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 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 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 resentment may be continued.”
Hetta was now seated on a sofa hiding her face and weeping. Roger stood perfectly 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 guardian angel of the family—for her to stand against him. But she still thought that had he persevered, 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 mission 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 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 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.
XCIV
John Crumb’s Victory
In the meantime great preparations were going on down in Suffolk for the marriage of that happiest of lovers, John Crumb. John Crumb had been up to London, had been formally reconciled to Ruby—who had submitted to his floury embraces, not with the best grace in the world, but still with a submission that had satisfied her future husband—had been intensely grateful to Mrs. Hurtle, and almost munificent in liberality to Mrs. Pipkin, to
