The Way We Live Now I

THE WAY WE LIVE NOW

“Not that it will be the least good. It would be quite unnatural to him to pay anything.”

“Fellows used to pay their gambling debts,” said Sir Felix, who was still in funds, and who still held a considerable assortment of I. O. U.’s.

“They don’t now, — unless they like it. How did a fellow manage before, if he hadn’t got it?”

“He went smash,” said Sir Felix, “and disappeared and was never heard of any more. It was just the same as if he’d been found cheating. I believe a fellow might cheat now and nobody’d say anything!”

“I shouldn’t,” said Lord Nidderdale. “What’s the use of being beastly ill-natured? I’m not very good at saying my prayers, but I do think there’s something in that bit about forgiving people. Of course cheating isn’t very nice: and it isn’t very nice for a fellow to play when he knows he can’t pay; but I don’t know that it’s worse than getting drunk like Dolly Longestaffe, or quarrelling with everybody as Grasslough does, — or trying to marry some poor devil of a girl merely because she’s got money. I believe in living in glass houses, but I don’t believe in throwing stones. Do you ever read the Bible, Carbury?”

“Read the Bible! Well; — yes; — no; — that is, I suppose, I used to do.”

“I often think I shouldn’t have been the first to pick up a stone and pitch it at that woman. Live and let live; — that’s my motto.”

“But you agree that we ought to do something about these shares?” said Sir Felix, thinking that this doctrine of forgiveness might be carried too far.

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“Oh, certainly. I’ll let old Grendall live with all my heart; but then he ought to let me live too. Only, who’s to bell the cat?”

“What cat?”

“It’s no good our going to old Grendall,” said Lord Nidderdale, who had some understanding in the matter, “nor yet to young Grendall. The one would only grunt and say nothing, and the other would tell every lie that came into his head. The cat in this matter I take to be our great master, Augustus Melmotte.”

This little meeting occurred on the day after Felix Carbury’s return from Suffolk, and at a time at which, as we know, it was the great duty of his life to get the consent of old Melmotte to his marriage with Marie Melmotte. In doing that he would have to put one bell on the cat, and he thought that for the present that was sufficient. In his heart of hearts he was afraid of Melmotte. But then, as he knew very well, Nidderdale was intent on the same object. Nidderdale, he thought, was a very queer fellow. That talking about the Bible, and the forgiving of trespasses, was very queer; and that allusion to the marrying of heiresses very queer indeed. He knew that Nidderdale wanted to marry the heiress, and Nidderdale must also know that he wanted to marry her. And yet Nidderdale was indelicate enough to talk about it! And now the man asked who should bell the cat! “You go there oftener than I do, and perhaps you could do it best,” said Sir Felix.

“Go where?” “To the Board.”

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“But you’re always at his house. He’d be civil to me, perhaps, because I’m a lord: but then, for the same reason, he’d think I was the bigger fool of the two.”

“I don’t see that at all,” said Sir Felix.

“I ain’t afraid of him, if you mean that,” continued Lord Nidderdale. “He’s a wretched old reprobate, and I don’t doubt but he’d skin you and me if he could make money off our carcasses. But as he can’t skin me, I’ll have a shy at him. On the whole I think he rather likes me, because I’ve always been on the square with him. If it depended on him, you know, I should have the girl to-morrow.”

“Would you?” Sir Felix did not at all mean to doubt his friend’s assertion, but felt it hard to answer so very strange a statement.

“But then she don’t want me, and I ain’t quite sure that I want her. Where the devil would a fellow find himself if the money wasn’t all there?” Lord Nidderdale then sauntered away, leaving the baronet in a deep study of thought as to such a condition of things as that which his lordship had suggested. Where the — mischief would he, Sir Felix Carbury, be, if he were to marry the girl, and then to find that the money was not all there?

On the following Friday, which was the Board day, Nidderdale went to the great man’s offices in Abchurch Lane, and so contrived that he walked with the great man to the Board meeting. Melmotte was always very gracious in his manner to Lord Nidderdale, but had never, up to this moment, had any speech with his proposed son-in-law about business. “I wanted

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just to ask you something,” said the lord, hanging on the chairman’s arm.

“Anything you please, my lord.”

“Don’t you think that Carbury and I ought to have some shares to sell?”

“No, I don’t, — if you ask me.”

“Oh; — I didn’t know. But why shouldn’t we as well as the others?”

“Have you and Sir Felix put any money into it?”

“Well, if you come to that, I don’t suppose we have. How much has Lord Alfred put into it?”

“I have taken shares for Lord Alfred,” said Melmotte, putting very heavy emphasis on the personal pronoun. “If it suits me to advance money to Lord Alfred Grendall, I suppose I may do so without asking your lordship’s consent, or that of Sir Felix Carbury.”

“Oh, certainly. I don’t want to make inquiry as to what you do with your money.”

“I’m sure you don’t, and, therefore, we won’t say anything more about it. You wait awhile, Lord Nidderdale, and you’ll find it will come all right. If you’ve got a few thousand pounds loose, and will put them into the concern, why, of course you can sell; and, if the shares are up, can sell at a profit. It’s presumed just at present that, at some early day, you’ll qualify for your directorship by doing so, and till that is done, the shares are allocated to you, but cannot be transferred to you.”

“That’s it, is it,” said Lord Nidderdale, pretending to understand all about it.

