 21 Everybody goes to them. When the Melmots went from Cavisham, the house was very desolate. The task of entertaining these people was indeed over, and had the return to London been fixed for a certain near day, there would have been comfort at any rate among the ladies of the family. This was so far from being the case that the Thursday and Friday passed without anything being settled, and dreadful fears began to fill the minds of Lady Pomona and Sophia Longstaff. Georgiana was also impatient, but she asserted boldly that treachery, such as that which her mother and sister contemplated, was impossible. Their father, she thought, would not dare to propose it. On each of these days, three or four times daily, hints were given and questions were asked, but without avail. Mr. Longstaff would not consent to have a day fixed till he had received some particular letter and would not even listen to the suggestion of a day. I suppose we can go at any rate on Tuesday, Georgiana said on the Friday evening. I don't know why you should suppose anything of the kind, the father replied. Poor Lady Pomona was urged by her daughters to compel him to name a day, but Lady Pomona was less audacious in urging the request than her younger child, and at the same time less anxious for its completion. On the Sunday morning before they went to church there was a great discussion upstairs. The Bishop of Elmham was going to preach at Cavisham Church, and the three ladies were dressed in their best London bonnets. They were in their mother's room having just completed the arrangements of their church-going toilette. It was supposed that the expected letter had arrived. Mr. Longstaff had certainly received a dispatch from his lawyer, but had not as yet vouchsafed any reference to its contents. He had been more than ordinarily silent at breakfast, and, so Sophia asserted, more disagreeable than ever. The question had now arisen, especially in reference to their bonnets. You might as well wear them, said Lady Pomona, for I am sure you will not be in London again this year. You don't mean it, Mama, said Sophia. I do, my dear. He looked like it when he put those papers back into his pocket. I know what his face means so well. It is not possible, said Sophia. He promised, and he got us to have those horrid people because he promised. Well, my dear, if your father says that we can't go back, I suppose we must take his word for it. It is he must decide, of course. What he meant, I suppose, was that he would take us back if he could. Mama shouted Georgiana, Was there to be treachery not only on the part of their natural adversary, who, adversary though he was, had bound himself to terms by a treaty, but treachery also in their own camp? My dear, what can we do, said Lady Pomona? Do? Georgiana was now going to speak out plainly. Make him understand that we are not going to be sad upon like that. I'll do something. If that's going to be the way of it, if he treats me like that, I'll run off with the first man that will take me. Let him be who it may. Don't talk like that, Georgiana, unless you wish to kill me. I'll break his heart for him. He does not care about us, not the least, whether we are happy or miserable. But he cares very much about the family name. I'll tell him that I'm not going to be a slave. I'll marry a London tradesman before I'll stay down here. The younger Miss Longstaff was lost in passion at the prospect before her. Oh, Georgie, don't say such horrid things as that, pleaded her sister. It's all very well for you, Sophie. You've got George Wittstable. I haven't got George Wittstable. Yes, you have, and your fish is fried. Dolly does just what he pleases and spends money as fast as he likes. Of course, it makes no difference to you, Ma, where you are. You are very unjust, said Lady Pomona, wailing, and you say horrid things. I ain't unjust at all. It doesn't matter to you, and Sophie is the same as settled, but I'm to be sacrificed. How am I to see anybody down here in this horrid hole? Papa promised that he must keep his word. Then there came to them a loud voice calling to them from the hall. Are any of you coming to church, or are you going to keep the carriage waiting all day? Of course, they were all going to church. They always did go to church when they were at Cavisham, and would more especially do so today because of the bishop and because of the bonnets. They trooped down into the hall and into the carriage, Lady Pomona leading the way. Georgiana stalked along, passing her father at the front door without condescending to look at him. Not a word was spoken on the way to church or on the way home. During the service, Mr. Longstaff stood up in the corner of his pew and repeated the responses in a loud voice. In performing this duty, he had been an example to the parish all his life. The three ladies knelt on their hatsix in the most becoming fashion and sat during the sermon without the slightest sign either of weariness or of attention. They did not collect the meaning of any one combination of sentences. It was nothing to them, whether the bishop had or had not a meaning. Endurance of that kind was their strength. Had the bishop preached for forty-five minutes instead of half an hour, they would not have complained. It was the same kind of endurance which enabled Georgiana to go on from year to year waiting for a husband of the proper sort. She could put up with any amount of tedium if only the fair chance of obtaining ultimate relief were not denied to her, but to be kept at Cavisham all the summer would be as bad as hearing a bishop preach forever. After the service, they came back to lunch, and that meal also was eaten in silence. When it was over, the head of the family put himself into the dining room armchair, evidently meaning to be left alone there. In that case, he would have meditated upon his troubles till he went to sleep, and would have thus got through the afternoon with comfort, but this was denied to him. The two daughters remained steadfast while the things were being removed, and Lady Pomona, though she made one attempt to leave the room, returned when she found that her daughters would not follow her. Georgiana had told her sister that she meant to have it out with her father, and Sophia had, of course, remained in the room in obedience to her sister's behest. When the last tray had been taken out, Georgiana began, Papa, don't you think you could settle now when we are to go back to town? Of course we want to know about engagements and all that. There is Lady Monogram's party on Wednesday. We promised to be there ever so long ago. You had better write to Lady Monogram and say you can't keep your engagement. But why not, Papa, we could go up on Wednesday morning. You can't do anything of the kind. But my dear, we should all like to have a day fixed, said Lady Pomona. Then there was a pause. Even Georgiana, in her present state of mind, would have accepted some distant, even some undefined time as a compromise. Then you can't have a day fixed, said Mr. Longstaff. How long do you suppose that we should be kept here, said Sophia, in a low constrained voice? I do not know what you mean by being kept here. This is your home, and this is where you may make up your minds to live. But we are to go back, demanded Sophia. Georgiana stood by in silence, listening, resolving, and biding her time. You'll not return to London this season, said Mr. Longstaff, turning himself abruptly to a newspaper which he held in his hands. Do you mean that that has settled, said Lady Pomona? I mean to say that that has settled, said Mr. Longstaff. Was there ever treachery like this? The indignation in Georgiana's mind approached almost the virtue as she thought of her father's falseness. She would not have left town at all but for that promise. She would not have contaminated herself with the Melmots but for that promise. And now she was told that the promise was to be absolutely broken, when it was no longer possible that she could get back to London, even to the house of the hated Primeros, without absolutely running away from her father's residence. Then papa, she said, was affected calmness. You have simply and with premeditation broken your word to us. How dare you speak to me in that way, you wicked child. I am not a child, papa, as you know very well. I am my own mistress by law. And go and be your own mistress. You dare to tell me, your father, that I have premeditated a falsehood. If you tell me that again, you shall eat your meals in your own room or not, eat them in this house. Did you not promise that we should go back if we would come down and entertain these people? I will not argue with a child, insolent and disobedient as you are. If I have anything to say about it, I will say it to your mother. It should be enough for you that I, your father, tell you that you have to live here. Now go away, and if you choose to be sullen, go and be sullen where I shan't see you. Georgiana looked round on her mother and sister and then marched majestically out of the room. She still meditated revenge, but she was partly cowed and did not dare in her father's presence to go on with her reproaches. She stalked off into the room in which they generally lived, and there she stood panting with anger, breathing indignation through her nostrils. And do you mean to put up with it, mama? She said. What can we do, my dear? I will do something. I'm not going to be cheated and swindled and have my life thrown away into the bargain. I have always behaved well to him. I have never run up bills without saying anything about them. This was a cut at her elder sister who had once got into some little trouble of that kind. I have never got myself talked about with anybody. If there is anything to be done, I always do it. I have written his letters for him till I have been sick. And when you were ill, I never asked him to stay out with us after two or half past two at the latest. And now he tells me that I am to eat my meals up in my bedroom because I remind him that he distinctly promised to take us back to London. Did he not promise, mama? I understood so, my dear. You know he promised, mama. If I do anything now, he must bear the blame of it. I am not going to keep myself straight for the sake of the family and then be treated in that way. You do that for your own sake, I suppose, said her sister. It is more than you have been able to do for anybody's sake, said Georgiana, alluding to a very old affair to an ancient flirtation in the course of which the elder daughter had made a foolish and futile attempt to run away with an officer of dragoons whose private fortune was very moderate. Ten years had passed since that, and the affair was never alluded to except in moments of great bitterness. I have kept myself as straight as you have, said Sophia. It is easy enough to be straight when a person never cares for anybody and nobody cares for a person. My dears, if you quarrel, what am I to do? said their mother. It is I that have to suffer, continued Georgiana. Does he expect me to find anybody here that I could take? Poor George Whitstable is not much, but there is nobody else at all. You may have him, if you like, said Sophia with a chuck of her head. Thank you, my dear, but I shouldn't like it at all. I haven't come to that quite yet. You were talking