Mr. Fisker was fully satisfied with the progress he had made, but he never quite succeeded in reconciling Paul Montague to the whole transaction. Mr. Melmotte was indeed so great a reality, such a fact in the commercial world of London, that it was no longer possible for such a one as Montague to refuse to believe in the scheme. Melmotte had the telegraph at his command, and had been able to make as close inquiries as though San Francisco and Salt Lake City had been suburbs of London. He was chairman of the British branch of the Company, and had had shares allocated to him,--or as he said to the house,--to the extent of two millions of dollars. But still there was a feeling of doubt, and a consciousness that Melmotte, though a tower of strength, was thought by many to have been built upon the sands.
Paul had now of course given his full authority to the work, much in opposition to the advice of his old friend Roger Carbury,--and had come up to live in town, that he might personally attend to the affairs of the great railway. There was an office just behind the Exchange, with two or three clerks and a secretary, the latter position being held by Miles Grendall, Esq. Paul, who had a conscience in the matter and was keenly alive to the fact that he was not only a director but was also one of the firm of Fisker, Montague, and Montague which was responsible for the whole affair, was grievously anxious to be really at work, and would attend most inopportunely at the Company's offices. Fisker, who still lingered in London, did his best to put a stop to this folly, and on more than one occasion somewhat snubbed his partner. "My dear fellow, what's the use of your flurrying yourself? In a thing of this kind, when it has once been set agoing, there is nothing else to do. You may have to work your fingers off before you can make it move, and then fail. But all that has been done for you. If you go there on the Thursdays that's quite as much as you need do. You don't suppose that such a man as Melmotte would put up with any real interference." Paul endeavoured to assert himself, declaring that as one of the managers he meant to take a part in the management;--that his fortune, such as it was, had been embarked in the matter, and was as important to him as was Mr. Melmotte's fortune to Mr. Melmotte. But Fisker got the better of him and put him down. "Fortune! what fortune had either of us? a few beggarly thousands of dollars not worth talking of, and barely sufficient to enable a man to look at an enterprise. And now where are you? Look here, sir;--there's more to be got out of the smashing up of such an affair as this, if it should smash up, than could be made by years of hard work out of such fortunes as yours and mine in the regular way of trade."
Paul Montague certainly did not love Mr. Fisker personally, nor did he relish his commercial doctrines; but he allowed himself to be carried away by them. "When and how was I to have helped myself?" he wrote to Roger Carbury. "The money had been raised and spent before this man came here at all. It's all very well to say that he had no right to do it; but he had done it. I couldn't even have gone to law with him without going over to California, and then I should have got no redress." Through it all he disliked Fisker, and yet Fisker had one great merit which certainly recommended itself warmly to Montague's appreciation. Though he denied the propriety of Paul's interference in the business, he quite acknowledged Paul's right to a share in the existing dash of prosperity. As to the real facts of the money affairs of the firm he would tell Paul nothing. But he was well provided with money himself, and took care that his partner should be in the same position. He paid him all the arrears of his stipulated income up to the present moment, and put him nominally into possession of a large number of shares in the railway,--with, however, an understanding that he was not to sell them till they had reached ten per cent. above par, and that in any sale transacted he was to touch no other money than the amount of profit which would thus accrue. What Melmotte was to be allowed to do with his shares, he never heard. As far as Montague could understand, Melmotte was in truth to be powerful over everything. All this made the young man unhappy, restless, and extravagant. He was living in London and had money at command, but he never could rid himself of the fear that the whole affair might tumble to pieces beneath his feet and that he might be stigmatised as one among a gang of swindlers.
We all know how, in such circumstances, by far the greater proportion of a man's life will be given up to the enjoyments that are offered to him and the lesser proportion to the cares, sacrifices, and sorrows. Had this young director been describing to his intimate friend the condition in which he found himself, he would have declared himself to be distracted by doubts, suspicions, and fears till his life was a burden to him. And yet they who were living with him at this time found him to be a very pleasant fellow, fond of amusement, and disposed to make the most of all the good things which came in his way. Under the auspices of Sir Felix Carbury he had become a member of the Beargarden, at which best of all possible clubs the mode of entrance was as irregular as its other proceedings. When any young man desired to come in who was thought to be unfit for its style of living, it was shown to him that it would take three years before his name could be brought up at the usual rate of vacancies; but in regard to desirable companions the committee had a power of putting them at the top of the list of candidates and bringing them in at once. Paul Montague had suddenly become credited with considerable commercial wealth and greater commercial influence. He sat at the same Board with Melmotte and Melmotte's men; and was on this account elected at the Beargarden without any of that harassing delay to which other less fortunate candidates are subjected.
And,--let it be said with regret, for Paul Montague was at heart honest and well-conditioned,--he took to living a good deal at the Beargarden. A man must dine somewhere, and everybody knows that a man dines cheaper at his club than elsewhere. It was thus he reasoned with himself. But Paul's dinners at the Beargarden were not cheap. He saw a good deal of his brother directors, Sir Felix Carbury and Lord Nidderdale, entertained Lord Alfred more than once at the club, and had twice dined with his great chairman amidst all the magnificence of merchant-princely hospitality in Grosvenor Square. It had indeed been suggested to him by Mr. Fisker that he also ought to enter himself for the great Marie Melmotte plate. Lord Nidderdale had again declared his intention of running, owing to considerable pressure put upon him by certain interested tradesmen, and with this intention had become one of the directors of the Mexican Railway Company. At the time, however, of which we are now writing, Sir Felix was the favourite for the race among fashionable circles generally.
The middle of April had come, and Fisker was still in London. When millions of dollars are at stake,--belonging perhaps to widows and orphans, as Fisker remarked,--a man was forced to set his own convenience on one side. But this devotion was not left without reward, for Mr. Fisker had "a good time" in London. He also was made free of the Beargarden, as an honorary member, and he also spent a good deal of money. But there is this comfort in great affairs, that whatever you spend on yourself can be no more than a trifle. Champagne and ginger-beer are all the same when you stand to win or lose thousands,--with this only difference, that champagne may have deteriorating results which the more innocent beverage will not produce. The feeling that the greatness of these operations relieved them from the necessity of looking to small expenses operated in the champagne direction, both on Fisker and Montague, and the result was deleterious. The Beargarden, no doubt, was a more lively place than Carbury Manor, but Montague found that he could not wake up on these London mornings with thoughts as satisfactory as those which attended his pillow at the old Manor House.
On Saturday, the 19th of April, Fisker was to leave London on his return to New York, and on the 18th a farewell dinner was to be given to him at the club. Mr. Melmotte was asked to meet him, and on such an occasion all the resources of the club were to be brought forth. Lord Alfred Grendall was also to be a guest, and Mr. Cohenlupe, who went about a good deal with Melmotte. Nidderdale, Carbury, Montague, and Miles Grendall were members of the club, and gave the dinner. No expense was spared. Herr Vossner purveyed the viands and wines,--and paid for them. Lord Nidderdale took the chair, with Fisker on his right hand, and Melmotte on his left, and, for a fast-going young lord, was supposed to have done the thing well. There were only two toasts drunk, to the healths of Mr. Melmotte and Mr. Fisker, and two speeches were of course made by them. Mr. Melmotte may have been held to have clearly proved the genuineness of that English birth which he claimed by the awkwardness and incapacity which he showed on the occasion. He stood with his hands on the table and with his face turned to his plate blurted out his assurance that the floating of this railway company would be one of the greatest and most successful commercial operations ever conducted on either side of the Atlantic. It was a great thing,--a very great thing;--he had no hesitation in saying that it was one of the greatest things out. He didn't believe a greater thing had ever come out. He was happy to give his humble assistance to the furtherance of so great a thing,--and so on. These assertions, not varying much one from the other, he jerked out like so many separate interjections, endeavouring to look his friends in the face at each, and then turning his countenance back to his plate as though seeking for inspiration for the next attempt. He was not eloquent; but the gentlemen who heard him remembered that he was the great Augustus Melmotte, that he might probably make them all rich men, and they cheered him to the echo. Lord Alfred had reconciled himself to be called by his Christian name, since he had been put in the way of raising two or three hundred pounds on the security of shares which were to be allotted to him, but of which in the flesh he had as yet seen nothing. Wonderful are the ways of trade! If one can only get the tip of one's little finger into the right pie, what noble morsels, what rich esculents, will stick to it as it is extracted!
When Melmotte sat down Fisker made his speech, and it was fluent, fast, and florid. Without giving it word for word, which would be tedious, I could not adequately set before the reader's eye the speaker's pleasing picture of world-wide commercial love and harmony which was to be produced by a railway from Salt Lake City to Vera Cruz, nor explain the extent of gratitude from the world at large which might be claimed by, and would finally be accorded to, the great firms of Melmotte & Co. of London, and Fisker, Montague, and Montague of San Francisco. Mr. Fisker's arms were waved gracefully about. His head was turned now this way and now that, but never towards his plate. It was very well done. But there was more faith in one ponderous word from Mr. Melmotte's mouth than in all the American's oratory.
