CHAPTER XCIII.
A TRUE LOVER.
Hetta Carbury, out of the fulness of her heart, having made up hermind that she had been unjust to her lover, wrote to him a letterfull of penitence, full of love, telling him at great length allthe details of her meeting with Mrs. Hurtle, and bidding him comeback to her, and bring the brooch with him. But this letter she hadunfortunately addressed to the Beargarden, as he had written to herfrom that club; and partly through his own fault, and partly throughthe demoralisation of that once perfect establishment, the letternever reached his hands. When, therefore, he returned to London hewas justified in supposing that she had refused even to notice hisappeal. He was, however, determined that he would still make furtherstruggles. He had, he felt, to contend with many difficulties. Mrs.Hurtle, Roger Carbury, and Hetta's mother were, he thought, allinimical to him. Mrs. Hurtle, though she had declared that she wouldnot rage as a lioness, could hardly be his friend in the matter.Roger had repeatedly declared his determination to regard him asa traitor. And Lady Carbury, as he well knew, had always been andalways would be opposed to the match. But Hetta had owned that sheloved him, had submitted to his caresses, and had been proud ofhis admiration. And Paul, though he did not probably analyze verycarefully the character of his beloved, still felt instinctivelythat, having so far prevailed with such a girl, his prospects couldnot be altogether hopeless. And yet how should he continue thestruggle? With what weapons should he carry on the fight? The writingof letters is but a one-sided, troublesome proceeding, when theperson to whom they are written will not answer them; and the callingat a door at which the servant has been instructed to refuse avisitor admission, becomes, disagreeable,--if not degrading,--after atime.
But Hetta had written a second epistle,--not to her lover, but to onewho received his letters with more regularity. When she rashly andwith precipitate wrath quarrelled with Paul Montague, she at oncecommunicated the fact to her mother, and through her mother to hercousin Roger. Though she would not recognise Roger as a lover, shedid acknowledge him to be the head of her family, and her own specialfriend, and entitled in some special way to know all that she herselfdid, and all that was done in regard to her. She therefore wrote toher cousin, telling him that she had made a mistake about Paul, thatshe was convinced that Paul had always behaved to her with absolutesincerity, and, in short, that Paul was the best, and dearest, andmost ill-used of human beings. In her enthusiasm she went on todeclare that there could be no other chance of happiness for her inthis world than that of becoming Paul's wife, and to beseech herdearest friend and cousin Roger not to turn against her, but to lendher an aiding hand. There are those whom strong words in lettersnever affect at all,--who, perhaps, hardly read them, and take whatthey do read as meaning no more than half what is said. But RogerCarbury was certainly not one of these. As he sat on the garden wallat Carbury, with his cousin's letter in his hand, her words hadtheir full weight with him. He did not try to convince himselfthat all this was the verbiage of an enthusiastic girl, who mightsoon be turned and trained to another mode of thinking by fittingadmonitions. To him now, as he read and re-read Hetta's lettersitting on the wall, there was not at any rate further hope forhimself. Though he was altogether unchanged himself, though he wasaltogether incapable of change,--though he could not rally himselfsufficiently to look forward to even a passive enjoyment of lifewithout the girl whom he had loved,--yet he told himself what hebelieved to be the truth. At last he owned directly and plainly that,whether happy or unhappy, he must do without her. He had let timeslip by with him too fast and too far before he had ventured to love.He must now stomach his disappointment, and make the best he couldof such a broken, ill-conditioned life as was left to him. But, ifhe acknowledged this,--and he did acknowledge it,--in what fashionshould he in future treat the man and woman who had reduced him solow?
