Roger Carbury when he received the letter from Hetta's mother desiring him to tell her all that he knew of Paul Montague's connection with Mrs. Hurtle found himself quite unable to write a reply. He endeavoured to ask himself what he would do in such a case if he himself were not personally concerned. What advice in this emergency would he give to the mother and what to the daughter, were he himself uninterested? He was sure that, as Hetta's cousin and acting as though he were Hetta's brother, he would tell her that Paul Montague's entanglement with that American woman should have forbidden him at any rate for the present to offer his hand to any other lady. He thought that he knew enough of all the circumstances to be sure that such would be his decision. He had seen Mrs. Hurtle with Montague at Lowestoft, and had known that they were staying together as friends at the same hotel. He knew that she had come to England with the express purpose of enforcing the fulfilment of an engagement which Montague had often acknowledged. He knew that Montague made frequent visits to her in London. He had, indeed, been told by Montague himself that, let the cost be what it might, the engagement should be and in fact had been broken off. He thoroughly believed the man's word, but put no trust whatever in his firmness. And, hitherto, he had no reason whatever for supposing that Mrs. Hurtle had consented to be abandoned. What father, what elder brother would allow a daughter or a sister to become engaged to a man embarrassed by such difficulties? He certainly had counselled Montague to rid himself of the trammels by which he had surrounded himself;--but not on that account could he think that the man in his present condition was fit to engage himself to another woman.
All this was clear to Roger Carbury. But then it had been equally clear to him that he could not, as a man of honour, assist his own cause by telling a tale,--which tale had become known to him as the friend of the man against whom it would have to be told. He had resolved upon that as he left Montague and Mrs. Hurtle together upon the sands at Lowestoft. But what was he to do now? The girl whom he loved had confessed her love for the other man,--that man, who in seeking the girl's love, had been as he thought so foul a traitor to himself! That he would hold himself as divided from the man by a perpetual and undying hostility he had determined. That his love for the woman would be equally perpetual he was quite sure. Already there were floating across his brain ideas of perpetuating his name in the person of some child of Hetta's,--but with the distinct understanding that he and the child's father should never see each other. No more than twenty-four hours had intervened between the receipt of Paul's letter and that from Lady Carbury,--but during those four-and-twenty hours he had almost forgotten Mrs. Hurtle. The girl was gone from him, and he thought only of his own loss and of Paul's perfidy. Then came the direct question as to which he was called upon for a direct answer. Did he know anything of facts relating to the presence of a certain Mrs. Hurtle in London which were of a nature to make it inexpedient that Hetta should accept Paul Montague as her betrothed lover? Of course he did. The facts were all familiar to him. But how was he to tell the facts? In what words was he to answer such a letter? If he told the truth as he knew it how was he to secure himself against the suspicion of telling a story against his rival in order that he might assist himself, or at any rate, punish the rival?
As he could not trust himself to write an answer to Lady Carbury's letter he determined that he would go to London. If he must tell the story he could tell it better face to face than by any written words. So he made the journey, arrived in town late in the evening, and knocked at the door in Welbeck Street between ten and eleven on the morning after the unfortunate meeting which took place between Sir Felix and John Crumb. The page when he opened the door looked as a page should look when the family to which he is attached is suffering from some terrible calamity. "My lady" had been summoned to the hospital to see Sir Felix who was,--as the page reported,--in a very bad way indeed. The page did not exactly know what had happened, but supposed that Sir Felix had lost most of his limbs by this time. Yes; Miss Carbury was up-stairs; and would no doubt see her cousin, though she, too, was in a very bad condition; and dreadfully put about. That poor Hetta should be "put about" with her brother in the hospital and her lover in the toils of an abominable American woman was natural enough.
"What's this about Felix?" asked Roger. The new trouble always has precedence over those which are of earlier date.
"Oh Roger, I am so glad to see you. Felix did not come home last night, and this morning there came a man from the hospital in the city to say that he is there."
"What has happened to him?"
"Somebody,--somebody has,--beaten him," said Hetta whimpering. Then she told the story as far as she knew it. The messenger from the hospital had declared that the young man was in no danger and that none of his bones were broken, but that he was terribly bruised about the face, that his eyes were in a frightful condition, sundry of his teeth knocked out, and his lips cut open. But, the messenger had gone on to say, the house surgeon had seen no reason why the young gentleman should not be taken home. "And mamma has gone to fetch him," said Hetta.
"That's John Crumb," said Roger. Hetta had never heard of John Crumb, and simply stared into her cousin's face. "You have not been told about John Crumb? No;--you would not hear of him."
"Why should John Crumb beat Felix like that?"
"They say, Hetta, that women are the cause of most troubles that occur in the world." The girl blushed up to her eyes, as though the whole story of Felix's sin and folly had been told to her. "If it be as I suppose," continued Roger, "John Crumb has considered himself to be aggrieved and has thus avenged himself."
"Did you--know of him before?"
"Yes indeed;--very well. He is a neighbour of mine and was in love with a girl, with all his heart; and he would have made her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer her, and is an honest man with whom she would have been safe and respected and happy. Your brother saw her and, though he knew the story, though he had been told by myself that this honest fellow had placed his happiness on the girl's love, he thought,--well, I suppose he thought that such a pretty thing as this girl was too good for John Crumb."
"But Felix has been going to marry Miss Melmotte!"
"You're old-fashioned, Hetta. It used to be the way,--to be off with the old love before you are on with the new; but that seems to be all changed now. Such fine young fellows as there are now can be in love with two at once. That I fear is what Felix has thought;--and now he has been punished."
"You know all about it then?"
"No;--I don't know. But I think it has been so. I do know that John Crumb had threatened to do this thing, and I felt sure that sooner or later he would be as good as his word. If it has been so, who is to blame him?"
Hetta as she heard the story hardly knew whether her cousin, in his manner of telling the story, was speaking of that other man, of that stranger of whom she had never heard, or of himself. He would have made her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer her. He was an honest man with whom she would have been safe and respected and happy! He had looked at her while speaking as though it were her own case of which he spoke. And then, when he talked of the old-fashioned way, of being off with the old love before you are on with the new, had he not alluded to Paul Montague and this story of the American woman? But, if so, it was not for Hetta to notice it by words. He must speak more plainly than that before she could be supposed to know that he alluded to her own condition. "It is very shocking," she said.
"Shocking;--yes. One is shocked at it all. I pity your mother, and I pity you."
"It seems to me that nothing ever will be happy for us," said Hetta. She was longing to be told something of Mrs. Hurtle, but she did not as yet dare to ask the question.
"I do not know whether to wait for your mother or not," said he after a short pause.
"Pray wait for her if you are not very busy."
"I came up only to see her, but perhaps she would not wish me to be here when she brings Felix back to the house."
"Indeed she will. She would like you always to be here when there are troubles. Oh, Roger, I wish you could tell me."
