“But I must know. Is there more than this dinner to disturb you?”
“Oh, yes;—more than that. Only I couldn’t bear that it should be done in your house.”
“Has he—ill-treated you?”
Then she got up, and stood before him. “I do not mean to complain. I should have said nothing only that you have found us in this way. For myself I will bear it all, whatever it may be. But, papa, I want you to tell him that we must leave this house.”
“He has got no other home for you.”
“He must find one. I will go anywhere. I don’t care where it is. But I won’t stay here. I have done it myself, but I won’t bring it upon you. I could bear it all if I thought that you would never see me again.”
“Emily!”
“Yes;—if you would never see me again. I know it all, and that would be best.” She was now walking about the room. “Why should you see it all?”
“See what, my love?”
“See his ruin, and my unhappiness, and my baby. Oh—oh—oh!”
“I think so very differently, Emily, that under no circumstances will I have you taken to another home. I cannot understand much of all this yet, but I suppose I shall come to see it. If Lopez be, as you say, ruined, it is well that I have still enough for us to live on. This is a bad time just now to talk about your husband’s affairs.”
“I did not mean to talk about them, papa.”
“What would you like best to do now—now at once. Can you go down again to your husband’s friends?”
“No;—no;—no.”
“As for the dinner, never mind about that. I can’t blame him for making use of my house in my absence, as far as that goes—though I wish he could have contented himself with such a dinner as my servants could have prepared for him. I will have some tea here.”
“Let me stay with you, papa, and make it for you.”
“Very well, dear. I do not mean to be ashamed to enter my own dining-room. I shall, therefore, go in and make your apologies.” Thereupon Mr. Wharton walked slowly forth and marched into the dining-room.
“Oh, Mr. Wharton,” said Mrs. Dick, “we didn’t expect you.”
“Have you dined yet, sir?” asked Lopez.
“I dined early,” said Mr. Wharton. “I should not now have come in to disturb you, but that I have found Mrs. Lopez unwell, and she has begged me to ask you to excuse her.”
“I will go to her,” said Lopez, rising.
“It is not necessary,” said Wharton. “She is not ill, but hardly able to take her place at table.” Then Mrs. Dick proposed to go to her dear niece; but Mr. Wharton would not allow it, and left the room, having succeeded in persuading them to go on with their dinner. Lopez certainly was not happy during the evening, but he was strong enough to hide his misgivings, and to do his duty as host with seeming cheerfulness.
XLIX
“Where Is Guatemala?”
Though his daughter’s words to him had been very wild they did almost more to convince Mr. Wharton that he should not give his money to his son-in-law than even the letters which had passed between them. To Emily herself he spoke very little as to what had occurred that evening. “Papa,” she said, “do not ask me anything more about it. I was very miserable—because of the dinner.” Nor did he at that time ask her any questions, contenting himself with assuring her that, at any rate at present, and till after her baby should have been born, she must remain in Manchester Square. “He won’t hurt me,” said Mr. Wharton, and then added with a smile, “He won’t have to have any more dinner-parties while I am here.”
Nor did he make any complaint to Lopez as to what had been done, or even allude to the dinner. But when he had been back about a week he announced to his son-in-law his final determination as to money. “I had better tell you, Lopez, what I mean to do, so that you may not be left in doubt. I shall not entrust any further sum of money into your hands on behalf of Emily.”
“You can do as you please, sir—of course.”
“Just so. You have had what to me is a very considerable sum—though I fear that it did not go for much in your large concerns.”
“It was not very much, Mr. Wharton.”
“I dare say not. Opinions on such a matter differ, you know. At any rate, there will be no more. At present I wish Emily to live here, and you, of course, are welcome here also. If things are not going well with you, this will, at any rate, relieve you from immediate expense.”
“My calculations, sir, have never descended to that.”
“Mine are more minute. The necessities of my life have caused me to think of these little things. When I am dead there will be provision for Emily made by my will—the income going to trustees for her benefit, and the capital to her children after her death. I thought it only fair to you that this should be explained.”
“And you will do nothing for me?”
“Nothing;—if that is nothing. I should have thought that your present maintenance and the future support of your wife and children would have been regarded as something.”
“It is nothing;—nothing!”
“Then let it be nothing. Good morning.”
Two days after that Lopez recurred to the subject. “You were very explicit with me the other day, sir.”
“I meant to be so.”
“And I will be equally so to you now. Both I and your daughter are absolutely ruined unless you reconsider your purpose.”
“If you mean money by reconsideration—present money to be given to you—I certainly shall not reconsider it. You may take my solemn assurance that I will give you nothing that can be of any service to you in trade.”
“Then, sir—I
