During all these days Miss Melmotte was by no means contented with her lover's prowess, though she would not allow herself to doubt his sincerity. She had not only assured him of her undying affection in the presence of her father and mother, had not only offered to be chopped in pieces on his behalf, but had also written to him, telling how she had a large sum of her father's money within her power, and how willing she was to make it her own, to throw over her father and mother, and give herself and her fortune to her lover. She felt that she had been very gracious to her lover, and that her lover was a little slow in acknowledging the favours conferred upon him. But, nevertheless, she was true to her lover, and believed that he was true to her. Didon had been hitherto faithful. Marie had written various letters to Sir Felix, and had received two or three very short notes in reply, containing hardly more than a word or two each. But now she was told that a day was absolutely fixed for her marriage with Lord Nidderdale, and that her things were to be got ready. She was to be married in the middle of August, and here they were, approaching the end of June. "You may buy what you like, mamma," she said; "and if papa agrees about Felix, why then I suppose they'll do. But they'll never be of any use about Lord Nidderdale. If you were to sew me up in the things by main force, I wouldn't have him." Madame Melmotte groaned, and scolded in English, French, and German, and wished that she were dead; she told Marie that she was a pig, and ass, and a toad, and a dog. And ended, as she always did end, by swearing that Melmotte must manage the matter himself. "Nobody shall manage this matter for me," said Marie. "I know what I'm about now, and I won't marry anybody just because it will suit papa." "Que nous tions encore Francfort, ou New York," said the elder lady, remembering the humbler but less troubled times of her earlier life. Marie did not care for Francfort or New York; for Paris or for London;--but she did care for Sir Felix Carbury.
While her father on Sunday morning was transacting business in his own house with Paul Montague and the great commercial magnates of the city,--though it may be doubted whether that very respectable gentleman Sir Gregory Gribe was really in Grosvenor Square when his name was mentioned,--Marie was walking inside the gardens; Didon was also there at some distance from her; and Sir Felix Carbury was there also close along side of her. Marie had the key of the gardens for her own use; and had already learned that her neighbours in the square did not much frequent the place during church time on Sunday morning. Her lover's letter to her father had of course been shown to her, and she had taxed him with it immediately. Sir Felix, who had thought much of the letter as he came from Welbeck Street to keep his appointment,--having been assured by Didon that the gate should be left unlocked, and that she would be there to close it after he had come in,--was of course ready with a lie. "It was the only thing to do, Marie;--it was indeed."
"But you said you had accepted some offer."
"You don't suppose I wrote the letter?"
"It was your handwriting, Felix."
"Of course it was. I copied just what he put down. He'd have sent you clean away where I couldn't have got near you if I hadn't written it."
"And you have accepted nothing?"
"Not at all. As it is, he owes me money. Is not that odd? I gave him a thousand pounds to buy shares, and I haven't got anything from him yet." Sir Felix, no doubt, forgot the cheque for 200.
"Nobody ever does who gives papa money," said the observant daughter.
"Don't they? Dear me! But I just wrote it because I thought anything better than a downright quarrel."
"I wouldn't have written it, if it had been ever so."
"It's no good scolding, Marie. I did it for the best. What do you think we'd best do now?" Marie looked at him, almost with scorn. Surely it was for him to propose and for her to yield. "I wonder whether you're sure you're right about that money which you say is settled."
[Illustration: "It's no good scolding."]
"I'm quite sure. Mamma told me in Paris,--just when we were coming away,--that it was done so that there might be something if things went wrong. And papa told me that he should want me to sign something from time to time; and of course I said I would. But of course I won't,--if I should have a husband of my own." Felix walked along, pondering the matter, with his hands in his trowsers pockets. He entertained those very fears which had latterly fallen upon Lord Nidderdale. There would be no "cropper" which a man could "come" so bad as would be his cropper were he to marry Marie Melmotte, and then find that he was not to have a shilling! And, were he now to run off with Marie, after having written that letter, the father would certainly not forgive him. This assurance of Marie's as to the settled money was too doubtful! The game to be played was too full of danger! And in that case he would certainly get neither his 800, nor the shares. And if he were true to Melmotte, Melmotte would probably supply him with ready money. But then here was the girl at his elbow, and he no more dared to tell her to her face that he meant to give her up, than he dared to tell Melmotte that he intended to stick to his engagement. Some half promise would be the only escape for the present. "What are you thinking of, Felix?" she asked.
"It's d---- difficult to know what to do."
"But you do love me?"
"Of course I do. If I didn't love you why should I be here walking round this stupid place? They talk of your being married to Nidderdale about the end of August."
"Some day in August. But that's all nonsense, you know. They can't take me up and marry me, as they used to do the girls ever so long ago. I won't marry him. He don't care a bit for me, and never did. I don't think you care much, Felix."
"Yes, I do. A fellow can't go on saying so over and over again in a beastly place like this. If we were anywhere jolly together, then I could say it often enough."
"I wish we were, Felix. I wonder whether we ever shall be."
"Upon my word I hardly see my way as yet."
"You're not going to give it up!"
"Oh no;--not give it up; certainly not. But the bother is a fellow doesn't know what to do."
"You've heard of young Mr. Goldsheiner, haven't you?" suggested Marie.
"He's one of those city chaps."
"And Lady Julia Start?"
"She's old Lady Catchboy's daughter. Yes; I've heard of them. They got spliced last winter."
"Yes,--somewhere in Switzerland, I think. At any rate they went to Switzerland, and now they've got a house close to Albert Gate."
"How jolly for them! He is awfully rich, isn't he?"
"I don't suppose he's half so rich as papa. They did all they could to prevent her going, but she met him down at Folkestone just as the tidal boat was starting. Didon says that nothing was easier."
"Oh;--ah. Didon knows all about it."
"That she does."
"But she'd lose her place."
"There are plenty of places. She could come and live with us, and be my maid. If you would give her 50 for herself, she'd arrange it all."
"And would you come to Folkestone?"
"I think that would be stupid, because Lady Julia did that. We should make it a little different. If you liked I wouldn't mind going to--New York. And then, perhaps, we might--get--married, you know, on board. That's what Didon thinks."
"And would Didon go too?"
"That's what she proposes. She could go as my aunt, and I'd call myself by her name;--any French name you know. I should go as a French girl. And you could call yourself Smith, and be an American. We wouldn't go together, but we'd get on board just at the last moment. If they wouldn't--marry us on board, they would at New York, instantly."
"That's Didon's plan?"
"That's what she thinks best,--and she'll do it, if you'll give her 50 for herself, you know. The 'Adriatic,'--that's a White Star boat, goes on Thursday week at noon. There's an early train that would take us down that morning. You had better go and sleep at Liverpool, and take no notice of us at all till we meet on board. We could be back in a month,--and then papa would be obliged to make the best of it."
Sir Felix at once felt that it would be quite unnecessary for him to go to Herr Vossner or to any other male counsellor for advice as to the best means of carrying off his love. The young lady had it all at her fingers' ends,--even to the amount of the fee required by the female counsellor. But Thursday week was very near, and the whole thing was taking uncomfortably defined proportions. Where was he to get funds if he were to resolve that he would do this thing? He had been fool enough to intrust his ready money to Melmotte, and now he was told that when Melmotte got hold of ready money he was not apt to release it. And he had nothing to show;--no security that he could offer to Vossner. And then,--this idea of starting to New York with Melmotte's daughter immediately after he had written to Melmotte renouncing the girl, frightened him.
