The Way We Live Now

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER LXII.

  THE PARTY.

  Lady Monogram retired from Mr. Melmotte's house in disgust as soonas she was able to escape; but we must return to it for a short time.When the guests were once in the drawing-room the immediate senseof failure passed away. The crowd never became so thick as had beenanticipated. They who were knowing in such matters had declared thatthe people would not be able to get themselves out of the room tillthree or four o'clock in the morning, and that the carriages wouldnot get themselves out of the Square till breakfast time. With a viewto this kind of thing Mr. Melmotte had been told that he must providea private means of escape for his illustrious guests, and with aconsiderable sacrifice of walls and general house arrangements thishad been done. No such gathering as was expected took place; butstill the rooms became fairly full, and Mr. Melmotte was able toconsole himself with the feeling that nothing certainly fatal had asyet occurred.

  There can be no doubt that the greater part of the people assembleddid believe that their host had committed some great fraud whichmight probably bring him under the arm of the law. When such rumoursare spread abroad, they are always believed. There is an excitementand a pleasure in believing them. Reasonable hesitation at such amoment is dull and phlegmatic. If the accused one be near enough toourselves to make the accusation a matter of personal pain, of coursewe disbelieve. But, if the distance be beyond this, we are almostready to think that anything may be true of anybody. In this casenobody really loved Melmotte and everybody did believe. It was soprobable that such a man should have done something horrible! It wasonly hoped that the fraud might be great and horrible enough.

  Melmotte himself during that part of the evening which was passedup-stairs kept himself in the close vicinity of royalty. He behavedcertainly very much better than he would have done had he hadno weight at his heart. He made few attempts at beginning anyconversation, and answered, at any rate with brevity, when he wasaddressed. With scrupulous care he ticked off on his memory the namesof those who had come and whom he knew, thinking that their presenceindicated a verdict of acquittal from them on the evidence alreadybefore them. Seeing the members of the Government all there, hewished that he had come forward in Westminster as a Liberal. And hefreely forgave those omissions of Royalty as to which he had been soangry at the India Office, seeing that not a Prince or Princess waslacking of those who were expected. He could turn his mind to allthis, although he knew how great was his danger. Many things occurredto him as he stood, striving to smile as a host should smile. Itmight be the case that half-a-dozen detectives were already stationedin his own hall,--perhaps one or two, well dressed, in the verypresence of royalty,--ready to arrest him as soon as the guestswere gone, watching him now lest he should escape. But he bore theburden,--and smiled. He had always lived with the consciousness thatsuch a burden was on him and might crush him at any time. He hadknown that he had to run these risks. He had told himself a thousandtimes that when the dangers came, dangers alone should never cowhim. He had always endeavoured to go as near the wind as he could,to avoid the heavy hand of the criminal law of whatever country heinhabited. He had studied the criminal laws, so that he might be surein his reckonings; but he had always felt that he might be carried bycircumstances into deeper waters than he intended to enter. As thesoldier who leads a forlorn hope, or as the diver who goes down forpearls, or as the searcher for wealth on fever-breeding coasts, knowsthat as his gains may be great, so are his perils, Melmotte had beenaware that in his life, as it opened itself out to him, he might cometo terrible destruction. He had not always thought, or even hoped,that he would be as he was now, so exalted as to be allowed toentertain the very biggest ones of the earth; but the greatness hadgrown upon him,--and so had the danger. He could not now be as exactas he had been. He was prepared himself to bear all mere ignominywith a tranquil mind,--to disregard any shouts of reprobation whichmight be uttered, and to console himself when the bad quarter of anhour should come with the remembrance that he had garnered up a storesufficient for future wants and placed it beyond the reach of hisenemies. But as his intellect opened up to him new schemes, and ashis ambition got the better of his prudence, he gradually fell fromthe security which he had preconceived, and became aware that hemight have to bear worse than ignominy.

