So it was. Lady Carbury had returned home from the soirée of learned people, and had brought Roger Carbury with her. They both came up to the drawing-room and found Paul and Henrietta together. It need hardly be said that they were both surprised. Roger supposed that Montague was still at Liverpool, and, knowing that he was not a frequent visitor in Welbeck Street, could hardly avoid a feeling that a meeting between the two had now been planned in the mother's absence. The reader knows that it was not so. Roger certainly was a man not liable to suspicion, but the circumstances in this case were suspicious. There would have been nothing to suspect,—no reason why Paul should not have been there,—but from the promise which had been given. There was, indeed, no breach of that promise proved by Paul's presence in Welbeck Street; but Roger felt rather than thought that the two could hardly have spent the evening together without such breach. Whether Paul had broken the promise by what he had already said the reader must be left to decide.
Lady Carbury was the first to speak. "This is quite an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Montague." Whether Roger suspected anything or not, she did. The moment she saw Paul the idea occurred to her that the meeting between Hetta and him had been preconcerted.
"Yes," he said,—making a lame excuse, where no excuse should have been made,—"I had nothing to do, and was lonely, and thought that I would come up and see you." Lady Carbury disbelieved him altogether, but Roger felt assured that his coming in Lady Carbury's absence had been an accident. The man had said so, and that was enough.
"I thought you were at Liverpool," said Roger.
"I came back to-day,—to be present at that Board in the city. I have had a good deal to trouble me. I will tell you all about it just now. What has brought you to London?"
"A little business," said Roger.
Then there was an awkward silence. Lady Carbury was angry, and hardly knew whether she ought or ought not to show her anger. For Henrietta it was very awkward. She, too, could not but feel that she had been caught, though no innocence could be whiter than hers. She knew well her mother's mind, and the way in which her mother's thoughts would run. Silence was frightful to her, and she found herself forced to speak. "Have you had a pleasant evening, mamma?"
"Have you had a pleasant evening, my dear?" said Lady Carbury, forgetting herself in her desire to punish her daughter.
"Indeed, no," said Hetta, attempting to laugh, "I have been trying to work hard at Dante, but one never does any good when one has to try to work. I was just going to bed when Mr. Montague came in. What did you think of the wise men and the wise women, Roger?"
"I was out of my element, of course; but I think your mother liked it."
"I was very glad indeed to meet Dr. Palmoil. It seems that if we can only open the interior of Africa a little further, we can get everything that is wanted to complete the chemical combination necessary for feeding the human race. Isn't that a grand idea, Roger?"
"A little more elbow grease is the combination that I look to."
"Surely, Roger, if the Bible is to go for anything, we are to believe that labour is a curse and not a blessing. Adam was not born to labour."
"But he fell; and I doubt whether Dr. Palmoil will be able to put his descendants back into Eden."
"Roger, for a religious man, you do say the strangest things! I have quite made up my mind to this;—if ever I can see things so settled here as to enable me to move, I will visit the interior of Africa. It is the garden of the world."
This scrap of enthusiasm so carried them through their immediate difficulties that the two men were able to take their leave and to get out of the room with fair comfort. As soon as the door was closed behind them Lady Carbury attacked her daughter. "What brought him here?"
"He brought himself, mamma."
"Don't answer me in that way, Hetta. Of course he brought himself. That is insolent."
"Insolent, mamma! How can you say such hard words? I meant that he came of his own accord."
"How long was he here?"
"Two minutes before you came in. Why do you cross-question me like this? I could not help his coming. I did not desire that he might be shown up."
"You did not know that he was to come?"
"Mamma, if I am to be suspected, all is over between us."
"What do you mean by that?"
"If you can think that I would deceive you, you will think so always. If you will not trust me, how am I to live with you as though you did? I knew nothing of his coming."
"Tell me this, Hetta; are you engaged to marry him?"
"No;—I am not."
"Has he asked you to marry him?"
Hetta paused a moment, considering, before she answered this question. "I do not think he ever has."
"You do not think?"
"I was going on to explain. He never has asked me. But he has said that which makes me know that he wishes me to be his wife."
"What has he said? When did he say it?"
Again she paused. But again she answered with straightforward simplicity. "Just before you came in, he said—; I don't know what he said; but it meant that."
"You told me he had been here but a minute."
"It was but very little more. If you take me at my word in that way, of course you can make me out to be wrong, mamma. It was almost no time, and yet he said it."
"He had come prepared to say it."
"How could he,—expecting to find you?"
"Psha! He expected nothing of the kind."
"I think you do him wrong, mamma. I am sure you are doing me wrong. I think his coming was an accident, and that what he said was—an accident."
"An accident!"
"It was not intended,—not then, mamma. I have known it ever so long;—and so have you. It was natural that he should say so when we were alone together."
"And you;—what did you say?"
"Nothing. You came."
