On the next day, early in the afternoon, almost without a fixed purpose, Montague strolled up to Welbeck Street, and found Hetta alone. 'Mamma has gone to her publisher's,' she said. 'She is writing so much now that she is always going there. Who has been elected, Mr Montague?' Paul knew nothing about the election, and cared very little. At that time, however, the election had not been decided. 'I suppose it will make no difference to you whether your chairman be in Parliament or not?' Paul said that Melmotte was no longer a chairman of his. 'Are you out of it altogether, Mr Montague?' Yes;—as far as it lay within his power to be out of it, he was out of it. He did not like Mr Melmotte, nor believe in him. Then with considerable warmth he repudiated all connection with the Melmotte party, expressing deep regret that circumstances had driven him for a time into that alliance. 'Then you think that Mr Melmotte is—?'

'Just a scoundrel;—that's all.'

'You heard about Felix?'

'Of course I heard that he was to marry the girl, and that he tried to run off with her. I don't know much about it. They say that Lord Nidderdale is to marry her now.'

'I think not, Mr Montague.'

'I hope not, for his sake. At any rate, your brother is well out of it.'

'Do you know that she loves Felix? There is no pretence about that. I do think she is good. The other night at the party she spoke to me.'

'You went to the party, then?'

'Yes;—I could not refuse to go when mamma chose to take me. And when I was there she spoke to me about Felix. I don't think she will marry Lord Nidderdale. Poor girl;—I do pity her. Think what a downfall it will be if anything happens.'

But Paul Montague had certainly not come there with the intention of discussing Melmotte's affairs, nor could he afford to lose the opportunity which chance had given him. He was off with one love, and now he thought that he might be on with the other. 'Hetta,' he said, 'I am thinking more of myself than of her,—or even of Felix.'

'I suppose we all do think more of ourselves than of other people,' said Hetta, who knew from his voice at once what it was in his mind to do.

'Yes;—but I am not thinking of myself only. I am thinking of myself, and you. In all my thoughts of myself I am thinking of you too.'

'I do not know why you should do that.'

'Hetta, you must know that I love you.'

'Do you?' she said. Of course she knew it. And of course she thought that he was equally sure of her love. Had he chosen to read signs that ought to have been plain enough to him, could he have doubted her love after the few words that had been spoken on that night when Lady Carbury had come in with Roger and interrupted them? She could not remember exactly what had been said; but she did remember that he had spoken of leaving England for ever in a certain event, and that she had not rebuked him;—and she remembered also how she had confessed her own love to her mother. He, of course, had known nothing of that confession; but he must have known that he had her heart!

So at least she thought. She had been working some morsel of lace, as ladies do when ladies wish to be not quite doing nothing. She had endeavoured to ply her needle, very idly, while he was speaking to her, but now she allowed her hands to fall into her lap. She would have continued to work at the lace had she been able, but there are times when the eyes will not see clearly, and when the hands will hardly act mechanically.

'Yes,—I do. Hetta, say a word to me. Can it be so? Look at me for one moment so as to let me know.' Her eyes had turned downwards after her work. 'If Roger is dearer to you than I am, I will go at once.'

'Roger is very dear to me.'

'Do you love him as I would have you love me?'

She paused for a time, knowing that his eyes were fixed upon her, and then she answered the question in a low voice, but very clearly. 'No,' she said,—'not like that.'

'Can you love me like that?' He put out both his arms as though to take her to his breast should the answer be such as he longed to hear. She raised her hand towards him, as if to keep him back, and left it with him when he seized it. 'Is it mine?' he said.

'If you want it.'

Then he was at her feet in a moment, kissing her hand, and her dress, looking up into her face with his eyes full of tears, ecstatic with joy as though he had really never ventured to hope for such success. 'Want it!' he said. 'Hetta, I have never wanted anything but that with real desire. Oh, Hetta, my own. Since I first saw you this has been my only dream of happiness. And now it is my own.'

She was very quiet, but full of joy. Now that she had told him the truth she did not coy her love. Having once spoken the word she did not care how often she repeated it. She did not think that she could ever have loved anybody but him even,—if he had not been fond of her. As to Roger,—dear Roger, dearest Roger,—no; it was not the same thing. 'He is as good as gold,' she said,—'ever so much better than you are, Paul,' stroking his hair with her hand and looking into his eyes.

'Better than anybody I have ever known,' said Montague with all his energy.

'I think he is;—but, ah, that is not everything. I suppose we ought to love the best people best; but I don't, Paul.'

'I do,' said he.

'No,—you don't. You must love me best, but I won't be called good. I do not know why it has been so. Do you know, Paul, I have sometimes thought I would do as he would have me, out of sheer gratitude. I did not know how to refuse such a trifling thing to one who ought to have everything that he wants.'

'Where should I have been?'

'Oh, you! Somebody else would have made you happy. But do you know, Paul, I think he will never love any one else. I ought not to say so, because it seems to be making so much of myself. But I feel it. He is not so young a man, and yet I think that he never was in love before. He almost told me so once, and what he says is true. There is an unchanging way with him that is awful to think of. He said that he never could be happy unless I would do as he would have me,—and he made me almost believe even that. He speaks as though every word he says must come true in the end. Oh, Paul, I love you so dearly,—but I almost think that I ought to have obeyed him.' Paul Montague of course had very much to say in answer to this. Among the holy things which did exist to gild this every-day unholy world, love was the holiest. It should be soiled by no falsehood, should know nothing of compromises, should admit no excuses, should make itself subject to no external circumstances. If Fortune had been so kind to him as to give him her heart, poor as his claim might be, she could have no right to refuse him the assurance of her love. And though his rival were an angel, he could have no shadow of a claim upon her,—seeing that he had failed to win her heart. It was very well said,—at least so Hetta thought,—and she made no attempt at argument against him. But what was to be done in reference to poor Roger? She had spoken the word now, and, whether for good or bad, she had given herself to Paul Montague. Even though Roger should have to walk disconsolate to the grave, it could not now be helped. But would it not be right that it should be told? 'Do you know I almost feel that he is like a father to me,' said Hetta, leaning on her lover's shoulder.

Paul thought it over for a few minutes, and then said that he would himself write to Roger. 'Hetta, do you know, I doubt whether he will ever speak to me again.'

'I cannot believe that.'

'There is a sternness about him which it is very hard to understand. He has taught himself to think that as I met you in his house, and as he then wished you to be his wife, I should not have ventured to love you. How could I have known?'

'That would be unreasonable.'

'He is unreasonable—about that. It is not reason with him. He always goes by his feelings. Had you been engaged to him—'

'Oh, then, you never could have spoken to me like this.'

'But he will never look at it in that way;—and he will tell me that I have been untrue to him and ungrateful.'

'If you think, Paul—'

'Nay; listen to me. If it be so I must bear it. It will be a great sorrow, but it will be as nothing to that other sorrow, had that come upon me. I will write to him, and his answer will be all scorn and wrath. Then you must write to him afterwards. I think he will forgive you, but he will never forgive me.' Then they parted, she having promised that she would tell her mother directly Lady Carbury came home, and Paul undertaking to write to Roger that evening.

And he did, with infinite difficulty, and much trembling of the spirit. Here is his letter:—

MY DEAR ROGER,—

I think it right to tell you at once what has occurred to-day. I have proposed to Miss Carbury and she has accepted me. You have long known what my feelings were, and I have also known yours. I have known, too, that Miss Carbury has more than once declined to take your offer. Under these circumstances I cannot think that I have been untrue to friendship in what I have done, or that I have proved myself ungrateful for the affectionate kindness which you have always shown me. I am authorised by Hetta to say that, had I never spoken to her, it must have been the same to you. [This was hardly a fair representation of what had been said, but the writer, looking back upon his interview with the lady, thought that it had been implied.]

I should not say so much by way of excusing myself, but that you once said, that should such a thing occur there must be a division between us ever after. If I thought that you would adhere to that threat, I should be very unhappy and Hetta would be miserable. Surely, if a man loves he is bound to tell his love, and to take the chance. You would hardly have thought it manly in me if I had abstained. Dear friend, take a day or two before you answer this, and do not banish us from your heart if you can help it.

Your affectionate friend,

PAUL MONTAGUE.

Roger Carbury did not take a single day,—or a single hour to answer the letter. He received it at breakfast, and after rushing out on the terrace and walking there for a few minutes, he hurried to his desk and wrote his reply. As he did so, his whole face was red with wrath, and his eyes were glowing with indignation.

There is an old French saying that he who makes excuses is his own accuser. You would not have written as you have done, had you not felt yourself to be false and ungrateful. You knew where my heart was, and there you went and undermined my treasure, and stole it away. You have destroyed my life, and I will never forgive you.

