“He has no relatives, no family, no belongings. He is what we call an adventurer. Marriage, my dear, is a most serious thing.”
“Yes, papa, I know that.”
“One is bound to be very careful. How can I give you to a man I know nothing about,—an adventurer? What would they say in Herefordshire?”
“I don’t know why they should say anything, but if they did I shouldn’t much care.”
“I should, my dear. I should care very much. One is bound to think of one’s family. Suppose it should turn out afterwards that he was—disreputable!”
“You may say that of any man, papa.”
“But when a man has connexions, a father and mother, or uncles and aunts, people that everybody knows about, then there is some guarantee of security. Did you ever hear this man speak of his father?”
“I don’t know that I ever did.”
“Or his mother,—or his family? Don’t you think that is suspicious?”
“I will ask him, papa, if you wish.”
“No, I would have you ask him nothing. I would not wish that there should be opportunity for such asking. If there has been intimacy between you, such information should have come naturally,—as a thing of course. You have made him no promise?”
“Oh no, papa.”
“Nor spoken to him—of your regard for him?”
“Never;—not a word. Nor he to me,—except in such words as one understands even though they say nothing.”
“I wish he had never seen you.”
“Is he a bad man, papa?”
“Who knows? I cannot tell. He may be ever so bad. How is one to know whether a man be bad or good when one knows nothing about him?” At this point the father got up and walked about the room. “The long and the short of it is that you must not see him any more.”
“Did you tell him so?”
“Yes;—well; I don’t know whether I said exactly that, but I told him that the whole thing must come to an end. And it must. Luckily it seems that nothing has been said on either side.”
“But, papa—; is there to be no reason?”
“Haven’t I given reasons? I will not have my daughter encourage an adventurer,—a man of whom nobody knows anything. That is reason sufficient.”
“He has a business, and he lives with gentlemen. He is Everett’s friend. He is well educated;—oh, so much better than most men that one meets. And he is clever. Papa, I wish you knew him better than you do.”
“I do not want to know him better.”
“Is not that prejudice, papa?”
“My dear Emily,” said Mr. Wharton, striving to wax into anger that he might be firm against her, “I don’t think that it becomes you to ask your father such a question as that. You ought to believe that it is the chief object of my life to do the best I can for my children.”
“I am sure it is.”
“And you ought to feel that, as I have had a long experience in the world, my judgment about a young man might be trusted.”
That was a statement which Miss Wharton was not prepared to admit. She had already professed herself willing to submit to her father’s judgment, and did not now by any means contemplate rebellion against parental authority. But she did feel that on a matter so vital to her she had a right to plead her cause before judgment should be given, and she was not slow to assure herself, even as this interview went on, that her love for the man was strong enough to entitle her to assure her father that her happiness depended on his reversal of the sentence already pronounced. “You know, papa, that I trust you,” she said. “And I have promised you that I will not disobey you. If you tell me that I am never to see Mr. Lopez again, I will not see him.”
“You are a good girl. You were always a good girl.”
“But I think that you ought to hear me.” Then he stood still with his hands in his trowsers pockets looking at her. He did not want to hear a word, but he felt that he would be a tyrant if he refused. “If you tell me that I am not to see him, I shall not see him. But I shall be very unhappy. I do love him, and I shall never love any one else in the same way.”
“That is nonsense, Emily. There is Arthur Fletcher.”
“I am sure you will never ask me to marry a man I do not love, and I shall never love Arthur Fletcher. If this is to be as you say, it will make me very, very wretched. It is right that you should know the truth. If it is only because Mr. Lopez has a foreign name—”
“It isn’t only that; no one knows anything about him, or where to inquire even.”
“I think you should inquire, papa, and be quite certain before you pronounce such a sentence against me. It will be a crushing blow.” He looked at her, and saw that there was a fixed purpose in her countenance of which he had never before seen similar signs. “You claim a right to my obedience, and I acknowledge it. I am sure you believe me when I promise not to see him without your permission.”
“I do believe you. Of course I believe you.”
“But if I do that for you, papa, I think that you ought to be very sure, on my account, that I haven’t to bear such unhappiness for nothing. You’ll think about it, papa,—will you not, before you quite decide?” She leaned against him as she spoke, and he kissed her. “Good night, now, papa. You will think about it?”
“I will. I will. Of course I will.”
And he began the process of thinking about it immediately,—before the door was closed behind her. But what was there to think about? Nothing that she had said altered in the least his idea about the man. He was as convinced as ever that unless there was much to conceal there would not be so much concealment. But a feeling began to grow upon him already that his daughter had a mode of pleading with him which he would not ultimately be able to resist. He had the power, he knew, of putting an end to the thing altogether. He had only to say resolutely and unchangeably that the thing shouldn’t be, and it wouldn’t be. If he could steel his heart against his daughter’s sorrow for, say, a twelvemonth, the victory would be won. But he already began to fear that he lacked the power to steel his heart against his daughter.
Chapter VI.
An Old Friend Goes to Windsor
“And what are they going to make you now?”
This question was asked of her husband by a lady with whom perhaps the readers of this volume may have already formed some acquaintance. Chronicles of her early life have been written, at any rate copiously. The lady was the Duchess of Omnium, and her husband was of course the Duke. In order that the nature of the question asked by the duchess may be explained, it must be stated that just at this time the political affairs of the nation had got themselves tied up into one of those truly desperate knots from which even the wisdom and experience of septuagenarian statesmen can see no unravelment. The heads of parties were at a standstill. In the House of Commons there was, so to say, no majority on either side. The minds of members were so astray that, according to the best calculation that could be made, there would be a majority of about ten against any possible Cabinet. There would certainly be a majority against either of those well-tried but, at this moment, little-trusted Prime Ministers, Mr. Gresham and Mr. Daubeny. There were certain men, nominally belonging to this or to the other party, who would certainly within a week of the nomination of