The Way We Live Now II
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THE WAY WE LIVE NOW
went on to say. Would Mr. Montague go up and see Miss Carbury? Without much consideration Mr. Montague said that he would go up and see Miss Carbury. “Mamma is out with Roger,” said Hetta endeavouring to save herself from confusion. “There is a soirée of learned people somewhere, and she made poor Roger take her. The ticket was only for her and her friend, and therefore I could not go.”
“I am so glad to see you. What an age it is since we met.” “Hardly since the Melmottes’ ball,” said Hetta.
“Hardly indeed. I have been here once since that. What has brought Roger up to town?”
“I don’t know what it is. Some mystery, I think. Whenever there is a mystery I am always afraid that there is something wrong about Felix. I do get so unhappy about Felix, Mr. Montague.”
“I saw him to-day in the city, at the Railway Board.”
“But Roger says the Railway Board is all a sham,” — Paul could not keep himself from blushing as he heard this, — “and that Felix should not be there. And then there is something going on about that horrid man’s daughter.”
“She is to marry Lord Nidderdale, I think.”
“Is she? They are talking of her marrying Felix, and of course it is for her money. And I believe that man is determined to quarrel with them.”
“What man, Miss Carbury?”
“Mr. Melmotte himself. It’s all horrid from beginning to end.”
“But I saw them in the city to-day and they seemed to be the greatest friends. When I wanted to see Mr. Melmotte he
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bolted himself into an inner room, but he took your brother with him. He would not have done that if they had not been friends. When I saw it I almost thought that he had consented to the marriage.”
“Roger has the greatest dislike to Mr. Melmotte.” “I know he has,” said Paul.
“And Roger is always right. It is always safe to trust him. Don’t you think so, Mr. Montague?” Paul did think so, and was by no means disposed to deny to his rival the praise which rightly belonged to him; but still he found the subject difficult. “Of course I will never go against mamma,” continued Hetta, “but I always feel that my Cousin Roger is a rock of strength, so that if one did whatever he said one would never get wrong. I never found any one else that I thought that of, but I do think it of him.”
“No one has more reason to praise him than I have.”
“I think everybody has reason to praise him that has to do with him. And I’ll tell you why I think it is. Whenever he thinks anything he says it; — or, at least, he never says anything that he doesn’t think. If he spent a thousand pounds, everybody would know that he’d got it to spend; but other people are not like that.”
“You’re thinking of Melmotte.”
“I’m thinking of everybody, Mr. Montague; — of everybody except Roger.”
“Is he the only man you can trust? But it is abominable to me to seem even to contradict you. Roger Carbury has been to me the best friend that any man ever had. I think as much of him as you do.”
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“I didn’t say he was the only person; — or I didn’t mean to say so. But of all my IULHQGV ³
“Am I among the number, Miss Carbury?”
“Yes; — I suppose so. Of course you are. Why not? Of course you are a friend, — because you are his friend.”
“Look here, Hetta,” he said. “It is no good going on like this. I love Roger Carbury, — as well as one man can love another. He is all that you say, — and more. You hardly know how he denies himself, and how he thinks of everybody near him. He is a gentleman all round and every inch. He never lies. He never takes what is not his own. I believe he does love his neighbour as himself.”
“Oh, Mr. Montague! I am so glad to hear you speak of him like that.”
“I love him better than any man, — as well as a man can love a man. If you will say that you love him as well as a woman can love a man, — I will leave England at once, and never return to it.”
“There’s mamma,” said Henrietta; — for at that moment there was a double knock at the door.
CHAPTER XXXIX
“I DO LOVE HIM”
So it was. Lady Carbury had returned home from the soirée of learned people, and had brought Roger Carbury with her. They both came up to the drawing-room and found Paul and Henrietta together. It need hardly be said that they were both surprised. Roger supposed that Montague was still at Liverpool, and, knowing that he was not a frequent visitor in Welbeck Street, could hardly avoid a feeling that a meeting between the two had now been planned in the mother’s absence. The reader knows that it was not so. Roger certainly was a man not liable to suspicion, but the circumstances in this case were suspicious. There would have been nothing to suspect, — no reason why Paul should not have been there, — but from the promise which had been given. There was, indeed, no breach of that promise proved by Paul’s presence in Welbeck Street; but Roger felt rather than thought that the two could hardly have spent the evening together without such breach. Whether Paul had broken the promise by what he had already said the reader must be left to decide.
