 Chapter 26 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 26. Mrs. Hurdle. Paul Montague at this time lived in comfortable lodgings in Sackville Street, and ostensibly the world was going well with him. But he had many troubles. His troubles in reference to Fisker Montague and Montague, and also their consolation, are already known to the reader. He was troubled too about his love, though when he allowed his mind to expatiate on the success of the Great Railway, he would venture to hope that on that side his life might perhaps be blessed. Henrietta had, at any rate as yet, showed no disposition to accept her cousin's offer. He was troubled too about the gambling, which he disliked, knowing that in that direction there might be speedy ruin, and yet returning to it from day to day in spite of his own conscience. But there was yet another trouble which culminated just at this time. One morning, not long after that Sunday night, which had been so wretchedly spent at the Bear Garden, he got into a cabin Piccadilly and had himself taken to a certain address in Islington. Here he knocked at a decent modest door, at such a house as men live in with two or three hundred a year, and asked for Mrs. Hurdle. Yes, Mrs. Hurdle lodged there, and he was shown into the drawing room. There he stood by the round table for a quarter of an hour, turning over the lodging-house books which lay there, and then Mrs. Hurdle entered the room. Mrs. Hurdle was a widow whom he had once promised to marry. Paul, she said with a quick, sharp voice, but with a voice which could be very pleasant when she pleased, taking him by the hand as she spoke. Paul, say that that letter of yours must go for nothing. Say that it shall be so, and I will forgive everything. I cannot say that, he replied, laying his hand on hers. You cannot say it. What do you mean? Will you dare to tell me that your promises to me are to go for nothing? Things have changed, said Paul hoarsely. He had come thither at her bidding because he had felt that to remain away would be cowardly. But the meeting was inexpressibly painful to him. He did think that he had sufficient excuse for breaking his trough to this woman. But the justification of his conduct was founded on reasons which he hardly knew how to plead to her. He had heard that of her past life, which, had he heard it before, would have saved him from his present difficulty. But he had loved her, did love her in a certain fashion, and her offenses, such as they were, did not debar her from his sympathies. How are they changed? I am two years older, if you mean that. As she said this, she looked round at the glass as though to see whether she was become so haggard with age as to be unfit to become this man's wife. She was very lovely with the kind of beauty which we seldom see now. In these days men regard the form and outward lines of a woman's face and figure more than either the color or the expression, and women fit themselves to men's eyes. With padding and false hair, without limit, a figure may be constructed of almost any dimensions. The sculptors who construct them, male and female, hairdressers and milliners, are very skillful, and figures are constructed of noble dimensions, sometimes with voluptuous expansion, sometimes with classic reticence, sometimes with disheveled negligence, which becomes very disheveled indeed when long out of the sculptor's hands. Colors indeed are added, but not the colors which we used to love. The taste for flesh and blood has for the day given place to an appetite for horse hair and pearl powder. But Mrs. Hurdle was not a beauty after the present fashion. She was very dark, a dark brunette, with large round blue eyes that could indeed be soft, but could also be very severe. Her silken hair, almost black, hung in a thousand curls all around her head and neck. Her cheeks and lips and neck were full, and the blood would come and go, giving a varying expression to her face with almost every word she spoke. Her nose also was full, and had something of the pug, but nevertheless it was a nose which any man who loved her would swear to be perfect. Her mouth was large, and she rarely showed her teeth. Her chin was full, marked by a large dimple, and as it ran down to her neck was beginning to form a second. Her bust was full and beautifully shaped, but she invariably dressed as though she were oblivious or at any rate neglectful of her own charms. Her dress, as Montague had seen her, was always black. Not a sad, weeping widow's garment, but silk or woolen or cotton as the case might be, always new, always nice, always well fitting, and most especially, always simple. She was certainly a most beautiful woman, and she knew it. She looked as though she knew it, but only after that fashion in which a woman ought to know it. At that age she had never spoken to Montague. She was, in truth, over thirty, perhaps almost as near thirty-five as thirty, though she was one of those whom years hardly seemed to touch. You were as beautiful as ever you were, he said. Do not tell me of that. I care nothing for my beauty unless it can bind me to your love. Sit down there and tell me what it means. Then she let go his hand and seated herself opposite to the chair which she gave him. I told you in my letter. You told me nothing in your letter except that it was to be off. Why is it to be off? Do you not love me? Then she threw herself upon her knees and leaned upon his and looked up in his face. Paul, she said, I have come across the Atlantic on purpose to see you after so many months, and will you not give me one kiss? Even though you should leave me forever, give me one kiss? Of course he kissed her, not once, but with a long, warm embrace. How could it have been otherwise? With all his heart he wished that she would have remained away, but while she knelt there at his feet, what could he do but embrace her? Now tell me everything, she said, seating herself on a footstool at his feet. She certainly did not look like a woman whom a man might ill-treat or scorn with impunity. Paul felt, even while she was lavishing her caresses upon him, that she might too probably turn and rend him before he left her. He had known something of her temper before, though he had also known the truth and warmth of her love. He had traveled with her from San Francisco to England, and she had been very good to him in illness, in distress of mind, and in poverty. For he had been almost penniless in New York. When they landed at Liverpool, they were engaged as man and wife. He had told her all his affairs, had given her the whole history of his life. This was before his second journey to America, when Hamilton K. Fisker was unknown to him. But she had told him little or nothing of her own life, but that she was a widow and that she was traveling to Paris on business. When he left her at the London Railway Station, from which she started for Dover, he was full of all her lovers' ardor. He had offered to go with her, but that she had declined. But when he remembered that he must certainly tell his friend Roger of his engagement, and remembered also how little he knew of the lady to whom he was engaged, he became embarrassed. What were her means, he did not know. He did know that she was some years older than himself, and that she had spoken hardly a word to him of her own family. She had indeed said that her husband had been one of the greatest miscreants ever created, and had spoken of her release from him as the one blessing she had known before she had met Paul Montague. But it was only when he thought of all this, after she had left him, only when he reflected how bald was the story which he must tell Roger Carberry, that he became dismayed. Such had been the woman's cleverness, such her charm, so great her power of adaptation, that he had passed weeks in her daily company with still progressing intimacy and affection without feeling that anything had been missing. He had told his friend, and his friend had declared to him that it was impossible that he should marry a woman whom he had met in a railway train without knowing something about her. Roger did all he could to persuade the lover to forget his love, and partially succeeded. It is so pleasant and so natural that a young man should enjoy the company of a clever, beautiful woman on a long journey. So natural that during the journey he should allow himself to think that she may, during her whole life, be all in all to him as she is at that moment. And so natural again that he should see his mistake when he has parted from her. But mind to you, though he was half false to his widow, was half true to her. He had pledged his word, and that he said ought to mind him. Then he returned to California and learned through the instrumentality of Hamilton K. Fisker that in San Francisco Mrs. Hurdle was regarded as a mystery. Some people did not quite believe that there had ever been a Mr. Hurdle. Others said that there certainly had been a Mr. Hurdle, and that to the best of their belief he still existed. The fact, however, best known of her was that she had shot a man through the head somewhere in Oregon. She had not been tried for it as the world of Oregon had considered that the circumstances justified the deed. Everybody knew that she was very clever and very beautiful, but everybody also thought that she was very dangerous. She always had money when she was here, Hamilton Fisker said, but no one knew where it came from. Then he wanted to know why Paul inquired. I don't think, you know, that I should like to go in for a life partnership if you mean that, said Hamilton K. Fisker. Montague had seen her in New York as he passed through on his second journey to San Francisco and had then renewed his promises in spite of his cousin's caution. He told her that he was going to see what he could make of his broken fortunes, for at this time, as the reader will remember, there was no great railway in existence. And she had promised to follow him. Since that they had never met till this day. She had not made the promised journey to San Francisco at any rate before he had left it. Letters from her had reached him in England and these he had answered by explaining to her, or endeavoring to explain, that their engagement must be at an end. And now she had followed him to London. Tell me everything, she said, leaning upon him and looking up into his face. But you, when did you arrive here? Here at this house I arrived the night before last. On Tuesday I reached Liverpool. There I found that you were probably in London and so I came on. I have come only to see you. I can understand that you should have been estranged from me. That journey home is now so long ago. Our meeting in New York was so short and wretched. I would not tell you because you then were poor yourself, but at that moment I was penniless. I have got my own now out from the very teeth of robbers. As she said this she looked as though she could be very persistent in claiming her own or what she might think to be her own. I could not get across to San Francisco as I said I would and when I was there you had quarreled with your uncle and returned and now I am here. I at any rate have been faithful. As she said this his arm was again thrown over her so as to press her head to his knee. And now she said tell me about yourself. His position was embarrassing and very odious to himself. Had he done his duty properly he would gently have pushed her from him, have sprung to his legs and have declared that however fault he might have been his previous conduct