  Perhaps never in his life had he studied his own character and hisown conduct more accurately, or made sterner resolves, than he didas he stood there smiling, bowing, and acting without improprietythe part of host to an Emperor. No;--he could not run away. He soonmade himself sure of that. He had risen too high to be a successfulfugitive, even should he succeed in getting off before hands werelaid upon him. He must bide his ground, if only that he might notat once confess his own guilt by flight; and he would do so withcourage. Looking back at the hour or two that had just passed he wasaware that he had allowed himself not only to be frightened in thedinner-room,--but also to seem to be frightened. The thing had comeupon him unawares and he had been untrue to himself. He acknowledgedthat. He should not have asked those questions of Mr. Todd and Mr.Beauclerk, and should have been more good-humoured than usual withLord Alfred in discussing those empty seats. But for spilt milk thereis no remedy. The blow had come upon him too suddenly, and he hadfaltered. But he would not falter again. Nothing should cow him,--notouch from a policeman, no warrant from a magistrate, no defalcationof friends, no scorn in the City, no solitude in the West End. Hewould go down among the electors to-morrow and would stand hisground, as though all with him were right. Men should know at anyrate that he had a heart within his bosom. And he confessed also tohimself that he had sinned in that matter of arrogance. He could seeit now,--as so many of us do see the faults which we have committed,which we strive, but in vain, to discontinue, and which we neverconfess except to our own bosoms. The task which he had imposed onhimself, and to which circumstances had added weight, had been veryhard to bear. He should have been good-humoured to these great oneswhose society he had gained. He should have bound these people to himby a feeling of kindness as well as by his money. He could see it allnow. And he could see too that there was no help for spilt milk. Ithink he took some pride in his own confidence as to his own courage,as he stood there turning it all over in his mind. Very much might besuspected. Something might be found out. But the task of unravellingit all would not be easy. It is the small vermin and the little birdsthat are trapped at once. But wolves and vultures can fight hardbefore they are caught. With the means which would still be at hiscommand, let the worst come to the worst, he could make a strongfight. When a man's frauds have been enormous there is a certainsafety in their very diversity and proportions. Might it not be thatthe fact that these great ones of the earth had been his guestsshould speak in his favour? A man who had in very truth had the realbrother of the Sun dining at his table could hardly be sent into thedock and then sent out of it like a common felon.

  Madame Melmotte during the evening stood at the top of her own stairswith a chair behind her on which she could rest herself for a momentwhen any pause took place in the arrivals. She had of course dinedat the table,--or rather sat there;--but had been so placed that noduty had devolved upon her. She had heard no word of the rumours,and would probably be the last person in that house to hear them. Itnever occurred to her to see whether the places down the table werefull or empty. She sat with her large eyes fixed on the Majesty ofChina and must have wondered at her own destiny at finding herselfwith an Emperor and Princes to look at. From the dining-room she hadgone when she was told to go, up to the drawing-room, and had thereperformed her task, longing only for the comfort of her bedroom. She,I think, had but small sympathy with her husband in all his work,and but little understanding of the position in which she had beenplaced. Money she liked, and comfort, and perhaps diamonds and finedresses, but she can hardly have taken pleasure in duchesses orhave enjoyed the company of the Emperor. From the beginning of theMelmotte era it had been an understood thing that no one spoke toMadame Melmotte.

  Marie M
elmotte had declined a seat at the dinner-table. This at firsthad been cause of quarrel between her and her father, as he desiredto have seen her next to young Lord Nidderdale as being acknowledgedto be betrothed to him. But since the journey to Liverpool he hadsaid nothing on the subject. He still pressed the engagement, butthought now that less publicity might be expedient. She was, however,in the drawing-room standing at first by Madame Melmotte, andafterwards retreating among the crowd. To some ladies she was aperson of interest as the young woman who had lately run away undersuch strange circumstances; but no one spoke to her till she saw agirl whom she herself knew, and whom she addressed, plucking up allher courage for the occasion. This was Hetta Carbury who had beenbrought hither by her mother.

