"And now what about Winifrid Hurtle?" asked Fisker.
"What makes you ask? She's in London."
"Oh yes, I know she's in London, and Hurtle's at Frisco, swearing that he'll come after her. He would, only he hasn't got the dollars."
"He's not dead then?" muttered Paul.
"Dead!--no, nor likely to die. She'll have a bad time of it with him yet."

"And what about Winifrid Hurtle?" he asked.
"What makes you ask? She's in London."
"Yes, I know; and Hurtle's at Frisco, swearing that he'll come after her, only he hasn't got the money."
"He's not dead then?" muttered Paul.
"Dead! no. She'll have a bad time of it with him yet."


"But she divorced him."
"She got a Kansas lawyer to say so, and he's got a Frisco lawyer to say that there's nothing of the kind. She hasn't played her game badly neither, for she's had the handling of her own money, and has put it so that he can't get hold of a dollar. Even if it suited other ways, you know, I wouldn't marry her myself till I saw my way clearer out of the wood."
"I'm not thinking of marrying her,--if you mean that."
"There was a talk about it in Frisco;--that's all. And I have heard Hurtle say when he was a little farther gone than usual that she was here with you, and that he meant to drop in on you some of these days." To this Paul made no answer, thinking that he had now both heard enough and said enough about Mrs. Hurtle.

"But she divorced him."
"She got a Kansas lawyer to say so, and he's got a Frisco lawyer to say that there's nothing of the kind. She hasn't played her game badly, for she's put it so that he can't get hold of a dollar. But I wouldn't marry her myself till I saw my way clearer out of the wood."
"I'm not thinking of marrying her."
"There was talk about it in Frisco; that's all. And I heard Hurtle say that he meant to drop in on you one of these days."


On the following day the two men, who were still partners, went together to London, and Fisker immediately became immersed in the arrangement of Melmotte's affairs. He put himself into communication with Mr. Brehgert, went in and out of the offices in Abchurch Lane and the rooms which had belonged to the Railway Company, cross-examined Croll, mastered the books of the Company as far as they were to be mastered, and actually summoned both the Grendalls, father and son, up to London. Lord Alfred, and Miles with him, had left London a day or two before Melmotte's death,--having probably perceived that there was no further occasion for their services. To Fisker's appeal Lord Alfred was proudly indifferent. Who was this American that he should call upon a director of the London Company to appear? Does not every one know that a director of a company need not direct unless he pleases? Lord Alfred, therefore, did not even condescend to answer Fisker's letter;--but he advised his son to run up to town. "I should just go, because I'd taken a salary from the d---- Company," said the careful father, "but when there I wouldn't say a word." So Miles Grendall, obeying his parent, reappeared upon the scene.

On the following day the two men went together to London, and Fisker immediately became immersed in the arrangement of Melmotte's affairs. He talked to Mr. Brehgert, went in and out of the offices in Abchurch Lane, cross-examined Croll, mastered the books of the Company as far as they were to be mastered, and actually summoned both the Grendalls, father and son, up to London. Lord Alfred ignored the appeal, but advised his son to run up to town.
"You should go, because you took a salary from the Company," said the careful father, "but don't say a word." So Miles Grendall reappeared upon the scene.


But Fisker's attention was perhaps most usefully and most sedulously paid to Madame Melmotte and her daughter. Till Fisker arrived no one had visited them in their solitude at Hampstead, except Croll, the clerk. Mr. Brehgert had abstained, thinking that a widow, who had become a widow under such terrible circumstances, would prefer to be alone. Lord Nidderdale had made his adieux, and felt that he could do no more. It need hardly be said that Lord Alfred had too much good taste to interfere at such a time, although for some months he had been domestically intimate with the poor woman, or that Sir Felix would not be prompted by the father's death to renew his suit to the daughter. But Fisker had not been two days in London before he went out to Hampstead, and was admitted to Madame Melmotte's presence;--and he had not been there four days before he was aware that in spite of all misfortunes, Marie Melmotte was still the undoubted possessor of a large fortune.

But Fisker's attention was perhaps most usefully paid to Madame Melmotte and her daughter. No one had visited them in their solitude at Hampstead, except Croll, the clerk. Mr. Brehgert had abstained, thinking that the widow would prefer to be alone. Lord Nidderdale had made his adieux. But Fisker had not been two days in London before he was admitted to Madame Melmotte's presence; and he had not been there four days before he was aware that in spite of all misfortunes, Marie Melmotte was still the possessor of a large fortune.


In regard to Melmotte's effects generally the Crown had been induced to abstain from interfering,--giving up the right to all the man's plate and chairs and tables which it had acquired by the finding of the coroner's verdict,--not from tenderness to Madame Melmotte, for whom no great commiseration was felt, but on behalf of such creditors as poor Mr. Longestaffe and his son. But Marie's money was quite distinct from this. She had been right in her own belief as to this property, and had been right, too, in refusing to sign those papers,--unless it may be that that refusal led to her father's act. She herself was sure that it was not so, because she had withdrawn her refusal, and had offered to sign the papers before her father's death. What might have been the ultimate result had she done so when he first made the request, no one could now say. That the money would have gone there could be no doubt. The money was now hers,--a fact which Fisker soon learned with that peculiar cleverness which belonged to him.

Marie's money had been found to be quite distinct from Melmotte's. She had been right in refusing to sign those papers - unless that refusal led to her father's act. She was sure that it was not so, because she had offered to sign the papers before her father's death. But the money was now hers.


Poor Madame Melmotte felt the visits of the American to be a relief to her in her misery. The world makes great mistakes as to that which is and is not beneficial to those whom Death has bereaved of a companion. It may be, no doubt sometimes it is the case, that grief shall be so heavy, so absolutely crushing, as to make any interference with it an additional trouble, and this is felt also in acute bodily pain, and in periods of terrible mental suffering. It may also be, and, no doubt, often is the case, that the bereaved one chooses to affect such overbearing sorrow, and that friends abstain, because even such affectation has its own rights and privileges. But Madame Melmotte was neither crushed by grief nor did she affect to be so crushed. She had been numbed by the suddenness and by the awe of the catastrophe. The man who had been her merciless tyrant for years, who had seemed to her to be a very incarnation of cruel power, had succumbed, and shown himself to be powerless against his own misfortunes. She was a woman of very few words, and had spoken almost none on this occasion even to her own daughter; but when Fisker came to her, and told her more than she had ever known before of her husband's affairs, and spoke to her of her future life, and mixed for her a small glass of brandy-and-water warm, and told her that Frisco would be the fittest place for her future residence, she certainly did not find him to be intrusive.

Poor Madame Melmotte felt the visits of the American to be a relief in her misery. She was not crushed by grief, but numbed by the suddenness and awe of the catastrophe. The man who had been her merciless tyrant for years had proved powerless against his own misfortunes. She was a woman of very few words; but when Fisker spoke to her of her husband's affairs, and her future life, and mixed her a small glass of brandy-and-water, and told her that Frisco would be the fittest place for her future residence, she did not find him to be intrusive.


And even Marie liked Fisker, though she had been wooed and almost won both by a lord and a baronet, and had understood, if not much, at least more than her mother, of the life to which she had been introduced. There was something of real sorrow in her heart for her father. She was prone to love,--though, perhaps, not prone to deep affection. Melmotte had certainly been often cruel to her, but he had also been very indulgent. And as she had never been specially grateful for the one, so neither had she ever specially resented the other. Tenderness, care, real solicitude for her well-being, she had never known, and had come to regard the unevenness of her life, vacillating between knocks and knick-knacks, with a blow one day and a jewel the next, as the condition of things which was natural to her. When her father was dead she remembered for a while the jewels and the knick-knacks, and forgot the knocks and blows. But she was not beyond consolation, and she also found consolation in Mr. Fisker's visits.
"I used to sign a paper every quarter," she said to Fisker, as they were walking together one evening in the lanes round Hampstead.
"You'll have to do the same now, only instead of giving the paper to any one you'll have to leave it in a banker's hands to draw the money for yourself."

And even Marie liked Fisker, though she had been wooed and almost won both by a lord and a baronet. There was real sorrow in her heart for her father. She was prone to love, though, perhaps, not prone to deep affection. Melmotte had been often cruel to her, but he had also been very indulgent. She had never known real tenderness and care, and had come to regard a blow one day and a jewel the next as the natural condition of things. When her father was dead she remembered for a while the jewels, and forgot the blows. But she also found consolation in Mr. Fisker's visits.
"I used to sign a paper every quarter," she said to Fisker, as they were walking together one evening in the lanes round Hampstead.
"You'll have to do the same now, only leave it in a banker's hands to draw the money for yourself."


"And can that be done over in California?"
"Just the same as here. Your bankers will manage it all for you without the slightest trouble. For the matter of that I'll do it, if you'll trust me. There's only one thing against it all, Miss Melmotte."
"And what's that?"
"After the sort of society you've been used to here, I don't know how you'll get on among us Americans. We're a pretty rough lot, I guess. Though, perhaps, what you lose in the look of the fruit, you'll make up in the flavour." This Fisker said in a somewhat plaintive tone, as though fearing that the manifest substantial advantages of Frisco would not suffice to atone for the loss of that fashion to which Miss Melmotte had been used.

"And can that be done over in California?"
"Just the same as here. Your bankers will manage it for you without the slightest trouble. There's only one thing against it all, Miss Melmotte."
"And what's that?"
"After the sort of society you've been used to here, I don't know how you'll get on among us Americans. We're a pretty rough lot, I guess."


"I hate swells," said Marie, flashing round upon him.
"Do you now?"
"Like poison. What's the use of 'em? They never mean a word that they say,--and they don't say so many words either. They're never more than half awake, and don't care the least about anybody. I hate London."
"Do you now?"
"Oh, don't I?"
"I wonder whether you'd hate Frisco?"

