The Way We Live Now (124 page)

 

Nevertheless he wrote no answer to Hetta's letter. Perhaps he felt, with some undefined but still existing hope, that the writing of such a letter would deprive him of his last chance. Hetta's letter to himself hardly required an immediate answer – did not, indeed, demand any answer. She had simply told him that, whereas she had for certain reasons quarrelled with the man she had loved, she had now come to the conclusion that she would quarrel with him no longer. She had asked for her cousin's assent to her own views, but that, as Roger felt, was to be given rather by the discontinuance of opposition than by any positive action. Roger's influence with her mother was the assistance which Hetta really wanted from him, and that influence could hardly be given by the writing of any letter. Thinking of all this, Roger determined that he would again go up to London. He would have the vacant hours of the journey in which to think of it all again, and tell himself whether it was possible for him to bring his heart to agree to the marriage – and then he would see the people, and perhaps learn something further from their manner and their words, before he finally committed himself to the abandonment of his own hopes and the completion of theirs.

He went up to town, and I do not know that those vacant hours served him much. To a man not accustomed to thinking there is nothing in the world so difficult as to think. After some loose fashion we turn over things in our mind and ultimately reach some decision, guided probably by our feelings at the last moment rather than by any process of ratiocination – and then we think that we have thought. But to follow out one argument to an end, and then to found on the base so reached the commencement of another, is not common to us. Such a process was hardly within the compass of Roger's mind – who when he was made wretched by the dust, and by a female who had a basket of objectionable provisions opposite to him, almost forswore his charitable resolutions of the day before; but who again, as he walked lonely at night round the square which was near to his hotel, looking up at the bright moon with a full appreciation of the beauty of the heavens, asked himself what was he that he should wish to interfere with the happiness of two human beings much younger than himself, and much fitter to enjoy the world. But he had had a bath, and had got rid of the dust, and had eaten his dinner.

The next morning he was in Welbeck Street at an early hour. When he knocked he had not made up his mind whether he would ask for Lady Carbury or her daughter, and did at last inquire whether ‘the ladies' were at home. The ladies were reported as being at home, and he
was at once shown into the drawing-room, where Hetta was sitting. She hurried up to him, and he at once took her in his arms and kissed her. He had never done such a thing before. He had never even kissed her hand. Though they were cousins and dear friends, he had never treated her after that fashion. Her instinct told her immediately that such a greeting from him was a sign of affectionate compliance with her wishes. That this man should kiss her as her best and dearest relation, as her most trusted friend, as almost her brother, was certainly to her no offence. She could cling to him in fondest love – if he would only consent not to be her lover. ‘Oh, Roger, I am so glad to see you,' she said, escaping gently from his arms.

‘I could not write an answer, and so I came.'

‘You always do the kindest thing that can be done.'

‘I don't know. I don't know that I can do anything now – kind or unkind. It is all done without any aid from me. Hetta, you have been all the world to me.'

‘Do not reproach me,' she said.

‘No; – no. Why should I reproach you? You have committed no fault. I should not have come had I intended to reproach any one.'

‘I love you so much for saying that.'

‘Let it be as you wish it – if it must. I have made up my mind to bear it, and there shall be an end of it.' As he said this he took her by the hand, and she put her head upon his shoulder and began to weep. ‘And still you will be all the world to me,' he continued with his arm round her waist. ‘As you will not be my wife, you shall be my daughter.'

‘I will be your sister, Roger.'

‘My daughter rather. You shall be all that I have in the world. I will hurry to grow old that I may feel for you as the old feel for the young. And if you have a child, Hetta, he must be my child.' As he thus spoke her tears were renewed. ‘I have planned it all out in my mind, dear. There! If there be anything that I can do to add to your happiness, I will do it You must believe this of me – that to make you happy shall be the only enjoyment of my life.'

It had been hardly possible for her to tell him as yet that the man to whom he was thus consenting to surrender her had not even condescended to answer the letter in which she had told him to come back to her. And now, sobbing as she was, overcome by the tenderness of her cousin's affection, anxious to express her intense gratitude, she did not know how first to mention the name of Paul Montague. ‘Have you seen him?' she said in a whisper.

