CHAPTER LXXXIV.
PAUL MONTAGUE'S VINDICATION.
It is hoped that the reader need hardly be informed that HettaCarbury was a very miserable young woman as soon as she decided thatduty compelled her to divide herself altogether from Paul Montague.I think that she was irrational; but to her it seemed that theoffence against herself,--the offence against her own dignity as awoman,--was too great to be forgiven. There can be no doubt that itwould all have been forgiven with the greatest ease had Paul told thestory before it had reached her ears from any other source. Had hesaid to her,--when her heart was softest towards him,--I once lovedanother woman, and that woman is here now in London, a trouble to me,persecuting me, and her history is so and so, and the history of mylove for her was after this fashion, and the history of my declininglove is after that fashion, and of this at any rate you may be sure,that this woman has never been near my heart from the first moment inwhich I saw you;--had he told it to her thus, there would not havebeen an opening for anger. And he doubtless would have so told it,had not Hetta's brother interfered too quickly. He was then forced toexculpate himself, to confess rather than to tell his own story,--andto admit facts which wore the air of having been concealed, and whichhad already been conceived to be altogether damning if true. Itwas that journey to Lowestoft, not yet a month old, which did themischief,--a journey as to which Hetta was not slow in understandingall that Roger Carbury had thought about it, though Roger would saynothing of it to herself. Paul had been staying at the seaside withthis woman in amicable intimacy,--this horrid woman,--in intimacyworse than amicable, and had been visiting her daily at Islington!Hetta felt quite sure that he had never passed a day without goingthere since the arrival of the woman; and everybody would know whatthat meant. And during this very hour he had been,--well, perhaps notexactly making love to herself, but looking at her and talking toher, and behaving to her in a manner such as could not but make herunderstand that he intended to make love to her. Of course they hadreally understood it, since they had met at Madame Melmotte's firstball, when she had made a plea that she could not allow herself todance with him more than,--say half-a-dozen times. Of course she hadnot intended him then to know that she would receive his love withfavour; but equally of course she had known that he must so feel it.She had not only told herself, but had told her mother, that herheart was given away to this man; and yet the man during this verytime was spending his hours with a--woman, with a strange Americanwoman, to whom he acknowledged that he had been once engaged. Howcould she not quarrel with him? How could she refrain from tellinghim that everything must be over between them? Everybody was againsthim,--her mother, her brother, and her cousin: and she felt that shehad not a word to say in his defence. A horrid woman! A wretched,bad, bold American intriguing woman! It was terrible to her thata friend of hers should ever have attached himself to such acreature;--but that he should have come to her with a secondtale of love long, long before he had cleared himself from thefirst;--perhaps with no intention of clearing himself from the first!Of course she could not forgive him! No;--she would never forgivehim. She would break her heart for him. That was a matter of course;but she would never forgive him. She knew well what it was that hermother wanted. Her mother thought that by forcing her into a quarrelwith Montague she would force her also into a marriage with RogerCarbury. But her mother would find out that in that she was mistaken.She would never marry her cousin, though she would be always ready toacknowledge his worth. She was sure now that she would never marryany man. As she made this resolve she had a wicked satisfaction infeeling that it would be a trouble to her mother;--for though shewas altogether in accord with Lady Carbury as to the iniquities ofPaul Montague she was not the less angry with her mother for being soready to expose those iniquities.
Oh, with what slow, cautious fingers, with what heartbrokentenderness did she take out from its guardian case the brooch whichPaul had given her! It had as yet been an only present, and inthanking him for it, which she had done with full, free-spoken wordsof love, she had begged him to send her no other, so that that mightever be to her,--to her dying day,--the one precious thing that hadbeen given to her by her lover while she was yet a girl. Now it mustbe sent back;--and, no doubt, it would go to that abominable woman!But her fingers lingered over it as she touched it, and she wouldfain have kissed it, had she not told herself that she would havebeen disgraced, even in her solitude, by such a demonstration ofaffection. She had given her answer to Paul Montague; and, as shewould have no further personal correspondence with him, she took thebrooch to her mother with a request that it might be returned.
"Of course, my dear, I will send it back to him. Is there nothingelse?"
"No, mamma;--nothing else. I have no letters, and no other present.You always knew everything that took place. If you will just sendthat back to him,--without a word. You won't say anything,--will you,mamma?"
"There is nothing for me to say if you have really made himunderstand you."
"I think he understood me, mamma. You need not doubt about that."
"He has behaved very, very badly,--from the beginning," said LadyCarbury.
But Hetta did not really think that the young man had behaved verybadly from the beginning, and certainly did not wish to be told ofhis misbehaviour. No doubt she thought that the young man had behavedvery well in falling in love with her directly he saw her;--onlythat he had behaved so badly in taking Mrs. Hurtle to Lowestoftafterwards! "It's no good talking about that, mamma. I hope you willnever talk of him any more."
"He is quite unworthy," said Lady Carbury.
"I can't bear to--have him--abused," said Hetta sobbing.
