The Way We Live Now Part 70

"I don't think I'll play to-night, old fellow. I hate three fellows sticking down together." Miles sat silent, smoking his pipe, conscious of the baronet's dislike to play with him. "By-the-by, Grendall look here." And Sir Felix in his most friendly tone whispered into his enemy's ear a pet.i.tion that some of the I.O.U.'s might be converted into cash.

"'Pon my word, I must ask you to wait till next week," said Miles.

"It's always waiting till next week with you," said Sir Felix, getting up and standing with his back to the fireplace. There were other men in the room, and this was said so that every one should hear it. "I wonder whether any fellow would buy these for five shillings in the pound?" And he held up the sc.r.a.ps of paper in his hand. He had been drinking freely before he went up to Welbeck Street, and had taken a gla.s.s of brandy on re-entering the club.

"Don't let's have any of that kind of thing down here," said Dolly.

"If there is to be a row about cards, let it be in the card-room."

"Of course," said Miles. "I won't say a word about the matter down here. It isn't the proper thing."

"Come up into the card-room, then," said Sir Felix, getting up from his chair. "It seems to me that it makes no difference to you, what room you're in. Come up, now; and Dolly Longestaffe shall come and hear what you say." But Miles Grendall objected to this arrangement.

He was not going up into the card-room that night, as no one was going to play. He would be there to-morrow, and then if Sir Felix Carbury had anything to say, he could say it.

"How I do hate a row!" said Dolly. "One has to have rows with one's own people, but there ought not to be rows at a club."

"He likes a row,--Carbury does," said Miles.

"I should like my money, if I could get it," said Sir Felix, walking out of the room.

On the next day he went into the City, and changed his mother's cheque. This was done after a little hesitation: The money was given to him, but a gentleman from behind the desks begged him to remind Lady Carbury that she was overdrawing her account. "Dear, dear;" said Sir Felix, as he pocketed the notes, "I'm sure she was unaware of it." Then he paid for his pa.s.sage from Liverpool to New York under the name of Walter Jones, and felt as he did so that the intrigue was becoming very deep. This was on Tuesday. He dined again at the club, alone, and in the evening went to the Music Hall. There he remained, from ten till nearly twelve, very angry at the non-appearance of Ruby Ruggles. As he smoked and drank in solitude, he almost made up his mind that he had intended to tell her of his departure for New York.

Of course he would have done no such thing. But now, should she ever complain on that head he would have his answer ready. He had devoted his last night in England to the purpose of telling her, and she had broken her appointment. Everything would now be her fault. Whatever might happen to her she could not blame him.

Having waited till he was sick of the Music Hall,--for a music hall without ladies' society must be somewhat dull,--he went back to his club. He was very cross, as brave as brandy could make him, and well inclined to expose Miles Grendall if he could find an opportunity. Up in the card-room he found all the accustomed men,--with the exception of Miles Grendall. Nidderdale, Gra.s.slough, Dolly, Paul Montague, and one or two others were there. There was, at any rate, comfort in the idea of playing without having to encounter the dead weight of Miles Grendall. Ready money was on the table,--and there was none of the peculiar Beargarden paper flying about. Indeed the men at the Beargarden had become sick of paper, and there had been formed a half-expressed resolution that the play should be somewhat lower, but the payments punctual. The I.O.U.'s had been nearly all converted into money,--with the a.s.sistance of Herr Vossner,--excepting those of Miles Grendall. The resolution mentioned did not refer back to Grendall's former indebtedness, but was intended to include a clause that he must in future pay ready money. Nidderdale had communicated to him the determination of the committee. "Bygones are bygones, old fellow; but you really must stump up, you know, after this." Miles had declared that he would "stump up." But on this occasion Miles was absent.

At three o'clock in the morning, Sir Felix had lost over a hundred pounds in ready money. On the following night about one he had lost a further sum of two hundred pounds. The reader will remember that he should at that time have been in the hotel at Liverpool.

But Sir Felix, as he played on in the almost desperate hope of recovering the money which he so greatly needed, remembered how Fisker had played all night, and how he had gone off from the club to catch the early train for Liverpool, and how he had gone on to New York without delay.

CHAPTER L.

THE JOURNEY TO LIVERPOOL.

Marie Melmotte, as she had promised, sat up all night, as did also the faithful Didon. I think that to Marie the night was full of pleasure,--or at any rate of pleasurable excitement. With her door locked, she packed and unpacked and repacked her treasures,--having more than once laid out on the bed the dress in which she purposed to be married. She asked Didon her opinion whether that American clergyman of whom they had heard would marry them on board, and whether in that event the dress would be fit for the occasion. Didon thought that the man, if sufficiently paid, would marry them, and that the dress would not much signify. She scolded her young mistress very often during the night for what she called nonsense; but was true to her, and worked hard for her. They determined to go without food in the morning, so that no suspicion should be raised by the use of cups and plates. They could get refreshment at the railway-station.

