And he told her something too of his triumphs;--how he had had this fellow bowled over in punishment for some contradiction, and that man snuffed out for daring to be an enemy. And he expatiated on his own virtues, his justice and clemency. Ah,--if men and women only knew his good nature and his patriotism;--how he had spared the rod here, how he had made the fortune of a man there, how he had saved the country millions by the steadiness of his adherence to some grand truth! Lady Carbury delighted in all this and repaid him by flattery, and little confidences of her own. Under his teaching she had almost made up her mind to give up Mr. Alf. Of nothing was Mr. Broune more certain than that Mr. Alf was making a fool of himself in regard to the Westminster election and those attacks on Melmotte. "The world of London generally knows what it is about," said Mr. Broune, "and the London world believes Mr. Melmotte to be sound. I don't pretend to say that he has never done anything that he ought not to do. I am not going into his antecedents. But he is a man of wealth, power, and genius, and Alf will get the worst of it."

 also of his editorial triumphs; how he had saved the country millions by telling some grand truth!
Lady Carbury delighted in all this and repaid him by little confidences of her own. She had almost made up her mind to give up Mr. Alf. Mr. Broune thought that Mr. Alf was making a fool of himself with the Westminster election and those attacks on Melmotte.
"London believes Mr. Melmotte to be sound," he said. "I don't pretend that he has never done anything that he ought not to. But he is a man of wealth, power, and genius, and Alf will get the worst of it."


Under such teaching as this, Lady Carbury was almost obliged to give up Mr. Alf.
Sometimes they would sit in the front room with Hetta, to whom also Mr. Broune had become attached; but sometimes Lady Carbury would be in her own sanctum. On this evening she received him there, and at once poured forth all her troubles about Felix. On this occasion she told him everything, and almost told him everything truly. He had already heard the story. "The young lady went down to Liverpool, and Sir Felix was not there."
"He could not have been there. He has been in bed in this house all day. Did she go?"

On this evening Lady Carbury at once poured forth all her troubles about Felix. She told him everything.
He had already heard the story. "The young lady went down to Liverpool, and Sir Felix was not there."
"Did she go, then?"

Chapter 52: The Results of Love and Wine


"So I am told;--and was met at the station by the senior officer of the police at Liverpool, who brought her back to London without letting her go down to the ship at all. She must have thought that her lover was on board;--probably thinks so now. I pity her."
"How much worse it would have been, had she been allowed to start," said Lady Carbury.
"Yes; that would have been bad. She would have had a sad journey to New York, and a sadder journey back. Has your son told you anything about money?"
"What money?"

"So I am told; and was met at the station by a police officer, who brought her back to London. She probably still thinks her lover was on board the ship. I pity her."
"How much worse it would have been, had she gone on board," said Lady Carbury.
"Yes; she would have had a sad journey to New York, and a sadder journey back. Has your son told you anything about money?"
"What money?"


"They say that the girl entrusted him with a large sum which she had taken from her father. If that be so he certainly ought to lose no time in restoring it. It might be done through some friend. I would do it for that matter. If it be so,--to avoid unpleasantness,--it should be sent back at once. It will be for his credit." This Mr. Broune said with a clear intimation of the importance of his advice.

"They say the girl entrusted him with a large sum which she had taken from her father. If that is so he certainly ought to lose no time in returning it. It might be done through some friend. I would do it. But to avoid unpleasantness, it should be sent back at once."


It was dreadful to Lady Carbury. She had no money to give back, nor, as she was well aware, had her son. She had heard nothing of any money. What did Mr. Broune mean by a large sum? "That would be dreadful," she said.
"Had you not better ask him about it?"
Lady Carbury was again in tears. She knew that she could not hope to get a word of truth from her son. "What do you mean by a large sum?"
"Two or three hundred pounds, perhaps."

This was dreadful to Lady Carbury. She had no money to give back, nor, as she knew, had her son.
"What do you mean by a large sum?" she said, in tears.
"Two or three hundred pounds, perhaps."


"I have not a shilling in the world, Mr. Broune." Then it all came out,--the whole story of her poverty, as it had been brought about by her son's misconduct. She told him every detail of her money affairs from the death of her husband, and his will, up to the present moment.
"He is eating you up, Lady Carbury." Lady Carbury thought that she was nearly eaten up already, but she said nothing. "You must put a stop to this."
"But how?"

"I have not a shilling in the world, Mr. Broune." Then it all came out - the whole story of her poverty, caused by her son's misconduct. She told him every detail of her money affairs from her husband's death up to the present.
"He is eating you up, Lady Carbury. You must put a stop to this."
"But how?"


"You must rid yourself of him. It is dreadful to say so, but it must be done. You must not see your daughter ruined. Find out what money he got from Miss Melmotte and I will see that it is repaid. That must be done;--and we will then try to get him to go abroad. No;--do not contradict me. We can talk of the money another time. I must be off now, as I have stayed too long. Do as I bid you. Make him tell you, and send me word down to the office.

"You must rid yourself of him. It is dreadful to say so, but it must be done. You must not see your daughter ruined. Find out what money he got from Miss Melmotte and I will see that it is repaid. Then we will try to get him to go abroad. No; do not contradict me. We can talk of the money another time. I must be off now, but do as I bid you. Send me word of the sum down to the office.


If you could do it early to-morrow, that would be best. God bless you." And so he hurried off.
Early on the following morning a letter from Lady Carbury was put into Mr. Broune's hands, giving the story of the money as far as she had been able to extract it from Sir Felix. Sir Felix declared that Mr. Melmotte had owed him 600, and that he had received 250 out of this from Miss Melmotte,--so that there was still a large balance due to him. Lady Carbury went on to say that her son had at last confessed that he had lost this money at play. The story was fairly true; but Lady Carbury in her letter acknowledged that she was not justified in believing it because it was told to her by her son.

God bless you." And so he hurried off.
Early the following morning Mr. Broune received a letter from Lady Carbury, giving the story of the money as far as she had been able to extract it from Sir Felix. Sir Felix declared that Mr. Melmotte had owed him 600, and that he had received 250 out of this from Miss Melmotte. Lady Carbury added that her son had at last confessed that he had lost this money at play. Although this was true, she admitted that she could not safely believe anything told to her by her son.


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

"You shall be troubled no more with Winifrid Hurtle." So Mrs. Hurtle had said in perfect good faith to Paul Montague. And when he had said good-bye to her, putting out his hand for the last time, she declined it.


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

Paul returned home in low spirits. If she had insisted on his taking that letter with the threat of the horsewhip, he might at least have consoled himself with thinking that, however badly he had behaved, her conduct had been worse. He could have made himself warm and comfortable with anger, and could have assured himself that he was right to escape from the clutches of such a wild cat.
But at the last moment she had been no wild cat to him. She had melted, and become soft and womanly, and exquisitely beautiful; and he returned home sad and dissatisfied with himself. He had destroyed her life. She had said that she was all alone, and had given up everything to follow him. Was he to do nothing for her now?


But was that to be sufficient for him,--so that he might now feel inwardly satisfied at leaving her, and make no further inquiry as to her fate? Could he pass on and let her be as the wine that has been drunk,--as the hour that has been enjoyed,--as the day that is past?
But what could he do? He had made good his own escape. He had resolved that, let her be woman or wild cat, he would not marry her, and in that he knew he had been right. Her antecedents, as now declared by herself, unfitted her for such a marriage. Were he to return to her he would be again thrusting his hand into the fire. But his own selfish coldness was hateful to him when he thought that there was nothing to be done but to leave her desolate and lonely in Mrs. Pipkin's lodgings.

Yet what could he do? He had made good his escape. He had resolved that he would not marry her, and he knew he had been right. Were he to return to her he would again be thrusting his hand into the fire. But his own selfish coldness was hateful to him when he thought of her left desolate and lonely in Mrs. Pipkin's lodgings.


During the next three or four days, while the preparations for the dinner and the election were going on, he was busy in respect to the American railway. He again went down to Liverpool, and at Mr. Ramsbottom's advice prepared a letter to the board of directors, in which he resigned his seat, and gave his reasons for resigning it; adding that he should reserve to himself the liberty of publishing his letter, should at any time the circumstances of the railway company seem to him to make such a course desirable. He also wrote a letter to Mr. Fisker, begging that gentleman to come to England, and expressing his own wish to retire altogether from the firm of Fisker, Montague, and Montague upon receiving the balance of money due to him,--a payment which must, he said, be a matter of small moment to his two partners, if, as he had been informed, they had enriched themselves by the success of the railway company in San Francisco. When he wrote these letters at Liverpool the great rumour about Melmotte had not yet sprung up. He returned to London on the day of the festival, and first heard of the report at the Beargarden. There he found that the old set had for the moment broken itself up. Sir Felix Carbury had not been heard of for the last four or five days,--and then the whole story of Miss Melmotte's journey, of which he had read something in the newspapers, was told to him. "We think that Carbury has drowned himself," said Lord Grasslough, "and I haven't heard of anybody being heartbroken about it." Lord Nidderdale had hardly been seen at the club. "He's taken up the running with the girl," said Lord Grasslough.

During the next three or four days, while the preparations for the dinner and the election were going on, he was busy in regard to the American railway. He again went to Liverpool, and at Mr. Ramsbottom's advice prepared a letter to the board of directors, in which he resigned his seat. He also wrote a letter to Mr. Fisker, begging that gentleman to come to England, and expressing his own wish to retire altogether from the firm of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, upon receiving the balance of money due to him.
When he wrote these letters at Liverpool the great rumour about Melmotte had not yet sprung up. He returned to London on the day of the festival, and first heard of the report at the Beargarden. The old set there had broken up. Sir Felix Carbury had not been heard of for the last four or five days; and then the whole story of Miss Melmotte's journey was told to him. Lord Nidderdale had hardly been seen at the club.
"He's taken up the running with the girl," said Lord Grasslough.


