 Chapter 52 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 52, The Results of Love and Wine. Two, three, four, and even five o'clock still found Sir Felix Carberry in bed on that fatal Thursday. More than once or twice his mother crept up to his room, but on each occasion he feigned to be fast asleep and made no reply to her gentle words. But his condition was one which only admits of short snatches of uneasy slumber. From head to foot he was sick and ill and sore and could find no comfort anywhere till I where he was trying by absolute quiescence to soothe the agony of his brows and to remember that as long as he lay there he would be safe from attack by the outer world was all the solace within his reach. Lady Carberry sent the page up to him and to the page he was awake. The boy brought him tea. He asked for soda and brandy but there was none to be had and in his present condition he did not dare to hector about it till it was procured for him. The world surely was now all over to him. He had made arrangements for running away with the great eras of the day and had absolutely allowed the young lady to run away without him. The details of their arrangement had been such that she absolutely would start upon her long journey across the ocean before she could find out that he had failed to keep his appointment. Melmont's hostility would be incurred by the attempt and hers by the failure. Then he had lost all his money and hers. He had induced his poor mother to assist in raising a fund for him and even that was gone. He was so cowed that he was afraid even of his mother and he could remember something but no details of some row at the club but still was a conviction on his mind that he had made the row. Ah, when would he some encourage to enter the club again? When could he show himself again anywhere? All the world would know that Marie Melmont had attempted to run off with him and that at the last moment he had failed her. What lie could he invent to cover his disgrace? And his clothes, all his things were at the club or he thought that they were not being quite certain whether he had not made some attempt to carry them off to the railway station. He had heard of suicide. If ever it could be well that a man should cut his own throat surely the time had come for him now but as this idea presented itself to him he simply gathered the clothes around him and tried to sleep. The death of Cato would hardly have for him persuasive charms. Between five and six his mother again came up to him and when he appeared to sleep stood with her hand upon his shoulder. There must be some end to this. He must at any rate be fed. She wretched woman had been sitting all day thinking of it. As regarded her son himself his condition told his story with sufficient accuracy. What might be the fate of the girl she could not stop to inquire. She had not heard all the details of the proposed scheme but she had known that Felix had proposed to be at Liverpool on the Wednesday night and to start on Thursday for New York with the young lady and with the view of aiding him and his object she had helped him with money. She had bought clothes for him and had been busy with Hedda for two days preparing for his long journey having told some lie to her own daughter as to the cause of her brother's intended journey. He had not gone but had come drunken degraded back to the house. She had searched his pockets with less scruple than she had ever before felt and had found his ticket for the vessel and the few sovereigns which were left to him. About him she could read the riddle plainly. He had stayed at his club till he was drunk and had gambled away all his money. When she had first seen him she had asked herself what further lie she should now tell to her daughter. At breakfast there was instant need for some story. Mary says that Felix came back this morning and that he has not gone at all, Hedda exclaimed. The poor woman could not bring herself to expose the vices of the son to her daughter. She could not say that he had stumbled into the house drunk at six o'clock. Hedda no doubt had her own suspicions. Yes, he has come back, said Lady Carberry, brokenhearted by her troubles. It was some plan about the Mexican railway, I believe, and has broken through. He is very unhappy and not well, I will see to him. After that Hedda had said nothing during the whole day. And now, about an hour before dinner, Lady Carberry was standing by her son's bedside, determined that he should speak to her. Felix, she said, speak to me, Felix, I know that you are awake. He groaned and turned himself away from her, burying himself further under the bed clothes. You must get up for your dinner, it is near six o'clock. All right, he said at last. What is the meaning of this, Felix, you must tell me. It must be told sooner or later. I know you are unhappy. You had better trust your mother. I am so sick, mother. You will be better up. What were you doing last night? What has come of it all? Where are your things at the club? You had better leave me now and let Sam come up to me. Sam was the page. I will leave you presently, but Felix, you must tell me about this. What has been done? It hasn't come off, but how has it not come off? I didn't get away, what's the good of asking? You said this morning when you came in that Mr. Melmont had discovered it. Did I? Then I suppose he has. Oh, mother, I wish I could die. I don't see what's the use of anything. I won't get up to dinner, I'd rather stay here. You must have something to eat, Felix. Sam can bring it me. Do let him get me some brandy and water. I'm so faint and sick with all this that I could hardly bear myself. I can't talk now. If he'll get me a bottle of soda water and some brandy, I'll tell you all about it then. Where is the money, Felix? I paid it for the ticket, said he, with both his hands up to his head. Then his mother again left him with the understanding that he was to be allowed to remain in bed till the next morning, but that he was to give her some further explanation when he had been refreshed and invigorated after his own prescription. The boy went out and got him soda water and brandy, and meat was carried up to him. And then he did succeed for a while in finding oblivion from his misery in sleep. Is he ill, mama, had I asked? Yes, my dear. Had you not better send for a doctor? No, my dear, he will be better tomorrow. Mama, I think you would be happier if you would tell me everything. I can't, said Lady Carberry, bursting out into tears. Don't ask, what's the good of asking? It is all misery and wretchedness. There is nothing to tell except that I am ruined. Has he done anything, mama? No, what should he have done? How am I to know what he does? He tells me nothing. Don't talk about it anymore. Oh, God, how much better it would be to be childless. Oh, mama, do you mean me? Said Heda, rushing across the room and throwing herself close to her mother's side on the sofa? Mama, I say that you do not mean me. It concerns you as well as me and him. I wish I were childless. Oh, mama, do not be cruel to me. Am I not good to you? Do I not try to be at comfort to you? Then marry your cousin, Roger Carberry, who is a good man and who can protect you. You can, at any rate, find a home for yourself and a friend for us. You are not like Felix. You do not get drunk and gamble because you are a woman, but you are a stiff neck and will not help me in my trouble. Shall I marry him, mama, without loving him? Love, have I been able to love? Do you see much of what you call love around you? Why should you not love him? He is a gentleman and a good man, soft-hearted of a sweet nature, whose life would be one effort to make yours happy. You think that Felix is very bad. I have never said so, but ask yourself whether you did not give as much pain seeing what you could do for us if you would, but it never occurs to you to sacrifice even a fantasy for the advantage of others. Heather retired from her seat on the sofa, and when her mother again went upstairs, she turned it all over in her mind. Could it be right that she should marry one man when she loved another? Could it be right that she should marry it all for the sake of doing good to her family? This man whom she might marry if she would, who did in truth worship the ground on which she tried, was, she well knew, all that her mother had said, and he was more than that. Her mother had spoken of his soft heart and his sweet nature, but Heather knew also that he was a man of high honor and a noble courage. In such a condition as was hers now, he was the very friend whose advice she could have asked, had he not been the very lover who was desirous of making her his wife. Heather felt that she could sacrifice much for her mother. Money, if she had it, she could have given, though she left herself penniless. Her time, her inclinations, her very heart's treasure, and, as she thought, her life she could give. She could doom herself to poverty and loneliness and heart-rending regrets for her mother's sake, but she did not know how she could give herself into the arms of a man she did not love. I don't know what there is to explain, said Felix to his mother. She had asked him why he had not gone to Liverpool, whether he had been interrupted by Melmont himself, whether news had reached him from Marie that she had been stopped, or whether, as might have been possible, Marie had changed her own mind. But he could not bring himself to tell the truth or any story bordering on the truth. It didn't come off, he said, and, of course, that knocked me off my legs. Well, yes, I did take some champagne when I found how it was. A fellow does get cut up by that kind of thing. Oh, I heard it at the club that the whole thing was off. I can't explain anything more. And then I was so mad, I can't tell what I was after. I did get the ticket, there it is. That shows I was an earnest. I spent the 30 pounds in getting it. I suppose the change is there. Don't take it, for I haven't another shilling in the world. Of course, he said nothing of Marie's money, or of that which he had himself received from Melmont. And as his mother had heard nothing of these sums, she could not contradict what he said. She got from him no further statement, but she was sure that there was a story to be told which would reach her ears sooner or later. That evening, about nine o'clock, Mr. Brown called in Wellbeck Street. He very often did call now, coming up in a cab, staying for a cup of tea, and going back in the same cab to the office of his newspaper. Since Lady Carberry had so devotedly abstained from accepting his offer, Mr. Brown had become almost sincerely attached to her. There was certainly between them now more of the intimacy of real friendship than had ever existed in earlier days. He spoke to her more freely about his own affairs, and even she would speak to him with some attempt at truth. There was never between them now even a shade of love-making. She did not look into his eyes, nor did he hold her hand. As for kissing her, he thought no more of it than of kissing the maid servant. But he spoke to her of the things that worried him, the unreasonable exactions of proprietors, and the perilous inaccuracy of contributors. He told her of the exceeding weight upon his shoulders, under which an atlas would have succumbed. And he told her something too of his triumphs, how he had had this fellow bowled over in punishment for some contradiction, and that man snuffed out for daring to be an enemy. And he expatiated on his own virtues, his justice and clemency. Ah, if men and women only knew his good nature and his patriotism, how