he now found himself bound to make her understand that he did not intend to become her husband. But he was either too much of a man or too little of a man for conduct such as that. He did make the avowal to himself even at that moment as she sat there. Let the matter go as it would she should never be his wife. He would marry no one unless it was head of carburet. But he did not at all know how to get this said with proper emphasis and yet with properly apologetic courtesy. I am engaged here about this railway he said. You have heard I suppose of our projected scheme. Heard of it? San Francisco is full of it. Hamilton Fisker is the great man of the day there and when I left your uncle was buying a villa for $74,000. And yet they say that the best of it all has been transferred to you Londoners. Many there are very hard upon Fisker for coming here and doing as he did. It's doing very well I believe said Paul with some feeling of shame as he thought how very little he knew about it. You are the manager here in England? No. I am a member of the firm that manages it at San Francisco. But the real manager here is our chairman Mr. Melmont. Ah I have heard of him. He is a great man. A Frenchman is he not? There was a talk of inviting him to California. You know him of course. Yes I know him. I see him once a week. I would sooner see that man than your queen or any of your dukes or lords. They tell me that he holds the world of commerce in his right hand. What power? What grandeur? Grand enough said Paul if it all came honestly. Such a man rises above honesty said Mrs. Hurdle. As a great general rises above humanity when he sacrifices an army to conquer a nation. Such greatness is incompatible with small scruples. A pygmy man is stopped by a little ditch but a giant stalks over the rivers. I prefer to be stopped by the ditches said Montague. Ah Paul you were not born for commerce and I will grant you this. That commerce is not noble unless it rises to great heights. To live in plenty by sticking to your counter from nine in the morning to nine at night is not a fine life. But this man with a scratch of his pen can send out or call in millions of dollars. Do they say here that he is not honest? As he is my partner in this affair perhaps I had better say nothing against him. Of course such a man will be abused. People have said that Napoleon was a coward and Washington a traitor. You must take me where I shall see Melmont. He is a man whose hand I would kiss but I would not condescend to speak even a word of reverence to any of your emperors. I fear you will find that your idol has feet of clay. Ah you mean that he is bold in breaking those precepts of yours about coveting worldly wealth. All men and women break that commandment but they do so in a stealthy fashion. Half drawing back the grasping hand praying to be delivered from temptation while they felt only a little pretending to despise the only thing that is dear to them in the world. Here is a man who boldly says that he recognizes no such law that wealth is power and that power is good and that the more a man has of wealth the greater and the stronger and the nobler he can be. I love a man who can turn the hobgoblins inside out and burn the wooden bogies that he meets. Montague had formed his own opinions about Melmont. Though connected with the man he believed their grand director to be as vile a scoundrel as ever lived. Mrs. Hurdle's enthusiasm was very pretty and there was something of feminine eloquence in her words but it was shocking to see them lavished on such a subject. Personally I did not like him said Paul. I had thought to find that you and he were hand in glove. Oh no. But you are prospering in this business. Yes I suppose we are prospering. It is one of those hazardous things in which a man can never tell whether he be really prosperous till he is out of it. I fell into it all together against my will. I had no alternative. It seems to me to have been a golden chance. As far as immediate results go it has been golden. That at any rate is well Paul. And now that we have got back into our old way of talking tell me what all this means. I have talked to no one after this fashion since we parted. Why should our engagement be over? You used to love me did you not? He would willingly have left her question unanswered but she waited for an answer. You know I did he said. I thought so. This I know that you were sure and are sure of my love to you is it not so? Come speak openly like a man do you doubt me? He did not doubt her and was forced to say so. No indeed. Oh with what baited half mouth words you speak fit for a girl from a nursery. Out with it if you have anything to say against me. You owe me so much at any rate. I have never ill treated you. I have never lied to you. I have taken nothing from you if I have not taken your heart. I have given you all that I can give. Then she leaped to her feet and stood a little apart from him. If you hate me say so. Winifred he said calling her by her name. Winifred yes now for the first time though I have called you Paul from the moment you entered the room. Well speak out is there another woman that you love? At this moment Paul Montague proved that at any rate he was no coward. Knowing the nature of the woman how ardent how impetuous she could be and how full of wrath. He had come at her call intending to tell her the truth which he now spoke. There is another he said. She stood silent looking into his face thinking how she would commence her attack upon him. She fixed her eyes upon him standing quite upright squeezing her own right hand with the fingers of the left. Oh she said in a whisper that is the reason why I am told that I am to be off. That was not the reason what can there be more reason than that better reason than that. Unless indeed it be that as you have learned to love another so also you have learned to hate me. Listen to me Winifred no sir no Winifred now. How did you dare to kiss me knowing that it was on your tongue to tell me I was to be cast aside. And so you love some other woman I am too old to please you too rough too little like the dolls of your own country. What were your other reasons let me hear your other reasons that I may tell you that they are lies. The reasons were very difficult to tell though when put forward by Roger Carberry they had been easily pleaded. Paul knew but little about Winifred Hurdle and nothing at all about the late Mr. Hurdle. His reasons currently put forward might have been so stated we know too little of each other he said. What more do you want to know you can know all for the asking that I ever refused to answer you. As to my knowledge of you and your affairs if I think it's sufficient need you complain. What is it that you want to know ask anything and I will tell you is it about my money. You knew when you gave me your word that I had next to none. Now I have ample means of my own you knew that I was a widow what more if you wish to hear of the wretch that was my husband. I will day lose you with stories I should have thought that a man who loved would not have cared to hear much of one who perhaps was loved once. He knew that his position was perfectly indefensible it would have been better for him not to have alluded to any reasons but to have remained firm to his assertion that he loved another woman. He must have acknowledged himself to be false perjured in constant and very base a fault that may be venial to those who do not suffer is damnable deserving of an eternity of tortures in the eyes of the sufferer. He must have submitted to be told that he was a fiend and might have had to endure whatever a punishment a lady in her wrath could inflict upon him but he would have been called upon for no further mental effort. His position would have been plain but now he was all at sea. I wish to hear nothing he said then why tell me that we know so little of each other that surely is a poor excuse to make to a woman after you have been false to her. Why did you not say that when we were in New York together think of it Paul is not that mean I do not think that I am mean. No a man will lie to a woman and justify it always who is this lady. He knew that he could not at any rate be warranted and mentioning had a car for his name. He had never even asked her for her love and certainly had received no assurance that he was loved. I cannot name her. And I who have come hither from California to see you and to return satisfied because you tell me that you have changed your affections. That is to be all and you think that fair that suits your own mind and leaves no source spot in your heart. You can do that and shake hands with me and go away without a paying without a scruple. I did not say so. And you were the man who cannot bear to hear me praise Augustus Melmot because you think him dishonest. Are you a liar? I hope not. Did you say you would be my husband answer me sir. I did say so. Do you now refuse to keep your promise you shall answer me. I cannot marry you. Then sir are you not a liar. It would have taken him long to explain to her even had he been able that a man may break a promise and yet not tell a lie. He had made up his mind to break his engagement before he had seen had a car very and therefore he could not accuse himself of falseness on her account. He had been brought to his resolution by the rumors he had heard of her past life and as to his uncertainty about her husband. If Mr. Hurdle were alive certainly then he would not be a liar because he did not marry Mrs. Hurdle. He did not think himself to be a liar but he was not at once ready with his defense. Oh Paul she said changing at once into softness I am pleading to you for my life. Oh that I could make you feel that I am pleading for my life. Have you given a promise to this lady also. No said he I have given no promise. But she loves you she has never said so. You have told her of your love never. There is nothing then between you and you would put her against me some woman who has nothing to suffer no cause of complaint who for ought you know cares nothing for you is that so. I suppose it is said Paul. Then you may still be mine. Oh Paul come back to me well any woman love you as I do live for you as I do. Think what I have done in coming here where I have no friend not a single friend unless you are a friend. Listen to me I have told the woman here that I am engaged to marry you. You have told the woman of the house. Certainly I have was I not justified were you not engaged to me. Am I to have you to visit me here and to risk her insults perhaps to be told to take myself off and to find accommodation elsewhere. Because I am too mealy mouth to tell the truth as to the cause of my being here. I am here because you have promised to make me your wife and as far as I am concerned I am not ashamed to have the fact advertised in every newspaper in the town. I told her that I was the promised wife of one Paul Montague who was joined with Mr. Melmont in managing the new great American Railway. And that Mr. Paul Montague would be with me this morning. She was too far seeing to doubt me but had she doubted I could have shown her your letters. Now go and tell her that what I have said is false if you dare. The woman was not there and it did not seem to be his immediate duty to leave the room in order that he might denounce the lady whom he certainly had ill used. The position was one which required thought. After a while he took up his hat to go. Do you mean to tell her that my statement is untrue? No he said not