Hetta Carbury, out of the fulness of her heart, having made up her mind that she had been unjust to her lover, wrote to him a letter full of penitence, full of love, telling him at great length all the details of her meeting with Mrs. Hurtle, and bidding him come back to her, and bring the brooch with him. But this letter she had unfortunately addressed to the Beargarden, as he had written to her from that club; and partly through his own fault, and partly through the demoralisation of that once perfect establishment, the letter never reached his hands. When, therefore, he returned to London he was justified in supposing that she had refused even to notice his appeal. He was, however, determined that he would still make further struggles. He had, he felt, to contend with many difficulties. Mrs. Hurtle, Roger Carbury, and Hetta's mother were, he thought, all inimical to him. Mrs. Hurtle, though she had declared that she would not rage as a lioness, could hardly be his friend in the matter. Roger had repeatedly declared his determination to regard him as a traitor. And Lady Carbury, as he well knew, had always been and always would be opposed to the match. But Hetta had owned that she loved him, had submitted to his caresses, and had been proud of his admiration. And Paul, though he did not probably analyze very carefully the character of his beloved, still felt instinctively that, having so far prevailed with such a girl, his prospects could not be altogether hopeless. And yet how should he continue the struggle? With what weapons should he carry on the fight? The writing of letters is but a one-sided, troublesome proceeding, when the person to whom they are written will not answer them; and the calling at a door at which the servant has been instructed to refuse a visitor admission, becomes, disagreeable,--if not degrading,--after a time.
But Hetta had written a second epistle,--not to her lover, but to one who received his letters with more regularity. When she rashly and with precipitate wrath quarrelled with Paul Montague, she at once communicated the fact to her mother, and through her mother to her cousin Roger. Though she would not recognise Roger as a lover, she did acknowledge him to be the head of her family, and her own special friend, and entitled in some special way to know all that she herself did, and all that was done in regard to her. She therefore wrote to her cousin, telling him that she had made a mistake about Paul, that she was convinced that Paul had always behaved to her with absolute sincerity, and, in short, that Paul was the best, and dearest, and most ill-used of human beings. In her enthusiasm she went on to declare that there could be no other chance of happiness for her in this world than that of becoming Paul's wife, and to beseech her dearest friend and cousin Roger not to turn against her, but to lend her an aiding hand. There are those whom strong words in letters never affect at all,--who, perhaps, hardly read them, and take what they do read as meaning no more than half what is said. But Roger Carbury was certainly not one of these. As he sat on the garden wall at Carbury, with his cousin's letter in his hand, her words had their full weight with him. He did not try to convince himself that all this was the verbiage of an enthusiastic girl, who might soon be turned and trained to another mode of thinking by fitting admonitions. To him now, as he read and re-read Hetta's letter sitting on the wall, there was not at any rate further hope for himself. Though he was altogether unchanged himself, though he was altogether incapable of change,--though he could not rally himself sufficiently to look forward to even a passive enjoyment of life without the girl whom he had loved,--yet he told himself what he believed to be the truth. At last he owned directly and plainly that, whether happy or unhappy, he must do without her. He had let time slip by with him too fast and too far before he had ventured to love. He must now stomach his disappointment, and make the best he could of such a broken, ill-conditioned life as was left to him. But, if he acknowledged this,--and he did acknowledge it,--in what fashion should he in future treat the man and woman who had reduced him so low?
At this moment his mind was tuned to high thoughts. If it were possible he would be unselfish. He could not, indeed, bring himself to think with kindness of Paul Montague. He could not say to himself that the man had not been treacherous to him, nor could he forgive the man's supposed treason. But he did tell himself very plainly that in comparison with Hetta the man was nothing to him. It could hardly be worth his while to maintain a quarrel with the man if he were once able to assure Hetta that she, as the wife of another man, should still be dear to him as a friend might be dear. He was well aware that such assurance, such forgiveness, must contain very much. If it were to be so, Hetta's child must take the name of Carbury, and must be to him as his heir,--as near as possible his own child. In her favour he must throw aside that law of primogeniture which to him was so sacred that he had been hitherto minded to make Sir Felix his heir in spite of the absolute unfitness of the wretched young man. All this must be changed, should he be able to persuade himself to give his consent to the marriage. In such case Carbury must be the home of the married couple, as far as he could induce them to make it so. There must be born the future infant to whose existence he was already looking forward with some idea that in his old age he might there find comfort. In such case, though he should never again be able to love Paul Montague in his heart of hearts, he must live with him for her sake on affectionate terms. He must forgive Hetta altogether,--as though there had been no fault; and he must strive to forgive the man's fault as best he might. Struggling as he was to be generous, passionately fond as he was of justice, yet he did not know how to be just himself. He could not see that he in truth had been to no extent ill-used. And ever and again, as he thought of the great prayer as to the forgiveness of trespasses, he could not refrain from asking himself whether it could really be intended that he should forgive such trespass as that committed against him by Paul Montague! Nevertheless, when he rose from the wall he had resolved that Hetta should be pardoned entirely, and that Paul Montague should be treated as though he were pardoned. As for himself,--the chances of the world had been unkind to him, and he would submit to them!
Nevertheless he wrote no answer to Hetta's letter. Perhaps he felt, with some undefined but still existing hope, that the writing of such a letter would deprive him of his last chance. Hetta's letter to himself hardly required an immediate answer,--did not, indeed, demand any answer. She had simply told him that, whereas she had for certain reasons quarrelled with the man she had loved, she had now come to the conclusion that she would quarrel with him no longer. She had asked for her cousin's assent to her own views, but that, as Roger felt, was to be given rather by the discontinuance of opposition than by any positive action. Roger's influence with her mother was the assistance which Hetta really wanted from him, and that influence could hardly be given by the writing of any letter. Thinking of all this, Roger determined that he would again go up to London. He would have the vacant hours of the journey in which to think of it all again, and tell himself whether it was possible for him to bring his heart to agree to the marriage;--and then he would see the people, and perhaps learn something further from their manner and their words, before he finally committed himself to the abandonment of his own hopes and the completion of theirs.
He went up to town, and I do not know that those vacant hours served him much. To a man not accustomed to thinking there is nothing in the world so difficult as to think. After some loose fashion we turn over things in our mind and ultimately reach some decision, guided probably by our feelings at the last moment rather than by any process of ratiocination;--and then we think that we have thought. But to follow out one argument to an end, and then to found on the base so reached the commencement of another, is not common to us. Such a process was hardly within the compass of Roger's mind,--who when he was made wretched by the dust, and by a female who had a basket of objectionable provisions opposite to him, almost forswore his charitable resolutions of the day before; but who again, as he walked lonely at night round the square which was near to his hotel, looking up at the bright moon with a full appreciation of the beauty of the heavens, asked himself what was he that he should wish to interfere with the happiness of two human beings much younger than himself, and much fitter to enjoy the world. But he had had a bath, and had got rid of the dust, and had eaten his dinner.
The next morning he was in Welbeck Street at an early hour. When he knocked he had not made up his mind whether he would ask for Lady Carbury or her daughter, and did at last inquire whether "the ladies" were at home. The ladies were reported as being at home, and he was at once shown into the drawing-room, where Hetta was sitting. She hurried up to him, and he at once took her in his arms and kissed her. He had never done such a thing before. He had never even kissed her hand. Though they were cousins and dear friends, he had never treated her after that fashion. Her instinct told her immediately that such a greeting from him was a sign of affectionate compliance with her wishes. That this man should kiss her as her best and dearest relation, as her most trusted friend, as almost her brother, was certainly to her no offence. She could cling to him in fondest love,--if he would only consent not to be her lover. "Oh, Roger, I am so glad to see you," she said, escaping gently from his arms.
"I could not write an answer, and so I came."
"You always do the kindest thing that can be done."
"I don't know. I don't know that I can do anything now,--kind or unkind. It is all done without any aid from me. Hetta, you have been all the world to me."
"Do not reproach me," she said.
"No;--no. Why should I reproach you? You have committed no fault. I should not have come had I intended to reproach any one."
"I love you so much for saying that."
"Let it be as you wish it,--if it must. I have made up my mind to bear it, and there shall be an end of it." As he said this he took her by the hand, and she put her head upon his shoulder and began to weep. "And still you will be all the world to me," he continued, with his arm round her waist. "As you will not be my wife, you shall be my daughter."
"I will be your sister, Roger."
"My daughter rather. You shall be all that I have in the world. I will hurry to grow old that I may feel for you as the old feel for the young. And if you have a child, Hetta, he must be my child." As he thus spoke her tears were renewed. "I have planned it all out in my mind, dear. There! If there be anything that I can do to add to your happiness, I will do it. You must believe this of me,--that to make you happy shall be the only enjoyment of my life."
