The Way We Live Now III
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THE WAY WE LIVE NOW
“Well, — eighty thousand. It’s impossible to suppose that such a man as Melmotte shouldn’t be able to raise eighty thousand pounds.”
“Why don’t he do it then?” asked Dolly.
All this was very unpleasant and made the club less social than it used to be in old days. There was an attempt that night to get up a game of cards; but Nidderdale would not play because he was offended with Dolly Longestaffe; and Miles Grendall was away in the country, — a fugitive from the face of Melmotte, and Carbury was in hiding at home with his countenance from top to bottom supported by plasters, and Montague in these days never went to the club. At the present moment he was again in Liverpool, having been summoned thither by Mr. Ramsbottom. “By George,” said Dolly, as he filled another pipe and ordered more brandy and water, “I think everything is going to come to an end. I do indeed. I never heard of such a thing before as a man being done in this way. And then Vossner has gone off, and it seems everybody is to pay just what he says they owed him. And now one can’t even get up a game of cards. I feel as though there were no good in hoping that things would ever come right again.”
The opinion of the club was a good deal divided as to the matter in dispute between Lord Nidderdale and Dolly Longestaffe. It was admitted by some to be “very fishy.” If Melmotte were so great a man why didn’t he pay the money, and why should he have mortgaged the property before it was really his own? But the majority of the men thought that Dolly was wrong. As to the signature of the letter, Dolly was a man who would naturally be quite unable to say what he had and
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what he had not signed. And then, even into the Beargarden there had filtered, through the outer world, a feeling that people were not now bound to be so punctilious in the paying of money as they were a few years since. No doubt it suited Melmotte to make use of the money, and therefore, — as he had succeeded in getting the property into his hands, — he did make use of it. But it would be forthcoming sooner or later! In this way of looking at the matter the Beargarden followed the world at large. The world at large, in spite of the terrible falling-off at the Emperor of China’s dinner, in spite of all the rumours, in spite of the ruinous depreciation of the Mexican Railway stock, and of the undoubted fact that Dolly Longestaffe had not received his money, was inclined to think that Melmotte would “pull through.”
CHAPTER LXXV
IN BRUTON STREET
Mr. Squercum all this time was in a perfect fever of hard work and anxiety. It may be said of him that he had been quite sharp enough to perceive the whole truth. He did really know it all, — if he could prove that which he knew. He had extended his enquiries in the city till he had convinced himself that, whatever wealth Melmotte might have had twelve months ago, there was not enough of it left at present to cover the liabilities. Squercum was quite sure that Melmotte was not a falling, but a fallen star, — perhaps not giving sufficient credence to the recuperative powers of modern commerce. Squercum told a certain stockbroker in the City, who was his specially confidential friend, that Melmotte was a “gone coon.” The stockbroker made also some few enquiries, and on that evening agreed with Squercum that Melmotte was a “gone coon.” If such were the case it would positively be the making of Squercum if it could be so managed that he should appear as the destroying angel of this offensive dragon. So Squercum raged among the Bideawhiles, who were unable altogether to shut their doors against him. They could not dare to bid defiance to Squercum, — feeling that they had themselves blundered, and
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feeling also that they must be careful not to seem to screen a fault by a falsehood. “I suppose you give it up about the letter having been signed by my client,” said Squercum to the elder of the two younger Bideawhiles.
“I give up nothing and I assert nothing,” said the superior attorney. “Whether the letter be genuine or not we had no reason to believe it to be otherwise. The young gentleman’s signature is never very plain, and this one is about as like any other as that other would be like the last.”
“Would you let me look at it again, Mr. Bideawhile?” Then the letter which had been very often inspected during the last ten days was handed to Mr. Squercum. “It’s a stiff resemblance; — such as he never could have written had he tried it ever so.”
“Perhaps not, Mr. Squercum. We are not generally on the lookout for forgeries in letters from our clients or our clients’ sons.”
“Just so, Mr. Bideawhile. But then Mr. Longestaffe had already told you that his son would not sign the letter.”
“How is one to know when and how and why a young man like that will change his purpose?”
“Just so, Mr. Bideawhile. But you see after such a declaration as that on the part of my client’s father, the letter, — which is in itself a little irregular perhaps — “
“I don’t know that it’s irregular at all.”
