"I don't know that he has done anything of the kind," said Mr. Wharton, who was vacillating between different opinions. He did in his heart believe that the Portuguese whom he so hated had saved his son from the thieves, and he also had almost come to the conviction that he must give his daughter to the man,—but at the same time he could not as yet bring himself to abandon his opposition to the marriage.
"Perhaps you think the story is not true."
"I don't doubt the story in the least. Of course one man sticks to another in such an affair, and I have no doubt that Mr. Lopez behaved as any English gentleman would."
"Any English gentleman, papa, would have to come afterwards and see the friend he had saved. Don't you think so?"
"Oh, yes;—he might call."
"And Mr. Lopez will have an additional reason for calling,—and I know he will come. Don't you think he will come?"
"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."