The Way We Live Now

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER LXVIII.

  MISS MELMOTTE DECLARES HER PURPOSE.

  Poor Hetta passed a very bad night. The story she had heard seemed tobe almost too awful to be true,--even about any one else. The man hadcome to her, and had asked her to be his wife,--and yet at that verymoment was living in habits of daily intercourse with another womanwhom he had promised to marry! And then, too, his courtship with herhad been so graceful, so soft, so modest, and yet so long continued!Though he had been slow in speech, she had known since their firstmeeting how he regarded her! The whole state of his mind had, she hadthought, been visible to her,--had been intelligible, gentle, andaffectionate. He had been aware of her friends' feeling, and hadtherefore hesitated. He had kept himself from her because he had owedso much to friendship. And yet his love had not been the less true,and had not been less dear to poor Hetta. She had waited, sure thatit would come,--having absolute confidence in his honour and love.And now she was told that this man had been playing a game so base,and at the same time so foolish, that she could find not only noexcuse but no possible cause for it. It was not like any story shehad heard before of man's faithlessness. Though she was wretched andsore at heart she swore to herself that she would not believe it.She knew that her mother would write to Roger Carbury,--but she knewalso that nothing more would be said about the letter till the answershould come. Nor could she turn anywhere else for comfort. She didnot dare to appeal to Paul himself. As regarded him, for the presentshe could only rely on the assurance, which she continued to giveherself, that she would not believe a word of the story that had beentold her.

  But there was other wretchedness besides her own. She had undertakento give Marie Melmotte's message to her brother. She had done so, andshe must now let Marie have her brother's reply. That might be toldin a very few words--"Everything is over!" But it had to be told.

  "I want to call upon Miss Melmotte, if you'll let me," she said toher mother at breakfast.

  "Why should you want to see Miss Melmotte? I thought you hated theMelmottes?"

  "I don't hate them, mamma. I certainly don't hate her. I have amessage to take to her,--from Felix."

  "A message--from Felix."

  "It is an answer from him. She wanted to know if all that was over.Of course it is over. Whether he said so or not, it would be so. Theycould never be married now;--could they, mamma?"

  The marriage, in Lady Carbury's mind, was no longer even desirable.She, too, was beginning to disbelieve in the Melmotte wealth, and didquite disbelieve that that wealth would come to her son, even shouldhe succeed in marrying the daughter. It was impossible that Melmotteshould forgive such offence as had now been committed. "It is out ofthe question," she said. "That, like everything else with us, hasbeen a wretched failure. You can go, if you please. Felix is under noobligation to them, and has taken nothing from them. I should muchdoubt whether the girl will get anybody to take her now. You can't goalone, you know," Lady Carbury added. But Hetta said that she did notat all object to going alone as far as that. It was only just overOxford Street.

  So she went out and made her way into Grosvenor Square. She hadheard, but at the time remembered nothing, of the temporary migrationof the Melmottes to Bruton Street. Seeing, as she approached thehouse, that there was a confusion there of carts and workmen, shehesitated. But she went on, and rang the bell at the door, which waswide open. Within the hall the pilasters and trophies, the wreathsand the banners, which three or four days since had been built upwith so much trouble, were now being pulled down and hauled away. Andamidst the ruins Melmotte himself was standing. He was now a memberof Parliament, and was to take his place that night in the House.Nothing, at any rate, should prevent that. It might be but for ashort time;--but it should be written in the history of his life thathe had sat in the British House of Commons as member for Westminster.At the present moment he was careful to show himself everywhere.It was now noon, and he had already been into the City. At thismoment he was talking to the contractor for the work,--having justpropitiated that man by a payment which would hardly have been madeso soon but for the necessity which these wretched stories hadentailed upon him of keeping up his credit for the possession ofmoney. Hetta timidly asked one of the workmen whether Miss Melmottewas there. "Do you want my daughter?" said Melmotte coming forward,and just touching his hat. "She is not living here at present."

  "Oh,--I remember now," said Hetta.

  "May I be allowed to tell her who was asking after her?" At thepresent moment Melmotte was not unreasonably suspicious about hisdaughter.

  "I am Miss Carbury," said Hetta in a very low voice.

