The Way We Live Now - 67

Beargarden. From that time forth he was never more seen by them,--or,
if seen, was never known.

The other men remained there till well on into the night, although
there was not the excitement of any special amusement to attract
them. It was felt by them all that this was the end of the
Beargarden, and, with a melancholy seriousness befitting the
occasion, they whispered sad things in low voices, consoling
themselves simply with tobacco. "I never felt so much like crying in
my life," said Dolly, as he asked for a glass of brandy-and-water at
about midnight. "Good-night, old fellows; good-bye. I'm going down to
Caversham, and I shouldn't wonder if I didn't drown myself."

How Mr. Flatfleece went to law, and tried to sell the furniture, and
threatened everybody, and at last singled out poor Dolly Longestaffe
as his special victim; and how Dolly Longestaffe, by the aid of
Mr. Squercum, utterly confounded Mr. Flatfleece, and brought that
ingenious but unfortunate man, with his wife and small family, to
absolute ruin, the reader will hardly expect to have told to him in
detail in this chronicle.




CHAPTER XCVII.

MRS. HURTLE'S FATE.


Mrs. Hurtle had consented at the joint request of Mrs. Pipkin and
John Crumb to postpone her journey to New York and to go down to
Bungay and grace the marriage of Ruby Ruggles, not so much from any
love for the persons concerned, not so much even from any desire to
witness a phase of English life, as from an irresistible tenderness
towards Paul Montague. She not only longed to see him once again, but
she could with difficulty bring herself to leave the land in which
he was living. There was no hope for her. She was sure of that. She
had consented to relinquish him. She had condoned his treachery to
her,--and for his sake had even been kind to the rival who had taken
her place. But still she lingered near him. And then, though, in all
her very restricted intercourse with such English people as she met,
she never ceased to ridicule things English, yet she dreaded a return
to her own country. In her heart of hearts she liked the somewhat
stupid tranquillity of the life she saw, comparing it with the
rough tempests of her past days. Mrs. Pipkin, she thought, was less
intellectual than any American woman she had ever known; and she was
quite sure that no human being so heavy, so slow, and so incapable
of two concurrent ideas as John Crumb had ever been produced in the
United States;--but, nevertheless, she liked Mrs. Pipkin, and almost
loved John Crumb. How different would her life have been could she
have met a man who would have been as true to her as John Crumb was
to his Ruby!

She loved Paul Montague with all her heart, and she despised herself
for loving him. How weak he was;--how inefficient; how unable to
seize glorious opportunities; how swathed and swaddled by scruples
and prejudices;--how unlike her own countrymen in quickness of
apprehension and readiness of action! But yet she loved him for his
very faults, telling herself that there was something sweeter in his
English manners than in all the smart intelligence of her own land.
The man had been false to her,--false as hell; had sworn to her and
had broken his oath; had ruined her whole life; had made everything
blank before her by his treachery! But then she also had not been
quite true with him. She had not at first meant to deceive;--nor had
he. They had played a game against each other; and he, with all the
inferiority of his intellect to weigh him down, had won,--because he
was a man. She had much time for thinking, and she thought much about
these things. He could change his love as often as he pleased, and be
as good a lover at the end as ever;--whereas she was ruined by his
defection. He could look about for a fresh flower and boldly seek
his honey; whereas she could only sit and mourn for the sweets of
which she had been rifled. She was not quite sure that such mourning
would not be more bitter to her in California than in Mrs. Pipkin's
solitary lodgings at Islington.

"So he was Mr. Montague's partner,--was he now?" asked Mrs. Pipkin a
day or two after their return from the Crumb marriage. For Mr. Fisker
had called on Mrs. Hurtle, and Mrs. Hurtle had told Mrs. Pipkin so
much. "To my thinking now he's a nicer man than Mr. Montague." Mrs.
Pipkin perhaps thought that as her lodger had lost one partner she
might be anxious to secure the other;--perhaps felt, too, that it
might be well to praise an American at the expense of an Englishman.

