The Way We Live Now (36 page)

‘Good-bye. You are my own, own, own darling Felix,
‘And I am your own, own affectionate ladylove,
‘
MARIE
.'

Sir Felix, when he read this letter at his club in the afternoon of the
Monday, turned up his nose and shook his head. He thought if there were much of that kind of thing to be done, he could not go on with it, even though the marriage were certain, and the money secure. ‘What an infernal little ass!' he said to himself as he crumpled the letter up.

Marie having intrusted her letter to Didon, together with a little present of gloves and shoes, went down to breakfast Her mother was the first there, and Miss Longestaffe soon followed. That lady, when she found that she was not expected to breakfast with the master of the house, abandoned the idea of having her meal sent to her in her own room. Madame Melmotte she must endure. With Madame Melmotte she had to go out in the carriage every day. Indeed she could only go to those parties to which Madame Melmotte accompanied her. If the London season was to be of any use at all, she must accustom herself to the companionship of Madame Melmotte. The man kept himself very much apart from her. She met him only at dinner, and that not often. Madame Melmotte was very bad; but she was silent, and seemed to understand that her guest was only her guest as a matter of business.

But Miss Longestaffe already perceived that her old acquaintances were changed in their manner to her. She had written to her dear friend Lady Monogram, whom she had known intimately as Miss Triplex, and whose marriage with Sir Damask Monogram had been splendid preferment, telling how she had been kept down in Suffolk at the time of her friend's last party, and how she had been driven to consent to return to London as the guest of Madame Melmotte. She hoped her friend would not throw her off on that account. She had been very affectionate, with a poor attempt at fun, and rather humble. Georgiana Longestaffe had never been humble before; but the Monograms were people so much thought of and in such an excellent set! She would do anything rather than lose the Monograms. But it was of no use. She had been humble in vain, for Lady Monogram had not even answered her note. ‘She never really cared for anybody but herself,' Georgiana said in her wretched solitude. Then, too, she had found that Lord Nidderdale's manner to her had been quite changed. She was not a fool, and could read these signs with sufficient accuracy. There had been little flirtations between her and Nidderdale – meaning nothing, as every one knew that Nidderdale must marry money; but in none of them had he spoken to her as he spoke when he met her in Madame Melmotte's drawing-room. She could see it in the faces of people as they greeted her in the park – especially in the faces of the men. She had always carried herself with a certain high demeanour, and had been able to maintain it. All that was
now gone from her, and she knew it. Though the thing was as yet but a few days old she understood that others understood that she had degraded herself. ‘What's all this about?' Lord Grasslough had said to her, seeing her come into a room behind Madame Melmotte. She had simpered, had tried to laugh, and had then turned away her face. ‘Impudent scoundrel!' she said to herself, knowing that a fortnight ago he would not have dared to address her in such a tone.

A day or two afterwards an occurrence took place worthy of commemoration. Dolly Longestaffe called on his sister! His mind must have been much stirred when he allowed himself to be moved to such uncommon action. He came, too, at a very early hour, not much after noon, when it was his custom to be eating his breakfast in bed. He declared at once to the servant that he did not wish to see Madame Melmotte or any of the family. He had called to see his sister. He was therefore shown into a separate room where Georgiana joined him. ‘What's all this about?'

She tried to laugh as she tossed her head. ‘What brings you here, I wonder? This is quite an unexpected compliment.'

‘My being here doesn't matter. I can go anywhere without doing much harm. Why are you staying with these people?'

‘Ask papa.'

‘I don't suppose he sent you here?'

‘That's just what he did do.'

‘You needn't have come, I suppose, unless you liked it Is it because they are none of them coming up?'

‘Exactly that, Dolly. What a wonderful young man you are for guessing!'

‘Don't you feel ashamed of yourself?'

‘No – not a bit.'

‘Then I feel ashamed for you.'

‘Everybody comes here.'

‘No – everybody does not come and stay here as you are doing. Everybody doesn't make themselves a part of the family. I have heard of nobody doing it except you. I thought you used to think so much of yourself.

‘I think as much of myself as ever I did,' said Georgiana, hardly able to restrain her tears.

‘I can tell you nobody else will think much of you if you remain here. I could hardly believe it when Nidderdale told me.'

