 CHAPTER 88 THE INQUEST Melmont had been found dead on Friday morning, and late on the evening of the same day, Madame Melmont and Marie were removed to lodgings far away from the scene of the tragedy up at Hampstead. Her crawl had known of the place, and that Lord Nitterdale's instance had busied himself in the matter, and had seen that the rooms were made instantly ready for the widow of his late employer. Nitterdale himself had assisted them in their departure, and the German, with the poor women's maid, with the jewels also which had been packed according to Melmont's last orders to his wife, followed the carriage which took the mother and the daughter. They did not start till nine o'clock in the evening, and Madame Melmont at the moment would feign have been allowed to rest one other night in Rootin Street. But Lord Nitterdale, with one hardly uttered word, made Marie understand that the inquest would be held early on the following morning, and Marie was imperious with her mother and carried her point. So the poor woman was taken away from Mr. Longstaff's residence, and never again saw the grandeur of her own house in Grovener Square which she had not visited since the night on which she had helped to entertain the Emperor of China. On Saturday morning the inquest was held. There was not the slightest doubt as to any one of the incidents of the catastrophe. The servants, the doctor, and the Inspector of Police between them learned that he had come home alone, that nobody had been near him during the night, that he had been found dead, and that he had undoubtedly been poisoned by prusik acid. It was also proved that he had been drunk in the House of Commons, a fact to which one of the clerks of the House, very much against his will, was called upon to testify. That he had destroyed himself there was no doubt, nor was there any doubt as to the cause. In such cases as this it is for the jury to say whether the unfortunate one who has found his life too hard for endurance, and has rushed away to see whether he could not find an improved condition of things elsewhere, has or has not been mad at the moment. Surviving friends are, of course, anxious for a verdict of insanity, as in that case no further punishment is exacted. The body can be buried like any other body, and it can always be said afterwards that the poor man was mad. Perhaps it would be well that all suicides should be said to have been mad, for certainly the jurymen are not generally guided in their verdicts by any accurately ascertained facts. If the poor wretch has, up to his last days, been apparently living a decent life, if he be not hated or has not in his last moments made himself specially obnoxious to the world at large, then he is declared to have been mad. Who would be heavy on a poor clergyman who has been at last driven by horrid doubts to rid himself of a difficulty from which he saw no escape in any other way? Who would not give the benefit of the doubt to the poor woman whose lover and lord had deserted her? Who would remit to unhallowed earth the body of the once-beneficent philosopher who has simply thought that he might as well go now finding himself powerless to do further good upon earth? Such and such like have, of course, been temporarily insane, though no touch, even of strangeness, may have marked their conduct up to their last known dealings with their fellow mortals. But let a melmot be found dead, with a bottle of prusik acid by his side, a man who has become horrid to the world because of his late iniquities, a man who has so well pretended to be rich that he has been able to buy into sell properties without paying for them, a wretch who has made himself odious by his ruin to friends who had taken him up as a pillar of strength in regard to wealth, a brute who had got into the house of commons by false pretenses and had disgraced the house by being drunk there. And of course he will not be saved by a verdict of insanity from the crossroads or whatever scornful grave may be allowed to those who have killed themselves with their wits about them. Just at this moment there was a very strong feeling against melmot, owing perhaps as much to his having tumbled over poor Mr. Boe Champ in the house of commons as to the stories of the forgeries he had committed, and the virtue of the day vindicated itself by declaring him to have been responsible for his actions when he took the poison. He was fellow de se, and therefore carried away to the crossroads or elsewhere. But it may be imagined, I think, that during that night he may have become as mad as any other wretch, have been driven as far beyond his powers of endurance as any other poor creature who ever at any time felt himself constrained to go. He had not been so drunk but that he knew all that happened, and could foresee pretty well what would happen. The summons to attend upon the Lord Mayor had been served upon him. There were some, among them Crowell and Mr. Braggart, who absolutely knew that he had committed forgery. He had no money for the long staffs, and he was well aware what Squircom would do at once. He had assured himself long ago, that he would brave it all like a man. But we none of us know what load we can bear, and what would break our backs. Melmont's back had been so utterly crushed that I almost think that he was mad enough to have justified a verdict of temporary insanity. But he was carried away no one knew wither, and for a week his name was hateful. But after that a certain amount of whitewashing took place, and in some degree a restitution of fame was made to the mains of the departed. In Westminster he was always odious. Westminster which had adopted him never forgave him. But in other districts it came to be said of him that he had been more sinned against than sinning, and that but for the jealousy of the old stages in the mercantile world he would have done very wonderful things. Merlebone, which is always merciful, took him up quite with affection, and would have returned his ghost to Parliament, could his ghost have paid for committee rooms. Finsbury delighted for a while to talk of the great financier, and even Chelsea thought that he had been done to death by ungenerous tongues. It was, however, Merlebone alone that spoke of a monument. Mr. Longstaff came back to his house, taking formal possession of it a few days after the verdict. Of course he was alone. There had been no further question of bringing the ladies of the family up to town, and Dolly altogether declined to share with his father the honour of encountering the dead man's spirit. But there was very much for Mr. Longstaff to do, and very much also for his son. It was becoming a question with both of them how far they had been ruined by their connection with the horrible man. It was clear that they could not get back the title deeds of the pickering property without paying the amount which had been advanced upon them, and it was equally clear that they could not pay that sum unless they were unable to do so by funds coming out of the Melmott estate. Dolly, as he sat smoking upon the stool in Mr. Squircombe's office, where he now passed a considerable portion of his time, looked upon himself as a miracle of ill usage. By George, you know, I shall have to go to law with the governor. There's nothing else for it, is there Squircombe? Squircombe suggested that they had better wait till they found what pickings there might be out of the Melmott estate. He had made inquiries too about that and had been assured that there must be property, but property so involved and tied up as to make it impossible to lay hands upon it suddenly. They say that the things in the square and the plate and the carriages and horses and all that ought to fetch between twenty and thirty thousand. There were a lot of jewels, but the women have taken them, said Squircombe. By George, they ought to be made to give up everything. Did you ever hear of such a thing? The very house pulled down, my house, and all done without a word from me in the matter. I don't suppose such a thing was ever known before, since properties were properties. Then he uttered sundry threats against the Bida-wiles, in reference to whom he declared his intention of making it very hot for them. It was an annoyance added to the elder Mr. Longstaff that the management of Melmott's affairs fell at last almost exclusively into the hands of Mr. Breger. Now Breger, in spite of his many dealings with Melmott, was an honest man, and which was perhaps of as much immediate consequence both an energetic and a patient man. But then he was the man who had wanted to marry Georgiana Longstaff, and he was the man to whom Mr. Longstaff had been particularly uncivil. Then there arose necessities for the presence of Mr. Breger in the house in which Melmott had lately lived and had died. The dead man's papers were still there, deeds, documents, and such letters as he had not chosen to destroy, and these could not be moved quite at once. Mr. Breger must, of course, have access to my private room as long as it is necessary, absolutely necessary, said Mr. Longstaff, in answer to a message which was brought to him. But he will, of course, see the expediency of relieving me from such intrusion as soon as possible. But he soon found it preferable to come to terms with the rejected suitor, especially as the man was singularly good-natured and forbearing after the injuries he had received. All minor debts were to be paid at once, an arrangement to which Mr. Longstaff cordially agreed, as it included a sum of three hundred pounds due to him for the rent of his house in Bruton Street. Then by degrees it became known that there would certainly be a dividend of not less than fifty percent payable on debts which could be proved to have been owing by Melmott, and perhaps of more, an arrangement which was very comfortable to Dolly as it had been already agreed between all the parties interested that the debt due to him should be satisfied before the father took anything. Mr. Longstaff resolved during these weeks that he remained in town that as regarded himself and his own family the house in London should not only not be kept up, but that it should be absolutely sold with all its belongings, and that the servants at Cavisham should be reduced in number and should cease to wear powder. All this was communicated to Lady Pomona in a very long letter which she was instructed to read to her daughters. I have suffered great wrongs, said Mr. Longstaff, but I must submit to them, and as I submit so must my wife and children. If our son were different from what he is, the sacrifice might probably be made lighter. His nature I cannot alter, but from my daughters I expect cheerful obedience. From what incidents of his past life he was led to expect cheerfulness at Cavisham it might be difficult to say, but the obedience was there. Georgie was for the time broken down, Sophia was satisfied with her nuptial prospects, and Lady Pomona had certainly no spirits left for a combat. I think the loss of the hair powder afflicted her most, but she said not a word even about that. But in all this the details necessary for the telling of our story are anticipated. Mr. Longstaff had remained in London actually over the first of September which in Suffolk is the one great festival of the year before the letter was written to which allusion has been made. In the meantime he saw much of Mr. Bregert and absolutely formed a kind of friendship for that gentleman in spite of the abomination of his religion, so that on one occasion he even condescended to ask Mr. Bregert to dine alone with him in Bruton Street. This too was in the early days of the arrangement of the Malmott affairs, when Mr. Longstaff's heart had been softened by that arrangement with reference to the rent. Mr. Bregert came and there arose a somewhat singular conversation between the two gentlemen as they sat together over a bottle of Mr. Longstaff's old port wine. Hitherto not a word had passed between them respecting the connection which had once been proposed since the day on which the young lady's father had said so many bitter things to the expectant bridegroom. But in this evening Mr. Bregert, who was by no means a coward in such matters and whose feelings were not perhaps painfully fine, spoke his mind in a way that at first startled Mr. Longstaff. The subject was introduced by a reference which Bregert had made to his own affairs. His loss would be, at any rate, double that which Mr. Longstaff would have to bear, but he spoke of it in an easy way as though it did not sit very near his heart. Of course there's a difference between me and you, he said. Mr. Longstaff bowed his head graciously, as much as to say that there was, of course, a very wide difference. In our affairs continued Bregert, we expect gains, and of course look for occasional losses. When a gentleman in your position sells a property, he expects to get the purchase money. Of course he does, Mr. Bregert, that's what made it so hard. I can't even yet quite understand how it was with him or why he took upon himself to spend such an enormous deal of money here in London. His business was quite irregular, but there was very much of it and some of it immensely profitable. He took us in completely. I suppose so. It was old Mr. Todd that first took to him, but I was deceived as much as Todd, and then I ventured on a speculation with him outside of our house. The long and short of it is that I shall lose something about sixty thousand pounds. That's a large sum of money. Very large. So large as to affect my daily mode of life. In my correspondence with your daughter I considered it to be my duty to point out to her that it would be so. I do not know whether she told you. This reference to his daughter for the moment altogether upset Mr. Longstaff. The reference was certainly most indelicate, most deserving of censure, but Mr. Longstaff did not know how to pronounce his censure on the spur