"There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune."
Sir Felix did not know these lines, but the lesson taught by them came home to him at this moment. Now was the tide in his affairs at which he might make himself, or utterly mar himself. "It's deuced important," he said at last with a groan.
"It's not more important for you than me," said Marie.
"If you're wrong about the money, and he shouldn't come round, where should we be then?"
"Nothing venture, nothing have," said the heiress.
"That's all very well; but one might venture everything and get nothing after all."
"You'd get me," said Marie with a pout.
"Yes;--and I'm awfully fond of you. Of course I should get you! But--"
"Very well then;--if that's your love," said Marie, turning back from him.
Sir Felix gave a great sigh, and then announced his resolution. "I'll venture it."
"Oh, Felix, how grand it will be!"
"There's a great deal to do, you know. I don't know whether it can be Thursday week." He was putting in the coward's plea for a reprieve.
"I shall be afraid of Didon if it's delayed long."
"There's the money to get, and all that."
"I can get some money. Mamma has money in the house."
"How much?" asked the baronet eagerly.
"A hundred pounds, perhaps;--perhaps two hundred."
"That would help certainly. I must go to your father for money. Won't that be a sell? To get it from him, to take you away!"
It was decided that they were to go to New York, on a Thursday,--on Thursday week if possible, but as to that he was to let her know in a day or two. Didon was to pack up the clothes and get it sent out of the house. Didon was to have 50 before she went on board; and as one of the men must know about it, and must assist in having the trunks smuggled out of the house, he was to have 10. All had been settled beforehand, so that Sir Felix really had no need to think about anything. "And now," said Marie, "there's Didon. Nobody's looking and she can open that gate for you. When we're gone, do you creep out. The gate can be left, you know. Then we'll get out on the other side." Marie Melmotte was certainly a clever girl.

Meanwhile Miss Melmotte was not contented with her lover's prowess, though she did not doubt his sincerity. She had not only assured him of her undying affection, and had offered to be chopped in pieces on his behalf, but had also written telling him she had a large sum of her father's money within her power, and was willing to give herself and her fortune to her lover. She felt that her lover was a little slow in acknowledging the favours conferred upon him. But, nevertheless, she believed that he was true to her.
Through Didon, Marie had written various letters to Sir Felix, and had received two or three very short notes in reply. But now, in June, she was told that a day was fixed for her marriage with Lord Nidderdale, in the middle of August.
"You may buy what wedding clothes you like, mamma," she said; "but if you were to sew me up in the things by force, I wouldn't have Lord Nidderdale."
Madame Melmotte groaned and scolded, and wished that she were dead; she told Marie that she was a pig, an ass, a toad, and a dog. She ended, as always, by swearing that Melmotte must manage the matter himself.
"Nobody shall manage this matter for me," said Marie. "I know what I'm about now, and I won't marry anybody just to suit papa."
On Sunday morning, while her father was doing business with Paul Montague in Grosvenor Square, Marie was walking in the square's gardens. Didon was there, at some distance; and Sir Felix Carbury was alongside her. Marie had learned that her neighbours did not frequent the square during church time on Sunday morning.
Her lover's letter to her father had of course been shown to her, and she taxed him with it immediately. Sir Felix was ready with a lie.
"It was the only thing to do, Marie; it was indeed. I just copied what he put down. He'd have sent you away where I couldn't have got near you if I hadn't written it."
"And you have accepted nothing for it?"
"Not at all. As it is, he owes me money. I gave him a thousand pounds to buy shares, and I haven't got anything from him yet." Sir Felix, no doubt, forgot the cheque for 200.
"Nobody ever does who gives papa money," said the observant daughter.
"Don't they? Dear me! What do you think we'd best do now?"
Marie looked at him almost with scorn. Surely it was for him to propose and for her to yield.
"I wonder whether you're sure about that money which you say is settled," said Felix.
"I'm quite sure. Mamma told me in Paris that it was done so that there might be something if things went wrong. And papa told me that he should want me to sign something from time to time; and I said I would. But of course I won't if I have a husband of my own."
Felix pondered the matter. If he were to run off with Marie, after having written that letter, the father would certainly not forgive him. This assurance of Marie's as to the settled money was too doubtful. The game to be played was too full of danger. And if he were true to Melmotte, Melmotte would probably supply him with ready money.
But then here was the girl at his elbow, and he no more dared to tell her to her face that he meant to give her up, than he dared to tell Melmotte that he intended to stick to his engagement. Some half promise was the only escape for the present.
"It's d___ difficult to know what to do," he said.
"But you do love me?"
"Of course I do. If I didn't love you why should I be walking round this stupid place? They talk of your marrying Nidderdale in August."
"That's all nonsense. They can't make me. He don't care a bit for me, and never did. I don't think you care much, Felix."
"Yes, I do. A fellow can't go on saying so over and over again in a beastly place like this. If we were anywhere jolly together, then I could say it often enough."
"I wish we were, Felix. I wonder whether we ever shall be."
"Upon my word I hardly see my way as yet."
"You're not giving it up!"
"Oh no; certainly not. But the bother is a fellow doesn't know what to do."
"You've heard of young Mr. Goldsheiner, haven't you?" suggested Marie. "He married Lady Julia Start last winter in Switzerland, and now they've got a house close to Albert Gate."
"How jolly! He is awfully rich, isn't he?"
"Not half so rich as papa. They did all they could to prevent her going, but she met him down at Folkestone. Didon says that nothing was easier."
"Oh; ah. Didon knows all about it."
"For 50, Didon would arrange it all."
"And would you come to Folkestone?"
"I think that would be stupid, because Lady Julia did that. I wouldn't mind going to New York. And then, perhaps, we might - get married, you know, on board ship. That's what Didon thinks."
"And would Didon go too?"
"She could go as my aunt. I should go as a French girl. And you could call yourself Smith, and be an American. We wouldn't go together, but we'd get on board just at the last moment. If they wouldn't marry us on board, they would at New York. The Adriatic - that's a White Star boat - goes from Liverpool on Thursday week at noon. There's an early train we could get. You had better go and sleep at Liverpool, and take no notice of us till we meet on board. We could be back in a month - and then papa would be obliged to make the best of it."
Sir Felix felt that the young lady had it all at her fingers' ends. But Thursday week was very near, and the whole thing was taking uncomfortably defined proportions. Where was he to get funds to do this? And the idea of starting to New York with Melmotte's daughter, immediately after he had written to Melmotte renouncing the girl, frightened him. Now was the time come when he might make himself, or utterly mar himself.
"It's deuced important," he said with a groan. "If you're wrong about the money, and he shouldn't come round, where would we be then?"
"Nothing venture, nothing have," said the heiress.
"That's all very well; but one might venture everything and get nothing after all."
"You'd get me," said Marie with a pout.
"Yes - and I'm awfully fond of you, of course. But-"
"Very well; if that's your love," she said, turning away.
Sir Felix gave a great sigh. "I'll venture it."
"Oh, Felix, how grand it will be!"
"There's a great deal to do, you know. I don't know whether it can be Thursday week."
"I shall be afraid of Didon if it's delayed long."
"There's the money to get, and all that."
"I can get some money. Mamma has money in the house."
"How much?" asked the baronet eagerly.
"A hundred pounds; perhaps two hundred."
"That would help, certainly. I must go to your father for money. Won't that be a sell? To get it from him, to take you away!"
