from her. All this Mr. Wharton told very plainly, walking
with Arthur a little before dinner along a shaded, lonely path, which
for half a mile ran along the very marge of the Wye at the bottom of
the park. And then he went on to speak other words which seemed to
rob his young friend of all hope. The old man was walking slowly,
with his hands clasped behind his back and with his eyes fixed on the
path as he went;--and he spoke slowly, evidently weighing his words
as he uttered them, bringing home to his hearer a conviction that the
matter discussed was one of supreme importance to the speaker,--as to
which he had thought much, so as to be able to express his settled
resolutions. "I've told you all now, Arthur;--only this. I do not
know how long I may be able to resist this man's claim if it be
backed by Emily's entreaties. I am thinking very much about it. I do
not know that I have really been able to think of anything else for
the last two months. It is all the world to me,--what she and Everett
do with themselves; and what she may do in this matter of marriage
is of infinitely greater importance than anything that can befall
him. If he makes a mistake, it may be put right. But with a woman's
marrying--, vestigia nulla retrorsum. She has put off all her old
bonds and taken new ones, which must be her bonds for life. Feeling
this very strongly, and disliking this man greatly,--disliking him,
that is to say, in the view of this close relation,--I have felt
myself to be justified in so far opposing my child by the use of a
high hand. I have refused my sanction to the marriage both to him and
to her,--though in truth I have been hard set to find any adequate
reason for doing so. I have no right to fashion my girl's life by my
prejudices. My life has been lived. Hers is to come. In this matter I
should be cruel and unnatural were I to allow myself to be governed
by any selfish inclination. Though I were to know that she would
be lost to me for ever, I must give way,--if once brought to a
conviction that by not giving way I should sacrifice her young
happiness. In this matter, Arthur, I must not even think of you,
though I love you well. I must consider only my child's welfare;--and
in doing so I must try to sift my own feelings and my own judgment,
and ascertain, if it be possible, whether my distaste to the man is
reasonable or irrational;--whether I should serve her or sacrifice
her by obstinacy of refusal. I can speak to