“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. The chère amie of the noble lord is well known in the fashionable world both abroad and at home; and it is not perhaps surprising that the neglected wife should have pris son parti, and found a champion to espouse her cause. He is said to be in the diplomatic line, and of course a particular friend of the 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 the latter 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 steadfastly on 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.