"There's no accounting for tastes, Mrs. Pipkin."

"And that's true, too, Mrs. Hurtle."

"Mr. Montague is a gentleman."

"I always did say that of him, Mrs. Hurtle."

"And Mr. Fisker is--an American citizen." Mrs. Hurtle when she said
this was very far gone in tenderness.

"Indeed now!" said Mrs. Pipkin, who did not in the least understand
the meaning of her friend's last remark.

"Mr. Fisker came to me with tidings from San Francisco which I had
not heard before, and has offered to take me back with him." Mrs.
Pipkin's apron was immediately at her eyes. "I must go some day, you
know."

"I suppose you must. I couldn't hope as you'd stay here always.
I wish I could. I never shall forget the comfort it's been.
There hasn't been a week without everything settled; and most
ladylike,--most ladylike! You seem to me, Mrs. Hurtle, just as though
you had the bank in your pocket." All this the poor woman said, moved
by her sorrow to speak the absolute truth.

"Mr. Fisker isn't in any way a special friend of mine. But I hear
that he will be taking other ladies with him, and I fancy I might as
well join the party. It will be less dull for me, and I shall prefer
company just at present for many reasons. We shall start on the first
of September." As this was said about the middle of August there
was still some remnant of comfort for poor Mrs. Pipkin. A fortnight
gained was something; and as Mr. Fisker had come to England on
business, and as business is always uncertain, there might possibly
be further delay. Then Mrs. Hurtle made a further communication to
Mrs. Pipkin, which, though not spoken till the latter lady had her
hand on the door, was, perhaps, the one thing which Mrs. Hurtle had
desired to say. "By-the-bye, Mrs. Pipkin, I expect Mr. Montague to
call to-morrow at eleven. Just show him up when he comes." She had
feared that unless some such instructions were given, there might be
a little scene at the door when the gentleman came.

"Mr. Montague;--oh! Of course, Mrs. Hurtle,--of course. I'll see to
it myself." Then Mrs. Pipkin went away abashed,--feeling that she had
made a great mistake in preferring any other man to Mr. Montague, if,
after all, recent difficulties were to be adjusted.

On the following morning Mrs. Hurtle dressed herself with almost more
than her usual simplicity, but certainly with not less than her usual
care, and immediately after breakfast seated herself at her desk,
nursing an idea that she would work as steadily for the next hour as
though she expected no special visitor. Of course she did not write
a word of the task which she had prescribed to herself. Of course
she was disturbed in her mind, though she had dictated to herself
absolute quiescence.

She almost knew that she had been wrong even to desire to see him.
She had forgiven him, and what more was there to be said? She had
seen the girl, and had in some fashion approved of her. Her curiosity
had been satisfied, and her love of revenge had been sacrificed. She
had no plan arranged as to what she would now say to him, nor did she
at this moment attempt to make a plan. She could tell him that she
was about to return to San Francisco with Fisker, but she did not
know that she had anything else to say. Then came the knock at the
door. Her heart leaped within her, and she made a last great effort
to be tranquil. She heard the steps on the stairs, and then the door
was opened and Mr. Montague was announced by Mrs. Pipkin herself.
Mrs. Pipkin, however, quite conquered by a feeling of gratitude to
her lodger, did not once look in through the door, nor did she pause
a moment to listen at the keyhole. "I thought you would come and see
me once again before I went," said Mrs. Hurtle, not rising from her
sofa, but putting out her hand to greet him. "Sit there opposite, so
that we can look at one another. I hope it has not been a trouble to
you."

"Of course I came when you left word for me to do so."

"I certainly should not have expected it from any wish of your own."

"I should not have dared to come, had you not bade me. You know
that."

"I know nothing of the kind;--but as you are here we will not quarrel
as to your motives. Has Miss Carbury pardoned you as yet? Has she
forgiven your sins?"

"We are friends,--if you mean that."