It had been hardly possible for her to tell him as yet that the man to whom he was thus consenting to surrender her had not even condescended to answer the letter in which she had told him to come back to her. And now, sobbing as she was, overcome by the tenderness of her cousin's affection, anxious to express her intense gratitude, she did not know how first to mention the name of Paul Montague. "Have you seen him?" she said in a whisper.
"Seen whom?"
"Mr. Montague."
"No;--why should I have seen him? It is not for his sake that I am here."
"But you will be his friend?"
"Your husband shall certainly be my friend;--or, if not, the fault shall not be mine. It shall all be forgotten, Hetta,--as nearly as such things may be forgotten. But I had nothing to say to him till I had seen you." At that moment the door was opened and Lady Carbury entered the room, and, after her greeting with her cousin, looked first at her daughter and then at Roger. "I have come up," said he, "to signify my adhesion to this marriage." Lady Carbury's face fell very low. "I need not speak again of what were my own wishes. I have learned at last that it could not have been so."
"Why should you say so?" exclaimed Lady Carbury.
"Pray, pray, mamma--," Hetta began, but was unable to find words with which to go on with her prayer.
"I do not know that it need be so at all," continued Lady Carbury. "I think it is very much in your own hands. Of course it is not for me to press such an arrangement, if it be not in accord with your own wishes."
"I look upon her as engaged to marry Paul Montague," said Roger.
"Not at all," said Lady Carbury.
"Yes; mamma,--yes," cried Hetta boldly. "It is so. I am engaged to him."
"I beg to let your cousin know that it is not so with my consent,--nor, as far as I can understand at present, with the consent of Mr. Montague himself."
"Mamma!"
"Paul Montague!" ejaculated Roger Carbury. "The consent of Paul Montague! I think I may take upon myself to say that there can be no doubt as to that."
"There has been a quarrel," said Lady Carbury.
"Surely he has not quarrelled with you, Hetta?"
"I wrote to him,--and he has not answered me," said Hetta piteously.
Then Lady Carbury gave a full and somewhat coloured account of what had taken place, while Roger listened with admirable patience. "The marriage is on every account objectionable," she said at last. "His means are precarious. His conduct with regard to that woman has been very bad. He has been sadly mixed up with that wretched man who destroyed himself. And now, when Henrietta has written to him without my sanction,--in opposition to my express commands,--he takes no notice of her. She, very properly, sent him back a present that he made her, and no doubt he has resented her doing so. I trust that his resentment may be continued."
Hetta was now seated on a sofa hiding her face and weeping. Roger stood perfectly still, listening with respectful silence till Lady Carbury had spoken her last word. And even then he was slow to answer, considering what he might best say. "I think I had better see him," he replied. "If, as I imagine, he has not received my cousin's letter, that matter will be set at rest. We must not take advantage of such an accident as that. As to his income,--that I think may be managed. His connection with Mr. Melmotte was unfortunate, but was due to no fault of his." At this moment he could not but remember Lady Carbury's great anxiety to be closely connected with Melmotte, but he was too generous to say a word on that head. "I will see him, Lady Carbury, and then I will come to you again."
Lady Carbury did not dare to tell him that she did not wish him to see Paul Montague. She knew that if he really threw himself into the scale against her, her opposition would weigh nothing. He was too powerful in his honesty and greatness of character,--and had been too often admitted by herself to be the guardian angel of the family,--for her to stand against him. But she still thought that had he persevered, Hetta would have become his wife.
It was late that evening before Roger found Paul Montague, who had only then returned from Liverpool with Fisker,--whose subsequent doings have been recorded somewhat out of their turn.
"I don't know what letter you mean," said Paul.
"You wrote to her?"
"Certainly I wrote to her. I wrote to her twice. My last letter was one which I think she ought to have answered. She had accepted me, and had given me a right to tell my own story when she unfortunately heard from other sources the story of my journey to Lowestoft with Mrs. Hurtle." Paul pleaded his own case with indignant heat, not understanding at first that Roger had come to him on a friendly mission.
"She did answer your letter."
"I have not had a line from her;--not a word!"
"She did answer your letter."
"What did she say to me?"
"Nay,--you must ask her that."
"But if she will not see me?"
"She will see you. I can tell you that. And I will tell you this also;--that she wrote to you as a girl writes to the lover whom she does wish to see."
"Is that true?" exclaimed Paul, jumping up.
"I am here especially to tell you that it is true. I should hardly come on such a mission if there were a doubt. You may go to her, and need have nothing to fear,--unless, indeed, it be the opposition of her mother."
"She is stronger than her mother," said Paul.
"I think she is. And now I wish you to hear what I have to say."
"Of course," said Paul, sitting down suddenly. Up to this moment Roger Carbury, though he had certainly brought glad tidings, had not communicated them as a joyous, sympathetic messenger. His face had been severe, and the tone of his voice almost harsh; and Paul, remembering well the words of the last letter which his old friend had written him, did not expect personal kindness. Roger would probably say very disagreeable things to him, which he must bear with all the patience which he could summon to his assistance.
"You know what my feelings have been," Roger began, "and how deeply I have resented what I thought to be an interference with my affections. But no quarrel between you and me, whatever the rights of it may be--"
"I have never quarrelled with you," Paul began.
"If you will listen to me for a moment it will be better. No anger between you and me, let it arise as it might, should be allowed to interfere with the happiness of her whom I suppose we both love better than all the rest of the world put together."
"I do," said Paul.
"And so do I;--and so I always shall. But she is to be your wife. She shall be my daughter. She shall have my property,--or her child shall be my heir. My house shall be her house,--if you and she will consent to make it so. You will not be afraid of me. You know me, I think, too well for that. You may now count on any assistance you could have from me were I a father giving you a daughter in marriage. I do this because I will make the happiness of her life the chief object of mine. Now good night. Don't say anything about it at present. By-and-by we shall be able to talk about these things with more equable temper." Having so spoken he hurried out of the room, leaving Paul Montague bewildered by the tidings which had been announced to him.

Hetta Carbury, having made up her mind that she had been unjust to her lover, wrote to him a letter full of penitence and love, bidding him come back to her. But unfortunately she addressed it to the Beargarden, as he had written to her from that club; and the letter never reached him. When he returned to London he supposed that she had refused even to notice his appeal.
He was, however, determined that he would still make further struggles, even though Mrs. Hurtle, Roger Carbury, and Hetta's mother were, he thought, all hostile to him. But Hetta had owned that she loved him, and Paul still felt instinctively that his prospects could not be altogether hopeless. Yet how should he carry on the fight? The writing of letters is a one-sided, troublesome proceeding, when the person to whom they are written will not answer.
But Hetta had written a second letter, not to her lover. As Roger was the head of her family, and her friend, and entitled in some special way to know all that she did, she wrote to him. She told him that she had made a mistake about Paul, that she was convinced that Paul had always behaved to her with absolute sincerity, and, in short, that Paul was the dearest and most ill-used of human beings. In her enthusiasm she declared that there could be no other chance of happiness for her than that of becoming Paul's wife, and beseeched her dearest friend Roger not to turn against her, but to lend her aid.
As Roger sat on the garden wall at Carbury, with his cousin's letter in his hand, her words affected him heavily. There was no hope for himself. Though he was incapable of change - though he could not look forward to even a passive enjoyment of life without the girl whom he loved - yet he told himself directly and plainly that he must do without her. He had let time slip by too fast and too far before he had ventured to love, and must now make the best he could of such a broken life as was left to him. But how should he treat the man and woman who had reduced him so low?
If possible he would be unselfish. He could not, indeed, think kindly of Paul Montague; he could not forgive the man's supposed treason. But he did tell himself that in comparison with Hetta the man was nothing to him. He wanted to be able to assure Hetta that she should still be dear to him as a friend. Hetta's child must take the name of Carbury, and must be his heir - as near as possible his own child, in place of the wretched Felix,
In such a case Carbury must be the home of the married couple, if he could induce them to make it so. Though he should never again be able to love Paul Montague, he must live with him for her sake on affectionate terms. He must forgive Hetta altogether, as though there had been no fault; and strive to forgive the man's fault as best he might.
Passionately fond as he was of justice, yet he did not know how to be just himself. He could not see that in truth he had not been betrayed. Nevertheless, when he rose from the wall he had resolved that Paul Montague should be treated as though he were pardoned.
However, he wrote no answer to Hetta's letter - perhaps feeling that it would deprive him of his last chance. Her letter did not require an immediate answer; she had simply told him how things now stood. Roger's influence with her mother was the assistance which Hetta really wanted, and that could hardly be done by writing. Roger determined that he would again go up to London. He would think it all over on the journey, and then see the people themselves, before he finally committed himself to the abandonment of his own hopes.
