The Way We Live Now II

THE WAY WE LIVE NOW

she paused. “And having come, in consequence of my unreasonable request, of course you are wise to hold your peace.”

“I came because I promised.”

“But you did not promise to speak; — did you?” “What would you have me say?”

“Ah what! Am I to be so weak as to tell you now what I would have you say? Suppose you were to say, ‘I am a gentleman, and a man of my word, and I repent me of my intended perfidy,’ do you not think you might get your release that way? Might it not be possible that I should reply that as your heart was gone from me, your hand might go after it; — that I scorned to be the wife of a man who did not want me?” As she asked this she gradually raised her voice, and half lifted herself in her seat, stretching herself towards him.

“You might indeed,” he replied, not well knowing what to say.

“But I should not. I at least will be true. I should take you, Paul, — still take you; with a confidence that I should yet win you to me by my devotion. I have still some kindness of feeling towards you, — none to that woman who is I suppose younger than I, and gentler, and a maid.” She still looked as though she expected a reply, but there was nothing to be said in answer to this. “Now that you are going to leave me, Paul, is there any advice you can give me, as to what I shall do next? I have given up every friend in the world for you. I have no home. Mrs. Pipkin’s room here is more my home than any other spot on the earth. I have all the world to choose from, but no reason whatever for a choice. I have my property. What shall I do with it, Paul? If I could die and be no more heard of, you should be welcome to

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it.” There was no answer possible to all this. The questions were asked because there was no answer possible. “You might at any rate advise me. Paul, you are in some degree responsible, — are you not, — for my loneliness?”

“I am. But you know that I cannot answer your questions.” “You cannot wonder that I should be somewhat in doubt as to my future life. As far as I can see, I had better remain

here. I do good at any rate to Mrs. Pipkin. She went into hysterics yesterday when I spoke of leaving her. That woman, Paul, would starve in our country, and I shall be desolate in this.” Then she paused, and there was absolute silence for a minute. “You thought my letter very short; did you not?”

“It said, I suppose, all you had to say.”

“No, indeed. I did have much more to say. That was the third letter I wrote. Now you shall see the other two. I wrote three, and had to choose which I would send you. I fancy that yours to me was easier written than either one of mine. You had no doubts, you know. I had many doubts. I could not send them all by post, together. But you may see them all now. There is one. You may read that first. While I was writing it, I was determined that that should go.” Then she handed him the sheet of paper which contained the threat of the horsewhip.

“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.”

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“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 Lowestoft, 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.

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“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 Winifrid 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.

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“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 Lowestoft 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 Lowestoft 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.”

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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 fund 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 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 enquire. She had not heard all

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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.

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“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?”

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