CHAPTER III.

Has thy heart sickened with deferred hope?Or felt th’ impatient anguish of suspense?Or hast thou tasted of the bitter cupWhich Disappointment’s withered hands dispense?Thou knowest the poison which o’erflowed from henceO’er Psyche’s tedious, miserable hours.Psyche.

Has thy heart sickened with deferred hope?

Or felt th’ impatient anguish of suspense?

Or hast thou tasted of the bitter cup

Which Disappointment’s withered hands dispense?

Thou knowest the poison which o’erflowed from hence

O’er Psyche’s tedious, miserable hours.

Psyche.

WhenEmmeline arrived at her father’s, the servant informed her, that both Mr. and Mrs. Benson were out in the carriage, but were expected home before dinner. At that moment, she felt their absence was a relief, and hastily getting out of the carriage, she desired the coachman, on his return to town, immediately to askwhether Lord Fitzhenry had any orders for him—for she still fondly hoped, that on reading her note, he might follow her, and might himself wish for some explanation of what had passed the preceding evening.

During the hour that elapsed before her father and mother returned, Emmeline endeavoured to compose her spirits. She bathed her red and swollen eyes, walked in the fresh air, and, hearing their carriage drive up to the door, resolved to command herself, and went to meet them with a cheerful countenance. But when the spirits are weak, there is nothing so difficult to bear as tenderness. Her father’s fond benediction, the smile of delight that beamed in her mother’s face, on unexpectedly beholding her, were too much for poor Emmeline, unused as shewas to demonstrations of affection; and falling into her mother’s arms, in spite of her resolutions and endeavours, she again burst into tears.

“My dear love! my child!” both exclaimed, “what can be the matter?”

“Nothing, nothing,” said Emmeline; “I have not been quite well lately, and my spirits are in consequence weakened; and I was too happy to see you—that is all.”

Mrs. Benson shook her head, and looked at her incredulously. Her father, fixing his eyes stedfastly on her face, took her hand.

“Speak to me, my girl,” said he. “What is it that so distresses you?”

“Nothing!” again repeated Emmeline in a fainter voice; “I shall soon be quite well.”

“Emmy! Emmy!” rejoined her father, “for once I don’t believe you; it is too long since you have not beenwell, as you call it; and there isasomething the matter that I must and will know.”

Emmeline averted her head, and did not answer.

“You need not attempt to deceive me any longer, girl,” said Mr. Benson, sternly; “I have long suspected that all was not right between you and your husband. I will now know the truth, and I have a right to demand it of you.”

Still she was silent.

“What! you will not speak! you will not confide in me!” he continued, his temper rising; “then I must seek for information elsewhere:” and he moved towards the door of the room.

“Oh, my father!” exclaimed Emmeline, terrified—“What would you do?”

“Do? why I shall go to town directly. I shall see Lord Fitzhenry,” said Mr. Benson, in a calmer, but decided tone; “and from him I must learn what has passed between you, since you, my own child, will not trust me.”

“Oh! speak not so to me, dear father! indeed I have full confidence in your kindness—in your indulgence; but really, I have nothing to tell which you do not know already—I have been to blame, perhaps—I mean I was not aware—I was deceived,—even you dear father”—

“Deceived?” repeated Mr. Benson quickly—catching at the word: “deceived by me? what do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” said Emmeline, alarmed at her father’s unusual look of anger: “we were all to blame, but—but—perhaps it would have been better if—”

Poor Mr. Benson, like many both of his superiors and inferiors could not bear to be supposed to have erred, or even to have been mistaken, and all the less when conscious the imputation was true; in a tone of violence, therefore, which Emmeline had never heard addressed to her, and suddenly letting go her hand, which he had been holding in both of his: “What, Emmeline,” said he, “are you so unjust, so ungrateful, as to accuse me as the cause of your misfortunes? blame your poor, doating, old father for having given up his all to secure your happiness? For shame, forshame, Emmy, I never expected that from you.”

“Oh hear me, hear me patiently!” she exclaimed, seizing on his arm.

“No, Emmeline, I can hear no more, bear no more, I have long guessed how matters were between you and Lord Fitzhenry, and still I have forborne. I held my peace as long as I could; but my pride will not allow me to be any longer silent. I will not be trampled upon; I cannot endure to see the delight of my old age, my only child, destroyed by neglect and unkindness. Lord Fitzhenry presumes upon his superior rank. He thinks he may with impunity insult and break the heart of the humble banker’s daughter. But his lordship is mistaken; I too have pride as well as he. Curse onhisrank, curse onyourmoney;they have been the cause of all this; but I will have redress.”

