Perhaps never in his life had he studied his own character and his own conduct more accurately, or made sterner resolves, than he did as he stood there smiling, bowing, and acting without impropriety the part of host to an Emperor. No;—he could not run away. He soon made himself sure of that. He had risen too high to be a successful fugitive, even should he succeed in getting off before hands were laid upon him. He must bide his ground, if only that he might not at once confess his own guilt by flight; and he would do so with courage. Looking back at the hour or two that had just passed he was aware that he had allowed himself not only to be frightened in the dinner-room,—but also to seem to be frightened. The thing had come upon him unawares and he had been untrue to himself. He acknowledged that. He should not have asked those questions of Mr Todd and Mr Beauclerk, and should have been more good-humoured than usual with Lord Alfred in discussing those empty seats. But for spilt milk there is no remedy. The blow had come upon him too suddenly, and he had faltered. But he would not falter again. Nothing should cow him,—no touch from a policeman, no warrant from a magistrate, no defalcation of friends, no scorn in the City, no solitude in the West End. He would go down among the electors to-morrow and would stand his ground, as though all with him were right. Men should know at any rate that he had a heart within his bosom. And he confessed also to himself that he had sinned in that matter of arrogance. He could see it now,—as so many of us do see the faults which we have committed, which we strive, but in vain, to discontinue, and which we never confess except to our own bosoms. The task which he had imposed on himself, and to which circumstances had added weight, had been very hard to bear. He should have been good-humoured to these great ones whose society he had gained. He should have bound these people to him by a feeling of kindness as well as by his money. He could see it all now. And he could see too that there was no help for spilt milk. I think he took some pride in his own confidence as to his own courage, as he stood there turning it all over in his mind. Very much might be suspected. Something might be found out. But the task of unravelling it all would not be easy. It is the small vermin and the little birds that are trapped at once. But wolves and vultures can fight hard before they are caught. With the means which would still be at his command, let the worst come to the worst, he could make a strong fight. When a man's frauds have been enormous there is a certain safety in their very diversity and proportions. Might it not be that the fact that these great ones of the earth had been his guests should speak in his favour? A man who had in very truth had the real brother of the Sun dining at his table could hardly be sent into the dock and then sent out of it like a common felon.

Madame Melmotte during the evening stood at the top of her own stairs with a chair behind her on which she could rest herself for a moment when any pause took place in the arrivals. She had of course dined at the table,—or rather sat there;—but had been so placed that no duty had devolved upon her. She had heard no word of the rumours, and would probably be the last person in that house to hear them. It never occurred to her to see whether the places down the table were full or empty. She sat with her large eyes fixed on the Majesty of China and must have wondered at her own destiny at finding herself with an Emperor and Princes to look at. From the dining-room she had gone when she was told to go, up to the drawing-room, and had there performed her task, longing only for the comfort of her bedroom. She, I think, had but small sympathy with her husband in all his work, and but little understanding of the position in which she had been placed. Money she liked, and comfort, and perhaps diamonds and fine dresses, but she can hardly have taken pleasure in duchesses or have enjoyed the company of the Emperor. From the beginning of the Melmotte era it had been an understood thing that no one spoke to Madame Melmotte.

Marie Melmotte had declined a seat at the dinner-table. This at first had been cause of quarrel between her and her father, as he desired to have seen her next to young Lord Nidderdale as being acknowledged to be betrothed to him. But since the journey to Liverpool he had said nothing on the subject. He still pressed the engagement, but thought now that less publicity might be expedient. She was, however, in the drawing-room standing at first by Madame Melmotte, and afterwards retreating among the crowd. To some ladies she was a person of interest as the young woman who had lately run away under such strange circumstances; but no one spoke to her till she saw a girl whom she herself knew, and whom she addressed, plucking up all her courage for the occasion. This was Hetta Carbury who had been brought hither by her mother.

The tickets for Lady Carbury and Hetta had of course been sent before the elopement;—and also, as a matter of course, no reference had been made to them by the Melmotte family after the elopement. Lady Carbury herself was anxious that that affair should not be considered as having given cause for any personal quarrel between herself and Mr Melmotte, and in her difficulty had consulted Mr Broune. Mr Broune was the staff on which she leant at present in all her difficulties. Mr Broune was going to the dinner. All this of course took place while Melmotte's name was as yet unsullied as snow. Mr Broune saw no reason why Lady Carbury should not take advantage of her tickets. These invitations were simply tickets to see the Emperor surrounded by the Princes. The young lady's elopement is 'no affair of yours,' Mr Broune had said. 'I should go, if it were only for the sake of showing that you did not consider yourself to be implicated in the matter.' Lady Carbury did as she was advised, and took her daughter with her. 'Nonsense,' said the mother, when Hetta objected; 'Mr Broune sees it quite in the right light. This is a grand demonstration in honour of the Emperor, rather than a private party;—and we have done nothing to offend the Melmottes. You know you wish to see the Emperor.' A few minutes before they started from Welbeck Street a note came from Mr Broune, written in pencil and sent from Melmotte's house by a Commissioner. 'Don't mind what you hear; but come. I am here and as far as I can see it is all right. The E. is beautiful, and P.'s are as thick as blackberries.' Lady Carbury, who had not been in the way of hearing the reports, understood nothing of this; but of course she went. And Hetta went with her.

Hetta was standing alone in a corner, near to her mother, who was talking to Mr Booker, with her eyes fixed on the awful tranquillity of the Emperor's countenance, when Marie Melmotte timidly crept up to her and asked her how she was. Hetta, probably, was not very cordial to the poor girl, being afraid of her, partly as the daughter of the great Melmotte and partly as the girl with whom her brother had failed to run away; but Marie was not rebuked by this. 'I hope you won't be angry with me for speaking to you.' Hetta smiled more graciously. She could not be angry with the girl for speaking to her, feeling that she was there as the guest of the girl's mother. 'I suppose you know about your brother,' said Marie, whispering with her eyes turned to the ground.

'I have heard about it,' said Hetta. 'He never told me himself.'

'Oh, I do so wish that I knew the truth. I know nothing. Of course, Miss Carbury, I love him. I do love him so dearly! I hope you don't think I would have done it if I hadn't loved him better than anybody in the world. Don't you think that if a girl loves a man,—really loves him,—that ought to go before everything?'

This was a question that Hetta was hardly prepared to answer. She felt quite certain that under no circumstances would she run away with a man. 'I don't quite know. It is so hard to say,' she replied.

'I do. What's the good of anything if you're to be broken-hearted? I don't care what they say of me, or what they do to me, if he would only be true to me. Why doesn't he—let me know—something about it?' This also was a question difficult to be answered. Since that horrid morning on which Sir Felix had stumbled home drunk,—which was now four days since,—he had not left the house in Welbeck Street till this evening. He had gone out a few minutes before Lady Carbury had started, but up to that time he had almost kept his bed. He would not get up till dinner-time, would come down after some half-dressed fashion, and then get back to his bedroom, where he would smoke and drink brandy-and-water and complain of headache. The theory was that he was ill;—but he was in fact utterly cowed and did not dare to show himself at his usual haunts. He was aware that he had quarrelled at the club, aware that all the world knew of his intended journey to Liverpool, aware that he had tumbled about the streets intoxicated. He had not dared to show himself, and the feeling had grown upon him from day to day. Now, fairly worn out by his confinement, he had crept out intending, if possible, to find consolation with Ruby Ruggles. 'Do tell me. Where is he?' pleaded Marie.

'He has not been very well lately.'

'Is he ill? Oh, Miss Carbury, do tell me. You can understand what it is to love him as I do—can't you?'

'He has been ill. I think he is better now.'

'Why does he not come to me, or send to me; or let me know something? It is cruel, is it not? Tell me,—you must know,—does he really care for me?'

Hetta was exceedingly perplexed. The real feeling betrayed by the girl recommended her. Hetta could not but sympathize with the affection manifested for her own brother, though she could hardly understand the want of reticence displayed by Marie in thus speaking of her love to one who was almost a stranger. 'Felix hardly ever talks about himself to me,' she said.

'If he doesn't care for me, there shall be an end of it,' Marie said very gravely. 'If I only knew! If I thought that he loved me, I'd go through,—oh,—all the world for him. Nothing that papa could say should stop me. That's my feeling about it. I have never talked to any one but you about it. Isn't that strange? I haven't a person to talk to. That's my feeling, and I'm not a bit ashamed of it. There's no disgrace in being in love. But it's very bad to get married without being in love. That's what I think.'

