“I don’t think they wish it, if you mean that.”
“I think their fathers thought of taking them out of harm’s way.”
“No doubt. But when the harm’s way consists of a lover it’s very hard to tear a young lady away from it.” This was said so that Philip only could hear it. The two lads who attended the bank were away at their desks in distant parts of the office. “Do you keep your eyes open, Philip,” said the Rector, “and things will run smoother yet than you expected.”
“He is frightfully angry with me, Dr. Freeborn. I made my way up into the drawing-room the other day, and he found me there.”
“What business had you to do that?”
“Well, I was wrong, I suppose. Emily was to be taken away suddenly I had to see her before she went. Think, Doctor, what a prolonged residence in a foreign country means. I mightn’t see her again for years.”
“And so he found you up in the drawing-room. It was very improper; that’s all I can say. Nevertheless, if you’ll behave yourself, I shouldn’t be surprised if things were to run smoother before Christmas.” Then the Doctor took his leave.
“Now, father,” said Polly, “you’re not going to carry me off to foreign parts.”
“Yes, I am. As you’re so wilful it’s the only thing for you.”
“What’s to become of the brewery?”
“The brewery may take care of itself. As you won’t want the money for your husband there’ll be plenty for me. I’ll give it up. I ain’t going to slave and slave all my life and nothing come of it. If you won’t oblige me in this the brewery may go and take care of itself.”
“If you’re like that, father, I must take care of myself. Mr. Greenmantle isn’t going to take his daughter over.”
“Yes; he is.”
“Not a bit of it. He’s as much as told Emily that she’s not to get her things ready.” Then there was a pause, during which Mr. Peppercorn showed that he was much disturbed. “Now, father, why don’t you give way, and show yourself what you always were—the kindest father that ever a girl had.”
“There’s no kindness in you, Polly. Kindness ought to be reciprocal.”
“Isn’t it natural that a girl should like her young man?”
“He’s not your young man.”
“He’s going to be. What have you got to say against him? You ask Dr. Freeborn.”
“Dr. Freeborn, indeed! He isn’t your father!”
“He’s not my father, but he’s my friend. And he’s yours, if you only knew it. You think of it, just for another day, and then say that you’ll be good to your girl.” Then she kissed him, and as she left him she felt that she was about to prevail.
VII
The Young Ladies Are to Remain at Home
Miss Emily Greenmantle had always possessed a certain character for delicacy. We do not mean delicacy of sentiment. That of course belonged to her as a young lady—but delicacy of health. She was not strong and robust, as her friend Polly Peppercorn. When we say that she possessed that character, we intend to imply that she perhaps made a little use of it. There had never been much the matter with her, but she had always been a little delicate. It seemed to suit her, and prevented the necessity of overexertion. Whereas Polly, who had never been delicate, felt herself always called upon to “run round,” as the Americans say. “Running round” on the part of a young lady implies a readiness and a willingness to do everything that has to be done in domestic life. If a father wants his slippers or a mother her thimble, or the cook a further supply of sauces, the active young lady has to “run round.” Polly did run round; but Emily was delicate and did not. Therefore when she did not get up one morning, and complained of a headache, the doctor was sent for. “She’s not very strong, you know,” the doctor said to her father. “Miss Emily always was delicate.”
“I hope it isn’t much,” said Mr. Greenmantle.
“There is something I fear disturbing the even tenor of her thoughts,” said the doctor, who had probably heard of the hopes entertained by Mr. Philip Hughes and favoured them. “She should be kept quite quiet. I wouldn’t prescribe much medicine, but I’ll tell Mixet to send her in a little draught. As for diet she can have pretty nearly what she pleases. She never had a great appetite.” And so the doctor went his way. The reader is not to suppose that Emily Greenmantle intended to deceive her father, and play the old soldier. Such an idea would have been repugnant to her nature. But when her father told her that she was to be taken abroad for a prolonged residence, and when it of course followed that her lover was to be left behind, there came upon her a natural feeling that the best thing for her would be to lie in bed, and so to avoid all the troubles of life for the present moment.
“I am very sorry to hear that Emily is so ill,” said Dr. Freeborn, calling on the banker further on in the day.
“I don’t think it’s much, Dr. Freeborn.”
“I hope not; but I just saw Miller, who shook his head. Miller never shakes his head quite for nothing.”
In the evening Mr. Greenmantle got a little note from Mrs. Freeborn. “I am so unhappy to hear about dear Emily. The poor child always is delicate. Pray take care of her. She must see Dr. Miller twice every day. Changes do take place so frequently. If you think she would be better here, we would be delighted to have her. There is so much in having the attention of a lady.”
“Of course I am nervous,” said Mr. Philip Hughes next morning to the banker. “I hope you will excuse me, if I venture to ask for one word as to Miss