You tell me not to banish you both from my heart. How dare you join yourself with her in speaking of my feelings! She will never be banished from my heart. She will be there morning, noon, and night, and as is and will be my love to her, so shall be my enmity to you.

ROGER CARBURY.

It was hardly a letter for a Christian to write; and, yet, in those parts Roger Carbury had the reputation of being a good Christian.

Henrietta told her mother that morning, immediately on her return. 'Mamma, Mr Paul Montague has been here.'

'He always comes here when I am away,' said Lady Carbury.

'That has been an accident. He could not have known that you were going to Messrs. Leadham and Loiter's.'

'I'm not so sure of that, Hetta.'

'Then, mamma, you must have told him yourself, and I don't think you knew till just before you were going. But, mamma, what does it matter? He has been here, and I have told him—'

'You have not accepted him?'

'Yes, mamma.'

'Without even asking me?'

'Mamma, you knew. I will not marry him without asking you. How was I not to tell him when he asked me whether I—loved him—'

'Marry him! How is it possible you should marry him? Whatever he had got was in that affair of Melmotte's, and that has gone to the dogs. He is a ruined man, and for aught I know may be compromised in all Melmotte's wickedness.'

'Oh, mamma, do not say that!'

'But I do say it. It is hard upon me. I did think that you would try to comfort me after all this trouble with Felix. But you are as bad as he is;—or worse, for you have not been thrown into temptation like that poor boy! And you will break your cousin's heart. Poor Roger! I feel for him;—he that has been so true to us! But you think nothing of that.'

'I think very much of my cousin Roger.'

'And how do you show it;—or your love for me? There would have been a home for us all. Now we must starve, I suppose. Hetta, you have been worse to me even than Felix.' Then Lady Carbury, in her passion, burst out of the room, and took herself to her own chamber.



CHAPTER LXVII - SIR FELIX PROTECTS HIS SISTER

Up to this period of his life Sir Felix Carbury had probably felt but little of the punishment due to his very numerous shortcomings. He had spent all his fortune; he had lost his commission in the army; he had incurred the contempt of everybody that had known him; he had forfeited the friendship of those who were his natural friends, and had attached to him none others in their place; he had pretty nearly ruined his mother and sister; but, to use his own language, he had always contrived 'to carry on the game.' He had eaten and drunk, had gambled, hunted, and diverted himself generally after the fashion considered to be appropriate to young men about town. He had kept up till now. But now there seemed to him to have come an end to all things. When he was lying in bed in his mother's house he counted up all his wealth. He had a few pounds in ready money, he still had a little roll of Mr Miles Grendall's notes of hand, amounting perhaps to a couple of hundred pounds,—and Mr Melmotte owed him L600. But where was he to turn, and what was he to do with himself? Gradually he learned the whole story of the journey to Liverpool,—how Marie had gone there and had been sent back by the police, how Marie's money had been repaid to Mr Melmotte by Mr Broune, and how his failure to make the journey to Liverpool had become known. He was ashamed to go to his club. He could not go to Melmotte's house. He was ashamed even to show himself in the streets by day.

He was becoming almost afraid even of his mother. Now that the brilliant marriage had broken down, and seemed to be altogether beyond hope, now that he had to depend on her household for all his comforts, he was no longer able to treat her with absolute scorn,—nor was she willing to yield as she had yielded.

One thing only was clear to him. He must realize his possessions. With this view he wrote both to Miles Grendall and to Melmotte. To the former he said he was going out of town,—probably for some time, and he must really ask for a cheque for the amount due. He went on to remark that he could hardly suppose that a nephew of the Duke of Albury was unable to pay debts of honour to the amount of L200;—but that if such was the case he would have no alternative but to apply to the Duke himself. The reader need hardly be told that to this letter Mr Grendall vouchsafed no answer whatever. In his letter to Mr Melmotte he confined himself to one matter of business in hand. He made no allusion whatever to Marie, or to the great man's anger, or to his seat at the board. He simply reminded Mr Melmotte that there was a sum of L600 still due to him, and requested that a cheque might be sent to him for that amount. Melmotte's answer to this was not altogether unsatisfactory, though it was not exactly what Sir Felix had wished. A clerk from Mr Melmotte's office called at the house in Welbeck Street, and handed to Felix railway scrip in the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway to the amount of the sum claimed,—insisting on a full receipt for the money before he parted with the scrip. The clerk went on to explain, on behalf of his employer, that the money had been left in Mr Melmotte's hands for the purpose of buying these shares. Sir Felix, who was glad to get anything, signed the receipt and took the scrip. This took place on the day after the balloting at Westminster, when the result was not yet known,—and when the shares in the railway were very low indeed. Sir Felix had asked as to the value of the shares at the time. The clerk professed himself unable to quote the price,—but there were the shares if Sir Felix liked to take them. Of course he took them;—and hurrying off into the City found that they might perhaps be worth about half the money due to him. The broker to whom he showed them could not quite answer for anything. Yes;—the scrip had been very high; but there was a panic. They might recover,— or, more probably, they might go to nothing. Sir Felix cursed the Great Financier aloud, and left the scrip for sale. That was the first time that he had been out of the house before dark since his little accident.

But he was chiefly tormented in these days by the want of amusement. He had so spent his life hitherto that he did not know how to get through a day in which no excitement was provided for him. He never read. Thinking was altogether beyond him. And he had never done a day's work in his life. He could lie in bed. He could eat and drink. He could smoke and sit idle. He could play cards; and could amuse himself with women,—the lower the culture of the women, the better the amusement. Beyond these things the world had nothing for him. Therefore he again took himself to the pursuit of Ruby Ruggles.

Poor Ruby had endured a very painful incarceration at her aunt's house. She had been wrathful and had stormed, swearing that she would be free to come and go as she pleased. Free to go, Mrs Pipkin told her that she was;—but not free to return if she went out otherwise than as she, Mrs Pipkin, chose. 'Am I to be a slave?' Ruby asked, and almost upset the perambulator which she had just dragged in at the hall door. Then Mrs Hurtle had taken upon herself to talk to her, and poor Ruby had been quelled by the superior strength of the American lady. But she was very unhappy, finding that it did not suit her to be nursemaid to her aunt. After all John Crumb couldn't have cared for her a bit, or he would have come to look after her. While she was in this condition Sir Felix came to Mrs Pipkin's house, and asked for her at the door, it happened that Mrs Pipkin herself had opened the door,— and, in her fright and dismay at the presence of so pernicious a young man in her own passage, had denied that Ruby was in the house. But Ruby had heard her lover's voice, and had rushed up and thrown herself into his arms. Then there had been a great scene. Ruby had sworn that she didn't care for her aunt, didn't care for her grandfather, or for Mrs Hurtle, or for John Crumb,—or for any person or anything. She cared only for her lover. Then Mrs Hurtle had asked the young man his intentions. Did he mean to marry Ruby? Sir Felix had said that he supposed he might as well some day. 'There,' said Ruby, 'there!'— shouting in triumph as though an offer had been made to her with the completest ceremony of which such an event admits. Mrs Pipkin had been very weak. Instead of calling in the assistance of her strong-minded lodger, she had allowed the lovers to remain together for half an hour in the dining-room. I do not know that Sir Felix in any way repeated his promise during that time, but Ruby was probably too blessed with the word that had been spoken to ask for such renewal. 'There must be an end of this,' said Mrs Pipkin, coming in when the half-hour was over. Then Sir Felix had gone, promising to come again on the following evening. 'You must not come here, Sir Felix,' said Mrs Pipkin, 'unless you puts it in writing.' To this, of course, Sir Felix made no answer. As he went home he congratulated himself on the success of his adventure. Perhaps the best thing he could do when he had realized the money for the shares would be to take Ruby for a tour abroad. The money would last for three or four months,—and three or four months ahead was almost an eternity.

That afternoon before dinner he found his sister alone in the drawing-room. Lady Carbury had gone to her own room after hearing the distressing story of Paul Montague's love, and had not seen Hetta since. Hetta was melancholy, thinking of her mother's hard words,— thinking perhaps of Paul's poverty as declared by her mother, and of the ages which might have to wear themselves out before she could become his wife; but still tinting all her thoughts with a rosy hue because of the love which had been declared to her. She could not but be happy if he really loved her. And she,—as she had told him that she loved him,—would be true to him through everything! In her present mood she could not speak of herself to her brother, but she took the opportunity of making good the promise which Marie Melmotte had extracted from her. She gave him some short account of the party, and told him that she had talked with Marie. 'I promised to give you a message,' she said.

'It's all of no use now,' said Felix.

