 Chapter 37 of The Way We Live Now, this is the 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 37, The Board Room. On Friday the 21st June, the Board of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway sat in its own room behind the exchange as was the Board's custom every Friday. On this occasion, all the members were there as it had been understood that the chairman was to make a special statement. There was the great chairman as a matter of course. In the midst of his numerous and immense concerns he never threw over the railway or delegated to other less experienced hands those cares which the commercial world had entrusted to his own. Lord Alfred was there with Mr. Cohen Loop, the Hebrew gentleman, and Paul Montague and Lord Nitterdale, and even Sir Felix Carberry. Sir Felix had come being very anxious to buy and sell and not as yet having had an opportunity of realizing his golden hopes, although he had actually paid a thousand pounds in hard money into Mr. Melmont's hands. The secretary, Mr. Miles Grendahl, was also present as a matter of course. The Board always met at three and had generally been dissolved at a quarter past three. Lord Alfred and Mr. Cohen Loop sat at the chairman's right and left hand. Paul Montague generally sat immediately below with Miles Grendahl opposite to him. But on this occasion the young Lord and the young Baronette took the next places. It was a nice little family party. The great chairman with his two aspiring sons-in-law, his two particular friends, the social friend Lord Alfred and the commercial friend Mr. Cohen Loop and Miles, who was Lord Alfred's son. It would have been complete in its friendliness, but for Paul Montague, who had lately made himself disagreeable to Mr. Melmont, and most ungratefully so, for certainly no one had been allowed so free a use of the shares as the younger member of the House of Fisker, Montague and Montague. It was understood that Mr. Melmont was to make a statement. Lord Nitterdale and Sir Felix had conceived that this was to be done, as it were, out of the great man's heart of his own wish, so that something of the condition of the company might be made known to the directors of the company. But this was not perhaps exactly the truth. Paul Montague had insisted on giving vent to certain doubts at the last meeting but one, and having made himself very disagreeable indeed, had forced this trouble on the great chairman. On the intermediate Friday, the chairman had made himself very unpleasant to Paul, and this had seemed to be an effort on his part to frighten the inimical director out of his opposition, so that the promise of a statement need not be fulfilled. What nuisance can be so great to a man busied with immense affairs as to have to explain, or to attempt to explain, small details to men incapable of understanding them? But Montague had stood to his guns. He had not intended, he said, to dispute the commercial success of the company, but he felt very strongly, and he thought that his brother directors should feel as strongly, that it was necessary that they should know more than they did know. Lord Alfred had declared that he did not in the least agree with his brother director. If anybody don't understand it's his own fault, said Mr. Cohen-Loup, but Paul would not give way, and it was understood that Mr. Melmont would make a statement. The boards were always commenced by the reading of a certain record of the last meeting out of a book. This was always done by Miles Grendahl, and the record was supposed to have been written by him. But Montague had discovered that this statement in the book was always prepared and written by a satellite of Melmonts from Abchurch Lane who was never present at the meeting. The adverse director had spoken to the secretary. It will be remembered that they were both members of the bear garden, and Miles had given a somewhat evasive reply. A cussed deal of trouble and all that, you know. He's used to it, and it's what he's meant for. I'm not going to flurry myself about stuff of that kind. Montague, after this, had spoken on the subject both to Nitterdale and Felix Carberry. He couldn't do it if it was ever so, Nitterdale had said. I don't think I'd bully him if I were you. He gets five hundred pounds a year, and if you knew all he owes and all he hasn't got, you wouldn't try to rob him of it. With Felix Carberry, Montague had as little success. Sir Felix hated the secretary, had detected him cheating at cards, had resolved to expose him, and had then been afraid to do so. He had told Dolly Longstaff, and the reader will perhaps remember with what effect. He had not mentioned the affair again, and had gradually fallen back into the habit of playing at the club. Lou, however, had given way to Wist, and Sir Felix had satisfied himself with the change. He still meditated some dreadful punishment for Miles Grendel, but in the meantime felt himself unable to oppose him at the board. Since the day at which the aces had been manipulated at the club, he had not spoken to Miles Grendel except in reference to the affairs of the Wist table. The board was now commenced as usual. Miles read the short record out of the book, stumbling over every other word, and going through the performance so badly that had there been anything to understand, no one could have understood it. Gentlemen, said Mr. Melmont in his usual hurried way, is it your pleasure that I shall sign the record? Paul Montague rose to say that it was not his pleasure that the record should be signed, but Melmont had made his scrawl and was deep in conversation with Mr. Cohen-Loup before Paul could get upon his legs. Melmont, however, had watched the little struggle. Melmont, whatever might be his fault, had eyes to see and ears to hear. He perceived that Montague had made a little struggle and had been cowed, and he knew how hard it is for one man to persevere against five or six, and for a young man to persevere against his elders. Nitterdale was fiddling bits of paper across the table at Carberry. Miles Grendel was pouring over the book which was in his charge. Lord Alfred sat back in his chair, the picture of a model director, with his right hand within his waistcoat. He looked aristocratic, respectable, and almost commercial. In that room he never by any chance opened his mouth, except when called on to say that Mr. Melmont was right and was considered by the chairman really to earn his money. Melmont, for a minute or two, went on conversing with Cohen-Loup, having perceived that Montague, for the moment, was cowed. Then Paul put both his hands upon the table, intending to rise and ask some perplexing question. Melmont saw this also and was upon his legs before Montague had risen from his chair. Gentlemen, said Mr. Melmont, it may perhaps be as well if I take this occasion of saying a few words to you about the affairs of the company. Then, instead of going on with his statement, he sat down again and began to turn over sundry voluminous papers very slowly, whispering a word or two every now and then to Mr. Cohen-Loup. Lord Alfred never changed his posture and never took his hand from his breast. Nitterdale and Carberry filled up their paper pellets backwards and forwards. Montague sat profoundly listening or ready to listen when anything should be said. As the chairman had risen from his chair to commence his statement, Paul felt that he was bound to be silent. When a speaker is in possession of the floor, he is in possession even though he be somewhat dilatory in looking to his references and whispering to his neighbor. And when that speaker is a chairman, of course some additional latitude must be allowed to him. Montague understood this and sat silent. It seemed that Melmont had much to say to Cohen-Loup and Cohen-Loup much to say to Melmont. Since Cohen-Loup had sat at the board, he had never before developed such powers of conversation. Nitterdale didn't quite understand it. He had been there twenty minutes, was tired of his present amusement, having been unable to hit Carberry on the nose and suddenly remembered that the bear garden would now be open. He was no respecter of persons and had got over any little feeling of awe with which the big table and the solemnity of the room may have first inspired him. I suppose that's about all, he said, looking up at Melmont. Well, perhaps as your lordship is in a hurry and as my lord here is engaged elsewhere, bringing round to Lord Alfred, who had not uttered a syllable or made a sign since he had been in his seat, we had better adjourn this meeting for another week. I cannot allow that, said Paul Montague. I suppose then we must take the sense of the board, said the chairman. I have been discussing certain circumstances with our friend and chairman, said Cohen-Loup, and I must say that it is not expedient just at present to go into matters too freely. My lords and gentlemen, said Melmont, I hope that you trust me. Lord Alfred bowed down to the table and muttered something which was intended to convey most absolute confidence. Here, here, said Mr. Cohen-Loup. All right, said Lord Nitterdale, go on, and he fired another pellet with improved success. I trust, said the chairman, that my young friend Sir Felix doubts neither my discretion nor my ability. Oh, dear no, not at all, said the baronet, much tattered at being addressed in this kindly tone. He had come there with objects of his own and was quite prepared to support the chairman on any matter whatever. My lords and gentlemen, continued Melmont, I am delighted to receive this expression of your confidence. If I know anything in the world I know something of commercial matters. I am able to tell you that we are prospering. I do not know that greater prosperity has ever been achieved in a shorter time by a commercial company. I think our friend here, Mr. Montague, should be as feelingly aware of that as any gentleman. What do you mean by that, Mr. Melmont, asked Paul? What do I mean? Certainly nothing adverse to your character, sir. Your firm in San Francisco, sir, know very well how the affairs of the company are being transacted on this side of the water. No doubt you are in correspondence with Mr. Fisker. Ask him. The telegraph wires are open to you, sir. But, my lords and gentlemen, I am able to inform you that in affairs of this nature great discretion is necessary. On behalf of the shareholders at large, whose interests are in our hands, I think it expedient that any general statement should be postponed for a short time. And I flatter myself that in that opinion I shall carry the majority of this board with me. Mr. Melmont did not make his speech very fluently, but being accustomed to the place which he occupied, he did manage to get the word spoken in such a way as to make them intelligible to the company. I now move that this meeting be adjourned to this day week, he added. I second that motion, said Lord Alfred, without moving his hand from his breast. I understood that we were to have a statement, said Montague. You've had a statement, said Mr. Cohen-Loup. I will put my motion to the vote, said the chairman. I shall move an amendment, said Paul, determined that he would not be altogether silenced. There is nobody to second it, said Mr. Cohen-Loup. How do you know till I've made it? asked the rebel. I shall ask Lord Nitterdale to