The Way We Live Now

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XCIX.

  LADY CARBURY AND MR. BROUNE.

  When Sir Felix Carbury declared to his friends at the Beargarden thathe intended to devote the next few months of his life to foreigntravel, and that it was his purpose to take with him a Protestantdivine,--as was much the habit with young men of rank and fortunesome years since,--he was not altogether lying. There was indeeda sounder basis of truth than was usually to be found attached tohis statements. That he should have intended to produce a falseimpression was a matter of course,--and nearly equally so that heshould have made his attempt by asserting things which he must haveknown that no one would believe. He was going to Germany, and he wasgoing in company with a clergyman, and it had been decided that heshould remain there for the next twelve months. A representation hadlately been made to the Bishop of London that the English Protestantssettled in a certain commercial town in the north-eastern district ofPrussia were without pastoral aid, and the bishop had stirred himselfin the matter. A clergyman was found willing to expatriate himself,but the income suggested was very small. The Protestant Englishpopulation of the commercial town in question, though pious, was notliberal. It had come to pass that the "Morning Breakfast Table" hadinterested itself in the matter, having appealed for subscriptionsafter a manner not unusual with that paper. The bishop and all thoseconcerned in the matter had fully understood that if the "MorningBreakfast Table" could be got to take the matter up heartily, thething would be done. The heartiness had been so complete that it hadat last devolved upon Mr. Broune to appoint the clergyman; and, aswith all the aid that could be found, the income was still small, theRev. Septimus Blake,--a brand snatched from the burning of Rome,--hadbeen induced to undertake the maintenance and total charge of SirFelix Carbury for a consideration. Mr. Broune imparted to Mr. Blakeall that there was to know about the baronet, giving much counselas to the management of the young man, and specially enjoiningon the clergyman that he should on no account give Sir Felix themeans of returning home. It was evidently Mr. Broune's anxious wishthat Sir Felix should see as much as possible of German life, at acomparatively moderate expenditure, and under circumstances thatshould be externally respectable if not absolutely those which ayoung gentleman might choose for his own comfort or profit;--butespecially that those circumstances should not admit of the speedyreturn to England of the young gentleman himself.

  Lady Carbury had at first opposed the scheme. Terribly difficultas was to her the burden of maintaining her son, she could notendure the idea of driving him into exile. But Mr. Broune was veryobstinate, very reasonable, and, as she thought, somewhat hard ofheart. "What is to be the end of it then?" he said to her, almost inanger. For in those days the great editor, when in presence of LadyCarbury, differed very much from that Mr. Broune who used to squeezeher hand and look into her eyes. His manner with her had become sodifferent that she regarded him as quite another person. She hardlydared to contradict him, and found herself almost compelled to tellhim what she really felt and thought. "Do you mean to let him eatup everything you have to your last shilling, and then go to theworkhouse with him?"

  "Oh, my friend, you know how I am struggling! Do not say such horridthings."

  "It is because I know how you are struggling that I find myselfcompelled to say anything on the subject. What hardship will there bein his living for twelve months with a clergyman in Prussia? What canhe do better? What better chance can he have of being weaned from thelife he is leading?"

  "If he could only be married!"

  "Married! Who is to marry him? Why should any girl with money throwherself away upon him?"

  "He is so handsome."

  "What has his beauty brought him to? Lady Carbury, you must let metell you that all that is not only foolish but wrong. If you keep himhere you will help to ruin him, and will certainly ruin yourself. Hehas agreed to go;--let him go."

  She was forced to yield. Indeed, as Sir Felix had himself assented,it was almost impossible that she should not do so. Perhaps Mr.Broune's greatest triumph was due to the talent and firmness withwhich he persuaded Sir Felix to start upon his travels. "Yourmother," said Mr. Broune, "has made up her mind that she willnot absolutely beggar your sister and herself in order that yourindulgence may be prolonged for a few months. She cannot make yougo to Germany of course. But she can turn you out of her house, and,unless you go, she will do so."

  "I don't think she ever said that, Mr. Broune."