'But I must tell you what she said. I think, you know, that she really loves you.'

'But what's the good of it? A man can't marry a girl when all the policemen in the country are dodging her.'

'She wants you to let her know what,—what you intend to do. If you mean to give her up, I think you should tell her.'

'How can I tell her? I don't suppose they would let her receive a letter.'

'Shall I write to her;—or shall I see her?'

'Just as you like. I don't care.'

'Felix, you are very heartless.'

'I don't suppose I'm much worse than other men;—or for the matter of that, worse than a great many women either. You all of you here put me up to marry her.'

'I never put you up to it.'

'Mother did. And now because it did not go off all serene, I am to hear nothing but reproaches. Of course I never cared so very much about her.'

'Oh, Felix, that is so shocking!'

'Awfully shocking, I dare say. You think I am as black as the very mischief, and that sugar wouldn't melt in other men's mouths. Other men are just as bad as I am,—and a good deal worse too. You believe that there is nobody on earth like Paul Montague.' Hetta blushed, but said nothing. She was not yet in a condition to boast of her lover before her brother, but she did, in very truth, believe that but few young men were as true-hearted as Paul Montague. 'I suppose you'd be surprised to hear that Master Paul is engaged to marry an American widow living at Islington.'

'Mr Montague—engaged—to marry—an American widow! I don't believe it.'

'You'd better believe it if it's any concern of yours, for it's true. And it's true too that he travelled about with her for ever so long in the United States, and that he had her down with him at the hotel at Lowestoft about a fortnight ago. There's no mistake about it.'

'I don't believe it,' repeated Hetta, feeling that to say even as much as that was some relief to her. It could not be true. It was impossible that the man should have come to her with such a lie in his mouth as that. Though the words astounded her, though she felt faint, almost as though she would fall in a swoon, yet in her heart of hearts she did not believe it. Surely it was some horrid joke,—or perhaps some trick to divide her from the man she loved. 'Felix, how dare you say things so wicked as that to me?'

'What is there wicked in it? If you have been fool enough to become fond of the man, it is only right you should be told. He is engaged to marry Mrs Hurtle, and she is lodging with one Mrs Pipkin in Islington. I know the house, and could take you there to-morrow, and show you the woman. There,' said he, 'that's where she is;'—and he wrote Mrs Hurtle's name down on a scrap of paper.

'It is not true,' said Hetta, rising from her seat, and standing upright. 'I am engaged to Mr Montague, and I am sure he would not treat me in that way.'

'Then, by heaven, he shall answer it to me,' said Felix, jumping up. 'If he has done that, it is time that I should interfere. As true as I stand here, he is engaged to marry a woman called Mrs Hurtle whom he constantly visits at that place in Islington.'

'I do not believe it,' said Hetta, repeating the only defence for her lover which was applicable at the moment.

'By George, this is beyond a joke. Will you believe it if Roger Carbury says it's true? I know you'd believe anything fast enough against me, if he told you.'

'Roger Carbury will not say so?'

'Have you the courage to ask him? I say he will say so. He knows all about it,—and has seen the woman.'

'How can you know? Has Roger told you?'

'I do know, and that's enough. I will make this square with Master Paul. By heaven, yes! He shall answer to me. But my mother must manage you. She will not scruple to ask Roger, and she will believe what Roger tells her.'

'I do not believe a word of it,' said Hetta, leaving the room. But when she was alone she was very wretched. There must be some foundation for such a tale. Why should Felix have referred to Roger Carbury? And she did feel that there was something in her brother's manner which forbade her to reject the whole story as being altogether baseless. So she sat upon her bed and cried, and thought of all the tales she had heard of faithless lovers. And yet why should the man have come to her, not only with soft words of love, but asking her hand in marriage, if it really were true that he was in daily communication with another woman whom he had promised to make his wife?

Nothing on the subject was said at dinner. Hetta with difficulty to herself sat at the table, and did not speak. Lady Carbury and her son were nearly as silent. Soon after dinner Felix slunk away to some music hall or theatre in quest probably of some other Ruby Ruggles. Then Lady Carbury, who had now been told as much as her son knew, again attacked her daughter. Very much of the story Felix had learned from Ruby. Ruby had of course learned that Paul was engaged to Mrs Hurtle. Mrs Hurtle had at once declared the fact to Mrs Pipkin, and Mrs Pipkin had been proud of the position of her lodger. Ruby had herself seen Paul Montague at the house, and had known that he had taken Mrs Hurtle to Lowestoft. And it had also become known to the two women, the aunt and her niece, that Mrs Hurtle had seen Roger Carbury on the sands at Lowestoft. Thus the whole story with most of its details,—not quite with all,—had come round to Lady Carbury's ears. 'What he has told you, my dear, is true. Much as I disapprove of Mr Montague, you do not suppose that I would deceive you.'

'How can he know, mamma?'

'He does know. I cannot explain to you how. He has been at the same house.'

'Has he seen her?'

'I do not know that he has, but Roger Carbury has seen her. If I write to him you will believe what he says?'

'Don't do that, mamma. Don't write to him.'

'But I shall. Why should I not write if he can tell me? If this other man is a villain am I not bound to protect you? Of course Felix is not steady. If it came only from him you might not credit it. And he has not seen her. If your cousin Roger tells you that it is true,—tells me that he knows the man is engaged to marry this woman, then I suppose you will be contented.'

'Contented, mamma!'

'Satisfied that what we tell you is true.'

'I shall never be contented again. If that is true, I will never believe anything. It can't be true. I suppose there is something, but it can't be that.'

The story was not altogether displeasing to Lady Carbury, though it pained her to see the agony which her daughter suffered. But she had no wish that Paul Montague should be her son-in-law, and she still thought that if Roger would persevere he might succeed. On that very night before she went to bed she wrote to Roger, and told him the whole story. 'If,' she said, 'you know that there is such a person as Mrs Hurtle, and if you know also that Mr Montague has promised to make her his wife, of course you will tell me.' Then she declared her own wishes, thinking that by doing so she could induce Roger Carbury to give such real assistance in this matter that Paul Montague would certainly be driven away. Who could feel so much interest in doing this as Roger, or who be so closely acquainted with all the circumstances of Montague's life? 'You know,' she said, 'what my wishes are about Hetta, and how utterly opposed I am to Mr Montague's interference. If it is true, as Felix says, that he is at the present moment entangled with another woman, he is guilty of gross insolence; and if you know all the circumstances you can surely protect us,—and also yourself.'



CHAPTER LXVIII - MISS MELMOTTE DECLARES HER PURPOSE

Poor Hetta passed a very bad night. The story she had heard seemed to be almost too awful to be true,—even about any one else. The man had come to her, and had asked her to be his wife,—and yet at that very moment was living in habits of daily intercourse with another woman whom he had promised to marry! And then, too, his courtship with her had been so graceful, so soft, so modest, and yet so long continued! Though he had been slow in speech, she had known since their first meeting how he regarded her! The whole state of his mind had, she had thought, been visible to her,—had been intelligible, gentle, and affectionate. He had been aware of her friends' feeling, and had therefore hesitated. He had kept himself from her because he had owed so much to friendship. And yet his love had not been the less true, and had not been less dear to poor Hetta. She had waited, sure that it would come,—having absolute confidence in his honour and love. And now she was told that this man had been playing a game so base, and at the same time so foolish, that she could find not only no excuse but no possible cause for it. It was not like any story she had heard before of man's faithlessness. Though she was wretched and sore at heart she swore to herself that she would not believe it. She knew that her mother would write to Roger Carbury,—but she knew also that nothing more would be said about the letter till the answer should come. Nor could she turn anywhere else for comfort. She did not dare to appeal to Paul himself. As regarded him, for the present she could only rely on the assurance, which she continued to give herself, that she would not believe a word of the story that had been told her.

But there was other wretchedness besides her own. She had undertaken to give Marie Melmotte's message to her brother. She had done so, and she must now let Marie have her brother's reply. That might be told in a very few words—'Everything is over!' But it had to be told.

'I want to call upon Miss Melmotte, if you'll let me,' she said to her mother at breakfast.

'Why should you want to see Miss Melmotte? I thought you hated the Melmottes?'

'I don't hate them, mamma. I certainly don't hate her. I have a message to take to her,—from Felix.'

'A message—from Felix.'

'It is an answer from him. She wanted to know if all that was over. Of course it is over. Whether he said so or not, it would be so. They could never be married now, could they, mamma?'