There was not one of them then present who had not after some fashion been given to understand that his fortune was to be made, not by the construction of the railway, but by the floating of the railway shares. They had all whispered to each other their convictions on this head. Even Montague did not beguile himself into an idea that he was really a director in a company to be employed in the making and working of a railway. People out of doors were to be advertised into buying shares, and they who were so to say indoors were to have the privilege of manufacturing the shares thus to be sold. That was to be their work, and they all knew it. But now, as there were eight of them collected together, they talked of humanity at large and of the coming harmony of nations.
After the first cigar, Melmotte withdrew, and Lord Alfred went with him. Lord Alfred would have liked to remain, being a man who enjoyed tobacco and soda and brandy,--but momentous days had come upon him, and he thought it well to cling to his Melmotte. Mr. Samuel Cohenlupe also went, not having taken a very distinguished part in the entertainment. Then the young men were left alone, and it was soon proposed that they should adjourn to the cardroom. It had been rather hoped that Fisker would go with the elders. Nidderdale, who did not understand much about the races of mankind, had his doubts whether the American gentleman might not be a "Heathen Chinee," such as he had read of in poetry. But Mr. Fisker liked to have his amusement as well as did the others, and went up resolutely into the cardroom. Here they were joined by Lord Grasslough, and were very quickly at work, having chosen loo as their game. Mr. Fisker made an allusion to poker as a desirable pastime, but Lord Nidderdale, remembering his poetry, shook his head. "Oh! bother," he said, "let's have some game that Christians play." Mr. Fisker declared himself ready for any game,--irrespective of religious prejudices.
It must be explained that the gambling at the Beargarden had gone on with very little interruption, and that on the whole Sir Felix Carbury kept his luck. There had of course been vicissitudes, but his star had been in the ascendant. For some nights together this had been so continual that Mr. Miles Grendall had suggested to his friend Lord Grasslough that there must be foul play. Lord Grasslough, who had not many good gifts, was, at least, not suspicious, and repudiated the idea. "We'll keep an eye on him," Miles Grendall had said. "You may do as you like, but I'm not going to watch any one," Grasslough had replied. Miles had watched, and had watched in vain, and it may as well be said at once that Sir Felix, with all his faults, was not as yet a blackleg. Both of them now owed Sir Felix a considerable sum of money, as did also Dolly Longestaffe, who was not present on this occasion. Latterly very little ready money had passed hands,--very little in proportion to the sums which had been written down on paper,--though Sir Felix was still so well in funds as to feel himself justified in repudiating any caution that his mother might give him.
When I.O.U.'s have for some time passed freely in such a company as that now assembled the sudden introduction of a stranger is very disagreeable, particularly when that stranger intends to start for San Francisco on the following morning. If it could be arranged that the stranger should certainly lose, no doubt then he would be regarded as a godsend. Such strangers have ready money in their pockets, a portion of which would be felt to descend like a soft shower in a time of drought. When these dealings in unsecured paper have been going on for a considerable time real bank notes come to have a loveliness which they never possessed before. But should the stranger win, then there may arise complications incapable of any comfortable solution. In such a state of things some Herr Vossner must be called in, whose terms are apt to be ruinous. On this occasion things did not arrange themselves comfortably. From the very commencement Fisker won, and quite a budget of little papers fell into his possession, many of which were passed to him from the hands of Sir Felix,--bearing, however, a "G" intended to stand for Grasslough, or an "N" for Nidderdale, or a wonderful hieroglyphic which was known at the Beargarden to mean D. L----, or Dolly Longestaffe, the fabricator of which was not present on the occasion. Then there was the M. G. of Miles Grendall, which was a species of paper peculiarly plentiful and very unattractive on these commercial occasions. Paul Montague hitherto had never given an I.O.U. at the Beargarden,--nor of late had our friend Sir Felix. On the present occasion Montague won, though not heavily. Sir Felix lost continually, and was almost the only loser. But Mr. Fisker won nearly all that was lost. He was to start for Liverpool by train at 8.30 A.M., and at 6 A.M. he counted up his bits of paper and found himself the winner of about 600. "I think that most of them came from you, Sir Felix," he said,--handing the bundle across the table.
"I dare say they did, but they are all good against these other fellows." Then Fisker, with most perfect good humour, extracted one from the mass which indicated Dolly Longestaffe's indebtedness to the amount of 50. "That's Longestaffe," said Felix, "and I'll change that of course." Then out of his pocket-book he extracted other minute documents bearing that M. G. which was so little esteemed among them,--and so made up the sum. "You seem to have 150 from Grasslough, 145 from Nidderdale, and 322 10_s._ from Grendall," said the baronet. Then Sir Felix got up as though he had paid his score. Fisker, with smiling good humour, arranged the little bits of paper before him and looked round upon the company.
"This won't do, you know," said Nidderdale. "Mr. Fisker must have his money before he leaves. You've got it, Carbury."
"Of course he has," said Grasslough.
"As it happens I have not," said Sir Felix;--"but what if I had?"
"Mr. Fisker starts for New York immediately," said Lord Nidderdale. "I suppose we can muster 600 among us. Ring the bell for Vossner. I think Carbury ought to pay the money as he lost it, and we didn't expect to have our I.O.U.'s brought up in this way."
"Lord Nidderdale," said Sir Felix, "I have already said that I have not got the money about me. Why should I have it more than you, especially as I knew I had I.O.U.'s more than sufficient to meet anything I could lose when I sat down?"
"Mr. Fisker must have his money at any rate," said Lord Nidderdale, ringing the bell again.
"It doesn't matter one straw, my lord," said the American. "Let it be sent to me to Frisco, in a bill, my lord." And so he got up to take his hat, greatly to the delight of Miles Grendall.
But the two young lords would not agree to this. "If you must go this very minute I'll meet you at the train with the money," said Nidderdale. Fisker begged that no such trouble should be taken. Of course he would wait ten minutes if they wished. But the affair was one of no consequence. Wasn't the post running every day? Then Herr Vossner came from his bed, suddenly arrayed in a dressing-gown, and there was a conference in a corner between him, the two lords, and Mr. Grendall. In a very few minutes Herr Vossner wrote a cheque for the amount due by the lords, but he was afraid that he had not money at his banker's sufficient for the greater claim. It was well understood that Herr Vossner would not advance money to Mr. Grendall unless others would pledge themselves for the amount.
"I suppose I'd better send you a bill over to America," said Miles Grendall, who had taken no part in the matter as long as he was in the same boat with the lords.
"Just so. My partner, Montague, will tell you the address." Then bustling off, taking an affectionate adieu of Paul, shaking hands with them all round, and looking as though he cared nothing for the money, he took his leave. "One cheer for the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway," he said as he went out of the room.
Not one there had liked Fisker. His manners were not as their manners; his waistcoat not as their waistcoats. He smoked his cigar after a fashion different from theirs, and spat upon the carpet. He said "my lord" too often, and grated their prejudices equally whether he treated them with familiarity or deference. But he had behaved well about the money, and they felt that they were behaving badly. Sir Felix was the immediate offender, as he should have understood that he was not entitled to pay a stranger with documents which, by tacit contract, were held to be good among themselves. But there was no use now in going back to that. Something must be done.
"Vossner must get the money," said Nidderdale. "Let's have him up again."
"I don't think it's my fault," said Miles. "Of course no one thought he was to be called upon in this sort of way."
"Why shouldn't you be called upon?" said Carbury. "You acknowledge that you owe the money."
"I think Carbury ought to have paid it," said Grasslough.
"Grassy, my boy," said the baronet, "your attempts at thinking are never worth much. Why was I to suppose that a stranger would be playing among us? Had you a lot of ready money with you to pay if you had lost it? I don't always walk about with six hundred pounds in my pocket;--nor do you!"
"It's no good jawing," said Nidderdale; "let's get the money." Then Montague offered to undertake the debt himself, saying that there were money transactions between him and his partner. But this could not be allowed. He had only lately come among them, had as yet had no dealing in I.O.U.'s, and was the last man in the company who ought to be made responsible for the impecuniosity of Miles Grendall. He, the impecunious one,--the one whose impecuniosity extended to the absolute want of credit,--sat silent, stroking his heavy moustache.
There was a second conference between Herr Vossner and the two lords in another room, which ended in the preparation of a document by which Miles Grendall undertook to pay to Herr Vossner 450 at the end of three months, and this was endorsed by the two lords, by Sir Felix, and by Paul Montague; and in return for this the German produced 322 10_s._ in notes and gold. This had taken some considerable time. Then a cup of tea was prepared and swallowed; after which Nidderdale, with Montague, started off to meet Fisker at the railway station. "It'll only be a trifle over 100 each," said Nidderdale, in the cab.
"Won't Mr. Grendall pay it?"
"Oh, dear no. How the devil should he?"
"Then he shouldn't play."