He went up to town, and I do not know that hours of thinking helped him much. To follow an argument to an end is not easy or common, and it was hardly within Roger's capabilities. As he walked that night round the square near his hotel, looking up at the bright moon, he asked himself why he should wish to interfere with the happiness of two much younger human beings. But he had had a bath by then, and had eaten his dinner.
The next morning he was in Welbeck Street early. He was at once shown into the drawing-room, where Hetta was sitting. She hurried up to him, and he took her in his arms and kissed her. He had never done such a thing before. He had never even kissed her hand.
Her instinct told her immediately that such a greeting was a sign of affectionate compliance with her wishes.
"Oh, Roger, I am so glad to see you," she said, escaping gently from his arms.
"I could not write an answer, so I came."
"You always do the kindest thing."
"I don't know that I can do anything now. It is all done. Hetta, you have been all the world to me."
"Do not reproach me," she said.
"No. Why should I reproach you? You have committed no fault. I should not have come had I intended to reproach anyone."
"I love you so much for saying that."
"Let it be as you wish, if it must. I have made up my mind to bear it, and there shall be an end of it." As he said this he took her hand, and she put her head upon his shoulder and began to weep. "And still you will be all the world to me," he continued, with his arm round her waist. "As you will not be my wife, you shall be my daughter."
"I will be your sister, Roger."
"My daughter rather. I will hurry to grow old so that I may feel for you as the old feel for the young. And if you have a child, Hetta, he must be as my child. There! If there is anything that I can do to add to your happiness, I will do it. You must believe that to make you happy shall be the only enjoyment of my life."
It had been hardly possible for her to tell him that the man to whom he was surrendering her had not even condescended to answer her letter. And now, overcome by the tenderness of her cousin's affection, she did not know how to mention Paul's name.
"Have you seen him?" she whispered.
"No; it is not for his sake that I am here."
"But you will be his friend?"
"Your husband shall certainly be my friend." At that moment the door was opened. Lady Carbury entered and looked first at her daughter and then at Roger.
"I have come," said he, "to signify my agreement to this marriage." Lady Carbury's face fell very low. "I need not speak again of what were my own wishes. I have learned at last that it could not have been so."
"Why should you say so?" exclaimed Lady Carbury.
"Pray, mamma-," Hetta began.
"I do not know that it need be so at all," continued Lady Carbury.
"I look upon her as engaged to marry Paul Montague," said Roger.
"Not at all," said Lady Carbury.
"Yes; mamma, yes," cried Hetta boldly. "It is so. I am engaged to him."
"It is not so with my consent - nor, as far as I can understand at present, with the consent of Mr. Montague himself."
"Mamma!"
"The consent of Paul Montague!" exclaimed Roger. "I think there can be no doubt as to that."
"There has been a quarrel," said Lady Carbury.
"Surely he has not quarrelled with you, Hetta?"
"I wrote to him - and he has not answered me," said Hetta piteously.
Then Lady Carbury gave a full and somewhat coloured account of what had taken place, while Roger listened with admirable patience.
"The marriage is on every account objectionable," she said at last. "His conduct with regard to that woman has been very bad. He has been sadly mixed up with that wretched man who killed himself. And now, when Henrietta has written to him in opposition to my express commands, he takes no notice of her."
Hetta was now seated on a sofa hiding her face and weeping. Roger stood perfectly still, listening with respectful silence till Lady Carbury had finished. Then he was slow to answer.
"I think I had better see him," he replied. "If, as I imagine, he has not received my cousin's letter, that matter will be set at rest. As to his income, that I think may be managed. His connection with Mr. Melmotte was unfortunate, but was due to no fault of his." He was too generous to say a word about Felix and Marie Melmotte. "I will see him, Lady Carbury, and then I will come to you again."
It was late that evening before Roger found Paul Montague, who had just returned from Liverpool.
"I don't know what letter you mean," said Paul.
"You wrote to her?"
"Certainly. I wrote to her twice. My last letter was one which I think she ought to have answered. But I have not had a line from her - not a word!"
"She did answer your letter."
"What did she say to me?"
"You must ask her that. But I can tell you this; that she wrote to you as a girl writes to the lover whom she wishes to see."
"Is that true?" exclaimed Paul, jumping up.
"I am here to tell you that it is true. You may go to her, and need have nothing to fear. And now I wish you to hear what I have to say."
"Of course," said Paul, sitting down suddenly. Up to this moment Roger had not appeared as a joyous, sympathetic messenger. His face had been severe, and the tone of his voice almost harsh. Paul thought he would probably say very disagreeable things to him, which he must bear as patiently as he could.
"You know what my feelings have been," Roger began, "and how deeply I have resented what I thought to be an interference with my affections. But no quarrel between us-"
"I have never quarrelled with you."
"Listen to me for a moment. No anger between us should be allowed to interfere with the happiness of her whom I suppose we both love better than all the rest of the world put together."
"I do," said Paul.
"And so do I; and I always shall. But she is to be your wife. She shall be my daughter. Her child shall be my heir. My house shall be her house, if you and she agree. You may now count on my assistance as if I were a father giving you a daughter in marriage. I do this because I will make the happiness of her life the chief object of mine. Now good night. Don't say anything just now."
Having so spoken he hurried out of the room, leaving Paul Montague bewildered by the news.


"You have been a guest in his house. Then, I guess, the thing's about as good as done." These words were spoken with a fine, sharp, nasal twang by a brilliantly-dressed American gentleman in one of the smartest private rooms of the great railway hotel at Liverpool, and they were addressed to a young Englishman who was sitting opposite to him. Between them there was a table covered with maps, schedules, and printed programmes. The American was smoking a very large cigar, which he kept constantly turning in his mouth, and half of which was inside his teeth. The Englishman had a short pipe. Mr. Hamilton K. Fisker, of the firm of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, was the American, and the Englishman was our friend Paul, the junior member of that firm.
"But I didn't even speak to him," said Paul.
"In commercial affairs that matters nothing. It quite justifies you in introducing me. We are not going to ask your friend to do us a favour. We don't want to borrow money."
"I thought you did."
"If he'll go in for the thing he'd be one of us, and there would be no borrowing then. He'll join us if he's as clever as they say, because he'll see his way to making a couple of million of dollars out of it. If he'd take the trouble to run over and show himself in San Francisco, he'd make double that. The moneyed men would go in with him at once, because they know that he understands the game and has got the pluck. A man who has done what he has by financing in Europe,--by George! there's no limit to what he might do with us. We're a bigger people than any of you and have more room. We go after bigger things, and don't stand shilly-shally on the brink as you do. But Melmotte pretty nigh beats the best among us. Anyway he should come and try his luck, and he couldn't have a bigger thing or a safer thing than this. He'd see it immediately if I could talk to him for half an hour."
"Mr. Fisker," said Paul mysteriously, "as we are partners, I think I ought to let you know that many people speak very badly of Mr. Melmotte's honesty."
Mr. Fisker smiled gently, turned his cigar twice round in his mouth, and then closed one eye. "There is always a want of charity," he said, "when a man is successful."
The scheme in question was the grand proposal for a South Central Pacific and Mexican railway, which was to run from the Salt Lake City, thus branching off from the San Francisco and Chicago line,--and pass down through the fertile lands of New Mexico and Arizona, into the territory of the Mexican Republic, run by the city of Mexico, and come out on the gulf at the port of Vera Cruz. Mr. Fisker admitted at once that it was a great undertaking, acknowledged that the distance might be perhaps something over 2,000 miles, acknowledged that no computation had or perhaps could be made as to the probable cost of the railway; but seemed to think that questions such as these were beside the mark and childish. Melmotte, if he would go into the matter at all, would ask no such questions.
But we must go back a little. Paul Montague had received a telegram from his partner, Hamilton K. Fisker, sent on shore at Queenstown from one of the New York liners, requesting him to meet Fisker at Liverpool immediately. With this request he had felt himself bound to comply. Personally he had disliked Fisker,--and perhaps not the less so because when in California he had never found himself able to resist the man's good humour, audacity, and cleverness combined. He had found himself talked into agreeing with any project which Mr. Fisker might have in hand. It was altogether against the grain with him, and yet by his own consent, that the flour-mill had been opened at Fiskerville. He trembled for his money and never wished to see Fisker again; but still, when Fisker came to England, he was proud to remember that Fisker was his partner, and he obeyed the order and went down to Liverpool.
