She thought awhile,—she had to think for a moment,—before she could answer him. 'I do not see,' she said, with a faint attempt at a smile, 'that there is any parallel between the two cases. I, at any rate, am old enough to take care of myself. Should he not marry me, I am as I was before. Will it be so with that poor girl if she allows herself to be taken about the town by you at night?' She had desired in what she said to protect Ruby rather than herself. What could it matter whether this young man was left in a belief that she was, or that she was not, about to be married?

'If you'll answer me, I'll answer you,' said Sir Felix. 'Does Mr Montague mean to make you his wife?'

'It does not concern you to know,' said she, flashing upon him. 'The question is insolent.'

'It does concern me,—a great deal more than anything about Ruby can concern you. And as you won't answer me, I won't answer you.'

'Then, sir, that girl's fate will be upon your head.'

'I know all about that,' said the baronet.

'And the young man who has followed her up to town will probably know where to find you,' added Mrs Hurtle.

To such a threat as this, no answer could be made, and Sir Felix left the room. At any rate, John Crumb was not there at present. And were there not policemen in London? And what additional harm would be done to John Crumb, or what increase of danger engendered in that true lover's breast, by one additional evening's amusement? Ruby had danced with him so often at the Music Hall that John Crumb could hardly be made more bellicose by the fact of her dining with him on this evening. When he descended, he found Ruby in the hall, all arrayed. 'You don't come in here again to-night,' said Mrs Pipkin, thumping the little table which stood in the passage, 'if you goes out of that there door with that there young man.'

'Then I shall,' said Ruby linking herself on to her lover's arm.

'Baggage! Slut!' said Mrs Pipkin; 'after all I've done for you, just as one as though you were my own flesh and blood.'

'I've worked for it, I suppose;—haven't I?' rejoined Ruby.

'You send for your things to-morrow, for you don't come in here no more. You ain't nothing to me no more nor no other girl. But I'd 've saved you, if you'd but a' let me. As for you,'—and she looked at Sir Felix,—'only because I've lodgings to let, and because of the lady upstairs, I'd shake you that well, you'd never come here no more after poor girls.' I do not think that she need have feared any remonstrance from Mrs Hurtle, even had she put her threat into execution.

Sir Felix, thinking that he had had enough of Mrs Pipkin and her lodger, left the house with Ruby on his arm. For the moment, Ruby had been triumphant, and was happy. She did not stop to consider whether her aunt would or would not open her door when she should return tired, and perhaps repentant. She was on her lover's arm, in her best clothes, and going out to have a dinner given to her. And her lover had told her that he had ever so many things,—ever so many things to say to her! But she would ask no impertinent questions in the first hour of her bliss. It was so pleasant to walk with him up to Pentonville;—so joyous to turn into a gay enclosure, half public-house and half tea-garden; so pleasant to hear him order the good things, which in his company would be so nice! Who cannot understand that even an urban Rosherville must be an Elysium to those who have lately been eating their meals in all the gloom of a small London underground kitchen? There we will leave Ruby in her bliss.

At about nine that evening John Crumb called at Mrs Pipkin's, and was told that Ruby had gone out with Sir Felix Carbury. He hit his leg a blow with his fist, and glared out of his eyes. 'He'll have it hot some day,' said John Crumb. He was allowed to remain waiting for Ruby till midnight, and then, with a sorrowful heart, he took his departure.



CHAPTER LXXI - JOHN CRUMB FALLS INTO TROUBLE

It was on a Friday evening, an inauspicious Friday, that poor Ruby Ruggles had insisted on leaving the security of her Aunt Pipkin's house with her aristocratic and vicious lover, in spite of the positive assurance made to her by Mrs Pipkin that if she went forth in such company she should not be allowed to return. 'Of course you must let her in,' Mrs Hurtle had said soon after the girl's departure. Whereupon Mrs Pipkin had cried. She knew her own softness too well to suppose it to be possible that she could keep the girl out in the streets all night; but yet it was hard upon her, very hard, that she should be so troubled. 'We usen't to have our ways like that when I was young,' she said, sobbing. What was to be the end of it? Was she to be forced by circumstances to keep the girl always there, let the girl's conduct be what it might? Nevertheless she acknowledged that Ruby must be let in when she came back. Then, about nine o'clock, John Crumb came; and the latter part of the evening was more melancholy even than the first. It was impossible to conceal the truth from John Crumb. Mrs Hurtle saw the poor man and told the story in Mrs Pipkin's presence.

'She's headstrong, Mr Crumb,' said Mrs Hurtle.

'She is that, ma'am. And it was along wi' the baronite she went?'

'It was so, Mr Crumb.'

'Baro-nite! Well;—perhaps I shall catch him some of these days;—went to dinner wi' him, did she? Didn't she have no dinner here?'

Then Mrs Pipkin spoke up with a keen sense of offence. Ruby Ruggles had had as wholesome a dinner as any young woman in London,—a bullock's heart and potatoes,—just as much as ever she had pleased to eat of it. Mrs Pipkin could tell Mr Crumb that there was 'no starvation nor yet no stint in her house.' John Crumb immediately produced a very thick and admirably useful blue cloth cloak, which he had brought up with him to London from Bungay, as a present to the woman who had been good to his Ruby. He assured her that he did not doubt that her victuals were good and plentiful, and went on to say that he had made bold to bring her a trifle out of respect. It was some little time before Mrs Pipkin would allow herself to be appeased;—but at last she permitted the garment to be placed on her shoulders. But it was done after a melancholy fashion. There was no smiling consciousness of the bestowal of joy on the countenance of the donor as he gave it, no exuberance of thanks from the recipient as she received it. Mrs Hurtle, standing by, declared it to be perfect;—but the occasion was one which admitted of no delight. 'It's very good of you, Mr Crumb, to think of an old woman like me,—particularly when you've such a deal of trouble with a young un'.'

'It's like the smut in the wheat, Mrs Pipkin, or the d'sease in the 'tatoes;—it has to be put up with, I suppose. Is she very partial, ma'am, to that young baronite?' This question was asked of Mrs Hurtle.

'Just a fancy for the time, Mr Crumb,' said the lady.

'They never thinks as how their fancies may wellnigh half kill a man!' Then he was silent for a while, sitting back in his chair, not moving a limb, with his eyes fastened on Mrs Pipkin's ceiling. Mrs Hurtle had some work in her hand, and sat watching him. The man was to her an extraordinary being,—so constant, so slow, so unexpressive, so unlike her own countrymen,—willing to endure so much, and at the same time so warm in his affections! 'Sir Felix Carbury!' he said. 'I'll Sir Felix him some of these days. If it was only dinner, wouldn't she be back afore this, ma'am?'

'I suppose they've gone to some place of amusement,' said Mrs Hurtle.

'Like enough,' said John Crumb in a low voice.

'She's that mad after dancing as never was,' said Mrs Pipkin.

'And where is it as 'em dances?' asked Crumb, getting up from his chair, and stretching himself. It was evident to both the ladies that he was beginning to think that he would follow Ruby to the music hall. Neither of them answered him, however, and then he sat down again. 'Does 'em dance all night at them places, Mrs Pipkin?'

'They do pretty nearly all that they oughtn't to do,' said Mrs Pipkin. John Crumb raised one of his fists, brought it down heavily on the palm of his other hand, and then sat silent for awhile.

'I never knowed as she was fond o' dancing,' he said. 'I'd a had dancing for her down at Bungay,—just as ready as anything. D'ye think, ma'am, it's the dancing she's after, or the baro-nite?' This was another appeal to Mrs Hurtle.

'I suppose they go together,' said the lady.

Then there was another long pause, at the end of which poor John Crumb burst out with some violence. 'Domn him! Domn him! What 'ad I ever dun to him? Nothing! Did I ever interfere wi' him? Never! But I wull. I wull. I wouldn't wonder but I'll swing for this at Bury!'

'Oh, Mr Crumb, don't talk like that,' said Mrs Pipkin.

'Mr Crumb is a little disturbed, but he'll get over it presently,' said Mrs Hurtle.

'She's a nasty slut to go and treat a young man as she's treating you,' said Mrs Pipkin.

'No, ma'am;—she ain't nasty,' said the lover. 'But she's crou'll,— horrid crou'll. It's no more use my going down about meal and pollard, nor business, and she up here with that baro-nite,—no, no more nor nothin'! When I handles it I don't know whether its middlings nor nothin' else. If I was to twist his neck, ma'am, would you take it on yourself to say as I was wrong?'

'I'd sooner hear that you had taken the girl away from him,' said Mrs Hurtle.

'I could pretty well eat him,—that's what I could. Half past eleven; is it? She must come some time, mustn't she?' Mrs Pipkin, who did not want to burn candles all night long, declared that she could give no assurance on that head. If Ruby did come, she should, on that night, be admitted. But Mrs Pipkin thought that it would be better to get up and let her in than to sit up for her. Poor Mr Crumb did not at once take the hint, and remained there for another half-hour, saying little, but waiting with the hope that Ruby might come. But when the clock struck twelve he was told that he must go. Then he slowly collected his limbs and dragged them out of the house.

'That young man is a good fellow,' said Mrs Hurtle as soon as the door was closed.

'A deal too good for Ruby Ruggles,' said Mrs Pipkin. 'And he can maintain a wife. Mr Carbury says as he's as well to do as any tradesman down in them parts.'

Mrs Hurtle disliked the name of Mr Carbury, and took this last statement as no evidence in John Crumb's favour. 'I don't know that I think better of the man for having Mr Carbury's friendship,' she said.

'Mr Carbury ain't any way like his cousin, Mrs Hurtle.'

'I don't think much of any of the Carburys, Mrs Pipkin. It seems to me that everybody here is either too humble or too overbearing. Nobody seems content to stand firm on his own footing and interfere with nobody else.' This was all Greek to poor Mrs Pipkin. 'I suppose we may as well go to bed now. When that girl comes and knocks, of course we must let her in. If I hear her, I'll go down and open the door for her.'

