The Way We Live Now (90 page)

That afternoon before dinner he found his sister alone in the drawing-room. Lady Carbury had gone to her own room after hearing the distressing story of Paul Montague's love, and had not seen Hetta since. Hetta was melancholy, thinking of her mother's hard words – thinking perhaps of Paul's poverty as declared by her mother, and of the ages which might have to wear themselves out before she could become his wife; but still tinting all her thoughts with a rosy hue because of the love which had been declared to her. She could not but be happy if he really loved her. And she – as she had told him that she loved him – would be true to him through everything! In her present mood she could not speak of herself to her brother, but she took the opportunity of making good the promise which Marie Melmotte had extracted from her. She gave him some short account of the party, and told him that she had talked with Marie. ‘I promised to give you a message,' she said.

‘It's all of no use now,' said Felix.

‘But I must tell you what she said. I think, you know, that she really loves you.'

‘But what's the good of it? A man can't marry a girl when all the policemen in the country are dodging her.'
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‘She wants you to let her know what – what you intend to do. If you mean to give her up, I think you should tell her.'

‘How can I tell her? I don't suppose they would let her receive a letter.'

‘Shall I write to her – or shall I see her?'

‘Just as you like. I don't care.'

‘Felix, you are very heartless.'

‘I don't suppose I'm much worse than other men – or for the matter of that, worse than a great many women either. You all of you here put me up to marry her.'

‘I never put you up to it'.

‘Mother did. And now because it did not go off all serene, I am to hear nothing but reproaches. Of course I never cared so very much about her.'

‘Oh, Felix, that is so shocking!'

‘Awfully shocking I dare say. You think I am as black as the very mischief, and that sugar wouldn't melt in other men's mouths. Other men are just as bad as I am – and a good deal worse too. You believe that there is nobody on earth like Paul Montague.' Hetta blushed, but said nothing. She was not yet in a condition to boast of her lover before her brother, but she did, in very truth, believe that but few young men
were as true-hearted as Paul Montague. ‘I suppose you'd be surprised to hear that Master Paul is engaged to marry an American widow living at Islington.'

‘Mr Montague – engaged – to marry – an American widow! I don't believe it.'

‘You'd better believe it if it's any concern of yours, for it's true. And it's true too that he travelled about with her for ever so long in the United States, and that he had her down with him at the hotel at Lowestoffe about a fortnight ago. There's no mistake about it'.

‘I don't believe it,' repeated Hetta, feeling that to say even as much as that was some relief to her. It could not be true. It was impossible that the man should have come to her with such a lie in his mouth as that. Though the words astounded her, though she felt faint, almost as though she would fall in a swoon, yet in her heart of hearts she did not believe it Surely it was some horrid joke – or perhaps some trick to divide her from the man she loved. ‘Felix, how dare you say things so wicked as that to me?'

‘What is there wicked in it? If you have been fool enough to become fond of the man, it is only right you should be told. He is engaged to marry Mrs Hurtle, and she is lodging with one Mrs Pipkin in Islington. I know the house, and could take you there to-morrow, and show you the woman. There,' said he, ‘that's where she is' – and he wrote Mrs Hurtle's name down on a scrap of paper.

‘It is not true,' said Hetta, rising from her seat, and standing upright. ‘I am engaged to Mr Montague, and I am sure he would not treat me in that way.'

‘Then, by heaven, he shall answer it to me,' said Felix, jumping up. ‘If he has done that, it is time that I should interfere. As true as I stand here, he is engaged to marry a woman called Mrs Hurtle whom he constantly visits at that place in Islington.'

‘I do not believe it,' said Hetta, repeating the only defence for her lover which was applicable at the moment.

‘By George, this is beyond a joke. Will you believe it if Roger Carbury says it's true? I know you'd believe anything fast enough against me, if he told you.'

‘Roger Carbury will not say so?'

‘Have you the courage to ask him? I say he will say so. He knows all about it – and has seen the woman.'

‘How can you know? Has Roger told you?'

‘I do know, and that's enough. I will make this square with Master
Paul. By heaven, yes! He shall answer to me. But my mother must manage you. She will not scruple to ask Roger, and she will believe what Roger tells her.'

