The Way We Live Now - 46

purpose, Montague strolled up to Welbeck Street, and found Hetta
alone. "Mamma has gone to her publisher's," she said. "She is writing
so much now that she is always going there. Who has been elected,
Mr. Montague?" Paul knew nothing about the election, and cared very
little. At that time, however, the election had not been decided. "I
suppose it will make no difference to you whether your chairman be in
Parliament or not?" Paul said that Melmotte was no longer a chairman
of his. "Are you out of it altogether, Mr. Montague?" Yes;--as far as
it lay within his power to be out of it, he was out of it. He did not
like Mr. Melmotte, nor believe in him. Then with considerable warmth
he repudiated all connection with the Melmotte party, expressing
deep regret that circumstances had driven him for a time into that
alliance. "Then you think that Mr. Melmotte is--?"

"Just a scoundrel;--that's all."

"You heard about Felix?"

"Of course I heard that he was to marry the girl, and that he tried
to run off with her. I don't know much about it. They say that Lord
Nidderdale is to marry her now."

"I think not, Mr. Montague."

"I hope not, for his sake. At any rate, your brother is well out of
it."

"Do you know that she loves Felix? There is no pretence about that. I
do think she is good. The other night at the party she spoke to me."

"You went to the party, then?"

"Yes;--I could not refuse to go when mamma chose to take me. And when
I was there she spoke to me about Felix. I don't think she will marry
Lord Nidderdale. Poor girl;--I do pity her. Think what a downfall it
will be if anything happens."

But Paul Montague had certainly not come there with the intention
of discussing Melmotte's affairs, nor could he afford to lose the
opportunity which chance had given him. He was off with one love, and
now he thought that he might be on with the other. "Hetta," he said,
"I am thinking more of myself than of her,--or even of Felix."

"I suppose we all do think more of ourselves than of other people,"
said Hetta, who knew from his voice at once what it was in his mind
to do.

"Yes;--but I am not thinking of myself only. I am thinking of myself,
and you. In all my thoughts of myself I am thinking of you too."

"I do not know why you should do that."

"Hetta, you must know that I love you."

"Do you?" she said. Of course she knew it. And of course she thought
that he was equally sure of her love. Had he chosen to read signs
that ought to have been plain enough to him, could he have doubted
her love after the few words that had been spoken on that night
when Lady Carbury had come in with Roger and interrupted them? She
could not remember exactly what had been said; but she did remember
that he had spoken of leaving England for ever in a certain event,
and that she had not rebuked him;--and she remembered also how she
had confessed her own love to her mother. He, of course, had known
nothing of that confession; but he must have known that he had her
heart! So at least she thought. She had been working some morsel of
lace, as ladies do when ladies wish to be not quite doing nothing.
She had endeavoured to ply her needle, very idly, while he was
speaking to her, but now she allowed her hands to fall into her lap.
She would have continued to work at the lace had she been able, but
there are times when the eyes will not see clearly, and when the
hands will hardly act mechanically.

"Yes,--I do. Hetta, say a word to me. Can it be so? Look at me for
one moment so as to let me know." Her eyes had turned downwards after
her work. "If Roger is dearer to you than I am, I will go at once."

"Roger is very dear to me."

"Do you love him as I would have you love me?"

She paused for a time, knowing that his eyes were fixed upon her,
and then she answered the question in a low voice, but very clearly.
"No," she said;--"not like that."

"Can you love me like that?" He put out both his arms as though to
take her to his breast should the answer be such as he longed to
hear. She raised her hand towards him, as if to keep him back, and
left it with him when he seized it. "Is it mine?" he said.

"If you want it."

Then he was at her feet in a moment, kissing her hands and her dress,
looking up into her face with his eyes full of tears, ecstatic with
joy as though he had really never ventured to hope for such success.
"Want it!" he said. "Hetta, I have never wanted anything but that
with real desire. Oh, Hetta, my own. Since I first saw you this has
been my only dream of happiness. And now it is my own."