Mrs Pipkin made very many apologies to her lodger for the condition of her household. She would remain up herself to answer the door at the first sound, so that Mrs Hurtle should not be disturbed. She would do her best to prevent any further annoyance. She trusted Mrs Hurtle would see that she was endeavouring to do her duty by the naughty wicked girl. And then she came round to the point of her discourse. She hoped that Mrs Hurtle would not be induced to quit the rooms by these disagreeable occurrences. 'I don't mind saying it now, Mrs Hurtle, but your being here is ever so much to me. I ain't nothing to depend on,—only lodgers, and them as is any good is so hard to get!' The poor woman hardly understood Mrs Hurtle, who, as a lodger, was certainly peculiar. She cared nothing for disturbances, and rather liked than otherwise the task of endeavouring to assist in the salvation of Ruby. Mrs Hurtle begged that Mrs Pipkin would go to bed. She would not be in the least annoyed by the knocking. Another half-hour had thus been passed by the two ladies in the parlour after Crumb's departure. Then Mrs Hurtle took her candle and had ascended the stairs half way to her own sitting-room, when a loud double knock was heard. She immediately joined Mrs Pipkin in the passage. The door was opened, and there stood Ruby Ruggles, John Crumb, and two policemen! Ruby rushed in, and casting herself on to one of the stairs began to throw her hands about, and to howl piteously. 'Laws a mercy; what is it?' asked Mrs Pipkin.

'He's been and murdered him!' screamed Ruby. 'He has! He's been and murdered him!'

'This young woman is living here;—is she?' asked one of the policemen.

'She is living here,' said Mrs Hurtle. But now we must go back to the adventures of John Crumb after he had left the house.

He had taken a bedroom at a small inn close to the Eastern Counties Railway Station which he was accustomed to frequent when business brought him up to London, and thither he proposed to himself to return. At one time there had come upon him an idea that he would endeavour to seek Ruby and his enemy among the dancing saloons of the metropolis; and he had asked a question with that view. But no answer had been given which seemed to aid him in his project, and his purpose had been abandoned as being too complex and requiring more intelligence than he gave himself credit for possessing. So he had turned down a street with which he was so far acquainted as to know that it would take him to the Islington Angel,—where various roads meet, and whence he would know his way eastwards. He had just passed the Angel, and the end of Goswell Road, and was standing with his mouth open, looking about, trying to make certain of himself that he would not go wrong, thinking that he would ask a policeman whom he saw, and hesitating because he feared that the man would want to know his business. Then, of a sudden, he heard a woman scream, and knew that it was Ruby's voice. The sound was very near him, but in the glimmer of the gaslight he could not quite see whence it came. He stood still, putting his hand up to scratch his head under his hat,— trying to think what, in such an emergency, it would be well that he should do. Then he heard the voice distinctly, 'I won't;—I won't,' and after that a scream. Then there were further words. 'It's no good —I won't.' At last he was able to make up his mind. He rushed after the sound, and turning down a passage to the right which led back into Goswell Road, saw Ruby struggling in a man's arms. She had left the dancing establishment with her lover; and when they had come to the turn of the passage, there had arisen a question as to her further destiny for the night. Ruby, though she well remembered Mrs Pipkin's threats, was minded to try her chance at her aunt's door. Sir Felix was of opinion that he could make a preferable arrangement for her; and as Ruby was not at once amenable to his arguments he had thought that a little gentle force might avail him. He had therefore dragged Ruby into the passage. The unfortunate one! That so ill a chance should have come upon him in the midst of his diversion! He had swallowed several tumblers of brandy and water, and was therefore brave with reference to that interference of the police, the fear of which might otherwise have induced him to relinquish his hold of Ruby's arm when she first raised her voice. But what amount of brandy and water would have enabled him to persevere, could he have dreamed that John Crumb was near him? On a sudden he found a hand on his coat, and he was swung violently away, and brought with his back against the railings so forcibly as to have the breath almost knocked out of his body. But he could hear Ruby's exclamation, 'If it isn't John Crumb!' Then there came upon him a sense of coming destruction, as though the world for him were all over; and, collapsing throughout his limbs, he slunk down upon the ground.

'Get up, you wiper,' said John Crumb. But the baronet thought it better to cling to the ground. 'You sholl get up,' said John, taking him by the collar of his coat and lifting him. 'Now, Ruby, he's a-going to have it,' said John. Whereupon Ruby screamed at the top of her voice, with a shriek very much louder than that which had at first attracted John Crumb's notice.

'Don't hit a man when he's down,' said the baronet, pleading as though for his life.

'I wunt,' said John;—'but I'll hit a fellow when un's up.' Sir Felix was little more than a child in the man's arms. John Crumb raised him, and catching him round the neck with his left arm,—getting his head into chancery as we used to say when we fought at school,—struck the poor wretch some half-dozen times violently in the face, not knowing or caring exactly where he hit him, but at every blow obliterating a feature. And he would have continued had not Ruby flown at him and rescued Sir Felix from his arms. 'He's about got enough of it,' said John Crumb as he gave over his work. Then Sir Felix fell again to the ground, moaning fearfully. 'I know'd he'd have to have it,' said John Crumb.

Ruby's screams of course brought the police, one arriving from each end of the passage on the scene of action at the same time. And now the cruellest thing of all was that Ruby in the complaints which she made to the policemen said not a word against Sir Felix, but was as bitter as she knew how to be in her denunciations of John Crumb. It was in vain that John endeavoured to make the man understand that the young woman had been crying out for protection when he had interfered. Ruby was very quick of speech and John Crumb was very slow. Ruby swore that nothing so horrible, so cruel, so bloodthirsty had ever been done before. Sir Felix himself when appealed to could say nothing. He could only moan and make futile efforts to wipe away the stream of blood from his face when the men stood him up leaning against the railings. And John, though he endeavoured to make the policemen comprehend the extent of the wickedness of the young baronet, would not say a word against Ruby. He was not even in the least angered by her denunciations of himself. As he himself said sometimes afterwards, he had 'dropped into the baronite' just in time, and, having been successful in this, felt no wrath against Ruby for having made such an operation necessary.

There was soon a third policeman on the spot, and a dozen other persons, cab-drivers, haunters of the street by night, and houseless wanderers, casuals who at this season of the year preferred the pavements to the poorhouse wards. They all took part against John Crumb. Why had the big man interfered between the young woman and her young man? Two or three of them wiped Sir Felix's face, and dabbed his eyes, and proposed this and the other remedy. Some thought that he had better be taken straight to an hospital. One lady remarked that he was so mashed and mauled that she was sure he would never 'come to' again. A precocious youth remarked that he was 'all one as a dead un'.' A cabman observed that he had ''ad it awful 'eavy.' To all these criticisms on his condition Sir Felix himself made no direct reply, but he intimated his desire to be carried away somewhere, though he did not much care whither.

At last the policemen among them decided upon a course of action. They had learned by the united testimony of Ruby and Crumb that Sir Felix was Sir Felix. He was to be carried in a cab by one constable to Bartholomew Hospital, who would then take his address so that he might be produced and bound over to prosecute. Ruby should be even conducted to the address she gave,—not half a mile from the spot on which they now stood,—and be left there or not according to the account which might be given of her. John Crumb must be undoubtedly locked up in the station-house. He was the offender;—for aught that any of them yet knew, the murderer. No one said a good word for him. He hardly said a good word for himself, and certainly made no objection to the treatment that had been proposed for him. But, no doubt, he was buoyed up inwardly by the conviction that he had thoroughly thrashed his enemy.

Thus it came to pass that the two policemen with John Crumb and Ruby came together to Mrs Pipkin's door. Ruby was still loud with complaints against the ruffian who had beaten her lover,—who, perhaps, had killed her loved one. She threatened the gallows, and handcuffs, and perpetual imprisonment, and an action for damages amidst her lamentations. But from Mrs Hurtle the policemen did manage to learn something of the truth. Oh yes;—the girl lived there and was— respectable. This man whom they had arrested was respectable also, and was the girl's proper lover. The other man who had been beaten was undoubtedly the owner of a title; but he was not respectable, and was only the girl's improper lover. And John Crumb's name was given. 'I'm John Crumb of Bungay,' said he, 'and I ain't afeared of nothin' nor nobody. And I ain't a been a drinking; no, I ain't. Mauled un'! In course I've mauled un'. And I meaned it. That ere young woman is engaged to be my wife.'

'No, I ain't,' shouted Ruby.

'But she is,' persisted John Crumb.

'Well then, I never will,' rejoined Ruby.

John Crumb turned upon her a look of love, and put his hand on his heart. Whereupon the senior policeman said that he saw at a glance how it all was, but that Mr Crumb had better come along with him just for the present. To this arrangement the unfortunate hero from Bungay made not the slightest objection.

'Miss Ruggles,' said Mrs Hurtle, 'if that young man doesn't conquer you at last you can't have a heart in your bosom.'

'Indeed and I have then, and I don't mean to give it him if it's ever so. He's been and killed Sir Felix.' Mrs Hurtle in a whisper to Mrs Pipkin expressed a wicked wish that it might be so. After that the three women all went to bed.



CHAPTER LXXII - 'ASK HIMSELF'

Roger Carbury when he received the letter from Hetta's mother desiring him to tell her all that he knew of Paul Montague's connection with Mrs Hurtle found himself quite unable to write a reply. He endeavoured to ask himself what he would do in such a case if he himself were not personally concerned. What advice in this emergency would he give to the mother and what to the daughter, were he himself uninterested? He was sure that, as Hetta's cousin and asking as though he were Hetta's brother, he would tell her that Paul Montague's entanglement with that American woman should have forbidden him at any rate for the present to offer his hand to any other lady. He thought that he knew enough of all the circumstances to be sure that such would be his decision. He had seen Mrs Hurtle with Montague at Lowestoft, and had known that they were staying together as friends at the same hotel. He knew that she had come to England with the express purpose of enforcing the fulfilment of an engagement which Montague had often acknowledged. He knew that Montague made frequent visits to her in London. He had, indeed, been told by Montague himself that, let the cost be what it might, the engagement should be and in fact had been broken off. He thoroughly believed the man's word, but put no trust whatever in his firmness. And, hitherto, he had no reason whatever for supposing that Mrs Hurtle had consented to be abandoned. What father, what elder brother would allow a daughter or a sister to become engaged to a man embarrassed by such difficulties? He certainly had counselled Montague to rid himself of the trammels by which he had surrounded himself;— but not on that account could he think that the man in his present condition was fit to engage himself to another woman.