"I hate swells," said Marie, flashing round upon him. "They never mean a word that they say. They're never more than half awake, and don't care the least about anybody. I hate London."
"Do you now? I wonder whether you'd hate Frisco?"


"I rather think it would be a jolly sort of place."
"Very jolly I find it. And I wonder whether you'd hate--me?"
"Mr. Fisker, that's nonsense. Why should I hate anybody?"

"I think it would be a jolly sort of place."
"Very jolly I find it. And I wonder whether you'd hate - me?"
"Mr. Fisker, that's nonsense. Why should I hate anybody?"


"But you do. I've found out one or two that you don't love. If you do come to Frisco, I hope you won't just hate me, you know." Then he took her gently by the arm;--but she, whisking herself away rapidly, bade him behave himself. Then they returned to their lodgings, and Mr. Fisker, before he went back to London, mixed a little warm brandy-and-water for Madame Melmotte. I think that upon the whole Madame Melmotte was more comfortable at Hampstead than she had been either in Grosvenor Square or Bruton Street, although she was certainly not a thing beautiful to look at in her widow's weeds.

"But if you come to Frisco, I hope you won't hate me, you know." He took her gently by the arm; but she bade him behave himself. Then they returned to their lodgings.


"I don't think much of you as a book-keeper, you know," Fisker said to Miles Grendall in the now almost deserted Board-room of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway. Miles, remembering his father's advice, answered not a word, but merely looked with assumed amazement at the impertinent stranger who dared thus to censure his performances. Fisker had made three or four remarks previous to this, and had appealed both to Paul Montague and to Croll, who were present. He had invited also the attendance of Sir Felix Carbury, Lord Nidderdale, and Mr. Longestaffe, who were all Directors;--but none of them had come. Sir Felix had paid no attention to Fisker's letter. Lord Nidderdale had written a short but characteristic reply. "Dear Mr. Fisker,--I really don't know anything about it. Yours, Nidderdale." Mr. Longestaffe, with laborious zeal, had closely covered four pages with his reasons for non-attendance, with which the reader shall not be troubled, and which it may be doubted whether even Fisker perused to the end. "Upon my word," continued Fisker, "it's astonishing to me that Melmotte should have put up with this kind of thing.

"I don't think much of your book-keeping," Fisker said to Miles Grendall in the deserted Board-room of the Mexican Railway. Miles, remembering his father's advice, answered not a word, but merely looked with assumed amazement at the impertinent stranger.
Fisker had made three or four remarks before this, and had appealed to Paul Montague and Croll, who were present. He had also invited Sir Felix Carbury, Lord Nidderdale, and Mr. Longestaffe, as Directors; but none of them had come.
"Upon my word," continued Fisker, "it's astonishing that Melmotte should have put up with this kind of thing.


I suppose you understand something of business, Mr. Croll?"
"It vas not my department, Mr. Fisker," said the German.
"Nor anybody else's either," said the domineering American. "Of course it's on the cards, Mr. Grendall, that we shall have to put you into a witness-box, because there are certain things we must get at." Miles was silent as the grave, but at once made up his mind that he would pass his autumn at some pleasant but economical German retreat, and that his autumnal retirement should be commenced within a very few days;--or perhaps hours might suffice.
But Fisker was not in earnest in his threat. In truth the greater the confusion in the London office, the better, he thought, were the prospects of the Company at San Francisco. Miles underwent purgatory on this occasion for three or four hours, and when dismissed had certainly revealed none of Melmotte's secrets. He did, however, go to Germany, finding that a temporary absence from England would be comfortable to him in more respects than one,--and need not be heard of again in these pages.

I suppose you understand something of business, Mr. Croll?"
"It vas not my department, Mr. Fisker," said the German.
"Nor anybody else's either," said the American. "Of course it's on the cards, Mr. Grendall, that we shall have to put you into a witness-box, because there are certain things we must get at." Miles was silent as the grave, but at once made up his mind that he would pass his autumn at some pleasant but economical German retreat, and that this retirement should begin within a very few days; or perhaps hours.
But Fisker was not in earnest. The greater the confusion in the London office, he thought, the better were the prospects of the Company at San Francisco.


When Melmotte's affairs were ultimately wound up there was found to be nearly enough of property to satisfy all his proved liabilities. Very many men started up with huge claims, asserting that they had been robbed, and in the confusion it was hard to ascertain who had been robbed, or who had simply been unsuccessful in their attempts to rob others. Some, no doubt, as was the case with poor Mr. Brehgert, had speculated in dependence on Melmotte's sagacity, and had lost heavily without dishonesty. But of those who, like the Longestaffes, were able to prove direct debts, the condition at last was not very sad. Our excellent friend Dolly got his money early in the day, and was able, under Mr. Squercum's guidance, to start himself on a new career. Having paid his debts, and with still a large balance at his bankers', he assured his friend Nidderdale that he meant to turn over an entirely new leaf. "I shall just make Squercum allow me so much a month, and I shall have all the bills and that kind of thing sent to him, and he will do everything, and pull me up if I'm getting wrong. I like Squercum."
"Won't he rob you, old fellow?" suggested Nidderdale.

When Melmotte's affairs were ultimately wound up there was found to be nearly enough property to pay all his debts. It was hard to work out who had been robbed, or who had simply been unsuccessful in their attempts to rob others. Some, like poor Mr. Brehgert, had lost heavily without dishonesty. But those who, like the Longestaffes, were able to prove debts, were better off. Dolly got his money, and assured his friend Nidderdale that he meant to turn over a new leaf.
"I shall just make Squercum allow me so much a month, and I shall have all the bills sent to him, and he will do everything, and pull me up if I'm getting wrong. I like Squercum."
"Won't he rob you, old fellow?" suggested Nidderdale.


"Of course he will;--but he won't let any one else do it. One has to be plucked, but it's everything to have it done on a system. If he'll only let me have ten shillings out of every sovereign I think I can get along." Let us hope that Mr. Squercum was merciful, and that Dolly was enabled to live in accordance with his virtuous resolutions.

"Of course he will; but he won't let anyone else do it."


But these things did not arrange themselves till late in the winter,--long after Mr. Fisker's departure for California. That, however, was protracted till a day much later than he had anticipated before he had become intimate with Madame Melmotte and Marie. Madame Melmotte's affairs occupied him for a while almost exclusively. The furniture and plate were of course sold for the creditors, but Madame Melmotte was allowed to take whatever she declared to be specially her own property;--and, though much was said about the jewels, no attempt was made to recover them. Marie advised Madame Melmotte to give them up, assuring the old woman that she should have whatever she wanted for her maintenance. But it was not likely that Melmotte's widow would willingly abandon any property, and she did not abandon her jewels. It was agreed between her and Fisker that they were to be taken to New York. "You'll get as much there as in London, if you like to part with them; and nobody 'll say anything about it there. You couldn't sell a locket or a chain here without all the world talking about it."

But these things did not arrange themselves till long after Mr. Fisker's departure for California. That was delayed while Madame Melmotte's affairs occupied him. The furniture and plate were sold, but Madame Melmotte was allowed to take whatever she declared to be her own property; and no attempt was made to recover the jewels. It was agreed with Fisker that they were to be taken to New York. "You'll get as much for them there as in London, if you like to part with them," he told her.


In all these things Madame Melmotte put herself into Fisker's hands with the most absolute confidence,--and, indeed, with a confidence that was justified by its results. It was not by robbing an old woman that Fisker intended to make himself great. To Madame Melmotte's thinking, Fisker was the finest gentleman she had ever met,--so infinitely pleasanter in his manner than Lord Alfred even when Lord Alfred had been most gracious, with so much more to say for himself than Miles Grendall, understanding her so much better than any man had ever done,--especially when he supplied her with those small warm beakers of sweet brandy-and-water. "I shall do whatever he tells me," she said to Marie. "I'm sure I've nothing to keep me here in this country."
"I'm willing to go," said Marie. "I don't want to stay in London."
"I suppose you'll take him if he asks you?"

In fact Madame Melmotte put herself into Fisker's hands with absolute confidence; and her confidence was justified. It was not by robbing an old woman that Fisker intended to make himself great. Madame Melmotte thought he was the finest gentleman she had ever met.
"I shall do whatever he tells me," she said to Marie. "I'm sure I've nothing to keep me in this country."
"I'm willing to go," said Marie. "I don't want to stay in London."
"I suppose you'll marry him if he asks you?"


"I don't know anything about that," said Marie. "A man may be very well without one's wanting to marry him. I don't think I'll marry anybody. What's the use? It's only money. Nobody cares for anything else. Fisker's all very well; but he only wants the money. Do you think Fisker'd ask me to marry him if I hadn't got anything? Not he! He ain't slow enough for that."

"I don't know about that," said Marie. "I don't think I'll marry anybody. What's the use? It's only money. Nobody cares for anything else. Fisker's all very well; but he only wants the money."


"I think he's a very nice young man," said Madame Melmotte.


Mr. Alf's central committee-room was in Great George Street, and there the battle was kept alive all the day. It had been decided, as the reader has been told, that no direct advantage should be taken of that loud blast of accusation which had been heard throughout the town on the previous afternoon. There had not been sufficient time for inquiry as to the truth of that blast. If there were just ground for the things that had been said, Mr. Melmotte would no doubt soon be in gaol, or would be--wanted. Many had thought that he would escape as soon as the dinner was over, and had been disappointed when they heard that he had been seen walking down towards his own committee-room on the following morning. Others had been told that at the last moment his name would be withdrawn,--and a question arose as to whether he had the legal power to withdraw his name after a certain hour on the day before the ballot. An effort was made to convince a portion of the electors that he had withdrawn, or would have withdrawn, or should have withdrawn. When Melmotte was at Covent Garden, a large throng of men went to Whitehall Place with the view of ascertaining the truth. He certainly had made no attempt at withdrawal. They who propagated this report certainly damaged Mr. Alf's cause.

