From the police-office he went direct to Mrs Pipkin's house, and at once asked for Ruby. He was told that Ruby was out with the children, and was advised both by Mrs Pipkin and Mrs Hurtle not to present himself before Ruby quite yet. 'You see,' said Mrs Pipkin, 'she's a thinking how heavy you were upon that young gentleman.'

'But I wasn't;—not particular. Lord love you, he ain't a hair the wuss.'

'You let her alone for a time,' said Mrs Hurtle. 'A little neglect will do her good.'

'Maybe,' said John,—'only I wouldn't like her to have it bad. You'll let her have her wittles regular, Mrs Pipkin.'

It was then explained to him that the neglect proposed should not extend to any deprivation of food, and he took his leave, receiving an assurance from Mrs Hurtle that he should be summoned to town as soon as it was thought that his presence there would serve his purposes; and with loud promises repeated to each of the friendly women that as soon as ever a 'line should be dropped' he would appear again upon the scene, he took Mrs Pipkin aside, and suggested that if there were 'any hextras,' he was ready to pay for them. Then he took his leave without seeing Ruby, and went back to Bungay.

When Ruby returned with the children she was told that John Crumb had called. 'I thought as he was in prison,' said Ruby.

'What should they keep him in prison for?' said Mrs Pipkin. 'He hasn't done nothing as he oughtn't to have done. That young man was dragging you about as far as I can make out, and Mr Crumb just did as anybody ought to have done to prevent it. Of course they weren't going to keep him in prison for that. Prison indeed! It isn't him as ought to be in prison.'

'And where is he now, aunt?'

'Gone down to Bungay to mind his business, and won't be coming here any more of a fool's errand. He must have seen now pretty well what's worth having, and what ain't. Beauty is but skin deep, Ruby.'

'John Crumb'd be after me again to-morrow, if I'd give him encouragement,' said Ruby. 'If I'd hold up my finger he'd come.'

'Then John Crumb's a fool for his pains, that's all; and now do you go about your work.' Ruby didn't like to be told to go about her work, and tossed her head, and slammed the kitchen door, and scolded the servant girl, and then sat down to cry. What was she to do with herself now? She had an idea that Felix would not come back to her after the treatment he had received;—and a further idea that if he did come he was not, as she phrased it to herself, 'of much account.' She certainly did not like him the better for having been beaten, though, at the time, she had been disposed to take his part. She did not believe that she would ever dance with him again. That had been the charm of her life in London, and that was now all over. And as for marrying her,—she began to feel certain that he did not intend it. John Crumb was a big, awkward, dull, uncouth lump of a man, with whom Ruby thought it impossible that a girl should be in love. Love and John Crumb were poles asunder. But—! Ruby did not like wheeling the perambulator about Islington, and being told by her aunt Pipkin to go about her work. What Ruby did like was being in love and dancing; but if all that must come to an end, then there would be a question whether she could not do better for herself, than by staying with her aunt and wheeling the perambulator about Islington.

Mrs Hurtle was still living in solitude in the lodgings, and having but little to do on her own behalf, had devoted herself to the interest of John Crumb. A man more unlike one of her own countrymen she had never seen. 'I wonder whether he has any ideas at all in his head,' she had said to Mrs Pipkin. Mrs Pipkin had replied that Mr Crumb had certainly a very strong idea of marrying Ruby Ruggles. Mrs Hurtle had smiled, thinking that Mrs Pipkin was also very unlike her own countrywomen. But she was very kind to Mrs Pipkin, ordering rice-puddings on purpose that the children might eat them, and she was quite determined to give John Crumb all the aid in her power.

In order that she might give effectual aid she took Mrs Pipkin into confidence, and prepared a plan of action in reference to Ruby. Mrs Pipkin was to appear as chief actor on the scene, but the plan was altogether Mrs Hurtle's plan. On the day following John's return to Bungay Mrs Pipkin summoned Ruby into the back parlour, and thus addressed her. 'Ruby, you know, this must come to an end now.'

'What must come to an end?'

'You can't stay here always, you know.'

'I'm sure I work hard, Aunt Pipkin, and I don't get no wages.'

'I can't do with more than one girl,—and there's the keep if there isn't wages. Besides, there's other reasons. Your grandfather won't have you back there; that's certain.'

'I wouldn't go back to grandfather, if it was ever so.'

'But you must go somewheres. You didn't come to stay here always,—nor I couldn't have you. You must go into service.'

'I don't know anybody as'd have me,' said Ruby.

'You must put a 'vertisement into the paper. You'd better say as nursemaid, as you seems to take kindly to children. And I must give you a character;—only I shall say just the truth. You mustn't ask much wages just at first.' Ruby looked very sorrowful, and the tears were near her eyes. The change from the glories of the music hall was so startling and so oppressive! 'It has got to be done sooner or later, so you may as well put the 'vertisement in this afternoon.'

'You'r going to turn me out, Aunt Pipkin.'

'Well;—if that's turning out, I am. You see you never would be said by me as though I was your mistress. You would go out with that rapscallion when I bid you not. Now when you're in a regular place like, you must mind when you're spoke to, and it will be best for you. You've had your swing, and now you see you've got to pay for it. You must earn your bread, Ruby, as you've quarrelled both with your lover and your grandfather.'

There was no possible answer to this, and therefore the necessary notice was put into the paper,—Mrs Hurtle paying for its insertion. 'Because, you know,' said Mrs Hurtle, 'she must stay here really, till Mr Crumb comes and takes her away.' Mrs Pipkin expressed her opinion that Ruby was a 'baggage' and John Crumb a 'soft.' Mrs Pipkin was perhaps a little jealous at the interest which her lodger took in her niece, thinking perhaps that all Mrs Hurtle's sympathies were due to herself.

Ruby went hither and thither for a day or two, calling upon the mothers of children who wanted nursemaids. The answers which she had received had not come from the highest members of the aristocracy, and the houses which she visited did not appal her by their splendour. Many objections were made to her. A character from an aunt was objectionable. Her ringlets were objectionable. She was a deal too flighty-looking. She spoke up much too free. At last one happy mother of five children offered to take her on approval for a month, at L12 a year, Ruby to find her own tea and wash for herself. This was slavery;—abject slavery. And she too, who had been the beloved of a baronet, and who might even now be the mistress of a better house than that into which she was to go as a servant,—if she would only hold up her finger! But the place was accepted, and with broken-hearted sobbings Ruby prepared herself for her departure from Aunt Pipkin's roof.

'I hope you like your place, Ruby,' Mrs Hurtle said on the afternoon of her last day.

'Indeed then I don't like it at all. They're the ugliest children you ever see, Mrs Hurtle.'

'Ugly children must be minded as well as pretty ones.'

'And the mother of 'em is as cross as cross.'

'It's your own fault, Ruby; isn't it?'

'I don't know as I've done anything out of the way.'

'Don't you think it's anything out of the way to be engaged to a young man and then to throw him over? All this has come because you wouldn't keep your word to Mr Crumb. Only for that your grandfather wouldn't have turned you out of his house.'

'He didn't turn me out. I ran away. And it wasn't along of John Crumb, but because grandfather hauled me about by the hair of my head.'

'But he was angry with you about Mr Crumb. When a young woman becomes engaged to a young man, she ought not to go back from her word.' No doubt Mrs Hurtle, when preaching this doctrine, thought that the same law might be laid down with propriety for the conduct of young men. 'Of course you have brought trouble on yourself. I am sorry you don't like the place. I'm afraid you must go to it now.'

'I am agoing,—I suppose,' said Ruby, probably feeling that if she could but bring herself to condescend so far there might yet be open for her a way of escape.

'I shall write and tell Mr Crumb where you are placed.'

'Oh, Mrs Hurtle, don't. What should you write to him for? It ain't nothing to him.'

'I told him I'd let him know if any steps were taken.'

'You can forget that, Mrs Hurtle. Pray don't write. I don't want him to know as I'm in service.'

'I must keep my promise. Why shouldn't he know? I don't suppose you care much now what he hears about you.'

'Yes I do. I wasn't never in service before, and I don't want him to know.'

'What harm can it do you?'

'Well, I don't want him to know. It's such a come down, Mrs Hurtle.'

'There is nothing to be ashamed of in that. What you have to be ashamed of is jilting him. It was a bad thing to do;—wasn't it, Ruby?'

'I didn't mean nothing bad, Mrs Hurtle; only why couldn't he say what he had to say himself, instead of bringing another to say it for him? What would you feel, Mrs Hurtle, if a man was to come and say it all out of another man's mouth?'

'I don't think I should much care if the thing was well said at last. You know he meant it.'

'Yes;—I did know that.'

'And you know he means it now?'

'I'm not so sure about that. He's gone back to Bungay, and he isn't no good at writing letters no more than at speaking. Oh,—he'll go and get somebody else now.'

'Of course he will if he hears nothing about you. I think I'd better tell him. I know what would happen.'

'What would happen, Mrs Hurtle?'

'He'd be up in town again in half a jiffey to see what sort of a place you'd got. Now, Ruby, I'll tell you what I'll do, if you'll say the word. I'll have him up here at once and you shan't go to Mrs Buggins'.' Ruby dropped her hands and stood still, staring at Mrs Hurtle. 'I will. But if he comes you mustn't behave this time as you did before.'