"That 'd be hard on him, poor fellow. If you went to his uncle the duke, I suppose you could get it. Or Buntingford might put it right for you. Perhaps he might win, you know, some day, and then he'd make it square. He'd be fair enough if he had it. Poor Miles!"
They found Fisker wonderfully brilliant with bright rugs, and greatcoats with silk linings. "We've brought you the tin," said Nidderdale, accosting him on the platform.
"Upon my word, my lord, I'm sorry you have taken so much trouble about such a trifle."
"A man should always have his money when he wins."
"We don't think anything about such little matters at Frisco, my lord."
"You're fine fellows at Frisco, I dare say. Here we pay up,--when we can. Sometimes we can't, and then it is not pleasant." Fresh adieus were made between the two partners, and between the American and the lord;--and then Fisker was taken off on his way towards Frisco. "He's not half a bad fellow, but he's not a bit like an Englishman," said Lord Nidderdale, as he walked out of the station.

Mr. Fisker was fully satisfied with his progress, but he never quite succeeded in reconciling Paul Montague to the transaction. Mr. Melmotte was indeed so great in the commercial world of London that Paul could no longer refuse to believe in the scheme. Melmotte had made close inquiries of San Francisco and Salt Lake City by telegraph. He was chairman of the British branch of the Company, and had shares allocated to him - he said - to the extent of two million dollars. But still Paul felt doubt, and was conscious that Melmotte, though a tower of strength, was thought by many to have been built upon the sands.
Paul had now given his full consent to the work, against the advice of his old friend Roger Carbury, and had come to live in London, to attend to the affairs of the great railway. There was an office behind the Exchange, with two or three clerks and a secretary - the latter being Miles Grendall. Paul, who was keenly aware that he was not only a director but also one of the firm responsible for the whole affair, was very anxious to be really at work, and would arrive most inopportunely at the Company's offices. Fisker did his best to put a stop to this folly.
"My dear fellow," he said, "what's the use of flurrying yourself? Once a thing of this kind has been set agoing, there is nothing else to do. If you go there on Thursdays that's quite as much as you need do. A man such as Melmotte would not put up with any real interference."
Paul tried to assert himself, declaring that as one of the managers he meant to take a part in the management, his own fortune being at stake; but Fisker put him down.
"Fortune! what fortune had either of us? a few beggarly thousand dollars not worth talking of. And now where are you? Look here, sir; there's more to be made here than could be made by years of hard work in regular trade."
Paul Montague allowed himself to be carried away by Fisker's arguments.
"How could I have helped myself?" he wrote to Roger Carbury. "The money had been raised and spent before this man came here at all. I couldn't have gone to law with him without going over to California, and then I should have got no redress." He disliked Fisker, and yet Fisker had one great merit: he quite acknowledged Paul's right to a share in the current dash of prosperity. As to the real facts of the firm's money affairs, he would tell Paul nothing. But he was well provided with money himself, and took care that Paul should be too. He paid him all the arrears of his income, and allocated him a large number of shares in the railway - with an understanding that he was not to sell them till they had reached ten per cent above par, and that in any sale he was to touch no other money than the accruing profit.
What Melmotte was to be allowed to do with his shares, Paul never heard. It seemed Melmotte was to be powerful over everything. All this made the young man unhappy, restless, and extravagant. He was living in London and had money at command, but he never could rid himself of the fear that the whole affair might tumble to pieces beneath his feet and that he might be stigmatised as a swindler.
Yet more of Paul's life was given up to enjoyments than to his cares and sorrows. Although he felt himself distracted by doubts, his associates found him to be a very pleasant fellow, fond of amusement and good living. Under the auspices of Sir Felix Carbury he had become a member of the Beargarden. The waiting list for that club was three years, but Paul Montague had suddenly become credited with commercial wealth and influence, and was elected at the Beargarden without any delay.
And - let it be said with regret, for Paul Montague was at heart honest and well-conditioned - he took to living a good deal at the Beargarden. A man must dine somewhere, and he reasoned that a man dines cheaper at his club than elsewhere. But Paul's dinners at the Beargarden were not cheap. He saw a good deal of his brother directors, Sir Felix Carbury and Lord Nidderdale, entertained Lord Alfred at the club, and had twice dined with his great chairman amidst the magnificence of Grosvenor Square.
Mr. Fisker suggested to him that he ought to enter himself for the great Marie Melmotte plate. Lord Nidderdale had again declared his intention of running, owing to pressure put upon him by certain tradesmen, and with this intention had become one of the directors of the Mexican Railway Company. However, Sir Felix was the favourite for the race among fashionable circles.
By the middle of April Fisker was still in London. He was made an honorary member of the Beargarden, and spent a good deal of money. But champagne and ginger-beer are all the same when you stand to win or lose thousands. The feeling that they need not worry about small expenses led both Fisker and Montague in the champagne direction; and the result was damaging. Montague found that he could not wake up on these London mornings with thoughts as satisfactory as those which had attended him at Carbury Manor.
On the 19th of April, Fisker was to leave London for New York, and on the 18th a farewell dinner was to be given to him at the club. Mr. Melmotte was asked to meet him; Lord Alfred Grendall was also to be a guest, and Mr. Cohenlupe, who went about a good deal with Melmotte. Nidderdale, Carbury, Montague, and Miles Grendall, as members of the club, gave the dinner.
No expense was spared. Herr Vossner provided the food and wines. There were two toasts drunk, to the healths of Mr. Melmotte and Mr. Fisker, and speeches were made by them. Mr. Melmotte perhaps proved the genuineness of his English birth by the awkwardness he showed. He stood with his hands on the table, and with his face turned to his plate blurted out his assurance that the floating of this railway company would be one of the greatest commercial operations ever conducted on either side of the Atlantic. It was a great thing - a very great thing; it was one of the greatest things ever. He didn't believe a greater thing had ever come out. He was happy to give his humble assistance to the furtherance of so great a thing - and so on. He was not eloquent; but the gentlemen who heard him remembered that he might make them all rich men, and they cheered.
When Melmotte sat down Fisker made his speech, and it was fluent, fast, and florid. But the listeners had more faith in one ponderous word from Mr. Melmotte than in all the American's oratory.
All those present by now understood that their fortunes were to be made, not by the construction of the railway, but by the floating of the railway shares. Even Montague did not beguile himself into an idea that he was really employed in the making and working of a railway. They were in the business of manufacturing shares to be sold. That was to be their work, and they all knew it. But the eight of them talked of humanity at large and of the coming harmony of nations.
After the first cigar, Melmotte withdrew, and Lord Alfred went with him. Lord Alfred would have liked to remain to enjoy the tobacco and soda and brandy, but he thought it well to cling to his benefactor Melmotte. Mr. Samuel Cohenlupe also went. The young men were left alone, and it was soon proposed that they should adjourn to the cardroom. Mr. Fisker went with them, and they were joined by Lord Grasslough, and were very quickly playing loo.
During the recent gambling at the Beargarden, on the whole Sir Felix Carbury had kept his luck. This luck had been so continual that Miles Grendall had suggested to his friend Lord Grasslough that there must be foul play. Lord Grasslough, though he had not many good gifts, was at least not suspicious, and rejected the idea.
"We'll keep an eye on him," Miles Grendall had said.
"You may do as you like, but I'm not going to watch anyone," Grasslough had replied.
Miles had watched in vain, and it may as well be said at once that Sir Felix, with all his faults, was not a cheat. Both of them now owed Sir Felix a considerable sum of money, as did Dolly Longestaffe. Very little ready money had passed hands, compared to the sums which had been written down on paper.
When I.O.U.'s have for some time passed freely in such a company, the sudden introduction of a stranger is very disagreeable, particularly when that stranger intends to start for San Francisco the next morning. Should the stranger win, then there may arise complications which have no comfortable solution. In such a state of things Herr Vossner must be called in to loan them cash at ruinous rates.
On this occasion things did not arrange themselves comfortably. From the start Fisker won, and quite a pile of little papers fell into his possession, many of which were passed to him from the hands of Sir Felix - bearing, however, a "G" for Grasslough, or an "N" for Nidderdale, or a wonderful hieroglyphic which was known at the Beargarden to mean D.L. for Dolly Longestaffe, who was not present. And then there were plentiful M.G.s of Miles Grendall.
Paul Montague up to now had never given an I.O.U. On this night he won, though not heavily. Sir Felix lost continually. But Mr. Fisker won nearly all that was lost. He was to start for Liverpool by train at 8.30 a.m., and at 6 a.m. he counted up his bits of paper and found himself the winner of about 600. "I think that most of them came from you, Sir Felix," he said, handing the bundle across the table.
"I dare say they did, but they are all good against these other fellows."
Fisker, with perfect good humour, extracted one from the mass which indicated that Dolly Longestaffe owed 50.
"That's Longestaffe," said Felix, "and I'll change that of course." Out of his pocket-book he extracted other minute documents bearing "M.G.", and so made up the sum.
