The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollope (page 10)

for this kind of thing.’

‘But when?’

‘Immediately. I wouldn’t tell you till I had arranged everything. I’ve had it in my mind for the last fortnight.’

‘And how is it to be? Oh, Felix, I hope it may succeed.’

‘It was your own idea, you know. We’re going to;–where do you think?’

‘How can I think?–Boulogne.’

‘You say that just because Goldsheiner went there. That wouldn’t have done at all for us. We’re going to–New York.’

‘To New York! But when will you be married?’

‘There will be a clergyman on board. It’s all fixed. I wouldn’t go without telling you.’

‘Oh; I wish you hadn’t told me.’

‘Come now;–that’s kind. You don’t mean to say it wasn’t you that put me up to it. I’ve got to get my things ready.’

‘Of course, if you tell me that you are going on a journey, I will have your clothes got ready for you. When do you start?’

‘Wednesday afternoon.’

‘For New York! We must get some things ready-made. Oh, Felix, how will it be if he does not forgive her?’ He attempted to laugh. ‘When I spoke of such a thing as possible he had not sworn then that he would never give her a shilling.’

‘They always say that.’

‘You are going to risk it?’

‘I am going to take your advice.’ This was dreadful to the poor mother. ‘There is money settled on her.’

‘Settled on whom?’

‘On Marie;–money which he can’t get back again.’

‘How much?’

‘She doesn’t know,–but a great deal; enough for them all to live upon if things went amiss with them.’

‘But that’s only a form, Felix. That money can’t be her own, to give to her husband.’

‘Melmotte will find that it is, unless he comes to terms. That’s the pull we’ve got over him. Marie knows what she’s about. She’s a great deal sharper than any one would take her to be. What can you do for me about money, mother?’

‘I have none, Felix.’

‘I thought you’d be sure to help me, as you wanted me so much to do it.’

‘That’s not true, Felix. I didn’t want you to do it. Oh, I am so sorry that that word ever passed my mouth! I have no money. There isn’t £20 at the bank altogether.’

‘They would let you overdraw for £50 or £60.’

‘I will not do it. I will not starve myself and Hetta. You had ever so much money only lately. I will get some things for you, and pay for them as I can if you cannot pay for them after your marriage;–but I have not money to give you.’

‘That’s a blue look-out,’ said he, turning himself in his chair ‘just when £60 or £70 might make a fellow for life! You could borrow it from your friend Broune.’

‘I will do no such thing, Felix. £50 or £60 would make very little difference in the expense of such a trip as this. I suppose you have some money?’

‘Some;–yes, some. But I’m so short that any little thing would help me.’ Before the evening was over she absolutely did give him a cheque for £30 although she had spoken the truth in saying that she had not so much at her banker’s.

After this he went back to his club, although he himself understood the danger. He could not bear the idea of going to bed, quietly at home at half-past ten. He got into a cab, and was very soon up in the card-room. He found nobody there, and went to the smoking-room, where Dolly Longestaffe and Miles Grendall were sitting silently together, with pipes in their mouths. ‘Here’s Carbury,’ said Dolly, waking suddenly into life. ‘Now we can have a game at three-handed loo.’

‘Thank ye; not for me,’ said Sir Felix. ‘I hate three-handed loo.’

‘Dummy,’ suggested Dolly.

‘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 petition 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 scraps of paper in his hand. He had been drinking freely before he went up to Welbeck Street, and had taken a glass 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 passage 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, Grasslough, 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 assistance 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, Passenger 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 pass on to their cab?

But the gentleman would by no means kindly allow them to pass 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 asserting 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, asserted 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. Nobody 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 document 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. Nobody 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-class 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 passed 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 be 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?’

‘If you have found out all about it, you know, papa.’

‘Of course I know;–but you don’t know all about it, you little idiot.’

‘No doubt I’m a fool and an idiot. You always say so.’

‘Where do you suppose Sir Felix Carbury is now?’ Then she opened her eyes and looked at him. ‘An hour ago he was in bed at his mother’s house in Welbeck Street.’

‘I don’t believe it, papa.’

‘You don’t, don’t you? You’ll find it true. If you had gone to New York, you’d have gone alone. If I’d known at first that he had stayed behind, I think I’d have let you go.’

‘I’m sure he didn’t stay behind.’

‘If you contradict me, I’ll box your ears, you jade. He is in London at this moment. What has become of the woman that went with you?’

‘She’s gone on board the ship.’

‘And where is the money you took from your mother?’ Marie was silent. ‘Who got the cheque changed?’

‘Didon did.’

‘And has she got the money?’

‘No, papa.’

‘Have you got it?’

‘No, papa.’

‘Did you give it to Sir Felix Carbury?’

‘Yes, papa.’

‘Then I’ll be hanged if I don’t prosecute him for stealing it.’

‘Oh, papa, don’t do that;–pray don’t do that. He didn’t steal it. I only gave it him to take care of for us. He’ll give it you back again.’

‘I shouldn’t wonder if he lost it at cards, and therefore didn’t go to Liverpool. Will you give me your word that you’ll never attempt to marry him again if I don’t prosecute him?’ Marie considered. ‘Unless you do that I shall go to a magistrate at once.’

‘I don’t believe you can do anything to him. He didn’t steal it. I gave it to him.’

‘Will you promise me?’

‘No, papa, I won’t. What’s the good of promising when I should only break it. Why can’t you let me have the man I love? What’s the good of all the money if people don’t have what they like?’

‘All the money!–What do you know about the money? Look here,’ and he took her by the arm. ‘I’ve been very good to you. You’ve had your share of everything that has been going;–carriages and horses, bracelets and brooches, silks and gloves, and every thing else.’ He held her very hard and shook her as he spoke.

‘Let me go, papa; you hurt me. I never asked for such things. I don’t care a straw about bracelets and brooches.’

‘What do you care for?’

‘Only for somebody to love me,’ said Marie, looking down.

‘You’ll soon have nobody to love you if you go on this fashion. You’ve had everything done for you, and if you don’t do something for me in return, by G—-, you shall have a hard time of it. If you weren’t such a fool you’d believe me when I say that I know more than you do.’

‘You can’t know better than me what’ll make me happy.’

‘Do you think only of yourself? If you’ll marry Lord Nidderdale you’ll have a position in the world which nothing can take from you.’

‘Then I won’t,’ said Marie firmly. Upon this he shook her till she cried, and calling for Madame Melmotte desired his wife not to let the girl for one minute out of her presence.

The condition of Sir Felix was I think worse than that of the lady with whom he was to have run away. He had played at the Beargarden till four in the morning and had then left the club, on the breaking-up of the card-table, intoxicated and almost penniless. During the last half hour he had made himself very unpleasant at the club, saying all manner of harsh things of Miles Grendall;–of whom, indeed, it was almost impossible to say things too hard, had they been said in a proper form and at a proper time. He declared that Grendall would not pay his debts, that he had cheated when playing loo,–as to which Sir Felix appealed to Dolly Longestaffe; and he ended by asserting that Grendall ought to be turned out of the club. They had a desperate row. Dolly of course had said that he knew nothing about it, and Lord Grasslough had expressed an opinion that perhaps more than one person ought to be turned out. At four o’clock the party was broken up and Sir Felix wandered forth into the streets, with nothing more than the change of a ten pound note in his pocket. All his luggage was lying in the hall of the club, and there he left it.

There could hardly have been a more miserable wretch than Sir Felix wandering about the streets of London that night. Though he was nearly drunk, he was not drunk enough to forget the condition of his affairs. There is an intoxication that makes merry in the midst of affliction,– and there is an intoxication that banishes affliction by producing oblivion. But again there is an intoxication which is conscious of itself though it makes the feet unsteady, and the voice thick, and the brain foolish; and which brings neither mirth nor oblivion. Sir Felix trying to make his way to Welbeck Street and losing it at every turn, feeling himself to be an object of ridicule to every wanderer, and of dangerous suspicion to every policeman, got no good at all out of his intoxication. What had he better do with himself? He fumbled in his pocket, and managed to get hold of his ticket for New York. Should he still make the journey? Then he thought of his luggage, and could not remember where it was. At last, as he steadied himself against a letter-post, he was able to call to mind that his portmanteaus were at the club. By this time he had wandered into Marylebone Lane, but did not in the least know where he was. But he made an attempt to get back to his club, and stumbled half down Bond Street. Then a policeman enquired into his purposes, and when he said that he lived in Welbeck Street, walked back with him as far as Oxford Street. Having once mentioned the place where he lived, he had not strength of will left to go back to his purpose of getting his luggage and starting for Liverpool.

