The Way We Live Now (70 page)

‘I am glad you did not send that,' he said.

‘I meant it.'

‘But you have changed your mind?'

‘Is there anything in it that seems to you to be unreasonable? Speak out and tell me.'

‘I am thinking of you, not of myself.'

‘Think of me, then. Is there anything said there which the usage to which I have been subjected does not justify?'

‘You ask me questions which I cannot answer. I do not think that under any provocation a woman should use a horsewhip.'

‘It is certainly more comfortable for gentlemen – who amuse themselves – that women should have that opinion. But, upon my word, I don't know what to say about that. As long as there are men to fight for women, it may be well to leave the fighting to the men. But when a woman has no one to help her, is she to bear everything without turning upon those who ill-use her? Shall a woman be flayed alive because it is unfeminine in her to fight for her own skin? What is the good of being – feminine, as you call it? Have you asked yourself that? That men may be attracted, I should say. But if a woman finds that men only take advantage of her assumed weakness, shall she not throw it off? If she be treated as prey, shall she not fight as a beast of prey? Oh no – it is so unfeminine! I also, Paul, had thought of that. The charm of womanly weakness presented itself to my mind in a soft moment – and then I wrote this other letter. You may as well see them all.' And so she handed him the scrap which had been written at Lowestoffe, and he read that also.

He could hardly finish it, because of the tears which filled his eyes. But, having mastered its contents, he came across the room and threw himself on his knees at her feet, sobbing. ‘I have not sent it, you know,' she said. ‘I only show it you that you may see how my mind has been at work.'

‘It hurts me more than the other,' he replied.

‘Nay, I would not hurt you – not at this moment. Sometimes I feel that I could tear you limb from limb, so great is my disappointment, so ungovernable my rage! Why – why should I be such a victim? Why should life be an utter blank to me, while you have everything before you? There, you have seen them all. Which will you have?'

‘I cannot now take that other as the expression of your mind.'

‘But it will be when you have left me – and was when you were with me at the sea-side. And it was so I felt when I got your first letter in San
Francisco. Why should you kneel there? You do not love me. A man should kneel to a woman for love, not for pardon.' But though she spoke thus, she put her hand upon his forehead, and pushed back his hair, and looked into his face. ‘I wonder whether that other woman loves you. I do not want an answer, Paul. I suppose you had better go.' She took his hand and pressed it to her breast ‘Tell me one thing. When you spoke of – compensation, did you mean – money?'

‘No; indeed no.'

‘I hope not – I hope not that. Well, there; – go. You shall be troubled no more with Winifred Hurtle.' She took the sheet of paper which contained the threat of the horsewhip and tore it into scraps.

‘And am I to keep the other?' he asked.

‘No. For what purpose would you have it? To prove my weakness? That also shall be destroyed.' But she took it and restored it to her pocket-book.

‘Good-bye, my friend,' he said.

‘Nay! This parting will not bear a farewell. Go, and let there be no other word spoken.' And so he went.

As soon as the front door was closed behind him she rang the bell and begged Ruby to ask Mrs Pipkin to come to her. ‘Mrs Pipkin,' she said, as soon as the woman had entered the room; ‘everything is over between me and Mr Montague.' She was standing upright in the middle of the room, and as she spoke there was a smile on her face.

‘Lord a' mercy,' said Mrs Pipkin, holding up both her hands.

‘As I have told you that I was to be married to him, I think it right now to tell you that I'm not going to be married to him.'

‘And why not? – and he such a nice young man – and quiet too.'

‘As to the why not, I don't know that I am prepared to speak about that. But it is so. I was engaged to him.'

‘I'm well sure of that, Mrs Hurtle.'

‘And now I'm no longer engaged to him. That's all.'

‘Dearie me! and you going down to Lowestoffe with him, and all.' Mrs Pipkin could not bear to think that she should hear no more of such an interesting story.

‘We did go down to Lowestoffe together, and we both came back – not together. And there's an end of it.'

‘I'm sure it's not your fault, Mrs Hurtle. When a marriage is to be, and doesn't come off, it never is the lady's fault.'

‘There's an end of it, Mrs Pipkin. If you please, we won't say anything more about it.'