‘What did he say, Dolly?'

‘He didn't say much to me, but I could see what he thought. And of course everybody thinks the same. How you can like the people yourself, is what I can't understand!'

‘I don't like them – I hate them.'

‘Then why do you come and live with them?'

‘Oh, Dolly, it is impossible to make you understand. A man is so different. You can go just where you please, and do what you like. And if you're short of money, people will give you credit. And you can live by yourself, and all that sort of thing. How should you like to be shut up down at Caversham all the season?'

‘I shouldn't mind it – only for the governor.'

‘You have got a property of your own. Your fortune is made for you. What is to become of me?'

‘You mean about marrying?'

‘I mean altogether,' said the poor girl, unable to be quite as explicit with her brother, as she had been with her father, and mother, and sister. ‘Of course I have to think of myself.'

‘I don't see how the Melmottes are to help you. The long and the short of it is, you oughtn't to be here. It's not often I interfere, but when I heard it I thought I'd come and tell you. I shall write to the governor, and tell him too. He should have known better.'

‘Don't write to papa, Dolly!'

‘Yes, I shall. I am not going to see everything going to the devil without saying a word. Good-bye.'

As soon as he had left he hurried down to some club that was open – not the Beargarden, as it was long before the Beargarden hours – and actually did write a letter to his father.

‘MY DEAR FATHER,

‘I have seen Georgiana at Mr Melmotte's house. She ought not to be there. I suppose you don't know it, but everybody says he's a swindler. For the sake of the family I hope you will get her home again. It seems to me that Bruton Street is the proper place for the girls at this time of the year.

‘Your affectionate son,
‘
ADOLPHUS LONGESTAFFE
.'

This letter fell upon old Mr Longestaffe at Caversham like a thunderbolt. It was marvellous to him that his son should have been instigated to write a letter. The Melmottes must be very bad indeed – worse than he had thought – or their iniquities would not have brought about such energy as this. But the passage which angered him most was that which told him that he ought to have taken his family back to town. This had
come from his son, who had refused to do anything to help him in his difficulties.

Paul Montague at this time lived in comfortable lodgings in Sackville Street, and ostensibly the world was going well with him. But he had many troubles. His troubles in reference to Fisker, Montague, and Montague – and also their consolation – are already known to the reader. He was troubled, too, about his love, though when he allowed his mind to expatiate on the success of the great railway he would venture to hope that on that side his life might perhaps be blessed. Henrietta had at any rate as yet showed no disposition to accept her cousin's offer. He was troubled, too, about the gambling, which he disliked, knowing that in that direction there might be speedy ruin, and yet returning to it from day to day in spite of his own conscience. But there was yet another trouble which culminated just at this time. One morning not long after that Sunday night which had been so wretchedly spent at the Beargarden, he got into a cab in Piccadilly and had himself taken to a certain address in Islington. Here he knocked at a decent, modest door – at such a house as men live in with two or three hundred a year – and asked for Mrs Hurtle. Yes; Mrs Hurtle lodged there, and he was shown into the drawing-room. There he stood by the round table for a quarter of an hour turning over the lodging-house books which lay there, and then Mrs Hurtle entered the room. Mrs Hurtle was a widow whom he had once promised to marry. ‘Paul,' she said, with a quick, sharp voice, but with a voice which could be very pleasant when she pleased – taking him by the hand as she spoke, ‘Paul, say that that letter of yours must go for nothing. Say that it shall be so, and I will forgive everything.'

‘I cannot say that,' he replied, laying his hand in hers.

‘You cannot say it! What do you mean? Will you dare to tell me that your promises to me are to go for nothing?'

‘Things are changed,' said Paul hoarsely. He had come hither at her bidding because he had felt that to remain away would be cowardly, but
the meeting was inexpressibly painful to him. He did think that he had sufficient excuse for breaking his troth to this woman, but the justification of his conduct was founded on reasons which he hardly knew how to plead to her. He had heard that of her past life which, had he heard it before, would have saved him from his present difficulty. But he had loved her – did love her in a certain fashion; and her offences, such as they were, did not debar her from his sympathies.