“Well; — it didn’t reach you in a very confirmatory manner. We’ll just say that. What Mr. Longestaffe can have been at to wish to give up his title-deeds without getting anything for them — “
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“Excuse me, Mr. Squercum, but that’s between Mr. Longestaffe and us.”
“Just so; — but as Mr. Longestaffe and you have jeopardised my client’s property it is natural that I should make a few remarks. I think you’d have made a few remarks yourself, Mr. Bideawhile, if the case had been reversed. I shall bring the matter before the Lord Mayor, you know.” To this Mr. Bideawhile said not a word. “And I think I understand you now that you do not intend to insist on the signature as being genuine.”
“I say nothing about it, Mr. Squercum. I think you’ll find it very hard to prove that it’s not genuine.”
“My client’s oath, Mr. Bideawhile.”
“I’m afraid your client is not always very clear as to what he does.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that, Mr. Bideawhile. I fancy that if I were to speak in that way of your client you would be very angry with me. Besides, what does it all amount to? Will the old gentleman say that he gave the letter into his son’s hands, so that, even if such a freak should have come into my client’s head, he could have signed it and sent it off? If I understand, Mr. Longestaffe says that he locked the letter up in a drawer in the very room which Melmotte occupied, and that he afterwards found the drawer open. It won’t, I suppose, be alleged that my client knew so little what he was about that he broke open the drawer in order that he might get at the letter. Look at it whichever way you will, he did not sign it, Mr. Bideawhile.”
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“I have never said he did. All I say is that we had fair ground for supposing that it was his letter. I really don’t know that I can say anything more.”
“Only that we are to a certain degree in the same boat together in this matter.”
“I won’t admit even that, Mr. Squercum.”
“The difference being that your client by his fault has jeopardised his own interests and those of my client, while my client has not been in fault at all. I shall bring the matter forward before the Lord Mayor to-morrow, and as at present advised shall ask for an investigation with reference to a charge of fraud. I presume you will be served with a subpœna to bring the letter into court.”
“If so you may be sure that we shall produce it.” Then Mr. Squercum took his leave and went straight away to Mr. Bumby, a barrister well known in the City. The game was too powerful to be hunted down by Mr. Squercum’s unassisted hands. He had already seen Mr. Bumby on the matter more than once. Mr. Bumby was inclined to doubt whether it might not be better to get the money, or some guarantee for the money. Mr. Bumby thought that if a bill at three months could be had for Dolly’s share of the property it might be expedient to take it. Mr. Squercum suggested that the property itself might be recovered, no genuine sale having been made. Mr. Bumby shook his head. “Title-deeds give possession, Mr. Squercum. You don’t suppose that the company which has lent money to Melmotte on the title-deeds would have to lose it. Take the bill; and if it is dishonoured run your chance of what you’ll get out of the property. There must be assets.”
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“Every rap will have been made over,” said Mr. Squercum. This took place on the Monday, the day on which Melmotte had offered his full confidence to his proposed son-in-law. On the following Wednesday three gentlemen met together in the study in the house in Bruton Street from which it was supposed that the letter had been abstracted. There were Mr. Longestaffe, the father, Dolly Longestaffe, and Mr. Bideawhile. The house was still in Melmotte’s possession, and Melmotte and Mr. Longestaffe were no longer on friendly terms. Direct application for permission to have this meeting in this place had been formally made to Mr. Melmotte, and he had complied. The meeting took place at eleven o’clock — a terribly early hour. Dolly had at first hesitated as to placing himself as he thought between the fire of two enemies, and Mr. Squercum had told him that as the matter would probably soon be made public, he could not judiciously refuse to meet his father and the old family lawyer. Therefore Dolly had attended, at great personal inconvenience to himself. “By George, it’s hardly worth having if one is to take all this trouble about it,” Dolly had said to Lord Grasslough, with whom he had fraternised since the quarrel with Nidderdale. Dolly entered the room last, and at that time neither Mr. Longestaffe nor Mr. Bideawhile had touched the drawer, or even the table, in
which the letter had been deposited.
“Now, Mr. Longestaffe,” said Mr. Bideawhile, “perhaps you will show us where you think you put the letter.”
