 57. Lord Nitterdale tries his hand again. Lord Nitterdale had half consented to renew his suit to Marie Melmont. He had, at any rate, half promised to call at Melmont's house on the Sunday with the object of so doing. As far as that promise had been given, it was broken, for on the Sunday he was not seen in Bruton Street. Though not much given to severe thinking, he did feel that on this occasion there was need for thought. His father's property was not very large. His father and his grandfather had both been extravagant men, and he himself had done something towards adding to the family embarrassments. It had been an understood thing since he had commenced life that he was to marry an heiress. In such families as his, when such results have been achieved, it is generally understood that matters shall be put right by an heiress. It has become an institution, like primogeniture, and is almost as serviceable for main containing the proper order of things. Rank squanders money, trade makes it, and then trade purchases rank by re-guilding its splendor. The arrangement, as it affects the aristocracy generally, is well understood, and was quite approved of by the old Marquis, so that he had felt himself to be justified in eating up the property, which his son's future marriage would renew as a matter of course. Nitterdale himself had never dissented, had entertained no fanciful theory opposed to this view, had never alarmed his father by any liaison tending towards matrimony with any undoward beauty, but had claimed his right to have his fling before he devoted himself to the reintegration of the family property. His father had felt that it would be wrong and might probably be foolish to oppose so natural a desire. He had regarded all the circumstances of the fling with indulgent eyes. But there arose some little difference as to the duration of the fling, and the father had at last found himself compelled to inform his son that if the fling were carried on much longer it must be done with internecine war between himself and his heir. Nitterdale, whose sense and temper were alike good, saw the thing quite in the proper light. He assured his father that he had no intention of cutting up rough, declared that he was ready for the heiress as soon as the heiress should be put in his way, and set himself honestly about the task imposed on him. This had all been arranged at Aldriki Castle during the last winter, and the reader knows the result. But the affair had assumed abnormal difficulties. Perhaps the Marquis had been wrong in flying at wealth, which was reputed to be almost unlimited, but which was not absolutely fixed. A couple of hundred thousand pounds down might have been secured with greater ease. But here there had been a prospect of endless money, of an inheritance which might not improbably make the Aldriki family conspicuous for its wealth, even among the most wealthy of the nobility. The old man had fallen into the temptation, and abnormal difficulties had been the result. Some of these the reader knows. Laterally two difficulties had culminated above the others. The young lady preferred another gentleman, and disagreeable stories were afloat, not only as to the way in which the money had been made, but even as to its very existence. The Marquis, however, was a man who hated to be beaten. As far as he could learn from inquiry, the money would be there, or at least so much money as had been promised. A considerable sum, sufficient to secure the bridegroom from absolute shipwreck, though by no means enough to make a brilliant marriage, had in truth been already settled on Marie, and was indeed in her possession. As to that her father had armed himself with the power of attorney for drawing the income, but had made over the property to his daughter, so that in the event of unforeseen accidents on change he might retire to obscure comfort and have the means perhaps of beginning again with whitewashed cleanliness. When doing this, he had doubtless not anticipated the grandeur to which he would soon rise, or the fact that he was about to embark on seas so dangerous that this little harbor of refuge would hardly offer security to his vessel. Marie had been quite correct in her story to her favored lover, and the Marquis's lawyer had ascertained that if Marie ever married before she herself had restored this money to her father, her husband would be so far safe with this as a certainty and the immense remainder in prospect. The Marquis had determined to persevere. Pickering was to be added. Mr. Melmont had been asked to depone the title deeds, and had promised to do so as soon as the day of the wedding should have been fixed, with the consent of all the parties. The Marquis's lawyer had ventured to express a doubt, but the Marquis had determined to persevere. The reader will, I trust, remember that those dreadful misgivings which are, I trust, agitating his own mind have been borne in upon him by information which had not as yet reached the Marquis in all its details. But Nitterdale had his doubts. That absurd elopement, which Melmont declared really to mean nothing, the romance of a girl who wanted to have one little fling of her own before she settled down for life, was perhaps his strongest objection. Sir Felix, no doubt, had not gone with her. But then one doesn't wish to have one's intended wife even attempt to run off with anyone but one's self. She'll be sick of him by this time, I should say, his father said to him. What does it matter if the money's there? The Marquis seemed to think that the escapade had simply been the girl's revenge against his son for having made his arrangement so exclusively with Melmont, instead of devoting himself to her. Nitterdale acknowledged to himself that he had been remiss. He told himself that she was possessed of more spirit than he had thought. By the Sunday evening he had determined that he would try again. He had expected that the plum would fall into his mouth. He would now stretch out his hand to pick it. On the Monday he went to the house in Bruton Street at lunchtime. Melmont and the two Grendals had just come over from their work in the square, and the financier was full of the priest's visit to him. Madame Melmont was there and Miss Longstaff, who was to be sent for by her friend Lady Monogram that afternoon. And after they had sat down, Marie came in. Nitterdale got up and shook hands with her, of course as though nothing had happened. Marie, putting a brave face upon it, struggling hard in the midst of very real difficulties, succeeded in saying an ordinary word or two. Her position was uncomfortable. A girl who was run away with her lover and has been brought back again by her friends must for a time find it difficult to appear in society with ease. But when a girl has run away without her lover, has run away expecting her lover to go with her, and has then been brought back, her lover not having stirred, her state of mind must be peculiarly harassing. But Marie's courage was good and she ate her lunch, even though she sat next to Lord Nitterdale. Melmont was very gracious to the young Lord. Did you ever hear anything like that in Nitterdale? He said, speaking of the priest's visit. Mad as a hatter, said Lord Alfred. I don't know much about his madness. I shouldn't wonder if he had been sent by the Archbishop of Westminster. Why don't we have an Archbishop of Westminster when they've got one? I shall have to see to that when I'm in the house. I suppose there is a bishop isn't there, Alfred? Alfred shook his head. There's a Dean I know for I called on him. He told me flat he wouldn't vote for me. I thought all those Parsons were conservatives. It didn't occur to me that the fellow had come from the Archbishop or I would have been more civil to him. Mad as a hatter, nothing else, said Lord Alfred. You should have seen him, Nitterdale. It would have been as good as a play to you. I suppose you didn't ask him to the dinner, sir. Damn the dinner. I'm sick of it, said Melmont Frowning. We must go back again, Alfred. Those fellows will never get along if they are not looked after. Come, Myles. Ladies, I shall expect you to be ready at exactly a quarter before eight. His Imperial Majesty is to arrive at eight precisely, and I must be there to receive him. You, Madame, will have to receive your guests in the drawing room. The ladies went upstairs and Lord Nitterdale followed them. Miss Longstaff took her departure, alleging that she couldn't keep her dear friend Lady Monogram waiting for her. Then there fell upon Madame Melmont, the duty of leaving the young people together, a duty which she found a great difficulty in performing. After all that had happened, she did not know how to get up and go out of the room. As regarded herself, the troubles of these troubleous times were becoming almost too much for her. She had no pleasure from her grandeur and probably no belief in her husband's achievements. It was her present duty to assist in getting Marie married to this young man, and that duty she could only do by going away. But she did not know how to get out of her chair. She expressed influent French, her abhorrence of the Emperor, and her wish that she might be allowed to remain in bed during the whole evening. She liked Nitterdale better than anyone else who came there and wondered at Marie's preference for Sir Felix. Lord Nitterdale assured her that nothing was so easy as kings and emperors, because no one was expected to say anything. She sighed and shook her head and wished again that she might be allowed to go to bed. Marie, who was by degrees plucking up her courage, declared that though kings and emperors were horrors as a rule, she thought an emperor of China would be good fun. Then Madame Melmont also plucked up her courage, rose from her chair and made straight for the door. Mama, where are you going? said Marie, also rising. Madame Melmont, putting her handkerchief up to her face, declared that she was being absolutely destroyed by a toothache. I must see if I can't do something for her, said Marie, hurrying to the door. But Lord Nitterdale was too quick for her and stood with his back to it. That's a shame, said Marie. Your mother has gone on purpose that I may speak to you, said his lordship. Why should you grudge me the opportunity? Marie returned to her chair and again seated herself. She also had thought much of her own position since her return from Liverpool. Why had Sir Felix not been there? Why had he not come since her return and at any rate endeavored to see her? Why had he made no attempt to write to her? Had it been her part to do so, she would have found a hundred ways of getting at him. She absolutely had walked inside the garden of the square on