If the flour-mill had frightened him, what must the present project have done! Fisker explained that he had come with two objects,--first to ask the consent of the English partner to the proposed change in their business, and secondly to obtain the co-operation of English capitalists. The proposed change in the business meant simply the entire sale of the establishment at Fiskerville, and the absorption of the whole capital in the work of getting up the railway. "If you could realise all the money it wouldn't make a mile of the railway," said Paul. Mr. Fisker laughed at him. The object of Fisker, Montague, and Montague was not to make a railway to Vera Cruz, but to float a company. Paul thought that Mr. Fisker seemed to be indifferent whether the railway should ever be constructed or not. It was clearly his idea that fortunes were to be made out of the concern before a spadeful of earth had been moved. If brilliantly printed programmes might avail anything, with gorgeous maps, and beautiful little pictures of trains running into tunnels beneath snowy mountains and coming out of them on the margin of sunlit lakes, Mr. Fisker had certainly done much. But Paul, when he saw all these pretty things, could not keep his mind from thinking whence had come the money to pay for them. Mr. Fisker had declared that he had come over to obtain his partner's consent, but it seemed to that partner that a great deal had been done without any consent. And Paul's fears on this hand were not allayed by finding that on all these beautiful papers he himself was described as one of the agents and general managers of the company. Each document was signed Fisker, Montague, and Montague. References on all matters were to be made to Fisker, Montague, and Montague,--and in one of the documents it was stated that a member of the firm had proceeded to London with the view of attending to British interests in the matter. Fisker had seemed to think that his young partner would express unbounded satisfaction at the greatness which was thus falling upon him. A certain feeling of importance, not altogether unpleasant, was produced, but at the same time there was another conviction forced upon Montague's mind, not altogether pleasant, that his money was being made to disappear without any consent given by him, and that it behoved him to be cautious lest such consent should be extracted from him unawares.
"What has become of the mill?" he asked.
"We have put an agent into it."
"Is not that dangerous? What check have you on him?"
"He pays us a fixed sum, sir. But, my word! when there is such a thing as this on hand a trumpery mill like that is not worth speaking of."
"You haven't sold it?"
"Well;--no. But we've arranged a price for a sale."
"You haven't taken the money for it?"
"Well;--yes; we have. We've raised money on it, you know. You see you weren't there, and so the two resident partners acted for the firm. But Mr. Montague, you'd better go with us. You had indeed."
"And about my own income?"
"That's a flea-bite. When we've got a little ahead with this it won't matter, sir, whether you spend twenty thousand or forty thousand dollars a year. We've got the concession from the United States Government through the territories, and we're in correspondence with the President of the Mexican Republic. I've no doubt we've an office open already in Mexico and another at Vera Cruz."
"Where's the money to come from?"
"Money to come from, sir? Where do you suppose the money comes from in all these undertakings? If we can float the shares, the money'll come in quick enough. We hold three million dollars of the stock ourselves."
"Six hundred thousand pounds!" said Montague.
"We take them at par, of course,--and as we sell we shall pay for them. But of course we shall only sell at a premium. If we can run them up even to 110, there would be three hundred thousand dollars. But we'll do better than that. I must try and see Melmotte at once. You had better write a letter now."
"I don't know the man."
"Never mind. Look here--I'll write it, and you can sign it." Whereupon Mr. Fisker did write the following letter:--
Langham Hotel, London. March 4, 18--.
DEAR SIR,--I have the pleasure of informing you that my partner, Mr. Fisker,--of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, of San Francisco,--is now in London with the view of allowing British capitalists to assist in carrying out perhaps the greatest work of the age,--namely, the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway, which is to give direct communication between San Francisco and the Gulf of Mexico. He is very anxious to see you upon his arrival, as he is aware that your co-operation would be desirable. We feel assured that with your matured judgment in such matters you would see at once the magnificence of the enterprise. If you will name a day and an hour, Mr. Fisker will call upon you.
I have to thank you and Madame Melmotte for a very pleasant evening spent at your house last week.
Mr. Fisker proposes returning to New York. I shall remain here, superintending the British interests which may be involved.
I have the honour to be, Dear Sir, Most faithfully yours,
---- ----.
"But I have never said that I would superintend the interests," said Montague.
"You can say so now. It binds you to nothing. You regular John Bull Englishmen are so full of scruples that you lose as much of life as should serve to make an additional fortune."
After some further conversation Paul Montague recopied the letter and signed it. He did it with doubt,--almost with dismay. But he told himself that he could do no good by refusing. If this wretched American, with his hat on one side and rings on his fingers, had so far got the upper hand of Paul's uncle as to have been allowed to do what he liked with the funds of the partnership, Paul could not stop it. On the following morning they went up to London together, and in the course of the afternoon Mr. Fisker presented himself in Abchurch Lane. The letter written at Liverpool, but dated from the Langham Hotel, had been posted at the Euston Square Railway Station at the moment of Fisker's arrival. Fisker sent in his card, and was asked to wait. In the course of twenty minutes he was ushered into the great man's presence by no less a person than Miles Grendall.
It has been already said that Mr. Melmotte was a big man with large whiskers, rough hair, and with an expression of mental power on a harsh vulgar face. He was certainly a man to repel you by his presence unless attracted to him by some internal consideration. He was magnificent in his expenditure, powerful in his doings, successful in his business, and the world around him therefore was not repelled. Fisker, on the other hand, was a shining little man,--perhaps about forty years of age, with a well-twisted moustache, greasy brown hair, which was becoming bald at the top, good-looking if his features were analysed, but insignificant in appearance. He was gorgeously dressed, with a silk waistcoat and chains, and he carried a little stick. One would at first be inclined to say that Fisker was not much of a man; but after a little conversation most men would own that there was something in Fisker. He was troubled by no shyness, by no scruples, and by no fears. His mind was not capacious, but such as it was it was his own, and he knew how to use it.
Abchurch Lane is not a grand site for the offices of a merchant prince. Here, at a small corner house, there was a small brass plate on a swing door, bearing the words "Melmotte & Co." Of whom the Co. was composed no one knew. In one sense Mr. Melmotte might be said to be in company with all the commercial world, for there was no business to which he would refuse his co-operation on certain terms. But he had never burthened himself with a partner in the usual sense of the term. Here Fisker found three or four clerks seated at desks, and was desired to walk up-stairs. The steps were narrow and crooked, and the rooms were small and irregular. Here he stayed for a while in a small dark apartment in which "The Daily Telegraph" was left for the amusement of its occupant till Miles Grendall announced to him that Mr. Melmotte would see him. The millionaire looked at him for a moment or two, just condescending to touch with his fingers the hand which Fisker had projected.
"I don't seem to remember," he said, "the gentleman who has done me the honour of writing to me about you."
"I dare say not, Mr. Melmotte. When I'm at home in San Francisco, I make acquaintance with a great many gents whom I don't remember afterwards. My partner I think told me that he went to your house with his friend, Sir Felix Carbury."
"I know a young man called Sir Felix Carbury."
"That's it. I could have got any amount of introductions to you if I had thought this would not have sufficed." Mr. Melmotte bowed. "Our account here in London is kept with the City and West End Joint Stock. But I have only just arrived, and as my chief object in coming to London is to see you, and as I met my partner, Mr. Montague, in Liverpool, I took a note from him and came on straight."
"And what can I do for you, Mr. Fisker?"
Then Mr. Fisker began his account of the Great South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway, and exhibited considerable skill by telling it all in comparatively few words. And yet he was gorgeous and florid. In two minutes he had displayed his programme, his maps, and his pictures before Mr. Melmotte's eyes, taking care that Mr. Melmotte should see how often the names of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, reappeared upon them. As Mr. Melmotte read the documents, Fisker from time to time put in a word. But the words had no reference at all to the future profits of the railway, or to the benefit which such means of communication would confer upon the world at large; but applied solely to the appetite for such stock as theirs, which might certainly be produced in the speculating world by a proper manipulation of the affairs.
[Illustration: Then Mr. Fisker began his account.]
"You seem to think you couldn't get it taken up in your own country," said Melmotte.
"There's not a doubt about getting it all taken up there. Our folk, sir, are quick enough at the game; but you don't want me to teach you, Mr. Melmotte, that nothing encourages this kind of thing like competition. When they hear at St. Louis and Chicago that the thing is alive in London, they'll be alive there. And it's the same here, sir. When they know that the stock is running like wildfire in America, they'll make it run here too."
"How far have you got?"
"What we've gone to work upon is a concession for making the line from the United States Congress. We're to have the land for nothing, of course, and a grant of one thousand acres round every station, the stations to be twenty-five miles apart."
"And the land is to be made over to you,--when?"
"When we have made the line up to the station." Fisker understood perfectly that Mr. Melmotte did not ask the question in reference to any value that he might attach to the possession of such lands, but to the attractiveness of such a prospectus in the eyes of the outside world of speculators.
"And what do you want me to do, Mr. Fisker?"
"I want to have your name there," he said. And he placed his finger down on a spot on which it was indicated that there was, or was to be, a chairman of an English Board of Directors, but with a space for the name, hitherto blank.
"Who are to be your directors here, Mr. Fisker?"
