The Way We Live Now

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER LXXII.

  "ASK HIMSELF."

  Roger Carbury when he received the letter from Hetta's motherdesiring him to tell her all that he knew of Paul Montague'sconnection with Mrs. Hurtle found himself quite unable to write areply. He endeavoured to ask himself what he would do in such a caseif he himself were not personally concerned. What advice in thisemergency would he give to the mother and what to the daughter, werehe himself uninterested? He was sure that, as Hetta's cousin andacting as though he were Hetta's brother, he would tell her thatPaul Montague's entanglement with that American woman should haveforbidden him at any rate for the present to offer his hand to anyother lady. He thought that he knew enough of all the circumstancesto be sure that such would be his decision. He had seen Mrs. Hurtlewith Montague at Lowestoft, and had known that they were stayingtogether as friends at the same hotel. He knew that she had cometo England with the express purpose of enforcing the fulfilment ofan engagement which Montague had often acknowledged. He knew thatMontague made frequent visits to her in London. He had, indeed, beentold by Montague himself that, let the cost be what it might, theengagement should be and in fact had been broken off. He thoroughlybelieved the man's word, but put no trust whatever in his firmness.And, hitherto, he had no reason whatever for supposing that Mrs.Hurtle had consented to be abandoned. What father, what elder brotherwould allow a daughter or a sister to become engaged to a manembarrassed by such difficulties? He certainly had counselledMontague to rid himself of the trammels by which he had surroundedhimself;--but not on that account could he think that the man in hispresent condition was fit to engage himself to another woman.

  All this was clear to Roger Carbury. But then it had been equallyclear to him that he could not, as a man of honour, assist his owncause by telling a tale,--which tale had become known to him as thefriend of the man against whom it would have to be told. He hadresolved upon that as he left Montague and Mrs. Hurtle together uponthe sands at Lowestoft. But what was he to do now? The girl whom heloved had confessed her love for the other man,--that man, who inseeking the girl's love, had been as he thought so foul a traitorto himself! That he would hold himself as divided from the man by aperpetual and undying hostility he had determined. That his love forthe woman would be equally perpetual he was quite sure. Already therewere floating across his brain ideas of perpetuating his name in theperson of some child of Hetta's,--but with the distinct understandingthat he and the child's father should never see each other. No morethan twenty-four hours had intervened between the receipt of Paul'sletter and that from Lady Carbury,--but during those four-and-twentyhours he had almost forgotten Mrs. Hurtle. The girl was gone fromhim, and he thought only of his own loss and of Paul's perfidy. Thencame the direct question as to which he was called upon for a directanswer. Did he know anything of facts relating to the presence ofa certain Mrs. Hurtle in London which were of a nature to make itinexpedient that Hetta should accept Paul Montague as her betrothedlover? Of course he did. The facts were all familiar to him. Buthow was he to tell the facts? In what words was he to answer sucha letter? If he told the truth as he knew it how was he to securehimself against the suspicion of telling a story against his rival inorder that he might assist himself, or at any rate, punish the rival?

  As he could not trust himself to write an answer to Lady Carbury'sletter he determined that he would go to London. If he must tell thestory he could tell it better face to face than by any written words.So he made the journey, arrived in town late in the evening, andknocked at the door in Welbeck Street between ten and eleven on themorning after the unfortunate meeting which took place between SirFelix and John Crumb. The page when he opened the door looked as apage should look when the family to which he is attached is sufferingfrom some terrible calamity. "My lady" had been summoned to thehospital to see Sir Felix who was,--as the page reported,--in a verybad way indeed. The page did not exactly know what had happened, butsupposed that Sir Felix had lost most of his limbs by this time. Yes;Miss Carbury was up-stairs; and would no doubt see her cousin, thoughshe, too, was in a very bad condition; and dreadfully put about. Thatpoor Hetta should be "put about" with her brother in the hospital andher lover in the toils of an abominable American woman was naturalenough.

  "What's this about Felix?" asked Roger. The new trouble always hasprecedence over those which are of earlier date.

  "Oh Roger, I am so glad to see you. Felix did not come home lastnight, and this morning there came a man from the hospital in thecity to say that he is there."

  "What has happened to him?"

  "Somebody,--somebody has,--beaten him," said Hetta whimpering. Thenshe told the story as far as she knew it. The messenger from thehospital had declared that the young man was in no danger and thatnone of his bones were broken, but that he was terribly bruised aboutthe face, that his eyes were in a frightful condition, sundry of histeeth knocked out, and his lips cut open. But, the messenger hadgone on to say, the house surgeon had seen no reason why the younggentleman should not be taken home. "And mamma has gone to fetchhim," said Hetta.