of running away with somebody. I shan't run away with George Whitstable. You may be sure of that. I'll tell you what I shall do. I will write Papa a letter. I suppose he'll condescend to read it. If he won't take me up to town himself, he must send me up to the Primeros. What makes me most angry in the whole thing is that we should have condescended to be civil to the Melmots down in the country. In London, one does those things, but to have them here was terrible. During that entire afternoon, nothing more was said. Not a word passed between them on any subject beyond those required by the necessities of life. Georgiana had been as hard to her sister as to her father, and Sophia in her quiet way resented the affront. She was now almost reconciled to the sojourn in the country because it inflicted a fitting punishment on Georgiana, and the presence of Mr. Whitstable at a distance of not more than ten miles did, of course, make a difference to herself. Lady Pomona complained of a headache, which was always an excuse for her for not speaking, and Mr. Longstaff went to sleep. Georgiana, during the whole afternoon, remained apart, and on the next morning the head of the family found the following letter on his dressing table. My dear Papa, I don't think you ought to be surprised because we feel that our going up to town is so very important to us. If we are not to be in London at this time of the year, we can never see anybody, and of course you know what that must mean for me. If this goes on about Sophia, it does not signify for her, and though Mama likes London, it is not of real importance, but it is very, very hard upon me. It isn't for pleasure that I want to go up. There isn't so very much pleasure in it. But if I'm to be buried down here at Cavisham, I might just as well be dead at once. If you choose to give up both houses for a year or for two years and take us all abroad, I should not grumble in the least. There are very nice people to be met abroad, and perhaps things go easier that way than in town. And there would be nothing for horses, and we could dress very cheap and wear our old things. I'm sure I don't want to run up bills. But if you would only think what Cavisham must be to me without anyone worth thinking about within 20 miles, you would hardly ask me to stay here. You certainly did say that if we would come down here with those melmots, we should be taken back to town. And you cannot be surprised that we should be disappointed when we are told that we are to be kept here after that. It makes me feel that life is so hard that I can't bear it. I see other girls having such chances when I have none that sometimes I think I don't know what will happen to me. This was the nearest approach which she dared to make in writing to that threat which she had uttered to her mother of running away with somebody. I suppose that now it is useless for me to ask you to take us all back this summer, though it was promised. But I hope you'll give me money to go up to the Primeros. It would only be me and my maid. Julia Primero asked me to stay with them when you first talked of not going up, and I should not in the least object to reminding her only it should be done at once. Their house in Queensgate is very large, and I know they have a room. They all ride and I should want a horse, but there would be nothing else as they have plenty of carriages and the groom who rides with Julia would do for both of us. Pray answer this at once, papa. Your affectionate daughter, Georgiana Longstaff. Mr. Longstaff did condescend to read the letter. He, though he had rebuked his mutinous daughter with stern severity, was also to some extent afraid of her. At a sudden burst he could stand upon his authority and assume his position with parental dignity, but not the less that he dread the wearing toil of continued domestic strife. He thought that upon the hall his daughter liked a row in the house. If not, there surely would not be so many rows. He himself thoroughly hated them. He had not any very lively interest in life. He did not read much. He did not talk much. He was not specially fond of eating and drinking. He did not gamble and he did not care for the farm. To stand about the door and hall in public rooms of the clubs to which he belonged and hear other men talk politics or scandal was what he liked better than anything else in the world, but he was quite willing to give this up for the good of his family. He would be contented to drag through long listless days at Cavisham and endeavour to nurse his property if only his daughter would allow it. By assuming a certain pomp in his living which had been altogether unserviceable to himself and family, by besmearing his footmen's heads and bewigging his coachmen, by aping though never achieving the grand ways of grander men than himself, he had run himself into debt. His own ambition had been a peerage, and he had thought that this was the way to get it. A separate property had come to his son from his wife's mother, some two or three thousand pounds a year magnified by the world into double its amount, and the knowledge of this had for a time reconciled him to increasing the burdens on the family estate. He had been sure that Adolphus, when of age, would have consented to sell the Sussex property in order that the Suffolk property might be relieved, but Dolly was now in debt himself, and though in other respects the most careless of men was always on his guard in any dealings with his father. He would not consent to the sale of the Sussex property unless half of the proceeds were to be at once handed to himself. The father could not bring himself to consent to this, but while refusing it found the troubles of the world very hard upon him. Melmont had done something for him, but in doing this Melmont was very hard and tyrannical. Melmont, when at Cavisham, had looked into his affairs and had told him very plainly that there was such an establishment in the country he was not entitled to keep a house in town. Mr. Longstaff had then said something about his daughters, something especially about Georgiana, and Mr. Melmont had made a suggestion. Mr. Longstaff, when he read his daughter's appeal, did feel for her in spite of his anger, but if there was one man he hated more than another it was his neighbor Mr. Primero, and if one woman it was Mrs. Primero. Primero, who Mr. Longstaff regarded as quite an upstart and anything but a gentleman, owed no man anything. He paid his tradesmen punctually and never met the squire of Cavisham without seeming to make a parade of his virtue in that direction. He had spent many thousands for his party in county elections and borough elections, and was now himself member for a metropolitan district. He was a radical, of course, or according to Mr. Longstaff's view of his political conduct, acted and voted on the radical side, because there was nothing to be got by voting and acting on the other. And now there had come into suffocate a rumor that Mr. Primero was to have a peerage. To others the rumor was incredible, but Mr. Longstaff believed it, and to Mr. Longstaff that belief was an agony, a barren bundlesome just at his door, and such a barren bundlesome would be more than Mr. Longstaff could endure. It was quite impossible that his daughter should be entertained in London by the Primeros. But another suggestion had been made. Georgiana's letter had been laid on her father's table on the Monday morning. On the following morning, when there could have been no intercourse with London by letter, Lady Pomona called her younger daughter to her and handed her a note to read. Your papa has this moment given it to me. Of course, you must judge for yourself. This was the note. My dear Mr. Longstaff, as you seem determined not to return to London this season, perhaps one of your young ladies would like to come to us. Mrs. Melmont would be delighted to have Miss Georgiana for June and July, if so, she need only give Mrs. Melmont a day's notice. Yours truly, Augustus Melmont. Georgiana, as soon as her eye had glanced down the one side of note paper on which this invitation was written, looked up for the date. It was without a date and had, she felt sure, been left in her father's hands to be used as he might think fit. She breathed very hard. Both her father and mother had heard her speak of these Melmonts and knew what she thought of them. There was an insolence in the very suggestion, but at the first moment she said nothing of that. Why shouldn't I go to the Primeros? She asked. Your father will not hear of it. He dislikes them especially. And I dislike the Melmonts. I dislike the Primeros, of course, but they are not so bad as the Melmonts. That would be dreadful. You must judge for yourself, Georgiana. It is that, or staying here? I think so, my dear. If papa chooses, I don't know why I am to mind, it will be awfully disagreeable, absolutely disgusting. She seemed to be very quiet. Poo, mama, quiet. She was quiet here because she was afraid of us. She isn't yet used to be with people like us. She'll get over that if I'm in the house with her. And then she is so frightfully vulgar. She must have been the very sweeping of the gutters. Did you not see it, mama? She could not even open her mouth. She was so ashamed of herself. I shouldn't wonder if they turned out to be something quite horrid. They make me shudder. Was there ever anything so dreadful to look at as he is? Everybody goes to them, said Lady Pomona. The Duchess of Stevanage has been there over and over again. And so has Lady Old Rikki. Everybody goes to their house. But everybody doesn't go and live with them. Oh, mama, to have to sit down to breakfast every day for 10 weeks with that man and that woman. Perhaps they'll let you have your breakfast upstairs. But to have to go out with them, walking into the room after her, only think of it. But you are so anxious to be in London, my dear. Of course I am anxious. What other chance have I, mama? And oh, dear, I am so tired of it. Pleasure indeed. Papa talks of pleasure. If Papa had to work half as hard as I do, I wonder what he'd think of it. I suppose I must do it. I know it will make me so ill that I shall almost die under it. Horrid, horrid people. And Papa, to propose it, who has always been so proud of everything, who used to think so much of being with the right set. Things are changed, Georgiana, said the anxious mother. Indeed they are, when Papa wants me to go and stay with people like that. Why, mama, the apothecary in Bungay is a fine gentleman compared with Mr. Melmont. And his wife is a fine lady compared with Madame Melmont. But I'll go. If Papa chooses me to be seen with such people, it is not my fault. There will be no disgracing oneself after that. I don't believe in the least that any decent man would propose to a girl in such a house. And you and Papa must not be surprised if I take some horrid creature from the stock exchange. Papa has altered his ideas, and so I suppose I had better alter mine. Georgiana did not speak to her father that night, but Lady Pomona informed Mr. Longstaff that Mr. Melmont's invitation was to be accepted. She herself would write a line to Madame Melmont and Georgiana would go up on the Friday following. I hope she'll like it, said Mr. Longstaff. The poor man had no intention of irony. It was not in