It was decided that they were to go to New York, on Thursday week if possible. Didon was to pack up the clothes. Didon would be paid 50; and as one of the men must know about it, and help smuggle the trunks out, he was to have 10. Sir Felix really had no need to think about anything.
"And now," said Marie, "there's Didon. You leave through that gate, and we'll get out on the other side." Marie Melmotte was certainly a clever girl.


Sir Felix as he walked down to his club felt that he had been checkmated,--and was at the same time full of wrath at the insolence of the man who had so easily beaten him out of the field. As far as he could see, the game was over. No doubt he might marry Marie Melmotte. The father had told him so much himself, and he perfectly believed the truth of that oath which Marie had sworn. He did not doubt but that she'd stick to him close enough. She was in love with him, which was natural; and was a fool,--which was perhaps also natural. But romance was not the game which he was playing. People told him that when girls succeeded in marrying without their parents' consent, fathers were always constrained to forgive them at last. That might be the case with ordinary fathers. But Melmotte was decidedly not an ordinary father. He was,--so Sir Felix declared to himself,--perhaps the greatest brute ever created. Sir Felix could not but remember that elevation of the eyebrows, and the brazen forehead, and the hard mouth. He had found himself quite unable to stand up against Melmotte, and now he cursed and swore at the man as he was carried down to the Beargarden in a cab.
But what should he do? Should he abandon Marie Melmotte altogether, never go to Grosvenor Square again, and drop the whole family, including the Great Mexican Railway? Then an idea occurred to him. Nidderdale had explained to him the result of his application for shares. "You see we haven't bought any and therefore can't sell any. There seems to be something in that. I shall explain it all to my governor, and get him to go a thou' or two. If he sees his way to get the money back, he'd do that and let me have the difference." On that Sunday afternoon Sir Felix thought over all this. "Why shouldn't he 'go a thou,' and get the difference?" He made a mental calculation. 12 10_s._ per 100! 125 for a thousand! and all paid in ready money. As far as Sir Felix could understand, directly the one operation had been perfected the thousand pounds would be available for another. As he looked into it with all his intelligence he thought that he began to perceive that that was the way in which the Melmottes of the world made their money. There was but one objection. He had not got the entire thousand pounds. But luck had been on the whole very good to him. He had more than the half of it in real money, lying at a bank in the city at which he had opened an account. And he had very much more than the remainder in I. O. U.'s from Dolly Longestaffe and Miles Grendall. In fact if every man had his own,--and his bosom glowed with indignation as he reflected on the injustice with which he was kept out of his own,--he could go into the city and take up his shares to-morrow, and still have ready money at his command. If he could do this, would not such conduct on his part be the best refutation of that charge of not having any fortune which Melmotte had brought against him? He would endeavour to work the money out of Dolly Longestaffe;--and he entertained an idea that though it would be impossible to get cash from Miles Grendall, he might use his claim against Miles in the city. Miles was Secretary to the Board, and might perhaps contrive that the money required for the shares should not be all ready money. Sir Felix was not very clear about it, but thought that he might possibly in this way use the indebtedness of Miles Grendall. "How I do hate a fellow who does not pay up," he said to himself as he sat alone in his club, waiting for some friend to come in. And he formed in his head Draconic laws which he would fain have executed upon men who lost money at play and did not pay. "How the deuce fellows can look one in the face, is what I can't understand," he said to himself.
He thought over this great stroke of exhibiting himself to Melmotte as a capitalist till he gave up his idea of abandoning his suit. So he wrote a note to Marie Melmotte in accordance with her instructions.
DEAR M.,
Your father cut up very rough,--about money. Perhaps you had better see him yourself; or would your mother?
Yours always,
F.
This, as directed, he put under cover to Madame Didon,--Grosvenor Square, and posted at the club. He had put nothing at any rate in the letter which could commit him.
There was generally on Sundays a house dinner, so called, at eight o'clock. Five or six men would sit down, and would always gamble afterwards. On this occasion Dolly Longestaffe sauntered in at about seven in quest of sherry and bitters, and Felix found the opportunity a good one to speak of his money. "You couldn't cash your I. O. U.'s for me to-morrow;--could you?"
"To-morrow! oh, lord!"
"I'll tell you why. You know I'd tell you anything because I think we are really friends. I'm after that daughter of Melmotte's."
"I'm told you're to have her."
"I don't know about that. I mean to try at any rate. I've gone in you know for that Board in the city."
"I don't know anything about Boards, my boy."
"Yes, you do, Dolly. You remember that American fellow, Montague's friend, that was here one night and won all our money."
"The chap that had the waistcoat, and went away in the morning to California. Fancy starting to California after a hard night. I always wondered whether he got there alive."
"Well;--I can't explain to you all about it, because you hate those kinds of things."
"And because I am such a fool."
"I don't think you're a fool at all, but it would take a week. But it's absolutely essential for me to take up a lot of shares in the city to-morrow;--or perhaps Wednesday might do. I'm bound to pay for them, and old Melmotte will think that I'm utterly hard up if I don't. Indeed he said as much, and the only objection about me and this girl of his is as to money. Can't you understand, now, how important it may be?"
"It's always important to have a lot of money. I know that."
"I shouldn't have gone in for this kind of thing if I hadn't thought I was sure. You know how much you owe me, don't you?"
"Not in the least."
"It's about eleven hundred pounds!"
"I shouldn't wonder."
"And Miles Grendall owes me two thousand. Grasslough and Nidderdale when they lose always pay with Miles's I. O. U.'s."
"So should I, if I had them."
"It'll come to that soon that there won't be any other stuff going, and they really ain't worth anything. I don't see what's the use of playing when this rubbish is shoved about the table. As for Grendall himself, he has no feeling about it."
"Not the least, I should say."
"You'll try and get me the money, won't you, Dolly?"
"Melmotte has been at me twice. He wants me to agree to sell something. He's an old thief, and of course he means to rob me. You may tell him that if he'll let me have the money in the way I've proposed, you are to have a thousand pounds out of it. I don't know any other way."
"You could write me that,--in a business sort of way."
"I couldn't do that, Carbury. What's the use? I never write any letters. I can't do it. You tell him that; and if the sale comes off, I'll make it straight."
Miles Grendall also dined there, and after dinner, in the smoking-room, Sir Felix tried to do a little business with the Secretary. He began his operations with unusual courtesy, believing that the man must have some influence with the great distributor of shares. "I'm going to take up my shares in that company," said Sir Felix.
"Ah;--indeed." And Miles enveloped himself from head to foot in smoke.
"I didn't quite understand about it, but Nidderdale saw Melmotte and he has explained it. I think I shall go in for a couple of thousand on Wednesday."
"Oh;--ah."
"It will be the proper thing to do;--won't it?"
"Very good--thing to do!" Miles Grendall smoked harder and harder as the suggestions were made to him.
"Is it always ready money?"
"Always ready money," said Miles shaking his head, as though in reprobation of so abominable an institution.
"I suppose they allow some time to their own Directors, if a deposit, say 50 per cent., is made for the shares?"
"They'll give you half the number, which would come to the same thing."
Sir Felix turned this over in his mind, but let him look at it as he would, could not see the truth of his companion's remark. "You know I should want to sell again,--for the rise."
"Oh; you'll want to sell again."
"And therefore I must have the full number."
"You could sell half the number, you know," said Miles.
