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, for shame, Emmy, I never expected that from you.”