"Of course you are friends. She only wanted to have somebody to tell
her that somebody had maligned you. It mattered not much who it was.
She was ready to believe any one who would say a good word for you.
Perhaps I wasn't just the person to do it, but I believe even I was
sufficient to serve the turn."

"Did you say a good word for me?"

"Well; no;" replied Mrs. Hurtle. "I will not boast that I did. I do
not want to tell you fibs at our last meeting. I said nothing good
of you. What could I say of good? But I told her what was quite as
serviceable to you as though I had sung your virtues by the hour
without ceasing. I explained to her how very badly you had behaved
to me. I let her know that from the moment you had seen her, you had
thrown me to the winds."

"It was not so, my friend."

"What did that matter? One does not scruple a lie for a friend, you
know! I could not go into all the little details of your perfidies.
I could not make her understand during one short and rather agonizing
interview how you had allowed yourself to be talked out of your
love for me by English propriety even before you had seen her
beautiful eyes. There was no reason why I should tell her all my
disgrace,--anxious as I was to be of service. Besides, as I put it,
she was sure to be better pleased. But I did tell her how unwillingly
you had spared me an hour of your company;--what a trouble I had been
to you;--how you would have shirked me if you could!"

"Winifrid, that is untrue."

"That wretched journey to Lowestoft was the great crime. Mr. Roger
Carbury, who I own is poison to me--"

"You do not know him."

"Knowing him or not I choose to have my own opinion, sir. I say that
he is poison to me, and I say that he had so stuffed her mind with
the flagrant sin of that journey, with the peculiar wickedness of our
having lived for two nights under the same roof, with the awful fact
that we had travelled together in the same carriage, till that had
become the one stumbling block on your path to happiness."

"He never said a word to her of our being there."

"Who did then? But what matters? She knew it;--and, as the only
means of whitewashing you in her eyes, I did tell her how cruel and
how heartless you had been to me. I did explain how the return of
friendship which you had begun to show me, had been frozen, harder
than Wenham ice, by the appearance of Mr. Carbury on the sands.
Perhaps I went a little farther and hinted that the meeting had been
arranged as affording you the easiest means of escape from me."

"You do not believe that."

"You see I had your welfare to look after; and the baser your conduct
had been to me, the truer you were in her eyes. Do I not deserve some
thanks for what I did? Surely you would not have had me tell her that
your conduct to me had been that of a loyal, loving gentleman. I
confessed to her my utter despair;--I abased myself in the dust, as a
woman is abased who has been treacherously ill-used, and has failed
to avenge herself. I knew that when she was sure that I was prostrate
and hopeless she would be triumphant and contented. I told her on
your behalf how I had been ground to pieces under your chariot
wheels. And now you have not a word of thanks to give me!"

"Every word you say is a dagger."

"You know where to go for salve for such skin-deep scratches as I
make. Where am I to find a surgeon who can put together my crushed
bones? Daggers, indeed! Do you not suppose that in thinking of you
I have often thought of daggers? Why have I not thrust one into
your heart, so that I might rescue you from the arms of this puny,
spiritless English girl?" All this time she was still seated, looking
at him, leaning forward towards him with her hands upon her brow.
"But, Paul, I spit out my words to you, like any common woman, not
because they will hurt you, but because I know I may take that
comfort, such as it is, without hurting you. You are uneasy for a
moment while you are here, and I have a cruel pleasure in thinking
that you cannot answer me. But you will go from me to her, and then
will you not be happy? When you are sitting with your arm round her
waist, and when she is playing with your smiles, will the memory of
my words interfere with your joy then? Ask yourself whether the prick
will last longer than the moment. But where am I to go for happiness
and joy? Can you understand what it is to have to live only on
retrospects?"

"I wish I could say a word to comfort you."

"You cannot say a word to comfort me, unless you will unsay all that
you have said since I have been in England. I never expect comfort
again. But, Paul, I will not be cruel to the end. I will tell you all
that I know of my concerns, even though my doing so should justify
your treatment of me. He is not dead."

"You mean Mr. Hurtle."