of the moment, and was moreover at the present time so very anxious for Bregert's assistance in the arrangement of his affairs that, so to say, he could not afford to quarrel with the man. But he assumed something more than his normal dignity as he asserted that his daughter had never mentioned the fact. It was so, said Bregert. No doubt. And Mr. Longstaff assumed a great deal of dignity. Yes, it was so. I had promised your daughter when she was good enough to listen to the proposition which I made to her that I would maintain a second house when we should be married. It was impossible, said Mr. Longstaff, meaning to assert that such hymenials were altogether unnatural and out of the question. It would have been quite possible, as things were when that proposition was made, but looking forward to the loss which I afterwards anticipated from the affairs of our deceased friend, I found it to be prudent to relinquish my intention for the present, and I thought myself bound to inform Miss Longstaff. There were other reasons, muttered Mr. Longstaff in a suppressed voice, almost in a whisper, in a whisper which was intended to convey a sense of present horror and a desire for future reticence. There may have been, but in the last letter which Miss Longstaff did me the honor to write to me, a letter with which I have not the slightest right to find any fault, she seemed to me to confine herself almost exclusively to that reason. Why mention this now, Mr. Bregert? Why mention this now? The subject is painful. Just because it is not painful to me, Mr. Longstaff, and because I wish that all they who have heard of the matter should know that it is not painful. I think that throughout I behaved like a gentleman. Mr. Longstaff, in an agony, first shook his head twice and then bowed it three times, leaving the Jew to take what answer he could from so dubious an oracle. I am sure, continued Bregert, that I behaved like an honest man, and I didn't quite like that the matter should be passed over as if I was in any way ashamed of myself. Perhaps on so delicate a subject the less said the soonest mended. I have nothing more to say, and have nothing at all to mend. Finishing the conversation with this little speech, Bregert arose to take his leave, making some promise at the time that he would use all the expedition in his power to complete the arrangement of the Melmont Affairs. As soon as he was gone, Mr. Longstaff opened the door and walked about the room and blew out long puffs of breath as though to cleanse himself from the impurities of his late contact. He told himself that he could not touch pitch and not be defiled. How vulgar had the man been, how indelicate, how regardless of all feeling, how little grateful for the honor which Mr. Longstaff had conferred upon him by asking him to dinner. Yes, yes, a horrid Jew. Were not all Jews necessarily in abomination? Yes, Mr. Longstaff was aware that in the present crisis of his fortunes he could not afford to quarrel with Mr. Bregert. It was a long time now since Lady Carberry's great historical work on the criminal queens of the world had been completed and given to the world. Any reader careful as to dates will remember that it was as far back as in February that she had solicited the assistance of certain of her literary friends who were connected with the daily and weekly press. These gentlemen had responded to her call with more or less zealous aid so that the criminal queens had been regarded in the trade as one of the successful books of the season. Messer's Letterman Loiter had published a second and then very quickly a fourth and fifth edition and had been able in their advertisements to give testimony from various criticisms showing that Lady Carberry's book was about the greatest historical work which had emanated from the press in the present century. With this object the passage was extracted even from the columns of the evening pulpit which showed very great ingenuity on the part of some young man connected with the establishment of Messer's Letterman Loiter. Lady Carberry had suffered something in the struggle. What efforts can mortals make as to which there will not be some disappointment? Paper and print cannot be had for nothing and advertisements are very costly. An edition may be sold with startling rapidity but it may have been but a scanty edition. When Lady Carberry received from Messer's Letterman Loiter their second very moderate check with the expression of a fear on their part that there would not probably be a third unless some unforeseen demand should arise, she repeated to herself those well-known lines from the satirist, oh Amos Cottle for a moment think what meager profits spread from pen and ink. But not on that account did she for a moment hesitate as to further attempts. Indeed she had hardly completed the last chapter of her criminal queens before she was busy on another work and although the last six months had been to her a period of incessant trouble and sometimes of torture, though the conduct of her son had more than once forced her to declare to herself that her mind would fail her, still she had persevered. From day to day with all her cares heavy upon her she had sat at her work with a firm resolve that so many lines should be always forthcoming that the difficulty of making them be what it might. Messer's Letterman Loiter had thought that they might be justified in offering her certain terms for a novel, terms not very high indeed, and those contingent on the approval of the manuscript by their reader. The smallness of the sum offered and the want of certainty and the pain of the work in her present circumstances had all been felt by her to be very hard, but she had persevered and the novel was now complete. It cannot with truth be said of her that she had had any special tale to tell. She had taken to the writing of a novel because Mr. Loiter had told her that upon the whole novels did better than anything else. She would have written a volume of sermons on the same encouragement and have gone about the work exactly after the same fashion. The length of her novel had been her first question. It must be in three volumes and each volume must have three hundred pages. But what fewest number of words might be supposed sufficient to fill a page? The money offered was too trifling to allow a very liberal measure on her part. She had to live and, if possible, to write another novel, and, as she hoped, upon better terms when this should be finished. Then what should be the name of her novel, what the name of her hero, and above all what the name of her heroine? It must be a love story, of course, but she thought that she would leave the complications of the plot to come by chance. And they did come. Don't let it end unhappily, Lady Carberry, Mr. Loiter had said, because though people like it in a play, they hate it in a book. And whatever you do, Lady Carberry, don't be historical. Your historical novel, Lady Carberry, isn't worth it. Mr. Loiter stopping himself suddenly and remembering that he was addressing himself to a lady satisfied his energy at last by the use of the word straw. Lady Carberry had followed these instructions with accuracy. The name for the story had been the great thing. It did not occur to the author as that, as the plot was to be allowed to develop itself and was, at this moment, when she was perplexed as to the title altogether uncreated, she might as well wait to see what appellation might best suit her work when its purpose should have declared itself. A novel she knew well was most unlike a rose which by any other name will smell as sweet. The faultless father, the mysterious mother, the lame lover, such names as that she was aware would be useless now. Mary Jane Walker, if she could be very simple, would do, or blanch devote if she were able to maintain throughout a somewhat high stilted style of feminine rapture. But as she considered that she could best deal with rapid action and strange coincidences, she thought that something more startling and descriptive would better suit her purpose. After an hour's thought a name did occur to her and she wrote it down and with considerable energy of purpose framed her work in accordance with her chosen title. The Wheel of Fortune She had no particular fortune in her mind when she chose it and no particular wheel, but the very idea conveyed by the words gave her the plot which she wanted. A young lady was blessed with great wealth and lost it all by an uncle and got it all back by an honest lawyer and gave it all up to a distressed lover and found it all again in a third volume. And the lady's name was Cordinga, selected by Lady Carberry as never having been heard before either in the world of fact or in that affiction. And now with all her troubles thick about her, while her son was still hanging about the house in a condition that would break any mother's heart, while her daughter was so wretched and sore that she regarded all those around her as her enemies, Lady Carberry finished her work and having just written the last words in which the final glow of enduring happiness was given to the young married heroine whose wheel had now come full round, sat with the sheets piled at her right hand. She had allowed herself a certain number of weeks for the task and had completed it exactly in the time fixed. As she sat with her hand near the pile, she did give herself credit for her diligence. Whether the work might have been better done, she never asked herself. I do not think that she prided herself much on the literary merit of the tale. But if she could bring the papers to praise it, if she could induce Muti to circulate it, if she could manage that the air for a month should be so loaded with the Wheel of Fortune as to make it necessary for the reading world to have read or to have said that it had read the book, then she would pride herself very much upon her work. As she was so sitting on a Sunday afternoon in her own room, Mr. Elf was announced. According to her habit she expressed warm delight at seeing him. Nothing could be kinder than such a visit just at such a time when there was so very much to occupy such a one as Mr. Elf. Mr. Elf in his usually mildly satirical way declared that he was not peculiarly occupied just at present. The emperor has left Europe at last, he said. Poor Melmont poisoned himself on Friday and the inquest sat yesterday. I don't know that there is anything of interest today. Of course Lady Carberry was intent upon her book, rather even than on the exciting death of a man whom she had herself known. Oh, if she could only get Mr. Elf. She had tried it before and had failed lamentably. She was well aware of that and she had a deep-seated conviction that it would be almost impossible to get Mr. Elf. But then she had another deep-seated conviction that that which is almost impossible may possibly be done. How great would be the glory, how infinite the service. And did it not seem as though Providence had blessed her with this special opportunity sending Mr. Elf to her just at the one moment at which she might introduce the subject of her novel without seeming premeditation? I am so tired, she said, affecting to throw herself back as though stretching her arms out for ease. I hope I am not adding to your fatigue, said Mr. Elf. Oh, dear no, it is not the fatigue of the moment but of the last six months. Just as you knocked at the door, I had finished the novel at which I have been working. Oh, with such diligence. Oh, a novel. When is it to appear, Lady Carberry? You must ask Letterman Lloyder that question. I have done my part of the work. I suppose you never wrote a novel, Mr. Elf. I? Oh, dear no, I never write anything. I have sometimes wondered whether I have hated or loved it the most. One becomes so absorbed in one's plot and one's characters. One loves the lovable so intensely and hates with such fixed aversion those who are intended to be hated. When the mind is attuned to it, one is tempted to think that it is all so good. One cries at one's own pathos, laughs at one's own humor, and is lost in admiration at one's own sagacity and knowledge. How very nice. But then there comes the reversed picture, the other side of the coin. On a sudden, everything becomes flat, tedious, and unnatural. The heroine who was yesterday alive with the celestial spark is found today to be a lump of motionless clay. The dialogue that was so cheery on the first perusal is utterly uninteresting at a second reading. Yesterday I was sure that there was my monument, and she put her hand upon the manuscript. Today I feel it to be only too heavy for a gravestone. One's judgment about one's self always does vacillate, said Mr. Elf, in a tone as phlegmatic as were the words. And yet it is so important that one should be able to judge correctly of one's own work. I can at any rate trust myself to be honest, which is more perhaps than can be said of all the critics. Dishonesty is not the general fault of the critics, Lady Carberry, at least not as far as I have observed the business. It is incapacity. In what little I have done in the matter, that is the sin which I have striven to conquer. When we want shoes, we go to a professed shoemaker. But for criticism, we have certainly not gone to professed critics. I think that when I gave up the evening pulpit, I left upon it a staff of writers who are entitled to be regarded as knowing their business. You, given up the pulpit, asked Lady Carberry with astonishment, readjusting her mind at once so that she might perceive whether any, and if so what, advantage might be taken of Mr. Elf's new position. He was no longer editor, and therefore his heavy sense of responsibility would no longer exist. But he must still have influence. Might he not be persuaded to do one act of real friendship? Might she not succeed if she would come down from her high seat, sink on the ground before him, tell him the plain truth, and beg for a favor as a poor, struggling