'We're a disturbing you a'most too late, miss,' said Mr Mixet.

'It ain't that at all, Mr Mixet. If grandfather chooses to have a few friends, I ain't nothing against it. I wish he'd have a few friends a deal oftener than he do. I likes nothing better than to do for 'em;— only when I've done for 'em and they're smoking their pipes and that like, I don't see why I ain't to leave 'em to 'emselves.'

'But we've come here on a hauspicious occasion, Miss Ruby.'

'I don't know nothing about auspicious, Mr Mixet. If you and Mr Crumb've come out to Sheep's Acre farm for a bit of supper—'

'Which we ain't,' said John Crumb very loudly;—'nor yet for beer;—not by no means.'

'We've come for the smiles of beauty,' said Joe Mixet. Ruby chucked up her head. 'Mr Mixet, if you'll be so good as to stow that! There ain't no beauty here as I knows of, and if there was it isn't nothing to you.'

'Except in the way of friendship,' said Mixet.

'I'm just as sick of all this as a man can be,' said Mr Ruggles, who was sitting low in his chair, with his back bent, and his head forward. 'I won't put up with it no more.'

'Who wants you to put up with it?' said Ruby. 'Who wants 'em to come here with their trash? Who brought 'em to-night? I don't know what business Mr Mixet has interfering along o' me. I never interfere along o' him.'

'John Crumb, have you anything to say?' asked the old man.

Then John Crumb slowly arose from his chair, and stood up at his full height. 'I hove,' said he, swinging his head to one side.

'Then say it.'

'I will,' said he. He was still standing bolt upright with his hands down by his side. Then he stretched out his left to his glass which was half full of beer, and strengthened himself as far as that would strengthen him. Having done this he slowly deposited the pipe which he still held in his right hand.

'Now speak your mind, like a man,' said Mixet.

'I intends it,' said John. But he still stood dumb, looking down upon old Ruggles, who from his crouched position was looking up at him. Ruby was standing with both her hands upon the table and her eyes intent upon the wall over the fire-place.

'You've asked Miss Ruby to be your wife a dozen times;—haven't you, John?' suggested Mixet.

'I hove.'

'And you mean to be as good as your word?'

'I do.'

'And she has promised to have you?'

'She hove.'

'More nor once or twice?' To this proposition Crumb found it only necessary to bob his head. 'You're ready?—and willing?'

'I am.'

'You're wishing to have the banns said without any more delay?'

'There ain't no delay 'bout me;—never was.'

'Everything is ready in your own house?'

'They is.'

'And you will expect Miss Ruby to come to the scratch?'

'I sholl.'

'That's about it, I think,' said Joe Mixet, turning to the grandfather. 'I don't think there was ever anything much more straightforward than that. You know, I know, Miss Ruby knows all about John Crumb. John Crumb didn't come to Bungay yesterday nor yet the day before. There's been a talk of five hundred pounds, Mr Ruggles.' Mr Ruggles made a slight gesture of assent with his head. 'Five hundred pounds is very comfortable; and added to what John has will make things that snug that things never was snugger. But John Crumb isn't after Miss Ruby along of her fortune.'

'Nohows,' said the lover, shaking his head and still standing upright with his hands by his side.

'Not he;—it isn't his ways, and them as knows him'll never say it of him. John has a heart in his buzsom.'

'I has,' said John, raising his hand a little above his stomach.

'And feelings as a man. It's true love as has brought John Crumb to Sheep's Acre farm this night;—love of that young lady, if she'll let me make so free. He's a proposed to her, and she's a haccepted him, and now it's about time as they was married. That's what John Crumb has to say.'

'That's what I has to say,' repeated John Crumb, 'and I means it.'

'And now, miss,' continued Mixet, addressing himself to Ruby, 'you've heard what John has to say.'

'I've heard you, Mr Mixet, and I've heard quite enough.'

'You can't have anything to say against it, Miss; can you? There's your grandfather as is willing, and the-money as one may say counted out,—and John Crumb is willing, with his house so ready that there isn't a ha'porth to do. All we want is for you to name the day.'

'Say to-morrow, Ruby, and I'll not be agen it,' said John Crumb, slapping his thigh.

'I won't say to-morrow, Mr Crumb, nor yet the day after to-morrow, nor yet no day at all. I'm not going to have you. I've told you as much before.'

'That was only in fun, loike.'

'Then now I tell you in earnest. There's some folk wants such a deal of telling.'

'You don't mean,—never?'

'I do mean never, Mr Crumb.'

'Didn't you say as you would, Ruby? Didn't you say so as plain as the nose on my face?' John as he asked these questions could hardly refrain from tears.

'Young women is allowed to change their minds,' said Ruby.

'Brute!' exclaimed old Ruggles. 'Pig! Jade! I'll tell you what, John. She'll go out o' this into the streets;—that's what she wull. I won't keep her here, no longer;—nasty, ungrateful, lying slut.'

'She ain't that;—she ain't that,' said John. 'She ain't that at all. She's no slut. I won't hear her called so;—not by her grandfather. But, oh, she has a mind to put me so abouts, that I'll have to go home and hang myself'

'Dash it, Miss Ruby, you ain't a going to serve a young man that way,' said the baker.

'If you'll jist keep yourself to yourself, I'll be obliged to you, Mr Mixet,' said Ruby. 'If you hadn't come here at all things might have been different.'

'Hark at that now,' said John, looking at his friend almost with indignation.

Mr Mixet, who was fully aware of his rare eloquence and of the absolute necessity there had been for its exercise if any arrangement were to be made at all, could not trust himself to words after this. He put on his hat and walked out through the back kitchen into the yard declaring that his friend would find him there, round by the pigsty wall, whenever he was ready to return to Bungay. As soon as Mixet was gone John looked at his sweetheart out of the corners of his eyes and made a slow motion towards her, putting out his right hand as a feeler. 'He's aff now, Ruby,' said John.

'And you'd better be aff after him,' said the cruel girl.

'And when'll I come back again?'

'Never. It ain't no use. What's the good of more words, Mr Crumb?'

'Domm her; domm her,' said old Ruggles. 'I'll even it to her. She'll have to be out on the roads this night.'

'She shall have the best bed in my house if she'll come for it,' said John, 'and the old woman to look arter her; and I won't come nigh her till she sends for me.'

'I can find a place for myself, thank ye, Mr Crumb.' Old Ruggles sat grinding his teeth, and swearing to himself, taking his hat off and putting it on again, and meditating vengeance.

'And now if you please, Mr Crumb, I'll go upstairs to my own room.'

'You don't go up to any room here, you jade you.' The old man as he said this got up from his chair as though to fly at her. And he would have struck her with his stick but that he was stopped by John Crumb.

'Don't hit the girl, no gate, Mr Ruggles.'

'Domm her, John; she breaks my heart.' While her lover held her grandfather Ruby escaped, and seated herself on the bedside, again afraid to undress, lest she should be disturbed by her grandfather. 'Ain't it more nor a man ought to have to bear;—ain't it, Mr Crumb?' said the grandfather appealing to the young man.

'It's the ways on 'em, Mr Ruggles.'

'Ways on 'em! A whipping at the cart-tail ought to be the ways on her. She's been and seen some young buck.'

Then John Crumb turned red all over, through the flour, and sparks of anger flashed from his eyes. 'You ain't a meaning of it, master?'

'I'm told there's been the squoire's cousin aboot,—him as they call the baronite.'

'Been along wi' Ruby?' The old man nodded at him. 'By the mortials I'll baronite him;—I wull,' said John, seizing his hat and stalking off through the back kitchen after his friend.



