The Way We Live Now - 28

would it not be well to be hung as soon after waking as possible?
I can fancy that the hangman would hardly come early enough. And if
one had to be hung in a given week, would not one wish to be hung on
the first day of the week, even at the risk of breaking one's last
Sabbath day in this world? Whatever be the misery to be endured, get
it over. The horror of every agony is in its anticipation. Paul had
realised something of this when he threw himself into a Hansom cab,
and ordered the man to drive him to Islington.

How quick that cab went! Nothing ever goes so quick as a Hansom cab
when a man starts for a dinner-party a little too early;--nothing
so slow when he starts too late. Of all cabs this, surely, was
the quickest. Paul was lodging in Suffolk Street, close to Pall
Mall,--whence the way to Islington, across Oxford Street, across
Tottenham Court Road, across numerous squares north-east of the
Museum, seems to be long. The end of Goswell Road is the outside
of the world in that direction, and Islington is beyond the end of
Goswell Road. And yet that Hansom cab was there before Paul Montague
had been able to arrange the words with which he would begin the
interview. He had given the street and the number of the street. It
was not till after he had started that it occurred to him that it
might be well that he should get out at the end of the street, and
walk to the house,--so that he might, as it were, fetch his breath
before the interview was commenced. But the cabman dashed up to the
door in a manner purposely devised to make every inmate of the house
aware that a cab had just arrived before it. There was a little
garden before the house. We all know the garden;--twenty-four feet
long, by twelve broad;--and an iron-grated door, with the landlady's
name on a brass plate. Paul, when he had paid the cabman,--giving the
man half-a-crown, and asking for no change in his agony,--pushed in
the iron gate and walked very quickly up to the door, rang rather
furiously, and before the door was well opened asked for Mrs. Hurtle.

"Mrs. Hurtle is out for the day," said the girl who opened the door.
"Leastways, she went out yesterday and won't be back till to-night."
Providence had sent him a reprieve! But he almost forgot the
reprieve, as he looked at the girl and saw that she was Ruby Ruggles.
"Oh laws, Mr. Montague, is that you?" Ruby Ruggles had often seen
Paul down in Suffolk, and recognised him as quickly as he did her. It
occurred to her at once that he had come in search of herself. She
knew that Roger Carbury was up in town looking for her. So much she
had of course learned from Sir Felix,--for at this time she had seen
the baronet more than once since her arrival. Montague, she knew,
was Roger Carbury's intimate friend, and now she felt that she was
caught. In her terror she did not at first remember that the visitor
had asked for Mrs. Hurtle.

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

"I'm all right, Mr. Montague;--I am. Mrs. Pipkin is my aunt, or,
leastways, my mother's brother's widow, though grandfather never
would speak to her. She's quite respectable, and has five children,
and lets lodgings. There's a lady here now, and has gone away with
her just for one night down to Southend. They'll be back this
evening, and I've the children to mind, with the servant girl. I'm
quite respectable here, Mr. Montague, and nobody need be a bit afraid
about me."

"Mrs. Hurtle has gone down to Southend?"

"Yes, Mr. Montague; she wasn't quite well, and wanted a breath of
air, she said. And aunt didn't like she should go alone, as Mrs.
Hurtle is such a stranger. And Mrs. Hurtle said as she didn't
mind paying for two, and so they've gone, and the baby with them.
Mrs. Pipkin said as the baby shouldn't be no trouble. And Mrs.
Hurtle,--she's most as fond of the baby as aunt. Do you know Mrs.
Hurtle, sir?"

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

"Oh; I didn't know. I did know as there was some friend as was
expected and as didn't come. Be I to say, sir, as you was here?"

Paul thought it might be as well to shift the subject and to ask Ruby
a few questions about herself while he made up his mind what message
he would leave for Mrs. Hurtle. "I'm afraid they are very unhappy
about you down at Bungay, Miss Ruggles."