"You seem to have 150 from Grasslough, 145 from Nidderdale, and 322 10s. from Grendall," said Sir Felix, and he got up as though he had paid his score. Fisker, with smiling good humour, arranged the little bits of paper before him and looked round upon the company.
"This won't do, you know," said Nidderdale. "Mr. Fisker must have his money before he leaves. You've got it, Carbury."
"Of course he has," said Grasslough.
"As it happens I have not," said Sir Felix; "but what if I had?"
"Mr. Fisker starts for New York immediately," said Lord Nidderdale. "I suppose we can muster 600 among us. Ring the bell for Vossner. I think Carbury ought to pay the money as he lost it, and we didn't expect to have our I.O.U.'s brought up in this way."
"Lord Nidderdale," said Sir Felix, "I have already said that I have not got the money about me. Why should I have it more than you, especially as I knew I had I.O.U.'s more than sufficient to meet anything I could lose when I sat down?"
"Mr. Fisker must have his money at any rate," said Lord Nidderdale, ringing the bell again.
"It doesn't matter one straw, my lord," said the American. "Let it be sent to me to Frisco, in a bill, my lord." And he got up to take his hat, greatly to the delight of Miles Grendall. But the two young lords would not agree to this.
"If you must go I'll meet you at the train with the money," said Nidderdale. Fisker begged that no such trouble should be taken. Of course he would wait ten minutes if they wished. But the affair was of no consequence. Wasn't the post running every day?
Then Herr Vossner came from his bed, in a dressing-gown, and there was a conference in a corner between him, the two lords, and Mr. Grendall. In a very few minutes Herr Vossner wrote a cheque for the amount due from Nidderdale and Grasslough, but he was afraid that he had not money at his bank sufficient for the greatest sum. It was known that Herr Vossner would not advance money to Mr. Grendall unless others would guarantee it.
"I suppose I'd better send you a bill over to America," said Miles Grendall.
"Just so. Montague will tell you the address." Then, shaking hands all round, he took his leave.
No one there had liked Fisker. His manners were not as their manners; his waistcoat not as their waistcoats. He spat upon the carpet. He said "my lord" too often. But he had behaved well about the money, and they felt that they were behaving badly. Sir Felix was the immediate offender, as he should have understood that he was not entitled to pay a stranger with their I.O.U.s. But there was no use now in going back to that. Something must be done.
"Vossner must get the money," said Nidderdale.
"I don't think it's my fault," said Miles. "Of course no one expected to be called upon in this way."
"Why shouldn't you be called upon?" said Carbury. "You acknowledge that you owe the money."
"I think Carbury ought to have paid it," said Grasslough.
"Grassy, my boy," said the baronet, "your attempts at thinking are never worth much. Why was I to suppose that a stranger would be playing among us? I don't walk about with six hundred pounds in my pocket - nor do you!"
"It's no good jawing," said Nidderdale; "let's get the money." Montague offered to undertake the debt himself, saying that there were money transactions between him and his partner. But this could not be allowed. He had only lately come among them, and was the last man in the company who ought to be made responsible for the debts of Miles Grendall. He, the impecunious one, sat silent, stroking his moustache.
There was a second conference between Herr Vossner and the two lords in another room, which ended in the preparation of a document by which Miles Grendall undertook to pay Herr Vossner 450 at the end of three months; and in return for this the German produced 322 10s. in notes and gold. Then a cup of tea was swallowed; after which Nidderdale and Montague set off to meet Fisker at the railway station.
"It'll only be a trifle over 100 each," said Nidderdale, in the cab.
"Won't Mr. Grendall pay it?"
"Oh, dear no. How the devil should he?"
"Then he shouldn't play."
"That'd be hard on him, poor fellow. If you went to his uncle the duke, I suppose you could get it. Or he might win, you know, some day, and then he'd make it square. Poor Miles!"
They found Fisker on the platform. "We've brought you the tin," said Nidderdale.
"Upon my word, my lord, I'm sorry you have taken so much trouble about such a trifle."
"A man should always have his money when he wins."
"We don't think anything about such little matters at Frisco, my lord."
"You're fine fellows at Frisco, I dare say. Here we pay up, when we can." Fresh adieus were made, and then Fisker was taken off.
"He's not a bad fellow, but he's not a bit like an Englishman," said Lord Nidderdale, as he walked out of the station.


When all her friends were gone Lady Carbury looked about for her son,--not expecting to find him, for she knew how punctual was his nightly attendance at the Beargarden, but still with some faint hope that he might have remained on this special occasion to tell her of his fortune. She had watched the whispering, had noticed the cool effrontery with which Felix had spoken,--for without hearing the words she had almost known the very moment in which he was asking,--and had seen the girl's timid face, and eyes turned to the ground, and the nervous twitching of her hands as she replied. As a woman, understanding such things, who had herself been wooed, who had at least dreamed of love, she had greatly disapproved her son's manner. But yet, if it might be successful, if the girl would put up with love-making so slight as that, and if the great Melmotte would accept in return for his money a title so modest as that of her son, how glorious should her son be to her in spite of his indifference!
"I heard him leave the house before the Melmottes went," said Henrietta, when the mother spoke of going up to her son's bedroom.
"He might have stayed to-night. Do you think he asked her?"
"How can I say, mamma?"
"I should have thought you would have been anxious about your brother. I feel sure he did,--and that she accepted him."
"If so I hope he will be good to her. I hope he loves her."
"Why shouldn't he love her as well as any one else? A girl need not be odious because she has money. There is nothing disagreeable about her."
"No,--nothing disagreeable. I do not know that she is especially attractive."
"Who is? I don't see anybody specially attractive. It seems to me you are quite indifferent about Felix."
"Do not say that, mamma."
"Yes you are. You don't understand all that he might be with this girl's fortune, and what he must be unless he gets money by marriage. He is eating us both up."
"I would not let him do that, mamma."
"It's all very well to say that, but I have some heart. I love him. I could not see him starve. Think what he might be with 20,000 a-year!"
"If he is to marry for that only, I cannot think that they will be happy."
"You had better go to bed, Henrietta. You never say a word to comfort me in all my troubles."
Then Henrietta went to bed, and Lady Carbury absolutely sat up the whole night waiting for her son, in order that she might hear his tidings. She went up to her room, disembarrassed herself of her finery, and wrapped herself in a white dressing-gown. As she sat opposite to her glass, relieving her head from its garniture of false hair, she acknowledged to herself that age was coming on her. She could hide the unwelcome approach by art,--hide it more completely than can most women of her age; but, there it was, stealing on her with short grey hairs over her ears and around her temples, with little wrinkles round her eyes easily concealed by unobjectionable cosmetics, and a look of weariness round the mouth which could only be removed by that self-assertion of herself which practice had made always possible to her in company, though it now so frequently deserted her when she was alone.
But she was not a woman to be unhappy because she was growing old. Her happiness, like that of most of us, was ever in the future,--never reached but always coming. She, however, had not looked for happiness to love and loveliness, and need not therefore be disappointed on that score. She had never really determined what it was that might make her happy,--having some hazy aspiration after social distinction and literary fame, in which was ever commingled solicitude respecting money. But at the present moment her great fears and her great hopes were centred on her son. She would not care how grey might be her hair, or how savage might be Mr. Alf, if her Felix were to marry this heiress. On the other hand, nothing that pearl-powder or the "Morning Breakfast Table" could do would avail anything, unless he could be extricated from the ruin that now surrounded him. So she went down into the dining-room, that she might be sure to hear the key in the door, even should she sleep, and waited for him with a volume of French memoirs in her hand.
Unfortunate woman! she might have gone to bed and have been duly called about her usual time, for it was past eight and the full staring daylight shone into her room when Felix's cab brought him to the door. The night had been very wretched to her. She had slept, and the fire had sunk nearly to nothing and had refused to become again comfortable. She could not keep her mind to her book, and while she was awake the time seemed to be everlasting. And then it was so terrible to her that he should be gambling at such hours as these! Why should he desire to gamble if this girl's fortune was ready to fall into his hands? Fool, to risk his health, his character, his beauty, the little money which at this moment of time might be so indispensable to his great project, for the chance of winning something which in comparison with Marie Melmotte's money must be despicable! But at last he came! She waited patiently till he had thrown aside his hat and coat, and then she appeared at the dining-room door. She had studied her part for the occasion. She would not say a harsh word, and now she endeavoured to meet him with a smile. "Mother," he said, "you up at this hour!" His face was flushed, and she thought that there was some unsteadiness in his gait. She had never seen him tipsy, and it would be doubly terrible to her if such should be his condition.
"I could not go to bed till I had seen you."
"Why not? why should you want to see me? I'll go to bed now. There'll be plenty of time by-and-bye."
"Is anything the matter, Felix?"
"Matter;--what should be the matter? There's been a gentle row among the fellows at the club;--that's all. I had to tell Grasslough a bit of my mind, and he didn't like it. I didn't mean that he should."
