As he made this resolve, something like real love returned to his heart, and he became for a while sick with regret.He assured himself that he had loved her, and that he could love her still;--but why had she not been true to him? Why had she clung to her father instead of clinging to her husband? Why had she not learnt his ways,--as a wife is bound to learn the ways of the man she marries? Why had she not helped him in his devices, fallen into his plans, been regardful of his fortunes, and made herself one with him? There had been present to him at times an idea that if he could take her away with him to that distant country to which he thought to go, and thus remove her from the upas influence of her father's roof-tree, she would then fall into his views and become his wife indeed.Then he would again be tender to her, again love her, again endeavour to make the world soft to her.But it was too late now for that.He had failed in everything as far as England was concerned, and it was chiefly by her fault that he had failed.He would consent to leave her;--but, as he thought of it in solitude, his eyes became moist with regret.

In these days Mr Wharton never came home till about midnight, and then passed rapidly through the hall to his own room,--and in the morning had his breakfast brought to him in the same room, so that he might not even see his son-in-law.His daughter would go to him when at breakfast, and there, together for some half-hour, they would endeavour to look forward to their future fate.But hitherto they had never been able to look forward in accord, as she still persisted in declaring that if her husband bade her to go with him,--she would go.On this night Lopez sat up in the dining-room, and as soon as he heard Mr Wharton's key in the door, he placed himself in the hall.'I wish to speak to you to-night, sir,' he said.'Would you object to come in for a few moments?' Then Mr Wharton followed him into the room.'As we live now,' continued Lopez, 'I have not had much opportunity of speaking to you, even on business.'

'Well, sir; you can speak now,--if you have anything to say.'

'The 5,000 pounds you promised me must be paid to-morrow.It is the last day.'

'I promised it only on certain conditions.Had you complied with them the money would have been paid before.'

'Just so.The conditions were very hard, Mr Wharton.It surprises me that such a one as you should think it right to separate a husband from his wife.'

'I think it right, sir, to separate my daughter from such a one as you are.I thought so before, but I think so doubly now.If I can secure your absence in Guatemala by the payment of this money, and if you will give me a document that shall be prepared by Mr Walker and signed by yourself, assuring your wife that you will not hereafter call upon her to live with you, the money shall be paid.'

'All that will take time, Mr Wharton.'

'I will not pay a penny without it.I can meet you at the office in Coleman Street to-morrow, and doubtless they will accept my written assurance to pay the money as soon as those stipulations shall be complied with.'

'That would disgrace me in the office, Mr Wharton.'

'And are you not disgraced there already? Can you tell me that they have not heard of your conduct in Coleman Street, or that hearing it they disregard it?' His son-in-law stood frowning at him, but did not at the moment say a word.'Nevertheless, I will meet you there if you please, at any time that you may name, and if they do not object to employ such a man as their manager, Ishall not object on their behalf.'

'To the last you are hard and cruel to me,' said Lopez;--'but Iwill meet you at Coleman Street at eleven to-morrow.' Then Mr Wharton left the room, and Lopez was there alone amidst the gloom of the heavy curtains and the dark paper.A London dining-room at night is always dark, cavernous, and unlovely.The very pictures on the walls lacked brightness, and the furniture is black and heavy.This room was large, but old-fashioned and very dark.Here Lopez walked up and down after Mr Wharton had left him, trying to think how far Fate and how far he himself were responsible for his present misfortunes.No doubt he had begun the world well.His father had been little better than a travelling pedlar, but had made some money by selling jewellery, and had educated his son.Lopez could on no score impute blame to his father for what had happened to him.And, when he thought of the means at his disposal in his early youth, he felt that he had a right to boast of some success.He had worked hard, and had won his way upwards, and had almost lodged himself securely among those people with whom it had been his ambition to live.

Early in life he had found himself among those who were called gentlemen and ladies.He had been able to assume their manners, and had lived with them on equal terms.When thinking of his past life he never forgot to remind himself that he had been a guest at the house of the Duke of Omnium! And yet how far was it with him now? He was penniless.He was rejected by his father-in-law.He was feared, and, as he thought, detested, by his wife.He was expelled from his club.He was cut by his old friends.And he had been told very plainly by the Secretary in Coleman Street that his presence there was no longer desired.

What should he do with himself if Mr Wharton's money were now refused, and if the appointment in Guatemala were denied to him?