“I don’t want to think anything about it,” said the father.
“But I want you to think about it, papa. Papa, I know you are not indifferent to my happiness.”
“I hope you know it.”
“I do know it. I am quite sure of it. And therefore I don’t think you ought to be afraid to talk to me about what must concern my happiness so greatly. As far as my own self and my own will are concerned I consider myself given away to Mr. Lopez already. Nothing but his marrying some other woman—or his death—would make me think of myself otherwise than as belonging to him. I am not a bit ashamed of owning my love—to you; nor to him, if the opportunity were allowed me. I don’t think there should be concealment about anything so important between people who are dear to each other. I have told you that I will do whatever you bid me about him. If you say that I shall not speak to him or see him, I will not speak to him or see him—willingly. You certainly need not be afraid that I should marry him without your leave.”
“I am not in the least afraid of it.”
“But I think you should think over what you are doing. And I am quite sure of this—that you must tell me what I am to do in regard to receiving Mr. Lopez in Manchester Square.” Mr. Wharton listened attentively to what his daughter said to him, shaking his head from time to time as though almost equally distracted by her passive obedience and by her passionate protestations of love; but he said nothing. When she had completed her supplication he threw himself back in his seat and after a while took his book. It may be doubted whether he read much, for the question as to his girl’s happiness was quite as near his heart as she could wish it to be.
It was late in the afternoon before they reached Manchester Square, and they were both happy to find that they were not troubled by Mr. Lopez at the first moment. Everett was at home and in bed, and had not indeed as yet recovered from the effect of the man’s knuckles at his windpipe; but he was well enough to assure his father and sister that they need not have disturbed themselves or hurried their return from Herefordshire on his account. “To tell the truth,” said he, “Ferdinand Lopez was hurt worse than I was.”
“He said nothing of being hurt himself,” said Mr. Wharton.
“How was he hurt?” asked Emily in the quietest, stillest voice.
“The fact is,” said Everett, beginning to tell the whole story after his own fashion, “if he hadn’t been at hand then, there would have been an end of me. We had separated, you know—”
“What could make two men separate from each other in the darkness of St. James’s Park?”
“Well—to tell the truth, we had quarrelled. I had made an ass of myself. You need not go into that any further, except that you should know that it was all my fault. Of course it wasn’t a real quarrel,”—when he said this Emily, who was sitting close to his bed-head, pressed his arm under the clothes with her hand—“but I had said something rough, and he had gone on just to put an end to it.”
“It was uncommonly foolish,” said old Wharton. “It was very foolish going round the park at all at that time of night.”
“No doubt, sir;—but it was my doing. And if he had not gone with me, I should have gone alone.” Here there was another pressure. “I was a little low in spirits, and wanted the walk.”
“But how is he hurt?” asked the father.
“The man who was kneeling on me and squeezing the life out of me jumped up when he heard Lopez coming, and struck him over the head with a bludgeon. I heard the blow, though I was pretty well done for at the time myself. I don’t think they hit me, but they got something round my neck, and I was half strangled before I knew what they were doing. Poor Lopez bled horribly, but he says he is none the worse for it.” Here there was another little pressure under the bedclothes; for Emily felt that her brother was pleading for her in every word that he said.
About ten on the following morning Lopez came and asked for Mr. Wharton. He was shown into the study, where he found the old man, and at once began to give his account of the whole concern in an easy, unconcerned manner. He had the large black patch on the side of his head, which had been so put on as almost to become him. But it was so conspicuous as to force a question respecting it from Mr. Wharton. “I am afraid you got rather a sharp knock yourself, Mr. Lopez?”
“I did get a knock, certainly;—but the odd part of it is that I knew nothing about it till I found the blood in my eyes after they had decamped. But I lost my hat, and there is a rather long cut just above the temple. It hasn’t done me the slightest harm. The worst of it was that they got off with Everett’s watch and money.”
“Had he much money?”
“Forty pounds!” And Lopez shook his head, thereby signifying that forty pounds at the present moment was more than Everett Wharton could afford to lose. Upon the whole he carried himself very well, ingratiating himself with the father, raising no question about the daughter, and saying as little as possible of himself. He asked whether he could go up and see his friend, and of course was allowed to do so. A minute before he entered the room Emily left it. They did not see each other. At any rate he did