Sunday morning and had contrived to leave a gate open on each side, but he had made no sign. Her father had told her that he had not gone to Liverpool and had assured her that he had never intended to go. Melmont had been very savage with her about the money and had loudly accused Sir Felix of stealing it. The repayment he never mentioned, a piece of honesty indeed which had showed no virtue on the part of Sir Felix. But even if he had spent the money, why was he not man enough to come and say so? Marie could have forgiven that fault. Could have forgiven even the gambling and the drunkenness which had caused the failure of the enterprise on his side if he had had the courage to come and confess to her. What she could not forgive was continued indifference or the cowardice which forbade him to show himself. She had more than once almost doubted his love, though as a lover he had been better than Nitterdale. But now, as far as she could see, he was ready to consent that the things should be considered as over between them. No doubt she could write to him. She had more than once almost determined to do so. But then she had reflected that if he really loved her he would come to her. She was quite ready to run away with a lover if her lover loved her. But she would not fling herself at a man's head. Therefore she had done nothing beyond leaving the garden gates open on the Sunday morning. But what was she to do with herself? She also felt, she knew not why, that the present turmoil of her father's life might be brought to an end by some dreadful convulsion. No girl could be more anxious to be married and taken away from her home. If Sir Felix did not appear again, what should she do? She had seen enough of life to be aware that suitors would come, would come as long as that convulsion was staved off. She did not suppose that her journey to Liverpool would frighten all the men away, but she had thought that it would put an end to Lord Nitterdale's courtship. And when her father had commanded her, shaking her by the shoulders, to accept Lord Nitterdale when he should come on Sunday, she had replied by expressing her assurance that Lord Nitterdale would never be seen at that house any more. On the Sunday he had not come. But here he was now, standing with his back to the drawing-room door and cutting off her retreat with the evident intention of renewing his suit. She was determined at any rate that she would speak up. I don't know what you should have to say to me, Lord Nitterdale. Why shouldn't I have something to say to you? Because, oh, you know why. Besides, I've told you ever so often, my Lord, I thought a gentleman would never go on with a lady when the lady has told him that she liked somebody else better. Perhaps I don't believe you when you tell me. Well, that is impudent. You may believe it, then. I think I've given you reason to believe it at any rate. You can't be very fond of him now, I should think. That's all you know about it, my Lord. Why shouldn't I be fond of him? Accidents will happen, you know. I don't want to make any allusion to anything that's unpleasant, Miss Melmott. You may say just what you please. All the world knows about it. Of course, I went to Liverpool, and of course, Papa had me brought back again. Why did not Sir Felix go? I don't think, my Lord, that that can be any business of yours. But I think that it is, and I'll tell you why. You might as well let me say what I've got to say out at once. You may say what you like, but it can't make any difference. You knew me before you knew him, you know. What does that matter? If it comes to that, I knew ever so many people before I knew you. And you were engaged to me. You broke it off. Listen to me for a moment or two. I know I did. Or rather, your father and my father broke it off for us. If we had cared for each other, they couldn't have broken it off. Nobody in the world could break me off as long as I felt that he really loved me. Not if they were to cut me in pieces. But you didn't care, not a bit. You did it just because your father told you. And so did I. But I know better than that now. You never cared for me a bit more than for the old woman at the crossing. You thought I didn't understand, but I did. And now you've come again because your father has told you again. And you'd better go away. There's a great deal of truth in what you say. It's all true, my lord, every word of it. I wish you wouldn't call me my lord. I suppose you are a lord and therefore I shall call you so. I never called you anything else when they pretended that we were to be married, and you never asked me. I never even knew what your name was till I looked it out in the book after I had consented. There is truth in what you say, but it isn't true now. How was I to love you when I had seen so little of you? I do love you now. Then you needn't, for it isn't any good. I do love you now, and I think you'd find that I should be truer to you than that fellow who wouldn't take the trouble to go down to Liverpool with you. You don't know why he didn't go. Well, perhaps I do, but I did not come here to say anything about that. Why didn't he go, Lord Nitterdale? She asked the question with an altered tone and an altered face. If you really know, you might as well tell me. No, Marie, that's just what I ought not to do, but he ought to tell you. Do you really in your heart believe that he means to come back to you? I don't know, she said, sobbing. I do love him. I do indeed. I know that you are good-natured. You are more good-natured than he is. But he did like me. You never did. No, not a bit. It isn't true. I ain't a fool. I know. No, go away. I won't let you now. I don't care what he is. I'll be true to him. Go away, Lord Nitterdale. You want to go on like that because papa and mama let you come here. I didn't let you come. I don't want you to come. No, I won't say any kind word to you. I love Sir Felix Carberry better than any person in all the world. There. I don't know whether you call that kind, but it's true. Say goodbye to me, Marie. Oh, I don't mind saying goodbye. Goodbye, my Lord, and don't come any more. Yes, I shall. Goodbye, Marie. You'll find the difference between me and him yet. So he took his leave, and as he sauntered away he thought that upon the hall he had prospered, considering the extreme difficulties under which he had labored in carrying on his suit. She's quite a different sort of girl from what I took her to be, he said to himself. Upon my word she's awfully jolly. Marie, when the interview was over, walked about the room almost in dismay. It was born in upon her by degrees that Sir Felix Carberry was not at all points quite as nice as she had thought him. Of his beauty there was no doubt, but then she could trust him for no other good quality. Why did he not come to her? Why did he not show some pluck? Why did he not tell her the truth? She had quite believed Lord Nitterdale when he said that he knew the cause that had kept Sir Felix from going to Liverpool, and she had believed him too when he said that it was not his business to tell her. But the reason, let it be what it might, must, if known, be prejudicial to her love. Lord Nitterdale was, she thought, not at all beautiful. He had a commonplace rough face with a turn-up nose, high cheekbones, no a special complexion, sandy-colored whiskers, and bright laughing eyes. Not at all in Adonis, such as her imagination had painted. But if he had only made love at first as he had attempted to do it now, she thought that she would have submitted herself to be cutting pieces for him. Chapter 58. Mr. Squircombe is employed. While these things were being done in Bruton Street in Grosvenor Square, horrid rumors were prevailing in the city and spreading from the city westwards to the House of Commons, which was sitting this Monday afternoon with a prospect of an adjournment at seven o'clock in consequence of the banquet to be given to the Emperor. It is difficult to explain the exact nature of this rumor, as it was not thoroughly understood by those who propagated it. But it is certainly the case that the forgery was whispered by more than one pair of lips. Many of Melmont's staunchest supporters thought that he was very wrong not to show himself that day in the city. What good could he do pottering about among the chairs and benches in the banqueting room? There were people to manage that kind of thing. In such an affair, it was his business to do simply as he was told and to pay the bill. It was not as though he were giving a little dinner to a friend and had to see himself that the wine was brought up in good order. His work was in this city, and at such a time as this, and in such a crisis as this, he should have been in the city. Men will whisper forgery behind a man's back who would not dare even to think it before his face. Of this particular rumor, our young friend Dolly Longstaff was the parent. With unhesitating resolution, nothing odd by his father, Dolly had gone to his attorney, Mr. Squircombe, immediately after that Friday on which Mr. Longstaff first took his seat at the railway board. Dolly was possessed of fine qualities, but it must be owned that veneration was not one of them. I don't know why Mr. Melmont is to be different from anybody else, he had said to his father. When I buy a thing and don't pay for it, it is because I haven't got the tin, and I suppose it's about the same with him. It's all right, no doubt, but I don't see why he should have got hold of the place till the money was paid down. Of course it's all right, said the father. You think you understand everything when you really understand nothing at all. Of course I'm slow, said Dolly. I don't comprehend these things, but then Squircombe does. When a fellow is stupid himself, he ought to have a sharp fellow to look after his business. You'll ruin me and yourself too if you go to such a man as that. Why can't you trust Mr. Bidowile? Slow and Bidowile have been the family lawyers for a century. Dolly made some remark as to the old family advisors, which was by no means pleasing to the father's ears, and went his way. The father knew his boy, and knew that his boy would go to Squircombe. All he could himself do was to press Mr. Malmot for the money with what importunity he could assume. He wrote a timid letter to Mr. Malmot, which had no result. And then, on the next Friday, again went into the city, and there encountered perturbation of spirit and sheer loss of time, as the reader has already learned. Squircombe was a thorn in the side of all the Bidowiles. Mr. Slow had been gathered to his father's, but of the Bidowiles there were three in the business, a father and two sons, to whom Squircombe was a pest and a mosquito, a