"What he'll do now, nobody knows. If I was at it, I'd have the money down in hard cash before I went into the church. He was there at the party yesterday, talking to the girl all the night;--a sort of thing he never did before. Nidderdale is the best fellow going, but he was always an ass." Nor had Miles Grendall been seen in the club for three days. "We've got into a way of play the poor fellow doesn't like," said Lord Grasslough; "and then Melmotte won't let him out of his sight. He has taken to dine there every day." This was said during the election,--on the very day on which Miles deserted his patron; and on that evening he did dine at the club. Paul Montague also dined there, and would fain have heard something from Grendall as to Melmotte's condition; but the secretary, if not faithful in all things, was faithful at any rate in his silence. Though Grasslough talked openly enough about Melmotte in the smoking-room Miles Grendall said never a word.

"He was there at the party yesterday, talking to her all night - a sort of thing he never did before. Nidderdale is the best fellow going, but he was always an ass." Nor had Miles Grendall been seen in the club for three days.


On the next day, early in the afternoon, almost without a fixed purpose, Montague strolled up to Welbeck Street, and found Hetta alone. "Mamma has gone to her publisher's," she said. "She is writing so much now that she is always going there. Who has been elected, Mr. Montague?" Paul knew nothing about the election, and cared very little. At that time, however, the election had not been decided. "I suppose it will make no difference to you whether your chairman be in Parliament or not?" Paul said that Melmotte was no longer a chairman of his. "Are you out of it altogether, Mr. Montague?" Yes;--as far as it lay within his power to be out of it, he was out of it.

On the next afternoon, almost without a fixed purpose, Paul strolled up to Welbeck Street, and found Hetta alone.
"Mamma has gone to her publisher's," she said. "Who has been elected, Mr. Montague?" Paul knew nothing about the election, and cared very little. He said that Melmotte was no longer his chairman.
"Are you out of it altogether, Mr. Montague?" Yes; as far as it lay within his power, he was out of it.


He did not like Mr. Melmotte, nor believe in him. Then with considerable warmth he repudiated all connection with the Melmotte party, expressing deep regret that circumstances had driven him for a time into that alliance. "Then you think that Mr. Melmotte is--?"
"Just a scoundrel;--that's all."
"You heard about Felix?"
"Of course I heard that he was to marry the girl, and that he tried to run off with her. I don't know much about it. They say that Lord Nidderdale is to marry her now."
"I think not, Mr. Montague."

With considerable warmth he repudiated all connection with Melmotte, expressing deep regret that circumstances had driven him for a time into that alliance.
"Then you think that Mr. Melmotte is-?"
"A scoundrel; that's all."
"You heard about Felix?"
"I heard that he tried to run off with the girl. I don't know much about it. They say that Lord Nidderdale is to marry her now."
"I think not, Mr. Montague."


"I hope not, for his sake. At any rate, your brother is well out of it."
"Do you know that she loves Felix? There is no pretence about that. I do think she is good. The other night at the party she spoke to me."
"You went to the party, then?"

"I hope not, for his sake. At any rate, your brother is well out of it."
"Do you know that she truly loves Felix? I do think she is good. The other night at the party she spoke to me.


"Yes;--I could not refuse to go when mamma chose to take me. And when I was there she spoke to me about Felix. I don't think she will marry Lord Nidderdale. Poor girl;--I do pity her. Think what a downfall it will be if anything happens."
But Paul Montague had certainly not come there with the intention of discussing Melmotte's affairs, nor could he afford to lose the opportunity which chance had given him. He was off with one love, and now he thought that he might be on with the other. "Hetta," he said, "I am thinking more of myself than of her,--or even of Felix."
"I suppose we all do think more of ourselves than of other people," said Hetta, who knew from his voice at once what it was in his mind to do.

Poor girl; I do pity her. Think what a downfall it will be if anything happens."
But Paul Montague had not come to discuss Melmotte's affairs. He was off with one love, and now he thought that he might be on with the other.
"Hetta," he said, "I am thinking more of myself than of her."
"I suppose we all do think more of ourselves than of other people," said Hetta, who knew from his voice at once what he intended.


"Yes;--but I am not thinking of myself only. I am thinking of myself, and you. In all my thoughts of myself I am thinking of you too."
"I do not know why you should do that."
"Hetta, you must know that I love you."

"Yes; but I am thinking of myself and of you. Hetta, you must know that I love you."


"Do you?" she said. Of course she knew it. And of course she thought that he was equally sure of her love. Had he chosen to read signs that ought to have been plain enough to him, could he have doubted her love after the few words that had been spoken on that night when Lady Carbury had come in with Roger and interrupted them? She could not remember exactly what had been said; but she did remember that he had spoken of leaving England for ever in a certain event, and that she had not rebuked him;--and she remembered also how she had confessed her own love to her mother. He, of course, had known nothing of that confession; but he must have known that he had her heart! So at least she thought. She had been working some morsel of lace, as ladies do when ladies wish to be not quite doing nothing. She had endeavoured to ply her needle, very idly, while he was speaking to her, but now she allowed her hands to fall into her lap.

"Do you?" she said. Of course she knew it. And she thought that he was equally sure of her love. Could he have doubted her love after the few words that had been spoken on that night when Lady Carbury had interrupted them? He must have known that he had her heart! So at least she thought. She had been sewing some morsel of lace, as ladies do when they wish to be not quite doing nothing. Now she allowed her hands to fall into her lap.


She would have continued to work at the lace had she been able, but there are times when the eyes will not see clearly, and when the hands will hardly act mechanically.
"Yes,--I do. Hetta, say a word to me. Can it be so? Look at me for one moment so as to let me know." Her eyes had turned downwards after her work. "If Roger is dearer to you than I am, I will go at once."
"Roger is very dear to me."
"Do you love him as I would have you love me?"

"Yes, I do. Hetta, say a word to me. Can it be so? Look at me for one moment." Her eyes had turned downwards to her work. "If Roger is dearer to you than I am, I will go at once."
"Roger is very dear to me."
"Do you love him as I would have you love me?"


She paused for a time, knowing that his eyes were fixed upon her, and then she answered the question in a low voice, but very clearly. "No," she said;--"not like that."
"Can you love me like that?" He put out both his arms as though to take her to his breast should the answer be such as he longed to hear. She raised her hand towards him, as if to keep him back, and left it with him when he seized it. "Is it mine?" he said.
"If you want it."

She paused for a time, knowing that his eyes were fixed upon her, and then she answered the question in a low voice, but very clearly. "No," she said; "not like that."
"Can you love me like that?" He put out both his arms. She raised her hand as if to keep him back, and left it with him when he seized it. "Is it mine?" he said.
"If you want it."


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

Then he was at her feet in a moment, kissing her hands and her dress, looking up into her face with his eyes full of tears, ecstatic with joy.
"Want it!" he said. "Hetta, I have never wanted anything but that. Oh, Hetta, my own. Since I first saw you this has been my only dream of happiness. And now it is my own."


She was very quiet, but full of joy. Now that she had told him the truth she did not coy her love. Having once spoken the word she did not care how often she repeated it. She did not think that she could ever have loved anybody but him,--even if he had not been fond of her. As to Roger,--dear Roger, dearest Roger,--no; it was not the same thing. "He is as good as gold," she said,--"ever so much better than you are, Paul," stroking his hair with her hand and looking into his eyes.
"Better than anybody I have ever known," said Montague with all his energy.
"I think he is;--but, ah, that is not everything. I suppose we ought to love the best people best; but I don't, Paul."
"I do," said he.

She was very quiet, but full of joy. She did not think that she could ever have loved anybody but him. As to Roger - dear Roger - no; it was not the same thing. "He is as good as gold," she said, "ever so much better than you are, Paul," stroking his hair with her hand and looking into his eyes.
"Better than anybody I have ever known," said Montague.
"I think he is; but that is not everything. I suppose we ought to love the best people best; but I don't, Paul."
"I do," said he.


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

"No, you don't. I won't be called good. Do you know, Paul, I have sometimes thought I would accept him, out of sheer gratitude."
"Where should I have been?"


"Oh, you! Somebody else would have made you happy. But do you know, Paul, I think he will never love any one else. I ought not to say so, because it seems to be making so much of myself. But I feel it. He is not so young a man, and yet I think that he never was in love before. He almost told me so once, and what he says is true. There is an unchanging way with him that is awful to think of. He said that he never could be happy unless I would do as he would have me,--and he made me almost believe even that. He speaks as though every word he says must come true in the end.

"Oh, you! Somebody else would have made you happy. But, Paul, I think he will never love anyone else. I ought not to say so, because it seems to be making so much of myself. But I feel it. He is not young, and yet I think that he never was in love before. There is an unchanging way with him that is awful to think of. He said that he could never be happy unless I would marry him.


Oh, Paul, I love you so dearly,--but I almost think that I ought to have obeyed him." Paul Montague of course had very much to say in answer to this. Among the holy things which did exist to gild this every-day unholy world, love was the holiest. It should be soiled by no falsehood, should know nothing of compromises, should admit no excuses, should make itself subject to no external circumstances. If Fortune had been so kind to him as to give him her heart, poor as his claim might be, she could have no right to refuse him the assurance of her love. And though his rival were an angel, he could have no shadow of a claim upon her,--seeing that he had failed to win her heart. It was very well said,--at least so Hetta thought,--and she made no attempt at argument against him. But what was to be done in reference to poor Roger? She had spoken the word now, and, whether for good or bad, she had given herself to Paul Montague. Even though Roger should have to walk disconsolate to the grave, it could not now be helped.

