CHAPTER XXXI.
MR. BROUNE HAS MADE UP HIS MIND.
"And now I have something to say to you." Mr. Broune as he thus spoketo Lady Carbury rose up to his feet and then sat down again. Therewas an air of perturbation about him which was very manifest to thelady, and the cause and coming result of which she thought that sheunderstood. "The susceptible old goose is going to do somethinghighly ridiculous and very disagreeable." It was thus that she spoketo herself of the scene that she saw was prepared for her, but shedid not foresee accurately the shape in which the susceptibilityof the "old goose" would declare itself. "Lady Carbury," said Mr.Broune, standing up a second time, "we are neither of us so young aswe used to be."
"No, indeed;--and therefore it is that we can afford to ourselves theluxury of being friends. Nothing but age enables men and women toknow each other intimately."
This speech was a great impediment to Mr. Broune's progress. It wasevidently intended to imply that he at least had reached a time oflife at which any allusion to love would be absurd. And yet, as afact, he was nearer fifty than sixty, was young of his age, couldwalk his four or five miles pleasantly, could ride his cob in thepark with as free an air as any man of forty, and could afterwardswork through four or five hours of the night with an easy steadinesswhich nothing but sound health could produce. Mr. Broune, thinking ofhimself and his own circumstances, could see no reason why he shouldnot be in love. "I hope we know each other intimately at any rate,"he said somewhat lamely.
"Oh, yes;--and it is for that reason that I have come to you foradvice. Had I been a young woman I should not have dared to ask you."
"I don't see that. I don't quite understand that. But it has nothingto do with my present purpose. When I said that we were neither of usso young as we once were, I uttered what was a stupid platitude,--afoolish truism."
"I did not think so," said Lady Carbury smiling.
"Or would have been, only that I intended something further." Mr.Broune had got himself into a difficulty and hardly knew how to getout of it. "I was going on to say that I hoped we were not too oldto--love."
Foolish old darling! What did he mean by making such an ass ofhimself? This was worse even than the kiss, as being more troublesomeand less easily pushed on one side and forgotten. It may serve toexplain the condition of Lady Carbury's mind at the time if it bestated that she did not even at this moment suppose that the editorof the "Morning Breakfast Table" intended to make her an offer ofmarriage. She knew, or thought she knew, that middle-aged men arefond of prating about love, and getting up sensational scenes. Thefalseness of the thing, and the injury which may come of it, didnot shock her at all. Had she known that the editor professed tobe in love with some lady in the next street, she would have beenquite ready to enlist the lady in the next street among her friendsthat she might thus strengthen her own influence with Mr. Broune.For herself such make-belief of an improper passion would beinconvenient, and therefore to be avoided. But that any man, placedas Mr. Broune was in the world,--blessed with power, with a largeincome, with influence throughout all the world around him, courted,feted, feared and almost worshipped,--that he should desire toshare her fortunes, her misfortunes, her struggles, her poverty andher obscurity, was not within the scope of her imagination. Therewas a homage in it, of which she did not believe any man to becapable,--and which to her would be the more wonderful as being paidto herself. She thought so badly of men and women generally, and ofMr. Broune and herself as a man and a woman individually, that shewas unable to conceive the possibility of such a sacrifice. "Mr.Broune," she said, "I did not think that you would take advantage ofthe confidence I have placed in you to annoy me in this way."
"To annoy you, Lady Carbury! The phrase at any rate is singular.After much thought I have determined to ask you to be my wife. ThatI should be--annoyed, and more than annoyed by your refusal, is amatter of course. That I ought to expect such annoyance is perhapstoo true. But you can extricate yourself from the dilemma only tooeasily."
The word "wife" came upon her like a thunder-clap. It at once changedall her feelings towards him. She did not dream of loving him.She felt sure that she never could love him. Had it been on thecards with her to love any man as a lover, it would have been somehandsome spendthrift who would have hung from her neck like a nethermillstone. This man was a friend to be used,--to be used because heknew the world. And now he gave her this clear testimony that he knewas little of the world as any other man. Mr. Broune of the "DailyBreakfast Table" asking her to be his wife! But mixed with her otherfeelings there was a tenderness which brought back some memory ofher distant youth, and almost made her weep. That a man,--such aman,--should offer to take half her burdens, and to confer upon herhalf his blessings! What an idiot! But what a God! She had lookedupon the man as all intellect, alloyed perhaps by some passionlessremnants of the vices of his youth; and now she found that he notonly had a human heart in his bosom, but a heart that she couldtouch. How wonderfully sweet! How infinitely small!