woman? Yes, Lady Carberry, I have given it up. It was a matter, of course, that I should do so when I stood for parliament. Now that the new member has so suddenly vacated his seat, I shall probably stand again. And you are no longer an editor? I have given it up, and I suppose I have now satisfied the scruples of those gentlemen who seemed to think that I was committing a crime against the Constitution in attempting to get into parliament while I was managing a newspaper. I never heard such nonsense. Of course I know where it came from. Where did it come from? Where should it come from but the breakfast table? Brown and I have been very good friends, but I do think that of all the men I know he is the most jealous. That is so little, said Lady Carberry. She was really very fond of Mr. Brown, but at the present moment she was obliged to humor Mr. Alph. It seems to me that no man can be better qualified to sit in parliament than an editor of a newspaper, that is, if he is capable as an editor. No one, I think, has ever doubted that of you. The only question is whether he be strong enough for the double work. I have doubted about myself and have therefore given up the paper. I almost regret it. My dear, say you do, said Lady Carberry, feeling intensely anxious to talk about her own affairs instead of his. I suppose you still retain an interest in the paper. Some pecuniary interest, nothing more. Oh, Mr. Alph, you could do me such a favor. Can I? If I can, you may be sure I will. False-hearted, false-tongued man. Of course he knew at the moment what was the favor Lady Carberry intended to ask, and of course he had made up his mind that he would not do as he was asked. Will you? And Lady Carberry clasped her hands together as she poured forth the words of her prayer. I never asked you to do anything for me as long as you were editing the paper, did I? I did not think it right, and I would not do it. I took my chance like others, and I am sure you must own that I bore what was said of me with a good grace. I never complained, did I? Certainly not. But now that you have left it yourself, if you would have the Wheel of Fortune done for me, really well done, the Wheel of Fortune? That is the name of my novel, said Lady Carberry, putting her hand softly upon the manuscript. Just at this moment it would be the making of a fortune for me, and oh, Mr. Alph, if you could but know how I want such assistance. I have nothing further to do with the editorial management, Lady Carberry. Of course you could get it done. A word from you would make it certain. A novel is different from an historical work, you know. I have taken so much pains with it. Then no doubt it will be praised on its own merits. Don't say that, Mr. Alph. The evening pulpit is like—oh, it is like—like the throne of heaven. Who can be justified before it? Don't talk about its own merits, but say that you will have it done. It couldn't do any man any harm, and it would sell five hundred copies at once. That is, if it were done really conamore. Mr. Alph looked at her almost piteously and shook his head. The paper stands so high it can't hurt it to do that kind of thing once. A woman is asking you, Mr. Alph. It is for my children that I am struggling. The thing is done every day of the week with much less noble motives. I do not think that it has ever been done by the evening pulpit. I have seen books praised. Of course you have. I think I saw a novel spoken highly of. Mr. Alph laughed. Why not? You do not suppose that it is the object of the pulpit to cry down novels. I thought it was, but I thought you might make an exception here. I would be so thankful, so grateful. My dear Lady Carberry, pray believe me when I say that I have nothing to do with it. I need not preach to you sermons about literary virtue. Oh, no, she said, not quite understanding what he meant. The sceptre has passed from my hands, and I need not vindicate the justice of my successor. I shall never know your successor. But I must assure you that on no account should I think of meddling with the literary arrangement of the paper. I would not do it for my sister. Lady Carberry looked greatly pained. Send the book out and let it take its chance. How much prouder you will be to have it praised because it deserves praise than to know that it has been eulogized as a mark of friendship. No, I shan't, said Lady Carberry. I don't believe that anything like real selling praise is ever given to anybody, except to friends. I don't know how they manage it, but they do. Mr. Alph shook his head. Oh, yes, that is all very well from you. Of course you have been a dragon of virtue, but they tell me that the authorists of the New Cleopatra is a very handsome woman. Lady Carberry must have been worried much beyond her want when she allowed herself so far to lose her temper as to bring against Mr. Alph the double charge of being too fond of the authorists in question and of having sacrificed the justice of his columns to that improper affection. At this moment I do not remember the name of the lady to whom you elude, said Mr. Alph, getting up to take his leave, and I am quite sure that the gentleman who reviewed the book, if there be any such lady and any such book, had never seen her. And so Mr. Alph departed. Lady Carberry was very angry with herself and very angry also with Mr. Alph. She had not only meant to be piteous but had made the attempt and then had allowed herself to be carried away into anger. She had degraded herself to humility and had then wasted any possible good result by a foolish fit of chagrin. The world in which she had to live was almost too hard for her. When left alone she sat weeping over her sorrows, but when from time to time she thought of Mr. Alph and his conduct she could hardly repress her scorn. What lies he had told her? Of course he could have done it had he chosen, but the assumed honesty of the man was infinitely worse to her than his lies. No doubt the pulpit had two objects in its criticisms. Other papers probably had but one. The object common to all papers, that of helping friends and destroying enemies, of course prevailed with the pulpit. There was the second purpose of enticing readers by crushing authors as crowds used to be enticed to see men hanged when executions were done in public. But neither the one object nor the other was compatible with that Aristidian justice which Mr. Alph irrigated to himself and to his paper. She hoped with all her heart that Mr. Alph would spend a great deal of money at Westminster and then lose his seat. On the following morning she herself took the manuscript to Messrs. Lettem and Lloyder and was heard again by the small amount of respect which seemed to be paid to the collected sheets. There was the work of six months, her very blood and brains, the concentrated essence of her mind as she would say herself when talking with energy of her own performances, and Mr. Lettem pitched it across to a clerk, apparently perhaps sixteen years of age, and the lad chucked the parcel unceremoniously under the counter. An author feels that his work should be taken from him with fast clutching but reverential hands, and held thoughtfully out of harm's way till it be deposited within the very sanctum of an absolutely fireproof safe. O heavens, if it should be lost or burned or stolen, those scraps of paper so easily destroyed, apparently so little respected, may hereafter be acknowledged to have had a value greater, so far greater, than their weight in gold. If Robinson Crusoe had been lost, if Tom Jones had been consumed by flames, and who knows but that this may be another Robinson Crusoe, a better than Tom Jones, will it be safe there, asked Lady Carberry? Quite safe, quite safe, said Mr. Lettem, who was rather busy, and perhaps saw Lady Carberry more frequently than the nature and amount of her authorship seemed to him to require. It seemed to be put down there under the counter. That's quite right, Lady Carberry, they're left there till they're packed. Packed? There are two or three dozen going to our reader this week. He's down in the sky, and we keep them till there's enough to fill the sack. Do they go by post, Mr. Lettem? Not by post, Lady Carberry. There are not many of them would pay the expense. We send them by long sea to Glasgow, because just at this time of the year there is not much hurry. We can't publish before the winter. Oh heavens, if that ship should be lost on its journey by long sea to Glasgow. That evening, as was now almost his daily habit, Mr. Brown came to her. There was something in the absolute friendship which now existed between Lady Carberry and the editor of the morning breakfast table, which almost made her scrupulous as to asking from him any further literary favor. She fully recognized, no woman perhaps more fully, the necessity of making use of all aid and furtherance which might come within reach. With such a son, with such need for struggling before her, would she not be wicked not to catch even at every straw? But this man had now become so true to her that she hardly knew how to beg him to do that, which she, with all her mistake and feelings, did in truth know that he ought not to do. He had asked her to marry him, for which, though she had refused him, she felt infinitely grateful. And though she had refused him, he had lent her money and had supported her in her misery by his continued counsel. If he would offer to do this thing for her, she would accept his kindness on her knees. But even she could not bring herself to ask to have this added to his other favors. Her first word to him was about Mr. Alph. So he has given up the paper? Well, yes, nominally. Is that all? I don't suppose he'll really let it go out of his own hands. Nobody likes to lose power. He'll share the work and keep the authority. As for Westminster, I don't believe he has a chance. If that poor wretch Melmont could beat him when everybody was already talking about the forgeries, how is it likely that he should stand against such a candidate as they'll get now? He was here yesterday, and full of triumph, I suppose. He never talks to me much of himself. We were speaking of my new book, my novel. He assured me most positively that he had nothing further to do with the paper. He did not care to make you a promise, I dare say. That was just it. Of course, I did not believe him. Neither will I make a promise, but we'll see what we can do. If we can't be good-natured, at any rate we will say nothing ill-natured. Let me see. What is the name? The Wheel of Fortune. Lady Carberry, as she told the title of her new book to her old friend, seemed to be almost ashamed of it. Let them send it early, a day or two before it's out, if they can. I can't answer, of course, for the opinion of the gentleman it will go to, but nothing shall go in that you would dislike. Goodbye, God bless you. And as he took her hand, he looked at her almost as though the old susceptibility were returning to him. As she sat alone after he had gone, thinking over it all, thinking of her own circumstances and of his kindness, it did not occur to her to call him an old goose again. She felt now that she had mistaken her man when she had so regarded him. That first and only kiss which he had given her, which she had treated with so much derision, for which she had rebuked him so mildly and yet so haughtily, had now a somewhat sacred spot in her memory. Through it all the man must have really loved her. Was it not marvellous that such a thing should be? And how had it come to pass that she and all her tenderness had rejected him when he had given her the chance of becoming his wife? CHAPTER 90 HETTA'S SORROW When Heta Carberry received that letter from her lover which was given to the reader some chapters back, it certainly did not tend in any way to alleviate her misery. Even when she had read it over half a dozen times she could not bring herself to think it possible that she could be reconciled to the man. It was not only that he had sinned against her by giving his society to another woman to whom he had at any rate been engaged not long since, at the very time at which he was becoming engaged to her, but also that he had done this in such a manner as to make his offense known to all her friends. Perhaps she had been too quick, but there was the fact that with her own consent she had acceded to her mother's demand that the man should be rejected. The man had been rejected, and even Roger Carberry knew that it was so. After this it was she thought impossible that she should recall him. But they should all know that her heart was unchanged. Roger Carberry should certainly know that if he ever asked her further question on the matter. She would never deny it, and though she knew that the man had behaved badly, having entangled himself with a nasty American woman, yet she would be true to him as far as her own heart was concerned. And now he told her that she had been most unjust to him. He said that he could not understand her injustice. He did not fill his letter within treaties, but with reproaches. And certainly his reproaches moved her more than any prayer would have done. It was too late now to remedy the evil, but she was not quite sure within her own bosom that she had not been unjust to him. The more she thought of it, the more puzzled her mind became. Had she quarreled with him because he had once been in love with Mrs. Hurdle, or because she had grounds for regarding Mrs. Hurdle as her present rival? She hated Mrs. Hurdle, and she was very angry with him in that he had ever been on affectionate terms with a woman she hated. But that had not been the reason put forward by her quarreling with him. Perhaps it was true that he, too, had of late loved Mrs. Hurdle hardly better than she did herself. It might be that he had been indeed constrained by hard circumstances to go with the woman to Lowstoft. Having so gone with her, it was no doubt right that he should be rejected. For how