The marriage, in Lady Carbury's mind, was no longer even desirable. She, too, was beginning to disbelieve in the Melmotte wealth, and did quite disbelieve that that wealth would come to her son, even should he succeed in marrying the daughter. It was impossible that Melmotte should forgive such offence as had now been committed. 'It is out of the question,' she said. 'That, like everything else with us, has been a wretched failure. You can go, if you please. Felix is under no obligation to them, and has taken nothing from them. I should much doubt whether the girl will get anybody to take her now. You can't go alone, you know,' Lady Carbury added. But Hetta said that she did not at all object to going alone as far as that. It was only just over Oxford Street.

So she went out and made her way into Grosvenor Square. She had heard, but at the time remembered nothing, of the temporary migration of the Melmottes to Bruton Street. Seeing, as she approached the house, that there was a confusion there of carts and workmen, she hesitated. But she went on, and rang the bell at the door, which was wide open. Within the hall the pilasters and trophies, the wreaths and the banners, which three or four days since had been built up with so much trouble, were now being pulled down and hauled away. And amidst the ruins Melmotte himself was standing. He was now a member of Parliament, and was to take his place that night in the House. Nothing, at any rate, should prevent that. It might be but for a short time;—but it should be written in the history of his life that he had sat in the British House of Commons as member for Westminster. At the present moment he was careful to show himself everywhere. It was now noon, and he had already been into the City. At this moment he was talking to the contractor for the work,—having just propitiated that man by a payment which would hardly have been made so soon but for the necessity which these wretched stories had entailed upon him of keeping up his credit for the possession of money. Hetta timidly asked one of the workmen whether Miss Melmotte was there. 'Do you want my daughter?' said Melmotte coming forward, and just touching his hat. 'She is not living here at present.'

'Oh,—I remember now,' said Hetta.

'May I be allowed to tell her who was asking after her?' At the present moment Melmotte was not unreasonably suspicious about his daughter.

'I am Miss Carbury,' said Hetta in a very low voice.

'Oh, indeed;—Miss Carbury!—the sister of Sir Felix Carbury?' There was something in the tone of the man's voice which grated painfully on Hetta's ears,—but she answered the question. 'Oh;—Sir Felix's sister! May I be permitted to ask whether—you have any business with my daughter?' The story was a hard one to tell, with all the workmen around her, in the midst of the lumber, with the coarse face of the suspicious man looking down upon her; but she did tell it very simply. She had come with a message from her brother. There had been something between her brother and Miss Melmotte, and her brother had felt that it would be best that he should acknowledge that it must be all over. 'I wonder whether that is true,' said Melmotte, looking at her out of his great coarse eyes, with his eyebrows knit, with his hat on his head and his hands in his pockets. Hetta, not knowing how, at the moment, to repudiate the suspicion expressed, was silent. 'Because, you know, there has been a deal of falsehood and double dealing. Sir Felix has behaved infamously; yes,—by G——, infamously. A day or two before my daughter started, he gave me a written assurance that the whole thing was over, and now he sends you here. How am I to know what you are really after?'

'I have come because I thought I could do some good,' she said, trembling with anger and fear. 'I was speaking to your daughter at your party.'

'Oh, you were there;—were you? It may be as you say, but how is one to tell? When one has been deceived like that, one is apt to be suspicious, Miss Carbury.' Here was one who had spent his life in lying to the world, and who was in his very heart shocked at the atrocity of a man who had lied to him! 'You are not plotting another journey to Liverpool;—are you?' To this Hetta could make no answer. The insult was too much, but alone, unsupported, she did not know how to give him back scorn for scorn. At last he proposed to take her across to Bruton Street himself and at his bidding she walked by his side. 'May I hear what you say to her?' he asked.

'If you suspect me, Mr Melmotte, I had better not see her at all. It is only that there may no longer be any doubt.'

'You can say it all before me.'

'No;—I could not do that. But I have told you, and you can say it for me. If you please, I think I will go home now.'

But Melmotte knew that his daughter would not believe him on such a subject. This girl she probably would believe. And though Melmotte himself found it difficult to trust anybody, he thought that there was more possible good than evil to be expected from the proposed interview. 'Oh, you shall see her,' he said. 'I don't suppose she's such a fool as to try that kind of thing again.' Then the door in Bruton Street was opened, and Hetta, repenting her mission, found herself almost pushed into the hall. She was bidden to follow Melmotte upstairs, and was left alone in the drawing-room, as she thought, for a long time. Then the door was slowly opened and Marie crept into the room. 'Miss Carbury,' she said, 'this is so good of you,—so good of you! I do so love you for coming to me! You said you would love me. You will; will you not?' and Marie, sitting down by the stranger, took her hand and encircled her waist.

'Mr Melmotte has told you why I have come.'

'Yes;—that is, I don't know. I never believe what papa says to me.' To poor Hetta such an announcement as this was horrible. 'We are at daggers drawn. He thinks I ought to do just what he tells me, as though my very soul were not my own. I won't agree to that;—would you?' Hetta had not come there to preach disobedience, but could not fail to remember at the moment that she was not disposed to obey her mother in an affair of the same kind. 'What does he say, dear?'

Hetta's message was to be conveyed in three words, and when those were told, there was nothing more to be said. 'It must all be over, Miss Melmotte.'

'Is that his message, Miss Carbury?' Hetta nodded her head. 'Is that all?'

'What more can I say? The other night you told me to bid him send you word. And I thought he ought to do so. I gave him your message, and I have brought back the answer. My brother, you know, has no income of his own;—nothing at all.'

'But I have,' said Marie with eagerness.

'But your father—'

'It does not depend upon papa. If papa treats me badly, I can give it to my husband. I know I can. If I can venture, cannot he?'

'I think it is impossible.'

'Impossible! Nothing should be impossible. All the people that one hears of that are really true to their loves never find anything impossible. Does he love me, Miss Carbury? It all depends on that. That's what I want to know.' She paused, but Hetta could not answer the question. 'You must know about your brother. Don't you know whether he does love me? If you know I think you ought to tell me.' Hetta was still silent. 'Have you nothing to say?'

'Miss Melmotte-' began poor Hetta very slowly.

'Call me Marie. You said you would love me, did you not? I don't even know what your name is.'

'My name is Hetta.'

'Hetta;—that's short for something. But it's very pretty. I have no brother, no sister. And I'll tell you, though you must not tell anybody again;—I have no real mother. Madame Melmotte is not my mamma, though papa chooses that it should be thought so.' All this she whispered, with rapid words, almost into Hetta's ear. 'And papa is so cruel to me! He beats me sometimes.' The new friend, round whom Marie still had her arm, shuddered as she heard this. 'But I never will yield a bit for that. When he boxes and thumps me I always turn and gnash my teeth at him. Can you wonder that I want to have a friend? Can you be surprised that I should be always thinking of my lover? But,—if he doesn't love me, what am I to do then?'

'I don't know what I am to say,' ejaculated Hetta amidst her sobs. Whether the girl was good or bad, to be sought or to be avoided, there was so much tragedy in her position that Hetta's heart was melted with sympathy.

'I wonder whether you love anybody, and whether he loves you,' said Marie. Hetta certainly had not come there to talk of her own affairs, and made no reply to this. 'I suppose you won't tell me about yourself.'

'I wish I could tell you something for your own comfort.'

'He will not try again, you think?'

'I am sure he will not.'

'I wonder what he fears. I should fear nothing,—nothing. Why should not we walk out of the house, and be married any way? Nobody has a right to stop me. Papa could only turn me out of his house. I will venture if he will.'

It seemed to Hetta that even listening to such a proposition amounted to falsehood,—to that guilt of which Mr Melmotte had dared to suppose that she could be capable. 'I cannot listen to it. Indeed I cannot listen to it. My brother is sure that he cannot—cannot—'

'Cannot love me, Hetta! Say it out, if it is true.'

'It is true,' said Hetta. There came over the face of the other girl a stern hard look, as though she had resolved at the moment to throw away from her all soft womanly things. And she relaxed her hold on Hetta's waist. 'Oh, my dear, I do not mean to be cruel, but you ask me for the truth.'

'Yes; I did.'

'Men are not, I think, like girls.'

'I suppose not,' said Marie slowly. 'What liars they are, what brutes;—what wretches! Why should he tell me lies like that? Why should he break my heart? That other man never said that he loved me. Did he never love me,—once?'

Hetta could hardly say that her brother was incapable of such love as Marie expected, but she knew that it was so. 'It is better that you should think of him no more.'

'Are you like that? If you had loved a man and told him of it, and agreed to be his wife and done as I have, could you bear to be told to think of him no more,—just as though you had got rid of a servant or a horse? I won't love him. No;—I'll hate him. But I must think of him. I'll marry that other man to spite him, and then, when he finds that we are rich, he'll be broken-hearted.'

'You should try to forgive him, Marie.'

