The Way We Live Now - 30

  in the world, Ruby, if a man can't do for you?" Ruby declared that
  she knew somebody who could do for her, and could do very well for
  her. She knew what she was about, and wasn't going to be put off
  it. Mrs. Pipkin's morals were good wearing morals, but she was not
  strait-laced. If Ruby chose to manage in her own way about her lover
  she must. Mrs. Pipkin had an idea that young women in these days did
  have, and would have, and must have more liberty than was allowed
  when she was young. The world was being changed very fast. Mrs.
  Pipkin knew that as well as others. And therefore when Ruby went to
  the theatre once and again,--by herself as far as Mrs. Pipkin knew,
  but probably in company with her lover,--and did not get home till
  past midnight, Mrs. Pipkin said very little about it, attributing
  such novel circumstances to the altered condition of her country.
  She had not been allowed to go to the theatre with a young man when
  she had been a girl,--but that had been in the earlier days of Queen
  Victoria, fifteen years ago, before the new dispensation had come.
  Ruby had never yet told the name of her lover to Mrs. Pipkin, having
  answered all inquiries by saying that she was all right. Sir Felix's
  name had never even been mentioned in Islington till Paul Montague
  had mentioned it. She had been managing her own affairs after her
  own fashion,--not altogether with satisfaction, but still without
  interruption; but now she knew that interference would come. Mr.
  Montague had found her out, and had told her grandfather's landlord.
  The Squire would be after her, and then John Crumb would come,
  accompanied of course by Mr. Mixet,--and after that, as she said to
  herself on retiring to the couch which she shared with two little
  Pipkins, "the fat would be in the fire."
  
  "Who do you think was at our place yesterday?" said Ruby one evening
  to her lover. They were sitting together at a music-hall,--half
  music-hall, half theatre, which pleasantly combined the allurements
  of the gin-palace, the theatre, and the ball-room, trenching hard on
  those of other places. Sir Felix was smoking, dressed, as he himself
  called it, "incognito," with a Tom-and-Jerry hat, and a blue silk
  cravat, and a green coat. Ruby thought it was charming. Felix
  entertained an idea that were his West End friends to see him in this
  attire they would not know him. He was smoking, and had before him a
  glass of hot brandy and water, which was common to himself and Ruby.
  He was enjoying life. Poor Ruby! She was half-ashamed of herself,
  half-frightened, and yet supported by a feeling that it was a grand
  thing to have got rid of restraints, and be able to be with her young
  man. Why not? The Miss Longestaffes were allowed to sit and dance and
  walk about with their young men,--when they had any. Why was she to
  be given up to a great mass of stupid dust like John Crumb, without
  seeing anything of the world? But yet as she sat sipping her lover's
  brandy and water between eleven and twelve at the music-hall in
  the City Road, she was not altogether comfortable. She saw things
  which she did not like to see. And she heard things which she did
  not like to hear. And her lover, though he was beautiful,--oh, so
  beautiful!--was not all that a lover should be. She was still a
  little afraid of him, and did not dare as yet to ask him for the
  promise which she expected him to make to her. Her mind was set
  upon--marriage, but the word had hardly passed between them. To have
  his arm round her waist was heaven to her! Could it be possible that
  he and John Crumb were of the same order of human beings? But how was
  this to go on? Even Mrs. Pipkin made disagreeable allusions, and she
  could not live always with Mrs. Pipkin, coming out at nights to drink
  brandy and water and hear music with Sir Felix Carbury. She was glad
  therefore to take the first opportunity of telling her lover that
  something was going to happen. "Who do you suppose was at our place
  yesterday?"
  
  Sir Felix changed colour, thinking of Marie Melmotte, thinking that
  perhaps some emissary from Marie Melmotte had been there; perhaps
  Didon herself. He was amusing himself during these last evenings of
  his in London; but the business of his life was about to take him
  to New York. That project was still being elaborated. He had had an
  interview with Didon, and nothing was wanting but the money. Didon
  had heard of the funds which had been intrusted by him to Melmotte,
  and had been very urgent with him to recover them. Therefore, though
  his body was not unfrequently present, late in the night, at the City
  Road Music-Hall, his mind was ever in Grosvenor Square. "Who was it,
  Ruby?"
  
  "A friend of the Squire's, a Mr. Montague. I used to see him about in
  Bungay and Beccles."
  