can it be that a man who is engaged shall be allowed to travel about the country with another woman to whom also he was engaged a few months back? But still there might be hardship in it. To her, to Heta herself, the circumstances were very hard. She loved the man with all her heart. She could look forward to no happiness in life without him. But yet it must be so. At the end of his letter he had told her to go to Mrs. Hurdle herself if she wanted corroboration of the story as told by him. Of course he had known when he wrote it that she could not and would not go to Mrs. Hurdle. But when the letter had been in her possession three or four days unanswered, for as a matter of course no answer to it from herself was possible, and had been read and reread till she knew every word of it by heart, she began to think that if she could hear the story as it might be told by Mrs. Hurdle, a good deal that was now dark might become light to her. As she continued to read the letter and to brood over it all, by degrees her anger was turned from her lover to her mother, her brother, and to her cousin Roger. Paul had of course behaved badly, very badly, but had it not been for them she might have had an opportunity of forgiving him. They had driven her on to the declaration of a purpose from which she could now see no escape. There had been a plot against her and she was a victim. In the first dismay and agony occasioned by that awful story of the American woman which had at the moment struck her with a horror which was now becoming less and less every hour, she had fallen head foremost into the trap laid for her. She acknowledged to herself that it was too late to recover her ground. She was at any rate almost sure that it must be too late. But yet she was disposed to do battle with her mother and her cousin in the matter if only with the object of showing that she would not submit her own feelings to their control. She was savage to the point of rebellion against all authority. Roger Carberry would of course think that any communication between herself and Mrs. Hurdle must be improper, altogether indelicate. Two or three days ago she thought so herself. But the world was going so hard with her that she was beginning to feel herself capable of throwing propriety and delicacy to the winds. This man whom she had once accepted, whom she altogether loved, and who in spite of all his faults certainly still loved her, of that she was beginning to have no further doubt, accused her of dishonesty and referred her to her rival for a corroboration of his story. She would appeal to Mrs. Hurdle. The woman was odious, abominable, a nasty, intriguing American female. But her lover desired that she should hear the woman's story and she would hear the story if the woman would tell it. So resolving she wrote as follows to Mrs. Hurdle, finding great difficulty in the composition of a letter which should tell neither too little nor too much and determined that she would be restrained by no modesty, by no girlish fear of declaring the truth about herself. The letter at last was stiff and hard, but it sufficed for its purpose. Madam, Mr. Paul Montague has referred me to you as to certain circumstances which have taken place between him and you. It is right that I should tell you that I was a short time since engaged to marry him, but that I have found myself obliged to break off that engagement in consequence of what I have been told as to his acquaintance with you. I make this proposition to you, not thinking that anything you will say to me can change my mind, but because he has asked me to do so, and has, at the same time, accused me of injustice towards him. I do not wish to rest under an accusation of injustice from one to whom I was once warmly attached. If you will receive me, I will make it my business to call any afternoon you may name. Yours truly, Henrietta Carberry. When the letter was written she was not only ashamed of it, but very much afraid of it also. What if the American woman should put it in a newspaper? She had heard that everything was put into newspapers in America. What if Mrs. Hurdle should send back to her some horribly insolent answer, or should send such answer to her mother instead of herself? Then again, if the American woman consented to receive her, would not the American woman, as a matter of course, trample upon her with rough words? Once or twice she put the letter aside and almost determined that it should not be sent, but at last, with desperate fortitude, she took it out with her and posted it herself. She told no word of it to anyone. Her mother, she thought, had been cruel to her, had disregarded her feelings and made her wretched forever. She could not ask her mother for sympathy in her present distress. There was no friend who would sympathize with her. She must do everything alone. Mrs. Hurdle, it will be remembered, had at last determined that she would retire from the contest and own herself to have been worsted. It is, I fear, impossible to describe adequately the various half-resolutions which she formed and the changing phases of her mind before she brought herself to this conclusion. And soon after she had assured herself that this should be the conclusion, after she had told Paul Montague that it should be so, there came back upon her at times other half-resolutions to a contrary effect. She had written a letter to the man threatening desperate revenge and had then abstained from sending it and had then shown it to the man, not intending to give it to him as a letter upon which he would have to act, but only that she might ask him whether, had he received it, he would have said that he had not deserved it. Then she had parted with him, refusing either to hear or to say a word of farewell, and had told Mrs. Pipkin that she was no longer engaged to be married. At that moment everything was done that could be done. The game had been played and the stakes lost, and she had schooled herself into such restraint as to have abandoned all idea of vengeance. But from time to time there arose in her heart a feeling that such softness was unworthy of her. Who had ever been soft to her? Who had spared her? Had she not long since found out that she must fight with her very nails and teeth for every inch of ground if she did not mean to be trodden into the dust? Had she not held her own among rough people after a very rough fashion? And should she now simply retire that she might weep in a corner like a love-sick schoolgirl? And she had been so stoutly determined that she would at any rate avenge her own wrongs if she could not turn those wrongs into triumph. There were moments in which she thought that she could still seize the man by the throat where all the world might see her and dare him to deny that he was false, perjured, and mean. Then she received a long passionate letter from Paul Montague, written at the same time as those other letters to Roger Carberry and Heta, in which he told her all the circumstances of his engagement to Heta Carberry and implored her to substantiate the truth of his own story. It was certainly marvelous to her that the man who had so longed been her own lover and who had parted with her after such a fashion should write such a letter to her. But it had no tendency to increase either her anger or her sorrow. Of course she had known that it was so, and at certain times she had told herself that it was only natural, had almost told herself that it was right. She and this young Englishman were not fit to be mated. He was to her thinking a tame, sleek household animal, whereas she knew herself to be wild, fitter for the woods than for polished cities. It had been one of the faults of her life that she had allowed herself to be bound by tenderness of feeling to the soft, over-civilized man. The result had been disastrous as might have been expected. She was angry with him, almost to the extent of tearing him to pieces. But she did not become more angry because he wrote to her of her rival. Her only present friend was Mrs. Pipkin, who treated her with the greatest deference, but who was never tired of asking questions about the lost lover. That letter was from Mr. Montague, said Mrs. Pipkin on the morning after it had been received. How can you know that? I'm sure it was. One does get to know handwritings when letters come frequent. It was from him, and why not? Oh, dear no, why not? Certainly I wish he'd write every day of his life so that things would come round again. Nothing ever troubles me so much as broken love. Why don't he come again himself, Mrs. Hurdle? It is not at all likely that he should come again. It is all over. And there is no good in talking of it. I shall return to New York on Saturday week. Oh, Mrs. Hurdle! I can't remain here, you know, all my life doing nothing. I came over here for a certain purpose, and that has gone by. Now I may just go back again. I know he has ill-treated you. I know he has. I am not disposed to talk about it, Mrs. Pipkin. I should have thought it would have done you good to speak your mind out free. I knew it would me if I had been served in that way. If I had anything to say at all after that fashion, it would be to the gentleman and not to any other else. As it is, I shall never speak of it again to anyone. You have been very kind to me, Mrs. Pipkin, and I shall be sorry to leave you. Oh, Mrs. Hurdle, you can't understand what it is to me. It isn't only my feelings, the likes of me can't stand by their feelings only as their betters do. I've never been above telling you what a God sent you've been to me this summer, have I? I've paid everything—butcher, baker, rates and all, just like clockwork. And now you're going away. Then Mrs. Pipkin began to sob. I suppose I shall see Mr. Crumb before I go, said Mrs. Hurdle. She don't deserve it, do she? And even now she never says a word about him that I call respectful. She looks on him as just being better than Mrs. Buggins' children, that's all. She'll be all right when he has once got her home. And I shall be all alone by myself, said Mrs. Pipkin with her apron up to her eyes. It was after this that Mrs. Hurdle received Heda's letter. She had as yet returned no answer to Paul Montague, nor had she intended to send any written answer. Were she to comply with his request, she could do so best by writing to the girl who was concerned rather than to him. And though she wrote no such letter, she thought of it. Of the words she would use were she to write it, and of the tale which she would have to tell. She sat for hours thinking of it, trying to resolve whether she would tell the tale, if she told it at all, in a manner to suit Paul's purpose or so as to bring that purpose utterly to shipwreck. She did not doubt that she could cause the shipwreck were she so minded. She could certainly have her revenge after that fashion. But it was a woman's fashion, and as such did not recommend itself to Mrs. Hurdle's feelings. A pistol or a horse whip, a violence seizing by the neck with sharp taunts and bitter ringing words would have made the fitting revenge. If she abandoned that, she could do herself no good by telling a story of her wrongs to another woman. Then came Heta's note. So stiff, so cold, so true, so like the letter of an English woman, as Mrs. Hurdle said to herself. Mrs. Hurdle smiled as she read the letter. I make this proposition not thinking that anything you can say to me can change my mind. Of course the girl's mind would be changed. The girl's mind indeed required no change. Mrs. Hurdle could see well enough that the girl's heart was set upon the man. Nevertheless she did not doubt that she could tell the story after such a fashion as to make it impossible that the girl should marry him, if she chose to do so. At first she thought that she would not answer the letter at all. What was it to her? Let them fight their own lovers battles out after their own childish fashion. If the man meant at last to be honest, there could be no doubt, Mrs. Hurdle thought, that the girl would go to him. It would require no interference of hers. But after a while she thought that she might as well see this English chit who had superseded herself in the affections of the Englishman she had condescended to love. And if it were the case that all revenge was to be abandoned, that no punishment was to be exacted in return for all the injury that had been done, why should she not say a kind word so as to smooth away the existing difficulties? While cat as she was kindness was more congenial to her nature than cruelty, so she wrote to Heta making an appointment. Dear Miss Carberry, if you could make it convenient to yourself to call here either Thursday or Friday at any hour between two and four, I shall be very happy to see you. Yours sincerely, Winifred Hurdle. CHAPTER 91 THE RIVALS During these days the intercourse between Lady Carberry and her daughter was constrained and far from pleasant. Heta, thinking that she was ill-used, kept herself aloof and would not speak to her mother of herself or of her troubles. Lady Carberry, watching her but not daring to say much, was at last almost frightened at her girl's silence. She had assured herself when she found that Heta was disposed to quarrel with her lover and to send him back his brooch that things would come round, that Paul would be forgotten quickly or laid aside as though he were forgotten, and that Heta would soon perceive it to be her interest to marry her cousin. With such a prospect before, her Lady Carberry thought it to be her duty as a mother to show no tendency to sympathize with her girl's sorrow. Such heartbreakings were occurring daily in the world around them. Who were the happy people that were driven neither by ambition nor poverty nor greed nor the cross purposes of unhappy love to stifle and trample upon their feelings? She had known no one so blessed. She had never been happy after that fashion. She herself had within the last few weeks refused to