"I SHALL NEVER BE MARRIED."
Sir Harry Hotspur returned to Humblethwaite before Cousin George's
letter was written, though when he did return all the terms had been
arranged, and a portion of the money paid. Perhaps it would have been
better that he should have waited and taken the letter with him in
his pocket; but in truth he was so wretched that he could not wait.
The thing was fixed and done, and he could but hurry home to hide his
face among his own people. He felt that the glory of his house was
gone from him. He would sit by the hour together thinking of the boy
who had died. He had almost, on occasions, allowed himself to forget
his boy, while hoping that his name and wide domains might be kept
together by the girl that was left to him. He was beginning to
understand now that she was already but little better than a wreck.
Indeed, was not everything shipwreck around him? Was he not going to
pieces on the rocks? Did not the lesson of every hour seem to tell
him that, throughout his long life, he had thought too much of his
house and his name?
It would have been better that he should have waited till the letter
was in his pocket before he returned home, because, when he reached
Humblethwaite, the last argument was wanting to him to prove to Emily
that her hope was vain. Even after his arrival, when the full story
was told to her, she held out in her resolve. She accepted the truth
of that scene at Walker's rooms. She acknowledged that her lover had
cheated the wretched man at cards. After that all other iniquities
were of course as nothing. There was a completeness in that of which
she did not fail to accept, and to use the benefit. When she had once
taken it as true that her lover had robbed his inferior by foul play
at cards, there could be no good in alluding to this or that lie, in
counting up this or that disreputable debt, in alluding to habits of
brandy-drinking, or even in soiling her pure mind with any word as
to Mrs. Morton. It was granted that he was as vile as sin could make
him. Had not her Saviour come exactly for such as this one, because
of His great love for those who were vile; and should not her human
love for one enable her to do that which His great heavenly love did
always for all men? Every reader will know how easily answerable
was the argument. Most readers will also know how hard it is to win
by attacking the reason when the heart is the fortress that is in
question. She had accepted his guilt, and why tell her of it any
further? Did she not pine over his guilt, and weep for it day and
night, and pray that he might yet be made white as snow? But guilty
as he was, a poor piece of broken vilest clay, without the properties
even which are useful to the potter, he was as dear to her as when
she had leaned against him believing him to be a pillar of gold set
about with onyx stones, jaspers, and rubies. There was but one sin on
his part which could divide them. If, indeed, he should cease to love
her, then there would be an end to it! It would have been better that
Sir Harry should have remained in London till he could have returned
with George's autograph letter in his pocket.
"You must have the letter in his own handwriting," Mr. Boltby had
said, cunningly, "only you must return it to me."
Sir Harry had understood, and had promised, that the letter should
be returned when it had been used for the cruel purpose for which it
was to be sent to Humblethwaite. For all Sir Harry's own purposes Mr.
Boltby's statements would have quite sufficed.
She was told that her lover would renounce her, but she would not
believe what she was told. Of course he would accept the payment
of his debts. Of course he would take an income when offered to
him. What else was he to do? How was he to live decently without
an income? All these evils had happened to him because he had been
expected to live as a gentleman without proper means. In fact, he was
the person who had been most injured. Her father, in his complete, in
his almost abject tenderness towards her, could not say rough words
in answer to all these arguments. He could only repeat his assertion
over and over again that the man was utterly unworthy of her, and
must be discarded. It was all as nothing. The man must discard
himself.
"He is false as hell," said Sir Harry.
"And am I to be as false as hell also? Will you love me better when I
have consented to be untrue? And even that would be a lie. I do love
him. I must love him. I may be more wicked than he is, because I do
so. But I do."
Poor Lady Elizabeth in these days was worse than useless. Her
daughter was so strong that her weakness was as the weakness of
water. She was driven hither and thither in a way that she herself
felt to be disgraceful. When her husband told her that the cousin, as
matter of course, could never be seen again, she assented. When Emily
implored her to act as mediator with her father on behalf of the
wicked cousin, she again assented. And then, when she was alone with
Sir Harry, she did not dare to do as she had promised.
"I do think it will kill her," she said to Sir Harry.
"We must all die, but we need not die disgraced," he said.
It was a most solemn answer, and told the thoughts which had been
dwelling in his mind. His son had gone from him; and now it might
be that his daughter must go too, because she could not survive
the disappointment of her young love. He had learned to think that
it might be so as he looked at her great grave eyes, and her pale
cheeks, and her sorrow-laden mouth. It might be so; but better that
for them all than that she should be contaminated by the touch of
a thing so vile as this cousin. She was pure as snow, clear as a
star, lovely as the opening rosebud. As she was, let her go to her
grave,--if it need be so. For himself, he could die too,--or even
live if it were required of him! Other fathers, since Jephtha and
Agamemnon, have recognised it as true that heaven has demanded from
them their daughters.