today. And you will come back to me? Yes I will come back. I have no friend here but you Paul remember that. Remember all your promises. Remember all our love and be good to me. Then she let him go without another word. End of Chapter 26 Chapter 27 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 27 Mrs. Hurdle Goes to the Play On the day after the visit just recorded, Paul Montague received the following letter from Mrs. Hurdle. My dear Paul, I think that perhaps we hardly made ourselves understood to each other yesterday. And I am sure that you do not understand how absolutely my whole life is now at stake. I need only refer you to our journey from San Francisco to London to make you conscious that I really love you. To a woman such love is all important. She cannot throw it from her as a man may do amidst the affairs of the world. Nor, if it has to be thrown from her, can she bear the loss as a man bears it. Her thoughts have dwelt on it with more constancy than his. And then too her devotion has separated her from other things. My devotion to you has separated me from everything. But I scorn to come to you as a suppliant. If you choose to say after hearing me that you will put me away from you because you have seen someone fairer than I am, whatever course I may take in my indignation I shall not throw myself at your feet to tell you of my wrongs. I wish, however, that you should hear me. You say that there is someone you love better than you love me, but that you have not committed yourself to her. Alas, I know too much of the world to be surprised that a man's constancy should not stand out two years in the absence of his mistress. A man cannot wrap himself up and keep himself warm with an absent love as a woman does. But I think that some remembrance of the past must come back upon you now that you have seen me again. I think that you must have owned to yourself that you did love me and that you could love me again. You sin against me to my utter destruction if you leave me. I have given up every friend I have to follow you. As regards the other nameless lady, there can be no fault, for as you tell me, she knows nothing of your passion. You hinted that there were other reasons that we know too little of each other. You meant no doubt that you knew too little of me. Is it not the case that you were content when you knew only what was to be learned in those days of our sweet intimacy, but that you have been made discontented by stories told you by your partners at San Francisco? If this be so, trouble yourself at any rate to find out the truth before you allow yourself to treat a woman as you propose to treat me. I think you are too good a man to cast aside a woman you have loved, like a soiled glove, because ill-natured words have been spoken of her by men, or perhaps by women, who know nothing of her life. My late husband, Caradoc Hurdle, was Attorney General in the State of Kansas when I married him. I being then in possession of a considerable fortune left to me by my mother. There, his life was infamously bad. He spent what money he could get of mine and then left me and the state and took himself to Texas, where he drank himself to death. I did not follow him, and in his absence I was divorced from him in accordance with the laws of Kansas State. I then went to San Francisco about property of my mother's, which my husband had fraudulently sold to a countrymen of ours, now resident in Paris, having forged my name. There I met you, and in that short story I tell you all that there is to be told. It may be that you do not believe me now, but if so, are you not bound to go where you can verify your own doubts or my word? I try to write dispassionately, but I am in truth overborn by passion. I also have heard in California rumors about myself, and after much delay I received your letter. I resolved to follow you to England as soon as circumstances would permit me. I have been forced to fight a battle about my property, and I have won it. I had two reasons for carrying this through by my personal efforts before I saw you. I had begun it and had determined that I would not be beaten by fraud, and I was also determined that I would not plead to you as a pauper. We have talked too freely together in past days of our mutual money matters for me to feel any delicacy in alluding to them. When a man and woman have agreed to be husband and wife, there should be no delicacy of that kind. When we came here together, we were both embarrassed. We both had some property, but neither of us could enjoy it. Since that I have made my way through my difficulties. From what I have heard at San Francisco, I suppose that you have done the same. I, at any rate, shall be perfectly contented if, from this time, our affairs can be made one. And now about myself, immediately. I have come here all alone. Since I last saw you in New York, I have not had altogether a good time. I have had a great struggle and have been thrown on my own resources and have been all alone. Very cruel things have been said of me. You heard cruel things said, but I presume them to have been said to you with reference to my late husband. Since that they have been said to others with reference to you. I have not now come, as my countrymen do generally, back with a trunk full of introductions and with scores of friends ready to receive me. It was necessary to me that I should see you and hear my fate and hear I am. I appeal to you to release me in some degree from the misery of my solitude. You know, know one so well, that my nature is social and that I am not given to melancholy. Let us be cheerful together as we once were, if it be only for a day. Let me see you as I used to see you, and let me be seen as I used to be seen. Come to me and take me out with you and let us dine together, and take me to one of your theaters. If you wish it, I will promise you not to allude to that revelation you made to me just now. Though, of course, it is nearer to my heart than any other matter. Perhaps some woman's vanity makes me think that if you would only see me again and talk to me as you used to talk, you would think of me as you used to think. You need not fear, but you will find me at home. I have no wither to go, and shall hardly stir from the house till you come to me. Send me a line, however, that I may have my hat on if you are minded to do as I ask you. Yours with all my heart, Winifred Hurdle. This letter took her much time to write, though she was very careful so to write as to make it seem that it had flown easily from her pen. She copied it from the first draft, but she copied it rapidly, with one or two premeditated erasures so that it should look to have been done hurriedly. There had been much art in it. She had, at any rate, suppressed any show of anger. In calling him to her she had so written as to make him feel that if he would come he need not fear the claws of an offended lioness, and yet she was angry as a lioness who had lost her cub. She had almost ignored that other lady whose name she had not yet heard. She had spoken of her lover's entanglement with that other lady as a light thing which might easily be put aside. She had said much of her own wrongs, but had not said much of the wickedness of the wrong doer. Invited as she had invited him, surely he could not but come to her. And then, in her reference to money, not descending to the details of dollars and cents, she had studied how to make him feel that he might marry her without imprudence. As she read it over to herself, she thought that there was a tone through it of natural, feminine, unconscious eagerness. She put her letter up in an envelope, stuck a stamp on it, and addressed it, and then threw herself back in her chair to think of her position. He should marry her, or there should be something done which should make the name of Winifred Hurdle known to the world. She had no plan of revenge yet formed. She would not talk of revenge. She told herself that she would not even think of revenge till she was quite sure that revenge would be necessary. But she did think of it, and could not keep her thoughts from it for a moment. Could it be possible that she, with all her intellectual gifts, as well as those of her outward person, should be thrown over by a man whom well as she loved him, and she did love him with all her heart, she regarded as greatly inferior to herself? He had promised to marry her, and he should marry her, or the world should hear the story of his perjury. Paul Montague felt that he was surrounded by difficulties as soon as he read the letter, that his heart was all the other way he was quite sure, but yet it did seem to him that there was no escape from his troubles open to him. There was not a single word in this woman's letter that he could contradict. He had loved her and had promised to make her his wife, and had determined to break his word to her because he found that he was enveloped in dangerous mystery. He had so resolved before he had ever seen head of carbury having been made to believe by Roger Carbury that a marriage with an unknown American woman, of whom he only did know that she was handsome and clever, would be a step to ruin. The woman, as Roger said, was an adventurous, might never have had a husband, might at this moment have two or three, might be overwhelmed with debt, might be anything bad, dangerous, and abominable. All that he had heard at San Francisco had substantiated Roger's views. Any scrape is better than that scrape, Roger had said to him. Paul had believed his mentor, and had believed with a double faith as soon as he had seen head of carbury. But what should he do now? It was impossible, after what had passed between them, that he should leave Mrs. Hurdle at her lodgings at Islington without any notice. It was clear enough to him that she would not consent to be so left. Then her present proposal, though it seemed to be absurd and almost comical in the tragical condition of their present circumstances, had in it some immediate comfort. To take her out and give her a dinner and then go with her to some theater would be easy and perhaps pleasant. It would be easier and certainly much pleasanter because she had pledged herself to abstain from talking of her grievances. Then he remembered some happy evenings, delicious hours, which he had so passed with her when they were first together at New York. There could be no better companion for such a festival. She could talk, and she could listen as well as talk, and she could sit silent, conveying to her neighbor the sense of her feminine charms by her simple proximity. He had been very happy when so placed. Had it been possible, he would have escaped the danger now, but the reminiscence of past delights in some sort reconciled him to the performance of this perilous duty. But when the evening should be over, how would he part with her? When the pleasant hour should have passed away and he had brought her back to her door, what should he say to her then? He must make some arrangement as to a future meeting. He knew that he was in a great peril and he did not know how he might best escape it. He could not now go to Roger Carberry for advice. For was not Roger Carberry his rival? It would be for his friend's interest that he should marry the widow. Roger Carberry, as he knew well, was too honest a man to allow himself to be guided in any advice he might give by such a feeling. But still, on this matter, he could no longer tell everything to Roger Carberry. He could not say all that he would have to say without speaking