The Way We Live Now III

THE WAY WE LIVE NOW

knock and immediately enter without waiting for the sanction asked. Had he who knocked done so on this occasion Mr. Bideawhile would have been found still on his knees, with his nose down to the level of the keyhole. But the intruder did not intrude rapidly, and the lawyer jumped on to his feet, almost upsetting Dolly with the effort. There was a pause, during which Mr. Bideawhile moved away from the table, — as he might have done had he been picking a lock; — and then Mr. Longestaffe bade the stranger come in with a sepulchral voice. The door was opened, and Mr. Melmotte appeared.

Now Mr. Melmotte’s presence certainly had not been expected. It was known that it was his habit to be in the City at this hour. It was known also that he was well aware that this meeting was to be held in this room at this special hour, — and he might well have surmised with what view. There was now declared hostility between both the Longestaffes and Mr. Melmotte, and it certainly was supposed by all the gentlemen concerned that he would not have put himself out of the way to meet them on this occasion. “Gentlemen,” he said, “perhaps you think that I am intruding at the present moment.” No one said that he did not think so. The elder Longestaffe simply bowed very coldly. Mr. Bideawhile stood upright and thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. Dolly, who at first forgot to take his hat off, whistled a bar, and then turned a pirouette on his heel. That was his mode of expressing his thorough surprise at the appearance of his debtor. “I fear that you do think I am intruding,” said Melmotte, “but I trust that what I have to say will be held to excuse me. I see, sir,” he said, turning to Mr. Longestaffe, and glancing at the still open drawer, “that you

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have been examining your desk. I hope that you will be more careful in locking it than you were when you left it before.”

“The drawer was locked when I left it,” said Mr. Longestaffe. “I make no deductions and draw no conclusions, but the drawer was locked.”

“Then I should say it must have been locked when you returned to it.”

“No, sir, I found it open. I make no deductions and draw no conclusions, — but I left it locked and I found it open.”

“I should make a deduction and draw a conclusion,” said Dolly; “and that would be that somebody else had opened it.”

“This can answer no purpose at all,” said Bideawhile.

“It was but a chance remark,” said Melmotte. “I did not come here out of the City at very great personal inconvenience to myself to squabble about the lock of the drawer. As I was informed that you three gentlemen would be here together, I thought the opportunity a suitable one for meeting you and making you an offer about this unfortunate business.” He paused a moment; but neither of the three spoke. It did occur to Dolly to ask them to wait while he should fetch Squercum; but on second thoughts he reflected that a great deal of trouble would have to be taken, and probably for no good. “Mr. Bideawhile, I believe,” suggested Melmotte; and the lawyer bowed his head. “If I remember rightly I wrote to you offering to pay the money due to your clients — “

“Squercum is my lawyer,” said Dolly. “That will make no difference.”

“It makes a deal of difference,” said Dolly.

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“I wrote,” continued Melmotte, “offering my bills at three and six months’ date.”

“They couldn’t be accepted, Mr. Melmotte.”

“I would have allowed interest. I never have had my bills refused before.”

“You must be aware, Mr. Melmotte,” said the lawyer, “that the sale of a property is not like an ordinary mercantile transaction in which bills are customarily given and taken. The understanding was that money should be paid in the usual way. And when we learned, as we did learn, that the property had been at once mortgaged by you, of course we became, — well, I think I may be justified in saying more than suspicious. It was a most, — most — unusual proceeding. You say you have another offer to make, Mr. Melmotte.”

“Of course I have been short of money. I have had enemies whose business it has been for some time past to run down my credit, and, with my credit, has fallen the value of stocks in which it has been known that I have been largely interested. I tell you the truth openly. When I purchased Pickering I had no idea that the payment of such a sum of money could inconvenience me in the least. When the time came at which I should pay it, stocks were so depreciated that it was impossible to sell. Very hostile proceedings are threatened against me now. Accusations are made, false as hell,” — Mr. Melmotte as he spoke raised his voice and looked round the room, — “but which at the present crisis may do me most cruel damage. I have come to say that, if you will undertake to stop proceedings which have been commenced in the City, I will have fifty

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thousand pounds, — which is the amount due to these two gentlemen, — ready for payment on Friday at noon.”

“I have taken no proceedings as yet,” said Bideawhile. “It’s Squercum,” says Dolly.

“Well, sir,” continued Melmotte addressing Dolly, “let me assure you that if these proceedings are stayed the money will be forthcoming; — but if not, I cannot produce the money. I little thought two months ago that I should ever have to make such a statement in reference to such a sum as fifty thousand pounds. But so it is. To raise that money by Friday, I shall have to cripple my resources frightfully. It will be done at a terrible cost. But what Mr. Bideawhile says is true. I have no right to suppose that the purchase of this property should be looked upon as an ordinary commercial transaction. The money should have been paid, — and, if you will now take my word, the money shall be paid. But this cannot be done if I am made to appear before the Lord Mayor to-morrow. The accusations brought against me are damnably false. I do not know with whom they have originated. Whoever did originate them, they are damnably false. But unfortunately, false as they are, in the present crisis, they may be ruinous to me. Now gentlemen, perhaps you will give me an answer.”

Both the father and the lawyer looked at Dolly. Dolly was in truth the accuser through the mouthpiece of his attorney Squercum. It was at Dolly’s instance that these proceedings were being taken. “I, on behalf of my client,” said Mr. Bideawhile, “will consent to wait till Friday at noon.”