running sore and a skeleton in the cupboard. It was not only in reference to Mr. Longstaff's affairs that they knew Squircombe. The Bidowiles peaked themselves on the decorous and orderly transaction of their business. It had grown to be a rule in the house that anything done quickly must be done badly. They never were in a hurry for money, and they expected their clients never to be in a hurry for work. Squircombe was the very opposite to this. He had established himself without predecessors and without a partner, and we may add without capital, at a little office in Fetter Lane, and had there made a character for getting things done after a marvelous and new fashion. And it was said of him that he was fairly honest, though it must be owned that among the Bidowiles of the profession this was not the character which he bore. He did sharp things, no doubt, and had no hesitation in supporting the interests of sons against those of their fathers. In more than one case he had computed for a young heir the exact value of his share in a property as compared to that of his father, and had come into hostile contact with many family Bidowiles. He had been closely watched. There were some who, no doubt, would have liked to crush a man who was at once so clever and so pestilential, but he had not as yet been crushed and had become quite in vogue with elder sons. Some three years since his name had been mentioned to Dolly by a friend who had for years been at war with his father, and Squircombe had been quite a comfort to Dolly. He was a mean-looking little man, not yet above forty, who always wore a stiff light-colored cotton cravat, an old dress coat, a colored dingy waistcoat, and light trousers of some hue different from his waistcoat. He generally had on dirty shoes and gaiters. He was light-haired with light whiskers, with putty-formed features, a squat nose, a large mouth, and very bright blue eyes. He looked as unlike the normal Bidowile of the profession as a man could be, and it must be owned, though an attorney would hardly have been taken for a gentleman from his personal appearance. He was very quick and active in his motions, absolutely doing his law work himself and trusting to his three or four juvenile clerks for little more than scrivener's labor. He seldom or never came to his office on a Saturday, and many among his enemies said that he was a Jew. What evil will not a rival say to stop the flow of grist to the mill of the hated one? But this report Squircombe rather liked and assisted. They who knew the inner life of the little man declared that he kept a horse and hunted down in Essex on Saturday, doing a bit of gardening in the summer months, and they said also that he made up for this by working hard all Sunday. Such was Mr. Squircombe, a sign in his way that the old things are being changed. Squircombe sat at a desk covered with papers and chaotic confusion on a chair which moved on a pivot. His desk was against the wall, and when clients came to him he turned himself sharp round, sticking out his dirty shoes, throwing himself back till his body was an inclined plane with his hands thrust into his pockets. In this attitude he would listen to his clients' story and would himself speak as little as possible. It was by his instructions that Dolly had insisted on getting his share of the purchase money for pickering into his own hands so that the encumbrance on his own property might be paid off. He now listened as Dolly told him of the delay in payment. Melmots at Pickering asked the attorney. Then Dolly informed him how the tradesmen of the great finance year had already half knocked down the house. Squircombe still listened and promised to look to it. He did ask what authority Dolly had given for the surrender of the title deeds. Dolly declared that he had given authority for the sale but none for the surrender. His father, sometimes since, had put before him for his signature a letter prepared in Mr. Bydowile's office which Dolly said that he had refused even to read and certainly had not signed. Squircombe again said that he'd looked to it and bowed Dolly out of his room. They've got him to sign something when he was tight, said Squircombe to himself, knowing something of the habits of his client. I wonder whether his father did it or old Bydowile or Melmott himself. Mr. Squircombe was inclined to think that Bydowile would not have done it, that Melmott could have had no opportunity and that the father must have been the practitioner. It's not the trick of a pompous old fool either, said Mr. Squircombe in his soliloquy. He went to work, however, making himself detestably odious among the very respectable clerks in Mr. Bydowile's office. Men who considered themselves to be altogether superior to Squircombe himself in professional standing. And now there came this rumor which was so far particular in its details that it inferred the forgery of which it accused Mr. Melmott to his motive of acquiring the Pickering Property. The nature of the forgery was of course described in various ways, as was also the signature said to have been forged. But there were many who believed or almost believed that something wrong had been done, that some great fraud had been committed, and in connection with this it was ascertained, by some as a matter of certainty, that the Pickering Estate had been already mortgaged by Melmott to its full value at an assurance office. In such a transaction there would be nothing dishonest, but as this place had been bought for the great man's own family use and not as a speculation, even this report of the mortgage tended to injure his credit. And then, as the day went on, other tidings were told as to other properties. Houses in the east end of London were said to have been bought and sold without payment of the purchase money as to the buying, and with receipt of the purchase money as to the selling. It was certainly true that Squircombe himself had seen the letter in Mr. Baidowile's office which conveyed to the father's lawyer the son's sanction for the surrender of the title deeds, and that that letter, prepared in Mr. Baidowile's office, purported to have Dolly's signature. Squircombe said but little, remembering that his client was not always clear in the morning as to anything he had done on the preceding evening. But the signature, though it was scrawled as Dolly always scrawled it, was not like the scrawl of a drunken man. The letter was said to have been sent to Mr. Baidowile's office with other letters and papers direct from old Mr. Longstaff. Such was the statement made at first to Mr. Squircombe by the Baidowile party, who at that moment had no doubt of the genuineness of the letter or of the accuracy of their statement. Then Squircombe saw his client again and returned to the charge at Baidowile's office with the positive assurance that the signature was a forgery. Dolly, when questioned by Squircombe, quite admitted his propensity to be tight. He had no reticence, no feeling of disgrace on such matters. But he had signed no letter when he was tight. Never did such a thing in my life and nothing could make me, said Dolly. I'm never tight except at the club and the letter couldn't have been there. I'll be drawn and quartered if I ever signed it. That's flat. Dolly was intent on going to his father at once, on going to Melmont at once, on going to Baidowile's at once, and making there no end of a row. But Squircombe stopped him. We'll just ferret this thing out quietly, said Squircombe, who perhaps thought that there would be high honor in discovering the pecadillos of so great a man as Mr. Melmont. Mr. Longstaff, the father, had heard nothing of the matter till the Saturday after his last interview with Melmont in the city. He had then called at Baidowile's office in Lincoln's in-fields and had been shown the letter. He declared at once that he had never sent the letter to Mr. Baidowile. He had begged his son to sign the letter and his son had refused. He did not at that moment distinctly remember what he had done with the letter unsigned. He believed that he had left it with the other papers, but it was possible that his son might have taken it away. He acknowledged that at the time he had been both angry and unhappy. He didn't think that he could have sent the letter back unsigned, but he was not sure. He had more than once been in his own study in Bruton Street since Mr. Melmont had occupied the house by that gentleman's leave, having left various papers there under his own lock and key. Indeed, it had been matter of agreement that he should have access to his own study when he let the house. He thought it probable that he would have kept back the unsigned letter and have kept it under lock and key when he sent away the other papers. Then reference was made to Mr. Longstaff's own letter to the lawyer, and it was found that he had not even alluded to that which his son had been asked to sign, but that he had said in his own usually pompous style that Mr. Longstaff Jr. was still prone to create unsubstantial difficulties. Mr. Bidowile was obliged to confess that there had been a want of caution among his own people. This allusion to the creation of difficulties by Dolly, accompanied as it was supposed to have been by Dolly's letter doing away with all difficulties, should have attracted notice. Dolly's letter must have come in a separate envelope, but such envelope could not be found, and the circumstance was not remembered by the clerk. The clerk who had prepared the letter for Dolly's signature represented himself as having been quite satisfied when the letter came again beneath his notice with Dolly's well-known signature. Such were the facts as far as they were known at Messers' slow and Bidowile's office, from whom no slightest rumor emanated, and as they had been in part collected by Squircombe, who was probably less prudent. The Bidowile's were still perfectly sure that Dolly had signed the letter, believing the young man to be quite incapable of knowing on any day what he had done on the day before. Squircombe was quite sure that his client had not signed it, and it must be owned on Dolly's behalf that his manner on this occasion was qualified to convince. Yes, he said to Squircombe, it's easy saying that I'm lackadaisical, but I know when I'm lackadaisical and when I'm not. Awake or asleep, drunk or sober, I never signed that letter, and Mr. Squircombe believed him. It would be hard to say how the rumor first got into the city on this Monday morning, though the elder Longstaff had first heard of the matter only on the previous Saturday, Mr. Squircombe had been at work for above a week. Mr. Squircombe's little matter alone might hardly have attracted the attention