The Way We Live Now III

THE WAY WE LIVE NOW

“Get up, you wiper,” said John Crumb. But the baronet thought it better to cling to the ground. “You sholl get up,” said John, taking him by the collar of his coat and lifting him. “Now, Ruby, he’s a-going to have it,” said John. Whereupon Ruby screamed at the top of her voice, with a shriek very much louder than that which had at first attracted John Crumb’s notice.

“Don’t hit a man when he’s down,” said the baronet, pleading as though for his life.

“I wunt,” said John; — “but I’ll hit a fellow when ‘un’s up.” Sir Felix was little more than a child in the man’s arms. John Crumb raised him, and catching him round the neck with his left arm, — getting his head into chancery as we used to say when we fought at school, — struck the poor wretch some half-dozen times violently in the face, not knowing or caring exactly where he hit him, but at every blow obliterating a feature. And he would have continued had not Ruby flown at him and rescued Sir Felix from his arms. “He’s about got enough of it,” said John Crumb as he gave over his work. Then Sir Felix fell again to the ground, moaning fearfully. “I know’d he’d have to have it,” said John Crumb.

Ruby’s screams of course brought the police, one arriving from each end of the passage on the scene of action at the same time. And now the cruellest thing of all was that Ruby in the complaints which she made to the policemen said not a word against Sir Felix, but was as bitter as she knew how to be in her denunciations of John Crumb. It was in vain that John endeavoured to make the man understand that the young woman had been crying out for protection when he

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had interfered. Ruby was very quick of speech and John Crumb was very slow. Ruby swore that nothing so horrible, so cruel, so bloodthirsty had ever been done before. Sir Felix himself when appealed to could say nothing. He could only moan and make futile efforts to wipe away the stream of blood from his face when the men stood him up leaning against the railings. And John, though he endeavoured to make the policemen comprehend the extent of the wickedness of the young baronet, would not say a word against Ruby. He was not even in the least angered by her denunciations of himself. As he himself said sometimes afterwards, he had “dropped into the baro-nite” just in time, and, having been successful in this, felt no wrath against Ruby for having made such an operation necessary.

There was soon a third policeman on the spot, and a dozen other persons, — cab-drivers, haunters of the street by night, and houseless wanderers, casuals who at this season of the year preferred the pavements to the poor-house wards. They all took part against John Crumb. Why had the big man interfered between the young woman and her young man? Two or three of them wiped Sir Felix’s face, and dabbed his eyes, and proposed this and the other remedy. Some thought that he had better be taken straight to an hospital. One lady remarked that he was “so mashed and mauled” that she was sure he would never “come to” again. A precocious youth remarked that he was “all one as a dead ‘un.” A cabman observed that he had “’ad it awful ‘eavy.” To all these criticisms on his condition Sir Felix himself made no direct reply, but he intimated his desire to be carried away somewhere, though he did not much care whither.

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At last the policemen among them decided upon a course of action. They had learned by the united testimony of Ruby and Crumb that Sir Felix was Sir Felix. He was to be carried in a cab by one constable to Bartholomew Hospital, who would then take his address so that he might be produced and bound over to prosecute. Ruby should be even conducted to the address she gave, — not half a mile from the spot on which they now stood, — and be left there or not according to the account which might be given of her. John Crumb must be undoubtedly locked up in the station-house. He was the offender; — for aught that any of them yet knew, the murderer. No one said a good word for him. He hardly said a good word for himself, and certainly made no objection to the treatment that had been proposed for him. But, no doubt, he was buoyed up inwardly by the conviction that he had thoroughly thrashed his enemy.

Thus it came to pass that the two policemen with John Crumb and Ruby came together to Mrs. Pipkin’s door. Ruby was still loud with complaints against the ruffian who had beaten her lover, — who, perhaps, had killed her loved one. She threatened the gallows, and handcuffs, and perpetual imprisonment, and an action for damages amidst her lamentations. But from Mrs. Hurtle the policemen did manage to learn something of the truth. Oh yes; — the girl lived there and was — respectable. This man whom they had arrested was respectable also, and was the girl’s proper lover. The other man who had been beaten was undoubtedly the owner of a title; but he was not respectable, and was only the girl’s improper lover. And John Crumb’s name was given. “I’m John Crumb of

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what it might, the engagement should be and in fact had been broken off. He thoroughly believed the man’s word, but put no trust whatever in his firmness. And, hitherto, he had no reason whatever for supposing that Mrs. Hurtle had consented to be abandoned. What father, what elder brother would allow a daughter or a sister to become engaged to a man embarrassed by such difficulties? He certainly had counselled Montague to rid himself of the trammels by which he had surrounded himself; — but not on that account could he think that the man in his present condition was fit to engage himself to another woman.

