The Way We Live Now - 50

"What has happened to him?"

"Somebody,--somebody has,--beaten him," said Hetta whimpering. Then
she told the story as far as she knew it. The messenger from the
hospital had declared that the young man was in no danger and that
none of his bones were broken, but that he was terribly bruised about
the face, that his eyes were in a frightful condition, sundry of his
teeth knocked out, and his lips cut open. But, the messenger had
gone on to say, the house surgeon had seen no reason why the young
gentleman should not be taken home. "And mamma has gone to fetch
him," said Hetta.

"That's John Crumb," said Roger. Hetta had never heard of John Crumb,
and simply stared into her cousin's face. "You have not been told
about John Crumb? No;--you would not hear of him."

"Why should John Crumb beat Felix like that?"

"They say, Hetta, that women are the cause of most troubles that
occur in the world." The girl blushed up to her eyes, as though the
whole story of Felix's sin and folly had been told to her. "If it be
as I suppose," continued Roger, "John Crumb has considered himself to
be aggrieved and has thus avenged himself."

"Did you--know of him before?"

"Yes indeed;--very well. He is a neighbour of mine and was in love
with a girl, with all his heart; and he would have made her his wife
and have been good to her. He had a home to offer her, and is an
honest man with whom she would have been safe and respected and
happy. Your brother saw her and, though he knew the story, though
he had been told by myself that this honest fellow had placed his
happiness on the girl's love, he thought,--well, I suppose he thought
that such a pretty thing as this girl was too good for John Crumb."

"But Felix has been going to marry Miss Melmotte!"

"You're old-fashioned, Hetta. It used to be the way,--to be off with
the old love before you are on with the new; but that seems to be all
changed now. Such fine young fellows as there are now can be in love
with two at once. That I fear is what Felix has thought;--and now he
has been punished."

"You know all about it then?"

"No;--I don't know. But I think it has been so. I do know that John
Crumb had threatened to do this thing, and I felt sure that sooner or
later he would be as good as his word. If it has been so, who is to
blame him?"

Hetta as she heard the story hardly knew whether her cousin, in his
manner of telling the story, was speaking of that other man, of that
stranger of whom she had never heard, or of himself. He would have
made her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer
her. He was an honest man with whom she would have been safe and
respected and happy! He had looked at her while speaking as though it
were her own case of which he spoke. And then, when he talked of the
old-fashioned way, of being off with the old love before you are on
with the new, had he not alluded to Paul Montague and this story of
the American woman? But, if so, it was not for Hetta to notice it
by words. He must speak more plainly than that before she could be
supposed to know that he alluded to her own condition. "It is very
shocking," she said.

"Shocking;--yes. One is shocked at it all. I pity your mother, and I
pity you."

"It seems to me that nothing ever will be happy for us," said Hetta.
She was longing to be told something of Mrs. Hurtle, but she did not
as yet dare to ask the question.

"I do not know whether to wait for your mother or not," said he after
a short pause.

"Pray wait for her if you are not very busy."

"I came up only to see her, but perhaps she would not wish me to be
here when she brings Felix back to the house."

"Indeed she will. She would like you always to be here when there are
troubles. Oh, Roger, I wish you could tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"She has written to you;--has she not?"

"Yes; she has written to me."

"And about me?"

"Yes;--about you, Hetta. And, Hetta, Mr. Montague has written to me
also."

"He told me that he would," whispered Hetta.

"Did he tell you of my answer?"

"No;--he has told me of no answer. I have not seen him since."

"You do not think that it can have been very kind, do you? I also
have something of the feeling of John Crumb, though I shall not
attempt to show it after the same fashion."

"Did you not say the girl had promised to love that man?"

"I did not say so;--but she had promised. Yes, Hetta; there is a
difference. The girl then was fickle and went back from her word.
You never have done that. I am not justified in thinking even a hard
thought of you. I have never harboured a hard thought of you. It is
not you that I reproach. But he,--he has been if possible more false
than Felix."

"Oh, Roger, how has he been false?"

Still he was not wishful to tell her the story of Mrs. Hurtle. The
treachery of which he was speaking was that which he had thought had
been committed by his friend towards himself. "He should have left
the place and never have come near you," said Roger, "when he found
how it was likely to be with him. He owed it to me not to take the
cup of water from my lips."

How was she to tell him that the cup of water never could have
touched his lips? And yet if this were the only falsehood of which
he had to tell, she was bound to let him know that it was so. That
horrid story of Mrs. Hurtle;--she would listen to that if she could
hear it. She would be all ears for that. But she could not admit that
her lover had sinned in loving her. "But, Roger," she said--"it would
have been the same."