‘I do not believe a word of it,' said Hetta, leaving the room. But when she was alone she was very wretched. There must be some foundation for such a tale. Why should Felix have referred to Roger Carbury? And she did feel that there was something in her brother's manner which forbade her to reject the whole story as being altogether baseless. So she sat upon her bed and cried, and thought of all the tales she had heard of faithless lovers. And yet why should the man have come to her, not only with soft words of love, but asking her hand in marriage, if it really were true that he was in daily communication with another woman whom he had promised to make his wife.

Nothing on the subject was said at dinner. Hetta with difficulty to herself sat at the table, and did not speak. Lady Carbury and her son were nearly as silent Soon after dinner Felix slunk away to some music-hall or theatre in quest probably of some other Ruby Ruggles. Then Lady Carbury, who had now been told as much as her son knew, again attacked her daughter. Very much of the story Felix had learned from Ruby. Ruby had of course learned that Paul was engaged to Mrs Hurtle. Mrs Hurtle had at once declared the fact to Mrs Pipkin, and Mrs Pipkin had been proud of the position of her lodger. Ruby had herself seen Paul Montague at the house, and had known that he had taken Mrs Hurtle to Lowestoffe. And it had also become known to the two women, the aunt and her niece, that Mrs Hurtle had seen Roger Carbury on the sands at Lowestoffe. Thus the whole story with most of its details – not quite with all – had come round to Lady Carbury's ears. ‘What he has told you, my dear, is true. Much as I disapprove of Mr Montague, you do not suppose that I would deceive you.'

‘How can he know, mamma?'

‘He does know. I cannot explain to you how. He has been at the same house.'

‘Has he seen her?'

‘I do not know that he has, but Roger Carbury has seen her. If I write to him you will believe what he says?'

‘Don't do that, mamma. Don't write to him.'

‘But I shall. Why should I not write if he can tell me? If this other man is a villain am I not bound to protect you? Of course Felix is not steady. If it came only from him you might not credit it. And he has not seen her. If your cousin Roger tells you that it is true – tells me that he
knows the man is engaged to marry this woman, then I suppose you will be contented.'

‘Contented, mamma!'

‘Satisfied that what we tell you is true.'

‘I shall never be contented again. If that is true, I will never believe anything. It can't be true. I suppose there is something, but it can't be that.'

The story was not altogether displeasing to Lady Carbury, though it pained her to see the agony which her daughter suffered. But she had no wish that Paul Montague should be her son-in-law, and she still thought that if Roger would persevere he might succeed. On that very night before she went to bed she wrote to Roger, and told him the whole story. ‘If,' she said, ‘you know that there is such a person as Mrs Hurtle, and if you know also that Mr Montague has promised to make her his wife, of course you will tell me.' Then she declared her own wishes, thinking that by doing so she could induce Roger Carbury to give such real assistance in this matter that Paul Montague would certainly be driven away. Who could feel so much interest in doing this as Roger, or who be so closely acquainted with all the circumstances of Montague's life? ‘You know,' she said, ‘what my wishes are about Hetta, and how utterly opposed I am to Mr Montague's interference. If it is true, as Felix says, that he is at the present moment entangled with another woman, he is guilty of gross insolence; and if you know all the circumstances you can surely protect us – and also yourself.'

Poor Hetta passed a very bad night. The story she had heard seemed to be almost too awful to be true – even about any one else. The man had come to her, and had asked her to be his wife – and yet at that very moment was living in habits of daily intercourse with another woman whom he had promised to marry! And then, too, his courtship with her had been so graceful, so soft, so modest, and yet so long continued! Though he had been slow in speech, she had known since their first meeting how he regarded her! The whole state of his mind had, she had
thought, been visible to her – had been intelligible, gentle, and affectionate. He had been aware of his friend's feeling, and had therefore hesitated. He had kept himself from her because he had owed so much to friendship. And yet his love had not been the less true, and had not been less dear to poor Hetta. She had waited, sure that it would come –having absolute confidence in his honour and love. And now she was told that this man had been playing a game so base, and at the same time so foolish, that she could find not only no excuse but no possible cause for it. It was not like any story she had heard before of man's faithlessness. Though she was wretched and sore at heart she swore to herself that she would not believe it She knew that her mother would write to Roger Carbury – but she knew also that nothing more would be said about the letter till the answer should come. Nor could she turn anywhere else for comfort. She did not dare to appeal to Paul himself As regarded him, for the present she could only rely on the assurance, which she continued to give herself, that she would not believe a word of the story that had been told her.