join her lot with that of a man she really liked, because her wicked son was so grievous a burden on her shoulders. A woman, she thought, if she were unfortunate enough to be a lady without wealth of her own, must give up everything, her body, her heart, her very soul if she were that way troubled, to the procuring of a fitting maintenance for herself. Why should Heta hope to be more fortunate than others? And then the position which Chance now offered to her was fortunate. This cousin of hers who was so devoted to her was, in all respects, good. He would not torture her by harsh restraint and cruel temper. He would not drink. He would not spend his money foolishly. He would allow her all the belongings of a fair, free life. Lady Carberry reiterated to herself the assertion that she was manifestly doing a mother's duty by her endeavours to constrain her girl to marry such a man. With a settled purpose she was severe and hard, but when she found how harsh her daughter could be in response to this, how gloomy, how silent, and how severe in retaliation, she was almost frightened at what she herself was doing. She had not known how stern and how enduring her daughter could be. Heta, she said, why don't you speak to me? On this very day it was Heta's purpose to visit Mrs. Hurdle at Islington. She had said no word of her intention to anyone. She had chosen the Friday because on that day she knew her mother would go in the afternoon to her publisher. There should be no deceit. Immediately on her return she would tell her mother what she had done, but she considered herself to be emancipated from control. Among them they had robbed her of her lover. She had submitted to the robbery, but she would submit to nothing else. Heta, why don't you speak to me? said Lady Carberry. Because, my mother, there is nothing we can talk about without making each other unhappy. What a dreadful thing to say. Is there no subject in the world to interest you except that wretched young man? None other at all, said Heta obstinately. What folly it is. I will not say only to speak like that, but to allow yourself to entertain such thoughts. How am I to control my thoughts? Do you think, Mama, that after I had owned to you that I loved a man, after I had owned it to him, and worst of all to myself, I could have separated from him and then not think about it? It is a cloud upon everything. It is as though I had lost my eyesight and my speech. It is as it would be to you if Felix were to die. It crushes me. There was an accusation in this allusion to her brother, which the mother felt, as she was intended to feel it, but to which she could make no reply. It accused her of being too much concerned for her son to feel any real affection for her daughter. You are ignorant of the world, Heta, she said. I am having a lesson in it now at any rate. Do you think it is worse than others have suffered before you? In what little you see around you, do you think that girls are generally able to marry the man upon whom they set their hearts? She paused, but Heta made no answer to this. Marie Melmont was as warmly attached to your brother as you can be to Mr. Montague. Marie Melmont. She thinks as much of her feelings as you do of yours. The truth is you are indulging a dream. You must wake from it and shake yourself and find out that you, like others, have got to do the best you can for yourself in order that you may live. The world at large has to eat dried bread and cannot get cakes and sweet meats. A girl, when she thinks of giving herself to a husband, has to remember this. If she has a fortune of her own, she can pick and choose. But if she has none, she must allow herself to be chosen. Then a girl is to marry without stopping even to think whether she likes the man or not. She should teach herself to like the man, if the marriage be suitable. I would not have you take a vicious man because he was rich or one known to be cruel and imperious. Your cousin, Roger, you know, Mama, said Hedda, getting up from her seat. You may as well believe me. No earthly inducement shall ever make me marry my cousin, Roger. It is to me horrible that you should propose it to me when you know that I love that other man with my whole heart. How can you speak so of one who has treated you with the utmost contumely? I know nothing of any contumely. What reasons have I to be offended because he has liked a woman whom he knew before he ever saw me? It has been unfortunate, wretched, miserable, but I do not know that I have any right whatever to be angry with Mr. Paul Montague. Having so spoken, she walked out of the room without waiting for a further reply. It was all very sad to Lady Carberry. She perceived now that she had driven her daughter to pronounce an absolution of Paul Montague's sins, and that in this way she had lessened and loosened the barrier which she had striven to construct between them. But that which pained her most was the unrealistic romantic view of life which pervaded all Hedda's thoughts. How was any girl to live in this world who could not be taught the folly of such idle dreams? That afternoon Hedda trusted herself all alone to the mysteries of the Merrillbone Underground Railway and emerged with accuracy at King's Cross. She had studied her geography and she walked from Thence to Islington. She knew well the name of the street and the number at which Mrs. Hurdle lived, but when she reached the door she did not at first dare to stand and raise the knocker. She passed on to the end of the silent vacant street, endeavoring to collect her thoughts, striving to find and to arrange the words with which she would commence her strange petition. And she endeavored to dictate to herself some defined conduct should the woman be insolent to her. Personally she was not a coward but she doubted her power of replying to a rough speech. She could at any rate escape. Should the worst come to the worst the woman would hardly venture to impede her departure. Having gone to the end of the street she returned with a very quick step and knocked at the door. It was opened almost immediately by Ruby Ruggles, to whom she gave her name. Oh, laws, Miss Carberry! said Ruby, looking up into the stranger's face. Yes, sure enough she must be Felix's sister, but Ruby did not dare to ask any question. She had admitted to all around her that Sir Felix should not be her lover anymore and that John Crumb should be allowed to return. But nevertheless her heart twitted as she showed Miss Carberry up to the lodger's sitting room. Though it was mid-summer, Hedda entered the room with her veil down. She adjusted it as she followed Ruby up the stairs, moved by a sudden fear of her rival's scrutiny. Mrs. Hurdle rose from her chair and came forward to greet her visitor, putting out both her hands to do so. She was dressed with the most scrupulous care, simply and in black, without an ornament of any kind, without a ribbon or a chain or a flower, but with some woman's purpose at her heart she had so attired herself as to look her very best. Was it that she thought that she would vindicate to her rival their joint lover's first choice or that she was minded to teach the English girl that an American woman might have graces of her own? As she came forward she was gentle and soft in her movements and a pleasant smile played round her mouth. Hedda, at the first moment, was almost dumbfounded by her beauty, by that and by her ease and exquisite self-possession. Miss Carberry, she said, with that low rich voice which in old days had charmed Paul almost as much as her loveliness. I need not tell you how interested I am in seeing you. May I not ask you to lay aside your veil so that we may look at each other fairly? Hedda, dumbfounded, not knowing how to speak a word, stood gazing at the woman when she had removed her veil. She had had no personal description of Mrs. Hurdle, but had expected something very different from this. She had thought that the woman would be coarse and big with fine eyes and a bright color. As it was, they were both of the same complexion, both dark with hair nearly black with eyes of the same color. Hedda thought of all that at the moment, but acknowledged to herself that she had no pretension to beauty such as that which this woman owned. And so you have come to see me, said Mrs. Hurdle, sit down so that I may look at you. I am glad that you have come to see me, Miss Carberry. I am glad at any rate that you are not angry. Why should I be angry? Had the idea been distasteful to me, I should have declined. I know not why, but it is a sort of pleasure to me to see you. It is a poor time we women have, is it not, in becoming playthings to men. So this Lothario that was once mine is behaving badly to you also, is it so? He is no longer mine, and you may ask me freely for aid if there be any that I can give you. If he were an American, I should say that he had behaved badly to me, but as he is an Englishman, perhaps it is different. Now tell me what can I do or what can I say? He told me that you could tell me the truth. What truth? I will certainly tell you nothing that is not true. You have quarreled with him too, is it not so? Certainly I have quarreled with him. I am not curious, but perhaps you had better tell me of that. I know him so well that I can guess that he should give offence. He can be full of youthful ardor one day and cautious as old age itself the next, but I did not suppose that there has been need for such caution with you. What is it, Miss Carberry? Heta found the telling of her story to be very difficult. Mrs. Hurdle, she said, I had never heard your name when he first asked me to be his wife. I daresay not. Why should he have told you anything of me? Because surely he ought if it is true that he had once promised to marry you. That is certainly true. And you were here and I knew nothing of it. Of course I should have been very different to him had I known that there was such a woman as Winifred Hurdle interfering with him. Then you heard it by chance and you were offended. Was it not so? And now he tells me that I have been unjust to him and he bids me ask you, I have not been unjust. I am not so sure of that. Shall I tell you what I think? I think that he has been unjust to me and that therefore your injustice to him is no more than his due. I cannot plead for him, Miss Carberry. To me he has been the last and worst of a long series of, I think, undeserved misfortune. But whether you will avenge my wrongs must be for you to decide. Why did he go with you to Lowstoft? Because I asked him and because, like many men, he cannot be ill-natured although he can be cruel. He would have given a hand not to have gone but he could not say me nay. As you have come here, Miss Carberry, you may as well know the truth. He did love me but he had been talked out of his love by my enemies and his own friends long before he had ever seen you. I am almost ashamed to tell you my own part of the story and yet I know not why I should be ashamed. I followed him here to England because I loved him. I came after him as perhaps a woman should not do because I was true of heart. He had told me that he did not want me but I wanted to be wanted and I hoped that I might lure him back to his troth. I have utterly failed and I must return to my own country. I will not say a broken hearted woman for I will not admit of such a condition but a creature with a broken spirit. He has misused me folly and I have simply forgiven him not because I am a Christian but because I am not strong enough to punish one that I still love. I could not put a dagger into him or I would or a bullet or I would. He has reduced me to a nothing by his falseness and yet I cannot injure him. I who have sworn to myself that no man should ever lay a finger on me and scorn without feeling my wrath in return I cannot punish him. But if you choose to do so it is not for me to set you against such an act of justice. Then she paused and looked up to Heta as though expecting a reply. But Heta had no reply to make. All had been said that she had come to hear every word that the woman had spoken had in truth been a comfort to her. She had told herself that her visit was to be made in order that she might be justified in her condemnation of her lover. She had believed that it was her intention to arm herself with proof that she had done right in rejecting him. Now she was told that however false her lover might have been to this other woman he had been absolutely true to her. The woman had not spoken kindly of Paul had seemed to intend to speak of him with the utmost severity. But she had so spoken as to acquit him of all sin against Heta. What was it to Heta that her lover had been false to this American stranger? It did not seem to her to be at all necessary that she should be angry with her lover on that head. Mrs. Hurdle had told her that she herself must decide whether she would take upon herself to avenge her rival's wrongs. In saying that Mrs. Hurdle had taught her to feel that there were no other wrongs which she need avenge. It was all done now. If she could only thank the woman for the pleasantness of her demeanor and then go she could when alone make up her mind as to what she would do next. She had not yet told herself she would submit herself again to Paul Montague. She had only told herself that within her own breast she was bound to forgive him. You have been very kind, she said at last, speaking only because it was necessary that she should say something. It is well that there should be some kindness where there has been so much that is unkind. Forgive me, Ms. Carberry, if I speak plainly to you. Of course you will go back to him. Of course you will be his wife. You have told me that you love him dearly as plainly as I have told you the same story of myself. Your coming here would of itself have declared it even if I did not see your satisfaction at my account of his treachery to me. Oh, Mrs. Hurdle, do not say that of me. But it