CHAPTER XXXIX.

"I DO LOVE HIM."

So it was. Lady Carbury had returned home from the soirée of learned

people, and had brought Roger Carbury with her. They both came up

to the drawing-room and found Paul and Henrietta together. It need

hardly be said that they were both surprised. Roger supposed that

Montague was still at Liverpool, and, knowing that he was not a

frequent visitor in Welbeck Street, could hardly avoid a feeling

that a meeting between the two had now been planned in the mother's

absence. The reader knows that it was not so. Roger certainly was a

man not liable to suspicion, but the circumstances in this case were

suspicious. There would have been nothing to suspect,--no reason why

Paul should not have been there,--but from the promise which had been

given. There was, indeed, no breach of that promise proved by Paul's

presence in Welbeck Street; but Roger felt rather than thought that

the two could hardly have spent the evening together without such

breach. Whether Paul had broken the promise by what he had already

said the reader must be left to decide.

Lady Carbury was the first to speak. "This is quite an unexpected

pleasure, Mr. Montague." Whether Roger suspected anything or not,

she did. The moment she saw Paul the idea occurred to her that the

meeting between Hetta and him had been preconcerted.

"Yes," he said,--making a lame excuse, where no excuse should have

been made,--"I had nothing to do, and was lonely, and thought that I

would come up and see you." Lady Carbury disbelieved him altogether,

but Roger felt assured that his coming in Lady Carbury's absence had

been an accident. The man had said so, and that was enough.

"I thought you were at Liverpool," said Roger.

"I came back to-day,--to be present at that Board in the city. I have

had a good deal to trouble me. I will tell you all about it just now.

What has brought you to London?"

"A little business," said Roger.

Then there was an awkward silence. Lady Carbury was angry, and hardly

knew whether she ought or ought not to show her anger. For Henrietta

it was very awkward. She, too, could not but feel that she had been

caught, though no innocence could be whiter than hers. She knew well

her mother's mind, and the way in which her mother's thoughts would

run. Silence was frightful to her, and she found herself forced to

speak. "Have you had a pleasant evening, mamma?"

"Have you had a pleasant evening, my dear?" said Lady Carbury,

forgetting herself in her desire to punish her daughter.

"Indeed, no," said Hetta, attempting to laugh, "I have been trying to

work hard at Dante, but one never does any good when one has to try

to work. I was just going to bed when Mr. Montague came in. What did

you think of the wise men and the wise women, Roger?"

"I was out of my element, of course; but I think your mother liked

it."

"I was very glad indeed to meet Dr. Palmoil. It seems that if we

can only open the interior of Africa a little further, we can get

everything that is wanted to complete the chemical combination

necessary for feeding the human race. Isn't that a grand idea,

Roger?"

"A little more elbow grease is the combination that I look to."

"Surely, Roger, if the Bible is to go for anything, we are to believe

that labour is a curse and not a blessing. Adam was not born to

labour."

"But he fell; and I doubt whether Dr. Palmoil will be able to put his

descendants back into Eden."

"Roger, for a religious man, you do say the strangest things! I have

quite made up my mind to this;--if ever I can see things so settled

here as to enable me to move, I will visit the interior of Africa. It

is the garden of the world."

This scrap of enthusiasm so carried them through their immediate

difficulties that the two men were able to take their leave and to

get out of the room with fair comfort. As soon as the door was closed

behind them Lady Carbury attacked her daughter. "What brought him

here?"

"He brought himself, mamma."

"Don't answer me in that way, Hetta. Of course he brought himself.

That is insolent."

"Insolent, mamma! How can you say such hard words? I meant that he

came of his own accord."

"How long was he here?"

"Two minutes before you came in. Why do you cross-question me like

this? I could not help his coming. I did not desire that he might be

shown up."

"You did not know that he was to come?"

"Mamma, if I am to be suspected, all is over between us."

"What do you mean by that?"

"If you can think that I would deceive you, you will think so always.

If you will not trust me, how am I to live with you as though you

did? I knew nothing of his coming."

"Tell me this, Hetta; are you engaged to marry him?"

"No;--I am not."

"Has he asked you to marry him?"

Hetta paused a moment, considering, before she answered this

question. "I do not think he ever has."

"You do not think?"

"I was going on to explain. He never has asked me. But he has said

that which makes me know that he wishes me to be his wife."

"What has he said? When did he say it?"

Again she paused. But again she answered with straightforward

simplicity. "Just before you came in, he said--; I don't know what he

said; but it meant that."