Oh, Paul, I love you so dearly - but I almost think that I ought to have obeyed him."
Paul Montague of course had very much to say in answer to this. Even if Roger were an angel, he could have no claim upon her, since he had failed to win her heart.
But what was to be done about poor Roger? Whether for good or bad, Hetta had now given herself to Paul Montague. Should he not


But would it not be right that it should be told? "Do you know I almost feel that he is like a father to me," said Hetta, leaning on her lover's shoulder.
Paul thought it over for a few minutes, and then said that he would himself write to Roger. "Hetta, do you know, I doubt whether he will ever speak to me again."
"I cannot believe that."
"There is a sternness about him which it is very hard to understand. He has taught himself to think that as I met you in his house, and as he then wished you to be his wife, I should not have ventured to love you. How could I have known?"
"That would be unreasonable."

 be told?
"Do you know, I almost feel that he is like a father to me," said Hetta, leaning on her lover's shoulder.
Paul thought it over, and then said that he would himself write to Roger. "Hetta, I doubt whether he will ever speak to me again."
"I cannot believe that."
"There is a sternness about him. He has taught himself to think that as I met you in his house, and as he wished you to be his wife, I should not have ventured to love you.


"He is unreasonable--about that. It is not reason with him. He always goes by his feelings. Had you been engaged to him--"
"Oh, then, you never could have spoken to me like this."
"But he will never look at it in that way;--and he will tell me that I have been untrue to him and ungrateful."
"If you think, Paul--"

He will tell me that I have been untrue to him and ungrateful - and


"Nay; listen to me. If it be so I must bear it. It will be a great sorrow, but it will be as nothing to that other sorrow, had that come upon me. I will write to him, and his answer will be all scorn and wrath. Then you must write to him afterwards. I think he will forgive you, but he will never forgive me." Then they parted, she having promised that she would tell her mother directly Lady Carbury came home, and Paul undertaking to write to Roger that evening.
And he did, with infinite difficulty, and much trembling of the spirit. Here is his letter:--
MY DEAR ROGER,--

 I must bear it, though it will be a great sorrow. I will write to him, and his answer will be all scorn and wrath. You must write to him afterwards. I think he will forgive you, but he will never forgive me."
Then they parted, she having promised that she would tell her mother directly Lady Carbury came home, and Paul undertaking to write to Roger that evening.
And he did, with infinite difficulty, and much trembling of the spirit. Here is his letter:
My dear Roger,


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

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


I should not say so much by way of excusing myself, but that you once said, that should such a thing occur there must be a division between us ever after. If I thought that you would adhere to that threat, I should be very unhappy and Hetta would be miserable. Surely, if a man loves he is bound to tell his love, and to take the chance. You would hardly have thought it manly in me if I had abstained. Dear friend, take a day or two before you answer this, and do not banish us from your heart if you can help it.
Your affectionate friend,
PAUL MONTAGUE.
Roger Carbury did not take a single day,--or a single hour to answer the letter. He received it at breakfast, and after rushing out on the terrace and walking there for a few minutes, he hurried to his desk and wrote his reply. As he did so, his whole face was red with wrath, and his eyes were glowing with indignation.

You once said, that should such a thing occur there must be a division between us ever after. If I thought that you would keep to that threat, I should be very unhappy and Hetta would be miserable. Surely, if a man loves he is bound to tell his love, and to take the chance. You would hardly have thought it manly in me if I had abstained. Dear friend, take a day or two before you answer this, and do not banish us from your heart if you can help it.
Your affectionate friend,
Paul Montague.
Roger Carbury did not take a single day, or a single hour to answer the letter. He received it at breakfast, and after rushing out on the terrace and walking there for a few minutes, he hurried to his desk and wrote his reply, his face red with wrath, and his eyes glowing with indignation.


There is an old French saying that he who makes excuses is his own accuser. You would not have written as you have done, had you not felt yourself to be false and ungrateful. You knew where my heart was, and there you went and undermined my treasure, and stole it away. You have destroyed my life, and I will never forgive you.
You tell me not to banish you both from my heart. How dare you join yourself with her in speaking of my feelings! She will never be banished from my heart. She will be there morning, noon, and night, and as is and will be my love to her, so shall be my enmity to you.
ROGER CARBURY.
It was hardly a letter for a Christian to write; and, yet, in those parts Roger Carbury had the reputation of being a good Christian.

You would not have written as you have done, had you not felt yourself to be false and ungrateful. You knew where my heart was, and there you went and undermined my treasure, and stole it away. You have destroyed my life, and I will never forgive you.
You tell me not to banish you both from my heart. How dare you join yourself with her in speaking of my feelings! She will never be banished from my heart. She will be there morning, noon, and night, and as is my love to her, so shall be my enmity to you.
Roger Carbury.


Henrietta told her mother that morning, immediately on her return. "Mamma, Mr. Paul Montague has been here."
"He always comes here when I am away," said Lady Carbury.
"That has been an accident. He could not have known that you were going to Messrs. Leadham and Loiter's."
"I'm not so sure of that, Hetta."
"Then, mamma, you must have told him yourself, and I don't think you knew till just before you were going. But, mamma, what does it matter? He has been here, and I have told him--"
"You have not accepted him?"

Henrietta told her mother that morning. "Mamma, Mr. Paul Montague has been here, and I have told him-"
"You have not accepted him?"


"Yes, mamma."
"Without even asking me?"
"Mamma, you knew. I will not marry him without asking you. How was I not to tell him when he asked me whether I--loved him?"
"Marry him! How is it possible you should marry him? Whatever he had got was in that affair of Melmotte's, and that has gone to the dogs. He is a ruined man, and for aught I know may be compromised in all Melmotte's wickedness."
"Oh, mamma, do not say that!"

"Yes, mamma."
"Without even asking me?"
"Mamma, you knew. I will not marry him without asking you."
"Marry him! How is it possible you should marry him? He is a ruined man, and for all I know he may be compromised in Melmotte's wickedness."
"Oh, mamma, do not say that!"


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

"But I do say it. I did think that you would try to comfort me after all this trouble with Felix. But you are as bad as he is! And you will break your cousin's heart. Poor Roger! he has been so true to us! But you think nothing of that."
"I think very much of my cousin Roger."


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

"And how do you show it? Now we must starve, I suppose. Hetta, you have been even worse to me than Felix." Then Lady Carbury burst out of the room, and took herself to her own chamber.


While these things were being done in Bruton Street and Grosvenor Square horrid rumours were prevailing in the City and spreading from the City westwards to the House of Commons, which was sitting this Monday afternoon with a prospect of an adjournment at seven o'clock in consequence of the banquet to be given to the Emperor. It is difficult to explain the exact nature of this rumour, as it was not thoroughly understood by those who propagated it. But it is certainly the case that the word forgery was whispered by more than one pair of lips.
Many of Melmotte's staunchest supporters thought that he was very wrong not to show himself that day in the City. What good could he do pottering about among the chairs and benches in the banqueting room? There were people to manage that kind of thing. In such an affair it was his business to do simply as he was told, and to pay the bill. It was not as though he were giving a little dinner to a friend, and had to see himself that the wine was brought up in good order. His work was in the City; and at such a time as this and in such a crisis as this, he should have been in the City. Men will whisper forgery behind a man's back who would not dare even to think it before his face.

While these things were happening, horrid rumours were spreading from the City westwards to the House of Commons, which was sitting this Monday afternoon with a prospect of adjourning at seven o'clock because of the banquet for the Emperor. It is difficult to explain the exact nature of this rumour, as it was not thoroughly understood by those who spread it. But certainly the word 'forgery' was whispered by more than one pair of lips.
Many of Melmotte's staunchest supporters thought that he was wrong not to show himself that day in the City. What good could he do pottering about in the banqueting room? There were people to manage that kind of thing. In such a crisis as this, he should have been in the City. Men will whisper forgery behind a man's back who would not dare even to think it before his face.


Of this particular rumour our young friend Dolly Longestaffe was the parent. With unhesitating resolution, nothing awed by his father, Dolly had gone to his attorney, Mr. Squercum, immediately after that Friday on which Mr. Longestaffe first took his seat at the Railway Board. Dolly was possessed of fine qualities, but it must be owned that veneration was not one of them. "I don't know why Mr. Melmotte is to be different from anybody else," he had said to his father. "When I buy a thing and don't pay for it, it is because I haven't got the tin, and I suppose it's about the same with him. It's all right, no doubt, but I don't see why he should have got hold of the place till the money was paid down."
"Of course it's all right," said the father. "You think you understand everything, when you really understand nothing at all."

Of this particular rumour our young friend Dolly Longestaffe was the parent. Unawed by his father, Dolly had gone to his attorney, Mr. Squercum, immediately after Mr. Longestaffe first took his seat at the Railway Board.
"I don't know why Mr. Melmotte is to be different from anybody else," he had said to his father. "When I buy a thing and don't pay for it, it is because I haven't got the tin, and I suppose it's the same with him. I don't see why he should have got hold of the place till the money was paid down."
"Of course it's all right," said the father. "You understand nothing at all."


"Of course I'm slow," said Dolly. "I don't comprehend these things. But then Squercum does. When a fellow is stupid himself, he ought to have a sharp fellow to look after his business."

