The Way We Live Now (13 page)

‘I hope to be able to keep her before long, and to do it much better than it has ever been done before. The truth is, Roger, you know nothing about it If you'll leave me to myself, you'll find that I shall do very well.'

‘I don't know any young man who ever did worse, or one who had less moral conception of what is right and wrong.'

‘Very well. That's your idea. I differ from you. People can't all think alike, you know. Now, if you please, I'll go.'

Roger felt that he hadn't half said what he had to say, but he hardly knew how to get it said. And of what use could it be to talk to a young man who was altogether callous and without feeling? The remedy for the evil ought to be found in the mother's conduct rather than the son's. She, were she not foolishly weak, would make up her mind to divide herself utterly from her son, at any rate for a while, and to leave him to suffer utter penury. That would bring him round. And then when the agony of want had tamed him, he would be content to take bread and meat from her hand and would be humble. At present he had money in his pocket, and would eat and drink of the best, and be free from inconvenience for the moment. While this prosperity remained it would be impossible to touch him. ‘You will ruin your sister, and break your mother's heart,' said Roger, firing a last harmless shot after the young reprobate.

When Lady Carbury came into the room, which she did as soon as the front door was closed behind her son, she seemed to think that a great success had been achieved because the twenty pounds had been recovered. ‘I knew he would give it me back, if he had it,' she said.

‘Why did he not bring it to you of his own accord?'

‘I suppose he did not like to talk about it. Has he said that he got it by – playing?'

‘No – he did not speak a word of truth while he was here. You may take it for granted that he did get it by gambling. How else should he have it? And you may take it for granted also that he will lose all that he has got. He talked in the wildest way – saying that he would soon have a home for you and Hetta.'

‘Did he – dear boy!'

‘Had he any meaning?'

‘Oh; yes. And it is quite on the cards that it should be so. You have heard of Miss Melmotte.'

‘I have heard of the great French swindler who has come over here, and who is buying his way into society.'

‘Everybody visits them now, Roger.'

‘More shame for everybody. Who knows anything about him – except that he left Paris with the reputation of a specially prosperous rogue? But what of him?'

‘Some people think that Felix will marry his only child. Felix is handsome, isn't he? What young man is there nearly so handsome? They say she'll have half a million of money.'

‘That's his game – is it?'

‘Don't you think he is right?'

‘No; I think he's wrong. But we shall hardly agree with each other about that. Can I see Henrietta for a few minutes?'

Roger Carbury said well that it was very improbable that he and his cousin, the widow, should agree in their opinions as to the expedience of fortune-hunting by marriage. It was impossible that they should ever
understand each other. To Lady Carbury the prospect of a union between her son and Miss Melmotte was one of unmixed joy and triumph. Could it have been possible that Marie Melmotte should be rich and her father be a man doomed to a deserved sentence in a penal settlement, there might perhaps be a doubt about it. The wealth even in that case would certainly carry the day against the disgrace, and Lady Carbury would find reasons why ‘poor Marie' should not be punished for her father's sins, even while enjoying the money which those sins had produced. But how different were the existing facts? Mr Melmotte was not at the galleys, but was entertaining duchesses in Grosvenor Square. People said that Mr Melmotte had a reputation throughout Europe as a gigantic swindler – as one who in the dishonest and successful pursuit of wealth had stopped at nothing. People said of him that he had framed and carried out long premeditated and deeply laid schemes for the ruin of those who had trusted him, that he had swallowed up the property of all who had come in contact with him, that he was fed with the blood of widows and children – but what was all this to Lady Carbury? If the duchesses condoned it all, did it become her to be prudish? People also said that Melmotte would yet get a fall – that a man who had risen after such a fashion never could long keep his head up. But he might keep his head up long enough to give Marie her fortune. And then Felix wanted a fortune so badly – was so exactly the young man who ought to marry a fortune! To Lady Carbury there was no second way of looking at the matter.

And to Roger Carbury also there was no second way of looking at it. That condonation of antecedents which, in the hurry of the world, is often vouchsafed to success, that growing feeling which induces people to assert to themselves that they are not bound to go outside the general verdict, and that they may shake hands with whomsoever the world shakes hands with, had never reached him. The old-fashioned idea that the touching of pitch will defile still prevailed with him. He was a gentleman – and would have felt himself disgraced to enter the house of such a one as Augustus Melmotte. Not all the duchesses in the peerage, or all the money in the City, could alter his notions or induce him to modify his conduct. But he knew that it would be useless for him to explain this to Lady Carbury. He trusted, however, that one of the family might be taught to appreciate the difference between honour and dishonour. Henrietta Carbury had, he thought, a higher turn of mind than her mother, and had as yet been kept free from soil. As for Felix – he had so grovelled in the gutters as to be dirt all over. Nothing short of the prolonged sufferings of half a life could cleanse him.

He found Henrietta alone in the drawing-room. ‘Have you seen Felix?' she said, as soon as they had greeted each other.

‘Yes. I caught him in the street.'

‘We are so unhappy about him.'

‘I cannot say but that you have reason. I think, you know, that your mother indulges him foolishly.'

‘Poor mamma! She worships the very ground he treads on.'

‘Even a mother should not throw her worship away like that. The fact is that your brother will ruin you both if this goes on.'

‘What can mamma do?'

‘Leave London, and then refuse to pay a shilling on his behalf.'

‘What would Felix do in the country?'

‘If he did nothing, how much better would that be than what he does in town? You would not like him to become a professional gambler.'

‘Oh, Mr Carbury; you do not mean that he does that!'

‘It seems cruel to say such things to you – but in a matter of such importance one is bound to speak the truth. I have no influence over your mother; but you may have some. She asks my advice, but has not the slightest idea of listening to it. I don't blame her for that; but I am anxious for the sake of – for the sake of the family.'