All this was clear to Roger Carbury. But then it had been equally clear to him that he could not, as a man of honour, assist his own cause by telling a tale,—which tale had become known to him as the friend of the man against whom it would have to be told. He had resolved upon that as he left Montague and Mrs Hurtle together upon the sands at Lowestoft. But what was he to do now? The girl whom he loved had confessed her love for the other man,—that man, who in seeking the girl's love, had been as he thought so foul a traitor to himself! That he would hold himself as divided from the man by a perpetual and undying hostility he had determined. That his love for the woman would be equally perpetual he was quite sure. Already there were floating across his brain ideas of perpetuating his name in the person of some child of Hetta's,—but with the distinct understanding that he and the child's father should never see each other. No more than twenty-four hours had intervened between the receipt of Paul's letter and that from Lady Carbury,—but during those four-and-twenty hours he had almost forgotten Mrs Hurtle. The girl was gone from him, and he thought only of his own loss and of Paul's perfidy. Then came the direct question as to which he was called upon for a direct answer. Did he know anything of facts relating to the presence of a certain Mrs Hurtle in London which were of a nature to make it inexpedient that Hetta should accept Paul Montague as her betrothed lover? Of course he did. The facts were all familiar to him. But how was he to tell the facts? In what words was he to answer such a letter? If he told the truth as he knew it how was he to secure himself against the suspicion of telling a story against his rival in order that he might assist himself, or at any rate, punish the rival?

As he could not trust himself to write an answer to Lady Carbury's letter he determined that he would go to London. If he must tell the story he could tell it better face to face than by any written words. So he made the journey, arrived in town late in the evening, and knocked at the door in Welbeck Street between ten and eleven on the morning after the unfortunate meeting which took place between Sir Felix and John Crumb. The page when he opened the door looked as a page should look when the family to which he is attached is suffering from some terrible calamity. 'My lady' had been summoned to the hospital to see Sir Felix who was,—as the page reported,—in a very bad way indeed. The page did not exactly know what had happened, but supposed that Sir Felix had lost most of his limbs by this time. Yes; Miss Carbury was upstairs; and would no doubt see her cousin, though she, too, was in a very bad condition; and dreadfully put about. That poor Hetta should be 'put about' with her brother in the hospital and her lover in the toils of an abominable American woman was natural enough.

'What's this about Felix?' asked Roger. The new trouble always has precedence over those which are of earlier date.

'Oh Roger, I am so glad to see you. Felix did not come home last night, and this morning there came a man from the hospital in the city to say that he is there.'

'What has happened to him?'

'Somebody,—somebody has,—beaten him,' said Hetta whimpering. Then she told the story as far as she knew it. The messenger from the hospital had declared that the young man was in no danger and that none of his bones were broken, but that he was terribly bruised about the face, that his eyes were in a frightful condition, sundry of his teeth knocked out, and his lips cut open. But, the messenger had gone on to say, the house surgeon had seen no reason why the young gentleman should not be taken home. 'And mamma has gone to fetch him,' said Hetta.

'That's John Crumb,' said Roger. Hetta had never heard of John Crumb, and simply stared into her cousin's face. 'You have not been told about John Crumb? No;—you would not hear of him.'

'Why should John Crumb beat Felix like that?'

'They say, Hetta, that women are the cause of most troubles that occur in the world.' The girl blushed up to her eyes, as though the whole story of Felix's sin and folly had been told to her. 'If it be as I suppose,' continued Roger, 'John Crumb has considered himself to be aggrieved and has thus avenged himself.'

'Did you—know of him before?'

'Yes indeed;—very well. He is a neighbour of mine and was in love with a girl, with all his heart; and he would have made her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer her, and is an honest man with whom she would have been safe and respected and happy. Your brother saw her and, though he knew the story, though he had been told by myself that this honest fellow had placed his happiness on the girl's love, he thought,—well, I suppose he thought that such a pretty thing as this girl was too good for John Crumb.'

'But Felix has been going to marry Miss Melmotte!'

'You're old-fashioned, Hetta. It used to be the way,—to be off with your old love before you are on with the new; but that seems to be all changed now. Such fine young fellows as there are now can be in love with two at once. That I fear is what Felix has thought;—and now he has been punished.'

'You know all about it then?'

'No;—I don't know. But I think it has been so. I do know that John Crumb had threatened to do this thing, and I felt sure that sooner or later he would be as good as his word. If it has been so, who is to blame him?'

Hetta as she heard the story hardly knew whether her cousin, in his manner of telling the story, was speaking of that other man, of that stranger of whom she had never heard, or of himself. He would have made her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer her. He was an honest man with whom she would have been safe and respected and happy! He had looked at her while speaking as though it were her own case of which he spoke. And then, when he talked of the old-fashioned way, of being off with the old love before you are on with the new, had he not alluded to Paul Montague and this story of the American woman? But, if so, it was not for Hetta to notice it by words. He must speak more plainly than that before she could be supposed to know that he alluded to her own condition. 'It is very shocking,' she said.

'Shocking;—yes. One is shocked at it all. I pity your mother, and I pity you.'

'It seems to me that nothing ever will be happy for us,' said Hetta. She was longing to be told something of Mrs Hurtle, but she did not as yet dare to ask the question.

'I do not know whether to wait for your mother or not,' said he after a short pause.

'Pray wait for her if you are not very busy.'

'I came up only to see her, but perhaps she would not wish me to be here when she brings Felix back to the house.'

'Indeed she will. She would like you always to be here when there are troubles. Oh, Roger, I wish you could tell me.'

'Tell you what?'

'She has written to you;—has she not?'

'Yes; she has written to me.'

'And about me?'

'Yes;—about you, Hetta. And, Hetta, Mr Montague has written to me also.'

'He told me that he would,' whispered Hetta.

'Did he tell you my answer?'

'No;—he has told me of no answer. I have not seen him since.'

'You do not think that it can have been very kind, do you? I also have something of the feeling of John Crumb, though I shall not attempt to show it after the same fashion.'

'Did you not say the girl had promised to love that man?'

'I did not say so;—but she had promised. Yes, Hetta; there is a difference. The girl then was fickle and went back from her word. You never have done that. I am not justified in thinking even a hard thought of you. I have never harboured a hard thought of you. It is not you that I reproach. But he,—he has been if possible more false than Felix.'

'Oh, Roger, how has he been false?'

Still he was not wishful to tell her the story of Mrs Hurtle. The treachery of which he was speaking was that which he had thought had been committed by his friend towards himself. 'He should have left the place and never have come near you,' said Roger, 'when he found how it was likely to be with him. He owed it to me not to take the cup of water from my lips.'

How was she to tell him that the cup of water never could have touched his lips? And yet if this were the only falsehood of which he had to tell, she was bound to let him know that it was so. That horrid story of Mrs Hurtle;—she would listen to that if she could hear it. She would be all ears for that. But she could not admit that her lover had sinned in loving her. 'But, Roger,' she said,—'it would have been the same.'

'You may say so. You may feel it. You may know it. I at any rate will not contradict you when you say that it must have been so. But he didn't feel it. He didn't know it. He was to me as a younger brother,— and he has robbed me of everything. I understand, Hetta, what you mean. I should never have succeeded! My happiness would have been impossible if Paul had never come home from America. I have told myself so a hundred times, but I cannot therefore forgive him. And I won't forgive him, Hetta. Whether you are his wife, or another man's, or whether you are Hetta Carbury on to the end, my feeling to you will be the same. While we both live, you must be to me the dearest creature living. My hatred to him—'

'Oh, Roger, do not say hatred.'

'My hostility to him can make no difference in my feeling to you. I tell you that should you become his wife you will still be my love. As to not coveting,—how is a man to cease to covet that which he has always coveted? But I shall be separated from you. Should I be dying, then I should send for you. You are the very essence of my life. I have no dream of happiness otherwise than as connected with you. He might have my whole property and I would work for my bread, if I could only have a chance of winning you to share my toils with me.'

But still there was no word of Mrs Hurtle. 'Roger,' she said, 'I have given it all away now. It cannot be given twice.'

'If he were unworthy would your heart never change?'

'I think—never. Roger, is he unworthy?'

'How can you trust me to answer such a question? He is my enemy. He has been ungrateful to me as one man hardly ever is to another. He has turned all my sweetness to gall, all my flowers to bitter weeds; he has choked up all my paths. And now you ask me whether he is unworthy! I cannot tell you.'

'If you thought him worthy you would tell me,' she said, getting up and taking him by the arm.

'No;—I will tell you nothing. Go to some one else, not to me;' and he tried with gentleness but tried ineffectually to disengage himself from her hold.

'Roger, if you knew him to be good you would tell me, because you yourself are so good. Even though you hated him you would say so. It would not be you to leave a false impression even against your enemies. I ask you because, however it may be with you, I know I can trust you. I can be nothing else to you, Roger; but I love you as a sister loves, and I come to you as a sister comes to a brother. He has my heart. Tell me;—is there any reason why he should not also have my hand?'

'Ask himself, Hetta.'

'And you will tell me nothing? You will not try to save me though you know that I am in danger? Who is—Mrs Hurtle?'

'Have you asked him?'

'I had not heard her name when he parted from me. I did not even know that such a woman lived. Is it true that he has promised to marry her? Felix told me of her, and told me also that you knew. But I cannot trust Felix as I would trust you. And mamma says that it is so;—but mamma also bids me ask you. There is such a woman?'

'There is such a woman certainly.'

'And she has been,—a friend of Paul's?'

'Whatever be the story, Hetta, you shall not hear it from me. I will say neither evil nor good of the man except in regard to his conduct to myself. Send for him and ask him to tell you the story of Mrs Hurtle as it concerns himself. I do not think he will lie, but if he lies you will know that he is lying.'

'And that is all?'