Mr. Alf's central committee-room was in Great George Street, and there the battle was kept alive all day. It had been decided that no direct advantage should be taken of the rumour, for there had not been enough time to ascertain its truth. If it was true, Mr. Melmotte would no doubt soon be in jail.
Many had thought that he would escape as soon as the dinner was over, and had been disappointed when they heard that he had been seen walking towards his own committee-room on the following morning. An effort was made to convince some electors that he had withdrawn. When Melmotte was at Covent Garden, a large throng of men went to Whitehall Place to inquire, and found that he had made no attempt at withdrawal.
They who propagated this report certainly damaged Mr. Alf's cause.


A second reaction set in, and there grew a feeling that Mr. Melmotte was being ill-used. Those evil things had been said of him,--many at least so declared,--not from any true motive, but simply to secure Mr. Alf's return. Tidings of the speech in Covent Garden were spread about at the various polling places, and did good service to the so-called Conservative cause. Mr. Alf's friends, hearing all this, instigated him also to make a speech. Something should be said, if only that it might be reported in the newspapers, to show that they had behaved with generosity, instead of having injured their enemy by false attacks. Whatever Mr. Alf might say, he might at any rate be sure of a favourable reporter.

A feeling grew that Mr. Melmotte was being ill-used. Those evil things had been said - many declared - simply to secure Mr. Alf's success in the election. News of the speech in Covent Garden spread, and did good service to the Conservative cause.
Mr. Alf's friends, hearing this, urged him also to make a speech. Something should be said, if only that it might be reported in the newspapers, to show that they had behaved generously to their enemy.


About two o'clock in the day, Mr. Alf did make a speech,--and a very good speech it was, if correctly reported in the "Evening Pulpit." Mr. Alf was a clever man, ready at all points, with all his powers immediately at command, and, no doubt, he did make a good speech. But in this speech, in which we may presume that it would be his intention to convince the electors that they ought to return him to Parliament, because, of the two candidates, he was the fittest to represent their views, he did not say a word as to his own political ideas, not, indeed, a word that could be accepted as manifesting his own fitness for the place which it was his ambition to fill. He contented himself with endeavouring to show that the other man was not fit;--and that he and his friends, though solicitous of proving to the electors that Mr. Melmotte was about the most unfit man in the world, had been guilty of nothing shabby in their manner of doing so. "Mr. Melmotte," he said, "comes before you as a Conservative, and has told us, by the mouths of his friends,--for he has not favoured us with many words of his own,--that he is supported by the whole Conservative party. That party is not my party, but I respect it. Where, however, are these Conservative supporters? We have heard, till we are sick of it, of the banquet which Mr. Melmotte gave yesterday. I am told that very few of those whom he calls his Conservative friends could be induced to attend that banquet. It is equally notorious that the leading merchants of the City refused to grace the table of this great commercial prince.

At about two o'clock, Mr. Alf did make a speech - and a very good speech it was, if correctly reported in the Evening Pulpit. But in this speech he did not say a word about his own political ideas, nor even about his own fitness to be a Member of Parliament. Instead, he tried to show that the other man was not fit; and that he and his friends, in wishing to prove Mr. Melmotte's unfitness, had been guilty of nothing shabby.
"Mr. Melmotte," he said, "comes before you as a Conservative, and has told us that he is supported by the whole Conservative party. Where, however, are these Conservative supporters? We have heard, till we are sick of it, of the banquet which Mr. Melmotte gave yesterday. I am told that very few of his Conservative friends could be induced to attend that banquet. The leading merchants of the City refused to grace his table.


I say that the leaders of the Conservative party have at last found their candidate out, have repudiated him;--and are seeking now to free themselves from the individual shame of having supported the candidature of such a man by remaining in their own houses instead of clustering round the polling booths. Go to Mr. Melmotte's committee-room and inquire if those leading Conservatives be there. Look about, and see whether they are walking with him in the streets, or standing with him in public places, or taking the air with him in the parks. I respect the leaders of the Conservative party; but they have made a mistake in this matter, and they know it." Then he ended by alluding to the rumours of yesterday. "I scorn," said he, "to say anything against the personal character of a political opponent, which I am not in a position to prove. I make no allusion, and have made no allusion, to reports which were circulated yesterday about him, and which I believe were originated in the City. They may be false or they may be true. As I know nothing of the matter, I prefer to regard them as false, and I recommend you to do the same. But I declared to you long before these reports were in men's mouths, that Mr. Melmotte was not entitled by his character to represent you in parliament, and I repeat that assertion.

I say that the leaders of the Conservative party are ashamed of this candidate. Where are they? Look about, and see whether they are walking with him in the streets, or standing with him in public places. They have made a mistake, and they know it."
He ended by alluding to the rumours of yesterday. "I make no allusion to reports which circulated yesterday, and which I believe originated in the City. They may be false or they may be true. But I declared to you long ago that Melmotte was not fit to represent you in parliament.


A great British merchant, indeed! How long, do you think, should a man be known in this city before that title be accorded to him? Who knew aught of this man two years since,--unless, indeed, it be some one who had burnt his wings in trafficking with him in some continental city? Ask the character of this great British merchant in Hamburg and Vienna; ask it in Paris;--ask those whose business here has connected them with the assurance companies of foreign countries, and you will be told whether this is a fit man to represent Westminster in the British parliament!" There was much more yet; but such was the tone of the speech which Mr. Alf made with the object of inducing the electors to vote for himself.

A great British merchant, indeed! Who knew anything of this man two years ago? Ask about him in Hamburg or Vienna or Paris; and you will be told whether this is a fit man to represent Westminster in the British parliament!" This was the tone of Mr. Alf's speech.


At two or three o'clock in the day, nobody knew how the matter was going. It was supposed that the working-classes were in favour of Melmotte, partly from their love of a man who spends a great deal of money, partly from the belief that he was being ill-used,--partly, no doubt, from that occult sympathy which is felt for crime, when the crime committed is injurious to the upper classes. Masses of men will almost feel that a certain amount of injustice ought to be inflicted on their betters, so as to make things even, and will persuade themselves that a criminal should be declared to be innocent, because the crime committed has had a tendency to oppress the rich and pull down the mighty from their seats. Some few years since, the basest calumnies that were ever published in this country, uttered by one of the basest men that ever disgraced the country, levelled, for the most part, at men of whose characters and services the country was proud, were received with a certain amount of sympathy by men not themselves dishonest, because they who were thus slandered had received so many good things from Fortune, that a few evil things were thought to be due to them. There had not as yet been time for the formation of such a feeling generally, in respect of Mr. Melmotte. But there was a commencement of it. It had been asserted that Melmotte was a public robber. Whom had he robbed? Not the poor. There was not a man in London who caused the payment of a larger sum in weekly wages than Mr. Melmotte.

At two or three o'clock, nobody knew how the ballot was going. It was supposed that the working-classes were in favour of Melmotte, partly from their love of a man who spends a great deal of money, partly from the belief that he was being ill-used by the upper classes. It had been asserted that Melmotte was a public robber. Whom had he robbed? Not the poor. There was not a man in London who caused the payment of a larger sum in weekly wages than Mr. Melmotte.


About three o'clock, the editor of the "Morning Breakfast Table" called on Lady Carbury. "What is it all about?" she asked, as soon as her friend was seated. There had been no time for him to explain anything at Madame Melmotte's reception, and Lady Carbury had as yet failed in learning any certain news of what was going on.
"I don't know what to make of it," said Mr. Broune. "There is a story abroad that Mr. Melmotte has forged some document with reference to a purchase he made,--and hanging on to that story are other stories as to moneys that he has raised. I should say that it was simply an electioneering trick, and a very unfair trick, were it not that all his own side seem to believe it."
"Do you believe it?"
"Ah,--I could answer almost any question sooner than that."
"Then he can't be rich at all."

About three o'clock, the editor of the Morning Breakfast Table called on Lady Carbury.
"What is it all about?" she asked.
"I don't know what to make of it," said Mr. Broune. "There is a story abroad that Mr. Melmotte has forged some document - and there are other stories about money that he has raised. I should say that it was simply an unfair electioneering trick, were it not that all his own side seem to believe it."
"Do you believe it?"
"I don't know."
"Then he can't be rich at all."


"Even that would not follow. He has such large concerns in hand that he might be very much pressed for funds, and yet be possessed of immense wealth. Everybody says that he pays all his bills."
"Will he be returned?" she asked.

"Even that would not follow. He has such large concerns in hand that he might be very much pressed for funds, and yet be possessed of immense wealth. Everybody says that he pays all his bills."
"Will he be elected?" she asked.


"From what we hear, we think not. I shall know more about it in an hour or two. At present I should not like to have to publish an opinion; but were I forced to bet, I would bet against him. Nobody is doing anything for him. There can be no doubt that his own party are ashamed of him. As things used to be, this would have been fatal to him at the day of election; but now, with the ballot, it won't matter so much. If I were a candidate, at present, I think I would go to bed on the last day, and beg all my committee to do the same as soon as they had put in their voting papers."
"I am glad Felix did not go to Liverpool," said Lady Carbury.

"At present I would bet against him. Nobody is doing anything for him. There can be no doubt that his own party are ashamed of him."
"I am glad Felix did not go to Liverpool," said Lady Carbury.


"It would not have made much difference. She would have been brought back all the same. They say Lord Nidderdale still means to marry her."
"I saw him talking to her last night."


"There must be an immense amount of property somewhere. No one doubts that he was rich when he came to England two years ago, and they say everything has prospered that he has put his hand to since. The Mexican Railway shares had fallen this morning, but they were at 15 premium yesterday morning. He must have made an enormous deal out of that." But Mr. Broune's eloquence on this occasion was chiefly displayed in regard to the presumption of Mr. Alf. "I shouldn't think him such a fool if he had announced his resignation of the editorship when he came before the world as a candidate for parliament. But a man must be mad who imagines that he can sit for Westminster and edit a London daily paper at the same time."
"Has it never been done?"