"Then they've got to be unhappy; that's all about it, Mr. Montague.
Grandfather is that provoking as a young woman can't live with him,
nor yet I won't try never again. He lugged me all about the room by
my hair, Mr. Montague. How is a young woman to put up with that?
And I did everything for him,--that careful that no one won't do it
again;--did his linen, and his victuals, and even cleaned his boots
of a Sunday, 'cause he was that mean he wouldn't have anybody about
the place only me and the girl who had to milk the cows. There wasn't
nobody to do anything, only me. And then he went to drag me about
by the hairs of my head. You won't see me again at Sheep's Acre, Mr.
Montague;--nor yet won't the Squire."

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

"John Crumb! Oh, yes, there's John Crumb. There's plenty of people to
give me a home, Mr. Montague."

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

"Ladies is to change their minds if they like it, Mr. Montague. I'm
sure you've heard that before. Grandfather made me say I'd have
him,--but I never cared that for him."

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

"I didn't come here to look for a man, Mr. Montague; I can tell you
that. They has to look for me, if they want me. But I am looked
after; and that by one as John Crumb ain't fit to touch." That told
the whole story. Paul when he heard the little boast was quite sure
that Roger's fear about Felix was well founded. And as for John
Crumb's fitness to touch Sir Felix, Paul felt that the Bungay mealman
might have an opinion of his own on that matter. "But there's Betsy a
crying up-stairs, and I promised not to leave them children for one
minute."

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

"What does the Squire want o' me? I ain't nothing to the
Squire,--except that I respects him. You can tell if you please, Mr.
Montague, of course. I'm a coming, my darling."

Paul made his way into Mrs. Hurtle's sitting-room and wrote a note
for her in pencil. He had come, he said, immediately on his return
from Liverpool, and was sorry to find that she was away for the day.
When should he call again? If she would make an appointment he would
attend to it. He felt as he wrote this that he might very safely have
himself made an appointment for the morrow; but he cheated himself
into half believing that the suggestion he now made was the more
gracious and civil. At any rate it would certainly give him another
day. Mrs. Hurtle would not return till late in the evening, and as
the following day was Sunday there would be no delivery by post.
When the note was finished he left it on the table, and called to
Ruby to tell her that he was going. "Mr. Montague," she said in a
confidential whisper, as she tripped down the stairs, "I don't see
why you need be saying anything about me, you know."

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

"What 'm I to Mr. Carbury?"

"Your grandfather is very anxious about you."

"Not a bit of it, Mr. Montague. Grandfather knows very well where
I am. There! Grandfather doesn't want me back, and I ain't a going.
Why should the Squire bother himself about me? I don't bother myself
about him."

"He's afraid, Miss Ruggles, that you are trusting yourself to a young
man who is not trustworthy."

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

"Tell me this. Have you seen Sir Felix Carbury since you've been in
town?" Ruby, whose blushes came very easily, now flushed up to her
forehead. "You may be sure that he means no good to you. What can
come of an intimacy between you and such a one as he?"

"I don't see why I shouldn't have my friend, Mr. Montague, as well as
you. Howsomever, if you'll not tell, I'll be ever so much obliged."

"But I must tell Mr. Carbury."

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

Paul as he walked away could not help thinking of the justice of
Ruby's reproach to him. What business had he to take upon himself to
be a Mentor to any one in regard to an affair of love;--he, who had
engaged himself to marry Mrs. Hurtle, and who the evening before had
for the first time declared his love to Hetta Carbury?

In regard to Mrs. Hurtle he had got a reprieve, as he thought, for
two days;--but it did not make him happy or even comfortable. As he
walked back to his lodgings he knew it would have been better for him
to have had the interview over. But, at any rate, he could now think
of Hetta Carbury, and the words he had spoken to her. Had he heard
that declaration which she had made to her mother, he would have been
able for the hour to have forgotten Mrs. Hurtle.




CHAPTER XL.

"UNANIMITY IS THE VERY SOUL OF THESE THINGS."


