The Way We Live Now (84 page)

‘Don't I. I've been thinking about nothing else the last three months.'

‘You've been thinking whether you'd get married or not.'

‘That's what I mean,' said Lord Nidderdale.

‘It isn't what I mean, then.'

‘I'll be shot if I can understand you.'

‘Perhaps not. And you never will understand me. Oh, goodness – they're all going, and we must get out of the way. Is that Prince Frederic, who told you about the hay? He is handsome; isn't he? And who is that in the violet dress – with all the pearls?'

‘That's the Princess Dwarza.'

‘Dear me – isn't it odd, having a lot of people in one's own house, and not being able to speak a word to them. I don't think it's at all nice. Good night, my lord. I'm glad you like the emperor.'

And then the people went, and when they had all gone Melmotte put his wife and daughter into his own carriage, telling them that he would follow them on foot to Bruton Street when he had given some last directions to the people who were putting out the lights, and extinguishing generally the embers of the entertainment. He had looked round for Lord Alfred, taking care to avoid the appearance of searching; but Lord Alfred had gone. Lord Alfred was one of those who knew when to leave a falling house. Melmotte at the moment thought of all that he had done for Lord Alfred, and it was something of the real venom of ingratitude that stung him at the moment rather than this additional sign of coming evil. He was more than ordinarily gracious as he put his wife into the carriage, and remarked that, considering all things, the party had gone off very well. ‘I only wish it could have been done a little cheaper,' he said laughing. Then he went back into the house, and up into the drawing-rooms which were now utterly deserted. Some of the lights had been put out, but the men were busy in the rooms below, and he threw himself into the chair in which the emperor had sat. It was wonderful that he should come to such a fate as this – that he, the boy out of the gutter, should entertain at his own house, in London, a Chinese emperor and English and German royalty – and that he should do so almost with a rope round his neck. Even if this were to be the end of it all, men would at any rate remember him. The grand dinner which he had given before he was put into prison would live in history. And it would be remembered, too, that he had been the Conservative candidate for the great borough of Westminster – perhaps, even, the elected member. He, too, in his manner, assured himself that a great part of him would escape oblivion. ‘
Non omnis moriar
,'
¹
in some language of his own, was chanted by him within his own breast, as he sat there looking out on his own
magnificent suite of rooms from the arm-chair which had been consecrated by the use of an emperor.

No policemen had come to trouble him yet No hint that he would be ‘wanted' had been made to him. There was no tangible sign that things were not to go on as they went before. Things would be exactly as they were before, but for the absence of those guests from the dinner-table, and for the words which Miles Grendall had spoken. Had he not allowed himself to be terrified by shadows? Of course he had known that there must be such shadows. His life had been made dark by similar clouds before now and he had lived through the storms which had followed them. He was thoroughly ashamed of the weakness which had overcome him at the dinner-table, and of that palsy of fear which he had allowed himself to exhibit. There should be no more shrinking such as that When people talked of him they should say that he was at least a man.

As this was passing through his mind a head was pushed in through one of the doors, and immediately withdrawn. It was his secretary. ‘Is that you, Miles?' he said. ‘Come in. I'm just going home, and came up here to see how the empty rooms would look after they were all gone. What became of your father?'

‘I suppose he went away.'

‘I suppose he did,' said Melmotte, unable to hinder himself from throwing a certain tone of scorn into his voice – as though proclaiming the fate of his own house and the consequent running away of the rat. ‘It went off very well, I think.'

‘Very well,' said Miles, still standing at the door. There had been a few words of consultation between him and his father – only a very few words. ‘You'd better see it out to-night, as you've had a regular salary, and all that. I shall hook it. I shan't go near him to-morrow till I find out how things are going. By G—, I've had about enough of him.' But hardly enough of his money – or it may be presumed that Lord Alfred would have ‘hooked it' sooner.

‘Why don't you come in, and not stand there?' said Melmotte. There's no emperor here now for you to be afraid of.'

