The Way We Live Now - 18

eloquence, Didon declared that she would be turned out of the house
if either Monsieur or Madame were to know what she was doing. Marie
told her that Madame would certainly never dismiss her. "Well,
perhaps not Madame," said Didon, who knew too much about Madame to
be dismissed; "but Monsieur!" Marie declared that by no possibility
could Monsieur know anything about it. In that house nobody ever told
anything to Monsieur. He was regarded as the general enemy, against
whom the whole household was always making ambushes, always firing
guns from behind rocks and trees. It is not a pleasant condition for
a master of a house; but in this house the master at any rate knew
how he was placed. It never occurred to him to trust any one. Of
course his daughter might run away. But who would run away with her
without money? And there could be no money except from him. He knew
himself and his own strength. He was not the man to forgive a girl,
and then bestow his wealth on the Lothario who had injured him.
His daughter was valuable to him because she might make him the
father-in-law of a Marquis or an Earl; but the higher that he rose
without such assistance, the less need had he of his daughter's
aid. Lord Alfred was certainly very useful to him. Lord Alfred had
whispered into his ear that by certain conduct and by certain uses of
his money, he himself might be made a baronet. "But if they should
say that I'm not an Englishman?" suggested Melmotte. Lord Alfred had
explained that it was not necessary that he should have been born in
England, or even that he should have an English name. No questions
would be asked. Let him first get into Parliament, and then spend
a little money on the proper side,--by which Lord Alfred meant the
Conservative side,--and be munificent in his entertainments, and the
baronetcy would be almost a matter of course. Indeed, there was no
knowing what honours might not be achieved in the present days by
money scattered with a liberal hand. In these conversations, Melmotte
would speak of his money and power of making money as though they
were unlimited,--and Lord Alfred believed him.

Marie was dissatisfied with her letter,--not because it described her
father as "cutting up very rough." To her who had known her father
all her life that was a matter of course. But there was no word of
love in the note. An impassioned correspondence carried on through
Didon would be delightful to her. She was quite capable of loving,
and she did love the young man. She had, no doubt, consented to
accept the addresses of others whom she did not love,--but this
she had done at the moment almost of her first introduction to the
marvellous world in which she was now living. As days went on she
ceased to be a child, and her courage grew within her. She became
conscious of an identity of her own, which feeling was produced
in great part by the contempt which accompanied her increasing
familiarity with grand people and grand names and grand things. She
was no longer afraid of saying No to the Nidderdales on account of
any awe of them personally. It might be that she should acknowledge
herself to be obliged to obey her father, though she was drifting
away even from the sense of that obligation. Had her mind been as it
was now when Lord Nidderdale first came to her, she might indeed have
loved him, who, as a man, was infinitely better than Sir Felix, and
who, had he thought it to be necessary, would have put some grace
into his love-making. But at that time she had been childish. He,
finding her to be a child, had hardly spoken to her. And she, child
though she was, had resented such usage. But a few months in London
had changed all this, and now she was a child no longer. She was in
love with Sir Felix, and had told her love. Whatever difficulties
there might be, she intended to be true. If necessary, she would
run away. Sir Felix was her idol, and she abandoned herself to its
worship. But she desired that her idol should be of flesh and blood,
and not of wood. She was at first half-inclined to be angry; but as
she sat with his letter in her hand, she remembered that he did not
know Didon as well as she did, and that he might be afraid to trust
his raptures to such custody. She could write to him at his club, and
having no such fear, she could write warmly.


--, Grosvenor Square.
Early Monday Morning.

DEAREST, DEAREST FELIX,

I have just got your note;--such a scrap! Of course papa
would talk about money because he never thinks of anything
else. I don't know anything about money, and I don't
care in the least how much you have got. Papa has got
plenty, and I think he would give us some if we were once
married. I have told mamma, but mamma is always afraid of
everything. Papa is very cross to her sometimes;--more so
than to me. I will try to tell him, though I can't always
get at him. I very often hardly see him all day long. But
I don't mean to be afraid of him, and will tell him that
on my word and honour I will never marry any one except
you. I don't think he will beat me, but if he does, I'll
bear it,--for your sake. He does beat mamma sometimes, I
know.

You can write to me quite safely through Didon. I think if
you would call some day and give her something, it would
help, as she is very fond of money. Do write and tell me
that you love me. I love you better than anything in the
world, and I will never,--never give you up. I suppose you
can come and call,--unless papa tells the man in the hall
not to let you in. I'll find that out from Didon, but I
can't do it before sending this letter. Papa dined out
yesterday somewhere with that Lord Alfred, so I haven't
seen him since you were here. I never see him before
he goes into the city in the morning. Now I am going
down-stairs to breakfast with mamma and that Miss
Longestaffe. She is a stuck-up thing. Didn't you think so
at Caversham?

