“Everything has to be broken up sooner or later. One feels that as one grows older.”
“You and I, Abel, are just of an age. Why should you talk to me like this? You are strong enough, whatever I am. Why shouldn’t you come? Dresden! I never heard of such a thing. I suppose it’s some nonsense of Emily’s.”
Then Mr. Wharton told his whole story. “Nonsense of Emily’s!” he began. “Yes, it is nonsense—worse than you think. But she doesn’t want to go abroad.” The father’s plaint needn’t be repeated to the reader as it was told to the baronet. Though it was necessary that he should explain himself, yet he tried to be reticent. Sir Alured listened in silence. He loved his cousin Emily, and, knowing that she would be rich, knowing her advantages of birth, and recognizing her beauty, had expected that she would make a match creditable to the Wharton family. But a Portuguese Jew! A man who had never been even known to allude to his own father! For by degrees Mr. Wharton had been driven to confess all the sins of the lover, though he had endeavoured to conceal the extent of his daughter’s love.
“Do you mean that Emily—favours him?”
“I am afraid so.”
“And would she—would she—do anything without your sanction?” He was always thinking of the disgrace attaching to himself by reason of his nephew’s vileness, and now, if a daughter of the family should also go astray, so as to be exiled from the bosom of the Whartons, how manifest would it be that all the glory was departing from their house!
“No! She will do nothing without my sanction. She has given her word—which is gospel.” As he spoke the old lawyer struck his hand upon the table.
“Then why should you run away to Dresden?”
“Because she is unhappy. She will not marry him—or even see him, if I forbid it. But she is near him.”
“Herefordshire is a long way off,” said the baronet, pleading.
“Change of scene is what she should have,” said the father.
“There can’t be more of a change than she’d get at Wharton. She always did like Wharton. It was there that she met Arthur Fletcher.” The father only shook his head as Arthur Fletcher’s name was mentioned. “Well—that is sad. I always thought she’d give way about Arthur at last.”
“It is impossible to understand a young woman,” said the lawyer. With such an English gentleman as Arthur Fletcher on one side, and with this Portuguese Jew on the other, it was to him Hyperion to a Satyr. A darkness had fallen over his girl’s eyes, and for a time her power of judgment had left her.
“But I don’t see why Wharton should not do just as well as Dresden,” continued the baronet. Mr. Wharton found himself quite unable to make his cousin understand that the greater disruption caused by a residence abroad, the feeling that a new kind of life had been considered necessary for her, and that she must submit to the new kind of life, might be gradually effective, while the journeyings and scenes which had been common to her year after year would have no effect. Nevertheless he gave way. They could hardly start to Germany at once, but the visit to Wharton might be accelerated; and the details of the residence abroad might be there arranged. It was fixed, therefore, that Mr. Wharton and Emily should go down to Wharton Hall at any rate before the end of July.
“Why do you go earlier than usual, papa?” Emily asked him afterwards.
“Because I think it best,” he replied angrily. She ought at any rate to understand the reason.
“Of course I shall be ready, papa. You know that I always like Wharton. There is no place on earth I like so much, and this year it will be especially pleasant to me to go out of town. But—”
“But what?”
“I can’t bear to think that I shall be taking you away.”
“I’ve got to bear worse things than that, my dear.”
“Oh, papa, do not speak to me like that! Of course I know what you mean. There is no real reason for your going. If you wish it I will promise you that I will not see him.” He only shook his head—meaning to imply that a promise which could go no farther than that would not make him happy. “It will be just the same, papa—either here, or at Wharton, or elsewhere. You need not be afraid of me.”
“I am not afraid of you;—but I am afraid for you. I fear for your happiness—and for my own.”
“So do I, papa. But what can be done? I suppose sometimes people must be unhappy. I can’t change myself, and I can’t change you. I find myself to be as much bound to Mr. Lopez as though I were his wife.”
“No, no! you shouldn’t say so. You’ve no right to say so.”
“But I have given you a promise, and I certainly will keep it. If we must be unhappy, still we need not—need not quarrel; need we, papa?” Then she came up to him and kissed him—whereupon he went out of the room wiping his eyes.
That evening he again spoke to her, saying merely a word. “I think, my dear, we’ll have it fixed that we go on the 30th. Sir Alured seemed to wish it.”
“Very well, papa;—I shall be quite ready.”
XIV
A Lover’s Perseverance
Ferdinand Lopez learned immediately through Mrs. Roby that the early departure for Herefordshire had been fixed. “I should go to him and speak to him very plainly,” said Mrs. Roby. “He can’t bite you.”
“I’m not in the least afraid of his biting me.”
“You can talk so well! I should tell him everything, especially about money—which I’m sure is all right.”
“Yes—that is all right,” said Lopez, smiling.
“And about your people.”
“Which I’ve no doubt you think is all wrong.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” said Mrs. Roby, “and I don’t much care. He has old-world notions. At