Between six and seven he was knocking at the door in Welbeck Street. He had tried his latch-key, but had found it inefficient. As he was supposed to be at Liverpool, the door had in fact been locked. At last it was opened by Lady Carbury herself. He had fallen more than once, and was soiled with the gutter. Most of my readers will not probably know how a man looks when he comes home drunk at six in the morning; but they who have seen the thing will acknowledge that a sorrier sight cannot meet a mother’s eye than that of a son in such a condition. ‘Oh, Felix!’ she exclaimed.

‘It’sh all up,’ he said, stumbling in.

‘What has happened, Felix?’

‘Discovered, and be d—– to it! The old shap’sh stopped ush.’ Drunk as he was, he was able to lie. At that moment the ‘old shap’ was fast asleep in Grosvenor Square, altogether ignorant of the plot; and Marie, joyful with excitement, was getting into the cab in the mews. ‘Bettersh go to bed.’ And so he stumbled upstairs by daylight, the wretched mother helping him. She took off his clothes for him and his boots, and having left him already asleep, she went down to her own room, a miserable woman.

CHAPTER LI – WHICH SHALL IT BE?

Paul Montague reached London on his return from Suffolk early on the Monday morning, and on the following day he wrote to Mrs Hurtle. As he sat in his lodgings, thinking of his condition, he almost wished that he had taken Melmotte’s offer and gone to Mexico. He might at any rate have endeavoured to promote the railway earnestly, and then have abandoned it if he found the whole thing false. In such case of course he would never have seen Hetta Carbury again; but, as things were, of what use to him was his love,–of what use to him or to her? The kind of life of which he dreamed, such a life in England as was that of Roger Carbury, or, as such life would be, if Roger had a wife whom he loved, seemed to be far beyond his reach. Nobody was like Roger Carbury! Would it not be well that he should go away, and, as he went, write to Hetta and bid her marry the best man that ever lived in the world?

But the journey to Mexico was no longer open to him. He had repudiated the proposition and had quarrelled with Melmotte. It was necessary that he should immediately take some further step in regard to Mrs Hurtle. Twice lately he had gone to Islington determined that he would see that lady for the last time. Then he had taken her to Lowestoft, and had been equally firm in his resolution that he would there put an end to his present bonds. Now he had promised to go again to Islington;–and was aware that if he failed to keep his promise, she would come to him. In this way there would never be an end to it.

He would certainly go again, as he had promised,–if she should still require it; but he would first try what a letter would do,–a plain unvarnished tale. Might it still be possible that a plain tale sent by post should have sufficient efficacy? This was his plain tale as he now told it.

Tuesday, 2nd July, 1873.

MY DEAR MRS HURTLE,–

I promised that I would go to you again in Islington, and so I will, if you still require it. But I think that such a meeting can be of no service to either of us. What is to be gained? I do not for a moment mean to justify my own conduct. It is not to be justified. When I met you on our journey hither from San Francisco, I was charmed with your genius, your beauty, and your character. They are now what I found them to be then. But circumstances have made our lives and temperaments so far different, that I am certain that, were we married, we should not make each other happy. Of course the fault was mine; but it is better to own that fault, and to take all the blame,–and the evil consequences, let them be what they may [to be shot, for instance, like the gentleman in Oregon] than to be married with the consciousness that even at the very moment of the ceremony, such marriage will be a matter of sorrow and repentance. As soon as my mind was made up on this I wrote to you. I can not,–I dare not,–blame you for the step you have since taken. But I can only adhere to the resolution I then expressed.

The first day I saw you here in London you asked me whether I was attached to another woman. I could answer you only by the truth. But I should not of my own accord have spoken to you of altered affections. It was after I had resolved to break my engagement with you that I first knew this girl. It was not because I had come to love her that I broke it. I have no grounds whatever for hoping that my love will lead to any results.

I have now told you as exactly as I can the condition of my mind. If it were possible for me in any way to compensate the injury I have done you,–or even to undergo retribution for it,–I would do so. But what compensation can be given, or what retribution can you exact? I think that our further meeting can avail nothing. But if, after this, you wish me to come again, I will come for the last time,–because I have promised.

Your most sincere friend,

PAUL MONTAGUE.

Mrs Hurtle, as she read this, was torn in two ways. All that Paul had written was in accordance with the words written by herself on a scrap of paper which she still kept in her own pocket. Those words, fairly transcribed on a sheet of note-paper, would be the most generous and the fittest answer she could give. And she longed to be generous. She had all a woman’s natural desire to sacrifice herself. But the sacrifice which would have been most to her taste would have been of another kind. Had she found him ruined and penniless she would have delighted to share with him all that she possessed. Had she found him a cripple, or blind, or miserably struck with some disease, she would have stayed by him and have nursed him and given him comfort. Even had he been disgraced she would have fled with him to some far country and have pardoned all his faults. No sacrifice would have been too much for her that would have been accompanied by a feeling that he appreciated all that she was doing for him, and that she was loved in return. But to sacrifice herself by going away and never more being heard of, was too much for her! What woman can endure such sacrifice as that? To give up not only her love, but her wrath also;–that was too much for her! The idea of being tame was terrible to her. Her life had not been very prosperous, but she was what she was because she had dared to protect herself by her own spirit. Now, at last, should she succumb and be trodden on like a worm? Should she be weaker even than an English girl? Should she allow him to have amused himself with her love, to have had ‘a good time,’ and then to roam away like a bee, while she was so dreadfully scorched, so mutilated and punished! Had not her whole life been opposed to the theory of such passive endurance? She took out the scrap of paper and read it; and, in spite of all, she felt that there was a feminine softness in it that gratified her.

But no;–she could not send it. She could not even copy the words. And so she gave play to all her strongest feelings on the other side,– being in truth torn in two directions. Then she sat herself down to her desk, and with rapid words, and flashing thoughts, wrote as follows:–

PAUL MONTAGUE,–

I have suffered many injuries, but of all injuries this is the worst and most unpardonable,–and the most unmanly. Surely there never was such a coward, never so false a liar. The poor wretch that I destroyed was mad with liquor and was only acting after his kind. Even Caradoc Hurtle never premeditated such wrong as this. What you are to bind yourself to me by the most solemn obligation that can join a man and a woman together, and then tell me,–when they have affected my whole life,–that they are to go for nothing, because they do not suit your view of things? On thinking over it, you find that an American wife would not make you so comfortable as some English girl;–and therefore it is all to go for nothing! I have no brother, no man near;–me or you would not dare to do this. You can not but be a coward.

You talk of compensation! Do you mean money? You do not dare to say so, but you must mean it. It is an insult the more. But as to retribution; yes. You shall suffer retribution. I desire you to come to me,–according to your promise,–and you will find me with a horsewhip in my hand. I will whip you till I have not a breath in my body. And then I will see what you will dare to do;–whether you will drag me into a court of law for the assault.

Yes; come. You shall come. And now you know the welcome you shall find. I will buy the whip while this is reaching you, and you shall find that I know how to choose such a weapon. I call upon you so come. But should you be afraid and break your promise, I will come to you. I will make London too hot to hold you;–and if I do not find you I will go with my story to every friend you have.

I have now told you as exactly as I can the condition of my mind.

WINIFRED HURTLE.

Having written this she again read the short note, and again gave way to violent tears. But on that day she sent no letter. On the following morning she wrote a third, and sent that. This was the third letter:–

‘Yes. Come.
W. H.’

This letter duly reached Paul Montague at his lodgings. He started immediately for Islington. He had now no desire to delay the meeting. He had at any rate taught her that his gentleness towards her, his going to the play with her, and drinking tea with her at Mrs Pipkin’s, and his journey with her to the sea, were not to be taken as evidence that he was gradually being conquered. He had declared his purpose plainly enough at Lowestoft,–and plainly enough in his last letter. She had told him, down at the hotel, that had she by chance have been armed at the moment, she would have shot him. She could arm herself now if she pleased;–but his real fear had not lain in that direction. The pang consisted in having to assure her that he was resolved to do her wrong. The worst of that was now over.

