67 Sir Felix protects his sister. Up to this period of his life Sir Felix Carberry had probably felt but little of the punishment due to his very numerous shortcomings. He had spent all his fortune, he had lost his commission in the army, he had incurred the contempt of everybody that had known him, he had forfeited the friendship of those who were his natural friends, and had attached to him none others in their place. He had pretty nearly ruined his mother and sister. But to use his own language he had always contrived to carry on the game. He had eaten and drunk, had gambled, hunted, and diverted himself generally after the fashion considered to be appropriate to young men about town. He had kept up till now, but now there seemed to him to have come an end to all things. When he was lying in bed in his mother's house he counted up all his wealth. He had a few pounds in ready money, he still had a little roll of Mr. Miles Grendahl's notes of hand, amounting perhaps to a couple of hundred pounds, and Mr. Melmot owed him six hundred pounds. But where was he to turn and what was he to do with himself? Gradually he learned the whole story of the journey to Liverpool. Hommery had gone there and had been sent back by the police. Hommery's money had been repaid to Mr. Melmot by Mr. Brown and how his failure to make the journey to Liverpool had become known. He was ashamed to go to his club, he could not go to Melmot's house, he was ashamed even to show himself in the streets by day. He was becoming almost afraid even of his mother. Now that the brilliant marriage had broken down and seemed to be altogether beyond hope, now that he had to depend on her household for all his comforts, he was no longer able to treat her with absolute scorn, nor was she willing to yield as she had yielded. One thing only was clear to him, he must realize his possessions. With this view he wrote both to Miles Grendahl and to Melmot. To the former he said he was going out of town, probably for some time, and he must really ask for a check for the amount due. He went on to remark that he could hardly suppose that a nephew of the Duke of Albury was unable to pay debts of honour to the amount of two hundred pounds, but that if such was the case he would have no alternative but to apply to the Duke himself. The reader need hardly be told that to this letter Mr. Grendahl vouchsafed no answer whatever. In his letter to Mr. Melmot he confined himself to one matter of business in hand. He made no allusion whatever to Marie or to the great man's anger or to his seat at the board. He simply reminded Mr. Melmot that there was a sum of six hundred pounds still due to him and requested that a check might be sent to him for that amount. Melmot's answer to this was not altogether unsatisfactory, though it was not exactly what Sir Felix had wished. A clerk from Mr. Melmot's office called at the house in Wellbeck Street and handed to Felix's railway script in the south-central Pacific and Mexican railway to the amount of the sum claimed, insisting on a full receipt for the money before he parted with the script. The clerk went on to explain on behalf of his employer that the money had been left in Mr. Melmot's hands for the purpose of buying these shares. Sir Felix, who was glad to get anything, signed the receipt and took the script. This took place on the day after the balloting at Westminster when the result was not yet known and when the shares in the railway were very low indeed. Sir Felix had asked as to the value of the shares at the time. The clerk professed himself unable to quote the price, but there were the shares if Sir Felix liked to take them. Of course he took them and hurrying off into the city found that they might perhaps be worth about half the money due to him. The broker to whom he showed them could not quite answer for anything. Yes, the script had been very high, but there was a panic. They might recover, or more probably they might go to nothing. Sir Felix cursed the great financier aloud and left the script for sale. That was the first time that he had been out of the house before dark since his little accident. But he was chiefly tormented in these days by the want of amusement. He had so spent his life hitherto that he did not know how to get through a day in which no excitement was provided for him. He never read, thinking was altogether beyond him, and he had never done a day's work in his life. He could lie in bed, he could eat and drink, he could smoke and sit idle, he could play cards, and could amuse himself with women. The lower the culture of the women the better the amusement. Beyond these things the world had nothing for him. Therefore he again took himself to the pursuit of Ruby Ruggles. Poor Ruby had endured a very painful incarceration at her aunt's house. She had been wrathful and had stormed, swearing that she would be free to come and go as she pleased. Free to go, Mrs. Pipkin told her that she was, but not free to return if she went out otherwise than as she Mrs. Pipkin chose. It might be a slave, Ruby asked, and almost upset the perambulator which she had just dragged in at the hall door. Then Mrs. Hurdle had taken upon herself to talk to her, and poor Ruby had been quelled by the superior strength of the American lady. But she was very unhappy, finding that it did not suit her to be nurse-made to her aunt. After all John Crumb couldn't have cared for her a bit or he would have come to look after her. While she was in this condition Sir Felix came to Mrs. Pipkin's house and asked for her at the door. It happened that Mrs. Pipkin herself had opened the door, and in her fright and dismay at the presence of so pernicious a young man in her own passage had denied that Ruby was in the house. But Ruby had heard her lover's voice and had rushed up and thrown herself into his arms. Then there had been a great scene. Ruby had sworn that she didn't care for her aunt, didn't care for her grandfather or for Mrs. Hurdle or for John Crumb or for any person or anything. She cared only for her lover. Then Mrs. Hurdle had asked the young man his intentions. Did he mean to marry Ruby? Sir Felix had said that he supposed he might as well someday. There, said Ruby, there, shouting in triumph as though an offer had been made to her with the completest ceremony of which such an event admits. Mrs. Pipkin had been very weak. Instead of calling in the assistance of her strong-minded lodger, she had allowed the lovers to remain together for half an hour in the dining-room. I do not know that Sir Felix in any way repeated his promise during that time, but Ruby was probably too blessed with the word that had been spoken to ask for such renewal. There must be an end of this, said Mrs. Pipkin, coming in when the half-hour was over. Then Sir Felix had gone, promising to come again on the following evening. You must not come here, Sir Felix, said Mrs. Pipkin, unless you puts it in writing. To this, of course, Sir Felix made no answer. As he went home he congratulated himself on the success of his adventure. Perhaps the best thing he could do when he had realized the money for the shares would be to take Ruby for a tour abroad. The money would last for three or four months, and three or four months ahead was almost an eternity. That afternoon before dinner he found his sister alone in the drawing-room. Lady Carberry had gone to her own room after hearing the distressing story of Paul Montague's love, and had not seen Heta since. Heta was melancholy, thinking of her mother's hard words, thinking perhaps of Paul's poverty as declared by her mother and of the ages which might have to wear themselves out before she could become his wife. But still, tinting all her thoughts with a rosy hue because of the love which had been declared to her. She could not but be happy if he really loved her, and she, as she had told him that she loved him, would be true to him through everything. In her present mood she could not speak of herself to her brother, but she took the opportunity of making good the promise which Marie Melmont had extracted from her. She gave him some short account of the party and told him that she had talked with Marie. I promised to give you a message, she said. It's all of no use now, said Felix. But I must tell you what she said. I think you know that she really loves you. But what's the good of it? A man can't marry a girl when all the policemen in the country are dodging her. She wants you to let her know what you intend to do. If you mean to give her up, I think you should tell her. How can I tell her? I don't suppose they would let her receive a letter. Shall I write to her, or shall I see her? Just as you like, I don't care. Felix, you are very heartless. I don't suppose I'm much worse than other men, or for the matter of that worse than a great many women either. You all of you here put me up to marry her. I never put you up to it. Mother did, and now because it did not go off all serene, I am to hear nothing but reproaches. Of course I never cared so very much about her. Oh, Felix, that is so shocking. Awfully shocking, I dare say. You think I am as black as the very mischief and that sugar wouldn't melt in other men's mouths. Other men are just as bad as I am, and a good deal worse, too. You believe that there is nobody on earth like Paul Montague. He had a blush but said nothing. She was not yet in a condition to boast of her lover before her brother. But she did, in very truth, believe that but few young men were as true-hearted as Paul Montague. I suppose you'd be surprised to hear that Master Paul is engaged to marry an American widow living at Islington. Mr. Montague engaged to marry an American widow? I don't believe it. You'd better believe it if it's any concern of yours for it's true. And it's true, too, that he traveled about with her for ever so long in the United States, and that he had her down with him at the hotel at Lowstoft about a fortnight ago. There's no mistake about it. I don't believe it, repeated Heta, feeling that to say even as much as that was some relief to her. It could not be true. It was impossible that the man should have come to her with such a lie in his mouth as that. Though the words astounded her, though she felt faint, almost as though she would fall in a swoon, yet in her heart of hearts she did not believe it. Surely it was some horrid joke, or perhaps some trick to divide her from the man she loved. Felix, how dare you say things so wicked as that to me? What is there wicked in it?  