"I am sorry that my coming should have been so inopportune. But I must ask one other question, Hetta. What do you intend to say?" Hetta was again silent, and now for a longer space. She put her hand up to her brow and pushed back her hair as she thought whether her mother had a right to continue this cross-examination. She had told her mother everything as it had happened. She had kept back no deed done, no word spoken, either now or at any time. But she was not sure that her mother had a right to know her thoughts, feeling as she did that she had so little sympathy from her mother. "How do you intend to answer him?" demanded Lady Carbury.
"I do not know that he will ask again."
"That is prevaricating."
"No, mamma;—I do not prevaricate. It is unfair to say that to me. I do love him. There. I think it ought to have been enough for you to know that I should never give him encouragement without telling you about it. I do love him, and I shall never love any one else."
"He is a ruined man. Your cousin says that all this Company in which he is involved will go to pieces."
Hetta was too clever to allow this argument to pass. She did not doubt that Roger had so spoken of the Railway to her mother, but she did doubt that her mother had believed the story. "If so," said she, "Mr. Melmotte will be a ruined man too, and yet you want Felix to marry Marie Melmotte."
"It makes me ill to hear you talk,—as if you understood these things. And you think you will marry this man because he is to make a fortune out of the Railway!" Lady Carbury was able to speak with an extremity of scorn in reference to the assumed pursuit by one of her children of an advantageous position which she was doing all in her power to recommend to the other child.
"I have not thought of his fortune. I have not thought of marrying him, mamma. I think you are very cruel to me. You say things so hard, that I cannot bear them."
"Why will you not marry your cousin?"
"I am not good enough for him."
"Nonsense!"
"Very well; you say so. But that is what I think. He is so much above me, that, though I do love him, I cannot think of him in that way. And I have told you that I do love some one else. I have no secret from you now. Good night, mamma," she said, coming up to her mother and kissing her. "Do be kind to me; and pray,—pray,—do believe me." Lady Carbury then allowed herself to be kissed, and allowed her daughter to leave the room.
Lady Carbury allowed herself to be kissed.Lady Carbury allowed herself to be kissed.Click toENLARGE
There was a great deal said that night between Roger Carbury and Paul Montague before they parted. As they walked together to Roger's hotel he said not a word as to Paul's presence in Welbeck Street. Paul had declared his visit in Lady Carbury's absence to have been accidental,—and therefore there was nothing more to be said. Montague then asked as to the cause of Carbury's journey to London. "I do not wish it to be talked of," said Roger after a pause,—"and of course I could not speak of it before Hetta. A girl has gone away from our neighbourhood. You remember old Ruggles?"
"You do not mean that Ruby has levanted? She was to have married John Crumb."
"Just so,—but she has gone off, leaving John Crumb in an unhappy frame of mind. John Crumb is an honest man and almost too good for her."
"Ruby is very pretty. Has she gone with any one?"
"No;—she went alone. But the horror of it is this. They think down there that Felix has,—well, made love to her, and that she has been taken to London by him."
"That would be very bad."
"He certainly has known her. Though he lied, as he always lies, when I first spoke to him, I brought him to admit that he and she had been friends down in Suffolk. Of course we know what such friendship means. But I do not think that she came to London at his instance. Of course he would lie about that. He would lie about anything. If his horse cost him a hundred pounds, he would tell one man that he gave fifty, and another two hundred. But he has not lived long enough yet to be able to lie and tell the truth with the same eye. When he is as old as I am he'll be perfect."
"He knows nothing about her coming to town?"
"He did not when I first asked him. I am not sure, but I fancy that I was too quick after her. She started last Saturday morning. I followed on the Sunday, and made him out at his club. I think that he knew nothing then of her being in town. He is very clever if he did. Since that he has avoided me. I caught him once but only for half a minute, and then he swore that he had not seen her."
"You still believed him?"
"No;—he did it very well, but I knew that he was prepared for me. I cannot say how it may have been. To make matters worse old Ruggles has now quarrelled with Crumb, and is no longer anxious to get back his granddaughter. He was frightened at first; but that has gone off, and he is now reconciled to the loss of the girl and the saving of his money."
After that Paul told all his own story,—the double story, both in regard to Melmotte and to Mrs. Hurtle. As regarded the Railway, Roger could only tell him to follow explicitly the advice of his Liverpool friend. "I never believed in the thing, you know."
"Nor did I. But what could I do?"
"I'm not going to blame you. Indeed, knowing you as I do, feeling sure that you intend to be honest, I would not for a moment insist on my own opinion, if it did not seem that Mr. Ramsbottom thinks as I do. In such a matter, when a man does not see his own way clearly, it behoves him to be able to show that he has followed the advice of some man whom the world esteems and recognises. You have to bind your character to another man's character; and that other man's character, if it be good, will carry you through. From what I hear Mr. Ramsbottom's character is sufficiently good;—but then you must do exactly what he tells you."