Good-bye. You are my own, own, own darling Felix,

And I am your own, own affectionate ladylove,

MARIE.


Sir Felix when he read this letter at his club in the afternoon of
the Monday, turned up his nose and shook his head. He thought if
there were much of that kind of thing to be done, he could not go on
with it, even though the marriage were certain, and the money secure.
"What an infernal little ass!" he said to himself as he crumpled the
letter up.

Marie having intrusted her letter to Didon, together with a little
present of gloves and shoes, went down to breakfast. Her mother was
the first there, and Miss Longestaffe soon followed. That lady, when
she found that she was not expected to breakfast with the master of
the house, abandoned the idea of having her meal sent to her in her
own room. Madame Melmotte she must endure. With Madame Melmotte she
had to go out in the carriage every day. Indeed she could only go to
those parties to which Madame Melmotte accompanied her. If the London
season was to be of any use at all, she must accustom herself to
the companionship of Madame Melmotte. The man kept himself very
much apart from her. She met him only at dinner, and that not often.
Madame Melmotte was very bad; but she was silent, and seemed to
understand that her guest was only her guest as a matter of business.

But Miss Longestaffe already perceived that her old acquaintances
were changed in their manner to her. She had written to her dear
friend Lady Monogram, whom she had known intimately as Miss Triplex,
and whose marriage with Sir Damask Monogram had been splendid
preferment, telling how she had been kept down in Suffolk at the time
of her friend's last party, and how she had been driven to consent
to return to London as the guest of Madame Melmotte. She hoped
her friend would not throw her off on that account. She had been
very affectionate, with a poor attempt at fun, and rather humble.
Georgiana Longestaffe had never been humble before; but the Monograms
were people so much thought of and in such an excellent set! She
would do anything rather than lose the Monograms. But it was of no
use. She had been humble in vain, for Lady Monogram had not even
answered her note. "She never really cared for anybody but herself,"
Georgiana said in her wretched solitude. Then, too, she had found
that Lord Nidderdale's manner to her had been quite changed.
She was not a fool, and could read these signs with sufficient
accuracy. There had been little flirtations between her and
Nidderdale,--meaning nothing, as every one knew that Nidderdale must
marry money; but in none of them had he spoken to her as he spoke
when he met her in Madame Melmotte's drawing-room. She could see it
in the faces of people as they greeted her in the park,--especially
in the faces of the men. She had always carried herself with a
certain high demeanour, and had been able to maintain it. All that
was now gone from her, and she knew it. Though the thing was as yet
but a few days old she understood that others understood that she had
degraded herself. "What's all this about?" Lord Grasslough had said
to her, seeing her come into a room behind Madame Melmotte. She had
simpered, had tried to laugh, and had then turned away her face.
"Impudent scoundrel!" she said to herself, knowing that a fortnight
ago he would not have dared to address her in such a tone.

A day or two afterwards an occurrence took place worthy of
commemoration. Dolly Longestaffe called on his sister! His mind must
have been much stirred when he allowed himself to be moved to such
uncommon action. He came too at a very early hour, not much after
noon, when it was his custom to be eating his breakfast in bed. He
declared at once to the servant that he did not wish to see Madame
Melmotte or any of the family. He had called to see his sister. He
was therefore shown into a separate room where Georgiana joined him.
"What's all this about?"

She tried to laugh as she tossed her head. "What brings you here, I
wonder? This is quite an unexpected compliment."

"My being here doesn't matter. I can go anywhere without doing much
harm. Why are you staying with these people?"

"Ask papa."

"I don't suppose he sent you here?"

"That's just what he did do."

"You needn't have come, I suppose, unless you liked it. Is it because
they are none of them coming up?"

"Exactly that, Dolly. What a wonderful young man you are for
guessing!"

"Don't you feel ashamed of yourself?"

"No;--not a bit."

"Then I feel ashamed for you."

"Everybody comes here."

"No;--everybody does not come and stay here as you are doing.
Everybody doesn't make themselves a part of the family. I have heard
of nobody doing it except you. I thought you used to think so much of
yourself."

"I think as much of myself as ever I did," said Georgiana, hardly
able to restrain her tears.

"I can tell you nobody else will think much of you if you remain
here. I could hardly believe it when Nidderdale told me."

"What did he say, Dolly?"

"He didn't say much to me, but I could see what he thought. And
of course everybody thinks the same. How you can like the people
yourself is what I can't understand!"