At this moment his mind was tuned to high thoughts. If it werepossible he would be unselfish. He could not, indeed, bring himselfto think with kindness of Paul Montague. He could not say to himselfthat the man had not been treacherous to him, nor could he forgivethe man's supposed treason. But he did tell himself very plainly thatin comparison with Hetta the man was nothing to him. It could hardlybe worth his while to maintain a quarrel with the man if he were onceable to assure Hetta that she, as the wife of another man, shouldstill be dear to him as a friend might be dear. He was well awarethat such assurance, such forgiveness, must contain very much. If itwere to be so, Hetta's child must take the name of Carbury, and mustbe to him as his heir,--as near as possible his own child. In herfavour he must throw aside that law of primogeniture which to him wasso sacred that he had been hitherto minded to make Sir Felix his heirin spite of the absolute unfitness of the wretched young man. Allthis must be changed, should he be able to persuade himself to givehis consent to the marriage. In such case Carbury must be the homeof the married couple, as far as he could induce them to make itso. There must be born the future infant to whose existence he wasalready looking forward with some idea that in his old age he mightthere find comfort. In such case, though he should never again beable to love Paul Montague in his heart of hearts, he must livewith him for her sake on affectionate terms. He must forgive Hettaaltogether,--as though there had been no fault; and he must strive toforgive the man's fault as best he might. Struggling as he was to begenerous, passionately fond as he was of justice, yet he did not knowhow to be just himself. He could not see that he in truth had been tono extent ill-used. And ever and again, as he thought of the greatprayer as to the forgiveness of trespasses, he could not refrain fromasking himself whether it could really be intended that he shouldforgive such trespass as that committed against him by Paul Montague!Nevertheless, when he rose from the wall he had resolved that Hettashould be pardoned entirely, and that Paul Montague should be treatedas though he were pardoned. As for himself,--the chances of the worldhad been unkind to him, and he would submit to them!
Nevertheless he wrote no answer to Hetta's letter. Perhaps he felt,with some undefined but still existing hope, that the writing of sucha letter would deprive him of his last chance. Hetta's letter tohimself hardly required an immediate answer,--did not, indeed, demandany answer. She had simply told him that, whereas she had for certainreasons quarrelled with the man she had loved, she had now come tothe conclusion that she would quarrel with him no longer. She hadasked for her cousin's assent to her own views, but that, as Rogerfelt, was to be given rather by the discontinuance of opposition thanby any positive action. Roger's influence with her mother was theassistance which Hetta really wanted from him, and that influencecould hardly be given by the writing of any letter. Thinking of allthis, Roger determined that he would again go up to London. He wouldhave the vacant hours of the journey in which to think of it allagain, and tell himself whether it was possible for him to bring hisheart to agree to the marriage;--and then he would see the people,and perhaps learn something further from their manner and theirwords, before he finally committed himself to the abandonment of hisown hopes and the completion of theirs.
He went up to town, and I do not know that those vacant hours servedhim much. To a man not accustomed to thinking there is nothing inthe world so difficult as to think. After some loose fashion we turnover things in our mind and ultimately reach some decision, guidedprobably by our feelings at the last moment rather than by anyprocess of ratiocination;--and then we think that we have thought.But to follow out one argument to an end, and then to found on thebase so reached the commencement of another, is not common to us.Such a process was hardly within the compass of Roger's mind,--whowhen he was made wretched by the dust, and by a female who had abasket of objectionable provisions opposite to him, almost forsworehis charitable resolutions of the day before; but who again, as hewalked lonely at night round the square which was near to his hotel,looking up at the bright moon with a full appreciation of the beautyof the heavens, asked himself what was he that he should wish tointerfere with the happiness of two human beings much younger
thanhimself, and much fitter to enjoy the world. But he had had a bath,and had got rid of the dust, and had eaten his dinner.