CHAPTER XXXIV - RUBY RUGGLES OBEYS HER GRANDFATHER

The next day there was a great surprise at Sheep's Acre farm, which communicated itself to the towns of Bungay and Beccles, and even affected the ordinary quiet life of Carbury Manor. Ruby Ruggles had gone away, and at about twelve o'clock in the day the old farmer became aware of the fact. She had started early, at about seven in the morning; but Ruggles himself had been out long before that, and had not condescended to ask for her when he returned to the house for his breakfast. There had been a bad scene up in the bedroom overnight, after John Crumb had left the farm. The old man in his anger had tried to expel the girl; but she had hung on to the bed-post and would not go; and he had been frightened, when the maid came up crying and screaming murder. 'You'll be out o' this to-morrow as sure as my name's Dannel Ruggles,' said the farmer panting for breath. But for the gin which he had taken he would hardly have struck her;—but he had struck her, and pulled her by the hair, and knocked her about;—and in the morning she took him at his word and was away. About twelve he heard from the servant girl that she had gone. She had packed a box and had started up the road carrying the box herself. 'Grandfather says I'm to go, and I'm gone,' she had said to the girl. At the first cottage she had got a boy to carry her box into Beccles, and to Beccles she had walked. For an hour or two Ruggles sat, quiet, within the house, telling himself that she might do as she pleased with herself,—that he was well rid of her, and that from henceforth he would trouble himself no more about her. But by degrees there came upon him a feeling half of compassion and half of fear, with perhaps some mixture of love, instigating him to make search for her. She had been the same to him as a child, and what would people say of him if he allowed her to depart from him after this fashion? Then he remembered his violence the night before, and the fact that the servant girl had heard if she had not seen it. He could not drop his responsibility in regard to Ruby, even if he would. So, as a first step, he sent in a message to John Crumb, at Bungay, to tell him that Ruby Ruggles had gone off with a box to Beccles. John Crumb went open-mouthed with the news to Joe Mixet, and all Bungay soon knew that Ruby Ruggles had run away.

After sending his message to Crumb the old man still sat thinking, and at last made up his mind that he would go to his landlord. He held a part of his farm under Roger Carbury, and Roger Carbury would tell him what he ought to do. A great trouble had come upon him. He would fain have been quiet, but his conscience and his heart and his terrors all were at work together,—and he found that he could not eat his dinner. So he had out his cart and horse and drove himself off to Carbury Hall.

It was past four when he started, and he found the squire seated on the terrace after an early dinner, and with him was Father Barham, the priest. The old man was shown at once round into the garden, and was not long in telling his story. There had been words between him and his granddaughter about her lover. Her lover had been accepted and had come to the farm to claim his bride. Ruby had behaved very badly. The old man made the most of Ruby's bad behaviour, and of course as little as possible of his own violence. But he did explain that there had been threats used when Ruby refused to take the man, and that Ruby had, this day, taken herself off.

'I always thought it was settled that they were to be man and wife,' said Roger.

'It was settled, squoire;—and he war to have five hun'erd pound down;—money as I'd saved myself. Drat the jade.'

'Didn't she like him, Daniel?'

'She liked him well enough till she'd seed somebody else.' Then old Daniel paused, and shook his head, and was evidently the owner of a secret. The squire got up and walked round the garden with him,—and then the secret was told. The farmer was of opinion that there was something between the girl and Sir Felix. Sir Felix some weeks since had been seen near the farm and on the same occasion Ruby had been observed at some little distance from the house with her best clothes on.

'He's been so little here, Daniel,' said the squire.

'It goes as tinder and a spark o' fire, that does,' said the farmer. 'Girls like Ruby don't want no time to be wooed by one such as that, though they'll fall-lall with a man like John Crumb for years.'

'I suppose she's gone to London.'

'Don't know nothing of where she's gone, squoire;—only she have gone some'eres. May be it's Lowestoft. There's lots of quality at Lowestoft a'washing theyselves in the sea.'

Then they returned to the priest, who might be supposed to be cognizant of the guiles of the world and competent to give advice on such an occasion as this. 'If she was one of our people,' said Father Barham, 'we should have her back quick enough.'

'Would ye now?' said Ruggles, wishing at the moment that he and all his family had been brought up as Roman Catholics.

'I don't see how you would have more chance of catching her than we have,' said Carbury.

'She'd catch herself. Wherever she might be she'd go to the priest, and he wouldn't leave her till he'd seen her put on the way back to her friends.'

'With a flea in her lug,' suggested the farmer.

'Your people never go to a clergyman in their distress. It's the last thing they'd think of. Any one might more probably be regarded as a friend than the parson. But with us the poor know where to look for sympathy.'

'She ain't that poor, neither,' said the grandfather.

'She had money with her?'

'I don't know just what she had; but she ain't been brought up poor. And I don't think as our Ruby'd go of herself to any clergyman. It never was her way.'

'It never is the way with a Protestant,' said the priest.

'We'll say no more about that for the present,' said Roger, who was waxing wroth with the priest. That a man should be fond of his own religion is right; but Roger Carbury was beginning to think that Father Barham was too fond of his religion. 'What had we better do? I suppose we shall hear something of her at the railway. There are not so many people leaving Beccles but that she may be remembered.' So the waggonette was ordered, and they all prepared to go off to the station together.

But before they started John Crumb rode up to the door. He had gone at once to the farm on hearing of Ruby's departure, and had followed the farmer from thence to Carbury. Now he found the squire and the priest and the old man standing around as the horses were being put to the carriage. 'Ye ain't a' found her, Mr Ruggles, ha' ye?' he asked as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

'Noa;—we ain't a' found no one yet.'

'If it was as she was to come to harm, Mr Carbury, I'd never forgive myself,—never,' said Crumb.

'As far as I can understand it is no doing of yours, my friend,' said the squire.

'In one way, it ain't; and in one way it is. I was over there last night a bothering of her. She'd a' come round may be, if she'd a' been left alone. She wouldn't a' been off now, only for our going over to Sheep's Acre. But,—oh!'

'What is it, Mr Crumb?'

'He's a coosin o' yours, squoire; and long as I've known Suffolk, I've never known nothing but good o' you and yourn. But if your baronite has been and done this! Oh, Mr Carbury! If I was to wring his neck round, you wouldn't say as how I was wrong; would ye, now?' Roger could hardly answer the question. On general grounds the wringing of Sir Felix's neck, let the immediate cause for such a performance have been what it might, would have seemed to him to be a good deed. The world would be better, according to his thinking, with Sir Felix out of it than in it. But still the young man was his cousin and a Carbury, and to such a one as John Crumb he was bound to defend any member of his family as far as he might be defensible. 'They says as how he was groping about Sheep's Acre when he was last here, a hiding himself and skulking behind hedges. Drat 'em all. They've gals enough of their own,—them fellows. Why can't they let a fellow alone? I'll do him a mischief, Master Roger; I wull;—if he's had a hand in this.' Poor John Crumb! When he had his mistress to win he could find no words for himself; but was obliged to take an eloquent baker with him to talk for him. Now in his anger he could talk freely enough.

'But you must first learn that Sir Felix has had anything to do with this, Mr Crumb.'

'In coorse; in coorse. That's right. That's right. Must l'arn as he did it, afore I does it. But when I have l'arned—!' And John Crumb clenched his fist as though a very short lesson would suffice for him upon this occasion.

They all went to the Beccles Station, and from thence to the Beccles Post-office,—so that Beccles soon knew as much about it as Bungay. At the railway station Ruby was distinctly remembered. She had taken a second-class ticket by the morning train for London, and had gone off without any appearance of secrecy. She had been decently dressed, with a hat and cloak, and her luggage had been such as she might have been expected to carry, had all her friends known that she was going. So much was made clear at the railway station, but nothing more could be learned there. Then a message was sent by telegraph to the station in London, and they all waited, loitering about the Post-office, for a reply. One of the porters in London remembered seeing such a girl as was described, but the man who was supposed to have carried her box for her to a cab had gone away for the day. It was believed that she had left the station in a four-wheel cab. 'I'll be arter her. I'll be arter her at once,' said John Crumb. But there was no train till night, and Roger Carbury was doubtful whether his going would do any good. It was evidently fixed on Crumb's mind that the first step towards finding Ruby would be the breaking of every bone in the body of Sir Felix Carbury. Now it was not at all apparent to the squire that his cousin had had anything to do with this affair. It had been made quite clear to him that the old man had quarrelled with his granddaughter and had threatened to turn her out of his house, not because she had misbehaved with Sir Felix, but on account of her refusing to marry John Crumb. John Crumb had gone over to the farm expecting to arrange it all, and up to that time there had been no fear about Felix Carbury. Nor was it possible that there should have been communication between Ruby and Felix since the quarrel at the farm. Even if the old man were right in supposing that Ruby and the baronet had been acquainted,—and such acquaintance could not but be prejudicial to the girl,—not on that account would the baronet be responsible for her abduction. John Crumb was thirsting for blood and was not very capable in his present mood of arguing the matter out coolly, and Roger, little as he toyed his cousin, was not desirous that all Suffolk should know that Sir Felix Carbury had been thrashed within an inch of his life by John Crumb of Bungay. 'I'll tell you what I'll do,' said he, putting his hand kindly on the old man's shoulder. 'I'll go up myself by the first train to-morrow. I can trace her better than Mr Crumb can do, and you will both trust me.'