There must be an immense amount of property somewhere. No one doubts that he was rich when he came to England two years ago, and the Mexican Railway shares were at 15 premium yesterday morning, though they have fallen since. He must have made an enormous amount out of that."
But Mr. Broune was more scathing about Mr. Alf. "A man must be mad who imagines that he can sit for Westminster and edit a London daily paper at the same time.


"Never, I think;--that is, by the editor of such a paper as the 'Pulpit.' How is a man who sits in parliament himself ever to pretend to discuss the doings of parliament with impartiality? But Alf believes that he can do more than anybody else ever did, and he'll come to the ground. Where's Felix now?"
"Do not ask me," said the poor mother.
"Is he doing anything?"
"He lies in bed all day, and is out all night."
"But that wants money." She only shook her head. "You do not give him any?"

A man who sits in parliament cannot pretend to discuss the doings of parliament with impartiality. Where is Felix now?"
"Do not ask me," said the poor mother. "He lies in bed all day, and is out all night."
"You do not give him any money?"


"I have none to give."
"I should simply take the key of the house from him,--or bolt the door if he will not give it up."
"And be in bed, and listen while he knocks,--knowing that he must wander in the streets if I refuse to let him in? A mother cannot do that, Mr. Broune. A child has such a hold upon his mother. When her reason has bade her to condemn him, her heart will not let her carry out the sentence." Mr. Broune never now thought of kissing Lady Carbury; but when she spoke thus, he got up and took her hand, and she, as she pressed his hand, had no fear that she would be kissed. The feeling between them was changed.

"I have none to give."
"I should simply take the key of the house from him, or bolt the door if he will not give it up."
"Knowing that he must wander in the streets if I refuse to let him in? A mother cannot do that, Mr. Broune. A child has a hold upon his mother."
Mr. Broune never now thought of kissing Lady Carbury; but when she spoke thus, he got up and took her hand. She pressed it with no fear that she would be kissed. The feeling between them was changed.


Melmotte dined at home that evening with no company but that of his wife and daughter. Latterly one of the Grendalls had almost always joined their party when they did not dine out. Indeed, it was an understood thing, that Miles Grendall should dine there always, unless he explained his absence by some engagement,--so that his presence there had come to be considered as a part of his duty. Not unfrequently "Alfred" and Miles would both come, as Melmotte's dinners and wines were good, and occasionally the father would take the son's place,--but on this day they were both absent. Madame Melmotte had not as yet said a word to any one indicating her own apprehension of any evil. But not a person had called to-day,--the day after the great party,--and even she, though she was naturally callous in such matters, had begun to think that she was deserted. She had, too, become so used to the presence of the Grendalls, that she now missed their company. She thought that on this day, of all days, when the world was balloting for her husband at Westminster, they would both have been with him to discuss the work of the day. "Is not Mr. Grendall coming?" she asked, as she took her seat at the table.

Melmotte dined at home that evening with only his wife and daughter. Madame Melmotte had not as yet said a word to anyone about her own fears. But not a single person had called today - the day after the great party; and she thought that the Grendalls would have been with her husband today of all days, during the ballot.
"Is not Mr. Grendall coming?" she asked, as she took her seat at the table.


"No, he is not," said Melmotte.
"Nor Lord Alfred?"


"Nor Lord Alfred." Melmotte had returned home much comforted by the day's proceedings. No one had dared to say a harsh word to his face. Nothing further had reached his ears. After leaving the bank he had gone back to his office, and had written letters,--just as if nothing had happened; and, as far as he could judge, his clerks had plucked up courage. One of them, about five o'clock, came into him with news from the west, and with second editions of the evening papers. The clerk expressed his opinion that the election was going well. Mr. Melmotte, judging from the papers, one of which was supposed to be on his side and the other of course against him, thought that his affairs altogether were looking well. The Westminster election had not the foremost place in his thoughts; but he took what was said on that subject as indicating the minds of men upon the other matter. He read Alf's speech, and consoled himself with thinking that Mr. Alf had not dared to make new accusations against him.

"Nor Lord Alfred." Melmotte had returned home much comforted by the day's proceedings. No one had dared to say a harsh word to his face. After leaving the bank he had gone back to his office, and had written letters, just as if nothing had happened. A clerk brought him the evening papers, and expressed his opinion that the election was going well. Mr. Melmotte read Alf's speech, and consoled himself with thinking that Mr. Alf had not dared to make new accusations against him.


All that about Hamburgh and Vienna and Paris was as old as the hills, and availed nothing. His whole candidature had been carried in the face of that. "I think we shall do pretty well," he said to the clerk. His very presence in Abchurch Lane of course gave confidence. And thus, when he came home, something of the old arrogance had come back upon him, and he could swagger at any rate before his wife and servants. "Nor Lord Alfred," he said with scorn. Then he added more. "The father and son are two d---- curs." This of course frightened Madame Melmotte, and she joined this desertion of the Grendalls to her own solitude all the day.

All that about Hamburg and Vienna and Paris was as old as the hills.
"I think we shall do pretty well," he said to the clerk. His very presence in Abchurch Lane gave confidence. And thus when he came home, something of the old arrogance had returned, and he could swagger before his wife and servants.
"The Grendall's are two d___ curs," he said.


"Is there anything wrong, Melmotte?" she said afterwards, creeping up to him in the back parlour, and speaking in French.
"What do you call wrong?"
"I don't know;--but I seem to be afraid of something."
"I should have thought you were used to that kind of feeling by this time."
"Then there is something."
"Don't be a fool. There is always something. There is always much. You don't suppose that this kind of thing can be carried on as smoothly as the life of an old maid with 400 a year paid quarterly in advance."

His wife afterwards crept up to him in the back parlour. "Is there anything wrong, Melmotte?"
"What do you call wrong?"
"I don't know; but I seem to be afraid of something."
"I should have thought you were used to that by this time."
"Then there is something."
"Don't be a fool. There is always something."


"Shall we have to--move again?" she asked.
"How am I to tell? You haven't much to do when we move, and may get plenty to eat and drink wherever you go. Does that girl mean to marry Lord Nidderdale?" Madame Melmotte shook her head. "What a poor creature you must be when you can't talk her out of a fancy for such a reprobate as young Carbury. If she throws me over, I'll throw her over. I'll flog her within an inch of her life if she disobeys me. You tell her that I say so."

"Shall we have to move again?" she asked.
"How am I to tell? Does that girl mean to marry Lord Nidderdale?" Madame Melmotte shook her head. "I'll flog her within an inch of her life if she disobeys me. You tell her that I say so."


"Then he may flog me," said Marie, when so much of the conversation was repeated to her that evening. "Papa does not know me if he thinks that I'm to be made to marry a man by flogging." No such attempt was at any rate made that night, for the father and husband did not again see his wife or daughter.

"Then he may flog me," said Marie, when so much of the conversation was repeated to her that evening. "Papa does not know me if he thinks that I'm to be made to marry a man by flogging." No such attempt was at any rate made that night.


Early the next day a report was current that Mr. Alf had been returned. The numbers had not as yet been counted, or the books made up;--but that was the opinion expressed. All the morning newspapers, including the "Breakfast Table," repeated this report,--but each gave it as the general opinion on the matter. The truth would not be known till seven or eight o'clock in the evening. The Conservative papers did not scruple to say that the presumed election of Mr. Alf was owing to a sudden declension in the confidence originally felt in Mr. Melmotte. The "Breakfast Table," which had supported Mr. Melmotte's candidature, gave no reason, and expressed more doubt on the result than the other papers. "We know not how such an opinion forms itself," the writer said;--"but it seems to have been formed. As nothing as yet is really known, or can be known, we express no opinion of our own upon the matter."

Early the next day a report was current that Mr. Alf had been elected, although the numbers had not yet been counted, and the truth would not be known till seven or eight o'clock in the evening.


Mr. Melmotte again went into the City, and found that things seemed to have returned very much into their usual grooves. The Mexican Railway shares were low, and Mr. Cohenlupe was depressed in spirits and unhappy;--but nothing dreadful had occurred or seemed to be threatened. If nothing dreadful did occur, the railway shares would probably recover, or nearly recover, their position. In the course of the day, Melmotte received a letter from Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile, which, of itself, certainly contained no comfort;--but there was comfort to be drawn even from that letter, by reason of what it did not contain. The letter was unfriendly in its tone and peremptory. It had come evidently from a hostile party. It had none of the feeling which had hitherto prevailed in the intercourse between these two well-known Conservative gentlemen, Mr. Adolphus Longestaffe and Mr. Augustus Melmotte. But there was no allusion in it to forgery; no question of criminal proceedings; no hint at aught beyond the not unnatural desire of Mr. Longestaffe and Mr. Longestaffe's son to be paid for the property at Pickering which Mr. Melmotte had purchased.

Mr. Melmotte again went into the City, and found that things seemed to have returned very much into their usual grooves. The Mexican Railway shares were low, and Mr. Cohenlupe was unhappy; but nothing dreadful had occurred. If nothing dreadful did occur, the railway shares would probably recover.
In the course of the day, Melmotte received a letter from Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile, which, of itself, contained no comfort - yet there was comfort to be drawn from it, because of what it did not contain. The letter was unfriendly in its tone, but there was no allusion in it to forgery or criminal proceedings; no hint at anything beyond the not unnatural desire of Mr. Longestaffe and his son to be paid for the property at Pickering.