But the Railway business, though it comprised all that Montague had in the world, was not the heaviest of his troubles. What was he to do about Mrs. Hurtle? He had now, for the first time, to tell his friend that Mrs. Hurtle had come to London, and that he had been with her three or four times. There was this difficulty in the matter, too,—that it was very hard to speak of his engagement with Mrs. Hurtle without in some sort alluding to his love for Henrietta Carbury. Roger knew of both loves;—had been very urgent with his friend to abandon the widow, and at any rate equally urgent with him to give up the other passion. Were he to marry the widow, all danger on the other side would be at an end. And yet, in discussing the question of Mrs. Hurtle, he was to do so as though there were no such person existing as Henrietta Carbury. The discussion did take place exactly as though there were no such person as Henrietta Carbury. Paul told it all,—the rumoured duel, the rumoured murder, and the rumour of the existing husband.
"It may be necessary that you should go out to Kansas,—and to Oregon," said Roger.
"But even if the rumours be untrue I will not marry her," said Paul. Roger shrugged his shoulders. He was doubtless thinking of Hetta Carbury, but he said nothing. "And what would she do, remaining here?" continued Paul. Roger admitted that it would be awkward. "I am determined that under no circumstances will I marry her. I know I have been a fool. I know I have been wrong. But of course, if there be a fair cause for my broken word, I will use it if I can."
"You will get out of it, honestly if you can; but you will get out of it honestly or—any other way."
"Did you not advise me to get out of it, Roger;—before we knew as much as we do now?"
"I did,—and I do. If you make a bargain with the Devil, it may be dishonest to cheat him,—and yet I would have you cheat him if you could. As to this woman, I do believe she has deceived you. If I were you, nothing should induce me to marry her;—not though her claws were strong enough to tear me utterly in pieces. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go and see her if you like it."
But Paul would not submit to this. He felt that he was bound himself to incur the risk of those claws, and that no substitute could take his place. They sat long into the night, and it was at last resolved between them that on the next morning Paul should go to Islington, should tell Mrs. Hurtle all the stories which he had heard, and should end by declaring his resolution that under no circumstances would he marry her. They both felt how improbable it was that he should ever be allowed to get to the end of such a story,—how almost certain it was that the breeding of the wild cat would show itself before that time should come. But, still, that was the course to be pursued as far as circumstances would admit; and Paul was at any rate to declare, claws or no claws, husband or no husband,—whether the duel or the murder was admitted or denied,—that he would never make Mrs. Hurtle his wife. "I wish it were over, old fellow," said Roger.
"So do I," said Paul, as he took his leave.
He went to bed like a man condemned to die on the next morning, and he awoke in the same condition. He had slept well, but as he shook from him his happy dream, the wretched reality at once overwhelmed him. But the man who is to be hung has no choice. He cannot, when he wakes, declare that he has changed his mind, and postpone the hour. It was quite open to Paul Montague to give himself such instant relief. He put his hand up to his brow, and almost made himself believe that his head was aching. This was Saturday. Would it not be well that he should think of it further, and put off his execution till Monday? Monday was so far distant that he felt that he could go to Islington quite comfortably on Monday. Was there not some hitherto forgotten point which it would be well that he should discuss with his friend Roger before he saw the lady? Should he not rush down to Liverpool, and ask a few more questions of Mr. Ramsbottom? Why should he go forth to execution, seeing that the matter was in his own hands?
At last he jumped out of bed and into his tub, and dressed himself as quickly as he could. He worked himself up into a fit of fortitude, and resolved that the thing should be done before the fit was over. He ate his breakfast about nine, and then asked himself whether he might not be too early were he to go at once to Islington. But he remembered that she was always early. In every respect she was an energetic woman, using her time for some purpose, either good or bad, not sleeping it away in bed. If one has to be hung on a given day, would it not be well to be hung as soon after waking as possible? I can fancy that the hangman would hardly come early enough. And if one had to be hung in a given week, would not one wish to be hung on the first day of the week, even at the risk of breaking one's last Sabbath day in this world? Whatever be the misery to be endured, get it over. The horror of every agony is in its anticipation. Paul had realised something of this when he threw himself into a Hansom cab, and ordered the man to drive him to Islington.
How quick that cab went! Nothing ever goes so quick as a Hansom cab when a man starts for a dinner-party a little too early;—nothing so slow when he starts too late. Of all cabs this, surely, was the quickest. Paul was lodging in Suffolk Street, close to Pall Mall,—whence the way to Islington, across Oxford Street, across Tottenham Court Road, across numerous squares north-east of the Museum, seems to be long. The end of Goswell Road is the outside of the world in that direction, and Islington is beyond the end of Goswell Road. And yet that Hansom cab was there before Paul Montague had been able to arrange the words with which he would begin the interview. He had given the street and the number of the street. It was not till after he had started that it occurred to him that it might be well that he should get out at the end of the street, and walk to the house,—so that he might, as it were, fetch his breath before the interview was commenced. But the cabman dashed up to the door in a manner purposely devised to make every inmate of the house aware that a cab had just arrived before it. There was a little garden before the house. We all know the garden;—twenty-four feet long, by twelve broad;—and an iron-grated door, with the landlady's name on a brass plate. Paul, when he had paid the cabman,—giving the man half-a-crown, and asking for no change in his agony,—pushed in the iron gate and walked very quickly up to the door, rang rather furiously, and before the door was well opened asked for Mrs. Hurtle.
