The Way We Live Now - 36

shall be desolate in this." Then she paused, and there was absolute
silence for a minute. "You thought my letter very short; did you
not?"

"It said, I suppose, all you had to say."

"No, indeed. I did have much more to say. That was the third letter
I wrote. Now you shall see the other two. I wrote three, and had to
choose which I would send you. I fancy that yours to me was easier
written than either one of mine. You had no doubts, you know. I had
many doubts. I could not send them all by post, together. But you may
see them all now. There is one. You may read that first. While I was
writing it, I was determined that that should go." Then she handed
him the sheet of paper which contained the threat of the horsewhip.

"I am glad you did not send that," he said.

"I meant it."

"But you have changed your mind?"

"Is there anything in it that seems to you to be unreasonable? Speak
out and tell me."

"I am thinking of you, not of myself."

"Think of me, then. Is there anything said there which the usage to
which I have been subjected does not justify?"

"You ask me questions which I cannot answer. I do not think that
under any provocation a woman should use a horsewhip."

"It is certainly more comfortable for gentlemen,--who amuse
themselves,--that women should have that opinion. But, upon my word,
I don't know what to say about that. As long as there are men to
fight for women, it may be well to leave the fighting to the men.
But when a woman has no one to help her, is she to bear everything
without turning upon those who ill-use her? Shall a woman be flayed
alive because it is unfeminine in her to fight for her own skin?
What is the good of being--feminine, as you call it? Have you asked
yourself that? That men may be attracted, I should say. But if a
woman finds that men only take advantage of her assumed weakness,
shall she not throw it off? If she be treated as prey, shall she not
fight as a beast of prey? Oh, no;--it is so unfeminine! I also, Paul,
had thought of that. The charm of womanly weakness presented itself
to my mind in a soft moment,--and then I wrote this other letter. You
may as well see them all." And so she handed him the scrap which had
been written at Lowestoft, and he read that also.

He could hardly finish it, because of the tears which filled his
eyes. But, having mastered its contents, he came across the room and
threw himself on his knees at her feet, sobbing. "I have not sent it,
you know," she said. "I only show it you that you may see how my mind
has been at work."

"It hurts me more than the other," he replied.

"Nay, I would not hurt you,--not at this moment. Sometimes I feel
that I could tear you limb from limb, so great is my disappointment,
so ungovernable my rage! Why,--why should I be such a victim? Why
should life be an utter blank to me, while you have everything before
you? There, you have seen them all. Which will you have?"

"I cannot now take that other as the expression of your mind."

"But it will be when you have left me;--and was when you were with me
at the sea-side. And it was so I felt when I got your first letter in
San Francisco. Why should you kneel there? You do not love me. A man
should kneel to a woman for love, not for pardon." But though she
spoke thus, she put her hand upon his forehead, and pushed back his
hair, and looked into his face. "I wonder whether that other woman
loves you. I do not want an answer, Paul. I suppose you had better
go." She took his hand and pressed it to her breast. "Tell me one
thing. When you spoke of--compensation, did you mean--money?"

"No; indeed no."

"I hope not;--I hope not that. Well, there;--go. You shall be
troubled no more with Winifrid Hurtle." She took the sheet of paper
which contained the threat of the horsewhip and tore it into scraps.

"And am I to keep the other?" he asked.

"No. For what purpose would you have it? To prove my weakness? That
also shall be destroyed." But she took it and restored it to her
pocket-book.

"Good-bye, my friend," he said.

"Nay! This parting will not bear a farewell. Go, and let there be no
other word spoken." And so he went.

As soon as the front door was closed behind him she rang the bell and
begged Ruby to ask Mrs. Pipkin to come to her. "Mrs. Pipkin," she
said, as soon as the woman had entered the room; "everything is over
between me and Mr. Montague." She was standing upright in the middle
of the room, and as she spoke there was a smile on her face.

"Lord a' mercy," said Mrs. Pipkin, holding up both her hands.