He is engaged to marry Mrs. Hurdle, and she is lodging with one Mrs. Pipkin in Islington. I know the house and could take you there to-morrow and show you the woman. There, said he, that's where she is, and he wrote Mrs. Hurdle's name down on a scrap of paper. It is not true, said Heta, rising from her seat and standing upright. I am engaged to Mr. Montague, and I am sure he would not treat me in that way. Then by heaven he shall answer it to me, said Felix, jumping up. If he has done that, it is time that I should interfere. As true as I stand here he is engaged to marry a woman called Mrs. Hurdle whom he constantly visits at that place in Islington. I do not believe it, said Heta, repeating the only defense for her lover which was applicable at the moment. By George this is beyond a joke. Will you believe it if Roger Carberry says it's true? I know you'd believe anything fast enough against me if he told you. Roger Carberry will not say so. Have you the courage to ask him? I say he will say so. He knows all about it, and has seen the woman. How can you know? Has Roger told you? I do know, and that's enough. I will make this square with Master Paul. By heaven yes, he shall answer to me. But my mother must manage you. She will not scruple to ask Roger, and she will believe what Roger tells her. I do not believe a word of it, said Heta, leaving the room. But when she was alone she was very wretched. There must be some foundation for such a tale. Why should Felix have referred to Roger Carberry? And she did feel that there was something in her brother's manner which forbade her to reject the whole story as being altogether baseless. So she sat upon her bed and cried and thought of all the tales she had heard of faithless lovers. And yet why should the man have come to her, not only with soft words of love but asking her hand in marriage, if it really were true that he was in daily communication with another woman whom he had promised to make his wife? Nothing on the subject was said at dinner. Heta, with difficulty to herself, sat at the table and did not speak. Lady Carberry and her son were nearly as silent. Soon after dinner Felix slunk away to some music hall or theatre in quest probably of some other Ruby ruggles. Then Lady Carberry, who had now been told as much as her son knew, again attacked her daughter. Very much of the story Felix had learned from Ruby. Ruby had of course learned that Paul was engaged to Mrs. Hurdle. Mrs. Hurdle had at once declared the fact to Mrs. Pipkin, and Mrs. Pipkin had been proud of the position of her lodger. Ruby had herself seen Paul Montague at the house and had known that he had taken Mrs. Hurdle to Lowstoft. And it had also become known to the two women, the aunt and her niece, that Mrs. Hurdle had seen Roger Carberry on the sands at Lowstoft. Thus the whole story, with most of its details, not quite with all, had come round to Lady Carberry's ears. What he has told you, my dear, is true. Much as I disapprove of Mr. Montague, you did not suppose that I would deceive you. How can he know, Mama? He does know. I cannot explain to you how. He has been at the same house. Has he seen her? I did not know that he has, but Roger Carberry has seen her.  Don't do that, Mama. Don't write to him. But I shall. Why should I not write if he can tell me? If this other man is a villain, am I not bound to protect you? Of course, Felix is not steady. If it came only from him, you might not credit it. And he has not seen her.  Contented, Mama? Satisfied that what we tell you is true? I shall never be contented again if that is true. I will never believe anything. It can't be true. I suppose there is something but it can't be that. The story was not altogether displeasing to Lady Carberry, though it pained her to see the agony which her daughter suffered. But she had no wish that Paul Montague should be her son-in-law, and she still thought that if Roger would persevere he might succeed. On that very night before she went to bed she wrote to Roger and told him the whole story. If, she said, you know that there is such a person as Mrs. Hurdle, and if you know also that Mr. Montague has promised to make her his wife, of course she will tell me. Then she declared her own wishes, thinking that by doing so she could induce Roger Carberry to give such real assistance in this matter that Paul Montague would certainly be driven away. Who could feel so much interest in doing this as Roger, or who be so closely acquainted with all the circumstances of Montague's life? You know, she said, what my wishes are about Hedda, and how utterly opposed they am to Mr. Montague's interference. If it is true, as Felix says, that he is at the present moment entangled with another woman, he is guilty of gross insolence. And if you know all the circumstances, you can surely protect us, and also yourself. CHAPTER 68 Ms. Melmont declares her purpose. Or Hedda passed a very bad night. The story she had heard seemed to be almost too awful to be true, even about anyone else. The man had come to her, and had asked her to be his wife, and yet at that very moment was living in habits of daily intercourse with another woman whom he had promised to marry. And then, too, his courtship with her had been so graceful, so soft, so modest, and yet so long continued. Though he had been slow in speech, she had known since their first meeting how he regarded her. The whole state of his mind had, she had thought, been visible to her, had been intelligible, gentle, and affectionate. He had been aware of her friend's feeling, and had therefore hesitated. He had kept himself from her because he had owed so much to friendship. And yet his love had not been the last true, and had not been the last year to poor Hedda. She had waited, sure that it would come, having absolute confidence in his honor and love. And now she was told that this man had been playing a game so base, and at the same time so foolish, that she could find not only no excuse, but no possible cause for it. It was not like any story she had heard before of man's faithlessness. Though she was wretched and sore at heart, she swore to herself that she would not believe it.  But she knew also that nothing more would be said about the letter till the answer should come. Nor could she turn anywhere else for comfort. She did not dare to appeal to Paul himself. As regarded him for the present she could only rely on the assurance which she continued to give herself, that she would not believe a word of the story that had been told her. But there was other wretchedness besides her own. She had undertaken to give Marie Melmont's message to her brother. She had done so, and she must now let Marie have her brother's reply. That might be told in a very few words. Everything is over. But it had to be told. I want to call upon Miss Melmont if you'll let me, she said to her mother at breakfast. Why should you want to see Miss Melmont? I thought you hated the Melmont. I don't hate them, mama. I certainly don't hate her. I have a message to take to her from Felix. A message from Felix? It is an answer from him. She wanted to know if all that was over. Of course it is over. Whether he said so or not it would be so. They could never be married now, could they, mama? The marriage in Lady Carberry's mind was no longer even desirable. She too was beginning to disbelieve in the Melmont wealth, and did quite disbelieve that the wealth would come to her son, even should he succeed in marrying the daughter. It was impossible that Melmont should forgive such a fence as had now been committed. It is out of the question, she said, that, like everything else with us, has been a wretched failure. You can go, if you please. Felix is under no obligation to them and has taken nothing from them. I should much doubt whether the girl will get anybody to take her now. You can't go alone, you know, Lady Carberry added. But Hedda said that she did not at all object to going alone as far as that. It was only just over Oxford Street. So she went out and made her way into Grofner Square. She had heard, but at the time remembered nothing, of the temporary migration of the Melmonts to Bruton Street. Seeing as she approached the house that there was a confusion there of carts and workmen, she hesitated. But she went on and rang the bell at the door which was wide open. Within the hall the pilasters and trophies, the wreaths and the banners, which three or four days since had been built up with so much trouble, were now being pulled down and hauled away, and amidst the ruins, Melmont himself was standing. He was now a member of Parliament and was to take his place that night in the house. Nothing at any rate should prevent that. It might be but for a short time, but it should be written in the history of his life that he had sat in the British House of Commons as member for Westminster. At the present moment he was careful to show himself everywhere. It was now noon and he had already been into the city. At this moment he was talking to the contractor for the work, having just propitiated that man by a payment which would hardly have been made so soon, but for the necessity which these wretched stories had entailed upon him of keeping up his credit for the possession of money. Head timidly asked one of the workmen whether Miss Melmont was there. Do you want my daughter? said Melmont, coming forward and just touching his hat. She is not living here at present. Oh, I remember now, said Heta. May I be allowed to tell her who was asking after her? At the present moment Melmont was not unreasonably suspicious about his daughter. I am Miss Carberry, said Heta, in a very low voice. Oh, indeed, Miss Carberry. The sister of Sir Felix Carberry? There was something in the tone of the man's voice which graded painfully on Heta's ears, but she answered the question. Oh, Sir Felix's sister. May I be permitted to ask whether you have any business with my daughter? The story was a hard one to tell, with all the workmen around her in the midst of the lumber, with the coarse face of the suspicious man looking down upon her. But she did tell it very simply. She had come with a message from her brother. There had been something between her brother and Miss Melmont, and her brother had felt that it would be best that he should acknowledge that it must be all over.  