The letter came, and was read and re-read by Sir Harry before he
showed it to his child. He took it also to his wife, and explained it
to her in all its points. "It has more craft," said he, "than I gave
him credit for."
"I don't suppose he ever cared for her," said Lady Elizabeth.
"Nor for any human being that ever lived,--save himself. I wonder
whether he got Boltby to write it for him."
"Surely Mr. Boltby wouldn't have done that."
"I don't know. I think he would do anything to rid us from what he
believed to have been our danger. I don't think it was in George
Hotspur to write such a letter out of his own head."
"But does it signify?"
"Not in the least. It is his own handwriting and his signature.
Whoever formed the words, it is the same thing. It was needed only to
prove to her that he had not even the merit of being true to her."
For a while Sir Harry thought that he would entrust to his wife the
duty of showing the letter to Emily. He would so willingly have
escaped the task himself! But as he considered the matter he feared
that Lady Elizabeth might lack the firmness to explain the matter
fully to the poor girl. The daughter would be so much stronger
than the mother, and thus the thing that must be done would not be
effected! At last, on the evening of the day on which the letter
had reached him, he sent for her, and read it to her. She heard it
without a word. Then he put it into her hands, and she read the
sentences herself, slowly, one after another, endeavouring as she did
so to find arguments by which she might stave off the conclusion to
which she knew that her father would attempt to bring her.
"It must be all over now," said he at last.
She did not answer him, but gazed into his face with such a look of
woe that his heart was melted. She had found no argument. There had
not been in the whole letter one word of love for her.
"My darling, will it not be better that we should meet the blow?"
"I have met it, all along. Some day, perhaps, he might be different."
"In what way, dearest? He does not even profess to hope so himself."
"That gentleman in London, Papa, would have paid nothing for him
unless he wrote like this. He had to do it. Papa, you had better just
leave me to myself. I will not trouble you by mentioning his name."
"But Emily--"
"Well, Papa?"
"Mamma and I cannot bear that you should suffer alone."
"I must suffer, and silence is the easiest. I will go now and think
about it. Dear Papa, I know that you have always done everything for
the best."
He did not see her again that evening. Her mother was with her in
her own room, and of course they were talking about Cousin George
for hours together. It could not be avoided, in spite of what Emily
had herself said of the expediency of silence. But she did not once
allude to the possibility of a future marriage. As the man was so
dear to her, and as he bore their name, and as he must inherit her
father's title, could not some almost superhuman exertion be made for
his salvation? Surely so much as that might be done, if they all made
it the work of their lives.
"It must be the work of my life, Mamma," she said.
Lady Elizabeth forbore from telling her that there was no side on
which she could approach him. The poor girl herself, however, must
have felt that it was so. As she thought of it all she reminded
herself that, though they were separated miles asunder, still she
could pray for him. We need not doubt this at least,--that to him who
utters them prayers of intercession are of avail.
On the following morning she was at breakfast, and both her father
and mother remarked that something had been changed in her dress. The
father only knew that it was so, but the mother could have told of
every ribbon that had been dropped, and every ornament that had been
laid aside. Emily Hotspur had lived a while, if not among the gayest
of the gay, at least among the brightest of the bright in outside
garniture, and having been asked to consult no questions of expense,
had taught herself to dress as do the gay and bright and rich. Even
when George had come on his last wretched visit to Humblethwaite,
when she had known that he had been brought there as a blackamoor
perhaps just capable of being washed white, she had not thought it
necessary to lessen the gauds of her attire. Though she was saddened
in her joy by the knowledge of the man's faults, she was still the
rich daughter of a very wealthy man, and engaged to marry the future
inheritor of all that wealth and riches. There was then no reason why
she should lower her flag one inch before the world. But now all was
changed with her! During the night she had thought of her apparel,
and of what use it might be during her future life. She would never
more go bright again, unless some miracle might prevail, and he still
might be to her that which she had painted him. Neither father nor
mother, as she kissed them both, said a word as to her appearance.
They must take her away from Humblethwaite, change the scene, try to
interest her in new pursuits; that was what they had determined to
attempt. For the present, they would let her put on what clothes she
pleased, and make no remark.