"As I have told you that I was to be married to him, I think it right
now to tell you that I'm not going to be married to him."

"And why not?--and he such a nice young man,--and quiet too."

"As to the why not, I don't know that I am prepared to speak about
that. But it is so. I was engaged to him."

"I'm well sure of that, Mrs. Hurtle."

"And now I'm no longer engaged to him. That's all."

"Dearie me! and you going down to Lowestoft with him, and all." Mrs.
Pipkin could not bear to think that she should hear no more of such
an interesting story.

"We did go down to Lowestoft together, and we both came back,--not
together. And there's an end of it."

"I'm sure it's not your fault, Mrs. Hurtle. When a marriage is to be,
and doesn't come off, it never is the lady's fault."

"There's an end of it, Mrs. Pipkin. If you please, we won't say
anything more about it."

"And are you going to leave, ma'am?" said Mrs. Pipkin, prepared to
have her apron up to her eyes at a moment's notice. Where should she
get such another lodger as Mrs. Hurtle,--a lady who not only did
not inquire about victuals, but who was always suggesting that the
children should eat this pudding or finish that pie, and who had
never questioned an item in a bill since she had been in the house!

"We'll say nothing about that yet, Mrs. Pipkin." Then Mrs. Pipkin
gave utterance to so many assurances of sympathy and help that it
almost seemed that she was prepared to guarantee to her lodger
another lover in lieu of the one who was now dismissed.




CHAPTER LII.

THE RESULTS OF LOVE AND WINE.


Two, three, four, and even five o'clock still found Sir Felix Carbury
in bed on that fatal Thursday. More than once or twice his mother
crept up to his room, but on each occasion he feigned to be fast
asleep and made no reply to her gentle words. But his condition was
one which only admits of short snatches of uneasy slumber. From head
to foot, he was sick and ill and sore, and could find no comfort
anywhere. To lie where he was, trying by absolute quiescence to
soothe the agony of his brows and to remember that as long as he lay
there he would be safe from attack by the outer world, was all the
solace within his reach. Lady Carbury sent the page up to him, and to
the page he was awake. The boy brought him tea. He asked for soda and
brandy; but there was none to be had, and in his present condition he
did not dare to hector about it till it was procured for him.

The world surely was now all over to him. He had made arrangements
for running away with the great heiress of the day, and had
absolutely allowed the young lady to run away without him. The
details of their arrangement had been such that she absolutely would
start upon her long journey across the ocean before she could find
out that he had failed to keep his appointment. Melmotte's hostility
would be incurred by the attempt, and hers by the failure. Then he
had lost all his money,--and hers. He had induced his poor mother to
assist in raising a fund for him,--and even that was gone. He was so
cowed that he was afraid even of his mother. And he could remember
something, but no details, of some row at the club,--but still with a
conviction on his mind that he had made the row. Ah,--when would he
summon courage to enter the club again? When could he show himself
again anywhere? All the world would know that Marie Melmotte had
attempted to run off with him, and that at the last moment he had
failed her. What lie could he invent to cover his disgrace? And his
clothes! All his things were at the club;--or he thought that they
were, not being quite certain whether he had not made some attempt to
carry them off to the Railway Station. He had heard of suicide. If
ever it could be well that a man should cut his own throat, surely
the time had come for him now. But as this idea presented itself to
him he simply gathered the clothes around him and tried to sleep. The
death of Cato would hardly have for him persuasive charms.