'There's not one in the two counties I'd trust so soon,' said the old man.

'But you'll let us know the very truth,' said John Crumb. Roger Carbury made him an indiscreet promise that he would let him know the truth. So the matter was settled, and the grandfather and lover returned together to Bungay.



CHAPTER XXXV - MELMOTTE'S GLORY

Augustus Melmotte was becoming greater and greater in every direction,— mightier and mightier every day. He was learning to despise mere lords, and to feel that he might almost domineer over a duke. In truth he did recognize it as a fact that he must either domineer over dukes, or else go to the wall. It can hardly be said of him that he had intended to play so high a game, but the game that he had intended to play had become thus high of its own accord. A man cannot always restrain his own doings and keep them within the limits which he had himself planned for them. They will very often fall short of the magnitude to which his ambition has aspired. They will sometimes soar higher than his own imagination. So it had now been with Mr Melmotte. He had contemplated great things; but the things which he was achieving were beyond his contemplation.

The reader will not have thought much of Fisker on his arrival in England. Fisker was, perhaps, not a man worthy of much thought. He had never read a book. He had never written a line worth reading. He had never said a prayer. He cared nothing for humanity. He had sprung out of some Californian gully, was perhaps ignorant of his own father and mother, and had tumbled up in the world on the strength of his own audacity. But, such as he was, he had sufficed to give the necessary impetus for rolling Augustus Melmotte onwards into almost unprecedented commercial greatness. When Mr Melmotte took his offices in Abchurch Lane, he was undoubtedly a great man, but nothing so great as when the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway had become not only an established fact, but a fact established in Abchurch Lane. The great company indeed had an office of its own, where the Board was held; but everything was really managed in Mr Melmotte's own commercial sanctum. Obeying, no doubt, some inscrutable law of commerce, the grand enterprise,—'perhaps the grandest when you consider the amount of territory manipulated, which has ever opened itself before the eyes of a great commercial people,' as Mr Fisker with his peculiar eloquence observed through his nose, about this time, to a meeting of shareholders at San Francisco,—had swung itself across from California to London, turning itself to the centre of the commercial world as the needle turns to the pole, till Mr Fisker almost regretted the deed which himself had done. And Melmotte was not only the head, but the body also, and the feet of it all. The shares seemed to be all in Melmotte's pocket, so that he could distribute them as he would; and it seemed also that when distributed and sold, and when bought again and sold again, they came back to Melmotte's pocket. Men were contented to buy their shares and to pay their money, simply on Melmotte's word. Sir Felix had realized a large portion of his winnings at cards,—with commendable prudence for one so young and extravagant,—and had brought his savings to the great man. The great man had swept the earnings of the Beargarden into his till, and had told Sir Felix that the shares were his. Sir Felix had been not only contented, but supremely happy. He could now do as Paul Montague was doing,—and Lord Alfred Grendall. He could realize a perennial income, buying and selling. It was only after the reflection of a day or two that he found that he had as yet got nothing to sell. It was not only Sir Felix that was admitted into these good things after this fashion. Sir Felix was but one among hundreds. In the meantime the bills in Grosvenor Square were no doubt paid with punctuality,—and these bills must have been stupendous. The very servants were as tall, as gorgeous, almost as numerous, as the servants of royalty,—and remunerated by much higher wages. There were four coachmen with egregious wigs, and eight footmen, not one with a circumference of calf less than eighteen inches.

And now there appeared a paragraph in the 'Morning Breakfast Table,' and another appeared in the 'Evening Pulpit,' telling the world that Mr Melmotte had bought Pickering Park, the magnificent Sussex property of Adolphus Longestaffe, Esq., of Caversham. And it was so. The father and son, who never had agreed before, and who now had come to no agreement in the presence of each other, had each considered that their affairs would be safe in the hands of so great a man as Mr Melmotte, and had been brought to terms. The purchase-money, which was large, was to be divided between them. The thing was done with the greatest ease,—there being no longer any delay as is the case when small people are at work. The magnificence of Mr Melmotte affected even the Longestaffe lawyers. Were I to buy a little property, some humble cottage with a garden,—or you, O reader, unless you be magnificent,—the money to the last farthing would be wanted, or security for the money more than sufficient, before we should be able to enter in upon our new home. But money was the very breath of Melmotte's nostrils, and therefore his breath was taken for money. Pickering was his, and before a week was over a London builder had collected masons and carpenters by the dozen down at Chichester, and was at work upon the house to make it fit to be a residence for Madame Melmotte. There were rumours that it was to be made ready for the Goodwood week, and that the Melmotte entertainment during that festival would rival the duke's.

But there was still much to be done in London before the Goodwood week should come round, in all of which Mr Melmotte was concerned, and of much of which Mr Melmotte was the very centre. A member for Westminster had succeeded to a peerage, and thus a seat was vacated. It was considered to be indispensable to the country that Mr Melmotte should go into Parliament, and what constituency could such a man as Melmotte so fitly represent as one combining as Westminster does all the essences of the metropolis? There was the popular element, the fashionable element, the legislative element, the legal element, and the commercial element. Melmotte undoubtedly was the man for Westminster. His thorough popularity was evinced by testimony which perhaps was never before given in favour of any candidate for any county or borough. In Westminster there must of course be a contest. A seat for Westminster is a thing not to be abandoned by either political party without a struggle. But, at the beginning of the affair, when each party had to seek the most suitable candidate which the country could supply, each party put its hand upon Melmotte. And when the seat, and the battle for the seat, were suggested to Melmotte, then for the first time was that great man forced to descend from the altitudes on which his mind generally dwelt, and to decide whether he would enter Parliament as a Conservative or a Liberal. He was not long in convincing himself that the conservative element in British Society stood the most in need of that fiscal assistance which it would be in his province to give; and on the next day every hoarding in London declared to the world that Melmotte was the conservative candidate for Westminster. It is needless to say that his committee was made up of peers, bankers, and publicans, with all that absence of class prejudice for which the party has become famous since the ballot was introduced among us. Some unfortunate Liberal was to be made to run against him, for the sake of the party; but the odds were ten to one on Melmotte.

This no doubt was a great matter,—this affair of the seat; but the dinner to be given to the Emperor of China was much greater. It was the middle of June, and the dinner was to be given on Monday, 8th July, now three weeks hence;—but all London was already talking of it. The great purport proposed was to show to the Emperor by this banquet what an English merchant-citizen of London could do. Of course there was a great amount of scolding and a loud clamour on the occasion. Some men said that Melmotte was not a citizen of London, others that he was not a merchant, others again that he was not an Englishman. But no man could deny that he was both able and willing to spend the necessary money; and as this combination of ability and will was the chief thing necessary, they who opposed the arrangement could only storm and scold. On the 20th of June the tradesmen were at work, throwing up a building behind, knocking down walls, and generally transmuting the house in Grosvenor Square in such a fashion that two hundred guests might be able to sit down to dinner in the dining-room of a British merchant.

But who were to be the two hundred? It used to be the case that when a gentleman gave a dinner he asked his own guests;—but when affairs become great, society can hardly be carried on after that simple fashion. The Emperor of China could not be made to sit at table without English royalty, and English royalty must know whom it has to meet,—must select at any rate some of its comrades. The minister of the day also had his candidates for the dinner,—in which arrangement there was however no private patronage, as the list was confined to the cabinet and their wives. The Prime Minister took some credit to himself in that he would not ask for a single ticket for a private friend. But the Opposition as a body desired their share of seats. Melmotte had elected to stand for Westminster on the conservative interest, and was advised that he must insist on having as it were a conservative cabinet present, with its conservative wives. He was told that he owed it to his party, and that his party exacted payment of the debt. But the great difficulty lay with the city merchants. This was to be a city merchant's private feast, and it was essential that the Emperor should meet this great merchant's brother merchants at the merchant's board. No doubt the Emperor would see all the merchants at the Guildhall; but that would be a semi-public affair, paid for out of the funds of a corporation. This was to be a private dinner. Now the Lord Mayor had set his face against it, and what was to be done? Meetings were held; a committee was appointed; merchant guests were selected, to the number of fifteen with their fifteen wives;—and subsequently the Lord Mayor was made a baronet on the occasion of receiving the Emperor in the city. The Emperor with his suite was twenty. Royalty had twenty tickets, each ticket for guest and wife. The existing Cabinet was fourteen; but the coming was numbered at about eleven only;—each one for self and wife. Five ambassadors and five ambassadresses were to be asked. There were to be fifteen real merchants out of the city. Ten great peers,—with their peeresses,— were selected by the general committee of management. There were to be three wise men, two poets, three independent members of the House of Commons, two Royal Academicians, three editors of papers, an African traveller who had just come home, and a novelist;—but all these latter gentlemen were expected to come as bachelors. Three tickets were to be kept over for presentation to bores endowed with a power of making themselves absolutely unendurable if not admitted at the last moment,— and ten were left for the giver of the feast and his own family and friends. It is often difficult to make things go smooth,—but almost all roughnesses may be smoothed at last with patience and care, and money, and patronage.