which certainly was given on this day to Mr. Melmont's private affairs, but other facts coming to light assisted Squircombe's views. A great many shares of the south-central Pacific and Mexican railway had been thrown upon the market, all of which had passed through the hands of Mr. Cohenloop, and Mr. Cohenloop in the city had been all to Mr. Melmont, as Lord Alfred had been at the west end. Then there was the mortgage of this pickering property for which the money certainly had not been paid, and there was the traffic with half a street of houses near the commercial road by which a large sum of money had come into Mr. Melmont's hands. It might no doubt all be right. There were many who thought that it would all be right. There were not a few who expressed the most thorough contempt for these rumors, but it was felt to be a pity that Mr. Melmont was not in the city. This was the day of the dinner. The Lord Mayor had even made up his mind that he would not go to the dinner. What one of his brother Alderman said to him about leaving others in the Lurch might be quite true. But, as his Lordship remarked, Melmont was a commercial man, and as these were commercial transactions it behoved the Lord Mayor of London to be more careful than other men. He had always had his doubts and he would not go. Others of the chosen few of the city who had been honored with commands to meet the Emperor resolved upon absenting themselves unless the Lord Mayor went. The affair was very much discussed, and there were no less than six declared city defaulters. At the last moment a seventh was taken ill and sent a note to Miles Grendahl excusing himself, which was thrust into the Secretary's hands just as the Emperor arrived. But a reverse worse than this took place. A defocation more injurious to the Melmont interests generally, even than that which was caused either by the prudence or by the cowardice of the city magnates. The House of Commons, at its meeting, had heard the tidings in an exaggerated form. It was whispered about that Melmont had been detected in forging the deed of conveyance of a large property and that he had already been visited by policemen. By some it was believed that the great financier would lie in the hands of the Philistines while the Emperor of China was being fed at his house. In the third edition of the evening pulpit came out a mysterious paragraph which nobody could understand but they who had known all about it before. A rumor is prevalent that frauds to an enormous extent have been committed by a gentleman whose name we are particularly unwilling to mention. If it be so it is indeed remarkable that they should have come to light at the present moment. We cannot trust ourselves to say more than this. No one wishes to dine with a swindler. No one likes even to have dined with a swindler especially to have dined with him at a time when his swindling was known or suspected. The Emperor of China no doubt was going to dine with this man. The motions of emperors are managed with such ponderous care that it was held to be impossible now to save the country from what would doubtless be felt to be a disgrace if it should hereafter turn out that a forger had been solicited to entertain the imperial guest of the country. Nor was the thing as yet so far certain as to justify such a charge were it possible. But many men were unhappy in their minds. How would the story be told hereafter if Melmont should be allowed to play out his game of host to the Emperor and be arrested for forgery as soon as the Eastern monarch should have left his house? How would the brother of the son like the remembrance of the banquet which he had been instructed to honor with his presence? How would it tell in all the foreign newspapers in New York, in Paris, and Vienna that this man who had been cast forth from the United States, from France, and from Austria had been selected as the great and honorable type of British commerce? There were those in the house who thought that the absolute consummation of the disgrace might yet be avoided and who were of opinion that the dinner should be postponed. The leader of the opposition had a few words on the subject with the Prime Minister. It is the nearest rumor said the Prime Minister. I have inquired and there is nothing to justify me in thinking that the charges can be substantiated. They say that the story is believed in the city. I should not feel myself justified in acting upon such a report. The Prince might probably find it impossible not to go. Where should we be if Mr. Melmont tomorrow were able to prove the whole to be a calumny and to show that the thing had been got up with a view of influencing the election at Westminster? The dinner must certainly go on. And you will go yourself? Most assuredly, said the Prime Minister, and I hope that you will keep me in countenance. His political antagonist declared with a smile that at such a crisis he would not desert his honorable friend, but he could not answer for his followers. There was, he admitted, a strong feeling among the leaders of the Conservative Party of distrust in Melmont. He considered it probable that among his friends who had been invited there would be some who would be unwilling to meet even the Emperor of China on the existing terms. They should remember, said the Prime Minister, that they are also to meet their own Prince and that empty seats on such an occasion will be a dishonor to him. Just at present I can only answer for myself, said the Leader of the Opposition. At that moment even the Prime Minister was much disturbed in his mind, but in such emergencies a Prime Minister can only choose the least of two evils. To have taken the Emperor to dine with a swindler would be very bad, but to desert him and to stop the coming of the Emperor and all the Princes on a false rumour would be worse. Chapter 59 Chapter 59. The Dinner It does sometimes occur in life that an unambitious man who is in no degree given to enterprises who would feign be safe is driven by the cruelty of circumstances into a position in which he must choose a side and in which, though he has no certain guide as to which side he should choose, he is aware that he will be disgraced if he should take the wrong side. This was felt as a hardship by many who were quite suddenly forced to make up their mind whether they would go to Melmont's dinner or join themselves to the faction of those who had determined to stay away, although they had accepted invitations. Some there were not without a suspicion that the story against Melmont had been got up simply as an electioneering trick, so that Mr. Alph might carry the burrow on the next day. As a dodge for an election this might be very well, but any who might be deterred by such a maneuver from meeting the Emperor and supporting the Prince would surely be marked men. And none of the wives, when they were consulted, seemed to care a straw whether Melmont was a swindler or not. Would the Emperor and the Princes and Princesses be there? This was the only question which concerned them. They did not care whether Melmont was arrested at the dinner or after the dinner, so long as they, with others, could show their diamonds in the presence of eastern and western royalty. But yet, what a fiasco would it be if at this very instant of time the host should be apprehended for common forgery. The great thing was to ascertain whether others were going. If a hundred or more out of the two hundred were to be absent, how dreadful would be the position of those who were present? And how would the thing go if at the last moment the Emperor should be kept away? The Prime Minister had decided that the Emperor and the Prince should remain altogether in ignorance of the charges which were preferred against the man, but of that these doubters were unaware. There was but little time for a man to go about town and pick up the truth from those who were really informed, and questions were asked in an uncomfortable and restless manner. Is your grace going? said Lionel Lupton to the Duchess of Stevenage, having left the house and gone into the park between six and seven, to pick up some hints among those who were known to have been invited. The Duchess was Lord Alfred's sister, and of course she was going. I usually keep engagements when I make them, Mr. Lupton, said the Duchess. She had been assured by Lord Alfred, not a quarter of an hour before, that everything was as straight as a die. Lord Alfred had not then even heard of the rumor, but ultimately both Lionel Lupton and Bochamp Bochlerc attended the dinner. They had received special tickets as supporters of Mr. Melmod at the election out of the scanty number allotted to that gentleman himself, and they thought themselves bound in honor to be there. But they, with their leader and one other influential member of the party, were all who at last came as the political friends of the candidate for Westminster. The existing ministers were bound to attend to the Emperor and the Prince, but members of the opposition by their presence would support the man and the politician, and both as a man and as a politician they were ashamed of him. When Melmod arrived at his own door with his wife and daughter, he had heard nothing of the matter. That a man so vexed with affairs of money, so laden with cares, encompassed by such dangers, should be free from suspicion and fear it is impossible to imagine. That such burdens should be borne at all as a wonder to those whose shoulders have never been broadened for such work. As is the strength of the blacksmith's arm to men who have never wheeled at a hammer. Surely his whole life must have been a life of terrors, but of any special peril to which he was at that moment subject, or of any embarrassment which might affect the work of the evening he knew nothing. He placed his wife in the drawing room and himself in the hall and arranged his immediate satellites around him, among whom were included the two Grendals, young Nitterdale and Mr. Cohenloop, with a feeling of gratified glory. Nitterdale down at the house had heard the rumor but had determined that he would not as yet fly from his colors. Cohenloop had also come up from the house where no one had spoken to him. Though grievously frightened during the last fortnight he had not dared to be on the wing as yet, and indeed to what climb could such a bird as he fly in safety. He had not only heard, but also knew very much and was not prepared to enjoy the feast. Since they had been in the hall, Miles had spoken dreadful words to his father. You've heard about it, haven't you? whispered Miles. Lord Alfred, remembering his sister's question, became almost pale, but declared that he had heard nothing. They're saying