"I'm determined to begin with ten shares;--that's 1,000. Well;--I have got the money, but I don't want to draw out so much. Couldn't you manage for me that I should get them on paying 50 per cent. down?"
"Melmotte does all that himself."
"You could explain, you know, that you are a little short in your own payments to me." This Sir Felix said, thinking it to be a delicate mode of introducing his claim upon the Secretary.
"That's private," said Miles frowning.
"Of course it's private; but if you would pay me the money I could buy the shares with it, though they are public."
"I don't think we could mix the two things together, Carbury."
"You can't help me?"
"Not in that way."
"Then, when the deuce will you pay me what you owe me?" Sir Felix was driven to this plain expression of his demand by the impassibility of his debtor. Here was a man who did not pay his debts of honour, who did not even propose any arrangement for paying them, and who yet had the impudence to talk of not mixing up private matters with affairs of business! It made the young baronet very sick. Miles Grendall smoked on in silence. There was a difficulty in answering the question, and he therefore made no answer. "Do you know how much you owe me?" continued the baronet, determined to persist now that he had commenced the attack. There was a little crowd of other men in the room, and the conversation about the shares had been commenced in an under-tone. These two last questions Sir Felix had asked in a whisper, but his countenance showed plainly that he was speaking in anger.
"Of course I know," said Miles.
"Well?"
"I'm not going to talk about it here."
"Not going to talk about it here?"
"No. This is a public room."
"I am going to talk about it," said Sir Felix, raising his voice.
"Will any fellow come up-stairs and play a game of billiards?" said Miles Grendall rising from his chair. Then he walked slowly out of the room, leaving Sir Felix to take what revenge he pleased. For a moment Sir Felix thought that he would expose the transaction to the whole room; but he was afraid, thinking that Miles Grendall was a more popular man than himself.
It was Sunday night; but not the less were the gamblers assembled in the card-room at about eleven. Dolly Longestaffe was there, and with him the two lords, and Sir Felix, and Miles Grendall of course, and, I regret to say, a much better man than any of them, Paul Montague. Sir Felix had doubted much as to the propriety of joining the party. What was the use of playing with a man who seemed by general consent to be liberated from any obligation to pay? But then if he did not play with him, where should he find another gambling table? They began with whist, but soon laid that aside and devoted themselves to loo. The least respected man in that confraternity was Grendall, and yet it was in compliance with the persistency of his suggestion that they gave up the nobler game. "Let's stick to whist; I like cutting out," said Grasslough. "It's much more jolly having nothing to do now and then; one can always bet," said Dolly shortly afterwards. "I hate loo," said Sir Felix in answer to a third application. "I like whist best," said Nidderdale, "but I'll play anything anybody likes;--pitch and toss if you please." But Miles Grendall had his way, and loo was the game.
At about two o'clock Grendall was the only winner. The play had not been very high, but nevertheless he had won largely. Whenever a large pool had collected itself he swept it into his garners. The men opposed to him hardly grudged him this stroke of luck. He had hitherto been unlucky; and they were able to pay him with his own paper, which was so valueless that they parted with it without a pang. Even Dolly Longestaffe seemed to have a supply of it. The only man there not so furnished was Montague, and while the sums won were quite small he was allowed to pay with cash. But to Sir Felix it was frightful to see ready money going over to Miles Grendall, as under no circumstances could it be got back from him. "Montague," he said, "just change these for the time. I'll take them back, if you still have them when we've done." And he handed a lot of Miles's paper across the table. The result of course would be that Felix would receive so much real money, and that Miles would get back more of his own worthless paper. To Montague it would make no difference, and he did as he was asked;--or rather was preparing to do so, when Miles interfered. On what principle of justice could Sir Felix come between him and another man? "I don't understand this kind of thing," he said. "When I win from you, Carbury, I'll take my I. O. U.'s, as long as you have any."
"By George, that's kind."
"But I won't have them handed about the table to be changed."
"Pay them yourself, then," said Sir Felix, laying a handful down on the table.
"Don't let's have a row," said Lord Nidderdale.
"Carbury is always making a row," said Grasslough.
"Of course he is," said Miles Grendall.
"I don't make more row than anybody else; but I do say that as we have such a lot of these things, and as we all know that we don't get cash for them as we want it, Grendall shouldn't take money and walk off with it."
"Who is walking off?" said Miles.
"And why should you be entitled to Montague's money more than any of us?" asked Grasslough.
The matter was debated, and was thus decided. It was not to be allowed that Miles's paper should be negotiated at the table in the manner that Sir Felix had attempted to adopt. But Mr. Grendall pledged his honour that when they broke up the party he would apply any money that he might have won to the redemption of his I. O. U.'s, paying a regular percentage to the holders of them. The decision made Sir Felix very cross. He knew that their condition at six or seven in the morning would not be favourable to such commercial accuracy,--which indeed would require an accountant to effect it; and he felt sure that Miles, if still a winner, would in truth walk off with the ready money.
For a considerable time he did not speak, and became very moderate in his play, tossing his cards about, almost always losing, but losing a minimum, and watching the board. He was sitting next to Grendall, and he thought that he observed that his neighbour moved his chair farther and farther away from him, and nearer to Dolly Longestaffe, who was next to him on the other side. This went on for an hour, during which Grendall still won,--and won heavily from Paul Montague. "I never saw a fellow have such a run of luck in my life," said Grasslough. "You've had two trumps dealt to you every hand almost since we began!"
"Ever so many hands I haven't played at all," said Miles.
"You've always won when I've played," said Dolly. "I've been looed every time."
"You oughtn't to begrudge me one run of luck, when I've lost so much," said Miles, who, since he began, had destroyed paper counters of his own making, supposed to represent considerably above 1,000, and had also,--which was of infinitely greater concern to him,--received an amount of ready money which was quite a godsend to him.
"What's the good of talking about it?" said Nidderdale. "I hate all this row about winning and losing. Let's go on, or go to bed." The idea of going to bed was absurd. So they went on. Sir Felix, however, hardly spoke at all, played very little, and watched Miles Grendall without seeming to watch him. At last he felt certain that he saw a card go into the man's sleeve, and remembered at the moment that the winner had owed his success to a continued run of aces. He was tempted to rush at once upon the player, and catch the card on his person. But he feared. Grendall was a big man; and where would he be if there should be no card there? And then, in the scramble, there would certainly be at any rate a doubt. And he knew that the men around him would be most unwilling to believe such an accusation. Grasslough was Grendall's friend, and Nidderdale and Dolly Longestaffe would infinitely rather be cheated than suspect any one of their own set of cheating them. He feared both the violence of the man he should accuse, and also the impassive good humour of the others. He let that opportunity pass by, again watched, and again saw the card abstracted. Thrice he saw it, till it was wonderful to him that others also should not see it. As often as the deal came round, the man did it. Felix watched more closely, and was certain that in each round the man had an ace at least once. It seemed to him that nothing could be easier. At last he pleaded a headache, got up, and went away, leaving the others playing. He had lost nearly a thousand pounds, but it had been all in paper. "There's something the matter with that fellow," said Grasslough.
"There's always something the matter with him, I think," said Miles. "He is so awfully greedy about his money." Miles had become somewhat triumphant in his success.
"The less said about that, Grendall, the better," said Nidderdale. "We have put up with a good deal, you know, and he has put up with as much as anybody." Miles was cowed at once, and went on dealing without manoeuvring a card on that hand.