"My dear Hetta, I have no doubt this has made you for the timeunhappy. Such little accidents do make people unhappy--for the time.But it will be much for the best that you should endeavour not to beso sensitive about it. The world is too rough and too hard for peopleto allow their feelings full play. You have to look out for thefuture, and you can best do so by resolving that Paul Montague shallbe forgotten at once."
"Oh, mamma, don't. How is a person to resolve? Oh, mamma, don't sayany more."
"But, my dear, there is more that I must say. Your future life isbefore you, and I must think of it, and you must think of it. Ofcourse you must be married."
"There is no of course at all."
"Of course you must be married," continued Lady Carbury, "and ofcourse it is your duty to think of the way in which this may be bestdone. My income is becoming less and less every day. I already owemoney to your cousin, and I owe money to Mr. Broune."
"Money to Mr. Broune!"
"Yes,--to Mr. Broune. I had to pay a sum for Felix which Mr. Brounetold me ought to be paid. And I owe money to tradesmen. I fear thatI shall not be able to keep on this house. And they tell me,--yourcousin and Mr. Broune,--that it is my duty to take Felix out ofLondon,--probably abroad."
"Of course I shall go with you."
"It may be so at first; but, perhaps, even that may not be necessary.Why should you? What pleasure could you have in it? Think what mylife must be with Felix in some French or German town!"
"Mamma, why don't you let me be a comfort to you? Why do you speak ofme always as though I were a burden?"
"Everybody is a burden to other people. It is the way of life. Butyou,--if you will only yield in ever so little,--you may go where youwill be no burden, where you will be accepted simply as a blessing.You have the opportunity of securing comfort for your whole life,and of making a friend, not only for yourself, but for me and yourbrother, of one whose friendship we cannot fail to want."
"Mamma, you cannot really mean to talk about that now?"
"Why should I not mean it? What is the use of indulging in high-flownnonsense? Make up your mind to be the wife of your cousin Roger."
"This is horrid," said Hetta, bursting out in her agony. "Cannotyou understand that I am broken-hearted about Paul, that I love himfrom my very soul, that parting from him is like tearing my heartin pieces
? I know that I must, because he has behaved so verybadly,--and because of that wicked woman! And so I have. But I didnot think that in the very next hour you would bid me give myselfto somebody else! I will never marry Roger Carbury. You may bequite--quite sure that I shall never marry any one. If you won'ttake me with you when you go away with Felix, I must stay behind andtry and earn my bread. I suppose I could go out as a nurse." Then,without waiting for a reply she left the room and betook herself toher own apartment.
Lady Carbury did not even understand her daughter. She could notconceive that she had in any way acted unkindly in taking theopportunity of Montague's rejection for pressing the suit of theother lover. She was simply anxious to get a husband for herdaughter,--as she had been anxious to get a wife for her son,--inorder that her child might live comfortably. But she felt thatwhenever she spoke common sense to Hetta, her daughter took it asan offence, and flew into tantrums, being altogether unable toaccommodate herself to the hard truths of the world. Deep as was thesorrow which her son brought upon her, and great as was the disgrace,she could feel more sympathy for him than for the girl. If there wasanything that she could not forgive in life it was romance. And yetshe, at any rate, believed that she delighted in romantic poetry! Atthe present moment she was very wretched; and was certainly unselfishin her wish to see her daughter comfortably settled before shecommenced those miserable roamings with her son which seemed to beher coming destiny.
In these days she thought a good deal of Mr. Broune's offer, and ofher own refusal. It was odd that since that refusal she had seen moreof him, and had certainly known much more of him than she had everseen or known before. Previous to that little episode their intimacyhad been very fictitious, as are many intimacies. They had played atbeing friends, knowing but very little of each other. But now, duringthe last five or six weeks,--since she had refused his offer,--theyhad really learned to know each other. In the exquisite misery ofher troubles, she had told him the truth about herself and her son,and he had responded, not by compliments, but by real aid and truecounsel. His whole tone was altered to her, as was hers to him.There was no longer any egregious flattery between them,--and he, inspeaking to her, would be almost rough to her. Once he had told herthat she would be a fool if she did not do so and so. The consequencewas that she almost regretted that she had allowed him to escape.But she certainly made no effort to recover the lost prize, forshe told him all her troubles. It was on that afternoon, after herdisagreement with her daughter, that Marie Melmotte came to her. And,on that same evening, closeted with Mr. Broune in her back room, shetold him of both occurrences. "If the girl has got the money--," shebegan, regretting her son's obstinacy.
"I don't believe a bit of it," said Broune. "From all that I canhear, I don't think that there is any money. And if there is, you maybe sure that Melmotte would not let it slip through his fingers inthat way. I would not have anything to do with it."
"You think it is all over with the Melmottes?"
"A rumour reached me just now that he had been already arrested." Itwas now between nine and ten in the evening. "But as I came away frommy room, I heard that he was down at the House. That he will have tostand a trial for forgery, I think there cannot be a doubt, and Iimagine that it will be found that not a shilling will be saved outof the property."
"What a wonderful career it has been!"
"Yes,--the strangest thing that has come up in our days. I aminclined to think that the utter ruin at this moment has been broughtabout by his reckless personal expenditure."