all manner of things in the city, forgery and heaven knows what. The Lord Mayor is not coming. Lord Alfred made no reply. It was the philosophy of his life that misfortunes when they came should be allowed to settle themselves, but he was unhappy. The grand arrivals were fairly punctual, and the very grand people all came. The unfortunate emperor, we must consider a man to be unfortunate, who is compelled to go through such work as this, with impassable and awful dignity, was marshalled into the room on the ground floor, whence he and other royalties were to be marshalled back into the banqueting hall. Melmont, bowing to the ground, walked backwards before him, and was probably taken by the emperor for some court master of the ceremonies, especially selected to walk backwards on this occasion. The princes had all shaken hands with their host, and the princesses had bowed graciously. Nothing of the rumor had as yet been whispered in royal palaces. Besides royalty, the company allowed to enter the room downstairs was very select. The prime minister, one archbishop, two duchesses, and the next governor of India, with whose features the emperor was supposed to be peculiarly familiar, were alone there. The remainder of the company, under the superintendents of Lord Alfred, were received in the drawing room above. Everything was going on well, and they who had come and had thought of not coming were proud of their wisdom. But when the company was seated at dinner, the deficiencies were visible enough and were unfortunate. Who does not know the effect made by the absence of one or two from a table intended for ten or twelve? How grievous are the empty places! How destructive of the outward harmony and grace which the hostess has endeavored to preserve are these interstices. How the lady in her wrath declares to herself that those guilty ones shall never have another opportunity of filling a seat at her table. Some twenty, most of whom had been asked to bring their wives, had slunk from their engagements, and the empty spaces were sufficient to declare a united purpose. A week since it had been understood that admission for the evening could not be had for lover money, and that a seat at the dinner table was as a seat at some banquet of the Gods. Now it looked as though the room were but half filled. There were six absences from the city. Another six of Mr. Melmont's own political party were away. The archbishops and the bishop were there, because bishops never hear worldly tidings till after other people. But that very master of the Buckhounds, for whom so much pressure had been made, did not come. Two or three peers were absent, and so also was that editor who had been chosen to fill Mr. Alff's place. One poet, two painters, and a philosopher had received timely notice at their clubs and had gone home. The three independent members of the House of Commons, for once agreed in their policy, and would not lend the encouragement of their presence to a man suspected of forgery. Nearly forty places were vacant when the business of the dinner commenced. Melmont had insisted that Lord Alfred should sit next to himself at the big table, and having had the objectionable bar removed and his own chair shoved one step nearer to the center, had carried his point. With the anxiety natural to such an occasion, he glanced repeatedly round the hall, and of course became aware that many were absent. How is it that there are so many places empty? He said to his faithful Ashatis. Don't know, said Ashatis, shaking his head, steadfastly refusing to look round upon the hall. Melmont waited a while, then looked round again, and asked a question in another shape. Hasn't there been some mistake about the numbers? There's room for ever so many more. Don't know, said Lord Alfred, who was unhappy in his mind and repenting himself that he had ever seen, Mr. Melmont. What the deuce do you mean, whispered Melmont? You've been at it from the beginning and ought to know. When I wanted to ask Gregor, you swore that you couldn't squeeze a place. Can't say anything about it, said Lord Alfred, with his eyes fixed upon his plate. I'll be damned if I don't find out, said Melmont. There's either some horrible blunder, or else there's been imposition. I don't see quite clearly. Where's Sir Gregory Gribbe? Hasn't come, I suppose. And where's the Lord Mayor? Melmont, in spite of royalty, was now sitting with his face turned round upon the hall. I know all their places, and I know where they were put. Have you seen the Lord Mayor? No, I haven't seen him at all. But he was to come. What's the meaning of it, Alfred? Don't know anything about it. He shook his head, but would not, for even a moment, look round upon the room. And where's Mr. Killigrew and Sir David Boss? Mr. Killigrew and Sir David were gentlemen of high standing, and destined for important offices in the conservative party. There are ever so many people not here. Why, there's not above half of them down the room. What's up, Alfred? I must know. I tell you, I know nothing. I could not make them come. Lord Alfred's answers were made not only with a surly voice, but also with a surly heart. He was keenly alive to the failure, and alive also to the feeling that the failure would partly be attached to himself. At the present moment, he was anxious to avoid observation, and it seemed to him that Melmont, by the frequency and impetuosity of his questions, was drawing special attention to him. If you go on making a row, he said, I shall go away. Melmont looked at him with all his eyes. Just sit quiet and let the thing go on. You'll know all about it soon enough. This was hardly the way to give Mr. Melmont peace of mind. For a few minutes he did sit quiet. Then he got up and moved down the hall behind the guests. In the meantime, Imperial Majesty and royalties of various denominations ate their dinner without probably observing those Banquo's seats. As the Emperor talked Manchu only, and as there was no one present who could even interpret Manchu into English, the Imperial Interpreter condescending only to interpret Manchu into ordinary Chinese, which had to be reinterpreted, it was not within his Imperial Majesty's power to have much conversation with his neighbors. And as his neighbors on each side of him were all cousins and husbands and brothers and wives who saw each other constantly under, let us presume, more comfortable circumstances, they had not very much to say to each other. Like most of us, they had their duties to do, and like most of us probably found their duties irksome. The brothers and sisters and cousins were used to it, but that awful Emperor, solid, solemn and silent, must, if the spirit of an Eastern Emperor, be at all like that of a Western man, have had a weary time of it. He sat there for more than two hours, awful, solid, solemn and silent, not eating very much, for this was not his manner of eating, nor drinking very much, for this was not his manner of drinking. But wondering, no doubt, within his own awful bosom, at the changes which were coming, when an Emperor of China was forced, by outward circumstances, to sit and hear this buzz of voices and this clatter of knives and forks. And this, he must have said to himself, is what they call royalty in the West. If a Prince of our own was forced, for the good of the country, to go among some far distant outlandish people, and there to be poked in the ribs and slapped on the back all round, the change to him could hardly be so great. Where's Sir Gregory? said Melmont in a horse whisper, bending over the chair of a city friend. It was old Todd, the senior partner of Todd Breggart and Goldshiner. Mr. Todd was a very wealthy man and had a considerable following in the city. Ain't he here? said Todd, knowing very well who had come from the city and who had declined. No, and the Lord Mayor's not come, nor postal thwait nor bunter. What's the meaning of it? Todd looked first at one neighbor and then at another before he answered. I'm here, that's all I can say, Mr. Melmont, and have had a very good dinner. They who haven't come have lost a very good dinner. There was a weight upon Melmont's mind of which he could not rid himself. He knew from the old man's manner, and he knew also from Lord Alfred's manner, that there was something which each of them could tell him if he would. But he was unable to make the men open their mouths, and yet it might be so important to him that he should know. It's very odd, he said, that gentlemen should promise to come and then stay away. There were hundreds anxious to be present, whom I should have been glad to welcome if I had known that there would be room. I think it is very odd. It is odd, said Mr. Todd, turning his attention to the plate before him. That had lately seen much of Bochamp Bochlerch in reference to the coming election. Passing back up the table he found the gentleman with a vacant seat on one side of him. There were many vacant seats in this part of the room, as the places for the conservative gentleman had been set apart together. There Mr. Melmont seated himself for a minute, thinking that he might get the truth from his new ally. Prudence should have kept him silent. Let the cause of these desertions have been what it might, it ought to have been clear to him that he could apply no remedy to it now. But he was bewildered and dismayed, and his mind within him was changing at every moment. He was now striving to trust to his arrogance and declaring that nothing should cow him, and then again he was so cowed that he was ready to creep to anyone for assistance. Personally Mr. Bochlerch had disliked the man greatly. Among the vulgar loud upstarts whom he had known, Melmont was the vulgarest, the loudest, and the most arrogant. But he had taken the business of Melmont's election in hand, and considered himself bound to stand by Melmont till that was over. And he was now the guest of the man in his own house, and was therefore constrained to courtesy. His wife was sitting by him, and he at once introduced her to Mr. Melmont. You have a wonderful assemblage here, Mr. Melmont, said the lady, looking up at the royal table. Yes, ma'am, yes. His Majesty the Emperor has been pleased to intimate that he has been much gratified. Had the Emperor in truth said so, no one who looked at him could have believed his imperial word. Can you tell me, Mr. Bochamp, why those other gentlemen are not here? It looks very odd, does it not? You mean Killigrew? Yes. Mr. Killigrew and Sir David Boss and the whole lot. I made a particular point of their coming. I said I wouldn't have the dinner at all unless they were to be asked. They were going to make it a government thing, but I said no. I insisted on the leaders of our