“Redress! Good God, what do you mean?” enquired Emmeline, terrified at his words and manner.

“I will insist on an immediate separation; on a divorce, in short, for the law will give it me.”

A scream of horror escaped from Emmeline’s heart at these words. “No power on earth shall ever separate me from him,” she exclaimed, with the wild energy of passion. “Oh! my dear father, be appeased; have patience and all will be well.”

She had sunk on her knees, and, overcome with the variety of her painfully contending feelings, her head grew giddy, her sobs choked her, and she fell nearly senseless at Mr. Benson’sfeet. Every attention of doating fondness was lavished upon her. Before long, she became more composed, and her parents, whose every feeling was centered in her, seeing how weak she was, both in body and spirits, said no more, but turned their whole endeavours towards cheering and restoring her; avoiding, for the moment, every thing that could renew her sorrows.

After some little time had elapsed, as if by common consent, they all forced themselves to talk on indifferent subjects, but, in the effort, poor Emmeline’s lip often quivered. At dinner, she turned away her heavy, sickened eye from the food before her; and when her father filled her glass with wine, bidding her drink it, for that it would do her good, and, assuming a gay manner, pledgedher and drank to her health, tears again rushed into her eyes, as she recollected the pride with which he was always wont on such occasions to unite her husband’s name with hers.

The next morning, resolving if possible still to deceive her parents, and by assumed cheerfulness to do away the impression made upon their minds the preceding evening, poor Emmeline entered the breakfast-room with as composed a countenance as she could command, and even forced a smile, when, as in former days, she went up to her father to claim his parental kiss. Mr. Benson, however, did not raise his eyes towards her, or even return the pressure of her hand, but in silence pointed to the seat prepared for her. She looked at her mother, whose eyes were fixed on the table beforeher, and she saw that they were red with crying. Twice Emmeline endeavoured at conversation by making some remark on the weather, but no answer was given to her. Mr. Benson’s attention seemed entirely engrossed by the newspaper that lay beside him, his breakfast remaining untouched.

Aware that something disagreeable must have happened from the disturbed appearance of her father and mother, a thousand vague but dreadful apprehensions soon took possession of Emmeline’s mind, and at last, unable any longer to endure the state of alarm and suspense into which her fears had thrown her, she suddenly seized her father’s arm, entreating him for pity’s sake to tell her what had so discomposed him, what had happened.

“You, Lady Fitzhenry, can better informusof that,” he coldly said, as he put the paper into her hand, and pointed to the following paragraph:

“A singular fracas took place at the Opera on Saturday night; not being yet informed of the particulars, we forbear making any reflections. As it is a double intrigue, and therefore neither party can complain, it is impossible to say how the affair may end. Thechère amieof the noble lord is well known in the fashionable world bothabroadand athome; and it is not perhaps surprising that the neglected wife should havepris son parti, and found a champion to espouse her cause. He is said to be in thediplomaticline, andof coursea particular friend ofthe husband. One rumour states the injured wife to have eloped—another that a duel has taken place. Certain it is that two carriages with the F—z—y arms were seen to drive furiously out of Grosvenor-street at different hours and in different directions on Sunday afternoon.”

Emmeline turned deadly pale as she read this cruel paragraph; but a still more ghastly hue spread itself over her mother’s face as she anxiously watched her daughter’s countenance, and fancied that in her emotion she read confession of guilt.

There was a dead silence. Emmeline, entirely satisfied as to her own perfect innocence, and horror-stricken by thelatter part of the paragraph relating to the duel, was occupied in dwelling on the possibility of there being any foundation for the rumour; and her whole mind was so engrossed by that one thought, the safety of Fitzhenry, that she did not even think of exculpating herself from the charge. Indeed, she had totally forgotten the presence even of her parents, when Mr. Benson, striking his hand with violence on the table, in a voice of agony exclaimed—

“Speak Emmeline, are you innocent? or am I for ever disgraced?”

Emmeline startled by her father’s vehemence, looked wildly at him for an instant, as if not understanding his words.

“I see, but too plainly, how it is.Don’t speak, don’t speak,” he continued quickly; and, covering his face with both his hands, he gave way to the violence of his feelings.

