The Way We Live Now (123 page)

‘I used to sign a paper every quarter,' she said to Fisker, as they were walking together one evening in the lanes round Hampstead.

‘You'll have to do the same now, only instead of giving the paper to any one you'll have to leave it in a banker's hands to draw the money for yourself.'

‘And can that be done over in California?'

‘Just the same as here. Your bankers will manage it all for you without the slightest trouble. For the matter of that, I'll do it, if you'll trust me. There's only one thing against it all, Miss Melmotte.'

‘And what's that?'

‘After the sort of society you've been used to here, I don't know how you'll get on among us Americans. We're a pretty rough lot, I guess. Though, perhaps, what you lose in the look of the fruit, you'll make up in the flavour.' This Fisker said in a somewhat plaintive tone, as though fearing that the manifest substantial advantages of Frisco would not suffice to atone for the loss of that fashion to which Miss Melmotte had been used.

‘I hate swells,' said Marie, flashing round upon him.

‘Do you now?'

‘Like poison. What's the use of 'em? They never mean a word that they say – and they don't say so many words either. They're never more than half awake, and don't care the least about anybody. I hate London.'

‘Do you now?'

‘Oh, don't I?'

‘I wonder whether you'd hate Frisco?'

‘I rather think it would be a jolly sort of place.'

‘Very jolly I find it. And I wonder whether you'd hate – me?'

‘Mr Fisker, that's nonsense. Why should I hate anybody?'

‘But you do. I've found out one or two that you don't love. If you do come to Frisco, I hope you won't just hate me, you know.' Then he took her gently by the arm – but she, whisking herself away rapidly, bade him behave himself. Then they returned to their lodgings, and Mr Fisker, before he went back to London, mixed a little warm brandy and
water for Madame Melmotte. I think that, upon the whole, Madame Melmotte was more comfortable at Hampstead than she had been either in Grosvenor Square or Bruton Street, although she was certainly not a thing beautiful to look at in her widow's weeds.

‘I don't think much of you as a book-keeper, you know,' Fisker said to Miles Grendall in the now almost deserted board-room of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway. Miles, remembering his father's advice, answered not a word, but merely looked with assumed amazement at the impertinent stranger who dared thus to censure his performances. Fisker had made three or four remarks previous to this, and had appealed both to Paul Montague and to Croll, who were present. He had invited also the attendance of Sir Felix Carbury, Lord Nidderdale, and Mr Longestaffe, who were all directors – but none of them had come. Sir Felix had paid no attention to Fisker's letter. Lord Nidderdale had written a short but characteristic reply. ‘Dear Mr Fisker – I really don't know anything about it. Yours, Nidderdale.' Mr Longestaffe, with laborious zeal, had closely covered four pages with his reasons for non-attendance, with which the reader shall not be troubled, and which it may be doubted whether even Fisker perused to the end. ‘Upon my word,' continued Fisker, ‘it's astonishing to me that Melmotte should have put up with this kind of thing. I suppose you understand something of business, Mr Croll?'

‘It vas not my department, Mr Fisker,' said the German.

‘Nor anybody else's either,' said the domineering American. ‘Of course it's on the cards, Mr Grendall, that we shall have to put you into a witness-box, because there are certain things we must get at' Miles was silent as the grave, but at once made up his mind that he would pass his autumn at some pleasant, but economical German retreat, and that his autumnal retirement should be commenced within a very few days – or perhaps hours might suffice.

But Fisker was not in earnest in his threat. In truth, the greater the confusion in the London office, the better, he thought, were the prospects of the company at San Francisco. Miles underwent purgatory on this occasion for three or four hours, and when dismissed had certainly revealed none of Melmotte's secrets. He did, however, go to Germany, finding that a temporary absence from England would be comfortable to him in more respects than one – and need not be heard of again in these pages.