  "No;--she has not said so. But I have said it for her in herpresence; and she has acknowledged that it must necessarily be so.You may take my word as a gentleman that it will be so. If you takeher advice L175 a year will be paid for your maintenance;--but if youremain in England not a shilling further will be paid." He had nomoney. His last sovereign was all but gone. Not a tradesman wouldgive him credit for a coat or a pair of boots. The key of thedoor had been taken away from him. The very page treated him withcontumely. His clothes were becoming rusty. There was no prospectof amusement for him during the coming autumn or winter. He did notanticipate much excitement in Eastern Prussia, but he thought thatany change must be a change for the better. He assented, therefore,to the proposition made by Mr. Broune, was duly introduced to theRev. Septimus Blake, and, as he spent his last sovereign on a lastdinner at the Beargarden, explained his intentions for the immediatefuture to those friends at his club who would no doubt mourn hisdeparture.

  Mr. Blake and Mr. Broune between them did not allow the grass togrow under their feet. Before the end of August Sir Felix, withMr. and Mrs. Blake and the young Blakes, had embarked from Hullfor Hamburgh,--having extracted at the very hour of parting a lastfive-pound note from his foolish mother. "It will be just enough tobring him home," said Mr. Broune with angry energy when he was toldof this. But Lady Carbury, who knew her son well, assured him thatFelix would be restrained in his expenditure by no such prudence assuch a purpose would indicate. "It will be gone," she said, "longbefore they reach their destination."

  "Then why the deuce should you give it him?" said Mr. Broune.

  Mr. Broune's anxiety had been so intense that he had paid half ayear's allowance in advance to Mr. Blake out of his own pocket.Indeed, he had paid various sums for Lady Carbury,--so that thatunfortunate woman would often tell herself that she was becomingsubject to the great editor, almost like a slave. He came to her,three or four times a week, at about nine o'clock in the evening, andgave her instructions as to all that she should do. "I wouldn't writeanother novel if I were you," he said. This was hard, as the writingof novels was her great ambition, and she had flattered herself thatthe one novel which she had written was good. Mr. Broune's own critichad declared it to be very good in glowing language. The "EveningPulpit" had of course abused it,--because it is the nature of the"Evening Pulpit" to abuse. So she had argued with herself, tellingherself that the praise was all true, whereas the censure had comefrom malice. After that article in the "Breakfast Table," it did seemhard that Mr. Broune should tell her to write no more novels. Shelooked up at him piteously but said nothing. "I don't think you'dfind it answer. Of course you can do it as well as a great manyothers. But then that is saying so little!"

  "I thought I could make some money."

  "I don't think Mr. Leadham would hold out to you very high hopes;--Idon't, indeed. I think I would turn to something else."

  "It is so very hard to get paid for what one does."

  To this Mr. Broune made no immediate answer; but, after sitting fora while, almost in silence, he took his leave. On that very morningLady Carbury had parted from her son. She was soon about to part fromher daughter, and she was very sad. She felt that she could hardlykeep up that house in Welbeck Street for herself, even if her meanspermitted it. What should she do with herself? Whither should shetake herself? Perhaps the bitterest drop in her cup had come fromthose words of Mr. Broune forbidding her to write more novels. Afterall, then, she was not a clever woman,--not more clever than otherwomen around her! That very morning she had prided herself on hercoming succ
ess as a novelist, basing all her hopes on that review inthe "Breakfast Table." Now, with that reaction of spirits which is socommon to all of us, she was more than equally despondent. He wouldnot thus have crushed her without a reason. Though he was hard to hernow,--he who used to be so soft,--he was very good. It did not occurto her to rebel against him. After what he had said, of course therewould be no more praise in the "Breakfast Table,"--and, equally ofcourse, no novel of hers could succeed without that. The more shethought of him, the more omnipotent he seemed to be. The more shethought of herself, the more absolutely prostrate she seemed to havefallen from those high hopes with which she had begun her literarycareer not much more than twelve months ago.