The door was opened for him by Ruby, who by no means greeted him with a happy countenance. It was the second morning after the night of her imprisonment; and nothing had occurred to alleviate her woe. At this very moment her lover should have been in Liverpool, but he was, in fact, abed in Welbeck Street. ‘Yes, sir; she’s at home,’ said Ruby, with a baby in her arms and a little child hanging on to her dress. ‘Don’t pull so, Sally. Please, sir, is Sir Felix still in London?’ Ruby had written to Sir Felix the very night of her imprisonment, but had not as yet received any reply. Paul, whose mind was altogether intent on his own troubles, declared that at present he knew nothing about Sir Felix, and was then shown into Mrs Hurtle’s room.

‘So you have come,’ she said, without rising from her chair.

‘Of course I came, when you desired it.’

‘I don’t know why you should. My wishes do not seem to affect you much. Will you sit down there?’ she said, pointing to a seat at some distance from herself. ‘So you think it would be best that you and I should never see each other again?’ She was very calm; but it seemed to him that the quietness was assumed, and that at any moment it might be converted into violence. He thought that there was that in her eye which seemed to foretell the spring of the wild-cat.

‘I did think so certainly. What more can I say?’

‘Oh, nothing; clearly nothing.’ Her voice was very low. ‘Why should a gentleman trouble himself to say any more than that he has changed his mind? Why make a fuss about such little things as a woman’s life, or a woman’s heart?’ Then she paused. ‘And having come, in consequence of my unreasonable request, of course you are wise to hold your peace.’

‘I came because I promised.’

‘But you did not promise to speak;–did you?’

‘What would you have me say?’

‘Ah what! Am I to be so weak as to tell you now what I would have you say? Suppose you were to say, “I am a gentleman, and a man of my word, and I repent me of my intended perfidy,” do you not think you might get your release that way? Might it not be possible that I should reply that as your heart was gone from me, your hand might go after it;–that I scorned to be the wife of a man who did not want me?’ As she asked this she gradually raised her voice, and half lifted herself in her seat, stretching herself towards him.

‘You might indeed,’ he replied, not well knowing what to say.

‘But I should not. I at least will be true. I should take you, Paul,– still take you; with a confidence that I should yet win you to me by my devotion. I have still some kindness of feeling towards you,–none to that woman who is I suppose younger than I, and gentler, and a maid.’ She still looked as though she expected a reply, but there was nothing to be said in answer to this. ‘Now that you are going to leave me, Paul, is there any advice you can give me, as to what I shall do next? I have given up every friend in the world for you. I have no home. Mrs Pipkin’s room here is more my home than any other spot on the earth. I have all the world to choose from, but no reason whatever for a choice. I have my property. What shall I do with it, Paul? If I could die and be no more heard of, you should be welcome to it.’ There was no answer possible to all this. The questions were asked because there was no answer possible. ‘You might at any rate advise me. Paul, you are in some degree responsible,–are you not,–for my loneliness?’

‘I am. But you know that I cannot answer your questions.’

‘You cannot wonder that I should be somewhat in doubt as to my future life. As far as I can see, I had better remain here. I do good at any rate to Mrs Pipkin. She went into hysterics yesterday when I spoke of leaving her. That woman, Paul, would starve in our country, and I shall be desolate in this.’ Then she paused, and there was absolute silence for a minute. ‘You thought my letter very short; did you not?’

‘It said, I suppose, all you had to say.’

‘No, indeed. I did have much more to say. That was the third letter I wrote. Now you shall see the other two. I wrote three, and had to choose which I would send you. I fancy that yours to me was easier written than either one of mine. You had no doubts, you know. I had many doubts. I could not send them all by post, together. But you may see them all now. There is one. You may read that first. While I was writing it, I was determined that that should go.’ Then she handed him the sheet of paper which contained the threat of the horsewhip.

‘I am glad you did not send that,’ he said.

‘I meant it.’

‘But you have changed your mind?’

‘Is there anything in it that seems to you to be unreasonable? Speak out and tell me.’

‘I am thinking of you, not of myself.’

‘Think of me, then. Is there anything said there which the usage to which I have been subjected does not justify?’

‘You ask me questions which I cannot answer. I do not think that under any provocation a woman should use a horsewhip.’

‘It is certainly more comfortable for gentlemen,–who amuse themselves,–that women should have that opinion. But, upon my word, I don’t know what to say about that. As long as there are men to fight for women, it may be well to leave the fighting to the men. But when a woman has no one to help her, is she to bear everything without turning upon those who ill-use her? Shall a woman be flayed alive because it is unfeminine in her to fight for her own skin? What is the good of being –feminine, as you call it? Have you asked yourself that? That men may be attracted, I should say. But if a woman finds that men only take advantage of her assumed weakness, shall she not throw it off? If she be treated as prey, shall she not fight as a beast of prey? Oh, no;–it is so unfeminine! I also, Paul, had thought of that. The charm of womanly weakness presented itself to my mind in a soft moment,–and then I wrote this other letter. You may as well see them all.’ And so she handed him the scrap which had been written at Lowestoft, and he read that also.

He could hardly finish it, because of the tears which filled his eyes. But, having mastered its contents, he came across the room and threw himself on his knees at her feet, sobbing. ‘I have not sent it, you know,’ she said. ‘I only show it you that you may see how my mind has been at work’

‘It hurts me more than the other,’ he replied.

‘Nay, I would not hurt you,–not at this moment. Sometimes I feel that I could tear you limb from limb, so great is my disappointment, so ungovernable my rage! Why,–why should I be such a victim? Why should life be an utter blank to me, while you have everything before you? There, you have seen them all. Which will you have?’

‘I cannot now take that other as the expression of your mind.’

‘But it will be when you have left me;–and was when you were with me at the sea-side. And it was so I felt when I got your first letter in San Francisco. Why should you kneel there? You do not love me. A man should kneel to a woman for love, not for pardon.’ But though she spoke thus, she put her hand upon his forehead, and pushed back his hair, and looked into his face. ‘I wonder whether that other woman loves you. I do not want an answer, Paul. I suppose you had better go.’ She took his hand and pressed it to her breast. ‘Tell me one thing. When you spoke of–compensation, did you mean–money?’

‘No; indeed no.’

‘I hope not,–I hope not that. Well, there;–go. You shall be troubled no more with Winifred Hurtle.’ She took the sheet of paper which contained the threat of the horsewhip and tore it into scraps.

‘And am I to keep the other?’ he asked.

‘No. For what purpose would you have it? To prove my weakness? That also shall be destroyed.’ But she took it and restored it to her pocket-book.

‘Good-bye, my friend,’ he said.

‘Nay! This parting will not bear a farewell. Go, and let there be no other word spoken.’ And so he went.

As soon as the front door was closed behind him she rang the bell and begged Ruby to ask Mrs Pipkin to come to her. ‘Mrs Pipkin,’ she said, as soon as the woman had entered the room; ‘everything is over between me and Mr Montague.’ She was standing upright in the middle of the room, and as she spoke there was a smile on her face.

‘Lord ‘a mercy,’ said Mrs Pipkin, holding up both her hands.

‘As I have told you that I was to be married to him, I think it right now to tell you that I’m not going to be married to him.’

‘And why not?–and he such a nice young man,–and quiet too.’

‘As to the why not, I don’t know that I am prepared to speak about that. But it is so. I was engaged to him.’

‘I’m well sure of that, Mrs Hurtle.’

‘And now I’m no longer engaged to him. That’s all.’

‘Dearie me! and you going down to Lowestoft with him, and all.’ Mrs Pipkin could not bear to think that she should hear no more of such an interesting story.

‘We did go down to Lowestoft together, and we both came back not together. And there’s an end of it.’

‘I’m sure it’s not your fault, Mrs Hurtle. When a marriage is to be, and doesn’t come off, it never is the lady’s fault.’

‘There’s an end of it, Mrs Pipkin. If you please, we won’t say anything more about it.’

‘And are you going to leave, ma’am?’ said Mrs Pipkin, prepared to have her apron up to her eyes at a moment’s notice. Where should she get such another lodger as Mrs Hurtle,–a lady who not only did not inquire about victuals, but who was always suggesting that the children should eat this pudding or finish that pie, and who had never questioned an item in a bill since she had been in the house!