"You told me he had been here but a minute."

"It was but very little more. If you take me at my word in that way,

of course you can make me out to be wrong, mamma. It was almost no

time, and yet he said it."

"He had come prepared to say it."

"How could he,--expecting to find you?"

"Psha! He expected nothing of the kind."

"I think you do him wrong, mamma. I am sure you are doing me wrong.

I think his coming was an accident, and that what he said was--an

accident."

"An accident!"

"It was not intended,--not then, mamma. I have known it ever so

long;--and so have you. It was natural that he should say so when we

were alone together."

"And you;--what did you say?"

"Nothing. You came."

"I am sorry that my coming should have been so inopportune. But I

must ask one other question, Hetta. What do you intend to say?" Hetta

was again silent, and now for a longer space. She put her hand up to

her brow and pushed back her hair as she thought whether her mother

had a right to continue this cross-examination. She had told her

mother everything as it had happened. She had kept back no deed done,

no word spoken, either now or at any time. But she was not sure that

her mother had a right to know her thoughts, feeling as she did that

she had so little sympathy from her mother. "How do you intend to

answer him?" demanded Lady Carbury.

"I do not know that he will ask again."

"That is prevaricating."

"No, mamma;--I do not prevaricate. It is unfair to say that to me.

I do love him. There. I think it ought to have been enough for you to

know that I should never give him encouragement without telling you

about it. I do love him, and I shall never love any one else."

"He is a ruined man. Your cousin says that all this Company in which

he is involved will go to pieces."

Hetta was too clever to allow this argument to pass. She did not

doubt that Roger had so spoken of the Railway to her mother, but she

did doubt that her mother had believed the story. "If so," said she,

"Mr. Melmotte will be a ruined man too, and yet you want Felix to

marry Marie Melmotte."

"It makes me ill to hear you talk,--as if you understood these

things. And you think you will marry this man because he is to make a

fortune out of the Railway!" Lady Carbury was able to speak with an

extremity of scorn in reference to the assumed pursuit by one of her

children of an advantageous position which she was doing all in her

power to recommend to the other child.

"I have not thought of his fortune. I have not thought of marrying

him, mamma. I think you are very cruel to me. You say things so hard,

that I cannot bear them."

"Why will you not marry your cousin?"

"I am not good enough for him."

"Nonsense!"

"Very well; you say so. But that is what I think. He is so much above

me, that, though I do love him, I cannot think of him in that way.

And I have told you that I do love some one else. I have no secret

from you now. Good night, mamma," she said, coming up to her mother

and kissing her. "Do be kind to me; and pray,--pray,--do believe me."

Lady Carbury then allowed herself to be kissed, and allowed her

daughter to leave the room.

[Illustration: Lady Carbury allowed herself to be kissed.]

There was a great deal said that night between Roger Carbury and

Paul Montague before they parted. As they walked together to Roger's

hotel he said not a word as to Paul's presence in Welbeck Street.

Paul had declared his visit in Lady Carbury's absence to have

been accidental,--and therefore there was nothing more to be said.

Montague then asked as to the cause of Carbury's journey to London.

"I do not wish it to be talked of," said Roger after a pause,--"and

of course I could not speak of it before Hetta. A girl has gone away

from our neighbourhood. You remember old Ruggles?"

"You do not mean that Ruby has levanted? She was to have married John

Crumb."

"Just so,--but she has gone off, leaving John Crumb in an unhappy

frame of mind. John Crumb is an honest man and almost too good for

her."

"Ruby is very pretty. Has she gone with any one?"

"No;--she went alone. But the horror of it is this. They think down

there that Felix has,--well, made love to her, and that she has been

taken to London by him."

"That would be very bad."

"He certainly has known her. Though he lied, as he always lies, when

I first spoke to him, I brought him to admit that he and she had

been friends down in Suffolk. Of course we know what such friendship

means. But I do not think that she came to London at his instance. Of

course he would lie about that. He would lie about anything. If his

horse cost him a hundred pounds, he would tell one man that he gave

fifty, and another two hundred. But he has not lived long enough yet

to be able to lie and tell the truth with the same eye. When he is as

old as I am he'll be perfect."

"He knows nothing about her coming to town?"

"He did not when I first asked him. I am not sure, but I fancy that

I was too quick after her. She started last Saturday morning. I

followed on the Sunday, and made him out at his club. I think that he

knew nothing then of her being in town. He is very clever if he did.