'All that I can say, Hetta. You ask me to be your brother;—but I cannot put myself in the place of your brother. I tell you plainly that I am your lover, and shall remain so. Your brother would welcome the man whom you would choose as your husband. I can never welcome any husband of yours. I think if twenty years were to pass over us, and you were still Hetta Carbury, I should still be your lover,—though an old one. What is now to be done about Felix, Hetta?'

'Ah what can be done? I think sometimes that it will break mamma's heart.'

'Your mother makes me angry by her continual indulgence.'

'But what can she do? You would not have her turn him into the street?'

'I do not know that I would not. For a time it might serve him perhaps. Here is the cab. Here they are. Yes; you had better go down and let your mother know that I am here. They will perhaps take him up to bed, so that I need not see him.'

Hetta did as she was bid, and met her mother and her brother in the hall. Felix having the full use of his arms and legs was able to descend from the cab, and hurry across the pavement into the house, and then, without speaking a word to his sister, hid himself in the dining-room. His face was strapped up with plaister so that not a feature was visible; and both his eyes were swollen and blue; part of his beard had been cut away, and his physiognomy had altogether been so treated that even the page would hardly have known him. 'Roger is upstairs, mamma,' said Hetta in the hall.

'Has he heard about Felix;—has he come about that?'

'He has heard only what I have told him. He has come because of your letter. He says that a man named Crumb did it.'

'Then he does know. Who can have told him? He always knows everything. Oh, Hetta, what am I to do? Where shall I go with this wretched boy?'

'Is he hurt, mamma?'

'Hurt;—of course he is hurt; horribly hurt. The brute tried to kill him. They say that he will be dreadfully scarred for ever. But oh, Hetta;—what am I to do with him? What am I to do with myself and you?'

On this occasion Roger was saved from the annoyance of any personal intercourse with his cousin Felix. The unfortunate one was made as comfortable as circumstances would permit in the parlour, and Lady Carbury then went up to her cousin in the drawing-room. She had learned the truth with some fair approach to accuracy, though Sir Felix himself had of course lied as to every detail. There are some circumstances so distressing in themselves as to make lying almost a necessity. When a young man has behaved badly about a woman, when a young man has been beaten without returning a blow, when a young man's pleasant vices are brought directly under a mother's eyes, what can he do but lie? How could Sir Felix tell the truth about that rash encounter? But the policeman who had brought him to the hospital had told all that he knew. The man who had thrashed the baronet had been Crumb, and the thrashing had been given on the score of a young woman called Ruggles. So much was known at the hospital, and so much could not be hidden by any lies which Sir Felix might tell. And when Sir Felix swore that a policeman was holding him while Crumb was beating him, no one believed him. In such cases the liar does not expect to be believed. He knows that his disgrace will be made public, and only hopes to be saved from the ignominy of declaring it with his own words.

'What am I to do with him?' Lady Carbury said to her cousin. 'It is no use telling me to leave him. I can't do that. I know he is bad. I know that I have done much to make him what he is.' As she said this the tears were running down her poor worn cheeks. 'But he is my child. What am I to do with him now?'

This was a question which Roger found it almost impossible to answer. If he had spoken his thoughts he would have declared that Sir Felix had reached an age at which, if a man will go headlong to destruction, he must go headlong to destruction. Thinking as he did of his cousin he could see no possible salvation for him. 'Perhaps I should take him abroad,' he said.

'Would he be better abroad than here?'

'He would have less opportunity for vice, and fewer means of running you into debt.'

Lady Carbury, as she turned this counsel in her mind, thought of all the hopes which she had indulged,—her literary aspirations, her Tuesday evenings, her desire for society, her Brounes, her Alfs, and her Bookers, her pleasant drawing-room, and the determination which she had made that now in the afternoon of her days she would become somebody in the world. Must she give it all up and retire to the dreariness of some French town because it was no longer possible that she should live in London with such a son as hers? There seemed to be a cruelty in this beyond all cruelties that she had hitherto endured. This was harder even than those lies which had been told of her when almost in fear of her life she had run from her husband's house. But yet she must do even this if in no other way she and her son could be together. 'Yes,' she said, 'I suppose it would be so. I only wish that I might die, so that were an end of it.'

'He might go out to one of the Colonies,' said Roger.

'Yes;—be sent away that he might kill himself with drink in the bush, and so be got rid of. I have heard of that before. Wherever he goes I shall go.'

As the reader knows, Roger Carbury had not latterly held this cousin of his in much esteem. He knew her to be worldly and he thought her to be unprincipled. But now, at this moment, her exceeding love for the son whom she could no longer pretend to defend, wiped out all her sins. He forgot the visit made to Carbury under false pretences, and the Melmottes, and all the little tricks which he had detected, in his appreciation of an affection which was pure and beautiful. 'If you like to let your house for a period,' he said, 'mine is open to you.'

'But, Felix?'

'You shall take him there. I am all alone in the world. I can make a home for myself at the cottage. It is empty now. If you think that would save you you can try it for six months.'

'And turn you out of your own house? No, Roger. I cannot do that. And, Roger;—what is to be done about Hetta?' Hetta herself had retreated, leaving Roger and her mother alone together, feeling sure that there would be questions asked and answered in her absence respecting Mrs Hurtle, which her presence would prevent. She wished it could have been otherwise—that she might have been allowed to hear it all herself —as she was sure that the story coming through her mother would not savour so completely of unalloyed truth as if told to her by her cousin Roger.

'Hetta can be trusted to judge for herself,' he said.

'How can you say that when she has just accepted this young man? Is it not true that he is even now living with an American woman whom he has promised to marry?'

'No;—that is not true.'

'What is true then? Is he not engaged to the woman?' Roger hesitated a moment. 'I do not know that even that is true. When last he spoke to me about it he declared that the engagement was at an end. I have told Hetta to ask himself. Let her tell him that she has heard of this woman from you, and that it behoves her to know the truth. I do not love him, Lady Carbury. He has no longer any place in my friendship. But I think that if Hetta asks him simply what is the nature of his connexion with Mrs Hurtle, he will tell her the truth.'

Roger did not again see Hetta before he left the house, nor did he see his cousin Felix at all. He had now done all that he could do by his journey up to London, and he returned on that day back to Carbury. Would it not be better for him, in spite of the protestations which he had made, to dismiss the whole family from his mind? There could be no other love for him. He must be desolate and alone. But he might then save himself from a world of cares, and might gradually teach himself to live as though there were no such woman as Hetta Carbury in the world. But no! He would not allow himself to believe that this could be right. The very fact of his love made it a duty to him,—made it almost the first of his duties,—to watch over the interests of her he loved and of those who belonged to her.

But among those so belonging he did not recognise Paul Montague.



CHAPTER LXXIII - MARIE'S FORTUNE

When Marie Melmotte assured Sir Felix Carbury that her father had already endowed her with a large fortune which could not be taken from her without her own consent, she spoke no more than the truth. She knew of the matter almost as little as it was possible that she should know. As far as reticence on the subject was compatible with the object he had in view Melmotte had kept from her all knowledge of the details of the arrangement. But it had been necessary when the thing was done to explain, or to pretend to explain, much; and Marie's memory and also her intelligence had been strong beyond her father's anticipation. He was deriving a very considerable income from a large sum of money which he had invested in foreign funds in her name, and had got her to execute a power of attorney enabling him to draw this income on her behalf. This he had done fearing shipwreck in the course which he meant to run, and resolved that, let circumstances go as they might, there should still be left enough to him of the money which he had realised to enable him to live in comfort and luxury, should he be doomed to live in obscurity, or even in infamy. He had sworn to himself solemnly that under no circumstances would he allow this money to go back into the vortex of his speculations, and hitherto he had been true to his oath. Though bankruptcy and apparent ruin might be imminent he would not bolster up his credit by the use of this money even though it might appear at the moment that the money would be sufficient for the purpose. If such a day should come, then, with that certain income, he would make himself happy, if possible, or at any rate luxurious, in whatever city of the world might know least of his antecedents, and give him the warmest welcome on behalf of his wealth. Such had been his scheme of life. But he had failed to consider various circumstances. His daughter might be untrue to him, or in the event of her marriage might fail to release his property,—or it might be that the very money should be required to dower his daughter. Or there might come troubles on him so great that even the certainty of a future income would not enable him to bear them. Now, at this present moment, his mind was tortured by great anxiety. Were he to resume this property it would more than enable him to pay all that was due to the Longestaffes. It would do that and tide him for a time over some other difficulties. Now in regard to the Longestaffes themselves, he certainly had no desire to depart from the rule which he had made for himself, on their behalf. Were it necessary that a crash should come they would be as good creditors as any other. But then he was painfully alive to the fact that something beyond simple indebtedness was involved in that transaction. He had with his own hand traced Dolly Longestaffe's signature on the letter which he had found in old Mr Longestaffe's drawer. He had found it in an envelope, addressed by the elder Mr Longestaffe to Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile, and he had himself posted this letter in a pillarbox near to his house. In the execution of this manoeuvre, circumstances had greatly befriended him. He had become the tenant of Mr Longestaffe's house, and at the same time had only been the joint tenant of Mr Longestaffe's study,—so that Mr Longestaffe's papers were almost in his very hands. To pick a lock was with him an accomplishment long since learned. But his science in that line did not go so far as to enable him to replace the bolt in its receptacle. He had picked a lock, had found the letter prepared by Mr Bideawhile with its accompanying envelope, and had then already learned enough of the domestic circumstances of the Longestaffe family to feel assured that unless he could assist the expedition of this hitherto uncompleted letter by his own skill, the letter would never reach its intended destination. In all this fortune had in some degree befriended him. The circumstances being as they were it was hardly possible that the forgery should be discovered. Even though the young man were to swear that the signature was not his, even though the old man were to swear that he had left that drawer properly locked with the unsigned letter in it, still there could be no evidence. People might think. People might speak. People might feel sure. And then a crash would come. But there would still be that ample fortune on which to retire and eat and drink and make merry for the rest of his days.