When Melmotte's affairs were ultimately wound up there was found to be nearly enough of property to satisfy all his proved liabilities. Very
many men started up with huge claims, asserting that they had been robbed, and in the confusion it was hard to ascertain who had been robbed, or who had simply been unsuccessful in their attempts to rob others. Some, no doubt, as was the case with poor Mr Brehgert, had speculated in dependence on Melmotte's sagacity, and had lost heavily without dishonesty. But of those who, like the Longestaffes, were able to prove direct debts, the condition at last was not very sad. Our excellent friend, Dolly, got his money early in the day, and was able, under Mr Squercum's guidance, to start himself on a new career. Having paid his debts, and with still a large balance at his bankers', he assured his friend Nidderdale that he meant to turn over an entirely new leaf. ‘I shall just make Squercum allow me so much a month, and I shall have all the bills and that kind of thing sent to him, and he will do everything, and pull me up if I'm getting wrong. I like Squercum.'

‘Won't he rob you, old fellow?' suggested Nidderdale.

‘Of course he will – but he won't let any one else do it One has to be plucked, but it's everything to have it done on a system. If he'll only let me have ten shillings out of every sovereign I think I can get along.' Let us hope that Mr Squercum was merciful, and that Dolly was enabled to live in accordance with his virtuous resolutions.

But these things did not arrange themselves till late in the winter – long after Mr Fisker's departure for California. That, however, was protracted till a day much later than he had anticipated before he had become intimate with Madame Melmotte and Marie. Madame Melmotte's affairs occupied him for a while almost exclusively. The furniture and plate were of course sold for the creditors, but Madame Melmotte was allowed to take whatever she declared to be specially her own property – and, though much was said about the jewels, no attempt was made to recover them. Marie advised Madame Melmotte to give them up, assuring the old woman that she should have whatever she wanted for her maintenance. But it was not likely that Melmotte's widow would willingly abandon any property, and she did not abandon her jewels. It was agreed between her and Fisker that they were to be taken to New York. ‘You'll get as much there as in London, if you like to part with them; and nobody ‘ll say anything about it there. You couldn't sell a locket or a chain here without all the world talking about it.'

In all these things Madame Melmotte put herself into Fisker's hands with the most absolute confidence – and, indeed, with a confidence that was justified by its results. It was not by robbing an old woman that Fisker intended to make himself great. To Madame Melmotte's thinking,
Fisker was the finest gentleman she had ever met – so infinitely pleasanter in his manner than Lord Alfred even when Lord Alfred had been most gracious, with so much more to say for himself than Miles Grendall, understanding her so much better than any man had ever done – especially when he supplied her with those small warm beakers of sweet brandy and water. ‘I shall do whatever he tells me,' she said to Marie. ‘I'm sure I've nothing to keep me here in this country.'

‘I'm willing to go,' said Marie. ‘I don't want to stay in London.'

‘I suppose you'll take him if he asks you?'

‘I don't know anything about that,' said Marie. ‘A man may be very well without one's wanting to marry him. I don't think I'll marry anybody. What's the use? It's only money. Nobody cares for anything else. Fisker's all very well; but he only wants the money. Do you think Fisker 'd ask me to marry him if I hadn't got anything? Not he! He ain't slow enough for that.'

‘I think he's a very nice young man,' said Madame Melmotte.

Hetta Carbury, out of the fulness of her heart, having made up her mind that she had been unjust to her lover, wrote to him a letter full of penitence, full of love, telling him at great length all the details of her meeting with Mrs Hurtle, and bidding him come back to her, and bring the brooch with him. But this letter she had unfortunately addressed to the Beargarden, as he had written to her from that club; and partly through his own fault, and partly through the demoralization of that once perfect establishment, the letter never reached his hands. When, therefore, he returned to London he was justified in supposing that she had refused even to notice his appeal. He was, however, determined that he would still make further struggles. He had, he felt, to contend with many difficulties. Mrs Hurtle, Roger Carbury, and Hetta's mother were, he thought, all inimical to him. Mrs Hurtle, though she had declared that she would not rage as a lioness, could hardly be his friend in the matter. Roger had repeatedly declared his determination to regard him as a traitor. And Lady Carbury, as he well knew, had always been and
always would be opposed to the match. But Hetta had owned that she loved him, had submitted to his caresses, and had been proud of his admiration. And Paul, though he did not probably analyse very carefully the character of his beloved, still felt instinctively that, having so far prevailed with such a girl, his prospects could not be altogether hopeless. And yet how should he continue the struggle? With what weapons should he carry on the fight? The writing of letters is but a one-sided, troublesome proceeding, when the person to whom they are written will not answer them; and the calling at a door at which the servant has been instructed to refuse a visitor admission, becomes disagreeable – if not degrading – after a time.

