“Yes, papa; I think I do. It is about—Mr. Lopez.”
“Your aunt has told you, I suppose. Yes; it is about Mr. Lopez. I have been very much astonished today by Mr. Lopez—a man of whom I have seen very little and know less. He came to me today and asked for my permission—to address you.” She sat perfectly quiet, still looking at him, but she did not say a word. “Of course I did not give him permission.”
“Why of course, papa?”
“Because he is a stranger and a foreigner. Would you have wished me to tell him that he might come?”
“Yes, papa.” He was sitting on a sofa and shrank back a little from her as she made this free avowal. “In that case I could have judged for myself. I suppose every girl would like to do that.”
“But should you have accepted him?”
“I think I should have consulted you before I did that. But I should have wished to accept him. Papa, I do love him. I have never said so before to anyone. I would not say so to you now, if he had not—spoken to you as he has done.”
“Emily, it must not be.”
“Why not, papa? If you say it shall not be so, it shall not. I will do as you bid me.” Then he put out his hand and caressed her, stroking down her hair. “But I think you ought to tell me why it must not be—as I do love him.”
“He is a foreigner.”
“But is he? And why should not a foreigner be as good as an Englishman? His name is foreign, but he talks English and lives as an Englishman.”
“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 connections, 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 trousers 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