Sir Felix felt that he had been checkmated - and was at the same time full of wrath at Melmotte's insolence. As far as he could see, the game was over. No doubt he might marry Marie Melmotte. She was in love with him, which was natural; and was a fool, which was perhaps also natural. But Melmotte would not forgive his daughter for marrying without his consent. He was - so Sir Felix declared to himself - the greatest brute ever created. Sir Felix had found himself quite unable to stand up against Melmotte, and now he cursed the man as he was carried down to the Beargarden in a cab.
But what should he do? Should he abandon Marie Melmotte altogether, and drop the whole family, including the Great Mexican Railway? An idea occurred to him. Nidderdale had explained to him the result of his application for shares.
"You see we haven't bought any and therefore can't sell any. There seems to be something in that. I shall explain it all to my governor, and get him to let me have a thousand or two."
Sir Felix thought this over, and made a mental calculation. 12 10s. per 100! 125 for a thousand! and paid in ready money. As far as Sir Felix could understand, as soon as one operation had been completed the thousand pounds would be available for another.
There was just one objection. He had not got a thousand pounds. But luck had been good to him, and he had more than half that amount lying at a bank in the city. And he had very much more than the remainder in I.O.U.'s from Dolly Longestaffe and Miles Grendall. In fact, if every man paid up, he could take up his shares tomorrow. Would that not refute Melmotte's charge of not having any fortune? He would try to get the money out of Dolly Longestaffe; and though it would be impossible to get cash from Miles Grendall, he might use his claim against Miles, who was Secretary to the Board, and could perhaps contrive that the money required for the shares should not be all ready money.
As he sat in his club, he thought over this great stroke till he gave up his idea of abandoning his suit. So he wrote a note to Marie Melmotte:
Dear M.,
Your father cut up very rough about money. Perhaps you had better see him yourself; or would your mother?
Yours always,
F.
This, as directed, he addressed to Madame Didon, and posted at the club.
On Sundays there was generally a house dinner, so called, at eight o'clock. Five or six men would sit down, and gamble afterwards. On this occasion Dolly Longestaffe sauntered in at about seven, and Felix said, "You couldn't cash your I.O.U.'s for me tomorrow; could you?"
"Tomorrow! oh, lord!"
"I'll tell you why, because you're a friend. I'm after that daughter of Melmotte's."
"I'm told you're to have her."
"I don't know about that. I mean to try. I've gone in for that Board in the city."
"I don't know anything about Boards, my boy."
"Well, it would take a week to explain it all, but it's absolutely essential for me to take up a lot of shares in the city tomorrow; or perhaps Wednesday. Old Melmotte will think that I'm utterly hard up if I don't pay for them. Can't you understand, now, how important it may be?"
"It's always important to have a lot of money. I know that."
"You know how much you owe me, don't you?"
"Not in the least."
"It's about eleven hundred pounds!"
"I shouldn't wonder."
"And Miles Grendall owes me two thousand. Grasslough and Nidderdale always pay me with Miles's I.O.U.'s. They ain't really worth anything. I don't see what's the use of playing when this rubbish is shoved about the table. But you'll try and get me the money, won't you, Dolly?"
"Melmotte has been at me twice," said Dolly Longestaffe. "He wants me to agree to sell something. He's an old thief, and he means to rob me. You may tell him that if he'll let me have the money in the way I've proposed, you are to have a thousand pounds out of it. I don't know any other way."
"You could write that in a business letter."
"I couldn't, Carbury. I never write letters. You tell him that if the sale comes off, I'll make it straight."
Miles Grendall also dined there, and in the smoking-room after dinner, Sir Felix tried to do a little business with him, believing that he must have some influence with Melmotte.
"I'm going to take up my shares in that company," said Sir Felix. "Nidderdale saw Melmotte and he has explained it. I think I shall go in for a couple of thousand on Wednesday."
"Oh; ah."
"It will be the proper thing to do, won't it?"
"Very good thing to do!" Miles Grendall smoked harder.
"Is it always ready money?"
"Always ready money," said Miles, shaking his head.
"I suppose they allow some time to their own Directors, if a deposit, say 50 per cent, is made for the shares?"
"They'll give you half the number, which would come to the same thing."
Sir Felix turned this over in his mind, but could not see the truth of it. "You know I should want to sell again - for the rise."
"Oh; you'll want to sell again."
"I want to begin with ten shares; that's 1,000. I have got the money, but I don't want to draw out so much. Couldn't you manage for me that I should get them on paying 50 per cent down?"
"Melmotte does all that himself."
"You could explain, you know, that you are a little short in your own payments to me." Sir Felix thought this was a delicate way of introducing his claim upon the Secretary.
"That's private," said Miles, frowning.
"Of course it's private; but if you would pay me the money I could buy the shares."
"I don't think we could mix the two things together, Carbury."
"Then when the deuce will you pay what you owe me?" demanded Sir Felix.
Miles Grendall smoked on in silence.
"Do you know how much you owe me?" continued the baronet, determined to persist. There was a little crowd of other men in the room, and he asked these questions in a whisper, but he was plainly angry.
"Of course I know," said Miles. "I'm not going to talk about it here, in a public room."
"I am going to talk about it," said Sir Felix, raising his voice.
"Will any fellow come upstairs and play a game of billiards?" said Miles Grendall, rising from his chair. Then he walked out slowly. For a moment Sir Felix considered exposing the transaction to the whole room; but he was afraid, thinking that Miles Grendall was a more popular man than himself.
The gamblers were assembled in the card-room at eleven. Dolly Longestaffe was there, and with him the two lords, and Sir Felix, and Miles Grendall, and, I regret to say, Paul Montague. Sir Felix had doubted whether he should join the party. What was the use of playing with a man who seemed to feel no obligation to pay? But then where should he find another gaming table?
They began with whist, but soon switched to loo at Grendall's repeated suggestions.
"Let's stick to whist," said Grasslough.
"I hate loo," said Sir Felix.
"I like whist best," said Nidderdale, "but I'll play anything anybody likes." Miles Grendall had his way, and loo was the game.
At about two o'clock Grendall was the only winner. His opponents did not grudge him his unusual luck; and they were able to pay him with his own paper, which was so valueless that they parted with it without a pang. The only man without any of his I.O.U.s was Montague, and since the sums won were quite small he paid with cash.
But to Sir Felix it was frightful to see ready money going over to Miles Grendall.
"Montague," he said, "just change these." And he handed a lot of Miles's paper across the table, so that he would receive so much real money, and Miles would get back more of his own worthless paper. Paul Montague was about to do as he was asked, when Miles interfered.
"When I win from you, Carbury," he said, "I'll take my I.O.U.'s, as long as you have any. But I won't have them handed about the table to be changed."
"Pay them yourself, then," said Sir Felix, laying a handful down on the table.
"Don't let's have a row," said Lord Nidderdale.
"Carbury is always making a row," said Grasslough.
"Of course he is," said Miles Grendall.
"I don't make more row than anybody else; but I do say that as we have such a lot of these things, Grendall shouldn't take money and walk off with it."
"Who is walking off?" said Miles.
"And why should you be entitled to Montague's money?" asked Grasslough.
The matter was debated; and it was decided that Miles's paper should not be negotiated at the table in this way. But Mr. Grendall pledged his honour that when they broke up the party he would give any money that he might have won towards the paying of his I.O.U.'s.
The decision made Sir Felix very cross. He knew that by six or seven in the morning they would need an accountant to work that out; and he felt sure that Miles would simply walk off with the money.