‘I am sure you are.'

‘Especially for your sake. You will never throw him over.'

‘You would not ask me to throw him over.'

‘But he may drag you into the mud. For his sake you have already been taken into the house of that man Melmotte.'

‘I do not think that I shall be injured by anything of that kind,' said Henrietta, drawing herself up.

‘Pardon me if I seem to interfere.'

‘Oh, no – it is no interference from you.'

‘Pardon me then if I am rough. To me it seems that an injury is done to you if you are made to go to the house of such a one as this man. Why does your mother seek his society? Not because she likes him; not because she has any sympathy with him or his family; – but simply because there is a rich daughter.'

‘Everybody goes there, Mr Carbury.'

‘Yes – that is the excuse which everybody makes. Is that sufficient reason for you to go to a man's house? Is there not another place to which we are told that a great many are going, simply because the road has become thronged and fashionable? Have you no feeling that you ought to choose your friends for certain reasons of your own? I admit
there is one reason here. They have a great deal of money, and it is thought possible that he may get some of it by falsely swearing to a girl that he loves her. After what you have heard, are the Melmottes people with whom you would wish to be connected?'

‘I don't know.'

‘I do. I know very well. They are absolutely disgraceful. A social connection with the first crossing-sweeper would be less objectionable.' He spoke with a degree of energy of which he was himself altogether unaware. He knit his brows, and his eyes flashed, and his nostrils were extended. Of course she thought of his own offer to herself. Of course her mind at once conceived – not that the Melmotte connection could ever really affect him, for she felt sure that she would never accept his offer – but that he might think that he would be so affected. Of course she resented the feeling which she thus attributed to him. But, in truth, he was much too simple-minded for any such complex idea. ‘Felix,' he continued, ‘has already descended so far that I cannot pretend to be anxious as to what houses he may frequent. But I should be sorry to think that you should often be seen at Mr Melmotte's.'

‘I think, Mr Carbury, that mamma will take care that I am not taken where I ought not to be taken.'

‘I wish you to have some opinion of your own as to what is proper for you.'

‘I hope I have. I am sorry you should think that I have not.'

‘I am old-fashioned, Hetta.'

‘And we belong to a newer and worse sort of world. I dare say it is so. You have been always very kind, but I almost doubt whether you can change us now. I have sometimes thought that you and mamma were hardly fit for each other.'

‘I have thought that you and I were – or possibly might be fit for each other.'

‘Oh – as for me, I shall always take mamma's side. If mamma chooses to go to the Melmottes' I shall certainly go with her. If that is contamination, I suppose I must be contaminated. I don't see why I'm to consider myself better than any one else.'

‘I have always thought that you were better than any one else.'

‘That was before I went to the Melmottes.' I am sure you have altered your opinion now. Indeed, you have told me so. I am afraid, Mr Carbury, you must go your way, and we must go ours.'

He looked into her face as she spoke, and gradually began to perceive the working of her mind. He was so true himself that he did not
understand that there should be with her even that violet-coloured tinge of prevarication which women assume as an additional charm. Could she really have thought that he was attending to his own possible future interests when he warned her as to the making of new acquaintances?

‘For myself,' he said, putting out his hand and making a slight vain effort to get hold of hers, ‘I have only one wish in the world; and that is to travel the same road with you. I do not say that you ought to wish it too; but you ought to know that I am sincere. When I spoke of the Melmottes, did you believe that I was thinking of myself?'

‘Oh no – how should I?'

‘I was speaking to you then as to a cousin who might regard me as an elder brother. No contact with legions of Melmottes could make you other to me than the woman on whom my heart is settled. Even were you in truth disgraced – could disgrace touch one so pure as you – it would be the same. I love you so well that I have already taken you for better or for worse. I cannot change. My nature is too stubborn for such changes. Have you a word to say to comfort me?' She turned away her head, but did not answer him at once. ‘Do you understand how much I am in need of comfort?'

‘You can do very well without comfort from me.'

‘No, indeed. I shall live no doubt; but I shall not do very well. As it is, I am not doing at all well. I am becoming sore and moody, and ill at ease with my friends. I would have you believe me, at any rate, when I say I love you.'

‘I suppose you mean something.'

‘I mean a great deal, dear. I mean all that a man can mean. That is it. You hardly understand that I am serious to the extent of ecstatic joy on the one side, and utter indifference to the world on the other. I shall never give it up till I learn that you are to be married to some one else.'

‘What can I say, Mr Carbury?'

‘That you will love me.'

‘But if I don't.'

‘Say that you will try.'

‘No; I will not say that. Love should come without a struggle. I don't know how one person is to try to love another in that way. I like you very much; but being married is such a terrible thing.'

‘It would not be terrible to me, dear.'

‘Yes – when you found that I was too young for your tastes.'

‘I shall persevere, you know. Will you assure me of this – that if you promise your hand to another man, you will let me know at once?'

‘I suppose I may promise that,' she said, after pausing for a moment.

‘There is no one as yet?'

‘There is no one. But, Mr Carbury, you have no right to question me. I don't think it generous. I allow you to say things that nobody else could say because you are a cousin and because mamma trusts you so much. No one but mamma has a right to ask me whether I care for any one.'

‘Are you angry with me?'

‘No.'

‘If I have offended you it is because I love you so dearly.'

‘I am not offended, but I don't like to be questioned by a gentleman. I don't think any girl would like it. I am not to tell everybody all that happens.'

‘Perhaps when you reflect how much of my happiness depends upon it you will forgive me. Good-bye now.' She put out her hand to him and allowed it to remain in his for a moment ‘When I walk about the old shrubberies at Carbury where we used to be together, I am always asking myself what chance there is of your walking there as the mistress.'