  On the next day he did not come to her at all, and she sat idle,wretched, and alone. She could not interest herself in Hetta's comingmarriage, as that marriage was in direct opposition to one of herbroken schemes. She had not ventured to confess so much to Mr.Broune, but she had in truth written the first pages of the firstchapter of a second novel. It was impossible now that she should evenlook at what she had written. All this made her very sad. She spentthe evening quite alone; for Hetta was staying down in Suffolk, withher cousin's friend, Mrs. Yeld, the bishop's wife; and as she thoughtof her life past and her life to come, she did, perhaps, with abroken light, see something of the error of her ways, and did, aftera fashion, repent. It was all "leather or prunello," as she said toherself;--it was all vanity,--and vanity,--and vanity! What realenjoyment had she found in anything? She had only taught herself tobelieve that some day something would come which she would like;--butshe had never as yet in truth found anything to like. It had all beenin anticipation,--but now even her anticipations were at an end. Mr.Broune had sent her son away, had forbidden her to write any morenovels,--and had been refused when he had asked her to marry him!

  The next day he came to her as usual, and found her still verywretched. "I shall give up this house," she said. "I can't afford tokeep it; and in truth I shall not want it. I don't in the least knowwhere to go, but I don't think that it much signifies. Any place willbe the same to me now."

  "I don't see why you should say that."

  "What does it matter?"

  "You wouldn't think of going out of London."

  "Why not? I suppose I had better go wherever I can live cheapest."

  "I should be sorry that you should be settled where I could not seeyou," said Mr. Broune plaintively.

  "So shall I,--very. You have been more kind to me than anybody.But what am I to do? If I stay in London I can live only in somemiserable lodgings. I know you will laugh at me, and tell me that Iam wrong; but my idea is that I shall follow Felix wherever he goes,so that I may be near him and help him when he needs help. Hettadoesn't want me. There is nobody else that I can do any good to."

  "I want you," said Mr. Broune, very quietly.

  "Ah,--that is so kind of you. There is nothing makes one so goodas goodness;--nothing binds your friend to you so firmly as theacceptance from him of friendly actions. You say you want me, becauseI have so sadly wanted you. When I go you will simply miss an almostdaily trouble, but where shall I find a friend?"

  "When I said I wanted you, I meant more than that, Lady Carbury. Twoor three months ago I asked you to be my wife. You declined, chiefly,if I understood you rightly, because of your son's position. That hasbeen altered, and therefore I ask you again. I have quite convincedmyself,--not without some doubts, for you shall know all; but, still,I have quite convinced myself,--that such a marriage will bestcontribute to my own happiness. I do not think, dearest, that itwould mar yours."

  This was said with so quiet a voice and so placid a demeanour, thatthe words, though they were too plain to be misunderstood, hardly atfirst brought themselves home to her. Of course he had renewed hisoffer of marriage, but he had done so in a tone which almost made herfeel that the proposition could not be an earnest one. It was notthat she believed that he was joking with her or paying her a poorinsipid compliment. When she thought about it at all, she knew thatit could not be so. But the thing was so improbable! Her opinion ofherself was so poor, she had become so sick of her own vanities andlittlenesses and pretences, that she could not understand that sucha man as this should in truth want to make her his wife. At thismoment she thought less of herself and more of Mr. Broune than eitherperhaps deserved. She sat silent, quite unable to look him in theface, while he kept his place in his arm-chair, lounging back, withhis eyes intent on her countenance. "Well," he said; "what do youthink of it? I never loved you better than I did for refusing mebefore, because I thought that you did so because it was not rightthat I should be embarrassed by your son."

  "That was the reason," she said, almost in a whisper.

  "But I shall love you better still for accepting me now,--if you willaccept me."

  The long vista of her past life appeared before her eyes. Theambition of her youth which had been taught to look only to ahandsome maintenance, the cruelty of her husband which had drivenher to run from him, the further cruelty of his forgiveness when shereturned to him; the calumny which had made her miserable, though shehad never confessed her misery; then her attempts at life in London,her literary successes and failures, and the wretchedness of herson's career;--there had never been happiness, or even comfort, inany of it. Even when her smiles had been sweetest her heart had beenheaviest. Could it be that now at last real peace should be withinher reach, and that tranquillity which comes from an anchor holdingto a firm bottom? Then she remembered that first kiss,--or attemptedkiss,--when, with a sort of pride in her own superiority, she hadtold herself that the man was a susceptible old goose. She certainlyhad not thought then that his susceptibility was of this nature.Nor could she quite understand now whether she had been right then,and that the man's feelings, and almost his nature, had sincechanged,--or whether he had really loved her from first to last. Ashe remained silent it was necessary that she should answer him. "Youcan hardly have thought of it enough," she said.