of Heta, and of his love for Heta he could not speak to his rival. He had no other friend in whom he could confide. There was no other human being he could trust unless it was Heta herself. He thought for a moment that he would write a stern and true letter to the woman, telling her that as it was impossible that there should ever be marriage between them, he felt himself bound to abstain from her society. But then he remembered her solitude, her picture of herself in London without even an acquaintance except himself, and he convinced himself that it would be impossible that he should leave her without seeing her. So he wrote to her thus, Dear Winifred, I will come for you tomorrow at half past five. We will dine together at the Thespian, and then I will have a box at the Haymarket. The Thespian is a good sort of place, and lots of ladies dine there. You can dine in your bonnet. Yours affectionately, P.M. Some half-formed idea ran through his brain that P.M. was a safer signature than Paul Montague. Then came a long train of thoughts as to the perils of the whole proceeding. She had told him that she had announced herself to the keeper of the lodging house as engaged to him, and he had in a manner authorized the statement by declining to contradict it at once. And now, after that announcement, he was assenting to her proposal that they should go out and amuse themselves together. Hitherto, she had always seemed to him to be open, candid, and free from intrigue. He had known her to be impulsive, capricious, at times violent, but never deceitful. Perhaps he was unable to read correctly the inner character of a woman whose experience of the world had been much wider than his own. His mind misgave him that it might be so, but still he thought that he knew that she was not treacherous. And yet did not her present acts justify him in thinking that she was carrying on a plot against him? The note, however, was sent, and he prepared for the evening of the play, leaving the dangers of the occasion to adjust themselves. He ordered the dinner, and he took the box, and at the hour fixed he was again at her lodgings. The woman of the house with a smile showed him in the Mrs. Hurdle's sitting room, and he at once perceived that the smile was intended to welcome him as an accepted lover. It was a smile half of congratulation to the lover, half of congratulation to herself as a woman that another man had been caught by the leg and made fast. Who does not know the smile? What man who has been caught and made sure has not felt a certain dissatisfaction at being so treated, understanding that the smile is intended to convey to him a sense of his own captivity? It has, however, generally mattered but little to us. If we have felt that something of ridicule was intended because we have been regarded as cocks with their spurs cut away, then we also have a pride when we have declared to ourselves that upon the haul we have gained more than we have lost. But with Paul Montague at the present moment there was no satisfaction, no pride, only a feeling of danger which every hour became deeper and stronger with less chance of escape. He was almost tempted at this moment to detain the woman and tell her the truth and bear the immediate consequences. But there would be treason in doing so and he would not, could not do it. He was left hardly a moment to think of this. Almost before the woman had shut the door, Mrs. Hurdle came to him out of her bedroom with her hat on her head. Nothing could be more simple than her dress and nothing prettier. It was now June and the weather was warm and the lady wore a light, gauzy black dress. There was a fabric which the milliners I think called grenadine coming up close round her throat. It was very pretty and she was prettier even than her dress and she had on a hat, black also, small and simple but very pretty. There are times at which a man going to a theater with a lady wishes her to be bright in her apparel. Almost gorgeous in which he will hardly be contented unless her cloak be scarlet and her dress white and her gloves of some bright hue unless she wears roses or jewels in her hair. It is thus our girls go to the theater now when they go intending that all the world shall know who they are. But there are times again in which a man would prefer that his companion should be very quiet in her dress but still pretty in which he would choose that she should dress herself for him only. All this Mrs. Hurdle had understood accurately and Paul Montague who understood nothing of it was gratified. You told me to have a hat and here I am, hat and all. She gave him her hand and laughed and looked pleasantly at him as though there was no cause of unhappiness between them. The lodging house woman saw them enter the cab and muttered some little word as they went off. Paul did not hear the word but was sure that it bore some indistinct reference to his expected marriage. Neither during the drive nor at the dinner nor during the performance at the theater did she say a word in allusion to her engagement. It was with them as in former days that had been at New York. She whispered pleasant words to him touching his arm now and again with her finger as she spoke seeming ever better inclined to listen than to speak. Now and again she referred after some slightest fashion to little circumstances that had occurred between them to some joke, some hour of tedium, some moment of delight. But it was done as one man might do it to another if any man could have done it so pleasantly. There was a scent which he had once approved and now she bore it on her handkerchief. There was a ring which he had once given her and she wore it on the finger with which she touched his sleeve. With his own hands he had once adjusted her curls and each curl was as he had placed it. She had a way of shaking her head that was very pretty, a way that might one would think have been dangerous at her age as likely to betray those first gray hairs which will come to disturb the last days of youth. He had once told her in sport to be more careful. She now shook her head again and as he smiled she told him that she could still dare to be careless. There are a thousand little silly softnesses which are pretty and endearing between acknowledged lovers with which no woman would like to dispense, to which even men who are in love submit sometimes with delight but which in other circumstances would be vulgar and to the woman distasteful. There are closenesses and sweet approaches, smiles and nods and pleasant winkings, whispers, innuendos and hints, little mutual admirations and assurances that there are things known to those two happy ones of which the world beyond is altogether ignorant. Much of this comes of nature but something of it sometimes comes by art. Of such art as there may be in it Mrs. Hurdle was a perfect master. No illusion was made to their engagement. Not an unpleasant word was spoken but the art was practiced with all its pleasant adjuncts. Paul was flattered to the top of his bent and though the sword was hanging over his head though he knew that the sword must fall, must partly fall that very night, still he enjoyed it. There are men who of their natures do not like women even though they may have wives and legions of daughters and be surrounded by things feminine in all the affairs of their lives. Others again have their strongest affinities and sympathies with women and are rarely altogether happy when removed from their influence. Paul Montague was of the latter sort. At this time he was thoroughly in love with Hedekarbary and was not in love with Mrs. Hurdle. He would have given much of his golden prospects in the American Railway who have had Mrs. Hurdle reconvade suddenly to San Francisco and yet he had a delight in her presence. The acting isn't very good, he said, when the peace was nearly over. What does it signify? What we enjoy or what we suffer depends upon the humor. The acting is not first rate but I have listened and laughed and cried because I have been happy. He was bound to tell her that he also had enjoyed the evening and was bound to say it in no voice of hypocritical constraint. It has been very jolly, he said. And one has so little that is really jolly as you call it. I wonder whether any girl ever did sit and cry like that because her lover talked to another woman. What I find fault with is that the writers and actors are so ignorant of men and women as we see them every day. It's all right that she should cry but she wouldn't cry there. The position described was so nearly her own that he could say nothing to this. She had so spoken on purpose, fighting her own battle after her own fashion, knowing well that her words would confuse him. A woman hides such tears. She may be found crying because she is unable to hide them but she does not willingly let the other woman see them, does she? I suppose not. Medea did not weep when she was introduced to Croissa. Women are not all Medea, he replied. There's a dash of the savage princess about most of them. I am quite ready if you like. I never want to see the curtain fall and I have had no nose gay brought in a wheelbower to throw on to the stage. Are you going to see me home? Certainly. You need not. I'm not a bit afraid of a London cab by myself. But of course he accompanied her to Islington. He owed her at any rate as much as that. She continued to talk during a whole journey. What a wonderful place London was, so immense but so dirty. New York, of course, was not so big but was, she thought, pleasanter. But Paris was the gem of gems among towns. She did not like Frenchmen and she liked Englishmen even better than Americans but she fancied that she could never like English women. I do so hate all kinds of buckram. I like good conduct and law and religion too if it be not forced down one's throat but I hate what your women call propriety. I suppose what we have been doing tonight is very improper but I am quite sure that it has not been in the least wicked. I don't think it has, said Paul Montague very tamely. It is a long way from the hay market to Islington but at last the cab reached the lodging house door. Yes, this is it, she said. Even about the houses there is an air of stiff-necked propriety which frightens me. She was getting out as she spoke and he had already knocked at the door. Come in for one moment, she said, as he paid the cabman. The woman, the while, was standing with the door in her hand. It was near midnight but when people are engaged hours do not matter. The woman of the house, who was respectability herself, a nice kind widow with five children named Pipkin, understood that and smiled again as he followed the lady into the sitting-room. She had already taken off her hat and was flinging it onto the sofa as he entered. Shut the door for one moment, she said, and he shut it. Then she threw herself into his arms, not kissing him but looking up into his face. Oh, Paul, she exclaimed. My darling, oh, Paul, my love, I will not bear to be separated from you. No, no, never, I swear it, and you may believe me. There is nothing I cannot do for love of you but to lose you. Then she pushed him from her and looked away from him, clasping her hands together. But Paul, I mean to keep my pledge to you tonight. It was to be an island in our troubles, a little holiday in our hard school time, and I will not destroy it at its close. You will see me again soon, will you not? He nodded ascent, then took her in his arms and kissed her and left her without a word. End of Chapter 27 Chapter 