An unearthly vision could scarcely have startled Emmeline more. She uttered an exclamation, almost of terror, as she hastily rose from her knees; but almost directly sank into the chair beside her, her trembling limbs refusing to support her.
“I think you gave me leave to come in,” said Fitzhenry, still standing at the door. Emmeline bowed assent, when, closing it after him, he came up to her, and put his candle on the mantle-piece.
It was the first time he had ever entered her room since that day when, on her parents’ first arrival at Arlingford, he had conducted them to it; and, dreading the possible purport of his visit now, after the scene that had lately occurred, she had not courage to say a word. For a minute, both were silent—at length Fitzhenry said—
“I thought you would be anxious to hear about poor Reynolds; and as he has now sunk into something like sleep, I came away for a minute to tell you he is more easy and composed; but I fear this stupor is only the forerunner of death, and that all will soon be over. I shall lose a most faithful servant—indeed, an attached friend—.”
He paused; but Emmeline, still too nervous to speak, said nothing.
“I also came,” said he, in an agitated, hurried manner, “to thank you for your kindness in coming to him: it was most kind—good—excellent;—like yourself. I feel it deeply, I assure you, as well as Reynolds.”
These few words of praise, so unlike what she had expected from him after what had passed, still more overpowered Emmeline. Had she dared to give way to the feelings of the moment, she would have thrown herself into her husband’s arms, and, in his tenderness, claimed a reward for an action which he seemed to take as a kindness to himself. But alas! not for one moment could she be deceived as to the nature of his feelings; not for one moment, after the decisive declaration which she had again heard him make, could she attribute his present manner towards her to any thing but mere gratitude for her attentions to his old servant; and, repressing the throbbings of her bosom, and scarcely knowing what she said, with a breathless voice she answered:
“I came to Arlingford because I thought Brown’s letter might not reach you in time, and I did not know where to write to you—I mean, I thought you might be otherwise engaged yourself.”——And then struck with the appearance of coldness and reproof in her words, and the possible interpretation to be given to them, she stopped short.
Fitzhenry made no comment. Both were now standing seemingly occupied with watching the dying embers of the fire—at last he turned towards her, she felt his eyes were on her.
“Poor Reynolds often names you,” he said; “but I think, unless you wish it—perhaps you had better not go to him again—such scenes are painful, and——”