'It is bad,' said Hetta, thinking of Roger Carbury.

'But if Felix doesn't care for me!' continued Marie, sinking her voice to a low whisper, but still making her words quite audible to her companion. Now Hetta was strongly of opinion that her brother did not in the least 'care for' Marie Melmotte, and that it would be very much for the best that Marie Melmotte should know the truth. But she had not that sort of strength which would have enabled her to tell it. 'Tell me just what you think,' said Marie. Hetta was still silent. 'Ah,—I see. Then I must give him up? Eh?'

'What can I say, Miss Melmotte? Felix never tells me. He is my brother,—and of course I love you for loving him.' This was almost more than Hetta meant; but she felt herself constrained to say some gracious word.

'Do you? Oh! I wish you did. I should so like to be loved by you. Nobody loves me, I think. That man there wants to marry me. Do you know him? He is Lord Nidderdale. He is very nice; but he does not love me any more than he loves you. That's the way with men. It isn't the way with me. I would go with Felix and slave for him if he were poor. Is it all to be over then? You will give him a message from me?' Hetta, doubting as to the propriety of the promise, promised that she would. 'Just tell him I want to know; that's all. I want to know. You'll understand. I want to know the real truth. I suppose I do know it now. Then I shall not care what happens to me. It will be all the same. I suppose I shall marry that young man, though it will be very bad. I shall just be as if I hadn't any self of my own at all. But he ought to send me word after all that has passed. Do not you think he ought to send me word?'

'Yes, indeed.'

'You tell him, then,' said Marie, nodding her head as she crept away.

Nidderdale had been observing her while she had been talking to Miss Carbury. He had heard the rumour, and of course felt that it behoved him to be on his guard more specially than any one else. But he had not believed what he had heard. That men should be thoroughly immoral, that they should gamble, get drunk, run into debt, and make love to other men's wives, was to him a matter of everyday life. Nothing of that kind shocked him at all. But he was not as yet quite old enough to believe in swindling. It had been impossible to convince him that Miles Grendall had cheated at cards, and the idea that Mr Melmotte had forged was as improbable and shocking to him as that an officer should run away in battle. Common soldiers, he thought, might do that sort of thing. He had almost fallen in love with Marie when he saw her last, and was inclined to feel the more kindly to her now because of the hard things that were being said about her father. And yet he knew that he must be careful. If 'he came a cropper' in this matter, it would be such an awful cropper! 'How do you like the party?' he said to Marie.

'I don't like it at all, my lord. How do you like it?'

'Very much, indeed. I think the Emperor is the greatest fun I ever saw. Prince Frederic,'—one of the German princes who was staying at the time among his English cousins,—'Prince Frederic says that he's stuffed with hay, and that he's made up fresh every morning at a shop in the Haymarket.'

'I've seen him talk.'

'He opens his mouth, of course. There is machinery as well as hay. I think he's the grandest old buffer out, and I'm awfully glad that I've dined with him. I couldn't make out whether he really put anything to eat into his jolly old mouth.'

'Of course he did.'

'Have you been thinking about what we were talking about the other day?'

'No, my lord,—I haven't thought about it since. Why should I?'

'Well;—it's a sort of thing that people do think about, you know.'

'You don't think about it.'

'Don't I? I've been thinking about nothing else the last three months.'

'You've been thinking whether you'd get married or not.'

'That's what I mean,' said Lord Nidderdale.

'It isn't what I mean, then.'

'I'll be shot if I can understand you.'

'Perhaps not. And you never will understand me. Oh, goodness they're all going, and we must get out of the way. Is that Prince Frederic, who told you about the hay? He is handsome; isn't he? And who is that in the violet dress with all the pearls?'

'That's the Princess Dwarza.'

'Dear me;—isn't it odd, having a lot of people in one's own house, and not being able to speak a word to them? I don't think it's at all nice. Good night, my lord. I'm glad you like the Emperor.'

And then the people went, and when they had all gone Melmotte put his wife and daughter into his own carriage, telling them that he would follow them on foot to Bruton Street when he had given some last directions to the people who were putting out the lights, and extinguishing generally the embers of the entertainment. He had looked round for Lord Alfred, taking care to avoid the appearance of searching; but Lord Alfred had gone. Lord Alfred was one of those who knew when to leave a falling house. Melmotte at the moment thought of all that he had done for Lord Alfred, and it was something of the real venom of ingratitude that stung him at the moment rather than this additional sign of coming evil. He was more than ordinarily gracious as he put his wife into the carriage, and remarked that, considering all things, the party had gone off very well. 'I only wish it could have been done a little cheaper,' he said laughing. Then he went back into the house, and up into the drawing-rooms which were now utterly deserted. Some of the lights had been put out, but the men were busy in the rooms below, and he threw himself into the chair in which the Emperor had sat. It was wonderful that he should come to such a fate as this;—that he, the boy out of the gutter, should entertain at his own house, in London, a Chinese Emperor and English and German Royalty,—and that he should do so almost with a rope round his neck. Even if this were to be the end of it all, men would at any rate remember him. The grand dinner which he had given before he was put into prison would live in history. And it would be remembered, too, that he had been the Conservative candidate for the great borough of Westminster,—perhaps, even, the elected member. He, too, in his manner, assured himself that a great part of him would escape Oblivion. 'Non omnis moriar,' in some language of his own, was chanted by him within his own breast, as he sat there looking out on his own magnificent suite of rooms from the armchair which had been consecrated by the use of an Emperor.

No policemen had come to trouble him yet. No hint that he would be 'wanted' had been made to him. There was no tangible sign that things were not to go on as they went before. Things would be exactly as they were before, but for the absence of those guests from the dinner-table, and for the words which Miles Grendall had spoken. Had he not allowed himself to be terrified by shadows? Of course he had known that there must be such shadows. His life had been made dark by similar clouds before now, and he had lived through the storms which had followed them. He was thoroughly ashamed of the weakness which had overcome him at the dinner-table, and of that palsy of fear which he had allowed himself to exhibit. There should be no more shrinking such as that. When people talked of him they should say that he was at least a man.

As this was passing through his mind a head was pushed in through one of the doors, and immediately withdrawn. It was his Secretary. 'Is that you, Miles?' he said. 'Come in. I'm just going home, and came up here to see how the empty rooms would look after they were all gone. What became of your father?'

'I suppose he went away.'

'I suppose he did,' said Melmotte, unable to hinder himself from throwing a certain tone of scorn into his voice,—as though proclaiming the fate of his own house and the consequent running away of the rat. 'It went off very well, I think.'

'Very well,' said Miles, still standing at the door. There had been a few words of consultation between him and his father,—only a very few words. 'You'd better see it out to-night, as you've had a regular salary, and all that. I shall hook it. I sha'n't go near him to-morrow till I find out how things are going. By G——, I've had about enough of him.' But hardly enough of his money or it may be presumed that Lord Alfred would have 'hooked it' sooner.

'Why don't you come in, and not stand there?' said Melmotte. 'There's no Emperor here now for you to be afraid of.'

'I'm afraid of nobody,' said Miles, walking into the middle of the room.

'Nor am I. What's one man that another man should be afraid of him? We've got to die, and there'll be an end of it, I suppose.'

'That's about it,' said Miles, hardly following the working of his master's mind.

'I shouldn't care how soon. When a man has worked as I have done, he gets about tired at my age. I suppose I'd better be down at the committee-room about ten to-morrow?'

'That's the best, I should say.'

'You'll be there by that time?' Miles Grendall assented slowly, and with imperfect assent. 'And tell your father he might as well be there as early as convenient.'

'All right,' said Miles as he took his departure.

'Curs!' said Melmotte almost aloud. 'They neither of them will be there. If any evil can be done to me by treachery and desertion, they will do it.' Then it occurred to him to think whether the Grendall article had been worth all the money that he had paid for it. 'Curs!' he said again. He walked down into the hall, and through the banqueting-room, and stood at the place where he himself had sat. What a scene it had been, and how frightfully low his heart had sunk within him! It had been the defection of the Lord Mayor that had hit him hardest. 'What cowards they are!' The men went on with their work, not noticing him, and probably not knowing him. The dinner had been done by contract, and the contractor's foreman was there. The care of the house and the alterations had been confided to another contractor, and his foreman was waiting to see the place locked up. A confidential clerk, who had been with Melmotte for years, and who knew his ways, was there also to guard the property. 'Good night, Croll,' he said to the man in German. Croll touched his hat and bade him good night. Melmotte listened anxiously to the tone of the man's voice, trying to catch from it some indication of the mind within. Did Croll know of these rumours, and if so, what did he think of them? Croll had known him in some perilous circumstances before, and had helped him through them. He paused a moment as though he would ask a question, but resolved at last that silence would be safest. 'You'll see everything safe, eh, Croll?' Croll said that he would see everything safe, and Melmotte passed out into the Square.