That evening Montague was surprised to receive at the Beargarden a
note from Mr. Melmotte, which had been brought thither by a messenger
from the city,--who had expected to have an immediate answer, as
though Montague lived at the club.

"Dear Sir," said the letter,


If not inconvenient would you call on me in Grosvenor
Square to-morrow, Sunday, at half past eleven. If you are
going to church, perhaps you will make an appointment in
the afternoon; if not, the morning will suit best. I want
to have a few words with you in private about the Company.
My messenger will wait for answer if you are at the club.

Yours truly,

AUGUSTUS MELMOTTE.

PAUL MONTAGUE, Esq.,
The Beargarden.


Paul immediately wrote to say that he would call at Grosvenor Square
at the hour appointed,--abandoning any intentions which he might have
had in reference to Sunday morning service. But this was not the only
letter he received that evening. On his return to his lodgings he
found a note, containing only one line, which Mrs. Hurtle had found
the means of sending to him after her return from Southend. "I am so
sorry to have been away. I will expect you all to-morrow. W. H." The
period of the reprieve was thus curtailed to less than a day.

On the Sunday morning he breakfasted late and then walked up to
Grosvenor Square, much pondering what the great man could have to
say to him. The great man had declared himself very plainly in the
Board-room,--especially plainly after the Board had risen. Paul had
understood that war was declared, and had understood also that he was
to fight the battle single-handed, knowing nothing of such strategy
as would be required, while his antagonist was a great master of
financial tactics. He was prepared to go to the wall in reference to
his money, only hoping that in doing so he might save his character
and keep the reputation of an honest man. He was quite resolved
to be guided altogether by Mr. Ramsbottom, and intended to ask Mr.
Ramsbottom to draw up for him such a statement as would be fitting
for him to publish. But it was manifest now that Mr. Melmotte would
make some proposition, and it was impossible that he should have Mr.
Ramsbottom at his elbow to help him.

He had been in Melmotte's house on the night of the ball, but had
contented himself after that with leaving a card. He had heard much
of the splendour of the place, but remembered simply the crush and
the crowd, and that he had danced there more than once or twice with
Hetta Carbury. When he was shown into the hall he was astonished to
find that it was not only stripped, but was full of planks, and
ladders, and trussels, and mortar. The preparations for the great
dinner had been already commenced. Through all this he made his way
to the stairs, and was taken up to a small room on the second floor,
where the servant told him that Mr. Melmotte would come to him. Here
he waited a quarter of an hour looking out into the yard at the
back. There was not a book in the room, or even a picture with which
he could amuse himself. He was beginning to think whether his own
personal dignity would not be best consulted by taking his departure,
when Melmotte himself, with slippers on his feet and enveloped in a
magnificent dressing-gown, bustled into the room. "My dear sir, I am
so sorry. You are a punctual man I see. So am I. A man of business
should be punctual. But they ain't always. Brehgert,--from the house
of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner, you know,--has just been with
me. We had to settle something about the Moldavian loan. He came a
quarter late, and of course he went a quarter late. And how is a man
to catch a quarter of an hour? I never could do it." Montague assured
the great man that the delay was of no consequence. "And I am so
sorry to ask you into such a place as this. I had Brehgert in my
room down-stairs, and then the house is so knocked about! We get
into a furnished house a little way off in Bruton Street to-morrow.
Longestaffe lets me his house for a month till this affair of the
dinner is over. By-the-bye, Montague, if you'd like to come to the
dinner, I've got a ticket I can let you have. You know how they're
run after." Montague had heard of the dinner, but had perhaps heard
as little of it as any man frequenting a club at the west end of
London. He did not in the least want to be at the dinner, and
certainly did not wish to receive any extraordinary civility from
Mr. Melmotte's hands. But he was very anxious to know why Mr.
Melmotte should offer it. He excused himself saying that he was not
particularly fond of big dinners, and that he did not like standing
in the way of other people. "Ah, indeed," said Melmotte. "There are
ever so many people of title would give anything for a ticket. You'd
be astonished at the persons who have asked. We've had to squeeze in
a chair on one side for the Master of the Buckhounds, and on another
for the Bishop of--; I forget what bishop it is, but we had the two
archbishops before. They say he must come because he has something
to do with getting up the missionaries for Thibet. But I've got the
ticket, if you'll have it." This was the ticket which was to have
taken in Georgiana Longestaffe as one of the Melmotte family, had not
Melmotte perceived that it might be useful to him as a bribe. But
Paul would not take the bribe. "You're the only man in London then,"
said Melmotte, somewhat offended. "But at any rate you'll come in
the evening, and I'll have one of Madame Melmotte's tickets sent to
you." Paul, not knowing how to escape, said that he would come in the
evening. "I am particularly anxious," continued he, "to be civil to
those who are connected with our great Railway, and of course, in
this country, your name stands first,--next to my own."