'But I'm to go to Mrs Buggins' to-morrow.'

'We'll send to Mrs Buggins and tell her to get somebody else. You're breaking your heart about going there;—are you not?'

'I don't like it, Mrs Hurtle.'

'And this man will make you mistress of his house. You say he isn't good at speaking; but I tell you I never came across an honester man in the whole course of my life, or one who I think would treat a woman better. What's the use of a glib tongue if there isn't a heart with it? What's the use of a lot of tinsel and lacker, if the real metal isn't there? Sir Felix Carbury could talk, I dare say, but you don't think now he was a very fine fellow.'

'He was so beautiful, Mrs Hurtle!'

'But he hadn't the spirit of a mouse in his bosom. Well, Ruby, you have one more choice left you. Shall it be John Crumb or Mrs Buggins?'

'He wouldn't come, Mrs Hurtle.'

'Leave that to me, Ruby. May I bring him if I can?' Then Ruby in a very low whisper told Mrs Hurtle, that if she thought proper she might bring John Crumb back again. 'And there shall be no more nonsense?'

'No,' whispered Ruby.

On that same night a letter was sent to Mrs Buggins, which Mrs Hurtle also composed, informing that lady that unforeseen circumstances prevented Ruby Ruggles from keeping the engagement she had made; to which a verbal answer was returned that Ruby Ruggles was an impudent hussey. And then Mrs Hurtle in her own name wrote a short note to Mr John Crumb.

DEAR MR CRUMB,

If you will come back to London I think you will find Miss Ruby Ruggles all that you desire.

Yours faithfully,

WINIFRED HURTLE.

'She's had a deal more done for her than I ever knew to be done for young women in my time,' said Mrs Pipkin, 'and I'm not at all so sure that she has deserved it.'

'John Crumb will think she has.'

'John Crumb's a fool;—and as to Ruby; well, I haven't got no patience with girls like them. Yes; it is for the best; and as for you, Mrs Hurtle, there's no words to say how good you've been. I hope, Mrs Hurtle, you ain't thinking of going away because this is all done.'



CHAPTER LXXXI - MR COHENLUPE LEAVES LONDON

Dolly Longestaffe had found himself compelled to go to Fetter Lane immediately after that meeting in Bruton Street at which he had consented to wait two days longer for the payment of his money. This was on a Wednesday, the day appointed for the payment being Friday. He had undertaken that, on his part, Squercum should be made to desist from further immediate proceedings, and he could only carry out his word by visiting Squercum. The trouble to him was very great, but he began to feel that he almost liked it. The excitement was nearly as good as that of loo. Of course it was a 'horrid bore,'—this having to go about in cabs under the sweltering sun of a London July day. Of course it was a 'horrid bore,'—this doubt about his money. And it went altogether against the grain with him that he should be engaged in any matter respecting the family property in agreement with his father and Mr Bideawhile. But there was an importance in it that sustained him amidst his troubles. It is said that if you were to take a man of moderate parts and make him Prime Minister out of hand, he might probably do as well as other Prime Ministers, the greatness of the work elevating the man to its own level. In that way Dolly was elevated to the level of a man of business, and felt and enjoyed his own capacity. 'By George!' It depended chiefly upon him whether such a man as Melmotte should or should not be charged before the Lord Mayor. 'Perhaps I oughtn't to have promised,' he said to Squercum, sitting in the lawyer's office on a high-legged stool with a cigar in his mouth. He preferred Squercum to any other lawyer he had met because Squercum's room was untidy and homely, because there was nothing awful about it, and because he could sit in what position he pleased, and smoke all the time.

'Well; I don't think you ought, if you ask me,' said Squercum.

'You weren't there to be asked, old fellow.'

'Bideawhile shouldn't have asked you to agree to anything in my absence,' said Squercum indignantly. 'It was a very unprofessional thing on his part, and so I shall take an opportunity of telling him.'

'It was you told me to go.'

'Well;—yes. I wanted you to see what they were at in that room; but I told you to look on and say nothing.'

'I didn't speak half-a-dozen words.'

'You shouldn't have spoken those words. Your father then is quite clear that you did not sign the letter?'

'Oh, yes;—the governor is pig-headed, you know, but he's honest.'

'That's a matter of course,' said the lawyer. 'All men are honest; but they are generally specially honest to their own side. Bideawhile's honest; but you've got to fight him deuced close to prevent his getting the better of you. Melmotte has promised to pay the money on Friday, has he?'

'He's to bring it with him to Bruton Street.'

'I don't believe a word of it;—and I'm sure Bideawhile doesn't. In what shape will he bring it? He'll give you a cheque dated on Monday, and that'll give him two days more, and then on Monday there'll be a note to say the money can't be lodged till Wednesday. There should be no compromising with such a man. You only get from one mess into another. I told you neither to do anything or to say anything.'

'I suppose we can't help ourselves now. You're to be there on Friday. I particularly bargained for that. It you're there, there won't be any more compromising.'

Squercum made one or two further remarks to his client, not at all flattering to Dolly's vanity,—which might have caused offence had not there been such perfectly good feeling between the attorney and the young man. As it was, Dolly replied to everything that was said with increased flattery. 'If I was a sharp fellow like you, you know,' said Dolly, 'of course I should get along better; but I ain't, you know.' It was then settled that they should meet each other, and also meet Mr Longestaffe senior, Bideawhile, and Melmotte, at twelve o'clock on Friday morning in Bruton Street.

Squercum was by no means satisfied. He had busied himself in this matter, and had ferreted things out, till he had pretty nearly got to the bottom of that affair about the houses in the East, and had managed to induce the heirs of the old man who had died to employ him. As to the Pickering property he had not a doubt on the subject. Old Longestaffe had been induced by promises of wonderful aid and by the bribe of a seat at the Board of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway to give up the title-deeds of the property,—as far as it was in his power to give them up; and had endeavoured to induce Dolly to do so also. As he had failed, Melmotte had supplemented his work by ingenuity, with which the reader is acquainted. All this was perfectly clear to Squercum, who thought that he saw before him a most attractive course of proceeding against the Great Financier. It was pure ambition rather than any hope of lucre that urged him on. He regarded Melmotte as a grand swindler,—perhaps the grandest that the world had ever known,—and he could conceive no greater honour than the detection, successful prosecution, and ultimate destroying of so great a man. To have hunted down Melmotte would make Squercum as great almost as Melmotte himself. But he felt himself to have been unfairly hampered by his own client. He did not believe that the money would be paid; but delay might rob him of his Melmotte. He had heard a good many things in the City, and believed it to be quite out of the question that Melmotte should raise the money,—but there were various ways in which a man might escape.

It may be remembered that Croll, the German clerk, preceded Melmotte into the City on Wednesday after Marie's refusal to sign the deeds. He, too, had his eyes open, and had perceived that things were not looking as well as they used to look. Croll had for many years been true to his patron, having been, upon the whole, very well paid for such truth. There had been times when things had gone badly with him, but he had believed in Melmotte, and, when Melmotte rose, had been rewarded for his faith. Mr Croll at the present time had little investments of his own, not made under his employer's auspices, which would leave him not absolutely without bread for his family should the Melmotte affairs at any time take an awkward turn. Melmotte had never required from him service that was actually fraudulent,—had at any rate never required it by spoken words. Mr Croll had not been over-scrupulous, and had occasionally been very useful to Mr Melmotte. But there must be a limit to all things; and why should any man sacrifice himself beneath the ruins of a falling house,—when convinced that nothing he can do can prevent the fall? Mr Croll would have been of course happy to witness Miss Melmotte's signature; but as for that other kind of witnessing,—this clearly to his thinking was not the time for such good-nature on his part.

'You know what's up now;—don't you?' said one of the junior clerks to Mr Croll when he entered the office in Abchurch Lane.

'A good deal will be up soon,' said the German.

'Cohenlupe has gone!'

'And to vere has Mr Cohenlupe gone?'

'He hasn't been civil enough to leave his address. I fancy he don't want his friends to have to trouble themselves by writing to him. Nobody seems to know what's become of him.'

'New York,' suggested Mr Croll.

'They seem to think not. They're too hospitable in New York for Mr Cohenlupe just at present. He's travelling private. He's on the continent somewhere,—half across France by this time; but nobody knows what route he has taken. That'll be a poke in the ribs for the old boy;—eh, Croll?' Croll merely shook his head. 'I wonder what has become of Miles Grendall,' continued the clerk.

'Ven de rats is going avay it is bad for de house. I like de rats to stay.'

'There seems to have been a regular manufactory of Mexican Railway scrip.'

'Our governor knew noding about dat,' said Croll.

'He has a hat full of them at any rate. If they could have been kept up another fortnight they say Cohenlupe would have been worth nearly a million of money, and the governor would have been as good as the bank. Is it true they are going to have him before the Lord Mayor about the Pickering title-deeds?' Croll declared that he knew nothing about the matter, and settled himself down to his work.

In little more than two hours he was followed by Melmotte, who thus reached the City late in the afternoon. It was he knew too late to raise the money on that day, but he hoped that he might pave the way for getting it on the next day, which would be Thursday. Of course the first news which he heard was of the defection of Mr Cohenlupe. It was Croll who told him. He turned back, and his jaw fell, but at first he said nothing.

