As he went he was aware that he had made no terms at all;—but then he was inclined to think that no terms should be made. There seemed to be a general understanding that Lopez was doing well in the world—in a profession of the working of which Mr. Wharton himself knew absolutely nothing. He had a large fortune at his own bestowal—intended for his daughter—which would have been forthcoming at the moment and paid down on the nail, had she married Arthur Fletcher. The very way in which the money should be invested and tied up and made to be safe and comfortable to the Fletcher-cum-Wharton interests generally, had been fully settled among them. But now this other man, this stranger, this Portuguese, had entered in upon the inheritance. But the stranger, the Portuguese, must wait. Mr. Wharton knew himself to be an old man. She was his child, and he would not wrong her. But she should have her money closely settled upon herself on his death—and on her children, should she then have any. It should be done by his will. He would say nothing about money to Lopez, and if Lopez should, as was probable, ask after his daughter’s fortune, he would answer to this effect. Thus he almost resolved that he would give his daughter to the man without any inquiry as to the man’s means. The thing had to be done, and he would take no further trouble about it. The comfort of his life was gone. His home would no longer be a home to him. His daughter could not now be his companion. The sooner that death came to him the better, but till death should come he must console himself as well as he could by playing whist at the Eldon. It was after this fashion that Mr. Wharton thought of the coming marriage between his daughter and her lover.
“I have your father’s consent to marry your sister,” said Ferdinand immediately on entering Everett’s room.
“I knew it must come soon,” said the invalid.
“I cannot say that it has been given in the most gracious manner—but it has been given very clearly. I have his express permission to see her. Those were his last words.”
Then there was a sending of notes between the sickroom and the sick man’s sister’s room. Everett wrote and Ferdinand wrote, and Emily wrote—short lines each of them—a few words scrawled. The last from Emily was as follows:—“Let him go into the drawing-room. E. W.” And so Ferdinand went down, to meet his love—to encounter her for the first time as her recognised future husband and engaged lover. Passionate, declared, and thorough as was her love for this man, the familiar intercourse between them had hitherto been very limited. There had been little—we may perhaps say none—of that dalliance between them which is so delightful to the man and so wondrous to the girl till custom has staled the edge of it. He had never sat with his arm round her waist. He had rarely held even her hand in his for a happy recognised pause of a few seconds. He had never kissed even her brow. And there she was now, standing before him, all his own, absolutely given to him, with the fullest assurance of love on her part, and with the declared consent of her father. Even he had been a little confused as he opened the door—even he, as he paused to close it behind him, had had to think how he would address her, and perhaps had thought in vain. But he had not a moment for any thought after entering the room. Whether it was his doing or hers he hardly knew; but she was in his arms, and her lips were pressed to his, and his arm was tight round her waist, holding her close to his breast. It seemed as though all that was wanting had been understood in a moment, and as though they had lived together and loved for the last twelve months with the fullest mutual confidence. And she was the first to speak:—
“Ferdinand, I am so happy! Are you happy?”
“My love; my darling!”
“You have never doubted me, I know—since you first knew it.”
“Doubted you, my girl!”
“That I would be firm! And now papa has been good to me, and how quickly one’s sorrow is over. I am yours, my love, forever and ever. You knew it before, but I like to tell you. I will be true to you in everything! Oh, my love!”
He had but little to say to her, but we know that for “lovers lacking matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.” In such moments silence charms, and almost any words are unsuitable except those soft, birdlike murmurings of love which, sweet as they are to the ear, can hardly be so written as to be sweet to the reader.
XXIV
The Marriage
The engagement was made in October, and the marriage took place in the latter part of November. When Lopez pressed for an early day—which he did very strongly—Emily raised no difficulties in the way of his wishes. The father, foolishly enough, would at first have postponed it, and made himself so unpleasant to Lopez by his manner of doing this, that the bride was driven to take her lover’s part. As the thing was to be done, what was to be gained by delay? It could not be made a joy to him; nor, looking at the matter as he looked at it, could he make a joy even of her presence during the few intervening weeks. Lopez proposed to take his bride into Italy for the winter months, and to stay there at any rate through