Between five and six his mother again came up to him, and when he
appeared to sleep, stood with her hand upon his shoulder. There
must be some end to this. He must at any rate be fed. She, wretched
woman, had been sitting all day,--thinking of it. As regarded her son
himself, his condition told his story with sufficient accuracy. What
might be the fate of the girl she could not stop to enquire. She had
not heard all the details of the proposed scheme; but she had known
that Felix had proposed to be at Liverpool on the Wednesday night,
and to start on Thursday for New York with the young lady; and with
the view of aiding him in his object she had helped him with money.
She had bought clothes for him, and had been busy with Hetta for two
days preparing for his long journey,--having told some lie to her own
daughter as to the cause of her brother's intended journey. He had
not gone, but had come, drunk and degraded, back to the house. She
had searched his pockets with less scruple than she had ever before
felt, and had found his ticket for the vessel and the few sovereigns
which were left to him. About him she could read the riddle plainly.
He had stayed at his club till he was drunk, and had gambled away all
his money. When she had first seen him she had asked herself what
further lie she should now tell to her daughter. At breakfast there
was instant need for some story. "Mary says that Felix came back this
morning, and that he has not gone at all," Hetta exclaimed. The poor
woman could not bring herself to expose the vices of the son to her
daughter. She could not say that he had stumbled into the house drunk
at six o'clock. Hetta no doubt had her own suspicions. "Yes; he has
come back," said Lady Carbury, broken-hearted by her troubles. "It
was some plan about the Mexican railway I believe, and has broken
through. He is very unhappy and not well. I will see to him." After
that Hetta had said nothing during the whole day. And now, about an
hour before dinner, Lady Carbury was standing by her son's bedside,
determined that he should speak to her.

"Felix," she said,--"speak to me, Felix.--I know that you are awake."
He groaned, and turned himself away from her, burying himself,
further under the bedclothes. "You must get up for your dinner. It is
near six o'clock."

"All right," he said at last.

"What is the meaning of this, Felix? You must tell me. It must be
told sooner or later. I know you are unhappy. You had better trust
your mother."

"I am so sick, mother."

"You will be better up. What were you doing last night? What has come
of it all? Where are your things?"

"At the club.--You had better leave me now, and let Sam come up to
me." Sam was the page.

"I will leave you presently; but, Felix, you must tell me about this.
What has been done?"

"It hasn't come off."

"But how has it not come off?"

"I didn't get away. What's the good of asking?"

"You said this morning when you came in, that Mr. Melmotte had
discovered it."

"Did I? Then I suppose he has. Oh, mother, I wish I could die. I
don't see what's the use of anything. I won't get up to dinner. I'd
rather stay here."

"You must have something to eat, Felix."

"Sam can bring it me. Do let him get me some brandy and water. I'm so
faint and sick with all this that I can hardly bear myself. I can't
talk now. If he'll get me a bottle of soda water and some brandy,
I'll tell you all about it then."

"Where is the money, Felix?"

"I paid it for the ticket," said he, with both his hands up to his
head.

Then his mother again left him with the understanding that he was to
be allowed to remain in bed till the next morning; but that he was
to give her some further explanation when he had been refreshed and
invigorated after his own prescription. The boy went out and got him
soda water and brandy, and meat was carried up to him, and then he
did succeed for a while in finding oblivion from his misery in sleep.

"Is he ill, mamma?" Hetta asked.

"Yes, my dear."

"Had you not better send for a doctor?"

"No, my dear. He will be better to-morrow."

"Mamma, I think you would be happier if you would tell me
everything."

"I can't," said Lady Carbury, bursting out into tears. "Don't ask.
What's the good of asking? It is all misery and wretchedness. There
is nothing to tell,--except that I am ruined."

"Has he done anything, mamma?"

"No. What should he have done? How am I to know what he does? He
tells me nothing. Don't talk about it any more. Oh, God,--how much
better it would be to be childless!"

"Oh, mamma, do you mean me?" said Hetta, rushing across the room, and
throwing herself close to her mother's side on the sofa. "Mamma, say
that you do not mean me."

"It concerns you as well as me and him. I wish I were childless."

"Oh, mamma, do not be cruel to me! Am I not good to you? Do I not try
to be a comfort to you?"

"Then marry your cousin, Roger Carbury, who is a good man, and who
can protect you. You can, at any rate, find a home for yourself, and
a friend for us. You are not like Felix. You do not get drunk and
gamble,--because you are a woman. But you are stiff-necked, and will
not help me in my trouble."

"Shall I marry him, mamma, without loving him?"