"Tell you what?"
"She has written to you;--has she not?"
"Yes; she has written to me."
"And about me?"
"Yes;--about you, Hetta. And, Hetta, Mr. Montague has written to me also."
"He told me that he would," whispered Hetta.
"Did he tell you of my answer?"
"No;--he has told me of no answer. I have not seen him since."
"You do not think that it can have been very kind, do you? I also have something of the feeling of John Crumb, though I shall not attempt to show it after the same fashion."
"Did you not say the girl had promised to love that man?"
"I did not say so;--but she had promised. Yes, Hetta; there is a difference. The girl then was fickle and went back from her word. You never have done that. I am not justified in thinking even a hard thought of you. I have never harboured a hard thought of you. It is not you that I reproach. But he,--he has been if possible more false than Felix."
"Oh, Roger, how has he been false?"
Still he was not wishful to tell her the story of Mrs. Hurtle. The treachery of which he was speaking was that which he had thought had been committed by his friend towards himself. "He should have left the place and never have come near you," said Roger, "when he found how it was likely to be with him. He owed it to me not to take the cup of water from my lips."
How was she to tell him that the cup of water never could have touched his lips? And yet if this were the only falsehood of which he had to tell, she was bound to let him know that it was so. That horrid story of Mrs. Hurtle;--she would listen to that if she could hear it. She would be all ears for that. But she could not admit that her lover had sinned in loving her. "But, Roger," she said--"it would have been the same."
"You may think so. You may feel it. You may know it. I at any rate will not contradict you when you say that it must have been so. But he didn't feel it. He didn't know it. He was to me as a younger brother,--and he has robbed me of everything. I understand, Hetta, what you mean. I should never have succeeded! My happiness would have been impossible if Paul had never come home from America. I have told myself so a hundred times, but I cannot therefore forgive him. And I won't forgive him, Hetta. Whether you are his wife, or another man's, or whether you are Hetta Carbury on to the end, my feeling to you will be the same. While we both live, you must be to me the dearest creature living. My hatred to him--"
"Oh, Roger, do not say hatred."
"My hostility to him can make no difference in my feeling to you. I tell you that should you become his wife you will still be my love. As to not coveting,--how is a man to cease to covet that which he has always coveted? But I shall be separated from you. Should I be dying, then I should send for you. You are the very essence of my life. I have no dream of happiness otherwise than as connected with you. He might have my whole property and I would work for my bread, if I could only have a chance of winning you to share my toils with me."
But still there was no word of Mrs. Hurtle. "Roger," she said, "I have given it all away now. It cannot be given twice."
"If he were unworthy would your heart never change?"
"I think--never. Roger, is he unworthy?"
"How can you trust me to answer such a question? He is my enemy. He has been ungrateful to me as one man hardly ever is to another. He has turned all my sweetness to gall, all my flowers to bitter weeds; he has choked up all my paths. And now you ask me whether he is unworthy! I cannot tell you."
"If you thought him worthy you would tell me," she said, getting up and taking him by the arm.
"No;--I will tell you nothing. Go to some one else, not to me;" and he tried with gentleness but tried ineffectually to disengage himself from her hold.
"Roger, if you knew him to be good you would tell me,--because you yourself are so good. Even though you hated him you would say so. It would not be you to leave a false impression even against your enemies. I ask you because, however it may be with you, I know I can trust you. I can be nothing else to you, Roger; but I love you as a sister loves, and I come to you as a sister comes to a brother. He has my heart. Tell me;--is there any reason why he should not also have my hand?"
"Ask himself, Hetta."
"And you will tell me nothing? You will not try to save me though you know that I am in danger? Who is--Mrs. Hurtle?"
"Have you asked him?"
"I had not heard her name when he parted from me. I did not even know that such a woman lived. Is it true that he has promised to marry her? Felix told me of her, and told me also that you knew. But I cannot trust Felix as I would trust you. And mamma says that it is so;--but mamma also bids me ask you. There is such a woman?"
"There is such a woman certainly."
"And she has been,--a friend of Paul's?"
"Whatever be the story, Hetta, you shall not hear it from me. I will say neither evil nor good of the man except in regard to his conduct to myself. Send for him and ask him to tell you the story of Mrs. Hurtle as it concerns himself. I do not think he will lie, but if he lies you will know that he is lying."
"And that is all?"
"All that I can say, Hetta. You ask me to be your brother; but I cannot put myself in the place of your brother. I tell you plainly that I am your lover, and shall remain so. Your brother would welcome the man whom you would choose as your husband. I can never welcome any husband of yours. I think if twenty years were to pass over us, and you were still Hetta Carbury, I should still be your lover,--though an old one. What is now to be done about Felix, Hetta?"
"Ah,--what can be done? I think sometimes that it will break mamma's heart."
"Your mother makes me angry by her continual indulgence."
"But what can she do? You would not have her turn him into the street?"
"I do not know that I would not. For a time it might serve him perhaps. Here is the cab. Here they are. Yes; you had better go down and let your mother know that I am here. They will perhaps take him up to bed, so that I need not see him."
Hetta did as she was bid, and met her mother and her brother in the hall. Felix having the full use of his arms and legs was able to descend from the cab, and hurry across the pavement into the house, and then, without speaking a word to his sister, hid himself in the dining-room. His face was strapped up with plaister so that not a feature was visible; and both his eyes were swollen and blue; part of his beard had been cut away, and his physiognomy had altogether been so treated that even the page would hardly have known him. "Roger is up-stairs, mamma," said Hetta in the hall.
"Has he heard about Felix;--has he come about that?"
"He has heard only what I have told him. He has come because of your letter. He says that a man named Crumb did it."
"Then he does know. Who can have told him? He always knows everything. Oh, Hetta, what am I to do? Where shall I go with this wretched boy?"
"Is he hurt, mamma?"
"Hurt;--of course he is hurt; horribly hurt. The brute tried to kill him. They say that he will be dreadfully scarred for ever. But oh, Hetta;--what am I to do with him? What am I to do with myself and you?"
On this occasion Roger was saved from the annoyance of any personal intercourse with his cousin Felix. The unfortunate one was made as comfortable as circumstances would permit in the parlour, and Lady Carbury then went up to her cousin in the drawing-room. She had learned the truth with some fair approach to accuracy, though Sir Felix himself had of course lied as to every detail. There are some circumstances so distressing in themselves as to make lying almost a necessity. When a young man has behaved badly about a woman, when a young man has been beaten without returning a blow, when a young man's pleasant vices are brought directly under a mother's eyes, what can he do but lie? How could Sir Felix tell the truth about that rash encounter? But the policeman who had brought him to the hospital had told all that he knew. The man who had thrashed the baronet had been called Crumb, and the thrashing had been given on the score of a young woman called Ruggles. So much was known at the hospital, and so much could not be hidden by any lies which Sir Felix might tell. And when Sir Felix swore that a policeman was holding him while Crumb was beating him, no one believed him. In such cases the liar does not expect to be believed. He knows that his disgrace will be made public, and only hopes to be saved from the ignominy of declaring it with his own words.
