The Way We Live Now

  CHAPTER VIII.

  LOVE-SICK.

  Roger Carbury said well that it was very improbable that he andhis cousin, the widow, should agree in their opinions as to theexpedience of fortune-hunting by marriage. It was impossible thatthey should ever understand each other. To Lady Carbury the prospectof a union between her son and Miss Melmotte was one of unmixed joyand triumph. Could it have been possible that Marie Melmotte shouldbe rich and her father be a man doomed to a deserved sentence in apenal settlement, there might perhaps be a doubt about it. The wealtheven in that case would certainly carry the day against the disgrace,and Lady Carbury would find reasons why "poor Marie" should not bepunished for her father's sins, even while enjoying the money whichthose sins had produced. But how different were the existing facts?Mr. Melmotte was not at the galleys, but was entertaining duchessesin Grosvenor Square. People said that Mr. Melmotte had a reputationthroughout Europe as a gigantic swindler,--as one who in thedishonest and successful pursuit of wealth had stopped at nothing.People said of him that he had framed and carried out longpremeditated and deeply laid schemes for the ruin of those whohad trusted him, that he had swallowed up the property of all whohad come in contact with him, that he was fed with the blood ofwidows and children;--but what was all this to Lady Carbury? If theduchesses condoned it all, did it become her to be prudish? Peoplealso said that Melmotte would yet get a fall,--that a man who hadrisen after such a fashion never could long keep his head up. But hemight keep his head up long enough to give Marie her fortune. Andthen Felix wanted a fortune so badly;--was so exactly the young manwho ought to marry a fortune! To Lady Carbury there was no second wayof looking at the matter.

  And to Roger Carbury also there was no second way of looking at it.That condonation of antecedents which, in the hurry of the world,is often vouchsafed to success, that growing feeling which inducespeople to assert to themselves that they are not bound to go outsidethe general verdict, and that they may shake hands with whomsoeverthe world shakes hands with, had never reached him. The old-fashionedidea that the touching of pitch will defile still prevailed with him.He was a gentleman;--and would have felt himself disgraced to enterthe house of such a one as Augustus Melmotte. Not all the duchessesin the peerage, or all the money in the city, could alter his notionsor induce him to modify his conduct. But he knew that it would beuseless for him to explain this to Lady Carbury. He trusted, however,that one of the family might be taught to appreciate the differencebetween honour and dishonour. Henrietta Carbury had, he thought, ahigher turn of mind than her mother, and had as yet been kept freefrom soil. As for Felix,--he had so grovelled in the gutters as to bedirt all over. Nothing short of the prolonged sufferings of half alife could cleanse him.

  He found Henrietta alone in the drawing-room. "Have you seen Felix?"she said, as soon as they had greeted each other.

  "Yes. I caught him in the street."

  "We are so unhappy about him."

  "I cannot say but that you have reason. I think, you know, that yourmother indulges him foolishly."

  "Poor mamma! She worships the very ground he treads on."

  "Even a mother should not throw her worship away like that. The factis that your brother will ruin you both if this goes on."

  "What can mamma do?"

  "Leave London, and then refuse to pay a shilling on his behalf."

  "What would Felix do in the country?"

  "If he did nothing, how much better would that be than what he doesin town? You would not like him to become a professional gambler."

  "Oh, Mr. Carbury; you do not mean that he does that!"

  "It seems cruel to say such things to you,--but in a matter of suchimportance one is bound to speak the truth. I have no influence overyour mother; but you may have some. She asks my advice, but has notthe slightest idea of listening to it. I don't blame her for that;but I am anxious for the sake of--, for the sake of the family."

  "I am sure you are."

  "Especially for your sake. You will never throw him over."

  "You would not ask me to throw him over."

  "But he may drag you into the mud. For his sake you have already beentaken into the house of that man Melmotte."

  "I do not think that I shall be injured by anything of that kind,"said Henrietta, drawing herself up.

  "Pardon me if I seem to interfere."

  "Oh, no;--it is no interference from you."

  "Pardon me then if I am rough. To me it seems that an injury is doneto you if you are made to go to the house of such a one as this man.Why does your mother seek his society? Not because she likes him;not because she has any sympathy with him or his family;--but simplybecause there is a rich daughter."