his nature to be severe after that fashion. But to poor Lady Pomona, the words sounded very cruel. How could anyone like to live in a house with Mr. and Madame Melmont? On the Friday morning there was a little conversation between the two sisters, just before Georgiana's departure to the railway station, which was almost touching. She had endeavored to hold up her head as usual, but had failed. The thing that she was going to do cowed her, even in the presence of her sister. Sophie, I do so envy you staying here. But it was you who were so determined to be in London. Yes, I was determined and am determined. I've got to get myself settled somehow, and that can't be done down here. But you were not going to disgrace yourself. There's no disgrace in it, Georgie. Yes, there is. I believe the man to be a swindler and a thief, and I believe her to be anything low that you can think of. As to their pretensions to be gentle folk, it is monstrous. The footmen and housemaids would be much better. Then don't go, Georgie. I must go. It's the only chance that is left. If I were to remain down here, everybody would say that I was on the shelf. You are going to marry Whitstable, and you'll do very well. It isn't a big place, but there's no debt on it, and Whitstable himself isn't a bad sort of fellow. Is he now? Of course he hasn't much to say for himself, for he's always at home, but he is a gentleman. Dad, he certainly is. As for me, I shall give over caring about gentlemen now. The first man that comes to me with four or 5,000 a year, I'll take him, though he'd come out of New Gator Bedlam, and I shall always say it has been Popeye's doing. And so, Georgiana Longstaff went up to London and stayed with the Melmots. End of Chapter 21. Chapter 22 of The Way We Live Now. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 22, Lord Nitterdale's Morality. It was very generally said in the city about this time that the Great South Central Pacific in Mexican Railway was the very best thing out. It was known that Mr. Melmott had gone into it with heart and hand. There were many who declared, with gross injustice to the Great Fisker, that the railway was Melmott's own child, that he had invented it, advertised it, agitated it, and floated it. But it was not the less popular on that account. A railway from Salt Lake City to Mexico, no doubt, had much of the flavor of a castle in Spain. Our far western American brethren are supposed to be imaginative. Mexico has not a reputation among us for commercial security or that stability which produces its four, five, or six percent with the regularity of clockwork. But there was the Panama Railway, a small affair which had paid 25 percent, and there was the great line across the continent to San Francisco in which enormous fortunes had been made. It came to be believed that men with their eyes open might do as well with the Great South Central as had ever been done before with other speculations, and this belief was no doubt founded on Mr. Melmott's partiality for the enterprise. Mr. Fisker had struck Isle when he induced his partner Montague to give him a note to the great man. Paul Montague himself, who cannot be said to have been a man having his eyes open in the city sense of the word, could not learn how the thing was progressing. At the regular meetings of the board, which never sat for above half an hour, two or three papers were read by Miles Grendel. Melmott himself would speak a few slow words intended to be cheery and always indicative of triumph, and then everybody would agree to everything, somebody would sign something, and the board for that day would be over. To Paul Montague, this was very unsatisfactory. More than once or twice he endeavored to stay the proceedings, not as disapproving, but simply as desirous of being made to understand. But the silent scorn of his chairman put him out of countenance, and the opposition of his colleagues was a barrier which he was not strong enough to overcome. Lord Alfred Grendel would declare that he did not think all that was at all necessary. Lord Nitterdale, with whom Montague had now become intimate at the Bear Garden, would nudge him in the ribs and bid him hold his tongue. Mr. Cohen Loop would make a little speech in fluent but broken English, assuring the committee that everything was being done after the approved city fashion. Sir Felix, after the first two meetings, was never there. And thus Paul Montague, with a sorely burdened conscience, was carried along as one of the directors of the great South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway Company. I do not know whether the burden was made lighter to him or heavier by the fact that the immediate pecuniary result was certainly very comfortable. The company had not yet been in existence quite six weeks, or at any rate Melmont had not been connected with it above that time. And it had already been suggested to him twice that he should sell 50 shares at 112 pounds, 10 shillings. He did not even yet know how many shares he possessed, but on both occasions he consented to the proposal and on the following day received a check for 625 pounds, that sum representing the profit over and above the original nominal price of 100 pounds a share. The suggestion was made to him by Miles Grindel and when he asked some questions as to the manner in which the shares had been allocated, he was told that all that would be arranged in accordance with the capital invested and must depend on the final disposition of the Californian property. But from what we see, old fellow, said Miles, I don't think you have anything to fear. You seem to be about the best in of them all. Melmont wouldn't advise you to sell out gradually if he didn't look upon the thing as a certain income as far as you are concerned. Paul Montague understood nothing of all this and felt that he was standing on ground which might be blown from under his feet at any moment. The uncertainty and what he feared might be the dishonesty of the whole thing made him often very miserable. In those wretched moments his conscience was asserting itself. But again there were times in which he also was almost triumphant and in which he felt the delight of his wealth. Though he was snubbed at the board when he wanted explanations, he received very great attention outside the boardroom from those connected with the enterprise. Melmont had asked him to dine two or three times. Mr. Cohen Loop had begged him to go down to his little place at Rickmansworth and a treaty with which Montague had not as yet complied. Lord Alfred was always gracious to him and Nitterdale and Carberry were evidently anxious to make him one of their set at the club. Many other houses became open to him from the same source. Though Melmont was supposed to be the inventor of the railway, it was known that Fisker Montague and Montague were largely concerned in it. And it was known also that Paul Montague was one of the Montague's named in that firm. People, both in the city and the West End, seemed to think that he knew all about it and treated him as though some of the manna falling from that heaven were at his disposition. There were results from this which were not unpleasing to the young man. He only partially resisted the temptation and though determined at times to probe the affair to the bottom, was so determined only at times. The money was very pleasant to him. The period would now soon arrive before which he understood himself to be pledged not to make a distinct offer to Henrietta Carberry. And when that period should have been passed, it would be delightful to him to know that he was possessed of property sufficient to enable him to give a wife a comfortable home. In all his aspirations and in all his fears he was true to Heta Carberry and made her the center of his hopes. Nevertheless, had Heta known everything, it may be fear that she would have at any rate endeavored to dismiss him from her heart. There was considerable uneasiness in the bosoms of others of the directors and a disposition to complain against the grand director arising from a grievance altogether different from that which afflicted Montague. Neither had Sir Felix Carberry nor Lord Nitterdale been invited to sell shares, and consequently neither of them had received any remuneration for the use of their names. They knew well that Montague had sold shares. He was quite open on the subject and had told Felix whom he hoped someday to regard as his brother-in-law exactly what shares he had sold and for how much. And the two men had endeavored to make the matter intelligible between themselves. The original price of the shares being a hundred pounds each and twelve pounds ten shillings a share having been paid to Montague as the premium, it was to be supposed that the original capital was reinvested in other shares. But each owned to the other that the matter was very complicated to him and Montague could only write to Hamilton K. Fisker at San Francisco asking for explanation. As yet he had received no answer. But it was not the wealth flowing into Montague's hands which embittered Nitterdale and Carberry. They understood that he had really brought money into the concern and was therefore entitled to take money out of it. Nor did it occur to them to grudge Melmont his more noble pickings, for they knew how great a man was Melmont. Of Cohen Loop's doings they heard nothing but he was a regular city man and had probably supplied funds. Cohen Loop was too deep for their inquiry. But they knew that Lord Alfred had sold shares and had received the profit and they knew also how utterly impossible it was that Lord Alfred should have produced capital. If Lord Alfred Grendel was entitled to plunder why were not they? And if their day for plunder had not yet come why Lord Alfred's? And if there was so much cause to fear Lord Alfred that it was necessary to throw him a bone why should not they also make themselves feared? Lord Alfred passed all his time with Melmont, had, as these young men said, become Melmont's head valet and therefore had to be paid. But that reason did not satisfy the young men. You haven't sold any shares, have you? This question Sir Felix asked Lord Nitterdale at the club. Nitterdale was constant in his attendance at the board and Felix was not a little afraid that he might be jockied also by him. Not a share. Nor got any profits. Not a shilling of any kind. As far as money is concerned my only transaction has been my part of the expense of Fisker's dinner. What do you get then by going into the city? Asked Sir Felix. I'm blessed if I know what I get. I suppose something will turn up someday. In the meantime you know there are our names and Grendahl is making a fortune out of it. Poor old Duffer said his lordship, if he's doing so well I think Miles ought to be made to pay up something of what he owes. I think we ought to tell him that we shall expect him to have the money ready when that Bill of Vozners comes round. Yes, by George, let's tell him that. Will you do it? Not that it will be the least good. It would be quite unnatural to him to pay anything. Fellows used to pay their gambling debts, said Sir Felix, who was still in funds and who still held a considerable assortment of IOUs. They don't now unless they like it. How did a fellow manage before if he hadn't got it? He went