The Way We Live Now (93 page)

As soon as Melmotte was on his legs, and, looking round, found that everybody was silent with the intent of listening to him, a good deal of his courage oozed out of his fingers' ends. The House, which, to his
thinking, had by no means been august while Mr Brown had been toddling through his speech, now became awful. He caught the eyes of great men fixed upon him – of men who had not seemed to him to be at all great as he had watched them a few minutes before, yawning beneath their hats. Mr Brown, poor as his speech had been, had, no doubt, prepared it – and had perhaps made three or four such speeches every year for the last fifteen years. Melmotte had not dreamed of putting two words together. He had thought, as far as he had thought at all, that he could rattle off what he had to say just as he might do it when seated in his chair at the Mexican Railway Board. But there was the Speaker, and those three clerks in their wigs, and the mace – and worse than all, the eyes of that long row of statesmen opposite to him! His position was felt by him to be dreadful. He had forgotten even the very point on which he had intended to crush Mr Brown.

But the courage of the man was too high to allow him to be altogether quelled at once. The hum was prolonged; and though he was red in the face, perspiring, and utterly confused, he was determined to make a dash at the matter with the first words which would occur to him. ‘Mr Brown is all wrong,' he said. He had not even taken off his hat as he rose. Mr Brown turned slowly round and looked up at him. Some one, whom he could not exactly hear, touching him behind, suggested that he should take off his hat There was a cry of order, which of course he did not understand. ‘Yes, you are,' said Melmotte, nodding his head, and frowning angrily at poor Mr Brown.

‘The honourable member,' said the Speaker, with the most good-natured voice which he could assume, ‘is not perhaps as yet aware that he should not call another member by his name. He should speak of the gentleman to whom he alluded as the honourable member for Whitechapel. And in speaking he should address, not another honourable member, but the chair.'

‘You should take your hat off,' said the good-natured gentleman behind.

In such a position how should any man understand so many and such complicated instructions at once, and at the same time remember the gist of the argument to be produced? He did take off his hat, and was of course made hotter and more confused by doing so. ‘What he said was all wrong,' continued Melmotte; ‘and I should have thought a man out of the City, like Mr Brown, ought to have known better.' Then there were repeated calls of order, and a violent ebullition of laughter from both sides of the House. The man stood for a while glaring around him,
summoning his own pluck for a renewal of his attack on Mr Brown, determined that he would be appalled and put down neither by the ridicule of those around him, nor by his want of familiarity with the place; but still utterly unable to find words with which to carry on the combat. ‘I ought to know something about it,' said Melmotte sitting down and hiding his indignation and his shame under his hat.

‘We are sure that the honourable member for Westminster does understand the subject,' said the leader of the House, ‘and we shall be very glad to hear his remarks. The House I am sure will pardon ignorance of its rules in so young a member.'

But Mr Melmotte would not rise again. He had made a great effort, and had at any rate exhibited his courage. Though they might all say that he had not displayed much eloquence, they would be driven to admit that he had not been ashamed to show himself. He kept his seattill the regular stampede was made for dinner, and then walked out with as stately a demeanour as he could assume.

‘Well, that was plucky!' said Cohenlupe, taking his friend's arm in the lobby.

‘I don't see any pluck in it. That old fool Brown didn't know what he was talking about, and I wanted to tell them so. They wouldn't let me do it, and there's an end of it. It seems to me to be a stupid sort of a place.'

‘Has Longestaffe's money been paid?' said Cohenlupe opening his black eyes while he looked up into his friend's face.

‘Don't you trouble your head about Longestaffe, or his money either,' said Melmotte, getting into his brougham; ‘do you leave Mr Longestaffe and his money to me. I hope you are not such a fool as to be scared by what the other fools say. When men play such a game as you and I are concerned in, they ought to know better than to be afraid of every word that is spoken.'

‘Oh, dear, yes,' said Cohenlupe apologetically. ‘You don't suppose that I am afraid of anything.' But at that moment Mr Cohenlupe was meditating his own escape from the dangerous shores of England, and was trying to remember what happy country still was left in which an order from the British police would have no power to interfere with the comfort of a retired gentleman such as himself.