  The tickets for Lady Carbury and Hetta had of course been sent beforethe elopement;--and also, as a matter of course, no reference hadbeen made to them by the Melmotte family after the elopement. LadyCarbury herself was anxious that that affair should not be consideredas having given cause for any personal quarrel between herselfand Mr. Melmotte, and in her difficulty had consulted Mr. Broune.Mr. Broune was the staff on which she leant at present in all herdifficulties. Mr. Broune was going to the dinner. All this of coursetook place while Melmotte's name was as yet unsullied as snow. Mr.Broune saw no reason why Lady Carbury should not take advantage ofher tickets. These invitations were simply tickets to see the Emperorsurrounded by the Princes. The young lady's elopement is "no affairof yours," Mr. Broune had said. "I should go, if it were only for thesake of showing that you did not consider yourself to be implicatedin the matter." Lady Carbury did as she was advised, and took herdaughter with her. "Nonsense," said the mother, when Hetta objected;"Mr. Broune sees it quite in the right light. This is a granddemonstration in honour of the Emperor, rather than a privateparty;--and we have done nothing to offend the Melmottes. You knowyou wish to see the Emperor." A few minutes before they startedfrom Welbeck Street a note came from Mr. Broune, written in penciland sent from Melmotte's house by a Commissioner. "Don't mind whatyou hear; but come. I am here and as far as I can see it is allright. The E. is beautiful, and P.'s are as thick as blackberries."Lady Carbury, who had not been in the way of hearing the reports,understood nothing of this; but of course she went. And Hetta wentwith her.

  Hetta was standing alone in a corner, near to her mother, who wastalking to Mr. Booker, with her eyes fixed on the awful tranquillityof the Emperor's countenance, when Marie Melmotte timidly crept up toher and asked her how she was. Hetta, probably, was not very cordialto the poor girl, being afraid of her, partly as the daughter ofthe great Melmotte and partly as the girl with whom her brotherhad failed to run away; but Marie was not rebuked by this. "I hopeyou won't be angry with me for speaking to you." Hetta smiled moregraciously. She could not be angry with the girl for speaking to her,feeling that she was there as the guest of the girl's mother. "Isuppose you know about your brother," said Marie, whispering with hereyes turned to the ground.

  "I have heard about it," said Hetta. "He never told me himself."

  "Oh, I do so wish that I knew the truth. I know nothing. Of course,Miss Carbury, I love him. I do love him so dearly! I hope you don'tthink I would have done it if I hadn't loved him better than anybodyin the world. Don't you think that if a girl loves a man,--reallyloves him,--that ought to go before everything?"

  This was a question that Hetta was hardly prepared to answer. Shefelt quite certain that under no circumstances would she run awaywith a man. "I don't quite know. It is so hard to say," she replied.

  "I do. What's the good of anything if you're to be broken-hearted?I don't care what they say of me, or what they do to me, if he wouldonly be true to me. Why doesn't he--let me know--something about it?"This also was a question difficult to be answered. Since that horridmorning on which Sir Felix had stumbled home drunk,--which was nowfour days since,--he had not left the house in Welbeck Street tillthis evening. He had gone out a few minutes before Lady Carbury hadstarted, but up to that time he had almost kept his bed. He wouldnot get up till dinner-time, would come down after some half-dressedfashion, and then get back to his bedroom, where he would smoke anddrink brandy-and-water and complain of headache. The theory was thathe was ill;--but he was in fact utterly cowed and did not dare toshow himself at his usual haunts. He was aware that he had quarrelledat the club, aware that all the world knew of his intended journey toLiverpool, aware that he had tumbled about the streets intoxicated.He had not dared to show himself, and the feeling had grown uponhim from day to day. Now, fairly worn out by his confinement, hehad crept out intending, if possible, to find consolation with RubyRuggles. "Do tell me. Where is he?" pleaded Marie.

  "He has not been very well lately."

