‘This is a terrible business,’ said Fisker, immediately on 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 utterly4 ruined.’
‘He wouldn’t have been ruined — and couldn’t have thought so if he’d known all be 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.
‘Ah; — that’s because you’ve never above half spirit enough for a big thing. You nibble5 at it instead of swallowing it whole — and then, of course, folks see that you’re only nibbling6. I thought that Melmotte would have had spirit.’
‘There is, I fear, no doubt that he had committed forgery7. It was the dread8 of detection as to that which drove him to destroy himself.’
‘I call it dam clumsy from beginning to end; — dam clumsy. I took him to be a different man, and I feel more than half ashamed of myself because I trusted such a fellow. That chap Cohenlupe has got off with a lot of swag. Only think of Melmotte allowing Cohenlupe to get the better of him!’
‘I suppose the thing will be broken up now at San Francisco,’ suggested Paul.
‘Bu’st up at Frisco! Not if I know it. Why should it be bu’st up? D’you think we’re all going to smash there because a fool like Melmotte blows his brains out in London?’
‘He took poison.’
‘Or p’ison either. That’s not just our way. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do; and why I’m over here so uncommon9 sharp. These shares are at a’most nothing now in London. I’ll buy every share in the market. I wired for as many as I dar’d, so as not to spoil our own game, and I’ll make a clean sweep of every one of them. Bu’st up! I’m sorry for him because I thought him a biggish man; — but what he’s done’ll 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 strenuously10 that he would not return to San Francisco, and, perhaps too ingenuously11, 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 shrugged12 his shoulders, and was not displeased13 at the proposed rupture14. He was prepared to deal fairly — nay15, generously — by his partner, having recognized the wisdom of that great commercial rule which teaches us that honour should prevail among associates of a certain class; but he had fully16 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 scruples17 in others. According to his theory of life, nine hundred and ninety-nine men were obscure because of their scruples, whilst the thousandth man predominated and cropped up into the splendour of commercial wealth because he was free from such bondage18. 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 in gross 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 partnership19 with one so small as Paul Montague? ‘And now what about Winifred Hurtle?’ 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 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 Hurtle 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 Hurtle.
On the following day the two men, who were still partners, went together to London, and Fisker immediately became immersed in the arrangement of Melmotte’s affairs. He put himself into communication with Mr Brehgert, went in and out of the offices in Abchurch Lane and the rooms which had belonged to the Railway Company, cross-examined Croll, mastered the books of the Company as far as they were to be mastered, and actually summoned both the Grendalls, father and son, up to London. Lord Alfred, and Miles with him, had left London a day or two before Melmotte’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 every one know that a director of a company need not direct unless he pleases? Lord Alfred, therefore, did not even condescend20 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 d —— Company,’ said the careful father, ‘but when there I wouldn’t say a word.’ So Miles Grendall, obeying his parent, reappeared upon the scene.
But Fisker’s attention was perhaps most usefully and most sedulously21 paid to Madame Melmotte and her daughter. Till Fisker arrived no one had visited them in their solitude22 at Hampstead, except Croll, the clerk. Mr Brehgert had abstained24, thinking that a widow, who had become a widow under such terrible circumstances, would prefer to be alone. Lord Nidderdale had made his adieux, and felt that he could do no more. It need hardly be said that Lord Alfred had too much good taste to interfere25 at such a time, although for some months he had been domestically intimate with the 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 Melmotte’s presence — and he had not been there four days before he was aware that in spite of all misfortunes, Marie Melmotte was still the undoubted possessor of a large fortune.
In regard to Melmotte’s effects generally the Crown had been induced to abstain23 from interfering26 — 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 Melmotte, for whom no great commiseration27 was felt, but on behalf of such creditors28 as poor Mr Longestaffe 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 withdrawn29 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 peculiar30 cleverness which belonged to him.
Poor Madame Melmotte felt the visits of the American to be a relief to her in her misery31. The world makes great mistakes as to that which is and is not beneficial to those whom Death has bereaved32 of a companion. It may be, no doubt sometimes it is the case, that grief shall 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 Melmotte was neither crushed by grief nor did she affect to be so crushed. She had been numbed33 by the suddenness and by the awe34 of the catastrophe35. The man who had been her merciless tyrant36 for years, who had seemed to her to be a very incarnation of cruel power, had succumbed37, 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 spoke38 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 intrusive39.
And even Marie liked Fisker, though she had been wooed and almost won 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 prone40 to love — though, perhaps, not prone to deep affection. Melmotte had certainly been often cruel to her, but he had also been very indulgent. And as she had never been specially41 grateful for the one, so neither had she ever specially resented the other. Tenderness, care, real solicitude42 for her well-being43, she had never known, and had come to regard the unevenness44 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 knickknacks, and forgot the knocks and blows. But she was not beyond consolation45, 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 any one 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 Melmotte.’