smash, said Sir Felix, and disappeared and was never heard of anymore. It was just the same as if he'd been found cheating. I believe a fellow might cheat now and nobody'd say anything. I shouldn't, said Lord Nitterdale. What's the use of being beastly ill-natured? I'm not very good at saying my prayers, but I do think there's something in that bit about forgiving people. Of course, cheating isn't very nice and it isn't very nice for a fellow to play when he knows he can't pay, but I don't know that it's worse than getting drunk like Dolly Longstaff or quarreling with everybody as Grasslow does or trying to marry some poor devil of a girl merely because she's got money. I believe in living in glass houses, but I don't believe in throwing stones. Do you ever read the Bible, Carberry? Read the Bible? Well, yes, no. That is, I suppose I used to do. I often think I shouldn't have been the first to pick up a stone and pitch it at that woman. Live and let live, that's my motto. But you agree that we ought to do something about these shares, said Sir Felix, thinking that this doctrine of forgiveness might be carried too far. Oh, certainly, I'll let old Grendel live with all my heart, but then he ought to let me live, too. Only, who's to bell the cat? What cat? It's no good I'm going to old Grendel, said Lord Nitterdale, who had some understanding in the matter, nor yet to young Grendel. The one would only grunt and say nothing and the other would tell every lie that came into his head. The cat in this matter I take to be our great master, Augustus Melmot. This little meeting occurred on the day after Felix Carberry's return from Suffolk, and at a time at which, as we know, it was the great duty of his life to get the consent of old Melmot to his marriage with Marie Melmot. In doing that, he would have to put one bell on the cat and he thought that for the present that was sufficient. In his heart of hearts he was afraid of Melmot. But then, as he knew very well, Nitterdale was intent on the same object. Nitterdale, he thought, was a very queer fellow. That talking about the Bible and the forgiving of trespasses was very queer. And that allusion to the marrying of Eris is very queer indeed. He knew that Nitterdale wanted to marry the Eris and Nitterdale must also know that he wanted to marry her. And yet, Nitterdale was indelicate enough to talk about it. And now the man asked, who should bell the cat? You go there oftener than I do and perhaps you could do it best, censor Felix. Go where? To the board. But you're always at his house. He'd be civil to me perhaps because I'm a Lord. But then for the same reason he'd think I was the bigger fool of the two. I don't see that at all, censor Felix. I ain't afraid of him if you mean that, continued Lord Nitterdale. He's a wretched old reprobate and I don't doubt but he'd skin you and me if he could make money off our carcasses. But as he can't skin me, I'll have a shy at him. On the whole, I think he rather likes me because I've always been on the square with him. If it depended on him, you know, I should have the girl tomorrow. Would you? So Felix did not at all mean to doubt his friend's assertion but felt it hard to answer so very strange a statement. But then she don't want me and I ain't quite sure that I want her. Where the devil would a fellow find himself if the money wasn't all there? Lord Nitterdale then sauntered away, leaving the baronet in a deep study of thought as to such a condition of things as that which his lordship had suggested. Where the mischief would he, Sir Felix Carberry, be if he were to marry the girl and then to find that the money was not all there? On the following Friday, which was the board day, Nitterdale went to the great man's offices in Abchurch Lane and so contrived that he walked with the great man to the board meeting. Melmont was always very gracious in his manner to Lord Nitterdale, but had never, up to this moment, had any speech with his proposed son-in-law about business. I wanted just to ask you something, said the lord, hanging on the chairman's arm. Anything you please, my lord. Don't you think that Carberry and I got to have some shares to sell? No, I don't, if you ask me. Oh, I didn't know, but why shouldn't we, as well as the others? Have you and Sir Felix put any money into it? Well, if you come to that, I don't suppose we have. How much has Lord Alfred put into it? I have taken shares for Lord Alfred, said Melmont, putting very heavy emphasis on the personal pronoun. If it suits me to advance money to Lord Alfred Grindal, I suppose I may do so without asking your lordship's consent, or that of Sir Felix Carberry. Oh, certainly, I don't want to make inquiry as to what you do with your money. I'm sure you don't, and therefore, we won't say anything more about it. You wait a while, Lord Nitterdale, and you'll find it will come all right. If you've got a few thousand pounds loose and we'll put them into the concern, why, of course, you can sell. And if the shares are up, can sell at a profit. It's presumed, just at present, that at some early day you'll qualify for your directorship by doing so, until that is done, the shares are allocated to you, but cannot be transferred to you. That's it, as said Lord Nitterdale, pretending to understand all about it. If things go on as we hope they will between you and Marie, you can have pretty nearly any number of shares that you please. That is, if your father consents to a proper settlement. I hope it'll all go smooth, I'm sure, said Nitterdale. Thank you, I'm ever so much obliged to you, and I'll explain it all to Carberry. End of Chapter 22. Chapter 23 of The Way We Live Now. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 23. Yes, I'm a baronette. How eager Lady Carberry was that her son should at once go inform to Marie's father and make his proposition maybe easily understood. My dear Felix, she said, standing over his bedside a little before noon, pray don't put it off. You don't know how many slips there may be between the cup and the lip. It's everything to get him in a good humor, pleaded Sir Felix. But the young lady will feel that she is ill-used. There's no fear of that, she's all right. What am I to say to him about money, that's the question. I shouldn't think of dictating anything, Felix. Nitterdale, when he was on before, stipulated for a certain sum down, or his father did for him, so much cash was to be paid over before the ceremony, and it only went off because Nitterdale wanted the money to do what he liked with. You wouldn't mind having it settled? No. I'd consent to that on condition that the money was paid down, and the income insured to me, say, seven or eight thousand pounds a year, I wouldn't do it for less, mother, it wouldn't be worthwhile. But you have nothing left of your own. I've got a throat that I can cut and brains that I can blow out, said the son, using an argument which he conceived might be efficacious with his mother, though had she known him, she might have been sure that no man lived less likely to cut his own throat or blow out his own brains. Oh, Felix, how brutal it is to speak to me in that way. It may be brutal, but you know, mother, business is business. You want me to marry this girl because of her money. You want to marry her yourself. I'm quite a philosopher about it. I want her money, and when one wants money, one should make up one's mind how much or how little one means to take, and whether one is sure to get it. I don't think there can be any doubt. If I were to marry her, and if the money wasn't there, it would be very like cutting my throat then, mother. If a man plays and loses, he can play again and perhaps win. But when a fellow goes in for an heiress and gets the wife without the money, he feels a little hampered, you know? Of course he'd pay the money first. It's very well to say that. Of course he ought, but it would be rather awkward to refuse to go into church after everything had been arranged because the money hadn't been paid over. He's so clever that he'd contrived that a man should know whether the money had been paid or not. You can't carry 10,000 pounds a year about in your pocket, you know. If you'll go, mother, perhaps I might think of getting up. Lady Carberry saw the danger and turned over the affair on every side in her own mind. But she could also see the house in Grovener Square, the expenditure without limit, the congregating duchesses, the general acceptation of the people, and the mercantile celebrity of the man. And she could weigh against that the absolute pennilessness of her baronette son. As he was, his condition was hopeless. Such a one must surely run some risk. The embarrassments of such a man as Lord Nitterdale were only temporary. There were the family estates and the marquiset and a golden future for him, but there was nothing coming to Felix in the future. All the goods he would ever have of his own he had now. Position, a title, and a handsome face. Surely he could afford to risk something. Even the ruins and wreck of such wealth as that displayed in Grovener Square would be better than the baronette's present condition. And then, though it was possible that old Melmots should be ruined some day, there could be no doubt as to his present means, and would it not be probable that he would make hay while the sun shone by securing his daughter's position. She visited her son again on the next morning, which was Sunday, and again tried to persuade him to the marriage. I think you should be content to run a little risk, she said. Sir Felix had been unlucky at cards on Saturday night, and had taken perhaps a little too much wine. He was at any rate sulky, and in a humor to resent interference. I wish you'd leave me alone, he said, to manage my own business. Is it not my business, too? No. You haven't got to marry her, and to put up with these people. I shall make up my mind what to do myself, and I don't want anybody to meddle with me. You ungrateful boy. I understand all about that, but of course I'm ungrateful when I don't do everything just as you wish it. You don't do any good. You only set me against it all. How do you expect to live, then? Are you always to be a burden on me and your sister? I wonder that you've no shame. Your cousin Roger is right. I will quit London altogether and leave you to your own wretchedness. That's what Roger says, is it? I always thought Roger was a fellow of that sort. He is the best friend I have. What would Roger have thought had he heard this assertion from Lady Carberry? He's an ill-tempered, closed-fisted, interfering cad, and if he meddles with my affairs again, I shall tell him what I think of him. Upon my word, mother, these little disputes up in my bedroom ain't very pleasant. Of course it's your house, but if you do allow me a room, I think you might let me have it to myself. It was impossible for Lady Carberry, in her present mood, and in his present mood, to explain to him that in no other way and at no other time could she ever find him. If she waited till he came down to breakfast, he escaped from her in five minutes, and then he returned no more till some unholy hour in the morning. She was as good a pelican as ever allowed the blood to be torn from her own breast to satisfy the greed of her young, but she felt that she should have something back