But the dinner was not to be all. Eight hundred additional tickets were to be issued for Madame Melmotte's evening entertainment, and the fight for these was more internecine than for seats at the dinner. The dinner-seats, indeed, were handled in so statesmanlike a fashion that there was not much visible fighting about them. Royalty manages its affairs quietly. The existing Cabinet was existing, and though there were two or three members of it who could not have got themselves elected at a single unpolitical club in London, they had a right to their seats at Melmotte's table. What disappointed ambition there might be among conservative candidates was never known to the public. Those gentlemen do not wash their dirty linen in public. The ambassadors of course were quiet, but we may be sure that the Minister from the United States was among the favoured five. The city bankers and bigwigs, as has been already said, were at first unwilling to be present, and therefore they who were not chosen could not afterwards express their displeasure. No grumbling was heard among the peers, and that which came from the peeresses floated down into the current of the great fight about the evening entertainment. The poet laureate was of course asked, and the second poet was as much a matter of course. Only two Academicians had in this year painted royalty, so that there was no ground for jealousy there. There were three, and only three, specially insolent and specially disagreeable independent members of Parliament at that time in the House, and there was no difficulty in selecting them. The wise men were chosen by their age. Among editors of newspapers there was some ill-blood. That Mr Alf and Mr Broune should be selected was almost a matter of course. They were hated accordingly, but still this was expected. But why was Mr Booker there? Was it because he had praised the Prime Minister's translation of Catullus? The African traveller chose himself by living through all his perils and coming home. A novelist was selected; but as royalty wanted another ticket at the last moment, the gentleman was only asked to come in after dinner. His proud heart, however, resented the treatment, and he joined amicably with his literary brethren in decrying the festival altogether.

We should be advancing too rapidly into this portion of our story were we to concern ourselves deeply at the present moment with the feud as it raged before the evening came round, but it may be right to indicate that the desire for tickets at last became a burning passion, and a passion which in the great majority of cases could not be indulged. The value of the privilege was so great that Madame Melmotte thought that she was doing almost more than friendship called for when she informed her guest, Miss Longestaffe, that unfortunately there would be no seat for her at the dinner-table; but that, as payment for her loss, she should receive an evening ticket for herself and a joint ticket for a gentleman and his wife. Georgiana was at first indignant, but she accepted the compromise. What she did with her tickets shall be hereafter told.

From all this I trust it will be understood that the Mr Melmotte of the present hour was a very different man from that Mr Melmotte who was introduced to the reader in the early chapters of this chronicle. Royalty was not to be smuggled in and out of his house now without his being allowed to see it. No manoeuvres now were necessary to catch a simple duchess. Duchesses were willing enough to come. Lord Alfred when he was called by his Christian name felt no aristocratic twinges. He was only too anxious to make himself more and more necessary to the great man. It is true that all this came as it were by jumps, so that very often a part of the world did not know on what ledge in the world the great man was perched at that moment. Miss Longestaffe who was staying in the house did not at all know how great a man her host was. Lady Monogram when she refused to go to Grosvenor Square, or even to allow any one to come out of the house in Grosvenor Square to her parties, was groping in outer darkness. Madame Melmotte did not know. Marie Melmotte did not know. The great man did not quite know himself where, from time to time, he was standing. But the world at large knew. The world knew that Mr Melmotte was to be Member for Westminster, that Mr Melmotte was to entertain the Emperor of China, that Mr Melmotte carried the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway in his pocket;—and the world worshipped Mr Melmotte.

In the meantime Mr Melmotte was much troubled about his private affairs. He had promised his daughter to Lord Nidderdale, and as he rose in the world had lowered the price which he offered for this marriage,—not so much in the absolute amount of fortune to be ultimately given, as in the manner of giving it. Fifteen thousand a year was to be settled on Marie and on her eldest son, and twenty thousand pounds were to be paid into Nidderdale's hands six months after the marriage. Melmotte gave his reasons for not paying this sum at once. Nidderdale would be more likely to be quiet, if he were kept waiting for that short time. Melmotte was to purchase and furnish for them a house in town. It was, too, almost understood that the young people were to have Pickering Park for themselves, except for a week or so at the end of July. It was absolutely given out in the papers that Pickering was to be theirs. It was said on all sides that Nidderdale was doing very well for himself. The absolute money was not perhaps so great as had been at first asked; but then, at that time, Melmotte was not the strong rock, the impregnable tower of commerce, the very navel of the commercial enterprise of the world,—as all men now regarded him. Nidderdale's father, and Nidderdale himself, were, in the present condition of things, content with a very much less stringent bargain than that which they had endeavoured at first to exact.

But, in the midst of all this, Marie, who had at one time consented at her father's instance to accept the young lord, and who in some speechless fashion had accepted him, told both the young lord and her father, very roundly, that she had changed her mind. Her father scowled at her and told her that her mind in the matter was of no concern. He intended that she should marry Lord Nidderdale, and himself fixed some day in August for the wedding. 'It is no use, father, for I will never have him,' said Marie.

'Is it about that other scamp?' he asked angrily.

'If you mean Sir Felix Carbury, it is about him. He has been to you and told you, and therefore I don't know why I need hold my tongue.'

'You'll both starve, my lady; that's all.' Marie however was not so wedded to the grandeur which she encountered in Grosvenor Square as to be afraid of the starvation which she thought she might have to suffer if married to Sir Felix Carbury. Melmotte had not time for any long discussion. As he left her he took hold of her and shook her. 'By—,' he said, 'if you run rusty after all I've done for you, I'll make you suffer. You little fool; that man's a beggar. He hasn't the price of a petticoat or a pair of stockings. He's looking only for what you haven't got, and shan't have if you marry him. He wants money, not you, you little fool!'

But after that she was quite settled in her purpose when Nidderdale spoke to her. They had been engaged and then it had been off;—and now the young nobleman, having settled everything with the father, expected no great difficulty in resettling everything with the girl. He was not very skilful at making love,—but he was thoroughly good-humoured, from his nature anxious to please, and averse to give pain. There was hardly any injury which he could not forgive, and hardly any kindness which he would not do,—so that the labour upon himself was not too great. 'Well, Miss Melmotte,' he said, 'governors are stern beings: are they not?'

'Is yours stern, my lord?'

'What I mean is that sons and daughters have to obey them. I think you understand what I mean. I was awfully spoony on you that time before; I was indeed.'

'I hope it didn't hurt you much, Lord Nidderdale.'

'That's so like a woman; that is. You know well enough that you and I can't marry without leave from the governors.'

'Nor with it,' said Marie, holding her head.

'I don't know how that may be. There was some hitch somewhere,—I don't quite know where.' The hitch had been with himself, as he demanded ready money. 'But it's all right now. The old fellows are agreed. Can't we make a match of it, Miss Melmotte?'

'No, Lord Nidderdale; I don't think we can.'

'Do you mean that?'

'I do mean it. When that was going on before I knew nothing about it. I have seen more of things since then.'

'And you've seen somebody you like better than me?'

'I say nothing about that, Lord Nidderdale. I don't think you ought to blame me, my lord.'

'Oh dear no.'

'There was something before, but it was you that was off first. Wasn't it now?'

'The governors were off, I think.'

'The governors have a right to be off, I suppose. But I don't think any governor has a right to make anybody marry any one.'

'I agree with you there;—I do indeed,' said Lord Nidderdale.

'And no governor shall make me marry. I've thought a great deal about it since that other time, and that's what I've come to determine.'

'But I don't know why you shouldn't—just marry me—because you—like me.'

'Only,—just because I don't. Well; I do like you, Lord Nidderdale.'

'Thanks;—so much!'

'I like you ever so,—only marrying a person is different.'

'There's something in that, to be sure.'

