The Way We Live Now III

THE WAY WE LIVE NOW

nate to those of his cousin. When he came over, two days afterwards, to see her he found her in the garden, and walked there with her for a couple of hours. “I hope all our 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 best thing in her power. No doubt she has been advised by Mr. Broune, and Mr. 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 to Felix 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, — when I was assured that you certainly would never become my wife. I ought not to have allowed myself to get into such a frame of mind. I should have 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, and have got over my misery quicker. I should have been more manly and stronger. After all, though love is a wonderful incident in a man’s life, it is not that only that he is here for. I have duties plainly marked out for me; and as I should never allow myself to be withdrawn from them by pleasure, so neither should I by sorrow. But it is done now. I have conquered my regrets, and I can say with safety that I look forward to your presence and Paul’s presence at Carbury as the source of all my future happiness. I will make him welcome as though he

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were my brother, and you as though you were my daughter. All I ask of you is that you will not be chary of your presence there.” She only answered him by a close pressure on his arm. “That is what I wanted to say to you. You will teach yourself to regard me as your best and closest friend, — as he on whom you have the strongest right to 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 young and foolish.”

“You never were foolish.”

“Nor young either, I sometimes think. But now you must promise me this. You will do all that you can to induce him to make Carbury his residence.”

“We have no plans as yet at all, Roger.”

“Then it will be certainly so much the easier for you to fall into my plan. 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 as settled. Then, after that, let this be your home, — so that you should learn really to care about and to love the place. It will be your home really, you know, some of these days. You will have to be Squire of Carbury yourself when I am gone, till you have a son old enough to fill that exalted position.” With all his love to her and his good-will to them both, he could not bring himself to say that Paul Montague should be Squire of Carbury.

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“Oh, Roger, please do not talk like that.”

“But it is necessary, my dear. I want you to know what my wishes are, and, if it be possible, I would learn what are yours. My mind is quite made up as to my future life. Of course, I do not wish to dictate 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 indignation to the air. “I would not dictate either to you or to him, but it is right that you should know that I hold my property as steward for those who are to come after me, and that the satisfaction of my stewardship will be infinitely increased if I find that those for whom I act share the interest which I shall take in the matter. It is the only payment which you and he can make me for my trouble.”

“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 my own judgment. It is a matter in which I have thought much, and, I may say, suffered much. I have ideas, old-fashioned ideas, on the matter, which I need not pause to explain to you now. If we are as much together as I hope we shall be, you will, no doubt, come to understand them. The disposition of a family property, even though it be one so small as mine, is, to my thinking, a matter which a man should not make in accordance with his own caprices, — or even with his own affections. He owes a duty to those who live on his land,

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and he owes a duty to his country. And, though it may seem fantastic to say so, I think he owes a duty to those who have been before him, and who have manifestly wished that the property should be continued in the hands of their descendants. These things are to me very holy. In what I am doing I am in some respects departing from the theory of my life, — but I do so under a perfect conviction that by the course I 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.” He had spoken so seriously, that, though she did not quite understand all that he had said, she did not venture to dispute his will any further. He did not endeavour to exact from her any promise, but having explained his purposes, kissed her as he would have kissed a daughter, and then left her and rode home without going into the house.

Soon after that, Paul Montague came down to Carbury, and the same thing was said to him, though in a much less solemn manner. Paul was received quite in the old way. Having declared that he would throw all anger behind him, and that Paul should be again Paul, he rigidly kept his promise, whatever might be the cost to his own feelings. As to his love for Hetta, and his old hopes, and the disappointment which had so nearly unmanned him, he said not another word to his fortunate rival. Montague knew it all, but there was now no necessity that any allusion should be made to past misfortunes. Roger indeed made a solemn resolution that to Paul he would never again speak of Hetta as the girl whom he himself had loved, though he looked forward to a time, probably many years hence, when he might perhaps remind her of his

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