“I suppose I shall,” said the barrister. “I must go somewhere. My going need not disturb you.”
“I think we have made up our mind,” said Lopez, “to take a cottage at Dovercourt. It is not a very lively place, nor yet fashionable. But it is very healthy, and I can run up to town easily. Unfortunately my business won’t let me be altogether away this autumn.”
“I wish my business would keep me,” said the barrister.
“I did not understand that you had made up your mind to go to Dovercourt,” said Emily. He had spoken to Mr. Wharton of their joint action in the matter, and as the place had only once been named by him to her, she resented what seemed to be a falsehood. She knew that she was to be taken or left as it suited him. If he had said boldly—“We’ll go to Dovercourt. That’s what I’ve settled on. That’s what will suit me,” she would have been contented. She quite understood that he meant to have his own way in such things. But it seemed to her that he wanted to be a tyrant without having the courage necessary for tyranny.
“I thought you seemed to like it,” he said.
“I don’t dislike it at all.”
“Then, as it suits my business, we might as well consider it settled.” So saying, he left the room and went off to the city. The old man was still sipping his tea and lingering over his breakfast in a way that was not usual with him. He was generally anxious to get away to Lincoln’s Inn, and on most mornings had left the house before his son-in-law. Emily of course remained with him, sitting silent in her place opposite to the teapot, meditating perhaps on her prospects of happiness at Dovercourt—a place of which she had never heard even the name two days ago, and in which it was hardly possible that she should find even an acquaintance. In former years these autumn months, passed in Herefordshire, had been the delight of her life.
Mr. Wharton also had seen the cloud on his daughter’s face, and had understood the nature of the little dialogue about Dovercourt. And he was aware—had been aware since they had both come into his house—that the young wife’s manner and tone to her husband was not that of perfect conjugal sympathy. He had already said to himself more than once that she had made her bed for herself, and must lie upon it. She was the man’s wife, and must take her husband as he was. If she suffered under this man’s mode and manner of life, he, as her father, could not assist her—could do nothing for her, unless the man should become absolutely cruel. He had settled that within his own mind already; but yet his heart yearned towards her, and when he thought that she was unhappy he longed to comfort her and tell her that she still had a father. But the time had not come as yet in which he could comfort her by sympathising with her against her husband. There had never fallen from her lips a syllable of complaint. When she had spoken to him a chance word respecting her husband, it had always carried with it some tone of affection. But still he longed to say to her something which might tell her that his heart was soft towards her. “Do you like the idea of going to this place?” he said.
“I don’t at all know what it will be like. Ferdinand says it will be cheap.”
“Is that of such vital consequence?”
“Ah;—yes; I fear it is.”
This was very sad to him. Lopez had already had from him a considerable sum of money, having not yet been married twelve months, and was now living in London almost free of expense. Before his marriage he had always spoken of himself, and had contrived to be spoken of, as a wealthy man, and now he was obliged to choose some small English seaside place to which to retreat, because thus he might live at a low rate! Had they married as poor people there would have been nothing to regret in this;—there would be nothing that might not be done with entire satisfaction. But, as it was, it told a bad tale for the future! “Do you understand his money matters, Emily?”
“Not at all, papa.”
“I do not in the least mean to make inquiry. Perhaps I should have asked before;—but if I did make inquiry now it would be of him. But I think a wife should know.”
“I know nothing.”
“What is his business?”
“I have no idea. I used to think he was connected with Mr. Mills Happerton and with Messrs. Hunky and Sons.”
“Is he not connected with Hunky’s house?”
“I think not. He has a partner of the name of Parker, who is—who is not, I think, quite—quite a gentleman. I never saw him.”
“What does he do with Mr. Parker?”
“I believe they buy guano.”
“Ah;—that, I fancy, was only one affair.”
“I’m afraid he lost money, papa, by that election at Silverbridge.”
“I paid that,” said Mr. Wharton sternly. Surely he should have told his wife that he had received that money from her family!
“Did you? That was very kind. I am afraid, papa, we are a great burden on you.”
“I should not mind it, my dear, if there were confidence and happiness. What matter would it be to me whether you had your money now or hereafter, so that you might have it in the manner that would be most beneficial to you? I wish he would be open with me, and tell me everything.”
“Shall I let him know that you say so?”
He thought for a minute or two before he answered her. Perhaps the man would be more impressed if the message came to him through his wife. “If you think that he will not be annoyed with you, you