for her blood, some return for her sacrifices. This chick would take all as long as there was a drop left and then resent the fondling of the mother bird as interference. Again and again there came upon her moments in which she thought that Roger Carberry was right, and yet she knew that when the time came she would not be able to be severe. She almost hated herself for the weakness of her own love, but she acknowledged it. If he should fall utterly, she must fall with him. In spite of his cruelty, his callous hardness, his insolence to herself, his wickedness and ruinous indifference to the future, she must cling to him to the last. All that she had done and all that she had borne, all that she was doing and bearing, was it not for his sake? Sir Felix had been in Grovener Square since his return from Carberry and had seen Madame Melmont and Marie, but he had seen them together and not a word had been said about the engagement. He could not make much use of the elder woman. She was as gracious as was usual with her, but then she was never very gracious. She had told him that Miss Longstaff was coming to her, which was a great bore as the young lady was fatigante. Upon this Marie had declared that she intended to like the young lady very much. Poo, said Madame Melmont, you never like no person at all. At this Marie had looked over to her lover and smiled. Ah yes, that is all very well while it lasts, but you care for no friend. From which Felix had judged that Madame Melmont at any rate knew of his offer and did not absolutely disapprove of it. On the Saturday he had received a note at his club from Marie. Come on Sunday at half past two, you will find papa after lunch. This was in his possession when his mother visited him in his bedroom and he had determined to obey the behest, but he would not tell her of his intention because he had drunk too much wine and was sulky. At about three on Sunday, he knocked at the door in Grovener Square and asked for the ladies. Up to the moment of his knocking, even after he had knocked and when the big porter was opening the door, he intended to ask for Mr. Melmont, but at the last his courage failed him and he was shown up into the drawing room. There he found Madame Melmont, Marie, Georgiana Longstaff and Lord Nitterdale. Marie looked anxiously into his face thinking that he had already been with her father. He slid into a chair close to Madame Melmont and endeavored to seem at his ease. Lord Nitterdale continued his flirtation with Miss Longstaff, a flirtation which she carried on in a half whisper, wholly indifferent to her hostess or the young lady of the house. We know what brings you here, she said. I came on purpose to see you. I'm sure, Lord Nitterdale, you didn't expect to find me here. Lord bless you, I knew all about it and came on purpose. It's a great institution, isn't it? It's an institution you mean to belong to, permanently. No, indeed. I did have thoughts about it as fellows do when they talk of going into the army or to the bar, but I couldn't pass. That fellow there is the happy man. I shall go on coming here because you're here. I don't think you'll like it a bit, you know? I don't suppose I shall, Lord Nitterdale. After a while Marie contrived to be alone with her lover near one of the windows for a few seconds. Papa is downstairs in the book room, she said. Lord Alfred was told when he came that he was out. It was evident to Sir Felix that everything was prepared for him. You go down, she continued, and asked the man to show you into the book room. Shall I come up again? No, but leave a note for me here under cover to Madame D'Donne. Now Sir Felix was sufficiently at home in the house to know that Madame D'Donne was Madame Melmont's own woman, commonly called D'Donne by the ladies of the family. Or send it by post under cover to her. That will be better. Go at once, now. It certainly did seem to Sir Felix that the very nature of the girl was altered, but he went, just shaking hands with Madame Melmont and bowing to Miss Longstaff. In a few moments, he found himself with Mr. Melmont in the chamber which had been dignified with the name of the book room. The great financier was accustomed to spend his Sunday afternoons here, generally with the company of Lord Alfred Grendel. It may be supposed that he was meditating on millions and arranging the prices of money and funds for the New York, Paris, and London exchanges. But on this occasion, he was waked from slumber, which he seemed to have been enjoying with a cigar in his mouth. How do you do, Sir Felix? He said, I suppose you want the ladies. I've just been in the drawing room, but I thought I'd look in on you as I came down. It immediately occurred to Melmont that the Baronette had come about his share of the plunder out of the railway, and he at once resolved to be stern in his manner, and perhaps rude also. He believed that he should thrive best by resenting any interference with him in his capacity as financier. He thought that he had risen high enough to venture on such conduct, and experience had told him that men who were themselves only half-plucked might easily be cowed by a savage assumption of superiority. And he too had generally the advantage of understanding the game, while those with whom he was concerned did not at any rate more than half understand it. He could thus trade either on the timidity or on the ignorance of his colleagues. When neither of these suffice to give him undisputed mastery, then he cultivated the cupidity of his friends. He liked young associates because they were more timid and less greedy than their elders. Lord Nitterdale's suggestions had soon been put at rest, and Mr. Melmont anticipated no greater difficulty with Sir Felix. Lord Alfred, he had been obliged to buy. I'm very glad to see you and all that, said Melmont, assuming a certain exaltation of the eyebrows, which they who had many dealings with him often found to be very disagreeable. But this is hardly a day for business, Sir Felix, nor yet a place for business. Sir Felix wished himself at the Bear Garden. He certainly had come about business, business of a particular sort. But Marie had told him that of all days, Sunday would be the best, and had also told him that her father was more likely to be in a good humor on Sunday than on any other day. Sir Felix felt that he had not been received with good humor. I didn't mean to intrude, Mr. Melmont, he said. I dare say not. I only thought I'd tell you. You might have been going to speak about that railway. Oh, dear, no. Your mother was saying to me down in the country that she hoped you attended to the business. I told her that there was nothing to attend to. My mother doesn't understand anything at all about it, said Sir Felix. Women never do. Well, what can I do for you now that you are here? Mr. Melmont, I'm come to, in short, Mr. Melmont, I want to propose myself as a suitor for your daughter's hand. The devil you do. Well, yes, and we hope you'll give us your consent. She knows you're coming then? Yes, she knows. And my wife, does she know? I've never spoken to her about it, perhaps Miss Melmont has. And how long have you and she understood each other? I've been attached to her ever since I saw her, said Sir Felix. I have indeed. I've spoken to her sometimes. You know how that kind of thing goes on. I'm blessed if I do. I know how it ought to go on. I know that when large sums of money are supposed to be concerned, the young man should speak to the father before he speaks to the girl. He's a fool if he don't. If he wants to get the father's money, so she has given you a promise? I don't know about a promise. Do you consider that she's engaged to you? Not if she's disposed to get out of it, said Sir Felix, hoping that he might thus ingratiate himself with the father. Of course I should be awfully disappointed. She has consented to your coming to me. Well, yes, in a sort of a way. Of course she knows that it all depends on you. Not at all. She's of age. If she chooses to marry you, she can marry you. If that's all you want, her consent is enough. You're a baronet, I believe. Oh, yes, I'm a baronet. And therefore, you've come to your own property. You haven't to wait for your father to die. And I daresay you are indifferent about money. This was a view of things which Sir Felix felt that he was bound to dispel, even at the risk of offending the father. Not exactly that, he said. I suppose you will give your daughter a fortune, of course. Then I wonder you didn't come to me before you went to her. If my daughter marries to please me, I shall give her money, no doubt. How much is neither here nor there? If she marries to please herself without considering me, I shan't give her a farthing. I had hoped that you might consent, Mr. Malmot. I've said nothing about that. It is possible you're a man of fashion and have a title of your own, and no doubt a property. If you'll show me that you've an income fit to maintain her, I'll think about it at any rate. What is your property, Sir Felix? What could three or 4,000 a year, or even five or six matter to a man like Malmot? It was thus that Sir Felix looked at it. When a man can hardly count his millions, he ought not to ask questions about trifling sums of money. But the question had been asked and the asking of such a question was no doubt within the prerogative of a proposed father-in-law. At any rate, it must be answered. For a moment it occurred to Sir Felix that he might conveniently tell the truth. It would be nasty for the moment, but there would be nothing to come after. Were he to do so, he could not be dragged down lower and lower into the mire by cross-examinings. There might be an end of all his hopes, but there would at the same time be an end of all his misery. But he lacked the necessary courage. It isn't a large property, you know, he said. Not like the Marquis of Westminster's, I suppose, said the horrid, big, rich scoundrel. No, not quite like that, said Sir Felix with a sickly laugh. But you have got enough to support a Baronette's title. That depends on how you want to support it, said Sir Felix, putting off the evil day. Where's your family's seat? Carberry Manor down in Suffolk, near the Longstaffs, is the old family place. That doesn't belong to you, said Melmont very sharply. No, not yet, but I'm the heir. Perhaps if there is one thing in England more difficult than another to be understood by men born and bred out of England, it is the system under which titles and property descend together or in various lines. The jurisdiction of our courts of law is complex and so is the business of parliament, but the rules regulating them, though anomalous, are easy to the memory compared with the mixed anomalies of the purge and primogeniture. They who are brought up among it learn it as children do a language, but strangers who begin the study in advanced life seldom make themselves perfect in it. It was everything to Melmont that he should understand the ways of the country which he had adopted. And when he did not understand he was clever at hiding his ignorance. Now he was puzzled. He knew that Sir Felix was a baronet and therefore presumed him to be the head of the family. He knew that Carberry Manor belonged to Roger Carberry and he judged by the name it must be an old family property. And now the