“But directly, dear father—no delay—the happiness or misery of my life may depend on an hour—now, this very night, let me set off.”
“Oh! as for that, I am always for dispatch, you know. If a thing is to be done, let it be done directly, that is my saying. There is no fear of John Benson dawdling.”
And the good-hearted old man, rubbing his hands, hurried out of the room to give the necessary orders.
In an instant, all was bustle in the house. Mr. Benson himself paced away to the stables to hasten the harnessing of the horses; and Emmeline, a few minutes before inanimate and almost lifeless, now, with a flushed cheek, restlessly paced the hall and drawing-room, impatient at every moment’s delay. She hardly knew whether she had most cause for dread or hope from the contents of Mr. Pelham’s letter. Fitzhenry was ill—plainly very ill; and, as her father said, it was not even hinted that it was by his desire she had been summoned; but still she thought she could trust to that kind, considerate friend; and the idea, the delightful idea, that in a few days she would again behold Fitzhenry, got the better of every other thought.
While Emmeline was thus counting every second till the carriage came to the door, Mrs. Benson busied herself in those necessary preparations for the journey, which her pre-occupied daughter never thought of. At last, by midnight, all was ready; and followed by the blessings and good wishes of her mother, Emmeline set off with her father for Dover.
“I shall come back to you, perhaps, the happiest of human beings,” said she, as she returned Mrs. Benson’s fond embrace—“perhaps——” She had not courage to finish the sentence.
“Foolish girl!” said her father, as he helped her into the carriage; “no more whimpering. Now shut the door; bid the man drive on: and you, Mrs. Benson, my good woman, do you go away to your bed. Pretty wild doings these! This comes of connecting oneself with quality!”
The horses set off; and the rapidity with which they went, the feeling that she was hurrying to the object of all her wishes, and the fresh air of a fine summer’s night, all helped to compose and revive poor Emmeline; so that, at Dover, Mr. Benson, with a lightened heart, resigned her to the care of Mr. Pelham’s courier, whom they found there waiting her orders. Her father offered himself to go on with her to Paris; but that she for many reasons declined; and at last he consented to return to Charlton. He first of all, however, went with her down to the beach, saw her safe into the boat that was to convey her to the vessel, and, from the pier, watched its white sails as long as he could, with his glass, distinguish his daughter on the deck, waving her many a farewell with his handkerchief. At last, his dear Emmy became a speck, and vanished. The good man, then, brushing away a tear from his eye, and ejaculating to himself a benediction on his darling, returned alone to the inn, and resumed his journey homewards.