  "I have thought of it a good deal too. I have been thinking of it forsix months at least."

  "There is so much against me."

  "What is there against you?"

  "They say bad things of me in India."

  "I know all about that," replied Mr. Broune.

  "And Felix!"

  "I think I may say that I know all about that also."

  "And then I have become so poor!"

  "I am not proposing to myself to marry you for your money. Luckilyfor me,--I hope luckily for both of us,--it is not necessary that Ishould do so."

  "And then I seem so to have fallen through in everything. I don'tknow what I've got to give to a man in return for all that you offerto give to me."

  "Yourself," he said, stretching out his right hand to her. And therehe sat with it stretched out,--so that she found herself compelledto put her own into it, or to refuse to do so with very absolutewords. Very slowly she put out her own, and gave it to him withoutlooking at him. Then he drew her towards him, and in a moment she waskneeling at his feet, with her face buried on his knees. Consideringtheir ages perhaps we must say that their attitude was awkward. Theywould certainly have thought so themselves had they imagined thatany one could have seen them. But how many absurdities of the kindare not only held to be pleasant, but almost holy,--as long as theyremain mysteries inspected by no profane eyes! It is not that Ageis ashamed of feeling passion and acknowledging it,--but that thedisplay of it is, without the graces of which Youth is proud, andwhich Age regrets.

  On that occasion there was very little more said between them. He hadcertainly been in earnest, and she had now accepted him. As he wentdown to his office he told himself now that he had done the best, notonly for her but for himself also. And yet I think that she had wonhim more thoroughly by her former refusal than by any other virtue.

  She, as she sat alone, late into the night, became subject to athorough reaction of spirit. That morning the world had been aperfect blank to her. There was no single ob
ject of interest beforeher. Now everything was rose-coloured. This man who had thus boundher to him, who had given her such assured proofs of his affectionand truth, was one of the considerable ones of the world; a man thanwhom few,--so she now told herself,--were greater or more powerful.Was it not a career enough for any woman to be the wife of such aman, to receive his friends, and to shine with his reflected glory?

  Whether her hopes were realised, or,--as human hopes never arerealised,--how far her content was assured, these pages cannot tell;but they must tell that, before the coming winter was over, LadyCarbury became the wife of Mr. Broune, and, in furtherance of her ownresolve, took her husband's name. The house in Welbeck Street waskept, and Mrs. Broune's Tuesday evenings were much more regarded bythe literary world than had been those of Lady Carbury.

  CHAPTER C.

  DOWN IN SUFFOLK.

  It need hardly be said that Paul Montague was not long in adjustinghis affairs with Hetta after the visit which he received from RogerCarbury. Early on the following morning he was once more in WelbeckStreet, taking the brooch with him; and though at first Lady Carburykept up her opposition, she did it after so weak a fashion as tothrow in fact very little difficulty in his way. Hetta understoodperfectly that she was in this matter stronger than her motherand that she need fear nothing, now that Roger Carbury was onher side. "I don't know what you mean to live on," Lady Carburysaid, threatening future evils in a plaintive tone. Hetta repeated,though in other language, the assurance which the young lady madewho declared that if her future husband would consent to live onpotatoes, she would be quite satisfied with the potato-peelings;while Paul made some vague allusion to the satisfactory nature of hisfinal arrangements with the house of Fisker, Montague, and Montague."I don't see anything like an income," said Lady Carbury; "but Isuppose Roger will make it right. He takes everything upon himselfnow it seems." But this was before the halcyon day of Mr. Broune'ssecond offer.

  It was at any rate decided that they were to be married, and the timefixed for the marriage was to be the following spring. When this wasfinally arranged Roger Carbury, who had returned to his own home,conceived the idea that it would be well that Hetta should pass theautumn and if possible the winter also down in Suffolk, so that shemight get used to him in the capacity which he now aspired to fill;and with that object he induced Mrs. Yeld, the Bishop's wife, toinvite her down to the palace. Hetta accepted the invitation and leftLondon before she could hear the tidings of her mother's engagementwith Mr. Broune.