He had not far to go, round through Berkeley Square into Bruton Street, but he stood for a few moments looking up at the bright stars. If he could be there, in one of those unknown distant worlds, with all his present intellect and none of his present burdens, he would, he thought, do better than he had done here on earth. If he could even now put himself down nameless, fameless, and without possessions in some distant corner of the world, he could, he thought, do better. But he was Augustus Melmotte, and he must bear his burdens, whatever they were, to the end. He could reach no place so distant but that he would be known and traced.



CHAPTER LXIII - MR MELMOTTE ON THE DAY OF THE ELECTION

No election of a Member of Parliament by ballot in a borough so large as that of Westminster had as yet been achieved in England since the ballot had been established by law. Men who heretofore had known, or thought that they knew, how elections would go, who counted up promises, told off professed enemies, and weighed the doubtful ones, now confessed themselves to be in the dark. Three days since the odds had been considerably in Melmotte's favour; but this had come from the reputation attached to his name, rather than from any calculation as to the politics of the voters. Then Sunday had intervened. On the Monday Melmotte's name had continued to go down in the betting from morning to evening. Early in the day his supporters had thought little of this, attributing the fall to that vacillation which is customary in such matters; but towards the latter part of the afternoon the tidings from the City had been in everybody's mouth, and Melmotte's committee-room had been almost deserted. At six o'clock there were some who suggested that his name should be withdrawn. No such suggestion, however, was made to him,—perhaps, because no one dared to make it. On the Monday evening all work and strategy for the election, as regarded Melmotte and his party, died away; and the interest of the hour was turned to the dinner.

But Mr Alf's supporters were very busy. There had been a close consultation among a few of them as to what should be done by their Committee as to these charges against the opposite candidate. In the 'Pulpit' of that evening an allusion had been made to the affair, which was of course sufficiently intelligible to those who were immediately concerned in the matter, but which had given no name and mentioned no details. Mr Alf explained that this had been put in by the sub-editor, and that it only afforded such news as the paper was bound to give to the public. He himself pointed out the fact that no note of triumph had been sounded, and that the rumour had not been connected with the election.

One old gentleman was of opinion that they were bound to make the most of it. 'It's no more than we've all believed all along,' said the old gentleman, 'and why are we to let a fellow like that get the seat if we can keep him out?' He was of opinion that everything should be done to make the rumour with all its exaggerations as public as possible,— so that there should be no opening for an indictment for libel; and the clever old gentleman was full of devices by which this might be effected. But the Committee generally was averse to fight in this manner. Public opinion has its Bar as well as the Law Courts. If, after all, Melmotte had committed no fraud,—or, as was much more probable, should not be convicted of fraud,—then it would be said that the accusation had been forged for purely electioneering purposes, and there might be a rebound which would pretty well crush all those who had been concerned. Individual gentlemen could, of course, say what they pleased to individual voters; but it was agreed at last that no overt use should be made of the rumours by Mr Alf's Committee. In regard to other matters, they who worked under the Committee were busy enough. The dinner to the Emperor was turned into ridicule, and the electors were asked whether they felt themselves bound to return a gentleman out of the City to Parliament because he had offered to spend a fortune on entertaining all the royalties then assembled in London. There was very much said on placards and published in newspapers to the discredit of Melmotte, but nothing was so printed which would not have appeared with equal venom had the recent rumours never been sent out from the City. At twelve o'clock at night, when Mr Alf's committee-room was being closed, and when Melmotte was walking home to bed, the general opinion at the clubs was very much in favour of Mr Alf.

On the next morning Melmotte was up before eight. As yet no policeman had called for him, nor had any official intimation reached him that an accusation was to be brought against him. On coming down from his bedroom he at once went into the back-parlour on the ground floor, which Mr Longestaffe called his study, and which Mr Melmotte had used since he had been in Mr Longestaffe's house for the work which he did at home. He would be there often early in the morning, and often late at night after Lord Alfred had left him. There were two heavy desk-tables in the room, furnished with drawers down to the ground. One of these the owner of the house had kept locked for his own purposes. When the bargain for the temporary letting of the house had been made, Mr Melmotte and Mr Longestaffe were close friends. Terms for the purchase of Pickering had just been made, and no cause for suspicion had as yet arisen. Everything between the two gentlemen had been managed with the greatest ease. Oh dear, yes! Mr Longestaffe could come whenever he pleased. He, Melmotte, always left the house at ten and never returned till six. The ladies would never enter that room. The servants were to regard Mr Longestaffe quite as master of the house as far as that room was concerned. If Mr Longestaffe could spare it, Mr Melmotte would take the key of one of the tables. The matter was arranged very pleasantly.

Mr Melmotte on entering the room bolted the door, and then, sitting at his own table, took certain papers out of the drawers,—a bundle of letters and another of small documents. From these, with very little examination, he took three or four,—two or three perhaps from each. These he tore into very small fragments and burned the bits,—holding them over a gas-burner and letting the ashes fall into a large china plate. Then he blew the ashes into the yard through the open window. This he did to all these documents but one. This one he put bit by bit into his mouth, chewing the paper into a pulp till he swallowed it. When he had done this, and had re-locked his own drawers, he walked across to the other table, Mr Longestaffe's table, and pulled the handle of one of the drawers. It opened;—and then, without touching the contents, he again closed it. He then knelt down and examined the lock, and the hole above into which the bolt of the lock ran. Having done this he again closed the drawer, drew back the bolt of the door, and, seating himself at his own desk, rang the bell which was close to hand. The servant found him writing letters after his usual hurried fashion, and was told that he was ready for breakfast. He always breakfasted alone with a heap of newspapers around him, and so he did on this day. He soon found the paragraph alluding to himself in the 'Pulpit,' and read it without a quiver in his face or the slightest change in his colour. There was no one to see him now,—but he was acting under a resolve that at no moment, either when alone, or in a crowd, or when suddenly called upon for words,—not even when the policemen with their first hints of arrest should come upon him,— would he betray himself by the working of a single muscle, or the loss of a drop of blood from his heart. He would go through it, always armed, without a sign of shrinking. It had to be done, and he would do it.

At ten he walked down to the central committee-room at Whitehall Place. He thought that he would face the world better by walking than if he were taken in his own brougham. He gave orders that the carriage should be at the committee-room at eleven, and wait an hour for him if he was not there. He went along Bond Street and Piccadilly, Regent Street and through Pall Mall to Charing Cross, with the blandly triumphant smile of a man who had successfully entertained the great guest of the day. As he got near the club he met two or three men whom he knew, and bowed to them. They returned his bow graciously enough, but not one of them stopped to speak to him. Of one he knew that he would have stopped, had it not been for the rumour. Even after the man had passed on he was careful to show no displeasure on his face. He would take it all as it would come and still be the blandly triumphant Merchant Prince,—as long as the police would allow him. He probably was not aware how very different was the part he was now playing from that which he had assumed at the India Office.

At the committee-room he only found a few understrappers, and was informed that everything was going on regularly. The electors were balloting; but with the ballot,—so said the leader of the understrappers,—there never was any excitement. The men looked half-frightened,—as though they did not quite know whether they ought to seize their candidate, and hold him till the constable came. They certainly had not expected to see him there. 'Has Lord Alfred been here?' Melmotte asked, standing in the inner room with his back to the empty grate. No,—Lord Alfred had not been there. 'Nor Mr Grendall?' The senior understrapper knew that Melmotte would have asked for 'his Secretary,' and not for Mr Grendall, but for the rumours. It is so hard not to tumble into Scylla when you are avoiding Charybdis. Mr Grendall had not been there. Indeed, nobody had been there. 'In fact, there is nothing more to be done, I suppose?' said Mr Melmotte. The senior understrapper thought that there was nothing more to be done. He left word that his brougham should be sent away, and strolled out again on foot.