It was necessary that she should answer him--and to her it was onlynatural that she should at first think what answer would best assisther own views without reference to his. It did not occur to her thatshe could love him; but it did occur to her that he might lift herout of her difficulties. What a benefit it would be to her to have afather, and such a father, for Felix! How easy would be a literarycareer to the wife of the editor of the "Morning Breakfast Table!"And then it passed through her mind that somebody had told her thatthe man was paid L3,000 a year for his work. Would not the world, orany part of it that was desirable, come to her drawing-room if shewere the wife of Mr. Broune? It all passed through her brain at onceduring that minute of silence which she allowed herself after thedeclaration was made to her. But other ideas and other feelings werepresent to her also. Perhaps the truest aspiration of her heart hadbeen the love of freedom which the tyranny of her late husband hadengendered. Once she had fled from that tyranny and had been almostcrushed by the censure to which she had been subjected. Then herhusband's protection and his tyranny had been restored to her. Afterthat the freedom had come. It had been accompanied by many hopesnever as yet fulfilled, and embittered by many sorrows which hadbeen always present to her; but still the hopes were alive and theremembrance of the tyranny was very clear to her. At last the minutewas over and she was bound to speak. "Mr. Broune," she said, "youhave quite taken away my breath. I never expected anything of thiskind."
And now Mr. Broune's mouth was opened, and his voice was free. "LadyCarbury," he said, "I have lived a long time without marrying, and Ihave sometimes thought that it would be better for me to go on in thesame way to the end. I have worked so hard all my life that when Iwas young I had no time to think of love. And, as I have gone on,my mind has been so fully employed, that I have hardly realised thewant which nevertheless I have felt. And so it has been with me tillI fancied, not that I was too old for love, but that others wouldthink me so. Then I met you. As I said at first, perhaps with scantgallantry, you also are not as young as you once were. But you keepthe beauty of your youth, and the energy, and something of thefreshness of a young heart. And I have come to love you. I speak withabsolute frankness, risking your anger. I have doubted much beforeI resolved upon this. It is so hard to know the nature of anotherperson. But I think I understand yours;--and if you can confide yourhappiness with me, I am prepared to intrust mine to your keeping."Poor Mr. Broune! Though endowed with gifts peculiarly adapted for theediting of a daily newspaper, he could have had but little capacityfor reading a woman's character when he talked of the freshness ofLady Carbury's young mind! And he must have surely been much blindedby love, before convincing himself that he could trust his happinessto such keeping.
"You do me infinite honour. You pay me a great compliment,"ejaculated Lady Carbury.
"Well?"
"How am I to answer you at a moment? I expected nothing of this. AsGod is to be my judge it has come upon me like a dream. I look uponyour position as almost the high
est in England,--on your prosperityas the uttermost that can be achieved."
"That prosperity, such as it is, I desire most anxiously to sharewith you."
"You tell me so;--but I can hardly yet believe it. And then how am Ito know my own feelings so suddenly? Marriage as I have found it, Mr.Broune, has not been happy. I have suffered much. I have been woundedin every joint, hurt in every nerve,--tortured till I could hardlyendure my punishment. At last I got my liberty, and to that I havelooked for happiness."
"Has it made you happy?"
"It has made me less wretched. And there is so much to be considered!I have a son and a daughter, Mr. Broune."
"Your daughter I can love as my own. I think I prove my devotionto you when I say that I am willing for your sake to encounter thetroubles which may attend your son's future career."
"Mr. Broune, I love him better,--always shall love him better,--thananything in the world." This was calculated to damp the lover'sardour, but he probably reflected that should he now be successful,time might probably change the feeling which had just been expressed."Mr. Broune," she said, "I am now so agitated that you had betterleave me. And it is very late. The servant is sitting up, and willwonder that you should remain. It is near two o'clock."
"When may I hope for an answer?"
"You shall not be kept waiting. I will write to you, almost at once.I will write to you,--to-morrow; say the day after to-morrow, onThursday. I feel that I ought to have been prepared with an answer;but I am so surprised that I have none ready." He took her hand inhis, and kissing it, left her without another word.
As he was about to open the front door to let himself out, a keyfrom the other side raised the latch, and Sir Felix, returning fromhis club, entered his mother's house. The young man looked up intoMr. Broune's face with mingled impudence and surprise. "Halloo, oldfellow," he said, "you've been keeping it up late here; haven'tyou?" He was nearly drunk, and Mr. Broune, perceiving his condition,passed him without a word. Lady Carbury was still standing in thedrawing-room, struck with amazement at the scene which had justpassed, full of doubt as to her future conduct, when she heard herson stumbling up the stairs. It was impossible for her not to go outto him. "Felix," she said, "why do you make so much noise as you comein?"
"Noish! I'm not making any noish. I think I'm very early. Yourpeople's only just gone. I shaw shat editor fellow at the door thatwon't call himself Brown. He'sh great ass'h, that fellow. All right,mother. Oh, ye'sh I'm all right." And so he stumbled up to bed, andhis mother followed him to see that the candle was at any rate placedsquarely on the table, beyond the reach of the bed curtains.
