The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollope (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

can stay no longer in the City.” It was cruel that a man so hungry should be asked to go to a Board by a chairman who had just lunched at his club.

“I was carried away to the Bank of England and could not help myself,” said Melmotte. “And when they get me there I can never get away again.”

“My son is very anxious to have the payments made about Pickering,” said Mr. Longestaffe, absolutely holding Melmotte by the collar of his coat.

“Payments for Pickering!” said Melmotte, assuming an air of unimportant doubt⁠—of doubt as though the thing were of no real moment. “Haven’t they been made?”

“Certainly not,” said Mr. Longestaffe, “unless made this morning.”

“There was something about it, but I cannot just remember what. My second cashier, Mr. Smith, manages all my private affairs, and they go clean out of my head. I’m afraid he’s in Grosvenor Square at this moment. Let me see;⁠—Pickering! Wasn’t there some question of a mortgage? I’m sure there was something about a mortgage.”

“There was a mortgage, of course;⁠—but that only made three payments necessary instead of two.”

“But there was some unavoidable delay about the papers;⁠—something occasioned by the mortgagee. I know there was. But you shan’t be inconvenienced, Mr. Longestaffe.”

“It’s my son, Mr. Melmotte. He’s got a lawyer of his own.”

“I never knew a young man that wasn’t in a hurry for his money,” said Melmotte laughing. “Oh, yes;⁠—there were three payments to be made; one to you, one to your son, and one to the mortgagee. I will speak to Mr. Smith myself tomorrow⁠—and you may tell your son that he really need not trouble his lawyer. He will only be losing his money, for lawyers are expensive. What; you won’t come to the Board? I am sorry for that.” Mr. Longestaffe, having after a fashion said what he had to say, declined to go to the Board. A painful rumour had reached him the day before, which had been communicated to him in a very quiet way by a very old friend⁠—by a member of a private firm of bankers whom he was accustomed to regard as the wisest and most eminent man of his acquaintance⁠—that Pickering had been already mortgaged to its full value by its new owner. “Mind, I know nothing,” said the banker. “The report has reached me, and if it be true, it shows that Mr. Melmotte must be much pressed for money. It does not concern you at all if you have got your price. But it seems to be rather a quick transaction. I suppose you have, or he wouldn’t have the title-deeds.” Mr. Longestaffe thanked his friend, and acknowledged that there had been something remiss on his part. Therefore, as he went westward, he was low in spirits. But nevertheless he had been reassured by Melmotte’s manner.

Sir Felix Carbury of course did not attend the Board; nor did Paul Montague, for reasons with which the reader has been made acquainted. Lord Nidderdale had declined, having had enough of the City for that day, and Mr. Longestaffe had been banished by hunger. The chairman was therefore supported only by Lord Alfred and Mr. Cohenlupe. But they were such excellent colleagues that the work was got through as well as though those absentees had all attended. When the Board was over Mr. Melmotte and Mr. Cohenlupe retired together.

“I must get that money for Longestaffe,” said Melmotte to his friend.

“What, eighty thousand pounds! You can’t do it this week⁠—nor yet before this day week.”

“It isn’t eighty thousand pounds. I’ve renewed the mortgage, and that makes it only fifty. If I can manage the half of that which goes to the son, I can put the father off.”

“You must raise what you can on the whole property.”

“I’ve done that already,” said Melmotte hoarsely.

“And where’s the money gone?”

“Brehgert has had £40,000. I was obliged to keep it up with them. You can manage £25,000 for me by Monday?” Mr. Cohenlupe said that he would try, but intimated his opinion that there would be considerable difficulty in the operation.

LIV The India Office

The Conservative party at this particular period was putting its shoulder to the wheel⁠—not to push the coach up any hill, but to prevent its being hurried along at a pace which was not only dangerous, but manifestly destructive. The Conservative party now and then does put its shoulder to the wheel, ostensibly with the great national object above named; but also actuated by a natural desire to keep its own head well above water and be generally doing something, so that other parties may not suppose that it is moribund. There are, no doubt, members of it who really think that when some object has been achieved⁠—when, for instance, a good old Tory has been squeezed into Parliament for the borough of Porcorum, which for the last three parliaments has been represented by a Liberal⁠—the coach has been really stopped. To them, in their delightful faith, there comes at these triumphant moments a conviction that after all the people as a people have not been really in earnest in their efforts to take something from the greatness of the great, and to add something to the lowliness of the lowly. The handle of the windlass has been broken, the wheel is turning fast the reverse way, and the rope of Radical progress is running back. Who knows what may not be regained if the Conservative party will only put its shoulder to the wheel and take care that the handle of the windlass be not mended! Sticinthemud, which has ever been a doubtful little borough, has just been carried by a majority of fifteen! A long pull, a strong pull, and a pull altogether⁠—and the old day will come back again. Venerable patriarchs think of Lord Liverpool and other heroes, and dream dreams of Conservative bishops, Conservative lord-lieutenants, and of a Conservative ministry that shall remain in for a generation.

Such a time was now present. Porcorum and Sticinthemud had done their duty valiantly⁠—with much management. But