Then there came annoying complications in his affairs. What had been so easy in reference to that letter which Dolly Longestaffe never would have signed, was less easy but still feasible in another matter. Under the joint pressure of immediate need, growing ambition, and increasing audacity it had been done. Then the rumours that were spread abroad,—which to Melmotte were serious indeed,—they named, at any rate in reference to Dolly Longestaffe, the very thing that had been done. Now if that, or the like of that, were brought actually home to him, if twelve jurymen could be got to say that he had done that thing, of what use then would be all that money? When that fear arose, then there arose also the question whether it might not be well to use the money to save him from such ruin, if it might be so used. No doubt all danger in that Longestaffe affair might be bought off by payment of the price stipulated for the Pickering property. Neither would Dolly Longestaffe nor Squercum, of whom Mr Melmotte had already heard, concern himself in this matter if the money claimed were paid. But then the money would be as good as wasted by such a payment, if, as he firmly believed, no sufficient evidence could be produced to prove the thing which he had done.

But the complications were so many! Perhaps in his admiration for the country of his adoption Mr Melmotte had allowed himself to attach higher privileges to the British aristocracy than do in truth belong to them. He did in his heart believe that could he be known to all the world as the father-in-law of the eldest son of the Marquis of Auld Reekie he would become, not really free of the law, but almost safe from its fangs in regard to such an affair as this. He thought he could so use the family with which he would be connected as to force from it that protection which he would need. And then again, if he could tide over this bad time, how glorious would it be to have a British Marquis for his son-in-law! Like many others he had failed altogether to inquire when the pleasure to himself would come, or what would be its nature. But he did believe that such a marriage would add a charm to his life. Now he knew that Lord Nidderdale could not be got to marry his daughter without the positive assurance of absolute property, but he did think that the income which might thus be transferred with Marie, though it fell short of that which had been promised, might suffice for the time; and he had already given proof to the Marquis's lawyer that his daughter was possessed of the property in question.

And indeed, there was another complication which had arisen within the last few days and which had startled Mr Melmotte very much indeed. On a certain morning he had sent for Marie to the study and had told her that he should require her signature in reference to a deed. She had asked him what deed. He had replied that it would be a document regarding money and reminded her that she had signed such a deed once before, telling her that it was all in the way of business. It was not necessary that she should ask any more questions as she would be wanted only to sign the paper. Then Marie astounded him, not merely by showing him that she understood a great deal more of the transaction than he had thought,—but also by a positive refusal to sign anything at all. The reader may understand that there had been many words between them. 'I know, papa. It is that you may have the money to do what you like with. You have been so unkind to me about Sir Felix Carbury that I won't do it. If I ever marry the money will belong to my husband!' His breath almost failed him as he listened to these words. He did not know whether to approach her with threats, with entreaties, or with blows. Before the interview was over he had tried all three. He had told her that he could and would put her in prison for conduct so fraudulent. He besought her not to ruin her parent by such monstrous perversity. And at last he took her by both arms and shook her violently. But Marie was quite firm. He might cut her to pieces; but she would sign nothing. 'I suppose you thought Sir Felix would have had the entire sum,' said the father with deriding scorn.

'And he would;—if he had the spirit to take it,' answered Marie.

This was another reason for sticking to the Nidderdale plan. He would no doubt lose the immediate income, but in doing so he would secure the Marquis. He was therefore induced, on weighing in his nicest-balanced scales the advantages and disadvantages, to leave the Longestaffes unpaid and to let Nidderdale have the money. Not that he could make up his mind to such a course with any conviction that he was doing the best for himself. The dangers on all sides were very great! But at the present moment audacity recommended itself to him, and this was the boldest stroke. Marie had now said that she would accept Nidderdale,—or the sweep at the crossing.

On Monday morning,—it was on the preceding Thursday that he had made his famous speech in Parliament,—one of the Bideawhiles had come to him in the City. He had told Mr Bideawhile that all the world knew that just at the present moment money was very 'tight' in the City. 'We are not asking for payment of a commercial debt,' said Mr Bideawhile, 'but for the price of a considerable property which you have purchased.' Mr Melmotte had suggested that the characteristics of the money were the same, let the sum in question have become due how it might. Then he offered to make the payment in two bills at three and six months' date, with proper interest allowed. But this offer Mr Bideawhile scouted with indignation, demanding that the title-deeds might be restored to them.

'You have no right whatever to demand the title-deeds,' said Melmotte. 'You can only claim the sum due, and I have already told you how I propose to pay it.'

Mr Bideawhile was nearly beside himself with dismay. In the whole course of his business, in all the records of the very respectable firm to which he belonged, there had never been such a thing as this. Of course Mr Longestaffe had been the person to blame,—so at least all the Bideawhiles declared among themselves. He had been so anxious to have dealings with the man of money that he had insisted that the title-deeds should be given up. But then the title-deeds had not been his to surrender. The Pickering estate had been the joint property of him and his son. The house had been already pulled down, and now the purchaser offered bills in lieu of the purchase money! 'Do you mean to tell me, Mr Melmotte, that you have not got the money to pay for what you have bought, and that nevertheless the title-deeds have already gone out of your hands?'

'I have property to ten times the value, twenty times the value, thirty times the value,' said Melmotte proudly; 'but you must know I should think by this time that a man engaged in large affairs cannot always realise such a sum as eighty thousand pounds at a day's notice.' Mr Bideawhile without using language that was absolutely vituperative gave Mr Melmotte to understand that he thought that he and his client had been robbed, and that he should at once take whatever severest steps the law put in his power. As Mr Melmotte shrugged his shoulders and made no further reply, Mr Bideawhile could only take his departure.

The attorney, although he was bound to be staunch to his own client, and to his own house in opposition to Mr Squercum, nevertheless was becoming doubtful in his own mind as to the genuineness of the letter which Dolly was so persistent in declaring that he had not signed. Mr Longestaffe himself, who was at any rate an honest man, had given it as his opinion that Dolly had not signed the letter. His son had certainly refused to sign it once, and as far as he knew could have had no opportunity of signing it since. He was all but sure that he had left the letter under lock and key in his own drawer in the room which had latterly become Melmotte's study as well as his own. Then, on entering the room in Melmotte's presence,—their friendship at the time having already ceased,—he found that his drawer was open. This same Mr Bideawhile was with him at the time. 'Do you mean to say that I have opened your drawer?' said Mr Melmotte. Mr Longestaffe had become very red in the face and had replied by saying that he certainly made no such accusation, but as certainly he had not left the drawer unlocked. He knew his own habits and was sure that he had never left that drawer open in his life. 'Then you must have changed the habits of your life on this occasion,' said Mr Melmotte with spirit. Mr Longestaffe would trust himself to no other word within the house, but, when they were out in the street together, he assured the lawyer that certainly that drawer had been left locked, and that to the best of his belief the letter unsigned had been left within the drawer. Mr Bideawhile could only remark that it was the most unfortunate circumstance with which he had ever been concerned.

The marriage with Nidderdale would upon the whole be the best thing, if it could only be accomplished. The reader must understand that though Mr Melmotte had allowed himself considerable poetical licence in that statement as to property thirty times as great as the price which he ought to have paid for Pickering, still there was property. The man's speculations had been so great and so wide that he did not really know what he owned, or what he owed. But he did know that at the present moment he was driven very hard for large sums. His chief trust for immediate money was in Cohenlupe, in whose hands had really been the manipulation of the shares of the Mexican railway. He had trusted much to Cohenlupe,—more than it had been customary with him to trust to any man. Cohenlupe assured him that nothing could be done with the railway shares at the present moment. They had fallen under the panic almost to nothing. Now in the time of his trouble Melmotte wanted money from the great railway, but just because he wanted money the great railway was worth nothing. Cohenlupe told him that he must tide over the evil hour,—or rather over an evil month. It was at Cohenlupe's instigation that he had offered the two bills to Mr Bideawhile. 'Offer 'em again,' said Cohenlupe. 'He must take the bills sooner or later.'

On the Monday afternoon Melmotte met Lord Nidderdale in the lobby of the House. 'Have you seen Marie lately?' he said. Nidderdale had been assured that morning, by his father's lawyer, in his father's presence, that if he married Miss Melmotte at present he would undoubtedly become possessed of an income amounting to something over L5,000 a year. He had intended to get more than that,—and was hardly prepared to accept Marie at such a price; but then there probably would be more. No doubt there was a difficulty about Pickering. Melmotte certainly had been raising money. But this might probably be an affair of a few weeks. Melmotte had declared that Pickering should be made over to the young people at the marriage. His father had recommended him to get the girl to name a day. The marriage could be broken off at the last day if the property were not forthcoming.

'I'm going up to your house almost immediately,' said Nidderdale.

'You'll find the women at tea to a certainty between five and six,' said Melmotte.



CHAPTER LXXIV - MELMOTTE MAKES A FRIEND

'Have you been thinking any more about it?' Lord Nidderdale said to the girl as soon as Madame Melmotte had succeeded in leaving them alone together.

'I have thought ever so much more about it,' said Marie.

'And what's the result?'

'Oh,—I'll have you.'

'That's right,' said Nidderdale, throwing himself on the sofa close to her, so that he might put his arm round her waist.

'Wait a moment, Lord Nidderdale,' she said.

'You might as well call me John.'

'Then wait a moment,—John. You think you might as well marry me, though you don't love me a bit.'

'That's not true, Marie.'

'Yes it is;—it's quite true. And I think just the same,—that I might as well marry you, though I don't love you a bit.'

'But you will.'

'I don't know. I don't feel like it just at present. You had better know the exact truth, you know. I have told my father that I did not think you'd ever come again, but that if you did I would accept you. But I'm not going to tell any stories about it. You know who I've been in love with.'

'But you can't be in love with him now.'

'Why not? I can't marry him. I know that. And if he were to come to me, I don't think that I would. He has behaved bad.'

'Have I behaved bad?'

'Not like him. You never did care, and you never said you cared.'

'Oh yes,—I have.'

'Not at first. You say it now because you think that I shall like it. But it makes no difference now. I don't mind about your arm being there if we are to be married, only it's just as well for both of us to look on it as business.'

'How very hard you are, Marie.'