'And I don't mind telling you,' said Marie with an almost solemn expression on her countenance, 'because you are good-natured and won't get me into a scrape if you can help it, that I do like somebody else;—oh, so much.'

'I supposed that was it.'

'That is it.'

'It's a deuced pity. The governors had settled everything, and we should have been awfully jolly. I'd have gone in for all the things you go in for; and though your governor was screwing us up a bit, there would have been plenty of tin to go on with. You couldn't think of it again?'

'I tell you, my lord, I'm—in love.'

'Oh, ah;—yes. So you were saying. It's an awful bore. That's all. I shall come to the party all the same if you send me a ticket.' And so Nidderdale took his dismissal, and went away,—not however without an idea that the marriage would still come off. There was always,—so he thought,—such a bother about things before they would get themselves fixed. This happened some days after Mr Broune's proposal to Lady Carbury, more than a week since Marie had seen Sir Felix. As soon as Lord Nidderdale was gone she wrote again to Sir Felix begging that she might hear from him,—and entrusted her letter to Didon.



CHAPTER XXXVI - MR BROUNE'S PERILS

Lady Carbury had allowed herself two days for answering Mr Broune's proposition. It was made on Tuesday night and she was bound by her promise to send a reply some time on Thursday. But early on the Wednesday morning she had made up her mind; and at noon on that day her letter was written. She had spoken to Hetta about the man, and she had seen that Hetta had disliked him. She was not disposed to be much guided by Hetta's opinion. In regard to her daughter she was always influenced by a vague idea that Hetta was an unnecessary trouble. There was an excellent match ready for her if she would only accept it. There was no reason why Hetta should continue to add herself to the family burden. She never said this even to herself,—but she felt it, and was not therefore inclined to consult Hetta's comfort on this occasion. But nevertheless, what her daughter said had its effect. She had encountered the troubles of one marriage, and they had been very bad. She did not look upon that marriage as a mistake,—having even up to this day a consciousness that it had been the business of her life, as a portionless girl, to obtain maintenance and position at the expense of suffering and servility. But that had been done. The maintenance was, indeed, again doubtful, because of her son's vices; but it might so probably be again secured,—by means of her son's beauty! Hetta had said that Mr Broune liked his own way. Had not she herself found that all men liked their own way? And she liked her own way. She liked the comfort of a home to herself. Personally she did not want the companionship of a husband. And what scenes would there be between Felix and the man! And added to all this there was something within her, almost amounting to conscience, which told her that it was not right that she should burden any one with the responsibility and inevitable troubles of such a son as her son Felix. What would she do were her husband to command her to separate herself from her son? In such circumstances she would certainly separate herself from her husband. Having considered these things deeply, she wrote as follows to Mr Broune:—

DEAREST FRIEND,

I need not tell you that I have thought much of your generous and affectionate offer. How could I refuse such a prospect as you offer me without much thought? I regard your career as the most noble which a man's ambition can achieve. And in that career no one is your superior. I cannot but be proud that such a one as you should have asked me to be his wife. But, my friend, life is subject to wounds which are incurable, and my life has been so wounded. I have not strength left me to make my heart whole enough to be worthy of your acceptance. I have been so cut and scotched and lopped by the sufferings which I have endured that I am best alone. It cannot all be described;—and yet with you I would have no reticence. I would put the whole history before you to read, with all my troubles past and still present, all my hopes, and all my fears,—with every circumstance as it has passed by and every expectation that remains, were it not that the poor tale would be too long for your patience. The result of it would be to make you feel that I am no longer fit to enter in upon a new home. I should bring showers instead of sunshine, melancholy in lieu of mirth.

I will, however, be bold enough to assure you that could I bring myself to be the wife of any man I would now become your wife. But I shall never marry again.

Nevertheless, I am your most affectionate friend,

MATILDA CARBURY.

About six o'clock in the afternoon she sent this letter to Mr Broune's rooms in Pall Mall East, and then sat for awhile alone,—full of regrets. She had thrown away from her a firm footing which would certainly have served her for her whole life. Even at this moment she was in debt,—and did not know how to pay her debts without mortgaging her life income. She longed for some staff on which she could lean. She was afraid of the future. When she would sit with her paper before her, preparing her future work for the press, copying a bit here and a bit there, inventing historical details, dovetailing her chronicle, her head would sometimes seem to be going round as she remembered the unpaid baker, and her son's horses, and his unmeaning dissipation, and all her doubts about the marriage. As regarded herself, Mr Broune would have made her secure,—but that now was all over. Poor woman! This at any rate may be said for her,—that had she accepted the man her regrets would have been as deep.

Mr Broune's feelings were more decided in their tone than those of the lady. He had not made his offer without consideration, and yet from the very moment in which it had been made he repented it. That gently sarcastic appellation by which Lady Carbury had described him to herself when he had kissed her best explained that side of Mr Broune's character which showed itself in this matter. He was a susceptible old goose. Had she allowed him to kiss her without objection, the kissing might probably have gone on; and, whatever might have come of it, there would have been no offer of marriage. He had believed that her little manoeuvres had indicated love on her part, and he had felt himself constrained to reciprocate the passion. She was beautiful in his eyes. She was bright. She wore her clothes like a lady; and,—if it was written in the Book of the Fates that some lady was to sit at the top of his table,—Lady Carbury would look as well there as any other. She had repudiated the kiss, and therefore he had felt himself bound to obtain for himself the right to kiss her.

The offer had no sooner been made than he met her son reeling in, drunk, at the front door. As he made his escape the lad had insulted him. This perhaps helped to open his eyes. When he woke the next morning, or rather late in the next day, after his night's work, he was no longer able to tell himself that the world was all right with him. Who does not know that sudden thoughtfulness at waking, that first matutinal retrospection, and prospection, into things as they have been and are to be; and the lowness of heart, the blankness of hope which follows the first remembrance of some folly lately done, some word ill-spoken, some money misspent,—or perhaps a cigar too much, or a glass of brandy and soda-water which he should have left untasted? And when things have gone well, how the waker comforts himself among the bedclothes as he claims for himself to be whole all over, teres atque rotundus,—so to have managed his little affairs that he has to fear no harm, and to blush inwardly at no error! Mr Broune, the way of whose life took him among many perils, who in the course of his work had to steer his bark among many rocks, was in the habit of thus auditing his daily account as he shook off sleep about noon,—for such was his lot, that he seldom was in bed before four or five in the morning. On this Wednesday he found that he could not balance his sheet comfortably. He had taken a very great step and he feared that he had not taken it with wisdom. As he drank the cup of tea with which his servant supplied him while he was yet in bed, he could not say of himself, teres atque rotundus, as he was wont to do when things were well with him. Everything was to be changed. As he lit a cigarette he bethought himself that Lady Carbury would not like him to smoke in her bedroom. Then he remembered other things. 'I'll be d——- if he shall live in my house,' he said to himself.

And there was no way out of it. It did not occur to the man that his offer could be refused. During the whole of that day he went about among his friends in a melancholy fashion, saying little snappish uncivil things at the club, and at last dining by himself with about fifteen newspapers around him. After dinner he did not speak a word to any man, but went early to the office of the newspaper in Trafalgar Square at which he did his nightly work. Here he was lapped in comforts,—if the best of chairs, of sofas, of writing tables, and of reading lamps can make a man comfortable who has to read nightly thirty columns of a newspaper, or at any rate to make himself responsible for their contents.

He seated himself to his work like a man, but immediately saw Lady Carbury's letter on the table before him. It was his custom when he did not dine at home to have such documents brought to him at his office as had reached his home during his absence;—and here was Lady Carbury's letter. He knew her writing well, and was aware that here was the confirmation of his fate. It had not been expected, as she had given herself another day for her answer,—but here it was, beneath his hand. Surely this was almost unfeminine haste. He chucked the letter, unopened, a little from him, and endeavoured to fix his attention on some printed slip that was ready for him. For some ten minutes his eyes went rapidly down the lines, but he found that his mind did not follow what he was reading. He struggled again, but still his thoughts were on the letter. He did not wish to open it, having some vague idea that, till the letter should have been read, there was a chance of escape. The letter would not become due to be read till the next day. It should not have been there now to tempt his thoughts on this night. But he could do nothing while it lay there. 'It shall be a part of the bargain that I shall never have to see him,' he said to himself, as he opened it. The second line told him that the danger was over.

