The Way We Live Now

any process of ratiocination;⁠—and then we think that we have thought. But to follow out one argument to an end, and then to found on the base so reached the commencement of another, is not common to us. Such a process was hardly within the compass of Roger’s mind⁠—who when he was made wretched by the dust, and by a female who had a basket of objectionable provisions opposite to him, almost forswore his charitable resolutions of the day before; but who again, as he walked lonely at night round the square which was near to his hotel, looking up at the bright moon with a full appreciation of the beauty of the heavens, asked himself what was he that he should wish to interfere with the happiness of two human beings much younger than himself, 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 he knocked he had not made up his mind whether he would ask for Lady Carbury or her daughter, and did at last inquire whether “the ladies” were at home. The ladies were reported as being at home, and he was at once shown into the drawing-room, where Hetta was sitting. She hurried up to him, and he at once took her in his arms and kissed her. He had never done such a thing before. He had never even kissed her hand. Though they were cousins and dear friends, he had never treated her after that fashion. Her instinct told her immediately that such a greeting from him was a sign of affectionate compliance with her wishes. That this man should kiss her as her best and dearest relation, as her most trusted friend, as almost her brother, was certainly to her no offence. She could cling to him in fondest love⁠—if he would only consent not to be her lover. “Oh, Roger, I am so 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 or unkind. It is all done without any aid from me. Hetta, you have been all the world to me.”

“Do not reproach me,” she said.

“No;⁠—no. Why should I reproach you? You have committed no fault. I should not have come had I intended to reproach anyone.”

“I love you so much for saying that.”

“Let it be as you wish it⁠—if it must. I have made up my mind to bear it, and there shall be an end of it.” As he said this he took her by the hand, and she put her head upon his shoulder and began to weep. “And still you will be all the world to me,” he continued, with his arm round her waist. “As you will not be my wife, you shall be my daughter.”

“I will be your sister, Roger.”

“My daughter rather. You shall be all that I have in the world. I will hurry to grow old that I may feel for you as the old feel for the young. And if you have a child, Hetta, he must be my child.” As he thus spoke her tears were renewed. “I have planned it all out in my mind, dear. There! If there be anything that I can do to add to your happiness, I will do it. You must believe this of me⁠—that to make you happy shall be the only enjoyment of my life.”

It had been hardly possible for her to tell him as yet that the man to whom he was thus consenting to surrender her had not even condescended to answer the letter in which she had told him to come back to her. And now, sobbing as she was, overcome by the tenderness of 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 am here.”

“But you will be his friend?”

“Your husband shall certainly be my friend;⁠—or, if not, the fault shall not be mine. It shall all be forgotten, Hetta⁠—as nearly as such things may be forgotten. But I had nothing to say to him till I had seen you.” At that moment the door was opened and Lady Carbury entered the room, and, after her greeting with her cousin, looked first at her daughter and then at Roger. “I have come up,” said he, “to signify my adhesion to this marriage.” Lady Carbury’s face fell very low. “I need not speak again of what were my own wishes. I have learned 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 with which to go on with her prayer.

“I do not know that it need be so at all,” continued Lady Carbury. “I think it is very much in your own hands. Of course it is not for me to press such an arrangement, if it be not in accord with your own wishes.”

“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 to him.”

“I beg to let your cousin know that it is not so with my consent⁠—nor, as far as I can understand at present, with the consent of Mr. Montague himself.”

“Mamma!”

“Paul Montague!” ejaculated Roger Carbury. “The consent of Paul Montague! I think I may take upon myself to say that there can be no doubt 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