Completely roused by the burst of passion in one so seldom moved to tears, Emmeline threw herself on her knees beside him, and, endeavouring to take hold of his hand, exclaimed,

“Oh, my father, what can all this mean? is it possible you can suspect?—God knows how innocent I am.”

Mr. Benson, wiping away his tears, looked at her for an instant in silence. “Repeat those blessed words again, child, for I must believe you.”

“By the God of truth!” exclaimed Emmeline, as she clasped her hands with fervency and fixed her eyes steadfastlyon Mr. Benson, “I am innocent of having, in thought, word, or deed, departed from the love and duty, I swore to my husband at the altar. Alas!” added she, as she hid her face in her father’s bosom, “I only love him too well, too entirely for my happiness.” These last words became indistinct, and choked by her tears.

“Thank God, thank God!” repeated Mr. Benson, with a sort of hurried nervousness of manner, as he kissed his daughter’s forehead: “I could not have borne that; your dishonour I could not have borne, Emmy, it would soon have brought me to my grave. I believe you, Emmeline, on my honour I do; you never in your life deceived me; but what does that cursed story mean?”pointing to the paragraph to which his mind seemed again to have returned with doubt and anxiety.

“I will tell you all, as far as——” and Emmeline stopped short, for how could she explain what had passed, without drawing on a necessary confession of her whole sad story.

“No more concealments, Emmy, I will and must know all,” said Mr. Benson sternly.

Emmeline looked at her father as if supplicating for pity.

“Spare her now Mr. Benson,” said her mother as she folded her in her arms: “we have it from her own true lips, that she is blameless, and let what will have happened, we can bear any thing now.”

“Bless you, bless you for believing me,” said Emmeline, as she threw her arms round her mother’s neck in gratitude: “but,” added she, with a melancholy and reproachful look, “my father does not, he still doubts me.”

“No, my girl, indeed I don’t,” cried Mr. Benson: “do you think I would call you my Emmy, and let you remain one instant under my roof if I thought you were disgraced. On my honour, I believe you, but I am fretted and unhappy. I have toiled for your happiness, and it has ended in nothing but mortification; for I see my darling is not happy, which is more than I can bear,” and tears once more rushed into his eyes. “And who the deuce do they mean by their ‘diplomatic champion?’” added he, again casting his eyes on the paragraph.

“The whole is an abominable falsehood,” said Emmeline, in a hurried manner. “They mean Mr. Pelham, I suppose, for he was with me;” and she reddened as she spoke, at the bare possibility of such an insinuation. “Coming out of the opera-house last night, there was a battle between the coachmen—and it seemed as if something disagreeable had passed between Lord Fitzhenry and Mr. Pelham—but it must have been only a misunderstanding—no one was to blame—only when I parted from them last night, they certainly seemed much irritated against each other.”

“And have you not seen your husband since?” eagerly enquired Mrs. Benson.

“No,” said Emmeline, in a low tone,and averting her head. Mr. Benson gave a significant shrug of his shoulders.

“And pray what had you, and Mr. Pelham, and Lord Fitzhenry to do with the fighting of the coachmen; and, above all, what in the name of wonder, had hischère amie, as the idiots call her, to do with it at all? whose carriage fought with yours? for I presume, you and your husband were together; surely you can sit in the same coach, though you can’t sleep in the same room?”

“I really can’t tell—it was all such a confusion,” replied Emmeline, colouring deeply. “But, dear father, don’t waste time, but, for pity’s sake, send some one to Grosvenor-street, and ask if all is well—and yet, perhaps,” added she, the next minute, alarmed at the possibleconsequences of her own suggestion, “perhaps it will be better not—it must be all a foolish story.”

“I shall go myself to Lord Fitzhenry’s,” said Mr. Benson, after a moment’s reflection.

“Yougo?” exclaimed Emmeline, terrified—“indeed there is no necessity—it is only a trifle—in fact nothing has occurred, only the carriage——I assure you, Lord Fitzhenry will be quite surprised to see you—perhaps displeased—indeed you had better not go.”

“I shall judge for myself,” said Mr. Benson, coldly. “I don’t believe one word about the carriage story; your husband would not be such a fool as to fight about a scratched panel; and as for his displeasure, I shall care little for that,for he seems very little to care for mine.”