"What am I to do with him?" Lady Carbury said to her cousin. "It is no use telling me to leave him. I can't do that. I know he is bad. I know that I have done much to make him what he is." As she said this the tears were running down her poor worn cheeks. "But he is my child. What am I to do with him now?"
This was a question which Roger found it almost impossible to answer. If he had spoken his thoughts he would have declared that Sir Felix had reached an age at which, if a man will go headlong to destruction, he must go headlong to destruction. Thinking as he did of his cousin he could see no possible salvation for him. "Perhaps I should take him abroad," he said.
"Would he be better abroad than here?"
"He would have less opportunity for vice, and fewer means of running you into debt."
Lady Carbury, as she turned this counsel in her mind, thought of all the hopes which she had indulged,--her literary aspirations, her Tuesday evenings, her desire for society, her Brounes, her Alfs, and her Bookers, her pleasant drawing-room, and the determination which she had made that now in the afternoon of her days she would become somebody in the world. Must she give it all up and retire to the dreariness of some French town because it was no longer possible that she should live in London with such a son as hers? There seemed to be a cruelty in this beyond all cruelties that she had hitherto endured. This was harder even than those lies which had been told of her when almost in fear of her life she had run from her husband's house. But yet she must do even this if in no other way she and her son could be together. "Yes," she said, "I suppose it would be so. I only wish that I might die, so that were an end of it."
"He might go out to one of the Colonies," said Roger.
"Yes;--be sent away that he might kill himself with drink in the bush, and so be got rid of. I have heard of that before. Wherever he goes I shall go."
As the reader knows, Roger Carbury had not latterly held this cousin of his in much esteem. He knew her to be worldly and he thought her to be unprincipled. But now, at this moment, her exceeding love for the son whom she could no longer pretend to defend, wiped out all her sins. He forgot the visit made to Carbury under false pretences, and the Melmottes, and all the little tricks which he had detected, in his appreciation of an affection which was pure and beautiful. "If you like to let your house for a period," he said, "mine is open to you."
"But, Felix?"
"You shall take him there. I am all alone in the world. I can make a home for myself at the cottage. It is empty now. If you think that would save you you can try it for six months."
"And turn you out of your own house? No, Roger. I cannot do that. And, Roger;--what is to be done about Hetta?" Hetta herself had retreated, leaving Roger and her mother alone together, feeling sure that there would be questions asked and answered in her absence respecting Mrs. Hurtle, which her presence would prevent. She wished it could have been otherwise--that she might have been allowed to hear it all herself--as she was sure that the story coming through her mother would not savour so completely of unalloyed truth as if told to her by her cousin Roger.
"Hetta can be trusted to judge for herself," he said.
"How can you say that when she has just accepted this young man? Is it not true that he is even now living with an American woman whom he has promised to marry?"
"No;--that is not true."
"What is true, then? Is he not engaged to the woman?"
Roger hesitated a moment. "I do not know that even that is true. When last he spoke to me about it he declared that the engagement was at an end. I have told Hetta to ask himself. Let her tell him that she has heard of this woman from you, and that it behoves her to know the truth. I do not love him, Lady Carbury. He has no longer any place in my friendship. But I think that if Hetta asks him simply what is the nature of his connexion with Mrs. Hurtle, he will tell her the truth."
Roger did not again see Hetta before he left the house, nor did he see his cousin Felix at all. He had now done all that he could do by his journey up to London, and he returned on that day back to Carbury. Would it not be better for him, in spite of the protestations which he had made, to dismiss the whole family from his mind? There could be no other love for him. He must be desolate and alone. But he might then save himself from a world of cares, and might gradually teach himself to live as though there were no such woman as Hetta Carbury in the world. But no! He would not allow himself to believe that this could be right. The very fact of his love made it a duty to him,--made it almost the first of his duties,--to watch over the interests of her he loved and of those who belonged to her.
But among those so belonging he did not recognise Paul Montague.

Roger Carbury, when he received the letter from Hetta's mother asking about Paul Montague and Mrs. Hurtle, was quite unable to write a reply. He asked himself what advice he would give if he were not personally concerned. He was sure that, as Hetta's cousin, he would tell her that Montague's entanglement with that American woman should have forbidden him to offer his hand to any other lady. He had seen them at Lowestoft, and had known that they were staying together as friends at the same hotel. He knew that she had come to England because of the engagement, which Montague had acknowledged. He knew that Montague made frequent visits to her in London.
He had, indeed, been told by Montague himself that the engagement had been broken off. He believed the man, but put no trust in his firmness; and he had no reason for supposing that Mrs. Hurtle had consented to be abandoned. He could not think that the man was at present fit to engage himself to another woman.
All this was clear to Roger Carbury. But it was equally clear to him that he could not, as a man of honour, assist his own cause by telling a tale against his friend. What was he to do? The girl whom he loved had confessed her love for the other man - who had been, he thought, a foul traitor to himself! He regarded himself as divided from Montague by an undying hostility. That his love for the woman would be equally undying he was quite sure. Already there were floating across his brain ideas of perpetuating his name in the person of some child of Hetta's - but with the distinct understanding that he and the child's father should never see each other.
As he could not trust himself to write an answer to Lady Carbury's letter, he determined to go to London to tell the story face to face. So he made the journey, and knocked at the door in Welbeck Street the morning after the unfortunate meeting between Sir Felix and John Crumb.
The servant-boy who opened the door looked as if there had been some terrible calamity. "My lady" had been summoned to the hospital to see Sir Felix, who was in a very bad way indeed. The boy did not exactly know what had happened, but supposed that Sir Felix had lost most of his limbs by this time. Miss Carbury was upstairs; and would no doubt see her cousin, though she too was dreadfully upset.
"What's this about Felix?" Roger asked her.
"Oh Roger, I am so glad to see you. Felix did not come home last night, and this morning there came a man from the hospital to say that he is there."
"What has happened to him?"
"Somebody has - beaten him," said Hetta, whimpering. Then she told the story as far as she knew it. The messenger from the hospital had declared that the young man was in no danger and that none of his bones were broken, but that he was terribly bruised about the face, with some of his teeth knocked out, and his lips cut open. But the surgeon had seen no reason why the young gentleman should not be taken home. "And mamma has gone to fetch him," said Hetta.
"That's John Crumb," said Roger. Hetta had never heard of John Crumb, and simply stared at him. "You have not been told about John Crumb."
"Why should he beat Felix like that?"