he had spared the rod here, how he had made the fortune of a man there, how he had saved the country millions by the steadiness of his adherence to some grand truth? Lady Carberry delighted in all this and repaid him by flattery and little confidences of her own. Under his teaching, she had almost made up her mind to give up Mr. Alph. Of nothing was Mr. Brown more certain than that Mr. Alph was making a fool of himself in regard to the Westminster election and those attacks on Melmont. The world of London generally knows what it is about, said Mr. Brown, and the London world believes Mr. Melmont to be sound. I don't pretend to say that he has never done anything that he ought not to do. I am not going into his antecedents, but he is a man of wealth, power, and genius, and Alph will get the worst of it. Under such teaching as this, Lady Carberry was almost obliged to give up Mr. Alph. Sometimes they would sit in the front room with Heta, to whom also Mr. Brown had become attached. But sometimes Lady Carberry would be in her own sanctum. On this evening she received him there and at once poured forth all her troubles about Felix. On this occasion she told him everything and almost told him everything truly. He had already heard the story. The young lady went down to Liverpool and Sir Felix was not there. He could not have been there. He has been in bed in this house all day. Did she go? So I am told and was met at the station by the senior officer of the police at Liverpool who brought her back to London without letting her go down to the ship at all. She must have thought that her lover was on board. Probably thinks so now. I pity her. How much worse it would have been had she been allowed to start, said Lady Carberry. Yes, that would have been bad. She would have had a sad journey to New York and a sadder journey back. Has your son told you anything about money? What money? They say that the girl entrusted him with a large sum which she had taken from her father. If that be so, he certainly ought to lose no time in restoring it. It might be done through some friend. I would do it for that matter. If it be so, to avoid unpleasantness, it should be sent back at once. It will be for his credit. This, Mr. Brown said, with a clear intimation of the importance of his advice. It was dreadful to Lady Carberry. She had no money to give back, nor, as she was well aware, had her son. She had heard nothing of any money. What did Mr. Brown mean by a large sum? That would be dreadful, she said. Had you better not ask him about it? Lady Carberry was again in tears. She knew that she could not hope to get a word of truth from her son. What do you mean by a large sum? Two or three hundred pounds, perhaps? I have not a shilling in the world, Mr. Brown. Then it all came out, the whole story of her poverty, as it had been brought about by her son's misconduct. She told him every detail of her money affairs from the death of her husband and his will up to the present moment. He is eating you up, Lady Carberry. Lady Carberry thought that she was nearly eaten up already, but she said nothing. You must put a stop to this. But how? You must rid yourself of him. It is dreadful to say so, but it must be done. You must not see your daughter ruined. Find out what money he got from Miss Melmont, and I will see that it is repaid. That must be done. And we will then try to get him to go abroad. No, do not contradict me. We can talk of the money another time. I must be off now, as I have stayed too long. Do as I bid you. Make him tell you and send me word down to the office. If you could do it early tomorrow, that would be best. God bless you, and so he hurried off. Early on the following morning, a letter from Lady Carberry was put into Mr. Brown's hands, giving the story of the money as far as she had been able to extract it from Sir Felix. Sir Felix declared that Mr. Melmont had owed him 600 pounds and that he had received 250 pounds out of this for Miss Melmont, so that there was still a large balance due to him. Lady Carberry went on to say that her son had at last confessed that he had lost this money at play. The story was fairly true, but Lady Carberry in her letter acknowledged that she was not justified in believing it because it was told to her by her son. End of chapter 52. Chapter 53 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 53, A Day in the City. Melmont had got back his daughter and was half inclined to let the matter rest there. He would probably have done so had he not known that all his own household were aware that she had gone off to meet Sir Felix Carberry and had he not also received the condolence of certain friends in the city. It seemed that about two o'clock in the day the matter was known to everybody. Of course Lord Nitterdale would hear of it and if so, all the trouble that he had taken in that direction would have been taken in vain. Stupid fool of a girl to throw away her chance. Nay, to throw away the certainty of a brilliant career in that way. But his anger against Sir Felix was infinitely more bitter than his anger against his daughter. The man had pledged himself to abstain from any step of this kind, had given a written pledge, had renounced under his own signature his intention of marrying Marie. Melmont had, of course, learned all the details of the check for two hundred and fifty pounds, how the money had been paid at the bank to Didon and how Didon had given it to Sir Felix. Marie herself acknowledged that Sir Felix had received the money. If possible, he would prosecute the baronet for stealing his money. Had Melmont been altogether a prudent man, he would probably have been satisfied with getting back his daughter and would have allowed the money to go without further trouble. At this a special point in his career, ready money was very valuable to him. But his concerns were of such magnitude that two hundred and fifty pounds could make but little difference. But there had grown upon the man during the last few months an arrogance, a self-confidence inspired in him by the worship of other men, which clouded his intellect and robbed him of much of that power of calculation, which undoubtedly he naturally possessed. He remembered perfectly his various little transactions with Sir Felix. Indeed, it was one of his gifts to remember with accuracy all money transactions, whether great or small, and to keep an account book in his head, which was always totted up and balanced with accuracy. He knew exactly how he stood, even with the crossing sweeper to whom he had given a penny last Tuesday, as with the long staffs, father and son, to whom he had not as yet made any payment on behalf of the purchase of Pickering. But Sir Felix's money had been consigned into his hands for the purchase of shares and that consignment did not justify Sir Felix in taking another sum of money from his daughter. In such a matter he thought that an English magistrate and an English jury would all be on his side, especially as he was Augustus Melmont, the man about to be chosen for Westminster, the man about to entertain the emperor of China. The next day was Friday, the day of the railway board. Early in the morning he sent a note to Lord Nitterdale. My dear Nitterdale, pray come to the board today or at any rate come to me in the city, I especially want to speak to you. Yours, A.M. This he wrote, having made up his mind that it would be wise to make a clear breast of it with his hoped for son-in-law. If there was still a chance of keeping the young Lord to his guns, that chance would be best supported by perfect openness on his part. The young Lord would of course know what Marie had done, but the young Lord had for some weeks past been aware that there had been a difficulty in regard to Sir Felix's carvery and had not on that account relaxed his suit. It might be possible to persuade the young Lord that as the young lady had now tried to elope and tried in vain, his own chance might on the whole be rather improved than injured. Mr. Melmont on that morning had many visitors, among whom one of the earliest and most unfortunate was Mr. Longstaff. At that time there had been arranged at the offices in Abchurch Lane a mode of double ingress and egress, a front stairs and the back stairs approach and exit as is always necessary with very great men. In reference to which arrangement the honor and dignity attached to each is exactly contrary to that which generally prevails in the world. The front stairs being intended for everybody and being both slow and uncertain, whereas the back stairs are quick and sure and are used only for those who are favored. Miles Grendahl had the command of the stairs and found that he had plenty to do in keeping people in their right courses. Mr. Longstaff reached Abchurch Lane before one, having altogether failed in getting a moment's private conversation with the big man on that other Friday when he had come later. He fell at once into Miles' hands and was ushered through the front stairs passage and into the front stairs waiting room with much external courtesy. Miles Grendahl was very valuable. Did Mr. Longstaff want to see Mr. Melmont? Oh, Mr. Longstaff wanted to see Mr. Melmont as soon as possible. Of course, Mr. Longstaff should see Mr. Melmont. He, Miles, knew that Mr. Melmont was particularly desirous of seeing Mr. Longstaff. Mr. Melmont had mentioned Mr. Longstaff's name twice during the last three days. Would Mr. Longstaff sit down for a few minutes? Had Mr. Longstaff seen the morning breakfast table? Mr. Melmont undoubtedly was very much engaged. At this moment, a deputation from the Canadian government was with him and Sir Gregory Greib was in the office waiting for a few words. But Miles thought that the Canadian government would not be long and as for Sir Gregory, perhaps his business might be postponed. Miles would do his very best to get an interview for Mr. Longstaff, more especially as Mr. Melmont was so very desirous himself of seeing his friend. It was astonishing that such a one as Miles Grendahl should have learned his business so well and should have made himself so handy. We will leave Mr. Longstaff with the morning breakfast table in his hands in the front waiting room, merely notifying the fact that there he remained for something over two hours. In the meantime, both Mr. Brown and Lord Nitterdale came to the office and both were received without delay. Mr. Brown was the first. Miles knew who he was and made no attempt to seat him in the same room with Mr. Longstaff. I'll just send him a note, said Mr. Brown, and he scrawled a few words at the office counter. I'm commissioned to pay you some money on behalf of Miss Melmont. Those were the words and they at once procured him admission to the sanctum. The Canadian deputation must have taken its leave and Sir Gregory could hardly have as yet arrived. Lord Nitterdale, who had presented himself almost at the same moment with the editor, was shown into a little private room, which was indeed Miles Grendahl's own retreat. What's up with the governor, asked the young Lord. Anything particular do you mean, said Miles? There are always so many things up here. He has sent for me. Yes, you'll go in directly. There's that fellow who does the breakfast table in with him. I don't know what he's come about. You know what he has sent for you for? Lord Nitterdale answered this question by another. I suppose all this about Miss Melmont is true. She did go off yesterday morning, said Miles, in a whisper. But Carberry wasn't with her. Well, no, I suppose not. He seems to have mulled it. He's such a damned brute. He'd be sure to go wrong, whatever