'Never. Do not tell him that I forgive him. I command you not to tell him that. Tell him,—tell him, that I hate him, and that if I ever meet him, I will look at him so that he shall never forget it. I could,—oh! —you do not know what I could do. Tell me;—did he tell you to say that he did not love me?'

'I wish I had not come,' said Hetta.

'I am glad you have come. It was very kind. I don't hate you. Of course I ought to know. But did he say that I was to be told that he did not love me?'

'No;—he did not say that.'

'Then how do you know? What did he say?'

'That it was all over.'

'Because he is afraid of papa. Are you sure he does not love me?'

'I am sure.'

'Then he is a brute. Tell him that I say that he is a false-hearted liar, and that I trample him under my foot.' Marie as she said this thrust her foot upon the ground as though that false one were in truth beneath it,—and spoke aloud, as though regardless who might hear her. 'I despise him;—despise him. They are all bad, but he is the worst of all. Papa beats me, but I can bear that. Mamma reviles me and I can bear that. He might have beaten me and reviled me, and I could have borne it. But to think that he was a liar all the time;—that I can't bear.' Then she burst into tears. Hetta kissed her, tried to comfort her, and left her sobbing on the sofa.

Later in the day, two or three hours after Miss Carbury had gone, Marie Melmotte, who had not shown herself at luncheon, walked into Madame Melmotte's room, and thus declared her purpose. 'You can tell papa that I will marry Lord Nidderdale whenever he pleases.' She spoke in French and very rapidly.

On hearing this Madame Melmotte expressed herself to be delighted. 'Your papa,' said she, 'will be very glad to hear that you have thought better of this at last. Lord Nidderdale is, I am sure, a very good young man.'

'Yes,' continued Marie, boiling over with passion as she spoke. 'I'll marry Lord Nidderdale, or that horrid Mr Grendall who is worse than all the others, or his old fool of a father,—or the sweeper at the crossing,—or the black man that waits at table, or anybody else that he chooses to pick up. I don't care who it is the least in the world. But I'll lead him such a life afterwards! I'll make Lord Nidderdale repent the hour he saw me! You may tell papa.' And then, having thus entrusted her message to Madame Melmotte, Marie left the room.



CHAPTER LXIX - MELMOTTE IN PARLIAMENT

Melmotte did not return home in time to hear the good news that day,— good news as he would regard it, even though, when told to him, it should be accompanied by all the extraneous additions with which Marie had communicated her purpose to Madame Melmotte. It was nothing to him what the girl thought of the marriage,—if the marriage could now be brought about. He, too, had cause for vexation, if not for anger. If Marie had consented a fortnight since he might have so hurried affairs that Lord Nidderdale might by this time have been secured. Now there might be,—must be, doubt, through the folly of his girl and the villainy of Sir Felix Carbury. Were he once the father-in-law of the eldest son of a marquis, he thought he might almost be safe. Even though something might be all but proved against him,—which might come to certain proof in less august circumstances,—matters would hardly be pressed against a Member for Westminster whose daughter was married to the heir of the Marquis of Auld Reekie! So many persons would then be concerned! Of course his vexation with Marie had been great. Of course his wrath against Sir Felix was unbounded. The seat for Westminster was his. He was to be seen to occupy it before all the world on this very day. But he had not as yet heard that his daughter had yielded in reference to Lord Nidderdale.

There was considerable uneasiness felt in some circles as to the manner in which Melmotte should take his seat. When he was put forward as the Conservative candidate for the borough a good deal of fuss had been made with him by certain leading politicians. It had been the manifest intention of the party that his return, if he were returned, should be hailed as a great Conservative triumph, and be made much of through the length and the breadth of the land. He was returned,—but the trumpets had not as yet been sounded loudly. On a sudden, within the space of forty-eight hours, the party had become ashamed of their man. And, now, who was to introduce him to the House? But with this feeling of shame on one side, there was already springing up an idea among another class that Melmotte might become as it were a Conservative tribune of the people,—that he might be the realization of that hitherto hazy mixture of Radicalism and old-fogyism, of which we have lately heard from a political master, whose eloquence has been employed in teaching us that progress can only be expected from those whose declared purpose is to stand still. The new farthing newspaper, 'The Mob,' was already putting Melmotte forward as a political hero, preaching with reference to his commercial transactions the grand doctrine that magnitude in affairs is a valid defence for certain irregularities. A Napoleon, though he may exterminate tribes in carrying out his projects, cannot be judged by the same law as a young lieutenant who may be punished for cruelty to a few negroes. 'The Mob' thought that a good deal should be overlooked in a Melmotte, and that the philanthropy of his great designs should be allowed to cover a multitude of sins. I do not know that the theory was ever so plainly put forward as it was done by the ingenious and courageous writer in 'The Mob'; but in practice it has commanded the assent of many intelligent minds.

Mr Melmotte, therefore, though he was not where he had been before that wretched Squercum had set afloat the rumours as to the purchase of Pickering, was able to hold his head much higher than on the unfortunate night of the great banquet. He had replied to the letter from Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile, by a note written in the ordinary way in the office, and only signed by himself. In this he merely said that he would lose no time in settling matters as to the purchase of Pickering. Slow and Bideawhile were of course anxious that things should be settled. They wanted no prosecution for forgery. To make themselves clear in the matter, and their client,—and if possible to take some wind out of the sails of the odious Squercum;—this would suit them best. They were prone to hope that for his own sake Melmotte would raise the money. If it were raised there would be no reason why that note purporting to have been signed by Dolly Longestaffe should ever leave their office. They still protested their belief that it did bear Dolly's signature. They had various excuses for themselves. It would have been useless for them to summon Dolly to their office, as they knew from long experience that Dolly would not come. The very letter written by themselves,—as a suggestion,—and given to Dolly's father, had come back to them with Dolly's ordinary signature, sent to them,—as they believed,—with other papers by Dolly's father. What justification could be clearer? But still the money had not been paid. That was the fault of Longestaffe senior. But if the money could be paid, that would set everything right. Squercum evidently thought that the money would not be paid, and was ceaseless in his intercourse with Bideawhile's people. He charged Slow and Bideawhile with having delivered up the title-deeds on the authority of a mere note, and that a note with a forged signature. He demanded that the note should be impounded. On the receipt by Mr Bideawhile of Melmotte's rather curt reply Mr Squercum was informed that Mr Melmotte had promised to pay the money at once, but that a day or two must be allowed. Mr Squercum replied that on his client's behalf he should open the matter before the Lord Mayor.

But in this way two or three days had passed without any renewal of the accusation before the public, and Melmotte had in a certain degree recovered his position. The Beauclerks and the Luptons disliked and feared him as much as ever, but they did not quite dare to be so loud and confident in condemnation as they had been. It was pretty well known that Mr Longestaffe had not received his money,—and that was a condition of things tending greatly to shake the credit of a man living after Melmotte's fashion. But there was no crime in that. No forgery was implied by the publication of any statement to that effect. The Longestaffes, father and son, might probably have been very foolish. Whoever expected anything but folly from either? And Slow and Bideawhile might have been very remiss in their duty. It was astonishing, some people said, what things attorneys would do in these days! But they who had expected to see Melmotte behind the bars of a prison before this, and had regulated their conduct accordingly, now imagined that they had been deceived.

Had the Westminster triumph been altogether a triumph it would have become the pleasant duty of some popular Conservative to express to Melmotte the pleasure he would have in introducing his new political ally to the House. In such case Melmotte himself would have been walked up the chamber with a pleasurable ovation and the thing would have been done without trouble to him. But now this was not the position of affairs. Though the matter was debated at the Carlton, no such popular Conservative offered his services. 'I don't think we ought to throw him over,' Mr Beauclerk said. Sir Orlando Drought, quite a leading Conservative, suggested that as Lord Nidderdale was very intimate with Mr Melmotte he might do it. But Nidderdale was not the man for such a performance. He was a very good fellow and everybody liked him. He belonged to the House because his father had territorial influence in a Scotch county;—but he never did anything there, and his selection for such a duty would be a declaration to the world that nobody else would do it. 'It wouldn't hurt you, Lupton,' said Mr Beauclerk. 'Not at all,' said Lupton; 'but I also, like Nidderdale am a young man and of no use,—and a great deal too bashful.' Melmotte, who knew but little about it, went down to the House at four o'clock, somewhat cowed by want of companionship, but carrying out his resolution that he would be stopped by no phantom fears,—that he would lose nothing by want of personal pluck. He knew that he was a Member, and concluded that if he presented himself he would be able to make his way in and assume his right. But here again fortune befriended him. The very leader of the party, the very founder of that new doctrine of which it was thought that Melmotte might become an apostle and an expounder,—who, as the reader may remember, had undertaken to be present at the banquet when his colleagues were dismayed and untrue to him, and who kept his promise and sat there almost in solitude,—he happened to be entering the House, as his late host was claiming from the doorkeeper the fruition of his privilege. 'You had better let me accompany you,' said the Conservative leader, with something of chivalry in his heart. And so Mr Melmotte was introduced to the House by the head of his party! When this was seen many men supposed that the rumours had been proved to be altogether false. Was not this a guarantee sufficient to guarantee any man's respectability?