  "Oh, indeed;--Miss Carbury!--the sister of Sir Felix Carbury?" Therewas something in the tone of the man's voice which grated painfullyon Hetta's ears,--but she answered the question. "Oh;--Sir Felix'ssister! May I be permitted to ask whether--you have any business withmy daughter?" The story was a hard one to tell, with all the workmenaround her, in the midst of the lumber, with the coarse face ofthe suspicious man looking down upon her; but she did tell it verysimply. She had come with a message from her brother. There had beensomething between her brother and Miss Melmotte, and her brother hadfelt that it would be best that he should acknowledge that it mustbe all over. "I wonder whether that is true," said Melmotte, lookingat her out of his great coarse eyes, with his eyebrows knit, withhis hat on his head and his hands in his pockets. Hetta, not knowinghow, at the moment, to repudiate the suspicion expressed, wassilent. "Because, you know, there has been a deal of falsehood anddouble dealing. Sir Felix has behaved infamously; yes,--by G----,infamously. A day or two before my daughter started, he gave me awritten assurance that the whole thing was over, and now he sends youhere. How am I to know what you are really after?"

  "I have come because I thought I could do some good," she said,trembling with anger and fear. "I was speaking to your daughter atyour party."

  "Oh, you were there;--were you? It may be as you say, but how isone to tell? When one has been deceived like that, one is apt to besuspicious, Miss Carbury." Here was one who had spent his life inlying to the world, and who was in his very heart shocked at theatrocity of a man who had lied to him! "You are not plotting anotherjourney to Liverpool;--are you?" To this Hetta could make no answer.The insult was too much, but alone, unsupported, she did not know howto give him back scorn for scorn. At last he proposed to take heracross to Bruton Street himself, and at his bidding she walked by hisside. "May I hear what you say to her?" he asked.

  "If you suspect me, Mr. Melmotte, I had better not see her at all. Itis only that there may no longer be any doubt."

  "You can say it all before me."

  "No;--I could not do that. But I have told you, and you can say itfor me. If you please, I think I will go home now."

  But Melmotte knew that his daughter would not believe him on such asubject. This girl she probably would believe. And though Melmottehimself found it difficult to trust anybody, he thought that therewas more possible good than evil to be expected from the proposedinterview. "Oh, you shall see her," he said. "I don't suppose she'ssuch a fool as to try that kind of thing again." Then the door inBruton Street was opened, and Hetta, repenting her mission, foundherself almost pushed into the hall. She was bidden to followMelmotte up-stairs, and was left alone in the drawing-room, as shethought, for a long time. Then the door was slowly opened and Mariecrept into the room. "Miss Carbury," she said, "this is so good ofyou,--so good of you! I do so love you for coming to me! You said youwould love me. You will; will you not?" and Marie, sitting down bythe stranger, took her hand and encircled her waist.

  "Mr. Melmotte has told you why I have come."

  "Yes;--that is, I don't know. I never believe what papa says to me."To poor Hetta such an announcement as this was horrible. "We are atdaggers drawn. He thinks I ought to do just what he tells me, asthough my very soul were not my own. I won't agree to that;--wouldyou?" Hetta had not come there to preach disobedience, but could notfail to remember at the moment that she was not d
isposed to obey hermother in an affair of the same kind. "What does he say, dear?"

  Hetta's message was to be conveyed in three words, and when thosewere told, there was nothing more to be said. "It must all be over,Miss Melmotte."

  "Is that his message, Miss Carbury?" Hetta nodded her head. "Is thatall?"

  "What more can I say? The other night you told me to bid him send youword. And I thought he ought to do so. I gave him your message, and Ihave brought back the answer. My brother, you know, has no income ofhis own;--nothing at all."

  "But I have," said Marie with eagerness.

  "But your father--"

  "It does not depend upon papa. If papa treats me badly, I can give itto my husband. I know I can. If I can venture, cannot he?" "I thinkit is impossible."

  "Impossible! Nothing should be impossible. All the people that onehears of that are really true to their loves never find anythingimpossible. Does he love me, Miss Carbury? It all depends on that.That's what I want to know." She paused, but Hetta could not answerthe question. "You must know about your brother. Don't you knowwhether he does love me? If you know I think you ought to tell me."Hetta was still silent. "Have you nothing to say?"

  "Miss Melmotte--" began poor Hetta very slowly.

  "Call me Marie. You said you would love me;--did you not? I don'teven know what your name is."

  "My name is--Hetta."

  "Hetta;--that's short for something. But it's very pretty. I haveno brother, no sister. And I'll tell you, though you must not tellanybody again;--I have no real mother. Madame Melmotte is not mymamma, though papa chooses that it should be thought so." All thisshe whispered, with rapid words, almost into Hetta's ear. "And papais so cruel to me! He beats me sometimes." The new friend, roundwhom Marie still had her arm, shuddered as she heard this. "But Inever will yield a bit for that. When he boxes and thumps me I alwaysturn and gnash my teeth at him. Can you wonder that I want to have afriend? Can you be surprised that I should be always thinking of mylover? But,--if he doesn't love me, what am I to do then?"