"You may think so. You may feel it. You may know it. I at any rate
will not contradict you when you say that it must have been so. But
he didn't feel it. He didn't know it. He was to me as a younger
brother,--and he has robbed me of everything. I understand, Hetta,
what you mean. I should never have succeeded! My happiness would have
been impossible if Paul had never come home from America. I have told
myself so a hundred times, but I cannot therefore forgive him. And I
won't forgive him, Hetta. Whether you are his wife, or another man's,
or whether you are Hetta Carbury on to the end, my feeling to you
will be the same. While we both live, you must be to me the dearest
creature living. My hatred to him--"

"Oh, Roger, do not say hatred."

"My hostility to him can make no difference in my feeling to you. I
tell you that should you become his wife you will still be my love.
As to not coveting,--how is a man to cease to covet that which he has
always coveted? But I shall be separated from you. Should I be dying,
then I should send for you. You are the very essence of my life. I
have no dream of happiness otherwise than as connected with you. He
might have my whole property and I would work for my bread, if I
could only have a chance of winning you to share my toils with me."

But still there was no word of Mrs. Hurtle. "Roger," she said, "I
have given it all away now. It cannot be given twice."

"If he were unworthy would your heart never change?"

"I think--never. Roger, is he unworthy?"

"How can you trust me to answer such a question? He is my enemy. He
has been ungrateful to me as one man hardly ever is to another. He
has turned all my sweetness to gall, all my flowers to bitter weeds;
he has choked up all my paths. And now you ask me whether he is
unworthy! I cannot tell you."

"If you thought him worthy you would tell me," she said, getting up
and taking him by the arm.

"No;--I will tell you nothing. Go to some one else, not to me;" and
he tried with gentleness but tried ineffectually to disengage himself
from her hold.

"Roger, if you knew him to be good you would tell me,--because you
yourself are so good. Even though you hated him you would say so.
It would not be you to leave a false impression even against your
enemies. I ask you because, however it may be with you, I know I can
trust you. I can be nothing else to you, Roger; but I love you as a
sister loves, and I come to you as a sister comes to a brother. He
has my heart. Tell me;--is there any reason why he should not also
have my hand?"

"Ask himself, Hetta."

"And you will tell me nothing? You will not try to save me though you
know that I am in danger? Who is--Mrs. Hurtle?"

"Have you asked him?"

"I had not heard her name when he parted from me. I did not even know
that such a woman lived. Is it true that he has promised to marry
her? Felix told me of her, and told me also that you knew. But I
cannot trust Felix as I would trust you. And mamma says that it is
so;--but mamma also bids me ask you. There is such a woman?"

"There is such a woman certainly."

"And she has been,--a friend of Paul's?"

"Whatever be the story, Hetta, you shall not hear it from me. I will
say neither evil nor good of the man except in regard to his conduct
to myself. Send for him and ask him to tell you the story of Mrs.
Hurtle as it concerns himself. I do not think he will lie, but if he
lies you will know that he is lying."

"And that is all?"

"All that I can say, Hetta. You ask me to be your brother; but I
cannot put myself in the place of your brother. I tell you plainly
that I am your lover, and shall remain so. Your brother would
welcome the man whom you would choose as your husband. I can never
welcome any husband of yours. I think if twenty years were to pass
over us, and you were still Hetta Carbury, I should still be your
lover,--though an old one. What is now to be done about Felix,
Hetta?"

"Ah,--what can be done? I think sometimes that it will break mamma's
heart."

"Your mother makes me angry by her continual indulgence."

"But what can she do? You would not have her turn him into the
street?"

"I do not know that I would not. For a time it might serve him
perhaps. Here is the cab. Here they are. Yes; you had better go down
and let your mother know that I am here. They will perhaps take him
up to bed, so that I need not see him."

Hetta did as she was bid, and met her mother and her brother in the
hall. Felix having the full use of his arms and legs was able to
descend from the cab, and hurry across the pavement into the house,
and then, without speaking a word to his sister, hid himself in the
dining-room. His face was strapped up with plaister so that not a
feature was visible; and both his eyes were swollen and blue; part of
his beard had been cut away, and his physiognomy had altogether been
so treated that even the page would hardly have known him. "Roger is
up-stairs, mamma," said Hetta in the hall.

"Has he heard about Felix;--has he come about that?"

"He has heard only what I have told him. He has come because of your
letter. He says that a man named Crumb did it."

"Then he does know. Who can have told him? He always knows
everything. Oh, Hetta, what am I to do? Where shall I go with this
wretched boy?"

"Is he hurt, mamma?"