'It's a bad thing,' said Mr Croll.

'Yes;—it is bad. He had a vast amount of my property in his hands. Where has he gone?' Croll shook his head. 'It never rains but it pours,' said Melmotte. 'Well; I'll weather it all yet. I've been worse than I am now, Croll, as you know, and have had a hundred thousand pounds at my banker's,—loose cash,—before the month was out.'

'Yes, indeed,' said Croll.

'But the worst of it is that every one around me is so damnably jealous. It isn't what I've lost that will crush me, but what men will say that I've lost. Ever since I began to stand for Westminster there has been a dead set against me in the City. The whole of that affair of the dinner was planned,—planned, by G——, that it might ruin me. It was all laid out just as you would lay the foundation of a building. It is hard for one man to stand against all that when he has dealings so large as mine.'

'Very hard, Mr Melmotte.'

'But they'll find they're mistaken yet. There's too much of the real stuff, Croll, for them to crush me. Property's a kind of thing that comes out right at last. It's cut and come again, you know, if the stuff is really there. But I mustn't stop talking here. I suppose I shall find Brehgert in Cuthbert's Court.'

'I should say so, Mr Melmotte. Mr Brehgert never leaves much before six.'

Then Mr Melmotte took his hat and gloves, and the stick that he usually carried, and went out with his face carefully dressed in its usually jaunty air. But Croll as he went heard him mutter the name of Cohenlupe between his teeth. The part which he had to act is one very difficult to any actor. The carrying an external look of indifference when the heart is sinking within,—or has sunk almost to the very ground,—is more than difficult; it is an agonizing task. In all mental suffering the sufferer longs for solitude,—for permission to cast himself loose along the ground, so that every limb and every feature of his person may faint in sympathy with his heart. A grandly urbane deportment over a crushed spirit and ruined hopes is beyond the physical strength of most men;—but there have been men so strong. Melmotte very nearly accomplished it. It was only to the eyes of such a one as Herr Croll that the failure was perceptible.

Melmotte did find Mr Brehgert. At this time Mr Brehgert had completed his correspondence with Miss Longestaffe, in which he had mentioned the probability of great losses from the anticipated commercial failure in Mr Melmotte's affairs. He had now heard that Mr Cohenlupe had gone upon his travels, and was therefore nearly sure that his anticipation would be correct. Nevertheless, he received his old friend with a smile. When large sums of money are concerned there is seldom much of personal indignation between man and man. The loss of fifty pounds or of a few hundreds may create personal wrath;—but fifty thousand require equanimity. 'So Cohenlupe hasn't been seen in the City to-day,' said Brehgert.

'He has gone,' said Melmotte hoarsely.

'I think I once told you that Cohenlupe was not the man for large dealings.'

'Yes, you did,' said Melmotte.

'Well;—it can't be helped; can it? And what is it now?' Then Melmotte explained to Mr Brehgert what it was that he wanted then, taking the various documents out of the bag which throughout the afternoon he had carried in his hand. Mr Brehgert understood enough of his friend's affairs, and enough of affairs in general, to understand readily all that was required. He examined the documents, declaring, as he did so, that he did not know how the thing could be arranged by Friday. Melmotte replied that L50,000 was not a very large sum of money, that the security offered was worth twice as much as that. 'You will leave them with me this evening,' said Brehgert. Melmotte paused for a moment, and said that he would of course do so. He would have given much, very much, to have been sufficiently master of himself to have assented without hesitation;—but then the weight within was so very heavy!

Having left the papers and the bag with Mr Brehgert, he walked westwards to the House of Commons. He was accustomed to remain in the City later than this, often not leaving it till seven,—though during the last week or ten days he had occasionally gone down to the House in the afternoon. It was now Wednesday, and there was no evening sitting;—but his mind was too full of other things to allow him to remember this. As he walked along the Embankment, his thoughts were very heavy. How would things go with him?—What would be the end of it? Ruin;—yes, but there were worse things than ruin. And a short time since he had been so fortunate;—had made himself so safe! As he looked back at it, he could hardly say how it had come to pass that he had been driven out of the track that he had laid down for himself. He had known that ruin would come, and had made himself so comfortably safe, so brilliantly safe, in spite of ruin. But insane ambition had driven him away from his anchorage. He told himself over and over again that the fault had been not in circumstances,—not in that which men call Fortune,—but in his own incapacity to bear his position. He saw it now. He felt it now. If he could only begin again, how different would his conduct be!

But of what avail were such regrets as these? He must take things as they were now, and see that, in dealing with them, he allowed himself to be carried away neither by pride nor cowardice. And if the worst should come to the worst, then let him face it like a man! There was a certain manliness about him which showed itself perhaps as strongly in his own self-condemnation as in any other part of his conduct at this time. Judging of himself, as though he were standing outside himself and looking on to another man's work, he pointed out to himself his own shortcomings. If it were all to be done again he thought that he could avoid this bump against the rocks on one side, and that terribly shattering blow on the other. There was much that he was ashamed of,— many a little act which recurred to him vividly in this solitary hour as a thing to be repented of with inner sackcloth and ashes. But never once, not for a moment, did it occur to him that he should repent of the fraud in which his whole life had been passed. No idea ever crossed his mind of what might have been the result had he lived the life of an honest man. Though he was inquiring into himself as closely as he could, he never even told himself that he had been dishonest. Fraud and dishonesty had been the very principle of his life, and had so become a part of his blood and bones that even in this extremity of his misery he made no question within himself as to his right judgment in regard to them. Not to cheat, not to be a scoundrel, not to live more luxuriously than others by cheating more brilliantly, was a condition of things to which his mind had never turned itself. In that respect he accused himself of no want of judgment. But why had he, so unrighteous himself, not made friends to himself of the Mammon of unrighteousness? Why had he not conciliated Lord Mayors? Why had he trod upon all the corns of all his neighbours? Why had he been insolent at the India Office? Why had he trusted any man as he had trusted Cohenlupe? Why had he not stuck to Abchurch Lane instead of going into Parliament? Why had he called down unnecessary notice on his head by entertaining the Emperor of China? It was too late now, and he must bear it; but these were the things that had ruined him.

He walked into Palace Yard and across it, to the door of Westminster Abbey, before he found out that Parliament was not sitting. 'Oh, Wednesday! Of course it is,' he said, turning round and directing his steps towards Grosvenor Square. Then he remembered that in the morning he had declared his purpose of dining at home, and now he did not know what better use to make of the present evening. His house could hardly be very comfortable to him. Marie no doubt would keep out of his way, and he did not habitually receive much pleasure from his wife's company. But in his own house he could at least be alone. Then, as he walked slowly across the park, thinking so intently on matters as hardly to observe whether he himself were observed or no, he asked himself whether it still might not be best for him to keep the money which was settled on his daughter, to tell the Longestaffes that he could make no payment, and to face the worst that Mr Squercum could do to him,—for he knew already how busy Mr Squercum was in the matter. Though they should put him on his trial for forgery, what of that? He had heard of trials in which the accused criminals had been heroes to the multitude while their cases were in progress,—who had been feted from the beginning to the end though no one had doubted their guilt,— and who had come out unscathed at the last. What evidence had they against him? It might be that the Longestaffes and Bideawhiles and Squercums should know that he was a forger, but their knowledge would not produce a verdict. He, as member for Westminster, as the man who had entertained the Emperor, as the owner of one of the most gorgeous houses in London, as the great Melmotte, could certainly command the best half of the bar. He already felt what popular support might do for him. Surely there need be no despondency while so good a hope remained to him! He did tremble as he remembered Dolly Longestaffe's letter, and the letter of the old man who was dead. And he knew that it was possible that other things might be adduced; but would it not be better to face it all than surrender his money and become a pauper, seeing, as he did very clearly, that even by such surrender he could not cleanse his character?

But he had given those forged documents into the hands of Mr Brehgert! Again he had acted in a hurry,—without giving sufficient thought to the matter in hand. He was angry with himself for that also. But how is a man to give sufficient thought to his affairs when no step that he takes can be other than ruinous? Yes;—he had certainly put into Brehgert's hands means of proving him to have been absolutely guilty of forgery. He did not think that Marie would disclaim the signatures, even though she had refused to sign the deeds, when she should understand that her father had written her name; nor did he think that his clerk would be urgent against him, as the forgery of Croll's name could not injure Croll. But Brehgert, should he discover what had been done, would certainly not permit him to escape. And now he had put these forgeries without any guard into Brehgert's hands.

He would tell Brehgert in the morning that he had changed his mind. He would see Brehgert before any action could have been taken on the documents, and Brehgert would no doubt restore them to him. Then he would instruct his daughter to hold the money fast, to sign no paper that should be put before her, and to draw the income herself. Having done that, he would let his foes do their worst. They might drag him to gaol. They probably would do so. He had an idea that he could not be admitted to bail if accused of forgery. But he would bear all that. If convicted he would bear the punishment, still hoping that an end might come. But how great was the chance that they might fail to convict him! As to the dead man's letter, and as to Dolly Longestaffe's letter, he did not think that any sufficient evidence could be found. The evidence as to the deeds by which Marie was to have released the property was indeed conclusive; but he believed that he might still recover those documents. For the present it must be his duty to do nothing,—when he should have recovered and destroyed those documents,—and to live before the eyes of men as though he feared nothing.