'No, I ain't. I wasn't hard to Sir Felix Carbury, and so I tell you. I did love him.'

'Surely you have found him out now.'

'Yes, I have,' said Marie. 'He's a poor creature.'

'He has just been thrashed, you know, in the streets,—most horribly.' Marie had not been told of this, and started back from her lover's arms. 'You hadn't heard it?'

'Who has thrashed him?'

'I don't want to tell the story against him, but they say he has been cut about in a terrible manner.'

'Why should anybody beat him? Did he do anything?'

'There was a young lady in the question, Marie.'

'A young lady! What young lady? I don't believe it. But it's nothing to me. I don't care about anything, Lord Nidderdale;—not a bit. I suppose you've made up all that out of your own head.'

'Indeed, no. I believe he was beaten, and I believe it was about a young woman. But it signifies nothing to me, and I don't suppose it signifies much to you. Don't you think we might fix a day, Marie?'

'I don't care the least,' said Marie. 'The longer it's put off the better I shall like it;—that's all.'

'Because I'm so detestable?'

'No,—you ain't detestable. I think you are a very good fellow; only you don't care for me. But it is detestable not being able to do what one wants. It's detestable having to quarrel with everybody and never to be good friends with anybody. And it's horribly detestable having nothing on earth to give one any interest.'

'You couldn't take any interest in me?'

'Not the least.'

'Suppose you try. Wouldn't you like to know anything about the place where we live?'

'It's a castle, I know.'

'Yes;—Castle Reekie; ever so many hundred years old.'

'I hate old places. I should like a new house, and a new dress, and a new horse every week,—and a new lover. Your father lives at the castle. I don't suppose we are to go and live there too.'

'We shall be there sometimes. When shall it be?'

'The year after next.'

'Nonsense, Marie.'

'To-morrow.'

'You wouldn't be ready.'

'You may manage it all just as you like with papa. Oh, yes,—kiss me; of course you may. If I'm to belong to you what does it matter? No;—I won't say that I love you. But if ever I do say it, you may be sure it will be true. That's more than you can say of yourself,—John.'

So the interview was over and Nidderdale walked back to the house thinking of his lady love, as far as he was able to bring his mind to any operation of thinking. He was fully determined to go on with it. As far as the girl herself was concerned, she had, in these latter days, become much more attractive to him than when he had first known her. She certainly was not a fool. And, though he could not tell himself that she was altogether like a lady, still she had a manner of her own which made him think that she would be able to live with ladies. And he did think that, in spite of all she said to the contrary, she was becoming fond of him,—as he certainly had become fond of her. 'Have you been up with the ladies?' Melmotte asked him.

'Oh yes.'

'And what does Marie say?'

'That you must fix the day.'

'We'll have it very soon then;—some time next month. You'll want to get away in August. And to tell the truth so shall I. I never was worked so hard in my life as I've been this summer. The election and that horrid dinner had something to do with it. And I don't mind telling you that I've had a fearful weight on my mind in reference to money. I never had to find so many large sums in so short a time! And I'm not quite through it yet.'

'I wonder why you gave the dinner then.'

'My dear boy,'—it was very pleasant to him to call the son of a marquis his dear boy,—'as regards expenditure that was a flea-bite. Nothing that I could spend myself would have the slightest effect upon my condition one way or the other.'

'I wish it could be the same way with me,' said Nidderdale.

'If you chose to go into business with me instead of taking Marie's money out, it very soon would be so with you. But the burden is very great. I never know whence these panics arise, or why they come, or whither they go. But when they do come, they are like a storm at sea. It is only the strong ships that can stand the fury of the winds and waves. And then the buffeting which a man gets leaves him only half the man he was. I've had it very hard this time.'

'I suppose you are getting right now.'

'Yes;—I am getting right. I am not in any fear, if you mean that. I don't mind telling you everything as it is settled now that you are to be Marie's husband. I know that you are honest, and that if you could hurt me by repeating what I say you wouldn't do it.'

'Certainly I would not.'

'You see I've no partner,—nobody that is bound to know my affairs. My wife is the best woman in the world, but is utterly unable to understand anything about it. Of course I can't talk freely to Marie. Cohenlupe whom you see so much with me is all very well,—in his way, but I never talk over my affairs with him. He is concerned with me in one or two things,—our American railway for instance, but he has no interest generally in my house. It is all on my own shoulders, and I can tell you the weight is a little heavy. It will be the greatest comfort to me in the world if I can get you to have an interest in the matter.'

'I don't suppose I could ever really be any good at business,' said the modest young lord.

'You wouldn't come and work, I suppose. I shouldn't expect that. But I should be glad to think that I could tell you how things are going on. Of course you heard all that was said just before the election. For forty-eight hours I had a very bad time of it then. The fact was that Alf and they who were supporting him thought that they could carry the election by running me down. They were at it for a fortnight,—perfectly unscrupulous as to what they said or what harm they might do me and others. I thought that very cruel. They couldn't get their man in, but they could and did have the effect of depreciating my property suddenly by nearly half a million of money. Think what that is!'

'I don't understand how it could be done.'

'Because you don't understand how delicate a thing is credit. They persuaded a lot of men to stay away from that infernal dinner, and consequently it was spread about the town that I was ruined. The effect upon shares which I held was instantaneous and tremendous. The Mexican railway were at 117, and they fell from that in two days to something quite nominal,—so that selling was out of the question. Cohenlupe and I between us had about 8,000 of these shares. Think what that comes to!' Nidderdale tried to calculate what it did come to, but failed altogether. 'That's what I call a blow;—a terrible blow. When a man is concerned as I am with money interests, and concerned largely with them all, he is of course exchanging one property for another every day of his life,—according as the markets go. I don't keep such a sum as that in one concern as an investment. Nobody does. Then when a panic comes, don't you see how it hits?'

'Will they never go up again?'

'Oh yes,—perhaps higher than ever. But it will take time. And in the meantime I am driven to fall back upon property intended for other purposes. That's the meaning of what you hear about that place down in Sussex which I bought for Marie. I was so driven that I was obliged to raise forty or fifty thousand wherever I could. But that will be all right in a week or two. And as for Marie's money,—that, you know, is settled.'

He quite succeeded in making Nidderdale believe every word that he spoke, and he produced also a friendly feeling in the young man's bosom, with something approaching to a desire that he might be of service to his future father-in-law. Hazily, as through a thick fog, Lord Nidderdale thought that he did see something of the troubles, as he had long seen something of the glories, of commerce on an extended scale, and an idea occurred to him that it might be almost more exciting than whist or unlimited loo. He resolved too that whatever the man might tell him should never be divulged. He was on this occasion somewhat captivated by Melmotte, and went away from the interview with a conviction that the financier was a big man;—one with whom he could sympathise, and to whom in a certain way he could become attached.

And Melmotte himself had derived positive pleasure even from a simulated confidence in his son-in-law. It had been pleasant to him to talk as though he were talking to a young friend whom he trusted. It was impossible that he could really admit any one to a participation in his secrets. It was out of the question that he should ever allow himself to be betrayed into speaking the truth of his own affairs. Of course every word he had said to Nidderdale had been a lie, or intended to corroborate lies. But it had not been only on behalf of the lies that he had talked after this fashion. Even though his friendship with the young man were but a mock friendship,— though it would too probably be turned into bitter enmity before three months had passed by,—still there was a pleasure in it. The Grendalls had left him since the day of the dinner,—Miles having sent him a letter up from the country complaining of severe illness. It was a comfort to him to have someone to whom he could speak, and he much preferred Nidderdale to Miles Grendall.

This conversation took place in the smoking-room. When it was over Melmotte went into the House, and Nidderdale strolled away to the Beargarden. The Beargarden had been opened again though with difficulty, and with diminished luxury. Nor could even this be done without rigid laws as to the payment of ready money. Herr Vossner had never more been heard of, but the bills which Vossner had left unpaid were held to be good against the club, whereas every note of hand which he had taken from the members was left in the possession of Mr Flatfleece. Of course there was sorrow and trouble at the Beargarden; but still the institution had become so absolutely necessary to its members that it had been reopened under a new management. No one had felt this need more strongly during every hour of the day,—of the day as he counted his days, rising as he did about an hour after noon and going to bed three or four hours after midnight,—than did Dolly Longestaffe. The Beargarden had become so much to him that he had begun to doubt whether life would be even possible without such a resort for his hours. But now the club was again open, and Dolly could have his dinner and his bottle of wine with the luxury to which he was accustomed.

But at this time he was almost mad with the sense of injury. Circumstances had held out to him a prospect of almost unlimited ease and indulgence. The arrangement made as to the Pickering estate would pay all his debts, would disembarrass his own property, and would still leave him a comfortable sum in hand. Squercum had told him that if he would stick to his terms he would surely get them. He had stuck to his terms and he had got them. And now the property was sold, and the title-deeds gone,—and he had not received a penny! He did not know whom to be loudest in abusing,—his father, the Bideawhiles, or Mr Melmotte. And then it was said that he had signed that letter! He was very open in his manner of talking about his misfortune at the club. His father was the most obstinate old fool that ever lived. As for the Bideawhiles,—he would bring an action against them. Squercum had explained all that to him. But Melmotte was the biggest rogue the world had ever produced. 'By George! the world,' he said, 'must be coming to an end. There's that infernal scoundrel sitting in Parliament just as if he had not robbed me of my property, and forged my name, and—and—by George! he ought to be hung. If any man ever deserved to be hung, that man deserves to be hung.' This he spoke openly in the coffee-room of the club, and was still speaking as Nidderdale was taking his seat at one of the tables. Dolly had been dining, and had turned round upon his chair so as to face some half-dozen men whom he was addressing.

Nidderdale leaving his chair walked up to him very gently. 'Dolly,' said he, 'do not go on in that way about Melmotte when I am in the room. I have no doubt you are mistaken, and so you'll find out in a day or two. You don't know Melmotte.'

'Mistaken!' Dolly still continued to exclaim with a loud voice. 'Am I mistaken in supposing that I haven't been paid my money?'

'I don't believe it has been owing very long.'