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or £8,000 a year. I wouldn’t do it for less, mother; it wouldn’t be worth while.”

“But you have nothing left of your own.”

“I’ve got a throat that I can cut, and brains that I can blow out,” said the son, using an argument which he conceived might be efficacious with his mother; though, had she known him, she might have been sure that no man lived less likely to cut his own throat or blow out his own brains.

“Oh, Felix! how brutal it is to speak to me in that way.”

“It may be brutal; but you know, mother, business is business. You want me to marry this girl because of her money.”

“You want to marry her yourself.”

“I’m quite a philosopher about it. I want her money; and when one wants money, one should make up one’s mind how much or how little one means to take, — and whether one is sure to get it.”

“I don’t think there can be any doubt.”

“If I were to marry her, and if the money wasn’t there, it would be very like cutting my throat then, mother. If a man plays and loses, he can play again and perhaps win; but when a fellow goes in for an heiress, and gets the wife without the money, he feels a little hampered you know.”

“Of course he’d pay the money first.”

“It’s very well to say that. Of course he ought; but it would be rather awkward to refuse to go into church after everything had been arranged because the money hadn’t been paid over. He’s so clever, that he’d contrive that a man shouldn’t know whether the money had been paid or not. You can’t carry

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£10,000 a year about in your pocket, you know. If you’ll go, mother, perhaps I might think of getting up.”

Lady Carbury saw the danger, and turned over the affair on every side in her own mind. But she could also see the house in Grosvenor Square, the expenditure without limit, the congregating duchesses, the general acceptation of the people, and the mercantile celebrity of the man. And she could weigh against that the absolute pennilessness of her baronet-son. As he was, his condition was hopeless. Such a one must surely run some risk. The embarrassments of such a man as Lord Nidderdale were only temporary. There were the family estates, and the marquisate, and a golden future for him; but there was nothing coming to Felix in the future. All the goods he would ever have of his own, he had now; — position, a title, and a handsome face. Surely he could afford to risk something! Even the ruins and wreck of such wealth as that displayed in Grosvenor Square would be better than the baronet’s present condition. And then, though it was possible that old Melmotte should be ruined some day, there could be no doubt as to his present means; and would it not be probable that he would make hay while the sun shone by securing his daughter’s position? She visited her son again on the next morning, which was Sunday, and again tried to persuade him to the marriage. “I think you should be content to run a little risk,” she said.

Sir Felix had been unlucky at cards on Saturday night, and had taken, perhaps, a little too much wine. He was at any rate sulky, and in a humour to resent interference. “I wish you’d leave me alone,” he said, “to manage my own business.”

“Is it not my business too?”

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“No; you haven’t got to marry her, and to put up with these people. I shall make up my mind what to do myself, and I don’t want anybody to meddle with me.”

“You ungrateful boy!”

“I understand all about that. Of course I’m ungrateful when I don’t do everything just as you wish it. You don’t do any good. You only set me against it all.”

“How do you expect to live, then? Are you always to be a burden on me and your sister? I wonder that you’ve no shame. Your cousin Roger is right. I will quit London altogether, and leave you to your own wretchedness.”

“That’s what Roger says; is it? I always thought Roger was a fellow of that sort.”

“He is the best friend I have.” What would Roger have thought had he heard this assertion from Lady Carbury?

“He’s an ill-tempered, close-fisted, interfering cad, and if he meddles with my affairs again, I shall tell him what I think of him. Upon my word, mother, these little disputes up in my bedroom ain’t very pleasant. Of course it’s your house; but if you do allow me a room, I think you might let me have it to myself.” It was impossible for Lady Carbury, in her present mood, and in his present mood, to explain to him that in no other way and at no other time could she ever find him. If she waited till he came down to breakfast, he escaped from her in five minutes, and then he returned no more till some unholy hour in the morning. She was as good a pelican as ever allowed the blood to be torn from her own breast to satisfy the greed of her young, but she felt that she should have something back for her blood, — some return for her sacrifices. This chick

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would take all as long as there was a drop left, and then resent the fondling of the mother-bird as interference. Again and again there came upon her moments in which she thought that Roger Carbury was right. And yet she knew that when the time came she would not be able to be severe. She almost hated herself for the weakness of her own love, — but she acknowledged it. If he should fall utterly, she must fall with him. In spite of his cruelty, his callous hardness, his insolence to herself, his wickedness and ruinous indifference to the future, she must cling to him to the last. All that she had done, and all that she had borne, — all that she was doing and bearing, — was it not for his sake?

Sir Felix had been in Grosvenor Square since his return from Carbury, and had seen Madame Melmotte and Marie; but he had seen them together, and not a word had been said about the engagement. He could not make much use of the elder woman. She was as gracious as was usual with her; but then she was never very gracious. She had told him that Miss Longestaffe was coming to her, which was a great bore, as the young lady was “fatigante.” Upon this Marie had declared that she intended to like the young lady very much. “Pooh!” said Madame Melmotte. “You never like no person at all.” At this Marie had looked over to her lover and smiled. “Ah, yes; that is all very well, — while it lasts; but you care for no friend.” From which Felix had judged that Madame Melmotte at any rate knew of his offer, and did not absolutely disapprove of it. On the Saturday he had received a note at his club from Marie. “Come on Sunday at half-past two. You will find papa after lunch.” This was in his possession when his mother visited him in his bed-

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