‘I'm afraid of nobody,' said Miles, walking into the middle of the room.

‘Nor am I. What's one man that another man should be afraid of him? We've got to die, and there'll be an end of it, I suppose.'

‘That's about it,' said Miles, hardly following the working of his master's mind.

‘I shouldn't care how soon. When a man has worked as I have done, he gets about tired at my age. I suppose I'd better be down at the committee-room about ten to-morrow?'

‘That's the best, I should say.'

‘You'll be there by that time?' Miles Grendall assented slowly, and with imperfect assent. ‘And tell your father he might as well be there as early as convenient.'

‘All right,' said Miles as he took his departure.

‘Curs!' said Melmotte almost aloud. ‘They neither of them will be there. If any evil can be done to me by treachery and desertion, they will do it.' Then it occurred to him to think whether the Grendall article had been worth all the money that he had paid for it. ‘Curs!' he said again. He walked down into the hall, and through the banqueting-room, and stood at the place where he himself had sat. What a scene it had been, and how frightfully low his heart had sunk within him! It had been the defection of the Lord Mayor that had hit him hardest ‘What cowards they are!' The men went on with their work, not noticing him, and probably not knowing him. The dinner had been done by contract, and the contractor's foreman was there. The care of the house and the alterations had been confided to another contractor, and his foreman was waiting to see the place locked up. A confidential clerk, who had been with Melmotte for years, and who knew his ways, was there also to guard the property. ‘Good night, Croll,' he said to the man in German. Croll touched his hat and bade him good night. Melmotte listened anxiously to the tone of the man's voice, trying to catch from it some indication of the mind within. Did Croll know of these rumours, and if so, what did he think of them? Croll had known him in some perilous circumstances before, and had helped him through them. He paused a moment as though he would ask a question, but resolved at last that silence would be safest. ‘You'll see everything safe, eh, Croll?' Croll said that he would see everything safe, and Melmotte passed out into the square.

He had not far to go, round through Berkeley Square into Bruton Street, but he stood for a few moments looking up at the bright stars. If he could be there, in one of those unknown distant worlds, with all his present intellect and none of his present burdens, he would, he thought, do better than he had done here on earth. If he could even now put himself down nameless, fameless, and without possessions in some distant corner of the world, he could, he thought, do better. But he was Augustus Melmotte, and he must bear his burdens, whatever they were,
to the end. He could reach no place so distant but that he would be known and traced.

No election of a member of Parliament by ballot in a borough so large as that of Westminster had as yet been achieved in England since the ballot had been established by law. Men who heretofore had known, or thought that they knew, how elections would go, who counted up promises, told off professed enemies, and weighed the doubtful ones, now confessed themselves to be in the dark. Three days since the odds had been considerably in Melmotte's favour; but this had come from the reputation attached to his name, rather than from any calculation as to the politics of the voters. Then Sunday had intervened. On the Monday Melmotte's name had continued to go down in the betting from morning to evening. Early in the day his supporters had thought little of this, attributing the fall to that vacillation which is customary in such matters; but towards the latter part of the afternoon the tidings from the City had been in everybody's mouth, and Melmotte's committee-room had been almost deserted. At six o'clock there were some who suggested that his name should be withdrawn. No such suggestion, however, was made to him – perhaps, because no one dared to make it. On the Monday evening all work and strategy for the election, as regarded Melmotte and his party, died away; and the interest of the hour was turned to the dinner.

But Mr Alf's supporters were very busy. There had been a close consultation among a few of them as to what should be done by their committee as to these charges against the opposite candidate. In the
Pulpit
of that evening an allusion had been made to the affair, which was of course sufficiently intelligible to those who were immediately concerned in the matter, but which had given no name and mentioned no details. Mr Alf explained that this had been put in by the sub-editor, and that it only afforded such news as the paper was bound to give to the public. He himself pointed out the fact that no note of triumph had been sounded, and that the rumour had not been connected with the election.