He dined at home alone, in the study, and after dinner carefully went through various bundles of papers, preparing them for the eyes of those ministers of the law who would probably before long have the privilege of searching them. At dinner, and while he was thus employed, he drank a bottle of champagne,—feeling himself greatly comforted by the process. If he could only hold up his head and look men in the face, he thought that he might still live through it all. How much had he done by his own unassisted powers! He had once been imprisoned for fraud at Hamburg, and had come out of gaol a pauper; friendless, with all his wretched antecedents against him. Now he was a member of the British House of Parliament, the undoubted owner of perhaps the most gorgeously furnished house in London, a man with an established character for high finance,—a commercial giant whose name was a familiar word on all the exchanges of the two hemispheres. Even though he should be condemned to penal servitude for life, he would not all die. He rang the bell and desired that Madame Melmotte might be sent to him, and bade the servant bring him brandy.

In ten minutes his poor wife came crawling into the room. Every one connected with Melmotte regarded the man with a certain amount of awe,—every one except Marie, to whom alone he had at times been himself almost gentle. The servants all feared him, and his wife obeyed him implicitly when she could not keep away from him. She came in now and stood opposite him, while he spoke to her. She never sat in his presence in that room. He asked her where she and Marie kept their jewelry;—for during the last twelve months rich trinkets had been supplied to both of them. Of course she answered by another question. 'Is anything going to happen, Melmotte?'

'A good deal is going to happen. Are they here in this house, or in Grosvenor Square?'

'They are here.'

'Then have them all packed up,—as small as you can; never mind about wool and cases and all that. Have them close to your hand so that if you have to move you can take them with you. Do you understand?'

'Yes; I understand.'

'Why don't you speak, then?'

'What is going to happen, Melmotte?'

'How can I tell? You ought to know by this time that when a man's work is such as mine, things will happen. You'll be safe enough. Nothing can hurt you.'

'Can they hurt you, Melmotte?'

'Hurt me! I don't know what you call hurting. Whatever there is to be borne, I suppose it is I must bear it. I have not had it very soft all my life hitherto, and I don't think it's going to be very soft now.'

'Shall we have to move?'

'Very likely. Move! What's the harm of moving? You talk of moving as though that were the worst thing that could happen. How would you like to be in some place where they wouldn't let you move?'

'Are they going to send you to prison?'

'Hold your tongue.'

'Tell me, Melmotte;—are they going to?' Then the poor woman did sit down, overcome by her feelings.

'I didn't ask you to come here for a scene,' said Melmotte. 'Do as I bid you about your own jewels, and Marie's. The thing is to have them in small compass, and that you should not have it to do at the last moment, when you will be flurried and incapable. Now you needn't stay any longer, and it's no good asking any questions because I shan't answer them.' So dismissed, the poor woman crept out again, and immediately, after her own slow fashion, went to work with her ornaments.

Melmotte sat up during the greater part of the night, sometimes sipping brandy and water, and sometimes smoking. But he did no work, and hardly touched a paper after his wife left him.



CHAPTER LXXXII - MARIE'S PERSEVERANCE

Very early the next morning, very early that is for London life, Melmotte was told by a servant that Mr Croll had called and wanted to see him. Then it immediately became a question with him whether he wanted to see Croll. 'Is it anything special?' he asked. The man thought that it was something special, as Croll had declared his purpose of waiting when told that Mr Melmotte was not as yet dressed. This happened at about nine o'clock in the morning. Melmotte longed to know every detail of Croll's manner,—to know even the servant's opinion of the clerk's manner,—but he did not dare to ask a question. Melmotte thought that it might be well to be gracious. 'Ask him if he has breakfasted, and if not give him something in the study.' But Mr Croll had breakfasted and declined any further refreshment.

Nevertheless Melmotte had not as yet made up his mind that he would meet his clerk. His clerk was his clerk. It might perhaps be well that he should first go into the City and send word to Croll, bidding him wait for his return. Over and over again, against his will, the question of flying would present itself to him; but, though he discussed it within his own bosom in every form, he knew that he could not fly. And if he stood his ground,—as most assuredly he would do,— then must he not be afraid to meet any man, let the man come with what thunderbolts in his hand he might. Of course sooner or later some man must come with a thunderbolt,—and why not Croll as well as another? He stood against a press in his chamber, with a razor in his hand, and steadied himself. How easily might he put an end to it all! Then he rang his bell and desired that Croll might be shown up into his room.

The three or four minutes which intervened seemed to him to be very long. He had absolutely forgotten in his anxiety that the lather was still upon his face. But he could not smother his anxiety. He was fighting with it at every turn, but he could not conquer it. When the knock came at his door, he grasped at his own breast as though to support himself. With a hoarse voice he told the man to come in, and Croll himself appeared, opening the door gently and very slowly. Melmotte had left the bag which contained the papers in possession of Mr Brehgert, and he now saw, at a glance, that Croll had got the bag in his hand and could see also by the shape of the bag that the bag contained the papers. The man therefore had in his own hands, in his own keeping, the very documents to which his own name had been forged! There was no longer a hope, no longer a chance that Croll should be ignorant of what had been done. 'Well, Croll,' he said with an attempt at a smile, 'what brings you here so early?' He was pale as death, and let him struggle as he would, could not restrain himself from trembling.

'Herr Brehgert vas vid me last night,' said Croll.

'Eh!'

'And he thought I had better bring these back to you. That's all.' Croll spoke in a very low voice, with his eyes fixed on his master's face, but with nothing of a threat in his attitude or manner.

'Eh!' repeated Melmotte. Even though he might have saved himself from all coming evils by a bold demeanour at that moment, he could not assume it. But it all flashed upon him at a moment. Brehgert had seen Croll after he, Melmotte, had left the City, had then discovered the forgery, and had taken this way of sending back all the forged documents. He had known Brehgert to be of all men who ever lived the most good-natured, but he could hardly believe in pure good-nature such as this. It seemed that the thunderbolt was not yet to fall.

'Mr Brehgert came to me,' continued Croll, 'because one signature was wanting. It was very late, so I took them home with me. I said I'd bring them to you in the morning.'

They both knew that he had forged the documents, Brehgert and Croll; but how would that concern him, Melmotte, if these two friends had resolved together that they would not expose him? He had desired to get the documents back into his own hands, and here they were! Melmotte's immediate trouble arose from the difficulty of speaking in a proper manner to his own servant who had just detected him in forgery. He couldn't speak. There were no words appropriate to such an occasion. 'It vas a strong order, Mr Melmotte,' said Croll. Melmotte tried to smile but only grinned. 'I vill not be back in the Lane, Mr Melmotte.'

'Not back at the office, Croll?'

'I tink not;—no. De leetle money coming to me, you will send it. Adieu.' And so Mr Croll took his final leave of his old master after an intercourse which had lasted twenty years. We may imagine that Herr Croll found his spirits to be oppressed and his capacity for business to be obliterated by his patron's misfortunes rather than by his patron's guilt. But he had not behaved unkindly. He had merely remarked that the forgery of his own name half-a-dozen times over was a 'strong order.'

Melmotte opened the bag, and examined the documents one by one. It had been necessary that Marie should sign her name some half-dozen times, and Marie's father had made all the necessary forgeries. It had been of course necessary that each name should be witnessed;—but here the forger had scamped his work. Croll's name he had written five times; but one forged signature he had left unattested! Again he had himself been at fault. Again he had aided his own ruin by his own carelessness. One seems inclined to think sometimes that any fool might do an honest business. But fraud requires a man to be alive and wide awake at every turn!

Melmotte had desired to have the documents back in his own hands, and now he had them. Did it matter much that Brehgert and Croll both knew the crime which he had committed? Had they meant to take legal steps against him they would not have returned the forgeries to his own hands. Brehgert, he thought, would never tell the tale;—unless there should arise some most improbable emergency in which he might make money by telling it; but he was by no means so sure of Croll. Croll had signified his intention of leaving Melmotte's service, and would therefore probably enter some rival service, and thus become an enemy to his late master. There could be no reason why Croll should keep the secret. Even if he got no direct profit by telling it, he would curry favour by making it known. Of course Croll would tell it.

But what harm could the telling of such a secret do him? The girl was his own daughter! The money had been his own money! The man had been his own servant! There had been no fraud; no robbery; no purpose of peculation. Melmotte, as he thought of this, became almost proud of what he had done, thinking that if the evidence were suppressed the knowledge of the facts could do him no harm. But the evidence must be suppressed, and with the view of suppressing it he took the little bag and all the papers down with him to the study. Then he ate his breakfast,—and suppressed the evidence by the aid of his gas lamp.

When this was accomplished he hesitated as to the manner in which he would pass his day. He had now given up all idea of raising the money for Longestaffe. He had even considered the language in which he would explain to the assembled gentlemen on the morrow the fact that a little difficulty still presented itself, and that as he could not exactly name a day, he must leave the matter in their hands. For he had resolved that he would not evade the meeting. Cohenlupe had gone since he had made his promise, and he would throw all the blame on Cohenlupe. Everybody knows that when panics arise the breaking of one merchant causes the downfall of another. Cohenlupe should bear the burden. But as that must be so, he could do no good by going into the City. His pecuniary downfall had now become too much a matter of certainty to be staved off by his presence; and his personal security could hardly be assisted by it. There would be nothing for him to do. Cohenlupe had gone. Miles Grendall had gone. Croll had gone. He could hardly go to Cuthbert's Court and face Mr Brehgert! He would stay at home till it was time for him to go down to the House, and then he would face the world there. He would dine down at the House, and stand about in the smoking-room with his hat on, and be visible in the lobbies, and take his seat among his brother legislators,—and, if it were possible, rise on his legs and make a speech to them. He was about to have a crushing fall,—but the world should say that he had fallen like a man.