The next morning he was in Welbeck Street at an early hour. When heknocked he had not made up his mind whether he would ask for LadyCarbury or her daughter, and did at last inquire whether "the ladies"were at home. The ladies were reported as being at home, and he wasat once shown into the drawing-room, where Hetta was sitting. Shehurried up to him, and he at once took her in his arms and kissedher. He had never done such a thing before. He had never even kissedher hand. Though they were cousins and dear friends, he had nevertreated her after that fashion. Her instinct told her immediatelythat such a greeting from him was a sign of affectionate compliancewith her wishes. That this man should kiss her as her best anddearest relation, as her most trusted friend, as almost her brother,was certainly to her no offence. She could cling to him in fondestlove,--if he would only consent not to be her lover. "Oh, Roger, I amso glad to see you," she said, escaping gently from his arms.
"I could not write an answer, and so I came."
"You always do the kindest thing that can be done."
"I don't know. I don't know that I can do anything now,--kind orunkind. It is all done without any aid from me. Hetta, you have beenall the world to me."
"Do not reproach me," she said.
"No;--no. Why should I reproach you? You have committed no fault. Ishould not have come had I intended to reproach any one."
"I love you so much for saying that."
"Let it be as you wish it,--if it must. I have made up my mind tobear it, and there shall be an end of it." As he said this he tookher by the hand, and she put her head upon his shoulder and began toweep. "And still you will be all the world to me," he continued, withhis arm round her waist. "As you will not be my wife, you shall be mydaughter."
"I will be your sister, Roger."
"My daughter rather. You shall be all that I have in the world. Iwill hurry to grow old that I may feel for you as the old feel forthe young. And if you have a child, Hetta, he must be my child." Ashe thus spoke her tears were renewed. "I have planned it all out inmy mind, dear. There! If there be anything that I can do to add toyour happiness, I will do it. You must believe this of me,--that tomake you happy shall be the only enjoyment of my life."
It had been hardly possible for her to tell him as yet that theman to whom he was thus consenting to surrender her had not evencondescended to answer the letter in which she had told him to comeback to her. And now, sobbing as she was, overcome by the tendernessof her cousin's affection, anxious to express her intense gratitude,she did not know how first to mention the name of Paul Montague."Have you seen him?" she said in a whisper.
"Seen whom?"
"Mr. Montague."
"No;--why should I have seen him? It is not for his sake that I amhere."
"But you will be his friend?"
"Your husband shall certainly be my friend;--or, if not, the faultshall not be mine. It shall all be forgotten, Hetta,--as nearly assuch things may be forgotten. But I had nothing to say to him tillI had seen you." At that moment the door was opened and Lady Carburyentered the room, and, after her greeting with her cousin, lookedfirst at her daughter and then at Roger. "I have come up," said he,"to signify my adhesion to this marriage." Lady Carbury's face fellvery low. "I need not speak again of what were my own wishes. I havelearned at last that it could not have been so."
"Why should you say so?" exclaimed Lady Carbury.
"Pray, pray, mamma--," Hetta began, but was unable to find words withwhich to go on with her prayer.
"I do not know that it need be so at all," continued Lady Carbury. "Ithink it is very much in your own hands. Of course it is not for meto press such an arrangement, if it be not in accord with your ownwishes."
"I look upon her as engaged to marry Paul Montague," said Roger.
"Not at all," said Lady Carbury.
"Yes; mamma,--yes," cried Hetta boldly. "It is so. I am engaged tohim."
"I beg to let your cousin know that it is not so with myconsent,--nor, as far as I can understand at present, with theconsent of Mr. Montague himself."
"Mamma!"
"Paul Montague!" ejaculated Roger Carbury. "The consent of PaulMontague! I think I may take upon myself to say that there can be nodoubt as to that."
"There has been a quarrel," said Lady Carbury.
"Surely he has not quarrelled with you, Hetta?"
"I wrote to him,--and he has not answered me," said Hetta piteously.
Then Lady Carbury gave a full and somewhat coloured account of whathad taken place, while Roger listened with admirable patience. "Themarriage is on every account objectionable," she said at last. "Hismeans are precarious. His conduct with regard to that woman has beenvery bad. He has been sadly mixed up with that wretched man whodestroyed himself. And now, when Henrietta has written to him withoutmy sanction,--in opposition to my express commands,--he takes nonotice of her. She, very properly, sent him back a present that hemade her, and no doubt he has resented her doing so. I trust that hisresentment may be continued."