28 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 28 Dolly Longstaff goes into the city. It has been told how the gambling at the Bear Garden went on one Sunday night. On the following Monday, Sir Felix did not go to the club. He had watched Miles Grindal at play and was sure that on more than one or two occasions the man had cheated. Sir Felix did not quite know what in such circumstances it would be best for him to do. Reprobate as he was himself, this work of villainy was new to him and seemed to be very terrible. What steps ought he to take? He was quite sure of his facts, and yet he feared that Nitterdale and Grasslow and Longstaff would not believe him. He would have told Montague, but Montague had, he thought, hardly enough authority at the club to be of any use to him. On the Tuesday again he did not go to the club. He felt severely the loss of the excitement to which he had been accustomed, but the thing was too important to him to be slurred over. He did not dare to sit down and play with the man who had cheated him without saying anything about it. On the Wednesday afternoon life was becoming unbearable to him, and he sauntered into the building at about five in the afternoon. There, as a matter of course, he found Dolly Longstaff drinking sherry and bitters. Where the blessed angels have you been, said Dolly. Dolly was at that moment alert with the sense of a duty performed. He had just called on his sister and written a sharp letter to his father and felt himself to be almost a man of business. I've had fish of my own to fry, said Felix, who had passed the last two days in unendurable idleness. Then he referred again to the money which Dolly owed him, not making any complaint, not indeed asking for immediate payment, but explaining, with an air of importance, that if a commercial arrangement could be made, it might at this moment be very serviceable to him. I'm particularly anxious to take up those shares, said Felix. Of course you ought to have your money. I don't say that at all, old fellow. I know very well that you're all right. You're not like that fellow Miles Grindel. Well, no. Poor Miles has got nothing to bless himself with. I suppose I could get it, and so I ought to pay. That's no excuse for Grindel, said Sir Felix, shaking his head. A chap can't pay if he hasn't got it, Carberry. A chap ought to pay, of course. I've had a letter from our lawyer within the last half hour. Here it is. And Dolly pulled a letter out of his pocket, which he had opened and read, indeed, the last hour, but which had been duly delivered at his lodgings early in the morning. My governor wants to sell pickering, and Melmont wants to buy the place. My governor can't sell without me, and I've asked for half the plunder. I know what's what. My interest in the property is greater than his. It isn't much of a place, and they are talking of fifty thousand pounds over and above the debt upon it. Twenty-five thousand pounds would pay off what I owe on my own property and make me very square. From what this fellow says, I suppose they're going to give in to my terms. By George, that'll be a grand thing for you, Dolly. Oh, yes, of course I want it, but I don't like the place going. I'm not much of a fellow, I know. I'm awfully lazy and can't get myself to go in for things as I ought to do. But I have a sort of feeling that I don't like the family property going to pieces. A fellow oughtn't to let his family property go to pieces. You never lived at pickering. No, and I don't know that it is any good. He gives us three percent on the money it's worth while the governor is paying six percent, and I'm paying twenty-five for the money we've borrowed. I know more about it than you'd think. It ought to be sold, and now I suppose it will be sold. Old Melmont knows all about it, and if you like, I'll go with you to the city tomorrow and make it straight about what I owe you. He'll advance me a thousand pounds, and then you can get the shares. Are you going to dine here? Sir Felix said that he would dine at the club, but declared with considerable mystery in his manner that he could not stay and play wist afterwards. He acceded willingly to Dolly's plans of visiting Abchurch Lane on the following day, but had some difficulty in inducing his friend to consent to fix on an hour early enough for city purposes. Dolly suggested that they should meet at the club at four p.m. Sir Felix had named noon and promised to call it Dolly's lodgings. They split the difference at last and agreed to start at two. They then dined together, miles Grendal dining alone at the next table to them. Dolly and Grendal spoke to each other frequently, but in that conversation the young baronet would not join, nor did Grendal ever address himself to Sir Felix. Is there anything up between you and Miles, said Dolly, when they had adjourned to the smoking room? I can't bear him. There never was any love between you two, I know, but you used to speak, and you've played with him all through. Played with him? I should think I have. Though he did get such a haul last Sunday, he owes me more than you do now. Is that the reason you haven't played the last two nights? Sir Felix paused the moment. No, that is not the reason. I'll tell you all about it in the cab tomorrow. Then he left the club, declaring that he would go up to Grovener Square and see Marie Melmont. He did go up to the square, and when he came to the house he would not go in. What was the good? He could do nothing further till he got old Melmont's consent, and in no way could he so probably do that as by showing that he had got money wherewith by shares in the railway. While he did with himself during the remainder of the evening, the reader need not know. But on his return home at some comparatively early hour, he found this note from Marie. Wednesday afternoon. Dearest Felix, why don't we see you? Mama would say nothing if you came. Papa is never in the drawing room. Miss Longstaff is here, of course, and people always come in the evening. We are just going to dine out at the Duchess of Stevanages. Papa and Mama and I. Mama told me that Lord Nitterdale is to be there, but you need not be a bit afraid. I don't like Lord Nitterdale, and I will never take anyone but the man I love. You know who that is. Miss Longstaff is so angry because she can't go with us. What do you think of her telling me that she did not understand being left alone? We are to go afterwards to a musical party at Lady Gametz. Miss Longstaff is going with us, but she says she hates music. She is such a set-up thing. I wonder why Papa has her here. We don't go anywhere tomorrow evening, so pray come. And why haven't you written me something and said it to Didon? She won't betray us, and if she did what matters, I mean to be true. If Papa were to beat me into a mummy, I would stick to you. He told me once to take Lord Nitterdale, and then he told me to refuse him. And now he wants me to take him again. But I won't. I'll take no one but my own darling. Yours, forever and ever, Marie. Now that the young lady had begun to have an interest of her own in life, she was determined to make the most of it. All this was delightful to her, but to Sir Felix it was simply a bother. Sir Felix was quite willing to marry the girl tomorrow, on condition, of course, that the money was properly arranged. But he was not willing to go through much work in the way of love-making with Marie Malmont. In such business he preferred Ruby Ruggles as a companion. On the following day Felix was with his friend at the appointed time, and was only kept an hour waiting while Dolly ate his breakfast and struggled into his coat and boots. On their way to the city Felix told his dreadful story about Miles Grendel. By George, said Dolly, and you think you saw him do it? It's not thinking at all. I'm sure I saw him do it three times. I believe he always had an ace somewhere about him. Dolly sat quite silent thinking of it. What had I better do? asked Sir Felix. By George I don't know. What should you do? Nothing at all. I shouldn't leave my own eyes. Or if I did, should take care not to look at him. You wouldn't go on playing with him. Yes I should. It'd be such a bore breaking up. But Dolly, if you think of it, that's all very fine my dear fellow, but I shouldn't think of it. And you won't give me your advice? Well, no, I think I'd rather not. I wish you hadn't told me. Why did you pick me out to tell me? Why didn't you tell Nitterdale? He might have said why didn't you tell Longstaff? No he wouldn't. Nobody would suppose that anybody would pick me out for this kind of thing. If I'd known that you were going to tell me such a story as this, I wouldn't have come with you. That's nonsense Dolly. Very well. I can't bear these kind of things. I feel all on a Twitter already. You mean to go on playing just the same? Of course I do. If he won anything very heavy, I should begin to think about it I suppose. Oh, this is Abchurch Lane, is it? Now for the man of money. The man of money received them much more graciously than Felix had expected. Of course nothing was said about Marie, and no further allusion was made to the painful subject of the baronet's property. Both Dolly and Sir Felix were astonished by the quick way in which the great financier understood their views and the readiness with which he undertook to comply with them. More disagreeable questions were asked as to the nature of the debt between the young men. Dolly was called upon to sign a couple of documents, and Sir Felix to sign one, and then they were assured that the thing was done. Mr. Adolphus Longstaff had paid Sir Felix Carberry a thousand pounds, and Sir Felix Carberry's commission had been accepted by Mr. Melmont for the purchase of railway stock to that amount. Sir Felix attempted to say a word. He endeavored to explain that his object in this commercial transaction was to make money immediately by reselling the shares and to go on continually making money by buying at a low price and selling at a high price. He no doubt did believe that being a director, if he could once raise the means of beginning this game, he could go on with it for an unlimited period. Buy and sell, buy and sell, so that he would have an almost regular income. This, as far as he could understand, was what Paul Montague was allowed to do, simply because he had become a director with a little money. Mr. Melmont was cordiality itself, but he could not be got to go into particulars. It was all right. You will wish to sell again, of course. Of course, I'll watch the market for you. When the young men left the room, all they knew, or thought that they knew, was that Dolly Longstaff had authorized Melmont to pay a thousand pounds on his behalf to Sir Felix, and that Sir Felix had instructed the same great man to buy shares with the amount. But why didn't he give you the script, said Dolly on his way westwards? I suppose it's all right with him, said Sir Felix. Oh yes, it's all right. Thousands of pounds to him are only like half crowns to us fellows. I should say it's all right. All the same, he's the biggest rogue out, you know. Sir Felix already began to be unhappy about his thousand pounds. End of Chapter 28 Chapter 29 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 29 Miss Melmont's Courage Lady Carberry continued to ask frequent questions as to the prosecution of her son's suit, and Sir Felix began to think that he was persecuted. I have spoken to her father, he said crossly. And what did Mr. Melmont say? Say, what should he say? He wanted to