About eleven his daughter came to him as he sat in the study. It can hardly be said that he had ever been kind to Marie, but perhaps she was the only person who in the whole course of his career had received indulgence at his hands. He had often beaten her; but he had also often made her presents and smiled on her, and in the periods of his opulence, had allowed her pocket-money almost without limit. Now she had not only disobeyed him, but by most perverse obstinacy on her part had driven him to acts of forgery which had already been detected. He had cause to be angry now with Marie if he had ever had cause for anger. But he had almost forgotten the transaction. He had at any rate forgotten the violence of his own feelings at the time of its occurrence. He was no longer anxious that the release should be made, and therefore no longer angry with her for her refusal.

'Papa,' she said, coming very gently into the room, 'I think that perhaps I was wrong yesterday.'

'Of course you were wrong;—but it doesn't matter now.'

'If you wish it I'll sign those papers. I don't suppose Lord Nidderdale means to come any more;—and I'm sure I don't care whether he does or not.'

'What makes you think that, Marie?'

'I was out last night at Lady Julia Goldsheiner's, and he was there. I'm sure he doesn't mean to come here any more.'

'Was he uncivil to you?'

'Oh dear no. He's never uncivil. But I'm sure of it. Never mind how. I never told him that I cared for him and I never did care for him. Papa, is there something going to happen?'

'What do you mean?'

'Some misfortune! Oh, papa, why didn't you let me marry that other man?'

'He is a penniless adventurer.'

'But he would have had this money that I call my money, and then there would have been enough for us all. Papa, he would marry me still if you would let him.'

'Have you seen him since you went to Liverpool?'

'Never, papa.'

'Or heard from him?'

'Not a line.'

'Then what makes you think he would marry you?'

'He would if I got hold of him and told him. And he is a baronet. And there would be plenty of money for us all. And we could go and live in Germany.'

'We could do that just as well without your marrying.'

'But I suppose, papa, I am to be considered as somebody. I don't want after all to run away from London, just as if everybody had turned up their noses at me. I like him, and I don't like anybody else.'

'He wouldn't take the trouble to go to Liverpool with you.'

'He got tipsy. I know all about that. I don't mean to say that he's anything particularly grand. I don't know that anybody is very grand. He's as good as anybody else.'

'It can't be done, Marie.'

'Why can't it be done?'

'There are a dozen reasons. Why should my money be given up to him? And it is too late. There are other things to be thought of now than marriage.'

'You don't want me to sign the papers?'

'No;—I haven't got the papers. But I want you to remember that the money is mine and not yours. It may be that much may depend on you, and that I shall have to trust to you for nearly everything. Do not let me find myself deceived by my daughter.'

'I won't,—if you'll let me see Sir Felix Carbury once more.'

Then the father's pride again reasserted itself and he became angry. 'I tell you, you little fool, that it is out of the question. Why cannot you believe me? Has your mother spoken to you about your jewels? Get them packed up, so that you can carry them away in your hand if we have to leave this suddenly. You are an idiot to think of that young man. As you say, I don't know that any of them are very good, but among them all he is about the worst. Go away and do as I bid you.'

That afternoon the page in Welbeck Street came up to Lady Carbury and told her that there was a young lady downstairs who wanted to see Sir Felix. At this time the dominion of Sir Felix in his mother's house had been much curtailed. His latch-key had been surreptitiously taken away from him, and all messages brought for him reached his hands through those of his mother. The plasters were not removed from his face, so that he was still subject to that loss of self-assertion with which we are told that hitherto dominant cocks become afflicted when they have been daubed with mud. Lady Carbury asked sundry questions about the lady, suspecting that Ruby Ruggles, of whom she had heard, had come to seek her lover. The page could give no special description, merely saying that the young lady wore a black veil. Lady Carbury directed that the young lady should be shown into her own presence,—and Marie Melmotte was ushered into the room. 'I dare say you don't remember me, Lady Carbury,' Marie said. 'I am Marie Melmotte.'

At first Lady Carbury had not recognized her visitor;—but she did so before she replied. 'Yes, Miss Melmotte, I remember you.'

'Yes;—I am Mr Melmotte's daughter. How is your son? I hope he is better. They told me he had been horribly used by a dreadful man in the street.'

'Sit down, Miss Melmotte. He is getting better.' Now Lady Carbury had heard within the last two days from Mr Broune that 'it was all over' with Melmotte. Broune had declared his very strong belief, his thorough conviction, that Melmotte had committed various forgeries, that his speculations had gone so much against him as to leave him a ruined man, and, in short, that the great Melmotte bubble was on the very point of bursting. 'Everybody says that he'll be in gaol before a week is over.' That was the information which had reached Lady Carbury about the Melmottes only on the previous evening.

'I want to see him,' said Marie. Lady Carbury, hardly knowing what answer to make, was silent for a while. 'I suppose he told you everything;—didn't he? You know that we were to have been married? I loved him very much, and so I do still. I am not ashamed of coming and telling you.'

'I thought it was all off,' said Lady Carbury.

'I never said so. Does he say so? Your daughter came to me and was very good to me. I do so love her. She said that it was all over; but perhaps she was wrong. It shan't be all over if he will be true.'

Lady Carbury was taken greatly by surprise. It seemed to her at the moment that this young lady, knowing that her own father was ruined, was looking out for another home, and was doing so with a considerable amount of audacity. She gave Marie little credit either for affection or for generosity; but yet she was unwilling to answer her roughly. 'I am afraid,' she said, 'that it would not be suitable.'

'Why should it not be suitable? They can't take my money away. There is enough for all of us even if papa wanted to live with us;—but it is mine. It is ever so much;—I don't know how much, but a great deal. We should be quite rich enough. I ain't a bit ashamed to come and tell you, because we were engaged. I know he isn't rich, and I should have thought it would be suitable.'

It then occurred to Lady Carbury that if this were true the marriage after all might be suitable. But how was she to find out whether it was true? 'I understand that your papa is opposed to it,' she said.

'Yes, he is;—but papa can't prevent me, and papa can't make me give up the money. It's ever so many thousands a year, I know. If I can dare to do it, why can't he?'

Lady Carbury was so beside herself with doubts, that she found it impossible to form any decision. It would be necessary that she should see Mr Broune. What to do with her son, how to bestow him, in what way to get rid of him so that in ridding herself of him she might not aid in destroying him,—this was the great trouble of her life, the burden that was breaking her back. Now this girl was not only willing but persistently anxious to take her black sheep and to endow him,—as she declared,—with ever so many thousands a year. If the thousands were there,—or even an income of a single thousand a year,—then what a blessing would such a marriage be! Sir Felix had already fallen so low that his mother on his behalf would not be justified in declining a connection with the Melmottes because the Melmottes had fallen. To get any niche in the world for him in which he might live with comparative safety would now be to her a heaven-sent comfort. 'My son is upstairs,' she said. 'I will go up and speak to him.'

'Tell him I am here and that I have said that I will forgive him everything, and that I love him still, and that if he will be true to me, I will be true to him.'

'I couldn't go down to her,' said Sir Felix, 'with my face all in this way.'

'I don't think she would mind that.'

'I couldn't do it. Besides, I don't believe about her money. I never did believe it. That was the real reason why I didn't go to Liverpool.'

'I think I would see her if I were you, Felix. We could find out to a certainty about her fortune. It is evident at any rate that she is very fond of you.'

'What's the use of that, if he is ruined?' He would not go down to see the girl,—because he could not endure to expose his face, and was ashamed of the wounds which he had received in the street. As regarded the money he half-believed and half-disbelieved Marie's story. But the fruition of the money, if it were within his reach, would be far off and to be attained with much trouble; whereas the nuisance of a scene with Marie would be immediate. How could he kiss his future bride, with his nose bound up with a bandage?

'What shall I say to her?' asked his mother.

'She oughtn't to have come. I should tell her just that. You might send the maid to her to tell her that you couldn't see her again.'

But Lady Carbury could not treat the girl after that fashion. She returned to the drawing-room, descending the stairs very slowly, and thinking what answer she would make. 'Miss Melmotte,' she said, 'my son feels that everything has been so changed since he and you last met, that nothing can be gained by a renewal of your acquaintance.'

'That is his message;—is it?' Lady Carbury remained silent. 'Then he is indeed all that they have told me; and I am ashamed that I should have loved him. I am ashamed;—not of coming here, although you will think that I have run after him. I don't see why a girl should not run after a man if they have been engaged together. But I'm ashamed of thinking so much of so mean a person. Goodbye, Lady Carbury.'

'Good-bye, Miss Melmotte. I don't think you should be angry with me.'

'No;—no. I am not angry with you. You can forget me now as soon as you please, and I will try to forget him.'

