The Way We Live Now III

THE WAY WE LIVE NOW

ever seen you. I am almost ashamed to tell you my own part of the story, and yet I know not why I should be ashamed. I followed him here to England — because I loved him. I came after him, as perhaps a woman should not do, because I was true of heart. He had told me that he did not want me; — but I wanted to be wanted, and I hoped that I might lure him back to his troth. I have utterly failed, and I must return to my own country, — I will not say a broken-hearted woman, for I will not admit of such a condition, — but a creature with a broken spirit. He has misused me foully, and I have simply forgiven him; not because I am a Christian, but because I am not strong enough to punish one that I still love. I could not put a dagger into him, — or I would; or a bullet, — or I would. He has reduced me to a nothing by his falseness, and yet I cannot injure him! I, who have sworn to myself that no man should ever lay a finger on me in scorn without feeling my wrath in return, I cannot punish him. But if you choose to do so it is not for me to set you against such an act of justice.” Then she paused and looked up to Hetta as though expecting a reply.

But Hetta had no reply to make. All had been said that she had come to hear. Every word that the woman had spoken had in truth been a comfort to her. She had told herself that her visit was to be made in order that she might be justified in her condemnation of her lover. She had believed that it was her intention to arm herself with proof that she had done right in rejecting him. Now she was told that however false her lover might have been to this other woman he had been absolutely true to her. The woman had not spoken kindly of Paul, — had seemed to intend to speak of him with the ut-

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most severity; but she had so spoken as to acquit him of all sin against Hetta. What was it to Hetta that her lover had been false to this American stranger? It did not seem to her to be at all necessary that she should be angry with her lover on that head. Mrs. Hurtle had told her that she herself must decide whether she would take upon herself to avenge her rival’s wrongs. In saying that Mrs. Hurtle had taught her to feel that there were no other wrongs which she need avenge. It was all done now. If she could only thank the woman for the pleasantness of her demeanour, and then go, she could, when alone, make up her mind as to what she would do next. She had not yet told herself she would submit herself again to Paul Montague. She had only told herself that, within her own breast, she was bound to forgive him. “You have been very kind,” she said at last, — speaking only because it was necessary that she should say something.

“It is well that there should be some kindness where there has been so much that is unkind. Forgive me, Miss Carbury, if I speak plainly to you. Of course you will go back to him. Of course you will be his wife. You have told me that you love him dearly, as plainly as I have told you the same story of myself. Your coming here would of itself have declared it, even if I did not see your satisfaction at my account of his treachery to me.”

“Oh, Mrs. Hurtle, do not say that of me!”

“But it is true, and I do not in the least quarrel with you on that account. He has preferred you to me, and as far as I am concerned there is an end of it. You are a girl, whereas I am a woman, — and he likes your youth. I have undergone the cru-

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el roughness of the world, which has not as yet touched you; and therefore you are softer to the touch. I do not know that you are very superior in other attractions; but that has sufficed, and you are the victor. I am strong enough to acknowledge that I have nothing to forgive in you; — and am weak enough to forgive all his treachery.” Hetta was now holding the woman by the hand, and was weeping, she knew not why. “I am so glad to have seen you,” continued Mrs. Hurtle, “so that I may know what his wife was like. In a few days I shall return to the States, and then neither of you will ever be troubled further by Winifrid Hurtle. Tell him that if he will come and see me once before I go, I will not be more unkind to him than I can help.”

When Hetta did not decline to be the bearer of this message she must have at any rate resolved that she would see Paul Montague again, — and to see him would be to tell him that she was again his own. She now got herself quickly out of the room, absolutely kissing the woman whom she had both dreaded and despised. As soon as she was alone in the street she tried to think of it all. How full of beauty was the face of that American female, — how rich and glorious her voice in spite of a slight taint of the well-known nasal twang; — and above all how powerful and at the same time how easy and how gracious was her manner! That she would be an unfit wife for Paul Montague was certain to Hetta, but that he or any man should have loved her and have been loved by her, and then have been willing to part from her, was wonderful. And yet Paul Montague had preferred herself, Hetta Carbury, to

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this woman! Paul had certainly done well for his own cause when he had referred the younger lady to the elder.

Of her own quarrel of course there must be an end. She had been unjust to the man, and injustice must of course be remedied by repentance and confession. As she walked quickly back to the railway station she brought herself to love her lover more fondly than she had ever done. He had been true to her from the first hour of their acquaintance. What truth higher than that has any woman a right to desire? No doubt she gave to him a virgin heart. No other man had ever touched her lips, or been allowed to press her hand, or to look into her eyes with unrebuked admiration. It was her pride to give herself to the man she loved after this fashion, pure and white as snow on which no foot has trodden. But in taking him, all that she wanted was that he should be true to her now and henceforward. The future must be her own work. As to the “now,” she felt that Mrs. Hurtle had given her sufficient assurance.

She must at once let her mother know this change in her mind. When she re-entered the house she was no longer sullen, no longer anxious to be silent, very willing to be gracious if she might be received with favour, — but quite determined that nothing should shake her purpose. She went at once into her mother’s room, having heard from the boy at the door that Lady Carbury had returned.

“Hetta, wherever have you been?” asked Lady Carbury. “Mamma,” she said, “I mean to write to Mr. Montague and

tell him that I have been unjust to him.”