second it, and when he has heard it, I think that he will not refuse. O gracious me, why me? No, don't ask me, I've got to go away, I have indeed. At any rate, I claim the right of saying a few words. I do not say whether every affair of this company should or should not be published to the world. You'd break up everything if you did, said Cohen-Loup. Perhaps everything ought to be broken up, but I say nothing about that. What I do say is this, that as we sit here as directors and will be held to be responsible as such by the public, we ought to know what is being done. We ought to know where the shares really are. I, for one, do not even know what Scripp has been issued. You've bought and sold enough to know something about it, said Melmont. Paul Montague became very red in the face. I, at any rate, began, he said, by putting what was to me a large sum of money into the affair. That's more than I know, said Melmont. Whatever shares you have were issued at San Francisco and not here. I have taken nothing that I haven't paid for, said Montague, nor have I yet had allotted to me anything like the number of shares which my capital would represent. But I did not intend to speak of my own concerns. It looks very like it, said Cohen-Loup. So far from it that I am prepared to risk the not improbable loss of everything I have in the world. I am determined to know what is being done with the shares or to make it public to the world at large that I, one of the directors of the company, do not, in truth, know anything about it. I cannot, I suppose, absolve myself from further responsibility. But I cannot, at any rate, do what is right from this time forward in that course I intend to take. The gentleman had better resign his seat at this board, said Melmont. There will be no difficulty about that. Bound up as I am with Fisker and Montague in California, I fear that there will be difficulty. Not in the least, continued the chairman, you need only gazette your resignation and the thing is done. I had intended gentlemen to propose an addition to our number. When I named to you a gentleman, personally known to many of you, and generally esteemed throughout England as a man of business, as a man of probity, and as a man of fortune, a man standing deservedly high in all British circles, I mean Mr. Longstaff of Cavisham. Young Dolly or old, asked Lord Nitterdale. I mean Mr. Adolphus Longstaff, senior of Cavisham. I am sure that you will all be glad to welcome him among you. I had thought to strengthen our number by this addition, but if Mr. Montague is determined to leave us and no one will regret the loss of his services so much as I shall, it will be my pleasing duty to move that Adolphus Longstaff, senior, Esquire of Cavisham, be requested to take his place. If, on consideration, Mr. Montague shall determine to remain with us, and I, for one, most sincerely hope that such reconsideration may lead to such determination, then I shall move that an additional director be added to our number and that Mr. Longstaff be requested to take the chair of that additional director. The latter speech Mr. Melmont got through very glibly and then immediately left the chair so as to show that the business of the board was closed for that day without any possibility of reopening it. Paul went up to him and took him by the sleeve, signifying that he wished to speak to him before they parted. Certainly, said the great man, bowing. Carberry, he said, looking round on the young baronet with his blandest smile, if you are not in a hurry, wait a moment for me. I have a word or two to say before you go. Now, Mr. Montague, what can I do for you? Paul began his story expressing again the opinion which he had already very plainly expressed at the table, but Melmont stopped him very shortly and with much less courtesy than he had shown in the speech which he had made from the chair. The thing is about this way, I take it, Mr. Montague, you think you know more of this matter than I do. Not at all, Mr. Melmont. And I think that I know more of it than you do. Either of us may be right, but as I don't intend to give way to you, perhaps the less we speak together about it the better. You can't be in earnest in the threats you made because you would be making public things communicated to you under the seal of privacy, and no gentleman would do that. But as long as you are hostile to me, I can't help you. And so, good afternoon. Then, without giving Montague the possibility of a reply, he escaped into an inner room which had the word private painted on the door and which was supposed to belong to the chairman individually. He shut the door behind him and then, after a few moments, put out his head and beckoned to Sir Felix Carberry. Nitterdale was gone. Lord Alfred with his son were already on the stairs. Cohen Loop was engaged with Melmont's clerk on the record book. Paul Montague, finding himself without support and alone, slowly made his way out into the court. Sir Felix had come into the city intending to suggest to the chairman that having paid his thousand pounds, he should like to have a few shares to go on with. He was, indeed, at the present moment very nearly penniless and had negotiated or lost at cards all the IOUs which were in any degree serviceable. He still had a pocketbook full of those issued by Miles Grendahl, but it was now an understood thing of the bear garden that no one was to be called upon to take them, except Miles Grendahl himself, an arrangement which robbed the card table of much of its delight. Beyond this, also, he had lately been forced to issue a little paper himself, in doing which he had talked largely of his shares in the railway. His case certainly was hard. He had actually paid a thousand pounds down in hard cash, a commercial transaction which, as performed by himself, he regarded as stupendous. It was almost incredible to himself that he should have paid any one a thousand pounds, but he had done it with much difficulty, having carried Dolly Jr. with him all the way into the city in the belief that he would thus put himself in the way of making a continual and unfailing income. He understood that as a director he would be always entitled to buy shares at par and, as a matter of course, always able to sell them at the market price. This he understood to range from ten to fifteen and twenty percent profit. He would have nothing to do but to buy and sell daily. He was told that Lord Alfred was allowed to do it to a small extent, and that Melmont was doing it to an enormous extent. But before he could do it he must get something. He hardly knew what out of Melmont's hands. Melmont certainly did not seem to shun him, and therefore there could be no difficulty about the shares. As to danger, who could think of danger in reference to money entrusted to the hands of Augustus Melmont? I am delighted to see you here, said Melmont, shaking him cordially by the hand. You come regularly and you'll find that it will be worth your while. There's nothing like attending to business. You should be here every Friday. I will, said the Baronette. And let me see you sometimes up at my place in Abchurch Lane. I can put you more in the way of understanding things there than I can here. This is all a mere formal sort of thing. You can see that. Oh yes, I see that. We are obliged to have this kind of thing for men like that fellow Montague. By the by is he a friend of yours? Not particularly. He is a friend of a cousin of mine, and the women know him at home. He isn't a pal of mine, if you mean that. If he makes himself disagreeable, he'll have to go to the wall, that's all. But never mind him at present. Was your mother speaking to you of what I said to her? No, Mr. Melmont, said Sir Felix, staring with all his eyes. I was talking to her about you, and I thought that perhaps she might have told you. This is all nonsense, you know, about you and Marie. Sir Felix looked into the man's face. It was not savage as he had seen it, but there had suddenly come upon his brow that heavy look of a determined purpose which all who knew the man were want to mark. Sir Felix had observed it a few minutes since in the boardroom when the chairman was putting down the rebellious director. You understand that, don't you? Sir Felix still looked at him, but made no reply. It's all damned nonsense. You haven't got a brass farthing, you know. You've no income at all, you're just living on your mother, and I'm afraid she's not very well off. How can you suppose that I shall give my girl to you? Felix still looked at him, but did not dare to contradict a single statement made. Yet when the man told him that he had not a brass farthing, he thought of his own thousand pounds which were now in the man's pocket. You're a baronet, and that's about all, you know, continued Melmont. The carberry property, which is a very small thing, belongs to a distant cousin who may leave it to me, and who isn't very much older than you are yourself. O come, Mr. Melmont, he's a great deal older than me. It wouldn't matter if he were as old as Adam. The thing is out of the question, and you must drop it. Then the look on his brow became a little heavier. You hear what I say. She is going to Mary-Lord Nitterdale. She was engaged to him before you ever saw her. What do you expect to get by it? Sir Felix had not the courage to say that he expected to get the girl he loved, but as the man waited for an answer he was obliged to say something. I suppose it's the old story, he said. Just so, the old story. You want my money and she wants you just because she has been told to take somebody else. You want something to live on, that's what you want. Come, out with it. Is not that it? When we understand each other, I'll put you in the way of making money. Of course I'm not very well off, said Felix. About as badly as any young man that I can hear of, you give me your written promise that you'll drop this affair with Marie and you shan't want for money. A written promise? Yes, a written promise. I give nothing for nothing. I'll put you in the way of doing so well with these shares that you should be able to marry any other girl you please or to live without marrying, which you'll find to be better. There was something worthy of consideration in Mr. Melmont's proposition. Marriage of itself, simply as a domestic institution, had not specially recommended itself to Sir Felix Carberry. A few horses at Layton, ruby ruggles or any other beauty and life at the Bear Garden were much more to his taste. And then he was quite alive to the fact that it was possible that he might find himself possessed of the wife without the money. Marie, indeed, had a grand plan of her own with reference to that settled income, but then Marie might be mistaken or she might be lying. If he were sure of making money in the way Melmont now suggested, the loss of Marie would not break his heart, but then also Melmont might be lying. By the by, Mr. Melmont said he, could you let me have those shares? What shares? The heavy brow became still heavier. Don't you know, I gave you a thousand pounds and I was to have ten shares. You must come about that on the proper day to the proper place. When is the proper day? It is the twentieth of each month, I think. Sir Felix looked very blank at hearing this, knowing that this present was the