'Am I mistaken in supposing that my name has been forged to a letter?'

'I am sure you are mistaken if you think that Melmotte had anything to do with it.'

'Squercum says—'

'Never mind Squercum. We all know what are the suspicions of a fellow of that kind.'

'I'd believe Squercum a deuced sight sooner than Melmotte.'

'Look here, Dolly. I know more probably of Melmotte's affairs than you do or perhaps than anybody else. If it will induce you to remain quiet for a few days and to hold your tongue here,—I'll make myself responsible for the entire sum he owes you.'

'The devil you will.'

'I will indeed.'

Nidderdale was endeavouring to speak so that only Dolly should hear him, and probably nobody else did hear him; but Dolly would not lower his voice. 'That's out of the question, you know,' he said. 'How could I take your money? The truth is, Nidderdale, the man is a thief, and so you'll find out, sooner or later. He has broken open a drawer in my father's room and forged my name to a letter. Everybody knows it. Even my governor knows it now,—and Bideawhile. Before many days are over you'll find that he will be in gaol for forgery.'

This was very unpleasant, as every one knew that Nidderdale was either engaged or becoming engaged to Melmotte's daughter.

'Since you will speak about it in this public way—' began Nidderdale.

'I think it ought to be spoken about in a public way,' said Dolly.

'I deny it as publicly. I can't say anything about the letter except that I am sure Mr Melmotte did not put your name to it. From what I understand there seems to have been some blunder between your father and his lawyer.'

'That's true enough,' said Dolly; 'but it doesn't excuse Melmotte.'

'As to the money, there can be no more doubt that it will be paid than that I stand here. What is it?—twenty-five thousand, isn't it?'

'Eighty thousand, the whole.'

'Well,—eighty thousand. It's impossible to suppose that such a man as Melmotte shouldn't be able to raise eighty thousand pounds.'

'Why don't he do it then?' asked Dolly.

All this was very unpleasant and made the club less social than it used to be in old days. There was an attempt that night to get up a game of cards; but Nidderdale would not play because he was offended with Dolly Longestaffe; and Miles Grendall was away in the country,—a fugitive from the face of Melmotte, and Carbury was in hiding at home with his countenance from top to bottom supported by plasters, and Montague in these days never went to the club. At the present moment he was again in Liverpool, having been summoned thither by Mr Ramsbottom. 'By George,' said Dolly, as he filled another pipe and ordered more brandy and water, 'I think everything is going to come to an end. I do indeed. I never heard of such a thing before as a man being done in this way. And then Vossner has gone off, and it seems everybody is to pay just what he says they owed him. And now one can't even get up a game of cards. I feel as though there were no good in hoping that things would ever come right again.'

The opinion of the club was a good deal divided as to the matter in dispute between Lord Nidderdale and Dolly Longestaffe. It was admitted by some to be 'very fishy.' If Melmotte were so great a man why didn't he pay the money, and why should he have mortgaged the property before it was really his own? But the majority of the men thought that Dolly was wrong. As to the signature of the letter, Dolly was a man who would naturally be quite unable to say what he had and what he had not signed. And then, even into the Beargarden there had filtered, through the outer world, a feeling that people were not now bound to be so punctilious in the paying of money as they were a few years since. No doubt it suited Melmotte to make use of the money, and therefore,—as he had succeeded in getting the property into his hands,—he did make use of it. But it would be forthcoming sooner or later! In this way of looking at the matter the Beargarden followed the world at large. The world at large, in spite of the terrible falling-off at the Emperor of China's dinner, in spite of all the rumours, in spite of the ruinous depreciation of the Mexican Railway stock, and of the undoubted fact that Dolly Longestaffe had not received his money, was inclined to think that Melmotte would 'pull through.'



CHAPTER LXXV - IN BRUTON STREET

Mr Squercum all this time was in a perfect fever of hard work and anxiety. It may be said of him that he had been quite sharp enough to perceive the whole truth. He did really know it all,—if he could prove that which he knew. He had extended his inquiries in the city till he had convinced himself that, whatever wealth Melmotte might have had twelve months ago, there was not enough of it left at present to cover the liabilities. Squercum was quite sure that Melmotte was not a falling, but a fallen star,—perhaps not giving sufficient credence to the recuperative powers of modern commerce. Squercum told a certain stockbroker in the City, who was his specially confidential friend, that Melmotte was a 'gone coon.' The stockbroker made also some few inquiries, and on that evening agreed with Squercum that Melmotte was a 'gone coon.' If such were the case it would positively be the making of Squercum if it could be so managed that he should appear as the destroying angel of this offensive dragon. So Squercum raged among the Bideawhiles, who were unable altogether to shut their doors against him. They could not dare to bid defiance to Squercum,—feeling that they had themselves blundered, and feeling also that they must be careful not to seem to screen a fault by a falsehood. 'I suppose you give it up about the letter having been signed by my client,' said Squercum to the elder of the two younger Bideawhiles.

'I give up nothing and I assert nothing,' said the superior attorney. 'Whether the letter be genuine or not we had no reason to believe it to be otherwise. The young gentleman's signature is never very plain, and this one is about as like any other as that other would be like the last.'

'Would you let me look at it again, Mr Bideawhile?' Then the letter which had been very often inspected during the last ten days was handed to Mr Squercum. 'It's a stiff resemblance;—such as he never could have written had he tried it ever so.'

'Perhaps not, Mr Squercum. We are not generally on the look out for forgeries in letters from our clients or our clients' sons.'

'Just so, Mr Bideawhile. But then Mr Longestaffe had already told you that his son would not sign the letter.'

'How is one to know when and how and why a young man like that will change his purpose?'

'Just so, Mr Bideawhile. But you see, after such a declaration as that on the part of my client's father, the letter,—which is in itself a little irregular perhaps—'

'I don't know that it's irregular at all.'

'Well;—it didn't reach you in a very confirmatory manner. We'll just say that. What Mr Longestaffe can have been at to wish to give up his title-deeds without getting anything for them—'

'Excuse me, Mr Squercum, but that's between Mr Longestaffe and us.'

'Just so;—but as Mr Longestaffe and you have jeopardised my client's property it is natural that I should make a few remarks. I think you'd have made a few remarks yourself, Mr Bideawhile, if the case had been reversed. I shall bring the matter before the Lord Mayor, you know.' To this Mr Bideawhile said not a word. 'And I think I understand you now that you do not intend to insist on the signature as being genuine.'

'I say nothing about it, Mr Squercum. I think you'll find it very hard to prove that it's not genuine.'

'My client's oath, Mr Bideawhile.'

'I'm afraid your client is not always very clear as to what he does.'

'I don't know what you mean by that, Mr Bideawhile. I fancy that if I were to speak in that way of your client you would be very angry with me. Besides, what does it all amount to? Will the old gentleman say that he gave the letter into his son's hands, so that, even if such a freak should have come into my client's head, he could have signed it and sent it off? If I understand, Mr Longestaffe says that he locked the letter up in a drawer in the very room which Melmotte occupied, and that he afterwards found the drawer open. It won't, I suppose, be alleged that my client knew so little what he was about that he broke open the drawer in order that he might get at the letter. Look at it whichever way you will, he did not sign it, Mr Bideawhile.'

'I have never said he did. All I say is that we had fair ground for supposing that it was his letter. I really don't know that I can say anything more.'

'Only that we are to a certain degree in the same boat together in this matter.'

'I won't admit even that, Mr Squercum.'

'The difference being that your client by his fault has jeopardised his own interests and those of my client, while my client has not been in fault at all. I shall bring the matter forward before the Lord Mayor to-morrow, and as at present advised shall ask for an investigation with reference to a charge of fraud. I presume you will be served with a subpoena to bring the letter into court.'

'If so you may be sure that we shall produce it.' Then Mr Squercum took his leave and went straight away to Mr Bumby, a barrister well known in the City. The game was too powerful to be hunted down by Mr Squercum's unassisted hands. He had already seen Mr Bumby on the matter more than once. Mr Bumby was inclined to doubt whether it might not be better to get the money, or some guarantee for the money. Mr Bumby thought that if a bill at three months could be had for Dolly's share of the property it might be expedient to take it. Mr Squercum suggested that the property itself might be recovered, no genuine sale having been made. Mr Bumby shook his head. 'Title-deeds give possession, Mr Squercum. You don't suppose that the company which has lent money to Melmotte on the title-deeds would have to lose it. Take the bill; and if it is dishonoured run your chance of what you'll get out of the property. There must be assets.'

'Every rap will have been made over,' said Mr Squercum.

This took place on the Monday, the day on which Melmotte had offered his full confidence to his proposed son-in-law. On the following Wednesday three gentlemen met together in the study in the house in Bruton Street from which it was supposed that the letter had been abstracted. There were Mr Longestaffe, the father, Dolly Longestaffe, and Mr Bideawhile. The house was still in Melmotte's possession, and Melmotte and Mr Longestaffe were no longer on friendly terms. Direct application for permission to have this meeting in this place had been formally made to Mr Melmotte, and he had complied. The meeting took place at eleven o'clock—a terribly early hour. Dolly had at first hesitated as to placing himself as he thought between the fire of two enemies, and Mr Squercum had told him that as the matter would probably soon be made public, he could not judiciously refuse to meet his father and the old family lawyer. Therefore Dolly had attended, at great personal inconvenience to himself. 'By George, it's hardly worth having if one is to take all this trouble about it,' Dolly had said to Lord Grasslough, with whom he had fraternised since the quarrel with Nidderdale. Dolly entered the room last, and at that time neither Mr Longestaffe nor Mr Bideawhile had touched the drawer, or even the table, in which the letter had been deposited.

'Now, Mr Longestaffe,' said Mr Bideawhile, 'perhaps you will show us where you think you put the letter.'

'I don't think at all,' said he. 'Since the matter has been discussed the whole thing has come back upon my memory.'

'I never signed it,' said Dolly, standing with his hands in his pockets and interrupting his father.

'Nobody says you did, sir,' rejoined the father with an angry voice. 'If you will condescend to listen we may perhaps arrive at the truth.'