She was very quiet, but full of joy. Now that she had told him the
truth she did not coy her love. Having once spoken the word she did
not care how often she repeated it. She did not think that she could
ever have loved anybody but him,--even if he had not been fond of
her. As to Roger,--dear Roger, dearest Roger,--no; it was not the
same thing. "He is as good as gold," she said,--"ever so much better
than you are, Paul," stroking his hair with her hand and looking into
his eyes.

"Better than anybody I have ever known," said Montague with all his
energy.

"I think he is;--but, ah, that is not everything. I suppose we ought
to love the best people best; but I don't, Paul."

"I do," said he.

"No,--you don't. You must love me best, but I won't be called good.
I do not know why it has been so. Do you know, Paul, I have sometimes
thought I would do as he would have me, out of sheer gratitude. I did
not know how to refuse such a trifling thing to one who ought to have
everything that he wants."

"Where should I have been?"

"Oh, you! Somebody else would have made you happy. But do you know,
Paul, I think he will never love any one else. I ought not to say so,
because it seems to be making so much of myself. But I feel it. He is
not so young a man, and yet I think that he never was in love before.
He almost told me so once, and what he says is true. There is an
unchanging way with him that is awful to think of. He said that he
never could be happy unless I would do as he would have me,--and he
made me almost believe even that. He speaks as though every word he
says must come true in the end. Oh, Paul, I love you so dearly,--but
I almost think that I ought to have obeyed him." Paul Montague of
course had very much to say in answer to this. Among the holy things
which did exist to gild this every-day unholy world, love was the
holiest. It should be soiled by no falsehood, should know nothing of
compromises, should admit no excuses, should make itself subject to
no external circumstances. If Fortune had been so kind to him as to
give him her heart, poor as his claim might be, she could have no
right to refuse him the assurance of her love. And though his rival
were an angel, he could have no shadow of a claim upon her,--seeing
that he had failed to win her heart. It was very well said,--at least
so Hetta thought,--and she made no attempt at argument against him.
But what was to be done in reference to poor Roger? She had spoken
the word now, and, whether for good or bad, she had given herself to
Paul Montague. Even though Roger should have to walk disconsolate
to the grave, it could not now be helped. But would it not be right
that it should be told? "Do you know I almost feel that he is like a
father to me," said Hetta, leaning on her lover's shoulder.

Paul thought it over for a few minutes, and then said that he would
himself write to Roger. "Hetta, do you know, I doubt whether he will
ever speak to me again."

"I cannot believe that."

"There is a sternness about him which it is very hard to understand.
He has taught himself to think that as I met you in his house, and as
he then wished you to be his wife, I should not have ventured to love
you. How could I have known?"

"That would be unreasonable."

"He is unreasonable--about that. It is not reason with him. He always
goes by his feelings. Had you been engaged to him--"

"Oh, then, you never could have spoken to me like this."

"But he will never look at it in that way;--and he will tell me that
I have been untrue to him and ungrateful."

"If you think, Paul--"

"Nay; listen to me. If it be so I must bear it. It will be a great
sorrow, but it will be as nothing to that other sorrow, had that come
upon me. I will write to him, and his answer will be all scorn and
wrath. Then you must write to him afterwards. I think he will forgive
you, but he will never forgive me." Then they parted, she having
promised that she would tell her mother directly Lady Carbury came
home, and Paul undertaking to write to Roger that evening.

And he did, with infinite difficulty, and much trembling of the
spirit. Here is his letter:--


MY DEAR ROGER,--

I think it right to tell you at once what has occurred
to-day. I have proposed to Miss Carbury and she has
accepted me. You have long known what my feelings were,
and I have also known yours. I have known, too, that Miss
Carbury has more than once declined to take your offer.
Under these circumstances I cannot think that I have been
untrue to friendship in what I have done, or that I have
proved myself ungrateful for the affectionate kindness
which you have always shown me. I am authorised by Hetta
to say that, had I never spoken to her, it must have been
the same to you.