That evening Madame Melmotte told her husband that Marie was now willing to marry Lord Nidderdale – but she did not say anything as to the crossing-sweeper or the black footman, nor did she allude to Marie's threat of the sort of life she would lead her husband.

There is no duty more certain or fixed in the world than that which calls upon a brother to defend his sister from ill-usage; but, at the same time, in the way we live now, no duty is more difficult, and we may say generally more indistinct. The ill-usage to which men's sisters are most generally exposed is one which hardly admits of either protection or vengeance – although the duty of protecting and avenging is felt and acknowledged. We are not allowed to fight duels, and that banging about of another man with a stick is always disagreeable and seldom successful. A John Crumb can do it, perhaps, and come out of the affair exulting; but not a Sir Felix Carbury, even if the Sir Felix of the occasion have the requisite courage. There is a feeling, too, when a girl has been jilted – thrown over, perhaps, is the proper term – after the gentleman has had the fun of making love to her for an entire season, and has perhaps even been allowed privileges as her promised husband, that the less said the better. The girl does not mean to break her heart for love of the false one, and become the tragic heroine of a tale for three months. It is her purpose again to.

             –trick her beams, and with new-spangled ore
Flame in the forehead of the morning sky.
¹

Though this one has been false, as were perhaps two or three before, still the road to success is open.
Uno avulso non deficit alter.
²
But if all the notoriety of cudgels and cutting whips be given to the late unfortunate affair, the difficulty of finding a substitute will be greatly increased. The brother recognizes his duty, and prepares for vengeance. The injured one probably desires that she may be left to fight her own little battles alone.

‘Then, by heaven, he shall answer it to me,' Sir Felix had said very grandly, when his sister had told him that she was engaged to a man who was, as he thought he knew, engaged also to marry another woman. Here, no doubt, was gross ill-usage, and opportunity at any rate for threats. No money was required and no immediate action – and Sir Felix could act the fine gentleman and the dictatorial brother at very
little present expense. But Hetta, who ought perhaps to have known her brother more thoroughly, was fool enough to believe him. On the day but one following, no answer had as yet come from Roger Carbury – nor could as yet have come. But Hetta's mind was full of her trouble, and she remembered her brother's threat. Felix had forgotten that he had made a threat – and, indeed, had thought no more of the matter since his interview with his sister.

‘Felix,' she said, ‘you won't mention that to Mr Montague!'

‘Mention what? Oh! about that woman, Mrs Hurtle? Indeed I shall. A man who does that kind of thing ought to be crushed – and, by heavens, if he does it to you, he shall be crushed.'

‘I want to tell you, Felix. If it is so, I will see him no more.'

‘If it is so! I tell you I know it.'

‘Mamma has written to Roger. At least I feel sure she has.'

‘What has she written to him for? What has Roger Carbury to do with our affairs?'

‘Only you said he knew! If he says so, that is, if you and he both say that he is to marry that woman – I will not see Mr Montague again. Pray do not go to him. If such a misfortune does come, it is better to bear it and to be silent. What good can be done?'

‘Leave that to me,' said Sir Felix, walking out of the room with much fraternal bluster. Then he went forth, and at once had himself driven to Paul Montague's lodgings. Had Hetta not been foolish enough to remind him of his duty, he would not now have undertaken the task. He too, no doubt, remembered as he went that duels were things of the past, and that even fists and sticks are considered to be out of fashion. ‘Montague,' he said, assuming all the dignity of demeanour that his late sorrows had left to him, ‘I believe I am right in saying that you are engaged to marry that American lady, Mrs Hurtle.'

‘Then let me tell you that you were never more wrong in your life. What business have you with Mrs Hurtle?'

‘When a man proposes to my sister, I think I've a great deal of business,' said Sir Felix.

‘Well; – yes; I admit that fully. If I answered you roughly, I beg your pardon. Now as to the facts. I am not going to marry Mrs Hurtle. I suppose I know how you have heard her name – but as you have heard it, I have no hesitation in telling you so much. As you know where she is to be found you can go and ask her if you please. On the other hand, it is the dearest wish of my heart to marry your sister. I trust that will be enough for you.'

