The Way We Live Now

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER LXVI.

  "SO SHALL BE MY ENMITY."

  "You shall be troubled no more with Winifrid Hurtle." So Mrs. Hurtlehad said, speaking in perfect good faith to the man whom she hadcome to England with the view of marrying. And then when he had saidgood-bye to her, putting out his hand to take hers for the last time,she declined that. "Nay," she had said; "this parting will bear nofarewell."

  Having left her after that fashion Paul Montague could not returnhome with very high spirits. Had she insisted on his taking thatletter with the threat of the horsewhip as the letter which sheintended to write to him,--that letter which she had shown him,owning it to be the ebullition of her uncontrolled passion, andhad then destroyed,--he might at any rate have consoled himselfwith thinking that, however badly he might have behaved, herconduct had been worse than his. He could have made himself warm andcomfortable with anger, and could have assured himself that under anycircumstances he must be right to escape from the clutches of a wildcat such as that. But at the last moment she had shown that she wasno wild cat to him. She had melted, and become soft and womanly. Inher softness she had been exquisitely beautiful; and as he returnedhome he was sad and dissatisfied with himself. He had destroyedher life for her,--or, at least, had created a miserable episodein it which could hardly be obliterated. She had said that she wasall alone, and had given up everything to follow him,--and he hadbelieved her. Was he to do nothing for her now? She had allowed himto go, and after her fashion had pardoned him the wrong he had doneher. But was that to be sufficient for him,--so that he might nowfeel inwardly satisfied at leaving her, and make no further inquiryas to her fate? Could he pass on and let her be as the wine that hasbeen drunk,--as the hour that has been enjoyed,--as the day that ispast?

  But what could he do? He had made good his own escape. He hadresolved that, let her be woman or wild cat, he would not marryher, and in that he knew he had been right. Her antecedents, as nowdeclared by herself, unfitted her for such a marriage. Were he toreturn to her he would be again thrusting his hand into the fire.But his own selfish coldness was hateful to him when he thought thatthere was nothing to be done but to leave her desolate and lonely inMrs. Pipkin's lodgings.

  During the next three or four days, while the preparations for thedinner and the election were going on, he was busy in respect tothe American railway. He again went down to Liverpool, and at Mr.Ramsbottom's advice prepared a letter to the board of directors, inwhich he resigned his seat, and gave his reasons for resigning it;adding that he should reserve to himself the liberty of publishinghis letter, should at any time the circumstances of the railwaycompany seem to him to make such a course desirable. He also wrote aletter to Mr. Fisker, begging that gentleman to come to England, andexpressing his own wish to retire altogether from the firm of Fisker,Montague, and Montague upon receiving the balance of money due tohim,--a payment which must, he said, be a matter of small moment tohis two partners, if, as he had been informed, they had enrichedthemselves by the success of the railway company in San Francisco.When he wrote these letters at Liverpool the great rumour aboutMelmotte had not yet sprung up. He returned to London on the dayof the festival, and first heard of the report at the Beargarden.There he found that the old set had for the moment broken itself up.Sir Felix Carbury had not been heard of for the last four or fivedays,--and then the whole story of Miss Melmotte's journey, of whichhe had read something in the newspapers, was told to him. "We thinkthat Carbury has drowned himself," said Lord Grasslough, "and Ihaven't heard of anybody being heartbroken about it." Lord Nidderdalehad hardly been seen at the club. "He's taken up the running with thegirl," said Lord Grasslough. "What he'll do now, nobody knows. If Iwas at it, I'd have the money down in hard cash before I went intothe church. He was there at the party yesterday, talking to the girlall the night;--a sort of thing he never did before. Nidderdale isthe best fellow going, but he was always an ass." Nor had MilesGrendall been seen in the club for three days. "We've got into a wayof play the poor fellow doesn't like," said Lord Grasslough; "andthen Melmotte won't let him out of his sight. He has taken to dinethere every day." This was said during the election,--on the very dayon which Miles deserted his patron; and on that evening he did dineat the club. Paul Montague also dined there, and would fain haveheard something from Grendall as to Melmotte's condition; but thesecretary, if not faithful in all things, was faithful at any rate inhis silence. Though Grasslough talked openly enough about Melmotte inthe smoking-room Miles Grendall said never a word.

  On the next day, early in the afternoon, almost without a fixedpurpose, Montague strolled up to Welbeck Street, and found Hettaalone. "Mamma has gone to her publisher's," she said. "She is writingso much now that she is always going there. Who has been elected,Mr. Montague?" Paul knew nothing about the election, and cared verylittle. At that time, however, the election had not been decided. "Isuppose it will make no difference to you whether your chairman be inParliament or not?" Paul said that Melmotte was no longer a chairmanof his. "Are you out of it altogether, Mr. Montague?" Yes;--as far asit lay within his power to be out of it, he was out of it. He did notlike Mr. Melmotte, nor believe in him. Then with considerable warmthhe repudiated all connection with the Melmotte party, expressingdeep regret that circumstances had driven him for a time into thatalliance. "Then you think that Mr. Melmotte is--?"