Heta, not knowing how, at the moment, to repudiate the suspicion expressed, was silent. Because, you know, there has been a deal of falsehood in double dealing. Sir Felix has behaved infamously. Yes, by G, infamously. A day or two before my daughter started he gave me a written assurance that the whole thing was over, and now he sends you here. How am I to know what you are really after? I have come, because I thought I could do some good, she said, trembling with anger and fear. I was speaking to your daughter at your party. Oh, you were there, were you? It may be as you say, but how was one to tell? When one has been deceived like that one is apt to be suspicious, Miss Carberry. Here was one who had spent his life in lying to the world, and who was in his very heart shocked at the atrocity of a man who had lied to him. You are not plotting another journey to Liverpool, are you? To this Heta could make no answer. The insult was too much, but alone, unsupported, she did not know how to give him back, scorn for scorn. At last he proposed to take her across to Bruton Street himself, and at his bidding she walked by his side. May I hear what you say to her? He asked. If you suspect me, Mr. Melmont, I had better not see her at all. It is only that there may no longer be any doubt. You can say it all before me. No, I could not do that. But I have told you and you can say it for me. If you please, I think I will go home now. But Melmont knew that his daughter would not believe him on such a subject. This girl she probably would believe, and though Melmont himself found it difficult to trust anybody, he thought that there was more possible good than evil to be expected from the proposed interview. Oh, you shall see her, he said. I don't suppose she's such a fool as to try that kind of thing again. Then the door in Bruton Street was opened, and Heta, repenting her mission, found herself almost pushed into the hall. She was bitten to follow Melmont upstairs, and was left alone in the drawing-room, as she thought, for a long time. Then the door was slowly opened, and Marie crept into the room. Miss Carberry, she said, this is so good of you, so good of you, I do so love you for coming to me. You said you would love me. You will, will you not? And Marie, sitting down by the stranger, took her hand and encircled her waist. Mr. Melmont has told you why I have come? Yes. That is, I don't know. I never believe what Papa says to me. To poor Heta, such an announcement is this, was horrible. We are at daggers drawn. He thinks I ought to do just what he tells me, as though my very soul were not my own. I won't agree to that, would you? Heta had not come there to preach disobedience, but could not fail to remember at the moment that she was not disposed to obey her mother in an affair of the same kind. What does he say, dear? Heta's message was to be conveyed in three words, and when those were told there was nothing more to be said. It must all be over, Miss Melmont. Is that his message, Miss Carberry? Heta nodded her head. Is that all? What more can I say? The other night you told me to bid him send you word, and I thought he ought to do so. I gave him your message, and I have brought back the answer. My brother, you know, has no income of his own. Nothing at all. But I have, said Marie, with eagerness. But your father, it does not depend upon papa. If papa treats me badly, I can give it to my husband. I know I can. If I can venture, cannot he? I think it is impossible. Impossible? Nothing should be impossible. All the people that one hears of that are really true to their loves never find anything impossible. Does he love me, Miss Carberry? It all depends on that. That's what I want to know. She paused, but Heta could not answer the question. You must know about your brother. Don't you know whether he does love me? If you know, I think you ought to tell me. Heta was still silent. Have you nothing to say? Miss Melmont began poor Heta very slowly. Call me Marie. You said you would love me, did you not? I don't even know what your name is. My name is Heta. Heta. That's short for something, but it's very pretty. I have no brother, no sister, and I'll tell you, though you must not tell anybody again, I have no real mother. Madame Melmont is not my mama, though papa chooses that it should be thought so. All this she whispered with rapid words almost into Heta's ear. And papa is so cruel to me. He beats me sometimes. The new friend, round whom Marie still had her arm, shuddered as she heard this. But I never will yield a bit for that. When he boxes and thumps me I always turn and gnash my teeth at him. Can you wonder that I want to have a friend? Can you be surprised that I should be always thinking of my lover? But if he doesn't love me, what am I to do then? I don't know what I am to say, ejaculated Heta amidst her sobs. Whether the girl was good or bad, to be sought or to be avoided, there was so much tragedy in her position that Heta's heart was melted with sympathy.  Heta certainly had not come there to talk of her own affairs and made no reply to this.  I wish I could tell you something for your own comfort. He will not try again, you think? I am sure he will not. I wonder what he fears. I should fear nothing, nothing. Why should not we walk out of the house and be married anyway? Nobody has the right to stop me. Papa could only turn me out of his house. I will venture if he will. It seemed to Heta that even listening to such a proposition amounted to falsehood, to that guilt of which Mr. Melmot had dared to suppose that she could be capable. I cannot listen to it. Indeed, I cannot listen to it. My brother is sure that he cannot love me, Heta. Say it out if it is true. It is true, said Heta. There came over the face of the other girl a stern, hard look, as though she had resolved at the moment to throw away from her all soft, womanly things, and she relaxed her hold on Heta's waist. Oh, my dear, I did not mean to be cruel, but you asked me for the truth. Yes, I did. Men are not, I think, like girls. I suppose not, said Marie slowly. What liars they are, what brutes, what wretches. Why should he tell me lies like that? Why should he break my heart? That other man never said that he loved me. Did he never love me once? Heta could hardly say that her brother was incapable of such love as Marie expected, but she knew that it was so. It is better that you should think of him no more. Are you like that? If you had loved a man and told him of it, and agreed to be his wife and done as I have, could you bear to be told to think of him no more, just as though you had got rid of a servant or a horse? I won't love him. No, I'll hate him. But I must think of him. I'll marry that other man, despite him, and then, when he finds that we are rich, he'll be broken hearted. You should try to forgive him, Marie. Never. Do not tell him that I forgive him. I command you not to tell him that. Tell him that I hate him, and that if I ever meet him, I will look at him so that he shall never forget it. I could, oh, you did not know what I could do. Tell me. Did he tell you to say that he did not love me? I wish I had not come, said Heta. I am glad you have come. It was very kind.  Of course, I ought to know. But did he say that I was to be told that he did not love me? No, he did not say that. Then how do you know? What did he say? That it was all over. Because he is afraid of papa. Are you sure he does not love me? I am sure. But he is a brute.  Marie, as she said this, thrust her foot upon the ground, as though that false one were in truth beneath it, and spoke aloud as though regardless who might hear her. I despise him, despise him.  Papa beats me, but I can bear that. Mama reviles me, and I can bear that. He might have beaten me and reviled me, and I could have borne it.  Then she burst into tears. Heta kissed her, tried to comfort her, and left her sobbing on the sofa. Later in the day, two or three hours after Miss Carberry had gone, Marie Melmont, who had not shown herself at luncheon, walked into Madame Melmont's room and thus declared her purpose. You can tell papa that I will marry Lord Nitterdale whenever he pleases. She spoke in French and very rapidly. On hearing this, Madame Melmont expressed herself to be delighted. Your papa, said she, will be very glad to hear that you have thought better of this at last. Lord Nitterdale is, I am sure, a very good young man. Yes, continued Marie, boiling over with passion as she spoke. I'll marry Lord Nitterdale, or that horrid Mr. Grendel, who is worse than all the others, or his old fool of a father, or the sweeper at the crossing, or the black man that waits at table, or anybody else that he chooses to pick up. I don't care who it is the least in the world. But I'll lead him such a life afterwards. I'll make Lord Nitterdale repent the hour he saw me. You may tell papa. And then, having thus entrusted her message to Madame Melmont, Marie left the room. CHAPTER 69 Melmont in Parliament Melmont did not return home in time to hear the good news that day. Good news as he would regard it even though, when told to him, it should be accompanied by all the extraneous additions with which Marie had communicated her purpose to Madame Melmont. It was nothing to him what the girl thought of the marriage, if the marriage could now be brought about. He, too, had cause for vexation, if not for anger. If Marie had consented a fortnight since, he might have so hurried affairs that Lord Nitterdale might by this time have been secured. Now there must be doubt through the folly of his girl and the villainy of Sir Felix Carberry. Were he once the father-in-law of the eldest son of a Marquis, he thought he might almost be safe. Even though something might be all but proved against him, which might come to certain proof in less august circumstances, matters would hardly be pressed against a member for Westminster whose daughter was married to the heir of the Marquis of Aldrichie. So many persons would then be concerned. Of course his vexation with Marie had been great. Of course his wrath against Sir Felix was unbounded. The seat for Westminster was his. He was to be seen to occupy it before all the world on this very day, but he had not as yet heard that his daughter had yielded in reference to Lord Nitterdale. There was considerable uneasiness felt in some circles as to the manner in which Melmont should take his seat. When he was put forward as the Conservative candidate for the burl, a good deal of fuss had been made with him by certain leading politicians. It had been the manifest intention of the party that his return, if he were returned, should be hailed as a great Conservative triumph and be made much of through the length and the breadth of the land. He was returned, but the trumpets had not as yet been sounded loudly. On a sudden, within the space of 48 hours, the party had become ashamed of their man, and now who was to introduce him to the house. But with this feeling of shame on one side, there was already springing up an idea among another class that Melmont might become, as it were, a Conservative Tribune of the people, that he might be the realization of that hitherto hazy mixture of radicalism and old foguism, of which we have lately heard from a political master, whose eloquence has been employed in teaching us that progress can only be expected from those whose declared purpose is to stand still. The new Farthing newspaper, The Mob, was already putting Melmont forward as a political hero, preaching with reference to his commercial transactions the grand doctrine that magnitude in affairs is a valid defense for certain irregularities. A Napoleon, though he may exterminate tribes and carrying out his projects, cannot be judged by the same law as a young lieutenant who may be punished for cruelty to a few negroes. The Mob thought that a good deal should be overlooked in a Melmont, and that the philanthropy of his great designs should be allowed to cover a multitude of sins. I do not know that the theory was ever so plainly put forward as it was done by the ingenious and courageous writer in the Mob, but in practice it has commanded the assent of many intelligent minds. Mr. Melmont, therefore, though he was not where he had been before that wretched squircom had set afloat the rumors as to the purchase of pickering, was able to hold his head much higher than on the unfortunate night of the Great Banquet. He had replied to the letter from Mr. Slow and By-De-Wile