he had in hand. You don't like him, of course, Miles. For that matter, I've no reason to love him. He couldn't have gone. He staggered out of the club yesterday morning at four o'clock, as drunk as Chloe. He'd lost a pot of money and had been kicking up a row about you for the last hour. Brute, exclaimed Miles with honest indignation. I daresay. But though he was able to make a row, I'm sure he couldn't get himself down to Liverpool. And I saw all his things lying about the club hall late last night. No end of portmanteaus and bags, just what a fellow would take to New York. By George, fancy taking a girl to New York, it was plucky. It was all her doing, said Miles, who was, of course, intimate with Mr. Melmont's whole establishment, and had had means, therefore, of hearing the true story. What a fiasco, said the young Lord. I wonder what the old boy means to say to me about it. Then there was heard the clear tingle of a little silver bell, and Miles told Lord Nettardale that his time had come. Mr. Brown had, of late, been very serviceable to Mr. Melmont, and Melmont was correspondingly gracious. On seeing the editor, he immediately began to make a speech of thanks in respect of the support given by the breakfast table to his candidature. But Mr. Brown cut him short. I never talk about the breakfast table, said he. We endeavor to get along as right as we can, and the less said the soonest mended. Melmont bowed. I have come now about quite another matter, and perhaps the less said the sooner mended about that also. Sir Felix Carberry, on a late occasion, received a sum of money and trust from your daughter. Circumstances have prevented its use in the intended manner, and therefore, as Sir Felix's friend, I have called to return the money to you. Mr. Brown did not like calling himself the friend of Sir Felix, but he did even that for the lady who had been good enough to him not to marry him. Oh, indeed, said Mr. Melmont with a scowl on his face, which he would have repressed if he could. No doubt you understand all about it. Yes, I understand. Damn scoundrel. We won't discuss that, Mr. Melmont. I've drawn a check myself, payable to your order, to make the matter all straight. The sum was 250 pounds, I think. And Mr. Brown put a check for that amount down upon the table. I daresay it's all right, said Mr. Melmont. But remember, I don't think that this absolves him. He has been a scoundrel. At any rate, he has paid back the money, which Chance put into his hands, to the only person entitled to receive it on the young lady's behalf. Good morning. Mr. Melmont did put out his hand in token of amity. Then Mr. Brown departed, and Melmont tinkled his bell. As Nitterdale was shown in, he crumpled up the check and put it into his pocket. He was at once clever enough to perceive that any idea which he might have had of prosecuting Sir Felix must be abandoned. Well, my lord, and how are you, said he with his pleasantest smile. Nitterdale declared himself to be as fresh as paint. You don't look down in the mouth, my lord. Then, Lord Nitterdale, who no doubt felt that it behoved him to show a good face before his late intended father-in-law, saying the refrain of an old song which it is trusted my readers may remember. Cheer up, Sam. Don't let your spirits go down. There's many a girl that I know well is waiting for you in the town. Ha, ha, ha! laughed Melmont. Very good. I have no doubt there is many a one. But you won't let this stupid nonsense stand in your way with Marie. Upon my word, sir, I don't know about that. Miss Melmont has given the most convincing proof of her partiality for another gentleman and of her indifference to me. A foolish baggage, a silly little romantic baggage. She's been reading novels till she has learned to think she couldn't settle down quietly till she had run off with somebody. She doesn't seem to have succeeded on this occasion, Mr. Melmont. No. Of course we had her back again from Liverpool. But they say that she got further than the gentleman. He is a dishonest, drunken scoundrel. My girl knows very well what he is now. She'll never try that game again. Of course, my lord, I'm very sorry. You know that I've been on the square with you always. She's my only child, and sooner or later she must have all that I possess. What she will have at once will make any man wealthy. That is, if she marries with my sanction. And in a year or two I expect that I shall be able to double what I give her now without touching my capital. Of course you understand that I desire to see her occupying high rank. I think that in this country that is a noble object of ambition. Had she married that sweep I should have broken my heart. Now, my lord, I want you to say that this shall make no difference to you. I am very honest with you. I do not try to hide anything. The thing, of course, has been a misfortune. Girls will be romantic, but you may be sure that this little accident will assist rather than impede your views. After this she will not be very fond of Sir Felix Carberry. I dare say not, though by Jove girls will forgive anything. She won't forgive him. By George she shan't. She shall hear the whole story. You'll come and see her just the same as ever. I don't know about that, Mr. Melmont. Why not? You're not so weak as to surrender all your settled projects for such a piece of folly as that. He didn't even see her all the time. That wasn't her fault. The money will all be there, Lord Nitterdale. The money's all right, I've no doubt, and there isn't a man in all London would be better pleased to settle down with a good income than I would. But by Jove it's a rather strong order when a girl has just run away with another man. Everybody knows it. In three months' time everybody will have forgotten it. To tell you the truth, Sir, I think Ms. Melmont has got a will of her own stronger than you give her credit for. She has never given me the slightest encouragement. Ever so long ago, about Christmas, she did once say that she would do as you bade her, but she has very much changed since then. The thing was off. She had nothing to do with that. No, but she has taken advantage of it and I have no right to complain. You just come to the house and ask her again tomorrow, or come on Sunday morning. Don't let us be done out of all our settled arrangements by the folly of an idle girl. Will you come on Sunday morning about noon? Lord Nitterdale thought of his position for a few moments and then said that perhaps he would come on Sunday morning. After that, Melmont proposed that they too should go and get a bit of lunch at a certain conservative club in the city. There would be time before the meeting of the railway board. Nitterdale had no objection to the lunch, but expressed a strong opinion that the board was wrought. That's all very well for you, young man, said the chairman, but I must go there in order that you may be able to enjoy a splendid fortune. Then he touched the young man on the shoulder and drew him back as he was passing out by the front stairs. Come this way, Nitterdale. Come this way. I must get out without being seen. There are people waiting for me there who think that a man can attend a business from morning to night without ever having a bit in his mouth, and so they escaped by the back stairs. At the club, the city conservative world, which always lunches well, welcomed Mr. Melmont very warmly. The election was coming on, and there was much to be said. He played the part of the big city man to perfection, standing about the room with his head on, and talking loudly to a dozen men at once. And he was glad to show the club that Lord Nitterdale had come there with him. The club, of course, knew that Lord Nitterdale was the accepted suitor of the rich man's daughter—accepted, that is, by the rich man himself—and the club knew also that the rich man's daughter had tried but failed to run away with Sir Felix Carberry. There is nothing like wiping out a misfortune and having done with it. The presence of Lord Nitterdale was almost an assurance to the club that the misfortune had been wiped out, and, as it were, abolished. A little before three, Mr. Melmont returned to Abchurch Lane, intending to regain his room by the back way, while Lord Nitterdale went westward, considering, within his own mind, whether it was expedient that he should continue to show himself as a suitor from his Melmont's hand. He had an idea that a few years ago a man could not have done such a thing, that he would be held to show a poor spirit should he attempt it, but that now it did not much matter what a man did if only he were successful. After all, it's only an affair of money, he said to himself. Mr. Longstaff, in the meantime, had progressed from weariness to impatience, from impatience to ill humor, and from ill humor to indignation. More than once he saw Miles Grendel, but Miles Grendel was always ready with an answer, that Canadian deputation was determined to settle the whole business this morning and would not take itself away, and Sir Gregory Greib had been obstinate beyond the ordinary obstinacy of a bank director. The rate of discount at the bank could not be settled for tomorrow without communication with Mr. Melmont, and that was a matter on which the details were always most oppressive. At first Mr. Longstaff was somewhat stunned by the deputation and Sir Gregory Greib, but as he waxed Roth the potency of those institutions dwindled away, and as at last he waxed Hungary they became as nothing to him. Was he not Mr. Longstaff of Cavisham, a deputy lieutenant of his county, and accustomed to lunch punctually at two o'clock? When he had been in that waiting room for two hours, it occurred to him that he only wanted his own and that he would not remain there to be starved for any Mr. Melmont in Europe. It occurred to him also that that thorn in his side, squircombe, would certainly get a finger into the pie to his infinite annoyance. Then he walked forth and attempted to see Grendal for the fourth time, but Miles Grendal also liked his lunch and was therefore declared by one of the junior clerks to be engaged at that moment on most important business with Mr. Melmont. Then say that I can't wait any longer, said Mr. Longstaff, stamping out of the room with angry feet. At the very door he met Mr. Melmont. Ah, Mr. Longstaff, said the great finance here, seizing him by the hand. You are the very man I am desirous of seeing. I have been waiting two hours up in your place, said the squire of Cavisham. Tut, tut, tut, and they never told me. I spoke to Mr. Grendal half a dozen times. Yes, yes, and he did put a slip of your name on it on my desk. I do remember. My dear sir, I have so many things on my brain that I hardly know how to get along with them. You are coming to the board. It's just the time now. No, said Mr. Longstaff. I can stay no longer in the city. It was cruel that a man so hungry should be asked to go to a board by a chairman who had just launched at his club. I was carried away to the bank of England and could not help myself, said Melmont, and when they get me there I can never get away again. My son is very anxious to have the payments made about pickering, said Mr. Longstaff, absolutely holding Melmont by the collar of his coat. Payments for pickering, said Melmont, assuming an air of unimportant doubt, of doubt as though the thing were of no real moment. Haven't they been made? Certainly not, said Mr. Longstaff, unless made this morning. There was something about it, but I cannot just remember what. My second cashier, Mr. Smith, manages all my private affairs, and they go clean out of my head. I'm afraid he's in Grosvenor