This intention of her father’s seriously alarmed Emmeline; for, in the state of irritation, in which both he and Lord Fitzhenry then were, she dreaded the result of their meeting; and, clinging to Mr. Benson, she ejaculated—“Oh, then pray let me go with you!”

Brought up in the good old fashioned system of filial obedience and dependence, Emmeline, although the object of the tenderest affection, had no idea even now that she was a wife, of putting her will in opposition to that of her parents, or of boldly declaring any determination of her own. She could only entreat, andthather countenance did most eloquently, during the moment or two that nowpassed before Mr. Benson answered her. At length, he consented, saying—“Yes; I believe that will be best, for I shall by that means hear both sides.”

These words raised fresh apprehensions in Emmeline’s mind, for she saw that her father’s intention was to come to some explanation with her husband; and good, even kind as she knew those intentions were, yet she felt, that any interference on his part, particularly at that moment, would only widen the breach between them, and make her situation worse, by bringing matters to that crisis from which she shrank with dismay. She, therefore, said every thing she could venture upon, to induce him to desist; but her words seemed only to irritate him still more against Lord Fitzhenry,and to make him the more resolved on seeking an interview with him; so at last, finding how vain were all her arguments, and that having settled the matter in his own mind, Mr. Benson would listen to no excuse, no reason, that she could give for changing her opinion so quickly, Emmeline gave up the point in despair, and, in a short time, she and her father were on the road to town.

At first, the miles appeared to her to be endless, but, as they drew near town, dreading the possible result of their visit to Grosvenor-street, poor Emmeline was several times tempted to beg the driver might slacken his pace, but she controlled her nervous agitation as well as she could, and they drove on in silence, till they entered London; whenshe suddenly seized Mr. Benson’s hand, saying, with a look of entreaty—“If we see him, you will leave all to me,—indeed, he is no way to blame, only a misunderstanding, which I shall soon be able to clear up.”

“Ay, and itshallbe cleared up,” replied Mr. Benson. “If you, Lady Fitzhenry, are content to let this vile slur remain on your reputation, I am not, and I shall oblige those who can refute it, to do so. I shall most certainly see Lord Fitzhenry, and I must from him get a better explanation of all this strange business, than I can from you. My God!” added he, after a moment’s pause, as if speaking to himself—“to think that my daughter’s name should appear in a public paper, with such an imputationattached to it! to think, that after all my labours, it should have come to this!” And, after striking his cane several times with impatience on the bottom of the carriage, he suddenly, as if he thought greater speed would relieve his feelings, bade the coachman drive faster.

This injunction was the means of soon bringing them into Grosvenor-square; and poor Emmeline’s agitation became almost unbearable. What was she going to learn? what was going to be her fate? for on the next hour she felt that it depended. They drove up to the door of her husband’s house—of her own home—and yet she shrunk back, in dread and dismay. A hasty glance showed her, that all the shutters were closed—and a cold, deadly sickness came over her. The servantknocked—but no one answered—he knocked again, and rung; and at length the porter appeared, and a parley ensued between him and Mr. Benson’s servant.

Emmeline could endure the suspense no longer; and, with the paleness of death on her face, grasping her father’s arm—“In pity!” she cried, “speak to the man yourself.” Mr. Benson beckoned him to the carriage window.

“I want to see Lord Fitzhenry,” said he. “Is he at home?”

“No, sir; neither my lord nor my lady are at home”—for Emmeline had so shrunk to the back of the carriage, that the man did not see her.

“Is Lord Fitzhenry quite well?” rejoined Mr. Benson, not knowing very well how to get at the information he wanted.

“Yes, sir! I believe so,” said the porter, apparently surprised at the question. “His lordship went away yesterday afternoon; he did not leave his room till late, but I did not hear that he was any ways ill; I thought my lady had gone to Charlton.”

“Do you know where he is gone to?” continued Mr. Benson.

“No, I really can’t say; his lordship ordered post horses in a great hurry, and the carriage was to take him up at some place in town, but I really can’t tell where; but I will enquire in the house if any one knows.”

“Did he leave word when he was to return?”

“No, my lord said nothing, and wedo not expect him back for some days, as he gave no orders.”

