“Had it not better come from you?”
“No, Ferdinand. Of course I will do as you bid me. I will do anything that I can do. But you had better tell him. His nature is such that he will respect you more if it come from yourself. And then it is so necessary that he should know all;—all.” She put whatever emphasis she knew how to use upon this word.
“You could tell him—all, as well as I.”
“You would not bring yourself to tell it to me, nor could I understand it. He will understand everything, and if he thinks that you have told him everything, he will at any rate respect you.”
He sat silent for a while meditating, feeling always and most acutely that he had been ill-used—never thinking for an instant that he had ill-used others. “£3,000, you know, was no fortune for your father to give you!” She had no answer to make, but she groaned in spirit as she heard the accusation. “Don’t you feel that yourself?”
“I know nothing about money, Ferdinand. If you had told me to speak to him about it before we were married I would have done so.”
“He ought to have spoken to me. It is marvellous how closefisted an old man can be. He can’t take it with him.” Then he sat for half-an-hour in moody silence, during which she was busy with her needle. After that he jumped up, with a manner altogether altered—gay, only that the attempt was too visible to deceive even her—and shook himself, as though he were ridding himself of his trouble. “You are right, old girl. You are always right—almost. I will go to your father tomorrow, and tell him everything. It isn’t so very much that I want him to do. Things will all come right again. I’m ashamed that you should have seen me in this way;—but I have been disappointed about the election, and troubled about that Mr. Fletcher. You shall not see me give way again like this. Give me a kiss, old girl.”
She kissed him, but she could not even pretend to recover herself as he had done. “Had we not better give up the brougham?” she said.
“Certainly not. For heaven’s sake do not speak in that way! You do not understand things.”
“No; certainly I do not.”
“It isn’t that I haven’t the means of living, but that in my business money is so often required for instant use. And situated as I am at present an addition to my capital would enable me to do so much!” She certainly did not understand it, but she had sufficient knowledge of the world and sufficient common sense to be aware that their present rate of expenditure ought to be matter of importance to a man who felt the loss of £500 as he felt that loss at Silverbridge.
On the next morning Lopez was at Mr. Wharton’s chambers early—so early that the lawyer had not yet reached them. He had resolved—not that he would tell everything, for such men never even intend to tell everything—but that he would tell a good deal. He must, if possible, affect the mind of the old man in two ways. He must ingratiate himself;—and at the same time make it understood that Emily’s comfort in life would depend very much on her father’s generosity. The first must be first accomplished, if possible—and then the second, as to which he could certainly produce at any rate belief. He had not married a rich man’s daughter without an intention of getting the rich man’s money! Mr. Wharton would understand that. If the worst came to the worst, Mr. Wharton must of course maintain his daughter—and his daughter’s husband! But things had not come to the worst as yet, and he did not intend on the present occasion to represent that view of his affairs to his father-in-law.
Mr. Wharton when he entered his chambers found Lopez seated there. He was himself at this moment very unhappy. He had renewed his quarrel with Everett—or Everett rather had renewed the quarrel with him. There had been words between them about money lost at cards. Hard words had been used, and Everett had told his father that if either of them were a gambler it was not he. Mr. Wharton had resented this bitterly and had driven his son from his presence—and now the quarrel made him very wretched. He certainly was sorry that he had called his son a gambler, but his son had been, as he thought, inexcusable in the retort which he had made. He was a man to whom his friends gave credit for much sternness;—but still he was one who certainly had no happiness in the world independent of his children. His daughter had left him, not, as he thought, under happy auspices—and he was now, at this moment, softhearted and tender in his regards as to her. What was there in the world for him but his children? And now he felt himself to be alone and destitute. He was already tired of whist at the Eldon. That which had been a delight to him once or twice a week, became almost loathsome when it was renewed from day to day;—and not the less when his son told him that he also was a gambler.