Lord Nidderdale saw his father in the lobby of the House of Lords that afternoon and told him what had occurred. The old man had been in a state of great doubt since the day of the dinner party. He was aware of the ruin that would be incurred by a marriage with Melmotte's daughter, if the things which had been said of Melmotte should be proved to be true. But he knew also that if his son should now recede, there must be an end of the match altogether;—and he did not believe the rumours. He was fully determined that the money should be paid down before the marriage was celebrated; but if his son were to secede now, of course no money would be forthcoming. He was prepared to recommend his son to go on with the affair still a little longer. 'Old Cure tells me he doesn't believe a word of it,' said the father. Cure was the family lawyer of the Marquises of Auld Reekie.

'There's some hitch about Dolly Longestaffe's money, sir,' said the son.

'What's that to us if he has our money ready? I suppose it isn't always easy even for a man like that to get a couple of hundred thousand together. I know I've never found it easy to get a thousand. If he has borrowed a trifle from Longestaffe to make up the girl's money, I shan't complain. You stand to your guns. There's no harm done till the parson has said the word.'

'You couldn't let me have a couple of hundred;—could you, sir?' suggested the son.

'No, I couldn't,' replied the father with a very determined aspect.

'I'm awfully hard up.'

'So am I.' Then the old man toddled into his own chamber, and after sitting there ten minutes went away home.

Lord Nidderdale also got quickly through his legislative duties and went to the Beargarden. There he found Grasslough and Miles Grendall dining together, and seated himself at the next table. They were full of news. 'You've heard it, I suppose,' said Miles in an awful whisper.

'Heard what?'

'I believe he doesn't know!' said Lord Grasslough. 'By Jove, Nidderdale, you're in a mess like some others.'

'What's up now?'

'Only fancy that they shouldn't have known down at the House! Vossner has bolted!'

'Bolted!' exclaimed Nidderdale, dropping the spoon with which he was just going to eat his soup.

'Bolted,' repeated Grasslough. Lord Nidderdale looked round the room and became aware of the awful expression of dismay which hung upon the features of all the dining members. 'Bolted, by George! He has sold all our acceptances to a fellow in Great Marlbro' that's called "Flatfleece".'

'I know him,' said Nidderdale shaking his head.

'I should think so,' said Miles ruefully.

'A bottle of champagne!' said Nidderdale, appealing to the waiter in almost a humble voice, feeling that he wanted sustenance in this new trouble that had befallen him. The waiter, beaten almost to the ground by an awful sense of the condition of the club, whispered to him the terrible announcement that there was not a bottle of champagne in the house. 'Good G——,' exclaimed the unfortunate nobleman. Miles Grendall shook his head. Grasslough shook his head.

'It's true,' said another young lord from the table on the other side. Then the waiter, still speaking with suppressed and melancholy voice, suggested that there was some port left. It was now the middle of July.

'Brandy?' suggested Nidderdale. There had been a few bottles of brandy, but they had been already consumed. 'Send out and get some brandy,' said Nidderdale with rapid impetuosity. But the club was so reduced in circumstances that he was obliged to take silver out of his pocket before he could get even such humble comfort as he now demanded.

Then Lord Grasslough told the whole story as far as it was known. Herr Vossner had not been seen since nine o'clock on the preceding evening. The head waiter had known for some weeks that heavy bills were due. It was supposed that three or four thousand pounds were owing to tradesmen, who now professed that the credit had been given, not to Herr Vossner but to the club. And the numerous acceptances for large sums which the accommodating purveyor held from many of the members had all been sold to Mr Flatfleece. Mr Flatfleece had spent a considerable portion of the day at the club, and it was now suggested that he and Herr Vossner were in partnership. At this moment Dolly Longestaffe came in. Dolly had been at the club before and had heard the story,—but had gone at once to another club for his dinner when he found that there was not even a bottle of wine to be had. 'Here's a go,' said Dolly. 'One thing atop of another! There'll be nothing left for anybody soon. Is that brandy you're drinking, Nidderdale? There was none here when I left.'

'Had to send round the corner for it, to the public.'

'We shall be sending round the corner for a good many things now. Does anybody know anything of that fellow Melmotte?'

'He's down in the House, as big as life,' said Nidderdale. 'He's all right I think.'

'I wish he'd pay me my money then. That fellow Flatfleece was here, and he showed me notes of mine for about L1,500! I write such a beastly hand that I never know whether I've written it or not. But, by George, a fellow can't eat and drink L1,500 in less than six months!'

'There's no knowing what you can do, Dolly,' said Lord Grasslough.

'He's paid some of your card money, perhaps,' said Nidderdale.

'I don't think he ever did. Carbury had a lot of my I.O.U.'s while that was going on, but I got the money for that from old Melmotte. How is a fellow to know? If any fellow writes D. Longestaffe, am I obliged to pay it? Everybody is writing my name! How is any fellow to stand that kind of thing? Do you think Melmotte's all right?' Nidderdale said that he did think so. 'I wish he wouldn't go and write my name then. That's a sort of thing that a man should be left to do for himself. I suppose Vossner is a swindler; but, by Jove, I know a worse than Vossner.' With that he turned on his heels and went into the smoking-room. And, after he was gone, there was silence at the table, for it was known that Lord Nidderdale was to marry Melmotte's daughter.

In the meantime a scene of a different kind was going on in the House of Commons. Melmotte had been seated on one of the back Conservative benches, and there he remained for a considerable time unnoticed and forgotten. The little emotion that had attended his entrance had passed away, and Melmotte was now no more than any one else. At first he had taken his hat off, but, as soon as he observed that the majority of members were covered, he put it on again. Then he sat motionless for an hour, looking round him and wondering. He had never hitherto been even in the gallery of the House. The place was very much smaller than he had thought, and much less tremendous. The Speaker did not strike him with the awe which he had expected, and it seemed to him that they who spoke were talking much like other people in other places. For the first hour he hardly caught the meaning of a sentence that was said, nor did he try to do so. One man got up very quickly after another, some of them barely rising on their legs to say the few words that they uttered. It seemed to him to be a very commonplace affair,—not half so awful as those festive occasions on which he had occasionally been called upon to propose a toast or to return thanks. Then suddenly the manner of the thing was changed, and one gentleman made a long speech. Melmotte by this time, weary of observing, had begun to listen, and words which were familiar to him reached his ears. The gentleman was proposing some little addition to a commercial treaty and was expounding in very strong language the ruinous injustice to which England was exposed by being tempted to use gloves made in a country in which no income tax was levied. Melmotte listened to his eloquence caring nothing about gloves, and very little about England's ruin. But in the course of the debate which followed, a question arose about the value of money, of exchange, and of the conversion of shillings into francs and dollars. About this Melmotte really did know something and he pricked up his ears. It seemed to him that a gentleman whom he knew very well in the city,—and who had maliciously stayed away from his dinner,—one Mr Brown, who sat just before him on the same side of the House, and who was plodding wearily and slowly along with some pet fiscal theory of his own, understood nothing at all of what he was saying. Here was an opportunity for himself! Here was at his hand the means of revenging himself for the injury done him, and of showing to the world at the same time that he was not afraid of his city enemies! It required some courage certainly,—this attempt that suggested itself to him of getting upon his legs a couple of hours after his first introduction to parliamentary life. But he was full of the lesson which he was now ever teaching himself. Nothing should cow him. Whatever was to be done by brazen-faced audacity he would do. It seemed to be very easy, and he saw no reason why he should not put that old fool right. He knew nothing of the forms of the House;—was more ignorant of them than an ordinary schoolboy;—but on that very account felt less trepidation than might another parliamentary novice. Mr Brown was tedious and prolix; and Melmotte, though he thought much of his project and had almost told himself that he would do the thing, was still doubting, when, suddenly, Mr Brown sat down. There did not seem to be any particular end to the speech, nor had Melmotte followed any general thread of argument. But a statement had been made and repeated, containing, as Melmotte thought, a fundamental error in finance; and he longed to set the matter right. At any rate he desired to show the House that Mr Brown did not know what he was talking about,—because Mr Brown had not come to his dinner. When Mr Brown was seated, nobody at once rose. The subject was not popular, and they who understood the business of the House were well aware that the occasion had simply been one on which two or three commercial gentlemen, having crazes of their own, should be allowed to ventilate them. The subject would have dropped;—but on a sudden the new member was on his legs.

