The Way We Live Now Part 54

"Psha! He expected nothing of the kind."

"I think you do him wrong, mamma. I am sure you are doing me wrong. I think his coming was an accident, and that what he said was--an accident."

"An accident!"

"It was not intended,--not then, mamma. I have known it ever so long;--and so have you. It was natural that he should say so when we were alone together."

"And you;--what did you say?"

"Nothing. You came."

"I am sorry that my coming should have been so inopportune. But I must ask one other question, Hetta. What do you intend to say?" Hetta was again silent, and now for a longer s.p.a.ce. She put her hand up to her brow and pushed back her hair as she thought whether her mother had a right to continue this cross-examination. She had told her mother everything as it had happened. She had kept back no deed done, no word spoken, either now or at any time. But she was not sure that her mother had a right to know her thoughts, feeling as she did that she had so little sympathy from her mother. "How do you intend to answer him?" demanded Lady Carbury.

"I do not know that he will ask again."

"That is prevaricating."

"No, mamma;--I do not prevaricate. It is unfair to say that to me. I do love him. There. I think it ought to have been enough for you to know that I should never give him encouragement without telling you about it. I do love him, and I shall never love any one else."

"He is a ruined man. Your cousin says that all this Company in which he is involved will go to pieces."

Hetta was too clever to allow this argument to pa.s.s. She did not doubt that Roger had so spoken of the Railway to her mother, but she did doubt that her mother had believed the story. "If so," said she, "Mr. Melmotte will be a ruined man too, and yet you want Felix to marry Marie Melmotte."

"It makes me ill to hear you talk,--as if you understood these things. And you think you will marry this man because he is to make a fortune out of the Railway!" Lady Carbury was able to speak with an extremity of scorn in reference to the a.s.sumed pursuit by one of her children of an advantageous position which she was doing all in her power to recommend to the other child.

"I have not thought of his fortune. I have not thought of marrying him, mamma. I think you are very cruel to me. You say things so hard, that I cannot bear them."

"Why will you not marry your cousin?"

"I am not good enough for him."

"Nonsense!"

"Very well; you say so. But that is what I think. He is so much above me, that, though I do love him, I cannot think of him in that way.

And I have told you that I do love some one else. I have no secret from you now. Good night, mamma," she said, coming up to her mother and kissing her. "Do be kind to me; and pray,--pray,--do believe me."

Lady Carbury then allowed herself to be kissed, and allowed her daughter to leave the room.

There was a great deal said that night between Roger Carbury and Paul Montague before they parted. As they walked together to Roger's hotel he said not a word as to Paul's presence in Welbeck Street. Paul had declared his visit in Lady Carbury's absence to have been accidental,--and therefore there was nothing more to be said.

Montague then asked as to the cause of Carbury's journey to London.

"I do not wish it to be talked of," said Roger after a pause,--"and of course I could not speak of it before Hetta. A girl has gone away from our neighbourhood. You remember old Ruggles?"

"You do not mean that Ruby has levanted? She was to have married John Crumb."

"Just so,--but she has gone off, leaving John Crumb in an unhappy frame of mind. John Crumb is an honest man and almost too good for her."

"Ruby is very pretty. Has she gone with any one?"

"No;--she went alone. But the horror of it is this. They think down there that Felix has,--well, made love to her, and that she has been taken to London by him."

"That would be very bad."

"He certainly has known her. Though he lied, as he always lies, when I first spoke to him, I brought him to admit that he and she had been friends down in Suffolk. Of course we know what such friendship means. But I do not think that she came to London at his instance. Of course he would lie about that. He would lie about anything. If his horse cost him a hundred pounds, he would tell one man that he gave fifty, and another two hundred. But he has not lived long enough yet to be able to lie and tell the truth with the same eye. When he is as old as I am he'll be perfect."

"He knows nothing about her coming to town?"

"He did not when I first asked him. I am not sure, but I fancy that I was too quick after her. She started last Sat.u.r.day morning. I followed on the Sunday, and made him out at his club. I think that he knew nothing then of her being in town. He is very clever if he did.

Since that he has avoided me. I caught him once but only for half a minute, and then he swore that he had not seen her."

"You still believed him?"

"No;--he did it very well, but I knew that he was prepared for me. I cannot say how it may have been. To make matters worse old Ruggles has now quarrelled with Crumb, and is no longer anxious to get back his granddaughter. He was frightened at first; but that has gone off, and he is now reconciled to the loss of the girl and the saving of his money."

After that Paul told all his own story,--the double story, both in regard to Melmotte and to Mrs. Hurtle. As regarded the Railway, Roger could only tell him to follow explicitly the advice of his Liverpool friend. "I never believed in the thing, you know."

"Nor did I. But what could I do?"

"I'm not going to blame you. Indeed, knowing you as I do, feeling sure that you intend to be honest, I would not for a moment insist on my own opinion, if it did not seem that Mr. Ramsbottom thinks as I do.

In such a matter, when a man does not see his own way clearly, it behoves him to be able to show that he has followed the advice of some man whom the world esteems and recognizes. You have to bind your character to another man's character; and that other man's character, if it be good, will carry you through. From what I hear Mr.

Ramsbottom's character is sufficiently good;--but then you must do exactly what he tells you."