  "Is he ill? Oh, Miss Carbury, do tell me. You can understand what itis to love him as I do;--can't you?"

  "He has been ill. I think he is better now."

  "Why does he not come to me, or send to me; or let me know something?It is cruel, is it not? Tell me,--you must know,--does he really carefor me?"

  Hetta was exceedingly perplexed. The real feeling betrayed by thegirl recommended her. Hetta could not but sympathize with theaffection manifested for her own brother, though she could hardlyunderstand the want of reticence displayed by Marie in thus speakingof her love to one who was almost a stranger. "Felix hardly evertalks about himself to me," she said.

  "If he doesn't care for me, there shall be an end of it," Marie saidvery gravely. "If I only knew! If I thought that he loved me, I'd gothrough,--oh,--all the world for him. Nothing that papa could sayshould stop me. That's my feeling about it. I have never talked toany one but you about it. Isn't that strange? I haven't a person totalk to. That's my feeling, and I'm not a bit ashamed of it. There'sno disgrace in being in love. But it's very bad to get marriedwithout being in love. That's what I think."

  "It is bad," said Hetta, thinking of Roger Carbury.

  "But if Felix doesn't care for me!" continued Marie, sinking hervoice to a low whisper, but still making her words quite audible toher companion. Now Hetta was strongly of opinion that her brotherdid not in the least "care for" Marie Melmotte, and that it would bevery much for the best that Marie Melmotte should know the truth. Butshe had not that sort of strength which would have enabled her totell it. "Tell me just what you think," said Marie. Hetta was stillsilent. "Ah,--I see. Then I must give him up? Eh?"

  "What can I say, Miss Melmotte? Felix never tells me. He is mybrother,--and of course I love you for loving him." This was almostmore than Hetta meant; but she felt herself constrained to say somegracious word.

  "Do you? Oh! I wish you did. I should so like to be loved by you.Nobody loves me, I think. That man there wants to marry me. Do youknow him? He is Lord Nidderdale. He is very nice; but he does notlove me any more than he loves you. That's the way with men. It isn'tthe way with me. I would go with Felix and slave for him if he werepoor. Is it all to be over then? You will give him a message fromme?" Hetta, doubting as to the propriety of the promise, promisedthat she would. "Just tell him I want to know; that's all. I want toknow. You'll understand. I want to know the real truth. I suppose Ido know it now. Then I shall not care what happens to me. It will beall the same. I suppose I shall marry that young man, though it willbe very bad. I shall just be as if I hadn't any self of my own atall. But he ought to send me word after all that has passed. Do notyou think he ought to send me word?"

  "Yes, indeed."

  "You tell him, then," said Marie, nodding her head as she crept away.

  Nidderdale had been observing her while she had been talking to MissCarbury. He had heard the rumour, and of course felt that it behovedhim to be on his guard more specially than any one else. But hehad not believed what he had heard. That men should be thoroughlyimmoral, that they should gamble, get drunk, run into debt, and makelove to other men's wives, was to him a matter of every-day life.Nothing of that kind shocked him at all. But he was not as yetquite old enough to believe in swindling. It had been impossible toconvince him that
Miles Grendall had cheated at cards, and the ideathat Mr. Melmotte had forged was as improbable and shocking to himas that an officer should run away in battle. Common soldiers, hethought, might do that sort of thing. He had almost fallen in lovewith Marie when he saw her last, and was inclined to feel the morekindly to her now because of the hard things that were being saidabout her father. And yet he knew that he must be careful. If "hecame a cropper" in this matter, it would be such an awful cropper!"How do you like the party?" he said to Marie.

  "I don't like it at all, my lord. How do you like it?"

  "Very much, indeed. I think the Emperor is the greatest fun I eversaw. Prince Frederic,"--one of the German princes who was staying atthe time among his English cousins,--"Prince Frederic says that he'sstuffed with hay, and that he's made up fresh every morning at a shopin the Haymarket."