by a note written in the ordinary way in the office and only signed by himself. In this he merely said that he would lose no time in settling matters as to the purchase of pickering. Slow and By-De-Wile were, of course, anxious that things should be settled. They wanted no prosecution for forgery. To make themselves clear in the matter and their client, and if possible to take some wind out of the sales of the odious squircom, this would suit them best. They were prone to hope that for his own sake Melmont would raise the money. If it were raised there would be no reason why that note purporting to have been signed by Dolly Longstaff should ever leave their office. They still protested their belief that it did bear Dolly's signature. They had various excuses for themselves. It would have been useless for them to summon Dolly to their office as they knew from long experience that Dolly would not come. The very letter written by themselves as a suggestion and given to Dolly's father had come back to them with Dolly's ordinary signature sent to them as they believed with other papers by Dolly's father. What justification could be clearer? But still the money had not been paid. That was the fault of Longstaff's senior. But if the money could be paid that would set everything right. Squircom evidently thought that the money would not be paid and was ceaseless in his intercourse with Bydoile's people. He charged slow and Bydoile with having delivered up the title deeds on the authority of a mere note and that a note with a forged signature. He demanded that the note should be impounded. On the receipt by Mr. Bydoile of Melmont's rather curt reply Mr. Squircom was informed that Mr. Melmont had promised to pay the money at once. But that a day or two must be allowed. Mr. Squircom replied that on his client's behalf he should open the matter before the Lord Mayor. But in this way two or three days had passed without any renewal of the accusation before the public. And Melmont had, in a certain degree, recovered his position. The bold clerks and the leptons disliked and feared him as much as ever. But they did not quite dare to be so loud and confident in condemnation as they had been. It was pretty well known that Mr. Longstaff had not received his money, and that was a condition of things tending greatly to shake the credit of a man living after Melmont's fashion. But there was no crime in that. No forgery was implied by the publication of any statement to that effect. The Longstaff's father and son might probably have been very foolish, whoever expected anything but folly from either. And slow and by the while might have been very remiss in their duty. It was astonishing, some people said, what things attorneys would do in these days. But they would expect to see Melmont behind the bars of a prison before this, and had regulated their conduct accordingly, now imagined that they had been deceived. Had the Westminster triumph been altogether a triumph, it would have become the pleasant duty of some popular conservative to express to Melmont the pleasure he would have in introducing his new political ally to the house. In such case Melmont himself would have been walked up the chamber with a pleasurable ovation, and the thing would have been done without trouble to him. But now this was not the position of affairs. Though the matter was debated at the Carleton, no such popular conservative offered his services. I don't think we ought to throw him over, Mr. Bolklerk said. Sir Orlando Drout, quite a leading conservative, suggested that as Lord Nitterdale was very intimate with Mr. Melmont, he might do it. But Nitterdale was not the man for such a performance. He was a very good fellow and everybody liked him. He belonged to the house because his father had territorial influence in a Scotch county. But he never did anything there, and his selection for such a duty would be a declaration to the world that nobody else would do it. It wouldn't hurt you, Lupton, said Mr. Bolklerk. Not at all, said Lupton, but I also, like Nitterdale, am a young man, and of no use, and a great deal too bashful. Melmont, who knew but little about it, went down to the house at four o'clock, somewhat cowed by want of companionship, but carrying out his resolution that he would be stopped by no phantom fears, that he would lose nothing by want of personal pluck. He knew that he was a member and concluded that if he presented himself he would be able to make his way in and assume his right. But here again Fortune befriended him. The very leader of the party, the very founder of that new doctrine of which it was thought that Melmont might become an apostle and an expounder, who, as the reader may remember, had undertaken to be present at the banquet when his colleagues were dismayed and untrue to him, and who kept his promise and sat there almost in solitude. He happened to be entering the house as his late host was claiming from the doorkeeper the fruition of his privilege. You had better let me accompany you, said the conservative leader, with something of chivalry in his heart. And so Mr. Melmont was introduced to the house by the head of his party. When this was seen, many men supposed that the rumors had been proved to be altogether false, was not this a guarantee sufficient to guarantee any man's respectability? Lord Nitterdale saw his father in the lobby of the House of Lords that afternoon and told him what had occurred. The old man had been in a state of great doubt since the day of the dinner party. He was aware of the ruin that would be incurred by a marriage with Melmont's daughter if the things which had been said of Melmont should be proved to be true. But he knew also that if his son should now recede there must be an end of the match altogether, and he did not believe the rumors. He was fully determined that the money should be paid down before the marriage was celebrated. But if his son were to secede now, of course no money would be forthcoming. He was prepared to recommend his son to go on with the affair still a little longer. Old Cure tells me he doesn't believe a word of it, said the father. Cure was the family lawyer of the Marquis of Rald Rikki. There's some hitch about Dolly Longstaff's money, sir, said the son. What's that to us if he has our money ready? I suppose it isn't always easy, even for a man like that to get a couple of hundred thousand together. I know I've never found it easy to get a thousand. If he has borrowed a trifle from Longstaff to make up the girl's money, I shan't complain. You stand to your guns. There's no harm done till the person has said the word. You couldn't let me have a couple of hundred, could you, sir? suggested the son. No, I couldn't, replied the father with a very determined aspect. I'm awfully hard up. So am I. Then the old man toddled into his own chamber, and after sitting there ten minutes, went away home. Lord Nitterdale also got quickly through his legislative duties and went to the bear garden. There he found Graslau and Miles Grendal dining together and seated himself at the next table.  You've heard it, I suppose, said Miles in an awful whisper. Heard what? I believe he doesn't know, said Lord Graslau. By Jove, Nitterdale, you're in a mess like some others. What's up now? Only fancy that they shouldn't have known down at the house. Faustner has bolted. Bolted, exclaimed Nitterdale, dropping the spoon with which he was just going to eat a soup. Bolted, repeated Graslau. Lord Nitterdale looked round the room and became aware of the awful expression of dismay which hung upon the features of all the dining members. Bolted by George, he has sold all our acceptances to a fellow in Great Marlborough that's called Flat Please. I know him, said Nitterdale, shaking his head. I should think so, said Miles roofily. A bottle of champagne, said Nitterdale, appealing to the waiter in almost a humble voice, feeling that he wanted sustenance in this new trouble that had befallen him. The waiter beaten almost to the ground by an awful sense of the condition of the club whispered to him the terrible announcement that there was not a bottle of champagne in the house. Good gee, exclaimed the unfortunate nobleman. Miles Grendal shook his head. Graslau shook his head. It's true, said another young lord from the table on the other side. Then the waiter, still speaking with suppressed and melancholy voice, suggested that there was some port left. It was now the middle of July. Brandy, suggested Nitterdale, there had been a few bottles of Brandy, but they had been already consumed. Send out and get some Brandy, said Nitterdale, with rapid impetuosity. But the club was so reduced in circumstances that he was obliged to take silver out of his pocket before he could get even such humble comfort as he now demanded. Then Lord Graslau told the whole story as far as it was known. Herr Vassner had not been seen since nine o'clock on the preceding evening. The head waiter had known for some weeks that heavy bills were due. It was supposed that three or four thousand pounds were owing to tradesmen who now professed that the credit had been given not to Herr Vassner but to the club, and the numerous acceptances for large sums which the accommodating purveyor held from many of the members had all been sold to Mr. Flatfleece. Mr. Flatfleece had spent a considerable portion of the day at the club, and it was now suggested that he and Herr Vassner were in partnership. At this moment Dolly Longstaff came in. Dolly had been at the club before and had heard the story, but had gone at once to another club for his dinner when he found that there was not even a bottle of wine to be had. Here's it go, said Dolly, one thing atop of another. There'll be nothing left for anybody soon. Is that Brandy your drinking, Nitterdale? There was none here when I left. Had to send round the corner for it to the public. We shall be sending round the corner for a good many things now. Does anybody know anything of that fellow Melmot? He's down in the house as big as life, said Nitterdale. He's all right, I think. I wish he'd pay me my money then that fellow Flatfleece was here and he showed me notes of mine for about fifteen hundred pounds. I write such abeasely hand that I never know whether I've written it or not. But, by George, a fellow can't eat and drink fifteen hundred pounds in less than six months. There's no knowing what you can do, Dolly, said Lord Dresslau. He's paid some of your card money, perhaps, said Nitterdale. I don't think he ever did. Carberry had a lot of my IOUs while that was going on, but I got the money for that from old Melmot. How is a fellow to know? If any fellow writes D longstaff, am I obliged to pay it? Everybody is writing my name. How is any fellow to stand that kind of thing? Do you think Melmot's all right? Nitterdale said that he did think so. I wish he wouldn't go and write my name then. That's a sort of thing that a man should be left to do for himself. I suppose Vossner is a swindler, but by Jove I know a worse than Vossner. With that he turned on his heels and went into the smoking room. And