At six they started. Robert went first with the big boxes, having his ten pounds already in his pocket,--and Marie and Didon with smaller luggage followed in a second cab. No one interfered with them and nothing went wrong. The very civil man at Euston Square gave them their tickets, and even attempted to speak to them in French. They had quite determined that not a word of English was to be spoken by Marie till the ship was out at sea. At the station they got some very bad tea and almost uneatable food,--but Marie's restrained excitement was so great that food was almost unnecessary to her. They took their seats without any impediment,--and then they were off.

During a great part of the journey they were alone, and then Marie gabbled to Didon about her hopes and her future career, and all the things she would do;--how she had hated Lord Nidderdale,--especially when, after she had been awed into accepting him, he had given her no token of love,--"pas un baiser!" Didon suggested that such was the way with English lords. She herself had preferred Lord Nidderdale, but had been willing to join in the present plan,--as she said, from devoted affection to Marie. Marie went on to say that Nidderdale was ugly, and that Sir Felix was as beautiful as the morning. "Bah!"

exclaimed Didon, who was really disgusted that such considerations should prevail. Didon had learned in some indistinct way that Lord Nidderdale would be a marquis and would have a castle, whereas Sir Felix would never be more than Sir Felix, and, of his own, would never have anything at all. She had striven with her mistress, but her mistress liked to have a will of her own. Didon no doubt had thought that New York, with 50 and other perquisites in hand, might offer her a new career. She had therefore yielded, but even now could hardly forbear from expressing disgust at the folly of her mistress.

Marie bore it with imperturbable good humour. She was running away,--and was running to a distant continent,--and her lover would be with her! She gave Didon to understand that she cared nothing for marquises.

As they drew near to Liverpool Didon explained that they must still be very careful. It would not do for them to declare at once their destination on the platform,--so that every one about the station should know that they were going on board the packet for New York.

They had time enough. They must leisurely look for the big boxes and other things, and need say nothing about the steam packet till they were in a cab. Marie's big box was directed simply "Madame Racine, Pa.s.senger to Liverpool;"--so also was directed a second box, nearly as big, which was Didon's property. Didon declared that her anxiety would not be over till she found the ship moving under her. Marie was sure that all their dangers were over,--if only Sir Felix was safe on board. Poor Marie! Sir Felix was at this moment in Welbeck Street, striving to find temporary oblivion for his distressing situation and loss of money, and some alleviation for his racking temples, beneath the bedclothes.

When the train ran into the station at Liverpool the two women sat for a few moments quite quiet. They would not seek remark by any hurry or noise. The door was opened, and a well-mannered porter offered to take their luggage. Didon handed out the various packages, keeping however the jewel-case in her own hands. She left the carriage first, and then Marie. But Marie had hardly put her foot on the platform, before a gentleman addressed her, touching his hat, "You, I think, are Miss Melmotte." Marie was struck dumb, but said nothing. Didon immediately became voluble in French. No; the young lady was not Miss Melmotte; the young lady was Mademoiselle Racine, her niece. She was Madame Racine. Melmotte! What was Melmotte? They knew nothing about Melmottes. Would the gentleman kindly allow them to pa.s.s on to their cab?

But the gentleman would by no means kindly allow them to pa.s.s on to their cab. With the gentleman was another gentleman,--who did not seem to be quite so much of a gentleman;--and again, not far in the distance Didon quickly espied a policeman, who did not at present connect himself with the affair, but who seemed to have his time very much at command, and to be quite ready if he were wanted. Didon at once gave up the game,--as regarded her mistress.

"I am afraid I must persist in a.s.serting that you are Miss Melmotte,"

said the gentleman, "and that this other--person is your servant, Elise Didon. You speak English, Miss Melmotte." Marie declared that she spoke French. "And English too," said the gentleman. "I think you had better make up your minds to go back to London. I will accompany you."

"Ah, Didon, nous sommes perdues!" exclaimed Marie. Didon, plucking up her courage for the moment, a.s.serted the legality of her own position and of that of her mistress. They had both a right to come to Liverpool. They had both a right to get into the cab with their luggage. n.o.body had a right to stop them. They had done nothing against the laws. Why were they to be stopped in this way? What was it to anybody whether they called themselves Melmotte or Racine?

The gentleman understood the French oratory, but did not commit himself to reply in the same language. "You had better trust yourself to me; you had indeed," said the gentleman.

"But why?" demanded Marie.

Then the gentleman spoke in a very low voice. "A cheque has been changed which you took from your father's house. No doubt your father will pardon that when you are once with him. But in order that we may bring you back safely we can arrest you on the score of the cheque,--if you force us to do so. We certainly shall not let you go on board. If you will travel back to London with me, you shall be subjected to no inconvenience which can be avoided."