"Of course I'm slow," said Dolly. "I don't comprehend these things. But Squercum does."


"You'll ruin me and yourself too, if you go to such a man as that. Why can't you trust Mr. Bideawhile? Slow and Bideawhile have been the family lawyers for a century." Dolly made some remark as to the old family advisers which was by no means pleasing to the father's ears, and went his way. The father knew his boy, and knew that his boy would go to Squercum. All he could himself do was to press Mr. Melmotte for the money with what importunity he could assume. He wrote a timid letter to Mr. Melmotte, which had no result; and then, on the next Friday, again went into the City and there encountered perturbation of spirit and sheer loss of time,--as the reader has already learned.

"You'll ruin me and yourself too, if you go to such a man as that. Why can't you trust Mr. Bideawhile? Slow and Bideawhile have been the family lawyers for a century." But Dolly made some disparaging remark, and went his way. The father knew that his boy would go to Squercum. All he could do was to press Mr. Melmotte for the money; but in vain, as the reader has already learned.


Squercum was a thorn in the side of all the Bideawhiles. Mr. Slow had been gathered to his fathers, but of the Bideawhiles there were three in the business, a father and two sons, to whom Squercum was a pest and a musquito, a running sore and a skeleton in the cupboard. It was not only in reference to Mr. Longestaffe's affairs that they knew Squercum. The Bideawhiles piqued themselves on the decorous and orderly transaction of their business. It had grown to be a rule in the house that anything done quickly must be done badly. They never were in a hurry for money, and they expected their clients never to be in a hurry for work. Squercum was the very opposite to this. He had established himself, without predecessors and without a partner, and we may add without capital, at a little office in Fetter Lane, and had there made a character for getting things done after a marvellous and new fashion. And it was said of him that he was fairly honest, though it must be owned that among the Bideawhiles of the profession this was not the character which he bore. He did sharp things no doubt, and had no hesitation in supporting the interests of sons against those of their fathers.

Squercum was a thorn in the side of all the Bideawhiles, who piqued themselves on the decorous and orderly transaction of their business. It was their rule that anything done quickly must be done badly. They were never in a hurry. Squercum was the very opposite to this. He had established himself, without a partner, at a little office in Fetter Lane, and had there made a name for getting things done in a new and marvellous fashion. It was said that he was fairly honest, though he did sharp things, no doubt, and had no hesitation in supporting the interests of sons against those of their fathers.


In more than one case he had computed for a young heir the exact value of his share in a property as compared to that of his father, and had come into hostile contact with many family Bideawhiles. He had been closely watched. There were some who, no doubt, would have liked to crush a man who was at once so clever, and so pestilential. But he had not as yet been crushed, and had become quite in vogue with elder sons. Some three years since his name had been mentioned to Dolly by a friend who had for years been at war with his father, and Squercum had been quite a comfort to Dolly.


He was a mean-looking little man, not yet above forty, who always wore a stiff light-coloured cotton cravat, an old dress coat, a coloured dingy waistcoat, and light trousers of some hue different from his waistcoat. He generally had on dirty shoes and gaiters. He was light haired, with light whiskers, with putty-formed features, a squat nose, a large mouth, and very bright blue eyes. He looked as unlike the normal Bideawhile of the profession as a man could be; and it must be owned, though an attorney, would hardly have been taken for a gentleman from his personal appearance. He was very quick, and active in his motions, absolutely doing his law work himself, and trusting to his three or four juvenile clerks for little more than scrivener's labour. He seldom or never came to his office on a Saturday, and many among his enemies said that he was a Jew. What evil will not a rival say to stop the flow of grist to the mill of the hated one? But this report Squercum rather liked, and assisted. They who knew the inner life of the little man declared that he kept a horse and hunted down in Essex on Saturday, doing a bit of gardening in the summer months;--and they said also that he made up for this by working hard all Sunday. Such was Mr. Squercum,--a sign, in his way, that the old things are being changed.

He was a mean-looking little man, about forty, who always wore an old dress coat, a dingy waistcoat, and light trousers of some different hue. He generally had on dirty shoes and gaiters. He had putty-formed features, a squat nose, a large mouth, and bright blue eyes. He was very quick and active, doing his law work himself, and trusting to his three or four juvenile clerks for little more than copying.


Squercum sat at a desk, covered with papers in chaotic confusion, on a chair which moved on a pivot. His desk was against the wall, and when clients came to him, he turned himself sharp round, sticking out his dirty shoes, throwing himself back till his body was an inclined plane, with his hands thrust into his pockets. In this attitude he would listen to his client's story, and would himself speak as little as possible. It was by his instructions that Dolly had insisted on getting his share of the purchase money for Pickering into his own hands, so that the incumbrance on his own property might be paid off. He now listened as Dolly told him of the delay in the payment. "Melmotte's at Pickering?" asked the attorney. Then Dolly informed him how the tradesmen of the great financier had already half knocked down the house. Squercum still listened, and promised to look to it. He did ask what authority Dolly had given for the surrender of the title-deeds.

Squercum sat at a desk covered with papers in chaotic confusion, on a swivel chair. When clients came to him, he turned himself sharp round, sticking out his dirty shoes, and throwing himself back with his hands thrust into his pockets. In this attitude he would listen to his client's story, and would himself speak as little as possible.
He now listened as Dolly told him of the delay in the payment for Pickering.
"Melmotte's at Pickering?" asked the attorney. Dolly informed him how tradesmen had already half knocked down the house. Squercum asked what authority Dolly had given for the surrender of the title-deeds.


Dolly declared that he had given authority for the sale, but none for the surrender. His father, some time since, had put before him, for his signature, a letter, prepared in Mr. Bideawhile's office, which Dolly said that he had refused even to read, and certainly had not signed. Squercum again said that he'd look to it, and bowed Dolly out of his room. "They've got him to sign something when he was tight," said Squercum to himself, knowing something of the habits of his client. "I wonder whether his father did it, or old Bideawhile, or Melmotte himself?" Mr. Squercum was inclined to think that Bideawhile would not have done it, that Melmotte could have had no opportunity, and that the father must have been the practitioner. "It's not the trick of a pompous old fool either," said Mr. Squercum, in his soliloquy. He went to work, however, making himself detestably odious among the very respectable clerks in Mr. Bideawhile's office,--men who considered themselves to be altogether superior to Squercum himself in professional standing.
[Illustration: Mr. Squercum in his office.]

Dolly declared that he had given authority for the sale, but none for the surrender. Some time ago his father had put before him, for his signature, a letter prepared in Mr. Bideawhile's office, which Dolly said that he had refused even to read, and certainly had not signed. Squercum said that he'd look into it, and bowed Dolly out of his room.
"They've got him to sign something when he was drunk," said Squercum to himself, knowing something of his client's habits. "I expect his father did it, not that pompous old fool Bideawhile." He went to work, however, making himself detestably odious among the very respectable clerks in Mr. Bideawhile's office.


And now there came this rumour which was so far particular in its details that it inferred the forgery, of which it accused Mr. Melmotte, to his mode of acquiring the Pickering property. The nature of the forgery was of course described in various ways,--as was also the signature said to have been forged. But there were many who believed, or almost believed, that something wrong had been done,--that some great fraud had been committed; and in connection with this it was ascertained,--by some as a matter of certainty,--that the Pickering estate had been already mortgaged by Melmotte to its full value at an assurance office. In such a transaction there would be nothing dishonest; but as this place had been bought for the great man's own family use, and not as a speculation, even this report of the mortgage tended to injure his credit. And then, as the day went on, other tidings were told as to other properties. Houses in the East-end of London were said to have been bought and sold, without payment of the purchase money as to the buying, and with receipt of the purchase money as to the selling.
It was certainly true that Squercum himself had seen the letter in Mr. Bideawhile's office which conveyed to the father's lawyer the son's sanction for the surrender of the title-deeds, and that that letter, prepared in Mr. Bideawhile's office, purported to have Dolly's signature. Squercum said but little, remembering that his client was not always clear in the morning as to anything he had done on the preceding evening. But the signature, though it was scrawled as Dolly always scrawled it, was not like the scrawl of a drunken man.

And now there came this rumour which accused Mr. Melmotte of forgery in his mode of acquiring the Pickering property. The nature of the forgery was described in various ways. But there were many who believed that some great fraud had been committed; and it was ascertained that the Pickering estate had already been mortgaged by Melmotte to its full value - a report which injured his credit.
As the day went on, other news was told about other properties. Houses in the East-end of London were said to have been bought and sold, without payment of the purchase money when buying, and with receipt of the purchase money when selling.
Squercum himself saw the letter in Mr. Bideawhile's office which gave the son's permission for the surrender of the title-deeds. That letter purported to have Dolly's signature. Squercum knew that his client was not always clear in the morning as to anything he had done on the preceding evening. But the signature, though it was scrawled as Dolly always scrawled it, was not like the scrawl of a drunken man.


The letter was said to have been sent to Mr. Bideawhile's office with other letters and papers, direct from old Mr. Longestaffe. Such was the statement made at first to Mr. Squercum by the Bideawhile party, who at that moment had no doubt of the genuineness of the letter or of the accuracy of their statement. Then Squercum saw his client again, and returned to the charge at Bideawhile's office, with the positive assurance that the signature was a forgery. Dolly, when questioned by Squercum, quite admitted his propensity to be "tight." He had no reticence, no feeling of disgrace on such matters. But he had signed no letter when he was tight. "Never did such a thing in my life, and nothing could make me," said Dolly. "I'm never tight except at the club, and the letter couldn't have been there. I'll be drawn and quartered if I ever signed it. That's flat."