  "That's John Crumb," said Roger. Hetta had never heard of John Crumb,and simply stared into her cousin's face. "You have not been toldabout John Crumb? No;--you would not hear of him."

  "Why should John Crumb beat Felix like that?"

  "They say, Hetta, that women are the cause of most troubles thatoccur in the world." The girl blushed up to her eyes, as though thewhole story of Felix's sin and folly had been told to her. "If it beas I suppose," continued Roger, "John Crumb has considered himself tobe aggrieved and has thus avenged himself."

  "Did you--know of him before?"

  "Yes indeed;--very well. He is a neighbour of mine and was in lovewith a girl, with all his heart; and he would have made her his wifeand have been good to her. He had a home to offer her, and is anhonest man with whom she would have been safe and respected andhappy. Your brother saw her and, though he knew the story, thoughhe had been told by myself that this honest fellow had placed hishappiness on the girl's love, he thought,--well, I suppose he thoughtthat such a pretty thing as this girl was too good for John Crumb."

  "But Felix has been going to marry Miss Melmotte!"

  "You're old-fashioned, Hetta. It used to be the way,--to be off withthe old love before you are on with the new; but that seems to be allchanged now. Such fine young fellows as there are now can be in lovewith two at once. That I fear is what Felix has thought;--and now hehas been punished."

  "You know all about it then?"

  "No;--I don't know. But I think it has been so. I do know that JohnCrumb had threatened to do this thing, and I felt sure that sooner orlater he would be as good as his word. If it has been so, who is toblame him?"

  Hetta as she heard the story hardly knew whether her cousin, in hismanner of telling the story, was speaking of that other man, of thatstranger of whom she had never heard, or of himself. He would havemade her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offerher. He was an honest man with whom she would have been safe andrespected and happy! He had looked at her while speaking as though itwere her own case of which he spoke. And then, when he talked of theold-fashioned way, of being off with the old love before you are onwith the new, had he not alluded to Paul Montague and this story ofthe American woman? But, if so, it was not for Hetta to notice itby words. He must speak more plainly than that before she could besupposed to know that he alluded to her own condition. "It is veryshocking," she said.

  "Shocking;--yes. One is shocked at it all. I pity your mother, and Ipity you."

  "It seems to me that nothing ever will be happy for us," said Hetta.She was longing to be told something of Mrs. Hurtle, but she did notas yet dare to ask the question.

  "I do not know whether to wait for your mother or not," said he aftera short pause.

  "Pray wait for her if you are not very busy."

  "I came up only to see her, but perhaps she would not wish me to behere when she brings Felix back to the house."

  "
Indeed she will. She would like you always to be here when there aretroubles. Oh, Roger, I wish you could tell me."

  "Tell you what?"

  "She has written to you;--has she not?"

  "Yes; she has written to me."

  "And about me?"

  "Yes;--about you, Hetta. And, Hetta, Mr. Montague has written to mealso."

  "He told me that he would," whispered Hetta.

  "Did he tell you of my answer?"

  "No;--he has told me of no answer. I have not seen him since."

  "You do not think that it can have been very kind, do you? I alsohave something of the feeling of John Crumb, though I shall notattempt to show it after the same fashion."

  "Did you not say the girl had promised to love that man?"

  "I did not say so;--but she had promised. Yes, Hetta; there is adifference. The girl then was fickle and went back from her word.You never have done that. I am not justified in thinking even a hardthought of you. I have never harboured a hard thought of you. It isnot you that I reproach. But he,--he has been if possible more falsethan Felix."

  "Oh, Roger, how has he been false?"

  Still he was not wishful to tell her the story of Mrs. Hurtle. Thetreachery of which he was speaking was that which he had thought hadbeen committed by his friend towards himself. "He should have leftthe place and never have come near you," said Roger, "when he foundhow it was likely to be with him. He owed it to me not to take thecup of water from my lips."

  How was she to tell him that the cup of water never could havetouched his lips? And yet if this were the only falsehood of whichhe had to tell, she was bound to let him know that it was so. Thathorrid story of Mrs. Hurtle;--she would listen to that if she couldhear it. She would be all ears for that. But she could not admit thather lover had sinned in loving her. "But, Roger," she said--"it wouldhave been the same."

  "You may think so. You may feel it. You may know it. I at any ratewill not contradict you when you say that it must have been so. Buthe didn't feel it. He didn't know it. He was to me as a youngerbrother,--and he has robbed me of everything. I understand, Hetta,what you mean. I should never have succeeded! My happiness would havebeen impossible if Paul had never come home from America. I have toldmyself so a hundred times, but I cannot therefore forgive him. And Iwon't forgive him, Hetta. Whether you are his wife, or another man's,or whether you are Hetta Carbury on to the end, my feeling to youwill be the same. While we both live, you must be to me the dearestcreature living. My hatred to him--"

  "Oh, Roger, do not say hatred."

