Roger Carbury when he received the letter from Hetta’s mother desiring him to tell her all that he knew of Paul Montague’s connection with Mrs Hurtle found himself quite unable to write a reply. He endeavoured to ask himself what he would do in such a case if he himself were not personally concerned. What advice in this emergency would he give to the mother and what to the daughter, were he himself uninterested? He was sure that, as Hetta’s cousin and asking as though he were Hetta’s brother, he would tell her that Paul Montague’s entanglement with that American woman should have forbidden him at any rate for the present to offer his hand to any other lady. He thought that he knew enough of all the circumstances to be sure that such would be his decision. He had seen Mrs Hurtle with Montague at Lowestoft, and had known that they were staying together as friends at the same hotel. He knew that she had come to England with the express purpose of enforcing the fulfilment of an engagement which Montague had often acknowledged. He knew that Montague made frequent visits to her in London. He had, indeed, been told by Montague himself that, let the cost be what it might, the engagement should be and in fact had been broken off. He thoroughly believed the man’s word, but put no trust whatever in his firmness. And, hitherto, he had no reason whatever for supposing that Mrs Hurtle had consented to be abandoned. What father, what elder brother would allow a daughter or a sister to become engaged to a man embarrassed by such difficulties? He certainly had counselled Montague to rid himself of the trammels by which he had surrounded himself; — but not on that account could he think that the man in his present condition was fit to engage himself to another woman.
All this was clear to Roger Carbury. But then it had been equally clear to him that he could not, as a man of honour, assist his own cause by telling a tale — which tale had become known to him as the friend of the man against whom it would have to be told. He had resolved upon that as he left Montague and Mrs Hurtle together upon the sands at Lowestoft. But what was he to do now? The girl whom he loved had confessed her love for the other man — that man, who in seeking the girl’s love, had been as he thought so foul a traitor to himself! That he would hold himself as divided from the man by a perpetual and undying hostility he had determined. That his love for the woman would be equally perpetual he was quite sure. Already there were floating across his brain ideas of perpetuating his name in the person of some child of Hetta’s — but with the distinct understanding that he and the child’s father should never see each other. No more than twenty-four hours had intervened between the receipt of Paul’s letter and that from Lady Carbury — but during those four-and-twenty hours he had almost forgotten Mrs Hurtle. The girl was gone from him, and he thought only of his own loss and of Paul’s perfidy. Then came the direct question as to which he was called upon for a direct answer. Did he know anything of facts relating to the presence of a certain Mrs Hurtle in London which were of a nature to make it inexpedient that Hetta should accept Paul Montague as her betrothed lover? Of course he did. The facts were all familiar to him. But how was he to tell the facts? In what words was he to answer such a letter? If he told the truth as he knew it how was he to secure himself against the suspicion of telling a story against his rival in order that he might assist himself, or at any rate, punish the rival?
As he could not trust himself to write an answer to Lady Carbury’s letter he determined that he would go to London. If he must tell the story he could tell it better face to face than by any written words. So he made the journey, arrived in town late in the evening, and knocked at the door in Welbeck Street between ten and eleven on the morning after the unfortunate meeting which took place between Sir Felix and John Crumb. The page when he opened the door looked as a page should look when the family to which he is attached is suffering from some terrible calamity. ‘My lady’ had been summoned to the hospital to see Sir Felix who was — as the page reported — in a very bad way indeed. The page did not exactly know what had happened, but supposed that Sir Felix had lost most of his limbs by this time. Yes; Miss Carbury was upstairs; and would no doubt see her cousin, though she, too, was in a very bad condition; and dreadfully put about. That poor Hetta should be ‘put about’ with her brother in the hospital and her lover in the toils of an abominable American woman was natural enough.
‘What’s this about Felix?’ asked Roger. The new trouble always has precedence over those which are of earlier date.
‘Oh Roger, I am so glad to see you. Felix did not come home last night, and this morning there came a man from the hospital in the city to say that he is there.’
‘What has happened to him?’
‘Somebody — somebody has — beaten him,’ said Hetta whimpering. Then she told the story as far as she knew it. The messenger from the hospital had declared that the young man was in no danger and that none of his bones were broken, but that he was terribly bruised about the face, that his eyes were in a frightful condition, sundry of his teeth knocked out, and his lips cut open. But, the messenger had gone on to say, the house surgeon had seen no reason why the young gentleman should not be taken home. ‘And mamma has gone to fetch him,’ said Hetta.
‘That’s John Crumb,’ said Roger. Hetta had never heard of John Crumb, and simply stared into her cousin’s face. ‘You have not been told about John Crumb? No; — you would not hear of him.’