“I don’t think at all,” said he. “Since the matter has been discussed the whole thing has come back upon my memory.”
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“I never signed it,” said Dolly, standing with his hands in his pockets and interrupting his father.
“Nobody says you did, sir,” rejoined the father with an angry voice. “If you will condescend to listen we may perhaps arrive at the truth.”
“But somebody has said that I did. I’ve been told that Mr. Bideawhile says so.”
“No, Mr. Longestaffe; no. We have never said so. We have only said that we had no reason for supposing the letter to be other than genuine. We have never gone beyond that.”
“Nothing on earth would have made me sign it,” said Dolly. “Why should I have given my property up before I got my money? I never heard such a thing in my life.”
The father looked up at the lawyer and shook his head, testifying as to the hopelessness of his son’s obstinacy. “Now, Mr. Longestaffe,” continued the lawyer, “let us see where you put the letter.”
Then the father very slowly, and with much dignity of deportment, opened the drawer, — the second drawer from the top, and took from it a bundle of papers very carefully folded and docketed. “There,” said he, “the letter was not placed in the envelope but on the top of it, and the two were the two first documents in the bundle.” He went on to say that as far as he knew no other paper had been taken away. He was quite certain that he had left the drawer locked. He was very particular in regard to that particular drawer, and he remembered that about this time Mr. Melmotte had been in the room with him when he had opened it, and, — as he was certain, — had locked it again. At that special time there had been, he said,
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considerable intimacy between him and Melmotte. It was then that Mr. Melmotte had offered him a seat at the Board of the Mexican railway.
“Of course he picked the lock, and stole the letter,” said Dolly. “It’s as plain as a pike-staff. It’s clear enough to hang any man.”
“I am afraid that it falls short of evidence, however strong and just may be the suspicion induced,” said the lawyer. “Your father for a time was not quite certain about the letter.”
“He thought that I had signed it,” said Dolly.
“I am quite certain now,” rejoined the father angrily. “A man has to collect his memory before he can be sure of anything.”
“I am thinking you know how it would go to a jury.” “What I want to know is how we are to get the money,”
said Dolly. “I should like to see him hung, — of course; but I’d sooner have the money. Squercum says — “
“Adolphus, we don’t want to know here what Mr. Squercum says.”
“I don’t know why what Mr. Squercum says shouldn’t be as good as what Mr. Bideawhile says. Of course Squercum doesn’t sound very aristocratic.”
“Quite as much so as Bideawhile, no doubt,” said the lawyer laughing.
“No; Squercum isn’t aristocratic, and Fetter Lane is a good deal lower than Lincoln’s Inn. Nevertheless Squercum may know what he’s about. It was Squercum who was first down upon Melmotte in this matter, and if it wasn’t for Squercum we shouldn’t know as much about it as we do at present.” Squer-
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cum’s name was odious to the elder Longestaffe. He believed, probably without much reason, that all his family troubles came to him from Squercum, thinking that if his son would have left his affairs in the hands of the old Slows and the old Bideawhiles, money would never have been scarce with him, and that he would not have made this terrible blunder about the Pickering property. And the sound of Squercum, as his son knew, was horrid to his ears. He hummed and hawed, and fumed and fretted about the room, shaking his head and frowning. His son looked at him as though quite astonished at his displeasure. “There’s nothing more to be done here, sir, I suppose,” said Dolly putting on his hat.
“Nothing more,” said Mr. Bideawhile. “It may be that I shall have to instruct counsel, and I thought it well that I should see in the presence of both of you exactly how the thing stood. You speak so positively, Mr. Longestaffe, that there can be no doubt?”
“There is no doubt.”
“And now perhaps you had better lock the drawer in our presence. Stop a moment — I might as well see whether there is any sign of violence having been used.” So saying Mr. Bideawhile knelt down in front of the table and began to examine the lock. This he did very carefully and satisfied himself that there was “no sign of violence.” “Whoever has done it, did it very well,” said Bideawhile.
“Of course Melmotte did it,” said Dolly Longestaffe standing immediately over Bideawhile’s shoulder.
At that moment there was a knock at the door, — a very distinct, and, we may say, a formal knock. There are those who
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