He went up into Covent Garden, where there was a polling booth. The place seemed to him, as one of the chief centres for a contested election, to be wonderfully quiet. He was determined to face everybody and everything, and he went close up to the booth. Here he was recognised by various men, mechanics chiefly, who came forward and shook hands with him. He remained there for an hour conversing with people, and at last made a speech to a little knot around him. He did not allude to the rumour of yesterday, nor to the paragraph in the 'Pulpit' to which his name had not been attached; but he spoke freely enough of the general accusations that had been brought against him previously. He wished the electors to understand that nothing which had been said against him made him ashamed to meet them here or elsewhere. He was proud of his position, and proud that the electors of Westminster should recognise it. He did not, he was glad to say, know much of the law, but he was told that the law would protect him from such aspersions as had been unfairly thrown upon him. He flattered himself that he was too good an Englishman to regard the ordinary political attacks to which candidates were, as a matter of course, subject at elections;—and he could stretch his back to bear perhaps a little more than these, particularly as he looked forward to a triumphant return. But things had been said, and published, which the excitement of an election could not justify, and as to these things he must have recourse to the law. Then he made some allusion to the Princes and the Emperor, and concluded by observing that it was the proudest boast of his life to be an Englishman and a Londoner.

It was asserted afterwards that this was the only good speech he had ever been known to make; and it was certainly successful, as he was applauded throughout Covent Garden. A reporter for the 'Breakfast-Table' who was on duty at the place, looking for paragraphs as to the conduct of electors, gave an account of the speech in that paper, and made more of it, perhaps, than it deserved. It was asserted afterwards, and given as a great proof of Melmotte's cleverness, that he had planned the thing and gone to Covent Garden all alone having considered that in that way could he best regain a step in reputation; but in truth the affair had not been pre-concerted. It was while in Whitehall Place that he had first thought of going to Covent Garden, and he had had no idea of making a speech till the people had gathered round him.

It was then noon, and he had to determine what he should do next. He was half inclined to go round to all the booths and make speeches. His success at Covent Garden had been very pleasant to him. But he feared that he might not be so successful elsewhere. He had shown that he was not afraid of the electors. Then an idea struck him that he would go boldly into the City,—to his own offices in Abchurch Lane. He had determined to be absent on this day, and would not be expected. But his appearance there could not on that account be taken amiss. Whatever enmities there might be, or whatever perils, he would face them. He got a cab therefore and had himself driven to Abchurch Lane.

The clerks were hanging about doing nothing, as though it were a holiday. The dinner, the election, and the rumour together had altogether demoralized them. But some of them at least were there, and they showed no signs of absolute insubordination. 'Mr Grendall has not been here?' he asked. No; Mr Grendall had not been there; but Mr Cohenlupe was in Mr Grendall's room. At this moment he hardly desired to see Mr Cohenlupe. That gentleman was privy to many of his transactions, but was by no means privy to them all. Mr Cohenlupe knew that the estate at Pickering had been purchased, and knew that it had been mortgaged. He knew also what had become of the money which had so been raised. But he knew nothing of the circumstances of the purchase, although he probably surmised that Melmotte had succeeded in getting the title-deeds on credit, without paying the money. He was afraid that he could hardly see Cohenlupe and hold his tongue, and that he could not speak to him without danger. He and Cohenlupe might have to stand in a dock together; and Cohenlupe had none of his spirit. But the clerks would think, and would talk, were he to leave the office without seeing his old friend. He went therefore into his own room, and called to Cohenlupe as he did so.

'Ve didn't expect you here to-day,' said the member for Staines.

'Nor did I expect to come. But there isn't much to do at Westminster while the ballot is going on; so I came up, just to look at the letters. The dinner went off pretty well yesterday, eh?'

'Uncommon;—nothing better. Vy did the Lord Mayor stay away, Melmotte?'

'Because he's an ass and a cur,' said Mr Melmotte with an assumed air of indignation. 'Alf and his people had got hold of him. There was ever so much fuss about it at first,—whether he would accept the invitation. I say it was an insult to the City to take it and not to come. I shall be even with him some of these days.'

'Things will go on just the same as usual, Melmotte?'

'Go on. Of course they'll go. What's to hinder them?'

'There's ever so much been said,' whispered Cohenlupe.

'Said;—yes,' ejaculated Melmotte very loudly. 'You're not such a fool, I hope, as to believe every word you hear. You'll have enough to believe, if you do.'

'There's no knowing vat anybody does know, and vat anybody does not know,' said Cohenlupe.

'Look you here, Cohenlupe,'—and now Melmotte also sank his voice to a whisper,—'keep your tongue in your mouth; go about just as usual, and say nothing. It's all right. There has been some heavy pulls upon us.'

'Oh dear, there has indeed!'

'But any paper with my name to it will come right.'

'That's nothing;—nothing at all,' said Cohenlupe.

'And there is nothing;—nothing at all! I've bought some property and have paid for it; and I have bought some, and have not yet paid for it. There's no fraud in that.'

'No, no,—nothing in that.'

'You hold your tongue, and go about your business. I'm going to the bank now.' Cohenlupe had been very low in spirits, and was still low in spirits; but he was somewhat better after the visit of the great man to the City.

Mr Melmotte was as good as his word and walked straight to the bank. He kept two accounts at different banks, one for his business, and one for his private affairs. The one he now entered was that which kept what we may call his domestic account. He walked straight through, after his old fashion, to the room behind the bank in which sat the manager and the manager's one clerk, and stood upon the rug before the fireplace just as though nothing had happened,—or as nearly as though nothing had happened as was within the compass of his powers. He could not quite do it. In keeping up an appearance intended to be natural he was obliged to be somewhat milder than his wont. The manager did not behave nearly as well as he did, and the clerks manifestly betrayed their emotion. Melmotte saw that it was so;—but he had expected it, and had come there on purpose to 'put it down.'

'We hardly expected to see you in the City to-day, Mr Melmotte.'

'And I didn't expect to see myself here. But it always happens that when one expects that there's most to be done, there's nothing to be done at all. They're all at work down at Westminster, balloting; but as I can't go on voting for myself, I'm of no use. I've been at Covent Garden this morning, making a stump speech, and if all that they say there is true, I haven't much to be afraid of.'

'And the dinner went off pretty well?' asked the manager.

'Very well, indeed. They say the Emperor liked it better than anything that has been done for him yet.' This was a brilliant flash of imagination. 'For a friend to dine with me every day, you know, I should prefer somebody who had a little more to say for himself. But then, perhaps, you know, if you or I were in China we shouldn't have much to say for ourselves;—eh?' The manager acceded to this proposition. 'We had one awful disappointment. His lordship from over the way didn't come.'

'The Lord Mayor, you mean.'

'The Lord Mayor didn't come! He was frightened at the last moment;— took it into his head that his authority in the City was somehow compromised. But the wonder was that the dinner went on without him.' Then Melmotte referred to the purport of his call there that day. He would have to draw large cheques for his private wants. 'You don't give a dinner to an Emperor of China for nothing, you know.' He had been in the habit of overdrawing on his private account,—making arrangements with the manager. But now, in the manager's presence, he drew a regular cheque on his business account for a large sum, and then, as a sort of afterthought, paid in the L250 which he had received from Mr Broune on account of the money which Sir Felix had taken from Marie.

'There don't seem much the matter with him,' said the manager, when Melmotte had left the room.

'He brazens it out, don't he?' said the senior clerk. But the feeling of the room after full discussion inclined to the opinion that the rumours had been a political manoeuvre. Nevertheless, Mr Melmotte would not now have been allowed to overdraw at the present moment.



CHAPTER LXIV - THE ELECTION

Mr Alf's central committee-room was in Great George Street, and there the battle was kept alive all the day. It had been decided, as the reader has been told, that no direct advantage should be taken of that loud blast of accusation which had been heard throughout the town on the previous afternoon. There had not been sufficient time for inquiry as to the truth of that blast. If there were just ground for the things that had been said, Mr Melmotte would no doubt soon be in gaol, or would be—wanted. Many had thought that he would escape as soon as the dinner was over, and had been disappointed when they heard that he had been seen walking down towards his own committee-room on the following morning. Others had been told that at the last moment his name would be withdrawn,—and a question arose as to whether he had the legal power to withdraw his name after a certain hour on the day before the ballot. An effort was made to convince a portion of the electors that he had withdrawn, or would have withdrawn, or should have withdrawn. When Melmotte was at Covent Garden, a large throng of men went to Whitehall Place with the view of ascertaining the truth. He certainly had made no attempt at withdrawal. They who propagated this report certainly damaged Mr Alf's cause. A second reaction set in, and there grew a feeling that Mr Melmotte was being ill-used. Those evil things had been said of him,—many at least so declared,— not from any true motive, but simply to secure Mr Alf's return. Tidings of the speech in Covent Garden were spread about at the various polling places, and did good service to the so-called Conservative cause. Mr Alf's friends, hearing all this, instigated him also to make a speech. Something should be said, if only that it might be reported in the newspapers, to show that they had behaved with generosity, instead of having injured their enemy by false attacks. Whatever Mr Alf might say, he might at any rate be sure of a favourable reporter.