"We should ask you to choose them, sir. Mr. Paul Montague should be one, and perhaps his friend Sir Felix Carbury might be another. We could get probably one of the Directors of the City and West End. But we would leave it all to you,--as also the amount of stock you would like to take yourself. If you gave yourself to it, heart and soul, Mr. Melmotte, it would be the finest thing that there has been out for a long time. There would be such a mass of stock!"
"You have to back that with a certain amount of paid-up capital?"
"We take care, sir, in the West not to cripple commerce too closely by old-fashioned bandages. Look at what we've done already, sir, by having our limbs pretty free. Look at our line, sir, right across the continent, from San Francisco to New York. Look at--"
"Never mind that, Mr. Fisker. People wanted to go from New York to San Francisco, and I don't know that they do want to go to Vera Cruz. But I will look at it, and you shall hear from me." The interview was over, and Mr. Fisker was contented with it. Had Mr. Melmotte not intended at least to think of it he would not have given ten minutes to the subject. After all, what was wanted from Mr. Melmotte was little more than his name, for the use of which Mr. Fisker proposed that he should receive from the speculative public two or three hundred thousand pounds.
At the end of a fortnight from the date of Mr. Fisker's arrival in London, the company was fully launched in England, with a body of London directors, of whom Mr. Melmotte was the chairman. Among the directors were Lord Alfred Grendall, Sir Felix Carbury, Samuel Cohenlupe, Esq., Member of Parliament for Staines, a gentleman of the Jewish persuasion, Lord Nidderdale, who was also in Parliament, and Mr. Paul Montague. It may be thought that the directory was not strong, and that but little help could be given to any commercial enterprise by the assistance of Lord Alfred or Sir Felix;--but it was felt that Mr. Melmotte was himself so great a tower of strength that the fortune of the company,--as a company,--was made.

"You have been a guest in his house. Then, I guess, the thing's about as good as done."
These words were spoken with a fine nasal twang by a brilliantly-dressed American gentleman in the great railway hotel at Liverpool. They were addressed to a young Englishman sitting opposite him. Between them there was a table covered with maps and printed sheets. The American was smoking a very large cigar, which he kept constantly turning in his mouth. He was Mr. Hamilton K. Fisker, of the firm of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, and the Englishman was Paul, the junior member of that firm.
"But I didn't even speak to him," said Paul.
"That doesn't matter. It justifies you in introducing me. We don't want to borrow money off him."
"I thought you did."
"If he'll go in for the thing he'd be one of us, and there would be no borrowing. He'll join us if he's as clever as they say, because he'll see his way to making a couple of million dollars. If he'd take the trouble to go over to San Francisco, he'd make double that. The moneyed men would go in with him at once, because they know that he understands the game. By George! there's no limit to what he might do with us. We're a bigger people than you; we go after bigger things, and don't shilly-shally on the brink as you do. But Melmotte pretty nigh beats us. Anyway he couldn't have a bigger or a safer thing than this. He'd see it immediately if I could talk to him for half an hour."
"Mr. Fisker," said Paul mysteriously, "as we are partners, I think I ought to let you know that many people speak very badly of Mr. Melmotte's honesty."
Mr. Fisker smiled gently, turned his cigar round in his mouth, and closed one eye. "There is always a lack of charity," he said, "when a man is successful."
The scheme in question was the grand proposal for a South Central Pacific and Mexican railway, which was to run from Salt Lake City, branching off from the San Francisco and Chicago line, and pass down through New Mexico and Arizona, into the Mexican Republic, coming out on the gulf at the port of Vera Cruz. Mr. Fisker admitted that it was a great undertaking - something over 2,000 miles - and its probable cost could not be calculated; but he seemed to think that these questions were beside the point and childish. Melmotte would ask no such questions.
But we must go back a little. Paul Montague had received a telegram from Hamilton K. Fisker, sent from a New York liner, asking him to meet Fisker at Liverpool. He had felt bound to comply. Personally he disliked Fisker, although in California he had never been able to resist the man's good humour, audacity, and cleverness. He had found himself agreeing with any project which Mr. Fisker might have in hand. It was altogether against the grain with him, and yet with his consent, that the flour-mill had been opened at Fiskerville. He trembled for his money and never wished to see Fisker again; but still, when Fisker came to England, he obeyed the order and went to Liverpool.
If the flour-mill had frightened him, what must the present project have done! Fisker explained that he had come with two aims: firstly, to ask Paul's consent to the proposed change in their business, and secondly to obtain the co-operation of English capitalists. The proposed change in the business meant selling the property at Fiskerville.
"That wouldn't pay for a mile of the railway," said Paul.
Mr. Fisker laughed. The object was not to make a railway to Vera Cruz, but to float a company. He seemed to be indifferent whether the railway should ever be constructed or not. It was clearly his idea that fortunes were to be made out of the concern before a spadeful of earth had been moved. If brilliantly printed programmes might avail anything, with gorgeous maps, and beautiful little pictures of trains running into tunnels beneath snowy mountains and coming out on the margin of sunlit lakes, Mr. Fisker had certainly done much.
But Paul, when he saw these pretty things, could not help thinking whence had come the money to pay for them. It seemed that a great deal had been done without any consent. His fears were not allayed by finding that on all these beautiful papers he was described as one of the general managers of the company. Each document was signed Fisker, Montague, and Montague; and in one it was stated that a member of the firm had gone to London to attend to British interests in the matter. This gave Paul a certain feeling of importance, not altogether unpleasant; but he also had the less pleasant conviction that his money was being spent without his consent, and that he should be cautious lest such consent should be extracted from him unawares.
"What has become of the mill?" he asked.
"We have put an agent into it. But, my word! when there is such a thing as this on hand, that trumpery mill is not worth speaking of."
"You haven't sold it?"
"Well; no. We've arranged a price for a sale."
"You haven't taken the money for it?"
"Well; yes; we have. We've raised money on it, you know. You see you weren't there, and so the two resident partners acted for the firm. But Mr. Montague, you'd better go with us. You had indeed."
"And my own income?"
"That's a flea-bite. When we've got a little ahead with this it won't matter, sir, whether you spend twenty thousand or forty thousand dollars a year. We've got the concession from the United States Government through the territories, and we're in correspondence with the President of Mexico."
"Where's the money to come from?"
"Where do you suppose the money comes from in these undertakings? If we can float the shares, the money'll come in quick enough. We hold three million dollars of the stock ourselves. As we sell we shall pay for them. But of course we shall only sell at a premium. If we can run them up even to 110, there would be three hundred thousand dollars. But we'll do better than that. I must try and see Melmotte at once. You had better write a letter now."
"I don't know the man."
"Never mind. I'll write it, and you can sign it." Whereupon Mr. Fisker wrote the following letter:
Dear Sir,
I have the pleasure of informing you that my partner, Mr. Fisker, of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, of San Francisco, is now in London with the view of allowing British capitalists to assist in carrying out perhaps the greatest work of the age: namely, the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway, which is to give direct communication between San Francisco and the Gulf of Mexico. He is very anxious to see you upon his arrival, as he is aware that your co-operation would be desirable. We feel assured that with your matured judgment in such matters you would see at once the magnificence of the enterprise. If you will name a day and an hour, Mr. Fisker will call upon you.
I have to thank you and Madame Melmotte for a very pleasant evening spent at your house last week.
Mr. Fisker proposes returning to New York. I shall remain here, superintending the British interests which may be involved.
I have the honour to be, Dear Sir,
Most faithfully yours.
"But I have never said that I would superintend the interests," said Montague.
"You can say so now. It binds you to nothing. You Englishmen are so full of scruples!"
Paul Montague copied the letter and signed it, with doubt - almost with dismay. But he told himself that he could do no good by refusing. If this wretched American had got the upper hand of Paul's uncle so as to do what he liked with the funds of the partnership, Paul could not stop it.
On the following morning they went up to London together, and Mr. Fisker presented himself in Abchurch Lane. This was not a grand site for the offices of a merchant prince. A small corner house had a brass plate on a door, bearing the words "Melmotte & Co." Who the Co. was, no one knew. Mr. Melmotte had never burdened himself with a business partner. Here Fisker found three or four clerks seated at desks, and was asked to walk up narrow, crooked stairs. He waited in a small dark apartment till Miles Grendall announced that Mr. Melmotte would see him.
It has been already said that Mr. Melmotte was a big man with an expression of mental power on a harsh, vulgar face. He was certainly a man to repel you by his presence; yet he was magnificent in his expenditure, powerful in his doings, successful in his business, and the world around him therefore was not repelled.
Fisker, on the other hand, was a shining little man - perhaps forty years of age, with a well-twisted moustache and greasy brown hair. He was insignificant in appearance, but gorgeously dressed, with a silk waistcoat. One would at first say that Fisker was not much of a man; but after a little conversation one would own that there was something in him. He had no shyness, no scruples, and no fears. His mind was not capacious, but he knew how to use it.