Since that he has avoided me. I caught him once but only for half a

minute, and then he swore that he had not seen her."

"You still believed him?"

"No;--he did it very well, but I knew that he was prepared for me.

I cannot say how it may have been. To make matters worse old Ruggles

has now quarrelled with Crumb, and is no longer anxious to get back

his granddaughter. He was frightened at first; but that has gone off,

and he is now reconciled to the loss of the girl and the saving of

his money."

After that Paul told all his own story,--the double story, both in

regard to Melmotte and to Mrs. Hurtle. As regarded the Railway, Roger

could only tell him to follow explicitly the advice of his Liverpool

friend. "I never believed in the thing, you know."

"Nor did I. But what could I do?"

"I'm not going to blame you. Indeed, knowing you as I do, feeling

sure that you intend to be honest, I would not for a moment insist on

my own opinion, if it did not seem that Mr. Ramsbottom thinks as I

do. In such a matter, when a man does not see his own way clearly,

it behoves him to be able to show that he has followed the advice

of some man whom the world esteems and recognises. You have to bind

your character to another man's character; and that other man's

character, if it be good, will carry you through. From what I hear

Mr. Ramsbottom's character is sufficiently good;--but then you must

do exactly what he tells you."

But the Railway business, though it comprised all that Montague had

in the world, was not the heaviest of his troubles. What was he to

do about Mrs. Hurtle? He had now, for the first time, to tell his

friend that Mrs. Hurtle had come to London, and that he had been with

her three or four times. There was this difficulty in the matter,

too,--that it was very hard to speak of his engagement with Mrs.

Hurtle without in some sort alluding to his love for Henrietta

Carbury. Roger knew of both loves;--had been very urgent with his

friend to abandon the widow, and at any rate equally urgent with him

to give up the other passion. Were he to marry the widow, all danger

on the other side would be at an end. And yet, in discussing the

question of Mrs. Hurtle, he was to do so as though there were no such

person existing as Henrietta Carbury. The discussion did take place

exactly as though there were no such person as Henrietta Carbury.

Paul told it all,--the rumoured duel, the rumoured murder, and the

rumour of the existing husband.

"It may be necessary that you should go out to Kansas,--and to

Oregon," said Roger.

"But even if the rumours be untrue I will not marry her," said Paul.

Roger shrugged his shoulders. He was doubtless thinking of Hetta

Carbury, but he said nothing. "And what would she do, remaining

here?" continued Paul. Roger admitted that it would be awkward. "I

am determined that under no circumstances will I marry her. I know

I have been a fool. I know I have been wrong. But of course, if there

be a fair cause for my broken word, I will use it if I can."

"You will get out of it, honestly if you can; but you will get out of

it honestly or--any other way."

"Did you not advise me to get out of it, Roger;--before we knew as

much as we do now?"

"I did,--and I do. If you make a bargain with the Devil, it may be

dishonest to cheat him,--and yet I would have you cheat him if you

could. As to this woman, I do believe she has deceived you. If I were

you, nothing should induce me to marry her;--not though her claws

were strong enough to tear me utterly in pieces. I'll tell you what

I'll do. I'll go and see her if you like it."

But Paul would not submit to this. He felt that he was bound himself

to incur the risk of those claws, and that no substitute could take

his place. They sat long into the night, and it was at last resolved

between them that on the next morning Paul should go to Islington,

should tell Mrs. Hurtle all the stories which he had heard, and

should end by declaring his resolution that under no circumstances

would he marry her. They both felt how improbable it was that he

should ever be allowed to get to the end of such a story,--how almost

certain it was that the breeding of the wild cat would show itself

before that time should come. But, still, that was the course to be

pursued as far as circumstances would admit; and Paul was at any rate

to declare, claws or no claws, husband or no husband,--whether the

duel or the murder was admitted or denied,--that he would never make

Mrs. Hurtle his wife. "I wish it were over, old fellow," said Roger.

"So do I," said Paul, as he took his leave.

He went to bed like a man condemned to die on the next morning, and

he awoke in the same condition. He had slept well, but as he shook

from him his happy dream, the wretched reality at once overwhelmed

him. But the man who is to be hung has no choice. He cannot, when he

wakes, declare that he has changed his mind, and postpone the hour.

