It is probable that Emily herself had some idea in her own mind of what was being done to entrap her. Her brother’s words to her had been so strong, and the occasion of his marriage was itself so sacred to her, that she had not been able to refuse his request. But from the moment that she had made the promise, she felt that she had greatly added to her own difficulties. That she could yield to Arthur never occurred to her. She was certain of her own persistency. Whatever might be the wishes of others, the fitness of things required that Arthur Fletcher’s wife should not have been the widow of Ferdinand Lopez—and required also that the woman who had married Ferdinand Lopez should bear the results of her own folly. Though since his death she had never spoken a syllable against him—if those passionate words be excepted which Arthur himself had drawn from her—still she had not refrained from acknowledging the truth to herself. He had been a man disgraced—and she as his wife, having become his wife in opposition to the wishes of all her friends, was disgraced also. Let them do what they will with her, she would not soil Arthur Fletcher’s name with this infamy. Such was still her steadfast resolution; but she knew that it would be, not endangered, but increased in difficulty by this visit to Herefordshire.
And then there were other troubles. “Papa,” she said, “I must get a dress for Everett’s marriage.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t bear, after all that I have cost you, putting you to such useless expense.”
“It is not useless, and such expenses as that I can surely afford without groaning. Do it handsomely and you will please me best.”
Then she went forth and chose her dress—a grey silk, light enough not to throw quite a gloom on the brightness of the day, and yet dark enough to declare that she was not as other women are. The very act of purchasing this, almost blushing at her own request as she sat at the counter in her widow’s weeds, was a pain to her. But she had no one whom she could employ. On such an occasion she could not ask her aunt Harriet to act for her, as her aunt was distrusted and disliked. And then there was the fitting on of the dress—very grievous to her, as it was the first time since the heavy black mourning came home that she had clothed herself in other garments.
The day before that fixed for the marriage she and her father went down to Herefordshire together, the conversation on the way being all in respect to Everett. Where was he to live? What was he to do? What income would he require till he should inherit the good things which destiny had in store for him? The old man seemed to feel that Providence, having been so very good to his son in killing that other heir, had put rather a heavy burden on himself. “He’ll want a house of his own, of course,” he said, in a somewhat lachrymose tone.
“I suppose he’ll spend a good deal of his time at Wharton.”
“He won’t be content to live in another man’s house altogether, my dear; and Sir Alured can allow him nothing. It means, of course, that I must give him a thousand a year. It seems very natural to him, I dare say, but he might have asked the question before he took a wife to himself.”
“You won’t be angry with him, papa!”
“It’s no good being angry. No;—I’m not angry. Only it seems that everybody is uncommonly well pleased without thinking who has to pay for the piper.”
On that evening, at Wharton, Emily still wore her mourning dress. No one, indeed, dared to speak to her on the subject, and Mary was even afraid lest she might appear in black on the following day. We all know in what condition is a house on the eve of a marriage—how the bride feels that all the world is going to be changed, and that therefore everything is for the moment disjointed; and how the rest of the household, including the servants, are led to share the feeling. Everett was of course away. He was over at Longbarns with the Fletchers, and was to be brought to Wharton Church on the following morning. Old Mrs. Fletcher was at Wharton Hall—and the bishop, whose services had been happily secured. He was formally introduced to Mrs. Lopez, the use of the name for the occasion being absolutely necessary, and with all the smiling urbanity which as a bishop he was bound to possess, he was hardly able not to be funereal as he looked at her and remembered her story. Before the evening was over Mrs. Fletcher did venture to give a hint. “We are so glad you have come, my dear.”
“I could not stay away when Everett said he wished it.”
“It would have been wrong; yes, my dear—wrong. It is your duty, and the duty of us all, to subordinate our feelings to those of others. Even sorrow may be selfish.” Poor Emily listened but could make no reply. “It is sometimes harder for us to be mindful of others in our grief than in our joy. You should remember, dear, that there are some who will never be lighthearted again till they see you smile.”
“Do not say that, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“It is quite true;—and right that you should think of it. It will be particularly necessary that you should think of it tomorrow. You will have to wear a light dress, and—”
“I have come provided,” said