But the Railway business, though it comprised all that Montague had in the world, was not the heaviest of his troubles. What was he to do about Mrs. Hurtle? He had now, for the first time, to tell his friend that Mrs. Hurtle had come to London and that he had been with her three or four times. There was this great difficulty in the matter, too,--that it was very hard to speak of his engagement with Mrs.

Hurtle without in some sort alluding to his love for Henrietta Carbury. Roger knew of both loves;--had been very urgent with his friend to abandon the widow, and at any rate equally urgent with him to give up the other pa.s.sion. Were he to marry the widow, all danger on the other side would be at an end. And yet, in discussing the question of Mrs. Hurtle, he was to do so as though there were no such person existing as Henrietta Carbury. The discussion did take place exactly as though there were no such person as Henrietta Carbury.

Paul told it all,--the rumoured duel, the rumoured murder, and the rumour of the existing husband.

"It may be necessary that you should go out to Kansas and to Oregon,"

said Roger.

"But even if the rumours be untrue I will not marry her," said Paul.

Roger shrugged his shoulders. He was doubtless thinking of Hetta Carbury, but he said nothing. "And what would she do, remaining here?" continued Paul. Roger admitted that it would be awkward. "I am determined that under no circ.u.mstances will I marry her. I know I have been a fool. I know I have been wrong. But of course, if there be a fair cause for my broken word, I will use it if I can."

"You will get out of it, honestly if you can; but you will get out of it honestly or--any other way."

"Did you not advise me to get out of it, Roger;--before we knew as much as we do now?"

"I did,--and I do. If you make a bargain with the Devil, it may be dishonest to cheat him,--and yet I would have you cheat him if you could. As to this woman, I do believe she has deceived you. If I were you, nothing should induce me to marry her;--not though her claws were strong enough to tear me utterly in pieces. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go and see her if you like it."

But Paul would not submit to this. He felt he was bound himself to incur the risk of those claws, and that no subst.i.tute could take his place. They sat long into the night, and it was at last resolved between them that on the next morning Paul should go to Islington, should tell Mrs. Hurtle all the stories which he had heard, and should end by declaring his resolution that under no circ.u.mstances would he marry her. They both felt how improbable it was that he should ever be allowed to get to the end of such a story,--how almost certain it was that the breeding of the wild cat would show itself before that time should come. But, still, that was the course to be pursued as far as circ.u.mstances would admit; and Paul was at any rate to declare, claws or no claws, husband or no husband,--whether the duel or the murder was admitted or denied,--that he would never make Mrs.

Hurtle his wife. "I wish it were over, old fellow," said Roger.

"So do I," said Paul, as he took his leave.

He went to bed like a man condemned to die on the next morning, and he awoke in the same condition. He had slept well, but as he shook from him his happy dream, the wretched reality at once overwhelmed him. But the man who is to be hung has no choice. He cannot, when he wakes, declare that he has changed his mind, and postpone the hour.

It was quite open to Paul Montague to give himself such instant relief. He put his hand up to his brow, and almost made himself believe that his head was aching. This was Sat.u.r.day. Would it not be as well that he should think of it further, and put off his execution till Monday? Monday was so far distant that he felt that he could go to Islington quite comfortably on Monday. Was there not some hitherto forgotten point which it would be well that he should discuss with his friend Roger before he saw the lady? Should he not rush down to Liverpool, and ask a few more questions of Mr. Ramsbottom? Why should he go forth to execution, seeing that the matter was in his own hands?

At last he jumped out of bed and into his tub, and dressed himself as quickly as he could. He worked himself up into a fit of fort.i.tude, and resolved that the thing should be done before the fit was over.

He ate his breakfast about nine, and then asked himself whether he might not be too early were he to go at once to Islington. But he remembered that she was always early. In every respect she was an energetic woman, using her time for some purpose, either good or bad, not sleeping it away in bed. If one has to be hung on a given day, would it not be well to be hung as soon after waking as possible? I can fancy that the hangman would hardly come early enough. And if one had to be hung in a given week, would not one wish to be hung on the first day of the week, even at the risk of breaking one's last Sabbath day in this world? Whatever be the misery to be endured, get it over. The horror of every agony is in its antic.i.p.ation. Paul had realized something of this when he threw himself into a Hansom cab, and ordered the man to drive to Islington.

How quick that cab went! Nothing ever goes so quick as a Hansom cab when a man starts for a dinner-party a little too early;--nothing so slow when he starts too late. Of all cabs this, surely, was the quickest. Paul was lodging in Suffolk Street, close to Pall Mall--whence the way to Islington, across Oxford Street, across Tottenham Court Road, across numerous squares north-east of the Museum, seems to be long. The end of Goswell Road is the outside of the world in that direction, and Islington is beyond the end of Goswell Road. And yet that Hansom cab was there before Paul Montague had been able to arrange the words with which he would begin the interview. He had given the Street and the number of the street. It was not till after he had started that it occurred to him that it might be well that he should get out at the end of the street, and walk to the house,--so that he might, as it were, fetch breath before the interview was commenced. But the cabman dashed up to the door in a manner purposely devised to make every inmate of the house aware that a cab had just arrived before it. There was a little garden before the house. We all know the garden;--twenty-four feet long, by twelve broad;--and an iron-grated door, with the landlady's name on a bra.s.s plate. Paul, when he had paid the cabman,--giving the man half-a-crown, and asking for no change in his agony,--pushed in the iron gate and walked very quickly up to the door, rang rather furiously, and before the door was well opened asked for Mrs. Hurtle.