Square at this moment. Let me see. Pickering. Wasn't there some question of a mortgage? I'm sure there was something about a mortgage. There was a mortgage, of course, but that only made three payments necessary instead of two. But there was some unavoidable delay about the papers, something occasioned by the mortgagee. I know there was, but you shan't be inconvenienced, Mr. Longstaff. It's my son, Mr. Melmont. He's got a lawyer of his own. I never knew a young man that wasn't in a hurry for his money, said Melmont, laughing. Oh yes, there were three payments to be made. One to you, one to your son, and one to the mortgagee. I will speak to Mr. Smith myself tomorrow, and you may tell your son that he really need not trouble his lawyer. He will only be losing his money, for lawyers are expensive. What? You won't come to the board? I am sorry for that. Mr. Longstaff, having after a fashion said what he had to say, declined to go to the board. A painful rumor had reached him the day before, which had been communicated to him in a very quiet way by a very old friend, by a member of a private firm of bankers whom he was accustomed to regard as the wisest and most eminent man of his acquaintance. That Pickering had been already mortgaged to its full value by its new owner. Mind, I know nothing, said the banker. The report has reached me, and if it be true, it shows that Mr. Melmont must be much pressed for money. It does not concern you at all if you have got your price, but it seems to be rather a quick transaction. I suppose you have, or he wouldn't have the title deeds. Mr. Longstaff thanked his friend and acknowledged that there had been something remiss on his part. Therefore, as he went westward, he was low in spirits, but nevertheless he had been reassured by Melmont's manner. Sir Felix Carberry, of course, did not attend the board, nor did Paul Montague, for reasons with which the reader has been made acquainted. Lord Nitterdale had declined, having had enough of the city for that day, and Mr. Longstaff had been banished by hunger. The chairman was therefore supported only by Lord Alfred and Mr. Cohen Loop, but they were such excellent colleagues that the work was got through as well as though those absentees had all attended. When the board was over, Mr. Melmont and Mr. Cohen Loop retired together. I must get that money for Longstaff, said Melmont to his friend. What, 80,000 pounds? You can't do it this week, nor yet before this day week. It isn't 80,000 pounds. I've renewed the mortgage, and that makes it only 50. If I can manage the half of that which goes to the son, I can put the father off. You must raise what you can on the whole property. I've done that already, said Melmont Horsley. And where's the money gone? Breggart has had 40,000 pounds. I was obliged to keep it up with them. You can manage 25,000 pounds for me by Monday? Mr. Cohen Loop said that he would try, but intimated his opinion that there would be considerable difficulty in the operation. End of Chapter 53 Chapter 54 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 The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollop Chapter 54 The India Office The Conservative Party at this particular period was putting its shoulder to the wheel, not to push the coach up any hill, but to prevent its being hurried along at a pace which was not only dangerous, but manifestly destructive. The Conservative Party now and then does put its shoulder to the wheel, ostensibly with the great national object above named, but also actuated by a natural desire to keep its own head well above water and be generally doing something so that other parties may not suppose that it is moribund. There are no doubt members of it who really think that when some object has been achieved, when, for instance, a good old Tory has been squeezed into parliament for the burial of PCORUM, which for the last three parliaments has been represented by a liberal, the coach has been really stopped. To them, in their delightful faith, there comes at these triumphant moments a conviction that, after all, the people as a people have not been really in earnest in their efforts to take something from the greatness of the great and to add something to the lowliness of the lowly. The handle of the windlass has been broken, the wheel is turning fast, the reverse way, and the rope of radical progress is running back. Who knows what may not be regained if the Conservative party will only put its shoulder to the wheel and take care that the handle of the windlass be not mended. Stick in the mud, which has ever been a doubtful little burrow, has just been carried by a majority of fifteen. A long pull, a strong pull, and a pull altogether, and the old day will come back again. Venerable patriarchs, think of Lord Liverpool and other heroes, and dream dreams of Conservative bishops, Conservative Lord Lieutenants, and of a Conservative ministry that shall remain in for a generation. Such a time was now present. Poor quorum and stick in the mud had done their duty valiantly, with much management. But Westminster, if this special seat for Westminster could be carried, the country then could hardly any longer have a doubt on the matter. If only Mr. Melmont could be got in for Westminster, it would be manifest that the people were sound at heart and that all the great changes which had been effected during the last forty years from the first reform in Parliament down to the ballot had been managed by the cunning and treachery of a few ambitious men. Not, however, that the ballot was just now regarded by the party as an unmitigated evil, though it was the last triumph of radical wickedness. The ballot was, on the whole, popular with the party. A short time since, no doubt, it was regarded by the party as being one and the same as national ruin and national disgrace. But it had answered well at poor quorum, and with due manipulation had been found to be favourable at sticking the mud. The ballot might perhaps help the long pull and the strong pull, and, in spite of the ruin and disgrace, was thought by some just now to be a highly Conservative measure. It was considered that the ballot might assist Melmont at Westminster very materially. Anyone reading the Conservative papers of the time and hearing the Conservative speeches in the borough—anyone at least who lived so remote as not to have learned what these things really mean—would have thought that England's welfare depended on Melmont's return. In the enthusiasm of the moment, the attacks made on his character were answered by eulogy as loud as the censure was bitter. The chief crime, laid to his charge, was connected with the ruin of some great continental assurance company, as to which it was said that he had so managed it as to leave it utterly stranded, with an enormous fortune of his own. It was declared that every shilling which he had brought to England with him had consisted of plunder stolen from the shareholders in the company. Now the evening pulpit, in its endeavour to make the facts of this transaction known, had placed what it called the domicile of this company in Paris, whereas it was ascertained that its official headquarters had in truth been placed at Vienna. Was not such a blunder as this sufficient to show that no merchant of higher honour than Mr. Melmont had ever adorned the exchanges of modern capitals? And then two different newspapers of the time, both of them antagonistic to Melmont, failed to be in accord on a material point. One declared that Mr. Melmont was not in truth possessed of any wealth. The other said that he had derived his wealth from those unfortunate shareholders. Could anything betray so bad a cause as contradictions such as these? Could anything be so false, so weak, so malignant, so useless, so wicked, so self-condemned, in fact so liberal as a course of action such as this? The belief naturally to be deduced from such statements, nay, the unavoidable conviction on the minds of at any rate the conservative newspapers, was that Mr. Melmont had accumulated an immense fortune and that he had never robbed any shareholder of a shilling. The friends of Melmont had, moreover, a basis of hope and were enabled to sound premonitory notes of triumph arising from causes quite external to their party. The breakfast table supported Melmont, but the breakfast table was not a conservative organ. This support was given not to the Great Man's political opinions as to which a well-known writer in that paper suggested that the Great Man had probably not as yet given very much attention to the party questions which divided the country, but to his commercial position. It was generally acknowledged that few men living, perhaps no man alive, had so acute an insight into the great commercial questions of the age as Mr. Augustus Melmont. In whatever part of the world he might have acquired his commercial experience, for it had been said repeatedly that Melmont was not an Englishman, he now made London his home and Great Britain his country, and it would be for the welfare of the country that such a man should sit in the British Parliament. Such were the arguments used by the breakfast table in supporting Mr. Melmont. This was, of course, an assistance, and not the less so because it was asserted in other papers that the country would be absolutely disgraced by his presence in Parliament. The hotter the opposition, the keener will be the support. Honest good men, men who really loved their country, fine gentlemen who had received unsullied names from great ancestors, shed their money right and left and grew hot in personally energetic struggles to have this man return to Parliament as the head of the great conservative mercantile interests of Great Britain. There was one man who thoroughly believed that the thing at the present moment most essentially necessary to England's glory was the return of Mr. Melmont for Westminster. This man was undoubtedly a very ignorant man. He knew nothing of any one political question which had vexed England for the last half century, nothing whatever of the political history which had made England what it was at the beginning of that half century. Of such names as Hampton, Somers and Pitt, he had hardly ever heard. He had probably never read a book in his life. He knew nothing of the working of Parliament, nothing of nationality, had no preference whatever for one form of government over another, never having given his mind a moment's trouble on the subject. He had not even reflected how a despotic monarch or a Federal Republic might affect himself and possibly did not comprehend the meaning of those terms. But yet he was fully confident that England did demand and ought to demand that Mr. Melmont should be returned for Westminster. This man was Mr. Melmont himself. In this conjunction of his affairs, Mr. Melmont certainly lost his head. He had audacity almost sufficient for the very dangerous game which he was playing. But as crisis heaped itself upon crisis, he became deficient in prudence. He did not hesitate to speak of himself as the man who ought to represent Westminster, and of those who opposed him as little malignant beings who had mean interests of their own to serve. He went about in his open carriage with Lord Alfred at his left hand, with a look on his face which seemed to imply that Westminster was not good enough for him. He even hinted to certain political friends that at the next general election he should try the city. Six months since he had been a humble man to a Lord, but now he scolded earls and snubbed dukes, and yet did it in a manner which showed how proud he was of connecting