baronet declared that he was heir to the man who was simply an Esquire. Oh, the heir, are you? But how did he get it before you? You're the head of the family. Yes, I am the head of the family, of course, said Sir Felix, lying directly. But the place won't be mine till he dies. It would take a long time to explain it all. He's a young man, isn't he? No, not what you'd call a young man. He isn't very old. If he were to marry and have children, how would it be then? Sir Felix was beginning to think that he might have told the truth with discretion. I don't quite know how it would be. I have always understood that I am the heir. It's not very likely that he will marry. And in the meantime, what is your own property? My father left me money in the funds and in railway stock and then I am my mother's heir. You have done me the honor of telling me that you wish to marry my daughter, certainly. Would you then object to inform me the amount and nature of the income on which you intend to support your establishment as a married man? I fancy that the position, you assume, justifies the question on my part. The bloated swindler, the vile city ruffian, was certainly taking a most ungenerous advantage of the young aspirant for wealth. It was then that Sir Felix felt his own position. Was he not a baronet and a gentleman and a very handsome fellow and a man of the world who had been in a crack regiment? If this surfeited sponge of speculation, this crammed commercial cormorant wanted more than that for his daughter, why could he not say so without asking disgusting questions such as these, questions which it was quite impossible that a gentleman should answer? Was it not sufficiently plain that any gentleman proposing to marry the daughter of such a man as Melmot must do so under the stress of pecuniary embarrassment? Would it not be an understood bargain that, as he provided the rank and position, she would provide the money? And yet the vulgar wretched a advantage of his assumed authority to ask these dreadful questions. Sir Felix stood silent, trying to look the man in the face, but failing, wishing that he was well out of the house and at the bear garden. You don't seem to be very clear about your own circumstances, Sir Felix. Perhaps you will get your lawyer to write to me. Perhaps that will be best, said the lover. Either that or to give it up. My daughter, no doubt, will have money, but money expects money. At this moment, Lord Alfred entered the room. You're very late today, Alfred. Why didn't you come as you said you would? I was here more than an hour ago and they said you were out. I haven't been out of this room all day except to lunch. Good morning, Sir Felix. Ring the bell, Alfred, and we'll have a little soda and brandy. Sir Felix had gone through some greeting with his fellow director, Lord Alfred, and at last succeeded in getting Melmont to shake hands with him before he went. Do you know anything about that young fellow, Melmont asked, as soon as the door was closed? He's a baronet without a shilling, was in the army and had to leave it, said Lord Alfred as he buried his face in a big tumbler. Without a shilling, I supposed so, but he's heir to a place down in Suffolk, eh? Not a bit of it. It's the same name and that's about all. Mr. Carberry has a small property there and he might give it to me tomorrow. I wish he would, though there isn't much of it. That young fellow has nothing to do with it, whatever. Hasn't he now? Mr. Melmont, as he speculated upon it, almost admired the young man's impudence. End of chapter 23. Chapter 24 of The Way We Live Now. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Way We Live Now, by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 24. Miles Grendahl's Triumph. Sir Felix, as he walked down to his club, felt that he had been checkmated and was at the same time full of wrath at the insolence of the man who had so easily beaten him out of the field. As far as he could see the game was over. No doubt he might marry Marie Melmont. The father had told him so much himself and he perfectly believed the truth of that oath which Marie had sworn. He did not doubt but that she'd stick to him close enough. She was in love with him, which was natural and was a fool, which was perhaps also natural. The romance was not the game which he was playing. People told him that when girls succeeded in marrying without their parents' consent, fathers were always constrained to forgive them at last. That might be the case with ordinary fathers, but Melmont was decidedly not an ordinary father. He was, so Sir Felix declared to himself, perhaps the greatest brute ever created. Sir Felix could not but remember that elevation of the eyebrows and the brazen forehead and the hard mouth. He had found himself quite unable to stand up against Melmont and now he cursed and swore at the man as he was carried down to the bear garden in a cab. But what should he do? Should he abandon Marie Melmont altogether, never go to Grovener Square again and drop the whole family, including the great Mexican railway? Then an idea occurred to him. Nitterdale had explained to him the result of his application for shares. You see, we haven't bought any and therefore can't sell any. There seems to be something in that. I shall explain it all to my governor and get him to go a thaw or two. If he sees his way to get the money back, he'd do that and let me have the difference. On that Sunday afternoon, Sir Felix thought over all this. Why shouldn't he go a thaw and get the difference? He made a mental calculation, 12 pounds, 10 shillings per 100 pounds, 125 pounds for a thousand and all paid in ready money as far as Sir Felix could understand. Directly, the one operation had been perfected, the thousand pounds would be available for another. As he looked into it with all his intelligence, he thought that he began to perceive that that was the way in which the Melmonts of the world made their money. There was but one objection. He had not got the entire thousand pounds. But luck had been on the whole very good to him. He had more than the half of it in real money lying at a bank in the city at which he had opened an account. And he had very much more than the remainder in IOUs from Dolly Longstaff and Miles Grendel. In fact, if every man had his own and his bosom glowed with indignation as he reflected on the injustice with which he was kept out of his own, he could go into the city and take up his shares tomorrow and still have ready money at his command. If he could do this, would not such conduct on his part be the best refutation of that charge of not having any fortune which Melmont had brought against him? He would endeavor to work the money out of Dolly Longstaff. And he entertained an idea that though it would be impossible to get cash from Miles Grendel, he might use his claim against Miles in the city. Miles was secretary to the board and might perhaps contrive that the money required for the shares should not be already money. Sir Felix was not very clear about it, but thought that he might possibly in this way use the indebtedness of Miles Grendel. How I do hate a fellow who does not pay up, he said to himself as he sat alone in his club, waiting for some friend to come in. And he formed in his head draconic laws which he would feign have executed upon men who lost money at play and did not pay. How the deuce fellows can look one in the face is what I can't understand, he said to himself. He thought over this great stroke of exhibiting himself to Melmont as a capitalist till he gave up his idea of abandoning his suit. So he wrote a note to Marie Melmont in accordance with her instructions. Dear M, your father cut up very rough about money. Perhaps you had better see him yourself or would your mother, yours always F. This as directed, he put undercover to Madame D'Donne, Grovener Square and posted at the club. He had put nothing at any rate in the letter which would commit him. There was generally on Sundays a house dinner, so called, at eight o'clock. Five or six men would sit down and would always gamble afterwards. On this occasion, Dolly Longstaff sauntered in at about seven in quest of sherry and bitters. And Felix found the opportunity, a good one to speak of his money. You couldn't cash your IOUs for me tomorrow, could you? Tomorrow, oh Lord, I'll tell you why. You know I'd tell you anything because I think we are really friends. I'm after that daughter of Melmont. I'm told you're to have her. I don't know about that. I mean to try at any rate. I've gone in, you know, for that board in the city. I don't know anything about boards, my boy. Yes, you do, Dolly. You remember that American fellow, Monty U's friend that was here one night and won all our money? The chap that had the waste code and went away in the morning to California? Fancy starting to California after a hard night. I always wondered whether he got there alive. Well, I can't explain to you all about it because you hate those kinds of things and because I am such a fool. I don't think you're a fool at all, but it would take a week. But it's absolutely essential for me to take up a lot of shares in the city tomorrow or perhaps Wednesday might do. I'm bound to pay for them and old Melmont will think that I'm utterly hard up if I don't. Indeed, he said as much. And the only objection about me and this girl of his is as to money. Can't you understand now how important it may be? It's always important to have a lot of money. I know that. I shouldn't have gone in for this kind of thing if I hadn't thought I was sure. You know how much you owe me, don't you? Not in the least. It's about 1,100 pounds. I shouldn't wonder. In Miles Grendel owes me 2,000. Grasslow and Nitterdale, when they lose, always pay with Miles's IOUs. So should I if I had them. It'll come to that soon that there won't be any other stuff going and they really ain't worth anything. I don't see what's the use of playing when this rubbish is shoved about the table. As for Grendel himself, he has no feeling about it. Not the least, I should say. You'll try and get me the money, won't you, Dolly? Melmont has been at me twice. He wants me to agree to sell something. He's an old thief and, of course, he means to rob me. You may tell him that if he'll let me have the money in the way I proposed, you were to have 1,000 pounds out of it. I don't know any other way. You could write me that in a business sort of way. I couldn't do that, Carberry. What's the use? I never write any letters. I can't do it. You tell him that and if the sale comes off, I'll make it straight. Miles Grendel also dined there and after dinner in the smoking room, Sir Felix tried to do a little business with the secretary. He began his operations with unusual courtesy, believing that the man must have some influence with the great distributor of shares. I'm going to take up my shares in that company, said Sir Felix. Ah, indeed. And Miles enveloped himself from head to foot in smoke. I didn't quite understand about it, but Nitterdale saw Melmont and he has explained it. I think I shall go in for a couple of thousand on Wednesday. Oh, ah, it will be the proper thing to do, won't it? Very good thing to do. Miles Grendel smoked harder and harder as the suggestions were made to him. Is it always ready money? Always ready money, said