A new and appalling idea now flashed across Emmeline’s mind—could Fitzhenry and Lady Florence have fled together! and, not content with the entire possession of each other’s affections, could they have determined by that open act, at once to rid themselves of the thraldom of their respective marriages! There was nothing of which she could not suspect Lady Florence; but her heart smote her for thus, even for an instant, accusing Fitzhenry; and, shocked at her own surmises, she hastily enquired whether Lord Fitzhenry had left no letter, no message for her.

“Not that I knows of, my lady,” said the porter, bowing to Emmeline, andevidently astonished at her question, as well as at her appearance, as she had hitherto remained concealed behind Mr. Benson; “but I will go and enquire.”

“This is all very strange,” muttered Mr. Benson to himself, while he was gone; “I can’t make it out for the life of me.”

As for poor Emmeline, she was totally unable to express, or even to form an opinion; so many fearful apprehensions succeeded each other in her mind. After an interval of time, which appeared to her endless, the man returned with a note in his hand.

“I can hear of no letter, my lady; but this note the housekeeper found in your ladyship’s room; perhaps it is what you mean.”

Emmeline eagerly seized it; but whatwas her mortification on finding it was her own note to Fitzhenry, with the seal still unbroken. In the confusion of her mind, she could not recollect whether, on leaving home the preceding day, she had given any orders about it: if she had, she must conclude, that Fitzhenry, occupied by other objects, had neglected, perhaps scorned, to read it. But at all events, as that note was unread, he must have gone from home in the full conviction that she, on her part, had left it in open, declared war.

Quite overcome by the combination of distressing circumstances in which she was placed, after tearing her ill-fated note in a thousand pieces, with a vehemence of impatience very foreign to her nature, Emmeline again sunk back inthe carriage, to conceal her disordered state from the servants. There was a moment’s pause. At length Mr. Benson, enquiring where Mr. Pelham lived, desired the coachman to drive to his house. Emmeline drew down the blind, spoke not a word, but seemed to give herself up to her fate in despair.

When they reached the end of the street to which they had been directed, Mr. Benson stopped the carriage, and saying he would return to her directly, got out. He was some time absent: when he returned, he evidently was endeavouring to maintain a composure which he did not feel.

“Mr. Pelham has likewise left London,” said he. “He too went away yesterday evening with post horses——verystrange; but, I suppose, some junket out of town,” added he, making an awkward attempt at cheerfulness. The step of the carriage was let down for him. “Hang me!” continued Mr. Benson, “if I know what to do next, or where to go to. To drive after them would really be a wild-goose chase; for the chances are a hundred to one against our taking the same road; for the plague is, that one don’t know at all where they are gone to. Mr. Pelham’s servants, too, can’t tell where their master went—a parcel of stupid, outlandish boobies, that can’t speak Christian-like language.”

And apparently much distressed and perplexed, Mr. Benson, with one foot on the step of the carriage, looked anxiously up and down the street, as if in the hopeof seeing some one, or something, that could suggest an idea to him.

“Let us return to Charlton, directly,” said Emmeline, in a low, broken voice; for a new apprehension had entered her mind. When she reflected on the gentle nature of Pelham’s temper, on his devoted affection for Fitzhenry, and adverted to the falsehood of the newspaper story in the part relating to herself, her mind began to be much easier with regard to the report of the duel. As to Fitzhenry’s sudden departure from town, it was certainly strange; and in spite of her endeavours to combat the idea, she could not help interpreting it in a way the most agonizing to her feelings: but still it was just possible that even there she might be mistaken; and if so, nothingwould be more likely to incense Fitzhenry against her, or to widen the breach between them, than finding she was following his steps like a spy; and that even Mr. Benson took upon himself to enquire into his actions. The instant this idea entered her mind, her whole anxiety was to return to Charlton, and there wait patiently till time explained this alarming business; and a very few hours must, she thought, relieve her at least from suspense: she therefore again entreated that they might go back to Charlton immediately.

Mr. Benson paused for a minute or two, as if ruminating in his own mind on some method of obtaining information; but none occurring, he, in a dejected tone, bade the servants returnhome. The coachman turned his horses’ heads, and the father and daughter travelled the nine weary miles back to Charlton in total silence.

Mrs. Benson, who had been anxiously awaiting their return, soon saw she had little good to learn; and forbore to question Emmeline; but, after putting into her hand a letter that had come for her during her absence, went to learn what had passed from Mr. Benson.

The letter was from Mr. Pelham: it contained these words, and was dated Sunday evening.