"We have to remind you," said the letter, in continuation of paragraphs which had contained simply demands for the money, "that the title-deeds were delivered to you on receipt by us of authority to that effect from the Messrs. Longestaffe, father and son, on the understanding that the purchase-money was to be at once paid to us by you. We are informed that the property has been since mortgaged by you. We do not state this as a fact. But the information, whether true or untrue, forces upon us the necessity of demanding that you should at once pay to us the purchase-money,--80,000,--or else return to us the title-deeds of the estate."
This letter, which was signed Slow and Bideawhile, declared positively that the title-deeds had been given up on authority received by them from both the Longestaffes,--father and son. Now the accusation brought against Melmotte, as far as he could as yet understand it, was that he had forged the signature to the young Mr. Longestaffe's letter. Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile were therefore on his side. As to the simple debt, he cared little comparatively about that. Many fine men were walking about London who owed large sums of money which they could not pay.

"We have to remind you," said the letter, after demands for the money, "that the title-deeds were delivered to you on our receipt of authority from the Messrs. Longestaffe, on the understanding that the purchase-money was to be at once paid by you. We are informed that the property has since been mortgaged by you. This information forces upon us the necessity of demanding that you should at once pay to us the purchase-money, 80,000; or else return to us the title-deeds of the estate."
This letter declared positively that the title-deeds had been given up on authority received by the lawyers from both the Longestaffes - father and son. Now the accusation brought against Melmotte was that he had forged the signature to the young Mr. Longestaffe's letter. Slow and Bideawhile were therefore on his side. As to the simple debt, he cared little about that. Many fine men were walking about London who owed large sums of money which they could not pay.


As he was sitting at his solitary dinner this evening,--for both his wife and daughter had declined to join him, saying that they had dined early,--news was brought to him that he had been elected for Westminster. He had beaten Mr. Alf by something not much less than a thousand votes.

As Melmotte was sitting at his solitary dinner this evening - for both his wife and daughter had dined early - news was brought to him that he had been elected for Westminster. He had beaten Mr. Alf by almost a thousand votes.


It was very much to be member for Westminster. So much had at any rate been achieved by him who had begun the world without a shilling and without a friend,--almost without education! Much as he loved money, and much as he loved the spending of money, and much as he had made and much as he had spent, no triumph of his life had been so great to him as this. Brought into the world in a gutter, without father or mother, with no good thing ever done for him, he was now a member of the British Parliament, and member for one of the first cities in the empire. Ignorant as he was he understood the magnitude of the achievement, and dismayed as he was as to his present position, still at this moment he enjoyed keenly a certain amount of elation. Of course he had committed forgery;--of course he had committed robbery. That, indeed, was nothing, for he had been cheating and forging and stealing all his life. Of course he was in danger of almost immediate detection and punishment. He hardly hoped that the evil day would be very much longer protracted, and yet he enjoyed his triumph. Whatever they might do, quick as they might be, they could hardly prevent his taking his seat in the House of Commons.

This was a great achievement for someone who had begun the world without a shilling and without a friend - almost without education! Much as he loved money, no triumph of his life had been so great to him as this. Brought into the world in a gutter, without parents, with no good thing ever done for him, he was now a member of the British Parliament for Westminster.
At this moment he enjoyed keenly a certain amount of elation. Of course he had committed forgery; of course he had committed robbery. That was nothing, for he had been cheating and forging and stealing all his life. Of course he was in danger of almost immediate detection and punishment - yet he enjoyed his triumph. They could hardly prevent his taking his seat in the House of Commons.


Then if they sent him to penal servitude for life, they would have to say that they had so treated the member for Westminster!


He drank a bottle of claret, and then got some brandy-and-water. In such troubles as were coming upon him now, he would hardly get sufficient support from wine. He knew that he had better not drink;--that is, he had better not drink, supposing the world to be free to him for his own work and his own enjoyment. But if the world were no longer free to him, if he were really coming to penal servitude and annihilation,--then why should he not drink while the time lasted? An hour of triumphant joy might be an eternity to a man, if the man's imagination were strong enough to make him so regard his hour. He therefore took his brandy-and-water freely, and as he took it he was able to throw his fears behind him, and to assure himself that, after all, he might even yet escape from his bondages. No;--he would drink no more. This he said to himself as he filled another beaker. He would work instead. He would put his shoulder to the wheel, and would yet conquer his enemies.

He drank a bottle of claret, and then had some brandy-and-water. He knew that he had better not drink; but why should he not drink while the time lasted? He therefore took his brandy-and-water freely, until he was able to throw his fears behind him, and to assure himself that, after all, he might yet escape. He would drink no more, he said to himself as he filled another beaker. He would work instead. He would put his shoulder to the wheel, and conquer his enemies.


It would not be so easy to convict a member for Westminster,--especially if money were spent freely. Was he not the man who, at his own cost, had entertained the Emperor of China? Would not that be remembered in his favour? Would not men be unwilling to punish the man who had received at his own table all the Princes of the land, and the Prime Minister, and all the Ministers? To convict him would be a national disgrace. He fully realised all this as he lifted the glass to his mouth, and puffed out the smoke in large volumes through his lips. But money must be spent! Yes;--money must be had! Cohenlupe certainly had money. Though he squeezed it out of the coward's veins he would have it.

It would not be easy to convict a member for Westminster. Was he not the man who had entertained the Emperor of China? Had he not received at his own table all the Princes of the land, and the Prime Minister? To convict him would be a national disgrace.


At any rate, he would not despair. There was a fight to be fought yet, and he would fight it to the end. Then he took a deep drink, and slowly, with careful and almost solemn steps, he made his way up to his bed.

At any rate, he would not despair. There was a fight to be fought yet, and he would fight it to the end. He drank deeply, and then with careful and almost solemn steps, he made his way to bed.


Hetta Carbury, out of the fulness of her heart, having made up her mind that she had been unjust to her lover, wrote to him a letter full of penitence, full of love, telling him at great length all the details of her meeting with Mrs. Hurtle, and bidding him come back to her, and bring the brooch with him. But this letter she had unfortunately addressed to the Beargarden, as he had written to her from that club; and partly through his own fault, and partly through the demoralisation of that once perfect establishment, the letter never reached his hands. When, therefore, he returned to London he was justified in supposing that she had refused even to notice his appeal. He was, however, determined that he would still make further struggles. He had, he felt, to contend with many difficulties. Mrs. Hurtle, Roger Carbury, and Hetta's mother were, he thought, all inimical to him. Mrs. Hurtle, though she had declared that she would not rage as a lioness, could hardly be his friend in the matter. Roger had repeatedly declared his determination to regard him as a traitor. And Lady Carbury, as he well knew, had always been and always would be opposed to the match. But Hetta had owned that she loved him, had submitted to his caresses, and had been proud of his admiration.

Hetta Carbury, having made up her mind that she had been unjust to her lover, wrote to him a letter full of penitence and love, bidding him come back to her. But unfortunately she addressed it to the Beargarden, as he had written to her from that club; and the letter never reached him. When he returned to London he supposed that she had refused even to notice his appeal.
He was, however, determined that he would still make further struggles, even though Mrs. Hurtle, Roger Carbury, and Hetta's mother were, he thought, all hostile to him. But Hetta had owned that she loved him,


And Paul, though he did not probably analyze very carefully the character of his beloved, still felt instinctively that, having so far prevailed with such a girl, his prospects could not be altogether hopeless. And yet how should he continue the struggle? With what weapons should he carry on the fight? The writing of letters is but a one-sided, troublesome proceeding, when the person to whom they are written will not answer them; and the calling at a door at which the servant has been instructed to refuse a visitor admission, becomes, disagreeable,--if not degrading,--after a time.

and Paul still felt instinctively that his prospects could not be altogether hopeless. Yet how should he carry on the fight? The writing of letters is a one-sided, troublesome proceeding, when the person to whom they are written will not answer.


But Hetta had written a second epistle,--not to her lover, but to one who received his letters with more regularity. When she rashly and with precipitate wrath quarrelled with Paul Montague, she at once communicated the fact to her mother, and through her mother to her cousin Roger. Though she would not recognise Roger as a lover, she did acknowledge him to be the head of her family, and her own special friend, and entitled in some special way to know all that she herself did, and all that was done in regard to her. She therefore wrote to her cousin, telling him that she had made a mistake about Paul, that she was convinced that Paul had always behaved to her with absolute sincerity, and, in short, that Paul was the best, and dearest, and most ill-used of human beings. In her enthusiasm she went on to declare that there could be no other chance of happiness for her in this world than that of becoming Paul's wife, and to beseech her dearest friend and cousin Roger not to turn against her, but to lend her an aiding hand. There are those whom strong words in letters never affect at all,--who, perhaps, hardly read them, and take what they do read as meaning no more than half what is said. But Roger Carbury was certainly not one of these. As he sat on the garden wall at Carbury, with his cousin's letter in his hand, her words had their full weight with him. He did not try to convince himself that all this was the verbiage of an enthusiastic girl, who might soon be turned and trained to another mode of thinking by fitting admonitions. To him now, as he read and re-read Hetta's letter sitting on the wall, there was not at any rate further hope for himself.

But Hetta had written a second letter, not to her lover. As Roger was the head of her family, and her friend, and entitled in some special way to know all that she did, she wrote to him. She told him that she had made a mistake about Paul, that she was convinced that Paul had always behaved to her with absolute sincerity, and, in short, that Paul was the dearest and most ill-used of human beings. In her enthusiasm she declared that there could be no other chance of happiness for her than that of becoming Paul's wife, and beseeched her dearest friend Roger not to turn against her, but to lend her aid.
As Roger sat on the garden wall at Carbury, with his cousin's letter in his hand, her words affected him heavily. There was no hope for himself.


Though he was altogether unchanged himself, though he was altogether incapable of change,--though he could not rally himself sufficiently to look forward to even a passive enjoyment of life without the girl whom he had loved,--yet he told himself what he believed to be the truth. At last he owned directly and plainly that, whether happy or unhappy, he must do without her. He had let time slip by with him too fast and too far before he had ventured to love. He must now stomach his disappointment, and make the best he could of such a broken, ill-conditioned life as was left to him. But, if he acknowledged this,--and he did acknowledge it,--in what fashion should he in future treat the man and woman who had reduced him so low?

