The Way We Live Now (35 page)

‘I don't think we could mix the two things together, Carbury.'

‘You can't help me?'

‘Not in that way.'

‘Then, when the deuce will you pay me what you owe me?' Sir Felix was driven to this plain expression of his demand by the impassibility of his debtor. Here was a man who did not pay his debts of honour, who did not even propose any arrangement for paying them, and who yet had the impudence to talk of not mixing up private matters with affairs of business! It made the young baronet very sick. Miles Grendall smoked on in silence. There was a difficulty in answering the question, and he therefore made no answer. ‘Do you know how much you owe me?' continued the baronet, determined to persist now that he had commenced the attack. There was a little crowd of other men in the room, and the conversation about the shares had been commenced in an undertone. These two last questions Sir Felix had asked in a whisper, but his countenance showed plainly that he was speaking in anger.

‘Of course I know,' said Miles.

‘Well?'

‘I'm not going to talk about it here.'

‘Not going to talk about it here?'

‘No. This is a public room.'

‘I am going to talk about it,' said Sir Felix, raising his voice.

‘Will any fellow come up-stairs and play a game of billiards?' said Miles Grendall rising from his chair. Then he walked slowly out of the room, leaving Sir Felix to take what revenge he pleased. For a moment Sir Felix thought what he would expose the transaction to the whole room; but he was afraid, thinking that Miles Grendall was a more popular man than himself.

It was Sunday night; but not the less were the gamblers assembled in the card-room at about eleven. Dolly Longestaffe was there, and with him the two lords, and Sir Felix, and Miles Grendall of course, and, I regret to say, a much better man than any of them, Paul Montague. Sir Felix had doubted much as to the propriety of joining the party. What was the use of playing with a man who seemed by general consent to be liberated from any obligation to pay? But then if he did not play with him, where should he find another gambling table? They began with whist, but soon laid that aside and devoted themselves to loo.
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The least respected man in that confraternity was Grendall, and yet it was in compliance with the persistency of his suggestion that they gave up the nobler game. ‘Let's stick to whist; I like cutting out,' said Grasslough.
‘It's much more jolly having nothing to do now and then; one can always bet,' said Dolly shortly afterwards. ‘I hate loo,' said Sir Felix in answer to a third application. ‘I like whist best,' said Nidderdale, ‘but I'll play anything anybody likes – pitch and toss if you please.' But Miles Grendall had his way, and loo was the game.

At about two o'clock Grendall was the only winner. The play had not been very high, but nevertheless he had won largely. Whenever a large pool had collected itself he swept it into his garners. The men opposed to him hardly grudged him this stroke of luck. He had hitherto been unlucky; and they were able to pay him with his own paper, which was so valueless that they parted with it without a pang. Even Dolly Longestaffe seemed to have a supply of it. The only man there not so furnished was Montague, and while the sums won were quite small he was allowed to pay with cash. But to Sir Felix it was frightful to see ready money going over to Miles Grendall, as under no circumstances could it be got back from him. ‘Montague,' he said, ‘just change these for the time. I'll take them back, if you still have them when we've done.' And he handed a lot of Miles's paper across the table. The result of course would be that Felix would receive so much real money, and that Miles would get back more of his own worthless paper. To Montague it would make no difference, and he did as he was asked – or rather was preparing to do so, when Miles interfered. On what principle of justice could Sir Felix come between him and another man? ‘I don't understand this kind of thing,' he said. ‘When I win from you, Carbury, I'll take my IOUs, as long as you have any.'

‘By George, that's kind.'

‘But I won't have them handed about the table to be changed.'

‘Pay them yourself, then,' said Sir Felix, laying a handful down on the table.

‘Don't let's have a row,' said Lord Nidderdale.

‘Carbury is always making a row,' said Grasslough.

‘Of course he is,' said Miles Grendall.

‘I don't make more row than anybody else; but I do say that as we have such a lot of these things, and as we all know that we don't get cash for them as we want it, Grendall shouldn't take money and walk off with it.'