About two o'clock in the day, Mr Alf did make a speech,—and a very good speech it was, if correctly reported in the 'Evening Pulpit.' Mr Alf was a clever man, ready at all points, with all his powers immediately at command, and, no doubt, he did make a good speech. But in this speech, in which we may presume that it would be his intention to convince the electors that they ought to return him to Parliament, because, of the two candidates, he was the fittest to represent their views, he did not say a word as to his own political ideas, not, indeed, a word that could be accepted as manifesting his own fitness for the place which it was his ambition to fill. He contented himself with endeavouring to show that the other man was not fit;—and that he and his friends, though solicitous of proving to the electors that Mr Melmotte was about the most unfit man in the world, had been guilty of nothing shabby in their manner of doing so. 'Mr Melmotte,' he said, 'comes before you as a Conservative, and has told us, by the mouths of his friends,—for he has not favoured us with many words of his own,— that he is supported by the whole Conservative party. That party is not my party, but I respect it. Where, however, are these Conservative supporters? We have heard, till we are sick of it, of the banquet which Mr Melmotte gave yesterday. I am told that very few of those whom he calls his Conservative friends could be induced to attend that banquet. It is equally notorious that the leading merchants of the City refused to grace the table of this great commercial prince. I say that the leaders of the Conservative party have at last found their candidate out, have repudiated him;—and are seeking now to free themselves from the individual shame of having supported the candidature of such a man by remaining in their own houses instead of clustering round the polling booths. Go to Mr Melmotte's committee-room and inquire if those leading Conservatives be there. Look about, and see whether they are walking with him in the streets, or standing with him in public places, or taking the air with him in the parks. I respect the leaders of the Conservative party; but they have made a mistake in this matter, and they know it.' Then he ended by alluding to the rumours of yesterday. 'I scorn,' said he, 'to say anything against the personal character of a political opponent, which I am not in a position to prove. I make no allusion, and have made no allusion, to reports which were circulated yesterday about him, and which I believe were originated in the City. They may be false or they may be true. As I know nothing of the matter, I prefer to regard them as false, and I recommend you to do the same. But I declared to you long before these reports were in men's mouths, that Mr Melmotte was not entitled by his character to represent you in parliament, and I repeat that assertion. A great British merchant, indeed! How long, do you think, should a man be known in this city before that title be accorded to him? Who knew aught of this man two years since,—unless, indeed, it be some one who had burnt his wings in trafficking with him in some continental city? Ask the character of this great British merchant in Hamburg and Vienna; ask it in Paris;—ask those whose business here has connected them with the assurance companies of foreign countries, and you will be told whether this is a fit man to represent Westminster in the British parliament!' There was much more yet; but such was the tone of the speech which Mr Alf made with the object of inducing the electors to vote for himself.

At two or three o'clock in the day, nobody knew how the matter was going. It was supposed that the working-classes were in favour of Melmotte, partly from their love of a man who spends a great deal of money, partly from the belief that he was being ill-used,—partly, no doubt, from that occult sympathy which is felt for crime, when the crime committed is injurious to the upper classes. Masses of men will almost feel that a certain amount of injustice ought to be inflicted on their betters, so as to make things even, and will persuade themselves that a criminal should be declared to be innocent, because the crime committed has had a tendency to oppress the rich and pull down the mighty from their seats. Some few years since, the basest calumnies that were ever published in this country, uttered by one of the basest men that ever disgraced the country, levelled, for the most part, at men of whose characters and services the country was proud, were received with a certain amount of sympathy by men not themselves dishonest, because they who were thus slandered had received so many good things from Fortune, that a few evil things were thought to be due to them. There had not as yet been time for the formation of such a feeling generally, in respect of Mr Melmotte. But there was a commencement of it. It had been asserted that Melmotte was a public robber. Whom had he robbed? Not the poor. There was not a man in London who caused the payment of a larger sum in weekly wages than Mr Melmotte.

About three o'clock, the editor of the 'Morning Breakfast-Table' called on Lady Carbury. 'What is it all about?' she asked, as soon as her friend was seated. There had been no time for him to explain anything at Madame Melmotte's reception, and Lady Carbury had as yet failed in learning any certain news of what was going on.

'I don't know what to make of it,' said Mr Broune. 'There is a story abroad that Mr Melmotte has forged some document with reference to a purchase he made,—and hanging on to that story are other stories as to moneys that he has raised. I should say that it was simply an electioneering trick, and a very unfair trick, were it not that all his own side seem to believe it.'

'Do you believe it?'

'Ah,—I could answer almost any question sooner than that.'

'Then he can't be rich at all.'

'Even that would not follow. He has such large concerns in hand that he might be very much pressed for funds, and yet be possessed of immense wealth. Everybody says that he pays all his bills.'

'Will he be returned?' she asked.

'From what we hear, we think not; I shall know more about it in an hour or two. At present I should not like to have to publish an opinion; but were I forced to bet, I would bet against him. Nobody is doing anything for him. There can be no doubt that his own party are ashamed of him. As things used to be, this would have been fatal to him at the day of election; but now, with the ballot, it won't matter so much. If I were a candidate, at present, I think I would go to bed on the last day, and beg all my committee to do the same as soon as they had put in their voting papers.'

'I am glad Felix did not go to Liverpool,' said Lady Carbury.

'It would not have made much difference. She would have been brought back all the same. They say Lord Nidderdale still means to marry her.'

'I saw him talking to her last night.'

'There must be an immense amount of property somewhere. No one doubts that he was rich when he came to England two years ago, and they say everything has prospered that he has put his hand to since. The Mexican Railway shares had fallen this morning, but they were at L15 premium yesterday morning. He must have made an enormous deal out of that.' But Mr Broune's eloquence on this occasion was chiefly displayed in regard to the presumption of Mr Alf. 'I shouldn't think him such a fool if he had announced his resignation of the editorship when he came before the world as a candidate for parliament. But a man must be mad who imagines that he can sit for Westminster and edit a London daily paper at the same time.'

'Has it never been done?'

'Never, I think;—that is, by the editor of such a paper as the "Pulpit." How is a man who sits in parliament himself ever to pretend to discuss the doings of parliament with impartiality? But Alf believes that he can do more than anybody else ever did, and he'll come to the ground. Where's Felix now?'

'Do not ask me,' said the poor mother.

'Is he doing anything?'

'He lies in bed all day, and is out all night.'

'But that wants money.' She only shook her head. 'You do not give him any?'

'I have none to give.'

'I should simply take the key of the house from him,—or bolt the door if he will not give it up.'

'And be in bed, and listen while he knocks,—knowing that he must wander in the streets if I refuse to let him in? A mother cannot do that, Mr Broune. A child has such a hold upon his mother. When her reason has bade her to condemn him, her heart will not let her carry out the sentence.' Mr Broune never now thought of kissing Lady Carbury; but when she spoke thus, he got up and took her hand, and she, as she pressed his hand, had no fear that she would be kissed. The feeling between them was changed.

Melmotte dined at home that evening with no company but that of his wife and daughter. Latterly one of the Grendalls had almost always joined their party when they did not dine out. Indeed, it was an understood thing, that Miles Grendall should dine there always, unless he explained his absence by some engagement,—so that his presence there had come to be considered as a part of his duty. Not infrequently 'Alfred' and Miles would both come, as Melmotte's dinners and wines were good, and occasionally the father would take the son's place,—but on this day they were both absent. Madame Melmotte had not as yet said a word to any one indicating her own apprehension of any evil. But not a person had called to-day, the day after the great party,—and even she, though she was naturally callous in such matters, had begun to think that she was deserted. She had, too, become so used to the presence of the Grendalls, that she now missed their company. She thought that on this day, of all days, when the world was balloting for her husband at Westminster, they would both have been with him to discuss the work of the day. 'Is not Mr Grendall coming?' she asked, as she took her seat at the table.

'No, he is not,' said Melmotte.

'Nor Lord Alfred?'