Now it was probably not in the remembrance of any gentleman there that a member had got up to make a speech within two or three hours of his first entry into the House. And this gentleman was one whose recent election had been of a very peculiar kind. It had been considered by many of his supporters that his name should be withdrawn just before the ballot; by others that he would be deterred by shame from showing himself even if he were elected; and again by another party that his appearance in Parliament would be prevented by his disappearance within the walls of Newgate. But here he was, not only in his seat, but on his legs! The favourable grace, the air of courteous attention, which is always shown to a new member when he first speaks, was extended also to Melmotte. There was an excitement in the thing which made gentlemen willing to listen, and a consequent hum, almost of approbation.

As soon as Melmotte was on his legs, and, looking round, found that everybody was silent with the intent of listening to him, a good deal of his courage oozed out of his fingers' ends. The House, which, to his thinking, had by no means been august while Mr Brown had been toddling through his speech, now became awful. He caught the eyes of great men fixed upon him,—of men who had not seemed to him to be at all great as he had watched them a few minutes before, yawning beneath their hats. Mr Brown, poor as his speech had been, had, no doubt, prepared it,—and had perhaps made three or four such speeches every year for the last fifteen years. Melmotte had not dreamed of putting two words together. He had thought, as far as he had thought at all, that he could rattle off what he had to say just as he might do it when seated in his chair at the Mexican Railway Board. But there was the Speaker, and those three clerks in their wigs, and the mace,—and worse than all, the eyes of that long row of statesmen opposite to him! His position was felt by him to be dreadful. He had forgotten even the very point on which he had intended to crush Mr Brown.

But the courage of the man was too high to allow him to be altogether quelled at once. The hum was prolonged; and though he was red in the face, perspiring, and utterly confused, he was determined to make a dash at the matter with the first words which would occur to him. 'Mr Brown is all wrong,' he said. He had not even taken off his hat as he rose. Mr Brown turned slowly round and looked up at him. Some one, whom he could not exactly hear, touching him behind, suggested that he should take off his hat. There was a cry of order, which of course he did not understand. 'Yes, you are,' said Melmotte, nodding his head, and frowning angrily at poor Mr Brown.

'The honourable member,' said the Speaker, with the most good-natured voice which he could assume, 'is not perhaps as yet aware that he should not call another member by his name. He should speak of the gentleman to whom he alluded as the honourable member for Whitechapel. And in speaking he should address, not another honourable member, but the chair.'

'You should take your hat off,' said the good-natured gentleman behind.

In such a position how should any man understand so many and such complicated instructions at once, and at the same time remember the gist of the argument to be produced? He did take off his hat, and was of course made hotter and more confused by doing so. 'What he said was all wrong,' continued Melmotte; 'and I should have thought a man out of the City, like Mr Brown, ought to have known better.' Then there were repeated calls of order, and a violent ebullition of laughter from both sides of the House. The man stood for a while glaring around him, summoning his own pluck for a renewal of his attack on Mr Brown, determined that he would be appalled and put down neither by the ridicule of those around him, nor by his want of familiarity with the place; but still utterly unable to find words with which to carry on the combat. 'I ought to know something about it,' said Melmotte sitting down and hiding his indignation and his shame under his hat.

'We are sure that the honourable member for Westminster does understand the subject,' said the leader of the House, 'and we shall be very glad to hear his remarks. The House I am sure will pardon ignorance of its rules in so young a member.'

But Mr Melmotte would not rise again. He had made a great effort, and had at any rate exhibited his courage. Though they might all say that he had not displayed much eloquence, they would be driven to admit that he had not been ashamed to show himself. He kept his seat till the regular stampede was made for dinner, and then walked out with as stately a demeanour as he could assume.

'Well, that was plucky!' said Cohenlupe, taking his friend's arm in the lobby.

'I don't see any pluck in it. That old fool Brown didn't know what he was talking about, and I wanted to tell them so. They wouldn't let me do it, and there's an end of it. It seems to me to be a stupid sort of a place.'

'Has Longestaffe's money been paid?' said Cohenlupe opening his black eyes while he looked up into his friend's face.

'Don't you trouble your head about Longestaffe, or his money either,' said Melmotte, getting into his brougham; 'do you leave Mr Longestaffe and his money to me. I hope you are not such a fool as to be scared by what the other fools say. When men play such a game as you and I are concerned in, they ought to know better than to be afraid of every word that is spoken.'

'Oh, dear; yes,' said Cohenlupe apologetically. 'You don't suppose that I am afraid of anything.' But at that moment Mr Cohenlupe was meditating his own escape from the dangerous shores of England, and was trying to remember what happy country still was left in which an order from the British police would have no power to interfere with the comfort of a retired gentleman such as himself.

That evening Madame Melmotte told her husband that Marie was now willing to marry Lord Nidderdale;—but she did not say anything as to the crossing-sweeper or the black footman, nor did she allude to Marie's threat of the sort of life she would lead her husband.



CHAPTER LXX - SIR FELIX MEDDLES WITH MANY MATTERS

There is no duty more certain or fixed in the world than that which calls upon a brother to defend his sister from ill-usage; but, at the same time, in the way we live now, no duty is more difficult, and we may say generally more indistinct. The ill-usage to which men's sisters are most generally exposed is one which hardly admits of either protection or vengeance,—although the duty of protecting and avenging is felt and acknowledged. We are not allowed to fight duels, and that banging about of another man with a stick is always disagreeable and seldom successful. A John Crumb can do it, perhaps, and come out of the affair exulting; but not a Sir Felix Carbury, even if the Sir Felix of the occasion have the requisite courage. There is a feeling, too, when a girl has been jilted,—thrown over, perhaps, is the proper term,—after the gentleman has had the fun of making love to her for an entire season, and has perhaps even been allowed privileges as her promised husband, that the less said the better. The girl does not mean to break her heart for love of the false one, and become the tragic heroine of a tale for three months. It is her purpose again to

—trick her beams, and with new-spangled ore Flame in the forehead of the morning sky.

Though this one has been false, as were perhaps two or three before, still the road to success is open. Uno avulso non deficit alter. But if all the notoriety of cudgels and cutting whips be given to the late unfortunate affair, the difficulty of finding a substitute will be greatly increased. The brother recognizes his duty, and prepares for vengeance. The injured one probably desires that she may be left to fight her own little battles alone.

'Then, by heaven, he shall answer it to me,' Sir Felix had said very grandly, when his sister had told him that she was engaged to a man who was, as he thought he knew, engaged also to marry another woman. Here, no doubt, was gross ill-usage, and opportunity at any rate for threats. No money was required and no immediate action,—and Sir Felix could act the fine gentleman and the dictatorial brother at very little present expense. But Hetta, who ought perhaps to have known her brother more thoroughly, was fool enough to believe him. On the day but one following, no answer had as yet come from Roger Carbury,—nor could as yet have come. But Hetta's mind was full of her trouble, and she remembered her brother's threat. Felix had forgotten that he had made a threat,—and, indeed, had thought no more of the matter since his interview with his sister.

'Felix,' she said, 'you won't mention that to Mr Montague!'

'Mention what? Oh! about that woman, Mrs Hurtle? Indeed I shall. A man who does that kind of thing ought to be crushed;—and, by heavens, if he does it to you, he shall be crushed.'

'I want to tell you, Felix. If it is so, I will see him no more.'

'If it is so! I tell you I know it.'

'Mamma has written to Roger. At least I feel sure she has.'

'What has she written to him for? What has Roger Carbury to do with our affairs?'

'Only you said he knew! If he says so, that is, if you and he both say that he is to marry that woman,—I will not see Mr Montague again. Pray do not go to him. If such a misfortune does come, it is better to bear it and to be silent. What good can be done?'

'Leave that to me,' said Sir Felix, walking out of the room with much fraternal bluster. Then he went forth, and at once had himself driven to Paul Montague's lodgings. Had Hetta not been foolish enough to remind him of his duty, he would not now have undertaken the task. He too, no doubt, remembered as he went that duels were things of the past, and that even fists and sticks are considered to be out of fashion. 'Montague,' he said, assuming all the dignity of demeanour that his late sorrows had left to him, 'I believe I am right in saying that you are engaged to marry that American lady, Mrs Hurtle.'

'Then let me tell you that you were never more wrong in your life. What business have you with Mrs Hurtle?'

'When a man proposes to my sister, I think I've a great deal of business,' said Sir Felix.

