“I shall never marry.”
“Very likely not—but yet you may. How is a man of your age to speak with certainty of what he will do or what he will not do in that respect? You can make your will, doing as you please with your property;—and the will, when made, can be revoked.”
“I think you hardly understand just what I feel,” said Roger, “and I know very well that I am unable to explain it. But I wish to act exactly as I would do if she were my daughter, and as if her son, if she had a son, would be my natural heir.”
“But, if she were your daughter, her son wouldn’t be your natural heir as long as there was a probability or even a chance that you might have a son of your own. A man should never put the power, which properly belongs to him, out of his own hands. If it does properly belong to you it must be better with you than elsewhere. I think very highly of your cousin, and I have no reason to think otherwise than well of the gentleman whom she intends to marry. But it is only human nature to suppose that the fact that your property is still at your own disposal should have some effect in producing a more complete observance of your wishes.”
“I do not believe it in the least, my lord,” said Roger somewhat angrily.
“That is because you are so carried away by enthusiasm at the present moment as to ignore the ordinary rules of life. There are not, perhaps, many fathers who have Regans and Gonerils for their daughters;—but there are very many who may take a lesson from the folly of the old king. ‘Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown,’ the fool 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 of settling his property on Paul Montague’s children. But he was not on that account the less resolute in his determination to make himself and his own interests subordinate 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 brokenhearted—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 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.