The millionaire looked at him for a moment or two, just condescending to touch with his fingers the hand which Fisker offered.
"I don't seem to remember," he said, "the gentleman who has done me the honour of writing to me about you."
"I dare say not, Mr. Melmotte. When I'm at home in San Francisco, I meet a great many gents whom I don't remember afterwards. My partner told me that he went to your house with his friend, Sir Felix Carbury."
"I know a young man called Sir Felix Carbury."
"That's it. I have only just arrived, and as my chief object in coming to London is to see you, I met my partner, Mr. Montague, in Liverpool, took a note from him and came on straight."
"And what can I do for you, Mr. Fisker?"
Then Mr. Fisker began his account of the Great South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway, and exhibited considerable skill by telling it all in comparatively few words. And yet he was gorgeous and florid. In two minutes he had displayed his programme, his maps, and his pictures. As Mr. Melmotte read the documents, Fisker from time to time put in a word - not about the benefits of the railway, but solely about the appetite for such stock as theirs, which might certainly be produced in the speculating world by a proper manipulation of the affairs.
"You seem to think you couldn't get it taken up in your own country," said Melmotte.
"There's not a doubt about getting it taken up there. Our folk, sir, are quick enough at the game; but you don't want me to teach you, Mr. Melmotte, that nothing encourages this kind of thing like competition. When they hear at St. Louis and Chicago that the thing is alive in London, they'll be alive there. And when they know that the stock is running like wildfire in America, they'll make it run here too."
"How far have you got?"
"We've got a concession for making the line from the United States Congress. We're to have the land for nothing, of course, and a grant of one thousand acres round every station, the stations to be twenty-five miles apart."
"And the land is to be made over to you - when?"
"When we have made the line up to the station." Fisker understood perfectly that Mr. Melmotte did not ask the question in reference to any value such land might have, but to the attractiveness of such a prospectus to speculators.
"And what do you want me to do, Mr. Fisker?"
"I want to have your name there," he said. And he placed his finger on a spot where it was indicated that there was to be a chairman of an English Board of Directors, but with a blank space for the name.
"Who are to be your directors here, Mr. Fisker?"
"We should ask you to choose them, sir. Mr. Paul Montague should be one, and perhaps his friend Sir Felix Carbury might be another. But we would leave it all to you - as also the amount of stock you would like to take yourself. If you gave yourself to it, heart and soul, Mr. Melmotte, it would be the finest thing that there has been for a long time. There would be such a mass of stock!"
"You have to back that with a certain amount of paid-up capital?"
"We take care, sir, in the West not to cripple commerce too closely by old-fashioned bandages. Look at what we've done already, sir, by having our limbs pretty free. Look at our line, sir, right across the continent, from San Francisco to New York. Look at-"
"Never mind that, Mr. Fisker. People wanted to go from New York to San Francisco, and I don't know that they want to go to Vera Cruz. But I will look at it, and you shall hear from me."
The interview was over, and Mr. Fisker was contented. If Mr. Melmotte did not intend at least to think of it he would not have given ten minutes to the subject. After all, what was wanted from Mr. Melmotte was his name, for the use of which Mr. Fisker proposed that he should receive from the speculative public two or three hundred thousand pounds.
A fortnight later, the company was fully launched in England, with a body of London directors, of whom Mr. Melmotte was the chairman. Among the directors were Lord Alfred Grendall, Sir Felix Carbury, Samuel Cohenlupe, Esq., Member of Parliament for Staines, Lord Nidderdale, who was also in Parliament, and Mr. Paul Montague. It may be thought that the board of directors was not strong, and that little help could be given to any commercial enterprise by Lord Alfred or Sir Felix; but it was felt that Mr. Melmotte was himself so great a tower of strength that the company's fortune was made.

Chapter 9: The Great Railway to Vera Cruz


On that Thursday afternoon it was known everywhere that there was to be a general ruin of all the Melmotte affairs. As soon as Cohenlupe had gone, no man doubted. The City men who had not gone to the dinner prided themselves on their foresight, as did also the politicians who had declined to meet the Emperor of China at the table of the suspected Financier. They who had got up the dinner and had been instrumental in taking the Emperor to the house in Grosvenor Square, and they also who had brought him forward at Westminster and had fought his battle for him, were aware that they would have to defend themselves against heavy attacks. No one now had a word to say in his favour, or a doubt as to his guilt. The Grendalls had retired altogether out of town, and were no longer even heard of. Lord Alfred had not been seen since the day of the dinner. The Duchess of Albury, too, went into the country some weeks earlier than usual, quelled, as the world said, by the general Melmotte failure. But this departure had not as yet taken place at the time at which we have now arrived.
When the Speaker took his seat in the House, soon after four o'clock, there were a great many members present, and a general feeling prevailed that the world was more than ordinarily alive because of Melmotte and his failures. It had been confidently asserted throughout the morning that he would be put upon his trial for forgery in reference to the purchase of the Pickering property from Mr. Longestaffe, and it was known that he had not as yet shown himself anywhere on this day. People had gone to look at the house in Grosvenor Square,--not knowing that he was still living in Mr. Longestaffe's house in Bruton Street, and had come away with the impression that the desolation of ruin and crime was already plainly to be seen upon it. "I wonder where he is," said Mr. Lupton to Mr. Beauchamp Beauclerk in one of the lobbies of the House.
"They say he hasn't been in the City all day. I suppose he's in Longestaffe's house. That poor fellow has got it heavy all round. The man has got his place in the country and his house in town. There's Nidderdale. I wonder what he thinks about it all."
"This is awful;--ain't it?" said Nidderdale.
"It might have been worse, I should say, as far as you are concerned," replied Mr. Lupton.
"Well, yes. But I'll tell you what, Lupton. I don't quite understand it all yet. Our lawyer said three days ago that the money was certainly there."
"And Cohenlupe was certainly here three days ago," said Lupton;--"but he isn't here now. It seems to me that it has just happened in time for you." Lord Nidderdale shook his head and tried to look very grave.
"There's Brown," said Sir Orlando Drought, hurrying up to the commercial gentleman whose mistakes about finance Mr. Melmotte on a previous occasion had been anxious to correct. "He'll be able to tell us where he is. It was rumoured, you know, an hour ago, that he was off to the continent after Cohenlupe." But Mr. Brown shook his head. Mr. Brown didn't know anything. But Mr. Brown was very strongly of opinion that the police would know all that there was to be known about Mr. Melmotte before this time on the following day. Mr. Brown had been very bitter against Melmotte since that memorable attack made upon him in the House.
Even ministers as they sat to be badgered by the ordinary question-mongers of the day were more intent upon Melmotte than upon their own defence. "Do you know anything about it?" asked the Chancellor of the Exchequer of the Secretary of State for the Home Department.
"I understand that no order has been given for his arrest. There is a general opinion that he has committed forgery; but I doubt whether they've got their evidence together."
"He's a ruined man, I suppose," said the Chancellor.
"I doubt whether he ever was a rich man. But I'll tell you what;--he has been about the grandest rogue we've seen yet. He must have spent over a hundred thousand pounds during the last twelve months on his personal expenses. I wonder how the Emperor will like it when he learns the truth." Another minister sitting close to the Secretary of State was of opinion that the Emperor of China would not care half so much about it as our own First Lord of the Treasury.
At this moment there came a silence over the House which was almost audible. They who know the sensation which arises from the continued hum of many suppressed voices will know also how plain to the ear is the feeling caused by the discontinuance of the sound. Everybody looked up, but everybody looked up in perfect silence. An Under-Secretary of State had just got upon his legs to answer a most indignant question as to an alteration of the colour of the facings of a certain regiment, his prepared answer to which, however, was so happy as to allow him to anticipate quite a little triumph. It is not often that such a Godsend comes in the way of an under-secretary; and he was intent upon his performance. But even he was startled into momentary oblivion of his well-arranged point. Augustus Melmotte, the member for Westminster, was walking up the centre of the House.
