“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 for affection 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 took leave 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-hearted and 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 I will have my own way in this business.”
CHAPTER IV.
“Un siècle d’attente—un jour de bonheur.”
Ten days of the month passed, and still no intelligence of any sort about Lord Fitzhenry reached Charlton.
Emmeline saw his and Pelham’s name in the papers among those who had crossed the water to Calais; but she heard no more. This strange silence seemed to confirm her husband’s hostile determination with regard to her, and to fix her future fate. She uttered no complaint, shed no tears, was silent, and resigned, and appeared to be some figure wound up to perform the ordinary actions of life without taking any part in them, so still was her composure. But sometimes, when her mother looked at her, pressed her hand, or kissed her pale cheek, then, a momentary convulsive sob would escape from her oppressed bosom, and a solitary burning tear would steal down her face.
There is a dead pause in affliction which is dreadful. As long as we have to act, to exert ourselves, even though those exertions may be painful, still they are more bearable than sitting down quietly with grief, without any thing to look to. When day after day passes the same, and when at last from the sameness of our thoughts and feelings, even suffering has no longer power to affect us, our tears cease to flow, though the heart within is breaking.