"I don't like them,--I hate them."

"Then why do you come and live with them?"

"Oh, Dolly, it is impossible to make you understand. A man is so
different. You can go just where you please, and do what you like.
And if you're short of money, people will give you credit. And you
can live by yourself, and all that sort of thing. How should you like
to be shut up down at Caversham all the season?"

"I shouldn't mind it,--only for the governor."

"You have got a property of your own. Your fortune is made for you.
What is to become of me?"

"You mean about marrying?"

"I mean altogether," said the poor girl, unable to be quite as
explicit with her brother, as she had been with her father, and
mother, and sister. "Of course I have to think of myself."

"I don't see how the Melmottes are to help you. The long and the
short of it is, you oughtn't to be here. It's not often I interfere,
but when I heard it I thought I'd come and tell you. I shall write to
the governor, and tell him too. He should have known better."

"Don't write to papa, Dolly!"

"Yes, I shall. I am not going to see everything going to the devil
without saying a word. Good-bye."

As soon as he had left he hurried down to some club that was
open,--not the Beargarden, as it was long before the Beargarden
hours,--and actually did write a letter to his father.


MY DEAR FATHER,

I have seen Georgiana at Mr. Melmotte's house. She
ought not to be there. I suppose you don't know it, but
everybody says he's a swindler. For the sake of the family
I hope you will get her home again. It seems to me that
Bruton Street is the proper place for the girls at this
time of the year.

Your affectionate son,

ADOLPHUS LONGESTAFFE.


This letter fell upon old Mr. Longestaffe at Caversham like a
thunderbolt. It was marvellous to him that his son should have
been instigated to write a letter. The Melmottes must be very bad
indeed,--worse than he had thought,--or their iniquities would not
have brought about such energy as this. But the passage which angered
him most was that which told him that he ought to have taken his
family back to town. This had come from his son, who had refused to
do anything to help him in his difficulties.




CHAPTER XXVI.

MRS. HURTLE.


Paul Montague at this time lived in comfortable lodgings in Sackville
Street, and ostensibly the world was going well with him. But he had
many troubles. His troubles in reference to Fisker, Montague, and
Montague,--and also their consolation,--are already known to the
reader. He was troubled too about his love, though when he allowed
his mind to expatiate on the success of the great railway he would
venture to hope that on that side his life might perhaps be blessed.
Henrietta had at any rate as yet showed no disposition to accept her
cousin's offer. He was troubled too about the gambling, which he
disliked, knowing that in that direction there might be speedy
ruin, and yet returning to it from day to day in spite of his own
conscience. But there was yet another trouble which culminated just
at this time. One morning, not long after that Sunday night which
had been so wretchedly spent at the Beargarden, he got into a cab in
Piccadilly and had himself taken to a certain address in Islington.
Here he knocked at a decent, modest door,--at such a house as
men live in with two or three hundred a year,--and asked for Mrs.
Hurtle. Yes;--Mrs. Hurtle lodged there, and he was shown into the
drawing-room. There he stood by the round table for a quarter of
an hour turning over the lodging-house books which lay there, and
then Mrs. Hurtle entered the room. Mrs. Hurtle was a widow whom
he had once promised to marry. "Paul," she said, with a quick,
sharp voice, but with a voice which could be very pleasant when she
pleased,--taking him by the hand as she spoke, "Paul, say that that
letter of yours must go for nothing. Say that it shall be so, and I
will forgive everything."

"I cannot say that," he replied, laying his hand in hers.

"You cannot say it! What do you mean? Will you dare to tell me that
your promises to me are to go for nothing?"

"Things are changed," said Paul hoarsely. He had come thither at her
bidding because he had felt that to remain away would be cowardly,
but the meeting was inexpressibly painful to him. He did think that
he had sufficient excuse for breaking his troth to this woman, but
the justification of his conduct was founded on reasons which he
hardly knew how to plead to her. He had heard that of her past life
which, had he heard it before, would have saved him from his present
difficulty. But he had loved her,--did love her in a certain fashion;
and her offences, such as they were, did not debar her from his
sympathies.