  "My hostility to him can make no difference in my feeling to you. Itell you that should you become his wife you will still be my love.As to not coveting,--how is a man to cease to covet that which he hasalways coveted? But I shall be separated from you. Should I be dying,then I should send for you. You are the very essence of my life. Ihave no dream of happiness otherwise than as connected with you. Hemight have my whole property and I would work for my bread, if Icould only have a chance of winning you to share my toils with me."

  But still there was no word of Mrs. Hurtle. "Roger," she said, "Ihave given it all away now. It cannot be given twice."

  "If he were unworthy would your heart never change?"

  "I think--never. Roger, is he unworthy?"

  "How can you trust me to answer such a question? He is my enemy. Hehas been ungrateful to me as one man hardly ever is to another. Hehas turned all my sweetness to gall, all my flowers to bitter weeds;he has choked up all my paths. And now you ask me whether he isunworthy! I cannot tell you."

  "If you thought him worthy you would tell me," she said, getting upand taking him by the arm.

  "No;--I will tell you nothing. Go to some one else, not to me;" andhe tried with gentleness but tried ineffectually to disengage himselffrom her hold.

  "Roger, if you knew him to be good you would tell me,--because youyourself are so good. Even though you hated him you would say so.It would not be you to leave a false impression even against yourenemies. I ask you because, however it may be with you, I know I cantrust you. I can be nothing else to you, Roger; but I love you as asister loves, and I come to you as a sister comes to a brother. Hehas my heart. Tell me;--is there any reason why he should not alsohave my hand?"

  "Ask himself, Hetta."

  "And you will tell me nothing? You will not try to save me though youknow that I am in danger? Who is--Mrs. Hurtle?"

  "Have you asked him?"

  "I had not heard her name when he parted from me. I did not even knowthat such a woman lived. Is it true that he has promised to marryher? Felix told me of her, and told me also that you knew. But Icannot trust Felix as I would trust you. And mamma says that it isso;--but mamma also bids me ask you. There is such a woman?"

  "There is such a woman certainly."

  "And she has been,--a friend of Paul's?"

  "Whatever be the story, Hetta, you shall not hear it from me. I willsay neither evil nor good of the man except in regard to his conductto myself. Send for him and ask him to tell you the story of Mrs.Hurtle as it concerns himself. I do not think he will lie, but if helies you will know that he is lying."

  "And that is all?"

  "All that I can say, Hetta. You ask me to be your brother; but Icannot put myself in the place of your brother. I tell you plainlythat I am your lover, and shall remain so. Your brother wouldwelcome the man whom you would choose as your husband. I can neverwelcome any husband of yours. I think if twenty years were to passover us, and you were still Hetta Carbury, I should still be yourlover,--though an old one. What is now to be done about Felix,Hetta?"

  "Ah,--what can be done? I think sometimes that it will break mamma'sheart."

  "Your mother makes me angry by her continual indulgence."

  "But what can she do? You would not have her turn him into thestreet?"

  "I do not know that I would not. For a time it might serve himperhaps. Here is the cab. Here they are. Yes; you had better go downand let your mother know that I am here. They will perhaps take himup to bed, so that I need not see him."

  Hetta did as she was bid, and met her mother and her brother in thehall. Felix having the full use of his arms and legs was able todescend from the cab, and hurry across the pavement into the house,and then, without speaking a word to his sister, hid himself in thedining-room. His face was strapped up with plaister so that not afeature was visible; and both his eyes were swollen and blue; part ofhis beard had been cut away, and his physiognomy had altogether beenso treated that even the page would hardly have known him. "Roger isup-stairs, mamma," said Hetta in the hall.

  "Has he heard about Felix;--has he come about that?"

  "He has heard only what I have told him. He has come because of yourletter. He says that a man named Crumb did it."

  "Then he does know. Who can have told him? He always knowseverything. Oh, Hetta, what am I to do? Where shall I go with thiswretched boy?"

  "Is he hurt, mamma?"

  "Hurt;--of course he is hurt; horribly hurt. The brute tried to killhim. They say that he will be dreadfully scarred for ever. But oh,Hetta;--what am I to do with him? What am I to do with myself andyou?"