own party, and now they're not here. I know the cards were sent, and by George I have their answers saying they'd come. I suppose some of them are engaged, said Mr. Bochamp. Engaged? What business has a man to accept one engagement and then take another? And if so, why shouldn't he write and make his excuses? No, Mr. Bochamp, that won't go down. I'm here, at any rate, said Bochamp, making the very answer that had occurred to Mr. Todd. Oh, yes, you're here, you're all right, but what is it, Mr. Bochamp? There's something up and you must have heard. And so it was clear to Mr. Bochamp that the man knew nothing about it himself. If there was anything wrong, Melmont was not aware that the wrong had been discovered. Is it anything about the election tomorrow? One never can tell what is actuating people, said Mr. Bochamp. If you know anything about the matter, I think you ought to tell me. I know nothing except that the ballot will be taken tomorrow. You and I have got nothing more to do in the matter except to wait the result. Well, I suppose it's all right, said Melmont, rising and going back to his seat. But he knew that things were not all right. Had his political friends only been absent, he might have attributed their absence to some political cause which would not have touched him deeply. But the treachery of the Lord Mayor and of Sir Gregory Greib was a blow. For another hour after he had returned to his place, the Emperor set solemn in his chair, and then at some signal given by someone, he was withdrawn. The ladies had already left the room about half an hour. According to the program arranged for the evening, the royal guests were to return to the smaller room for a cup of coffee, and were then to be paraded upstairs before the multitude, who would by that time have arrived, and to remain there long enough to justify the invited ones in saying that they had spent the evening with the Emperor and the princes and the princesses. The plan was carried out perfectly. At half past ten, the Emperor was made to walk upstairs, and for half an hour set awful and composed in an armchair that had been prepared for him. How one would wish to see the inside of the mind of the Emperor as it worked on that occasion. Melmont, when his guests ascended the stairs, went back into the banqueting room and threw to the hall, and wandered about till he found Miles Grendel. Miles, he said, told me what the row is. How, row, asked Miles. There's something wrong, and you know all about it. Why didn't the people come? Miles, looking guilty, did not even attempt to deny his knowledge. Come, what is it? We might as well know all about it at once. Miles looked down on the ground and grunted something. Is it about the election? No, it's not that, said Miles. Then what is it? They got hold of something today in the city about Pickering. They did, did they, and what were they saying about Pickering? Come, you might as well out with it. You don't suppose that I care what lies they tell. They say there's been something forged. Title deeds, I think they say. Title deeds? That I have forged title deeds? Well, that's beginning well. And his lordship has stayed away from my house after accepting my invitation, because he has heard that story. All right, Miles, that will do. And the great financier went upstairs into his own drawing room. End of chapter 59. Chapter 60 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 60, Miss Longstaff's Lover. A few days before that period in our story, which we have now reached, Miss Longstaff was seated in Lady Monogram's back drawing room, discussing the terms on which the two tickets for Madame Melmont's grand reception had been transferred to Lady Monogram. The place on the cards for the names of the friends whom Madame Melmont had the honor of inviting to meet the emperor and the princes, having been left blank. And the terms also on which Miss Longstaff had been asked to spend two or three days with her dear friend, Lady Monogram. Each lady was disposed to get as much and to give as little as possible, in which desire the ladies carried out the ordinary practice of all parties to a bargain. It had, of course, been settled that Lady Monogram was to have the two tickets for herself and her husband, such tickets at that moment standing very high in the market. In payment for these valuable considerations, Lady Monogram was to undertake to shape her own Miss Longstaff at the entertainment, to take Miss Longstaff as a visitor for three days and to have one party at her own house during the time so that it might be seen that Miss Longstaff had other friends in London besides the Melmots on whom to depend for her London gayities. At this moment, Miss Longstaff felt herself justified in treating the matter as though she were hardly receiving a fair equivalent. The Melmont tickets were certainly ruling very high. They had just culminated. They fell a little soon afterwards and at 10 p.m. on the night of the entertainment were hardly worth anything. At the moment which we have now in hand, there was a rush for them. Lady Monogram had already secured the tickets. They were in her desk. But as will sometimes be the case in a bargain, the seller was complaining that as she had parted with her goods too cheap, some make-weight should be added to the stipulated price. As for that, my dear, said Miss Longstaff, who since the rise in Melmont stock generally had endeavored to resume something of her old manners, I don't see what you mean at all. You meet Lady Julia Goldschiner everywhere and her father-in-law is Mr. Breger's junior partner. Lady Julia is Lady Julia, my dear, and young Mr. Goldschiner has, in some sort of way, got himself in. He hunts, and Damasque says that he is one of the best shots at Hurlingham. I never met old Mr. Goldschiner anywhere. I have. Oh, yes, I dare say Mr. Melmont, of course, entertains all the city people. I don't think Sir Damasque would like me to ask Mr. Breger to dine here. Lady Monogram managed everything herself with reference to her own parties, invited all her own guests, and never troubled Sir Damasque, who, again, on his side, had his own set of friends. But she was very clever in the use which she made of her husband. There were some aspirants who really were taught to think that Sir Damasque was very particular as to the guests whom he welcomed to his own house. May I speak to Sir Damasque about it, asked Miss Longstaff, who was very urgent on the occasion? Well, my dear, I really don't think you ought to do that. There are little things which a man and his wife must manage together without interference. Nobody can ever say that I interfered in any family. But really, Julia, when you tell me that Sir Damasque cannot receive Mr. Breger, it does sound odd. As for city people, you know as well as I do that that kind of thing is all over now. City people are just as good as West End people. A great deal better, I dare say. I'm not arguing about that. I don't make the lines, but there they are. And one gets to know in a sort of way what they are. I don't pretend to be a bit better than my neighbors. I like to see people come here whom other people who come here will like to meet. I'm big enough to hold my own, and so is Sir Damasque. But we ain't big enough to introduce newcomers. I don't suppose there's anybody in London understands it better than you do, Georgiana, and therefore it's absurd my pretending to teach you. I go pretty well everywhere, as you are aware, and I shouldn't know Mr. Breger if I were to see him. You'll meet him at the Melmonts. And in spite of all you said once, you're glad enough to go there. Quite true, my dear. I don't think that you are just the person to throw that in my teeth, but never mind that. There's the butcher around the corner in Bond Street, or the man who comes to do my hair. I don't at all think of asking them to my house, but if they were suddenly to turn out wonderful men and go everywhere, no doubt I should be glad to have them here. That's the way we live, and you are as well used to it as I am. Mr. Breger, that present to me is like the butcher around the corner. Lady Monogram had the ticket safe under lock and key, or I think she would hardly have said this. He is not a bit like a butcher, said Miss Longstaff, blazing up in real wrath. I did not say that he was. Yes, you did, and it was the unkindest thing you could possibly say. It was meant to be unkind. It was monstrous. How would you like it if I said that Sir Damask was like a hairdresser? You can say so if you please. Sir Damask drives fore in hand, rides as though he meant to break his neck every winter, is one of the best shots going, and is supposed to understand a yacht as well as any other gentleman out. And I'm rather afraid that before he was married, he used to box with all the prize fighters, and to be a little too free behind the scenes. If that makes a man like a hairdresser, well, there he is. How proud you are of his vices. He's very good-natured, my dear, and as he does not interfere with me, I don't interfere with him. I hope you'll do as well. I dare say Mr. Braggart is good-natured. He's an excellent man of business and is making a very large fortune, and has five or six grown-up children who no doubt will be a comfort. If I don't mind them, why need you? You have none at all, and you find it lonely enough. Not at all lonely. I have everything that I desire. How hard you are trying to be ill-natured, Georgiana. Why did you say that he was a butcher? I said nothing of the kind. I didn't even say that he was like a butcher. What I did say was this, that I don't feel inclined to risk my own reputation on the appearance of new people at my table. Of course, I go in for what you call fashion. Some people can dare to ask anybody they meet in the street. I can't. I have my own line, and I mean to follow it. It's hard work, I can tell you, and it would be harder still if I wasn't particular. If you like Mr. Braggart to come here on Tuesday evening when the rooms will be full, you can ask him, but as for having him to dinner, I won't do it. So the matter was at last settled. Miss Longstaff did ask Mr. Braggart for the Tuesday evening, and the two ladies were again friends. Perhaps Lady Monogram, when she illustrated her position by an allusion to a butcher and a hairdresser, had been unaware that Mr. Braggart had some resemblance to the form which men in that trade are supposed to bear. Let us at least hope that she was so. He was a fat, greasy man, good-looking in a certain degree, about 50, with hair dyed black, and beard and mustache dyed a dark purple color. The charm of his face consisted in a pair of very bright black eyes, which were, however, set too near together