When he had read so far he stood up with his back to the fireplace, leaving the letter on the table. Then, after all, the woman wasn't in love with him! But that was a reading of the affair which he could hardly bring himself to look upon as correct. The woman had shown her love by a thousand signs. There was no doubt, however, that she now had her triumph. A woman always has a triumph when she rejects a man,— and more especially when she does so at a certain time of life. Would she publish her triumph? Mr Broune would not like to have it known about among brother editors, or by the world at large, that he had offered to marry Lady Carbury and that Lady Carbury had refused him. He had escaped; but the sweetness of his present safety was not in proportion to the bitterness of his late fears.

He could not understand why Lady Carbury should have refused him! As he reflected upon it, all memory of her son for the moment passed away from him. Full ten minutes had passed, during which he had still stood upon the rug, before he read the entire letter. '"Cut and scotched and lopped!" I suppose she has been,' he said to himself. He had heard much of Sir Patrick, and knew well that the old general had been no lamb. 'I shouldn't have cut her, or scotched her, or lopped her.' When he had read the whole letter patiently there crept upon him gradually a feeling of admiration for her, greater than he had ever yet felt,— and, for awhile, he almost thought that he would renew his offer to her. '"Showers instead of sunshine; melancholy instead of mirth,"' he repeated to himself. 'I should have done the best for her, taking the showers and the melancholy if they were necessary.'

He went to his work in a mixed frame of mind, but certainly without that dragging weight which had oppressed him when he entered the room. Gradually, through the night, he realized the conviction that he had escaped, and threw from him altogether the idea of repeating his offer. Before he left he wrote her a line:

'Be it so. It need not break our friendship.

'N. B.'

This he sent by a special messenger, who returned with a note to his lodgings long before he was up on the following morning.

'No;—no; certainly not. No word of this will ever pass my mouth.

'M. C.'

Mr Broune thought that he was very well out of the danger, and resolved that Lady Carbury should never want anything that his friendship could do for her.



CHAPTER XXXVII - THE BOARD-ROOM

On Friday, the 21st June, the Board of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway sat in its own room behind the Exchange, as was the Board's custom every Friday. On this occasion all the members were there, as it had been understood that the chairman was to make a special statement. There was the great chairman as a matter of course. In the midst of his numerous and immense concerns he never threw over the railway, or delegated to other less experienced hands those cares which the commercial world had intrusted to his own. Lord Alfred was there, with Mr Cohenlupe, the Hebrew gentleman, and Paul Montague, and Lord Nidderdale,—and even Sir Felix Carbury. Sir Felix had come, being very anxious to buy and sell, and not as yet having had an opportunity of realizing his golden hopes, although he had actually paid a thousand pounds in hard money into Mr Melmotte's hands. The secretary, Mr Miles Grendall, was also present as a matter of course. The Board always met at three, and had generally been dissolved at a quarter past three. Lord Alfred and Mr Cohenlupe sat at the chairman's right and left hand. Paul Montague generally sat immediately below, with Miles Grendall opposite to him;—but on this occasion the young lord and the young baronet took the next places. It was a nice little family party, the great chairman with his two aspiring sons-in-law, his two particular friends,—the social friend, Lord Alfred, and the commercial friend Mr Cohenlupe,—and Miles, who was Lord Alfred's son. It would have been complete in its friendliness, but for Paul Montague, who had lately made himself disagreeable to Mr Melmotte;—and most ungratefully so, for certainly no one had been allowed so free a use of the shares as the younger member of the house of Fisker, Montague, and Montague.

It was understood that Mr Melmotte was to make a statement. Lord Nidderdale and Sir Felix had conceived that this was to be done as it were out of the great man's heart, of his own wish, so that something of the condition of the company might be made known to the directors of the company. But this was not perhaps exactly the truth. Paul Montague had insisted on giving vent to certain doubts at the last meeting but one, and, having made himself very disagreeable indeed, had forced this trouble on the great chairman. On the intermediate Friday the chairman had made himself very unpleasant to Paul, and this had seemed to be an effort on his part to frighten the inimical director out of his opposition, so that the promise of a statement need not be fulfilled. What nuisance can be so great to a man busied with immense affairs, as to have to explain,—or to attempt to explain,—small details to men incapable of understanding them? But Montague had stood to his guns. He had not intended, he said, to dispute the commercial success of the company. But he felt very strongly, and he thought that his brother directors should feel as strongly, that it was necessary that they should know more than they did know. Lord Alfred had declared that he did not in the least agree with his brother director. 'If anybody don't understand, it's his own fault,' said Mr Cohenlupe. But Paul would not give way, and it was understood that Mr Melmotte would make a statement.

The 'Boards' were always commenced by the reading of a certain record of the last meeting out of a book. This was always done by Miles Grendall; and the record was supposed to have been written by him. But Montague had discovered that this statement in the book was always prepared and written by a satellite of Melmotte's from Abchurch Lane who was never present at the meeting. The adverse director had spoken to the secretary,—it will be remembered that they were both members of the Beargarden,—and Miles had given a somewhat evasive reply. 'A cussed deal of trouble and all that, you know! He's used to it, and it's what he's meant for. I'm not going to flurry myself about stuff of that kind.' Montague after this had spoken on the subject both to Nidderdale and Felix Carbury. 'He couldn't do it, if it was ever so,' Nidderdale had said. 'I don't think I'd bully him if I were you. He gets L500 a-year, and if you knew all he owes, and all he hasn't got, you wouldn't try to rob him of it.' With Felix Carbury, Montague had as little success. Sir Felix hated the secretary, had detected him cheating at cards, had resolved to expose him,—and had then been afraid to do so. He had told Dolly Longestaffe, and the reader will perhaps remember with what effect. He had not mentioned the affair again, and had gradually fallen back into the habit of playing at the club. Loo, however, had given way to whist, and Sir Felix had satisfied himself with the change. He still meditated some dreadful punishment for Miles Grendall, but, in the meantime, felt himself unable to oppose him at the Board. Since the day at which the aces had been manipulated at the club he had not spoken to Miles Grendall except in reference to the affairs of the whist table. The 'Board' was now commenced as usual. Miles read the short record out of the book,—stumbling over every other word, and going through the performance so badly that had there been anything to understand no one could have understood it. 'Gentlemen,' said Mr Melmotte, in his usual hurried way, 'is it your pleasure that I shall sign the record?' Paul Montague rose to say that it was not his pleasure that the record should be signed. But Melmotte had made his scrawl, and was deep in conversation with Mr Cohenlupe before Paul could get upon his legs.

Melmotte, however, had watched the little struggle. Melmotte, whatever might be his faults, had eyes to see and ears to hear. He perceived that Montague had made a little struggle and had been cowed; and he knew how hard it is for one man to persevere against five or six, and for a young man to persevere against his elders. Nidderdale was filliping bits of paper across the table at Carbury. Miles Grendall was poring over the book which was in his charge. Lord Alfred sat back in his chair, the picture of a model director, with his right hand within his waistcoat. He looked aristocratic, respectable, and almost commercial. In that room he never by any chance opened his mouth, except when called on to say that Mr Melmotte was right, and was considered by the chairman really to earn his money. Melmotte for a minute or two went on conversing with Cohenlupe, having perceived that Montague for the moment was cowed. Then Paul put both his hands upon the table, intending to rise and ask some perplexing question. Melmotte saw this also and was upon his legs before Montague had risen from his chair. 'Gentlemen,' said Mr Melmotte, 'it may perhaps be as well if I take this occasion of saying a few words to you about the affairs of the company.' Then, instead of going on with his statement, he sat down again, and began to turn over sundry voluminous papers very slowly, whispering a word or two every now and then to Mr Cohenlupe. Lord Alfred never changed his posture and never took his hand from his breast. Nidderdale and Carbury filliped their paper pellets backwards and forwards. Montague sat profoundly listening,—or ready to listen when anything should be said. As the chairman had risen from his chair to commence his statement, Paul felt that he was bound to be silent. When a speaker is in possession of the floor, he is in possession even though he be somewhat dilatory in looking to his references, and whispering to his neighbour. And, when that speaker is a chairman, of course some additional latitude must be allowed to him. Montague understood this, and sat silent. It seemed that Melmotte had much to say to Cohenlupe, and Cohenlupe much to say to Melmotte. Since Cohenlupe had sat at the Board he had never before developed such powers of conversation.