  Roger Carbury had not yielded in this matter,--had not broughthimself to determine that he would recognise Paul and Hettaas acknowledged lovers,--without a fierce inward contest. Twoconvictions had been strong in his mind, both of which were opposedto this recognition,--the first telling him that he would be a fitterhusband for the girl than Paul Montague, and the second assuring himthat Paul had ill-treated him in such a fashion that forgivenesswould be both foolish and unmanly. For Roger, though he wasa religious man, and one anxious to conform to the spirit ofChristianity, would not allow himself to think that an injury shouldbe forgiven unless the man who did the injury repented of his owninjustice. As to giving his coat to the thief who had taken hiscloak,--he told himself that were he and others to be guided bythat precept honest industry would go naked in order that vice andidleness might be comfortably clothed. If any one stole his cloak hewould certainly put that man in prison as soon as possible and notcommence his lenience till the thief should at any rate affect to besorry for his fault. Now, to his thinking, Paul Montague had stolenhis cloak, and were he, Roger, to give way in this matter of hislove, he would be giving Paul his coat also. No! He was bound aftersome fashion to have Paul put into prison; to bring him before ajury, and to get a verdict against him, so that some sentence ofpunishment might be at least pronounced. How then could he yield?

  And Paul Montague had shown himself to be very weak in regard towomen. It might be,--no doubt it was true,--that Mrs. Hurtle'sappearance in England had been distressing to him. But still hehad gone down with her to Lowestoft as her lover, and, to Roger'sthinking, a man who could do that was quite unfit to be the husbandof Hetta Carbury. He would himself tell no tales against Montagueon that head. Even when pressed to do so he had told no tale. Butnot the less was his conviction strong that Hetta ought to know thetruth, and to be induced by that knowledge to reject her youngerlover.

  But then over these convictions there came a third,--equallystrong,--which told him that the girl loved the younger man and didnot love him, and that if he loved the girl it was his duty as aman to prove his love by doing what he could to make her happy. Ashe walked up and down the walk by the moat, with his hands claspedbehind his back, stopping every now and again to sit on the terracewall,--walking there, mile after mile, with his mind intent on theone idea,--he schooled himself to feel that that, and that only,could be his duty. What did love mean if not that? What could be thedevotion which men so often affect to feel if it did not tend toself-sacrifice on behalf of the beloved one? A man would incur anydanger for a woman, would subject himself to any toil,--would evendie for her! But if this were done simply with the object of winningher, where was that real love of which sacrifice of self on behalfof another is the truest proof? So, by degrees, he resolved that thething must be done. The man, though he had been bad to his friend,was not all bad. He was one who might become good in good hands.He, Roger, was too firm of purpose and too honest of heart to buoyhimself up into new hopes by assurances of the man's unfitness.What right had he to think that he could judge of that better thanthe girl herself? And so, when many many miles had been walked, hesucceeded in conquering his own heart,--though in conquering it hecrushed it,--and in bringing himself to the resolve that the energiesof his life should be devoted to the task of making Mrs. PaulMontague a happy woman. We have seen how he acted up to this resolvewhen last in London, withdrawing at any rate all signs of anger fromPaul Montague and behaving with the utmost tenderness to Hetta.

  When he had accomplished that task of conquering his own heart andof assuring himself thoroughly that Hetta was to become his rival'swife, he was, I think, more at ease and less troubled in his spiritthan he had been during those months in which there had still beendoubt. The sort of happiness which he had once pictured to himselfcould certainly never be his. That he would never marry he was quitesure. Indeed he was prepared to settle Carbury on Hetta's eldest boyon condition that such boy should take the old name. He would neverhave a child whom he could in truth call his own. But if he couldinduce these people to live at Carbury, or to live there for at leasta part of the year, so that there should be some life in the place,he thought that he could awaken himself again, and again take aninterest in the property. But as a first step to this he must learnto regard himself as an old man,--as one who had let life pass by toofar for the purposes of his own home, and who must therefore devotehimself to make happy the homes of others.

  So thinking of himself and so resolving, he had told much of hisstory to his friend the Bishop, and as a consequence of thoserevelations Mrs. Yeld had invited Hetta down to the palace. Rogerfelt that he had still much to say to his cousin before her marriagewhich could be said in the country much better than in town, and hewished to teach her to regard Suffolk as the county to which sheshould be attached and in which she was to find her home. The daybefore she came he was over at the palace with the pretence of askingpermission to come and see his cousin soon after her arrival, butin truth with the idea of talking about Hetta to the only friend towhom he had looked for sympathy in his trouble. "As to settling yourproperty on her or her children," said the Bishop, "it is quite outof the question. Your lawyer would not allow you to do it. Wherewould you be if after all you were to marry?"