'Nor Lord Alfred.' Melmotte had returned home much comforted by the day's proceedings. No one had dared to say a harsh word to his face. Nothing further had reached his ears. After leaving the bank he had gone back to his office, and had written letters,—just as if nothing had happened; and, as far as he could judge, his clerks had plucked up courage. One of them, about five o'clock, came into him with news from the west, and with second editions of the evening papers. The clerk expressed his opinion that the election was going well. Mr Melmotte, judging from the papers, one of which was supposed to be on his side and the other of course against him, thought that his affairs altogether were looking well. The Westminster election had not the foremost place in his thoughts; but he took what was said on that subject as indicating the minds of men upon the other matter. He read Alf's speech, and consoled himself with thinking that Mr Alf had not dared to make new accusations against him. All that about Hamburg and Vienna and Paris was as old as the hills, and availed nothing. His whole candidature had been carried in the face of that. 'I think we shall do pretty well,' he said to the clerk. His very presence in Abchurch Lane of course gave confidence. And thus, when he came home, something of the old arrogance had come back upon him, and he could swagger at any rate before his wife and servants. 'Nor Lord Alfred,' he said with scorn. Then he added more. 'The father and son are two d—— curs.' This of course frightened Madame Melmotte, and she joined this desertion of the Grendalls to her own solitude all the day.

'Is there anything wrong, Melmotte?' she said afterwards, creeping up to him in the back parlour, and speaking in French.

'What do you call wrong?'

'I don't know;—but I seem to be afraid of something.'

'I should have thought you were used to that kind of feeling by this time.'

'Then there is something.'

'Don't be a fool. There is always something. There is always much. You don't suppose that this kind of thing can be carried on as smoothly as the life of an old maid with L400 a year paid quarterly in advance.'

'Shall we have to move again?' she asked.

'How am I to tell? You haven't much to do when we move, and may get plenty to eat and drink wherever you go. Does that girl mean to marry Lord Nidderdale?' Madame Melmotte shook her head. 'What a poor creature you must be when you can't talk her out of a fancy for such a reprobate as young Carbury. If she throws me over, I'll throw her over. I'll flog her within an inch of her life if she disobeys me. You tell her that I say so.'

'Then he may flog me,' said Marie, when so much of the conversation was repeated to her that evening. 'Papa does not know me if he thinks that I'm to be made to marry a man by flogging.' No such attempt was at any rate made that night, for the father and husband did not again see his wife or daughter.

Early the next day a report was current that Mr Alf had been returned. The numbers had not as yet been counted, or the books made up;—but that was the opinion expressed. All the morning newspapers, including the 'Breakfast-Table,' repeated this report,—but each gave it as the general opinion on the matter. The truth would not be known till seven or eight o'clock in the evening. The Conservative papers did not scruple to say that the presumed election of Mr Alf was owing to a sudden declension in the confidence originally felt in Mr Melmotte. The 'Breakfast-Table,' which had supported Mr Melmotte's candidature, gave no reason, and expressed more doubt on the result than the other papers. 'We know not how such an opinion forms itself,' the writer said,—'but it seems to have been formed. As nothing as yet is really known, or can be known, we express no opinion of our own upon the matter.'

Mr Melmotte again went into the City, and found that things seemed to have returned very much into their usual grooves. The Mexican Railway shares were low, and Mr Cohenlupe was depressed in spirits and unhappy;—but nothing dreadful had occurred or seemed to be threatened. If nothing dreadful did occur, the railway shares would probably recover, or nearly recover, their position. In the course of the day, Melmotte received a letter from Messrs Slow and Bideawhile, which, of itself, certainly contained no comfort;—but there was comfort to be drawn even from that letter, by reason of what it did not contain. The letter was unfriendly in its tone and peremptory. It had come evidently from a hostile party. It had none of the feeling which had hitherto prevailed in the intercourse between these two well-known Conservative gentlemen, Mr Adolphus Longestaffe and Mr Augustus Melmotte. But there was no allusion in it to forgery; no question of criminal proceedings; no hint at aught beyond the not unnatural desire of Mr Longestaffe and Mr Longestaffe's son to be paid for the property at Pickering which Mr Melmotte had purchased.

'We have to remind you,' said the letter, in continuation of paragraphs which had contained simply demands for the money, 'that the title-deeds were delivered to you on receipt by us of authority to that effect from the Messrs Longestaffe, father and son, on the understanding that the purchase-money was to be paid to us by you. We are informed that the property has been since mortgaged by you. We do not state this as a fact. But the information, whether true or untrue, forces upon us the necessity of demanding that you should at once pay to us the purchase-money,—L80,000,—or else return to us the title-deeds of the estate.'

This letter, which was signed Slow and Bideawhile, declared positively that the title-deeds had been given up on authority received by them from both the Longestaffes,—father and son. Now the accusation brought against Melmotte, as far as he could as yet understand it, was that he had forged the signature to the young Mr Longestaffe's letter. Messrs Slow and Bideawhile were therefore on his side. As to the simple debt, he cared little comparatively about that. Many fine men were walking about London who owed large sums of money which they could not pay.

As he was sitting at his solitary dinner this evening,—for both his wife and daughter had declined to join him, saying that they had dined early,—news was brought to him that he had been elected for Westminster. He had beaten Mr Alf by something not much less than a thousand votes.

It was very much to be member for Westminster. So much had at any rate been achieved by him who had begun the world without a shilling and without a friend,—almost without education! Much as he loved money, and much as he loved the spending of money, and much as he had made and much as he had spent, no triumph of his life had been so great to him as this. Brought into the world in a gutter, without father or mother, with no good thing ever done for him, he was now a member of the British Parliament, and member for one of the first cities in the empire. Ignorant as he was he understood the magnitude of the achievement, and dismayed as he was as to his present position, still at this moment he enjoyed keenly a certain amount of elation. Of course he had committed forgery,—of course he had committed robbery. That, indeed, was nothing, for he had been cheating and forging and stealing all his life. Of course he was in danger of almost immediate detection and punishment. He hardly hoped that the evil day would be very much longer protracted, and yet he enjoyed his triumph. Whatever they might do, quick as they might be, they could hardly prevent his taking his seat in the House of Commons. Then if they sent him to penal servitude for life, they would have to say that they had so treated the member for Westminster!

He drank a bottle of claret, and then got some brandy-and-water. In such troubles as were coming upon him now, he would hardly get sufficient support from wine. He knew that he had better not drink;— that is, he had better not drink, supposing the world to be free to him for his own work and his own enjoyment. But if the world were no longer free to him, if he were really coming to penal servitude and annihilation,—then why should he not drink while the time lasted? An hour of triumphant joy might be an eternity to a man, if the man's imagination were strong enough so make him so regard his hour. He therefore took his brandy-and-water freely, and as he took it he was able to throw his fears behind him, and to assure himself that, after all, he might even yet escape from his bondages. No;—he would drink no more. This he said to himself as he filled another beaker. He would work instead. He would put his shoulder to the wheel, and would yet conquer his enemies. It would not be so easy to convict a member for Westminster,—especially if money were spent freely. Was he not the man who, at his own cost, had entertained the Emperor of China? Would not that be remembered in his favour? Would not men be unwilling to punish the man who had received at his own table all the Princes of the land, and the Prime Minister, and all the Ministers? To convict him would be a national disgrace. He fully realized all this as he lifted the glass to his mouth, and puffed out the smoke in large volumes through his lips. But money must be spent! Yes;—money must be had! Cohenlupe certainly had money. Though he squeezed it out of the coward's veins he would have it. At any rate, he would not despair. There was a fight to be fought yet, and he would fight it to the end. Then he took a deep drink, and slowly, with careful and almost solemn steps, he made his way up to his bed.



CHAPTER LXV - MISS LONGESTAFFE WRITES HOME

Lady Monogram, when she left Madame Melmotte's house after that entertainment of Imperial Majesty which had been to her of so very little avail, was not in a good humour. Sir Damask, who had himself affected to laugh at the whole thing, but who had been in truth as anxious as his wife to see the Emperor in private society, put her ladyship and Miss Longestaffe into the carriage without a word, and rushed off to his club in disgust. The affair from beginning to end, including the final failure, had been his wife's doing. He had been made to work like a slave, and had been taken against his will to Melmotte's house, and had seen no Emperor and shaken hands with no Prince! 'They may fight it out between them now like the Kilkenny cats.' That was his idea as he closed the carriage-door on the two ladies,—thinking that if a larger remnant were left of one cat than of the other that larger remnant would belong to his wife.

