I know will pain you.” Emmeline’s pallid face showed she was but too well prepared for what he was going to say. “I have for some time suspected my real situation,” added he; “but I was determined to learn the truth; and I knew Baillie’s sensible upright honesty would not, at my serious request, conceal it from me. I required of him to give me his candid opinion as to my health.”
Fitzhenry paused; Emmeline clung to him, as if to stifle what more he had to say; but he continued, though in a faltering voice.