Though he was incapable of change - though he could not look forward to even a passive enjoyment of life without the girl whom he loved - yet he told himself directly and plainly that he must do without her. He had let time slip by too fast and too far before he had ventured to love, and must now make the best he could of such a broken life as was left to him. But how should he treat the man and woman who had reduced him so low?


At this moment his mind was tuned to high thoughts. If it were possible he would be unselfish. He could not, indeed, bring himself to think with kindness of Paul Montague. He could not say to himself that the man had not been treacherous to him, nor could he forgive the man's supposed treason. But he did tell himself very plainly that in comparison with Hetta the man was nothing to him. It could hardly be worth his while to maintain a quarrel with the man if he were once able to assure Hetta that she, as the wife of another man, should still be dear to him as a friend might be dear. He was well aware that such assurance, such forgiveness, must contain very much. If it were to be so, Hetta's child must take the name of Carbury, and must be to him as his heir,--as near as possible his own child. In her favour he must throw aside that law of primogeniture which to him was so sacred that he had been hitherto minded to make Sir Felix his heir in spite of the absolute unfitness of the wretched young man. All this must be changed, should he be able to persuade himself to give his consent to the marriage.

If possible he would be unselfish. He could not, indeed, think kindly of Paul Montague; he could not forgive the man's supposed treason. But he did tell himself that in comparison with Hetta the man was nothing to him. He wanted to be able to assure Hetta that she should still be dear to him as a friend. Hetta's child must take the name of Carbury, and must be his heir - as near as possible his own child, in place of the wretched Felix,


In such case Carbury must be the home of the married couple, as far as he could induce them to make it so. There must be born the future infant to whose existence he was already looking forward with some idea that in his old age he might there find comfort. In such case, though he should never again be able to love Paul Montague in his heart of hearts, he must live with him for her sake on affectionate terms. He must forgive Hetta altogether,--as though there had been no fault; and he must strive to forgive the man's fault as best he might. Struggling as he was to be generous, passionately fond as he was of justice, yet he did not know how to be just himself. He could not see that he in truth had been to no extent ill-used. And ever and again, as he thought of the great prayer as to the forgiveness of trespasses, he could not refrain from asking himself whether it could really be intended that he should forgive such trespass as that committed against him by Paul Montague! Nevertheless, when he rose from the wall he had resolved that Hetta should be pardoned entirely, and that Paul Montague should be treated as though he were pardoned. As for himself,--the chances of the world had been unkind to him, and he would submit to them!

In such a case Carbury must be the home of the married couple, if he could induce them to make it so. Though he should never again be able to love Paul Montague, he must live with him for her sake on affectionate terms. He must forgive Hetta altogether, as though there had been no fault; and strive to forgive the man's fault as best he might.
Passionately fond as he was of justice, yet he did not know how to be just himself. He could not see that in truth he had not been betrayed. Nevertheless, when he rose from the wall he had resolved that Paul Montague should be treated as though he were pardoned.


Nevertheless he wrote no answer to Hetta's letter. Perhaps he felt, with some undefined but still existing hope, that the writing of such a letter would deprive him of his last chance. Hetta's letter to himself hardly required an immediate answer,--did not, indeed, demand any answer. She had simply told him that, whereas she had for certain reasons quarrelled with the man she had loved, she had now come to the conclusion that she would quarrel with him no longer. She had asked for her cousin's assent to her own views, but that, as Roger felt, was to be given rather by the discontinuance of opposition than by any positive action. Roger's influence with her mother was the assistance which Hetta really wanted from him, and that influence could hardly be given by the writing of any letter. Thinking of all this, Roger determined that he would again go up to London. He would have the vacant hours of the journey in which to think of it all again, and tell himself whether it was possible for him to bring his heart to agree to the marriage;--and then he would see the people, and perhaps learn something further from their manner and their words, before he finally committed himself to the abandonment of his own hopes and the completion of theirs.

However, he wrote no answer to Hetta's letter - perhaps feeling that it would deprive him of his last chance. Her letter did not require an immediate answer; she had simply told him how things now stood. Roger's influence with her mother was the assistance which Hetta really wanted, and that could hardly be done by writing. Roger determined that he would again go up to London. He would think it all over on the journey, and then see the people themselves, before he finally committed himself to the abandonment of his own hopes.


He went up to town, and I do not know that those vacant hours served him much. To a man not accustomed to thinking there is nothing in the world so difficult as to think. After some loose fashion we turn over things in our mind and ultimately reach some decision, guided probably by our feelings at the last moment rather than by any process of ratiocination;--and then we think that we have thought. But to follow out one argument to an end, and then to found on the base so reached the commencement of another, is not common to us. Such a process was hardly within the compass of Roger's mind,--who when he was made wretched by the dust, and by a female who had a basket of objectionable provisions opposite to him, almost forswore his charitable resolutions of the day before; but who again, as he walked lonely at night round the square which was near to his hotel, looking up at the bright moon with a full appreciation of the beauty of the heavens, asked himself what was he that he should wish to interfere with the happiness of two human beings much younger than himself, and much fitter to enjoy the world. But he had had a bath, and had got rid of the dust, and had eaten his dinner.

He went up to town, and I do not know that hours of thinking helped him much. To follow an argument to an end is not easy or common, and it was hardly within Roger's capabilities. As he walked that night round the square near his hotel, looking up at the bright moon, he asked himself why he should wish to interfere with the happiness of two much younger human beings. But he had had a bath by then, and had eaten his dinner.


The next morning he was in Welbeck Street at an early hour. When he knocked he had not made up his mind whether he would ask for Lady Carbury or her daughter, and did at last inquire whether "the ladies" were at home. The ladies were reported as being at home, and he was at once shown into the drawing-room, where Hetta was sitting. She hurried up to him, and he at once took her in his arms and kissed her. He had never done such a thing before. He had never even kissed her hand. Though they were cousins and dear friends, he had never treated her after that fashion. Her instinct told her immediately that such a greeting from him was a sign of affectionate compliance with her wishes. That this man should kiss her as her best and dearest relation, as her most trusted friend, as almost her brother, was certainly to her no offence. She could cling to him in fondest love,--if he would only consent not to be her lover.

The next morning he was in Welbeck Street early. He was at once shown into the drawing-room, where Hetta was sitting. She hurried up to him, and he took her in his arms and kissed her. He had never done such a thing before. He had never even kissed her hand.
Her instinct told her immediately that such a greeting was a sign of affectionate compliance with her wishes.


"Oh, Roger, I am so glad to see you," she said, escaping gently from his arms.
"I could not write an answer, and so I came."
"You always do the kindest thing that can be done."
"I don't know. I don't know that I can do anything now,--kind or unkind. It is all done without any aid from me. Hetta, you have been all the world to me."
"Do not reproach me," she said.

"Oh, Roger, I am so glad to see you," she said, escaping gently from his arms.
"I could not write an answer, so I came."
"You always do the kindest thing."
"I don't know that I can do anything now. It is all done. Hetta, you have been all the world to me."
"Do not reproach me," she said.


"No;--no. Why should I reproach you? You have committed no fault. I should not have come had I intended to reproach any one."
"I love you so much for saying that."
"Let it be as you wish it,--if it must. I have made up my mind to bear it, and there shall be an end of it." As he said this he took her by the hand, and she put her head upon his shoulder and began to weep. "And still you will be all the world to me," he continued, with his arm round her waist. "As you will not be my wife, you shall be my daughter."

"No. Why should I reproach you? You have committed no fault. I should not have come had I intended to reproach anyone."
"I love you so much for saying that."
"Let it be as you wish, if it must. I have made up my mind to bear it, and there shall be an end of it." As he said this he took her hand, and she put her head upon his shoulder and began to weep. "And still you will be all the world to me," he continued, with his arm round her waist. "As you will not be my wife, you shall be my daughter."


"I will be your sister, Roger."
"My daughter rather. You shall be all that I have in the world. I will hurry to grow old that I may feel for you as the old feel for the young. And if you have a child, Hetta, he must be my child." As he thus spoke her tears were renewed. "I have planned it all out in my mind, dear. There! If there be anything that I can do to add to your happiness, I will do it. You must believe this of me,--that to make you happy shall be the only enjoyment of my life."

"I will be your sister, Roger."
"My daughter rather. I will hurry to grow old so that I may feel for you as the old feel for the young. And if you have a child, Hetta, he must be as my child. There! If there is anything that I can do to add to your happiness, I will do it. You must believe that to make you happy shall be the only enjoyment of my life."


It had been hardly possible for her to tell him as yet that the man to whom he was thus consenting to surrender her had not even condescended to answer the letter in which she had told him to come back to her. And now, sobbing as she was, overcome by the tenderness of her cousin's affection, anxious to express her intense gratitude, she did not know how first to mention the name of Paul Montague. "Have you seen him?" she said in a whisper.
"Seen whom?"
"Mr. Montague."
"No;--why should I have seen him? It is not for his sake that I am here."
"But you will be his friend?"

It had been hardly possible for her to tell him that the man to whom he was surrendering her had not even condescended to answer her letter. And now, overcome by the tenderness of her cousin's affection, she did not know how to mention Paul's name.
"Have you seen him?" she whispered.
"No; it is not for his sake that I am here."
"But you will be his friend?"


"Your husband shall certainly be my friend;--or, if not, the fault shall not be mine. It shall all be forgotten, Hetta,--as nearly as such things may be forgotten. But I had nothing to say to him till I had seen you." At that moment the door was opened and Lady Carbury entered the room, and, after her greeting with her cousin, looked first at her daughter and then at Roger. "I have come up," said he, "to signify my adhesion to this marriage." Lady Carbury's face fell very low. "I need not speak again of what were my own wishes. I have learned at last that it could not have been so."
"Why should you say so?" exclaimed Lady Carbury.