"There is not going to be any fighting, Felix?"
"What, duelling; oh no,--nothing so exciting as that. Whether somebody may not have to kick somebody is more than I can say at present. You must let me go to bed now, for I am about used up."
"What did Marie Melmotte say to you?"
"Nothing particular." And he stood with his hand on the door as he answered her.
"And what did you say to her?"
"Nothing particular. Good heavens, mother, do you think that a man is in a condition to talk about such stuff as that at eight o'clock in the morning, when he has been up all night?"
"If you knew all that I suffer on your behalf you would speak a word to me," she said, imploring him, holding him by the arm, and looking into his purple face and bloodshot eyes. She was sure that he had been drinking. She could smell it in his breath.
"I must go to the old fellow, of course."
"She told you to go to her father?"
"As far as I remember, that was about it. Of course, he means to settle it as he likes. I should say that it's ten to one against me." Pulling himself away with some little roughness from his mother's hold, he made his way up to his own bedroom, occasionally stumbling against the stairs.
Then the heiress herself had accepted her son! If so, surely the thing might be done. Lady Carbury recalled to mind her old conviction that a daughter may always succeed in beating a hard-hearted parent in a contention about marriage, if she be well in earnest. But then the girl must be really in earnest, and her earnestness will depend on that of her lover. In this case, however, there was as yet no reason for supposing that the great man would object. As far as outward signs went, the great man had shown some partiality for her son. No doubt it was Mr. Melmotte who had made Sir Felix a director of the great American Company. Felix had also been kindly received in Grosvenor Square. And then Sir Felix was Sir Felix,--a real baronet. Mr. Melmotte had no doubt endeavoured to catch this and that lord; but, failing a lord, why should he not content himself with a baronet? Lady Carbury thought that her son wanted nothing but money to make him an acceptable suitor to such a father-in-law as Mr. Melmotte;--not money in the funds, not a real fortune, not so many thousands a-year that could be settled;--the man's own enormous wealth rendered this unnecessary;--but such a one as Mr. Melmotte would not like outward palpable signs of immediate poverty. There should be means enough for present sleekness and present luxury. He must have a horse to ride, and rings and coats to wear, and bright little canes to carry, and above all the means of making presents. He must not be seen to be poor. Fortunately, most fortunately, Chance had befriended him lately and had given him some ready money. But if he went on gambling Chance would certainly take it all away again. For aught that the poor mother knew, Chance might have done so already. And then again, it was indispensable that he should abandon the habit of play--at any rate for the present, while his prospects depended on the good opinions of Mr. Melmotte. Of course such a one as Mr. Melmotte could not like gambling at a club, however much he might approve of it in the City. Why, with such a preceptor to help him, should not Felix learn to do his gambling on the Exchange, or among the brokers, or in the purlieus of the Bank? Lady Carbury would at any rate instigate him to be diligent in his position as director of the Great Mexican Railway,--which position ought to be the beginning to him of a fortune to be made on his own account. But what hope could there be for him if he should take to drink? Would not all hopes be over with Mr. Melmotte should he ever learn that his daughter's lover reached home and tumbled up-stairs to bed between eight and nine o'clock in the morning?
She watched for his appearance on the following day, and began at once on the subject.
"Do you know, Felix, I think I shall go down to your cousin Roger for Whitsuntide."
"To Carbury Manor!" said he, as he eat some devilled kidneys which the cook had been specially ordered to get for his breakfast. "I thought you found it so dull that you didn't mean to go there any more."
"I never said so, Felix. And now I have a great object."
"What will Hetta do?"
"Go too--why shouldn't she?"
"Oh; I didn't know. I thought that perhaps she mightn't like it."
"I don't see why she shouldn't like it. Besides, everything can't give way to her."
"Has Roger asked you?"
"No; but I'm sure he'd be pleased to have us if I proposed that we should all go."
"Not me, mother!"
"Yes; you especially."
"Not if I know it, mother. What on earth should I do at Carbury Manor?"
"Madame Melmotte told me last night that they were all going down to Caversham to stay three or four days with the Longestaffes. She spoke of Lady Pomona as quite her particular friend."
"Oh--h! that explains it all."
"Explains what, Felix?" said Lady Carbury, who had heard of Dolly Longestaffe, and was not without some fear that this projected visit to Caversham might have some matrimonial purpose in reference to that delightful young heir.
"They say at the club that Melmotte has taken up old Longestaffe's affairs, and means to put them straight. There's an old property in Sussex as well as Caversham, and they say that Melmotte is to have that himself. There's some bother because Dolly, who would do anything for anybody else, won't join his father in selling. So the Melmottes are going to Caversham!"
"Madame Melmotte told me so."
"And the Longestaffes are the proudest people in England."
"Of course we ought to be at Carbury Manor while they are there. What can be more natural? Everybody goes out of town at Whitsuntide; and why shouldn't we run down to the family place?"
"All very natural if you can manage it, mother."
"And you'll come?"
"If Marie Melmotte goes, I'll be there at any rate for one day and night," said Felix.
His mother thought that, for him, the promise had been graciously made.

When all her friends were gone Lady Carbury looked about for her son - expecting him to have gone to the Beargarden, but still with some faint hope that he might have remained to tell her of his fortune. She had watched the whispering, and without hearing the words she had almost known the very moment in which he was asking - and had seen the girl's timid face, eyes turned to the ground, and the nervous twitching of her hands as she replied.
As a woman who had herself been wooed, she had greatly disapproved of her son's manner. Yet if the girl would put up with love-making so slight as that, and if the great Melmotte would accept in return for his money a title as modest as her son's, how glorious should Felix be to her!
"I heard him leave the house before the Melmottes went," said Henrietta.
"He might have stayed tonight. Do you think he asked her? I feel sure he did - and that she accepted him."
"If so I hope he will be good to her. I hope he loves her."
"Why shouldn't he love her as well as anyone else? There is nothing disagreeable about her."
"No. I do not know that she is especially attractive."
"Who is? It seems to me you are quite indifferent about Felix."
"Do not say that, mamma."
"You don't understand all that he might be with this girl's fortune, and what he must be unless he gets money by marriage. He is eating us both up."
"I would not let him do that, mamma."
"It's all very well to say that, but I have some heart. I love him. I could not see him starve. Think what he might be with 20,000 a year!"
"If he is to marry for that only, I cannot think that they will be happy."
"You had better go to bed, Henrietta. You never say a word to comfort me in all my troubles."
Henrietta went to bed, and Lady Carbury sat up the whole night waiting for her son. She went up to her room, took off her finery, and wrapped herself in a white dressing-gown. As she sat before her mirror, she acknowledged that age was coming on her. She could hide the unwelcome approach by art; but there it was, stealing on her with grey hairs around her temples, with little wrinkles round her eyes, and a look of weariness round the mouth which could only be removed by that self-assertion which practice had always made possible in company, though it now frequently deserted her when she was alone.
But she was not unhappy because she was growing old. Her happiness, like that of most of us, was ever in the future - never reached but always coming. She had never really determined what might make her happy - having some hazy aspiration after social distinction and literary fame, mixed with anxiety about money. But at present her great fears and hopes were centred on her son. She went down into the dining-room, where she would hear the key in the door, and waited for him with a volume of French memoirs in her hand.
Unfortunate woman! she might as well have gone to bed, for it was past eight when Felix's cab brought him to the door. The night had been very wretched to her. She had slept, and the fire had sunk nearly to nothing. While she was awake the time seemed everlasting. It was so terrible to her that he should be gambling at these hours! Why should he desire to gamble if this girl's fortune was ready to fall into his hands? Fool, to risk his health, his character, his beauty, and the little money which he needed for his great project!
But at last he came. She waited patiently till he had thrown aside his hat and coat, and then she appeared at the dining-room door. She had rehearsed her part. She would not say a harsh word, and now she endeavoured to meet him with a smile.
"Mother," he said, "you up at this hour!" His face was flushed, and she thought that he was unsteady. She had never seen him tipsy; it would be doubly terrible to her if that were so.
"I could not go to bed till I had seen you," she said.
"Why not? I'll go to bed now. There'll be plenty of time by-and-by."
"Is anything the matter, Felix?"
"Matter - what should be the matter? There's been a row among the fellows at the club; that's all. I had to tell Grasslough my mind, and he didn't like it. You must let me go to bed now, for I am about used up."
"What did Marie Melmotte say to you?"
"Nothing particular." He stood with his hand on the door.
"And what did you say to her?"
"Nothing particular. Good heavens, mother, do you think a man is in a condition to talk about such stuff at eight o'clock in the morning, when he has been up all night?"
"If you knew all that I suffer on your behalf you would speak a word to me," she said, imploring him, holding him by the arm, and looking into his purple face and bloodshot eyes. She could smell the drink in his breath.
"I must go to the old fellow, of course."
"She told you to go to her father?"