in his face for the general delight of Christians. He was stout, fat all over rather than corpulent, and had that look of command in his face, which has become common to master butchers, probably by long intercourse with sheep and oxen. But Mr. Braggart was considered to be a very good man of business, and was now regarded as being, in a commercial point of view, the leading member of the great financial firm of which he was the second partner. Mr. Todd's day was nearly done. He walked about constantly between Lombard Street, the exchange, and the bank, and talked much to merchants. He had an opinion, too, of his own on particular cases, but the business had almost got beyond him, and Mr. Braggart was now supposed to be the moving spirit of the firm. He was a widower, living in a luxurious villa at Fulham, with a family he not indeed grown up, as Lady Monogram had ill-naturedly said, but which would be grown up before long, burying from an eldest son of 18, who had just been placed at a desk in the office, to the youngest girl of 12 who was at school at Brighton. He was a man who always asked for what he wanted, and having made up his mind that he wanted a second wife, had asked Miss Georgiana Longstaff to fill that situation. He had met her at the Melmonts, had entertained her with Madame Melmont and Marie at Bo Desert, as he called his villa, had then proposed in the square, and two days after had received an assenting answer in Bruton Street. Poor Miss Longstaff, although she had acknowledged the fact to Lady Monogram in her desire to pave the way for the reception of herself into society as a married woman, she had not as yet found courage to tell her family. The man was absolutely a Jew, not a Jew that had been, as to whom there might possibly be a doubt, whether he or his father or his grandfather had been the last Jew of the family, but a Jew that was. So was Goldshiner a Jew whom Lady Julia Stewart had married, or at any rate had been one a very short time before he ran away with that lady. She counted up ever so many instances on her fingers of decent people who had married Jews or Jewesses. Lord Frederick Framlingham had married a girl of the Baronhoffers, and Mr. Hart had married a Miss Shutee. She did not know much of Miss Shutee, but was certain that she was a Christian. Lord Frederick's wife and Lady Julia Goldshiner were seen everywhere. Though she hardly knew how to explain the matter, even to herself, she was sure that there was at present a general heaving up of society on this matter, and a change in progress which would soon make it a matter of indifference, whether anybody was Jew or Christian. For herself, she regarded the matter not at all, except as far as it might be regarded by the world in which she wished to live. She was herself above all personal prejudices of that kind. Jew, Turk, or Infidel was nothing to her. She had seen enough of the world to be aware that her happiness did not lie in that direction and could not depend in the least on the religion of her husband. Of course, she would go to church herself. She always went to church. It was the proper thing to do. As to her husband, though she did not suppose that she could ever get him to church, nor perhaps would it be desirable, she thought that she might induce him to go nowhere so that she might be able to pass him off as a Christian. She knew that such was the Christianity of young gold-shiner of which the starts were now boasting. Had she been alone in the world, she thought that she could have looked forward to her destiny with complacency, but she was afraid of her father and mother. Lady Pomona was distressingly old-fashioned and had so often spoken with horror even of the approach of a Jew and had been so loud in denouncing the iniquity of Christians who allowed such people into their houses. Unfortunately, too, Georgiana, in her earlier days, had re-echoed all her mother's sentiments. And then her father, if he had ever earned for himself the right to be called a conservative politician by holding a real opinion of his own, it had been on that matter of admitting the Jews into parliament. When that had been done, he was certain that the glory of England was sunk forever. And since that time, whenever creditors were more than ordinarily important, when slow and by-the-wild could do nothing for him, he would refer to that fatal measure as though it was the cause of every embarrassment which had harassed him. How could she tell parents such as these that she was engaged to marry a man who, at the present moment, went to synagogue on a Saturday and carried out every other filthy abomination common to the despised people? That Mr. Bregert was a fat, greasy man of 50, conspicuous for hair dye was in itself distressing. But this minor distress was swallowed up in the greater. Miss Longstaff was a girl possessing considerable discrimination and was able to weigh her own possessions in just scales. She had begun life with very high aspirations, believing in her own beauty in her mother's fashion and her father's fortune. She had now been 10 years at the work and was aware that she had always flown a little too high for her mark at the time. At 19 and 20 and 21, she had thought that all the world was before her. With her commanding figure, regular long features and bright complexion, she had regarded herself as one of the beauties of the day and had considered herself entitled to demand wealth and a coronet. At 22, 23, and 24, any young peer or peer's eldest son with a house in town and in the country might have sufficed. 25 and 6 had been the years for baronets and squires and even a leading fashionable lawyer or two had been marked by her as sufficient since that time. But now she was aware that hitherto she had always fixed her price a little too high. On three things, she was still determined that she would not be poor, that she would not be banished from London and that she would not be an old maid. Mama, she had often said, there's one thing certain I shall never do to be poor. Lady Pomona had expressed full concurrence with her child. And Mama, to do as Sophia is doing would kill me, fancy having to live at Toodlam, all one's life with George Whitstable. Lady Pomona had agreed to this also, though she thought that Toodlam Hall was a very nice home for her elder daughter. And Mama, I should drive you and Papa mad if I were to stay at home always and what would become of me when Dolly was master of everything? Lady Pomona, looking forward as well as she was able to the time at which she should herself have departed when her dower and dower house would have reverted to Dolly, acknowledged that Georgiana should provide herself with a home of her own before that time. And how is this to be done? Lovers with all the glories and all the graces are supposed to be plentiful as blackberries by girls of 19, but have been proved to be rare hot house fruits by girls of 29. Gregorite was rich, would live in London and would be a husband. People did such odd things now and lived them down that she could see no reason why she should not do this and live this down. Courage was the one thing necessary, that and perseverance. She must teach herself to talk about Gregorite as Lady Monogram did of Sir Damascus. She had plucked up so much courage as had enabled her to declare her fate to her old friend. Remembering as she did so, how in days long past she and her friend Julia Triplex had scattered their scorn upon some poor girl who had married a man with a Jewish name whose grandfather had possibly been a Jew. Dear me, said Lady Monogram, Todd, record and gold-shiner, Mr. Todd is one of us, I suppose. Yes, said George Anna Boldly, and Mr. Gregorite is a Jew. His name is Ezekiel Gregorite and he is a Jew. You can say what you like about it. I don't say anything about it, my dear. And you can think anything you like. Things are changed since you and I were younger. Very much changed, it appears, said Lady Monogram. Sir Damascus' religion had never been doubted, though except on the occasion of his marriage, no acquaintance of his had probably ever seen him in church. But to tell her father and mother required a higher spirit than she had shown, even in her communication to Lady Monogram, and that spirit had not as yet come to her. On the morning before she left the Melmots in Bruton Street, her lover had been with her. The Melmots, of course, knew of the engagement and quite approved of it. Madame Melmots rather aspired to credit for having had so happy an affair arranged under her auspices. It was some set off against Marie's unfortunate escapade. Mr. Bregert, therefore, had been allowed to come and go as he pleased, and on that morning he had pleased to come. They were sitting alone in some back room and Bregert was pressing for an early day. I don't think we need talk of that yet, Mr. Bregert, she said. You might as well get over the difficulty and call me Ezekiel at once, he remarked. Georgiana frowned and made no soft little attempt at the name as ladies in such circumstances are want to do. Mrs. Bregert, he alluded, of course, to the mother of his children, used to call me Ezy. Perhaps I shall do so someday, said Miss Longstaff, looking at her lover and asking herself why she should not have been able to have the house and the money and the name of the wife without the troubles appertaining. She did not think it possible that she should ever call him Ezy. And then shall it be? I should say as early in August as possible. In August, she almost screamed, it was already July. Why not, my dear? We would have our little holiday in Germany at Vienna. I have business there and no many friends. Then he pressed her hard to fix some day in the next month. It would be expedient that they should be married from the Melmots house, and the Melmots would leave town sometime in August. There was truth in this. Unless married from the Melmots house, she must go down to Cavisham for the occasion, which would be intolerable. No, she must separate herself altogether from father and mother and become one with the Melmots and the Bregerts till she could live it down and make a position for herself. If the spending of money could do it, it should be done. I must, at any rate, ask Mama about it, said Georgiana. Mr. Bregert, with the customary good humor of his people, was satisfied with the answer and went away promising that he would meet his love at the great Melmots reception. Then she sat silent, thinking how she should declare the matter to her family. Would it not be better for her to say to them at once that there must be a division among them, an absolute breaking off of all old ties so that it should be tacitly acknowledged that she, Georgiana, had gone