"Your husband shall certainly be my friend." At that moment the door was opened. Lady Carbury entered and looked first at her daughter and then at Roger.
"I have come," said he, "to signify my agreement to this marriage." Lady Carbury's face fell very low. "I need not speak again of what were my own wishes. I have learned at last that it could not have been so."
"Why should you say so?" exclaimed Lady Carbury.


"Pray, pray, mamma--," Hetta began, but was unable to find words with which to go on with her prayer.
"I do not know that it need be so at all," continued Lady Carbury. "I think it is very much in your own hands. Of course it is not for me to press such an arrangement, if it be not in accord with your own wishes."
"I look upon her as engaged to marry Paul Montague," said Roger.
"Not at all," said Lady Carbury.
"Yes; mamma,--yes," cried Hetta boldly. "It is so. I am engaged to him."
"I beg to let your cousin know that it is not so with my consent,--nor, as far as I can understand at present, with the consent of Mr. Montague himself."

"Pray, mamma-," Hetta began.
"I do not know that it need be so at all," continued Lady Carbury.
"I look upon her as engaged to marry Paul Montague," said Roger.
"Not at all," said Lady Carbury.
"Yes; mamma, yes," cried Hetta boldly. "It is so. I am engaged to him."
"It is not so with my consent - nor, as far as I can understand at present, with the consent of Mr. Montague himself."


"Mamma!"
"Paul Montague!" ejaculated Roger Carbury. "The consent of Paul Montague! I think I may take upon myself to say that there can be no doubt as to that."
"There has been a quarrel," said Lady Carbury.
"Surely he has not quarrelled with you, Hetta?"
"I wrote to him,--and he has not answered me," said Hetta piteously.

"Mamma!"
"The consent of Paul Montague!" exclaimed Roger. "I think there can be no doubt as to that."
"There has been a quarrel," said Lady Carbury.
"Surely he has not quarrelled with you, Hetta?"
"I wrote to him - and he has not answered me," said Hetta piteously.


Then Lady Carbury gave a full and somewhat coloured account of what had taken place, while Roger listened with admirable patience. "The marriage is on every account objectionable," she said at last. "His means are precarious. His conduct with regard to that woman has been very bad. He has been sadly mixed up with that wretched man who destroyed himself. And now, when Henrietta has written to him without my sanction,--in opposition to my express commands,--he takes no notice of her. She, very properly, sent him back a present that he made her, and no doubt he has resented her doing so. I trust that his resentment may be continued."

Then Lady Carbury gave a full and somewhat coloured account of what had taken place, while Roger listened with admirable patience.
"The marriage is on every account objectionable," she said at last. "His conduct with regard to that woman has been very bad. He has been sadly mixed up with that wretched man who killed himself. And now, when Henrietta has written to him in opposition to my express commands, he takes no notice of her."


Hetta was now seated on a sofa hiding her face and weeping. Roger stood perfectly still, listening with respectful silence till Lady Carbury had spoken her last word. And even then he was slow to answer, considering what he might best say. "I think I had better see him," he replied. "If, as I imagine, he has not received my cousin's letter, that matter will be set at rest. We must not take advantage of such an accident as that. As to his income,--that I think may be managed. His connection with Mr. Melmotte was unfortunate, but was due to no fault of his." At this moment he could not but remember Lady Carbury's great anxiety to be closely connected with Melmotte, but he was too generous to say a word on that head. "I will see him, Lady Carbury, and then I will come to you again."

Hetta was now seated on a sofa hiding her face and weeping. Roger stood perfectly still, listening with respectful silence till Lady Carbury had finished. Then he was slow to answer.
"I think I had better see him," he replied. "If, as I imagine, he has not received my cousin's letter, that matter will be set at rest. As to his income, that I think may be managed. His connection with Mr. Melmotte was unfortunate, but was due to no fault of his." He was too generous to say a word about Felix and Marie Melmotte. "I will see him, Lady Carbury, and then I will come to you again."


Lady Carbury did not dare to tell him that she did not wish him to see Paul Montague. She knew that if he really threw himself into the scale against her, her opposition would weigh nothing. He was too powerful in his honesty and greatness of character,--and had been too often admitted by herself to be the guardian angel of the family,--for her to stand against him. But she still thought that had he persevered, Hetta would have become his wife.
It was late that evening before Roger found Paul Montague, who had only then returned from Liverpool with Fisker,--whose subsequent doings have been recorded somewhat out of their turn.
"I don't know what letter you mean," said Paul.
"You wrote to her?"

It was late that evening before Roger found Paul Montague, who had just returned from Liverpool.
"I don't know what letter you mean," said Paul.
"You wrote to her?"


"Certainly I wrote to her. I wrote to her twice. My last letter was one which I think she ought to have answered. She had accepted me, and had given me a right to tell my own story when she unfortunately heard from other sources the story of my journey to Lowestoft with Mrs. Hurtle." Paul pleaded his own case with indignant heat, not understanding at first that Roger had come to him on a friendly mission.
"She did answer your letter."
"I have not had a line from her;--not a word!"
"She did answer your letter."
"What did she say to me?"
"Nay,--you must ask her that."

"Certainly. I wrote to her twice. My last letter was one which I think she ought to have answered. But I have not had a line from her - not a word!"
"She did answer your letter."
"What did she say to me?"
"You must ask her that.


"But if she will not see me?"
"She will see you. I can tell you that. And I will tell you this also;--that she wrote to you as a girl writes to the lover whom she does wish to see."
"Is that true?" exclaimed Paul, jumping up.
"I am here especially to tell you that it is true. I should hardly come on such a mission if there were a doubt. You may go to her, and need have nothing to fear,--unless, indeed, it be the opposition of her mother."
"She is stronger than her mother," said Paul.

But I can tell you this; that she wrote to you as a girl writes to the lover whom she wishes to see."
"Is that true?" exclaimed Paul, jumping up.
"I am here to tell you that it is true. You may go to her, and need have nothing to fear.


"I think she is. And now I wish you to hear what I have to say."
"Of course," said Paul, sitting down suddenly. Up to this moment Roger Carbury, though he had certainly brought glad tidings, had not communicated them as a joyous, sympathetic messenger. His face had been severe, and the tone of his voice almost harsh; and Paul, remembering well the words of the last letter which his old friend had written him, did not expect personal kindness. Roger would probably say very disagreeable things to him, which he must bear with all the patience which he could summon to his assistance.
"You know what my feelings have been," Roger began, "and how deeply I have resented what I thought to be an interference with my affections. But no quarrel between you and me, whatever the rights of it may be--"
"I have never quarrelled with you," Paul began.

And now I wish you to hear what I have to say."
"Of course," said Paul, sitting down suddenly. Up to this moment Roger had not appeared as a joyous, sympathetic messenger. His face had been severe, and the tone of his voice almost harsh. Paul thought he would probably say very disagreeable things to him, which he must bear as patiently as he could.
"You know what my feelings have been," Roger began, "and how deeply I have resented what I thought to be an interference with my affections. But no quarrel between us-"
"I have never quarrelled with you."


"If you will listen to me for a moment it will be better. No anger between you and me, let it arise as it might, should be allowed to interfere with the happiness of her whom I suppose we both love better than all the rest of the world put together."
"I do," said Paul.

"Listen to me for a moment. No anger between us should be allowed to interfere with the happiness of her whom I suppose we both love better than all the rest of the world put together."
"I do," said Paul.


"And so do I;--and so I always shall. But she is to be your wife. She shall be my daughter. She shall have my property,--or her child shall be my heir. My house shall be her house,--if you and she will consent to make it so. You will not be afraid of me. You know me, I think, too well for that. You may now count on any assistance you could have from me were I a father giving you a daughter in marriage. I do this because I will make the happiness of her life the chief object of mine. Now good night.

"And so do I; and I always shall. But she is to be your wife. She shall be my daughter. Her child shall be my heir. My house shall be her house, if you and she agree. You may now count on my assistance as if I were a father giving you a daughter in marriage. I do this because I will make the happiness of her life the chief object of mine. Now good night.


Don't say anything about it at present. By-and-by we shall be able to talk about these things with more equable temper." Having so spoken he hurried out of the room, leaving Paul Montague bewildered by the tidings which had been announced to him.

Don't say anything just now."
Having so spoken he hurried out of the room, leaving Paul Montague bewildered by the news.


"You have been a guest in his house. Then, I guess, the thing's about as good as done." These words were spoken with a fine, sharp, nasal twang by a brilliantly-dressed American gentleman in one of the smartest private rooms of the great railway hotel at Liverpool, and they were addressed to a young Englishman who was sitting opposite to him. Between them there was a table covered with maps, schedules, and printed programmes. The American was smoking a very large cigar, which he kept constantly turning in his mouth, and half of which was inside his teeth. The Englishman had a short pipe. Mr. Hamilton K. Fisker, of the firm of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, was the American, and the Englishman was our friend Paul, the junior member of that firm.
"But I didn't even speak to him," said Paul.

"You have been a guest in his house. Then, I guess, the thing's about as good as done."
These words were spoken with a fine nasal twang by a brilliantly-dressed American gentleman in the great railway hotel at Liverpool. They were addressed to a young Englishman sitting opposite him. Between them there was a table covered with maps and printed sheets. The American was smoking a very large cigar, which he kept constantly turning in his mouth. He was Mr. Hamilton K. Fisker, of the firm of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, and the Englishman was Paul, the junior member of that firm.
"But I didn't even speak to him," said Paul.

Chapter 9: The Great Railway to Vera Cruz


"In commercial affairs that matters nothing. It quite justifies you in introducing me. We are not going to ask your friend to do us a favour. We don't want to borrow money."
"I thought you did."

"That doesn't matter. It justifies you in introducing me. We don't want to borrow money off him."
"I thought you did."