‘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 flavour.’ This Fisker said in a somewhat plaintive46 tone, as though fearing that the manifest substantial advantages of Frisco would not suffice to atone47 for the loss of that fashion to which Miss Melmotte had been used.
‘I hate swells,’ said Marie, flashing round upon him.
‘Do you now?’
‘Like poison. What’s the use of ’em? 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, bade 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 Melmotte. I think that upon the whole Madame Melmotte 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 book-keeper, you know,’ Fisker said to Miles Grendall in the now almost deserted48 Board-room of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway. Miles, remembering his father’s advice, answered not a word, but merely looked with assumed amazement49 at the impertinent stranger who dared thus to censure50 his performances. Fisker had made three or four remarks previous to this, and had appealed both to Paul Montague and to Croll, who were present. He had invited also the attendance of Sir Felix Carbury, Lord Nidderdale, and Mr Longestaffe, who were all Directors; — but none of them had come. Sir Felix had paid no attention to Fisker’s letter. Lord Nidderdale had written a short but characteristic reply. ‘Dear Mr Fisker — I really don’t know anything about it. Yours, Nidderdale.’ Mr Longestaffe, with laborious51 zeal52, had closely covered four pages with his reasons for non-attendance, with which the reader shall not be troubled, and which it may be doubted whether even Fisker perused53 to the end. ‘Upon my word,’ continued Fisker, ‘it’s astonishing to me that Melmotte should have put up with this kind of thing. I suppose you understand something of business, Mr Croll?’
‘It vas 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 Grendall, 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 autumn at some pleasant but economical German retreat, and that his autumnal retirement54 should be commenced within a very few days; — or perhaps hours might suffice.
But Fisker was not in earnest in his threat. In truth the greater the confusion in the London office, the better, he thought, were the prospects55 of the Company at San Francisco. Miles underwent purgatory56 on this occasion for three or four hours, and when dismissed had certainly revealed none of Melmotte’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 Melmotte’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 ascertain57 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 Brehgert, had speculated in dependence58 on Melmotte’s sagacity, and had lost heavily without dishonesty. But of those who, like the Longestaffes, were able to prove direct debts, the condition at last was not very sad. Our excellent friend Dolly got his money early in the day, and was able, under Mr Squercum’s guidance, to start himself on a new career. Having paid his debts, and with still a large balance at his bankers, he assured his friend Nidderdale that he meant to turn over an entirely59 new leaf. ‘I shall just make Squercum 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 Squercum.’
‘Won’t he rob you, old fellow?’ suggested Nidderdale,
‘Of course he will; — but be won’t let any one 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 ten shillings out of every sovereign I think I can get along.’ Let us hope that Mr Squercum was merciful, and that Dolly was enabled to live in accordance with his virtuous60 resolutions,
But these things did not arrange themselves till late in the winter — long after Mr Fisker’s departure for California. That, however, was protracted61 till a day much later than he anticipated before he had become intimate with Madame Melmotte and Marie. Madame Melmotte’s affairs occupied him for a while almost exclusively. The furniture and plate were of course sold for the creditors, but Madame Melmotte 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 Melmotte to give them up, assuring the old woman that she should have whatever she wanted for her maintenance. But it was not likely that Melmotte’s widow would willingly abandon any property, and she did not abandon her jewels. It was agreed between her and Fisker 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’ll 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 Melmotte put herself into Fisker’s hands with the most absolute confidence — and, indeed, with a confidence that was justified62 by its results. It was not by robbing an old woman that Fisker intended to make himself great. To Madame Melmotte’s thinking, Fisker was the finest gentleman she had ever met — so infinitely63 pleasanter in his manner than Lord Alfred even when Lord Alfred had been most gracious, with so much more to say for himself than Miles Grendall, 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’ve 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 one’s 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. Fisker’s all very well; but he only wants the money. Do you think Fisker’d ask 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 Melmotte.