‘We’ll say nothing about that yet, Mrs Pipkin.’ Then Mrs Pipkin gave utterance to so many assurances of sympathy and help that it almost seemed that she was prepared to guarantee to her lodger another lover in lieu of the one who was now dismissed.

CHAPTER LII – THE RESULTS OF LOVE AND WINE

Two, three, four, and even five o’clock still found Sir Felix Carbury in bed on that fatal Thursday. More than once or twice his mother crept up to his room, but on each occasion he feigned to be fast asleep and made no reply to her gentle words. But his condition was one which only admits of short snatches of uneasy slumber. From head to foot, he was sick and ill and sore, and could find no comfort anywhere. To lie where he was, trying by absolute quiescence to soothe the agony of his brows and to remember that as long as he lay there he would be safe from attack by the outer world, was all the solace within his reach. Lady Carbury sent the page up to him, and to the page he was awake. The boy brought him tea. He asked for soda and brandy; but there was none to be had, and in his present condition he did not dare to hector about it till it was procured for him.

The world surely was now all over to him. He had made arrangements for running away with the great heiress of the day, and had absolutely allowed the young lady to run away without him. The details of their arrangement had been such that she absolutely would start upon her long journey across the ocean before she could find out that he had failed to keep his appointment. Melmotte’s hostility would be incurred by the attempt, and hers by the failure. Then he had lost all his money,–and hers. He had induced his poor mother to assist in raising a fund for him,–and even that was gone. He was so cowed that he was afraid even of his mother. And he could remember something, but no details, of some row at the club,–but still with a conviction on his mind that he had made the row. Ah,–when would he summon courage to enter the club again? When could he show himself again anywhere? All the world would know that Marie Melmotte had attempted to run off with him, and that at the last moment he had failed her. What lie could he invent to cover his disgrace? And his clothes! All his things were at the club;–or he thought that they were, not being quite certain whether he had not made some attempt to carry them off to the Railway Station. He had heard of suicide. If ever it could be well that a man should cut his own throat, surely the time had come for him now. But as this idea presented itself to him he simply gathered the clothes around him and tried to sleep. The death of Cato would hardly have for him persuasive charms.

Between five and six his mother again came up to him, and when he appeared to sleep, stood with her hand upon his shoulder. There must be some end to this. He must at any rate be fed. She, wretched woman, had been sitting all day,–thinking of it. As regarded her son himself; his condition told his story with sufficient accuracy. What might be the fate of the girl she could not stop to inquire. She had not heard all the details of the proposed scheme; but she had known that Felix had proposed to be at Liverpool on the Wednesday night, and to start on Thursday for New York with the young lady; and with the view of aiding him in his object she had helped him with money. She had bought clothes for him, and had been busy with Hetta for two days preparing for his long journey,–having told some lie to her own daughter as to the cause of her brother’s intended journey. He had not gone, but had come, drunk and degraded, back to the house. She had searched his pockets with less scruple than she had ever before felt, and had found his ticket for the vessel and the few sovereigns which were left to him. About him she could read the riddle plainly. He had stayed at his club till he was drunk, and had gambled away all his money. When she had first seen him she had asked herself what further lie she should now tell to her daughter. At breakfast there was instant need for some story. ‘Mary says that Felix came back this morning, and that he has not gone at all,’ Hetta exclaimed. The poor woman could not bring herself to expose the vices of the son to her daughter. She could not say that he had stumbled into the house drunk at six o’clock. Hetta no doubt had her own suspicions. ‘Yes; he has come back,’ said Lady Carbury, broken-hearted by her troubles. ‘It was some plan about the Mexican railway I believe, and has broken through. He is very unhappy and not well. I will see to him.’ After that Hetta had said nothing during the whole day. And now, about an hour before dinner, Lady Carbury was standing by her son’s bedside, determined that he should speak to her.

‘Felix,’ she said,–‘speak to me, Felix.–I know that you are awake.’ He groaned, and turned himself away from her, burying himself further under the bedclothes. ‘You must get up for your dinner. It is near six o’clock.’

‘All right,’ he said at last.

‘What is the meaning of this, Felix? You must tell me. It must be told sooner or later. I know you are unhappy. You had better trust your mother.’

‘I am so sick, mother.’

‘You will be better up. What were you doing last night? What has come of it all? Where are your things?’

‘At the club.–You had better leave me now, and let Sam come up to me.’ Sam was the page.

‘I will leave you presently; but, Felix, you must tell me about this. What has been done?’

‘It hasn’t come off.’

‘But how has it not come off?’

‘I didn’t get away. What’s the good of asking?’

‘You said this morning when you came in, that Mr Melmotte had discovered it.’

‘Did I? Then I suppose he has. Oh, mother, I wish I could die. I don’t see what’s the use of anything. I won’t get up to dinner. I’d rather stay here.’

‘You must have something to eat, Felix.’

‘Sam can bring it me. Do let him get me some brandy and water. I’m so faint and sick with all this that I can hardly bear myself. I can’t talk now. If he’ll get me a bottle of soda water and some brandy, I’ll tell you all about it then.’

‘Where is the money, Felix?’

‘I paid it for the ticket,’ said he, with both his hands up to his head.

Then his mother again left him with the understanding that he was to be allowed to remain in bed till the next morning; but that he was to give her some further explanation when he had been refreshed and invigorated after his own prescription. The boy went out and got him soda water and brandy, and meat was carried up to him, and then he did succeed for a while in finding oblivion from his misery in sleep.

‘Is he ill, mamma?’ Hetta asked.

‘Yes, my dear.’

‘Had you not better send for a doctor?’

‘No, my dear. He will be better to-morrow.’

‘Mamma, I think you would be happier if you would tell me everything.’

‘I can’t,’ said Lady Carbury, bursting out into tears. ‘Don’t ask. What’s the good of asking? It is all misery and wretchedness. There is nothing to tell,–except that I am ruined.’

‘Has he done anything, mamma?’

‘No. What should he have done? How am I to know what he does? He tells me nothing. Don’t talk about it any more. Oh, God,–how much better it would be to be childless!’

‘Oh, mamma, do you mean me?’ said Hetta, rushing across the room, and throwing herself close to her mother’s side on the sofa. ‘Mamma, say that you do not mean me.’

‘It concerns you as well as me and him. I wish I were childless.’

‘Oh, mamma, do not be cruel to me! Am I not good to you? Do I not try to be a comfort to you?’

‘Then marry your cousin, Roger Carbury, who is a good man, and who can protect you. You can, at any rate, find a home for yourself, and a friend for us. You are not like Felix. You do not get drunk and gamble,–because you are a woman. But you are stiff-necked, and will not help me in my trouble.’

‘Shall I marry him, mamma, without loving him?’

‘Love! Have I been able to love? Do you see much of what you call love around you? Why should you not love him? He is a gentleman, and a good man,–soft-hearted, of a sweet nature, whose life would be one effort to make yours happy. You think that Felix is very bad.’

‘I have never said so.’

‘But ask yourself whether you do not give as much pain, seeing what you could do for us if you would. But it never occurs to you to sacrifice even a fantasy for the advantage of others.’

Hetta retired from her seat on the sofa, and when her mother again went upstairs she turned it all over in her mind. Could it be right that she should marry one man when she loved another? Could it be right that she should marry at all, for the sake of doing good to her family? This man, whom she might marry if she would,–who did in truth worship the ground on which she trod,–was, she well knew, all that her mother had said. And he was more than that. Her mother had spoken of his soft heart, and his sweet nature. But Hetta knew also that he was a man of high honour and a noble courage. In such a condition as was hers now he was the very friend whose advice she could have asked,– had he not been the very lover who was desirous of making her his wife. Hetta felt that she could sacrifice much for her mother. Money, if she had it, she could have given, though she left herself penniless. Her time, her inclinations, her very heart’s treasure, and, as she thought, her life, she could give. She could doom herself to poverty, and loneliness, and heart-rending regrets for her mother’s sake. But she did not know how she could give herself into the arms of a man she did not love.