  "Paul Montague!"
  
  "Do you know him, Felix?"
  
  "Well;--rather. He's a member of our club, and I see him constantly
  in the city--and I know him at home."
  
  "Is he nice?"
  
  "Well;--that depends on what you call nice. He's a prig of a fellow."
  
  "He's got a lady friend where I live."
  
  "The devil he has!" Sir Felix of course had heard of Roger Carbury's
  suit to his sister, and of the opposition to this suit on the part of
  Hetta, which was supposed to have been occasioned by her preference
  for Paul Montague. "Who is she, Ruby?"
  
  "Well;--she's a Mrs. Hurtle. Such a stunning woman! Aunt says she's
  an American. She's got lots of money."
  
  "Is Montague going to marry her?"
  
  "Oh dear yes. It's all arranged. Mr. Montague comes quite regular
  to see her;--not so regular as he ought, though. When gentlemen are
  fixed as they're to be married, they never are regular afterwards.
  I wonder whether it'll be the same with you?"
  
  "Wasn't John Crumb regular, Ruby?"
  
  "Bother John Crumb! That wasn't none of my doings. Oh, he'd been
  regular enough, if I'd let him; he'd been like clockwork,--only the
  slowest clock out. But Mr. Montague has been and told the Squire as
  he saw me. He told me so himself. The Squire's coming about John
  Crumb. I know that. What am I to tell him, Felix?"
  
  "Tell him to mind his own business. He can't do anything to you."
  
  "No;--he can't do nothing. I ain't done nothing wrong, and he can't
  send for the police to have me took back to Sheep's Acre. But he can
  talk,--and he can look. I ain't one of those, Felix, as don't mind
  about their characters,--so don't you think it. Shall I tell him as
  I'm with you?"
  
  "Gracious goodness, no! What would you say that for?"
  
  "I didn't know. I must say something."
  
  "Tell him you're nothing to him."
  
  "But aunt will be letting on about my being out late o'nights; I know
  she will. And who am I with? He'll be asking that."
  
  "Your aunt does not know?"
  
  "No;--I've told nobody yet. But it won't do to go on like that, you
  know,--will it? You don't want it to go on always like that;--do
  you?"
  
  "It's very jolly, I think."
  
  "It ain't jolly for me. Of course, Felix, I like to be with you.
  That's jolly. But I have to mind them brats all the day, and to be
  doing the bedrooms. And that's not the worst of it."
  
  "What is the worst of it?"
  
  "I'm pretty nigh ashamed of myself. Yes, I am." And now Ruby burst
  out into tears. "Because I wouldn't have John Crumb, I didn't mean to
  be a bad girl. Nor yet I won't. But what'll I do, if everybody turns
  again me? Aunt won't go on for ever in this way. She said last night
  that--"
  
  "Bother what she says!" Felix was not at all anxious to hear what
  aunt Pipkin might have to say upon such an occasion.
  
  "She's right too. Of course she knows there's somebody. She ain't
  such a fool as to think that I'm out at these hours to sing psalms
  with a lot of young women. She says that whoever it is ought to speak
  out his mind. There;--that's what she says. And she's right. A girl
  has to mind herself, though she's ever so fond of a young man."
  
  Sir Felix sucked his cigar and then took a long drink of brandy and
  water. Having emptied the beaker before him, he rapped for the waiter
  and called for another. He intended to avoid the necessity of making
  any direct reply to Ruby's importunities. He was going to New York
  very shortly, and looked on his journey thither as an horizon in his
  future beyond which it was unnecessary to speculate as to any farther
  distance. He had not troubled himself to think how it might be with
  Ruby when he was gone. He had not even considered whether he would or
  would not tell her that he was going, before he started. It was not
  his fault that she had come up to London. She was an "awfully jolly
  girl," and he liked the feeling of the intrigue better perhaps than
  the girl herself. But he assured himself that he wasn't going to give
  himself any "d----d trouble." The idea of John Crumb coming up to
  London in his wrath had never occurred to him,--or he would probably
  have hurried on his journey to New York instead of delaying it, as he
  was doing now. "Let's go in and have a dance," he said.
  