‘And are you going to leave, ma'am?' said Mrs Pipkin, prepared to have her apron up to her eyes at a moment's notice. Where should she get such another lodger as Mrs Hurtle – a lady who not only did not inquire about victuals, but who was always suggesting that the children should eat this pudding or finish that pie, and who had never questioned an item in a bill since she had been in the house!

‘We'll say nothing about that yet, Mrs Pipkin.' Then Mrs Pipkin gave utterance to so many assurances of sympathy and help that it almost seemed that she was prepared to guarantee to her lodger another lover in lieu of the one who was now dismissed.

Two, three, four, and even five o'clock still found Sir Felix Carbury in bed on that fatal Thursday. More than once or twice his mother crept up to his room, but on each occasion he feigned to be fast asleep and made no reply to her gentle words. But his condition was one which only admits of short snatches of uneasy slumber. From head to foot, he was sick and ill and sore, and could find no comfort anywhere. To lie where he was, trying by absolute quiescence to soothe the agony of his brows, and to remember that as long as he lay there he would be safe from attack by the outer world, was all the solace within his reach. Lady Carbury sent the page up to him, and to the page he was awake. The boy brought him tea. He asked for soda and brandy; but there was none to be had, and in his present condition he did not dare to hector about it till it was procured for him.

The world surely was now all over to him. He had made arrangements for running away with the great heiress of the day, and had absolutely allowed the young lady to run away without him. The details of their arrangement had been such that she absolutely would start upon her long journey across the ocean before she could find out that he had failed to keep his appointment. Melmotte's hostility would be incurred by the attempt, and hers by the failure. Then he had lost all his money – and hers. He had induced his poor mother to assist in raising a rund for him – and even that was gone. He was so cowed that he was afraid even
of his mother. And he could remember something, but no details, of some row at the club – but still with a conviction on his mind that he had made the row. Ah – when would he summon courage to enter the club again? When could he show himself again anywhere? All the world would know that Marie Melmotte had attempted to run off with him, and that at the last moment he had failed her. What lie could he invent to cover his disgrace? And his clothes! All his things were at the club – or he thought that they were, not being quite certain whether he had not made some attempt to carry them off to the railway station. He had heard of suicide. If ever it could be well that a man should cut his own throat, surely the time had come for him now. But as this idea presented itself to him, he simply gathered the clothes around him and tried to sleep. The death of Cato
¹
would hardly have for him persuasive charms.

Between five and six his mother again came up to him, and when he appeared to sleep, stood with her hand upon his shoulder. There must be some end to this. He must at any rate be fed. She, wretched woman, had been sitting all day – thinking of it As regarded her son himself, his condition told his story with sufficient accuracy. What might be the fate of the girl she could not stop to inquire. She had not heard all the details of the proposed scheme; but she had known that Felix had proposed to be at Liverpool on the Wednesday night, and to start on Thursday for New York with the young lady; and with the view of aiding him in his object, she had helped him with money. She had bought clothes for him, and had been busy with Hetta for two days preparing for his long journey – having told some lie to her own daughter as to the cause of her brother's intended journey. He had not gone, but had come, drunk and degraded, back to the house. She had searched his pockets with less scruple than she had ever before felt, and had found his ticket for the vessel and the few sovereigns which were left to him. About him she could read the riddle plainly. He had stayed at his club till he was drunk, and had gambled away all his money. When she had first seen him she had asked herself what further lie she should now tell to her daughter. At breakfast there was instant need for some story. ‘Mary says that Felix came back this morning, and that he has not gone at all,' Hetta exclaimed. The poor woman could not bring herself to expose the vices of the son to her daughter. She could not say that he had stumbled into the house drunk at six o'clock. Hetta no doubt had her own suspicions. ‘Yes; he has come back,' said Lady Carbury, broken-hearted by her troubles. ‘It was some plan about the Mexican railway, I believe, and has broken through. He is very unhappy and not well. I will see to
him.' After that Hetta had said nothing during the whole day. And now, about an hour before dinner, Lady Carbury was standing by her son's bedside, determined that he should speak to her.