twenty-first of the month. But what does that signify? Do you want a little money? Well, I do, said Sir Felix. A lot of fellows owe me money, but it's so hard to get it. That tells a story of gambling, said Mr. Melmont. You think I'd give my girl to a gambler? Nitterdale's in it quite as thick as I am. Nitterdale has a settled property which neither he nor his father can destroy. But don't you be such a fool as to argue with me. You won't get anything by it. If you'll write that letter here now. What, to Marie? No, not to Marie at all, but to me. It need never be known to her. If you'll do that, I'll stick to you and make a man of you. And if you want a couple of hundred pounds, I'll give you a check for it before you leave the room. Mind, I can tell you this. On my word of honor as a gentleman, if my daughter were to marry you, she'd never have a single shilling. I should immediately make a will and leave all my property to St. George's Hospital. I don't mind about that. And couldn't you manage that I should have the shares before the twentieth of next month? I'll see about it. Perhaps I could let you have a few of my own. At any rate, I won't see you short of money. The terms were enticing, and the letter was, of course, written. Malmod himself dictated the words which were not romantic in their nature. The readers shall see the letter. Dear sir, in consideration of the offers made by you to me and on a clear understanding that such a marriage would be disagreeable to you and to the lady's mother and would bring down a father's curse upon your daughter, I hereby declare and promise that I will not renew my suit to the young lady, which I hereby altogether renounce. I am, dear sir, your obedient servant, Felix Carberry, Augustus Malmod Esquire Grovener Square. The letter was dated 21st July and bore the printed address of the offices of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway. You'll give me that check for 200 pounds, Mr. Malmod. The finance here hesitated for a moment, but did give the baronet the check as promised. And you'll see about letting me have those shares. You can come to me in Abchurch Lane, you know. Sir Felix said that he would call in Abchurch Lane. As he went westward towards the bear garden, the baronet was not happy in his mind. Ignorant as he was as to the duties of a gentleman, indifferent as he was to the feelings of others, still he felt ashamed of himself. He was treating the girl very badly. Even he knew that he was behaving badly. He was so conscious of it that he tried to console himself by reflecting that his writing such a letter as that would not prevent his running away with the girl, should he, on consideration, find it to be worth his while to do so. That night he was again playing at the bear garden, and he lost a great part of Mr. Malmod's money. He did in fact lose much more than the 200 pounds, but when he found his ready money going from him, he issued paper. End of Chapter 37 Chapter 38 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 38 Paul Montague's Troubles Paul Montague had other troubles on his mind beyond this trouble of the Mexican Railway. It was now more than a fortnight since he had taken Mrs. Hurdle to the play, and she was still living in lodgings at Islington. He had seen her twice, once on the following day, when he was allowed to come and go without any special reference to their engagement, and again three or four days afterwards, when the meeting was by no means so pleasant. She had wept, and after weeping had stormed. She had stood upon what she called her rights, and had dared him to be false to her. Did he mean to deny that he had promised to marry her? Was not his conduct to her ever since she had now been in London a repetition of that promise? And then again she became soft and pleaded with him, but for the storm he might have given way. At the moment he had felt that any fate in life would be better than a marriage on compulsion. Her tears and her pleadings nevertheless touched him very nearly. He had promised her most distinctly. He had loved her and had won her love, and she was lovely. The very violence of the storm made the sunshine more sweet. She would sit down on a stool at his feet, and it was impossible to drive her away from him. She would look up in his face, and he could not but embrace her. Then there had come a passionate flood of tears, and she was in his arms. How he had escaped he hardly knew, but he did know that he had promised to be with her again before two days should have passed. On the day named he wrote to her a letter excusing himself, because at any rate true in words. He had been summoned, he said, to Liverpool on business, and must postpone seeing her till his return. And he explained that the business on which he was called was connected with the Great American Railway, and being important demanded his attention. In words this was true. He had been corresponding with a gentleman at Liverpool with whom he had become acquainted on his return home after having involuntarily become a partner in the house of Fisker Montague and Montague. This man, he trusted and had consulted, and the gentleman, Mr. Ramsbottom by name, had suggested that he should come to him at Liverpool. He had gone, and his conduct at the board had been the result of the advice which he had received. But it may be doubted whether some dread of the coming interview with Mrs. Hurdle had not added strength to Mr. Ramsbottom's invitation. In Liverpool he had heard tidings of Mrs. Hurdle, though it can hardly be said that he obtained any trustworthy information. The lady, after landing from an American steamer, had been at Mr. Ramsbottom's office inquiring for him, Paul, and Mr. Ramsbottom had thought that the inquiries were made in a manner indicating danger. He therefore had spoken to a fellow traveler with Mrs. Hurdle, and the fellow traveler had opined that Mrs. Hurdle was a queer card. On board ship we all gave it up to her that she was about the handsomest woman we had ever seen, but we all said that there was a bit of the wildcat in her breeding. Then Mr. Ramsbottom had asked whether the lady was a widow. There was a man on board from Kansas, said the fellow traveler, who knew a man named Hurdle at Leavenworth, who was separated from his wife and is still alive. There was, according to him, a queer story about the man and his wife having fought a duel with pistols and then having separated. This, Mr. Ramsbottom, who, in an earlier stage of the affair, had heard something of Paul and Mrs. Hurdle together, managed to communicate to the young man. His advice about the railway company was very clear and general and such as an honest man would certainly give, but it might have been conveyed by letter. The information such as it was respecting Mrs. Hurdle could only be given Viva Voce and perhaps the invitation to Liverpool had originated in Mr. Ramsbottom's appreciation of this fact. As she was asking after you here, perhaps it is well that you should know, his friend said to him, Paul had only thanked him, not daring on the spur of the moment to speak of his own difficulties. In all this there had been increased dismay, but there had also been some comfort. It had only been at moments in which he had been subject to her softer influences that Paul had doubted as to his adherence to the letter which he had written to her, breaking off his engagement. When she told him of her wrongs and of her love, of his promise and his former devotion to her, when she assured him that she had given up everything in life for him and threw her arms round him looking into his eyes, then he would almost yield. But when what the traveler called the breeding of the wild cat showed itself, and when, having escaped from her, he thought of Hedda Carberry and of her breeding, he was fully determined that, let his fate be what it might, it should not be that of being the husband of Mrs. Hurdle. That he was in a mass of troubles from which it would be very difficult for him to extricate himself, he was well aware. But if it were true that Mr. Hurdle she certainly had declared him to be not separated or even divorced, but dead, and if it were true also that she had fought a duel with one husband that ought to be a reason why a gentleman should object to become her second husband. These facts would, at any rate, justify himself to himself and would enable himself to break from his engagement without thinking himself to be a false traitor. But he must make up his mind as to some line of conduct. She must be made to know the truth. If he meant to reject the lady finally on the score of her being a wild cat, he must tell her so. He felt very strongly that he must not flinch from the wild cat's claws, that he would have to undergo some severe handling, an amount of clawing which might perhaps go near his life he could perceive. Having done what he had done he would have no right to shrink from such usage. He must tell her to her face that he was not satisfied with her past life and that therefore he would not marry her. Of course he might write to her, but when summoned to her presence he would be unable to excuse himself even to himself for not going. It was his misfortune and also his fault that he had submitted to be loved by a wild cat. But it might be well that before he saw her he should get hold of information that might have the appearance of evidence. He returned from Liverpool to London on the morning of the Friday on which the board was held and thought even more of all this than he did of the attack which he was prepared to make on Mr. Melmont. If he could come across that traveler he might learn something. The husband's name had been Caradoc Carson Hurdle. If Caradoc Carson Hurdle had been seen in the state of Kansas within the last two years there was evidence. As to the duel he felt that it might be very hard to prove that and that if proved it might be hard to found upon the fact any absolute right on his part to withdraw from the engagement. But there was a rumor also though not corroborated during his last visit to Liverpool that she had shot a gentleman in Oregon. Could he get at the truth of that story? If they were all true surely he could justify himself but this detective's work was very distasteful to him. After having had the woman in his arms how could he undertake such inquiries as these and it would be almost necessary that he should take her in his arms again while he was making them unless indeed he made them with her knowledge. Was it not his duty as a man to tell everything to herself to speak to her thus I am told that your life with your last husband was to say the least of it eccentric that you even fought a duel with him. I could not marry a woman who had fought a duel. Certainly not a woman who had fought with her own husband. I am told also that you shot another gentleman in Oregon. It may well be that the gentleman deserved to be shot but there is something in the deed so repulsive to me no doubt irrationally that on that score also I must decline to marry you. I am told also that Mr. Hurdle has been seen alive quite lately I had understood from you that he is dead. No doubt you may have been deceived but as I should not have engaged myself to you had I known the truth so now I consider myself justified in absolving myself from an engagement