know what income I had got. After all, he's an old screw. Did he forbid you to come there anymore? Now, Mother, it's no use you're cross-examining me. If you let me alone, I'll do the best I can. She has accepted you herself? Of course she has. I told you that at Carberry. Then Felix, if I were you, I'd run off with her. I would indeed. It's done every day, and nobody thinks any harm of it when you marry the girl. You could do it now, because I know you've got money. From all I can hear, she's just the sort of girl that would go with you. The son sat silent listening to these maternal counsels. He did believe that Marie would go off with him, were he to propose the scheme to her. Her own father had almost alluded to such a proceeding, and certainly hinted that it was feasible. But at the same time had very clearly stated that in such a case the ardent lover would have to content himself with the lady alone. In any such event as that, there would be no fortune, but then might not that only be a threat. Rich fathers generally do forgive their daughters, and a rich father with only one child would surely forgive her when she returned to him, as she would do in this instance, graced with a title. Sir Felix thought of all this as he sat there silent. His mother read his thoughts as she continued. Of course, Felix, there must be some risk. Fancy what it would be to be thrown over at last, he exclaimed. I couldn't bear it, I think I should kill her. Oh, no, Felix, you wouldn't do that. But when I say there would be some risk, I mean that there would be very little. There would be nothing in it that ought to make him really angry. He has nobody else to give his money to, and it would be much nicer to have his daughter, Lady Carberry, with him than to be left all alone in the world. I couldn't live with him, you know, I couldn't do it. You needn't live with him, Felix. Of course, she would visit her parents. When the money was once settled, you need see as little of them as you pleased. Pray do not allow trifles to interfere with you. If this should not succeed, what are you to do? We shall all starve unless something be done. If I were you, Felix, I would take her away at once. They say she is of age. I shouldn't know where to take her, said Sir Felix, almost stunned into thoughtfulness by the magnitude of the proposition made to him. All that about Scotland is done with now. Of course, she would marry her at once. I suppose so, unless it were better to stay as we were till the money was settled. Oh, no, no, everybody would be against you. If you take her off in a spirited sort of way and then marry her, everybody will be with you. That's what you want. The father and mother will be sure to come round if the mother is nothing. He will come round if people speak up in your favor. I could get Mr. Alph and Mr. Brown to help. I'd try it, Felix. Indeed, I would. Ten thousand a year is not to be had every year. Sir Felix gave no assent to his mother's views. He felt no desire to relieve her anxiety by an assurance of activity in the matter. But the prospect was so grand that it had excited even him. He had money sufficient for carrying out the scheme. And if he delayed the matter now, it might well be that he would never again find himself so circumstance. He thought that he would ask somebody whether he ought to take her and what he ought to do with her. And that he would then make the proposition to herself. Miles Grendel would be the man to tell him because, with all his faults, Miles did understand things. But he could not ask Miles. He and Nitterdale were good friends, but Nitterdale wanted the girl for himself. Graslaw would be sure to tell Nitterdale. Dolly would be altogether useless. He thought that perhaps Hare Vosner would be the man to help him. There would be no difficulty out of which Hare Vosner would not extricate a fellow if the fellow paid him. On Thursday evening, he went to Grovener Square as desired by Marie. But unfortunately found Melmod in the drawing room. Lord Nitterdale was there also, and his lordship's old father, the Marquis of Aldriki, whom Felix, when he entered the room, did not know. He was a fierce-looking, gouty old man with watery eyes and very stiff gray hair, almost white. He was standing up, supporting himself on two sticks, when Sir Felix entered the room. There were also present Madame Melmod, Miss Longstaff, and Marie. As Felix had entered the hall, one huge footman had said that the ladies were not at home. Then there had been, for a moment, a whispering behind a door, in which he afterwards conceived that Madame Diedon had taken apart, and upon that a second tall footman had contradicted the first and had ushered him up to the drawing room. He felt considerably embarrassed, but shook hands with the ladies, bowed to Melmod, who seemed to take no notice of him, and nodded to Lord Nitterdale. He had not had time to place himself, when the Marquis arranged things. Suppose we go downstairs, said the Marquis? Certainly, my lord, said Melmod, I'll show your lordship the way. The Marquis did not speak to his son, but poked at him with his stick, as though poking him out of the door. So instigated, Nitterdale followed the finance here, and the gouty old Marquis toddled after them. Madame Melmod was beside herself with trepidation. You should not have been made to come up at all, she said. Il faut que vous vous retirez. I am very sorry, said Sir Felix, looking quite aghast. I think that I had, at any rate, better retire, said Miss Longstaff, raising herself to her full height and stalking out of the room. Quelle est ma chante, said Madame Melmod? Oh, she is so bad, Sir Felix, you had better go to. Yes, indeed. No, said Marie, running to him and taking hold of his arm. Why should he go? I want Papa to know. Il vous torrera, said Madame Melmod, my god, yes. Then he shall, said Marie, clinging to her lover. I will never marry Lord Nitterdale. If he were to cut me into bits, I wouldn't do it. Felix, you love me, do you not? Certainly, said Sir Felix, slipping his arm round her waist. Mama, said Marie, I will never have any other man but him. Never, never, never. Oh, Felix, tell her that you love me. You know that, don't you, ma'am? Sir Felix was a little troubled in his mind as to what he should say or what he should do. Oh, love at his beastliness, said Madame Melmod. Sir Felix, you had better go. Yes, indeed. Will you be so obliging? Don't go, said Marie. No, mama, he shan't go. What is he to be afraid of? I will walk down among them into Papa's room and say that I will never marry that man and that this is my lover. Felix, will you come? Sir Felix did not quite like the proposition. There had been a savage ferocity in that marquee's eye and there was habitually a heavy sternness about Melmod which together made him resist the invitation. I don't think I have a right to do that, he said, because it is Mr. Melmod's own house. I wouldn't mind, said Marie. I told Papa today that I wouldn't marry Lord Nitterdale. Was he angry with you? He laughed at me. He manages people till he thinks that everybody must do exactly what he tells them. He may kill me, but I will not do it. I have quite made up my mind. Felix, if you will be true to me, nothing shall separate us. I will not be ashamed to tell everybody that I love you. Madame Melmod had now thrown herself into a chair and was sighing. Sir Felix stood on the rug with his arm around Marie's waist listening to her protestations but saying little in answer to them when suddenly a heavy step was heard ascending the stairs. Say, Louis screamed Madame Melmod bustling up from her seat and hurrying out of the room by a side door. The two lovers were alone for one moment during which Marie lifted up her face and Sir Felix kissed her lips. Now be brave, she said, escaping from his arm and I'll be brave. Mr. Melmod looked round the room as he entered. Where are the others? he asked. Mama has gone away and Miss Longstaff went before Mama. Sir Felix, it is well that I should tell you that my daughter is engaged to Mary Lord Nitterdale. Sir Felix, I am not engaged to Mary Lord Nitterdale, said Marie. It's no good, Papa, I won't do it. If you chop me to pieces, I won't do it. She will Mary Lord Nitterdale, continued Mr. Melmod, addressing himself to Sir Felix. As that is arranged, you will perhaps think it better to leave us. I shall be happy to renew my acquaintance with you as soon as the fact is recognized or happy to see you in the city at any time. Papa, he is my lover, said Marie. Poo. It is not poo, he is. I will never have any other. I hate Lord Nitterdale, and as for that dreadful old man, I could not bear to look at him. Sir Felix is as good a gentleman as he is. If you loved me, Papa, you would not want to make me unhappy all my life. Her father walked up to her rapidly with his hand raised and she clung only the closer to her lover's arm. At this moment Sir Felix did not know what he might best do, but he thoroughly wished himself out in the square. Jade, said Melmod, get to your room. Of course I will go to bed if you tell me, Papa. I do tell you, how dare you take hold of him in that way before me. Have you no idea of disgrace? I am not disgraced. It is not more disgraceful to love him than that other man. Oh, Papa, don't. You hurt me, I am going. He took her by the arm and dragged her to the door and then thrust her out. I am very sorry, Mr. Melmod, said Sir Felix, to have had a hand in causing this disturbance. Go away and don't come back anymore, that's all. You can't both marry her. All you have got to understand is this. I am not the man to give my daughter a single shilling if she marries against my consent. By the God that hears me, Sir Felix, she shall not have one shilling. But look, you, if you'll give this up I shall be proud to cooperate with you in anything you may wish to have done in the city. After this, Sir Felix left the room, went down the stairs, had the door opened for him and was ushered into the square. But as he went through the hall, a woman managed to shove a note into his hand which he read as soon as he found himself under a gas lamp. It was dated that morning and had therefore no reference to the fray which had just taken place. It ran as follows. I hope you will come tonight. There is something I cannot tell you then, but you ought to know it. When we were in France, Papa thought it wise to settle a lot of money on me. I don't know how much, but I suppose it was enough to live on if other things went wrong. He never talked to me about it, but I know it was done, and it hasn't been undone and can't be without my leave. He is very angry about you this morning, for I told him I would never give you up. He says he won't give me anything if I marry without his leave, but I am sure he cannot take it away. I tell you because I think I ought to tell you everything. M. Sir Felix as he read this could not but think that he had become engaged to a very enterprising young lady. It was evident that she did not care to what extent she braved her father on behalf of her lover, and now she coolly proposed to rob him. But Sir Felix saw no reason why he should not take advantage of the money made over to the girl's name if he could lay his hands on it. He did not know much of such transactions, but he knew more than Marie Melmont and could understand that a man in Melmont's position should want to secure a portion of his fortune against accidents by settling it on his daughter. Whether having so settled that he could again resume it without the daughter's