"How are they changed? I am two years older, if you mean that." As
she said this she looked round at the glass, as though to see whether
she was become so haggard with age as to be unfit to become this
man's wife. She was very lovely, with a kind of beauty which we
seldom see now. In these days men regard the form and outward lines
of a woman's face and figure more than either the colour or the
expression, and women fit themselves to men's eyes. With padding
and false hair without limit a figure may be constructed of almost
any dimensions. The sculptors who construct them, male and female,
hairdressers and milliners, are very skilful, and figures are
constructed of noble dimensions, sometimes with voluptuous expansion,
sometimes with classic reticence, sometimes with dishevelled
negligence which becomes very dishevelled indeed when long out of the
sculptors' hands. Colours indeed are added, but not the colours which
we used to love. The taste for flesh and blood has for the day given
place to an appetite for horsehair and pearl powder. But Mrs. Hurtle
was not a beauty after the present fashion. She was very dark,--a
dark brunette,--with large round blue eyes, that could indeed be
soft, but could also be very severe. Her silken hair, almost black,
hung in a thousand curls all round her head and neck. Her cheeks and
lips and neck were full, and the blood would come and go, giving a
varying expression to her face with almost every word she spoke. Her
nose also was full, and had something of the pug. But nevertheless
it was a nose which any man who loved her would swear to be perfect.
Her mouth was large, and she rarely showed her teeth. Her chin was
full, marked by a large dimple, and as it ran down to her neck was
beginning to form a second. Her bust was full and beautifully shaped;
but she invariably dressed as though she were oblivious, or at any
rate neglectful, of her own charms. Her dress, as Montague had seen
her, was always black,--not a sad weeping widow's garment, but silk
or woollen or cotton as the case might be, always new, always nice,
always well-fitting, and most especially always simple. She was
certainly a most beautiful woman, and she knew it. She looked as
though she knew it,--but only after that fashion in which a woman
ought to know it. Of her age she had never spoken to Montague. She
was in truth over thirty,--perhaps almost as near thirty-five as
thirty. But she was one of those whom years hardly seem to touch.

"You are beautiful as ever you were," he said.

"Psha! Do not tell me of that. I care nothing for my beauty unless it
can bind me to your love. Sit down there and tell me what it means."
Then she let go his hand, and seated herself opposite to the chair
which she gave him.

"I told you in my letter."

"You told me nothing in your letter,--except that it was to be--off.
Why is it to be--off? Do you not love me?" Then she threw herself
upon her knees, and leaned upon his, and looked up in his face.
"Paul," she said, "I have come again across the Atlantic on purpose
to see you,--after so many months,--and will you not give me one
kiss? Even though you should leave me for ever, give me one kiss." Of
course he kissed her, not once, but with a long, warm embrace. How
could it have been otherwise? With all his heart he wished that she
would have remained away, but while she knelt there at his feet what
could he do but embrace her? "Now tell me everything," she said,
seating herself on a footstool at his feet.


[Illustration: "I have come across the Atlantic to see you."]


She certainly did not look like a woman whom a man might ill treat
or scorn with impunity. Paul felt, even while she was lavishing her
caresses upon him, that she might too probably turn and rend him
before he left her. He had known something of her temper before,
though he had also known the truth and warmth of her love. He had
travelled with her from San Francisco to England, and she had been
very good to him in illness, in distress of mind and in poverty,--for
he had been almost penniless in New York. When they landed at
Liverpool they were engaged as man and wife. He had told her all his
affairs, had given her the whole history of his life. This was before
his second journey to America, when Hamilton K. Fisker was unknown
to him. But she had told him little or nothing of her own life,--but
that she was a widow, and that she was travelling to Paris on
business. When he left her at the London railway station, from which
she started for Dover, he was full of all a lover's ardour. He had
offered to go with her, but that she had declined. But when he
remembered that he must certainly tell his friend Roger of his
engagement, and remembered also how little he knew of the lady to
whom he was engaged, he became embarrassed. What were her means he
did not know. He did know that she was some years older than himself,
and that she had spoken hardly a word to him of her own family.
She had indeed said that her husband had been one of the greatest
miscreants ever created, and had spoken of her release from him as
the one blessing she had known before she had met Paul Montague. But
it was only when he thought of all this after she had left him,--only
when he reflected how bald was the story which he must tell Roger
Carbury,--that he became dismayed. Such had been the woman's
cleverness, such her charm, so great her power of adaptation, that
he had passed weeks in her daily company, with still progressing
intimacy and affection, without feeling that anything had been
missing.