For a considerable time he did not speak, and became very moderate in his play, losing a minimum, and watching the board. He was sitting next to Grendall, and he thought that he observed that his neighbour moved his chair farther and farther away from him. This went on for an hour, during which Grendall still won - and won heavily from Paul Montague.
"I never saw a fellow have such a run of luck," said Grasslough. "You've had two trumps dealt to you every hand almost since we began!"
"You've always won when I've played," said Dolly. "I've been looed every time."
"You oughtn't to begrudge me one run of luck, when I've lost so much," said Miles, who by now had destroyed his own papers to the amount of 1,000, and had also received an amount of ready money which was a godsend to him.
"What's the good of talking about it?" said Nidderdale. "Let's go on, or go to bed." The idea of going to bed was absurd. So they went on.
Sir Felix, however, hardly spoke, and watched Miles Grendall. At last he felt certain that he saw a card go into the man's sleeve. He was tempted to rush at once upon him, and catch the card on his person. But Grendall was a big man; and what if there should be no card there? And the men around him would be most unwilling to believe such an accusation. Grasslough was Grendall's friend, and Nidderdale and Dolly Longestaffe would rather be cheated than suspect one of their own set of cheating them.
So Felix let that opportunity pass by, again watched, and again saw the card abstracted. Thrice he saw it, till it was amazing to him that others did not. He watched more closely, and was certain that in each round the man had an ace at least once. At last he pleaded a headache, got up, and went away, leaving the others playing. He had lost nearly a thousand pounds, but it had been all in paper.
"There's something the matter with that fellow," said Grasslough.
"There's always something the matter with him," said Miles. "He is so awfully greedy about his money."
"The less said about that, Grendall, the better," said Nidderdale. "We have all put up with a good deal, you know." Miles was cowed, and dealt without manoeuvring a card on that hand.


Poor Hetta passed a very bad night. The story she had heard seemed to be almost too awful to be true,--even about any one else. The man had come to her, and had asked her to be his wife,--and yet at that very moment was living in habits of daily intercourse with another woman whom he had promised to marry! And then, too, his courtship with her had been so graceful, so soft, so modest, and yet so long continued! Though he had been slow in speech, she had known since their first meeting how he regarded her! The whole state of his mind had, she had thought, been visible to her,--had been intelligible, gentle, and affectionate. He had been aware of her friends' feeling, and had therefore hesitated. He had kept himself from her because he had owed so much to friendship. And yet his love had not been the less true, and had not been less dear to poor Hetta. She had waited, sure that it would come,--having absolute confidence in his honour and love. And now she was told that this man had been playing a game so base, and at the same time so foolish, that she could find not only no excuse but no possible cause for it. It was not like any story she had heard before of man's faithlessness. Though she was wretched and sore at heart she swore to herself that she would not believe it. She knew that her mother would write to Roger Carbury,--but she knew also that nothing more would be said about the letter till the answer should come. Nor could she turn anywhere else for comfort. She did not dare to appeal to Paul himself. As regarded him, for the present she could only rely on the assurance, which she continued to give herself, that she would not believe a word of the story that had been told her.
But there was other wretchedness besides her own. She had undertaken to give Marie Melmotte's message to her brother. She had done so, and she must now let Marie have her brother's reply. That might be told in a very few words--"Everything is over!" But it had to be told.
"I want to call upon Miss Melmotte, if you'll let me," she said to her mother at breakfast.
"Why should you want to see Miss Melmotte? I thought you hated the Melmottes?"
"I don't hate them, mamma. I certainly don't hate her. I have a message to take to her,--from Felix."
"A message--from Felix."
"It is an answer from him. She wanted to know if all that was over. Of course it is over. Whether he said so or not, it would be so. They could never be married now;--could they, mamma?"
The marriage, in Lady Carbury's mind, was no longer even desirable. She, too, was beginning to disbelieve in the Melmotte wealth, and did quite disbelieve that that wealth would come to her son, even should he succeed in marrying the daughter. It was impossible that Melmotte should forgive such offence as had now been committed. "It is out of the question," she said. "That, like everything else with us, has been a wretched failure. You can go, if you please. Felix is under no obligation to them, and has taken nothing from them. I should much doubt whether the girl will get anybody to take her now. You can't go alone, you know," Lady Carbury added. But Hetta said that she did not at all object to going alone as far as that. It was only just over Oxford Street.
So she went out and made her way into Grosvenor Square. She had heard, but at the time remembered nothing, of the temporary migration of the Melmottes to Bruton Street. Seeing, as she approached the house, that there was a confusion there of carts and workmen, she hesitated. But she went on, and rang the bell at the door, which was wide open. Within the hall the pilasters and trophies, the wreaths and the banners, which three or four days since had been built up with so much trouble, were now being pulled down and hauled away. And amidst the ruins Melmotte himself was standing. He was now a member of Parliament, and was to take his place that night in the House. Nothing, at any rate, should prevent that. It might be but for a short time;--but it should be written in the history of his life that he had sat in the British House of Commons as member for Westminster. At the present moment he was careful to show himself everywhere. It was now noon, and he had already been into the City. At this moment he was talking to the contractor for the work,--having just propitiated that man by a payment which would hardly have been made so soon but for the necessity which these wretched stories had entailed upon him of keeping up his credit for the possession of money. Hetta timidly asked one of the workmen whether Miss Melmotte was there. "Do you want my daughter?" said Melmotte coming forward, and just touching his hat. "She is not living here at present."
"Oh,--I remember now," said Hetta.
"May I be allowed to tell her who was asking after her?" At the present moment Melmotte was not unreasonably suspicious about his daughter.
"I am Miss Carbury," said Hetta in a very low voice.
"Oh, indeed;--Miss Carbury!--the sister of Sir Felix Carbury?" There was something in the tone of the man's voice which grated painfully on Hetta's ears,--but she answered the question. "Oh;--Sir Felix's sister! May I be permitted to ask whether--you have any business with my daughter?" The story was a hard one to tell, with all the workmen around her, in the midst of the lumber, with the coarse face of the suspicious man looking down upon her; but she did tell it very simply. She had come with a message from her brother. There had been something between her brother and Miss Melmotte, and her brother had felt that it would be best that he should acknowledge that it must be all over. "I wonder whether that is true," said Melmotte, looking at her out of his great coarse eyes, with his eyebrows knit, with his hat on his head and his hands in his pockets. Hetta, not knowing how, at the moment, to repudiate the suspicion expressed, was silent. "Because, you know, there has been a deal of falsehood and double dealing. Sir Felix has behaved infamously; yes,--by G----, infamously. A day or two before my daughter started, he gave me a written assurance that the whole thing was over, and now he sends you here. How am I to know what you are really after?"
"I have come because I thought I could do some good," she said, trembling with anger and fear. "I was speaking to your daughter at your party."
"Oh, you were there;--were you? It may be as you say, but how is one to tell? When one has been deceived like that, one is apt to be suspicious, Miss Carbury." Here was one who had spent his life in lying to the world, and who was in his very heart shocked at the atrocity of a man who had lied to him! "You are not plotting another journey to Liverpool;--are you?" To this Hetta could make no answer. The insult was too much, but alone, unsupported, she did not know how to give him back scorn for scorn. At last he proposed to take her across to Bruton Street himself, and at his bidding she walked by his side. "May I hear what you say to her?" he asked.