He had succeeded by this time in learning so much of the forms of the House as to know what to do with his hat,--when to wear it, and when to take it off,--and how to sit down. As he entered by the door facing the Speaker, he wore his hat on one side of his head, as was his custom. Much of the arrogance of his appearance had come from this habit, which had been adopted probably from a conviction that it added something to his powers of self-assertion. At this moment he was more determined than ever that no one should trace in his outer gait or in any feature of his face any sign of that ruin which, as he well knew, all men were anticipating. Therefore, perhaps, his hat was a little more cocked than usual, and the lapels of his coat were thrown back a little wider, displaying the large jewelled studs which he wore in his shirt; and the arrogance conveyed by his mouth and chin was specially conspicuous. He had come down in his brougham, and as he had walked up Westminster Hall and entered the House by the private door of the members, and then made his way in across the great lobby and between the doorkeepers,--no one had spoken a word to him. He had of course seen many whom he had known. He had indeed known nearly all whom he had seen;--but he had been aware, from the beginning of this enterprise of the day, that men would shun him, and that he must bear their cold looks and colder silence without seeming to notice them. He had schooled himself to the task, and he was now performing it. It was not only that he would have to move among men without being noticed, but that he must endure to pass the whole evening in the same plight. But he was resolved, and he was now doing it. He bowed to the Speaker with more than usual courtesy, raising his hat with more than usual care, and seated himself, as usual, on the third opposition-bench, but with more than his usual fling. He was a big man, who always endeavoured to make an effect by deportment, and was therefore customarily conspicuous in his movements. He was desirous now of being as he was always, neither more nor less demonstrative;--but, as a matter of course, he exceeded; and it seemed to those who looked at him that there was a special impudence in the manner in which he walked up the House and took his seat. The Under-Secretary of State, who was on his legs, was struck almost dumb, and his morsel of wit about the facings was lost to Parliament for ever.
That unfortunate young man, Lord Nidderdale, occupied the seat next to that on which Melmotte had placed himself. It had so happened three or four times since Melmotte had been in the House, as the young lord, fully intending to marry the Financier's daughter, had resolved that he would not be ashamed of his father-in-law. He had understood that countenance of the sort which he as a young aristocrat could give to the man of millions who had risen no one knew whence, was part of the bargain in reference to the marriage, and he was gifted with a mingled honesty and courage which together made him willing and able to carry out his idea. He had given Melmotte little lessons as to ordinary forms of the House, and had done what in him lay to earn the money which was to be forthcoming. But it had become manifest both to him and to his father during the last two days,--very painfully manifest to his father,--that the thing must be abandoned. And if so,--then why should he be any longer gracious to Melmotte? And, moreover, though he had been ready to be courteous to a very vulgar and a very disagreeable man, he was not anxious to extend his civilities to one who, as he was now assured, had been certainly guilty of forgery. But to get up at once and leave his seat because Melmotte had placed himself by his side, did not suit the turn of his mind. He looked round to his neighbour on the right, with a half-comic look of misery, and then prepared himself to bear his punishment, whatever it might be.
"Have you been up with Marie to-day?" said Melmotte.
"No;--I've not," replied the lord.
"Why don't you go? She's always asking about you now. I hope we shall be in our own house again next week, and then we shall be able to make you comfortable."
Could it be possible that the man did not know that all the world was united in accusing him of forgery? "I'll tell you what it is," said Nidderdale. "I think you had better see my governor again, Mr. Melmotte."
"There's nothing wrong, I hope."
"Well;--I don't know. You'd better see him. I'm going now. I only just came down to enter an appearance." He had to cross Melmotte on his way out, and as he did so Melmotte grasped him by the hand. "Good night, my boy," said Melmotte quite aloud,--in a voice much louder than that which members generally allow themselves for conversation. Nidderdale was confused and unhappy; but there was probably not a man in the House who did not understand the whole thing. He rushed down through the gangway and out through the doors with a hurried step, and as he escaped into the lobby he met Lionel Lupton, who, since his little conversation with Mr. Beauclerk, had heard further news.
"You know what has happened, Nidderdale?"
"About Melmotte, you mean?"
"Yes, about Melmotte," continued Lupton. "He has been arrested in his own house within the last half-hour on a charge of forgery."
"I wish he had," said Nidderdale, "with all my heart. If you go in you'll find him sitting there as large as life. He has been talking to me as though everything were all right."
"Compton was here not a moment ago, and said that he had been taken under a warrant from the Lord Mayor."
"The Lord Mayor is a member and had better come and fetch his prisoner himself. At any rate he's there. I shouldn't wonder if he wasn't on his legs before long."
Melmotte kept his seat steadily till seven, at which hour the House adjourned till nine. He was one of the last to leave, and then with a slow step,--with almost majestic steps,--he descended to the dining-room and ordered his dinner. There were many men there, and some little difficulty about a seat. No one was very willing to make room for him. But at last he secured a place, almost jostling some unfortunate who was there before him. It was impossible to expel him,--almost as impossible to sit next him. Even the waiters were unwilling to serve him;--but with patience and endurance he did at last get his dinner. He was there in his right, as a member of the House of Commons, and there was no ground on which such service as he required could be refused to him. It was not long before he had the table all to himself. But of this he took no apparent notice. He spoke loudly to the waiters and drank his bottle of champagne with much apparent enjoyment. Since his friendly intercourse with Nidderdale no one had spoken to him, nor had he spoken to any man. They who watched him declared among themselves that he was happy in his own audacity;--but in truth he was probably at that moment the most utterly wretched man in London. He would have better studied his personal comfort had he gone to his bed, and spent his evening in groans and wailings. But even he, with all the world now gone from him, with nothing before him but the extremest misery which the indignation of offended laws could inflict, was able to spend the last moments of his freedom in making a reputation at any rate for audacity. It was thus that Augustus Melmotte wrapped his toga around him before his death!
He went from the dining-room to the smoking-room, and there, taking from his pocket a huge case which he always carried, proceeded to light a cigar about eight inches long. Mr. Brown, from the City, was in the room, and Melmotte, with a smile and a bow, offered Mr. Brown one of the same. Mr. Brown was a short, fat, round little man, over sixty, who was always endeavouring to give to a somewhat commonplace set of features an air of importance by the contraction of his lips and the knitting of his brows. It was as good as a play to see Mr. Brown jumping back from any contact with the wicked one, and putting on a double frown as he looked at the impudent sinner. "You needn't think so much, you know, of what I said the other night. I didn't mean any offence." So spoke Melmotte, and then laughed with a loud, hoarse laugh, looking round upon the assembled crowd as though he were enjoying his triumph.
He sat after that and smoked in silence. Once again he burst out into a laugh, as though peculiarly amused with his own thoughts;--as though he were declaring to himself with much inward humour that all these men around him were fools for believing the stories which they had heard; but he made no further attempt to speak to any one. Soon after nine he went back again into the House, and again took his old place. At this time he had swallowed three glasses of brandy and water, as well as the champagne, and was brave enough almost for anything. There was some debate going on in reference to the game laws,--a subject on which Melmotte was as ignorant as one of his own housemaids,--but, as some speaker sat down, he jumped up to his legs. Another gentleman had also risen, and when the House called to that other gentleman Melmotte gave way. The other gentleman had not much to say, and in a few minutes Melmotte was again on his legs. Who shall dare to describe the thoughts which would cross the august mind of a Speaker of the House of Commons at such a moment? Of Melmotte's villainy he had no official knowledge. And even could he have had such knowledge it was not for him to act upon it. The man was a member of the House, and as much entitled to speak as another. But it seemed on that occasion that the Speaker was anxious to save the House from disgrace;--for twice and thrice he refused to have his "eye caught" by the member for Westminster. As long as any other member would rise he would not have his eye caught. But Melmotte was persistent, and determined not to be put down. At last no one else would speak, and the House was about to negative the motion without a division,--when Melmotte was again on his legs, still persisting. The Speaker scowled at him and leaned back in his chair. Melmotte standing erect, turning his head round from one side of the House to another, as though determined that all should see his audacity, propping himself with his knees against the seat before him, remained for half a minute perfectly silent. He was drunk,--but better able than most drunken men to steady himself, and showing in his face none of those outward signs of intoxication by which drunkenness is generally made apparent. But he had forgotten in his audacity that words are needed for the making of a speech, and now he had not a word at his command. He stumbled forward, recovered himself, then looked once more round the House with a glance of anger, and after that toppled headlong forward over the shoulders of Mr. Beauchamp Beauclerk, who was now sitting in front of him.
He might have wrapped his toga around him better perhaps had he remained at home, but if to have himself talked about was his only object, he could hardly have taken a surer course. The scene, as it occurred, was one very likely to be remembered when the performer should have been carried away into enforced obscurity. There was much commotion in the House. Mr. Beauclerk, a man of natural good nature, though at the moment put to considerable personal inconvenience, hastened, when he recovered his own equilibrium, to assist the drunken man. But Melmotte had by no means lost the power of helping himself. He quickly recovered his legs, and then reseating himself, put his hat on, and endeavoured to look as though nothing special had occurred. The House resumed its business, taking no further notice of Melmotte, and having no special rule of its own as to the treatment to be adopted with drunken members. But the member for Westminster caused no further inconvenience. He remained in his seat for perhaps ten minutes, and then, not with a very steady step, but still with capacity sufficient for his own guidance, he made his way down to the doors. His exit was watched in silence, and the moment was an anxious one for the Speaker, the clerks, and all who were near him. Had he fallen some one,--or rather some two or three,--must have picked him up and carried him out. But he did not fall either there or in the lobbies, or on his way down to Palace Yard. Many were looking at him, but none touched him. When he had got through the gates, leaning against the wall he hallooed for his brougham, and the servant who was waiting for him soon took him home to Bruton Street. That was the last which the British Parliament saw of its new member for Westminster.