"They say, Hetta, that women are the cause of most troubles in the world." The girl blushed up to her eyes. "John Crumb is a neighbour of mine and was in love with a girl; and he would have made her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer her, and is an honest man with whom she would have been safe and happy. Your brother saw her and, though he knew that honest fellow had placed his happiness on the girl's love, he thought - well, I suppose he thought that such a pretty thing as this girl was too good for John Crumb."
"But Felix has been going to marry Miss Melmotte!"
"You're old-fashioned, Hetta. It used to be the way - to be off with the old love before you are on with the new; but that seems to be all changed now. Today's fine young fellows can be in love with two at once. That I fear is what Felix has thought; and now he has been punished."
"You know all about it then?"
"I think it has been so. I do know that John Crumb had threatened this. If it has been so, who is to blame him?"
Hetta hardly knew whether her cousin, in his manner of telling this story, was speaking of John Crumb or of himself. He would have made her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer her. He was an honest man with whom she would have been safe and happy! He had looked at her while speaking as though it were her own case of which he spoke. And then, when he talked of being off with the old love before you are on with the new, had he not alluded to Paul Montague?
But, if so, he must speak more plainly than that. "It is very shocking," she said.
"Yes. I pity your mother, and you."
"It seems to me that nothing ever will be happy for us," said Hetta. She was longing to be told about Mrs. Hurtle, but she did not dare to ask the question.
"I do not know whether to wait for your mother or not," said he after a short pause.
"Pray wait for her if you are not busy."
"Perhaps she would not wish me to be here when she brings Felix back to the house."
"Indeed she will. She would always like you to be here when there are troubles. Oh, Roger, I wish you could tell me."
"Tell you what?"
"She has written to you, has she not, about me?"
"Yes. And, Hetta, Mr. Montague has written to me also."
"He told me that he would," whispered Hetta.
"Did he tell you of my answer?"
"No. I have not seen him since."
"You do not think that my answer can have been very kind, do you? I have something of the feeling of John Crumb, though I shall not attempt to show it in the same way."
"Did you not say the girl had promised to love that man?"
"I did not say; but she had promised. Yes, Hetta, there is a difference. The girl was fickle and went back from her word. You never have done that. I am not justified in thinking even a hard thought of you. It is not you that I reproach. But he - he has been if possible more false than Felix."
"Oh, Roger, how has he been false?"
Still he did not wish to tell her the story of Mrs. Hurtle. His friend's falseness had been towards himself. "He should have left the place and never have come near you," said Roger, "when he found how it was likely to be with him. He owed it to me not to take the cup of water from my lips."
Hetta could not admit that her lover had sinned in loving her. "But, Roger," she said, "the result would have been the same."
"You may think so. You may feel it. I will not contradict you when you say so. But he didn't feel it. He didn't know it. He was to me as a younger brother - and he has robbed me of everything. Hetta, I know I should never have succeeded! My happiness would have been impossible even if Paul had never come home from America. I have told myself so a hundred times, but I cannot therefore forgive him. And I won't forgive him, Hetta. Whether you are his wife, or another man's, you must always be to me the dearest creature living. My hatred to him-"
"Oh, Roger, do not say hatred."
"My hostility to him can make no difference in my feeling to you. If you become his wife you will still be my love. But I shall be separated from you. Should I be dying, then I should send for you. You are the very essence of my life. I have no dream of happiness otherwise than as connected with you. He might have my whole property and I would work for my bread, if I could only have a chance of winning you."
"Roger," she said, "I have given it all away now. It cannot be given twice."
"If he were unworthy would your heart never change?"
"I think - never. Roger, is he unworthy?"
"How can you trust me to answer such a question? He is my enemy. He has been ungrateful to me. He has turned all my sweetness to gall, all my flowers to bitter weeds; he has choked up all my paths. And you ask me whether he is unworthy! I cannot tell you."
"If you thought him worthy you would tell me," she said, taking him by the arm.
"No; I will tell you nothing." He tried gently but ineffectually to remove her hand.
"Roger, if you knew him to be good you would tell me, because you yourself are so good. I ask you because I know I can trust you. I can be nothing else to you, Roger; but I love you as a sister loves a brother. He has my heart. Tell me; is there any reason why he should not also have my hand?"
"Ask him, Hetta."
"And you will tell me nothing? You will not try to save me though you know that I am in danger? Who is - Mrs. Hurtle? I had never heard of her before Felix told me about her, and told me also that you knew. But I cannot trust Felix. And mamma also bids me ask you. There is such a woman?"
"Certainly."
"And she has been - a friend of Paul's?"
"Whatever be the story, Hetta, you shall not hear it from me. Send for him and ask him to tell you about Mrs. Hurtle. I do not think he will lie, but if he lies you will know."
"And that is all?"
"Hetta, you ask me to be your brother; but I cannot put myself in a brother's place. I tell you plainly that I am your lover, and shall remain so. Your brother would welcome the man whom you would choose as your husband. I can never welcome any husband of yours. If twenty years were to pass, and you were still Hetta Carbury, I should still be your lover - though an old one. What is now to be done about Felix, Hetta?"
"Ah - what can be done? I think sometimes that it will break mamma's heart."
"Your mother makes me angry by her continual indulgence."
"But you would not have her turn him into the street?"
"I think I might. For a time it might help. Here is the cab. You had better go down and let your mother know that I am here."
Hetta went down and met her mother and her brother in the hall. Felix was able to descend from the cab, and hurry across the pavement into the house, where he hid himself in the dining-room. His face was bandaged; both his eyes were swollen and blue, and part of his beard had been cut away.
"Roger is upstairs, mamma," said Hetta.
"Has he come because of Felix?"
"He has come because of your letter. He says that a man named Crumb did it."
"Oh, Hetta, what am I to do? Where shall I go with this wretched boy?"
"Is he hurt, mamma?"
"Of course he is; horribly hurt. The brute tried to kill him. They say that he will be dreadfully scarred. But oh, Hetta; what am I to do with him?"
Felix was made as comfortable as possible in the parlour, and Lady Carbury then went up to her cousin Roger in the drawing-room. She had learned the truth, though Sir Felix himself had of course lied about every detail. When a young man's pleasant vices are brought directly under a mother's eyes, what can he do but lie?
But the policeman who had taken him to the hospital had told her all that he knew about John Crumb and Ruby Ruggles. And when Sir Felix swore that a policeman was holding him while Crumb was beating him, no one believed him. In such cases the liar does not expect to be believed.
"What am I to do with him?" Lady Carbury said to her cousin. "I can't leave him. I know he is bad. I know that I have done much to make him what he is." As she said this the tears were running down her poor worn cheeks. "But he is my child. What am I to do with him now?"
This was a question which Roger found it almost impossible to answer. If he had spoken his thoughts he would have declared that Sir Felix had reached an age at which, if a man will go headlong to destruction, he must go headlong to destruction.
"Perhaps take him abroad," he said. "He would have less opportunity for vice, and for running you into debt."