"Mrs. Hurtle is out for the day," said the girl who opened the door. "Leastways, she went out yesterday and won't be back till to-night." Providence had sent him a reprieve! But he almost forgot the reprieve, as he looked at the girl and saw that she was Ruby Ruggles. "Oh laws, Mr. Montague, is that you?" Ruby Ruggles had often seen Paul down in Suffolk, and recognised him as quickly as he did her. It occurred to her at once that he had come in search of herself. She knew that Roger Carbury was up in town looking for her. So much she had of course learned from Sir Felix,—for at this time she had seen the baronet more than once since her arrival. Montague, she knew, was Roger Carbury's intimate friend, and now she felt that she was caught. In her terror she did not at first remember that the visitor had asked for Mrs. Hurtle.
"Yes, it is I. I was sorry to hear, Miss Ruggles, that you had left your home."
"I'm all right, Mr. Montague;—I am. Mrs. Pipkin is my aunt, or, leastways, my mother's brother's widow, though grandfather never would speak to her. She's quite respectable, and has five children, and lets lodgings. There's a lady here now, and has gone away with her just for one night down to Southend. They'll be back this evening, and I've the children to mind, with the servant girl. I'm quite respectable here, Mr. Montague, and nobody need be a bit afraid about me."
"Mrs. Hurtle has gone down to Southend?"
"Yes, Mr. Montague; she wasn't quite well, and wanted a breath of air, she said. And aunt didn't like she should go alone, as Mrs. Hurtle is such a stranger. And Mrs. Hurtle said as she didn't mind paying for two, and so they've gone, and the baby with them. Mrs. Pipkin said as the baby shouldn't be no trouble. And Mrs. Hurtle,—she's most as fond of the baby as aunt. Do you know Mrs. Hurtle, sir?"
"Yes; she's a friend of mine."
"Oh; I didn't know. I did know as there was some friend as was expected and as didn't come. Be I to say, sir, as you was here?"
Paul thought it might be as well to shift the subject and to ask Ruby a few questions about herself while he made up his mind what message he would leave for Mrs. Hurtle. "I'm afraid they are very unhappy about you down at Bungay, Miss Ruggles."
"Then they've got to be unhappy; that's all about it, Mr. Montague. Grandfather is that provoking as a young woman can't live with him, nor yet I won't try never again. He lugged me all about the room by my hair, Mr. Montague. How is a young woman to put up with that? And I did everything for him,—that careful that no one won't do it again;—did his linen, and his victuals, and even cleaned his boots of a Sunday, 'cause he was that mean he wouldn't have anybody about the place only me and the girl who had to milk the cows. There wasn't nobody to do anything, only me. And then he went to drag me about by the hairs of my head. You won't see me again at Sheep's Acre, Mr. Montague;—nor yet won't the Squire."
"But I thought there was somebody else was to give you a home."
"John Crumb! Oh, yes, there's John Crumb. There's plenty of people to give me a home, Mr. Montague."
"You were to have been married to John Crumb, I thought."
"Ladies is to change their minds if they like it, Mr. Montague. I'm sure you've heard that before. Grandfather made me say I'd have him,—but I never cared that for him."
"I'm afraid, Miss Ruggles, you won't find a better man up here in London."
"I didn't come here to look for a man, Mr. Montague; I can tell you that. They has to look for me, if they want me. But I am looked after; and that by one as John Crumb ain't fit to touch." That told the whole story. Paul when he heard the little boast was quite sure that Roger's fear about Felix was well founded. And as for John Crumb's fitness to touch Sir Felix, Paul felt that the Bungay mealman might have an opinion of his own on that matter. "But there's Betsy a crying up-stairs, and I promised not to leave them children for one minute."
"I will tell the Squire that I saw you, Miss Ruggles."
"What does the Squire want o' me? I ain't nothing to the Squire,—except that I respects him. You can tell if you please, Mr. Montague, of course. I'm a coming, my darling."
Paul made his way into Mrs. Hurtle's sitting-room and wrote a note for her in pencil. He had come, he said, immediately on his return from Liverpool, and was sorry to find that she was away for the day. When should he call again? If she would make an appointment he would attend to it. He felt as he wrote this that he might very safely have himself made an appointment for the morrow; but he cheated himself into half believing that the suggestion he now made was the more gracious and civil. At any rate it would certainly give him another day. Mrs. Hurtle would not return till late in the evening, and as the following day was Sunday there would be no delivery by post. When the note was finished he left it on the table, and called to Ruby to tell her that he was going. "Mr. Montague," she said in a confidential whisper, as she tripped down the stairs, "I don't see why you need be saying anything about me, you know."