  Ruby was very fond of dancing,--perhaps liked it better than anything
  in the world. It was heaven to her to be spinning round the big room
  with her lover's arm tight round her waist, with one hand in his and
  her other hanging over his back. She loved the music, and loved the
  motion. Her ear was good, and her strength was great, and she never
  lacked breath. She could spin along and dance a whole room down, and
  feel at the time that the world could have nothing to give better
  worth having than that;--and such moments were too precious to be
  lost. She went and danced, resolving as she did so that she would
  have some answer to her question before she left her lover on that
  night.
  
  "And now I must go," she said at last. "You'll see me as far as the
  Angel, won't you?" Of course he was ready to see her as far as the
  Angel. "What am I to say to the Squire?"
  
  "Say nothing."
  
  "And what am I to say to aunt?"
  
  "Say to her? Just say what you have said all along."
  
  "I've said nothing all along,--just to oblige you, Felix. I must say
  something. A girl has got herself to mind. What have you got to say
  to me, Felix?"
  
  He was silent for about a minute, meditating his answer. "If you
  bother me I shall cut it, you know."
  
  "Cut it!"
  
  "Yes;--cut it. Can't you wait till I am ready to say something?"
  
  "Waiting will be the ruin o' me, if I wait much longer. Where am I to
  go, if Mrs. Pipkin won't have me no more?"
  
  "I'll find a place for you."
  
  "You find a place! No; that won't do. I've told you all that before.
  I'd sooner go into service, or--"
  
  "Go back to John Crumb."
  
  "John Crumb has more respect for me nor you. He'd make me his wife
  to-morrow, and only be too happy."
  
  "I didn't tell you to come away from him," said Sir Felix.
  
  "Yes, you did. You told me as I was to come up to London when I saw
  you at Sheepstone Beeches;--didn't you? And you told me you loved
  me;--didn't you? And that if I wanted anything you'd get it done for
  me;--didn't you?"
  
  "So I will. What do you want? I can give you a couple of sovereigns,
  if that's what it is."
  
  "No it isn't;--and I won't have your money. I'd sooner work my
  fingers off. I want you to say whether you mean to marry me. There!"
  
  As to the additional lie which Sir Felix might now have told, that
  would have been nothing to him. He was going to New York, and would
  be out of the way of any trouble; and he thought that lies of that
  kind to young women never went for anything. Young women, he thought,
  didn't believe them, but liked to be able to believe afterwards
  that they had been deceived. It wasn't the lie that stuck in his
  throat, but the fact that he was a baronet. It was in his estimation
  "confounded impudence" on the part of Ruby Ruggles to ask to be his
  wife. He did not care for the lie, but he did not like to seem to
  lower himself by telling such a lie as that at her dictation. "Marry,
  Ruby! No, I don't ever mean to marry. It's the greatest bore out. I
  know a trick worth two of that."
  
  She stopped in the street and looked at him. This was a state of
  things of which she had never dreamed. She could imagine that a
  man should wish to put it off, but that he should have the face to
  declare to his young woman that he never meant to marry at all, was a
  thing that she could not understand. What business had such a man to
  go after any young woman? "And what do you mean that I'm to do, Sir
  Felix?" she said.
  
  "Just go easy, and not make yourself a bother."
  
  "Not make myself a bother! Oh, but I will; I will. I'm to be carrying
  on with you, and nothing to come of it; but for you to tell me that
  you don't mean to marry, never at all! Never?"
  
  "Don't you see lots of old bachelors about, Ruby?"
  
  "Of course I does. There's the Squire. But he don't come asking girls
  to keep him company."
  
  "That's more than you know, Ruby."
  
  "If he did he'd marry her out of hand,--because he's a gentleman.
  That's what he is, every inch of him. He never said a word to a
  girl,--not to do her any harm, I'm sure," and Ruby began to cry. "You
  mustn't come no further now, and I'll never see you again--never!
  I think you're the falsest young man, and the basest, and the
  lowest-minded that I ever heard tell of. I know there are them as
  don't keep their words. Things turn up, and they can't. Or they gets
  to like others better; or there ain't nothing to live on. But for a
  young man to come after a young woman, and then say, right out, as he
  never means to marry at all, is the lowest-spirited fellow that ever
  was. I never read of such a one in none of the books. No, I won't.
  You go your way, and I'll go mine." In her passion she was as good
  as her word, and escaped from him, running all the way to her aunt's
  door. There was in her mind a feeling of anger against the man, which
  she did not herself understand, in that he would incur no risk on her
  behalf. He would not even make a lover's easy promise, in order that
  the present hour might be made pleasant. Ruby let herself into her
  aunt's house, and cried herself to sleep with a child on each side of
  her.
  