Lady Carbury thought of all the hopes she had indulged - her literary aspirations, her Tuesday evenings, her Brounes, her Alfs, and her Bookers, her pleasant drawing-room, and her determination to become somebody in the world. Must she give it all up and retire to some dreary French town because of her son? This seemed to be crueller than all cruelties that she had hitherto endured. Yet she must do this if in no other way could she and her son be together.
"Yes," she said, "I suppose it would be so. I only wish that I might die, so that were an end of it."
"He might go out to one of the Colonies," said Roger.
"Yes - be sent away to kill himself with drink in the bush. I have heard of that. Wherever he goes I shall go."
As the reader knows, Roger had not lately held Lady Carbury in much esteem. He thought her to be worldly and unprincipled. But now her exceeding love for her son wiped out all her sins. He forgot all her little tricks in his appreciation of an affection which was pure and beautiful.
"If you would like to let out your house for a period," he said, "mine is open to you. You can take Felix there. I can make a home for myself at the cottage. If you think that would save you, you can try it for six months."
"And turn you out of your own house? No, Roger, I cannot do that. And Roger; what is to be done about Hetta?" Hetta herself had retreated, so that her mother and Roger could speak freely together.
"Hetta can be trusted to judge for herself," he said.
"How can you say that when she has just accepted this young man? Is it not true that he is even now living with an American woman whom he has promised to marry?"
"No; that is not true."
"What is true, then? Is he not engaged to the woman?"
Roger hesitated a moment. "When last he spoke to me about it he declared that the engagement was at an end. I have told Hetta to ask him. Let her tell him that she has heard of this woman from you, and that she needs to know the truth. I do not love him, Lady Carbury. He has no longer any place in my friendship. But I think that if Hetta asks him, he will tell her the truth."
Roger did not see Hetta again before he returned to Carbury, nor did he see Felix at all. Would it not be better for him to dismiss the whole family from his mind? He might then save himself from a world of cares, and might gradually teach himself to live as though there were no such woman as Hetta Carbury in the world.
But no! The very fact of his love made it his foremost duty to watch over the interests of her he loved, and of those who belonged to her. But among those who belonged to her, he did not recognise Paul Montague.


It does sometimes occur in life that an unambitious man, who is in no degree given to enterprises, who would fain be safe, is driven by the cruelty of circumstances into a position in which he must choose a side, and in which, though he has no certain guide as to which side he should choose, he is aware that he will be disgraced if he should take the wrong side. This was felt as a hardship by many who were quite suddenly forced to make up their mind whether they would go to Melmotte's dinner, or join themselves to the faction of those who had determined to stay away although they had accepted invitations. Some there were not without a suspicion that the story against Melmotte had been got up simply as an electioneering trick,--so that Mr. Alf might carry the borough on the next day. As a dodge for an election this might be very well, but any who might be deterred by such a manoeuvre from meeting the Emperor and supporting the Prince would surely be marked men. And none of the wives, when they were consulted, seemed to care a straw whether Melmotte was a swindler or not. Would the Emperor and the Princes and Princesses be there? This was the only question which concerned them. They did not care whether Melmotte was arrested at the dinner or after the dinner, so long as they, with others, could show their diamonds in the presence of eastern and western royalty. But yet,--what a fiasco would it be, if at this very instant of time the host should be apprehended for common forgery! The great thing was to ascertain whether others were going. If a hundred or more out of the two hundred were to be absent how dreadful would be the position of those who were present! And how would the thing go if at the last moment the Emperor should be kept away? The Prime Minister had decided that the Emperor and the Prince should remain altogether in ignorance of the charges which were preferred against the man; but of that these doubters were unaware. There was but little time for a man to go about town and pick up the truth from those who were really informed; and questions were asked in an uncomfortable and restless manner. "Is your Grace going?" said Lionel Lupton to the Duchess of Stevenage,--having left the House and gone into the park between six and seven to pick up some hints among those who were known to have been invited. The Duchess was Lord Alfred's sister, and of course she was going. "I usually keep engagements when I make them, Mr. Lupton," said the Duchess. She had been assured by Lord Alfred not a quarter of an hour before that everything was as straight as a die. Lord Alfred had not then even heard of the rumour. But ultimately both Lionel Lupton and Beauchamp Beauclerk attended the dinner. They had received special tickets as supporters of Mr. Melmotte at the election,--out of the scanty number allotted to that gentleman himself,--and they thought themselves bound in honour to be there. But they, with their leader, and one other influential member of the party, were all who at last came as the political friends of the candidate for Westminster. The existing ministers were bound to attend to the Emperor and the Prince. But members of the Opposition, by their presence, would support the man and the politician, and both as a man and as a politician they were ashamed of him.
When Melmotte arrived at his own door with his wife and daughter he had heard nothing of the matter. That a man so vexed with affairs of money, so laden with cares, encompassed by such dangers, should be free from suspicion and fear it is impossible to imagine. That such burdens should be borne at all is a wonder to those whose shoulders have never been broadened for such work;--as is the strength of the blacksmith's arm to men who have never wielded a hammer. Surely his whole life must have been a life of terrors! But of any special peril to which he was at that moment subject, or of any embarrassment which might affect the work of the evening, he knew nothing. He placed his wife in the drawing-room and himself in the hall, and arranged his immediate satellites around him,--among whom were included the two Grendalls, young Nidderdale, and Mr. Cohenlupe,--with a feeling of gratified glory. Nidderdale down at the House had heard the rumour, but had determined that he would not as yet fly from his colours. Cohenlupe had also come up from the House, where no one had spoken to him. Though grievously frightened during the last fortnight, he had not dared to be on the wing as yet. And, indeed, to what clime could such a bird as he fly in safety? He had not only heard,--but also knew very much, and was not prepared to enjoy the feast. Since they had been in the hall Miles had spoken dreadful words to his father. "You've heard about it; haven't you?" whispered Miles. Lord Alfred, remembering his sister's question, became almost pale, but declared that he had heard nothing. "They're saying all manner of things in the City;--forgery and heaven knows what. The Lord Mayor is not coming." Lord Alfred made no reply. It was the philosophy of his life that misfortunes when they came should be allowed to settle themselves. But he was unhappy.
The grand arrivals were fairly punctual, and the very grand people all came. The unfortunate Emperor,--we must consider a man to be unfortunate who is compelled to go through such work as this,--with impassible and awful dignity, was marshalled into the room on the ground floor, whence he and other royalties were to be marshalled back into the banqueting hall. Melmotte, bowing to the ground, walked backwards before him, and was probably taken by the Emperor for some Court Master of the Ceremonies especially selected to walk backwards on this occasion. The Princes had all shaken hands with their host, and the Princesses had bowed graciously. Nothing of the rumour had as yet been whispered in royal palaces. Besides royalty the company allowed to enter the room downstairs was very select. The Prime Minister, one archbishop, two duchesses, and an ex-governor of India with whose features the Emperor was supposed to be peculiarly familiar, were alone there. The remainder of the company, under the superintendence of Lord Alfred, were received in the drawing-room above. Everything was going on well, and they who had come and had thought of not coming were proud of their wisdom.