Then the great man paused, and Paul began to wonder whether it could
be possible that he had been sent for to Grosvenor Square on a Sunday
morning in order that he might be asked to dine in the same house a
fortnight later. But that was impossible. "Have you anything special
to say about the Railway?" he asked.

"Well, yes. It is so hard to get things said at the Board. Of course
there are some there who do not understand matters."

"I doubt if there be any one there who does understand this matter,"
said Paul.

Melmotte affected to laugh. "Well, well; I am not prepared to go
quite so far as that. My friend Cohenlupe has had great experience in
these affairs, and of course you are aware that he is in Parliament.
And Lord Alfred sees farther into them than perhaps you give him
credit for."

"He may easily do that."

"Well, well. Perhaps you don't know him quite as well as I do." The
scowl began to appear on Mr. Melmotte's brow. Hitherto it had been
banished as well as he knew how to banish it. "What I wanted to say
to you was this. We didn't quite agree at the last meeting."

"No; we did not."

"I was very sorry for it. Unanimity is everything in the direction of
such an undertaking as this. With unanimity we can do--everything."
Mr. Melmotte in the ecstasy of his enthusiasm lifted up both his
hands over his head. "Without unanimity we can do--nothing." And
the two hands fell. "Unanimity should be printed everywhere about a
Board-room. It should, indeed, Mr. Montague."

"But suppose the directors are not unanimous."

"They should be unanimous. They should make themselves unanimous. God
bless my soul! You don't want to see the thing fall to pieces!"

"Not if it can be carried on honestly."

"Honestly! Who says that anything is dishonest?" Again the brow
became very heavy. "Look here, Mr. Montague. If you and I quarrel
in that Board-room, there is no knowing the amount of evil we may
do to every individual shareholder in the Company. I find the
responsibility on my own shoulders so great that I say the thing must
be stopped. Damme, Mr. Montague, it must be stopped. We mustn't ruin
widows and children, Mr. Montague. We mustn't let those shares run
down 20 below par for a mere chimera. I've known a fine property
blasted, Mr. Montague, sent straight to the dogs,--annihilated,
sir;--so that it all vanished into thin air, and widows and children
past counting were sent out to starve about the streets,--just
because one director sat in another director's chair. I did, by
G----! What do you think of that, Mr. Montague? Gentlemen who don't
know the nature of credit, how strong it is,--as the air,--to buoy
you up; how slight it is,--as a mere vapour,--when roughly touched,
can do an amount of mischief of which they themselves don't in the
least understand the extent! What is it you want, Mr. Montague?"

"What do I want?" Melmotte's description of the peculiar
susceptibility of great mercantile speculations had not been given
without some effect on Montague, but this direct appeal to himself
almost drove that effect out of his mind. "I only want justice."

"But you should know what justice is before you demand it at the
expense of other people. Look here, Mr. Montague. I suppose you are
like the rest of us, in this matter. You want to make money out of
it."

"For myself, I want interest for my capital; that is all. But I am
not thinking of myself."

"You are getting very good interest. If I understand the
matter,"--and here Melmotte pulled out a little book, showing thereby
how careful he was in mastering details,--"you had about £6,000
embarked in the business when Fisker joined your firm. You imagine
yourself to have that still."

