“I have talked too much,” he at length said; “I am rather exhausted, and at times I feel more low without knowing why. I think I shall sleep, so good night; God bless you, my Emmeline:” and he kissed her pale tear-bedewed cheek, then turned his head away, and for about an hour all was quiet. Fitzhenry never moved, and Emmeline trusted he was getting some refreshing rest; he had coughed less that day, his pulse had appeared to her to be quieter; and as she clasped her hands in humble supplication, a faint gleam of hope even then shot through her sorrowful heart.
“Oh! God of mercy, if possible, spare him!” she ejaculated with such fervency, that her lips, unconsciously to herself, uttered the sounds. Fearful that she might have disturbed him, she went softly to the couch on which he was lying. He directly held out to her his feeble hand: “I am not asleep,” said he, in a hollow altered tone, that made her shudder; “I cannot sleep. I heard your prayer, my Emmeline, but it cannot be; the decree is past; and, while yet I can, I have a favour to ask of you, though I am sure, beforehand, you will grant it. In my writing-desk you will find a letter—when I am gone—send it to—to Florence. Do not start, dearest,—it is my wish, my last request that you will read it—I have purposely left it open. But I would like to die in peace with all—even with her. A time may come when, like me, she may regret the past; and then it will be a comfort to her to know that I forgave her the evil she was the cause of to us both—and also it relieves my heart to ask forgiveness of her for what injury I have done, what pain I may have inflicted upon her. As for you, my own Emmeline, I know I should only grieve you if I were to ask for your forgiveness. I am sure I have it,” said he, as he imprinted a fond kiss on her quivering lips: “Heaven reward you with its best blessings! When you see Pelham again, you will for my sake be kind to him. Poor Pelham! he loved me most truly!—he loves you too, Emmeline.”
Fitzhenry paused, and fixed his languid, glazing eyes on her face; he seemed as if anxious to say more, but he only sighed deeply; and, after a few minutes’ silence, taking from under the pillow Emmeline’s prayer-book, which he had always kept since that day on which he had renewed to her his marriage vow: “And now, Emmeline,” said he, “read to me that prayer for the sick.”
In silence she complied, for she had taught her breaking heart to bear such trials: she had learnt to stifle her sobs, to swallow her bitter tears.
“Blessings on thee, my love,” he said, when she had finished; “your voice soothes me; your prayers do me so much good. But there is still another I would have you read—that for the dying.”
Emmeline looked at him aghast—his countenance had within the last hour visibly changed—death was upon it—her blood chilled in her veins; but, making a desperate effort, with a tremulous voice, broken by convulsive sobs, she began to read. When she came to these words, “Look graciously on thy servant, O Lord! give him unfeigned repentance for the errors of his past life,” Fitzhenry’s hand pressed Emmeline’s more closely with a sort of nervous, convulsive grasp. She continued to read—his hand stiffened—grew cold——all was over——.
A loud shriek brought the attendants from the adjoining room: they raised poor Emmeline’s lifeless form from the ground; with difficulty unloosed her hand from that of her husband, and carried her to her bed.
When consciousness, after a lapse of some days, at length returned, she saw her father and mother hanging over her—but Fitzhenry, her adored Fitzhenry, was for ever shrouded in the close, cold habitation of death!