"As far as I remember, that was about it. Of course, he will settle it as he likes. I should say that it's ten to one against me." Pulling himself away with some roughness, he made his way up to his own bedroom, occasionally stumbling against the stairs.
Then the heiress had accepted her son! If so, surely the thing might be done. But to beat a hard-hearted parent in an argument about marriage, a girl must be really in earnest, and her earnestness will depend on that of her lover.
However, there was no reason for supposing that Mr. Melmotte would object. He had shown some partiality for her son, in making him a director of the great American Company. Felix had also been kindly received in Grosvenor Square. And then he was a real baronet. If Mr. Melmotte had failed to catch a lord, why should he not content himself with a baronet?
Lady Carbury thought that her son wanted nothing but money to make him acceptable to Mr. Melmotte; not a real fortune - the man's own enormous wealth made this unnecessary - but Melmotte would not like outward signs of poverty. There should be means enough for sleekness and luxury. Felix must have a horse to ride, and rings and coats to wear, and above all the means of giving presents. He must not be seen to be poor. Fortunately, Chance had befriended him lately and had given him some ready money. But if he went on gambling Chance would certainly take it all away again. For all that the poor mother knew, Chance might have done so already.
He must abandon the habit of play - at any rate while his prospects depended on the good opinions of Mr. Melmotte. Such a one as Mr. Melmotte would not like gambling at a club, however much he might approve of it in the City. Why should not Felix learn to do his gambling on the Exchange, or among the brokers? Lady Carbury would at any rate urge him to be diligent in his position as director of the Great Mexican Railway. But what hope could there be for him if he should take to drink? Would not all hopes be over if Mr. Melmotte should ever learn that his daughter's lover tumbled upstairs to bed between eight and nine o'clock in the morning?
She watched for Felix's appearance at breakfast on the following day, and began at once on the subject.
"Do you know, Felix, I think I shall go down to your cousin Roger for Whitsuntide."
"To Carbury Manor!" said he. "I thought you found it so dull that you didn't mean to go there any more."
"I never said so, Felix. And now I have a great object."
"Hetta mightn't like it."
"I don't see why not."
"Has Roger asked you?"
"No; but I'm sure he'd be pleased to have us if I proposed that we should all go."
"Not me, mother!"
"Yes; you especially."
"What on earth should I do at Carbury Manor?" demanded Felix.
"Madame Melmotte told me last night that they were all going down to Caversham to stay three or four days with the Longestaffes. She spoke of Lady Pomona as quite her particular friend."
"Oh! that explains it all."
"Explains what, Felix?" said Lady Carbury, who had heard of Dolly Longestaffe, and feared that he might also have some matrimonial purpose in reference to Miss Melmotte's visit.
"They say at the club that Melmotte has taken up old Longestaffe's affairs, and means to put them straight. There's an old property in Sussex as well as Caversham, and they say that Melmotte is to buy that for himself. There's some bother because Dolly won't join his father in selling it. So the Melmottes are going to Caversham!"
"Of course we ought to be at Carbury Manor while they are there. What can be more natural? Everybody goes out of town at Whitsuntide."
"All very natural if you can manage it, mother."
"And you'll come?"
"If Marie Melmotte goes, I'll be there at any rate for one day and night," said Felix.
His mother thought that, for him, the promise had been graciously made.

Chapter 12: Sir Felix in his Mother's House


It is hoped that the reader need hardly be informed that Hetta Carbury was a very miserable young woman as soon as she decided that duty compelled her to divide herself altogether from Paul Montague. I think that she was irrational; but to her it seemed that the offence against herself,--the offence against her own dignity as a woman,--was too great to be forgiven. There can be no doubt that it would all have been forgiven with the greatest ease had Paul told the story before it had reached her ears from any other source. Had he said to her,--when her heart was softest towards him,--I once loved another woman, and that woman is here now in London, a trouble to me, persecuting me, and her history is so and so, and the history of my love for her was after this fashion, and the history of my declining love is after that fashion, and of this at any rate you may be sure, that this woman has never been near my heart from the first moment in which I saw you;--had he told it to her thus, there would not have been an opening for anger. And he doubtless would have so told it, had not Hetta's brother interfered too quickly. He was then forced to exculpate himself, to confess rather than to tell his own story,--and to admit facts which wore the air of having been concealed, and which had already been conceived to be altogether damning if true. It was that journey to Lowestoft, not yet a month old, which did the mischief,--a journey as to which Hetta was not slow in understanding all that Roger Carbury had thought about it, though Roger would say nothing of it to herself. Paul had been staying at the seaside with this woman in amicable intimacy,--this horrid woman,--in intimacy worse than amicable, and had been visiting her daily at Islington! Hetta felt quite sure that he had never passed a day without going there since the arrival of the woman; and everybody would know what that meant. And during this very hour he had been,--well, perhaps not exactly making love to herself, but looking at her and talking to her, and behaving to her in a manner such as could not but make her understand that he intended to make love to her. Of course they had really understood it, since they had met at Madame Melmotte's first ball, when she had made a plea that she could not allow herself to dance with him more than,--say half-a-dozen times. Of course she had not intended him then to know that she would receive his love with favour; but equally of course she had known that he must so feel it. She had not only told herself, but had told her mother, that her heart was given away to this man; and yet the man during this very time was spending his hours with a--woman, with a strange American woman, to whom he acknowledged that he had been once engaged. How could she not quarrel with him? How could she refrain from telling him that everything must be over between them? Everybody was against him,--her mother, her brother, and her cousin: and she felt that she had not a word to say in his defence. A horrid woman! A wretched, bad, bold American intriguing woman! It was terrible to her that a friend of hers should ever have attached himself to such a creature;--but that he should have come to her with a second tale of love long, long before he had cleared himself from the first;--perhaps with no intention of clearing himself from the first! Of course she could not forgive him! No;--she would never forgive him. She would break her heart for him. That was a matter of course; but she would never forgive him. She knew well what it was that her mother wanted. Her mother thought that by forcing her into a quarrel with Montague she would force her also into a marriage with Roger Carbury. But her mother would find out that in that she was mistaken. She would never marry her cousin, though she would be always ready to acknowledge his worth. She was sure now that she would never marry any man. As she made this resolve she had a wicked satisfaction in feeling that it would be a trouble to her mother;--for though she was altogether in accord with Lady Carbury as to the iniquities of Paul Montague she was not the less angry with her mother for being so ready to expose those iniquities.
Oh, with what slow, cautious fingers, with what heartbroken tenderness did she take out from its guardian case the brooch which Paul had given her! It had as yet been an only present, and in thanking him for it, which she had done with full, free-spoken words of love, she had begged him to send her no other, so that that might ever be to her,--to her dying day,--the one precious thing that had been given to her by her lover while she was yet a girl. Now it must be sent back;--and, no doubt, it would go to that abominable woman! But her fingers lingered over it as she touched it, and she would fain have kissed it, had she not told herself that she would have been disgraced, even in her solitude, by such a demonstration of affection. She had given her answer to Paul Montague; and, as she would have no further personal correspondence with him, she took the brooch to her mother with a request that it might be returned.
"Of course, my dear, I will send it back to him. Is there nothing else?"
"No, mamma;--nothing else. I have no letters, and no other present. You always knew everything that took place. If you will just send that back to him,--without a word. You won't say anything,--will you, mamma?"
"There is nothing for me to say if you have really made him understand you."
"I think he understood me, mamma. You need not doubt about that."
"He has behaved very, very badly,--from the beginning," said Lady Carbury.
But Hetta did not really think that the young man had behaved very badly from the beginning, and certainly did not wish to be told of his misbehaviour. No doubt she thought that the young man had behaved very well in falling in love with her directly he saw her;--only that he had behaved so badly in taking Mrs. Hurtle to Lowestoft afterwards! "It's no good talking about that, mamma. I hope you will never talk of him any more."
"He is quite unworthy," said Lady Carbury.
"I can't bear to--have him--abused," said Hetta sobbing.
"My dear Hetta, I have no doubt this has made you for the time unhappy. Such little accidents do make people unhappy--for the time. But it will be much for the best that you should endeavour not to be so sensitive about it. The world is too rough and too hard for people to allow their feelings full play. You have to look out for the future, and you can best do so by resolving that Paul Montague shall be forgotten at once."
"Oh, mamma, don't. How is a person to resolve? Oh, mamma, don't say any more."
"But, my dear, there is more that I must say. Your future life is before you, and I must think of it, and you must think of it. Of course you must be married."
"There is no of course at all."
"Of course you must be married," continued Lady Carbury, "and of course it is your duty to think of the way in which this may be best done. My income is becoming less and less every day. I already owe money to your cousin, and I owe money to Mr. Broune."
"Money to Mr. Broune!"
"Yes,--to Mr. Broune. I had to pay a sum for Felix which Mr. Broune told me ought to be paid. And I owe money to tradesmen. I fear that I shall not be able to keep on this house. And they tell me,--your cousin and Mr. Broune,--that it is my duty to take Felix out of London,--probably abroad."