after he was gone there was silence at the table, for it was known that Lord Nitterdale was to marry Melmot's daughter. In the meantime a scene of a different kind was going on in the House of Commons. Melmot had been seated on one of the back conservative benches, and there he remained for a considerable time unnoticed and forgotten. The little emotion that had attended his entrance had passed away, and Melmot was now no more than anyone else. At first he had taken his hat off, but as soon as he observed that the majority of members were covered he put it on again. Then he sat motionless for an hour looking round him and wondering. He had never hitherto been even in the gallery of the House. The place was very much smaller than he had thought and much less tremendous. The speaker did not strike him with the awe which he had expected, and it seemed to him that they who spoke were talking much like other people in other places. For the first hour he hardly caught the meaning of a sentence that was said, nor did he try to do so. One man got up very quickly after another, some of them barely rising on their legs to say the few words that they uttered. It seemed to him to be a very common place of fair, not half so awful as those festivocations on which he had occasionally been called upon to propose a toast or to return thanks. Then suddenly the manner of the thing was changed, and one gentleman made a long speech. Melmont by this time, weary of observing, had begun to listen, and words which were familiar to him reached his ears. The gentleman was proposing some little addition to a commercial treaty, and was expounding in very strong language the ruinous injustice to which England was exposed by being tempted to use gloves made in a country in which no income tax was levied. Melmont listened to his eloquence, caring nothing about gloves and very little about England's ruin. But in the course of the debate which followed a question arose about the value of money, of exchange, and of the conversion of shillings into francs and dollars. About this Melmont really did know something, and he pricked up his ears. It seemed to him that a gentleman whom he knew very well in this city and who had maliciously stayed away from his dinner, one Mr. Brown, who sat just before him on the same side of the house, and he was plodding wearily and slowly along with some pet fiscal theory of his own, understood nothing at all of what he was saying. Here was an opportunity for himself. Here was, at his hand, the means of avenging himself for the injury done him, and of showing to the world at the same time that he was not afraid of his city enemies. It required some courage, certainly, this attempt that suggested itself to him of getting upon his legs a couple of hours after his first introduction to parliamentary life. But he was full of the lesson which he was now ever teaching himself. Nothing should cow him. Whatever was to be done by brazen-faced audacity he would do. It seemed to be very easy, and he saw no reason why he should not put that old fool right. He knew nothing of the forms of the house. It was more ignorant of them than an ordinary schoolboy. But on that very account felt less trepidation than might another parliamentary novice. Mr. Brown was tedious and prolix, and Melmont, though he thought much of his project and had almost told himself that he would do the thing, was still doubting, when, suddenly, Mr. Brown sat down. There did not seem to be any particular end to the speech, nor had Melmont followed any general threat of argument, but a statement had been made and repeated containing as Melmont thought a fundamental error in finance, and he longed to set the matter right. At any rate, he desired to show the house that Mr. Brown did not know what he was talking about, because Mr. Brown did not come to his dinner. When Mr. Brown was seated, nobody at once rose. The subject was not popular, and they who understood the business of the house were well aware that the occasion had simply been one on which two or three commercial gentlemen, having crazes of their own, should be allowed to ventilate them. The subject would have dropped, but, on a sudden, the new member was on his legs. Now, it was probably not in the remembrance of any gentleman there that a member had got up to make a speech within two or three hours of his first entry into the house. And this gentleman was one whose recent election had been of a very peculiar kind. It had been considered by many of his supporters that his name should be withdrawn just before the ballot, by others that he would be deterred by shame from showing himself even if he were elected, and again by another party that his appearance in Parliament would be prevented by his disappearance within the walls of Newgate. But here he was, not only in his seat but on his legs. The favourable grace, the air of courteous attention, which is always shown to a new member when he first speaks, was extended also to Melmont. There was an excitement in the thing which made gentlemen willing to listen, and a consequent hum, almost of approbation. As soon as Melmont was on his legs and looking round found that everybody was silent with the intent of listening to him, a good deal of his courage oozed out of his fingers' ends. The house, which to his thinking had by no means been a gust while Mr. Brown had been toddling through his speech, now became awful. He caught the eyes of great men fixed upon him, of men who had not seemed to him to be at all great as he had watched them a few minutes before, yawning beneath their hats. Mr. Brown, poor as his speech had been, had no doubt prepared it, and had perhaps made three or four such speeches every year for the last fifteen years. Melmont had not dreamed of putting two words together. He had thought, as far as he had thought at all, that he could rattle off what he had to say just as he might do it when seated in his chair at the Mexican Railway Board. But there was the speaker, and those three clerks in their wigs, and the mace, and worse than all, the eyes of that long row of statesmen opposite to him. His position was felt by him to be dreadful. He had forgotten even the very point on which he had intended to crush Mr. Brown. But the courage of the man was too high to allow him to be altogether quelled at once. The home was prolonged, and though he was red in the face, perspiring and doubly confused, he was determined to make a dash at the matter with the first words which would occur to him. Mr. Brown is all wrong, he said. He had not even taken off his hat as he rose. Mr. Brown turned slowly round and looked up at him. Someone whom he could not exactly hear touching him behind suggested that he should take off his hat. There was a cry of order which, of course, he did not understand.  The honorable member, said the speaker, with the most good-natured voice which he could assume, is not perhaps as yet aware that he should not call another member by his name. He should speak of the gentleman to whom he alluded as the honorable member for White Chapel. And in speaking he should address not another honorable member, but the chair. You should take your hat off, said the good-natured gentleman behind. In such a position how should any man understand so many in such complicated instructions at once and at the same time remember the gist of the argument to be produced? He did take off his hat and was, of course, made hotter and more confused by doing so. What he said was all wrong, continued Melmot. And I should have thought a man out of the city like Mr. Brown ought to have known better. Then there were repeated calls of order and a violent abolition of laughter from both sides of the house. The man stood for a while glaring around him, summoning his own plot for a renewal of his attack on Mr. Brown, determined that he would be appalled and put down neither by the ridicule of those around him nor by his want of familiarity with the place, but still utterly unable to find words with which to carry on the combat. I ought to know something about it, said Melmot, sitting down and hiding his indignation and his shame under his hat. We are sure that the honorable member for Westminster does understand the subject, said the leader of the house, and we shall be very glad to hear his remarks. The house, I am sure, will pardon ignorance of its rules in so young a member. But Mr. Melmot would not rise again. He had made a great effort and had at any rate exhibited his courage, though they might all say that he had not displayed much eloquence they would be driven to admit that he had not been ashamed to show himself. He kept his seat till the regular stampede was made for dinner and then walked out with as stately a demeanor as he could assume. Well, that was plucky, said Colin Loop, taking his friend's arm in the lobby. I don't see any pluck in it. That old full Brown didn't know what he was talking about and I wanted to tell them so. They wouldn't let me do it and there's an end of it.  Has Longstaff's money been paid? said Colin Loop, opening his black eyes while he looked up into his friend's face. Don't you trouble your head about Longstaff or his money either, said Melmot, getting into his broom. Do you leave Mr. Longstaff and his money to me? I hope you are not such a fool as to be scared by what the other fools say. When men play such a game as you and I are concerned in, they ought to know better than to be afraid of every word that is spoken. Oh, dear yes, said Colin Loop apologetically. You don't suppose that I am afraid of anything. But at that moment Mr. Colin Loop was meditating his own escape from the dangerous shores of England and was trying to remember what happy country still was left in which an order from the British police would have no power to interfere with the comfort of a retired gentleman such as himself. That evening Madame Melmot told her husband that Marie was now willing to marry Lord Nitterdale. But she did not say anything as to the crossing sweeper or the black footman, nor did she allude to Marie's threat of the sort of life she would lead her husband. End of Chapter 69 Chapter 70 of The Way We Live Now This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings were in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 70 Sir Felix Meddles with Many Matters. There is no duty more certain or fixed in the world than that which calls upon a brother to defend his sister from ill usage. But at the same time in The Way We Live Now no duty is more difficult and we may say generally more indistinct. The ill usage to which men's sisters are most generally exposed is one which hardly admits of either protection or vengeance, although the duty of protecting and avenging is felt and acknowledged. We are not allowed to fight duels and that banging about of another man with a stick is always disagreeable and seldom successful. A John Crumb can do it perhaps and come out of the affair exalting, but not a Sir Felix Carberry even if the Sir Felix of the occasion have the requisite courage. There is a feeling too when a girl has been jilted, thrown over perhaps is the proper term, after the gentleman has had the fun of making love to her for an entire season and has perhaps even been allowed privileges as her promised husband that the less said the better. The girl does not mean to break her heart for love of the false one and become the tragic heroine of a tale for three months. It is her purpose again to trick her beams and with new spangled ore flame in the forehead of the morning sky. Though this one has been false as were perhaps two or three before, still the road to success is open. Uno vul son non deficit alter. But if all the notoriety of cudgels and cutting whips be given to the late unfortunate affair, the difficulty of finding a substitute will be greatly increased. The brother recognizes his duty and prepares for vengeance. The injured one probably desires that she may be left to fight her own little battles alone. Then by heaven he shall answer it to me, Sir Felix had said very grandly when his sister had told him that she was engaged to a man who was, as he thought he knew, engaged also to marry another woman. Here no doubt was gross ill usage and opportunity at any rate for threat. No money was required and no immediate action, and Sir Felix could act the fine gentleman and the dictatorial brother at very little present expense. But Hedda, who ought perhaps to have known her brother more thoroughly, was fool enough to believe him. On the day but one following no answer had as yet come from Roger Carberry, nor could as yet have come.  