 

‘Seen whom?'

‘Mr Montague.'

‘No; – why should I have seen him? It is not for his sake that I am here.'

‘But you will be his friend?'

‘Your husband shall certainly be my friend – or, if not, the fault shall not be mine. It shall all be forgotten, Hetta – as nearly as such things may be forgotten. But I had nothing to say to him till I had seen you.' At that moment the door was opened and Lady Carbury entered the room, and, after her greeting with her cousin, looked first at her daughter and then at Roger. ‘I have come up,' said he, ‘to signify my adhesion to this marriage.' Lady Carbury's face fell very low. ‘I need not speak again of what were my own wishes. I have learned at last that it could not have been so.'

‘Why should you say so?' exclaimed Lady Carbury.

‘Pray, pray, mamma –' Hetta began, but was unable to find words with which to go on with her prayer.

‘I do not know that it need be so at all,' continued Lady Carbury. ‘I think it is very much in your own hands. Of course it is not for me to press such an arrangement, if it be not in accord with your own wishes.'

‘I look upon her as engaged to marry Paul Montague,' said Roger.

‘Not at all,' said Lady Carbury.

‘Yes; mamma – yes,' cried Hetta boldly. ‘It is so. I am engaged to him.'

‘I beg to let your cousin know that it is not so with my consent – nor, as far as I can understand at present, with the consent of Mr Montague himself.'

‘Mamma!'

‘Paul Montague!' ejaculated Roger Carbury. ‘The consent of Paul Montague! I think I may take upon myself to say that there can be no doubt as to that.'

‘There has been a quarrel,' said Lady Carbury.

‘Surely he has not quarrelled with you, Hetta?'

‘I wrote to him – and he has not answered me,' said Hetta piteously.

Then Lady Carbury gave a full and somewhat coloured account of what had taken place, while Roger listened with admirable patience. ‘The marriage is on every account objectionable,' she said at last. ‘His means are precarious. His conduct with regard to that woman has been very bad. He has been sadly mixed up with that wretched man who destroyed himself. And now, when Henrietta has written to him without my sanction – in opposition to my express commands – he takes no
notice of her. She, very properly, sent him back a present that he made her, and no doubt he has resented her doing so. I trust that his resentment may be continued.'

Hetta was now seated on a sofa hiding her face and weeping. Roger stood perfectly still, listening with respectful silence till Lady Carbury had spoken her last word. And even then he was slow to answer, considering what he might best say. ‘I think I had better see him,' he replied. ‘If, as I imagine, he has not received my cousin's letter, that matter will be set at rest. We must not take advantage of such an accident as that. As to his income – that I think may be managed. His connection with Mr Melmotte was unfortunate, but was due to no fault of his.' At this moment he could not but remember Lady Carbury's great anxiety to be closely connected with Melmotte, but he was too generous to say a word on that head. ‘I will see him, Lady Carbury, and then I will come to you again.'

Lady Carbury did not dare to tell him that she did not wish him to see Paul Montague. She knew that if he really threw himself into the scale against her, her opposition would weigh nothing. He was too powerful in his honesty and greatness of character – and had been too often admitted by herself to be the guardian angel of the family – for her to stand against him. But she still thought that had he persevered, Hetta would have become his wife.

It was late that evening before Roger found Paul Montague, who had only then returned from Liverpool with Fisker – whose subsequent doings have been recorded somewhat out of their turn.

‘I don't know what letter you mean,' said Paul.

‘You wrote to her?'

‘Certainly I wrote to her. I wrote to her twice. My last letter was one which I think she ought to have answered. She had accepted me, and had given me a right to tell my own story when she unfortunately heard from other sources the story of my journey to Lowestoft with Mrs Hurtle.' Paul pleaded his own case with indignant heat, not understanding at first that Roger had come to him on a friendly mission.

‘She did answer your letter.'

‘I have not had a line from her – not a word!'