  On the next day Roger called. She had begged Mrs. Pipkin to attend
  the door, and had asked her to declare, should any gentleman ask for
  Ruby Ruggles, that Ruby Ruggles was out. Mrs. Pipkin had not refused
  to do so; but, having heard sufficient of Roger Carbury to imagine
  the cause which might possibly bring him to the house, and having
  made up her mind that Ruby's present condition of independence was
  equally unfavourable to the lodging-house and to Ruby herself, she
  determined that the Squire, if he did come, should see the young
  lady. When therefore Ruby was called into the little back parlour and
  found Roger Carbury there, she thought that she had been caught in a
  trap. She had been very cross all the morning. Though in her rage she
  had been able on the previous evening to dismiss her titled lover,
  and to imply that she never meant to see him again, now, when the
  remembrance of the loss came upon her amidst her daily work,--when
  she could no longer console herself in her drudgery by thinking of
  the beautiful things that were in store for her, and by flattering
  herself that though at this moment she was little better than a maid
  of all work in a lodging-house, the time was soon coming in which
  she would bloom forth as a baronet's bride,--now in her solitude she
  almost regretted the precipitancy of her own conduct. Could it be
  that she would never see him again;--that she would dance no more
  in that gilded bright saloon? And might it not be possible that she
  had pressed him too hard? A baronet of course would not like to be
  brought to book, as she could bring to book such a one as John Crumb.
  But yet,--that he should have said never;--that he would never marry!
  Looking at it in any light, she was very unhappy, and this coming of
  the Squire did not serve to cure her misery.
  
  Roger was very kind to her, taking her by the hand, and bidding
  her sit down, and telling her how glad he was to find that she was
  comfortably settled with her aunt. "We were all alarmed, of course,
  when you went away without telling anybody where you were going."
  
  "Grandfather 'd been that cruel to me that I couldn't tell him."
  
  "He wanted you to keep your word to an old friend of yours."
  
  "To pull me all about by the hairs of my head wasn't the way to
  make a girl keep her word;--was it, Mr. Carbury? That's what he did,
  then;--and Sally Hockett, who is there, heard it. I've been good to
  grandfather, whatever I may have been to John Crumb; and he shouldn't
  have treated me like that. No girl 'd like to be pulled about the
  room by the hairs of her head, and she with her things all off, just
  getting into bed."
  
  The Squire had no answer to make to this. That old Ruggles should be
  a violent brute under the influence of gin and water did not surprise
  him. And the girl, when driven away from her home by such usage, had
  not done amiss in coming to her aunt. But Roger had already heard
  a few words from Mrs. Pipkin as to Ruby's late hours, had heard
  also that there was a lover, and knew very well who that lover was.
  He also was quite familiar with John Crumb's state of mind. John
  Crumb was a gallant, loving fellow who might be induced to forgive
  everything, if Ruby would only go back to him; but would certainly
  persevere, after some slow fashion of his own, and "see the matter
  out," as he would say himself, if she did not go back. "As you found
  yourself obliged to run away," said Roger, "I'm glad that you should
  be here; but you don't mean to stay here always?"
  
  "I don't know," said Ruby.
  
  "You must think of your future life. You don't want to be always your
  aunt's maid."
  
  "Oh dear, no."
  
  "It would be very odd if you did, when you may be the wife of such a
  man as Mr. Crumb."
  
  "Oh, Mr. Crumb! Everybody is going on about Mr. Crumb. I don't like
  Mr. Crumb, and I never will like him."
  
  "Now look here, Ruby; I have come to speak to you very seriously, and
  I expect you to hear me. Nobody can make you marry Mr. Crumb, unless
  you please."
  
  "Nobody can't, of course, sir."
  
  "But I fear you have given him up for somebody else, who certainly
  won't marry you, and who can only mean to ruin you."
  
  "Nobody won't ruin me," said Ruby. "A girl has to look to herself,
  and I mean to look to myself."
  