  "Just a scoundrel;--that's all."

  "You heard about Felix?"

  "Of course I heard that he was to marry the girl, and that he triedto run off with her. I don't know much about it. They say that LordNidderdale is to marry her now."

  "I think not, Mr. Montague."

  "I hope not, for his sake. At any rate, your brother is well out ofit."

  "Do you know that she loves Felix? There is no pretence about that. Ido think she is good. The other night at the party she spoke to me."

  "You went to the party, then?"

  "Yes;--I could not refuse to go when mamma chose to take me. And whenI was there she spoke to me about Felix. I don't think she will marryLord Nidderdale. Poor girl;--I do pity her. Think what a downfall itwill be if anything happens."

  But Paul Montague had certainly not come there with the intentionof discussing Melmotte's affairs, nor could he afford to lose theopportunity which chance had given him. He was off with one love, andnow he thought that he might be on with the other. "Hetta," he said,"I am thinking more of myself than of her,--or even of Felix."

  "I suppose we all do think more of ourselves than of other people,"said Hetta, who knew from his voice at once what it was in his mindto do.

  "Yes;--but I am not thinking of myself only. I am thinking of myself,and you. In all my thoughts of myself I am thinking of you too."

  "I do not know why you should do that."

  "Hetta, you must know that I love you."

  "Do you?" she said. Of course she knew it. And of course she thoughtthat he was equally sure of her love. Had he chosen to read signsthat ought to have been plain enough to him, could he have doubtedher love after the few words that had been spoken on that nightwhen Lady Carbury had come in with Roger and interrupted them? Shecould not remember exactly what had been said; but she did rememberthat he had spoken of leaving England for ever in a certain event,and that she had not rebuked him;--and she remembered also how shehad confessed her own love to her mother. He, of course, had knownnothing of that confession; but he must have known that he had herheart! So at least she thought. She had been working some morsel oflace, as ladies do when ladies wish to be not quite doing nothing.She had endeavoured to ply her needle, very idly, while he wasspeaking to her, but now she allowed her hands to fall into her lap.She would have continued to work at the lace had she been able, butthere are times when the eyes will not see clearly, and when thehands will hardly act mechanically.

  "Yes,--I do. Hetta, say a word to me. Can it be so? Look at me forone moment so as to let me know." Her eyes had turned downwards afterher work. "If Roger is dearer to you than I am, I will go at once."
r />   "Roger is very dear to me."

  "Do you love him as I would have you love me?"

  She paused for a time, knowing that his eyes were fixed upon her,and then she answered the question in a low voice, but very clearly."No," she said;--"not like that."

  "Can you love me like that?" He put out both his arms as though totake her to his breast should the answer be such as he longed tohear. She raised her hand towards him, as if to keep him back, andleft it with him when he seized it. "Is it mine?" he said.

  "If you want it."

  Then he was at her feet in a moment, kissing her hands and her dress,looking up into her face with his eyes full of tears, ecstatic withjoy as though he had really never ventured to hope for such success."Want it!" he said. "Hetta, I have never wanted anything but thatwith real desire. Oh, Hetta, my own. Since I first saw you this hasbeen my only dream of happiness. And now it is my own."

  She was very quiet, but full of joy. Now that she had told him thetruth she did not coy her love. Having once spoken the word she didnot care how often she repeated it. She did not think that she couldever have loved anybody but him,--even if he had not been fond ofher. As to Roger,--dear Roger, dearest Roger,--no; it was not thesame thing. "He is as good as gold," she said,--"ever so much betterthan you are, Paul," stroking his hair with her hand and looking intohis eyes.

  "Better than anybody I have ever known," said Montague with all hisenergy.

  "I think he is;--but, ah, that is not everything. I suppose we oughtto love the best people best; but I don't, Paul."

  "I do," said he.

  "No,--you don't. You must love me best, but I won't be called good.I do not know why it has been so. Do you know, Paul, I have sometimesthought I would do as he would have me, out of sheer gratitude. I didnot know how to refuse such a trifling thing to one who ought to haveeverything that he wants."

  "Where should I have been?"

  "Oh, you! Somebody else would have made you happy. But do you know,Paul, I think he will never love any one else. I ought not to say so,because it seems to be making so much of myself. But I feel it. He isnot so young a man, and yet I think that he never was in love before.He almost told me so once, and what he says is true. There is anunchanging way with him that is awful to think of. He said that henever could be happy unless I would do as he would have me,--and hemade me almost believe even that. He speaks as though every word hesays must come true in the end. Oh, Paul, I love you so dearly,--butI almost think that I ought to have obeyed him." Paul Montague ofcourse had very much to say in answer to this. Among the holy thingswhich did exist to gild this every-day unholy world, love was theholiest. It should be soiled by no falsehood, should know nothing ofcompromises, should admit no excuses, should make itself subject tono external circumstances. If Fortune had been so kind to him as togive him her heart, poor as his claim might be, she could have noright to refuse him the assurance of her love. And though his rivalwere an angel, he could have no shadow of a claim upon her,--seeingthat he had failed to win her heart. It was very well said,--at leastso Hetta thought,--and she made no attempt at argument against him.But what was to be done in reference to poor Roger? She had spokenthe word now, and, whether for good or bad, she had given herself toPaul Montague. Even though Roger should have to walk disconsolateto the grave, it could not now be helped. But would it not be rightthat it should be told? "Do you know I almost feel that he is like afather to me," said Hetta, leaning on her lover's shoulder.