"Love! Have I been able to love? Do you see much of what you call
love around you? Why should you not love him? He is a gentleman, and
a good man,--soft-hearted, of a sweet nature, whose life would be one
effort to make yours happy. You think that Felix is very bad."

"I have never said so."

"But ask yourself whether you do not give as much pain, seeing what
you could do for us if you would. But it never occurs to you to
sacrifice even a fantasy for the advantage of others."

Hetta retired from her seat on the sofa, and when her mother again
went up-stairs she turned it all over in her mind. Could it be right
that she should marry one man when she loved another? Could it be
right that she should marry at all, for the sake of doing good to
her family? This man, whom she might marry if she would,--who did
in truth worship the ground on which she trod,--was, she well knew,
all that her mother had said. And he was more than that. Her mother
had spoken of his soft heart, and his sweet nature. But Hetta knew
also that he was a man of high honour and a noble courage. In such
a condition as was hers now he was the very friend whose advice she
could have asked,--had he not been the very lover who was desirous
of making her his wife. Hetta felt that she could sacrifice much for
her mother. Money, if she had it, she could have given, though she
left herself penniless. Her time, her inclinations, her very heart's
treasure, and, as she thought, her life, she could give. She could
doom herself to poverty, and loneliness, and heart-rending regrets
for her mother's sake. But she did not know how she could give
herself into the arms of a man she did not love.


[Illustration: "Can I marry the man I do not love?"]


"I don't know what there is to explain," said Felix to his mother.
She had asked him why he had not gone to Liverpool, whether he had
been interrupted by Melmotte himself, whether news had reached him
from Marie that she had been stopped, or whether,--as might have been
possible,--Marie had changed her own mind. But he could not bring
himself to tell the truth, or any story bordering on the truth. "It
didn't come off," he said, "and of course that knocked me off my
legs. Well; yes. I did take some champagne when I found how it was. A
fellow does get cut up by that kind of thing. Oh, I heard it at the
club,--that the whole thing was off. I can't explain anything more.
And then I was so mad, I can't tell what I was after. I did get the
ticket. There it is. That shows I was in earnest. I spent the £30
in getting it. I suppose the change is there. Don't take it, for I
haven't another shilling in the world." Of course he said nothing
of Marie's money, or of that which he had himself received from
Melmotte. And as his mother had heard nothing of these sums she could
not contradict what he said. She got from him no further statement,
but she was sure that there was a story to be told which would reach
her ears sooner or later.

That evening, about nine o'clock, Mr. Broune called in Welbeck
Street. He very often did call now, coming up in a cab, staying for
a cup of tea, and going back in the same cab to the office of his
newspaper. Since Lady Carbury had, so devotedly, abstained from
accepting his offer, Mr. Broune had become almost sincerely attached
to her. There was certainly between them now more of the intimacy of
real friendship than had ever existed in earlier days. He spoke to
her more freely about his own affairs, and even she would speak to
him with some attempt at truth. There was never between them now even
a shade of love-making. She did not look into his eyes, nor did he
hold her hand. As for kissing her,--he thought no more of it than
of kissing the maid-servant. But he spoke to her of the things that
worried him,--the unreasonable exactions of proprietors, and the
perilous inaccuracy of contributors. He told her of the exceeding
weight upon his shoulders, under which an Atlas would have succumbed.
And he told her something too of his triumphs;--how he had had this
fellow bowled over in punishment for some contradiction, and that man
snuffed out for daring to be an enemy. And he expatiated on his own
virtues, his justice and clemency. Ah,--if men and women only knew
his good nature and his patriotism;--how he had spared the rod here,
how he had made the fortune of a man there, how he had saved the
country millions by the steadiness of his adherence to some grand
truth! Lady Carbury delighted in all this and repaid him by flattery,
and little confidences of her own. Under his teaching she had almost
made up her mind to give up Mr. Alf. Of nothing was Mr. Broune more
certain than that Mr. Alf was making a fool of himself in regard to
the Westminster election and those attacks on Melmotte. "The world of
London generally knows what it is about," said Mr. Broune, "and the
London world believes Mr. Melmotte to be sound. I don't pretend to
say that he has never done anything that he ought not to do. I am not
going into his antecedents. But he is a man of wealth, power, and
genius, and Alf will get the worst of it." Under such teaching as
this, Lady Carbury was almost obliged to give up Mr. Alf.