  "I shall never marry."

  "Very likely not,--but yet you may. How is a man of your age tospeak with certainty of what he will do or what he will not do inthat respect? You can make your will, doing as you please with yourproperty;--and the will, when made, can be re
voked."

  "I think you hardly understand just what I feel," said Roger, "andI know very well that I am unable to explain it. But I wish to actexactly as I would do if she were my daughter, and as if her son, ifshe had a son, would be my natural heir."

  "But, if she were your daughter, her son wouldn't be your naturalheir as long as there was a probability or even a chance that youmight have a son of your own. A man should never put the power, whichproperly belongs to him, out of his own hands. If it does properlybelong to you it must be better with you than elsewhere. I think veryhighly of your cousin, and I have no reason to think otherwise thanwell of the gentleman whom she intends to marry. But it is only humannature to suppose that the fact that your property is still at yourown disposal should have some effect in producing a more completeobservance of your wishes."

  "I do not believe it in the least, my lord," said Roger somewhatangrily.

  "That is because you are so carried away by enthusiasm at thepresent moment as to ignore the ordinary rules of life. There arenot, perhaps, many fathers who have Regans and Gonerils for theirdaughters;--but there are very many who may take a lesson from thefolly of the old king. 'Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown,' thefool said to him, 'when thou gav'st thy golden one away.' The world,I take it, thinks that the fool was right."

  The Bishop did so far succeed that Roger abandoned the idea ofsettling his property on Paul Montague's children. But he was not onthat account the less resolute in his determination to make himselfand his own interests subordinate to those of his cousin. When hecame over, two days afterwards, to see her he found her in thegarden, and walked there with her for a couple of hours. "I hope allour troubles are over now," he said smiling.

  "You mean about Felix," said Hetta,--"and mamma?"

  "No, indeed. As to Felix I think that Lady Carbury has done the bestthing in her power. No doubt she has been advised by Mr. Broune, andMr. Broune seems to be a prudent man. And about your mother herself,I hope that she may now be comfortable. But I was not alluding toFelix and your mother. I was thinking of you--and of myself."

  "I hope that you will never have any troubles."

  "I have had troubles. I mean to speak very freely to you now, dear.I was nearly upset,--what I suppose people call broken-hearted,--whenI was assured that you certainly would never become my wife. I oughtnot to have allowed myself to get into such a frame of mind. I shouldhave known that I was too old to have a chance."

  "Oh, Roger,--it was not that."

  "Well,--that and other things. I should have known it sooner, andhave got over my misery quicker. I should have been more manly andstronger. After all, though love is a wonderful incident in a man'slife, it is not that only that he is here for. I have duties plainlymarked out for me; and as I should never allow myself to be withdrawnfrom them by pleasure, so neither should I by sorrow. But it is donenow. I have conquered my regrets, and I can say with safety that Ilook forward to your presence and Paul's presence at Carbury as thesource of all my future happiness. I will make him welcome as thoughhe were my brother, and you as though you were my daughter. All I askof you is that you will not be chary of your presence there." Sheonly answered him by a close pressure on his arm. "That is what Iwanted to say to you. You will teach yourself to regard me as yourbest and closest friend,--as he on whom you have the strongest rightto depend, of all,--except your husband."

  "There is no teaching necessary for that," she said.

  "As a daughter leans on a father I would have you lean on me, Hetta.You will soon come to find that I am very old. I grow old quickly,and already feel myself to be removed from everything that is youngand foolish."

  "You never were foolish."

  "Nor young either, I sometimes think. But now you must promise methis. You will do all that you can to induce him to make Carbury hisresidence."

  "We have no plans as yet at all, Roger."

  "Then it will be certainly so much the easier for you to fall into myplan. Of course you will be married at Carbury?"

  "What will mamma say?"

  "She will come here, and I am sure will enjoy it. That I regard assettled. Then, after that, let this be your home,--so that you shouldlearn really to care about and to love the place. It will be yourhome really, you know, some of these days. You will have to be Squireof Carbury yourself when I am gone, till you have a son old enoughto fill that exalted position." With all his love to her and hisgood-will to them both, he could not bring himself to say that PaulMontague should be Squire of Carbury.