"Whom else should I mean? And he himself says that the divorce which
was declared between us was no divorce. Mr. Fisker came here to me
with tidings. Though he is not a man whom I specially love,--though I
know that he has been my enemy with you,--I shall return with him to
San Francisco."

"I am told that he is taking Madame Melmotte with him, and Melmotte's
daughter."

"So I understand. They are adventurers,--as I am, and I do not see
why we should not suit each other."

"They say also that Fisker will marry Miss Melmotte."

"Why should I object to that? I shall not be jealous of Mr. Fisker's
attentions to the young lady. But it will suit me to have some one to
whom I can speak on friendly terms when I am back in California. I
may have a job of work to do there which will require the backing of
some friends. I shall be hand-and-glove with these people before I
have travelled half across the ocean with them."

"I hope they will be kind to you," said Paul.

"No;--but I will be kind to them. I have conquered others by being
kind, but I have never had much kindness myself. Did I not conquer
you, sir, by being gentle and gracious to you? Ah, how kind I was to
that poor wretch, till he lost himself in drink! And then, Paul, I
used to think of better people, perhaps of softer people, of things
that should be clean and sweet and gentle,--of things that should
smell of lavender instead of wild garlic. I would dream of fair,
feminine women,--of women who would be scared by seeing what I saw,
who would die rather than do what I did. And then I met you, Paul,
and I said that my dreams should come true. I ought to have known
that it could not be so. I did not dare quite to tell you all the
truth. I know I was wrong, and now the punishment has come upon me.
Well;--I suppose you had better say good-bye to me. What is the good
of putting it off?" Then she rose from her chair and stood before him
with her arms hanging listlessly by her side.

"God bless you, Winifrid!" he said, putting out his hand to her.

"But he won't. Why should he,--if we are right in supposing that they
who do good will be blessed for their good, and those who do evil
cursed for their evil? I cannot do good. I cannot bring myself
now not to wish that you would return to me. If you would come I
should care nothing for the misery of that girl,--nothing, at least
nothing now, for the misery I should certainly bring upon you. Look
here;--will you have this back?" As she asked this she took from out
her bosom a small miniature portrait of himself which he had given
her in New York, and held it towards him.

"If you wish it I will,--of course," he said.

"I would not part with it for all the gold in California. Nothing
on earth shall ever part me from it. Should I ever marry another
man,--as I may do,--he must take me and this together. While I live
it shall be next my heart. As you know, I have but little respect for
the proprieties of life. I do not see why I am to abandon the picture
of the man I love because he becomes the husband of another woman.
Having once said that I love you I shall not contradict myself
because you have deserted me. Paul, I have loved you, and do love
you,--oh, with my very heart of hearts." So speaking she threw
herself into his arms and covered his face with kisses. "For one
moment you shall not banish me. For one short minute I will be here.
Oh, Paul, my love;--my love!"

All this to him was simply agony,--though as she had truly said it
was an agony he would soon forget. But to be told by a woman of her
love,--without being able even to promise love in return,--to be so
told while you are in the very act of acknowledging your love for
another woman,--carries with it but little of the joy of triumph. He
did not want to see her raging like a tigress, as he had once thought
might be his fate; but he would have preferred the continuance of
moderate resentment to this flood of tenderness. Of course he stood
with his arm round her waist, and of course he returned her caresses;
but he did it with such stiff constraint that she at once felt how
chill they were. "There," she said, smiling through her bitter
tears,--"there; you are released now, and not even my fingers shall
ever be laid upon you again. If I have annoyed you, at this our last
meeting, you must forgive me."

"No;--but you cut me to the heart."

"That we can hardly help;--can we? When two persons have made fools
of themselves as we have, there must I suppose be some punishment.
Yours will never be heavy after I am gone. I do not start till the
first of next month because that is the day fixed by our friend, Mr.
Fisker, and I shall remain here till then because my presence is
convenient to Mrs. Pipkin; but I need not trouble you to come to me
again. Indeed it will be better that you should not. Good-bye."