himself with their social preeminence, and how ignorant of the manner in which such preeminence affects English gentlemen generally. The more arrogant he became, the more vulgar he was, to leave in Lord Alfred would almost be tempted to rush away to impacuniosity and freedom. Perhaps there were some with whom this conduct had a salutary effect. No doubt arrogance will produce submission, and there are men who take other men at the price those other men put upon themselves. Such persons could not refrain from thinking Melmot to be mighty because he swaggered, and gave their hinders parts to be kicked merely because he put up his toe. We all know men of this calibre, and how they seem to grow in number. But the net result of his personal demeanor was injurious, and it was debated among some of the warmest of his supporters whether a hint should not be given him. Couldn't Lord Alfred say a word to him? said the Honorable Bo-Champ Bo-Clark, who himself in Parliament, a leading man in his party, thoroughly well acquainted with the borough, wealthy and connected by blood with half the great conservative families in the kingdom, had been moving heaven and earth on behalf of the great financial king and working like a slave for his success. Alfred's more than half afraid of him, said Lionel Lupton, a young aristocrat also in Parliament, who had been inoculated with the idea that the interests of the party demanded Melmot in Parliament, but who would have given up his scotch shooting rather than have undergone Melmot's company for a day. Something really must be done, Mr. Bo-Clark, said Mr. Jones, who was the leading member of a very wealthy firm of builders in the borough, who had become a conservative politician who had thoughts of the house for himself but who never forgot his own position. He is making a great many personal enemies. He is the finest old turkey cock out, said Lionel Lupton. Then it was decided that Mr. Bo-Clark should speak a word to Lord Alfred. The rich man and the poor man were cousins and had always been intimate. Alfred, said the chosen mentor at the club one afternoon, I wonder whether you couldn't say something to Melmot about his manner. Lord Alfred turned sharp round and looked into his companion's face. They tell me he is giving offence. Of course he doesn't mean it. Couldn't he draw it a little milder? Lord Alfred made his reply almost in a whisper. If you ask me, I don't think he could. If you got him down and trampled on him, you might make him mild. I don't think there's any other way. You couldn't speak to him, then. Not unless I did it with a horse whip. This coming from Lord Alfred, who was absolutely dependent on the man, was very strong. Lord Alfred had been much afflicted that morning. He had spent some hours with his friend, either going about the burrow in the open carriage or standing just behind him at meetings or sitting close to him in committee rooms, and had been nauseated with Melmot. When spoken to about his friend he could not restrain himself. Lord Alfred had been born and bred a gentleman and found the position in which he was now earning his bread to be almost insupportable. It had gone against the grain with him at first when he was called Alfred, but now that he was told just to open the door and just to give that message, he almost meditated revenge. Lord Nitterdale, who was quick at observation, had seen something of this in Grovener Square, and declared that Lord Alfred had invested part of his recent savings in a cutting whip. Mr. Bow Clerk, when he had got his answer, whistled and withdrew, but he was true to his party. Melmot was not the first vulgar man whom the Conservatives had taken by the hand and patted on the back and told that he was a God. The Emperor of China was now in England and was to be entertained one night at the India office. The Secretary of State for the Second Great Asiatic Empire was to entertain the ruler of the First. This was on Saturday the 6th of July and Melmot's dinner was to take place on the following Monday. Very great interest was made by the London world generally to obtain admission to the India office. The making of such interest consisting in the most abject begging for tickets of admission addressed to the Secretary of State, to all the Undersecretaries, to Assistant Secretaries, Secretaries of Departments, Chief Clerks, and to Head Messengers and their wives, if a Petitioner could not be admitted as a guest into the splendor of the reception rooms, might not he or she be allowed to stand in some passage once the Emperor's back might perhaps be seen, so that, if possible, the Petitioner's name might be printed in the list of guests which would be published on the next morning. Now Mr. Melmot, with his family, was of course supplied with tickets. He, who was to spend a fortune in giving the Emperor a dinner, was of course entitled to be present at other places to which the Emperor would be brought to be shown. Melmot had already seen the Emperor at a breakfast in Windsor Park and at a ball in Royal Halls, but hitherto he had not been presented to the Emperor. Presentations have to be restricted, if only on the score of time, and it had been thought that as Mr. Melmot would, of course, have some communication with the hard-worked Emperor at his own house, that would suffice. But he had felt himself to be ill-used and was offended. He spoke with bitterness to some of his supporters of the royal family generally because he had not been brought to the front rank either at the breakfast or at the ball, and now at the India office was determined to have his due. But he was not on the list of those whom the Secretary of State intended on this occasion to present to the brother of the son. He had dined freely. At this period of his career he had taken to dining freely, which was, in itself, imprudent, as he had need at all hours of his best intelligence. Let it not be understood that he was chipsy. He was a man whom wine did not often affect after that fashion. But it made him, who was arrogant before, tower in his arrogance till he was almost sure to totter. It was probably at some moment after dinner that Lord Alfred decided upon buying the cutting whip of which he had spoken. Melmot went with his wife and daughter to the India office and soon left them far in the background with a request. We may say an order to Lord Alfred to take care of them. It may be observed here that Marie Melmot was almost as great a curiosity as the Emperor himself, and was much noticed as the girl who had attempted to run away to New York but had gone without her lover. Melmot entertained some foolish idea that, as the India office was in Westminster, he had a peculiar right to demand an introduction on this occasion because of his candidature. He did succeed in getting hold of an unfortunate Under Secretary of State, a studious and invaluable young peer, known as Earl de Griffin. He was a shy man of enormous wealth, of mediocre intellect, and no great physical ability, who never amused himself, but worked hard night and day and read everything that anybody could write and more than any other person could read about India. Had Mr. Melmot wanted to know the exact dietary of the peasants in Orissa, or the revenue of the Punjab, or the amount of crime in Bombay, Lord de Griffin would have informed him without a pause, but in this matter of managing the Emperor, the Under Secretary had nothing to do and would have been the last man to be engaged in such a service. He was, however, second in command at the India office, and of his official rake Melmot was unfortunately made aware. My Lord, said he, by no means hiding his demand in a whisper, I am desirous of being presented to his Imperial Majesty. Lord de Griffin looked at him in despair, not knowing the great man, being one of the few men in that room who did not know him. This is Mr. Melmot, said Lord Alfred, who had deserted the ladies and still stuck to his master. Lord de Griffin, let me introduce you to Mr. Melmot. Oh, oh, oh! said Lord de Griffin, just putting out his hand. I am delighted. Ah, yes! And pretending to see somebody he made a weak and quite ineffectual attempt to escape. Melmot stood directly in his way, and with unabashed audacity repeated his demand. I am desirous of being presented to his Imperial Majesty. Will you do me the honor of making my request known to Mr. Wilson? Mr. Wilson was the Secretary of State, who was as busy as the Secretary of State is sure to be on such an occasion. I hardly know, said Lord de Griffin. I'm afraid it's all arranged. I don't know anything about it myself. You can introduce me to Mr. Wilson. He's up there, Mr. Melmot, and I couldn't get at him. Really, you must excuse me. I'm very sorry. If I see him, I'll tell him. And the poor Under Secretary again endeavored to escape. Mr. Melmot put up his hand and stopped him. I'm not going to stand this kind of thing, he said. The old Marquis of Aldrichie was close at hand, the father of Lord Nitterdale, and therefore the proposed father-in-law of Melmot's daughter, and he poked his thumb heavily into Lord Alfred's ribs. It is generally understood, I believe, continued Melmot, that the Emperor is to do me the honor of dining at my poor house on Monday. He don't dine there unless I'm made acquainted with him before he comes. I mean what I say. I ain't going to entertain even an Emperor unless I'm good enough to be presented to him. Perhaps you'd better let Mr. Wilson know, as a good many people intend to come. Here's a row, said the old Marquis. I wish he'd be as good as his word. He has taken a little wine, whispered Lord Alfred. Melmot, he said, still whispering, upon my word it isn't the thing. There are only Indian chaps and Eastern swells who are presented here. Not a fellow among them all who hasn't been in India or China, or is in the Secretary of State, or something of that kind. Then they should have done it at Windsor or at the Ball, said Melmot, pulling down his waistcoat. By George Alfred, I'm in earnest, and somebody had better look to it. If I'm not presented to his Imperial Majesty tonight, by Jesus shall be no dinner and grove in a square on Monday. I'm master enough of my own house, I suppose, to be able to manage that. Here was a row, as the Marquis had said. Lord DeGriffin was frightened, and Lord Alfred felt that something ought to be done. There's no knowing how far the pig-headed brute may go in his obstinacy, Lord Alfred said to Mr. Lupton, who was there. It no doubt might have been wise to have allowed the Merchant Prince to return home with the resolution that his dinner should be abandoned. He would have repented probably before the next morning, and had he continued obdurate, it would not have been difficult to explain to Celestial Majesty that something preferable had been found for that particular evening, even to a banquet at the house of British commerce. The government would probably have gained the seat for Westminster, as Melmot would at once have become very unpopular with the great body of his supporters. But Lord DeGriffin was not the man to see this. He did make his way up to Mr. Wilson, and explained to the Amphitriana of the night the demand which was made on his hospitality. A thoroughly well established and experienced political minister of state always feels that if he can make a friend or appease an enemy without paying a heavy price, he will be doing a good stroke of business. Bring him up, said Mr. Wilson. He's going to do something out in the East, isn't he? Nothing in India, said Lord DeGriffin. The submarine telegraph is quite impossible. Mr. Wilson, instructing some satellite