assent, Sir Felix did not know. Marie, who had no doubt been regarded as an absolutely passive instrument when the thing was done, was now quite alive to the benefit which she might possibly derive from it. Her proposition put into plain English amounted to this. Take me and marry me without my father's consent and then you and I together can rob my father of the money which for his own purposes he has settled upon me. He had looked upon the lady of his choice as a poor weak thing without any special character of her own who was made worthy of consideration only by the fact that she was a rich man's daughter. But now she began to loom before his eyes as something bigger than that. She had a will of her own when the mother had none. She had not been afraid of her brutal father when he, Sir Felix, had trembled before him. She had offered to be beaten and killed and chopped to pieces on behalf of her lover. There could be no doubt about her running away if she were asked. It seemed to him that within the last month he had gained a great deal of experience and that things which heretofore had been troublesome to him or difficult or perhaps impossible were now coming easily within his reach. He had won two or three thousand pounds at cards whereas invariable loss had been the result of the small play in which he had before indulged. He had been set to marry this heiress having at first no great liking for the attempt because of its difficulties and the small amount of hope which had offered him. The girl was already willing and anxious to jump into his arms. Then he had detected a man cheating at cards an extent of iniquity that was awful to him before he had seen it and was already beginning to think that there was not very much in that. If there was not much in it, if such a man as Miles Grendel could cheat at cards and be brought to no punishment, why should not he try it? It was a rapid way of winning, no doubt. He remembered that on one or two occasions he had asked his adversary to cut the cards the second time at Wist because he had observed that there was no honor at the bottom. No feeling of honesty had interfered with him. The little trick had hardly been premeditated but when successful without detection had not troubled his conscience. Now it seemed to him that much more than that might be done without detection but nothing had opened his eyes to the ways of the world so widely as the sweet lover-like proposition made by Miss Melmont for robbing her father. It certainly recommended to girly him she had been able at an early age amidst the circumstances of a very secluded life to throw off from her altogether those scruples of honesty those bugbears of the world which are apt to prevent great enterprises in the minds of men. What should he do next? This sum of money of which Marie wrote so easily was probably large. It would not have been worth the while of such a man as Mr. Melmont to make a trifling provision of this nature. It could hardly be less than fifty thousand pounds. Might probably be very much more. But this was certain to him that if he and Marie were to claim this money as man and wife there could then be no hope of further liberality. It was not probable that such a man as Mr. Melmont would forgive even an only child such an offense as that. Even if it were obtained fifty thousand pounds would not be very much and Melmont might probably have means even if the robbery were duly perpetrated of making the possession of the money very uncomfortable. These were deep waters into which Sir Felix was preparing to plunge and he did not feel himself to be altogether comfortable although he liked the deep waters. End of Chapter 29 Chapter 30 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 30 Mr. Melmont's Promise On the following Saturday there appeared in Mr. Alff's paper, The Evening Pulpit, a very remarkable article on the south-central Pacific and Mexican Railway. It was an article that attracted a great deal of attention and was therefore remarkable. But it was in nothing more remarkable than in this that it left on the mind of its reader no impression of any decided opinion about the railway. The editor would at any future time be able to refer to his article with equal pride whether the railway should become a great cosmopolitan fact or whether it should collapse amidst the foul struggles of a horde of swindlers. In Utrumka Paratus the article was mysterious, suggestive, amusing, well-informed. That in The Evening Pulpit was a matter of course and above all things, ironical. Thanks to its omniscience, its irony was the strongest weapon belonging to The Evening Pulpit. There was a little praise given, no doubt in irony, to the duchesses who served Mr. Melmont. There was a little praise given, of course, in irony, to Mr. Melmont's Board of English Directors. There was a good deal of praise, but still alloyed by a dash of irony, bestowed on the idea of civilizing Mexico by joining it to California. It bestowed upon England for taking up the matter, but accompanied by some ironical touches at her incapacity to believe thoroughly in any enterprise not originated by herself. Then there was something said of the universality of Mr. Melmont's commercial genius, but whether said in a spirit prophetic of ultimate failure and disgrace or of heaven-born success and unequaled commercial splendor no one could tell. It was generally said at the clubs that Mr. Alph had written this article himself. Old Splinter, who was one of a body of men possessing an excellent seller of wine and calling themselves Pades Palados and who had written for the heavy quarterlies any time this last forty years, professed that he saw through the article. The Evening Pulpit had been, he explained, desirous of going as far as it could in denouncing Mr. Melmont without incurring the danger of an action for libel. Mr. Splinter thought that the thing was clever but mean. These new publications generally were mean. Mr. Splinter was constant in that opinion, but putting the meanness aside, he thought that the article was well done. According to his view it was intended to expose Mr. Melmont and the railway, but the Pades Palados generally did not agree with him. Under such an interpretation what had been the meaning of that paragraph in which the writer had declared that the work of joining one ocean to another was worthy of the nearest approach to divinity that had been granted to men. Old Splinter chuckled and gabbled as he heard this and declared that there was not with enough left now, even among the Pades Palados, to understand a shaft of irony. There could be no doubt, however, at the time that the world did not go with Old Splinter and that the article served to enhance the value of shares in the great railway enterprise. Lady Carberry was sure that the article was intended to write up the railway and took great joy in it. She entertained in her brain a somewhat confused notion that if she could only be stir herself in the right direction and could induce her son to open his eyes to his own advantage, very great things might be achieved so that wealth might become his handmade and luxury the habit and the right of his life. He was the beloved and the accepted suitor of Maria Melmot. He was a director of this great company sitting at the same board with a great commercial hero. He was the handsomest young man in London and he was a baronette. Very wild ideas occurred to her. Should she take Mr. Elf into her entire confidence? If Melmot and Elf could be brought together, what might they not do? Elf could write up Melmot and Melmot could shower shares upon Elf and if Melmot would come and be smiled upon by herself, be flattered as she thought that she could flatter him, be told that he was a god and have that passage about the divinity of joining ocean to ocean, construed to him as she could constru it, would not the great man become plastic under her hands? And if, while this was a doing, Felix would run away with Marie, could not forgiveness be made easy and her creative mind ranged still farther. Mr. Brown might help and even Mr. Booker. To such a one as Melmot, a man doing great things through the force of the confidence placed in him by the world at large, the freely spoken support of the press would be everything. Who would not buy shares in a railway as to which Mr. Brown and Mr. Elf would combine in saying that it was managed by divinity. Her thoughts were rather hazy but from day to day she worked hard to make them clear to herself. On the Sunday afternoon, Mr. Booker called on her and talked to her about the article. She did not say much to Mr. Booker as to her own connection with Mr. Melmot, telling herself that prudence was essential in the present emergency, but she listened with all her ears. It was Mr. Booker's idea that the man was going to make a spoon or spoil a horn. You think him honest, don't you? Ask Lady Carberry. Mr. Booker smiled and hesitated. Of course, I mean honest as men can be in such very large transactions. Perhaps that is the best way of putting it, said Mr. Booker. If a thing can be made great and beneficent, a boon to humanity, simply by creating a belief in it, does not a man become a benefactor to his race by creating that belief? At the expense of veracity, suggested Mr. Booker. At the expense of anything, rejoined Lady Carberry with energy, one cannot measure such men by the ordinary rule. You would do evil to produce good, asked Mr. Booker. I do not call it doing evil. You have to destroy a thousand living creatures every time you drink a glass of water, but you do not think of that when you are a thirst. You are a ship to sea without endangering lives. You do send ships to sea, though men perish yearly. You tell me this man may perhaps ruin hundreds, but then again he may create a new world in which millions will be rich and happy. You are an excellent casualist, Lady Carberry. I am an enthusiastic lover of beneficent audacity, said Lady Carberry, picking her words slowly and showing herself to be quite satisfied with herself as she picked them. Did I hold your place, Mr. Booker, in the literature of my country? I hold no place, Lady Carberry. Yes, and a very distinguished place. Where I circumstance, as you are, I should have no hesitation in lending the whole weight of my periodical, let it be what it might, to the assistance of so great a man and so great an object as this. I should be dismissed tomorrow, said Mr. Booker, getting up and laughing as he took his departure. Lady Carberry felt that, as regarded Mr. Booker, she had only thrown out a chance word that could not do any harm. She had not expected to effect much through Mr. Booker's instrumentality. On the Tuesday evening, her regular Tuesday, as she called it, all her three editors came to her drawing room, but there came also a greater man than either of them. She had taken the bull by the horns and, without saying anything to anybody, had written to Mr. Melmont himself, asking him to honor her poor house with his presence. She had written a very pretty note to him, reminding him of their meeting at Cavisham, telling him that on a former occasion Madame Melmont and his daughter had been so kind as to come to her and giving him to understand that of all the potentates now on earth, he was the one to whom she could bow the knee with the purest satisfaction. He wrote back, or Miles Grendel did for him, a very plain note accepting the honor of Lady Carberry's invitation. The great man came and Lady Carberry took him under her immediate wing with a grace