‘Who is walking off?' said Miles.

‘And why should you be entitled to Montague's money more than any of us?' asked Grasslough.

The matter was debated, and was thus decided. It was not to be
allowed that Miles's paper should be negotiated at the table in the manner that Sir Felix had attempted to adopt. But Mr Grendall pledged his honour that when they broke up the party he would apply any money that he might have won to the redemption of his IOUs, paying a regular percentage to the holders of them. The decision made Sir Felix very cross. He knew that their condition at six or seven in the morning would not be favourable to such commercial accuracy – which indeed would require an accountant to effect it; and he felt sure that Miles, if still a winner, would in truth walk off with the ready money.

For a considerable time he did not speak, and became very moderate in his play, tossing his cards about, almost always losing, but losing a minimum, and watching the board. He was sitting next to Grendall, and he thought that he observed that his neighbour moved his chair farther and farther away from him, and nearer to Dolly Longestaffe, who was next to him on the other side. This went on for an hour, during which Grendall still won – and won heavily from Paul Montague. ‘I never saw a fellow have such a run of luck in my life,' said Grasslough. ‘You've had two trumps dealt to you every hand almost since we began!'

‘Ever so many hands I haven't played at all,' said Miles.

‘You've always won when I've played,' said Dolly. ‘I've been looed every time.'

‘You oughtn't to begrudge me one run of luck, when I've lost so much,' said Miles, who, since he began, had destroyed paper counters of his own making, supposed to represent considerably above £1,000, and had also – which was of infinitely greater concern to him – received an amount of ready money which was quite a godsend to him.

‘What's the good of talking about it,' said Nidderdale. ‘I hate all this row about winning and losing. Let's go on, or go to bed.' The idea of going to bed was absurd. So they went on. Sir Felix, however, hardly spoke at all, played very little, and watched Miles Grendall without seeming to watch him. At last he felt certain that he saw a card go into the man's sleeve, and remembered at the moment that the winner had owed his success to a continued run of aces. He was tempted to rush at once upon the player, and catch the card on his person. But he feared. Grendall was a big man; and where would he be if there should be no card there? And then, in the scramble, there would certainly be at any rate a doubt. And he knew that the men around him would be most unwilling to believe such an accusation. Grasslough was Grendall's friend, and Nidderdale and Dolly Longestaffe would infinitely rather be cheated than suspect any one of their own set of cheating them. He
feared both the violence of the man he should accuse, and also the impassive good humour of the others. He let that opportunity pass by, again watched, and again saw the card abstracted. Thrice he saw it, till it was wonderful to him that others also should not see it. As often as the deal came round, the man did it. Felix watched more closely, and was certain that in each round the man had an ace at least once. It seemed to him that nothing could be easier. At last he pleaded a headache, got up, and went away, leaving the others playing. He had lost nearly a thousand pounds, but it had been all in paper.

‘There's something the matter with that fellow,' said Grasslough.

‘There's always something the matter with him, I think,' said Miles. ‘He is so awfully greedy about his money.' Miles had become somewhat triumphant in his success.

‘The less said about that, Grendall, the better,' said Nidderdale. ‘We have put up with a good deal, you know, and he has put up with as much as anybody' Miles was cowed at once, and went on dealing without manoeuvring a card on that hand.