Nidderdale didn't quite understand it. He had been there twenty minutes, was tired of his present amusement, having been unable to hit Carbury on the nose, and suddenly remembered that the Beargarden would now be open. He was no respecter of persons, and had got over any little feeling of awe with which the big table and the solemnity of the room may have first inspired him. 'I suppose that's about all,' he said, looking up at Melmotte.

'Well;—perhaps as your lordship is in a hurry, and as my lord here is engaged elsewhere,—' turning round to Lord Alfred, who had not uttered a syllable or made a sign since he had been in his seat, '—we had better adjourn this meeting for another week.'

'I cannot allow that,' said Paul Montague.

'I suppose then we must take the sense of the Board,' said the Chairman.

'I have been discussing certain circumstances with our friend and Chairman,' said Cohenlupe, 'and I must say that it is not expedient just at present to go into matters too freely.'

'My Lords and Gentlemen,' said Melmotte. 'I hope that you trust me.'

Lord Alfred bowed down to the table and muttered something which was intended to convey most absolute confidence. 'Hear, hear,' said Mr Cohenlupe. 'All right,' said Lord Nidderdale; 'go on;' and he fired another pellet with improved success.

'I trust,' said the Chairman, 'that my young friend, Sir Felix, doubts neither my discretion nor my ability.'

'Oh dear, no;—not at all,' said the baronet, much tattered at being addressed in this kindly tone. He had come there with objects of his own, and was quite prepared to support the Chairman on any matter whatever.

'My Lords and Gentlemen,' continued Melmotte, 'I am delighted to receive this expression of your confidence. If I know anything in the world I know something of commercial matters. I am able to tell you that we are prospering. I do not know that greater prosperity has ever been achieved in a shorter time by a commercial company. I think our friend here, Mr Montague, should be as feelingly aware of that as any gentleman.'

'What do you mean by that, Mr Melmotte?' asked Paul.

'What do I mean?—Certainly nothing adverse to your character, sir. Your firm in San Francisco, sir, know very well how the affairs of the Company are being transacted on this side of the water. No doubt you are in correspondence with Mr Fisker. Ask him. The telegraph wires are open to you, sir. But, my Lords and Gentlemen, I am able to inform you that in affairs of this nature great discretion is necessary. On behalf of the shareholders at large whose interests are in our hands, I think it expedient that any general statement should be postponed for a short time, and I flatter myself that in that opinion I shall carry the majority of this Board with me.' Mr Melmotte did not make his speech very fluently; but, being accustomed to the place which he occupied, he did manage to get the words spoken in such a way as to make them intelligible to the company. 'I now move that this meeting be adjourned to this day week,' he added.

'I second that motion,' said Lord Alfred, without moving his hand from his breast.

'I understood that we were to have a statement,' said Montague.

'You've had a statement,' said Mr Cohenlupe.

'I will put my motion to the vote,' said the Chairman. 'I shall move an amendment,' said Paul, determined that he would not be altogether silenced.

'There is nobody to second it,' said Mr Cohenlupe.

'How do you know till I've made it?' asked the rebel. 'I shall ask Lord Nidderdale to second it, and when he has heard it I think that he will not refuse.'

'Oh, gracious me! why me? No;—don't ask me. I've got to go away. I have indeed.'

'At any rate I claim the right of saying a few words. I do not say whether every affair of this Company should or should not be published to the world.'

'You'd break up everything if you did,' said Cohenlupe.

'Perhaps everything ought to be broken up. But I say nothing about that. What I do say is this. That as we sit here as directors and will be held to be responsible as such by the public, we ought to know what is being done. We ought to know where the shares really are. I for one do not even know what scrip has been issued.'

'You've bought and sold enough to know something about it,' said Melmotte.

Paul Montague became very red in the face. 'I, at any rate, began,' he said, 'by putting what was to me a large sum of money into the affair.'

'That's more than I know,' said Melmotte. 'Whatever shares you have, were issued at San Francisco, and not here.'

'I have taken nothing that I haven't paid for,' said Montague. 'Nor have I yet had allotted to me anything like the number of shares which my capital would represent. But I did not intend to speak of my own concerns.'

'It looks very like it,' said Cohenlupe.

'So far from it that I am prepared to risk the not improbable loss of everything I have in the world. I am determined to know what is being done with the shares, or to make it public to the world at large that I, one of the directors of the Company, do not in truth know anything about it. I cannot, I suppose, absolve myself from further responsibility; but I can at any rate do what is right from this time forward,—and that course I intend to take.'

'The gentleman had better resign his seat at this Board,' said Melmotte. 'There will be no difficulty about that.'

'Bound up as I am with Fisker and Montague in California I fear that there will be difficulty.'

'Not in the least,' continued the Chairman. 'You need only gazette your resignation and the thing is done. I had intended, gentlemen, to propose an addition to our number. When I name to you a gentleman, personally known to many of you, and generally esteemed throughout England as a man of business, as a man of probity, and as a man of fortune, a man standing deservedly high in all British circles, I mean Mr Longestaffe of Caversham—'

'Young Dolly, or old,' asked Lord Nidderdale.

'I mean Mr Adolphus Longestaffe, senior, of Caversham. I am sure that you will all be glad to welcome him among you. I had thought to strengthen our number by this addition. But if Mr Montague is determined to leave us,—and no one will regret the loss of his services so much as I shall,—it will be my pleasing duty to move that Adolphus Longestaffe, senior, Esquire, of Caversham, be requested to take his place. If on consideration Mr Montague shall determine to remain with us,—and I for one most sincerely hope that such reconsideration may lead to such determination,—then I shall move that an additional director be added to our number, and that Mr Longestaffe be requested to take the chair of that additional director.' The latter speech Mr Melmotte got through very glibly, and then immediately left the chair, so as to show that the business of the Board was closed for that day without any possibility of re-opening it.

Paul went up to him and took him by the sleeve, signifying that he wished to speak to him before they parted. 'Certainly,' said the great man bowing. 'Carbury,' he said, looking round on the young baronet with his blandest smile, 'if you are not in a hurry, wait a moment for me. I have a word or two to say before you go. Now, Mr Montague, what can I do for you?' Paul began his story, expressing again the opinion which he had already very plainly expressed at the table. But Melmotte stopped him very shortly, and with much less courtesy than he had shown in the speech which he had made from the chair. 'The thing is about this way, I take it, Mr Montague;—you think you know more of this matter than I do.'

'Not at all, Mr Melmotte.'

'And I think that I know more of it than you do. Either of us may be right. But as I don't intend to give way to you, perhaps the less we speak together about it the better. You can't be in earnest in the threat you made, because you would be making public things communicated to you under the seal of privacy,—and no gentleman would do that. But as long as you are hostile to me, I can't help you,—and so good afternoon.' Then, without giving Montague the possibility of a reply, he escaped into an inner room which had the word 'Private' painted on the door, and which was supposed to belong to the chairman individually. He shut the door behind him, and then, after a few moments, put out his head and beckoned to Sir Felix Carbury. Nidderdale was gone. Lord Alfred with his son were already on the stairs. Cohenlupe was engaged with Melmotte's clerk on the record-book. Paul Montague, finding himself without support and alone, slowly made his way out into the court.

Sir Felix had come into the city intending to suggest to the Chairman that having paid his thousand pounds he should like to have a few shares to go on with. He was, indeed, at the present moment very nearly penniless, and had negotiated, or lost at cards, all the I.O.U.'s which were in any degree serviceable. He still had a pocketbook full of those issued by Miles Grendall; but it was now an understood thing at the Beargarden that no one was to be called upon to take them except Miles Grendall himself;—an arrangement which robbed the card-table of much of its delight. Beyond this, also, he had lately been forced to issue a little paper himself,—in doing which he had talked largely of his shares in the railway. His case certainly was hard. He had actually paid a thousand pounds down in hard cash, a commercial transaction which, as performed by himself, he regarded as stupendous. It was almost incredible to himself that he should have paid any one a thousand pounds, but he had done it with much difficulty,—having carried Dolly junior with him all the way into the city,—in the belief that he would thus put himself in the way of making a continual and unfailing income. He understood that as a director he would be always entitled to buy shares at par, and, as a matter of course, always able to sell them at the market price. This he understood to range from ten to fifteen and twenty per cent, profit. He would have nothing to do but to buy and sell daily. He was told that Lord Alfred was allowed to do it to a small extent; and that Melmotte was doing it to an enormous extent. But before he could do it he must get something,—he hardly knew what,—out of Melmotte's hands. Melmotte certainly did not seem to shun him, and therefore there could be no difficulty about the shares. As to danger,—who could think of danger in reference to money intrusted to the hands of Augustus Melmotte?