which was based on a misconception. It would no doubt be difficult to get through all these details but it might be accomplished gradually unless in the process of doing so he should incur the fate of the gentleman in Oregon. At any rate he would declare to her as well as he could the ground on which he claimed to write to consider himself free and would bear the consequences. Such was the resolve which he made on his journey up from Liverpool and that trouble was also on his mind when he rose up to attack Mr. Melmont single-handed at the board. When the board was over he also went down to the bear garden perhaps with reference to the board the feeling which hurt him most in the conviction that he was spending money which he would never have had to spend had there been no board. He had been twitted with this at the board meeting and had justified himself by referring to the money which had been invested in the company of Fisker Montague and Montague which money was now supposed to have been made over to the railway. But the money which he was spending had come to him after a loose fashion and he knew that if called upon for an account he could hardly make out and which would be square and intelligible to all parties. Nevertheless he spent much of his time at the bear garden dining there when no engagement carried him elsewhere. On this evening he joined his table with Nitterdales at the Young Lord's instigation. What made you so savage at old Melmont today? said the Young Lord. I didn't mean to be savage but I think that as we call ourselves directors we ought to know something about it. I suppose we ought I don't know, you know I'll tell you what I've been thinking I can't make out why the mischief they made me a director. Because you're a lord, said Paul Bluntley. I suppose there's something in that but what good can I do them? Nobody thinks that I know anything about business. Of course I'm in Parliament but I don't often go there unless they want me to vote. Everybody knows that I'm hard up I can't understand it. The governor said that I was to do it and so I've done it. They say, you know, there's something between you and Melmont's daughter. But if there is what has that to do with the railway in the city and why should Carberry be there and heaven and earth why should old Grendal be a director? I'm in Pecunius but if you were to pink out the two most hopeless men in London in regard to money they would be old Grendal and young Carberry. I've been thinking a good deal about it and I can't make it out. I have been thinking about it too, said Paul. I suppose old Melmont is all right, asked Nitterdale. This was a question which Montague found it difficult to answer. How could he be justified in whispering suspicions to the man who was known to be at any rate one of the competitors from Marie Melmont's hand? You can speak out to me, you know, said Nitterdale nodding his head. I've got nothing to speak. People say that he is about the richest man alive. He lives as though he were. I don't see why it shouldn't be all true. Nobody, I take it, knows very much about him. When his companion had left him Nitterdale sat down thinking of it all. It occurred to him that he would be coming a cropper rather, were he to Marie Melmont's daughter and then find that she had got none. A little later in the evening he invited Montague to go up to the card room. Carberry and Grasslow and Dolly Longstaff are there waiting, he said. But Paul declined. He was too full of his troubles for play. Poor Miles isn't there if you're afraid of that, said Nitterdale. Miles Grendel wouldn't hinder me, said Montague. Nor me either. Of course it's a confounded shame. I know that as well as anybody. But God bless me. I owe a fellow down in Leicestershire. Heaven knows how much for keeping horses. And that's a shame. You'll pay him someday. I suppose I shall if I don't die first. But I should have gone on with the horses just the same if there had never been anything to come. Only they wouldn't have given me tick, you know. As far as I'm concerned, it's just the same. I like to live whether I've got money or not. And I fear I don't have many scruples about paying. But then I like to let live, too. There's Carberry always saying nasty things about poor Miles. He's playing himself without a wrap to back him. If he were to lose, Vostner wouldn't stand him a ten pound note. But because he has won, he goes on as though he were old Melmont himself. You'd better come up. But Montague wouldn't go up. Without any fixed purpose he left the club and slowly sauntered northwards through the streets till he found himself in Wellbeck Street. He hardly knew why he went there and certainly had not determined to call on Lady Carberry when he left the Bear Garden. His mind was full of Mrs. Hurdle. As long as she was present in London, as long at any rate as he was unable to tell himself that he had finally broken away from her, he knew himself to be an unfit companion for Henrietta Carberry. And indeed he was still under some promise made to Roger Carberry, not that he would avoid head his company, but that for a certain period as yet unexpired he would not ask her to be his wife. It had been a foolish promise, made and then repented without much attention to words, but still it was existing and Paul knew well that Roger trusted that it would be kept. Nevertheless Paul made his way up to Wellbeck Street, and almost unconsciously knocked at the door. No, Lady Carberry was not at home. She was out somewhere with Mr. Roger Carberry. Up to that moment Paul had not heard that Roger was in town, but the reader may remember that he had come up in search of Ruby Ruggles. Miss Carberry was at home, the page went on to say. Would Mr. Montague go up and see Miss Carberry? Without much consideration Mr. Montague said that he would go up and see Miss Carberry. Mama is out with Roger, said Hedda, endeavoring to save herself from confusion. There is a soiree of learned people somewhere, and she made poor Roger take her. The ticket was only for her and her friend, and therefore I could not go. I am so glad to see you. What an age it is since we met. Hardly since the Melmonts Ball, said Hedda. Hardly indeed. I have been here once since I was a child, and I have been here since I was a child. Indeed, I have been here once since that. What has brought Roger up to town? I don't know what it is. Some mystery, I think. Whenever there is a mystery, I am always afraid that there is something wrong about Felix. I do get so unhappy about Felix, Mr. Montague. I saw him today in the city at the railway board. But Roger says the railway board is all a sham. Paul could not keep himself from blushing as he heard this, and Felix should not be there. And then there is something going on about that horrid man's daughter. She is to marry Lord Nitterdale, I think. Is she? They are talking of her marrying Felix, and of course it is for her money, and I believe that man is determined to quarrel with them. What man, Ms. Carberry? Mr. Melmont himself. It's all horrid from beginning to end. But I saw them in the city today, and they seem to be the greatest friends. When I wanted to see Mr. Melmont, he bolted himself into an inner room, but he took your brother with him. He would not have done that if they had not been friends. When I saw it, I almost thought that he had consented to the marriage. Roger has the greatest dislike to Mr. Melmont. I know he has, said Paul, and Roger is always right. It is always safe to trust him. Don't you think so, Mr. Montague? Paul did think so, and was by no means disposed to deny to his rival the praise which rightly belonged to him, but still he found the subject difficult. Of course, I will never go against Mama, continued Heta, but I always feel that my cousin Roger is a rock of strength, so that if one did whatever he said, one would never get wrong. I never found anyone else that I thought that of, but I do think it of him. No one has more reason to praise him than I have. I think everybody has reason to praise him that has to do with him, and I'll tell you why I think it is. Whenever he thinks anything, he says it, or at least he never says anything that he doesn't think. If he spent a thousand pounds, everybody would know that he'd got it to spend, but other people are not like that. You're thinking of Melmont. I'm thinking of everybody, Mr. Montague, of everybody except Roger. Is he the only man you can trust? But it is abominable to me to seem even to contradict you. Roger Carberry has been to me the best friend that any man ever had. I think as much of him as you do. I didn't say he was the only person, or I didn't mean to say so, but all my friends, am I among the number, Miss Carberry? Yes, I suppose so. Of course you are. Why not? Of course you are a friend, because you are his friend. Look here, Hedda, he said. It is no good going on like this. I love Roger Carberry, as well as one man can love another. He is all that you say, and more. You hardly know how he denies himself and how he thinks of everybody near him. He is a gentleman all round and every inch. He never lies. He never takes what is not his own. I believe he does love his neighbor Oh, Mr. Montague, I am so glad to hear you speak of him like that. I love him better than any man, as well as a man can love a man. If you will say that you love him, as well as a woman can love a man, I will leave England at once and never return to it. There's Mama, said Henrietta, for at that moment there was a double knock at the door. End of Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 39 I do love him. So it was. Lady Carberry had returned home from the soiree of learned people and had brought Roger Carberry with her. They both came up to the drawing room and found Paul, as well as the man, as well as the woman, as well as the man, as well as the woman, as well as the man, as well as the woman, up to the drawing room and found Paul and Henrietta together. It need hardly be said that they were both surprised. Roger, supposed that Montague was still at Liverpool and knowing that he was not a frequent visitor in Wellbeck Street, could hardly avoid a feeling that a meeting between the two had now been planned in the mother's absence. The reader knows that it was not so. Roger certainly was a man not liable to suspicion, and in that case were suspicious. There would have been nothing to suspect, no reason why Paul should not have been there, but from the promise which had been given. There was indeed no breach of that promise proved by Paul's presence in Wellbeck Street, but Roger felt, rather than thought, that the two could hardly have spent the evening together without such breach. Whether Paul had broken the promise by what he had already said, the reader must be left to decide. Lady Carberry was the first to speak. This is quite an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Montague. Whether Roger suspected anything or not, she did. The moment she saw Paul, the idea occurred to her that the meeting between Heta and him had been pre-concerted. Yes, he said, making a lame excuse where no excuse should have been made. I had nothing to do and was lonely and thought that I would come up and see you. Lady Carberry disbelieved him all together, but Roger felt assured that his coming-in-Lady Carberry's