“A very few days in the country will, I am sure, quite restore me to my usual health. I will return to Grosvenor Street by the end of the week; but if, for any reasons, you should wish me to come home sooner, I trust to your letting me know, and I shall be most willing to obey your summons. You will find me at my father’s. “EMMELINE FITZHENRY.” This she intended should be given to Fitzhenry after her departure, and she sealed and directed it for the purpose. The carriage drove up to the door—the servants busied themselves in putting on the luggage, and, hopeless of an interview with Fitzhenry, Emmeline went slowly, sadly, to her own room, to prepare for her departure. On opening a drawer, she saw the small Geneva watch and chain which Fitzhenry had sent her when a girl. Hardly aware of what she did, she pressed it to her lips—then hung it round her neck. She felt a sad presentiment that she was leaving her husband’s roof for ever, and this watch was the only token of kindness she had ever received from him; the only memorial she possessed, except her fatal wedding-ring, placed by him on her hand in reluctance and aversion. As Emmeline passed back through the drawing-room, she looked mournfully at each object in it, convinced she was beholding them for the last time. She slowly descended the stairs; every limb trembling with nervous apprehension. Again she thought she would endeavour to see her husband; and she paused at the door of his room to give herself one more chance; for she thought, perhaps, when he heard her, he would come out to meet her; or if she could only once more catch the sound of his voice, in its usual tone of gentleness and kindness, it would give her courage to demand admittance. But all was still. While thus standing debating with herself, her heart beat so violently, that she could scarcely breathe, and she was forced to lean against the banister for support. “The chaise is quite ready, my lady,” said a footman, coming up to her; for, seeing her on the stairs, he fancied her impatient to set off—“every thing is put in.” With no possible farther excuse for delay, feeling her fate was fixed, she drew down her veil, to conceal her agitation, hurried through the hall, and without allowing herself more time for reflection, got into the carriage. “To Charlton,” said the butler, who had closed the door after her, the servants being already placed in the seat behind, and the postilions immediately drove off. Emmeline looked back once more at the house from which she felt she was, probably, banishing herself for ever; and then sinking back in the carriage, gave way to her feelings. “Farewell, then, Fitzhenry,” she exclaimed, “since such is your will; and may heaven bless you, and have pity on me!”