Felix had forgotten that he had made a threat and indeed had thought no more of the matter since his interview with his sister. Felix, she said, you won't mention that to Mr. Montague. Mention what? Oh, about that woman, Mrs. Hurdle, indeed I shall. A man who does that kind of thing ought to be crushed, and by heavens if he does it to you he shall be crushed. I want to tell you, Felix, if it is so I will see him no more. If it is so I tell you I know it. Mama has written to Roger, at least I feel sure she has. What has she written to him for? What has Roger Carberry to do with our affairs? Only you said he knew. If he says so, that is, if you and he both say that he is to marry that woman, I will not see Mr. Montague again. Pray do not go to him. If such a misfortune does come, it is better to bear it and to be silent. What good can be done? Leave that to me, said Sir Felix, walking out of the room with much fraternal bluster. Then he went forth and at once had himself driven to Paul Montague's lodgings. Had had or not been foolish enough to remind him of his duty, he would not now have undertaken the task. He too, no doubt, remembered as he went that jewels were things of the past, and that even fists and sticks are considered to be out of fashion. Montague, he said, assuming all the dignity of demeanor that his late sorrows had left to him, I believe I am right in saying that you are engaged to marry that American lady, Mrs. Hurdle. Then let me tell you that you were never more wrong in your life. What business of you with Mrs. Hurdle? When a man proposes to my sister, I think of a great deal of business, said Sir Felix. Well, yes, I admit that fully.  Now, as to the fact, I am not going to marry Mrs. Hurdle. I suppose I know how you have heard her name, but as you have heard it, I have no hesitation in telling you so much. As you know where she is to be found, you can go and ask her if you please. On the other hand, it is the dearest wish of my heart to marry your sister. I trust that will be enough for you. You were engaged to Mrs. Hurdle? My dear Carberry, I don't think I'm bound to tell you all the details of my past life. At any rate, I don't feel inclined to do so and answer to hostile questions. I daresay you have heard enough of Mrs. Hurdle to justify you as your sister's brother in asking me whether I am in any way entangled by a connection with her. I tell you that I am not. If you still doubt, I refer you to the lady herself. Beyond that, I do not think I am called on to go, and beyond that, I won't go at any rate at present. Sir Felix still blustered and made what capital he could out of his position as a brother, but he took no steps towards positive revenge. Of course, Carberry, said the other, I wish to regard you as a brother, and if I am rough to you, it is only because you are rough to me. Sir Felix was now in that part of town, which he had been accustomed to haunt for the first time since his misadventure, and plucking up his courage resolved that he would turn into the bear garden. He would have a glass of sherry and face the one or two men who would as yet be there, and in this way gradually creep back to his old habits.   It was nearly five o'clock. He rang the bell and knocked at the door, feeling that this was an occasion for courage. One of the servants, in what we may call private clothes after some delay, drew back the bolts and told him the astounding news.  Do you mean to say I can't come in? said Sir Felix. The man certainly did mean to tell him so, for he opened the door no more than a foot and stood in that narrow aperture. Mr. Vossner had gone away.  Whatever further information rested in the waiter's bosom, he declined to communicate to Sir Felix Carberry. By George. The wrong that was done him filled the young Baronet's bosom with indignation. He had intended, he assured himself, to dine at his club to spend the evening there sportively, to be pleasant among his chosen companions.  What business had the club to be shut up? What right had Vossner to go away? Had he not paid his subscription in advance? Throughout the world the more wrong a man does, the more indignant is he at wrong done to him. Sir Felix almost thought that he could recover damages from the whole committee. He went direct to Mrs. Pipkin's house. When he made that half promise of marriage in Mrs. Pipkin's hearing, he had said that he would come again on the morrow. This he had not done, but of that he thought nothing. Such breaches of faith, when committed by a young man in his position, require not even an apology. He was admitted by Ruby herself, who was of course delighted to see him. Who do you think is in town? She said, John Crumb. But though he came here ever so smart, I wouldn't so much as speak to him, except to tell him to go away. Sir Felix, when he heard the name, felt an uncomfortable sensation creep over him. I don't know I'm sure what he should come after me for, and me telling him his plain as the nose on his face that I never want to see him again. He's not of much account, said the baronet. He would marry me out and out immediately if I'd have him, continued Ruby, who perhaps thought that her honest old lover should not be spoken of as being altogether of no account. And he has everything comfortable in the way of furniture and all that, and they do say he's ever so much money in the bank, but I detest him, said Ruby, shaking her pretty head, and inclining herself towards her aristocratic lover's shoulder. This took place in the back parlor before Mrs. Pipkin had ascended from the kitchen, prepared to disturb so much romantic bliss with wretched references to the cold outer world. Well now, Sir Felix, she began, if things is square, of course you're welcome to see my niece. And what if they're round, Mrs. Pipkin, said the careless sparkling lothario? Well, a round, either, so long as they're honest. Ruby and I are both honest, ain't we, Ruby? I want to take her out to dinner, Mrs. Pipkin. She shall be back before late, before ten. She shall indeed. Ruby inclined herself still more closely towards his shoulder.  I've ever so many things to tell you. Ever so many things to tell her, they must be to fix the day for the marriage, and to let her know where they were to live, and to settle what dress she should wear, and perhaps to give her the money to go and buy it. Ever so many things to tell her. She looked up into Mrs. Pipkin's face with imploring eyes. Surely, on such an occasion as this, an aunt would not expect that her niece should be a prisoner and a slave. Have it been put in writing, Sir Felix Carberry? Demanded Mrs. Pipkin with cruel gravity. Mrs. Hurdle had given it as her decided opinion that Sir Felix would not really mean to marry Ruby Ruggles unless he showed himself willing to do so with all the formality of a written contract. Writing be bothered, said Sir Felix. That's all very well, Sir Felix. Writing do bother very often, but when a gentleman has intentions, a bit of writing shows it plainer in her words. Ruby don't go nowhere to dine unless she puts it into writing. Aunt Pipkin exclaimed to wretched Ruby. What do you think I'm going to do with her? asked Sir Felix. If you want to make her your wife, put it in writing. And if it be as you don't, just stay so and walk away free. I shall go, said Ruby. I'm not going to be kept here a prisoner for anyone. I can go when I please. You wait, Felix, and I'll be down in a minute. The girl with a nimble spring ran upstairs and began to change her dress without giving herself a moment for thought. She don't come back no more here, Sir Felix, said Mrs. Pipkin in her most solemn tones. She ain't nothing to me, no more than she was my poor dear husband's sister's child. There ain't no blood between us and won't be no disgrace, but I'd be lost to see her on the streets.  Cause that'd be the way to send her there. You don't mean to marry her. To this, Sir Felix said nothing. You're not thinking of that. It's just a bit of sport. And then there she is, an old shoe to be chucked away, just a rag to be swept into the dustbin. I've seen scores of them, and I'd sooner a child of mine should die in a workest or be starved to death. But it's all nothing to likes of you. I haven't done her any harm, said Sir Felix, almost frightened. Then go away and don't do her any. That's Mrs. Hurdle's door open. You go and speak to her. She can talk a deal better than her me. Mrs. Hurdle hasn't been able to manage her own affairs very well. Mrs. Hurdle's a lady, Sir Felix, and a widow, and one as has seen the world. As she spoke, Mrs. Hurdle came downstairs, and an introduction after some rude fashion was affected between her and Sir Felix. Mrs. Hurdle had heard often of Sir Felix's carberry, and was quite as certain as Mrs. Pipkin that he did not mean to marry Ruby Ruggles. In a few minutes, Felix found himself alone with Mrs. Hurdle in her own room. He had been anxious to see the woman since he had heard of her engagement with Paul Montague, and doubly anxious since he had also heard of Paul's engagement with his sister. It was not an hour since Paul himself had referred him to her for corroboration of his own statement. Sir Felix's carberry, she said, I am afraid you are doing that poor girl no good and are intending to do her none. It did occur to him very strongly that this could be no affair of Mrs. Hurdle, and that he, as a man of position in society, was being interfered with in an unjustifiable manner. Aunt Pipkin wasn't even an aunt, but who was Mrs. Hurdle? Would it not be better that you should leave her to become the wife