He took her by the hand, and stood for a moment looking at her, while
she smiled and gently nodded her head at him. Then he essayed to pull
her towards him as though he would again kiss her. But she repulsed
him, still smiling the while. "No, sir; no; not again; never again,
never,--never,--never again." By that time she had recovered her hand
and stood apart from him. "Good-bye, Paul;--and now go." Then he
turned round and left the room without uttering a word.

She stood still, without moving a limb, as she listened to his step
down the stairs and to the opening and the closing of the door. Then
hiding herself at the window with the scanty drapery of the curtain
she watched him as he went along the street. When he had turned the
corner she came back to the centre of the room, stood for a moment
with her arms stretched out towards the walls, and then fell prone
upon the floor. She had spoken the very truth when she said that she
had loved him with all her heart.


[Illlustration: Mrs. Hurtle at the window.]


But that evening she bade Mrs. Pipkin drink tea with her and was more
gracious to the poor woman than ever. When the obsequious but still
curious landlady asked some question about Mr. Montague, Mrs. Hurtle
seemed to speak very freely on the subject of her late lover,--and to
speak without any great pain. They had put their heads together, she
said, and had found that the marriage would not be suitable. Each of
them preferred their own country, and so they had agreed to part.
On that evening Mrs. Hurtle made herself more than usually pleasant,
having the children up into her room, and giving them jam and
bread-and-butter. During the whole of the next fortnight she seemed
to take a delight in doing all in her power for Mrs. Pipkin and her
family. She gave toys to the children, and absolutely bestowed upon
Mrs. Pipkin a new carpet for the drawing-room. Then Mr. Fisker came
and took her away with him to America; and Mrs. Pipkin was left,--a
desolate but grateful woman.

"They do tell bad things about them Americans," she said to a friend
in the street, "and I don't pretend to know. But for a lodger, I only
wish Providence would send me another just like the one I have lost.
She had that good nature about her she liked to see the bairns eating
pudding just as if they was her own."

I think Mrs. Pipkin was right, and that Mrs. Hurtle, with all her
faults, was a good-natured woman.




CHAPTER XCVIII.

MARIE MELMOTTE'S FATE.


In the meantime Marie Melmotte was living with Madame Melmotte in
their lodgings up at Hampstead, and was taking quite a new look out
into the world. Fisker had become her devoted servant,--not with that
old-fashioned service which meant making love, but with perhaps a
truer devotion to her material interests. He had ascertained on her
behalf that she was the undoubted owner of the money which her father
had made over to her on his first arrival in England,--and she also
had made herself mistress of that fact with equal precision. It
would have astonished those who had known her six months since could
they now have seen how excellent a woman of business she had become,
and how capable she was of making the fullest use of Mr. Fisker's
services. In doing him justice it must be owned that he kept
nothing back from her of that which he learned, probably feeling
that he might best achieve success in his present project by such
honesty,--feeling also, no doubt, the girl's own strength in
discovering truth and falsehood. "She's her father's own daughter,"
he said one day to Croll in Abchurch Lane;--for Croll, though he
had left Melmotte's employment when he found that his name had been
forged, had now returned to the service of the daughter in some
undefined position, and had been engaged to go with her and Madame
Melmotte to New York.

"Ah; yees," said Croll, "but bigger. He vas passionate, and did lose
his 'ead; and vas blow'd up vid bigness." Whereupon Croll made an
action as though he were a frog swelling himself to the dimensions
of an ox. "'E bursted himself, Mr. Fisker. 'E vas a great man; but
the greater he grew he vas always less and less vise. 'E ate so
much that he became too fat to see to eat his vittels." It was thus
that Herr Croll analyzed the character of his late master. "But
Ma'me'selle,--ah, she is different. She vill never eat too moch, but
vill see to eat alvays." Thus too he analyzed the character of his
young mistress.