Sometimes they would sit in the front room with Hetta, to whom also
Mr. Broune had become attached; but sometimes Lady Carbury would be
in her own sanctum. On this evening she received him there, and at
once poured forth all her troubles about Felix. On this occasion she
told him everything, and almost told him everything truly. He had
already heard the story. "The young lady went down to Liverpool, and
Sir Felix was not there."

"He could not have been there. He has been in bed in this house all
day. Did she go?"

"So I am told;--and was met at the station by the senior officer
of the police at Liverpool, who brought her back to London without
letting her go down to the ship at all. She must have thought that
her lover was on board;--probably thinks so now. I pity her."

"How much worse it would have been, had she been allowed to start,"
said Lady Carbury.

"Yes; that would have been bad. She would have had a sad journey to
New York, and a sadder journey back. Has your son told you anything
about money?"

"What money?"

"They say that the girl entrusted him with a large sum which she had
taken from her father. If that be so he certainly ought to lose no
time in restoring it. It might be done through some friend. I would
do it for that matter. If it be so,--to avoid unpleasantness,--it
should be sent back at once. It will be for his credit." This Mr.
Broune said with a clear intimation of the importance of his advice.

It was dreadful to Lady Carbury. She had no money to give back, nor,
as she was well aware, had her son. She had heard nothing of any
money. What did Mr. Broune mean by a large sum? "That would be
dreadful," she said.

"Had you not better ask him about it?"

Lady Carbury was again in tears. She knew that she could not hope to
get a word of truth from her son. "What do you mean by a large sum?"

"Two or three hundred pounds, perhaps."

"I have not a shilling in the world, Mr. Broune." Then it all came
out,--the whole story of her poverty, as it had been brought about by
her son's misconduct. She told him every detail of her money affairs
from the death of her husband, and his will, up to the present
moment.

"He is eating you up, Lady Carbury." Lady Carbury thought that she
was nearly eaten up already, but she said nothing. "You must put a
stop to this."

"But how?"

"You must rid yourself of him. It is dreadful to say so, but it must
be done. You must not see your daughter ruined. Find out what money
he got from Miss Melmotte and I will see that it is repaid. That
must be done;--and we will then try to get him to go abroad. No;--do
not contradict me. We can talk of the money another time. I must be
off now, as I have stayed too long. Do as I bid you. Make him tell
you, and send me word down to the office. If you could do it early
to-morrow, that would be best. God bless you." And so he hurried off.

Early on the following morning a letter from Lady Carbury was put
into Mr. Broune's hands, giving the story of the money as far as she
had been able to extract it from Sir Felix. Sir Felix declared that
Mr. Melmotte had owed him £600, and that he had received £250 out of
this from Miss Melmotte,--so that there was still a large balance
due to him. Lady Carbury went on to say that her son had at last
confessed that he had lost this money at play. The story was fairly
true; but Lady Carbury in her letter acknowledged that she was not
justified in believing it because it was told to her by her son.




CHAPTER LIII.

A DAY IN THE CITY.


Melmotte had got back his daughter, and was half inclined to let the
matter rest there. He would probably have done so had he not known
that all his own household were aware that she had gone off to meet
Sir Felix Carbury, and had he not also received the condolence of
certain friends in the city. It seemed that about two o'clock in the
day the matter was known to everybody. Of course Lord Nidderdale
would hear of it, and if so all the trouble that he had taken in
that direction would have been taken in vain. Stupid fool of a girl
to throw away her chance,--nay, to throw away the certainty of a
brilliant career, in that way! But his anger against Sir Felix was
infinitely more bitter than his anger against his daughter. The man
had pledged himself to abstain from any step of this kind,--had
given a written pledge,--had renounced under his own signature his
intention of marrying Marie! Melmotte had of course learned all the
details of the cheque for £250,--how the money had been paid at the
bank to Didon, and how Didon had given it to Sir Felix. Marie herself
acknowledged that Sir Felix had received the money. If possible he
would prosecute the baronet for stealing his money.