The letter was said to have been sent to Mr. Bideawhile's office with other letters and papers, direct from old Mr. Longestaffe. Such was the statement made at first by the Bideawhiles, who had no doubt of the genuineness of the letter or of the accuracy of their statement.
Then Squercum saw his client again, and returned to the charge at Bideawhile's office, with the positive assurance that the signature was a forgery. Dolly had insisted that he had signed no letter when he was tight.
"Never did such a thing in my life, and nothing could make me," said Dolly. "I'm never tight except at the club, and the letter couldn't have been there. I never signed it. That's flat."


Dolly was intent on going to his father at once, on going to Melmotte at once, on going to Bideawhile's at once, and making there "no end of a row,"--but Squercum stopped him. "We'll just ferret this thing out quietly," said Squercum, who perhaps thought that there would be high honour in discovering the peccadillos of so great a man as Mr. Melmotte. Mr. Longestaffe, the father, had heard nothing of the matter till the Saturday after his last interview with Melmotte in the City. He had then called at Bideawhile's office in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and had been shown the letter. He declared at once that he had never sent the letter to Mr. Bideawhile. He had begged his son to sign the letter and his son had refused. He did not at that moment distinctly remember what he had done with the letter unsigned. He believed he had left it with the other papers; but it was possible that his son might have taken it away. He acknowledged that at the time he had been both angry and unhappy. He didn't think that he could have sent the letter back unsigned,--but he was not sure.

Dolly was intent on going at once to his father, or Melmotte or Bideawhile's, and making "no end of a row," but Squercum stopped him.
"We'll just ferret this thing out quietly," he said.
Mr. Longestaffe, the father, had heard nothing of the matter till the Saturday after his last interview with Melmotte in the City. He had then called at Bideawhile's office, and was shown the letter. He declared at once that he had never sent the letter to Mr. Bideawhile. He had begged his son to sign it and his son had refused. He did not distinctly remember what he had done with the unsigned letter. He believed he had left it with the other papers; but it was possible that his son might have taken it away. He acknowledged that at the time he had been both angry and unhappy.


He had more than once been in his own study in Bruton Street since Mr. Melmotte had occupied the house,--by that gentleman's leave,--having left various papers there under his own lock and key. Indeed it had been matter of agreement that he should have access to his own study when he let the house. He thought it probable that he would have kept back the unsigned letter, and have kept it under lock and key, when he sent away the other papers. Then reference was made to Mr. Longestaffe's own letter to the lawyer, and it was found that he had not even alluded to that which his son had been asked to sign; but that he had said, in his own usually pompous style, that Mr. Longestaffe, junior, was still prone to create unsubstantial difficulties. Mr. Bideawhile was obliged to confess that there had been a want of caution among his own people. This allusion to the creation of difficulties by Dolly, accompanied, as it was supposed to have been, by Dolly's letter doing away with all difficulties, should have attracted notice. Dolly's letter must have come in a separate envelope; but such envelope could not be found, and the circumstance was not remembered by the clerk. The clerk who had prepared the letter for Dolly's signature represented himself as having been quite satisfied when the letter came again beneath his notice with Dolly's well-known signature.
Such were the facts as far as they were known at Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile's office,--from whom no slightest rumour emanated; and as they had been in part collected by Squercum, who was probably less prudent. The Bideawhiles were still perfectly sure that Dolly had signed the letter, believing the young man to be quite incapable of knowing on any day what he had done on the day before.

He had more than once been in his own study in Bruton Street since Mr. Melmotte had occupied the house, having left various papers there under his own lock and key. It had been agreed when he let the house that he should have access to his study. He thought it probable that he would have kept the unsigned letter locked up there, when he sent away the other papers.
On looking at Mr. Longestaffe's own letter to the lawyer, it was found that he had not even alluded to that which his son had been asked to sign; but that he had said that his son was still creating difficulties. Mr. Bideawhile was obliged to confess that there had been a lack of caution among his own people. This allusion to the creation of difficulties by Dolly, accompanied by Dolly's supposed letter doing away with all difficulties, should have attracted notice. Dolly's letter must have come in a separate envelope; but the envelope could not be found.
Such were the facts as far as they were known at Slow and Bideawhile's office. The Bideawhiles were still perfectly sure that Dolly had signed the letter, believing the young man to be quite incapable of knowing on any day what he had done on the day before.


Squercum was quite sure that his client had not signed it. And it must be owned on Dolly's behalf that his manner on this occasion was qualified to convince. "Yes," he said to Squercum; "it's easy saying that I'm lack-a-daisical. But I know when I'm lack-a-daisical and when I'm not. Awake or asleep, drunk or sober, I never signed that letter." And Mr. Squercum believed him.

Squercum was quite sure that his client had not signed it. And certainly Dolly's manner on this occasion was convincing.
"Yes," he said to Squercum; "I'm lack-a-daisical. But I know when I'm lack-a-daisical and when I'm not. Awake or asleep, drunk or sober, I never signed that letter." And Mr. Squercum believed him.


It would be hard to say how the rumour first got into the City on this Monday morning. Though the elder Longestaffe had first heard of the matter only on the previous Saturday, Mr. Squercum had been at work for above a week. Mr. Squercum's little matter alone might hardly have attracted the attention which certainly was given on this day to Mr. Melmotte's private affairs;--but other facts coming to light assisted Squercum's views. A great many shares of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway had been thrown upon the market, all of which had passed through the hands of Mr. Cohenlupe;--and Mr. Cohenlupe in the City had been all to Mr. Melmotte as Lord Alfred had been at the West End. Then there was the mortgage of this Pickering property, for which the money certainly had not been paid; and there was the traffic with half a street of houses near the Commercial Road, by which a large sum of money had come into Mr. Melmotte's hands. It might, no doubt, all be right. There were many who thought that it would all be right. There were not a few who expressed the most thorough contempt for these rumours. But it was felt to be a pity that Mr. Melmotte was not in the City.

It would be hard to say how the rumour first got into the City on this Monday morning. Mr. Squercum's little matter alone might hardly have attracted any attention; but other facts were coming to light about Melmotte's affairs. A great many shares of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway had been thrown upon the market, all of which had passed through the hands of Mr. Cohenlupe. Then there was the mortgage of this Pickering property, for which the money certainly had not been paid; and there was the sale of half a street of houses near the Commercial Road, by which a large sum of money had come into Mr. Melmotte's hands.
It might, no doubt, all be right. There were many who thought that it would all be right, and expressed contempt for these rumours. But it was felt to be a pity that Mr. Melmotte was not in the City.


This was the day of the dinner. The Lord Mayor had even made up his mind that he would not go to the dinner. What one of his brother aldermen said to him about leaving others in the lurch might be quite true; but, as his lordship remarked, Melmotte was a commercial man, and as these were commercial transactions it behoved the Lord Mayor of London to be more careful than other men. He had always had his doubts, and he would not go. Others of the chosen few of the City who had been honoured with commands to meet the Emperor resolved upon absenting themselves unless the Lord Mayor went. The affair was very much discussed, and there were no less than six declared City defaulters. At the last moment a seventh was taken ill and sent a note to Miles Grendall excusing himself, which was thrust into the secretary's hands just as the Emperor arrived.

This was the day of the dinner. The Lord Mayor had made up his mind that he would not go, feeling that he needed to be more careful than other men. Others of the chosen few of the City who had been honoured with invitations resolved to absent themselves unless the Lord Mayor went. The affair was much discussed, and six City men defaulted. A seventh was taken ill and sent a note to Miles Grendall excusing himself.


But a reverse worse than this took place;--a defalcation more injurious to the Melmotte interests generally even than that which was caused either by the prudence or by the cowardice of the City Magnates. The House of Commons, at its meeting, had heard the tidings in an exaggerated form. It was whispered about that Melmotte had been detected in forging the deed of conveyance of a large property, and that he had already been visited by policemen. By some it was believed that the Great Financier would lie in the hands of the Philistines while the Emperor of China was being fed at his house. In the third edition of the "Evening Pulpit" came out a mysterious paragraph which nobody could understand but they who had known all about it before. "A rumour is prevalent that frauds to an enormous extent have been committed by a gentleman whose name we are particularly unwilling to mention. If it be so it is indeed remarkable that they should have come to light at the present moment. We cannot trust ourselves to say more than this." No one wishes to dine with a swindler. No one likes even to have dined with a swindler,--especially to have dined with him at a time when his swindling was known or suspected.

But there was a reverse worse than this, and more injurious to Melmotte. The House of Commons had heard the tidings in an exaggerated form. It was whispered that Melmotte had been detected in forging the deed of conveyance of a large property, and that he had already been visited by policemen. The Evening Pulpit contained a mysterious paragraph:
"A rumour is prevalent that enormous frauds have been committed by a gentleman whose name we are unwilling to mention. If it be so it is remarkable that they should have come to light at the present moment."
No one wishes to dine with a swindler.


The Emperor of China no doubt was going to dine with this man. The motions of Emperors are managed with such ponderous care that it was held to be impossible now to save the country from what would doubtless be felt to be a disgrace if it should hereafter turn out that a forger had been solicited to entertain the imperial guest of the country. Nor was the thing as yet so far certain as to justify such a charge, were it possible. But many men were unhappy in their minds. How would the story be told hereafter if Melmotte should be allowed to play out his game of host to the Emperor, and be arrested for forgery as soon as the Eastern Monarch should have left his house? How would the brother of the Sun like the remembrance of the banquet which he had been instructed to honour with his presence? How would it tell in all the foreign newspapers, in New York, in Paris, and Vienna, that this man who had been cast forth from the United States, from France, and from Austria had been selected as the great and honourable type of British Commerce? There were those in the House who thought that the absolute consummation of the disgrace might yet be avoided, and who were of opinion that the dinner should be "postponed." The leader of the Opposition had a few words on the subject with the Prime Minister. "It is the merest rumour," said the Prime Minister.