‘How are they changed? I am two years older, if you mean that' As she said this she looked round at the glass as though to see whether she was become so haggard with age as to be unfit to become this man's wife. She was very lovely, with a kind of beauty which we seldom see now. In these days men regard the form and outward lines of a woman's face and figure more than either the colour or the expression, and women fit themselves to men's eyes. With padding and false hair without limit a figure may be constructed of almost any dimensions. The sculptors who construct them, male and female, hairdressers and milliners, are very skilful, and figures are constructed of noble dimensions, sometimes with voluptuous expansion, sometimes with classic reticence, sometimes with dishevelled negligence which becomes very dishevelled indeed when long out of the sculptor's hands. Colours indeed are added, but not the colours which we used to love. The taste for flesh and blood has for the day given place to an appetite for horsehair and pearl powder.
¹
But Mrs Hurtle was not a beauty after the present fashion. She was very dark – a dark brunette – with large round blue eyes, that could indeed be soft, but could also be very severe. Her silken hair, almost black, hung in a thousand curls all round her head and neck. Her cheeks and lips and neck were full, and the blood would come and go, giving a varying expression to her face with almost every word she spoke. Her nose also was full, and had something of the pug. But nevertheless it was a nose which any man who loved her would swear to be perfect. Her mouth was large, and she rarely showed her teeth. Her chin was full, marked by a large dimple, and as it ran down to her neck was beginning to form a second. Her bust was full and beautifully shaped; but she invariably dressed as though she were oblivious, or at any rate neglectful, of her own charms. Her dress, as Montague had seen her, was always black – not a sad weeping widow's garment, but silk or woollen or cotton as the case might be, always new, always nice, always well-fitting, and most especially always simple. She was certainly a most beautiful woman, and she knew it. She looked as though she knew it – but only after that fashion in which a woman
ought to know it. Of her age she had never spoken to Montague. She was in truth over thirty – perhaps almost as near thirty-five as thirty. But she was one of those whom years hardly seem to touch.

‘You are beautiful as ever you were,' he said.

‘Psha! Do not tell me of that. I care nothing for my beauty unless it can bind me to your love. Sit down there and tell me what it means.' Then she let go his hand, and seated herself opposite to the chair which she gave him.

‘I told you in my letter.'

‘You told me nothing in your letter – except that it was to be – off. Why is it to be – off? Do you not love me?' Then she threw herself upon her knees, and leaned upon his, and looked up in his face. ‘Paul,' she said, ‘I have come again across the Atlantic on purpose to see you – after so many months – and will you not give me one kiss? Even though you should leave me for ever, give me one kiss.' Of course he kissed her, not once, but with a long warm embrace. How could it have been otherwise? With all his heart he wished that she would have remained away, but while she knelt there at his feet, what could he do but embrace her? ‘Now tell me everything,' she said, seating herself on a footstool at his feet.

She certainly did not look like a woman whom a man might ill-treat or scorn with impunity. Paul felt, even while she was lavishing her caresses upon him, that she might too probably turn and rend him before he left her. He had known something of her temper before, though he had also known the truth and warmth of her love. He had travelled with her from San Francisco to England, and she had been very good to him in illness, in distress of mind and in poverty – for he had been almost penniless in New York. When they landed at Liverpool they were engaged as man and wife. He had told her all his affairs, had given her the whole history of his life. This was before his second journey to America, when Hamilton K. Fisker was unknown to him. But she had told him little or nothing of her own life – but that she was a widow, and that she was travelling to Paris on business. When he left her at the London railway station, from which she started for Dover, he was full of all a lover's ardour. He had offered to go with her, but that she had declined. But when he remembered that he must certainly tell his friend Roger of his engagement, and remembered also how little he knew of the lady to whom he was engaged, he became embarrassed. What were her means he did not know. He did know that she was some years older than himself, and that she had spoken hardly a word to him
of her own family. She had indeed said that her husband had been one of the greatest miscreants ever created, and had spoken of her release from him as the one blessing she had known before she had met Paul Montague. But it was only when he thought of all this after she had left him – only when he reflected how bald was the story which he must tell Roger Carbury – that he became dismayed. Such had been the woman's cleverness, such her charm, so great her power of adaptation, that he had passed weeks in her daily company, with still progressing intimacy and affection, without feeling that anything had been missing.