‘She did answer your letter.'

‘What did she say to me?'

‘Nay – you must ask her that.'

‘But if she will not see me?'

‘She will see you. I can tell you that. And I will tell you this also –
that she wrote to you as a girl writes to the lover whom she does wish to see.'

‘Is that true?' exclaimed Paul, jumping up.

‘I am here especially to tell you that it is true. I should hardly come on such a message if there were a doubt. You may go to her, and need have nothing to fear, unless indeed it be the opposition of her mother.'

‘She is stronger than her mother,' said Paul.

‘I think she is. And now I wish you to hear what I have to say.'

‘Of course,' said Paul, sitting down suddenly. Up to this moment Roger Carbury, though he had certainly brought glad tidings, had not communicated them as a joyous, sympathetic messenger. His face had been severe, and the tone of his voice almost harsh; and Paul, remembering well the words of the last letter which his old friend had written him, did not expect personal kindness. Roger would probably say very disagreeable things to him, which he must bear with all the patience which he could summon to his assistance.

‘You know what my feelings have been,' Roger began, ‘and how deeply I have resented what I thought to be an interference with my affections. But no quarrel between you and me, whatever the rights of it may be –'

‘I have never quarrelled with you,' Paul began.

‘If you will listen to me for a moment it will be better. No anger between you and me, let it arise as it might, should be allowed to interfere with the happiness of her whom I suppose we both love better than all the rest of the world put together.'

‘I do,' said Paul.

‘And so do I – and so I always shall. But she is to be your wife. She shall be my daughter. She shall have my property – or her child shall be my heir. My house shall be her house – if you and she will consent to make it so. You will not be afraid of me. You know me, I think, too well for that. You may now count on any assistance you could have from me were I a father giving you a daughter in marriage. I do this because I will make the happiness of her life the chief object of mine. Now good night. Don't say anything about it at present. By-and-by we shall be able to talk about these things with more equable temper.' Having so spoken he hurried out of the room, leaving Paul Montague bewildered by the tidings which had been announced to him.

In the meantime great preparations were going on down in Suffolk for the marriage of that happiest of lovers, John Crumb. John Crumb had been up to London, had been formally reconciled to Ruby – who had submitted to his floury embraces, not with the best grace in the world, but still with a submission that had satisfied her future husband – had been intensely grateful to Mrs Hurtle, and almost munificent in liberality to Mrs Pipkin, to whom he presented a purple silk dress, in addition to the cloak which he had given on a former occasion. During this visit he had expressed no anger against Ruby, and no indignation in reference to the baronite. When informed by Mrs Pipkin, who hoped thereby to please him, that Sir Felix was supposed to be still ‘all one mash of gore', he blandly smiled, remarking that no man could be much the worse for a ‘few sich taps as them'. He only stayed a few hours in London, but during these few hours he settled everything. When Mrs Pipkin suggested that Ruby should be married from her house, he winked his eye as he declined the suggestion with thanks. Daniel Ruggles was old, and, under the influence of continued gin and water, was becoming feeble. John Crumb was of opinion that the old man should not be neglected, and hinted that with a little care the five hundred pounds which had originally been promised as Ruby's fortune, might at any rate be secured. He was of opinion that the marriage should be celebrated in Suffolk – the feast being spread at Sheep's Acre Farm, if Dan Ruggles could be talked into giving it – and if not at his own house. When both the ladies explained to him that this last proposition was not in strict accordance with the habits of the fashionable world, John expressed an opinion that, under the peculiar circumstances of his marriage, the ordinary laws of the world might be suspended. ‘It ain't jist like other folks, after all as we've been through,' said he – meaning probably to imply that having had to fight for his wife, he was entitled to give a breakfast on the occasion if he pleased. But whether the banquet was to be given by the bride's grandfather or by himself – he was determined that there should be a banquet, and that he would bid the guests. He invited both Mrs Pipkin and Mrs Hurtle, and at last succeeded in inducing Mrs Hurtle to promise that she would bring Mrs Pipkin down to Bungay for the occasion.