“No, sir—not that. She feels herself degraded by his degradation. If it be possible we must save her from that.”
“She did degrade herself.”
“Not as she means it. She is not degraded in my eyes.”
“Why should she not take the only means in her power of rescuing herself and rescuing us all from the evil that she did? She owes it to you, to me, and to her brother.”
“I would hardly wish her to come to me in payment of such a debt.”
“There is no room left,” said Mr. Wharton angrily, “for soft sentimentality. Well;—she must take her bed as she makes it. It is very hard on me, I know. Considering what she used to be, it is marvellous to me that she should have so little idea left of doing her duty to others.”
Arthur Fletcher found that the barrister was at the moment too angry to hear reason, or to be made to understand anything of the feelings of mixed love and admiration with which he himself was animated at the moment. He was obliged therefore to content himself with assuring the father that he did not intend to give up the pursuit of his daughter.
LXXV
The Great Wharton Alliance
When Mr. Wharton got home on that day he said not a word to Emily as to Arthur Fletcher. He had resolved to take various courses—first to tell her roundly that she was neglecting her duty to herself and to her family, and that he would no longer take her part and be her good friend unless she would consent to marry the man whom she had confessed that she loved. But as he thought of this he became aware—first that he could not carry out such a threat, and then that he would lack even the firmness to make it. There was something in her face, something even in her dress, something in her whole manner to himself, which softened him and reduced him to vassalage directly he saw her. Then he determined to throw himself on her compassion and to implore her to put an end to all this misery by making herself happy. But as he drew near home he found himself unable to do even this. How is a father to beseech his widowed daughter to give herself away in a second marriage? And therefore when he entered the house and found her waiting for him, he said nothing. At first she looked at him wistfully—anxious to learn by his face whether her lover had been with him. But when he spoke not a word, simply kissing her in his usual quiet way, she became cheerful in manner and communicative. “Papa,” she said, “I have had a letter from Mary.”
“Well, my dear.”
“Just a nice chatty letter—full of Everett, of course.”
“Everett is a great man now.”
“I am sure that you are very glad that he is what he is. Will you see Mary’s letter?” Mr. Wharton was not specially given to reading young ladies’ correspondence, and did not know why this particular letter should be offered to him. “You don’t suspect anything at Wharton, do you?” she asked.
“Suspect anything! No; I don’t suspect anything.” But now, having had his curiosity aroused, he took the letter which was offered to him and read it. The letter was as follows:—
Wharton, Thursday.
Dearest Emily—
We all hope that you had a pleasant journey up to London, and that Mr. Wharton is quite well. Your brother Everett came over to Longbarns the day after you started and drove me back to Wharton in the dogcart. It was such a pleasant journey, though, now I remember, it rained all the way. But Everett has always so much to say that I didn’t mind the rain. I think it will end in John taking the hounds. He says he won’t, because he does not wish to be the slave of the whole county;—but he says it in that sort of way that we all think he means to do it. Everett tells him that he ought, because he is the only hunting man on this side of the county who can afford to do it without feeling it much; and of course what Everett says will go a long way with him. Sarah
—Sarah was John Fletcher’s wife—
is rather against it. But if he makes up his mind she’ll be sure to turn round. Of course it makes us all very anxious at present to know how it is to end, for the Master of the Hounds always is the leading man in our part of the world. Papa went to the bench at Ross yesterday and took Everett with him. It was the first time that Everett had sat there. He says I am to tell his father he has not hung anybody as yet.
They have already begun to cut down, or what they call stubb up, Barnton Spinnies. Everett said that it is no good keeping it as a wood, and papa agreed. So it is to go into the home farm, and Griffiths is to pay rent for it. I don’t like having it cut down as the boys always used to get nuts there, but Everett says it won’t do to keep woods for little boys to get nuts.
Mary Stocking has been very ill since you went, and I’m afraid she won’t last long. When they get to be so very bad with rheumatism I almost think it’s wrong to pray for them, because they are in so much pain. We thought at one time that mamma’s ointment had done her good, but when we came to inquire, we found she had swallowed it. Wasn’t it dreadful? But it didn’t seem to do her any harm. Everett says that it wouldn’t make any difference which she did.
Papa is beginning to be afraid that Everett is a Radical. But I’m sure he’s not. He says
