The Way We Live Now II

THE WAY WE LIVE NOW

“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 Saturday 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 recognises. 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. Rams-

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bottom’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 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 passion. 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 circumstances will I marry her. I know I have been a fool.

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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 that he was bound himself to incur the risk of those claws, and that no substitute 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 circumstances 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 circumstances 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.

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“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 Saturday. Would it not be 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 fortitude, 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

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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 anticipation. Paul had realised something of this when he threw himself into a Hansom cab, and ordered the man to drive him 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 his 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 brass plate.

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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.

“Mrs. Hurtle is out for the day,” said the girl who opened the door. “Leastways, she went out yesterday and won’t be back till to-night.” Providence had sent him a reprieve! But he almost forgot the reprieve, as he looked at the girl and saw that she was Ruby Ruggles. “Oh laws, Mr. Montague, is that you?” Ruby Ruggles had often seen Paul down in Suffolk, and recognised him as quickly as he did her. It occurred to her at once that he had come in search of herself. She knew that Roger Carbury was up in town looking for her. So much she had of course learned from Sir Felix, — for at this time she had seen the baronet more than once since her arrival. Montague, she knew, was Roger Carbury’s intimate friend, and now she felt that she was caught. In her terror she did not at first remember that the visitor had asked for Mrs. Hurtle.

“Yes, it is I. I was sorry to hear, Miss Ruggles, that you had left your home.”

“I’m all right, Mr. Montague; — I am. Mrs. Pipkin is my aunt, or, leastways, my mother’s brother’s widow, though grandfather never would speak to her. She’s quite respectable, and has five children, and lets lodgings. There’s a lady here now, and has gone away with her just for one night down to Southend. They’ll be back this evening, and I’ve the children to mind, with the servant girl. I’m quite respectable here, Mr. Montague, and nobody need be a bit afraid about me.”

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“Mrs. Hurtle has gone down to Southend?”

“Yes, Mr. Montague; she wasn’t quite well, and wanted a breath of air, she said. And aunt didn’t like she should go alone, as Mrs. Hurtle is such a stranger. And Mrs. Hurtle said as she didn’t mind paying for two, and so they’ve gone, and the baby with them. Mrs. Pipkin said as the baby shouldn’t be no trouble. And Mrs. Hurtle, — she’s most as fond of the baby as aunt. Do you know Mrs. Hurtle, sir?”

“Yes; she’s a friend of mine.”

“Oh; I didn’t know. I did know as there was some friend as was expected and as didn’t come. Be I to say, sir, as you was here?”

Paul thought it might be as well to shift the subject and to ask Ruby a few questions about herself while he made up his mind what message he would leave for Mrs. Hurtle. “I’m afraid they are very unhappy about you down at Bungay, Miss Ruggles.”

“Then they’ve got to be unhappy; that’s all about it, Mr. Montague. Grandfather is that provoking as a young woman can’t live with him, nor yet I won’t try never again. He lugged me all about the room by my hair, Mr. Montague. How is a young woman to put up with that? And I did everything for him, — that careful that no one won’t do it again; — did his linen, and his victuals, and even cleaned his boots of a Sunday, ‘cause he was that mean he wouldn’t have anybody about the place only me and the girl who had to milk the cows. There wasn’t nobody to do anything, only me. And then he went to drag me about by the hairs of my head. You won’t see me again at Sheep’s Acre, Mr. Montague; — nor yet won’t the Squire.”

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“But I thought there was somebody else was to give you a home.”

“John Crumb! Oh, yes, there’s John Crumb. There’s plenty of people to give me a home, Mr. Montague.”

“You were to have been married to John Crumb, I thought.” “Ladies is to change their minds if they like it, Mr. Montague. I’m sure you’ve heard that before. Grandfather made me

say I’d have him, — but I never cared that for him.”

“I’m afraid, Miss Ruggles, you won’t find a better man up here in London.”

“I didn’t come here to look for a man, Mr. Montague; I can tell you that. They has to look for me, if they want me. But I am looked after; and that by one as John Crumb ain’t fit to touch.” That told the whole story. Paul when he heard the little boast was quite sure that Roger’s fear about Felix was well founded. And as for John Crumb’s fitness to touch Sir Felix, Paul felt that the Bungay mealman might have an opinion of his own on that matter. “But there’s Betsy a crying up-stairs, and I promised not to leave them children for one minute.”

“I will tell the Squire that I saw you, Miss Ruggles.” “What does the Squire want o’ me? I ain’t nothing to

the Squire, — except that I respects him. You can tell if you please, Mr. Montague, of course. I’m a coming, my darling.”

Paul made his way into Mrs. Hurtle’s sitting-room and wrote a note for her in pencil. He had come, he said, immediately on his return from Liverpool, and was sorry to find that she was away for the day. When should he call again? If she would make an appointment he would attend to it. He felt as he wrote this that he might very safely have himself made

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an appointment for the morrow; but he cheated himself into half believing that the suggestion he now made was the more gracious and civil. At any rate it would certainly give him another day. Mrs. Hurtle would not return till late in the evening, and as the following day was Sunday there would be no delivery by post. When the note was finished he left it on the table, and called to Ruby to tell her that he was going. “Mr. Montague,” she said in a confidential whisper, as she tripped down the stairs, “I don’t see why you need be saying anything about me, you know.”

“Mr. Carbury is up in town looking after you.” “What ‘m I to Mr. Carbury?”

“Your grandfather is very anxious about you.”

“Not a bit of it, Mr. Montague. Grandfather knows very well where I am. There! Grandfather doesn’t want me back, and I ain’t a going. Why should the Squire bother himself about me? I don’t bother myself about him.”

“He’s afraid, Miss Ruggles, that you are trusting yourself to a young man who is not trustworthy.”

“I can mind myself very well, Mr. Montague.”

“Tell me this. Have you seen Sir Felix Carbury since you’ve been in town?” Ruby, whose blushes came very easily, now flushed up to her forehead. “You may be sure that he means no good to you. What can come of an intimacy between you and such a one as he?”

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t have my friend, Mr. Montague, as well as you. Howsomever, if you’ll not tell, I’ll be ever so much obliged.”

“But I must tell Mr. Carbury.”

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