'But somebody has said that I did. I've been told that Mr Bideawhile says so.'

'No, Mr Longestaffe; no. We have never said so. We have only said that we had no reason for supposing the letter to be other than genuine. We have never gone beyond that.'

'Nothing on earth would have made me sign it,' said Dolly. 'Why should I have given my property up before I got my money? I never heard such a thing in my life.'

The father looked up at the lawyer and shook his head, testifying as to the hopelessness of his son's obstinacy. 'Now, Mr Longestaffe,' continued the lawyer, 'let us see where you put the letter.'

Then the father very slowly, and with much dignity of deportment, opened the drawer,—the second drawer from the top, and took from it a bundle of papers very carefully folded and docketed, 'There,' said he, 'the letter was not placed in the envelope but on the top of it, and the two were the two first documents in the bundle.' He went on to say that as far as he knew no other paper had been taken away. He was quite certain that he had left the drawer locked. He was very particular in regard to that particular drawer, and he remembered that about this time Mr Melmotte had been in the room with him when he had opened it, and,—as he was certain,—had locked it again. At that special time there had been, he said, considerable intimacy between him and Melmotte. It was then that Mr Melmotte had offered him a seat at the Board of the Mexican railway.

'Of course he picked the lock, and stole the letter,' said Dolly. 'It's as plain as a pikestaff. It's clear enough to hang any man.'

'I am afraid that it falls short of evidence, however strong and just may be the suspicion induced,' said the lawyer. 'Your father for a time was not quite certain about the letter.'

'He thought that I had signed it,' said Dolly.

'I am quite certain now,' rejoined the father angrily. 'A man has to collect his memory before he can be sure of anything.'

'I am thinking you know how it would go to a jury.'

'What I want to know is how are we to get the money,' said Dolly. 'I should like to see him hung of,—course; but I'd sooner have the money. Squercum says—'

'Adolphus, we don't want to know here what Mr Squercum says.'

'I don't know why what Mr Squercum says shouldn't be as good as what Mr Bideawhile says. Of course Squercum doesn't sound very aristocratic.'

'Quite as much so as Bideawhile, no doubt,' said the lawyer laughing.

'No; Squercum isn't aristocratic, and Fetter Lane is a good deal lower than Lincoln's Inn. Nevertheless Squercum may know what he's about. It was Squercum who was first down upon Melmotte in this matter, and if it wasn't for Squercum we shouldn't know as much about it as we do at present.' Squercum's name was odious to the elder Longestaffe. He believed, probably without much reason, that all his family troubles came to him from Squercum, thinking that if his son would have left his affairs in the hands of the old Slows and the old Bideawhiles, money would never have been scarce with him, and that he would not have made this terrible blunder about the Pickering property. And the sound of Squercum, as his son knew, was horrid to his ears. He hummed and hawed, and fumed and fretted about the room, shaking his head and frowning. His son looked at him as though quite astonished at his displeasure. 'There's nothing more to be done here, sir, I suppose,' said Dolly putting on his hat.

'Nothing more,' said Mr Bideawhile. 'It may be that I shall have to instruct counsel, and I thought it well that I should see in the presence of both of you exactly how the thing stood. You speak so positively, Mr Longestaffe, that there can be no doubt?'

'There is no doubt.'

'And now perhaps you had better lock the drawer in our presence. Stop a moment—I might as well see whether there is any sign of violence having been used.' So saying Mr Bideawhile knelt down in front of the table and began to examine the lock. This he did very carefully and satisfied himself that there was 'no sign of violence.' 'Whoever has done it, did it very well,' said Bideawhile.

'Of course Melmotte did it,' said Dolly Longestaffe standing immediately over Bideawhile's shoulder.

At that moment there was a knock at the door,—a very distinct, and, we may say, a formal knock. There are those who knock and immediately enter without waiting for the sanction asked. Had he who knocked done so on this occasion Mr Bideawhile would have been found still on his knees, with his nose down to the level of the keyhole. But the intruder did not intrude rapidly, and the lawyer jumped on to his feet, almost upsetting Dolly with the effort. There was a pause, during which Mr Bideawhile moved away from the table,—as he might have done had he been picking a lock;—and then Mr Longestaffe bade the stranger come in with a sepulchral voice. The door was opened, and Mr Melmotte appeared.

Now Mr Melmotte's presence certainly had not been expected. It was known that it was his habit to be in the City at this hour. It was known also that he was well aware that this meeting was to be held in this room at this special hour,—and he might well have surmised with what view. There was now declared hostility between both the Longestaffes and Mr Melmotte, and it certainly was supposed by all the gentlemen concerned that he would not have put himself out of the way to meet them on this occasion. 'Gentlemen,' he said, 'perhaps you think that I am intruding at the present moment.' No one said that he did not think so. The elder Longestaffe simply bowed very coldly. Mr Bideawhile stood upright and thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. Dolly, who at first forgot to take his hat off, whistled a bar, and then turned a pirouette on his heel. That was his mode of expressing his thorough surprise at the appearance of his debtor. 'I fear that you do think I am intruding,' said Melmotte, 'but I trust that what I have to say will be held to excuse me. I see, sir,' he said, turning to Mr Longestaffe, and glancing at the still open drawer, 'that you have been examining your desk. I hope that you will be more careful in locking it than you were when you left it before.'

'The drawer was locked when I left it,' said Mr Longestaffe. 'I make no deductions and draw no conclusions, but the drawer was locked.'

'Then I should say it must have been locked when you returned to it.'

'No, sir, I found it open. I make no deductions and draw no conclusions,—but I left it locked and I found it open.'

'I should make a deduction and draw a conclusion,' said Dolly; 'and that would be that somebody else had opened it.'

'This can answer no purpose at all,' said Bideawhile.

'It was but a chance remark,' said Melmotte. 'I did not come here out of the City at very great personal inconvenience to myself to squabble about the lock of the drawer. As I was informed that you three gentlemen would be here together, I thought the opportunity a suitable one for meeting you and making you an offer about this unfortunate business.' He paused a moment; but neither of the three spoke. It did occur to Dolly to ask them to wait while he should fetch Squercum; but on second thoughts he reflected that a great deal of trouble would have to be taken, and probably for no good. 'Mr Bideawhile, I believe,' suggested Melmotte; and the lawyer bowed his head. 'If I remember rightly I wrote to you offering to pay the money due to your clients—'

'Squercum is my lawyer,' said Dolly.

'That will make no difference.'

'It makes a deal of difference,' said Dolly.

'I wrote,' continued Melmotte, 'offering my bills at three and six months' date.'

'They couldn't be accepted, Mr Melmotte.'

'I would have allowed interest. I never have had my bills refused before.'

'You must be aware, Mr Melmotte,' said the lawyer, 'that the sale of a property is not like an ordinary mercantile transaction in which bills are customarily given and taken. The understanding was that money should be paid in the usual way. And when we learned, as we did learn, that the property had been at once mortgaged by you, of course we became,—well, I think I may be justified in saying more than suspicious. It was a most,—most—unusual proceeding. You say you have another offer to make, Mr Melmotte.'

'Of course I have been short of money. I have had enemies whose business it has been for some time past to run down my credit, and, with my credit, has fallen the value of stocks in which it has been known that I have been largely interested. I tell you the truth openly. When I purchased Pickering I had no idea that the payment of such a sum of money could inconvenience me in the least. When the time came at which I should pay it, stocks were so depreciated that it was impossible to sell. Very hostile proceedings are threatened against me now. Accusations are made, false as hell,'—Mr Melmotte as he spoke raised his voice and looked round the room 'but which at the present crisis may do me most cruel damage. I have come to say that, if you will undertake to stop proceedings which have been commenced in the City, I will have fifty thousand pounds,—which is the amount due to these two gentlemen,—ready for payment on Friday at noon.'

'I have taken no proceedings as yet,' said Bideawhile.

'It's Squercum,' says Dolly.

'Well, sir,' continued Melmotte addressing Dolly, 'let me assure you that if these proceedings are stayed the money will be forthcoming;— but if not, I cannot produce the money. I little thought two months ago that I should ever have to make such a statement in reference to such a sum as fifty thousand pounds. But so it is. To raise that money by Friday, I shall have to cripple my resources frightfully. It will be done at a terrible cost. But what Mr Bideawhile says is true. I have no right to suppose that the purchase of this property should be looked upon as an ordinary commercial transaction. The money should have been paid,—and, if you will now take my word, the money shall be paid. But this cannot be done if I am made to appear before the Lord Mayor to-morrow. The accusations brought against me are damnably false. I do not know with whom they have originated. Whoever did originate them, they are damnably false. But unfortunately, false as they are, in the present crisis, they may be ruinous to me. Now gentlemen, perhaps you will give me an answer.'

Both the father and the lawyer looked at Dolly. Dolly was in truth the accuser through the mouthpiece of his attorney Squercum. It was at Dolly's instance that these proceedings were being taken. 'I, on behalf of my client,' said Mr Bideawhile, 'will consent to wait till Friday at noon.'

'I presume, Adolphus, that you will say as much,' said the elder Longestaffe.

Dolly Longestaffe was certainly not an impressionable person, but Melmotte's eloquence had moved even him. It was not that he was sorry for the man, but that at the present moment he believed him. Though he had been absolutely sure that Melmotte had forged his name or caused it to be forged,—and did not now go so far into the matter as to abandon that conviction,—he had been talked into crediting the reasons given for Melmotte's temporary distress, and also into a belief that the money would be paid on Friday. Something of the effect which Melmotte's false confessions had had upon Lord Nidderdale, they now also had on Dolly Longestaffe. 'I'll ask Squercum, you know,' he said.

'Of course Mr Squercum will act as you instruct him,' said Bideawhile.

'I'll ask Squercum. I'll go to him at once. I can't do any more than that. And upon my word, Mr Melmotte, you've given me a great deal of trouble.'

Melmotte with a smile apologized. Then it was settled that they three should meet in that very room on Friday at noon, and that the payment should then be made,—Dolly stipulating that as his father would be attended by Bideawhile, so would he be attended by Squercum. To this Mr Longestaffe senior yielded with a very bad grace.