'What a horrid affair!' said Lady Monogram. 'Did anybody ever see anything so vulgar?' This was at any rate unreasonable, for whatever vulgarity there may have been, Lady Monogram had seen none of it.

'I don't know why you were so late,' said Georgiana.

'Late! Why it's not yet twelve. I don't suppose it was eleven when we got into the Square. Anywhere else it would have been early.'

'You knew they did not mean to stay long. It was particularly said so. I really think it was your own fault.'

'My own fault. Yes;—I don't doubt that. I know it was my own fault, my dear, to have had anything to do with it. And now I have got to pay for it.'

'What do you mean by paying for it, Julia?'

'You know what I mean very well. Is your friend going to do us the honour of coming to us to-morrow night?' She could not have declared in plainer language how very high she thought the price to be which she had consented to give for those ineffective tickets.

'If you mean Mr Brehgert, he is coming. You desired me to ask him, and I did so.'

'Desired you! The truth is, Georgiana, when people get into different sets, they'd better stay where they are. It's no good trying to mix things.' Lady Monogram was so angry that she could not control her tongue.

Miss Longestaffe was ready to tear herself with indignation. That she should have been brought to hear insolence such as this from Julia Triplex,—she, the daughter of Adolphus Longestaffe of Caversham and Lady Pomona; she, who was considered to have lived in quite the first London circle! But she could hardly get hold of fit words for a reply. She was almost in tears, and was yet anxious to fight rather than weep. But she was in her friend's carriage, and was being taken to her friend's house, was to be entertained by her friend all the next day, and was to see her lover among her friend's guests. 'I wonder what has made you so ill-natured,' she said at last. 'You didn't use to be like that.'

'It's no good abusing me,' said Lady Monogram. 'Here we are, and I suppose we had better get out,—unless you want the carriage to take you anywhere else.' Then Lady Monogram got out and marched into the house, and taking a candle went direct to her own room. Miss Longestaffe followed slowly to her own chamber, and having half undressed herself, dismissed her maid and prepared to write to her mother.

The letter to her mother must be written. Mr Brehgert had twice proposed that he should, in the usual way, go to Mr Longestaffe, who had been backwards and forwards in London, and was there at the present moment. Of course it was proper that Mr Brehgert should see her father,—but, as she had told him, she preferred that he should postpone his visit for a day or two. She was now agonized by many doubts. Those few words about 'various sets' and the 'mixing of things' had stabbed her to the very heart,—as had been intended. Mr Brehgert was rich. That was a certainty. But she already repented of what she had done. If it were necessary that she should really go down into another and a much lower world, a world composed altogether of Brehgerts, Melmottes, and Cohenlupes, would it avail her much to be the mistress of a gorgeous house? She had known, and understood, and had revelled in the exclusiveness of county position. Caversham had been dull, and there had always been there a dearth of young men of the proper sort; but it had been a place to talk of, and to feel satisfied with as a home to be acknowledged before the world. Her mother was dull, and her father pompous and often cross; but they were in the right set,—miles removed from the Brehgerts and Melmottes,— until her father himself had suggested to her that she should go to the house in Grosvenor Square. She would write one letter to-night; but there was a question in her mind whether the letter should be written to her mother telling her the horrid truth,—or to Mr Brehgert begging that the match should be broken off. I think she would have decided on the latter had it not been that so many people had already heard of the match. The Monograms knew it, and had of course talked far and wide. The Melmottes knew it, and she was aware that Lord Nidderdale had heard it. It was already so far known that it was sure to be public before the end of the season. Each morning lately she had feared that a letter from home would call upon her to explain the meaning of some frightful rumours reaching Caversham, or that her father would come to her and with horror on his face demand to know whether it was indeed true that she had given her sanction to so abominable a report.

And there were other troubles. She had just spoken to Madame Melmotte this evening, having met her late hostess as she entered the drawing-room, and had felt from the manner of her reception that she was not wanted back again. She had told her father that she was going to transfer herself to the Monograms for a time, not mentioning the proposed duration of her visit, and Mr Longestaffe, in his ambiguous way, had expressed himself glad that she was leaving the Melmottes. She did not think that she could go back to Grosvenor Square, although Mr Brehgert desired it. Since the expression of Mr Brehgert's wishes she had perceived that ill-will had grown up between her father and Mr Melmotte. She must return to Caversham. They could not refuse to take her in, though she had betrothed herself to a Jew!

If she decided that the story should be told to her mother it would be easier to tell it by letter than by spoken words, face to face. But then if she wrote the letter there would be no retreat;—and how should she face her family after such a declaration? She had always given herself credit for courage, and now she wondered at her own cowardice. Even Lady Monogram, her old friend Julia Triplex, had trampled upon her. Was it not the business of her life, in these days, to do the best she could for herself, and would she allow paltry considerations as to the feelings of others to stand in her way and become bugbears to affright her? Who sent her to Melmotte's house? Was it not her own father? Then she sat herself square at the table, and wrote to her mother,—as follows,—dating her letter for the following morning:—

Hill Street, 9th July, 187-.

MY DEAR MAMMA,

I am afraid you will be very much astonished by this letter, and perhaps disappointed. I have engaged myself to Mr Brehgert, a member of a very wealthy firm in the City, called Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner. I may as well tell you the worst at once. Mr Brehgert is a Jew. [This last word she wrote very rapidly, but largely, determined that there should be no lack of courage apparent in the letter.] He is a very wealthy man, and his business is about banking and what he calls finance. I understand they are among the most leading people in the City. He lives at present at a very handsome house at Fulham. I don't know that I ever saw a place more beautifully fitted up. I have said nothing to papa, nor has he; but he says he will be willing to satisfy papa perfectly as to settlements. He has offered to have a house in London if I like,—and also to keep the villa at Fulham or else to have a place somewhere in the country. Or I may have the villa at Fulham and a house in the country. No man can be more generous than he is. He has been married before, and has a family, and now I think I have told you all.

I suppose you and papa will be very much dissatisfied. I hope papa won't refuse his consent. It can do no good. I am not going to remain as I am now all my life, and there is no use waiting any longer. It was papa who made me go to the Melmottes, who are not nearly so well placed as Mr Brehgert. Everybody knows that Madame Melmotte is a Jewess, and nobody knows what Mr Melmotte is. It is no good going on with the old thing when everything seems to be upset and at sixes and sevens. If papa has got to be so poor that he is obliged to let the house in town, one must of course expect to be different from what we were.

I hope you won't mind having me back the day after to-morrow,— that is to-morrow, Wednesday. There is a party here to-night, and Mr Brehgert is coming. But I can't stay longer with Julia, who doesn't make herself nice, and I do not at all want to go back to the Melmottes. I fancy that there is something wrong between papa and Mr Melmotte.

Send the carriage to meet me by the 2.30 train from London,—and pray, mamma, don't scold when you see me, or have hysterics, or anything of that sort. Of course it isn't all nice, but things have got so that they never will be nice again. I shall tell Mr Brehgert to go to papa on Wednesday.

Your affectionate daughter,

G.

When the morning came she desired the servant to take the letter away and have it posted, so that the temptation to stop it might no longer be in her way.

About one o'clock on that day Mr Longestaffe called at Lady Monogram's. The two ladies had breakfasted upstairs, and had only just met in the drawing-room when he came in. Georgiana trembled at first, but soon perceived that her father had as yet heard nothing of Mr Brehgert. She immediately told him that she proposed returning home on the following day. 'I am sick of the Melmottes,' she said.

'And so am I,' said Mr Longestaffe, with a serious countenance.

'We should have been delighted to have had Georgiana to stay with us a little longer,' said Lady Monogram; 'but we have but the one spare bedroom, and another friend is coming.' Georgiana, who knew both these statements to be false, declared that she wouldn't think of such a thing. 'We have a few friends corning to-night, Mr Longestaffe, and I hope you'll come in and see Georgiana.' Mr Longestaffe hummed and hawed and muttered something, as old gentlemen always do when they are asked to go out to parties after dinner. 'Mr Brehgert will be here,' continued Lady Monogram with a peculiar smile.

'Mr who?' The name was not at first familiar to Mr Longestaffe.

'Mr Brehgert.' Lady Monogram looked at her friend. 'I hope I'm not revealing any secret.'

'I don't understand anything about it,' said Mr Longestaffe. 'Georgiana, who is Mr Brehgert?' He had understood very much. He had been quite certain from Lady Monogram's manner and words, and also from his daughter's face, that Mr Brehgert was mentioned as an accepted lover. Lady Monogram had meant that it should be so, and any father would have understood her tone. As she said afterwards to Sir Damask, she was not going to have that Jew there at her house as Georgiana Longestaffe's accepted lover without Mr Longestaffe's knowledge.