‘You were engaged to Mrs Hurtle?'

‘My dear Carbury, I don't think I'm bound to tell you all the details of my past life. At any rate, I don't feel inclined to do so in answer to hostile questions. I dare say you have heard enough of Mrs Hurtle to justify you, as your sister's brother, in asking me whether I am in any way entangled by a connection with her. I tell you that I am not. If you still doubt, I refer you to the lady herself. Beyond that, I do not think I am called on to go; and beyond that I won't go – at any rate, at present.' Sir Felix still blustered, and made what capital he could out of his position as a brother; but he took no steps towards positive revenge. ‘Of course, Carbury,' said the other, ‘I wish to regard you as a brother, and if I am rough to you, it is only because you are rough to me.'

Sir Felix was now in that part of town which he had been accustomed to haunt – for the first time since his misadventure – and, plucking up his courage, resolved that he would turn into the Beargarden. He would have a glass of sherry, and face the one or two men who would as yet be there, and in this way gradually creep back to his old habits. But when he arrived there, the club was shut up. ‘What the deuce is Vossner about' said he, pulling out his watch. It was nearly five o'clock. He rang the bell, and knocked at the door, feeling that this was an occasion for courage. One of the servants, in what we may call private clothes, after some delay, drew back the bolts, and told him the astounding news – the club was shut up! ‘Do you mean to say I can't come in?' said Sir Felix. The man certainly did mean to tell him so, for he opened the door no more than a foot, and stood in that narrow aperture. Mr Vossner had gone away. There had been a meeting of the committee, and the club was shut up. Whatever further information rested in the waiter's bosom he declined to communicate to Sir Felix Carbury.

‘By George!' The wrong that was done him filled the young baronet's bosom with indignation. He had intended, he assured himself, to dine at his club, to spend the evening there sportively, to be pleasant among his chosen companions. And now the club was shut up, and Vossner had gone away? What business had the club, to be shut up? What right had Vossner to go away? Had he not paid his subscription in advance? Throughout the world, the more wrong a man does, the more indignant is he at wrong done to him. Sir Felix almost thought that he could recover damages from the whole committee.

He went direct to Mrs Pipkin's house. When he made that half promise of marriage in Mrs Pipkin's hearing, he had said that he would come again on the morrow. This he had not done; but of that he thought
nothing. Such breaches of faith, when committed by a young man in his position, require not even an apology. He was admitted by Ruby herself, who was of course delighted to see him. ‘Who do you think is in town?' she said. ‘John Crumb; but though he came here ever so smart, I wouldn't so much as speak to him, except to tell him to go away.' Sir Felix when he heard the name, felt an uncomfortable sensation creep over him. ‘I don't know I'm sure what he should come after me for, and me telling him as plain as the nose on his face that I never want to see him again.'

‘He's not of much account,' said the baronet.

‘He would marry me out and out immediately, if I'd have him,' continued Ruby, who perhaps thought that her honest old lover should not be spoken of as being altogether of no account. ‘And he has everything comfortable in the way of furniture, and all that. And they do say he's ever so much money in the bank. But I detest him,' said Ruby shaking her pretty head, and inclining herself towards her aristocratic lover's shoulder.

This took place in the back parlour, before Mrs Pipkin had ascended from the kitchen prepared to disturb so much romantic bliss with wretched references to the cold outer world. ‘Well, now, Sir Felix,' she began, ‘if things is square, of course you're welcome to see my niece.'

‘And what if they're round, Mrs Pipkin?' said the gallant careless, sparkling Lothario.

‘Well, or round either, so long as they're honest'.

‘Ruby and I are both honest – ain't we, Ruby? I want to take her out to dinner, Mrs Pipkin. She shall be back before late – before ten; she shall indeed.' Ruby inclined herself still more closely towards his shoulder. ‘Come, Ruby, get your hat and change your dress, and we'll be off. I've ever so many things to tell you.'