“Hetta, you must do nothing of the kind,” said Lady Carbury, rising from her seat.

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indeed so ill managed that Paul never received that letter, — which would have had for him charms greater than those of any letter ever before written.

“This is a terrible business,” said Fisker, immediately on entering the room in which Montague was waiting him. “He was the last man I’d have thought would be cut up in that way.”

“He was utterly ruined.”

“He wouldn’t have been ruined, — and couldn’t have thought so if he’d known all he ought to have known. The South Central would have pulled him through a’most anything if he’d have understood how to play it.”

“We don’t think much of the South Central here now,” said Paul.

“Ah; — that’s because you’ve never above half spirit enough for a big thing. You nibble at it instead of swallowing it whole, — and then, of course, folks see that you’re only nibbling. I thought that Melmotte would have had spirit.”

“There is, I fear, no doubt that he had committed forgery. It was the dread of detection as to that which drove him to destroy himself.”

“I call it dam clumsy from beginning to end; — dam clumsy. I took him to be a different man, and I feel more than half ashamed of myself because I trusted such a fellow. That chap Cohenlupe has got off with a lot of swag. Only think of Melmotte allowing Cohenlupe to get the better of him!”

“I suppose the thing will be broken up now at San Francisco,” suggested Paul.

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“Bu’st up at Frisco! Not if I know it. Why should it be bu’st up? D’you think we’re all going to smash there because a fool like Melmotte blows his brains out in London?”

“He took poison.”

“Or p’ison either. That’s not just our way. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do; and why I’m over here so uncommon sharp. These shares are at a’most nothing now in London. I’ll buy every share in the market. I wired for as many as I dar’d, so as not to spoil our own game, and I’ll make a clean sweep of every one of them. Bu’st up! I’m sorry for him because I thought him a biggish man; — but what he’s done ‘ll just be the making of us over there. Will you get out of it, or will you come back to Frisco with me?”

In answer to this Paul asserted most strenuously that he would not return to San Francisco, and, perhaps too ingenuously, gave his partner to understand that he was altogether sick of the great railway, and would under no circumstances have anything more to do with it. Fisker shrugged his shoulders, and was not displeased at the proposed rupture. He was prepared to deal fairly, — nay, generously, — by his partner, having recognised the wisdom of that great commercial rule which teaches us that honour should prevail among associates of a certain class; but he had fully convinced himself that Paul Montague was not a fit partner for Hamilton K. Fisker. Fisker was not only unscrupulous himself, but he had a thorough contempt for scruples in others. According to his theory of life, nine hundred and ninety-nine men were obscure because of their scruples, whilst the thousandth man predominated and cropped up into the splendour of commercial

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wealth because he was free from such bondage. He had his own theories, too, as to commercial honesty. That which he had promised to do he would do, if it was within his power. He was anxious that his bond should be good, and his word equally so. But the work of robbing mankind in gross by magnificently false representations, was not only the duty, but also the delight and the ambition of his life. How could a man so great endure a partnership with one so small as Paul Montague? “And now what about Winifrid Hurtle?” asked Fisker.

“What makes you ask? She’s in London.”

“Oh yes, I know she’s in London, and Hurtle’s at Frisco, swearing that he’ll come after her. He would, only he hasn’t got the dollars.”

“He’s not dead then?” muttered Paul.

“Dead! — no, nor likely to die. She’ll have a bad time of it with him yet.”

“But she divorced him.”

“She got a Kansas lawyer to say so, and he’s got a Frisco lawyer to say that there’s nothing of the kind. She hasn’t played her game badly neither, for she’s had the handling of her own money, and has put it so that he can’t get hold of a dollar. Even if it suited other ways, you know, I wouldn’t marry her myself till I saw my way clearer out of the wood.”

“I’m not thinking of marrying her, — if you mean that.” “There was a talk about it in Frisco; — that’s all. And I have

heard Hurtle say when he was a little farther gone than usual that she was here with you, and that he meant to drop in on you some of these days.” To this Paul made no answer, think-

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ing that he had now both heard enough and said enough about Mrs. Hurtle.

On the following day the two men, who were still partners, went together to London, and Fisker immediately became immersed in the arrangement of Melmotte’s affairs. He put himself into communication with Mr. Brehgert, went in and out of the offices in Abchurch Lane and the rooms which had belonged to the Railway Company, cross-examined Croll, mastered the books of the Company as far as they were to be mastered, and actually summoned both the Grendalls, father and son, up to London. Lord Alfred, and Miles with him, had left London a day or two before Melmotte’s death, — having probably perceived that there was no further occasion for their services. To Fisker’s appeal Lord Alfred was proudly indifferent. Who was this American that he should call upon a director of the London Company to appear? Does not every one know that a director of a company need not direct unless he pleases? Lord Alfred, therefore, did not even condescend to answer Fisker’s letter; — but he advised his son to run up to town. “I should just go, because I’d taken a salary from the G Company,” said the careful father, “but when there I wouldn’t say a word.” So Miles Grendall, obeying his parent, reappeared upon the scene.

But Fisker’s attention was perhaps most usefully and most sedulously paid to Madame Melmotte and her daughter. Till Fisker arrived no one had visited them in their solitude at Hampstead, except Croll, the clerk. Mr. Brehgert had abstained, thinking that a widow, who had become a widow under such terrible circumstances, would prefer to be alone. Lord

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