of a man who is really fond of her? He could already see something in Mrs. Hurdle's eye, which prevented his at once bursting into wrath. But who was Mrs. Hurdle that she should interfere with him? Upon my word, ma'am, he said, I am very much obliged to you, but I don't quite know to what I owe the honor of your interference, you mean? I didn't say so, but perhaps that's about it. I'd interfere to save any woman that God ever made, said Mrs. Hurdle with energy. We're all apt to wait a little too long because we're ashamed to do any little good the chance puts in our way. You must go and leave her, Sir Felix. I suppose she may do as she pleases about that. Do you mean to make her your wife, asked Mrs. Hurdle sternly? Does Mr. Paul Montague mean to make you his wife? Rejoined Sir Felix with an impudent swagger. He had struck the blow certainly hard enough, and it had gone all the way home. She had not surmised that he would have heard odd of her own concerns. She only barely connected him with that Roger Carberry, who she knew was Paul's great friend, and she had, as yet never heard, that Head of Carberry was the girl whom Paul loved. Had Paul so talked about her that this young scamp should know all her story? She thought a while. She had to think for a moment before she could answer him. I do not see, she said, with a faint attempt at a smile, that there is any parallel between the two cases. I, at any rate, am old enough to take care of myself. Should he not marry me, I am as I was before. Will it be so with that poor girl if she allows herself to be taken about the town by you at night? She had desired in what she said to protect Ruby rather than herself. What could it matter whether this young man was left in a belief that she was or that she was not about to be married? If you'll answer me, I'll answer you, said Sir Felix. Does Mr. Montague mean to make you his wife? It does not concern you to know, said she, flashing upon him. The question is insolent. It does concern me. A great deal more than anything about Ruby can concern you, and as you won't answer me, I won't answer you.  I know all about that, said the Baronette. And the young man who has followed her up to town will probably know where to find you, added Mrs. Hurdle. To such a threat as this, no answer could be made, and Sir Felix left the room. At any rate, John Crumb was not there at present. And were there not policemen in London? And what additional harm would be done to John Crumb, or what increase of danger engendered in that true lover's breast by one additional evening's amusement? Ruby had danced with him so often at the music hall that John Crumb could hardly be made more bellicose by the fact of her dining with him on this evening. When he descended, he found Ruby in the hall, all arrayed. You don't come in here again tonight, said Mrs. Pipkin, thumping the little table which stood in the passage. If you goes out of there door with that there young man. Then I shall, said Ruby, linking herself onto her lover's arm. Baggage, slot, said Mrs. Pipkin, after all I've done for you, just as one as though you were my own flesh and blood. I've worked for it, I suppose, haven't I, rejoined Ruby?  You ain't nothing to me no more nor no other girl. But I'd have saved you if you'd better let me. As for you, when she looked at Sir Felix, only because I've lodging to let, and because of the lady upstairs, I'd shake you that well, you'd never come here no more after poor girls. I do not think that she need have feared any remonstrance from Mrs. Hurdle, even had she put her threat into execution. Sir Felix, thinking that he had had enough of Mrs. Pipkin and her lodger, left the house with Ruby on his arm. For the moment, Ruby had been triumphant and was happy. She did not stop to consider whether her aunt would or would not open her door when she should return tired and perhaps repentant. She was on her lover's arm in her best clothes and going out to have a dinner given to her. And her lover had told her that he had ever so many things, ever so many things to say to her. But she would ask no impertinent questions in the first hour of her bliss. It was so pleasant to walk with him up to Pentonville, so joyous to turn into a gain closure, half public house and half tea garden, so pleasant to hear him order the good things, which in his company would be so nice. Who cannot understand that even an urban Rosserville must be an illicium to those who have lately been eating their meals in all the gloom of a small London underground kitchen. There we will leave Ruby in her bliss. At about nine that evening, John Crumb called at Mrs. Pipkin's and was told that Ruby had gone out with Sir Felix Carberry.  He'll have it hot someday, said John Crumb. He was allowed to remain waiting for Ruby till midnight and then with a sorrowful heart he took his departure. End of Chapter 70 Chapter 71 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 71 John Crumb falls into trouble. It was on a Friday evening an inauspicious Friday that poor Ruby Ruggles had insisted on leaving the security of her aunt Pipkin's house with her aristocratic and vicious lover in spite of the positive assurance made to her by Mrs. Pipkin that if she went forth in such company she should not be allowed to return. Of course you must let her in, Mrs. Hurdle had said soon after the girl's departure. Whereupon Mrs. Pipkin had cried. She knew her own softness too well to suppose it to be possible that she could keep the girl out in the streets all night. But yet it was hard upon her, very hard, that she should be so troubled. We use them to have our ways like that when I was young, she said sobbing. What was to be the end of it was she to be forced by circumstances to keep the girl always there, let the girl's conduct be what it might. Nevertheless, she acknowledged that Ruby must be let in when she came back. Then about nine o'clock John Crumb came and the latter part of the evening was more melancholy even than the first. It was impossible to conceal the truth from John Crumb. Mrs. Hurdle saw the poor man and told the story in Mrs. Pipkin's presence. She's headstrong, Mr. Crumb, said Mrs. Hurdle. She is that ma'am and it was along with the baronite she went. It was so, Mr. Crumb. Baronite. Well, perhaps I shall catch him some of these days. Went to dinner with him, did she? Didn't she have no dinner here? Then Mrs. Pipkin spoke up with a keen sense of offense. Ruby Ruggles had had as wholesome a dinner as any young woman in London. A bullock's heart and potatoes just as much as ever she had pleased to eat of it. Mrs. Pipkin could tell Mr. Crumb that there was no starvation nor yet no stint in her house. John Crumb immediately produced a very thick and admirably useful blue cloth cloak which he had brought up with him to London from Bongay as a present to the woman who had been good to his Ruby. He assured her that he did not doubt that her vitals were good and plentiful and went on to say that he had made bold to bring her a trifle out of respect. It was some little time before Mrs. Pipkin would allow herself to be appeased but at last she permitted the garment to be placed on her shoulders. But it was done after a melancholy fashion. There was no smiling consciousness of the bestowal of joy on the countenance of the donor as he gave it, no exuberance of thanks from the recipient as she received it. Mrs. Hurdle standing by declared it to be perfect but the occasion was one which admitted of no delight. It's very good of you, Mr. Crumb, to think of an old woman like me, particularly when you've such a deal of trouble with a young one. It's like the smut in the wheat, Mrs. Pipkin, or the disease in the Tatos. It has to be put up with, I suppose. Is she very partial, ma'am, to that young baronite? This question was asked of Mrs. Hurdle. Just a fancy for the time, Mr. Crumb, said the lady. They never thinks as how their fancies may well know I have killed a man. Then he was silent for a while, sitting back in his chair not moving a limb with his eyes fastened on Mrs. Pipkin's ceiling. Mrs. Hurdle had some work in her hand and sat watching him. The man was, to her, an extraordinary being, so constant, so slow, so unexpressive, so unlike her own countryman, willing to endure so much and at the same time so warm in his affections. Sir Felix Carberry, he said, I'll Sir Felix him some of these days. If it was only dinner, wouldn't she be back before this, ma'am? I suppose they've gone to some place of amusement, said Mrs. Hurdle. Like enough, said John Crumb in a low voice. She's that mad after dancing as never was, said Mrs. Pipkin. And where is it, as him dances, asked Crumb, getting up from his chair and stretching himself. It was evident to both the ladies that he was beginning to think that he would follow Ruby to the music hall. Neither of them answered him, however, and then he sat down again. Does him dance all night at them places, Mrs. Pipkin? They do pretty nearly all that they oughtn't to do, said Mrs. Pipkin. John Crumb raised one of his fists, brought it down heavily on the palm of his other hand, and then sat silent for a while. I never noticed she was fond of dancing, he said. I'd have had dancing for her down at Bungay, just as ready as anything. Do you think, ma'am, it's the dancing she's after or the baronite? This was another appeal to Mrs. Hurdle. I suppose they go together, said the lady. Then there was another long pause at the end of which poor John Crumb burst out with some violence.  What had I ever done to him? Nothing. Did I ever interfere with him? Never. But I will, I will, I wouldn't wonder but I'll swing for this at Burry. Oh, Mr. Crumb don't talk like that, said Mrs. Pipkin. Mr. Crumb is a little disturbed, but he'll get over it presently, said Mrs. Hurdle.  