"If he'll go in for the thing he'd be one of us, and there would be no borrowing then. He'll join us if he's as clever as they say, because he'll see his way to making a couple of million of dollars out of it. If he'd take the trouble to run over and show himself in San Francisco, he'd make double that. The moneyed men would go in with him at once, because they know that he understands the game and has got the pluck. A man who has done what he has by financing in Europe,--by George! there's no limit to what he might do with us. We're a bigger people than any of you and have more room. We go after bigger things, and don't stand shilly-shally on the brink as you do. But Melmotte pretty nigh beats the best among us. Anyway he should come and try his luck, and he couldn't have a bigger thing or a safer thing than this.

"If he'll go in for the thing he'd be one of us, and there would be no borrowing. He'll join us if he's as clever as they say, because he'll see his way to making a couple of million dollars. If he'd take the trouble to go over to San Francisco, he'd make double that. The moneyed men would go in with him at once, because they know that he understands the game. By George! there's no limit to what he might do with us. We're a bigger people than you; we go after bigger things, and don't shilly-shally on the brink as you do. But Melmotte pretty nigh beats us. Anyway he couldn't have a bigger or a safer thing than this.


He'd see it immediately if I could talk to him for half an hour."
"Mr. Fisker," said Paul mysteriously, "as we are partners, I think I ought to let you know that many people speak very badly of Mr. Melmotte's honesty."
Mr. Fisker smiled gently, turned his cigar twice round in his mouth, and then closed one eye. "There is always a want of charity," he said, "when a man is successful."
The scheme in question was the grand proposal for a South Central Pacific and Mexican railway, which was to run from the Salt Lake City, thus branching off from the San Francisco and Chicago line,--and pass down through the fertile lands of New Mexico and Arizona, into the territory of the Mexican Republic, run by the city of Mexico, and come out on the gulf at the port of Vera Cruz. Mr. Fisker admitted at once that it was a great undertaking, acknowledged that the distance might be perhaps something over 2,000 miles, acknowledged that no computation had or perhaps could be made as to the probable cost of the railway; but seemed to think that questions such as these were beside the mark and childish. Melmotte, if he would go into the matter at all, would ask no such questions.

He'd see it immediately if I could talk to him for half an hour."
"Mr. Fisker," said Paul mysteriously, "as we are partners, I think I ought to let you know that many people speak very badly of Mr. Melmotte's honesty."
Mr. Fisker smiled gently, turned his cigar round in his mouth, and closed one eye. "There is always a lack of charity," he said, "when a man is successful."
The scheme in question was the grand proposal for a South Central Pacific and Mexican railway, which was to run from Salt Lake City, branching off from the San Francisco and Chicago line, and pass down through New Mexico and Arizona, into the Mexican Republic, coming out on the gulf at the port of Vera Cruz. Mr. Fisker admitted that it was a great undertaking - something over 2,000 miles - and its probable cost could not be calculated; but he seemed to think that these questions were beside the point and childish. Melmotte would ask no such questions.


But we must go back a little. Paul Montague had received a telegram from his partner, Hamilton K. Fisker, sent on shore at Queenstown from one of the New York liners, requesting him to meet Fisker at Liverpool immediately. With this request he had felt himself bound to comply. Personally he had disliked Fisker,--and perhaps not the less so because when in California he had never found himself able to resist the man's good humour, audacity, and cleverness combined. He had found himself talked into agreeing with any project which Mr. Fisker might have in hand. It was altogether against the grain with him, and yet by his own consent, that the flour-mill had been opened at Fiskerville. He trembled for his money and never wished to see Fisker again; but still, when Fisker came to England, he was proud to remember that Fisker was his partner, and he obeyed the order and went down to Liverpool.

But we must go back a little. Paul Montague had received a telegram from Hamilton K. Fisker, sent from a New York liner, asking him to meet Fisker at Liverpool. He had felt bound to comply. Personally he disliked Fisker, although in California he had never been able to resist the man's good humour, audacity, and cleverness. He had found himself agreeing with any project which Mr. Fisker might have in hand. It was altogether against the grain with him, and yet with his consent, that the flour-mill had been opened at Fiskerville. He trembled for his money and never wished to see Fisker again; but still, when Fisker came to England, he obeyed the order and went to Liverpool.


If the flour-mill had frightened him, what must the present project have done! Fisker explained that he had come with two objects,--first to ask the consent of the English partner to the proposed change in their business, and secondly to obtain the co-operation of English capitalists. The proposed change in the business meant simply the entire sale of the establishment at Fiskerville, and the absorption of the whole capital in the work of getting up the railway. "If you could realise all the money it wouldn't make a mile of the railway," said Paul. Mr. Fisker laughed at him. The object of Fisker, Montague, and Montague was not to make a railway to Vera Cruz, but to float a company. Paul thought that Mr. Fisker seemed to be indifferent whether the railway should ever be constructed or not. It was clearly his idea that fortunes were to be made out of the concern before a spadeful of earth had been moved. If brilliantly printed programmes might avail anything, with gorgeous maps, and beautiful little pictures of trains running into tunnels beneath snowy mountains and coming out of them on the margin of sunlit lakes, Mr. Fisker had certainly done much. But Paul, when he saw all these pretty things, could not keep his mind from thinking whence had come the money to pay for them.

If the flour-mill had frightened him, what must the present project have done! Fisker explained that he had come with two aims: firstly, to ask Paul's consent to the proposed change in their business, and secondly to obtain the co-operation of English capitalists. The proposed change in the business meant selling the property at Fiskerville.
"That wouldn't pay for a mile of the railway," said Paul.
Mr. Fisker laughed. The object was not to make a railway to Vera Cruz, but to float a company. He seemed to be indifferent whether the railway should ever be constructed or not. It was clearly his idea that fortunes were to be made out of the concern before a spadeful of earth had been moved. If brilliantly printed programmes might avail anything, with gorgeous maps, and beautiful little pictures of trains running into tunnels beneath snowy mountains and coming out on the margin of sunlit lakes, Mr. Fisker had certainly done much.
But Paul, when he saw these pretty things, could not help thinking whence had come the money to pay for them.


Mr. Fisker had declared that he had come over to obtain his partner's consent, but it seemed to that partner that a great deal had been done without any consent. And Paul's fears on this hand were not allayed by finding that on all these beautiful papers he himself was described as one of the agents and general managers of the company. Each document was signed Fisker, Montague, and Montague. References on all matters were to be made to Fisker, Montague, and Montague,--and in one of the documents it was stated that a member of the firm had proceeded to London with the view of attending to British interests in the matter. Fisker had seemed to think that his young partner would express unbounded satisfaction at the greatness which was thus falling upon him. A certain feeling of importance, not altogether unpleasant, was produced, but at the same time there was another conviction forced upon Montague's mind, not altogether pleasant, that his money was being made to disappear without any consent given by him, and that it behoved him to be cautious lest such consent should be extracted from him unawares.
"What has become of the mill?" he asked.
"We have put an agent into it."

It seemed that a great deal had been done without any consent. His fears were not allayed by finding that on all these beautiful papers he was described as one of the general managers of the company. Each document was signed Fisker, Montague, and Montague; and in one it was stated that a member of the firm had gone to London to attend to British interests in the matter. This gave Paul a certain feeling of importance, not altogether unpleasant; but he also had the less pleasant conviction that his money was being spent without his consent, and that he should be cautious lest such consent should be extracted from him unawares.
"What has become of the mill?" he asked.
"We have put an agent into it.


"Is not that dangerous? What check have you on him?"
"He pays us a fixed sum, sir. But, my word! when there is such a thing as this on hand a trumpery mill like that is not worth speaking of."
"You haven't sold it?"
"Well;--no. But we've arranged a price for a sale."
"You haven't taken the money for it?"

But, my word! when there is such a thing as this on hand, that trumpery mill is not worth speaking of."
"You haven't sold it?"
"Well; no. We've arranged a price for a sale."
"You haven't taken the money for it?"


"Well;--yes; we have. We've raised money on it, you know. You see you weren't there, and so the two resident partners acted for the firm. But Mr. Montague, you'd better go with us. You had indeed."
"And about my own income?"
"That's a flea-bite. When we've got a little ahead with this it won't matter, sir, whether you spend twenty thousand or forty thousand dollars a year. We've got the concession from the United States Government through the territories, and we're in correspondence with the President of the Mexican Republic. I've no doubt we've an office open already in Mexico and another at Vera Cruz."

"Well; yes; we have. We've raised money on it, you know. You see you weren't there, and so the two resident partners acted for the firm. But Mr. Montague, you'd better go with us. You had indeed."
"And my own income?"
"That's a flea-bite. When we've got a little ahead with this it won't matter, sir, whether you spend twenty thousand or forty thousand dollars a year. We've got the concession from the United States Government through the territories, and we're in correspondence with the President of Mexico."


"Where's the money to come from?"
"Money to come from, sir? Where do you suppose the money comes from in all these undertakings? If we can float the shares, the money'll come in quick enough. We hold three million dollars of the stock ourselves."
"Six hundred thousand pounds!" said Montague.

"Where's the money to come from?"
"Where do you suppose the money comes from in these undertakings? If we can float the shares, the money'll come in quick enough. We hold three million dollars of the stock ourselves.


"We take them at par, of course,--and as we sell we shall pay for them. But of course we shall only sell at a premium. If we can run them up even to 110, there would be three hundred thousand dollars. But we'll do better than that. I must try and see Melmotte at once. You had better write a letter now."
"I don't know the man."
"Never mind. Look here--I'll write it, and you can sign it." Whereupon Mr. Fisker did write the following letter:--

As we sell we shall pay for them. But of course we shall only sell at a premium. If we can run them up even to 110, there would be three hundred thousand dollars. But we'll do better than that. I must try and see Melmotte at once. You had better write a letter now."
"I don't know the man."
"Never mind. I'll write it, and you can sign it." Whereupon Mr. Fisker wrote the following letter: