The Way We Live Now (88 page)

‘Yes, papa,' she said.

‘He is that fat man?'

‘Yes, papa.'

‘And nearly as old as I am?'

‘No, papa – not nearly as old as you are. He is fifty.'

‘And a Jew?' He again asked the horrid question, and again threw in the thunder. On this occasion she condescended to make no further reply. ‘If you do, you shall do it as an alien from my house. I certainly will never see him. Tell him not to come to me, for I certainly will not speak to him. You are degraded and disgraced; but you shall not degrade and disgrace me and your mother and sister.'

‘It was you, papa, who told me to go to the Melmottes.'

‘That is not true. I wanted you to stay at Caversham. A Jew! an old fat Jew! Heavens and earth! that it should be possible that you should think of it! You – my daughter – that used to take such pride in yourself! Have you written to your mother?'

‘I have.'

‘It will kill her. It will simply kill her. And you are going home tomorrow?'

‘I wrote to say so.'

‘And there you must remain. I suppose I had better see the man and explain to him that it is utterly impossible. Heavens and earth – ajew! An old fat Jew! My daughter! I will take you down home myself to-morrow. What have I done that I should be punished by my children in this way?' The poor man had had rather a stormy interview with Dolly that morning. ‘You had better leave this house to-day, and come to my hotel in Jermyn Street'.

‘Oh, papa, I can't do that'.

‘Why can't you do it? You can do it, and you shall do it. I will not have you see him again. I will see him. If you do not promise me to come, I will send for Lady Monogram and tell her that I will not permit
you to meet Mr Brehgert at her house. I do wonder at her. A Jew! An old fat Jew!' Mr Longestaffe, putting up both his hands, walked about the room in despair.

She did consent, knowing that her father and Lady Monogram between them would be too strong for her. She had her things packed up, and in the course of the afternoon allowed herself to be carried away. She said one word to Lady Monogram before she went. ‘Tell him that I was called away suddenly.'

‘I will, my dear. I thought your papa would not like it' The poor girl had not spirit sufficient to upbraid her friend; nor did it suit her now to acerbate an enemy. For the moment, at least, she must yield to everybody and everything. She spent a lonely evening with her father in a dull sitting-room in the hotel, hardly speaking or spoken to, and the following day she was taken down to Caversham. She believed that her father had seen Mr Brehgert on the morning of that day – but he said no word to her, nor did she ask him any question.

That was on the day after Lady Monogram's party. Early in the evening, just as the gentlemen were coming up from the dining-room, Mr Brehgert, apparelled with much elegance, made his appearance. Lady Monogram received him with a sweet smile. ‘Miss Longestaffe,' she said, ‘has left me and gone to her father.'

‘Oh, indeed.'

‘Yes,' said Lady Monogram, bowing her head, and then attending to other persons as they arrived. Nor did she condescend to speak another word to Mr Brehgert, or to introduce him even to her husband. He stood for about ten minutes inside the drawing-room, leaning against the wall, and then he departed. No one had spoken a word to him. But he was an even-tempered, good-humoured man. When Miss Longestaffe was his wife things would no doubt be different – or else she would probably change her acquaintance.

‘You shall be troubled no more with Winifred Hurtle.' So Mrs Hurtle had said, speaking in perfect good faith to the man whom she had come to England with the view of marrying. And then when he had said good-bye
to her, putting out his hand to take hers for the last time, she declined that. ‘Nay,' she had said; ‘this parting will bear no farewell.'

Having left her after that fashion Paul Montague could not return home with very high spirits. Had she insisted on his taking that letter with the threat of the horsewhip as the letter which she intended to write to him – that letter which she had shown him, owning it to be the ebullition of her uncontrolled passion, and had then destroyed – he might at any rate have consoled himself with thinking that, however badly he might have behaved, her conduct had been worse than his. He could have made himself warm and comfortable with anger, and could have assured himself that under any circumstances he must be right to escape from the clutches of a wild cat such as that. But at the last moment she had shown that she was no wild cat to him. She had melted, and become soft and womanly. In her softness she had been exquisitely beautiful; and as he returned home he was sad and dissatisfied with himself. He had destroyed her life for her – or, at least, had created a miserable episode in it which could hardly be obliterated. She had said that she was all alone, and had given up everything to follow him – and he had believed her. Was he to do nothing for her now? She had allowed him to go, and after her fashion had pardoned him the wrong he had done her. But was that to be sufficient for him – so that he might now feel inwardly satisfied at leaving her, and make no further inquiry as to her fate? Could he pass on and let her be as the wine that has been drunk – as the hour that has been enjoyed – as the day that is past?

But what could he do? He had made good his own escape. He had resolved that, let her be woman or wild cat, he would not marry her, and in that he knew he had been right. Her antecedents, as now declared by herself, unfitted her for such a marriage. Were he to return to her he would be again thrusting his hand into the fire. But his own selfish coldness was hateful to him when he thought that there was nothing to be done but to leave her desolate and lonely in Mrs Pipkin's lodgings.

During the next three or four days, while the preparations for the dinner and the election were going on, he was busy in respect to the American railway. He again went down to Liverpool, and at Mr Ramsbottom's advice prepared a letter to the board of directors, in which he resigned his seat, and gave his reasons for resigning it; adding that he should reserve to himself the liberty of publishing his letter, should at any time the circumstances of the railway company seem to him to make such a course desirable. He also wrote a letter to Mr
Fisker, begging that gentleman to come to England, and expressing his own wish to retire altogether from the firm of Fisker, Montague, and Montague upon receiving the balance of money due to him – a payment which must, he said, be a matter of small moment to his two partners, if, as he had been informed, they had enriched themselves by the success of the railway company in San Francisco. When he wrote these letters at Liverpool the great rumour about Melmotte had not yet sprung up. He returned to London on the day of the festival, and first heard of the report at the Beargarden. There he found that the old set had for the moment broken itself up. Sir Felix Carbury had not been heard of for the last four or five days – and then the whole story of Miss Melmotte's journey, of which he had read something in the newspapers, was told to him. ‘We think that Carbury has drowned himself,' said Lord Grasslough, ‘and I haven't heard of anybody being heartbroken about it.' Lord Nidderdale had hardly been seen at the club. ‘He's taken up the running with the girl,' said Lord Grasslough. ‘What he'll do now, nobody knows. If I was at it, I'd have the money down in hard cash before I went into the church. He was there at the party yesterday, talking to the girl all the night – a sort of thing he never did before. Nidderdale is the best fellow going, but he was always an ass.' Nor had Miles Grendall been seen in the club for three days. ‘We've got into a way of play the poor fellow doesn't like,' said Lord Grasslough; ‘and then Melmotte won't let him out of his sight. He has taken to dine there every day.' This was said during the election – on the very day on which Miles deserted his patron; and on that evening he did dine at the club. Paul Montague also dined there, and would fain have heard something from Grendall as to Melmotte's condition; but the secretary, if not faithful in all things, was faithful at any rate in his silence. Though Grasslough talked openly enough about Melmotte in the smoking-room Miles Grendall said never a word.

On the next day, early in the afternoon, almost without a fixed 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.'