He went out of the house and did go down to the Progress.The committee which was to be held with the view of judging whether he was or was not a proper person to remain a member of that assemblage had not yet been held, and there was nothing to impede his entrance to the club, or the execution of the command which he gave for tea and buttered toast.But no one spoke to him;nor, though he affected a look of comfort, did he find himself much at his ease.Among the members of the club there was a much divided opinion whether he should be expelled or not.There was a strong party who declared that his conduct socially, morally, and politically, had been so bad that nothing short of expulsion would meet the case.But there were others who said that no act had been proved against him which the club ought to notice.He had, no doubt, shown himself to be a blackguard, a man without a spark of honour or honesty.But then,--as they said who thought his position in the club to be unassailable,--what had the club to do with that? 'If you turn out all the blackguards and all the dishonourable men, where will the club be?' was a question asked with a great deal of vigour by one middle-aged gentleman who was supposed to know the club-world very thoroughly.He had committed no offence which the law could recognize and punish, nor had he sinned against the club rules.'He is not required to be a man of honour by any regulation of which I am aware,' said the middle-aged gentleman.The general opinion seemed to be that he should be asked to go, and that, if he declined, no one should speak to him.This penalty was already inflicted on him, for on the evening in question no one did speak to him.
He drank his tea and ate his toast and read a magazine, striving to look as comfortable and as much at his ease as men at their clubs generally are.He was not a bad actor, and those who saw him and made reports as to his conduct on the following day declared that he had apparently been quite indifferent to the disagreeable incident of his position.But his indifference had been mere acting.His careless manner with his wife had been all assumed.Selfish as he was, void as he was of all principle, utterly unmanly and even unconscious of the worth of manliness, still he was alive to the opinions of others.He thought that the world did not understand the facts of his case, and that the world generally would have done as he had done in similar circumstances.He did not know that there was such a quality as honesty, nor did he understand what the word meant.But he did know that some men, an unfortunate class, became subject to evil report from others who were more successful, and he was aware that he had become one of those unfortunates.Nor could he see any remedy for his position.It was all blank and black before him.It may be doubted whether he got much instruction or amusement from the pages of the magazine which he turned.
At about twelve o'clock he left the club and took his way homewards.But he did not go straight home.It was a nasty cold March night, with a catching wind, and occasional short showers of something between snow and rain,--as disagreeable a night for a gentleman to walk in as one could well conceive.But he went round by Trafalgar Square, and along the Strand, and up some dirty streets by the small theatres, and so on to Holborn and by Bloomsbury Square up to Tottenham Court Road, and then through some unused street into Portland Place, along the Marylebone Road, and back to Manchester Square by Baker Street.He had more than doubled the distance,--apparently without any object.He had been spoken to frequently by unfortunates of both ***es, but had answered a word to no one.He had trudged on and on with his umbrella over his head, but almost unconscious of the cold and wet.And yet he was a man sedulously attentive to his own personal comfort and health, who had at any rate shown this virtue in his mode of living, that he had never subjected himself to danger by imprudence.But now the working of his mind kept him warm, and, if not dry, at least indifferent to the damp.He had thrown aside with affected nonchalance those questions which his wife had asked him, but still it was necessary that he should answer them.He did not suppose that he could continue to live in Manchester Square in his present condition.Nor, if it was necessary that he should wander forth into the world, could he force his wife to wander with him.If he would consent to leave her, his father-in-law would probably give him something,--some allowance on which he might exist.But then of what sort would be his life?
He did not fail to remind himself over and over again that he had nearly succeeded.He had been the guest of the Prime Minister, and had been the nominee chosen by a Duchess to represent her husband's borough in Parliament.He had been intimate with Mills Happerton who was fast becoming a millionaire.He had married much above himself in every way.He had achieved a certain popularity and was conscious of intellect.But at the present moment two or three sovereigns in his pocket were the extent of his worldly wealth and his character was utterly ruined.He regarded his fate as does a card-player who day after day holds sixes and sevens when other men have aces and kings.Fate was against him.He saw no reason why he should not have had he aces and kings continually, especially as fate had given him perhaps more than his share of them at first.He had, however, lost rubber after rubber,--not paying his stakes for some of the last rubbers lost,--till the players would play with him no longer.
The misfortune might have happened to any man;--but it had happened to him.There was no beginning again.A possible small allowance and some very retired and solitary life, in which there would be no show of honour, no flattery coming to him, was all that was left to him.
He let himself in at the house, and found his wife still awake.