absence had been an accident. The man had said so, and that was enough. I thought you were at Liverpool, said Roger. I came back today to be present at that board in the city. I have had a good deal to trouble me. I will tell you all about it just now. What has brought you to London? A little business, said Roger. Then there was an awkward silence. There was an awkward silence. Then there was an awkward silence. Lady Carberry was angry and hardly knew whether she ought not to show her anger. For Henrietta it was very awkward. She too could not but feel that she had been caught, though no innocence could be whiter than hers. She knew well her mother's mind and the way in which her mother's thoughts would run. Silence was frightful to her and she found herself forced to speak. Have you had a pleasant evening, Mama? Have you had a pleasant evening, my dear, said Lady Carberry, forgetting herself and her desire to punish her daughter? Indeed no, said Hetta, attempting to laugh. I have been trying to work hard at Dante, but one never does any good when one has to try to work. I was just going to bed when Mr. Montague came in. What did you think of the wise men and the wise women, Roger? I was out of my element, of course, but I think your mother liked it. I was very glad indeed to meet Dr. Palm Oil. It seems that if we can only open the interior of Africa a little further, we can get everything that is wanted to complete the chemical combination necessary for feeding the human race. Isn't that a grand idea, Roger? A little more elbow grease is the combination that I look to. Surely, Roger, if the Bible is to go for anything, we are to believe that labor is a curse and not a blessing. Adam was not born to labor, but he fell, and I doubt whether Dr. Palm Oil will be able to put his descendants back into Eden. Roger, for a religious man you do say the strangest things. I have quite made up my mind to this. If ever I can see things so settled here as to enable me to move, I will visit the interior of Africa. It is the garden of the world. This scrap of enthusiasm so carried them through their immediate difficulties that the two men were able to take their leave and to get out of the room with fair comfort. As soon as the door was closed behind them, Lady Carberry attacked her daughter. What brought him here? He brought himself, Mama. Don't answer me in that way, Hedda. Of course, he brought himself. That is insolent. Insolent, Mama? How can you say such hard words? I meant that he came of his own accord. How long has it been of his own accord? How long was he here? Two minutes before you came in? Why do you cross-question me like this? I could not help his coming. I did not desire that he might be shown up. You did not know that he was to come. Mama, if I am to be suspected, all is over between us. What do you mean by that? If you can think that I would deceive you, you will think so always. If you will not trust me, how am I to live with you as though you did? I knew nothing of his coming. Tell me this, Hedda. Are you engaged to marry him? No, I am not. Has he asked you to marry him? Hedda paused a moment considering before she answered this question. I do not think he ever has. You do not think? I was going on to explain. He never has asked me, but he has said that which makes me know that he wishes me to be his wife. What has he said? When did he say it? Again she paused, but again she answered with straightforward simplicity. Just before you came in he said, I do not know what he said, but it meant that. You told me he had been here but a minute. It was but very little more. If you take me at my word in that way, I am not going out to be wrong, Mama. It was almost no time and yet he said it. He had come prepared to say it? How could he expecting to find you? Pshaw. He expected nothing of the kind. I think you do him wrong, Mama. I am sure you are doing me wrong. I think his coming was an accident and that what he said was an accident. An accident? It was not intended. Then, Mama, I have known it ever so long and so have you. It was natural that he should say so when we were alone together. And you, what did you say? Nothing. You came. I am sorry that my coming should have been so inopportune, but I must ask one other question, Hedda. What do you intend to say? Hedda was again silent and now for a longer space. She put her hand up to her brow and pushed back her hair as she thought whether her mother had a right to continue this cross-examination. She had told her mother everything as it had happened. She had kept back no deed done, no word spoken, either now or at any time. But she was not sure that her mother had a right to know her thoughts, feeling as she did that she had so little sympathy from her mother. How do you intend to answer him? I do not know that he will ask again. That is prevaricating. No, Mama. I do not prevaricate. It is unfair to say that to me. I do love him there. I think it ought to have been enough for you to know that I should never give him encouragement without telling you about it. I do love him and I shall never love anyone else. He is a ruined man. Your cousin says that all this company in which he is involved is a mess. Heta was too clever to allow this argument to pass. She did not doubt that Roger had so spoken of the railway to her mother, but she did doubt that her mother had believed the story. If so, said she, Mr. Melmont will be a ruined man, too. And yet you want Felix to marry Marie Melmont. It makes me ill to hear you talk as if you understood these things. And you think you will marry this man again? Lady Carberry was able to speak with an extremity of scorn in reference to the assumed pursuit by one of her children of an advantageous position which she was doing all in her power to recommend to the other child. I have not thought of his fortune. I have not thought of marrying him, Mama. I think you are very cruel to me. You say things so hard that I cannot bear them. Why will you not marry my cousin? I am not good enough for him. Nonsense. Very well. You say so. But that is what I think. He is so much above me that though I do love him, I cannot think of him in that way. And I have told you that I do love someone else. I have no secret from you now. Good night, Mama, she said, coming up to her mother and kissing her. Do be kind to me. And pray, pray, do believe me. Lady Carberry then allowed herself to be kissed and allowed her daughter to leave the room. There was a great deal said that night between Roger Carberry and Paul Montague before they parted. As they walked together to Roger's hotel he said not a word as to Paul's presence in Wellbeck Street. Paul had declared his visit in Lady Carberry's absence to have been accidental and therefore there was nothing more to be said. Montague then asked as to the cause of Carberry's journey to London. I do not wish it to be talked of, said Roger after a pause and of course I could not speak of it before Hedda. A girl has gone away from our neighborhood. You remember old Ruggles? You do not mean that Ruby has levanted. She was to have married John Crumb. Just so, but she has gone off leaving John Crumb in an unhappy frame of mind. John Crumb is an honest man and almost too good for her. Ruby is very pretty. Has she gone with anyone? No, she went alone but the horror of it is this. They think down there that Felix has well made love to her and that she has been taken to London by him. That would be very bad. He certainly has known her though he lied as he always lies when I first spoke to him I brought him to admit that he and she were friends down in Suffolk. Of course we know what such friendship means. But I do not think that she came to London at his instance. Of course he would lie about that. He would lie about anything. If his horse cost him a hundred pounds he would tell one man that he gave fifty and another two hundred that he has not lived long enough yet to be able to lie and tell the truth with the same eye. When he is as old as I am he will be perfect. Did he tell her coming to town? He did not when I first asked him. I am not sure but I fancy that I was too quick after her. She started last Saturday morning. I followed on the Sunday and made him out at his club. I think that he knew nothing then of her being in town. He is very clever if he did. Since that he has avoided me. I caught him once but only for half a minute and then he swore that he had not seen her. You still believed him? No. He did it very well but I knew that he was prepared for me. I cannot say how it may have been. To make matters worse Old Ruggles has now quarreled with Crumb and is no longer anxious to get back his granddaughter. He was frightened at first but that has gone off and he is now reconciled to the loss of the girl and the saving of his money. After that Paul told all his own story the double story both in regard to Melmont and to Mrs. Hurdle. As regarded the railway Roger could only tell him to follow explicitly the advice of his Liverpool friend. I never believed in the thing you know. Nor did I but what could I do? I am not going to blame you indeed knowing you as I do feeling sure that you intend to be honest I would not for a moment insist on my own opinion if it did not seem that Mr. Ramsbottom thinks as I do. In such a matter when a man does not see his own way clearly it behoves him to be able to show that he has followed the advice of some man whom the world esteems and recognizes. You have to bind your character to another man's character and that other man's character if it be good will carry you through. From what I hear Mr. Ramsbottom's character is sufficiently good but then you must do exactly what he tells you. But the railway business that comprised all that Montague had in the world was not the heaviest of his troubles. What was he to do about Mrs. Hurdle? He had now for the first time to tell his friend that Mrs. Hurdle had come to London and that he had been with her three or four times. There was this great difficulty in the matter too that it was very hard to speak of his engagement with Mrs. Hurdle without in some sort alluding to his love for Henrietta Carberry. He had been very urgent with his friend to abandon the widow and at any rate equally urgent with him to give up the other passion. Were he to marry the widow all danger on the other side would be at an end and yet in discussing the question of Mrs. Hurdle he was to do so as though there were no such person existing as Henrietta Carberry. The discussion did take place exactly as though there were no such person as Henrietta Carberry. Paul, the rumored duel, the rumored murder and the rumor of the existing husband. It may be necessary that you should go out to Kansas and to Oregon, said Roger. But even if the rumors be untrue I will not marry her, said Paul. Roger shrugged his shoulders. He was doubtless thinking of Henrietta Carberry but he said nothing. And what would she do remaining here continued Paul. Roger admitted that it would be awkward. I am determined that under no circumstances will I marry her. I know I have been a fool, I know I have been wrong but of course if there be a fair cause for my broken word I will use it if I can. You will get out of it honestly if you can but you will get out of it honestly or any other way. Did you not advise