to find out in what way he might properly connect Mr. Melmot with China, sent Lord DeGriffin away with his commission. My dear Alfred, just allow me to manage these things myself, Mr. Melmot was saying when the Undersecretary returned, I know my own position and how to keep it. There shall be no dinner. I'll be damned if any of the lot shall dine in Grovener Square on Monday. Lord Alfred was so astounded that he was thinking of making his way to the Prime Minister, a man whom he abhorred and didn't know, and of acquainting him with the terrible calamity which was threatened, but the arrival of the Undersecretary saved him the trouble. If you will come with me, whispered Lord DeGriffin, it shall be managed. It isn't just the thing, but as you wish it, it shall be done. I do wish it, said Melmot aloud. He was one of those men whom success never molified, whose enjoyment of a point gained always demanded some hoarse note of triumph from his own trumpet. If you will be so kind as to follow me, said Lord DeGriffin, and so the thing was done. Melmot, as he was taken up to the Imperial Footstool, was resolved upon making a little speech, forgetful at the moment of interpreters, of the double interpreters from the Majesty of China required. But the awful, quiescent solemnity of the celestial one quelled even him, and he shuffled by without saying a word, even of his own banquet. But he had gained his point, and, as he was taken home to poor Mr. Long Staff's house in Bruton Street, was intolerable. Lord Alfred tried to escape after putting Madame Melmot and her daughter into the carriage, but Melmot insisted on his presence. You might as well come, Alfred. There are two or three things I must settle before I go to bed. I'm about knocked up, said the unfortunate man. Knocked up nonsense. Think what I've been through. I've been all day at the hardest work a man can do. Had he, as usual, got in first, leaving his man of all work to follow, the man of all work would have escaped. Melmot, fearing such defection, put his hand on Lord Alfred's shoulder, and the poor fellow was beaten. As they were taken home, a continual sound of cock-crowing was audible. But as the words were not distinguished, they required no painful attention. But when the soda water and brandy and cigars made their appearance in Mr. Long Staff's own back room, then the trumpet was sounded with a full blast. I mean to let the fellows know what's what, said Melmot, walking about the room. Lord Alfred had thrown himself into an armchair and was consoling himself as best he might with tobacco. Give and take is a very good motto. If I scratch their back, I mean them to scratch mine. They won't find many people to spend ten thousand pounds in entertaining a guest of the country's as a private enterprise. I don't know of any other man of business who could do it, or would do it. It's not much any of them can do for me. Thank God I don't want them. But if consideration is to be shown to anybody, I intend to be considered. The Prince treated me very scurvelly, Alfred, and I shall take an opportunity of telling him so on Monday. I suppose a man may be allowed to speak to his own guests. You might turn the election against you if you said anything the Prince didn't like. Damn the election, sir. I stand before the electors of Westminster as a man of business, not as a courtier, as a man who understands commercial enterprise, not as one of the Prince's totes. Some of you fellows in England don't realize the matter yet, but I can tell you that I think myself quite as great a man as any Prince. Lord Alfred looked at him with strong reminiscences of the old ducal home and shuttered. I'll teach them a lesson before long. Didn't I teach them a lesson tonight? Eh? They tell me that Lord DeGryphon has sixty thousand a year to spend. What's sixty thousand a year? Didn't I make him go on my business? And didn't I make him do as I chose? You want to tell me this and that, but I can tell you that I know more of men and women than some of you fellows do who think you know a great deal. This went on through the hold of a long cigar, and afterwards, as Lord Alfred slowly paced his way back to his lodgings in Mount Street, he thought deeply whether there might not be means of escaping from his present servitude. Beast! Brute! Pig! he said to himself, over and over again as he slowly went to Mount Street. Chapter fifty-five 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 fifty-five, Clerical Charities. Melmont's success and Melmont's wealth and Melmont's antecedents were much discussed down in Suffolk at this time. He had been seen there in the flesh, and there was no believing like that which comes from sight. He had been staying at Cavisham, and many in those parts knew that Miss Longstaff was now living in his house in London. The purchase of the Pickering Estate had also been noticed in all the Suffolk and Norfolk newspapers. Rumors, therefore, of his past frauds, rumor also as to the instability of his presumed fortune, were as current as those which declared him to be by far the richest man in England. Miss Melmont's little attempt had also been communicated in the papers, and Sir Felix, though he was not recognized as being real Suffolk himself, was so far connected with Suffolk by name as to add something to this feeling of reality respecting the Melmonts generally. Suffolk is very old-fashioned. Suffolk, taken as a whole, did not like the Melmont fashion. Suffolk, which is, I fear, persistently and irrecoverably conservative, did not believe in Melmont as a conservative member of Parliament. Suffolk, on this occasion, was rather ashamed of the Longstaff's, and took occasion to remember that it was barely the other day as Suffolk counts days since the original Longstaff was in trade. This selling of pickering, and especially the selling of it to Melmont, was a mean thing. Suffolk, as a whole, thoroughly believed that Melmont had picked the very bones of every shareholder in that Franco-Austrian Assurance Company. Mr. Hepworth was over with Roger one morning, and they were talking about him, or talking rather of the attempted elopement. I know nothing about it, said Roger, and I do not intend to ask. Of course, I did know when they were down here that he hoped to marry her, and I did believe that she was willing to marry him, but whether the father had consented or not, I never inquired. It seems he did not consent. Nothing could have been more unfortunate for either of them than such a marriage. Melmont will probably be in the Gazette before Long, and my cousin not only has not a shilling, but could not keep one if he had it. You think Melmont will turn out a failure? A failure? Of course he is a failure, whether rich or poor, a miserable imposition, a hollow vulgar fraud from beginning to end, too insignificant for you and me to talk of were it not that his position is a sign of the degeneracy of the age. What are we coming to when such as he is an honored guest at our tables? At just a table here and there, suggested his friend. No, it is not that. You can keep your house free from him, and so can I mine, but we set no example to the nation at large. They who do set the example go to his feasts, and of course he is seen at theirs in return. And yet these leaders of the fashion know, at any rate they believe, that he is what he is because he has been a swindler greater than other swindlers. What follows as a natural consequence? Men reconcile themselves to swindling, though they themselves mean to be honest, dishonesty of itself is no longer odious to them. Then there comes the jealousy that others should be growing rich with the approval of all the world and the natural aptitude to do what all the world approves. It seems to me that the existence of a Melmont is not compatible with a wholesome state of things in general. Roger dined with a bishop of Elmham that evening, and the same hero was discussed under a different heading. He has given two hundred pounds, said the bishop, to the curate's aid society. I don't know that a man could spend his money much better than that. Claptrap, said Roger, who in his present mood was very bitter. The money is not claptrap, my friend. I presume that the money is really paid. I don't feel at all sure of that. Our collectors for clerical charities are usually stern men, very ready to make known defalcations on the part of promising subscribers. I think they would take care to get the money during the election. And you think that money gotten that way redounds to his credit? Such a gift shows him to be a useful member of society, and I am always for encouraging useful men. Even though their own objects may be vile and pernicious. There you beg ever so many questions, Mr. Carberry. Mr. Melmont wishes to get into Parliament, and if there would vote on the side which you at any rate approve. I do not know that his object in that respect is pernicious. And as a seat in Parliament has been a matter of ambition to the best of our countrymen for centuries, I do not know why we should say that it is vile in this man. Roger frowned and shook his head. Of course Mr. Melmont is not the sort of gentleman whom you have been accustomed to regard as a fitting member for a conservative constituency, but the country is changing. It's going to the dogs, I think, about as fast as it can go. We build churches much faster than we used to do. Do we say our prayers in them when we have built them? asked the squire. It is very hard to see into the minds of men, said the Bishop. But we can see the results of their minds' work. I think that men on the whole do live better lives than they did a hundred years ago. There is a wider spirit of justice abroad, more of mercy from one to another, a more lively charity, and if less of religious enthusiasm, less also of superstition. Men will hardly go to heaven, Mr. Carberry, by following forms, only because their fathers followed the same forms before them. I suppose men will go to heaven, my lord, by doing as they would be done by. There can be no safer lesson, but we must hope that some may be saved even if they have not practiced at all times that grand self-denial. Who comes up to that teaching? Do you not wish for, nay, almost demand instant pardon for any trespass that you may commit, of temper or manner, for instance? And are you always ready to forgive in that way yourself? Do you not writhe with indignation at being wrongly judged by others who condemn you without knowing your actions or the causes of them? And do you never judge others after that fashion? I do not put myself forward as an example. I apologize for the personal form of my appeal. A clergyman is apt to forget that he is not in the pulpit. Of course I speak of men in general, taking society as a whole, the big and the little, the rich and the poor, I think that it grows better from year to year, and not worse. I think, too, that they who grumble at the times, as Horace did, and declare that each age is worse than its forerunner, look only at the small things beneath their eyes, and ignore the course of the world at large. But Roman freedom and Roman manners were going to the dogs when Horace wrote. But Christ was about to be born, and men were already being made fit by wider intelligence for Christ's teaching. And as for freedom, has not freedom grown almost every year from that to this? In Rome they were worshiping just such men as this Melmot. Do you remember the man who sat upon the seats of the knights and scoured the Via Sacra with his toga, though he had been scourged from pillar to post for his villainies? I always think of that man when I hear