"Hurt;--of course he is hurt; horribly hurt. The brute tried to kill
him. They say that he will be dreadfully scarred for ever. But oh,
Hetta;--what am I to do with him? What am I to do with myself and
you?"

On this occasion Roger was saved from the annoyance of any personal
intercourse with his cousin Felix. The unfortunate one was made as
comfortable as circumstances would permit in the parlour, and Lady
Carbury then went up to her cousin in the drawing-room. She had
learned the truth with some fair approach to accuracy, though Sir
Felix himself had of course lied as to every detail. There are some
circumstances so distressing in themselves as to make lying almost
a necessity. When a young man has behaved badly about a woman, when
a young man has been beaten without returning a blow, when a young
man's pleasant vices are brought directly under a mother's eyes, what
can he do but lie? How could Sir Felix tell the truth about that rash
encounter? But the policeman who had brought him to the hospital had
told all that he knew. The man who had thrashed the baronet had been
called Crumb, and the thrashing had been given on the score of a
young woman called Ruggles. So much was known at the hospital, and so
much could not be hidden by any lies which Sir Felix might tell. And
when Sir Felix swore that a policeman was holding him while Crumb
was beating him, no one believed him. In such cases the liar does
not expect to be believed. He knows that his disgrace will be made
public, and only hopes to be saved from the ignominy of declaring it
with his own words.

"What am I to do with him?" Lady Carbury said to her cousin. "It is
no use telling me to leave him. I can't do that. I know he is bad.
I know that I have done much to make him what he is." As she said
this the tears were running down her poor worn cheeks. "But he is my
child. What am I to do with him now?"

This was a question which Roger found it almost impossible to answer.
If he had spoken his thoughts he would have declared that Sir
Felix had reached an age at which, if a man will go headlong to
destruction, he must go headlong to destruction. Thinking as he did
of his cousin he could see no possible salvation for him. "Perhaps I
should take him abroad," he said.

"Would he be better abroad than here?"

"He would have less opportunity for vice, and fewer means of running
you into debt."

Lady Carbury, as she turned this counsel in her mind, thought of all
the hopes which she had indulged,--her literary aspirations, her
Tuesday evenings, her desire for society, her Brounes, her Alfs, and
her Bookers, her pleasant drawing-room, and the determination which
she had made that now in the afternoon of her days she would become
somebody in the world. Must she give it all up and retire to the
dreariness of some French town because it was no longer possible that
she should live in London with such a son as hers? There seemed to be
a cruelty in this beyond all cruelties that she had hitherto endured.
This was harder even than those lies which had been told of her when
almost in fear of her life she had run from her husband's house. But
yet she must do even this if in no other way she and her son could
be together. "Yes," she said, "I suppose it would be so. I only wish
that I might die, so that were an end of it."

"He might go out to one of the Colonies," said Roger.

"Yes;--be sent away that he might kill himself with drink in the
bush, and so be got rid of. I have heard of that before. Wherever he
goes I shall go."

As the reader knows, Roger Carbury had not latterly held this cousin
of his in much esteem. He knew her to be worldly and he thought her
to be unprincipled. But now, at this moment, her exceeding love for
the son whom she could no longer pretend to defend, wiped out all her
sins. He forgot the visit made to Carbury under false pretences, and
the Melmottes, and all the little tricks which he had detected, in
his appreciation of an affection which was pure and beautiful. "If
you like to let your house for a period," he said, "mine is open to
you."

"But, Felix?"

"You shall take him there. I am all alone in the world. I can make a
home for myself at the cottage. It is empty now. If you think that
would save you you can try it for six months."

"And turn you out of your own house? No, Roger. I cannot do that.
And, Roger;--what is to be done about Hetta?" Hetta herself had
retreated, leaving Roger and her mother alone together, feeling sure
that there would be questions asked and answered in her absence
respecting Mrs. Hurtle, which her presence would prevent. She wished
it could have been otherwise--that she might have been allowed to
hear it all herself--as she was sure that the story coming through
her mother would not savour so completely of unalloyed truth as if
told to her by her cousin Roger.

"Hetta can be trusted to judge for herself," he said.

"How can you say that when she has just accepted this young man? Is
it not true that he is even now living with an American woman whom he
has promised to marry?"

"No;--that is not true."

"What is true, then? Is he not engaged to the woman?"

Roger hesitated a moment. "I do not know that even that is true. When
last he spoke to me about it he declared that the engagement was at
an end. I have told Hetta to ask himself. Let her tell him that she
has heard of this woman from you, and that it behoves her to know the
truth. I do not love him, Lady Carbury. He has no longer any place
in my friendship. But I think that if Hetta asks him simply what is
the nature of his connexion with Mrs. Hurtle, he will tell her the
truth."