that was all her own. She said a word about their dear friends at Cavisham, expressed her sorrow that her son's engagements did not admit of his being there, and then with the utmost audacity rushed off to the article in the pulpit. Her friend, Mr. Alph, the editor, had thoroughly appreciated the greatness of Mr. Melmont's character and the magnificence of Mr. Melmont's undertakings. Mr. Melmont bowed and muttered something that was inaudible. Now, I must introduce you to Mr. Alph, said the lady. The introduction was effected, and Mr. Alph explained that it was hardly necessary as he had already been entertained as one of Mr. Melmont's guests. There were a great many there I never saw and probably never shall see, said Mr. Melmont. I was one of the unfortunate, said Mr. Alph. I'm sorry you were unfortunate if you had come into the wist room you would have found me. Ah, if I had but known, said Mr. Alph. The editor, as was proper, carried about with him samples of the irony which his paper used so effectively, but it was altogether thrown away upon Melmont. Lady Carberry, finding that no immediate good results could be expected from this last introduction, tried another. Mr. Melmont, she said, whispering to him, I do so want to make you known to Mr. Brown. Mr. Brown, I know you have never met before. A morning paper is a much heavier burden to an editor than one published in the afternoon. Mr. Brown, as of course you know, manages the breakfast table. There is hardly a more influential man in London than Mr. Brown. And they declare you know, she said, lowering the tone of her whisper as she communicated the fact that his commercial articles are gospel, absolutely gospel. Then the two men were named to each other and Lady Carberry retreated, but not out of hearing. Getting very hot, said Mr. Melmont. Very hot indeed, said Mr. Brown. It was over seventy in the city today. I call that very hot for June. Very hot indeed, said Mr. Brown again. Then the conversation was over. Mr. Brown sidled away and Mr. Melmont was left standing in the middle of the room. Lady Carberry told herself at the moment that Rome was not built in a day. She would have been better satisfied, certainly, if she could have laid a few more bricks on this day. Perseverance, however, was the thing wanted. But Mr. Melmont himself had a word to say and before he left the house he said it. It was very good of you to ask me, Lady Carberry, very good. Lady Carberry intimated her opinion that the goodness was all on the other side. And I came, continued Mr. Melmont, because I had something particular to say. Otherwise I don't go out much to evening parties. Your son has proposed to my daughter. Lady Carberry looked up into his face with all her eyes, clashed both her hands together, and then, having unclasped them, put one upon his sleeve. My daughter, ma'am, is engaged to another man. You would not enslave her affections, Mr. Melmont. I won't give her a shilling if she marries anyone else, that's all. You reminded me down at Cavisham that your son is a director at our board. I did, I did. I have a great respect for your son, ma'am. I don't want to hurt him in any way. If he'll signify to my daughter that he withdraws from this offer of his because I'm against it, I'll see that he does uncommon well in the city. I'll be the making of him. Good night, ma'am. Then Mr. Melmont took his departure without another word. Here at any rate was an undertaking on the part of the great man who would be the making of Felix if Felix would only obey him. Accompanied or rather preceded by a most positive assurance that if Felix were to succeed in marrying his daughter, he would not give his son-in-law a shilling. There was very much to be considered in this. She did not doubt that Felix might be made by Mr. Melmont's city influences. But then any perpetuity of such making must depend on qualifications in her son, which she feared that he did not possess. The wife without the money would be terrible. That would be absolute ruin. There could be no escape, then, no hope. There was an appreciation of real tragedy in her heart while she contemplated the position of Sir Felix married to such a girl as she supposed Marie Melmont to be without any means of support for either of them but what she could supply. It would kill her, and for those young people there would be nothing before them but beggary in the workhouse. As she thought of this, she trembled with true maternal instincts. Her beautiful boy, so glorious with his outward gifts, so fit as she thought him for all the graces of the grand world. Though the ambition was vilely ignoble, the mother's love was noble and disinterested. But the girl was an only child. The future honors of the house of Melmont could be made to settle on no other head. No doubt the father would prefer a lord for a son-in-law and having that preference would, of course, do as he was now doing. That he should threaten to disinherit his daughter if she married contrary to his wishes was to be expected. But would it not be equally a matter of course that he should make the best of the marriage if it were once affected? His daughter would return to him with a title, with one of a lower degree than his ambition desired. To herself personally Lady Carberry felt that the great finance here had been very rude. He had taken advantage of her invitation that he might come to her house and threaten her. But she would forgive that. She could pass that over altogether if only anything were to be gained by passing it over. She looked round the room longing for a friend whom she might consult with a true feeling of genuine womanly dependence. Her most natural friend was Roger Carberry. But even had he been there she could not have consulted him on any matter touching the melmots. His advice would have been very clear. He would have told her to have nothing at all to do with such adventurers. But then dear Roger was old-fashioned and knew nothing of people as they are now. He lived in a world which, though slow, had been good in its way, but which, whether bad or good, had now passed away. Then her eye settled on Mr. Brown. She was afraid of Mr. Alph. She had almost begun to think that Mr. Alph was too difficult of management to be of use to her. But Mr. Brown was softer. Mr. Booker was serviceable for an article but would not be sympathetic as a friend. Mr. Brown had been very courteous to her lately. So much so that on one occasion she had almost feared that the susceptible old goose was going to be a goose again. That would be a bore. But still she might make use of the friendly condition of mine which such susceptibility would produce. When her guests began to leave her she spoke a word aside to him. She wanted his advice. Would he stay for a few minutes after the rest of the company? He did stay. And when all the others were gone she asked her daughter to leave them. Hedda, she said, there was something of business to communicate to Mr. Brown. And so they were left alone. I'm afraid you didn't make much of Mr. Melmont, she said, smiling. He had seated himself on the end of a sofa close to the armchair which she occupied. In reply he only shook his head and laughed. I saw how it was and I was sorry for it for he certainly is a wonderful man. I suppose he is one of those men whose powers did not lie, I should say, chiefly in conversation. Though indeed there is no reason why he should not say the same of me. For if he said little I said less. It didn't just come off, Lady Carberry suggested with her sweetest smile. But now I want to tell you something. I think I am justified in regarding you as a real friend. Certainly, he said, putting out his hand for hers. She gave it to him for a moment and then took it back again, finding that he did not relinquish it of his own accord. Stupid old goose, she said to herself. And now to my story. You know my boy, Felix. The editor nodded his head. He is engaged to marry that man's daughter. Engaged to marry Miss Melmont. Then Lady Carberry nodded her head. Why, she is said to be the greatest heiress that the world has ever produced. I thought she was to marry Lord Nitterdale. She has engaged herself to Felix. She is desperately in love with him, as is he with her. She tried to tell her story truly, knowing that no advice can be worth anything that is not based on a true story. But lying had become her nature. Melmont naturally wants her to marry the Lord. He came here to tell me that if his daughter married Felix she would not have a penny. Do you mean that he volunteered that as a threat? Just so. And he told me that he had come here simply with the object of saying so. It was more candid than civil, but we must take it as we get it. He would be sure to make some such threat. Exactly. That is just what I feel. And in these days young people are often kept from marrying simply by a father's fantasy. But I must tell you something else. He told me that if Felix would desist he would enable him to make a fortune in the city. That's Bosch, said Brown with decision. Do you think it must be so, certainly? Yes, I do. Such an undertaking, if intended by Melmont, would give me a worse opinion of him than I have ever held. He did make it. Then he did very wrong. He must have spoken with the purpose of deceiving. You know my son is one of the directors of that great American railway. It was not just as though the promise were made to a young man who was all together unconnected with him. Sir Felix's name was put there in a hurry merely because he has a title and because Melmont thought he, as a young man, would not be likely to interfere with him. It may be that he will be able to sell a few shares at a profit, but if I understand the matter rightly he has no capital to go into such a business. No, he has no capital. Dear Lady Carberry, I would place no dependence at all on such a promise as that. You think you should marry the girl then in spite of the father? Mr. Brown hesitated before he replied to this question, but it was to this question that Lady Carberry especially wished for a reply. She wanted someone to support her under the circumstances of an elopement. She rose from her chair and he rose at the same time. Perhaps I should have begun by saying that Felix is all but prepared to take her off. She is quite ready to go. She is devoted to him. Do you think he would be wrong? That is a question very hard to answer. People do it every day. Lionel Goldschiner ran away the other day with Lady Julius' start and everybody visits them. Oh yes, people do run away and it all comes right. It was the gentleman who had the money then and it is said, you know, that old Lady Catch Boy, Lady Julius' mother, had arranged the elopement herself as offering the safest way of securing the rich prize. The young Lord didn't like it so the mother had it done in that fashion. There would be nothing disgraceful. I didn't say there would, but nevertheless it is one of those things the man hardly ventures to advise. If you ask me whether I think that Melmont would forgive her and make her an allowance afterwards, I think he would. I am so glad to hear you say that. And I feel quite certain that no dependence whatever should be placed on that promise of assistance. I quite agree with you. I am so much obliged to you, said Lady Carberry, who was now determined that Felix should run off with the girl. You have been so very kind. Then again she gave him her hand as though to bid him farewell for the night. And now, he said, I also have something to say to you. End of chapter 30