me to get out of it Roger before we knew as much as we do now? I did and I do. If you make a bargain with the devil it may be dishonest to cheat him and yet it would have you cheat him if you could. As to this woman I do believe she has deceived you. If I were you nothing should induce me to marry her. Not though her claws were strong enough to tear me utterly in pieces. I will tell you what I will do. I will go and see her if you like it. But Paul would not submit to this. He felt he was bound himself to incur the risk of those claws and that no substitute could take his place. They sat long into the night and it was at last resolved between them that on the next morning Paul should go to Islington, should tell Mrs. Hurdle all the stories which he had heard and should end by declaring his resolution that under no circumstances would he marry her. They both felt how improbable it was that he should ever be allowed to get to the end of such a story. How almost certain it was that the breeding of the Wildcat would show itself before that time should come. But still that was the course to be pursued as far as circumstances would admit. And Paul was at any rate to declare claws or no claws, husband or no husband, whether the duel or the murder was admitted or denied that he would never make Mrs. Hurdle his wife. I wish it were over, old fellow, said Roger. So do I, said Paul, as he took his leave. He went to bed like a man condemned to die the next morning, and he awoke in the same condition. He had slept well, but as he shook from him his happy dream the wretched reality at once overwhelmed him. But the man who is to be hung has no choice. He cannot, when he wakes, declare that he has changed his mind and postponed the hour. It was quite open to Paul Montague to give himself such instant relief. He put his hand up to his brow and almost made himself feel that his head was aching. This was Saturday. Would it not be as well that he should think of it further and put off his execution till Monday? Monday was so far distant that he felt that he could go to Islington quite comfortably on Monday. Was there not some hitherto forgotten point which it would be well that he should discuss with his friend Roger before he saw the lady? Should he not rush down to Liverpool and ask a few more questions why should he go forth to execution seeing that the matter was in his own hands? At last he jumped out of bed and into his tub and dressed himself as quickly as he could. He worked himself up into a fit of fortitude and resolved that the thing should be done before the fit was over. He ate his breakfast about nine and then asked himself whether he might not be too early were he to go at once to Islington. But he remembered that she was always early. In every respect, she was an energetic woman using her time for some purpose either good or bad, not sleeping it away in bed. If one has to be hung on a given day would it not be well to be hung as soon after waking as possible? I can fancy that the hangman would hardly come early enough and if one had to be hung in a given week would not one wish to be hung on the first day of the week of breaking one's last sabbathay in this world? Whatever be the misery to be endured get it over. The horror of every agony is in its anticipation. Paul had realized something of this when he threw himself into a handsome cab and ordered the man to drive to Islington. How quick that cab went! Nothing ever goes so quick as a handsome cab when a man starts for a dinner party a little too early. He was so slow when he starts too late. Of all cabs this surely was the quickest. Paul was lodging in Suffolk Street, close to Palmall, went the way to Islington, across Oxford Street, across Tottenham Court Road, across numerous squares northeast of the museum seems to belong. The end of Goswell Road is the outside of the world in that direction and Islington is beyond the end of Goswell Road and yet that handsome cab was there before Paul Montague had been able to arrange the words with which he would begin the interview. He had given the street and the number of the street. It was not till after he had started that it occurred to him that it might be well that he should get out at the end of the street and walk to the house so that he might, as it were, fetch breath before the interview was commenced. But the cab man dashed up to the door in a manner purposely devised to make every inmate of the house aware that a cab had just arrived before it. There was a little garden before the house. We all know the garden, twenty-four feet long by twelve broad and an iron-graded door with the landlady's name on a brass plate. Paul, when he had paid the cab man, giving the man half a crown and asking for no change in his agony, pushed in the iron gate and walked very quickly up to the door, rang rather furiously and before the door was well opened asked for Mrs. Hurdle. Mrs. Hurdle is out for the day, said the girl who opened the door. Least ways she went out yesterday and won't be back till tonight. Providence had sent him a reprieve. But he almost forgot the reprieve as he looked at the girl and saw that she was Ruby Ruggles. Oh, laws, Mr. Monique, is that you? Ruby Ruggles had often seen Paul down in Suffolk and recognized him as quickly as he did her. It occurred to her at once that he had come in search of herself. She knew that Roger Carberry was up in town looking for her. So much she had, of course, learned from Sir Felix. For at this time she had seen the Baronette more than once since her arrival. Monique she knew was Roger Carberry's intimate friend and now she felt that she was caught. In her terror she did not at first remember that the visitor had asked for Mrs. Hurdle. Yes, it is I. I was sorry to hear, Miss Ruggles, that you had left your home. I'm all right, Mr. Monique, I am. Mrs. Pipkin is my aunt. Least ways my mother's brother's widow, though grandfather never would speak to her. She's quite respectable and has five children and lets lodgings. There's a lady here now and has gone away with her just for one night down to Southend. This evening and I have the children to mind with the servant girl. I'm quite respectable here, Mr. Monique and nobody need be a bit afraid about me. Mrs. Hurdle has gone down to Southend? Yes, Mr. Monique. She wasn't quite well and wanted a breath of air, she said. And aunt didn't like she should go alone as Mrs. Hurdle is such a stranger. And Mrs. Hurdle said she didn't mind paying for two and so they've gone and the baby with them. Mrs. Pipkin said as the baby shouldn't be no trouble and Mrs. Hurdle, she's most as fond of the baby as aunt. Do you know Mrs. Hurdle, sir? Yes, she's a friend of mine. Oh, I didn't know. I did know as there was some friend as was expected and as didn't come. Be I to say, sir, as you was here? Paul thought it might be as well to shift the subject and to ask Ruby a few questions about herself while he made up his mind what message he would leave for Mrs. Hurdle. I'm afraid they are very unhappy about you down at Bungay, Miss Ruggles. Then they've got to be unhappy. That's all about it, Mr. Monique. Grandfather is that provoking as a young woman can't live with him nor yet I won't try never again. He lugged me all about the room by my hair, Mr. Monique. How was a young woman to put up with that? And I did everything for him. That careful that no one won't do it again. Did his linen and his vitals and even cleaned his boots of the Sunday. Because he was that mean he wouldn't have anybody about the place only me and the girl who had to milk the cows. There wasn't nobody to do anything. Only me. And then he went to drag me about by the hairs of my head. You won't see me again at Sheep's Acre, Mr. Monique. Nor yet won't the squire. But I thought there was somebody else to give you a home. John Crumb? Oh, yes, there's John Crumb. There's plenty of people to give me a home, Mr. Monique. You were to have been married to John Crumb, I thought. Ladies is to change their minds if they like it, Mr. Monique. I'm sure you've heard that before. Grandfather made me say I'd have him but I never cared that for him. I'm afraid, Miss Ruggles, you won't find a better man up here in London. I didn't come here to look for a man, Mr. Monique. I can tell you that. They has to look at me if they want me. But I am looked after and that by one as John Crumb ain't fit to touch. That told the whole story. Paul, when he heard the little boast, was quite sure that Roger's fear about Felix was well-founded. And as for John Crumb's fitness to touch Sir Felix, Paul felt that the bongae mule man might have an opinion of his own on that matter. But there's Betsy crying upstairs and I promised not to leave them children for one minute. I will tell the squire that I saw you, Miss Ruggles. What does the squire want of me? I ain't nothing to the squire except that I respect him. You can tell if you please, Mr. Monique, you, of course. I'm a-coming, my darling. Paul made his way into Mrs. Hurdle's sitting-room and wrote a note for her in pencil. He had come, he said, immediately on his return from Liverpool and was sorry to find that she was away for the day. When should he call again? If she would make an appointment, he would attend to it. He felt as he wrote this that he might very safely have himself made an appointment for the morrow. But he cheated himself into half believing that the suggestion he now made was the more gracious and civil. At any rate it would certainly give him another day. Mrs. Hurdle would not return till late in the evening and as the following day was Sunday there would be no delivery by post. When the note was finished he left it on the table and called to Ruby to tell her that he was going. Mr. Monique, you, she said in a confidential whisper as she tripped down the stairs, I don't see why you need be saying anything about me, you know. Mr. Carberry is up in town looking after you. What am I to Mr. Carberry? Your grandfather is very anxious about you. Not a bit of it, Mr. Monique. Grandfather knows very well where I am. There, grandfather doesn't want me back and I ain't a-going. Why should the squire bother himself about me? I don't bother myself about him. He's afraid, Miss Wuggles, that you are trusting yourself to a young man who is not trustworthy. I can mind myself very well, Mr. Monique. Tell me this, have you seen Sir Felix Carberry since you've been in town? Ruby, whose blushes came very easily, now flushed up to her forehead. I can be sure that he means no good to you. What can come of an intimacy between you and such a one as he? I don't see why I shouldn't have my friend, Mr. Monique, you, as well as you, how some ever, if you'll not tell, I'll be ever so much obliged. But I must tell Mr. Carberry. Then I ain't obliged to you one bit, said Ruby, shutting the door. Paul, as he walked away, could not help thinking of the justice of Ruby's reproach to him. This had he to take upon himself to be a mentor to anyone in regard to an affair of love. He, who had engaged himself to marry Mrs. Hurdle and who the evening before had for the first time declared his love to Head of Carberry. In regard to Mrs. Hurdle, he had got a reprieve, as he thought, for two days. But it did not make him happy or even comfortable. As he walked back to his lodgings, he knew it