This was hardly a fair representation of what had been said, but the
writer, looking back upon his interview with the lady, thought that
it had been implied.

I should not say so much by way of excusing myself, but
that you once said, that should such a thing occur there
must be a division between us ever after. If I thought
that you would adhere to that threat, I should be very
unhappy and Hetta would be miserable. Surely, if a man
loves he is bound to tell his love, and to take the
chance. You would hardly have thought it manly in me if I
had abstained. Dear friend, take a day or two before you
answer this, and do not banish us from your heart if you
can help it.

Your affectionate friend,

PAUL MONTAGUE.


Roger Carbury did not take a single day,--or a single hour to answer
the letter. He received it at breakfast, and after rushing out on the
terrace and walking there for a few minutes, he hurried to his desk
and wrote his reply. As he did so, his whole face was red with wrath,
and his eyes were glowing with indignation.


There is an old French saying that he who makes excuses
is his own accuser. You would not have written as you
have done, had you not felt yourself to be false and
ungrateful. You knew where my heart was, and there you
went and undermined my treasure, and stole it away. You
have destroyed my life, and I will never forgive you.

You tell me not to banish you both from my heart. How dare
you join yourself with her in speaking of my feelings! She
will never be banished from my heart. She will be there
morning, noon, and night, and as is and will be my love to
her, so shall be my enmity to you.

ROGER CARBURY.


It was hardly a letter for a Christian to write; and, yet, in those
parts Roger Carbury had the reputation of being a good Christian.

Henrietta told her mother that morning, immediately on her return.
"Mamma, Mr. Paul Montague has been here."

"He always comes here when I am away," said Lady Carbury.

"That has been an accident. He could not have known that you were
going to Messrs. Leadham and Loiter's."

"I'm not so sure of that, Hetta."

"Then, mamma, you must have told him yourself, and I don't think
you knew till just before you were going. But, mamma, what does it
matter? He has been here, and I have told him--"

"You have not accepted him?"

"Yes, mamma."

"Without even asking me?"

"Mamma, you knew. I will not marry him without asking you. How was I
not to tell him when he asked me whether I--loved him?"

"Marry him! How is it possible you should marry him? Whatever he had
got was in that affair of Melmotte's, and that has gone to the dogs.
He is a ruined man, and for aught I know may be compromised in all
Melmotte's wickedness."

"Oh, mamma, do not say that!"

"But I do say it. It is hard upon me. I did think that you would try
to comfort me after all this trouble with Felix. But you are as bad
as he is;--or worse, for you have not been thrown into temptation
like that poor boy! And you will break your cousin's heart. Poor
Roger! I feel for him;--he that has been so true to us! But you think
nothing of that."

"I think very much of my cousin Roger."

"And how do you show it;--or your love for me? There would have been
a home for us all. Now we must starve, I suppose. Hetta, you have
been worse to me even than Felix." Then Lady Carbury, in her passion,
burst out of the room, and took herself to her own chamber.




CHAPTER LXVII.

SIR FELIX PROTECTS HIS SISTER.


Up to this period of his life Sir Felix Carbury had probably felt but
little of the punishment due to his very numerous shortcomings. He
had spent all his fortune; he had lost his commission in the army;
he had incurred the contempt of everybody that had known him; he had
forfeited the friendship of those who were his natural friends, and
had attached to him none others in their place; he had pretty nearly
ruined his mother and sister; but, to use his own language, he had
always contrived "to carry on the game." He had eaten and drunk, had
gambled, hunted, and diverted himself generally after the fashion
considered to be appropriate to young men about town. He had kept
up till now. But now there seemed to him to have come an end to all
things. When he was lying in bed in his mother's house he counted up
all his wealth. He had a few pounds in ready money, he still had a
little roll of Mr. Miles Grendall's notes of hand, amounting perhaps
to a couple of hundred pounds,--and Mr. Melmotte owed him £600. But
where was he to turn, and what was he to do with himself? Gradually
he learned the whole story of the journey to Liverpool,--how Marie
had gone there and had been sent back by the police, how Marie's
money had been repaid to Mr. Melmotte by Mr. Broune, and how his
failure to make the journey to Liverpool had become known. He was
ashamed to go to his club. He could not go to Melmotte's house.
He was ashamed even to show himself in the streets by day. He was
becoming almost afraid even of his mother. Now that the brilliant
marriage had broken down, and seemed to be altogether beyond hope,
now that he had to depend on her household for all his comforts, he
was no longer able to treat her with absolute scorn,--nor was she
willing to yield as she had yielded.

One thing only was clear to him. He must realise his possessions.
With this view he wrote both to Miles Grendall and to Melmotte. To
the former he said he was going out of town,--probably for some time,
and he must really ask for a cheque for the amount due. He went on
to remark that he could hardly suppose that a nephew of the Duke of
Albury was unable to pay debts of honour to the amount of £200;--but
that if such was the case he would have no alternative but to apply
to the Duke himself. The reader need hardly be told that to this
letter Mr. Grendall vouchsafed no answer whatever. In his letter to
Mr. Melmotte he confined himself to one matter of business in hand.
He made no allusion whatever to Marie, or to the great man's anger,
or to his seat at the board. He simply reminded Mr. Melmotte that
there was a sum of £600 still due to him, and requested that a cheque
might be sent to him for that amount. Melmotte's answer to this was
not altogether unsatisfactory, though it was not exactly what Sir
Felix had wished. A clerk from Mr. Melmotte's office called at the
house in Welbeck Street, and handed to Felix railway scrip in the
South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway to the amount of the sum
claimed,--insisting on a full receipt for the money before he parted
with the scrip. The clerk went on to explain, on behalf of his
employer, that the money had been left in Mr. Melmotte's hands for
the purpose of buying these shares. Sir Felix, who was glad to get
anything, signed the receipt and took the scrip. This took place on
the day after the balloting at Westminster, when the result was not
yet known,--and when the shares in the railway were very low indeed.
Sir Felix had asked as to the value of the shares at the time.
The clerk professed himself unable to quote the price,--but there
were the shares if Sir Felix liked to take them. Of course he took
them;--and hurrying off into the City found that they might perhaps
be worth about half the money due to him. The broker to whom he
showed them could not quite answer for anything. Yes;--the scrip
had been very high; but there was a panic. They might recover,--or,
more probably, they might go to nothing. Sir Felix cursed the Great
Financier aloud, and left the scrip for sale. That was the first
time that he had been out of the house before dark since his little
accident.

But he was chiefly tormented in these days by the want of amusement.
He had so spent his life hitherto that he did not know how to get
through a day in which no excitement was provided for him. He never
read. Thinking was altogether beyond him. And he had never done a
day's work in his life. He could lie in bed. He could eat and drink.
He could smoke and sit idle. He could play cards; and could amuse
himself with women,--the lower the culture of the women, the better
the amusement. Beyond these things the world had nothing for him.
Therefore he again took himself to the pursuit of Ruby Ruggles.