Miles, shaking his head as though in reprobation of so abominable an institution. I suppose they allow some time to their own directors if a deposit, say, 50% is made for the shares. They'll give you half the number, which would come to the same thing. Sir Felix turned this over in his mind, but let him look at it as he would, could not see the truth of his companion's remark. You know, I should want to sell again for the rise. Oh, you'll want to sell again, and therefore I must have the full number. You could sell half the number, you know, said Miles. I'm determined to begin with 10 shares. That's a thousand pounds. Well, I have got the money, but I don't want to draw out so much. Couldn't you manage for me that I should get them on paying 50% down? Melmont does all that himself. You could explain, you know, that you are a little short in your own payments to me. This, Sir Felix said, thinking it to be a delicate mode of introducing his claim upon the secretary. That's private, said Miles Frowning. Of course it's private, but if you would pay me the money, I could buy the shares with it, though they are public. I don't think we could mix the two things together, Carberry, you can't help me? Not in that way. Then when the deuce will you pay me what you owe me? Sir Felix was driven to this plain expression of his demand by the impassibility of his debtor. Here was a man who did not pay his debts of honor, who did not even propose any arrangements for paying them, and who yet had the impudence to talk of not mixing up private matters with affairs of business. It made the young Baronette very sick. Miles Grendahl smoked on in silence. There was a difficulty in answering the question, and he therefore made no answer. Do you know how much you owe me, continued the Baronette, determined to persist now that he had commenced the attack? There was a little crowd of other men in the room, and the conversation about the shares had been commenced in an undertone. These last two questions Sir Felix had asked in a whisper, but his countenance showed plainly that he was speaking in anger. Of course I know, said Miles. Well, I'm not going to talk about it here. Not going to talk about it here? No, this is a public room. I am going to talk about it, said Sir Felix, raising his voice. Well, any fellow come upstairs and play a game of billiards? Said Miles Grendahl, rising from his chair. Then he walked slowly out of the room, leaving Sir Felix to take what revenge he pleased. For a moment, Sir Felix thought that he would expose the transaction to the whole room, but he was afraid, thinking that Miles Grendahl was a more popular man than himself. It was Sunday night, but not the less where the gamblers assembled in the card room at about 11. Dolly Longstaff was there, and with him the two lords and Sir Felix and Miles Grendahl, of course, and, I regret to say, a much better man than any of them, Paul Montague. Sir Felix had doubted much as to the propriety of joining the party. What was the use of playing with a man who seemed by general consent to be liberated from any obligation to pay? But then, if he did not play with him, where should he find another gambling table? They began with wisp, but soon laid that aside and devoted themselves to Lou. The least respected man in that confaternity was Grendahl, and yet it was in compliance with the persistency of his suggestion that they gave up the nobler game. Let's stick to wisp. I like cutting out, said Grasslow. It's much more jolly having nothing to do now and then. One can always bet, said Dolly, shortly afterwards. I hate Lou, said Sir Felix, in answer to a third application. I like wisp best, said Nitterdale, but I'll play anything anybody likes. Pitch and toss if you please. But Miles Grendahl had his way, and Lou was the game. At about two o'clock, Grendahl was the only winner. The play had not been very high, but nevertheless he had won largely. Whenever a large pool had collected itself, he swept it into his garners. The man opposed to him hardly grudged him this stroke of luck. He had hitherto been unlucky, and they were able to pay him with his own paper, which was so valueless that they parted with it without a paying. Even Dolly Longstaff seemed to have a supply of it. The only man there, not so furnished, was Montague. And while the sums won were quite small, he was allowed to pay with cash. But to Sir Felix, it was frightful to see ready money going over to Miles Grendahl, as under no circumstances could it be got back from him. Montague, he said, just change these for the time. I'll take them back if you still have them when we've done. And he handed a lot of Miles's paper across the table. The result, of course, would be that Felix would receive so much real money and that Miles would get back more of his own worthless paper. To Montague would make no difference, and he did as he was asked, or rather was preparing to do so when Miles interfered. On what principle of justice could Sir Felix come between him and another man? I don't understand this kind of thing, he said. When I win from you, Carberry, I'll take my IOUs as long as you have any. But, George, that's kind. But I won't have them handed about the table to be changed. Pay them yourself then, said Sir Felix, laying a handful down on the table. Don't let's have a row, said Lord Nitterdale. Carberry is always making a row, said Grasslow. Of course he is, said Miles Grendahl. I don't make more row than anybody else, but I do say that as we have such a lot of these things and as we all know that we don't get cash for them as we want it, Grendahl shouldn't take money and walk off with it. Who is walking off, said Miles. And why should you be entitled to Montague's money more than any of us? Asked Grasslow. The matter was debated and was thus decided. It was not to be allowed that Miles's paper should be negotiated at the table in the manner that Sir Felix had attempted to adopt. But Mr. Grendahl pledged his honor that when they broke up the party, he would apply any money that he might have won to the redemption of his IOUs, paying a regular percentage to the holders of them. The decision made Sir Felix very cross. He knew that their condition at six or seven in the morning would not be favorable to such commercial accuracy, which indeed would require an accountant to affect it. And he felt sure that Miles, if still a winner, would in truth walk off with the ready money. For a considerable time he did not speak and became very moderate in his play, causing his cards about almost always losing, but losing a minimum and watching the board. He was sitting next to Grendahl and he thought that he observed that his neighbor moved his chair farther and farther away from him and nearer to Dolly Longstaff, who was next to him on the other side. This went on for an hour, during which Grendahl still won and won heavily from Paul Montague. I never saw a fellow have such a run of luck in my life, said Grasslow. You've had two Trumps dealt to you every hand almost since we began. Ever so many hands I haven't played at all, said Miles. You've always won when I've played, said Dolly. I've been lewd every time. You oughtn't to begrudge me one run of luck when I've lost so much, said Miles, who since he began had destroyed paper counters of his own making, supposed to represent considerably above a thousand pounds and had also, which was of infinitely greater concern to him, received an amount of ready money, which was quite a godsend to him. What's the good of talking about it, said Nitterdale. I hate all this row about winning and losing. Let's go on or go to bed. The idea of going to bed was absurd, so they went on. Sir Felix, however, hardly spoke at all, played very little and watched Miles Grendahl without seeming to watch him. At last, he felt certain that he saw a card go into the man's sleeve and remembered at the moment that the winner had owed his success to a continued run of aces. He was tempted to rush it once upon the player and catch the card on his person, but he feared. Grendahl was a big man and where would he be if there should be no card there? And then in the scramble, there would certainly be at any rate a doubt and he knew that the men around him would be most unwilling to believe such an accusation. Graslau was Grendahl's friend and Nitterdale and Dolly Longstaff would infinitely rather be cheated than suspect any one of their own set of cheating them. He feared both the violence of the man he should accuse and also the unpassive good humor of the others. He let that opportunity pass by, again watched and again saw the card abstracted. Thrice, he saw it till it was wonderful to him that others also should not see it. As often as the deal came round, the man did it. Felix watched more closely and was certain that in each round the man had an ace at least once. It seemed to him that nothing could be easier. At last he pleaded a headache, got up and went away, leaving the others playing. He had lost nearly a thousand pounds, but it had been all in paper. There's something the matter with that fellow, said Graslau. There's always something the matter with him, I think, said Miles. He is so awfully greedy about his money. Miles had become somewhat triumphant in his success. The less said about that, Grendal, the better, said Nitterdale. We have put up with a good deal, you know, and he has put up with as much as anybody. Miles was cowed at once and went on dealing without maneuvering a card on that hand. CHAPTER XXV Marie Melmont was hardly satisfied with the note which she received from Didon early on the Monday morning. With a valuability of French eloquence, Didon declared that she would be turned out of the house of either Monsure or Madame were to know what she was doing. Marie told her that Madame would certainly never dismiss her. Well, perhaps not Madame, said Didon, who knew too much about Madame to be dismissed, but Monsure. Marie declared that by no possibility could Monsure know anything about it. In that house nobody ever told anything to Monsure. He was regarded as the general enemy, against whom the whole household was always making ambushes, always firing guns from behind rocks and trees. It is not a pleasant condition for a master of a house, but in this house the master at any rate knew how he was placed. It never occurred to him to trust anyone. Of course his daughter might run away, but who would run away with her without money? There could be no money except from him. He knew himself and his own strength. He was not the man to forgive a girl, and then bestow his wealth on the Lothario who had injured him. His daughter was valuable to him, because she might make him the father-in-law of a Marquis or an Earl. But the higher that he rose without such assistance, the less need had he of his daughter's aid. Lord Alfred was certainly very useful to him. Lord Alfred had whispered into his ear that by certain conduct and by certain uses of his money, he himself might be made a baronette. But if they should say that I'm not an Englishman, suggested Melmont, Lord Alfred had explained that it was not necessary that he should have been born in England, or even that he should have an English name. No questions would be asked. Let him first get into Parliament and then spend a little money on the