Emmeline started, and looked at him aghast; but without noticing, or even looking at her, Pelham continued in a hurried manner, “I trust you will pardon me for venturing on so sacred a subject,—for touching on sorrows, which you, with such courage, such delicacy, conceal in your own breast—but I know all;—and I know your husband so well, that I am sure I can give you comfort and hope.” Inexpressibly relieved as Emmeline was by these words, which satisfied her that she still had a friend on whom she could rest, yet other feelings for the moment prevailed, and clasping her hands with the vehemence of despair: “Oh, that is impossible! there is no hope, no happiness for me in this world!” “On my honour,” replied Pelham, with earnestness, “you may trust me; I would not deceive you;” and, sitting down by her, he took her nervously shaking hand in his. A few minutes before, Emmeline would have shrunk from his touch, but those words had been sufficient to banish entirely all her former miserable apprehensions; soothed by hearing once more the consolatory voice of friendship, for an instant she smiled in gratitude on his kind countenance, and then, quite overcome with the variety of her feelings, tears again burst forth, and her head sank on his shoulder. At that instant, the door was hastily pushed open, and Fitzhenry appeared! He started on seeing Pelham and Emmeline. As she quickly raised her head at the noise he had made on entering, involuntarily a faint exclamation of dismay escaped her, and even Pelham seemed disconcerted. “Lady Fitzhenry is not very well;” the latter at length said, after an awkward pause, as if feeling that some explanation of the scene was necessary; “and,” added he, addressing himself to Emmeline, “allow me to recommend you to retire to your own room.” Emmeline rose from her seat; every limb shook. Fitzhenry came towards them, fixed his eyes sternly upon her, but said nothing. “I have not been very well lately,” she with difficulty stammered out: “the heat in town does not agree with me; and, I think, I will go to Charlton to-morrow.” Still Fitzhenry spake not, but Emmeline plainly saw anger and contempt written on his countenance: she faintly wished him and Pelham good night. The words died on her lips; for a sad foreboding told her she was taking a final leave of her husband, as she was aware that it was impossible they could any longer continue even on the footing they then were. She paused a minute in hopes Fitzhenry would speak. One word would have brought her to his arms, all forgiven, all forgotten. But he seemed resolved on silence, and Emmeline went on into the inner drawing-room that led to her own apartment.