But when the company was seated at dinner the deficiencies were visible enough, and were unfortunate. Who does not know the effect made by the absence of one or two from a table intended for ten or twelve,--how grievous are the empty places, how destructive of the outward harmony and grace which the hostess has endeavoured to preserve are these interstices, how the lady in her wrath declares to herself that those guilty ones shall never have another opportunity of filling a seat at her table? Some twenty, most of whom had been asked to bring their wives, had slunk from their engagements, and the empty spaces were sufficient to declare a united purpose. A week since it had been understood that admission for the evening could not be had for love or money, and that a seat at the dinner-table was as a seat at some banquet of the gods! Now it looked as though the room were but half-filled. There were six absences from the City. Another six of Mr. Melmotte's own political party were away. The archbishops and the bishop were there, because bishops never hear worldly tidings till after other people;--but that very Master of the Buckhounds for whom so much pressure had been made did not come. Two or three peers were absent, and so also was that editor who had been chosen to fill Mr. Alf's place. One poet, two painters, and a philosopher had received timely notice at their clubs, and had gone home. The three independent members of the House of Commons for once agreed in their policy, and would not lend the encouragement of their presence to a man suspected of forgery. Nearly forty places were vacant when the business of the dinner commenced.
Melmotte had insisted that Lord Alfred should sit next to himself at the big table, and having had the objectionable bar removed, and his own chair shoved one step nearer to the centre, had carried his. point. With the anxiety natural to such an occasion, he glanced repeatedly round the hall, and of course became aware that many were absent. "How is it that there are so many places empty?" he said to his faithful Achates.
"Don't know," said Achates, shaking his head, steadfastly refusing to look round upon the hall.
Melmotte waited awhile, then looked round again, and asked the question in another shape: "Hasn't there been some mistake about the numbers? There's room for ever so many more."
"Don't know," said Lord Alfred, who was unhappy in his mind, and repenting himself that he had ever seen Mr. Melmotte.
"What the deuce do you mean?" whispered Melmotte. "You've been at it from the beginning and ought to know. When I wanted to ask Brehgert, you swore that you couldn't squeeze a place."
"Can't say anything about it," said Lord Alfred, with his eyes fixed upon his plate.
"I'll be d---- if I don't find out," said Melmotte. "There's either some horrible blunder, or else there's been imposition. I don't see quite clearly. Where's Sir Gregory Gribe?"
"Hasn't come, I suppose."
"And where's the Lord Mayor?" Melmotte, in spite of royalty, was now sitting with his face turned round upon the hall. "I know all their places, and I know where they were put. Have you seen the Lord Mayor?"
"No; I haven't seen him at all."
"But he was to come. What's the meaning of it, Alfred?"
"Don't know anything about it." He shook his head but would not, for even a moment, look round upon the room.
"And where's Mr. Killegrew,--and Sir David Boss?" Mr. Killegrew and Sir David were gentlemen of high standing, and destined for important offices in the Conservative party. "There are ever so many people not here. Why, there's not above half of them down the room. What's up, Alfred? I must know."
"I tell you I know nothing. I could not make them come." Lord Alfred's answers were made not only with a surly voice, but also with a surly heart. He was keenly alive to the failure, and alive also to the feeling that the failure would partly be attached to himself. At the present moment he was anxious to avoid observation, and it seemed to him that Melmotte, by the frequency and impetuosity of his questions, was drawing special attention to him. "If you go on making a row," he said, "I shall go away." Melmotte looked at him with all his eyes. "Just sit quiet and let the thing go on. You'll know all about it soon enough." This was hardly the way to give Mr. Melmotte peace of mind. For a few minutes he did sit quiet. Then he got up and moved down the hall behind the guests.
In the meantime, Imperial Majesty and Royalties of various denominations ate their dinner, without probably observing those Banquo's seats. As the Emperor talked Manchoo only, and as there was no one present who could even interpret Manchoo into English,--the imperial interpreter condescending only to interpret Manchoo into ordinary Chinese which had to be reinterpreted,--it was not within his Imperial Majesty's power to have much conversation with his neighbours. And as his neighbours on each side of him were all cousins and husbands, and brothers and wives, who saw each constantly under, let us presume, more comfortable circumstances, they had not very much to say to each other. Like most of us, they had their duties to do, and, like most of us, probably found their duties irksome. The brothers and sisters and cousins were used to it; but that awful Emperor, solid, solemn, and silent, must, if the spirit of an Eastern Emperor be at all like that of a Western man, have had a weary time of it. He sat there for more than two hours, awful, solid, solemn, and silent, not eating very much,--for this was not his manner of eating; nor drinking very much,--for this was not his manner of drinking; but wondering, no doubt, within his own awful bosom, at the changes which were coming when an Emperor of China was forced, by outward circumstances, to sit and hear this buzz of voices and this clatter of knives and forks. "And this," he must have said to himself, "is what they call royalty in the West!" If a prince of our own was forced, for the good of the country, to go among some far distant outlandish people, and there to be poked in the ribs, and slapped on the back all round, the change to him could hardly be so great.
"Where's Sir Gregory?" said Melmotte, in a hoarse whisper, bending over the chair of a City friend. It was old Todd, the senior partner of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner. Mr. Todd was a very wealthy man, and had a considerable following in the City.
"Ain't he here?" said Todd,--knowing very well who had come from the City and who had declined.
"No;--and the Lord Mayor's not come;--nor Postlethwaite, nor Bunter. What's the meaning of it?"
Todd looked first at one neighbour and then at another before he answered. "I'm here, that's all I can say, Mr. Melmotte; and I've had a very good dinner. They who haven't come, have lost a very good dinner."
There was a weight upon Melmotte's mind of which he could not rid himself. He knew from the old man's manner, and he knew also from Lord Alfred's manner, that there was something which each of them could tell him if he would. But he was unable to make the men open their mouths. And yet it might be so important to him that he should know! "It's very odd," he said, "that gentlemen should promise to come and then stay away. There were hundreds anxious to be present whom I should have been glad to welcome, if I had known that there would be room. I think it is very odd."
"It is odd," said Mr. Todd, turning his attention to the plate before him.
