be fools, my dear, I can't help 'em. We needn't take 'em in a lump: how about the doctor? I'll see him to-morrow morning, and hear what he has to say. Shall I?"
Mr. Pole winked shrewdly.
"You will not make my heart break?" Emilia's voice sounded one low chord as she neared the thing she had to say.
"Bless her soul!" the old merchant patted her; "I'm not the sort of man for that."
"Nor his?"
"His?" Mr. Pole's nerves became uneasy in a minute, at the scent of a mystification. He dashed his handkerchief over his forehead, repeating: "His? Break a man's heart! I? What's the meaning of that? For God's sake, don't bother me!"
Emilia was still kneeling before him, eyeing him with a shadowed steadfast air.
"I say his, because his heart is in mine. He has any pain that hurts me."
"He may be tremendously in love," observed Mr. Pole; "but he seems a deuced soft sort of a doctor! What's his name?"
"I love Wilfrid."
The merchant appeared to be giving ear to her, long after the words had been uttered, while there was silence in the room.
"Wilfrid? my son?" he cried with a start.
"He is my lover."
"Damned rascal!" Mr. Pole jumped from his chair. "Going and playing with an unprotected girl. I can pardon a young man's folly, but this is infamous. My dear child," he turned to Emilia, "if you've got any notion about my son Wilfrid, you must root it up as quick as you can. If he's been behaving like a villain, leave him to me. I detest, I hate, I loathe, I would kick, a young man who deceives a girl. Even if he's my son!--more's the reason!"
Mr. Pole was walking up and down the room, fuming as he spoke. Emilia tried to hold his hand, as he was passing, but he said: "There, my child! I'm very sorry for you, and I'm damned angry with him. Let me go."
"Can you, can you be angry with him for loving me?"
"Deceiving you," returned Mr. Pole; "that's what it is. And I tell you, I'd rather fifty times the fellow had deceived me. Anything rather than that he should take advantage of a girl."
"Wilfrid loves me and would die for me," said Emilia.
"Now, let me tell you the fact," Mr. Pole came to a halt, fronting her. "My son Wilfrid Pole may be in love, as he says, here and there, but he is engaged to be married to a lady of title. I have his word--his oath. He got near a thousand pounds out of my pocket the other day on that understanding. I don't speak about the money, but--now--it's a lump--others would have made a nice row about it--but is he a liar? Is he a seducing, idling, vagabond dog? Is he a contemptible scoundrel?"
"He is my lover," said Emilia.
She stood without changing a feature; as in a darkness, holding to the one thing she was sure of. Then, with a sudden track of light in her brain: "I know the mistake," she said. "Pardon him. He feared to offend you, because you are his father, and he thought I might not quite please you. For, he loves me. He has loved me from the first moment he saw me. He cannot be engaged to another. I could bring him from any woman's side. I have only to say to myself--he must come to me. For he loves me! It is not a thing to doubt."
Mr. Pole turned and recommenced his pacing with hasty steps. All the indications of a nervous tempest were on him. Interjecting half-formed phrases, and now and then staring at Emilia, as at an incomprehensible object, he worked at his hair till it lent him the look of one in horror at an apparition.
"The fellow's going to marry Lady Charlotte Chillingworth, I tell you. He has asked my permission. The infernal scamp! he knew it pleased me. He bled me of a thousand pounds only the other day. I tell you, he's going to marry Lady Charlotte Chillingworth."
Emilia received this statement with a most perplexing smile. She shook her head. "He cannot."
"Cannot? I say he shall, and must, and in a couple of months, too!"
The gravely sceptical smile on Emilia's face changed to a blank pallor.
"Then, you make him, sir--you?"
"He'll be a beggar, if he don't."
"You will keep him without money?"
Mr. Pole felt that he gazed on strange deeps in that girl's face. Her voice had the wire-like hum of a rising wind. There was no menace in her eyes: the lashes of them drooped almost tenderly, and the lips were but softly closed. The heaving of the bosom, though weighty, was regular: the hands hung straight down, and were open. She looked harmless; but his physical apprehensiveness was sharpened by his nervous condition, and he read power in her: the capacity to concentrate all animal and mental vigour into one feeling--this being the power of the soul.
So she stood, breathing quietly, steadily eyeing him.
"No, no;" went on Mr. Pole. "Come, come. We'll sit down, and see, and talk--see what can be done. You know I always meant kindly by you."
"Oh, yes!" Emilia musically murmured, and it cost her nothing to smile again.
"Now, tell me how this began." Mr. Pole settled himself comfortably to listen, all irritation having apparently left him, under the influence of the dominant nature. "You need not be ashamed to talk it over to me."
"I am not ashamed," Emilia led off, and told her tale simply, with here and there one of her peculiar illustrations. She had not thought of love till it came to life suddenly, she said; and then all the world looked different. The relation of Wilfrid's bravery in fighting for her, varied for a single instant the low monotony of her voice. At the close of the confession, Mr. Pole wore an aspect of distress. This creature's utter unlikeness to the girls he was accustomed to, corroborated his personal view of the case, that Wilfrid certainly could not have been serious, and that she was deluded. But he pitied her, for he had sufficient imagination to prevent him from despising what he did not altogether comprehend. So, to fortify the damsel, he gave her a lecture: first, on young men--their selfish inconsiderateness, their weakness, the wanton lives they led, their trick of lying for any sugar-plum, and how they laughed at their dupes. Secondly, as to the conduct consequently to be prescribed to girls, who were weaker, frailer, by disposition more confiding, and who must believe nothing but what they heard their elders say.
Emilia gave patient heed to the lecture.
"But I am safe," she remarked, when he had finished; "for my lover is not as those young men are."
To speak at all, and arrange his ideas, was a vexation to the poor merchant. He was here like an irritable traveller, who knocks at a gate, which makes as if it opens, without letting him in. Emilia's naive confidence he read as stupidity. It brought on a fresh access of the nervous fever lurking in him, and he cried, jumping from his seat: "Well, you can't have him, and there's an end. You must give up--confound! why! do you expect to have everything you want at starting? There, my child--but, upon my honour! a man loses his temper at having to talk for an hour or so, and no result. You must go to bed; and--do you say your prayers? Well! that's one way of getting out of it--pray that you may forget all about