There was certainly no help to be found anywhere. It may be well doubted whether upon the whole the telegraph has not added more to the annoyances than to the comforts of life, and whether the gentlemen who spent all the public money without authority ought not to have been punished with special severity in that they had injured humanity, rather than pardoned because of the good they had produced.

Who is benefited by telegrams? The newspapers are robbed of all their old interest, and the very soul of intrigue is destroyed. Poor Marie, when she heard her fate, would certainly have gladly hanged Mr.

Scudamore.

When the gentleman had made his speech, she offered no further opposition. Looking into Didon's face and bursting into tears, she sat down on one of the boxes. But Didon became very clamorous on her own behalf,--and her clamour was successful. "Who was going to stop her? What had she done? Why should not she go where she pleased. Did anybody mean to take her up for stealing anybody's money? If anybody did, that person had better look to himself. She knew the law. She would go where she pleased." So saying she began to tug the rope of her box as though she intended to drag it by her own force out of the station. The gentleman looked at his telegram,--looked at another doc.u.ment which he now held in his hand, ready prepared, should it be wanted. Elise Didon had been accused of nothing that brought her within the law. The gentleman in imperfect French suggested that Didon had better return with her mistress. But Didon clamoured only the more. No; she would go to New York. She would go wherever she pleased;--all the world over. n.o.body should stop her. Then she addressed herself in what little English she could command to half-a-dozen cab-men who were standing round and enjoying the scene.

They were to take her trunk at once. She had money and she could pay.

She started off to the nearest cab, and no one stopped her. "But the box in her hand is mine," said Marie, not forgetting her trinkets in her misery. Didon surrendered the jewel-case, and ensconced herself in the cab without a word of farewell; and her trunk was hoisted on to the roof. Then she was driven away out of the station,--and out of our story. She had a first-cla.s.s cabin all to herself as far as New York, but what may have been her fate after that it matters not to us to enquire.

Poor Marie! We who know how recreant a knight Sir Felix had proved himself, who are aware that had Miss Melmotte succeeded in getting on board the ship she would have pa.s.sed an hour of miserable suspense, looking everywhere for her lover, and would then at last have been carried to New York without him, may congratulate her on her escape.

And, indeed, we who know his character better than she did, may still hope in her behalf that she may be ultimately saved from so wretched a marriage. But to her her present position was truly miserable. She would have to encounter an enraged father; and when,--when should she see her lover again? Poor, poor Felix! What would be his feelings when he should find himself on his way to New York without his love!

But in one matter she made up her mind steadfastly. She would be true to him! They might chop her in pieces! Yes;--she had said it before, and she would say it again. There was, however, doubt in her mind from time to time, whether one course might not be better even than constancy. If she could contrive to throw herself out of the carriage and to be killed,--would not that be the best termination to her present disappointment? Would not that be the best punishment for her father? But how then would it be with poor Felix? "After all I don't know that he cares for me," she said to herself, thinking over it all.

The gentleman was very kind to her, not treating her at all as though she were disgraced. As they got near town he ventured to give her a little advice. "Put a good face on it," he said, "and don't be cast down."

"Oh, I won't," she answered. "I don't mean."

"Your mother will be delighted to have you back again."

"I don't think that mamma cares. It's papa. I'd do it again to-morrow if I had the chance." The gentleman looked at her, not having expected so much determination. "I would. Why is a girl to be made to marry to please any one but herself? I won't. And it's very mean saying that I stole the money. I always take what I want, and papa never says anything about it."

"Two hundred and fifty pounds is a large sum, Miss Melmotte."

"It is nothing in our house. It isn't about the money. It's because papa wants me to marry another man;--and I won't. It was downright mean to send and have me taken up before all the people."

"You wouldn't have come back if he hadn't done that."

"Of course I wouldn't," said Marie.

The gentleman had telegraphed up to Grosvenor Square while on the journey, and at Euston Square they were met by one of the Melmotte carriages. Marie was to be taken home in the carriage, and the box was to follow in a cab;--to follow at some interval so that Grosvenor Square might not be aware of what had taken place. Grosvenor Square, of course, very soon knew all about it. "And are you to come?" Marie asked, speaking to the gentleman. The gentleman replied that he had been requested to see Miss Melmotte home. "All the people will wonder who you are," said Marie laughing. Then the gentleman thought that Miss Melmotte would be able to get through her troubles without much suffering.

When she got home she was hurried up at once to her mother's room,--and there she found her father, alone. "This is your game, is it?" said he, looking down at her.

"Well, papa;--yes. You made me do it."

"You fool you! You were going to New York,--were you?" To this she vouchsafed no reply. "As if I hadn't found out all about it. Who was going with you?"