It was quite open to Paul Montague to give himself such instant

relief. He put his hand up to his brow, and almost made himself

believe that his head was aching. This was Saturday. Would it not be

well that he should think of it further, and put off his execution

till Monday? Monday was so far distant that he felt that he could go

to Islington quite comfortably on Monday. Was there not some hitherto

forgotten point which it would be well that he should discuss with

his friend Roger before he saw the lady? Should he not rush down to

Liverpool, and ask a few more questions of Mr. Ramsbottom? Why should

he go forth to execution, seeing that the matter was in his own

hands?

At last he jumped out of bed and into his tub, and dressed himself

as quickly as he could. He worked himself up into a fit of fortitude,

and resolved that the thing should be done before the fit was over.

He ate his breakfast about nine, and then asked himself whether he

might not be too early were he to go at once to Islington. But he

remembered that she was always early. In every respect she was an

energetic woman, using her time for some purpose, either good or bad,

not sleeping it away in bed. If one has to be hung on a given day,

would it not be well to be hung as soon after waking as possible?

I can fancy that the hangman would hardly come early enough. And if

one had to be hung in a given week, would not one wish to be hung on

the first day of the week, even at the risk of breaking one's last

Sabbath day in this world? Whatever be the misery to be endured, get

it over. The horror of every agony is in its anticipation. Paul had

realised something of this when he threw himself into a Hansom cab,

and ordered the man to drive him to Islington.

How quick that cab went! Nothing ever goes so quick as a Hansom cab

when a man starts for a dinner-party a little too early;--nothing

so slow when he starts too late. Of all cabs this, surely, was

the quickest. Paul was lodging in Suffolk Street, close to Pall

Mall,--whence the way to Islington, across Oxford Street, across

Tottenham Court Road, across numerous squares north-east of the

Museum, seems to be long. The end of Goswell Road is the outside

of the world in that direction, and Islington is beyond the end of

Goswell Road. And yet that Hansom cab was there before Paul Montague

had been able to arrange the words with which he would begin the

interview. He had given the street and the number of the street. It

was not till after he had started that it occurred to him that it

might be well that he should get out at the end of the street, and

walk to the house,--so that he might, as it were, fetch his breath

before the interview was commenced. But the cabman dashed up to the

door in a manner purposely devised to make every inmate of the house

aware that a cab had just arrived before it. There was a little

garden before the house. We all know the garden;--twenty-four feet

long, by twelve broad;--and an iron-grated door, with the landlady's

name on a brass plate. Paul, when he had paid the cabman,--giving the

man half-a-crown, and asking for no change in his agony,--pushed in

the iron gate and walked very quickly up to the door, rang rather

furiously, and before the door was well opened asked for Mrs. Hurtle.

"Mrs. Hurtle is out for the day," said the girl who opened the door.

"Leastways, she went out yesterday and won't be back till to-night."

Providence had sent him a reprieve! But he almost forgot the

reprieve, as he looked at the girl and saw that she was Ruby Ruggles.

"Oh laws, Mr. Montague, is that you?" Ruby Ruggles had often seen

Paul down in Suffolk, and recognised him as quickly as he did her. It

occurred to her at once that he had come in search of herself. She

knew that Roger Carbury was up in town looking for her. So much she

had of course learned from Sir Felix,--for at this time she had seen

the baronet more than once since her arrival. Montague, she knew,

was Roger Carbury's intimate friend, and now she felt that she was

caught. In her terror she did not at first remember that the visitor

had asked for Mrs. Hurtle.

"Yes, it is I. I was sorry to hear, Miss Ruggles, that you had left

your home."

"I'm all right, Mr. Montague;--I am. Mrs. Pipkin is my aunt, or,

leastways, my mother's brother's widow, though grandfather never

would speak to her. She's quite respectable, and has five children,

and lets lodgings. There's a lady here now, and has gone away with

her just for one night down to Southend. They'll be back this

evening, and I've the children to mind, with the servant girl. I'm

quite respectable here, Mr. Montague, and nobody need be a bit afraid

about me."

"Mrs. Hurtle has gone down to Southend?"

"Yes, Mr. Montague; she wasn't quite well, and wanted a breath of

air, she said. And aunt didn't like she should go alone, as Mrs.

Hurtle is such a stranger. And Mrs. Hurtle said as she didn't

mind paying for two, and so they've gone, and the baby with them.

Mrs. Pipkin said as the baby shouldn't be no trouble. And Mrs.

Hurtle,--she's most as fond of the baby as aunt. Do you know Mrs.

Hurtle, sir?"

"Yes; she's a friend of mine."

"Oh; I didn't know. I did know as there was some friend as was

expected and as didn't come. Be I to say, sir, as you was here?"