No, ma'am, she ain't nasty, said the lover. But she's cruel, horrid cruel. It's no more use my going down about meal and pollard and her business, and she up here with that baronite. No, no more nor nothing. When I handles it, I don't know whether it's middlings nor nothing else. If I was to twist his neck, ma'am, would you take it on yourself to say as I was wrong? I'd sooner hear that you had taken the girl away from him, said Mrs. Hurdle. I could pretty well eat him, that's what I could. Half past eleven, is it? She must come sometime, mustn't she? Mrs. Pipkin, who did not want to burn candles all night long, declared that she could give no assurance on that head. If Ruby did come, she should on that night be admitted, but Mrs. Pipkin thought that it would be better to get up and let her in than to sit up for her. Poor Mr. Crumb did not at once take the hint and remained there for another half hour, saying little, but waiting with the hope that Ruby might come. But when the clock struck twelve, he was told that he must go. Then he slowly collected his limbs and dragged them out of the house. That young man is a good fellow, said Mrs. Hurdle, as soon as the door was closed. A deal too good for Ruby Ruggles, said Mrs. Pipkin, and he could maintain a wife. Mr. Carberry says as he's as well to do as any tradesman down in them parts. Mrs. Hurdle disliked the name of Mr. Carberry and took this last statement as no evidence in John Crumb's favor. I don't know that I think better of the man for having Mr. Carberry's friendship, she said. Mr. Carberry ain't any way like his cousin, Mrs. Hurdle. I don't think much of any of the Carberry's Mrs. Pipkin. It seems to me that everybody here is either too humble or too overbearing. Nobody seems content to stand firm on his own footing and interfere with nobody else. This was all Greek to poor Mrs. Pipkin. I suppose we may as well go to bed now when that girl comes and knocks, of course we must let her in. If I hear her I'll go down and open the door for her. Mrs. Pipkin made very many apologies to her lodger for the condition of her household. She would remain up herself to answer the door at the first sound so that Mrs. Hurdle should not be disturbed. She would do her best to prevent any further annoyance. She trusted Mrs. Hurdle would see that she was endeavoring to do her duty by the naughty wicked girl. And then she came round to the point of her discourse. She hoped that Mrs. Hurdle would not be induced to quit the rooms by these disagreeable occurrences. I don't mind saying it now, Mrs. Hurdle, but your being here is ever so much to me. I ain't nothing to depend on, only lodgers and them as as any good is so hard to get. The poor woman hardly understood Mrs. Hurdle, who, as a lodger, was certainly peculiar. She cared nothing for disturbances and rather liked than otherwise the task of endeavoring to assist in the salvation of Ruby. Mrs. Hurdle begged that Mrs. Pipkin would go to bed. She would not be in the least annoyed by the knocking. Another half hour had thus been passed by the two ladies in the parlor after Crumb's departure. Then, Mrs. Hurdle took her candle and had ascended the stairs halfway to her own sitting-room when a loud double-knock was heard. She immediately joined Mrs. Pipkin in the passage. The door was opened and there stood Ruby Ruggles, John Crumb, and two policemen. Ruby rushed in and casting herself under one of the stairs began to throw her hands about into a howl piteously. Laws of mercy, what is it? asked Mrs. Pipkin. He's been and murdered him, screamed Ruby. He has. He's been and murdered him. This young woman is living here, is she? asked one of the policemen. She is living here, said Mrs. Hurdle, but now we must go back to the adventures of John Crumb after he had left the house. He had taken a bedroom at a small inn close to the Eastern Counties Railway Station which he was accustomed to frequent when business brought him up to London and thither he proposed to himself to return. At one time there had come upon him an idea that he would endeavor to seek Ruby and his enemy among the dancing saloons of the Metropolis and he had asked a question with that view but no answer had been given which seemed to aid him in his project and his purpose had been abandoned as being too complex and requiring more intelligence than he gave himself credit for possessing. So he had turned down a street with which he was so far acquainted as to know that it would take him to the Islington Angel where various roads meet and whence he would know his way eastwards. He had just passed the Angel and the end of God's well road and was standing with his mouth open looking about trying to make certain of himself that he would not go wrong thinking that he would ask a policeman whom he saw and hesitating because he feared that the man would want to know his business. Then of a sudden he heard a woman scream and knew that it was Ruby's voice. The sound was very near him but in the glimmer of the gas light he could not quite see whence it came. He stood still putting his hand up to scratch his head under his hat trying to think what in such an emergency it would be well that he should do. Then he heard the voice distinctly I won't I won't and after that a scream then there were further words it's no good I won't at last he was able to make up his mind he rushed after the sound and turning down a passage to the right which led back into God's well road saw Ruby struggling in a man's arms. She had left the dancing establishment with her lover and when they had come to the turn of the passage there had arisen a question as to her further destiny for the night. Ruby though she well remembered Mrs. Pipkin's threats was minded to try her chance at her aunt's door. Sir Felix was of opinion that he could make a preferable arrangement for her and as Ruby was not at once amenable to his arguments he had thought that a little gentle force might avail him. He had therefore dragged Ruby into the passage. The unfortunate one that so ill a chance should have come upon him in the midst of his diversion. He had swallowed several tumblers of Brandy and water and was therefore brave with reference to that interference of the police the fear of which might otherwise have induced him to relinquish his hold of Ruby's arm when she first raised her voice. But what amount of Brandy and water would have enabled him to persevere could he have dreamed that John Crumb was near him. On a sudden he found a hand on his coat and he was swung violently away and brought with his back against the railings so forcibly as to have the breath almost knocked out of his body. But he could hear Ruby's exclamation if it isn't John Crumb. Then there came upon him a sense of coming destruction as though the world for him were all over and collapsing throughout his limbs he slunk down upon the ground. Get up you wiper said John Crumb but the baronet thought it better to cling to the ground. You shall get up said John taking him by the collar of his coat and lifting him. Now Ruby he's going to have it said John whereupon Ruby screamed at the top of her voice with a shriek very much louder than that which had at first attracted John Crumb's notice. Don't hit a man when he's down said the baronet pleading as though for his life. I won't said John but I'll hit a fellow who ends up. Sir Felix was a little more than a child in the man's arms. John Crumb raised him and catching him around the neck with his left arm getting his head into chancery as we used to say when we fought at school struck the poor wretch some half dozen times violently in the face not knowing or carrying exactly where he hit him but at every blow obliterating a feature and he would have continued had not Ruby flown at him and rescued Sir Felix from his arms. He's about got enough of it said John Crumb as he gave over his work then Sir Felix fell again to the ground moaning fearfully. I knowed he'd have to have it said John Crumb. Ruby's screams of course brought the police one arriving from each end of the passage on the scene of action at the same time and now the cruelest thing of all was that Ruby and the complaints which she made to the policeman said not a word against Sir Felix but was as bitter as she knew how to be in her denunciations of John Crumb. It was in vain that John endeavored to make the man understand that the young woman had been crying out for protection when he had interfered. Ruby was very quick of speech and John Crumb was very slow. Ruby swore that nothing so horrible so cruel so bloodthirsty had ever been done before. Sir Felix himself when appealed to could say nothing. He could only moan and make futile efforts to wipe away the stream of blood from his face when the men stood him up leaning against the railings and John though he endeavored to make the policeman comprehend the extent of the wickedness of the young baronette would not say a word against Ruby. He was not even in the least angered by her denunciations of himself. As he himself said sometimes afterwards he had dropped into the baronette just in time and having been successful in this felt no wrath against Ruby for having made such an operation necessary. There was soon a third policeman on the spot and a dozen other persons cab drivers haunters of the street by night and houseless wanderers casuals who at this season of the year preferred the pavements to the poor house wards. They all took part against John Crumb. Why had the big man interfered between the young woman and her young man? Two or three of them wiped Sir Felix's face and dabbed his eyes and proposed this and the other remedy. Some thought that he had better be taken straight to an hospital. One lady remarked that he was so mashed and mauled that she was sure he would never come to again. A precocious youth remarked that he was all one as a deaden. A cab man observed that he had added awful heavy. To all these criticisms on his condition Sir Felix himself made no direct reply but he intimated his desire to be carried away somewhere though he did not much care with her. At last the policemen among them decided upon a course of action. They had learned by the united testimony of Ruby and Crumb that Sir Felix was Sir Felix. He was to be carried in a cab by one constable to Bartholomew hospital who would then take his address so that he might be produced and bound over to prosecute. Ruby should be even conducted to the address she gave not half a mile from the spot on which they now stood and be left there or not according to the account which might be given of her. John Crumb must be undoubtedly locked up in the station house. He was the offender for often any of them yet knew the murderer. No one said a good word for him. He hardly said a good word for himself and certainly made no objection to the treatment that had been proposed for him. But no doubt he was buoyed up inwardly by the conviction that he had thoroughly thrashed his enemy. Thus it came to pass that the two policemen with John Crumb and Ruby came together to Mrs. Pipkin's door.  She threatened the gallows and handcuffs and perpetual imprisonment and an action for damages amidst her lamentations. But for Mrs. Hurdle the policemen did manage to learn something of the truth. Oh yes, the girl lived there and was respectable. This man whom they had arrested was respectable also and was the girl's proper lover. The other man who had been beaten was undoubtedly the owner of a title but he was not respectable and was only the girl's improper lover. And John Crumb's name was given.  No I ain't. Maldon. In course I'm Maldon and I mean it. That our young woman is engaged to be my wife. No I ain't. shouted Ruby. But she is, persisted John Crumb. Well then I never will rejoined Ruby. John Crumb turned upon her a look of love and put his hand on his heart. Whereupon the senior policemen said that he saw at a glance how it all was. But that Mr. Crumb had better come along with him just for the present. To this arrangement the unfortunate hero from Bungay made not the slightest objection. Miss Ruggles, said Mrs. Hurdle, if that young man doesn't conquer you at last you can't have a heart in your bosom. Indeed I have then and I don't mean to give it him if it's ever so. He's been and killed Sir Felix. Mrs. Hurdle in a whisper to Mrs. Pipkin expressed a wicked wish that it might be so. After that the three women all went to bed. End of chapter 71.