  On this occasion Roger was saved from the annoyance of any personalintercourse with his cousin Felix. The unfortunate one was made ascomfortable as circumstances would permit in the parlour, and LadyCarbury then went up to her cousin in the drawing-room. She hadlearned the truth with some fair approach to accuracy, though SirFelix himself had of course lied as to every detail. There are somecircumstances so distressing in themselves as to make lying almosta necessity. When a young man has behaved badly about a woman, whena young man has been beaten without returning a blow, when a youngman's pleasant vices are brought directly under a mother's eyes, whatcan he do but lie? How could Sir Felix tell the truth about that rashencounter? But the policeman who had brought him to the hospital hadtold all that he knew. The man who had thrashed the baronet had beencalled Crumb, and the thrashing had been given on the score of ayo
ung woman called Ruggles. So much was known at the hospital, and somuch could not be hidden by any lies which Sir Felix might tell. Andwhen Sir Felix swore that a policeman was holding him while Crumbwas beating him, no one believed him. In such cases the liar doesnot expect to be believed. He knows that his disgrace will be madepublic, and only hopes to be saved from the ignominy of declaring itwith his own words.

  "What am I to do with him?" Lady Carbury said to her cousin. "It isno use telling me to leave him. I can't do that. I know he is bad.I know that I have done much to make him what he is." As she saidthis the tears were running down her poor worn cheeks. "But he is mychild. What am I to do with him now?"

  This was a question which Roger found it almost impossible to answer.If he had spoken his thoughts he would have declared that SirFelix had reached an age at which, if a man will go headlong todestruction, he must go headlong to destruction. Thinking as he didof his cousin he could see no possible salvation for him. "Perhaps Ishould take him abroad," he said.

  "Would he be better abroad than here?"

  "He would have less opportunity for vice, and fewer means of runningyou into debt."

  Lady Carbury, as she turned this counsel in her mind, thought of allthe hopes which she had indulged,--her literary aspirations, herTuesday evenings, her desire for society, her Brounes, her Alfs, andher Bookers, her pleasant drawing-room, and the determination whichshe had made that now in the afternoon of her days she would becomesomebody in the world. Must she give it all up and retire to thedreariness of some French town because it was no longer possible thatshe should live in London with such a son as hers? There seemed to bea cruelty in this beyond all cruelties that she had hitherto endured.This was harder even than those lies which had been told of her whenalmost in fear of her life she had run from her husband's house. Butyet she must do even this if in no other way she and her son couldbe together. "Yes," she said, "I suppose it would be so. I only wishthat I might die, so that were an end of it."

  "He might go out to one of the Colonies," said Roger.

  "Yes;--be sent away that he might kill himself with drink in thebush, and so be got rid of. I have heard of that before. Wherever hegoes I shall go."

  As the reader knows, Roger Carbury had not latterly held this cousinof his in much esteem. He knew her to be worldly and he thought herto be unprincipled. But now, at this moment, her exceeding love forthe son whom she could no longer pretend to defend, wiped out all hersins. He forgot the visit made to Carbury under false pretences, andthe Melmottes, and all the little tricks which he had detected, inhis appreciation of an affection which was pure and beautiful. "Ifyou like to let your house for a period," he said, "mine is open toyou."

  "But, Felix?"

  "You shall take him there. I am all alone in the world. I can make ahome for myself at the cottage. It is empty now. If you think thatwould save you you can try it for six months."

  "And turn you out of your own house? No, Roger. I cannot do that.And, Roger;--what is to be done about Hetta?" Hetta herself hadretreated, leaving Roger and her mother alone together, feeling surethat there would be questions asked and answered in her absencerespecting Mrs. Hurtle, which her presence would prevent. She wishedit could have been otherwise--that she might have been allowed tohear it all herself--as she was sure that the story coming throughher mother would not savour so completely of unalloyed truth as iftold to her by her cousin Roger.

  "Hetta can be trusted to judge for herself," he said.

  "How can you say that when she has just accepted this young man? Isit not true that he is even now living with an American woman whom hehas promised to marry?"

  "No;--that is not true."

  "What is true, then? Is he not engaged to the woman?"

  Roger hesitated a moment. "I do not know that even that is true. Whenlast he spoke to me about it he declared that the engagement was atan end. I have told Hetta to ask himself. Let her tell him that shehas heard of this woman from you, and that it behoves her to know thetruth. I do not love him, Lady Carbury. He has no longer any placein my friendship. But I think that if Hetta asks him simply what isthe nature of his connexion with Mrs. Hurtle, he will tell her thetruth."

  Roger did not again see Hetta before he left the house, nor didhe see his cousin Felix at all. He had now done all that he coulddo by his journey up to London, and he returned on that day backto Carbury. Would it not be better for him, in spite of theprotestations which he had made, to dismiss the whole family fromhis mind? There could be no other love for him. He must be desolateand alone. But he might then save himself from a world of cares,and might gradually teach himself to live as though there were nosuch woman as Hetta Carbury in the world. But no! He would notallow himself to believe that this could be right. The very fact ofhis love made it a duty to him,--made it almost the first of hisduties,--to watch over the interests of her he loved and of those whobelonged to her.

  But among those so belonging he did not recognise Paul Montague.