Then with a rapid step she walked back to Bruton Street, going round by Grosvenor Square and in front of her old house on the way. What should she now do with herself? What sort of life should she endeavour to prepare for herself? The life that she had led for the last year had been thoroughly wretched. The poverty and hardship which she remembered in her early days had been more endurable. The servitude to which she had been subjected before she had learned by intercourse with the world to assert herself, had been preferable. In these days of her grandeur, in which she had danced with princes, and seen an emperor in her father's house, and been affianced to lords, she had encountered degradation which had been abominable to her. She had really loved;—but had found out that her golden idol was made of the basest clay. She had then declared to herself that bad as the clay was she would still love it;—but even the clay had turned away from her and had refused her love!

She was well aware that some catastrophe was about to happen to her father. Catastrophes had happened before, and she had been conscious of their coming. But now the blow would be a very heavy blow. They would again be driven to pack up and move and seek some other city,— probably in some very distant part. But go where she might, she would now be her own mistress. That was the one resolution she succeeded in forming before she re-entered the house in Bruton Street.



CHAPTER LXXXIII - MELMOTTE AGAIN AT THE HOUSE

On that Thursday afternoon it was known everywhere that there was to be a general ruin of all the Melmotte affairs. As soon as Cohenlupe had gone, no man doubted. The City men who had not gone to the dinner prided themselves on their foresight, as did also the politicians who had declined to meet the Emperor of China at the table of the suspected Financier. They who had got up the dinner and had been instrumental in taking the Emperor to the house in Grosvenor Square, and they also who had brought him forward at Westminster and had fought his battle for him, were aware that they would have to defend themselves against heavy attacks. No one now had a word to say in his favour, or a doubt as to his guilt. The Grendalls had retired altogether out of town, and were no longer even heard of. Lord Alfred had not been seen since the day of the dinner. The Duchess of Albury, too, went into the country some weeks earlier than usual, quelled, as the world said, by the general Melmotte failure. But this departure had not as yet taken place at the time at which we have now arrived.

When the Speaker took his seat in the House, soon after four o'clock, there were a great many members present, and a general feeling prevailed that the world was more than ordinarily alive because of Melmotte and his failures. It had been confidently asserted throughout the morning that he would be put upon his trial for forgery in reference to the purchase of the Pickering property from Mr Longestaffe, and it was known that he had not as yet shown himself anywhere on this day. People had gone to look at the house in Grosvenor Square,—not knowing that he was still living in Mr Longestaffe's house in Bruton Street, and had come away with the impression that the desolation of ruin and crime was already plainly to be seen upon it. 'I wonder where he is,' said Mr Lupton to Mr Beauchamp Beauclerk in one of the lobbies of the House.

'They say he hasn't been in the City all day. I suppose he's in Longestaffe's house. That poor fellow has got it heavy all round. The man has got his place in the country and his house in town. There's Nidderdale. I wonder what he thinks about it all.'

'This is awful;—ain't it?' said Nidderdale.

'It might have been worse, I should say, as far as you are concerned,' replied Mr Lupton.

'Well, yes. But I'll tell you what, Lupton. I don't quite understand it all yet. Our lawyer said three days ago that the money was certainly there.'

'And Cohenlupe was certainly here three days ago,' said Lupton,—'but he isn't here now. It seems to me that it has just happened in time for you.' Lord Nidderdale shook his head and tried to look very grave.

'There's Brown,' said Sir Orlando Drought, hurrying up to the commercial gentleman whose mistakes about finance Mr Melmotte on a previous occasion had been anxious to correct. 'He'll be able to tell us where he is. It was rumoured, you know, an hour ago, that he was off to the continent after Cohenlupe.' But Mr Brown shook his head. Mr Brown didn't know anything. But Mr Brown was very strongly of opinion that the police would know all that there was to be known about Mr Melmotte before this time on the following day. Mr Brown had been very bitter against Melmotte since that memorable attack made upon him in the House.

Even ministers as they sat to be badgered by the ordinary question-mongers of the day were more intent upon Melmotte than upon their own defence. 'Do you know anything about it?' asked the Chancellor of the Exchequer of the Secretary of State for the Home Department.

'I understand that no order has been given for his arrest. There is a general opinion that he has committed forgery; but I doubt whether they've got their evidence together.'

'He's a ruined man, I suppose,' said the Chancellor. 'I doubt whether he ever was a rich man. But I'll tell you what;—he has been about the grandest rogue we've seen yet. He must have spent over a hundred thousand pounds during the last twelve months on his personal expenses. I wonder how the Emperor will like it when he learns the truth.' Another minister sitting close to the Secretary of State was of opinion that the Emperor of China would not care half so much about it as our own First Lord of the Treasury.

At this moment there came a silence over the House which was almost audible. They who know the sensation which arises from the continued hum of many suppressed voices will know also how plain to the ear is the feeling caused by the discontinuance of the sound. Everybody looked up, but everybody looked up in perfect silence. An Under-Secretary of State had just got upon his legs to answer a most indignant question as to an alteration of the colour of the facings of a certain regiment, his prepared answer to which, however, was so happy as to allow him to anticipate quite a little triumph. It is not often that such a Godsend comes in the way of an under-secretary; and he was intent upon his performance. But even he was startled into momentary oblivion of his well-arranged point. Augustus Melmotte, the member for Westminster, was walking up the centre of the House.

He had succeeded by this time in learning so much of the forms of the House as to know what to do with his hat,—when to wear it, and when to take it off,—and how to sit down. As he entered by the door facing the Speaker, he wore his hat on the side of his head, as was his custom. Much of the arrogance of his appearance had come from this habit, which had been adopted probably from a conviction that it added something to his powers of self-assertion. At this moment he was more determined than ever that no one should trace in his outer gait or in any feature of his face any sign of that ruin which, as he well knew, all men were anticipating. Therefore, perhaps, his hat was a little more cocked than usual, and the lapels of his coat were thrown back a little wider, displaying the large jewelled studs which he wore in his shirt; and the arrogance conveyed by his mouth and chin was specially conspicuous. He had come down in his brougham, and as he had walked up Westminster Hall and entered the House by the private door of the members, and then made his way in across the great lobby and between the doorkeepers,—no one had spoken a word to him. He had of course seen many whom he had known. He had indeed known nearly all whom he had seen;—but he had been aware, from the beginning of this enterprise of the day, that men would shun him, and that he must bear their cold looks and colder silence without seeming to notice them. He had schooled himself to the task, and he was now performing it. It was not only that he would have to move among men without being noticed, but that he must endure to pass the whole evening in the same plight. But he was resolved, and he was now doing it. He bowed to the Speaker with more than usual courtesy, raising his hat with more than usual care, and seated himself, as usual, on the third opposition-bench, but with more than his usual fling. He was a big man, who always endeavoured to make an effect by deportment, and was therefore customarily conspicuous in his movements. He was desirous now of being as he was always, neither more nor less demonstrative;—but, as a matter of course, he exceeded; and it seemed to those who looked at him that there was a special impudence in the manner in which he walked up the House and took his seat. The Under-Secretary of State, who was on his legs, was struck almost dumb, and his morsel of wit about the facings was lost to Parliament for ever.

That unfortunate young man, Lord Nidderdale, occupied the seat next to that on which Melmotte had placed himself. It had so happened three or four times since Melmotte had been in the House, as the young lord, fully intending to marry the Financier's daughter, had resolved that he would not be ashamed of his father-in-law. He understood that countenance of the sort which he as a young aristocrat could give to the man of millions who had risen no one knew whence, was part of the bargain in reference to the marriage, and he was gifted with a mingled honesty and courage which together made him willing and able to carry out his idea. He had given Melmotte little lessons as to ordinary forms of the House, and had done what in him lay to earn the money which was to be forthcoming. But it had become manifest both to him and to his father during the last two days,—very painfully manifest to his father,—that the thing must be abandoned. And if so,—then why should he be any longer gracious to Melmotte? And, moreover, though he had been ready to be courteous to a very vulgar and a very disagreeable man, he was not anxious to extend his civilities to one who, as he was now assured, had been certainly guilty of forgery. But to get up at once and leave his seat because Melmotte had placed himself by his side, did not suit the turn of his mind. He looked round to his neighbour on the right with a half-comic look of misery, and then prepared himself to bear his punishment, whatever it might be.

'Have you been up with Marie to-day?' said Melmotte.

'No;—I've not,' replied the lord.

'Why don't you go? She's always asking about you now. I hope we shall be in our own house again next week, and then we shall be able to make you comfortable.'

Could it be possible that the man did not know that all the world was united in accusing him of forgery? 'I'll tell you what it is,' said Nidderdale. 'I think you had better see my governor again, Mr Melmotte.'

'There's nothing wrong, I hope.'

'Well;—I don't know. You'd better see him. I'm going now. I only just came down to enter an appearance.' He had to cross Melmotte on his way out, and as he did so Melmotte grasped him by the hand. 'Good night, my boy,' said Melmotte quite aloud,—in a voice much louder than that which members generally allow themselves for conversation. Nidderdale was confused and unhappy; but there was probably not a man in the House who did not understand the whole thing. He rushed down through the gangway and out through the doors with a hurried step, and as he escaped into the lobby he met Lionel Lupton, who, since his little conversation with Mr Beauclerk, had heard further news.

