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

to that partner that a great deal had been done without any consent. And Paul’s fears on this hand were not allayed by finding that on all these beautiful papers he himself was described as one of the agents and general managers of the company. Each document was signed Fisker, Montague, and Montague. References on all matters were to be made to Fisker, Montague, and Montague⁠—and in one of the documents it was stated that a member of the firm had proceeded to London with the view of attending to British interests in the matter. Fisker had seemed to think that his young partner would express unbounded satisfaction at the greatness which was thus falling upon him. A certain feeling of importance, not altogether unpleasant, was produced, but at the same time there was another conviction forced upon Montague’s mind, not altogether pleasant, that his money was being made to disappear without any consent given by him, and that it behoved him to be cautious lest such consent should be extracted from him unawares.

“What has become of the mill?” he asked.

“We have put an agent into it.”

“Is not that dangerous? What check have you on him?”

“He pays us a fixed sum, sir. But, my word! when there is such a thing as this on hand a trumpery mill like that is not worth speaking of.”

“You haven’t sold it?”

“Well;⁠—no. But we’ve arranged a price for a sale.”

“You haven’t taken the money for it?”

“Well;⁠—yes; we have. We’ve raised money on it, you know. You see you weren’t there, and so the two resident partners acted for the firm. But Mr. Montague, you’d better go with us. You had indeed.”

“And about my own income?”

“That’s a flea-bite. When we’ve got a little ahead with this it won’t matter, sir, whether you spend twenty thousand or forty thousand dollars a year. We’ve got the concession from the United States Government through the territories, and we’re in correspondence with the President of the Mexican Republic. I’ve no doubt we’ve an office open already in Mexico and another at Vera Cruz.”

“Where’s the money to come from?”

“Money to come from, sir? Where do you suppose the money comes from in all these undertakings? If we can float the shares, the money’ll come in quick enough. We hold three million dollars of the stock ourselves.”

“Six hundred thousand pounds!” said Montague.

“We take them at par, of course⁠—and as we sell we shall pay for them. But of course we shall only sell at a premium. If we can run them up even to 110, there would be three hundred thousand dollars. But we’ll do better than that. I must try and see Melmotte at once. You had better write a letter now.”

“I don’t know the man.”

“Never mind. Look here⁠—I’ll write it, and you can sign it.” Whereupon Mr. Fisker did write the following letter:⁠—

Langham Hotel, London. March 4, 18⁠—.

Dear Sir⁠—I have the pleasure of informing you that my partner, Mr. Fisker⁠—of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, of San Francisco⁠—is now in London with the view of allowing British capitalists to assist in carrying out perhaps the greatest work of the age⁠—namely, the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway, which is to give direct communication between San Francisco and the Gulf of Mexico. He is very anxious to see you upon his arrival, as he is aware that your cooperation would be desirable. We feel assured that with your matured judgment in such matters you would see at once the magnificence of the enterprise. If you will name a day and an hour, Mr. Fisker will call upon you.

I have to thank you and Madame Melmotte for a very pleasant evening spent at your house last week.

Mr. Fisker proposes returning to New York. I shall remain here, superintending the British interests which may be involved.

I have the honour to be,

Dear Sir,

Most faithfully yours.

“But I have never said that I would superintend the interests,” said Montague.

“You can say so now. It binds you to nothing. You regular John Bull Englishmen are so full of scruples that you lose as much of life as should serve to make an additional fortune.”

After some further conversation Paul Montague recopied the letter and signed it. He did it with doubt⁠—almost with dismay. But he told himself that he could do no good by refusing. If this wretched American, with his hat on one side and rings on his fingers, had so far got the upper hand of Paul’s uncle as to have been allowed to do what he liked with the funds of the partnership, Paul could not stop it. On the following morning they went up to London together, and in the course of the afternoon Mr. Fisker presented himself in Abchurch Lane. The letter written at Liverpool, but dated from the Langham Hotel, had been posted at the Euston Square Railway Station at the moment of Fisker’s arrival. Fisker sent in his card, and was asked to wait. In the course of twenty minutes he was ushered into the great man’s presence by no less a person than Miles Grendall.

It has been already said that Mr. Melmotte was a big man with large whiskers, rough hair, and with an expression of mental power on a harsh vulgar face. He was certainly a man to repel you by his presence unless attracted to him by some internal consideration. He was magnificent in his expenditure, powerful in his doings, successful in his business, and the world around him therefore was not repelled. Fisker, on the other hand, was a shining little man⁠—perhaps about forty years of age, with a well-twisted moustache, greasy brown hair, which was becoming bald at the top, good-looking if his features were analysed, but insignificant in appearance. He was gorgeously dressed, with a silk waistcoat and chains, and he carried a little stick. One would at first be inclined to say that Fisker was not much of a man; but after a little conversation most men would own that there was something in Fisker. He was