Chapter XCIII
A True Lover
Hetta Carbury, 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 penitence64, full of love, telling him at great length all the details of her meeting with Mrs Hurtle, and bidding him come back to her, and bring the brooch with him. But this letter she had unfortunately addressed to the Beargarden, 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, determined65 that he would still make further struggles. He had, he felt, to contend with many difficulties. Mrs Hurtle, Roger Carbury, and Hetta’s mother were, he thought, all inimical to him. Mrs Hurtle, 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 traitor66. And Lady Carbury, as he well knew, had always been and always would be opposed to the match. But Hetta had owned that she loved him, had submitted to his caresses67, and had been proud of his admiration68. And Paul, though he did not probably analyse very carefully the character of his beloved, still felt instinctively69 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 proceeding70, 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 Hetta had written a second epistle — not to her lover, but to one who received his letters with more regularity71. When she rashly and with precipitate72 wrath73 quarrelled 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 sincerity74, 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 beseech75 her dearest friend and cousin Roger not to turn against her, but to lend her an aiding hand. There are those whom strong words in letters never affect at all — who, perhaps, hardly read them, and take what they do read as meaning no more than half what is said. But Roger Carbury was certainly not one of these. As he sat on the garden wall at Carbury, 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 verbiage76 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 re-read Hetta’s 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 incapable77 of change — though he could not rally himself sufficiently78 to look forward to even a passive enjoyment79 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 tuned80 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 treacherous81 to him, nor could he forgive the man’s supposed treason. But he did tell himself very plainly that in comparison with Hetta 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 Hetta 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, Hetta’s child must take the name of Carbury, and must be to him as his heir — as near as possible his own child. In her favour 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 Carbury 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 Hetta 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, passionately82 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 trespasses83, he could not refrain from asking himself whether it could really be intended that he should forgive such trespass84 as that committed against him by Paul Montague! Nevertheless, when he rose from the wall he had resolved that Hetta 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 Hetta’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. Hetta’s letter to himself hardly required an immediate3 answer — did not, indeed, demand any answer. She had simply told him that, whereas she had for certain reasons quarrelled 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 assent85 to her own views, but that, as Roger felt, was to be given rather by the discontinuance of opposition86 than by any positive action, Roger’s influence with her mother was the assistance which Hetta 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 ratiocination87; — 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 forswore 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 appreciation88 of the beauty of the heavens, asked himself what was he that he 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 Welbeck Street at an early hour. When he knocked he had not made up his mind whether he would ask for Lady Carbury 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 Hetta was sitting. She hurried up to him, and he at 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 compliance89 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 offence. 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. Hetta, 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 any one.’
‘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 he 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 round 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, Hetta, 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 condescended90 to answer the letter in which she had told him to come back to her. And now, sobbing91 as she was, overcome by the tenderness of her cousin’s affection, anxious to express her intense gratitude92, 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, Hetta — as 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 Carbury 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 Carbury’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 Carbury.
‘Pray, pray, mamma — ’ Hetta began, but was unable to find words with which to go on with her prayer.
‘I do not know that it need be so at all,’ continued Lady Carbury. ‘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 marry Paul Montague,’ said Roger.
‘Not at all,’ said Lady Carbury.
‘Yes; mamma — yes,’ cried Hetta 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.’
‘Mamma!’
‘Paul Montague!’ ejaculated Roger Carbury. ‘The consent of Paul Montague! I think I may take upon myself to say that there can be no doubt as to that.’
‘There has been a quarrel,’ said Lady Carbury.
‘Surely he has not quarrelled with you, Hetta?’
‘I wrote to him — and he has not answered me,’ said Hetta piteously.
Then Lady Carbury gave a full and somewhat coloured 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 precarious93. 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 Henrietta 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 resentment94 may be continued.’
Hetta was now seated on a sofa hiding her face and weeping. Roger stood perfectly95 still, listening with respectful silence till Lady Carbury 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 set 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 Melmotte was unfortunate, but was due to no fault of his.’ At this moment he could not but remember Lady Carbury’s great anxiety to be closely connected with Melmotte, but he was too generous to say a word on that head. ‘I will see him, Lady Carbury, and then I will come to you again.’
Lady Carbury 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 guardian96 angel of the family — for her to stand against him. But she still thought that had he persevered97, Hetta 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 Lowestoft 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 Carbury, though he had certainly brought glad tidings, had not communicated them as a joyous98, 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 my what 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 quarrelled 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 were 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 shall be able to talk about these things with more equable temper.’ Having so spoken he hurried out of the room, leaving Paul Montague bewildered by the tidings which had been announced to him.
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1
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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4
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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nibble
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| n.轻咬，啃；v.一点点地咬，慢慢啃，吹毛求疵 | |
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6
nibbling
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的现在分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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7
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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8
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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9
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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ingenuously
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| adv.率直地，正直地 | |
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12
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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13
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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14
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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15
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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17
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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18
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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19
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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20
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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21
sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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22
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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23
abstain
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| v.自制，戒绝，弃权，避免 | |
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24
abstained
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| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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25
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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27
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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28
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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29
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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30
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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32
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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33
numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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35
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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37
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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38
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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39
intrusive
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| adj.打搅的；侵扰的 | |
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40
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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41
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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42
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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43
well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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44
unevenness
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| n. 不平坦，不平衡，不匀性 | |
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45
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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46
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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47
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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48
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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49
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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50
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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51
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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52
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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53
perused
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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54
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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55
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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56
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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57
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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58
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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59
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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60
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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61
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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62
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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63
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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64
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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66
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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67
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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68
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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69
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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70
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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71
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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73
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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74
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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75
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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76
verbiage
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| n.冗词；冗长 | |
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77
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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78
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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79
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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80
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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81
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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82
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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83
trespasses
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| 罪过( trespass的名词复数 )； 非法进入 | |
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84
trespass
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| n./v.侵犯，闯入私人领地 | |
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85
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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86
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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87
ratiocination
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| n.推理；推断 | |
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88
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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compliance
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| n.顺从；服从；附和；屈从 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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91
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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92
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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93
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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96
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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97
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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