  "I've seen him talk."

  "He opens his mouth, of course. There is machinery as well as hay.I think he's the grandest old buffer out, and I'm awfully glad thatI've dined with him. I couldn't make out whether he really putanything to eat into his jolly old mouth."

  "Of course he did."

  "Have you been thinking about what we were talking about the otherday?"

  "No, my lord,--I haven't thought about it since. Why should I?"

  "Well;--it's a sort of thing that people do think about, you know."

  "You don't think about it."

  "Don't I? I've been thinking about nothing else the last threemonths."

  "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 thatPrince Frederic, who told you about the hay? He is handsome; isn'the? 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 allnice. Good night, my lord. I'm glad you like the Emperor."

  And then the people went, and when they had all gone Melmotte puthis wife and daughter into his own carriage, telling them that hewould follow them on foot to Bruton Street when he had given somelast directions to the people who were putting out the lights, andextinguishing generally the embers of the entertainment. He hadlooked round for Lord Alfred, taking care to avoid the appearance ofsearching; but Lord Alfred had gone. Lord Alfred was one of those whoknew when to leave a falling house. Melmotte at the moment thoughtof all that he had done for Lord Alfred, and it was something of thereal venom of ingratitude that stung him at the moment rather thanthis additional sign of coming evil. He was more than ordinarilygracious as he put his wife into the carriage, and remarked that,considering all things, the party had gone off very well. "I onlywish it could have been done a little cheaper," he said laughing.Then he went back into the house, and up into the drawing-rooms whichwere now utterly deserted. Some of the lights had been put out, butthe men were busy in the rooms below, and he threw himself into thechair in which the Emperor had sat. It was wonderful that he shouldcome 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 andEnglish and German Royalty,--and that he should do so almost with arope round his neck. Even if this were to be the end of it all, menwould at any rate remember him. The grand dinner which he had givenbefore he was put into prison would live in history. And it would beremembered, too, that he had been the Conservative candidate for thegreat borough of Westminster,--perhaps, even, the elected member. He,too, in his manner, assured himself that a great part of him wouldescape Oblivion. "Non omnis moriar," in some language of his own, waschanted by him within his own breast, as he sat there looking out onhis own magnificent suite of rooms from the arm-chair which had beenconsecrated by the use of an Emperor.

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

  As this was passing through his mind a head was pushed in through oneof the doors, and immediately withdrawn. It was his Secretary. "Isthat you, Miles?" he said. "Come in. I'm just going home, and came uphere 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 fromthrowing a certain tone of scorn into his voice,--as thoughproclaiming the fate of his own house and the consequent running awayof the rat. "It went off very well, I think."

  "Very well," said Miles, still standing at the door. There had beena few words of consultation between him and his father,--only avery few words. "You'd better see it out to-night, as you've had aregular salary, and all that. I shall hook it. I sha'n't go near himto-morrow till I find out how things are going. By G----, I've hadabout enough of him." But hardly enough of his money,--or it may bepresumed that Lord Alfred would have "hooked it" sooner.

  "Why don't you come in, and not stand there?" said Melmotte. "There'sno Emperor here now for you to be afraid of."

  "I'm afraid of nobody," said Miles, walking into the middle of theroom.

  "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 hismaster'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 thecommittee-room about ten to-morrow?"

  "That's the best, I should say."

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

  "All right," said Miles as he took his departure.

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

  He had not far to go, round through Berkeley Square into BrutonStreet, but he stood for a few moments looking up at the brightstars. If he could be there, in one of those unknown distant worlds,with all his present intellect and none of his present burdens, hewould, he thought, do better than he had done here on earth. If hecould even now put himself down nameless, fameless, and withoutpossessions in some distant corner of the world, he could, hethought, do better. But he was Augustus Melmotte, and he must bearhis burdens, whatever they were, to the end. He could reach no placeso distant but that he would be known and traced.

  Mr. Melmotte speculates.]