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, for shame, 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 on _his_ rank, curse on _your_ money; 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’s feet. 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, pledged her 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.