Melmot's name mentioned. Hock, Hock, Tribunal Militum, is this the man to be conservative member for Westminster? Do you know of the scourges as a fact? I think I know that they are deserved. That is hardly doing to others as you would be done by. If the man is what you say, he will surely be found out at last, and the day of his punishment will come. Your friend in the Ode probably had a bad time of it, in spite of his farms and his horses. The world perhaps has managed more justly than you think, Mr. Carberry. My Lord, I believe you are radical at heart, said Roger, as he took his leave. Very likely, very likely, only don't say so to the Prime Minister, or I shall never get any of the better things which may be going. The Bishop was not hopelessly in love with a young lady, and was therefore less inclined to take a melancholy view of things in general than Roger Carberry. To Roger, everything seemed to be out of joint. He had that morning received a letter from Lady Carberry, reminding him of the promise of a loan should a time come to her of great need. It had come very quickly. Roger Carberry did not in the least begrudge the hundred pounds, which he had already sent to his cousin, but he did begrudge any furtherance afforded to the iniquitous schemes of Sir Felix. He felt all but sure that the foolish mother had given her son money for his abortive attempt, and that therefore this appeal had been made to him. He alluded to no such fear in his letter. He simply enclosed the check, and expressed the hope that the amount might suffice for the present emergency. But he was disheartened and disgusted by all the circumstances of the Carberry family. There was Paul Montague bringing a woman such as Mrs. Hurdle down to Lowstoft, declaring his purpose of continuing his visits to her, and as Roger thought, utterly unable to free himself from his toils, and yet on this man's account Heta was cold and hard to him. He was conscious of the honesty of his own love, sure that he could make her happy, confident, not in himself but in the fashion and ways of his own life. What would be Heta's lot if her heart was really given to Paul Montague? When he got home he found Father Barham sitting in his library. An accident had lately happened at Father Barham's own establishment. The wind had blown the roof off his cottage, and Roger Carberry, though his affection for the priest was waning, had offered him shelter while the damage was being repaired. Shelter at Carberry Manor was very much more comfortable than the priest's own establishment, even with the roof on, and Father Barham was in clover. Father Barham was reading his own favorite newspaper, The Surplus, when Roger entered the room. Have you seen this, Mr. Carberry, he said? What's this? I am not likely to have seen anything that belongs peculiarly to The Surplus. That's the prejudice of what you are pleased to call the Anglican Church. Mr. Melmont is a convert to our faith. He is a great man and will perhaps be one of the greatest known on the face of the globe. Melmont, a convert to Romanism? I'll make you a present of him and thank you to take him, but I don't believe that we've any such good riddance. Then Father Barham read a paragraph out of The Surplus. Mr. Augustus Melmont, the great financier and capitalist, has presented a hundred guineas towards the erection of an altar for the new Church of St. Fabricus in total fields. The donation was accompanied by a letter from Mr. Melmont's secretary, which leaves but little doubt that the new member for Westminster will be a member and no inconsiderable member of the Catholic Party in the House during the next session. That's another dodge, is it? said Carberry. What do you mean by a dodge, Mr. Carberry? Because money is given for a pious object of which you do not happen to approve. Must it be a dodge? But my dear Father Barham, the day before the same great man gave two hundred pounds to the Protestant Curate's Aid Society. I have just left the bishop exalting in this great act of charity. I don't believe a word of it, or it may be a parting gift to the Church to which he belonged in his darkness. And you would be really proud of Mr. Melmont as a convert? I would be proud of the lowest human being that has a soul, said the priest, but of course we are glad to welcome the wealthy and the great. The great, oh dear. A man is great who was made for himself such a position as that of Mr. Melmont. And when such a one leaves your Church and joins our own, it is a great sign to us that the truth is prevailing. Roger Carberry, without another word, took his candle and went to bed. End of Chapter 55. Chapter 56 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 56. Father Barum visits London. It was considered to be a great thing to catch the Roman Catholic vote in Westminster. For many years it has been considered a great thing, both in the house and out of the house, to catch Roman Catholic votes. There are two modes of catching these votes. This or that individual Roman Catholic may be promoted to place so that he personally may be made secure, or the right hand of fellowship may be extended to the people of the Pope generally so that the people of the Pope may be taught to think that a general step is being made towards the reconversion of the nation. The first measure is the easier, but the effect is but slight and soon passes away. The promoted one, though as far as his prayers go he may remain as good a Catholic as ever, soon ceases to be one of the party to be conciliated and is apt after a while to be regarded by them as an enemy. But the other mode, if a step be well taken, may be very efficacious. It has now and then occurred that every Roman Catholic in Ireland and England has been brought to believe that the nation is coming round to them, and in this or that borough the same conviction has been made to grow. To catch the Protestant, that is the peculiarly Protestant vote, and the Roman Catholic vote at the same instant is a feat difficult of accomplishment. But it has been attempted before and was attempted now by Mr. Melmont and his friends. It was perhaps thought by his friends that the Protestants would not notice the hundred pounds given for the altar to St. Fabricius, but Mr. Alf was wide awake and took care that Mr. Melmont's religious opinions should be a matter of interest to the world at large. During all that period of newspaper excitement there was perhaps no article that created so much general interest as that which appeared in the evening pulpit with a special question asked at the head of it—for priest or parson? In this article, which was more than usually delightful as being pungent from the beginning to the end and as being unalloyed with any dry didactic wisdom, Mr. Alf's man who did that business declared that it was really important that the nation at large, and especially the electors of Westminster, should know what was the nature of Mr. Melmont's faith. That he was a man of a highly religious temperament was most certain by his munificent charities on behalf of religion. Two noble donations, which by chance had been made just at this crisis, were doubtless no more than the regular continuation of his ordinary flow of Christian benevolence. The evening pulpit by no means insinuated that the gifts were intended to have any reference to the approaching election. Far be it from the evening pulpit to imagine that so great a man as Mr. Melmont looked for any return in this world from his charitable generosity. But still, as Protestants naturally desired to be represented in Parliament by a Protestant member and as Roman Catholics as naturally desired to be represented by a Roman Catholic, perhaps Mr. Melmont would not object to declare his creed. This was biting, and of course did mischief. But Mr. Melmont and his manager were not foolish enough to allow it to actuate them in any way. He had thrown his bread upon the waters assisting St. Fabricius with one hand and the Protestant curates with the other and must leave the results to take care of themselves. If the Protestants chose to believe that he was hyper-Protestant and the Catholics that he was tending towards papacy, so much the better for him. Any enthusiastic religionists wishing to enjoy such convictions would not allow themselves to be enlightened by the manifestly interested malignity of Mr. Alff's newspaper. It may be doubted whether the donation to the curates aid society did have much effect. It may perhaps have induced a resolution in some few to go to the pole whose minds were active in regard to religion and torpid as to politics. But the donation to St. Fabricius certainly had results. It was taken up and made much of by the Roman Catholic Party generally till a report got itself spread abroad and almost believed that Mr. Melmont was going to join the Church of Rome. These maneuvers require most delicate handling or evil may follow instead of good. On the second afternoon after the question had been asked in the evening pulpit, an answer to it appeared, for priest and not for parson. Therein various assertions made by Roman Catholic organs and repeated in Roman Catholic speeches were brought together so as to show that Mr. Melmont really had at last made up his mind on this important question. All the world knew now, said Mr. Alff's writer, that with that keen sense of honesty, which was the great financier's peculiar characteristic, the great financier was the name which Mr. Alff had specially invented for Mr. Melmont. He had doubted till the truth was absolutely borne in upon him whether he could serve the nation best as a liberal or as a conservative. He had solved that doubt with wisdom and now this other doubt had passed through the crucible and by the aid of fire a golden certainty had been produced. The world of Westminster at last knew that Mr. Melmont was a Roman Catholic. Now nothing was clearer than this, that though catching the Catholic vote would greatly help a candidate, no real Roman Catholic could hope to be returned. This last article vexed Mr. Melmont and he proposed to his friends to send a letter to the breakfast table asserting that he adhered to the Protestant faith of his ancestors. But, as it was suspected by many and was now being whispered to the world at large that Melmont had been born a Jew, this assurance would perhaps have been too strong. Do nothing of the kind, said Mr. Bochamp-Bowclerk. If anyone asks you a question at any meeting, say that you are a Protestant, but it isn't likely as we have none but our own people. Don't go writing letters. But unfortunately the gift of an altar to St. Fabricius was such a godsend that sundry priests about the country were determined to cling to the good man who had bestowed his money so well. I think that many of them did believe that this was a great sign of a beautyous stirring of people's minds in favor of Rome. The fervent Romanists have always this point in their favor that they are ready to believe and they have a desire for the conversion of men which is honest in an exactly inverse ratio to the dishonesty of the means which they employ to produce it. Father Barum was ready to sacrifice anything personal to himself in the good cause, his time, his health, his money when he had any, and his life. Much as he liked the comfort of Carberry Hall he would never for a moment condescend to ensure its continued enjoyment by reticence as to his religion. Roger Carberry was heart of heart, he could see that, but the dropping of water might hollow the stone. If the dropping should be put an end to by outward circumstances before the stone had been impressed that would