Roger did not again see Hetta before he left the house, nor did
he see his cousin Felix at all. He had now done all that he could
do by his journey up to London, and he returned on that day back
to Carbury. Would it not be better for him, in spite of the
protestations which he had made, to dismiss the whole family from
his mind? There could be no other love for him. He must be desolate
and alone. But he might then save himself from a world of cares,
and might gradually teach himself to live as though there were no
such woman as Hetta Carbury in the world. But no! He would not
allow himself to believe that this could be right. The very fact of
his love made it a duty to him,--made it almost the first of his
duties,--to watch over the interests of her he loved and of those who
belonged to her.

But among those so belonging he did not recognise Paul Montague.




CHAPTER LXXIII.

MARIE'S FORTUNE.


When Marie Melmotte assured Sir Felix Carbury that her father had
already endowed her with a large fortune which could not be taken
from her without her own consent, she spoke no more than the truth.
She knew of the matter almost as little as it was possible that she
should know. As far as reticence on the subject was compatible with
the object he had in view Melmotte had kept from her all knowledge
of the details of the arrangement. But it had been necessary when
the thing was done to explain, or to pretend to explain, much; and
Marie's memory and also her intelligence had been strong beyond her
father's anticipation. He was deriving a very considerable income
from a large sum of money which he had invested in foreign funds in
her name, and had got her to execute a power of attorney enabling
him to draw this income on her behalf. This he had done fearing
shipwreck in the course which he meant to run, and resolved that, let
circumstances go as they might, there should still be left enough
to him of the money which he had realised to enable him to live
in comfort and luxury, should he be doomed to live in obscurity,
or even in infamy. He had sworn to himself solemnly that under no
circumstances would he allow this money to go back into the vortex of
his speculations, and hitherto he had been true to his oath. Though
bankruptcy and apparent ruin might be imminent he would not bolster
up his credit by the use of this money even though it might appear
at the moment that the money would be sufficient for the purpose. If
such a day should come, then, with that certain income, he would make
himself happy, if possible, or at any rate luxurious, in whatever
city of the world might know least of his antecedents, and give him
the warmest welcome on behalf of his wealth. Such had been his scheme
of life. But he had failed to consider various circumstances. His
daughter might be untrue to him, or in the event of her marriage
might fail to release his property,--or it might be that the very
money should be required to dower his daughter. Or there might come
troubles on him so great that even the certainty of a future income
would not enable him to bear them. Now, at this present moment,
his mind was tortured by great anxiety. Were he to resume this
property it would more than enable him to pay all that was due to
the Longestaffes. It would do that and tide him for a time over some
other difficulties. Now in regard to the Longestaffes themselves, he
certainly had no desire to depart from the rule which he had made
for himself, on their behalf. Were it necessary that a crash should
come they would be as good creditors as any other. But then he was
painfully alive to the fact that something beyond simple indebtedness
was involved in that transaction. He had with his own hand traced
Dolly Longestaffe's signature on the letter which he had found in old
Mr. Longestaffe's drawer. He had found it in an envelope, addressed
by the elder Mr. Longestaffe to Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile, and
he had himself posted this letter in a pillar-box near to his own
house. In the execution of this manoeuvre, circumstances had greatly
befriended him. He had become the tenant of Mr. Longestaffe's
house, and at the same time had only been the joint tenant of Mr.
Longestaffe's study,--so that Mr. Longestaffe's papers were almost in
his very hands. To pick a lock was with him an accomplishment long
since learned. But his science in that line did not go so far as
to enable him to replace the bolt in its receptacle. He had picked
a lock, had found the letter prepared by Mr. Bideawhile with its
accompanying envelope, and had then already learned enough of the
domestic circumstances of the Longestaffe family to feel assured that
unless he could assist the expedition of this hitherto uncompleted
letter by his own skill, the letter would never reach its intended
destination. In all this fortune had in some degree befriended him.
The circumstances being as they were it was hardly possible that the
forgery should be discovered. Even though the young man were to swear
that the signature was not his, even though the old man were to swear
that he had left that drawer properly locked with the unsigned letter
in it, still there could be no evidence. People might think. People
might speak. People might feel sure. And then a crash would come. But
there would still be that ample fortune on which to retire and eat
and drink and make merry for the rest of his days.