‘I don’t know what there is to explain,’ said Felix to his mother. She had asked him why he had not gone to Liverpool, whether he had been interrupted by Melmotte himself, whether news had reached him from Marie that she had been stopped, or whether,–as might have been possible,–Marie had changed her own mind. But he could not bring himself to tell the truth, or any story bordering on the truth. ‘It didn’t come off,’ he said, ‘and of course that knocked me off my legs. Well; yes. I did take some champagne when I found how it was. A fellow does get cut up by that kind of thing. Oh, I heard it at the club,–that the whole thing was off. I can’t explain anything more. And then I was so mad, I can’t tell what I was after. I did get the ticket. There it is. That shows I was in earnest. I spent the £30 in getting it. I suppose the change is there. Don’t take it, for I haven’t another shilling in the world.’ Of course he said nothing of Marie’s money, or of that which he had himself received from Melmotte. And as his mother had heard nothing of these sums she could not contradict what he said. She got from him no further statement, but she was sure that there was a story to be told which would reach her ears sooner or later.

That evening, about nine o’clock, Mr Broune called in Welbeck Street. He very often did call now, coming up in a cab, staying for a cup of tea, and going back in the same cab to the office of his newspaper. Since Lady Carbury had, so devotedly, abstained from accepting his offer, Mr Broune had become almost sincerely attached to her. There was certainly between them now more of the intimacy of real friendship than had ever existed in earlier days. He spoke to her more freely about his own affairs, and even she would speak to him with some attempt at truth. There was never between them now even a shade of love-making. She did not look into his eyes, nor did he hold her hand. As for kissing her,–he thought no more of it than of kissing the maid-servant. But he spoke to her of the things that worried him,–the unreasonable exactions of proprietors, and the perilous inaccuracy of contributors. He told her of the exceeding weight upon his shoulders, under which an Atlas would have succumbed. And he told her something too of his triumphs;–how he had had this fellow bowled over in punishment for some contradiction, and that man snuffed out for daring to be an enemy. And he expatiated on his own virtues, his justice and clemency. Ah,–if men and women only knew his good nature and his patriotism;–how he had spared the rod here, how he had made the fortune of a man there, how he had saved the country millions by the steadiness of his adherence to some grand truth! Lady Carbury delighted in all this and repaid him by flattery, and little confidences of her own. Under his teaching she had almost made up her mind to give up Mr Alf. Of nothing was Mr Broune more certain than that Mr Alf was making a fool of himself in regard to the Westminster election and those attacks on Melmotte. ‘The world of London generally knows what it is about,’ said Mr Broune, ‘and the London world believes Mr Melmotte to be sound. I don’t pretend to say that he has never done anything that he ought not to do. I am not going into his antecedents. But he is a man of wealth, power, and genius, and Alf will get the worst of it.’ Under such teaching as this, Lady Carbury was almost obliged to give up Mr Alf.

Sometimes they would sit in the front room with Hetta, to whom also Mr Broune had become attached; but sometimes Lady Carbury would be in her own sanctum. On this evening she received him there, and at once poured forth all her troubles about Felix. On this occasion she told him everything, and almost told him everything truly. He had already heard the story. ‘The young lady went down to Liverpool, and Sir Felix was not there.’

‘He could not have been there. He has been in bed in this house all day. Did she go?’

‘So I am told;–and was met at the station by the senior officer of the police at Liverpool, who brought her back to London without letting her go down to the ship at all. She must have thought that her lover was on board;–probably thinks so now. I pity her.’

‘How much worse it would have been, had she been allowed to start,’ said Lady Carbury.

‘Yes; that would have been bad. She would have had a sad journey to New York, and a sadder journey back. Has your son told you anything about money?’

‘What money?’

‘They say that the girl entrusted him with a large sum which she had taken from her father. If that be so he certainly ought to lose no time in restoring it. It might be done through some friend. I would do it, for that matter. If it be so,–to avoid unpleasantness,–it should be sent back at once. It will be for his credit.’ This Mr Broune said with a clear intimation of the importance of his advice.

It was dreadful to Lady Carbury. She had no money to give back, nor, as she was well aware, had her son. She had heard nothing of any money. What did Mr Broune mean by a large sum? ‘That would be dreadful,’ she said.

‘Had you not better ask him about it?’

Lady Carbury was again in tears. She knew that she could not hope to get a word of truth from her son. ‘What do you mean by a large sum?’

‘Two or three hundred pounds, perhaps.’

‘I have not a shilling in the world, Mr Broune.’ Then it all came out,–the whole story of her poverty, as it had been brought about by her son’s misconduct. She told him every detail of her money affairs from the death of her husband, and his will, up to the present moment.

‘He is eating you up, Lady Carbury.’ Lady Carbury thought that she was nearly eaten up already, but she said nothing. ‘You must put a stop to this.’

‘But how?’

‘You must rid yourself of him. It is dreadful to say so, but it must be done. You must not see your daughter ruined. Find out what money he got from Miss Melmotte and I will see that it is repaid. That must be done;–and we will then try to get him to go abroad. No;–do not contradict me. We can talk of the money another time. I must be off now, as I have stayed too long. Do as I bid you. Make him tell you, and send me word down to the office. If you could do it early to-morrow, that would be best. God bless you.’ And so he hurried off.

Early on the following morning a letter from Lady Carbury was put into Mr Broune’s hands, giving the story of the money as far as she had been able to extract it from Sir Felix. Sir Felix declared that Mr Melmotte had owed him £600, and that he had received £250 out of this from Miss Melmotte,–so that there was still a large balance due to him. Lady Carbury went on to say that her son had at last confessed that he had lost this money at play. The story was fairly true; but Lady Carbury in her letter acknowledged that she was not justified in believing it because it was told to her by her son.

CHAPTER LIII – A DAY IN THE CITY

Melmotte had got back his daughter, and was half inclined to let the matter rest there. He would probably have done so had he not known that all his own household were aware that she had gone off to meet Sir Felix Carbury, and had he not also received the condolence of certain friends in the city. It seemed that about two o’clock in the day the matter was known to everybody. Of course Lord Nidderdale would hear of it, and if so all the trouble that he had taken in that direction would have been taken in vain. Stupid fool of a girl to throw away her chance,–nay, to throw away the certainty of a brilliant career, in that way! But his anger against Sir Felix was infinitely more bitter than his anger against his daughter. The man had pledged himself to abstain from any step of this kind,–had given a written pledge,–had renounced under his own signature his intention of marrying Marie! Melmotte had of course learned all the details of the cheque for £250,–how the money had been paid at the bank to Didon, and how Didon had given it to Sir Felix. Marie herself acknowledged that Sir Felix had received the money. If possible he would prosecute the baronet for stealing his money.

Had Melmotte been altogether a prudent man he would probably have been satisfied with getting back his daughter and would have allowed the money to go without further trouble. At this especial point in his career ready money was very valuable to him, but his concerns were of such magnitude that £250 could make but little difference. But there had grown upon the man during the last few months an arrogance, a self-confidence inspired in him by the worship of other men, which clouded his intellect, and robbed him of much of that power of calculation which undoubtedly he naturally possessed. He remembered perfectly his various little transactions with Sir Felix. Indeed it was one of his gifts to remember with accuracy all money transactions, whether great or small, and to keep an account book in his head, which was always totted up and balanced with accuracy. He knew exactly how he stood, even with the crossing-sweeper to whom he had given a penny last Tuesday, as with the Longestaffes, father and son, to whom he had not as yet made any payment on behalf of the purchase of Pickering. But Sir Felix’s money had been consigned into his hands for the purchase of shares,–and that consignment did not justify Six Felix in taking another sum of money from his daughter. In such a matter he thought that an English magistrate, and an English jury, would all be on his side,–especially as he was Augustus Melmotte, the man about to be chosen for Westminster, the man about to entertain the Emperor of China!

The next day was Friday,–the day of the Railway Board. Early in the morning he sent a note to Lord Nidderdale.

MY DEAR NIDDERDALE,–

Pray come to the Board to-day;–or at any rate come to me in the city. I specially want to speak to you.

Yours,

A. M.

This he wrote, having made up his mind that it would be wise to make a clear breast of it with his hoped-for son-in-law. If there was still a chance of keeping the young lord to his guns that chance would be best supported by perfect openness on his part. The young lord would of course know what Marie had done. But the young lord had for some weeks past been aware that there had been a difficulty in regard to Sir Felix Carbury, and had not on that account relaxed his suit. It might be possible to persuade the young lord that as the young lady had now tried to elope and tried in vain, his own chance might on the whole be rather improved than injured.