  "I'm glad to hear you say so, but being out at night with such a one
  as Sir Felix Carbury is not looking to yourself. That means going to
  the devil head foremost."
  
  "I ain't a going to the devil," said Ruby, sobbing and blushing.
  
  "But you will, if you put yourself into the hands of that young man.
  He's as bad as bad can be. He's my own cousin, and yet I'm obliged
  to tell you so. He has no more idea of marrying you than I have; but
  were he to marry you, he could not support you. He is ruined himself,
  and would ruin any young woman who trusted him. I'm almost old enough
  to be your father, and in all my experience I never came across so
  vile a young man as he is. He would ruin you and cast you from him
  without a pang of remorse. He has no heart in his bosom;--none." Ruby
  had now given way altogether, and was sobbing with her apron to her
  eyes in one corner of the room. "That's what Sir Felix Carbury is,"
  said the Squire, standing up so that he might speak with the more
  energy, and talk her down more thoroughly. "And if I understand it
  rightly," he continued, "it is for a vile thing such as he, that you
  have left a man who is as much above him in character, as the sun is
  above the earth. You think little of John Crumb because he does not
  wear a fine coat."
  
  "I don't care about any man's coat," said Ruby; "but John hasn't ever
  a word to say, was it ever so."
  
  
  [Illustration: "I don't care about any man's coat."]
  
  
  "Words to say! what do words matter? He loves you. He loves you after
  that fashion that he wants to make you happy and respectable, not to
  make you a bye-word and a disgrace." Ruby struggled hard to make some
  opposition to the suggestion, but found herself to be incapable of
  speech at the moment. "He thinks more of you than of himself, and
  would give you all that he has. What would that other man give you?
  If you were once married to John Crumb, would any one then pull you
  by the hairs of your head? Would there be any want then, or any
  disgrace?"
  
  "There ain't no disgrace, Mr. Carbury."
  
  "No disgrace in going about at midnight with such a one as Felix
  Carbury? You are not a fool, and you know that it is disgraceful. If
  you are not unfit to be an honest man's wife, go back and beg that
  man's pardon."
  
  "John Crumb's pardon! No!"
  
  "Oh, Ruby, if you knew how highly I respect that man, and how lowly
  I think of the other; how I look on the one as a noble fellow, and
  regard the other as dust beneath my feet, you would perhaps change
  your mind a little."
  
  Her mind was being changed. His words did have their effect, though
  the poor girl struggled against the conviction that was borne in upon
  her. She had never expected to hear any one call John Crumb noble.
  But she had never respected any one more highly than Squire Carbury,
  and he said that John Crumb was noble. Amidst all her misery and
  trouble she still told herself that it was but a dusty, mealy,--and
  also a dumb nobility.
  
  "I'll tell you what will take place," continued Roger. "Mr. Crumb
  won't put up with this you know."
  
  "He can't do nothing to me, sir."
  
  "That's true enough. Unless it be to take you in his arms and press
  you to his heart, he wants to do nothing to you. Do you think he'd
  injure you if he could? You don't know what a man's love really
  means, Ruby. But he could do something to somebody else. How do you
  think it would be with Felix Carbury, if they two were in a room
  together and nobody else by?"
  
  "John's mortial strong, Mr. Carbury."
  
  "If two men have equal pluck, strength isn't much needed. One is a
  brave man, and the other--a coward. Which do you think is which?"
  
  "He's your own cousin, and I don't know why you should say everything
  again him."
  
  "You know I'm telling you the truth. You know it as well as I do
  myself;--and you're throwing yourself away, and throwing the man who
  loves you over,--for such a fellow as that! Go back to him, Ruby, and
  beg his pardon."
  
  "I never will;--never."
  
  "I've spoken to Mrs. Pipkin, and while you're here she will see that
  you don't keep such hours any longer. You tell me that you're not
  disgraced, and yet you are out at midnight with a young blackguard
  like that! I've said what I've got to say, and I'm going away. But
  I'll let your grandfather know."
  
  "Grandfather don't want me no more."
  
  "And I'll come again. If you want money to go home, I will let you
  have it. Take my advice at least in this;--do not see Sir Felix
  Carbury any more." Then he took his leave. If he had failed to
  impress her with admiration for John Crumb, he had certainly been
  efficacious in lessening that which she had entertained for Sir
  Felix.
  