Paul thought it might be as well to shift the subject and to ask Ruby

a few questions about herself while he made up his mind what message

he would leave for Mrs. Hurtle. "I'm afraid they are very unhappy

about you down at Bungay, Miss Ruggles."

"Then they've got to be unhappy; that's all about it, Mr. Montague.

Grandfather is that provoking as a young woman can't live with him,

nor yet I won't try never again. He lugged me all about the room by

my hair, Mr. Montague. How is a young woman to put up with that?

And I did everything for him,--that careful that no one won't do it

again;--did his linen, and his victuals, and even cleaned his boots

of a Sunday, 'cause he was that mean he wouldn't have anybody about

the place only me and the girl who had to milk the cows. There wasn't

nobody to do anything, only me. And then he went to drag me about

by the hairs of my head. You won't see me again at Sheep's Acre, Mr.

Montague;--nor yet won't the Squire."

"But I thought there was somebody else was to give you a home."

"John Crumb! Oh, yes, there's John Crumb. There's plenty of people to

give me a home, Mr. Montague."

"You were to have been married to John Crumb, I thought."

"Ladies is to change their minds if they like it, Mr. Montague. I'm

sure you've heard that before. Grandfather made me say I'd have

him,--but I never cared that for him."

"I'm afraid, Miss Ruggles, you won't find a better man up here in

London."

"I didn't come here to look for a man, Mr. Montague; I can tell you

that. They has to look for me, if they want me. But I am looked

after; and that by one as John Crumb ain't fit to touch." That told

the whole story. Paul when he heard the little boast was quite sure

that Roger's fear about Felix was well founded. And as for John

Crumb's fitness to touch Sir Felix, Paul felt that the Bungay mealman

might have an opinion of his own on that matter. "But there's Betsy a

crying up-stairs, and I promised not to leave them children for one

minute."

"I will tell the Squire that I saw you, Miss Ruggles."

"What does the Squire want o' me? I ain't nothing to the

Squire,--except that I respects him. You can tell if you please, Mr.

Montague, of course. I'm a coming, my darling."

Paul made his way into Mrs. Hurtle's sitting-room and wrote a note

for her in pencil. He had come, he said, immediately on his return

from Liverpool, and was sorry to find that she was away for the day.

When should he call again? If she would make an appointment he would

attend to it. He felt as he wrote this that he might very safely have

himself made an appointment for the morrow; but he cheated himself

into half believing that the suggestion he now made was the more

gracious and civil. At any rate it would certainly give him another

day. Mrs. Hurtle would not return till late in the evening, and as

the following day was Sunday there would be no delivery by post.

When the note was finished he left it on the table, and called to

Ruby to tell her that he was going. "Mr. Montague," she said in a

confidential whisper, as she tripped down the stairs, "I don't see

why you need be saying anything about me, you know."

"Mr. Carbury is up in town looking after you."

"What 'm I to Mr. Carbury?"

"Your grandfather is very anxious about you."

"Not a bit of it, Mr. Montague. Grandfather knows very well where

I am. There! Grandfather doesn't want me back, and I ain't a going.

Why should the Squire bother himself about me? I don't bother myself

about him."

"He's afraid, Miss Ruggles, that you are trusting yourself to a young

man who is not trustworthy."

"I can mind myself very well, Mr. Montague."

"Tell me this. Have you seen Sir Felix Carbury since you've been in

town?" Ruby, whose blushes came very easily, now flushed up to her

forehead. "You may be sure that he means no good to you. What can

come of an intimacy between you and such a one as he?"

"I don't see why I shouldn't have my friend, Mr. Montague, as well as

you. Howsomever, if you'll not tell, I'll be ever so much obliged."

"But I must tell Mr. Carbury."

"Then I ain't obliged to you one bit," said Ruby, shutting the door.

Paul as he walked away could not help thinking of the justice of

Ruby's reproach to him. What business had he to take upon himself to

be a Mentor to any one in regard to an affair of love;--he, who had

engaged himself to marry Mrs. Hurtle, and who the evening before had

for the first time declared his love to Hetta Carbury?

In regard to Mrs. Hurtle he had got a reprieve, as he thought, for

two days;--but it did not make him happy or even comfortable. As he

walked back to his lodgings he knew it would have been better for him

to have had the interview over. But, at any rate, he could now think

of Hetta Carbury, and the words he had spoken to her. Had he heard

that declaration which she had made to her mother, he would have been

able for the hour to have forgotten Mrs. Hurtle.