Mr Melmotte on that morning had many visitors, among whom one of the earliest and most unfortunate was Mr Longestaffe. At that time there had been arranged at the offices in Abchurch Lane a mode of double ingress and egress,–a front stairs and a back stairs approach and exit, as is always necessary with very great men,–in reference to which arrangement the honour and dignity attached to each is exactly contrary to that which generally prevails in the world; the front stairs being intended for everybody, and being both slow and uncertain, whereas the back stairs are quick and sure, and are used only for those who are favoured. Miles Grendall had the command of the stairs, and found that he had plenty to do in keeping people in their right courses. Mr Longestaffe reached Abchurch Lane before one,–having altogether failed in getting a moment’s private conversation with the big man on that other Friday, when he had come later. He fell at once into Miles’s hands, and was ushered through the front stairs passage and into the front stairs waiting-room, with much external courtesy. Miles Grendall was very voluble. Did Mr Longestaffe want to see Mr Melmotte? Oh;–Mr Longestaffe wanted to see Mr Melmotte as soon as possible! Of course Mr Longestaffe should see Mr Melmotte. He, Miles, knew that Mr Melmotte was particularly desirous of seeing Mr Longestaffe. Mr Melmotte had mentioned Mr Longestaffe’s name twice during the last three days. Would Mr Longestaffe sit down for a few minutes? Had Mr Longestaffe seen the ‘Morning Breakfast Table’? Mr Melmotte undoubtedly was very much engaged. At this moment a deputation from the Canadian Government was with him;–and Sir Gregory Gribe was in the office waiting for a few words. But Miles thought that the Canadian Government would not be long,–and as for Sir Gregory, perhaps his business might be postponed. Miles would do his very best to get an interview for Mr Longestaffe,–more especially as Mr Melmotte was so very desirous himself of seeing his friend. It was astonishing that such a one as Miles Grendall should have learned his business so well and should have made himself so handy! We will leave Mr Longestaffe with the ‘Morning Breakfast Table’ in his hands, in the front waiting-room, merely notifying the fact that there he remained for something over two hours.

In the meantime both Mr Broune and Lord Nidderdale came to the office, and both were received without delay. Mr Broune was the first. Miles knew who he was, and made no attempt to seat him in the same room with Mr Longestaffe. ‘I’ll just send him a note,’ said Mr Broune, and he scrawled a few words at the office counter. ‘I’m commissioned to pay you some money on behalf of Miss Melmotte.’ Those were the words, and they at once procured him admission to the sanctum. The Canadian Deputation must have taken its leave, and Sir Gregory could hardly have as yet arrived. Lord Nidderdale, who had presented himself almost at the same moment with the Editor, was shown into a little private room which was, indeed, Miles Grendall’s own retreat. ‘What’s up with the Governor?’ asked the young lord.

‘Anything particular do you mean?’ said Miles. ‘There are always so many things up here.’

‘He has sent for me.’

‘Yes,–you’ll go in directly. There’s that fellow who does the “Breakfast Table” in with him. I don’t know what he’s come about. You know what he has sent for you for?’

Lord Nidderdale answered this question by another. ‘I suppose all this about Miss Melmotte is true?’

‘She did go off yesterday morning,’ said Miles, in a whisper.

‘But Carbury wasn’t with her.’

‘Well, no;–I suppose not. He seems to have mulled it. He’s such a d—- brute, he’d be sure to go wrong whatever he had in hand.’

‘You don’t like him, of course, Miles. For that matter I’ve no reason to love him. He couldn’t have gone. He staggered out of the club yesterday morning at four o’clock as drunk as Cloe. He’d lost a pot of money, and had been kicking up a row about you for the last hour.’

‘Brute!’ exclaimed Miles, with honest indignation.

‘I dare say. But though he was able to make a row, I’m sure he couldn’t get himself down to Liverpool. And I saw all his things lying about the club hall late last night;–no end of portmanteaux and bags; just what a fellow would take to New York. By George! Fancy taking a girl to New York! It was plucky.’

‘It was all her doing,’ said Miles, who was of course intimate with Mr Melmotte’s whole establishment, and had had means therefore of hearing the true story.

‘What a fiasco!’ said the young lord. ‘I wonder what the old boy means to say to me about it.’ Then there was heard the clear tingle of a little silver bell, and Miles told Lord Nidderdale that his time had come.

Mr Broune had of late been very serviceable to Mr Melmotte, and Melmotte was correspondingly gracious. On seeing the Editor he immediately began to make a speech of thanks in respect of the support given by the ‘Breakfast Table’ to his candidature. But Mr Broune cut him short. ‘I never talk about the “Breakfast Table,”‘ said he. ‘We endeavour to get along as right as we can, and the less said the soonest mended.’ Melmotte bowed. ‘I have come now about quite another matter, and perhaps, the less said the sooner mended about that also. Sir Felix Carbury on a late occasion received a sum of money in trust from your daughter. Circumstances have prevented its use in the intended manner, and, therefore, as Sir Felix’s friend, I have called to return the money to you.’ Mr Broune did not like calling himself the friend of Sir Felix, but he did even that for the lady who had been good enough to him not to marry him.

‘Oh, indeed,’ said Mr Melmotte, with a scowl on his face, which he would have repressed if he could.

‘No doubt you understand all about it.’

‘Yes;–I understand. D—- scoundrel!’

‘We won’t discuss that, Mr Melmotte. I’ve drawn a cheque myself payable to your order,–to make the matter all straight. The sum was £250, I think.’ And Mr Broune put a cheque for that amount down upon the table.

‘I dare say it’s all right,’ said Mr Melmotte. ‘But, remember, I don’t think that this absolves him. He has been a scoundrel.’

‘At any rate he has paid back the money, which chance put into his hands, to the only person entitled to receive it on the young lady’s behalf. Good morning.’ Mr Melmotte did put out his hand in token of amity. Then Mr Broune departed and Melmotte tinkled his bell. As Nidderdale was shown in he crumpled up the cheque, and put it into his pocket. He was at once clever enough to perceive that any idea which he might have had of prosecuting Sir Felix must be abandoned. ‘Well, my Lord, and how are you?’ said he with his pleasantest smile. Nidderdale declared himself to be as fresh as paint. ‘You don’t look down in the mouth, my Lord.’

Then Lord Nidderdale,–who no doubt felt that it behoved him to show a good face before his late intended father-in-law,–sang the refrain of an old song, which it is trusted my readers may remember.

‘Cheer up, Sam;
Don’t let your spirits go down.
There’s many a girl that I know well, Is waiting for you in the town.’

‘Ha, ha, ha,’ laughed Melmotte, ‘very good. I’ve no doubt there is,– many a one. But you won’t let this stupid nonsense stand in your way with Marie.’

‘Upon my word, sir, I don’t know about that. Miss Melmotte has given the most convincing proof of her partiality for another gentleman, and of her indifference to me.’

‘A foolish baggage! A silly little romantic baggage! She’s been reading novels till she has learned to think she couldn’t settle down quietly till she had run off with somebody.’

‘She doesn’t seem to have succeeded on this occasion, Mr Melmotte.’

‘No;–of course we had her back again from Liverpool.’

‘But they say that she got further than the gentleman.’

‘He is a dishonest, drunken scoundrel. My girl knows very well what he is now. She’ll never try that game again. Of course, my Lord, I’m very sorry. You know that I’ve been on the square with you always. She’s my only child, and sooner or later she must have all that I possess. What she will have at once will make any man wealthy,–that is, if she marries with my sanction; and in a year or two I expect that I shall be able to double what I give her now, without touching my capital. Of course you understand that I desire to see her occupying high rank. I think that, in this country, that is a noble object of ambition. Had she married that sweep I should have broken my heart. Now, my Lord, I want you to say that this shall make no difference to you. I am very honest with you. I do not try to hide anything. The thing of course has been a misfortune. Girls will be romantic. But you may be sure that this little accident will assist rather than impede your views. After this she will not be very fond of Sir Felix Carbury.’

‘I dare say not. Though, by Jove, girls will forgive anything.’

‘She won’t forgive him. By George, she shan’t. She shall hear the whole story. You’ll come and see her just the same as ever!’

‘I don’t know about that, Mr Melmotte.’

‘Why not? You’re not so weak as to surrender all your settled projects for such a piece of folly as that! He didn’t even see her all the time.’

‘That wasn’t her fault.’

‘The money will all be there, Lord Nidderdale.’