"Mr. Carbury is up in town looking after you."
"What 'm I to Mr. Carbury?"
"Your grandfather is very anxious about you."
"Not a bit of it, Mr. Montague. Grandfather knows very well where I am. There! Grandfather doesn't want me back, and I ain't a going. Why should the Squire bother himself about me? I don't bother myself about him."
"He's afraid, Miss Ruggles, that you are trusting yourself to a young man who is not trustworthy."
"I can mind myself very well, Mr. Montague."
"Tell me this. Have you seen Sir Felix Carbury since you've been in town?" Ruby, whose blushes came very easily, now flushed up to her forehead. "You may be sure that he means no good to you. What can come of an intimacy between you and such a one as he?"
"I don't see why I shouldn't have my friend, Mr. Montague, as well as you. Howsomever, if you'll not tell, I'll be ever so much obliged."
"But I must tell Mr. Carbury."
"Then I ain't obliged to you one bit," said Ruby, shutting the door.
Paul as he walked away could not help thinking of the justice of Ruby's reproach to him. What business had he to take upon himself to be a Mentor to any one in regard to an affair of love;—he, who had engaged himself to marry Mrs. Hurtle, and who the evening before had for the first time declared his love to Hetta Carbury?
In regard to Mrs. Hurtle he had got a reprieve, as he thought, for two days;—but it did not make him happy or even comfortable. As he walked back to his lodgings he knew it would have been better for him to have had the interview over. But, at any rate, he could now think of Hetta Carbury, and the words he had spoken to her. Had he heard that declaration which she had made to her mother, he would have been able for the hour to have forgotten Mrs. Hurtle.
That evening Montague was surprised to receive at the Beargarden a note from Mr. Melmotte, which had been brought thither by a messenger from the city,—who had expected to have an immediate answer, as though Montague lived at the club.
"Dear Sir," said the letter,
If not inconvenient would you call on me in Grosvenor Square to-morrow, Sunday, at half past eleven. If you are going to church, perhaps you will make an appointment in the afternoon; if not, the morning will suit best. I want to have a few words with you in private about the Company. My messenger will wait for answer if you are at the club.Yours truly,Augustus Melmotte.Paul Montague, Esq.,The Beargarden.
If not inconvenient would you call on me in Grosvenor Square to-morrow, Sunday, at half past eleven. If you are going to church, perhaps you will make an appointment in the afternoon; if not, the morning will suit best. I want to have a few words with you in private about the Company. My messenger will wait for answer if you are at the club.
Yours truly,
Augustus Melmotte.
Paul Montague, Esq.,The Beargarden.
Paul immediately wrote to say that he would call at Grosvenor Square at the hour appointed,—abandoning any intentions which he might have had in reference to Sunday morning service. But this was not the only letter he received that evening. On his return to his lodgings he found a note, containing only one line, which Mrs. Hurtle had found the means of sending to him after her return from Southend. "I am so sorry to have been away. I will expect you all to-morrow. W. H." The period of the reprieve was thus curtailed to less than a day.
On the Sunday morning he breakfasted late and then walked up to Grosvenor Square, much pondering what the great man could have to say to him. The great man had declared himself very plainly in the Board-room,—especially plainly after the Board had risen. Paul had understood that war was declared, and had understood also that he was to fight the battle single-handed, knowing nothing of such strategy as would be required, while his antagonist was a great master of financial tactics. He was prepared to go to the wall in reference to his money, only hoping that in doing so he might save his character and keep the reputation of an honest man. He was quite resolved to be guided altogether by Mr. Ramsbottom, and intended to ask Mr. Ramsbottom to draw up for him such a statement as would be fitting for him to publish. But it was manifest now that Mr. Melmotte would make some proposition, and it was impossible that he should have Mr. Ramsbottom at his elbow to help him.