Poor Ruby had endured a very painful incarceration at her aunt's
house. She had been wrathful and had stormed, swearing that she would
be free to come and go as she pleased. Free to go, Mrs. Pipkin told
her that she was;--but not free to return if she went out otherwise
than as she, Mrs. Pipkin, chose. "Am I to be a slave?" Ruby asked,
and almost upset the perambulator which she had just dragged in at
the hall door. Then Mrs. Hurtle had taken upon herself to talk to
her, and poor Ruby had been quelled by the superior strength of the
American lady. But she was very unhappy, finding that it did not suit
her to be nursemaid to her aunt. After all John Crumb couldn't have
cared for her a bit, or he would have come to look after her. While
she was in this condition Sir Felix came to Mrs. Pipkin's house, and
asked for her at the door. It happened that Mrs. Pipkin herself had
opened the door,--and, in her fright and dismay at the presence of so
pernicious a young man in her own passage, had denied that Ruby was
in the house. But Ruby had heard her lover's voice, and had rushed up
and thrown herself into his arms. Then there had been a great scene.
Ruby had sworn that she didn't care for her aunt, didn't care for
her grandfather, or for Mrs. Hurtle, or for John Crumb,--or for any
person or anything. She cared only for her lover. Then Mrs. Hurtle
had asked the young man his intentions. Did he mean to marry Ruby?
Sir Felix had said that he "supposed he might as well some day."
"There," said Ruby, "there!"--shouting in triumph as though an offer
had been made to her with the completest ceremony of which such an
event admits. Mrs. Pipkin had been very weak. Instead of calling
in the assistance of her strong-minded lodger, she had allowed the
lovers to remain together for half-an-hour in the dining-room. I do
not know that Sir Felix in any way repeated his promise during that
time, but Ruby was probably too blessed with the word that had been
spoken to ask for such renewal. "There must be an end of this," said
Mrs. Pipkin, coming in when the half-hour was over. Then Sir Felix
had gone, promising to come again on the following evening. "You
must not come here, Sir Felix," said Mrs. Pipkin, "unless you puts
it in writing." To this, of course, Sir Felix made no answer. As he
went home he congratulated himself on the success of his adventure.
Perhaps the best thing he could do when he had realised the money for
the shares would be to take Ruby for a tour abroad. The money would
last for three or four months,--and three or four months ahead was
almost an eternity.

That afternoon before dinner he found his sister alone in the
drawing-room. Lady Carbury had gone to her own room after hearing
the distressing story of Paul Montague's love, and had not seen
Hetta since. Hetta was melancholy, thinking of her mother's hard
words,--thinking perhaps of Paul's poverty as declared by her mother,
and of the ages which might have to wear themselves out before she
could become his wife; but still tinting all her thoughts with a rosy
hue because of the love which had been declared to her. She could not
but be happy if he really loved her. And she,--as she had told him
that she loved him,--would be true to him through everything! In her
present mood she could not speak of herself to her brother, but she
took the opportunity of making good the promise which Marie Melmotte
had extracted from her. She gave him some short account of the party,
and told him that she had talked with Marie. "I promised to give you
a message," she said.

"It's all of no use now," said Felix.

"But I must tell you what she said. I think, you know, that she
really loves you."

"But what's the good of it? A man can't marry a girl when all the
policemen in the country are dodging her."

"She wants you to let her know what,--what you intend to do. If you
mean to give her up, I think you should tell her."

"How can I tell her? I don't suppose they would let her receive a
letter."

"Shall I write to her;--or shall I see her?"

"Just as you like. I don't care."

"Felix, you are very heartless."

"I don't suppose I'm much worse than other men;--or for the matter of
that, worse than a great many women either. You all of you here put
me up to marry her."

"I never put you up to it."

"Mother did. And now because it did not go off all serene, I am to
hear nothing but reproaches. Of course I never cared so very much
about her."

"Oh, Felix, that is so shocking!"

"Awfully shocking I dare say. You think I am as black as the very
mischief, and that sugar wouldn't melt in other men's mouths. Other
men are just as bad as I am,--and a good deal worse too. You believe
that there is nobody on earth like Paul Montague." Hetta blushed, but
said nothing. She was not yet in a condition to boast of her lover
before her brother, but she did, in very truth, believe that but few
young men were as true-hearted as Paul Montague. "I suppose you'd be
surprised to hear that Master Paul is engaged to marry an American
widow living at Islington."

"Mr. Montague--engaged--to marry--an American widow! I don't believe
it."

"You'd better believe it if it's any concern of yours, for it's true.
And it's true too that he travelled about with her for ever so long
in the United States, and that he had her down with him at the hotel
at Lowestoft about a fortnight ago. There's no mistake about it."