Lady Carbury was the first to speak. “This is quite an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Montague.” Whether Roger suspected
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anything or not, she did. The moment she saw Paul the idea occurred to her that the meeting between Hetta and him had been preconcerted.
“Yes,” he said, — making a lame excuse, where no excuse should have been made, — “I had nothing to do, and was lonely, and thought that I would come up and see you.” Lady Carbury disbelieved him altogether, but Roger felt assured that his coming in Lady Carbury’s absence had been an accident. The man had said so, and that was enough.
“I thought you were at Liverpool,” said Roger.
“I came back to-day, — to be present at that Board in the city. I have had a good deal to trouble me. I will tell you all about it just now. What has brought you to London?”
“A little business,” said Roger.
Then there was an awkward silence. Lady Carbury was angry, and hardly knew whether she ought or ought not to show her anger. For Henrietta it was very awkward. She, too, could not but feel that she had been caught, though no innocence could be whiter than hers. She knew well her mother’s mind, and the way in which her mother’s thoughts would run. Silence was frightful to her, and she found herself forced to speak. “Have you had a pleasant evening, mamma?”
“Have you had a pleasant evening, my dear?” said Lady Carbury, forgetting herself in her desire to punish her daughter.
“Indeed, no,” said Hetta, attempting to laugh, “I have been trying to work hard at Dante, but one never does any good when one has to try to work. I was just going to bed when Mr. Montague came in. What did you think of the wise men and the wise women, Roger?”
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“I was out of my element, of course; but I think your mother liked it.”
“I was very glad indeed to meet Dr. Palmoil. It seems that if we can only open the interior of Africa a little further, we can get everything that is wanted to complete the chemical combination necessary for feeding the human race. Isn’t that a grand idea, Roger?”
“A little more elbow grease is the combination that I look to.”
“Surely, Roger, if the Bible is to go for anything, we are to believe that labour is a curse and not a blessing. Adam was not born to labour.”
“But he fell; and I doubt whether Dr. Palmoil will be able to put his descendants back into Eden.”
“Roger, for a religious man, you do say the strangest things! I have quite made up my mind to this; — if ever I can see things so settled here as to enable me to move, I will visit the interior of Africa. It is the garden of the world.”
This scrap of enthusiasm so carried them through their immediate difficulties that the two men were able to take their leave and to get out of the room with fair comfort. As soon as the door was closed behind them Lady Carbury attacked her daughter. “What brought him here?”
“He brought himself, mamma.”
“Don’t answer me in that way, Hetta. Of course he brought himself. That is insolent.”
“Insolent, mamma! How can you say such hard words? I meant that he came of his own accord.”
“How long was he here?”
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“Two minutes before you came in. Why do you cross-ques- tion me like this? I could not help his coming. I did not desire that he might be shown up.”
“You did not know that he was to come?”
“Mamma, if I am to be suspected, all is over between us.” “What do you mean by that?”
“If you can think that I would deceive you, you will think so always. If you will not trust me, how am I to live with you as though you did? I knew nothing of his coming.”
“Tell me this, Hetta; are you engaged to marry him?” “No; — I am not.”
“Has he asked you to marry him?”
Hetta paused a moment, considering, before she answered this question. “I do not think he ever has.”
“You do not think?”
“I was going on to explain. He never has asked me. But he has said that which makes me know that he wishes me to be his wife.”
“What has he said? When did he say it?”
Again she paused. But again she answered with straightforward simplicity. “Just before you came in, he said — ; I don’t know what he said; but it meant that.”
“You told me he had been here but a minute.”
“It was but very little more. If you take me at my word in that way, of course you can make me out to be wrong, mamma. It was almost no time, and yet he said it.”
“He had come prepared to say it.”
“How could he, — expecting to find you?” “Psha! He expected nothing of the kind.”
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“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 space. 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.”
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Hetta was too clever to allow this argument to pass. 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 assumed 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 pres-
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ence 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?”
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