Melmotte had lately seen much of Beauchamp Beauclerk, in reference to the coming election. Passing back up the table, he found the gentleman with a vacant seat on one side of him. There were many vacant seats in this part of the room, as the places for the Conservative gentlemen had been set apart together. There Mr. Melmotte seated himself for a minute, thinking that he might get the truth from his new ally. Prudence should have kept him silent. Let the cause of these desertions have been what it might, it ought to have been clear to him that he could apply no remedy to it now. But he was bewildered and dismayed, and his mind within him was changing at every moment. He was now striving to trust to his arrogance and declaring that nothing should cow him. And then again he was so cowed that he was ready to creep to any one for assistance. Personally, Mr. Beauclerk had disliked the man greatly. Among the vulgar, loud upstarts whom he had known, Melmotte was the vulgarest, the loudest, and the most arrogant. But he had taken the business of Melmotte's election in hand, and considered himself bound to stand by Melmotte till that was over; and he was now the guest of the man in his own house, and was therefore constrained to courtesy. His wife was sitting by him, and he at once introduced her to Mr. Melmotte. "You have a wonderful assemblage here, Mr. Melmotte," said the lady, looking up at the royal table.
"Yes, ma'am, yes. His Majesty the Emperor has been pleased to intimate that he has been much gratified."--Had the Emperor in truth said so, no one who looked at him could have believed his imperial word.--"Can you tell me, Mr. Beauclerk, why those other gentlemen are not here? It looks very odd; does it not?"
"Ah; you mean Killegrew."
"Yes; Mr. Killegrew and Sir David Boss, and the whole lot. I made a particular point of their coming. I said I wouldn't have the dinner at all unless they were to be asked. They were going to make it a Government thing; but I said no. I insisted on the leaders of our own party; and now they're not here. I know the cards were sent;--and, by George, I have their answers, saying they'd come."
"I suppose some of them are engaged," said Mr. Beauclerk.
"Engaged! What business has a man to accept one engagement and then take another? And, if so, why shouldn't he write and make his excuses? No, Mr. Beauclerk, that won't go down."
"I'm here, at any rate," said Beauclerk, making the very answer that had occurred to Mr. Todd.
"Oh, yes, you're here. You're all right. But what is it, Mr. Beauclerk? There's something up, and you must have heard." And so it was clear to Mr. Beauclerk that the man knew nothing about it himself. If there was anything wrong, Melmotte was not aware that the wrong had been discovered. "Is it anything about the election to-morrow?"
"One never can tell what is actuating people," said Mr. Beauclerk.
"If you know anything about the matter I think you ought to tell me."
"I know nothing except that the ballot will be taken to-morrow. You and I have got nothing more to do in the matter except to wait the result."
"Well; I suppose it's all right," said Melmotte, rising and going back to his seat. But he knew that things were not all right. Had his political friends only been absent, he might have attributed their absence to some political cause which would not have touched him deeply. But the treachery of the Lord Mayor and of Sir Gregory Gribe was a blow. For another hour after he had returned to his place, the Emperor sat solemn in his chair; and then, at some signal given by some one, he was withdrawn. The ladies had already left the room about half an hour. According to the programme arranged for the evening, the royal guests were to return to the smaller room for a cup of coffee, and were then to be paraded upstairs before the multitude who would by that time have arrived, and to remain there long enough to justify the invited ones in saying that they had spent the evening with the Emperor and the Princes and the Princesses. The plan was carried out perfectly. At half-past ten the Emperor was made to walk upstairs, and for half an hour sat awful and composed in an arm-chair that had been prepared for him. How one would wish to see the inside of the mind of the Emperor as it worked on that occasion!
Melmotte, when his guests ascended his stairs, went back into the banqueting-room and through to the hall, and wandered about till he found Miles Grendall. "Miles," he said, "tell me what the row is."
"How row?" asked Miles.
"There's something wrong, and you know all about it. Why didn't the people come?" Miles, looking guilty, did not even attempt to deny his knowledge. "Come; what is it? We might as well know all about it at once." Miles looked down on the ground, and grunted something. "Is it about the election?"
"No, it's not that," said Miles.
"Then what is it?"
"They got hold of something to-day in the City--about Pickering."
"They did, did they? And what were they saying about Pickering? Come; you might as well out with it. You don't suppose that I care what lies they tell."
"They say there's been something--forged. Title-deeds, I think they say."
"Title-deeds! that I have forged title-deeds. Well; that's beginning well. And his lordship has stayed away from my house after accepting my invitation because he has heard that story! All right, Miles; that will do." And the Great Financier went upstairs into his own drawing-room.

It sometimes happens that an unambitious man is driven into a position in which he must choose a side; and though he does not know which side to choose, he is aware that he will be disgraced if he should make the wrong choice. This was felt by many who were suddenly forced to make up their mind whether they would go to Melmotte's dinner, or stay away.
Some suspected that the story against Melmotte had been got up simply as an electioneering trick, so that Mr. Alf might win the borough on the next day. As a dodge for an election this might work, but any who were therefore deterred from supporting their Prince at the dinner would surely be marked men. And none of the wives cared a straw whether Melmotte was a swindler or not. Would the Emperor and the Princes and Princesses be there? This was the only question which concerned them. They did not care whether Melmotte was arrested at the dinner, so long as they could show their diamonds in the presence of royalty.
Yet what a fiasco would it be, if the host should be apprehended for common forgery! The great thing was to find out whether others were going. If half stayed away, how dreadful would be the position of those who were present! And what if at the last moment the Emperor should be kept away? The Prime Minister had decided that the Emperor and the Prince should remain in ignorance of the charges against Melmotte; but of that these doubters were unaware.
"Is your Grace going?" said Lionel Lupton to the Duchess of Stevenage, having gone into the park between six and seven to pick up some hints. The Duchess was Lord Alfred's sister, and of course she was going. She had been assured by Lord Alfred not a quarter of an hour before that everything was as straight as a die. Lord Alfred had not then even heard of the rumour. Ultimately both Lionel Lupton and Beauchamp Beauclerk attended the dinner. They had received special tickets as supporters of Mr. Melmotte at the election, and they thought themselves honour-bound to be there. But they, with their leader, and one other member of the party, were all who came as the political friends of the candidate for Westminster.
When Melmotte arrived at his own door with his wife and daughter he had heard nothing of the matter. That a man so vexed with affairs of money, so laden with cares and dangers, should be free from fear it is impossible to imagine. That such burdens should be borne at all is a wonder. Surely his whole life must have been a life of terrors! But of any special peril at that moment, he knew nothing. He placed his wife in the drawing-room and himself in the hall, and arranged his satellites around him - including the two Grendalls, young Nidderdale, and Mr. Cohenlupe - with a feeling of gratified glory.
Nidderdale had heard the rumour at the Houses of Parliament, but had determined that he would not as yet fly. Cohenlupe had also come up from the House, where no one had spoken to him. Though grievously frightened, he had not dared to be on the wing as yet. And, indeed, to what clime could such a bird as he fly in safety? He knew very much, and was not prepared to enjoy the feast.
In the hall Miles whispered to his father.
"You've heard about it; haven't you?" Lord Alfred turned pale, but declared that he had heard nothing. "They're saying all manner of things in the City; forgery and heaven knows what. The Lord Mayor is not coming."