“I presume, Adolphus, that you will say as much,” said the elder Longestaffe.

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As to the German or French town, Mr. Broune said that the plan was no doubt feasible, but he doubted whether the thing to be achieved was worth the terrible sacrifice demanded. He was inclined to think that Sir Felix should go to the colonies. “That he might drink himself to death,” said Lady Carbury, who now had no secrets from Mr. Broune. Sir Felix in the mean time was still in the doctor’s hands up-stairs. He had no doubt been very severely thrashed, but there was not in truth very much ailing him beyond the cuts on his face. He was, however, at the present moment better satisfied to be an invalid than to have to come out of his room and to meet the world. “As to Melmotte,” said Mr. Broune, “they say now that he is in some terrible mess which will ruin him and all who have trusted him.”

“And the girl?”

“It is impossible to understand it all. Melmotte was to have been summoned before the Lord Mayor to-day on some charge of fraud; — but it was postponed. And I was told this morning that Nidderdale still means to marry the girl. I don’t think anybody knows the truth about it. We shall hold our tongue about him till we really do know something.” The “we” of whom Mr. Broune spoke was, of course, the “Morning Breakfast Table.”

But in all this there was nothing about Hetta. Hetta, however, thought very much of her own condition, and found herself driven to take some special step by the receipt of two letters from her lover, written to her from Liverpool. They had never met since she had confessed her love to him. The first letter she did not at once answer, as she was at that moment waiting to hear what Roger Carbury would say about Mrs. Hurtle.

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Roger Carbury had spoken, leaving a conviction on her mind that Mrs. Hurtle was by no means a fiction, — but indeed a fact very injurious to her happiness. Then Paul’s second love-letter had come, full of joy, and love, and contentment, — with not a word in it which seemed to have been in the slightest degree influenced by the existence of a Mrs. Hurtle. Had there been no Mrs. Hurtle, the letter would have been all that Hetta could have desired; and she could have answered it, unless forbidden by her mother, with all a girl’s usual enthusiastic affection for her chosen lord. But it was impossible that she should now answer it in that strain; — and it was equally impossible that she should leave such letters unanswered. Roger had told her to “ask himself;” and she now found herself constrained to bid him either come to her and answer the question, or, if he thought it better, to give her some written account of Mrs. Hurtle, — so that she might know who the lady was, and whether the lady’s condition did in any way interfere with her own happiness. So she wrote to Paul, asfollows: —

Welbeck Street,

16 July, 18 — .

0 3.

She found that after that which had passed between them she could not call him “My dear Sir,” or “My dear Mr. Montague,” and that it must either be “Sir” or “My dear Paul.” He was dear to her, — very dear; and she thought that he had not been as yet convicted of any conduct bad enough to force her to treat him as an outcast. Had there been no Mrs. Hurtle

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he would have been her “Dearest Paul,” — but she made her choice, and so commenced.

0 3,

A strange report has come round to me about a lady called Mrs. Hurtle. I have been told that she is an American lady living in London, and that she is engaged to be your wife. I cannot believe this. It is too horrid to be true. But I fear, — I fear there is something true that will be very very sad for me to hear. It was from my brother I first heard it, — who was of course bound to tell me anything he knew. I have talked to mamma about it, and to my cousin Roger. I am sure Roger knows it all; — but he will not tell me. He said, — “Ask himself.” And so I ask you. Of course I can write about nothing else till I have heard about this. I am sure I need not tell you that it has made me very unhappy. If you cannot come and see me at once, you had better write. I have told mamma about this letter.

Then came the difficulty of the signature, with the declaration which must naturally be attached to it. After some hesitation she subscribed herself,

Your affectionate friend,

+ &.

“Most affectionately your own Hetta” would have been the form in which she would have wished to finish the first letter she had ever written to him.

Paul received it at Liverpool on the Wednesday morning, and on the Wednesday evening he was in Welbeck Street. He had been quite aware that it had been incumbent on him to tell her the whole history of Mrs. Hurtle. He had meant to keep

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back — almost nothing. But it had been impossible for him to do so on that one occasion on which he had pleaded his love to her successfully. Let any reader who is intelligent in such matters say whether it would have been possible for him then to have commenced the story of Mrs. Hurtle and to have told it to the bitter end. Such a story must be postponed for a second or a third interview. Or it may, indeed, be communicated by letter. When Paul was called away to Liverpool he did consider whether he should write the story. But there are many reasons strong against such written communications. A man may desire that the woman he loves should hear the record of his folly, — so that, in after days, there may be nothing to be detected; so that, should the Mrs. Hurtle of his life at any time intrude upon his happiness, he may with a clear brow and undaunted heart say to his beloved one, — “Ah, this is the trouble of which I spoke to you.” And then he and his beloved one will be in one cause together. But he hardly wishes to supply his beloved one with a written record of his folly. And then who does not know how much tenderness a man may show to his own faults by the tone of his voice, by half-spoken sentences, and by an admixture of words of love for the lady who has filled up the vacant space once occupied by the Mrs. Hurtle of his romance? But the written record must go through from beginning to end, self-accusing, thoroughly perspicuous, with no sweet, soft falsehoods hidden under the half-expressed truth. The soft falsehoods which would be sweet as the scent of violets in a personal interview, would stand in danger of being denounced as deceit added to deceit, if sent in a letter. I think

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