At first things did not arrange themselves pleasantly between Madame
Melmotte and Marie. The reader will perhaps remember that they were
in no way connected by blood. Madame Melmotte was not Marie's mother,
nor, in the eye of the law, could Marie claim Melmotte as her father.
She was alone in the world, absolutely without a relation, not
knowing even what had been her mother's name,--not even knowing what
was her father's true name, as in the various biographies of the
great man which were, as a matter of course, published within a
fortnight of his death, various accounts were given as to his birth,
parentage, and early history. The general opinion seemed to be that
his father had been a noted coiner in New York,--an Irishman of the
name of Melmody,--and, in one memoir, the probability of the descent
was argued from Melmotte's skill in forgery. But Marie, though she
was thus isolated, and now altogether separated from the lords and
duchesses who a few weeks since had been interested in her career,
was the undoubted owner of the money,--a fact which was beyond the
comprehension of Madame Melmotte. She could understand,--and was
delighted to understand,--that a very large sum of money had been
saved from the wreck, and that she might therefore look forward to
prosperous tranquillity for the rest of her life. Though she never
acknowledged so much to herself, she soon learned to regard the
removal of her husband as the end of her troubles. But she could
not comprehend why Marie should claim all the money as her own.
She declared herself to be quite willing to divide the spoil,--and
suggested such an arrangement both to Marie and to Croll. Of Fisker
she was afraid, thinking that the iniquity of giving all the money
to Marie originated with him, in order that he might obtain it
by marrying the girl. Croll, who understood it all perfectly,
told her the story a dozen times,--but quite in vain. She made a
timid suggestion of employing a lawyer on her own behalf, and was
only deterred from doing so by Marie's ready assent to such an
arrangement. Marie's equally ready surrender of any right she might
have to a portion of the jewels which had been saved had perhaps
some effect in softening the elder lady's heart. She thus was in
possession of a treasure of her own,--though a treasure small in
comparison with that of the younger woman; and the younger woman had
promised that in the event of her marriage she would be liberal.

It was distinctly understood that they were both to go to New York
under Mr. Fisker's guidance as soon as things should be sufficiently
settled to allow of their departure; and Madame Melmotte was told,
about the middle of August, that their places had been taken for the
3rd of September. But nothing more was told her. She did not as yet
know whether Marie was to go out free or as the affianced bride of
Hamilton Fisker. And she felt herself injured by being left so much
in the dark. She herself was inimical to Fisker, regarding him as a
dark, designing man, who would ultimately swallow up all that her
husband had left behind him,--and trusted herself entirely to Croll,
who was personally attentive to her. Fisker was, of course, going
on to San Francisco. Marie also had talked of crossing the American
continent. But Madame Melmotte was disposed to think that for her,
with her jewels, and such share of the money as Marie might be
induced to give her, New York would be the most fitting residence.
Why should she drag herself across the continent to California? Herr
Croll had declared his purpose of remaining in New York. Then it
occurred to the lady that as Melmotte was a name which might be too
well known in New York, and which it therefore might be wise to
change, Croll would do as well as any other. She and Herr Croll had
known each other for a great many years, and were, she thought, of
about the same age. Croll had some money saved. She had, at any rate,
her jewels,--and Croll would probably be able to get some portion of
all that money, which ought to be hers, if his affairs were made to
be identical with her own. So she smiled upon Croll, and whispered
to him; and when she had given Croll two glasses of Curaçoa,--which
comforter she kept in her own hands, as safe-guarded almost as the
jewels,--then Croll understood her.

But it was essential that she should know what Marie intended to do.
Marie was anything but communicative, and certainly was not in any
way submissive. "My dear," she said one day, asking the question in
French, without any preface or apology, "are you going to be married
to Mr. Fisker?"

"What makes you ask that?"

"It is so important I should know. Where am I to live? What am I to
do? What money shall I have? Who will be a friend to me? A woman
ought to know. You will marry Fisker if you like him. Why cannot you
tell me?"

"Because I do not know. When I know I will tell you. If you go on
asking me till to-morrow morning I can say no more."