"Why did he spend such a lot of money?"
"Because he thought that he could conquer the world by it, and obtainuniversal credit. He very nearly succeeded too. Only he had forgottento calculate the force of the envy of his competitors."
"You think he has committed forgery?"
"Certainly, I think so. Of course we know nothing as yet."
"Then I suppose it is better that Felix should not have married her."
"Certainly better. No redemption was to have been had on that side,and I don't think you should regret the loss of such money as his."Lady Carbury shook her head, meaning probably to imply that evenMelmotte's money would have had no bad odour to one so dreadfully inwant of assistance as her son. "At any rate do not think of it anymore." Then she told him her grief about Hetta. "Ah, there," said he,"I feel myself less able to express an authoritative opinion."
"He doesn't owe a shilling," said Lady Carbury, "and he is really afine gentleman."
"But if she doesn't like him?"
"Oh, but she does. She thinks him to be the finest person in theworld. She would obey him a great deal sooner than she would me. Butshe has her mind stuffed with nonsense about love."
"A great many people, Lady Carbury, have their minds stuffed withthat nonsense."
"Yes;--and ruin themselves with it, as she will do. Love is like anyother luxury. You have no right to it unless you can afford it. Andthose who will have it when they can't afford it, will come to theground like this Mr. Melmotte. How odd it seems! It isn't a fortnightsince we all thought him the greatest man in London." Mr. Broune onlysmiled, not thinking it worth his while to declare that he had neverheld that opinion about the late idol of Abchurch Lane.
On the following morning, very early, while Melmotte was still lying,as yet undiscovered, on the floor of Mr. Longestaffe's room, a letterwas brought up to Hetta by the maid-servant, who told her that Mr.Montague had delivered it with his own hands. She took it greedily,and then repressing herself, put it with an assumed gesture ofindifference beneath her pillow. But as soon as the girl had left theroom she at once seized her treasure. It never occurred to her asyet to think whether she would or would not receive a letter fromher dismissed lover. She had told him that he must go, and go forever, and had taken it for granted that he would do so,--probablywillingly. No doubt he would be delighted to return to the Americanwoman. But now that she had the letter, she allowed no doubt to comebetween her and the reading of it. As soon as she was alone sheopened it, and she ran through its contents without allowing herselfa moment for thinking, as she went on, whether the excuses made byher lover were or were not such as she ought to accept.
DEAREST HETTA,
I think you have been most unjust to me, and if you have ever loved me I cannot understand your injustice. I have never deceived you in anything, not by a word, or for a moment. Unless you mean to throw me over because I did once love another woman, I do not know what cause of anger you have. I could not tell you about Mrs. Hurtle till you had accepted me, and, as you yourself must know, I had had no opportunity to tell you anything afterwards till the story had reached your ears. I hardly know what I said the other day, I was so miserable at your accusation. But I suppose I said then, and I again declare now, that I had made up my mind that circumstances would not admit of her becoming my wife before I had ever seen you, and that I have certainly never wavered in my determination since I saw you. I can with safety refer to Roger as to this, because I was with him when I so determined, and made up my mind very much at his instance. This was before I had ever even met you.
If I understand it all right you are angry because I have associated with Mrs. Hurtle since I so determined. I am not going back to my first acquaintance with her now. You may blame me for that if you please,--though it cannot have been a fault against you. But, after what had occurred, was I to refuse to see her when she came to England to see me? I think that would have been cowardly. Of course I went to her. And when she was all alone here, without a single other friend, and telling me that she was unwell, and asking me to take her down to the seaside, was I to refuse? I think that that would have been unkind. It was a dreadful trouble to me. But of course I did it.
She asked me to renew my engagement. I am bound to tell you that, but I know in telling you that it will go no farther. I declined, telling her that it was my purpose to ask another woman to be my wife. Of course there
has been anger and sorrow,--anger on her part and sorrow on mine. But there has been no doubt. And at last she yielded. As far as she was concerned my trouble was over,--except in so far that her unhappiness has been a great trouble to me,--when, on a sudden, I found that the story had reached you in such a form as to make you determined to quarrel with me!
Of course you do not know it all, for I cannot tell you all without telling her history. But you know everything that in the least concerns yourself, and I do say that you have no cause whatever for anger. I am writing at night. This evening your brooch was brought to me with three or four cutting words from your mother. But I cannot understand that if you really love me, you should wish to separate yourself from me,--or that, if you ever loved me, you should cease to love me now because of Mrs. Hurtle.
I am so absolutely confused by the blow that I hardly know what I am writing, and take first one outrageous idea into my head and then another. My love for you is so thorough and so intense that I cannot bring myself to look forward to living without you, now that you have once owned that you have loved me. I cannot think it possible that love, such as I suppose yours must have been, could be made to cease all at a moment. Mine can't. I don't think it is natural that we should be parted.
If you want corroboration of my story go yourself to Mrs. Hurtle. Anything is better than that we both should be broken-hearted.
Yours most affectionately,
PAUL MONTAGUE.
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