'I am delighted to see you here,' said Melmotte, shaking him cordially by the hand. 'You come regularly, and you'll find that it will be worth your while. There's nothing like attending to business. You should be here every Friday.'

'I will,' said the baronet.

'And let me see you sometimes up at my place in Abchurch Lane. I can put you more in the way of understanding things there than I can here. This is all a mere formal sort of thing. You can see that.'

'Oh yes, I see that.'

'We are obliged to have this kind of thing for men like that fellow Montague. By-the-bye, is he a friend of yours?'

'Not particularly. He is a friend of a cousin of mine; and the women know him at home. He isn't a pal of mine if you mean that.'

'If he makes himself disagreeable, he'll have to go to the wall;—that's all. But never mind him at present. Was your mother speaking to you of what I said to her?'

'No, Mr Melmotte,' said Sir Felix, staring with all his eyes.

'I was talking to her about you, and I thought that perhaps she might have told you. This is all nonsense, you know, about you and Marie.' Sir Felix looked into the man's face. It was not savage, as he had seen it. But there had suddenly come upon his brow that heavy look of a determined purpose which all who knew the man were wont to mark. Sir Felix had observed it a few minutes since in the Board-room, when the chairman was putting down the rebellious director. 'You understand that; don't you?' Sir Felix still looked at him, but made no reply. 'It's all d—— nonsense. You haven't got a brass farthing, you know. You've no income at all; you're just living on your mother, and I'm afraid she's not very well off. How can you suppose that I shall give my girl to you?' Felix still looked at him but did not dare to contradict a single statement made. Yet when the man told him that he had not a brass farthing he thought of his own thousand pounds which were now in the man's pocket. 'You're a baronet, and that's about all, you know,' continued Melmotte. 'The Carbury property, which is a very small thing, belongs to a distant cousin who may leave it to me if he pleases;—and who isn't very much older than you are yourself.'

'Oh, come, Mr Melmotte; he's a great deal older than me.'

'It wouldn't matter if he were as old as Adam. The thing is out of the question, and you must drop it.' Then the look on his brow became a little heavier. 'You hear what I say. She is going to marry Lord Nidderdale. She was engaged to him before you ever saw her. What do you expect to get by it?'

Sir Felix had not the courage to say that he expected to get the girl he loved. But as the man waited for an answer he was obliged to say something. 'I suppose it's the old story,' he said.

'Just so;—the old story. You want my money, and she wants you, just because she has been told to take somebody else. You want something to live on;—that's what you want. Come;—out with it. Is not that it? When we understand each other I'll put you in the way of making money.'

'Of course I'm not very well off,' said Felix.

'About as badly as any young man that I can hear of. You give me your written promise that you'll drop this affair with Marie, and you shan't want for money.'

'A written promise!'

'Yes;—a written promise. I give nothing for nothing. I'll put you in the way of doing so well with these shares that you shall be able to marry any other girl you please;—or to live without marrying, which you'll find to be better.'

There was something worthy of consideration in Mr Melmotte's proposition. Marriage of itself, simply as a domestic institution, had not specially recommended itself to Sir Felix Carbury. A few horses at Leighton, Ruby Ruggles or any other beauty, and life at the Beargarden were much more to his taste. And then he was quite alive to the fact that it was possible that he might find himself possessed of the wife without the money. Marie, indeed, had a grand plan of her own, with reference to that settled income; but then Marie might be mistaken,—or she might be lying. If he were sure of making money in the way Melmotte now suggested, the loss of Marie would not break his heart. But then also Melmotte might be—lying. 'By-the-bye, Mr Melmotte,' said he, 'could you let me have those shares?'

'What shares?' And the heavy brow became still heavier.

'Don't you know?—I gave you a thousand pounds, and I was to have ten shares.'

'You must come about that on the proper day, to the proper place.'

'When is the proper day?'

'It is the twentieth of each month, I think.' Sir Felix looked very blank at hearing this, knowing that this present was the twenty-first of the month. 'But what does that signify? Do you want a little money?'

'Well, I do,' said Sir Felix. 'A lot of fellows owe me money, but it's so hard to get it.'

'That tells a story of gambling,' said Mr Melmotte. 'You think I'd give my girl to a gambler?'

'Nidderdale's in it quite as thick as I am.'

'Nidderdale has a settled property which neither he nor his father can destroy. But don't you be such a fool as to argue with me. You won't get anything by it. If you'll write that letter here now—'

'What;—to Marie?'

'No;—not to Marie at all; but to me. It need never be known to her. If you'll do that I'll stick to you and make a man of you. And if you want a couple of hundred pounds I'll give you a cheque for it before you leave the room. Mind, I can tell you this. On my word of honour as a gentleman, if my daughter were to marry you, she'd never have a single shilling. I should immediately make a will and leave all my property to St. George's Hospital. I have quite made up my mind about that.'

'And couldn't you manage that I should have the shares before the twentieth of next month?'

'I'll see about it. Perhaps I could let you have a few of my own. At any rate I won't see you short of money.'

The terms were enticing and the letter was of course written. Melmotte himself dictated the words, which were not romantic in their nature. The reader shall see the letter.

DEAR SIR,

In consideration of the offers made by you to me, and on a clear understanding that such a marriage would be disagreeable to you and to the lady's mother, and would bring down a father's curse upon your daughter, I hereby declare and promise that I will not renew my suit to the young lady, which I hereby altogether renounce.

I am, Dear Sir,

Your obedient servant,

FELIX CARBURY.

AUGUSTUS MELMOTTE, Esq., Grosvenor Square.

The letter was dated 21st July, and bore the printed address of the offices of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway.

'You'll give me that cheque for L200, Mr Melmotte?' The financier hesitated for a moment, but did give the baronet the cheque as promised. 'And you'll see about letting me have those shares?'

'You can come to me in Abchurch Lane, you know.' Sir Felix said that he would call in Abchurch Lane.

As he went westward towards the Beargarden, the baronet was not happy in his mind. Ignorant as he was as to the duties of a gentleman, indifferent as he was to the feelings of others, still he felt ashamed of himself. He was treating the girl very badly. Even he knew that he was behaving badly. He was so conscious of it that he tried to console himself by reflecting that his writing such a letter as that would not prevent his running away with the girl, should he, on consideration, find it to be worth his while to do so.

That night he was again playing at the Beargarden, and he lost a great part of Mr Melmotte's money. He did in fact lose much more than the L200; but when he found his ready money going from him he issued paper.



CHAPTER XXXVIII - PAUL MONTAGUE'S TROUBLES

Paul Montague had other troubles on his mind beyond this trouble of the Mexican Railway. It was now more than a fortnight since he had taken Mrs Hurtle to the play, and she was still living in lodgings at Islington. He had seen her twice, once on the following day, when he was allowed to come and go without any special reference to their engagement, and again, three or four days afterwards, when the meeting was by no means so pleasant. She had wept, and after weeping had stormed. She had stood upon what she called her rights, and had dared him to be false to her. Did he mean to deny that he had promised to marry her? Was not his conduct to her, ever since she had now been in London, a repetition of that promise? And then again she became soft, and pleaded with him. But for the storm he might have given way. At the moment he had felt that any fate in life would be better than a marriage on compulsion. Her tears and her pleadings, nevertheless, touched him very nearly. He had promised her most distinctly. He had loved her and had won her love. And she was lovely. The very violence of the storm made the sunshine more sweet. She would sit down on a stool at his feet, and it was impossible to drive her away from him. She would look up in his face and he could not but embrace her. Then there had come a passionate flood of tears and she was in his arms. How he had escaped he hardly knew, but he did know that he had promised to be with her again before two days should have passed.

On the day named he wrote to her a letter excusing himself, which was at any rate true in words. He had been summoned, he said, to Liverpool on business, and must postpone seeing her till his return. And he explained that the business on which he was called was connected with the great American railway, and, being important, demanded his attention. In words this was true. He had been corresponding with a gentleman at Liverpool with whom he had become acquainted on his return home after having involuntarily become a partner in the house of Fisker, Montague, and Montague. This man he trusted and had consulted, and the gentleman, Mr Ramsbottom by name, had suggested that he should come to him at Liverpool. He had gone, and his conduct at the Board had been the result of the advice which he had received; but it may be doubted whether some dread of the coming interview with Mrs Hurtle had not added strength to Mr Ramsbottom's invitation.