‘The money’s all right, I’ve no doubt. And there isn’t a man in all London would be better pleased to settle down with a good income than I would. But, by Jove, it’s a rather strong order when a girl has just run away with another man. Everybody knows it.’

‘In three months’ time everybody will have forgotten it.’

‘To tell you the truth, sir, I think Miss Melmotte has got a will of her own stronger than you give her credit for. She has never given me the slightest encouragement. Ever so long ago, about Christmas, she did once say that she would do as you bade her. But she is very much changed since then. The thing was off.’

‘She had nothing to do with that.’

‘No;–but she has taken advantage of it, and I have no right to complain.’

‘You just come to the house, and ask her again to-morrow. Or come on Sunday morning. Don’t let us be done out of all our settled arrangements by the folly of an idle girl. Will you come on Sunday morning about noon?’ Lord Nidderdale thought of his position for a few moments and then said that perhaps he would come on Sunday morning. After that Melmotte proposed that they two should go and ‘get a bit of lunch’ at a certain Conservative club in the City. There would be time before the meeting of the Railway Board. Nidderdale had no objection to the lunch, but expressed a strong opinion that the Board was ‘rot’. ‘That’s all very well for you, young man,’ said the chairman, ‘but I must go there in order that you may be able to enjoy a splendid fortune.’ Then he touched the young man on the shoulder and drew him back as he was passing out by the front stairs. ‘Come this way, Nidderdale;–come this way. I must get out without being seen. There are people waiting for me there who think that a man can attend to business from morning to night without ever having a bit in his mouth.’ And so they escaped by the back stairs.

At the club, the City Conservative world,–which always lunches well,–welcomed Mr Melmotte very warmly. The election was coming on, and there was much to be said. He played the part of the big City man to perfection, standing about the room with his hat on, and talking loudly to a dozen men at once. And he was glad to show the club that Lord Nidderdale had come there with him. The club of course knew that Lord Nidderdale was the accepted suitor of the rich man’s daughter,– accepted, that is, by the rich man himself,–and the club knew also that the rich man’s daughter had tried but had failed to run away with Sir Felix Carbury. There is nothing like wiping out a misfortune and having done with it. The presence of Lord Nidderdale was almost an assurance to the club that the misfortune had been wiped out, and, as it were, abolished. A little before three Mr Melmotte returned to Abchurch Lane, intending to regain his room by the back way; while Lord Nidderdale went westward, considering within his own mind whether it was expedient that he should continue to show himself as a suitor for Miss Melmotte’s hand. He had an idea that a few years ago a man could not have done such a thing–that he would be held to show a poor spirit should he attempt it; but that now it did not much matter what a man did,–if only he were successful. ‘After all, it’s only an affair of money,’ he said to himself.

Mr Longestaffe in the meantime had progressed from weariness to impatience, from impatience to ill-humour, and from ill-humour to indignation. More than once he saw Miles Grendall, but Miles Grendall was always ready with an answer. That Canadian Deputation was determined to settle the whole business this morning, and would not take itself away. And Sir Gregory Gribe had been obstinate, beyond the ordinary obstinacy of a bank director. The rate of discount at the bank could not be settled for to-morrow without communication with Mr Melmotte, and that was a matter on which the details were always most oppressive. At first Mr Longestaffe was somewhat stunned by the Deputation and Sir Gregory Gribe; but as he waxed wroth the potency of those institutions dwindled away, and as, at last, he waxed hungry, they became as nothing to him. Was he not Mr Longestaffe of Caversham, a Deputy-Lieutenant of his County, and accustomed to lunch punctually at two o’clock? When he had been in that waiting-room for two hours, it occurred to him that he only wanted his own, and that he would not remain there to be starved for any Mr Melmotte in Europe. It occurred to him also that that thorn in his side, Squercum, would certainly get a finger into the pie to his infinite annoyance. Then he walked forth, and attempted to see Grendall for the fourth time. But Miles Grendall also liked his lunch, and was therefore declared by one of the junior clerks to be engaged at that moment on most important business with Mr Melmotte. ‘Then say that I can’t wait any longer,’ said Mr Longestaffe, stamping out of the room with angry feet.

At the very door he met Mr Melmotte. ‘Ah, Mr Longestaffe,’ said the great financier, seizing him by the hand, ‘you are the very man I am desirous of seeing.’

‘I have been waiting two hours up in your place,’ said the Squire of Caversham.

‘Tut, tut, tut;–and they never told me!’

‘I spoke to Mr Grendall half a dozen times.’

‘Yes,–yes. And he did put a slip with your name on it on my desk. I do remember. My dear sir, I have so many things on my brain, that I hardly know how to get along with them. You are coming to the Board? It’s just the time now.’

‘No;’–said Mr Longestaffe. ‘I 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 to-morrow–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.

CHAPTER 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 Westminster! If this special seat for Westminster could be carried, the country then could hardly any longer have a doubt on the matter. If only Mr Melmotte could be got in for Westminster, it would be manifest that the people were sound at heart, and that all the great changes which had been effected during the last forty years,–from the first reform in Parliament down to the Ballot,–had been managed by the cunning and treachery of a few ambitious men. Not, however, that the Ballot was just now regarded by the party as an unmitigated evil, though it was the last triumph of Radical wickedness. The Ballot was on the whole popular with the party. A short time since, no doubt it was regarded by the party as being one and the same as national ruin and national disgrace. But it had answered well at Porcorum, and with due manipulation had been found to be favourable at Sticinthemud. The Ballot might perhaps help the long pull and the strong pull,–and, in spite of the ruin and disgrace, was thought by some just now to be a highly Conservative measure. It was considered that the Ballot might assist Melmotte at Westminster very materially.

Any one reading the Conservative papers of the time, and hearing the Conservative speeches in the borough,–any one at least who lived so remote as not to have learned what these things really mean,–would have thought that England’s welfare depended on Melmotte’s return. In the enthusiasm of the moment, the attacks made on his character were answered by eulogy as loud as the censure was bitter. The chief crime laid to his charge was connected with the ruin of some great continental assurance company, as to which it was said that he had so managed it as to leave it utterly stranded, with an enormous fortune of his own. It was declared that every shilling which he had brought to England with him had consisted of plunder stolen from the shareholders in the company. Now the ‘Evening Pulpit,’ in its endeavour to make the facts of this transaction known, had placed what it called the domicile of this company in Paris, whereas it was ascertained that its official head-quarters had in truth been placed at Vienna. Was not such a blunder as this sufficient to show that no merchant of higher honour than Mr Melmotte had ever adorned the Exchanges of modern capitals? And then two different newspapers of the time, both of them antagonistic to Melmotte, failed to be in accord on a material point. One declared that Mr Melmotte was not in truth possessed of any wealth. The other said that he had derived his wealth from those unfortunate shareholders. Could anything betray so bad a cause as contradictions such as these? Could anything be so false, so weak, so malignant, so useless, so wicked, so self-condemned,–in fact, so ‘Liberal’ as a course of action such as this? The belief naturally to be deduced from such statements, nay, the unavoidable conviction on the minds–of, at any rate, the Conservative newspapers–was that Mr Melmotte had accumulated an immense fortune, and that he had never robbed any shareholder of a shilling.

The friends of Melmotte had moreover a basis of hope, and were enabled to sound premonitory notes of triumph, arising from causes quite external to their party. The ‘Breakfast Table’ supported Melmotte, but the ‘Breakfast Table’ was not a Conservative organ. This support was given, not to the great man’s political opinions, as to which a well-known writer in that paper suggested that the great man had probably not as yet given very much attention to the party questions which divided the country,–but to his commercial position. It was generally acknowledged that few men living,–perhaps no man alive,– had so acute an insight into the great commercial questions of the age as Mr Augustus Melmotte. In whatever part of the world he might have acquired his commercial experience,–for it had been said repeatedly that Melmotte was not an Englishman,–he now made London his home and Great Britain his country, and it would be for the welfare of the country that such a man should sit in the British Parliament. Such were the arguments used by the ‘Breakfast Table’ in supporting Mr Melmotte. This was, of course, an assistance;–and not the less so because it was asserted in other papers that the country would be absolutely disgraced by his presence in Parliament. The hotter the opposition the keener will be the support. Honest good men, men who really loved their country, fine gentlemen, who had received unsullied names from great ancestors, shed their money right and left, and grew hot in personally energetic struggles to have this man returned to Parliament as the head of the great Conservative mercantile interests of Great Britain!