  "Everybody goes there, Mr. Carbury."

  "Yes,--that is the excuse which everybody makes. Is that sufficientreason for you to go to a man's house? Is there not another place towhich we are told that a great many are going, simply because theroad has become thronged and fashionable? Have you no feeling thatyou ought to choose your friends for certain reasons of your own?I admit there is one reason here. They have a great deal of money,and it is thought possible that he may get some of it by falselyswearing to a girl that he loves her. After what you have heard, arethe Melmottes people with whom you would wish to be connected?"

  "I don't know."

  "I do. I know very well. They are absolutely disgraceful. Asocial connection with the first crossing-sweeper would be lessobjectionable." He spoke with a degree of energy of which he washimself altogether unaware. He knit his brows, and his eyes flashed,and his nostrils were extended. Of course she thought of his ownoffer to herself. Of course her mind at once conceived,--not that theMelmotte connection could ever really affect him, for she felt surethat she would never accept his offer,--but that he might think thathe would be so affected. Of course she resented the feeling which shethus attributed to him. But, in truth, he was much too simple-mindedfor any such complex idea. "Felix," he continued, "has alreadydescended so far that I cannot pretend to be anxious as to whathouses he may frequent. But I should be sorry to think that youshould often be seen at Mr. Melmotte's."

  "I think, Mr. Carbury, that mamma will take care that I am not takenwhere I ought not to be taken."

  "I wish you to have some opinion of your own as to what is proper foryou."

  "I hope I have. I am sorry you should think that I have not."

  "I am old-fashioned, Hetta."

  "And we belong to a newer and worse sort of world. I dare say it isso. You have been always very kind, but I almost doubt whether youcan change us now. I have sometimes thought that you and mamma werehardly fit for each other."

  "I have thought that you and I were,--or possibly might be fit foreach other."

  "Oh,--as for me, I shall always take mamma's side. If mamma choosesto go to the Melmottes I shall certainly go with her. If that iscontamination, I suppose I must be contaminated. I don't see why I'mto consider myself better than any one else."

  "I have always thought that you were better than any one else."

  "That was before I went to the Melmottes. I am sure you have alteredyour opinion now. Indeed, you have told me so. I am afraid, Mr.Carbury, you must go your way, and we must go ours."

  He looked into her face as she spoke, and gradually began to perceivethe working of her mind. He was so true himself that he did notunderstand that there should be with her even that violet-colouredtinge of prevarication which women assume as an additional charm.Could she really have thought that he was attending to his ownpossible future interests when he warned her as to the making of newacquaintances?

  "For myself," he said, putting out his hand and making a slight vaineffort to get hold of hers, "I have only one wish in the world; andthat is, to travel the same road with you. I do not say that youought to wish it too; but you ought to know that I am sincere. WhenI spoke of the Melmottes, did you believe that I was thinking ofmyself?"

  "Oh no;--how should I?"

  "I was speaking to you then a
s to a cousin who might regard me as anelder brother. No contact with legions of Melmottes could make youother to me than the woman on whom my heart has settled. Even wereyou in truth disgraced,--could disgrace touch one so pure as you,--itwould be the same. I love you so well that I have already taken youfor better or for worse. I cannot change. My nature is too stubbornfor such changes. Have you a word to say to comfort me?" She turnedaway her head, but did not answer him at once. "Do you understand howmuch I am in need of comfort?"

  "You can do very well without comfort from me."

  "No, indeed. I shall live, no doubt; but I shall not do very well.As it is, I am not doing at all well. I am becoming sour and moody,and ill at ease with my friends. I would have you believe me, at anyrate, when I say I love you."

  "I suppose you mean something."

  "I mean a great deal, dear. I mean all that a man can mean. That isit. You hardly understand that I am serious to the extent of ecstaticjoy on the one side, and utter indifference to the world on theother. I shall never give it up till I learn that you are to bemarried to some one else."

  "What can I say, Mr. Carbury?"

  "That you will love me."

  "But if I don't?"

  "Say that you will try."