He had been in Melmotte's house on the night of the ball, but had contented himself after that with leaving a card. He had heard much of the splendour of the place, but remembered simply the crush and the crowd, and that he had danced there more than once or twice with Hetta Carbury. When he was shown into the hall he was astonished to find that it was not only stripped, but was full of planks, and ladders, and trussels, and mortar. The preparations for the great dinner had been already commenced. Through all this he made his way to the stairs, and was taken up to a small room on the second floor, where the servant told him that Mr. Melmotte would come to him. Here he waited a quarter of an hour looking out into the yard at the back. There was not a book in the room, or even a picture with which he could amuse himself. He was beginning to think whether his own personal dignity would not be best consulted by taking his departure, when Melmotte himself, with slippers on his feet and enveloped in a magnificent dressing-gown, bustled into the room. "My dear sir, I am so sorry. You are a punctual man I see. So am I. A man of business should be punctual. But they ain't always. Brehgert,—from the house of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner, you know,—has just been with me. We had to settle something about the Moldavian loan. He came a quarter late, and of course he went a quarter late. And how is a man to catch a quarter of an hour? I never could do it." Montague assured the great man that the delay was of no consequence. "And I am so sorry to ask you into such a place as this. I had Brehgert in my room down-stairs, and then the house is so knocked about! We get into a furnished house a little way off in Bruton Street to-morrow. Longestaffe lets me his house for a month till this affair of the dinner is over. By-the-bye, Montague, if you'd like to come to the dinner, I've got a ticket I can let you have. You know how they're run after." Montague had heard of the dinner, but had perhaps heard as little of it as any man frequenting a club at the west end of London. He did not in the least want to be at the dinner, and certainly did not wish to receive any extraordinary civility from Mr. Melmotte's hands. But he was very anxious to know why Mr. Melmotte should offer it. He excused himself saying that he was not particularly fond of big dinners, and that he did not like standing in the way of other people. "Ah, indeed," said Melmotte. "There are ever so many people of title would give anything for a ticket. You'd be astonished at the persons who have asked. We've had to squeeze in a chair on one side for the Master of the Buckhounds, and on another for the Bishop of—; I forget what bishop it is, but we had the two archbishops before. They say he must come because he has something to do with getting up the missionaries for Thibet. But I've got the ticket, if you'll have it." This was the ticket which was to have taken in Georgiana Longestaffe as one of the Melmotte family, had not Melmotte perceived that it might be useful to him as a bribe. But Paul would not take the bribe. "You're the only man in London then," said Melmotte, somewhat offended. "But at any rate you'll come in the evening, and I'll have one of Madame Melmotte's tickets sent to you." Paul, not knowing how to escape, said that he would come in the evening. "I am particularly anxious," continued he, "to be civil to those who are connected with our great Railway, and of course, in this country, your name stands first,—next to my own."
Then the great man paused, and Paul began to wonder whether it could be possible that he had been sent for to Grosvenor Square on a Sunday morning in order that he might be asked to dine in the same house a fortnight later. But that was impossible. "Have you anything special to say about the Railway?" he asked.
"Well, yes. It is so hard to get things said at the Board. Of course there are some there who do not understand matters."
"I doubt if there be any one there who does understand this matter," said Paul.
Melmotte affected to laugh. "Well, well; I am not prepared to go quite so far as that. My friend Cohenlupe has had great experience in these affairs, and of course you are aware that he is in Parliament. And Lord Alfred sees farther into them than perhaps you give him credit for."
"He may easily do that."
"Well, well. Perhaps you don't know him quite as well as I do." The scowl began to appear on Mr. Melmotte's brow. Hitherto it had been banished as well as he knew how to banish it. "What I wanted to say to you was this. We didn't quite agree at the last meeting."
"No; we did not."
"I was very sorry for it. Unanimity is everything in the direction of such an undertaking as this. With unanimity we can do—everything." Mr. Melmotte in the ecstasy of his enthusiasm lifted up both his hands over his head. "Without unanimity we can do—nothing." And the two hands fell. "Unanimity should be printed everywhere about a Board-room. It should, indeed, Mr. Montague."
"But suppose the directors are not unanimous."
"They should be unanimous. They should make themselves unanimous. God bless my soul! You don't want to see the thing fall to pieces!"
"Not if it can be carried on honestly."
"Honestly! Who says that anything is dishonest?" Again the brow became very heavy. "Look here, Mr. Montague. If you and I quarrel in that Board-room, there is no knowing the amount of evil we may do to every individual shareholder in the Company. I find the responsibility on my own shoulders so great that I say the thing must be stopped. Damme, Mr. Montague, it must be stopped. We mustn't ruin widows and children, Mr. Montague. We mustn't let those shares run down 20 below par for a mere chimera. I've known a fine property blasted, Mr. Montague, sent straight to the dogs,—annihilated, sir;—so that it all vanished into thin air, and widows and children past counting were sent out to starve about the streets,—just because one director sat in another director's chair. I did, byG——!What do you think of that, Mr. Montague? Gentlemen who don't know the nature of credit, how strong it is,—as the air,—to buoy you up; how slight it is,—as a mere vapour,—when roughly touched, can do an amount of mischief of which they themselves don't in the least understand the extent! What is it you want, Mr. Montague?"
"What do I want?" Melmotte's description of the peculiar susceptibility of great mercantile speculations had not been given without some effect on Montague, but this direct appeal to himself almost drove that effect out of his mind. "I only want justice."
"But you should know what justice is before you demand it at the expense of other people. Look here, Mr. Montague. I suppose you are like the rest of us, in this matter. You want to make money out of it."