is true, and I do not in the least quarrel with you on that account. He has preferred you to me, and as far as I am concerned there is an end of it. You are a girl whereas I am a woman, and he likes your youth. I have undergone the cruel roughness of the world which has not as yet touched you, and therefore you are softer to the touch. I do not know that you are very superior in other attractions, but that has sufficed and you are the victor. I am strong enough to acknowledge that I have nothing to forgive in you, and am weak enough to forgive all his treachery. Hatter was now holding the woman by the hand and was weeping, she knew not why. I am so glad to have seen you, continued Mrs. Hurdle, so that I may know what his wife was like. In a few days I shall return to the States, and then neither of you will ever be troubled further by Winifred Hurdle. Tell him that if he will come and see me once before I go, I will not be more unkind to him than I can help. When Hatter did not decline to be the bearer of this message, she must have at any rate resolved that she would see Paul Montague again, and to see him would be to tell him that she was again his own. She now got herself quickly out of the room, absolutely kissing the woman whom she had both dreaded and despised. As soon as she was alone in the street, she tried to think of it all, how full of beauty was the face of that American female, how rich and glorious her voice, in spite of a slight taint of the well-known nasal twang, and above all how powerful and at the same time how easy and how gracious was her manner, that she would be an unfit wife for Paul Montague was certain to Hatter, but that he or any man should have loved her and have been loved by her, and then have been willing to part from her was wonderful, and yet Paul Montague had preferred herself, had a carberry to this woman. Paul had certainly done well for his own cause when he had referred the younger lady to the elder. Of her own quarrel, of course, there must be an end. She had been unjust to the man, and injustice must, of course, be remedied by repentance and confession. As she walked quickly back to the railway station, she brought herself to love her lover more fondly than she had ever done. He had been true to her from the first hour of their acquaintance. What truth higher than that has any woman a right to desire? No doubt she gave to him a virgin heart. No other man had ever touched her lips or been allowed to press her hand or to look into her eyes with unrebuke admiration. It was her pride to give herself to the man she loved after this fashion, pure and white as snow on which no foot has trodden. But in taking him all that she wanted was that he should be true to her now and henceforward. The future must be her own work. As to the now, she felt that Mrs. Hurdle had given her sufficient assurance. She must at once let her mother know this change in her mind. When she re-entered the house, she was no longer sullen, no longer anxious to be silent, very willing to be gracious if she might be received with favor, but quite determined that nothing should shake her purpose. She went at once into her mother's room, having heard from the boy at the door that Lady Carberry had returned. Heta, wherever have you been, asked Lady Carberry. Mama, she said, I mean to write to Mr. Montague and tell him that I have been unjust to him. Heta, you must do nothing of the kind, said Lady Carberry, rising from her seat. Yes, Mama, I have been unjust and I must do so. It will be asking him to come back to you. Yes, Mama, that is what I mean. I shall tell him that if he will come, I will receive him. I know he will come. Oh, Mama, let us be friends and I will tell you everything. Why should you grudge me, my love? You have sent him back his brooch, said Lady Carberry, hoarsely. He shall give it me again. Here what I have done, I have seen that American lady. This is Hurdle? Yes, I have been to her. She is a wonderful woman. And she has told you wonderful lies. Why should she lie to me? She has told me no lies. She said nothing in his favor. I can well believe that. What can anyone say in his favor? But she told me that which has assured me that Mr. Montague has never behaved badly to me. I shall write to him at once. If you like, I will show you the letter. Any letter to him, I will tear, said Lady Carberry, full of anger. Mama, I have told you everything, but in this I must judge for myself. Then Hedda, seeing that her mother would not relent, left the room without further speech and immediately opened her desk that the letter might be written. End of Chapter 91 Chapter 92 of The Way We Live Now This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollop Chapter 92 Hamilton K. Fisker Again Ten days had passed since the meeting narrated in the last chapter. Ten days during which Hedda's letter had been sent to her lover, but in which she had received no reply, when two gentlemen met each other in a certain room in Liverpool who were seen together in the same room in the early part of this chronicle. These were our young friend Paul Montague and our not much older friend, Hamilton K. Fisker. Malmont had died on the 18th of July and tidings of the event had been at once sent by Telegraph to San Francisco. Some weeks before this, Montague had written to his partner, giving his account of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway Company, describing its condition in England, as he then believed it to be, and urging Fisker to come over to London. On receipt of a message from his American correspondent, he had gone down to Liverpool and had there awaited Fisker's arrival, taking counsel with his friend, Mr. Ramsbottom. In the meantime, Hedda's letter was lying at the bear garden, Paul having written from his club and having omitted to desire that the answer should be sent to his lodgings. Just at this moment, things at the bear garden were not well managed. They were indeed so ill-managed that Paul never received that letter, which would have had for him charms greater than those of any letter ever before written. This is a terrible business, said Fisker. Immediately, I'm entering the room in which Montague was waiting him. He was the last man I'd have thought would be cut up in that way. He was utterly ruined. He wouldn't have been ruined and couldn't have thought so if he'd known all he ought to have known. The South Central would have pulled him through almost anything if he'd have understood how to play it. We don't think much of the South Central here now, said Paul. That's because you've never above half-spirit enough for a big thing. You nibble at it instead of swallowing it whole. And then, of course, folks see that you're only nibbling. I thought that Melmont would have had spirit. There is, I fear, no doubt that he had committed forgery. It was the dread of detection, as to that, which drove him to destroy himself. I call it damn clumsy from beginning to end. Damn clumsy. I took him to be a different man, and I feel more like a man. And I feel more than half ashamed of myself because I trusted such a fellow. That chap Cohen loop has got off with a lot of swag. Only think of Melmont allowing Cohen loop to get the better of him. I suppose the thing will be broken up now at San Francisco, suggested Paul. Bust up at Frisco? Not if I know it. Why should it be bust up? Do you think we're all going to smash there because a fool like Melmont blows his brains out in London? He took poison. Reprising either. That's not just our way. I'll tell you what I'm going to do and why I'm over here so uncommon sharp. These shares are at almost nothing now in London. I'll buy every share in the market. I wired for as many as I dart so as not to spoil our own game, and I'll make a clean sweep of every one of them. Bust up. I'm sorry for him because I thought him a bigish man. But what he's done will just be the making of us over there. Will you get out of it or will you come back to Frisco with me? In answer to this, Paul asserted most strenuously that he would not return to San Francisco, and perhaps too ingenuously gave his partner to understand that he was altogether sick of the Great Railway and would under no circumstances have anything more to do with it. Fisker shrugged his shoulders and was not displeased at the proposed rupture. He was prepared to deal fairly, nay generously, by his partner, having recognized the wisdom of that great commercial rule which teaches us that honor should prevail among associates of a certain class. But he had fully convinced himself that Paul Montague was not a fit partner for Hamilton K. Fisker. Fisker was not only unscrupulous himself, but he had a thorough contempt for scruples in others. According to his theory of life, 999 men were obscure because of their scruples, whilst the thousandth man predominated and cropped up into the splendor of commercial wealth because he was free from such bondage. He had his own theories, too, as to commercial honesty. That which he had promised to do, he would do if it was within his power. He was anxious that his bond should be good and his word equally so. But the work of robbing mankind engrossed by magnificently false representations was not only the duty, but also the delight and the ambition of his life. How could a man so great endure a partnership with one so small as Paul Montague? And now what about Wunafred Hurdle, asked Fisker? What makes you ask? She's in London. Oh, yes, I know she's in London, and Hurdle's at Frisco swearing that he'll come after her. He would, only he hasn't got the dollars. He's not dead, then, muttered Paul. Dead? No, nor likely to die. She'll have a bad time of it with him yet. But she divorced him. She got a Kansas lawyer to say so, and he's got a Frisco lawyer to say that there's nothing of the kind. She hasn't played her game badly, neither, for she's had the handling of her own money and has put it so that he can't get hold of a dollar. Even if it's suited other ways, you know, I wouldn't marry her myself till I saw my way clearer out of the wood. I'm not thinking of marrying her, if you mean that. There was a talk about it in Frisco, that's all, and I have heard Hurdle say when he was a little farther gone than usual that she was here with you and that he meant to drop in on you some of these days. To this, Paul made no answer, thinking that he had now both heard enough and said enough about Mrs. Hurdle. On the following day, the two men who were still partners went together to London, and Fisker immediately became immersed in the arrangement of Melmont's affairs. He put himself into communication with Mr. Braggart, went in and out of the offices in Abchurch Lane, and the rooms which had belonged to the railway company. Cross-examined Crowell mastered the books of the company as far as they were to be mastered and actually summoned both the Grendals, father and son, up to London. Lord Alfred and Miles with him had left London a day or two before Melmont's death, having probably perceived that there was no further occasion for their services. To Fisker's appeal, Lord Alfred was proudly indifferent. Who was this American that he should call upon a director of the London Company to appear? Does not everyone know that a director of a company need not direct unless he pleases? Lord Alfred, therefore, did not even condescend to answer Fisker's letter, but he advised his son to run up to town. I should just go because I'd taken a salary from the damn company, said the careful father, but when there I wouldn't say a word. So Miles Grendal, obeying his parent, reappeared upon the scene. But Fisker's attention was perhaps most usefully and most sedulously paid to Madame Melmont and her daughter. Till Fisker arrived, no one had visited them in their solitude at Hampstead, except Kroll, the clerk. Mr. Bregert had abstained, thinking that a widow who had become a widow under such terrible circumstances would prefer to be alone. Lord Nitterdale had made his adues and felt that he could do no more. It need hardly be said that Lord Alfred had too much good taste to interfere at such a time, although for some months he had been domestically intimate with a poor woman, or that Sir Felix would not be prompted by the father's death to renew his suit to the daughter. But Fisker had not been two days in London before he went out to Hampstead and was admitted to Madame Melmont's presence, and he had not been there four days before he was aware that in spite of all misfortunes Marie Melmont was still the undoubted possessor of a large fortune. In regard to Melmont's effects generally, the crown had been induced to abstain from interfering, giving up the right to all the man's plate and chairs and tables which it had acquired by the finding of the coroner's verdict. Not from tenderness to Madame Melmont, for whom no great commiseration was felt, but on behalf of such creditors as poor Mr. Longstaff and his son. But Marie's money was quite distinct from this. She had been right in her own belief as to this property, and had been right too in refusing to sign those papers, unless it may be that that refusal led to her father's act. She herself was sure that it was not so, because she had withdrawn her refusal and had offered to sign the papers before her father's death. What might have been the ultimate result had she done so when he first made the request, no one could now say, that the money would have gone there could be no doubt. The money was now hers, a fact which Fisker soon learned with that peculiar cleverness which belonged to him. Poor Madame Melmont felt the visits of the American to be a relief to her in her misery. The world makes great mistakes as to that which is and is not beneficial to those whom death has bereaved of a companion. It may be, no doubt, sometimes it is the case that grief should be so heavy, so absolutely crushing, as to make any interference with it an additional trouble. And this is felt