‘Why should John Crumb beat Felix like that?’
‘They say, Hetta, that women are the cause of most troubles that occur in the world.’ The girl blushed up to her eyes, as though the whole story of Felix’s sin and folly had been told to her. ‘If it be as I suppose,’ continued Roger, ‘John Crumb has considered himself to be aggrieved and has thus avenged himself.’
‘Did you — know of him before?’
‘Yes indeed; — very well. He is a neighbour of mine and was in love with a girl, with all his heart; and he would have made her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer her, and is an honest man with whom she would have been safe and respected and happy. Your brother saw her and, though he knew the story, though he had been told by myself that this honest fellow had placed his happiness on the girl’s love, he thought — well, I suppose he thought that such a pretty thing as this girl was too good for John Crumb.’
‘But Felix has been going to marry Miss Melmotte!’
‘You’re old-fashioned, Hetta. It used to be the way — to be off with your old love before you are on with the new; but that seems to be all changed now. Such fine young fellows as there are now can be in love with two at once. That I fear is what Felix has thought; — and now he has been punished.’
‘You know all about it then?’
‘No; — I don’t know. But I think it has been so. I do know that John Crumb had threatened to do this thing, and I felt sure that sooner or later he would be as good as his word. If it has been so, who is to blame him?’
Hetta as she heard the story hardly knew whether her cousin, in his manner of telling the story, was speaking of that other man, of that stranger of whom she had never heard, or of himself. He would have made her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer her. He was an honest man with whom she would have been safe and respected and happy! He had looked at her while speaking as though it were her own case of which he spoke. And then, when he talked of the old-fashioned way, of being off with the old love before you are on with the new, had he not alluded to Paul Montague and this story of the American woman? But, if so, it was not for Hetta to notice it by words. He must speak more plainly than that before she could be supposed to know that he alluded to her own condition. ‘It is very shocking,’ she said.
‘Shocking; — yes. One is shocked at it all. I pity your mother, and I pity you.’
‘It seems to me that nothing ever will be happy for us,’ said Hetta. She was longing to be told something of Mrs Hurtle, but she did not as yet dare to ask the question.
‘I do not know whether to wait for your mother or not,’ said he after a short pause.
‘Pray wait for her if you are not very busy.’
‘I came up only to see her, but perhaps she would not wish me to be here when she brings Felix back to the house.’
‘Indeed she will. She would like you always to be here when there are troubles. Oh, Roger, I wish you could tell me.’
‘Tell you what?’
‘She has written to you; — has she not?’
‘Yes; she has written to me.’
‘And about me?’
‘Yes; — about you, Hetta. And, Hetta, Mr Montague has written to me also.’
‘He told me that he would,’ whispered Hetta.
‘Did he tell you my answer?’
‘No; — he has told me of no answer. I have not seen him since.’
‘You do not think that it can have been very kind, do you? I also have something of the feeling of John Crumb, though I shall not attempt to show it after the same fashion.’
‘Did you not say the girl had promised to love that man?’
‘I did not say so; — but she had promised. Yes, Hetta; there is a difference. The girl then was fickle and went back from her word. You never have done that. I am not justified in thinking even a hard thought of you. I have never harboured a hard thought of you. It is not you that I reproach. But he — he has been if possible more false than Felix.’
‘Oh, Roger, how has he been false?’
Still he was not wishful to tell her the story of Mrs Hurtle. The treachery of which he was speaking was that which he had thought had been committed by his friend towards himself. ‘He should have left the place and never have come near you,’ said Roger, ‘when he found how it was likely to be with him. He owed it to me not to take the cup of water from my lips.’
How was she to tell him that the cup of water never could have touched his lips? And yet if this were the only falsehood of which he had to tell, she was bound to let him know that it was so. That horrid story of Mrs Hurtle; — she would listen to that if she could hear it. She would be all ears for that. But she could not admit that her lover had sinned in loving her. ‘But, Roger,’ she said — ‘it would have been the same.’
‘You may say so. You may feel it. You may know it. I at any rate will not contradict you when you say that it must have been so. But he didn’t feel it. He didn’t know it. He was to me as a younger brother — and he has robbed me of everything. I understand, Hetta, what you mean. I should never have succeeded! My happiness would have been impossible if Paul had never come home from America. I have told myself so a hundred times, but I cannot therefore forgive him. And I won’t forgive him, Hetta. Whether you are his wife, or another man’s, or whether you are Hetta Carbury on to the end, my feeling to you will be the same. While we both live, you must be to me the dearest creature living. My ha............