All this was clear to Roger Carbury. But then it had been equally clear to him that he could not, as a man of honour, assist his own cause by telling a tale, — which tale had become known to him as the friend of the man against whom it would have to be told. He had resolved upon that as he left Montague and Mrs. Hurtle together upon the sands at Lowestoft. But what was he to do now? The girl whom he loved had confessed her love for the other man, — that man, who in seeking the girl’s love, had been as he thought so foul a traitor to himself! That he would hold himself as divided from the man by a perpetual and undying hostility he had determined. That his love for the woman would be equally perpetual he was quite sure. Already there were floating across his brain ideas of perpetuating his name in the person of some child of Hetta’s, — but with the distinct understanding that he and the child’s father should never see each other. No more than twenty-four hours had intervened between the receipt of Paul’s letter and that from Lady Carbury, — but during those

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four-and-twenty hours he had almost forgotten Mrs. Hurtle. The girl was gone from him, and he thought only of his own loss and of Paul’s perfidy. Then came the direct question as to which he was called upon for a direct answer. Did he know anything of facts relating to the presence of a certain Mrs. Hurtle in London which were of a nature to make it inexpedient that Hetta should accept Paul Montague as her betrothed lover? Of course he did. The facts were all familiar to him. But how was he to tell the facts? In what words was he to answer such a letter? If he told the truth as he knew it how was he to secure himself against the suspicion of telling a story against his rival in order that he might assist himself, or at any rate, punish the rival?

As he could not trust himself to write an answer to Lady Carbury’s letter he determined that he would go to London. If he must tell the story he could tell it better face to face than by any written words. So he made the journey, arrived in town late in the evening, and knocked at the door in Welbeck Street between ten and eleven on the morning after the unfortunate meeting which took place between Sir Felix and John Crumb. The page when he opened the door looked as a page should look when the family to which he is attached is suffering from some terrible calamity. “My lady” had been summoned to the hospital to see Sir Felix who was, — as the page reported, — in a very bad way indeed. The page did not exactly know what had happened, but supposed that Sir Felix had lost most of his limbs by this time. Yes; Miss Carbury was up-stairs; and would no doubt see her cousin, though she, too, was in a very bad condition; and dreadfully put about. That poor Het-

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ta should be “put about” with her brother in the hospital and her lover in the toils of an abominable American woman was natural enough.

“What’s this about Felix?” asked Roger. The new trouble always has precedence over those which are of earlier date.

“Oh Roger, I am so glad to see you. Felix did not come home last night, and this morning there came a man from the hospital in the city to say that he is there.”

“What has happened to him?”

“Somebody, — somebody has, — beaten him,” said Hetta whimpering. Then she told the story as far as she knew it. The messenger from the hospital had declared that the young man was in no danger and that none of his bones were broken, but that he was terribly bruised about the face, that his eyes were in a frightful condition, sundry of his teeth knocked out, and his lips cut open. But, the messenger had gone on to say, the house surgeon had seen no reason why the young gentleman should not be taken home. “And mamma has gone to fetch him,” said Hetta.

“That’s John Crumb,” said Roger. Hetta had never heard of John Crumb, and simply stared into her cousin’s face. “You have not been told about John Crumb? No; — you would not hear of him.”

“Why should John Crumb beat Felix like that?”

“They say, Hetta, that women are the cause of most troubles that occur in the world.” The girl blushed up to her eyes, as though the whole story of Felix’s sin and folly had been told to her. “If it be as I suppose,” continued Roger, “John

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Crumb has considered himself to be aggrieved and has thus avenged himself.”

“Did you — know of him before?”

“Yes indeed; — very well. He is a neighbour of mine and was in love with a girl, with all his heart; and he would have made her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer her, and is an honest man with whom she would have been safe and respected and happy. Your brother saw her and, though he knew the story, though he had been told by myself that this honest fellow had placed his happiness on the girl’s love, he thought, — well, I suppose he thought that such a pretty thing as this girl was too good for John Crumb.”

“But Felix has been going to marry Miss Melmotte!” “You’re old-fashioned, Hetta. It used to be the way, — to be

off with the old love before you are on with the new; but that seems to be all changed now. Such fine young fellows as there are now can be in love with two at once. That I fear is what Felix has thought; — and now he has been punished.”

“You know all about it then?”

“No; — I don’t know. But I think it has been so. I do know that John Crumb had threatened to do this thing, and I felt sure that sooner or later he would be as good as his word. If it has been so, who is to blame him?”

Hetta as she heard the story hardly knew whether her cousin, in his manner of telling the story, was speaking of that other man, of that stranger of whom she had never heard, or of himself. He would have made her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer her. He was an honest man with whom she would have been safe and respected and

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happy! He had looked at her while speaking as though it were her own case of which he spoke. And then, when he talked of the old-fashioned way, of being off with the old love before you are on with the new, had he not alluded to Paul Montague and this story of the American woman? But, if so, it was not for Hetta to notice it by words. He must speak more plainly than that before she could be supposed to know that he alluded to her own condition. “It is very shocking,” she said.

“Shocking; — yes. One is shocked at it all. I pity your mother, and I pity you.”

“It seems to me that nothing ever will be happy for us,” said Hetta. She was longing to be told something of Mrs. Hurtle, but she did not as yet dare to ask the question.

“I do not know whether to wait for your mother or not,” said he after a short pause.

“Pray wait for her if you are not very busy.”

“I came up only to see her, but perhaps she would not wish me to be here when she brings Felix back to the house.”

“Indeed she will. She would like you always to be here when there are troubles. Oh, Roger, I wish you could tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“She has written to you; — has she not?” “Yes; she has written to me.”

“And about me?”

“Yes; — about you, Hetta. And, Hetta, Mr. Montague has written to me also.”

“He told me that he would,” whispered Hetta. “Did he tell you of my answer?”

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