also in acute bodily pain and in periods of terrible mental suffering. It may also be, and no doubt often is the case, that the bereaved one chooses to affect such overbearing sorrow and that friends abstain because even such affectation has its own rights and privileges. But Madame Melmont was neither crushed by grief, nor did she affect to be so crushed. She had been numbed by the suddenness and by the awe of the catastrophe. The man who had been her merciless tyrant for years, who had seemed to her to be a very incarnation of cruel power, had succumbed and shown himself to be powerless against his own misfortunes. She was a woman of very few words and had spoken almost none on this occasion even to her own daughter. But when Fisker came to her and told her more than she had ever known before of her husband's affairs and spoke to her of her future life and mixed for her a small glass of brandy and water warm and told her that Frisco would be the fittest place for her future residence, she certainly did not find him to be intrusive. And even Marie liked Fisker though she had been wooed in almost one both by a lord and a baronet and had understood, if not much, at least more than her mother of the life to which she had been introduced. There was something of real sorrow in her heart for her father. She was prone to love though perhaps not prone to deep affection. Melmont had certainly been often cruel to her but he had also been very indulgent and as she had never been specially grateful for the one so neither had she ever specially resented the other. Tenderness, care, real solicitude for her well-being she had never known and had come to regard the unevenness of her life vacillating between knocks and knick-knacks with a blow one day and a jewel the next as the condition of things which was natural to her. When her father was dead she remembered for a while the jewels and the knick-knacks and forgot the knocks and blows but she was not beyond consolation and she also found consolation in Mr. Fisker's visits. I used to sign a paper every quarter she said to Fisker as they were walking together one evening in the lanes round Hampstead. You'll have to do the same now only instead of giving the paper to anyone you'll have to leave it in a banker's hands to draw the money for yourself. And can that be done over in California? Just the same as here your bankers will manage it all for you without the slightest trouble. For the matter of that I'll do it if you'll trust me there's only one thing against it all Miss Melmont and what's that? After the sort of society you've been used to here I don't know how you'll get on among us Americans. We're a pretty rough lot I guess though perhaps what you lose in the look of the fruit you'll make up in the flavor. This Fisker said in a somewhat plaintive tone as though fearing that the manifest substantial advantages of Frisco would not suffice to atone for the loss of that fashion to which Miss Melmont had been used. I hate swells said Marie flashing round upon him. Do you now? Like poison. What's the use of them? They never mean a word that they say and they don't say so many words either. They're never more than half awake and don't care the least about anybody. I hate London. Do you now? Oh don't I. I wonder whether you'd hate Frisco. I rather think it would be a jolly sort of place. Very jolly I find it and I wonder whether you'd hate me. Mr. Fisker that's nonsense. Why should I hate anybody? But you do. I've found out one or two that you don't love. If you do come to Frisco I hope you won't just hate me you know. Then he took her gently by the arm but she whisking herself away rapidly made him behave himself. Then they returned to their lodgings and Mr. Fisker before he went back to London mixed a little warm brandy and water for Madame Melmont. I think that upon the whole Madame Melmont was more comfortable at Hampstead than she had been either in Grosvenor Square or Bruton Street although she was certainly not a thing beautiful to look at in her widow's weeds. I don't think much of you as a bookkeeper you know Fisker said to Miles Grendel in the now almost deserted boardroom of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway. Miles remembering his father's advice answered not a word but merely looked with assumed amazement at the impertinent stranger who dared thus to censure his performances. Fisker had made three or four remarks previous to this and had appealed both to Paul Montague and to Kroll who were present. He had invited also the attendants of Sir Felix Carberry Lord Nitterdale and Mr. Longstaff who were all directors but none of them had come. Sir Felix had paid no attention to Fisker's letter. Lord Nitterdale had written a short but characteristic reply Dear Mr. Fisker I really don't know anything about it yours Nitterdale Mr. Longstaff with laborious zeal had closely covered four pages with his reasons for nonattendance with which the reader shall not be troubled in which it may be doubted whether even Fisker perused to the end. Upon my word continued Fisker it's astonishing to me that Melmont should have put up with this kind of thing I suppose you understand something of business Mr. Kroll It was not my department Mr. Fisker said the German nor anybody else's either said the domineering American of course it's on the cards Mr. Grendel that we shall have to put you into a witness box because there are certain things we must get at Miles was silent as the grave but at once made up his mind that he would pass his ottomans some pleasant but economical German retreat and that his autumnal retirement should be commenced within a very few days or perhaps hours might suffice but Fisker was not in earnest in his thread in truth the greater the confusion in the London office the better he thought were the prospects of the company at San Francisco Miles underwent purgatory on this occasion for three or four hours and when dismissed had certainly revealed none of Melmont's secrets he did however go to Germany finding that a temporary absence from England would be comfortable to him in more respects than one and need not be heard of again in these pages when Melmont's affairs were ultimately wound up there was found to be nearly enough of property to satisfy all his proved liabilities very many men started up with huge claims asserting that they had been robbed and in the confusion it was hard to ascertain who had been robbed or who had simply been unsuccessful in their attempts to rob others some no doubt as was the case with poor Mr. Breger had speculated independence on Melmont's sagacity and had lost heavily without dishonesty but of those who like the long staffs were able to prove direct debt the condition at last was not very sad our excellent friend Dolly got his money early in the day and was able under Mr. Squirkham's guidance to start himself on a new career having paid his debts and was still a large balance at his bankers he assured his friend Nitterdale that he meant to turn over an entirely new leaf I shall just make Squirkham allow me so much a month and I shall have all the bills and that kind of thing sent to him and he will do everything and pull me up if I'm getting wrong I like Squirkham won't he rob you old fellow suggested Nitterdale of course he will but he won't let anyone else do it one has to be plucked but it's everything to have it done on a system if he'll only let me have 10 shillings out of every sovereign I think I can get along let us hope that Mr. Squirkham was merciful and that Dolly was enabled to live in accordance with his virtuous resolutions but these things did not arrange themselves till late in the winter long after Mr. Fiskars' departure for California that however was protracted till a day much later than he anticipated before he had become intimate with Madame Melmont and Marie Madame Melmont's affairs occupied him for a while almost exclusively the furniture and plate were of course sold for the creditors but Madame Melmont was allowed to take whatever she declared to be specially her own property and though much was said about the jewels no attempt was made to recover them Marie advised Madame Melmont to give them up assuring the old woman that she should have whatever she wanted for her maintenance but it was not likely that Melmont's widow would willingly abandon any property and she did not abandon her jewels it was agreed between her and Fiskars that they were to be taken to New York you'll get as much there as in London if you like to part with them and nobody will say anything about it there you couldn't sell a locket or chain here without all the world talking about it in all these things Madame Melmont put herself into Fiskars' hands with the most absolute confidence and indeed with the confidence that was justified by its results it was not by robbing an old woman that Fiskars intended to make himself great to Madame Melmont's thinking Fiskars was the finest gentleman she had ever met so infinitely pleasant her in his manner than Lord Alfred even when Lord Alfred had been most gracious with so much more to say for himself than Miles Grendel understanding her so much better than any man had ever done especially when he supplied her with those small warm beakers of sweet brandy and water I shall do whatever he tells me she said to Marie I'm sure I have nothing to keep me here in this country I'm willing to go said Marie I don't want to stay in London I suppose you'll take him if he asks you I don't know anything about that said Marie a man may be very well without ones wanting to marry him I don't think I'll marry anybody what's the use it's only money nobody cares for anything else Fiskars all very well but he only wants the money do you think Fiskars asked me to marry him if I hadn't got anything not he he ain't slow enough for that I think he's a very nice young man said Madame Melmont end of chapter 92 chapter 93 of the way we live now this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org the way we live now by Anthony Trollop chapter 93 a true lover had a carberry out of the fullness of her heart having made up her mind that she had been unjust to her lover wrote to him a letter full of penitence full of love telling him at great length all the details of her meeting with Mrs. Hurdle and bidding him come back to her and bring the brooch with him but this letter she had unfortunately addressed to the bear garden as he had written to her from that club and partly through his own fault and partly through the demoralization of that once perfect establishment the letter never reached his hands when therefore he returned to London he was justified in supposing that she had refused even to notice his appeal he was however determined that he would still make further struggles he had he felt to contend with many difficulties Mrs. Hurdle, Roger Carberry, and head his mother were he thought all inimical to him Mrs. Hurdle though she had declared that she would not rage as a lioness could hardly be his friend in the matter Roger had repeatedly declared his determination to regard him as a traitor and Lady Carberry as he well knew had always been and always would be opposed to the match but Heta had owned that she loved him had submitted to his caresses and had been proud of his admiration and Paul though he did not probably analyze very carefully the character of his beloved still felt instinctively that having so far prevailed with such a girl his prospects could not be altogether hopeless and yet how should he continue the struggle with what weapons should he carry on the fight the writing of letters is but a one-sided troublesome proceeding when the person to whom they are written will not answer them and the calling at a door at which the servant has been instructed to refuse a visitor admission becomes disagreeable if not degrading after a time but Heta had written a second epistle not to her lover but to one who received his letters with more regularity when she rashly and with precipitate wrath quarreled with Paul Montague she at once communicated the fact to her mother and through her mother to her cousin Roger though she would not recognize Roger as a lover she did acknowledge him to be the head of her family and her own special friend and entitled in some special way to know all that she herself did and all that was done in regard to her she therefore wrote to her cousin telling him that she had made a mistake about Paul that she was convinced that Paul had always behaved to her with absolute sincerity and in short that Paul was the best and dearest and most ill-used of human beings in her enthusiasm she went on to declare that there could be no other chance of happiness for her in this world than that of becoming Paul's wife and to beseech her dearest friend and cousin Roger not to turn against her but to lend her an aiding hand there are those whom strong words and letters never affected all who perhaps hardly read them and take what they do read as meaning no more than half what is said but Roger Carberry was certainly not one of these as he sat on the garden wall at Carberry with his cousin's letter in his hand her words had their full weight with him he did not try to convince himself that all this was the verbiage of an enthusiastic girl who might soon be turned and trained to another mode of thinking by fitting admonitions to him now as he read and reread had his letter sitting on the wall there was not at any rate further hope for himself though he was altogether unchanged himself though he was altogether incapable of change though he could not rally himself sufficiently to look forward to even a passive enjoyment of life without the girl whom he had loved yet he told himself what he believed to be the truth at last he owned directly and plainly that whether happy or unhappy he must do without her he had let time slip by with him too fast and too far before he had ventured to love he must now stomach