"For myself, I want interest for my capital; that is all. But I am not thinking of myself."
"You are getting very good interest. If I understand the matter,"—and here Melmotte pulled out a little book, showing thereby how careful he was in mastering details,—"you had about £6,000 embarked in the business when Fisker joined your firm. You imagine yourself to have that still."
"I don't know what I've got."
"I can tell you then. You have that, and you've drawn nearly a thousand pounds since Fisker came over, in one shape or another. That's not bad interest on your money."
"There was back interest due to me."
"If so, it's due still. I've nothing to do with that. Look here, Mr. Montague. I am most anxious that you should remain with us. I was about to propose, only for that little rumpus the other day, that, as you're an unmarried man, and have time on your hands, you should go out to California and probably across to Mexico, in order to get necessary information for the Company. Were I of your age, unmarried, and without impediment, it is just the thing I should like. Of course you'd go at the Company's expense. I would see to your own personal interests while you were away;—or you could appoint any one by power of attorney. Your seat at the Board would be kept for you; but, should anything occur amiss,—which it won't, for the thing is as sound as anything I know,—of course you, as absent, would not share the responsibility. That's what I was thinking. It would be a delightful trip;—but if you don't like it, you can of course remain at the Board, and be of the greatest use to me. Indeed, after a bit I could devolve nearly the whole management on you;—and I must do something of the kind, as I really haven't the time for it. But,—if it is to be that way,—do be unanimous. Unanimity is the very soul of these things;—the very soul, Mr. Montague."
"But if I can't be unanimous?"
"Well;—if you can't, and if you won't take my advice about going out;—which, pray, think about, for you would be most useful. It might be the very making of the railway;—then I can only suggest that you should take your £6,000 and leave us. I, myself, should be greatly distressed; but if you are determined that way I will see that you have your money. I will make myself personally responsible for the payment of it,—some time before the end of the year."
Paul Montague told the great man that he would consider the whole matter, and see him in Abchurch Lane before the next Board day. "And now, good-bye," said Mr. Melmotte, as he bade his young friend adieu in a hurry. "I'm afraid that I'm keeping Sir Gregory Gribe, the Bank Director, waiting down-stairs."
During all these days Miss Melmotte was by no means contented with her lover's prowess, though she would not allow herself to doubt his sincerity. She had not only assured him of her undying affection in the presence of her father and mother, had not only offered to be chopped in pieces on his behalf, but had also written to him, telling how she had a large sum of her father's money within her power, and how willing she was to make it her own, to throw over her father and mother, and give herself and her fortune to her lover. She felt that she had been very gracious to her lover, and that her lover was a little slow in acknowledging the favours conferred upon him. But, nevertheless, she was true to her lover, and believed that he was true to her. Didon had been hitherto faithful. Marie had written various letters to Sir Felix, and had received two or three very short notes in reply, containing hardly more than a word or two each. But now she was told that a day was absolutely fixed for her marriage with Lord Nidderdale, and that her things were to be got ready. She was to be married in the middle of August, and here they were, approaching the end of June. "You may buy what you like, mamma," she said; "and if papa agrees about Felix, why then I suppose they'll do. But they'll never be of any use about Lord Nidderdale. If you were to sew me up in the things by main force, I wouldn't have him." Madame Melmotte groaned, and scolded in English, French, and German, and wished that she were dead; she told Marie that she was a pig, and ass, and a toad, and a dog. And ended, as she always did end, by swearing that Melmotte must manage the matter himself. "Nobody shall manage this matter for me," said Marie. "I know what I'm about now, and I won't marry anybody just because it will suit papa." "Que nous étions encore à Francfort, ou New York," said the elder lady, remembering the humbler but less troubled times of her earlier life. Marie did not care for Francfort or New York; for Paris or for London;—but she did care for Sir Felix Carbury.
While her father on Sunday morning was transacting business in his own house with Paul Montague and the great commercial magnates of the city,—though it may be doubted whether that very respectable gentleman Sir Gregory Gribe was really in Grosvenor Square when his name was mentioned,—Marie was walking inside the gardens; Didon was also there at some distance from her; and Sir Felix Carbury was there also close along side of her. Marie had the key of the gardens for her own use; and had already learned that her neighbours in the square did not much frequent the place during church time on Sunday morning. Her lover's letter to her father had of course been shown to her, and she had taxed him with it immediately. Sir Felix, who had thought much of the letter as he came from Welbeck Street to keep his appointment,—having been assured by Didon that the gate should be left unlocked, and that she would be there to close it after he had come in,—was of course ready with a lie. "It was the only thing to do, Marie;—it was indeed."
"But you said you had accepted some offer."
"You don't suppose I wrote the letter?"
"It was your handwriting, Felix."
"Of course it was. I copied just what he put down. He'd have sent you clean away where I couldn't have got near you if I hadn't written it."
"And you have accepted nothing?"