  Paul thought it over for a few minutes, and then said that he wouldhimself write to Roger. "Hetta, do you know, I doubt whether he willever speak to me again."

  "I cannot believe that."

  "There is a sternness about him which it is very hard to understand.He has taught himself to think that as I met you in his house, and ashe then wished you to be his wife, I should not have ventured to loveyou. How could I have known?"

  "That would be unreasonable."

  "He is unreasonable--about that. It is not reason with him. He alwaysgoes by his feelings. Had you been engaged to him--"

  "Oh, then, you never could have spoken to me like this."

  "But he will never look at it in that way;--and he will tell me thatI have been untrue to him and ungrateful."

  "If you think, Paul--"

  "Nay; listen to me. If it be so I must bear it. It will be a greatsorrow, but it will be as nothing to that other sorrow, had that comeupon me. I will write to him, and his answer will be all scorn andwrath. Then you must write to him afterwards. I think he will forgiveyou, but he will never forgive me." Then they parted, she havingpromised that she would tell her mother directly Lady Carbury camehome, and Paul undertaking to write to Roger that evening.

  And he did, with infinite difficulty, and much trembling of thespirit. Here is his letter:--

  MY DEAR ROGER,--

  I think it right to tell you at once what has occurred to-day. I have proposed to Miss Carbury and she has accepted me. You have long known what my feelings were, and I have also known yours. I have known, too, that Miss Carbury has more than once declined to take your offer. Under these circumstances I cannot think that I have been untrue to friendship in what I have done, or that I have proved myself ungrateful for the affectionate kindness which you have always shown me. I am authorised by Hetta to say that, had I never spoken to her, it must have been the same to you.

  This was hardly a fair representation of what had been said, but thewriter, looking back upon his interview with the lady, thought thatit had been implied.

  I should not say so much by way of excusing myself, but that you once said, that should such a thing occur there must be a division between us ever after. If I thought that you would adhere to that threat, I should be very unhappy and Hetta would be miserable. Surely, if a man loves he is bound to tell his love, and to take the chance. You would hardly have thought it manly in me if I had abstained. Dear friend, take a day or two before you answer this, and do not banish us from your heart if you can help it.

  Your affectionate friend,

  PAUL MONTAGUE.

  Roger Carbury did not take a single day,--or a single hour to answerthe letter. He received it at breakfast, and after rushing out on theterrace and walking there for a few minutes, he hurried to his deskand wrote his reply. As he did so, his whole face was red with wrath,and his eyes were glowing with indignation.

  There is an old French saying that he who makes excuses is his own accuser. You would not have written as you have done, had you not felt yourself to be false and ungrateful. You knew where my heart was, and there you went and undermined my treasure, and stole it away. You have destroyed my life, and I will never forgive you.

  You tell me not to banish you both from my heart. How dare you join yourself with her in speaking of my feelings! She will never be banished from my heart. She will be there morning, noon, and night, and as is and will be my love to her, so shall be my enmity to you.

  ROGER CARBURY.

  It was hardly a letter for a Christian to write; and, yet, in thoseparts Roger Carbury had the reputation of being a good Christian.

  Henrietta told her mother that morning, immediately on her return."Mamma, Mr. Paul Montague has been here."

  "He always comes here when I am away," said Lady Carbury.

  "That has been an accident. He could not have known that you weregoing to Messrs. Leadham and Loiter's."

  "I'm not so sure of that, Hetta."

  "Then, mamma, you must have told him yourself, and I don't thinkyou knew till just before you were going. But, mamma, what does itmatter? He has been here, and I have told him--"

  "You have not accepted him?"

  "Yes, mamma."

  "Without even asking me?"

  "Mamma, you knew. I will not marry him without asking you. How was Inot to tell him when he asked me whether I--loved him?"

  "Marry him! How is it possible you should marry him? Whatever he hadgo
t was in that affair of Melmotte's, and that has gone to the dogs.He is a ruined man, and for aught I know may be compromised in allMelmotte's wickedness."

  "Oh, mamma, do not say that!"

  "But I do say it. It is hard upon me. I did think that you would tryto comfort me after all this trouble with Felix. But you are as badas he is;--or worse, for you have not been thrown into temptationlike that poor boy! And you will break your cousin's heart. PoorRoger! I feel for him;--he that has been so true to us! But you thinknothing of that."

  "I think very much of my cousin Roger."

  "And how do you show it;--or your love for me? There would have beena home for us all. Now we must starve, I suppose. Hetta, you havebeen worse to me even than Felix." Then Lady Carbury, in her passion,burst out of the room, and took herself to her own chamber.