'Well;—yes; I admit that fully. If I answered you roughly, I beg your pardon. Now as to the facts. I am not going to marry Mrs Hurtle. I suppose I know how you have heard her name;—but as you have heard it, I have no hesitation in telling you so much. As you know where she is to be found you can go and ask her if you please. On the other hand, it is the dearest wish of my heart to marry your sister. I trust that will be enough for you.'

'You were engaged to Mrs Hurtle?'

'My dear Carbury, I don't think I'm bound to tell you all the details of my past life. At any rate, I don't feel inclined to do so in answer to hostile questions. I dare say you have heard enough of Mrs Hurtle to justify you, as your sister's brother, in asking me whether I am in any way entangled by a connection with her. I tell you that I am not. If you still doubt, I refer you to the lady herself. Beyond that, I do not think I am called on to go; and beyond that I won't go,—at any rate, at present.' Sir Felix still blustered, and made what capital he could out of his position as a brother; but he took no steps towards positive revenge. 'Of course, Carbury,' said the other, 'I wish to regard you as a brother; and if I am rough to you, it is only because you are rough to me.'

Sir Felix was now in that part of town which he had been accustomed to haunt,—for the first time since his misadventure,—and, plucking up his courage, resolved that he would turn into the Beargarden. He would have a glass of sherry, and face the one or two men who would as yet be there, and in this way gradually creep back to his old habits. But when he arrived there, the club was shut up. 'What the deuce is Vossner about?' said he, pulling out his watch. It was nearly five o'clock. He rang the bell, and knocked at the door, feeling that this was an occasion for courage. One of the servants, in what we may call private clothes, after some delay, drew back the bolts, and told him the astounding news;—The club was shut up! 'Do you mean to say I can't come in?' said Sir Felix. The man certainly did mean to tell him so, for he opened the door no more than a foot, and stood in that narrow aperture. Mr Vossner had gone away. There had been a meeting of the Committee, and the club was shut up. Whatever further information rested in the waiter's bosom he declined to communicate to Sir Felix Carbury.

'By George!' The wrong that was done him filled the young baronet's bosom with indignation. He had intended, he assured himself, to dine at his club, to spend the evening there sportively, to be pleasant among his chosen companions. And now the club was shut up, and Vossner had gone away! What business had the club to be shut up? What right had Vossner to go away? Had he not paid his subscription in advance? Throughout the world, the more wrong a man does, the more indignant is he at wrong done to him. Sir Felix almost thought that he could recover damages from the whole Committee.

He went direct to Mrs Pipkin's house. When he made that half promise of marriage in Mrs Pipkin's hearing, he had said that he would come again on the morrow. This he had not done; but of that he thought nothing. Such breaches of faith, when committed by a young man in his position, require not even an apology. He was admitted by Ruby herself who was of course delighted to see him. 'Who do you think is in town?' she said. 'John Crumb; but though he came here ever so smart, I wouldn't so much as speak to him, except to tell him to go away.' Sir Felix, when he heard the name, felt an uncomfortable sensation creep over him. 'I don't know I'm sure what he should come after me for, and me telling him as plain as the nose on his face that I never want to see him again.'

'He's not of much account,' said the baronet.

'He would marry me out and out immediately, if I'd have him,' continued Ruby, who perhaps thought that her honest old lover should not be spoken of as being altogether of no account. 'And he has everything comfortable in the way of furniture, and all that. And they do say he's ever so much money in the bank. But I detest him,' said Ruby, shaking her pretty head, and inclining herself towards her aristocratic lover's shoulder.

This took place in the back parlour, before Mrs Pipkin had ascended from the kitchen prepared to disturb so much romantic bliss with wretched references to the cold outer world. 'Well, now, Sir Felix,' she began, 'if things is square, of course you're welcome to see my niece.'

'And what if they're round, Mrs Pipkin?' said the gallant, careless, sparkling Lothario.

'Well, or round either, so long as they're honest.'

'Ruby and I are both honest;—ain't we, Ruby? I want to take her out to dinner, Mrs Pipkin. She shall be back before late;—before ten; she shall indeed.' Ruby inclined herself still more closely towards his shoulder. 'Come, Ruby, get your hat and change your dress, and we'll be off. I've ever so many things to tell you.'

Ever so many things to tell her! They must be to fix a day for the marriage, and to let her know where they were to live, and to settle what dress she should wear,—and perhaps to give her the money to go and buy it! Ever so many things to tell her! She looked up into Mrs Pipkin's face with imploring eyes. Surely on such an occasion as this an aunt would not expect that her niece should be a prisoner and a slave. 'Have it been put in writing, Sir Felix Carbury?' demanded Mrs Pipkin with cruel gravity. Mrs Hurtle had given it as her decided opinion that Sir Felix would not really mean to marry Ruby Ruggles unless he showed himself willing to do so with all the formality of a written contract.

'Writing be bothered,' said Sir Felix.

'That's all very well, Sir Felix. Writing do bother, very often. But when a gentleman has intentions, a bit of writing shows it plainer nor words. Ruby don't go nowhere to dine unless you puts it into writing.'

'Aunt Pipkin!' exclaimed the wretched Ruby.

'What do you think I'm going to do with her?' asked Sir Felix.

'If you want to make her your wife, put it in writing. And if it be as you don't, just say so, and walk away,—free.'

'I shall go,' said Ruby. 'I'm not going to be kept here a prisoner for any one. I can go when I please. You wait, Felix, and I'll be down in a minute.' The girl, with a nimble spring, ran upstairs, and began to change her dress without giving herself a moment for thought.

'She don't come back no more here, Sir Felix,' said Mrs Pipkin, in her most solemn tones. 'She ain't nothing to me, no more than she was my poor dear husband's sister's child. There ain't no blood between us, and won't be no disgrace. But I'd be loth to see her on the streets.'

'Then why won't you let me bring her back again?'

''Cause that'd be the way to send her there. You don't mean to marry her.' To this Sir Felix said nothing. 'You're not thinking of that. It's just a bit of sport,—and then there she is, an old shoe to be chucked away, just a rag to be swept into the dust-bin. I've seen scores of 'em, and I'd sooner a child of mine should die in a workus', or be starved to death. But it's all nothing to the likes o' you.'

'I haven't done her any harm,' said Sir Felix, almost frightened.

'Then go away, and don't do her any. That's Mrs Hurtle's door open. You go and speak to her. She can talk a deal better nor me.'

'Mrs Hurtle hasn't been able to manage her own affairs very well.'

'Mrs Hurtle's a lady, Sir Felix, and a widow, and one as has seen the world.' As she spoke, Mrs Hurtle came downstairs, and an introduction, after some rude fashion, was effected between her and Sir Felix. Mrs Hurtle had heard often of Sir Felix Carbury, and was quite as certain as Mrs Pipkin that he did not mean to marry Ruby Ruggles. In a few minutes Felix found himself alone with Mrs Hurtle in her own room. He had been anxious to see the woman since he had heard of her engagement with Paul Montague, and doubly anxious since he had also heard of Paul's engagement with his sister. It was not an hour since Paul himself had referred him to her for corroboration of his own statement.

'Sir Felix Carbury,' she said, 'I am afraid you are doing that poor girl no good, and are intending to do her none.' It did occur to him very strongly that this could be no affair of Mrs Hurtle's, and that he, as a man of position in society, was being interfered with in an unjustifiable manner. Aunt Pipkin wasn't even an aunt; but who was Mrs Hurtle? 'Would it not be better that you should leave her to become the wife of a man who is really fond of her?'

He could already see something in Mrs Hurtle's eye which prevented his at once bursting into wrath;—but! who was Mrs Hurtle, that she should interfere with him? 'Upon my word, ma'am,' he said, 'I'm very much obliged to you, but I don't quite know to what I owe the honour of your—your—'

'Interference you mean.'

'I didn't say so, but perhaps that's about it.'

'I'd interfere to save any woman that God ever made,' said Mrs Hurtle with energy. 'We're all apt to wait a little too long, because we're ashamed to do any little good that chance puts in our way. You must go and leave her, Sir Felix.'

'I suppose she may do as she pleases about that.'

'Do you mean to make her your wife?' asked Mrs Hurtle sternly.

'Does Mr Paul Montague mean to make you his wife?' rejoined Sir Felix with an impudent swagger. He had struck the blow certainly hard enough, and it had gone all the way home. She had not surmised that he would have heard aught of her own concerns. She only barely connected him with that Roger Carbury who, she knew, was Paul's great friend, and she had as yet never heard that Hetta Carbury was the girl whom Paul loved. Had Paul so talked about her that this young scamp should know all her story?