his disappointment and make the best he could of such a broken ill conditioned life as was left to him but if he acknowledged this and he did acknowledge it in what fashion should he in future treat the man and woman who had reduced him so low at this moment his mind was tuned to high thoughts if it were possible he would be unselfish he could not indeed bring himself to think with kindness of Paul Montague he could not say to himself that the man had not been treacherous to him nor could he forgive the man's supposed treason but he did tell himself very plainly that in comparison with Heta the man was nothing to him it could hardly be worth his while to maintain a quarrel with the man if he were once able to assure Heta that she as the wife of another man should still be dear to him as a friend might be dear he was well aware that such assurance such forgiveness must contain very much if it were to be so Heta's child must take the name of Carberry and must be to him as his heir as near as possible his own child in her favor he must throw aside that law of primogeniture which to him was so sacred that he had been hitherto minded to make Sir Felix his heir in spite of the absolute unfitness of the wretched young man all this must be changed should he be able to persuade himself to give his consent to the marriage in such case Carberry must be the home of the married couple as far as he could induce them to make it so there must be born the future infant to whose existence he was already looking forward with some idea that in his old age he might there find comfort in such case though he should never again be able to love Paul Montague in his heart of hearts he must live with him for her sake on affectionate terms he must forgive Heta altogether as though there had been no fault and he must strive to forgive the man's fault as best he might struggling as he was to be generous passionately fond as he was of justice yet he did not know how to be just himself he could not see that he in truth had been to no extent ill-used and ever and again as he thought of the great prayer as to the forgiveness of trespasses he could not refrain from asking himself whether it could really be intended that he should forgive such trespass as that committed against him by Paul Montague nevertheless when he rose from the wall he had resolved that Heta should be pardoned entirely and that Paul Montague should be treated as though he were pardoned as for himself the chances of the world had been unkind to him and he would submit to them nevertheless he wrote no answer to Heta's letter perhaps he felt with some undefined but still existing hope that the writing of such a letter would deprive him of his last chance Heta's letter to himself hardly required an immediate answer did not indeed demand any answer she had simply told him that whereas she had for certain reasons quarreled with the man she had loved she had now come to the conclusion that she would quarrel with him no longer she had asked for her cousin's assent to her own views but that as Roger felt was to be given rather by the discontinuance of opposition than by any positive action Roger's influence with her mother was the assistance which Heta really wanted from him and that influence could hardly be given by the writing of any letter thinking of all this Roger determined that he would again go up to London he would have the vacant hours of the journey in which to think of it all again and tell himself whether it was possible for him to bring his heart to agree to the marriage and then he would see the people and perhaps learn something further from their manner and their words before he finally committed himself to the abandonment of his own hopes and the completion of theirs he went up to town and I do not know that those vacant hours served him much to a man not accustomed to thinking there is nothing in the world so difficult as to think after some loose fashion we turn over things in our mind and ultimately reach some decision guided probably by our feelings at the last moment rather than by any process of rationation and then we think that we have thought but to follow out one argument to an end and then to found on the base so reached the commencement of another is not common to us such a process was hardly within the compass of Roger's mind who when he was made wretched by the dust and by a female who had a basket of objectionable provisions opposite to him almost for swore his charitable resolutions of the day before but who again as he walked lonely at night round the square which was near to his hotel looking up at the bright moon with a full appreciation of the beauty of the heavens asked himself what was he that you should wish to interfere with the happiness of two human beings much younger than himself and much fitter to enjoy the world but he had had a bath and had got rid of the dust and had eaten his dinner the next morning he was in Wellbeck street at an early hour when he knocked he had not made up his mind whether he would ask for Lady Calvary or her daughter and did at last inquire whether the ladies were at home the ladies were reported as being at home and he was at once shown into the drawing room where Heta was sitting she hurried up to him and he had once took her in his arms and kissed her he had never done such a thing before he had never even kissed her hand though they were cousins and dear friends he had never treated her after that fashion her instinct told her immediately that such a greeting from him was a sign of affectionate compliance with her wishes that this man should kiss her as her best and dearest relation as her most trusted friend as almost her brother was certainly to her no offense she could cling to him in fondest love if he would only consent not to be her lover oh roger i am so glad to see you she said escaping gently from his arms i could not write an answer and so i came you always do the kindest thing that can be done i don't know i don't know that i can do anything now kind or unkind it is all done without any aid from me heta you have been all the world to me do not reproach me she said no no why should i reproach you you have committed no fault i should not have come had i intended to reproach anyone i love you so much for saying that let it be as you wish it if it must i have made up my mind to bear it and there shall be an end of it as she said this he took her by the hand and she put her head upon his shoulder and began to weep and still you will be all the world to me he continued with his arm around her waist as you will not be my wife you shall be my daughter i will be your sister roger my daughter rather you shall be all that i have in the world i will hurry to grow old that i may feel for you as the old feel for the young and if you have a child had a he must be my child as he thus spoke her tears were renewed i have planned it all out in my mind dear there if there be anything that i can do to add to your happiness i will do it you must believe this of me that to make you happy shall be the only enjoyment of my life it had been hardly possible for her to tell him as yet that the man to whom he was thus consenting to surrender her had not even condescended to answer the letter in which she had told him to come back to her and now sobbing as she was overcome by the tenderness of her cousin's affection anxious to express her intense gratitude she did not know how first to mention the name of paul montague have you seen him she said in a whisper seen whom mr montague no why should i have seen him it is not for his sake that i am here but you will be his friend your husband shall certainly be my friend or if not the fault shall not be mine it shall all be forgotten heta is nearly as such things may be forgotten but i had nothing to say to him till i had seen you at that moment the door was opened and lady carberry entered the room and after her greeting with her cousin looked first at her daughter and then at roger i have come up said he to signify my adhesion to this marriage lady carberry's face fell very low i need not speak again of what were my own wishes i have learned at last that it could not have been so why should you say so exclaimed lady carberry pray pray mama heta began but was unable to find words with which to go on with her prayer i did not know that it need be so at all continued lady carberry i think it is very much in your own hands of course it is not for me to press such an arrangement if it be not in accord with your own wishes i look upon her as engaged to mary paul montague said roger not at all said lady carberry yes mama yes cried heta boldly it is so i am engaged to him i beg to let your cousin know that it is not so with my consent nor as far as i can understand at present with the consent of mr montague himself mama paul montague ejaculated roger carberry the consent of paul montague i think i may take it upon myself to say that there can be no doubt as to that there has been a quarrel said lady carberry surely he has not quarreled with you heta i wrote to him and he has not answered me said heta pitiously then lady carberry gave a full and somewhat colored account of what had taken place while roger listened with admirable patience the marriage is on every account objectionable she said at last his means are precarious his conduct with regard to that woman has been very bad he has been sadly mixed up with that wretched man who destroyed himself and now when henry edda has written to him without my sanction in opposition to my express commands he takes no notice of her she very properly sent him back a present that he made her and no doubt he has resented her doing so i trust that his resentment may be continued heta was now seated on a sofa hiding her face and weeping roger stood perfectly still listening with respectful silence till lady carberry had spoken her last word and even then he was slow to answer considering what he might best say i think i had better see him he replied if as i imagine he has not received my cousin's letter that matter will be said at rest we must not take advantage of such an accident as that as to his income that i think may be managed his connection with mr melmont was unfortunate but was due to no fault of his at this moment he could not but remember lady carberry's great anxiety to be closely connected with melmont but he was too generous to say a word on that head i will see him lady carberry and then i will come to you again lady carberry did not dare to tell him that she did not wish him to see paul montague she knew that if he really threw himself into the scale against her her opposition would weigh nothing he was too powerful in his honesty and greatness of character and had been too often admitted by herself to be the guardian angel of the family for her to stand against him but she still thought that had he persevered heta would have become his wife it was late that evening before roger found paul montague who had only then returned from liverpool with fisker whose subsequent doings have been recorded somewhat out of their turn i don't know what letter you mean said paul you wrote to her certainly i wrote to her i wrote to her twice my last letter was one which i think she ought to have answered she had accepted me and had given me a right to tell my own story when she unfortunately heard from other sources the story of my journey to lowstaff with mrs hurtle paul pleaded his own case with indignant heat not understanding at first that roger had come to him on a friendly mission she did answer your letter i have not had a line from her not a word she did answer your letter what did she say to me nay you must ask her that but if she will not see me she will see you i can tell you that and i will tell you this also that she wrote to you as a girl writes to the lover whom she does wish to see is that true exclaimed paul jumping up i am here especially to tell you that it is true i should hardly come on such a message if there were a doubt you may go to her and need have nothing to fear unless indeed it be the opposition of her mother she is stronger than her mother said paul i think she is and now i wish you to hear what i have to say of course said paul sitting down suddenly up to this moment roger carberry though he had certainly brought glad tidings had not communicated them as a joyous sympathetic messenger his face had been severe and the tone of his voice almost harsh and paul remembering well the words of the last letter which his old friend had written him did not expect personal kindness roger would probably say very disagreeable things to him which he must bear with all the patience which he could summon to his assistance you know what my feelings have been roger began and how deeply i have resented what i thought to be an interference with my affections but no quarrel between you and me whatever the rights of it may be i have never quarreled with you paul began if you will listen to me for a moment it will be better no anger between you and me let it arise as it might should be allowed to interfere with the happiness of her whom i suppose we both love better than all the rest of the world put together i do said paul and so do i and so i always shall but she is to be your wife she shall be my daughter she shall have my property or her child shall be my heir my house shall be her house if you and she will consent to make it so you will not be afraid of me you know me i think too well for that you may now count on any assistance you could have from me where i a father giving you a daughter in marriage i do this because i will make the happiness of her life the chief object of mine now good night don't say anything about it at present by and by we should be able to talk about these things with more equitable temper having so spoken he hurried out of the room leaving paul montague bewildered by the tidings which had been announced to him end of chapter 93