Melmotte as soon as he reached home got into his own sitting-room without difficulty, and called for more brandy and water. Between eleven and twelve he was left there by his servant with a bottle of brandy, three or four bottles of soda-water, and his cigar-case. Neither of the ladies of the family came to him, nor did he speak of them. Nor was he so drunk then as to give rise to any suspicion in the mind of the servant. He was habitually left there at night, and the servant as usual went to his bed. But at nine o'clock on the following morning the maid-servant found him dead upon the floor. Drunk as he had been,--more drunk as he probably became during the night,--still he was able to deliver himself from the indignities and penalties to which the law might have subjected him by a dose of prussic acid.

On that Thursday afternoon it was known everywhere that Melmotte was ruined. As soon as Cohenlupe had gone, no man doubted it. No one now had a word to say in his favour. The Grendalls had disappeared; Lord Alfred had not been seen since the day of the dinner.
When the Speaker took his seat in the House, soon after four o'clock, there were many members present, and a general feeling that the world was more than ordinarily alive because of Melmotte and his failures. It had been confidently asserted throughout the morning that he would be put upon trial for forgery, and it was known that he had not yet shown himself anywhere that day.
"I wonder where he is," said Mr. Lupton to Mr. Beauchamp Beauclerk in one of the lobbies of the House.
"They say he hasn't been in the City all day. I suppose he's in Longestaffe's house. There's Nidderdale. I wonder what he thinks about it all."
"This is awful; ain't it?" said Nidderdale.
"It might have been worse, I should say, as far as you are concerned," replied Mr. Lupton.
"Well, yes. But I'll tell you what, Lupton. I don't quite understand it all yet. Our lawyer said three days ago that the money was certainly there."
"And Cohenlupe was certainly here three days ago," said Lupton; "but he isn't here now." Lord Nidderdale shook his head and tried to look very grave.
Even ministers were more intent upon Melmotte than upon their own business.
"Do you know anything about it?" asked the Chancellor of the Exchequer of the Home Secretary.
"I understand that no order has been given for his arrest. I doubt whether they've got their evidence together."
"He's a ruined man, I suppose," said the Chancellor.
"He has been about the grandest rogue we've seen yet. He must have spent over a hundred thousand pounds during the last twelve months on his personal expenses."
At this moment there came a silence over the House which was almost audible. Everybody looked up. An Under-Secretary of State who had just stood up to speak was startled into momentary forgetfulness of his point. Augustus Melmotte, the member for Westminster, was walking up the centre of the House.
He had learnt by this time what to do with his hat in the House. As he entered he wore it on one side of his head, as was his custom. Much of the arrogance of his appearance had come from this habit. He was more determined than ever that no one should see in his face or manner any sign of that ruin which, as he well knew, all men were anticipating. Therefore, perhaps, his hat was a little more cocked than usual, and the lapels of his coat were thrown back a little wider, displaying the large jewelled studs in his shirt. When he had come through the hall, no one had spoken a word to him. He had known that men would shun him; but he was resolved to endure it.
He bowed to the Speaker with more than usual courtesy, raising his hat with care, and seated himself on the third opposition-bench, with more than his usual fling. He was a big man, and always conspicuous in his movements; but there seemed to be a special impudence in the manner in which he took his seat. The Under-Secretary of State who was on his legs was struck almost dumb.
Lord Nidderdale occupied the seat next to Melmotte's. Previously the young lord, fully intending to marry the Financier's daughter, had resolved that he would not be ashamed of his father-in-law, and with honesty and courage he had given Melmotte little lessons as to customs of the House. But it had become obvious during the last two days that the marriage must be abandoned. Why should he any longer be gracious to Melmotte? But he found it hard to get up at once and leave his seat because Melmotte had placed himself by his side.
"Have you been with Marie today?" said Melmotte.
"No - I've not," replied the lord.
"Why don't you go? She's always asking about you now. I hope we shall be in our own house again next week, and then we shall be able to make you comfortable."
Could it be possible that the man did not know that all the world was united in accusing him of forgery? "I think you had better see my governor again, Mr. Melmotte."
"There's nothing wrong, I hope."
"Well - I don't know. You'd better see him. I'm going now. I only came down to make an appearance." He had to cross Melmotte on his way out, and as he did so Melmotte grasped him by the hand.
"Good night, my boy," said Melmotte, quite loudly. Nidderdale was confused and unhappy; and rushed down through the gangway and out through the doors with a hurried step. As he escaped into the lobby he met Lionel Lupton.
"You know what has happened, Nidderdale?"
"About Melmotte, you mean?"
"Yes - he has been arrested in his own house within the last half-hour."
"I wish he had," said Nidderdale. "If you go in you'll find him sitting there as large as life. He has been talking to me as though everything were all right."
Melmotte kept his seat steadily till seven, when the House adjourned till nine. He was one of the last to leave, and then, almost majestically, he descended to the dining-room and ordered his dinner. There were many men there, and no one was very willing to make room for him. But at last he secured a place. Even the waiters were unwilling to serve him; but with patience and endurance he did eventually get his dinner. He was there in his right, as a member of the House of Commons, and such service could not be refused to him.
It was not long before he had the table to himself. But of this he took no apparent notice. He spoke loudly to the waiters and drank his bottle of champagne with evident enjoyment. He looked happy enough; but in truth he was probably the most utterly wretched man in London. Yet, with all the world now gone from him, with nothing before him but extreme misery, he was able to spend the last moments of his freedom in making a reputation for audacity.
He went from the dining-room to the smoking-room, and lit a long cigar. Mr. Brown, who had been corrected by Melmotte in his first speech, was in the room, and Melmotte, with a smile and a bow, offered a cigar to him. It was as good as a play to see Mr. Brown jumping back from any contact with the wicked one, and frowning at his impudence.
"You needn't think so much, you know, of what I said the other night. I didn't mean any offence." So spoke Melmotte, and then laughed with a loud, hoarse laugh.
He sat after that and smoked in silence. Once again he burst out into a laugh, as though peculiarly amused with his own thoughts. Soon after nine he went back again into the House, and took his old place. At this time he had swallowed three glasses of brandy and water, as well as the champagne, and was brave enough almost for anything. There was some debate going on about the game laws - a subject on which Melmotte was as ignorant as one of his own housemaids - but he jumped on to his feet.
What thoughts must have crossed the mind of the Speaker of the House of Commons? He had no official knowledge of Melmotte's villainy. The man was a member of the House, and as much entitled to speak as another. But it seemed that the Speaker was anxious to save the House from disgrace; for he refused to have his "eye caught" by the member for Westminster.
However, Melmotte was persistent, and determined not to be put down. At last no one else would speak, and Melmotte was again on his legs. The Speaker scowled at him and leaned back in his chair. Melmotte, standing erect, turning his head round from one side of the House to another, remained for half a minute perfectly silent.
He was drunk, but better able than most drunken men to steady himself, and showing in his face no outward signs of intoxication. But he had forgotten that words are needed for the making of a speech, and now he had not a word at his command. He stumbled forward, recovered himself, glanced round the House with anger, and then toppled headlong over the shoulders of Mr. Beauchamp Beauclerk, who was sitting in front of him.
There was much commotion in the House. Mr. Beauclerk hastened, when he regained his own balance, to assist the drunken man. But Melmotte quickly recovered his legs, and reseating himself, put his hat on, and tried to look as though nothing special had occurred. The House resumed its business. He remained in his seat for perhaps ten minutes, and then, somewhat unsteadily, he made his way down to the doors.
His exit was watched in anxious silence. Had he fallen, some one - or rather some two or three - must have picked him up and carried him out. But he did not fall, and no one touched him. When he had got out through the gates, leaning against the wall he hallooed for his carriage, and was taken home to Bruton Street. That was the last which the British Parliament saw of its new member for Westminster.
As soon as he reached home Melmotte went to his sitting-room, and called for more brandy and water. Between eleven and twelve he was left there by his servant with a bottle of brandy, three or four bottles of soda-water, and his cigar-case. He was not so drunk as to give rise to any suspicion in the servant's mind; and the servant went to bed.
But at nine o'clock on the following morning the maid-servant found him dead upon the floor. Drunk as he had been, more drunk as he probably became during the night - still he was able to deliver himself from the indignities and penalties of the law, by swallowing a dose of prussic acid.