He had told his friend, and his friend had declared to him that it
was impossible that he should marry a woman whom he had met in a
railway train without knowing something about her. Roger did all
he could to persuade the lover to forget his love,--and partially
succeeded. It is so pleasant and so natural that a young man should
enjoy the company of a clever, beautiful woman on a long journey,--so
natural that during the journey he should allow himself to think that
she may during her whole life be all in all to him as she is at that
moment;--and so natural again that he should see his mistake when he
has parted from her! But Montague, though he was half false to his
widow, was half true to her. He had pledged his word, and that he
said ought to bind him. Then he returned to California, and learned
through the instrumentality of Hamilton K. Fisker, that in San
Francisco Mrs. Hurtle was regarded as a mystery. Some people did not
quite believe that there ever had been a Mr. Hurtle. Others said that
there certainly had been a Mr. Hurtle, and that to the best of their
belief he still existed. The fact, however, best known of her was,
that she had shot a man through the head somewhere in Oregon. She had
not been tried for it, as the world of Oregon had considered that the
circumstances justified the deed. Everybody knew that she was very
clever and very beautiful,--but everybody also thought that she was
very dangerous. "She always had money when she was here," Hamilton
Fisker said, "but no one knew where it came from." Then he wanted to
know why Paul inquired. "I don't think, you know, that I should like
to go in for a life partnership, if you mean that," said Hamilton K.
Fisker.

Montague had seen her in New York as he passed through on his second
journey to San Francisco, and had then renewed his promises in spite
of his cousin's caution. He told her that he was going to see what he
could make of his broken fortunes,--for at this time, as the reader
will remember, there was no great railway in existence,--and she had
promised to follow him. Since that they had never met till this day.
She had not made the promised journey to San Francisco, at any rate
before he had left it. Letters from her had reached him in England,
and these he had answered by explaining to her, or endeavouring to
explain, that their engagement must be at an end. And now she had
followed him to London! "Tell me everything," she said, leaning upon
him and looking up into his face.

"But you,--when did you arrive here?"

"Here, at this house, I arrived the night before last. On Tuesday
I reached Liverpool. There I found that you were probably in London,
and so I came on. I have come only to see you. I can understand that
you should have been estranged from me. That journey home is now so
long ago! Our meeting in New York was so short and wretched. I would
not tell you because you then were poor yourself, but at that moment
I was penniless. I have got my own now out from the very teeth of
robbers." As she said this, she looked as though she could be very
persistent in claiming her own,--or what she might think to be her
own. "I could not get across to San Francisco as I said I would, and
when I was there you had quarrelled with your uncle and returned. And
now I am here. I at any rate have been faithful." As she said this
his arm was again thrown over her, so as to press her head to his
knee. "And now," she said, "tell me about yourself?"

His position was embarrassing and very odious to himself. Had he done
his duty properly, he would gently have pushed her from him, have
sprung to his legs, and have declared that, however faulty might have
been his previous conduct, he now found himself bound to make her
understand that he did not intend to become her husband. But he was
either too much of a man or too little of a man for conduct such as
that. He did make the avowal to himself, even at that moment as she
sat there. Let the matter go as it would, she should never be his
wife. He would marry no one unless it was Hetta Carbury. But he did
not at all know how to get this said with proper emphasis, and yet
with properly apologetic courtesy. "I am engaged here about this
railway," he said. "You have heard, I suppose, of our projected
scheme?"

"Heard of it! San Francisco is full of it. Hamilton Fisker is the
great man of the day there, and, when I left, your uncle was buying
a villa for seventy-four thousand dollars. And yet they say that the
best of it all has been transferred to you Londoners. Many there are
very hard upon Fisker for coming here and doing as he did."

"It's doing very well, I believe," said Paul, with some feeling of
shame, as he thought how very little he knew about it.

"You are the manager here in England?"

"No,--I am a member of the firm that manages it at San Francisco; but
the real manager here is our chairman, Mr. Melmotte."

"Ah,--I have heard of him. He is a great man;--a Frenchman, is he
not? There was a talk of inviting him to California. You know him of
course?"

"Yes;--I know him. I see him once a week."

"I would sooner see that man than your Queen, or any of your dukes or
lords. They tell me that he holds the world of commerce in his right
hand. What power;--what grandeur!"

"Grand enough," said Paul, "if it all came honestly."

"Such a man rises above honesty," said Mrs. Hurtle, "as a great
general rises above humanity when he sacrifices an army to conquer
a nation. Such greatness is incompatible with small scruples. A
pigmy man is stopped by a little ditch, but a giant stalks over the
rivers."

"I prefer to be stopped by the ditches," said Montague.

"Ah, Paul, you were not born for commerce. And I will grant you this,
that commerce is not noble unless it rises to great heights. To live
in plenty by sticking to your counter from nine in the morning to
nine at night, is not a fine life. But this man with a scratch of his
pen can send out or call in millions of dollars. Do they say here
that he is not honest?"

"As he is my partner in this affair perhaps I had better say nothing
against him."

"Of course such a man will be abused. People have said that Napoleon
was a coward, and Washington a traitor. You must take me where I
shall see Melmotte. He is a man whose hand I would kiss; but I would