‘Felix,' she said – ‘speak to me, Felix – I know that you are awake.' He groaned, and turned himself away from her, burying himself further under the bedclothes. ‘You must get up for your dinner. It is near six o'clock.'

‘All right,' he said at last.

‘What is the meaning of this, Felix? You must tell me. It must be told sooner or later. I know you are unhappy. You had better trust your mother.'

‘I am so sick, mother.'

‘You will be better up. What were you doing last night? What has come of it all? Where are your things?'

‘At the club. – You had better leave me now, and let Sam come up to me.' Sam was the page.

‘I will leave you presently; but, Felix, you must tell me about this. What has been done?'

‘It hasn't come off.'

‘But how has it not come off?'

‘I didn't get away. What's the good of asking?'

‘You said this morning when you came in, that Mr Melmotte had discovered it.'

‘Did I? Then I suppose he has. Oh, mother, I wish I could die. I don't see what's the use of anything. I won't get up to dinner. I'd rather stay here.'

‘You must have something to eat, Felix.'

‘Sam can bring it me. Do let him get me some brandy and water. I'm so faint and sick with all this that. I can hardly bear myself I can't talk now. If he'll get me a bottle of soda-water and some brandy, I'll tell you all about it then.'

‘Where is the money, Felix?'

‘I paid it for the ticket,' said he, with both his hands up to his head.

Then his mother again left him with the understanding that he was to be allowed to remain in bed till the next morning; but that he was to give her some further explanation when he had been refreshed and invigorated after his own prescription. The boy went out and got him soda-water and brandy, and meat was carried up to him, and then he did succeed for a while in finding oblivion from his misery in sleep.

‘Is he ill, mamma?' Hetta asked.

‘Yes, my dear.'

‘Had you not better send for a doctor?'

‘No, my dear. He will be better to-morrow.'

‘Mamma, I think you would be happier if you would tell me everything.'

‘I can't,' said Lady Carbury, bursting out into tears. ‘Don't ask. What's the good of asking? It is all misery and wretchedness. There is nothing to tell – except that I am ruined.'

‘Has he done anything, mamma?'

‘No. What should he have done? How am I to know what he does. He tells me nothing. Don't talk about it any more. Oh, God – how much better it would be to be childless!'

‘Oh, mamma, do you mean me?' said Hetta, rushing across the room, and throwing herself close to her mother's side on the sofa. ‘Mamma, say that you do not mean me.'

‘It concerns you as well as me and him. I wish I were childless.'

‘Oh, mamma, do not be cruel to me! Am I not good to you? Do I not try to be a comfort to you?'

‘Then marry your cousin, Roger Carbury, who is a good man, and who can protect you. You can, at any rate, find a home for yourself, and a friend for us. You are not like Felix. You do not get drunk and gamble – because you are a woman. But you are stiff-necked, and will not help me in my trouble.'

‘Shall I marry him, mamma, without loving him?'

‘Love! Have I been able to love? Do you see much of what you call love around you? Why should you not love him? He is a gentleman, and a good man – soft-hearted, of a sweet nature, whose life would be one effort to make yours happy. You think that Felix is very bad.'

‘I have never said so.'

‘But ask yourself whether you do not give as much pain, seeing what you could do for us if you would. But it never occurs to you to sacrifice even a fantasy for the advantage of others.'

Hetta retired from her seat on the sofa, and when her mother again went up-stairs she turned it all over in her mind. Could it be right that she should marry one man when she loved another? Could it be right that she should marry at all, for the sake of doing good to her family? This man, whom she might marry if she would – who did in truth worship the ground on which she trod – was, she well knew, all that her mother had said. And he was more than that. Her mother had spoken of his soft heart and his sweet nature. But Hetta knew also that he was a
man of high honour and a noble courage. In such a condition as was hers now he was the very friend whose advice she could have asked – had he not been the very lover who was desirous of making her his wife. Hetta felt that she could sacrifice much for her mother. Money, if she had it, she could have given, though she left herself penniless. Her time, her inclinations, her very heart's treasure, and, as she thought, her life, she could give. She could doom herself to poverty, and loneliness, and heart-rending regrets for her mother's sake. But she did not know how she could give herself into the arms of a man she did not love.