  "No; I will not say that. Love should come without a struggle. Idon't know how one person is to try to love another in that way. Ilike you very much; but being married is such a terrible thing."

  "It would not be terrible to me, dear."

  "Yes;--when you found that I was too young for your tastes."

  "I shall persevere, you know. Will you assure me of this,--that ifyou promise your hand to another man, you will let me know at once?"

  "I suppose I may promise that," she said, after pausing for a moment.

  "There is no one as yet?"

  "There is no one. But, Mr. Carbury, you have no right to question me.I don't think it generous. I allow you to say things that nobody elsecould say because you are a cousin and because mamma trusts you somuch. No one but mamma has a right to ask me whether I care for anyone."

  "Are you angry with me?"

  "No."

  "If I have offended you it is because I love you so dearly."

  "I am not offended, but I don't like to be questioned by a gentleman.I don't think any girl would like it. I am not to tell everybody allthat happens."

  "Perhaps when you reflect how much of my happiness depends upon ityou will forgive me. Good-bye now." She put out her hand to him andallowed it to remain in his for a moment. "When I walk about the oldshrubberies at Carbury where we used to be together, I am alwaysasking myself what chance there is of your walking there as themistress."

  "There is no chance."

  "I am, of course, prepared to hear you say so. Well; good-bye, andmay God bless you."

  The man had no poetry about him. He did not even care for romance.All the outside belongings of love which are so pleasant to many menand which to many women afford the one sweetness in life which theyreally relish, were nothing to him. There are both men and women towhom even the delays and disappointments of love are charming, evenwhen they exist to the detriment of hope. It is sweet to such personsto be melancholy, sweet to pine, sweet to feel that they are nowwretched after a romantic fashion as have been those heroes andheroines of whose sufferings they have read in poetry. But there wasnothing of this with Roger Carbury. He had, as he believed, foundthe woman that he really wanted, who was worthy of his love, and now,having fixed his heart upon her, he longed for her with an amazinglonging. He had spoken the simple truth when he declared that lifehad become indifferent to him without her. No man in England couldbe less likely to throw himself off the Monument or to blow out hisbrains. But he felt numbed in all the joints of his mind by thissorrow. He could not make one thing bear upon another, so as toconsole himself after any fashion. There was but one thing forhim;--to persevere till he got her, or till he had finally lost her.And should the latter be his fate, as he began to fear that it wouldbe, then, he would live, but live only, like a crippled man.

  He felt almost sure in his heart of hearts that the girl loved thatother, younger man. That she had never owned to such love he wasquite sure. The man himself and Henrietta also had both assured himon this point, and he was a man easily satisfied by words and proneto believe. But he knew that Paul Montague was attached to her,and that it was Paul's intention to cling to his love. Sorrowfullylooking forward through the vista of future years, he thought he sawthat Henrietta would become Paul's wife. Were it so, what should hedo? Annihilate himself as far as all personal happiness in the worldwas concerned, and look solely to their happiness, their prosperity,and their joys? Be as it were a beneficent old fairy to them, thoughthe agony of his own disappointment should never depart from him?Should he do this, and be blessed by them,--or should he let PaulMontague know what deep resentment such ingratitude could produce?When had a father been kinder to a son, or a brother to a brother,than he had been to Paul? His home had been the young man's home, andhis purse the young man's purse. What right could the young man haveto come upon him just as he was perfecting his bliss and rob him ofall that he had in the world? He was conscious all the while thatthere was a something wrong in his argument,--that Paul when hecommenced to love the girl knew nothing of his friend's love,--thatthe girl, though Paul had never come in the way, might probably havebeen as obdurate as she was now to his entreaties. He knew all thisbecause his mind was clear. But yet the injustice,--at any rate, themisery was so great, that to forgive it and to reward it would beweak, womanly, and foolish. Roger Carbury did not quite believe inthe forgiveness of injuries. If you pardon all the evil done to you,you encourage others to do you evil! If you give your cloak to himwho steals your coat, how long will it be before your shirt andtrousers will go also? Roger Carbury returned that afternoon toSuffolk, and as he thought of it all throughout the journey, heresolved that he would never forgive Paul Montague if Paul Montagueshould become his cousin's husband.