out from among the long staffs altogether and had become one with the Melmots, Bregerts and Gold-Chiners? End of Chapter 60. Chapter 61 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 61. Lady Monogram prepares for the party. When the little conversation took place between Lady Monogram and Miss Longstaff, as recorded in the last chapter, Mr. Melmot was in all his glory and tickets for the entertainment were very precious. Gradually their value subsided. Lady Monogram had paid very dear for hers, especially as the reception of Mr. Bregert must be considered. But high prices were then being paid. A lady offered to take Marie Melmot into the country with her for a week, but this was before the allopment. Mr. Cullenloop was asked out to dinner to meet two peers and a countess. Lord Alfred received various presents. A young lady gave a lock of her hair to Lord Nitterdale, although it was known that he was to marry Marie Melmot, and Miles Grendahl got back an IOU of considerable nominal value from Lord Grasslow, who was anxious to accommodate two country cousins who were in London. Gradually the prices fell, not at first from any doubt in Melmot, but through that customary reaction which may be expected on such occasions. But at eight or nine o'clock on the evening of the party, the tickets were worth nothing. The rumor had then spread itself through the whole town from Pimlicota, Marlborough. Men coming home from clubs had told their wives. Ladies who had been in the park had heard it. Even the hairdressers had it, and ladies maids had been instructed by the footmen and grooms who had been holding horses and seated on the coach boxes. It had got into the air and had floated round dining rooms and over toilet tables. I doubt whether Sir Damasque would have said a word about it to his wife as he was dressing for dinner had he calculated what might be the result to himself. But he came home, opened mouthed, and made no calculation. Have you heard what's up, Jew? He said, rushing half dressed into his wife's room. What is up? Haven't you been out? I was shopping and that kind of thing. I don't want to take that girl into the park. I've made a mistake in having her here, but I mean to be seen with her as little as I can. Be good natured, Jew, whatever you are. Oh, bother, I know what I'm about. What is it you mean? They say Melmot's been found out. Found out, exclaimed Lady Monogram, stopping her maid in some arrangement which would not need to be continued in the event of her not going to the reception. What do you mean by found out? I don't know exactly. There are a dozen stories told. It's something about that place he bought of old Longstaff. Are the Longstaffs mixed up in it? I won't have her here a day longer if there is anything against them. Don't be an ass, Jew. There's nothing against him, except that the poor old fellow hasn't gotten a shilling of his money. Then he's ruined and there's an end of them. Perhaps he will get it now. Some say that Melmot has forged a receipt. Others a letter. Some declare that he has manufactured a whole set of title deeds. You remember Dolly? Of course I know Dolly Longstaff, said Lady Monogram, who had thought at one time that an alliance with Dolly might be convenient. They say he has found it all out. There was always something about Dolly more than fellows gave him credit for. At any rate, everybody says that Melmot will be in quad before long. Not tonight, to ask. Nobody seems to know. Lepton was saying that the policemen would wait about in the room like servants till the emperor and the princes had gone away. Is Mr. Lepton going? He was to have been at the dinner, but hadn't made up his mind whether he'd go or not when I saw him. Nobody seems to be quite certain whether the emperor will go. Somebody said that a cabinet council was to be called to know what to do. A cabinet council? While you see it's rather an awkward thing letting the prince go to dine with a man who perhaps may have been arrested and taken to jail before dinnertime, that's the worst part of it nobody knows. Lady Monogram waved her attendant away. She peaked herself upon having a French maid who could not speak a word of English and was therefore quite careless what she said in the woman's presence. But of course everything she did say was repeated downstairs in some language that had become intelligible to the servants generally. Lady Monogram sat motionless for some time while her husband, retreating to his own domain, finished his operations. Damasque, she said when he reappeared, one thing is certain, we can't go. After you've made such a fuss about it? It is a pity having that girl here in the house. You know, don't you? She's going to marry one of these people. I heard about her marriage yesterday, but Bregerd isn't one of Melmont's set. They tell me that Bregerd isn't a bad fellow, a vulgar cad and all that, but nothing wrong about him. He's a Jew and he's 70 years old and makes up horribly. What does it matter to you if he's 80? You were determined then, you won't go? But Lady Monogram had by no means determined that she wouldn't go. She had paid her price, and with that economy, which sticks to a woman always in the midst of her extravagances, she could not bear to lose the thing that she had bought. She cared nothing for Melmont's villainy as regarded herself, that he was enriching himself by the daily plunder of the innocent she had taken for granted since she had first heard of him. She had but a confused idea of any difference between commerce and fraud, but it would grieve her greatly to become known as one of an awkward squad of people who had driven to the door and perhaps been admitted to some wretched gathering of wretched people, and not, after all, to have met the Emperor and the Prince. But then, should she hear on the next morning that the Emperor and the Princes, that the Princesses and the Duchesses, with the Ambassadors, Cabinet Ministers, and proper sort of world generally, had all been there, that the world in short had ignored Melmont's villainy, then would her grief be still greater? She sat down to dinner with her husband and Miss Longstaff, and could not talk freely on the matter. Miss Longstaff was still a guest of the Melmonts, although she had transferred herself to the Monograms for a day or two, and a horrible idea crossed Lady Monogram's mind. What should she do with her friend Georgiana if the whole Melmont establishment were suddenly broken up? Of course, Madame Melmont would refuse to take the girl back if her husband were sent to jail. I suppose you'll go, said Sir de Mask, as the ladies left the room. Of course we shall, in about an hour, said Lady Monogram as she left the room, looking round at him and rebuking him for his imprudence. Because you know, and then he called her back, if you want me, I'll stay, of course, and if you don't, I'll go down to the club. How can I say yet? You needn't mind the club tonight. All right, only it's a bore being here alone. Then Miss Longstaff asked what was up. Is there any doubt about our going tonight? I can't say, I'm so harassed that I don't know what I'm about. There seems to be a report that the emperor won't be there. Impossible. It's all very well to say impossible, my dear, said Lady Monogram, but still, that's what people are saying. You see, Mr. Melmont is a very great man, but perhaps something else has turned up so that he may be thrown over. Things of that kind do happen. You had better finish dressing, I shall, but I shan't make sure of going till I hear that the emperor is there. Then she descended to her husband, whom she found for lonely consoling himself with a cigar. To Mask, she said, you must find out. Find out what? Whether the prince and the emperor are there. Send John to ask, suggested the husband. He would be sure to make a blunder about it. If you'd go yourself, he'd learn the truth in a minute. Have a cab, just go into the hall and you'll soon know how it all is. I'd do it in a minute if I were you. Sir to Mask was the most good-natured man in the world, but he did not like the job. What can be the objection, asked his wife. Go to a man's house and find out whether a man's guests have come before you go yourself. I just don't see it, Jew. Guests, what nonsense. The emperor and all the royal family, as if it were like any other party. Such a thing probably never happened before and never will happen again. If you don't go to Mask, I must and I will. Sir to Mask, after groaning and smoking for half a minute, said that he would go. He made many remonstrances. It was a confounded bore. He hated emperors and he hated princes. He hated the whole box and dice of that sort of thing. He wished to goodness that he had dined at his club and sent word up home that the affair was to be off. But at last he submitted and allowed his wife to leave the room with the intention of sending for a cab. The cab was sent for and announced, but Sir to Mask would not stir till he had finished his big cigar. It was past ten when he left his own house. On arriving in Grovner Square, he could at once see that the party was going on. The house was illuminated. There was a concourse of servants round the door and half the square was already blocked up with carriages. It was not without delay that he got to the door and when there he saw the royal liveries. There was no doubt about the party. The emperor and the princes and the princesses were all there. As far as Sir to Mask could then perceive the dinner had been quite a success. But again there was a delay in getting away and it was nearly eleven before he could reach home. It's all right, he said to his wife. They're there safe enough. You are sure that the emperor is there? As sure as a man can be without having seen him. Miss Longstaff was present at this moment and could not but resent what appeared to be a most unseemly slur cast upon her friends. I don't understand it at all, she said. Of course the emperor is there. Everybody has known for the last month that he was coming. What is the meaning of it, Julia? My dear, you must allow me to manage my own little affairs my own way. I dare say I am absurd, but I have my reason. Now, Damasque, if the carriage is there we had better start. The carriage was there and they did start. And with a delay which seemed unprecedented even to Lady Monogram, who was accustomed to these things, they reached the door. There was a great crush in the hall and people were coming downstairs. But at last they made their way into the room above and found that the emperor of China and all the royalties had been there but had taken their departure. Sir Damasque put the ladies into the carriage and what it wants to his club. End of chapter 61.