“Sit down,” he said, “and let us talk this over. I don’t blame you, Oliver. I can understand that you were not seriously to blame; and, if no harm is done—I suppose you will promise me that it shall not occur again.”
“Well, Sir,” said Harry, “that is just what I should like to be able to do; but seeing I was such a fool as to do it once, how can I tell that I may not be a greater fool again? especially as then I did not know anything about it, whereas I know all about it now.”
“That is just the reason,” said Mr. Bonamy. “Now you are on your guard, and you will know when to be watchful. I can’t give you permission to make love to—my daughter, Oliver. I suppose you did not expect I could?”
“Oh, no,” cried Harry, eagerly; “not in the least. I could not, of course, even if you did, for I have no money. I could no more marry than I could fly.”
“Marry!” cried the Vice-Consul. The young man said the word in the most matter-of-fact way, but it took away the other’s breath. “Do you know what you are doing?” he cried; “you are putting a knife to my throat. Marry! That means that if you could you would break up this home of mine in which you confess you have been received so kindly. You would rob me of all I have. You would take from me everything that makes life precious. For what, young man, for what? Because you admire a pretty face! You don’t know any more of her—I am not sure that you are able to appreciate any more of her. But she is everything in the world—she is all that makes life worth living—to me.”
Harry threw down the bundle of papers and looked across the table with the intensest astonishment. “Do you mean,” he said, “that you don’t intend her ever to be married at all? Is nobody to have the chance? Is she always to be kept up in one place, and never to settle, nor have her own choice and her own life?”
Mr. Bonamy felt as if he were being stoned—one solid, heavy fact tossed at him after another; and looked at his questioner with a sort of gasp between the blows. He faltered after a while, “She is very young. She has everything that her heart can desire. Why should she not be content, at least for years to come, in her father’s house?”
“I always understood, Sir,” said Harry, with his usual straightforwardness, “that the right thing for girls was to marry when they were young, and that parents were supposed to wish it.”
“To scheme for it, perhaps?” said Mr. Bonamy, furiously, “and put out all sorts of snares to catch young fellows like you—eh? To lay traps for you, and lead you on, and give you encouragement and opportunity, and so forth? Perhaps you think that’s what I’ve been doing—eh? God forgive me,” he said, “in my day I’ve said that sort of thing, and believed it myself; I’ve sneered and scoffed like the rest—and now I’ve got my punishment. You think there is nothing so fine for a girl as to get married—eh?”
Harry was struck with consternation by this attack; but yet, feeling that he had right on his side, he stood his ground. “I am not saying anything about you, Sir,” he said, “but surely it is thought the best thing that could happen. I’ve always heard it. Fathers and mothers, you know, Sir, don’t generally live as long as their children—at least, that is what is supposed—and they like to see their daughters settled, don’t they, before they die?”