  "I don't know what I am to say," ejaculated Hetta amidst her sobs.Whether the girl was good or bad, to be sought or to be avoided,there was so much tragedy in her position that Hetta's heart wasmelted with sympathy.

  "I wonder whether you love anybody, and whether he loves you," saidMarie. Hetta certainly had not come there to talk of her own affairs,and made no reply to this. "I suppose you won't tell me aboutyourself."

  "I wish I could tell you something for your own comfort."

  "He will not try again, you think?"

  "I am sure he will not."

  "I wonder what he fears. I should fear nothing,--nothing. Why shouldnot we walk out of the house, and be married any way? Nobody has aright to stop me. Papa could only turn me out of his house. I willventure if he will."

  It seemed to Hetta that even listening to such a proposition amountedto falsehood,--to that guilt of which Mr. Melmotte had dared tosuppose that she could be capable. "I cannot listen to it. Indeed Icannot listen to it. My brother is sure that he cannot--cannot--"

  "Cannot love me, Hetta! Say it out, if it is true."

  "It is true," said Hetta. There came over the face of the other girla stern hard look, as though she had resolved at the moment to throwaway from her all soft womanly things. And she relaxed her hold onHetta's waist. "Oh, my dear, I do not mean to be cruel, but you askme for the truth."

  "Yes; I did."

  "Men are not, I think, like girls."

  "I suppose not," said Marie slowly. "What liars they are, whatbrutes;--what wretches! Why should he tell me lies like that? Whyshould he break my heart? That other man never said that he loved me.Did he never love me,--once?"

  Hetta could hardly say that her brother was incapable of such love asMarie expected, but she knew that it was so. "It is better that youshould think of him no more."

  "Are you like that? If you had loved a man and told him of it, andagreed to be his wife and done as I have, could you bear to be toldto think of him no more,--just as though you had got rid of a servantor a horse? I won't love him. No;--I'll hate him. But I must think ofhim. I'll marry that other man to spite him, and then, when he findsthat we are rich, he'll be broken-hearted."

  "You should try to forgive him, Marie."

  "Never. Do not tell him that I forgive him. I command you not to tellhim that. Tell him,--tell him, that I hate him, and that if I evermeet him, I will look at him so that he shall never forget it. Icould,--oh!--you do not know what I could do. Tell me;--did he tellyou to say that he did not love me?"

  "I wish I had not come," said Hetta.

  "I am glad you have come. It was very kind. I don't hate you. Ofcourse I ought to know. But did he say that I was to be told that hedid not love me?"

  "No;--he did not say that."

  "Then how do you know? What did he say?"

  "That it was all over."

  "Because he is afraid of papa. Are you sure he does not love me?"

  "I am sure."

  "Then he is a brute. Tell him that I say that he is a false-heartedliar, and that I trample him under my foot." Marie as she said thisthrust her foot upon the ground as though that false one were intruth beneath it,--and spoke aloud, as though regardless who mighthear her. "I despise him;--despise him. They are all bad, but he isthe worst of all. Papa beats me, but I can bear that. Mamma revilesme and I can bear that. He might have beaten me and reviled me,and I could have borne it. But to think that he was a liar all thetime;--that I can't bear." Then she burst into tears. Hetta kissedher, tried to comfort her, and left her sobbing on the sofa.

  Later in the day, two or three hours after Miss Carbury had gone,Marie Melmotte, who had not shown herself at luncheon, walked intoMadame Melmotte's room, and thus declared her purpose. "You can tellpapa that I will marry Lord Nidderdale whenever he pleases." Shespoke in French and very rapidly.

  On hearing this Madame Melmotte expressed herself to be delighted."Your papa," said she, "will be very glad to hear that you havethought better of this at last. Lord Nidderdale is, I am sure, a verygood young man."

  "Yes," continued Marie, boiling over with passion as she spoke. "I'llmarry Lord Nidderdale, or that horrid Mr. Grendall who is worse thanall the others, or his old fool of a father,--or the sweeper at thecrossing,--or the black man that waits at table, or anybody else thathe chooses to pick up. I don't care who it is the least in the world.But I'll lead him such a life afterwards! I'll make Lord Nidderdalerepent the hour he saw me! You may tell papa." And then, having thusentrusted her message to Madame Melmotte, Marie left the room.