Hetta was now seated on a sofa hiding her face and weeping. Rogerstood perfectly still, listening with respectful silence till LadyCarbury had spoken her last word. And even then he was slow toanswer, considering what he might best say. "I think I had better seehim," he replied. "If, as I imagine, he has not received my cousin'sletter, that matter will be set at rest. We must not take advantageof such an accident as that. As to his income,--that I think may bemanaged. His connection with Mr. Melmotte was unfortunate, but wasdue to no fault of his." At this moment he could not but rememberLady Carbury's great anxiety to be closely connected with Melmotte,but he was too generous to say a word on that head. "I will see him,Lady Carbury, and then I will come to you again."
Lady Carbury did not dare to tell him that she did not wish him tosee Paul Montague. She knew that if he really threw himself intothe scale against her, her opposition would weigh nothing. He wastoo powerful in his honesty and greatness of character,--and hadbeen too often admitted by herself to be the guardian angel of thefamily,--for her to stand against him. But she still thought that hadhe persevered, Hetta would have become his wife.
It was late that evening before Roger found Paul Montague, who hadonly then returned from Liverpool with Fisker,--whose subsequentdoings have been recorded somewhat out of their turn.
"I don't know what letter you mean," said Paul.
"You wrote to her?"
"Certainly I wrote to her. I wrote to her twice. My last letter wasone which I think she ought to have answered. She had accepted me,and had given me a right to tell my own story when she unfortunatelyheard from other sources the story of my journey to Lowestoft withMrs. Hurtle." Paul pleaded his own case with indignant heat, notunderstanding at first that Roger had come to him on a friendlymission.
"She did answer your letter."
"I have not had a line from her;--not a word!"
"She did answer your letter."
"What did she say to me?"
"Nay,--you must ask her that."
"But if she will not see me?"
"She will see you. I can tell you that. And I will tell you thisalso;--that she wrote to you as a girl writes to the lover whom shedoes wish to see."
"Is that true?" exclaimed Paul, jumping up.
"I am here especially to tell you that it is true. I should hardlycome on such a mission if there were a doubt. You may go to her, andneed have nothing to fear,--unless, indeed, it be the opposition ofher mother."
"She is stronger than her mother," said Paul.
"I think she is. And now I wish you to hear what I have to say."
"Of course," said Paul, sitting down suddenly. Up to this momentRoger Carbury, though he had certainly brought glad tidings, hadnot communicated them as a joyous, sympathetic messenger. His facehad been severe, and the tone of his voice almost harsh; and Paul,remembering well the words of the last letter which his old friendhad w
ritten him, did not expect personal kindness. Roger wouldprobably say very disagreeable things to him, which he must bear withall the patience which he could summon to his assistance.
"You know what my feelings have been," Roger began, "and how deeplyI have resented what I thought to be an interference with myaffections. But no quarrel between you and me, whatever the rights ofit may be--"
"I have never quarrelled with you," Paul began.
"If you will listen to me for a moment it will be better. No angerbetween you and me, let it arise as it might, should be allowed tointerfere with the happiness of her whom I suppose we both lovebetter than all the rest of the world put together."
"I do," said Paul.
"And so do I;--and so I always shall. But she is to be your wife. Sheshall be my daughter. She shall have my property,--or her child shallbe my heir. My house shall be her house,--if you and she will consentto make it so. You will not be afraid of me. You know me, I think,too well for that. You may now count on any assistance you couldhave from me were I a father giving you a daughter in marriage. I dothis because I will make the happiness of her life the chief objectof mine. Now good night. Don't say anything about it at present.By-and-by we shall be able to talk about these things with moreequable temper." Having so spoken he hurried out of the room, leavingPaul Montague bewildered by the tidings which had been announced tohim.
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