would have been better for him to have had the interview over. But at any rate, he could now think of Head of Carberry and the words he had spoken to her. Had he heard that declaration which she had made to her mother, he would have been able for the hour to have forgotten Mrs. Hurdle. End of Chapter 39 Chapter 40 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 40 Unanimity is the very soul of these things. That evening, Montague was surprised to receive at the Bear Garden a note from Mr. Melmont, which had been brought thither by a messenger from the city who had expected to have an immediate answer as though Montague lived at the club. Mr. Surr said the letter. If not inconvenient, would you call on me in Grosvenor Square tomorrow, Sunday, at half past eleven? If you are going to church, perhaps you will make an appointment in the afternoon. If not, the morning will suit best. I want to have a few words with you in private about the company. My messenger will wait for answer if you are at the club. Yours truly, Augustus Melmont. Paul Montague, Esquire, the Bear Garden. Paul immediately wrote to say that he would call at Grosvenor Square at the hour appointed, abandoning any intentions which he might have had in reference to Sunday morning service. But this was not the only letter he received that evening. On his return to his lodgings, he found a note containing only one line, which Mrs. Hurdle had found the means of sending to him after her return from Southend. I am sorry to have been away. I will expect you all tomorrow, W.H. The period of the reprieve was thus curtailed to less than a day. On the Sunday morning, he breakfasted late and then walked up to Grosvenor Square, much pondering what the great man could have to say to him. The great man had declared himself very plainly in the board room, especially plainly after the board had risen. Paul had understood that war was declared and had understood also that he was to fight the battle single-handed, knowing nothing of such strategy as would be required while his antagonist was a great master of financial tactics. He was prepared to go to the wall in reference to his money, only hoping that in doing so he might save his character and keep the reputation of an honest man. He was quite resolved to be guided altogether by Mr. Ramsbottom and intended to ask Mr. Ramsbottom to draw up for him such a statement as would be fitting for him to publish. But it was manifest now that Mr. Melmont would make some proposition and it was impossible that he should have Mr. Ramsbottom at his elbow to help him. He had been in Melmont's house on the night of the ball, but had contented himself after that with leaving a card. He had heard much of the splendor of the place, but remembered simply the crush and the crowd and that he had danced there more than once or twice with head of carberry. When he was shown into the hall he was astonished to find that it was not only stripped but was full of planks and ladders and trussles and mortar. The preparations for the great dinner had been already commenced. Through all this he made his way to the stairs and was taken up to a small room on the second floor where the servant told him that Mr. Melmont would come to him. Here he waited a quarter of an hour looking out into the yard at the back. There was not a book in the room and a picture with which he could amuse himself. He was beginning to think whether his own personal dignity would not be best consulted by taking his departure. When Melmont himself with slippers on his feet and enveloped in a magnificent dressing gown bustled into the room, my dear sir, I am so sorry. You are a punctual man, I see. So am I. A man of business should be punctual, but they ain't always. Bregert from the house of Todd Bregert and Goldschiner, you know, has just been with me. We had to settle something about the Moldavian loan. He came a quarter late, and of course he went a quarter late, and how was a man to catch a quarter of an hour? I never could do it. Montague assured the great man that the delay was of no consequence. And I am so sorry to ask you into such a place as this. I had Bregert in my room downstairs, and then the house is so knocked about, we get into a furnished house a little way off in Bruton Street tomorrow. Longstaff lets me his house for a month till this affair of the dinner is over. By the by Montague, if you'd like to come to the dinner, I've got a ticket I can let you have. You know how they'll run after. Montague had heard of the dinner, but had perhaps heard as little of it as any man frequenting a club at the west end of London, he did not in the least want to be at the dinner, and certainly did not wish to receive any extraordinary civility from Mr. Melmont's hands. But he was very anxious to know why Mr. Melmont should offer it. He excused himself, saying that he was not particularly fond of big dinners, and that he did not like standing in the way of other people. Ah, indeed said Melmont. There are ever so many people of title who would give anything for a ticket. You'd be astonished at the persons who have asked. We've had to squeeze in a chair on one side for the master of the buckhounds, and on the other for the bishop of... I forget what bishop it is, but we had the two archbishops before. They say he must come because he has something to do with getting up the missionaries for Tibet. But I've got the ticket if you'll have it. This was the ticket which was to have taken in Georgiana Longstaff as one of the Melmont family had not Melmont perceived and it might be useful to him as a bribe. But Paul would not take the bribe. You're the only man in London, then, said Melmont, somewhat offended, but at any rate you'll come in the evening and I'll have one of Madame Melmont's tickets sent to you. Paul, not knowing how to escape, said that he would come in the evening. I am particularly anxious, continued he, to be civil to those who are connected with our great railway, and of course in this country your name stands first, next to my own. Then the great man paused and Paul began to wonder whether it could be possible that he had been sent for to Grosvenor Square on a Sunday morning in order that he might be asked to dine in the same house a fortnight later. But that was impossible. Have you anything special to say about the railway, he asked? Well, yes. It is so hard to get things said at the board. Of course there are some there who do not understand matters. I doubt if there be anyone there who does understand this matter, said Paul. Melmont affected to laugh. Well, well, I am not prepared to go quite so far as that. My friend Cohen Loop has had great experience in these affairs, and of course you are aware that he is in Parliament and Lord Alfred sees farther into them than perhaps you give him credit for. He may easily do that. Well, well, perhaps you don't know quite as well as I do. The skull began to appear on Mr. Melmont's brow, hither to it had been banished as well as he knew how to banish it. What I wanted to say to you is this. We didn't quite agree at the last meeting. No, we did not. I was very sorry for it. Unanimity is everything in the direction of such an undertaking as this. With unanimity we can do everything. Mr. Melmont, in the ecstasy of his enthusiasm, lifted up both his hands over his head. Without unanimity we can do nothing. And the two hands fell. Unanimity should be printed everywhere about a boardroom. It should indeed, Mr. Montague. But suppose the directors are not unanimous. They should be unanimous. They should make themselves unanimous. God bless my soul. You don't want to see the thing fall to pieces. Not if it can be carried on honestly. Honestly, who says that anything is dishonest? Again, the brow became very heavy. Look here, Mr. Montague, if you and I quarrel in the boardroom there is no knowing the amount of evil we may do to every individual shareholder in the company. I find the responsibility on my shoulders so great that I say the thing must be stopped. Damning, Mr. Montague, it must be stopped. We mustn't ruin widows and children, Mr. Montague. We mustn't let those shares run down twenty below par for a mere chimera. I've known a fine property blasted, Mr. Montague, sent straight to the dogs, annihilated, sir, so that it all vanished into thin air, and widows and children, past counting, were sent out to starve about the streets. Just because one director sat in another director's chair. I did, by gee. What do you think of that, Mr. Montague? Gentlemen who don't know the nature of credit, how strong it is as the air to boy you up, how slight it is as a mere vapor when roughly touched can do an amount of mischief of which they themselves don't in the least understand the extent. What is it you want, Mr. Montague? What do I want? Melmont's description of the peculiar susceptibility of great mercantile speculations had not been given without some effect on Montague, but this direct appeal to himself almost drove that effect out of his mind. I only want justice. But you should know what justice is before you demand it at the expense of other people. Look here, Mr. Montague, I suppose you are like the rest of us in this matter. You want to make money out of it. For myself, I want interest for my capital. That is all. But I am not thinking of myself. You are getting very good interest. If I understand the matter, and here Melmont pulled out a little book showing thereby how careful he was in mastering details, you had about 6,000 pounds embarked in the business when Fisker joined your firm. You imagine yourself to have that still. I don't know what I've got. I can tell you then. You have that, and you've drawn nearly a thousand pounds since Fisker came over, in one shape or another. That's not bad interest on your money. There was back interest due to me. If so, it's due still. I have nothing to do with that. Here, Mr. Montague, I am most anxious that you should remain with us. I was about to propose, only for that little rumpus the other day, that as you're an unmarried man and have time on your hands, you should go out to California and probably across to Mexico in order to get necessary information for the company. Were I of your age unmarried and without impediment, it is just the thing I should like. Of course you'd go at the company's expense. I would see to your own personal interests while you were away, or you could appoint anyone by power of attorney. Your seat at the board would be kept for you. But, should anything occur amiss, which it won't, for the thing is as sound as anything I know, of course you, as absent, would not share the responsibility. That's what I was thinking. It would be a delightful trip. But if you don't like it, you can, of course, remain at the board and be of the greatest use to me. Indeed, after a bit, I'll be with you, and I must do something of the kind as I really haven't the time for it. But, if it is to be that way, do be unanimous. Unanimity is the very soul of these things, the very soul, Mr. Montague. But if I can't be unanimous, well, if you can't, and if you won't take my advice about going out, which pray, think about, for you would be most useful. It might be the very making of the railway. Then I can only suggest that you should take your six thousand pounds and leave us. I myself