Mr. Broune as he walked to his newspaper office experienced all thosepangs of doubts which a man feels when he has just done that whichfor days and weeks past he has almost resolved that he had betterleave undone. That last apparition which he had encountered at hislady love's door certainly had not tended to reassure him. What cursecan be much greater than that inflicted by a drunken, reprobate son?The evil, when in the course of things it comes upon a man, has tobe borne; but why should a man in middle life unnecessarily afflicthimself with so terrible a misfortune? The woman, too, was devoted tothe cub! Then thousands of other thoughts crowded upon him. How wouldthis new life suit him? He must have a new house, and new ways; mustlive under a new dominion, and fit himself to new pleasures. And whatwas he to gain by it? Lady Carbury was a handsome woman, and he likedher beauty. He regarded her too as a clever woman; and, because shehad flattered him, he had liked her conversation. He had been longenough about town to have known better,--and as he now walked alongthe streets, he almost felt that he ought to have known better. Everynow and again he warmed himself a little with the remembrance ofher beauty, and told himself that his new home would be pleasanter,though it might perhaps be less free, than the old one. He tried tomake the best of it; but as he did so was always repressed by thememory of the appearance of that drunken young baronet.
Whether for good or for evil, the step had been taken and the thingwas done. It did not occur to him that the lady would refuse him.All his experience of the world was against such refusal. Townswhich consider, always render themselves. Ladies who doubt alwayssolve their doubts in the one direction. Of course she would accepthim;--and of course he would stand to his guns. As he went to hiswork he endeavoured to bathe himself in self-complacency; but, at thebottom of it, there was a substratum of melancholy which leavened hisprospects.
Lady Carbury went from the door of her son's room to her own chamber,and there sat thinking through the greater part of the night.During these hours she perhaps became a better woman, as being moreoblivious of herself, than she had been for many a year. It could notbe for the good of this man that he should marry her,--and she did inthe midst of her many troubles try to think of the man's condition.Although in the moments of her triumph,--and such moments weremany,--she would buoy herself up with assurances that her Felixwould become a rich man, brilliant with wealth and rank, an honourto her, a personage whose society would be desired by many, stillin her heart of hearts she knew how great was the peril, and in herimagination she could foresee the nature of the catastrophe whichmight come. He would go utterly to the dogs and would take her withhim. And whithersoever he might go, to what lowest canine regions hemight descend, she knew herself well enough to be sure that whethermarried or single she would go with him. Though her reason might beever so strong in bidding her to desert him, her heart, she knew,would be stronger than her reason. He was the one thing in the worldthat overpowered her. In all other matters she could scheme, andcontrive, and pretend; could get the better of her feelings and fightthe world with a double face, laughing at illusions and tellingherself that passions and preferences were simply weapons to be used.But her love for her son mastered her,--and she knew it. As it wasso, could it be fit that she should marry another man?
And then her liberty! Even though Felix should bring her to utterruin, nevertheless she would be and might remain a free woman. Shouldthe worse come to the worst she thought that she could endure aBohemian life in which, should all her means have been taken fromher, she could live on what she earned. Though Felix was a tyrantafter a kind, he was not a tyrant who could bid her do this or that.A repetition of marriage vows did not of itself recommend itself toher. As to loving the man, liking his caresses, and being speciallyhappy because he was near her,--no romance of that kind everpresented itself to her imagination. How would it affect Felix andher together,--and Mr. Broune as connected with her and Felix? IfFelix should go to the dogs, then would Mr. Broune not want her.Should Felix go to the stars instead of the dogs, and become one ofthe gilded ornaments of the metropolis, then would not he and shewant Mr. Broune. It was thus that she regarded the matter.
She thought very little of her daughter as she considered all this.There was a home for Hetta, with every comfort, if Hetta would onlycondescend to accept it. Why did not Hetta marry her cousin RogerCarbury and let there be an end of that trouble? Of course Hettamust live wherever her mother lived till she should marry; butHetta's life was so much at her own disposal that her mother didnot feel herself bound to be guided in the great matter by Hetta'spredispositions.
But she must tell Hetta should she ultimately make up her mind tomarry the man, and in that case the sooner this was done the better.On that night she did not make up her mind. Ever and again as shedeclared to herself that she would not marry him, the picture of acomfortable assured home over her head, and the conviction that theeditor of the "Morning Breakfast Table" would be powerful for allthings, brought new doubts to her mind. But she could not convinceherself, and when at last she went to her bed her mind was stillvacillating. The next morning she met Hetta at breakfast, and withassumed nonchalance asked a question about the man who was perhapsabout to be her husband. "Do you like Mr. Broune, Hetta?"
"Yes;--pretty well. I don't care very much about him. What makes youask, mamma?"
"Because among my acquaintances in London there is no one so trulyk
ind to me as he is."
"He always seems to me to like to have his own way."
"Why shouldn't he like it?"
"He has to me that air of selfishness which is so very common withpeople in London;--as though what he said were all said out ofsurface politeness."
"I wonder what you expect, Hetta, when you talk of--London people?Why should not London people be as kind as other people? I think Mr.Broune is as obliging a man as any one I know. But if I like anybody,you always make little of him. The only person you seem to think wellof is Mr. Montague."
"Mamma, that is unfair and unkind. I never mention Mr. Montague'sname if I can help it,--and I should not have spoken of Mr. Broune,had you not asked me."