Lord Alfred made no reply. But he was unhappy.
The grand arrivals were punctual, and the very grand people all came. The Emperor, with impassive and awful dignity, was marshalled into the room on the ground floor, before being marshalled back into the banqueting hall. Melmotte, bowing to the ground, walked backwards before him, and was probably taken by the Emperor for some Court Master of Ceremonies. The Princes had all shaken hands with Melmotte, and the Princesses had bowed graciously. Nothing of the rumour had been whispered in royal palaces.
Besides royalty the company allowed to enter the room was very select: the Prime Minister, one archbishop, two duchesses, and an ex-governor of India. The remainder of the company were received in the drawing-room above. Everything was going well, and they who had decided to come were proud of their wisdom.
But when the company was seated at dinner the absences were unfortunately visible. A week ago, admission could not be had for love or money. Now it looked as though the room were but half-filled. There were six absences from the City; another six of Mr. Melmotte's own political party were away. The archbishops and the bishop were there, but two or three peers were absent, and so were a poet, two painters, and a philosopher, as well as three independent members of the House of Commons. Nearly forty places were vacant when the dinner commenced.
Melmotte had insisted that Lord Alfred should sit next to him at the big table, having had the objectionable bar removed, and his own chair shoved nearer to the centre. He glanced repeatedly round the hall, and of course became aware that many were absent.
"How is it that there are so many places empty?" he asked.
"Don't know," said Lord Alfred, shaking his head, steadfastly refusing to look round upon the hall.
Melmotte looked round again. "Has there been some mistake about the numbers? There's room for ever so many more."
"Don't know," said Lord Alfred unhappily, wishing that he had never seen Mr. Melmotte.
"What the deuce do you mean?" whispered Melmotte. "You ought to know."
"Can't say anything about it," said Lord Alfred, with his eyes fixed upon his plate.
"I'll be d___ if I don't find out," said Melmotte. "Where's the Lord Mayor?" In spite of royalty, he was now sitting with his face turned round upon the hall. "Have you seen the Lord Mayor?"
"No, I haven't."
"But he was to come. What's the meaning of it, Alfred?"
"Don't know anything about it."
"And where's Mr. Killegrew, and Sir David Boss? What's up, Alfred? I must know."
"I could not make them come." Lord Alfred's answers were surly. He was sure the failure would partly be attached to himself, and he felt that Melmotte, by his frequent questions, was drawing attention to him. "If you go on making a row," he said, "I shall go away. Just sit quiet. You'll know all about it soon enough."
This was hardly the way to give Mr. Melmotte peace of mind. For a few minutes he did sit quiet. Then he got up and moved down the hall behind the guests.
In the meantime, various Royalties ate their dinner, without observing those empty Banquo's seats. As the Emperor spoke only Manchoo, and as there was no one present who could even interpret Manchoo into English - the imperial interpreter condescending only to interpret Manchoo into ordinary Chinese - his Imperial Majesty could not have much conversation with his neighbours. And his neighbours had not very much to say to each other. They probably found these duties irksome; and that solemn, silent Emperor must have had a weary time of it. He sat there for more than two hours, not eating nor drinking very much; but wondering at the changes which were coming when an Emperor of China was forced to sit and hear this buzz of voices and clatter of knives and forks. "And this," he must have said to himself, "is what they call royalty in the West!"
"Where's Sir Gregory Gribe?" said Melmotte, in a hoarse whisper, to a City friend - old Todd, of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner.
"Ain't he here?" said Todd, knowing very well that he wasn't.
"No - and the Lord Mayor's not come; nor Postlethwaite, nor Bunter. What's the meaning of it?"
Todd looked at his neighbours before he answered. "I'm here, that's all I can say, Mr. Melmotte; and I've had a very good dinner."
There was a weight upon Melmotte's mind. He knew from old Todd's manner, and Lord Alfred's, that there was something they could tell him if they would. But they would not open their mouths.
"It's very odd," he said, "that gentlemen should promise to come and then stay away. There were hundreds anxious to be present. I think it is very odd."
"It is odd," said Mr. Todd, turning his attention to his plate.
Passing back up the table, Melmotte found Beauchamp Beauclerk with a vacant seat next to him. There were many vacant seats in this part of the room, and Mr. Melmotte seated himself for a minute, thinking that he might get the truth from his ally in the election. Prudence should have kept him silent. Whatever the cause of these desertions, he could apply no remedy to it now. But he was bewildered and dismayed; and though he declared that nothing should cow him, yet he was cowed.
Personally, Mr. Beauclerk disliked the man greatly, thinking him a loud and vulgar upstart. But he had taken the business of Melmotte's election in hand, and considered himself bound to stand by Melmotte till that was over; and he was now the man's guest, and was constrained to courtesy. His wife was sitting by him, and he introduced her to Mr. Melmotte.
"You have a wonderful assemblage here, Mr. Melmotte," said the lady.
"Yes, ma'am, yes. His Majesty the Emperor has said that he has been much gratified. - Can you tell me, Mr. Beauclerk, why those other gentlemen are not here? It looks very odd; does it not?"
"Ah; you mean Killegrew."
"And Sir David Boss, and the whole lot. I insisted on their being invited, and I know the cards were sent; and, by George, I have their answers, saying they'd come."
"I suppose some of them are engaged," said Mr. Beauclerk.
"Engaged! What business has a man to accept one engagement and then take another? There's something up. What is it, Mr. Beauclerk? You must have heard. If you know anything about it I think you ought to tell me."
"I know nothing except that the ballot will be taken tomorrow. You and I have got nothing more to do except await the result."
"Well; I suppose it's all right," said Melmotte, rising and going back to his seat. But he knew that things were not all right.
The Emperor sat solemn in his chair for another hour; and then, at some signal, he was withdrawn. The ladies had already left the room. According to the programme arranged for the evening, the royal guests were to return to the smaller room for a cup of coffee, and were then to be paraded upstairs before the multitude who would by that time have arrived, and to remain there long enough to justify the invited ones in saying that they had spent the evening with the Emperor and the Princes and the Princesses.
The plan was carried out perfectly. At half-past ten the Emperor was made to walk upstairs, and for half an hour sat awful and composed in an arm-chair. How one would wish to see inside his mind!
Melmotte went through to the hall, and found Miles Grendall.
"Miles," he said, "there's something wrong, and you know all about it. Why didn't the people come? What is it? Is it about the election?"
"No, it's not that," said Miles.
"Then what is it?"
"They got hold of something today in the City - about Pickering."
"And what were they saying about Pickering? Come; out with it. You don't suppose that I care what lies they tell."
"They say there's been something - forged. Title-deeds, I think."
"Forged title-deeds! All right, Miles; that will do." And the Great Financier went upstairs into his own drawing-room.