The Emperor of China no doubt was going to dine with this man. The motions of Emperors are managed with such ponderous care that it was held to be impossible now to save the country from the disgrace that would be felt if it turned out that he had been entertained by a forger.
The thing was far from certain; but many men were unhappy. How would the story be told hereafter if Melmotte should be arrested for forgery as soon as the Eastern Monarch had left his house? How would it be told in all the foreign newspapers, that this man had been selected as the great and honourable type of British Commerce?
There were those in the House who thought that disgrace might yet be avoided, and that the dinner should be "postponed." The leader of the Opposition had a few words on the subject with the Prime Minister.
"It is the merest rumour," said the Prime Minister.


"I have inquired, and there is nothing to justify me in thinking that the charges can be substantiated."
"They say that the story is believed in the City."
"I should not feel myself justified in acting upon such a report. The Prince might probably find it impossible not to go. Where should we be if Mr. Melmotte to-morrow were able to prove the whole to be a calumny, and to show that the thing had been got up with a view of influencing the election at Westminster? The dinner must certainly go on."
"And you will go yourself?"

"They say that the story is believed in the City."
"I should not feel myself justified in acting upon such a report. The Prince might not go. Where should we be if Mr. Melmotte tomorrow were able to prove the whole thing was a calumny, got up to influence the election at Westminster? The dinner must certainly go on."
"And you will go?"


"Most assuredly," said the Prime Minister. "And I hope that you will keep me in countenance." His political antagonist declared with a smile that at such a crisis he would not desert his honourable friend;--but he could not answer for his followers. There was, he admitted, a strong feeling among the leaders of the Conservative party of distrust in Melmotte. He considered it probable that among his friends who had been invited there would be some who would be unwilling to meet even the Emperor of China on the existing terms. "They should remember," said the Prime Minister, "that they are also to meet their own Prince, and that empty seats on such an occasion will be a dishonour to him."
"Just at present I can only answer for myself," said the leader of the Opposition.--At that moment even the Prime Minister was much disturbed in his mind; but in such emergencies a Prime Minister can only choose the least of two evils. To have taken the Emperor to dine with a swindler would be very bad; but to desert him, and to stop the coming of the Emperor and all the Princes on a false rumour, would be worse.

"Assuredly," said the Prime Minister. "And I hope that you will too."
His political antagonist declared with a smile that he would not desert his honourable friend; but he could not answer for his followers. He admitted that many leaders of the Conservative party distrusted Melmotte, and would be unwilling to go, even to meet the Emperor of China.
"They should remember," said the Prime Minister, "that they are also to meet their own Prince, and that empty seats will be a dishonour to him."
"I can only answer for myself," said the leader of the Opposition.
The Prime Minister was much disturbed; but he could only choose the lesser of two evils. To have taken the Emperor to dine with a swindler would be very bad; but to stop the coming of the Emperor on a false rumour, would be worse.


It was very generally said in the city about this time that the Great South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway was the very best thing out. It was known that Mr. Melmotte had gone into it with heart and hand. There were many who declared,--with gross injustice to the Great Fisker,--that the railway was Melmotte's own child, that he had invented it, advertised it, agitated it, and floated it; but it was not the less popular on that account. A railway from Salt Lake City to Mexico no doubt had much of the flavour of a castle in Spain. Our far-western American brethren are supposed to be imaginative. Mexico has not a reputation among us for commercial security, or that stability which produces its four, five, or six per cent. with the regularity of clockwork. But there was the Panama railway, a small affair which had paid twenty-five per cent.; and there was the great line across the continent to San Francisco, in which enormous fortunes had been made. It came to be believed that men with their eyes open might do as well with the Great South Central as had ever been done before with other speculations, and this belief was no doubt founded on Mr. Melmotte's partiality for the enterprise.

It was said in the city at this time that the Great South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway was the very best thing out. Mexico has not a reputation for commercial security, or stability. But the Panama railway had paid twenty-five per cent; and in the great line across the continent to San Francisco, enormous fortunes had been made. It was believed that the Great South Central might be just as successful, and this belief was no doubt founded on Mr. Melmotte's support for the enterprise.


Mr. Fisker had "struck 'ile" when he induced his partner, Montague, to give him a note to the great man.


Paul Montague himself, who cannot be said to have been a man having his eyes open, in the city sense of the word, could not learn how the thing was progressing. At the regular meetings of the Board, which never sat for above half an hour, two or three papers were read by Miles Grendall. Melmotte himself would speak a few slow words, intended to be cheery, and always indicative of triumph, and then everybody would agree to everything, somebody would sign something, and the "Board" for that day would be over. To Paul Montague this was very unsatisfactory. More than once or twice he endeavoured to stay the proceedings, not as disapproving, but "simply as desirous of being made to understand;" but the silent scorn of his chairman put him out of countenance, and the opposition of his colleagues was a barrier which he was not strong enough to overcome. Lord Alfred Grendall would declare that he "did not think all that was at all necessary." Lord Nidderdale, with whom Montague had now become intimate at the Beargarden, would nudge him in the ribs and bid him hold his tongue. Mr. Cohenlupe would make a little speech in fluent but broken English, assuring the Committee that everything was being done after the approved city fashion. Sir Felix, after the first two meetings, was never there. And thus Paul Montague, with a sorely burdened conscience, was carried along as one of the Directors of the Great South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway Company.

Paul Montague, however, could not learn how the thing was progressing. At the regular half-hour meetings of the Board, two or three papers were read by Miles Grendall; Melmotte would speak a few slow words, indicative of triumph, and then everybody would agree to everything, somebody would sign something, and the "Board" for that day would be over.
To Paul Montague this was very unsatisfactory. More than once he tried to halt the proceedings, "simply as wishing to understand;" but the silent scorn of his chairman and the opposition of his colleagues were barriers which he was not strong enough to overcome. Lord Alfred Grendall would declare that he "did not think that was at all necessary." Lord Nidderdale would nudge him and bid him hold his tongue. Mr. Cohenlupe would make a little speech in fluent but broken English, assuring the Committee that everything was being done in the approved city fashion. Sir Felix, after the first two meetings, was never there. And thus Paul Montague, with a sorely burdened conscience, was carried along.


I do not know whether the burden was made lighter to him or heavier, by the fact that the immediate pecuniary result was certainly very comfortable. The Company had not yet been in existence quite six weeks,--or at any rate Melmotte had not been connected with it above that time,--and it had already been suggested to him twice that he should sell fifty shares at 112 10_s_. He did not even yet know how many shares he possessed, but on both occasions he consented to the proposal, and on the following day received a cheque for 625,--that sum representing the profit over and above the original nominal price of 100 a share. The suggestion was made to him by Miles Grendall, and when he asked some questions as to the manner in which the shares had been allocated, he was told that all that would be arranged in accordance with the capital invested and must depend on the final disposition of the Californian property. "But from what we see, old fellow," said Miles, "I don't think you have anything to fear. You seem to be about the best in of them all. Melmotte wouldn't advise you to sell out gradually, if he didn't look upon the thing as a certain income as far as you are concerned."

I do not know whether the burden was made lighter to him, or heavier, by the fact that the immediate financial result was certainly very comfortable. The Company had only existed six weeks, and it had already been suggested to him twice that he should sell fifty shares at 112 10s. He did not even know how many shares he possessed, but on both occasions he consented, and on the following day received a cheque for 625 - representing the profit above the original price of 100 a share. When he asked Miles Grendall how the shares had been allocated, he was told it would be arranged in accordance with the capital invested and must depend on the final disposition of the Californian property.
"But from what we see, old fellow," said Miles, "I don't think you have anything to fear. You seem to be about the best in of them all. Melmotte wouldn't advise you to sell out gradually, if he didn't see it as a certain income as far as you are concerned."


Paul Montague understood nothing of all this, and felt that he was standing on ground which might be blown from under his feet at any moment. The uncertainty, and what he feared might be the dishonesty, of the whole thing, made him often very miserable. In those wretched moments his conscience was asserting itself. But again there were times in which he also was almost triumphant, and in which he felt the delight of his wealth. Though he was snubbed at the Board when he wanted explanations, he received very great attention outside the board-room from those connected with the enterprise. Melmotte had asked him to dine two or three times. Mr. Cohenlupe had begged him to go down to his little place at Rickmansworth,--an entreaty with which Montague had not as yet complied. Lord Alfred was always gracious to him, and Nidderdale and Carbury were evidently anxious to make him one of their set at the club. Many other houses became open to him from the same source. Though Melmotte was supposed to be the inventor of the railway, it was known that Fisker, Montague, and Montague were largely concerned in it, and it was known also that Paul Montague was one of the Montagues named in that firm.

Paul Montague understood nothing of all this, and felt that he was standing on ground which might be blown from under his feet at any moment. The uncertainty, and what he feared might be the dishonesty, of the whole thing, made him often very miserable. But there were times in which he also felt the delight of his wealth. Though he was snubbed at the Board when he wanted explanations, outside the Board-room the Directors were attentive. Melmotte had asked him to dine two or three times. Mr. Cohenlupe had begged him to go down to his little place at Rickmansworth. Lord Alfred was gracious, and Nidderdale and Carbury were evidently anxious to make him one of their set at the Beargarden.