should be greatly distressed. But if you are determined that way, I will see that you have your money. I will make myself personally responsible for the payment of it, sometime before the end of the year. Paul Montague told the great man that he would consider the whole matter and see him in Abchurch Lane before the next board day. And now goodbye, said Mr. Melmont who made his young friend a dew in a hurry. I'm afraid that I'm keeping Sir Gregory Greib, the bank director, waiting downstairs. End of Chapter 40 Chapter 41 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 Chapter 41 All Prepared During all these days, Miss Melmont was by no means contented with her lover's prowess, though she would not allow herself to doubt his sincerity. She had not only assured him of her undying affection in the presence of her father and mother, had not only offered to be chapped in pieces on his behalf, but had also written to him telling how she had a large sum of her father's money within her power and how willing she was to make it her own, to throw over her father and mother, and give herself and her fortune to her lover. She felt that she had been very gracious to her lover, and that her lover was a little slow in acknowledging the favors conferred upon him. But nevertheless she was true to her lover and believed that he was true to her. Didon had been hitherto faithful. Marie had written various letters to Felix, and had received two or three very short notes in reply containing hardly more than a word or two each. But now she was told that a day was absolutely fixed for her marriage with Lord Nitterdale, and that her things were to be got ready. She was to be married in the middle of August, and here they were approaching the end of June. You may buy what you like, Mama, she said, and if Papa agrees about Felix, why then I suppose you'll never be of any use about Lord Nitterdale if you were to show me up in the things by main force I wouldn't have him. Madame Melmont groaned and scolded in English, French, and German, and wished that she were dead. She told Marie that she was a pig, and ass, and a toad, and a dog, and ended as she always did by swearing that Melmont must manage the matter himself. Nobody shall manage this matter for me, said Marie. I know what I'm about now, and I won't marry anybody just because it was soup-a-pa. Canuse-tions encore à Frankfurt or New York, said the elder lady, remembering the humbler but less troubled times of her earlier life. Marie did not care for Frankfurt or New York, for Paris or for London, but she did care for Sir Felix Carberry. While her father on Sunday morning was transacting business in his own house with Paul Montague and the great commercial magnates of the city, though it may be doubted whether that very respectable gentleman, Sir Gregory Greib, was really in Grosvenor's Square when his name was mentioned, Marie was walking inside the gardens. Didon was also there at some distance from her, and Sir Felix Carberry was there also close alongside of her. Marie had the key of the gardens for her own use, and had already learned that her neighbors in the city went to place during church time on Sunday morning. Her lover's letter to her father had, of course, been shown to her, and she had taxed him with it immediately. Sir Felix, who had thought much of the letter as he came from Wellbeck Street to keep his appointment, having been assured by Didon that the gate should be left unlocked and that she would be there to close it after he had come in, was, of course, ready with a lie. But you said you had accepted some offer. You don't suppose I wrote the letter. It was your handwriting, Felix. Of course it was. I copied just what he put down. He'd have sent you clean away where I couldn't have gotten near you if I hadn't written it. And you have accepted nothing. Not at all. As it is he owes me money. It was not that odd. I gave him a thousand pounds to buy shares, and I haven't got anything yet. Sir Felix, no doubt, forgot the check for two hundred pounds. Nobody ever does who gives papa money, said the observant daughter. Don't they? Dear me. But I just wrote it because I thought anything better than a downright quarrel. I wouldn't have written it if it had been ever so. It's no good scolding, Marie. I did it for the best. What do you think we'd best do now? She looked at him almost with scorn. Surely it was for him to propose and for her to yield. I wonder whether you're right about that money which you say has settled. I'm quite sure mama told me in Paris, just when we were coming away, that it was done so that there might be something if things went wrong. And papa told me that he should want me to sign something from time to time. And of course I said that I was going to have a shipment of my own. Felix walked along pondering the matter with his hands in his trousers' pockets. He entertained those very fears which had laterally fallen upon Lord Nitterdale. There would be no cropper which a man could come so bad as would be his cropper were he to marry Marie Melmont and then find that he was not to have a shelling. And were he now him. This assurance of Marie's as to the settled money was too doubtful. The game to be played was too full of danger, and in that case he would certainly get neither his eight hundred pounds nor the shares, and if he were true to Melmont, Melmont would probably supply him with ready money. But then there was the girl at his elbow, and he no more dared to tell her to her face that he meant to give her up than he dared to tell Melmont that he intended to stick to his engagement. Some half-promise would be the only escape for the present. What are you thinking of, Felix? She asked. It's damn difficult to know what to do. But you do love me. Of course I do. If I didn't love you, why should I be here walking round this stupid place? They talk of your being married to Nitterdale about the end of August. Some day in August. But that's all nonsense, you know. They can't take me up and marry me as they used to do to the girls ever so long ago. I won't marry him. He don't care a bit for me and never did. I don't think you care much, Felix. Yes, I do. A fellow can't go on saying so over and over again in a beastly place like this. If we were anywhere jolly together, then I could say it often enough. I wish we were, Felix. I wonder whether we ever shall be. Upon my word, I hardly see my way as yet. You're not going to give it up? Oh, no, not give it up. Certainly not. But the bother is a fellow doesn't know what to do. You've heard of young Mr. Goldschiner, haven't you, suggested, Marie? He's one of those city chaps. And Lady Julia Stewart? She's old Lady Catch Boy's daughter. Yes, I've heard of them. They got spliced last winter. Yes, some were in Switzerland, I think. At any rate, they went to Switzerland, and now they've got a house close to Albert Gate. How jolly for them. He is awfully rich, isn't he? I don't suppose he's half so rich as papa. They did all they could do to prevent her going, but she met him down at Folkston just as the tidal boat was starting. Didon says that nothing was easier. Oh, ah. Didon knows all about it. That she does. But she'd lose her place. There are plenty of places. She could come and live with us and be my maid. If you would give her fifty pounds for herself, she'd arrange it all. And would you come to Folkston? I think that would be stupid because Lady Julia did that. We should make it a little different. If you liked, I wouldn't mind going to New York, and then perhaps we might get married, you know, on board. That's what Didon thinks. And would Didon go to? That's what she proposes. She could go as my aunt, and I'd call myself by her name, any French name, you know. I should go as a French girl, and you could call yourself Smith and be an American. We wouldn't go together, but we'd get on board just at the last moment. If they wouldn't marry us on board, they would at New York instantly. That's Didon's plan. That's what she thinks best, and she'll do it if you'll give her fifty pounds for herself, you know. The Adriatic, that's a white star boat, goes on Thursday week at noon. There's an early train that would take us down that morning. You had better go and sleep at Liverpool and take no notice of us at all till we meet on board. We could be back in a month, and then Papa would be obliged to make the best of it. Sir Felix at once felt that it would be quite unnecessary for him to go to Air Vossner or to any other male counselor for advice as to the best means of carrying off his love. The young lady had it all at her fingers' ends, even to the amount of the fee required by the female counselor. But Thursday week was very near, and the whole thing was taking uncomfortably defined proportions. Where was he to get funds if he were to resolve that he would do this thing? He had been fool enough to entrust his ready money to Melmont, and now he was told that when Melmont got hold of ready money he was not apt to release it. And he had nothing to show, no security that he could offer to Vossner. And then, this idea of starting to New York with Melmont's daughter immediately after he had written to Melmont, renouncing the girl frightened him. There is a tide in the affairs of men which taken at the flood leads on to fortune. Sir Felix did not know these lines, but the lesson taught by them came home to him at this moment. Now was the tide in his affairs at which he might make himself or utterly mar himself. It's deuce and important, he said at last with a groan. It's not more important for you than me, said Marie. If you're wrong about the money and he shouldn't come round, where should we be then? Nothing venture, nothing have, said the heiress. That's all very well, but one might venture everything and get nothing after all. You'd get me, said Marie with the pout. Yes, and I'm awfully fond of you. Of course I should get you, but very well then. If that's your love, said Marie, turning back from him. Sir Felix gave a great sigh and then announced his resolution. I'll venture it. Oh, Felix, how grand it will be. There's a great deal to do, you know. I don't know whether it can be Thursday week. He was putting in the coward's plea for a reprieve. I shall be afraid of the don't have it's delayed long. There's the money to get in all that. I can get some money. My mom has money in the house. How much? Asked the Baronette eagerly. 100 pounds perhaps, perhaps 200. That would help, certainly. I must go to your father for money. Won't that be a sell to get it from him to take you away? It was decided that they were to go to New York on a Thursday, on Thursday week if possible. But as to that, he was to let her know in a day or two. Didon was to pack up the clothes and get them sent out of the house. Didon was to have 50 pounds before she went on board. And as one of the men must know about it and must assist in having the trunk smuggled out of the house, he was to have 10 pounds. All had been settled beforehand so that Sir Felix really had no need to think about anything. And now, said Marie, there's Didon. Nobody is looking and she can open that gate for you. When we're gone, do you creep out? The gate can be left, you know, then we'll get out on the other side. Marie Malmont was certainly a clever girl. End of chapter 41.