  "Oh, Roger, please do not talk like that."

  "But it is necessary, my dear. I want you to know what my wishesare, and, if it be possible, I would learn what are yours. My mindis quite made up as to my future life. Of course, I do not wish todictate to you,--and if I did, I could not dictate to Mr. Montague."

  "Pray,--pray do not call him Mr. Montague."

  "Well, I will not;--to Paul then. There goes the last of my anger."He threw his hands up as though he were scattering his indignationto the air. "I would not dictate either to you or to him, but itis right that you should know that I hold my property as stewardfor those who are to come after me, and that the satisfaction of mystewardship will be infinitely increased if I find that those forwhom I act share the interest which I shall take in the matter. It isthe only payment which you and he can make me for my trouble."

  "There goes the last of my anger."]

  "But Felix, Roger!"

  His brow became a little black as he answered her. "To a sister,"he said very solemnly, "I will not say a word against her brother;but on that subject I claim a right to come to a decision on myown judgment. It is a matter in which I have thought much, and, Imay say, suffered much. I have ideas, old-fashioned ideas, on thematter, which I need not pause to explain to you now. If we are asmuch together as I hope we shall be, you will, no doubt, come tounderstand them. The disposition of a family property, even thoughit be one so small as mine, is, to my thinking, a matter which a manshould not make in accordance with his own caprices,--or even withhis own affections. He owes a duty to those who live on his land, andhe owes a duty to his country. And, though it may seem fantastic tosay so, I think he owes a duty to those who have been before him, andwho have manifestly wished that the property should be continued inthe hands of their descendants. These things are to me very holy. Inwhat I am doing I am in some respects departing from the theory ofmy life,--but I do so under a perfect conviction that by the courseI am taking I shall best perform the duties to which I have alluded.I do not think, Hetta, that we need say any more about that." Hehad spoken so seriously, that, though she did not quite understandall that he had said, she did not venture to dispute his will anyfurther. He did not endeavour to exact from her any promise, buthaving explained his purposes, kissed her as he would have kisseda daughter, and then left her and rode home without going into thehouse.

  Soon after that, Paul Montague came down to Carbury, and the samething was said to him, though in a much less solemn manner. Paul wasreceived quite in the old way. Having declared that he would throwall anger behind him, and that Paul should be again Paul, he rigidlykept his promise, whatever might be the cost to his own feelings.As to his love for Hetta, and his old hopes, and the disappointmentwhich had so nearly unmanned him, he said not another word to hisfortunate rival. Montague knew it all, but there was now no necessitythat any allusion should be made to past misfortunes. Roger indeedmade a solemn resolution that to Paul he would never again speak ofHetta as the girl whom he himself had loved, though he looked forwardto a time, probably many years hence, when he might perhaps remindher of his fidelity. But he spoke much of the land and of the tenantsand the labourers, of his own farm, of the amount of the income, andof the necessity of so living that the income might always be morethan sufficient for the wants of the household.

  When the spring came round, Hetta and Paul were married by the Bishopat the parish church of Carbury, and Roger Carbury gave away thebride. All those who saw the ceremony decla
red that the squire hadnot seemed to be so happy for many a long year. John Crumb, who wasthere with his wife,--himself now one of Roger's tenants, havingoccupied the land which had become vacant by the death of old DanielRuggles,--declared that the wedding was almost as good fun as hisown. "John, what a fool you are!" Ruby said to her spouse, when thisopinion was expressed with rather a loud voice. "Yes, I be," saidJohn,--"but not such a fool as to a' missed a having o' you." "No,John; it was I was the fool then," said Ruby. "We'll see about thatwhen the bairn's born," said John,--equally aloud. Then Ruby heldher tongue. Mrs. Broune, and Mr. Broune, were also at Carbury,--thusdoing great honour to Mr. and Mrs. Paul Montague, and showing bytheir presence that all family feuds were at an end. Sir Felix wasnot there. Happily up to this time Mr. Septimus Blake had continuedto keep that gentleman as one of his Protestant population in theGerman town,--no doubt not without considerable trouble to himself.