"I don't know what I've got."

"I can tell you then. You have that, and you've drawn nearly a
thousand pounds since Fisker came over, in one shape or another.
That's not bad interest on your money."

"There was back interest due to me."

"If so, it's due still. I've nothing to do with that. Look here, Mr.
Montague. I am most anxious that you should remain with us. I was
about to propose, only for that little rumpus the other day, that,
as you're an unmarried man, and have time on your hands, you should
go out to California and probably across to Mexico, in order to get
necessary information for the Company. Were I of your age, unmarried,
and without impediment, it is just the thing I should like. Of course
you'd go at the Company's expense. I would see to your own personal
interests while you were away;--or you could appoint any one by power
of attorney. Your seat at the Board would be kept for you; but,
should anything occur amiss,--which it won't, for the thing is as
sound as anything I know,--of course you, as absent, would not
share the responsibility. That's what I was thinking. It would be a
delightful trip;--but if you don't like it, you can of course remain
at the Board, and be of the greatest use to me. Indeed, after a bit
I could devolve nearly the whole management on you;--and I must do
something of the kind, as I really haven't the time for it. But,--if
it is to be that way,--do be unanimous. Unanimity is the very soul of
these things;--the very soul, Mr. Montague."

"But if I can't be unanimous?"

"Well;--if you can't, and if you won't take my advice about going
out;--which, pray, think about, for you would be most useful. It
might be the very making of the railway;--then I can only suggest
that you should take your £6,000 and leave us. I, myself, should be
greatly distressed; but if you are determined that way I will see
that you have your money. I will make myself personally responsible
for the payment of it,--some time before the end of the year."

Paul Montague told the great man that he would consider the whole
matter, and see him in Abchurch Lane before the next Board day. "And
now, good-bye," said Mr. Melmotte, as he bade his young friend adieu
in a hurry. "I'm afraid that I'm keeping Sir Gregory Gribe, the Bank
Director, waiting down-stairs."




CHAPTER XLI.

ALL PREPARED.


During all these days Miss Melmotte was by no means contented with
her lover's prowess, though she would not allow herself to doubt his
sincerity. She had not only assured him of her undying affection in
the presence of her father and mother, had not only offered to be
chopped in pieces on his behalf, but had also written to him, telling
how she had a large sum of her father's money within her power, and
how willing she was to make it her own, to throw over her father and
mother, and give herself and her fortune to her lover. She felt that
she had been very gracious to her lover, and that her lover was a
little slow in acknowledging the favours conferred upon him. But,
nevertheless, she was true to her lover, and believed that he was
true to her. Didon had been hitherto faithful. Marie had written
various letters to Sir Felix, and had received two or three very
short notes in reply, containing hardly more than a word or two each.
But now she was told that a day was absolutely fixed for her marriage
with Lord Nidderdale, and that her things were to be got ready.
She was to be married in the middle of August, and here they were,
approaching the end of June. "You may buy what you like, mamma," she
said; "and if papa agrees about Felix, why then I suppose they'll do.
But they'll never be of any use about Lord Nidderdale. If you were to
sew me up in the things by main force, I wouldn't have him." Madame
Melmotte groaned, and scolded in English, French, and German, and
wished that she were dead; she told Marie that she was a pig, and
ass, and a toad, and a dog. And ended, as she always did end, by
swearing that Melmotte must manage the matter himself. "Nobody shall
manage this matter for me," said Marie. "I know what I'm about now,
and I won't marry anybody just because it will suit papa." "Que
nous étions encore à Francfort, ou New York," said the elder lady,
remembering the humbler but less troubled times of her earlier life.
Marie did not care for Francfort or New York; for Paris or for
London;--but she did care for Sir Felix Carbury.