proper side, by which Lord Alfred meant the conservative side, and be munificent in his entertainments, and the baronetcy would be almost a matter of course. Indeed, there was no knowing what honors might not be achieved in the present days by money scattered with a liberal hand. In these conversations, Melmont would speak of his money and power of making money as though they were unlimited, and Lord Alfred believed him. Marie was dissatisfied with her letter, not because it described her father as cutting up Roth. To her, who had known her father all her life, that was a matter of course. But there was no word of love in the note. An impassioned correspondence carried on through Didon would be delightful to her. She was quite capable of loving, and she did love the young man. She had no doubt consented to accept the addresses of others whom she did not love, but this she had done at the moment almost of her first introduction to the marvelous world in which she was now living. As days went on, she ceased to be a child, and her courage grew within her. She became conscious of an identity of her own, which feeling was produced in great part by the contempt which accompanied her increasing familiarity with grand people and grand names and grand things. She was no longer afraid of saying no to the Nitterdales, an account of any awe of them personally. It might be that she should acknowledge herself to be obliged to obey her father, though she was drifting away even from the sense of that obligation. Had her mind been as it was now when Lord Nitterdale first came to her, she might indeed have loved him, who, as a man, was infinitely better than Sir Felix, and who, had he thought it to be necessary, would have put some grace into his love-making. But at that time she had been childish. He, finding her to be a child, had hardly spoken to her, and she, child though she was, had resented such usage. But a few months in London had changed all this, and now she was a child no longer. She was in love with Sir Felix and had told her love. Whatever difficulties there might be, she intended to be true. If necessary, she would run away. Sir Felix was her idol, and she abandoned herself to its worship. But she desired that her idol should be a flesh and blood, and not of wood. She was at first half inclined to be angry, but as she sat with his letter in her hand, she remembered that he did not know de Donne as well as she did, and that he might be afraid to trust his raptures to such custody. She could write to him at his club, and having no such fear, she could write warmly. Grovener Square, early Monday morning. Dearest, dearest Felix, I have just got your note, such a scrap. Of course, Popeye would talk about money because he never thinks of anything else. I don't know anything about money, and I don't care in the least how much you have got. Popeye has got plenty, and I think he would give us some if we were once married. I have told Mama, but Mama is always afraid of everything. Popeye is very cross to her sometimes, more so than to me. I will try to tell him, though I can't always get at him. I very often hardly see him all day long, but I don't mean to be afraid of him, and will tell him that on my word and honor, I will never marry anyone except you. I don't think he will beat me, but if he does, I'll bear it for your sake. He does beat Mama sometimes, I know. You can write to me quite safely through de Danse. I think if you would call some day and give her something, it would help, as she is very fond of money. Do write and tell me that you love me. I love you better than anything in the world, and I will never, never give you up. I suppose you can come and call, unless Popeye tells the man in the hall not to let you in. I'll find that out from de Danse, but I can't do it before sending this letter. Popeye dined out yesterday somewhere with that Lord Alfred, so I haven't seen him since you were here. I never see him before he goes into the city in the morning. Now I am going downstairs to breakfast with Mama and that Miss Longstaff. She is a stuck up thing. Didn't you think so at Caversham? Good-bye. You are my own, own, own darling Felix, and I am your own, own affectionate lady-love. Marie. Sir Felix, when he read this letter at his club in the afternoon of the Monday, turned up his nose and shook his head. He thought if there were much of that kind of thing to be done, he could not go on with it, even though the marriage were certain and the money secure. What an infertile little ass, he said to himself, as he crumpled the letter up. Marie, having entrusted her letter to Didon, together with a little present of gloves and shoes, went down to breakfast. Her mother was the first there, and Miss Longstaff soon followed. That lady, when she found that she was not expected to breakfast with the master of the house, abandoned the idea of having her meal sent to her in her own room. Madame Melmotte, she must endure. With Madame Melmotte, she had to go out in the carriage every day. Indeed, she could only go to those parties to which Madame Melmotte accompanied her. If the London season was to be of any use at all, she must accustom herself to the companionship of Madame Melmotte. The man kept himself very much apart from her. She met him only at dinner, and that not often. Madame Melmotte was very bad, but she was silent and seemed to understand that her guest was only her guest as a matter of business. But Miss Longstaff already perceived that her old acquaintances were changed in their manner to her. She had written to her dear friend Lady Monogram, whom she had known intimately as Miss Triplex, and whose marriage with Sir Damasque Monogram had been splendid preferment, telling how she had been kept down in Suffolk at the time of her friend's last party, and how she had been driven to consent to return to London as the guest of Madame Melmotte. She hoped her friend would not throw her off on that account. She had been very affectionate with a poor attempt at fun and rather humble. Georgiana Longstaff had never been humble before. But the monograms were people so much thought of, and in such an excellent set, she would do anything rather than lose the monograms. But it was of no use. She had been humble in vain, for Lady Monogram had not even answered her note. She never really cared for anybody but herself, Georgiana said, in her wretched solitude. Then, too, she had found that Lord Nitterdale's manner to her had been quite changed. She was not a fool, and could read these signs with sufficient accuracy. There had been little flirtations between her and Nitterdale, meaning nothing as everyone knew that Nitterdale must marry money. But in none of them had he spoken to her as he spoke when he met her in Madame Melmotte's drawing room. She could see it in the faces of people as they greeted her in the park, especially in the faces of the men. She had always carried herself with a certain high demeanor, and had been able to maintain it. All that was now gone from her, and she knew it. Though the thing was as yet, but a few days old, she understood that others understood that she had degraded herself. What's all this about, Lord Graslaw had said to her, seeing her come into a room behind Madame Melmotte. She had simpered, had tried to laugh, and had then turned away her face. Impudent scoundrel, she said to herself, knowing that a fortnight ago he would not have dared to address her in such a tone. A day or two afterwards, an occurrence took place worthy of commemoration. Dolly Longstaff called on his sister. His mind must have been much stirred when he allowed himself to be moved to such uncommon action. He came to it a very early hour, not much afternoon, when it was his custom to be eating his breakfast in bed. He declared at once to the servant that he did not wish to see Madame Melmotte or any of the family. He had called to see his sister. He was therefore shown into a separate room where Georgiana joined him. What's all this about? She tried to laugh as she tossed her head. What brings you here, I wonder. This is quite an unexpected compliment. My being here doesn't matter. I can go anywhere without doing much harm. Why are you staying with these people? Ask Papa. I don't suppose he'd sent you here. That's just what he did do. You needn't have come, I suppose, unless you liked it. Is it because they are none of them coming up? Exactly that, Dolly. What a wonderful young man you are, for guessing. Don't you feel ashamed of yourself? No, not a bit. Then I feel ashamed for you. Everybody comes here. No, everybody does not come and stay here as you are doing. Everybody doesn't make themselves a part of the family. I have heard of nobody doing it except you. I thought you used to think so much of yourself. I think as much of myself as ever I did, said Georgiana, hardly able to restrain her tears. I can tell you nobody else will think much of you if you remain here. I could hardly believe it when Nitterdale told me. What did he say, Dolly? He didn't say much to me, but I could see what he thought. And of course, everybody thinks the same. How you can like the people yourself is what I don't understand. I don't like them. I hate them. Then why do you come and live with them? Oh, Dolly, it is impossible to make you understand. A man is so different. You can go just where you please and do what you like. And if you're short of money, people will give you credit. And you can live by yourself and all that sort of thing. Now, should you like to be shut up down and caverish them all the season? I shouldn't mind it only for the governor. You have got a property of your own. Your fortune is made for you. What is to become of me? You mean about marrying? I mean altogether, said the poor girl, unable to be quite as explicit with her brother as she had been with her father and mother and sister. Of course I have to think of myself. I don't see how the Melmots are to help you. The long and the short of it is you oughtn't to be here. It's not often I interfere, but when I heard it, I thought I'd come and tell you. I shall write to the governor and tell him too. He should have known better. Don't write to Papa, Dolly. Yes, I shall. I am not going to see everything going to the devil without saying a word. Goodbye. As soon as he had left, he hurried down to some club that was open, not the bear garden as it was long before the bear garden hours, and actually did write a letter to his father. My dear father, I have seen Georgiana at Mr. Melmots' house. She oughtn't to be there. I suppose you don't know it, but everybody says he's a swindler. For the sake of the family, I hope you will get her home again. It seems to me that Bruton Street is the proper place for the girls at this time of the year. Your affectionate son, Adolphus Longstaff. This letter fell upon old Mr. Longstaff at Caversham like a thunderbolt. It was marvelous to him that his son should have been instigator to write a letter. The Melmots must be very bad indeed, worse than he had thought, or their iniquities would not have brought about such energy as this. But the passage which angered him most was that which told him that he ought to have taken his family back to town. This had come from his son who had refused to do anything to help him in his difficulties. End of chapter 25.