"Of course I shall go with you."
"It may be so at first; but, perhaps, even that may not be necessary. Why should you? What pleasure could you have in it? Think what my life must be with Felix in some French or German town!"
"Mamma, why don't you let me be a comfort to you? Why do you speak of me always as though I were a burden?"
"Everybody is a burden to other people. It is the way of life. But you,--if you will only yield in ever so little,--you may go where you will be no burden, where you will be accepted simply as a blessing. You have the opportunity of securing comfort for your whole life, and of making a friend, not only for yourself, but for me and your brother, of one whose friendship we cannot fail to want."
"Mamma, you cannot really mean to talk about that now?"
"Why should I not mean it? What is the use of indulging in high-flown nonsense? Make up your mind to be the wife of your cousin Roger."
"This is horrid," said Hetta, bursting out in her agony. "Cannot you understand that I am broken-hearted about Paul, that I love him from my very soul, that parting from him is like tearing my heart in pieces? I know that I must, because he has behaved so very badly,--and because of that wicked woman! And so I have. But I did not think that in the very next hour you would bid me give myself to somebody else! I will never marry Roger Carbury. You may be quite--quite sure that I shall never marry any one. If you won't take me with you when you go away with Felix, I must stay behind and try and earn my bread. I suppose I could go out as a nurse." Then, without waiting for a reply she left the room and betook herself to her own apartment.
Lady Carbury did not even understand her daughter. She could not conceive that she had in any way acted unkindly in taking the opportunity of Montague's rejection for pressing the suit of the other lover. She was simply anxious to get a husband for her daughter,--as she had been anxious to get a wife for her son,--in order that her child might live comfortably. But she felt that whenever she spoke common sense to Hetta, her daughter took it as an offence, and flew into tantrums, being altogether unable to accommodate herself to the hard truths of the world. Deep as was the sorrow which her son brought upon her, and great as was the disgrace, she could feel more sympathy for him than for the girl. If there was anything that she could not forgive in life it was romance. And yet she, at any rate, believed that she delighted in romantic poetry! At the present moment she was very wretched; and was certainly unselfish in her wish to see her daughter comfortably settled before she commenced those miserable roamings with her son which seemed to be her coming destiny.
In these days she thought a good deal of Mr. Broune's offer, and of her own refusal. It was odd that since that refusal she had seen more of him, and had certainly known much more of him than she had ever seen or known before. Previous to that little episode their intimacy had been very fictitious, as are many intimacies. They had played at being friends, knowing but very little of each other. But now, during the last five or six weeks,--since she had refused his offer,--they had really learned to know each other. In the exquisite misery of her troubles, she had told him the truth about herself and her son, and he had responded, not by compliments, but by real aid and true counsel. His whole tone was altered to her, as was hers to him. There was no longer any egregious flattery between them,--and he, in speaking to her, would be almost rough to her. Once he had told her that she would be a fool if she did not do so and so. The consequence was that she almost regretted that she had allowed him to escape. But she certainly made no effort to recover the lost prize, for she told him all her troubles. It was on that afternoon, after her disagreement with her daughter, that Marie Melmotte came to her. And, on that same evening, closeted with Mr. Broune in her back room, she told him of both occurrences. "If the girl has got the money--," she began, regretting her son's obstinacy.
"I don't believe a bit of it," said Broune. "From all that I can hear, I don't think that there is any money. And if there is, you may be sure that Melmotte would not let it slip through his fingers in that way. I would not have anything to do with it."
"You think it is all over with the Melmottes?"
"A rumour reached me just now that he had been already arrested." It was now between nine and ten in the evening. "But as I came away from my room, I heard that he was down at the House. That he will have to stand a trial for forgery, I think there cannot be a doubt, and I imagine that it will be found that not a shilling will be saved out of the property."
"What a wonderful career it has been!"
"Yes,--the strangest thing that has come up in our days. I am inclined to think that the utter ruin at this moment has been brought about by his reckless personal expenditure."
"Why did he spend such a lot of money?"
"Because he thought that he could conquer the world by it, and obtain universal credit. He very nearly succeeded too. Only he had forgotten to calculate the force of the envy of his competitors."
"You think he has committed forgery?"
"Certainly, I think so. Of course we know nothing as yet."
"Then I suppose it is better that Felix should not have married her."
"Certainly better. No redemption was to have been had on that side, and I don't think you should regret the loss of such money as his." Lady Carbury shook her head, meaning probably to imply that even Melmotte's money would have had no bad odour to one so dreadfully in want of assistance as her son. "At any rate do not think of it any more." Then she told him her grief about Hetta. "Ah, there," said he, "I feel myself less able to express an authoritative opinion."
"He doesn't owe a shilling," said Lady Carbury, "and he is really a fine gentleman."
"But if she doesn't like him?"
"Oh, but she does. She thinks him to be the finest person in the world. She would obey him a great deal sooner than she would me. But she has her mind stuffed with nonsense about love."
"A great many people, Lady Carbury, have their minds stuffed with that nonsense."
"Yes;--and ruin themselves with it, as she will do. Love is like any other luxury. You have no right to it unless you can afford it. And those who will have it when they can't afford it, will come to the ground like this Mr. Melmotte. How odd it seems! It isn't a fortnight since we all thought him the greatest man in London." Mr. Broune only smiled, not thinking it worth his while to declare that he had never held that opinion about the late idol of Abchurch Lane.
On the following morning, very early, while Melmotte was still lying, as yet undiscovered, on the floor of Mr. Longestaffe's room, a letter was brought up to Hetta by the maid-servant, who told her that Mr. Montague had delivered it with his own hands. She took it greedily, and then repressing herself, put it with an assumed gesture of indifference beneath her pillow. But as soon as the girl had left the room she at once seized her treasure. It never occurred to her as yet to think whether she would or would not receive a letter from her dismissed lover. She had told him that he must go, and go for ever, and had taken it for granted that he would do so,--probably willingly. No doubt he would be delighted to return to the American woman. But now that she had the letter, she allowed no doubt to come between her and the reading of it. As soon as she was alone she opened it, and she ran through its contents without allowing herself a moment for thinking, as she went on, whether the excuses made by her lover were or were not such as she ought to accept.
DEAREST HETTA,
I think you have been most unjust to me, and if you have ever loved me I cannot understand your injustice. I have never deceived you in anything, not by a word, or for a moment. Unless you mean to throw me over because I did once love another woman, I do not know what cause of anger you have. I could not tell you about Mrs. Hurtle till you had accepted me, and, as you yourself must know, I had had no opportunity to tell you anything afterwards till the story had reached your ears. I hardly know what I said the other day, I was so miserable at your accusation. But I suppose I said then, and I again declare now, that I had made up my mind that circumstances would not admit of her becoming my wife before I had ever seen you, and that I have certainly never wavered in my determination since I saw you. I can with safety refer to Roger as to this, because I was with him when I so determined, and made up my mind very much at his instance. This was before I had ever even met you.
If I understand it all right you are angry because I have associated with Mrs. Hurtle since I so determined. I am not going back to my first acquaintance with her now. You may blame me for that if you please,--though it cannot have been a fault against you. But, after what had occurred, was I to refuse to see her when she came to England to see me? I think that would have been cowardly. Of course I went to her. And when she was all alone here, without a single other friend, and telling me that she was unwell, and asking me to take her down to the seaside, was I to refuse? I think that that would have been unkind. It was a dreadful trouble to me. But of course I did it.
She asked me to renew my engagement. I am bound to tell you that, but I know in telling you that it will go no farther. I declined, telling her that it was my purpose to ask another woman to be my wife. Of course there has been anger and sorrow,--anger on her part and sorrow on mine. But there has been no doubt. And at last she yielded. As far as she was concerned my trouble was over,--except in so far that her unhappiness has been a great trouble to me,--when, on a sudden, I found that the story had reached you in such a form as to make you determined to quarrel with me!
Of course you do not know it all, for I cannot tell you all without telling her history. But you know everything that in the least concerns yourself, and I do say that you have no cause whatever for anger. I am writing at night. This evening your brooch was brought to me with three or four cutting words from your mother. But I cannot understand that if you really love me, you should wish to separate yourself from me,--or that, if you ever loved me, you should cease to love me now because of Mrs. Hurtle.
I am so absolutely confused by the blow that I hardly know what I am writing, and take first one outrageous idea into my head and then another. My love for you is so thorough and so intense that I cannot bring myself to look forward to living without you, now that you have once owned that you have loved me. I cannot think it possible that love, such as I suppose yours must have been, could be made to cease all at a moment. Mine can't. I don't think it is natural that we should be parted.
If you want corroboration of my story go yourself to Mrs. Hurtle. Anything is better than that we both should be broken-hearted.
Yours most affectionately,
PAUL MONTAGUE.