People, both in the City and the West End, seemed to think that he knew all about it, and treated him as though some of the manna falling from that heaven were at his disposition. There were results from this which were not unpleasing to the young man. He only partially resisted the temptation; and though determined at times to probe the affair to the bottom, was so determined only at times. The money was very pleasant to him. The period would now soon arrive before which he understood himself to be pledged not to make a distinct offer to Henrietta Carbury; and when that period should have been passed, it would be delightful to him to know that he was possessed of property sufficient to enable him to give a wife a comfortable home. In all his aspirations, and in all his fears, he was true to Hetta Carbury, and made her the centre of his hopes. Nevertheless, had Hetta known everything, it may be feared that she would have at any rate endeavoured to dismiss him from her heart.

Certainly the money was very pleasant to him. The time would soon arrive before which he had promised not to make an offer to Henrietta Carbury; and when it did, it would be delightful to him to know that he possessed enough property to give a wife a comfortable home. In all his aspirations and fears, he was true to Hetta Carbury, and made her the centre of his hopes. Nevertheless, had Hetta known everything, she might have tried to dismiss him from her heart.


There was considerable uneasiness in the bosoms of others of the Directors, and a disposition to complain against the Grand Director, arising from a grievance altogether different from that which afflicted Montague. Neither had Sir Felix Carbury nor Lord Nidderdale been invited to sell shares, and consequently neither of them had received any remuneration for the use of their names. They knew well that Montague had sold shares. He was quite open on the subject, and had told Felix, whom he hoped some day to regard as his brother-in-law, exactly what shares he had sold, and for how much;--and the two men had endeavoured to make the matter intelligible between themselves. The original price of the shares being 100 each, and 12 10_s._ a share having been paid to Montague as the premium, it was to be supposed that the original capital was re-invested in other shares. But each owned to the other that the matter was very complicated to him, and Montague could only write to Hamilton K. Fisker at San Francisco asking for explanation. As yet he had received no answer. But it was not the wealth flowing into Montague's hands which embittered Nidderdale and Carbury. They understood that he had really brought money into the concern, and was therefore entitled to take money out of it. Nor did it occur to them to grudge Melmotte his more noble pickings, for they knew how great a man was Melmotte.

The other Directors, however, had a grievance against Melmotte. Neither Sir Felix Carbury nor Lord Nidderdale had been invited to sell shares, and consequently neither of them had received any money. Montague had told Felix, whom he hoped some day would be his brother-in-law, exactly what shares he had sold, and for how much. The original price of the shares being 100 each, and 12 10s. a share having been paid to Montague, it was supposed that the original capital was re-invested in other shares. But they agreed that the matter was very complicated, and Montague wrote to Hamilton K. Fisker at San Francisco asking for an explanation. As yet he had received no answer.
But it was not the wealth flowing into Montague's hands which embittered Nidderdale and Carbury. They understood that he had really brought money into the concern, and was therefore entitled to take money out of it. Nor did it occur to them to grudge Melmotte his pickings,


Of Cohenlupe's doings they heard nothing; but he was a regular city man, and had probably supplied funds. Cohenlupe was too deep for their inquiry. But they knew that Lord Alfred had sold shares, and had received the profit; and they knew also how utterly impossible it was that Lord Alfred should have produced capital. If Lord Alfred Grendall was entitled to plunder, why were not they? And if their day for plunder had not yet come, why had Lord Alfred's? And if there was so much cause to fear Lord Alfred that it was necessary to throw him a bone, why should not they also make themselves feared? Lord Alfred passed all his time with Melmotte,--had, as these young men said, become Melmotte's head valet,--and therefore had to be paid. But that reason did not satisfy the young men.

and of Cohenlupe's doings they heard nothing. Cohenlupe was too deep for their inquiry. But they knew that Lord Alfred had sold shares, and had received the profit; and they knew how utterly impossible it was that Lord Alfred should have produced capital. If Lord Alfred Grendall was entitled to plunder, why were not they? And if their day for plunder had not yet come, why had Lord Alfred's?


"You haven't sold any shares;--have you?" This question Sir Felix asked Lord Nidderdale at the club. Nidderdale was constant in his attendance at the Board, and Felix was not a little afraid that he might be jockied also by him.
"Not a share."
"Nor got any profits?"
"Not a shilling of any kind. As far as money is concerned my only transaction has been my part of the expense of Fisker's dinner."
"What do you get then, by going into the city?" asked Sir Felix.

"You haven't sold any shares, have you?" Sir Felix asked Lord Nidderdale at the club.
"Not a share."
"Nor got any profits?"
"Not a shilling.


"I'm blessed if I know what I get. I suppose something will turn up some day."
"In the meantime, you know, there are our names. And Grendall is making a fortune out of it."
"Poor old duffer," said his lordship. "If he's doing so well, I think Miles ought to be made to pay up something of what he owes. I think we ought to tell him that we shall expect him to have the money ready when that bill of Vossner's comes round."
"Yes, by George; let's tell him that. Will you do it?"

I suppose something will turn up some day."
"In the meantime, you know, Grendall is making a fortune out of it."
"If he's doing so well, I think Miles ought to pay up something of what he owes. I think we ought to tell him that we shall expect him to have the money ready when that bill of Vossner's comes round."
"Yes, by George."


"Not that it will be the least good. It would be quite unnatural to him to pay anything."
"Fellows used to pay their gambling debts," said Sir Felix, who was still in funds, and who still held a considerable assortment of I. O. U.'s.
"They don't now,--unless they like it. How did a fellow manage before, if he hadn't got it?"
"He went smash," said Sir Felix, "and disappeared and was never heard of any more. It was just the same as if he'd been found cheating. I believe a fellow might cheat now and nobody'd say anything!"

"Not that it will be the least good," said Nidderdale.
"Fellows used to pay their gambling debts," said Sir Felix, who still held a considerable assortment of I.O.U.'s. "Otherwise a fellow went smash, and disappeared and was never heard of any more. It was just the same if he was found cheating. I believe a fellow might cheat now and nobody'd say anything!"


"I shouldn't," said Lord Nidderdale. "What's the use of being beastly ill-natured? I'm not very good at saying my prayers, but I do think there's something in that bit about forgiving people. Of course cheating isn't very nice: and it isn't very nice for a fellow to play when he knows he can't pay; but I don't know that it's worse than getting drunk like Dolly Longestaffe, or quarrelling with everybody as Grasslough does,--or trying to marry some poor devil of a girl merely because she's got money. I believe in living in glass houses, but I don't believe in throwing stones. Do you ever read the Bible, Carbury?"
"Read the Bible! Well;--yes;--no;--that is, I suppose, I used to do."
"I often think I shouldn't have been the first to pick up a stone and pitch it at that woman. Live and let live;--that's my motto."

"I shouldn't," said Lord Nidderdale. "What's the use of being beastly ill-natured? Live and let live - that's my motto."


"But you agree that we ought to do something about these shares?" said Sir Felix, thinking that this doctrine of forgiveness might be carried too far.
"Oh, certainly. I'll let old Grendall live with all my heart; but then he ought to let me live too. Only, who's to bell the cat?"
"What cat?"
"It's no good our going to old Grendall," said Lord Nidderdale, who had some understanding in the matter, "nor yet to young Grendall. The one would only grunt and say nothing, and the other would tell every lie that came into his head. The cat in this matter I take to be our great master, Augustus Melmotte."

"But you agree that we ought to do something about these shares?" said Sir Felix.
"Oh, certainly. It's no good our going to old Grendall," said Lord Nidderdale. "We should go to our master, Augustus Melmotte."


This little meeting occurred on the day after Felix Carbury's return from Suffolk, and at a time at which, as we know, it was the great duty of his life to get the consent of old Melmotte to his marriage with Marie Melmotte. In doing that he would have to put one bell on the cat, and he thought that for the present that was sufficient. In his heart of hearts he was afraid of Melmotte. But then, as he knew very well, Nidderdale was intent on the same object. Nidderdale, he thought, was a very queer fellow. That talking about the Bible, and the forgiving of trespasses, was very queer; and that allusion to the marrying of heiresses very queer indeed. He knew that Nidderdale wanted to marry the heiress, and Nidderdale must also know that he wanted to marry her. And yet Nidderdale was indelicate enough to talk about it! And now the man asked who should bell the cat! "You go there oftener than I do, and perhaps you could do it best," said Sir Felix.

This meeting occurred on the day after Felix Carbury's return from Suffolk, when it was the great duty of his life to get Melmotte's consent to his marriage with Marie. In his heart of hearts he was afraid of Melmotte.
"You go to the Board oftener than I do, and perhaps you could do it best," said Sir Felix.


"Go where?"
"To the Board."
"But you're always at his house. He'd be civil to me, perhaps, because I'm a lord: but then, for the same reason, he'd think I was the bigger fool of the two."
"I don't see that at all," said Sir Felix.
"I ain't afraid of him, if you mean that," continued Lord Nidderdale. "He's a wretched old reprobate, and I don't doubt but he'd skin you and me if he could make money off our carcasses. But as he can't skin me, I'll have a shy at him. On the whole I think he rather likes me, because I've always been on the square with him. If it depended on him, you know, I should have the girl to-morrow."

"But you're always at his house. He'd be civil to me, perhaps, because I'm a lord: but for the same reason, he'd think I was a bigger fool."
"I don't see that at all," said Sir Felix.
"I ain't afraid of him," continued Lord Nidderdale. "He's a wretched old reprobate, but I'll have a go at him. On the whole I think he rather likes me, because I've always been square with him. If it depended on him, you know, I should have the girl tomorrow."