  
  
  
  CHAPTER XLIV.
  
  THE COMING ELECTION.
  
  
  The very greatness of Mr. Melmotte's popularity, the extent of
  the admiration which was accorded by the public at large to his
  commercial enterprise and financial sagacity, created a peculiar
  bitterness in the opposition that was organised against him at
  Westminster. As the high mountains are intersected by deep valleys,
  as puritanism in one age begets infidelity in the next, as in many
  countries the thickness of the winter's ice will be in proportion
  to the number of the summer musquitoes, so was the keenness of the
  hostility displayed on this occasion in proportion to the warmth of
  the support which was manifested. As the great man was praised, so
  also was he abused. As he was a demi-god to some, so was he a fiend
  to others. And indeed there was hardly any other way in which it
  was possible to carry on the contest against him. From the moment
  in which Mr. Melmotte had declared his purpose of standing for
  Westminster in the Conservative interest, an attempt was made to
  drive him down the throats of the electors by clamorous assertions of
  his unprecedented commercial greatness. It seemed that there was but
  one virtue in the world, commercial enterprise,--and that Melmotte
  was its prophet. It seemed, too, that the orators and writers of the
  day intended all Westminster to believe that Melmotte treated his
  great affairs in a spirit very different from that which animates the
  bosoms of merchants in general. He had risen above any feeling of
  personal profit. His wealth was so immense that there was no longer
  place for anxiety on that score. He already possessed,--so it was
  said,--enough to found a dozen families, and he had but one daughter!
  But by carrying on the enormous affairs which he held in his hands,
  he would be able to open up new worlds, to afford relief to the
  oppressed nationalities of the over-populated old countries. He had
  seen how small was the good done by the Peabodys and the Bairds, and,
  resolving to lend no ear to charities and religions, was intent on
  projects for enabling young nations to earn plentiful bread by the
  moderate sweat of their brows. He was the head and front of the
  railway which was to regenerate Mexico. It was presumed that the
  contemplated line from ocean to ocean across British America would
  become a fact in his hands. It was he who was to enter into terms
  with the Emperor of China for farming the tea-fields of that vast
  country. He was already in treaty with Russia for a railway from
  Moscow to Khiva. He had a fleet,--or soon would have a fleet of
  emigrant ships,--ready to carry every discontented Irishman out of
  Ireland to whatever quarter of the globe the Milesian might choose
  for the exercise of his political principles. It was known that he
  had already floated a company for laying down a submarine wire from
  Penzance to Point de Galle, round the Cape of Good Hope,--so that,
  in the event of general wars, England need be dependent on no other
  country for its communications with India. And then there was the
  philanthropic scheme for buying the liberty of the Arabian fellahs
  from the Khedive of Egypt for thirty millions sterling,--the
  compensation to consist of the concession of a territory about four
  times as big as Great Britain in the lately annexed country on the
  great African lakes. It may have been the case that some of these
  things were as yet only matters of conversation,--speculations as to
  which Mr. Melmotte's mind and imagination had been at work, rather
  than his pocket or even his credit; but they were all sufficiently
  matured to find their way into the public press, and to be used as
  strong arguments why Melmotte should become member of Parliament for
  Westminster.
  
  All this praise was of course gall to those who found themselves
  called upon by the demands of their political position to oppose Mr.
  Melmotte. You can run down a demi-god only by making him out to be a
  demi-devil. These very persons, the leading Liberals of the leading
  borough in England as they called themselves, would perhaps have
  cared little about Melmotte's antecedents had it not become their
  duty to fight him as a Conservative. Had the great man found at the
  last moment that his own British politics had been liberal in their
  nature, these very enemies would have been on his committee. It was
  their business to secure the seat. And as Melmotte's supporters began
  the battle with an attempt at what the Liberals called "bounce,"--to
  carry the borough with a rush by an overwhelming assertion of
  their candidate's virtues,--the other party was driven to make
  some enquiries as to that candidate's antecedents. They quickly
  warmed to the work, and were not less loud in exposing the Satan
  of speculation, than had been the Conservatives in declaring the
  commercial Jove. Emissaries were sent to Paris and Francfort, and
  the wires were used to Vienna and New York. It was not difficult
  to collect stories,--true or false; and some quiet men, who merely
  looked on at the game, expressed an opinion that Melmotte might have