There was one man who thoroughly believed that the thing at the present moment most essentially necessary to England’s glory was the return of Mr Melmotte for Westminster. This man was undoubtedly a very ignorant man. He knew nothing of any one political question which had vexed England for the last half century,–nothing whatever of the political history which had made England what it was at the beginning of that half century. Of such names as Hampden, Somers, and Pitt he had hardly ever heard. He had probably never read a book in his life. He knew nothing of the working of parliament, nothing of nationality,– had no preference whatever for one form of government over another, never having given his mind a moment’s trouble on the subject. He had not even reflected how a despotic monarch or a federal republic might affect himself, and possibly did not comprehend the meaning of those terms. But yet he was fully confident that England did demand and ought to demand that Mr Melmotte should be returned for Westminster. This man was Mr Melmotte himself.

In this conjunction of his affairs Mr Melmotte certainly lost his head. He had audacity almost sufficient for the very dangerous game which he was playing; but, as crisis heaped itself upon crisis, he became deficient in prudence. He did not hesitate to speak of himself as the man who ought to represent Westminster, and of those who opposed him as little malignant beings who had mean interests of their own to serve. He went about in his open carriage, with Lord Alfred at his left hand, with a look on his face which seemed to imply that Westminster was not good enough for him. He even hinted to certain political friends that at the next general election he should try the City. Six months since he had been a humble man to a Lord,–but now he scolded Earls and snubbed Dukes, and yet did it in a manner which showed how proud he was of connecting himself with their social pre-eminence, and how ignorant of the manner in which such pre-eminence affects English gentlemen generally. The more arrogant he became the more vulgar he was, till even Lord Alfred would almost be tempted to rush away to impecuniosity and freedom. Perhaps there were some with whom this conduct had a salutary effect. No doubt arrogance will produce submission; and there are men who take other men at the price those other men put upon themselves. Such persons could not refrain from thinking Melmotte to be mighty because he swaggered; and gave their hinder parts to be kicked merely because he put up his toe. We all know men of this calibre,–and how they seem to grow in number. But the net result of his personal demeanour was injurious; and it was debated among some of the warmest of his supporters whether a hint should not be given him. ‘Couldn’t Lord Alfred say a word to him?’ said the Honourable Beauchamp Beauclerk, who, himself in Parliament, a leading man in his party, thoroughly well acquainted with the borough, wealthy and connected by blood with half the great Conservative families in the kingdom, had been moving heaven and earth on behalf of the great financial king, and working like a slave for his success.

‘Alfred’s more than half afraid of him,’ said Lionel Lupton, a young aristocrat, also in Parliament, who had been inoculated with the idea that the interests of the party demanded Melmotte in Parliament, but who would have given up his Scotch shooting rather than have undergone Melmotte’s company for a day.

‘Something really must be done, Mr Beauclerk,’ said Mr Jones, who was the leading member of a very wealthy firm of builders in the borough, who had become a Conservative politician, who had thoughts of the House for himself, but who never forgot his own position. ‘He is making a great many personal enemies.’

‘He’s the finest old turkey cock out,’ said Lionel Lupton.

Then it was decided that Mr Beauclerk should speak a word to Lord Alfred. The rich man and the poor man were cousins, and had always been intimate. ‘Alfred,’ said the chosen mentor at the club one afternoon, ‘I wonder whether you couldn’t say something to Melmotte about his manner.’ Lord Alfred turned sharp round and looked into his companion’s face. ‘They tell me he is giving offence. Of course he doesn’t mean it. Couldn’t he draw it a little milder?’

Lord Alfred made his reply almost in a whisper. ‘If you ask me, I don’t think he could. If you got him down and trampled on him, you might make him mild. I don’t think there’s any other way.’

‘You couldn’t speak to him, then?’

‘Not unless I did it with a horsewhip.’

This, coming from Lord Alfred, who was absolutely dependent on the man, was very strong. Lord Alfred had been much afflicted that morning. He had spent some hours with his friend, either going about the borough in the open carriage, or standing just behind him at meetings, or sitting close to him in committee-rooms,–and had been nauseated with Melmotte. When spoken to about his friend he could not restrain himself. Lord Alfred had been born and bred a gentleman, and found the position in which he was now earning his bread to be almost insupportable. It had gone against the grain with him at first, when he was called Alfred; but now that he was told ‘just to open the door,’ and ‘just to give that message,’ he almost meditated revenge. Lord Nidderdale, who was quick at observation, had seen something of this in Grosvenor Square, and declared that Lord Alfred had invested part of his recent savings in a cutting whip. Mr Beauclerk, when he had got his answer, whistled and withdrew. But he was true to his party. Melmotte was not the first vulgar man whom the Conservatives had taken by the hand, and patted on the back, and told that he was a god.

The Emperor of China was now in England, and was to be entertained one night at the India Office. The Secretary of State for the second great Asiatic Empire was to entertain the ruler of the first. This was on Saturday the 6th of July, and Melmotte’s dinner was to take place on the following Monday. Very great interest was made by the London world generally to obtain admission to the India Office,–the making of such interest consisting in the most abject begging for tickets of admission, addressed to the Secretary of State, to all the under secretaries, to assistant secretaries, secretaries of departments, chief clerks, and to head-messengers and their wives. If a petitioner could not be admitted as a guest into the splendour of the reception rooms, might not he,–or she,–be allowed to stand in some passage whence the Emperor’s back might perhaps be seen,–so that, if possible, the petitioner’s name might be printed in the list of guests which would be published on the next morning? Now Mr Melmotte with his family was, of course, supplied with tickets. He, who was to spend a fortune in giving the Emperor a dinner, was of course entitled to be present at other places to which the Emperor would be brought to be shown. Melmotte had already seen the Emperor at a breakfast in Windsor Park, and at a ball in royal halls. But hitherto he had not been presented to the Emperor. Presentations have to be restricted,–if only on the score of time; and it had been thought that as Mr Melmotte would of course have some communication with the hardworked Emperor at his own house, that would suffice. But he had felt himself to be ill-used and was offended. He spoke with bitterness to some of his supporters of the Royal Family generally, because he had not been brought to the front rank either at the breakfast or at the ball,–and now, at the India Office, was determined to have his due. But he was not on the list of those whom the Secretary of State intended on this occasion to present to the Brother of the Sun.

He had dined freely. At this period of his career he had taken to dining freely,–which was in itself imprudent, as he had need at all hours of his best intelligence. Let it not be understood that he was tipsy. He was a man whom wine did not often affect after that fashion. But it made him, who was arrogant before, tower in his arrogance till he was almost sure to totter. It was probably at some moment after dinner that Lord Alfred decided upon buying the cutting whip of which he had spoken. Melmotte went with his wife and daughter to the India Office, and soon left them far in the background with a request,–we may say an order,–to Lord Alfred to take care of them. It may be observed here that Marie Melmotte was almost as great a curiosity as the Emperor himself, and was much noticed as the girl who had attempted to run away to New York, but had gone without her lover. Melmotte entertained some foolish idea that as the India Office was in Westminster, he had a peculiar right to demand an introduction on this occasion because of his candidature. He did succeed in getting hold of an unfortunate under secretary of state, a studious and invaluable young peer, known as Earl De Griffin. He was a shy man, of enormous wealth, of mediocre intellect, and no great physical ability, who never amused himself; but worked hard night and day, and read everything that anybody could write, and more than any other person could read, about India. Had Mr Melmotte wanted to know the exact dietary of the peasants in Orissa, or the revenue of the Punjaub, or the amount of crime in Bombay, Lord De Griffin would have informed him without a pause. But in this matter of managing the Emperor, the under secretary had nothing to do, and would have been the last man to be engaged in such a service. He was, however, second in command at the India Office, and of his official rank Melmotte was unfortunately made aware. ‘My Lord,’ said he, by no means hiding his demand in a whisper, ‘I am desirous of being presented to his Imperial Majesty.’ Lord De Griffin looked at him in despair, not knowing the great man,–being one of the few men in that room who did not know him.

‘This is Mr Melmotte,’ said Lord Alfred, who had deserted the ladies and still stuck to his master. ‘Lord De Griffin, let me introduce you to Mr Melmotte.’