One old gentleman was of opinion that they were bound to make the most of it. ‘It's no more than we've all believed all along,' said the old gentleman, ‘and why are we to let a fellow like that get the seat if we can keep him out?' He was of opinion that everything should be done to make the rumour with all its exaggerations as public as possible – so that there should be no opening for an indictment for libel; and the clever old gentleman was full of devices by which this might be effected. But the committee generally was averse to fight in this manner. Public opinion has its Bar as well as the law courts. If, after all, Melmotte had committed no fraud – or, as was much more probable, should not be convicted of fraud – then it would be said that the accusation had been forged for purely electioneering purposes, and there might be a rebound which would pretty well crush all those who had been concerned. Individual gentlemen could, of course, say what they pleased to individual voters; but it was agreed at last that no overt use should be made of the rumours by Mr Alf's committee. In regard to other matters, they who worked under the committee were busy enough. The dinner to the emperor was turned into ridicule, and the electors were asked whether they felt themselves bound to return a gentleman out of the City to Parliament because he had offered to spend a fortune on entertaining all the royalties then assembled in London. There was very much said on placards and published in newspapers to the discredit of Melmotte, but nothing was so printed which would not have appeared with equal venom had the recent rumours never been sent out from the City. At twelve o'clock at night, when Mr Alf's committee-room was being closed, and when Melmotte was walking home to bed, the general opinion at the clubs was very much in favour of Mr Alf.

On the next morning Melmotte was up before eight. As yet no policeman had called for him, nor had any official intimation reached him that an accusation was to be brought against him. On coming down from his bedroom he at once went into the back-parlour on the ground floor, which Mr Longestaffe called his study, and which Mr Melmotte had used since he had been in Mr Longestaffe's house for the work which he did at home. He would be there often early in the morning, and often late at night after Lord Alfred had left him. There were two heavy desk-tables in the room, furnished with drawers down to the ground. One of these the owner of the house had kept locked for his own purposes. When the bargain for the temporary letting of the house had been made, Mr Melmotte and Mr Longestaffe were close friends. Terms for the purchase of Pickering had just been made, and no cause
for suspicion had as yet arisen. Everything between the two gentlemen had been managed with the greatest ease. Oh dear, yes! Mr Longestaffe could come whenever he pleased. He, Melmotte, always left the house at ten and never returned till six. The ladies would never enter that room. The servants were to regard Mr Longestaffe quite as master of the house as far as that room was concerned. If Mr Longestaffe could spare it, Mr Melmotte would take the key of one of the tables. The matter was arranged very pleasantly.

Mr Melmotte on entering the room bolted the door, and then, sitting at his own table, took certain papers out of the drawers – a bundle of letters and another of small documents. From these, with very little examination, he took three or four – two or three perhaps from each. These he tore into very small fragments and burned the bits – holding them over a gas-burner and letting the ashes fall into a large china plate. Then he blew the ashes into the yard through the open window. This he did to all these documents but one. This one he put bit by bit into his mouth, chewing the paper into a pulp till he swallowed it When he had done this, and had re-locked his own drawers, he walked across to the other table, Mr Longestaffe's table, and pulled the handle of one of the drawers. It opened; – and then, without touching the contents, he again closed it. He then knelt down and examined the lock, and the hole above into which the bolt of the lock ran. Having done this he again closed the drawer, drew back the bolt of the door, and seating himself at his own desk, rang the bell which was close to hand. The servant found him writing letters after his usual hurried fashion, and was told that he was ready for breakfast. He always breakfasted alone with a heap of newspapers around him, and so he did on this day. He soon found the paragraph alluding to himself in the
Pulpit
, and read it without a quiver in his face or the slightest change in his colour. There was no one to see him now – but he was acting under a resolve that at no moment, either when alone, or in a crowd, or when suddenly called upon for words – not even when the policemen with their first hints of arrest should come upon him – would he betray himself by the working of a single muscle, or the loss of a drop of blood from his heart He would go through it, always armed, without a sign of shrinking. It had to be done, and he would do it.