But Hetta had written a second epistle – not to her lover, but to one who received his letters with more regularity. When she rashly and with precipitate wrath quarrelled with Paul Montague, she at once communicated the fact to her mother, and through her mother to her cousin Roger. Though she would not recognize Roger as a lover, she did acknowledge him to be the head of her family, and her own special friend, and entitled in some special way to know all that she herself did, and all that was done in regard to her. She therefore wrote to her cousin, telling him that she had made a mistake about Paul, that she was convinced that Paul had always behaved to her with absolute sincerity, and, in short, that Paul was the best, and dearest, and most ill-used of human beings. In her enthusiasm she went on to declare that there could be no other chance of happiness for her in this world than that of becoming Paul's wife, and to beseech her dearest friend and cousin Roger not to turn against her, but to lend her an aiding hand. There are those whom strong words in letters never affect at all – who, perhaps, hardly read them, and take what they do read as meaning no more than half what is said. But Roger Carbury was certainly not one of these. As he sat on the garden wall at Carbury, with his cousin's letter in his hand, her words had their full weight with him. He did not try to convince himself that all this was the verbiage of an enthusiastic girl, who might soon be turned and trained to another mode of thinking by fitting admonitions. To him now, as he read and re-read Hetta's letter sitting on the wall, there was not at any rate further hope for himself. Though he was altogether unchanged himself, though he was altogether incapable of change – though he could not rally himself sufficiently to look forward to even a passive enjoyment of life without the girl whom he had loved – yet he told himself what he believed to be the truth. At last he owned directly and plainly that, whether happy or unhappy, he must
do without her. He had let time slip by with him too fast and too far before he had ventured to love. He must now stomach his disappointment, and make the best he could of such a broken, ill-conditioned life as was left to him. But, if he acknowledged this – and he did acknowledge it – in what fashion should he in future treat the man and woman who had reduced him so low?

At this moment his mind was tuned to high thoughts. If it were possible he would be unselfish. He could not, indeed, bring himself to think with kindness of Paul Montague. He could not say to himself that the man had not been treacherous to him, nor could he forgive the man's supposed treason. But he did tell himself very plainly that in comparison with Hetta the man was nothing to him. It could hardly be worth his while to maintain a quarrel with the man if he were once able to assure Hetta that she, as the wife of another man, should still be dear to him as a friend might be dear. He was well aware that such assurance, such forgiveness, must contain very much. If it were to be so, Hetta's child must take the name of Carbury, and must be to him as his heir – as near as possible his own child. In her favour he must throw aside that law of primogeniture which to him was so sacred that he had been hitherto minded to make Sir Felix his heir, in spite of the absolute unfitness of the wretched young man. All this must be changed, should he be able to persuade himself to give his consent to the marriage. In such case Carbury must be the home of the married couple, as far as he could induce them to make it so. There must be born the future infant to whose existence he was already looking forward with some idea that in his old age he might there find comfort In such case, though he should never again be able to love Paul Montague in his heart of hearts, he must live with him for her sake on affectionate terms. He must forgive Hetta altogether – as though there had been no fault; and he must strive to forgive the man's fault as best he might. Struggling as he was to be generous, passionately fond as he was of justice, yet he did not know how to be just himself. He could not see that he in truth had been to no extent ill-used. And ever and again, as he thought of the great prayer as to the forgiveness of trespasses, he could not refrain from asking himself whether it could really be intended that he should forgive such trespass as that committed against him by Paul Montague! Nevertheless, when he rose from the wall he had resolved that Hetta should be pardoned entirely, and that Paul Montague should be treated as though he were pardoned. As for himself – the chances of the world had been unkind to him, and he would submit to them!