"If you suspect me, Mr. Melmotte, I had better not see her at all. It is only that there may no longer be any doubt."
"You can say it all before me."
"No;--I could not do that. But I have told you, and you can say it for me. If you please, I think I will go home now."
But Melmotte knew that his daughter would not believe him on such a subject. This girl she probably would believe. And though Melmotte himself found it difficult to trust anybody, he thought that there was more possible good than evil to be expected from the proposed interview. "Oh, you shall see her," he said. "I don't suppose she's such a fool as to try that kind of thing again." Then the door in Bruton Street was opened, and Hetta, repenting her mission, found herself almost pushed into the hall. She was bidden to follow Melmotte up-stairs, and was left alone in the drawing-room, as she thought, for a long time. Then the door was slowly opened and Marie crept into the room. "Miss Carbury," she said, "this is so good of you,--so good of you! I do so love you for coming to me! You said you would love me. You will; will you not?" and Marie, sitting down by the stranger, took her hand and encircled her waist.
"Mr. Melmotte has told you why I have come."
"Yes;--that is, I don't know. I never believe what papa says to me." To poor Hetta such an announcement as this was horrible. "We are at daggers drawn. He thinks I ought to do just what he tells me, as though my very soul were not my own. I won't agree to that;--would you?" Hetta had not come there to preach disobedience, but could not fail to remember at the moment that she was not disposed to obey her mother in an affair of the same kind. "What does he say, dear?"
Hetta's message was to be conveyed in three words, and when those were told, there was nothing more to be said. "It must all be over, Miss Melmotte."
"Is that his message, Miss Carbury?" Hetta nodded her head. "Is that all?"
"What more can I say? The other night you told me to bid him send you word. And I thought he ought to do so. I gave him your message, and I have brought back the answer. My brother, you know, has no income of his own;--nothing at all."
"But I have," said Marie with eagerness.
"But your father--"
"It does not depend upon papa. If papa treats me badly, I can give it to my husband. I know I can. If I can venture, cannot he?" "I think it is impossible."
"Impossible! Nothing should be impossible. All the people that one hears of that are really true to their loves never find anything impossible. Does he love me, Miss Carbury? It all depends on that. That's what I want to know." She paused, but Hetta could not answer the question. "You must know about your brother. Don't you know whether he does love me? If you know I think you ought to tell me." Hetta was still silent. "Have you nothing to say?"
"Miss Melmotte--" began poor Hetta very slowly.
"Call me Marie. You said you would love me;--did you not? I don't even know what your name is."
"My name is--Hetta."
"Hetta;--that's short for something. But it's very pretty. I have no brother, no sister. And I'll tell you, though you must not tell anybody again;--I have no real mother. Madame Melmotte is not my mamma, though papa chooses that it should be thought so." All this she whispered, with rapid words, almost into Hetta's ear. "And papa is so cruel to me! He beats me sometimes." The new friend, round whom Marie still had her arm, shuddered as she heard this. "But I never will yield a bit for that. When he boxes and thumps me I always turn and gnash my teeth at him. Can you wonder that I want to have a friend? Can you be surprised that I should be always thinking of my lover? But,--if he doesn't love me, what am I to do then?"
"I don't know what I am to say," ejaculated Hetta amidst her sobs. Whether the girl was good or bad, to be sought or to be avoided, there was so much tragedy in her position that Hetta's heart was melted with sympathy.
"I wonder whether you love anybody, and whether he loves you," said Marie. Hetta certainly had not come there to talk of her own affairs, and made no reply to this. "I suppose you won't tell me about yourself."
"I wish I could tell you something for your own comfort."
"He will not try again, you think?"
"I am sure he will not."
"I wonder what he fears. I should fear nothing,--nothing. Why should not we walk out of the house, and be married any way? Nobody has a right to stop me. Papa could only turn me out of his house. I will venture if he will."
It seemed to Hetta that even listening to such a proposition amounted to falsehood,--to that guilt of which Mr. Melmotte had dared to suppose that she could be capable. "I cannot listen to it. Indeed I cannot listen to it. My brother is sure that he cannot--cannot--"
"Cannot love me, Hetta! Say it out, if it is true."
"It is true," said Hetta. There came over the face of the other girl a stern hard look, as though she had resolved at the moment to throw away from her all soft womanly things. And she relaxed her hold on Hetta's waist. "Oh, my dear, I do not mean to be cruel, but you ask me for the truth."
"Yes; I did."
"Men are not, I think, like girls."
"I suppose not," said Marie slowly. "What liars they are, what brutes;--what wretches! Why should he tell me lies like that? Why should he break my heart? That other man never said that he loved me. Did he never love me,--once?"
Hetta could hardly say that her brother was incapable of such love as Marie expected, but she knew that it was so. "It is better that you should think of him no more."
"Are you like that? If you had loved a man and told him of it, and agreed to be his wife and done as I have, could you bear to be told to think of him no more,--just as though you had got rid of a servant or a horse? I won't love him. No;--I'll hate him. But I must think of him. I'll marry that other man to spite him, and then, when he finds that we are rich, he'll be broken-hearted."
"You should try to forgive him, Marie."
"Never. Do not tell him that I forgive him. I command you not to tell him that. Tell him,--tell him, that I hate him, and that if I ever meet him, I will look at him so that he shall never forget it. I could,--oh!--you do not know what I could do. Tell me;--did he tell you to say that he did not love me?"
"I wish I had not come," said Hetta.
"I am glad you have come. It was very kind. I don't hate you. Of course I ought to know. But did he say that I was to be told that he did not love me?"
"No;--he did not say that."
"Then how do you know? What did he say?"
"That it was all over."
"Because he is afraid of papa. Are you sure he does not love me?"
"I am sure."
"Then he is a brute. Tell him that I say that he is a false-hearted liar, and that I trample him under my foot." Marie as she said this thrust her foot upon the ground as though that false one were in truth beneath it,--and spoke aloud, as though regardless who might hear her. "I despise him;--despise him. They are all bad, but he is the worst of all. Papa beats me, but I can bear that. Mamma reviles me and I can bear that. He might have beaten me and reviled me, and I could have borne it. But to think that he was a liar all the time;--that I can't bear." Then she burst into tears. Hetta kissed her, tried to comfort her, and left her sobbing on the sofa.
Later in the day, two or three hours after Miss Carbury had gone, Marie Melmotte, who had not shown herself at luncheon, walked into Madame Melmotte's room, and thus declared her purpose. "You can tell papa that I will marry Lord Nidderdale whenever he pleases." She spoke in French and very rapidly.
On hearing this Madame Melmotte expressed herself to be delighted. "Your papa," said she, "will be very glad to hear that you have thought better of this at last. Lord Nidderdale is, I am sure, a very good young man."
"Yes," continued Marie, boiling over with passion as she spoke. "I'll marry Lord Nidderdale, or that horrid Mr. Grendall who is worse than all the others, or his old fool of a father,--or the sweeper at the crossing,--or the black man that waits at table, or anybody else that he chooses to pick up. I don't care who it is the least in the world. But I'll lead him such a life afterwards! I'll make Lord Nidderdale repent the hour he saw me! You may tell papa." And then, having thus entrusted her message to Madame Melmotte, Marie left the room.

Poor Hetta passed a very bad night. Paul's courtship had been so graceful, so soft, so modest, and so long continued! The whole state of his mind had, she had thought, been visible to her - gentle and affectionate. He had been aware of her friends' feeling, and had therefore hesitated to declare himself. And yet his love had not been the less true. Poor Hetta had waited, having absolute confidence in his honour and love.