“I cannot, as I had hoped and intended, see you to-day, nor indeed to-morrow. I find Fitzhenry has left town, and I am about to follow him. Dependon me for doing all that friendship can do, to restore him to you. So I still say, ‘be of good cheer.’ As soon as Fitzhenry and I have met, I am sure I shall be able to bring you good news. By Wednesday, I think, you may depend on seeing me; or, at all events, on hearing from me; and I don’t despair of even bringing Fitzhenry with me.”

This letter, meant to express comfort and hope, conveyed the very reverse to Emmeline’s sick mind; she had now no doubt but that Fitzhenry and Lady Florence had left town together, and that if Pelham attempted at any remonstrance or interference, however mild and sensible, still every thing was to be feared from his meeting with her husbandunder such circumstances. That she had parted with Fitzhenry for ever, seemed now but too certain. There was a mystery in Pelham’s letter that evidently showed he had something to conceal, and that could only be the most dreadful of all intelligence to her. Poor Emmeline raised her streaming eyes to heaven, while she clasped her hands in the energy of suffering, but not one prayer could she utter. Alas! what had she to ask? Could she wish again to behold him who scorned, who loathed, who had, in short, fled from her? And could she wish to cease to love him? What affectionate mind but recoils with horror from the dreary thought? She might, indeed, pray for release from an existence which was become insupportableto her! And, perhaps, in the rebellion of a young and suffering heart, she did give utterance to the impatient wish. But let mortals adore the Merciful Power, who, pitying the weakness of short-sighted humanity, marks not down those prayers. It is the first pang of severe suffering that wrings them from us; in time, we learn to endure; and, in the evening of a chequered life we look back, perhaps, on those very moments of sorrow with the greatest gratitude, and say with the poet——

“Amid my list of blessings infinite,Stands this the foremost—that my heart has bled.”

“Amid my list of blessings infinite,

Stands this the foremost—that my heart has bled.”

The next morning the following paragraph, which appeared in the newspaper, seemed very much to relieve Mr.Benson; but, if possible, it only increased Emmeline’s apprehensions.

“It is with sincere pleasure that we can confidently contradict a report in our last, respecting a certain noble pair in Grosvenor-Street, in so far at least as the fair fame ofoneof the ladies is concerned. Lady F——y, we understand, merely left town in order to pay a visit to her father at Ch—l—n, where she now is. A legal separation between the parties may however be anticipated, as it is certain that the noble Lord has also most abruptly left home, and, it is whispered, notalone. Rumour also states that the diplomatic friend has followed the fugitives, in order, if possible, to prevent the scandal of a public eclat.”

Mr. Benson’s feelings had been so entirely engrossed by that part of the first newspaper story, alluding to his daughter’s supposed levity of conduct, and his mind was so relieved by this public and honourable acquittal, that he might have overlooked the rest of the paragraph just mentioned, had not Emmeline’s look of misery reminded him, that though that unfounded subject for distress was removed, all her but too real causes for anxiety remained.

Tuesday passed without any intelligence of any kind reaching them. Wednesday at length arrived, and during its heavy hours, the perturbation of Emmeline’s agitated mind was painful to witness. For on what Pelham was that day to impart, she felt her future fate in life depended.

With one so young, and unused to sorrow, hope still will linger, and even though against her reason and her conviction, the concluding words in Pelham’s letter sometimes for an instant caused a thrill of pleasure to her heart, and she gave way to delightful anticipations. Fitzhenry might have mistakenherfeelings towards him: she was aware that latterly she had given way to irritation in her manner. Pelham might let him into the real state of her affections, for she well knew that that friend had read her heart right, and, perhaps, when her husband knew all, his better feelings would prevail, and would restore him to her.

But when Emmeline’s imagination had carried her thus far, the chillingconviction of the truth came at once to destroy these dreams of happiness, and make place for despair. Thus, in all the miserable agitation of doubt and anxiety, she passed the day listening to every sound, starting at the noise of every bell, and the opening of every door; and so wild were sometimes her fantasies, that she more than once thought she heard her husband’s step on the stairs, and his voice in the passage that led to her room. But the day passed, and no one came.