'You know what has happened, Nidderdale?'

'About Melmotte, you mean?'

'Yes, about Melmotte,' continued Lupton. 'He has been arrested in his own house within the last half-hour on a charge of forgery.'

'I wish he had,' said Nidderdale, 'with all my heart. If you go in you'll find him sitting there as large as life. He has been talking to me as though everything were all right.'

'Compton was here not a moment ago, and said that he had been taken under a warrant from the Lord Mayor.'

'The Lord Mayor is a member and had better come and fetch his prisoner himself. At any rate he's there. I shouldn't wonder if he wasn't on his legs before long.'

Melmotte kept his seat steadily till seven, at which hour the House adjourned till nine. He was one of the last to leave, and then with a slow step,—with almost majestic steps,—he descended to the dining-room and ordered his dinner. There were many men there, and some little difficulty about a seat. No one was very willing to make room for him. But at last he secured a place, almost jostling some unfortunate who was there before him. It was impossible to expel him,—almost as impossible to sit next him. Even the waiters were unwilling to serve him;—but with patience and endurance he did at last get his dinner. He was there in his right, as a member of the House of Commons, and there was no ground on which such service as he required could be refused to him. It was not long before he had the table all to himself. But of this he took no apparent notice. He spoke loudly to the waiters and drank his bottle of champagne with much apparent enjoyment. Since his friendly intercourse with Nidderdale no one had spoken to him, nor had he spoken to any man. They who watched him declared among themselves that he was happy in his own audacity;—but in truth he was probably at that moment the most utterly wretched man in London. He would have better studied his personal comfort had he gone to his bed, and spent his evening in groans and wailings. But even he, with all the world now gone from him, with nothing before him but the extremest misery which the indignation of offended laws could inflict, was able to spend the last moments of his freedom in making a reputation at any rate for audacity. It was thus that Augustus Melmotte wrapped his toga around him before his death!

He went from the dining-room to the smoking-room, and there, taking from his pocket a huge case which he always carried, proceeded to light a cigar about eight inches long. Mr Brown, from the City, was in the room, and Melmotte, with a smile and a bow, offered Mr Brown one of the same. Mr Brown was a short, fat, round little man, over sixty, who was always endeavouring to give to a somewhat commonplace set of features an air of importance by the contraction of his lips and the knitting of his brows. It was as good as a play to see Mr Brown jumping back from any contact with the wicked one, and putting on a double frown as he looked at the impudent sinner. 'You needn't think so much, you know, of what I said the other night. I didn't mean any offence.' So spoke Melmotte, and then laughed with a loud, hoarse laugh, looking round upon the assembled crowd as though he were enjoying his triumph.

He sat after that and smoked in silence. Once again he burst out into a laugh, as though peculiarly amused with his own thoughts;—as though he were declaring to himself with much inward humour that all these men around him were fools for believing the stories which they had heard; but he made no further attempt to speak to any one. Soon after nine he went back again into the House, and again took his old place. At this time he had swallowed three glasses of brandy and water, as well as the champagne, and was brave enough almost for anything. There was some debate going on in reference to the game laws,—a subject on which Melmotte was as ignorant as one of his housemaids,—but, as some speaker sat down, he jumped up to his legs. Another gentleman had also risen, and when the House called to that other gentleman Melmotte gave way. The other gentleman had not much to say, and in a few minutes Melmotte was again on his legs. Who shall dare to describe the thoughts which would cross the august mind of a Speaker of the House of Commons at such a moment? Of Melmotte's villainy he had no official knowledge. And even could he have had such knowledge it was not for him to act upon it. The man was a member of the House, and as much entitled to speak as another. But it seemed on that occasion that the Speaker was anxious to save the House from disgrace;—for twice and thrice he refused to have his 'eye caught' by the member for Westminster. As long as any other member would rise he would not have his eye caught. But Melmotte was persistent, and determined not to be put down. At last no one else would speak, and the House was about to negative the motion without a division,—when Melmotte was again on his legs, still persisting. The Speaker scowled at him and leaned back in his chair. Melmotte standing erect, turning his head round from one side of the House to another, as though determined that all should see his audacity, propping himself with his knees against the seat before him, remained for half a minute perfectly silent. He was drunk,—but better able than most drunken men to steady himself, and showing in his face none of those outward signs of intoxication by which drunkenness is generally made apparent. But he had forgotten in his audacity that words are needed for the making of a speech, and now he had not a word at his command. He stumbled forward, recovered himself, then looked once more round the House with a glance of anger, and after that toppled headlong over the shoulders of Mr Beauchamp Beauclerk, who was sitting in front of him.

He might have wrapped his toga around him better perhaps had he remained at home, but if to have himself talked about was his only object, he could hardly have taken a surer course. The scene, as it occurred, was one very likely to be remembered when the performer should have been carried away into enforced obscurity. There was much commotion in the House. Mr Beauclerk, a man of natural good nature, though at the moment put to considerable personal inconvenience, hastened, when he recovered his own equilibrium, to assist the drunken man. But Melmotte had by no means lost the power of helping himself. He quickly recovered his legs, and then reseating himself, put his hat on, and endeavoured to look as though nothing special had occurred. The House resumed its business, taking no further notice of Melmotte, and having no special rule of its own as to the treatment to be adopted with drunken members. But the member for Westminster caused no further inconvenience. He remained in his seat for perhaps ten minutes, and then, not with a very steady step, but still with capacity sufficient for his own guidance, he made his way down to the doors. His exit was watched in silence, and the moment was an anxious one for the Speaker, the clerks, and all who were near him. Had he fallen some one,—or rather some two or three,—must have picked him up and carried him out. But he did not fall either there or in the lobbies, or on his way down to Palace Yard. Many were looking at him, but none touched him. When he had got through the gates, leaning against the wall he hallooed for his brougham, and the servant who was waiting for him soon took him home to Bruton Street. That was the last which the British Parliament saw of its new member for Westminster.

Melmotte as soon as he reached home got into his own sitting-room without difficulty, and called for more brandy and water. Between eleven and twelve he was left there by his servant with a bottle of brandy, three or four bottles of soda-water, and his cigar-case. Neither of the ladies of the family came to him, nor did he speak of them. Nor was he so drunk then as to give rise to any suspicion in the mind of the servant. He was habitually left there at night, and the servant as usual went to his bed. But at nine o'clock on the following morning the maid-servant found him dead upon the floor. Drunk as he had been,—more drunk as he probably became during the night,—still he was able to deliver himself from the indignities and penalties to which the law might have subjected him by a dose of prussic acid.



CHAPTER LXXXIV - PAUL MONTAGUE'S VINDICATION

It is hoped that the reader need hardly be informed that Hetta Carbury was a very miserable young woman as soon as she decided that duty compelled her to divide herself altogether from Paul Montague. I think that she was irrational; but to her it seemed that the offence against herself,—the offence against her own dignity as a woman,—was too great to be forgiven. There can be no doubt that it would all have been forgiven with the greatest ease had Paul told the story before it had reached her ears from any other source. Had he said to her,—when her heart was softest towards him,—I once loved another woman, and that woman is here now in London, a trouble to me, persecuting me, and her history is so and so, and the history of my love for her was after this fashion, and the history of my declining love is after that fashion, and of this at any rate you may be sure, that this woman has never been near my heart from the first moment in which I saw you;—had he told it to her thus, there would not have been an opening for anger. And he doubtless would have so told it, had not Hetta's brother interfered too quickly. He was then forced to exculpate himself, to confess rather than to tell his own story,—and to admit facts which wore the air of having been concealed, and which had already been conceived to be altogether damning if true. It was that journey to Lowestoft, not yet a month old, which did the mischief,—a journey as to which Hetta was not slow in understanding all that Roger Carbury had thought about it, though Roger would say nothing of it to herself. Paul had been staying at the seaside with this woman in amicable intimacy,—this horrid woman,—in intimacy worse than amicable, and had been visiting her daily at Islington! Hetta felt quite sure that he had never passed a day without going there since the arrival of the woman; and everybody would know what that meant. And during this very hour he had been,—well, perhaps not exactly making love to herself, but looking at her and talking to her, and behaving to her in a manner such as could not but make her understand that he intended to make love to her. Of course they had really understood it, since they had met at Madame Melmotte's first ball, when she had made a plea that she could not allow herself to dance with him more than,—say half-a-dozen times. Of course she had not intended him then to know that she would receive his love with favour, but equally of course she had known that he must so feel it. She had not only told herself, but had told her mother, that her heart was given away to this man; and yet the man during this very time was spending his hours with a—woman, with a strange American woman, to whom he acknowledged that he had been once engaged. How could she not quarrel with him? How could she refrain from telling him that everything must be over between them? Everybody was against him,—her mother, her brother, and her cousin: and she felt that she had not a word to say in his defence. A horrid woman! A wretched, bad, bold American intriguing woman! It was terrible to her that a friend of hers should ever have attached himself to such a creature;—but that he should have come to her with a second tale of love long, long before he had cleared himself from the first;—perhaps with no intention of clearing himself from the first! Of course she could not forgive him! No;—she would never forgive him. She would break her heart for him. That was a matter of course; but she would never forgive him. She knew well what it was that her mother wanted. Her mother thought that by forcing her into a quarrel with Montague she would force her also into a marriage with Roger Carbury. But her mother would find out that in that she was mistaken. She would never marry her cousin, though she would be always ready to acknowledge his worth. She was sure now that she would never marry any man. As she made this resolve she had a wicked satisfaction in feeling that it would be a trouble to her mother;—for though she was altogether in accord with Lady Carbury as to the iniquities of Paul Montague she was not the less angry with her mother for being so ready to expose those iniquities.