And now she was told that this man had been playing a game so base, and so foolish, that she could find no possible cause for it. Though she was wretched and sore at heart she swore to herself that she would not believe it. She knew that her mother would write to Roger Carbury. She did not dare to appeal to Paul himself.
But there was other wretchedness besides her own. She had given Marie Melmotte's message to her brother, and she must now let Marie have her brother's reply. That might be told in a very few words - "Everything is over!" But it had to be told.
"I want to call upon Miss Melmotte," she said to her mother at breakfast.
"Why? I thought you hated the Melmottes?"
"I don't hate her, mamma. I have a message for her, from Felix. She wanted to know if all that was over. Of course it is over. They could never be married now; could they, mamma?"
Lady Carbury was beginning to disbelieve in the Melmotte wealth, and thought it impossible in any case that Melmotte should forgive Felix's offence.
"It is out of the question," she said. "You can go, if you please. I doubt whether the girl will get anybody to take her now."
So Hetta made her way to Grosvenor Square. Seeing a confusion of carts and workmen outside the house, she hesitated. But she went on, and rang the bell at the door, which was wide open. Within the hall, the pilasters, wreaths and banners, which had been built up with so much trouble, were now being pulled down and hauled away.
Amidst the ruins Melmotte himself was standing. He was now a member of Parliament, and was to take his place that night in the House. It might be only for a short time; but it should be written in the story of his life that he had sat in the House of Commons as member for Westminster.
At present he was careful to show himself everywhere. That morning he had already been into the City, and he was now propitiating the contractor about payment.
Hetta timidly asked one of the workmen whether Miss Melmotte was there.
"Do you want my daughter?" said Melmotte coming forward, and just touching his hat. "She is not living here at present. May I be allowed to tell her who was asking after her?"
"I am Miss Carbury," said Hetta in a very low voice.
"Oh, indeed! Sir Felix's sister! May I ask whether you have any business with my daughter?"
The story was a hard one to tell; but she did tell it very simply. She had come with a message from her brother. There had been something between her brother and Miss Melmotte, and her brother had felt that it would be best that he should acknowledge that it must all be over.
"I wonder whether that is true," said Melmotte, with his eyebrows knit. "Because, you know, there has been a deal of falsehood and double dealing. Sir Felix has behaved infamously. A day or two before my daughter started, he gave me a written assurance that the whole thing was over, and now he sends you here. How am I to know what you are really after?"
"I have come because I thought I could do some good," she said, trembling with anger and fear. "I was speaking to your daughter at your party."
"Oh, you were there, were you? When one has been deceived like that, one is apt to be suspicious, Miss Carbury. You are not plotting another journey to Liverpool; are you? I will take you across to Bruton Street to see her."
At his bidding she walked by his side. "May I hear what you say to her?" he asked.
"No. But I have told you, and you can say it for me. If you please, I think I will go home now."
But Melmotte knew that his daughter would not believe him on such a subject. This girl she probably would believe.
"Oh, you shall see her," he said. "I don't suppose she's such a fool as to try that kind of thing again."
The door in Bruton Street was opened, and Hetta found herself almost pushed into the hall. She was left alone in the drawing-room for a long time. Then the door was slowly opened and Marie crept into the room.
"Miss Carbury," she said, "this is so good of you! I do so love you for coming to me! You said you would love me. You will; will you not?" and Marie, sitting down, took her hand and encircled her waist.
"Mr. Melmotte has told you why I have come."
"Yes; that is, I don't know. I never believe what papa says to me." To poor Hetta this announcement was horrible. "He thinks I ought to do just what he tells me, as though my soul were not my own. I won't agree to that; would you? What does Felix say, dear?"
"It must all be over, Miss Melmotte."
"Is that all, Miss Carbury?"
"What more can I say? I gave him your message, and I have brought back the answer. My brother, you know, has no income - nothing at all."
"But I have," said Marie with eagerness.
"But your father-"
"It does not depend upon papa. If papa treats me badly, I can give it to my husband. I know I can. If I can venture, cannot he?"
"I think it is impossible."
"Impossible! Nothing should be impossible. Does he love me, Miss Carbury? It all depends on that. That's what I want to know." She paused, but Hetta could not answer. "Does he love me? If you know I think you ought to tell me." Hetta was still silent. "Have you nothing to say?"
"Miss Melmotte-" began poor Hetta very slowly.
"Call me Marie. I don't even know what your name is."
"Hetta."
"Hetta; that's short for something. But it's very pretty. I have no brother, no sister. And I'll tell you, though you must not tell anybody: I have no real mother. Madame Melmotte is not my mamma. And papa is so cruel to me! He beats me sometimes." Hetta shuddered as she heard this. "But I never will yield for that. When he thumps me I turn and gnash my teeth at him. Can you be surprised that I should be always thinking of my lover? But if he doesn't love me, what am I to do then?"
"I don't know what to say." Hetta's heart was melted with sympathy. "I wish I could tell you something for your comfort."
"He will not try again, you think?"
"I am sure he will not."
"I wonder what he fears. I should fear nothing. Why should we not walk out of the house, and be married anyway? Nobody has a right to stop me."
"Indeed my brother is sure that he cannot - cannot-"
"Cannot love me, Hetta! Say it out, if it is true."
"It is true," said Hetta.
There came over the face of the other girl a stern hard look, and she relaxed her hold on Hetta's waist.
"Oh, my dear, I do not mean to be cruel, but you asked me for the truth."
"Yes; I did."
"Men are not, I think, like girls."
"I suppose not," said Marie slowly. "What liars they are, what brutes; what wretches! Why should he break my heart? Did he never love me?"
"It is better that you should think of him no more."
"Could you? If you had loved a man and agreed to be his wife, could you bear to be told to think of him no more? I won't love him. No; I'll hate him. But I must think of him. I'll marry that other man to spite him, and then, when he finds that we are rich, he'll be broken-hearted."
"You should try to forgive him, Marie."
"Never. Do not tell him that I forgive him. Tell him that I hate him. Did he tell you to say that he did not love me?"
"I wish I had not come," said Hetta.
"I am glad you have come. It was very kind. I don't hate you. But are you sure he does not love me?"
"I am sure."
"Then he is a brute. Tell him that I say that he is a false-hearted liar, and that I trample him under my foot. I despise him. He is the worst of all. Papa beats me, but I can bear that. Mamma reviles me and I can bear that. He might have beaten me and reviled me, and I could have borne it. But to think that he was a liar all the time; that I can't bear."
Then she burst into tears. Hetta kissed her, tried to comfort her, and left her sobbing on the sofa.
Two or three hours later, Marie Melmotte walked into Madame Melmotte's room, and declared: "You can tell papa that I will marry Lord Nidderdale whenever he pleases."
"Your papa will be very glad to hear it," said Madame Melmotte.
"Yes," continued Marie passionately. "I'll marry Lord Nidderdale, or that horrid Mr. Grendall, or his old fool of a father - or the sweeper at the crossing, or anybody else that he chooses. I don't care who it is. But I'll lead him such a life afterwards! I'll make Lord Nidderdale repent the hour he saw me! You may tell papa." And having entrusted this message to Madame Melmotte, Marie left the room.

Chapter 68: Miss Melmotte Declares her Purpose