Hetta Carbury was very miserable after she decided that she had to divide herself altogether from Paul Montague. I think that she was irrational; but to her it seemed that the offence against her dignity as a woman was too great to be forgiven. There can be no doubt that it would have been forgiven with the greatest ease had Paul told the story before it had reached her ears from another source. If he had said to her, I once loved another woman, and that woman is here now in London, a trouble to me, persecuting me, and her history is so and so - you may be sure that she would not have been angry.
But he had been forced to confess rather than tell his own story, and to admit facts which had been concealed. It was that journey to Lowestoft, not yet a month old, which did the mischief. Paul had been staying at the seaside with this woman in amicable intimacy, and had been visiting her daily at Islington! Hetta felt quite sure that he had never passed a day without going there; and meanwhile had been behaving to herself in a manner which implied love for her. She had told herself that her heart was given away to this man; and yet he was spending his hours with a strange American woman, to whom he acknowledged that he had been once engaged. How could she not quarrel with him? She would never forgive him. She would break her heart for him.
She knew well what her mother wanted. Her mother thought that a quarrel with Montague would force her into a marriage with Roger Carbury. But her mother would find out that she was mistaken. Hetta would never marry her cousin, though she would always acknowledge his worth. She was sure now that she would never marry any man.
With what slow fingers, with what heartbroken tenderness did she take out from its case the brooch which Paul had given her! It had been his only present to her. Now it must be sent back; and, no doubt, it would go to that abominable woman! But her fingers lingered as she touched it, and she would fain have kissed it, had she not told herself that she would have been disgraced by such a demonstration of affection. As she would have no further personal correspondence with Paul Montague, she took the brooch to her mother with a request that it might be returned.
"Of course, my dear, I will send it back to him. Is there nothing else?"
"No, mamma; nothing else. I have no letters, and no other present. You always knew everything that took place. If you will just send that back to him - without a word."
"He has behaved very, very badly, from the beginning," said Lady Carbury.
But Hetta certainly did not wish to be told of his misbehaviour. No doubt she thought that the young man had behaved very well in falling in love with her - only that he had behaved so badly in taking Mrs. Hurtle to Lowestoft afterwards!
"It's no good talking about that, mamma. I hope you will never talk of him any more."
"He is quite unworthy," said Lady Carbury.
"I can't bear to - have him - abused," said Hetta, sobbing.
"My dear Hetta, I have no doubt this has made you for the time unhappy. But you should endeavour not to be so sensitive about it. You have to look out for the future, and you can best do so by resolving that Paul Montague shall be forgotten at once."
"Oh, mamma, don't."
"But, my dear, there is more that I must say. Your future life is before you, and I must think of it. Of course you must be married."
"There is no of course at all."
"Of course you must be married," continued Lady Carbury, "and of course it is your duty to think of the way in which this may be best done. My income is becoming less and less every day. I already owe money to your cousin, and I owe money to Mr. Broune."
"Money to Mr. Broune!"
"Yes; I had to pay a sum for Felix. And I owe money to tradesmen. I fear that I shall not be able to keep this house. And they tell me - your cousin and Mr. Broune - that it is my duty to take Felix out of London, probably abroad."
"Of course I shall go with you."
"Perhaps that may not be necessary. What pleasure could you have in it? Think what my life must be with Felix in some French or German town!"
"Mamma, why don't you let me be a comfort to you? Why do you speak of me always as though I were a burden?"
"Everybody is a burden to other people. It is the way of life. But you - if you will only yield in ever so little - you may go where you will be no burden, where you will be accepted as a blessing. You have the opportunity of securing comfort for your whole life, not only for yourself, but for me and your brother."
"Mamma, you cannot really mean to talk about that now?"
"Why not? Make up your mind to be the wife of your cousin Roger."
"This is horrid," said Hetta, bursting out in her agony. "Cannot you understand that I am broken-hearted about Paul, that I love him from my very soul, that parting from him is like tearing my heart in pieces? I know that I must, because he has behaved so very badly - and because of that wicked woman! And so I have. But I did not think that in the very next hour you would bid me give myself to somebody else! I will never marry Roger Carbury. I shall never marry anyone. If you won't take me with you, I must stay behind and earn my bread. I suppose I could go out as a nurse." Without waiting for a reply she left the room.
Lady Carbury did not even understand her daughter. She could not conceive that she had in any way acted unkindly. She was simply anxious to get a husband for her child, so that she might live comfortably. But she felt that whenever she spoke common sense to Hetta, her daughter took it as an offence, and flew into tantrums. If there was anything that she could not forgive in life it was romance. And yet she believed that she delighted in romantic poetry!
At present she was very wretched; and was certainly unselfish in her wish to see her daughter comfortably settled before she commenced those miserable roamings with her son which seemed to be her destiny.
In these days she thought a good deal of Mr. Broune's offer, and of her own refusal. It was odd that since that refusal she had seen more of him than she ever had before. Previously their intimacy had been fictitious; they had played at being friends, knowing little of each other. But now, during the last five or six weeks since she had refused his offer, they had really learned to know each other. In her troubles, she had told him the truth about herself and her son, and he had responded, not by compliments, but by real aid and true counsel. His whole tone was altered to her, as was hers to him. There was no longer any flattery between them.
In consequence she almost regretted that she had allowed him to escape. But she certainly made no effort to recover the lost prize.
It was on that afternoon, after her disagreement with her daughter, that Marie Melmotte came to her. And, on that same evening, closeted with Mr. Broune, she told him of both occurrences.
"If the girl has got the money-" she began.
"I don't believe it," said Broune. "I don't think that there is any money. And if there is, you may be sure that Melmotte would not let it slip through his fingers. I would not have anything to do with it."
"You think it is all over with the Melmottes?"
"He will have to stand trial for forgery, without a doubt, and I imagine that it will be found that not a shilling will be saved out of the property."
"What an extraordinary career it has been!"
"Yes, the strangest thing that has come up in our days. He thought that he could conquer the world, and obtain universal credit. He very nearly succeeded too."
"You think he has committed forgery?"
"I think so."
"Then I suppose it is better that Felix should not have married her."
"Certainly. I don't think you should regret the loss of such money as his."
Lady Carbury shook her head. Then she told him her grief about Hetta.
"Ah, there," said he, "I feel less able to express an opinion."
"He doesn't owe a shilling," said Lady Carbury, "and he is really a fine gentleman."
"But if she doesn't like him?"
"Oh, but she does. She thinks him to be the finest person in the world. She would obey him a great deal sooner than she would me. But she has her mind stuffed with nonsense about love."
"A great many people, Lady Carbury, have their minds stuffed with that nonsense."
"Yes; and ruin themselves with it, as she will do. Love is like any other luxury. You have no right to it unless you can afford it."
On the following morning, very early, while Melmotte was still lying undiscovered on the floor of Mr. Longestaffe's room, a letter was brought up to Hetta by the maid-servant, who told her that Mr. Montague had delivered it.
She put it aside with assumed indifference. But as soon as the girl had left the room she seized her treasure. She opened it, and ran through its contents without allowing herself a moment for thinking whether the excuses made by her lover were such as she ought to accept.
Dearest Hetta,
I think you have been most unjust to me. I have never deceived you in anything, not by a word, or for a moment. Unless you mean to throw me over because I did once love another woman, I do not know what cause of anger you have. I could not tell you about Mrs. Hurtle till you had accepted me, and then I had no opportunity to tell you till the story had reached your ears. I hardly know what I said the other day, I was so miserable at your accusation. But I suppose I said then, and I again declare now, that I had made up my mind that I could not marry her before I had ever seen you, and that I have never wavered in my determination. I can refer to Roger as to this, because I was with him when I so decided, and made up my mind very much at his instance. This was before I had ever even met you.
If I understand it right you are angry because I have associated with Mrs. Hurtle since then. I am not going back to my first acquaintance with her now. But, after what had occurred, was I to refuse to see her when she came to England to see me? I think that would have been cowardly. Of course I went to her. And when she was all alone here, without a single other friend, and telling me that she was unwell, and asking me to take her down to the seaside, was I to refuse? It was a dreadful trouble to me. But of course I did it.
She asked me to renew my engagement. I declined, telling her that I intended to ask another woman to be my wife. Of course there has been anger and sorrow - anger on her part and sorrow on mine. But there has been no doubt. And at last she yielded.
Of course you do not know all the story, for I cannot tell you all without telling her history. But you know everything that concerns yourself, and I do say that you have no cause whatever for anger. I am writing at night. This evening your brooch was brought to me with three or four cutting words from your mother. But I cannot understand that if you really love me, you should wish to separate yourself from me - or that, if you ever loved me, you should cease to love me now because of Mrs. Hurtle.
I am so absolutely confused by the blow that I hardly know what I am writing. My love for you is so thorough and so intense that I cannot bring myself to look forward to living without you. I cannot think it possible that your love could be made to cease all at a moment. Mine can't.
If you want corroboration of my story go yourself to Mrs. Hurtle. Anything is better than that we should both be broken-hearted.
Yours most affectionately,
Paul Montague.