"I don't believe it," repeated Hetta, feeling that to say even as
much as that was some relief to her. It could not be true. It was
impossible that the man should have come to her with such a lie in
his mouth as that. Though the words astounded her, though she felt
faint, almost as though she would fall in a swoon, yet in her heart
of hearts she did not believe it. Surely it was some horrid joke,--or
perhaps some trick to divide her from the man she loved. "Felix, how
dare you say things so wicked as that to me?"

"What is there wicked in it? If you have been fool enough to become
fond of the man, it is only right you should be told. He is engaged
to marry Mrs. Hurtle, and she is lodging with one Mrs. Pipkin in
Islington. I know the house, and could take you there to-morrow, and
show you the woman. There," said he, "that's where she is;"--and he
wrote Mrs. Hurtle's name down on a scrap of paper.

"It is not true," said Hetta, rising from her seat, and standing
upright. "I am engaged to Mr. Montague, and I am sure he would not
treat me in that way."

"Then, by heaven, he shall answer it to me," said Felix, jumping up.
"If he has done that, it is time that I should interfere. As true as
I stand here, he is engaged to marry a woman called Mrs. Hurtle whom
he constantly visits at that place in Islington."

"I do not believe it," said Hetta, repeating the only defence for her
lover which was applicable at the moment.

"By George, this is beyond a joke. Will you believe it if Roger
Carbury says it's true? I know you'd believe anything fast enough
against me, if he told you."

"Roger Carbury will not say so?"

"Have you the courage to ask him? I say he will say so. He knows all
about it,--and has seen the woman."

"How can you know? Has Roger told you?"

"I do know, and that's enough. I will make this square with Master
Paul. By heaven, yes! He shall answer to me. But my mother must
manage you. She will not scruple to ask Roger, and she will believe
what Roger tells her."

"I do not believe a word of it," said Hetta, leaving the room.
But when she was alone she was very wretched. There must be some
foundation for such a tale. Why should Felix have referred to Roger
Carbury? And she did feel that there was something in her brother's
manner which forbade her to reject the whole story as being
altogether baseless. So she sat upon her bed and cried, and thought
of all the tales she had heard of faithless lovers. And yet why
should the man have come to her, not only with soft words of love,
but asking her hand in marriage, if it really were true that he was
in daily communication with another woman whom he had promised to
make his wife?

Nothing on the subject was said at dinner. Hetta with difficulty to
herself sat at the table, and did not speak. Lady Carbury and her son
were nearly as silent. Soon after dinner Felix slunk away to some
music hall or theatre in quest probably of some other Ruby Ruggles.
Then Lady Carbury, who had now been told as much as her son knew,
again attacked her daughter. Very much of the story Felix had learned
from Ruby. Ruby had of course learned that Paul was engaged to Mrs.
Hurtle. Mrs. Hurtle had at once declared the fact to Mrs. Pipkin, and
Mrs. Pipkin had been proud of the position of her lodger. Ruby had
herself seen Paul Montague at the house, and had known that he had
taken Mrs. Hurtle to Lowestoft. And it had also become known to the
two women, the aunt and her niece, that Mrs. Hurtle had seen Roger
Carbury on the sands at Lowestoft. Thus the whole story with most of
its details,--not quite with all,--had come round to Lady Carbury's
ears. "What he has told you, my dear, is true. Much as I disapprove
of Mr. Montague, you do not suppose that I would deceive you."

"How can he know, mamma?"

"He does know. I cannot explain to you how. He has been at the same
house."

"Has he seen her?"

"I do not know that he has, but Roger Carbury has seen her. If I
write to him you will believe what he says?"

"Don't do that, mamma. Don't write to him."

"But I shall. Why should I not write if he can tell me? If this other
man is a villain am I not bound to protect you? Of course Felix is
not steady. If it came only from him you might not credit it. And
he has not seen her. If your cousin Roger tells you that it is
true,--tells me that he knows the man is engaged to marry this woman,
then I suppose you will be contented."

"Contented, mamma!"

"Satisfied that what we tell you is true."

"I shall never be contented again. If that is true, I will never
believe anything. It can't be true. I suppose there is something, but
it can't be that."