"Would you?" Sir Felix did not at all mean to doubt his friend's assertion, but felt it hard to answer so very strange a statement.
"But then she don't want me, and I ain't quite sure that I want her. Where the devil would a fellow find himself if the money wasn't all there?" Lord Nidderdale then sauntered away, leaving the baronet in a deep study of thought as to such a condition of things as that which his lordship had suggested. Where the--mischief would he, Sir Felix Carbury, be, if he were to marry the girl, and then to find that the money was not all there?
On the following Friday, which was the Board day, Nidderdale went to the great man's offices in Abchurch Lane, and so contrived that he walked with the great man to the Board meeting. Melmotte was always very gracious in his manner to Lord Nidderdale, but had never, up to this moment, had any speech with his proposed son-in-law about business. "I wanted just to ask you something," said the lord, hanging on the chairman's arm.
"Anything you please, my lord."

"Would you?"
"But she don't want me, and I ain't quite sure that I want her. Where the devil would a fellow find himself if the money wasn't there?"
Lord Nidderdale then sauntered away, leaving the baronet deep in thought. Where would he, Sir Felix Carbury, be, if he were to marry the girl, and then find that the money was not there?
On the following Friday, which was the Board day, Nidderdale went to the great man's offices in Abchurch Lane, and contrived to walk with the great man to the meeting. Melmotte was always very gracious to Lord Nidderdale, but had never spoken to him about business.
"I just wanted to ask you something," said Nidderdale.


"Don't you think that Carbury and I ought to have some shares to sell?"
"No, I don't,--if you ask me."
"Oh;--I didn't know. But why shouldn't we as well as the others?"
"Have you and Sir Felix put any money into it?"
"Well, if you come to that, I don't suppose we have. How much has Lord Alfred put into it?"
"_I_ have taken shares for Lord Alfred," said Melmotte, putting very heavy emphasis on the personal pronoun. "If it suits me to advance money to Lord Alfred Grendall, I suppose I may do so without asking your lordship's consent, or that of Sir Felix Carbury."

"Don't you think that Carbury and I ought to have some shares to sell?"
"No, I don't."
"But why shouldn't we as well as the others?"
"Have you and Sir Felix put any money into it?"
"Well, I don't suppose we have. How much has Lord Alfred put into it?"
"I have taken shares for Lord Alfred," said Melmotte, with heavy emphasis. "If it suits me to advance money to Lord Alfred Grendall, I suppose I may do so without your consent, or Sir Felix Carbury's."


"Oh, certainly. I don't want to make inquiry as to what you do with your money."
"I'm sure you don't, and, therefore, we won't say anything more about it. You wait awhile, Lord Nidderdale, and you'll find it will come all right. If you've got a few thousand pounds loose, and will put them into the concern, why, of course you can sell; and, if the shares are up, can sell at a profit. It's presumed just at present that, at some early day, you'll qualify for your directorship by doing so, and till that is done, the shares are allocated to you, but cannot be transferred to you."
"That's it, is it," said Lord Nidderdale, pretending to understand all about it.
"If things go on as we hope they will between you and Marie, you can have pretty nearly any number of shares that you please;--that is, if your father consents to a proper settlement."
"I hope it'll all go smooth, I'm sure," said Nidderdale. "Thank you; I'm ever so much obliged to you, and I'll explain it all to Carbury."

"Oh, certainly. I don't want to ask what you do with your money."
"I'm sure you don't, and, therefore, we won't say anything more about it. Wait awhile, Lord Nidderdale, and you'll find it will come all right. If you've got a few thousand pounds loose, and put them into the concern, why, of course you can sell; and, if the shares are up, you can sell at a profit. It's presumed that, at some early day, you'll qualify for your directorship by doing so, and till that is done, the shares are allocated to you, but cannot be transferred to you."
"That's it, is it," said Lord Nidderdale, pretending to understand.
"If things go on as we hope between you and Marie, you can have pretty nearly any number of shares that you please; that is, if your father consents to a proper settlement."
"I hope it'll all go smooth, I'm sure," said Nidderdale. "Thank you; I'm ever so much obliged to you, and I'll explain it all to Carbury."


When the news of her husband's death was in some very rough way conveyed to Madame Melmotte, it crushed her for the time altogether. Marie first heard that she no longer had a living parent as she stood by the poor woman's bedside, and she was enabled, as much perhaps by the necessity incumbent upon her of attending to the wretched woman as by her own superior strength of character, to save herself from that prostration and collapse of power which a great and sudden blow is apt to produce. She stared at the woman who first conveyed to her tidings of the tragedy, and then for a moment seated herself at the bedside. But the violent sobbings and hysterical screams of Madame Melmotte soon brought her again to her feet, and from that moment she was not only active but efficacious. No;--she would not go down to the room; she could do no good by going thither. But they must send for a doctor. They should send for a doctor immediately. She was then told that a doctor and an inspector of police were already in the rooms below. The necessity of throwing whatever responsibility there might be on to other shoulders had been at once apparent to the servants, and they had sent out right and left, so that the house might be filled with persons fit to give directions in such an emergency. The officers from the police station were already there when the woman who now filled Didon's place in the house communicated to Madame Melmotte the fact that she was a widow.

When the news of her husband's death was conveyed to Madame Melmotte, it crushed her altogether. Marie's superior strength of character, and the need to attend to Madame Melmotte, saved her from prostration. Amidst the hysterical sobbings and screams of Madame Melmotte, she was active and effective. She said the servants must send for a doctor, and was told that a doctor and an inspector of police were already in the rooms below.

Chapter 86: The Meeting in Bruton Street


It was afterwards said by some of those who had seen her at the time, that Marie Melmotte had shown a hard heart on the occasion. But the condemnation was wrong. Her feeling for her father was certainly not that which we are accustomed to see among our daughters and sisters. He had never been to her the petted divinity of the household, whose slightest wish had been law, whose little comforts had become matters of serious care, whose frowns were horrid clouds, whose smiles were glorious sunshine, whose kisses were daily looked for, and if missed would be missed with mourning. How should it have been so with her? In all the intercourses of her family, since the first rough usage which she remembered, there had never been anything sweet or gracious. Though she had recognised a certain duty, as due from herself to her father, she had found herself bound to measure it, so that more should not be exacted from her than duty required. She had long known that her father would fain make her a slave for his own purposes, and that if she put no limits to her own obedience he certainly would put none. She had drawn no comparison between him and other fathers, or between herself and other daughters, because she had never become conversant with the ways of other families. After a fashion she had loved him, because nature creates love in a daughter's heart; but she had never respected him, and had spent the best energies of her character on a resolve that she would never fear him.

It was afterwards said by some that Marie Melmotte had shown a hard heart. But the condemnation was wrong. Her feeling for her father had certainly not been affectionate. How could it have been? He had never been sweet or gracious. She had recognised her duty to her father, and had not gone beyond it. She had long known that her father would make her a slave for his own purposes if he could. She had never compared him to other fathers, because she had never known any other families well. After a fashion she had loved him; but she had never respected him, and had spent much of her energy on a resolve never to fear him.


"He may cut me into pieces, but he shall not make me do for his advantage that which I do not think he has a right to exact from me." That had been the state of her mind towards her father; and now that he had taken himself away with terrible suddenness, leaving her to face the difficulties of the world with no protector and no assistance, the feeling which dominated her was no doubt one of awe rather than of broken-hearted sorrow. Those who depart must have earned such sorrow before it can be really felt. They who are left may be overwhelmed by the death--even of their most cruel tormentors. Madame Melmotte was altogether overwhelmed; but it could not probably be said of her with truth that she was crushed by pure grief. There was fear of all things, fear of solitude, fear of sudden change, fear of terrible revelations, fear of some necessary movement she knew not whither, fear that she might be discovered to be a poor wretched impostor who never could have been justified in standing in the same presence with emperors and princes, with duchesses and cabinet ministers. This and the fact that the dead body of the man who had so lately been her tyrant was lying near her, so that she might hardly dare to leave her room lest she should encounter him dead, and thus more dreadful even than when alive, utterly conquered her. Feelings of the same kind, the same fears, and the same awe were powerful also with Marie;--but they did not conquer her. She was strong and conquered them; and she did not care to affect a weakness to which she was in truth superior. In such a household the death of such a father after such a fashion will hardly produce that tender sorrow which comes from real love.

Now that her father had taken himself away with terrible suddenness, leaving her no protector, she felt awe rather than sorrow. Madame Melmotte was altogether overwhelmed; probably not by grief, but by fear of solitude, fear of sudden change, fear of terrible revelations. The same fears were powerful also with Marie; but they did not conquer her. She was strong and conquered them.


She soon knew it all. Her father had destroyed himself, and had doubtless done so because his troubles in regard to money had been greater than he could bear. When he had told her that she was to sign those deeds because ruin was impending, he must indeed have told her the truth. He had so often lied to her that she had had no means of knowing whether he was lying then or telling her a true story. But she had offered to sign the deeds since that, and he had told her that it would be of no avail,--and at that time had not been angry with her as he would have been had her refusal been the cause of his ruin. She took some comfort in thinking of that.

She soon knew it all. Her father had destroyed himself, doubtless because his financial troubles had been greater than he could bear. When he had told her to sign the deeds because ruin was impending, he must indeed have told her the truth. He had so often lied to her that she had had no means of knowing whether he was lying then or not. But she had offered to sign the deeds since, and he had told her that it would be of no use - and he had not been angry. She took some comfort in thinking of that.