Oh, with what slow, cautious fingers, with what heartbroken tenderness did she take out from its guardian case the brooch which Paul had given her! It had as yet been an only present, and in thanking him for it, which she had done with full, free-spoken words of love, she had begged him to send her no other, so that that might ever be to her,—to her dying day,—the one precious thing that had been given to her by her lover while she was yet a girl. Now it must be sent back;—and, no doubt, it would go to that abominable woman! But her fingers lingered over it as she touched it, and she would fain have kissed it, had she not told herself that she would have been disgraced, even in her solitude, by such a demonstration of affection. She had given her answer to Paul Montague; and, as she would have no further personal correspondence with him, she took the brooch to her mother with a request that it might be returned.

'Of course, my dear, I will send it back to him. Is there nothing else?'

'No, mamma;—nothing else. I have no letters, and no other present. You always knew everything that took place. If you will just send that back to him,—without a word. You won't say anything, will you, mamma?'

'There is nothing for me to say if you have really made him understand you.'

'I think he understood me, mamma. You need not doubt about that.'

'He has behaved very, very badly,—from the beginning,' said Lady Carbury.

But Hetta did not really think that the young man had behaved very badly from the beginning, and certainly did not wish to be told of his misbehaviour. No doubt she thought that the young man had behaved very well in falling in love with her directly he saw her;—only that he had behaved so badly in taking Mrs Hurtle to Lowestoft afterwards! 'It's no good talking about that, mamma. I hope you will never talk of him any more.'

'He is quite unworthy,' said Lady Carbury.

'I can't bear to—have him—abused,' said Hetta sobbing.

'My dear Hetta, I have no doubt this has made you for the time unhappy. Such little accidents do make people unhappy—for the time. But it will be much for the best that you should endeavour not to be so sensitive about it. The world is too rough and too hard for people to allow their feelings full play. You have to look out for the future, and you can best do so by resolving that Paul Montague shall be forgotten at once.'

'Oh, mamma, don't. How is a person to resolve? Oh, mamma, don't say any more.'

'But, my dear, there is more that I must say. Your future life is before you, and I must think of it, and you must think of it. Of course you must be married.'

'There is no of course at all.'

'Of course you must be married,' continued Lady Carbury, 'and of course it is your duty to think of the way in which this may be best done. My income is becoming less and less every day. I already owe money to your cousin, and I owe money to Mr Broune.'

'Money to Mr Broune!'

'Yes,—to Mr Broune. I had to pay a sum for Felix which Mr Broune told me ought to be paid. And I owe money to tradesmen. I fear that I shall not be able to keep on this house. And they tell me,—your cousin and Mr Broune,—that it is my duty to take Felix out of London probably abroad.'

'Of course I shall go with you.'

'It may be so at first; but, perhaps, even that may not be necessary. Why should you? What pleasure could you have in it? Think what my life must be with Felix in some French or German town!'

'Mamma, why don't you let me be a comfort to you? Why do you speak of me always as though I were a burden?'

'Everybody is a burden to other people. It is the way of life. But you,—if you will only yield in ever so little,—you may go where you will be no burden, where you will be accepted simply as a blessing. You have the opportunity of securing comfort for your whole life, and of making a friend, not only for yourself, but for me and your brother, of one whose friendship we cannot fail to want.'

'Mamma, you cannot really mean to talk about that now?'

'Why should I not mean it? What is the use of indulging in high-flown nonsense? Make up your mind to be the wife of your cousin Roger.'

'This is horrid,' said Hetta, bursting out in her agony. 'Cannot you understand that I am broken-hearted about Paul, that I love him from my very soul, that parting from him is like tearing my heart in pieces? I know that I must, because he has behaved so very badly,—and because of that wicked woman! And so I have. But I did not think that in the very next hour you would bid me give myself to somebody else! I will never marry Roger Carbury. You may be quite—quite sure that I shall never marry any one. If you won't take me with you when you go away with Felix, I must stay behind and try and earn my bread. I suppose I could go out as a nurse.' Then, without waiting for a reply, she left the room and betook herself to her own apartment.

Lady Carbury did not even understand her daughter. She could not conceive that she had in any way acted unkindly in taking the opportunity of Montague's rejection for pressing the suit of the other lover. She was simply anxious to get a husband for her daughter,—as she had been anxious to get a wife for her son,—in order that her child might live comfortably. But she felt that whenever she spoke common sense to Hetta, her daughter took it as an offence, and flew into tantrums, being altogether unable to accommodate herself to the hard truths of the world. Deep as was the sorrow which her son brought upon her, and great as was the disgrace, she could feel more sympathy for him than for the girl. If there was anything that she could not forgive in life it was romance. And yet she, at any rate, believed that she delighted in romantic poetry! At the present moment she was very wretched; and was certainly unselfish in her wish to see her daughter comfortably settled before she commenced those miserable roamings with her son which seemed to be her coming destiny.

In these days she thought a good deal of Mr Broune's offer, and of her own refusal. It was odd that since that refusal she had seen more of him, and had certainly known much more of him than she had ever seen or known before. Previous to that little episode their intimacy had been very fictitious, as are many intimacies. They had played at being friends, knowing but very little of each other. But now, during the last five or six weeks,—since she had refused his offer,— they had really learned to know each other. In the exquisite misery of her troubles, she had told him the truth about herself and her son, and he had responded, not by compliments, but by real aid and true counsel. His whole tone was altered to her, as was hers to him. There was no longer any egregious flattery between them,—and he, in speaking to her, would be almost rough to her. Once he had told her that she would be a fool if she did not do so and so. The consequence was that she almost regretted that she had allowed him to escape. But she certainly made no effort to recover the lost prize, for she told him all her troubles. It was on that afternoon, after her disagreement with her daughter, that Marie Melmotte came to her. And, on the same evening, closeted with Mr Broune in her back room, she told him of both occurrences. 'If the girl has got the money—,' she began, regretting her son's obstinacy.

'I don't believe a bit of it,' said Broune. 'From all that I can hear, I don't think that there is any money. And if there is, you may be sure that Melmotte would not let it slip through his fingers in that way. I would not have anything to do with it.'

'You think it is all over with the Melmottes?'

'A rumour reached me just now that he had been already arrested.' It was now between nine and ten in the evening. 'But as I came away from my room, I heard that he was down at the House. That he will have to stand a trial for forgery, I think there cannot be a doubt, and I imagine that it will be found that not a shilling will be saved out of the property.'

'What a wonderful career it has been!'

'Yes;—the strangest thing that has come up in our days. I am inclined to think that the utter ruin at this moment has been brought about by his reckless personal expenditure.'

'Why did he spend such a lot of money?'

'Because he thought he could conquer the world by it, and obtain universal credit. He very nearly succeeded too. Only he had forgotten to calculate the force of the envy of his competitors.'

'You think he has committed forgery?'

'Certainly, I think so. Of course we know nothing as yet.'

'Then I suppose it is better that Felix should not have married her.'

'Certainly better. No redemption was to have been had on that side, and I don't think you should regret the loss of such money as his.' Lady Carbury shook her head, meaning probably to imply that even Melmotte's money would have had no bad odour to one so dreadfully in want of assistance as her son. 'At any rate do not think of it any more.' Then she told him her grief about Hetta. 'Ah, there,' said he, 'I feel myself less able to express an authoritative opinion.'

'He doesn't owe a shilling,' said Lady Carbury, 'and he is really a fine gentleman.'

'But if she doesn't like him?'

'Oh, but she does. She thinks him to be the finest person in the world. She would obey him a great deal sooner than she would me. But she has her mind stuffed with nonsense about love.'

'A great many people, Lady Carbury, have their minds stuffed with that nonsense.'

'Yes;—and ruin themselves with it, as she will do. Love is like any other luxury. You have no right to it unless you can afford it. And those who will have it when they can't afford it, will come to the ground like this Mr Melmotte. How odd it seems! It isn't a fortnight since we all thought him the greatest man in London.' Mr Broune only smiled, not thinking it worth his while to declare that he had never held that opinion about the late idol of Abchurch Lane.

On the following morning, very early, while Melmotte was still lying, as yet undiscovered, on the floor of Mr Longestaffe's room, a letter was brought up to Hetta by the maid-servant, who told her that Mr Montague had delivered it with his own hands. She took it greedily, and then repressing herself, put it with an assumed gesture of indifference beneath her pillow. But as soon as the girl had left the room she at once seized her treasure. It never occurred to her as yet to think whether she would or would not receive a letter from her dismissed lover. She had told him that he must go, and go for ever, and had taken it for granted that he would do so,—probably willingly. No doubt he would be delighted to return to the American woman. But now that she had the letter, she allowed no doubt to come between her and the reading of it. As soon as she was alone she opened it, and she ran through its contents without allowing herself a moment for thinking, as she went on, whether the excuses made by her lover were or were not such as she ought to accept.