Late in the evening, when she had nearly given up all hope, she heard the door bell ring. She started up—every pulse throbbed—unable to move from her place, she remained breathless, watching the door: it opened, but noFitzhenry appeared; and the servant entering, brought her a letter. It was not Fitzhenry’s hand-writing. A cold tremor crept over her; the room swam round her, and the letter fell from her hands. Her mother caught it up, and seeing how unable her daughter was herself to read it, and dreading the effects of such violent agitation on her already weakened frame, she ventured to break the seal, and hastily glancing her eyes over its contents. “My child,” said she, taking Emmeline’s icy hand, “it is from your friend Mr. Pelham. He says, he could not, as he meant, come to you; that pressing public affairs oblige him to return immediately to Vienna. He is already on his way to Dover. Your husband is quite well—but——”

“But what?” exclaimed Emmeline, with a look of horror.

“He too is gone abroad.”

“Gone!” repeated Emmeline wildly; “then it is all over:” and she was carried senseless to her bed.

Her wretched parents wept and prayed by her; for hers was a sorrow to which no earthly comfort could be given. In a few hours, however, composure—that dreadful composure of exhausted nature—returned, and the first minute she could read, she asked for Mr. Pelham’s letter. It contained these words:

“You will be surprised, and I fear painfully so, when you hear we are leaving England. Some unforeseen public affairs oblige me instantly to returnto the Continent; and, I am going to take Fitzhenry with me: but, for God’s sake, keep up your spirits; he is well, and we have had a great deal of conversation. In time, you shall know all; and very soon, I am sure, he will be restored to you; but my poor friend’s mind is at present in a state approaching to delirium; and we must be patient with him.“Dearest Lady Fitzhenry, I would not for the world give you false hopes; but, I still repeat, that all will be well; you deserve to be happy, and heaven will take care that you shall be so. Fitzhenry has been infatuated, blinded, deceived, every way. But his eyes are now opened, and, (not for the world would I deceive you, even to give you onemoment of false happiness,) trust me, he admires and loves you; I was certain such excellence could not long be thrown away upon one so fitted to appreciate it. The fatal madness which has hitherto rendered him insensible to his real happiness, is now at an end—on my honour it is.“I have time for no more; the carriage is at the door; I am only waiting for Fitzhenry; he knows I am writing to you; you shall ere long hear from me again.”

“Dearest Lady Fitzhenry, I would not for the world give you false hopes; but, I still repeat, that all will be well; you deserve to be happy, and heaven will take care that you shall be so. Fitzhenry has been infatuated, blinded, deceived, every way. But his eyes are now opened, and, (not for the world would I deceive you, even to give you onemoment of false happiness,) trust me, he admires and loves you; I was certain such excellence could not long be thrown away upon one so fitted to appreciate it. The fatal madness which has hitherto rendered him insensible to his real happiness, is now at an end—on my honour it is.

“I have time for no more; the carriage is at the door; I am only waiting for Fitzhenry; he knows I am writing to you; you shall ere long hear from me again.”

Emmeline hardly knew what to conclude from this letter; she read it over and over. Sometimes she interpreted its contents favourably to her feelings; but, in general, the impression it leftwas not that of hope. She believed Pelham, when he told her that Fitzhenry’s connexion with Lady Florence was at an end; she must believe such solemn assurances; but what had she gained? Her rival, no longer the cause, still her husband fled from her. What could that mean, but that still she had to encounter settled, determined aversion? for he was leaving England without one word, one attempt at reconciliation—and with no time even named for his return. In short, in spite of Pelham’s encouragement, she felt but too well convinced their separation was for ever.

Sorrow sunk deeply into Emmeline’s heart; but, for her parent’s sake, she resolved to exert herself. She left her room, agreed to go out into the freshair; acquiesced in whatever was proposed to her; forced herself to converse on indifferent subjects; and even sometimes endeavoured at cheerfulness. But such exertions could not deceive. The “sickness of hope deferred,” preyed on her health; she grew daily thinner; and her cheeks were either deadly pale, or flushed with the deepest feverish crimson.