"Not at all. As it is, he owes me money. Is not that odd? I gave him a thousand pounds to buy shares, and I haven't got anything from him yet." Sir Felix, no doubt, forgot the cheque for £200.
"Nobody ever does who gives papa money," said the observant daughter.
"Don't they? Dear me! But I just wrote it because I thought anything better than a downright quarrel."
"I wouldn't have written it, if it had been ever so."
"It's no good scolding, Marie. I did it for the best. What do you think we'd best do now?" Marie looked at him, almost with scorn. Surely it was for him to propose and for her to yield. "I wonder whether you're sure you're right about that money which you say is settled."
"It’s no good scolding.""It's no good scolding."Click toENLARGE
"I'm quite sure. Mamma told me in Paris,—just when we were coming away,—that it was done so that there might be something if things went wrong. And papa told me that he should want me to sign something from time to time; and of course I said I would. But of course I won't,—if I should have a husband of my own." Felix walked along, pondering the matter, with his hands in his trowsers pockets. He entertained those very fears which had latterly fallen upon Lord Nidderdale. There would be no "cropper" which a man could "come" so bad as would be his cropper were he to marry Marie Melmotte, and then find that he was not to have a shilling! And, were he now to run off with Marie, after having written that letter, the father would certainly not forgive him. This assurance of Marie's as to the settled money was too doubtful! The game to be played was too full of danger! And in that case he would certainly get neither his £800, nor the shares. And if he were true to Melmotte, Melmotte would probably supply him with ready money. But then here was the girl at his elbow, and he no more dared to tell her to her face that he meant to give her up, than he dared to tell Melmotte that he intended to stick to his engagement. Some half promise would be the only escape for the present. "What are you thinking of, Felix?" she asked.
"It's d—— difficult to know what to do."
"But you do love me?"
"Of course I do. If I didn't love you why should I be here walking round this stupid place? They talk of your being married to Nidderdale about the end of August."
"Some day in August. But that's all nonsense, you know. They can't take me up and marry me, as they used to do the girls ever so long ago. I won't marry him. He don't care a bit for me, and never did. I don't think you care much, Felix."
"Yes, I do. A fellow can't go on saying so over and over again in a beastly place like this. If we were anywhere jolly together, then I could say it often enough."
"I wish we were, Felix. I wonder whether we ever shall be."
"Upon my word I hardly see my way as yet."
"You're not going to give it up!"
"Oh no;—not give it up; certainly not. But the bother is a fellow doesn't know what to do."
"You've heard of young Mr. Goldsheiner, haven't you?" suggested Marie.
"He's one of those city chaps."
"And Lady Julia Start?"
"She's old Lady Catchboy's daughter. Yes; I've heard of them. They got spliced last winter."
"Yes,—somewhere in Switzerland, I think. At any rate they went to Switzerland, and now they've got a house close to Albert Gate."
"How jolly for them! He is awfully rich, isn't he?"
"I don't suppose he's half so rich as papa. They did all they could to prevent her going, but she met him down at Folkestone just as the tidal boat was starting. Didon says that nothing was easier."
"Oh;—ah. Didon knows all about it."
"That she does."
"But she'd lose her place."
"There are plenty of places. She could come and live with us, and be my maid. If you would give her £50 for herself, she'd arrange it all."
"And would you come to Folkestone?"
"I think that would be stupid, because Lady Julia did that. We should make it a little different. If you liked I wouldn't mind going to—New York. And then, perhaps, we might—get—married, you know, on board. That's what Didon thinks."
"And would Didon go too?"
"That's what she proposes. She could go as my aunt, and I'd call myself by her name;—any French name you know. I should go as a French girl. And you could call yourself Smith, and be an American. We wouldn't go together, but we'd get on board just at the last moment. If they wouldn't—marry us on board, they would at New York, instantly."
"That's Didon's plan?"
"That's what she thinks best,—and she'll do it, if you'll give her £50 for herself, you know. The 'Adriatic,'—that's a White Star boat, goes on Thursday week at noon. There's an early train that would take us down that morning. You had better go and sleep at Liverpool, and take no notice of us at all till we meet on board. We could be back in a month,—and then papa would be obliged to make the best of it."
Sir Felix at once felt that it would be quite unnecessary for him to go to Herr Vossner or to any other male counsellor for advice as to the best means of carrying off his love. The young lady had it all at her fingers' ends,—even to the amount of the fee required by the female counsellor. But Thursday week was very near, and the whole thing was taking uncomfortably defined proportions. Where was he to get funds if he were to resolve that he would do this thing? He had been fool enough to intrust his ready money to Melmotte, and now he was told that when Melmotte got hold of ready money he was not apt to release it. And he had nothing to show;—no security that he could offer to Vossner. And then,—this idea of starting to New York with Melmotte's daughter immediately after he had written to Melmotte renouncing the girl, frightened him.