'My dear Georgiana,' she said, 'I supposed your father knew all about it.'

'I know nothing. Georgiana, I hate a mystery. I insist upon knowing. Who is Mr Brehgert, Lady Monogram?'

'Mr Brehgert is a—very wealthy gentleman. That is all I know of him. Perhaps, Georgiana, you will be glad to be alone with your father.' And Lady Monogram left the room.

Was there ever cruelty equal to this! But now the poor girl was forced to speak,—though she could not speak as boldly as she had written. 'Papa, I wrote to mamma this morning, and Mr Brehgert was to come to you to-morrow.'

'Do you mean that you are engaged to marry him?'

'Yes, papa.'

'What Mr Brehgert is he?'

'He is a merchant.'

'You can't mean the fat Jew whom I've met with Mr Melmotte;—a man old enough to be your father!' The poor girl's condition now was certainly lamentable. The fat Jew, old enough to be her father, was the very man she did mean. She thought that she would try to brazen it out with her father. But at the present moment she had been so cowed by the manner in which the subject had been introduced that she did not know how to begin to be bold. She only looked at him as though imploring him to spare her. 'Is the man a Jew?' demanded Mr Longestaffe, with as much thunder as he knew how to throw into his voice.

'Yes, papa,' she said.

'He is that fat man?'

'Yes, papa.'

'And nearly as old as I am?'

'No, papa,—not nearly as old as you are. He is fifty.'

'And a Jew?' He again asked the horrid question, and again threw in the thunder. On this occasion she condescended to make no further reply. 'If you do, you shall do it as an alien from my house. I certainly will never see him. Tell him not to come to me, for I certainly will not speak to him. You are degraded and disgraced; but you shall not degrade and disgrace me and your mother and sister.'

'It was you, papa, who told me to go to the Melmottes.'

'That is not true. I wanted you to stay at Caversham. A Jew! an old fat Jew! Heavens and earth! that it should be possible that you should think of it! You;—my daughter,—that used to take such pride in yourself! Have you written to your mother?'

'I have.'

'It will kill her. It will simply kill her. And you are going home to-morrow?'

'I wrote to say so.'

'And there you must remain. I suppose I had better see the man and explain to him that it is utterly impossible. Heavens on earth;—a Jew! An old fat Jew! My daughter! I will take you down home myself to-morrow. What have I done that I should be punished by my children in this way?' The poor man had had rather a stormy interview with Dolly that morning. 'You had better leave this house to-day, and come to my hotel in Jermyn Street.'

'Oh, papa, I can't do that.'

'Why can't you do it? You can do it, and you shall do it. I will not have you see him again. I will see him. If you do not promise me to come, I will send for Lady Monogram and tell her that I will not permit you to meet Mr Brehgert at her house. I do wonder at her. A Jew! An old fat Jew!' Mr Longestaffe, putting up both his hands, walked about the room in despair.

She did consent, knowing that her father and Lady Monogram between them would be too strong for her. She had her things packed up, and in the course of the afternoon allowed herself to be carried away. She said one word to Lady Monogram before she went. 'Tell him that I was called away suddenly.'

'I will, my dear. I thought your papa would not like it.' The poor girl had not spirit sufficient to upbraid her friend; nor did it suit her now to acerbate an enemy. For the moment, at least, she must yield to everybody and everything. She spent a lonely evening with her father in a dull sitting-room in the hotel, hardly speaking or spoken to, and the following day she was taken down to Caversham. She believed that her father had seen Mr Brehgert in the morning of that day;—but he said no word to her, nor did she ask him any question.

That was on the day after Lady Monogram's party. Early in the evening, just as the gentlemen were coming up from the dining-room, Mr Brehgert, apparelled with much elegance, made his appearance. Lady Monogram received him with a sweet smile. 'Miss Longestaffe,' she said, 'has left me and gone to her father.'

'Oh, indeed.'

'Yes,' said Lady Monogram, bowing her head, and then attending to other persons as they arrived. Nor did she condescend to speak another word to Mr Brehgert, or to introduce him even to her husband. He stood for about ten minutes inside the drawing-room, leaning against the wall, and then he departed. No one had spoken a word to him. But he was an even-tempered, good-humoured man. When Miss Longestaffe was his wife things would no doubt be different;—or else she would probably change her acquaintance.



CHAPTER LXVI - 'SO SHALL BE MY ENMITY'

'You shall be troubled no more with Winifred Hurtle.' So Mrs Hurtle had said, speaking in perfect good faith to the man whom she had come to England with the view of marrying. And then when he had said good-bye to her, putting out his hand to take hers for the last time, she declined that. 'Nay,' she had said; 'this parting will bear no farewell.'

Having left her after that fashion Paul Montague could not return home with very high spirits. Had she insisted on his taking that letter with the threat of the horsewhip as the letter which she intended to write to him,—that letter which she had shown him, owning it to be the ebullition of her uncontrolled passion, and had then destroyed,— he might at any rate have consoled himself with thinking that, however badly he might have behaved, her conduct had been worse than his. He could have made himself warm and comfortable with anger, and could have assured himself that under any circumstances he must be right to escape from the clutches of a wildcat such as that. But at the last moment she had shown that she was no wild cat to him. She had melted, and become soft and womanly. In her softness she had been exquisitely beautiful; and as he returned home he was sad and dissatisfied with himself. He had destroyed her life for her,—or, at least, had created a miserable episode in it which could hardly be obliterated. She had said that she was all alone, and had given up everything to follow him,—and he had believed her. Was he to do nothing for her now? She had allowed him to go, and after her fashion had pardoned him the wrong he had done her. But was that to be sufficient for him,—so that he might now feel inwardly satisfied at leaving her, and make no further inquiry as to her fate? Could he pass on and let her be as the wine that has been drunk,—as the hour that has been enjoyed as the day that is past?

But what could he do? He had made good his own escape. He had resolved that, let her be woman or wild cat, he would not marry her, and in that he knew he had been right. Her antecedents, as now declared by herself, unfitted her for such a marriage. Were he to return to her he would be again thrusting his hand into the fire. But his own selfish coldness was hateful to him when he thought that there was nothing to be done but to leave her desolate and lonely in Mrs Pipkin's lodgings.

During the next three or four days, while the preparations for the dinner and the election were going on, he was busy in respect to the American railway. He again went down to Liverpool, and at Mr Ramsbottom's advice prepared a letter to the board of directors, in which he resigned his seat, and gave his reasons for resigning it; adding that he should reserve to himself the liberty of publishing his letter, should at any time the circumstances of the railway company seem to him to make such a course desirable. He also wrote a letter to Mr Fisker, begging that gentleman to come to England, and expressing his own wish to retire altogether from the firm of Fisker, Montague, and Montague upon receiving the balance of money due to him,—a payment which must, he said, be a matter of small moment to his two partners, if, as he had been informed, they had enriched themselves by the success of the railway company in San Francisco. When he wrote these letters at Liverpool the great rumour about Melmotte had not yet sprung up. He returned to London on the day of the festival, and first heard of the report at the Beargarden. There he found that the old set had for the moment broken itself up. Sir Felix Carbury had not been heard of for the last four or five days,—and then the whole story of Miss Melmotte's journey, of which he had read something in the newspapers, was told to him. 'We think that Carbury has drowned himself' said Lord Grasslough, 'and I haven't heard of anybody being heartbroken about it.' Lord Nidderdale had hardly been seen at the club. 'He's taken up the running with the girl,' said Lord Grasslough. 'What he'll do now, nobody knows. If I was at it, I'd have the money down in hard cash before I went into the church. He was there at the party yesterday, talking to the girl all the night;—a sort of thing he never did before. Nidderdale is the best fellow going, but he was always an ass.' Nor had Miles Grendall been seen in the club for three days. 'We've got into a way of play the poor fellow doesn't like,' said Lord Grasslough; 'and then Melmotte won't let him out of his sight. He has taken to dine there every day.' This was said during the election,—on the very day on which Miles deserted his patron; and on that evening he did dine at the club. Paul Montague also dined there, and would fain have heard something from Grendall as to Melmotte's condition; but the secretary, if not faithful in all things, was faithful at any rate in his silence. Though Grasslough talked openly enough about Melmotte in the smoking-room Miles Grendall said never a word.