Marie Melmotte was hardly satisfied with the note which she received from Didon early on the Monday morning. With a volubility of French eloquence, Didon declared that she would be turned out of the house if either Monsieur or Madame were to know what she was doing. Marie told her that Madame would certainly never dismiss her. ‘Well, perhaps not Madame,' said Didon, who knew too much about Madame to be dismissed; ‘but Monsieur!' Marie declared that by no possibility could Monsieur know anything about it. In that house nobody ever told anything to Monsieur. He was regarded as the general enemy, against whom the whole household was always making ambushes, always firing guns from behind rocks and trees. It is not a pleasant condition for a master of a house; but in this house the master at any rate knew how he was placed. It never occurred to him to trust any one. Of course his daughter might run away. But who would run away with her without money? And there could be no money except from him. He knew
himself and his own strength. He was not the man to forgive a girl, and then bestow his wealth on the Lothario
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who had injured him. His daughter' was valuable to him because she might make him the father-in-law of a marquis or an earl; but the higher that he rose without such assistance, the less need had he of his daughter's aid. Lord Alfred was certainly very useful to him. Lord Alfred had whispered into his ear that by certain conduct and by certain uses of his money, he himself might be made a baronet. ‘But if they should say that I'm not an Englishman?' suggested Melmotte. Lord Alfred had explained that it was not necessary that he should have been born in England, or even that he should have an English name. No questions would be asked. Let him first get into Parliament, and then spend a little money on the proper side – by which Lord Alfred meant the Conservative side – and be munificent in his entertainments, and the baronetcy would be almost a matter of course. Indeed, there was no knowing what honours might not be achieved in the present days by money scattered with a liberal hand. In these conversations, Melmotte would speak of his money and power of making money as though they were unlimited – and Lord Alfred believed him.

Marie was dissatisfied with her letter – not because it described her father as ‘cutting up very rough.' To her who had known her father all her life that was a matter of course. But there was no word of love in the note. An impassioned correspondence carried on through Didon would be delightful to her. She was quite capable of loving, and she did love the young man. She had, no doubt, consented to accept the addresses of others whom she did not love – but this she had done at the moment almost of her first introduction to the marvellous world in which she was now living. As days went on she ceased to be a child, and her courage grew within her. She became conscious of an identity of her own, which feeling was produced in great part by the contempt which accompanied her increasing familiarity with grand people and grand names and grand things. She was no longer afraid of saying No to the Nidderdales on account of any awe of them personally. It might be that she should acknowledge herself to be obliged to obey her father, though she was drifting away even from the sense of that obligation. Had her mind been as it was now when Lord Nidderdale first came to her, she might indeed have loved him, who, as a man, was infinitely better than Sir Felix, and who, had he thought it to be necessary, would have put some grace into his love-making. But at that time she had been childish. He, finding her to be a child, had hardly spoken to her. And she, child
though she was, had resented such usage. But a few months in London had changed all this, and now she was a child no longer. She was in love with Sir Felix, and had told her love. Whatever difficulties there might be, she intended to be true. If necessary, she would run away. Sir Felix was her idol, and she abandoned herself to its worship. But she desired that her idol should be of flesh and blood, and not of wood. She was at first half-inclined to be angry; but as she sat with his letter in her hand, she remembered that he did not know Didon as well as she did, and that he might be afraid to trust his raptures to such custody. She could write to him at his club, and having no such fear, she could write warmly.

‘—,
Grosvenor Square. Early Monday Morning.

‘DEAREST, DEAREST FELIX,

‘I have just got your note – such a scrap! Of course papa would talk about money, because he never thinks of anything else. I don't know anything about money, and I don't care in the least how much you have got Papa has got plenty, and I think he would give us some if we were once married. I have told mamma, but mamma is always afraid of everything. Papa is very cross to her sometimes – more so than to me. I will try to tell him, though I can't always get at him. I very often hardly see him all day long. But I don't mean to be afraid of him, and will tell him that on my word and honour I will never marry any one except you. I don't think he will beat me, but if he does, I'll bear it – for your sake. He does beat mamma sometimes, I know.

‘You can write to me quite safely through Didon. I think if you would call some day and give her something, it would help, as she is very fond of money. Do write and tell me that you love me. I love you better than anything in the world, and I will never – never give you up. I suppose you can come and call – unless papa tells the man in the hall not to let you in. I'll find that out from Didon, but I can't do it before sending this letter. Papa dined out yesterday somewhere with that Lord Alfred, so I haven't seen him since you were here. I never see him before he goes into the City in the morning. Now I am going down-stairs to breakfast with mamma and that Miss Longestaffe. She is a stuck-up thing. Didn't you think so at Caversham?