While her father on Sunday morning was transacting business in his
own house with Paul Montague and the great commercial magnates of
the city,--though it may be doubted whether that very respectable
gentleman Sir Gregory Gribe was really in Grosvenor Square when his
name was mentioned,--Marie was walking inside the gardens; Didon was
also there at some distance from her; and Sir Felix Carbury was there
also close along side of her. Marie had the key of the gardens for
her own use; and had already learned that her neighbours in the
square did not much frequent the place during church time on Sunday
morning. Her lover's letter to her father had of course been shown to
her, and she had taxed him with it immediately. Sir Felix, who had
thought much of the letter as he came from Welbeck Street to keep his
appointment,--having been assured by Didon that the gate should be
left unlocked, and that she would be there to close it after he had
come in,--was of course ready with a lie. "It was the only thing to
do, Marie;--it was indeed."

"But you said you had accepted some offer."

"You don't suppose I wrote the letter?"

"It was your handwriting, Felix."

"Of course it was. I copied just what he put down. He'd have sent you
clean away where I couldn't have got near you if I hadn't written
it."

"And you have accepted nothing?"

"Not at all. As it is, he owes me money. Is not that odd? I gave him
a thousand pounds to buy shares, and I haven't got anything from him
yet." Sir Felix, no doubt, forgot the cheque for £200.

"Nobody ever does who gives papa money," said the observant daughter.

"Don't they? Dear me! But I just wrote it because I thought anything
better than a downright quarrel."

"I wouldn't have written it, if it had been ever so."

"It's no good scolding, Marie. I did it for the best. What do you
think we'd best do now?" Marie looked at him, almost with scorn.
Surely it was for him to propose and for her to yield. "I wonder
whether you're sure you're right about that money which you say is
settled."


[Illustration: "It's no good scolding."]


"I'm quite sure. Mamma told me in Paris,--just when we were coming
away,--that it was done so that there might be something if things
went wrong. And papa told me that he should want me to sign something
from time to time; and of course I said I would. But of course I
won't,--if I should have a husband of my own." Felix walked along,
pondering the matter, with his hands in his trowsers pockets. He
entertained those very fears which had latterly fallen upon Lord
Nidderdale. There would be no "cropper" which a man could "come"
so bad as would be his cropper were he to marry Marie Melmotte, and
then find that he was not to have a shilling! And, were he now to
run off with Marie, after having written that letter, the father
would certainly not forgive him. This assurance of Marie's as to the
settled money was too doubtful! The game to be played was too full of
danger! And in that case he would certainly get neither his £800, nor
the shares. And if he were true to Melmotte, Melmotte would probably
supply him with ready money. But then here was the girl at his elbow,
and he no more dared to tell her to her face that he meant to give
her up, than he dared to tell Melmotte that he intended to stick to
his engagement. Some half promise would be the only escape for the
present. "What are you thinking of, Felix?" she asked.

"It's d---- difficult to know what to do."

"But you do love me?"

"Of course I do. If I didn't love you why should I be here walking
round this stupid place? They talk of your being married to
Nidderdale about the end of August."

"Some day in August. But that's all nonsense, you know. They can't
take me up and marry me, as they used to do the girls ever so long
ago. I won't marry him. He don't care a bit for me, and never did.
I don't think you care much, Felix."

"Yes, I do. A fellow can't go on saying so over and over again in a
beastly place like this. If we were anywhere jolly together, then I
could say it often enough."

"I wish we were, Felix. I wonder whether we ever shall be."

"Upon my word I hardly see my way as yet."

"You're not going to give it up!"

"Oh no;--not give it up; certainly not. But the bother is a fellow
doesn't know what to do."

"You've heard of young Mr. Goldsheiner, haven't you?" suggested
Marie.

"He's one of those city chaps."

"And Lady Julia Start?"

"She's old Lady Catchboy's daughter. Yes; I've heard of them. They
got spliced last winter."

"Yes,--somewhere in Switzerland, I think. At any rate they went to
Switzerland, and now they've got a house close to Albert Gate."

"How jolly for them! He is awfully rich, isn't he?"

"I don't suppose he's half so rich as papa. They did all they could