Had Melmotte been altogether a prudent man he would probably have
been satisfied with getting back his daughter and would have allowed
the money to go without further trouble. At this especial point in
his career ready money was very valuable to him, but his concerns
were of such magnitude that £250 could make but little difference.
But there had grown upon the man during the last few months an
arrogance, a self-confidence inspired in him by the worship of other
men, which clouded his intellect, and robbed him of much of that
power of calculation which undoubtedly he naturally possessed. He
remembered perfectly his various little transactions with Sir Felix.
Indeed it was one of his gifts to remember with accuracy all money
transactions, whether great or small, and to keep an account book in
his head, which was always totted up and balanced with accuracy. He
knew exactly how he stood, even with the crossing-sweeper to whom
he had given a penny last Tuesday, as with the Longestaffes, father
and son, to whom he had not as yet made any payment on behalf of the
purchase of Pickering. But Sir Felix's money had been consigned into
his hands for the purchase of shares,--and that consignment did not
justify Sir Felix in taking another sum of money from his daughter.
In such a matter he thought that an English magistrate, and an
English jury, would all be on his side,--especially as he was
Augustus Melmotte, the man about to be chosen for Westminster, the
man about to entertain the Emperor of China!

The next day was Friday,--the day of the Railway Board. Early in the
morning he sent a note to Lord Nidderdale.


MY DEAR NIDDERDALE,--

Pray come to the Board to-day;--or at any rate come to me
in the city. I specially want to speak to you.

Yours,

A. M.


This he wrote, having made up his mind that it would be wise to make
a clear breast of it with his hoped-for son-in-law. If there was
still a chance of keeping the young lord to his guns that chance
would be best supported by perfect openness on his part. The young
lord would of course know what Marie had done. But the young lord had
for some weeks past been aware that there had been a difficulty in
regard to Sir Felix Carbury, and had not on that account relaxed his
suit. It might be possible to persuade the young lord that as the
young lady had now tried to elope and tried in vain, his own chance
might on the whole be rather improved than injured.

Mr. Melmotte on that morning had many visitors, among whom one of the
earliest and most unfortunate was Mr. Longestaffe. At that time there
had been arranged at the offices in Abchurch Lane a mode of double
ingress and egress,--a front stairs and a back stairs approach and
exit, as is always necessary with very great men,--in reference
to which arrangement the honour and dignity attached to each is
exactly contrary to that which generally prevails in the world; the
front stairs being intended for everybody, and being both slow and
uncertain, whereas the back stairs are quick and sure, and are used
only for those who are favoured. Miles Grendall had the command of
the stairs, and found that he had plenty to do in keeping people
in their right courses. Mr. Longestaffe reached Abchurch Lane
before one,--having altogether failed in getting a moment's private
conversation with the big man on that other Friday, when he had come
later. He fell at once into Miles's hands, and was ushered through
the front stairs passage and into the front stairs waiting-room,
with much external courtesy. Miles Grendall was very voluble. Did
Mr. Longestaffe want to see Mr. Melmotte? Oh;--Mr. Longestaffe wanted
to see Mr. Melmotte as soon as possible! Of course Mr. Longestaffe
should see Mr. Melmotte. He, Miles, knew that Mr. Melmotte was
particularly desirous of seeing Mr. Longestaffe. Mr. Melmotte had
mentioned Mr. Longestaffe's name twice during the last three days.
Would Mr. Longestaffe sit down for a few minutes? Had Mr. Longestaffe
seen the "Morning Breakfast Table"? Mr. Melmotte undoubtedly was