Then there came annoying complications in his affairs. What had
been so easy in reference to that letter which Dolly Longestaffe
never would have signed, was less easy but still feasible in another
matter. Under the joint pressure of immediate need, growing ambition,
and increasing audacity it had been done. Then the rumours that
were spread abroad,--which to Melmotte were serious indeed,--they
named, at any rate in reference to Dolly Longestaffe, the very thing
that had been done. Now if that, or the like of that, were brought
actually home to him, if twelve jurymen could be got to say that he
had done that thing, of what use then would be all that money? When
that fear arose, then there arose also the question whether it might
not be well to use the money to save him from such ruin, if it might
be so used. No doubt all danger in that Longestaffe affair might
be bought off by payment of the price stipulated for the Pickering
property. Neither would Dolly Longestaffe nor Squercum, of whom Mr.
Melmotte had already heard, concern himself in this matter if the
money claimed were paid. But then the money would be as good as
wasted by such a payment, if, as he firmly believed, no sufficient
evidence could be produced to prove the thing which he had done.

But the complications were so many! Perhaps in his admiration for the
country of his adoption Mr. Melmotte had allowed himself to attach
higher privileges to the British aristocracy than do in truth belong
to them. He did in his heart believe that could he be known to all
the world as the father-in-law of the eldest son of the Marquis of
Auld Reekie he would become, not really free of the law, but almost
safe from its fangs in regard to such an affair as this. He thought
he could so use the family with which he would be connected as to
force from it that protection which he would need. And then again, if
he could tide over this bad time, how glorious would it be to have a
British Marquis for his son-in-law! Like many others he had failed
altogether to enquire when the pleasure to himself would come, or
what would be its nature. But he did believe that such a marriage
would add a charm to his life. Now he knew that Lord Nidderdale could
not be got to marry his daughter without the positive assurance of
absolute property, but he did think that the income which might thus
be transferred with Marie, though it fell short of that which had
been promised, might suffice for the time; and he had already given
proof to the Marquis's lawyer that his daughter was possessed of the
property in question.

And indeed, there was another complication which had arisen within
the last few days and which had startled Mr. Melmotte very much
indeed. On a certain morning he had sent for Marie to the study and
had told her that he should require her signature in reference to a
deed. She had asked him what deed. He had replied that it would be a
document regarding money and reminded her that she had signed such a
deed once before, telling her that it was all in the way of business.
It was not necessary that she should ask any more questions as she
would be wanted only to sign the paper. Then Marie astounded him, not
merely by showing him that she understood a great deal more of the
transaction than he had thought,--but also by a positive refusal to
sign anything at all. The reader may understand that there had been
many words between them. "I know, papa. It is that you may have the
money to do what you like with. You have been so unkind to me about
Sir Felix Carbury that I won't do it. If I ever marry the money will
belong to my husband!" His breath almost failed him as he listened
to these words. He did not know whether to approach her with threats,
with entreaties, or with blows. Before the interview was over he had
tried all three. He had told her that he could and would put her in
prison for conduct so fraudulent. He besought her not to ruin her
parent by such monstrous perversity. And at last he took her by both
arms and shook her violently. But Marie was quite firm. He might cut
her to pieces; but she would sign nothing. "I suppose you thought Sir
Felix would have had the entire sum," said the father with deriding
scorn.

"And he would;--if he had the spirit to take it," answered Marie.

This was another reason for sticking to the Nidderdale plan. He
would no doubt lose the immediate income, but in doing so he would
secure the Marquis. He was therefore induced, on weighing in his
nicest-balanced scales the advantages and disadvantages, to leave the
Longestaffes unpaid and to let Nidderdale have the money. Not that he
could make up his mind to such a course with any conviction that he
was doing the best for himself. The dangers on all sides were very
great! But at the present moment audacity recommended itself to him,
and this was the boldest stroke. Marie had now said that she would
accept Nidderdale,--or the sweep at the crossing.

On Monday morning,--it was on the preceding Thursday that he had made
his famous speech in Parliament,--one of the Bideawhiles had come
to him in the City. He had told Mr. Bideawhile that all the world
knew that just at the present moment money was very "tight" in the
City. "We are not asking for payment of a commercial debt," said Mr.
Bideawhile, "but for the price of a considerable property which you
have purchased." Mr. Melmotte had suggested that the characteristics
of the money were the same, let the sum in question have become due
how it might. Then he offered to make the payment in two bills at
three and six months' date, with proper interest allowed. But this
offer Mr. Bideawhile scouted with indignation, demanding that the
title-deeds might be restored to them.

"You have no right whatever to demand the title-deeds," said
Melmotte. "You can only claim the sum due, and I have already told
you how I propose to pay it."

Mr. Bideawhile was nearly beside himself with dismay. In the whole