But there was other wretchedness besides her own. She had undertaken to give Marie Melmotte's message to her brother. She had done so, and she must now let Marie have her brother's reply. That might be told in a very few words – ‘Everything is over!' But it had to be told.

‘I want to call upon Miss Melmotte, if you'll let me,' she said to her mother at breakfast.

‘Why should you want to see Miss Melmotte? I thought you hated the Melmottes?'

‘I don't hate them, mamma. I certainly don't hate her. I have a message to take to her – from Felix.'

‘A message – from Felix.'

‘It is an answer from him. She wanted to know if all that was over. Of course it is over. Whether he said so or not, it would be so. They could never be married now – could they, mamma?'

The marriage, in Lady Carbury's mind, was no longer even desirable. She, too, was beginning to disbelieve in the Melmotte wealth, and did quite disbelieve that that wealth would come to her son, even should he succeed in marrying the daughter. It was impossible that Melmotte should forgive such offence as had now been committed. ‘It is out of the question,' she said. ‘That, like everything else with us, has been a wretched failure. You can go, if you please. Felix is under no obligation to them, and has taken nothing from them. I should much doubt whether the girl will get anybody to take her now. You can't go alone,
you know,' Lady Carbury added. But Hetta said that she did not at all object to going alone as far as that It was only just over Oxford Street.

So she went out and made her way into Grosvenor Square. She had heard, but at the time remembered nothing, of the temporary migration of the Melmottes to Bruton Street. Seeing, as she approached the house, that there was a confusion there of carts and workmen, she hesitated. But she went on, and rang the bell at the door, which was wide open. Within the hall the pilasters and trophies, the wreaths and the banners, which three or four days since had been built up with so much trouble, were now being pulled down and hauled away. And amidst the ruins Melmotte himself was standing. He was now a member of Parliament, and was to take his place that night in the House. Nothing, at any rate, should prevent that. It might be but for a short time – but it should be written in the history of his life that he had sat in the British House of Commons as member for Westminster. At the present moment he was careful to show himself everywhere. It was now noon, and he had already been into the City. At this moment he was talking to the contractor for the work – having just propitiated that man by a payment which would hardly have been made so soon but for the necessity which these wretched stories had entailed upon him of keeping up his credit for the possession of money. Hetta timidly asked one of the workmen whether Miss Melmotte was there. ‘Do you want my daughter?' said Melmotte coming forward, and just touching his hat ‘She is not living here at present'.

‘Oh – I remember now,' said Hetta.

‘May I be allowed to tell her who was asking after her?' At the present moment Melmotte was not unreasonably suspicious about his daughter.

‘I am Miss Carbury,' said Hetta in a very low voice.

‘Oh, indeed – Miss Carbury! – the sister of Sir Felix Carbury?' There was something in the tone of the man's voice which grated painfully on Hetta's ears – but she answered the question. ‘Oh – Sir Felix's sister! May I be permitted to ask whether – you have any business with my daughter?' The story was a hard one to tell, with all the workmen around her, in the midst of the lumber, with the coarse face of the suspicious man looking down upon her, but she did tell it very simply. She had come with a message from her brother. There had been something between her brother and Miss Melmotte, and her brother had felt that it would be best that he should acknowledge that it must be all over. ‘I wonder whether that is true,' said Melmotte, looking at her out of his great coarse eyes, with his eyebrows knit, with his hat on his head
and his hands in his pockets. Hetta, not knowing how, at the moment, to repudiate the suspicion expressed, was silent. ‘Because, you know, there has been a deal of falsehood and double dealing. Sir Felix has behaved infamously; yes – by G—, infamously. A day or two before my daughter started, he gave me a written assurance that the whole thing was over, and now he sends you here. How am I to know what you are really after?'