not be his fault. He at any rate would do his duty. In that fixed resolution Father Barum was admirable, but he had no scruple whatsoever as to the nature of the arguments he would use or as to the facts which he would proclaim. With the mingled ignorance of his life and the positiveness of his faith he had at once made up his mind that Melmont was a great man and that he might be made a great instrument on behalf of the Pope. He believed in the enormous proportions of the man's wealth, believed that he was powerful in all quarters of the globe, and believed because he was so told by the surplus that the man was at heart a Catholic. That a man should be at heart a Catholic and live in the world professing the Protestant religion was not to Father Barum either improbable or distressing. Kings who had done so were to him objects of veneration. By such subterfuges and falsehood of life had they been best able to keep alive the spark of heavenly fire. There was a mystery and religious intrigue in this which recommended itself to the young priest's mind. But it was clear to him that this was a peculiar time in which it behoved an earnest man to be doing something. He had for some weeks been preparing himself for a trip to London in order that he might spend a week in retreat with kindred souls who from time to time betook themselves to the cells of St. Fabricius. And so just at this season of the Westminster election Father Barum made a journey to London. He had conceived the great idea of having a word or two with Mr. Melmont himself. He thought that he might be convinced by a word or two as to the man's faith. And he thought also that it might be a happiness to him hereafter to have had intercourse with a man who was perhaps destined to be the means of restoring the true faith to his country. On Saturday night that Saturday night on which Mr. Melmont had so successfully exercised his greatness at the India office he took up his quarters in the cloisters of St. Fabricius. He spent a goodly festive Sunday among the various Romanist church services of the Metropolis, and on the Monday morning he sallied forth in quest of Mr. Melmont. Having obtained that address from some circular, he went first to Abchurch Lane. But on this day and on the next, which would be the day of the election, Mr. Melmont was not expected in the city, and the priest was referred to his present private residence in Bruton Street. There he was told that the great man might probably be found in Grosvenor Square, and at the house in the square Father Barum was at last successful. Mr. Melmont was there, superintending the arrangements for the entertainment of the emperor. The servants, or more probably the workmen, must have been at fault in giving the priest admittance. But in truth the house was in great confusion. The wreaths of flowers and green boughs were being suspended, last dobs of heavy gilding were being given to the wooden capitals of mock pilasters, incense was being burned to kill the smell of the paint, tables were being fixed and chairs were being moved, and an enormous set of open presses were being nailed together for the accommodation of hats and cloaks. The hall was chaos, and poor Father Barum, who had heard a good deal of the Westminster election, but not a word of the intended entertainment of the emperor, was at a loss to conceive for what purpose these operations were carried on. But through the chaos he made his way and did soon find himself in the presence of Mr. Melmont in the Banqueting Hall. Mr. Melmont was attended both by Lord Alfred and his son. He was standing in front of the chair which had been arranged for the emperor, with his hat on one side of his head, and he was very angry indeed. He had been given to understand when the dinner was first planned that he was to sit opposite to his august guest, by which he had conceived that he was to have a seat immediately in face of the emperor, of emperors, of the brother of the son, of the celestial one himself. It was now explained to him that this could not be done. In face of the emperor there must be a wide space, so that his majesty might be able to look down the hall, and the royal princesses who sat next to the emperor, and the royal princesses who sat next to the princesses must also be so indulged. And in this way Mr. Melmont's own seat became really quite obscure. Lord Alfred was having a very bad time of it. It's that fellow from the herald office did it, not me, he said, almost in a passion. I don't know how people ought to sit, but that's the reason. I'm damned if I'm going to be treated in this way in my own house, were the first words which the priest heard. And as Father Barham walked up the room and came close to the scene of action, unperceived by either of the grendals, Mr. Melmont was trying, but trying in vain, to move his own seat nearer to Imperial Majesty. A bar had been put up of such a nature that Melmont, sitting in the seat prepared for him, would absolutely be barred out from the center of his own hall. Who the devil are you, he asked when the priest appeared, close before his eyes on the inner or more imperial side of the bar? It was not the habit of Father Barham's life to appear in sleek apparel. He was ever clothed in the very rustiest brown black that age can produce. In Beckles, where he was known, it signified little, but in the halls of the great one in Grovener Square, perhaps the stranger's welcome was cut to the measure of his outer man. A comely priest in glossy black might have been received with better grace. Father Barham stood humbly with his hat off. He was a man of infinite pluck, but outward humility, at any rate at the commencement of an enterprise, was the rule of his life. I am the Reverend Mr. Barham, said the visitor. I am the Priest of Beckles in Suffolk. I believe I am speaking to Mr. Melmont. That's my name, sir, and what may you want? I don't know whether you are aware that you have found your way into my private dining room without any introduction. Where are the mischief other fellows, Alfred, who ought to have seen about this? I wish you'd look to it, Miles. Can anybody who pleases walk into my hall? I came on a mission which I hope may be pleaded as my excuse, said the Priest. Although he was bold, he found it difficult to explain his mission. Had not Lord Alfred been there, he could have done it better, in spite of the very repulsive manner of the great man himself. Is it business, asked Lord Alfred? Certainly it is business, said Father Barham, with a smile. Then you had better call at the office in Abchurch Lane, in the city, said his Lordship. My business is not of that nature. I am a poor servant of the Cross, who is anxious to know from the lips of Mr. Melmont himself that his heart is inclined to the true faith. Some lunatic, said Melmont, see that there ain't any knives about Alfred. No otherwise mad, sir, than they have ever been accounted mad who are enthusiastic in their desire for the souls of others. Just get a policeman, Alfred, or send somebody. You'd better not go away. You will hardly need a policeman, Mr. Melmont, continued the Priest. If I might speak to you alone for a few minutes. Certainly not, certainly not. I am very busy, and if you will not go away, you'll have to be taken away. I wonder whether anybody knows him. Mr. Carberry, of Carberry Hall, is my friend. Carberry? Damn the Carberries! Did any of the Carberries send you here? A set of beggars. Why don't you do something, Alfred, to get rid of him? You'd better go, said Lord Alfred. Don't make a rumpus. There's a good fellow, but just go. There shall be no rumpus, said the Priest, waxing wrathful. I asked for you at the door, and was told to come in by your own servants. Have I been uncivil that you should treat me in this fashion? You're in the way, said Lord Alfred. It's a piece of gross impertinent, said Melmont. Go away. Will you not tell me, before I go, whether I shall pray for you as one whose steps in the right path should be made sure and firm, or is one still in error and in darkness? What the mischief does he mean, asked Melmont? He wants to know whether you're a papist, said Lord Alfred. What the deuce is it to him, almost screamed Melmont, whereupon Father Barham bowed and took his leave? That's a remarkable thing, said Melmont. Very remarkable. Even this poor Priest's mad visit added to his inflation. I suppose he was an earnest. Mad as a hatter, said Lord Alfred. But why did he come to me in his madness, to me especially? That's what I want to know. I'll tell you what it is. There isn't a man in all England at this moment thought of so much as your humble servant. I wonder whether the morning pulpit people sent him here now to find out really what is my religion. Mad as a hatter, said Lord Alfred again. Just that and no more. My dear fellow, I don't think you've the gift of seeing very far. The truth is they don't know what to make of me, and I don't intend that they shall. I'm playing my game, and there isn't one of them understands it except myself. It's no good my sitting here, you know. I shan't be able to move. How am I to get at you if I want anything? What can you want? There'll be lots of servants about. I'll have this bar down at any rate. And he did succeed in having removed the bar which had been specially put up to prevent his intrusion on his own guests in his own house. I look upon that fellow's coming here as a very singular sign of the times, he went on to say. They'll want before long to know where I have my clothes made and who measures me for my boots. Perhaps the most remarkable circumstance in the career of this remarkable man was the fact that he came almost to believe in himself. Father Barum went away, certainly disgusted, and yet not altogether disheartened. The man had not declared that he was not a Roman Catholic. He had shown himself to be a brute. He had blasphemed and cursed. He had been outrageously uncivil to a man whom he must have known to be a minister of God. He had manifested himself to this priest who had been born an English gentleman as being no gentleman, but not the less might he be a good Catholic, or good enough at any rate to be influential on the right side. To his eyes Melmot, with all his insolent vulgarity, was infinitely a more hopeful man than Roger Carberry. He insulted me, said Father Barum, to a brother religious that evening within the cloisters of St. Fabricius. Did he intend to insult you? Certainly he did. But what of that? It is not by the hands of polished men, nor even of the courteous, that this work has to be done. He was preparing for some great festival and his mind was intent upon that. He entertained the Emperor of China this very day, said the brother priest, who as a resident in London heard from time to time what was being done. The Emperor of China, ah, that accounts for it. I do think that he is on our side, even though he gave me but little encouragement for saying so. Will they vote for him here at Westminster? Our people will. They think that he is rich and can help them. There is no doubt of his wealth, I suppose, said Father Barum. Some people do doubt, but others say he is the richest man in the world. He looked like it and spoke like it, said Father Barum. I think what such a man might do if he be really the wealthiest man in the world. And if he had been against us, would he not have said so? Though he was uncivil, I am glad that I saw him. Father Barum, with a simplicity that was singularly mingled with his religious cunning, made himself believe before he returned to Beckles that Mr. Melmont was certainly a Roman Catholic. End of chapter fifty-six.