Early in the day she went out by herself. It was now December, but
the weather was fine and dry, and she was for two hours alone,
rambling through the park. She had made her attempt in life, and had
failed. She owned her failure to herself absolutely. The image had no
gold in it;--none as yet. But it was not as other images, which, as
they are made, so must they remain to the end. The Divine Spirit,
which might from the first have breathed into this clay some particle
of its own worth, was still efficacious to bestow the gift. Prayer
should not be wanting; but the thing as it now was she saw in all its
impurity. He had never loved her. Had he loved her he would not have
written words such as those she had read. He had pretended to love
her in order that he might have money, that his debts might be paid,
that he might not be ruined. "He hoped," he said in his letter, "he
hoped that his cousin might be made happy by a splendid alliance!"
She remembered well the abominable, heartless words. And this was
the man who had pledged her to truth and firmness, and whose own
truth and firmness she had never doubted for a moment, even when
acknowledging to herself the necessity of her pledge to him. He had
never loved her; and, though she did not say so, did not think so,
she felt that of all his sins that sin was the one which could not be
forgiven.
What should she now do with herself,--how bear herself at this
present moment of her life? She did not tell herself now that she
would die, though as she looked forward into life all was so dreary
to her, that she would fain have known that death would give an
escape. But there were duties for her still to do. During that winter
ramble, she owned to herself for the first time that her father had
been right in his judgment respecting their cousin, and that she, by
her pertinacity, had driven her father on till on her account he had
been forced into conduct which was distasteful to him. She must own
to her father that he had been right; that the man, though she dearly
loved him still, was of such nature that it would be quite unfit that
she should marry him. There might still be the miracle; her prayers
were still her own to give; of them she would say nothing to her
father. She would simply confess to him that he had been right, and
then beg of him to pardon her the trouble she had caused him.
"Papa," she said to him the following morning, "may I come to you?"
She came in, and on this occasion sat down at his right hand. "Of
course, you have been right, Papa," she said.
"We have both been right, dearest, I hope."
"No, Papa; I have been wrong! I thought I knew him, and I did not. I
thought when you told me that he was so bad, that you were believing
false people; and, Papa, I know now that I should not have loved him
as I did;--so quickly, like that."
"Nobody has blamed you for a moment. Nobody has thought of blaming
you."
"I blame myself enough; I can tell you that. I feel as though I had
in a way destroyed myself."
"Do not say that, my darling."
"You will let me speak now; will you not, Papa? I wish to tell you
everything, that you may understand all that I feel. I shall never
get over it."
"You will, dearest; you will, indeed."
"Never! Perhaps I shall live on; but I feel that it has killed me for
this world. I don't know how a girl is to get over it when she has
said that she has loved any one. If they are married, then she does
not want to get over it; but if they are not,--if he deserts her, or
is unworthy, or both,--what can she do then, but just go on thinking
of it till--she dies?"
Sir Harry used with her all the old accustomed arguments to drive
such thoughts out of her head. He told her how good was God to His
creatures, and, specially, how good in curing by the soft hand of
time such wounds as those from which she was suffering. She should
"retrick her beams," and once more "flame in the forehead of the
morning sky," if only she would help the work of time by her own
endeavours. "Fight against the feeling, Emily, and try to conquer it,
and it will be conquered."
"But, Papa, I do not wish to conquer it. I should not tell you of all
this, only for one thing."
"What thing, dearest?"
"I am not like other girls, who can just leave themselves alone and
be of no trouble. You told me that if I outlived you--"
"The property will be yours; certainly. Of course, it was my
hope,--and is,--that all that shall be settled by your marriage
before my death. The trouble and labour is more than a woman should
be called on to support alone."
"Just so. And it is because you are thinking of all this, that I feel
it right to tell you. Papa, I shall never be married."
"We will leave that for the present, Emily."
"Very well; only if it would make a change in your will, you should
make it. You will have to be here, Papa, after I am gone,--probably."
"No, no, no."
"But, if it were not so, I should not know what to do. That is all,
Papa; only this,--that I beg your pardon for all the trouble I have
caused you." Then she knelt before him, and he kissed her head, and
blessed her, and wept over her.
There was nothing more heard from Cousin George at Humblethwaite, and
nothing more heard of him for a long time. Mr. Boltby did pay his
debts, having some terribly hard struggles with Mr. Hart and Captain
Stubber before the liquidations were satisfactorily effected. It was
very hard to make Mr. Hart and Captain Stubber understand that the
Baronet was paying these debts simply because he had said that he
would pay them once before, under other circumstances, and that no
other cause for their actual payment now existed. But the debts
were paid, down to the last farthing of which Mr. Boltby could have
credible tidings. "Pay everything," Sir Harry had said; "I have
promised it." Whereby he was alluding to the promise which he had
made to his daughter. Everything was paid, and Cousin George was able
to walk in and out of his club, a free man,--and at times almost
happy,--with an annuity of five hundred pounds a year! Nothing more
was said to him as to the necessity of expatriation.