Poor Mrs. Benson gazed at her in silent anxiety. There was their Emmeline again returned to them, to the same place, the same quiet home, avocations and duties she used to perform; but, how changed! Formerly, she was their joy, their pride: to look on her laughing eyes, and on her fresh smooth cheek, had been enough to make them happy;but now the sight was misery. Mr. Benson also was changed. Though sometimes, in the kind endeavour to cheer his melancholy companions, he attempted to resume his usual loquacity, and even tried his bad jokes; yet, as they no longer proceeded from an exuberantly happy heart, they had lost their only merit; and, seeing how ill they in general succeeded, and that his intended wit and mirth oftener forced tears than smiles from his suffering daughter, he at last gave up the attempt entirely, and seemed to resign himself to the sadness which oppressed him. He appeared also to have entirely lost his usual bustling activity. He often stood for hours at the window, with his hands in his pockets, staring at the blue sky and green grass, objectswhich he had never been seen to gaze at before; or, sitting with the newspaper in his hand, reading over and over the same page, almost unconscious of the words before him; for now, neither public news, nor even the price of stocks, seemed to have power to arrest his attention.

Fitzhenry was never named among them, nor that painful subject any way alluded to.

One day, however, that Mr. Benson and Emmeline were alone together, after the former had, as was now usual to him, sat a long time silent, he suddenly looked up, and, addressing her in the decided tone of one who has well considered the matter of which he is about to treat—

“Emmy!” said he—for he had now quite left off calling her Lady Fitzhenry, which he had, with apparently proud satisfaction after her marriage, always done—“Emmy, I have indulged your fancies all this time—I have complied with your request—I have said nothing—done nothing. In short, to please you, I have, in truth, made but a silly figure; but this cannot go on—it is impossible—you cannot yourself wish it. Something decided must be settled between you and your husband.”

Emmeline’s pale cheek grew still paler, and, in answer, she put into her father’s hand Mr. Pelham’s last letter. He read it over and over and over several times, looked at the date, the signature, the direction, even with the precaution andaccuracy of business, and then returning it—

“I can’t make head or tail of it. Lord Fitzhenry and you, Emmy, and your diplomatic champion, are all beyond my comprehension. I declare I don’t know what any of you would be at. If your husband has turned off his kept mistress, as I suppose he has by this, (shame on him ever to have had one—and another man’s wife, too, into the bargain,) why, now the coast is clear, why can’t he come and fetch you, his lawful wife, home, and live respectably, and be at least decently civil to you. What the deuce is he gone abroad for? unless indeed it is to look out for some new lady, being, I suppose, tired of the old one—for such madams, I believe,abound at Paris. In short, Emmy, I will not let this sort of thing go on any longer. I will give you one month; and if during that time, your husband makes no advances towards a reconciliation, I will then come forward. Surely, Emmeline, your own pride must make you wish that I should.”

“Pride!” repeated Emmeline, mournfully. “Oh! my father, what has pride to do with affection?”

“What!” rejoined her father, warmly, “can you tamely submit to be insulted and neglected as you are? And pray what has affection to do with the business? when this man don’t seem to care one farthing for you; and, now indeed that the truth comes out, it seems he never did. A pretty object foraffection truly. I thought you had better feelings. Fool! idiot! that I was,” continued he, striking his forehead, “to be so proud of this marriage. Could I have guessed how matters would have turned out, I had rather have seen you the wife of the lowest clerk in my banking-house, than that of this Lord Fitzhenry, or any other lord in Christendom with his vile paramour. But who would have thought it of him? such a fine young man as he was. I always liked the lad; there was something so frank and manly about him. Do you remember those balls we used to give on your birth-day, Emmy, when he always danced with you, as a thing of course? How you used to tear about the room together like a couple of madcaps, looking so happy! Then, when he tookleave of you going abroad—Lord, I remember it as if it was but yesterday—he kissed you and called you his little wife. My silly heart jumped with joy at those words. And then he sent you that watch which I see still hanging round your neck. I thought all that promised so well. Who could have dreamt of his turning out as he has done? And even since your marriage at Arlingford, how civil and pleasant he was to me, and to you even seemingly. I really can hardly now bring myself to believe any one so young can be so deceitful and hardened!”

How long Mr. Benson might have gone on thus giving vent to the thoughts which apparently now constantly engrossed his mind, it is impossible to say; for, kind-heartedand affectionate as he was, he had so little notion of the nature of love, of the refinement of poor Emmeline’s passion, and of the feelings of a lacerated heart that recoils from every touch, that he had no idea he was running daggers into hers; till, no longer able to endure the torture of his words, and grasping his arm in agony, “Oh, my father!” she exclaimed, “do not talk of him.”

“Well, well,” said he, patting her hand as he looked with concern on her suffering countenance, “if it displeases you, we need not talk of the matter just now; but remember, Emmy, one month more, and Iwillhave my own way in this business.”

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